The Destroyer of Worlds (16 page)

Chapter 11 - Liberation

Anno Domini 2012

Conmager pulled the van up to the curb. 

Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping’s compound loomed across the street, its gate closed and crowned with barbed wire. A man in a blue uniform sat in the booth, staring at them through black sunglasses. A human, not a changeling or a winged demon.

That was just as well.

Ally took a deep breath and climbed out the back of the van. Her heart pounded, and a faint sheen of sweat covered her forehead, despite the December cold. Alastarius had seen dozens of battles and numerous wars. 

But Ally had never walked into a battle before. 

“And here we are,” said Allard, staring out the passenger window. He put a clip into his Uzi and stuffed several more into his belt. “Jesus. To think I’d ever walk willingly back into there.” He sighed. “I mean, Jesus.”

“Stop complaining. You were never held captive there,” said Conmager. “That guard already thinks something’s strange about us. Let’s get going.”

Ally’s heavy boots scuffed against the concrete. She and the others all wore Kevlar and weapons harnesses over their clothing. Ally didn’t carry any guns, as she had other weapons. But each of the others carried a small arsenal of weaponry. Arran had four pistols, an AK-47, a belt of grenades, and both his Sacred Blades. The others carried equally heavy firepower. 

Conmager looked at the gate and the barbed wire-tipped brick wall. “Are you sure of this?” His voice dropped. “I can feel the black magic in that place.”

“As can I,” said Ally. Black magic hung over the warehouse compound like choking smoke. She sensed the presence of winged demons beyond the gate, as well as hundreds of changelings. And beneath it all, she felt a low hum of power that could only come from an open door into the Tower of Endless Worlds. “And I am sure. Come with me.”

“We look like damn SWAT team,” said Mary. 

“What is a SWAT team?” said Arran, his eyes fixed on the gate. 

“Never mind,” said Ally.

She stepped up to the booth, the others behind her. The guard’s face went pale as he took in their guns and armor. 

“Hello,” said Ally. 

The guard blinked, his hand inching towards a console. “What do you want?”

“We’d like to see Vice President-Elect Wycliffe, please,” said Ally. “Mind opening the gate for us?” 

The guard stared at her. “You…um…don’t have an appointment.”

“Stop reaching for that alarm,” said Ally. She heard a clatter as the others drew their weapons and leveled them at the window. “And don’t think that bulletproof glass will save you. We’ve prepared for it.”

The guard looked around, panic evident on his face. “What the hell do you want? I don’t have any money.”

Ally smiled. “We want to you to open the gate, get out of the booth, and run as fast as you can.” She raised her hand. “One, two…”

“All right! All right!” The guard hit a switch. The gate slid into the wall with a low groan. The guard stepped out and raised his hands, peering at the cameras mounted on the wall.

“How do you see with those sunglasses on?” said Ally. “It is cloudy out.” The guard gaped at her. “Start running.” He sprinted away as fast as his legs could carry him. “Conmager.”

They filed through the gate. Conmager produced a small black box, flipped a switch, and dropped it into the guard’s booth. “We’ll want to move, ah, rather quickly.” He pointed. “Behind there.” A row of large metal containers stood lined up against a warehouse wall. 

Ally nodded. “Go.” They ran and hurried behind the containers, pressing their backs against them. A few seconds later Conmager’s bomb went off. A tower of flame blasted up from the gate, and bricks sprayed in all directions, raining against the containers with loud bangs. A tremor shot through the ground, concrete slabs cracking and splintering. The gate had collapsed into a pile of smoking metal, broken brick, and roaring flame. 

Sealing the complex off from the street.

“Good,” said Ally, “no one will interrupt us. Which way?”

Allard pointed to a squat brick warehouse. “13A.”

Ally started for the warehouse, the others following. 

###

“Have a seat.” Wycliffe sat at one of the chairs below the security room’s wall of monitors. “William.”

Jones swallowed and sat down. Wycliffe leaned back in his chair, smiling, and glanced out the open door. Marugon still stood before the door to the Tower, muttering spells over the black coffin of the bomb. Soon Marugon would vanish through the Tower, and Wycliffe would be free to do whatever he wished. 

Sweat beaded on Jones’s upper lip. “Is there something you wanted, Thomas? I do have a transfer of authority to oversee.”

Wycliffe laughed. “You amuse me, William. Despite your whining, you still amuse me. You still think you’re something more than a puppet.” He leaned forward, grinning. “Isn’t that funny?”

Jones blinked sweat from his eyes, but said nothing.

Wycliffe decided to enjoy this. “Haven’t you learned that by now? And what do I find you doing? Placing calls to the press. Leaving ‘anonymous tips’ about Vice President-Elect Wycliffe’s business dealings. Hinting at ‘dark allegations’ involving the Gracchan Party’s workers.” 

Jones’s face went white. “I did no such thing, I…”

Wycliffe sighed. “I have your phone tapped. The future President of the United States masquerading as an ‘anonymous caller’, indeed! Think of the indignity.” 

Jones trembled, but said nothing, his skin going grayer. Wycliffe wondered if the old fool’s heart would burst. “It…”

“Please,” said Wycliffe, sneering. “I listened to the entire call myself. You know, if you were going to betray me, I almost wish you’d have chosen a more imaginative route. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. Of course, I didn’t choose you for your strong will or sterling character.” He let loose a dramatic sigh. “What do you think I’m going to have to do with you, William?”

A strangled sob slipped Jones’s lips. 

“I could just shoot you right now.” Wycliffe waved a hand at the piles of crates. “God knows I don’t have any other use for this ammunition, now that Marugon’s stopped buying. Or I could command you to jump off a bridge. Perhaps I should order you to run until your heart bursts and you keel over dead.”

Jones’s knuckles turned white as he grasped the chair’s arms.

“Or,” said Wycliffe, “I could give you to Goth.” Assuming Goth ever bothered to return from Wisconsin. 

Jones began to hyperventilate. 

“He hates you.” Wycliffe shrugged. “Perhaps it’s your stink. The smell of a coward’s sweat. Absolutely repulsive. Yes, I think I shall give you to Goth. I wonder what he will do to you. It’s best not to think about it, probably.”

“You.” The skin of Jones’s throat crawled as he spat out the words. “You are an evil man.” Wycliffe laughed. “You’re right. I’m a wretched coward, and I curse the day I ever listened to you. But you’ll ruin this country.”

Wycliffe glanced out the door. How much longer would Marugon take? “You know, after twenty years in the Senate, I think you could have learned to make better speeches. In fact…”

A dull roar rang out, and the floor shook. 

Wycliffe grabbed at the control panel for support. A half-dozen security monitors filled with static, and an alarm began to blare. 

“What the hell?” roared Wycliffe. He grabbed at the phone, dialed the front booth, and got a busy signal. “What the hell just happened?” He threw the phone across the booth and stared at the remaining functional monitors. 

His jaw dropped in astonishment. The front gate had been blown to a pile of burning rubble, blocking access to the road. “My God!” said Wycliffe. “I should have run on an anti-terror plank. My God!” 

“We should call the police,” said Jones.

“Idiot! That’s the last thing we need. I…”

Marugon stormed into the control room. “What has happened? I feel the presence of the white magic.”

Wycliffe felt something icy brush his backbone. “I don’t know. I’m trying to find out.” He stared at the control panel for a moment, then reached down and set the cameras to track any motion in the loading yard. They locked onto six figures walking toward warehouse 13A. Wycliffe hit the switches for zooming and image enhancement. The intruders appeared on the largest screen, in color and live motion.  Four men and two women. Each carried a wide variety of weaponry, save for the red-haired woman in the lead. 

“They have a lot of guns,” said Jones, his voice quivering. 

Wycliffe resisted the urge to punch him. “Of course they do.” 

Marugon hissed. “Her!” 

Wycliffe stared at the figure in the lead, his eyes widening. “Ally Wester. And…and him! That’s the renegade, the one I captured, the one that escaped. And that…” Wycliffe’s hands curled into fists. “Him! Kyle Allard! That traitorous bastard! He did this! He betrayed me! I’ll make him wish he had never even looked at a cigarette…”

“Silence!” said Marugon, staring at the screen. 

“What happened to Goth?” said Wycliffe. “He was supposed to kill the bitch. Why isn’t she dead?” A growing suspicion blossomed in Wycliffe’s mind. “He betrayed us. Or you two are in league against me…”

Marugon glared at him. “Be silent!” His words carried the command of the Voice, and Wycliffe’s jaw clamped shut of its own volition, almost severing his tongue. “Goth-Mar-Dan is most likely dead, you fool. She killed him. Which means she has learned enough of the white magic to threaten me.” He stepped back, eyes wide. “She will not stop me now, not when I am so close, after all these years!” He turned and disappeared back into the warehouse. 

Wycliffe ran after him, fighting against the Voice’s compulsion, Jones trailing at his heels. “But…” Speaking felt like forcing a knife through solid stone, but at last he forced his will through Marugon’s black magic. “But you can kill her, can’t you?” The winged demons began to file into the warehouse, slouched and hooded in their leather jackets. 

Marugon strode to the bomb. “I will not take that chance. You shall stop her.”

“Me?” said Wycliffe. “That’s absurd. She’s coming to kill you, not me.” Perhaps he should stand aside and let these attackers kill Marugon. Or let Marugon kill the invaders, more likely. 

“And do you think they will stop with me? Fool!” Marugon turned and made a chopping gesture. Black magic surged through the warehouse, and the meat freezers burst open, their doors dissolving into rust. “No, I shall enter the Tower. They will have to go through you to reach me.” He leveled a wolfish smirk at Wycliffe. “I suppose that will give you ample incentive to stop them, yes?” 

The changelings boiled out of the meat freezers, hundreds of them, red-eyed and hideous.

“Wycliffe!” Kurkov sprinted into the warehouse, clutching a pistol in either hand. “They blew up the front gate, there’s…” He stopped and stared at the changelings. 

“I noticed,” said Wycliffe.

“Hear my command!” said Marugon to the winged demons, over three dozen of them. “A wizard of the white magic and Lithon Scepteris, last scion of Carlisan’s royal house, assail this stronghold. Kill them, and feast on their flesh!” Wycliffe felt the black magic rise up in a storm, and Marugon’s Voice thundered. “Changelings! Heed my command. Slay Ally Wester. Go!” 

The winged demons threw back their heads and roared, tearing away their jackets. They seized guns and grenades and swooped away, soaring out the front entrance. The changelings surged after them in a flood of leathery gray skin and long claws. 

Marugon turned to the bomb and lifted his hand. It floated off the ground, hovering near Marugon’s knee. “Farewell, Thomas Wycliffe.” Despite his smile, his eyes looked weary beyond comprehension. “Enjoy your conquests. While you can.”

“Wait!” said Wycliffe. 

Marugon ignored him and walked towards the platform. He climbed the stairs, the bomb floating after him, and strode through the open door and into the Tower. The bomb followed him as if attached by an invisible leash. Marugon turned and faced the door for a moment. He lifted his hands and a veil of shadows and black flame shimmered over the door, then disappeared from sight.  

And with that, Marugon turned and disappeared into the immensity of the Tower. 

“What are we going to do?” said Kurkov, voice shaking. “The bunker! We should go to the bunker.”

“In a moment.” Wycliffe felt some of his panic dissipate. What could a wizard of the white magic, however powerful, do against over five hundred changelings and three dozen winged demons? He gestured towards the security room. “Let us watch. Perhaps Marugon will have solved the problem for us.” 

###

Ally stared at the warehouse, her bloodshot eyes narrowing in pain. Arran took her arm, and her sleeve felt warm, even beneath his gloves. “What is it?”

“Black magic,” said Ally. “Marugon. He’s here, in the warehouse.” She drew herself up. “Brace yourself. Something’s coming.” 

The warehouse’s metal doors clanged open, and Arran raised his pistols.

Changelings stormed out the door, charging across the loading yard. Their claws scraped against the concrete in a ghastly chorus. Black shapes swooped out of the door and took to the air, wings flapping. The winged demons circled over their heads, dozens of them. Kalashnikovs gleamed in the cold winter light. Arran swore, raised his guns, and took aim…

“Wait.” Ally gripped his arm with fingers of iron. “Wait, all of you.” Allard went gray in the face, holding his gun with shaking hands. 

“We must strike!” said Arran. More and more changelings swarmed out of the entrance, hundreds of them. “They will encircle us if we do not…”

“Let them,” said Ally, staring at the advancing wave. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

Arran lowered his guns, heart thundering in his ears, and the others followed suit. Hundreds of changelings swarmed around them, forming a ring of red eyes and yellowed claws. Winged demons circled overhead, snarling and growling. Arran’s eyes darted around the ring, looking for a break. Any moment the changelings would charge, the winged demons opening fire…

“Lay down your weapons,” said one of the winged demons, circling over them, “and perhaps we’ll let you live.” The other demons landed amongst the changelings, Kalashnikovs clenched and ready.