The Magnificent 12

by Michael Grant

  The steel cylinder caught the blades and broke one.

  She raised the fire extinguisher and slammed it hard at the Tong Elf’s wrinkled-up apple-doll face.

  Wham!

  The Tong Elf recoiled, staggered back, and Camaro was on him in a flash. She hit the Tong Elf a second, powerful blow and—

  Suddenly she fell to her knees.

  She dropped the fire extinguisher.

  She stared down at the long, glittering steel shaft that extended out of her chest. It was smeared with blood.

  Feeling stupid, she turned to see the Skirrit standing behind her, its insect claw wrapped tightly around the short spear.

  The golem tried to cry out in fear, seeing Camaro fall, but his tongue first had to be raveled back into his mouth, and his body first had to reassume some kind of normal proportions, and only then could he cry, “Camaro!”

  The golem ran to her and knelt beside her as the Skirrit, showing no emotion on its dead-eyed face, pulled the spear from her body.

  “Golem . . . ,” Camaro gasped.

  “Camaro!” the golem cried.

  Fighting, which had broken out between the foul creatures and the bullies, ended abruptly. It ended with half the bullies unconscious and the rest running for home and trying to come up with stories to explain why they had run in terror from their first real fight.

  “Golem,” Camaro said, wheezing through her pain, “they’re going to try and make you do things . . . bad things. You can’t let them.”

  “But . . . but I am just a golem,” he said. “I can only be what I’m made to be.”

  “No, Golem,” Camaro said. She grasped his arm and pulled him down to her.

  The golem saw her eyes flutter and she sagged back. He howled in pain and sadness, and he twisted one of his fingers off his hand and pushed the claylike mud into her terrible wound.

  “You’ll be okay,” he said through tears that cut small channels in his cheeks. “You have to be okay!”

  “Oh, isn’t this sweet?”

  The golem had heard the voice before. A girl’s voice, though in truth the “girl” was millennia old.

  He lay Camaro’s head gently on the ground, and turned to face what he knew would be his own doom.

  She was stunning, of course, her red hair blowing in a slight breeze, her lips redder still, her skin the color of cream, her eyes like green fire.

  Risky.

  “Come here, little golem,” Risky said, and crooked her finger and smiled her crafty, evil smile. “We tried this once before and your little friend here got in the way. This time it doesn’t look like she’ll be much trouble.”

  The golem felt something then. He felt something he had never really felt before. It was like there was a fire burning inside him. It wasn’t a feeling borrowed from Mack; it came from someplace else.

  He leaped to his feet. His face twisted into a terrible mask of anger. And he stretched his hands out to wring Risky’s neck.

  “Oh, how cute,” Risky said. “It has a temper.”

  The golem wrapped its fingers around her throat and drew her close. And that was when Risky’s hand shot out like a piston and her fist rammed right into the golem’s mouth.

  In seconds the golem began to feel . . . strange.

  Different.

  He was no longer choking the evil goddess. His hands fell away from her neck and hung by his sides.

  From the distance came the sound of an ambulance siren.

  But here on the quad, on the grass in front of the multipurpose room, every eye—human and not human—was watching the golem.

  Watching as the creature most had thought was Mack, and some knew was only a version of Mack, changed.

  His skin grew gray and hard. It was as if a suit of armor was growing over him.

  At the same time he was getting taller and broader, with bunches of muscles like pythons, with fingers that ended in bird-of-prey talons.

  His face was the last to change. He’d looked like Mack, of course, albeit a somewhat sloppy, slightly muddy, occasionally twig-poking version of Mack.

  But now his cheeks became hard slabs of steel. His mouth was a slit lined with red-rimmed steel teeth. Two horns grew from his temples—twisted, bony horns that arced forward and came to sharp points just to the side of his eyes.

  “Much better,” Risky purred. “Now, my little Destroyer, follow me.”

  She turned, laughed in delight, and walked away as the lumbering monster who had sort of been Mack followed behind her like a sullen and dangerous dog.

  Seven

  The Golden Temple is really, actually, gold. It’s covered in gold, not gold paint. Gold gold. It’s rectangular, and sits surrounded by water in an artificial lake. All around the lake are ornate, impressive white buildings that are part of the whole temple complex, but the thing that draws your attention is definitely the temple itself.

  Because it’s gold.

  It looks like the jewelry box a queen or empress might own. Like maybe you could sort of pry the top off and it would be full of bracelets and earrings and rings.

  There’s a narrow, covered causeway leading out across the water to the temple. Music is playing over loudspeakers. It’s not great music, really, but hey, it’s music. And people from all over the world sort of shuffle down the causeway to get a look inside the temple.

  There is a strict no-cuts rule, but Mack dealt with the line by showing up on a dragon. It’s amazing the effect a turquoise dragon will have on people waiting in line. Fortunately the water in the lake is shallow, so the panicked worshippers and assorted tourists were in no danger of drowning as they leaped shrieking off the causeway.

  Xiao landed, and Mack and Stefan dismounted at the end of the causeway, which was now almost completely clear.

  “Shall I change back?” Xiao asked.

  “Probably yes. I’m not sure how they feel about dragons in their temple.”

  The three of them—Mack, Stefan, and Xiao—walked quickly to the entrance of the temple. An old man in a bright-yellow turban stepped out to block their path. He didn’t look happy about it, and in fact he was trembling a bit, but since he had a fantastic, very-nearly-impossible white beard, Mack was also trembling.

  “You . . . you . . . you . . . ,” the man said.

  “Uh-uh-uh-uhuhuhuhuh!” Mack said.

  “Move aside, old dude,” Stefan said threateningly.

  Fortunately Xiao was there and had the presence of mind to ask the old man what he wanted. It turned out all he wanted was for them to take off their shoes and cover their heads. With a palsied hand he offered them scarves for that last part.

  It’s one thing to go busting into temples with a bully and a dragon, but at the very least you have to observe the customs. So it was barefoot and scarf-headed that the three of them stepped into the Golden Temple of Amritsar.

  Which was also mostly golden inside. But not just gold like someone had spray-painted a garage or whatever. No, this was gold that had been hammered on, gold on top of more gold, gold designs against gold backgrounds. Part of the ceiling had a shallow, scallop- shaped dome that was encrusted with gold and from which hung a massive chandelier made of, you guessed it . . . crystal.27

  There was also a sort of awning set up inside where Mack assumed holy people sat and said holy things. But there was no one there at the moment. Apparently it was not a 24/7 service.

  There was also an open second level, also gold, with a gold railing, a gold . . . Well, okay, you get the point: gold.

  But one thing was clear: Valin was nowhere to be seen.

  “I thought there were going to be lentils,” Stefan said, disappointed.

  “Valin came here,” Mack mused. “Why? Why here?”

  “I will question the old gentleman,” Xiao said. “He’s fleeing, but he’s fleeing slowly.”

  It was true. The old man was fleeing very slowly, and Xiao easily caught up with him. She was back seconds later—just after Mack stopped Stefan from prying a gold
flower off the wall—with the news that a very strange boy with a sword, and a man all in green, had indeed entered the temple.

  “The man says they spoke some words of a language he did not know and disappeared,” Xiao reported.

  The man with the amazing white beard had nerved himself to come back after Xiao reassured him. And now he pointed helpfully to a spot. There was nothing very interesting about this spot except, obviously, it was in the Golden Temple. But the spot itself wasn’t different from a thousand other spots. Except for the ceiling fan.

  Yes, there are ceiling fans in the Golden Temple, and yes, they are gold. In this case, though, probably just gold paint.

  Mack stared up thoughtfully at the fan, which was turning slowly. Xiao and Stefan stood beside him, likewise staring thoughtfully up at the fan. Although Stefan’s precise thought was, So where’s the lentils?

  Here’s the thing to know: the people who worship at the temple are not exactly the same as the people who built the temple. The Golden Temple was started in the sixteenth century, and back in those days people knew that you couldn’t just build a golden temple in the middle of a sacred lake without causing some disturbances in the space-time continuum. Of course in those ancient times they didn’t call it the space-time continuum because that concept wasn’t invented until Star Trek in the twentieth century. But those ancient builders knew some things. They knew there was something strange and compelling and magical about this spot, which back then was actually in the middle of a forest, not a city.

  In fact, when they were first building the temple, they hoped to keep that strange force under control with four walls and four entrances and a lot of stone, marble, jewels, and gold.

  It worked. For four centuries it worked.

  Then, modern folk decided they needed some comfort. So they added ceiling fans. Had they just put in air-conditioning, that would have been fine. But a ceiling fan? That’s a vortex, my friends, and vortices28 are known disturbers of the space-time continuum.

  Especially if you add Vargran.

  “What words did Valin speak?” Mack mused.

  “We may never know,” Xiao said.

  “What are lentils anyway?” Stefan wondered.

  “Wait,” Mack said, and snapped his fingers. And then his cell phone chimed to let him know that he had a voice mail, and worshippers and tourists alike, who had begun to filter back in, shushed him and gave him some hard stares, so he muted the phone, thus continuing to doom Richard Gere Middle School.29

  “What if we tried . . .” And then Mack said, “Unt-ma nos Vargran!”

  Unt-ma being the “or else” tense of the verb repeat. And nos meaning “earlier.”

  Suddenly the breeze blowing off the fan was a lot stiffer.

  A lot stiffer. Like a tornado. A small but powerful vortex that just wrapped itself around Mack, Stefan, and Xiao.

  Their hair whipped into their eyes. Their clothing snapped and pressed against them. They had to shout like reporters in a hurricane to be heard. The cloths they’d worn on their heads were torn away and it suddenly occurred to Mack that, whatever was happening here, it probably would have been a good idea to be wearing shoes.

  He had tender feet, Mack did.

  A fiery line, like molten gold, formed a circle around them on the floor. Mack exchanged a look with the turbanned gentleman, who nodded as if to say, “Yep, that’s what happened with the other two.”

  And suddenly the Golden Temple was gone. Or to be more accurate, Mack, Stefan, and Xiao were no longer standing in a stiff downdraft in the temple, but were instead standing in ankle-deep water in a lake surrounded by a forest.

  It wasn’t much of a lake, really. If it was all as shallow as the part they were standing in, it would be easy enough to walk to the shore in any direction. And a bewildered Mack was trying to figure out just which shore would be closest when Stefan said, “Huh.”

  Stefan had many variations on “Huh.” This particular version meant something like, “Dude, you better look at this.”

  Mack followed the direction of Stefan’s stare. And there, on the shore behind them, were about a dozen men on horses. They were rather fantastically costumed (the men, not the horses). Some wore white robes; some looked like they were wearing animal skins; others wore what appeared to be colorful silk.

  They had an amazing variety of headgear: tall fur hats that looked like they came from mountain goats, blue turbans, golden scarves, and floppy felt caps. They had amazing sashes, scarves, pennants, and belts.

  None were bearded, but almost all had impressive mustaches. They were dark-skinned, similar to Valin, but with faces that wore scars that were clearly from having come too close to bladed weapons. They had bright, alert, slightly crazy eyes.

  All of them were armed with a museum’s worth of daggers, spears, lances, and swords in scabbards that ranged from simple oxhide to bejeweled masterpieces of the scabbarding art.

  Their horses were big, shaggy beasts, often also festooned and bejeweled and spangled. The horses, too, had bright, alert, slightly crazy eyes.

  “Those boys,” Stefan said, offering his professional appraisal, “are trouble.”

  Almost lost within the scary crew was a reed-thin old man all in green. But you couldn’t overlook the person clearly in charge, out in front astride the finest horse: Valin.

  Valin looked like he was born on a horse. Maybe he was.

  “Welcome, Mack!” Valin cried.

  Then Valin drew his sword and yelled an order. The order he yelled was, “Seize them!”

  Eight

  This next part is a bit disturbing. If you are squeamish, maybe you should just skip this chapter. We’re about to learn, finally, why Valin hated Mack and what the big issue was between them. And it involves some mild violence, but worse, young love. And worse still, a clown.

  But we’re not quite there yet. First we have a sudden charge by a dozen armed horsemen brandishing swords and pointing spears. The speed of the attack was such that Xiao hesitated between casting a Vargran spell and changing back to dragon and ended up doing nothing but emitting a frustrated “Oh!” before spears were all up in their faces.

  “I have you now!” Valin cried. Then, looking disappointed, he said, “Where is my half sister? Where is Sylvie?”

  “Okay, Valin, it’s time to have this out!” Mack said.

  “Indeed it is! Men: if the girl begins to change, stick a spear in her. And look out for the blond one: he’s dangerous.”

  Stefan was very pleased to be described as dangerous. Although even he was feeling less than formidable with a spear point pressing into his back and a sword blade at his throat.

  “Yemak, Ivan, Stenka, bind them tightly and watch them closely, spears at their throats at all times,” Valin ordered. He was totally in charge. Then as the horsemen were tying Xiao and Stefan, Valin cautioned, “Don’t any of you fools get drunk. The man who allows them to escape will deal with my Brembles.”

  At this point Mack had no idea what a Bremble was, but he saw the very respectful looks on the faces of these tough guys, and that convinced him that Brembles were not something to be taken lightly.

  Mack was snatched up by powerful hands and settled onto the saddle of a horse. A rough rope went around his wrists, a rag was stuffed in his mouth, and suddenly he was racing through the woods as thin branches whipped his face. It was all very exciting in a way. The hoofbeats were a dull thunder; the landscape flashed by; the saddle pounded his butt; a chill breeze froze his wet, bare feet.

  Exciting, uncomfortable, and scary. Three things that often go together.

  Paddy “Nine Iron” Trout looked extremely uncomfortable. Horseback riding can jar your bones and bruise your butt, and Nine Iron had very old bones and a meatless butt. Also, frankly, he looked ridiculous on a horse.

  It occurred to Mack that this would be a good time to lay on some Vargran, if he could get the rag out of his mouth. But he was trying to figure Valin out, trying to bring him over to the
side of good and truth and justice and all of that stuff, not destroy him. He needed Valin. The whole world needed Valin.

  They rode for an hour through sparse forest and across a number of shallow streams. At last they came upon a circle of tents. The tents were not colorful nylon or even dull canvas. They were large, round, lumpy things made of some kind of skin. Mack hoped it was cowhides and not human skin. Because that would have been disturbing.

  One tent was larger than the rest, and Valin, with six of the big, hairy guys, marched Mack, Xiao, and Stefan into that tent.

  It smelled of fire, burned meat, and sweat. That last element was supplied by a very large man with a very large mustache. He was naked to the waist and chewing on what might have been a leg of lamb.

  Valin spoke some words to the man and pushed Mack to his knees.

  “This is Taras Bulba,” Valin said to Mack. “He’s an up-and-comer with the Cossacks.”

  “Mhhrr hmm hnn hnh,” Mack said. Because he still had a rag in his mouth.

  Valin drew his dagger and placed it against Mack’s neck. “One word of Vargran and I cut your throat.” He pulled the rag from Mack’s mouth.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Blubba.”

  “Bulba,” Valin hissed. “Taras Bulba. He and his Cossacks are here to participate in the coming battle between Mukhlis Khan and Guru Hargobind.”

  Mack frowned. This felt like the kind of thing that might be on the test. And already he’d forgotten all the names.

  “Battle?” he said.

  “Yeah, Mughals and Sikhs. With a little help from the Cossacks.”

  Taras Bulba seemed to catch the general drift of what was being discussed and he liked battle talk. He drew an amazing scimitar with his free hand and brandished both it and the leg of lamb while yelling something enthusiastic in a language Mack had no chance of ever understanding.

  “Taras Bulba was down here guarding a group of Cossack traders, and now it looks like he might get dragged into this war, since the guru’s men confiscated his trade goods.”