The first shot startled her camel for a moment, but he seemed to have been trained to deal with the sound of gunfire. She was rather amazed to see that her aim was true; she could see a camel stumble and a man roll out of the dust on to the ground, where he now lay motionless.
The Bedouin cheered, but Elle pressed her lips together. That was an extraordinarily lucky shot, but there was no pleasure to be found in the shooting of a beast or a man.
Gritting her teeth, she took aim again and fired. Her shot missed, but it did send a few bandits off course.
At that point, the bandits seemed to realize that if Elle could hit them, then they could hit her too. They opened fire with much enthusiasm. Shots started pinging off the ground and rocks around them, much to the dismay of Hamsa who was stepping about in panic.
Elle ducked as a bullet whizzed past her head and she turned to meet her attackers head on. It wasn’t much but at this angle she and Hamsa would be a smaller target to aim for. She could see the individual shapes of the bandits clearly now. They would be upon her soon.
“Go. Tell them to open the gates! Get some reinforcements or we’ll all be dead in a moment!” she shouted at the cheering Bedouin.
They stopped cheering and swung their camels round.
Elle took aim again. Eight bullets left. Better make them count.
The third and fourth bullet hit a camel. The beast squealed and stumbled. Elle flinched and ducked in order to avoid the volley of shots that were fired in return. One of the shots hit the ground next to Hamsa’s foot and he bellowed in surprise.
Elle fired her fifth and sixth rounds which took the front rider out.
Hamsa let out a low growl and showed the whites of his eyes.
“Easy now. We’ll be home in a minute.”
Rounds seven, eight and nine she fired in quick succession. This took out one of the bandits on horseback.
The last shot missed, the bullet lost in the rapidly growing spray of dust and hooves.
With shaking hands, Elle stowed the rifle and drew out her Colt. All she could do now was try to send the bandits off course. She fired a rapid volley at them, emptying all the chambers except the last.
The bandits were almost upon her. To her dismay, Elle realized that there was no time to run now; she would be shot in the back for sure. She stowed her pistol with a grim determination. She would keep the last bullet in the chamber, just in case—for in this world there were some fates that were worse than death.
With the fort firmly in their sights, the bandits seemed to renew their efforts to cut off the archaeologist’s route to safety. Elle watched helplessly as the bandits split into two groups in an attempt to outflank the wagon. If they came within firing range of the fort it would be too late for them to catch Dr. Bell.
Elle gritted her teeth. She hated to admit it, but it was time to seek the assistance of the Shadow realm.
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. It took only a moment to focus on the metaphysical dimension she sought. Just beneath this reality, the space between the two worlds of Light and Shadow lay. The barrier opened up for her almost instantly.
“Come on, boy. Don’t falter now,” she said to the camel. She nudged Hamsa firmly into the space. Instantly, she disappeared from sight.
Stepping into the space between the two worlds was like being underwater. The barrier between the realms lay before her in a glimmering ribbon of golden light. Touching it was a practice strictly forbidden by the Council of Warlocks. But Elle was the Oracle. She was the force that held the two realms together, and so the barrier was hers to command. And what’s more, she did not give a fig about the Council or their draconian laws.
Carefully she pushed her hand into the barrier and felt about until she found one of the globules of power that had accumulated against it. The barrier did not act only as a means of keeping Shadow creatures and humans apart, it also acted as a giant net which caught and retained energy. Elle—and those gifted with the Shadow—used this energy as fuel for their powers. But the net had been growing ever more empty over the years, so harvesting power without authorization was strictly forbidden. Only warlocks with permission from the council were allowed to access it. Another stupid law, in Elle’s considered opinion.
Hamsa squealed at the sight of the barrier. The poor camel was so terrified that he promptly let out a rather large series of droppings. Evidently, in camel terms, being shot at was one thing, but being ridden into a parallel dimension was beyond the pale.
“Easy now,” Elle said. She reached out and dug her fingers into the globule of energy. This was a trick she had learned from a rather unpleasant nemesis not so long ago. Her fingers split the membrane and instantly she felt the energy flow into her, filling her up in an exquisite, fizzing sensation.
As soon as the fizzing stopped, she focused her attention on the side of the Light and nudged Hamsa. The camel did not need much encouragement and they stepped back into the realm of Light.
The doctor’s party was almost upon the spot where Elle had been. One of the archaeologist’s guides let out a shout of surprise when she materialized next to him and veered off just in time to avoid a collision.
“Run! Make for the fort!” Elle shouted.
She dug her heels into the high stirrups and turned Hamsa round to face the bandits who were bearing down on them.
She closed her eyes and reached inside herself for the white-hot ball of energy she had stowed. In one swift move she grasped it and hurled it at her attackers. The ball of light hit the ground just in front of the first riders. It exploded like a bomb, sending camels, horses and men flying.
But the energy of the blast was not entirely spent, and Elle stared in amazement as the aether rose up and collapsed in on itself as it fought for somewhere to go.
“Oops,” Elle said as she watched the residual power rise up and turn to wind. Bright blue bolts of lightning crackled and clouds swirled and rose up, turning and whirling with a deafening rumble. Red-brown dust, thicker than the thickest smoke churned in the air, obscuring the blue sky above them.
The explosion, together with the force of the wind, sent the bandits reeling. She saw men and camels stumbling about in confusion.
Elle did not wait about to see what would happen next. She knew she had to retreat or face obliteration. “Go, Hamsa. Go!” she shouted, wheeling her camel about.
Hamsa did not need to be persuaded. He set off at top speed for the safety of the fort. Soon the gates loomed up from the haze of red dust around them.
“Incoming!” Elle yelled at the top of her voice.
She was met by the sound of cover fire as rifle bullets from the stone parapets whizzed over her head. Seconds later she thundered through the gates of the fort.
“To the stables! Take cover!” one of the guards shouted as the heavy doors rumbled shut behind her.
The vast cloud of dust had now all but swallowed the bandits and was spreading, bearing down upon the fort like a huge tidal wave.
Elle urged Hamsa toward the large but rather crowded stable block. People, horses, camels and dogs were all milling about seeking cover from the looming sand. Riders were trying to get their camels to kneel. A horse whinnied and reared up, upsetting a hay trough.
All this confusion was too much for Elle’s trusty mount, and the instinct that had allowed his species to survive sandstorms over the millennia took over. Hamsa bellowed loudly before sinking to his knees in a terrified crouch, his head slung low. The momentum of his movements threw Elle from her saddle and she landed with a heavy thump on the ground, just as the stable doors rumbled shut behind her. Outside, the wind howled as the massive cloud of red dust swallowed everything. It was pitch dark; the light from the sun blocked out by the storm.
“Lady Greychester, I presume?”
She heard a match strike. A flame flickered and flared up as it lit a lamp taper, casting a pool of light around her.
Elle looked up to see a formidable-looking woman in her f
orties. She was dressed from head to toe in a rather austere khaki-colored outfit. The only thing whimsical about her was the pair of round, blue haploscopic spectacles perched upon her nose, presumably to guard against the glare of the sun. Elle noticed with amazement that glasses must have remained perched there throughout the death-defying chase across the desert.
“Dr. Bell?” Elle wheezed.
The woman smiled and her weather-beaten face cracked into a myriad of lines. She held out her hand to help Elle up. “The very same. How do you do?”
Elle groaned as Dr. Bell pulled her up to her feet.
She gave her jodhpurs a perfunctory pat and winced. Her left shoulder was tender from where she had landed on it, but on the whole she appeared to be in one piece.
“Good heavens, girl, are you quite all right?” asked the doctor.
“I am quite well, thank you. Just made a rather inelegant dismount, it seems.” She gave Hamsa a dirty look. The camel ignored her. He was now sitting quietly with his legs folded underneath him—the picture of serenity.
Dr. Bell peered up at the dark sky, which was just visible through the small windows high up in the wall. “That’s quite a sandstorm you’ve unleashed upon us. Am I correct to presume that you are blessed with the gifts of the Shadow?”
“In a manner of speaking. It’s a trick I learned a while ago, but I fear I may have used a tad more force than needed,” Elle said, evading the question. Discussing her gifts was not something she liked to do with strangers. Even friendly ones.
“Well, I think that was jolly well done. I thought we were done for out there. The blighters came out of nowhere. I think you may have saved our lives, and for that I thank you.”
Elle blushed. “It was nothing.”
“Well, shall we go and find ourselves a cup of tea? I don’t know about you, but I am absolutely parched,” Dr. Bell said.
As if on cue, a young soldier appeared. He stood to attention, spine straight, arms held stiffly by his side. “Lady Greychester. Dr. Bell. The Lieutenant asks that you meet him in his office for debriefing and refreshments at your earliest convenience.” He punctuated his sentence by straightening up farther and adding “Ma’am” for good measure.
Elle smiled. “That is the best suggestion I’ve heard all day.” She turned to the archaeologist. “Shall we?”
Dr. Bell nodded, looking rather grateful. “Lead the way, my dear. Lead the way!”
CHAPTER 2
VENICE
A huge moon rose over the city of Venice, transforming the canals to wide ribbons of silver. The velvety evenings had grown chilly and damp with the rising of the acqua alta—the relentless winter tides off the Adriatic Sea. Venice, the most beautiful of cities, was now more of an icy morass.
Patrice Chevalier did not mind the cold. He strode along through the narrow alleyways and over the damp-slicked little stone bridges. No, he did not mind it one bit.
The months since his return from London had brought about remarkable changes in his appearance. His new power had wrought his body, melting away the rotund flabbiness that had plagued him all his life until only chunky muscle remained. Gone also was the bristle broom moustache. The new Patrice was lean and chiseled, and wore his bespoke fur-lined cloak with an air of svelte confidence. To the unacquainted, he was a picture of modern wealth and manliness. Men tipped their hats to him when he walked by, and women coquettishly smiled at him from behind their open, fluttering fans.
In short, Patrice Chevalier had become the man he had always wanted to be, and he was savoring every moment of it.
His walk through the dark brought him to an old wooden door just on the other side of the small footbridge. It was an unremarkable, unfashionable address hidden away in one of the oldest, most run-down parts of the city. He studied the door for a few moments. This was the right place, he was sure of it.
Carefully he rested his hand on the cool stone beside the door. The surface had been worn down to a fine patina from the many hands that had sought—and been denied—entry to this place; generations of warlocks had solicited admission only to be desisted and turned away.
The hex that had been placed on the door also fought Patrice, for it did not recognize his imprint, but he focused a fraction of his newfound power on it and the stone soon gave. In the wall above his fingers a faint symbol of a triangle with an apex eye had been carved into the stone. It started glowing bright blue as he easily unwound the protective spell which had been designed to keep outsiders away. He simply willed it so, and slowly the door rumbled as it opened.
He wasted no time in climbing the high, narrow stairs that greeted him and was secretly proud of the fact that he was hardly out of breath by the time he reached the top.
On the landing, he was met with the sound of muted voices. He smiled. He flicked his cloak over his shoulders, straightened the lapels of his jacket and stepped up to the barrier of power that covered the doorway. He had found the Meeting of the Council of Warlocks. It was time to make an entrance.
“Good evening, gentlemen. I’m sorry I’m late. My invitation must have gone missing in the post,” Patrice said with a small smile as he strode inside. Quite casually, he removed his cloak and top hat. No one offered to take his things so, unperturbed by the slight, he set them down on a small table by the door.
“Who goes there?” Grand Master Conrad de Montague half rose from his seat. He sat at the head of an ancient table which stood in the middle of the room framed by large, gracefully curving windows. Also in attendance were eleven other warlocks—the most powerful in the known world.
Patrice noted that that the thirteenth seat was still empty—until recently it had belonged to Hugh Marsh, his former associate.
“I am Lord Abercrombie,” Patrice said, relishing his newly purchased peerage. “But my friends call me Patrice Chevalier.”
“Mr. Chevalier,” De Montague said as he fought to regain his composure. “What an unexpected surprise. I see that the last year has treated you well. In more ways than one.”
“Grand Master.” Patrice inclined his head politely, ignoring de Montague’s refusal to acknowledge his new title. “I have indeed found my circumstances to be much improved in recent months.”
“While it is always a pleasure to see you, I regret to inform you that this is a private meeting,” de Montague said pointedly. “Perhaps you’d like to wait for us downstairs until we finish?”
“Actually, my business cannot wait. You see, I have come to apply for the role of the thirteenth,” Patrice said in a smooth voice, gesturing toward the empty seat.
“I’m sorry, but the council is for warlocks only,” De Montague said, giving him a look of disdain.
“I don’t believe that to be a problem. As you said, my circumstances are improved in more ways than meet the eye. I think my evading your pathetic door hex is proof enough of my abilities.”
“How dare you?” de Montague said, narrowing his eyes.
“Would you have let me in otherwise?” Patrice shrugged.
“I am sorry to disappoint you, sir, but the thirteenth seat can only be filled by unanimous vote. The loss of Lord Greychester came as quite a shock to us. It may be some time before we have a list of candidates we can put to the vote.”
“Oh, I don’t think a list of candidates is necessary,” Patrice said. “I see no reason why I cannot put myself forward for consideration right now. Everyone is assembled, so you may as well vote on the matter.”
There was a gasp of surprise from the other warlocks at his brazen approach. A few of them started muttering in protest.
“My good man, that is quite impossible,” de Montague spluttered. “It takes more than a cheap touch of the Shadow. In fact, it takes years of training and devotion to become a warlock. You might have come into some money, but I can assure you that you lack the talents needed to ever become one of us.”
“I think, Grand Master, that you might find yourself sorely mistaken on more than one of those points,” Patri
ce said, matching de Montague’s tone. “You will hear my application now. I must insist upon it.”
De Montague snorted and looked disparagingly at Patrice. “Mr. Chevalier, your appeal is quite ridiculous. Request denied. Now please desist with this disruption for you are only embarrassing yourself. Good evening to you.” The Grand Master moved to the fireplace where he rang an ornate fringed bell to summon a servant. “Someone will see you out now.”
Patrice felt anger rise up inside him, hot and acrid like melted tar. How dare this snobbish weakling treat him as if he were nothing? “I would wait a moment if I were you,” Patrice said. Another, more sinister, smile played across his face.
“And why should I do that? You have wasted quite enough of our time.” De Montague’s upper lip curled in disgust. “Now please leave, I will not ask you again.”
Patrice laughed. He summoned a small amount of the dark energy inside him and channeled it downward, lifting himself off the floor. The light fittings and floorboards in the room began to tremble from the effort. Somewhere a small ornament crashed to the floor.
Patrice towered over the Grand Master.
“Prepare to be challenged by one of the most powerful warlocks that has ever lived,” he said quietly. “This is no cheap trick of the Shadow. I, my dear de Montague, am the Shadow Master.”
De Montague blanched as he stared up at Patrice. “You?” he whispered. “We had heard rumors that a Shadow Master had arisen. It cannot be.”
Patrice did not answer. Instead he threw his head back and inhaled as much of de Montague’s power as he could in one breath. He felt his lungs fill with the energy of the older warlock, before being absorbed by the ever-growing darkness within him.
De Montague stumbled and fell to his knees. His face had turned gray, and when he looked up at Patrice there was genuine fear in his eyes. “What have you done?” he said as he stared at his hands in horror, which had aged and curled up like claws.
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