A Logical Magician

15

“What’s the time now?” asked Simon nervously.

“Five minutes later than before,” said Jack irritably, not bothering to look at his watch. “Ten minutes later than the time before that. And so on back for the past hour. You’ve asked me that question at least a dozen times tonight. It’s made reading this novel awfully difficult.”

“Sony,” said Simon. “I’m a mite nervous, that’s all. No reason for you to snap at me.”

With a sigh, Jack dog-eared the page he had been trying to finish for the last twenty minutes and closed the book. Grunting with the effort, he laid the volume on his desk. An immense historical novel entitled With Fire and Sword, it weighed nearly five pounds. The first of a trilogy dealing with war and rebellion in 17th-century Eastern Europe, the book was considered the national epic of Poland. Jack had been reading it in his spare moments for much of the spring term. Well over 1200 pages, the novel read like Robert E. Howard’s swords-and-sorcery adventures crossed with War and Peace. Jack originally harbored vague hopes of finishing the book before he finished school. Now he hoped he would reach the conclusion while still alive.

“I understand why you’re worried,” said Jack, rising from his chair. “But there’s no reason to be scared.”

He peered out the window of his office. The Border Redcaps had emerged from hiding once the security guard left the building. Nearly fifty of them crowded the plaza in front of the mathematics complex. An equal number waited at the rear entrance. Silently, they watched and waited, never once making any effort to approach the doors of the building.

Cookie-cutter monsters, Jack mentally noted, studying the features of the evil faeries. Each Redcap was a virtual duplicate of every other. They were all a little over six feet tall, big and bulky, with swarthy features, and skin the color of old leather. Each of them had a pushed-in pug nose, flat ears and greasy black hair that poked out in wild disarray from beneath their identical red baseball caps.

The rest of their outfit consisted of metal-toed motorcycle boots, faded blue jeans, and shiny black leather jackets cluttered with studs and chains. All of them wore dark leather gloves. Jack suspected they all spoke with the same accent. Their gathering resembled a Hell’s Angels clone convention.

“I wonder if the school founders built this complex on top of an old Indian burial ground or someplace like that,” said Jack. “Maybe that’s the reason the Redcaps can’t enter.”

“Not very likely,” said Simon. “No reason Indian religious beliefs would effect Old World Faeries. Maybe they hate mathematics.”

“Placing them squarely in tune with a majority of Americans,” said Jack, chuckling. “I can’t see how the subject, no matter how distasteful, could prevent a supernatural being from entering a building. Besides, you’re inside.”

“I’m good. They’re evil,” said Simon. “That’s the one big difference between us.”

Jack’s brow furled in concentration. “If mathematics actually bothers the forces of darkness,” he said thoughtfully, “it would partially explain why Merlin chose me…”

The ringing of the campus church bell halted Jack in mid-sentence. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, the clapper chimed loudly, announcing the hour.

“Midnight,” said Simon softly. “Evil’s hour.”

As if in response to the changeling’s remark, a huge black limousine pulled up on the street a hundred feet from the math complex. The automobile glowed with an eerie white light, the sight of which gave Jack goosebumps. The car exuded dark, supernatural menace.

A low moan escaped the crowd of Border Redcaps. Hurriedly, they scrambled away from the entrance of the mathematics building, leaving a clear path from the limo to the door.

A massive form circled the car from the driver’s side to the sidewalk. Dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform, the figure moved at a slow, dignified pace. Jack stared curiously at the being. A solemn, almost-sad face topped a body seemingly carved from solid, unyielding stone. A thick, unkempt beard merged with shoulder-length gray hair, giving the figure the appearance of great age.

“Who’s that?” he whispered to Simon, lowering his voice as if afraid to break the silence.

“Charon,” replied the changeling. “Amazing how many centuries he’s managed to survive. He’s been in the transportation business for millennia. Probably because he maintains a low profile. He’s neutral, neither good nor evil. Nice enough fellow, though not much of a conversationalist.”

“It’s a long way from the River Styx,” remarked Jack.

“Last I heard, he was working on the Staten Island Ferry,” said Simon. “I guess von Bern made him a better offer. Charon always was a greedy bastard. He sold Cerberus to the circus for a handful of silver.”

The ancient Greek boatman opened the passenger door of the limo. As if shot by a cannon, a half-dozen jet-black Dobermans erupted from the car. Six pairs of blood-red eyes glared at the mathematics building while six jaws parted in silent snarls, revealing gigantic yellow fangs. The Gabble Ratchets, hungry for life.

“In olden days,” said Simon solemnly, “the Wild Huntsman drove across the moors in a black coach drawn by six headless horses and followed by his pack of corpse hounds. One of the arch-fiends, he sought souls for his infernal master, and woe be the luckless mortal out of doors on the night of the Wild Hunt.”

“He didn’t need to adjust much for the modern world,” said Jack cheerfully, trying to fight the feeling of impending doom. “Only now the coach is manufactured in Detroit, the horses are under the hood, and the dogs ride inside on the cushions.”

Jack punched Simon gently in the shoulder. “Calm down, buddy. Megan said we were safe as long as we remained inside the building. That sounds easy enough. We refuse any rides tonight in that big black limo.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Simon. Raising a hand, he pointed at the car. “Here he comes—Dietrich von Bern, Master of the Furious Host.”

Even from a distance, Jack could see that von Bern was a giant of a man, standing nearly seven feet tall. Towering over the Border Redcaps, he marched forward, the Gabble Ratchets darting in circles about his feet He wore an elegant black tuxedo, with gray cummerbund and matching bow tie. A gigantic velvet cape swirled behind him in the wind. Striking the only discordant note to his otherwise perfectly matched outfit was the sheathed saber bouncing against one thigh.

A black goatee, pencil-thin mustache, and thick mane of dark hair gave the German the good looks of a matinee idol. His dark gray eyes smoldered with an inner fire. Only twin scars, one on each cheek, marred his otherwise perfect features.

“Wounds inflicted by the devil himself,” supplied Simon, as if reading Jack’s thoughts. “Legends claimed that von Bern challenged Old Nick to a swordfight, gambling his immortal soul against an offer of eternal life. A proud, arrogant man, the German was the greatest bladesman of his age. However, Satan, taught by the greatest fighters in history, easily matched the German’s skill. Toying with von Bern, the devil marked him on both cheeks before finally administering the coup de grace. Yet, in a fashion, von Bern achieved his goal of eternal life. Satan condemned him to roam the earth forever as Master of the Wild Hunt, searching for the one prize he can never find. Humility.”

“Nice story,” said Jack. “Any truth to it?”

“I doubt it,” said Simon. “But my opinion doesn’t matter. Enough people once believed the tale fact and thus brought the fiend to life. Leaving us to deal with him.”

The giant had reached the door to the math building. Standing mere, on legs the size of small tree trunks, he drew his saber. Resting the point of the blade on the sidewalk, the German leaned on it like a walking stick. His gaze swept the front of the building until it came to rest on the window of Jack’s office.

“Truce, Professor Collins,” he called out in a clear, deep voice. He spoke perfect English without a trace of an accent. “I declare a truce. Come down to the entrance so we can discuss our problems face to face. I have some important information that I must tell you. We cannot enter that cursed place so you are safe enough. And I swear on my sacred blade, the Sword of Chaos, that you shall not be harmed in my presence.”

“What do you think?” Jack asked Simon.

“It could be a trick,” said the changeling. “But he did swear on his sword. That’s pretty strong stuff for a guy like von Bern. Honor is important even to fiends.”

“I agree,” said Jack. “After all, this joker is holding Megan and Merlin prisoner. We can’t ignore the possibility he might be willing to make a deal. Who knows what he has on his mind? If it’s important enough for him to offer a truce, we should at least find out what he wants to discuss.”

It only took a few minutes for Jack and Simon to reach the entrance to the building. Pushing open the door, Jack stared at the huge German. Up close, von Bern was awe-inspiring. Like some vast supernatural dynamo, his body burned with raw, untamed power.

“All right, von Bern,” said Jack. “I’m Jack Collins. What did you want to say to me?”

“Truce’s over!” shouted the giant and dropped like a sack of wet cement to the ground.

Instinctively, Jack leapt for a nearby coat closet, dragging Simon with him. Behind them, the glass doors of the entrance exploded in a hail of gunfire as fifty Border Redcaps blasted the portal with automatic weapons.

“I thought faeries couldn’t handle cold steel,” said Jack, huddled behind a stack of metal chairs in the cloakroom. “Not to mention.357 Magnums.”

“That geas phased out around a hundred years ago,” said Simon. “Nobody was exactly sure why, but one day the touch of iron no longer bothered any of us. Sorry for not mentioning it sooner, but you didn’t ask. It never occurred to me they might be carrying guns.”

“So much for von Bern swearing on his sword,” said Jack, disgusted with himself for believing the German. “Remind me not to be that naive again. There’s no honor among fiends.”

He paused, frowning. “In the meantime, why isn’t this place swarming with cops? After all, it does sound like World War Three outside. We should be knee-deep in police.”

“Von Bern probably enveloped the whole area in an amnesia spell before he arrived,” said Simon. “It’s pretty powerful magic. Anyone coming too close forgets why he was heading in this direction and returns to his starting point. The spell effectively cuts off the location from outside interference. Nobody will notice anything wrong here until morning.”

“An amnesia spell?” repeated Jack, pressing closer to the chairs as several bullets ricocheted into the cloakroom. “No visitors? No interruptions? What great news. I gather that means we’re stuck here until his flunkies get tired of shooting.”

“Or run out of ammunition,” offered Simon, remaining true to his character.