A Knight of the Sacred Blade (24 page)

“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 tombs 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 charged 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!” 

That got applause. He had gotten better at this. Six months ago he would have used the Voice on the crowd from the very start. Now he had learned to play on their emotions without benefit of the Voice’s powers. 

But the Voice, of course, would come into play when it came time to send their emotions rampaging out of control.

Wycliffe leaned forward. “The economy is bad, true. Yet it didn’t seem to touch Cashwell, Indiana. Why is that?” He began to weave the Voice into his words, letting his speech hum like a taut guitar string. “Because the people of Cashwell were employed at Orchestra Manufacturing. Because Orchestra was producing screws, nuts, bolts, and nails. I don’t care how bad the economy gets, I don’t care how low the stock market falls, I don’t care how flustered those economic blowhards get, people need screws and bolts. The market is strong!” Wycliffe slammed his fist against the podium, letting the Voice project feelings of betrayal and outrage. “Yet what has happened? Why does Cashwell have the highest unemployment rate in the state of Indiana today?”

Movement at the edge of the crowd caught his eye. A man in a ragged brown suit started threading his way towards the podium.

Perfect.

Wycliffe continued his speech. “Cashwell was betrayed! Not by the state government, not by the federal government, though they certainly bear some responsibility, but by the board of directors of Orchestra Manufacturing Incorporated.” He swung his arm over the crowd, feeding more of the Voice into his speech. “I look over this gathering today and what do I see? I see machinists, mechanics, floor workers, shift supervisors, skilled and hardworking Americans. And yet you are unemployed, through no fault of your own.” He let the Voice tremble with righteous rage. “Profits were good for Orchestra. And yet the company decided to move all manufacturing operations to China. Why? Because times were bad? Not for Orchestra! Because profits were down? No! Rather, they were up.” The crowd responded to his words and the Voice, rustling with anger, their faces hardening. “Orchestra Manufacturing, ladies and gentlemen, has destroyed your livelihood! And for what? The exploitation of hungry, starving, desperate Chinese children, working eighteen hours a day for pennies? The bonuses and benefits for senior executives? The bloated salary of the bloated CEO? People of Cashwell, you have fallen victim to the disease that infects America, the exploitation of the hardworking many by the bloated, corrupt, immoral few that seek to dictate our careers, our salaries, and even our very thoughts…”

As Wycliffe spoke, the man in the ragged brown suit pushed to the front of the crowd. His eyes burned with terror and madness, and his dipped into the pocket of his jacket.

“Vermin!” roared the man. All eyes turned to him. 

Wycliffe frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

The man shrieked and raised his hand. A woman screamed. “He’s got a gun!”

Shots rang out. Wycliffe felt a blast of hot breeze as a bullet shot past his ear. Goth leapt out of the crowd and grabbed the gunman’s arm. The man shrieked, and the gun clattered to the ground. Another of the winged demons seized it, and Goth began pushing the wailing assassin out of the crowd. 

“Please remain calm, ladies and gentlemen,” said Wycliffe. “I am unhurt. He missed.” The uproar continued. “Please, remain calm.” The crowd did not calm. Wycliffe summoned the Voice and bellowed into the microphone. “Calm yourselves!”

Feedback snarled through the microphone, and sparks erupted from one of the speakers. The Voice shot through the crowd like a ripple. The crowd fell silent, every eye on Wycliffe. 

Goth wrestled the would-be assassin into one of the motorcade’s cars.

Wycliffe seized the moment. “This is the opposition I face, the opposition that you face. I am fighting for you, to reverse what the wealthy have done to this nation in their hubris. And I will not stop, I will not relent, I will not be silent.” He pounded the podium so hard it shook. The Voice snarled with power. “And if I have to take a thousand bullets until the crimes of the wealthy have been undone, then so be it!”

His last word echoed over the parking lot. The silence lasted about a second. Deafening applause rang out, accompanied by cheers louder than thunder. Wycliffe spread his arms and beamed at the crowd.

Unnoticed, Goth shoved the failed assassin into a car and slammed the door.

###

“Senator!” Markham hurried to Wycliffe’s side. “Senator! My God, it’s good to see that you’re okay.” He winked and lowered his voice. “It seems you don’t attract…competent assassins.”

Wycliffe laughed. “I’m alive and well, Markham.” He looked around his bustling campaign headquarters. “And your little idea has worked quite well.”

Markham grinned. “There’s a mob of reporters outside.”

“I’ll speak with them later,” said Wycliffe. “Immediate response?”

Markham pointed at the rows of TV monitors on the walls. The video clip of the assassin opening fire and Goth’s crushing tackle played over and over again. “This is on every channel, and the leading topic of discussion on both Twitter and Facebook. CNN’s running an exclusive.” The clip ended with Wycliffe’s speech about a thousand bullets and the crowd’s enthusiastic roar.

“Well,” said Wycliffe. “That certainly looks good.”

Markham nodded. “Yes, it’s gone very well. And we can blame your opponents, too, for their incendiary rhetoric or something along those lines. Not that we’d say anything directly, of course. We’ll let our friendly bloggers do that for us.”

Wycliffe nodded. “Sometimes the cards just fall one’s way, I suppose.”

Markham nodded. “What should I tell the reporters?”

Wycliffe shrugged. “Give them the usual. Tell them that no one was hurt, that Senator Jones and I are alive and well.” He grinned. “Be sure also to tell them that we plan to continue campaigning as vigorously as usual.”

Markham nodded. “I’ll schedule an official press conference.” He thought for a moment. “Actually, it…might be good for you to do make the announcement yourself. Or, better, you and Senator Jones both. 

"Good idea. Very well. Schedule the press conference in an hour.” Wycliffe waved an arm. “We’ll have it in the conference room. Senator Jones will do most of the talking.”

“What about the assassin?” said Markham. 

Wycliffe smiled. “That’s being taken care of. Just as we discussed. Tell the press that the FBI will handle the matter.”

Markham nodded. “I’ll organize things.”

“See you in an hour,” said Wycliffe. “I have some calls to make.” Markham marched off and began barking orders at campaign workers. Wycliffe headed out of the campaign headquarters and into the blistering July sun. A short walk took him to warehouse 13A, and he swiped his security card and let himself inside.

Gloom blanketed the warehouse, and Wycliffe’s footsteps echoed against the concrete floor. Goth and a group of the slouching thugs stood in the corner. Two of them held the bound and gagged assassin. Senator Jones sat shaking on a crate, his hair and suit disheveled. 

“Thomas,” whispered Jones, staggering to his feet. “He shot at us. He shot at us!”

Wycliffe scowled. “Most perceptive. Now, keep quiet, I have work to do.”

Jones pawed at Wycliffe’s shoulders. “But…he had a gun! My God, he was shooting at us. I don’t want to do this, Thomas, I don’t…”

“Shut up!” said Wycliffe, the Voice snarling. Jones’s jaw clapped shut. “Must you whine at every minor difficulty?”

“But,” sputtered Jones, shaking. His face had gone gray. “But…he shot…”

“Quite,” said Wycliffe, redoubling the Voice. “It comes with the territory. Most presidents get shot at sooner or later.” In Jones’s case, Wycliffe hoped for sooner. “Now, do as I say. Go report to Markham.” Jones gave him a blank look. “Idiot. The campaign manager. Go report to him. He’ll tell you what to do.” Jones nodded and shuffled away. “And for God’s sake, clean yourself up. You look like you’re dying.” Wycliffe stared after him and let out an aggrieved sigh.