Robert Weinberg - A Calculated Magic

A tear trickled down the Old Man of the Mountain’s cheek. “I hate starting over. A man my age shouldn’t have to work so hard. Finding capable new recruits is such a pain. And convincing them that paradise exists in these modern times is growing increasingly difficult.”

“You could retire,” suggested Jack.

“Lamentably, I cannot,” said Hasan al-Sabbah. “Mankind’s dreams define me, I am what I am. And that is all that I ever can be.”

The Old Man of the Mountain gestured to the elevator. “Come, Mr. Miyamoto. Time for us to leave.”

“Care to explain to us what that was about?” asked Megan as Hasan al-Sabbah and Toshura Miyamoto disappeared in the lift.

“The Order of Assassins was destroyed in the year 1256,” said Jack. “Shortly before then, the Old Man of the Mountain made a terrible mistake. Secure in his mountain fortress, he executed two foreign envoys sent under a flag of truce. That treacherous deed incensed the lord who had dispatched the ambassadors. The Old Man had insulted the wrong man. Hulagu Kha Khan, leader of the Mongol horde, swore revenge. A million men overwhelmed the Hashashin. Alamut was torn apart, stone by stone. And the Order of Assassins was annihilated.”

Jack shrugged his shoulders modestly. “I merely updated the scenario. Instead of a Mongol horde razing Alamut, Hasan’s original headquarters, a Japanese corporation seized control of the Old Man’s new base through a forced buyout. Different titles, different times, same results.”

Megan hugged Jack. “My hero. Defeating the nasty Old Man of the Mountain without working up a sweat. Brains beats brawn again,” She grinned her wicked grin. “I’ve a nice reward for you. When we’re home alone, just the two of us.”

To the vast amusement of his six aunts. Jack turned beet red.

The Valkyries left a few minutes later. “Are you confident you’ll manage all right?” asked Gretta as she prepared to depart. His aunt pointed a finger at the Crouching One, standing alone and ignored in a corner of the room. “That one can’t be trusted.”

“On his own, he’s relatively harmless,” said Jack, “as long as you don’t shake hands with him. Nergal works through agents. Don't worry about me. In a few minutes, I intend to let him withdraw also. First, though, I want to put a plan of mine into operation.”

“In that case, nephew,” said Gretta, leaning off her horse and pinching him on the cheek, “take care. Say hello to your mother for us. Maybe sometime in the near future, we’ll come east for a visit. Or a wedding!”

“Sure,” said Jack, his mind boggling with the thought of a reception hall filled with Valkyries, gnomes, witches, and elves. He wondered if Megan might consider eloping.

With a roar of wind, the six white horses bearing the Choosers of the Slain leapt up into the air and sailed gracefully out the roof of the throne room. It was an exhilarating, magical sight. Even with them dressed in cowgirl outfits and shouting “Yahoo!” as they rode off into the night.

Strolling over to his travel bag. Jack pulled forth his tape recorder and pocket camera. Beckoning to his friends to stay away, he marched across the chamber to the Crouching One.

“Well,” said Jack, carefully stopping a safe distance from the ancient demigod, “I guess that leaves you as my last problem.”

“Don’t expect me to congratulate you on your great successes,” sneered the Crouching One. “You are a worthy opponent, Collins, but in the end, I will triumph.”

“Why is that?” asked Jack, casually switching on the tape recorder’s built-in microphone.

“Gods are patient,” said the Lord of the Lions. Like every supernatural entity, the demigod loved the sound of its own voice. “Immortal and indestructible, we can afford to take the long view of things. It doesn’t matter to me if this scheme fails, or the one following, or the one after that. I can wait. Centuries mean nothing to me. No matter how many battles you win, the last triumph shall be mine. And with one victory, the war will be over.”

“Why bother?” asked Jack.

“It is my destiny,” said the Crouching One proudly. “I am Nergal of Babylon, God of Death and Destruction, Pestilence and Plague. As it was in ancient times, so it shall be in these modern days. I am a God. And Gods rule mankind.”

“I thought you might say that,” declared Jack, pressing the off button on his tape recorder “Feel free to depart. There’s nothing I can do to stop you.”

“Thank you for realizing the obvious,” said the demigod. “I plan to stop at Hasan’s imitation Hell and rescue my foolish servant. Then the two of us will return to California. Roger is an idiot but he has his uses. I am sure you and I will meet again someday.”

“Perhaps,” said Jack mysteriously. He paused. “Would you mind if I asked one small favor? I know it may sound stupid, but in my numerous encounters with the supernatural, you’re the only real God I’ve met. Could I snap your photograph as a souvenir?”

Maybe if the Crouching One understood modern technology, he would never have agreed. Or if Roger Quinn had been there, his assistant would have suspected something amiss. But Roger was stuck on an island in the middle of a sea of burning lava. And Nergal was conceited as only a true demigod could be.

“Of course,” answered the Crouching One. “Take several. Would you prefer a normal pose? Or something more threatening, like the type used on cuneiform tablets?”

“How about both?” replied Jack, grabbing his pocket camera from his bag. “If you don’t mind.”

“My pleasure,” said the Crouching One.

The demigod spent five minutes mugging for the camera. Though pompous and overbearing by nature, Nergal possessed a keen sense of the absurd. The Crouching One seized the opportunity to strike the most outlandish poses possible. Which suited Jack, focusing and snapping his photos, just fine.

Afterward, with a polite nod to Cassandra and Megan, the Lord of the Lions exited the chamber. Jack, standing alone for a second, shook his head in admiration. The Crouching One was evil and dangerous, but for a demigod, the ancient entity had style.

“Want to explain to us dumb birdies what that was all about?” asked Hugo, alighting on Jack’s right shoulder.

“I don’t remember you collecting photos as a youth,” said Mongo, landing on Jack’s other shoulder.

“And why did you want a cheap pocket camera?” asked Cassandra. “If you wanted a crisp, clear picture of the Crouching One, I could have bought a top-of-the-line model. Considering the lighting with the roof blown out, these photos are going to be all fuzzy. They’re going to lack clarity and detail.”

“Exactly,” said Jack, cheerfully.

“Yous are definitely the most mysterious fellow I have the pleasure of meeting,” declared Boris Bronsky. He grabbed Jack and gave him a big bear hug. “Sorry, but I gots to be going. My government wants to know what happened here right away. I will give them a much-edited version of the events. Maybe they even award me a medal.”

“You deserve one, Boris,” said Jack, wheezing. His ribs felt as if they had been crushed in a vise. “Without your help. I don’t know if we would have survived. Thanks again.”

“We will meet again,” said the Russian. “I feel it in my bones.”

The Russian kissed Megan on the forehead, shook Cassandra’s hand, and winked at the ravens. And then he too was gone.

“Party’s over,” said Jack. “We should be going. Merlin deserves a phone call. Then sleep for all of us. Tomorrow, there’ll be time to relax and do some sight-seeing. After saving the world for the second time this summer, we deserve a short vacation. The bottle gets deposited in our suite and returns with us to Chicago when we leave. When we return home, we can sink it in a chest at the bottom of Lake Michigan.”