A Wizard of the White Council (7 page)

Chapter 6 - A Rescue

Anno Domini 2012

Night fell as Arran hurried back to the sunken woods where he had made his camp, thinking over his encounter with the winged demon driving the black van. 

He had been right – one of the United States’ rulers had made an agreement with Marugon. Or had Marugon raised the man to power? No matter. Tomorrow Arran would begin his hunt. He would ask about this Senator Wycliffe and his associate Kurkov. With luck he could learn more about them. 

A new question rose in Arran’s mind. What had happened to Lithon and this unknown girl after they had arrived on Earth? Had they had gone through the door marked with Marugon’s sigil? It likely led to Senator Wycliffe’s citadel. And Wycliffe would have turned the children over to Marugon.

Arran shook his head. Speculation would only drive him mad. He needed more facts. But he did know that Wycliffe consorted with Marugon and winged demons.

If Arran found Wycliffe, he would kill him on sight.

Arran approached the large white house as a blue jeep pulled into the driveway, its lights flashing over the lawn. Arran caught a glimpse of three men leaning against the garage. 

Curious, he came to a stop, taking care to remain unseen. 

The blue jeep came to a shuddering stop, and the old woman with the thick braid he had seen yesterday climbed out. The men stepped out of the shadows of garage and approached her. All of them wore masks that left only their eyes and mouths uncovered.

“Thieves,” muttered Arran. 

He hurried forward. 

The old woman stopped. “Might I ask,” she said coldly, “what you are doing in my driveway?”

“Yeah, you can ask,” said the man, “and I’ll answer. Your purse, your car keys, your house keys, now.”

The old woman turned to run, but another of the men circled behind her. The lead thug reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun. “Don’t even think about screaming. Or running.” He jerked his head at one of the other men. “Tie her up and tape up her mouth.”

One of the men slammed the old woman against the car, his hand clamping over her mouth. Her eyes widened and she kicked the thief in the stomach. He growled and slammed her again. “Damn it, just shoot the bitch…”

Arran’s hands worked in smooth motions as he loaded one of his pistols. These men were no different than Marugon’s soldiers, murderers and thieves and rabble. 

Arran stepped out of the shadows and leveled his gun. “Let her go now or I’ll kill you all.”

The thug with the gun turned. “Who the hell…”

“A witness!” said the thug holding the woman. “Kill him, quick…”

The thug raised his gun, but Arran was faster. The thief screamed as Arran’s bullet exploded his hand in spray of blood and bone. The second thug lunged at Arran, a knife flashing in his hand, and Arran shot him in both knees. The third thief released the woman and ran for the street, at least until Arran shot him in the back of the leg. The thug shrieked and fell to the ground, writhing. 

Arran considered killing all three of them. Then again, killing them would likely draw the attention of Chicago’s rulers, something Arran did not want. He shrugged and dropped the weapon back into its holster. “Madam. Are you injured?”

The old woman shook her head, her eyes very wide. “No…no, I’m well. Just a bit queasy, I’m afraid. I’ve seen men shot before, but…it’s never a good thing.” 

Arran nodded. “I understand.” 

“You came at a good time,” said the old woman. A piercing wail cut the night air. Arran turned, his hand dropping back to his gun butt. “What is that?”

“A siren,” said the woman. “Someone likely called the police.” 

“Police,” said Arran, remembering what Robert had told him. “The city guardsmen. Damnation. I must go.”

“Wait,” said the old woman. 

“It would be best if they did not see me,” said Arran. “I have committed no crime, at least not on this world. But they would not understand.” 

“Then…can you hide yourself?” said the old woman. Arran nodded. “Then hide. I wish to speak after the police leave. You did save my life, after all.”

Arran considered for a moment. Could he trust the old woman? He needed someone to tell him about Earth, and he suspected she was a scholar. Her knowledge might prove very useful. “Very well.” 

He looked around, slid under the back porch, and waited. 

A few minutes later several white jeeps, bright flashing lights on their ceilings, screeched into the driveway. 

###

One of the police officers bent over, holding a black cylinder in his hand. A beam of bright light shone from the cylinder’s crystalline top. Arran remained motionless, wrapped in his cloak. The policeman swept the light from his cylinder under the porch, grunted, and then walked away. Arran sighed in relief and twisted his head to watch the driveway. 

“So you’re unharmed, ma’am?” said the commander of the policemen, a stout older man with thinning brown hair. Other men in blue uniforms with white crosses on their arms had appeared in a boxy white jeep. They bundled the wounded thugs to metal stretchers, treating their wounds. 

“Yes, I’m quite well,” said the old woman, her arms folded. “Thanks to the timely intervention of that young man with good aim.” 

“So you’ve no idea who these men are?” said the commander.

The old woman shook her head. “No. I’d never seen any of them before.” 

One of the younger policemen walked up and whispered in the commander’s ear. The older man grunted. “I thought so. The descriptions matched. Group of home-invasion robbers. Shot a woman in the leg a few days back. List of charges is about a mile long.” He scratched his hair. “So you have no idea about this fourth man?”

“None,” said the old woman. “I’d never seen him before in his life. He shot the hoodlums and disappeared right away.” 

Another of the younger policemen approached. “We’ve checked the house, the yard, and the woods. No sign of this shooter. He’s probably fifty miles away by now.” Arran rolled his eyes. 

“Well, I certainly didn’t shoot these men myself,” said the old woman. The blue-suited physicians loaded the bundled thugs into the boxy white jeep. “I don’t even own a firearm.” 

The commander spread his hands, a gold ring flashing on his finger. “No one’s doubting that, ma’am. You’ll want to testify, I assume?”

“Oh, yes,” said the old woman. “I don’t take kindly to hoodlums.”

“I have to say,” said the commander, tucking a notepad into his jacket pocket, “you’re taking this remarkably well.”

The old woman gave him a thin smile. “I was held captive in Syria for two weeks some years back. Armed men, regrettably, are nothing new to my experience.” 

The commander’s watery eyes widened. “Must be a hell of a story. We’ll keep a cruiser in this area in case you have any more trouble. Doubt you will, though.” He chewed his thick lip. “As for this fourth fellow, I’ll bet he was a disgruntled associate. Or some old grudge. Something like that, I’ll bet.”

“If I see anything, I’ll let you know at once,” said the old woman.

The commander plopped his cap onto his head. “Thank you, Dr. Francis. We’ll be in touch.” He and his underlings walked back to their jeeps. The whole caravan of vehicles pulled out into the street and pulled away one by one, and soon Dr. Francis stood alone in the driveway. 

She walked over to the porch.

“You’ll want to come inside, I assume. Be careful. They probably have someone watching the house.” She climbed the steps and opened the back door. Arran crawled from under the porch, gathered his cloak about him, and vaulted over the railing in a dark blur. He rolled into the house, and Dr. Francis shut the door behind her. Arran stood and looked around the kitchen. The counters gleamed, while polished pots and pans hung from iron hooks in the walls. 

“This way,” said Dr. Francis. She strode into a large dining room, lit from a glowing lamp suspended from the ceiling. More stuffed bookshelves ringed the room, and books and papers covered the surface of the table. Dr. Francis moved with confidence and assurance, despite her brush with death. And her eyes held a keen, razor-edged intelligence he had not seen often on this world. 

She reminded him of a Wizard. Perhaps she could answer some of his questions. 

“Quite a collection,” said Arran, looking over the tomes.

“Thank you.” Dr. Francis cleared the papers from two of the chairs. “I like to read. Please, sit.” Arran sat, and Dr. Francis sat across from him. “I suppose I ought to introduce myself. I am Dr. Heloise Francis.”

Arran nodded. “Pardon my ignorance, but is ‘Doctor’ your name or a title of some sort?” 

She frowned. “A title.”

“So you are nobility, then?” He had come to believe that this world, or at least this nation, did not possess peasants and merchants and nobles as he thought of them. 

“No. The title is earned through scholarship.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, in most cases. I could name some egregious exceptions. But what is your name?”

“Arran Belphon.” He saw no reason to lie. “Why did you not tell the policemen about me?” 

Dr. Francis folded her hands and put them on the table. “For one, you probably saved my life.” Arran nodded. “Second, I do not trust the police.”

“They are corrupt, then?” said Arran, thinking of Senator Wycliffe. 

“Not always.” Dr. Francis looked up at the ceiling. “I’ve traveled to many countries, Mr. Belphon, and the Chicago police are better than most. But the police have power, and power almost always corrupts.”

“Agreed,” said Arran, thinking of the guns’ power. 

“And I don’t think you would want to be found by the police,” said Dr. Francis, pointing at his belt, “the way you carry those guns so openly.” Arran nodded again. “So, this leads to my third reason. I wanted to talk with you. You piqued my curiosity. You are quite unlike any man I have ever seen before.”

“Indeed?” said Arran. 

“As I mentioned, I’ve traveled to many foreign countries. Yet I’ve never met anyone who walked as you did, spoke with your accent, or displayed your mannerisms and behaviors. And your swords. I’m something of an expert in archaic weaponry yet I’ve never seen blades quite like yours.” 

Arran touched his Sacred Blade’s hilt. “Would you like to see it?”

Dr. Francis’s eyes gleamed. “May I?”

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.”