The Last Magician

The Magician

The flare of the match sounded thunderous in the still of the small room. The walls were briefly illuminated, their bare stone appearance howling of the desolation the outside world thrived in, then the match took on a mellow yellow hue and only the hand holding it gained any benefit from the poor light.

The hand dropped slowly to the waiting wick of a gnarled and misshaped candle, careful not to extinguish the flame through haste.

The candle took on the burden of lighting the gloom. Wax spluttered as the flame caught before settling down to a gentle glow. It was ambient but barely useful. The room contained many dark crevices that the candlelight could not fill, but the Magician had more to occupy his time and mind.

Dylan had spoken of him; that much he could sense. One obstacle had been overcome through the use of the child, although controlling Dylan had been a different matter. In the end it had been more a stroke of luck that Dylan came into contact with the slow-building group of survivors.

The Magician cracked his knuckles and winced. His body was no longer as supple as it used to be. It ached in all honesty. The evil that had befallen the world had drained more from his life force than he would ever have believed possible. It was only another sign that the dark powers could no longer be held at bay. Not by anyone.

Not even by magic.

The Magician. It was a title far more grandiose than he deserved. His magic was failing, so was much of the good magic left in the world. He had almost given up hope that the good would rise again.

Yet now he knew there was a chance.

He could not get ahead of himself. The chance was real, but the balance on which it perched could tip from success to defeat with only a breath.

The Magician rose from his chair. His body creaked like an ill-oiled machine. How had he not seen it coming? So many mistakes had been made by those who should have known better, so many had paid for it with their lives. He was now the last magician, and in his weak state the magic in him was virtually redundant.

That could be changed though. He had lived long enough to know the way magic worked, how it could be controlled, how it could be harnessed and reborn. His minor meddling in the affairs of the survivors had drained him further, but he did not need his strength for very much longer. He only needed enough to –

The Magician staggered forward, his crooked hands outstretched to save himself. He hit the wall, the thud sounding every bit as painful as it felt, but that pain was numbed by the searing brightness burning in his mind.

It was the sign of them. The sign of The Syndicate.

Then as suddenly as it came, it was gone along with the driving ache it brought.

He knew they were aware of his survival where others had perished and it would be foolish to believe they did not know his plans. They possessed numerous methods of observation, but they did not see all. They knew only what their many eyes told them. He had to make sure the four survivors avoided detection for as long as possible.

From the confines of what would surely be his death room, the Magician knew his life was not in his own hands. With growing exertion he could invade minds and impose suggestions on them, but his limits were soon reached. So much relied on Jack and his companions and they were largely on their own.

Then there was the other. The one whose mind was hideously opaque. The one who worried him most.

The man only the child had witnessed in the flesh.

The Big Gun Man.

The Magician moved slowly to the window, pressing his eye to the crack between the wooden boards and stone wall.

Light was fading fast outside. He knew Jack had resolved to move soon. As they lost light, the danger would increase.

The Big Gun Man.

Why did something draw him to the rogue survivor?

That was easy. The connection of minds had already been made. The Big Gun Man was working under orders, although he no doubt believed that every move he made was entirely of his own free will. The real question was what trouble could he cause?

Yes, the scales of success were finely balanced and this unknown entity could still tip them the wrong way.

The Magician sighed in the dim light. He could do nothing more to help the survivors, not until they were closer to him. He could only hope they made it. If they did not, then hope was truly lost.