The Grimoire of the Lamb

by Kevin Hearne

  Hiding was pointless. Pushing up off my right hand, my left still useless, I rose from behind the altar and drew Fragarach. It would do me little good against the stone but would provide some defense against its weapon, which had a flared crest at one end and two forked tines at the other. I circled around the altar to my right, which would force the thing to pivot on its uncertain feet to face me.

  It knew what it was doing with that scepter. Displaying a dexterity wholly alien to most rocks and much more fluid than the movement of the legs, it twirled the was in front of it and then lashed out as I approached. I deflected the first blow, then another, and its skill was such that I found myself fencing with it for a brief time. Its mouth remained open, silently promising to end me. But its weapon was inherently slower, and I was able to slap away a blow and use the opening to deliver a straight kick to its abdomen. Lacking heels on which to stagger backward, it toppled over. As it fell, however, it whipped the scepter around and hooked my plant leg—my left—with the crested end and sent me tumbling on my ass. When I collided with the ground, something crumpled further inside; now my ribs were not just cracked but broken and, in all likelihood, scraping my spleen. The fresh bloom of pain prevented me from rolling out of the way or moving much at all. It gave the Sobek creature the chance to sit up and swing at me again with the scepter, the crested end aimed at my face. Having no other choice, I threw up my left forearm to block, and it did so but scored another break in the process. It wasn’t useless after all. Just painful. Wincing as I moved, I rolled out of range before another blow could rain down, using my right arm for support.

  We were both slow to get up but for different reasons. I had broken bones, and it was a ridiculously top-heavy monstrosity trying to stand without any heels. It managed to get halfway up, lost its balance, and crashed to the ground again.

  As I regained my footing and my magic ran out completely, letting me feel all the agony of my broken arm and ribs, I realized that keeping this thing on the floor might be all I could reasonably hope for. I didn’t have a jackhammer handy. Magically we were at an impasse as well: Even if I had any magic left, the sculpture had already demonstrated that it could dissolve my bindings, and anything it threw at me would be deflected by my cold iron aura. It didn’t know that yet, though. It gestured at me with its left hand—and snapped its jaws shut when nothing happened. My amulet kind of wiggled on my chest, but that was it.

  “Ha! Suck it, Sobek. Or whoever you are. Kind of stupid to take an earth form if you’re a water sorcerer, don’t you think?”

  I doubted it understood English, but I knew it could hear me, because it had reacted to my whisper before. It was also clearly able to see. So despite the lack of anything akin to normal eyes or ears, the spirit possessing that form had some basic senses. A bit slow on the uptake, though. It kept flicking its hand at me and expecting something to happen.

  “Why now?” I asked it, thinking aloud. “You had centuries of time and presumably several years in the recent past during which you could have stumbled through these chambers. What changed?”

  It gave up on trying to hex me and attempted to stand again, a noisy, scraping business that made the hairs on the back of my neck try to flee. A well-placed kick kept it seated, and I danced out of the way of a scepter strike. The strain of dodging aggravated my calf, however, where the demon had bitten me. My pain kept developing layers and flavors; this one burned with a dull fire.

  “I came through here hours ago and you didn’t budge. But after Elkhashab—” That was it. Elkhashab had brought the Grimoire of the Lamb and an actual lamb in here, right past that thing, which mattered because the first item on its to-do list when it became mobile was to eat the lamb. And the sacrifice of a lamb was required before performing anything in the grimoire. Instructions on how to use the grimoire were in the writings of Nebwenenef, and Elkhashab had even spoken his name.

  “Nebwenenef?” I said, and the stone image of Sobek stopped trying to get up and jerked its head toward me in recognition.

  Oh, shit. The legend of his death had been greatly exaggerated. Somehow he’d found a way back to the semi-living. The grimoire must have been his ticket back to power—that and those writings on the table behind the altar. The writings that had glowed in the magical spectrum when I looked at them.

  A fact few people realize until they experience it is how crippling pain can be. I wanted to dash around the altar, scoop up that sheaf of parchment, and destroy it. My upper body and my calf informed me that there would be no more dashing. I limped there, anyway, as quickly as I could, during which time Nebwenenef lumbered to his feet. I sheathed Fragarach behind my back and, as I passed, picked up one of the candles Elkhashab had lit. Once behind the altar, I set the candle on the small table next to the ancient pieces of script, picked them up by one edge, and held them over the flame.

  Nebwenenef had my measure now. If he could keep me at a distance, I wouldn’t be able to knock him down, and I didn’t have my sword out to deflect him anyway. He began twirling the scepter around, building velocity, and I stole a glance down at the parchment, which should be merrily ablaze.

  It wasn’t—because water mages tend to protect themselves from fire, and at this point I had very little doubt that these writings were, in some sense, a piece of Nebwenenef. The water mage had bound himself to the liquid of the ink. If I kept at it, eventually the fire would win, but that could be minutes or even hours away—time I didn’t have.

  The scepter crashed down across the altar and smashed the top of the candle, but I wasn’t there. I’d backed up, out of range, keeping the altar between Nebwenenef and me. I took a step to the right and he took one to his left, a juicy noise from Elkhashab’s remains squelching underfoot.

  Since my left hand wasn’t gripping anything soon, I used my teeth to hold the parchment and tried to tear it, but it might as well have been steel plate. The sheaf had been warded with all the protections Nebwenenef could muster. Well, it was time to truly lay my hands on the work and stop messing about with the edges. Or, better yet, to put my useless arm to good use again.

  I kept an eye on Nebwenenef and draped the sheaf over my left forearm, so that the flat of the first page rested against my skin. Whatever magical secrets it held should dissipate in a few seconds after my cold iron aura had a chance to work on it. It took only a second for Nebwenenef to know something was wrong, however. He shuddered, losing his motor functions for a moment, and nearly slipped in the slime of Elkhashab’s guts. He knew he couldn’t let me stand there and continue, so he circled around to my right, toward the staircase. I moved to keep myself opposite and allowed the first page to slip from underneath my thumb and fall to the floor. I rested the second page on my left arm and kept my feet moving. Nebwenenef shuddered again, and the fluidity of his arm movements noticeably decreased. My own mobility was jeopardized as I nearly lost my footing in Elkhashab parts. Nebwenenef took advantage and thrust at me across the altar with the forked end of his scepter. I saw it coming but had nothing to block it with, and my own fluidity of movement was gone thanks to the broken ribs. My attempt to sidestep was too slow, and he pierced me in the left breast, though shallowly. The tines weren’t barbed, so they slid out when I backed away, out of his reach, careful not to slip in the slime. I dropped the second page and laid the third one across my arm, continuing to walk backward from the altar and leaving bloody footprints on the stone. Nebwenenef raised his scepter, as if he would hurl it at me like a spear, but he was rocked—so to speak—by a third series of fits, and the scepter dropped from his grasp. He kept from falling over only by bracing himself against the altar. When I moved on to the fourth page, he collapsed altogether, out of my sight. There were two more pages to go, and I made sure to give them a dose of cold iron too. I held on to the last page when I was finished and returned to the altar to try an experiment. Hearing nothing from behind the altar and stepping carefully around the mess, I held the last page of parchment over the sole remaining candle an
d was gratified to see it light up quickly this time. Good riddance, Nebwenenef. He’d lived and supposedly died long before the pharaohs but had somehow arranged this little scheme, his spirit still bound with the elemental magic he’d stolen and then spread throughout the Nile Valley.

  He obviously wasn’t one for talking, but I wished I could have asked him how he did it. I guessed that he had never really died so much as dissipated. Here, near Crocodilopolis, he’d slowly collected a shadow of himself and engineered a method by which he could return to power, influencing this priest or possessing that sorcerer to write down what he needed to reconstitute himself in a physical form, binding a piece of himself to ink and parchment, and then, gulled by visions of power and thinking it was all for Amun, someone like Elkhashab would assemble what Nebwenenef needed to bring himself back. I’d have to reexamine my other Egyptian grimoires to see if any of them could be used in a similar fashion, and likewise go through Elkhashab’s writings to make sure he hadn’t been influenced to write down anything in modern Arabic. I wondered, not for the first time, what else might have been destroyed at the Library of Alexandria. That fire might have inadvertently delayed Nebwenenef’s return by many centuries.

  I put the parchment on the altar to burn out and then picked up the Grimoire of the Lamb and set it alight as well. I would make sure to torch the other parchment pages I’d dropped, but picking those up could wait until after I had a chance to heal. I’d give them a read and see if they listed other books besides the “lost book of Amun” that would grant an enterprising sorcerer power for the low, low price of a blood sacrifice. Stepping around to the stairwell, I saw the Sobek sculpture sprawled awkwardly, facedown, in a manner that would be extremely difficult to explain to scientists. No one would believe that someone had carved the stone that way, and yet there it was, inanimate rock. I placed my foot on the back of the head, not as a gesture of victory but to make doubly sure that Nebwenenef was thoroughly exorcised from the stone. The glimpse I’d seen of his power had been centered at the back of the throat or head, and it cost me nothing to apply a little bit more cold iron there.

  Climbing the stairs was a slow exercise in hurt and lightheadedness. I thanked the gods below that Sobek hadn’t chosen to manifest like Bast had. Two sorcerers with the ability to use his magic had given me more than enough trouble.

  Night had fallen by the time I tumbled out of the boulder and reconnected with the earth with a sigh of relief.

  Oberon? Can you hear me?

  His voice was small and uncertain.

  A bit far away, I guess. Kind of messed up and need to heal. Will you be okay there until the morning?

 

  I’m worried someone will catch you if you run through the streets by yourself.

 

  Maybe you’re right. Can you remember how to get to Elkhashab’s place?

 

  Okay. Run to the back of his place and I’ll give you directions from there.

  While I began to heal in earnest, I gave Yusuf a call in Cairo and told him to bring some of the boys down to Al Fayyum. They could go down into Elkhashab’s hell with me and dismantle that Sobek sarcophagus lid and loot it by way of compensating the pack. I’d unbind that anchor from the back of his house and try to cover up evidence of my break-in. I’d also hug every single one of those sarcophagi to dispel any trace of magic about them. I didn’t want there to be the slightest chance of Nebwenenef surviving this time. After I took whatever additional grimoires Elkhashab had hiding in his library, we’d dial up some real authorities and let them find one hell of a crime scene and an archaeological bonanza. Hopefully before Hamal woke in the hospital and told them where everything was.

  “Hopping in the car now,” Yusuf said. “See you soon.”

  Since Bast would be eager to enlist the help of a human to spread the word about her old mysteries, I’d try to snatch Nice Kitty! before I shifted back to Arizona, but if it didn’t work out, I now thought it would be an acceptable loss for ridding the world of Elkhashab and Nebwenenef for good. Defeating such was my raison d’être, after all, the sole reason Gaia had gifted me with my powers. Though as the last of the Druids I am sometimes afflicted with survivor’s guilt, that day I felt that I had justified my continued existence. I deserved a beer.

  Oberon found my hiding place about a half hour later and sneezed.

 

  Sorry, buddy.

 

  Completely understandable. I want to get cleaned up as well. How’s your brain? Have you unboggled it yet?

 

  So you and I would be members of the band in this visual metaphor?

 

  All right. Then who am I?

 

  I laughed, and my ribs reminded me they weren’t healed yet. You advise me well.

 

  As briefly as possible. I’m more than a little creeped out, and I almost didn’t make it out of there.

 

  All right. But you should be thankful the Egyptians didn’t have a squirrel god.

 

  That’ll make us even. I’m going to have nightmares too. Plenty of variations of being eaten by cats, crocodiles, and demons.

  And Hamal would no doubt have his share of night terrors. He’d be haunted for the rest of his life by his experience in Elkhashab’s crypt. I’d try check on him before I left Egypt and see if there was anything more I could do.

  Damn all hieroglyphics for making the ancient Egyptians look cool. Those old gods were best left in oblivion; you’d think the fact that they appeared most often on tombs would be a big hint that they weren’t friendly. I’d happily spend the next thousand years never hearing about Bast or Sobek or any of them, but I knew I’d have to come back to face them again someday—and more sorcerers like Elkhashab. The lure of power is simply too attractive, and the pyramids still float like bait in a sea of sand, waiting to hook the next person mad enough to trade his humanity for his ambition.

  Read on for an excerpt from Kevin Hearne’s

  Hunted

  I drew Fragarach and charged him; there was no time to talk. He could set everyone on fire with a wave of his hand, so I preferred that he focus on me rather than watch him cook Granuaile and Oberon to ashes.

  I was a little fire-shy after getting cooked myself by some dark elves, but Loki’s fire was the magical sort and I knew my cold iron aura would protect me from it. He giggled as his right hand disappeared and the stump of his wrist became a flamethrower. Heat rained down on me as I leapt at him and slashed down with my sword. He was quick and stepped back, but I opened up a long wound down his right thigh.

  Loki roared and turned off the flames. His eyes boggled at me as his head twitched. I should have been barbecued but clearly wasn’t. “You can’t burn us, Loki Firestarter,” I said. “We’re all protected.”

  You’re n
ot protected, I told Oberon with a quick thought. Get Granuaile out of range.

 

  Loki waggled a finger at me and squinted. “You are nuh-no construh-uh-ukt,” he stammered. “Dwarf-ff-fffs sssay they don’t nuh-know you. Llllliar!”

  “Who cares what the dwarfs know or don’t know?” I smiled in a fashion that I hoped was unsettling. He was already mentally unstable and might therefore be more susceptible to intimidation. “All you need to know is this: I’m the guy who’s going to kill you.”

  Loki’s eyes widened and he took a couple of steps back as I advanced. But then his right arm disappeared behind him, he arched his back a bit, and the arm reappeared holding a very long sword that ignited from guard to tip as I watched.

  I frowned. “Now, where, exactly, did you pull that from?” His daughter, Hel, had done something similar; she kept her knife, Famine, lodged between her lower ribs on her left side. She must have learned the trick of using the body as a scabbard from dear old dad. As shape-shifters, they would have the knack.

 

  Oberon, tell Granuaile to talk to the witches. They need to charm Loki if they can.

 

  Loki’s eyes went dark and he raised his sword. Hurry, Oberon! The flaming blade fell, but I wasn’t there. I leapt directly at him again, because the best thing you can do when facing someone with enormous reach is to get inside it. I didn’t hack or stab at him but delivered a straight kick between his hips, right in his center of gravity. He doubled over, let go of the sword as he staggered, and then fell heavily. I heard Polish behind me but kept my eyes on Loki. He shrank and morphed and sprang to his feet—this time as a Vedic demon with blue skin, four arms, and a blade that he pulled directly out of his body in each hand. He smiled with especially sharp teeth and twirled the swords at me, and I didn’t have time to wonder until much later how he’d ever come across that particular form.