Michael Scott - The Sorceress

"We're going to try and activate one of the ancient ley lines and get these people out of the country."

Gilgamesh nodded. "Ley lines. Yes, lots of ley lines in Salisbury. One of the reasons I raised the gates there. And why do we want to get them out of the country?"

"Because these children are the sun and the moon," Flamel said, "with auras of pure gold and silver. And they are being hunted by the Dark Elders, who this very night brought an Archon back onto the earth. Two days ago Nidhogg rampaged through Paris. You know what that means."

Something altered in the king's voice. It became cold and businesslike. "They've stopped being cautious. It means the end is coming. And soon."

"Coming again," Nicholas Flamel said. He leaned forward, and amber light washed across his face, turning it the color of old parchment; the shadows highlighted the wrinkles across his forehead and emphasized the bags under his eyes. "You could help stop it."

"Alchemyst!" Gilgamesh's eyes widened and he hissed in alarm. "Palamedes! What have you done?" he shouted, voice high and wild. "You have betrayed me!"

And suddenly, a long black-bladed knife appeared in the tramp's hand. It flashed in the light as Gilgamesh stabbed it toward Flamel's chest. ilthy and disheveled, his clothing ripped and stained, hair wild about his head, Dr. John Dee skulked down the empty streets, keeping to the shadows as police, fire trucks and ambulances raced past, sirens howling. A series of rattling explosions lit up the night sky behind him as gas canisters ignited. The cool June night air stank of burning rubber and hot oil, seared metal and melted glass.

When Flamel and the others had escaped in the car, Dee had raced over to the moat, dropped to his belly in the mud and pushed his left arm down into the oily sludge where Excalibur had sunk. It was deeper than he'd expected and it swallowed his arm almost up to his shoulder. The liquid was thick and still warm where it had burned, and noxious bubbles burst under his nose, making him nauseous and lightheaded. His eyes stung furiously. He felt around, searching frantically, but touched nothing. He could hear sirens in the distance; the flaming moat must have been seen all across North London, and no doubt there had been scores of calls to the emergency services. Digging the fingers of his right hand into the soft muddy earth, he held on tightly as he leaned farther out over the edge, the side of his face actually touching the liquid. Where was it? He wasn't leaving without the sword. Finally, his fingers closed over a smooth length of cold stone. It took a tremendous effort to lift Excaliber out of the thick liquid. It came free with a pop. Rolling onto his back, he cradled it against his chest. Even though he was exhausted, Dee charged his palm with his aura and rubbed yellow power across the stone, wiping away the filthy muck.

Clambering to his feet, he looked around. But there was no trace of the Horned God or the Wild Hunt. The last of the menagerie Shakespeare had created-the snakes, hedgehogs and newts-were slowly winking out of existence, like bursting bubbles, leaving sooty outlines in the air. The car yard was a ruin, with scores of tiny fires burning everywhere, and black smoke billowed out from beneath the metal hut. Fire burned within. Somewhere off to the right a wall of cars creaked ominously, then swayed and crashed to the ground in a huge detonation of metal. Metal and glass shards whined through the air.

Dee turned and raced onto the street. He was unsurprised to find that Bastet and the car they'd arrived in had disappeared.

He'd been abandoned. More than that, he was truly on his own.

Dee was bitterly aware that he had failed his Dark Elder masters. And they had been very clear about what would happen to him. He had no doubt that Bastet had reported his failure. His lips twisted in an ugly smile. One of these days he was going to have to do something about that cat-headed creature. But not now, not yet. He had failed, but all was not lost, not unless his master withdrew the gift of immortality, and before his master could make him human again, he would have to touch him, lay both hands on him. That meant either his master would come out of the Shadowrealms or someone-or something-would be sent to capture Dee and drag him back to stand trial.

But that wasn't going to happen immediately. The Elders understood time differently than the humani; it would take a day, maybe two, to organize for his capture. And a lot could happen in that time.

Even in his darkest hour, Dr. John Dee had never admitted defeat, and he had always ultimately triumphed. If he could capture the twins and find the missing pages, then he was confident he would be able to redeem himself.

London was still his city. His company, Enoch Enterprises, had offices on Canary Wharf. He had a home here-more than one, in fact-and he had resources he could call upon: servants, slaves, allies and mercenaries.

Stupidity always angered Dee; especially his own stupidity. He had been overawed by the presence of Bastet and the appearance of the Archon and the Wild Hunt; he had not taken the proper precautions. On previous occasions the Flamels had escaped by a combination of luck, circumstances or their own skills and powers. But Dee had never considered himself to blame. This time it was different. This was entirely his own fault. He had underestimated the twins.

Blue and white lights washed over boarded-up houses, and the Magician ducked down behind a wall as a trio of police cars screamed past.

He knew the girl had been trained in at least two of the magics-Air and Fire-and she'd demonstrated extraordinary skill and courage when she'd faced down the Archon. But if the girl was dangerous, then the boy… well, the boy was doubly so. He was an enigma. Newly Awakened, untrained in any of the elemental magics, he handled Clarent as if he'd been born to it, and fought with a skill that was far beyond him. And that should have been impossible.

The Magician shook his head. He knew the ultimate secret of the four Swords of Power; he knew what they did to normal humani. The swords were insidious and deadly, almost vampiric in nature. They whispered of victories to come, hinted at secrets beyond imagining and made promises of ultimate power. All the humani had to do was to keep using the weapon… and all the while, the sword was drinking the humani's memories, consuming their every emotion before it finally gorged upon their aura. At that stage the humani forgot to eat and drink. The strongest survived for a month; most didn't last ten days. Magicians like him spent decades of preparation before they even touched the cold stone weapons; it took months of fasting and practice before they learned the art of forging their auras into protective gloves. Even then, the swords were so powerful that many a magician and sorcerer had succumbed to them.

So how was the boy able to handle Clarent?

And how had he known that Dee intended to kill the Archon?

The Magician cut through a narrow trash-filled alley and slunk down a deserted street. He pressed his hand to his side, where he could feel Excalibur's warmth beneath his filthy coat. All four swords were very similar, though each was unique in ways he could not even begin to understand. Excalibur was the best known of all the swords, and while it was not the most powerful, it had attributes the other swords lacked. Ducking into another deserted alley, John Dee pulled the sword from beneath his coat and set it on the ground at his feet. His little fingernail glowed yellow, and the smell of brimstone was lost amid the stinking refuse as he touched the blade with his finger and whispered, "Clarent."

The stone sword trembled and vibrated and then slowly turned, the blade pointing south. Excalibur always pointed toward its twin. Dee snatched up the weapon and hurried on.