The Black Reckoning

by John Stephens

  Then Emma and the others were yanked to a halt. The sky was still blocked by the ramshackle roofs of the shantytown, but they had come to a sort of indoor arcade or forum. Grim-faced men were moving about, leading bound-together groups of men and women. Half a dozen or so wooden tables had been placed in a line, and at each table sat a man with a notepad and pencil.

  Emma’s tall captor, the one who’d struck her and stolen Michael’s knife, moved off without a word while the one with the hairy stomach—Emma could see the top of the Reckoning sticking from the waistband of his pants; she would need to give it a good scrubbing when she got it back—led her and the others to a table where a bald man sat squinting at his notepad and writing.

  “You’re late,” the man said. “How many is that?”

  “Five.”

  “Your quota’s ten.”

  “You try finding that many! Lands are empty. Miles and miles, there ain’t a soul. We’re gonna run out of the dead soon.”

  “Ha! He’ll just make more then, won’t he?”

  The bald man looked up, and Emma felt his eyes go over her, with no feeling, before returning to his notepad. She’d worried that someone more in charge would identify her, but apparently she was safe. And as she was thinking this, she glanced over and saw a red-robed figure approaching. It was the same rat-faced man from the beach the day before, and she quickly dropped her head and turned away. As she did, the name that had eluded her, the name Rourke had used for the wizards who served the Dire Magnus, came to her—the necromati.

  “Hurry up,” snapped the rat-faced man. “The master is impatient.”

  “Yes, sir,” the bald man replied. “Going fast as we can.”

  Emma didn’t look up till the red-robed figure had moved off.

  “Place is busy,” her fat captor said.

  “Been working nonstop for days. And all the ones we’re still holding are to go tonight. Something big is happening up above. What’s that, then?” The bald man aimed his pencil at the top of the Reckoning protruding from the other’s pants.

  “Just a book. Took it from the girl.”

  “Give it here.”

  “It’s mine, though.”

  “Not anymore. Not unless you want me to put down you didn’t make quota.”

  Emma’s captor grumbled but pulled the book from his pants. Emma acted without thinking, the brush with the necromati having made her panicked and desperate, and reached for the book as the man held it out. For one brief moment, she and the man were both holding it. Even if she’d managed to wrench it away, she had no plan for what to do next, and in any case it didn’t matter. The moment her hand touched the book, she felt the magic stir.

  And the rest of the world fell away.

  In her mind Emma saw an image of an old woman with thick gray hair, sun-spotted skin, and watery blue eyes; her name was Nanny Marge, and she held Emma’s hand in her large, soft one, only it was not Emma’s hand being held, it was the fat guard’s hand, his hand when he’d been a child; and Emma experienced a sudden overpowering love for the old woman; it filled her up—

  “Off!”

  Emma was shoved hard in the shoulder, lost her grip on the book, and tumbled to the ground. The bald man was standing at the table, red-faced with anger. He seized the book from the dazed guard and jammed it in the pocket of his coat.

  “Lock ’em up. Now! And watch that one!” He pointed at Emma.

  The guard—with a shock, Emma realized that she now knew his name: it was Harold Barnes; though that was all she knew, that and his love for the old woman—came out of his stupor and pulled Emma to her feet. Emma tried to catch his eye, but the man wouldn’t look at her. Dragging on the cord that bound Emma and the others, he led them past the man at the desk and into a dark passageway. Emma stumbled along, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Ever since passing out in Willy’s room, back in the land of the giants, she’d known that some of the Reckoning’s magic was within her. But this was new. And why had the book shown her that old woman? What did it mean?

  Then they came out of the tunnel, and every other thought was driven from her mind.

  Traveling through the maze of the shantytown, Emma had lost all sense of direction and progress, and so it was a shock to find herself in the middle of the enormous circular structure she’d seen from across the plain. The thing had an arena-like quality, with its large, open central space. But this was not a place for spectators, at least not willing ones, for the circular building—now that Emma was close to it—revealed itself to be made of hundreds of wooden cages, each the size of a boxcar and stacked on top of one another. And in the cages, Emma could see people.

  It was a prison for the dead.

  And that wasn’t all. For in the center of the open area, not far from where Emma and the others had emerged from the tunnel, was a pit, perhaps fifty feet across and twenty feet deep. There was no fire that Emma could see, but black smoke rose up from the pit as if the bottom was covered in smoldering ash.

  Why were the dead being held captive? What happened here? What did the Dire Magnus’s minions do to them? The bald man who’d taken the book had said they were all to go tonight, but go where?

  She remembered Dr. Pym saying that there was some evil in this land, and she felt as if she’d penetrated to the heart of that evil only to find that she understood even less than before. And did she want to understand? Emma had never been anywhere that felt so utterly hopeless and foul. She wanted just to get the Reckoning and escape.

  A lattice of scaffolding connected the cages, and with shouts, kicks, and shoves, Harold Barnes drove Emma and the others up a ladder to a cage on the second level. There was a crude metal lock he had to work at for several moments, then there was a clank and he jerked open the door, cut the cords that bound their wrists, and pushed them inside. Emma landed hard on her knees and heard the door slam shut.

  “Wait!” Emma turned and threw herself against the door. “You saw her! Nanny Marge! You saw her!”

  The man stopped on the ladder and looked back, and for one instant his face changed. Quite simply, it came alive. And Emma saw the change and knew for certain then that he’d seen what she had, and what was more, he still remembered.

  There was a shout, someone from below calling the man.

  “No!” Emma cried. “Don’t—”

  But Harold Barnes had already hurriedly climbed back down.

  Emma stood there, gripping the bars. Okay, she thought, think for a second. When she and Harold Barnes had touched the book at the same time, the magic had opened a window into his life. Then, somehow, either she or the book had given him back his memory; he knew who he was!

  Great. And that helped her how, exactly? She was still a prisoner; she still didn’t have the book; she still didn’t know how to get back to the world of the living.

  One thing at a time. She just needed a plan. Emma knew that planning wasn’t really her strength, but Michael was always coming up with plans; how hard could it be?

  Night was beginning to settle in, but Emma could see that there were maybe twenty people in the cage, including the four she’d arrived with. They were men and women, both young and old, though she, it seemed, was the youngest. Most of the other prisoners were sitting on the floor with their backs against the wooden bars. All of them had the vacant expressions of the dead.

  As to the cage itself, the floor and ceiling were solid, but Emma could see through the bars into the open arena and smoking pit in one direction, and in the other, out over the roofs of the shantytown to the plain and mountains in the distance. She could also see into the cages on either side. One was filled with people, while the other appeared to be empty, save for a pile of dirty rags in a corner. Emma walked to that wall and sat down with her back against the bars.

  How she wished she had someone to help her! Or just to talk to! Kate, Michael, Gabriel, even Dr. Pym! He should be here helping her instead of running a water taxi for dead people! And it was pointless tryi
ng to engage the dead trapped with her. As it was, just being around them depressed her.

  If only Gabriel were here! Her mind kept coming back to that one thought. She knew that only the Keeper of the Reckoning could pass into the world of the dead, but such was her faith in him, and in his love for her, that some small part of her still clung to the hope that he might somehow find a way.

  Stop it, she told herself. It’s just you, and you need a plan.

  Then a voice behind her, from the cage she’d thought was empty, spoke:

  “I wondered how long it would take them to find you.”

  Emma leapt up and whirled about, staring into the shadows of the other cage. The pile of rags was starting to move, and she watched as the thing dragged itself into the light, revealing twisted and mangled bones, sagging, mottled skin, black nails, and, finally, a pair of blinking, bloodshot, violet eyes.

  “But where’s the book?” the Countess sneered. “You found it, didn’t you? When I first came here, the first time I died, I tried to force the carriadin to give it back to me. But they refused! ‘Only the Keeper! Only the Keeper!’ So where is it, child?”

  Emma clung to the bars of the cage. She felt as if she might pass out.

  She heard herself answering, “They…took it. The men who brought me here.”

  Emma couldn’t stop staring at the Countess’s broken body. Was she that way because Willy had stomped on her? It crossed Emma’s mind to wonder how someone could look like that and be alive, but then she remembered that the Countess wasn’t alive.

  “You lost it!” The woman grabbed the bars of her cage as if she intended to rip them free. “You can’t have lost it!”

  “I couldn’t help it! They—”

  Emma stopped herself. The witch’s head had dropped, her shoulders were shaking, and she was making little whimpering sounds. She was crying.

  “Hey,” Emma said quietly, squatting down, “are you all right?”

  The Countess looked up; tears streamed down the thick grooves of her face. “Do you have any conception of what I have been through? I died more than two thousand years ago. The dead do not feel the passage of time; I do. I felt every day as I waited for your brother to restore me to life. But I never gave up hope.

  “Even forty years ago, when the Dire Magnus himself came to this world and began all this”—she waved her gnarled hand to indicate the prison, the shantytown—“I did not doubt but that I would one day succeed. And then I did. I came back—”

  “And Willy squashed you like a bug.”

  The Countess’s already twisted face contorted even more. “Yes. And I was returned to this hell as the warped creature you see. Captured instantly by the Dire Magnus’s minions and brought here. But still I clung to hope. Of what? That you would come and retrieve the book. That if nothing else, even if I spent the rest of time trapped in this wretched place, in this wretched body, that you would carry out my revenge and destroy the Dire Magnus. But you lost the book! You failed! Utterly and totally. So no, I am not all right!” And she spat, disgusted, on the floor of her cage.

  Emma said nothing for a moment. She had no idea what waiting for something for two thousand years and not getting it might feel like, but she guessed it would feel pretty bad. And after giving the Countess’s words the amount of silent consideration they seemed to deserve—Emma accorded them three seconds—she said:

  “So how do you remember me? Even Dr. Pym couldn’t remember me. How is it you can?”

  The Countess stared at her. She seemed exhausted by her tirade and to be debating whether to answer Emma’s question or simply retreat to her corner. Finally, she said, “I once wielded the Reckoning, girl. Not for long, I grant you, but it left its mark. Death could not touch my memories. Now, leave me alone.”

  She started to crawl away.

  “Hey! Wait!”

  “It is over.” The witch sounded merely tired now, not even angry. “You’ve lost your only chance. Our only chance.”

  “Wait! I don’t understand any of this! Just tell me, I get why you can remember me. But those creeps who brought me here. They’re not like other dead people either.” Emma wasn’t quite sure why she was pursuing this point, but she sensed it was important. It was related somehow to the Reckoning; and the Countess knew the answer. “They talk and act almost like real people. Evil people, yeah, but—”

  “Shut up! Just stop talking!” The Countess shook her head, but it was more in resignation than anything else. “They are but tools of the Dire Magnus. They remember no more of their lives than these fools.” She jerked her chin toward the men and women in Emma’s cell. “But his power here is very great. He finds weak spirits and forces them to do his bidding. He winds them up like dolls and sets them into motion. The men who brought you here, they may have given a semblance of intention, but they are empty inside.”

  Emma thought of Harold Barnes and the tall man who’d captured her, of the bald man at the desk, how they moved with more purpose than the rest of the dead, but there was still a vagueness in their eyes. Everything the Countess said matched Emma’s own observations.

  Only Harold Barnes had been different after she’d given him the memory of his Nanny Marge; she’d seen it in his face.

  “What about those wizard guys in the red robes?”

  “The necromati?”

  “Yeah, I know what they’re called,” Emma said testily, wishing she had said the name, since she had actually remembered it. “What about them?”

  “Their master shares with them some of his power. But in the end, they are no different from the others. Since the beginning of time, only two have ever come to the world of the dead and managed to keep their memories. Myself and the Dire Magnus.”

  And me too, Emma thought, though she didn’t say it.

  “So what is this place? Why’re all these people locked up? You’ve gotta tell me that!”

  The Countess looked at Emma, and a leering, wolfish grin spread across her face. “Yes, child, I will tell you that.” She edged closer to the bars. “You’ve stumbled onto the Dire Magnus’s great secret. The source of his newfound power. And he is stronger now, is he not? In the world above?”

  “Yeah. Rourke said this whole war was something he never could’ve done before.”

  “And did Pym ever tell you how the Dark One lived as long as he did?”

  Emma knew that he had, in the elfish forest at the bottom of the world, after she and Michael had escaped from the volcano. But Emma had hardly listened; Kate had just returned from the past and died, Gabriel had been hurt, and, well, who could really pay attention to everything the wizard said anyway?

  “You don’t remember, do you? What a waste. I actually feel bad for Pym, having to deal with such a blockhead.”

  Emma started to say something along the lines of how funny it had been to watch Willy stomp the Countess like she was an ant, but in an act of self-control that would’ve surprised anyone who had ever met her, she kept her mouth shut.

  “You see,” the Countess said, “the universe has been—”

  “Blown up and put back together over and over,” Emma said. “I remember that part.”

  “Aren’t you a bright penny! Well, long ago, the Dire Magnus reached into those previous versions of the universe and pulled out nine different incarnations of his spirit, his essence, his soul, whatever word you like. And he spread them out across time so that he would be reborn again and again.”

  “He can do that?” Emma said.

  “He has done it, child! Is that not proof enough?”

  Emma acknowledged that this was a fair point.

  “But the question”—the Countess brought her sagging lips even closer—“is what happens at that moment when one Dire Magnus dies and the next is born?”

  “Do you want me to guess?” Emma asked. “ ’Cause Dr. Pym always asks questions like that but then just answers them himself.”

  The witch looked annoyed. “A transference. The spirit of the dying
Dire Magnus is grafted onto the spirit of the new, along with all the old one’s memories and powers. You’ve met your enemy, have you not? And he seemed to be one being? One person? The truth is that inside him were the spirits of each previous incarnation quilted together into a patchwork soul.”

  Emma thought about Rafe, the boy Kate had known in the past, who had saved her life and in so doing become the Dire Magnus. According to the Countess, the spirits and memories of each Dire Magnus had basically latched on to his own. No wonder Kate believed Rafe was still alive in there. Maybe he actually was.

  The Countess went on, “And one’s spirit—pay attention now—is the seat of magic in all of us; its very substance is magic, and so each time he’s taken on a new spirit, his own store of magic, his power, has grown.”

  Emma shook her head. “That doesn’t explain how he’s so much stronger now. He would’ve been just as powerful a hundred years ago or whatever. And Dr. Pym—”

  “I’m coming to that. So forty years ago, Pym and his companions bested him. Killed him. They thought their battle won. But the Dire Magnus had prepared, burying his memories where death could not touch them. Like me, he intended to return to the living world….”

  There was a commotion in the arena; Emma stayed where she was, listening.

  “Yet if he did return, he needed power. Power to wage war against the magical world, power to defeat Pym and his allies, power to finally seize control of the Books. Only, where to find it? Especially now that he was trapped in this wasteland? The answer was all around him.

  “For it is not merely witches and wizards whose spirits are infused with magic; all beings claim this gift. And the Dark One reasoned that if his power had grown each time he’d taken on the spirit of his former self, then would it not also grow if he consumed the spirits of others? Say, a hundred others! Or a thousand! Or ten thousand! You see, in killing him, Pym sent his enemy to a world of spirits ready-made to be devoured.”