by Layton Green
Caleb stared at the broken frame, hands clasped behind his head. Will sank to the floor, eyes moving to the glass wall and then to the Jurassic swampland sprawled beneath them, a mere sliver of the dangerous universe in which they were trapped.
“Guys,” Yasmina asked, as if in a daze, “where are we?”
-52-
After Will and Caleb disappeared through the portal, and with Lance gravely wounded at his feet, Val faced off against the rows of skeletons and zombies backing him against the pillars of the mausoleum.
Since the battle had begun, Val had tried in vain to reach the magic he knew lived inside him. Unlike before, when there was nothing, he could now feel himself dancing at the edge of his power. He thought that with enough time, he might find the right balance between concentration and detachment, the white-hot center of the subconscious he knew was necessary to call the magic forth.
That was time he didn’t have. He and Lance were going to die, but he could rest in peace with that fact, because his brothers had a chance to live. Not much of one, but a chance.
He swung his staff at one of the zombies, the azantite slicing through the newly deceased flesh like a cleaver through a melon, pieces of gore splattering his face and clothes. A skeleton lashed at him from the side, catching him in the arm and making him trip over Lance. Val fell as three more skeletons piled on top of him.
Val fought with everything he had, white bone pressing against him from all sides. He rolled and punched and kicked at anything within his reach, like a blind boxer fighting a dozen unseen opponents.
As he pawed at the skeletons, he realized in amazement they weren’t fighting back. He shrugged off the bones and pushed to his feet. Thousands of skeletons and rotting corpses littered the dirt-strewn cemetery, none of them animated, their lifeless shells reclaimed by entropy. The mystical tie between Zedock and his creations must have evaporated when the necromancer left this world. It was the only way to explain it.
Val made sure Lance had a pulse, then found the portal lying on its side. He waved his hand through the empty disc of azantite, but there was no sign of the blackness that once thrived within.
Val sank to his knees, holding his head in his hands, the wind curling around him.
His brothers were gone. Trapped in the other world without him.
Trapped with Zedock.
Police sirens shattered the calm of the cemetery as the first drops of rain plopped on Val’s forehead. Hurrying back to Lance, he slipped the ring of shadows off of Lance’s finger and onto his own. He shouted for help, then melded into the shadows as a phalanx of police officers swarmed the graveyard.
After waiting until he saw Lance carried away on a stretcher, Val melted into the darkness. He couldn’t risk detention. Though Lance would have some explaining to do, it was clear to any observer that he had been the victim of a heinous crime, a crazed madman who had blown up the cemetery and then attacked Lance when he tried to intervene.
Val took a deep breath. Dwelling on the fate of his brothers would drive him mad. Instead he had to act. His life purpose had shrunk to one single directive, an irreducible force of nature that rose, like a tidal wave, to fill every facet of his being.
Find his brothers.
No matter the difficulty.
No matter the cost.
The first thing he did was search the cemetery for Salomon. He had heard Will shout his name, and had seen an old man leaning on a tomb who fit Will’s earlier description, observing the battle like some grizzled, pipe-smoking Moira, a dispassionate chronicler of fate.
Val quickly grasped that in the near-darkness of the cemetery, the ring allowed him to move about unobserved. He waved his hand in front of his face, and it appeared as a shadow would: insubstantial, ephemeral, slipping away from the eye.
He slunk away after an unsuccessful sweep of the cemetery. Salomon, he sensed, was gone.
Next stop: Zedock’s house, to find his father’s journal. After searching for hours, Val saw no sign of the diary. He pounded on the wall. Zedock must have carried it back to his world.
He did find, sitting alone atop a bookshelf in a study full of archaeological journals and tomes on medieval history, a familiar title. Unearthing Charlemagne: An Archeological Perspective on the Father of Europe.
The author was Dane Maurice Blackwood.
Val flipped through the bookmarked pages and felt a chill as he read the author bio, where someone—Zedock—had underlined the first sentence.
Dane Maurice Blackwood is a Professor of Archeology at Tulane and resides with his family in New Orleans.
Val had been wondering if all of this could have been avoided if Will had never gone to Zedock’s house. Now he knew better. Either the necromancer knew who they were from the start, or had been about to find out.
Quivering with frustration, Val paced back and forth in the study. The portal was gone, Salomon was gone, the journal was gone.
There was no way back.
He spun on his heel, made an anonymous 9-1-1 call to ensure Charlie had a proper burial, and returned to his hotel room. Nothing more could be accomplished that night.
After a shower and a restless night’s sleep, Val caught the morning flight to New York. It was not an easy choice, because he felt an emotional need to stay in New Orleans, but his next task was best accomplished from his office.
On the way to the airport, he called the hospital to check on Lance. He had survived, but had lost a lung and suffered internal bleeding. His law enforcement career was over.
Val also called to make sure his mother was okay, ashamed he couldn’t take the time to visit. Not with the time differential clock ticking.
Before noon he was striding into the foyer of his law firm’s skyscraper, a Lower Manhattan behemoth with a stunning view of the Empire State Building. First, Val checked the news. As he had suspected, the police were labeling the desecration of the cemetery an act of domestic terrorism. Why a terrorist would blow up a bunch of corpses, no one had any idea.
Val then called his best junior associate into the office, a fresh-faced Yale grad who excelled at research. “We have a new case,” Val said, as she turned a page in her legal pad. “Time is of the essence, and no one else is to be involved. The case is highly confidential.”
“Of course,” the associate said, intrigued.
“I want you to find out everything you can,” Val continued, steepling his fingers on the desk, “about a group called the Myrddinus.”
* * *
TO BE CONTINUED IN
THE SPIRIT MAGE
COMING SEPTEMBER 2017
Click HERE for a sneak preview of The Spirit Mage, as well as notification of a VIP Reader’s discount during release week!
Acknowledgments
First off, thanks to all those old-school titans of fantasy who introduced me to new worlds and horizons from a young age. In no particular order, and assuredly leaving many out: Terry Brooks, Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman, R.A. Salvatore, Anne McCaffrey, Gary Gygax, David Eddings, Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Robert Jordan, Ursula K. LeGuin, Joel Rosenberg, Madeleine L’Engle, Roger Zelazny, Lloyd Alexander, and Robert Asprin. A number of amazingly talented editors helped kick start my own series and bring this novel to life: Rusty Dalferes, Betsy Mitchell, Michael Rowley, Susan Chang, Jen Blood, and Mab Morris. John Strout and Lisa Weinberg provided essential early reads. Sammy Yuen applied his creative genius to the cover design. And as always, thanks to my wife and family for all the love and support. While I will always dream of other realms, they have ensured this world is the only one I will ever need.
About the Author
LAYTON GREEN is the author of the bestselling Dominic Grey series, as well as other works of fiction. His novels have been nominated for multiple awards (including a finalist for an International Thriller Writers award), optioned for film, and have reached #1 on numerous genre lists in the United States, the United Kingdom, and Germany.
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