Death of an Adept

The old Druid stiffened. "Tradition requires that the emissary be given a draught of mistletoe to speed his spirit on its inward journey."

"I've no doubt that such herbals once had their uses," Raeburn replied. "But it's been my experience that modern psy-chotropic equivalents act more predictably, and with fewer unexpected side effects. Dr. Mallory?"

Moving forward from beside Richter, Mallory blandly displayed a capped hypodermic syringe. With an explosive exclamation, Taliere sprang to his feet and planted himself indignantly between Mallory and their subject.

"This is entirely unacceptable!" he protested over his shoulder to Raeburn. "Let me remind you once again that the lord Taranis is one of the higher powers of nature. How can you possibly hope to win his favor when you continue to demonstrate this kind of contempt for the natural world?"

His face was flushed with barely controlled anger, his fists clenched at his sides. Behind him, watching from the sidelines, Klaus Richter drew himself up, muscles tensing as he prepared to step in. Raeburn, however, signalled with a glance for the German to hold his position.

"Your objection is not without merit, Taoiseach," he acknowledged formally. "Very well. For the sake of tradition, I will agree to a small dose of this mistletoe brew of yours - in addition to my own methods. But make it no more than a sip. I shouldn't want to risk another chemical interfering with the effects of Dr. Mallory's drug."

Grudgingly Taliere accepted the compromise. Returning to Barclay's side, he bent to tip a small measure of mistletoe liquor into the pilot's mouth, then corked the leathern bottle and rose again to lift his arms above his head in a gesture of invitation.

"Mighty Lord Taranis!" he called out in a loud voice. "Here is one who offers himself as a consecrated vessel. Descend, we implore you, upon this, your servant, and speak to us through his mouth."

Mallory, meanwhile, had dropped to one knee at Raeburn's signal and was scrubbing an alcohol swab over an area just below Barclay's left ear. Pulling the cap from the hypo with his teeth, he held the barrel briefly to the light of the nearest lamp, then injected its contents directly into the jugular. He had finished almost before Taliere realized what was happening, capping the hypo and dropping it into his open bag as he moved back beside Richter.

The drug worked quickly, given thus. A shuddering sigh escaped Barclay's slack lips. An instant later, his eyes flew wide, their dilated gaze shifting sightlessly across the starry firmament overhead. He took a hoarse, choking breath. Then all at once he began to tremble.

"Seize him, Taranis!" Taliere whispered, sinking to his knees to watch avidly.

The tremors increased in violence and intensity. Mallory glanced anxiously at Raeburn, but the latter's gaze was glued to Barclay's face. Within a matter of seconds, the pilot's whole body was twitching and jerking uncontrollably, as if caught in a surge of electrical current, his visage contorted in an expression of mingled anguish and ecstasy. Only the confinement of the hide wrappings prevented him from rolling out of the circle painted on the ground.

"Take him, Taranis!" Taliere whispered fiercely, fists clenched at his chest.

Barclay's eyes bulged in their sockets as an even stronger convulsion seized him. His jaw gaped, tongue protruding from his mouth like that of a hanged man, and strangled noises began to issue from his throat.

"He's in trouble!" Mallory muttered, starting forward with his medical bag.

"Be still, you fool!''

Taliere's vehement command stopped Mallory in his tracks no less than Raeburn's urgent gesture to forbear. Before the young doctor could even consider disobeying, a torrent of garbled speech began pouring from Barclay's writhing lips.

"Can you make out what he's saying?" Raeburn whispered to Taliere.

The old Druid shook his head. Suddenly Barclay gave a rending shriek, then began to rant in a harsh, rolling voice that patently was not his own.

"Cowards! Traitors!" he howled. "How dare you presume to venture here, thinking with mere words and token oblations to win the ear of the lord Taranis? A curse upon you, false son of Thunder, and a curse upon all who aid you! The Prince of Storms is not to be cozened by oath-breakers such as you! So long as I retain a tongue to speak, you will never gain a hearing in his presence!"

The tirade degenerated into incoherent ravings, but not before Raeburn began to discern an eerie note of familiarity in the harsh timbre of the voice. Stiffening, he placed it: the embittered accents of the man he himself had once hailed as the Head-Master.

Even as the unwelcome implications of that discovery began to dawn on him, the voice renewed its rantings through the foam-flecked lips of its medium.