Michael Scott - The Necromancer

“This one is the leader of the pack,” Scatty said, taking a step backward.

The creature’s single good eye moved from the tiger on the ground to Scatty and back to the tiger again. And then it opened its maw and growled. The sound was incredible, a bone-shaking rumble that sent birds wheeling into the air for miles around. Then, slowly, almost delicately, it started to pick its way down the incline.

Scatty took a step toward the creature, but Joan caught her arm. “Do you remember something you taught me when I was fighting the English?” she asked urgently.

Scatty looked at her blankly.

“You told me that it was a mistake to fight the scarred warriors. They were the survivors.” The Frenchwoman nodded toward the beast approaching them. “Look at this creature. It has survived many battles.”

Scathach looked at the huge scarred saber-toothed tiger. “I am the Shadow,” she said simply. “I can defeat her.”

Joan’s fingers tightened on her friend’s arm. “You also told me never to engage in a battle unless it was completely unavoidable. You don’t have to do this.”

“You’re right, I suppose.” Scatty sighed, then asked, almost regretfully, “So what do we do?”

“We run!”

Niccolo Machiavelli took a deep breath of the salty sea air and pressed his hands against his aching stomach. Before he’d become immortal he’d been troubled with ulcers, and although his Elder master had cured him of all human ills, at times of great stress his stomach still cramped. Now, standing on the quay on Alcatraz, staring out toward San Francisco, his stomach felt as if it were on fire.

“We’re going to be fine, just fine,” the young man in the stained jeans and battered cowboy boots standing beside him said for the tenth time. “We’re going to be fine.”

“William,” Machiavelli said carefully, keeping his voice low, “how long have you been immortal?”

“One hundred and twenty-six years,” Billy the Kid said proudly.

“I became immortal in the year 1527,” the Italian said, glancing at the American. “I was alive when Columbus claimed discovery of this country. I am not the oldest immortal-I am older than Dee, but the Alchemyst Flamel is older than I, Duns Scotus is even older still, and Mo-Tzu older still. Gilgamesh is older than all of us. But I have had more contact with the Elders than these others. And let me tell you that our Elder masters do not countenance failure. They demand complete obedience. They expect results. And we have failed,” he added. He held up his closed fist and extended his little finger. “We were sent here to kill the Sorceress Perenelle”-he stuck a second finger up-“and release the creatures in the cells into the city.” Another finger. “Perenelle escaped, in our boat,” he added, extending a fourth finger, “leaving us trapped on the island with the monsters still in their cells. We failed. We are most definitely not going to be fine.”

Both men turned as the sound of an engine drew nearer. Machiavelli shaded his stone-gray eyes and saw a boat approaching, leaving a wide white wake across the bay.

Billy held up his cell phone. “I called for help,” he said, almost apologetically. “What do you reckon will happen?”

Machiavelli sighed. “We will be summoned before our masters and our immortality will be removed. We will die. Quickly, if we are lucky, but our masters are often cruel…”

Billy shuddered. “Not sure I like the thought of that. I’ve sort of grown used to being immortal.” Then he shook his head quickly. “My master is…” He paused, trying to find the proper word. “He’s different from some of these other Elders. I can explain all this to him.” He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the prison buildings behind him. “We’ll be fine.”

“Please stop saying that.”

A bright red speedboat pulled up to the dock and a tall, striking-looking Native American with copper skin and hatchet-sharp features grinned up at Billy the Kid. “Our master wants to see you-you too,” he said, looking at Machiavelli. “You are both in so much trouble.”

The cucubuths closed in on Dee.

Dozens had crowded into Covent Garden; scores more lined the roofs of the surrounding buildings, and their bestial howls still echoed across the city. The shaven-headed leader spread his arms wide, exposing the black tattoos that snaked along the underside of his arms. “What are you going to do now, Doctor?”

Dee reached under his coat and touched the hilt of the stone blade that hung beneath his arm. He had fashioned a sheath for it out of two leather belts. He had no idea what would happen if he actually used the sword. He had carried Excalibur for centuries and still had only the vaguest understanding of its powers. His limited experience with Clarent suggested that it was even more powerful than its twin blade. Though now that they had fused, they had to be even more powerful… or did the two cancel each other out?

The Magician quickly considered his options. If he did wield the sword, he was sure it would light up the London skies for miles around, and probably blaze into the nearby Shadowrealms. But if he didn’t use the sword or his powers, then the cucubuths would capture him and bring him before his Dark Elder masters. And he most certainly did not want to do that: he hadn’t reached his five hundredth birthday yet. He was far too young to die.

“Come quietly, Doctor,” the cucubuth said in the ancient Wendish language of east Europe.

Dee’s hand tightened on the hilt of the sword. He felt its chill numb his fingers, and instantly, strange and bizarre thoughts flickered at the very edges of his consciousness.

Cucubuths in leather and hide armor… vampires wearing chain mail and metal… wading ashore from narrow metal boats, fighting on a beach, battling hairy, primitive one-eyed beasts…

The sound that sliced through the night was so high-pitched it was almost beyond the range of human hearing: a single drawn-out wavering note.

The cucubuths fell as if they had been struck. Those closest to Dee dropped first, and then in a long rippling wave the creatures toppled to the ground, hands pressed to their ears, writhing in agony.

Virginia Dare stepped out of the shadows, her flute pressed to her lips, and smiled at Dee.

“I am indebted to you.” The doctor bowed deeply, an old-fashioned gesture last used in the court of the first Queen Elizabeth.

Virginia drew in a breath. “Consider this repayment for the time you saved my life in Boston.”

One of the cucubuths reached for Dee’s ankle and he kicked the hand aside. “We should go,” he said. A few of the creatures were already staggering to their feet, but another series of piercing notes from Dare’s flute dropped them to the ground again.

Stepping lightly over the mass of squirming bodies, Dare and Dee made their way out of Covent Garden. Dee paused at the King Street entrance and turned to look back. The cobbled square was a mass of twisting, shifting bodies. Some of the creatures were already beginning to lose their human appearance as their hands and faces reverted back to their beast forms. “That’s a neat trick,” he said, hurrying to catch up with Dare, who had continued on down the street, still playing the flute. “How long will the spell last?” Dee asked.

“Not long. The more intelligent the creature, the longer the spell endures. On primitive beasts like these: ten, twenty minutes.”

The street was littered with cucubuths squirming in pain, their hands pressed to their ears. Two fell off the roof of a building directly in front of Dee and Dare, hitting the ground hard enough to crack the paving slabs. Without breaking stride, Virginia stepped over their twitching bodies. Dee walked around them; he knew a simple fall would not harm the creatures, only slow them down.