“Wait!” Scathach called. She raced after them, leaving Shakespeare, Palamedes, Joan and Saint-Germain to bring up the rear.
More heavily armored Torc Allta appeared out of the shadows and crowded around the root-covered entrance to the inner cave. The creatures did not speak, but suddenly weapons were visible in the dull green light.
“I think they want us to move on,” Palamedes muttered.
“I didn’t know you spoke Torc Allta,” William Shakespeare said, a touch of awe in his voice.
Palamedes shook his head. “For a bright man, you can be very stupid sometimes. When someone—man or beast—bares his teeth and produces a dagger as long as his arm, that’s a clue.”
“I’ll make a note of that,” Will muttered.
Palamedes raised his voice. “We need to get out of here now. The two people who know us and can vouch for us—Huitzilopochtli and Prometheus—have left, and our red-furred friends are looking a little agitated. And with those tusks, I doubt they’re vegetarian.”
The four immortals hurried to catch up to the others.
“What’s the plan?” Scathach asked, falling into step with the two Elders.
“Plan? We will lead the People of the Tree into Danu Talis,” Prometheus said. “We will free Aten and overthrow the Elders.”
“Just like that?” she asked in astonishment. “I thought you two were great warriors.”
“It is simple and effective,” Huitzilopochtli said.
“And we have the advantage that it’s a new stratagem,” Prometheus continued. “The humans have never risen up before.”
The wooden corridor opened onto an enormous staircase leading up into the body of the tree. The steps were shaped out of gnarled roots, polished smooth and glassy by the passage of centuries, and each one was a different height, width and length.
Prometheus took the stairs at a run, and Huitzilopochtli and Scathach jogged along, staying one step below. “If humankind have never risen up before, then how can you be sure they will do it now?” Scathach demanded.
“They worship Aten,” Huitzilopochtli answered. “For generations, the humans were enslaved by the Elders. When Aten came to power, he formally recognized them as an intelligent species and granted them the rights of citizens of Danu Talis.”
“Many of the Elders resisted, but none dared move against Aten,” Prometheus added. “Until now, that is. Bastet must have been planning this for centuries.”
“But are you sure humankind will rise when you appear?” Scathach insisted.
“I have been told that they will,” Prometheus said coolly.
“Who told you …,” she began, and then shook her head. “No, don’t tell me. Let me guess: a hooded man with a hook for a left hand.”
“So he is known in your time also?”
“I know of him. And I know that the Elders will not give up without a fight,” she added.
“We know,” Prometheus said. “We want peace, but we are prepared for war.”
“In my experience, when you turn up at someone’s gate with an army behind you, there is always war,” Scathach said grimly.
Huitzilopochtli glanced over at her. “But if we do not move now, then we doom the humans to an eternity of servitude. Or worse. My sister, Bastet, has been advocating the eradication of the entire human race and replacing it with the anpu or some other Were clan. If she can put Anubis in power, then nothing will stand in her way. She will control Danu Talis.”
“Why are you doing this, Huitzilopochtli?” Scathach asked.
“Because it is the right thing to do.” He shook his head slowly. “Abraham and Marethyu showed us the future,” he added, “and the world without humankind is not a pretty one. Not all Elders are monsters. We are not many, but we are powerful, and we will do whatever we can to save the world.”
“And if you cannot save the world?” Scathach asked.
“Then we will save as much of the human race as we can.”
“And we are here to help you,” the Shadow said.
“Why?” Huitzilopochtli demanded. “This is not your fight.”
“You are mistaken. This is more than just our fight. This is our future.”
“You would think,” William Shakespeare wheezed, pressing his left hand to his side, “that a place as sophisticated as this would have an escalator.” He slowed to a stop and leaned forward, arms and hands straight on the wooden steps in front of him.
Palamedes waved Joan and Saint-Germain on and stopped. He sat down on the step and waited for the Bard to catch his breath. “We’re nearly there.”
“This place will be the death of me,” Shakespeare muttered.
The Saracen Knight reached out a hand. Shakespeare took it and Palamedes hauled him upright. “But this is wonderful research, Will. I’ve seen you making notes. Think of the play you’ll get out of it!”
“No one would believe me. I am serious, old friend, I fear I will die here.” He climbed up a step.
The Knight stopped and looked at the Bard, who was one step above him. Their faces were level. “Death comes to all of us. And you and I, we’ve lived way beyond our allotted span of years. We should have few regrets.”
“What’s done is done,” Shakespeare agreed.
“And we are here for a reason,” Palamedes added.
“You know this for certain?”
“Marethyu would not have brought us back here if we did not have roles to play.” Something shifted behind the knight’s dark eyes and the Bard reached out to take hold of his friend’s arm.
“What are you not telling me?”
“You are as observant as ever,” the knight said.
“Tell me,” Will insisted.
“The emerald tablet Tsagaglalal gave me earlier …” He stopped and shook his head. “Was it only earlier today? It seems so long ago.”
The Bard nodded. At the impromptu garden party in San Francisco, Tsagaglalal had presented everyone with an emerald tablet. Each tablet contained a personal message from Abraham the Mage.
“What did it say?” Shakespeare asked urgently.
“It showed me scenes from my past, of battles fought, some won, some lost. It showed me the last battle, when the Once and Future King fell and I briefly claimed Excalibur. And it showed me standing over you,” he finished in a rush.
“Tell me!”
“I saw the death of us, Bard. The death of all of us.” He glanced up to where Saint-Germain and Joan were patiently waiting at the top of the steps. “I saw Scathach and Joan of Arc, bloodied and filthy, standing back to back on the steps of a pyramid surrounded by huge dog-headed monsters. I saw Saint-Germain raining fire down from the skies. I saw Prometheus and Tsagaglalal facing off against a swarming army of monsters….”
“And us?” Will asked. “What of us?”
“We were on the steps of a huge pyramid, overrun by monsters. You were lying at my feet and I was holding a lion-headed eagle at arm’s length.”
The Bard’s bright blue eyes twinkled. “Well, then it ends well.”
The Saracen Knight blinked in surprise. “Which part of what I’ve just described suggests a good ending? There is death and destruction in our immediate future.”
“But we are all together. And if we die—you or I, Scathach, Joan or Saint-Germain—then we will not die alone. We will die in the company of our friends, our family.”
Palamedes nodded slowly. “I always imagined I would die alone, on some foreign battlefield, my body unmourned and unclaimed.”
“And we’re not dead yet,” Shakespeare said. “You did not see me dead, did you?”
“No. But your eyes were closed.”
“Maybe I was sleeping,” Shakespeare said, turning away and running up the steps. He stopped and glanced back at the Saracen Knight. “But you should know this, Palamedes—I would not wish any companion in the world but you.”
“It will be an honor to die with you, William Shakespeare,” the Saracen Knight said very softly. He hurri
ed up the irregular steps after the immortal Bard.
“There is a chess term that I believe is applicable now,” Saint-Germain said to Joan as they waited at the top of the stairs ahead of Shakespeare and Palamedes.
Joan nodded. “The endgame.”
“And we have reached it.”
The stairs opened into the very heart of the tree. On a vast wooden plane an army had gathered, men and women standing in long uneven lines, green light running off metal and armor, giving everything an underwater appearance. The air above was dark with whirling gliders, and somewhere a drummer was beating an irregular tattoo. A bagpipe joined in, the sound lost and lonely.
Saint-Germain and Joan watched as dozens of vimana were wheeled out of hangars. Most were patched with wood and leather; others were bound together with rope or had leaves over portholes instead of glass. Humans in thick wool and leather flying suits swarmed around the craft, checking them over, while others loaded spears and crates stacked with crystal globes into the holds.
“I am reminded of the young men who flew over the battlefields of Europe in the First World War in wood and fabric planes,” Joan said quietly. “How many survived?”
“Very few,” Saint-Germain said.
“And how many of these will return?” she asked.
Saint-Germain looked at the ancient vimana with their patchwork of repairs. “None.”
The tiny French immortal breathed deeply. “I seem to have spent most of my long life on battlefields watching young men and women die.”
“And you spent as many years as a nurse saving lives,” Saint-Germain reminded her.
“After the last war, I swore I would never end up on a battlefield again,” she said.
“We do not always get what we want. Sometimes life presents us with surprises.”
“Well, this adventure certainly counts as a surprise.” She smiled. “And while I really do love surprises, I’m not sure I’m loving this. But here we are, and here we will do what we must do.”
“You know,” Saint-Germain said, looking around, “I think I’m getting an idea for a new album.” His hands moved through the air, tapping time with the drum and bagpipe. “It’s going to be a big concept album, with an orchestra and choir….” He started to whistle.
Joan held up her hand, silencing him. “Why don’t you just surprise me.” A sudden thought struck her and she turned back to her husband. “Do you have a title for this album?”
“Armageddon!”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The ground floor of the Alcatraz Powerhouse pulsed with a dull gray glow.
Moving cautiously through the ever-thickening fog, Nicholas and Perenelle crept toward the light. The Alchemyst’s right hand trailed against a metal railing. Beyond the railing, they could hear—but not see—the sea lapping against the shore.
Perenelle breathed deeply. Above the salt and rotten-meat stink of the fog, she caught the hint of another smell: the dry musty odor of wet feathers. She placed her mouth close to Nicholas’s ear and whispered. “I think I know what is going on here.”
“So do I,” he said, surprising her. Then he hissed in pain as his toe smacked into a piece of broken masonry. This section of the island was in a state of disrepair. The salt erosion and the weather were gradually reclaiming Alcatraz, slowly wiping away signs of man.
They could just about make out the steeply slanting roof of the Quartermaster Warehouse and the Powerhouse. Behind them was a tall chimney stack. And docked alongside the Powerhouse was the vague outline of a battered and rusty tourist boat, similar to the type that had brought tourists to the island before Dee’s company bought it and closed it down. Most of the boat was concealed behind the Powerhouse and the shifting fog, but they caught a glimpse of a series of lights stretching from the back of the ruined building out to the boat.
“Tell me,” Perenelle whispered.
“Think about the monsters you saw in the cells….”
He felt her hair brush his face as she nodded.
“And you said that some cells held more than one type of creature.”
The Sorceress nodded again. “Some held two or three.”
“But these are small cells, Perenelle. Five feet by nine feet …”
“The bigger monsters,” she said immediately. “Of course! There were no big creatures in the cellblocks.” She turned to look at the vague shapes of the two buildings. “I did see a minotaur, but it was relatively small—a baby. The sphinx was the biggest creature there, and she was walking free.”
“It makes sense that Dee and his masters would not have confined themselves to just the regular-sized creatures. If they really wanted to make an impact on the city, they would need some of the great monsters.”
“So what’s in there?”
“Full-sized minotaur,” Nicholas guessed. “Probably an ogre or two. You know Dee likes his ogres.”
“A dragon?” Perenelle wondered. Then she shook her head. “No, if he had a dragon he would have unleashed it already. But something with scales, a wyrm or a wyvern, perhaps. And a smok. Remember when he raised the smok in Poland?”
They crept closer, moving across rubble and broken stones, barking their shins and scraping their arms on jutting concrete and metal. They were close enough to the warehouse now to peer in through the tall rectangular windows. Grotesque shadows danced across the walls, and they caught glimpses of fur and scales. This close to the house the smell was overwhelming: the stink of wet fur, warm dung and filthy hair, of too many serpents and mammals crowded close together. The reek of wyrm and smok was distinct now: the fire-breathers exuded a nauseating sulfurous miasma every time they opened their mouths.
The Flamels heard shouts within—a thin high voice speaking in a guttural language. “ ‘One more.’ ” Perenelle translated the arcane language. “ ‘We can take one more this trip. Bring something big.’ ”
Nicholas nodded in admiration. “I’d forgotten you spoke it.” He suddenly squeezed her hand. “Even after all these years, there is so much I still do not know about you.”
“Medea taught me the lost language of Danu Talis,” she said. “And you know enough about me. You know that I love you.”
The Alchemyst touched the scarab he wore around his neck. It throbbed beneath his hand. “I do,” he said.
Nicholas and Perenelle rounded the end of the building just as a door slammed open. “Anpu,” the Sorceress whispered.
Two of the jackal-headed warriors appeared, each tugging on a long iron chain. A second pair of anpu hurried out of the building. They were holding smoking tridents, which they used to jab at the long green-skinned two-legged serpent that slithered from the building, attached to the iron chain. The creature was at least twenty feet long. Another pair of anpu followed behind the creature. They had wrapped more chains around its spiked tail.
“Lindworm,” Nicholas said. “Front claws, but no rear feet. But don’t think for a moment that it is slow. Its bite is deadly and its tail is a lethal weapon.”
The anpu dragged and prodded the lindworm toward the boat.
“We cannot let the boat leave the dock,” Nicholas said.
“How do we stop it?”
“These creatures—all of them, monsters and anpu—are under the control of a single person. If we can defeat that person, the beasts will turn upon one another. They’ll rip the boat apart for us. So the question is, who is controlling them?”
“I think I know….” Perenelle’s lips twisted in disappointment. “I thought she had changed….”
“Who?”
“She helped me escape. I was hoping she might remain neutral, but it seems I was wrong. I smelled her earlier.”
“Perenelle …,” Nicholas said.
But before she could respond, fog swirled upward in two concentric coils and a dark figure dropped to the ground directly in front of Nicholas and Perenelle. The Alchemyst and the Sorceress both held out their hands, the first hints of their auras appearing on their fing
ertips.
The figure was dressed from head to foot in gleaming black leather, moisture running off the shining silver bolts that studded her jerkin in a spiral design. Draped over her shoulders, its full hood pulled up around her face, and sweeping to the ground behind her was a cloak made entirely of ravens’ feathers. Most of her face was hidden by the hood, but her black lips curled away from overlong incisors.
“We meet again, Sorceress.”
“Nicholas,” Perenelle said, “let me introduce you to the Morrigan.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Billy the Kid threw himself forward and down, curling into a tight ball and rolling smoothly back to his feet.
The sphinx sailed over his head and crashed to the ground, claws slipping and scrabbling for purchase on the stone floor. “You are just delaying the inevitable,” she snarled, spinning around, expecting to see Billy racing down the corridor away from her.
The immortal stood facing her, arms hanging loose by his sides. He was close enough to her now that his own aura, a deep reddish purple, had begun to rise in a thin mist off his flesh. The air smelled of red pepper, and the sphinx sneezed. Billy tilted his head to one side and smiled. “Remember me?”
“Oh good,” she answered. “My first course is already seasoned.” She leapt into the air, claws extended.
Billy’s hands moved.
Two ancient leaf-shaped spearheads were tucked into his belt on the left and right, just above his hips. In one fluid movement, he scooped them out and flung them through the air.
The sphinx screamed a defiant laugh that rose to a screeching wail.
And then the spears struck her.
And time slowed.
And stopped.
The sphinx hung suspended in the air. The spearheads had penetrated deep into the lion’s skin. They pulsed, once, twice and then again, throbbing blue, then red and finally white-hot.
Directly around each wound the sphinx’s flesh changed color, darkening to a deep blue, then paling to white and turning transparent. The transformation flowed through the creature, racing across her body, flesh turning to glass, revealing the bones beneath the skin. The sphinx managed a single gasped breath, but the skin on her face had begun to turn to glass, revealing the white bone skull beneath. Gradually the skull and all the bones in the glass sphinx transformed from bone to crystal.