The demigod pointed to the book it had been reading before Roger had entered the library. “Do you see that small black spot on the cover of that volume, my loyal servant?”
Roger glanced at the hardcover. “Yes,” he answered, trying to keep his voice from trembling.
“Watch it,” said the Crouching One. “Watch it closely.”
Roger stared at the mark. A tiny, dark blemish, less than a half-inch in diameter, it looked like a fingerprint. With a sudden flash of insight, Roger realized that it was exactly that. The fingerprint of the Crouching One.
Staring intently for a minute started his eyes burning. He blinked to clear the tears, then blinked again, this time from bewilderment. The spot appeared larger. And darker. Much darker.
After a few seconds, Roger realized what was taking place. The circle consisted of crumbling black ash, as the leather binding aged hundreds of years in seconds. Like a slow but relentless blight, the mark continued to grow. The breath caught in Roger’s throat as within a minute the volume turned into a pile of dust.
“Look at your arm,” said the Crouching One. “You know where.”
Trembling, Roger gazed at his elbow, where the Crouching One had touched him after its escape from the magic circle. Barely visible were five tiny black spots. Choking back a scream, he looked at the smiling demigod.
“The touch of my hand is legend,” said the Crouching One. “Pestilence and plague are my servants. Death and decay are my children. Remain true to me and your rewards will be beyond number. Betray me, and the blight will claim you.”
Roger’s gaze jumped back and forth from the pile of dust to the fingerprints on his elbow. His face was white as chalk.
“I’ll contact von Bern now,” he finally managed to whisper hoarsely. “No more suggestions. Whatever you say, goes. You’re the boss.”
“A wise choice,” said the Crouching One. “A very wise choice.”
14
The day crept by at a snail’s pace. Jack expected no less. Under normal conditions, he was not a patient person, and these were definitely not normal times. He hated waiting. All his life, he had tackled problems head-on, attacking trouble before it had a chance to develop. He believed in getting things done, never procrastinating. Enforced idleness drove him crazy.
By eight that night, he was experiencing extreme difficulty staying awake. Professor Winston was a school institution. Which, in college jargon, meant he should have been forced to retire ten years ago. Nearly blind, hardly able to walk, he spoke in a voice that rarely rose above a whisper. Seventy-eight years old, with tenure, he insisted on teaching one course each semester.
In a rare flash of wisdom, the chairman of the department assigned the professor an elective course in Advanced Topologic Design. Along with the esoteric and difficult subject matter, the class was further handicapped by scheduling it on late Friday evening. No one felt any sympathy for the six brave students who enrolled in it.
Jack handled all the paperwork for the course. Winston lectured, assigned homework, and prepared tests. Jack graded the papers and calculated the students’ grades. Unfortunately, to keep up with the material, he was forced to attend the class each week. Though he tried dutifully to remain awake through Winston’s discourses, he rarely remembered more than a few words of the professor’s rambling monologues.
Tonight, as if sensing Jack’s impatience, the elderly teacher was in rare form. He spent the evening solving problems on the blackboard, speaking directly to the wall. Not a word of his lecture escaped to his students. Jack, sitting in the back row, stared at the ceiling and drifted off into daydreams. Involuntarily, his eyes closed as boredom overwhelmed him. He was not entirely awake or asleep but in a region between—one that was well known to students of all ages.
“Jack,” a young woman’s voice whispered in his thoughts. “Can you hear me?”
“Megan?” he asked, not using words but instead instinctively thinking the reply. A mental image of the young woman’s elfin features materialized before him.
“Yes, it’s me,” replied the girl, her voice echoing in his mind. “I tried contacting you in sleep last night, but deep slumber made communication impossible. It’s a lot easier when you’re barely conscious but still nominally awake.”
“You can thank Professor Winston for that,” he projected back to her. “Where are you? What’s going on? Are you and your father safe?”
“We’re unharmed,” she stated, answering his last question first. “I’m not sure of my location. Father cast a sleep spell on the two of us right after we were captured so we couldn’t reveal any information to our enemies. Unfortunately, it made it difficult for me to learn anything either. The Border Redcaps, under the command of Dietrich von Bern, kidnapped us, but I sense from your thoughts that you know that already. They’re holding us prisoner along with a whole bunch of hysterical women in a vast dungeon somewhere in the city. Sorry I can’t be more specific.”
“That’s all right,” thought Jack, trying to focus his thoughts clearly. “Why didn’t your father contact me this way? I need to ask him a million questions. Maybe more.”
“Merlin can’t enter the dream world,” replied Megan, offering no further explanation. “And there’s no time for chatter. You’re already drifting away from me. This link can’t last much longer.”
Megan’s astral voice sounded frightened. “You’re in danger, Jack, terrible danger. Von Bern and his cohorts plan to kill you tonight. They’re already on campus, waiting for you in ambush. For some reason, they can’t enter the building you’re in, otherwise they would’ve attacked already.”
“Huh? How did you learn all that? You’re asleep.”
“It’s part of Merlin’s spell. Our senses continue functioning even while slumbering. I overheard two of the Border Redcaps discussing your murder. Evidently, word had come from von Bern’s master that you were to be killed no matter what the cost.
“I failed to contact you last night, but I had to try again when I learned their plans. Either your daydreaming state or the urgency of my message made communication possible.”
“What should I do?” he asked. In this dreamlike state, the threat hardly worried him. “Any suggestions?”
“Don’t leave your present location,” said Megan, her voice growing faint. “As I told you, von Bern and his men can’t enter the building. Something about the place frightens them. You’re safe inside it. Stay there till morning.”
“In the math building?” said Jack. “What makes this place so special?”
“I don’t know,” came Megan’s reply. Her voice was fading fast. Jack could hardly hear what she was saying. “No matter what, don’t let them force you outside.”
“Megan?” Jack called, but there was no answer. “Megan?”
“Did you have a question, Mr. Collins?” asked Professor Winston, turning away from the blackboard. Held tightly in one hand was a piece of white chalk. He pointed it like a gun at Jack’s forehead. “I thought I heard your voice.”
“No sir,” said Jack, straightening up in his chair. “Just clearing my throat.”
“Oh, well.” The elderly professor looked down at his watch. “No one ever seems to have a question. Not in my classes, at least. That’s all for this week. Students, don’t forget to pick up your homework assignment sheet on the way out. Assuming I remain functional, I will see you next Friday.”
Cautiously, Jack sauntered over to the windows that covered one wall of the room. He glanced outside, searching for Redcaps. High above street level, his location afforded him a bird’s-eye view of the campus. Classrooms were located on the second, third, and fourth floors of the math building. Needless to say, Winston’s class met on the top floor. At the end of the hall. If possible, the faculty would have put the course in a closet.