Read The Tower of Endless Worlds Online
Authors: Jonathan Moeller
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fantasy, #Contemporary, #Science Fiction, #Alternate History, #Paranormal & Urban, #Alternative History
The Tower of Endless Worlds
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...
Other books by the author
The Third Soul Series
Computer Beginner's Guides
The Windows Command Line Beginner's Guide
The Linux Command Line Beginner's Guide
The Ubuntu Desktop Beginner's Guide
The Windows 8 Beginner's Guide
The Linux Mint Beginner's Guide
The Ghosts Series
Ghost Dagger (World of the Ghosts novella)
Ghost Aria (World of the Ghosts short story)
The Demonsouled Series
The Dragon's Shadow (World of the Demonsouled novella)
The Wandering Knight (World of the Demonsouled short story)
The Tower of Endless Worlds Series
$1.99 Dark Fantasy
Copyright 2012 by Jonathan Moeller.
Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.
Ebook edition published June 2012.
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.”