Sons of Entropy

by Christopher Golden

  Unless one knew what one was looking for.

  Even then, Brother Zachary had had trouble. Which was no surprise, considering that he hadn’t had any contact at all with the Sons of Entropy for several years. Il Maestro had sent him to get his Ph.D. from Stanford, and he’d gone on with his life. Oh, Zack knew that it would come back to him later. The Sons of Entropy had paid for his entire education. In some ways, he had suspected Il Maestro was grooming an heir. Or a husband for Micaela.

  If that was the case, it would have been all right with him. She was a beautiful and perfectly kind person. But years had gone by, and Zack had sort of stopped thinking about it.

  Until Il Maestro had shown up in his apartment, a glowing, ghostly avatar, to order him to get to Boston immediately. He was needed. Zachary would have liked to say no, but he just couldn’t. For there was something he could do that none of Il Maestro’s other acolytes could do.

  It wasn’t magick. At least, not as far as Brother Zachary was concerned. But it was his special talent. And now Il Maestro had need of it.

  But this . . . this was a horror he had never been prepared for.

  Once he was able to see into the Gatekeeper’s estate, past the now ravaged wrought-iron gate that surrounded the grounds, Zack knew that the time had truly come. He knew Il Maestro would never have called for him if it were not urgent, but this . . . this was pure slaughter.

  On the other side of the gate, dozens of acolytes gathered. Some of them had automatic weapons and were firing at the house. But this was no ordinary house, and it repaired itself even as Zack watched. Most of the acolytes, however, were spellcasters and magick users of some sort, and they muttered incantations and gestured oddly to build hexes and made direct, exhaustive sorcerous attacks on the house itself.

  And on the aged, decrepit-looking man standing atop the front steps of the house. Zack knew that this must be the Gatekeeper, and he could see why the man had the reputation he did. The magicks used against him were wearing him down, but not nearly fast enough. He shielded himself without any obvious concern, and struck back with deadly force.

  From the way the grass was awash with blood, and the stacks of bodies some of the acolytes were using as bunkers, it was clear that this battle had been going on for quite some time.

  “Chaos’ name,” Brother Zachary whispered, an epithet he hadn’t used in many years.

  “Indeed,” agreed the other man, who then grew uncomfortable as he waited for Zack to tease him about his affectations once more. Zack didn’t bother.

  “Who’s in charge over in that charnel house?” Zack asked.

  The moron narrowed his eyes, then shrugged. “We’re all doing the bidding of Il Maestro,” he said. “But I think Brother Thaddeus is the highest ranking official here.”

  Zack didn’t thank him. He didn’t want to be here. He’d been having second thoughts about his involvement with magick and the supernatural in general for some time. But it wasn’t practical to think he could just walk away. Il Maestro was a visionary—and also completely psychotic. But he might well be able to transform the world in the way that he claimed. If so, Zack wanted to be with him, rather than against him.

  So he walked across the street. A black VW bug screeched to a halt and the driver leaned out the window, letting loose a stream of profanity so foul and so invective that Zack could only smile and think, Home, sweet home.

  He was from Boston. And he’d never known this damned house was here. Which was the whole point, of course.

  Now, as he moved through the shattered gate and began to pick his footing among the corpses of his fellow acolytes, Brother Zachary felt a bit sad for the old man on the steps of the house. He was backed up to the door, and a pair of minor magicians were threatening him with what seemed to be some kind of crimson serpents, created purely from sorcerous energy. The man just looked so . . . old. Weak and doddering, as if he belonged in a nursing home, having his bedpan drained and his linens washed and not much else.

  “Damn,” Zack whispered as he stumbled over a charred, blackened human arm, which lay on the ground several feet from its dead owner.

  Then he was finally approaching the ranks of acolytes who hid behind mounds of the dead. There was shouting and chanting and bitching too, for many of these men had been here for quite some time. Empty coffee cups from Starbucks littered the ground. Which was a bit surreal. Most of the major magickal wars of the past had happened before there were such things as chain stores or shopping malls.

  Zack blinked, and shuddered a moment.

  Surreal was definitely the word.

  On the steps, the old man screamed something in a language even Zack, who had spent his life as a scholar of the supernatural and paranormal, had never heard. Fire erupted from the ground in front of the house, but it wasn’t just any fire. It was a purple-gray fire, which burbled rather than crackled, and seemed to flow rather than spark, and it blazed up high in front of the two acolytes now on the attack.

  The crimson serpents were eaten by the fire.

  The acolytes who had commanded them screamed in pain as the purple-gray fire peeled off their skin and then popped their eyes. The fire blazed as it was spattered with blood and vitreous fluid, as though gasoline had been thrown on it. The fire roiled around and over the dead acolytes, obscuring them from view, and when it receded, all that remained were their bones and their shoes. Whatever lived within those eldritch flames, it couldn’t abide the taste of leather, apparently.

  Zack wanted to throw up.

  But he would not underestimate the Gatekeeper again. The man was a menace to Il Maestro’s plans, and therefore, he had to be stopped. Brother Zachary crouched down behind a bunch of acolytes who were similarly positioned. They turned to glare at him almost simultaneously.

  “Which one of you is Brother Thaddeus?” he asked.

  A short, almost dwarfish man with a round potbelly and wire-rimmed glasses seemed to straighten up a bit.

  “You’re the professor?” the dwarf asked.

  Zack nodded, assuming this must be Thaddeus.

  The potbellied man looked around at the acolytes gathered nearby, and a broad grin crossed his face. “Well, boys,” he said, “we’ve got ourselves a specialist, now. He’s going to succeed where everything we’ve tried has failed.”

  It was easy to read into his words and his tone.

  “Believe it or not,” Zack said. “You think it makes any difference to me? You’ve got something you want me to try here, you let me know. If I wasted my time flying out, tell me we’ve lost and I’ll go on home.”

  The dwarf glared at him, nostrils flaring. The other acolytes puffed themselves up, as though they might attack him. Zachary stood his ground. To hell with all of them, he thought.

  “Look,” he added, “Il Maestro asked me to come here. If that was a mistake, all you have to do is say so.”

  His words had the desired effect. The idea that they might be challenging Il Maestro’s will by giving him a hard time seemed to terrify them all completely. Zack understood that terror. He wouldn’t ever want Il Maestro angry with him.

  Thaddeus sighed. “What you do, it isn’t magick?” he asked.

  “Not at all.”

  The dwarf shrugged. “Well, maybe that’s what we need at this point. As a sorcerer, the Gatekeeper is too strong for anyone except Il Maestro himself. I don’t understand why he hasn’t come here himself . . . not that I’m questioning his wisdom,” he added hurriedly.

  “Of course not,” Zack replied. “But I thought the old man was dying.”

  “Yeah, aren’t we all?” Thaddeus remarked. “Regnier’s been dying for ages, and he’s still destroying us far too easily. Something’s keeping him alive. Unless we can stop that . . . well, we need help.”

  Brother Zachary nodded. “I’ll be more than happy to help.”

  * * *

  Upon the steps of his home, the Gatekeeper faltered a moment. At the edges of his peripheral vision, the light began to di
m. His body swayed. Sound disappeared—all of it. Not a car engine, not a voice, not the whisper of the wind remained.

  Then he blinked, caught himself, and reached out for the railing to keep from falling. He was more vulnerable than ever without the Spear, but he could not let it fall into these men’s hands. It was a calculated risk, destroying it before his son Jacques could take over. But it was a risk he had felt he must take. Whoever held the Spear could not be defeated in battle.

  If it had fallen into Fulcanelli’s hands . . .

  He took a long, deep breath, and the darkness receded. But it would be back for him.

  Soon.

  * * *

  Within her son’s bedchamber, the ghost of Antoinette Regnier floated solemnly about the room, examining each of his possessions. She mourned him, though he was not dead yet. It was an odd feeling. All this time, all she had wanted was for him to be free of the responsibilities of the Gatekeeper, so that she could be with him in the world after, the world that waited for them both beyond the ghost roads.

  Antoinette’s ghost paused above the Cauldron of Bran the Blessed. It was still filled with the water that had saved her son only hours before. The last time, he had said. And they both knew it was true. It was as though a portion of his life was drained away by battle, only to be replenished by the power of the Cauldron. But his own life was nearly gone now, the Cauldron all that was sustaining him.

  Without even a spark of his own life force, Jean-Marc could not survive. Even the Cauldron could not power a body whose energy had completely dispersed.

  Yes, this last time had been the end. The cauldron could do no more.

  And yet, Antoinette could not bring herself to empty it. Not yet. If there is some small chance . . .

  “Help!”

  Antoinette turned. Through the open door, she saw them in the hallway. The girl, Cordelia, and another she did not know, were dragging Xander between them. The Slayer’s friends.

  The boy was not moving.

  * * *

  Willow’s eyes widened. Within the large room Cordelia had told her was the Gatekeeper’s, the ghost of an old woman in old-fashioned clothing floated on air, her body from the waist down little more than mist. Willow knew who it must be: the others had told her about Antoinette Regnier, and how she had been bound to her son after her death to watch over him.

  But seeing her was still startling.

  “Oh” was all she managed at first.

  “That’s it!” Cordelia snapped. “The Cauldron!”

  Willow blinked. Looked. And there it was. A large black pot, big enough to serve as a bathtub if one were so inclined. Or, in this case, if someone were dying. Legend said that the Cauldron of Bran the Blessed was capable of healing any wound, and even, perhaps, resurrecting the dead.

  But Xander wasn’t dead. She wouldn’t let herself believe that.

  “Antoinette, you have to help us!” Cordelia pleaded with the ghost as she and Willow dragged Xander into the room.

  “The boy is traveling,” the ghost said. “Xander has begun a journey away from this world.”

  Willow was a bit freaked by hearing the ghostly woman’s voice. It came from everywhere and nowhere at once. But she shook it off. Only one thing mattered right now. The words.

  “He’s begun a journey,” she said. “Meaning he’s dying, right?”

  She hoped her interpretation was correct. Refused to believe there could be another interpretation. Not dead yet.

  “We can’t let that happen,” she added. “We need him. The Slayer needs him.”

  “You love him.”

  Simultaneously, the two girls said, “Yes!”

  “Please, Antoinette,” Cordelia begged. “Please let us use the Cauldron.”

  The ghost seemed saddened. She hung her head as though she herself were grieving a loss. And then she nodded.

  “It is no longer any use to Jean-Marc,” she said. “Please, immerse Xander in the waters. If he can be saved, perhaps you may savor your friend’s presence for a few moments . . .

  “Before the end.”

  Willow tried to ignore those words as she and Cordelia shuffled over to the Cauldron with Xander. Together they struggled to lift him and slide him into the water. His clothes soaked up the water immediately, darkening with the weight of it. His head slid under.

  “Cordy?” Willow asked.

  Muttering something frantic, Cordelia pulled him up by the shoulders so that Xander’s head lolled against the side of the Cauldron.

  They stood and stared at him and waited.

  And nothing happened.

  Then Willow began to put it all together. The things Antoinette Regnier had said. The Gatekeeper couldn’t be dead, or else the Sons of Entropy would be swarming the place already. But he must be close to death. “Before the end,” she’d said.

  Very close.

  * * *

  It was called astral projection. Brother Zachary didn’t need to explain that to the others. Some of them would surely know a great deal about it. Others nothing at all. None of that was important. The only thing that was important was the plan.

  The plan to murder the Gatekeeper.

  Brother Thaddeus looked at him. “You realize, boy, that if you fail, we will all have died for nothing.”

  Zack smiled. “Yeah, but if it works, you might not all have to die. As long as one of you gets close enough to the Gatekeeper before he destroys you, I’ll be able to pull it off.”

  Thaddeus didn’t return his smile.

  But the dwarfish acolyte nodded to indicate that their conversation was concluded. They would do it. It was insane, but they would do it. Il Maestro commanded, and his will would be done. Together, the two of them turned to see that the others had gathered up swords and daggers from their fallen comrades. They had enough ammunition for only one of the automatic weapons.

  It didn’t matter. As long as each of them had a weapon.

  There were seventeen of them in all. Seventeen men, about to put their lives on the line based on Zachary’s say-so.

  The thought gave him a moment’s pause.

  Until he recalled that these seventeen men were magicians and murderers attempting to bring about the destruction of culture and society on Earth in favor of their own lust for power.

  “Let’s do it,” he said.

  Their shouts and curses rose in unison amid the carnage, and they rounded the barriers built of the dead and rushed toward the steps where the withered old man wielded magicks beyond belief. Lightning killed three men before they crossed ten yards. Then the ground erupted with enormous vines, covered with huge, gleaming thorns, which shot out and dragged several others to the ground, tearing them apart.

  The screams made Zack want to vomit.

  But some of them made it. Their own magickal energy lashed out in tendrils of power, stabbing toward the Gatekeeper. The old man’s protective charms warded off the magick of the Sons of Entropy. But some of them got quite near him.

  Brother Thaddeus dropped dead—his blood boiled in his skin—on the stairs only a foot or two away from Jean-Marc Regnier.

  Zack blinked. For a moment, he was so surprised that it had worked that he forgot what he was supposed to do. There was another scream. A crackle of lightning. The surviving Sons of Entropy began to retreat, but slowly. Regnier followed them down the steps, furious, swaying, and took a few steps along the brick path that split the lawn.

  “Now,” Zack whispered to himself.

  He closed his eyes, but his mind was open. He could see it all. His spirit rose from his body at his command, leaving it behind. His body breathed. It functioned, but it was a shell, waiting for him to return. He only hoped that he would be able to do so.

  His astral form sped across the carnage-draped landscape of the Gatehouse’s grounds. He passed the Gatekeeper beneath him as the sorcerer rained death down upon a pair of acolytes. Only two or three remained alive.

  As though he were slipping into the swirling water
of a whirlpool, Brother Zachary entered the corpse of Brother Thaddeus. Thaddeus’s fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword. Thaddeus’s face stretched into a grin. Thaddeus’s body began to rise.

  Zack felt constrained within the stumpy body of the dwarf, but it didn’t matter. It would only take a moment.

  With Thaddeus’s eyes, he focused on the Gatekeeper’s back. Slowly, quietly, he followed the old man down the few steps to the brick path. Crept up behind him.

  With Thaddeus’s hand, Zack drove his sword through the Gatekeeper’s back.

  * * *

  Inside the Cauldron, Xander’s hand twitched. His eyelids fluttered.

  Cordelia held Willow’s hands tightly and bit her lip.

  “He’s alive,” Willow whispered.

  “Of course he is,” Cordelia said gruffly.

  But she was filled with such relief that she nearly fainted. And she would have, if she hadn’t had to support Willow to keep her from passing out.

  “Oh, God,” Cordelia said. “He’s alive.”

  * * *

  With a roar of agony, the Gatekeeper turned on Brother Thaddeus’s corpse, possessed now by Brother Zachary. He opened his mouth and blood poured out. His blood. Then his blood rose up, taking on the form of a dragon’s head. It lashed out and bit the acolyte’s head off.

  The decapitated corpse collapsed to the brick, followed by a wet splash of blood as the dragon fell apart. At the edge of the Gatekeeper’s land, Brother Zachary’s body slumped to the ground, a soulless, empty husk. Breathing, a heart beating, but without a mind to guide it.

  The Gatekeeper fell to his knees on the brick.

  The battle was over.

  Chapter 4

  AMONG THE SONS OF ENTROPY, there were many magicians; minor sorcerers who had trained for years to learn one bit of magick or another. Destructive energy, protective wards, healing charms, seductive glamours . . . Fulcanelli’s many acolytes excelled in various ways. But he’d always been a bit disappointed that so few of them pursued the more subtle magicks.

  Most merely wanted power—murderous, devastating power. He couldn’t blame them, of course, but he had always believed that power was nothing without imagination. A magician who did not pursue subtlety as well as power would never be more than a novice. Some of his acolytes were quite powerful. But they were still novices compared to the man who founded the Sons of Entropy.