Michael Scott - The Magician

For a single heartbeat, the Disir stood on the quayside, looking lost and bewildered. Then she spotted the newcomers. Turning, she raced toward them, sword held high over her head, screeching a barbaric war cry.

“I ’ll take care of this,” Joan said, sounding almost pleased at the prospect. She touched Flamel’s sleeve and nodded to where the Warrior was still wrapped in Nidhogg’s claws. “Get Scathach.” The monster was now less than six feet from the edge of the quay and edging ever closer to the safety of the water.

The tiny Frenchwoman grabbed her sword and leapt out of the car.

“More humani with swords,” the Disir spat, blade falling toward the woman.

“Not just any humani,” Joan said, easily turning the weapon aside, her own sword then flicking out to clink against the remains of the rusted mail on the Disir’s shoulders. “I am Joan of Arc!” The longsword in her hands twirled and twisted, creating a spinning wheel of steel that drove the Disir back with the ferocity of its attack. “I am the Maid of Orleans.”

Sophie and Nicholas moved cautiously toward Nidhogg. Sophie noted that its entire tail was coated with heavy black stone, which had now started to creep up its back and down its hind legs. The weight of the stone tail anchored the creature to the ground, and Sophie saw its huge muscles bunching and rippling as it tugged itself toward the water. She could see where its claws and dragging tail left deep indentations in the pavement.

“Sophie,” Flamel shouted, “I need some help!”

“But Josh…,” she began, distracted.

“Josh is gone,” he snapped. He swooped in to snatch Clarent off the ground, hissing in surprise at the heat of the weapon. Darting forward, he slapped at Nidhogg with the sword. The blade bounced harmlessly off the stone-sheathed skin. “Sophie, help me free Scatty and then we’ll go after Josh. Use your powers.”

The Alchemyst hacked at Nidhogg again but without any effect. His worst fears had been realized: Dee had gotten his hands on Josh…and Josh had the last two pages from the Codex. Nicholas looked over his shoulder. Sophie was standing still, looking frightened and completely bemused.

“Sophie! Help me.”

Sophie obediently raised her hands, pressed her thumb against her tattoo and tried to call on her Fire magic. Nothing happened. She couldn’t concentrate; she was too worried about her brother. What was he doing? Why had he gone with Dee and Machiavelli? It didn’t look as though they had forced him to-he’d been driving them!

“Sophie!” Nicholas called.

But she knew he’d been in danger-real and terrible danger. She’d felt the emotion deep within her, recognized it for what it was. Whenever Josh was in trouble, she knew. When he’d nearly drowned off Pakala Beach on Kauai, she’d woken up breathless and gasping; when he’d broken his ribs on the football field in Pittsburgh, she’d distinctly felt the sharp pain in her left side, felt the sting with every breath she took.

“Sophie!”

What had happened? One moment he was in mortal danger…and the next…?

“Sophie!” Flamel snarled.

“What?” she snapped, turning on the Alchemyst. She felt a quick surge of anger; Josh was right-he’d been right all along. This was the Alchemyst’s fault.

“Sophie,” he said more gently. “I need you to help me. I can’t do this on my own.”

Sophie turned to look at the Alchemyst. He was crouched on the ground, cool green vapor puddling around him. A thick emerald cord of smoke wrapped around one of Nidhogg’s huge legs and disappeared deep into the earth, where it looked as if Flamel had attempted to trap it. Another rope of smoke, thinner, less substantial than the first, was loosely wrapped around one of the creature’s hind legs. Nidhogg inched forward and the green cord snapped and dissolved into the air. Another few steps and it would carry Scathach-her friend-into the river. Sophie wasn’t going to let that happen.

Her fear and anger lent her focus. When she pressed her tattoo, flames popped alight on each finger. She splashed silver fire across Nidhogg’s back, but it had no effect. Then she peppered the monster with tiny fiery hailstones, but it didn’t even seem to notice. It continued to edge nearer to the water.

Fire didn’t work, so she tried wind. But the miniature tornados she threw bounced harmlessly off the creature. Scouring the Witch’s memories, she tried a trick Hekate had used against the Mongol Horde. She whipped up a sharp wind that drove stinging grit and dirt into Nidhogg’s eyes. The creature merely blinked and a second, protective eyelid slid down over its huge eye.

“Nothing’s working!” she screamed as the monster dragged Scatty ever closer to the edge. “Nothing’s working!”

The Disir’s sword slashed out. Joan ducked, and the heavy blade whistled over her head and sliced into the Citroen, turning the windshield into white powder, popping off the tiny windshield wipers.

Joan was furious; she loved her 2CV Charleston. Francis had wanted to buy her a new car for her birthday, in January. He’d given her a pile of glossy car catalogs and told her to pick one. She’d pushed the catalogs aside and told him she’d always wanted the little classic French car. He’d searched all over Europe for the perfect model and then spent a small fortune having it restored to its original pristine condition. When he’d presented it to her, it had been wrapped in three thick ribbons of blue, white and red.

Another wide slash from the Disir scored a rent on the hood of the car, and then another cut off the small round headlight that perched over the right front wheel arch like an eye. The light bounced away and shattered.

“Do you know,” Joan asked, her huge eyes dark with fury, renewing her attack on the Disir, every word matched by a hammer blow from her sword, “how difficult it is to find original parts for this car?”

The Disir fell back, desperately trying to defend herself from Joan’s whirling blade, pieces of her rotting chain mail flying away as the small Frenchwoman’s sword struck closer and closer. She kept trying different fighting styles to defend herself, but nothing was effective against the ferocious onslaught.

“You will notice,” Joan continued, pushing the warrior back toward the river, “that I have no fighting style. That is because I was trained by the greatest warrior of all. I was trained by Scathach the Shadow.”

“You may defeat me,” the Disir said grimly, “but my sisters will avenge my death.”

“Your sisters,” Joan said, with a final savage cut that snapped the Disir’s blade in two. “Would they be the two Valkyries currently frozen into their own personal iceberg?”

The Disir faltered, swaying on the edge of the wall along the river. “Impossible. We are undefeatable.”

“Everyone can be defeated.” The flat of Joan’s blade clanged against the Disir’s helmet, stunning her. Then Joan darted forward, her shoulder catching the swaying Disir in the chest, knocking her backward into the Seine. “Only ideas are immortal,” she whispered.

Still clutching the broken remains of her sword, the Valkyrie disappeared into the murky river in a huge splash that drenched Joan from head to toe.

Sophie was puzzled. Her magic had failed against Nidhogg…but how had Josh…? He had no powers.

The sword: he had the sword.

Sophie snatched Clarent from Flamel’s hand. And instantly her aura snapped to life, sparking, crackling, long streamers of icy light spinning around her body. She felt a rush of emotions, a swirling mess of thoughts, ugly thoughts, dark thoughts, the memories and emotions of those men and women who had carried the sword in ages past. She was about to fling the weapon away in disgust, but she knew it was probably Scatty’s only chance. Nidhogg’s tail was wounded, so Josh must have cut it there. But she’d seen the Alchemyst hack at the tough hide with no result.