Michael Scott - The Necromancer

“Trust me, it’s not going to share your reservations about killing.” She pointed with her folded nunchaku. “It’s looking at us now and thinking: breakfast.”

Joan shook her head firmly and pushed her sword into its sheath, then slung it across her shoulders.

Scatty sighed. “If we don’t kill it, it will kill us.”

Joan shook her head firmly. “I’ll not kill it.”

“Can I remind you that you once led an army?”

“That was a long time ago. I will defend myself, but I will not kill an innocent creature.”

“Is that why you became a vegetarian?”

Joan shook her head. “No,” she laughed. “Shortly after Nicholas gave me your blood, I discovered that I really hated the taste of meat.”

The bear paused at the bottom of the incline and looked up at them. Then it reared up on its hind legs, threw its head back and growled.

Scatty revised her original assessment of the beast’s height. “Twelve feet tall.” She examined the creature critically. “I could take him.”

“Look at those claws,” Joan said. “One swipe will take your head off. And I know you can do many things, but growing a new head is not one of them.”

They ran for most of the morning, moving easily across lush waving grassland. Now that they knew this was a Shadowrealm, the tiny inconsistencies in the world became obvious. The breeze only blew from the south and always smelled of lemons, there were no insects in the air and although the sun rose in the east and climbed into the heavens, it seemed to remain at its highest point for far too long.

“It’s as if someone created-or re-created-the Pleistocene era from memory,” Scatty said.

“Well, they got the animals right,” Joan said, in French. Although she kept herself fit and in condition, she thought they’d run the equivalent of a marathon so far, and there was no end in sight. She had a stitch in her side and her calves were beginning to cramp. She was also conscious of the blisters starting to form inside her boots. “I’m going to need to rest soon,” she said. “I need some water.”

Scatty pointed to the right. “There’s a stream down there.”

Joan could see nothing. “How can you tell?”

“Look down,” the Shadow said, pointing. The earth at their feet was impressed with scores of hoof and claw tracks, all leading off to the right.

“If there’s a watering hole down there, then we’re sure to find something drinking there…,” Joan began.

“How thirsty are you?”

“Very.”

Scathach slipped both nunchaku out of their sheaths and turned to the right, following the animal trail. “Let’s get you that drink. And I promise not to kill anything that doesn’t try to kill me first.”

The trail dipped down into a hollow, and the grass, which had been waist high, now grew to their shoulders. It hissed and rasped together noisily. The air was filled with the rich cloying odor of life and growth. Without the cool lemon-scented wind on their faces, the temperature immediately rose.

Scathach held up her hand and Joan stopped and immediately turned to look behind them. The Shadow stood with the back of her head against her friend’s. “Be careful,” she said, using the French language of Joan’s youth. “Something’s wrong here.”

Joan nodded. “We cannot see through the grass, our sense of smell has been overwhelmed, even our hearing is impaired. Coincidence?” she wondered.

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Scatty answered. Pushing her nunchaku back into their holders, she pulled out her matched short swords. “Something is wrong here,” she repeated, “very, very wrong.”

They moved forward carefully, conscious that with limited vision, hearing and even smell, they were at a disadvantage. Anything could be hiding in the tall grasses.

“Snakes,” Joan said suddenly.

Scatty jumped and spun around. “Where?”

“Nowhere. I’ve just realized we haven’t seen any since we arrived. Yet this place should be filled with them. Especially here, in this grassland; it’s the ideal environment.”

They took another half-dozen steps and the grass suddenly ended. Directly ahead of them lay a sparkling blue pool, the perfectly still water reflecting streaks of unmoving white clouds in the sky above.

And sitting on the boulder by the side of the river was a man wrapped in a long hooded leather cloak. He turned his head to look at them, and they saw that the bottom half of his face was concealed by a scarf, leaving visible only a pair of bright blue eyes.

“Scathach the Shadow and Joan of Arc. Where have you been? I have been waiting for you for such a long time. Welcome to my world.” The hooded man stood, and as he spread his arms wide, they saw the curved metal hook that took the place of his left hand.

Sophie opened her eyes and Josh’s face swam into view. She watched the relief wash over his features. His blue eyes were suddenly magnified by tears.

“Hi, sis,” he whispered, but there was a tremble in his voice, and he coughed and tried again. “Hi, sis. How do you feel?”

Sophie drew in a slow deep breath as she thought about his question. She felt… actually, she felt fine. More than fine; she felt great -alert, strong and clearheaded. Sitting up, she looked around. She’d been lying on a narrow couch in a tiny cramped room that looked like it had been decorated sometime in the 1960s. The walls were covered in a hideous brown wallpaper inscribed with black and red circles that matched the curtains and the brown linoleum on the floor. A bright red plastic cloth covered a small kitchen table, and only two of the four chairs matched. The room was gloomy and smelled stale and unused, and the only light came from a cobwebbed lamp on a table in the corner. “I’m good,” she said, standing up and turning to look out the windows. She was surprised to discover that night had fallen and automatically looked at her wrist, but her watch was missing. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Over four hours…”

“Four hours! What time it is?” she wondered. The last thing she remembered was looking at Prometheus…

Josh handed Sophie her watch, which he’d been holding in his hand. “I was using yours. The battery in mine is dead,” he explained. “It’s just after eight now.” He looked closely at his sister. “Are you sure you’re OK? When I heard the Witch’s voice coming out of your mouth, I thought she’d finally taken you over completely.”

“Don’t worry, Josh. That’s not going to happen,” Sophie said gently. She laughed at his astonished expression. “Nicholas was wrong. Perenelle told me that the Witch’s memories can never take over mine.”

“And you believe her?” Josh said cautiously. He was watching his sister closely. If he half closed his eyes, he thought he could see the faintest hint of her silver aura-and was it his imagination, or was it tinged with just the faintest hint of brown… the color of the Witch of Endor’s?

“Yes. I believe her,” Sophie said.

Josh shook his head. “Soph, be careful. I don’t think we should trust either of them. And the more I learn about Mrs. Flamel, the less I trust her.”

Sophie felt a vague twinge of annoyance at her brother’s caution. Yes, Nicholas was not to be trusted; they’d discovered that he’d kept information from them. But with the Witch of Endor’s memories and knowledge swirling inside her, surely she’d know if Perenelle was lying to her. “Perry was apprenticed to Dora for something like ten years. She said that if the Witch had wanted to take over my thoughts, she could have just done it when she Awakened me.” Sophie smiled at her brother again. “So we were worried about nothing: Nicholas was wrong. I’m fine. Really. I’m fine.”