The Magickers (46 page)

Jason took the long string of small crackers out of his shirt. He could smell their sulfur and gunpowder as he handed them over.

“No sense lighting these all at once. Three or four at a pop,” Trent said, as he took them. “That should give the wolfjackals something to think about, while I get to the generators.” He gave a shaky smile as he opened his prized knife and began to cut the fire-cracker string up and shove the small strands inside his shirt, the lance curled inside his elbow.

“Trent—”

His friend frowned. “What are you waiting for? It's now or never!” He laid the lance on the table and fished around till he grabbed the roll of duct tape. He took his Swiss army knife and fastened it to the end of his lance, wrapping duct tape about it tightly, then handed the lance to Jason, silk flag rippling with the abrupt movement. The raven painted on it seemed to snap at the air.

“What's this for?”

“That's a sharp knife. That's a long pole.” Trent shrugged. “It's the only thing I can give you to defend yourself, okay? You do it quickly, and you get out. That's your only chance. You hesitate, Jason, and they'll pull you down.” He took Jason by the shoulders. “Go! We can't make a stand out there much longer. I'm no Magicker, but I know everyone is dog tired.”

He ducked his head and ran back into the storm, leaving Jason quite alone in the huge Hall. With a sigh, he reached for his crystal again and pictured Iron Gate.

32

H
E fell to his knees in front of the rusting gate. Jason held his hand up, setting crystal lantern light to play over its surface, and he saw the true Gate embedded around it, iron and implacable. He stood and ran his hands over it, one at a time, shifting Trent's lance back and forth. With every touch, the true Gate emerged until it was the only vision filling his sight and senses. It towered over him, and he could see the granite it had been set into. The evergreens that crowded about it were not the evergreens that grew at Camp Ravenwyng.

He pulled at it. He found the great locks that bound it shut, but they had no keyhole, and thus needed no key. He shined his crystal light onto the locks and chanted for it to open, but nothing happened.

He could feel the manna storm rolling toward him like a great tidal wave. The barricade of the lower campgrounds would not contain it much longer. Like an inexorable force, it would roll through, smashing him into the Gate's bars and battering him to pulp if he stayed. And then it would recoil with even greater force back onto the camp. Below, near the lake, he could see the lightning stabs of the fierce battle continuing. Suddenly, white light flared up. Like a beacon, it speared the manna clouds, and he saw the darkness recede abruptly, boiling around in turmoil. The light flashed off. Then on. Trent was at work. There would be sound, too, but he could not hear it.

His left hand prickled as he ran it over the lock again. His scar gave an icy, stabbing throb. They had come, sensing him. He knew it before their lupine howls cut through the sounds of the storm and Magick battle. Jason turned slowly, knowing that he had drawn them.

Five wolfjackals raced across the broken country, whipping their furred bodies through underbrush and pine branches, heedless of pain and obstruction. Jaws agape, tails like stiff banners, bodies of black and silver and dun and charcoal. Their eyes glowed reflected green and red in the night as they howled and bore down on him.

He froze.

If he'd had Trent with him, he'd have some hope.

Or anyone.

But he stood alone at the locked Gate without a clue what to do. He held his crystal with both hands, one fighting the other to throw it, to hold it. His left hand would betray his right, if it could. His hands shook. Jason clenched his jaw. He set his back to the bars.

The wolfjackals came to a halt one long jump from him, milling around, their jaws drooling, their glowing eyes slitted. They snapped and mauled at one another almost playfully, ears pricked in eagerness. They panted and eyed their leader.

The pack leader stepped forward. “It is time,” it said, shuddering even as the words were forced from its throat. Its voice was hoarse and torn. What pain the language must have cost it! “I make my claim.” It gave an immense convulsion on that last word, then shook itself vigorously. Hot spit flew from its jaws.

The pack behind it howled in triumph. Their eerie voices echoed off the mountains and perhaps, even the gate. They circled and paced, back and forth, forth and back. Fangs and talonlike nails flashed. He had nowhere to run.

Below, white light flared again, and he could hear a trumpet blast of sound, Sousa, amplified vastly, like Jericho from long ago, with Trent's help. Was it working? Would they stand at the camp while he fell here? Not if he could help it. He lifted the lance.

“Come get me, then.”

The pack leader snarled and tensed. Muscles rippled through his furred haunches. Jason took a deep breath. He might be able to Focus and get out, but not in time.

Jason could hear the soft sighing, creaking word. It came from the back of his head, but he could not sense anyone there. And, if anyone was behind him, he was in more trouble than he knew, his back unprotected!

A lesser wolfjackal from the back lunged at him, hurling past the pack leader, snapping. It yelped in dismay as Jason parried with his lance, and the Swiss knife cut surprisingly deep. The beast swerved away, jowl gashed open and flapping as it tossed its head from the stinging pain. Pink foam flew from its jaws. It pawed at its face, yelping, and rubbed its wounds against the ground.

He bumped up against the Gate, recovering his balance. He gripped the lance tightly.

Again, that breathless, low groaning voice.

Something was calling . . . him.

Jason chanced it. He half turned and glanced, looking, despite the danger. That flinch drew the pack leader in a massive leap. Its body struck hard, hot breath in his face, and bore him down. The lance went skidding away. Jason buried his hands in the creature's ruff, holding its head back, fighting to keep the jaws from his face. It was heavier. He could not throw it off. It snapped and thrashed, coming closer and closer. In moments the others would be tearing at his feet and legs.

The manna storm hit with a boom directly overhead, and hail peppered down. He could feel the Magick turn upside down and inside out. His senses whirled.

The wolfjackal thrashed in his hold, shaking his crystal loose. It dropped and rolled. Jason gritted his teeth. He tore the fetish bag from his throat, Tomaz's charm, and shoved his fist down into the beast's mouth, as he had once before. His scar ripped open anew as it caught on the gleaming canines. He screamed with the pain, clawing at the inside of the wolfjackal's throat.

The beast spit him aside and rolled back on its haunches, howling in its own pain, pawing at its jaws. It choked and howled and pawed madly at its muzzle. Jason scrambled to his feet, gathering the crystal, blood flowing everywhere. He got the lance, leaning heavily on it, dizzy from wrenching pain. The wolfjackal choked and spit again in an attempt to expel the fetish, then gathered itself, drooling in foamy spittles of blood. The manna storm hammered at him. Wind and rain nearly flattened him. It took the breath from his lungs. His skin stung like fire from pelting hail.

He leaned against the Iron Gate, weary and hurting. He could not stand against it. It would bring him down and leave him at the mercy of the howling beasts in front of him. He faltered and put his hand back to the Gate, trying to stay on his feet, as the wolfjackals growled and tensed to rush him.

His hand shook. Blood poured out of the gash, splashing across the metal, his crystal, the ground. As he staggered back, the Gate swung open a crack. It groaned as it did so, the metal thrilling with sound.

His body went cold. He looked into a tomb carved out of cold, gray stone. He knew this place from his worst dreams. Jason wanted to slam the Gate shut, but his body was wedged in the opening.

It was worse—and bigger—than his dreams. He could feel the icy cold of the stone. He could see the body lying on the coffin clearly. It was not dead, only nearly so, rather like a vampire at his rest. Jason slipped a hand inside his shirt, feeling the garlic cloves. He could not look away from the tall, elegant man who lay there. Fine purple veins ran just under the marblelike skin, and dark chestnut hair curled about his head. He wore clothing from long ago, but nothing seemed diminished by time.

Jason tore his gaze away. At the far end of the tomb lay another Iron Gate, also closed. He knew what he had to do.

He had to walk past the tomb between the narrow stone walls, and open the other Gate. It would be barely wide enough for him. He might even have to brush the raised coffin with its human adornment to do it.

He could not breathe. The iciness of the cave sank into his own bones, and he shook.

“I opened one Gate! Isn't it enough?”

Silence answered him. Jason gripped his crystal tightly. He Focused on it, and a golden lantern light filtered from between his fingers. It shone across the tomb floor, and pooled at the base of the faraway Gate.

He took a step forward, feeling the storm raging at his back, the dim howl of wolfjackals now in his ears, pushing the first Gate open so that he could get through entirely. It gave reluctantly, with a rusting squeal that shot and echoed through the stone chambers of the tomb.

Jason licked lips gone dry as sandpaper. His heartbeat sounded louder than his footsteps as he neared the coffin. He felt as though he were caught between two worlds, the muffled battle of one he could hear, and the other not, though his body anticipated . . . something.

Another step. He held his lance tightly, and his crystal even tighter. It kept a lot of lantern light hidden, but he could not chance dropping it again. Something snarled and tore at the back cuff of his jeans. He shook it loose.

Another step, and he stood at the foot end of the coffin. He turned sideways to sidle past. The back of his shoulders scrapped the gritty wall, and he held his breath.

Now he was nearing the head of the coffin . . . and its occupant. One last squeeze and he could bolt through to the second Iron Gate. Jason's lungs ached.

The . . . figure turned its head. One marble-white hand rose in the air, reaching for him. “Come to me,” it said, in a thin voice that pierced the rising noise of the manna storm leaking in behind Jason.

“You are marked for me. Let me teach you the truth of Magick.”

He wanted the truth. He always wanted the truth. But what was it? Once he thought this entombed figure was his father. Now he knew better, but what he saw and listened to was still not true. The only truth he could think of, here and now, was that he would die if he could not breathe, and he could not breathe in this tomb. His friends would die if he could not get the inner Gate opened. Beyond that, nothing he knew was true anymore.

The eyelids slowly began to open. Jason knew one more thing, and that was that he did not want to see what was in those eyes. He threw himself sideways, away from the hand, the face, the coffin, and fell onto the floor. He crawled to the Gate and put his still bleeding hand upon it. With a great roar in his ears, the second Iron Gate swung inward, and all . . . everything . . . disappeared. Jason looked down into a valley of lively green, and he lay stomach down on a road leading to it.

Suddenly—Silence. The storm gathered up and rushed past him, pushing him across the threshold, as it poured into the open valley. The wolfjackals were carried past, borne by a great tide of manna which they could not resist, and he alone was left to stand, anchored by the Gate he held onto.

He looked at his hand. The bleeding slowed, then clotted. He touched his head, wincing slightly at the tenderness. What one blooding had done, another had undone. He shuddered at the idea.

His crystal grew warm.

Faintly, he could hear . . . shouts of triumph and joy from the world beyond. The old world. His world. The sun rose somewhere, for the sky went to a thin gray-purple, and light flooded him.

 

Jason turned slowly to see the world he had opened the Gates to.

He stared across the vista. He stood in a pass between two rolling hills of verdant green, grasses lush from rain and sun. He didn't think civilization had ever reached into this place. A rough lane ran down the hills and into a valley, and a great, dark gray mountain towered above the scene. A waterfall pierced its side, waters tumbling down in a crystalline spray from impossible heights and foaming into a pool of darkest blue. Along the foot of the mountain, a sharp-featured rock of dark red and orange curled about half the pool, sprawling upon the landscape.

If he ran downhill, he might be at that pool in just minutes, he thought, touching that rock that looked as though molten fire itself might have poured from the iron mountain and then cooled just enough to stop at the water's edge. He paused, lance in hand, a faint breeze rippling Trent's pennant. He had no idea what lay at his back, other than his real world. He didn't want to look back to find out. He'd been there. What tugged at him now lay ahead of him, unfolding. He took a step forward.

Even as he did, he felt the real world at his back move, almost as if he wore it like a vast pair of wings or a cloak. Unseen, it billowed around him. The wind picked up, snapping the pennant flag on his lance as he leaned against it, steadying himself. And down below, a ripple ran through the dark orange-red rock. As he fastened his whole attention upon it, it moved.

An immense wedge-shaped head lifted to stare at him, and he saw then, as it stirred, its serpentine body as it pushed a paw forward and flexed long talons. The sharpness of the rock had been spines and fins that moved now, as it shook itself awake. The dragon opened eyes of orange-and-amber fire to watch him. He was too far away to see the details of its scaly form, but not too far to see the ebony sharpness of the claws it stretched out and raked into the ground. The dragon yawned, showing catlike sharp white teeth. After a very long moment, the wind carried the scent of sulfur breath to him. He wondered if he could feel the heat of its immense body if he got closer. If the eyes were cat-shaped. If it could or would speak . . .