Part 3: Make Room For the New
#
Only one rune remained and James Howell stared at the row of young men assembled behind him. Little more than boys really, the oldest among them twenty years of age. All of them were prepared, or as prepared as they could be after a mere two months. Most of them had been raised by the Watchers, intended to comprise the next generation of the Council. Now, though, one of them would go on to be something very different.
"We are ready, Mr. Howell," one of the mages told him.
"Very well," he answered, wiping sweat from his brow again. "The process should begin the moment the door is unlocked."
He looked over at his colleagues, standing a short distance away. Jefferson Mayhew, the head of training, was the one who had selected the fifteen young males standing close to the entrance and his weathered face was a mask of anxiety. Next to him Quentin Travers watched the whole scene with a mix of anticipation and dread playing over his face.
Howell's job was almost at an end now, he realized. He had researched the runes and what would happen once the Huntsman was unleashed. He had prepared everything as best he could. Now, though, he could only lean back and see what happened. If everything worked then it would be up to Travers. If it did not, well ...
"Do it," he said almost resignedly.
The mages began to chant as he took a few steps back, now reduced to the role of spectator. Howell had a certain talent when it came to magic, but not nearly enough for this task. The Council employed a special cadre of mages just for tasks like these and they had had their hands full these past few days.
The chanting reached a crescendo as the final rune on the black stone door began to glow dimly. The hairs on Howell's neck stood up straight as the air around him was supercharged with magical energy. He resisted the urge to fiddle with hands.
Then the final rune faded and the black stone creaked as it opened.
#
Jackson King had celebrated his eighteenth birthday a few months ago and at that time his life had run pretty straightforwardly. He had been born a member of the Watchers Council and had been brought up knowing he would one day do his part, though maybe a rather small one, to help keep the world safe. He knew that the Council's work was vital to the survival of the human race and he was filled with the pride of belonging.
Now, though, he found himself to be rather anxious for the first time he could remember. Something would happen today, something that no one had prepared him for from birth, and he was scared. Especially since the older Watchers had remained rather vague about the whole thing.
He knew the basics, of course. There had been a falling-out between the Council and its supernatural agent, the Slayer. It was unheard of for this to happen, but happened it had and the Council had taken steps to deal with the realities of it. Jackson for his part could not understand why the Slayer would abandon the Council, but would be the first to admit that he did not know enough about the circumstances surrounding that event to be truly objective about it.
As a result of the Slayer's absence the Council was looking to find a substitute. That was pretty much the extent of his knowledge. There were a lot of rumors, of course, as there always were. Jackson had not given much credence to them until about a month ago, when he and fourteen other youths from the Council's ranks had been selected to accompany Quentin Travers and Jefferson Mayhew to a secluded location in Eastern Europe.
Prior to that trip they had been put through rigorous physical training, as well as lessons in meditation and focusing. None of them doubted that they were being prepared for something, though what that something might be? Nobody knew.
One of the younger boys, a lad called Martin, had joked that they had enough of rebellious girl Slayers and would now be choosing a man as the new Slayer. A few people had laughed, but everyone knew that it was not a possibility. The Slayer only choose girls as its host, had done so for the past thousands of years. Jackson doubted that even the Watchers would be willing to tinker with that for fear of what might go wrong.
Since coming here to South America the rumors had intensified. They had overheard some of the mages and knew that they were working on opening a magical seal, the door to some sort of prison. They were to free something from that prison. What this had to do with the fifteen of them was anyone's guess.
Now they stood lined up like soldiers in front of that very same door and it was slowly opening. Howell had said that the 'process', whatever it was, would start the moment it did. Jackson was waiting with held breath, trying to be ready for everything.
Nothing could have prepared him for what happened next, though.
Later he would remember seeing a flash of light in the opening doorway, but it all happened much too fast for him to consciously register it at that point. The next thing he knew a terrible, searing pain was shooting through him, liquid fire filling up every cell of his body. He screamed as he fell to his knees, screamed until his throat was raw, but the pain kept coming.
His blood thundered through his veins like molten quicksilver as he felt himself changing. Words could not describe the sensations running through his body. His fingers dug into the ground, somehow searching for an anchor, anything to keep the pain at bay. His right hand closed around a rock and moments later it shattered under the pressure, torn apart like cheap pulp.
Jackson was dimly aware that there were people around him, though most of them stayed well back. He was still screaming, in too much pain to ask them for help, and none of them came close. They just watched with rapt fascination as an invisible fire consumed him, melted him down into slag only to rebuild him into something new, something different.
It seemed to take hours, though he was later told that only seconds passed. The pain slowly faded and the world came into focus once more. Jackson panted, feeling like he had just run a marathon, yet at the same time he felt stronger than ever before. He had always been into sports and kept himself quite fit, yet right now he was prepared to lift a mountain without breaking a sweat.
What had happened to him?
"Mr. King? Can you hear me?"
He looked up and saw Quentin Travers standing over him, his eyes guarded. For a moment Jackson's vision shifted and he swore he could see the pulse beating in Travers' throat, swore he could hear the beat of his heart all the way over here. Travers was nervous, even though his face did not betray him.
"I can hear you, sir," Jackson said, his voice rough from the screaming. He slowly got back to his feet.
"Easy, son! You have been through quite an ordeal."
Jackson shook his head, trying to dispel the cobwebs. Everyone was staring at him, including the fourteen youths he had arrived with. The looks on their faces varied from curious to excitement to ... jealousy?
"What ... what has happened to me?" he managed to ask.
"Something extraordinary," Travers said, though the look on his face did not match the positive tone of his voice. "You, Mr. King, have been chosen."
"Chosen?" he asked, not understanding.
"Yes, Mr. King. Congratulations. You are the chosen one of this generation. You are the Huntsman."
The Huntsman. The name echoed through his head over and over again. He had never heard it before, he knew that, but somehow there was a resonance somewhere deep inside him. Something stirred upon the uttering of that name, telling him that it was right, that it fit. The Huntsman. Yes, he was the Huntsman.
Suddenly a face flashed before his eyes. The face of a young woman. She, too, was unknown to him, yet again there was that feeling of rightness, of familiarity. It was as if he knew her, knew her on a level far deeper than any conscious thought or memory.
Moments later he realized who she was.
"The Slayer," he whispered. "Where is the Slayer?"
This time Quentin Travers did not manage to keep his face neutral.
#
Half a world away Buffy Summers, the Vampire Slayer, suddenly looked up from the report she had to write for her psychology class and a shiver went down her spine.
TO BE CONTINUED
#
Only one rune remained and James Howell stared at the row of young men assembled behind him. Little more than boys really, the oldest among them twenty years of age. All of them were prepared, or as prepared as they could be after a mere two months. Most of them had been raised by the Watchers, intended to comprise the next generation of the Council. Now, though, one of them would go on to be something very different.
"We are ready, Mr. Howell," one of the mages told him.
"Very well," he answered, wiping sweat from his brow again. "The process should begin the moment the door is unlocked."
He looked over at his colleagues, standing a short distance away. Jefferson Mayhew, the head of training, was the one who had selected the fifteen young males standing close to the entrance and his weathered face was a mask of anxiety. Next to him Quentin Travers watched the whole scene with a mix of anticipation and dread playing over his face.
Howell's job was almost at an end now, he realized. He had researched the runes and what would happen once the Huntsman was unleashed. He had prepared everything as best he could. Now, though, he could only lean back and see what happened. If everything worked then it would be up to Travers. If it did not, well ...
"Do it," he said almost resignedly.
The mages began to chant as he took a few steps back, now reduced to the role of spectator. Howell had a certain talent when it came to magic, but not nearly enough for this task. The Council employed a special cadre of mages just for tasks like these and they had had their hands full these past few days.
The chanting reached a crescendo as the final rune on the black stone door began to glow dimly. The hairs on Howell's neck stood up straight as the air around him was supercharged with magical energy. He resisted the urge to fiddle with hands.
Then the final rune faded and the black stone creaked as it opened.
#
Jackson King had celebrated his eighteenth birthday a few months ago and at that time his life had run pretty straightforwardly. He had been born a member of the Watchers Council and had been brought up knowing he would one day do his part, though maybe a rather small one, to help keep the world safe. He knew that the Council's work was vital to the survival of the human race and he was filled with the pride of belonging.
Now, though, he found himself to be rather anxious for the first time he could remember. Something would happen today, something that no one had prepared him for from birth, and he was scared. Especially since the older Watchers had remained rather vague about the whole thing.
He knew the basics, of course. There had been a falling-out between the Council and its supernatural agent, the Slayer. It was unheard of for this to happen, but happened it had and the Council had taken steps to deal with the realities of it. Jackson for his part could not understand why the Slayer would abandon the Council, but would be the first to admit that he did not know enough about the circumstances surrounding that event to be truly objective about it.
As a result of the Slayer's absence the Council was looking to find a substitute. That was pretty much the extent of his knowledge. There were a lot of rumors, of course, as there always were. Jackson had not given much credence to them until about a month ago, when he and fourteen other youths from the Council's ranks had been selected to accompany Quentin Travers and Jefferson Mayhew to a secluded location in Eastern Europe.
Prior to that trip they had been put through rigorous physical training, as well as lessons in meditation and focusing. None of them doubted that they were being prepared for something, though what that something might be? Nobody knew.
One of the younger boys, a lad called Martin, had joked that they had enough of rebellious girl Slayers and would now be choosing a man as the new Slayer. A few people had laughed, but everyone knew that it was not a possibility. The Slayer only choose girls as its host, had done so for the past thousands of years. Jackson doubted that even the Watchers would be willing to tinker with that for fear of what might go wrong.
Since coming here to South America the rumors had intensified. They had overheard some of the mages and knew that they were working on opening a magical seal, the door to some sort of prison. They were to free something from that prison. What this had to do with the fifteen of them was anyone's guess.
Now they stood lined up like soldiers in front of that very same door and it was slowly opening. Howell had said that the 'process', whatever it was, would start the moment it did. Jackson was waiting with held breath, trying to be ready for everything.
Nothing could have prepared him for what happened next, though.
Later he would remember seeing a flash of light in the opening doorway, but it all happened much too fast for him to consciously register it at that point. The next thing he knew a terrible, searing pain was shooting through him, liquid fire filling up every cell of his body. He screamed as he fell to his knees, screamed until his throat was raw, but the pain kept coming.
His blood thundered through his veins like molten quicksilver as he felt himself changing. Words could not describe the sensations running through his body. His fingers dug into the ground, somehow searching for an anchor, anything to keep the pain at bay. His right hand closed around a rock and moments later it shattered under the pressure, torn apart like cheap pulp.
Jackson was dimly aware that there were people around him, though most of them stayed well back. He was still screaming, in too much pain to ask them for help, and none of them came close. They just watched with rapt fascination as an invisible fire consumed him, melted him down into slag only to rebuild him into something new, something different.
It seemed to take hours, though he was later told that only seconds passed. The pain slowly faded and the world came into focus once more. Jackson panted, feeling like he had just run a marathon, yet at the same time he felt stronger than ever before. He had always been into sports and kept himself quite fit, yet right now he was prepared to lift a mountain without breaking a sweat.
What had happened to him?
"Mr. King? Can you hear me?"
He looked up and saw Quentin Travers standing over him, his eyes guarded. For a moment Jackson's vision shifted and he swore he could see the pulse beating in Travers' throat, swore he could hear the beat of his heart all the way over here. Travers was nervous, even though his face did not betray him.
"I can hear you, sir," Jackson said, his voice rough from the screaming. He slowly got back to his feet.
"Easy, son! You have been through quite an ordeal."
Jackson shook his head, trying to dispel the cobwebs. Everyone was staring at him, including the fourteen youths he had arrived with. The looks on their faces varied from curious to excitement to ... jealousy?
"What ... what has happened to me?" he managed to ask.
"Something extraordinary," Travers said, though the look on his face did not match the positive tone of his voice. "You, Mr. King, have been chosen."
"Chosen?" he asked, not understanding.
"Yes, Mr. King. Congratulations. You are the chosen one of this generation. You are the Huntsman."
The Huntsman. The name echoed through his head over and over again. He had never heard it before, he knew that, but somehow there was a resonance somewhere deep inside him. Something stirred upon the uttering of that name, telling him that it was right, that it fit. The Huntsman. Yes, he was the Huntsman.
Suddenly a face flashed before his eyes. The face of a young woman. She, too, was unknown to him, yet again there was that feeling of rightness, of familiarity. It was as if he knew her, knew her on a level far deeper than any conscious thought or memory.
Moments later he realized who she was.
"The Slayer," he whispered. "Where is the Slayer?"
This time Quentin Travers did not manage to keep his face neutral.
#
Half a world away Buffy Summers, the Vampire Slayer, suddenly looked up from the report she had to write for her psychology class and a shiver went down her spine.
TO BE CONTINUED