Death of an Adept

Barclay bestirred himself enough to shake his head dreamily. "No, sir."

"I knew you would not disappoint me," Raeburn murmured. "This will be your greatest challenge, but also your finest commission. So long as your nerve holds, I foresee no difficulties."

Three days of rigid fasting had sharpened the planes of Barclay's already lean face and drained him of some of his usual vitality, but the flash of wry grin he offered his employer reaffirmed his customary good humor.

"Just promise me I'll get that big, juicy steak I've been dreaming about, Mr. Raeburn. And a huge baked potato with lots of sour cream and butter. And plenty of cold beer to wash 'em down."

"I expect that can be arranged," Raeburn replied softly, smiling as he laid a hand lightly on one of Barclay's. "Settle yourself now. You've important work to do."

Barclay put his forehead back on his knees and closed his eyes in passive anticipation, slipping effortlessly into trance at a few further words from Raeburn. Mallory stood by watching, his expression one of cynical attention, and moved a few steps apart with Raeburn when the latter rose.

"A man of rather ordinary appetites," he observed. "Are you sure he's the right man for this job?"

"Have no doubts in that regard," Raeburn returned frostily. "Whatever his social shortcomings, Mr. Barclay's talents as a medium are second to none."

"But to play host to one of the Patrons - ''

"Will constitute a laudable triumph," Raeburn said. "Help Richter bring him over to Master Taliere. I believe he's ready for him."

The old Druid was standing impassively beside the bloody bull's hide, now spread hair-side down beside the rune-marked circle he had earlier inscribed. Half a dozen narrow, bloody strips of bull's hide dangled from his bloody fingers as he bade Mallory and Richter guide the now somnambulant Barclay to a recumbent position in the center of the hide. The discarded sleeping bag Raeburn wadded under his head for a pillow.

Without speaking, Taliere crouched to bind rawhide ligatures tightly around Barclay's ankles, wrists, and upper arms - restriction of blood-flow to subtly shift Barclay's body chemistry and enhance his altered state. Then he passed a longer strip beneath Barclay's torso to hold in place the dagger, still bloodied from its kill, which he positioned on Barclay's chest with the point against his throat.

Finally, at Taliere's nod, his assistants moved in to wrap the gory sides of the bull hide close around Barclay's naked form, one stretching the bloody edges to meet while the other began sewing him tightly into the hide with laces of bloody sinew, starting at his neck and working toward his feet. Barclay seemed to take no note of any physical discomfort, even though his rigid body rocked with the force of each stitch through the tough bull hide.

After a moment, Raeburn knelt at Barclay's head and bent to whisper in the pilot's ear, fingertips tracing a symbol on his forehead and then continuing to stroke the weathered brow.

"Hear me, Barclay, and know this for your mission. The dagger at your breast is the key which will unlock the door to the elemental planes. Once past the threshold, you are to seek out the lord Taranis with this message: Your votaries languish for want of your empowerments, O Mighty One. Return to us and renew our strength. Defend us by your lightnings from our enemies, and we will honor you with offerings of blood and sacrifice. Repeat what I have just said."

Barclay repeated the message three times before Raeburn was satisfied. Each recitation added to the tension building within the circle, but by the third recitation, Taliere's now thoroughly be-gored assistants had finished their grisly work. When Taliere had pronounced himself satisfied, he directed the pair to shift the cocooned Barclay onto the sleeping bag which Richter and Mallory now spread atop the blood-runes beside the central monolith. When they had zipped him into it, Raeburn crouched at his head and administered a further prompting that sent Barclay plunging even deeper into trance.

Meanwhile, Taliere had instructed his associates to withdraw to the other side of the circle, where the central monolith blocked much of their view. Richter shifted closer to watch them. When the two had settled, side by side with backs against one of the stones, the old Druid donned his feathered mantle again and crouched opposite Raeburn to anoint Barclay's forehead with bull's blood, muttering a charm under his breath. But when he removed the leathern bottle from his belt, Raeburn thrust a restraining hand against his wrist.

"I told you to save your potions," he said to Taliere. "We have more reliable means for liberating the psyche."