The Copper Gauntlet (Magisterium #2)(59)

Faster the Chaos-ridden went, magic propelling them forward, through the woods, over fallen leaves, through streams and over stones, through brush and ferns and bramble. Then, as quickly as they began, the Chaos-ridden halted their march.

Call found his feet, dropped down on the sand of a beach, the slivered moon above them casting a silver path over the water.

The Chaos-ridden began to move in more tightly, the path between them narrowing as they made their way down the beach. Call could hear the ocean, the lap of the waves.

Three rowboats were tied to poles out in the water, rolling gently with the tide. If Call squinted, he could make out a stretch of land in the distance, visible only because it interrupted the reflection of moonlight.

“Evil Island?” Jasper asked.

Call snorted, surprised that Jasper had said something. He was probably being serious, Call decided, as this seemed an unlikely time for him to acquire a sense of humor.

“Chaos-ridden,” Call said, “how do we get across?”

At his words, three of the Chaos-ridden waded into the sea. First, they were up to their thighs in the water, then it was at their waists, then their necks, then it covered their heads completely.

“Wait!” Call shouted, but they were gone. Had he just put them to death? Could they die?

A moment later, pale hands rose from the sea, untying the rope binding the boats. And then, pulled by unseen hands, the boats floated toward shore. The Chaos-ridden rose from the depths, their faces impassive as ever.

“Huh,” Aaron said.

“I guess we get in,” Tamara said, going to one of the boats. “Aaron, get in the boat with Call.”

“How does that make sense?” Jasper demanded.

Tamara looked at the Chaos-ridden. “So the Makar can’t get drowned before Call stops them.”

Jasper opened his mouth to object and then shut it again.

Call climbed gingerly into the boat. Aaron followed him.

Jasper settled himself in the second boat and Tamara took Havoc and went to the third.

The Chaos-ridden dragged them out to sea.

For all the driving Call had done with Alastair, the only boats he’d been on were ferries carrying a vintage car or some other antique object back from some semi-remote location where Alastair had purchased it. That and the little boats that navigated the tunnels of the Magisterium.

Call had never been so low in the water, out on the open sea. The waves were black in every direction, the spray icy on his cheeks and salty enough to sting his mouth.

He was scared. The Chaos-ridden were terrifying, and the fact they listened to him didn’t make them any less monstrous. His friends wanted to get away from him — maybe even hurt him. And still ahead were his father and Master Joseph, both unpredictable and dangerous.

Aaron was sitting hunched up at the prow of the boat. Call wanted to say something to him but guessed that anything he had to say wouldn’t be welcomed.

The Chaos-ridden walked along, under the sea, pulling the boats with them. Call could see their heads beneath the waves.

Finally, the patch of land ahead of them resolved into a landscape. The island was small, not more than a few miles across, and densely covered in trees. The Chaos-ridden pulled the small craft up the beach with their wet hands. Call clambered out of the boat, Aaron after him, and joined Tamara and Jasper on the shore. Tamara had been holding on to Havoc by his ruff; Havoc barked and scampered over to Call. They all watched as wave after wave of the Chaos-ridden came up on shore like drowned pirates from a ghost story.

“Master,” the leader said, when they were all assembled. He had stationed himself near Call, like a bodyguard. “Your tomb.”

At first Call misheard him. You’re home, the thing had seemed to say for a single hopeful moment. But those weren’t the words at all.

Call stumbled, nearly falling in the sand. “Tomb?”

Aaron gave him a strange look.

“Follow,” said the Chaos-ridden leader, setting off through the woods. The rest of the army crowded around, their bodies dripping, and herded Call and the others toward a path. It wasn’t lit, but it was wide, with white stones that caught the light marking the edges.

He wondered what would happen if he ordered the Chaos-ridden to walk single file. Would they do it? Did they have to?

Then, with that thought in his head, he began to have other giddy and strange imaginings of what he could command the Chaos-ridden to do. Line dance. Or hop on one foot. He imagined the entire advancing army of the Enemy of Death, hopping into battle on a single foot.

A small, crazed giggle escaped his mouth. Tamara looked over at him, worriedly.

Nothing like your Evil Overlord cracking up, he thought and then had to tamp down another completely inappropriate burst of nervous laughter.

That was when the path took a sudden turn and he saw it — a massive building of gray stone. It looked old and weathered by years and sea air. Two crescent-shaped doors formed the entrance; set high on one of the doors was a knocker in the shape of a human head. The archway was carved with words in Latin. ULTIMA FORSAN. ULTIMA FORSAN. ULTIMA FORSAN.

“What does it mean?” Call wondered aloud.

“It means ‘the time is closer than you think,’ ” said the leader. “Master.”

“I think it means something about the last hour,” Tamara said. “My Latin isn’t great.”

Call looked at her, puzzled. “It means ‘the time is closer than you think.’ ”