Sanctuary: The Sorcerers' Scourge: Book Two

by Michael Arches

  At the top of the hour, we walked into the courtroom together. I’d hardly sat down in the gallery when Eastwood appeared.

  He situated himself on the bench and pounded his gavel. After a few preliminaries, he said, “Ian O’Rourke will take the stand.”

  I stood next to the witness box while the clerk swore me in. Then I sat, blew out a deep breath, and waited for the next legal shit-storm to begin.

  The judge cackled. “I told you, when you lied last time that the French authorities were sure to find more pictures of you in France. We still can’t figure out how you got there and back, but we now have five photographs.”

  I was about to start lying again, but Nicky gave me a slight shake of his head.

  “There must be some mix-up, Your Honor,” he said. “Would you mind showing us the pictures you’re referring to?”

  The clerk must’ve been expecting that, because he picked up a manila folder from his desk. Nicky stared at the photos inside for a moment and then handed the folder to me.

  The first photo, we’d seen already, and it was grainy. The next one was much sharper. It had obviously been taken close-up, and I remembered the location. I’d just bought two tickets on a fishing boat for a day trip on the Atlantic, using Gill’s euros.

  After I’d handed the photo back to Nicky, he said, “Your Honor, I think you can clearly see the difference in Exhibit 2. Look at the man’s chin in the photo. See how wide it is? Now, look at Mr. O’Rourke.”

  My lawyer motioned for me to turn and face the judge, so I did.

  Eastwood squinted at me, and his eyes looked huge behind his thick glasses. Then he frowned. “Looks the same to me.”

  “Also, Your Honor, look at the man’s neck on the left side above his collar. No mole. Now, look at Mr. O’Rourke. He clearly has one.”

  Again, the judge squinted at me. Finally, he said, “Come closer.”

  I left the witness box and stood right in front of the bench. Eastwood leaned forward to get a good look at me. Then he studied a photo in his hand. “I’m not convinced. The witness will return to the stand.”

  I did, and my heart sank. The old bastard was as blind as a mole—the furry kind.

  I examined the next photo, shook my head, and moved it behind the others. Then I took a hard look at the following picture. Wordlessly, I handed it to Nicky.

  This photo showed me sitting in Gill’s truck at a traffic light. I had the window down, so the camera had gotten a good shot of me. It must’ve been taken on one of the rare sunny days there, because my face was lit up.

  “Your Honor,” Nicky said. “Take a close look at Exhibit 4. In particular, examine the man’s nose. See how pointed it is? Please compare that to Mr. O’Rourke’s nose. You must agree that there’s a striking difference.”

  I turned to look at the judge, but Nicky motioned for me to look forward instead.

  Eastwood grumbled, and then he said louder, “It looks like O’Rourke, but the photo is fuzzy.” He shuffled some papers on his bench. “Somewhere, I have Mr. O’Rourke’s mug shots from his first visit to my courtroom. Yes, here they are.”

  My breath caught in my throat. I hadn’t thought that he’d have pictures of me from Colorado. He probably also had a copy of my driver’s license in his file.

  Shit! I’m doomed.

  I tried to keep my panic off my face as I stared at Nicky. He held on to the same calm expression, with the corners of his mouth turned up. Then he said, “Excellent idea, Your Honor. Compare Exhibit 4 to Mr. O’Rourke’s likeness taken by the Sheriff’s Department. The facial profiles are distinctly different, aren’t they?”

  Eastwood stayed quiet for a few minutes as he looked at various documents and images. Then he gathered up his papers, carefully put them in a folder, and stood. “I will take this matter under advisement. This hearing is adjourned.”

  He frowned at me as he pounded his gavel and left the bench.

  -o-o-o-

  AFTER WE’D EXITED THE courthouse, I asked Nicky, “What just happened? He had the mug shot right in front of him. He could compare it to the French pictures.”

  Nicky laughed. “The rumor around the courthouse is that Eastwood has cataracts. I know he doesn’t drive anymore. He simply can’t see details very well, but remember, your mugshots were taken before Crystal worked on your face a few months ago. So you look different in your mugshots than you did in France. Eastwood could see that as well as I did.”

  “He must’ve been hoping Ian would simply admit the pictures were of him,” Diana said. “It’s time for the judge to retire.”

  “In one way, I’m relieved as hell,” I said. “On the other hand, that old fart just killed a few hours I could’ve used to get ready for Oran. We need to get back to the ranch and to Gill.”

  Diana drove me and Crystal back, and I praised her for her help. Every time I started to believe the woman was useless, she proved me wrong.

  “What’s the latest on Escobar’s ultimatum to Oran?” I asked Diana.

  She checked her phone. “No response yet. He still has a few hours, but don’t get your hopes up. There’s virtually no chance Oran is going to refuse the slayers’ councils. That would be suicidal. You’re going to be in the fight of your life soon, and we need to get you ready.”

  Chapter 18

  GILL AND I SAT at a private table, and I gave him a five-minute explanation of the photograph controversy.

  “While you were wasting time on that,” he said, “I’ve been trying to think of a silver bullet you could use to take down Oran. Unfortunately, nothing has come to mind.”

  “The last time, Osage magic saved me.” I’d told him before about the fight with Pestone, but I did it again. At the end, I said, “After I’d used up all of my Celtic magic. I was desperate. At the last second, I blended into the wolf, Washta. He actually saved the day instead of me.”

  Gill nodded. “Might work again. Tell me how those powers work.”

  I went down the list of all the animals I’d shared magic with: Hercules, Rascal, Washta, Lazarus, and the animals I’d healed. We talked about my abilities, but there was so much I still didn’t understand.

  Finally, Gill said, “We really need to get your grandpa out here. If I could drop everything and come from France, he should be able to stroll over from Oklahoma.”

  We headed to Laura’s apartment and sent Samuel a message on the secured witches’ network. While we were waiting for a reply, Gill and I worked through the Holar spells he knew so well.

  Two hours later, I checked the network for messages, and found that Grandpa had answered.

  Diana already asked, and I’m leaving soon. Should see you tomorrow. Love, Grandpa.

  That lifted my spirits until Gill and I headed to the dining room for dinner. Diana was already there, and she was wearing an even deeper frown than usual.

  “Oran finally replied to Escobar. Of course he’ll fight you.”

  That ruined my appetite. I had expected it, but that was far different from knowing for certain. “Do we have to agree to fight him?”

  I looked at Gill, and he nodded. “If you don’t, he’ll just ambush every clan member who ventures outside the ranch. You can’t hole up here forever.”

  Diana sighed. “Listen, if we want to remain in Boulder, and we do, someone will have to fight them. You’re our best warrior, and you vowed to fight for us.”

  Even if she’d let me out of it, I couldn’t back down. “I’m all in, but let’s face it: the odds are in their favor. That means we should get something really great in return for accepting such high odds, right?”

  She looked at me askance. “Like what?”

  “Beats me. You and Gill are the great wheeler-dealers. Get us a huge fucking bonus for agreeing to fight this lost cause. Maybe buy us as much time as possible so we can come up with a miraculous winning strategy.”

  -o-o-o-

  Monday, December 30th

  BEFORE B
REAKFAST, DIANA PULLED me into her office. “Two problems. First, you made another headline.”

  She tossed me the morning paper, which blared: Ian the Vain Chameleon. The subtitle said, He Just Keeps Getting Prettier. They had arrayed a series of photographs in two rows. The first was my driver’s license picture from three years ago. It included my broken nose and the scar on my forehead. Next, Paxil displayed my front and profile mugshots from a few months ago. Then she showed still shots taken during my various court appearances, the pictures taken by the French, and finally, a photo taken yesterday in Eastman’s court.

  The bottom line was that my face had changed more often than Michael Jackson’s. And Paxil had noticed.

  “I’m embarrassed by the suggestion that I’m focused on my looks, which I’m obviously not,” I said to Diana. “But I don’t see the problem. Eastwood isn’t going to be able to prove I violated my bail agreement.”

  “The real problem is that all this publicity must be gnawing at the prosecutors in Oklahoma. They’re constantly reminded that you’re here instead of on trial there for murdering the sheriff.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” I said. “Big problem. But I don’t know what to do about it.”

  Her silence told me she didn’t know either.

  After a moment, she said, “Second problem: Those sorcerers are in a giant hurry. I just received by hand, delivery of a territorial challenge signed by Escobar in blood. I asked the messenger to wait outside in case we have an immediate answer.”

  She showed me the scroll, which was handwritten on parchment.

  The National Council of Slayers hereby issues this Territorial Challenge to the usurper witches illegally occupying portions of Boulder County, Colorado. To hasten the end of this state of rebellion, we offer to determine the validity of our respective territorial claims by allowing two designated Champions to meet on the field of battle. The battle will take place at 9 a.m. on January first, two days hence, and will occur at Gardner Open Space Park. The winning authority will be entitled to the free and exclusive control of Boulder County for the practice of their form of Witchcraft for a period of ten years from the time that the battle is joined. The losing authority will vacate the territory within five days of the battle. You have until 5 p.m. today to accept this challenge, or it will be automatically withdrawn.

  I read it twice, and the main problem I noticed was that we had to respond by 5 p.m.

  “Why do we have to tell them today?” I asked.

  Diana sighed. “We don’t. I say, we reject it out of hand. We could tell the bastards we need until at least tomorrow at midnight.”

  “Works for me. I wasn’t going to be able to enjoy New Year’s Eve, anyway.”

  “Good, but before we accept the other terms, we should talk as a group.”

  Katie, Crystal, Gill, and Tess were waiting in the conference room. All of them had somber faces. They’d brought in coffee from the cafeteria, but I would’ve preferred whiskey to drown my sorrows. I knew what death row inmates had to feel like—that time moved too quickly.

  We sat in the closed room and stared at our high priestess. Katie sat next to her and put her arm around our Grand Poobah’s shoulder.

  Diana told us, “We have a little time to consider our options. Ian has already insisted that we reject this challenge because it requires a decision today. With regard to the other provisions, what do you think?” She swept her gaze over all of us.

  Tess spoke first. “We all know Escobar would love to take Ian’s powers or turn him into a gladiator slave. I say, we turn them down flat and force them to lay siege to our ranch.”

  “I can’t understand why we would accept before we know Ian can beat Oran,” Katie said. “I’m overflowing with gratitude for Ian’s proposed sacrifice, but it makes no sense.”

  “To both of you,” Diana said, “my answer is the same. We cannot remain isolated for long without outside sources of food, electricity, and natural gas. We’ll buy as much time as possible before the battle.”

  “My Celtic magic may not be as strong as his,” I said, “but Wakonda can conquer any human opponent.”

  “But will He fight for us?” Crystal asked. “I hate to bring up an uncomfortable historical fact, but Wakonda didn’t fight for the Osage when they were being overrun by white settlers in the nineteenth century. None of the Indian tribes convinced their Great Spirit to fight on their side. Even the Lakota got wiped out.”

  “The challenge has been made,” Gill said. “If we can figure out how to beat one man, namely Oran Byrne, you’ll get compete peace of mind for a decade. I, for one, think Ian’s Osage voodoo may win the day. They have no clue how to handle it, any more than I do.”

  Diana nodded. “Okay. Do we have any problems with the setting? Do we want to ask for more than ten years?”

  Tess and Katie both scowled. We talked over the other terms for fifteen minutes, and we eventually decided they were as good as we could expect. Diana wrote a note for Escobar refusing the offer but agreeing to consider one that expired in three days. Then she gave the note to the messenger.

  Katie asked me to join her in the lounge for a shot of Irish, and I readily agreed. After we’d shared a toast and downed our whiskey, we sat in comfortable chairs facing each other.

  “I pressed our professors to decode Gill’s manuscript quickly,” she said, “in case they might find something that will be useful to you.”

  I blew her a kiss. “In all our excitement, I keep forgetting about the book. Hopefully, it’ll still turn out to be useful someday.”

  Katie beamed. “Actually, I think it’s going to be useful now.”

  “How so?”

  “First, they translated part of several defensive magic spells spoken in the stories. Each has certain things in common. The spells use the pattern ‘Holarthon, elbo blank,’ where the blank is filled in with something specific to cast that spell.”

  “What does ‘elbo’ mean?”

  “They don’t know, but they’ve been practicing Holar’s spells for a day now with ‘elbo’ added, and it definitely helps. It probably would be best if we knew the English translation of ‘elbo,’ but Fred’s sure it helps as is.”

  That was the first gleaning of hope, and I prayed that it wouldn’t be the last.

  -o-o-o-

  TESS AND I SPENT an hour practicing defensive magic spells, and Fred was right. Adding “elbo” to all the defensive spells we tried gave us significantly more power.

  Right after lunch, I worked with Gill for two hours, and he agreed that we were making great progress. Not great enough to roll over Oran, but he swore I was improving really, really quickly nevertheless.

  I’d liked him better when he was a curmudgeon instead of a Pollyanna.

  To no one’s surprise, Escobar sent a second messenger with the same challenge, except that we had until midnight on January 2nd to accept, and the actual battle was postponed until January 4th.

  -o-o-o-

  GRANDPA SAMUEL ARRIVED WITH Francis in mid-afternoon, and we relaxed in the lounge, just chatting. He hadn’t come up with any brilliant insights to help me win, but just having them close made me feel a lot better.

  After dinner, I sat with my war council—namely, Samuel, Gill, Diana, and Tess, and we got plastered while we were brainstorming fighting techniques. Nothing was off-limits for the night, and at least we enjoyed dreaming about impossible forms of attack like ray guns and magic potions that would give Oran a brain embolism or heart attack.

  Later in bed, after Laura and I had woven some of our own brand of magic, I had a wild thought. “It’d be a crazy shame if we spent all week preparing to meet Oran, and then somebody else fights for Escobar instead.”

  She laughed. “Isn’t that the truth? Call him tomorrow morning and make sure.”

  Then she soothed me so I could get some sleep.

  -o-o-o-

  Tuesday, December 31st

  I DID CALL
THE next morning, but Oran didn’t pick up, so I left a quick message asking him to call me back. Instead, he sent me an email.

  I have good and sufficient reasons for fighting you, reasons I can’t detail. However much I regret our coming confrontation, I have no doubt of victory. Best regards, Oran.

  After I’d sent the email around, Gill tracked me down out in the barn and said, “That bastard. He’s hoping you’ll give up without a fight. He deserves serious humbling.”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” I replied. “Let’s make sure he gets it.”

  I only wished I knew how to make that humbling happen. At least I was damned sure to go out in a blaze of glory. Witches from as far away as Maine were sending me encouraging messages and ideas.

  Grandpa met with me alone, and we mostly prayed. He’d brought the sweat lodge, but I wanted to postpone the ceremony until the evening before the fight.

  A few of the clan members departed for safer homes on the West Coast, and I couldn’t blame them. I suggested the same idea to Laura, but she slapped me in the face. This was the first time I’d seen her seriously pissed.

  In the instant before the blow struck, the amulet shot a stabbing pain into my chest.

  Too late to do any good. Don’t say stupid stuff to Laura anymore.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one made stupid by our crisis. When I met Gill and Samuel in a training room, the first words out of Gill’s mouth were, “I’d like you to attack me, Ian, and take all my power. That’s what you need to beat Oran.”

  Samuel just snickered.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m turning you down. Magic won’t allow a gift from a friend or relative, and I’m sure the gods are smart enough to figure out we wouldn’t really be fighting.”

  Gill scowled. “You can be sure the other side is doing whatever it can to strengthen Oran.”