“You might have shared all this information with the Order before,” Blackwood muttered. “Considering you brought these demons upon us.”
Was he really going to be like this the entire session? He remained in the corner, regarding us as though we’d all disappointed him dreadfully. Truly, Lord Blackwood acting a proper ass in Master Agrippa’s library was like going back in bloody time.
“In my experience, one tries to avoid those who would like to put one to death,” Mickelmas said pleasantly. He ambled over to Magnus, who was jabbing at one of Agrippa’s bookshelves with the scythe. Magnus still had one arm wrapped in bandages, and he was making a clumsy job of it. “What, are you trying to pick at it?” Mickelmas adjusted him. “Wide, arcing sweeps, my boy, though perhaps you’d best really go for it when you’re out of doors.”
Blackwood had not done with his conversation, though. “Why didn’t you try this years ago yourself, then?” he snapped.
I’d had quite enough.
“The magicians were scattered and afraid, Blackwood. Can you imagine what that felt like?” I practiced a few more swipes of the dagger.
Blackwood didn’t reply.
“How did you and Mary Willoughby open that portal in the first place?” Dee asked Mickelmas, finally taking a break from playing.
Blackwood stiffened, but thankfully Mickelmas didn’t appear eager to divulge his father’s secrets.
“Runes,” the magician said, carefully. “But I wouldn’t do it again.”
“Why?” Dee asked. “Maybe we could send the beasts away?”
“Experience taught me never to play around with such things. All right?” Mickelmas snapped.
Dee blushed to the roots of his hair and played some more.
Mickelmas had us line up and drill with each of the weapons. I could feel the difference when the swords and daggers were handled properly. While I hated to admit it, I wasn’t physically strong enough to handle the swords or scythe properly. I was, however, very good with the daggers. Mickelmas applauded whenever I struck a clean, upward blow.
“Excellent. And that tiny little one,” he said, plucking the microdagger from my hand. “Well, it’s very…small.” He frowned and flicked his wrist, sending the blade soaring to stick in the front of Agrippa’s desk, its handle trembling.
“How will we know if our training works?” Magnus asked, cracking the whip. He did it as Mickelmas had suggested, swirling it once overhead and delivering it in a straight, sharp downward movement. The violet flash of light did not happen this time, and the sound was akin to a clap of thunder. A bit noisy, yes, but it felt right.
“When you’re face to face with one of the Ancients, you’ll know,” Mickelmas said. “Remember, the whip and the flutes are especially good for Molochoron. You don’t want to get close enough to use the dagger, as the smell can be quite disconcerting.”
I laughed but then grew horribly light-headed. My nose started gushing blood, and the room grew bright before plunging into darkness. Someone guided me to the sofa, where I sat with my head back, pinching my nose.
“Use this,” Maria said, giving me a handkerchief. There was a voice whispering in the corner of the room…wasn’t there? When I turned to find it, a sharp pain stabbed between my eyes. Maria held my head in her hands and shushed my whimpering. “Don’t move.”
“That’ll happen,” Mickelmas said. “Boys, raise your hand if you’ve a headache.” The room was silent, then I heard the magician grunt. “Right. Two of you. You must use these weapons sparingly, in practice and in battle.”
“Why do they have this effect?” I asked, sounding quite plugged up.
“No idea, but prolonged exposure can have disastrous consequences. Shifts in personality. So do as I ask, and be careful.”
I opened my eyes, and the world settled once more.
Blackwood had gone over to the table with the weapons and picked up the softly glowing lantern.
“Don’t even think about it.” Mickelmas plucked it from the boy’s hands and put the lantern back, checking on the latch. “Remember what I said earlier? Never open that unless you must.”
“Why?” I asked. I’d missed that particular instruction.
“It’s a way to summon the beasts to you,” Mickelmas grumbled, tossing a piece of cloth over the lantern. “Strangewayes called it an optiaethis. It’s not merely an object from another world—it’s a living piece of it.”
My skin crawled. I wished I’d left the damned thing at Strangewayes’s.
“What about the bone whistle?” I looked at the object lying on the table beside the lantern.
Mickelmas shrugged. “No idea what that one does. Never saw any mention of it in the book.” He picked it up. “I’d recommend caution.”
“Do you think we’ll be ready in time for the next attack?” Magnus asked, crouching to one knee and twisting his sword just so. He handled it better, but not perfectly. It sounded like nails scraping down a piece of glass.
“Probably not.” Mickelmas took the sword and demonstrated again. “But there’s always a silver lining: if you fail, you’ll be too dead to be embarrassed.”
—
OVER THE FOLLOWING WEEK, WE SNATCHED every stolen hour we could to train with Mickelmas. There were battles to be fought ten miles outside the city, but those battles were for the army, not the London guard. This gave the five of us time to work quickly. Once we’d got a handle on the weapons, we didn’t need to practice as much. That meant the side effects became less frequent as well.
Magnus’s arm healed more every day. Soon the bandages would come off, and he’d be sent back to the navy. Once our group dissolved, it would be harder than ever to get the Imperator to change his mind. We needed one more chance to prove ourselves, and we needed it soon.
Then, eight days after Mickelmas had begun to train us, the warning bells chimed once more.
Dong. Dong. Ding dong ding dong. Ding ding, dong, ding. Dong. Dong. Dong. Attack. North. Ancient. And the three large chimes at the end signaled Callax.
So we were to meet the Child Eater at last.
When Blackwood and I joined our squadron north of the river, it was clear that fewer sorcerers than usual had answered the summons. In fact, there were probably no more than a hundred all told. Perfect—our first sighting of an Ancient on the city’s border in months, and it had to happen when our London ranks were diminished. Yesterday, Whitechurch had sent several of our squadrons to the border of Devon, answering a call for reinforcements. Zem was supposed to be down there, rampaging through the countryside, and our southern forces were taking a beating.
We’d played directly into R’hlem’s hands, leaving London more vulnerable than usual. Blackwood had said the Skinless Man would choose a moment to test our weaknesses, and now was the perfect bloody time. If he found us lacking today, tomorrow he might decimate our last defenses—and our queen—in one fell swoop.
My heart was in my throat. We could not fail.
Those of us left assembled directly behind the barrier, four rows deep, twenty sorcerers per row. The trick was to have multiple lines of attack, one right after the other. The first row might use fire, for instance, then bend down and strike with an earthen onslaught while the second row continued the fire assault.
Above us, the air brewed with a storm that two squadrons were creating. Blackwood and I waited as Valens passed by, counting off the people in his division. We had prayed he wouldn’t pay us any special attention, with our larger weapons barely concealed. Thankfully, he did not, and I let out a breath as he passed.