The Sorceress

by Michael Scott

  “What happened?” Billy asked eventually.

  “The energies we released caused Mount Etna to erupt. I almost died on the island that day.”

  Billy the Kid lowered the binoculars, then turned his back to the bay and sat down on a low stone wall. He stared at his battered cowboy boots; the leather was scuffed and torn, almost worn through in places. It was time to get a new pair, but that meant driving down to a shoemaker he knew in New Mexico, who still crafted boots and shoes to the traditional pattern. Billy had some friends in Albuquerque and Las Cruces, others in Silver City, where he’d grown up, and Fort Sumner, where Pat Garrett had shot him down.

  “I could raise a gang,” he said slowly. He expected the Italian to object and was surprised when he heard nothing. “It would be just like in the old days. I know some immortals—a couple of cowboys, a Spanish conquistador and two great Apache warriors—who are loyal to us. Maybe if we all attacked the island together …”

  “It is a good idea, but you would probably be condemning your friends to death,” Machiavelli said. “There is another way.” The line crackled. “There is an army on the island—an army of monsters. I think that rather than attacking Perenelle, we should simply awaken the slumbering beasts. Many have slept under enchantment for a month or more; they will be hungry … and will go in search of the nearest warm-blooded meal: Madame Perenelle.”

  Billy the Kid nodded, and then a thought struck him. “Hey, but won’t we be on the island too?”

  “Trust me,” Machiavelli said. “Once we awaken the sleeping army, we will not be hanging around. I will see you tomorrow at twelve-thirty p.m. local time, when my plane lands. If everything goes according to plan, Perenelle will not live to see out the day.”

  r. John Dee was terrified.

  Standing beside him, Bastet drew a sharp breath and shivered, and Dee realized that she too was scared. And that frightened him even more.

  Dee had known fear before and had always welcomed it. Fear had kept him alive, had sent him running when others had stood and fought and died. But this was no ordinary terror: this was a bone-deep, stomach-churning, flesh-crawling repulsion that left him bathed in icy sweat. The cold analytical part of his mind recognized that this was not a rational fear; this was something stronger, something primal and ancient, a terror lodged deep in the limbic system, the oldest part of the human brain. This was a primeval fear.

  In his long life Dee had encountered some of the foulest of the Elders, ghastly creatures that were not even vaguely human. His research and travels had led him into some of the darkest Shadowrealms, places where appalling nightmare creatures floated in emerald skies or tentacled horrors writhed in bloodred seas. But he had never been this frightened. Black spots danced at the corners of his vision and he realized he was breathing so hard he was hyperventilating. Desperately attempting to calm his breathing, he concentrated on the source of his fear—the creature striding down the middle of the empty North London street.

  Most of the streetlights were dead, and the few that were not shed a ghastly sodium glow over the figure, painting it in shades of yellow and black. It stood close to eight feet tall, with massive arms and legs that ended in goatlike hooves. An enormous rack of six-pointed antlers curled out of each side of its skull, adding at least another five feet to its height. It was wrapped in mismatched hides of animals long extinct, so that Dee found it hard to tell where the skins ended and the creature’s hairy flesh began. Resting on its left shoulder was a six-foot club shaped from the jawbone of a dinosaur, one side ragged with a line of spiky teeth.

  This was Cernunnos, the Horned God.

  Fifteen thousand years ago, a frightened Paleolithic artist had daubed an image of this creature on a cave wall in southwest France, an image that was neither man nor beast, but something caught in between. Dee realized that he was probably experiencing the same emotions that ancient man had felt. Just looking at it made him feel small, inconsequential, puny.

  He had always believed that the Horned God was just another Elder—maybe even one of the Great Elders—but earlier that day Mars Ultor had revealed something shocking, something quite terrifying. The Horned God was no Elder. It was something older, far older, something that existed at the very edges of myth.

  Cernunnos was one of the legendary Archons, the race that had ruled the planet in the incredibly distant past. Yggdrasill had been a seed when the Horned God had first walked the world, Nidhogg and its kin only newly hatched, and it would be hundreds of millennia before the first humani appeared.

  The Horned God stepped forward and light washed across its face.

  Dee felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. He’d been expecting a mask of horror, but the creature was beautiful. Shockingly, unnaturally beautiful. The skin of its face was deeply tanned, but smooth and unlined, as if it had been carved out of stone, and oval amber eyes glowed within deep-sunk sockets. When it spoke, its full-lipped mouth barely opened and its long throat remained still.

  “An Elder and a humani, a cat and its master, and which is the more dangerous, I wonder?” Its voice was surprisingly soft, almost gentle, though completely emotionless, and although he heard it speak in English, Dee was sure he could hear the buzzing of a hundred other languages saying the same words in his head. Cernunnos came closer and then bent on one knee, first to stare at Bastet and then to look down on Dee. The Magician looked into the Horned God’s eyes: the pupils were black slits, but, unlike a serpent’s, they were horizontal, like flat black lines. “So you are Dee.” The buzzing voices swirled in Dee’s head.

  The Magician bowed deeply, unwilling to look into the amber eyes, desperately trying to control his fear. A peculiar musky odor enveloped the Archon, the smell of wild forests and rotting vegetation. Dee was struck with the scent and realized it probably had something to do with the emotions he felt. He had seen worse creatures, certainly more shocking creatures, so what was it about the Horned God that terrified him so much? He focused on the savage-looking club the ancient creature was leaning on. It looked like the jaw of a sarcosuchus, the supercroc from the Cretaceous Period, and he found himself wondering just how old the Archon was.

  “We are delighted by your presence,” Bastet hissed loudly. Dee thought he could hear the tremor of fear in her voice.

  “I do not think so,” Cernunnos said, straightening.

  “We—” Bastet began, but suddenly the huge club swung around and came to a stop, its teeth inches from her feline skull.

  “Creature: do not speak to me again. I am not here by choice. You.” Cernunnos turned its amber eyes on Dee. “Your Elder masters have invoked an ancient debt that has existed between us going back to the dawn of time. If I assist you, then my debt to them is wiped clean. That is the only reason I am here. What do you need?”

  Dee took a deep breath. He bowed again, and then bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from smiling. An Archon was putting itself at his command. When he spoke, he was pleased that his voice was steady and controlled. “How much have you been told?” he began.

  “I am Cernunnos. Your thoughts and memories are mine to read, Magician. I know what you know; I know what you have been, I know what you are now. The Alchemyst, Flamel, and the children are with the Saracen Knight and the Bard behind their makeshift metal fortress. You want me and the Wild Hunt to force an entrance for you.” Although the Archon’s face remained an unwrinkled mask, Dee imagined he heard what might be a sarcastic note in the Horned God’s voice.

  The Magician bowed again, attempting to control his thoughts. “Just so.”

  The Archon turned its huge head to look at the metal walls of the used-car lot. “Promises have been made to me,” it rumbled. “Slaves. Fresh meat.”

  Dee hurried on. “Of course. You can have Flamel, and anyone else you want. I need the children and the two pages from the Codex that remain in Flamel’s possession.” Dee bowed again. With the power of the Horned God and the Wild Hunt it commanded, he could no
t fail.

  “I am instructed to tell you this,” Cernunnos said softly, moving its head slightly, looking down on the Magician, amber eyes glowing in its dark face: “that if you fail, your Elder masters have given you to me. A gift, a little recompense for arousing me from my slumbers.” The huge horned head tilted to one side, and horizontal pupils expanded to turn its eyes black and bottomless. “I have not had a pet in millennia. They do not tend to last long before they turn.”

  “Turn?” Dee swallowed hard.

  A wave of stinking fur, claws, teeth and eyes made yellow by the lights flowed down the streets, boiling out of the houses, leaping through windows, flattening fences, pushing up through sewers. Filthy foul-smelling creatures gathered in a huge silent semicircle behind the Archon. They had the bodies of enormous gray wolves … but they all had human faces.

  “Turn,” Cernunnos said. Without moving its body, its head swiveled at an impossible angle to regard the silent army behind it, and then it looked back at Dee. “You are strong. You will last at least a year before you become part of the Wild Hunt.”

  alamedes rounded on the Alchemyst. “See what you have done!” Anger had thickened his accent, making his words almost unintelligible.

  Flamel ignored him. He turned to Shakespeare. “There is an escape route?” he asked calmly.

  The Bard nodded. “Of course. There’s a tunnel directly under the hut. It comes up about a mile away in a disused theater.” He smiled crookedly. “I chose the location myself.”

  Flamel turned to Sophie and Josh. “Get your stuff. Let’s go; we can be well away before the Horned God arrives.” Before either of them could object, the Alchemyst had caught the twins each by an arm and pushed them back toward the hut. Josh angrily shook off the immortal, and Sophie jerked herself free. The Alchemyst was about to object when he realized that neither Palamedes nor Shakespeare had moved. He turned to look at the smaller man. “Quickly; you know what the Horned God is capable of, and once the Wild Hunt have tasted blood, even it will have little control over them.”

  “You go,” Shakespeare said. “I will stay here. I can hold them and give you the time you need to escape.”

  Nicholas shook his head. “That is madness,” he said desperately. “You will not escape. Cernunnos will destroy you.”

  “Destroy my body, possibly.” Shakespeare smiled. “But my name is and will always be immortal. My words will never be forgotten as long as there is a human race.”

  “And if the Dark Elders return, then that might be sooner than you think,” Flamel snapped. “Come with us,” he said, and then added gently, “Please.”

  But the Bard shook his head. His aura crackled warm and pale around his body, filling the air with lemon. Modern armor flickered into plate armor and chain mail before finally settling into the ornate and grotesque armor of the Middle Ages. He was fully wrapped in shining yellow metal, smooth and curved, designed to deflect any blow, spikes jutting from his knees and elbows. He pushed back the visor on the helm that encased his head, pale eyes glowing, magnified behind the glasses he still wore. “I will stay and fight alongside the Gabriel Hounds. They have been loyal to me for centuries; now I will be loyal to them.” He smiled, his teeth a ruined mess in his mouth.

  “William …,” Flamel whispered, shaking his head.

  “Alchemyst, I am not entirely defenseless. I have not lived this long without learning some magic. Remember, at the heart of all magic is imagination … and there was never a greater imagination than mine.”

  “Nor a greater ego,” Palamedes interjected. “Will, this is a battle we cannot win. We should go, regroup and fight another day. Come with us.” There was almost a note of pleading in the Saracen Knight’s voice.

  The immortal Bard shook his head firmly. “I’m staying. I know I cannot win. But I can hold them here for hours … maybe even until the dawn. The Wild Hunt cannot run abroad during the hours of sunlight.” He looked at the Alchemyst. “This is something I have to do. I betrayed you once; let me now make amends.”

  Nicholas stepped forward and gripped the Bard’s armor-clad arm with enough force to bring both their auras fizzing alight. “Shakespeare: knowing what I know now, I would be honored to stand and fight with you. But let us do as Palamedes says: let us choose our battles. You do not have to do this for me.”

  “Oh, but I’m not doing this just for you,” Shakespeare said. He turned his head slightly, glancing sidelong at the silent twins. “I am doing this for them.” Armor squeaking and creaking, he stepped closer to Sophie and Josh and looked into each of their faces. Now he smelled strongly of lemon, sharp and clean, and they could see their own reflections in the shining armor. “I have witnessed their powers. These are the twins of legend, of that I have no doubt. Those of us loyal to the Elders have a duty to train these twins, to nurture them and bring them to their full potential. There is a time coming when they will need their powers … indeed, when the very world will need them.” Stepping back, he shook his head, his eyes huge and damp behind his glasses. “And I am also doing this for Hamnet, my dear dead son. My twin boy. His sister was never the same after his death, though she lived for many years thereafter. I was not there to help him, but I can help you.”

  “You can help us by leaving with us,” Sophie said softly. “I know what’s coming.” She shuddered as dark disturbing images appeared at the edges of her consciousness.

  “Cernunnos and the Wild Hunt.” Shakespeare nodded, and then he looked around at the Gabriel Hounds, some still in their dog shapes, though most had now assumed their human guises. “Wolfmen against dogmen. It will be an interesting battle.”

  “We need you,” Josh said urgently.

  “Need me?” Shakespeare looked surprised. “Why?”

  “You know so much. You could teach us,” he said quickly.

  The Bard shook his head, armor winking. He lowered his voice and spoke directly to Josh and Sophie. “The Alchemyst knows more—much more—than I. And Sophie has access to the knowledge of the ages; she knows more than she thinks. You do not need me. I cannot teach you the elemental magics. That is your priority: if you are to have any chance of surviving the days to come, you need to master the five pure magics.”

  “Five!” Josh looked startled. “I thought there were only four elements.” He looked at Sophie. “Air and Fire, and then Water and Earth.”

  “Four elements?” Shakespeare smiled. “You’re missing Aether, the fifth magic. The most mysterious, the most powerful of all. But to master it, you have to first control the other four.” He lifted his head, turned to the Alchemyst and raised his voice. “Go now. Take them to Gilgamesh the King. And Nicholas,” he added gravely, “be careful. You know what he is like.”

  “What is he like?” Josh asked quickly, suddenly nervous.

  The Bard turned pale blue eyes on Flamel. “You have not told them?” He looked at the twins and then dropped his visor, completely masking his face. When he spoke again, his voice echoed hollowly. “The king’s noble mind is overthrown. He is mad. Quite, quite mad.”

  Josh rounded on the Alchemyst. “You never said—”

  And then a sound filled the night. It was the bellow of a stag: ancient and primal, the bestial coughing echoed off the metal walls and trembled up through the ground, setting the puddles vibrating and shivering.

  In response, Sophie’s aura appeared unbidden around her body, automatically molding itself into protective armor; Josh’s aura blinked into existence as a weak gold shadow around his head and hands.

  The damp oily odor of rusting cars and the wet fur of the Gabriel Hounds was suddenly swamped by a repellent stink. The twins immediately recognized the smell from a working vacation they had spent with their parents in Peru: it was the putrid odor of the jungle, heavy with the cloying scent of rot and damp, of decaying trees and noxious deadly flowers.

  And then Cernunnos and the Wild Hunt attacked.

  osh suddenly realized he had Clarent in his hands, though he had no memory o
f pulling the sword from the map tube. The leather-wrapped hilt was warm and dry in his sweat-dampened palms, and he felt a tickle like an insect on his skin. The ancient weapon crackled, wisps of gray-white smoke coiling off the blade as the tiny crystals set into the stone winked with red and black light.

  A flood of feelings and ideas almost overwhelmed him. They weren’t his thoughts, and because he’d handled the sword before and experienced its emotions, he didn’t think they belonged to the sword. These feelings were new and strange. He felt … different: confident, strong, powerful. And angry. Above all else he felt a terrible anger. It burned in the pit of his stomach, making him double over in pain. He could actually feel the heat flowing up from his stomach into his chest and down through his arms. His hands grew almost uncomfortably hot, and then the smoke leaking off Clarent changed color, turning an ugly red-black. The sword twitched in his hands.

  The pain disappeared, and as he straightened, Josh found that he was not afraid. All the fears of the past five days were gone.

  He looked around, taking in the defenses and the number of defenders. He had no idea of the scale of the army they faced, and although the metal fortress was well made, he instinctively knew it would not hold till the dawn. It was designed to stand against human attackers. He automatically looked up, trying to gauge the time from the position of the stars, but they were hidden behind a layer of amber-tinted clouds … and then he remembered that he was wearing a watch. Eight-twenty-five. At least nine hours till dawn, when the Wild Hunt would retreat to their twilight Shadowrealm.