A Knight of the Sacred Blade (5 page)

“Of course,” said Ally. “By how much?”

Lithon blinked. “I…don’t remember. I think it was like 17-12.” 

“And how many baskets did you get?” said Ally.

Lithon shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Ally laughed. “We’ll have to hire you a publicist, else you’d never take any credit for anything. How many baskets did you get?” 

Lithon looked at the ceiling. “All right. Two baskets. And a three-point shot. Not that much.”

Ally laughed. “Not that much. That’s…what, seven points? Almost half the score.”

“It’s not that much,” said Lithon. “Coach was pleased, though.” 

“I can imagine,” said Ally. She pulled up to a stoplight and waited. “It’s nice to know there are some coaches out there who aren’t total jerks.” 

“What’s bugging you?” said Lithon.

Ally scowled. “Nothing.”

“There is. I know you. You’ll sit and chew on it until you’re miserable,” said Lithon. 

“Fine. I still don’t want to talk about it,” said Ally, thinking of Mary and her boyfriend. "You’ll probably hear all about it when we get home.”

Lithon’s blue eyes widened. “Oh, man. You got in trouble at school again, didn’t you?”

Ally sighed. “Well…yeah, sort of.” 

“What did you do?” said Lithon. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Ally.

“Okay,” said Lithon. “But he probably deserved it.”

Ally blinked. “What?” 

“Whoever you got mad at. He probably deserved it. You usually only get mad when people are acting like jerks.” 

Ally sighed, shook her head, and then laughed. “I hope you’re right. And I hope Mom and Dad will see it that way.”

###

Ally eased the car up the driveway, snow crunching beneath the tires. “Looks like we get to shovel the walk.” She turned off the ignition and peered into the garage. “And looks like Mom is back, too.”

“Good!” said Lithon. “Too bad she was gone the last week of Christmas break.”

“Yeah,” said Ally, climbing out of the car.

They trudged up through the deepening snow to the side door. Ally heard voices inside, and put her finger to her lips. Lithon grinned and nodded. Ally unlocked and opened the door quietly, and she and Lithon slipped inside. 

Katrina’s voice came from the living room. “You should have seen the looks on their faces when I said I had sold forty thousand self-published ebooks in the last year. I thought their heads would explode.” Last year Katrina had acquired an ereader, and had begun evangelizing on the virtues of ebooks and self-publishing. Which amused Ally to no end – she remembered that Katrina used to swear she would never read an ebook, and that self-publishing was for losers who couldn't get a book contract. 

Simon harrumphed. “I wish my books got that big a response.”

“Simon, your books are boring. You’re a college boy writing for other college boys.”

Simon made an exaggerated sigh. “You don’t have to rub it in.”

“Oh, quit whining. Dr. Francis liked your book, didn’t she? And you use it as a textbook for one of your classes, don’t you?” said Katrina.

“Well…”

Katrina laughed. “Ha! You do. Admit it. I wish I could force people to read my books.”

“I don’t think crime novels would make for an education reading experience,” said Simon.

Katrina’s voice dropped to a purr. “You can learn all sorts of things if you read my books, Simon.” There was a pause. “What’s wrong?”

Simon sighed. “Wycliffe was in the news again…”

Ally and Lithon entered the living room. Simon sat on the couch, and Katrina perched on his lap with her arms around his neck. 

“Like, gross,” said Ally. 

Katrina just turned her head and raised an eyebrow. “It’s not a public display of affection. This is the privacy of my own home. See?” She leaned forward and planted a kiss on Simon’s lips. 

Lithon laughed. “Gross.”

Katrina stood, rubbing her mouth. “You’re shaving that beard. It was like kissing a tennis ball.” 

Ally laughed. “Told you.”

Katrina hugged them both. “I heard you had an interesting first day at school.”

Ally grimaced. “Yeah. Well. It wasn’t on purpose.”

Katrina shrugged. “Simon will talk to you about it later. And you, kiddo. How was basketball practice?” 

Lithon beamed and rattled off his exploits, while Ally sighed in relief. Simon didn’t have the stomach to enforce much discipline, unlike Katrina. Her mother had a remarkably short temper at times. 

Simon chuckled. “Who would have thought? An athlete in the Wester family. Miracles never cease.”

Katrina snorted and folded her arms. “He didn’t get it from your side of the family, that’s for sure.”

Simon scratched his paunch. “Apparently not.” 

Katrina snapped her fingers. “Oh, I almost forgot. I saw Grandma Wester while I was in Miami.”

Simon tensed. Katrina and Maura Wester did not always get along so well. “How did that go?”

“She says to say hi, and she also sent Christmas cards.”

“Really?” said Ally. Grandma Wester tended to send fifty-dollar bills with her Christmas cards. 

“Yup,” said Katrina. “I have them right here with me. You can have them just as soon as the driveway’s shoveled.”

Ally rolled her eyes. “Mom. I have homework to do.”

“The best way to prepare for mental exertion is with physical exercise,” said Katrina.

Simon folded his hands in his laps. “You kids heard your mom.”

Katrina smiled at him. “She sent you a card, too.”

Simon blinked and leaned forward. “She did? Can I see it?” 

“Sure,” said Katrina. “After the driveway’s shoveled.”

Simon sighed. “Let’s get the shovels, kids.” 

###

That night Ally dreamed of her confrontation with Paulsen.

But this time Paulsen’s eyes were bottomless black pits, windows into the void. He grinned at her, and the walls of the classroom exploded, revealing a yawning black abyss.

Clawed shadows boiled from the darkness, hissing her name.

Ally awoke trembling and drenched in sweat, and did not sleep for the rest of that night. 

Chapter 5 - The Speech

Anno Domini 2012

“Ten years, Goth,” said Senator Thomas Wycliffe, straightening his hair. He heard the rumble of the crowds through the curtains. “It’s taken ten years to set this up.” 

The creature that used the name of Goth Marson stood in the corner, a dark shadow in his black jacket and sunglasses and bushy black beard. Aides and technicians scurried back and forth through the broad concrete corridor, and most pretended not to see Goth. Those few who did glance at the Senator’s bodyguard shuddered and hurried on their way. 

Wycliffe laughed. “Talkative as always. Well. You may think this a waste of time, but in ten minutes, you’ll think differently.” 

Goth said nothing. 

Excitement fluttered in Wycliffe’s gut. Ten years of work, ten years of effort, ten years of plotting would come to fruition tonight. If everything went according to plan. If his experiments and conclusions concerning the Voice granted by Marugon’s lessons in black magic had been correct. 

Wycliffe grinned. If not…well, he could always start over. 

But if it worked, he would be the ruler of the United States of America within the year. 

Applause broke out. Wycliffe titled his head and listened. 

“Senator?” A technician in black touched his elbow. “The opening speeches are done. They’re ready for you.”

Wycliffe smiled. “Yes. They are, aren’t they?” The technician blinked, then smiled and nodded. “Let’s do this, shall we?” 

The technician led him up the ramp, through the curtain, and into the cavernous arena of Chicago’s United Center. Lights glared off the polished floor and threw a maze of tangled shadows over the ceiling. Huge video screens hung from the ceiling, facing the seats, alongside the championship pennants from the Bulls’ long-past glory years. 

Wycliffe’s eyes wandered over the seats as the technician led him to the podium set at center court. Thousands upon thousands of people filled the seats. When he had announced his candidacy for the House of Representatives at the capitol in Springfield fourteen years ago, nine people had been present. 

One of them had been the janitor. 

He had come a long way, indeed. His smile widened as he took in the banks of TV cameras. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the man at the podium, an odious state legislator whose name Wycliffe could never remember, “for our keynote speech of the evening, may I introduce to you a man who has served the State of Illinois for over fourteen years, a man whose commitment and devotion to the people of Illinois is beyond question, may I introduce…Senator Thomas Wycliffe!”

Thunderous applause rose from the packed seats. Wycliffe put on his crowd smile and climbed up to the platform. He shook hands with the insignificant legislator, the attorney general, the Chief Justice of the state Supreme Court, the lieutenant governor, the governor, and the horde of other important personages crowding the speaker’s platform. Wycliffe smiled at them all and turned to the flag-draped podium. A dozen microphones rose from its top like black antennae. Wycliffe smiled and held up his hands for silence. 

The clapping died to faint clapping and a few cheers. Wycliffe looked over the faces of his supporters. Most had begun as lifelong Republicans and Democrats. Over the years, he had lured them into his fold, bit by bit, until he had an organization just as large and wealthy as either of the traditional political parties. 

And now the pieces would fall into place.

He felt the black magic stirring behind his eyes like a spider wrought of ice, waiting to be unleashed.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Wycliffe, the speakers booming his voice over the arena. He gestured at the row of chairs behind him. “Distinguished guests, fellow public servants, prominent citizens of Chicago and Illinois, but most all, citizens of Illinois and the United States of America.” He gripped the podium with both hands, leaned forward, and grinned. “I’d like to thank you all for coming, especially in this snowy weather. Such a turnout gives me confidence in the future of democracy in this country. Now, if you’ll indulge me for just a moment, I’d like to start out with a story.”

A chuckle went through the crowd.

Wycliffe grinned. “As many of you know, I started out my career as an aspiring historian. I never got past just aspiring, I’m afraid. Other opportunities called…I’m afraid had to settle for a career in Congress.” He sighed and spread his hands. “I guess it could have been worse. After all, I could have become a lawyer.” 

More people laughed. The attorney general grumbled something.

Wycliffe let the laughter die down. “I was working on a historical paper the very day my career in politics began. It was about two brothers, Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus, two statesmen of ancient Rome. Tiberius was assassinated in 133 BC, and Gaius in 123 BC. But you haven’t come here for a history lecture, I assume. Why, do you ask, is this pertinent, given the grave issues that face our nation today?” 

He stood silent for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. He focused his will and drew the black magic to himself, letting it grow stronger and stronger.

“When you think of ancient Rome, of what do you think? Emperors, no doubt. Slaves. Gladiators. Perhaps the ladies think of Russell Crowe?” Another laugh went through the crowds, and Wycliffe let his expression grow serious. “But, in truth, the Rome of Tiberius and Gaius is not so very different from our modern United States of America. At that time, Rome was a republic, not so very different from ours. Rome was the mightiest nation of her time, much the same as the United States. Rome had vanquished her enemies by the valor and bravery of her soldiers, again, much the same as the United States.” Wycliffe leaned forward and bit off every word. “And like the United States, the republic of Rome was in danger of becoming a dictatorship ruled by a tyrannical Caesar.” 

The black magic writhed in the back of Wycliffe’s mind. He had spent years studying the effects of the Voice on crowds. He had found he could not use the Voice to compel the crowd, the way he used it to force inconvenient people to commit suicide. The Voice could control individuals, but it could not control an entire crowd at once.

But the Voice could implant emotion.

Wycliffe hid his grin and let the Voice filter into his words.

“The republic of Rome was under siege,” he said, his will commanding the Voice to evoke disgust and outrage. “More and more wealth gathered in the hands of a rapacious and ruthless few. The Senate and the Assembly of the People had less and less control over these robber barons. In truth, the robber barons packed the Senate, and turned the Assembly of the People into a tool of their greed. And what of the everyday man, the Joe Six-pack, or the Joe Toga, you might say, of Rome?” A nervous chuckle went through the crowd. “They were exploited, mistreated, and manipulated, their strings pulled to serve the interests of the select few. Their republic was the greatest in the world, their armies undefeated, and what did they have to show for it? Nothing but poverty and the decadent estates of the wealthy. And in the end, the Romans lost their freedom, and became slaves to an all-powerful emperor.” He let more of the Voice seep into his words. “Ancient history, you think? Dead and gone? The dust of the past. Wrong! It is this danger that faces the United States, I say, and it is the risk that we run!” His voice rose to a shout. A rustle went through the audience, and Wycliffe made a show of smoothing his jacket and straightening his tide. He felt the Voice ripple through them, felt the black magic work its tendrils around their minds and souls, inspiring emotions of his choice in their hearts. 

“Pardon,” he said, smiling. “I got just a bit enthusiastic, there. After all, there’s nothing quite as exciting as ancient history.” Some people laughed. Wycliffe gripped the podium and put on a businesslike expression. “But history repeats itself, as we all know. And even if it doesn’t really repeat itself, certain patterns do. And I am afraid, ladies and gentlemen, I am afraid that I see the pattern of the republic of ancient Rome repeating itself in the republic of the United States of America. Absurd, you say? After all, how plausible is the idea of an American Emperor? I don’t suppose we have to worry about a Douglas MacArthur or a George Patton returning from the grave with an army, or David Petraeus overthrowing the federal government. It’s not the danger of a one-man dictatorship we face. At least, not quite yet.” 

His hands tightened around the podium as the black magic shivered through his will. He directed the Voice into his words, commanded the black magic evoke feelings of outrage and anger. 

“But there are those who seek control,” he said, his voice quiet. “In the Rome of Tiberius and Gaius, the rich got ever richer…but the poor got ever poorer. Irrelevant to the modern American, you say? Well, consider this. Our economy is in ruins, destroyed by the folly of our government and the greed and stupidity of our business leaders. Wages are down. Taxes are up. Inflation and prices rise with no end in sight. Why, you ask? Ladies and gentlemen, tonight I tell that it is not a military dictatorship that haunts the United States, not rule by one man, not rule by the army…but rule by the wealthy, by those who would turn the rest of us into their slaves. Think of it,” he let the Voice grow stronger, raging in his words like burning ice, “corporate taxes are lower than any other time in our history. Just last year, the Senate passed another measure lowering corporate taxes.” It had been a struggle to pass that bill, requiring much judicious use of the Voice, but the payoff in political fallout had been worth it. “And attached to that measure was a tax cut for the top five percent. But what of the middle and lower classes, you ask? Was there a tax cut for them? No! Rather, a tax hike was attached to that soaking, money-leeching bill.” 

He felt the rustles as the Voice rippled through the crowd. He hid his grin as he saw the anger in the faces of his audience.

He would direct that well.

“Citizens of the United States of America,” said Wycliffe, “we stand in danger of losing our freedoms. Not to a dictator, not the government, not to the army…but to the rich. Open your eyes and consider!” The Voice swelled in his throat, the black magic strong and potent. “Who bankrolls the election campaigns of our Representatives, our Senators, and our President? Who spends billions of dollars influencing Congressional decisions, and then moans and groans that to pay its workers a proper wage would ruin its profit margins? Who bends the laws, who tramples on individual rights, who treats you and I, our fellow citizens, like mere numbers, like mere cattle from whom the precious dollar can be milked?” His hands clenched into fists. He adjusted the Voice, letting it grow from disgust and mild anger to pure affronted rage. “The wealthy! Think about it, I beg you! They seek to control you through advertising. They dictate how you should look, calling a healthy woman fat and claiming that baldness makes a hardworking and honest man an unattractive slob. They offer cures for woes they themselves created. They drive the independent entrepreneur out of business and offer him work as an hourly wage-slave running a cash register or mopping a floor. They seek to make us all mindless, dull, droning slaves, and without us even knowing it!”

Ripples of anger went through the crowd. Angry cries of support rose up. Wycliffe raised his hands and waited for calm. 

“Allow me to offer examples, lest you think I am another ranting fool.” He leaned forward and stared into the crowd. “Just last week, for instance, the fine and upstanding legislature of our own State of Illinois passed a bill slashing the education budget by a quarter. This is at time when our grade schools are overcrowded, our teachers are underpaid, and our educational facilities are substandard. And three days later, the legislature passed a bill giving tax cuts, massive tax cuts, to the upper-income bracket taxes.” It had been difficult to arrange that ill-timed “coincidence”, but the Illinois state legislature possessed an astonishing number of weak-minded fools. Wycliffe had had barely had to use the Voice to procure their cooperation. “A corporate tax increase of two percent would have provided sufficient funds to finance the schools for five years. Two percent! And yet did our wise legislators seek this? Did they? No!” His voice rose to a shriek by the last word.

An angry stir went through the crowd. Wycliffe felt the Voice working through them, conjuring up emotions. The Voice would make them want to believe.

Wycliffe let them stir for a moment. 

He gripped the podium and let hope and fierce determination fill the Voice. “But there is still hope!” 

The crowd fell silent, all eyes on him. 

“Citizens of America, I have been successful in business, more through luck than any effort of my own,” said Wycliffe. “The fact that I have never taken a campaign donation of any sort is a matter of public record. And it is this success in business that has enabled me to rise in politics. But it has left me troubled. Should only millionaires be allowed to serve in high office? Is America a land for the millionaires? I think not! It occurred to me, fellow citizens, that perhaps this is why God permitted me such success in business, that this is His path for me…that I have both the opportunity and the ability to correct the abuses I have laid out for you tonight!”

The crowd applauded. Wycliffe let his gaze sweep the length of the arena. He felt the Voice building inside him, gathering its dark power for a final grand crescendo. 

“You have heard, perhaps, rumors that I intend to seek either the Democratic or the Republican presidential nominations,” said Wycliffe, his voice calm and modulated. Cheers rose up, and Wycliffe held up a hand. “I shall not. I cannot. The Republican and the Democratic parties are nothing more than the established tools of the rich. A Democratic administration, a Republican administration…can you see the difference between them? No, I shall not seek, nor shall I accept, the presidential nomination of the Republican or the Democratic Parties.”

A hush fell over the crowd. The Voice built within Wycliffe until he felt it would break free of his will and tear free from him in a mighty scream of power.