Chapter 17 - The Warlock Returns
Anno Domini 2003
Wycliffe hit the button on his intercom. “Yes?”
“Sir.” Markham’s voice came over the speaker. “Dr. Krastiny is here to see you.”
Wycliffe smiled. “Send him in.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wycliffe shut down his computer and flipped the switch under his desk that unlocked his door. A few moments later someone knocked. “Come in.”
Dr. Krastiny shuffled inside, clad in a hideous lime-green suit. He settled in Wycliffe’s guest chair, the leather cushions creaking. “Ah, Senator. A good evening to you.” He blinked his heavy-lidded eyes. “Is something amusing?”
Wycliffe waved a hand. “That suit.”
Krastiny frowned. “Whatever is the matter with this suit? I found it at a very reasonable price. I purchased it at a charity store, one run by nuns. Very polite ladies, fine conversation.”
Wycliffe laughed. “Kurkov pays you millions of dollars, and you still do your shopping at secondhand stores.”
The little bald man waved a skinny finger. “Now, now. Prudence is a necessary aspect of character. I have prosperity now, yes, but I have also known hard times. No doubt I will know them again at some point. So it is wise to prepare, to save my wealth against those days, rather than frittering away my money on silken finery.”
Wycliffe made a show of straightening his tie. “I happen to enjoy my silken finery, as you put it.”
“No doubt,” said Krastiny. “You are much wealthier than I. But even you are somewhat moderate in your tastes. Fine clothes, fine food, fine wine, and fine literature. These are the mark of a learned and cultured man. But still, you exercise moderation. No loose women, no extravagances, save when it serves your purpose, and no drugs.” A bit of irritation entered his eyes. “Unlike friend Kurkov.”
Wycliffe sighed. “I hear he’s developed a bit of a cocaine habit.”
“He has,” said Krastiny. “He spent entirely too much time in the army. Too much austerity. It did not prepare him well for his future fortune. What did Aristotle say?”
“Live the moderate life,” said Wycliffe.
“Precisely right. Moderation.” Krastiny shrugged. “Vasily will learn to moderate his tastes. Or I shall have to take over when he burns himself out. One or the other.”
“Where is Kurkov, anyway?” said Wycliffe. “It’s past nine. I need everyone here by quarter to midnight.”
“Out wining and dining, I believe,” said Krastiny. “He met some sleek young university debutante. No doubt he wishes to impress her with tales of his harrowing experiences in the anti-Communist underground.”
Wycliffe snorted. “Utter bullshit. He was in the army right up until Gorbachev pulled out of Eastern Europe, as I recall.”
Krastiny grinned a gap-toothed smile. “Of course. But the sleek young debutante does not know this, does she?”
They both laughed.
Wycliffe rapped his knuckles on the desk. “You did send someone to make sure he doesn’t kill anyone?”
Krastiny nodded. “Of course. Schzeran and Bronsky, my two best men.”
“I don’t believe I’ve met them,” said Wycliffe.
“You haven’t,” said Krastiny. “This is their first visit to America. They were my protégés, back in my KGB days.”
Wycliffe laughed.
Krastiny raised a wispy eyebrow. “What is so amusing?”
“You are, my friend,” said Wycliffe. “You look like some benign old university professor.”
Krastiny grinned. A razor-keen light flashed in his eyes. “And what could be farther from the truth, no?”
Wycliffe shook his head. “Do you know the reward for your capture has gone up to five million dollars?”
Krastiny folded his hands. “I hope you are not tempted to collect.”
Wycliffe spread his hands. “Not me! I’m not that foolish. I plan on living much longer. It was merely an observation on the wide difference between your appearance and your reality.”
Krastiny chuckled. The keen edge of his gaze faded, and once again he looked like an amiable little bald man in a bad suit. “Then there is another reason I purchased this suit, beside thrift. Misdirection, eh? Sometimes misdirection is more dangerous than a gun, no?”
Wycliffe thought of Eddie Carson, Jason Fulbright, and the senatorial campaign. “Indeed.”
“Speaking of guns.” Krastiny leaned forward. “So is true then, what I have heard? Your…other partner…is coming here himself?”
Wycliffe nodded. “He is. It’s the first time he’s visited Earth in the better part of nine years.” Wycliffe frowned, thinking back. “In fact, this is the first time he’s returned since he departed with the first shipment of guns you sold us.”
“A fateful cargo, that,” said Krastiny. Wycliffe raised his eyebrows. “It has proven to be the foundation of both your fortune and Kurkov’s.”
“And Marugon’s,” said Wycliffe. “He sends…messengers…through the Tower, every now again. Sometimes they come with the caravans, other times they travel on their own. His conquests have gone well. He subdued four of the seven nations, these High Kingdoms, that cast him out. The other three are stronger, but he expects to finish them off in another five years.”
Krastiny snorted. “I hope your partner is not unduly optimistic. I remember our war with Afghanistan in the eighties. The military high command daily claimed victory was within grasp.” He chuckled. “And they continued believing that right up to the end.”
“True,” said Wycliffe. “But my partner is not Soviet military command.”
“No,” said Krastiny, reaching into his hideous jacket. “He is not.” He pulled out something small and shiny. It was one of the gold coins Marugon provided for purchasing guns, weapons, and other supplies for his army. Wycliffe had the coins melted and sold on the commodities exchange, and then used the cash to purchase weapons from Kurkov’s syndicate. There was always leftover money, and it had made Wycliffe a multi-millionaire several times over.
“A souvenir?” said Wycliffe.
“Something of the sort,” said Krastiny. “When you first approached Kurkov with your bizarre story of the Tower and this Marugon fellow, I was skeptical. But Kurkov didn’t care. Money is money, and the coins you sent were real gold. But I remained curious. So I investigated the coins myself.”
“What did you find?” said Wycliffe.
“I could not decipher the language written on the coins,” said Krastiny. “This was not surprising, because the alphabet is utterly unlike any on Earth. Kurkov did not care. He was getting richer than any man in Russia. But I continued to wonder, especially as the years corroborated your story. We continued to deliver the guns, and you continued to buy them.”
Wycliffe smiled. “Many of your questions will be answered tonight when Marugon comes. In fact, Kurkov’s organization is the reason he’s coming.”
Krastiny blinked. “Oh?”
“He wants to meet his suppliers,” said Wycliffe.
“Wise of him,” said Krastiny. He slipped the coin back into his pocket. “Tell me, Senator. You have new security personnel since my last visit. Did Marugon provide them?”
Wycliffe shifted. “Yes. How did you know?”
“I speak fifteen languages,” said Krastiny, “and have a passing familiarity with twenty more.”
“Impressive,” said Wycliffe. “I can only manage five, myself, and two of those are dead tongues.”
Krastiny shrugged. “It is a necessity in my line of work.” He grinned, his eyes glinting. “Or my former line of work. Suffice it to say I have heard many languages spoken. Yet I have never heard an accent similar to the one possessed by your slouching thugs.”
“Impressive perception,” said Wycliffe, wondering if the little doctor had garnered too much information.
&n
bsp; “I do not like these slouching men,” said Krastiny. “I have dealt with many professional killers in my time, and have talked with many heartless and ruthless men. Yet your slouching men make them seem like mewling children. You have heard the jokes they make, no? Or the way they ogle and mutter every time a beautiful woman comes within sight? They are very dangerous, I think, and they are hiding something.”
Wycliffe grunted. “You don’t the half of it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Wycliffe spread his hands. “I happen to agree with you, Dr. Krastiny. I do not like the slouching men. They are unimaginably dangerous, even to someone like you. They combine the worst elements of sadists, serial killers, and psychopathic rapists. And that’s describing them in a very generous light. Yet they are a necessary evil, like so many things in life. And they will not disobey me.”
Krastiny chuckled, his face skeptical. “Yes, this ‘black magic’ Marugon supposedly taught you. I find that by far the hardest part of your story to believe, especially since you refuse to perform a demonstration for us.”
Wycliffe shrugged. “It’s a part of the discipline. One must use it only when necessary, and never spuriously. If you are ever around me when I need to use it, then you shall see remarkable things, Dr. Krastiny.” He thought of Eddie Carson again and smiled. “Especially if I need to silence a troublesome reporter.”
Krastiny laughed. “I can never understand this country’s press. In the USSR, we got a free press, and the country went to…what is the idiom…to hell in a hand basket a few years later. How your country keeps from teetering into chaos, I shall never understand.”
“It almost has, more than once,” said Wycliffe. “Perhaps that is its strength. Chaos and order in equal measure. Perhaps Aristotle’s maxim about the balanced life applies to government as well.”
Krastiny snorted. “That is a misapplication and you know it. Aristotle’s views on government were…” His eyes widened.
Wycliffe frowned. “What?”
Krastiny leapt to his feet, a gun materializing in his hand. He said something in Russian, his eyes wide.
Wycliffe laughed. “Doctor. Lower your weapon. It means no harm.”
Krastiny did not look mollified. “What the hell is it?”
Wycliffe smiled. “Marugon’s messenger.”
A deformed little creature stood in the corner. It looked like a twisted monkey with leathery black skin. It had a dog’s snout, glowing red eyes, huge floppy ears, and a pair of bat’s wings. It took to the air with a few lazy flaps of its wings, circled the office, and perched on Wycliffe’s computer monitor.
Wycliffe glared. “You had best not relieve yourself on my computer this time.”
The creature hissed, a forked tongue licking at the air. “Gloaming comes with a message for Lord Wycliffe of Chicago, from Lord Marugon of the Wastes.” Its voice growled and bubbled. “Lord Marugon of the Wastes comes soon. He says that Lord Wycliffe should make ready for him.”
“Thank you,” said Wycliffe. “We are already prepared for Lord Marugon and await his arrival.”
The creature hissed. “Some flesh for Gloaming?”
Wycliffe rolled his eyes and reached for the mini-fridge behind his desk. He pulled out a raw hamburger patty in a plastic baggie and dropped it on his desk.
“Very well.”
Gloaming cackled in delight, shredded the bag, and began devouring the beef. “Is cold.”
Wycliffe glared. “It’s better than nothing. If you want it hot, go cook it out on one of the truck engines in the yard.”
“Burned flesh no good.” Gloaming scooped up the bag in its claws and took to the air. It slid open the heat register and began to slip inside.
“Wait,” said Wycliffe. “Don’t eat it in the ducts. Go outside. I don’t want to smell rotting meat like last time.” Gloaming pouted. “And if you want fresh meat, go hunt the rats in the yard. They’ve gotten bad lately.”
Gloaming grinned and disappeared into the vent. Wycliffe heard the vile little creature singing to itself in its growling, burbling voice.
Krastiny looked shaken. “What manner of devil was that?”
“An imp of the Wastes, a native of Marugon’s world,” said Wycliffe. “Miserable little creatures. Yet they are quite useful if you can terrify them into submission. Marugon has a whole pack of the little fiends.”
Krastiny shook his head. “Your story seems more feasible by the minute, Senator.”
Wycliffe reached into the mini-fridge and removed a bottle of brandy. “Care for a drink? You look rather shaken.” He put two glasses on the desk and hoped Krastiny came to his senses.
He did not want to have to use the Voice on the man.
Krastiny picked up one of the glasses. “By all means.”
Wycliffe smiled and poured.
###
Some time later, Wycliffe sat in his darkened office and contemplated the half-empty glass of brandy in his hand. He shook his head and set it aside. He did not want to cloud his mind before meeting with Marugon. The man shouldn’t make him nervous. They were allies, after all. But Marugon still troubled Wycliffe on some subconscious level, like a mouse confronted by a cat.
Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “I’m no mouse.”
The intercom buzzed. Wycliffe hit the button. “Yes?”
“Senator, it’s Krastiny,” came a gravelly voice. “Kurkov has returned.”
Wycliffe glared at the clock. “About time. It’s 11:35. Is he sober?”
“Mostly. And in a good mood. Apparently he bedded his prize with remarkable alacrity.”
“How splendid. Have him met me at warehouse 13A as soon as possible.”
“Understood, Senator.” The intercom clicked off. Wycliffe walked around the desk and stared into the mirror on his door. He looked as close to good as he ever did. Perhaps after he finished with Marugon, he would use the Voice on another woman. He could use the Voice to make them do whatever he wanted, and then make them forget after he had finished. A remarkably easy way to avoid a sex scandal.
He grinned. “The austere life, indeed, Dr. Krastiny. Everything in moderation.”
Wycliffe stepped into the hall and locked the door behind him, running his tongue against his teeth. Perhaps that Katrina Coldridge who ran the office computer systems would make a good candidate for the Voice. She wore miniskirts that displayed her remarkable legs to good effect.
And she often worked late hours alone.
Wycliffe cleared his mind. He did not need any lustful notions clouding his thoughts, not with Marugon coming.
He strode into the courtyard. The night watchman, one of the bearded thugs, stood guard, face concealed behind a bushy beard and a pair of mirrored sunglasses. He stepped aside at Wycliffe’s approach. Wycliffe quickened his pace, keeping his expression calm. He should not fear the slouching men. As a wielder of the black magic, they did as he commanded. Yet they still made him feel mild unease, much as Marugon did.
Warehouse 13A, a massive grim structure of cinder blocks and corrugated steel, stood in the center of his complex. An electrified fence surrounded the warehouse, crowned with rolls of barbed wire. A slouching thug in a hooded motorcycle jacket stood at the gate. Wycliffe strode through, making a show of ignoring the guard.
A limousine was parked before the warehouse’s massive steel doors. Kurkov sat on the hood, dressed all in black leather, a thick cigar in his hand. Dr. Krastiny stood nearby, conversing with two younger men. One man was tall and thin with a shock of dark hair. The other was short and broad with a bald head, his arms corded with thick muscle.
“Ah, Vasily,” said Wycliffe. “I hope you had a pleasant evening.”
Kurkov puffed on his cigar. “I am pleased. Good food and good women.”
“Senator.” Dr. Krastiny approached, his two younger cohorts in tow. “I mentioned these fine f
ellows to you earlier. May I introduce Mr. Schzeran,” he indicated the tall man, “and Mr. Bronsky.”
Both men offered their hands, and Wycliffe shook them. “Ah…comrades from Dr. Krastiny’s KGB days, I assume.”
They looked at Krastiny. He nodded, as if giving permission.
“Yes,” said Schzeran. His Russian accent made his words almost incomprehensible. Bronsky remained silent. “Dr. Krastiny trained us. We do jobs together.”
Krastiny laughed. “You undersell yourself. Schzeran and Bronsky have been my strong right hands for many years. Both are some of the most highly competent and professional…ah, agents, I have ever encountered. And both have the rare quality of keeping their mouths shut. I don’t think Bronsky has said five words in as many years.”
Bronsky grunted.
“So you gentlemen provide security for Mr. Kurkov?” said Wycliffe.
Schzeran had a serial killer’s grin. “We are bodyguards for Mr. Kurkov. If anyone gives Mr. Kurkov trouble, we give them twice as much trouble.”
Wycliffe nodded. “I imagine it’s useful, having three pet assassins. I don’t suppose you were involved with that assassination attempt on the pope in the early eighties?”
Krastiny laughed. “Hardly. We would have been…more professional, let us say.”
Bronsky grunted. “We’d have done it right.”
“No doubt,” said Wycliffe. He turned to Kurkov. “Vasily. We never finished our tour a few days ago. I still have a few things to show you.”
Kurkov grunted. Schzeran and Bronsky moved to his side.
Wycliffe waved a hand at the warehouse. “Behold Warehouse 13A, my friends. It’s…how did you put it, Doctor? The foundation of my fortunes and yours?”
Kurkov scratched at his stubble-shaded chin. “This? How so?”
Wycliffe walked to the doors and produced an ID card. He swiped it through the lock. It clicked, beeped, and then the locking mechanism released.
“This,” said Wycliffe, waving his arm, “all of this, wasn’t here ten years ago. Ten years ago block after block of decaying apartments stood here. I lived in one of these buildings. It stood, in fact, right here, on the very spot now occupied by Warehouse 13A.”
Kurkov snorted. “How very interesting. A rags-to-riches story, as they say. Very American. But why should I care?”
Wycliffe smiled. “I’ll show you.” The warehouse doors began to slide open with the screech of metal on metal.
Wycliffe heard the clomping of heavy boots and turned. Two dozen slouching thugs gathered behind them. Between the enormous beards and the leather attire, they looked like attendees at a Harley rally. If Kurkov really knew what those beards and mirrored sunglasses hid, Wycliffe suspected that he would flee as fast as his limousine could take him.
What Kurkov didn’t know could indeed kill him.
Wycliffe stifled a laugh, and the doors slid open.
“Right this way, gentlemen,” said Wycliffe, walking inside. The Russians and the thugs filed after him.
Inside the warehouse racks of florescent lighting illuminated stacks and stacks of wooden crates. A large glassed-in room had been built in the corner, alongside a row of industrial meat freezers. The scent of machine grease and cordite hung heavy in the air. Wycliffe pointed at a stack of crates. “Old Soviet-issue Kalashnikov rifles. Grenades. Grenade launchers. Mortars. Rocket launchers. Even some napalm. All provided by your organization, Vasily.” He pointed at pallets of cardboard boxes. “Winter and summer garments. Preserved foods and canned goods. Medical supplies. And some shotguns and small-arms, weapons I’m able to easily acquire in the States.” He grinned. “And over here you’ll see…”
Kurkov scowled. “What the hell is that?”
A raised metal platform stood against the far wall. A pair of steel grill staircases and a hydraulic lift led to the platform’s top. A massive slab of dark stone stood upright on the platform’s center. Strange symbols and diagrams covered its surface, marking it with a bizarre tangle of lines, angles, and glyphs. At times faint green light glimmered from the slab’s edges, and occasionally a flicker of white light flashed from the carved symbols.
“What the devil is that?” said Krastiny. “Some sort of stele?” His thin eyebrows knitted. “I don’t recognize those inscriptions.”
“Nor do I,” said Wycliffe. He walked to the base of the platform. “Here. Right here. This is where my apartment once stood.” He climbed up the metal stairs. “And…right about here, maybe a little to my left, is where my living room closet once stood. Where I first met Lord Marugon.”
Krastiny folded his arms. “So this is supposed to be the door you told us about?”
“Quite right,” said Wycliffe.
Kurkov laughed. He made a show of walking behind the platform. “There is nothing behind that rock, Wycliffe. That is no door. That is just a piece of old stone.” He laughed again. “So it is true, then. All rich Americans are crazy.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Wycliffe. “So you’re sure, then? This is just an old slab of stone? And I dreamed that a man in a black robe came out through the slab and told me to buy guns and bombs?”
One of the slouching men chuckled, a sound like sliding rocks.
Kurkov shrugged. “Most probably. America is a land of strange people. Why, I remember hearing about an American cult on television. They thought if they killed themselves, they would fly to heaven on a magic spaceship.”
Wycliffe nodded. “Heaven’s Gate?”
“Yes, that was it,” said Kurkov. He grinned. “We do profitable business, Wycliffe, but you are a nut.”
“Ah,” said Wycliffe. “So, Dr. Krastiny, do you agree with your employer? Do you think I am a nut?”
Krastiny frowned, his eyes darting to the corner. Gloaming sat huddled behind a crate, gnawing on a dead rat. “I…am not so sure, Senator.”
Wycliffe grinned. “Well, Vasily, if I am a nut, how do you explain this?”
He put both hands against the door’s carved surface, braced himself, and pushed.
Nothing happened.
Kurkov’s chuckles redoubled. “Careful, Wycliffe. You will push your expensive rock over.”
The door swung open.
A dazzling shaft of white light stabbed out. Wycliffe took a step back, covering his eyes. A chorus of curses rose from Kurkov and Schzeran. The light faded, revealing a vast, pillared gallery stretching into infinity. Pale green light gleamed against the dark stone.
Kurkov stared at the opened door. His contemptuous mask dissolved in astonishment. “What in hell?”
Krastiny muttered something in Russian. Both Bronsky and Schzeran had their guns out. “What the devil is that?”
Wycliffe laughed at their reactions. He stepped to the side, sweeping his arm out. “Behold, gentlemen. A corridor within the Tower of Endless Worlds.”
Kurkov shook his head. “This must be a trick. Yes? You are tricking us. This is…a trick with light, what is the English…”
“An optical illusion?” said Krastiny.
Kurkov snapped his fingers. “Yes. That is it. This is an optical illusion.”
“Indeed?” Wycliffe turned. “Gloaming!” The imp growled. “Fetch me that crowbar.” Gloaming sneered. “Gloaming!” Wycliffe let a bit of the Voice slip into his speech. “I command! Fetch!” His words echoed like icy thunder. The imp whined, scooped the crowbar, and flapped to Wycliffe’s side.
Kurkov let out a startled curse in Russian. Schzeran and Bronsky leveled their guns. Krastiny waved them to calm.
“What the hell is that…is that thing?” said Kurkov.
Gloaming glared at him with burning eyes. “Screw you.”
Wycliffe chuckled, picked up the crowbar, and kicked Gloaming off the platform. The imp screeched and took to the air.
“Hideous little beast, isn’t it?” said Wycliffe. “A native to Marugon’s world, Vasily, an imp o
f the Wastes. Unpleasant little devils, certainly, but they can be tamed.”
Kurkov managed to nod.
“An optical illusion, you say?” said Wycliffe. He hefted the crowbar. “Then how do you explain this?” He flung the crowbar through the open door. White light flashed. The crowbar hit the marble floor, bounced, and skidded a good forty feet. “You can go look behind the door…oh, I’m sorry, my expensive slab. Look for trick wires, look for smoke, look for mirrors, look for whatever your heart desires. But you will not find anything.”
Kurkov shook his head. He climbed up the stairs, the metal clacking beneath his boots. “I must see this for myself.”
Krastiny stepped forward. “I’m not sure that’s safe…”
“Nonsense,” said Wycliffe. Kurkov climbed to the platform’s top. “You only wish to step through a short distance, I assume?”
“Correct,” said Kurkov.
“If you were to go wandering the corridors of the Tower alone, then, yes, we would never see you again,” said Wycliffe. “But a quick step through is perfectly safe.”
Kurkov grimaced, shook his head, and stepped through the door. There was another flash of white light. Kurkov stepped into the Tower and shuddered, gasping for breath. He looked around, his eyes wide. Wycliffe admired his courage. In almost ten years Wycliffe had seen dozens of men step through the door, yet had never quite summoned the courage to try it himself.
Kurkov grinned and picked up the crowbar. He paused and stared down the corridor for a moment, then shook his head and stepped back through the door. The white light flashed, and then Kurkov stood on the platform once more. Kurkov handed the crowbar back to Wycliffe. “Amazing. If it is a trick, it is very well done.”
Wycliffe laughed. “But it’s not a trick, is it?”
Kurkov snorted. “No. To think, for all those years I thought you were crazy, but it turns out you were telling the truth.” He frowned. “I thought I saw something coming towards us…some men, and horses…”
Wycliffe smiled. “Good.”
Gloaming perched on the platform’s railing.The creature gave Wycliffe a sullen look. “Lord Wycliffe of Chicago. Lord Marugon of the Wastes comes.”
Wycliffe peered through the door. “We have some time yet. Distances can be deceptive within the Tower’s corridors.” Dr. Krastiny climbed up to the platform, his face furrowed in a frown. Wycliffe chuckled. “A bit rattled, Doctor?”
“A bit,” said Krastiny. “I confess, the underpinnings of my worldview have just been rather severely shaken.”
Wycliffe leaned against the railing. “Mine were, at first.” Gloaming hopped a safe distance away, and Kurkov lit a cigar. “But I adapted, and even thrived, as you can see.”
“I may take up religion,” said Krastiny.
Wycliffe laughed. “Don’t. I doubt you’d have quite the same mental acumen if you took up Christian fundamentalism.”
“That white flash, when someone passes through the door,” said Krastiny. “What is it?”
Wycliffe shrugged. He had seen the flash so many times that he no longer paid it any mind. “I’m not certain. I suspect it has to do with warding spells inscribed upon the door.”
“Warding spells?” said Krastiny.
Wycliffe strode to the door’s slab. “You’re still not entirely comfortable with the idea of magic, I see.” He ran his fingers along the carved symbols, feeling the power thrumming through the stone. “These symbols, you see, are wards.” Krastiny looked puzzled. “Ah…spells designed to keep something out.”
“Why are there wards on the door?” said Krastiny. Kurkov wandered away, bored with the discussion. “Did Marugon there put them there?” Wycliffe shook his head.
“Who, then?” said Krastiny. “The persons who constructed the Tower?”
“Possibly,” said Wycliffe. “But not even Marugon knows who constructed the Tower.”
Krastiny blinked. “He does not?”
Wycliffe shrugged. “I don’t think Marugon even entirely knows what the Tower is, exactly. He told me once…he said that the Tower was part of all worlds and yet none, that it existed in every world and yet touched none of them. So far as I am able to gather, the Tower is infinite. A man could spend his entire life wandering its corridors.”
Krastiny folded his arms over his chest, still staring through the open door. “Infinite, you say? Then how do the caravans find their way from Marugon’s world to ours?”
“Marugon left markers to show the correct path,” said Wycliffe. “His personal sigil, I believe, burned into the stone.”
“Useful,” said Krastiny. “But how did Marugon find his way to Earth in the first place?”
Wycliffe laughed. “Sheer chance. That’s the damnable thing of it all. Sheer and utter chance.”
“Remarkable,” said Krastiny. His wispy eyebrows knitted. “It seems like this should be a more common occurrence.”
“How so?” said Wycliffe. The distant shape of the caravan drew nearer, close enough that Wycliffe could make out the shapes of horses, mules, wagons, and men.
“If this Tower is infinite, as you say,” said Krastiny, “should not visitors from other worlds stumble upon ours more frequently?”
“No,” said Wycliffe. “You see, most of the doors in the Tower are one-way. They can only be opened from within the Tower. And they usually swing shut a few moments after they are opened.”
Krastiny blinked. “But you opened this door.”
“I did.” Wycliffe pointed at the intricate symbols etched on the stone slab. “When Marugon came across one of the doors to our world…”
“There are others?”
“Four others,” said Wycliffe. “We don’t know where they open…we’ve never bothered to trace them. After all, they can’t be opened from Earth. But when Marugon first came across this door, he realized the design of the seals on the doors and damaged them. Thus the door can be opened from both sides.” He shrugged. “No doubt he wanted an escape, should this world prove inhospitable. But I believe he was already thinking in terms of revenge. Perhaps he hoped to find something that could aid him against his enemies on his world.”
“Why was the Tower constructed in this fashion?” said Krastiny. “If one can travel from world to world with ease, it seems to indicate that the Tower was constructed as a means of transportation. Yet why build it with one-way doors?”
Wycliffe shrugged. “Who knows? As I said, I don’t know who built the Tower. Marugon told me that his foes believed that their gods reared it uncounted eons ago.” Gloaming hissed. “He himself suspects spell casters of awesome power reared millennia ago. As for myself, I think an ancient race, something higher up on the evolutionary scale than us, built the thing before they went extinct. But I don’t care who built it. Whoever built it departed long ago, and left it for men like you and myself and Marugon to use.”
“Perhaps,” said Krastiny. He laughed. “I hope you will forgive my questioning. It is been a very long time since I encountered something that shook me so thoroughly.”
“Not at all,” said Wycliffe. “Inquisitiveness is the mark of the truly educated mind.” He smiled with the memory. “I had a thousand questions of Marugon myself. Of course, he had questions of his own. About everything, really.” He snapped his fingers. “In fact, he sent a special message via imp a month ago. He wanted books.”
“Books?” said Krastiny. “What sort of books?”
“All sorts of books. History, physics, astronomy, chemistry, metallurgy. Quite a few related to nuclear physics, for some reason. I wound up spending something like three thousand dollars on books.” He jerked a thumb. “They’re waiting for him over at the office.”
“Quite a broad range of subjects,” said Krastiny. “But if, as you say, he came from a pre-industrial society, no doubt they fascinate him.”
“Absolutely,” said Wycliffe. “My questions about him were satisfied
after a few weeks. But everything was of interest to Marugon. He never stopped asking questions about…everything, more or less.”
Krastiny laughed. “One more question for you, if you’ll permit.”
Wycliffe nodded. “You sound like a member of the press. Go on.”
“Why is it called the Tower?”
Wycliffe frowned. “What?”
“It does not seem like a Tower, more like a vast labyrinth that touches on innumerable worlds.”
Wycliffe shrugged. “It is, in fact, a Tower. It stands on Marugon’s world.”
Krastiny frowned. “How?”
Wycliffe gestured at the door. “We have doors on our world. But the Tower actually stands on Marugon’s world. He entered it through its front gate, not a simple door.”
Krastiny’s frown deepened. It made him look like a malformed Easter egg. “That…makes little sense. How can the Tower be infinite, yet stand on Marugon’s world?”
White light flashed. A man in a ragged black uniform stepped through the door. He carried numerous guns. He offered a short bow to Wycliffe and clattered down the stairs. Kurkov turned and ground his cigar out beneath his boot.
“Marugon’s soldiers,” said Wycliffe.
More and more soldiers streamed through the door, until a double column of forty stood on the warehouse floor beneath the platform. Some glanced with obvious fear at the hooded thugs. A soldier in a crimson cloak stepped through the door and barked out a command. The soldiers turned and stood in some sort of formal salute, weapons in raised in guard.
There was another flash of white light.
Marugon stepped through the door.
He looked much as Wycliffe remembered, a tall, pale man swathed head to foot in black robes, though silver marked his black hair at the temples. For a moment his dark eyes seemed like pits into a bottomless void. Kurkov stood stone still, watching the Warlock with an unblinking gaze. Krastiny’s hand twitched towards his gun. Gloaming groveled on the ground, and the slouching thugs muttered to themselves, as if afraid. Wycliffe always felt as if there was something else mingled within the Marugon's flesh and blood, something dark and mighty that sent a cold thrill of fear down his spine.
Wycliffe made a bow. “Lord Marugon.”
Marugon extended his hand. “This is the custom on your world, no?” His lips crooked into a sardonic smile. “And what is the saying you have? When in Rome…”
Wycliffe laughed. “Do as the Romans do.” He shook Marugon’s hand. It felt like bars of frozen iron encased in skin, and he laughed to hide his unease. “Welcome to Chicago once more, Lord Marugon. Welcome back.”
Marugon smiled and looked at Krastiny. A muscle twitched in the little man’s face. “And this is your business partner, no?” Pack mules and their drivers entered, each animal loaded down with heavy leather sacks. The hydraulic lift whined to life.
Kurkov coughed.
Wycliffe waved him over. “Actually, ah…this is my business partner. Lord Marugon, this is Vasily Kurkov.”
Kurkov gave a curt bow.
“Ah,” said Marugon. “Another man with the wit to seize an opportunity. It is well for me that there are such men on your world, master Wycliffe, is it not?” He smiled and ignored Kurkov, who seemed relieved. “But I misspeak, do I not? You are now Senator Wycliffe?”
Wycliffe grinned. “Yes. The election two years ago.” He thought of Eddie Carson and Senator Fulbright. “It went remarkably well.”
“Good,” said Marugon. “Very good. I still do not quite understand this process of voting, as you call it. Power is for the strong, to be wielded over the weak. Yet in your nation the weak give the power to the strong. Very strange. But yours is a strange world.”
“I didn’t think they had Nietzsche on your world,” said Krastiny.
Marugon raised an eyebrow. “And who is this, Senator Wycliffe?”
“This is Dr. Krastiny,” said Wycliffe. Krastiny bowed. “He is a physician, and a most erudite man. He serves Vasily as head of security.”
Marugon’s gaze flicked back to Kurkov. “A wise choice, young man.”
“As I have mentioned, they come from Russia,” said Wycliffe. “It was a part of a vast empire, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, that collapsed about twelve years past. Most of the arms and ammunition procured for you come from old Soviet arsenals.”
“The weapons are obsolete and antiquated, no doubt. Inferior equipment,” said Marugon. “But they serve my purposes quite well, quite well indeed. What is the great lesson, Senator Wycliffe?”
Wycliffe smirked. “Power is relative.”
“Yes.” Marugon’s eyes wandered over the warehouse. The rows of slouching thugs had fallen to their knees. They looked like lines of leather-jacketed boulders. “Have the allies I have sent proven useful?”
Wycliffe frowned. “Quite…useful. They guard the premises with a diligence that I could not find on this world.” He glanced at the glassed-in room. “Though their dietary requirements are somewhat troublesome.”
Marugon laughed. “No doubt! They are a handful to manage properly. Yet they are loyal, and utterly without peer in battle.”
“Why are they all kneeling?” said Krastiny.
“Because I have come. I am their master.” Marugon grinned. “And their chieftain has come, as well. Meet my head of security, Dr. Krastiny.”
The door flashed.
A huge man stepped out of the Tower’s door. He wore jeans, a battered leather motorcycle jacket with the hood pulled up, and mirrored sunglasses. A thick black beard masked the lower half of his face and dangled across his chest. Wycliffe took an involuntary step back. Malice seemed to roll off the huge man in waves. Krastiny’s hand had darted to his concealed gun again. The huge man looked over them all, head titling to one angle.
“You may call him Goth Marson,” said Marugon. “He is the lord of the winged ones. He is curious about this world, and so has come to see it for himself.”
“Ah…then he is welcome, of course,” said Wycliffe, half-lying.
Marugon smiled. “No doubt.” He looked over the warehouse. “It seems this place has grown since my last visit, Senator Wycliffe. If you will show me the changes…”
“Of course,” said Wycliffe. “Right this way.” He led Marugon down the stairs, Kurkov and Krastiny at his side.
Goth Marson followed with the deadly grace of a hunting lion.
***
Chapter 18 - They Are Hunting For You
Anno Domini 2003