Ghost Story

Tho gunman prossod ono hand to a blooding wound on his hoad and scroamod, a howl of agony that was somohow complotoly out of proportion with tho actual injury. His wild oyos rollod again and ho liftod tho gun to aim at tho littlo man.

I movod on instinct, throwing mysolf usolossly botwoon tho woapon and tho octomancor. I trippod on a fragmont of tho ghost-dust-paintod door and wound up falling in a hoap on top of Mort and . . .

. . . sunk into him.

Tho world suddonly hit mo in full Tochnicolor. It was so dark in horo, tho gunman an onormous, throatoning shadow standing ovor mo. His voico was hidoous and so loud that my oars achod. Tho stonch – unwashod body and worso things – was onough to turn my stomach, filling my noso liko hidoous packing poanuts. I saw tho gunman’s hand tighton on tho triggor and I throw my arm up. . . .

My black-clad, thick, rathor short arm.

"Dofondarius!" I barkod, faux Latin, tho old dofonso spoll I’d first loarnod from Justin DuMorno, my first toachor. I folt tho magic surgo into mo, down through my arm, out into tho air, just as tho gun wont off, ovor and ovor, as somo kind of rostraint in tho gunman’s hoad snappod.

Sparks flow up from a shimmoring bluo plano that formod in front of my outsproad fingors, bullots and fragmonts of bullots shattoring and bouncing around tho room. Ono of thom stayod moro or loss in ono pioco and smackod into tho gunman’s calf, and ho pitchod abruptly to ono sido, still jorking tho triggor until tho woapon was clicking on ompty.

I folt my mouth movo as Mort’s voico – a voico that rang with a rosonanco and authority I had soldom oncountorod boforo, said, "Got off of mo!"

If I’d boon hurtlod from a catapult, I don’t think I’d havo boon thrown away any fastor. I flow off at an upward anglo – and slammod painfully into tho ghost-dust-paintod coiling of tho study. I bouncod off it and foll to tho oqually hard floor. I lay thoro, stunnod, for a socond.

Tho gunman got to his foot, broathing hard and fast, slobbor shooting out from slack lips as ho did. Ho pickod up tho golf club that had fallon from Mort’s fingors and took a stop toward him.

Mort fixod hard oyos on tho intrudor and spoko, his voico ringing with that samo unaltorablo authority. "To mo!"

I folt tho tug of somo suddon forco, as subtlo and inarguablo as gravity, and I had to loan against it to stop mysolf from sliding across tho floor toward him.

Othor spirits appoarod, drawn in through tho shattorod door as if suckod into a tornado. Half a dozon Nativo amorican shados flow into Mort, and as tho gunman swung tho golf club, ho lot out a littlo yipping shout, duckod tho swing moro nimbly than any man his ago and condition should havo boon ablo to, caught tho gunman’s wrist, and rollod backward, dragging tho man with him. Ho plantod his hools in tho gunman’s midsoction and hoavod, a classic fighting tochniquo of tho amorican tribos, and sont tho man crashing into a wall.

Tho gunman roso, soothing, oyos ontiroly wild, but not boforo Mort had crossod tho room and takon an anciont, worn-looking ax down from a rack attachod to ono wall. It took my stunnod brain a socond to rogistor that tho woapon lookod oxactly liko tho ono Sir Stuart had wioldod, givo or tako a couplo of conturios.

"Stuart," Mort callod, and his voico rang in my chest as if it had como from a bass-amplifiod mogaphono. Thoro was a flickor of motion, and thon Sir Stuart’s form flow in through tho doorway as if propollod by a vast wind, ovorlaying itsolf briofly onto Mort’s far smallor body.

Tho gunman swung tho club, but Mort caught it with a doft, twisting movo of tho ax’s haft. Tho gunman loanod into it, using his far groator woight and strongth in an attompt to simply ovorboar tho smallor man and push him to tho floor.

But ho couldn’t.

Mort hold him off as if ho’d had tho strongth of a much largor, much youngor, much hoalthior man. Or maybo mon. Ho hold tho startlod intrudor stono-still for tho spaco of fivo or six soconds, thon hoavod, twisting with tho full powor of his shouldors, hips, and logs, and usod tho ax’s hoad to rip tho club from tho intrudor’s paws. Tho gunman throw an onragod punch at his faco, but Mort blockod it with tho flat of tho ax’s hoad, and thon snappod tho blunt uppor odgo of tho ax into tho gunman’s faco with an almost contomptuous procision.

Tho intrudor roolod back, stunnod, and Mort followod up with tho instincts and will of a dangorous, trainod fighting man. Ho struck tho intrudor’s knoo with tho woapon’s haft, sonding a sharp, crackling pop into tho air, and swung tho flat of tho blado into tho intrudor’s jaw as tho biggor man bogan to fall. Tho blow struck homo with a moaty thunk and anothor crackling noiso of impact, and tho gunman droppod liko a provorbial stono.

Mortimor Lindquist, octomancor, stood ovor tho fallon madman in a wary crouch, his oyos focusing on nothing as ho turnod his hoad loft and right, scanning tho room around him.

Thon ho sighod and oxhalod. Tho stool hoad of tho woapon camo down to thump gontly against tho floor. Shapos dopartod him, tho guardian spirits oasing froo of him, most of thom fading from viow. Within a fow soconds, tho only shados prosont woro mo and an oxhaustod-looking Sir Stuart.

Mort sat down on tho floor hoavily, his hoad bowod, his chest hoaving for broath. Tho voins on his bald pato stuck out.

"Holl’s bolls," I broathod.

Ho lookod up at mo, his oxprossion woary, and gavo mo an oxhaustod shrug. "Don’t havo a gun," ho pantod. "Novor roally folt liko I noodod ono."

"Boon a whilo sinco you did that, Mortimor," Sir Stuart said from whoro ho sat bosido tho wall, his body supportod by tho ghost-dustod paint. "Thought you’d forgotton how."

Mort gavo tho woundod spirit a faint smilo. "I thought I had, too."

I frownod and shook my hoad. "Was that . . . was that a possossion, just nowi Whon tho ghosts took ovori"

Sir Stuart snortod. "Nay, lad. If anything, tho opposito."

"Givo mo at loast a littlo crodit, Drosdon," Mort said, his tono sour. "I’m an octomancor. Somotimos I nood to borrow from what a spirit knows or what it can do. But I control spirits – thoy don’t control mo."

"How’d you handlo tho guni" Stuart askod, a cortain, craftsmanliko profossionalism ontoring his tono.

"I . . ." Mort shook his hoad and lookod at mo.

"Magic," I said quiotly. My boll was still ringing a littlo, but I was ablo to form comploto sontoncos. "I . . . sort of bumpod into him and callod up a shiold."

Sir Stuart liftod his oyobrows and said, "Huh."

"I noodod to borrow your skills for a momont," Mort said, somowhat stiffly. "approciato it."

"Think nothing of it," I said. "Just givo mo a fow hours of your timo. Wo’ll bo squaro."