Michael Scott - The Magician

Joan squeezed her arm and laughed gently. “No. We’re still in our world. Welcome to the Catacombs of Paris.”

Sophie’s eyes flickered silver as the Witch’s knowledge flowed through her. The Witch of Endor knew these catacombs well. Sophie rocked back on her heels as a sudden array of images engulfed her: men and women wearing little more than rags quarrying stone from huge pits in the ground, watched over by guards wearing the uniforms of Roman centurions. “These were quarries,” she whispered.

“A long time ago,” Nicholas said. “And now it is a tomb for millions of Parisians and one other…”

“The Sleeping God,” Sophie said, her voice cracking. This was an Elder the Witch both loathed and pitied.

Saint-Germain and Joan were shocked by the girl’s knowledge. Even Flamel looked startled.

Sophie started shivering. She wrapped her arms around her body, trying to stand upright as dark thoughts crashed through her brain. The Sleeping God had once been an Elder…

…On a burning battlefield, she saw a lone warrior in metal and leather armor, wielding a sword almost as tall as he, fighting off creatures straight out of the Jurassic Age.

…At the gates of an ancient city, the warrior in metal and leather stood alone against a vast horde of apelike beast-men while a column of refugees escaped through another gate.

…On the steps of an impossibly high pyramid, the warrior defended a lone woman and child from creatures that were a cross between serpents and birds.

“Sophie…”

She shivered, ice-cold now, teeth chattering. The images changed; the warrior’s polished leather and metal armor had turned filthy, encrusted with mud, streaked and stained. The warrior, too, was changed.

…The warrior raced through a primitive ice-locked village, howling like a beast, while fur-wrapped humans fled from him or cowered in fear.

…The warrior rode at the head of a vast army that was a mongrel mix of beasts and men bearing down on a sparkling city in the heart of an empty desert.

…The warrior stood in the middle of an enormous library filled with charts, scrolls and books of metal, cloth and bark. The library was burning so intensely that the metal books flowed liquid. Slashing his sword through a series of shelves, he swept more books onto the flames.

“Sophie!”

The girl’s aura flickered and crackled as the Alchemyst gripped her shoulders and squeezed hard.

“Sophie!”

Flamel’s voice snapped her out of her trance. “I saw…I saw…,” she began hoarsely. Her throat felt raw, and she’d bitten down so hard on the inside of her cheek that there was the disgusting metallic taste of blood in her mouth.

“I cannot even imagine what you saw,” he said gently. “But I think I know who you saw…”

“Who was it?” she panted, breathless now. “Who was the warrior in the metal and leather armor?” She knew if she thought hard about him, the Witch’s memories would supply his name, but that would also draw her back into the warrior’s violent world, and she didn’t want that.

“The Elder, Mars Ultor.”

“The God of War,” Joan of Arc added bitterly.

Without looking or turning her head, Sophie raised her left hand and pointed down a narrow corridor. “He’s down there,” she said quietly.

“How do you know?” Saint-Germain asked.

“I can feel him,” the girl said with a shudder. She rubbed her arms furiously. “It’s like something cold and sticky is running down my skin. It’s coming from there.”

“This tunnel leads us into the secret heart of the catacombs,” Saint-Germain said, “into the lost Roman city of Lutetia.” He brushed his hands briskly together, showering sparks onto the ground, and then set off down the tunnel, followed by Joan. Sophie was about to follow them when she stopped and looked at the Alchemyst. “What happened to Mars? When I saw him first, I thought he was the defender of humanity. What changed him?”

Nicholas shook his head. “No one knows. Perhaps the answer lies in the Witch’s memories?” he suggested. “They must have known one another.”

Sophie started to shake her head. “Don’t make me think about him…,” she began, but it was too late. Even as the Alchemyst was asking the question, a series of terrible images flashed through Sophie’s mind. She saw a tall, handsome man standing alone on the top of a dizzyingly high stepped pyramid, arms raised to the heavens. Across his shoulders he wore a spectacular cloak of multicolored feathers. Spread out below the pyramid was a huge stone city, surrounded by a thick jungle. The city was celebrating, the broad streets thronged with people wearing brightly colored clothes, ornate jewelry and extravagant feathered cloaks and headdresses. The only absence of color was in the line of white-clad men and women stretching down the center of the wide main street. Looking more closely, she realized that they were chained together with ropes of leather and vine around their necks. Guards wielding whips and spears were driving them toward the pyramid.

Sophie drew in a deep shuddering breath and blinked away the images. “She knew him,” she said coldly. She didn’t tell the Alchemyst that the Witch of Endor had once loved Mars…but that had been a long time ago, before he had changed, before he had become known as Mars Ultor. The Avenger.

“H ail, Mars, the Lord of War,” Dee said loudly.

Completely numb with fright, Josh watched as the huge helmeted head slowly turned to look at Dee. The Magician’s aura immediately snapped alight, sizzling yellow and vaporous around him. Within the god’s helmet, red light glowed. The head turned again with the sound of grinding stone, and blazing crimson eyes looked at the boy. The two ghost-white satyrs, Phobos and Deimos, crept out of the shadows and crouched behind the stone pedestal, watching Josh intently. Even glancing at them sent waves of panic and fear coursing through his entire body, and he was sure he saw one of them lick thin lips with a tongue the color of an old bruise. Deliberately looking away, he concentrated on the ancient Elder.

“You must show no fear,” Machiavelli had said, “and do not panic.” But that was easier said than done. Directly in front of him, close enough to touch, was the Elder the Romans had worshipped as the God of War. Josh had never heard of Hekate or the Witch of Endor, and because he knew nothing about them, they hadn’t had the same effect on him. This Elder was different. Now he knew what Dee had meant when he said that this was the Elder remembered by humankind. This was Mars himself, the Elder with a month and a planet named after him.

Josh tried to draw in a deep breath and settle his thumping heart, but he was shaking so hard he could barely breathe. His legs were like jelly, and he felt that at any moment, he could crumple to the ground. Squeezing his mouth shut, he forced himself to draw in air through his nose, trying to remember some of the breathing exercises he’d learned in martial arts class. He closed his eyes tight and wrapped his arms around his body, hugging himself hard. He should be able to do this: he’d seen Elders before; he’d faced the undead and even fought a primeval monster. How hard could this be?

Josh straightened, opened his eyes and looked at the statue of Mars…except that it wasn’t a statue. This was a living being. There was a thick hard gray crust over his skin and clothing. The only touch of color about the god was in his eyes, which glowed red behind a full-face visor that completely concealed his face.

“Great Mars, it is almost time,” Dee said quickly, “time for the Elders to return to the world of the humani.” He took a breath and announced dramatically, “We have the Codex.”