A Wizard of the White Council Page 8

  Arran slid the sword from its scabbard and presented the hilt to her. She took it in both hands, almost dropped it, and regained her grip. “Surprisingly heavy.”

  “It would feel that way in a hand not meant to wield it.”

  She turned the blade under the light, examining it with a critical eye. “I’ve never seen a sword quite like this.” Her voice was hushed with awe. “The crimson color of the blade. Is that blood?”

  “Yes.” Arran closed his eyes, memories of Siduri flickering through his mind.

  “You’ve killed people with this?”

  “Yes.”

  She returned the sword to him. “You must have quite a story, Mr. Belphon. I’d like to hear it, if you’re willing to tell it.”

  Arran took a deep breath. “As you wish.” If anyone on Earth could help him find Alastarius, a learned scholar could. “I can’t tell you everything, you realize. It would not be safe. And you very well might not believe everything.”

  Dr. Francis nodded. “I understand.”

  “I come from a far country,” said Arran. “The name is not important. Very few in your…nation have heard of it. There was a war that concluded about…seventeen, eighteen years ago, fought against a dangerous enemy. My nation triumphed. But Lord Marugon, the leader of the enemy, fled to your nation, to the United States. Apparently he met a man named Thomas Wycliffe…”

  Dr. Francis sat up straighter, her eyes widening. “Thomas Wycliffe? The Thomas Wycliffe? Surely…surely you don’t mean Senator Wycliffe?”

  “Yes, I mean Senator Wycliffe. Do you know of him?”

  Dr. Francis scowled. “Everyone in the United States knows of him. He’s running for vice president.”

  “Vice president?” said Arran. “I am not familiar with the titles of your land.”

  “I gathered,” said Dr. Francis. “The office of vice president is the second highest in the government.”

  “Like a vizier, or a lord chancellor,” said Arran.

  “Well…close,” said Dr. Francis. “Except we vote for the president and vice president every four years. Wycliffe is running for vice president. All odds indicate that he will win. Do you know something of him?”

  “Very little,” said Arran, “except what I have observed. Marugon returned to my nation a few years later, armed with guns and bombs and liquid fire. I believed he purchased these weapons from Senator Wycliffe in your nation.”

  “Dear God,” said Dr. Francis. “There have been rumors linking him to the Russian Mafia…um, an organization of criminals.” She shook her head. “My God. Simon and Katrina. What did they find out? ”

  “Who are they?” said Arran.

  “Friends of mine,” said Dr. Francis. Her face tightened. “Please continue.”

  Arran hefted his sword’s scabbard. “We had nothing to match Marugon’s guns. He swept through my nation and its neighbors in a tide of blood. I fought for years, striking from the shadows, retreating, striking again. Eventually I was mortally wounded, and would have died but for the efforts of a woman named Siduri.” Arran swallowed, the memories hovering behind his eyes. “She was killed. Before she died, she told me to find Alastarius here.”

  “Alastarius?” said Dr. Francis. “Who is that?”

  “He is…” Arran’s mixed feelings about the Master of the White Council churned in his mind. “He is, or was, a great man of my nation, a mighty and wise scholar. He was supposed to have been killed. I saw Alastarius’s grave.”

  “So if you knew this Alastarius was dead, why did you come all the way here?”

  Arran closed his eyes. “Because there was nothing else I could do. Marugon was won. My nation lies in chaos and ruins. I could come here and search for Alastarius, or I could despair and die.”

  “I see,” said Dr. Francis. “Do you know why Siduri told you to find Alastarius?”

  “No.”

  “So what are you going to do now?” said Dr. Francis.

  “I am unsure,” said Arran. “I will look for Alastarius, of course. And for one other, a boy.”

  “Who?”

  “Sir Liam Mastere, the head of my order, took the boy here when he saw my nation would fall.” Arran grimaced. “Alastarius told him to do it. The boy’s name is Lithon Scepteris. He is heir to the throne of my nation. He would be about fourteen, maybe fifteen, years of age by now.”

  Dr. Francis leaned forward, the gray braid swinging across her chest. “What did you say his name was?”

  “Lithon Scepteris,” said Arran. “Do you know of him?”

  Dr. Francis shook her head. “No…no. I thought the name sounded familiar, that is all.”

  “And there is one other thing I intend to do while I am in your nation,” said Arran. “I am going to kill this man Wycliffe.”

  Dr. Francis remained silent for a long time. “That is extremely dangerous. He will have bodyguards surrounding him at all times. If you killed him, the authorities would launch a national manhunt. In fact, I am breaking the law by not reporting you for threatening his life.”

  “He destroyed my home for his own aggrandizement,” said Arran. “I will kill him, if the gods grant me the opportunity.”

  “How do you even know for certain it was him?” said Dr. Francis.

  “I know.” Arran thought of the Ildramyn’s second vision. “I am certain of it. Nothing say can convince you, but I am certain of it.”

  Dr. Francis blew out a long breath. “So I have a potential presidential assassin sitting in my dining room. What I am to do with you?”

  Arran shifted, his muscles tensing. “You will not report me to the authorities, will you?”

  Dr. Francis shook her head. “No. Nothing for the sort. You did save my life. And I think betrayal is the worst of all sins.”

  Arran thought of long-dead Rembiar. “You are right.”

  She bit her lip, eyes glassy with thought. “I can help you, I think.”

  “How?” said Arran.

  “Many ways.” She waved a hand at him. “Look at your clothes, your weapons. You clearly are not an American. I can help you, give you clothes and money. Where have you been sleeping?”

  “In the woods behind your house,” said Arran.

  Dr. Francis blinked. “No wonder you happened to chance by. You can stay here, in a real bed. And I have friends who know how to search for people. We can have them look for Alastarius and Lithon Scepteris.”

  “You will aid me?” said Arran. Dr. Francis nodded. “Then I am grateful.”

  “But first things are first.” She wrinkled her nose. “You are in dire need of a bath.”

  ###

  Later, after Arran had fallen asleep in her guest room, Dr. Heloise Francis sat in the dining room that served her as a study and pondered.

  She knew Arran had not told her the entire truth. But his story rang true. He had spoken with such simplicity and directness in his exhausted voice. She had always suspected Senator Wycliffe of corruption, and even warned Simon about working for him, years ago. But arms sales to a Third World country across the globe? Was that how Wycliffe had built his huge fortune? The very thought chilled her.

  Simon and Katrina Wester’s mysterious experience with Wycliffe’s organization made sense now. Had they learned the truth about him? And what about the injuries they had suffered? Had Wycliffe tried to silence them? But that had been years ago. Simon and Katrina had children now, the girl Ally and the boy whose name Dr. Francis could not quite remember…

  She gasped and leapt out her chair so fast her old knees creaked with protest.

  “Oh my God.” She hurried across the room and scrabbled through a stack of papers. She pulled out a Christmas card from the Westers and pulled it open.

  “Seasons Greetings,” she read, “from Simon, Katrina, Ally, and Lithon Wester.”

  Dr. Francis sat back down, the card clutched in her hand. Simon and Katrina had adopted the children soon after quitting Wycliffe’s organization. She had spoken with Ally a few weeks ago. She remem
bered the girl’s strange accent.

  It matched Arran Belphon’s.

  Ally was eighteen or nineteen. That would have made her about ten when the Westers adopted her. Had she been born in another country, that was more than enough time to acquire a lifelong accent.

  “Simon, Simon.” Dr. Francis leaned her forehead against the table. “What have you gotten yourself into?” Was he sheltering the deposed child monarch of a foreign nation? Was that why he had quit Wycliffe’s organization, to keep this Lord Marugon from finding the child?

  Dr. Francis knew she was in far over her head.

  She considered telling Arran Belphon about Simon and Katrina, but dismissed the idea as too dangerous. Despite his story, she knew little about the battered wanderer. He might wish Simon and his family harm. Yet Arran had saved her life, like some medieval knight rescuing an old woman from a pack of bandits.

  Dr. Francis stood, returned to the card to the shelf, and made up her mind.

  She would wait and see. She would not tell him about Lithon Wester, but would aid him in his search for Alastarius. Dr. Francis thought Arran a good, if hard, man, but would need more proof before she told him of Simon’s family.

  Her mind settled, Dr. Francis returned to her books and notes. She had a lecture to prepare for tomorrow.

  And then she would take Arran Belphon shopping.

  Chapter 7 - A Stranger With A Sword

  Anno Domini 2012

  “There,” said Dr. Francis, stepping back. “You look a far sight better than when you first crossed my path, Mr. Belphon.”

  Arran stared into the shop’s mirrors.

  He hardly recognized himself.

  His hair had been close-cropped, as was the fashion on this world, and his beard trimmed down. Dr. Francis had also purchased him new clothing, one of the dark suits so common to this world, with a white shirt and a tie of some sort of silk. The clothes felt strange, but loose and comfortable.

  The tailor, a fat little man who smacked his lips, examined Arran with a critical eye. “Satisfied, sir?”

  “Quite,” said Arran. He looked respectable, at least according to the standards of Earth. Perhaps he could move about unnoticed through Chicago.

  The tailor picked up a bundle wrapped in brown paper. “Your old clothes, sir.” He looked disgusted. “Shall I burn them?”

  “No,” said Dr. Francis, taking the bundle. “We’ll take them with us, thank you. And I’ll also take three more suits just like this, measured to his specifications.” The tailor brightened. “Have them delivered to my address once they’re ready.”

  The tailor bobbed his head. “Yes, ma’am. This way, ma’am.”

  Arran followed Dr. Francis into the street. “Thank you for the clothing, Doctor.”

  Dr. Francis smiled. “Some clothing and food is a small price to pay for my life.” She glanced around. “Now where did we park?”

  “Dr. Francis?” Arran pointed. Her blue jeep sat by the curb. “Your jeep is here.”

  “Oh, of course.” Dr. Francis strode to the driver’s side and unlocked the door. “And it’s not a jeep.”

  Arran nodded and opened the passenger door. “It…is a car, an automobile.” Dr. Francis had explained that to him. Apparently a jeep was only a certain kind of car.

  “Quite right.” Dr. Francis started the vehicle. “Unless you’re in the Army, a jeep is only an expensive toy.” She pulled into traffic, and Arran watched the cars and vans drive past, like ants running the maze of the city. Dr. Francis reached down and turned a dial, and a voice issued from hidden speakers in the car.

  Arran jumped. He still could not wrap his mind around the concept of radio.

  “…Senator Wycliffe.” Arran listened to the female voice coming from the radio. “The latest poll indicates that Jones and Wycliffe have astonishing twelve point lead over their closest challenger. Most experts agree that Jones and Wycliffe are the frontrunners to win the White House. Election Day is one month and six days, and it looks like William Jones and Thomas Wycliffe have a good chance of becoming the first third-party President and Vice President of the…”

  Arran growled. “That man is a murderer and a villain. He built his fortune on the blood of my nation.” He gritted his teeth. “That he should be loved by the people of your nation makes my blood boil. They are being deceived.”

  “Politics, regrettably, is often the art of deception.”

  Arran reached into the back seat. His Sacred Blades lay across the seat, while his guns had been hidden on the floor.

  “What are you doing?” said Dr. Francis.

  Arran fiddled with the gun belt. “If I adjust this, I believe I can conceal it beneath my coat.”

  Dr. Francis’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “Is that really necessary?”

  “Yes.” Arran slid out of his coat and looped the holster over his shoulder. He grunted in satisfaction. “Marugon’s agents are in this city. I will not meet them unarmed.” He reached back and pulled his Sacred Blade into the front seat. “I can claim this is a cane…”

  The weapon trembled in his hand.

  Dr. Francis glanced at him. “What is it?”

  Arran spun around in his seat, scanning the traffic. Cars and vans and trucks of all descriptions shot past. The Sacred Blade’s trembling faded. He sighed and tucked the sword between his knees.

  “What is it?” said Dr. Francis. “You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost.”

  “It…” Arran chewed his lip. He knew from speaking with Dr. Francis that she did not believe in spirits or magic or a higher divine power. It was a delusion common to many on Earth, he had noticed. She would think him mad if he told her the truth. “There…was one of Marugon’s minions nearby. I’m certain of it.”

  “How?” said Dr. Francis, frowning.

  Arran closed his eyes. “They are called the winged ones, though the people of my land call them the winged devils. It is an apt description. For they are devils, wicked and murderous and lustful. The winged ones kill for pleasure, torture for entertainment. And women.” His hands clenched as he remembered the horrors he had seen. “There are no women among the winged ones. They kidnap women instead and rape them. Once the child is born they kill the woman.”

  Or, more precisely, the newborn winged demon tore its way free from its mother.

  “That’s absolutely dreadful,” said Dr. Francis.

  Arran tapped the hilt of his sword. “I’ve killed two of them with this blade. And I almost died from my wounds the first time.” He looked her in the eye. “That is why I cannot go unarmed. For my protection, yes, but I am bound to fight the winged ones wherever I might find them.”

  Dr. Francis stared out the window. “People have been disappearing, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Always women, almost always poor. A single mother with four or five kids. Or a prostitute. Sometimes a homeless woman, or a visitor from out of town. The police think it’s a serial killer, someone like the Cleveland Strangler or Jack the Ripper.” She shook her head, expression angry. “But the police aren’t any good. They’ve never been able to catch this killer. Or killers, if you’re right.”

  “The winged devils are predators,” said Arran.

  “If you’re right, if Wycliffe brought these people here…God. To think he’s going to be vice president.”

  They drove in silence for a while.

  “Where are we going?” said Arran.

  “My university,” said Dr. Francis. “It’s Wednesday. I have a class to teach this morning, and one in the afternoon yet.”

  “Perhaps I should attend,” said Arran. “I might learn more your nation.”

  Dr. Francis laughed. “I doubt it, unless you wish to observe the habits of lazy students. All my classes deal with ancient history, most of it on other continents.” Arran considered attending anyway. He wondered how this world had come to have guns, cars, radios, soda, cash registers, and the countless other wonders he had witnessed. But he c
ould indulge his curiosity later.

  “I shall go exploring,” said Arran, “and see if I can learn more of this man Wycliffe.”

  Dr. Francis sighed. “Just try not to kill anyone.” She braked, signaled left, and turned. “But I thought your main task was to find Alastarius?”

  “It is,” said Arran. He thought for a moment. “But I have not the slightest idea where to look. I can find Wycliffe. He is famous and well-known. And if I find Wycliffe, perhaps I can find Alastarius, and maybe even Lithon.”

  Again a strange look came over Dr. Francis’s face. “Do as you think best.”

  ###

  Dr. Francis watched Arran as he strode away, swinging his sheathed sword like a cane. He did not seem like an evil man. Perhaps she should tell him about Lithon and the Westers. But she remembered the way his eyes had blazed when he had spoken of the winged ones.

  She slammed the car door and started the walk to her office. Arran Belphon might not be an evil man, but he was a violent one. He had come a long way in search of Alastarius and Lithon. Who knew what he would do once had found Lithon? Would Arran kidnap the boy and try to take him back to their native country?

  Dr. Francis didn’t know.

  “A little longer,” she muttered under her breath. “I’ll watch him for a little while longer. Then I’ll decide.”

  ###

  Arran wandered through the grounds of Dr. Francis’s university. He talked to many students about Senator Wycliffe. Many people supported Wycliffe, and Arran did his best to conceal his anger. They did not understand the truth of the man.

  He found no sign of either Lithon Scepteris or Alastarius.

  Though he did discover the location of Senator Wycliffe’s Chicago business, a warehouse complex in the midst of the city’s South Side.

  ###

  Ally trudged up the sidewalk to her dorm, her head pounding and her arms and muscles sore. The morning class at the studio had been exhausting. Some of her students were fat and slow from too much junk food and too much TV, but others brimmed over with energy. They challenged her, to say the least. Four hours of sleep a night did not help matters. Nineteen years old and she felt ancient. At least it was Saturday, and she could sleep all afternoon.