A Knight of the Sacred Blade

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Quite so,” said Wycliffe. “You’ll excuse my lateness for our appointment, I hope. Mr. Marson and I had quite a bit to discuss. Reporters are constantly sniffing around.” He laughed. “They all want to expose the next Watergate, and they all come to me to find it. Fortunately, Mr. Marson is quite adept at keeping the premises secure.”

  “Yeah.” Allard shuddered. “He…he looks pretty good at his job.”

  Wycliffe smiled. “You didn’t happen to overhear anything, did you?” He watched Allard’s face. If necessary, he would use the Voice to modify Allard’s memory. Or to arrange a convenient suicide.

  Allard was useful, but not indispensable to Marugon’s little side project.

  Allard shook his head. “No. I was waiting outside, but I couldn’t hear anything through the door.”

  “Good,” said Wycliffe. “Now, to our business. I hear you have reached every address on your list?” Marugon’s instructions had been clear. Using his connections, Wycliffe had obtained a list of everyone who had bought cigarettes using credit cards or checks in the last six months. Allard had been sent to distribute the cigarettes made from the tobacco in Marugon’s crates, under the pretext of establishing a customer base for Stanford Matthews Tobacco.

  Wycliffe still wondered what Marugon had in mind.

  “Yes, sir,” said Allard.

  “And what did they think of Stanford Matthews Tobacco’s cigarettes?” said Wycliffe.

  “I think we have a big hit on our hands,” Allard said.

  Wycliffe leaned forward. “Do go on.”

  “Almost everyone liked them,” said Allard. He rummaged through his briefcase and produced a notepad. “Eighty-nine percent of the consumers who received free samples said they would switch to Stanford Matthews as their preferred brand of cigarette.”

  “Eighty-nine?” said Wycliffe. “Well, well. Our little test has gone rather well, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Allard. The man had learned respect, at least.

  “Good, said Wycliffe. “Very good.”

  Allard coughed. “Do…um…you have another list for me?”

  “No,” said Wycliffe. “Stanford Matthews’s board of directors is planning to go to full production in another month.” It had been some trick, setting up the front company without attaching his name to it, but he had done it. “Your efforts have laid the foundations for a strong customer base in Chicago. You will find a definite bonus in your next pay envelope.” He made a little tent with his fingers. “I had originally intended your position as temporary, you know that, but you’ve done so well, I’ve decided to keep you on. If you’re willing, of course. How does a position as a sales executive sound to you, Mr. Allard?” Allard had been good at his job.

  And if Stanford Matthews Tobacco fell apart, Wycliffe could always use Allard as a scapegoat.

  Allard gaped. “But…but…I’m hardly qualified.”

  Wycliffe snorted. “Stuff and nonsense. You have an MBA, do you not?” He bit back his opinion of business degrees. “More importantly, your…ah…previous job experience in sales tax evasion,” Allard coughed, “shows great ingenuity. I think you’re quite qualified for the position. So. What do you say?”

  Allard grinned ear to ear. “Thank you, sir.”

  ###

  “You’re back,” said Wycliffe.

  Goth strode through the gloomy shadows of warehouse 13A. Behind him walked two of his kin, both disguised as slouching thugs. They pushed a wheeled metal table covered with a thick canvas cloth. Every now and again a low groan rose from beneath the canvas.

  “Dear God,” muttered Wycliffe. “I hope you managed to keep this quiet.”

  Goth’s thick lip curled in a sneer. “Quiet as the grave.”

  “How terribly reassuring,” said Wycliffe. “Put our new friend over here,” Wycliffe pointed at an empty space between two aisles of massive wooden crates, “and you are excused for the evening.” The winged demons pushed the table to the directed spot and vanished into the darkness.

  “Is the Russian arms merchant here?” said Goth.

  “No,” said Wycliffe. He walked towards the platform against the warehouse’s far wall. The rune-carved door to the Tower of Endless Worlds stood open, the green-lit hallway fading away into infinity. “He’s terrified of Marugon, though he’ll never admit it. Besides,” Wycliffe glanced back at the wheeled table, “it’s best that he’s not here tonight. All the workers have left for the evening, I presume?”

  “Yes,” said Goth. “Lord Marugon desires secrecy. He shall have it.”

  “Good,” said Wycliffe. It was almost midnight. He peered through the open door and into the Tower, and saw black specks in the distance. Marugon’s caravan. “Tell me. What do you think of Marugon’s little plan?”

  Goth said nothing.

  Wycliffe laughed. “You don’t know either, do you?”

  “When the time is right,” said Goth. His bearded head turned toward the stack of black crates in the corner. “I can smell the black magic. I know not what he plans. But it shall be great, worthy of Lord Marugon.”

  “It better be…ah, here’s Marugon now,” said Wycliffe. Fear and anticipation tugged at him. He straightened and tried to assume a calm mask.

  One by one the gunmen and donkeys stepped through the door, each accompanied by a white flash. Bulging canvas bags weighed down each of the donkeys. With luck, Marugon had sent enough gold to pay the thirty million dollar cost of Kurkov’s bomb.

  The door flashed again, and a figure cloaked in heavy black robes stepped onto the platform. Wycliffe’s sense of the black magic had grown with practice in the Voice, and he felt the power radiating from the black-robed form, the iron icy might of a true master of the black magic. Had Marugon always been this powerful? Or had Wycliffe never had the skill to sense the Warlock’s power before?

  He shook aside his doubts, climbed the stairs, and extended his hand, Goth trailing after him.

  “Lord Marugon,” Wycliffe said, smiling his politician’s smile. “Welcome once more to Earth.”

  Marugon pulled back his hood. He looked older than Wycliffe remembered. More silver marked his temples, and fresh lines marked his face. His eyes looked deeper and darker than Wycliffe recalled. The power of the black magic hung about him like smoke.

  He did look wearier than Wycliffe remembered.

  “Senator Wycliffe,” said Marugon. He shook Wycliffe’s hand, his fingers like bars of frozen iron.

  Wycliffe withdrew his hand and tucked it into his pocket. “Or should I say King Marugon? Or Emperor?”

  Marugon smiled. “Not quite, my friend. But very soon. The last of the High Kingdoms has fallen. Antarese is ash on the winds. A pity you were not there to see the Battle of the Emerald Field. Twenty-five thousand horsemen, the flower of Antarese’s nobility, armed and armored in the finest steel, charged my army.” His smile looked like something Goth would wear. “Four hundred of my men armed with Kalashnikovs slaughtered them all, and once they were finished, they killed every man, woman, and child in the city. Never has my world seen such a victory. Antarese was the last of the High Kingdoms. The Knights of the Sacred Blades and the Wizards of the White Council are slaughtered, and the High Kingdoms are destroyed. There is no one left to stop me.” His voice grew distant. “No one left.” His wolfish smile returned. “You were wrong, Alastarius.”

  Wycliffe frowned. “Who?”

  “No one,” said Marugon. “An enemy dead and gone.” Goth chuckled. “Ah, Goth-Mar-Dan, my friend. I trust you have served Senator Wycliffe well?”

  Wycliffe snorted. “Quite well, save when he and his kin are not out terrorizing the city.”

  Marugon laughed. “They are energetic, are they not?”

  “Not quite the word I’d use,” said Wycliffe.

  Marugon gestured at the donkeys. “Perhaps I have a proper reward for them.” Wycliffe frowned. Eleven people stood amidst the caravan. They wore only rags. Hoods had been pulled over their faces, and rough
cords bound their hands and ankles. “But, that is a matter for later. I hear you have undertaken a campaign to seize the presidency?”

  “Well, not quite,” said Wycliffe, smiling. “The vice presidency, actually.”

  “Indeed?” said Marugon. “Then I assume you have the future president well leashed and chained with the Voice?”

  Wycliffe blinked. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “It was a common strategy of the Warlocks, in ancient days,” said Marugon. “They would control a king with the Voice, and rule all from behind the throne. A wise choice. Now, to business.”

  “Yes, the cigarettes,” said Wycliffe. “I’ve…”

  “Later,” said Marugon. “The bomb. The nuclear device. Has your pet arms merchant made any progress?”

  “Yes,” said Wycliffe, trying not to blink under Marugon’s intense stare. “A bomb has been located. Kurkov is in the process of bringing it here.”

  Marugon’s eyes bored into his face. “How long?”

  Wycliffe shrugged. “You must understand. It is not easy smuggling a nuclear weapon into this country. Smugglers must be paid, customs officials must be bribed, authorities must be evaded.”

  “I am well aware of the difficulties,” said Marugon, “having listened to you recite them over and over. How long?”

  Wycliffe tried to push aside his fear. “Four months. Possibly six or seven. And thirty million dollars are needed.”

  “Four months,” said Marugon, his voice a murmur. “After all these years. Four months. I can wait.”

  “If I might ask,” said Wycliffe, trying to sound annoyed, “what use could you possibly have for a nuclear bomb?”

  Marugon blinked. “Oh?”

  “You’ve conquered your world, you’ve said so yourself,” said Wycliffe.

  Marugon laughed. “My dear Senator. The conquest itself is immaterial. What matters is that no one on my world can possibly stop me.”

  “Yes,” said Wycliffe. “Then why do you need a nuclear bomb, if all your enemies are crushed?”

  Marugon blinked, weariness flickering over his face. “The last stronghold of my enemies.” His voice was a quiet rasp. “It has been there for so long. So very long. Inaccessible to me. I cannot touch it. I have tried. But the bomb, Senator Wycliffe…the bomb would give me the power to destroy it. Then at last I could rest.” He shook his head, and his face returned to its usual cold, smirking mask. “But, then, why should you care, my good Senator? It is not as if I plan to detonate the bomb on your world, after all. And you would make a tremendous profit from the purchase.” He gestured at the donkeys’ sacks. “More gold than this is on its way to the Tower as we speak. You will be wealthier than ever. A useful asset when running for the presidency, I would imagine.”

  “Well, yes,” said Wycliffe. The uneasiness would not leave him. “At any rate, you shall have your bomb by October by the earliest, November by the latest.”

  “Good,” said Marugon. “You were speaking of the cigarettes?”

  Wycliffe nodded. “I set up the front company, Stanford Matthews Tobacco, and I hired some desperate fool to distribute the sample cigarettes, per your instructions. But I still fail to see the point.”

  “You shall see soon enough,” said Marugon. “Do you have the test subject?”

  Wycliffe nodded. “This way.” He led Marugon away from the caravan and to the canvas-covered wheeled table. He reached for the canvas and pulled it away.

  A metal operating table gleamed under the humming warehouse lights. Steel cuffs and heavy chains pinned a naked young man to the table. Tattoos marked the man’s muscled chest and arms, and a piece of duct tape sealed his mouth. Wycliffe heard him screaming through the tape.

  “Christopher J. Colebrook,” said Wycliffe. “One of the people my lackey gave a free cigarette.” He glanced at Goth. “At least it should be Colebrook.” Goth remained impassive. This was too risky. If someone had seen Goth and his kin snatch Colebrook out of his bedroom, or followed the truck…

  “Ah,” said Marugon. “Well done.” He cocked his head. “Remove the tape. I wish for him to speak.”

  Goth leaned downed and ripped away the tape.

  Colebrook gaped in pain. “You bastards!” he screamed. “My girlfriend will call the police when she wakes up, she’ll…” His eyes fell on Wycliffe. “What the hell is this? I voted for you, man! My girlfriend made me!”

  “Silence,” said Marugon, his command ringing with the Voice. Colebrook’s jaw clapped shut. “You are in serious trouble, young man. And you have brought it upon yourself. Ironic, no?” He chuckled.

  “You…” Colebrook’s jaw worked. “What are…you?”

  “Do you truly wish to know?” said Marugon. He smiled and turned to Goth. “Show yourself to our disrespectful young friend. Perhaps he will come to understand his peril.”

  Goth chuckled and took off his sunglasses. His crimson eyes burned like dying coals. He yanked off the fake beard, revealing his yellowing fangs. He tore off his jacket with a fluid motion, and his huge black leathery wings unfolded, beating at the air.

  “Few on your world ever see the slouching thugs lose their slouch,” said Marugon. “Those who do, my young friend, wish they had never been born.”

  Colebrook screamed and screamed, his eyes bulging from their sockets, his limbs jerking against the restraints. He flopped against the steel table like a dying fish.

  “Do be silent,” said Marugon, the Voice crackling. Colebrook shut up, his bulging eyes fixed on Goth. “Did this young fool smoke one of the cigarettes?”

  “He did,” said Wycliffe. “If not, Allard and I are going to have a long talk.”

  “Good,” said Marugon. He turned back to the trembling Colebrook. “Your world is a strange one, my young friend. When Senator Wycliffe first told me of these cigarettes, I thought him a fool.” He fluttered his fingers and muttered a spell. “Ah. I sense the black magic within you already. You see, there are nothing like cigarettes on my world. What man would willingly fill his body with such poisons?” Wycliffe rolled his eyes. The last of the Warlocks sounded like a Democrat. “The wise men of my world say that drink is the poison of a foolish man, but this world’s cigarettes, it would seem, are by far a deadlier poison.”

  Wycliffe nodded. “I fail to see the point. Don’t tell me you went to all this effort to give me a lecture on health.”

  Marugon chuckled. “What is in a cigarette? Herbs grown on your world, true? But in my cigarettes, I have added an herb from my world, one called the Warlocks’ rose. It is a slow poison, similar to nicotine. But properly prepared, it can become a mighty magical catalyst.” Wycliffe felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “Of course, for it to be effective, the victim must consume the Warlocks’ rose of his own free will.” He grinned down at Colebrook. “You, my young friend, have consumed the Warlocks’ rose of your own free will. It will act as a catalyst of transformation within you.”

  Wycliffe blinked. “Transformation?” The prickling on the back of his neck got worse.

  Marugon nodded. “Now, my friend, you will see a mighty spell of the black magic.” He raised his hands and began to chant in a ringing voice. A chill swept up Wycliffe’s limbs. A cold wind blew through the warehouse, and Goth laughed.

  Colebrook’s mouth burst open in a howling scream, and he began to transform.

  His skin turned gray and leathery. His eyes burned red and became wider, and his ears grew points. Greasy, matted back hair burst from his naked skin. His muscled limbs thinned and became spindly, and claws sprouted from his lengthening toes and fingers. His tongue thickened, lashing at his twisted black teeth. And his scream changed, turning from the howl of a terrified man to the insane gibbering of a rabid animal.

  Wycliffe stared at the spectacle in awe and terror.

  Marugon dropped his arms, a rapt expression on his face. Colebrook’s transformation seemed complete.

  “What…what did you to him?” said Wycliffe.

  Marugon laug
hed. “A magical transformation.” The thing that had been Colebrook hissed and snapped his jaws. “My spell used the Warlocks’ rose as a catalyst. I have made this man into a changeling of the black magic, utterly bound to my will. A deadly fighter, and one impervious to most weapons.” Marugon’s smile brightened. “Goth-Mar-Dan. Shoot it.”

  Goth retrieved his jacket and pulled out an automatic pistol. He leveled the weapon and squeezed the trigger. The shots echoed like thunder through the warehouse, and the bullets slammed into thing that had been Colebrook. It howled and screamed, slime frothing at its jaws. Goth emptied his weapon and lowered it.

  Wycliffe crept closer. “Dear God.” The bullets had not left a mark on the changeling. “Marugon. Can…can this spell be cast on anyone who has smoked the cigarettes?”

  Marugon nodded.

  “Well,” breathed Wycliffe. A mixture of amazement and terror battled for control of his emotions. “Ten thousand people smoked those cigarettes in the last few weeks.” His mind reeled with the possibilities. “And once Stanford Matthews begins full production, millions more…”

  Marugon nodded again. “And the poison waits in their blood. They shall make a useful reserve, my friend, if your attempt to win the vice presidency is unsuccessful. And may have a use or two for them, as well.”

  Wycliffe blinked. “I can command these things?”

  “Of course.” Marugon traced a half-circle with his right hand. The cuffs holding the changeling undid themselves. The creature hissed and gathered its legs beneath itself, as if ready to spring.

  Wycliffe tensed. “Marugon, it’s going to…”

  “Changeling!” Marugon’s command rang with the Voice. “Come to me! Come!” The changeling crept to Marugon’s side, tongue lolling from its jaw. “Hold!” The creature went still. “Senator Wycliffe. Command the creature.”

  Wycliffe rubbed sweat from his forehead and gathered the Voice to him. “Changeling!” The monster hissed and turned to face Wycliffe. “Stand!” The changeling stood, hatred and pain gleaming in its red eyes. “Kneel!” The thing hissed and fell to its knees.