The Tower of Endless Worlds (26 page)

Marugon laughed. “Senator Wycliffe is a fool,” he said, voice amiable. “Oh, he is wise enough in his small ways. He thinks I lust for revenge against the High Kingdoms. And he is right…in a small way. He does not know what I truly wish. Nor could he even comprehend, if I deigned to tell him.” 

“Shall I slay him?” said Goth.

Marugon chuckled. “No. He is too useful, for now. And I shall need him before all is done. Come, my friend. Let us return to Wycliffe’s stronghold. We have a great victory to celebrate, do we not?”

Marugon muttered a simple spell, and they walked unseen through the fire trucks and police cars that screeched to a halt before the pyre of Lithon Scepteris. 

###

A blast of hot air ripped through the tunnel, the floor shaking. Simon grabbed at the wall for support, his flashlight’s beam zigzagging through the darkness. He leaned against the grimy concrete wall and glanced over his shoulder. Far in the distance, he saw yellow-orange light blazing from the opening to the warehouse. 

“My God,” said Simon. “He blew himself up. The poor fool blew himself up.” 

Ally stared at the glow. “I think he broke his staff.”  Her voice trembled. “Liam threw himself at the shadows in the Tower. Conmager broke his staff. They all died to protect Lithon. I hope he really does grow up to overthrow Marugon.”

It was the longest speech Simon had heard her make. 

Simon grunted. “Let’s keep going.” His shoulder muscles cramped, and he almost dropped Katrina. “Wait. I need to rest. Let’s stop for just a bit. I think we’re far enough away from the warehouse.”

“Okay,” said Ally. She sat down against the wall. “Lithon’s getting heavier.”

Simon levered Katrina to a sitting position and knelt besides her. Most of her cuts from the broken glass had scabbed over. She had a purplish-green bruise across her jaw and cheek, and her right arm looked dreadful. 

Her eyelids twitched. “Simon.”

He took her good hand. “Katrina?”

Her eyes were glazed. “It hurts. Where am I?”

“A tunnel, part of the sewer system,” said Simon. “We went into the warehouse. Conmager stayed behind and blew himself up, I think, to make them think that we’re all dead.” 

Katrina winced. “It…it hurts…” She trailed off into silence. Simon took her head onto his lap and kissed her forehead, blood and sweat rubbing against his lips. 

“What are you going to do?” said Ally.

“Get her to a doctor,” said Simon. “As soon as possible.”

“And then what?” said Ally.

“I don’t know,” said Simon.

Ally picked Lithon back up and stood. “What will happen to us?”

Simon closed his eyes and rested his head against the cold stone. Conmager’s last instructions played in his mind over and over again. He had told Simon to love his betrothed. He could do that. Simon opened his eyes and looked at Ally, standing silent on the opposite side of the narrow tunnel.

Conmager had told him to take care of the children. Simon could do that, too. 

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said. He lifted Katrina under the armpits and hoisted her back up. “There’s another of those arrows up ahead. Let’s keep going.”

They continued down the tunnel, their footsteps echoing in the cold dark. 

Chapter 22 - Simon's Choice 

Anno Domini 2003

A week later Simon walked into the lobby of Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping and licked his dry lips.

Markham glanced up from his coffee. “Mr. Wester! How have you been? We’ve been worried sick about you and Ms. Coldridge.”

“I’m fine,” said Simon, looking at the office manager. Did he know the truth? Did he know about the guns, the bombs, and the winged demons lurking beneath the beards and the leather jackets? “Katrina’s…well, Katrina’s getting better.”

“That’s good to hear,” said Markham, relief crossing his lined face. “What happened?”

Simon remembered the story he and Katrina had worked out in her hospital room. “We were eating dinner in my kitchen. Someone kicked down the back door. I think it was some kind of home invasion robbery. We didn’t stay long enough to find out. We ran out the front door. Katrina went into the street and got hit by a black van. It might have been the robber. I don’t know.” The horror of that night rose up is mind. Simon closed his eyes and squelched it, knowing that it would return in his dreams.

“That’s awful,” said Markham. “How is Ms. Coldridge?”

“She’s recovering, thank God,” said Simon. He had found himself becoming much more religious in the last week. “She had a shattered right arm, a fractured right leg, and cuts from broken glass. She’ll get better, though it’ll take a while.” He shook his head. “My mother freaked out when she got back from Florida. And Katrina’s mother didn’t take it too well, either.” He hoped the obese old woman wouldn’t have a heart attack. Katrina did not need that right now. 

“Terrible, just terrible,” said Markham. “If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”

Simon smiled. “Thanks.” Perhaps Markham didn’t know the terrible truth about Wycliffe. Simon had remained oblivious to it for almost a year. Or he had chosen to ignore it for the sake of his paycheck. “Thanks. It means a lot.” He fingered the pocket of his coat. The guard at the gate hadn’t bothered to search him. “I...have to see Senator Wycliffe now.”

“Of course,” said Markham. “Of course. He’s been quite worried about you both.”

“I know,” said Simon. “We got a card from him.” 

Simon started up the hall to Wycliffe’s office. He fingered the small revolver hidden in his pocket. He had bought it, illegally, from a pawnshop owner on Maxwell Street. He had taken it to the woods behind the house and tested it, keeping it secret from his mother and Katrina and from the children. 

He knew it worked.

Simon came to Wycliffe’s office door, raised his hand, and knocked. No one answered.

Simon pushed open the door, his hand dipping into his pocket. Wycliffe stood behind his desk, clad in a double-breasted suit. A TV stood in back corner. Wycliffe watched it, chewing his lip.

“Police continued to remain baffled by the mysterious explosion that took place last week in the South Side warehouse district,” said a blond anchorwoman, standing before the charred ruins of the warehouse. “Though there appears to have been no sign of terrorism, bomb experts say the blast pattern corresponds to no known…”

Wycliffe scowled and turned off the TV. “Damn you, Marugon.”

“Senator?” said Simon. His arm tensed. He would draw the gun, level it, squeeze the trigger…

Wycliffe turned, and Simon took a step back. Wycliffe’s eyes were bottomless pits into an unending nothingness. Simon lost the grip on his gun, and it fell back into his pocket. 

“Mr. Wester! Come in, come in,” said Wycliffe. His eyes had resumed their normal dull brown shade. “You caught me off guard, I’m afraid. Have a seat.”

Simon sat, sweat trickling down his back. Suppose he did kill Wycliffe? What then? What if the winged demons captured him alive? What if they tracked his trail back to Katrina and Ally and Lithon? Simon suddenly felt very foolish. Wycliffe was just an appendage of the monster, not its head. 

Simon had glimpsed the head that terrible night, swathed in a hooded black robe.

Wycliffe sat at his desk and folded his hands. “I heard about what happened to you and Ms. Coldridge. Terrible, just terrible. Crime in this city has just gotten out of hand.” His voice hardened. “I must have words with the mayor, and perhaps with the governor, about this.”

Simon didn’t say anything. He wanted to draw the gun and shoot Wycliffe between the eyes. A small part of him knew he would never have this chance again. But the rest of him worried about what would happen to Katrina and the children if he shot Wycliffe. 

“Well,” said Wycliffe, waving his hands. “You have much bigger concerns on your mind than political squabbles, no doubt. How is Ms. Coldridge? Will she recover?”

Simon nodded. “She should. It’ll take a while and a lot of physical therapy before she’s up and about again. A couple of months, at least. Hopefully she’ll be walking again by Christmas.”

Wycliffe sighed. “Like they always tell the soldiers, right?”

Simon snorted. “Right.” 

“So I take it Ms. Coldridge will be…ah, absent from work for a very long while?” said Wycliffe.

Simon nodded. “Very.” He shrugged. “She…was going to quit soon anyway.”

Wycliffe raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“We’re getting married, and I’m starting that new job soon,” said Simon. “She thought it was getting too…political around here. She doesn’t like politics. And she wanted to go back to school.”

Wycliffe chuckled. “Too political? I am a Senator, you know.” He leaned forward. “I think you should consider staying. I can use a good speechwriter and PR man. And there are great things ahead, Mr. Wester. Very great things.”

Simon swallowed. “I’m flattered.”  He thought of the winged demons, of Conmager’s haunted eyes, and of the man in the black robe. He almost drew the gun and fired. “I’m…sure great things are ahead. But I have a chance to pursue a career I want to pursue…I think that’s a chance I should take.”

Wycliffe stared at him, unblinking, and Simon stared back. Finally Wycliffe smiled. “Ah, well. You’ll do well, Mr. Wester. My mistake. Dr. Wester. I would have become a historian myself, I suppose, if fate had not intervened. I wish you and your future wife well.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Simon. 

Wycliffe waved his hand. “Well, if that’s all, I suppose we both have a great deal to do. Good day, Mr. Wester.”

Simon nodded. “Senator.” He rose, his hand slipping into his pocket. “I’ll be sure to watch out for black vans on my way home…”

Wycliffe leaned back into his chair. “Wait. A black van, you say? It was a black van that hit her?”

“Yeah,” said Simon, his fear growing. He could almost see the wheels spinning behind Wycliffe’s eyes. “Why? Someone you know?”

“Perhaps.”  Wycliffe’s expression grew distant. “A black van? Did they go to that part of the city?” Simon swallowed. If Wycliffe figured it out, Katrina and the children were doomed. “You didn’t happen to see any children beforehand, did you?”

“Children?” Simon faked a befuddled expression and gathered his resolve. His fingers curled around the gun’s cold metal grip. 

“A small boy, three or four years old,” said Wycliffe. “Perhaps in the company of an older man with a strange accent?”

“Not at all,” said Simon. He started to draw the gun from his pocket. “Why?” 

“No reason,” said Wycliffe. His voice had gone calm and smooth. “No reason at all. But, tell me one thing, if you please. This man who broke down your back door. What did he look like? Big and tall with a leather jacket?”

Simon shook his head. “Senator. I…don’t know. I didn’t get that much of a look at him. And frankly, I didn’t. I don’t want to know. I just want to put this behind me, help Katrina get better, and move on with my life.”

Wycliffe smiled, and suspicion faded from his eyes. “A wise choice. This sort of experience can destroy a man. And I suspect you were caught up someone else’s business. A failed drug deal, perhaps, or gang warfare.”

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know,” said Simon. He hesitated, his fingers still around the gun’s butt.

Wycliffe glanced past Simon’s shoulder. “Ah. Goth.”

Simon turned and almost screamed, the gun falling back into his pocket. 

A huge man in the hooded jacket, sunglasses, and fake beard the winged demons used to disguise themselves stood in the doorway. Simon had seen that man before, standing besides the robed figure on that horrible night. 

Wycliffe smiled. “Dr. Wester, meet Goth Marson. He’s the head of the private security firm I contracted to guard these premises.” Goth did not extend his hand, and neither did Simon.

“Senator,” said Goth, his voice a bone-rattling rumble. “Your partner has departed for his native land. He expects to send regular messages concerning your business together.”

“Good,” said Wycliffe. He gave Goth a look. “I hoped that he would clear up…certain mysteries before he left, but I shall be satisfied.” Simon wondered how much Wycliffe himself knew about what had happened. “Well. I’ve taken up enough of your time, Dr. Wester.” Wycliffe rose. “I wish you well, and good luck in…”

“He is leaving us?” said Goth. The disguised demon titled his head and glared.

“Goth.” Wycliffe and Goth shared a look. “No. My partner left you behind, at your request, but you are under my command. I will not tolerate insubordination. If I wish for a certain matter to be…resolved…then you will resolve it with all speed. But if I say no, then I mean no. Understood?”

Goth chuckled, a vicious, deep sound. “Very well.”

Wycliffe smiled. “Besides, it’s not as if I have a shortage of work for you.” Goth chuckled again. “Well, Dr. Wester, until we meet again.”

Simon nodded, brushed past Goth’s bulk, and never set foot in Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping again.

###

Time passed. 

Simon started his duties as an assistant professor at Constantina University. Katrina wrote a mystery novel as she lay recovering in the hospital. Much to her surprise, she found a buyer and was published in spring of Anno Domini 2005. 

Wycliffe grew more powerful.

And Ally and Lithon grew up. 

THE END

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Bonus Chapter from A KNIGHT OF THE SACRED BLADE

Year of the Councils 971

“Majesty, please, I beg of you,” said Arran Belphon, jogging alongside the King’s horse. The rattle of armor and the shouts of men rose into the air, and a distant drum thundered out a march. “This is your only chance. Please, I beg, heed me.”

Septimus Stormrider, King of Antarese, did not deign to look down. “Marshal!” An Antardrim in elaborate plate armor rode to the King’s side. “Have the scouts returned?”

“Yes, majesty,” said the Marshal. He pulled off his plumed helm and pointed. “Lord Marugon’s army advances across the Plain.” Arran looked north across the Emerald Plain, one of the few lush lands in arid Antarese.

He saw the distant black mass of Marugon’s soldiers. “Four hundred men,” said the Marshal, his weathered face impassive. “All carry the hell-forged guns of Earth.”

“Majesty!” said Arran.

King Septimus snorted. “Four hundred men, fallen Knight?” Arran stiffened. “Am I to fear four hundred men?” He waved his arm, his armor flashing in the sun. “Look!”

Behind him a line of horsemen stretched in all directions. Legions of armored riders sat armed and ready, their banners fluttering in the dry breeze, a forest of lances waiting in their hands. Behind them stood the grim walls and iron parapets of Antarese itself. 

“Twenty-five thousand riders,” said King, “mounted on the finest Antardrim steeds, armored in steel plate, armed with the sharpest weapons. What have we to fear from four hundred of Marugon’s rabble?” He turned to the Marshal. “Signal for battle formation.” 

The Marshal nodded and rode off. Trumpets blared, brassy notes ringing over the Emerald Plain. The thunder of hooves rumbled in Arran’s ears as the horsemen of Antarese arranged themselves for battle. 

Arran reached into his belt and pulled out a machine pistol, a Glock 17C. “Majesty, I beg…”

King Septimus had his sword leveled at Arran’s throat in an instant. “Put that hell-spawned thing away.”

Arran held the handle out to the King. “Take it. I beg.”

The King slapped it aside with his sword, the pistol clattering over the ground. “I need it not.”

“There are four hundred of them…”

“A mere four hundred…”

“All of them have Kalashnikovs!”

The King sneered. “We have the true gods on our side. Their hell-forged machines will avail them not.”

“Majesty,” said Arran, fighting to keep his emotions under control. “You are the king of the last of the High Kingdoms. Carlisan is gone, Amnisos has burned, Rindl is gone, every other High Kingdom is gone, swept away by Marugon and his gunmen.”

The Marshal rode back to King Septimus’s side. “The men of Antarese stand ready, majesty.”

The King nodded. “Carlisan was not Antarese, fallen Knight. Nor was Rindl, nor Amnisos, nor any of the others. Marugon’s tide shall break on the rock of Antarese.”

The Marshal snorted. “And is not much of tide. Four hundred low-born rabble.”

“Take the guns I have found,” said Arran. “If even twenty of your men carry guns it will turn the tide. Marugon’s gunmen are complacent and arrogant. They do not expect resistance…”

“Resistance?” spat the Marshal. “Resistance? They face the fury of Antarese and do not expect resistance? Bah!” He slammed his helm onto his head. “Then we shall teach this scum a lesson in humility. I await your orders, majesty.” 

“Majesty, I beg of you, listen me,” said Arran. Despair blacker than anything he known, even during the dark days of Carlisan’s fall, settled on his heart. “This is our last chance. Antarese is the last of the High Kingdoms. Your kingdom is the last hope for our world.”

The King looked across the plain at Marugon’s soldiers. “I am not a fool. I know the power of the guns. Many of my men will fall. We are, as you say, the last hope for the world. But we shall prevail. The gods are on our side, I know it…”

“Did the gods help Carlisan?” spat Arran. “Did they save Narramore? Did they rescue Alastarius from Goth-Mar-Dan?”

“Blasphemy,” said the King, his voice mild. 

“You don’t know their power!” said Arran. “The guns destroyed the White Council, they destroyed all the Knights of the Order of the Sacred Blade…”

“And they destroyed you,” said the King. “You use their hell-spawned weapons. I see the corruption in you, how easily and remorselessly you kill. I will not have that corruption in my own men. I will not turn my loyal men into creatures like Marugon’s killers. Yes, many will die. But better to die like men than to live as someone like you.”

“Please,” said Arran.

“You may go as it pleases you, fallen Knight.” King Septimus donned his crowned war-helm. “I know Marugon’s men fear you, believe you are a ghost of vengeance that haunts their lines. You have been useful to me, and for that I am grateful. But leave my realm, once the battle is won. I see the nature of your soul, and I will not have you among my subjects.” The King galloped off to join his Marshal at the head of the lines. 

A black wave of despair washed over Arran, and his hands began to shake. He willed them to stop. It had been so close. King Septimus had almost agreed to arm his men with guns. But Arran had failed, and Marugon’s four hundred soldiers would annihilate the bright armies of Antarese. Marugon had destroyed the wizards of the White Council. His gunmen had slaughtered the Knights of the Order of the Sacred Blade. Antarese was the last beacon. When it went out, darkness would flood the world…

Arran reached over his shoulder and clenched a hand around his fallen brother’s Sacred Blade. “No.” 

He had not fought the gunmen for ten years to lose all. He had not sacrificed everything, had not damned himself by taking up the guns, only to succumb to despair. 

He scooped up the fallen Glock and jammed it back into its holster. Perhaps King Septimus was right. There were only four hundred of them. Perhaps, if Arran struck now, he could turn the tide.

Whatever happened, Arran intended to die with his weapons in hand

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