This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text, map, and illustrations copyright © 2010 by Henry H. Neff
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
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eISBN: 978-0-375-89295-0
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v3.1
For
Danielle,
my life and love
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1. The Moon Has a Face
2. An Empty Bed
3. The Haglings
4. Ten Silk Sails
5. Gilded Gràvenmuir
6. Quills and Scrolls
7. Sharps, Flats, and Selkies
8. Here Be Monsters
9. Honor and Privilege
10. A Window on the World
11. Ex Post Facto
12. Hag Law
13. Where the Creek Narrows
14. Farewells
15. Into the Blue
16. Horrors in the Well
17. Princess Mina and the Goblins
18. Nix and Valya
19. Skeedle and the Troll
20. Blys
21. The Red Death
22. A Great Red Dragon
23. Myrmidon
24. Whispers in the Dark
25. The Sorcerer and the Smee
26. A Son of Elathan
27. An Officiate’s Tomb
28. Walpurgisnacht
Map of Rowan Academy
Map of the Kingdom of Prusias
Acknowledgements
About the Author
~1~
THE MOON HAS A FACE
It was not the warm sun or the bleating lambs that woke Max McDaniels. Rather, it was the soft patter of little feet—sly, terribly eager feet—that converged upon him as he lay amid the ripening corn. Max kept still while the first of his visitors hopped onto his chest. He did not stir at the second or third. But once the twelfth clambered up with an exasperated peep, Max cracked an eye and smiled.
Twelve goslings stood upon him. Downy heads bobbed; inscrutable eyes glistened like wet pebbles. With a sudden, triumphant honk, the boldest stepped forward and tapped its hard little beak on Max’s breastbone. The others followed suit, and soon Max writhed and chuckled beneath the Lilliputian assault.
“Ouch!” he exclaimed, shooing at them halfheartedly. “I’m awake!”
The pecking continued.
“MAX!” bellowed a shrill female voice.
Several crows took flight as a plump white goose crashed through the cornstalks and into Max’s row, looking frantically from side to side.
“There you are!” exclaimed the goose. “Sleeping away like a lazy bottom!”
“Bottoms can’t be lazy, Hannah,” murmured Max. He plucked the last of the marauding goslings off his stomach and placed it on the ground, where it promptly resumed its indiscriminate pecking.
“Like-a-lazy-bottom!” sang the goose, aspiring to an operatic tremolo.
“Bravo,” said Max, rising to his feet.
“Thank you,” replied Hannah, curtsying. She waddled forward and gave him a motherly once-over. “Max, there are a gazillion things to do, and you should know better than to sneak off for a handful of winks.”
“I’ve been working late every day for a month,” protested Max, emphasizing the point with a bleary yawn.
“Excuses, excuses,” retorted Hannah. “Stoop down a bit, dear.” Max bent over in silent resignation while the goose flicked bits of dirt and hay from his shirt and smoothed his dark hair into a respectable shape. She sighed. “You of all people should know how special tomorrow is.…”
“I do,” said Max. “I’ll do my part.”
“You’ll do your part now,” she said pointedly. “On the double!”
The matronly goose buffeted Max forward with her powerful wing and whistled for the goslings to fall in line. They did so dutifully, and the group now formed an orderly column as they marched through the cornfield. When they arrived at the Sanctuary’s main clearing, Hannah flapped her wings excitedly. “Nearly all back to normal and pretty as a picture,” she crowed, gesturing toward the rebuilt Warming Lodge.
The long, low building seemed almost to bask next to its small lagoon. Its timbered walls were clean and smooth. There was no trace of splintered wood or blackened stone, nothing to suggest that this very building had been recently reduced to embers.
“Hmmm,” said Max, privately thinking that Rowan Academy, while largely rebuilt, would never be “back to normal.” Only six months ago, Astaroth’s armies had rampaged across the school’s sprawling campus, burning its forests, razing its structures, and slaughtering its flocks as they marched upon Rowan’s final refuge in the cliffs. Many lives had been lost. It was Max who ultimately withstood them, fighting on alone until the only remaining option was to surrender the Book of Thoth to the Demon that coveted it. It had been a wrenching decision, but Astaroth had seemingly kept his word and fulfilled their bargain. The monstrous armies were spirited away, and Rowan had been left in peace, battered and broken, but free to rebuild at its own pace.
By any standard, that pace had been remarkable. Using magic and muscle, crops were planted, stone was quarried, forests were raised, and herds restocked. The Sanctuary’s broad plain was now thick with grain fields, lush orchards, and grazing herds that were hemmed by a broad forest that sloped up into the mountains. Max inhaled the September air and spied a family of shimmering pixies as they skimmed toward a yellowing oak.
It was not just the Demon’s peaceful withdrawal or recent glimpses of notoriously shy pixies that roused Max’s curiosity. There were other changes, too. Since Astaroth had claimed the Book, Max had felt the world thawing—as though the Earth had clomped in from the cold, stamped snow from her boots, and settled by a comfortable fire.
“A new age is beginning,” he muttered.
“It sure is, honey,” remarked Hannah brightly, herding her goslings toward the Sanctuary gate. “And just like I predicted, Mother Nature was due for one.”
“Can you feel it, too?” he asked. At times he wondered if he was particularly sensitive to such things. Max McDaniels was a son of the Sidh, a hidden land where gods and monsters slumbered amid the hills. As the child of an earthly mother and an Irish deity, Max straddled a tenuous line between mortal and immortal. Within his blood coursed rare sparks of the Old Magic, primal forces that could make Max as wild and powerful as a storm. Hundreds of enemies had given way before Max during the Siege of Rowan.
“Of course I can feel it,” replied Hannah, her head bobbing in time with her step. “Things growing, the air brimming and crackling with magic. It’s like a ray of sunshine on my beak! You’d have to be a ninny not to feel it.”
“Do you believe Astaroth’s behind it all?” asked Max.
“Who knows?” The goose shrugged. “But I’d wager that once he got his hands on the Book, he’s been changing a thing or two. Can’t say it’s ruffling my feathers, either.”
“So you think things are better?” asked Max, feeling somewhat defensive. He had been expecting fire and brimstone following Astaroth’s victory, not a peaceful, bountiful summer. The quiet was unsettling.
“Around here they are,” Hannah concluded. She spread her wings and puffed out her chest to absorb the autumn sunshine. The goslings imitated their mother. “Anyway, I’ve done what I was supposed to do: find you and direct your lazy bottom back toward the Manse. So, you go mow lawns or weed gardens while this goose gets her groom on!”
“Excuse me?” asked Max.
“Deluxe feather tufting, Swedish beak massage, and a pedicure,” explained Hannah. “The dryads owe me big-time. Big-time! So be a dear and watch the goslings while you do your chores. You know they just love it when you babysit. Mind you, L’il Baby Ray’s been wheezy, so don’t let Honk play too rough. And Millie’s not allowed any sweets since she’s been a very naughty gosling, and …”
Max’s eyes glazed over while Hannah recited a litany of special instructions for each of her fidgeting, utterly indistinguishable children. Once Millie’s pesky skin irritation had been addressed, Hannah waddled away, greeting a nearby work crew with the amiable ease of a big-city mayor. As soon as she disappeared, Max felt a sharp peck on his shin. The goslings were jostling at his feet. Implacable stares met his own.
“Mind your beaks,” said Max, and with that he led them toward a mossy wall and the stout wooden door that separated the Sanctuary from the rest of Rowan Academy.
A symphony of sounds greeted them as they made their way through the tunnel-like arch of interlaced trees. Hammers, saws, shouts, laughter, and innumerable other noises blended together in a happy hum of endeavor. Emerging into daylight, Max saw hundreds of chattering students and adults touching up the stables’ trim and fitting the last planks for a riding pen, where palominos pranced and whinnied. The invigorating air smelled of fresh paint, autumn leaves, and the sea. Max felt a rumbling in his stomach and toyed with the notion of stealing into the kitchens for a bite.…
But duty called. He led the goslings along a path that skirted round the stables and past the orchard until they arrived at the Manse, Rowan’s central building and Max’s home. Cutting across a garden, Max gazed up at the Manse’s noble entrance with deep satisfaction. Charred stones had been salvaged and scrubbed to a spotless gray, shattered windows had been replaced, and welcoming smoke puffed once more from the many chimneys adorning the steep slate roof. Most pleasing, however, was the line of rowan trees that graced the drive once again. During the Siege, the Enemy had uprooted them and hacked them to splinters. Yet now they stood tall, crowned with creamy white blossoms as though no vye, goblin, or ogre had ever touched them.
A hag was touching them, however. Bellagrog Shrope was a massive specimen, some two hundred pounds of globular flesh cajoled into a dress intended for a smaller being. Her skin was gray, and her dress was brown; the combined effect was suggestive of some sort of enormous, dusky vegetable that had been uprooted and unwisely endowed with teeth. These teeth—these gleaming, triangular teeth—now chewed thoughtfully upon the hag’s upper lip while she shuffled through a stack of papers. One of the goslings uttered a frightened peep.
The hag ceased her shuffling. Straightening, she gave the air an audible sniff. With a slow swivel of her head, she fixed the goslings with a pair of bloodshot crocodile eyes.
“Hello, darlings,” she murmured. Stooping to the ground, she extended her arms. “Come and give ol’ Bel a kiss!”
The goslings huddled close to one another, forming a soft, trembling mass. The hag repeated her invitation but to no avail.
At length, she rose and gave a deep chuckle. “Guess I ain’t as cuddly as their ol’ Mother Goose!”
“They’re just shy, Bellagrog,” Max lied, privately applauding the goslings’ judgment.
“Sure they are, sure they are,” said Bellagrog, scratching absently at her belly. “Anyway, it ain’t them I been waitin’ to see. It’s you. I got a schedule to keep, Max, and yer puttin’ me behind. Can’t have it, love, can’t have it.…”
Max ventured forward and stood next to the hag, peering over her shoulder while she riffled through her papers and scanned them like a stern accountant.
“Now, because I like ya, I’m going to give you some choices,” she said. “No septic duty for Rowan’s hero.” She blinked and gave a snort of laughter. “ ‘Septic doody’ … that’s a good one, Bel! Right witty, you are. Anyhoo, Max, we need ya doing stonework at the gates, shelving books in the Archives, or oiling seashells for the feast. What’s it gonna be?”
“What about Old Tom?” Max inquired, scanning the seemingly endless list of remaining tasks. “Can I work there instead?” Max had a special affinity for Old Tom and had dearly missed its ringing chimes these past months. The academic building had been badly damaged during the Siege. In fact, Max himself was responsible for cracking the ancient bell housed in its clock tower. He felt a twinge of guilt over this and liked to work on its stately, weathered edifice whenever possible.
“Access to Old Tom is restricted until the celebration,” replied Bellagrog coolly.
Max turned to view the building several hundred yards away. Stories of scaffolding were draped in white, wrapping the building as if it were an enormous present.
“What’s going on?” asked Max.
“Information regarding Old Tom is to be distributed on a need-to-know basis,” said the hag, examining her talons. “You don’t need to know, and now you is making me regret my generous offer.…” She flipped the page, and Max glimpsed the word sewer in the heading.
“Seashells,” he blurted. “I’ll work on the seashells.”
“Right, then,” said Bellagrog, penciling his name next to others. “Off ya go. Work up an appetite for tomorrow’s party. I know I am.…”
Bellagrog grinned at the goslings. Ignoring her, Max led his little charges to the broad expanse of grass and gardens that served as Rowan’s central quad. On one sizable square of lawn, clusters of children were polishing colossal seashells with rags dipped in round tubs of yellow goop. Some of the seashells were no bigger than a beach ball, while other ancient specimens loomed as large as mail trucks. The yellow goop was a thickened form of phosphoroil, and as the waxy, pungent substance was applied to the shells, they began to give off a soft glow, like gargantuan fireflies. The effect was diminished by daylight, but even so, a golden haze hovered above the lawn as though El Dorado lay beneath. Max stepped past a giggling group of children and sized up an imposing nautilus.
For the better part of two hours, Max polished the shell. It was monotonous but satisfying work as he burnished each smooth, curved section to a natural gleam until the oil saturated its surface and it began to emit a phosphorescent glow. While Max worked, the goslings were reasonably well behaved. They seemed content to gaze at their ghostly, distorted reflections in the shell until Honk managed to roll—or plunge—into a tub of phosphoroil. While Max scrubbed the indignant bird, a shadow fell over him.
“Well, what have we here?” chuckled a familiar voice.
Turning, Max saw Dr. Rasmussen, the deposed director of the Frankfurt Workshop. The hairless, nearly skeletal scientist grinned at Max from behind his thin spectacles. Some dozen adults accompanied him.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the engineer, “please allow me to introduce Max McDaniels. The young man visited the Workshop last year, but given the circumstances, I fear that many of you did not get to meet him. Let’s amend that now.”
Max nodded at the strangers as they were named. They did not return his greeting but merely stared at him with expressions of cold curiosity. Putting aside their rudeness, Max was surprised to see members of the Workshop at Rowan, much less in the company of Dr. Rasmussen. The Workshop was a techno-centric society—a scientific faction that had splintered off from Rowan long ago and now lived within a network of self-sufficient subterranean cities. Until the previous year, Jesper Rasmussen had been
the Workshop’s director, but his colleagues had driven him out on Astaroth’s orders.
Since that day, Rasmussen had taken refuge at Rowan, offering his technical expertise. Unfortunately, his expertise was accompanied by his arrogance, and thus requests for his input had dwindled. He was now Rowan’s most sullen dignitary.
“When did they arrive?” asked Max, looking past Rasmussen at the visitors.
“This morning,” replied Dr. Rasmussen. “They’re here to … make amends.”
“With you or with us?” asked Max, keenly aware that the Workshop had done nothing to resist Astaroth’s assault on Rowan or the world at large. For all Max knew, they had now sworn allegiance to the Demon. Rasmussen ignored the pointed question.
“Does Cooper know they’re here?” asked Max.
“Yes, yes,” muttered Rasmussen. “Everyone here has the requisite authorization. Thank you for making sure, however.” He offered a prim smile to his colleagues. “Wherever would we be without the endearing insolence of teenagers?” He elicited one feeble laugh. Shooting Max a peevish glance, Rasmussen beckoned his colleagues along. They began to follow until one of them—an angular, humorless-looking man—abruptly stopped.
“What is that mark, Jesper?” asked the man, pointing at Max’s wrist.
Dr. Rasmussen frowned and peered closely at the crimson tattoo of a red, upraised hand.
“Hmmm,” mused Dr. Rasmussen. “Agent Cooper has the same one, I believe.”
“You did not mention anything about a mark,” said the man, sounding aggrieved.
“What is he talking about?” asked Max, snatching his arm away from Rasmussen.
Rasmussen offered no response but merely scrutinized the tattoo for a few more seconds before waving his colleagues on again. The group departed, with the exception of the man who had first observed the mark. He stood rooted to the spot, allowing his pale, watery eyes to wander over Max’s face and body without a hint of hurry or embarrassment. Max might have been a laboratory rat.
The Fiend and the Forge Page 1
