The Hidden Circle had lost one member to the surprise raid by the runners. But then, Carstairs had been something of a weak sister, though not as bad as Neville. Too bad the fireballs hadn't caught him instead. The simpering old fool was weak-willed despite his considerable mana-manipulatkm ability, and Glover would gladly have accepted the drop in the Circle's power. Such a power loss would only be temporary, for the rituals were raising the pool of mana which he, as archdruid, could direct.
The day of restoration approached nearer with each soul whose blood bathed the land.
Still, it would be some time until they could complete the full cycle of rituals as Hyde-White had prescribed. Until men, mosquitoes such as the American runners could continue to plague them. Perhaps something more direct should be done about them.
Glover poured himself another brandy and reseated himself before the fire to contemplate the situation.
Sam's eyes jerked open. He tried to force his muscles to relax, but they only tightened more. His shirt stuck to his sweat-soaked torso, chafing the sensitized skin. As his breathing slowed from panting to a more normal rate, he levered himself up on his elbows.
Herzog was watching him. The Gator shaman's face was shadowed by the snouted headdress he wore, but Sam didn't need to see that visage to know that it bore an expression of disgusted contempt. Herzog reverently placed his drum to one side and stood. Fetishes and power objects clattered against each other and the bone-studded vest that the shaman wore as he heaved his bulk upright.
"You returned far too soon," Herzog said.
"The Man of Light was there."
"You knew he would be. He has been there as long as Herzog has known you, Herzog does not believe you thought tonight would be different."
"I had hoped. You said that if my need was great,
I could transcend the barrier.''
"Did you really try?"
Sam rolled over to escape Herzog's stare. He was ashamed. His consciousness had fled from the Man of Light as soon as the apparition had turned its blazing eyes toward him.
"No," he whispered as he stood.
"Louder! Admit what you have done! Accept what you are! If you do not, you cannot progress. You learn nothing from Herzog. Herzog is wasting his time."
The Gator shaman stamped his foot. The slap of his bare foot against the concrete was a sharp crack of thunder in the small chamber. The echoes of the sudden noise were engulfed by the rustling of the shaman's accoutrements. The cacophony subsided, damping down into a heavy silence.
"Go away," Herzog boomed.
Sam wanted to go, but he knew he couldn't. As much as he disliked and distrusted magic, it seemed to be a permanent part of his life now. Certainly magic had its attractions and uses; it had saved his life time and again. But those magics had been spells and the use of enhanced senses, things which were relatively easy for him to accept. Spells were just manipulations of energy. The ability to see into the astral planes was a sensory ability. Natural, or rather paranatural, stuff. But now it seemed that he needed to master another aspect of magic, one that touched the supernatural. He didn't like it at all, but he knew he had to find a way to come to terms with it.
"I need you to teach me how to harness my power so that I can control spirits," he said.
"You tell Herzog that Dog speaks to you. You tell Herzog that you have seen Dog. You do not lie when you say these things, but you do not believe in Dog. You think that you have power in yourself." Herzog huffed his laugh. "Power you have. But Herzog tells you that the universe is not just man's playground. Herzog tells you that you are a chosen one. Dog is your guide. Dog himself. You must listen because Dog is you and you are Dog. Listen to Dog and not yourself, for Dog is the way of your power."
Herzog's logic made Sam's mind reel. Logic? Too rigorous a word for arguments that doubled back on themselves. "I wish you could just explain things more clearly."
"There is nothing for Herzog to explain. Dog is your totem."
"Totems aren't real. I read Isaac; they're just symbols, psychological constructs that allow a shaman to focus his personality and will. They're not true spirits or even angels. They're not reai."
"Totems are. You must believe."
Sam could see Herzog believed in his totem. Did he worship it? Many shamans seemed to do just that. Sam could not follow that creed. "I believe, all right. I believe in God, not some mystic canine archetype. I'm a Christian, not a pagan. The Lord told us not to put false gods before him. What is a totem but a false god?"
"Totems are, " Herzog said flatly.
Sam waited for Herzog to say more. He wanted to hear how the Gator shaman would defend his beliefs. But Herzog remained silent.
Frustrated, Sam took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. Herzog professed Gator as his totem, yet he lived and worked powerful magic in the sewers of a great metroplex. The shamanic mindset often put restrictions on its traditional practitioners. Commonly, the magic available to a shaman was limited if he was not operating in an environment believed to be favored by the totem. Despite decades of urban legends, alligators lived in swamps, not cities. Where was the favored environment? Herzog operated in England, where there were no swamps. As far as Sam knew, the burly shaman never left the metroplex, and he rarely stirred from the tunnel complexes. Still, Herzog's magic was effective. Was that a contradiction? Or a clue?
You must believe, Herzog had said. Belief was the key to shamanic mindset. Belief also terrorized generations of urban children who had heard and believed that alligators dwelt in the sewers of their cities. Did that make Gator an urban totem? If that were the case, a totem was no more than a symbol, a way to place the mind in a receptive frame. Issac's writings had implied as much, but Sam hadn't grasped the emotional core of the concept. Now, he began to see.
"Look," he said to the implacable shaman who was still frozen in his stance of dismissal. "I understand symbols. I used to do work in the Matrix, where computer programs take on imagery to make it easier for the human mind to grasp. I can see that magic could work like that. Magical theory is full of stuff about symbols. I don't know how it works or why I picked the imagery, but I can see that Dog is a symbol that my mind has conjured to allow me to manipulate magical energies. If I need to learn other symbols to manipulate the magic imagery, teach me. I can do it. I have to do it."
Herzog simply stared at Sam.
"Herzog, I've listened to your lessons and I've learned some spells from you. I'd be happy if that was all the magic I'd need. The spells don't need this Dog construct to work. But I've seen what the druids of the Circle can do, and I know that it'll take more than spells to stop them. We need the energies of spirit constructs to fight the spirits they can call up. It smacks of devil worship but, Lord help me, if it takes spirits to fight spirits, I'll call them up."
Herzog pretended an interest in the ceiling. "Your need lends you strength."
"Show me how to use it."
The Gator shaman lowered his head and gazed at Sam out of the corner of his eye. "You accept Dog as your totem?''
Hadn't Herzog been listening? "I'll have to, won't
I? If the image of Dog as my totem is the key to using the magic, I'll talk to the damn hound. If I don't, people will die. That's something I won't let happen while I can do something about it."