The Tower of Endless Worlds by Jonathan Moeller Page A

stunned. One bloody woman, her clothes brunt and ragged, knelt in the street and tried to bury herself. Another explosion rocked the city, and chunks of flaming rubble rained around them. Arran winced and raised an armored hand to cover his face, pebbles and shards of burning wood bouncing off his breastplate. He heard a long salvo of gunfire, followed by a cacophony of agonized screams. 
    Arran gritted his teeth and followed Liam. 
    The wreckage of the western gate loomed before them. The doors had been thrown down and smashed, flames dancing over their ruined timbers. Corpses lay strewn across the ground. The sickly stench of burned flesh hung over the square, over all Carlisan, like a funeral shroud. 
    Sixty Knights, battered and sooty, sat atop their chargers. Arran’s heart sunk. Five years ago there had been five thousand Knights to defend the High Kingdoms against the Warlocks and winged demons. Now Sir Liam could only find sixty to guard the Crown Prince of Carlisan? 
    A young woman sat atop a gray palfrey, a wailing toddler cradled in her arms. Arran recognized Princess Anna and her younger brother Crown Prince Lithon. When Arran had seen Anna last, she had looked radiant and majestic in her gown and jewels. Now she seemed just another huddled refugee slumped over her horse. 
    “Knights!” said Sir Liam, reining in his horse. “The King has commanded that we conduct his heir from the city with all speed.” 
    “So, we are to run from our foes, then?” said a Knight with a blood-crusted helm and breastplate. 
    “It pains me,” said Liam, “but we have no other choice. The King has commanded…”
    A deafening thunderclap drowned out Liam’s words. The ground bucked and heaved, and Arran struggled to keep his horse under control. Anna’s palfrey whinnied, and two Knights rushed to her and the toddler’s side. Arran spun his horse around and gazed towards the heart of the city. A huge ball of flame and smoke rose from where the Scepteris Palace had stood. Even at this distance, Arran could feel the fireball’s heat.
    He wondered if Lord Marugon had brought the end of the world. 
    “My brothers,” said Liam, voice shaking. “I suspect that Crown Prince Lithon is now King Lithon.” Anna stifled a sob. “We must take the King and his sister to safety. Who will ride with me?” 
    “I will!” said Arran, lifting his Sacred Blade. The other Knights took up the cry. The glow of sixty Sacred Blades outshone the burning light of the Scepteris Palace’s ruin. 
    Sir Liam put spurs to his horse. The other Knights followed him, Anna secure in their midst. They galloped through the ruined gate and into the scorched farmlands surrounding Carlisan’s battered wall. The horses’ hooves kicked up puffs of gray ash.
    “To the west!” said Sir Liam, pointing with his glowing swords. Marugon and his hell-machines had come from the west. 
    For the first time, Arran wondered where Sir Liam planned to take the young King. 
    They thundered down the western road. Carlisan burned in its death throes behind them. Torn and blasted corpses littered the countryside, once the mighty armies of Carlisan. Five hundred of Marugon’s men armed with the Kalashnikovs had slaughtered a hundred thousand swordsmen, pikemen, and archers. Clouds of black smoke drifted over the battlefield, some of it rising from burning corpses. 
    “Ahead!” said Sir Liam. “Prepare…”
    Gunfire ripped down the road. Four Knights fell from the saddle, blood bursting from their torn armor. 
    Arran wheeled his horse around. A dozen of Marugon’s soldiers blocked the road, Kalashnikovs in their hands. 
    “Charge!” said Sir Liam. “Ride them down!”  Three more Knights died, bullets shredding their bodies. Screams of agony, the thunder of the guns, and the shriek of tearing metal filled the air. 
    “For the King!” screamed a Knight, a moment before a bullet pierced his helm. 
    Arran spurred his mount forward, his Sacred Blade