The Fiend and the Forge

by Henry H. Neff

  But something blocked his path.

  It was a human being. A boy.

  He was roughly the same age as Max, with a tangle of dark brown hair. His shirt was ragged and his shoes were worn as if he’d been living in the wild for months or even years. Max’s heart leaped at the discovery of this fellow human, and he fought hard against the temptation to whoop and embrace this wary stranger. Easing the deer off his shoulder, Max held up both hands and bowed his head in greeting.

  To his surprise, however, the boy did not respond. He merely stood, rooted to the spot and trembling, as though in shock. Only now did Max discern that the boy was gasping, struggling to catch his breath, while sweat ran swiftly down his mud-spattered face.

  “I’m a friend,” said Max calmly, showing his empty palms.

  Thud, thud.

  Max started at the ugly, nearly simultaneous sounds. From the boy’s chest protruded two arrowheads, whose tips trickled with green witch-fire. The boy staggered, his eyes fixed upon Max; then he fell forward onto the slope, sliding down the dry leaves until his body curled into a limp ball at the base of a poplar tree.

  An excited voice called from up the slope.

  “Connla n’uhlun veh delyael morkün!”

  Max froze.

  This was the language of the demons.

  Unsheathing his gladius, Max spoke a Word of Command and retreated a step as his illusion camouflaged him perfectly with his surroundings. He watched, gripping the short sword tightly as an imp hurried down the hillside to inspect the kill. Rolling the boy over, the imp hissed with satisfaction, revealing a pair of small, sharp incisors. It extinguished the eerie flames and extracted the arrows with a practiced hand.

  Despite his revulsion, Max held still. The imp carried no bow. It had not fired the killing shots.

  The hunters were still unseen.

  Settling into a crouch, Max watched as stones rolled down the slope, loosened by whatever was now trodding heavily down the mountain. Something green bobbed uphill: an arrowhead wreathed in the same green flame as those that had killed the boy. As the flame came closer, Max saw its light reflected in three eyes—pale tiger’s eyes—set within the face of a horned rakshasa. It was Lord Vyndra.

  “Caia!” repeated the imp, pointing proudly at the slain boy.

  The rakshasa stopped some twenty feet away, the third arrow still notched in the bowstring. A rumble sounded from its chest. It inhaled deeply, seeming to savor the night air and its kill. Its voice—resonant and long accustomed to command—spoke down to the imp. To Max’s surprise, it spoke in English.

  “Do you not see Death waiting for you, miyama?”

  The imp swiveled its head and peered in shock at Max. Baring its teeth, the imp hissed and with a pop transformed itself into a snake that slithered swiftly beneath the fallen leaves toward its master. Max crouched lower.

  “I am surprised to see you here,” continued the rakshasa smoothly. Keeping his arrow notched, he turned to survey Max. “Were you hunting it, too?”

  Max said nothing, but stayed silent in the shadows.

  The rakshasa laughed. “Hide in spells or the shadows if you will, child of Rowan. It matters not. I see you.”

  Continuing down the hill, the rakshasa came to stand above the slain boy, turning the body over with its clawed foot. A dreadful purr sounded from its throat, and its eyes gleamed with some fire kindled deep within.

  “He ran a long time, this one. Farther and faster than the others.” Lord Vyndra glanced at the dressed carcass of the deer. “Does Rowan’s Hound hunt for sport or food, miyama?” The demon stooped to sniff the deer’s blood.

  “I know not, master,” hissed the imp, which now twined about the rakshasa’s neck, its forked tongue flickering.

  “Food,” said Max, fighting the tremor in his voice as he approached the demon. The rakshasa raised its bow when Max had come within a dozen feet. “What do you hunt for, demon?”

  The demon did not reply, but instead pulled the bowstring taut.

  “Put down that sword, child of Rowan. We do not seek a fight with thee.”

  “Ha!” said Max, unable to contain his scorn. “But you shoot a boy in the back!”

  The rakshasa glanced down at the corpse, then at the deer, then at Max.

  “You must see a difference. I do not.”

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” seethed Max, struggling to control his emotions. “The treaty, the edicts, all of it! This is Rowan’s kingdom—you’re not allowed to be here!”

  At this the demon’s three eyes narrowed to slits as it shook with laughter. With another pop, Vyndra’s imp transformed back into its tiny, elfin shape and stood atop its master’s shoulder.

  “If the death of a stranger upsets humans so, how do they react to kin?” the demon mused. “I did not know that your kind was so sentimental. No wonder you fascinate Prusias so. Is it weregild you require?”

  “What?” asked Max.

  “Blood money,” growled the demon. It nodded to the imp, which hopped down and held forth a small bag of coins.

  “I don’t want gold,” said Max, glancing at the purse with disgust. “I want you to leave.”

  The demon seemed to consider this and cocked his head at the weapon in Max’s hand.

  “I am a guest in your kingdom,” he acknowledged. “I will take my prize and go.” With one great arm, the rakshasa scooped the boy’s limp body and slung it over his shoulder.

  “You’re not taking him,” said Max, his voice trembling. “You leave him here.”

  The demon turned and glared at Max, a hulking black silhouette in the darkening forest. Only his eyes shone through the dusk.

  At length, the dead boy’s body slid from the demon’s shoulder and landed heavily upon the fallen leaves. From far off, a hunting horn sounded—a hideous, spectral braying that chilled the blood. The whole of the forest fell quiet, as if every creature in the broad valley took refuge within its nest or burrow.

  “You may have Astaroth’s favor, but be warned: Lord Vyndra has his limits.”

  The demon bared its teeth, withdrawing into the darkness with a contemptuous sneer. Max felt the surrounding air grow still before a sudden rush of scorching wind and fire rushed past him, flying off into the night with a wild, primal howl. Branches were snapped and needles were singed, but the forest seemed to breathe again. The demon had gone.

  Max gazed down at the boy’s corpse and wondered in anguish if the boy had believed him to be another hunter—a second demon—that had cornered him on the mountain. He recalled the boy’s twitching panic, his confused indecision when Max had greeted him. Had that moment cost the boy any chance at escape?

  The hike back to camp took Max most of the night. Not because the boy was heavy—he weighed little more than the deer—but because of the terrible hunting horns that periodically sounded across the valley, causing Max to halt and listen for long stretches. Even at a distance, the calls were terrifying.

  As Max expected, the camp was empty—the fire was extinguished, its encircling stones cold and scattered. Peering at one of the moonlit stones, he made a hastily scratched “C” and knew the Agent would be back. Max sat cross-legged in the darkness, every sense attuned to his surroundings while the gladius lay unsheathed across his lap.

  Shortly before dawn, Cooper returned.

  The Agent came to stand by Max and stared down at the body of the boy.

  “What happened?” he asked quietly.

  Max told him the story.

  “Vyndra’s not the only one,” he confirmed. “I left to scout. The valley’s filled with hunting parties. You heard the horns?”

  Max nodded.

  “It ain’t just demons out there,” said Cooper. “I saw an ettin along that ridgeline.” The Agent pointed to a jagged stretch of mountain whose peak was lost in the gray morning. “Two-headed giant. They’re supposed to be extinct, but I think all kinds of things have woken up and are walking about.”

  Turning back to t
he body, the Agent inspected the wounds and frowned. “We’ll bury him by that tree,” he said, shaking his head. “And then we’ll start back. We’ve learned enough for now.”

  “What have we learned?” asked Max, wearily.

  “The cities and towns are gone,” he replied. “And we’re not alone out here.”

  The Agent lifted the boy and carried his body to the edge of the camp, where he began to dig a grave. Rising to his feet, Max fumbled in his pocket for the faded photograph of his mother. Max would bury the photograph with the boy. He knew his father would not want the boy to be left by himself on this lonely mountainside. As he walked over to the grave, Max spied Cooper’s map lying open. The parchment was now richly detailed with mountains and hills, rivers, streams, and lakes. Cooper had scrawled a note upon their location. It contained only three words, but they sent a shiver down Max’s spine.

  Here Be Monsters

  ~9~

  HONOR AND PRIVILEGE

  The journey back to Rowan was long, with many river crossings and slow, arduous climbs through the mountain passes that walled the land’s interior from the coast. The world may have changed, thought Max, but the seasons progressed as they always had. The brilliance of autumn was beginning to fade, surrendering its fiery plumage as great, whistling gusts from the north stripped the branches bare.

  It was October 28, mere days from the Feast of Samhain, when Max glimpsed Rowan from afar. Max had never seen the new, rebuilt Rowan from such a perspective, and it reminded him somewhat of the gleaming castles that dotted the Sidh. The walls were a reassuring sight, a reminder that not all was darkness in the wild.

  As they approached the city, Max was surprised to hear the hooves transition from turf to cobblestone. They were cantering along a lane that curved gently to the north and guided them toward Rowan’s gates. The trees on either side had been felled, and now Max saw whiskered domovoi and humans in homespun clothes working in the woods, clearing brush and stacking firewood onto carts. Up ahead, the massive gates stood open, with many young children at play within their shadows.

  Even Cooper smiled at the shouts and yells of the children zooming about, kicking balls, playing with hoops, and digging through piles of leaves. Among several adults, one familiar face stood out—Scott McDaniels sat patiently on an overturned bucket while a determined preschooler bunched his few hairs within a barrette.

  “Max!” he cried, rising at once and inadvertently shooting the barrette off his head. “You’re back! We’ve been worried.”

  Max grinned and swung off the horse, embracing his father and enduring the usual observations that he’d grown, looked tired, and “My goodness, was he growing a beard?” Eager to make his report, Cooper bade them farewell, and thus the two McDanielses were left to sit beneath the walls and watch the dozen preschoolers climb, dig, bawl, shout, and erupt with laughter.

  “Are you ditching work?” asked Max.

  “We have more help in the kitchens now,” his father explained. “Most afternoons, I watch these little monsters. Now that they’ve opened up the gates, we’ve been heading out here. Nice to finally poke our noses out the door.”

  “Are you sure it’s safe?” asked Max.

  His father laughed. “There are sentries on the wall, and, besides, the whole forest’s thick with woodcutters and surveyors cleaning things up and planning the new roads. Ten thousand people can’t all live within Rowan’s walls forever.”

  “But there are demons out there,” said Max. “Other things, too, probably.”

  “Well, I don’t know about ‘other things,’ ” said Scott McDaniels, “but the demons don’t seem altogether bad. By the way, you’ll want to watch that term demons when you’re inside. They don’t care for it, preferring instead their clan names—imps, rakshasa, mazikin, and such. Sir Alistair passed out a chart, but it’s hard to remember ’em all.”

  “Still sounds like you know a lot about them,” said Max.

  “Well, it’s hard not to come across ’em in there. Gràvenmuir’s a busy place.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve been inside,” said Max, appalled.

  “Course I have,” replied his father. “Most everyone’s been in there at some point. Trade’s been kicking up, and the ambassador’s been hosting gatherings and salons in the evenings. Today’s market’s winding down, but I think some of the stalls are still open.”

  “Sounds like one big party,” said Max grimly.

  “Well,” said his father, “given what everyone’s been through and what everyone was expecting, you can’t blame folks for breathing a sigh of relief and enjoying themselves.”

  “It’s like everyone forgot what happened,” Max mused. “How many millions of people died last year, Dad? Do you let that go because the demons now seem nice? Doesn’t that seem wrong?”

  “How many millions have died throughout mankind’s wars?” retorted Mr. McDaniels. “War’s an ugly thing no matter who’s involved, Max. I’m for peace, and from what I can tell thus far, so are they. But enough of all that. I want to hear about your journey. You can tell me while we walk the little ones back. I’ve got your schoolbooks and assignments. The homework is really stacking up.…”

  “No rest for the weary,” Max groaned.

  “Ah,” said his father, clapping his arm. “It’ll be good to be back in school. C’mon, let’s grab these munchkins and head back in. They close the gates at nightfall and that’s not so far off.”

  With two bickering exceptions, the children quickly fell in line and followed Mr. McDaniels, while Max led the Arabian back inside Rowan. While they walked, Max ruminated on his father’s words and the idea that Gràvenmuir had become a part of daily life.

  A sweeping glance of the central campus did not reveal any marked change. People bustling about on their way to evening classes or dinner or taking air on a stroll about the gardens. Gazing off toward the athletic fields, Max saw students playing Euclidean soccer—a traditional game complicated by the fact that the field might shift or change shape at random intervals. All seemed right with the world, until Max focused his attention upon Gràvenmuir.

  The embassy was alight, the beautiful details of its black stone gleaming and streams of light issuing from every open door and window. Music could be heard from within, hypnotic, tantalizing chords of a belyaël. Within the embassy’s fence, crowds of humans milled about, perusing tables and tents where merchants plied their wares. The combination of elements struck Max as strange—like a bazaar upon the steps of a dark cathedral.

  Old Tom struck five o’clock, and Mr. McDaniels waved goodbye to the children, who continued on with the other adults.

  “Well, what do you think?” asked his father. “Could be worse, eh?”

  Max did not reply, but instead gazed upon building foundations and scaffolding beyond Old Tom and Maggie. “What’s going on there?” he asked.

  “More academic buildings,” said his father proudly. “New colleges. I’m thinking of taking a class or two. And that’s not all—the new township’s really taking shape in the Sanctuary.”

  “Is David doing all this construction?” asked Max.

  “No,” replied his father. “Which is why it’s going slower than usual.” Mr. McDaniels’s energetic cheer faded, replaced with grim-faced angst. His voice lowered to a whisper. “Max, you should know that David’s a hot topic these days—and not in a good way. People say he’s not cooperating with Ms. Richter. And there are worse rumors, too.”

  “Like what?” asked Max.

  His father glanced at a couple strolling nearby and lowered his voice. “That he’s been secretly leaving school. They say he’s been attacking demons … sinking merchant ships before they can reach Rowan Harbor. The ambassador insists David’s been seen in Blys, but I don’t see how that’s possible. Blys is clear across the ocean, and Miss Boon says he hasn’t missed a class since school began.” Mr. McDaniels’s face flushed, and he fidgeted uncomfortably. “The stories are ugly, Max. Disturbing. You’d
never believe them of our little David, but he hasn’t denied a thing. I hear Lord Prusias wants him arrested and is pressuring Richter.…”

  “Have you talked to David?” Max asked. “He loves you.”

  “I tried,” replied his father sadly. “Stopped by your room a couple of times, but he doesn’t answer. The one time he opened the door, he just thanked me for the cookies I had brought him and closed it again. He doesn’t look right, Max. I think it’d be best if you moved in with me.”

  In silence, the two led the Arabian back to the stables and then headed back to the Manse.

  “It was a long trip,” said Max. “I buried that photo of Mom. I left her with someone who needed her.”

  He told his father of the boy slain by a demon’s arrow and now lying in a mountain grave. Instead of the dining hall, the two took their supper in Mr. McDaniels’s apartment. As they finished, Max spied a thick sheet of parchment. Holding it to the candlelight, he saw that it was a flyer, stamped with the golden seal of Prusias.

  LAND, WEALTH, HONOR, AND PRIVILEGE! The Great War is over, and opportunity awaits those wise enough to seize it!

  Lord Prusias requires men and women of adventurous spirit and noble disposition to aid in the administration of his vast, expanding Kingdom of Blys. Suitable candidates shall be granted land, hereditary title, and a retinue befitting royalty in the grand tradition. Those candidates blessed with mehrùn—or magic, in your worthy tongue—are particularly desired, but all are encouraged to apply. We do humbly request submissions before the Feast of Samhain. Early applicants shall have first choice among the prized and lush estates.

  Interested parties should see Mr. Cree, secretary to the high ambassador, and request an application forthwith!

  “What’s this nonsense?” asked Max.