The Destroyer of Worlds (4 page)

The changeling sprang forward and slammed into an invisible wall. 

White lights burned before its eyes, and burning pain lanced through it. It let loose an agonized gibber and staggered back, its leathery skin crawling with revulsion. Some instinct in its mind recognized the presence of white magic. It felt the white magic reaching into its thoughts, digging into its memories. For a moment it wanted to turn and flee and leave this awful place far behind. 

Then the changeling’s hatred rose up. It wanted Ally Wester dead, its will matching Lord Marugon’s command, and the combined force of its rage and the black magic ripped through the tendrils of the white magic. The changeling staggered forward, snarling, its clawed fingers lashing at the cold air. The pressure in its mind grew and grew…

Then all at once the pressure vanished. The changeling staggered, blinking its glaring eyes. It had broken through whatever wards surrounded this place. 

The creature that had once been Nathan Jameson loped forward with a hiss of satisfaction. 

A broad clearing surrounded the farmhouse and the nearby barn. The changeling crept along, keeping low to the ground. It saw a young man leaning in the barn’s doorway, a machine gun cradled in his arm. The creature crept around the barn, taking care to remain out of sight, confident that the following snow would erase any tracks. 

The changeling slid up to the house and crouched against the foundation. The seeking spells screamed through its dark mind. Ally Wester was so close. It inched up and peered through a window. 

Ally Wester sat on the couch, leaning against a weathered man with deep eyes and dark hair. The changeling wanted to leap through the window and tear Ally’s throat free. But the weathered man had a sword propped against his knees, and even sheathed, the light of the sword’s white magic stung the changeling’s eyes. The weathered man could destroy the changeling before it took two steps. 

But it wanted Ally Wester dead. 

For a moment it peered through window, rage and fear warring in its skull. 

Then a cunning thought took hold. The changeling would do as Lord Marugon compelled. It would return to him and tell the Warlock about Ally Wester. Then Lord Marugon would deal Ally Wester a far more painful death than the changeling ever could. 

The changeling slipped away into the dark trees, racing for the south. 

The wind and the snow did not feel quite so cold.

Chapter 4 - Stealth

Anno Domini 2012

“Arran Belphon.”

Arran turned. 

He stood in the Chamber of the Dead in the Tower of Endless Worlds, the forest of titanic columns spreading away in all directions. The stone faces stared down at him from the pillars, effigies of the dead gazing at him with cold eyes. He turned in a circle, his heart racing.

“Arran Belphon.”

The caretaker of the dead stood behind a sarcophagus, wrapped in gray mist, shifting from the shape of a giant skeleton to a hooded specter and back again. 

“What?” said Arran. “Earth, I have to get to Earth…”

“You have failed,” said the caretaker, “and now all is lost.”

“I don’t understand.”

The caretaker raised a skeletal hand and pointed at a nearby sarcophagus. “Look.” 

Arran strode to the sarcophagus.

An effigy of Ally covered the tomb, her body twisted and broken, her mouth yawning in an endless scream.

Arran’s mind lurched. “No.” He stepped back from the awful sight, his heart hammering. “No, no, this cannot be…”

“You failed her, Arran Belphon,” said the caretaker, gliding towards him. “Arran. Arran…”

“Arran!” 

Arran gasped and jerked awake. 

“Jesus,” said Mary. Arran blinked, his heart racing. He sat at the table in the farmhouse’s kitchen, his head propped on his hand. “I’ve never seen anyone fall asleep while they were eating.”

Arran glanced at his half-eaten breakfast. “My apologies.” He picked up his fork. “It is not a criticism of your cooking.”

Mary gave him a look and returned to the stove. “Well, someone has to feed all of you, and Allard couldn’t boil a hot dog without burning down the house.” She stirred something in a pot. “You look tired, Mr. Belphon.”

Arran chewed and swallowed. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Mary gave him another look, pointing with her wooden spoon. “That,” she said, “is bullshit, and we both know it.” 

Arran looked back at her. “Perhaps I misspoke. I have not been sleeping as much.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” said Mary. “Is Ally up yet?”

“No,” said Arran. “She is still sleeping. She needs her rest.”

“I’d guess so,” said Mary. “You’d better not be taking advantage of her, Mr. Belphon.”

Arran put down his fork. “What do you mean?” 

“You know.” Mary stirred her pot with savage force. “Taking advantage of her. I had someone do that to me.” 

“No,” said Arran. “I am not.” 

She shook the spoon at him. “You’d better not. You ever hurt her, Mr. Belphon…you ever hurt her, and I’ll shoot you in your sleep.” 

Arran believed her. “But I will not. Do you understand? I would sooner cut off my right hand than hurt her. I spent too long looking for her.”

Mary snorted. “But you weren’t looking for her…or you were looking for her and didn’t know it. She’s told me some of it.”

“Yes,” said Arran. “That is the irony.” He paused. “How much has she told you?”

Mary smirked. “Quite a bit.” She paused. “What she gets pregnant?” 

Arran blinked. “What?” 

Mary gave him a level look. “What if she gets pregnant?”

Arran shook his head. “Conmager told her that the white magic will prevent her from conceiving until she has better control of her powers. Ally will not become pregnant. Even if she wishes it.”

The people of the United States, Arran had noticed, had a horror of children. But in Carlisan, sons were a man’s pride, proof that his family line would continue after his death. The prospect of children pleased Arran, but it was for the best that Ally could not conceive. 

Not while Marugon and his creatures hunted her. 

Mary gave him another look. “She’d better not. That’s the last thing she needs.” 

Arran finished his breakfast and stood.

“Do you have guard duty?” said Mary.

“Shortly,” said Arran. “Allard is taking an extra hour. Conmager wishes me to teach Lithon the sword for at least an hour, preferably two, every day.” 

“Yeah.” Mary smiled. “Lithon was telling me about it. He’s really excited. I guess it help keeps his mind off things. Is he any good?”

“Not yet,” said Arran, putting his plate in the sink, “but for his age, he’s very good. I see his potential. He’s very fast. He’ll be better than me, someday. He’ll be better than Sir Liam, perhaps one of the best swordsmen who ever lived. And I’m teaching him to shoot, as well.” He remembered the horrors on the fields outside Carlisan. “A sword is often not much use against a gun. I will teach him pistols; Allard will teach him rifles.”

Mary snorted. “Allard?”

“Allard has become a skilled marksman,” said Arran, “better than I am at long range. I must get started. Lithon is no doubt waiting.” 

“All right,” said Mary. “Remember, if you hurt Ally…”

“Yes, you’ll shoot me,” said Arran, “assuming I do not shoot myself first.”

###

Lithon swung the wooden practice sword in a high loop. Arran parried, turned his own wooden blade down, and caught Lithon’s weapon as it descended in a low swing. Lithon blinked in surprise, and Arran whipped his sword up and tapped Lithon on the side of the head. 

Lithon’s face fell. “You saw through it.”

Arran shrugged. “It was an obvious feint. A swordsman with any experience would have seen it coming.” He frowned. “Did I teach you that?” 

Lithon shook his head. “I thought of it myself. It seemed like it would work…the high swing flows right into a low one.”

“It does,” said Arran, “but that will only work if you’re faster than your opponent.”

“But I am faster than you!” said Lithon. 

“True,” said Arran, “and you’ll be faster yet someday, I think. But you are only fourteen, and I’ve been practicing with the sword since I was half your age. It was a good thought, but I’m taller than you. Even if you had gotten through my guard, a low swing would only have wounded me in the knee or leg. Not bad, certainly, but you’ll want to hit vital spots.” 

Lithon looked thoughtful. “Sword fighting isn’t at all like it is in the movies, is it? That’s all flashy and fancy.”

“Yes,” said Arran. “Players and actors use all manner of fancy moves and tumbling tricks, but a real fight, when two men try to kill each other, is almost always over quickly.” 

Lithon looked away. “Like when you saved us, killed those winged demons.”

Arran nodded. “And if a real fight lasts a long time,” he thought of his fight with Khan-Mar-Dan at the edge of the world, “then the first one to make a mistake usually loses. And dies in the process, as well.” He stepped back. “We’re almost done. Let us go through the basic movements one last time.”

“We already did that,” said Lithon.

Arran snorted. “And we’ll do it again and again, until your muscles know them better than you do yourself. We shall do them until you can do them without thinking, until they are part of your very reflexes.” He dropped the wooden sword and drew his Sacred Blade. “And we’re going to try something different.” 

Lithon gray eyes got wide. “What are we doing?”

Arran gestured with the blade. Luthar’s Sacred Blade stood propped in the corner of the attic. “My brother’s sword. Go and see if you can draw it.” 

Lithon shrugged. “Okay.” He went to the corner and drew the Sacred Blade. The silvery steel flashed, and the gem embedded in the blade shone with a faint blue glow. Lithon staggered and put both hands around the hilt. 

“Is it heavy?” said Arran. “Too heavy to lift?” 

“No.” Lithon looked with wonder at the blade. “It was just…I almost lost my balance, because it was so long. It looks like it should be heavier than it is,” he swung the sword in a slow loop, “but it’s not. It’s only a little heavier than the wooden sword.”

“Good,” said Arran. “That means you have the potential to become a Knight of the Order.” A bit of excitement stirred at the thought. Arran had been the last Knight of the Order of the Sacred Blade for years, but perhaps he could train more. 

Lithon looked dubious. “But I’m supposed to be the King of Carlisan, aren’t I? Can I be King and a Knight at the same time? Does it work that way?” 

“Yes,” said Arran. “Five Kings of Carlisan, your own ancestors, have been Knights. King Arkan, called Torchbearer, was both King of Carlisan and Master of the Order of the Sacred Blade. He led the war that freed Narramore and Rindl from the rule of the Warlocks.” He took his Sacred Blade in both hands. “Now, let us…”

“What’s this?” Lithon pointed at the glowing gem. “Your sword doesn’t have one. What is it?”

Arran hesitated. “I do not know. It was a gift from my brother. He said it would aid me in my last despair.”

“Last despair,” said Lithon. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“No,” said Arran, “so hopefully I shall not need it, whatever it is.” 

Lithon looked at the Sacred Blade. “I’m going to have to kill him someday, aren’t I?”

“Who?”

“Marugon,” said Lithon. “That’s what Alastarius’s Prophecy is about. Me killing Marugon.” 

“Perhaps,” said Arran. “He did say ‘overthrow’, not kill. And the Prophecy does not seem…precise. Alastarius Prophesied that you would bring him back from the dead. I think Conmager assumed that you would raise Alastarius back to life. Instead you saw his spirit, told Ally what to do, and that act brought him back to the mortal realm, if only for a short while. And I spent a long time looking for Alastarius on Earth, and I was really looking for your sister.”

Lithon looked at the floor. “It frightens me. Marugon would kill me, if we ever fought.” 

“Perhaps,” said Arran again, “but you are only fourteen, remember. You likely will not have to fight him until you are a man.” 

“I want to fight him,” said Lithon, eyes flashing. For a moment he seemed much older than his years. “He killed my parents.” 

“Then I shall do my best to make you ready for that day,” said Arran. He lifted his Sacred Blade. “Enough talk. I shall call out my move, and you shall respond with the appropriate block or parry. Swing high!” He whipped his Sacred Blade for Lithon’s head. Lithon sidestepped and parried with Luthar’s blade, the swords ringing. “Good! But parry with the flat of your blade, not the edge, lest the force of a foe’s blow drives your blade into your own flesh.” Lithon nodded. “Right swing, low!” He swung, aiming for Lithon’s hip. Lithon parried, the swords clanging. “Good. Middle thrust.” Lithon blocked the thrust and stepped inside Arran’s guard, launching a counterblow. Arran pivoted and caught the blow with a low parry. “Improvising. Good! Now, come at me with the basic thrusts and swings. Try not to chop my head off.”

Lithon grinned. “That would make Ally mad.”

Arran gave him a look. Lithon attacked, working Luthar’s sword through the thrusts and swings. Arran back around the attic, parrying. Lithon’s progress pleased him. The boy’s blows were still clumsy, but very fast. He would become only better with time. 

Lithon looked over Arran’s shoulder and blinked. “Ally!” He lowered his sword.

Arran lunged forward. Lithon’s eyes widened, and Arran had his sword at the boy’s neck in a blink. 

“Hey!” said Lithon. 

“A lesson,” said Arran, stepping back and lowering his sword. “Never take your eyes from an opponent, for any reason. Even a very compelling one.”

Ally snorted. “Flatterer.” She wore jeans and blue button-down shirt, the tail dangling to mid-thigh. “I came up to tell…Lithon!” She rushed forward. “You’re hurt!” 

“Huh?” said Lithon. Arran’s blade had left a small cut in his neck. “Oh. I guess I am.” He put his hand over the cut. “Arran must have nicked me.”

“My apologies,” said Arran. “I did not mean to wound you.”

Lithon shrugged. “Oh, it’s okay. I’ll go clean it up.” He sheathed Luthar’s Sacred Blade and propped it in the corner. “Thanks for the lesson, Arran.” Arran nodded, and Lithon disappeared down the stairs. 

Ally glared. “You hurt him.”

Arran shrugged. “It was an accident.”

“You could have hurt him badly.” 

“It was an important lesson,” said Arran, sheathing his Sacred Blade. He picked up Luthar’s sword and hooked the scabbard to his belt. “He should keep his eyes on his opponent. A drop of blood spilled now may save him from much more harm in the future.” 

Ally sighed. “I guess you’re right. So you’re teaching him to defend himself?” 

“I shall try,” said Arran. “I suspect it will be necessary, given what he will face.” 

Ally shuddered. “We don’t have much of a future, Lithon and I.”

“No man can see the future,” said Arran.

Ally raised an eyebrow. “Alastarius did. And look at how well that worked out. He’s dead, my parents are dead, and someday Marugon will kill me too…”

Arran took her hands in his own. “Do not do this to yourself. I despaired after Antarese and I almost perished. You must not despair. Marugon fears Lithon. He fears you, what you might become. He has tried his utmost to kill you both and failed. That is reason for hope, I should think.” 

Ally stared at him. “Do you think we have a future?”

“What do you mean?” said Arran. 

“I love you, you know,” said Ally. “And I think you love me.”

Arran nodded. “The Ildramyn.”

Ally frowned. “What about it?”

“It…told me that I would find light and healing, if I could survive,” said Arran. “I think it meant you.”

Ally almost smiled. “And what I am to you, then?”

“I…” Arran thought for a moment. “Hope. I had no hope, for a very long time. And now I do.”

Ally blinked several times, tears in her eyes. “Arran…I…I…” She coughed and looked up at him. “We should go downstairs. Conmager’s probably wondering what happened to us.”

Arran smiled. “Or what we’re doing.”

She punched him in the arm. “Pervert.” 

“I don’t know the word.”

“Oh. Um…lecher?”

“Ah. I see,” said Arran. “Now you speak like Mary.” 

Ally rubbed her forehead. “Oh, God. Mary. She thinks…never mind that, she’s probably told you what she thinks.”

“At some length,” said Arran, “and considerable volume.”

Ally laughed. It did Arran good to see some of the shadows lift from her face, even for a few seconds. “Well, come on. We have things to talk about with Conmager.”