Michael Scott - The Sorceress

"No!" The dark stone blade winked bloodred again, and Palamedes drew in a deep shuddering breath and suddenly dropped the sword, a sheen of sweat on his dark skin. The weapon stuck point-first in the muddy ground, swaying to and fro. The mud immediately hardened in a circle around the tip of the sword, dried and then split and cracked. Palamedes rubbed his hands briskly together, then brushed them against his trousers. "I thought it was Excal-" He rounded on Flamel. "What are you doing with this… thing? You must know what it is?"

The Alchemyst nodded. "I've kept it safe for centuries."

"You kept it!" The knight clenched his hands into huge fists. Veins popped out along his forearms and appeared on his neck. "If you knew what it was, why didn't you destroy it?"

"It is older than humanity," Flamel said quietly, "even older than the Elders or Danu Talis. How could I destroy it?"

"It's loathsome," Palamedes snapped. "You know what it did?"

"It was a tool; nothing more. It was used by evil people."

Palamedes started to shake his head.

"We needed it to escape," the Alchemyst said firmly. "And remember, without it, the Nidhogg would still be alive and rampaging through Paris."

Josh stepped forward, pulled the sword from the ground and wiped the muddy tip of the blade on the edge of his shoe. There was the briefest hint of oranges in the air, but the smell was bitter and faintly sour. The moment the boy touched the hilt, a wash of emotions and images hit him:

Palamedes, the Saracen Knight, at the head of a dozen knights in armor and chain mail. They were battered, their armor scarred and broken, weapons chipped, shields dented. They were fighting their way through an army of primitive-looking beastlike men, trying to get to a small hill where a single warrior in golden armor desperately battled against creatures that were a terrible cross between men and animals.

Palamedes shouting a warning as a huge creature rose up behind the lone warrior, a creature that was shaped like a man but had the curling horns of a stag on its head. The horned man raised a short stone sword and the warrior in gold fell.

Palamedes standing over the fallen warrior, gently removing the sword Excalibur from his hand.

Palamedes racing through a marshy swampland, pursuing the staglike creature. Beasts came at him-boarmen and bearmen, wolfmen and goatmen-but he cut through them with Excalibur, the sword blazing, leaving arcs of cold blue light in the air.

Palamedes standing at the bottom of an impossibly sheer cliff, watching the horned man climb effortlessly to the top.

And at the top, the creature turning and holding aloft the sword he'd used to kill the king. It dripped and steamed with crimson-black smoke. And it was almost a mirror of the sword in the Saracen Knight's hand.

Josh drew in a deep shuddering breath as the images faded. The horned man had been holding Clarent, Excalibur's twin. Opening his eyes, he looked at the weapon, and in that instant, he knew why Palamedes had snatched up the blade. The two swords were almost identical; there were only minor differences in the hilts. The Saracen Knight had assumed the stone sword was Excalibur. Concentrating fiercely on the gray blade, Josh tried to focus on what he'd just seen-the warrior in the golden armor. Had that been…?

A stale unwashed smell assaulted Josh's nose and he turned to find the bald man they'd glimpsed earlier standing close to him, squinting shortsightedly behind his thick black-rimmed glasses. His eyes were a pale washed-out blue. And he stank. Josh coughed and took a step back, eyes watering. "Man, you could use a bath!"

"Josh!" Sophie said, shocked.

"I do not believe in bathing," the man said in his clipped accent, the voice completely at odds with his appearance. "It damages the natural oils in the body. Dirt is healthy."

The small man moved from Josh to Sophie and looked her up and down. Josh noticed that his sister blinked hard and wrinkled her nose. Then she clamped her mouth tightly shut and stepped back.

"See what I mean?" Josh said. "He needs a bath." He brushed dirt off the sword blade and took a step closer to his sister. The man looked harmless, but Josh could tell that something about him angered-or was it frightened?-the Alchemyst.

"Yeah." Sophie tried not to breathe in through her nose. The stench from the man was indescribable: a mixture of stale body odor, unwashed clothes and rank hair.

"I will wager you are twins," the man asked, looking from one to the other. He nodded, answering his own question. "Twins." He reached out with filthy fingers to touch Sophie's hair, but she slapped his hand away. Her aura sparked and the stench around the man briefly intensified.

"Don't touch me!"

Flamel stepped between the man in the mechanic's overalls and the twins. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. "I thought you were dead."

The man smiled, revealing shockingly bad teeth. "I'm as dead as you are, Alchemyst. Though I am better known."

"You two have obviously met before," Josh said.

"I've known this"-Nicholas hesitated, lines and wrinkles creasing his face-"this person since he was a boy. In fact, I once had high hopes for him."

"Would someone like to tell us who this is?" Josh demanded, looking from the Alchemyst to Palamedes and back again, waiting for an answer.

"He was my apprentice, until he betrayed me," Flamel snapped, almost spitting the words. "He became John Dee's right hand."

The twins immediately backed away from the man, and Josh's grip tightened on the sword.

The bald man tilted his head to one side, and the expression on his face became lost and indescribably sad. "That was a long time ago, Alchemyst. I've not associated with the Magician for centuries."

Flamel stepped forward. "What changed your mind? Was he not paying you enough to betray your wife, your family, your friends?"

Pain flickered in the man's pale blue eyes. "I made mistakes, Alchemyst, that is true. I've spent lifetimes attempting to atone for them. People change… Well, most people," he said. "Except you. You were always so sure of yourself and your role in the world. The great Nicholas Flamel was never wrong… or if he was, he never admitted it," he added very softly.

The Alchemyst swung away from the man to look squarely at the twins. "This," he said, arm waving toward the small man in the soiled overalls, "is Dee's former apprentice, the immortal human William Shakespeare." tanding framed in the doorway of his impressive town house, Niccolo Machiavelli watched Dr. John Dee climb into the sleek black limousine. The smartly dressed driver closed the door, nodded to Machiavelli, then climbed into the driver's seat. A moment later the car pulled away from the curb, and, as the Italian had guessed, Dee neither looked back nor waved. Machiavelli's stone gray eyes followed the car as it merged into the evening traffic. It was just about to pull out from the Place du Canada when an anonymous-looking Renault took up a position three cars behind it. Machiavelli knew the Renault would follow Dee's car for three blocks and then be replaced by a second and then a third car. Cameras mounted on the dashboard would relay live pictures to Machiavelli's computer. He would have Dee followed every moment he remained in Paris. His instincts, honed by centuries of survival, were warning him that Dee was up to something. The English Magician had been far too eager to leave, refusing Machiavelli's offer of a bed for the night, claiming he had to get to England immediately and resume the search for Flamel.

It took an effort to push closed the heavy hall door with its thick bulletproof glass, and Machiavelli suddenly realized that it was little things like this that made him miss Dagon.

Dagon had been with him for almost four hundred years, ever since Machiavelli had found him, injured and close to death, in the Grotta Azzurra on the Isle of Capri. He'd nursed Dagon back to health, and in return the creature had become his manservant and secretary, his bodyguard and, ultimately, his friend. They had traveled the world and had even ventured into some of the safer Shadowrealms together. Dagon had shown him wonders, and he in turn had introduced the creature to art and music. Despite his brutish appearance, Dagon had had a voice of extraordinary beauty and purity. It was only in the latter half of the twentieth century, when Machiavelli had first heard the haunting notes of whale songs, that he had recognized the sounds the creature was capable of making.