But most likely Fáfnir wouldn’t simply run berserk, he would use his experience and cunning, and then watch out, Europe. Then there would be far greater devastation and many more victims.
But why did Zabulon want all this?
Edgar didn’t understand.
What else was required for the resurrection of the Dragon of the Twilight? A second-or third-grade magician in the right place … But what place was that?
Edgar spent about ten minutes calculating the answer from the stars and the shifting foci of energy. It was a problem of average difficulty: Fáfnir had been cast down into the Twilight in the north of Europe, so, the most convenient place to rematerialise him on the cusp of the millennium was … He had it.
Edgar wasn’t very surprised by the result. The Czech Republic. Prague.
He was immediately struck by a dark sense of foreboding. A Dark Magician of the required grade in the right place … In Prague …
That was him! Edgar the Estonian!
Edgar wiped away the cold sweat that had sprung out on his forehead and went back to his reading.
Not every magician would suit Zabulon’s purposes. For instance, the object of the castling move had to have been born in a specific place. It was rather unclear. What place exactly?
When he worked it out, the answer was Scandinavia, Northern Germany or the Baltic region.
The Baltic.
The chief of the Moscow Day Watch had suddenly summoned an Estonian to work in the Russian capital. And Edgar hadn’t been able to identify any obvious need for his being there.
Who else had been born in Scandinavia, Northern Germany or the Baltic region and was in Prague just then?
No one. Only Edgar.
That was what Yury had warned him about before he flew to Prague. This had to be it. What else could it be?
All right. Easy now, easy. Just don’t start getting nervous. Forewarned is forearmed. What else does the Necronomicon have to tell us?
Right, another four Dark Ones were required to form the Circle of Resurrection. Well, that was clear enough. The Circle was a kind of portal supported by the power of the four Dark Ones, who were referred to very elegantly as the horsemen of the Dark.
And the horsemen were red, black, white and pale. The precise scenario of the Apocalypse. Point for point.
And there were even magicians in Prague who would suit, although there were only three of them now – the Regin Brothers, who happened to be red-haired (the Asiatic), black (the African), white (the Slav) and pale (the Scandinavian that Gesar had killed).
Zabulon himself had said that the Brothers had a place in his plans. And now Edgar could reasonably guess exactly what those plans were. And Zabulon wasn’t likely to be stopped by the absence of the fourth horseman.
Edgar read this section of the Necronomicon to the end and discovered another two details that were small but, in the general context, important.
Since Fáfnir was a dragon, the canonical form of his resurrection would be for him to emerge from the sea – though that wasn’t absolutely essential. What was essential was the making of a sacrifice to the sea. In advance. Anywhere at all – it could be in China or the Falkland Islands.
Or even the Crimea.
The person sacrificed was supposed to be ‘a youth or a maiden’. No longer a child, but not yet an adult.
‘Artek,’ Edgar thought immediately. ‘The boy who drowned because of the duel.’
And then again, if Zabulon had set his sights on Edgar as the second piece in the castling move, then during the final twenty-four hours, no matter where Zabulon might be, he had to find an image of Edgar. A portrait or photograph. More likely a portrait. And keep this image with him. Until the moment when the move was made.
That was all – the library had no more help to offer Edgar. He hastily thanked the vampire librarian and hurried across to a computer.
Of course, he could have simply phoned Moscow. But a phone call was easy to trace, and Edgar didn’t want to show his hand too soon. And he was absolutely certain that Alita was chatting on one of the IRC channels right at that moment.
The young IT manager – either a low-grade magician or a wizard – was glad to show him how to get onto the internet. Edgar thanked him, and the young guy instantly stuck his nose back into his own laptop, its screen covered in machine code. He was programming the old-fashioned way, without any of those new-fangled Delphi windows.
Edgar launched MIRC and connected in the usual way to the Getborg Dalnet server, with the funny cow in its logo (of course, the cow was drawn in ASCII-art – in letters and numbers). He identified himself, but he didn’t log on to any of the channels. He selected Query from the menu and put in the NIC he was interested in: Alita.
A new window opened.
What Edgar was most afraid of was a curt phrase appearing in the status window, saying: ‘No such NIC or channel’.
But the Dark was merciful – the response came almost instantaneously. And from the right address – alita@ncport.ru.
‘Edgar, hi! Are you in Prague?’
‘Yes. Alita, I have an urgent question … it’s rather strange. And not for everyone’s ears. Will you help me?’
‘Do you need to ask, Edgar? Of course.’
‘Have you been in the chief’s office during the last few days?’
In general, the likelihood of any witch being summoned by Zabulon himself was pretty low, but he had to start somewhere.
‘Yes, I have, why?’
‘Well, well,’ Edgar thought to himself. ‘I guessed right.’
He typed:
‘You didn’t happen to notice if he had a photograph or portrait of me in his office, did you? On the desk, for instance.’
‘How did you guess?’ And Alita sent him a generous scattering of smilies to symbolise her good mood.
‘After you left the chief commissioned two drawings. One of you, the other of a dragon. They’re both standing in frames on his desk. I went to the arts and crafts shop on Tverskaya Street to get the frames. The chief gave me a bottle of Veuve Cliquot as a thank-you.’
Edgar closed his eyes.
That was it. The final touch for the planned exchange of pieces. Your death sentence, Edgar the Estonian.
Now what are you going to do?
‘Thanks, Alita,’ he typed in stiffly. ‘Got to run, I’m snowed under with work.’
‘Cheers, Edgar. Kiss!’
Edgar couldn’t even look at the smilies. He closed the window on the screen and got up from the table.
The young programmer glanced at him from behind his laptop.
‘Is that it?’ he asked without any real surprise.
‘Yes,’ Edgar replied. ‘Thanks.’
He reached the exit without thinking about anything – his head felt strangely dull and empty.
He’d been specially selected, like a cow for Christmas kebabs. A reasonably powerful magician from the Baltic. He’d been lured in and treated well. Allowed to run things for a while – in the Moscow Watch, not some dull backwater. But all the time he’d been nothing more than a sacrificial cow, to be slaughtered at the right moment. Used, just like a thing. Exchanged, like a mindless chesspiece.
After all, the game went on for ever, it was only the presence of the pieces on the chequered board that was temporary.
But so what? If the time had come for one more black queen to join the game, did that mean it was pointless for the rook hastily drafted in from the periphery to dig in and clutch hard at the slippery surface of the board?
‘Oh no,’ thought Edgar. ‘I may not be a queen, but I’m certainly not a pawn. And I’m not leaving the board that easily. I’m going to kick up a fuss. And if I can manage it, I’ll save half of Europe some serious problems.’