A Knight of the Sacred Blade

by Jonathan Moeller

  “The Ildramyn,” said Arran. “And just what is that?”

  The corpse’s empty gaze rested on him. “I was the first. I was the greatest of all mortal spell casters, a master of the white magic and the black magic, a lord of Wizards and a master over Warlocks. My power challenged the very gods themselves. But my enemies were jealous. They banded against me, combined their powers, and bound me here in this ruin thousands of years ago, ere the High Kingdoms rose, ere the pyramids were made, ere the desert came. Now I am condemned to sit on my throne for all the ages, damned to watch the epochs pass. I am the Ildramyn.” The sparks flared in its eyes. “You would have joined me in my torment, if you had but drunk from my pool.”

  Arran raised his flashing Sacred Blade. How many souls had the Ildramyn trapped over the centuries? “I ought to destroy you.”

  The Ildramyn laughed. “With that toy? The combined White and Black Councils could not defeat me! No, no. You have resisted my temptation, young one. Therefore, I am bound by the spells that constrain me. You may ask a question of me, and I will answer. Ask.”

  Arran hesitated.

  The Ildramyn growled. “Ask. Or stand there until you die.”

  “I…” said Arran. “Marugon.”

  “Yes,” said the Ildramyn. “The Marr’Ugaoun. The soul of the voidspawn made flesh. The Destroyer of Worlds. I know of him. The last of the Warlocks and the greatest. He has crossed the void between the stars, and brought back engines of destruction from a poisoned world. You carry some on your belt and over your shoulder.” Arran touched the butt of his sniper rifle. “Yes, I can see their aura. They are not of our world.” The corpse titled its head to one side. “But I digress. Your question.”

  “I have spent the last ten years fighting against Marugon,” said Arran.

  “I know,” said the Ildramyn. “My gaze pierces your heart and mind. You have a strong soul, Arran Belphon. You have suffered, you have wavered, but you have not yet fallen.” The light in its eyes flashed. “I can see the despair that chokes your soul.”

  “All is lost,” said Arran. “The High Kingdoms are destroyed. The Wizards are slaughtered. And I am the last of the Knights of the Sacred Blade, and I am not even a proper Knight any longer. Marugon’s darkness covers everything. I have no hope.”

  The Ildramyn laughed. “Such a tragic tale. Do you think I have not heard its like before? Marugon is the darkness? Yet not as dark as he will become. And he is as nothing compared to the darkness he will unleash.” The corpse leaned forward, the rusted chains grated. “I tire of your whining. What is your question?”

  Arran’s hand tightened around his Sacred Blade. “Is there a way to defeat Marugon?”

  The Ildramyn’s laughter rustled through Arran’s ears like dead leaves. “Is that all? Young fool. You do not see what is truly happening. All you see is Marugon. And he is nothing, by himself, yet also everything.”

  Arran spat. “You speak in riddles, like all oracles.”

  “A fool sees riddles where the wise see truth,” murmured the Ildramyn. “Great darkness clouds the future. I see the fire of the stars themselves shattering the chains of the void, and shadows diving from the night sky. I see a world of great wonders and greater evils, and a Wizard and a lover reborn once more. And I even see myself, freed and dancing among dying stars with the voidspawn. All this I see, and more.”

  “How poetic,” said Arran. The corpse’s words filled him with doubt and a strange fear. “Yet what good does this do me?”

  “You are at a crossroads,” said the Ildramyn. “Yes. I shall show you three visions. Shadows of the past, of the present, and of the future.” The corpse waved its withered hand. “Look, Arran Belphon of Carlisan! Look into my pool and see your fate!”

  The long pool boiled and churned, steam rising from its depths. Then it stilled. Arran’s gaze sank into the void, deeper, deeper…

  ###

  “A vision of the past,” murmured the Ildramyn.

  Arran stood in a huge corridor of vaulted stone. A pale green light gleamed off the walls. Arran turned, confused…

  His eyes widened in shock. “Sir Liam!”

  He saw the old Knight standing before a gaping breach in the wall. Behind him stood a skinny girl, King Lithon cradled in her thin arms. Arran frowned. Queen Annemarie Scepteris stood before Liam, her face bone-pale. But hadn’t Queen Annemarie died in Carlisan?

  “We were there before you,” said Annemarie. Her cold, whispery voice sent a chill down Arran’s spine. “The worlds were ours long before you mortals lived.” She hissed. “The Divine cast us out, threw us into the black places between the worlds, and built this wretched Tower to keep us out. The Divine left us to scream and gnaw on the nothingness between the worlds. And for what? For the sake of you crawling, mewling, dying little mortals?” Sir Liam yelled something, his twin Sacred Blade flashing with blue flame.

  Annemarie hissed, and as Arran watched, she transformed into a hideous thing of shadow.

  “Sir Liam!” yelled Arran, lifting his Sacred Blade and running to his mentor’s side…

  ###

  The world swirled, and Arran found himself once more in the Ildramyn’s gloomy hall.

  “Damn you!” said Arran. “Take me back! I must aid him…”

  “Fool,” said the Ildramyn. “It was a vision of the past and naught else. It has already happened. Even if I were free, I would not have the power to change the past.”

  “What was that place?” said Arran.

  “The Tower of Endless Worlds, I deem,” said the Ildramyn. “My gaze is not so clear in the places between the worlds.”

  “A vision of the past, you said?” said Arran. “How long past?”

  The Ildramyn considered this. “A mere moment. Nine or ten years.”

  “He made it,” Arran breathed. “He made it to the Tower. But Queen Annemarie is dead. How…”

  “Look into the pool,” said the Ildramyn.

  Arran turned and stared into the water…

  ###

  He stood in a peculiar room. A thick carpet covered the floor, and strange lights hung from the ceiling, casting a pleasant glow over the walls and floor. A magnificent wooden desk stood in the center of the room, covered with papers and a large panel of glowing glass.

  A short, stout man in outlandish clothing sat at the desk. Slicked-back dark hair crowned his head, and thick glasses hid his eyes. The stout man stared into the panel of glowing glass, controlling it by pressing buttons on a small black board.

  “A vision of the near future,” whispered the Ildramyn.

  The stout man looked up. “Ah, Kurkov.”

  A gaunt man in dark leather strolled to the desk. “Senator Wycliffe.”

  “Do you have it?” said Wycliffe.

  Kurkov nodded. “The nuclear device? Yes. It was difficult to acquire, but I have it.” He grinned. “It will cost you. Dearly.”

  Wycliffe sighed and waved a hand. “Marugon wants it.” Arran stiffened at the Warlock’s name. “And what he wants, he gets. Still, I wonder what good it is too him. He’s already destroyed his opposition. A novelty, perhaps…”

  ###

  Arran himself standing once more before the Ildramyn’s throne.

  Arran gazed up at the corpse. “Why show me this? Who are these men? What is a nuclear device?”

  “Those men are Marugon’s associates on Earth, the world Sir Liam sought to reach,” said the Ildramyn. “As for the nuclear device, see for yourself.”

  The pool rippled and shimmered, pulling Arran down into its depths.

  ###

  Arran stood in a colossal chamber of black stone. The domed ceiling vanished into darkness over his head, and great pillars, each one the size of the long-destroyed Scepteris Palace, supported the ceiling. A huge silver seal, easily a quarter-mile across, rested in the center of the chamber, carved with strange runes.

  “The Chamber of the Great Seal in the Tower of Endless Worlds,” whispered the Ildramyn. “A vision of t
he near future. Ah. Soon you will see your nemesis.”

  Arran frowned. “My nemesis…” He clenched his fist. “Marugon.”

  A tall, dark-haired man, clad in a black suit similar to Senator Wycliffe’s, strode into the Chamber of the Great Seal. Lines of silver hair glimmered at his temples, and his eyes were pits into an endless nothingness. Power and dread rolled off him like smoke.

  “Marugon,” whispered Arran. He yearned to draw his Sacred Blade and ram it between the Warlock’s eyes.

  A strange black box the size of a child’s coffin floated behind the Warlock. Marugon walked to the center of the vast silver seal and lowered his hand. The box dropped to the floor, and Marugon knelt and flipped open the lid. Wires, flashing lights, and gleaming machine parts filled the box. An odd symbol, a yellow circle with three black cylinders, marked one of the machine parts. Marugon flipped switches and pressed buttons. The machine in the box began to whine.

  A strange mixture of triumph and despair crossed Marugon’s face, and he began to laugh.

  Then the box exploded in fire, devouring Marugon and ripping the silver seal to shreds. Before the light blinded him, Arran saw huge breaches opening in the walls, legions of hideous shadow-things swarming through…

  ###

  Sweat drenched Arran’s brow. He turned from the pool and saw the Ildramyn staring at him, green sparks glimmering deep in its empty eyes.

  “What does it mean?” said Arran.

  “It is your fate, the events that have captured the threads of your life,” said the Ildramyn. “You are cursed, Arran Belphon. The choices you make shall change the lives of many. Hardship and pain fill every path before you…yet light and healing await you, should you have the power to dare the darkness and claim it.”

  “I don’t understand!” said Arran.

  “I care not,” said the Ildramyn. “I am bound to answer your question, not to make you understand the answer. Go now. Already you bore me.” The corpse tilted its head. “Ah. Your first challenge waits above. Go.”

  Arran glared at the Ildramyn a moment and then left. His mind whirled with the visions as he climbed back to the surface. Sir Liam had reached the Tower. Had he made it to Earth? Did Lithon yet live? And who was the skinny girl with the grim eyes?

  Daylight flashed as Arran returned to the surface. Arran wished he had gone to the Tower with Sir Liam. He had loved the old man, his mentor and his teacher, even after their split. The gentle crash and roar of the sea tickled his ears, and a deep longing filled him. He wanted to go to the Tower, to Earth, to find Sir Liam and…

  “Fallen Knight!”

  Arran froze. He knew that deep, mocking voice.

  It didn’t belong to Siduri.

  He turned, his hands going to his weapons.

  Khan-Mar-Dan stood not twenty paces away. The winged demon loomed like an armored shadow against the sea, his scimitar and his weapons ready at his belt. In his right hand he held a gun leveled at Arran.

  In his left he held Siduri, his iron claws curled around her throat.

  She looked calm, so calm.

  “Fallen Knight,” said Khan-Mar-Dan. “I must congratulate you.”

  “You demon bastard,” hissed Arran.

  The winged demon laughed. “Do you wish to watch as I slay your companion, fallen Knight? Perhaps I’ll cut off your hands and feet, and make you watch as I plant my child in her belly.”

  “I’ll kill you, as I killed your brother!” said Arran, his voice a snarl.

  Khan-Mar-Dan’s laughter redoubled. “And I must thank you for that, fallen Knight. My brother was a fool. I am well rid of him. You have led me on a merry chase. It took me months to find you. You have no place left to run. My glory shall be vast when I return with your head on my sword. Lord Marugon will reward me greatly.”

  “Fine,” said Arran. “You want me, take me. Just let Siduri go…”

  Khan-Mar-Dan shook Siduri like a wet rag. Blood trickled down her neck. “This woman? She is yours? She was a fool to follow you.”

  “Let her go,” said Arran.

  The winged demon growled. “You favor her, do you not? I intend to plant a child in her.” Khan-Mar-Dan’s deep eyes flashed with fire. “But, then, my brother and I have never given my father anything but trouble. Why should a son be any different? I should take heed.”

  His claws tightened. Arran bellowed and charged the demon.

  Siduri smiled. “Arran! Find Alastarius on Earth…”

  Why was she so calm?

  And too late Arran remembered that Alastarius had told Siduri the hour of her death.

  Khan-Mar-Dan closed his clawed fist. Blood sprayed everywhere, and Siduri’s head and body both fell to the dirt in a splash of gore.

  Arran roared and drew both his pistols.

  Khan-Mar-Dan spun and started firing.

  Arran threw himself to the side, bullets tearing at the ground. Two ripped through his cloak, and another grazed his collarbone in a line of hot fire. Khan-Mar-Dan bellowed and took to the air, his great wings beating. He drew a second pistol and opened fire. Arran couldn’t keep dodging two guns at once…

  Then Khan-Mar-Dan ran out of bullets.

  The winged demon cursed and flew higher, pulling ammo cartridges from his belt.

  Arran yanked a grenade from his belt and pulled the pin. He slipped it into his hand beneath the gun butt and stared shooting. All his shots struck Khan-Mar-Dan, and none appeared to trouble the winged demon. Khan-Mar-Dan howled a battle cry and dove, Arran’s gun clicking empty. He feigned terror and flung the gun and the grenade. Khan-Mar-Dan laughed as the empty gun bounced off his breastplate.

  He stopped laughing when the grenade struck his chin.

  Arran dove and threw his cloak over his head.

  The blast rattled his bones and sent a gust of wind and a spray of pebbles over him. Khan-Mar-Dan shrieked in fury and struck the ground. Arran jumped to his feet and lifted his Sacred Blade. Khan-Mar-Dan scrambled to his feet nearby. The grenade had destroyed his guns and ammunition, damaged his armor, and broken one wing, but the winged demon looked otherwise unharmed.

  Mortal weapons, even grenades, did little to such creatures.

  Blue light flashed within the steel of Arran’s Sacred Blade.

  Khan-Mar-Dan sneered. “So, we are to settle this in the old fashion, then? Good. It has been too long since my blade tasted blood.”

  He charged, black scimitar spinning.

  Arran roared, sword in both hands, and raced to meet the winged demon’s charge. They met with a tremendous clang, swords flashing and stabbing. Arran slashed the winged demon’s shoulder and ribs, and Khan-Mar-Dan’s scimitar struck Arran in the hip and in the forearm. Arran’s fury drove him on, the memory of Siduri’s death filling him with mad rage. He thrust, swung, and stabbed, and Khan-Mar-Dan retreated, blade working furiously to parry Arran’s mad attacks.

  “Damn you!” roared Khan-Mar-Dan. He parried and shoved, and Arran stumbled. He regained his balance, his arms trembling with exhaustion. He couldn’t keep up this furious pace…

  Khan-Mar-Dan went on the offense, driving Arran towards Siduri’s beheaded corpse. A leaden weight filled Arran’s muscles. He couldn’t stop the winged demon. Khan-Mar-Dan was too fast, too strong.

  Arran almost stumbled over Siduri’s legs and hopped back.

  He glanced down, and his eyes widened.

  Siduri’s blood glowed, and sparks of white fire glowed in the crimson pool. She had known the white magic. Khan-Mar-Dan did not notice, his fanged maw pulled back in a hideous grin.

  And if the power of the white magic still waited in her blood…

  Arran went to one knee, parried, and slid his blade through the pool of blood.

  Khan-Mar-Dan laughed and raised his scimitar for the killing blow.

  And Arran’s sword erupted with power.

  Siduri’s blood seemed to sink into the sword, the steel absorbing the blood like a sponge soaking up water, turning the blade a deep crimson. The
blue glow brightened, and a throb of power shot up Arran’s arm The sword’s glow went from a gentle blue to brilliant azure.

  And then the blade erupted in roaring white flames.

  Khan-Mar-Dan flinched away, squinting at the sword’s light. “What trickery is this?”

  His scimitar plunged down, and Arran parried. White fire flashed, and Khan-Mar-Dan reeled back.

  A hint of terror appeared on the demon's face.

  Arran surged to his feet and attacked, his sword a storm of white flame. Khan-Mar-Dan reeled back from the furious glare of Siduri’s magic. Arran thrust, whirled, and slipped under Khan-Mar-Dan’s guard. His Sacred Blade tore a burning gash across the winged demon’s belly. Khan-Mar-Dan howled, and Arran slashed.

  The winged demon’s sword arm disintegrated in a spray of flames.

  Khan-Mar-Dan stumbled to his knees, and Arran raised his sword and stabbed down with both hands. The blade sheared through Khan-Mar-Dan’s throat, plunged into his chest, and burst through his back. The winged demon howled as white fire erupted through him.

  Khan-Mar-Dan shuddered and vanished into smoking ash and gleaming obsidian bones. The fire on Arran’s sword glimmered, faded, and went out. Yet the blade remained crimson, as if it had been forever marked by Siduri’s blood.

  Arran staggered to Siduri’s corpse. He felt the tears rise up in his eyes.

  He knelt and crossed her hands over her chest. He found her head and closed her eyes. “Siduri. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have shown me the way. I’m so sorry.”

  Arran was alone again.

  ###

  The next morning Arran watched the sun rise over the sea.

  He sat next to the cairn he had raised for Siduri and brooded. The shafts of her spears, and Khan-Mar-Dan’s scimitar, rose from the grave. Gulls crowed and wheeled overhead.

  Her last words played in his head over and over again.

  “Find Alastarius on Earth,” he repeated. He clenched a fist. “Find Alastarius on Earth.”

  He thought of the Ildramyn’s visions, of Sir Liam and the thing in the Tower, of Marugon and the strange box. But most of all he brooded over Siduri’s last words. “Find Alastarius on Earth. Find Alastarius on Earth.”