Michael Scott - The Magician

“Yes,” Machiavelli said shakily. He was astounded that the Elders-or was it just Dee?-knew about his secret files. “Yes. I met her just the once. We fought; she won,” he said shortly. “She made quite an impression.”

“She is an extraordinary woman; quite remarkable. Even in her own time, her reputation was formidable. What she would have achieved if only she’d chosen to side with us. I don’t know what she sees in the Alchemyst.”

“You never did understand the human capacity for love, did you?” Machiavelli asked softly.

“I understand that Nicholas survives and thrives because of the Sorceress. To destroy Nicholas, all we have to do is kill Perenelle. My master and I have always known that, but we thought that if we could capture both of them, their accumulated knowledge was worth the risk of leaving them alive.”

“And now?”

“It is no longer worth the risk. Tonight,” he added, very softly, “I finally did something that I should have done a long time ago.” He sounded almost regretful.

“John,” Machiavelli barked urgently, swiveling in the seat to look at the English Magician. “What have you done?”

“I’ve sent the Morrigan to Alcatraz. Perenelle will not see another dawn.”

J osh finally caught up with the monster on the banks of the Seine.

He didn’t know how far he’d run, miles probably-but he knew that he shouldn’t have been able to do it. He’d sprinted the entire length of the last street-he’d thought the street sign said Rue de Marignan-without any effort, and now, swinging left onto the Avenue Montaigne, he wasn’t even breathless.

It was the sword.

He’d felt it buzz and hum in his hands as he’d run, heard it whisper and sigh what sounded like vague promises. When he held it directly in front of him, toward the monster, the whispers grew louder and it visibly trembled in his hand. When he moved it away, they faded.

The sword was drawing him toward the creature.

Following the monster’s trail of destruction down the narrow street, racing past confused, shocked and horrified Parisians, Josh found strange and disturbing thoughts flickering at the very edges of his consciousness:

…he was in a world without land, swimming in an ocean vast enough to swallow whole planets, filled with creatures that made the monster he was chasing look tiny…

…he was dangling high in the air, wrapped in thick roots that bit into his flesh, looking down over a blasted, fiery wasteland…

…he was lost and confused, in a place filled with small buildings and even tinier creatures, and he was in pain, an incredible fire searing the base of his spine…

…he was…

Nidhogg.

The name snapped into his consciousness, and the shock that he was somehow experiencing the monster’s thoughts almost stopped him in his tracks. He knew the phenomenon had to be connected to the sword. Earlier, when the creature’s tongue had touched the blade, he’d glimpsed a snapshot of an alien world, shocking images of a bizarre landscape, and now, having stabbed the creature again, he caught hints of a life completely beyond his experience.

It dawned on him that he was seeing what the creature-Nidhogg-had seen at some time in the past. He was experiencing what it was feeling now.

It had to be connected to the sword.

And if this was Excalibur’s twin, Josh suddenly wondered, then did that ancient weapon also transfer feelings, emotions, and impressions when it was used? What had Dee felt when he had plunged Excalibur into the ancient Yggdrasill? What sights had he seen, what had he experienced and learned? Josh found himself wondering if that was the real reason Dee had destroyed the Yggdrasill: had he killed it to experience the incredible knowledge it contained?

Josh glanced quickly at the stone sword and a shudder ran through him. A weapon like this gave the wielder unimaginable powers-and what a frightening temptation it was. Surely the urge to use it again and again to gain more and more knowledge would become uncontrollable? It was a terrifying thought.

But why had the Alchemyst given it to him?

The answer came immediately: because Flamel didn’t know! The sword was a dead lump of stone until it stabbed or cut something-only then did it come alive. Josh nodded to himself; now he knew why Saint-Germain, Joan and Scatty would not touch the weapon.

As he raced down the street toward the river, he wondered what would happen if he managed to kill Nidhogg with Clarent. What would he feel, what would he experience?

What would he know?

Nidhogg burst through a stand of trees and darted across the road and down onto the Port des Champs-Elysees. It stopped in the parking lot on the quayside almost directly in front of Dee and Machiavelli and dropped onto all fours, huge head swaying from side to side, tongue lolling out of its mouth. It was so close they could see Scatty’s limp body caught in its claws and the Disir astride its neck. Nidhogg’s tail lashed, buffeting parked cars and smashing into a long tour bus, staving in the engine. A tire popped with a deep boom.

“I think we should get out of the car…,” Dee began, reaching for the door, eyes fixed on the swinging tail as it flipped a heavy BMW onto its roof.

Machiavelli’s arm shot out, fingers closing on the Magician’s arm in a painful viselike grip. “Do not even think about moving. Do nothing that will attract its attention.”

“But the tail…”

“It’s in pain, that’s why the tail is thrashing about. But it seems to be slowing down.”

Dee turned his head slightly. Machiavelli was correct: there was something wrong with Nidhogg’s tail. About one-third of its total length had turned black-it looked almost stonelike. Even as Dee watched, tendrils and veins of bubbling black liquid crept over the creature’s hard flesh, slowly encasing it in a solid crust. Dr. John Dee immediately knew what had happened.

“The boy stabbed it with Clarent,” he said, not even turning his head to look at Machiavelli. “That’s what caused the reaction.”

“I thought you said Clarent was the Sword of Fire, not the Sword of Stone.”

“There are many different forms of fire,” Dee said. “Who knows how the blade’s energy reacted with something like Nidhogg?” He stared at the tail, watching as more of the thick black crust grew on the skin. As it hardened, he caught a brief glimpse of red fire. “Lava crust,” he said, voice hushed in wonder. “It’s lava crust. The fire is burning within the creature’s skin.”

“No wonder it’s in pain,” Machiavelli muttered.

“You sound almost sorry for it,” Dee snapped.

“I never traded my humanity for my long life, Doctor. I’ve always remembered my roots.” His voice hardened, turned contemptuous. “You worked so hard to be like your Elder master that you’ve forgotten what it is like to feel human-to be human. And we humans ”-he stressed the last word-“have the capacity to feel another creature’s pain. It is what lifted humani above the Elders, it is what made them great.”

“And it’s the weakness that will ultimately destroy them,” Dee said simply. “Let me remind you that this creature is not human. It could crush you underfoot and not even notice. However, let us not argue now; not when we’re about to be victorious. The boy might have solved our problem for us,” Dee said. “Nidhogg is slowly turning to stone.” He laughed delightedly. “If it jumps into the river now, the weight of its tail will drag it to the bottom-and take Scathach with it.” He looked slyly at Machiavelli. “I take it your humanity does not extend to feeling sorry for the Shadow.”

Machiavelli grimaced. “Knowing Scathach is lying at the bottom of the Seine wrapped in the creature’s claws would make me very happy indeed.”