The Tower of Endless Worlds (12 page)

He set off along the rocky ground. The King hung sleeping from his back. The boy had gotten bigger, despite the poor food.

Of course, it had been almost a year since they had left Carlisan behind.

“Come!” said Sir Liam. “We will make it!” 

Arran nodded, but remained silent. 

The two Knights picked their way over the rock-strewn foothills. There had been no roads for the last hundred miles. Arran still felt naked without his heavy plate armor. They had discarded it three months back in favor of greater speed. Besides, the armor had done nothing to block the bullets of the black-uniformed soldiers Marugon had sent in pursuit. One by one, the Knights had fallen, torn and ripped by gunfire, until only Arran and Sir Liam remained to take the King to Earth. 

Arran took a deep breath. The horses had died, and his legs ached from the long journey. The scars he had taken pained him, and his stomach cramped with hunger. And his heart felt like a mass of cold lead inside his chest. He had seen too much carnage. 

Arran put his hand on a boulder and paused for a moment to steady himself. 

“Sir Arran?” Liam glanced back. The old man had thinned in the last year, had become tougher and harder. Yet his eyes still burned with their fire. 

“Just…tired,” said Arran.

“I know,” said Liam. “But we must keep going.”

Arran started walking again. “If…

The crack of gunfire reverberated in the cold air.

Arran spun, his Sacred Blade whistling into his hand. Liam went into a crouch, his back to a large rock to shield the King from harm. 

A black-uniformed soldier leapt out of a low gully, Kalashnikov leveled Arran’s way. Arran feinted to the right as bullets ripped into the earth. He spun and slashed his Sacred Blade across the man’s eyes. The gunman screeched and dropped his weapon. Arran pivoted and took off the gunman’s head in a spray of blood.

“Surrender!”

Arran whirled, seeking new foes. Five gunmen stood atop the nearby boulders and hills, their weapons leveled at Sir Liam. One more stood with his weapon aimed at Arran. 

“Well, my good Knights,” said one of the soldiers, a man with a scar across his forehead. “You’ve led my hunters on quite a merry chase across these empty lands. But it ends here. Lord Marugon wants the boy. Hand him over, and we shall spare your lives.”

Liam barked a laugh. “To you, Rembiar? You betrayed Alastarius to his death. I swore I would kill you if I ever had the chance. Why should we trust you?”

Rembiar chuckled. “It’s not as if you have a choice.” 

Arran looked around in despair. There was no way they could break free of the ring of gunmen. 

“There’s always a choice,” said Liam. 

“Quite right, old man,” said Rembiar. He grinned. “Hand over the boy or die. That’s your choice.” 

“No,” said Sir Liam. “I choose to die as I lived, with honor.”

Arran swallowed. It had all been for nothing. Luthar’s death, the long flight, the battles and the deaths of the Knights. It had all been for nothing. He wanted to fall on his sword. He shuddered in pain and looked at the ground.

The fallen Kalashnikov of the soldier he had killed gleamed in the dim light. 

“You know,” said Rembiar, “I had always wanted to see the spectacle of Sir Liam Mastere in battle. A pity I’ll never get the chance. Men! Put this old wretch out of his misery.”

“Master!” said one of the soldiers. “Lord Marugon himself commanded us to bring the brat back alive. We cannot hit the Knight without killing the child.”

Arran stared at the dropped gun. His heart pounded in his chest. 

Rembiar shrugged. “Pity. Besides, our Lord would prefer the child dead, if it came down to it. Shoot him.”  They adjusted their weapons, and the soldier watching Arran shifted his gaze to Liam. 

Arran moved. 

He dropped his Sacred Blade, ducked, and seized the dropped Kalashnikov. It felt cold and heavy in his hand. 

He squeezed the trigger. The nearest gunman’s head exploded in a spray of blood and brains. Rembiar and his gunmen spun, shock on their faces. Sir Liam’s face went gray. Arran sidestepped and blasted another of the gunmen.

“Shoot him!” screamed Rembiar, opening fire. The other gunmen followed suit. Bullets whined and skipped off the ground. Arran dropped to one knee and shot another gunman. Bullets screamed past him, and he tucked his shoulder and rolled. Arran came out of his roll and fired, spraying the weapon back and forth. Two more gunmen fell, and Arran found himself in Rembiar’s sights.

The bore of his Kalashnikov seemed like a tunnel into the next life.

Rembiar’s face twisted with rage. “You trickster bastard…” 

The tips of Sir Liam’s Sacred Blades exploded from Rembiar’s chest. 

“Fitting,” said Liam. He kicked Rembiar’s carcass off his blades. “A traitor stabbed in the back.”  His gaze snapped to Arran. “And as for you.”

Liam stalked forward, Sacred Blades shimmering. Arran backed away. “Stop! What are you doing?”

“You’ve become like them,” said Liam, his face a mask.

“But we would have died!” said Arran. “He would have killed us all!”

“With the hell-forged machine you now hold in your hands!” said Liam. “Damnation, Arran, I had thought better of you…” 

Arran pointed the gun at Sir Liam. The old Knight froze. “You wouldn’t dare.” 

“It would have all been for nothing,” said Arran. His eyes began to water. “Everything. The destruction of Carlisan, Anna’s death, all the Knights, my…my brother, it would have all been for nothing.”

“The cost is too high,” said Liam. “Your heart and soul have corrupted, if you’re willing to use a gun.” 

“We have to keep going,” said Arran. “There might be more soldiers…”

“No!” said Liam. “I’ll not travel with one who has taken up one of the guns.”

“Then go!” said Arran, his voice cracking. He waved the gun at the pass. “Go and take the King to safety. Leave me here to be damned. Take him someplace to be safe, and then bring him back to tear out Marugon’s heart.”

Sir Liam Mastere’s face worked through a dozen expressions. Then he nodded and snapped his swords into their scabbards. He turned and marched away, the young King on his back. Arran watched them go until they were no more than a distant speck against the mountains.

He fell to his knees and started to weep. He leaned on the Kalashnikov, his Kalashnikov, to keep from falling. He reached over and pulled his Sacred Blade back into its scabbard. He would not die with his sword lying forgotten in the dirt. Arran propped the butt of the gun against the ground, leaned his forehead against the barrel, and reached down for the trigger. 

He held that pose for hours. 

He hated these machines, even more than he hated Marugon. The guns had destroyed his world, destroyed the White Council and the Order of the Sacred Blade, and now they would destroy his soul and his body. 

And then something inside him hardened.

Arran’s eyes snapped open. He lurched to his feet, his muscles aching. 

“I swear this!” he screamed, his voice echoing off the mountains. “I may have damned myself, but I swear this, that I shall never fall before a gun!”

He had suffered too much to die now. He would not kill himself with the gun.

But there were others.

###

Arran stepped out of the trees. A trio of black-uniformed soldiers stood around a goat herder’s mud-and-thatch house. The peasant, his wife, and his five children stood lined up against the wall of their house.  

“I swear it!” said the peasant, his voice a sob. “We’ve no corn. We’ve no goats. We don’t even have enough food to feed ourselves…”

“Quiet!” said one of the gunmen, an officer’s badge on his shoulder. “Then you’ll pay your taxes in a different way. Your wife and daughters will go to the brothel.” He grinned. “As for you, we’ll sell you and your sons to the winged demons. They like to play with their food…”

Arran pulled two stolen handguns from his belt. He leveled them and opened fire. 

The first soldier fell dead, a bullet through his head. The remaining two spun. Arran killed the second with a shot through the eyeball. The officer screamed and pointed his Kalashnikov at the children.

“Stop!” said the officer. “Stop or I’ll kill them all.”

Arran froze. 

The officer smirked. “So, you’re the fellow who’s been causing all the trouble with our foragers. There’s a bounty on your head, and it looks as if I’m the one who gets to collect. Drop your weapons, or else I’ll put…”

Arran’s first shot blasted through the Kalashnikov. His second punctured the officer’s throat, and the third drove right between his eyeballs.

Chapter 11 - Deceptions

Anno Domini 2003

“Morning, Markham,” said Simon, brushing the snow off his coat.

Markham nodded. “Good morning, Wester. I believe there’s someone who wants to see you.”

“Hmm?” said Simon. 

“One of Senator Wycliffe’s business associates,” said Markham. “He wants to talk with you about your van.” He shrugged. “Whatever that means.”

A trickle of sweat slithered down Simon's back. “Um…yeah. Listen. I’m feeling ill. I think I’ll come back later.”

He turned and halted in his tracks. Two of the hooded and bearded security guards stood at the door, the light glinting off their sunglasses.

“I’m sorry, Wester,” said Markham. “You need see him right away. He really wants to talk to you about your van.”

“Okay,” said Simon. “Okay. I’ll talk to him.” He went into the office hallway, his heart hammering in his chest. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. It took him three tries to unlock the door.

He stepped into his office and screamed.

The winged creature sat in Simon’s desk chair. The tips of its leathery wings brushed the wall, and the spikes on its black armor had shredded the chair’s padding. Crimson light from the creature’s eyes cast a red glare over its pale face. 

Simon stepped back. “I…”

“Mr. Wester.” The creature’s voice rumbled like grinding stones. “I seek for Conmager. You will tell me about him.”

"I don’t know anything. I swear! I don't know anything!”

The winged creature snarled, revealing long yellow fangs. “You will tell me!” 

The creature leapt to its feet. Simon screamed as the winged shadow reached for him, iron claws reaching for his face…

###

Simon awoke with a gasp.

The blankets tangled around his thrashing legs as he sat up. For an instant he saw a huge form standing in the corner of his bedroom, wings wrapped around its armored body…

Simon blinked, and the form resolved into his coat rack. He sighed and wiped sweat from his forehead. “A dream. Another dream.”

Simon climbed out of bed, the floor icy cold under his bare feet. The house sweltered in summer, but it froze in winter. He padded down the hall to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and examined his reflection. He looked dreadful. He had lost even more weight in the last few months, and his eyes glinted with a feverish light.

He looked a little like Conmager.

Simon closed his eyes. “I don’t want to think about that. It didn’t happen.” 

He poured himself a glass of water and wandered into the hall, stopping at the window. A thick layer of January snow mantled the yard and street in white. Simon would have a hard time driving to work tomorrow. 

“Boy.”

Simon spun, his heart racing. Maura stood behind him, wrapped in a thick bathrobe. “Mom! You almost gave me heart attack.”

“Are you okay, boy?” said Maura. “I thought I heard you screaming.”

“Screaming?” said Simon. “I was having a bad dream, that’s all.”

“Another one?” said Maura. 

Simon looked out the window. “I don’t have that many.”

“It was the third one this week,” said Maura. “And it’s only Tuesday.”

“Wednesday morning,” corrected Simon. 

“It’s still too many,” said Maura. “And you look so pale. You haven’t been eating enough.”

“I’m fine,” said Simon. “I…just have a lot of stress now, that’s all.” He shook his head. “I’ve got to get some sleep. I have to be at work by eight. Good night.”  He started back towards his room. 

“Are you hiding something?” said Maura.

Simon turned. “What did you say?”

“You’re hiding something, aren’t you?” said Maura.

“You shouldn’t be climbing up the stairs this time of night,” said Simon. “It’s not good for your joints.” 

“You’re acting like a man who’s guilty about something,” said Maura. 

“Mom.” Simon grimaced. “I’m not guilty about anything. I have nothing on my conscience.” 

That was true. He had lied to the police and committed insurance fraud, but he felt no guilt about it.

Just fear.

Fear that Conmager might come back someday.

Fear that one of those winged things might find out what he had done.

“Is it your schoolwork?” said Maura. “Are you having trouble with that?”

“No,” said Simon. “My coursework is all done. I’m teaching a pair of intro courses, but that’s going fine. I just have to finishing writing and proofreading my dissertation.”

“Well, are you having any problems with that?” said Maura.

“No,” said Simon.

“Is it something at work?” said Maura. 

Conmager’s gaunt face flashed across Simon’s thoughts. “It’s nothing at work. Work is fine. It’s a good job, better than any I’ve had before. I don’t have any problems at work.”

No, he didn't. He just worked for a man who sold illegal weapons to foreigners, that was all. 

Maura sighed. “You seem guilty about something. Did that man Wycliffe ask you do something illegal? He seems like a shady character.”

She had no idea.

“No,” said Simon. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve said this before. Wycliffe’s a politician. He’s probably done something wrong.”  Thoughts of guns and the Russian Mafia flashed through Simon’s mind. “It…he’s never asked me to do anything wrong, anything unethical.”

“I still don’t like you having that job with him,” said Maura. “I don’t think he’s honest.”

Simon rubbed his forehead. “If it makes you feel better, I was thinking about quitting.”

Maura blinked. “You are?”

“Yes,” said Simon. “After I finish my dissertation, after I get my degree, and if Dr. Francis’s offer to become full-time faculty works out. I’m not quitting a good-paying job just because some people think Senator Wycliffe did something dishonest at some point in his career.” He thought of Senator Fulbright’s convenient suicide and Conmager’s haunted eyes and pushed away the guilt. 

“Oh,” said Maura. She fell silent. “Is it Katrina?” 

“What?” said Simon. “No. We’re…fine, I guess.” He liked Katrina. He thought he might be falling in love with her.

But he didn’t understand her. 

“Oh.” Maura stared out the window. “You didn’t have sex with her, did you?”

"Mother!” 

“You heard what I said,” said Maura, her voice flat. “Did you have sex with Katrina? Is that why you’ve been acting so guilty lately?”

Simon rolled his eyes. “That’s exactly it. How did you guess? It happened last week, in the back seat of my car. And we were smoking pot and reading Communist Party propaganda while we did it.” 

“Simon!” said Maura. “That’s not something to joke about.”

“I know,” said Simon. “But that’s not it, okay? Besides, Katrina would break my arm if I tried something like that.” 

They had come close, a few times. But something held them back. Simon had been raised to believe premarital sex was wrong, and Katrina had been burned in bad relationships, so she wanted to take it slowly. And Simon still did not understand her, not really. Did she want children? Did she want to spend the rest of her life working as Wycliffe's database administrator?

He didn't know.

“She couldn't break anything. She’s smaller than you,” said Maura.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” said Simon. “She has a black belt in some sort of karate. Did you know that? She made me go with her to the gym last week. I thought she was going to an aerobics class. It was a karate tournament.”  He still remembered her mopping the mat with her opponent. Little wonder she felt confident walking home at night.

Though karate would not help her if she encountered that winged creature. 

“Oh,” said Maura. “Still, I think there’s something you’re not telling me, boy.” 

“Lots of things,” said Simon, forcing sarcasm into his voice. “Go to bed. You’re just worrying yourself. I’m fine. I’m under a lot of stress, yeah, but it’ll get better once I finish the dissertation. Go back to sleep.” 

“All right,” said Maura. “Good night, boy.”

“Good morning, rather, I guess,” said Simon. 

Maura grumbled. “I’m getting too old for these late hours.” She started down the stairs with a slow, painful step. 

Simon walked back into his room, switched on the light, and sat down. Books, papers, and a laptop computer covered his desk. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Sleep would not come tonight, not after the nightmare. 

“It doesn't matter,” said Simon, pressing the heels of his hands against his closed eyes. “Conmager's gone, and he's not coming back.”

He shook his head, turned on his laptop, and got to work. He couldn't get to sleep again, not after that dream, and he could get a lot of writing done before morning. 

###

Simon had never gotten used to the smell of Katrina’s apartment building. The air stank of cigarette smoke, body odor, and something like cat urine. He wondered why Katrina hadn’t moved to a better building. She made enough to afford a better apartment. 

He knocked at her door, his eyelids heavy. Perhaps he could get some coffee from Mrs. Coldridge. The old woman made thick, black, vile coffee capable of resurrecting the dead. 

The door shuddered open. Mrs. Coldridge stood at the door, a cigarette smoldering in her hand. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Yeah,” said Simon. “I have a date…”

Mrs. Coldridge took a long drag on the cigarette. “I know. She’s in the shower.” Simon coughed. “And don’t give me any shit about smoking. I’m not in the mood.” 

Simon spread his hands. “Would I do that?” 

Mrs. Coldridge’s eyes narrowed. “Well, come in and sit down. Katrina should be ready soon. You want some coffee?”

Simon brightened. “Please.”

He followed Mrs. Coldridge inside. The old woman moved with a slow, pained waddle toward the kitchen. Simon settled on the couch. 

“Katrina!” said Mrs. Coldridge, her voice bellowing from the kitchen.

“What, Mom?” 

“Simon’s here.”

“I’ll be ready in a minute!”

Simon leaned against the lumpy couch and looked at the cluttered coffee table. Mrs. Coldridge’s celebrity gossip magazines and tabloids lay in a disorganized heap, and Katrina's laptop sat on one corner. It was on, the screen displaying a word processing program. 

“Here.” Mrs. Coldridge hobbled back into the living room, a chipped old Chicago Bears coffee mug in hand. “It’s hot.”

“Thanks.”  Simon took a drink. The coffee tasted like an unwashed towel. Nevertheless, some of his fatigue vanished. 

“So,” said Mrs. Coldridge, looming over him. “Where are you going tonight?”

“Dinner,” said Simon. “Then a movie, probably.”

Mrs. Coldridge stared, and Simon tried not to sweat. “You cause my daughter any grief, I’ll break your neck. You know that?”

Simon nodded. “You’ve mentioned that before, yes.”

“Good.”  Mrs. Coldridge shuffled towards the kitchen table. Simon rolled his eyes and took another drink of her abominable coffee. 

The bathroom door opened, and Simon caught a glimpse of Katrina before she slipped into her room and shut the door. She wore only a towel, her hair gleaming wet and dark over her bare shoulders. She looked very good. He half-wanted to open the door and go to her. 

No, no half-measures about it. He wanted to open the bedroom door and join her.

To distract himself, Simon glanced over the magazines strewn across the tabletop and looked away in disgust. Katrina’s laptop caught his eye, and he leaned closer for a better look. 

It looked like a story of some sort. He started to read the story, not knowing what to expect. It was about a woman working as a bartender when a gun-toting customer came up to order a drink...

Someone snatched up the laptop. Katrina stood over him, dressed in a short black dress and a black leather jacket. 

She did look happy. 

“Um. Hi,” said Simon. 

“Is something wrong, Katrina?” said Mrs. Coldridge. She flexed her knuckles. “Is he giving you trouble?” 

A muscle in Katrina’s jaw worked. “No. Everything’s fine. I’ll be back sometime between midnight and one.” 

“Have fun,” said Mrs. Coldridge, settling down at the kitchen table. “But don’t let him give you any trouble.”

“I won’t, Mom.” Katrina closed the laptop. “Let’s go.”

Simon followed her into the hallway. The muscle in her jaw still twitched. She looked caught between rage and embarrassment. 

“What did I do?” said Simon. 

“Nothing,” said Katrina. She started down the hallway, her high heels clicking against the grimy floor. 

“Wait.” Simon caught her wrist. “I…”

Katrina spun, and Simon had a brief vision of her hand splitting his skull like a plank at karate practice. He let go of her hand and took a judicious step back. 

“What?” she said.

“What did I do?” said Simon. 

“You shouldn’t have been poking at my laptop,” she said. 

“But I wasn’t!” said Simon. “I was just looking at what was on the screen.”

“You shouldn’t have done that, either,” said Katrina.

“But so what? It’s not like you were doing your taxes. It was just a story about a bartender and a drunk guy.”  He blinked. “Wait a minute. I get it. You wrote that story, didn’t you?”

Her eyes flashed. “Goddamn it. Can’t you leave well enough alone?” 

“No,” said Simon. “Did you write that?”

“Yes,” said Katrina. “What do you care? Oh, wait. What did you call it? Pop culture drivel?”

Simon scowled. “What are you talking about? I haven’t the…wait.” He remembered a conversation with her, months ago, in the lounge at Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping. “Wait. I remember.”

Katrina raised her eyebrows. “Remember what?” 

“What I said about fiction to you. It was a couple of months ago, in the lounge at work. Is that what you’re mad about?”

Katrina rolled her eyes. “Crap. Just rip the story to pieces and get it out of your system already.” 

“But…it wasn’t bad. It was…actually kind of good,” said Simon.

Katrina raised an eyebrow. “Actually kind of good? Try not to flatter me.”

“No,” said Simon. “If you had told me that you wrote something…okay, I’ll bite. I would have expected it to be bad. You know…melodramatic, angst-ridded, full of purple prose. Just bad.”