The Power (The Magnificent 12 4)

It was not the volcano; they weren’t quite there yet, although the sky was darkening with ash. It was the rising ridge of gray-and-tan stone. It was a low wall beside the boat now, getting taller as the boat blew on toward the volcano.

“Here!” Mack yelled. “This will do.”

Grace ordered Stefan to drop the sails, and speed fell away. As they slowed, the choppiness of the waves became more pronounced. Mack could feel the beginnings of seasickness.

“Here, guys,” he said to the others. “Any nearer to the volcano and we’d have to climb up the side of a cliff.”

“We can use Vargran to—” Jarrah said.

But Mack shook his head. “Vargran is our only weapon. We only use the enlightened puissance when we absolutely

need to. We’ll jump.”

Well, that proved easier in theory than it was in reality. Try jumping from a heaving boat onto a wave-washed boulder. Only Jarrah and Stefan made it without a bruise or a dunking.

Mack very nearly drowned but was rescued by Stefan and propped up on what was clearly a living, growing stone road that ran from the volcano toward the city. It would be mere hours before the road stretched all the way.

Mack knew what was coming then. Or at least some of what was coming then.

There were news helicopters in the air thwack-thwacking around shooting video of the volcano but also now of the gaggle of nine kids.

There were other aircraft as well. Two Air National Guard jets roared by overhead. A military drone circled slowly. And of course Mack could guess that up in orbit satellites aimed their cameras down at the impossible sight.

“What’s the plan, boss?” It was Jarrah. She had to shout to be heard over the crashing waves, the low groan of growing rock, and the eggbeater helicopters.

“The plan?” Mack wondered aloud. He considered it, painfully aware that all eyes were on him. “Gandalf on the bridge in Khazad-dûm.”

Everyone but Dietmar stared blankly. The German boy actually smiled. He had gotten the reference.

“The Pale Queen,” Mack said, “shall not pass.”

Seventeen

“How do we do this?” Xiao asked. “What is our strategy?”

Mack looked around at his little group: Jarrah and Stefan both grinning in anticipation of a good fight; Xiao and Sylvie both thoughtful and concerned; Dietmar looking tougher than Dietmar tended to look. Rodrigo was ostentatiously checking his fingernails, but his hands were trembling just a little. Charlie was pale and gulping a lot, and he kept kind of jerking his head like he was talking to himself and trying to encourage himself.

Valin stood a little apart, perhaps sensing that the group still resented him over his previous efforts to murder Mack. But Mack had no doubt that Valin would stand and fight. He had no doubt about any of them, really.

“I’m proud of you guys,” Mack said. He hadn’t meant to say it; it just came out.

For once Sylvie did not feel the need to wax philosophical and just said, “We are proud to be with you.”

“Okay, then,” Mack said. “We all know the problem: the enlightened puissance gets depleted when you use it. So we need to take turns with Vargran. We need to try and guess when it will take combined powers and when we can do things alone. And—”

At that moment he was interrupted by a vibration on the air and in the rock beneath his feet. It was not an earthquake. It was the sound of stamping feet.

Mack shaded his eyes and peered toward the volcano. Something was moving. A something made up of many smaller somethings.

An army was on the march. And it marched pretty fast.

A news helicopter swooped down to get a closer look. There was a flash of light from the moving mass, and the helicopter erupted in a ball of fire.

“No!” Sylvie cried.

From the Coast Guard cutter that had been stationed near the volcano came an amplified voice, an authoritative female voice saying, “This is the US Coast Guard. You will stop your advance and stand down immediately.”

Needless to say, the vibration of booted feet never faltered. There was no hesitation. In fact, a massive spear, bigger than any human could possibly hope to carry, let alone throw, arced through the air, flew the hundred yards to the cutter, and stabbed right through the ship’s bridge.