The Necromancer (18 page)

Kukulkan came slowly to his feet and glared at the Italian. “Do not speak again,” he hissed, “lest I change my mind and kill you too.” He turned to focus again on Billy. “I gave you three simple tasks: escort this man to the island, kill the Sorceress and free the beasts. You failed.”

“Well, one down, two to go. That ain’t so bad!” Billy said. Then he suddenly lunged toward the shelf that held the Elder’s collection of ancient artifacts and grabbed the jade club studded with volcanic glass. It was a Macuahuitl, an Aztec sword. As he lifted the club, the black obsidian shards sparkled in the afternoon light.

“How dare you raise a weapon in my presence.” Kukulkan’s head suddenly jutted forward and an unnaturally long black forked tongue flickered toward the outlaw.

But instead of pulling away, Billy took a step toward the Elder, slashing out with the Macuahuitl. The razor-sharp glass whistled as it cut through the air. Kukulkan immediately sucked his tongue back in and then coughed and gagged, choking on it. The Macuahuitl had missed it by inches.

“Do that again and I’ll cut it off!” Billy yelled. “I know you’ll grow a new one, but I bet it’ll hurt.”

The huge lynx padded silently toward the American, its jaws opening to reveal savage teeth.

“And you better tell your kitty cat to step outside,” the American added, without looking away from the Elder. He tilted the Macuahuitl and sent sparkles of reflected light around the room, shining it into the cat’s eyes.

The lynx stopped and fixed its narrow head on the Elder; then it turned and moved silently from the room.

“You have made an enemy of me,” Kukulkan said.

“Well, I’m not feeling too friendly toward you right now either. You were talking about killing me,” Billy reminded him. “That can upset a man.”

“Am I the only adult here?” Machiavelli said suddenly. He had not moved from the chair and had watched the Elder with fascination: he was behaving like a spoiled child. “Enough of this nonsense; we are supposed to be on the same side.”

“No humani threatens me …,” Kukulkan began.

“And no one—Elder, immortal, human or monster—threatens me,” Billy said.

“OK, we’ve established that neither of you likes to be threatened,” Machiavelli said mildly, “so let us now return to the business at hand. It seems to me,” he continued quickly, looking at each of them in turn, forcing them to focus on him, “that we have all disappointed someone or other. However, we have an opportunity to make amends.” He looked at the Feathered Serpent evenly. “We are grateful—both of us—to still be alive. We know we’ve failed; now let us see how we can make amends.”

“I didn’t f—” Billy began, but a look from the Italian silenced him.

“We are aware that our failure reflects poorly on you,” Machiavelli said, deliberately accepting blame in an attempt to calm Kukulkan. “But who else is aware that Billy and I have failed?” The Italian knew that if he could keep the Elder thinking and talking, then there was a chance he could resolve this situation.

Kukulkan returned to his curved stone stool. “You mean other Elders?”

The Italian nodded.

“No one else; I am sure the news has not even percolated through to the Shadowrealms yet. Well, reasonably sure,” he added, “though there may be spies in the city that I do not know about.”

Billy the Kid returned to stand behind Machiavelli. “Do you people trust anyone?”

“No,” Kukulkan said simply.

“So if Billy and I were to return to Alcatraz, awaken the army and set it loose on the city, then our mission would be considered a success. And no one would be the wiser.”

Kukulkan thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “That is true.”

Machiavelli spread his arms wide. “And no one would need to know about our failure … and you would be spared any embarrassment.”

“You were also tasked with killing Perenelle, and she has escaped,” the Elder reminded him. “How do you intend to find her?”

“I will not need to.” Machiavelli’s smile turned icy. “I know the Flamels. I have spent centuries studying them—especially the woman.” Almost unconsciously, he rubbed his left hand, which bore a faint pattern of white scars, the reminders of their last encounter. “I can almost guarantee you that they will return to the island to try to stop us. It is their nature, and all men and women are slaves to their nature.”

Kukulkan’s feathered tail beat a gentle tattoo on the floor as he considered the idea. “Are you confident that you can defeat the Alchemyst and the Sorceress if they come back to Alcatraz?”

Machiavelli bit the inside of his cheek to keep a straight face. He knew he’d won. “The Flamels are weak and aging fast. There is a sphinx on the island that will drain their powers, and I can use some of the creatures already there to help me.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, forcing the Elder to lean forward as well. It was a trick he had learned half a millennium previously. “Any help you could give us would, of course, be gratefully appreciated.”

Kukulkan nodded. “Of course. Yes, I can help.” His smile revealed his black forked tongue. Running his fingers through his white beard, he added, “there are some creatures I can call upon to assist you.”

“And what about me?” Billy asked softly.

“Go with the Italian,” Kukulkan snapped. “Maybe he can teach you some manners.”

“So you’re not going to try to kill me today …,” Billy teased.

“Billy!” Machiavelli glared at the American, who was in danger of irritating the Elder again.

“Not today,” Kukulkan whispered, “but someday, yes. I have a long memory and I’ll not forget what you did here.” The Elder stood and padded to the door, then stopped and turned his head at an impossible angle to look back at the American. “You can put the Macuahuitl back where you found it. And be careful with it; it is older than the humani.” With that he turned and strode out toward the field of tall grass. The lynx fell into step alongside.

Billy patted Machiavelli’s shoulder. “Well, I think that went really well, don’t you?”

The Italian stood and brushed off his ruined suit. “There is a lot I could teach you about negotiation.”

“I never negotiate,” Billy said firmly.

“A word of advice, my young friend: it is always a mistake to anger an Elder. All he said was that he was not going to kill you today.”

“Well, since we’re in the advice business, let me trade you some,” Billy said. He returned the Macuahuitl to its shelf, tilting it so the sunshine sparkled off the black glass and sent prismatic rainbows across the gloomy room. “An old gunslinger once told me that you never draw a gun unless you intend to use it, and you never—ever—tell someone you are going to draw your gun. You just do it.” He smiled, revealing his prominent front teeth. “It’s a big mistake to tell someone what you are going to do to them … they might decide to do it to you first.” He turned to look at Kukulkan’s retreating figure. “When all this is done and dusted, he and I will have a little conversation, a serious conversation …”

Machiavelli bowed. “I like how you think.” He walked outside, blinking in the sunlight. “Now, how do we get back to the island?”

Billy held up his cell phone. “I’ll call Black Hawk.”

“I’m sure he’ll be surprised to find us both still alive.”

The American immortal shook his head. “Probably not. Black Hawk knows I’m impossible to kill. He’s tried it often enough.” He stopped as a sudden thought struck him. “What happens if your master dies? Do you lose your immortality?”

Machiavelli shook his head. “No, you remain immortal. There is no one to command you … and no one to revoke your immortality.”

“That’s interesting.” Billy’s cold blue eyes followed the Elder until he had disappeared into the grass. “Have you ever thought about killing your master?”

“Never,” Machiavelli said.

“Why not?” Billy asked.

“In case there comes a day when I want my immortality removed, a day when I want to age and die.”

“D
idn’t you set a couple of your plays in forests just like this?” Saint-Germain asked lightly.

“Only the comedies,” William Shakespeare said in a hoarse whisper, “and my forests were populated by gentler creatures; this is an evil place.”

Palamedes stopped suddenly and both Francis and William bumped into him. “Will you two be quiet?” he whispered. “You’re making as much noise as a herd of elephants. And trust me, there are certain things in this forest that even I do not want to wake up.”

“It makes no odds,” Saint-Germain murmured. “I’m sure they know we’re here. They knew from the moment we left the car.”

“Oh, they know we’re here. We’re being followed,” Shakespeare added.

The two immortals turned to look at him. Although the forest was pitch black, their enhanced senses allowed them to see in surprising detail, though without color. Palamedes looked at Saint-Germain, who shook his head slightly; neither had been aware that they were being followed.

Shakespeare pushed his large glasses up his nose with his forefinger and smiled, quickly covering his teeth with his hand. “Right now, we are being observed by a forest spirit, female, short, dark-skinned, pretty, wearing an outfit which I presume is colored Lincoln green.”

“Impressive,” Palamedes said. “How do you know all this …,” he began, and then stopped. “She’s standing behind us, isn’t she?” he asked in Latin.

The Bard nodded.

“And she’s not alone, is she?” Palamedes continued in the same language, still looking at Shakespeare.

“She’s not,” the Bard agreed.

Saint-Germain slowly turned to look over the knight’s shoulder.

“I’ll wager they’re armed with bows,” Palamedes continued.

“Bows and spears,” Saint-Germain corrected.

The knight turned to face the welcoming committee. Their patterned clothing was the perfect camouflage, so it took a moment to pick out the dozen women scattered among the trees—he guessed that there were probably a dozen more he could not see. They were short and slender, with limbs a little too long, eyes wide and slanted, mouths thin horizontal lines across their faces. He recognized them as dryads, forest spirits.

One, a little taller than the rest, stepped forward. She was holding a short curved bow, a black-headed arrow already fitted to the string. “Identify yourselves.” Her voice sounded like the whisper of leaves.

Palamedes bowed to the creature. “Merry meet,” he said, using the traditional greeting. “I’ve not seen you before,” he added.

“We’re new.”

The knight straightened. “And with a charming accent too. Naxos … no, Karpathos. So what are Greek dryads doing in an English forest?”

“He called us.”

There was a flicker of movement behind the dryad, and she stepped aside as a tall, extraordinarily thin figure appeared. The face was that of a beautiful woman, but her body looked like it had been carved from the trunk of a tree. Arms that ended in twiglike fingers reached the ground, and knotted roots took the place of toes.

Palamedes turned, on the pretext of introducing the newcomer. “Don’t look into her eyes,” he whispered urgently. “Gentlemen, it is my honor to introduce you to Mistress Ptelea.” He turned back to the creature and bowed deeply. “It is always a pleasure to meet you,” he said, speaking in the language of his youth.

“Sir Knight.” Ptelea came forward to stand before the immortal.

Palamedes kept his head bent, avoiding all eye contact. If he looked into her eyes, he would instantly fall under her spell. Ptelea was a hamadryad. The knight was unsure whether she was the spirit of an elm tree or an actual tree given life, and while she had always been courteous and polite to him, he knew how deadly hamadryads were. “I am here to see my master,” Palamedes said, fixing his gaze on the point of her chin.

“The Green Man is expecting you,” she said. She raised her head to look at Shakespeare and Saint-Germain and they both quickly bowed. “Does he know you are bringing company?”

The knight nodded. “I told him that I wish to petition a favor.”

The hamadryad turned away and the knight fell into step behind her, taking care not to trip on the cloak of elm leaves that swept along the ground. “The dryads are new,” he said lightly. “I’ve not seen them before.”

“He has called together the forest and tree spirits from all across this Shadowrealm,” the hamadryad said, leading them deeper into Sherwood Forest. “They have been gathering for months.”

Palamedes nodded. “I wondered why I had not heard from him in such a long time. I had heard rumors that he was spending a lot of time in the Shadowrealms.”

Ptelea bowed respectfully as they passed an ancient oak tree, and for an instant the hint of a beautiful female face appeared in the wood; then it sank back again, only the huge golden eyes remaining on the tree trunk, watching them.

Shakespeare and Saint-Germain looked at one another but said nothing. It took an enormous effort of will not to stare at the tree.

“A sister?” Palamedes asked.

“Balanos,” she said.

Palamedes nodded. He knew Balanos was the hamadryad of the oak, but he’d never seen her in Sherwood Forest before.

“Are all the forest spirits here?” Shakespeare asked. “Dryads, hamadryads, wood nymphs …? I would very much like to see them.”

“They are all here,” Ptelea whispered.

“Why?” Palamedes wondered. He understood that the forest spirits were solitary creatures, living in isolated forests and woods across the world.

When Ptelea spoke, the knight could hear a thread of excitement in her voice. “The Green Man has spent the last five centuries re-creating his favorite Shadowrealm, the Grove of Eridhu. It will be ready soon,” she added, “and then he will lead us away from this foul and poisoned place and return us to a world of trees.”

Looking at the Bard, the knight raised his eyebrows in a question.

“And what will happen to this world without the Green Man?” Shakespeare asked.

The hamadryad waved her long arms dismissively. “It is not our concern.” Her head turned completely around, with the sound of cracking wood, and all three immortals quickly looked away from her face. “I have heard that this Shadowrealm will soon return to its Elder masters. We do not want to be here when that happens.”