Part 3- Millitimed to between the 2nd and 9th of August
“Remind me again why we’re here?” Sam asked plaintively. He and Buddha were walking down a chic Paris street, and he wasn’t sure whether his half-hearted attempt to tidy himself up, or the fact that Buddha was still wearing his old t-shirt and jeans and going barefoot, was attracting more scorn from the unbelievably fashionable residents. Not that
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Now Sam slid alone down the darkened corridor, light gleaming very softly on his dagger and the simple silver band on his head that did service as a crown. He wasn’t sure what instinct had prompted him to put it on, but it felt right, somehow, as if by wearing it he was someway on a more equal standing with the legitimate Prince and Princess of Time he was to face.
It took time, but eventually he’d thoroughly checked all the rooms in the villa, and was sure that the notes he and Buddha had made on Jezrael’s Chronicles, and the almost-complete translation Michael had been forced to make, were in none of them. Only the one illuminated room was left: the room containing Apollo and Artemis. A door to the room in question was soon found; it hung open a crack, spilling a chink of golden light into the shadows of the hallway. His brother and sister were inside, seated in plush leather armchairs and absorbed in some trashy Greek soap opera that was blaring in shocking surround-sound technicolour on a brand-new widescreen television. Sam, crouching behind the door, saw a thick black folder bulging with documents like an overfed toad on the floor beside Artemis’ chair. So he took a deep breath, and vanished.
He very nearly made it, too. He’d grabbed the folder, checked its contents, and was almost out the door when a blow like the kick of a mule from the butt of Artemis’ bow sent him sprawling wildly to the floor, dagger and folder flying from his grip. You couldn’t maintain an illusion complete enough to fool two Waywalkers for long, not and remain conscious, and he realised too late that the illusion hadn’t remained complete as he scrabbled to unsheathe his sword. He brought it up just in time to stop Apollo’s golden sword taken his head off. Struggling to his feet, he called the dagger to him and backed towards the door, fending off sword blows from both twins as he did so. He won’t win this battle, he realises, as he had realised it all along.
Oh, to hell with this, he thought wearily, and the folder on the floor burst into flames.
(In restless dreams I walked alone)
And Sam Linnfer, Luc Satise, Sebastian Teufel, Little Light and Little Fire, smiled a ghost of his boyish smile, sheathed his blades, and opened his hands.
And let out the Light.
Like the ripples from a stone flung into water the Light flew from him, passed through Waywalkers and walls alike as if they weren’t there and rolled onwards and outwards.
(And in the naked light I saw)
As it flew it fed, fed on the thoughts of those it touched, and responded to Sam’s own fear and to his anger, so that it called to the people of their own fears, their own anger, fed on their thoughts and became powerful.
(Ten thousand people, maybe more)
And when it had gorged itself, it flew back to Sam, glowing brighter and bright as it rolled back in on itself like thunder in a valley, like a great storm-wave at sea. It struck him, sent him sprawling to the floor as his mind was engulfed by all the minds his light had touched.
(And the people bowed and prayed)
So many minds, so many voices, so many screams.
(To the neon god they made)
Sam could feel his control slipping, could feel himself drowning in the voices; his hands flung themselves out, closed in a fist on the burning brightness of his own mind as he staggered back to his feet, feeling the power ripple within him and fight against the tenuous prison of what remained of his mind. He opened his eyes, saw Apollo and Artemis looking at him, saw the fear-filled whites of their eyes, and smiled like a madman.
“Oh, bugger it,” Sam said simply, and opened his hands.
(Hello darkness, my old friend)
Fin
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