The Tower of Endless Worlds by Jonathan Moeller

for him. Arran's Sacred Blade flashed down in a blaze of blue flame and took off the gunman’s hands. The soldier screamed, staggering, and Arran whipped his sword around and decapitated the gunman. 
    His brother remained motionless, blood spreading beneath him.
    “Luthar!” said Arran. He dropped his ruined shield, slid from his saddle, and ran to his brother’s side. “Luthar!” 
    Luthar’s face, its lean, dark-eyed features so similar to Arran’s, gazed up in a mask of astonishment. The bullet had shredded the back of his skull, driving the shards of his helm into his head. Blood pooled on the paving stones beneath his ruined helm. Luthar’s Sacred Blade, its blue glow extinguished, lay besides his body. 
    “Luthar,” whispered Arran. A sob choked out the rest of his words. 
    Arran took his Sacred Blade in both hands and stood. He would stand over his fallen brother, stand until Marugon’s soldiers and their accursed guns swarmed over the city’s ruins. He would raise a ring of fallen enemies until the hated bullets shredded his flesh…
    “Sir Arran!” 
    Arran blinked through his tears. “Sir Liam?”
    A Knight on a black horse galloped towards Arran, his gleaming armor coated by ash and blood. The hilts of two Sacred Blades rose over his shoulders. The Knight reined up, staring down at Arran with hard gray eyes. 
    “Sir Arran,” said Sir Liam Mastere, the only Knight who could wield two Sacred Blades in battle. “You must come with me.”
    “Luthar’s dead!” said Arran. 
    “I know,” said Liam, his voice tired. “I’m sorry, Sir Arran, but you must come with me.” 
    Arran shook his head. Another explosion rumbled through the city. “No. I can’t leave him. I’ll avenge him.” 
    “You must ride with me at once,” said Liam.
    “No!” said Arran. “I will not leave my brother! I will fight here until…”
    Liam slapped Arran across the face with an armored gauntlet. “Come to your senses, young Knight! Your brother is dead! You are not. Will you stand here and die, or will you yet do some service to your King and your Order?” 
    “What?” said Arran, his jaw stinging. 
    “Prince Lithon Scepteris yet lives,” said Sir Liam. “He and his older sister, the Princess Anna, wait at the western gate with an escort of Knights. It is the King’s wish that we escort them from the city at once.”
    Arran bristled. “Then we are to run from a battle?”
    “The battle is lost!” said Liam, his face darkening. “The city is lost, the High Kingdoms are lost, and I fear the world is lost! But we yet have a chance to save something.” He clenched a fist. “Master Alastarius made a Prophecy before Marugon killed him. He said that if Prince Lithon were saved, then not all would be lost. I need your help, Arran. I cannot get Lithon out of the city by myself.” 
    “Alastarius?” Arran remembered the old Wizard, the Master of the White Council. Among all the Wizards, only Alastarius had possessed the gift of Prophecy. “He…he said that?” 
    Sir Liam nodded. “Throw your life away if you wish, but decide quickly. I do not have long to tarry.”
    Gunfire echoed through the streets, followed by a chorus of screams. Arran looked down at his brother’s body. “I’ll come.”
    “Good man,” said Liam. “Hurry!” 
    Arran paused and took up Luthar’s Sacred Blade. He could not wield it, of course – all Knights, save for Sir Liam, could only wield one Sacred Blade at a time. Yet Arran did not want to leave his brother’s sword for Marugon’s accursed gunmen. 
    “Hurry,” said Sir Liam as Arran climbed into his saddle. “The way to the western gate is clear, but not for long.”
    Arran nodded and put spurs to his horse.
    They galloped through the streets of Carlisan. Fires raged in most of the houses, and bullet holes riddled their walls. Heaps of corpses lay at the corners, blood seeping from their wounds. The survivors staggered back and forth, their faces dazed and