The Fiend and the Forge

by Henry H. Neff

  There was a curse and the sound of a wooden stool being shoved aside before Mum reappeared in the doorway. As though resigning herself to some unspoken duty, Mum now curtsied to the haglings, who tottered toward her and began to climb up her skirts until they were safely nestled in every serviceable nook and perch upon her person. As Mum’s burden increased, her legs sagged and her nose inched ever closer to the ground until she could only waddle about like a bloated, crabby raptor.

  “There,” said Bellagrog with an approving nod. “Was that so hard? I got to have my hands free for my own responsibilities, don’t I?”

  Max’s spirits sank with Mum’s posture. “What about the, um, father?” he asked.

  At this, Bellagrog’s amusement escalated to hilarity. Even Mum wheezed with laughter, leaning against a nearby table. Max turned fire red.

  “What?” he demanded. “What’s so funny?”

  Bellagrog wiped away a tear. “God bless ya, Max! I ain’t laughed so hard in ages! Ya see, there ain’t exactly no Mr. Shrope, love. Hags is all female.”

  “But,” said Max, wrinkling up his nose, “then how do you …”

  “Drop a litter?” asked Bellagrog. “It’s one of nature’s secrets. When haglings is needed, you just pop out a dozen or so.”

  “And they come … out … ready to walk and talk?” asked Mr. McDaniels.

  “Sure do!” declared Bellagrog proudly. “This lot came out knowin’ their knots, too! Almost had me all trussed up in a jiffy! Bwahahahaha!”

  “Mum, have you ever had any haglings?” Max asked.

  As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. Mum frowned and sank under the weight of her clinging nieces.

  “No,” she said quietly, unsnagging a hagling’s tooth from her beaded necklace. “Not yet.”

  “Nature knows her business,” said Bellagrog with brisk authority. “Some hags is breeders—others ain’t.”

  “How many children do you have, Bel?” asked Mr. McDaniels.

  “Couldn’t say, couldn’t say,” replied Bellagrog, plucking at her chin. “Dropped maybe a hundred or so, but they gots a tendency to scatter. Guess I’m not the motherin’ type. Shoot, I ain’t even named but two!”

  “But you just called that one ‘Five,’ ” said Max’s father.

  “They all get numbers,” murmured Mum. “Just numbers till they reach their teens, and then they gets named proper. It’s bad luck otherwise.”

  In Max’s opinion, simply being a hag seemed bad luck from the very beginning. Given their ravenous siblings and voracious parent, there seemed few safe harbors for the three-toed creatures clinging to Mum. He was amazed that any managed to reach their teens and earn a proper name.

  “Anyway, enough blabbing,” said Bellagrog, plucking up her clipboard of assignments. “I assume you’re here for yer next job.”

  “Oh,” said Max. “Not really—I mean, I’ve got a lot to think about.…”

  Bellagrog turned to contemplate him with an expression of amused incredulity.

  “You is having a joke with Bel, ain’t ya?” she sniggered, cocking her head. “Surely, Handsome Max ain’t trying to weasel out of chores the day of the big feast! Ain’t no way my Max has got the guts to tell a working hag what dropped a dozen babies last night that he’s ‘got a lot to think about.’ ”

  “There are only eight,” Max reminded her.

  “Who’s counting!” roared Bel, ambling toward him and thumping the clipboard.

  “Well, I just learned I’m going to be teaching a class,” said Max hastily, thrusting his papers at the glowering hag. She snatched them from his hand, her red-rimmed eyes devouring the contents.

  “What’s that?” asked Mr. McDaniels. “You’re going to be teaching?”

  “Yup,” said Max proudly. “A combat class for the Agents. And they’re going to pay me in gold!”

  Scott McDaniels whistled at this and held out his hand to Bellagrog for the sheets. The hag’s face darkened as she read the final lines of the contract, and she practically flung them at Max’s father.

  “Off ya go, then,” she said in a husky voice. “I ain’t in charge of faculty jobs.”

  “Ho-ho!” crowed Mr. McDaniels, reading the letters. “My boy’s a full-fledged professor!”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Max, reddening. “I’ll just be teaching some things I learned.”

  “Well, we got work to do, Max,” huffed Bellagrog. “Mum, get the girlies in their aprons and teach ’em to roll out the dough. Scott, I need you on the lamb—let some of the refugees peel potatoes. A few of those grannies are right quick with a peeler.”

  “Will do, will do,” said Scott McDaniels cheerfully. He washed his hands, looking over his shoulder to speak to Max. “Do me a favor today?” he asked. “Look in on Connor and make sure that he’s planning on coming to the feast. David too. I’ve hardly seen ’em, and it’d be nice if they joined us.”

  “I will,” said Max. “At least I’ll make sure Connor comes. David’s … pretty busy these days.” Max shrugged at the weak excuse. “I’m going to head out, Dad.”

  As he left, Max took one last look around the kitchen. He sighed and wished Bob were there, hunched on his enormous stool and working culinary magic with his gnarled fingers. But Rowan’s chief chef—a reformed Russian ogre—had yet to fully recover from injuries he’d sustained during the Siege. Eight little haglings staggering about with rolling pins were a poor replacement for Bob’s calm, comforting presence.

  Max glanced at his watch as he took the stairs. It was still midmorning, and these days Connor often slept past noon. Walking briskly down the dormitory corridor, Max decided against knocking on Connor’s door and instead veered into his own room.

  The observatory dome had brightened, and the stars were but faint glimmers against a smooth wash of middling blue. Max had not expected to find David, and he was proven correct. His roommate’s bed had not been slept in—there was nothing to indicate David had been there since his mysterious disappearance.

  Padding downstairs, Max kindled a fire and stifled a temptation to snoop through David’s things. He couldn’t help scanning the desk, however, and his eyes came to rest on a particularly imposing tome. He recognized the title—The Conjuror’s Codex of Summons had gotten David into trouble before.

  The carven lead cover rolled smoothly back on its hinge. Licking his thumb, Max paged through the heavy sheets of parchment, his eyes scanning a host of strange names and images. As he perused the pages, he saw that the headings were in rich black ink and the handwritten passages were not suffering from any of the curious fading that had so disturbed Tweedy. Max paused at a page detailing a marid before arriving at the desired entry.

  “Know thy enemy,” he whispered, staring at an intaglio print of Astaroth’s emissary, Prusias.

  The image of the demon stared back. The artist had depicted him with pale cat’s eyes that shone like a pair of gemstones against his dark, handsome features. Wealth surrounded Prusias; he sat upon heavy sacks that spilled coins at the seams. Fingering a jewel-encrusted goblet, the demon seemed to beckon at the viewer in invitation, gesturing at an empty chair across a laden table. Max wondered if the demon really looked like the barrel-chested, richly robed nobleman in the picture.

  By sunset, he would know.

  ~4~

  TEN SILK SAILS

  The fire had faded to embers and Max was still reading. He slouched low in his warm chair, propping the grimoire against his knees as he studied accounts from those who had summoned Prusias throughout the ages. There were many. Prusias was apparently a great favorite among those seeking wealth. He was popular not only because he was skilled at procuring riches, but also because he was considered amiable. The writings portrayed a jesting, curious connoisseur of humanity and its wants. Unlike Astaroth, Prusias liked being summoned.

  At the promised hour, I saw the demon through the eastern window—a dark figure among the white birches that Lizzie lov
es in springtime. Cloaked and hooded was Prusias, and I must confess that terror overwhelmed me when I first beheld the demon and witnessed his approach. My servant fled the room, and I was left alone within the witching circle that the stranger had drawn upon the floor. I feared the servant might wake my Lizzie and spoil all my loving plots, but he merely shut himself in the cellar, and there may he rot. At the demon’s knock, the stranger rose and it was she who admitted him to my home. A fiend did I expect—a horror worthy of Dante! But it was a handsome lord who ducked beneath the doorway, and it was my pleasure to offer him such nourishment as I was able. At last I found courage enough to speak.

  The demon listened most graciously, offering fair comment on each of my petitions. Jacob’s house and lands shall be mine as should have been so when Father died. Prusias has promised them to me and further tells of silver spoons buried within its accursed nursery. These, too, shall be mine once Jacob and his harlot have been driven off. All this the demon hath pledged to do, though I dare not press about particulars.

  Max read many such stories concerning petty feuds, coveted heirlooms, and bloodstained jewels plucked warm from an owner’s hand. It was disturbing reading. Whenever Prusias was involved, wealth was reallocated in grisly fashion. Those who summoned him invariably praised his services and then labored for the remainder of their account to justify their good fortune.

  There was one exception, however, and Max had returned to the passage several times. The entry was transcribed from a journal entry Elias Bram had made during the winter of 1647.

  My researches point ever to Astaroth. I cannot find the Demon, but I know he is lurking. I see him in the page’s smirk and hear him in the minstrel’s words. His works are in the marketplace and on the theater stage. He is here. I have climbed the Tower and called to him with Orkney stones, but the Demon is strong and answers not my summons. I fish for Leviathan with naught but hook and string. Thus it was this evening that I turned to his vassal—a fiend called Prusias.

  Blessings to Solomon, who hath plumbed these depths before me, for Prusias did arrive at the appointed hour, if not the appointed guise. The demon intended murder, which surprised me, for that is not his reputation among those who prize him. He did not take shape within the inscribed circle, but had concealed himself within my apprentice. Young Pieter had knocked and entered to place my supper upon the table when I saw the demon in the child’s eyes. I grew angry at this trespass and drew Prusias forth. The demon hath learned a painful lesson. I am hopeful that the boy shall recover, but to harbor a Spirit Perilous is a grievous thing for one so young. Most pressing is how Prusias evaded the Terms of the Summoner, for in such things I do not err. A great evil is brewing.

  Upon exiting the boy, the demon fought and I have broken him. He crawled within the circle and, for a fleeting moment, I did see his true form writhe upon the floor. But I blinked and thus beheld only a pagan king wrapped beneath a rich black cloak.

  Under great pain, Prusias confessed that all beings of the Old Magic are bound by one or more geis—strictures to be obeyed lest their subject come to ruin. Astaroth’s geis confines him to the truth. Should the Demon lie, it will be his undoing and the pleasures of this world shall be denied him. Therein resides our chance, and may Fortune favor us.

  But my findings are bittersweet. Since boyhood, I have known that the Old Magic lives within me. Thus I, too, may be bound by geis. I must learn its nature lest I, unknowing, sow the seeds of my own destruction and leave great works unfinished.

  As for Prusias, it was nearly dawn when I dismissed him. The wretched demon bared his teeth and dragged his limb, swearing vengeance before he became as a carrion bird and departed through the window. The morning was grim and gray, and I fear that every sleeper in the town below was cruelly wakened by the demon’s cry. I pray no newborn heard that sound, for it was not a fitting welcome to the world.

  “Hi there,” said a voice behind Max.

  Max yelped in surprise, then flung the horrific grimoire aside and leaped up from his chair. He whirled to see David Menlo standing on the observatory’s lowest step.

  “Oh no!” laughed David. “I’m sorry to surprise you.” He stooped to retrieve the grimoire.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” said Max, waving him off and pacing about. “You just startled me.”

  “Reading up on Prusias?” inquired David.

  “Yeah,” said Max, recovering his breath. “It kind of spooked me.”

  “Understandable,” said David. “But I’m happy that you’ve been learning about Old Magic and geis, Max. I’m sure you realize the importance.”

  “That I have a geis? Yeah, I thought of that,” said Max.

  “I have never wanted to pry about your time at Rodrubân,” said David delicately, “but did Scathach or Lugh ever mention anything that sounded like it could be a geis?”

  Max went to his dresser and fished through his top drawer for the brooch Scathach had given him when he had finally departed that strange castle in the Sidh. He ran his fingers over the clasp and the smooth ivory sun on its face and tried to recall the many days he’d spent there.

  “I don’t think so,” he concluded. “I only saw Lugh once, and he barely spoke to me. Scathach and I spent lots of time together, but she never spoke about a geis. The only thing I can think of is what she said when I left.”

  “And what was that?”

  “ ‘Never forget you are the son of a king,’ ” said Max, remembering the inexplicable sadness with which Scathach had uttered those words.

  “Hmmm,” mused David, placing the grimoire on the table and sliding into the other chair.

  “You’d think they’d be more specific if breaking a geis was a matter of life and death,” Max laughed. David merely frowned and prodded weakly at the fire. “What time is it, anyway?”

  “A little past four,” replied David, rising to trudge back up the stairs.

  “I have to get ready,” muttered Max. He turned to peer at his face and unruly hair in the wardrobe’s mirror. As he did, he spied David’s reflection as the smaller boy stopped to stroke Nick. David’s typically pale complexion now bordered on the cadaverous. Whatever Max’s roommate was doing, it was taking a heavy toll.

  “Are you coming to the feast?” asked Max, striving for a casual tone. “We can see Prusias together.”

  David sighed, padding off toward his bed. Max heard his voice from the railing above.

  “I have seen Prusias, but he has not seen me. I prefer it that way. Give my best to your father and the others. I’ll be with you in spirit.”

  Once again, Max heard David’s curtains close. He could only guess whether his roommate was in bed, decoding the heavens, or stealing off to Neverland.

  Twenty minutes later, Max had scrubbed his face, combed his hair, and brushed his Rowan jacket until it was a smooth, navy perfection. A few deft loops of his tie, a final glance in the mirror, and he slipped out the door with Nick in tow.

  The hallway outside was in pandemonium as students crowded into the corridor, abuzz with excitement over the reopening of the school and its attendant festivities. Some adults were interspersed throughout the throng, parents cooing over their sons in formal uniform or grandparents fumbling for cameras. They might have been attending a graduation, and Max wondered if these madly grinning parents—or even his fellow students—knew how strange the evening might prove. A contingent of demons was coming to Rowan, and yet arms were looped and poses were struck while shutters clicked.

  Hoisting Nick up from underfoot, Max crossed the hallway to knock at Connor Lynch’s door. There was no answer, and after Max had knocked a third time, he turned to leave. Just then, the door opened a crack and he heard a man speaking from beyond. It was a deep voice, tinged with an Eastern European accent.

  “I never promised it would be pleasant, Connor. It is your choice to make, but you know where I stand.”

  The door swung farther open, and Max looked upon a man whose green eye was paired with
another so deathly white it might have been a pearl peering from the socket.

  For a brief moment, Max and Peter Varga merely stared at one another. Despite their many meetings, the prescient’s eye still managed to give Max a jolt. Peter, or “Ronin,” as Max had been introduced to him, was an imposing middle-aged man with short black hair and handsome, if hollow, features. Despite Peter’s height, his injuries now caused him to stoop so that Max looked down at him as he filled the open doorway.

  “Hello, Max,” said Peter, offering his hand.

  Max merely nodded. “Is Connor in there?” he asked, looking past Peter into the room.

  “He is,” replied Peter, stuffing his hands deep in the pockets of his blazer. “It is late notice, I realize, but would it be possible to join you and your father at the feast? I’ve missed our visits.”

  “Our table’s full,” said Max coolly.

  “I see,” said Peter, lowering his gaze. “I won’t keep you, then. Enjoy yourself, and congratulations on your appointment to the faculty. I look forward to your class.”

  “Thank you.”

  Peter brushed past him and hobbled down the hallway, trailing a wake of silence as visitors caught their very first glimpse of Rowan’s remaining prescient and his ghastly eye. Normally, Peter walked with a cane and this had evened out his gait on his morning walks around the campus. Today he was without this prop, and he limped down the hallway, muttering apologies to those obliged to step aside.

  That Peter could walk at all was a minor miracle. His back had been broken while rescuing Max and the kidnapped Potentials from the Enemy. As Max watched Ronin hobble down the corridor, he stifled a surge of conflicting emotions. The man had saved his life, but Max also held him responsible for the disappearance and premature death of Max’s mother. Years ago, Ronin had sought out Bryn McDaniels in Chicago and had hurried her off to the Sidh so that she might someday aid her son when he arrived in that mystic land. Ronin’s vision had been accurate, and Mrs. McDaniels had guided Max and David to the Book of Thoth, but the Sidh was not a place for mortals, and her stay had sapped her youth. By the time Max found his mother, her years had been spent and she was a very old woman. Bryn McDaniels had managed to leave the Sidh with her son, but died soon after.