Destroyer of Worlds

2

Church jerked awake from another searing image of himself lying on a table, as pale as death, ghostly faces moving around him. He had started to believe that the recurring dream was not a dream at all, but he refused to examine his nascent suspicions of what it really was. Every time he skirted it, he felt sick to the pit of his stomach; a part of him knew the truth, he was convinced. A part of him was truly afraid.

Exhaustion had left his head nodding as he waited in the rooftop cafe, but now he could see that the planned rendezvous would not be happening. He was alone in the chill dark with only the poor light from his sword for comfort. The sticky jungle smells and the dry desert wind still reached him, but he could see nothing beyond the edge of the roof. The constant screams and panicked cries rising up from the street made him feel queasy. All he could think of was Ruth still out there, trapped in the dark with the mob and, he feared from some of the sounds he heard, something deadlier.

It would have been more sensible to wait there for the others to find their way back to him, but his concern for Ruth overrode logic, and after a while pacing around the table anxiously, he made his way cautiously to the door.

His sword's Blue Fire gave him barely two feet of visibility. He was little better than blind in a sprawling city filled with danger.

Inside the building it was still stifling despite the temperature drop, and deafening with the cacophony of the many, many people crowded into every square foot of the ten floors, with only the cafe level kept out of bounds by the brutal guardians employed by the owner.

Trailing his left hand down the dry plaster, Church slowly descended the stairs to the next level, the stink of sweat and other bodily fluids increasing with every step. Each floor was a single room, used for some public function — a library, a meeting place — but their previous purpose had been almost obscured by makeshift beds and ramshackle tent-homes. The disturbed-hive drone of voices had increased considerably from the last time Church had passed through, the result, he guessed, of news of the descending darkness being passed on to those who were inside when it fell.

Reaching the next floor, he steeled himself for the arduous task of picking his way through the cluttered mass to the next flight of stairs against the opposite wall. Tiny lights bobbed here and there — candles, lanterns — small comfort to their owners but no use to him.

His very first step brought a squeal from someone underfoot, igniting a ripple of panic across the room and cries of, 'What's wrong?' and, 'Who is there?' Holding Caledfwlch before him like a torch, Church picked out his steps carefully, but the flickering blue light was a beacon of hope to any it fell upon. Soon pale faces caught in its glare were drawing up and moving in, curious and desperate. And as hands grasped him and pleas for assistance were issued, the desperate yearning for help swept across the room like fire.

Within minutes, bodies pressed against Church on every side, spinning him around, shaking his sense of direction. Fingers tore at his clothes and his skin, growing harder and angrier when they received no response. At first, he entreated people to allow him passage, but it proved hopeless and he quickly realised his only option was to put his head down and drive himself through the dense wall of bodies.

The next flight of stairs was located more by luck than judgement. Careering down them two steps at a time, he almost fell out of control in the dark, landing roughly on the next floor. The crush of people drawn to him began almost immediately.

Choking with the smell of bodies and the heat, Church continued to drive his way through the mass. Halfway across the room, amidst the pleadings and cries, a familiar, ironic voice broke through at his left ear: 'Don't you just hate them? Stupid, witless sheep.'

Church whirled, but all he saw were troubled, pale faces and grasping hands. The Libertarian had retreated back into the dark.

His heart pounding, Church renewed his efforts to press through the crowd. Faces came and went in the tight circle around him. Rough hands at his back became threatening. However fast he searched around the constantly looming bodies in the limited area of visibility, he knew he would never be able to see the Libertarian until the killer was on top of him.

He resorted to throwing people roughly out of his way, but that only increased the crowd's anger and made his passage even more difficult. Soon they would be attacking him instead of pleading for help. He forced himself to calm down.

The next two floors passed in a blur of tension. Church knew the Libertarian would not have departed; he was sickened to realise he was starting to know him as well as he knew himself. There was a thick vein of sadism in the pacing of his torment: how long could the Libertarian hold off before moving in to strike?

'Why don't you kill them?' The sly voice appeared at his right ear.

Church whirled again. A glimpse of red eyes disappearing into the dark. 'Come closer and see what you get, you bastard!' Church yelled.

The crowd grew more agitated. As he pushed forwards, the flat of his blade clipped a woman's head and she shrieked as if he had stabbed her. Angry shouts deafened him. Someone punched his back; another tried to grab Caledfwlch and he had to throw the man to one side, brandishing the sword as a threat. It only maddened the crowd further.

Stay calm, he told himself. Any more and they'll rip you limb from limb.

Buying time, he apologised to the woman and placated those near to him, before moving on. Three more floors passed slowly, but as he entered the eighth floor down he caught a wisp of smoke.

You bastard. It was all Church had time to think before the panic started. Off to his left a dim light flickered, growing larger by the second as the blaze spread swiftly through the tinder-dry building, the jumble of possessions, bedding and shelters. Deafening shrieks became one voice as the entire floor moved as a single entity towards the stairs, crushing and trampling. Church was carried along in the flow, choking from the thick, acrid smoke as the temperature in the room intensified rapidly.

Soon even the supernatural darkness could not contain the inferno, and it blazed brightly as it raced across the room, consuming people, bringing down roof timbers in a cascade of sparks, raising a wall of heat that felled the young and the old as soon as it touched them.

'You don't have to kill them all!' Church raged impotently, torn between fury and bitter guilt that an entire building filled with people was being slaughtered just to get at him.

'Oh, but I do.'

Church turned, and there was the Libertarian, his eyes as red as the flames that formed an infernal halo around him.

'Almost like looking in a mirror, isn't it?'

Before Church could raise Caledfwlch, the Libertarian jabbed a finger into a pressure point on Church's neck and he slumped to the floor, unconscious.