Wand: A Fantasy of Witches, Wizards, and Wands
Chapter Thirty-One

The sorcerer wedged his mirror beneath the seat cushion. No one would be sitting on it anytime soon, so this was as safe a place as any.

Outside someone screamed. It sounded like a young boys’ voice.

“You better get out there and help them, don’t you think?” the sorcerer asked Jim.

“Oh I would,” Jim said, glancing through the porthole. “But this is more warlock territory.”

“You’re a curator of magical artifacts,” the sorcerer urged. “You must have something useful with you. An old stang, a hex bag, Groovy Grenades from hippie alchemists? Something.”

“Well,” Jim said, digging into his gym bag of goodies. “I do have this old censer. Supposedly it was once used by John Dee for Queen Elizabeth the First. It’s supposed to repel all evil intentions. But I haven’t given it to the warlocks for them to run it through their tests yet.”

Another scream, this one higher pitched—a woman’s. And the earth trembled.

“Do you have essence of marjoram?”

Jim nodded.

“Then you have a weapon. Go and help your co-workers.”

Jim dug out the censer. An ancient looking bronze pot with a spout, it certainly looked genuine. He hastily tapped a few ounces of essence of marjoram into the pot, voiced the incantation in the appropriately passé Latin, ‘Pellere solum’ and lowered a slow burning ritual candle into the pot. Soon a sweet smelling aroma was puffing from the spout. Jim stepped out of the brougham to join his struggling peers, holding the censer aloft and before him as if it were a kettle filled with boiling water.

The sorcerer snorted. “Idiot.”

Alone at last, he faced a bit of a quandary. He could flee now, but the wizards and witches and golems were standing in his southward path. He could wait out the melee. That Michael Delving was no novice; he might have a chance. But then, there were two golems. Even fully equipped with a firebrand and water, an experienced warlock would be hard pressed to deal with one golem, let alone a pair.

No, the outcome was pretty much a given. Everyone out there would die, and then the golems would continue their rampage. And mirrors had a short life expectancy where golems were involved.

There was really only one option. But the sorcerer would have to be sly about it.

He crawled out of the brougham and took in the scene a couple dozen yards away. Poor Dickon lay on the side of the road, one leg squashed flat as a pancake; it was not clear if he was alive or dead. Lana and Judy were busily erecting a ward off to the side. They’d used chalk to outline a Circle, dressed it with the proper sigils and glyphs, and were now waving their arms about and chanting. Against spirit beings such as specters, glimmerlings, and possibly even wraiths, this would likely prove effective.

Against golems it was like hiding in a tent from a bear.

Michael Delving, taking advantage of the golem’s distraction with Jim, leaped forward and shaved a good eighteen inches off the golem’s leg with his stang. As it staggered, the other one stretched out its hand to grasp Michael from behind, but the warlock, no doubt in battle-mage mode with Third Eye sending warning signals, swung round and severed its hand of hardened dirt and pebbles.

Not even slowing, Michael spun, performing a 360 degree pirouette, using his momentum to drive the stang into the golem’s side. It sank into earthen flesh, but stuck fast about halfway through. The golem brought its massive arms down. Michael released his hold on the stang and rolled away to a safe distance.

As his golem struggled to yank the sword out of its midsection, the other one drove its fists into the pavement, elbows deep, likely searching for dirt. Golems could grow limbs easily by plunging their stumps into the earth and siphoning however much dirt and stone they liked, but asphalt was near on useless to them; it slowed their movements and had a tendency to slough off from poor adherence. Within moments the golem’s leg began to grow from its stump.

The sorcerer had seen enough. Michael Delving could handle himself, but even he would tire. His opponents would not. No, this was a lost cause.

Turning around, the sorcerer sped back to the overturned carriage. He dug out his mirror, ran up the embankment, and scurried along for a few dozen yards, making sure the golem did not follow. It didn’t. The thing was too focused on the others to bother with him. Michael, however, did spot the sorcerer. The two exchanged looks until the warlock was forced to defend himself from the lumbering golems.

The sorcerer kept to the embankment, though it was slippery from the rain, and the incline was making his ankles sore; he didn’t want any passersby to notice him.

He felt no pangs of guilt for leaving the men and women. His fight was with the Old One. And Nick Hammond was vital to that fight. Getting the boy to his place in Camp Sagamore so he could study his peculiar gifts was essential.

Hours later he found Lint waiting obediently for him at the turn onto 28.

“Oi, spellslinger,” Lint said. “Any trouble?”

The sorcerer shook his head. “No more than usual.”