Michael Scott - The Necromancer

Billy patted Machiavelli’s shoulder. “Well, I think that went really well, don’t you?”

The Italian stood and brushed off his ruined suit. “There is a lot I could teach you about negotiation.”

“I never negotiate,” Billy said firmly.

“A word of advice, my young friend: it is always a mistake to anger an Elder. All he said was that he was not going to kill you today.”

“Well, since we’re in the advice business, let me trade you some,” Billy said. He returned the Macuahuitl to its shelf, tilting it so the sunshine sparkled off the black glass and sent prismatic rainbows across the gloomy room. “An old gunslinger once told me that you never draw a gun unless you intend to use it, and you never -ever -tell someone you are going to draw your gun. You just do it.” He smiled, revealing his prominent front teeth. “It’s a big mistake to tell someone what you are going to do to them… they might decide to do it to you first.” He turned to look at Kukulkan’s retreating figure. “When all this is done and dusted, he and I will have a little conversation, a serious conversation…”

Machiavelli bowed. “I like how you think.” He walked outside, blinking in the sunlight. “Now, how do we get back to the island?”

Billy held up his cell phone. “I’ll call Black Hawk.”

“I’m sure he’ll be surprised to find us both still alive.”

The American immortal shook his head. “Probably not. Black Hawk knows I’m impossible to kill. He’s tried it often enough.” He stopped as a sudden thought struck him. “What happens if your master dies? Do you lose your immortality?”

Machiavelli shook his head. “No, you remain immortal. There is no one to command you… and no one to revoke your immortality.”

“That’s interesting.” Billy’s cold blue eyes followed the Elder until he had disappeared into the grass. “Have you ever thought about killing your master?”

“Never,” Machiavelli said.

“Why not?” Billy asked.

“In case there comes a day when I want my immortality removed, a day when I want to age and die.”

“D idn’t you set a couple of your plays in forests just like this?” Saint-Germain asked lightly.

“Only the comedies,” William Shakespeare said in a hoarse whisper, “and my forests were populated by gentler creatures; this is an evil place.”

Palamedes stopped suddenly and both Francis and William bumped into him. “Will you two be quiet?” he whispered. “You’re making as much noise as a herd of elephants. And trust me, there are certain things in this forest that even I do not want to wake up.”

“It makes no odds,” Saint-Germain murmured. “I’m sure they know we’re here. They knew from the moment we left the car.”

“Oh, they know we’re here. We’re being followed,” Shakespeare added.

The two immortals turned to look at him. Although the forest was pitch black, their enhanced senses allowed them to see in surprising detail, though without color. Palamedes looked at Saint-Germain, who shook his head slightly; neither had been aware that they were being followed.

Shakespeare pushed his large glasses up his nose with his forefinger and smiled, quickly covering his teeth with his hand. “Right now, we are being observed by a forest spirit, female, short, dark-skinned, pretty, wearing an outfit which I presume is colored Lincoln green.”

“Impressive,” Palamedes said. “How do you know all this…,” he began, and then stopped. “She’s standing behind us, isn’t she?” he asked in Latin.

The Bard nodded.

“And she’s not alone, is she?” Palamedes continued in the same language, still looking at Shakespeare.

“She’s not,” the Bard agreed.

Saint-Germain slowly turned to look over the knight’s shoulder.

“I’ll wager they’re armed with bows,” Palamedes continued.

“Bows and spears,” Saint-Germain corrected.

The knight turned to face the welcoming committee. Their patterned clothing was the perfect camouflage, so it took a moment to pick out the dozen women scattered among the trees-he guessed that there were probably a dozen more he could not see. They were short and slender, with limbs a little too long, eyes wide and slanted, mouths thin horizontal lines across their faces. He recognized them as dryads, forest spirits.

One, a little taller than the rest, stepped forward. She was holding a short curved bow, a black-headed arrow already fitted to the string. “Identify yourselves.” Her voice sounded like the whisper of leaves.

Palamedes bowed to the creature. “Merry meet,” he said, using the traditional greeting. “I’ve not seen you before,” he added.

“We’re new.”

The knight straightened. “And with a charming accent too. Naxos… no, Karpathos. So what are Greek dryads doing in an English forest?”

“He called us.”

There was a flicker of movement behind the dryad, and she stepped aside as a tall, extraordinarily thin figure appeared. The face was that of a beautiful woman, but her body looked like it had been carved from the trunk of a tree. Arms that ended in twiglike fingers reached the ground, and knotted roots took the place of toes.

Palamedes turned, on the pretext of introducing the newcomer. “Don’t look into her eyes,” he whispered urgently. “Gentlemen, it is my honor to introduce you to Mistress Ptelea.” He turned back to the creature and bowed deeply. “It is always a pleasure to meet you,” he said, speaking in the language of his youth.

“Sir Knight.” Ptelea came forward to stand before the immortal.

Palamedes kept his head bent, avoiding all eye contact. If he looked into her eyes, he would instantly fall under her spell. Ptelea was a hamadryad. The knight was unsure whether she was the spirit of an elm tree or an actual tree given life, and while she had always been courteous and polite to him, he knew how deadly hamadryads were. “I am here to see my master,” Palamedes said, fixing his gaze on the point of her chin.

“The Green Man is expecting you,” she said. She raised her head to look at Shakespeare and Saint-Germain and they both quickly bowed. “Does he know you are bringing company?”

The knight nodded. “I told him that I wish to petition a favor.”

The hamadryad turned away and the knight fell into step behind her, taking care not to trip on the cloak of elm leaves that swept along the ground. “The dryads are new,” he said lightly. “I’ve not seen them before.”

“He has called together the forest and tree spirits from all across this Shadowrealm,” the hamadryad said, leading them deeper into Sherwood Forest. “They have been gathering for months.”

Palamedes nodded. “I wondered why I had not heard from him in such a long time. I had heard rumors that he was spending a lot of time in the Shadowrealms.”

Ptelea bowed respectfully as they passed an ancient oak tree, and for an instant the hint of a beautiful female face appeared in the wood; then it sank back again, only the huge golden eyes remaining on the tree trunk, watching them.

Shakespeare and Saint-Germain looked at one another but said nothing. It took an enormous effort of will not to stare at the tree.

“A sister?” Palamedes asked.

“Balanos,” she said.

Palamedes nodded. He knew Balanos was the hamadryad of the oak, but he’d never seen her in Sherwood Forest before.

“Are all the forest spirits here?” Shakespeare asked. “Dryads, hamadryads, wood nymphs…? I would very much like to see them.”

“They are all here,” Ptelea whispered.

“Why?” Palamedes wondered. He understood that the forest spirits were solitary creatures, living in isolated forests and woods across the world.