A Knight of the Sacred Blade

by Jonathan Moeller

  Arran passed the center of the Seal. The sensation of pressure, of titanic forces balanced overhead, became almost overwhelming. He shuddered and increased his pace, trying not to fall on the slick metal. Soon he reached the other side of the Seal, grateful to have his feet on hard stone again. Another colossal archway stood in the far wall, framed by statues of winged skeletons. Beyond the archway he saw a forest of massive columns.

  “What did Kaemarz say?” said Arran, drawing nearer to the doorway. “A chamber filled with…tombs and sarcophagi of stone. And spirits cloaked in gray mist.” Were these the monsters that the soldiers had feared? He drew his Sacred Blade in his right hand and the gun loaded with the cartridge dipped in Siduri’s blood in his left.

  Arran passed through the doorway and entered a tremendous hypostyle hall, the arched ceilings shadowed in gloom. Forests of pillars stretched away as far as he could see. Thousands upon thousands of stone sarcophagi lay in rows on the floor. Arran stepped to the nearest and examined it. The sarcophagus was built of blood-red granite, and an effigy had been carved on the lid, an image of a scar-faced man in unusual spiked armor. Arran stepped away from the sarcophagus, his eyes widening as they fell over a pillar. Hundreds of effigies had been carved into the pillar, solemn stone faces gazing down at him. “Gods,” he whispered, his voice shaking. Did each of these effigies cover a tomb? “What is this place?”

  He had grown so accustomed to talking to himself that the whispered, echoing reply caught him utterly off guard.

  “This is the Chamber of the Tombs, Arran Belphon.”

  Arran whirled, his weapons coming up. A giant figure wrapped in ragged gray robes stood behind a sarcophagus. The figure seemed to shimmer and change even as Arran watched it. One moment it was nothing but a column of gray mist. The next it was a giant skeleton, green light flaring in its eye sockets. Then it was the gray-robed form once again.

  “What are you?” said Arran. His Sacred Blade did not respond to the creature. Whatever it was, it was not a thing of the black magic.

  The figure did not move. “I am the caretaker of this place.”

  Its whispery voice brushed Arran’s ears and echoed through his mind.

  “This place?” said Arran. “You mean the Tower.”

  “No. This chamber.”

  “And what is this chamber?” said Arran.

  “This is the Chamber of the Dead.”

  Arran nodded. “What is the purpose of this place?”

  The caretaker lifted a robed arm. “Look about you, Arran Belphon. Each tomb holds the body of a mortal that perished in the Tower. It is my task to gather the bodies of those slain within the Tower and inter them here, lest the children of the void clothe themselves in the flesh of the slain. The Divine gave me this task when the Tower was first reared, and I have labored at it ever since.”

  “Do you mean me harm?” said Arran.

  “Your actions are meaningless, so long as you do not disturb the dead.” The mist surrounding the caretaker rippled. “Then you shall lie among the dead yourself.”

  Arran lowered his Sacred Blade. “How many dead lie here?”

  “Countless thousands. Ten thousand times ten thousand. Or a million times a million. The number matters little. It is beyond mortal capacity to understand.”

  Arran slid his gun back into its holster. “And you buried them all here? Every mortal that ever died in the Tower?”

  “Yes.”

  Arran stared into the caretaker’s cowl. “You said my name. How do you know my name?”

  “It is given to me to know the name of any mortal that enters the Tower of Endless Worlds,” said the caretaker, flowing into the form of the giant skeleton.

  “So you know the names of all the mortals in the Tower?” said Arran.

  “Yes.”

  “Another question, if you please…”

  The caretaker became the robed figure once more. “It is the nature of mortals to ask questions. Their minds can only grasp a tiny portion of the infinite, of the Divine. Thus they always seek to learn more. Many mortals have questioned me, Arran Belphon, and many more shall question me.”

  Arran nodded. A small knot of fear grew in his stomach. “So…you know the names of all the dead interred here?”

  “Yes.”

  The fear grew. “Is it given to you to tell me these names?”

  “If you ask,” said the specter.

  “Marugon,” said Arran. “Lord Marugon of…”

  “I know of whom you speak,” said the caretaker, “though that is not his name. He has passed through the Tower many times. Those who have sworn their souls to him often travel through my Chamber. Sometimes they try to loot the tombs of the dead.” A hint of irritation entered the dry whisper. “Then I send them to join the dead. But that is meaningless to you. The Marr’Ugaoun does not lie among the dead.”

  “Another name,” said Arran. “Master Alastarius, also of my world.”

  There was a long pause. “I do not know.”

  Arran frowned. “You do not know the name?”

  “I know of the name,” said the caretaker, shifting to gray mist. For a moment its voice sounded almost puzzled. “I do not know. He may have entered the Tower. He may have not. Perhaps his essence, or perhaps his soul. But I do not know.”

  Curiosity and deep dread burned within Arran. He did not want to ask the next name on his mind. “Then…then another.”

  “Ask.”

  “Liam Mastere,” said Arran, “from my world. A Knight of the Order of the Sacred Blade.”

  The specter beckoned. “Come with me.”

  The words struck Arran like a physical blow.

  The caretaker glided through the rows of sarcophagi, trailing tendrils of gray mist. Arran followed, his heart in his throat. They walked for what seemed like hours. Arran saw thousands of effigies, men, women, old and young alike. The specter stopped next to one of the sarcophagi, and Arran looked at the stone effigy on the lid.

  It was a perfect likeness of Sir Liam Mastere.

  Arran grabbed at the corner of the sarcophagus for support. Waves of grief and pain swept through him. He had known, almost certainly, that Liam Mastere was dead. Yet to see it firsthand…

  He closed his eyes for a long moment, fighting back the tears.

  “This,” he said at last. “This is his tomb?”

  “Yes.”

  “How…how did he die? Do you know?”

  “The children of the void killed him.”

  Arran looked up at the gray shadow. “Who?”

  “The children of the void killed him.”

  Arran rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Who are the children of the void?”

  “They are the children of the void.”

  “Helpful.” Arran closed his eyes and thought for a moment. “These children of the void. Where…where did they come from?”

  “They come from the outer voids, the dark places between the worlds,” said the caretaker. “They are the least of those that dwell in the darkness between the worlds, beyond the Tower.”

  “Beyond the Tower?” said Arran. He remembered the black hole and the corridor into nothingness, the Ildramyn’s vision of dark things attacking Sir Liam boiling through his mind. “The holes in the walls. The soldiers’ monsters.” He stood, his eyes on Sir Liam’s effigy. “Sir Liam’s Sacred Blades. Are they interred with him?”

  “The dead and their possessions are laid to rest in the tombs,” said the caretaker.

  “I should take his Sacred Blades with me,” said Arran. “They should go back to my world.”

  “No.” The caretaker seemed to grow, looming large over him. “Plunder the tombs of the dead and you shall join them.”

  “Very well.” Arran closed his eyes. “One more name.” He did not want to ask. He knew the answer already, if Liam had failed. “King Lithon Scepteris of Carlisan.”

  “He does not lie amongst the dead.”

  Arran opened his eyes. “What?”

&n
bsp; “Lithon Scepteris does not lie among the dead.”

  Arran frowned. “But Sir Liam lies here. Where is Lithon, then?”

  “He entered one of the doors to the world called Earth.”

  Arran blinked. “Can you tell me the circumstances of Sir Liam’s death?”

  “As you wish.” The caretaker shimmered. “Liam Mastere fought the children of the void. There were two others in his company, Lithon and a mortal girl. Liam Mastere commanded them to flee. The mortal girl took Lithon and entered one of the doors to Earth. The children of the void surrounded and slew Liam Mastere. I took him and laid him among the dead.”

  “Two others?” said Arran. “But he took Lithon with him to the Tower. There were no others.”

  “Another was with him. A mortal girl.”

  “What was her name?”

  The caretaker hesitated, its form rippling. “I know not.”

  Arran frowned. “You know not? I thought you knew the names of all the mortals that set foot in the Tower.”

  “That has been given to me. But the girl is different. Unique, perhaps. She may not have a name. Or she may not know her true name. Such things have been known to happen.”

  Arran’s mind raced. “Sir Liam must have found her. On the Crimson Plain, maybe, or wandering the Tower. The children of the void attacked. He fought them. The girl made it to Earth with Lithon.” Arran laughed. “He did it! He got Lithon to Earth. By all the gods, he did it.” His laugh broke into a sob. “But he sacrificed himself doing it.” He looked at the effigy. “Damn you. You should have kept me with you. We could have done it together. We could have reached Earth.” He closed his eyes, steadying himself. “You damned fool old man. You did it.” Alastarius had Prophesied that Lithon would bring him back, Sir Liam had gotten Lithon to safety, and Siduri had told Arran to find Alastarius on Earth. Perhaps this fool’s quest had some hope after all. “Thank you, caretaker. You have helped me more than you can know.”

  “Your thanks are meaningless.” The caretaker began to drift away. “Beware the corridors of the Tower, mortal. Else you too shall lie among the dead.”

  “I have not come this far to fall now,” said Arran.

  He wondered how many of occupants of the Chamber of the Dead had said the same thing.

  The caretaker made no answer. Arran stared at the effigy of his former teacher and mentor for a long time. Then he set off for the far wall, fresh energy in his stride. After a long walk he came to the doorway Kaemarz had described, seven corridors of crimson granite branching off in all directions. More of the hideous bas-reliefs and strange writing marked the walls. At least these corridors were smaller than the passage leading to the Chamber of the Great Seal.

  Arran turned and looked back at the tombs. “Rest well, Sir Liam,” he whispered, “even in this place.”

  He started down the center corridor.

  Chapter 23 - The Children of the Void

  Between the Worlds

  A cold wind blew down the corridor.

  Arran wrapped his cloak tighter and picked his way over the rubble littering the corridor. Dozens of holes scarred the crimson granite of the walls, ceiling, and even the floor. Some were no bigger than his finger. Others yawned larger than a horse. A cold wind, steady and icy, blew from the multitude of holes. He kept his Sacred Blade ready in his hand.

  If these children of the void erupted from the holes in the walls, Arran planned to avenge Sir Liam’s death.

  The floor shifted beneath his feet, a crack opening. Arran cursed and sprang forward. A piece of the floor tumbled into the darkness and vanished. The ever-present green glow flared brighter, and sparks of green lightning crackled along the ceiling. Arran stumbled forward, sputtering curses. Suppose the corridor collapsed around him?

  Then the tremors eased, and the lightning faded.

  Arran wiped sweat from his eyes. At least he did not have much farther to go, assuming Kaemarz had told the truth. The corridor ahead looked less damaged. Arran breathed a sigh of relief. With any luck…

  A woman’s voice sighed his name.

  Arran spun, drawing a gun with his free hand. His eyes roamed over the corridor. Nothing moved, and he heard nothing but the distant whispering of the cold wind. Arran grumbled another curse and shoved the gun back into its holster. The never-ending silence had gotten to his head…

  “Arran Belphon.”

  Arran lifted his Sacred Blade. “Caretaker?”

  No one answered.

  Arran shrugged and continued down the corridor, sword raised in guard. He passed through a domed chamber, the corridor continuing on the other side. Arran saw a huge breach in the corridor’s wall. It started in the ceiling, slashed down the wall, and devoured half the floor.

  “Arran Belphon.” The woman’s voice sounded so familiar.

  He cursed and drew his gun, turning. He saw nothing.

  Then he turned once again, and saw someone standing by the edge of the pit in the floor.

  It was a figure draped all in black robes. A cold breeze moaned from the hole, stirring the black robes and Arran’s cloak.

  Arran leveled his gun. “Name yourself! Speak.” The hooded figure remained silent. “Speak, or by all the gods, I’ll put a bullet through your skull.”

  “Arran Belphon.” Pain laced the female voice, and the figure reached up and drew back the hood.

  Arran shuddered, shock blasting through him in an overwhelming wave. “Siduri?”

  It was Siduri’s face, gazing at him above the black robe.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice tight with pain. Her face was drawn and gray, her green eyes bloodshot. A mass of half-congealed blood ringed her neck and soaked the top of her ragged robes. “So you do remember me.”

  “Remember you?” Confusion and doubt warred in his mind. “How could I have forgotten you? Your dying words drove me to the Tower.” He could not take his eyes from the blood covering her neck.

  She laughed at him, her voice cold and bitter. “Dying words? What good are they to me, man of Carlisan?” Her lips pulled back into a hideous snarl. “You did this to me.” A line of blood trickled from her lips. “You did this to me, you bound me to this hideous place.”

  “No!” said Arran. The awful guilt clutched at his heart. “No! This cannot be happening. You came to me at Castle Bastion, you forgave me, you said it was not my fault you perished…”

  An agonized sob slipped Siduri’s lips. “You left me to die. You let that monster kill me.” Her shoulders shook beneath the black robes. “But that is nothing compared to what you have done to me now.”

  “What?” said Arran. “What have I done?”

  “My spirit is bound to you,” said Siduri, a fever glint in her eyes, “cursed to follow wherever you might go.” She laughed. “Just as I foolishly vowed in life. And you came to the Tower. My spirit followed…and now I am trapped in the dark places between the worlds.”

  “No,” said Arran. “That cannot be. You told me you were at peace, that I would not see you again in this life…”

  “I was ignorant,” said Siduri, bloody tears falling from her eyes. “I did not understand. My spirit followed you to the Tower…and the dark places trapped me. The children of the void now own me.” A mingled mad laugh and whimper of pain slipped her lips. “They torment me. What Khan-Mar-Dan did to me…that is nothing compared to what the children of the void and their princes do to me. Nothing!” Her shriek echoed through the corridor. “I saved you, I healed you, I followed you, I loved you, and this is to be my fate? To writhe and scream in the darkness for all time?”

  “No,” said Arran. “This cannot be. I cannot allow this. I have to help you. I…”

  Great relief came over Siduri’s face. “Arran. I knew you would not abandon me. Thank you.”

  “What must I do?” said Arran. “How can I free you?”

  Yet something within him doubted that Siduri was really here.

  Siduri pointed at the blackness beyond the hole. “Enter the darkn
ess. There you will find the children of the void who have captured my spirit. Slay them with your burning sword, and I shall be free.” The green of her eyes matched the Tower’s dim glow.

  Arran stared into the darkness, and the darkness stared back at him. “You mean I have to go there? Through the breach?”

  “You must,” said Siduri, her voice pleading. “You cannot leave them to me, Arran. I cannot bear the torment. I did not leave you to die in the desert. Do not leave my spirit to die an endless death in the darkness.”

  “I will not leave you,” said Arran. Yet still he could not make himself believe that this was really Siduri. “But the darkness…it…are you certain?”

  Siduri turned away from him. “Then you betray me.”

  “No!” said Arran.

  “You leave me to suffer in the void,” she said, her voice pained. “You were the only man I ever loved, and you leave me to this fate…”

  Arran frowned. “What did you say?”

  “I suffer the torments of the damned, and you bicker with words? What sort of fiend are you?”

  “No,” said Arran. Clarity flooded his mind, driving back the shadows of doubt and guilt. “You’re lying. Your husband. Jabir. You told me you loved him, when you both were young. After you came back from Carlisan, after Alastarius taught you the white magic…”

  “Alastarius!” said Siduri, her voice a hiss of rage. “That deceiver, that trickster! It is his fault this has happened to me. He…”

  “No.” Arran remembered the Ildramyn’s vision, the creature had appeared to Sir Liam and masqueraded as Queen Annemarie. “No. You’re lying. You had the highest respect for Alastarius. And you are not really Siduri at all.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, her face caught between astonishment and rage. “Arran.” She stepped towards him. “Just come with me. I can show you wonderful things. We can be together forever.” She reached for him, her lips parted.