A Logical Magician

42

The phone rang. Its inhuman face twisted with unspeakable rage, the Lord of Lions beckoned to Roger. “Answer it,” hissed the Crouching One.

The demigod wore a plain white cotton robe, decorated on each shoulder with a golden lion’s head. On its feet were simple leather sandals. In one hand, it held a slender polished wood scepter. On its hairless head, the Crouching One wore a gold circlet. It sat on a throne specially constructed of white marble, in the center of Roger’s library. It had been waiting there for lightning to strike for the past five hours.

Roger, dressed casually in blue jeans and a sweat shirt, hurried to pick up the receiver. He caught the phone on the third ring. After listening to a few words, he turned to the Lord of the Lions. “It’s for you,” he declared solemnly. “From Chicago. I don’t recognize the voice. It’s definitely not the German.”

Snarling in rage, the Lord of the Lions grabbed the telephone from Roger. “Speak,” it commanded. “I am listening.”

Silently, the Crouching One stood there, one ear glued to the receiver. The scowl on its face changed first to a look of absolute astonishment, then swiftly switched to anger, then finally ended in a mask of grim resignation.

“Thank you,” it said into the mouthpiece, catching Roger completely off guard. “Your information is greatly appreciated. When my day comes, you will be richly rewarded.”

Hanging up the phone, the demigod shrugged its shoulders in a very human-like expression of disgust. “Collins defeated von Bern and all his minions.”

“The Great Beast?” asked Roger.

“Sent back to the outermost dark,” said the Crouching One. “Obviously, you were correct. I underestimated our foe’s ability and ignored the Huntsman’s glaring faults. Those were mistakes I will not make again.”

Roger sincerely doubted that, but he knew better than to say anything.

“If von Bern and his troops were destroyed, who was that on the phone?” he asked instead.

“A contemporary of mine,” said the Crouching One, sounding almost nostalgic. “His people, the Etruscans, called him Charun. Like me, he was originally a death god. However, when his followers died out, the ancient Greeks adopted him into their religion, but no longer as a God. They renamed him Charon and made him a ferryman, a mere servant of their own gods. A reversal of fortunes, to be sure, but ultimately it worked in his favor. He escaped the exile the rest of us suffered centuries later, with the rise of the One God.”

“Why did he call? Old friend or not, he never phoned before.”

“Charon is interested in the welfare of only one being,” said the Lord of the Lions. “Himself. He loses nothing in informing me of Collins’s victory, and puts me in his debt. If I triumph, he claims a reward. If I do not, he is out nothing. He is an opportunist.”

“What now?” asked Roger. The Crouching One was accepting this setback with amazing equanimity.

“We wait. We watch. We plan.” The Lord of the Lions’s eyes glowed yellow as blue sparks creased his fingertips. “We devise a scheme avoiding the errors of this first attempt. We find new allies, stronger and more dependable allies.

“In the meantime, we leave Mr. Collins and his friends strictly alone. Let them wait and wonder until the moment is right. Then we strike, seizing power and crushing them with the same stroke.”

“You sound pretty positive,” said Roger, “for having lost the first round of the fight.”

“I am a God,” said the Crouching One, “and Gods are very patient. A battle was lost,” and blue sparks flashed across its features as it spoke, “but the war is far from over.”