Kaemarz’s tongue ran over his yellow teeth. “Indeed? The prince may send a message via our caravans. One leaves in another month, I believe,” his scowl deepened, “though such matters are no longer my province.”
“He wants to send the message himself,” said Arran.
Kaemarz squinted. “It has always been customary to send messages with the caravans. Even Lord Marugon sent messages this way, during his visits to the other world.”
Arran shrugged. “Do you think I am fool enough to question a prince of the winged ones? He wants the map to Earth. I was sent to get it.”
“Yes, yes,” said Kaemarz. He coughed and turned back to the table. “You know, they despise each other.”
“Who?” said Arran, feigning impatience.
“Styr-Mar-Dan and Goth-Mar-Dan,” said Kaemarz. “Prince and King of the winged ones. Goth-Mar-Dan killed all his other brothers. Only Styr-Mar-Dan survived. He was smart,” Kaemarz tapped the side of his head with a dirty finger, “and he survived by submitting himself to Goth-Mar-Dan.”
Arran’s unease grew. Kaemarz suspected something. “What do I care for their history? It means nothing to me.”
“Indeed not,” said Kaemarz. He coughed, his free hand dropping to his side. “What does it mean? Styr-Mar-Dan hates his brother. He would have no reason to send a message.” Kaemarz coughed again, his head bowing. “I think you’re not a courier. I think you’re a fraud.”
“You call me a…”
Kaemarz whirled, drawing his Glock so fast Arran barely had time to follow the movement. Arran flung himself to the side as Kaemarz fired. The shots rang like thunder in the room, blasting splinters from the wall. Arran drove his fist into Kaemarz’s wrist, sending the gun flying. Kaemarz growled in pain and stumbled against the table.
“Mercy,” gasped Kaemarz, raising his free hand. His other clutched his crutch in a death grip. “Mercy on an old man, I beg you.”
Arran stepped forward. “Tell me…”
Something clicked. The bottom half of the crutch fell away, revealing a gleaming blade. Kaemarz swung the weapon with a yell. Arran tried to spin away, and the blade sheared through his improvised bundle. The Sacred Blades tumbled free with a clatter. Kaemarz thrust, but Arran jumped back, drew one of his pistols, and leveled it at Kaemarz’s face.
“Drop the blade,” said Arran.
Kaemarz sneered. “You wouldn’t dare. The shots would draw the others.”
“Not likely. You shot three holes in that wall. No one came. And even if someone comes,” Arran hefted the gun, “it doesn’t matter. Your brains will still be splattered all over the walls.”
Kaemarz thought it over. He cast aside the crutch-blade with a curse. “Renegade. Damn you. What is it you wish? Gold? I have very little. Ammunition? Weapons?” He gestured at the heap against the wall. “Take all you wish. It means naught to me.”
“I don’t want either,” said Arran. “I told you before what I want. The route through the Tower of Endless Worlds to Earth.”
Kaemarz squinted at him. “You’re a fool. Or mad. The Tower is a place of perils that crush men’s minds.” His eyes fell on the Sacred Blades lying on the floor. Breath hissed through his clenched teeth. “You. It has to be you. You’re him, aren’t you? Damnation! You’re supposed to be dead!”
“What are you babbling about?” said Arran.
“The Ghost of Carlisan.” Arran flinched at the name, and Kaemarz cackled. “Yes, yes. The young Knight who took up Lord Marugon’s guns? You would not believe the bounty his Lordship put on your elusive head.” His face twisted with fear and fury. “But you’re supposed to be dead! Two of Goth-Mar-Dan’s sons were sent to bring back your head.”
Arran made himself smile. “Baal-Mar-Dan and Khan-Mar-Dan?” Kaemarz jerked. “I killed them both.” He tapped his Sacred Blade with his boot. “With this very blade.” He went to one knee, keeping his gun level, and drew his Sacred Blade from its scabbard. The weapon flashed a deep crimson in the lantern light, the color of Siduri’s spilled blood. He pointed the sword at Kaemarz. “Do you know what this is?”
Kaemarz’s face twisted. “A Sacred Blade of the Knight of the Order.” He smirked. “I saw hundreds of them, when my men shot down the Knights like armored dogs.”
Arran’s finger twitched over the trigger. Kaemarz got the message and stopped talking. “By the white magic woven into the sword, I will know if you speak falsely.” That was a lie, but Arran doubted Kaemarz knew that. “Now you will tell me how to traverse the Tower and reach Earth.”
Kaemarz licked his lips. “And if I do, you’ll let me live?”
Arran nodded. “Provided you abstain from treachery.”
“Very well.” Kaemarz’s lips stretched in a hideous grin. “The Tower lies on the other side of the world, in the midst of the Crimson Plain…”
“I know the way to the Tower,” said Arran. “You will tell me the way through it.”
Kaemarz laughed. “Ah. I see. So, you have never seen the Tower, have you?” Arran didn’t answer. “You must never have seen it. Otherwise you would not be so eager to seek it out, Ghost of Carlisan.” His face tightened with memory. “You’ve never seen the ghouls that hunt the Crimson Plain at night. Or the worse things, the things that sometime come out of the Tower? No, no, you’ve never seen those, have you?” He leaned forward, his lined face a mask in the dim light. “And you’ve never see the Tower itself. So vast and black. The arches and the black windows and the statues of the monsters.” He uttered a wheezing laugh. “And it’s crumbling, you know. Falling. The Tower is falling. There are black holes in the walls…”
“Old man,” said Arran, “I don’t have much time. And neither will you, unless you tell me what I want to know.”
Kaemarz spat. “Then throw yourself into the darkness, Ghost, and may it consume you. Here then is the path through the Tower, mark well my words. There is a vast gate in the base of the Tower. You must enter through it.” His eyes grew distant with the recollection. “You will find yourself in a vast chamber, shaped like a cylinder. A giant statue of a nude woman stands in the center.” He traced circles in the air with a finger. “There are balconies, thousands of them, ringing the chamber, stretching as high as the eye can see. Twelve passages lead from each balcony. There must be countless thousands. Endless worlds.”
“Which one do I take?” said Arran.
“The seventh one, clockwise.” Kaemarz’s lip curled. “His Lordship’s sigil has been burned into the stone before the passage.”
“A clawed hand clutching a burning eye.”
“Yes. That is it.” Kaemarz rubbed his throat with a gnarled hand. “You will walk down a passage of red granite for a long time. Its walls are carved with images of strange nine-eyed devils. It ends in a chamber of gray stone. There stands a fountain of poisoned water. Three passages lead off. The leftmost has Lord Marugon’s sigil.”
“So I shall take that one.”
“Oh, no.” Kaemarz chuckled. “That was once the way to the other world. But no longer. The passages beyond have collapsed.” He laughed again. “Do you know what’s behind the walls of the Tower? Nothing. Nothing at all. Blackness. But you can feel the emptiness watching you. It’s alive, I think, the darkness behind the Tower.”
Arran tapped his sword’s point against Kaemarz’s chest. “I did not come here for the ramblings of a corrupt old man. Which passage from the room of the fountain?”
Kaemarz’s bloodshot eyes glittered. “The rightmost. It opens into a vast corridor, bigger than the ruined temples in Carlisan. It leads to the largest chamber I have seen in the Tower, at least a mile wide. A great silver seal, nearly a quarter mile across, is set in its floor.”
The hair on the back of Arran’s neck stood up. “A seal?” The Ildramyn had shown him a chamber with a vast seal.
“Yes, a seal,” said Kaemarz. “Carved with what blasphemies I know not. Walk straight across. From there you will enter another great chamber. This one is filled with tomb
s and sarcophagi of stone, all carved with faces and names.” He shuddered. “And ghosts, gray specters and skeletons cloaked in mist. On the far wall is another doorway with his Lordship’s seal. It branches into seven further corridors. Take the center one. From there you will reach a chamber with five sealed doors of stone. These doors open to Earth, the other world.” He cackled. “If you live long enough to reach them. The Tower’s perils are many. There are monsters loose within the Tower. Sometimes they claim men. Other times I saw men slip and fall into the holes in the floor. They screamed for a very long time. And sometimes, men vanished for no reason at all.”
“I care not,” said Arran.
Kaemarz spat again. “So, tell me, Ghost of Carlisan? Have I led you false? Have I deceived you?”
Arran lowered his Sacred Blade, but kept the gun fixed on the old man’s face. “No.” He hoped not, at least. “You said five doors open to Earth. Which door is safest to take?”
Kaemarz’s eyes gleamed. “The center.” His lips twitched. “Marked with his Lordship’s sigil.”
Arran was almost certain Kaemarz had lied. “Very well.”
Kaemarz smiled. “Now you’ll leave me in peace, I pray?”
“I shall,” said Arran. He reversed his Sacred Blade and jammed it into its scabbard, keeping his gun leveled. “And I trust you’ll not seek me out?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Kaemarz.
Arran smiled. “Good. Let me help you keep your word.” He slipped one of his remaining grenades from his belt, pulled the pin, and tossed it into the pile of ammunition and gunpowder sacks.
Kaemarz’s greasy face went white. “You idiot! You’ll…”
“You’ll want to run,” said Arran, lowering his gun towards his holster.
Kaemarz whirled, his hand dipping to the top of his boot. He straightened, a tiny revolver gleaming in his hand. “You bastard! I’ll get the bounty for your head…”
But Arran had only feigned holstering his weapon. His arm snapped up, and he squeezed the trigger. His shots slammed into Kaemarz’s chest. The former bandit chief howled and fell across the table, blood splattering across his maps.
Arran turned and ran, kicking aside the curtain at the door. The gunman on the stool grunted, eyes widening as he groped for his weapon. Arran lashed out with the butt of his pistol. The gunman fell with a cry, and Arran ran as fast as he could, his boots churning up mud.
The building exploded.
A huge ball of white-orange fire shot into the black sky, flaming chunks of wood raining in all directions. The ground shook, and the shock of the blast knocked Arran from his feet. He cursed and threw an arm over his face. Something twisted and metallic landed next to his head with a sizzle. It was the remnants of Kaemarz’s sword-crutch.
Arran scrambled to his feet and looked around. Chunks of wreckage had caught in Ramshackle’s roofs, setting the thatch ablaze. Doors exploded open, drunken and half-dressed soldiers stumbling out into the night.
Arran ran for the stables near the gate. A trio of horses stood in the pen, nickering in fear. Arran vaulted the fence, yanked his Sacred Blade free, and slashed the ties on the nearest horse. The beast reared and tried to bolt. Arran clamped a hand on its face, calmed it down, and jumped into the saddle. He snapped the reins, jumped the fence, and galloped for Ramshackle’s gate. Soldiers ran back and forth through the streets, yelling in panic. Some saw the Sacred Blade in his hand and fell back in fear, screaming about the Ghost of Carlisan.
Arran reached the gate. It stood open, the guard gaping at the raging fire consuming the town. Then he saw Arran and cursed, raising his weapon, but not before Arran swung his sword in a crimson blur. The guard’s face exploded into bloody ruin. The horse trampled the corpse and galloped free of Ramshackle.
Arran cursed. He should have shot the guard. No one fought with swords any longer. The soldiers would recognize the wound, once they gathered their wits. He reined up once he reached the edge of the woods and risked a glance over his shoulder.
Ramshackle was ablaze. It would take them some time to organize any pursuit.
Arran turned the horse and rode like hell.
Chapter 18 - The Assassin
Anno Domini 2012
Senator Jones quivered like gelatin, his eyes fixed on Goth.
Wycliffe reached into the limousine’s mini-fridge. “You could use a drink.”
Jones kept staring at Goth, his fingers twitching, sweat beading on his face. Goth stared back, his face impassive beneath the black sunglasses and black beard.
“William,” said Wycliffe. “You look sick. Make sure you drink something before we arrive. And for God’s sake, smile.”
Goth’s lips split in a hideous grin, the tips of his yellowed fangs visible, and his sunglasses flickered with red light.
Senator Jones shrieked and jerked back into his seat, his hands clawing at the door.
“Sit still!” said Wycliffe, the Voice snarling. Jones went rigid, and Wycliffe glared at Goth. “Control yourself.”
Goth chuckled.
“Very funny,” said Wycliffe. “How well do you think this appearance will go if the future president of the United States soils himself?”
Goth said nothing.
Wycliffe sighed. “Try to restrain yourself. These solid citizens of Middle America have never seen the likes of you before.” He dropped his voice. “And make certain things go as I wish.”
Goth made a tiny nod.
“And you, Senator!” said Wycliffe, fusing the Voice into his speech. “You do not look good at all! Have some wine to steady your nerves. But not too much. And clean yourself up. You look like you have the flu.” Jones pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “And smile! You’re a presidential candidate, damn it.”
Senator Jones shuddered once and smiled. It did not reach his eyes, but that didn’t matter. Wycliffe had never seen a politician that smiled with his eyes.
“Senator!” The privacy window dropped, and Fletcher peered back. “Senator, we’re almost here.”
“Ah.” Wycliffe straightened his tie. “Good.” He retrieved his new smartphone and dialed. “Markham?”
“Yes, sir,” came Markham’s voice.
“Is everything ready?” said Wycliffe. “All the reporters in place?”
“Ah…yes," said Markham. Wycliffe heard the hubbub of busy conversation in the background. "The TV cameras are there. Friendly print reporters and bloggers are in place, as are the Gracchan Party spectators.”
Wycliffe grinned. “Our disinterested passers-by. Always useful.”
“You’ll be on local channel six,” said Markham. “The national networks will pick it up for the six o’clock and ten o’clock news. We’re not going to get front-page in the newspapers tomorrow…these sorts of appearances have become too common, I’m afraid. But we will get in the first five. And all our friendly blogs will run the speech on the top of their sites, of course.”
Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “We might want to cut back just a bit, ride out the summer with fewer appearances and pick up the pace in late August or early September. We wouldn’t want to saturate the electorate.”
“Agreed,” said Markham.
The limousine pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned factory. People packed the parking lot, many of them waving signs and Gracchan Party placards. “Markham? Just one more thing. Where the hell am I?”
Markham laughed. “Cashwell, Indiana.”
Wycliffe looked out the window at the rotting industrial cityscape and repressed a sneer. “God. All these little Indiana industrial hellholes look the same after a while.”
“They do at that,” said Markham. “I just thank God I’m from Wisconsin.”
Wycliffe withheld comment.
The limousine shuddered to a halt. “Well, we’re here,” said Wycliffe. “Wish us luck.”
“Good luck, Senator. I’ll be watching.” Markham hung up.
Wycliffe leveled a finger at Jones and charge
d his words with the Voice. “Do exactly as I have instructed you. Is that understood?”
Senator Jones managed to sputter out a yes. Goth’s sunglasses met Wycliffe’s eyes and inclined in a slight nod.
“Fletcher! Wait for us here,” said Wycliffe. He took a deep breath, put on his Senator’s smile, and pushed open the limousine door.
The crowd roared, and the summer air struck Wycliffe like a slap. Close to three thousand people filled the parking lot. He had hoped for more, but this would do. This gambit would either make or break his polls until the heavy campaigning season began in the fall.
Wycliffe and Senator Jones moved up a cleared aisle, shaking hands, a pair of slouching thugs in black leather jackets and sunglasses trailing them. A stage with a podium and a row of seats had been set up near the abandoned factory’s front doors. The town’s mayor and town council waited, beaming. Wycliffe and Jones climbed up to the platform and shook hands with the town’s luminaries. He caught a glimpse of Goth walking around to one of the other cars in the motorcade. Senator Jones took a seat, as did the other people on the platform. Wycliffe walked to the podium and made a show of shuffling his notes.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Wycliffe let his eyes scan the crowd. Most of them were men in jeans and T-shirts. “You’ll forgive, I hope, my speaking in place of my esteemed colleague Senator Jones. But Senator Jones thinks I am a better speaker. I am not, I assure you, but if I’ve learned anything in politics, it’s to grin and say ‘yes sir’ when the boss gives an order.” The crowd laughed. “And you’ll forgive me, I hope, if I say that I wish I did not have to make a speech here at all.” The crowd stared at him with stony faces.
It was almost too perfect. The factory behind him had shut down when its corporate board of directors had decided to maximize profits by transferring production to China. Now an example and a magnificent opportunity had just been dropped into Wycliffe’s lap.
“You see, ladies and gentlemen, six months ago I would have had no need to come to the fair community of Cashwell, Indiana,” said Wycliffe, risking a quick glance down at his notes. “Six months ago the Orchestra Manufacturing Company was still in the business of producing,” he shot another glance at his notes, “producing screws, nuts, bolts, nails and other small parts.” He leveled a finger at the crowd. “The experts may say the economy has gone high-tech. They may say computers are the way of the future. Well I say that without nuts and screws, those precious computers would fall apart in the laps of those so-called experts!”
A Knight of the Sacred Blade Page 23