Robert Weinberg - A Calculated Magic

Jack clenched his fists in frustration. Of the six attackers, only the leader remained alive. Anxiously, Jack glanced at the bearded man, his back pressed to the doorframe. Face white with shock, the assassin surveyed the carnage surrounding him. Bloody lips moved as if in prayer.

“Stop him,” cried Jack, but it was already too late. Without a sound, the bearded man slumped to the floor, dead. There would be no learning anything from this group. Jack had a feeling that questioning prisoners was going to prove quite difficult.

“weaklings,” said Freda Collins, snorting in derision, staring at the bodies littering the floor. She was barely breathing hard. Daintily, she cracked her knuckles. “Odin would have sent us packing if my sisters and I brought ones such as these back to Valhalla.”

Mentally, Jack filed a note to ask his mother someday about her adventures as one of the Choosers of the Slain. It was an intriguing thought, but there were more pressing concerns to worry about.

“What are we going to do with these guys?” he asked. “Explaining their condition to the police might prove difficult.”

“No problem,” said Merlin, reaching for the telephone. “I’ll use a preserving spell on them so they won’t decay. There’s a friendly giant who often handles heavy moving jobs for me. I’ll have him stop by after the building closes and pick up the corpses. He’ll dispose of them for a reasonable fee.”

Sighing, Jack folded his arms across his chest in annoyance. Nine men had died today and it wasn’t close to suppertime. He felt as if he were living in an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie.

“Continue with your story, Johnnie,” said his mother. She looked at her watch. “But make it quick. I have a business meeting with Mr. Weissman, the herring importer, in thirty minutes. I dare not be late. It would make your father furious.”

Jack shook his head. When the real and the imaginary worlds collided, the real world won. His mom could deal with rampaging assassins without breaking into a sweat. However, the thought of telling her husband that she had fumbled a business deal was an entirely different matter. He hurried on with his explanation.

“There’s not much more to tell. In the middle of the thirteenth century, the Assassins made the fatal mistake of killing two envoys under truce,” He glanced at the two ravens. “Seabury Quinn wrote a story about the murders. He titled it, ’The Gentle Werewolf.’ ”

“Never heard of it,” said Hugo. “Another one from Weird Tales, I bet.”

“Right,” said Jack. “In any case, the order was crushed by its enemies and Alamut was destroyed. Few if any members of the cult survived. But by that time it didn’t matter. The Old Man of the Mountain had achieved legendary status.”

“I understand,” said Megan. As Merlin’s daughter, she was quite familiar with her father’s theories about mankind’s collective subconscious mind. “People refused to accept the Old Man’s death. Someone with that name ruled the cult for two centuries. Only an inner circle knew that it was not the same person. Tens of thousands of people in the region considered him immortal. In time, their belief created a supernatural being with the uncanny powers described in legends. As in the case of Dietrich von Bern, the actual human died but later returned as a creature of myth.”

“Dozens of novels have been written in the past fifty years postulating that the Order of Assassins has survived to this day,” said Jack. “There might be more truth to those books than the authors imagined. These attacks on me seem to demonstrate that the cult is still in operation,” Jack paused. “Which means that the Old Man of the Mountain is alive and well and living somewhere in America.”

“Sorry, dear,” said his mother, gathering him up in her arms for another bone-crushing hug, “but I’ve got to leave. You can tell me the rest later. I’m taking you and Megan out for dinner. A little celebration for your engagement. Hugo knows where. You birds stay here with Johnnie till then. Assist him in any way possible. But stay out of trouble.”

His mother stormed out of the office, her face aglow with the joy of a Valkyrie about to engage in battle. Jack wondered how Mr. Weissman would cope with his mother. Then he remembered his father’s deft handling of equally enthusiastic salesmen. Maybe his mother was right and today’s businessmen were the real dragon slayers.

“She acts like we’re not trustworthy,” said Hugo, his feathers ruffled.

“Freda always makes it sound like we encourage violence,” added Mongo.

“Well, Jack,” asked Cassandra, interrupting the two birds, “what’s the plan?”

“Yeah, boss,” said Hugo, flapping his wings. “Who do we kill next?”

Jack grimaced. “No more violence,” he declared, trying to avoid staring at the bodies on the floor. Instead, he found himself looking at one of the Uzis dropped by the assassins. It served as a grim reminder that the killers intended murdering everyone in the office, not just him. Shedding innocent blood was not one of their primary worries.

“Unless necessary,” he added, knowing he was opening a Pandora’s box by using such language with supernatural. They bent definitions easier than politicians. “And I mean, absolutely necessary.”

“We must somehow learn where the Old Man of the Mountain makes his headquarters,” said Merlin, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “He is the only one who can put an end to these attacks. Though persuading him to do so might prove difficult.”

Cassandra smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. Even the two ravens appeared shocked. “Give me a few minutes alone with him,” she said softly. “I’ll show him the error of his ways.”

“Hold on,” said Jack, raising his hands for silence. “We’re ignoring one important fact. The demigod behind things isn’t merely concerned with killing me. It plans to rule the world. There has to be another reason it contacted the Old Man of the Mountain than my demise. We have to discover that scheme and defeat it as well.”

“Sounds simple enough to me,” said Mongo. “I love complicated webs of intrigue. Where do we start?”

“Searching the pockets of our intended executioners might be a good beginning,” said Megan. “I know professionals aren’t supposed to keep clues in their pockets. But it never hurts to check.”

As expected, none of the men carried any identification.

However, a tattoo on one assassin’s shoulder served equally well.

“’I love Las Vegas,’” read Jack, astonished. “I find it hard to believe that any respectable murderer would have his hometown tattooed on his body.”

“These losers weren’t top-notch professionals, Jack,” said Cassandra. “I’d rate them fair at best. Maybe the Old Man of the Mountain has been experiencing difficulties recruiting new members for the order.”

“Maybe,” said Jack. “But I still suspect it might be a trap.”

“Who cares,” said Megan. “If that’s where the Old Man of the Mountain has his headquarters, that’s where we want to go. Trap or no trap. We don’t have much choice, do we?”

“Nope,” said Jack unhappily. “No choice at all.”

Roger Quinn looked at the blemishes on his elbow and shuddered. There were five of them, evenly spaced around the bone. Dark marks, the size of dimes, they closely resembled the fingerprints of a child or a very small adult. That, of course, was impossible. No one’s touch caused skin to brown and age like old parchment. At least, no one human.

“I’m at a loss to explain them, Mr. Quinn,” said Dr. Philips, frowning. “I’ve never seen their like before. It’s as if your flesh in those five spots is decaying at an unnatural rate. Nothing in my experience relates to selective tissue degeneration in such a selective manner. With your consent, I’d like to do some more tests.”