Jim Butcher - Cold Days

“This work, the actual spells on the stone, comes from before even the predecessors to the White Council. I’m conversant in the course and application of the Art since the golden age of Greece. This stuff, whatever it is? It’s older.”

“You can’t lay out spells that last that long,” I mumbled. “It isn’t possible.”

“Lot of that going around,” Bob said. “Harry . . . you’re . . . we’re talking about a whole different level, here. One that I didn’t even know existed . Uh. Do you get what that means? In round terms, at least?”

I shook my head slowly.

“Well, at least you’re smart enough to know that,” Bob said. “Um, okay. You know the old chestnut about how sufficiently advanced science could be described only as magic?”

“Right,” I said.

“Well, I’m going to use the same model right now: As a wizard, you’re pretty good at making wooden axles and stone wheels. These spells? They’re an internal combustion engine. You do the math from there. On your metaphorical abacus, I guess.”

I blew out a very long, very slow breath.

Hell’s bells.

I suddenly felt very young and very arrogant, and not terribly bright. I mean, I’d known I was going to be out of my depth when I first hooked up with the island, but I thought I’d at least be in the same freaking ocean . Instead, I was . . .

I was in uncharted space, wasn’t I?

And the best part of this whole conversation? Those spells that had stymied one of the most advanced research tools known to wizardry and baffled the collected knowledge of centuries? Those were just the ruined part of the island.

What the hell was I going to find in the part that was working ?

One second I was alone in the ruined cottage, and the next, there was a presence filling the doorway, looking down at me through the empty space where the roof should have been. It was huge, maybe twelve feet tall, and roughly humanoid in shape. I couldn’t see much of it. It was covered in what looked like a heavy cloak that covered it completely. Two points of green fire burned from within the cloak’s hood. It simply stood, unnaturally still, staring down at me, though the cool night breeze over the lake stirred the edges of its cloak.

Demonreach. The manifested spirit of the island.

“Uh,” I said. “Hi.”

The burning eyes shifted from me to Bob on the table. And then Demonreach did something it had never done before.

It spoke.

Out loud.

Its voice was a rumble of heavy rocks scraping together, of summer thunder rolling in from over the horizon. The voice was huge . Not loud. That didn’t do it justice. It just came from everywhere, all at once. The surface of my partly drunk coffee buzzed and vibrated at the all-pervasive sound. “ANOTHER ONE.”

“Meep,” Bob squeaked. The lights vanished from the eye sockets of the skull.

I blinked a bunch of times. “You . . . you’re talking now?”

“NECESSITY.”

“Right,” I said. “Um. So . . . you’re having some trouble, I guess?”

“TROUBLE,” it said. “YES.”

“I came to help,” I said, feeling extremely lame as I did. “Um. Is that even possible?”

“POTENTIALLY,” came the answer. Then the vast form turned. It took a limping step. The ground didn’t so much tremble at the weight as shift slightly beneath the sheer, overwhelming presence of the ancient spirit. “FOLLOW. BRING THE MEMORY SPIRIT.”

“. . . meep . . .” Bob whimpered.

I grabbed the skull in shaking hands and stuffed it into the messenger bag. I grabbed a chemical light from the storage boxes on the table, snapped it, and shook it to life as I hurried to catch up. I had an instinct about where we were headed, but I asked to be sure. “Uh. Where are we going?”

Demonreach kept walking, slow paces that nonetheless forced me to scurry to keep up. “BELOW.”

The spirit walked to the ruined circle of the lighthouse and lifted a shadowy arm in a vague gesture. When it did, the ground of the circle rippled and quivered, and then what had appeared to be solid stone began to run down, pouring itself into a hole like sand falling through an hourglass. In seconds, an opening the size of the trapdoor to my old lab had formed in the stone, and stairs led down into the darkness.

“Oh,” I said. I’d known there were caves beneath the island, but not how I had gotten there or where I could find them. “Wow. What’s the game plan here, exactly?”

“THE WELL IS UNDER ATTACK,” came the surround-sound answer. “IT MUST BE DEFENDED.” Demonreach started toward the stairs. There was no way it should have fit down them, but it moved as though that wasn’t going to be an issue.

“Wait. You want me to fight off something you can’t stop?” I asked.

“IT IS TIME FOR YOU TO UNDERSTAND.”

“Understand what ?”

“OUR PURPOSE, WARDEN,” it said. “FOLLOW ME.”

Then it went down the stairs and vanished into the unknown.

“Here there be monsters!” Bob whispered, half hysterically. “Run! Run already!”

“Think it’s a little late for that,” I said.

But for a second there, I thought about taking his advice. Some part of me wondered what Tibet looked like this time of year. For a minute, it seemed like an awesome idea to go find out.

But only for a minute.

Then I swallowed, gripped the plastic glow stick in fingers that felt very slippery for some reason, and followed Demonreach down into the dark.

Idon’t know how far down those stairs went.

I’m not even kidding. I’m not taking poetic license. The stairs went down twelve steps, took a right angle, and went down twelve more, took another right-angled turn, and went down twelve more, and so on. I stopped counting in the low two hundreds and resorted to my awareness of the island to feel out the rest of them. Duh. Seventeen hundred and twenty-eight—twelve cubed.

The stairs were about eight inches each, which meant eleven hundred feet and change, straight down. That was well below the water level of the lake. Hell, it was below the bottom of the lake. The staircase echoed with deep, groaning sounds pitched almost too low to be heard. In the wan light of the chemical glow stick, the place took on a kind of amusement-park fun-house atmosphere, where you suddenly realize that you’ve been routed into a circle with no apparent way out.

“Down, down to goblin town you go, my lad!” I sang in a hearty, badly pitched baritone. I was panting. “Ho, ho, my lad!”

Demonreach’s glowing eyes flicked toward me. Maybe irritated.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “You never saw the Rankin-Bass animated version of The Hobbit ? The one they made before they did the movies in New Zealand?”

It didn’t answer.

“Harry,” Bob muttered at me. “Stop trying to piss it off.”

“I’m bored,” I said. “And I’m not looking forward to coming back up . I get that we’re going a long, long way down, but couldn’t we use an elevator? Ooh, or a fireman’s pole. Then it’d be like going down to the Batcave. Way more fun.” I raised my voice a little. “And more efficient.”

Maybe it was my imagination, but when I said that last, I thought I saw Demonreach’s steady pace slow for a thoughtful second or two.

Nah.

“Hey, how come you called me Warden?” I asked. “I mean, I’ve been a Warden, but there are a lot of other guys who are better at it than me. I’m not exactly the poster child.”

“WARDEN,” Demonreach said. “NOW THERE ARE MANY. FIRST THERE WAS ONE.”

I counted down the last ten steps out loud, stopped at two, and jumped over the last one to the floor beneath with both feet. My hiking boots clomped on the stone.