Michael Scott - The Sorceress

"At the moment when you thought our sister had died," the Crow Goddess continued, "we sensed your sorrow, your regret at her passing. Free us, Sorceress, and while we control this body, we will not move against you or yours. That is our oath to you."

Unlike her husband, Nicholas, who was a man of science, Perenelle Flamel was a creature of intuition. She always followed her instinct; it rarely failed her, and if she was wrong now and the Crow Goddess attacked her, then she was hoping that a combination of her power and the deadly spear would be effective against the creature.

"Give me your word, then," Perenelle demanded.

"You have it," the two voices buzzed. "We will not harm you. We owe you a debt of honor."

"Close your eyes," Perenelle commanded. She stepped forward, leveling the spear at the web. Gray-white smoke drifted in tall vertical lines and cobwebs hissed and sizzled as she pressed the spearhead to the sticky threads. She tried to cut the strands that would ease the bound Crow Goddess down gently, but then she remembered that this was a creature that was almost impervious to pain. The spear moved in a huge slashing X and the creature tumbled to the ground without a sound. Although free of the web, she was still tightly wrapped in thread.

The red and yellow eyes opened. "Careful, Sorceress," the Crow Goddess muttered as Perenelle approached, holding the spear in both hands. The eyes fixed on the smoking blade. "A cut could be lethal."

"I'll remember that," the Sorceress promised as she carefully, delicately sliced away the almost-invisible cocoon, then peeled it back and freed the Crow Goddess.

The creature surged to her feet and brushed strands of sticky web off her leather cuirass. Then she stretched, leather cracking as she spread her arms wide and arched her back. Both voices buzzed together. "Oh, but it is good to be alive again."

"Is there any danger that the Morrigan could reappear?" Perenelle asked, straightening up, holding tightly onto the spear. A single movement would bring it down on the Crow Goddess.

Eyes flowed from red to yellow, then back to red again. "We will keep our baby sister under control." Then the head snapped around to look at something over Perenelle's shoulder.

Even as she was turning, the woman found herself wondering if she was falling for the oldest trick in the book.

Juan Manuel de Ayala floated framed in the entrance to the cell. The ghost's eyes and mouth were empty holes, and long curling strands of his essence streamed off into the tunnel behind it like a wavering flag.

"What is it?" Perenelle demanded, immediately knowing something was wrong. She waved the spear and the ghost briefly solidified as it looked away from the Crow Goddess and focused on the glowing metal head. "Trouble?"

"Nereus has come." The ghost's voice was high with terror. "The Old Man of the Sea is here."

"Where?" Perenelle demanded.

"Here!" the ghost shouted, and turned, his left arm rising to point into the gloom. "He's just climbed up out of the sea at the other end of the tunnel. He's coming for you!"

And then the stench of long-dead rotting fish and rancid blubber rolled down the length of the tunnel. parking, snapping and crackling, bright red flames roared upward, dirty black oily smoke coiling and twisting into the night air over the car yard. John Dee threw back his head and breathed deeply; all he could smell was the stink of burning rubber and oil, he could detect no magic on the air. "I'm going inside," he said, looking at Bastet.

"I would not advise that," the cat-headed goddess warned.

"Why not?"

The Dark Elder showed her teeth in what might have passed for a terrifying smile. She pulled her long black coat tighter around her narrow shoulders. "It would be a shame if one of the Wild Hunt mistook you for an enemy or the Archon decided to make you one of his pack. He lost wolves this night; he will need to replace them."

"I am not completely defenseless, madam," Dee said. From beneath his coat he pulled the short stone sword Excalibur and strode across the empty street toward the car yard. He stopped at the thick gates. The heavy metal was studded with punctures from the teeth on the Archon's club, and where the metal had split, it had been pulled apart and curled like aluminum foil. Dee brought the sword close to where the Archon would have touched the metal, but nothing happened. If Cernunnos had used any magical power, Excalibur would have reacted, but the blade remained cold and dark. Dee nodded; the creature had used brute strength to tear open the gates. He was beginning to wonder just how much auric or magical power Cernunnos possessed. Legend spoke of the Archons-and even the earliest Elders, the Great Elders, who had come after them-as being either giants or hideous monsters, and sometimes both. But they were never described as magicians or sorcerers. It was the Great Elders who had first developed those abilities.

Dee bit back a smile; now that he suspected that Cernunnos possessed little or no magical power, he was starting to feel more confident. The creature had suggested that it could read his mind, but it could have been lying. He tried to recall exactly what the Archon had said when it had first appeared.

"Your thoughts and memories are mine to read, Magician. I know what you know; I know what you have been, I know what you are now."

Well, that meant nothing. Cernunnos claimed he knew Dee's thoughts but had not proved it in any way. Dee knew that his Elder had briefed the Archon.

"The Alchemyst, Flamel, and the children are with the Saracen Knight and the Bard behind their makeshift metal fortress. You want me and the Wild Hunt to force an entrance for you."

Cernunnos had not revealed anything new, either. It was merely repeating a fact-a fact Dee already knew-and then stating the orders it had received from the Elder. It had only made it sound as if it were reading Dee's thoughts.

Dr. John Dee laughed softly. The creature was certainly ancient, powerful and undoubtedly deadly. But suddenly, it didn't seem quite so frightening.

Gripping the sword tightly, he slipped through the entrance into the narrow metal alleyway. He could hear the fire; it was closer now, crackling and moaning, painting the walls in dancing darting shadows. Dee realized that with every step, he sent up billowing clouds of gritty dust. Squeezing his lips tightly shut, he pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his mouth: he didn't want to breathe in the gritty remains of the Wild Hunt. He'd been a magician, a sorcerer, a necromancer and an alchemist for too long, and could easily imagine what foul properties the dust contained. He certainly didn't want them in his lungs.

He walked over stone-tipped wooden arrows and leaf-bladed spears and discovered that the ground was littered with short crossbow bolts. The sight took him back to his youth. He'd attended sieges, had studied warfare at the court of Elizabeth and could tell from the broken remains what had taken place: the defenders had trapped most of the Wild Hunt in the narrow alleyway and reduced them to dust. But why had they not held this position and continued to fire down and into the attackers? he wondered. Because they had run out of ammunition, he thought, answering his own question, and had been forced to withdraw to a more defensible position. Beneath the white handkerchief, Dee's lips broke into a broad smile. History had taught him that once the defenders started to retreat, the siege was coming to an end. Flamel and the others were trapped.

Emerging from the metal alleyway, he spotted the flaming moat. It completely encircled a mean-looking metal hut in the center of the camp. Dee hurried forward; he knew a dozen spells that would put out the fire, or he could transmute the oil into sand and use a separate Persian spell that would turn the sand into glass.