Michael Scott - The Magician

…and behind his closed eyes, Josh glimpsed a series of flickering images: a blasted and ruined landscape of black rock, pockmarked with pools of bubbling red lava, while overhead, the sky boiled with filthy clouds that rained ash and cinders. Spread across the sky, dangling from the clouds, were what looked like the roots of a huge tree. The roots were the source of the bitter white ash: they were dissolving, withering, dying…

Nidhogg jerked its blackened tongue free.

Josh gasped and opened his eyes just as his aura flared again, stronger-brighter-this time, blinding him. Panicked, waving the sword before him, he backed up until he felt the kitchen wall against his shoulder blades. He kept blinking furiously, wanting to rub his eyes, but he didn’t dare loosen his grip on the sword. All around him, he heard stones fall, plaster split, wood creak and snap, and he hunched his shoulders, expecting something to come crashing down on his head. “Scatty?” he called.

But there was no reply.

His voice rose. “Scatty!”

Squinting hard, blinking away the spots dancing before his eyes, he saw the monster dragging Scathach out of the house. Its tongue, now black and brown, was hanging loosely out of the side of its mouth. Holding the Warrior in a crushing grip, it turned on its own length and pushed through the devastated garden, its long tail slicing chunks out of the side of the house, smashing through the only unbroken window. Then the creature rose up on its two hind legs, like a collared lizard, and clattered down the alleyway, almost trampling underfoot the figure in white chain-mail armor standing guard. Without hesitation the figure disappeared after the creature.

Josh stumbled through the gaping hole in the side of the house and stopped. He glanced over his shoulder. The once-neat kitchen was a shredded ruin. Then he looked at the sword in his hand and smiled. He’d stopped the monster. His smile widened to a broad grin. He’d fought it off and saved his sister and everyone else in the house…except Scatty.

Taking a deep breath, Josh jumped down the steps and raced across the garden and out into the alley, following the monster. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered. “I don’t even like Scatty. Well…not that much,” he amended.

N iccolo Machiavelli had always been a careful man.

He had survived and even thrived in the dangerous and deadly Medici court in Florence in the fifteenth century, a time when intrigue was a way of life and violent death and assassination was commonplace. His most famous book, The Prince, was one of the first to suggest that the use of subterfuge, lies and deceit was perfectly acceptable for a ruler.

Machiavelli was a survivor because he was subtle, cautious, clever and, above all else: cunning.

So what had possessed him to call upon the Disir? The Valkyries had no word for subtle in their language and didn’t know the meaning of the word caution. Their idea of clever and cunning was to bring Nidhogg-an uncontrollable primeval monster-into the heart of a modern city.

And he had allowed them.

Now the street echoed with the sounds of breaking glass, snapping wood and tumbling stone. Every car and house alarm in the district was blaring, and there were lights on in all the other houses lining the alleyway, though no one had ventured out yet.

“What is going on in there?” Machiavelli wondered aloud.

“Nidhogg is feasting off Scathach?” Dee suggested absently. His cell had started to buzz, distracting him.

“No, it’s not!” Machiavelli suddenly shouted. He pushed open the car door, leapt out, grabbed Dee by the collar and dragged him out into the night. “Dagon! Out!”

Dee attempted to find his feet, but Machiavelli continued to drag him backward, away from the car. “Are you out of your mind?” the doctor shrieked.

There was a sudden explosion of glass as Dagon threw himself through the windshield. He slithered off the hood and landed alongside Machiavelli and Dee, but the Magician didn’t even glance in his direction. He saw what had startled the Italian.

Nidhogg raced down the narrow alley toward them, standing tall on two powerful hind legs. A limp red-haired figure hung from its front claws.

“Back!” Machiavelli shouted, flinging himself to the ground, dragging Dee with him.

Nidhogg trampled over the long black German car. One hind paw landed directly in the center of the roof, crushing it to the pavement. Windows popped, spraying glass like shrapnel as the car buckled in the middle, the front and rear wheels lifting off the ground.

The creature disappeared into the night.

A heartbeat later, a white-clad Disir practically flew over the remains of the car, clearing it in a single leap, following the creature.

“Dagon?” Machiavelli whispered, rolling over. “Dagon, where are you?”

“I’m here.” The driver came smoothly to his feet, brushing shards of sparkling glass from his black suit. He pulled off his cracked sunglasses and dropped them on the ground. Rainbow colors ran across round unblinking eyes. “It was holding Scathach,” he said, loosening his black tie and popping open the top button of his white shirt.

“Is she dead?” Machiavelli asked.

“I’ll not believe Scathach is dead until I see it for myself.”

“Agreed. Over the years there have been too many reports of her death. And then she turns up! We need a body.”

Dee climbed out of a mud-filled puddle; he suspected Machiavelli might have deliberately pushed him into it. He shook water from his shoe. “If Nidhogg has her, then the Shadow is dead. We’ve succeeded.”

Dagon’s fish eye swiveled down to look into the Magician’s face. “You blinkered, arrogant fool! Something in the house frightened away Nidhogg-that’s why it’s running, and it can’t be the Shadow because it’s got her. And remember, this is a creature beyond fear. Three Disir went into that building-and only one came out! Something terrible happened in there.”

“Dagon is right: this is a disaster. We need to completely rethink our strategy.” Machiavelli turned to his driver. “I promised you that if the Disir failed, then Scathach was yours.”

Dagon nodded. “And you have always kept your word.”

“You have been with me now for close to four hundred years. You have always been loyal, and I owe you both my life and liberty. I free you from my service,” Machiavelli said formally. “Find the Shadow’s body…and if she is still alive, then do whatever you must do. Go now-and be safe, old friend.”

Dagon turned away. Then he stopped suddenly and looked back at Machiavelli. “What did you call me?”

Machiavelli smiled. “Old friend. Be careful,” he said gently. “The Shadow is beyond dangerous, and she’s killed too many of my friends.”

Dagon nodded. He pulled off his shoes and socks to reveal three-toed webbed feet. “Nidhogg will head for the comfort of the river.” Abruptly, Dagon’s tooth-filled mouth opened in what might have been a smile. “And the water is my home.” Then he ran into the night, bare feet slapping the sidewalk.

Machiavelli glanced back toward the house. Dagon was right; something had terrified Nidhogg. What had happened in there? And where were the other two Disir?

Footsteps clattered on pavement and suddenly Josh Newman raced out of the alleyway, the stone sword in his hand streaming wisps of gold fire. Glancing neither left nor right, he ran around the destroyed car and followed the telltale trail of car alarms set off by the monster’s passing.

Machiavelli looked at Dee. “I take it that was the American boy?”

Dee nodded.

“Did you see what he was holding? It looked like a sword,” he said slowly. “A stone sword? Surely not Excalibur?”