The Destroyer of Worlds (17 page)

Ally stepped forward. 

Dozens of machine guns and hundreds of red eyes pointed her way.

“No,” she said.” I think not.” She closed her eyes, raised her arms, and took a deep breath.

The winged demons stared at her in stupefaction. “Kill…”

Ally opened her eyes. 

White light blazed in the depth of her pupils, and she clapped her hands. White fire blazed around her boots, and a column of light shot up from her and stabbed into the sky, throwing stark shadows across the compound. The winged demons shrieked and shied away from the light, covering their eyes. 

The changelings stared at her, transfixed. 

“Gods,” whispered Conmager. 

“Hear me!” said Ally, her voice ringing out, sweeping the changelings with her glowing gaze. “You have been enslaved, your minds subjugated to another, your bodies twisted with the black magic. Hear me, and recall your former selves, your former lives.”

A collective moan escaped the changelings. Their ghastly faces seemed to relax, gaining a new appearance of humanity. 

“I break the bindings upon your minds!” said Ally. White light flashed among the changelings. “The spell that holds your bodies is broken. You will return to yourselves, in time, as the black magic leaves you. Hear me! You are free!”

Her last word echoed like a thunderclap. The red fire in their eyes flickered and went out, replaced for an instant by a brilliant white glow. Ally lowered her arms with a sigh. The white light faded away, and stunned silence reigned for a few seconds. 

Then as one, the changelings turned and attacked the winged demons with shrieks of rage. 

Dozens of changelings leapt upon each winged demon. The demons roared and collapsed beneath the weight, the changelings clawing and biting. One of the demons broke free and lunged at Ally. Arran raised his guns and fired, pumping Conmager’s enchanted bullets into the demon. The others followed his lead and opened fire. The demon staggered as dozens of enchanted bullets ploughed into it, white fire burning its body to ash. 

“Now!” said Ally, shouting above the melee. She raised her hand and conjured a spear of frozen light. “Take the winged demons!” 

Arran shoved his pistols into their holsters and drew his Sacred Blades. The swords burst into white and azure flame, and he lunged for the nearest winged demon. A dozen changelings held it pinned to the ground, and Arran stabbed through the gap in the changelings, his blades sinking into the demon’s chest. It howled, writhing like a dying fish. The fire burst through the winged demon and reduced it to stinking ashes and gleaming black bones. 

Arran spun away, seeking another winged demon.

###

Wycliffe shrieked, grabbing his temples. Pain stabbed through his skull in waves, and he grabbed at one of the consoles to keep from collapsing to the floor.

“What?” said Kurkov, gesturing with his gun. “What the hell is it?”

“It,” said Wycliffe, blinking tears from his eyes. “The white magic. God, that’s the white magic.” He rubbed the pain from his temples.  “No wonder Marugon was so afraid of it. My God, that hurts.”

“Um…” said Jones in a quavering voice. He pointed at the monitors.

Wycliffe squinted at the monitor, and fresh fear stabbed at him. He watched as the changelings turned and attacked the winged demons. Ally Wester’s cohorts dashed amongst the melee, emptying their weapons into the demons. A dark man with two flaming swords, a Knight’s Sacred Blades, slew winged demon after winged demon. Ally herself carried a glowing spear fashioned of the white magic itself.

 Just looking at it sent tingles of pain down Wycliffe’s nerves. 

“That’s not good, is it?” said Jones. 

Wycliffe shook his aching head. “I don’t believe this. This can’t be happening.” Over half the winged demons had perished. The changelings began scattering in all directions, racing into the warehouses. A dozen burst into the office building, and Wycliffe watched on the monitors as they began smashing and breaking things. “They’ll get in here.” His fear transformed into naked panic. He staggered to his feet. “They’ll get in here! We’ve got to…”

Kurkov grabbed his shoulder. “The bunker. Now.”

Wycliffe nodded. “Yes, yes, you’re right. The bunker.” They stepped out of the control room and into the back hall, Jones following behind.

Wycliffe froze. A changeling stood in the hall, before the elevator, staring at them with eyes of brilliant white light. It grinned at him with pointed fangs, and Kurkov raised his gun and fired. The changeling staggered under the shots, but the bullets did not break its skin. 

“Idiot!” said Wycliffe. “Bullets can’t touch them.”

“Then how are we supposed to get past it and into the elevator?” said Kurkov.

The changeling reached out and smashed a fist through the elevator’s panel. Sparks flew, and it pulled out a handful of wires and threw them to floor.

“It broke the elevator!” said Jones. 

“Why doesn’t it attack?” said Kurkov.

“It can’t,” said Wycliffe. “I made it, and even if Wester broke my controlling spells, it still can’t attack me.” He summoned the Voice and unleashed it at the challenging. “Heed me! Kill Ally Wester, now!”

Pain lashed through his skull, and Wycliffe staggered back a step. The white magic burned inside the changeling’s mind, and had brushed aside Wycliffe’s power like a windshield brushing aside a bug.

Wycliffe’s black magic was no match for Ally Wester’s strength.

“The stairs,” said Kurkov. The changeling made a sound like a laugh and scurried away. 

They hastened to the stairs, but the handle had been torn away and lay in pieces across the floor. Wycliffe cursed and grabbed at the door, but it refused to budge. “It’s locked!” He heard a smashing sound in the security room and turned. A changeling had leapt up on the control panel, shattering monitors and breaking equipment. 

“Can’t you stop them?” said Kurkov. “Use the black magic?”

“Yes,” said Jones, “you’re so very skilled at that, after all.” 

“I can’t,” snarled Wycliffe. “She put the white magic on them, and it’s too strong for me to reverse.” He heard something explode outside. “Now what do we do?” 

“This is your fault!” said Jones. “You brought this ruin on our heads. Now…”

“Shut up!” said Wycliffe. “We have to get out.” 

“And how are we to do that?” said Kurkov. “Those pet devils of yours are swarming over everything.”

They hurried back into the warehouse floor. Kurkov pried open a crate and began rummaging through it. 

“Then what are we going to do?” said Wycliffe. 

Kurkov handed Wycliffe an AK-47. “Fight.” 

Chapter 12 - Retribution

Anno Domini 2012

A winged demon threw off a half-dozen changelings and staggered to its feet, black blood streaming from multiple wounds. The demon looked around, spun, and took to the air.

Ally lifted her hand. 

White light burst from her fingers in a flash, and drilled into the winged demon. It screamed and collapsed to the ground in a heap. Arran sprang forward, his tattered old cloak trailing behind him. He stabbed down with both swords, his weight behind the blades. 

The winged demon burst into flames, ash scattering in all directions.

Ally kicked aside a fanged skull and looked for more demons. She saw changelings skittering back and forth in all directions, and she heard crates shattering and machines smashing. An eighteen-wheeler truck tipped over with a massive groan, its cargo spilling across the ground. Something exploded on the far side of the compound. Screaming office staffers and dock workers ran for the ruined gate, clambering over the rubble. 

Arran jogged to her side and looked at the chaos. “What the devil are they doing?” 

“I suspect,” said Ally, “that they have grievances to settle with Senator Wycliffe. They can’t kill him, since that’s woven into the very spell of transformation. So they shall take their revenge in other ways.”

“Will they become human once more?” said Arran, staring at the thronging creatures. 

“In a few hours, once the black magic drains away,” said Ally. Conmager, Mary, Lithon, and Allard approached, smoking guns in their hands. “Are there any demons left?”

“About a half-dozen,” said Conmager, loading a fresh clip into his Uzi. “Maybe a few more. But they fled.” He grinned, a new fierceness in his tired eyes. “They wanted no part with Alastarius’s heir, I believe.”

“Wise of them,” said Ally, striding towards warehouse 13A. “Should we survive, and the Tower still stands, we can hunt them down later.”  

“Let me go first,” said Arran, trying to overtake her. “Traps might lie within…”

Ally smiled. “And I am better equipped to survive a trap than all of you.” The changelings had ripped away the warehouse’s steel door. Ally saw stacks of crates within in the dim-lit interior. She also sensed something that throbbed with greater power than either the white or the black magic.

The door to the Tower.

“Follow me,” Ally said. “And take great care. If Marugon awaits us within, he probably knows we’re here.”

Mary snorted. “What would have tipped him off? The bomb, the screams, or the changelings?”

“All of them, most likely. He will try to stop us. He has not spent his life seeking the bomb only to let us stop him now. If we find Marugon, hang back and let me fight him. I can protect myself from his spells, but I cannot protect all of you.” 

Ally took a deep breath and stepped through the ruined door, the others following. 

###

Wycliffe peered around a crate, his heart racing. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “They’re coming in here.” Jones said nothing but a muttered prayer. Kurkov cursed and hefted his AK-47. 

“What are you doing?” hissed Wycliffe. “Are you insane?”

“There are three of us,” whispered Kurkov. “If we shoot them all at once, spray them with bullets, we can take them down.” 

“You are insane,” said Wycliffe. The AK-47 felt cold and alien in his hands. He had never fired a gun in his life. “They’re obviously here for Marugon, not us.” He watched as they stepped past the crates, glanced at the ruined security room. “We wait, they might just pass us by, and we can get the hell out of here.” He glanced at Jones. “And there’s no way I’m giving him a gun. No way.” 

Kurkov snarled. “They’re even standing in a clump. One grenade could get them, if we do it quickly. You miserable coward! I will not wait here for them to find me.” He climbed up a stack of crates, AK-47 slung over his back. 

“What are you doing?” said Wycliffe. “Get back here.”

Kurkov ignored him. Wycliffe spat a stream of muttered curses and pushed himself deeper into the shadows. 

###

Arran scanned the room. The warehouse offered ten thousand places for a man to hide, and Marugon could be waiting in any of them, preparing some mighty spell of the black magic …

“There it is,” said Ally. “In a way, it’s the source of all our troubles.”

A metal platform stood against the far wall, connected to two staircases and a small elevator. On the platform rested a door of black, rune-carved marble. The door stood open, and beyond it Arran saw the vast gallery where he had fled from the children of the void. 

“You remember it, don’t you?” said Ally, her voice soft. “I do as well. Sir Liam died there. I ran, holding Lithon…” She shook her head. “Look around. Marugon’s likely waiting for us.”

Arran turned just as a leather-clad man appeared at the top of a massive stack of crates. He recognized the man from the Ildramyn’s visions, the man that had brought the nuclear bomb to Wycliffe. The leather-clad man raised a Kalashnikov in one hand, an armed grenade in the other hand. Arran yelled and raised his pistol…

But Ally whirled and barked a word. White light flashed, and the leather-clad man shrieked and staggered back, almost losing his balance. Arran squeezed the trigger and sent three bullets through the gunman’s chest, and the leather-clad man fell and hit the ground with the sound of shattering bones. An instant later the grenade exploded, blasting the man to bits. 

Arran winced as bits of gore-stained bone slid across the ground.

“Who the hell was that?” said Mary.

Conmager strode to what remained of the corpse. “Vasily Kurkov. The arms smuggler, the man who sold the guns that destroyed my world. If we could do the same to Wycliffe, I would be content.”

###

Kurkov’s gory remnants twitched once and went still. 

Wrath rose up in Wycliffe’s mind and shoved aside his terror. He had not clawed his way to the top, become the most powerful man in America, only to let these interlopers ruin everything. 

“I will not die at the hands of Marugon’s enemies,” hissed Wycliffe.

He looked at Jones. Perhaps Wycliffe could give him a gun, order him to attack, and escape in the confusion? He shook his head and dismissed the idea. The Knight would kill Jones in three seconds. Wycliffe watched as his enemies fanned out, searching the warehouse. 

They would find him soon. 

Kyle Allard wandered past, assault rifle cradled in his arms.

Wycliffe blinked in surprise, and then grinned. Maybe he could win free and have his revenge at the same time.

A plan came together in his mind.

“Perhaps I’ll give you a gun, after all,” said Wycliffe, picking up a pistol.

Jones said nothing. 

“Allard,” Wycliffe whispered, summoning the Voice. “Kyle Allard. Come here.”

Allard jerked, turned his head, and began to shake.

He would make the perfect distraction. And Wycliffe was a politician, not a warrior. Fighting was not his strength, but bargaining...ah, he knew how to drive a hard bargain.

And he needed only to offer Ally Wester a bargain she dare not refuse.

###

“Perhaps he withdrew into the Tower at our coming,” said Arran. “He could have sent the changelings and the winged demons out to fight us, and then fled.”

Ally nodded. “You may be right. Let’s go…”

A gunshot rang out, and Ally staggered

More shots slammed into her, and she shrieked and toppled to the floor. 

Arran roared and spun, seeking the gunman. 

“Allard!” screamed Mary. “You bastard! What the hell are you doing?”

Kyle Allard strode towards them, taking aim. Arran fired first, his shots tearing the assault rifle from Allard’s hands and slamming into his Kevlar vest, knocking him over. Allard scrambled to his knees, reaching for his pistol, and Arran slammed the butt of his gun across Allard’s face. Allard’s head snapped back, and Arran caught his collar dragged him up. 

“I…I can’t,” sobbed Allard. “I can’t…he’s in my head, he’s making me do it…”

“Stop!” It was Ally. White light flashed, and Allard shuddered and went limp. Arran dropped him and turned as Ally staggered toward him, her face locked in a grimace. 

“You’re hurt,” said Arran. 

“I’m fine,” she said, gritting her teeth. “Bruised a bit, but the vest stopped the worst. It was the Voice, Arran, someone used the Voice on him…”

“Don’t move!” A shrill voice rang out. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”

A short, stout man in a dark suit stood with his back to the crates. He held a pistol to Lithon’s head, his other hand clamped around the boy’s mouth. Somehow he had gotten to Lithon while Arran had been distracted with Allard.

Ally lifted her hand.

The stout man ground his pistol into Lithon’s temple. The boy’s eyes widened with fury. “Don’t even think about it, Miss Wester. I’ll kill him.”

“Hurt him and I’ll tear you to pieces,” said Arran.

The stout man smirked, his glasses flashing beneath the lights. “No doubt. But your precious King will be just as dead. You need him, don’t you? You can’t kill Marugon without him. The mad fool was always so afraid of that. Lower those guns by the time I count to three, or I’ll shoot. One, two…”

“Do it!” said Ally. Mary and Conmager lowered their weapons. Conmager glared daggers at the stout man, his jaw working. 

“You will regret this, Thomas Wycliffe, more than any of your other crimes,” spat Conmager.

Wycliffe smirked. “Oh, so, you’ve heard of me? How wonderful that terrorists such as you find time to watch TV. Isn’t America great?” The gun in Arran’s hand was empty. He could not draw another one before Wycliffe killed Lithon. 

“What do you want, Wycliffe?” said Ally. 

“I want you to leave,” said Wycliffe. “Marugon’s your enemy, not me.” 

“Is that so?” said Ally. “You killed our parents. And God only knows how many other people you’ve killed.” 

Wycliffe sneered. “Is that what this is about? Revenge? Bah! Marugon killed your parents, not me.” He smiled. “Perhaps we can negotiate, Miss Wester. You want Marugon dead. I want him out of my affairs. Perhaps I can tell you where he is…in exchange for a few things.” 

“Such as?” 

“Drop your weapons, all of them,” said Wycliffe. 

“He’s stalling,” said Arran. “He has nothing.”

Wycliffe laughed. “I have Lithon! And I have Miss Wester covered!” He jerked his chin at the far wall. 

An old man in dark suit leaned against a crate, a gun clutched in both hands. Sweat streamed down the old man’s face, his eyes wide and terrified. “I say the word and President Jones will kill her. And I’ll kill the boy. How will you fight Marugon then? Shoot him? I hardly think so.” 

Arran looked at the trembling old man. Was this another of Wycliffe’s slaves, a man dominated with the Voice? Their eyes met, and Arran felt a touch of pity for the old wretch. 

Someone tugged at his boot Allard lay sprawled at Arran’s feet, but still held his pistol clutched in his hand. 

Something like a plan formed in Arran’s mind. 

He looked at the Jones and tapped his stomach. 

Jones hesitated, and then made a slight nod. Arran hoped he understood. 

“Last chance, Miss Wester!” called Wycliffe, smirking. “Lay down your weapons, or else the boy dies…”

Arran stepped forward and leveled his empty pistol at Wycliffe. “No, you die, you miserable…”

“Jones!” shrieked Wycliffe.

The old man fired, and the bullet slammed into Arran’s stomach and flattened against the Kevlar. He groaned and collapsed atop Allard.

His hand clamped around Allard’s pistol. 

“Do you want another one to die?” said Wycliffe. “Your guns are down. I could have Jones kill you all. I could kill Lithon before you react. Do you want to lose everything? I’ll…”

Arran rose to one knee, his stomach aching, and fired. His bullet slammed through Wycliffe’s right shoulder. Wycliffe screamed, his back arching in pain, his body jerking. His pistol dropped away from Lithon’s temple, and Lithon spun and punched Wycliffe in the stomach. The stout man slammed against the crates, snarling, his pistol coming up. Arran fired again, his shot smashing into Wycliffe’s other shoulder. Wycliffe howled, and his pistol clattered against the ground. 

“Jones!” screamed Wycliffe. “Kill…”

Ally raised her hand, white light flaring around her, and Wycliffe shrieked. Ally made a fist, and Wycliffe floated into the air, his legs thrashing. 

“Where is Marugon?” said Ally. 

“He…he went into the Tower,” sobbed Wycliffe. “He took the bomb with him.”

 Ally hissed in alarm. “How long ago? Speak!” 

Wycliffe’s head rolled back and forth. “Just after the gate blew up. He ran through the door. I…I don’t know where he went after that. Let me go, please, please let me go…”

“We must go,” said Ally. 

“It hurts,” babbled Wycliffe, “it hurts, it hurts, it hurts…” Urine dribbled down his leg and spattered against the floor.

“Should I kill him?” said Arran.

“No,” gasped Wycliffe, “no, oh God, please don’t, please don’t kill me. I’ll do anything…”

“No,” said Ally, voice cold. “I should kill you, for what you’ve done. But I won’t. I do not have it in me.” She smiled. “Instead, I’ll help you.”

She drew herself up, the white light flaring brighter as Wycliffe's screams grew louder. Ally took a deep breath, shouted a word, and thrust out her arms. Wycliffe flew across the room and smashed against the floor. The white light faded, and Ally sighed and lowered her arms.

Wycliffe crawled to his knees. “Wuh…” His voice sounded thick and slurred. His eyes opened, and they had become white and sightless. “Wuh…I…I… can’t see. I can’t see!” He began to crawl around like a dying animal. “I…can’t… see! I can’t…”

Arran watched him. “What did you do to him?” 

“I did nothing more than drive the black magic from his mind and spirit,” said Ally. “I exorcised him, if you will.” She shrugged. “The exorcism may have damaged his mind.” Wycliffe crawled across the floor, sightless and babbling. Ally turned to face Jones.

“Don’t kill me,” the old man whispered, throwing the gun on the floor. “Please don’t kill me.”