Grimaulkin thought he had eliminated all mages from his old coterie. Not quite.
“Master, there is another.”
The magician who called himself MacDubh continued his chant, hearing the words but letting them wash over him like water. The white-haired man crouched over a bowl with a red-hot coal in it, continuing his chant.
He sprinkled the sage onto the red-hot charcoal and continued, concentrating entirely on the summoning spell. Finally, he lifted his head, and looked upon the spirit that had been summoned into the Brass Circle.
The top half of the spirit was a naked blue-skinned female, which turned into a blue snake at her bottom half, with shining blue scales that sparkled in the torchlight. Mac stood up to his full height, a broad-shouldered man seemingly without an ounce of fat on his 51-year-old frame. “What, Javan?”
“There is another summoner.”
“There are many other summoners,” Mac said, leaning backwards, holding onto the small of his back. He would have to put a mustard poultice on it before sleeping tonight.
“He summons us for evil.”
Mac gazed upon the snake-woman. Spirits would say anything to get out of the Brass Circle, but he had worked with Javan before, and she had never wanted to get out of the Circle before.
“He summons us to kill.”
Mac frowned. He thought he had taken care of the wild mages in the Isles, the demon summoners and the dark magicians who thought they had control over their wild powers. Most had joined him and his coven, keeping watch on the Isles of other wild mages. The others, the ones who chose to remain independent, were given the option of using their powers for the betterment of the people. Of course some mages would remain selfish, but those he made sure would not progress. Many of those left for Paragon City, and became their problem.
Then there were the few obstinate ones, the ones who wanted to take over the world, or who used their vulgar magic without caring what the collateral damage would be, or any damage at all. Those he called Murderers, and were subject to his pure wrath. The ones who could run did; the ones who couldn’t or refused were dead by his hand.
“Where is he?”
“He is in Paragon now.”
Mac turned to the table near the Circle and sat down at it. Seven inkpots were lined up along it, and scrolls were in a pocket at the side. “Then he’s their problem.”
“He wishes to become Incarnate.”
Again, he frowned. “So does everyone now-a-days, it seems. We have work to do, I do not have time for idle gossip.”
“I need a spell to assist a young lady with her piano playing. She has what is called ‘fat fingers’…”
Javan dictated the color of ink and type of scroll, and dictated the spell itself. She finished, and said to him, “What will you do?”
“He’s in Paragon City. I have no reason to go there. There are plenty of heroes who could take care of him.”
“He killed four heroes.”
Mac again looked up. “What?”
“He did kill four heroes.”
“How do you know this?”
“We have heard from the ghosts.”
Mac sighed. “I will find out more.”