A Calculated Magic lm-2 Read online

  “It’s all coming back to me now,” said Jack. “Edmond Hamilton and Lester del Rey both wrote novels about ordinary mortals who find themselves in Götterdämmerung, the Twilight of the Gods. So did L. Sprague de Camp.”

  An avid fantasy fan with a phenomenal memory, Jack’s knowledge of legendary and mythological characters came primarily from the stories he had read over the past decade. In most cases, the information he remembered served him better than consulting Bulfinch’s Mythology.

  “Personally, I liked de Camp’s Incomplete Enchanter the best,” declared Hugo. “He portrayed Odin true to character—rude, mysterious, and always brooding.”

  “Nah,” said Mongo. “Hamilton’s A Yank at Valhalla was tons more fun. He justified everything through super science and the story had a slam-bang finish. They don’t write stuff like that anymore.”

  “You two read science fiction?” asked Jack, bewildered. “I didn’t know birds could read.”

  “We’re not ordinary birds, Jack,” said Hugo. The raven’s piercing black eyes froze Jack with a wicked stare. “Don’t you forget it. In the old days, we flew all over gathering information for the All-Father. Each night we landed on his shoulders and described to him what was happening throughout the world.”

  “World meaning the immediate surroundings,” interrupted Mongo, sounding slightly sarcastic. “Amazing how the scale of things changes once you escape the limits of the nearby surroundings.”

  “Whatever,” said Hugo, flapping his wings in annoyance. “Give me a chance to explain without interruption, please.”

  “I’m sure Jack has already deduced the rest,” said Mongo. “He’s a bright boy. You heard Merlin’s narrative how Johnnie saved the world from the forces of darkness.”

  “Yeah,” said Hugo. “But think what he could have done with our help.”

  The big raven shrugged, not an easy task considering it had no shoulders. “I guess Mongo’s right. It ain’t hard to figure out the full report. Since we had to spy and then report to the All-Father, we were created with the ability to read and speak.”

  “But why indulge in fantasy fiction?” asked Jack. “Why not history? Or perhaps westerns?”

  “Use your brain, Johnnie,” said Hugo. “How many times did you come home from school and find one of your books on the floor with the pages open? Or have a volume disappear for a week or two, then turn up again as if it had never been gone?”

  Jack’s face turned bright red. “The two of you? Borrowing my books? My valuable, first-edition books!”

  “Calm down,” said Mongo. “We tried to be careful with them.”

  “Sure we were,” said Hugo. “Though turning the pages on those old pulp magazines put a hell of a crimp in my neck. The paper kept crumbling into shreds.”

  “My pulps?” said Jack, growing more and more agitated. “You turned the pages of my pulps with your beaks? Some of those magazines are sixty years old. They’re irreplaceable!”

  “Tasted like it, too,” said Hugo. Then, seeing the expression on Jack’s face, the raven quickly added, “The shreds, that is. The tiny bits of paper that fell off the edges.”

  Freda Collins chose that moment, as her son started reaching out with both hands to wring the life out of the bird in front of him, to open the door to Merlin’s office. “Good to see you’re getting acquainted,” she declared cheerfully.

  “Mother,” said Jack, dropping his hands to his sides, “your ravens have been secretly reading my fantasy books for years,” His voice trembled with the anger of a true collector. “They put beak marks in my pulps.”

  “Blame me, Johnnie,” said his mother, calmly. “I gave them permission. The birds were bored. There wasn’t a lot for them to do the past few decades, now that warfare’s changed so much. Reading was their only escape from monotony. Besides, they liked your taste in literature.”

  “Yeah,” said Hugo. “You never heard us complain. Including when you got hooked for a year on those dreadful H. P. Lovecraft Cthulhu Mythos pastiches.”

  “Besides,” said Mongo, “flying around one day we found a used bookstore in the Bronx where there’s a complete set of Weird Tales in fine condition for sale—cheap. The owner doesn’t know a thing about pulp magazines. He’d probably let them go for a song. We couldn’t tell you about them before. But now Hugo and me can work as your book scouts. We’ll find plenty of bargains. Discovering hidden items is a talent we possess.”

  “Well,” said Jack, taking a deep breath. “I guess I forgive you. But, in the future, inform me what you want to read. That way, at least, I can take the magazines out of the plastic bags for you.”

  “Deal,” said Hugo.

  Things quieted down after that. Freda updated Jack on family matters, including the latest scandals, marriages, and deaths. The two ravens provided the embarrassing details. Jack soon realized the birds hadn’t exaggerated their skill as spies. They knew the dirt on everyone.

  Afterward, Jack was forced to recap in detail his adventures fighting Dietrich von Bern, the Wild Huntsman. His mother and the ravens had heard some of the story from Merlin. But the magician and Megan had been in enchanted sleep for most of the exploit. Jack, with Cassandra’s promptings, filled in the rest.

  About halfway through the story, Merlin supplied lunch via a teleportation spell to the nearest restaurant. A BLT and a Coke did wonders soothing Jack’s temper. As did the admiring comments from both his parent and her blackbirds.

  “My son, the world-saver,” said Freda Collins, when Jack finished his tale. “Not that I’m surprised. The blood of heroes flows in your veins. Too bad you never learned the identity of the demigod pulling the Huntsman’s strings. Hidden enemies are the most dangerous kind.”

  “So far, even Merlin’s magic has proven useless,” said Jack. “The demigod stays far enough in the background to be untraceable. It’s a mystery that has to be solved sooner or later. But that’s the least of my problems. The events of this morning present a much more immediate dilemma. One that has to be dealt with right away.”

  “This morning?” said Megan, her voice concerned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t Hugo mention the assassins?” asked Jack.

  “Assassins,” said Megan, her eyes flashing dangerously. She turned to the raven. “What assassins?”

  “Oops, sorry,” said the bird quickly. Obviously, Megan frightened him a good deal more than Jack. “Since the attempt failed, I decided not to say anything till Johnnie arrived and could provide the details himself.”

  “An assassination attempt,” said Merlin, frowning. “That’s strange. I recently tried using my crystal ball to predict our enemy’s next move. While the results were inconclusive, I saw nothing to indicate it planned any direct violent action against you. At least, not in the immediate future.”

  “Not one attempt, but two,” said Jack. Briefly, he described both attacks and how Cassandra foiled each of them. “In both cases, the killers were mortals, not supernaturals. But I believe behind them stands a particularly fiendish supernatural mastermind.”

  Jack drew in a deep breath. “No direct action, you said. Unfortunately, that doesn’t rule out working through a proxy. The demigod is staying safely out of sight and letting another monstrous figure fight its battles. Unlike Dietrich von Bern and his Border Redcaps, this villain uses human henchmen.”

  “Which changes the rules of the game drastically,” said Cassandra. “Mortals aren’t bound by the same rules as supernatural entities. And there are so many of them.”

  The Amazon did not look pleased. Nor did anyone else. “You hinted earlier you knew the identity of this new mastermind. Jack,” said Cassandra. “Who is it?”

  “I’m not positive about the answer,” said Jack, “but everything I’ve seen and heard so far points to one infamous figure. The actions of the assassins and the few remarks made by our one prisoner before he committed suicide support my theory. Why he is serving our mysterious enemy I don’t know. But for
some unexplained reason, I’ve been marked for death by the Old Man of the Mountain.”

  5

  Nobody said anything for a moment. Jack gazed around at his friends and relatives, feeling a mixture of annoyance and astonishment. He refused to believe that they didn’t comprehend his predicament.

  “Wasn’t he the big, white-bearded giant in that Belly Boop cartoon?” asked Megan, a puzzled expression on her face. “The one we watched on TNT with the Cab Calloway sound track?”

  “You’re being threatened by an animated monster?” squawked Hugo. “That stretches credibility a bit far, doesn’t it?”

  Jack sighed in amazement. “Aren’t any of you familiar with the stories of the Old Man of the Mountain and the Order of Assassins?”

  Seeing the blank looks that greeted his question, he knew the answer, Eyebrows knotted in concentration, he stared directly at the two ravens. “I thought you birds knew everything. The old legends said you spied on mankind’s doings each day and whispered it that night in Odin’s ear.”

  “A gross exaggeration, I’m afraid,” said Mongo. Of the two birds, he had the better vocabulary. “As I mentioned earlier, Johnnie, our range was limited by the imagination of our creators. They never envisioned the true extent of the world. We watched the northlands pretty well, but that was it.”

  “Besides,” added Hugo, “we fly awfully fast, but there’s only so much territory you can cover in a day.”

  “I wish Simon was here,” said Jack, shaking his head unhappily. “He’d understand why I’m concerned.”

  “Where is the changeling?” asked Freda. “He sounds like an interesting character. I’d like to meet him.”

  “Simon left yesterday for England,” said Jack. “He’s arranging a transfer to another college. It’s a ritual he goes through each year. He won’t return for weeks.”

  A faery changeling, Simon Goodfellow had proven a valuable ally in Jack’s battle with Dietrich von Bern. Like all magical beings. Simon had evolved with the times. Centuries ago, he had been the magical child left behind, replacing a baby kidnapped by faeries. In the modern world, he was a know-it-all exchange student who was never at a loss for an answer. True to his nature, Simon always interrupted at the wrong time, grated on his friends’ nerves, and generally acted the nuisance. Yet he was also a loyal, brave companion. Jack missed him already.

  “If the Old Man of the Mountain isn’t the cartoon character,” said Megan, patting Jack’s hand, “why not tell us who he is?”

  “I guess it’s not that surprising that none of you heard of him,” said Jack. “He comes from a mythology entirely different from any of yours,” He glared at the ravens. “Ed Hamilton wrote a story in 1943 for Weird Tales that featured the Old Man of the Mountain. He titled it ’The Valley of the Assassins.’ ”

  “We never read it,” said Hugo. “The Weird Tales were packed too tightly together on the shelves. We tried but couldn’t pull them out.”

  “Thank God for small favors,” muttered Jack. “To understand the legend of the Old Man of the Mountain, I have to tell you of the secret society he founded, the Hashashin. Or, as they were called by the Crusaders, the Assassins.

  “The name in Arabic literally means hashish addict. The drug was used by a sect of fanatical Shi’ite Moslems during the eleventh century to induce religious visions. The leader of these Hashashin was a brilliant renegade cleric, Hasan al-Sabbah. Less interested in spiritual objectives than material gains, Hasan created what was probably the most successful terrorist organization ever. For his followers were unafraid of death. Without such fear, the Hashashin made the perfect killers. They were willing to die to accomplish their goals. Which usually were missions of murder or extortion.

  “The Hashashin were fearless because they knew in serving al-Sabbah they were guaranteed admission to paradise. Suffering for a short time on Earth meant nothing if followed by an eternity of pleasure. For, unlike most prophets, al-Sabbah provided his men with a glimpse of the hereafter.”

  “Nice trick if you can manage,” commented Hugo. “How did he accomplish that? Mass hypnotism?”

  “Better than that,” replied Jack. “The headquarters of the cult was set in a huge mountain fortress, Alamut, located in the mountains of northwest Iran. Thus, al-Sabbah’s title, the Old Man of the Mountain.

  “In the center of the citadel was a secret garden constructed by the Old Man’s servants. Stocked with fruit, wine, and beautiful slave girls, the oasis resembled the Moslem concept of paradise. When a new recruit came to Alamut, he was fed drugged wine which put him to sleep. When he awakened, he found himself transported to Heaven, complete with willing women and bountiful wine. After indulging in a day of pleasure, the naive recruit was returned to the fortress via another dose of drugged wine. Knowing what awaited him in death if he served al-Sabbah faithfully during life transformed an ordinary man into a fearless assassin. Deadly risks meant nothing to them since they knew that paradise beckoned. They were unstoppable.”

  “I take it these Hashashin made quite a name for themselves?” asked Cassandra.

  “The Assassins spread terror throughout the Middle East for the next two hundred years. No one was safe from the whims of the Old Man of the Mountain. From Alamut, he conducted a reign of fear unmatched in history. The mere whisper of his name was enough to cause a panic.

  “When al-Sabbah died, one of his followers rose in his position and assumed the title, the Old Man of the Mountain. The murders continued. And, with each death, the cult’s power and influence grew.”

  “You mentioned Saladin?” prompted Cassandra.

  “The Crusaders’ most dangerous foe made no secret of his distaste for the Assassins. One afternoon, he mentioned to his generals that he was considering an assault on their headquarters in Syria. The next morning, Saladin woke to find an Assassin’s knife driven into the pillow next to his head. He needed no other warning. Saladin never mentioned the order again.”

  Jack paused. “Did you hear someone moving in the outer office?”

  “I canceled my appointments for today,” said Merlin, “so that we would not be disturbed,” The magician’s brow wrinkled in annoyance. “Strange, I sense…”

  Before Merlin could finish the sentence, the door to the inner room burst open and a half dozen men dressed in green combat fatigues, carrying Uzi machine guns, crowded into the chamber.

  “Shit,” said Hugo.

  “Death,” replied a tall, bearded man with shaven head. “Death to our quarry and his friends.”

  Savagely, he squeezed the trigger of his Uzi. Nothing happened. At his sides, his men aimed and fired. Again without results.

  “A dampening spell on the office makes gunfire impossible,” declared Merlin smugly. “Those weapons are useless.”

  Snarling with rage, the bearded man slammed his gun to the ground. Angrily, he pulled a huge knife from a sheath strapped to his side. “Now they die!”

  “You talk too much, baldie,” declared Cassandra, A flawlessly executed spin kick ended with her right foot slamming into the bearded man’s jaw. His teeth exploded across the room. His mouth a red ruin, the man fell backward, his eyes wide with shock.

  Howling wildly, his followers reached for their own knives. Jack, Megan, and Merlin retreated to the rear of the room, knowing they’d only be in the way. Six normal humans, even trained assassins, were no match for one angry Amazon. Not to mention a slightly out-of-shape Valkyrie and two fiendish ravens.

  With a war cry of “For Asgard!” that nearly shattered the chamber’s glass windows, Freda Collins hurtled forward at the astonished killers. For a woman her size, she moved with astonishing quickness.

  Effortlessly, Jack’s mother grabbed two of the men by the neck, raised them into the air, and smashed them together like two bricks. They collided so hard that Jack could hear the sound of their bones breaking across the room. Snorting in disgust, Freda threw the limp pair against the office wall. They collapsed lifelessly to the floor.

&
nbsp; Hugo and Mongo made short work of the third attacker. Wings thrashing furiously, they slashed at his unprotected face with their claws and beaks. His head spurting blood, the man collapsed facedown on the carpet. One concluding shudder and he was still. Remembering the raven’s earlier remarks about poking out eyes, Jack felt no desire to learn how that luckless individual had expired.

  The last two killers actually managed to draw their weapons before Cassandra reached them. That proved to be their undoing. Faced with two attackers armed with knives, the Amazon reacted by instinct alone. Her deadly hands moving faster than the eye could follow, she killed both men instantly.

  Jack clenched his fists in frustration. Of the six attackers, only the leader remained alive. Anxiously, Jack glanced at the bearded man, his back pressed to the doorframe. Face white with shock, the assassin surveyed the carnage surrounding him. Bloody lips moved as if in prayer.

  “Stop him,” cried Jack, but it was already too late. Without a sound, the bearded man slumped to the floor, dead. There would be no learning anything from this group. Jack had a feeling that questioning prisoners was going to prove quite difficult.

  6

  “weaklings,” said Freda Collins, snorting in derision, staring at the bodies littering the floor. She was barely breathing hard. Daintily, she cracked her knuckles. “Odin would have sent us packing if my sisters and I brought ones such as these back to Valhalla.”

  Mentally, Jack filed a note to ask his mother someday about her adventures as one of the Choosers of the Slain. It was an intriguing thought, but there were more pressing concerns to worry about.

  “What are we going to do with these guys?” he asked. “Explaining their condition to the police might prove difficult.”

  “No problem,” said Merlin, reaching for the telephone. “I’ll use a preserving spell on them so they won’t decay. There’s a friendly giant who often handles heavy moving jobs for me. I’ll have him stop by after the building closes and pick up the corpses. He’ll dispose of them for a reasonable fee.”