Merlin started chanting in a strange language. Arthur's fingertips made Peter's tingle. Peter almost cried aloud as the tingle became a strong current, zapping right through his arms into his body. Without warning he crumpled and fell. Images whirled around him. Horsemen in black came at him through the mist, but he couldn't move. Moments later it was too late; one of them had grabbed him from behind and was dragging him to his feet.
"Quick! Someone's coming! We've been betrayed,” a voice hissed in his ear. He revived to find himself being hauled upwards by Tom Masterton. He was on his pony and galloping madly before he was aware of being on his feet. Tom Masterton rode behind and Uncle Paul (or was it Merlin?) galloped in front.
Pounding hooves behind got nearer and nearer. A rider passed them. He slowed his mount, forcing them to stop. Peter sagged in his saddle, terror overtaking him. It was one of the horsemen in black. The horseman looked at him. Peter heard the jangle of spurs. The horse came straight for him. The world turned dark and started spinning. This is it, he thought, his heart thudding. They think we're Merlin and Arthur. They're going to kill us.
But the terror and darkness dissolved abruptly into a bright summer's day and the rider who had overtaken them turned into Bartholomew Brown, the owner of the horses. He wore dark clothing, as he usually did for work, and rode his favorite black horse, Obsidianus.
Bart showed no surprise at the change in appearance of Uncle Paul, who was still sporting a beard, but fell in line with them and they continued riding toward the forest. Peter noticed with bewilderment that both he and his uncle were wearing their normal clothing. He spent the rest of the afternoon wondering about the reason for the experience they had undergone but came to no solution except that he and Uncle Paul had received power—or something—from Merlin and the boy Arthur.
By unspoken consent neither of them said anything to Aunt Angela, and besides, Peter was too tired when they arrived home to do anything but sleep. He missed dinner, but Aunt Angela brought him down a special supper and on the tray were his birthday presents, including a parcel from his stepfather in Australia.
It had been an extraordinarily exciting day. What more could anyone want? he asked himself.
Chapter 7
The Obsidian Orb
"I'D LIKE you to come with me for my final portrait sitting if you don't mind spending your birthday watching your uncle being put on canvas,” Uncle Paul said at breakfast the following morning. “Damien's a famous painter. For some reason he thinks the theme for his new exhibition—painting his friends as people of power from the past, both mythical and real—was my idea. It's novel anyway. I think you'll enjoy it. Would you like to come?"
Peter hesitated. The idea had no particular appeal for him. He was about to refuse when he caught a glint from Uncle Paul's eyes that reminded him of Merlin. It didn't take much imagination to see the beard that no longer covered Uncle Paul's chin. “Yes, please."
"Are you sure Damien won't mind?” Aunt Angela asked, as though sensing Peter's reluctance.
"I think I've known him long enough for him not to mind,” Uncle Paul said equably.
They set off straight after breakfast, leaving a reluctant Dreyfus with Aunt Angela.
The painter's house was a large two-storied building, unremarkable in design except that the whole of the top story was given over to a studio. There wasn't much furniture in the studio, although it boasted four comfortable armchairs grouped around a coffee table. But there were stacks of paintings leaning against the walls along with several easels, some of which displayed paintings. Two of these were covered.
"As long as you're quiet and don't fidget I don't mind being watched,” Damien told Peter as he placed a chair for the boy.
Then he swept the cover off the easel at which he was working.
Peter gasped as he saw the painting revealed. It was a perfect likeness of Uncle Paul dressed as Merlin—or of Merlin himself as they had met him that memorable midwinter eve. Although the portrait was only half-finished, the whole figure on the canvas radiated such power as to overawe the spectator.
Damien daubed away in silence for some time until, sensing his model was getting restive and stiff-limbed, he put the paintbrush down.
"It's going very well,” he said with satisfaction. He looked at his watch. “I guess you could both do with some lunch. I'll make sandwiches while you stretch your legs."
Without waiting for any reply, Damien hurried downstairs to the kitchen. Uncle Paul stood up, stretched and strode to the other covered easel. With a dramatic flourish he pulled the covering off.
The self-portrait beneath—except for the head—was also only partly finished. Damien's longish hair was hidden under a strange-looking hat. His beard, now full and long, and the hair that showed, were silvery-white and the forceful, dignified features much older than those of the painter. Only the eyes, radiating many lines, were the same: dark and deep, commanding even Uncle Paul. The half-finished left hand was raised, and the right hand rested on a manuscript on the desk at which the subject sat.
On the desk underneath the raised left hand was something complete in every detail: a black, shiny globe resting on a silver stand. And it was the ebony globe rather than the eyes or the beckoning hand that called to Uncle Paul, exercising an authority over him that Peter could scarcely believe. The tall man quivered under its influence as his fingers touched the painted orb on the canvas. His lips moved. Strange sounds came from his mouth in a voice that was subtly different. Cavernous and hollow, it echoed around the studio. Such was its powers of persuasion that the studio seemed to Peter to dissolve and change into a grassy slope under bright moonlight.
Before he could capture it fully, the vision vanished and Peter was left watching his uncle calmly redraping the cloth over the easel and turning to help Damien place sandwiches and tea on the coffee table. The rest of the visit was unremarkable and by the time Peter and Uncle Paul left it was nearly dinner time and the painting was finished.
Uncle Paul was silent all the way home until he turned the car into the drive. “We have to go out again after dinner, Peter. I need your help with something important."
"It's that—that ... thing in the painting, isn't it? It's the Obsidian Orb and we have to find it."
By then the car was cruising down the slope of the drive. Uncle Paul had his foot lightly on the brake. He looked long and hard at his nephew and his deep-set eyes gleamed from beneath the overhanging cliffs of his eyebrows. The hard line of his mouth made him look fierce. “Not find it, Peter—we have to make it."
"How?"
"Do you know what obsidian is?"
"No. Some type of stone?"
"It's a glasslike volcanic stone formed during the cooling off of laval flow."
Peter blinked. “Oh!” was all he could say. Then, “Do we have to visit one of the extinct volcanoes around Auckland? We learned all about them at school,” he added helpfully.
"A long-extinct volcano such as those around Auckland would be useless, Peter. There's not likely to be any obsidian around—certainly not the amount we need anyway. No. It's a live volcano we need. I don't mind admitting a live volcano is the last place I'd rather be.” He sighed gustily. “You see, Peter, I don't fear so much for myself. But I need you with me—and I've no protection to give you. I'd trusted I would have been able to garner my power long before your birthday, but this task is upon me before either of us has had a chance to amass any weapons of defense. And,” he continued, giving Peter another hard look, “protecting you is my most important mission."
Peter didn't dare ask what on earth his uncle meant.
After dinner Uncle Paul and Peter tried to hide their restlessness until it was time for them to go out again. Peter—too busy trying to make up to Dreyfus for having deserted him all day—didn't hear what Uncle Paul said to Aunt Angela, but responded instantly when Uncle Paul called to him that it was time to leave.
The journey to Mount Eden, one of the many extinct volcanoes
surrounding the City of Auckland, was made in silence, each of them too wrapped in his own thoughts for talk. When Uncle Paul stopped the car and turned off the engine, however, it wasn't on the top of the mountain, but down in the street. Peter was about to say something when Uncle Paul forestalled him by announcing, “The road's closed. We'll have to walk to the top."
Sure enough, the road to the summit was blocked by a road works sign.
"How did you know it was closed?"
Uncle Paul's sideways glance was sharp. In the descending twilight his eyes gleamed. “I closed it."
He strode around the barrier at such a pace Peter had to run to catch up. In silence they trudged along the winding road. On reaching the top they were both breathless—but still Uncle Paul didn't stop. Scarcely breaking his stride, he began descending into the bowl of the crater. At the bottom he stopped and looked around. “We're right in the heart of the volcanic cone. Can you imagine what sort of eruption created this great basin?"
"It's—it's ... awesome."
Uncle Paul held out his left hand. “Take my hand.” Peter did so. “Now concentrate—concentrate as you've never done before. I need the combined power of two minds to invoke this spell. I want you to imagine you're in the air like a bird looking down on this mountain. There are no houses. Apart from the mountain there are only trees. There's rumbling in the air, which is hot and strong-smelling. The rumbling gets louder and louder until all at once the earth can take no more..."
He stopped and they both spent every ounce of energy focusing on the picture created by Uncle Paul's words. Gradually Peter became aware of a spinning sensation. He ceased his intense concentration and opened his eyes. The spinning sensation disappeared. And he realized it was his surroundings that were revolving. The grassed crater of Mount Eden spun like a top, pivoting on the two figures at its centre. Peter's perception of the world was a whirl of black shot through with exploding stars for what felt like a long time, but was in reality only seconds.
The color change was imperceptible and it wasn't until he could feel the rapid increase in temperature that he realized there was no longer any grass. The sky above was blue and the sun shone. The crater had disappeared and the mountain top was black and virtually lifeless. Somewhere in the shifting black there were streaks of red. He could hear a threatening, rumbling sound and absurdly wondered how a sunny day could turn thundery so quickly. He felt Uncle Paul's hand jerk at his and he found himself rising. They moved obliquely upwards with a swiftness that took Peter's breath away, until they hovered above the mountain. As they looked down the rumbling came again—louder—and the mountain top heaved. More red fissures appeared.
Without further ado the mountain literally blew its top. The noise was ear-splitting. Only the protection of the spell that had brought them there saved them from deafness. It was one of the most awesome sights Peter had ever seen. No television documentary had prepared him for the real thing.
Above the fury and tumult he could hear Uncle Paul speaking. “Keep hold of my hand. Otherwise, you'll fall."
"Yes,” he replied, gasping, but couldn't hear his voice. It was a few moments before he realized Uncle Paul had spoken into his mind. He tightened his grip on his uncle's hand.
"There's no need to break my fingers,” Uncle Paul's voice said dryly, his face stretching in a humorless smile. “Just keep in contact with me and you'll be all right."
Peter grinned back, beginning to feel elated. He watched the red-hot rocks hurtling into the air and crashing around the mountain, and the rivers of lava flowing down its sides, engulfing trees, ferns and other plants in their paths, and he felt as though the power that had caused the eruption had come from him.
But his elation was short-lived. The sky appeared to be turning murky with black clouds. A bolt of blue lightning roared out of the sky toward him. He felt a shock-wave as it struck, knocking him directly over the volcano. Then he was falling ... falling ... plummeting into the boiling inferno.
The fiery cauldron grew steadily larger. Peter was beginning to feel the heat scorching his feet when he heard a faint musical sound—bell-like and yet like no bells that he had ever heard. It pierced through the uproar, playing into his mind, and he had a strange sense of deja vu. His fall stopped abruptly. Gradually the heat of the mountain retreated and he found himself hovering safely once more. He realized that someone was again holding his hand. He turned to his rescuer—and it was the Lady, clothed in a dark blue hooded cloak over a white robe. She was visibly shaken and her ageless face was white with shock. Peter had no doubt that his own was the same. Uncle Paul had disappeared.
Peter said his thanks into the Lady's mind and hovered with his hand in hers, happily drinking in her presence. The sudden reappearance of Uncle Paul broke the trance. White-faced, he hovered before them, his right hand clasping a great black chunk of rock.
Only it wasn't just Peter's uncle. Uncle Paul had merged with Merlin so that the two were one. He, too, was cloaked in blue, but his hood was thrown back.
"Are you all right?” He ran the fingers of his free hand through his tumbled hair, leaving sooty marks on his face. He needed no answer, however, and seemed to expect none. “My God! Why did I not realize...? Why did I not sense ... must be more vigilant ... such a dereliction of duty ... Stupid!"
Seeing Merlin incoherent was too much for Peter. He burst into laughter, though it was near-hysterical laughter, for he could see nothing funny in what had happened.
The Lady spoke softly. “The Evil One has more power than all of the Chosen at the moment, for they are but half-woken. The Evil One is also capable of outwitting even a Great One when that Great One is on a perilous assignment. You could not use your powers to find the precious mineral and to protect a half-woken Chosen One at the same time. So I came to your assistance."
Merlin bent in a stiff old-fashioned bow. “Madam, you may be needed elsewhere. With your attention distracted by our plight, your own defenses may be weakened."
The Lady smiled. “Then farewell, my lord. Farewell, Peter."
Her blue cloak swirled, the blue fading to near-white—and the Lady was gone. Peter heard a few faint notes of the alien-sounding music and yearned after it, his ears vainly straining to hear.
It was only then he realized that silence had descended. Whatever it was that had torn across the sky, attempting to destroy him in his half-woken state, had banished the exploding volcano. He and Merlin were hovering in darkness over the now innocent bowl of Mount Eden's crater. Merlin said one word that Peter didn't catch and Peter felt himself slowly descending. He landed gently in the center of the crater and Merlin released his hand.
It was very dark and in the clear sky a multitude of stars glimmered. The starlight caught Merlin's dark eyes and there was a fierce, triumphant gleam in them. He held aloft the chunk of black crystalline rock.
"Now to get it fashioned. We must choose a time and place that will confound the Evil One and his servants. I need someone with above-average skill in his craft.” He looked around swiftly. “We mustn't stay. We've been discovered."
He grabbed Peter's hand again and muttered a few inaudible words. Before Peter knew what was happening, he was sitting in the car, the great stone in his lap. As Merlin turned the key in the ignition, he looked over his shoulder. Peter could see the whites of his eyes gleaming in the faint light from the street lamps.
Peter turned to see what was behind. He caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a swirling, angry-looking black cloud rushing toward them. At the same time a powerful force reached out to him, its malevolence all-consuming—almost tangible. It beat upon him.
"Give up! Yield while you still have time! You know you can never succeed—a mere puny boy against a power a man can't resist. Yield!” Peter's fear had paralyzed his tongue; he couldn't have replied if he had wanted to. "Yield before I destroy you!” The voice took on a rasping quality, shouting into Peter's mind. In defense, he put both hands over his ears, clasping the hunk of obsidi
an with his elbows.
The black cloud charged forward to envelop the car. For a moment Peter thought he saw a giant spider leg within the cloud. Merlin's hand came down hard on the horn and its blaring drowned the few words that he shouted. The car felt as though it lurched into the air and spun crazily. Peter felt sick and dizzy. The air thundered and vibrated with the buffeting of the dark evil phantasm hounding them until Peter was sure the heavy car would be shaken to pieces.
Then, like a cloak, silence blanketed them. Peter found himself sitting forward with his arms over his head. Slowly he lowered his arms and raised his head.
The scene that greeted him through the windscreen of the car was breathtaking. It was full daylight. They were in a heavily forested valley. On their left in the near distance a vast mountain range soared, piercing the clouds. Peter had barely taken in this alpine panorama when he realized the silence was broken by the sound of running water. Bringing his gaze down from the snowy heights, he saw that the car had stopped beside a stream flowing down from the mountains over a pebbly bed. To their right the forest spread out, rising and falling into apparent infinity. Incongruously in such a setting, a road stretched before them, leading into the depths of the forest. It was narrow but extremely smooth and well laid.
Peter tore his gaze from the view and turned to Merlin, who had been ignoring their surroundings to watch the play of emotions on his companion's face.
The sorcerer smiled wryly, forestalling Peter's obvious question. “Where we are is of no importance at the moment.” He looked at the road stretching ahead of them. “I could perhaps have descended nearer our target, but I didn't want to draw too much attention to someone who will be giving me a great deal of assistance."
His face became grim again. “I have chosen this time and place, and these people, because of their obscurity and their tremendous skills. I'm sure the Enemy knows nothing about them. They cloak themselves well from prying eyes—especially from above."
The Obsidian Quest [Search for Earthlight Trilogy Book 1] Page 7