 
THE TOWER OF ENDLESS WORLDS

Jonathan Moeller

***
Book description

Give me a hundred guns, and I will conquer my world.

THOMAS WYCLIFFE just wants to finish his dissertation in peace and quiet. So when a man in a black robe appears in his closet, claiming to be the last of the Warlocks, Wycliffe figures it is a bad joke.

But he soon realises the last of the Warlocks can give him power beyond imagining.

And all it will cost is his soul.

SIMON WESTER needs a job. Badly. So when a rich and powerful Senator offers him employment, he jumps at the chance. Sure, Simon expects to find some corruption, some shady deals.

He doesn't expect to find black magic.

LIAM MASTERE is a Knight of the Sacred Blade, defender of the mortal races. But can swords stand against guns? As bullets and bombs destroy his kingdom, Liam must risk everything to save his homeland's one chance of salvation.

By daring the horrors of the TOWER OF ENDLESS WORLDS...

***
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***
Copyright 2012 by Jonathan Moeller.

Jonathan Moeller

Smashwords Edition

Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.

All Rights Reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

***
Chapter 1 - An Exclusive Interview

**Anno Domini 2001  
**

"It all began in a Wal-Mart," said Thomas Wycliffe. He folded his arms over his chest and looked over Lake Michigan's choppy waters.

"Congressman?" said Eddie Carson, fingering his tape recorder.

They stood on the far end of Chicago's Navy Pier, the waves lashing at the concrete. The pale blue sky faded to purple as the sun dimmed, outlining the downtown skyscrapers. Couples wandered arm-in-arm past Carson and Wycliffe, along with groups of teenagers heading to the Pier's Ferris Wheel. Eddie supposed that he and Wycliffe looked like just another pair of corporate drones strategizing over coffee.

He disliked the idea.

He wanted nothing to do with Wycliffe.

"My political career began in a Wal-Mart," said Wycliffe. He stood a head shorter than Eddie. His lower jaw jutted beneath his upper lip, and small scars pockmarked his face. Narrowed brown eyes watched Eddie from behind thick glasses. He wondered how such an ugly man had gone so far in politics. "It began that day, in that Wal-Mart. Please, Mr. Carson, do you mind if we sit? My back has been troubling me lately."

"Of course," said Eddie, gesturing at a table near the railing. They sat, and Wycliffe sighed in relief and took a sip of his coffee. He stared at Eddie for a while, a small smile on his lips.

"Why don't you work for my campaign, Mr. Carson?" said Wycliffe.

Eddie glared at him. "I'll tell you. Because," he ticked off the points on his fingers, "first, your ideas on tax reform are absurd. Second, your foreign policy views are racist, aggressive, and downright silly. Third, your positions on abortion and gay rights are archaic. Fourth, there are your alleged ties to the Russian Mafia. And fifth, Mr. Wycliffe, I find you personally offensive."

"Ah," said Wycliffe. "And you're firmly committed to Senator Fulbright, as I understand."

"Yes," said Eddie. "Senator Fulbright will do what is best for the people of Illinois. I'm not so sure about you."

Wycliffe chuckled. "Yes, yes. We all know about Edward Carson, the bold popular political columnist and reporter. That razor-sharp pen of yours has caused me a lot of damage, you know."

"Good," said Eddie.

"Whatever happened to objective journalism?" said Wycliffe, spreading his arms to the sky. "Did honest reporting die with our fathers? William Randolph Hearst no doubt smiles benevolently upon you from his place in hell."

"I didn't come here to be insulted, Mr. Wycliffe," said Eddie. "You said over the phone you wanted to give me an exclusive interview."

Wycliffe folded his hands. "I did, didn't I?" He smiled. "I'm a man of my word, Mr. Carson." Eddie tried not to laugh. "I'll answer any questions you want...but first, let me give you a bit of background. No doubt it will make a fine story for your paper's readers."

Eddie reached into his jacket pocket and clicked on his tape recorder. "Go ahead."

Anno Domini 1994/Year of the Councils 954

I wanted to be a college history professor.

My career in politics began when I was twenty-three. At the time, I was a graduate student at the University of Constantina in Chicago, working on a program in Greco-Roman history. I still read and write Greek and Latin quite fluently. You know that, Mr. Carson, if you've done your research.

At any rate, my goals in life were meager. I desired to complete my doctorate, obtain tenure at some university, perhaps turn out a book every few years, and spend the rest of my days boring my students. I had no real ambition. Just an unfocused desire to obtain a cushy position and coast through it.

Of course, everything changed that November afternoon in my twenty-third year.

I was renting a miserable apartment in a South Side industrial neighborhood. It was a squalid little hellhole, yet I took a certain pride in it. It was, after all, mine. The biggest problem was the rats. Filthy little buggers.

At the time I was working on a paper about Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus. Two rabble-rousing demagogues. You should find that an interesting comparison to my present career.

Anyway, I was typing on a computer I had leased when I heard the rattling in the closet.

I assumed it was the rats. Poison them and trap them as I tried, they still kept finding their way through the baseboards. I picked up the tennis racket I kept for the express purpose of rat-whacking and went to the closet.

I yanked open the closet door, raised my tennis racket with a yell, and found myself face to face with another man.

"What the hell?" I said.

Heavy black robes, the sort medieval monks wore, cloaked the man from head to foot. His face was angular and looked as if it had not seen much sun. His eyes were large and black.

"What the hell are you doing in my closet?" I said. I was furious and more than a little scared.

The robed man looked at me. "Where am I?" He spoke with a slow, measured voice. He sounded like Bela Lugosi in those old Dracula movies.

"My apartment," I said. Keeping the tennis racket raised, I backed towards the phone on my desk. "My closet." I lived in the South Side, and so of course kept 911 on the speed dial.

"Your...apartment?" said the man, frowning. "Your...domicile, your abode, I assume?"

"Yeah," I said. I reached for the phone.

"This information is of no use to me," said the man. He glanced around the apartment. "I do not recognize this style of architecture. My efforts must have worked better than I had hoped." He frowned, as if something had just occurred to him. "What world is this?"

"World?" I knew I had a nutcase on my hands now. "World? Oh, yeah, I know who can tell you. Let me just pick up the phone here, call some nice men in blue shirts, and they'll tell you..."

The man's face hardened. "You will not contact anyone!"

His voice sounded...it sounded odd. Like ice, like cold knives digging into my head.

The phone's receiver fell from my hand and bounced off the cradle.

"Listen, buddy," I said. I was scared now. God only knew what kind of weapons he had hidden in that robe. "I don't have any money. You can take the computer, if you want. Hell, it's leased, it's not even mine..."

"Silence!" said the man, and again his voice chilled me. My jaw snapped shut of its own volition. "I have not fled across the miles and the cosmos to hear the babbling of a witless peasant. You will tell me what I wish to know! Where I am?"

"Chicago," I said. I considered running for the door.

He frowned. "Chicago. A strange name." He considered this. "Is Chicago a nation?"

"No," I told the crazy man. No way I could make it to the front door before he caught me. "It's a city."

"A city? Of what nation?"

"The United States of America," I said. I wondered if I could stun him with the tennis racket.

A strange expression, either horror or amazement, spread across the robed man's features. "I...I have never heard of such a nation. Quickly, tell me. What is the name of the world?"

"What?" I said.

The man strode out of the closet. For a moment his eyes seemed like bottomless black pits, like there was a black hole inside of his skull. "The name of the world! Now!"

"Earth!" At that point, Mr. Carson, I was so frightened I would have recited the Magna Carta for him, had he asked. "Earth, the world is named Earth!"

The man froze. "That...that is not possible. But...but..." He began to laugh. "Then it has worked. All these years of study and toil, and it has worked. I have found the way!" He laughed again.

"Right," I said. "Listen, I'm just going to leave now..."

"No, you shall not, peasant" said the man. He drew himself up. He was much taller than me. Of course, Mr. Carson, most people are. "I am the Warlock Marugon, last master of the Black Council. A few months ago, I fled from the masters of the White Council to the Tower of Endless Worlds. In desperation, I dared to navigate the Tower's maze." He smiled. "It appears I have succeeded."

"Warlock?" I said. This guy wasn't just a nutcase. He was a full-fledged psychopath. "Right, right. Warlock. Well, then..."

Marugon smiled. "You think I am mad, no? You think I have been touched by the gods? Well, my skeptical friend, let me show you something!" He stepped out of my closet, turned, and pointed.

My eyes followed his finger and my mouth fell open in amazement. The tennis racket fell from my hand and hit my toes.

The back wall of my closet had vanished. In its place I saw a great vaulted corridor of polished black stone that stretched into infinity. I saw statues of strange and fantastic creatures, great fluted columns, and an elaborate vaulted ceiling, all lit by an eerie green glow. I had tried some drugs once, in high school. Unlike that hick from Arkansas, I had inhaled, and deeply. Had I inflicted brain damage on myself?

Yes, Mr. Carson, you can put that in your paper if you wish.

"Quite a sight, is it not?" said Marugon. "The Tower of Endless Worlds. I have found my way to one of those Endless Worlds. Those fools from the White Council cannot hope to follow me." A muscle near his left eye twitched. "Alastarius cannot hope to stop me now."

"Uh," I said. My brain had stopped working in shock. My apartment was essentially a large box with a rat problem. And yet this...corridor stretched away into infinity.

How was that possible?

"I shall stay in your world for a time," said Marugon. "Long enough to convince my foes that I have perished." He looked at my computer monitor and raised a thin eyebrow. "You possess strange artifacts, peasant. Perhaps I can learn much in my time here."

"Um, listen," I said. "I don't know if you're with the government or the CIA or whatever, but I don't want any trouble. Just go back through your tower of infinite planets, and I won't tell anyone I saw you..."

"Of course you will not." Marugon reached into his robes. "Like all peasants, I suspected you are easily influenced by the presence of money." He tossed something at me. "Perhaps we can reach some accommodation, no?"

I managed to catch it, and my eyes got wider. He had thrown a gold coin at me. The markings looked vaguely medieval, and the thing was heavy. It must have weighed at least four or five ounces. I didn't know what the price of gold was back then, but the coin had to be worth a lot.

I looked at the stack of bills resting next to my computer. Graduate school isn't cheap, and neither is the cost of living. I didn't have the slightest idea what was going on. I assumed it was some secret government project. But in my addled state, I figured that if the guy was handing out gold coins...

"Mr. Marugon," I said. "You can stay here, for a little bit."

"Excellent," said Marugon. "You shall act as my guide. Conduct me through your city of Chicago, peasant. I wish to learn more of your world. Will that be any difficulty?"

"No," I said, still staring at the strange coin.

"To avoid suspicion, you shall refer to me as a relative, visiting from a distant land." He smiled. "In some sense, it is the truth. Are there any of your world's Wizards in this city, peasant?"

"Wizards? Uh...no, I don't think so. I don't think there are any Wizards or Warlocks in the city."

"A backwater, I see," said Marugon. "I shall avoid attention. Excellent." I suspected he would attract attention wherever he went, but this was Chicago. We have many strange people here, Mr. Carson, as your presence proves.

"And I'm not a peasant," I said. "I'm a historian."

"Historian," said Marugon, frowning. "Loremaster, I assume? Splendid. You can relate to me the history of your world at a later date. What is your name?"

"Thomas Wycliffe," I said.

"Well, master Wycliffe," said Marugon. He folded his hands in his robes. "Conduct me through your city."

"Yeah," I said. I looked at my computer, then back at the gold coin. My paper on the Gracchi could wait. "This way."

I led him down the back stairs to the parking lot behind my building. My car, a battered old Yugo, rested in the corner. It was all I could afford at the time. Marugon looked at everything with fascination.

"Is your Chicago a populous city, master Wycliffe?"

"Yeah," I said, digging for my car keys. "About three million, I think, maybe eight million in the whole metropolitan area."

"What?" said Marugon. "Eight million?" He scowled at me. "You jest with me, loremaster. That is not wise."

"I'm serious!" I said. I didn't want to set him off. "Eight million people. I'll show you."

"That is not possible," said Marugon. "There are nations smaller than Chicago on my world. How is it possible to feed such a multitude? Eight million?"

"Well...they go to the grocery store, I guess." I opened the passenger door and held it out for him.

He stared at me. "What is this?"

"My car," I said.

"Car," he said. He craned his neck and looked at the seats. "A...carriage of some sort, I assume?"

"Yes," I said. "Please get in. I can show you the city faster with this."

He looked around. "Where are the horses? I see only other carriages. Or do you have slaves to pull this...car?"

"No, no," I said, laughing. "It pulls itself."

"It is a magical device, then?" said Marugon.

"No," I said. "It has an internal combustion engine. I burns fuel, and the gases spin the wheels and make the car go." A crappy description of an engine, I suppose, but it seemed to mollify him. Either he was crazy, or he was putting on a very good act. "It's science, not magic."

"Amazing," said Marugon. "The scholars of my world could never build such a device. Science, you say? Astonishing. Your Chicago must possess master craftsmen to build such a device. And you must be wealthier than I had assumed to purchase such a machine."

"Not really," I said. I laughed. "Wait till you see a Jaguar or a Mercedes."

We got in and I started the car. Marugon almost jumped out of his seat when the engine started.

"Such high buildings," said Marugon, as we drove past a five-story apartment building. "The skill of your engineers is indeed remarkable." He gaped out the window. "And so many other vehicles, these cars! Such mighty magic you men of Chicago wield."

"No magic, Mr. Marugon," I insisted as I pulled up to a stoplight. He couldn't really have magic. But I remembered the strange iciness in his voice when he commanded me to drop the phone. "No magic. These are all built in factories, with machines and technology and science."

"No magic?" he said, stupefied. "But were it not for magic, on my world, we could not survive. You men of Chicago have built all these things with machines, and science, and technology?"

"Yes, sir."

"Astonishing," Marugon whispered, and then he laughed. "I am making a fool of myself, like a peasant who has come to the great city for the first time, wandering about gaping at the cathedrals and the Wizards' towers."

I laughed. Scared as I was, some of his utter amazement was contagious. A sudden idea took me. "Wait till you see the Loop, Mr. Marugon." I got onto the freeway for downtown. Soon the skyscrapers came into view, the Sears Tower, the John Hancock building, and all the others.

Marugon leaned forward. "Is Chicago built around mountains? I have never seen such strangely shaped peaks."

I grinned. "Nope. Those are buildings." The Sears Tower loomed closer. We drove over the Chicago River and past the Tribune building, where you no doubt were already starting your career in yellow journalism, Mr. Carson.

"Buildings?" breathed Marugon. "Men built these towers?" His black eyes were wide with awe. "My gods. My gods. Stop this vehicle."

I looked over my shoulder. "There's no place to park."

He pointed at the sidewalk. "Stop on the path of gray stone."

"That's illegal..."

"Stop!" he snarled. "I shall ensure we are not troubled by the city guard."

His eyes were like black pits again. I shuddered, pulled over the curb, and parked on the sidewalk. Marugon muttered something under his breath, his fingers tracing circles in the air. I shut off the engine, got out of the car, and waited for the police to come.

Dozens of pedestrians passed. No one pointed. No one said anything. No one even noticed. A pair of cops walked past. I waited for the ticket. They did not spare me a second glance. They walked around my Yugo without noticing it. I watched them go.

I felt the hair on my arms stand up.

How the hell had Marugon stopped the cops from giving me a ticket?

Marugon stood on the sidewalk, his head craned back as far it would go. He spun in small circles, staring at the looming skyscrapers.

"Pretty cool, eh?" I said.

"Astonishing," he said. He looked at me. His face had gone paler. "Such a magnificent city. Such mighty buildings." He gestured at the street, busy with midday traffic. "So may of these cars. I had always thought true might lay in the black magic. But I was wrong. True power lies in your technology, Thomas Wycliffe of Chicago. Power such as my slain fellows on the Black Council could never imagine, power such as the fools on the White could not envision." He shook his head. "Command your car to convey me to a marketplace. I am hungry, and require food."

"Um," I said. I had nine dollars in my wallet. It was going to have to be McDonald's or Wal-Mart. I hoped Marugon did not have a fussy palate. "Yeah, sure. Back in the car, Mr. Marugon."

We climbed inside. I started the engine, pulled off the sidewalk, and got back into the flow of traffic. No one noticed my irregular parking.

I decided to drive to a Wal-Mart superstore across the city since it was in my price range. Marugon peppered me with questions the entire way, questions about cars, roads, engineering, technology, government, money, and history. I answered as best I could. His questions scared me. What if he was for real? Silly idea, of course. He probably just had amnesia or something.

But I couldn't stop thinking about the way the cops had ignored my Yugo sprawled across the sidewalk.

We got to the Wal-Mart half an hour later. The parking lot was crammed with cars, many of them in worse shape then mine. Marugon and I climbed out. People gave him and his black robes strange glances, but he seemed not to care.

"Is this an indoor marketplace of some sort?" said Marugon.

"Uh...yeah, you could say that," I said.

Marugon shook his head, his eyes roving over the building's length. "In my world there are villages smaller than this market. Let us proceed."

He stopped and looked with suspicion at the automatic doors. The old lady standing by the carts shuffled toward him, a roll of smiley-face stickers in her hand.

"Welcome to Wal-Mart..."

"Speak to me not, peasant!" said Marugon, sweeping past her. I offered an apologetic shrug to her and followed him.

Marugon wandered in the direction of the groceries. He froze, his hands twitching, his eyes staring. He looked over the rows and rows of food-laden shelves.

"Master Wycliffe," he whispered. "There is so much food here. Is...this a national market, perhaps, where the farmers of your nation come to offer their wares?"

"Uh...no," I said. "It's just a Wal-Mart."

"So much food," he said. "With such bounty, I could feed an army of thousands for months! Surely this must be a bigger market?"

"No," I said. "There are thousands like it, all over the country."

"Thousands?" said Marugon, his face taut. "Thousands. In my world, peasant mothers sometimes leave their children to starve, for lack of food." He shook his head. "It is..."

"Freeze!"

A man in a leather jacket ran through the automatic doors, his face tight with fear. He carried a pistol in his right fist.

I made a strangled sound.

Six steps behind him came two police officers with drawn guns. The greeter at the door shrieked.

Marugon looked at the man. "Ah. A common thug, I see. Such vermin are endemic." He whispered something and fluttered his fingers.

The thug stumbled and hit the floor. The police officers leveled their guns at him. "Freeze!"

The thug raised his gun. Both cops started shooting, blood splashing across the white linoleum. A half-dozen people screamed. The thug's gun flew from his limp hand and spun across the floor.

Marugon watched with fascination.

"That wand," he said. "That black wand. What is it?"

"A gun," I said. I could not take my eyes from the dead man. Smoke still rose from the cops' pistols.

"A gun," said Marugon. "Tell me, is such a thing an item of technology?"

"Yeah," I said.

"All right, everyone!" yelled one of the cops, holstering his gun. "This place is sealed off. We're going to need depositions. No one's leaving."

"Come," said Marugon. "Let us be on our way."

"But...but the cop said...uh, what about your food?"

"Do not be absurd," said Marugon. "I have more important matters to ponder than hunger." He muttered a word and walked for the doors, and I followed him. He walked between the two police officers, who ignored him. I screwed up my courage and ran after him.

And once again the police ignored me.

I started to shiver a little.

"Convey me back to your domicile, peasant," said Marugon once we had reached my car. "We have business to discuss."

I climbed and in started the engine, still numb with fear. "Business?"

"Yes, business," said Marugon. I pulled out into the street. "Tell me, these...guns, the weapons the city guardsmen wielded. Are they as common as cars, as the sky-scraping buildings?"

"Oh, yeah," I said. "Hell, you could have bought a dozen shotguns at Wal-Mart, if you'd wanted."

Marugon blinked. "You mean the lords of your world permit the sale of mighty weapons? They permit common peasants to own these guns?"

"Yes," I said.

"Incredible. I have never seen such a potent weapon," said Marugon. "Such power, such deadliness."

"What are you saying?" I said.

"Power is relative," said Marugon. "Here, guns are deadly, but not powerful. Everyone has them, do they not? Even common ruffians. Their numbers negate their power. Similarly, magic is not so powerful in my world. It is potent, yes, but too many people know how to use it. Too many people know how to stop me." He leaned forward and grinned. "Give me one gun, and I shall kill all my enemies. Neither magic nor a sword can stop a gun. Give me twenty guns, and I shall conquer a small country. Give me a hundred guns, and I shall rule an empire. And give me five thousand guns, and I shall conquer my world."

"I don't understand," I said.

Marugon laughed. "I shall provide you with funds, you shall acquire guns for me, and I shall take them back to my world."

"Why should I do this? For gold?" I said. I was thoroughly confused.

"No," he said. His dark eyes glimmered like collapsed stars. "Hirelings are unreliable. You possess a cunning brain, Wycliffe of Chicago. I had planned to kill you once your usefulness ended, but instead you showed me the bounty of your world. I shall make you my partner. I shall give you power." He laughed. "Together, we shall conquer. I shall conquer my world, and you shall rule yours."

"Power?" I said. "How can you do that?"

Marugon grinned. "I shall make you my apprentice. I will teach you magic."

"Right," I said. "Yeah. Sure."

Marugon laughed.

Anno Domini 2001

Eddie clicked off his tape recorder. "That's enough."

The sun had set during their interview, and the cool breeze from Lake Michigan tugged at his clothes.

Wycliffe raised his eyebrows. "You haven't even begun the interview."

Eddie stood. "I've heard enough. I'd heard you treated reporters with contempt, but this is beyond the pale. Magic? Warlocks? What, are you going pull a rabbit out of your hat next? Good day, Mr. Wycliffe. I look forward to your defeat in the election."

Eddie stalked away.

Wycliffe sighed. "Mr. Carson."

Eddie spun. "What?"

"Sit down."

His voice was cold, much colder than a politician's genial tones.

Eddie sat.

He blinked in surprise. Why had he done that? He had fully intended to keep walking.

Yet here he sat.

"Don't do that," said Wycliffe.

"What?" said Eddie. He started to rise.

"Hit yourself."

Again his voice was cold, the cold of an icy wind. Or perhaps a dying star.

Eddie raised his hand and slapped himself across the face. "What the hell?"

"Sit. And don't stand again until I'm finished with you." Wycliffe's eyes were hidden in pools of shadow beneath his glasses. "You've been quite a problem to me, Mr. Carson. I need to win a Senate seat, if I'm to take the presidency. I'd hoped to convince you to see reason." Wycliffe smiled. "But I'm going to turn a problem into an asset."

"What is this?" said Eddie. He tried to stand. His legs would not move. "What did you slip in my drink, you bastard?"

"Don't be absurd," said Wycliffe. "Do you own a gun?"

"Yes, a revolver," said Eddie. He blanched. He hadn't meant to answer.

Wycliffe sneered. "This is what you're going to do, Mr. Carson. You're going to help me win this election. You will drive to your apartment. You will fabricate a letter, a suicide note, describing your longstanding homosexual relationship with Senator Fulbright. You will express your guilt and anguish over your perversion." His voice grew colder and colder, and every word hammered in Eddie's brain like thunder. "You will also describe the occasional acts of drug-fueled mayhem you and the good senator enjoyed."

"No!" said Eddie. "This is nonsense! I won't write lies!"

"You will," said Wycliffe. His eyes seemed like pits into the void. "Leave the letter in plain sight in your apartment. Then drive to Senator Fulbright's campaign headquarters. You will take your gun and shoot the first five people you see." Wycliffe grinned. "Except for Senator Fulbright, of course. We wouldn't want him to miss this, would we? Once you have shot five people, you will place the gun to your temple and use the last bullet on yourself. Tell no one of this."

"No!" said Eddie. "I won't do any such thing."

"You will," said Wycliffe. He sighed. "One of Marugon's messengers came through the Tower today, carrying a letter. His armies captured the king of Narramore and slaughtered all his Wizards. The poor old king was hiding in the smoking rubble of his last stronghold. Marugon had a public execution, I understand. It lasted for hours. The rabble loved it. Two pieces of good news in one day. My friend and ally has triumphed, and you will win my election for me." He grinned. "Marugon will be an emperor. In a few weeks I'll be a Senator, and in another decade, I'll be President of the United States."

"No," breathed Eddie.

Wycliffe fluttered his fingers. "Go."

Eddie ran for the parking lot. Wycliffe was insane. Eddie decided to call the police. Instead he ran past the pay phone, got into his car, and drove off for his apartment. Eddie cursed. Why had he not called the police? He decided to drive to the nearest police station and tell them everything.

Some time later, he pulled into his apartment complex's parking lot.

He ran up the stairs. He decided to call the state capitol in Springfield and warn them of the threat on Senator Fulbright's life.

He unlocked the door, stepped into the living room, and reached for his phone.

Instead, he sat down at his desk and began to write the suicide note. His hands flew over the paper. He couldn't make them stop writing.

Eddie began to cry.

***
Chapter 2 - A Car Accident

Anno Domini 2002

The phone rang.

Simon Wester yawned and ran his hands through his shaggy brown hair. The air smelled sterile and stale, having been circulated through too many PC fans, and fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. His tie felt too tight against his throat, and his chair was making his back hurt.

The phone rang again.

Simon groaned, slid his book under the keyboard, and hit the connect button on his phone. "Good afternoon, you've reached Marchson Appliances Customer Service. How can I help you?"

A shrill voice buzzed in his headset. "What?"

Simon stifled a wince. "This is Marchson Appliances Customer Service. How can I help you?" There was a long pause. "Ma'am?"

"Is this Customer Service?" The woman sounded angry. "I've been trying to get Customer Service all day."

Simon glanced over his shoulder at the other service reps in their phone stations. If he strained, he could almost see out the window. "Yes, ma'am, this is Customer Service. How can I help you?"

"I've been on hold all day!"

Simon scratched his chin and looked at the clock. Thirty-seven minutes until lunch. "Ah...I just picked up your call, ma'am." He checked the call log on his computer screen. "I think this is the first time you've called today."

"It isn't!" said the woman. Simon managed not to sigh. With luck, he could get her off the line before lunch started. "I've tried calling five times and was on hold every time! You people are incompetent!"

A headache flared behind Simon's eyes. "We're dedicated to serving customers, ma'am. How can I help you?"

"I have a problem with my blender," said the woman.

Simon opened a ticket on his computer and started typing. "Yes, ma'am. Ah...do you know the model number?"

The woman sounded suspicious. "It's a blender. It doesn't have a model number."

"Actually, it does," said Simon. His headache thrummed. "It should be on the bottom..."

"Blenders do not have model numbers!" said the woman. "I have a college degree, and I know better than some high-school dropout..."

Simon's overstressed temper flared. "I have a BA from Loyola and a Master's from the University of Constantina. Don't lecture to me." His voice rose, and people from nearby cubicles glanced over.

Not good. Simon forced himself to calm down.

"Look at the blender," Simon said. "What does it say?"

The woman sounded miffed. "It says...a General Electric..."

Simon smirked. "Sorry, ma'am, you have the wrong company. Try General Electric's customer service line. Have a pleasant day." He broke the connection, tried and failed to find a comfortable position in his chair, and looked at the clock. Thirty-five minutes until lunch.

"Rough one, Wester?"

Rich, the occupant of the next cubicle, peered over the wall. Balding, overweight, and middle-aged, he unfailingly reminded Simon of a mustached toad.

"You have no idea," said Simon. "You have no idea."

"You impress her with the Master's from Constantina?" said Rich, smirking.

Simon rolled his eyes. "I really impressed her. She was so impressed that she realized her blender was from General Electric, not Marchson."

Rich snorted. "I hate those." He scratched his mustache. "Still, I suppose they taught you how to deal with that in grad school?"

Simon glared. "Would you just lay off it for once?"

"Gentlemen!" Mr. Vanderhan lumbered to a stop in front of Simon's cubicle, glaring over his glasses. His gut bulged against his cheap suit, and as always, he wore his Customer Service Supervisor badge on a lanyard over his tie. "Marchson Appliances is not paying you to snipe at each other. Answer your calls."

Rich disappeared into his tiny cubicle.

Simon nodded and waited until Vanderhan returned to his office. Then he retrieved his book, a copy of the Roman historian Tacitus in the original Latin, and got back to reading. Simon intended to write his own translation one day, when he found a job that gave him time for research. He looked at the clock and sighed. Thirty-one minutes until lunch.

Simon's phone rang again. "Good afternoon, you've reached Marchson Appliances Customer Service, how can I help you?"

An enraged female voice drilled into his ears. "I'm suing you bastards!"

Simon winced. "Ma'am, if you'll just calm down..."

"Your toaster set my kitchen on fire!" Simon turned the volume down on his headset. "It burned my curtains and melted a hole in the wall."

Simon blinked. "Melted? How did..."

"I live in a trailer, dumbass."

Simon bit back the first response that came to mind. "Thank you for clarifying. Do you know what caused the toaster to start on fire?"

"How the hell should I know? All I know is that I'm going to sue you people for every dime you've got! I'll get millions, I'm going to go on Judge Judy and put you people out of business. You bastards! I just bought new curtains."

Simon's headache pounded. "Ma'am, how did the toaster start on fire?"

"You think I'm some sort of electrician? Goddamn it..."

"Ma'am," said Simon, his voice hardening. A suspicion grew in his mind. "A Marchson Appliances toaster will only start on fire if someone holds down the lever while something is in the slots. Was someone holding down the lever?"

"You burned..."

"Ma'am, did someone hold down the lever?"

"My son," said the woman, her voice dripping with acid.

He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice and failed. "And just what was in the toaster at the time?"

There was another pause. "A...pair of Barbie dolls."

"So," said Simon. "Your son was holding down the lever while a pair of Barbie dolls were in the slots? Just why do you think the toaster started on fire? But don't think too hard about it. I wouldn't want you to strain yourself."

"Don't talk back to me!" said the woman. "A toaster shouldn't start on fire! I'm going to sue you personally!"

Simon's temper snapped. "You people are idiots! What did you think was going to happen?" His voice rose to a shout. "Next time, don't put Barbie dolls in the toaster!" He slapped the disconnect button.

Twenty-four minutes until he could take lunch.

He leaned back in his chair and noticed that half the office was staring at him. "What?"

"Wester."

Simon looked over his shoulder. Mr. Vanderhan stood behind him, hands on his meaty hips. "What do..."

The back of Simon's chair broke. He fell back with a shout, his rump hitting the floor, his legs tangling around the remainder of the chair. The other service representatives burst out laughing.

Mr. Vanderhan did not offer him a hand. "See me in the hall. Right now."

Simon glared at his retreating back.

###

"You're fired."

Simon blinked. Marchson Appliances' call center occupied the 37th floor of the Sears Tower. Through the windows he saw taxicabs moving along the street like tiny yellow bugs. He briefly entertained the notion of shoving Mr. Vanderhan out the window.

"Why?" said Simon.

Mr. Vanderhan snorted. "You don't know?"

Simon folded his arms. "No, I really don't."

But he did. He wasn't going to give Vanderhan the satisfaction, though.

Mr. Vanderhan rolled his eyes. "I'll be blunt, Wester. You're arrogant. You're abrasive to the other employees. You're consistently rude to the customers."

Simon shook his head. "You just described yourself."

Mr. Vanderhan smirked. "I'm the boss. It's allowed."

"I am not rude to the customers," said Simon.

Mr. Vanderhan laughed. "What did you tell the last one? She called corporate headquarters, and I got an earful about that."

"She deserved it," said Simon. "She was an absolute idiot. Maybe she won't let her son shove Barbie dolls into the toaster next time."

"Educating people is the job of social services, which you are not," said Vanderhan. "You are, or were, a customer service representative. Your job was to be nice to the customer. Your job was to assist the customer, no matter how big of an asshole the customer happened to be. And I don't care how many degrees you have. It is not your job to lecture the customer." The elevator door hissed open. Two men in security uniforms stepped out. "Look, Wester. It doesn't matter how many degrees you have. You have to put in a day's work like anyone else. Don't put me down as a reference on your resume. Security will escort you from the building."

Simon scowled. "Don't I get to clean out my desk..."

"No. Your possessions will be mailed to you in four to six weeks. Goodbye, Wester." Vanderhan walked away.

"Come along, sir," said the security men. They herded Simon towards the elevator.

Simon glanced at his watch. "It would have been lunchtime."

The security men did not respond.

###

Simon sat on the bus, watching downtown Chicago roll past. "It was a miserable job, anyway. No insurance, annoying customers, and a huge commute. I'm better off, really."

The old man sitting across the aisle ignored him. A young black woman with a child in her arms gave him an annoyed look. Simon sighed and glared out the window.

The bus shuddered to a stop. Simon got to his feet and climbed out, the July sun beating on his head.

He walked five blocks to a parking lot ringed with a chain link fence crowned in barbed wire. The lot's owner rented spaces to people needing to commute via bus or the EL downtown.

"See?" Simon said as he walked to the booth. "An hour commute, and I had to pay three dollars a day in parking. I'm way better off."

Simon approached his vehicle, a battered red Ford Aerostar minivan that had seen better days during its 180,000 miles. A pair of pigeons perched on the roof had left their droppings all over the hood and the windshield.

He climbed into the van and rolled down all the windows. The air conditioning had stopped working about a year ago, but the van needed a new transmission before he spent the money. Though with no job, and hence no money, van repairs would have to wait.

It took him the better part of five minutes to get the van started. He gritted his teeth and forced the sticky gearshift lever into drive, steered through the rows of parked cars, and pulled into traffic.

###

Twenty minutes later Simon pulled into his mother's driveway and killed the engine.

He and his mother lived near Cicero. Like his van, the house had seen better days. It had once been a spacious six-bedroom house with a big back porch and a greenhouse. Now paint peeled in profusion from the house's wooden walls, the roof had developed a sag, and most of the panes of the greenhouse had shattered. The house looked like a wreck more and more every day. Neither Simon nor his mother could afford to fix the place up.

Simon climbed the broad back porch and looked over the backyard. It stretched downhill in a sharp incline, leveling out before a thick stand of tangled trees. The trees were part of small forest of about twenty acres, surrounded on all sides by suburban development. For some reason, no one had ever built on the land. Why, no one knew. The woods remained untouched as Chicago and its suburbs grew up around them.

Simon had spent days playing in those woods as a boy. He wished he could hide there now. Though now it wouldn't be safe. Bodies sometimes turned up among the trees, dumped by drug dealers. He turned away from the forest and unlocked the back door, screwing up his nerve.

Dirty dishes filled the kitchen sink. He walked through a spacious dining room, flaked paint crunching beneath his shoes. A closed door led to the living room. Simon opened it and coughed as a cloud of cigarette smoke washed over him.

"Close the door, boy!" Surprise colored his mother's rusty voice. "You want me to die of heatstroke?"

"The doctor said you're not supposed to smoke." Simon closed the door and squinted through the smoky haze. Maura sat in her recliner, the TV blaring her afternoon soaps. The air conditioner chugged away in its window.

Maura Wester blew out a smoke ring, ashes falling across her robe. Her gray eyes were watery and unfocused in her narrow face, but they still cut right through Simon. "The doctor is a fresh-faced pencil neck. A lot like you. I've outlived two doctors. I'll outlive him." She picked up her remote and muted the TV.

"I don't care if he's pencil neck or not," said Simon. "You shouldn't be smoking at your age."

Maura smirked. "I shouldn't do a lot of things at my age."

Simon reached out, snatched the cigarette from her fingers, and ground it out in the ashtray.

Maura blinked. "That was rude."

Simon sat down on the couch. "I don't care. It's a filthy habit. You should have quit years ago."

Maura folded gnarled hands on her lap. "You're quite right. That's your entire problem, Simon. You're too smart by half."

Simon kicked at the carpet. "It's not my only damned problem."

"Simon!" Maura's voice cracked like a whip. "Your father didn't have many rules, but he said no foul language was to be used in this household."

Simon looked at the wall. "Sorry, Mom."

Maura's eyes gleamed. "You're home early." Strands of yellow-white hair skittered over her face. "Why are you home early, Simon?"

Simon looked at the floor. "I got fired."

There was a long silence. Maura glanced at the TV. "How did this happen?"

Simon kneaded the arm of the couch. "I lost my temper at a customer over the phone. Mr. Vanderhan threw me out the door."

"Simon." That one word carried more shame, regret, and incrimination than an entire speech. He looked at the floor. For some absurd reason, he felt like crying.

"It's not my fault."

She flipped through the channels. "Why not?"

"The customers are idiots. This one woman, her son put a Barbie doll in a toaster and held down the lever until it melted. She wanted a refund!"

Maura looked at the smoldering cigarette in the ashtray and sighed. "You did the same thing when you were six."

"It was with a GI Joe," said Simon. "And you didn't call up the company and demand a refund when I did it."

"No," said Maura. "But I was patient with you, wasn't I? I didn't scream at you and call you an idiot, did I?"

Simon flushed. "No."

Maura sighed. "What are you going to do now?"

"I don't know," said Simon. "I have classes all tomorrow morning. I'll go job hunting in the afternoon. Maybe something will turn up."

"You could always go back to the gas station," said Maura.

"No," said Simon. "Absolutely not." He had worked at that gas station and its miserable convenience store during his last year of high school and his first two years of college. He had vowed to never set foot in that building again. "I'll find something else."

"You're too proud, Simon," said Maura. "So what if you have to flip burgers for a few years? It's honest work."

"It's miserable, tedious, and an underpaid waste of time," Simon said. "And you wouldn't know what it's like. You never had a real job."

"Whatever, Simon. As if dealing with your father, and then with you, weren't a full-time job in and of itself." She reached for her purse and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. "Since you have so much time on your hands, go to the store and get some milk and eggs."

"But Mom," said Simon. "I've got at least five hours of homework to get through before tomorrow. I don't have time to go to the store..."

"It's two in the afternoon. You said you wouldn't be back from work until six. You have ample time, boy." She thrust the money into his hand. "Go."

"Yes, Mom," said Simon.

"And hurry back. I don't want to be here alone."

"Why not?" Simon paused halfway to the door.

"I heard noises in the woods. Someone's out there, I think," said Maura. She turned the mute off. A laugh track blared through the living room. "Hooligans, probably."

Simon rolled his eyes. "How can you hear anything over the air conditioner and that TV? Besides, why would they come here? We have nothing worth stealing." Maura ignored him, her attention focused on the TV. Simon went back to the dining room and shut the door, gasping at the heat.

He went upstairs to his room, sighing in relief as the air-conditioned cool, free of cigarette smoke, washed over him. He shut the door behind him and cranked the air conditioner as high as it would go.

Simon sat his desk and arranged his work for the evening. He had to continue working on a major paper for the end of the summer semester, not to mention the two hundred pages he had to go through to prepare for class tomorrow. He really didn't have time to go to the store.

Nevertheless, he stuffed the money into his pocket and headed downstairs to the driveway.

###

Simon balanced the bags in his arms and started across the parking lot, wishing he'd thought to get a shopping cart.

Tires screeched, and the front bumper of a battered old blue Chevrolet skidded to a stop six inches from his knee. An elderly woman sat behind the wheel, blinking at him in befuddlement.

Simon growled and kicked the fender. "Watch where you're going!"

The old woman blinked at him. No doubt she had been calling Marchson Appliances customer service earlier today.

Simon sighed and managed to get the groceries to his van without getting run down. He had only been in the store fifteen minutes, but the van had heated up like an oven. He cranked down all the windows and started the engine. After a few moments of careful driving, he escaped the parking lot and headed for home.

His eyes felt gritty, and he kept wanting to yawn. He had only gotten five hours of sleep the night before. Maybe he could get some extra sleep tonight. Or, more likely, he would stay up all night working and drink five or six cups of coffee in the morning.

The glamorous life of the doctoral student.

He reached an intersection, pulled into the left turn lane, and waited for the light to change. At least his expedition to the grocery store hadn't taken too long. The light changed, and he turned onto the narrow one-land street that would take him home. Parked cars lined both sides of the street, shaded by the trees. A red car one the right had been parked a little too far into the street.

And in the wrong direction, too.

A moment later Simon realize that car was coming the wrong way down the street.

He cursed, slammed on the brake, and tried to swerve. The red car clipped the front of his van. Metal screeched and glass shattered, and his van skidded sideways and almost crashed into the parked cars. The red car slid another ten feet and screeched to a halt.

"Darn it, darn it, darn it." Simon turned off the ignition and climbed out. His front left headlight and turn signal had been smashed to pieces, his bumper had been dented, and a trio of deep scratches ran down the driver's side door. "Darn...darn...damn it!"

If there was ever a time for profanity, this was it.

First he had lost his job, and now this.

It had not been a good day.

He looked at the other car and winced. It was a Jaguar Coupe, a very expensive looking Jaguar Coupe that had just lost its left side mirror and headlight. Whoever owned the car had a lot of money.

Simon was in a lot of trouble.

He saw the driver struggling to get the door open. The guy didn't look injured, at least. Simon grabbed the handle and pulled. The door shuddered open, and a short man with slicked-back hair and thick glasses got out. He looked somewhat familiar, but Simon could not place him.

"You hurt?" said Simon.

"No," said the man, glaring at Simon. He wore an expensive-looking suit. "A bit rattled, but I'm fine." He looked over his car and grimaced. "The same cannot be said of my car." His glare returned to Simon. "A bit far over in the other lane, weren't we?"

"Other..." Simon's fists balled in fury. "You idiot! This is a one-way street!"

The man blinked. "It is?"

That was the final straw.

Simon stomped into the middle of the street and waved his hands. "Are you freaking blind? Look! The parked cars on both sides of the street are facing the same way! That usually implies a one-way street, doesn't it?"

The man lifted an eyebrow. "I would assume so, yes." He sighed. "Oh, dear. You're right. It looks like I am at fault for this."

Simon stalked back towards him. "I would say so, yes."

"At least nobody was hurt, unless you work yourself up to a heart attack," said the man. "We'd best report this. The last thing I need is some reporter sniffing after a hit-and-run scandal."

Simon looked at the houses lining either side of the street. "I'll ask if we can use someone's phone."

"Don't you have a cell phone?"

Simon pointed at his damaged van. "I'm driving a Ford Aerostar with 180,000 miles on it. Do I look like I can afford a damn cell phone?"

The man smiled and reached into his jacket. "Good point. Fortunately, I have a cell phone. The benefits of modern technology, as one of my business partners likes to say."

Simon rubbed his forehead. "Fine." His headache had returned with a vengeance. He hoped he didn't have whiplash.

The man nodded, dialed, and spoke a few words into the phone. After a moment he nodded and hung up. "The police are on their way, as is a tow truck. From the noises my engine made, I suspect my car can't make the trip to the garage."

Simon jangled his keys and leaned against the side of his van. "My engine didn't go out. I should be able to make it home."

The man tucked his phone away. "We should take the opportunity to exchange insurance information." Simon laughed. What insurance? "Again, I would like to apologize. I was unaware that this was a one way street."

Simon shrugged. " _Factum est illud, fieri infectum non potest_ ," he mumbled. "Accidents happen."

The man titled his head to one side and smiled. "Done is done, it cannot be made undone."

Simon blinked. "What did you say?"

"The translation to what you said. From the works of the Roman playwright Titus Maccius Plautus, I believe, though I can't recall which play at the moment."

"Um...I don't remember. I'll look it up when I get home," said Simon. "You know Latin?"

The man slid his hands into his pockets. "Oh, quite fluently. I was a double major in history and classical literature in college. I still remember quite a bit." He smiled. "What did Lord Byron say? 'I love the language, that soft bastard Latin...'"

Simon grinned. "'Which melts like kisses from a female mouth.'"

The man smiled. "Very good! You have some familiarity with the classics, I take it?"

Simon snorted. "More than a bit. I'm doing a doctoral program in Greek and Roman history at the University of Constantina right now."

The man beamed. "Good! Very good, sir. I almost did the same thing myself. I was working on a Master's program when I dropped out to go into business with a few partners."

Simon looked at the expensive suit and car. "It seems to have worked out."

The man smiled. "Quite well. Still, I wonder from time to time if I should not have pursued it anyway. There are so few ancient scholars today, and appreciation for the classics has vanished."

"I know," said Simon. "I was a TA for an intro class last year. The students just didn't care. They were more interested in business administration or women's studies or just playing computer games."

The man sneered. "Crass and ignorant pursuits of time, certainly."

Simon nodded. "The decline of western civilization."

The man laughed. "I wouldn't worry too much. The decline of western civilization has always been in sight. Tacitus complained about it in the second century AD, and every major writer before or since has said something about it." He smiled. "Men do not change. It is one of the great truths of the world. Well. As enjoyable as a good intellectual discussion would be, we must get to business."

Simon stuck out his hand on impulse. "Simon Wester."

The man shook his hand. "Thomas Wycliffe."

Simon blinked. "Wycliffe..." He blinked and went rigid. "Wait! I know you...you're the Senator, the one who won the election last year."

Wycliffe grinned. "The same."

Simon ran a hand through his hair. "I...I voted for you..."

"Thank you."

"Oh, man. Oh, man. I hit a Senator's car. I am in so much trouble."

Wycliffe laughed. "Calm yourself, Mr. Wester. Were I the President, Secret Service agents would have arrested you already. But I am not the president. Yet." He grinned. "So, we'll settle this the usual way. Do you have insurance information with you?"

"Um..." Simon grimaced. "I don't have car insurance. I can't afford it. Rather, I couldn't afford it, and after I lost my job..."

"You lost your job?"

Simon nodded. "Today!"

Wycliffe blinked. "Goodness. Then you've had quite a rotten day, haven't you?"

"You have no idea," said Simon.

Wycliffe produced a checkbook and propped it against his car. "Well...in that case, perhaps I should pay for the damages to your vehicle." Simon started to protest, and then thought better of it. "How much does that look like? Six hundred dollars worth of damage?"

"Maybe seven," said Simon. "Actually, eight hundred. Or nine."

"I'll take that into consideration," said Wycliffe. He tore off a check and handed it over. "Here you are."

"Thanks." Simon blinked. He almost dropped the check. It was for five thousand dollars. "I...you...you..."

"Well, just in case," said Wycliffe. "And if there's any left over after fixing the van, consider it a donation to a struggling scholar."

"Thanks." A considerable crowd had gathered on the sidewalks. Some of them called Senator Wycliffe's name and waved. "Wait. This is all politics, all publicity. You just want to look good."

Wycliffe laughed. "Absolutely! Do you think I want a car accident to become a scandal? And you've impressed me, Mr. Wester. Not many people have the dedication it takes to properly study history." He snapped his fingers. "In fact, I have an idea." He pulled out a business card and pressed it into Simon's hand. "This is the address of my offices on the South Side. Why don't you stop by tomorrow morning and pay me a visit?"

"I have class all morning," said Simon.

"Afternoon, then. Or the day after, if it works better. I don't fly back to Washington until the end of the week. You need a job? Perhaps I can provide something."

"Thanks," said Simon. He could think of nothing else to say.

"Ah." Wycliffe craned his neck. "The police are here. Let's tell them what happened, shall we?"

Simon nodded.

It had been a very interesting day.

###

Simon set the milk and eggs into the fridge, cool air washing over his face. He had managed to get home without the van dying, and planned to take it in for an estimate after class tomorrow.

He gazed at the check in his hand as he walked to the living room.

He still could not believe Senator Wycliffe had written him a check for five thousand dollars.

And had Wycliffe offered him a job?

The sound of Maura's TV programs blared through the living room door as Simon pushed it open. Maura shoved a pack of cigarettes into her robe. Simon didn't notice.

"What's gotten into you, boy?" said Maura. "You're grinning ear to ear."

"I had a car accident."

***
Chapter 3 - Sacred Blades

Year of the Councils 962

"How could this have happened?" said Sir Adrian, his Sacred Blade sinking. The sword's blue glow faded, reflecting in the polished visor of his helm. "This is not possible..."

Sir Liam Mastere reined his horse up, his old joints aching.

He took a deep breath and looked over the carnage.

The corpses of the kingdom of Carlisan's footmen covered the meadow, their bodies ripped and torn by bullets. Pools of half-dried blood and mutilated bodies lay everywhere. Their gleaming chain mail had proven no protection against their enemies' weapons. The air was heavy with a charnel scent, and flies buzzed over the slain. A few vultures flapped overhead, circling against the clear blue sky.

Sir Adrian began to sob. "This could not have happened. They had five hundred men. Six Knights of the Sacred Blade. And even a Wizard." He lifted the visor of his helm, revealing his beaked nose and trimmed beard. "Marugon had only twenty men. Twenty! How could this have happened? How?" His scream rang over the bloody meadow.

"Calm yourself." Liam slid from the saddle, his armor clanking. He knelt besides one of the bodies, examining the marks on the ground. "Our men rode into the clearing. Marugon's men were waiting on the far side." He stood and crossed to another pile of bodies. "They charged Marugon's soldiers, without a thought for their own defense. And why not? How could twenty stand against five hundred?" He shook his head. "But Marugon's men had those...things. Those hell-forged weapons from that other world."

Tears trickled into Sir Adrian's beard. "The guns, you mean. His men call them guns."

Liam paid him no heed, still examining the battlefield. "The Knights and the Wizard made a last stand here." Six men in plate armor lay near each other, their Sacred Blades scattered about them. The guns' bullets had torn their gleaming armor into twisted steel ribbons. "The Wizard fell last." The Wizard's body lay crumpled at the base of a tree, white robes splashed with blood. Near him lay two corpses in ragged black uniforms. A hand clutching a burning eye, Marugon's personal sigil, had been embroidered in red thread on their uniforms. "Marugon's men. The Wizard took some of the enemy with him in death." His frown deepened. "The enemy stripped the dead of their guns and ammunition before they moved on. They do not bother to bury the dead according to the laws of men, but they take the trouble to retrieve their hell-forged guns."

"How is this happening?" said Sir Adrian. The younger man sounded as if his mind had snapped. "I was here in Narramore when we destroyed the Black Council and broke their armies. Five years ago all the Warlocks were dead, save Lord Marugon. And he fled into the Tower of Endless Worlds. How could he have returned? No one who sets foot in that accursed Tower ever returns." His words tumbled over each other. "But he came back, Sir Liam. He went to hell and came back, and he brought those demon guns with him..."

Liam grabbed the younger Knight's wrist. "Come to your senses! Now is not the time to panic!"

Adrian blinked. "What?"

"Yes, Lord Marugon's gunmen have overrun Narramore, and now they move to invade Carlisan," said Liam. "But there is still hope. Six of the High Kingdoms remain. And the White Council has come, Adrian. They have gathered at Castle Bastion in Carlisan's northern march. They will strike against Marugon. No matter how mighty Marugon has become, even his black magic cannot stand against the full strength of the Wizards of the White Council. And guns or no guns, Marugon has only five thousand men. When the combined armies of Carlisan and Antarese and Rindl and Amnisos and the other High Kingdoms gather, they will overwhelm Marugon's band of criminals and traitors. The battle will cost dearly, yes. But we shall yet prevail."

Adrian's face stiffened. "You are right, Sir Liam."

"We must ride for Castle Bastion," said Liam. "The Wizards of the White Council are there already. Soon the hosts of the High Kingdoms shall arrive. Together they will drive Lord Marugon's rabble back into the Wastes, and chase Marugon himself back to the Tower of Endless Worlds. We must join them."

Adrian nodded and looked over the meadow. "We...we will return later, and do proper respect to our dead."

"Of course," said Liam. He climbed back into the saddle, his old joints aching with the effort. As usual, he ignored them. "Make haste. We must aid Castle Bastion. The absence of the five hundred men we came to collect will be sorely missed."

Adrian put spurs to his charger. The two Knights galloped down the forest road, into the Border Woods of Narramore, mud churning beneath their horses' hooves.

###

Sir Liam raised a hand. "Hold." His armored gauntlet flashed in the sunlight.

Adrian frowned. "What?"

"Keep quiet." Liam looked through the trees. Their horses stood at the top of a wooded hill. The road ahead wound its way over the crest of the hill and curved around its base. "There's someone coming." He turned his horse and looked down the slope. He could make out the form of another horseman through the trees. "Keep still."

Adrian grimaced, drew his Sacred Blade, and strapped his shield to his arm. "Best be prepared."

Liam's hand closed into a fist.

The horseman wore the black uniform of Marugon's soldiers. Several heavy bundles dangled from his saddle.

"Enemy," said Liam. "Looks like a courier." The horseman had a small gun holstered at his belt. "He has one of those hell-spawned weapons. We had best take cover and let him pass."

Adrian scowled, rage flashing through his dark eyes. "Am I to let this murderer pass by? What of honor? What of our brothers of the Order of the Sacred Blade lying slaughtered in the meadow?"

Liam glared at the younger man. "Justice shall be served, but at the proper time and place. This is neither. Let him pass."

Adrian dropped his helm's visor into place. "I will not let this murderer escape!"

"Sir Adrian!" said Liam. The courier paused, looking around, and Liam continued in a quieter voice. "I give you a command as Master of the Order of the Sacred Blade. Do not..."

Adrian raised his sword. "For Carlisan!" he roared. "For Carlisan and the Knights!" He spurred his horse. The charger leaped forward, Adrian's armor and Sacred Blade flashing in the sun. The enemy courier spun, and Liam caught a glimpse of a young, unshaven face. The black-uniformed soldier fumbled at his belt for the gun.

"No! Sir Adrian!" Liam snarled and drew both his Sacred Blades, the swords forged and imbued with white magic by the White Council of Wizards. The weapons flashed with blue fire, and he spurred his horse and thundered after Adrian.

The courier drew his gun with a snarl. It was a small one-handed black gun, the sort Marugon's soldiers called a "Glock 17C". Adrian yelled, his Sacred Blade whirling over his head. He had almost reached his enemy when the courier fired. Adrian jerked back in the saddle, his visor exploding in a spray of blood and twisted steel. He fell to the muddy road with a clatter of armor, sword clanging beneath him.

Liam yelled and booted his horse faster.

The courier grinned and raised his weapon. Liam flung the Sacred Blade in his left hand. The weapon whirled and struck the courier in the shoulder, drawing blood. The soldier yelled and grabbed his wound, the Glock dipping in his hand. Liam seized his right blade in both hands and swung. His stroke severed the courier's head in a burst of gore. Corpse and head tumbled to the road. The horse neighed in panic and sped away.

Liam jumped from his saddle and ran to Adrian's side. The bullet had reduced the young Knight's face to a bloody ruin. Liam grimaced and pulled Adrian's cloak over the body.

Proper burial would have to wait until Marugon's defeat.

Liam retrieved his second Sacred Blade and rammed his weapons back into their scabbards. He had hoped to bring five hundred footmen, eight Knights of the Sacred Blade, and one Wizard of the White Council to the castle's defense.

Instead, he would only bring one old Knight and his twin Sacred Blades.

The courier's satchel lay besides Adrian's body. Liam frowned and scooped it up. "What did you sell your life for, Adrian?"

He reached inside and withdrew a hide scroll. He unrolled it and read over the black lines of handwriting, reading the words to himself. "Orders from Lord Marugon, to the captain of the gunmen stationed in the Border Woods of Narramore..."

The words sent a chill down Liam's spine. He almost dropped the scroll, but kept reading.

"You are to march south for Carlisan three days hence. By then I personally will have taken Castle Bastion. Do not worry about the five hundred Carlisene men patrolling the Border Woods. An advance force will have already destroyed them. March with all haste."

Marugon's sigil marked the end of the message.

Liam scowled and threw the scroll in the mud. The last of the Warlocks expected Castle Bastion to fall. But how? Castle Bastion held the four hundred Wizards of the White Council, led by Alastarius, the mighty Master of their Order. How could Marugon hope to defeat them?

Liam's breath hissed through his teeth.

What if Marugon planned to ambush the Wizards? Liam had seen a Wizard dead in the meadow. His magic had done him little good against the guns. If Marugon surprised the Wizards with gun-wielding soldiers...

Liam had to warn them.

He climbed into the saddle and rode off. He had to make haste. It would take him at least three days to reach Castle Bastion. If Liam arrived in time, he could warn Alastarius, and the Wizards could prepare a defense.

If he did not...

Liam pushed aside the thought.

At no point did he consider claiming the slain courier's Glock for himself. Liam was the Master of the Order of the Sacred Blade, the only Knight in the High Kingdoms to wield two Sacred Blades. He would not corrupt himself by touching one of Marugon's vile hell-forged guns.

The Knights would fight with their Sacred Blades alone.

###

Mists swirled over the road.

Liam peered into the gloom, moisture condensing against his armor in the chill air. He had been riding for a day and a half. Heavy swamplands stood on either side of the muddy road, stretching as far as his eye could see. Huge, twisted trees stood in the murky water, their roots gnarled and thick. The buzzing of a thousand insects filled Liam's ears.

He patted his horse's trembling flank. "A bit more." Liam looked back and forth. The road ended in a heap of slimed rocks. Beyond that he saw nothing but endless swamp.

"Damnation." Liam pulled off a gauntlet and rubbed a tired hand over his face. "We're lost."

He had hoped to cut through the expanse of the Old Mire, shaving a day off the ride. Castle Bastion stood astride the main road through the Old Mire, guarding a five-mile stretch of highland that rose from the quagmire. Anyone traveling from the Border Woods of Narramore to Castle Bastion would have to circumvent the Old Mire and travel south. Marugon would have to take that way, if he planned to take Castle Bastion. Liam had hoped to cut through the Old Mire and reach the castle at a day before the last of the Warlocks.

Instead, he was lost.

"Rest a bit," Liam told his horse, sliding from the saddle. The weight of his armor bore down on him. He stumbled and only just kept from falling into the water. "See? I am tired as well."

He stalked to the pile of rocks and looked over the swamp. He saw small, grassy islands standing in the water, amidst the towering trees, but no path. He grimaced and kicked a stone into the water.

It landed with a wet plop.

"Hold, outlander." The rough voice had a strange accent.

Liam froze. His hand crept towards his swords.

"Move an inch and we'll feather you."

"I've no quarrel with you, whoever you are," said Liam. They had said "feather". They had arrows, not guns. "I merely wish to pass through the Old Mire."

"Well." There was a pause. "Sir Liam Mastere. Old Two Swords himself. Who would have thought?"

"Might I ask who you are?" said Liam. "Or am I to stand here and converse with stones?"

The voice laughed. "Very well. Turn about." Liam whirled, dropped into a crouch, and drew his Sacred Blades...

He blinked. A dozen rough-looking men in ragged furs stood on the road and perched in the branches of the surrounding trees. Blue war paint marked their faces, and every man held a short bow and a quiver of arrows. A man about Liam's age, with silvery hair and a wolfskin cloak, stood besides Liam's horse, a short bow drawn in his hands.

Liam blinked. "Targath?"

Targath's leathery, blue-painted face creased into a grin. "So you do remember, man of Carlisan." He waved his hand, and the other men lowered their bows. "I heard your horse blundering along, and I wondered what kind of fool would take a horse into the swamp."

"How did you get here?" said Liam. He slid his Sacred Blades back into their scabbards. "Your tribe was on the edge of the Wastes, five hundred miles north of here, last I saw you."

"That was five years ago," said Targath. "After the great victory over the Black Council. The winged demons had fled into the Wastes, the Warlocks were slain, and Marugon himself had fled for the Crimson Plain and the Tower." His dark eyes flashed. "Much can change in five years, man of Carlisan. Much can change for the worse."

Liam saw more men behind Targath, and women and children and animals as well. "Your tribe has moved to the Old Mire?"

Targath nodded.

"Why?" Liam frowned. "For two thousand people to come..."

Targath grimaced and unstrung his bow. "We were two thousand. Now only four hundred."

"Gods. What happened?"

Targath's eyes blazed. "Marugon. He came back from the Tower with the guns, green fruits that explode, and liquid fire. The tribes gathered to fight him on the edge of the Wastes. He had a hundred men. We had ten thousand fighting men, all warriors skilled with bow and spear." Targath shook his head. "It...was a slaughter. I have never seen such horror. They had guns that spat a hundred bullets in a second. His men cut us down like a reaper cutting wheat. Barely a thousand men escaped from the ruin."

"Why would Marugon attack you?" said Liam. "The tribes were no threat to him. His enemies, the Knights and the Wizards, are south in the High Kingdoms."

Targath's lips twisted. "The last of the Warlocks did not come to wage a war on us. He came for revenge. He came to annihilate. We were long a thorn in the Black Council's side, and we fought alongside the Knights and Wizards to overthrow the Black Council. Marugon did not come to conquer. He came to destroy."

"How did you wind up here?" said Liam.

Targath sighed. "We fled the battle once we saw there was no hope against the power of the guns. We came here to take refuge in the Mire."

Liam shook his head. "This is no place for women and children. Come south to Carlisan. I will prevail upon the King to provide you with lands."

Targath shook his head. "No. We will not beg." He waved his arm over the expanse of the Old Mire. "This land is not so different from the bogs near the Wastes. It is a hard land, but we are a hard people."

"I hope you are right, my friend," said Liam.

"Marugon comes for the High Kingdoms now," said Targath. "How goes the war?"

Liam grimaced. "Badly. Narramore has fallen."

Targath's breath hissed through his stained teeth. "That is ill. Marugon will do to Narramore what he did to us."

"The war is not yet over," said Liam. "Six of the High Kingdoms yet stand, as does the White Council and the Order of the Sacred Blade. The hosts of the High Kingdoms march, and the White Council has gathered for war. We will strike back at Marugon, and drive him back into the Wastes."

"Your hopes cheer me," said Targath, "but I fear they are empty. You have seen the power of the guns. I can see that in your eyes." Liam nodded. "I do not think the Wizards and the Knights will prevail against Marugon."

Liam scowled. "Would you have us surrender, then?"

"No. For Marugon desires not surrender, but destruction," said Targath. He shook his head, strands of silver hair brushing his blue-painted face. "I think Marugon will do to the High Kingdoms what he did to the tribes. He wishes to destroy them. And with the guns and bombs and liquid fire, he can do it."

"Come with me," said Liam. "There is yet hope. Your warriors can do much against Marugon's rabble..."

Targath laughed, his voice bitter. "Did you not listen to all that I said, Sir Liam? We are defeated. Most of our tribe lies dead, their bodies shredded by bullets. There is nothing left for us in this war. We came to the Old Mire as a last resort. Marugon's wrath will destroy the world. We shall stay here, and hope Marugon's fury passes us by, for we cannot stand against it."

"That is despair," said Liam.

"And we have despaired," said Targath. His eyes were distant. "You will understand, once Marugon destroys Carlisan, as he will."

They stared at each other for a moment.

"Very well," said Liam. "I think your choice is folly, but I cannot choose for you. I ask only this of you. Show me the way out of this swamp. I must move with great haste, and have been delayed too much as it is."

Targath gave him a brief nod. "I will aid you, Liam Mastere, for you have always been loyal friend to the tribes. What is your errand?"

"I came to the Border Woods to collect a force of five hundred footmen and bring them to Castle Bastion," said Liam. He clenched a fist. "The gunmen found them first and killed them all."

"A grievous blow," said Targath.

"My companion, Sir Adrian, tried to ambush a courier," said Liam. "He was slain, but I managed to kill the courier. I read his letters. Marugon expects Castle Bastion to fall within three days."

Targath looked troubled, but shrugged. "Castle Bastion is a strong fortress. But Marugon's bombs will rip down the walls, and his guns will slay the men within. Castle Bastion cannot stop him."

Liam gripped Targath's arm. "The entire White Council has gathered at Castle Bastion under Alastarius himself. If he thinks Marugon can take Castle Bastion..."

Targath's lips thinned. "Then he has a way to kill the Wizards. The guns, of course."

"But how?" Liam shook his head. "The Wizards have their magic. They can protect themselves from the bullets." Though Wizard in the meadow had been slain. Perhaps the bullets had finally overwhelmed his magic. "And their spells could sense Marugon's gunmen coming from miles away. Marugon's only hope is to ambush them..."

Targath flinched. "He may have the means to do so."

"How?"

"Three hours before we found you. We saw dark shapes over the Mire, flying to the west. That is why we moved the camp. We feared Marugon had found us, and sent his minions of the black magic to destroy us." Targath rubbed his bow. "It seems he had another target in mind."

"Then I must get to Castle Bastion as quickly as possible," said Liam.

Targath grimaced. "I can lead you to the edge of the Old Mire, but no further. I dare not risk bringing Marugon's attention to my tribe. We have suffered too much already."

"I understand." Liam climbed back into the saddle. "But we must make haste! If Castle Bastion falls, if Marugon slays the Wizards..." He did not want to think of the consequences.

Targath nodded. "We shall move with all speed. This way!"

***
Chapter 4 - The Interview

Anno Domini 2002

Simon walked through the university's parking lot, a bundle of papers tucked under his arm. He unlocked his van's door and settled inside, spreading the papers over the passenger seat.

Simon looked at the first paper, an estimate from a body shop, and grinned. The mechanics thought they could fix it up the van for only six hundred and fifty dollars. That would leave Simon with $4,300 from the check. He considered returning the excess money to Senator Wycliffe and dismissed the idea.

Simon had bills he needed to pay.

He turned over the next paper, his smile fading. Simon had voted for Senator Wycliffe, but he knew practically nothing about the man. Simon's studies and his employment difficulties had kept him occupied and oblivious to current events. If Wycliffe offered offer him a job, Simon wanted to know more about his potential employer. So he had booked a library computer and done some quick searches on a news server.

The results had been unsettling.

According to the articles, Wycliffe headed a firm known as Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping. He had made a fortune seven years ago in commodities with Demeko-Kurkov, a Russian company. Wycliffe bought meat and cloth in bulk, and sold gold in tremendous quantities. No one quite knew how he made his money. The EEC, the FDA, and the FBI had all launched investigations into Wycliffe's businesses, and all three agencies had come away empty handed. Simon paged through the article and shrugged. So what if Wycliffe had found an unusual way to make money?

Simon turned to the next article, which detailed Wycliffe's rising political career. He had been elected to the House of Representatives in 1998, after his opponent committed suicide two weeks before the election. Wycliffe had then run against Senator James Fulbright in the 2001 election. Simon remembered that. It had been all over the news. One of Fulbright's ex-lovers had gone on a rampage before killing himself. Fulbright lost the election, shot himself in the head, and Wycliffe took office pledging to undue the damage caused by the scandal.

Wycliffe had won two elections by his opponent's suicide. Very weird. It sounded like something out of a gangster movie. And Wycliffe had made most of his fortune trading with Demeko-Kurkov. A few of Simon's articles argued that the Russian mafia, actual gangsters, dominated Demeko-Kurkov.

So just what had Wycliffe done to make his money?

Perhaps Simon should just take the money and forget about Wycliffe. Simon stared at the check, sweat dripping down his face.

"Why not?" Simon started the van, put it in gear, and drove for the address on Wycliffe's card.

###

Forty minutes later, Simon looked at the card. "This can't be right."

He drove down a street lined with abandoned warehouses on either side. Broken glass gleamed in the windows, and weathered stacks of pallets and rusting forklifts stood behind chain-link fences. Colorful graffiti layered the warehouses' walls. Simon looked back and forth. This did not seem like a good neighborhood, or a safe one. A bit of fear tugged at his stomach. Had Wycliffe's business card been some sort of a scam?

He turned a corner. The ruined warehouses continued on one side of the street, but a huge walled compound stretched along the other side. Simon saw warehouses, silos, and trailers rising over the roll of barbed wire topping the wall.

It matched the address on Wycliffe's card.

"This can't be it," muttered Simon. He pulled over to the curb and squinted. A dusty sign marked "Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping" hung over the compound's gate. Simon shrugged, shut off the engine, and locked his doors. He hoped no one would try to steal his van.

He snorted. Only a truly desperate thief would try to steal his van.

He walked to the chain-link gate. Barbed wire glinted over the gate and walls, and a pair of wire cages enclosed security cameras. Simon looked around. Maybe the public entrance was on the other side.

"Hey!"

A hulking man in sunglasses and a security uniform leaned out of a booth next to the gate. "What are you doing here?"

"Um." Simon made a hesitant wave at the gate. "I'm here to see Senator Wycliffe."

"Name?"

"Simon Wester."

The guard tapped an earpiece and mumbled into a microphone pinned to his collar. "I see." He looked at Simon. "You're expected." The gate rattled open. "Third building on the right, off the main lane. Don't go poking around."

"Ah...sure." Simon strode inside. He tried not to wince as he heard the gate clang shut behind him.

Despite its grim appearance, the compound bustled with activity. Forklifts rattled back and forth, carrying massive crates. Every building had a truck dock, and a flatbed truck laden with barrels rumbled past. He went to the third warehouse on the right and knocked. No one answered. He waited for a moment, then pushed open the door.

To his surprise, he found himself in a pleasant waiting room lined with office doors. A glass coffee table stood in the center of the room, covered with current magazines. Overstuffed leather chairs and couches stood against the walls. Soft classical music played over speakers hidden in the ceiling.

A lean, middle-aged man in a business suit, his black hair streaked with gray, stood near the table, a coffee mug in hand.

"Can I help you?"

"Um." Simon felt underdressed. "I'm here to see Senator Wycliffe."

The man in the suit smiled. "Of course. Mr. Wester?" Simon nodded. The man held out his hand, and Simon shook it. "Patrick Markham, Senator Wycliffe's office manager. The Senator is meeting a potential investor, but we expect him back soon." He pointed at counter with a coffeemaker and a mini-fridge on the far wall. "Help yourself to some refreshment while you wait."

"Thanks," said Simon, and Markham disappeared through one of the doors. Simon helped himself to a mug of coffee and sank into an overstuffed leather chair. A wave of weariness washed through his muscles. He had stayed up too late last night. He took a long sip of the coffee. He didn't want to fall asleep during his meeting with Wycliffe.

One of the doors opened, and Wycliffe strode inside, a laptop case over his shoulder, Markham trailing after him.

"A Simon Wester is here to see you, Senator," said Markham

"Thank you, Markham." Wycliffe stopped and smiled. "Ah. Mr. Wester. So you did take up my offer."

"Yeah," said Simon. He blinked. "Whatever it was."

"We'll get to that," said Wycliffe. "Was the check enough to cover the damages to your van?"

"More than enough," said Simon. He hesitated. "Do you want the rest..."

Wycliffe waved his hand. "Not at all! Consider it compensation for time and trouble. I've no doubt you're a busy man." He opened a door on the left. "Now, I'd like to continue our discussion."

"Sure," said Simon. He followed the Senator down a short hallway, through another door, and into a large office. Potted plants and several filing cabinets rested against the wall. A large mahogany desk dominated the room. A young woman bent over the desk, her eyes focused on the computer monitor.

Simon could see right down the front of her blouse.

"Ah, Ms. Coldridge," said Wycliffe. The woman glanced up. She had green eyes and a pale, stern face. "It's better, I assume?"

The woman smiled. "All better, Senator. The database server just needed a reboot, that was all. And once we'd updated the web server to handle the new scripts..."

Wycliffe raised a hand. "All over my head, I assure you. Mr. Wester, this is Katrina Coldridge. She keeps the computer systems running."

"A thankless job, let me tell you." She shook Simon's hand. Her grip made his hand hurt, and he tried and failed not to wince. A tiny smile flickered across her lips.

Wycliffe laughed. "Thankless? You don't need thanks, my dear. I pay you entirely too much as it is." She laughed. He handed over his laptop case. "Would you mind having one of your people look this over? I had a bit of an accident the other day, and I want to make sure it wasn't damaged."

"Sure." She slung the case over her shoulder. Simon's eyes strayed over her legs, displayed to good effect by her black skirt. "Have a good day, Senator."

"Nice meeting you," said Simon. She didn't notice as she strode out of the office.

Wycliffe sat behind his desk. "Take a seat." Simon sat. "A wonder, our Ms. Coldridge. She maintains Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping's computer systems with an iron fist of efficiency. We'd have a devil of time without her." He cracked his knuckles. "I suppose you're wondering why I invited you here."

"It did cross my mind," said Simon.

"After our encounter, I took the liberty of calling your advisor Dr. Francis at the university," said Wycliffe.

Simon almost fell out of his chair. "How did you find out she was my advisor?"

Wycliffe waved his hand. "Oh, I just placed a few phone calls. I do have some influence, you know." The hair on the back of Simon's neck prickled. "I told her I was a potential employer, and that you had mentioned her as a reference."

"What did she say about me?" said Simon.

"Quite a few good things," said Wycliffe. "Diligent, dedicated, a good writer, and a good public speaker...with a tendency towards insufferable haughtiness. Her exact words."

Simon sighed. "Sounds like her." Dr. Francis had told him as much many times.

"I was surprised at the public speaking part." Wycliffe leaned back in his chair. "You tend to sputter, I've noticed."

"It's person to person," said Simon, "or if I get flustered. If I have to speak before a crowd, and if I can prepare, I can do it. But, frankly, why do you care? I'm nobody. You're a Senator."

"Right to the point? Good." Wycliffe folded his hands on the desk. "I want to hire you."

"Doing what?" said Simon. "Sweeping floors, cleaning toilets, or handling freight? I'll pass."

Wycliffe chuckled. "You've a little too much education for that, I think, despite the modern opinion that the study of history is less than useless. No, I have other tasks in mind for you. I want you to write articles, pamphlets, campaign planks, and speeches. To put it simply, I want to employ you as a public relations man. Think you can do that?"

"I...sure," said Simon. "But that sounds like a full time job. I have studies."

Wycliffe waved a hand. "You're too used to the notion of work coming in eight hour shifts with a half-hour lunch break in the smoking lounge. No, I will give you assignments. You may work on them here or at home as you prefer."

"But my classes," said Simon. "I have one semester of classes left, then I just have to finish my dissertation."

"By no means do I wish to disrupt your education," said Wycliffe. "We can work around it. I understand that your dissertation is on the role of the Roman army in the collapse of the Empire?" Simon nodded. "I rather look forward to reading it. You will let me read it, won't you?" He grinned. "If you work here, that is."

Too much had come at Simon too fast. "How much are you offering for this?"

Wycliffe leaned back in his chair. "Seventy-five thousand a year."

Simon blinked. His jaw almost fell off its hinges and hit the carpet. "Seventy-five thousand?" He could not imagine making that much money in three years, let alone one.

"I won't go any higher than eighty," said Wycliffe.

"I didn't think congressional aides got paid that much," said Simon.

Wycliffe smiled. "I prefer to hire all my people myself. You will be working for me, not the government. The government does provide a staff and office for all congressmen and senators. However," he grinned, "I have money of my own. I hire all my own aides, people I can trust, and maintain offices here and in Washington at my own expense. It makes for an excellent PR boost. Not spending the taxpayers' money on curtains for my office and all that."

"I can imagine," said Simon.

"So, will you consider my offer?" said Wycliffe. "Educated men, truly educated, are an increasing rarity these days. You would make a useful asset. And it's not one-sided. This would make an ideal job for you, given your circumstances." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "What do you say?"

Simon swallowed. Something about Wycliffe unsettled him. And what if the Senator had made his money through illegal means? But Marchson Appliances probably had slave-labor plants in Bangladesh. The gas station he had worked at during high school had broken numerous labor and food-sanitation laws. Simon had to work somewhere. And he could not afford to pass on Wycliffe's generous offer.

"You seem uncertain," said Wycliffe.

"I don't know," said Simon. "It...just seems too good to be true."

Wycliffe laughed and slapped the desk. "Mr. Wester, I am too good to be true. A poor boy from Chicago grows up and becomes a Senator? If that's not the American dream, then what is? Why, it's almost as if there's a hint of black magic about my story! I'm offering you a chance, Mr. Wester. I suggest you take it."

Simon frowned. Wycliffe was right. "I'll do it."

"Excellent!" said Wycliffe. He stood and extended his hand, and Simon shook it. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Wester. You will not regret this."

Simon looked at the shorter man and nodded. "I hope not." Some of his doubts dissipated. Wycliffe was a politician, and he couldn't risk ruining his career in a scandal over shady activity.

Besides, Simon doubted that Wycliffe had been involved in anything truly nasty.

***
Chapter 5 - Castle Bastion

Year of the Councils 962

"This is as far as I can take you," said Targath. Wooded hills rose up ahead, marking the edge of the Old Mire. "Castle Bastion lies five miles to the west."

"Thank you, my friend," said Liam. "I hope we meet again in happier times."

Targath shook his head, his silvery hair gleaming in the moonlight. "I fear we will not meet again. Not in this world, at any rate. I wish you well, Sir Liam Mastere. May all the blessings of all the gods go with you. You will certainly need them." Targath turned and vanished back into the swirling mists of the Old Mire.

Liam put spurs to his horse and snapped the reins. He galloped for the west, clods of earth flying beneath his mount's hooves. He found a path leading through the wooded hills and followed it. The night sky began to brighten, the wind whistling through the trees.

But it was still too early for dawn.

Liam reined up, squinting into the gloom. He smelled smoke on the air. Had he come too late?

He rubbed the horse's mane. "Just a bit farther." Only a mile and a half lay between him and Castle Bastion. He put the horse to a quick trot. The woods thinned and vanished, changing to grassy hills. The smell of smoke grew stronger, and a faint red glow illuminated the sky ahead. A fire, then, and a large one, and his alarm grew. He tried to coax a bit more speed from his exhausted mount.

At last Liam rounded a hill and reined up.

The sight that greeted him made him freeze for a moment.

"Gods," he mumbled at last. "Gods, no."

Castle Bastion sat on a broad hill, its towers and turrets outlined against the pale sky. Smoke billowed from the windows, and raging flames danced within its courtyard. Its massive outer curtain wall had been blasted to heaps of broken rubble. Even from this distance, Liam smelled the stink of burning flesh.

The High Kingdoms and the Wizards had planned to strike at Marugon, but Marugon had struck first.

Liam spurred his horse, and the weary charger stumbled up the road to the castle. Liam could ask no more of the exhausted animal. He slid from the saddle and ran forward, his armor clattering.

The castle's gates lay in ruins. Bodies in the armor and tabards of the Council Guard, the Wizards' defenders, lay strewn about the rubble. Liam looked over the corpses as he picked his way through the debris. Bullets had killed the guards, reducing their armor to metal shreds, and bullet holes riddled the stones of the wall. Marugon's soldiers must have used the lead-spraying machine guns, the guns they called Kalashnikovs, the dreadful weapons that had annihilated the army of Narramore.

An explosion shook the castle, stone falling from the damaged towers and crashing against the pavement of the courtyard. Liam reeled and grabbed at the broken wall for support. He heard screams ringing from inside the keep, and he drew his Sacred Blades. The swords flash with blue fire, and he felt a thrum of power from the weapons. Creatures of black magic were near. He ran towards the doors of the keep, swords in hand.

It seemed the battle was not over yet.

He dashed through the keep's open doors and entered a long hall with a vaulted ceiling. The only light came from the occasional torch in a wall sconce. The corpses of Wizards in white robes lay strewn along the floor, their blood staining the stone. Another explosion rang out, followed by a deep-throated howl of fury. Liam hurried forward, his boots clicking against the polished stone floor. He turned another corner and stopped.

A huge figure in sooty black armor stood at the base of a broad marble staircase, massive leathery wings resting on its back. Burning red eyes watched the corridor, stark against its pale face, and yellowed fangs curled down from its mouth. A gleaming Kalashnikov rested its hands. It was a winged demon from the hills of the Wastes. Even a Wizard would find a winged demon a deadly foe. If Marugon had made an alliance with the winged demons, had given them guns...

His Sacred Blades thrummed in his hands. The winged demon growled and looked his way.

Liam bellowed a battle cry and leaped forward, swords raised. The winged demon flinched and raised its weapon. Liam dodged to the side as the demon fired. The spray of bullets ripped through his cloak and shoulder plates, but missed his flesh. Liam swung his right-hand sword in a wide slash, the blade shearing through the Kalashnikov's barrel. The winged demon roared and swung the ruined gun like a club. Liam parried with his left-hand sword and stabbed with his remaining weapon. The Sacred Blade slashed down the winged demon's arm, chewed through its armor, and sank into its pale flesh. The creature roared and jumped back, drawing a black scimitar from its belt. Liam raced up the stairs after it. The demon's wings unfurled and it took to the air, wings flapping. Liam whirled, trying to keep his eyes on the beast as it flew in an intricate pattern beneath the vaulted ceiling.

The winged demon wheeled and plunged down like a thunderbolt, scimitar point leading. Liam leapt to the side, and the demon landed with a crash, scimitar sweeping for Liam's head. He parried, sparks shooting from the locked blades.

The demon flapped its wings, and its right wing caught Liam in the face. The old Knight stumbled, his back smacking into the wall. The demon roared in victory and brought its scimitar down in a two-handed chop. Liam growled, parried with his left sword, and stabbed with his right. The blade slid through a gap in the winged demon's armor and plunged deep into its belly. The demon shrieked as blue fires burst from the Sacred Blade and seared through its flesh.

The winged demon shuddered and collapsed in a spray of ash and obsidian bones.

Liam sprinted up the stairs, cursing his armor. It had been forged by the finest smiths of Carlisan, but it was useless against bullets. Another explosion shook the damaged castle, dust falling from the ceiling. His breath burned in his throat.

He burst onto a high balcony overlooking a broad inner courtyard and stopped.

A cluster of forty people stood huddled against the far wall. Liam saw a thin young man holding a dirty girl of about eight or nine, a weeping woman in a rough dress, and dozens of others, all terrified or injured. They looked like peasants or the servants of the castle. The remnants of the Council Guard stood around them in a ring, their pikes extended. Before them all stood a grim-faced old man in a white robe, wild white hair framing his dark eyes and craggy face. Liam recognized Alastarius, mighty Master of the Order of the White Council. The old Wizard held his hands out, his face trembling with effort. A faint sphere of shimmering white light surrounded him and the others.

A man cloaked in black robes stepped out from under an arch.

Lord Marugon himself had come.

Marugon stopped thirty feet from Alastarius. A dozen winged demons with Kalashnikovs and black scimitars accompanied him. A huge winged demon with a crown of red gold stopped at Marugon's right hand. Liam had last seen that creature during the campaign against the Black Council. It was murderous and cunning Goth-Mar-Dan, king of the winged demons.

"Alastarius, my old friend!" Marugon's sonorous voice rang out. "Your struggle has come to naught. Surrender yourself. It will go easier."

Alastarius's face darkened. "No. I will not give those in my care to your black mercies. I know your heart now." His deep voice cracked like thunder. "I had thought better of you. I had thought you could change what you were. But I was wrong."

Marugon laughed. "You cannot maintain that spell of protection forever. Your strength will fail soon, old man. What will you do then?" Liam could not see Marugon's face, but he heard the Warlock's smile. "The other Wizards are dead. You are the only one left. The last of the Wizards and the last of the Warlocks, together in this ruin. Ironic, no?"

"You have brought ruin to our world, Marugon!" said Alastarius. "The guns and the other machines will do naught but destroy. What shall you do, then? Rule over corpses and ashes?"

Marugon stepped forward. He looked like a cloaked and hooded shadow. "This is not about conquest, old fool. I thought you knew that by now. It is not even about revenge. It is about destruction. It is about power and entropy." He laughed, and Goth-Mar-Dan emitted a rumbling chuckle.

Liam's mind raced. He could not find a way down to the courtyard. Even if he could, there were too many winged demons. He could fight two, even three, but not against a dozen.

And not against their mighty king.

"You have claimed victory today, dark one," said Alastarius. "But tomorrow will turn against you." The old Wizard drew himself up. His eyes blazed like twin stars. "Hear me! I Prophesy, Marugon! You shall fall, one day. There is a last hope that even you cannot extinguish. And it is Lithon Scepteris, the son of the King, who will bring about your downfall." His voice rang like thunder, the words echoing over and over in Liam's mind.

The old Wizard had the gift of Prophecy. His predictions came true. If he said that Lithon would overthrow Marugon...

Marugon's voice dripped scorn. "Lithon Scepteris? The son of the King of Carlisan? He is a three years old, yes?"

Alastarius looked up, and Liam felt a shock as the Wizard looked right into his eyes. "Lithon will be kept safe, Lord of the Warlocks. He must be." Liam stiffened. His old friend had just spoken to him, and laid this charge upon him. "And one day he will overthrow you."

"I think not," said Marugon. "It is you who are overthrown, old fool. The White Council is destroyed. There is nothing that can save the High Kingdoms. I shall march to Carlisan, and I shall kill every last man, woman, and child." Marugon's lips pulled back in a snarl. "Lithon included..."

Alastarius yelled, gesturing in a spell, and the white sphere dissipated. "Run!"

The cowering women and children sprinted for the doorways as the winged demons leveled their Kalashnikovs and opened fire. Liam yelled in fury as blood spattered over the pavement and bodies fell to the earth. The thin young man with the sobbing girl dashed through a doorway. Alastarius shouted a word and thrust his palm at Marugon. Blazing white light, so bright Liam had to look away, burst around the Warlock.

The light dimmed and faded in a swirl of shadow. Marugon stood untouched. "So you think to contest your powers against mine, old man? You know it is futile. You know what I am. You know what you tried to make me. Now you shall pay for your failure." He yelled a word and traced a circle in the air. An icy chill filled the courtyard, and Alastarius staggered back. Shadows fell over him, a keening shriek filling the air, and frost formed on the ground around the old Wizard. Alastarius growled and waved his hands. The shadow vanished, and light blazed around Marugon.

Liam watched in awe and horror as the Warlock and the Wizard battled. Light and shadow flashed, and thunder rumbled over the courtyard as ghastly specters formed and faded in the air. Alastarius's eyes blazed like stars, while Marugon's seemed like pits into eternal nothingness. The Council Guards stood behind the old Wizard, their pikes clutched tight, their faces slack with awe.

The winged demons watched, cradling their guns.

Liam frowned. Why hadn't the demons shot down the Guards?

Marugon crossed his fists, black lightning crackling up his arms. "Rembiar! Now!"

A scar-faced Council Guard in the tabard of a captain leapt forward and stabbed his pike.

"No!" Liam screamed.

The pike plunged into Alastarius's back. The old Wizard twisted in pain, his fingers clutching at the air. The other Council Guards howled in fury and turned on the captain, but the winged demons opened fire, and the Council Guards fell in a spray of blood and flame. The traitor thrust his pike again, and Alastarius staggered, blood soaking his white robes. Marugon made a chopping gesture. Alastarius screamed and crumpled, a web of shadows pinning him to the ground.

The scar-faced Guard captain tossed aside his pike and swaggered to Marugon's side. "My lord Marugon. It is good to see you again."

"Well done, Rembiar," said Marugon. Alastarius groaned in agony. "Well done, indeed, my friend. We shall discuss your reward later." Marugon turned to Goth-Mar-Dan as Alastarius trembled, his blood spilling across the pavement. "Goth-Mar-Dan, my friend. This old fool has caused us much grief. Repay him."

Goth-Mar-Dan chuckled and took to the air, his great wings beating. He landed besides Alastarius.

"Marugon!" said Alastarius, his voice strained. "I Prophesy once more!"

Marugon raised a hand, and Goth-Mar-Dan froze. "Oh?"

"I shall return." Alastarius's voice trembled, blood dripping into his white beard. "This is not over. The cycle of fate shall turn. The last hope will remain. The son of the King shall bring me back, and we will undo everything you have done..."

Marugon growled.

Goth-Mar-Dan's clawed hand shot down and plunged into Alastarius's chest, ripping flesh and cracking bone, and the old Wizard howled. The winged demon ripped out Alastarius's heart and held it high. His deep-throated howl of triumph echoed over the courtyard. Goth-Mar-Dan devoured the heart in three bites, the blood smearing across his pale face.

"Spread out through the castle!" said Marugon, his voice triumphant. "Kill everyone and everything you find, but return to the gates in one hour. We march on Carlisan!" The winged demons threw back their heads and roared. Liam stared Alastarius's crumpled corpse, rage burning through him. His Sacred Blades trembled in his hands. He would stalk through the castle and hunt down those winged demons one by one. He would cut out Goth-Mar-Dan's black heart. And he would strike down Marugon...

Liam closed his eyes and stepped back into the shadows of the corridor. "No." If mighty Alastarius could not prevail against Marugon and Goth-Mar-Dan, what could Liam do? "No. I must go to Carlisan. I must warn them of what comes."

But without the Wizards, how could Carlisan and the other High Kingdoms hope to defeat the power of Marugon's guns? Dread roiled in Liam's heart. He shuddered to think what Marugon and Goth-Mar-Dan's winged demons would do to the High Kingdoms.

He sprinted down the stairwell and ran for the gates, his breath rasping in his throat. Alastarius's last words played in his mind. The old Wizard had Prophesied that Lithon would one day defeat Marugon. Liam had to find Lithon and keep him safe.

Liam managed to avoid the winged demons and dashed through Castle Bastion's ruined gates. He found his horse and rode with as much speed as he could coax from the tired mount. Tears streamed down his bearded cheeks. He scrubbed them away and focused on the road.

He had to reach Carlisan before Marugon.

And he had to find Prince Lithon Scepteris before Marugon did.

***

Chapter 6 - First Date

Anno Domini 2002  
"Yes, many challenges face our nation today," Simon read from his computer monitor. "The economy staggers, and we face threats from abroad. But times will change. The problems that confront us will soon pass away..."  
Simon groaned. "No good. They're industrialists, not New Age types." He hit the backspace key and erased everything he had just written. He glanced at the clock and yawned. It was already an hour to midnight. He had better call his mother before she started to worry.  
Simon dropped back into his chair, scooped up the phone, and dialed for home. He glanced out the window and grinned. He had an office with windows. Of course, the windows overlooked a loading yard filled with empty pallets.  
Still, it was an improvement over his last job.  
The phone rang, and Maura Wester picked up. "Hello?"  
"Hi, Mom."  
"Simon, where have you been? It's almost midnight."  
Simon rolled his eyes. "It's only eleven, Mom."  
"It's five past eleven," said Maura. "That makes it almost midnight, boy. Mind telling me where you are?"  
Simon watched a truck maneuver into a dock. "I'm at work."  
"I thought you were going to be done at nine."  
"Yeah, so did I," said Simon. "But Senator Wycliffe's giving a speech next week to the Chicago Economic Club. He wants a rough draft by Monday morning."  
"He works you too hard." His mother's disapproval crackled over the phone line. "I still think you should have gotten another job."  
"Mom." Simon rubbed his forehead. "This is a way better job than I could have found otherwise." Maura had thrown a fit when she found out he worked for Thomas Wycliffe. She had voted for Senator Fulbright for years.  
"That Wycliffe is a bad man."  
Simon hoped Wycliffe didn't have the phone lines tapped. "He's a politician. Someone will always think he's evil. And he's not a bad guy, really."  
"The devil's always a charmer," said Maura. "Do you think it's just a coincidence that reporter went crazy, or that Senator Fulbright, God have mercy on his soul, killed himself? Wycliffe had something to do with it."  
"Mom!" Simon sighed. "That's just silly. And how can you like Fulbright so much? He and that crazy reporter were into some nasty stuff."  
"Whatever Wycliffe's into, I'll bet it's nastier," said Maura.  
Simon sighed. "I don't have time for this right now. I'll be home by two."  
"Don't forget there's church tomorrow."  
"Mom," said Simon. "When I have missed church?"  
"Three years ago," said Maura.  
"I had the stomach flu," said Simon. "I don't think it would have been good if I had vomited into the sacramental wine."  
Maura paused. "That's blasphemy."  
"It would have been, so I didn't go," said Simon. "I've got to get back to work. Love you, and see you tomorrow." He hung up before she had a chance to answer.  
He sighed and walked over the window, staring at the docks. Why did she have to give him such a hard time? This was the best job he had ever had. It meshed with his class schedule, and after he finished his coursework, he would have time to finish his dissertation. She just didn't understand. She had never worked a real job. She didn't understand what it was like to go day after day to a miserable, low-paying job, to sink time and energy and effort into something so hateful.  
Simon pushed the thought away. His mind felt blank, and he needed a break. He picked up a book, locked the office door behind him, and set off for the lounge. Perhaps some coffee would refresh his mind. All the other offices were dark and empty. Everyone had gone home for the weekend, and Senator Wycliffe wouldn't return from Washington until tomorrow.  
But there was a light on in the lounge.  
The lounge held a half-dozen round tables, and a row of soda and snack machines stood next to a counter with a sink and a coffee machine (not, thank God, a Marchson Appliances model). Some thoughtful person, probably the janitor, had put on a cup of coffee. Simon retrieved a mug from the cupboard, poured himself some coffee, and sat down with a sigh. He paged through his book, a copy of Cicero's treatise on oration. Perhaps it would give him some ideas for Senator Wycliffe's speech.  
"I wasn't planning on sharing that, you know."  
Simon almost jumped out of his chair. Katrina Coldridge stood in the doorway. She wore a T-shirt and jeans. Her dark hair had been pulled back in a ponytail, and her eyes glared at him.  
"Well, sorry," said Simon. He held out the mug. "You want it back?"  
Katrina snorted. "No." She carried a bundle of papers and a box under her arm. She dropped them on a table and snatched a mug from the cabinet. "I'd hoped I'd be able to make a goddamned pot of coffee without someone stealing it from me before I'd even sat down, you know? Guess not."  
"I said I'm sorry," said Simon. "Do you want a signed document of apology?"  
She smirked at him and poured out some coffee. "That would be a first. I'd frame it and put it on my wall."  
"Sarcasm is hardly becoming," said Simon.  
Katrina raised an eyebrow. "Really?" She took a sip of the coffee and leaned against the counter. "So. Have any more problems with your computer shutting down at random?"  
Simon scowled. "That was an accident. How was I to know I had knocked the power cable out of the wall when I stretched?"  
Katrina rolled her eyes. "When the PC turned itself off, that would have been a good indication, yes. Don't you think?"  
Simon stood. "I think I'll head back to my office now. Good evening to you, Ms. Coldridge."  
"Try not to kick out any plugs."  
Simon froze three steps from the door.  
A huge man in a motorcycle jacket stood in the doorway. Mirrored sunglasses and a thick, bushy beard masked most of his face.  
The man stood with a distinct slouch, and his back showed the faintest hint of a bulge beneath the black leather. Like he was hunchbacked or something.  
"Uh...can I help you?" said Simon.  
The man stared at them. A muscle in his face twitched.  
"You okay?" said Simon.  
"Working late?" The slouching man's voice was a deep bass rumble.  
"Yeah," said Katrina. "That's just it. Working late." The man stared at her for a moment, face expressionless, then nodded and moved off down the hallway. Simon felt an absurd wave of relief.  
"God," mumbled Katrina. "I hate these new security people."  
"I know what you mean," said Simon. "They all look like Hell's Angels. Why does the Senator have them dress that way?"  
Katrina shrugged. "Scares people off, I guess. I just about had a heart attack when that guy walked in here."  
"Yeah," said Simon. "You were vibrating."  
She glared at him. "Vibrating? Whatever."  
"Yeah," said Simon. "Vibrating." Katrina rolled her eyes, took a long drink of coffee, and refilled her mug. She looked caught between anger and amusement. "Asshole. Why are you here so late on a Saturday, anyway? I'd assumed you'd be at a play or poetry reading or something."  
"I have work to do," said Simon. "Senator Wycliffe wants a speech written by Monday. And why are you here? I'd assume you'd be out getting drunk or something. It is Saturday night, after all."  
Katrina's eyes narrowed. "For your information, Mr. Speechwriter, I have work to do, too. Saturday nights and Sunday mornings are the best time to do system upgrades and maintenance. There's no one here to complain about the network slowing down." She smirked. "Except you, of course. But I doubt you'd even notice if your computer stopped working."  
Simon rolled his eyes. "I have a master's. I think I can notice when my computer stops working."  
"Ooh." Katrina fluttered her fingers. "A master's. In what?"  
Simon watched her. "Roman history."  
"Well, that's useful," said Katrina.  
"It's not about usefulness," said Simon. "It's about knowledge and learning."  
"That so?" said Katrina. She sipped at her coffee. "So what were you doing before you started writing speeches for the Senator?"  
Simon bit his lip. "Um...I taught a couple of intro classes at Constantina..."  
Katrina smirked. "No, no, after that. I heard the story from Senator Wycliffe. What were you doing the day you rammed into his very expensive car?"  
Simon spread his arms. "He hit me! He was going the wrong way down a one-way street."  
"Semantics," said Katrina. "What were you doing?"  
"Leaving my job."  
Katrina smiled. "At one in the afternoon?"  
Simon glared at her. "Just give it a rest, okay?"  
"Oh, no, no," said Katrina. "I want to know what kind of job a man with a master's degree had."  
Simon sighed. "I got fired. I was doing customer support over the phone and lost my temper."  
Katrina laughed. "That must have been fun to watch. You're a lucky bastard, you know. I wish I could get a cushy job just by ramming someone's car."  
Simon rolled his eyes. "The Senator rammed me! And do you ever choke on all that acid dripping from your tongue?"  
"Not recently," said Katrina. She craned her head to one side. "What're you reading?"  
"Why?"  
"Just curious."  
Simon held up the book. "A translation of Cicero's treatise on oratory."  
Katrina snorted. "Sounds like interesting reading. That or a handbook for dentists."  
Simon chose to ignore her sarcasm. "Oh, it is."  
Katrina raised an eyebrow. "A handbook for dentists?"  
Simon shook his head. "Hardly. Oratory refers to the art of public speaking."  
Katrina swished her coffee and gave him a smug little smile. "I knew that."  
Simon made a show of opening the book. "Didn't you say you have work you wanted to do?"  
"I do," said Katrina, who did not move.  
Simon paged through the book until he found his bookmark. "Then why aren't you doing it?"  
"Who died and made you boss?" said Katrina. "If you really want to know, I'm waiting for that security weirdo to leave."  
Simon blinked. "Oh."  
Katrina grimaced and folded her arms. "Make all the fun you want, Mr. Speechwriter. I don't like those guys, and I don't want to be alone in the hallway with one of them. That's all." She shrugged. "This way, I'll have a witness if he does try something. Go ahead, laugh."  
"No, no." Simon shook his head. "I understand. Those guys are...well, there's something off about them." He thought of what his mother had said about Wycliffe and pushed the thought aside.  
"Yeah," said Katrina. "They look like the Senator hired them out of a maximum security prison. I hear he wants to use them as bodyguards."  
"They'll scare off troublemakers, that's for sure," said Simon.  
Katrina didn't say anything. She poured herself more coffee and sat down across from him.  
"Do you mind?" said Simon. "I'm trying to read."  
As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he regretted them. Katrina had admitted the guards frightened her, and he suspected she wasn't the sort of woman who liked to display any weakness.  
"You know what your problem is?" said Katrina.  
Simon sighed. "No, but I bet you're about to tell me."  
"That's your problem. You're too damn arrogant, strutting around with your degrees and old books. That's why you lost your old job, I'll bet." Simon felt his ears flush. "Sooner or later you're going to piss Senator Wycliffe off, and I hope I'm around to see it." She stood up and started to walk away.  
"Wait," said Simon. Katrina half-turned. "Maybe you're right. Not with all of it, but I shouldn't have said that."  
Katrina watched him.  
Simon spread his hands. "I'm sorry, okay?" He shook his head. "Next time, I'll just make my own coffee."  
Katrina laughed. "You do that, then. Save me a lot of trouble. All right. I accept the apology. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry I gave you a hard time. A lot of the Senator's employees have advanced degrees, and they like to show it off. Sometimes it's fun to take a blowhard down a notch or two."  
"And sometimes we blowhards deserve it," said Simon.  
She grinned. It was, he realized, the first time he had seen her with a genuine smile. "Sometimes." It made her look quite pretty.  
A daring notion took hold of Simon's mind, and before he could stop himself, he said, "You free tomorrow night?"  
She gave him an odd look. "Yes. Why?"  
Simon spread his hands. "By means of apology, I'd like to take you to dinner."  
Her odd look got odder. "Seriously?"  
Simon suddenly felt ridiculous. "Seriously. No...um...joke."  
Katrina laughed. "Alright. You're on, college boy. You'll pay, though."  
For a moment Simon thought it was a promise of revenge. Then he realized she only wanted him to pay for dinner. "Oh. Right, sure."  
"I'll be here until six or so tomorrow," said Katrina. "You can pick me up then." She scooped up her box and bundle of papers. "See you tomorrow." She walked into the hallway and vanished.  
Simon groaned and rubbed his hand over his eyes. "What the hell did I do that for?" He had not been on a date in six years. He had class work to do for Monday morning. He didn't have time for social activities. Besides, Katrina Coldridge was nothing like him. They would have no overlapping interests. She would probably spend the evening criticizing him. "Learn to keep your big mouth shut."

###

"A what?"  
Simon glared out his bedroom door. "You mind, Mom? I'm trying to get dressed." He held up a shirt to the mirror on his wall and squinted at it.  
Maura snorted, fidgeting with something in the pocket of her bathrobe. "Don't try the modesty speech with me, boy. I changed your diapers. You're going on a date?"  
Simon decided on the blue shirt. "Yes. You heard me right."  
"A date? It's been seven years since you had a date."  
Simon grimaced. "Six."  
Maura frowned. "No, I'm quite certain it was seven. Who was it? That Lydia girl, the one who moved to Milwaukee?"  
"Six years," said Simon. "There was one after that. She never met you." He reached into Maura's bathrobe pocket and plucked out a pack of cigarettes. "You said you were going to stop."  
She scowled and snatched the cigarettes. "I didn't say when."  
Simon pulled on the shirt and tucked it into his khaki pants. "I have to go. I don't have time to argue with you." He tried to grab the cigarettes back. Maura sidestepped with surprising ease. "You've got to stop that."  
"Where will you be going, boy?"  
"I don't know." Simon squinted into the mirror and combed his hair.  
"When will you be back?"  
"I don't know." Simon shoved the comb into his back pocket. "I'm twenty-six years old, Mom. You don't need to know where I am and what I'm doing every hour of every day."  
Maura folded her arms. "You're twenty-six years old and you still live under my roof, eating my food and using my electricity. I think I have a right to know, boy."  
"Fine." Simon looked at a bottle of cologne. Katrina would mock him if he used it.  
"What's so funny?" said Maura.  
"Nothing," said Simon. "I'm probably going to a restaurant. I don't know which one. After that we might go see a movie. I don't know what. Or we might do something else. I might be back by twelve, but I don't know for sure."  
"You don't seem to know an awful lot of things," said Maura. "What's this girl's name again?"  
"Katrina Coldridge, Mom," said Simon. He collected his wallet and keys from his dresser and shoved them into his pockets.  
"You don't seem to know a lot about her," said Maura.  
"No," Simon said. "I really don't." He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "Love you. Don't wait up for me, and don't smoke!" He walked past her and into the hall.  
"When will you be back? Tell me!" said Maura.  
Simon turned and grinned. "I'll tell you when you stop smoking."  
The look she gave him was positively baleful.  
Simon walked out the back door. The western sky burned with the summer sunset, but no doubt smog from Gary contributed to the sunset's splendor. He took a moment to look over the woods out back. The sunset cast deep black shadows over the tangled trees. Simon's mind drifted a bit. How old were those trees? They had survived amidst the crowds and pollution of Chicago. How long had they been here? For a moment he felt aware of the trees' great age, the way he did when he read an old Latin manuscript that had endured the centuries.  
A metallic sound echoed over the woods.  
Simon peered into the trees. He heard a sound like a ringing hammer and the murmur of low voices. Then the sounds vanished.  
He squinted into the trees and saw nothing.  
"Weird." Simon shook his head. He remembered Maura's complaint about sounds in the woods. Maybe there was a cave or something under the trees. That would explain why no one had ever built on the site. Or perhaps he had heard something echoing through the sewer pipe running under the driveway.  
It didn't matter. He had to pick up Katrina. She didn't seem the sort to tolerate tardiness.  
He walked to his van and grinned. The mechanics had done a good job of fixing the damage from the crash. Simon even had enough money left over to fix the air conditioner.  
It only took him about twenty-five minutes to drive to the South Side and the warehouse district. Simon drummed his fingers on the van's well-worn steering wheel. Perhaps he should find an apartment in the city or in the South Side. The commute sucked up an ungodly amount of time every day.  
Simon pulled through the intersection and onto the road lined by the abandoned warehouses, the walls of Wycliffe's complex coming into sight. Maybe he should find an apartment and move out. It was past time to get out from under his mother's thumb. Yet guilt tugged at Simon. He was the only family his mother had left.  
A long line of semis sat before the compound's gates, waiting to enter. Simon cursed and pulled to the curb opposite the compound and made sure to lock his doors. With luck, he could get Katrina and get back before someone stole his van.  
"Sir. Sir! A word, if I may?"  
A thin man in a ragged black uniform hobbled toward his van. He had feverish eyes in a pale face and an tangled, unkempt beard.  
The man looked like a drug junkie in withdrawal.  
"Listen," said Simon. "I don't have any money."  
The man blinked. "Money? I have money, yes. I will give it to you, if you do something for me." He had a peculiar accent, and his uniform had a weird symbol on the chest, a hand holding a burning eye.  
"I don't have any drugs," said Simon. "I'm not a dealer. I don't want trouble."  
"Drugs?" said the man. "I do not know what those are. And I, too, desire no trouble. I..." He darted a glance at the trucks pulling into Wycliffe's compound. "I wish a service of you. Transport me in your...vehicle, and I shall pay you money."  
Simon considered running for the compound. "Listen. I don't have time to take you anywhere."  
"Please," said the man. "I will pay you. Good money. I must go...purchase some food. I need some food. I am unfamiliar with your...country. I must have someone take me places."  
"Oh," said Simon. "You're an immigrant. Where are you from?"  
"Ah...I don't know," said the man.  
Simon felt dubious. "You don't know? Is this some sort of con?"  
"No...con," said the man. "I am from a foreign nation, yes. I just do not know what the word for my nation is in your tongue."  
"Right." Simon pointed. "Down that way about five blocks is a bus stop. Just wait there, feed your money into the driver's machine, and it'll take you where you want to go."  
The man blinked. "A bus?"  
"Yeah. You know. A bus." Simon pointed at his van. The man looked puzzled. "Like my van, only bigger. It's public transportation. You can pay the driver to take you places."  
"They will?" The man bowed. "Thank you, sir. I owe you a debt."  
Simon felt uncomfortable. "It's nothing. Take this." He peeled a ten dollar bill out of his wallet and pressed it into the thin man's hand. "Buy yourself something to eat, okay?"  
The man bowed again. "Thank you, sir." He limped away down the sidewalk, his left foot dragging.  
One met some strange people in Chicago.  
Simon crossed the street and went to the booth besides the gate. One of the new security men manned the booth. Like all the others, he wore a hooded motorcycle jacket, a long beard, and mirrored sunglasses. Had Senator Wycliffe hired a biker gang?  
"Hi," said Simon. "Big shipment coming in, eh?" The bearded face shifted to look at him, and Simon saw his reflection in the guard's sunglasses and felt a trickle of fear. "Um...I'd like to go in, please."  
"Name?" The guard's voice rumbled like a rolling boulder.  
"Simon Wester."  
"Reason for visit?"  
"Ah...I'm here to pick up Ms. Coldridge. Katrina Coldridge."  
The guard stared at nothing for a few moments. "ID?"  
"Oh." Simon pulled out his wallet. "Sure." He handed over the employee ID card he had received from Markham. The guard took the card and examined it.  
"Very well," said the guard. "You may enter."  
"Thanks." Simon hesitated. "Can I have my ID back?"  
The guard handed the card over. Simon hurried through the gate, trying to hide his relief and his fear. Why should he fear the guards? He did work here, after all. He had every right to be here.  
Yet all his assurances melted away every time one of those guards looked at him. There was something...wrong about them.  
Katrina stood before the door to the main office, a cigarette in her hand. She wore a black jacket and a short black skirt. She also wore high-heeled black leather boots. They displayed her legs quite well.  
Katrina dropped the cigarette and ground it out beneath her boot. "You're late."  
Simon jerked his head at the gate. "Traffic jam."  
Katrina shook her head. "On a Sunday night, too. None of those idiots know how to enter shipping information. So they do it over and over again. Tomorrow I'll come in and find the database server overloaded with improperly entered invoices." She tapped her belt. "Or they'll page me at three in the morning about it."  
"You know, it is Sunday night," said Simon. "You could think about something other than work."  
Katrina raised an eyebrow. "You're one to talk."  
"Well...but I enjoy my work. You just crab about it," said Simon. Katrina lit anther cigarette. "Don't..."

"What?" said Katrina. She took a long draw. "Going to give me an anti-smoking lecture?"  
"No, no," said Simon. The evening had gotten off to a marvelous start. "It's just...I've been trying to get my mother to quit." He shrugged. "Reflexive habit, I guess. I hide her cigarettes, and she goes out and gets more behind my back. We've been doing that for years."  
Katrina laughed, a puff of smoke rising from her mouth. "Really? My mom does the same thing, even though she smokes like a chimney herself. I came home from work once and she had flushed each and every one of my cigarettes down the toilet. I was so pissed. Now I have to take them with me to work." She shrugged. "She's right, though. I have to quit one of these days. It's too goddamned expensive."  
Simon leaned against the wall besides her. "So, where do you want to go?"  
"There's this little pizza parlor I know about," said Katrina. "My mom used to work there. It's pretty nice. Good garlic bread."  
Simon put his hands into his pockets. "I'd always heard garlic was a bad thing to eat on a date."  
Katrina tapped ash from her cigarette. "Don't flatter yourself. You're not getting lucky tonight."  
"It's been a while, but even I knew that," said Simon.  
"Really," said Katrina. "A while?"  
"I last went out...six years ago, I think," said Simon, and then regretted it. Probably a tactical error, admitting that.  
Katrina laughed, smoke puffing from her lips. "Six years? Six?"  
Simon grimaced. "You don't have to make such a production out of it."  
Katrina laughed. "Four years, myself." She shrugged. "I've been busy. Especially after I got out of school."  
"What kept you so busy?" said Simon.  
Katrina shrugged again. "Finding jobs. I'd decided I wasn't going to spend the rest of my life waiting tables full of drunk old guys. And I was sick of men." Her smile turned brittle. "Bad relationship, you see. So I moved back in with my mom and held down three part-time tech jobs until I got this one. Between that and everything else, I didn't have time to deal with the idiots who kept trying to get into my pants."  
"You live with your mom?" said Simon.  
She glared at him. "Yeah. You got a problem with that, college boy?"  
Simon spread his hands. "No. I live with my mother, too."  
Katrina laughed. "I thought so."  
"Why?" said Simon.  
"You seem like that type."  
Simon grimaced. "And what type is that?"  
"The type that still lives with his mother at thirty-five," said Katrina, grinning.  
Simon stepped away from the wall. "For your information, my mother is old and not in the best of health." He pointed at her cigarette. "All those cigarettes, you see. And my dad's been dead for ten years. She needs someone to live with her, and it may as well be me."  
"Same way with my mom," said Katrina. "Welcome to the 21st century, you know? It used to be that parents kicked their kids out into the world. Now the hard old world kicks out the kids and they go back to their parents."  
Simon thought of all the miserable jobs and difficulties he had battled in the few years of his adult life. "Amen."  
"Yeah. Eh. Hell." Katrina ground out her second cigarette. "You can stand here and philosophize if you like, college boy, but I want some food. Let's get going."  
Simon smiled. "I couldn't agree more."  
"Don't kiss my ass."  
Simon smirked. "Is that an offer..."  
"Don't even say it."

***
Chapter 7 - The Fall of Carlisan

Year of the Councils 963

Sir Luthar Belphon's head exploded in a spray of brains, blood, and twisted steel. He fell from the back of his charger and hit the paved street, his armor clattering.

"Luthar!" screamed Sir Arran Belphon. His horse galloped another thirty feet before he could stop. "Luthar!" He spun his horse around and thundered across the scorched ground to his fallen brother.

Another explosion shook the city, sending the smell of sulfur and burned flesh into the air.

Arran could not believe the devastation that surrounded him. Five years ago this had been the Royal Square of Carlisan, capital city of the greatest of the High Kingdoms. Five years ago the Temple of the True Gods had stood at one end of the Square, the high tower of the White Council at the other end, and the Scepteris Palace had towered like a mountain over the city. Five years ago the Knights and the White Council had broken the might of the Black Council. Lord Marugon, last of the Warlocks, had fled across the Crimson Plain and vanished into the Tower of Endless Worlds. The winged demons, the Black Council's allies, had been driven into the Wastes.

Peace had reigned.

Now the Square stood in ruin, the high tower of the White Council smashed, the Temple a heap of rubble, and the Scepteris Palace in flames. Men bearing guns, hell-machines that spat burning death, had slaughtered the Wizards of the White Council. The winged demons had swarmed out of the Wastes, armed with more of the infernal guns. Marugon himself had returned from some distant world, bringing hell-forged war machines of terrible power. And now Carlisan stood in ruins, its white walls and towers smashed by Marugon's guns.

Much had changed in five years.

In his twenty years, Arran had never seen such horrors.

A man in the black uniform of Marugon's gunmen stepped out from behind a heap of rubble. A long black gun, the kind the gunmen called a Kalashnikov, rested in his hands. He grinned down at Luthar, gloating over his kill.

With a cry of rage Arran spurred his horse forward, his shield raised, and drew his Sacred Blade. An aura of blue power flashed around the razor-sharp steel.

The soldier spun, contempt flashing across his unshaven face. He raised his weapon and fired. The first salvo shredded Arran's shield, blasting it to wooden kindling. Arran jerked the reins to the side. The second salvo shot past his shoulder, the bullets brushing against his shoulder plates.

The gunman aimed for a third salvo, but by then it was too late for him. Arran's Sacred Blade flashed down in a blaze of blue flame and took off the gunman's hands. The soldier screamed, staggering, and Arran whipped his sword around and decapitated the gunman.

His brother remained motionless, blood spreading beneath him.

"Luthar!" said Arran. He dropped his ruined shield, slid from his saddle, and ran to his brother's side. "Luthar!"

Luthar's face, its lean, dark-eyed features so similar to Arran's, gazed up in a mask of astonishment. The bullet had shredded the back of his skull, driving the shards of his helm into his head. Blood pooled on the paving stones beneath his ruined helm. Luthar's Sacred Blade, its blue glow extinguished, lay besides his body.

"Luthar," whispered Arran. A sob choked out the rest of his words.

Arran took his Sacred Blade in both hands and stood. He would stand over his fallen brother, stand until Marugon's soldiers and their accursed guns swarmed over the city's ruins. He would raise a ring of fallen enemies until the hated bullets shredded his flesh...

"Sir Arran!"

Arran blinked through his tears. "Sir Liam?"

A Knight on a black horse galloped towards Arran, his gleaming armor coated by ash and blood. The hilts of two Sacred Blades rose over his shoulders. The Knight reined up, staring down at Arran with hard gray eyes.

"Sir Arran," said Sir Liam Mastere, the only Knight who could wield two Sacred Blades in battle. "You must come with me."

"Luthar's dead!" said Arran.

"I know," said Liam, his voice tired. "I'm sorry, Sir Arran, but you must come with me."

Arran shook his head. Another explosion rumbled through the city. "No. I can't leave him. I'll avenge him."

"You must ride with me at once," said Liam.

"No!" said Arran. "I will not leave my brother! I will fight here until..."

Liam slapped Arran across the face with an armored gauntlet. "Come to your senses, young Knight! Your brother is dead! You are not. Will you stand here and die, or will you yet do some service to your King and your Order?"

"What?" said Arran, his jaw stinging.

"Prince Lithon Scepteris yet lives," said Sir Liam. "He and his older sister, the Princess Anna, wait at the western gate with an escort of Knights. It is the King's wish that we escort them from the city at once."

Arran bristled. "Then we are to run from a battle?"

"The battle is lost!" said Liam, his face darkening. "The city is lost, the High Kingdoms are lost, and I fear the world is lost! But we yet have a chance to save something." He clenched a fist. "Master Alastarius made a Prophecy before Marugon killed him. He said that if Prince Lithon were saved, then not all would be lost. I need your help, Arran. I cannot get Lithon out of the city by myself."

"Alastarius?" Arran remembered the old Wizard, the Master of the White Council. Among all the Wizards, only Alastarius had possessed the gift of Prophecy. "He...he said that?"

Sir Liam nodded. "Throw your life away if you wish, but decide quickly. I do not have long to tarry."

Gunfire echoed through the streets, followed by a chorus of screams. Arran looked down at his brother's body. "I'll come."

"Good man," said Liam. "Hurry!"

Arran paused and took up Luthar's Sacred Blade. He could not wield it, of course – all Knights, save for Sir Liam, could only wield one Sacred Blade at a time. Yet Arran did not want to leave his brother's sword for Marugon's accursed gunmen.

"Hurry," said Sir Liam as Arran climbed into his saddle. "The way to the western gate is clear, but not for long."

Arran nodded and put spurs to his horse.

They galloped through the streets of Carlisan. Fires raged in most of the houses, and bullet holes riddled their walls. Heaps of corpses lay at the corners, blood seeping from their wounds. The survivors staggered back and forth, their faces dazed and stunned. One bloody woman, her clothes brunt and ragged, knelt in the street and tried to bury herself. Another explosion rocked the city, and chunks of flaming rubble rained around them. Arran winced and raised an armored hand to cover his face, pebbles and shards of burning wood bouncing off his breastplate. He heard a long salvo of gunfire, followed by a cacophony of agonized screams.

Arran gritted his teeth and followed Liam.

The wreckage of the western gate loomed before them. The doors had been thrown down and smashed, flames dancing over their ruined timbers. Corpses lay strewn across the ground. The sickly stench of burned flesh hung over the square, over all Carlisan, like a funeral shroud.

Sixty Knights, battered and sooty, sat atop their chargers. Arran's heart sunk. Five years ago there had been five thousand Knights to defend the High Kingdoms against the Warlocks and winged demons. Now Sir Liam could only find sixty to guard the Crown Prince of Carlisan?

A young woman sat atop a gray palfrey, a wailing toddler cradled in her arms. Arran recognized Princess Anna and her younger brother Crown Prince Lithon. When Arran had seen Anna last, she had looked radiant and majestic in her gown and jewels. Now she seemed just another huddled refugee slumped over her horse.

"Knights!" said Sir Liam, reining in his horse. "The King has commanded that we conduct his heir from the city with all speed."

"So, we are to run from our foes, then?" said a Knight with a blood-crusted helm and breastplate.

"It pains me," said Liam, "but we have no other choice. The King has commanded..."

A deafening thunderclap drowned out Liam's words. The ground bucked and heaved, and Arran struggled to keep his horse under control. Anna's palfrey whinnied, and two Knights rushed to her and the toddler's side. Arran spun his horse around and gazed towards the heart of the city. A huge ball of flame and smoke rose from where the Scepteris Palace had stood. Even at this distance, Arran could feel the fireball's heat.

He wondered if Lord Marugon had brought the end of the world.

"My brothers," said Liam, voice shaking. "I suspect that Crown Prince Lithon is now King Lithon." Anna stifled a sob. "We must take the King and his sister to safety. Who will ride with me?"

"I will!" said Arran, lifting his Sacred Blade. The other Knights took up the cry. The glow of sixty Sacred Blades outshone the burning light of the Scepteris Palace's ruin.

Sir Liam put spurs to his horse. The other Knights followed him, Anna secure in their midst. They galloped through the ruined gate and into the scorched farmlands surrounding Carlisan's battered wall. The horses' hooves kicked up puffs of gray ash.

"To the west!" said Sir Liam, pointing with his glowing swords. Marugon and his hell-machines had come from the west.

For the first time, Arran wondered where Sir Liam planned to take the young King.

They thundered down the western road. Carlisan burned in its death throes behind them. Torn and blasted corpses littered the countryside, once the mighty armies of Carlisan. Five hundred of Marugon's men armed with the Kalashnikovs had slaughtered a hundred thousand swordsmen, pikemen, and archers. Clouds of black smoke drifted over the battlefield, some of it rising from burning corpses.

"Ahead!" said Sir Liam. "Prepare..."

Gunfire ripped down the road. Four Knights fell from the saddle, blood bursting from their torn armor.

Arran wheeled his horse around. A dozen of Marugon's soldiers blocked the road, Kalashnikovs in their hands.

"Charge!" said Sir Liam. "Ride them down!" Three more Knights died, bullets shredding their bodies. Screams of agony, the thunder of the guns, and the shriek of tearing metal filled the air.

"For the King!" screamed a Knight, a moment before a bullet pierced his helm.

Arran spurred his mount forward, his Sacred Blade flashing. The Knights gave a great cry and charged. Anna and the child, caught in their midst, rode with them.

The gunmen shifted their aim and began mowing down the Knights. Arran gritted his teeth and tried to control his skittish mount. A horse screamed and died as bullets thudded into its body. Arran wondered if they would all die before they could reach the gunmen.

The gunmen ceased fire. They dug through their belts, pulling out small black boxes and jamming them into the guns.

"They are out of bullets!" said Sir Liam. "Quickly, before they reload!"

The surviving Knights thundered at the gunmen. Arran began to mutter the oath of the Knight of the Sacred Blade. "A Knight protects the King. A Knight fights against treachery and fends off injustice. A Knight sheds blood for his brothers..."

The gunmen snapped their weapons back up and fired.

Princess Anna's chest disintegrated. Her horse screamed and reared back, and a salvo of bullets thudded into the horse's flanks. The animal teetered and began to fall, King Lithon clutched in the arms of his dead sister.

"No!" said Arran. He leapt from his saddle and snatched the King from Anna's arms. The horse gave a final scream and fell. Arran jumped back from the dying animal, clutching the King to his armored chest with his free hand.

A black-uniformed soldier stepped forward, weapon raised. Arran spun, his Sacred Blade flashing in a sapphire blur. He cut the gun in half with a spray of sparks. The gunman snarled an oath and yanked a Glock from his belt. But before he could raise the weapon Arran drove his blade through the gunman's throat.

He spun around, looking for new enemies.

None of the gunmen remained standing. Arran lowered his sword, his breath burning in his throat. Dead men and horses carpeted across the road. Of the sixty Knights that had ridden out with Liam Mastere, only thirty remained standing.

"Sir Arran!" Sir Liam galloped over, Sacred Blades covered in blood. "The King! Is he..."

Arran looked down at the screaming toddler. "He's alive."

"Thank the gods," said Sir Liam.

"But Princess Anna is dead," said Arran.

Sir Liam looked at the Princess, crushed beneath the body of her horse. A spasm crossed the old Knight's face. "Damnation," he whispered. "Damn them all, Arran."

Arran managed a nod. "Sir Liam." The old Knight gazed down at the Princess's corpse. "Sir Liam, we must hurry."

Sir Liam glanced up, blinking. "Yes...yes, you're right. Here, I shall take the King."

Arran handed King Lithon over to Sir Liam and climbed back into the saddle.

###

"I need to know something," said Arran.

Grime and soot smeared Liam's lean face. The King hung in a harness across the old Knight's armored back, similar to the baskets the peasants of the mountains of Rindl used for their children. The King slept, his little hands clenching. Rolling hills stood over the road, peaceful despite the tumults of war.

"Yes?" said Sir Liam.

"Where are we going?" said Arran.

They had ridden eight hundred miles in the last three weeks, across the breadth of the war-torn High Kingdoms. Arran thought it a miracle that the bouncing of their desperate ride hadn't shaken the young King to death. They had ridden past ruined cities, their walls and towers ablaze, past small hamlets filled with bullet-ridden corpses. Of the thirty Knights that had escaped the ruin of Carlisan only nine remained. Once the Knights had been the finest warriors in all the High Kingdoms, able to master any foe. Now any unshaven peasant with a gun could kill dozens. It was a truth too hard to face.

More than one Knight had fallen on his Sacred Blade in the dark of the night.

"To take the King to a safe place," said Sir Liam.

"And where would that be?" said Arran. Liam tried to ride away, but Arran spurred his horse and caught up to the older Knight. "Just where would be safe, Sir Liam? Marugon's men are everywhere. His guns are everywhere. The winged demons are everywhere, flying through the sky or slouching in the disguise of real men. Just where is safe?"

"You will have to trust me," said Liam.

"No," said Arran. Liam spun, anger flashing in his eyes. "This has cost too much. I need to know where we are going, or else I cannot go on at all."

Liam stared at him for a long moment, and then finally nodded. "Very well. We are going to the Crimson Plain."

Arran blinked. "Why? The Crimson Plain is at the edge of the world. What is there? Are we to run so far that even the winged demons cannot find us?"

"No," said Liam. "Arran...the Tower of Endless Worlds stands in the Crimson Plain."

Arran's hands tightened against his reins. "What? That is a cursed place. Marugon's guns came from the Tower. And the Crimson Plain is a haunt for ghouls and devils. Why are we taking the King there? There is nothing there but death."

"Because," said Liam, his voice a rasp. "Because I plan to take the King through the Tower and to Earth."

Arran's temper flared. "Earth? Why would you take the King to such a hellish place? Marugon went there, Sir Liam Mastere, and he returned with guns and liquid flame and the other hell-machines! Have you betrayed us to our enemies?"

Sir Liam's hands twitched towards the hilts of his Sacred Blades. "No! I have given everything to the cause of the King."

"I lost my brother!" said Arran.

"I lost as much as you!" said Liam, his voice rising to a shout.

They glared at each other for a long moment.

Liam calmed. "Think, young Knight. I told you of the Prophecy of Alastarius, did I not?"

Arran managed a nod.

"Alastarius Prophesied that this boy, Lithon Scepteris, could save our world from Marugon." Liam sighed. "Alastarius told me this moments before Goth-Mar-Dan, the king of the winged demons, killed him."

"How do you know this?" said Arran. "Alastarius disappeared before the fall of Carlisan."

"I was at Castle Bastion when it fell. I saw Alastarius betrayed. I saw Goth-Mar-Dan kill him," said Liam, his face stony. "But Alastarius made one more Prophecy before Goth-Mar-Dan tore out his heart. Alastarius said he would return from the grave, that Lithon would find a way to bring him back. Alastarius was the greatest of the White Council. He could have defeated Marugon, if not for the betrayal. But if Lithon does not live, then Alastarius cannot return, and our world is..."

"I understand that!" said Arran. "But why are we taking the King to the hell that is this other world, this Earth?"

"Because," said Liam. "Marugon heard the Prophecy as well. Once he learns that Lithon lives, he will look for the King. But Marugon will never think to look for the King on Earth. He will scour our world from one end to another...but he will not find the King."

Arran sagged. "But how are we to keep the King safe on Earth? We have seen the horrors of the guns. What other nightmares might this world have produced?"

"Many," said Liam. He paused. "But I do not think it is a world entirely of horrors, Arran. Marugon's gunmen have more than guns. They have meat that is free of disease and keeps for years. They have cloaks and mantles of strange cloth, light as silk, yet warm as the heaviest fur. And they have medicines that fight putrefied wounds and deadly plagues. I think these things came through the Tower, as well. Perhaps there are wonders on Earth to match the horrors, Arran. We will find a way to keep the King safe there."

"Maybe," said Arran. "But the Crimson Plain is two thousand miles from Carlisan, on the other side of the nations. We have not even covered a third of that distance, and there are only eleven of us left. How are we to get the King to the Tower of Endless Worlds, let alone take him to Earth?"

"We shall find a way," said Liam. "The true gods will protect us."

"They have protected us so well already, after all," said Arran.

Liam glared. "Our cause is just. We will find a way."

"We should make a way," said Arran.

Liam's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

Arran licked his lips. "Marugon's gunmen have destroyed half our world with their weapons. Our Sacred Blades cannot stand against the power of the guns! If..."

Liam's countenance hardened. "Do not say it!"

"If we take up the guns, kill a few of the gunmen and claim their weapons, perhaps we can turn the tide!" said Arran. "The gunmen are untrained peasant louts. Think of what a trained and anointed Knight could do with guns in hand. Sir Liam, we could..."

"No!" The King started to cry. A few of the other Knights glanced their way.

"But..." said Arran.

"No!" Liam chopped an armored hand through the air. "No! Do not think of it, do not consider it! Those guns are wicked things, a dark power that destroys and ravages! They are too powerful for mortal hands to wield. You have seen the wanton slaughter. Look at the corruption they have brought to Marugon's soldiers. Look at the destruction they have rained upon the nations! I beg of you, Arran, speak not again of using a gun. The temptation will gnaw at your mind until it destroys you, until you become as wretched and evil as Marugon himself."

"But we need a way to fight back!" said Arran. "Our swords are useless against their guns."

"So be it," said Liam. "I would die with the hilt of a Sacred Blade in my fingers, rather than the greasy handle of a smoking gun."

"Even at the cost of the King's life?" said Arran.

The two Knights stared at each other. At last Sir Liam flicked his reins and started his horse forward. "If you take up a gun, Arran, I will kill you myself."

Arran fell silent.

***
Chapter 8 - The Winged Shadow

Anno Domini 2002  
"Good afternoon, Mr. Wester." Markham sat in one of the lounge chairs, a cup of coffee in his hand.  
"A good afternoon to you," said Simon, humming to himself. He crossed to the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee. "A lovely day, isn't it?"  
"It really is." Markham took a sip from his mug. "You seem unusually chipper today."  
Simon snorted. "Are you saying I'm usually cranky?"  
Markham grinned. "You're crankier than my first ex-wife."  
Simon blinked. "Oh."  
Markham laughed. "You are too serious for a young man. Enjoy yourself a bit more. I tell the same to Ms. Coldridge. She never listens, though."  
"Um." Simon's date had gone quite well last night. He had found very few people who could match insults with him. Katrina Coldridge was tough and smart. Simon found himself liking her, even if he was a bit afraid of her. "She doesn't seem the type to relax."  
Markham winked. "Not that you would know, though. Right?"  
"Um. Right."  
"The Senator wants to see you in a few minutes," said Markham. "Something about a speech. You can wait outside his office." He winked. "Or in Ms. Coldridge's office."  
Simon set the coffee mug back on the counter. "Um. I think I'll wait outside the Senator's office."  
Markham grinned. "Have a good day, Mr. Wester."  
Simon managed to nod. He hadn't considered the office gossip his date with Katrina might cause. On the other hand, Markham seemed the sort to tease everyone.  
He put the matter out of his mind and walked down the little hallway to Wycliffe's office. Three chairs and a small end table sat across from the door. Simon sat down and stared at the wall.  
He did feel good, despite Markham's teasing. Perhaps he should relax a bit more often. He had spent the last few years working like a madman, going weeks without talking to anyone but his mother, his teachers, and his advisor Dr. Francis. That couldn't have been good for him.  
Simon snorted. He could relax after he finished his dissertation. Speaking of which, he had reading to do for his classes. Might as well put the time waiting for Wycliffe to good use. He cracked open his briefcase and pulled out a book.  
White light flashed under Wycliffe's door.  
Simon blinked. He had to get more sleep. His eyes were starting to go.  
The light flashed again.  
Simon lowered his book and shrugged. Maybe Wycliffe had a campaign contributor in there and was taking pictures.  
Except Wycliffe didn't have campaign contributors. He paid for everything himself.  
The light flashed again, brighter than before, and Simon thought he heard a muffled curse through the door. The hair on his neck stood up. Wycliffe had just increased security. Did that mean someone was in there right now, trying to harm the Senator?  
Simon stood up. Perhaps he should go get Markham, or find security, but the thought of dealing with the bearded thugs chilled him. Simon dithered for a moment, then decided to knock.  
He stepped forward and raised his hand.  
He heard Wycliffe's voice through the door. "I ask you again. Tell me! How did you come here?" An odd groan leaked through the door, like plastic rubbing against plastic. Again came a flash of white light, and Wycliffe's voice rose in resonance and intensity. "Tell me!" The door shuddered and the light flashed. "Tell me now, I command it, how did you come here?" The light flashed, so bright it cast shadows against the wall.  
What was going on in there?  
A low voice rumbled. "Can you not compel him?"  
"No," said Wycliffe. "The protections surrounding his spirit are too strong. Lord Marugon might be able to breach them. I cannot. I have not the necessary skill with the Voice."  
"He must be told of this," said the rumbling voice.  
"We will, in time," said Wycliffe. "Marugon currently is occupied with the conquest of Carlisan. He has been out of touch for several months, and I expect him to remain out of touch for several more. Besides, this is not urgent." He laughed. "This fellow has some skill, apparently sufficient to repel my Voice, but not enough to threaten me, and certainly not enough to threaten Marugon."  
"Nevertheless, he is a danger," said the deep voice. "Lord Marugon must be told."  
"You're likely right," said Wycliffe. "Very well. Keep him confined for now. We'll hand him over to Marugon once he returns."  
"As you wish," said the rumbling voice. Simon heard the sound of a fist striking flesh. "Up!"  
Simon spun and dropped back into the chair. He grabbed his book and raised it just as the door opened.  
Two of the slouching security men appeared, holding a man in a black uniform by the arms. It was the strange man Simon had seen yesterday, the man he had given ten dollars. The ragged man gave Simon a stricken look, and then the security thugs hustled him down the hall, their heavy leather jackets creaking. Simon watched them go, a dozen questions churning in his mind.  
Senator Wycliffe stepped out into the hall, hands in his suit coat pockets. His gaze fell on Simon, and his eyes narrowed behind his thick glasses.  
"Um...Senator," said Simon. Fear tugged at his gut. "You wanted to see me. About the speech?"  
"Oh. Of course," said Wycliffe. "Sorry for the delay."  
"Ah...what was that all about?" said Simon.  
Wycliffe sighed. "A spy, believe it or not."  
Simon blinked. "A spy? You're kidding."  
"I wish I were," said Wycliffe. "A spy for the Green Party. It seems they dislike my stance on developing Alaska's oil resources, and so sent that enthusiastic young fellow to rifle through my desk. Fortunately, he was caught, and the security men are escorting him from the premises."  
"Oh," said Simon.  
Wycliffe grinned. "A good thing I hired the new security firm, eh? Their methods are a little unorthodox, I'll agree, but they're remarkably effective."  
"Which firm, sir? I don't think I've ever heard of them before," said Simon.  
"Oh? Goth Marson Private Security, out of Springfield. You'll have to meet Goth sometime. He's really a remarkable fellow. Well! Sorry to bore you with my problems."  
Simon shook his head. He hoped he looked calm. "No, not at all."  
"Well, come inside. Let's talk." Simon followed Wycliffe into the office. Wycliffe sat in his desk chair and grinned. "Sit, sit! I'm not going to keep you standing."  
Simon sat and rifled through his briefcase. "Ah...here's the speech, sir."  
Wycliffe took the speech. "Short. Good. Brevity..."  
"...is the very soul of good writing," said Simon. "Dr. Francis always says the same thing."  
"Wise woman," said Wycliffe. He paged through the speech, chuckling from time to time. Simon sat and sweated Until Wycliffe tossed the speech onto his desk. "Not bad, Mr. Wester. Not bad at all."  
"Thank you, sir," said Simon.  
Wycliffe leaned back in his chair. "I'm having a press conference tomorrow at ten. I'll need you there, of course."  
Simon nodded. "I'll be there."  
"Mmm." Wycliffe nodded. "Very good. I'm glad you came to work for me, Mr. Wester. I have great things in mind for the future, great things, and you've gotten in on the ground floor."  
Simon felt a bit uncomfortable. "Thank you."  
Wycliffe waved a hand. "Well, I've work to attend to, and I've no doubt you do as well. I'll see you later, Mr. Wester."  
Simon nodded and went back into the lobby. He turned the corner, went to his office, and sat down to work. Yet he could not concentrate. What had he overheard in Wycliffe's office? The face of the thin man, with the haunted eyes and spade-shaped beard, kept reappearing in his thoughts. Simon tried to focus on his current project, a list of radio stations that had agreed to run ads for Senator Wycliffe's programs. Yet he could not focus.  
Simon slapped the desk. "It's none of my business!"  
"What business?"  
Simon almost jumped out of his chair. Katrina stood in the door, leaning against the frame. She grinned. "Did I scare you?"  
"What...um, no, not at all," said Simon.  
Katrina snorted. "Bullshit. You just about had a heart attack. Admit it."  
"Fine, fine," said Simon. "You startled me. Happy?"  
She dropped into his guest chair. "What's eating you?"  
"Nothing," said Simon. "It's..."  
"Well? Out with it," said Katrina.  
Simon glared at her. "Imperious, aren't we?"  
She scooted the chair closer and put her feet up on his desk. "Always have been."  
Simon looked at her high-heeled boots and snorted. "Infuriating woman."  
She titled her head to the side. "Now that's a compliment, you know."  
"It..." Simon shook his head and laughed. "Fine. You win. What can I do for you?"  
Katrina raised an eyebrow. "I can't even stop by to say hello?"  
Simon waved his hand. "Hello."  
"That's better," said Katrina. "What is eating you? You look like you just saw a goddamn ghost."  
Simon shrugged. "Maybe I did. Two of the slouching security people grabbed some guy. Senator Wycliffe said he was a spy from the Green Party. But he..."  
"What is it?" said Katrina.  
"I saw him yesterday when I came to pick you up," said Simon. "He seemed...confused. Lost. Like an immigrant who'd just arrived in the country and could only speak bad English. He asked me for a ride, and I told him about the bus stops. It was like he had never heard of a bus before."  
Katrina shrugged. "Maybe it was all an act."  
"I don't know. He seemed sincere," said Simon.  
"Maybe he picked you as a mark," said Katrina. "You are sort of gullible."  
Simon glared at her. "Gullible enough to take you out for dinner?"  
Katrina grinned. "Not bad, college boy. Speaking of which, my mom's going to see a movie tomorrow night with a bunch of her friends. I have nothing to do. Want to go to dinner again?"  
"Oh, so I'm better than nothing?" said Simon.  
Katrina smirked. "It's good to see you have a healthy self-image."  
"Pop psychology," said Simon. "Fine! I know a nice little restaurant a couple miles from here. We'll go there?"  
"Sure. Give me directions and I'll meet you."  
Simon scrawled down a map and handed it to her. He watched as she read it. "What, nothing to criticize? Not even my handwriting?"  
"That could use some improvement," said Katrina. She smiled, stood up, and tucked the map into a jacket pocket. "See you at five."  
Simon watched her go and looked away with a grimace when he found himself ogling her backside. "What have I gotten myself into?"

###

Two weeks later he stood before the door to the apartment Katrina shared with her mother.  
"I still think it's a waste of time," said Simon.  
Katrina snorted. She looked caught between amusement and exasperation. "Says you. What good is reading poetry by some guy a thousand years dead?"  
"Two thousand," said Simon, fingering the textbook under his arm. "We've been over this before."  
"Pardon me. Two thousand, then," said Katrina. "Still think it's a waste of time."  
He pointed at the adventure novel she had been reading during lunch. "That's the waste of time, I'd say. Popular trash. Why not read something more meaningful? I mean, you're smarter than you pretend to be."  
Katrina's eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean, college boy?"  
"Um." Simon felt his foot in his mouth. "Well...you've got this image..."  
"You're calling me stupid," said Katrina.  
"No!" said Simon. "You've act like...you know, the 'tough working girl from Chicago'. You cultivate that, I think. And...you're smarter than that. I mean, you don't spend all your time watching TV and playing pinball games over the Internet. You do read, even if it's stuff like..."  
Katrina rolled her eyes. "I get your point already. God, you can be such a snob."  
Simon blinked. "Now, what's that supposed to mean?"  
Katrina smirked. "Turnabout's fair play, eh? I'll tell you. You think anyone who didn't go to college has to be stupid."  
"I don't think that," said Simon, crossing his arms. "It just happens to be true, most of the time."  
"That so? You know what? I went to college for a semester."  
Simon frowned. "Really. Where?"  
"University of Constantina. Waste of time, I'll tell you. Stupidest classes ever. 'Intro To American Literature'. The professor was a blowhole. My God, I've never been so bored in my life. I spent most my time drinking and smoking."  
"Oh," said Simon. "So you flunked out, then?"  
"I did not!" said Katrina. "I got a B average. But it was a waste of time. What good did knowing about some dead guys do me? Nothing, not a thing in the real world when the rent's due and you need to buy food."  
"It's..." Simon groped for words. They had already gone over a dozen variants of the same discussion on their dates. "It's not about applicability. It's about wanting to...to know, and a quest for knowledge..."  
"I'd rather quest for rent money," said Katrina.  
The door swung open, and Simon jumped. An obese elderly woman in a floral-print dress stood in the doorway. Her face looked like white dough, and stringy hair hung down the sides of her face. A cigarette smoldered between her lips.  
"Katrina. You can come in, you know." The old woman blinked a few times, her watery eyes focusing on Simon. "Well. So you're the young man Katrina's been spending so much time with."  
"Um." Simon tried to think of something to say. He stuck out his hand. "Simon Wester, ma'am."  
She ignored him. "He looks like a pencil neck, Katrina. You can do better."  
"Mother," said Katrina. "You're not being polite."  
Katrina's mother stepped towards Simon. "You give my daughter any grief, and I'll break your neck. Understand?"  
Simon bobbed his head. "Yes, ma'am."  
"Katrina, come in after you're finished with him. It's getting late. The crazies will come out." The old woman turned, lumbered back into the apartment, and slammed the door shut.  
"Charming woman," said Simon. He winced at the slip of his tongue.  
"She's...a little protective," said Katrina. "I've had some bad relationships. And some very bad boyfriends. Sorry if she startled you. She can be cranky."  
Simon blinked. "Um...no problem. She doesn't look like she's feeling too well."  
Katrina shook her head, a hint of strain passing over her face. "She's overweight and has high blood pressure. And she smokes. Yes, I know that's bad. You keep reminding me." She looked at the door. "It's late. I want to turn in. Anyway, thanks for dinner."  
"No problem," said Simon. "Wednesday, like we said?"  
Katrina nodded. "Wednesday, for lunch. We can argue some more."  
"I'd like that," said Simon. An urge came over him, and he leaned forward.  
Katrina took a step back. "What, you want a kiss?"  
Simon froze. "We have been going out for two weeks, you know."  
Katrina didn't move. "Most guys would have tried to get into my pants by now."  
"That doesn't seem very moral," said Simon.  
Katrina laughed. "Moral? What, are you religious?"  
"My father was a preacher. And I'm not most guys."  
Katrina frowned. "No. I suppose you're not. Maybe that's why you're such an insufferable ass." She leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. Simon almost fell over in surprise. "Good night."  
Simon stared at the close door. She had tasted like cigarette smoke.  
Nevertheless, he felt better than he had in years.  
He started down the staircase to the parking lot, his thoughts whirling in a confusing jumble. He had been spending a lot of time with Katrina in the last few weeks. Had it taken too much time from his studies? He had spent most of the last few years immersed in his academic efforts. Maybe he should break things off with Katrina and return his focus to his work.  
Simon shook his head, trying to clear it. He stood to the side as a black man with a pair of bulging grocery bags headed up the stairs.  
He did not want to break things off with Katrina. She irritated him, annoyed him, and sometimes exasperated him. Yet he found himself respecting her, and liking her a great deal. She had not said a lot about her past, but he had gathered that she had been through quite a bit, most of it unpleasant. She had persevered, had made something of herself. So far he had made more of her life than he had with his.  
He walked out the building's front door and gasped at the heat. Chicago sweltered in August, even during the night. A thousand bugs danced around the front light, and mosquitoes buzzed around Simon's ears. He swatted them away with a curse and started walking.  
A short walk took him to the parking lot behind the building, It had no lights, but Katrina only lived a half mile from Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping's warehouse compound, and its light cast a dim glow over the lot. Simon took a moment to look over the lot, checking the shadows for any muggers. This was not one of Chicago's better neighborhoods. He wondered how Katrina could stand to walk home from work every day. The woman had nerves of iron.  
Fortunately, the lot was deserted, and no one had touched Simon's van. He yawned and started toward it.  
A foot scraped behind him.  
Simon whirled, his hands coming up.  
"Sir, I beseech you..."  
Simon blinked, his hands falling to his sides. The ragged man in the black uniform Simon had last seen with the security thugs leaned against the back of the apartment building. He looked terrible. Blood caked his chin and the side of his neck, and his eyes glittered with a feverish gleam.  
"Sir." The thin man's voice croaked. "I beg of you, lend me aid."  
Simon spread his hands and stepped back. "Listen. I don't want any trouble. I know you broke into Senator Wycliffe's compound."  
The man in the black uniform laughed. "I was trying to get away. I have been trying to get away from that cursed place for weeks. They captured me and brought me back when you saw me."  
"What?" Why would Senator Wycliffe kidnap anyone? "But...you're a spy, a spy from the Green Party. Why would they want to bring you back..."  
"I beg you, aid me," said the thin man, his voice dropping to a whisper. He staggered forward, his face glistening with sweat and blood. "For two weeks they held me captive in that dreadful place. The winged ones practiced their tortures on me. And that death-merchant, that miserable agent of Marugon's...he worked his arts on me. His voice sliced into my mind."  
Simon swallowed. "Listen, buddy, something's wrong with you. We better get you to a doctor." He decided to leave the madman here, go back to Katrina's apartment, and call 911.  
The man clutched at Simon's shoulder. "Please! I beg you! You must use your carriage...your car, your automobile, to take me from this place. It is vital. They...they will find me..."  
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," said Simon, disentangling himself from the thin man's pawing hands. "I'm not taking you anywhere. I'll call an ambulance, get you to the hospital, whatever. But you look nuts. I'm not letting you get in my van..."  
Despair crossed the man's face. "You don't understand..."  
He went rigid.  
"What is it?" said Simon, looking around.  
The thin man's face fixed into a mask of dread. "Get down!" He spun and dashed behind the dumpster.  
Simon stared at him. "What..."  
He heard a rush of air.  
Simon turned and almost screamed.  
Something flew overhead, outlined in the dim glare of the distant floodlights. It swooped and perched atop Katrina's apartment building. The creature looked like a mixture of a huge, winged man and a leering gargoyle. It wore dark, sooty armor of interlocking metal plates. Iron-clawed hands jutted from its fingers, and huge leathery wings rose from its back. The creature had a bone-white face with burning red eyes, yellow fangs curving over its lips.  
Simon threw himself behind the dumpster. The thin man sat with his eyes closed, his face locked in mask of concentration, his lips working. His fingers traced odd patterns in the grime coating the dumpster.  
Simon risked a glance up and almost screamed when the winged thing's fiery gaze turned towards him. The sight of that creature made Simon want to crawl into a dark place and never come out again.  
The winged shadow jumped from the roof and rose, its leathery wings flapping against the air. It soared into the darkness and vanished. Simon let out long breath.  
He looked at the man in the black uniform. "What...what was that?"  
Sweat covered the thin man's face. "My spell worked. I did not think I had the skill. But I was able to deflect its gaze. It did not see me. Or you, for that matter. You hid at the right time."  
"What's going on? What was that? Who are you?"  
"I..." The man licked his cracked lips. "You may call me Conmager. Questions will wait. We must flee now!" Conmager grabbed Simon's shoulder. His haunted, feverish eyes glittered. "Do you not understand why?"  
"What about Kat..." He did not want to give Katrina's name to Conmager. "What about the people in that building?"  
"The winged demon will ignore them," said Conmager. "It hunts for me, not them. But we must go now!"  
Simon didn't argue. They got into the van, and he drove for home as fast as he could.

***
Chapter 9 - The Cover Story

**Anno Domini 2002  
**

Simon yawned and climbed the stairs to the faculty offices. Bright sunlight streamed through the windows, gleaming off the tiles and the metal railings.

"Hey, man."

Simon whirled, his heart climbing into his throat. For an instant he expected to see the winged creature standing behind him, fires burning in its eyes, iron claws reaching for his face...

Instead he saw Rod, the pimpled student worker who cleaned the stairwells. He had taken one of Simon's Intro to Western Civilization classes. "Oh. Hi. You startled me."

Rod grinned. "You look like crap, Instructor."

Simon laughed, his voice brittle. "Then I'm improving."

Rod grinned again. "Man. You really need to get some sleep."

Simon forced a smile. "It's the truth. Take it easy."

"Will do. Advice you might want to follow yourself."

Simon nodded and opened the fifth floor door. A long hallway stretched to the far side of the building. Simon walked down the hall until he came to office 539. A little plaque bore Dr. Heloise Francis's name in gold lettering. Simon raised his hand and knocked.

A door slammed. Simon flinched, expecting to see that winged thing standing behind him. Instead a man in brown suit with tweed patches on the elbows stepped into the hallway, a newspaper under his arm. On his way to the bathroom, no doubt

"Simon?"

An elderly woman in jeans, white blouse, and a leather vest stood in the office door. Her iron-gray hair hung in a thick braid over her shoulder. "Ah...Dr. Francis."

"Good to see you, Simon. Did I startle you? Well, come in, come in! I've been expecting you." A shrill whistle sounded. "Tea's ready. Sit down, I'll be with you soon." She hurried to the window. A hotplate perched on the sill, a white teapot sitting on its surface.

Simon eased into the office and shut the door behind him. The smell of old books, paper, and ink filled his nostrils. Bookshelves crammed to overflowing lined all four walls of the office. Stacked books, files, and papers covered the floor. Dr. Francis's desk rested in the corner, buried beneath even more books and papers. Her guest chair held a translation of Josephus, a Greek-English dictionary, and a thick stack of handwritten notes.

"Just put those on the floor," said Dr. Francis, fiddling with the teapot.

Simon obeyed and settled into the chair. His eyes wandered over the volumes on the shelves. The woman had a huge library, and thousands more books crammed into her small house.

He felt comfortable here. Safe, even.

Despite the things he had seen last night.

"Ah, there we go," said Dr. Francis. She opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of green teacups. "Tea?"

"Sure." Simon ran a hand through his hair. Dr. Francis brewed good tea. Perhaps it would help settle his nerves.

Dr. Francis handed him a cup, and Simon began sipping at the hot tea. She watched him over the rim of her cup, her gray eyes glinting.

"Simon."

Simon set his cup down. "Yes, ma'am?"

"You really look dreadful."

Simon grimaced. "Thank you."

"I'm quite serious," said Dr. Francis. "You look like you've been under a lot of stress."

Simon blinked. Dr. Francis had no idea. "I suppose I have. Finals are coming up, and I've been spending a lot of time studying. And I've got a lot going on at my new job."

"Congratulations are in order for that, I suppose." Dr. Francis set down her cup. "Still, I'm not entirely sure I approve."

"Why not?" said Simon. "Almost all the doctoral candidates my age have full-time work. I've been bouncing from part-time job to part-time job for years. This job is a godsend."

"Senator Wycliffe does not seem like an honest man," said Dr. Francis.

"He's a politician," said Simon. He brushed away thoughts of Conmager and the winged thing. "It's to be expected."

"Granted," said Dr. Francis. "But even for a politician, he seems crooked."

"A lot of that is just rumors because of that scandal with his predecessor," said Simon. "And don't you always tell me that a historian is supposed to sift rumor from fact?"

Dr. Francis chuckled. "True enough."

"Besides," said Simon. "Wycliffe is a politician. He's undoubtedly done something unethical at some point." Conmager flashed through his thoughts. "But so what? If I still worked at the convenience store, I'd have to sell cigarettes and pornography. Is that ethical? Not to mention the health code violations there, especially in the restroom." He shuddered. "Those things were vile."

Dr. Francis smiled. "Wait till you visit Turkey someday. Then you'll see a frightening public restroom."

"My point is, almost any corporation I could work for would have done something illegal and unethical at some point. Am I suppose to live in a hut in the woods just because every company I might work for did something evil at some point?"

Dr. Francis shrugged. "I suppose not. You have a point. Still, if you really want to get into the debate between individual and collective ethical responsibility, go down to the philosophy department. They'll explain it."

"Ad nauseum," said Simon

"What do you think of Wycliffe's political position?" said Dr. Francis. "He seems very hard-line on some things."

Simon shrugged. "I consider myself apolitical."

"Well, if you're comfortable with the job, and it works for you, who am I to gainsay it? It's not my job to run your life. It is my job, however, to oversee your studies." She took another sip of tea. "This will not interfere with your finals, I hope?"

"No!" said Simon. "I've spent too much time and effort to drop the ball now."

"Good to hear," said Dr. Francis. "Speaking of which, I finally read your dissertation outline."

Simon sat up straighter. "And?"

"Very good," said Dr. Francis. "I think you really have something here. How much of your research do you have done?"

"Most of it," said Simon. "I still need to read four or five books and a stack of journal articles. Another month, I think, and I'll be ready to start." He grinned. "I have something like five thousand notecards and four hundred books in my room. I don't think it'll take me too long to write. I know precisely what I want to say, more or less, and how to say it. I just need to get it down on paper."

"Good," said Dr. Francis. "I want you to develop this further. You have the makings of a very good book. There's a lot out there on Rome and the Romans, certainly, but less than you'd think on the common soldiers. How did they live, what did they eat, what did they want from life? You'll address quite a few of those questions, if your dissertation goes the way you plan."

"Thank you," said Simon.

Dr. Francis smiled. "And I've a bit more good news."

Simon frowned. "Oh?"

"I've been having some discussions with the department chair," said Dr. Francis. "If you want it, there's a part-time teaching position open for you fall semester."

Simon almost fell out of his chair. "What?"

"Two Western Civilization intro classes," said Dr. Francis. "And after your dissertation is finished, and if they like what they see, they'll offer to make you full-time faculty."

"Really?" said Simon.

Dr. Francis smiled. "Yes. Really. It's a good opportunity. You said Senator Wycliffe is flexible? This well mesh well with your other job and your dissertation."

"Of course I'll do it!" said Simon, excitement drowning out his fear and his exhaustion. "I mean...why wouldn't I?"

"I'll tell the appropriate people," said Dr. Francis. "You should get an official letter and that other bureaucratic nonsense in the mail in a few weeks."

"Thank you," said Simon. "For everything."

The news was so good that Simon almost forgot the things he had seen last night.

Almost.

Dr. Francis smiled. "Are you sure you're okay, Simon? There's something else bothering you, I think."

Simon's excitement crumpled beneath the weight of last night's memories. How could he tell that to Dr. Francis? She would think he was on drugs.

So he went for the other topic on his mind. "I...well...I...sort of have a woman in my life. Sort of."

Dr. Francis raised an iron-gray eyebrow. "Sort of?"

"She's the database administrator at Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping. We have nothing in common. She's arrogant..."

Dr. Francis's eyebrows climbed higher. "Nothing in common?"

Simon grimaced. "She's...ah, I don't know. She is who she is."

"Profound words, indeed," said Dr. Francis. "These things sort themselves out in time."

Again the creature flashed through Simon's mind. "I hope you're right, ma'am. I really do."

"That's all we need to discuss for now," said Dr. Francis. "You've been doing well, Simon. Keep up the good work. You're almost finished."

"Thank you." Simon left, shutting the door behind him.

###

Simon tapped the break pedal, his van sliding to a stop at the intersection.

Something dark and winged shot overhead.

Simon flinched and risked a look up. A large pigeon perched on the stoplight, picking at its wings.

A horn blared.

The light had turned green. Simon stomped the gas and roared through the intersection. He drove down the one-way street where he had collided with Senator Wycliffe. A thousand conflicting thoughts chased each other through his mind.

The winged creature.

Conmager and his story.

Simon needed answers.

His house came into sight, stark against the background of the sunken woods. Simon's eyes darted over the roof, the telephone poles, the trees, searching for any sign of winged shapes. Fortunately, he saw nothing. Simon pulled into the driveway, his head throbbing.

He climbed out of the van and winced at the afternoon heat. He missed winter. Insects buzzed in the heavy air. He trudged up the back porch stairs and let himself inside.

"Mom, I'm home!" The kitchen and the dining room stood dusty and empty. A bit of fear tugged at Simon's heart. What if that winged creature had followed him home last night? "Mom!" He shoved open the living room door, the chill of the air conditioner slapping his face.

Maura sat in her chair. "Simon. You don't need to shout. You interrupted my nap."

"Oh."

Maura frowned. "Well, don't stand there with the door open! You're letting all the cold air out."

"Sorry." Simon let the door swing shut. "Are you feeling all right? You never sleep during the day."

Maura sat up straighter. "I don't really know, boy. I didn't sleep too well last night."

Simon felt his stomach lurch. "Why not?"

Maura felt at her bathrobe pocket for cigarettes. "It's...boy! Did you take my cigarettes?"

Simon leaned against the wall and smirked.

Maura rolled her bloodshot eyes. "You can be a self-righteous little busybody at times, boy. Just like your father."

"I learned well," said Simon. "So, why didn't you sleep well? Do we need to take you to the doctor?"

Maura shook her head. "No, no, nothing like that. I feel fine. I just didn't sleep well. I kept hearing noises in the woods. Crashing and clanking and things like that. I even got up and went to the window to see. I couldn't see anything." She blinked. "And there was that dream."

"Dream? What dream?" said Simon.

Maura's eyes went hazy. "I...dreamed about a big bird. Isn't that silly?"

Simon shivered. "A big bird?"

"A big bird with horns and glowing eyes," said Maura. "I know. Isn't it silly? I thought it swooped past our house a few times, and then turned and flew away."

Simon licked his lips. "You need to watch fewer soap operas, that's all."

Maura snorted. "They don't have giant birds on soap operas. On PBS, but not on soap operas."

"I suppose not," said Simon. "Well. Um...I need to do some laundry. Do you need anything washed?"

"No. I have to get ready." Maura levered herself up. "It's bingo night at church."

"You're sure your car has enough gas?" said Simon.

Maura looked at him. "I'm old, boy, not senile. Now get the door for me."

Simon held the door open. Maura shuffled into the dining room and up the stairs. Simon waited until he heard her bedroom door slam, and then hurried to the kitchen and slid open the basement door. He groped his way down the dark stairs and flipped on the light.

The house had a large basement. The washer and dryer huddled in one corner, cobwebs coated the ceiling beams, and dust covered the walls. His mother would have been appalled if she had seen the mess, but she didn't come down here much. She didn't like to negotiate the stairs.

Simon flipped on the light.

Conmager lay sleeping on the floor, next to several empty cans.

"Hey," said Simon. Conmager didn't stir. "Hey. Wake up!"

Conmager's eyes flashed open. He leapt to his feet, a long knife gleaming in his hand. Simon squawked and stumbled back.

Conmager blinked a few times. "Oh." He slid the knife into its hidden sheath. "I forgot where I was."

"Yeah," said Simon, his heart racing. "Yeah. Ah...did you eat well?"

Conmager smiled. "I have not eaten so well in years. Such food your nation has. The meat, rich with its own juices..."

Simon looked at the cans and raised an eyebrow. "You mean the Spam?"

"Was that its name? Yes. The Spam. I have not felt this well for a very long time."

"Good," said Simon. "We have to talk."

Conmager nodded. "I deem it time for palaver, yes."

"Here," Simon said. He led Conmager to a corner. A pair of armchairs sat before a long-dead TV. His father had tried to create a basement den years ago. The dead TV and the dusty chairs were all that remained of his project. Conmager settled down with a sigh. Simon sat as well.

They stared at each other for a moment.

Simon broke the silence. "Would...would the winged thing have come here? Could it have followed us?"

Conmager nodded. "They could have." He stiffened. "Why? Did you see one?"

Simon shook his head. "No. But my mother told me she dreamed that a huge bird flew over the house. A bird with horns and fiery eyes."

Conmager shuddered. "It is possible. Their eyes are sharp and their ears clear, and their senses extend into worlds unknown to mere mortals. They could have tracked us. Not to precisely here, no, but they could know where I am."

"They?" said Simon. "Them? Do you mean there are more than one of these things?"

Conmager laughed. His voice held no mirth. "There are many thousands of these things. Some still dwell in my homeland. Others have come to your land."

"Who are you, really?" said Simon.

"I have told you already," said Conmager. "I am Conmager, formerly of Carlisan." His lips twisted. "Now I am Conmager of Nowhere, it seems."

"Carlisan?" said Simon. "I've never heard of it."

"Few in your land have," said Conmager.

"That's not what I meant," said Simon. "Who do you work for? Or...better yet, what's going on?"

Conmager shrugged. "I am unsure myself. Suffice it to say my homeland was invaded by men bearing powerful weapons. I barely escaped with my life, and decided to track the weapons back to their source. After a long and perilous journey, I found my way here."

"You're a refugee, then?" said Simon. Perhaps Conmager was a political refugee. Maybe the government wanted him captured for some reason. Then he thought of the winged creature, and his explanation fizzled.

"A refugee?" said Conmager. "I am not familiar with the word."

"Aha! So you are a foreigner." Conmager gave him a blank stare. Simon rubbed his forehead. "A refugee is a person who has fled his home because of war or strife or famine."

Conmager nodded. "Yes. Then I am a refugee."

"So...so you're from some country on the other side of the world, right? Someone invaded your home with guns. You traced them back here, to Chicago." Conmager nodded. That explanation made sense. But it fell apart when he came to the winged creature with its burning eyes. "Why were you trying to break into Wycliffe's compound?"

"His what?"

Simon scowled. "The place where I saw you. You first talked to me across the street from there. Then I saw you inside, at Senator Wycliffe's office."

Conmager blinked. "You mean the fortress with the trucks."

"Yes! That place," said Simon. "Why were you trying to break inside?"

Conmager shook his head. "You misunderstand me. I was not trying to break inside. I was trying to get away."

Simon frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I had been in that dreadful place for two weeks," said Conmager. "I saw that there was nothing I could do there. So I tried to escape. Yet the gun merchant is cunning. He realized my absence, and sent his minions out to capture me."

Simon frowned. "I still don't understand. Why were you in there in the first place if you didn't want to be?"

"It is how I found my way to your nation," said Conmager. "I followed one of the caravans that delivered guns and bombs to my land. I hid myself within its ranks, and eventually we came here."

"You don't mean...but...but that would mean..." The realization hit Simon like a lead weight. "Oh my God. He's a gun-runner. Senator Wycliffe's a gun-runner." It all made sense. Wycliffe's trucks were sealed, and no one was allowed to look inside. The man had come to wealth with blinding speed. How better to make a fortune than selling guns to insurgents across the globe? Simon remembered the article about Demeko-Kurkov's connections with the Russian Mafia. Did Wycliffe buy up old Soviet army materiel through them and sell it off at a higher price? Or did he use Demeko-Kurkov as middlemen?

It didn't matter. Simon remembered the convenient suicides of Wycliffe's political opponents. Another forgotten fact lodged in his memory came to light. Eddie Carson, the reporter who had gone berserk at Senator Fulbright's campaign headquarters, had been doing an investigative report on Wycliffe at the time.

Simon ran a trembling hand through his hair. "Too convenient. Just too convenient."

Conmager frowned. "Are you well? You look ill."

Simon winced. "We have some serious problems."

Conmager nodded. "On this we can agree."

"Okay," said Simon. "Okay. I can believe everything you said. About the gun-running and the smuggling. But what about that winged thing? What is it? Where did it come from? Why..."

Conmager held up a hand. "Perhaps you should not think too much about it. You have grasped as much as the truth as you can, I deem. To think more about it might unseat your mind."

"Yeah," said Simon. "Yeah. But..."

"Simon!" Maura's voice rang down the stairs. Conmager froze. "Who are you talking to down there?"

"No one, Mom!" said Simon. "I'm doing laundry."

"I thought I heard voices."

Simon looked around. "Um...I was fiddling with the old TV. I got some sound on it for a minute."

There was a pause. "Well. I'm going to bingo, boy. Try not to work too hard, and get to bed at a godly hour. There's some leftover stroganoff in the fridge, if you want supper."

"Thanks, Mom," said Simon. He waited until he heard the back door slam.

"Who was that?" said Conmager.

"My mother," said Simon. "She doesn't know you're here. I didn't want to get her involved."

"That is wise," said Conmager. "What I have seen would try the sanity of a strong man. It might well destroy an old woman."

"What am I going to do with you?" said Simon. "Why did you have to fall into my lap?"

Conmager tensed. "You will not surrender me to my enemies?"

"Of course not!" said Simon. "You'd probably cut my throat if I tried."

Conmager blanched. "I would not! You have aided me. And you have taken me under your roof and let me partake of your food. For a guest to murder his host is among the blackest of crimes, worthy of Marugon and Goth-Mar-Dan."

"Did you say...." Simon blinked. "Never mind. The name sounded familiar, that's all. Besides, how could I turn anyone over that winged creature?" The mere sight of the thing had filled him with paralyzing dread. He shuddered to think of what it might have done to Conmager.

What it might still do, if it caught them.

"Then what shall you do?" said Conmager.

"I don't know," said Simon. "I can't go to the police. Wycliffe would kill me." He shook his head and looked at Conmager's glittering eyes. "And how do I know what you've told me is true? You could be waiting to kill me and take my credit cards. It could be a scam."

"The winged one," said Conmager, his voice soft. "You know I am telling the truth because you have seen the winged one."

Simon closed his eyes. "Yes."

"I will go," said Conmager. "You are right when you say you cannot aid me. You dare not. My enemies would obliterate you if they learned of it. I will go with all speed." A hint of desperation tugged at his face. "Perhaps...perhaps I can hide from the winged ones, continue to turn aside their eyes..."

Guilt ripped Simon's mind. "Wait. Do you know how to drive?"

Conmager's thin eyebrows knitted. "Drive?"

"A vehicle like my van," said Simon. "Do you know how to operate one of those?"

Conmager nodded. "Well enough. I learned how during my journey with the caravan to this place."

"Here." He reached into his pocket and thrust out his keys. "My van. Take it."

Conmager blinked. "What?"

"Take my van, you idiot," said Simon. "Will you have a chance of outrunning those...things if you can drive?"

Conmager nodded. "I could. Your nation is vast. I have seen maps. If could run fast enough, I could lose myself in your great cities, or in the vast plains." His feverish eyes glittered. "Your vehicle could help me."

Simon pushed the keys into Conmager's bony hand. "Then take it. Here. Take all the food you can carry from the pantry. And this." He dug out his wallet and pulled out all the money it held, about a hundred and twenty dollars. "This money might help."

"But your vehicle? How will you account for its loss?" said Conmager.

"I'll...." Simon snapped his fingers. "I know. I'll say you jumped me, took my keys and money, and stole my van." He frowned. "But that'll get the police after you."

Conmager grinned. "Before I turned from my old ways and was made an apprentice of the White Council, I was a thief and a highwayman. I am well-skilled in avoiding the eyes of the city guard. Men of the law are the same, no matter where you go. What are a few more men chasing me? I can avoid them, and it will remove any suspicion from you."

"Then go before they figure out you're here."

Conmager nodded. They hurried up the basement stairs, Conmager carrying a load of cans in his skinny arms. They walked into the driveway and the summer heat. Simon opened the van's rear hatch, and Conmager dumped his load inside. Simon would miss his van. He hesitated, then thought of the winged thing, and shoved his doubts aside. He could not let anyone, not even this peculiar stranger, fall into its claws.

Simon stepped back. "I'll rough myself up a bit, so it looks like you jumped me."

Conmager nodded. "I will go to...no, I won't tell you."

"That's wise. I don't want to know."

"Thank you, Simon Wester, for all the aid you have given me," said Conmager.

"Yeah. Whatever," said Simon. "Just go."

Conmager nodded and climbed into the van. He started the engine, backed out into the street, and drove away.

Simon watched him go. He turned and walked back into the house, his mind composing explanations.

###

"You want to tell me exactly what happened, sir?"

Two grim-faced policemen stood on the back porch. Simon rubbed his wrist, grimacing at the pain. He had tried to rough himself up and had overdone it. Maura paced back and forth near the railing, a cigarette smoldering in her fingers.

"Um," said Simon, wincing. "I went out the back door, on my way to the driveway. I wanted to go get some fast food for supper."

Maura shook her head and ground out the cigarette. "You should have had the stroganoff for supper, boy. None of this would have happened if you had just eaten my stroganoff for supper..."

"Ma'am," said the officer. "Please." Maura fell silent. "Show us what happened, sir."

Simon pointed. "The van was locked, and I was digging for my keys. I thought I heard someone coming up the slope from the woods. When I turned around this man in a black uniform was there. He pushed me, I hit my head on the driveway, and blacked out. When I woke up, he was gone, and so was my van."

"And so were your car keys and wallet," said the officer.

"No. Well, not quite. My keys were gone. I found my wallet," Simon pointed, "lying over there, against the garage door. All the money was gone, though."

"How much did you have?" said the officer.

"About a hundred and twenty dollars," said Simon.

"Did he take any credit cards, your driver's license, things like that?"

Simon shook his head. "No. Just the money."

The cops were buying the story. Simon felt a twinge of hope, and he tried to keep it off his face.

"You look a bit ragged," said the officer with the notepad. "Do you need a doctor?"

"No. I'm fine, considering," said Simon. "I just have some scrapes."

"Mmm," said the officer. "This man. What did he look like?"

"Um," said Simon. "He...was short, and kind of fat. Caucasian. He had slicked-back hair and a big jaw." Simon realized he had just described Senator Wycliffe. "Um...brown hair, and...blue eyes, I think. They might have been green. I wasn't really sure."

"That seems pretty thorough, considering you only saw the man for a few seconds," said the officer. "Is it possible you've seen him before?"

Simon blinked. "I...you know, I have. I saw him outside work."

"Where do you work?"

"Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping," said Simon. "He asked me for some change."

"Splendid," said Maura. She lit another cigarette. "Just splendid. My son has a stalker."

"Well," said the officer. "We have what we need. We'll put out a description with your vehicle's make and license plate number. It's a bit weird, frankly. Considering you drove an old Aerostar van with almost two hundred thousand miles on it, it would make no sense for someone to follow you and steal it. A crime of opportunity. The guy saw his chance and took it."

"Will you be able to catch this hoodlum?" said Maura.

The officer with the notepad shrugged. "We'll probably find the van someplace in a few weeks. Or it'll be stripped for parts. The money's as good as gone. As for the perpetrator himself, we'll do our best."

"Thanks," said Simon.

"We'll send a car past a few times tonight. Call if you have any more trouble. Sir. Ma'am." The officers turned and walked back to their cruiser.

Simon watched them drive away and sighed in relief.

They had bought it

He looked at his mother. "How was bingo?"

Maura scowled. "Don't give me that smart talk, boy!" She paced back and forth as much as her stiff legs would allow, a fresh cigarette smoldering in her fingers. "I come back home and find out that you've been mugged. Mugged!"

He felt bad for deceiving her, but the truth would have upset her even more. "I'm fine."

"You should have called me right away," said Maura.

"And what good would that have done?" said Simon. "You would have driven straight home and worried the entire way. You don't drive well when you're worried."

"I should have been here..."

"I'm twenty-six years old, Mom!" said Simon, his temper flaring. "I can take care of myself!"

Maura stomped towards him. "So well that you go to work for that Wycliffe villain in that horrible neighborhood, so well that some drifter tracks you home and steals your van and money! Yes, boy, you take care of yourself very well." Her smoke-scented breath washed over Simon.

Simon snatched the cigarette from her hands and ground it out beneath his shoe. "Don't blow that thing in my face!" Maura blanched and stepped back. Simon turned away, his hands curling into fists. "You've had four since the cops showed up. You don't need any more. And I'm fine. It could have been worse." He thought of the winged creature. "But...but at least he has what he wants. He won't came back."

They stood in silence for a while.

Maura touched his shoulder. "Do you want some eggs?"

Simon turned. "I should have had the stroganoff."

Maura snorted. "Right you are, boy. Well. I'll fry up some eggs. I'll call you when they're ready." She turned and walked back into the house.

Simon leaned against the porch railing and blew out a long breath. The sun had almost gone down, and shadows cloaked the woods. Soon the bugs would come out in force. And perhaps other winged things would take to the air under the cover of darkness.

"Godspeed, Conmager," muttered Simon. He hoped the strange man eluded his pursuers. Perhaps Simon could put this whole thing behind him. He wanted to forget Conmager and the doubts he had raised.

Most of all, he wanted to forget the winged thing with its iron claws and burning eyes.

Simon walked into the kitchen. Maura stood at the stove, a frying pan sizzling on the burner. She laid out strips of raw bacon on a metal rack.

"It's hot in here, boy," said Maura. "Why don't you go wait in the living room? I'll bring in the TV trays when supper's ready."

"You really don't have to do all this, Mom," said Simon.

Maura pointed an imperious finger. "Nonsense. My only son gets mugged, I can do something nice for him. Go."

Simon went.

He shut the living room door, enjoying the air conditioned cool. A stack of his books sat besides the couch. He could study down here tonight, he supposed, and keep his mother company. He sat down on the couch, put his feet up, and reached for his notes.

The phone rang. Simon reached over and picked it up. "Hello?"

"Simon Wester." The voice rasped with static.

Simon stiffened. "Conmager?"

"I have escaped. But do not go outside tonight. Not for any reason. They will be looking for me."

The line went dead.

Simon got to his feet, closed all the curtains, and did his best to pretend the phone call had never happened.

The phone rang again. Simon hesitated, shrugged, and picked it up. "What?"

"Well, good to hear from you too, college boy."

Simon blinked. "Katrina?"

"So you do remember me?" She did not sound happy. "How nice. Pity you couldn't remember our date tonight."

"What...oh, no. I forgot," said Simon. His encounter with Conmager and the winged creature had pushed Katrina from his mind.

"Very perceptive," said Katrina. "I don't like being stood up, college boy."

"It's not my fault," said Simon.

"Oh, this ought to be original," said Katrina. "Let's see if you can think up something new."

"I was mugged," said Simon.

"And then you were held for ransom?" said Katrina. "Right?"

"No," said Simon. "He jumped me in my driveway, took my keys, my money, and then took off with my van. The police just left."

There was a pause.

"Oh my God," said Katrina. "You're telling the truth, aren't you?"

"Yup," said Simon. "I'm going to have to take my mom's car to work tomorrow."

"My God," said Katrina. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Some bumps and bruises." He forced a laugh. "You know, I always thought I'd get mugged outside work or your apartment building. Never in my own driveway."

"I'm coming over," said Katrina.

"You don't have to..."

"Yes, I do," said Katrina. "And I'm taking you out, for once, tomorrow night. Got a problem with that, college boy?"

"Um...no," said Simon.

"Good. See you in about twenty minutes." Katrina hung up.

Simon went to the kitchen. "Mom? We're having a guest."

###

A little while later, Simon opened the door.

Katrina stood on the porch. She wore a short skirt, high-heeled boots, a leather jacket, and she looked very good. "This the right place?"

"I'm here, so I suppose so," said Simon. He held the door open. "Come in. Take your coat?" Katrina handed him her jacket, and he hung it up in the front closet.

"I saw the weirdest damn thing on my way over here," said Katrina.

Simon frowned. "Oh?"

"Biggest bird I ever saw. Flying right over the road. Huge black thing. Thought it looked like a gargoyle for a minute." She gave him a weird look. "You okay?"

"Um...oh...nothing," said Simon. The winged creature would have no reason to come here. Conmager had left. "Just thinking, that's all."

"Mmm," said Katrina. She smirked and patted his cheek. "You have a cute expression when you're clueless, you know. Let's go meet your mother."

"Sure," said Simon. "Right this way. You can talk to my mom. I'll catch up in a minute...have to turn the front porch lights on, and stuff." Katrina nodded.

Simon peered out the front windows. Nothing moved, whether on the ground or in the sky.

He double-locked and bolted the door.

***
Chapter 10 - A New Weapon

Year of the Councils 963

"Look," said Liam.

Arran looked up from the ancient road. The air had gotten colder as they climbed higher into the mountains, and a constant wind whistled from the looming, snow-mantled peaks. The sky looked like hammered steel. Arran grunted and shifted his pack, his rusting armor rattling. "What is it?"

Sir Liam strode to a weathered stone resting beside the road. Worn letters had been carved on its eroded surface. "The last milestone on the Rindl road. We're out of the High Kingdoms. If my memory serves, this road will climb into the mountains. We're not far from the Grim Bridge." Lithon twitched his sleep, his small hands brushing Sir Liam's back. "It's almost midday. We'd best stop for some food."

Arran turned and gave a signal to the four remaining Knights. The men grunted and sat down, digging through their packs.

Liam knelt and pulled King Lithon from his back sling. "Another eight hundred miles, Arran. Over the Mountains of Rindl, across the Forgotten Vales, through the Broken Mountains, and then we'll reach the Crimson Plain and the Tower."

Arran sat besides the old Knight and the young King. "We've been out of the High Kingdoms for months now."

Liam frowned. He pulled a strip of jerky from his pack and began tearing it to pieces for Lithon. "We only just passed the last milestone."

Arran stared down into the Mountains' foothills. "There are no more High Kingdoms. Rindl is a memory, and so is Carlisan. We left the ashes of the High Kingdoms behind months and miles ago."

Liam began feeding the child pieces of jerky. "We will do what we must. The hardest part of our journey is over."

"Indeed?" said Arran. He rubbed the hilt of his brother's Sacred Blade. "We must cross the Mountains of Rindl. Then we will journey through the Forgotten Vales with its ruins and ghosts. After that, we must survive the passage of the Broken Mountains, and then the horrors of the Crimson Plain. And if we live through all this, then we have to endure the passage of the Tower."

Liam took a bite of hard bread. "I see your hope hasn't wavered."

"Hope?" Arran kicked at rock and watched it rattle down the path. "We have no hope."

Liam's eyes flashed. "King Lithon is our hope."

"King Lithon is three years old," said Arran. "Our hope messes himself several times a day."

Liam returned his attention to the jerky. "I had thought better of you. I did not think you would succumb to despair."

"Despair?" said Arran. "Honesty. Even if Alastarius's Prophecy comes true, we won't live to see it."

"I will not brook this kind of talk, Sir Arran," said Liam.

"Marugon will find us," said Arran.

Liam raised a gray eyebrow. "He will not. We have passed out of the High Kingdoms."

"You said yourself Marugon heard Alastarius's Prophecy," said Arran. "He will follow us, if he thinks the child..."

Sir Liam's eyes flashed like swords. "King Lithon."

Arran grimaced. "If he thinks King Lithon is a threat to him. He will come for us."

Sir Liam wiped the King's mouth. "Undoubtedly. But we have a long head start. He will have spent time in Carlisan searching for the royal house. By the time he realized Lithon is gone, we put several hundred miles behind us. And the remainder of the High Kingdoms will occupy his attention. Especially Antarese. Antarese is vast. It will take him some time to conquer."

"And so here we are." Arran leaned against a rock and stared up at the gray sky. "Wandering in these bleak mountains, while our home burns and our countrymen die." He looked at Sir Liam and the king. "We should be fighting alongside them."

"To what purpose?" said Liam. "You saw what Marugon did to Carlisan. There is no hope fighting Marugon. Alastarius spoke true. Marugon will have victory for now, perhaps for a generation. But Lithon will bring Alastarius back, and they will restore the High Kingdoms."

"You place much faith in the last words of a dying man," said Arran.

Liam put Lithon down on the stony road. The child gazed at the mountains, eyes wide. Three years old, and he had not yet begun to talk. "And what else can we do? There is no hope in any other course."

"There is one hope," said Arran, his voice soft.

Sir Liam's face darkened. "No! Do not speak of it! They are evil things, Arran."

"The guns could..."

Sir Liam rose. "No!" The other Knights turned to watch, their dirty faces tired. "They will corrupt you. They are dark power, blacker than the vilest magic of Marugon. They are not meant for mortals. Do not think of them, I beg. They will destroy you."

Arran looked away. "Your faith is greater than mine. I see naught but ruin in our future."

"You are a young man yet," said Liam. "Barely twenty and one."

"I feel a thousand years old," said Arran.

"You will understand when you grow older," said Liam, his eyes on Lithon. "There are greater forces in the world than the power of men. And often a whisper can be greater than a thunderclap."

Arran leaned back against the boulder. "I try to understand your words, but they bring me no comfort."

They sat in silence. Arran dug through his pack and removed a strip of leathery jerky. He chewed on it for a while, watching the gray clouds billow across the sky. Liam knelt and bundled up Lithon, slinging the young King over his back.

"I don't like this," said Arran.

Liam sighed. "I believe you've said that before, Sir Arran."

Arran shook his head. "No." He got his feet and walked to the center of the road. He looked down the slopes, past the foothills, and to the broad green expanse of Rindl's northern forests. "We are too exposed here. We should march until we reach the mountains proper. Any watching eyes can see us from the forest or the foothills."

"We need rest!" said one of the other Knights, an elderly man with a long white beard. "We have covered a thousand miles. We must rest before we move on."

"Sir Kaelf is right," said Sir Liam. "We should..."

A loud growl, like a great hunting cat's snarl, echoed over the rocks.

Arran drew his Sacred Blade, the steel glittering in the gray light. The other Knights leapt to their feet, weapons drawn. Sir Liam's twin Sacred Blades glowed in his hands. The cry rang out again, echoing against the hard stones.

"What is that?" said Arran.

"There are many strange creatures in these mountains," said Sir Liam.

"I would rather not meet them firsthand," said Arran.

"Agreed," said Sir Liam. "Let us make haste. Once we cross the Grim Bridge, the path is nothing but hard stone. Even the most skilled hunters would have a hard time tracking us."

The Knights started up the road into the mountains, Liam in the lead. Arran took the rearguard, watching over his shoulder. His eyes wandered over the bleak gray stones, watching for any pursuers. He scanned the road, the boulder-strewn slopes, the foothills, the distant forest, and then the road again.

He froze. "Sir Liam!"

A man clad in dirty red rags shuffled up the road. He looked dead, his head shaved hairless, his skin white as chalk. A thin stream of drool dangled from his lips. His shadow, long and black, trailed behind him.

"Halt!" said Sir Liam. The Knights turned, their Sacred Blades raised. The pale man kept coming, eyes staring at nothing. "State your name and business."

The man said nothing and kept walking. Some drool splattered against the stones.

"We've no wish for battle," said Sir Liam, "but you must name yourself."

Sir Kaelf snorted. "A hermit of the mountains. Such are common, or so I have heard. Or perhaps a wandering madman who has taken up residence here." He lowered his blade and stepped forward. "You are a harmless peasant, are you not?"

The man's glassy gaze fixed on the old Knight, and a deep-throated laugh bursting from his lips.

Arran's Sacred Blade jolted, and a surge of power went up his arm. "Sir Kaelf! It's a creature of black magic..."

The rag-clad man's shadow stretched and bulged, even as the man himself grinned and crumbled into smoking ash. The shadow remained on the ground, writhing and twisting.

Sir Liam hissed. "What in the name..."

A monster leapt from the writhing shadow. It looked like a huge black lion, horse-sized, with its mane and eyes and claws fashioned from raging flame. It leapt forward and tore Sir Kaelf's head from its neck. The old Knight flew in pieces across the road, his blood staining the cold stone.

Arran roared and charged the beast, his Sacred Blade flashing. The creature spun, and slashed. The black lion reeled back, the red fire of its eyes burning brighter.

Sir Liam and the other Knights attacked, their Sacred Blades flashing with sapphire light. The beast roared and backpedaled, clawing at the air. Another Knight screamed as the beast's claws ripped through his face. Liam spun, his swords cutting in parallel lines. The lion roared and reared back. Arran stabbed and the point of his blade sank deep into the beast's shoulder. A flash of blue fire lanced up his blade and stabbed into the lion.

"Stab it!" said Arran, his sword raised in guard. The dark lion roared and batted at him. His parry took off one of its claws. "Stab it! The power in our blades can harm it..."

Liam and the remaining Knights attacked. Arran drove at the beast's face, his sword flashing at its eyes. Liam circled to the side. Lithon stirred on his back and began to scream.

The beast quivered, its ears rising at the sound of Lithon's cries. Then it spun with a roar and lunged for Sir Liam, claws extended. Liam stumbled back, his blades raised in guard. Arran shouted and swung his blade in a two-handed chop. His sword sheared through the creature's left rear leg. The lion stumbled and struck the ground. Liam jumped back, the creature's front claws missing his legs by a half-inch.

Liam raced past the lion, whirled, and brought both his Sacred Blades down in a sharp stab. His swords sheared into the beast's shoulders. It shuddered and howled in agony, its maw yawning wide. Arran lunged, his blade plunging into the dark lion's mouth.

The beast shuddered, azure fire burning through it. It twitched, collapsed, and lay still. Liam yanked his blades free, and Arran pulled his Sacred Blade from the creature's mouth with a grimace. Black blood covered his blade, but his sword's glow soon burned it to stinking smoke.

The carcass shuddered, and as Arran watched, it twisted and writhed back into the form of the rag-clad man, now marked with garish wounds.

Arran took a step back. "What hell spawned this thing?"

Sir Liam sheathed his Sacred Blades with a grimace. "I've seen such a beast before."

Arran looked at him. "Where?"

"In the Wastes, during the war against the Black Council," said Liam. "They are things of black magic, a monster from the black voids between the worlds. A Warlock can take a man and slay him with a black spell. A dark spirit then possesses the corpse." He pointed to the mutilated body. "The dark spirit can change to its form as it wishes."

"A Warlock created this thing?" said Arran.

"Perhaps it survived the war," said Liam.

Arran shook his head. "No. Marugon made this beast. He sent it after us."

"We cannot know that," said Liam.

"We can!" Arran pointed at the King. "It came after you when it heard the King crying. Marugon sent it after us...no, he sent it after the King."

Sir Liam looked down at the corpse. "Such a thing is possible. Marugon could have worked a seeking spell into the creature..."

His voice trailed off.

"What?" said Arran. He followed Sir Liam's gaze and swore.

The corpse's wounds had begun to seal themselves shut. Arran watched as pale flesh writhed and crawled. The stab wounds Sir Liam had given the creature through the back and chest began to heal. A fresh finger grew from the bloody stump on its hand.

"Gods," said Arran, his voice a croak. "It's healing itself."

The corpse began to lift its head. Arran yelled, drew his Sacred Blade, and severed the corpse's head in a flash of blue flame. It bounced away down the road.

"We killed it!" said Arran.

"We cannot kill it," said Sir Liam. "I told you, I have seen such beasts before. We can destroy its physical form, but we cannot drive the dark spirit back to the black voids. It will rebuild the corpse until it can walk the world once more. The only way to destroy such a monster is to drive the dark spirit back to the black voids. And only a Wizard has the power."

"And there are no more Wizards," said Arran. The wounds on the corpse's torso continued to close. "Do you mean to say we cannot kill this thing?"

"We have not the power," said Liam.

"We cannot hope to fight this creature, again and again and again," said Arran.

Sir Liam drew one of his Sacred Blades. "We need only delay it. Cut it apart. We will scatter the pieces as we travel. With luck, it will take the creature much longer to rebuild itself. By then we will be long gone. I doubt even this thing could track us through the Tower of Endless Worlds."

They set to work. Arran seized an arm and flung it behind a boulder.

"We shall take the other pieces with us, and scatter them as we climb," said Sir Liam.

They started up the road again. Some blood dripped from the corpse's hacked limbs. The droplets of blood would provide a fine trail for anyone seeking to follow them.

"We must hurry," said Sir Liam. The arm he held began to writhe. He slapped it against the ground with a grimace. "Marugon may have sent other pursuers, as well."

They struggled higher into the Mountains of Rindl.

###

"There," said Liam. The moaning wind ruffled through his greasy gray hair and unkempt beard. "There. The pass to the Crimson Plain."

Arran adjusted his sword belt and stared at the bleak mountains. A gash opened in the jagged peaks ahead, a narrow pass that twisted and turned its way to the Crimson Plain. The dim light of the overcast sky filled the pass with dark shadows. "A perfect place for an ambush."

"We have not come this far to die only a two score miles from our goal," said Sir Liam. "We will make it."

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."  
Katrina blinked. "What the hell's purple prose?"  
"Um...melodramatic, angst-riddled, overworked writing," said Simon.  
"Oh," said Katrina. "Like something a teenage girl would write. Nice to know you have such a high opinion of me."  
Simon grunted. "But it wasn't bad. Really. I mean, it held my attention, didn't it? I didn't notice you standing over me until you grabbed the laptop out of my hand."  
Katrina seemed somewhat mollified. "I suppose so."  
Simon decided to push a little further. "How long have you been writing?"  
"We're going to miss the movie," said Katrina. She started down the hall.  
Simon watched her go. The dress displayed her legs to good effect. "If you don't want to talk about it..."  
Katrina gave him an irritated glance over her shoulder. "If we wait around much longer, we're going to be late for the movie. I want to see that movie."  
They walked into the gloomy parking lot. A layer of grimy slush covered the cracked asphalt. Simon's eyes darted to where he had seen the winged creature perch months earlier. He forced himself to look away.  
"You okay?" said Katrina. She slid through the slush to Simon's car.  
"What?" Simon blinked. "Oh. I'm fine. Just...a bit cold, that's all."  
Simon walked to the other side of his new car, a 1994 Chevy Corsica with eighty-five thousand miles on it. It had seen better days. Still, it got Simon to work and back, and it started in the cold weather. And it had been affordable, too. With the insurance money from his van (thank God he had bought a policy after getting his job), there had been more than enough for the Corsica.  
Simon grumbled and settled behind the wheel. Why couldn't he stop thinking about Conmager and the winged thing with burning eyes?  
"So," said Katrina, cutting into his thoughts. "Do you still want to talk about it?"  
Simon blinked. "About what?" He started the car and pulled into the street.  
Katrina snorted. "The writing."  
"The writing? Oh, right." The red glare of the stoplights reminded him of the winged creature's burning eyes. "So, how long have you been writing?"  
Katrina looked out the window. "Since high school."  
"It's been a while, then," said Simon.  
Katrina snorted. "Not that long. I'm not that old."  
"Only two months younger than me," said Simon.  
"Don't remind me," said Katrina.  
"I wouldn't dream of it," said Simon. "You'd probably crack my skull."  
Katrina laughed. "That still bothers you, doesn't it?"  
Simon blinked. "What bothers me?"  
"The karate tournament."  
Simon shook his head. "Well, no. Not really. It...was a little unsettling, yes."  
"Unsettling that I'm a head shorter and fifty pounds lighter than you and could still scrub the floor with your ass?" said Katrina.  
Simon tapped the steering wheel. "If that didn't unsettle me, I'd be an idiot."  
Katrina laughed. "Then I guess you're not a complete idiot, Simon Wester." She leaned towards him, her breath hot on his ear. "Admit it. I scare you."  
"You know," said Simon, "I have to concentrate on driving here, unless you want to crash into a bridge abutment."  
Katrina laughed again. "Admit it."  
Simon rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine. All right. I'm terrified of you. Happy? You scare me on multiple levels. You're tougher than I am..." His jaw clicked shut. He hadn't meant to say that much.  
Katrina leaned back. "Is that what's been bothering you lately?"  
Simon groaned. "Not you too."  
Katrina smiled. "What?"  
"You sound like my mother," said Simon.  
Katrina crossed her arms. "You should listen to her. She's a smart woman."  
"Undoubtedly. But there's nothing bothering me," lied Simon. "I just have a lot to do, that's all. My dissertation's been going well, but it's still a lot of work, and I put a lot of effort into my job. Both my jobs, the teaching and with writing for Wycliffe. And I've been spending so much time with you..."  
Katrina snorted. "Then if that's the case, college boy, why do you spend so much time with me? You could always cut back, you know."  
Simon chewed his lip. "Well..."  
"Why don't you?"  
Simon looked at her. "Are you trying to break up with me?"  
"Why do you spend so much time with me?" said Katrina. "Answer me that. You're always starting at my legs and chest, and you've never pushed me into bed. Are you having second thoughts?"  
Simon scowled. "No, well, not entirely, anyway..."  
"Then why? It's a simple question."  
Simon glared out the windshield. "I don't need to spend all this time with you. I could break it off tomorrow. I could...I could just walk out tomorrow and never look back."  
They drove in silence for a while. Simon's jaw worked. The date had turned sour rather fast.  
Katrina folded her hands on her lap. "Then why don't you?"  
Simon glared at her. "Because I don't want to." A stoplight came up. He slammed on the brakes, and the car skidded to a halt at the intersection. "Is that all right?"  
Katrina smiled. "More than all right. I don't want you to either."  
She gripped his neck, turned his head around, and kissed him. She had never kissed him with that much force before.  
A horn blared.  
Katrina pulled away from him. "The light changed. You'd better go."  
"What?" Simon blinked. "Oh, um, right." He tapped the gas and started forward. A red pickup truck roared past him, engine thundering. The driver and the passenger both gave him the finger.  
Katrina smiled. "Distracted?"  
Simon sputtered. "You think? God in heaven. I ought to go through your laptop every time, if this is what happens."  
Katrina grinned. "Next time I'll break your arm."  
"Okay," said Simon.  
They drove in silence for a while.  
"Did you like it?" said Katrina. She sounded unsure of herself, almost shy.  
Simon blinked. "What? The kiss? Are you kidding? It was great..."  
"Not that!" Katrina groaned. "Dumbass. The story. Did...you like the story?"  
Simon blinked. "Yeah." He laughed. "It was good. I mean, it held my attention, didn't it? I like what happened at the end, when the drunk got thrown out back."  
"I used to work in a bar," said Katrina.  
"I could tell," said Simon. "It...was real. Write what you know. Isn't that what the English teachers always say?"  
"My next story will be about a database administrator with an arrogant boyfriend," said Katrina.  
"Ha, ha. Funny," said Simon. "It was good. Really. You should try to get it published."  
Katrina pushed some hair out of her face. "What? Oh, I already have."  
Simon almost skidded into the other lane. "You've been published?"  
"Nine times," said Katrina. "Some magazines. Mystery and crime fiction, mostly."  
Simon gaped at her. "How did this happen?"  
"Look at the road," said Katrina. "How do you think it happened? I sent in the stories, and the magazine bought them."  
"But... you have no degrees, and I don't think you even took a writing class. How?" Simon shook his head.  
Katrina laughed. "Did I just shatter your worldview?"  
"A bit," said Simon. The restaurant came into sight, and Simon pulled into the parking lot. A red Ford Aerostar van sped past. Simon craned his neck to follow the vehicle. It looked almost identical to the van he had allowed Conmager to take.  
"What?" said Katrina.  
Simon shook his head. "Ah...nothing."  
Katrina twisted around in her seat. "That...that looks a lot like your old van. Simon, I think it is! Do you want to follow it? Or maybe we should call the police."  
"No!" said Simon. "No. I don't think that was it. And even so, it's gone. We could drive across half the city and we'd never see it again."  
Katrina shrugged. "If you say so. It's your van, after all. Or it was your van, anyway." She patted the Corsica's dashboard and grinned. "Besides, this car is better. If you ask me, you're better off."  
"Yeah," said Simon. "Yeah. You're right. Definitely. I'm better off. The Lord works in mysterious ways, right?"  
He never wanted to see the van again. He never wanted to see Conmager again. And most of all, he never wanted to see one of those winged creatures again.  
Yet he could not stop thinking about Conmager. And the winged things and their burning eyes kept haunting his dreams.  
"Besides," said Simon. "I think it was an extended-length van. Mine was just normal length."  
Katrina gave him a strange glance. "Sure you're okay? You looked really weird just then."  
Simon forced a smile. "I'm fine, Katrina. Really." He slid the car into a parking space. "I mean, I'm out with you. How could I be better?"  
Katrina laughed. Her eyes glittered. "Good one, college boy. Good one."

###

A week later Simon had another date with Katrina.  
"You're home from work early, boy." Maura sat in her chair, a cigarette smoldering between her fingers. A laugh track blared from the TV.  
Simon grunted, dropped his briefcase on the couch, and settled down besides it. "It's almost five-thirty."  
Maura snorted. A puff of smoke rose from her nostrils. "And that's early. You're usually out until eight or nine at night."  
"Congress doesn't resume session for another month," said Simon. "Senator Wycliffe doesn't need anything important written." Another laugh erupted from the TV, followed by wolf whistles. "What are you watching?"  
Maura shrugged. "I don't know. It's a comedy about a bunch of young people who live in an apartment together."  
Simon rolled his eyes. "With hilarious results, no doubt." He watched the show for awhile. "It reminds me why I stopped watching TV. And why are you smoking? I thought you said you were going to try and quit."  
Maura grunted. "Don't be such a wet blanket, boy."  
Simon sighed. "You're all dressed up. Do you want to get ash on your good dress?"  
"It's bingo night. I need something to settle my nerves," said Maura.  
"I never thought of bingo as a high-risk activity," said Simon.  
Maura ground out her cigarette in the ashtray. "That means you're not playing it right." She got to her feet and slipped on her shoes. "I'm leaving soon. Do you want anything for supper before I go?"  
Simon shook his head. "No. Katrina's coming by about nine. We're going to go out for a late supper then."  
Maura picked up her purse. "It's not good to eat supper so late."  
Simon rolled his eyes. "Fine, then, I'll eat a banana to tide me over."  
"That's better," said Maura. "So what are you going to do for the next three and a half hours?"  
"Correct some student papers. Work on my dissertation," said Simon. "What else?"  
"Maybe you should take a nap, boy," said Maura, fiddling with her purse strap. "You look pretty tired."  
"You look wonderful too, Mom," said Simon.  
"Disrespectful child. Well, I'm going. I expect you'll be gone when I get back." Maura opened the door and left.  
Simon leaned back against the couch. He did feel tired, and the couch was quite comfortable. He shook his head and got to his feet. He had work to do. Besides, the accumulated stench of years of second-hand smoke would likely give him cancer if he fell asleep in here. He scooped up his stuff and went upstairs.  
Simon sat down at his desk and got to work, paging through his piles of research as he typed. He wrote a page and a half before his eyelids began to feel weighted with lead. Simon yawned and gave up. He had made sufficient progress. The student papers could wait until after dinner with Katrina.  
His laptop went to sleep with a quiet whir, and he decided to follow suit. Simon set his alarm clock for 8:45, curled up under the blankets, and went to sleep.

###

The doorbell rang.  
Simon looked at the clock and cursed. It was only 7:43. Katrina wouldn't come early.  
He shook his head, climbed out of bed, and glanced out his window. Some snow had begun to fall, and the wind had begun to pick up. Even Chicago's Jehovah's Witnesses were not fanatic enough to go canvassing on a cold and snowy night.  
The doorbell rang again.  
Simon walked down the stairs, grumbling to himself, and looked out the window.  
His heart lurched in his chest.  
A red Ford Aerostar minivan sat in the driveway. Specifically, the van he had given Conmager.  
The doorbell rang again.  
Simon clutched at the railing to keep from falling. Part of his mind told him to run to the attic and hide. Still another part told him to ignore the doorbell until it went away. The doorbell rang once more, and someone started knocking on the door.  
Simon walked to the front door. Sweat beaded on his forehead and slithered down his back. He gripped the doorknob and closed his eyes to gather his courage, then turned the knob and yanked the door open.  
A man in a dark suit and black overcoat stood on the doormat, gloved hand raised to knock. The man's clean-shaven face was lined and thin beneath slicked-back dark hair, with glittering, deep eyes.  
"Conmager?" said Simon. "Is that you?"  
Conmager nodded. "Yes, Simon Wester. I need your help."

***
Chapter 12 - The Crimson Plain

Year of the Councils 962

The gray bleak plain stretched unending in all directions.

"There," said Sir Liam Mastere, his voice dry from thirst. "We can stop here."

The old Knight staggered towards a ring of eroded boulders. The straps of his harness dug into his shoulders with every step, his swords thumping against his legs. He staggered into the ring and lifted the toddler from the harness.

Liam looked at the child. "You're too young for these rigors."

Lithon Scepteris, King of Carlisan, burbled something incoherent.

Liam sat with a groan, his joints aching. "And I'm too tired. And too damned old." He set the child down. Lithon stared at him for a moment, then started walking away from the ring.

Liam laughed. "Determined, aren't you?" He caught the boy as he tried to wander away and set him against a rock. This time, the King stayed put

Liam slid off his pack and unhooked the waterskin from his belt. He dug through their meager food. "Three days worth." He thought they could make it to the Tower of Endless Worlds in another day, but how long would it take to travel through the Tower to Earth?

He didn't know. "A bitter irony. To have made it his far, yet to die of thirst and hunger on the Crimson Plain." He looked over the bleak grayness that surrounded him. "It doesn't look very crimson."

Liam pulled a piece of jerky from his pack and began to slice it up. Lithon burbled something, a recognizable word or two in the babble, and grabbed Liam's arm. Liam smiled and poured a bit of their water into the child's mouth. He fed and watered Lithon, and then wrapped the King in a blanket.

"Sleep," Liam whispered to his king. He leaned against the boulder and ate his meager supper.

He watched as the gray clouds dimmed with the sunset. For a brief time the sun's dying rays burned the clouds, bathing the dead plain in a bloody crimson glow. Perhaps the plain drew its name from the grim beauty of its sunsets.

Liam stood, drew his swords, and plunged them into the earth. The steel of his Sacred Blades flashed. Things wandered the Crimson Plain after dark, things that had slipped through the Tower from other worlds. Liam had seen strange footprints in the earth, had felt hostile eyes. He hoped the power in his Sacred Blades would keep any dangers at bay.

Liam sat back against his boulder and closed his eyes. He would rest only for a moment. He couldn't risk sleep. The life of Lithon Scepteris, King of Carlisan and the last of hope of the world, rested in his hands.

But the trials of the last year had drained Liam. He fell asleep within minutes.

###

They saw the Tower on the next day.

Liam had seen countless wonders and horrors in his sixty-four years. He had watched the master Wizards of the White Council work spells of awesome might. He had seen the great cities of Carlisan and Amnisos at the height of their glory and majesty. He had seen his world come to ruin and destruction. He had seen Carlisan burn, seen Alastarius, the last master of the White Council, ripped apart by Lord Marugon's winged demons.

But he had never seen anything like the Tower of Endless Worlds.

It rose out of the plain like a pillar of heaven, its dark crown hidden in the gray clouds. Countless windows, parapets, turrets, and strange statues studded its black sides. Its dark arches loomed like mountains, and its flying buttresses and balconies stood like the legs of a colossal spider.

"My gods," said Liam. "My gods."

Alastarius had told him that the Tower was part of all worlds and yet none, that it touched every world yet truly existed in none of them. Liam had thought such a description nonsense. Yet as he looked at the dark majesty of the Tower, he understood.

Lord Marugon, last of the Warlocks, had walked into that place and returned with guns and fire and death from Earth. Despite Liam's hatred for the Warlock, he could not help but admire his bravery.

For Marugon had walked into the Tower, braved its perils, and returned.

Liam wavered. He wanted to flee from the Tower, yet he had no choice but to go on. Marugon would never look for Lithon on distant Earth. And Alastarius had prophesied that Lithon was the world's last hope of defeating Marugon's guns and bombs.

"Alastarius," said Liam. "I wish that you were with us now." He reached back to rub Lithon's head. "Let us navigate the Tower, your Majesty, and see this Earth."

Liam set off for the great gates that loomed in the Tower's base. He estimated that it would take the better part of the day to reach those doors.

And then what?

Liam had to trust that he would find his way through the Tower. But how? Save for Marugon, no mortal man had set foot in the Tower for uncounted millennia. At least, no one had set foot within the Tower and returned.

"We'll deal with that later, your Majesty," said Liam. "Right now, we..."

A harsh laugh rang over the bleak plain.

Instinct took over Liam's mind. He slid his Sacred Blades from their scabbards, the blades glimmering with blue light. Liam dropped to a crouch, his eyes surveying the wastes.

The laugh rang out again, coming from behind a low ridge. Liam dropped and crawled along the rough ground, praying that Lithon wouldn't start crying. He reached the top of the ridge and peered over.

A group of five men stood in a shallow basin. They wore the black and crimson uniforms of Lord Marugon's soldiers, ragged from long travel. Each man had a Kalashnikov strapped over his back, a belt of ammunition, and a Glock at his waist. Rembiar had likely posted the gunmen here. Rembiar had been a traitor and a murderer, but he had not been a fool. If he had chased Liam from Carlisan to the Crimson Plain at the edge of the world, then he would have had the cunning to send some scouts ahead.

But it didn't matter. Rembiar was dead, and Liam could creep past his scouts. He would pass the gates of the Tower, and the soldiers would never know.

One of the gunmen stepped to the side, and Liam felt his eyes go wide.

A young girl stood in their midst, dressed in a ragged gray shift. She couldn't have been more than nine or ten years old. Dirt smudged her face and dark rings encircled her eyes. Liam had never seen eyes like that before, so old in such a young face. He wondered what horrors she had seen as Marugon's armies had swept across the nations.

"Damnation, Raul," said one of the soldiers. "This doesn't make sense. She just appeared out of nowhere. Nobody lives within three hundred miles of here, and there are monsters in this cursed place. What if she's one of them, wearing a human face? I say we let her go."

The soldier called Raul, a hulking brute of a man, laughed. "Stop whining like a woman. We all know that his Lordship," he made a sign to ward off evil, "runs caravans through the Tower. Maybe she's an escaped slave. She doesn't speak, and slaves don't speak."

The first soldier snorted. "Slaves don't talk because the winged demons cut out their tongues. She's got a tongue, she just doesn't talk. I don't like it. It's unnatural. I say we push her out the camp and keep going. If she's a devil or something, I want no part of it."

Raul rolled his eyes, and then struck the girl with a vicious backhanded blow. She went flying to the dirt with a cry. Liam gritted his teeth.

"See?" said Raul. "Now, if she was a devil, would she have let me hit her like that? An escaped slave, I say, one that hadn't had her tongue pulled out yet. And the ghouls, you say? Perhaps she escaped from them, and found her way here."

"Nobody escapes from the ghouls," said the first soldier. "Fine. Keep her, then. What do you want with her? Food? She's a bit skinny for a proper meal."

Raul gave an incredulous stare. "Bah." He grinned and thrust his hips. "We haven't had women since that last village in Rindl." A slow burn of rage started in Liam's mind.

One of the other soldiers frowned. "Raul, she's just a child."

"So?" said Raul. "I've done old, and I've done young, and woman or girl, they're all the same when they're scared in the dark."

"Fine," said the first soldier. "After we eat. And you get first watch tonight."

Raul smirked. "If it will stop your whining."

Liam's fists clenched around his sword hilts. There were only five of them. He had surprise on his side. Yet one lucky shot would bring him down. And who would take the King to safety then?

"Arran," whispered Liam. "Why did you forsake me?" If only Arran were still here. The young Knight had been one of the finest swordsmen Liam had ever seen. Yet he had succumbed to temptation, taken up one of Marugon's hell-forged guns, and fallen into darkness.

"Damnation," said one the soldiers. "I may as well take second watch. I know I'll get no sleep with that," he waved a hand at the dark height of the Tower, "looming over."

"Aye," said another soldier, digging through his pack. "I'll not sleep well so long as we're on this cursed Plain." He pulled out a small white packet. "You've tried this? It's jerky from that other world, the one where his Lordship found the guns..."

Liam closed his eyes and rested his head against the ground. If only Arran were still here. The two of them could have taken these murderers with ease. Liam had to go. The fate of the world rested in his shoulder harness.

He started to crawl back down the ridge.

He heard Raul's raucous laughter. "And so there were three of them, right? You remember this? A mother and her two daughters? I've told this story before." He laughed again. "We took turns with them, but they all looked alike, so I couldn't tell..."

Liam changed his mind.

He reached back, undid his shoulder harness, and set Lithon on the ground. Liam put a finger to his lips and hoped the young King understood. More laughter rang from the soldiers' camp. Liam rose to a crouch, drew his swords, and jumped.

He sprang over the ridge and landed in the basin, his Sacred Blades whirling. The soldiers gaped in astonishment. Liam spun, his swords flashing. Two of the soldiers staggered to the earth, their throats slashed.

The nearest gunman screamed and grabbed for his weapon. Liam slashed off the soldier's wrist and thrust his other sword into his belly. Raul cursed and leveled his Kalashnikov. Liam whirled, the gunman still impaled on his blade, and shoved the dying man in the path of the bullets. Raul's fire shredded into the impaled soldier. Liam hopped back on one foot and kicked out. The corpse slid off his blade and crashed into Raul.

The little girl stood still, watching with solemn eyes.

Liam turned and attacked another soldier. His right sword smashed into the gunman's Kalashnikov, knocking loose the ammunition cartridge. The soldier roared and swung his weapon like a club, and Liam parried with contempt. Without their precious guns, these murderers made miserable fighters. Liam parried the blows with ease, and slashed his left sword. The soldier screamed when Liam's left blade ripped across his belly, and died as Liam's right sword plunged through his chest.

Liam spun and stared down the barrel of Raul's pistol.

"You old bastard Knight. You're the one we've been chasing," hissed Raul. "It looks as if I'll get the reward for your head. Tell me where the brat is, and I'll spare your sorry life."

"Brat?" said Liam. "That brat is Lithon Scepteris, the King of Carlisan and your rightful lord."

Raul sneered. "His father sentenced me to die for killing some whore. Lord Marugon set me free. He's my rightful lord. I think I'll just take your carcass back to Rembiar."

He squeezed the trigger, and Liam swept his right Sacred Blade in a high swing. The bullet collided with the blade and knocked the sword from Liam's grasp, and Liam lunged with his remaining weapon. Raul had time to scream before Liam's Sacred Blade found his heart. Liam twisted, Raul shuddered, and the soldier fell dead.

Silence fell over the Crimson Plain once more.

Liam stepped back, panting. His heart pounded in his chest. He was getting too old for this.

He snorted. He would have been too old for this twenty years ago.

"You dropped this."

Liam turned. The little girl stood behind him, the dropped Sacred Blade in her hands. "Yes, I did. Thank you."

The girl looked up at him with a blank, bony face and deep eyes. Liam had thought her in shock, or rendered mute by the recent horrors, but she did not seem unsettled. "You came."

"Did you see me?" Liam felt a stab of shame as he remembered his resolution to flee.

The girl nodded. "You were supposed to come."

Liam wiped his swords and slid them back into their scabbards. "Well, what's your name?"

"Ally," said the girl.

"I am Sir Liam Mastere, at your service," said Liam. "Do you have a family?"

Ally stared at him.

"How did you get here?"

The girl shrugged. "I don't remember."

"You don't?" said Liam. "I think you'll have to come with me. I can't leave you alone on the Crimson Plain." It would stretch his limited food and water further, but he had not rescued the girl only to abandon her to a slow death from thirst.

"I know," said Ally. "I should come with you."

Liam smiled. "It would be wise." He clambered back up the ridge, Ally following him, and picked up Lithon.

Ally brightened. "Who's that?"

"This?" said Liam. "This is Lithon Scepteris, King of Carlisan."

Ally's face crinkled. "He's just a toddler. He can't be king. Where's his mother and father?"

Liam looked at the ground. "They're dead."

"Oh," said Ally. "I'm sorry. Almost everyone's dead, aren't they?"

"Yes," said Liam.

"Where are we going?" said Ally.

Liam pointed at the dark bulk of the Tower.

Ally didn't blink. "Why?"

"Because," said Liam. "You know of the White Council?"

Ally nodded. "The Wizards."

"The greatest of them, Alastarius, gave me a prophecy," said Liam. "He told me that this child, this little King, would grow up to save our world from Lord Marugon and the gunmen." He jerked his head at the sprawled corpses. "Men like the ones who wanted to hurt you."

"Oh," said Ally. She thought for a moment. "That's a good thing."

Liam laughed. "Yes, I would say so."

"I'll come with you," said Ally. "You'll need help to take care of the baby."

"I will," said Liam. "I don't have much experience with children. It's nothing short of a miracle that I've managed to take care of him so long."

"Do you have children of your own?" said Ally.

Liam looked away. "No." He felt Ally's stare. "I...not anymore."

He remembered Princess Anna, screaming as the bullets plunged into her chest.

"I'm sorry," said Ally.

"Are you strong enough to walk?" said Liam, slinging Lithon over his back. Ally nodded. "Then we should..."

A gurgling laugh rose into the air.

Liam yanked out a Sacred Blade. "Get behind me!" Ally scurried behind his legs. One of the soldiers crawled across the ground, staring up at him. Liam's strike hadn't killed him.

"I'll give you the mercy of death," said Liam, "but it's more than you deserve."

The soldier managed another laugh, blood dripping from his wounds. "You old bastard. You don't know. I heard you. You're going to the Tower. You'll die."

"I think not," said Liam.

The gunman whimpered. "You'll see. There are ghouls out at night, I've seen them. Ghouls and worse things."

"Hardly my concern," said Liam. "I shall reach the Tower before nightfall."

The gunman snorted. "They come from the Tower, old bastard. And lots of other things come out of the Tower. Winged things, things that crawl, things that dig, things with a thousand legs and nine eyes." He began to shudder, tears beading in his eyes. "They come out of the Tower. You'll see. Kill me, kill me, please, don't leave me for them..."

Liam's sword stabbed down and put the soldier out of his misery. Lithon began to cry, and Ally stared up at him with her deep dark eyes.

"Are you sure you're all right?" said Liam.

Ally nodded.

"Then let's go," said Liam. He looked at the sky, dim even at noon. "We'll want to reach the Tower's gates before dark."

###

"Almost there," said Liam. "We're almost there."

Ally said nothing. She had not spoken more than a dozen words in the last five hours. Liam wondered what horrors the young child had seen.

He could well guess.

He looked up at the horizon. The Tower filled the sky, its arched black windows like eyes into an endless void. Statues of gargoyles, imps, demons, angels, griffins, devils, dragons, and countless other creatures stood on its parapets and flying buttresses. Liam could not shake the feeling that they watched him.

He shuddered and looked away. Lithon was a small child, but his weight dug into Liam's shoulders and back. He wiped more sweat from his brow with trembling fingers.

He was an old man. An old man, and an exhausted one. How much longer would his strength last?

"Almost there," he repeated, more to himself than Ally.

Ally said nothing.

He saw a vast arched opening, a hundred feet tall, at the base of the Tower. A broad flight of black granite stairs led up to the door. Liam and Ally started up the steps, Liam's worn boots clicking against the cold stone. Ally's bare feet made not a whisper of sound.

"Once inside, we'll stop for some food and water," said Liam. "We can rest a bit, and then..."

A piercing wail rose from the grim plains. Liam turned, his Sacred Blades flashing into his hands. Another howling wail rose up, followed by three more.

"What in the name of the gods is that?" said Liam.

Ally looked at him. "The ghouls."

It was almost full dark. A faint green radiance shone from the windows and the parapets of the Tower. Another hideous wail pierced the night. Liam glimpsed dark shapes writhing at the base of the steps.

Ally blinked. "I think we should run."

Liam whirled and tore up the steps to the great door, Ally keeping pace besides him. Liam risked a glance over his shoulder. Dark shapes loped their way up the stairs. In the dim light, he could not make out details, but what he saw chilled him.

"Hurry!" said Liam.

They sprinted through the gates.

***
Chapter 13 - The Door To The Tower

Anno Domini 2003  
Simon could not believe that Conmager stood upon his porch.  
Yet there he was. Conmager looked healthier, less desperate than the wild-eyed man Simon had met six months ago.  
Simon shook his head. "I was sure they would kill you."  
Conmager's thin lips twitched. "They almost did. So, I did the only thing I could do. I came back to Chicago."  
Simon sputtered. "What? You...came back here, with those things chasing you? Are you insane?"  
"Quite probably," said Conmager. "But I was a thief and a highwayman before the Master took me as one of his apprentices. Sometimes the only way to throw off the hunters is to go to the place of the greatest danger." He shrugged. "This city is the place of the greatest danger for me. So they do not search for me here. Instead, they seek for me in the great city of angels."  
Simon frowned. "You mean LA?"  
Conmager nodded. "Yes. Los Angeles. They look for me there, amongst its teeming crowds." He grinned. "They will not find me there."  
Simon hissed. "Get in here. I don't want anyone to see you." He grabbed Conmager's arm and pulled him inside.  
"You are right," said Conmager, brushing snow from his sleeves. Simon slammed the door and locked it. "I can only stay for a brief time."  
"I won't stop you," said Simon. "Why are you here at all? I told you to go and never come back."  
"I must see something," said Conmager. "Get your coat."  
"My coat?" said Simon. "I'm not going anywhere."  
"Quite true," said Conmager. "We are just going to the trees behind your house. However, it is cold. You will want your coat."  
Simon spread his hands. "Fine, fine. I'll get my coat." Simon pulled his coat from the hall closet and wrapped it around him. "Let me get my boots quick. They're upstairs."  
Conmager nodded. "As you wish. Hurry, though. I am pressed for time."  
Simon hurried upstairs. He looked at the phone on the table at the end of the hall. He could call the police. Conmager would never know until they arrived. Simon bit his lip, doubt and hesitation battling within him. Why had Conmager come back?  
The memory winged thing crashed through his mind. No matter what theories or explanations he devised about Conmager, they all foundered on his memory of the winged creature. He could not explain that. Simon retrieved his boots from his room, shoved them on his feet, and stomped back downstairs.  
Conmager leaned against the wall, staring into the shadowy dining room. If he knew of Simon's doubt, his face gave no indication. "Ready?"  
"Yeah." Simon scratched his chin. "I don't understand. What could you possibly want to see in the woods?"  
A sad half-smile tugged at Conmager's lips. "I do not understand myself, Simon Wester of Chicago. Let us go and see."  
Simon led him through the kitchen and out the back door. He flipped on the porch light, its glow playing over the snow-filled driveway. Simon would have to shovel the drive again tomorrow, assuming Conmager didn't get him killed.  
"There," said Conmager, his voice a scratchy whisper. "There."  
"What is it?" said Simon.  
"It is as I thought," said Conmager. "Those woods. How long have they stood there?"  
Simon blinked. "The trees? You want to know how old the woods are? Don't tell me you came here to ask about the trees behind my backyard."  
Conmager grabbed his arm. "It is important."  
Simon slid away from his grip. "Fine. The trees are...old. I don't know for sure how old. I think they're old growth, some of the forest left over from pre-Columbian America." He shrugged. "All I know for sure is that they're older than the city."  
"Older than the city," said Conmager. "And how old is the city?"  
"About a hundred and fifty years old, more or less," said Simon.  
Conmager shook his head. "A century and a half. The great cities of my world...my nation were a thousand years old. Yet they are tiny compared to Chicago and the city of angels and the Isle of Manhattan. A young country, this is. And yet so vast."  
"Fascinating," said Simon, "but this is neither the time nor the place for a lengthy historical discussion. What's so important about the trees?"  
"I am almost sure." Conmager started down the porch steps. "Come with me."  
"What?" said Simon. He followed Conmager, grabbing at the railing to keep from slipping. "I am not tramping through the woods in twenty degree weather during a snowstorm." Conmager marched into the backyard, floundering through the snow. Simon growled, cursed himself as a fool, and followed Conmager.  
The light from the porch faded as they drew closer to the trees, but the dim city glow reflecting off the snow provided enough light to see. Conmager started down the steep slope to the trees, snow slipping and sliding past his shoes. Simon found his own path down the slope, grabbing at the ground for purchase.  
"You mind telling me what you're looking for?" said Simon.  
Conmager stopped at the edge of the trees. "As I have said, I do not know. But it is close." He strode down a narrow, snow-choked path between the thick old trunks. Simon followed, clutching at the trunks and branches to keep his balance.  
Shadows lay over the old woods, mingling with gleaming white snow. Patches of the purple night sky showed between the tangled branches. Simon floundered along, the cold air biting at his nose. He wished he had brought a hat.  
The path ended in a clearing, and Conmager stopped, staring at the ground. Simon almost crashed into him. "What? What is it? Did you find...it, whatever it is?"  
Conmager raised his eyes and gazed into the clearing. His breath rose in short puffs. "Can you not see it?"  
Simon looked back and forth. He saw nothing but bare trees and snowy ground. "See what?"  
"The door," said Conmager. "Ah, I was right. The Master was right. How much did he know? How much could he have known? But he had the gift of Prophecy, of foreseeing."  
"What are you talking about?" said Simon.  
"Can you not see it?" said Conmager, gesturing at the empty air.  
Simon almost screamed in frustration. "I can't see a thing. What were saying before? Something about a door? Oh, I get it. You must be one of those UFO cultists or something. Let me guess. The door's going to open, and it'll take you up to a spaceship, and then you'll get seventy-two virgins or something for all eternity?"  
Conmager blinked. "Not to my knowledge, no." He snapped his gloved fingers. "But I forget. You cannot see it. You have not the gift. I shall try to make things more...visible for you."  
He stepped forward and raised his arms, head lowered. His fingers traced odd patterns in the air, and he mumbled a long string of phrases. Simon stared at him. Was this some bizarre joke?  
"This is ridiculous," said Simon. "I'm going back..."  
A pale white light bathed the clearing, seeming to spring from the earth.  
Simon gaped.  
A dark square appeared in the center of the clearing. Simon could see the trees through it, yet it seemed solid and real. It looked like a massive door built from green-veined black marble. Odd symbols had been carved in patterns across the stone door, and a faint light shimmered and sparked around its edges. Conmager smacked his hands together, and the door flickered and vanished.  
"What...what...what was that?" said Simon, tongue tangling around his teeth.  
Conmager wiped sweat from his brow. "Exhausting."  
"What? No, the thing that looked like a door," said Simon. "What was that?"  
"A door," said Conmager.  
"To where?" said Simon.  
Conmager stared at the empty snow. "A door to the Tower."  
"The Tower?" said Simon. He blinked in confusion. "What Tower? You don't mean the Sears Tower or something?"  
"No," said Conmager. "The Tower of Endless Worlds. The Master was right. Indeed, I saw it with my own eyes when I followed the caravan through the Tower's perils. The gallery ended in five doors. Wycliffe only uses one. The other doors have to open somewhere."  
Simon shook his head. "This has to be a scam of some sort. That's the only explanation. That...that door was a hologram or something. Next you'll want all my credit card numbers and the numbers to my bank account."  
Conmager didn't blink. "You saw the winged one. Explain how that is a scam."  
The memory of the winged thing surged through him, and a ghost of the fear tugged at his stomach.  
"You know I am not lying to you," said Conmager, his voice quiet. "I have not told you everything, it is true, but neither have I told you lies."  
Simon stared into the woods. He thought of the day, months ago, when he had seen Conmager hiding in the parking lot behind Katrina's building. "I've tried to convince myself a thousand times that you're a con artist. I've almost done it, too. But I keep remembering the winged thing."  
"Those who see the winged ones do not easily forget them," said Conmager.  
Simon snorted. "Yeah, I can agree." He waved his hand at the empty clearing. "So, you said you wanted to see something, right? Well, you've seen it. Now what?"  
Conmager sighed, his breath rolling up from his mouth. "Simon Wester. I must ask a favor of you."  
Simon flinched. "What?"  
Conmager's eyes were solemn. "It is of vast importance. The fate of many lives may hinge on this."  
Simon took a step back. "It's my van you're driving around the country. I already took a huge risk helping you before. I can't do so again."  
"You must," said Conmager. "If you do not, millions of people may die."  
Simon glared. "Maybe, but you haven't told me much, have you? Never told me a lie, but not all the truth? Then you can tell me more, if you want my help."  
Conmager slumped. "Perhaps you are right."  
"Let's go back in, at least," said Simon. "It's freezing out here."  
"Might I beg some food of you?" said Conmager. "I have not had the opportunity to eat today."  
"I'll cook something," said Simon.

###

Simon hit the power button on the microwave. "You don't look as starved as you did, but you still look half a famine victim."  
Conmager sat the kitchen table with a sigh. "I had not eaten well for years before I came to your nation. Truly, Simon Wester, your nation is a land of bounty."  
"It is." The microwave beeped, and Simon pulled out a bowl of beef stew and set it before Conmager. "Here. Eat up. There's more in the fridge."  
"Thank you." Conmager took his spoon and attacked the stew.  
Simon watched him. "Now. Why should I help you?"  
Conmager took a long drink of water. "I told you I had come from a distant nation. Do you remember?" Simon nodded. "That was true. I did come from a far nation. I did not tell you quite how far, though."  
"So where did you come from?" said Simon.  
"I was born in the city of Carlisan, greatest of the seven High Kingdoms," said Conmager, "though I was of little birth, and survived as a thief and a highwayman in my youth and young manhood."  
Simon took a bowl of leftover noodles from the fridge and sat down. "I thought you seemed like a con artist."  
Conmager half-smiled. "I had a shadowy youth, but it has served me well. I learned much of men and their hearts and their ways. Nations and customs may differ, but men are often greedy and stupid, no matter where you go. This knowledge that has enabled me to survive in your strange land. But I digress. Carlisan is a farther nation than you know."  
"Where is it?" said Simon. "I've never heard of it. Some place in Africa?"  
Conmager shook his head. "No. It...is on another world, Simon Wester."  
"Another world?" said Simon.  
"Another world, one so far that the distances cannot be reckoned," said Conmager.  
"Another world. Right," said Simon. "And how did you get here? Flying saucer? Rocket ship? Hitch a ride on the Starship Enterprise?"  
"No," said Conmager. "I, and others far darker, found our way to your world, to Earth, through the Tower of Endless Worlds."  
Simon tried to laugh, but Conmager looked so serious. "What is that? It sounds like a Japanese theme park."  
Conmager shook his head. "It stands far northwest of Carlisan, on a great expanse of ghoul-haunted wasteland called the Crimson Plain. It is a long journey to reach the Tower. One must pass through the lands of Narramore, then through the great forest of northern Rindl. Then the road goes over the Mountains of Rindl, across the whispering ruins of the Forgotten Vales, and through the canyons and cliffs of the Broken Mountains." His eyes were distant, as if seeing old memories. "And then there is the Crimson Plain, with the ghouls and the wraiths that haunt it after dark." His voice dropped to a trembling whisper. "And then the Tower, in all its horrible glory, like the black finger of a marble god. It is huge, Simon Wester, greater than even the mightiest skyscraper of Chicago or the city of angels. And terrible. So terrible."  
Simon leaned forward, intrigued despite himself. "Sounds like this Tower affected you."  
Conmager scooped up another spoonful of stew. "I have a good memory, but even I forget things from time to time. Yet I cannot forget the Tower. I cannot. It is etched into my mind, every buttress, every arch, every statue. It is...not something that mortal eyes should ever see."  
"Okay," said Simon. "Okay. So you got here through this Tower thing. Why did you come?"  
Conmager fiddled with the spoon. "Because I had no other choice."  
"Ah," said Simon. "That clears things up."  
Conmager pierced him with a stare. "You must understand. My world is different from yours. In your world technology and science reign supreme. This technology is a two-edged sword, I think. It has done much good, from what I have seen. It has destroyed many diseases, and the people of your nation are taller and stronger and live longer. Yet it has done great evil. I have seen much evil here, and I have read about worse things done. In my world, it is different."  
Simon snorted. "I suppose your world's some sort of anti-technology Luddite utopia?"  
Conmager frowned. "I do not know what that is. My world does not have the technology, the machines, the industries. We live...we lived, rather, in a different time, the way your ancestors might have lived eight or nine hundred years past. Peasants farm the fields and live in their villages. The lords and the kings rule from their castles. The Knights fight against the darkness and guard the High Kingdoms, while the Wizards keep the dark forces at bay. At least, that was the way it was."  
"Right," said Simon, his doubt growing. "The High Kingdoms are guarded by the Knights and the Wizards and so forth. You go to the bookstore and discover fantasy novels?"  
Conmager scowled. "I am pressed for time, and I doubt anything I say can convince you. I will be brief. Several years ago the High Kingdoms and the White Council embarked on a war to destroy the Black Council."  
"The what?" said Simon, his skepticism growing with every word.  
"The Black Council of the Warlocks, masters of the black magic," said Conmager. "The war went well. The Warlocks were killed, all save for one, Lord Marugon of the Wastes. He fled to the Tower of Endless Worlds and escaped. The White Council thought him dead. No one who had ever entered the Tower returned."  
Simon arched his eyebrows, his opinion vacillating between doubt and amusement. He had seen the winged thing, but Conmager's story seemed ludicrous. Had Conmager's encounter with the things unseated his mind? "Okay, then. Sure. What happened to this Marugon fellow?"  
"He passed through the Tower and came to your world, to Earth," said Conmager. "The door he chose opened into the cheap apartment of an obscure scholar." His eyes flashed. "You may have heard of him. His name is Thomas Wycliffe."  
Simon shuddered. "Wycliffe? He knows this Marugon?"  
"I do not know what happened next," said Conmager. "As far as I can determine, Marugon made a deal with Wycliffe. Marugon would give Wycliffe gold in large quantities." Simon remembered that Wycliffe had made a lot of money in commodities exchanges. Gold had been one of the things he had bought and sold. "With the gold, Wycliffe would purchase guns, food, uniforms, ammunition, and other things of the sort needed by an army. He would send them through the Tower." He leaned closer. "That huge compound where you work? Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping is a farce, a façade over a rotten core. That compound supports Marugon's army."  
Simon tried to hide his unease. "Then Wycliffe's an interplanetary gunrunner, right? Is that what you're saying?"  
Conmager didn't blink. "Yes. Marugon's soldiers stormed across my world. The Knights and the Wizards were valiant. Yet, tell me, what good are a sword or a spell against a bullet? Marugon's armies ripped through the High Kingdoms. I saw the cities burn. I saw peasants slaughtered by the thousands." His voice trembled. "I saw my Master in the courtyard of Castle Bastion, thrown down by treachery and Marugon's spells. The lord of the winged ones ripped out his heart."  
"What did Wycliffe get out of all this?" said Simon.  
Conmager snorted. "What do you think? Wycliffe wanted power, and Marugon gave it to him. Marugon taught him the ways of the black magic. How do you think Wycliffe has risen so far and so fast? There is no one in your world who practices magic, either white or black." He paused. "I see that you do not believe me."  
Simon shrugged. "I don't. Something's going on...I saw the winged thing, remember. And I saw that stone door in the clearing. But this is a wild story. A fanciful tale. It defies belief."  
"That is understandable," said Conmager. "In your place, I do not think I would believe it. But you will, soon." He looked grim. "A storm is coming. And that is why I must ask something of you."  
"What?" said Simon.  
"Someone will come through the door in the woods," said Conmager.  
Simon recalled his mother's complaints of strange noises in the woods. "Who?"  
"If my hopes are fulfilled, two men and a small child," said Conmager. He stood and stared into Simon's eyes. "Watch for them, I beg of you. I know you do not believe me. That is fine. But watch for the two men, one old, one young, and the child who may appear in the woods. It is vital that they be kept safe."  
"Friends of yours?" said Simon.  
"No," said Conmager. "I have never met them, if you wish to know. But they must be kept safe." His hands clenched. "The winged ones are hunting them."  
Simon felt a chill. "They are?"  
Conmager nodded. "Five of the Tower's doors open into this city and its environs. I have made other friends in my time since I have come to your world, Simon Wester. They have agreed to watch three of the doors. Yours is the fourth." He smiled. "It is a fortunate coincidence that the fourth door stands in your backyard. Too fortunate, no? Perhaps some other power guides our actions."  
"Where is the fifth door?" said Simon.  
"It is the door Marugon used," said Conmager. "It is Wycliffe's door. It once opened into his apartment, and now it opens into the warehouse complex he built over the apartment building. I pray the men and the child do not choose that door." He looked at Simon. "You will watch for them?"  
Simon shrugged. "I'll...do what I can, I guess. It's not as if I can sit in the backyard with a pair of binoculars."  
Conmager half-smiled again. "You will not need them. If the door to the Tower of Endless Worlds in your backyard opens, believe me, you will know." He looked out the window and frowned. "I must go. I thank you for the food, Simon Wester, and for the aid you have given me, and the aid you have promised."  
Simon stood, his eyes on the strange, thin man. "You...well, you take care."  
Conmager nodded. "I shall." He extended his hand, and Simon gave it a quick shake. Conmager turned and ducked out the back door, hurrying towards the red van. Simon shut the back door, locked it, and walked to the front windows.  
"Oh, damn." Katrina's old Volkswagen Beetle pulled up to the curb as Conmager backed into the street. The red van accelerated away, as Katrina pulled into the driveway, her lights winking off. Had Katrina seen the red van? Simon tried to think up some plausible excuse.  
The doorbell rang, and Simon took a deep breath and opened the door.  
Katrina stood on the doormat, brushing snow from her jacket. "College boy. You really need to shovel some of that snow off your roof."  
"Ah," said Simon. "Sorry about that." He reached for her coat.  
"No, don't bother," said Katrina. "I want to leave soon." She shook her head. "I must have your van on the brain."  
Simon started up the stairs, Katrina following. "Why is that?"  
"I saw a red Ford Aerostar backing out of your driveway," she said. "Thought it was yours for a minute." She grinned. "It wasn't, was it? You look guilty."  
"Um...no," said Simon. "It was one of my mom's friends from church." He went into his room, flipped on the light, and scooped up his shoes and jacket from the floor. "She left some pans at church. I was supposed to go pick them up." He pulled on his shoes. "I guess I forgot."  
Katrina looked at the bookshelves. "You do read a lot, don't you?"  
"What?" Simon realized he had never taken Katrina into his room before. "It's a necessity when researching a dissertation. Still, this is nothing. You should see my advisor Dr. Francis's office. It looks like the Bookmobile crashed through her wall."  
"That so?" said Katrina. She looked over the books, and Simon stifled a sigh of relief. The red van had passed from her mind.  
He only wished he could forget so easily.

***
Chapter 14 - An Engagement

Anno Domini 2003

The alarm clock went off at quarter to six. Simon groaned, slapped the clock until it shut up, and climbed to his feet. "Stupid daylight savings time." It had been over a month and he still missed the extra hour of sleep. Simon dropped down into his desk chair, flipped on his desk light, and settle down to get some work done. With luck, he could get a few pages done in the dissertation before he went to work.

Simon blinked in confusion.

His desk was empty. His laptop was gone and his piled books and articles had vanished. Had someone stolen his research?

Then the memory returned, and he began to laugh.

His laptop was missing and his research was gone because he was finished. He had presented his completed dissertation to Dr. Francis and the committee yesterday afternoon.

They had liked it.

In two weeks Simon would graduate with a doctorate in Greco-Roman history. He, Katrina, his mother, and Mrs. Coldridge had all gone out to celebrate last night.

Simon grinned. That wasn't all they had to celebrate, though Maura and Mrs. Coldridge didn't know it yet. He set his alarm to eight and flopped back into bed. For now, he would celebrate by sleeping late, the first time he had done that in years.

It was glorious.

###

"Morning, Mr. Markham," said Simon.

"Good morning, Mr. Wester," said Markham, lounging in a chair with a pastry and a cup of coffee. Simon could not recall ever seeing him do actual work. "In a bit late today. Everything okay?"

Simon smiled. "I had to drop my mother off at O'Hare. She's going down to Florida to visit my aunts, and traffic was bad on the way back."

"Excuse me," said a rough voice.

Simon turned. A dock worker in a grimy coverall stood behind him, pushing a handcart laden with boxes.

"Sorry." Simon stepped aside, and the worker grunted and pushed the cart into the office hallway. "Do you know what's up? They've got a dozen guys cleaning out the front lot. I've been here a year, and that's the first time I've ever seen that happen."

Markham laughed. "You're out of touch."

Simon shrugged and thought of Katrina. "I have a good excuse, at least."

Markham smiled. "Senator Wycliffe's meeting with some of his business partners here this week. His Russian partners are flying in from Moscow..."

Simon frowned. "You mean Demeko-Kurkov?"

"Yes, but Mr. Demeko died in an accident two years ago. Now Mr. Kurkov runs the firm, though it still keeps the old name. Mr. Kurkov and his associates are arriving today. The Senator went to meet them at the airport. The main event's coming soon, though. The Senator's biggest partner is arriving."

Simon scratched his chin. "I thought Demeko-Kurkov was Senator Wycliffe's biggest partner."

"No. The Senator does a lot of business with an Eastern European billionaire."

Simon blinked. "Eastern European billionaire? That's fairly vague, isn't it?"

Markham shrugged. "I couldn't tell you more. He's not fairly well known, even within the company. I don't even know if he's Albanian, Romanian, or what. Rumor is that he made his fortune in commodities exchanges, as did the Senator. It's the first time he's come to America for almost ten years. So the Senator wants everything perfect for his visit."

Simon put his hands in his pockets. "Well, he does like everything perfect, doesn't he?"

"Quite true." Markham glanced at his cell phone. "Oh, and Mr. Wester?"

Simon turned, one foot in the hallway. "Yeah?"

Markham grinned. "Congratulations on your engagement."

"What? Oh, yes. Thanks." Simon grinned back and started down the hallway to his office. He and Katrina had only made up their minds two days ago, the day before his dissertation had gone before the committee. He still hadn't told his mother. He would have quite a surprise for her once she got back from Florida. Though somehow everyone in Wycliffe's office knew already.

In the space of two days, his dissertation had been accepted and he had gotten engaged.

It had been quite a week.

He heard voices coming from inside the lounge. A tall, pale man in black jeans and a leather jacket stepped into the hallway. Sunken gray eyes glittered in his pale face, and beard stubble shaded his chin. He looked at Simon with a narrow-eyed glance.

"Warehouse 13A was once my apartment building, you know," said a familiar voice. Senator Wycliffe walked into the hall, followed by a short little bald man in an ugly brown suit. "After I started Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping to provide my customers with some of their, ah, larger orders, I bought the building and all the real estate for several blocks around. I had the apartments torn down and these buildings put up..." He stopped and followed the pale man's gaze. "Ah, Mr. Wester. Good to see you!"

"Senator," said Simon. He felt uncomfortable under the tall stranger's steely eyes.

Wycliffe grinned. "Why am I always the last to hear?"

Simon blinked. "Hear what?"

Wycliffe snorted. "About the engagement, Mr. Wester. Congratulations are in order, I must say."

Simon laughed. "Thank you, sir."

"You are a spy?" said the pale man. He had a heavy Russian accent. "You were listening to us?"

Simon frowned. "No. I was just going to my office."

"Vasily." Wycliffe laid a hand on the pale man's shoulder. "This is my speechwriter." He smiled. "Simon Wester, might I introduce Vasily Kurkov, my good friend and business partner?"

Kurkov extended his hand and smiled, but his gray eyes remained icy cold. "A pleasure, Mr. Wester."

"Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping has done quite a bit of business with Demeko-Kurkov over the years," said Wycliffe. "The Russian economy has been consistently bad since the collapse of the Soviet Union, but Demeko-Kurkov remains one of the bright spots."

Kurkov's lips twitched. "You are very generous, Thomas. Demeko-Kurkov does well because of your contracts. Very lucrative"

"Well, I do try," said Wycliffe.

The little bald man cleared his throat.

"Oh, excuse me," said Wycliffe. "This is Dr. Krastiny, head of security for Demeko-Kurkov."

Kurkov snorted. "And a ruthless mother hen. He thinks I cannot travel anywhere without him to hold my hand." Krastiny smiled and shook Simon's hand. "You see, we were in the army together. I was a lieutenant, and Dr. Krastiny was a captain. So now that he works for me, he still thinks he can order me around."

Krastiny chuckled. "Someone has to keep your head on straight, Vasily." His gravelly voice had only a trace of a Russian accent. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wester."

Wycliffe snapped his fingers. "That reminds me. Our Mr. Wester, in addition to getting engaged, is soon to become Dr. Wester."

"Really?" said Krastiny. "And what was your doctorate in, might I ask?"

"Greco-Roman history," said Simon. Kurkov snorted.

Krastiny gave his boss a glance. "Good, good. Not enough people are interested in the past these days. Mathematics and physics were the kings of the twentieth century, and they've brought us nothing more than an astonishing variety of horrendously destructive weapons. Hopefully, in the twenty-first, we'll have a more enlightened sensibility."

Kurkov snorted. "You will babble like this for hours if I didn't give you work."

Wycliffe laughed. "Dr. Krastiny and I have the most delightful discussions."

"You're a historian?" said Simon.

"First I was an army surgeon," said Krastiny. "After I got out of the army, I went to the University of Moscow. My dissertation was on Catherine the Great." He laughed. "Of course, this was the seventies, and Brezhnev was in charge. I had to write about Catherine as the bourgeoisie oppressor of the suffering proletariat masses and Pugachev as a hero of the people. Utter bull. Of course, the department head bought into it hook, line, and sinker, as you say in this country." He smiled. "It is much easier in America, especially for liberals. Had your academics lived in the Soviet Union, the KGB would have encouraged them to take up permanent residence in Siberia."

Wycliffe cleared his throat. "If you'll excuse us, Dr. Krastiny, we need to continue our tour. Quite a few preparations have to be made yet."

Kurkov laughed, a short, harsh sound. "Dr. Krastiny will prattle like this for hours if you let him."

Dr. Krastiny rolled his eyes. "Someone needs to educate the ignorant. Carry on, Senator." He smiled and shook Simon's hand again. "A pleasure meeting you. Congratulations on your degree, and your engagement, of course."

"Thank you," said Simon.

"Again, congratulations, Wester." Wycliffe continued on his way. Kurkov brushed past Simon without a glance. Dr. Krastiny chuckled and followed them.

Simon watched the three men leave. They were all so genial, so polite, except perhaps for Kurkov. Yet he remembered Conmager's story. Did they know about the winged creatures? Conmager claimed that Wycliffe sold guns. Did he buy them from Kurkov's company?

No matter. Once Simon began teaching at Constantina, he could leave this job, and never think about Wycliffe or the winged creature again.

His coffee had gotten cold. Simon unlocked his office door and let himself inside.

Katrina stood over his desk, eyes on his computer monitor, her hands flying over the keyboard.

"Good morning," said Simon, setting the lukewarm coffee on his desk.

Katrina smiled. "And good morning to you as well, college boy. Or do I have to call you Dr. Simon goddamn Wester now, hmm?"

"Just Simon will do, thanks." He settled into his chair, his arm brushing her hip on the way down. "Waiting for me?"

Katrina snorted. "Don't flatter yourself, Dr. College Boy. Your computer's database client needed an upgrade."

Simon put his hand on the small of her back. "Isn't that the sort of thing you can farm out to your staff?"

"Well, yes. But sometimes it's best to do these things manually. And if I ran into you, well, I suppose I could live with that."

Simon kneaded the muscles of her back with his fingers. "I suppose. How long will this take?"

"About fifteen minutes, I think," said Katrina.

Simon groaned. "I have work I need to do on this thing."

"Well." Katrina smirked at him, and his heart beat faster. "You have some time to kill, don't you?" She settled on his lap and hooked her arms around his neck.

"Um...I'd say so, yes..." Katrina cut him off with a long kiss. The way she felt, a strange mixture of soft skin and taut muscle, always enticed him. Katrina pulled away from the kiss, an odd little smile on her lips.

"Is our first time going to be in this office chair?"

"You wish, college boy," said Katrina. She slid off his chair and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. "But since I think we'd both prefer not to get fired, I'll see you at lunch."

"In the lounge," said Simon.

Katrina frowned. "Let's go out."

Simon grunted. "How come?"

"It's a madhouse around here. The boss and his partners are marching back and forth." She scowled. "Have you seen that one Russian guy, black leather jacket, looks like Eurotrash with a bad haircut?"

Simon chuckled. "Vasily Kurkov. He's a millionaire, you know."

"I don't give a shit," said Katrina. "Guy looks like he's a serial killer. And Wycliffe's big partner is coming in tonight or tomorrow, this Romanian billionaire that no one knows about."

"I heard he was Albanian," said Simon.

"So what?" said Katrina. "Those slouching security guys are everywhere." Katrina shook her head. "Goddamn. Between them and Kurkov, it looks like a psychopath convention around here."

Simon shook his head. "I didn't notice. But I've been so busy. So has everyone else, from the look of things. The trucks are going night and day now."

She crossed her arms and paced back and forth. "It's a good thing you're getting that university job. This is becoming less and less a good place to work."

Simon blinked in astonishment. "You're thinking about quitting?" Katrina had been ferocious about keeping her job. He suspected it represented her independence. "What will you do then? Raise the kids?"

Katrina gave him a look. "Don't be stupid." She had been just as adamant about her lack of desire to have children. Simon found that he agreed with her. He didn't think he would do make a very good father. "Maybe I should go back to school. Have you for a teacher?" She grinned. "Just think of how jealous the other teachers will be. You could be having sex one of your female students and getting away with it."

"Um," said Simon, "but why do you want to quit?"

"I don't really know," said Katrina. "Not to sit at home and watch soap operas, if that's what you think."

"It isn't," Simon hastened to say.

"It's...I don't know, I just like it here less and less," said Katrina. "All those top secret warehouses that are guarded all the time. 13A, for example. What's he got in there? What needs to be so secret?"

Simon thought of Conmager's stories of gun-running and said nothing.

"And all those rumors about Senator Wycliffe," said Katrina. Simon opened his mouth. "Yes, yes, you've given me the damn speech about politicians before. But what if some of those rumors are true? Something had to start them. That's what I think. I may not be Dr. Simon goddamn Wester, but that's what I think."

"Okay," said Simon. "I can't tell you what to do, or what to think."

Katrina smirked. "Just keep that in mind."

Simon spread his hands. "But if that's what you want to do, then I'll support you."

Katrina smiled. "I'll see you at lunch, then. I'm buying." She turned and walked out of his office, a marked sway in her hips.

Simon stared at the door for several minutes after she left.

###

Simon sat on the couch, bored.

He had no homework. His dissertation was finished. He had no student papers to correct, nor any homework to grade. He didn't even have any extra work to do for Senator Wycliffe.

Simon grunted. "This is going to take some getting used to." He didn't know what to do with himself. Maura was in Florida and Katrina was doing something tonight with her mother and her friends. He suspected it was a bachelorette party. He knew better than to pry.

"Maybe I should rent a movie or something." Simon got to his feet and headed to the phone. He decided to order pizza, something he hadn't done in ages.

The phone rang, and Simon snatched it up in relief. "Hello?"

"Hey, college boy, it's me."

Simon leaned against the wall. "I though you were going out with your mother tonight."

"So was I," said Katrina, "but she's not feeling up to it. Too tired, I guess. We'll do it later." She sounded both annoyed and worried. "So what are you up to?"

"Oh, a lot of things," said Simon. "I've got quite an evening planned."

"You've got nothing."

Simon sighed. "Yeah."

"And that's why you'd be hopeless without me," said Katrina. "You'd spend all your time in your mother's basement reading history books."

Simon grunted. "I do not live in my mother's basement."

"Oh, just down her hall then, right?"

Simon rolled his eyes. "You're in tart mood."

"Tart? What the hell is that? A tart's something you stick in the toaster. Anyway, mind if I come over? Mom's not pleasant company right now."

"Sure," said Simon. "I was going to order pizza..."

"Sounds good. Why don't you call it in, and I'll pick it up on the way over?"

"You already bought me lunch," said Simon.

"And you can buy me supper," said Katrina. "You pay me when I come over. It's not rocket science, Dr. Simon goddamn Wester. It's not even history."

"Funny," said Simon. "If you want to get a movie or something, I'll pay for it too. It's pretty quiet over here."

"Oh, that's right," said Katrina. "Your mom's in Florida, isn't she?"

"Yup," said Simon. "Apparently my aunts are taking her to Disney World."

"So we'll have this nice big house all to ourselves then, right?"

Her tone made Simon's ears flush. "Um...yeah."

"Sounds good. Where are you getting the pizza?" said Katrina. Simon told her. "Great. See you in an hour. It should be fun." Simon hung up, called in the pizza, sat on the couch, and waited.

It seemed like an eternity.

The doorbell ran thirty-five minutes later, and Simon opened the door. Katrina stood on the porch, a pizza box in her hands. "Delivery for Dr. Simon goddamn Wester?"

Simon rolled his eyes. "You know, that wasn't even funny the first time. How much do I owe you?"

"Twelve bucks," said Katrina. "Where do you want to eat?"

"Living room," said Simon. He led her through the dining room and the living room door. "Why twelve bucks? The guy on the phone said it would be nine something."

"I got some cheese bread," said Katrina, tapping a smaller container atop the pizza box. She settled cross-legged on the couch, kicking off her shoes. "What? I like cheese bread. I don't eat pizza often. Bad shit, plugs up your arteries like plumbers' putty. So I may as well enjoy it when I do eat it."

"Sounds logical to me." Simon sat besides her. "Considering you used to smoke, what, ten cigarettes a day?"

Katrina made a sour face. "You nagged at me like an old woman." Her frown shifted to a small smirk. "Though you tell me if it's an improvement or not."

She leaned forward and kissed him, her tongue slipping between his lips and into his mouth. Simon shivered and kissed her back.

"Yeah," he said when she pulled away, "yeah, I'd...I'd say it's something of an improvement, yes."

Katrina smiled and traced a finger along his collar. "Think my tongue still has acid on it?"

"What?" said Simon, blinking.

"Right after we first met. You asked me if I ever choked on all the acid dripping from my tongue," Katrina said, smirking.

"Um...no, no," said Simon. He laughed. "I was a little rude, wasn't I?"

"Terribly rude," said Katrina. "You never really apologized."

"Well, I apologize now," said Simon. "How can I make it up to you?"

Katrina slid onto his lap. "I can think of something."

"I...Katrina...I..." Simon's brain shut down. He pulled her close and kissed her. Somehow his shirt wound up on the floor, and her hands began undoing his belt and the front of her jeans.

"Just do everything I tell you," she whispered into his ear.

He did.

###

"The pizza's cold."

Simon squinted into the glare of the setting sun. He grumbled, staggered over to the window, and pulled the shade shut. "Oh, man. The shade was open the entire time."

Katrina laughed and took a bite of pizza. "I don't think anyone noticed. And if anyone did, I doubt we would have noticed."

Simon stared at her. He had never seen a naked woman eating a slice of pizza before.

Katrina laughed. "You have the stupidest grin on your face."

"I...um...well, I'm hungry," said Simon. He took a slice of pizza for himself.

Katrina grinned at him, her eyes sparkling. "Of course you are. We were busy."

"Yeah." Simon laughed. "I suppose we were." He looked at her and smiled, his eyes wandering up and down her body. He dropped the slice of cold pizza on the table and reached for her. "I hate cold pizza."

"What's this?" said Katrina, taking him into her arms. "Am I going to have to start..." He swallowed her words with a kiss.

They forgot about the pizza for a while.

***
Chapter 15 - Children of the Void

**Between the Worlds**

Liam sprinted through the yawning gates of the Tower of Endless Worlds.  
Twin statues of leering winged creatures flanked the entrance, their wings joined over the gate. The portal opened into a vast, vaulted hall of pale dark marble. Thin columns sprouted from the ceiling and arched to the floor, and a dim green glow shone out of the depths. Liam had taken six running steps before he realized that Ally had stopped.  
Liam whirled. "Child, are you mad? Run!"  
Ally looked at him. The green light gave her pale skin a ghastly cast. "They won't follow us."  
"How do you know?" said Liam, peering out the gate. She was right. The dark shapes vanished wailing and screeching into the Crimson Plain. "Why don't they follow us? We would make easy prey in this hall."  
Ally scratched at her ragged hair. "They're afraid of the Tower."  
"But that soldier said the ghouls come out of the tower," said Liam.  
Ally shrugged. "Maybe. But they're too scared to come back in."  
Liam looked over the vast hall. Bas-reliefs covered the ceiling, showing strange scenes of other worlds. Long lines of words had been carved into the floor, written in a strange alphabet Liam did not recognize. An unnatural stillness hung over everything. Liam turned a full circle. He could not shake the feeling of hostile eyes.  
"Are they afraid of the Tower itself, or something that dwells within?" said Liam.  
Ally said nothing.  
Liam sheathed his Sacred Blades, but kept his hands on the hilts. "Let's go."  
They set off down the hall, Liam's boots clicking against the cold stone floor. Ally padded along, her dark eyes darting back and forth over the strange carvings.  
The hall opened into a vast circular chamber. A colossal statute of a nude woman stood in the center of the room, taller than the highest spire of the now-ruined Scepteris Palace. Eleven other vaulted passageways opened off the circular chamber, the faint green light shining from within their depths.  
"By the gods," muttered Liam. He had never seen such gargantuan construction. "The Tower of Endless Worlds, indeed. Which way do we go?"  
He looked up, and could not see the ceiling. The chamber rose away into nothingness. Balconies with ornate stone balustrades and leering statues ringed the wall at regular intervals. And twelve passages branched off every balcony, which meant that thousands and thousand of corridors led from this central chamber. Spiral staircases rose around several of the slender pillars, climbing into the Tower's vast heights.  
Endless worlds.  
And how was he to find Earth among such a multitude?  
"By the gods," said Liam. "Which way to Earth?" He tried to think. Perhaps the strange writing could tell the way, but he could not read it. How had Marugon gotten to Earth? Had the last of the Warlocks found his way to Earth and its terrible weapons by sheer chance?  
"Look," said Ally, pointing.  
Liam followed her finger and noticed a dark smudge on the floor before one of the vaulted corridors. Liam moved closer and saw that a sigil had been burned into the stone.  
"What is it?" said Ally.  
"A clawed hand holding a burning eye," said Liam. "The personal sigil of Lord Marugon."  
"What does that mean?" said Liam.  
"Have you ever heard the story of the evil woodsman and his two children?" said Liam.  
Ally nodded. "The evil woodsman left his son and daughter in the great forest to die. But the son had a loaf of bread. He tore it into crumbs and left a trail, and he and his sister found their way out of the forest."  
Liam tapped the sigil with his boot. "I think Marugon left us bread crumbs. The fingers of the hand point at one of the passages. That must be it! Marugon didn't bring the guns through the Tower himself. His minions did it, and he left them markers to follow the path to Earth through the Tower."  
"What if some of his minions are coming through the Tower right now?" said Ally.  
Liam hadn't thought of that. "We'll deal with that if we find any of them. We should keep going."  
Ally nodded. They started down the passage Marugon's sigil indicated.

###

Liam frowned. "I forgot."  
"Forgot what?" said Ally.  
They walked down a high corridor of blood-red marble marked with another of Marugon's sigils. Statues of smirking imps with six wings and nine eyes leered from the pillars and walls. Bas-reliefs showed the imps fighting, cavorting, fornicating, and feasting on the flesh of humans. Liam wished Ally and Lithon didn't have to see the scenes, but he supposed they had seen worse horrors.  
"To eat," said Liam. "I had hoped to do so when we entered the Tower, but I forgot in the rush of the moment."  
"I'm not hungry," said Ally.  
"You should eat," said Liam. "It..." He frowned. "Nor am I." It had been sixteen hours since they had entered the Tower, so far as he could tell. He had neither drank nor eaten since then, but he was neither hungry nor thirsty. Nor had he needed to relieve himself.  
Strangest of all, he was not tired.  
"We should hurry," said Liam. "I fear this place is having an ill effect upon us." He knew some diseases that hampered appetite and thirst. Still, if Marugon and his soldiers had survived the Tower's perils, then Liam supposed they could as well.  
"Why?" said Ally.  
A red marble statue of a nine-eyed imp stood in the center of the corridor. Liam stepped around it. "Because we haven't needed to eat or drink. That cannot be a good thing."  
"I don't think it is bad," said Ally.  
Liam looked down at her. "Why?"  
"Why do we eat or drink?" said Ally.  
Liam blinked. "Because we are hungry or thirsty. Our bodies need food and drink to remain strong. It is the way of all things, even beasts and plants. Animals must eat, and plants must have water and sunlight to grow."  
"That is the way of things on our world," said Ally.  
"So?" said Liam.  
"We're not on our world anymore," said Ally. "We're in the Tower. I think the Tower is between the worlds. Maybe rules on our world, like eating and drinking, aren't rules here."  
It was a strange idea, but Ally's words rang true. "I suppose that makes sense." He smiled. "How does a little girl know so much?"  
Ally shrugged. "I don't know. I just thought about it."  
Liam nodded. What if Ally wasn't a human child at all? What if she was one of Marugon's creatures in disguise? Liam dismissed the thought. She had had numerous chances to kill them, and would have done so before they entered the Tower's labyrinthine passages.  
Still, she was a very strange child.  
The crimson corridor ended in a domed chamber of gray stone. A bubbling fountain stood beneath the dome, its clear waters splashing and sparkling. Heaps of bones, some human, some not, lay piled around the fountain. Clearly, drinking from the fountain would be unwise.  
A red metal cylinder with silver lettering on its side lay by the bones.  
"Coke," said Ally.  
Liam blinked. "Coke? You mean coal?"  
Ally shook her head. "No." She pointed. "It's what that cylinder says. Coke."  
Liam tapped the metal cylinder with his boot and sent it rolling away across the floor. "It's metal, yet so light. Perhaps it is of Earth. If so, we are on the right path. How do you know how to read the script of Earth?"  
Ally didn't say anything. Liam shrugged and took a step back. The fountain had a strange, sweet smell, and was starting to make his head spin.  
"I don't think we should drink the water," said Ally.  
"Agreed," said Liam, his eyes wandering over the bones. He spotted Marugon's sigil burned into the floor before another long passageway. "That way."  
He started forward, but Ally remained still.  
Liam turned, reaching for his Sacred Blades. "What is it?"  
"Listen," Ally whispered.  
Liam listened, and realized he could hear a distant roaring, like the blowing of a great wind.  
"Do you hear it?" said Ally.  
Liam nodded.  
She pointed. "It's coming from the way we have to take."  
Liam looked at the corridor. It was built of dark gray stone, its ceiling vaulted, pillars running along the wall. The corridor looked as empty of life as all the others they had seen. Yet when Liam lifted his hand, he felt a faint breeze against his skin.  
It was coming from the corridor marked with Marugon's sigil.  
"What do you think it is?" said Liam  
Ally said nothing.  
Liam grimaced. "Well, we've nowhere to go but forward."  
"Okay," said Ally. She reached up and took Liam's hand. The old Knight looked down at her in surprise, smiled, and continued walking.

###  
Statues of robed men with serpents' faces gazed from the walls. Bas-reliefs of strange machines and towering cities covered the walls. The breeze grew to a gentle wind, while the distant howling became louder.  
"Look," said Liam. He pointed. "Someone's passed this way recently."  
A leather sack lay discarded against a pillar. Besides it rested a square of shiny paper. A strange sigil marked the silvery paper, alongside a pair of words written in red letters.  
Liam frowned. "I don't suppose you can read that as well?"  
Ally squinted, her face knitting in concentration. "Burger...King?" She blinked. "It says Burger King."  
Liam picked up the paper. "The Burger King," he said. "I wonder who that is?"  
Ally shrugged. "The king of the land of Burger? Or the king of the Burger people?"  
Liam rubbed the greasy paper between his fingers. "I've seen paper of this kind before. It's called foil. Marugon's gunmen use it to hold their rations." He nodded. "One of Marugon's agents must have dropped it here on a journey back from Earth. Good."  
"Why?" said Ally.  
Liam dropped the paper. The breeze blew it down the corridor. "It means we're on the right path. And it also means that the corridor ahead is passable, despite whatever's making that wind."  
They moved on. The wind grew stronger, tugging at Liam's clothes and tattered cloak. Ally's ragged hair whipped out behind her. The roar of wind became a dull howling, the air so cold that Liam's breath began to steam in the air. He braced himself against the wind and kept going.  
"I can't!" said Ally, yelling over the roar. "I can't keep going. It's too strong!"  
Liam scooped her up. She wrapped her skinny arms around his neck. He forged ahead, grunting under the weight of Ally, Lithon, and his pack.  
He staggered into another domed chamber, the ceiling supported by slender pillars. The wind shrieked out of the doorway with chilling force.  
Liam stopped. "What is that?" Ally turned her head, frowning.  
A huge hole, easily as wide as a dozen men, had been blasted through the far wall and a portion of the ceiling. Chunks of scorched stone lay strewn across the polished floor. The wind blew from the hole.  
Inside the hole was absolutely nothing.  
Liam blinked, straining to see. Past the jagged edges of the hole he saw nothing but a deep, utter blackness that stretched for infinity. A low moan rose from it, perhaps made by the wind, perhaps made by something else. Liam could not shake the feeling that something in the hole could see him.  
Ally whimpered.  
"What?" said Liam.  
"Don't go near the hole," said Ally. Her voice shook with fear.  
"Why?" said Liam. "What is it?"  
"A hole," said Ally.  
Liam grunted. "I can see that."  
"You don't understand," said Ally. "The Tower is between the worlds. That's a hole in the Tower. It opens into the empty black places between the worlds." She shivered. "If we fall through, we'll be lost forever. Don't go near it."  
Liam nodded. Another corridor opened on the other side of the chamber. He started across the polished floor, hugging the wall to stay as far from the strange hole as possible. The wind grew stronger, and the moaning from the hole rose to a high shrieking. Liam gritted his teeth and forced his way forward. Ally shivered, and Lithon began to cry. Liam stumbled through the doorway and into the next corridor.  
The wind vanished.  
"Gods," said Liam, wiping cold sweat from his brow. He put Ally down, and Lithon's cries faded to soft whimpers. Ally took the boy's hands and murmured soothing sounds. "I hope we don't have to do that again."  
"Me, too," said Ally. They rested for a moment, then continued.  
"I wonder where that hole came from," said Liam.  
"Marugon made it," said Ally.  
Liam frowned. "How do you know that?"  
"He made it," said Ally. "There was rubble over his mark on the floor."  
"Why would he do that?" said Liam. "He brings his guns and food for his gunmen from Earth. Why would he knock holes in the Tower?"  
"Maybe he wants to let something into the Tower," said Ally.  
"Let what in? I thought you said there's nothing between the worlds."  
"Maybe I'm wrong," said Ally.  
Liam remembered the black nothingness beyond the hole and shuddered. "Let's keep going. I want to put as much distance between us and that hole as possible."  
Ally nodded. They kept walking.

###

"There's another one," said Ally.  
Liam turned around. They stood in a high, vaulted corridor of crimson granite. It reminded Liam of the great naves of the temples of the true gods, before Marugon had destroyed them. Statues of nude women with fangs and wings and nine eyes adorned the pillars and walls.  
Another gaping hole, the fifth they had seen, had been torn into the wall. Chunks of shattered stone lay across the floor. The hole opened into utter blackness, and looking at it made Liam's head ache. At least no wind came from this hole.  
"Liam."  
"Did you say something?" said Liam.  
Ally shook her head.  
Liam tore his gaze from the ruined wall. "We have no time to stand around and gawk. One of Marugon's caravans might come through the Tower at any moment. I would rather not stand around and wait for them."  
Ally said nothing. Liam grunted, adjusted the straps holding his shoulder harness, and kept going.  
"Liam."  
Liam whirled, drawing his Sacred Blades. Ally shrieked and took a step back.  
"Did you hear that?" said Liam. The glow from his swords made the walls gleam with a pale blue light.  
Ally shook her head, tangled hair falling over her forehead. "I didn't hear anything."  
Liam looked around the dim corridor. "No. Perhaps not. Let's..."  
"Liam, Liam."  
Liam's head snapped around. "What?"  
"I don't hear anything!" said Ally, stamping her foot.  
Liam caught a glimpse of movement at the end of the corridor. His lips tightened, and he raised his Sacred Blades. "Marugon's caravans, no doubt. Stay behind me." He undid the straps of his shoulder harness. "And hold the King. We may need to run."  
"Wait," said Ally.  
"I need you, child," said Liam. "Guard the King for me, please."  
Ally nodded, and took Lithon in her arms. She staggered a bit under his weight, but hopefully she could carry the King long enough for Liam to deal with the threat.  
Liam set off down the corridor at a loping run. He would spring into the next chamber, perhaps take down two or three of the unseen enemies before they recovered from surprise...  
Liam leapt into another of the domed vaults he had seen throughout the Tower. Crimson marble gleamed in the emerald glow.  
His swords flashed up in a guard position and froze. He blinked, unable to believe his eyes. "Annemarie?"  
Annemarie Scepteris, Queen of Carlisan, stood in the center of the room. She wore a black gown that hid all but her hands and pale face. Liam lowered his swords, his hands trembling. Lithon's mother had died at Carlisan. At least, he had hoped she had died in the fighting, that she hadn't fallen into the cruel hands of Marugon's soldiers before her death...  
"Liam," said Annemarie. "It's so very good to see you again."  
"But," Liam's croaked, "but the Scepteris Palace...the explosion..."  
Ally padded to Liam's side, Lithon in her arms, and glared at the Queen.  
"I escaped," said Annemarie.  
"Impossible," said Liam. "The King sent Lithon and Anna with me. He said he couldn't find you. You...you had been at the gates when they fell, the soldiers would have killed you..."  
"The escape tunnel beneath the old gate," said Annemarie, her dark eyes wet with tears. "I ran through it and came out just as the palace exploded. I knew you would try to come here, so I..."  
Liam's swords fell to the floor with a great clang. He ran forward and engulfed the Queen in a great hug. "I thought had lost you!"  
Annemarie kissed him. "I've followed you for the last year, Liam. I thought you had died a thousand times. But I've finally found you."  
"Anna died," said Liam, his face against her hair. "I...I tried to save her, love, but I couldn't. There were too many gunmen. They cut her down. I tried...I couldn't..." The old Knight stifled a sob. "I know," whispered Annemarie. "She saved Lithon. She was very brave, our daughter."  
Liam looked away, his jaw working. "I...always swore to tell the King what had happened between us, one day. Now I shall never have the chance. He is dead, and our daughter Anna is dead."  
Lithon began to wail.  
"But Lithon is still alive," said Annemarie. "You saved him, Liam. You saved my son."  
"I had to," said Liam, looking into her eyes. "For my sake, for your sake, for Anna's sake, and for the King's sake, I couldn't let any harm come to him."  
"He is our son, Liam," said Annemarie.  
Liam flinched. "How? That's impossible. We...we didn't..."  
"Do you remember that night after the Feast of the True Gods four years ago?" said Annemarie. Liam managed a nod. "My husband shared my bed the next night. No one ever suspected."  
"Ally," said Liam, turning. "Come here and bring Annemarie her son...my son."  
"No!" said Ally. She took a step back. "He's not your son!"  
"Ally!" said Liam. "This is the Queen of Carlisan! Show..."  
"Hush," said Annemarie, her warm fingers brushing his lips. "The poor girl has been through a nightmare. We all have. I can understand if she fears a stranger."  
Liam nodded. "Very well." Ally gave him a sullen, frightened stare.  
"Why have you come here, Liam?" said Annemarie.  
"I had to," said Liam.  
"Why?" said Annemarie. "This is not a place for mortal men. This is Marugon's place."  
"Because," said Liam. "Alastarius told me I must."  
Annemarie flinched. "The Wizard? I thought he died at Castle Bastion."  
"He did," said Liam. "But he Prophesied before he died, Annemarie." He smiled. "He said that Lithon was the hope for our world. If I could but keep him safe, then the King's son would return one day to restore our world from what Marugon has done..." Liam's voice trailed off.  
"What?" said Annemarie.  
"It had all been for naught," said Liam. "The deaths, the slaughter, Sir Arran's fall...nothing. Lithon is not the King's son. He is my son. Alastarius's Prophecy was wrong. We have lost so much, and it has been for nothing!" Liam's voice rose to an enraged shout, echoing over and over through the looming corridors.  
"No," said Annemarie. "There is still a way."  
"What?" said Liam. "What can we possibly do?"  
"We have lost so much," said Annemarie, "but there is still a way we can lose nothing at all."  
"You speak nonsense," said Liam.  
"No!" said Annemarie. "I have wandered the corridors of this Tower waiting for you. Its doors open onto many worlds, perhaps even all worlds. Listen to me. The doors do not only open to different worlds. They open to different times."  
"Different times?" said Liam. "You mean...the future?"  
"Other times, Liam." She took his arm in a firm grip. "Times past and times to come."  
"What good does that do us?" said Liam.  
"Think about it," said Annemarie. "If the doors of the Tower can reach the past, then we can go back and stop what has happened."  
Fear and hope churned in Liam's mind. "But how?"  
"I saw Marugon's birth," said Annemarie with a shudder. "It was foul. A demon, a voidspawn from the black places between the worlds, was his father. He is a soulless man." Her grip grew tighter against his fingers. "But we have the power to stop it, my love. Think of it! You can go back and kill Marugon in the cradle. You could kill his mother before he was even born."  
Liam nodded. "Then none of it ever happens. Marugon does not go to Earth. He does not bring guns to our world."  
"Yes," said Annemarie. Her eyes glimmered. "Think of it, my love. You saw Carlisan burn. You saw Anna die. We can keep it all from happening."  
Liam licked his lips. "Which way?"  
He knelt and scooped up his Sacred Blades.  
"Here," said Annemarie. She led him down a high corridor carved with images of strange buildings with spiked crowns and glass walls. Ally followed, Lithon clutched in her arms. Another of the black holes into nothingness gaped in the wall. An icy breeze blew out of its depths. Shattered chunks of crimson stone lay strewn across the floor, obscuring Marugon's sigil upon the floor.  
"Here," said Annemarie. "This corridor leads to the doors to Earth, the world where Marugon found the guns. Yet from here you can go into the past of our world."  
"Where is the door to a different time?" said Liam.  
Annemarie pointed into the nothingness. "There."  
"What?" said Liam.  
"The corridors of time wind through the black places between the worlds," said Annemarie. "It is there that you must go. Step through the breach and think of your destination. The strength of your will shall carry you to the time and place of your choosing."  
The breach in the wall looked like a great black eye. " I am unsure..."  
"Unsure?" said Annemarie. She took a step back from him. "Liam, my love, listen to me. This is our last chance. Our world lies in ruins. My husband is dead and almost all my children are dead. Marugon murdered them. This is our last chance to undo it. It is our last chance to save them. Please, Liam."  
Liam looked into the void. He felt a deep chill radiating from the blackness. It took all his will to keep from looking away. He thought of the ruin of Carlisan, of Anna's death, and all the horror and carnage that he had seen. His jaw tightened. If had a chance to undo it all...  
A small hand seized his belt. Liam glanced down, and saw Ally next to him.  
"Don't," she said. "You'll never come back."  
"I have to," said Liam, shaking free from her grasp. "It's the only way..."  
"Why?" said Ally. "How do you know?"  
"Because it leads to the corridors of time..."  
Ally hit him in the gut. It hardly hurt, but Liam blinked with surprise. "Why did you do that?"  
"You're being stupid!" said Ally, her face crinkling. "How do you know this is the way?"  
"Because...because Annemarie told me," said Liam. "I love her. I trust her."  
"Liam," said Annemarie. "This is our last chance."  
"How does she know?" said Ally. "How does she know?"  
"Child," said Annemarie, her voice soft. "Your poor thing. What horrors must you have seen, to so shatter your trust?" She reached for the girl.  
Ally hopped away, Lithon clutched in her arms. "The most horrible thing I've seen is a woman who's supposed to be dead!"  
"Child!" said Annemarie, her voice a whip. "Peasant! Show some respect to your elders!"  
"Annemarie!" said Liam. "I don't know what terrible things she has seen. Show some gentleness, I pray."  
"How does she know?" said Ally, her voice rising to a shrill yell.  
"I saw it," said Annemarie, folding her arms.  
Ally pointed at the darkness. "Do you even see anything?"  
"No," said Liam.  
Annemarie spun away with a scowl. "Your wits are addled! Are you drunk?"  
"Drunk?" said Liam, stunned by her rage. "No, I..." He blinked. "Drunk..."  
He remembered.  
He had sat and watched Annemarie together with the King during the Feast of the True Gods four years past. Glass after glass of wine had been placed before him, and he had drunk it all as he watched the love of his life sit with his lord and king. Afterwards, Liam had staggered off to his own chambers in the Tower of the Knights and had fallen asleep. The next morning he had had a dreadful hangover-but he had awakened in his own chambers.  
He had not awakened in the Queen's bedroom.  
Liam looked at young Lithon. The boy had the features of his father, Annemarie's husband, the fallen King of Carlisan.  
A finger of ice brushed Liam's spine.  
"You're lying," he said.  
"Liam, no," said Annemarie. Her voice shook with pain. "She's just a child. Don't listen to her." She reached for him. "You must..."  
"You lie!" said Liam. He jerked away from her touch and moved to stand before Ally and Lithon. "Lithon is not my son. I never had a son. My only child was Anna, and she lies dead on the battlefields of Carlisan. You are lying."  
Annemarie shook her head. "Liam. Make it easier on yourself. Just go through the hole and into the void. You will have an end to all your sufferings. Just go. Two steps. That's all."  
"No," said Liam. Something in Annemarie's face made him lift his Sacred Blades.  
"Then throw the girl and the child through the breach," said Annemarie. "You can yet save yourself. We will let you go, if you just give us the boy and that wretched girl."  
Liam's Sacred Blades began to glow brighter. "Who are you?"  
Annemarie smiled. "Why, I am Annemarie Scepteris, Queen of Carlisan and the love of your life. I am who you believe me to be, whom you truly wish to see."  
"No," said Liam. He raised his swords, the steel flashing with blue light. "Annemarie Scepteris was a kind and gentle woman. She would never demand that I throw any child, let alone her own son, through some hole into nothingness! And you said 'we', you deceiver, trickster who wears my beloved's form! Who are you, and where are your confederates?"  
Annemarie laughed and looked at the floor. "So petty, so small. Typical of mortals."  
She looked up. Annemarie's lovely dark eyes had become pits into the void, yawning pools of black shadows.  
Much like the hole in the wall.  
"Who are you? Answer!" said Liam.  
"We were there before you," said Annemarie. Her melodic voice became deep and whispery. "The worlds were ours long before you mortals lived." She hissed. "The Divine cast us out, threw us into the black places between the worlds, and built this wretched Tower to keep us out. The Divine left us to scream and gnaw on the nothingness between the worlds. And for what? For the sake of you crawling, mewling, dying little mortals?"  
"What are you saying?" said Liam. His Sacred Blades pulsed brighter. Flickers of white flame danced across the steel as the cold breeze from the hole grew to an icy wind.  
Annemarie shook her head. "Liam Mastere of the Two Swords. You fear Marugon so much. But what are his little powers? They are nothing. We are everything. The worlds are ours. The seals crumble, and we can now walk the corridors of the Tower. Soon they shall fail, and we will come forth and all the worlds shall be ours once more."  
"Thing of darkness," said Liam. "I know not or care not what you are, but do not stand in my way."  
Annemarie shrank back, seeming to sink into her black gown. Lines of darkness blurred the edges of her form, and wings of shadow rose from her back. Shadows flowed from her bottomless eyes and crawled down her body.  
Her gaze snapped to meet his as claws of darkness grew from her fingers. "You will not leave this Tower!"  
The creature lunged at him, moving with the speed of shadow.  
The wind howled.  
Liam spun, his Sacred Blades flashing in an azure blur. The shadow-thing hissed and reared back, flinching from the magical fire of the steel. Liam settled back into a guard position, waiting for the creature to strike.  
Annemarie's face leered at him beneath the swirling darkness. Then the creature twisted and lunged for Ally and Lithon.  
"No!" said Liam. The creature's claws swiped for Ally and missed, and Liam chopped down with both swords. The Sacred Blades burned through Annemarie's body. The creature wailed in agony, blue fire flashing through its eyes and mouth. The shadows fell from its body and crawled back to the breach in the wall.  
"The girl!" wailed the creature. "She is the one! Take her! Take her now..."  
Liam's flashing blade severed the creature's head from its body. Head and body dissolved into crumbling shadows and black mist.  
"Liam!" said Ally.  
Liam turned and saw a horde of the winged shadow-things crawling and hopping up the corridor. Some looked male, others female, but all were blurred and cloaked in darkness. Some crawled along the walls and ceiling, and their whispering voices echoed in his ears.  
What had the false Annemarie called the creatures from the dark places between the worlds?  
Voidspawn.  
A hiss came from the breach in the wall. A shadow-thing vaulted out, claws reaching for Ally and Lithon, followed by another. Liam roared and spun his blades in a circle. The first creature vanished in a spray of dark mist. The second leapt past Ally and thrust its claws at Liam. He swung aside, but not before one claw stabbed deep into his side. Liam gasped in pain, hacked off the creature's arm with his left sword, and disintegrated its head with his right.  
He reeled back. A deathly chill crawled up his side, spreading through his veins.  
"Liam?" said Ally.  
Liam's head snapped up. The voidspawn raced down the corridor. "Run!"  
They sprinted down the hall, Liam's heart thundering in his chest, sending pulses of pain through his wounded side. They had to reach the doors to Earth. It was their only chance.  
He heard a whisper above his head.  
Liam stabbed up with both blades. The falling voidspawn wailed and withered into nothingness. Four more dropped down from a gaping crack in the ceiling. Liam leapt to the side, dancing through them, his swords whirling with the skill of decades of practice. His Sacred Blades burned through the voidspawn and sent them screeching into nothingness.  
Liam clutched his side, cold blood dripping from the wound. The mass of creatures surged towards him, whispering. He shot a glance down the corridor. Ally stood a hundred feet further down the passage, gazing at him in terror.  
"Run!" said Liam. "Damn it, run!" Ally spun and fled. Liam lurched down the corridor in a halting sprint. He heard the chorus of deep whispers drawing closer.  
He skidded to a stop. The corridor ended in a cavernous arched gallery. Five closed doors of ornate stone stood in the far wall. Marugon's sigil lay on the floor before the middle door. Ally hesitated before the doors, confusion on her face. Lithon screamed and wailed in her arms.  
Ally stared at him. "Which one? I don't know which door to open!"  
Liam's eyes flashed over the doors. Marugon's sigil had marked the middle door. Did the other four doors go to different worlds? Or perhaps all five of the doors opened to a different location on Earth? The shadow-thing wearing Annemarie's face had said the doors to Earth were near...  
"Any door but the middle!" said Liam. "Hurry!"  
Ally ran forward and pushed on the far-left door, her body trembling with the strain. It began to swing open with a low growl.  
Liam ran toward her, and glanced over his shoulder.  
Ice grabbed at his heart. The horde of shadow-things would swarm over him and reach Ally and Lithon before she pushed the door open.  
"No," said Liam.  
He spun with a yell and charged into the shadow-things. The creatures flinched from the fires in his blades. Liam stabbed and spun, his Sacred Blades tracing designs of azure fire in the air. Voidspawn after voidspawn wailed and vanished. Claw after claw lanced out and stabbed Liam. One sunk deep into his thigh. Another slashed across his jaw. A third skidded down his ribs. He felt light-headed. Blood loss, he supposed.  
Then light flooded the chamber.  
Liam staggered, blood dripping from his jaw. The creatures backed away, covering their eyes. The light poured from the far-left door. Ally ran through it, Lithon in her arms. Liam watched as she sprinted across a field of high green grass and blooming wildflowers, a wall of trees in the distance. The field did not look so very different from the meadows and forests of Carlisan. Perhaps this distant Earth was not as hellish as he had thought.  
His King was safe at last.  
A wave of contentment, of peace, washed through him.  
The door slammed shut, the light vanishing. A whispering howl rose from the creatures.  
Liam moved in a slow circle. The voidspawn stood in a ring around him, watching him with bottomless eyes full of madness. Liam smiled through the pain. For some reason, he felt no fear.  
"Come, you devils!" Liam said. "Come on, then, and face me!"  
The creatures came in a rush, and Liam Mastere, the Two Swords, Knight of the Order of the Sacred Blade, whirled his blades in a dizzying display. Voidspawn wailed and died, and for the first time in uncounted millennia, the corridors of the Tower of Endless World rang and echoed with the sound of battle.  
And then they fell silent.

###

Night blanketed the Crimson Plain. The Tower of Endless Worlds stood mountainous and silent over the bleak expanse. Every now and again a burst of green light flashed from within its depths, illuminating the writhing shape of the ghouls hunting each other across the Plain.  
A pale-skinned man clad in filthy red rags limped towards the Tower.  
The ghouls ignored the rag-clad man, or at least the thing that wore the dead man's flesh like clothing. They had no desire to face it.  
They could sense what dwelt within the corpse's spell-chained flesh.  
The pale-skinned man stopped at the base of the Tower's steps, head titled to the side, as if listening. A low, feeble moan escaped its lips, followed by a deep-throated, booming laugh.  
The rag-clad corpse shuffled up the steps and through the gates, intent on the trail of its quarry.

***
Chapter 16 - The Door Opens

Anno Domini 2003

"Let's go on the back porch," said Katrina.

Simon blinked. "Like this?"

Katrina snorted. "Yes, college boy. Let's walk naked onto the back porch. Or we could get dressed first, and heat up the pizza in your microwave. I don't like cold pizza any more than you do."

"Why the back porch?" said Simon.

"The weather's nice," said Katrina, gathering up her clothes. Simon watched with some regret as she pulled on her shirt. "Besides, it smells like cigarettes in here." Simon raised an eyebrow, and she waved a finger in his general direction. "Not a word."

"Right," said Simon. He got dressed and followed her into the kitchen. They heated some of the pizza, retrieved plates and napkins from the cupboard, and went onto the back porch. The late afternoon had just begun to turn to dusk, and they sat in the lawn chairs Simon had set up for his mother a few weeks past.

"So," said Katrina. "Was that so bad?"

Simon blinked. "What? No...no, not at all."

She stared into the sunken woods behind the backyard. "I'm...sorry if I sort of jumped you."

"You're apologizing to me?" said Simon, incredulous.

Katrina glared at him. "Does that bother you?"

"No, no," said Simon. "It's just unprecedented." Katrina laughed. "And...well, I would have liked to have waited until after the wedding. But I think this would have happened anyway, sooner or later. I've sort of lived like a monk for the last few years..."

Katrina laughed again. "Not any more."

Simon smiled. "Very true."

"I just hope no one notices when I give birth seven months after the wedding," said Katrina.

Simon almost choked on his pizza. "What?"

Katrina grinned. "I'm kidding. I've been on the pill for a while." She smirked. "I kind of figured it was inevitable sooner or later, too."

"Wise," said Simon.

"Wise ass college boy," said Katrina, but she smiled as she said that.

Simon felt himself a very lucky man.

Something clanged.

Katrina looked over her shoulder. "Did you hear that?"

Simon frowned. "Yeah. A pan probably fell off a hook."

"Mmm," said Katrina. "Why don't you go and check?"

Simon raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to get rid of me?"

Katrina gave him a look. "No, I just want you to get me a glass of water. We forgot to get something to drink."

"We did at that." He squeezed her hand. "Be right back."

Katrina rolled her eyes, but smiled anyway. "You're just going to the damn kitchen."

Simon kissed her on the forehead, then on the cheek, and then the lips. Then he went back into the kitchen, leaned against the wall, and blew out a long breath. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the windows and snorted. He did indeed have a stupid grin on his face.

It had been a very good week.

Simon filled two glasses with water from the sink. He scooped them up and as he did he heard a distant clanging, like two pieces of metal banging together. He looked over at his shoulder at the stove. His mother's pans hung from their nails, each in its proper place.

"What now?" muttered Simon. The house was old and not in the best repair. "Not the plumbing, I hope. Or the gas." Maybe he should go down to the basement and check...

"Simon! Come look at this." He returned to the back porch, the water forgotten. Katrina leaned over the railing, hand shading her eyes.

"What is it?"

"Look at this." She pointed, and Simon saw a pale white light shining through the trees in the sunken wood. "What do you think that is?"

Simon shook his head. "I don't know. It looks like a low-flying plane or something." The light flickered and got brighter.

Something scratched at the back of his mind.

Katrina grunted. "Huh. Maybe it's a UFO." She titled her head to the side. "And there's that damn clanging again. Hell, maybe it is a UFO."

"Unidentified flying object," muttered Simon. Something about those words filled him with dread. "Right before I met you, Mom always used to complain that she heard weird sounds coming from...from the...the..."

Katrina frowned. "Simon? You okay?"

Simon grabbed the railing to keep from falling over. "Oh, no. No, no, no. It can't be that."

Conmager's warning echoed inside his head.

"What?" said Katrina, anxiety creeping into her voice.

"Conmager's door," said Simon, shaking his head. He had forgotten about it during the massive work for his dissertation and his growing relationship with Katrina. "It can't be. Oh, please don't let it be that. Not two men and a baby."

"That was a movie." Katrina grabbed his arm. "What's gotten into you?"

"I gave him the van," said Simon, staring at the light in the woods. He thought of the winged thing and shuddered. "Why couldn't he have just taken the van and let me be? I don't want any part of it."

Katrina began to look angry. "What are you talking about?"

"He said two men and a child," said Simon. "I hope it's just a UFO." He shook off Katrina's arm and went down the porch stairs, crossed the driveway, and walked for the sunken woods.

Katrina followed him, scowling. "Don't just walk away from me, college boy. What the hell's gotten into you? You aren't having second thoughts, are you?"

"What?" Simon spun and faced her. "No, no. Katrina, please. It's nothing about you. It's..."

Katrina titled her head to the side, green eyes narrow. "Wait. You said you gave him in your van. This is something about that mugger who stole your van, isn't it?"

Simon stiffened. "Yes."

She folded her arms. "But you said you gave him the van. That's what you just said." Her eyes widened. "Goddamn. I remember. That night I came to visit you. I saw a red van pull out of your driveway. I thought it looked like yours, but that would have been stupid. But it really was yours, wasn't it?"

"Yes," said Simon. "At least, it was mine." He winced under her flat stare. "You have to understand. It...it was..."

"Why did you lie to me?" said Katrina. "You lied your mother, too."

"Katrina," said Simon. "I love you. I don't want to hurt you, and if...if you know about this, you might get hurt, or killed." The memory of the winged creature burned through him. "Please. Wait in the house. I just have to go see..."

She grabbed his wrists. "You know something, college boy? We're going to get married, and that means that your life is mine and mine is yours. At least that's the way it's supposed to be. And you're not going to keep such a big secret from me. Not after this afternoon, and not if you really want to get married."

Simon closed his eyes. "Wait. All right. I'll tell you what happened." If the door Conmager had shown him was really opening... "In fact, I'll show you."

"Alright," said Katrina. She let go of his wrists. "But you're going to explain things to me."

"I will," Simon, his thoughts a jumble. "I will. Just...this way." He led her towards the half-overgrown path. He muttered to himself, praying that it wasn't the door, praying that two men and a child wouldn't come through. Katrina watched him, her face a mixture of annoyance and concern.

The light got brighter as they drew closer to the clearing in the center of the woods. He heard the clanging noise again, as well as different sounds. Once he heard a sound like running boots. He heard a man's voice, deep and gruff, and a low, sonorous whisper.

"What the hell is that?" said Katrina. She had shifted to the defensive posture Simon had seen in her karate classes.

"I don't know," said Simon.

He watched her look back and forth through the trees. "It sounds...I don't know. It sounds awful."

Simon winced. The strange whispering reached an enraged crescendo. "Let's just go back to the house."

"No way," said Katrina. She pushed past him. "I want to see what this is."

"Katrina!" Simon ran after her. "Don't..."

She reached the edge of the clearing and froze. Simon almost crashed into her.

"Simon." Her hand grabbed his arm. "Holy hell, Simon. What the hell is that?"

"I think it's a door," said Simon.

The dark marble door Conmager had shown him stood visible. The strange symbols carved on its edges flickered with white fire, casting their light over the green-veined marble. Green light shone from under the door, sometimes flashing with a deep azure glow.

"Oh my God," whispered Katrina. "I've never seen anything like that. What is it?"

"A door," said Simon. "Oh, God, please don't let it open."

"A door?" said Katrina. He felt her hand shaking. "A door to what?"

The memory of his conversation with Conmager rose in Simon's mind. "The Tower of Endless Worlds."

The blue light flashed under the door, brighter this time. Simon heard a young girl's voice, calling out in fright. The gruff-voiced man shouted, and the icy whispering trembled with rage.

Katrina took a step back. "Simon, I think it's..."

The door swung open with a grinding howl. A blinding shaft of white light shot out, so bright it transformed the dusk to daylight. Simon gasped and looked away, blinking. The light faded, and Simon summoned up his courage and looked through the door and into the Tower.

What he saw almost made him run screaming to his car.

He glimpsed of a huge pillared hall of dark marble stretching to infinity, green light gleaming off the polished walls and columns. Countless shapes of writhing shadow swarmed through the hall. The mere sight of the shadow-shapes filled Simon with unreasoning, animal dread. Blue light flashed, whirling and scything through the shadow-things. A gray-bearded man stood alone amongst the creatures, two burning swords in hand.

Simon would never forget it.

A small shape leapt through the open door, holding something clutched tight.

The whispering voices rose in howls of insane rage.

The door slammed shut and vanished. The light vanished, the discordant whispers faded to nothing.

Simon looked at Katrina. She was shaking, her eyes wide and her face pale. "Did...did you see it?"

"You mean the old man with the fiery swords?" Katrina stumbled over the words. "And the shadow-men with claws...and...oh, God, Simon, what the hell was that?"

"I don't know," said Simon. "I really don't."

Something whimpered.

Katrina's fingers dug even deeper to his arm. "Simon."

A little girl of nine or ten years stood in the center of the clearing, a few feet from where the door had appeared. She wore a dirty gray shift that flapped around her bony knees. Ragged, chopped-off dark hair hung over her pale face and deep dark eyes. She held a writhing toddler in her arms.

"She...oh, God," said Katrina. "She must have come through the door."

The little girl turned and pawed at the air. Her face knitted in a mixture of concentration and anger. "I can't open the door."

Simon stared at her.

"Can you open the door?" said the girl. She had an odd accent, similar to Conmager's.

Simon shook his head. "I can't."

The girl looked at the ground. "Then Liam's dead."

"The old man with the swords?" said Katrina.

The girl nodded and took a step towards them. "He...he saved us. They would have gotten me and Lithon, but he slowed them down." Her face trembled, and she began to cry. "He's dead."

"I'm sorry," said Simon.

The girl staggered towards them, holding out the squirming toddler. "Can you take Lithon? He's gotten so heavy."

Katrina nodded and took the child.

The girl almost smiled. "Thank you."

She shuddered and collapsed to the ground.

###

Someone knocked at the door.

Simon swore under his breath. He had drawn every curtain in the house, pulled every shade, and locked all the doors. Yet every sound still made him jump. He had a brief vision of opening the door and finding the winged creature standing there, its black armor gleaming with a sooty light.

The knocking came again, loud and angry. The toddler began to cry. The little girl stirred in her sleep, shifting on the couch. Simon hurried out of the living room and to the front hall.

He peered through the peephole. Katrina stood at the door, a bulging paper bag in each arm. Simon undid the deadbolt and the locks and pulled the door open.

"Took you long enough," said Katrina.

"Sorry," said Simon. "The boy started crying, and I wanted to make sure you weren't...well, someone else." Katrina headed for the living room, the bags rustling in her arms. "Did you get everything on the list?"

"Yeah," said Katrina. She dumped the bags on the coffee table. "Diapers, disinfectant, baby powder, some clothes for these kids." She gave him a look. "You're doing the diaper, though."

Simon shrugged and picked up the toddler. "Okay. I used to baby-sit when I was a kid, anyway."

Katrina raised an eyebrow. "You did?"

Simon scowled. "Well, someone has to clean up the boy."

"True," said Katrina. She looked at the girl. "A fresh diaper and a bath aren't going to do it for these kids, Simon. I think we should take them to the hospital." She pointed at the bruises on the girl's arm. "She looks pretty beat up."

"No," said Simon. He pulled the cloth diaper off the toddler, winced at the smell, and dumped it into a trash bag.

Katrina's brows knitted. "Why the hell not? They need help."

"I don't think it would be wise," said Simon.

Katrina folded her arms. "Just why not?"

"It wouldn't be good for them. Or for us," said Simon. He put the clean diaper on the toddler. "What did the girl say your name was? Lithon?"

Lithon babbled something incoherent and smiled. Simon set him down. Lithon began wandering around the living room, looking at everything with wide eyes.

"You'd better keep an eye on him," said Katrina. "I don't think your house is exactly child-proof."

"Right," said Simon. He shut the living room door. Lithon occupied himself by trying to climb onto the couch besides the little girl.

"So," said Katrina. "I think you have quite a bit to tell me."

Simon blinked.

Katrina sat in Maura's easy chair. "Let's think about this, college boy. About an hour ago I walked into your backyard and saw a door appear out of thin air. The door opened up, I saw a place that looked like hell's basement, and this girl and this toddler appear out of nowhere. And, for some reason I can't figure out, you're insistent that we keep the boy and the girl a secret. You have quite a bit to explain, I think."

Simon scratched at his chin. "Yeah." He thought for a bit. Where to begin? "Okay. You were right. I wasn't completely honest about the van. It...I suppose it began the day we had our first date, actually. I had to park outside the warehouse complex because a bunch of trucks were coming in. This thin man with a weird accent came up to me..."

###

"And then Conmager said that someday two men, one old, and one young, would come through that door, along with a child." It had gotten dark in the last hour. Simon turned on the lamp besides Maura's chair. "Conmager asked me, begged me, really, to keep them safe until he could come. He...said the winged things would hunt them." He shrugged. "So that's my story."

Katrina stared at him. They sat in silence for a very long time.

"You don't believe me?" said Simon.

"Goddamn, Simon," said Katrina. "Goddamn and holy shit. Please tell me you were drunk. Or that you were high off something. Or that you're bullshitting me. Or that this is some overdone April Fools' joke."

"It's the end of May," said Simon. "And I really wish I was making this up. Or that it was a hallucination or something. But it's not. I saw the winged thing by your apartment building. And I saw the door. I saw it open, and I saw the things inside. So did you. You know I'm not making this up."

Katrina sighed. "Why didn't you tell me? This must've eaten you up."

"It did. I did my best to forget it," said Simon. "When it started, I wasn't that close to you. And...later, I didn't want to tell anyone. If they caught Conmager, if they found out that I had helped him..."

"Goddamn," said Katrina. She sat cross-legged on the floor, the muscles of her arms and legs clenching and unclenching. "That explains so much. All those secret warehouses and off-limits areas at work. All the trucks coming and going." She snorted. "I always thought Wycliffe was crooked, you know. Just not on such a scale. Why did you stay working for him?"

Simon blinked. "What?"

Katrina cracked her knuckles. "Christ, Simon. You knew those trucks were full of guns. Why did you keep working for him?"

Simon shook his head. "I didn't really make the connection between the winged things and Wycliffe, even when Conmager flat-out told me. I guess I didn't want to know. It's a good job. I lied to myself. God. My mother was right. I should never have gone to work for him." He looked at the children. Lithon had fallen asleep on the floor by the couch. "I suppose I'm going to pay for it now."

"Simon." Katrina got up and rubbed his shoulders. "Yeah. You were an idiot."

Simon rolled his eyes. "Oh, thanks."

"But it's not all bad," said Katrina, kneading his shoulders. "I mean, you did help that Conmager guy get away. And you helped him when he came back. And now you're able to help these kids." She kissed his cheek. "And, think. If you hadn't gone to work for Wycliffe, you wouldn't have been able to meet me."

"Well." Simon put an arm around her waist. "I suppose it's not all bad, then."

He tensed.

"What is it?" said Katrina. She frowned. "Besides the obvious?"

"Conmager said two men and the child," said Simon. "We have a boy and a girl."

"We know what happened to one of the men," said Katrina, her voice dark.

"How?"

Katrina looked at him. "The man with the fiery swords. Those shadow-things got him."

Simon ran a hand over his eyes. "Yeah. Probably. I suppose you're right. I wonder what happened to the other..."

The little girl moaned and sat up, putting a hand on the arm of the couch to steady herself.

Simon knelt besides the couch. "How are you feeling?"

Strain and exhaustion marked the girl's pale face, but her deep dark eyes never wavered. "Hungry."

"Simon," said Katrina. "There's some pizza left. Why don't you go grab it?"

"Right," said Simon. He hurried to the kitchen, retrieved the pizza box, and poured a glass of milk

"What's your name?" said Katrina as Simon pushed open the living room door.

The girl stared off into nothingness for a while, as if trying to remember. "Ally."

"Here," said Simon. He put a slice of pizza on a paper plate and handed to her. "We have some food for you."

Ally stared at the plate. "What is it?"

"Um...pizza," said Simon. "It's like...a pie, I guess, with cheese and meat on it."

Ally took a tentative bite. Her solemn face brightened. "That's good." She devoured the rest of the piece, eating like a starved thing, and ate all of a second slice. "Lithon needs some food, when he wakes up. But it has to be cut into small pieces so he can eat it."

Katrina pulled out her pocketknife, a wicked-looking curved thing she had bought a hunters' supply store. She began dicing a slice of pizza.

"Ally," said Simon. "We need to ask you some questions."

Ally titled her head, ragged hair brushing her pale neck. "Are you friends of Marugon?"

Simon blinked. "Who?" Conmager had mentioned a man named Marugon.

"The Lord of the Warlocks," said Ally. "The last and greatest of the Warlocks."

"No," said Katrina, making a little pile of pizza pieces. "We've never even met him."

"Who are you, then?" said Ally.

"Um...I'm Simon Wester." Simon pointed to Katrina. "This is Katrina Coldridge, my fiancée."

"Fiancée?" said Ally.

"We're engaged to be married," said Simon. Ally's expression didn't change. "She'll be my wife in a few months."

"Oh." Ally nodded. "She is your betrothed. You are pledged to wed."

"Right," said Simon. "Can you tell us what happened? How you came here?"

Ally stared into space. "I...don't remember everything. I woke up on a dead plain. Some of Marugon's gunmen found me. They were going to rape me." Katrina's eyes narrowed. "Then Sir Liam Mastere and Lithon came. Liam killed them."

"Liam?" said Simon. "You mean the man we saw through the door? The man with the burning swords?"

Ally nodded. "The shadows killed him, I think." Deep sadness crossed her face. "His swords were called Sacred Blades."

"What happened after Liam found you?" said Katrina.

"We went to the Tower," said Ally.

"You mean the Tower of Endless Worlds?" said Simon. Ally nodded. "Why did you go there?"

Ally thought for a while. "Liam said we had to. He said that an old Wizard named Alastarius had made a Prophecy. Lithon would grow up to defeat Marugon." She looked at the toddler. "But only if he lived long enough to grow up."

"You mean Marugon would hunt for Lithon?" said Simon.

Ally nodded.

Katrina leaned forward. "That's why Liam wanted to take him to...to Earth, I guess. To keep him safe, right?"

Ally nodded again. "The winged demons hunted for him. They would have found him, if we had stayed. But they won't think to look for him on Earth."

A chill went down Simon's spine. "The winged demons? Do they look like large men with wings, and sooty black armor, and burning eyes..."

Ally nodded. Simon shuddered.

"What happened in the Tower?" said Katrina.

"We walked through it. I don't know how long it took. I guess time doesn't work in the Tower. The shadow-things came. One pretended to be the Queen. We ran. They would have killed us, but Liam slowed them down. I jumped through the door, and we were here, on Earth." Her thin shoulders sagged. "I wanted to open the door so he could get through, but I couldn't. I don't think you can open that door on this side."

"I'm sorry," said Simon.

"Do you have a latrine?" said Ally.

"Oh. A toilet?" said Simon. Ally frowned. "Um...Katrina. Can you show her the bathroom?"

Katrina nodded. "This way."

"I'm tired," said Ally.

"Do you want a bath first?" said Katrina.

Ally nodded. "That would be nice. I don't think I've ever had a bath."

###

"That is a spooky little kid," whispered Katrina.

Simon and Katrina stood in the doorway to the living room. Ally lay on the couch, her arm around Lithon. She wore one of Simon's shirts, the hem dangling around her knees.

"I think she's been through a lot," said Simon.

"I don't doubt that," said Katrina. "God, Simon. When I helped her with the bath...you could see her spine and every one of her ribs. I don't think she's quite starved, but she's close. But it's not that, or anything else." She smacked her fist into her legs. "It's...it's..."

"Her eyes," said Simon.

"Yeah." Katrina licked her lips. "It's like she's looking right through you, and she knows everything about you. And she...knows...things. What are we going to do with them?"

"I can stay with them tomorrow," said Simon. "I can take off work. And isn't tomorrow your day off?"

"Yeah," said Katrina. "But after that?"

"Wait for Conmager," said Simon.

"Do you really think he'll come?" said Katrina.

"Oh, he'll come," said Simon. "Unless something happened to him. He'll come."

"We should sleep down here," said Katrina. "In case one of them wakes up and freaks out."

"Yeah," said Simon. "I'll take the floor. You can have Mom's recliner." He sighed. "This wasn't quite what I had in mind when I asked you to spend the night."

Katrina chuckled. "Well, duh." She kissed him. "We'll have time for that later."

"I'll go get some blankets," said Simon.

He didn't sleep well, and spent most of the night wandering the house, checking the locks and peering out the windows.

###

"I'm going to have to go out again," said Katrina the next morning.

"Oh?" said Simon, yawning and scratching his chin.

Katrina looked at the sleeping children. "We've got to get those kids some decent clothes. And shoes, for that matter."

Simon nodded.

"Give me some money."

Simon blinked. "Why?"

Katrina gave him a look. "Because I spent all my cash yesterday. And if someone is looking for these kids, I don't want to use my credit card."

Simon pulled his wallet off the coffee table. "Well, we are getting married. I suppose I should get used to you asking me for money."

"Wise ass college boy," said Katrina, tucking the bills into her pocket.

"How long will you be?" said Simon.

"Not more than a couple of hours, I hope." Katrina walked to the door and began doing some stretches. "I just want to get in and out of the store. I also have to stop by my apartment. I left my mom a message on the machine, but she sometimes forgets to check it." She leaned against the doorframe and lifted her left leg past her head.

"That looks painful."

Katrina smirked and rolled her shoulders. "You weren't complaining when I did it yesterday afternoon."

Despite himself, Simon blushed. "Hurry back."

"I will." Katrina scooped up her purse. "When do you think this Conmager will show up?"

"I don't know."

Katrina pulled out her car keys. "Do you have a way of contacting him?"

"No," said Simon. "But he'll show up." He shrugged. "I'm...just sure of it."

"Great. So we're running on intuition. I'll be back soon." Katrina opened the living room door.

"Be careful," said Simon.

Katrina turned, a sarcastic look on her face. She looked at the children and fell silent in mid-sentence. "Yeah. You too." She turned and left.

Simon blew out a long sigh and watched as Katrina's car drove away. Katrina could take care of herself. She could likely take batter care of herself than he could. But what if the winged things were about? What if one of the creatures, with its burning eyes and iron-clawed hands, found Katrina?

The thought of losing Katrina sent a wave of utter dread through him. He could no longer imagine life without her. He wanted to live with her, and talk with her, and sleep with her, for the rest of his life. He paced away from the window and froze.

Ally sat up on the couch, watching him with her deep eyes.

Simon grunted and sat in Maura's chair. "How long have you been up?"

"Not long," said Ally. She titled her head. "Do you have more food? More...pizza?"

"Are you hungry?" said Simon.

"Not really. But Lithon will be, when he wakes up. Where's Katrina?"

"She went to get some clothes and shoes for you two," said Simon.

"I've never worn shoes before," said Ally.

"Well...it'll be a first, then," said Simon.

They lapsed into silence. Ally stared at him and through him. Simon could not understand how the gaze of a little girl made him feel so discomforted.

"What will you do with us?" said Ally.

"Do?" Simon shrugged. "We haven't figured it out yet. There...are bad things after you, aren't there?"

Ally nodded.

Simon frowned. "Do you know why?"

Ally shook her head. "Lithon is important, I guess."

"Did...ah, did Sir Liam say what he was going to do once you got to Earth?" said Simon.

Ally shook her head. "No." She stared off into space. "I don't think he knew himself."

"I have a...friend, you could say, I guess," said Simon. "He knew you were coming." Or did he? Conmager had said that two men and a child would appear. He had said nothing about Ally. "He'll come soon. I hope he'll know what to do."

Ally got to her feet. "I have to use your white latrine."

"Okay," said Simon. "Do you want me to get you some fruit? A banana, or maybe an apple?"

Ally froze. "An...apple?" She smiled, and her face lost its solemn look. "I had an apple once...I think. I might have. I can't really remember. I think I liked it. But I would like an apple."

Simon smiled. "Okay. I'll get one." Ally went out the living room door and up the stairs. Simon went to the kitchen got three apples, one for himself, one for Ally, and another one for her, in case she was still hungry.

He returned to the dining room and saw Ally standing before the living room door, her head titled to the side. Her eyes were fixed on nothing. "What is it?"

Ally looked at him. "Someone's here."

He handed her the apples, hurried to the front door, and peeked outside.

A red van pulled into the driveway. An odd resignation settled on Simon. He found himself thinking of the ancient Greeks and their three Fates. Was this his fate?

Simon pushed aside the thought and opened the front door.

Conmager strode up the front walk. He wore a well-tailored dark suit and a long overcoat. In his left hand he carried a long staff of dark wood, each end capped with polished black metal. Its metal-shod butt clicked against the pavement with every step.

Simon crossed his arms. "I've been expecting you."

Conmager nodded. He looked healthier, but his face remained gaunt and haunted. "I know. They came through the door in your woods, did they not?"

"They did," said Simon.

Conmager's lip twitched in a half-smile. "I am not surprised. I thought they would. It is fate, I think, or the will of a higher power." Simon shivered. "I was fated to meet you, and they were fated to come through the door in your woods."

"That's hardly reassuring," said Simon.

"Not to you, perhaps. But it sustains me, with so much against us." Conmager's eyes flashed. "I must see them at once."

Simon nodded. "Fine. But you seem worried."

Conmager's staff clicked against the wooden steps. "Things have not gone as I have hoped, Simon Wester. We are all in very great danger."

***
Chapter 17 - The Warlock Returns

Anno Domini 2003

Wycliffe hit the button on his intercom. "Yes?"  
"Sir." Markham's voice came over the speaker. "Dr. Krastiny is here to see you."  
Wycliffe smiled. "Send him in."  
"Yes, sir."  
Wycliffe shut down his computer and flipped the switch under his desk that unlocked his door. A few moments later someone knocked. "Come in."  
Dr. Krastiny shuffled inside, clad in a hideous lime-green suit. He settled in Wycliffe's guest chair, the leather cushions creaking. "Ah, Senator. A good evening to you." He blinked his heavy-lidded eyes. "Is something amusing?"  
Wycliffe waved a hand. "That suit."  
Krastiny frowned. "Whatever is the matter with this suit? I found it at a very reasonable price. I purchased it at a charity store, one run by nuns. Very polite ladies, fine conversation."  
Wycliffe laughed. "Kurkov pays you millions of dollars, and you still do your shopping at secondhand stores."  
The little bald man waved a skinny finger. "Now, now. Prudence is a necessary aspect of character. I have prosperity now, yes, but I have also known hard times. No doubt I will know them again at some point. So it is wise to prepare, to save my wealth against those days, rather than frittering away my money on silken finery."  
Wycliffe made a show of straightening his tie. "I happen to enjoy my silken finery, as you put it."  
"No doubt," said Krastiny. "You are much wealthier than I. But even you are somewhat moderate in your tastes. Fine clothes, fine food, fine wine, and fine literature. These are the mark of a learned and cultured man. But still, you exercise moderation. No loose women, no extravagances, save when it serves your purpose, and no drugs." A bit of irritation entered his eyes. "Unlike friend Kurkov."  
Wycliffe sighed. "I hear he's developed a bit of a cocaine habit."  
"He has," said Krastiny. "He spent entirely too much time in the army. Too much austerity. It did not prepare him well for his future fortune. What did Aristotle say?"  
"Live the moderate life," said Wycliffe.  
"Precisely right. Moderation." Krastiny shrugged. "Vasily will learn to moderate his tastes. Or I shall have to take over when he burns himself out. One or the other."  
"Where is Kurkov, anyway?" said Wycliffe. "It's past nine. I need everyone here by quarter to midnight."  
"Out wining and dining, I believe," said Krastiny. "He met some sleek young university debutante. No doubt he wishes to impress her with tales of his harrowing experiences in the anti-Communist underground."  
Wycliffe snorted. "Utter bullshit. He was in the army right up until Gorbachev pulled out of Eastern Europe, as I recall."  
Krastiny grinned a gap-toothed smile. "Of course. But the sleek young debutante does not know this, does she?"  
They both laughed.  
Wycliffe rapped his knuckles on the desk. "You did send someone to make sure he doesn't kill anyone?"  
Krastiny nodded. "Of course. Schzeran and Bronsky, my two best men."  
"I don't believe I've met them," said Wycliffe.  
"You haven't," said Krastiny. "This is their first visit to America. They were my protégés, back in my KGB days."  
Wycliffe laughed.  
Krastiny raised a wispy eyebrow. "What is so amusing?"  
"You are, my friend," said Wycliffe. "You look like some benign old university professor."  
Krastiny grinned. A razor-keen light flashed in his eyes. "And what could be farther from the truth, no?"  
Wycliffe shook his head. "Do you know the reward for your capture has gone up to five million dollars?"  
Krastiny folded his hands. "I hope you are not tempted to collect."  
Wycliffe spread his hands. "Not me! I'm not that foolish. I plan on living much longer. It was merely an observation on the wide difference between your appearance and your reality."  
Krastiny chuckled. The keen edge of his gaze faded, and once again he looked like an amiable little bald man in a bad suit. "Then there is another reason I purchased this suit, beside thrift. Misdirection, eh? Sometimes misdirection is more dangerous than a gun, no?"  
Wycliffe thought of Eddie Carson, Jason Fulbright, and the senatorial campaign. "Indeed."  
"Speaking of guns." Krastiny leaned forward. "So is true then, what I have heard? Your...other partner...is coming here himself?"  
Wycliffe nodded. "He is. It's the first time he's visited Earth in the better part of nine years." Wycliffe frowned, thinking back. "In fact, this is the first time he's returned since he departed with the first shipment of guns you sold us."  
"A fateful cargo, that," said Krastiny. Wycliffe raised his eyebrows. "It has proven to be the foundation of both your fortune and Kurkov's."  
"And Marugon's," said Wycliffe. "He sends...messengers...through the Tower, every now again. Sometimes they come with the caravans, other times they travel on their own. His conquests have gone well. He subdued four of the seven nations, these High Kingdoms, that cast him out. The other three are stronger, but he expects to finish them off in another five years."  
Krastiny snorted. "I hope your partner is not unduly optimistic. I remember our war with Afghanistan in the eighties. The military high command daily claimed victory was within grasp." He chuckled. "And they continued believing that right up to the end."  
"True," said Wycliffe. "But my partner is not Soviet military command."  
"No," said Krastiny, reaching into his hideous jacket. "He is not." He pulled out something small and shiny. It was one of the gold coins Marugon provided for purchasing guns, weapons, and other supplies for his army. Wycliffe had the coins melted and sold on the commodities exchange, and then used the cash to purchase weapons from Kurkov's syndicate. There was always leftover money, and it had made Wycliffe a multi-millionaire several times over.  
"A souvenir?" said Wycliffe.  
"Something of the sort," said Krastiny. "When you first approached Kurkov with your bizarre story of the Tower and this Marugon fellow, I was skeptical. But Kurkov didn't care. Money is money, and the coins you sent were real gold. But I remained curious. So I investigated the coins myself."  
"What did you find?" said Wycliffe.  
"I could not decipher the language written on the coins," said Krastiny. "This was not surprising, because the alphabet is utterly unlike any on Earth. Kurkov did not care. He was getting richer than any man in Russia. But I continued to wonder, especially as the years corroborated your story. We continued to deliver the guns, and you continued to buy them."  
Wycliffe smiled. "Many of your questions will be answered tonight when Marugon comes. In fact, Kurkov's organization is the reason he's coming."  
Krastiny blinked. "Oh?"  
"He wants to meet his suppliers," said Wycliffe.  
"Wise of him," said Krastiny. He slipped the coin back into his pocket. "Tell me, Senator. You have new security personnel since my last visit. Did Marugon provide them?"  
Wycliffe shifted. "Yes. How did you know?"  
"I speak fifteen languages," said Krastiny, "and have a passing familiarity with twenty more."  
"Impressive," said Wycliffe. "I can only manage five, myself, and two of those are dead tongues."  
Krastiny shrugged. "It is a necessity in my line of work." He grinned, his eyes glinting. "Or my former line of work. Suffice it to say I have heard many languages spoken. Yet I have never heard an accent similar to the one possessed by your slouching thugs."  
"Impressive perception," said Wycliffe, wondering if the little doctor had garnered too much information.  
"I do not like these slouching men," said Krastiny. "I have dealt with many professional killers in my time, and have talked with many heartless and ruthless men. Yet your slouching men make them seem like mewling children. You have heard the jokes they make, no? Or the way they ogle and mutter every time a beautiful woman comes within sight? They are very dangerous, I think, and they are hiding something."  
Wycliffe grunted. "You don't the half of it."  
"I beg your pardon?"  
Wycliffe spread his hands. "I happen to agree with you, Dr. Krastiny. I do not like the slouching men. They are unimaginably dangerous, even to someone like you. They combine the worst elements of sadists, serial killers, and psychopathic rapists. And that's describing them in a very generous light. Yet they are a necessary evil, like so many things in life. And they will not disobey me."  
Krastiny chuckled, his face skeptical. "Yes, this 'black magic' Marugon supposedly taught you. I find that by far the hardest part of your story to believe, especially since you refuse to perform a demonstration for us."  
Wycliffe shrugged. "It's a part of the discipline. One must use it only when necessary, and never spuriously. If you are ever around me when I need to use it, then you shall see remarkable things, Dr. Krastiny." He thought of Eddie Carson again and smiled. "Especially if I need to silence a troublesome reporter."  
Krastiny laughed. "I can never understand this country's press. In the USSR, we got a free press, and the country went to...what is the idiom...to hell in a hand basket a few years later. How your country keeps from teetering into chaos, I shall never understand."  
"It almost has, more than once," said Wycliffe. "Perhaps that is its strength. Chaos and order in equal measure. Perhaps Aristotle's maxim about the balanced life applies to government as well."  
Krastiny snorted. "That is a misapplication and you know it. Aristotle's views on government were..." His eyes widened.  
Wycliffe frowned. "What?"  
Krastiny leapt to his feet, a gun materializing in his hand. He said something in Russian, his eyes wide.  
Wycliffe laughed. "Doctor. Lower your weapon. It means no harm."  
Krastiny did not look mollified. "What the hell is it?"  
Wycliffe smiled. "Marugon's messenger."  
A deformed little creature stood in the corner. It looked like a twisted monkey with leathery black skin. It had a dog's snout, glowing red eyes, huge floppy ears, and a pair of bat's wings. It took to the air with a few lazy flaps of its wings, circled the office, and perched on Wycliffe's computer monitor.  
Wycliffe glared. "You had best not relieve yourself on my computer this time."  
The creature hissed, a forked tongue licking at the air. "Gloaming comes with a message for Lord Wycliffe of Chicago, from Lord Marugon of the Wastes." Its voice growled and bubbled. "Lord Marugon of the Wastes comes soon. He says that Lord Wycliffe should make ready for him."  
"Thank you," said Wycliffe. "We are already prepared for Lord Marugon and await his arrival."  
The creature hissed. "Some flesh for Gloaming?"  
Wycliffe rolled his eyes and reached for the mini-fridge behind his desk. He pulled out a raw hamburger patty in a plastic baggie and dropped it on his desk.  
"Very well."  
Gloaming cackled in delight, shredded the bag, and began devouring the beef. "Is cold."  
Wycliffe glared. "It's better than nothing. If you want it hot, go cook it out on one of the truck engines in the yard."  
"Burned flesh no good." Gloaming scooped up the bag in its claws and took to the air. It slid open the heat register and began to slip inside.  
"Wait," said Wycliffe. "Don't eat it in the ducts. Go outside. I don't want to smell rotting meat like last time." Gloaming pouted. "And if you want fresh meat, go hunt the rats in the yard. They've gotten bad lately."  
Gloaming grinned and disappeared into the vent. Wycliffe heard the vile little creature singing to itself in its growling, burbling voice.  
Krastiny looked shaken. "What manner of devil was that?"  
"An imp of the Wastes, a native of Marugon's world," said Wycliffe. "Miserable little creatures. Yet they are quite useful if you can terrify them into submission. Marugon has a whole pack of the little fiends."  
Krastiny shook his head. "Your story seems more feasible by the minute, Senator."  
Wycliffe reached into the mini-fridge and removed a bottle of brandy. "Care for a drink? You look rather shaken." He put two glasses on the desk and hoped Krastiny came to his senses.  
He did not want to have to use the Voice on the man.  
Krastiny picked up one of the glasses. "By all means."  
Wycliffe smiled and poured.

###

Some time later, Wycliffe sat in his darkened office and contemplated the half-empty glass of brandy in his hand. He shook his head and set it aside. He did not want to cloud his mind before meeting with Marugon. The man shouldn't make him nervous. They were allies, after all. But Marugon still troubled Wycliffe on some subconscious level, like a mouse confronted by a cat.  
Wycliffe rolled his eyes. "I'm no mouse."  
The intercom buzzed. Wycliffe hit the button. "Yes?"  
"Senator, it's Krastiny," came a gravelly voice. "Kurkov has returned."  
Wycliffe glared at the clock. "About time. It's 11:35. Is he sober?"  
"Mostly. And in a good mood. Apparently he bedded his prize with remarkable alacrity."  
"How splendid. Have him met me at warehouse 13A as soon as possible."  
"Understood, Senator." The intercom clicked off. Wycliffe walked around the desk and stared into the mirror on his door. He looked as close to good as he ever did. Perhaps after he finished with Marugon, he would use the Voice on another woman. He could use the Voice to make them do whatever he wanted, and then make them forget after he had finished. A remarkably easy way to avoid a sex scandal.  
He grinned. "The austere life, indeed, Dr. Krastiny. Everything in moderation."  
Wycliffe stepped into the hall and locked the door behind him, running his tongue against his teeth. Perhaps that Katrina Coldridge who ran the office computer systems would make a good candidate for the Voice. She wore miniskirts that displayed her remarkable legs to good effect.  
And she often worked late hours alone.  
Wycliffe cleared his mind. He did not need any lustful notions clouding his thoughts, not with Marugon coming.  
He strode into the courtyard. The night watchman, one of the bearded thugs, stood guard, face concealed behind a bushy beard and a pair of mirrored sunglasses. He stepped aside at Wycliffe's approach. Wycliffe quickened his pace, keeping his expression calm. He should not fear the slouching men. As a wielder of the black magic, they did as he commanded. Yet they still made him feel mild unease, much as Marugon did.  
Warehouse 13A, a massive grim structure of cinder blocks and corrugated steel, stood in the center of his complex. An electrified fence surrounded the warehouse, crowned with rolls of barbed wire. A slouching thug in a hooded motorcycle jacket stood at the gate. Wycliffe strode through, making a show of ignoring the guard.  
A limousine was parked before the warehouse's massive steel doors. Kurkov sat on the hood, dressed all in black leather, a thick cigar in his hand. Dr. Krastiny stood nearby, conversing with two younger men. One man was tall and thin with a shock of dark hair. The other was short and broad with a bald head, his arms corded with thick muscle.  
"Ah, Vasily," said Wycliffe. "I hope you had a pleasant evening."  
Kurkov puffed on his cigar. "I am pleased. Good food and good women."  
"Senator." Dr. Krastiny approached, his two younger cohorts in tow. "I mentioned these fine fellows to you earlier. May I introduce Mr. Schzeran," he indicated the tall man, "and Mr. Bronsky."  
Both men offered their hands, and Wycliffe shook them. "Ah...comrades from Dr. Krastiny's KGB days, I assume."  
They looked at Krastiny. He nodded, as if giving permission.  
"Yes," said Schzeran. His Russian accent made his words almost incomprehensible. Bronsky remained silent. "Dr. Krastiny trained us. We do jobs together."  
Krastiny laughed. "You undersell yourself. Schzeran and Bronsky have been my strong right hands for many years. Both are some of the most highly competent and professional...ah, agents, I have ever encountered. And both have the rare quality of keeping their mouths shut. I don't think Bronsky has said five words in as many years."  
Bronsky grunted.  
"So you gentlemen provide security for Mr. Kurkov?" said Wycliffe.  
Schzeran had a serial killer's grin. "We are bodyguards for Mr. Kurkov. If anyone gives Mr. Kurkov trouble, we give them twice as much trouble."  
Wycliffe nodded. "I imagine it's useful, having three pet assassins. I don't suppose you were involved with that assassination attempt on the pope in the early eighties?"  
Krastiny laughed. "Hardly. We would have been...more professional, let us say."  
Bronsky grunted. "We'd have done it right."  
"No doubt," said Wycliffe. He turned to Kurkov. "Vasily. We never finished our tour a few days ago. I still have a few things to show you."  
Kurkov grunted. Schzeran and Bronsky moved to his side.  
Wycliffe waved a hand at the warehouse. "Behold Warehouse 13A, my friends. It's...how did you put it, Doctor? The foundation of my fortunes and yours?"  
Kurkov scratched at his stubble-shaded chin. "This? How so?"  
Wycliffe walked to the doors and produced an ID card. He swiped it through the lock. It clicked, beeped, and then the locking mechanism released.  
"This," said Wycliffe, waving his arm, "all of this, wasn't here ten years ago. Ten years ago block after block of decaying apartments stood here. I lived in one of these buildings. It stood, in fact, right here, on the very spot now occupied by Warehouse 13A."  
Kurkov snorted. "How very interesting. A rags-to-riches story, as they say. Very American. But why should I care?"  
Wycliffe smiled. "I'll show you." The warehouse doors began to slide open with the screech of metal on metal.  
Wycliffe heard the clomping of heavy boots and turned. Two dozen slouching thugs gathered behind them. Between the enormous beards and the leather attire, they looked like attendees at a Harley rally. If Kurkov really knew what those beards and mirrored sunglasses hid, Wycliffe suspected that he would flee as fast as his limousine could take him.  
What Kurkov didn't know could indeed kill him.  
Wycliffe stifled a laugh, and the doors slid open.  
"Right this way, gentlemen," said Wycliffe, walking inside. The Russians and the thugs filed after him.  
Inside the warehouse racks of florescent lighting illuminated stacks and stacks of wooden crates. A large glassed-in room had been built in the corner, alongside a row of industrial meat freezers. The scent of machine grease and cordite hung heavy in the air. Wycliffe pointed at a stack of crates. "Old Soviet-issue Kalashnikov rifles. Grenades. Grenade launchers. Mortars. Rocket launchers. Even some napalm. All provided by your organization, Vasily." He pointed at pallets of cardboard boxes. "Winter and summer garments. Preserved foods and canned goods. Medical supplies. And some shotguns and small-arms, weapons I'm able to easily acquire in the States." He grinned. "And over here you'll see..."  
Kurkov scowled. "What the hell is that?"  
A raised metal platform stood against the far wall. A pair of steel grill staircases and a hydraulic lift led to the platform's top. A massive slab of dark stone stood upright on the platform's center. Strange symbols and diagrams covered its surface, marking it with a bizarre tangle of lines, angles, and glyphs. At times faint green light glimmered from the slab's edges, and occasionally a flicker of white light flashed from the carved symbols.  
"What the devil is that?" said Krastiny. "Some sort of stele?" His thin eyebrows knitted. "I don't recognize those inscriptions."  
"Nor do I," said Wycliffe. He walked to the base of the platform. "Here. Right here. This is where my apartment once stood." He climbed up the metal stairs. "And...right about here, maybe a little to my left, is where my living room closet once stood. Where I first met Lord Marugon."  
Krastiny folded his arms. "So this is supposed to be the door you told us about?"  
"Quite right," said Wycliffe.  
Kurkov laughed. He made a show of walking behind the platform. "There is nothing behind that rock, Wycliffe. That is no door. That is just a piece of old stone." He laughed again. "So it is true, then. All rich Americans are crazy."  
"Undoubtedly," said Wycliffe. "So you're sure, then? This is just an old slab of stone? And I dreamed that a man in a black robe came out through the slab and told me to buy guns and bombs?"  
One of the slouching men chuckled, a sound like sliding rocks.  
Kurkov shrugged. "Most probably. America is a land of strange people. Why, I remember hearing about an American cult on television. They thought if they killed themselves, they would fly to heaven on a magic spaceship."  
Wycliffe nodded. "Heaven's Gate?"  
"Yes, that was it," said Kurkov. He grinned. "We do profitable business, Wycliffe, but you are a nut."  
"Ah," said Wycliffe. "So, Dr. Krastiny, do you agree with your employer? Do you think I am a nut?"  
Krastiny frowned, his eyes darting to the corner. Gloaming sat huddled behind a crate, gnawing on a dead rat. "I...am not so sure, Senator."  
Wycliffe grinned. "Well, Vasily, if I am a nut, how do you explain this?"  
He put both hands against the door's carved surface, braced himself, and pushed.  
Nothing happened.  
Kurkov's chuckles redoubled. "Careful, Wycliffe. You will push your expensive rock over."  
The door swung open.  
A dazzling shaft of white light stabbed out. Wycliffe took a step back, covering his eyes. A chorus of curses rose from Kurkov and Schzeran. The light faded, revealing a vast, pillared gallery stretching into infinity. Pale green light gleamed against the dark stone.  
Kurkov stared at the opened door. His contemptuous mask dissolved in astonishment. "What in hell?"  
Krastiny muttered something in Russian. Both Bronsky and Schzeran had their guns out. "What the devil is that?"  
Wycliffe laughed at their reactions. He stepped to the side, sweeping his arm out. "Behold, gentlemen. A corridor within the Tower of Endless Worlds."  
Kurkov shook his head. "This must be a trick. Yes? You are tricking us. This is...a trick with light, what is the English..."  
"An optical illusion?" said Krastiny.  
Kurkov snapped his fingers. "Yes. That is it. This is an optical illusion."  
"Indeed?" Wycliffe turned. "Gloaming!" The imp growled. "Fetch me that crowbar." Gloaming sneered. "Gloaming!" Wycliffe let a bit of the Voice slip into his speech. "I command! Fetch!" His words echoed like icy thunder. The imp whined, scooped the crowbar, and flapped to Wycliffe's side.  
Kurkov let out a startled curse in Russian. Schzeran and Bronsky leveled their guns. Krastiny waved them to calm.  
"What the hell is that...is that thing?" said Kurkov.  
Gloaming glared at him with burning eyes. "Screw you."  
Wycliffe chuckled, picked up the crowbar, and kicked Gloaming off the platform. The imp screeched and took to the air.  
"Hideous little beast, isn't it?" said Wycliffe. "A native to Marugon's world, Vasily, an imp of the Wastes. Unpleasant little devils, certainly, but they can be tamed."  
Kurkov managed to nod.  
"An optical illusion, you say?" said Wycliffe. He hefted the crowbar. "Then how do you explain this?" He flung the crowbar through the open door. White light flashed. The crowbar hit the marble floor, bounced, and skidded a good forty feet. "You can go look behind the door...oh, I'm sorry, my expensive slab. Look for trick wires, look for smoke, look for mirrors, look for whatever your heart desires. But you will not find anything."  
Kurkov shook his head. He climbed up the stairs, the metal clacking beneath his boots. "I must see this for myself."  
Krastiny stepped forward. "I'm not sure that's safe..."  
"Nonsense," said Wycliffe. Kurkov climbed to the platform's top. "You only wish to step through a short distance, I assume?"  
"Correct," said Kurkov.  
"If you were to go wandering the corridors of the Tower alone, then, yes, we would never see you again," said Wycliffe. "But a quick step through is perfectly safe."  
Kurkov grimaced, shook his head, and stepped through the door. There was another flash of white light. Kurkov stepped into the Tower and shuddered, gasping for breath. He looked around, his eyes wide. Wycliffe admired his courage. In almost ten years Wycliffe had seen dozens of men step through the door, yet had never quite summoned the courage to try it himself.  
Kurkov grinned and picked up the crowbar. He paused and stared down the corridor for a moment, then shook his head and stepped back through the door. The white light flashed, and then Kurkov stood on the platform once more. Kurkov handed the crowbar back to Wycliffe. "Amazing. If it is a trick, it is very well done."  
Wycliffe laughed. "But it's not a trick, is it?"  
Kurkov snorted. "No. To think, for all those years I thought you were crazy, but it turns out you were telling the truth." He frowned. "I thought I saw something coming towards us...some men, and horses..."  
Wycliffe smiled. "Good."  
Gloaming perched on the platform's railing.The creature gave Wycliffe a sullen look. "Lord Wycliffe of Chicago. Lord Marugon of the Wastes comes."  
Wycliffe peered through the door. "We have some time yet. Distances can be deceptive within the Tower's corridors." Dr. Krastiny climbed up to the platform, his face furrowed in a frown. Wycliffe chuckled. "A bit rattled, Doctor?"  
"A bit," said Krastiny. "I confess, the underpinnings of my worldview have just been rather severely shaken."  
Wycliffe leaned against the railing. "Mine were, at first." Gloaming hopped a safe distance away, and Kurkov lit a cigar. "But I adapted, and even thrived, as you can see."  
"I may take up religion," said Krastiny.  
Wycliffe laughed. "Don't. I doubt you'd have quite the same mental acumen if you took up Christian fundamentalism."  
"That white flash, when someone passes through the door," said Krastiny. "What is it?"  
Wycliffe shrugged. He had seen the flash so many times that he no longer paid it any mind. "I'm not certain. I suspect it has to do with warding spells inscribed upon the door."  
"Warding spells?" said Krastiny.  
Wycliffe strode to the door's slab. "You're still not entirely comfortable with the idea of magic, I see." He ran his fingers along the carved symbols, feeling the power thrumming through the stone. "These symbols, you see, are wards." Krastiny looked puzzled. "Ah...spells designed to keep something out."  
"Why are there wards on the door?" said Krastiny. Kurkov wandered away, bored with the discussion. "Did Marugon there put them there?" Wycliffe shook his head.  
"Who, then?" said Krastiny. "The persons who constructed the Tower?"  
"Possibly," said Wycliffe. "But not even Marugon knows who constructed the Tower."  
Krastiny blinked. "He does not?"  
Wycliffe shrugged. "I don't think Marugon even entirely knows what the Tower is, exactly. He told me once...he said that the Tower was part of all worlds and yet none, that it existed in every world and yet touched none of them. So far as I am able to gather, the Tower is infinite. A man could spend his entire life wandering its corridors."  
Krastiny folded his arms over his chest, still staring through the open door. "Infinite, you say? Then how do the caravans find their way from Marugon's world to ours?"  
"Marugon left markers to show the correct path," said Wycliffe. "His personal sigil, I believe, burned into the stone."  
"Useful," said Krastiny. "But how did Marugon find his way to Earth in the first place?"  
Wycliffe laughed. "Sheer chance. That's the damnable thing of it all. Sheer and utter chance."  
"Remarkable," said Krastiny. His wispy eyebrows knitted. "It seems like this should be a more common occurrence."  
"How so?" said Wycliffe. The distant shape of the caravan drew nearer, close enough that Wycliffe could make out the shapes of horses, mules, wagons, and men.  
"If this Tower is infinite, as you say," said Krastiny, "should not visitors from other worlds stumble upon ours more frequently?"  
"No," said Wycliffe. "You see, most of the doors in the Tower are one-way. They can only be opened from within the Tower. And they usually swing shut a few moments after they are opened."  
Krastiny blinked. "But you opened this door."  
"I did." Wycliffe pointed at the intricate symbols etched on the stone slab. "When Marugon came across one of the doors to our world..."  
"There are others?"  
"Four others," said Wycliffe. "We don't know where they open...we've never bothered to trace them. After all, they can't be opened from Earth. But when Marugon first came across this door, he realized the design of the seals on the doors and damaged them. Thus the door can be opened from both sides." He shrugged. "No doubt he wanted an escape, should this world prove inhospitable. But I believe he was already thinking in terms of revenge. Perhaps he hoped to find something that could aid him against his enemies on his world."  
"Why was the Tower constructed in this fashion?" said Krastiny. "If one can travel from world to world with ease, it seems to indicate that the Tower was constructed as a means of transportation. Yet why build it with one-way doors?"  
Wycliffe shrugged. "Who knows? As I said, I don't know who built the Tower. Marugon told me that his foes believed that their gods reared it uncounted eons ago." Gloaming hissed. "He himself suspects spell casters of awesome power reared millennia ago. As for myself, I think an ancient race, something higher up on the evolutionary scale than us, built the thing before they went extinct. But I don't care who built it. Whoever built it departed long ago, and left it for men like you and myself and Marugon to use."  
"Perhaps," said Krastiny. He laughed. "I hope you will forgive my questioning. It is been a very long time since I encountered something that shook me so thoroughly."  
"Not at all," said Wycliffe. "Inquisitiveness is the mark of the truly educated mind." He smiled with the memory. "I had a thousand questions of Marugon myself. Of course, he had questions of his own. About everything, really." He snapped his fingers. "In fact, he sent a special message via imp a month ago. He wanted books."  
"Books?" said Krastiny. "What sort of books?"  
"All sorts of books. History, physics, astronomy, chemistry, metallurgy. Quite a few related to nuclear physics, for some reason. I wound up spending something like three thousand dollars on books." He jerked a thumb. "They're waiting for him over at the office."  
"Quite a broad range of subjects," said Krastiny. "But if, as you say, he came from a pre-industrial society, no doubt they fascinate him."  
"Absolutely," said Wycliffe. "My questions about him were satisfied after a few weeks. But everything was of interest to Marugon. He never stopped asking questions about...everything, more or less."  
Krastiny laughed. "One more question for you, if you'll permit."  
Wycliffe nodded. "You sound like a member of the press. Go on."  
"Why is it called the Tower?"  
Wycliffe frowned. "What?"  
"It does not seem like a Tower, more like a vast labyrinth that touches on innumerable worlds."  
Wycliffe shrugged. "It is, in fact, a Tower. It stands on Marugon's world."  
Krastiny frowned. "How?"  
Wycliffe gestured at the door. "We have doors on our world. But the Tower actually stands on Marugon's world. He entered it through its front gate, not a simple door."  
Krastiny's frown deepened. It made him look like a malformed Easter egg. "That...makes little sense. How can the Tower be infinite, yet stand on Marugon's world?"  
White light flashed. A man in a ragged black uniform stepped through the door. He carried numerous guns. He offered a short bow to Wycliffe and clattered down the stairs. Kurkov turned and ground his cigar out beneath his boot.  
"Marugon's soldiers," said Wycliffe.  
More and more soldiers streamed through the door, until a double column of forty stood on the warehouse floor beneath the platform. Some glanced with obvious fear at the hooded thugs. A soldier in a crimson cloak stepped through the door and barked out a command. The soldiers turned and stood in some sort of formal salute, weapons in raised in guard.  
There was another flash of white light.  
Marugon stepped through the door.  
He looked much as Wycliffe remembered, a tall, pale man swathed head to foot in black robes, though silver marked his black hair at the temples. For a moment his dark eyes seemed like pits into a bottomless void. Kurkov stood stone still, watching the Warlock with an unblinking gaze. Krastiny's hand twitched towards his gun. Gloaming groveled on the ground, and the slouching thugs muttered to themselves, as if afraid. Wycliffe always felt as if there was something else mingled within the Marugon's flesh and blood, something dark and mighty that sent a cold thrill of fear down his spine.  
Wycliffe made a bow. "Lord Marugon."  
Marugon extended his hand. "This is the custom on your world, no?" His lips crooked into a sardonic smile. "And what is the saying you have? When in Rome..."  
Wycliffe laughed. "Do as the Romans do." He shook Marugon's hand. It felt like bars of frozen iron encased in skin, and he laughed to hide his unease. "Welcome to Chicago once more, Lord Marugon. Welcome back."  
Marugon smiled and looked at Krastiny. A muscle twitched in the little man's face. "And this is your business partner, no?" Pack mules and their drivers entered, each animal loaded down with heavy leather sacks. The hydraulic lift whined to life.  
Kurkov coughed.  
Wycliffe waved him over. "Actually, ah...this is my business partner. Lord Marugon, this is Vasily Kurkov."  
Kurkov gave a curt bow.  
"Ah," said Marugon. "Another man with the wit to seize an opportunity. It is well for me that there are such men on your world, master Wycliffe, is it not?" He smiled and ignored Kurkov, who seemed relieved. "But I misspeak, do I not? You are now Senator Wycliffe?"  
Wycliffe grinned. "Yes. The election two years ago." He thought of Eddie Carson and Senator Fulbright. "It went remarkably well."  
"Good," said Marugon. "Very good. I still do not quite understand this process of voting, as you call it. Power is for the strong, to be wielded over the weak. Yet in your nation the weak give the power to the strong. Very strange. But yours is a strange world."  
"I didn't think they had Nietzsche on your world," said Krastiny.  
Marugon raised an eyebrow. "And who is this, Senator Wycliffe?"  
"This is Dr. Krastiny," said Wycliffe. Krastiny bowed. "He is a physician, and a most erudite man. He serves Vasily as head of security."  
Marugon's gaze flicked back to Kurkov. "A wise choice, young man."  
"As I have mentioned, they come from Russia," said Wycliffe. "It was a part of a vast empire, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, that collapsed about twelve years past. Most of the arms and ammunition procured for you come from old Soviet arsenals."  
"The weapons are obsolete and antiquated, no doubt. Inferior equipment," said Marugon. "But they serve my purposes quite well, quite well indeed. What is the great lesson, Senator Wycliffe?"  
Wycliffe smirked. "Power is relative."  
"Yes." Marugon's eyes wandered over the warehouse. The rows of slouching thugs had fallen to their knees. They looked like lines of leather-jacketed boulders. "Have the allies I have sent proven useful?"  
Wycliffe frowned. "Quite...useful. They guard the premises with a diligence that I could not find on this world." He glanced at the glassed-in room. "Though their dietary requirements are somewhat troublesome."  
Marugon laughed. "No doubt! They are a handful to manage properly. Yet they are loyal, and utterly without peer in battle."  
"Why are they all kneeling?" said Krastiny.  
"Because I have come. I am their master." Marugon grinned. "And their chieftain has come, as well. Meet my head of security, Dr. Krastiny."  
The door flashed.  
A huge man stepped out of the Tower's door. He wore jeans, a battered leather motorcycle jacket with the hood pulled up, and mirrored sunglasses. A thick black beard masked the lower half of his face and dangled across his chest. Wycliffe took an involuntary step back. Malice seemed to roll off the huge man in waves. Krastiny's hand had darted to his concealed gun again. The huge man looked over them all, head titling to one angle.  
"You may call him Goth Marson," said Marugon. "He is the lord of the winged ones. He is curious about this world, and so has come to see it for himself."  
"Ah...then he is welcome, of course," said Wycliffe, half-lying.  
Marugon smiled. "No doubt." He looked over the warehouse. "It seems this place has grown since my last visit, Senator Wycliffe. If you will show me the changes..."  
"Of course," said Wycliffe. "Right this way." He led Marugon down the stairs, Kurkov and Krastiny at his side.  
Goth Marson followed with the deadly grace of a hunting lion.

***
Chapter 18 - They Are Hunting For You

Anno Domini 2003

**  
**

"Where are they?" said Conmager, staring at Simon's front door.

Simon fumbled with his keys. "Inside. They're in the living room."

Conmager shifted his staff to his other hand. "Are they wounded?"

Simon tried to still his shaking fingers. "No, no. Nothing like that. They're a bit underfed, but otherwise well."

Conmager sighed in relief. "The gods be praised."

Simon managed to find the right key. "The girl's healthy. I think. But she's a bit strange..."

Conmager frowned. "Girl?"

The keys slipped from Simon's hands. "Yes. A girl. The door opened, just like you said it would. A little girl ran out, carrying the boy."

Conmager grunted. He took a step back, tucked his staff into the crook of his elbow, and raised both his hands. His fingers traced precise designs in the air. He muttered something, his words carried a sighing echo.

The door unlocked and shuddered open a few inches.

Simon gaped. "What did you do?"

Conmager scooped up the keys and handed them to Simon. "I opened the door. A girl and a boy, you say? There were no men?"

"No," said Simon. "Wait. I did see a man, through the door. He was fighting some shadowy things with two burning swords. The door slammed shut before he could come through. I think he's dead." Simon turned. "You coming?"

Conmager leaned against his staff, his forehead pressed against the dark wood. He looked exhausted. "What didn't you tell me, Master? You said two men and an infant. Two men and the King." He shook himself and strode through the door. "I must see them."

Simon led him through the front hall, and Conmager's staff brushed against his hand. Simon winced and pulled away. The staff felt like a live wire. He led Conmager through the dining room and into the living room.

Ally waited on the couch, staring at them.

Conmager fell to one knee and stared at Lithon, asleep next to Ally. "Your Majesty."

Simon frowned. "Majesty?"

Conmager lowered his head. "That child is Lithon Scepteris, king of all Carlisan. What is left of Carlisan."

"And who is the girl?" said Simon, doubt and fear battling for control of his mind. "The High Queen Ally of Lollypop Land?"

Conmager shook his head. "No." He stared at the girl. She stared back. "I have seen you before. I could swear it."

Ally shrugged. "I don't remember you."

Conmager closed his eyes. "I was at the courtyard of Castle Bastion. Lord Marugon had come. The Master faced him. He yelled for us to run and turned his spells against Marugon. I had a child in my arms, a girl. I didn't know who she was. I ran. I stumbled. I lost the child. I turned back. I could not leave the Master to face Marugon alone. I saw..." Conmager's voice broke. "I saw that bastard Rembiar betray him, I saw Goth-Mar-Dan...he..." Conmager shook his head. He rose and stepped towards the girl.

Ally flinched away from him. For a moment it seemed like symbols of white light crawled up the staff. "What is that thing?"

Conmager blinked. "This?" He hefted the staff. "This is my last resort, should the winged ones take me. I have spent much of the last year laboring over it. It is crude, I know. But it will suffice, should things come to a last desperate course." He looked at Ally. "Does it frighten you?"

Ally nodded, eyes locked on the staff. Conmager leaned it in the corner. "Is that better?" Ally nodded again. Conmager reached for her, fingers shaking. He laid his hand on her forehead. He bowed his head, eyes trembling behind closed lids.

"What are you doing?" said Simon.

Conmager took a step back, sweat beading on his forehead. "Who are you?"

"Ally," said the girl.

Conmager stared into her eyes. "Where did you come from?"

"I don't know," said Ally.

"Tell me," said Conmager.

Ally's eyes went glassy. "I woke up on a plain. Some soldiers found me. But Liam came, with Lithon. He killed the soldiers. I went with him."

"Liam," said Conmager. "You mean Sir Liam Mastere?"

Ally nodded.

Conmager blew out a long breath. "I should have known. An old man with two burning swords. Of all the Knights, only Liam Mastere could wield two Sacred Blades at once, his own and his slain father's. And he paid a terrible price for that power." He took Ally's hand. "You know he is most likely dead, don't you?"

Ally bit her lip and nodded.

"This plain," said Conmager. "Was it the Crimson Plain?" Ally gave a nod. "Was there anyone else with Sir Liam? Another man, another Knight?"

Ally shook her head.

Conmager dropped her hand. "What am I to do?"

Simon frowned. "What?"

Conmager ignored him. "I cannot do this. Master. So much has gone wrong that you cannot have foreseen. I thought Sir Liam would know what to do. But he is dead. All the Knights are dead. All the Wizards are dead. I am no Wizard, I am no Knight, and I am all that is left. And I cannot do it. I am not equal to it."

Simon scowled. "What are you talking about? I thought you were spouting nonsense before about...about that Tower, and other worlds, and interplanetary gunrunning. But this...this is beyond the pale. Wizards? Spells on a staff? I don't understand. You were keeping things from me before, I know it. I think it's past time you told me everything."

"Perhaps you're right," said Conmager. "There is nothing more that can be gained from secrecy. I will tell you what I know. But I do not know everything."

The front door slammed shut. Conmager whirled and got to his feet, faster than lightning. A glimmer of white light flashed in his fingers.

The living room door opened. Katrina stepped inside, carrying a paper shopping bag. Conmager stepped towards the corner, reaching for his staff.

"Simon?" Katrina froze and dropped the bag. Her eyes fixed on Conmager, who stared back. "So you must be the famous Conmager I've heard so much about."

"I am. And you?" Conmager's hand wrapped around the staff. He started to lift it.

Alarm bells went off in Simon's head. "Conmager! Wait. This is Katrina Coldridge. She went to get clothing for the children. I've told her everything."

"I hope you trust her with your life," said Conmager. "For that is what you have done, telling her these things."

Simon glared. "I do. She's my fiancée. I trust her with everything."

"Ah." Conmager paced to the window, his staff clicking against the floor. "Then you have put her in as much danger as you are yourself."

"Is that a threat?" said Katrina.

Conmager barked a humorless laugh. "It is the truth, my lady. Simon Wester brought you into great peril when he told you of me. And even greater peril came into this house when you took in the children. I am grateful for your help, do not doubt. I will always be grateful, for so long as I live." His mouth quirked. "Which may not be much longer."

"You were going to tell me everything?" said Simon, trying to sound commanding. "So tell us. What is going on?"

"Very well." Conmager sat in the recliner, the staff propped between his knees. "In my youth I was a thief and a highwayman, I told you this, true?"

Simon nodded. "You did."

Conmager closed his eyes. "One day I saw an old man in a ragged green cloak. He was alone and looked helpless. So I determined to rob him. I sprang down from a boulder with a pair of daggers in hand and demanded his valuables." He smiled. "Little did I know that Alastarius, Master of the White Council, often traveled the High Kingdoms in an old green cloak to hide his Wizard's robes. He threw aside his cloak and overpowered me in a heartbeat. I thought he would kill me. But he saw something in me. I do not know what, even to this day. So he took me as his apprentice."

Katrina snorted. "Wizard's apprentice? Do you think we're idiots? Do you expect us to believe that?"

Conmager pointed at the coffee table and whispered. The remote control flew from the table and landed in his hand. Ally sat up straighter, watching him.

Katrina's brows knitted. "What the hell..."

Conmager held out his other hand and whispered. The coffee table rattled. Before Simon's astonished eyes, it started to float into the air. It rose two feet and hovered.

Katrina went white. "Holy shit."

"Are further demonstrations necessary?" said Conmager. "It is against the disciplines the Master taught me, but I am sorely pressed for time."

Katrina managed to shake her head. "No."

"Please put the table down," said Simon.

Conmager lowered his hand. The table drifted back to the floor. He grimaced and shook his head. "That is not easy for me."

"I...I should think not," said Simon. "Lifting a table with the power of your mind and all."

Conmager sighed. "It should be easy. It is one of the simpler spells. Yet I did not take to the white magic very well, despite Master Alastarius's efforts. But I remained his apprentice, his faithful servant, and his friend. I accompanied him when the High Kingdoms marched against the Black Council." He glanced at Simon. "You have told your betrothed of this?"

"Yes," said Simon. "I told her everything."

"Though I certainly didn't understand it," said Katrina.

"The High Kingdoms destroyed the Black Council and won the war, yet one Warlock escaped," said Conmager.

"This Marugon fellow you keep mentioning," said Simon.

Conmager nodded. "When he returned...he raised an army from the dregs of the High Kingdoms and armed them with guns and bombs and fire. They swept south from the Wastes like a storm. The Knights and the Wizards of the White Council thought we would win. They did not understand what Marugon had unleashed. But Master Alastarius did." He closed a fist. "The Master had the gift of Prophecy. Sometimes he had visions, and caught a glimpse of what lay in the future." Conmager rubbed a hand over his eyes. "He told me that one day I would find myself on Earth, on the world where Marugon found the guns. And he said that someday the King of Carlisan would arrive on Earth, with others, and that I must find him and guard him, whatever the cost." He fingered his staff. "Whatever the cost..."

"I thought you said two men were supposed to come with this King," said Katrina.

Conmager shrugged. "Master Alastarius Prophesied that the King of Carlisan would come to Earth with companions. He thought these companions would be two men." He looked at Ally. "Apparently he was wrong. Or things did not go as he had hoped. Sir Liam Mastere did travel with this girl, we know."

"Why is the toddler so important?" said Katrina. "I mean, you said that this kingdom...Carlisan, or whatever the hell it is, was destroyed. What good's the king of a dead nation?"

Conmager rubbed his forehead. "Because the Master made another Prophecy, moments before Marugon killed him. He Prophesied that one day Lithon Scepteris, King of Carlisan, would undo Marugon." He looked at Lithon. "Marugon wants this boy dead. Sir Liam must have taken him to the Tower. If so, it is nothing short of a miracle that Sir Liam got as far as he did. Thousand of miles of mountains and hard lands, with Marugon's hunters snapping at his heels...only Liam Two Swords could have done it."

"So the kid's here," said Simon. "Why do you keep saying we're in very great danger? Lithon's here, and Marugon's on your world."

Conmager shook his head. "No. Marugon is here."

"What?" said Katrina.

"He must have entered the Tower only a day or so behind Sir Liam," said Conmager. He laughed. "Do you see the irony? Marugon did not know that Sir Liam had reached the Tower. He thought that the traitor Rembiar would deal with him. Marugon only came to visit his agent Wycliffe."

"How do you know this?" said Katrina.

"I have made many friends during my time in your world," said Conmager. "And Senator Wycliffe has made many enemies. Most of them are afraid to challenge him. Those who stand in his way have a habit of turning up dead, or so the saying goes. I am not surprised. Marugon must have taught Wycliffe the secret of the Warlock's Voice."

"What's that?" said Simon.

"A spell of dark power," said Conmager. "Wycliffe can speak with a Voice of command, and those who fall under his spell heed his wishes. You have heard how that reporter went insane at Senator Fulbright's campaign headquarters? Perhaps he was commanded to go insane."

Simon shuddered. "That's...not possible."

Conmager smirked. "Think of the winged ones, Simon Wester, and tell me what is possible. Wycliffe has made many enemies, and the enemy of my enemy is my friend. They watch him for me." He rubbed his temple. "And I can feel Marugon. I can feel his dark power, even halfway across the city."

Simon stiffened in alarm. "Can Marugon...sense you, or whatever?"

"No." Conmager's smirk grew bitter. "I am not powerful enough to attract his notice."

"Then we're fine," said Simon, his voice shaking. "You'll just take the children and go. Katrina and I will never speak of it again, and you can disappear with your anti-Wycliffe friends."

"It is not that easy," said Conmager. "Marugon will find them, eventually. He must have sent spell-chained beasts on their trail, creatures that will hunt them even through the Tower of Endless Worlds. They will find the children, and when they do, Marugon will know. And there is worse. If Marugon commands it, Wycliffe will unleash the winged ones to find us."

Simon felt his knees turn to jelly. "You mean there are winged ones at the Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping compound?"

"At least two dozen," said Conmager. "Likely more. They have disguised themselves, somewhat, so they can move about like men. They wear black leather jackets with heavy hoods, black glasses, and fake beards. They walk with a marked slouch, to hide the presence of their wings beneath their jackets."

Simon almost fell. "No. Oh, no. No, no, no."

"What is it?" said Katrina. "What's wrong?"

"All this time," said Simon. "They were there all along. Wycliffe's new security men. They're really the winged things." He could not stop shaking. "I walked past them every day. Every day."

"My God," said Katrina. "Those damn thugs always gave me the creeps. But I never thought...well, I suppose that explains why they made my skin crawl, doesn't it?" She put her arm around Simon's shoulders. "Here. Take some deep breaths. You'll make yourself pass out."

Simon nodded, embarrassed. Katrina rubbed his shoulders. He waited until the shakes passed.

"So you understand the danger," said Conmager.

Simon folded his arms. "What are you going to do?"

"I am not sure," said Conmager. "But you must come with me."

Simon frowned. "Why?"

"You are in great danger if you stay here," said Conmager. "If Marugon takes me, he will learn that you aided me. Wycliffe will send the winged ones for you. But if you come with me," he rubbed his fingers against the staff, "I have the means to protect you."

"No," said Simon. "No. I'm not...I'm not doing this. You've hidden once before, you can hide again."

"I did hide once before, yes," said Conmager. "But only because Wycliffe considered me an unusual curiosity, a man who could resist his Voice, and because I am too insignificant to trouble Marugon. But Lithon is a threat to him. If he learns...rather, when he learns that Lithon reached Earth, he will respond with ruthless force. He will try to annihilate Lithon and anyone connected to him." He frowned. "And the girl. There is...there is something strange about her. Familiar, almost, yet I cannot..."

"Then what hope is there?" said Simon. "If we go with you those winged devils will find us, and if we stay here, they'll come for us?"

"There is hope," said Conmager. He rolled his staff between his palms. "I have thought on this long and hard. There is something I can do yet. A desperate last chance that might save you and your betrothed and the children." A terrible look of mixed fear and pain came over his face. "It may save us all. But the price, ah, the price..." He shuddered.

"Then just go." Simon stepped away from Katrina and waved his hands. "Just go, take the children, and don't come back."

"Are you just going to abandon those kids?" said Katrina. Something hardened in her eyes.

"I though you didn't want children," said Simon.

"I don't," said Katrina. "But I don't want to abandon them, not like my father did to me and my mother."

Conmager stood. He looked beyond weary. "You are right. We face dire peril, all of us. For you aided me, and then you told your betrothed of me, and Marugon wants these children dead. If you stay here, all is lost. If you come with me, there is some hope. I am no true Wizard, but even I have some spells Marugon may find troublesome."

"I don't know," said Simon. How could he flee with Conmager in a fool's race across the country? He had worked so hard to build a life here. What would he tell his mother? He looked at Katrina. Would she be willing to leave her mother behind?

"I don't know," repeated Simon. "I'll...have to think about it."

Conmager sat back down. "I will give you until tomorrow morning. I am weary, and must rest before I can go on. But you must decide. And I beg you, Simon Wester, to come with me. You have always aided me so far, and that was the right decision, I assure you."

Simon's thoughts chased each other in a confused jumble. He managed to nod and walked into the dining room. The morning sunlight sent bright shafts through the windows. He paced, rubbing his eyes, trying to think through the dread that choked his mind.

He wished he had never helped Conmager.

"Hey."

Simon spun, his heart pounding. "Katrina." She stood by the living room door, watching him.

"You don't look too good," she said.

Simon barked out a laugh. "If you'd seen that winged thing, and if you knew that it was coming for you...you'd be scared, too."

"Are you scared?" said Katrina.

He sat down on the stairs. "Terrified."

She sat besides him. "So am I. I saw those shadow-shapes through the door, remember? If they're anything like those winged things you keep talking about...I wouldn't want to meet them. But I have, haven't I? All this time. God damn that Wycliffe, Simon, God damn him to hell. Those damned thugs. I should have thought those beards were fake. They all looked like Hell's Angels."

Simon shook his head. "Yeah. That's exactly right. Hell's Angels."

"So what are you going to do?"

Simon shrugged. "I don't know. I...think I'll skip town for a while. Head to Milwaukee, or Springfield, and get a room. Pay in cash. I'll wait a week, until Conmager and those kids are on the other side of the country, and then I'll come back." He took her hand. "Come with me. I shouldn't have told you, but I did, and you're stuck in this mess now. Conmager's not our problem. He can take care of himself."

Katrina shook her hand free. "No."

Simon's heart lurched. "Why not?"

"I think you should go with him," said Katrina. "I'm going with him."

"What?" said Simon, aghast. "Why?"

"Because he's right," said Katrina. "My God, Simon, think about it. We both work for Wycliffe. He'll find out about us somehow. And this Marugon will be staying at the warehouse. Don't you think he could find out?"

"How can you even think about doing this?" said Simon.

Katrina scoffed. "You saw the winged things. And everything Conmager said makes sense. All those stories about Wycliffe. Fulbright committing suicide. And I saw the door." She smirked. "What is it that preachers always say? Blessed are those who have not seen but yet believe. Well, guess what, Simon? I've seen the door, and I believe."

"But..." said Simon.

"And there's something else," said Katrina. Her hands clenched. "My first year working at the warehouse, a part-time receptionist was hired right after me. She was bubbly and bouncy and blond...you know the type. I got to know her a bit. She was an idiot, but not a bad one. Wycliffe hung around her all the time. Everyone figured he was screwing her." Her scowl deepened. "And then one day her roommate finds her floating in the bathtub with cut wrists. Everyone thought it was a suicide. Wycliffe even went to the funeral. But I don't think it was a suicide. You heard what Conmager said about that Voice thing. I think Wycliffe used it on her, and then when he got tired of her or she found out too much, he told her to kill herself." She shook her head, her eyes drilling holes into him. "The suicide never made any sense to me. And now it does."

Simon clutched at his knees. "It could...it could still all be a coincidence." But his words were empty, and he knew it.

Katrina spat. "I always thought Wycliffe was a creep. But if everything Conmager said is true, and I think it is, then our beloved Senator Thomas Wycliffe's a monster." She stood. "I'm going with Conmager because I think it's the right thing to do. And I'll go without you if I have to, Simon."

She walked back to the living room and shut the door.

Simon stared after her.

***
Chapter 19 - The Voidspawn

Anno Domini 2003

Wycliffe laughed into the cell phone. "Indeed? Well, you know the environmentalists. Cut down a tree and they scream bloody murder, but if that tree's going to make stir sticks for their fancy coffee...things change, don't they?" He laughed again. "Excellent. Six o'clock next Thursday? I look forward to it." He tucked the phone back into his jacket pocket.

Krastiny gave him an amused look over the chessboard. "Are you courting a woman, Senator?"

Wycliffe fingered a captured pawn. "Hardly."

Krastiny moved his bishop. "A campaign contributor, then?"

"Nope." Wycliffe slid his rook three squares, pinning Krastiny's bishop against his king. "I pay for my campaigns out of my own pocket. A side benefit of our business success, and a useful political tool. When the public discussion turns towards campaign finance, I can trumpet the fact that not one cent of donated or taxpayer money has gone towards my election."

Krastiny stared at the chessboard. "Ha! It is simpler in Russia. If Kurkov wants something done, he simply buys the appropriate legislators and tells them what to do." He snapped his fingers and moved his knight. "So, if you do not take campaign money from these rich businessmen, why bother having dinner with them?"

Wycliffe drummed his fingers on the table. "They many not give me money, but there's no law that says they can't go out and drum up support." He grinned and moved his remaining knight, causing Krastiny to mutter a curse. "Very useful. And I'll have you know that was no businessman. That was Senator William Jones, the senior senator from this state. I have plans for him."

"You'll have me in checkmate in four moves," said Krastiny.

Wycliffe smiled. "I know."

Krastiny nodded. "Unless I do this." He moved his queen. "Checkmate."

"What?" Wycliffe glared at the board. "That's not...damn it. Damn it." He tipped over his king. "Very well. Checkmate. Again."

Krastiny laughed. "Do not take it hard, Senator. I have met very few Americans who can give me a good match, and you are one of those few. If you had not lost your first knight a half hour ago, things would have been very different."

"Small comfort." Wycliffe walked to the intercom on the wall. "Though if you want a challenge, you should ask Marugon for a game."

Krastiny packed away the chess pieces. "He is skilled?"

Wycliffe called the kitchen and ordered a pair of meals. "Extremely skilled."

Krastiny stood. "They have chess on his world, then?"

"Actually no," said Wycliffe. "Nothing like it, as far as I know. Marugon came across a reference to the game in a book and challenged me to a match. I beat him once. The next game he checkmated me in five minutes. Now he can do it in three."

"Remarkable. You are not unskilled yourself," said Krastiny.

Wycliffe rolled his eyes. "Try not to flatter me. But Marugon has an unusual mind. Lunch won't arrive for a few minutes. Come. I want to show you something."

"Shall I summon Kurkov?" said Krastiny.

"No." Wycliffe chuckled. "He wouldn't understand. Besides, he's most likely hung over."

Krastiny scowled. "It will be easy for Bronsky to guard him, since he will not stir until at least noon. If Kurkov lives to forty, I will have documented proof of the existence of miracles."

Wycliffe laughed. "This way."

He led Krastiny out the door and into a narrow concrete hallway. Florescent lights glared off the walls and ceiling. Steel doors stood at regular intervals along the walls, a faint humming audible through the doors.

"For a bomb shelter, this is most commodious," said Krastiny.

"Indeed," said Wycliffe. He waved a hand at the pipes running along the ceiling. "I had this place built under warehouse 13A years ago. My private bastion against terrorist attack and nuclear war, with five years' worth of food, fuel, water, and medical supplies. Of course, I installed a library and an entertainment room and other facilities down here, and since then, it's become a private retreat of sorts."

Wycliffe turned a corner and stopped, his heart skipping a beat. Goth Marson stood before the library door. Wycliffe saw his reflection in the mirrored sunglasses. Krastiny muttered something.

"Goth," said Wycliffe. He shoved aside his fear with anger. "Is Lord Marugon in the library?"

Goth nodded, his massive black beard rustling against his leather jacket.

"I would see him," said Wycliffe.

Goth remained motionless.

Wycliffe scowled. "Now."

Goth stared at him, and Wycliffe felt like a rabbit caught beneath the gaze of a snake. At last Goth stepped aside and grinned. Wycliffe glared at him and pushed the door open. He stepped into the library, waved Krastiny inside, and slammed the door.

"That Goth Marson is the...leader of the slouching thugs?" said Krastiny.

"Yes." Wycliffe squinted into the gloom and fumbled for the light switch.

"Not surprising," said Krastiny. "He looks like the worst of the lot. I think you would do well to tell Marugon to send them back, Senator. I would not be surprised if they were less than human..."

Wycliffe flipped the switch. Light flooded the library, a spacious room about the size of a small house. Books lined all four walls, and reading tables stood throughout the room. Marugon sat at the center table, paging through a book. A great heap of books covered the table and more stood stacked on the floor.

Krastiny blinked. "Was he reading in the dark?"

"Most likely," said Wycliffe. Marugon paid then no heed. "Darkness never seems to trouble him. In fact, my own night vision has increased since I began studying black magic. A side effect, I presume."

Krastiny frowned. "He is not reading those books."

"Oh?" said Wycliffe.

"Look. He's just paging through them." Krastiny snorted. "Likely he is looking for colorful pictures, no?"

Wycliffe smiled. "Oh, no, Doctor. He's reading them. Every word, I assure you. He is able to read with amazing speed, and then remember what he has read. I have never seen anything like it."

Krastiny scratched his chin. "I should say so, yes." Marugon set down the book and picked up another. "How long will he stay?"

"About a week," said Wycliffe. "He wants to inspect the weapons." He scowled. "I think Goth Marson will remain behind, though."

"Astonishing."

Wycliffe jumped. Marugon looked up from his book, a strange expression on his face. "Oh?"

"Astonishing," repeated Marugon. "I was amazed by the power of the guns. But now I have come across something far greater." He placed the book on the table and spun it around. "Look."

Wycliffe peered at the book, a weighty tome on the nuclear arms race between the United States and the Soviet Union. The opened page showed a color picture of a huge white mushroom cloud, lit from within by orange fires. It was a photograph of the hydrogen bomb test the US Army had conducted at Enewetak Atoll in 1954.

"What about it?" said Wycliffe.

"Do you know what this is?" said Marugon.

Wycliffe shrugged. "A mushroom cloud. It's...um...a side effect produced from the explosion of a nuclear bomb."

"A nuclear bomb," said Marugon, his voice rapt. He flipped through the pages. "Here. August 6th, 1945. Your nation dropped a nuclear bomb on a city called Hiroshima. It killed seventy thousand people. Thousands more died from radiation over the years. The city was utterly leveled." He shook his head. "To think that such power is contained in an atom, something so small. Even after I came to your world and learned of guns and grenades, I never dreamed of such destructive force." His dark eyes locked on Wycliffe. "Why did you never tell me of these devices?"

Wycliffe shrugged. "It never came up." He felt a twinge of fear.

Marugon's gaze didn't waver. "Elaborate."

"Those bombs are extremely dangerous," said Wycliffe. "And damaging. The cost may be more than even you are willing to pay."

Marugon waved a hand. "I have the plunder of the High Kingdoms at my disposal. Gold is no object."

"That's not what I meant," said Wycliffe. "The damage would be very great. The bomb would destroy everything in a twenty-mile radius, yes. But it would throw up a great cloud of radiation. It would poison the surrounding land for decades, even centuries, depending upon the strength of the bomb."

Krastiny cleared his throat. "Lord Marugon. If I may?" Marugon nodded. "Nuclear bombs were built as deterrents. The United States, this nation, was the first to acquire them. So the Soviet Union felt it had to have a bomb, lest the United States gain too great an advantage. And that is why other nations have acquired nuclear bombs."

Marugon tapped the book. "I have read of this...what is this phrase? Mutually assured destruction?"

"Exactly," said Krastiny. "Nuclear weapons have only been actually used with hostile intent twice...Hiroshima and Nagasaki, as you have read. And no one has used one since, though it has come very close. The price, as Senator Wycliffe said, is too great. A nation acquires nuclear weapons so it never has to use them." He chuckled. "A dangerous paradox."

"They carry other risks," said Wycliffe. "Though it's never been completely proven, most scientists feel that an all-out nuclear war would throw so much dust and soot into the air that the sun would be blocked for months. The world would freeze and civilization would perish."

"Amazing," said Marugon. "I said before that your world's technology held true power. And I see I am right, yes? Your scientists have given you the ability to destroy your world. No spells hold such power." He hesitated. "Perhaps you are right. A nuclear device may be too dangerous. I could not protect myself." His lips quirked. "But perhaps...I shall have to give the matter further study."

"Besides," said Wycliffe. "Any nuclear fuel would be extremely difficult to acquire, even for Kurkov's organization. A nuclear device, a functional bomb, would be much harder to find. The risks would run very high, and the costs in the tens of millions."

Marugon closed the book. "But it could be done?"

Wycliffe bit his lip. The thought of Marugon possessing a nuclear weapon filled him with unease. Nevertheless, he said, "Yes, I believe so. It would take some time. But it could be done."

"Good." Marugon reached for another book. "I shall have ponder it."

"What would you need with a nuclear weapon?" said Wycliffe. "It's not as if you face formidable opposition. Your enemies still fight with swords and lances and bows, even in the obvious fact of the guns' superiority."

Marugon laughed. "Yes. For some reason, they think the guns are hell-forged engines of the black magic."

"Then why would you even need a nuclear bomb?" said Wycliffe.

Marugon was silent for a moment. "A...symbolic gesture, you might say. I plan to drive my enemies until they have but one stronghold...the city of Antarese, perhaps, if all goes according to plan. Then I shall annihilate their last bastion with the bomb. And even the radiation may prove useful." He snapped his fingers. Gloaming scuttled out from under the table. "The black magic can create useful servants. But I have often wondered if elements from your world, combined with the black magic, could create servants of even greater power."

"Something else for you to ponder," said Wycliffe.

"Perhaps." Marugon reached for another book. "I shall speak with you later."

Wycliffe sketched a small bow. "Of course." He turned, opened the door, and stepped back into the hall, Krastiny at his heels. Goth turned his head to watch them, and Wycliffe ignored the hulking man and led Krastiny back to the game room. A pair of plates with sandwiches, chips, and carrot sticks had been placed on the table.

"That was alarming," said Wycliffe.

"I should say so." Krastiny began to eat his sandwich. "You should do all you can to deter him from trying to obtain a nuclear weapon. The risk to Kurkov's organization would be very great. Especially after the Twin Towers attacks. The American government is far more vigilant about these sorts of things than it used to be." He picked up a carrot stick. "It is fortunate that Marugon seems to have a limitless supply of gold. The cost of smuggling weapons to the States has tripled in the last year alone."

Wycliffe smiled. "Perhaps I'll be in a better position to obtain a nuclear device for him if everything goes according to plan."

Krastiny raised an eyebrow. "Long-term political ambitions?"

"Oh, yes," said Wycliffe. "Yes, indeed. And if Marugon wants a nuclear bomb, what concern is it of mine?" He shook his head. "If he wants to irradiate his world, well, that's his problem."

Krastiny chuckled. "Senator, you are rationalizing."

Wycliffe snorted. "I'm a politician. I have it down to a fine art."

The intercom buzzed. "Senator?"

Wycliffe hit the button. "What?"

"You're needed in the surveillance room right away."

Wycliffe frowned. "Who is this?"

"Um...Thomson, sir, security supervisor for warehouse 13A."

"Of course," said Wycliffe. "What's going on?"

"Sir...I don't think I should talk about it over the intercom. We need you up here right away."

The hair on the back of Wycliffe's neck rose. "Fine. I'll be right up."

Krastiny wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Problem?"

"Most likely." Wycliffe started for the door. "They know better than to bother me for anything minor."

Krastiny snorted. "A peaceful lunch is such a rarity."

"I know," said Wycliffe. He opened the door and jumped half a foot.

Goth Marson stood in the hallway, looming like a storm cloud.

"What the hell?" barked Wycliffe.

"I shall accompany you."

"Why? Do you know what's going on?" said Wycliffe.

Goth stepped to the side and said nothing.

"Eloquent, is he not?" said Krastiny.

Wycliffe tried to regain his dignity. "Fine. Come along. Try not to make any more trouble, hmm?"

Goth said nothing. Wycliffe headed to the elevator, got inside, and hit the button for the ground floor, Krastiny and Goth with him. The close proximity to Goth made the air on the back of his neck stand up. But at last the elevator reached the ground floor, and Wycliffe walked down a hallway and opened a door.

He stepped into a room filled with humming machines. Dozens of closed-circuit television monitors ringed the walls, flickering with black and white feed from the security cameras. Thomson, a grim-faced man with a receding hairline and an ample paunch, sat at one of the consoles. An ex-cop with an alimony, Wycliffe found his security skills most useful. A few sessions with the Voice had also improved the man's loyalty, not to mention his work ethic.

"Thomson," said Wycliffe. He stepped over to the console. "What's the problem?"

"Senator," Thomson's voice trailed off as Goth stepped into the room. "Um..."

"Never mind him," said Wycliffe. "What's so important?"

Thomson swallowed. "This." He leveled a meaty finger at one of the monitors.

Wycliffe squinted. "What? Who the hell is that?"

The monitor showed a video feed of the door to the Tower in 13A. An emaciated man clad in ragged garments stood on the platform.

"Where did he come from?" said Wycliffe.

"Through the door," said Thomson.

"What?"

Thomson spread his hands. "It's true, Senator. That fellow came through the door. Look." He flipped a switch, and the monitor loaded archived security footage. Wycliffe watched as the door swung open with the usual shaft of white light. The emaciated man stepped through the opened door, looked around, and went motionless. The monitor clicked and went back to live feed.

The man still stood on the platform, staring at nothing.

Wycliffe shook his head. "You know the procedures, Thomson. Someone or something unauthorized comes through the door, the man on duty in the surveillance room calls in Mr. Marson's men."

"I know, sir," said Thomson. "But he's just standing there. Just came in and stood there."

"All right." Wycliffe rubbed his forehead. "You were right to call me. Krastiny, you still have your gun? Good. Come with me."

Wycliffe headed through the warehouse doors, striding through the rows of crates, Krastiny and Goth a half-step behind him. The emaciated man stood at the platform railing, staring off into the air. The fellow was gaunt and pale, his ragged clothes a deep crimson. Wycliffe stopped at the base of the platform and stared. The man made no response.

"Senator," said Krastiny. "That man is dead."

Wycliffe's frown deepened. "What?"

"He's not breathing," said Krastiny. The knuckles of his gun hand whitened.

"A walking corpse," said Wycliffe. "How wonderful. Goth. Do you recognize this...creature, whatever it is?"

Goth growled. "Perhaps."

Wycliffe rolled his eyes. "Helpful." He closed his eyes, gathered his concentration, and muttered a spell. A deathly chill washed through him, and Wycliffe focused his will on the platform.

The response staggered him. "Dear God."

"What?" said Krastiny.

"There's powerful black magic in that thing." He climbed the stairs, and the dead man turned to face him. "Who are you?"

The corpse's lips twitched. "Marugon." Its voice boomed like a drum.

Wycliffe folded his arms. "You think you are Marugon?"

"Marugon." A hint of irritation entered the deep voice. "Take me to Lord Marugon."

"What do you want with Lord Marugon?" said Wycliffe.

"Take me to Lord Marugon," said the corpse.

Wycliffe raised his eyebrows. "Fine." He turned. "Goth! Make yourself useful. Get Marugon."

Goth headed for the elevator.

"What is that thing?" said Krastiny.

"I'm...not sure," said Wycliffe. "There's mighty black magic within it. Marugon will recognize it."

Krastiny looked at his gun and shrugged. "What good would this be against a dead man?" He shoved the weapon back into its holster. "I should have stayed in Russia."

Wycliffe frowned. Was Krastiny developing doubts? He had seen a lot in the last few days. Wycliffe didn't worry about Kurkov's loyalty. Kurkov would deal with Satan if it meant profit. But Krastiny was a deeper sort of man. Wycliffe hoped he didn't have to use the Voice. Krastiny had a remarkable mind, and the Voice sometimes had detrimental side effects.

The double doors swung open, and Goth returned with Marugon. Marugon crossed to Wycliffe's side, staring at the walking corpse. An expression of thunderous fury crossed his face, and Wycliffe felt the Warlock's power rise. For a moment Marugon seemed robed in shadow, his eyes bottomless pits into an endless void.

"Alastarius," said Marugon, his voice a snarl.

Goth shifted. "I slew him."

Marugon's lips pulled back. "Yet even in death, he continues to trouble me. Damn him. You killed him too quickly, my friend."

"You recognize this thing?" said Wycliffe.

Marugon climbed the stairs. "Recognize it? I created it."

"You did?" said Wycliffe.

The corpse went to one knee and bowed its head. "Lord Marugon."

"This body, Senator Wycliffe, once belonged to a lord of Carlisan. After the city fell and Lithon Scepteris had eluded me, I took this man from the prisoners. I slew him with a spell of power and summoned a spirit from the dark places between the worlds to possess the corpse."

Wycliffe could not image the raw magical power it would take to do such a thing. "To what purpose?"

"To find Lithon Scepteris, of course," said Marugon. He gestured, and the corpse stood. "Tell me. All of it." The corpse began to speak in a strange language, like a hissing whisper. Marugon asked questions from time to time in the same language.

Krastiny climbed to the platform. "What are they saying?" he muttered.

"I wish I knew," said Wycliffe.

"So," said Marugon at last. His voice was calm, but Wycliffe saw the rage in his face. "It seems your world has unwelcome guests, Senator Wycliffe."

Wycliffe stiffened. "You mean there's been a security breach?"

"Of a sort," said Marugon. "Do not trouble yourself. Your complex is secure. But someone has come through one of the other four doors."

Wycliffe frowned. "You mean that fellow who was strong enough to resist my Voice?" That incident still worried him. He had sent agents out to find the man, but the fugitive had so far eluded them.

"Not him," said Marugon. "A potential problem, certainly, but a minor one." He shook his head. "No, a child has come through the door, possibly in the company of an old man." He hissed a question to the corpse, and it answered in the same language. "Sir Liam Mastere, to be precise. I had thought Rembiar would have slain him by now. Damn him. Some others may have survived the journey through the Tower."

"I fail to understand, I fear," said Wycliffe.

Marugon glared at him. "Very well. I bound this creature to seek out Lithon Scepteris, heir to the throne of Carlisan. He is only infant child, yes...but I wish him dead." Goth growled. "A rebellion could form with him as its nucleus. An ounce of prevention saves a pound of cure, as the peasants of the High Kingdoms once said."

"But why take this prince to Earth?" said Wycliffe. "I doubt he could lead an uprising effectively from another world!"

Marugon snorted. "A small child cannot lead a revolt. They knew I wanted him dead...no, Sir Liam knew. How did he find out?" Marugon's eyes went glassy. "Did Alastarius tell him? No, no, impossible. Alastarius Prophesied at the moment of his death. He could not have told Mastere anything." His eyes cleared. "But it was brilliant. Audacious and daring. I would never have thought to seek Lithon on Earth. Worthy of Sir Liam Mastere. He is a most dangerous foe. He slew three Warlocks with his own hand years ago. No doubt Sir Liam plans to keep the boy safe here until he is of age, and then return with him to Carlisan."

"Then we'll find this boy and his guardian and have them both assassinated," said Wycliffe.

Marugon didn't seem to hear him. "I should have sealed those other four doors. But what good would it have accomplished? I did not come to the Tower to make extra seals. No, I came to break them." He shook his head again. "Pardon my digressions, Senator Wycliffe. Much is on my mind."

"No doubt," said Wycliffe, "but this problem is easy enough to solve." He pointed at the open door. "We'll see where those other four doors open. We should have done it in the first place anyway. Then we'll investigate. An old man with a child, utterly unfamiliar with American customs, should be fairly easy to track down. Then we'll send Krastiny and his boys out to settle accounts." He looked over his shoulder at the little doctor. "An old man and a child should prove no difficulty, should they?"

Krastiny grinned, that razor light coming back into his eyes. "Hardly, my good Senator."

Marugon laughed. "Sir Liam Mastere is far more than just another old man. Even lost and alone on a strange world, he is highly dangerous. Appearances are deceiving. No, we shall settle this matter in a different fashion."

Wycliffe grunted. "How?"

"I myself shall hunt them down," said Marugon.

Wycliffe felt a chill crawl down his spine.

"My creature," said Marugon, gesturing at the corpse. "It is woven with spells of seeking, and I compelled it to find Lithon Scepteris. It followed him across my world and through the maze of the Tower." Marugon laughed, and for an instant he seemed swathed in shadows, his eyes bottomless black holes. "It has tracked Lithon Scepteris over thousands of miles and across the worlds, Senator Wycliffe. It will have no difficulty finding the prince in the same city." He straightened. "And then I shall kill him, and all who travel with him. Sir Liam is brave, but he is a fool. He does not know what he challenges."

"Ah." Wycliffe swallowed. "Just...try not to make too much of a mess."

Marugon grinned. It made him look like a mad wolf. "Fear not." He spun to face the corpse. "I command! Go forth and track down Lithon Scepteris."

The corpse shuddered. Wycliffe watched in astonished fear as it crumbled, its shadow bulging and distorting. The corpse withered into dust, but its shadow twisted, folded, and seemed to rip open. An enormous black lion leapt out of the shadow, its mane, claws, and eyes like frozen flame. The ghastly thing was at least as big as a horse. Krastiny fumbled with his gun.

Marugon threw out his arms, his robes fluttering like dark wings. "Go!"

The lion's roar sounded like a demon's howl. It sprang over the railing, pivoted, and sprinted away. Wycliffe watched as the beast became insubstantial and raced through the wall.

"Goth Marson!" said Marugon. "Gather the five most powerful of your kin. You will accompany me." Goth bowed. "Senator Wycliffe. I require a vehicle."

Wycliffe nodded. "I'll have something brought up immediately." He headed for the intercom, trying to shake his growing worry. Suppose Marugon was seen? Suppose someone spotted the slouching thugs and traced them back here? He looked back at Marugon, tall and grim in his black robes.

Wycliffe's concern faded.

Lord Marugon, last of the Warlocks, would leave no witnesses alive.

***
Chapter 20 - Pursuit

Anno Domini 2003

Simon sat on the back porch and watched the sun go down, the dying light throwing long black shadows through the trees. He wished that someone had cut down the trees, that houses had been built over the site, and the door to the Tower of Endless Worlds buried forever.

But if the door had been buried, then the shadow-things would have caught Ally and Lithon.

He would not wish that on anyone, and certainly not a helpless child and a dead-eyed little girl.

Simon knew what he had to do.

But he did not want to do it.

The sun sank lower.

Simon thought of Conmager, a mixture of shame and resentment filling him. Conmager had never flinched from the horrors he had confronted. He had seen the destruction of his world. He had crossed the Tower's reaches and escaped from Wycliffe. Yet he somehow kept going.

Simon took a deep breath, got to his feet, and went into the kitchen.

Ally and Lithon sat at the table, dressed in the clothes Katrina had bought. The T-shirt and jeans hung like robes from Ally's bony frame. Katrina leaned against the door, watching the children with bemusement. Conmager stood at the stove, sprinkling pepper onto a half-dozen frying cheeseburgers.

"Los Angeles?" said Katrina. "What will we do when we get there?"

Conmager flipped the burgers with a spatula. "I hope to evade detection. LA is a vast city, the crossroads of the Pacific world. I have a refuge prepared there."

Katrina folded her arms. "So we're going to go and hide? What then?"

Conmager stared at the sizzling grease. "I do not yet know." He paused. "My thought is that when Lithon comes of age..."

Katrina spotted Simon. "So. You've done some thinking?"

"Yeah." Simon ran his hand through his hair. "A lot of thinking."

"Make up your mind about some things?" Katrina's voice was flat, but Simon saw a mixture of fear and hope in her face. It heartened him. "You going to come or not?"

Simon nodded. "I'll come."

Katrina smiled. "Good."

"Very wise, as always," said Conmager. He shut off the stove. "I retrieved some meat from your freezing machinery and cooked it for the evening meal. I hope you do not mind."

Simon sat the table. "I think a couple of burgers are the least of my problems, thank you."

"We shall eat and then leave immediately." Conmager retrieved a package of buns from the cabinet and put the food on the table. "Pack only what you absolutely require. I have sufficient funds secured in various places throughout the country that we shall not be in want."

Simon sighed and put a burger on a bun. "You've been a busy fellow over the last year, haven't you?"

"Quite," said Conmager.

"I need...I need to tell my mother where I'm going," said Simon. "And maybe Dr. Francis..."

Conmager began making a burger for Ally. "That would not be wise. Wycliffe may discover where we have gone."

"I'm my mom's only son," said Simon. "She needs...no, she has the right to know where I've gone. And Katrina's mom...Katrina's the only family she has. Is she just supposed to disappear on her?"

Conmager cut the burger in two and gave half to Ally. "Then leave a letter. You are betrothed. Tell them you decided to elope."

Katrina shrugged. "That might work. At least for a few weeks."

Simon ate. How would his mother react to his disappearance? What would Dr. Francis think? Simon would miss graduation. He had worked long and hard to get that doctorate. He looked across the table and saw his doubts mirrored in Katrina's face.

The sun went down as they finished eating, darkening the kitchen.

Conmager blinked. "We had best leave soon."

"If we're going to LA, how are we going to get there?" said Simon.

"The red van," said Conmager. "I shall drive. I want to get at least as far as Des Moines before we stop."

"Des Moines?" said Simon. "That'll take most of the night."

Conmager nodded. "We can stop and rest there, and continue the next day."

"I'll need to stop at my apartment," said Katrina. "I need some clothes...and...to leave my mom a letter."

Conmager nodded. "Very well. But we'll need..."

Ally jumped to her feet, eyes wide.

Simon frowned. "What? What is it?"

Terror crossed Ally's face. "It's outside."

Conmager snatched up his staff. Symbols of white fire crawled down its length. "There's something..."

The back door exploded inwards, ripping out the frame and part of the wall.

Ally shrieked, and Lithon started wailing. Simon cursed and threw his arms over his face. Splinters and chunks of wall bounced off him.

Something huge and black and flame-cloaked leapt through the door and lunged for Lithon.

###

Marugon's eyes opened.

He sat in the back seat of one of Wycliffe's vans. Goth sat in the front passenger's seat. Besides him sat a terrified young driver in Wycliffe's employ, sweat dripping down his face.

Goth half-turned. He wore a headset with a microphone and an earpiece. "Lord?"

Marugon closed his eyes and concentrated, his will searching for the voidspawn spirit bound into the corpse.

Visions flashed through his mind.

He saw a large white house, a red van parked outside...

A door exploded in a shower of splinters...

A girl screamed, and a little boy's face came into sight...

Marugon sat ramrod straight. "Lithon Scepteris."

"You have found him, Lord?" said Goth.

Marugon reached for the seeking spirit. He felt its presence, like an icy wind blowing against his face. "Driver. Where I am pointing?"

The young man swallowed. "Uh...the stoplight?"

"Fool! Not that. Towards what district of the city am I pointing?" said Marugon.

The driver licked his lips. "Cicero, I think."

"Are there any large white houses within Cicero?" said Marugon.

The driver shrugged "It's a suburb. Lots of people live there. Some of the houses might be white."

"Make for Cicero with all speed," said Marugon.

The driver hesitated. "But..."

"Do it!" Marugon put the full force of the Voice into his words. The driver whimpered and hit the gas. The tires screeched, streetlights reflecting off the windshield.

"But...I'm going at least ninety, the cops will stop us..."

"Bah!" said Marugon. He muttered a few words and focused a portion of his will into a spell. "The city guards will not trouble us. Drive with all speed. Goth. Command your kin to circle above Cicero. Order them to watch for a red van near a large white house."

Goth tapped his headset and growled orders.

Marugon sank back into a half-trance, his will searching for the seeking spirit.

###

Simon could not believe his eyes.

Something that looked like a huge black lion kicked aside the ruins of the door. Flames danced in its mane and eyes, and sparks shot from its claws. A hideous smell, a mixture of sulfur and rotting flesh, rose from its reeking breath. The beast strode forward, claws clicking against the linoleum.

It was heading straight for Lithon.

Katrina grabbed a meat knife from the rack, jumped forward, and plunged the blade into the lion's neck. The beast growled and lashed out, the back of its paw smacking into Katrina's stomach. The blow threw her across the room and into the kitchen wall, the impact knocking pots and pans from their hooks. Simon yelled and tried to reach her, but the beast blocked his path.

It swiveled, eyes fixed on Lithon, and tensed to spring.

Conmager strode towards the creature, hands locked around his staff's dark length. "Get back!"

The lion's burning eyes narrowed, and a deep, booming laugh rose from its fanged maw. The creature surged forward with terrible speed, claws reaching for Conmager.

Conmager struck the butt of his staff against the floor.

The staff's head burst into brilliant white flame, filling the kitchen with light.

The lion screamed as an unseen force caught it in mid-leap and flipped it over. The creature landed on its back on the wreckage of the door, rolled over, and tried to dart outside. Conmager moved like lightning, sliding between the creature and the door. The lion flinched from his staff, slinking away. Simon darted past them and ran to Katrina's side. She blinked, moaned, and looked up at him.

She didn't look too badly hurt.

Conmager thrust his blazing staff, driving the creature back. It hissed and snarled and growled, clawing at him, but could not face the staff's fire. The creature kicked over the table in an effort to get away, but Conmager did not relent. Soon he had driven the beast into a corner.

"Go back." Conmager lifted his staff, the fire flaring brighter. "Go back to the darkness. By the power of my spirit, by the spells of this staff, I compel you, go back!" Ally walked to his side and grabbed his belt, the white fire reflected in her eyes.

The lion howled in fury. "You cannot win!" A booming voice rolled out of its snapping maw. "The Lord of the Warlocks will find you. I see your future, weakling apprentice! You will perish in flames!"

Conmager's face steeled. "So be it."

The lion leapt at him with a howl of pain.

Conmager the burning head of his staff into the beast's open maw. The lion shrieked and jerked like a dying fish. Its body twisted and diminished, shrinking into a pale man clad in red rags. Conmager muttered something and twisted his staff. The pale man fell to the floor with a thump and shriveled into black ash. Conmager sighed and slumped against the staff. The white flames flickered and went out.

"Are you okay?" said Simon, taking Katrina's hands.

Katrina got to her feet. "I'm fine. Just...just some bruises, that's all." She brushed dust from her jeans. "Conmager, what the hell was that thing?"

Conmager's right hand trembled against the staff. He looked more tired than ever.

"I mean, I rammed that knife at least six inches into its neck, but it didn't slow it down a bit," said Katrina. "What the hell was it?"

"A spirit of the void, summoned from the black places between the worlds," said Conmager. He scraped the butt of his staff through the ashes. "It is summoned and bound by the sacrifice of an innocent." His gaze snapped to meet Simon's. "We have to go now! Marugon created this thing to track Lithon, and Marugon will know that I banished it." He picked up Ally with his free arm and hurried towards the door. "We must go now! We have no time."

Simon didn't argue. He wrapped his arm around Lithon and followed Katrina out the ruined door.

###

Marugon's eyelids fluttered.

A bolt of pain shot through his skull. He grimaced and dismissed the backlash of a broken spell. "Damnation."

Goth turned, the passenger seat creaking under his bulk. "Lord?"

"The seeking spirit has been banished," said Marugon, rubbing his temples. "It must have encountered Sir Liam. But he has not the power to banish the spirit. How? Do they have a wielder of white magic among their number?" The dark wrath within in his mind deepened. He did not like mysteries. But it didn't matter. Once he found Sir Liam and the Scepteris brat, he would annihilate them and all their followers with a single spell.

Goth tapped his headset and nodded once. "Driver. Wait...turn left at the next intersection." He turned to face Marugon. "Lord. One of my kin has found them."

Marugon smirked. "Then let the hunt begin."

###

The tires screeched.

Conmager backed into the street, spun the wheel so fast the van almost tipped, and hit the gas. The van sped into the darkness.

"Don't kill us before Wycliffe finds us," said Katrina from the front seat, making a show of buckling her seat belt.

"I have experience driving under extreme duress," said Conmager

Simon watched his house recede into the distance. He had not even had time to turn the lights off. Lithon clutched at his arm. The little boy had gone quiet, though he remained pale and shaking. Simon wondered if he had gone into shock.

"He's scared," said Ally. She sat alone in the back seat. "He knows to be quiet when he's very frightened. I think he learned it when he was with Liam."

Simon frowned. "You don't happen to know how to read minds, do you?"

Ally blinked. "Read...minds? What does that mean?"

Simon shook his head. "Never mind." He turned to the front. "So what now?"

"We get out of Chicago," said Conmager. "The beast...I think Marugon could see through its eyes."

Simon shuddered. "Then Marugon has seen us. Me and Katrina, I mean."

"Not necessarily," said Conmager. "It was focused on Lithon, and then upon myself. I am only a buzzing fly to one such as Lord Marugon, and you are nothing to him. But Lithon, he believes Lithon is the true threat." He hit the gas and sped through a red light. Horns blared, but Conmager swerved and kept going. "He may not have noticed you. But Wycliffe will investigate. When he discovers that the door opened near your house..."

"How terribly reassuring," said Simon. "So can we make it out of Chicago or not?"

"I think we can," said Conmager. "It shall be easier to escape notice once we are out of the city and on the vastness of the Plains." A shadow crossed over his face. "And the last chance...I may not be forced to..."

Ally peered out the dark windows.

Simon frowned. "What is it? Is something wrong?"

Ally looked at him. Those dark eyes, so old and so knowing, looked out of place in her young face. "There is..."

Something dark swooped over the street ahead. Simon's stomach tied itself into knots. "Is...is that..."

The dark shadow sped into sight again, passing through a street lamp's cone of light. Simon caught a glimpse of sooty black armor and a huge leathery wing.

"What the hell is that?" said Katrina.

"The winged demons," said Conmager. "They have found us. Hold on." He spun the wheel, the tires shrieking with the strain. The van almost tipped yet again, but Conmager reversed direction and sped around a corner. Simon clutched at the seat, his heart thundering. The prospect of death in a fiery car crash did not faze him.

It would save him from falling into the hands of the winged demons.

The van sped down a street, dark three-story apartment buildings flashing past on either side. The motor roared as Conmager pushed it past ninety. Simon caught a glimpse of another dark shape circling over the street.

"How fast can they fly?" said Simon.

"Fast," said Conmager. "But not faster than an automobile. If we can make it to the freeway we can outrun them. But not in the city. There are too many corners. And they may have a vehicle of their own..."

A winged demon swooped towards the windshield, black armor glinting in the headlights, an assault rifle cradled in its arms.

###

Goth turned his seat. "Lord. We have found them. They are fleeing in the red vehicle."

Marugon smiled. "Kill Lithon Scepteris. But instruct your kin to only disable Sir Liam or whatever wielder of the white magic is with him. I should like to put them to the question." He spread his hands. "But if they should happen to die with King Lithon...I would not be disappointed."

Goth rumbled out a laugh and conveyed the orders.

###

Conmager swung the wheel hard left. The winged demon leveled the assault rifle and fired. Flashes of light burst from the barrel, and a web of cracks spread through the windshield. Simon heard a series of dull thumps as the bullets shredded through the van's side. Conmager jerked the wheel back to the right and crashed through a trio trash cans on the curb. The engine roared as Conmager pumped the gas and dragged the van back onto the road. Simon looked over his shoulder and saw the winged demon receding into the darkness.

"Is everyone okay?" said Katrina.

Simon wiped a gallon of sweat from his brow. "Yeah. Just super."

"We're not going to be able to get out of the city, are we?" said Katrina.

Conmager shook his head. "No." A look of terrible pain crossed his face, followed by grim resolution. "No. Then it has come to the last chance I foresaw. So be it. Take the wheel."

"What?" said Katrina. "You idiot, we're going over seventy. We'll splatter all over the street."

"This road remains straight for a while," said Conmager, teeth grinding. "Take the wheel. Now!"

Katrina loosed a long stream of curses, but reached over and took the wheel. Conmager levered himself up and slid into the space between the seats. Katrina climbed over him and dropped into the driver's seat. The van almost crashed into a streetlight, but Katrina managed to maintain control.

"What are you doing?" said Simon.

"Make for this address," said Conmager, rattling off a street and number.

"Why? That leads back towards the city!" said Katrina. "That's...damn it, that's only fifteen blocks from Wycliffe's warehouses. Why the hell are we going back that way?"

"If you want to save your life, if you want to save the life of your betrothed, you will do as I bid," said Conmager. He turned around and reached for his staff.

Katrina hit the brakes, skidded, and managed to reverse direction. "And what will you be doing?"

Conmager pulled his staff into the front seat. "I must slow the winged demons long enough for us to get there. Turn here."

Katrina hit the blinker and turned. A black van, its headlights off, shot past them. Simon saw the black van's brake lights come on.

"Drive!" said Conmager. He rolled down his window. "Drive with all speed. It is your only chance."

###

Goth roared in fury. "That van! Lord, that red van. It is the one we seek."

Marugon tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robes. "Then follow it, driver. Now!" The driver nodded and slammed the brakes. Their vehicle swung around and shot after the red van.

Marugon closed his eyes and focused his will. A mighty, dark force gathered within his mind. It was the cold darkness between the worlds, the force that silenced a heart's final shuddering beat, the power that made a home crumble into a broken ruin, the force that would one day quench the stars themselves.

Marugon began to cast a spell.

###

The van's engine started to howl. Katrina cursed and glared at the dashboard. "The engine's overheating!"

"Not much farther," said Conmager. He glared out the rear window. "No. Damnation, no. That black van....Marugon..."

Something dark and huge swooped overhead, flickers of bright yellow light flashing in the darkness. Katrina screamed as bullet holes appeared in the hood. The left mirror vanished in a spray of glass shards, and the back window shattered into glittering specks.

Conmager thrust his staff out the window, its head blazing with searing white flame. Conmager shouted, the white fire pulsing in time to his words. A deep-throated howl of pain rose from the air.

"Faster!" said Conmager, the wind whipping through his hair and clothes. Simon looked out the windows, saw dilapidated warehouses blurring past. "We are almost there!"

Something heavy landed on the van's roof.

Simon looked up just as gunfire ripped through the ceiling, shredding the seat cushions and blasting holes in the floor. He grabbed Lithon and pulled him toward the wall, trying to shield the boy from the fire. Ally scurried back into the corner, her eyes huge.

Conmager twisted around, brandishing his staff as he levered himself further out the window. An infuriated roar filled the air.

A winged demon landed on the hood.

Red flames danced in the creature's eyes, and its sooty black armor rattled as it moved. Through his terror Simon recognized the creature as one of the hooded and bearded thugs he had seen at the warehouse's front gate every day. The false beard had done a remarkable job of hiding the winged demon's yellowed fangs.

The creature drove an armored fist through the windshield, glass shards raining over Katrina and Conmager's lap. Katrina screamed and let go of the wheel to cover her face. The van bobbed across the lanes and brushed the curb. The winged demon grabbed Katrina by her shirt and pulled her towards him. Simon roared and clawed forward, trying to reach her.

Katrina kicked the brake. The van lurched, catapulting Conmager out the window. Simon caught a glimpse of his staff clattering against the street.

The van jumped the curb, careened over the sidewalk, and smashed into the wall of a warehouse.

###

"It's not my fault," said the driver, almost weeping in his terror. Smoke rose from the black van's open hood. "It's...it's not my fault, the engine couldn't handle going so fast for so long...oh, God, oh God, what are you doing!"

Goth growled and lifted a hand. Iron claws, blackened with ancient blood, slid from his fingertips.

"Leave him," said Marugon. "He is not worth our time." The dark force raged through his mind. "We have, as the Earth saying goes, bigger fish to fry."

Goth stiffened and touched his headset. "Lord. Their van has crashed. They are not more than a quarter mile ahead."

Marugon smiled. "Good. Very good. Let us show Sir Liam the fury of a master of the black magic, shall we?" He set off down the sidewalk at a brisk pace.

Goth let loose a vicious, rumbling chuckle.

Behind them the driver curled into a ball and began to cry.

***
Chapter 21 - A Broken Staff

Anno Domini 2003

Bit by bit, Simon's eyes swam back into focus.

Someone tugged at his hand. "What?"

"You have to get up!" said Ally.

Something hot and wet dripped into Simon's eyes. He wiped it aside and gazed at blood on his fingers. "The van..."

The front section of the van had been smashed against the warehouse wall. Both front seats were crushed. The back section of the van had survived mostly intact, which explained how Simon had survived the crash.

"The crash," said Simon. His eyes widened. "Katrina? Where's Lithon and Conmager?"

"Conmager fell out the window," said Ally. "I took Lithon out of the van after we crashed."

A woman's scream cut the night air.

Simon's heart skipped several beats. "Katrina! My God, Katrina!" He pushed his way out the wrecked van, staggering with pain and dizziness.

A winged demon stood twenty feet from the van, holding Katrina by the hair. She had numerous cuts on her face and arms. She kicked and punched, but her blows bounced off the creature's armor.

"Vigorous," said the winged demon, its voice a deep bass rumble. "I have watched you long, pretty one. I shall father a son on you. You shall give birth to one of the kin."

Katrina snarled and swung her fist. The winged demon caught the blow and broke her arm in one smooth motion. Katrina screamed and the winged demon pushed her against the wall, wrapping its massive wings around her.

Simon roared, fury overriding his fear. He seized a brick from the damaged warehouse wall, sprinted toward the winged demon, and flung the brick with all his strength. It struck the winged demon on the temple. The monster snarled and dropped Katrina, who crumpled to the sidewalk in a limp heap.

The winged demon spun to face Simon, and his rage melted away in the creature's burning gaze. The winged demon stalked forward, drawing a curved black sword from its belt. Its edge glittered, and Simon stared at it, transfixed.

His mind screamed for him to run, to pick up Katrina, to do something, but he could not look away as the scimitar rose for a killing blow...

A man's voice yelled in challenge and white light flared. The winged demon roared in pain as Conmager charged it, white fire burning up the length of his staff. The blazing end of the staff slammed into the winged demon's face. The creature howled in agony and took to the air, its wings beating.

"The other one," said Simon. "There were two. Where's the other..."

Conmager gasped and almost fell. Simon caught his arm. "I can't...Master, I can't...so tired...so very tired..."

Conmager's jacket and shirt had been torn to shreds. A deep gash marked his jaw, a sheet of blood dripping down his neck. His arm trembled like gelatin in Simon's grip.

Conmager straightened and leaned on his staff. "The other one is dead." He pointed at a heap of black ashes and obsidian bones in the center of the street.

"Katrina's hurt. Bad," said Simon, starting toward her. Ally hurried to his side, a wailing Lithon in her arms.

Conmager clutched his side. "As am...As am I..." His eyes widened. "Pick her up. Now! Run, run!"

Simon followed Conmager's gaze, and saw a whirling column of shadows crawling up the street. The pavement beneath it crumbled into white powder. Just looking at the writhing shadows filled Simon with an icy chill.

"Run!" said Conmager.

Simon hurried to Katrina's side and helped her up. She looked half-delirious with pain. He hooked his arm around her waist and staggered after Conmager and Ally. The chill radiating from the writhing column of shadows grew sharper.

He turned just as the whirlwind of shadows struck the wrecked van. The red paint peeled off in a shower of flakes. The metal twisted, rusted, and collapsed in a spray of orange powder. The plastic shriveled into ash. The bricks of the warehouse wall dissolved into dust.

He caught up with Conmager. "What was that?" Katrina moaned, her forehead brushing against his shoulder.

"A spell of entropy," said Conmager. He left a trail of blood droplets on the pavement. "We are almost there." He pointed at a warehouse of red brick. "If we can just make it inside." He looked at Ally. "You must carry the King."

Ally shrugged. "I've carried him before."

Simon risked another glance over his shoulder. The van and the warehouse wall had been reduced to black ash. Behind the wreckage he saw a huge man in a leather jacket and a smaller one in black robes.

For a moment he glimpsed bottomless black eyes beneath the robed man's hood.

Dread such as Simon had never known tore at him. Neither the winged demons nor the shadow-things in the Tower had ever filled him with such terror.

He did not want to know what manner of nightmare wore that robe.

"Conmager," he croaked. "Conmager!"

Conmager half-turned. "What?" His face twisted in a mixture of agony and terror. "It is Marugon. Run! Run! It is our last chance."

Simon slung Katrina over his shoulder, his muscles screaming with effort, and followed Conmager and Ally in a staggering run for the red brick warehouse.

###

"They survived the spell," said Goth.

"They did not survive the spell," said Marugon, his voice mild. He watched the distant figures vanish into the warehouse. "Rather, they had the great good fortune to miss it by a few seconds. What word from your kin?"

Goth grunted. "One of my kin was slain." He did not seem distressed by the news. "One was wounded. Sir Liam does not seem to be with them."

Marugon frowned. "He is not? Perhaps he perished when their vehicle crashed. Then who slew the winged one? I thought I saw the white fire in the distance. It must have been their wielder of white magic."

"They have gone into that structure," said Goth. "Lithon Scepteris is with them."

"And others that I did not expect," said Marugon. "Allies Sir Liam must have gathered. No matter." He strode forward, gathering dark power. "We shall dispose of them with all haste."

Goth stopped. "Lord. There is only one entrance into the warehouse."

Marugon frowned. "Oh?" He watched as five winged demons landed before the warehouse's door.

"The fools have run into a dead end," said Goth. "We have them."

"Wait." Marugon lowered his head, deep in thought. "They were fleeing the city. Yet when your kin spotted them, they changed direction. Back towards Wycliffe's compound, if I am not mistaken. Why would they head towards the nest of their enemies, hmm?"

Goth growled, red fire glinting behind his sunglasses. "A trap."

"Or where they wish to make a last stand," said Marugon.

He hesitated for a moment.

Alastarius had known more than he had Prophesied. There had been something in his eyes as he had died...satisfaction? Smugness? Even hope? Marugon considered striding into the warehouse and slaying the last scion of the house of Scepteris and his protectors with a single spell. His doubt grew as he looked at the warehouse's only door. They had run into a dead end. They had to know it. They had come here deliberately. There had to be some trickery.

Goth shifted. "Lord?"

"Something is amiss," said Marugon. "Send in your kin. Kill the Scepteris brat and his followers."

Goth relayed the orders. The winged demons ripped open the warehouse door and strode inside, Kalashnikovs in hand.

###

The gloomy warehouse looked long-abandoned. A thin layer of dust covered the floor, marred by occasional footprints. Stacks of enormous empty crates lined the walls, and flickering security lights cast dancing shadows everywhere. Simon looked around, Katrina's weight filling his shoulders with aching pain. He could see no other door.

"Conmager," he rasped.

Conmager ignored him and limped towards a stack of crates. Ally padded at his side, a wriggling Lithon in her arms.

"Conmager!" said Simon, huffing as he tried to catch the wounded man. Conmager turned, eyes glinting in his bloodstained face. "There's no way out. We've run into a dead end."

Conmager nodded. "That's what you are supposed to think. That is what they are supposed to think."

"What?" said Simon.

"Hurry," said Conmager, his voice quavering. Simon wondered if Conmager had taken internal injuries. "Time grows short."

Conmager lifted his staff and struck a large enough to hold a small house. The crate's side swung inward. Simon saw a trapdoor on the floor within the crate. Conmager rapped his staff against the trapdoor. It swung open, revealing a steep staircase descending into the darkness.

"The tunnel opens into an abandoned sector of the sewer system," said Conmager. "I have painted arrows showing the route to a small park about a mile and a half from here. There are several flashlights and spare batteries at the bottom of the stairs."

Simon scowled. "Is this your great plan? A secret tunnel? It'll take the winged demons five minutes to find this!" He gestured at the dusty floor. "All they have to do is follow our footprints."

"Go now," said Conmager. He pushed Simon into the crate. Ally stepped inside, staring at Conmager with sad eyes.

Simon gaped. "You're...you're staying? But they'll kill you!"

"Perhaps," said Conmager. "Most likely. In any case, I will buy you time to escape with the King and your betrothed." He smiled. "And Ally, as well. She is a special child, though I cannot see to what purpose. Take care of her, Simon Wester."

"You idiot!" said Simon. "You'll die in vain. They'll shoot you to pieces and come right after us."

"They will have no reason," said Conmager, his voice quiet, "to come after you."

Simon blinked. "But..." Then the memory returned. "A desperate last chance that might save you and your betrothed and the children. That's what you said. You...you're going to do some damn heroic last stand, something that will make them think we're all dead..."

"Go, Simon Wester," said Conmager. "You have always been a true friend to me, despite your fears. Love your betrothed and cherish her. And take care of the children." His eyes grew glassy. "Especially Ally. That is all I ask of you. Guard the children...and remember me, for no one else will."

"No!" said Simon. His arms ached with the effort of holding Katrina. "No! I'm not going to leave you here to die..."

Conmager smiled. "It's not as if I'm giving you a choice."

He moved like lightning despite his wounds. He grabbed the hidden door and slammed it shut, filling the crate with darkness. Simon yelled and pounded on it, but could not break through.

Ally tugged at this belt. "We have to go!"

Simon heard metal shrieking and the roars of the winged demons. He wiped tears from his face, nodded, and groped towards the hidden stairwell.

###

Conmager turned away from the secret door and walked the center of the warehouse. He wanted to be as far from the door as possible when the winged demons found him. Pain lashed at his every step, and he felt exhausted beyond measure.

He would rest soon enough.

The door crashed in pieces, and five winged demons hurried through, machine guns in hand. Conmager struck the butt of his staff against the dusty floor. It burst into brilliant white fire, pushing back the shadows. The winged demons snarled and took to the air. Before Conmager could react, they had landed in a circle around him, weapons ready.

"Where is the boy?" snarled one.

Conmager smirked and lifted his staff. "Find him yourself, if you can."

"Kill him!" bellowed another.

"No," said the one Conmager had burned. "Perhaps we shall take him to the Lord alive, yes?"

A machine gun barked, and agony exploded through Conmager's left knee. He screamed and leaned upon his staff to keep from toppling to the floor. He closed his eyes, shuddered, and gathered his power for the last effort.

The staff vibrated in his hands, the white fire blazing brighter.

"Take him!" said the burned demon. "Once the Lord has finished with him, we shall feast on his flesh..."

Conmager yelled, raised the staff high, and struck the head against the floor with all the strength he could muster.

The staff shattered into a thousand pieces with a blinding flash.

White fire exploded in all directions. The winged demons screamed, and Conmager screamed with them before the darkness claimed him.

###

The explosion ripped through the windows, blasted out the door, and tore gaping holes in the walls. The roof disintegrated in a spray of shredded steel. A pillar of flame shot a hundred feet into the air, and with a great groan, the warehouse's walls collapsed, the ground trembling.

The flames turned night into a hellish day.

Marugon and Goth stood alone in the street.

Marugon stared at the burning debris with a sour expression. It galled him to think how close he had come to his own destruction. "So. It was a trap. I did not think their wielder of white magic had such a last display in him."

Goth growled.

Marugon laughed. "No. They could not have hoped to survive such a spell. Rather...it was a last stand. Perhaps they hoped to destroy me as well as themselves."

"They feared to be taken alive," said Goth.

Marugon's laughter redoubled. "Can you blame them, considering what your kin would have done to them? Especially the woman." Goth remained silent. "Speaking of your kin, five of them perished in the blast. One died on the street. Does that not trouble you?"

"No," said Goth.

"Why not?" said Marugon.

"Six fewer rivals I shall have to kill one day," said Goth.

Marugon laughed. "Indeed. There is a reason you have been king of the winged demons for so many years, Goth-Mar-Dan."

Goth said nothing.

Marugon gazed into the flaming ruin. "The last son of Scepteris, dead at last after so many years. His father banished me, in my youth, and led the war against the Black Council." His lips spread in a grin. "And now the debt has been settled." He titled his head and heard the distant wail of sirens.

"The city guards. Senator Wycliffe will be displeased," said Goth. He sounded indifferent.

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

Thank you for reading THE TOWER OF ENDLESS WORLDS. Turn the page for a chapter from the next volume in the series, A Knight of the Sacred Blade (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2076). For immediate notification of new releases, you can sign up for my email newsletter here (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1854), or watch for news on my Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jonathan-Moeller/328773987230189).

_  
_

***
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

_Follow this link to continue reading_ A Knight of the Sacred Blade (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2076) _._

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About the author

Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.

He has written the DEMONSOULED series of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write THE GHOSTS sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the COMPUTER BEGINNER'S GUIDE series of computer books, and numerous other works.

Visit his website at:

http://www.jonathanmoeller.com

Visit his technology blog at:

<http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/screed>

Contact him at:

jmcontact@jonathanmoeller.com

You can sign up for his email newsletter here. (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1854)

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