The Enchantress (The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel)

his two swords—katana and wakizashi—strapped to his back.
    Scores of cars had been abandoned on the bridge when the fog closed down the city and made it too dangerous to drive. They loomed in indistinct shapes in the fog, like slumbering animals. Prometheus and Niten checked each one as they passed, but they were all empty. One car’s lights were still on. The beams bounced back off a shifting impenetrable wall.
    “Two against thirty-two,” Niten said. “Good odds.”
    “I’ve never fought the Spartoi before,” Prometheus admitted. “I only know of them by their reputation—and it is fearsome.”
    “We have an equal reputation,” Niten said.
    “Well, you do,” the Elder said. “I was never that much of a fighter. And after the fall of the island, I rarely took up weapons again.”
    “Fighting is a skill you never forget,” Niten said, a touch of sadness in his voice. “I fought my first duel when I was thirteen. I’ve been fighting ever since.”
    “But you are more than just a swordsman,” Prometheus said. “You are an artist, a sculptor and a writer.”
    “No man is ever just one thing,” Niten answered. His shoulder dropped and his short sword appeared in his left hand, water droplets sparkling from the blade. “But first and foremost, I was always a warrior.” He jabbed his sword into the fog and stirred it like liquid.
    “It’s getting thicker,” Prometheus said.
    “Which is good. We can use this to our advantage.”
    “We won’t be able to see them,” Prometheus pointed out.
    “Nor will they be able to see us,” the Swordsman reminded him. “We have the advantage of knowing exactly who and what we are facing. They have no idea what they’re up against. Or how many.”
    “A good point.”
    “Can I make a suggestion?” Niten said, almost shyly.
    “Oh course. You are the master warrior. Here, you are the expert.”
    “Lose the armor.”
    Prometheus’s green eyes blinked in surprise.
    Niten breathed in. “I can smell your aura. And if I can, then so can they. Also, there is just the faintest hint of crimson around you, a smudge of red light. Against this gloom, you’ll stand out like a beacon.”
    “Can I keep the swords?” Prometheus asked.
    “One sword should be enough.”
    “You have two,” the Elder reminded him.
    “I’m fast,” Niten said. “But you are strong. Keep the claymore.”
    The Elder nodded and his armor winked out of existence, leaving him in a shirt and jeans, with just the broadsword in his hand.
    “Which side of the bridge do you want?” Niten asked.
    “I’ll take the right,” Prometheus said.
    “I thought you might.” Niten nodded, moving to the left side. “We cannot let the Spartoi into the city.”
    “Remember, warrior, we don’t even have to kill them, we simply have to hold them until sunrise,” Prometheus answered. “The energy that animates them will dissipate then. I am concerned that one or two will engage us here and the rest will simply flow past. We can’t fight them all at the same time.”
    Niten nodded. “What we need is a barrier of sorts . . .,” he began.
    Simultaneously the Elder and immortal looked around at the vague shapes of the abandoned cars. “So how strong are you?” Niten asked.
    “Very. You’re thinking of a wall of cars?”
    The fog turned Niten’s dark hair into a silver cap. He held up two fingers in a V. “We could create a funnel. It would close the Spartoi up, push them together, channel them in toward us and rob them of the advantage of numbers. They could only come at us one or two at a time. . . .” His voice trailed off. “Or they could climb over the cars, I suppose.”
    The Elder grunted a laugh. “Have you ever seen one of the Spartoi?”
    Niten shook his head.
    “They are grown from the Drakon’s teeth. You know what a Nile crocodile looks like? Of course you do,” Prometheus said, answering his own question. “The Spartoi share a lot of that reptilian DNA. They are about your height but have short, short legs, long bodies, narrow heads. They can run on two or four legs, and they are fast, fast, fast. But they’re not great at climbing.” He squinted into the fog. “If I turn the cars on their sides, that would make it even more difficult.” He peered unsuccessfully into the gloom. “I’m not sure how many cars I’m going to need, or if there’s even enough on the bridge. And it’s going to take me a little while to organize them.”
    “Then I’ll go keep