Мор - ученик смерти

           You’rewhateverIthinkyouare.’

           Inthecentreoftheblurredbluenessofhiseyesweretwotinybrowndots,risingatthespeedofsight.

           Thestormaroundthemroseandwailed.Mortscreamed.

           TheRiteofAshkEnte,quitesimply,summonsandbindsDeath.Studentsoftheoccultwillbeawarethatitcanbeperformedwithasimpleincantation,threesmallbitsofwoodand4ccofmouseblood,butnowizardworthhispointyhatwoulddreamofdoinganythingsounimpressive;theyknewintheirheartsthatifaspelldidn’tinvolvebigyellowcandles,lotsofrareincense,circlesdrawnonthefloorwitheightdifferentcoloursofchalkandafewcauldronsaroundtheplacethenitsimplywasn’tworthcontemplating.

           Theeightwizardsattheirstationsonthepointsofthegreatceremonialoctogramswayedandchanted,theirarmsheldoutsidewayssotheywerejusttouchingthefingertipsofthemagesoneitherside.

           Butsomethingwasgoingwrong.True,amisthadformedintheverycentreofthelivingoctogram,butitwaswrithingandturninginonitself,refusingtofocus.

           ’Morepower!’shoutedAlbert.’Giveitmorepower!’

           Afigureappearedmomentarilyinthesmoke,black-robedandholdingaglitteringsword.Albertsworeashecaughtaglimpseofthepalefaceunderthecowl;itwasn’tpaleenough.

           ’No!’Albertyelled,duckingintotheoctogramandflailingattheflickeringshapewithhishands.’Notyou,notyou....’

           And,infarawayTsort,Ysabellforgotshewasalady,bunchedherfist,narrowedhereyesandcaughtMortsquarelyonthejaw.