“To what avail?” said Arran. “I failed. The High Kingdoms are ash.” The memories of the Battle of the Emerald Field burned through him.
“You did everything anyone could have asked of you and more,” said Luthar. “You became a warrior unlike any other, master of both Sacred Blade and bullet. The Divine is not finished with you, Arran. You have not reached your destiny yet. Does that not bring you comfort?”
“Hardly,” said Arran. “Sir Liam Mastere. Does he yet live?” He would be past seventy if he had survived the Tower. “Did he reach Earth?”
“I know not,” said Luthar.
Arran sighed, and his eyes focused on Luthar’s belt. “Your scabbard. It is empty.”
“My Sacred Blade is no longer mine,” said Luthar.
“But I have it.” Arran reached over his shoulder and drew Luthar’s Sacred Blade. “It fell besides you, in the Royal Square of Carlisan. I could not save you. But I did not leave your sword behind for Marugon’s thugs.”
“The sword.” Luthar drifted closer. “It is why I have come.”
“To take it with you?”
“No.” A faint smile touched Luthar’s lips. “No man can take anything with him to the next world. Though a Wizard might. As you will soon learn. But I have come for the sword.”
Arran presented the hilt to Luthar, his hands grasping the flat of the blade. “It is yours.”
“It was mine,” said Luthar. “I have no use for it now. But you will.” He touched the blade just above the hilt. The sword vibrated, and a surge of heat went through the blade and into Arran. The Sacred Blade shone with white light, throwing its brilliance over the courtyard. The light pulsed and sank into the sword, and a thumb-sized blue gem appeared where Luthar had touched the blade, embedded into the steel.
“It is done,” said Luthar.
“What is done?” said Arran. He swung the Sacred Blade in a slow loop. The sword’s balance seemed unchanged, despite the added weight of the gem.
“The white magic of the Sacred Blade,” said Luthar. “I have left part of myself within. Call upon the magic and it will help you, but only once.” Luthar’s face grew grave. “Time has less meaning for me than it once did. Some of the future is known to me, though it is forbidden for me to tell you all.”
“What will happen?” said Arran.
“You will face a terrible challenge,” said Luthar. “Your hope and what you most love will be stolen from you by a creature of terrible evil. You must overcome it, or all shall be lost. Arran. Call upon the sword’s magic in your last despair, for it will give you aid.”
“I…I…thank you,” said Arran. “Can…can you not stay?”
“I cannot,” said Luthar. “It is not given to me.” He laid a glowing hand on Arran’s shoulder. “Farewell, little brother.”
A wave of exhaustion swept through Arran. He tried to protest, tried to stay awake, but crumpled to the courtyard floor as sleep overcame him.
###
Arran blinked and saw sunlight.
He groaned and sat up, his muscles aching from sleeping on hard stone. Castle Bastion’s ruined inner courtyard rose around him. Arran stood and stretched, grimacing at the stiffness in his legs. Spending the night in the forest might have been a better idea…
He froze, his eyes locked on Alastarius’s cairn, and remembered what had happened.
“A dream,” he muttered. “It couldn’t have been anything but a dream. The dead don’t come back.” He turned to gather up his weapons and froze. Luthar’s Sacred Blade lay unsheathed on the stones.
A blue gem glimmered in the blade.
Arran knelt, picked up the sword, and carefully sheathed it. “Gods above.” He remembered Luthar’s warning and shivered. “My hope and what I most love?” He had little hope.
And everyone he had ever loved had died or vanished.
Though Arran did feel lighter, as if a burden had been taken from him. It cheered him to know that neither Siduri nor Luthar blamed him. They had forgiven him for their deaths.
Perhaps he could forgive himself, in time.
Arran took one last look at the cairn. “Find Alastarius on Earth.” He turned and marched to the northwest, towards the deep forests of Rindl, and beyond them, to the Tower of Endless Worlds.
Chapter 20 - The Hunters
Anno Domini 2012
Wycliffe tapped his smartphone, pacing back and forth before the open truck door to 13A. “So let’s go over this one more time. What are you supposed to do?”
Senator Jones’s voice came over the phone’s speakers, sounding tired and frightened. “Go to Washington. Two dinners. A speech on the Lincoln Memorial steps. Then back to Springfield, where you will contact me with further instructions.”
“Very good,” said Wycliffe. He looked through the truck door and into the night and saw red brake lights flash in the distance. “You understand everything?” He pumped a bit of the Voice into his words. The smartphone warmed beneath his fingers. “Tell me if there is anything you do not understand.”
“No.” Senator Jones coughed. “No…I understand.”
Wycliffe frowned and let the Voice take a tone of command. “You sound ill.” He needed Jones alive, at least until Inauguration Day. “Once you have completed business in Springfield, return to my facilities at Chicago. We will have a trustworthy doctor to do a physical on you.”
“All right,” said Senator Jones.
“And put some pep into your step, man!” The phone heated up under the strain of the Voice. “You’re going to be President, for God’s sake! President of the United States. Just keep thinking about that.” He hung up and winced at the phone’s heat. At least the Voice hadn’t burned the thing out. He had gone through four smartphones in the last month alone.
A white delivery truck pulled up to the dock. Wycliffe tucked his smartphone into his jacket and waited. The truck’s door opened, and Goth stepped into the warehouse, wrapped in his black leather jacket.
“Goth,” said Wycliffe. “Do you find one?”
Goth turned and opened the truck’s back door with a rattle. Someone lay huddled in the corner.
“Who did you get?” said Wycliffe.
Goth grunted and dragged the form into the warehouse. “A young male.” Wycliffe glanced down. A man in his late teens lay on the floor, wrists and ankles bound. He wore ripped jeans and a sports jersey, and his eyes darted back and forth.
“Big fellow,” said Wycliffe. He coughed. “And he stinks. That smells like marijuana, if I’m not mistaken.”
Goth shrugged. “He had several of Lord Marugon’s cigarettes in his residence.”
Wycliffe smiled. “Good. What’s his name?”
Goth growled. “I know not. His address was on the list you provided.”
“He’d better have smoked one of the cigarettes,” said Wycliffe. “I trust there were no witnesses?”
Goth glared.
Wycliffe chuckled. “I thought not.” He pointed. “Take out the gag.”
Goth reached down and tore the gag free.
The young man opened his mouth and started screaming. “Stop that,” said Wycliffe, the Voice thrumming. The young man’s screams trailed off into whimpers. “Tell me your name.”
The young man stared up at him, shaking. “Nathan. Nathan Jameson.” He licked his lips. “Listen, if…if this is about the payment on the weed, I’ll get the money, I can get it…”
Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “You think this is about drug money?” Jameson managed a feeble nod. “Hardly. Tell me. Do you remember taking free cigarettes some months ago?”
Jameson blinked. “What?”
“Free cigarettes. A few months ago.” Wycliffe stared at his face. “From a man a few years older than yourself, skinny, with…”
Jameson blinked. “Oh, him. I remember him. He was a dick. Yeah, I took some of his cigarettes. Good smokes. But he was a dick.”
Wycliffe frowned. “Indeed. Have you seen him since?”
Jameson s
hook his head. “No.”
“Damn.” Kyle Allard’s disappearance had caused Wycliffe no end of worry. His apartment had apparently suffered a gas leak of some kind. But the police had found no body. The mystery still gnawed at Wycliffe from time to time. Had Allard faked his death? Or had he died in an accident? Or had someone killed him, and if so, who? Were there enemies that Wycliffe had yet to encounter? He pushed aside his worry. “Damn. If I ever find that little…”
“Dude,” said Jameson. “Was that all you wanted to know? I could have told you over the phone.”
“Goth,” said Wycliffe. “Put the fear into him.”
Goth growled. Two other slouching thugs stepped out from behind the stacked crates.
Jameson gaped. “What the hell is this shit? I told you…”
Goth removed his sunglasses. Jameson gaped, blinked twice, and then started screaming. The two slouching thugs grabbed Jameson and dragged him across the warehouse, towards the closed door to the Tower of Endless Worlds. A pair of chains with steel manacles hung from the wall near the door. The slouching thugs slammed Jameson against the wall and locked the manacles. Goth stepped forward and raised a hand, those blood-blackened iron claws sliding from his fingertips. Jameson shrieked and kicked. Goth ignored the blows and slashed his claws in sharp cuts, peeling away Jameson’s clothing.
“Good,” said Wycliffe. He closed his eyes, summoning the black magic in his will the way Marugon had taught him. “All right. Let us begin.”
“What are you doing to me?” said Jameson, his voice a wail.
Wycliffe shrugged. “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. The free cigarettes you smoked contained a magical catalyst from another world. The catalyst remains in your body. I shall use a spell to trigger the catalyst and transform you into a creature of black magic.”
Jameson stared at him for a moment. “You’re joking.”
“No,” said Wycliffe.
“This…this is a joke, right?” Jameson shivered. “Oh my God. This…this is a joke. No…a TV show. This is a TV show. Someone’s going to jump out from behind a crate with a camera…”
Wycliffe smiled. “I’m afraid not.”
He lifted his hands, traced a pattern in the air, and began to chant.
The black magic stormed through his mind in a flood of black ice. He fought against the icy tide, his will hardening, and focused his mind on Jameson. A cold wind blew through the warehouse. Wycliffe steeled himself, yelling the chant through the strain in his mind. The black magic built up and up behind the dam of his will, and then burst free all at once.
Jameson’s mouth yawned in a tremendous scream. “Oh my God…”
He changed.
His body shrank and twisted, sinewy muscle cording his limbs. His skin thickened and became gray and greasy. His ears acquired points, and his eyes turned into burning coals. Claws sprouted from his toes and fingers, and his screams became something more feral.
Nathan Jameson had become one of Marugon’s changelings.
Wycliffe lowered his arms with a shudder. “It worked.” He laughed, his voice high and wild. “It worked. Oh, God, it worked.” He laughed again and wiped sweat from his forehead. It had been exhilarating. “Amazing.” The changeling snarled and snapped at its bonds. “Goth. Let it go.”
Goth pressed a button on the wall. The manacles released, and the changeling dropped to the floor with a yelp. It skittered to its feet, claws tapping against the concrete, and hissed at Wycliffe.
Wycliffe gathered the Voice. “Come.” The thing that had been Nathan Jameson froze. “Come. I command it. Come to me!” The changeling shuddered, whimpered, and crawled to Wycliffe. “Kneel!” It moaned and settled on its knees. Wycliffe let out a shuddering breath. “Goth. Shoot it.”
Goth growled. “Why? The bullets will not touch it.”
“Do it anyway,” said Wycliffe.
Goth growled again, drew his handgun, and squeezed off two shots. The echoes sounded deafening in the warehouse. The changeling jerked and reeled, but did not fall from its knees. The bullets had left no mark on its leathery skin.
“Amazing,” said Wycliffe. “Absolutely amazing.” Goth looked unimpressed. “Goth. You still have the list?” Goth nodded. “Use it. I want you to start bringing in more people that smoked Marugon’s cigarettes.”
Goth shifted. “All of them? There are over three thousand.”
Wycliffe snorted. “No, not all of them. Perhaps two or three a week, to begin. Try to pick loners,” he gestured at the new-minted changeling, “or scum no one will miss. Marugon is right. These creatures will make a useful reserve, should things go awry.” Or if Marugon’s sanity seemed to bend further. Or if Goth tired of carrying out Wycliffe’ errands.
A deep rumble came from Goth’s throat. “Did you not warn me of the importance of keeping matters quiet? Will not three disappearances a week be noticed?”
Wycliffe smiled. “Perhaps.” He knew it was dangerous. But he did not care. The feeling of power, of command, as he had created the changeling had been exhilarating. “You and your kin have already caused enough disappearances. Who will notice a few more, hmm?” Wycliffe laughed. “Besides, I can campaign against the crime wave I created. Delightfully ironic, don’t you think?”
Goth said nothing.
Wycliffe coughed. “Well.” He summoned the Voice and turned to the kneeling changeling. “Go!” He pointed to a row of metal doors on the far wall. “Go to the second door, let yourself in, shut the door behind you, and wait.” He had ordered a row of the meat freezers converted into small, cramped cells. Due to the black magic of their transformation, the changelings required virtually no food, and Wycliffe planned to hide up to a hundred in the freezers for weeks at a time. They would sit there in the dark, still as twisted statues, awaiting his command. “Go!”
The creature that had been Nathan Jameson whimpered, turned, and crawled towards the door, claws dragging against the concrete.
###
“So I understand this tobacco company of yours is going to full production?” said Krastiny. He grunted and moved his bishop.
Wycliffe blinked. “The tobacco company? Oh. Stanford Matthews Tobacco. The board plans to start production in January of the coming year. The cigarettes will go on sale in March of 2013, I believe.” He moved a pawn and waited, the faint hum of the recreation room’s air circulator thrumming in his ears.
“Excellent. I may make an investment myself,” said Krastiny. He slid his rook and captured Wycliffe’s pawn.
Wycliffe snorted and studied the board. “Why would a Russian physician want to invest in an American tobacco company? How many times have I heard you lecture Vasily about his smoking?” He moved his remaining knight, hoping to lure out Krastiny’s queen.
Krastiny chuckled. “I like to spread my money around, Senator. That way the insolvency of one company or the failure of one bank will not cripple my finances.” He moved his queen. “I knew poverty for much of my life. I would prefer not to taste it again.”
“Agreed.” Wycliffe grinned and moved one of his surviving pawns. He would lose his knight, but he would bag Krastiny’s queen.
Krastiny moved his bishop. “Checkmate.”
Wycliffe gaped. “Checkmate? That is not checkmate.” He squinted at the board. “Damn. Damn! It is checkmate. How did you slip that by me?”
Krastiny leaned back, his ghastly green suit rustling. “Now, now. A true player loses with grace.”
“Sorry.” Wycliffe shook Krastiny’s bony hand. “Good game.”
“Another?”
Wycliffe nodded. “I have time yet.”
Krastiny set up the board, his hands moving with quick grace. “You ought to relax more.”
Wycliffe snorted. “Losing to you is hardly relaxing.”
“Nevertheless.” Krastiny finished setting up the pieces. “As a physician, I must advise you against overexertion. White or black?”
“Black. I prefer the black.” Wycliffe smiled at the priv
ate joke.
Krastiny rolled his eyes. “Amusing.” He moved one of his center pawns in a classic opening move. “And in the interests of your long-term health, I must advise you to obtain new bodyguards. I heard only three inches separated your head from an assassin’s bullet a few days past.”
Wycliffe moved a knight. “Closer to six.”
“Still close,” said Krastiny. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I do not think you should trust your bodyguards as much as you do. They are provided by Marugon, yes?” Wycliffe nodded. “I am probably correct is assuming they are not entirely…human? Yes, I know I am.” He moved a bishop.
Wycliffe scowled. “Marugon has always been true to his word.” He slid a pawn forward.
“Marugon has always needed you before,” said Krastiny, moving a knight to counter Wycliffe’s pawn. “Now he has conquered his world, as you have said. His enemies are destroyed. He no longer needs guns. He no longer needs bombs. He no longer needs you.”
Wycliffe frowned. “Correction. Marugon needs me yet. He still wants that nuclear weapon.”
“Yes,” said Krastiny. “And once he has it, what do you think he will do? Your bodyguards’ first loyalty lies to Marugon.”
“No. The bodyguards’ first loyalties are to themselves.” Wycliffe knew they only followed Marugon out of fear, fear of the Warlock’s mighty black magic.
“I do not doubt that,” said Krastiny. “Let me explain. I was in the KGB. I worked with many depraved men. Schzeran and Bronsky, they are hard men, yes, but they are like kittens compared to some of my colleagues in the old days. So I understand men, even the most wicked of them. But these…partners of yours, Marugon and the bodyguards and those little devil-imps…they are not human. At least not entirely. They cannot be trusted. I do not frighten easily, but your Lord Marugon terrifies me. And he has gotten…strange.”
“Stranger, you mean.” Wycliffe stared at the maze of pipes on the ceiling. “He has grown…erratic. He paces for hours on end, muttering to himself. And he has gotten more powerful.”
“What do you mean?” said Krastiny. The chessboard sat forgotten on the table between them.
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