The Tower of Endless Worlds (3 page)

“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.”