A Calculated Magic

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.

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.