The Fiend and the Forge

by Henry H. Neff

  “Oh,” said his father, growing sheepish. “That. Well, it is what it says it is. An invitation to apply for a mini-kingdom or some such thing.”

  “And you’ve got it here as a joke,” Max concluded. “I mean, you’d never consider …”

  “Of course not,” said his father with a snort. “Can you imagine Scott McDaniels tromping about with crown and scepter? Nope. Not me. Can’t blame a fellow for indulging his imagination, though.”

  Max smiled and sighed, tossing the flyer aside. “Can you believe anyone would fall for something like this?”

  “Yes, I can,” said his father with a definitive nod. “I’ve seen lots of folks waving these sheets and asking for Mr. Cree.”

  “Well, they’re fools,” said Max bitterly. “Greedy, grasping fools. Ms. Richter or someone should stop them.”

  “By what right?” Mr. McDaniels chuckled. “We’re not Ms. Richter’s or Rowan’s prisoners. People have a right to go where they will, Max. If it turns out to be dangerous or foolish, then so be it.”

  “Freedom of choice and all that,” said Max.

  “Amen,” said his father, thumping the table. “Now go get some rest. You’ve got school tomorrow!”

  By the time he set out for classes the next morning, Max felt as if he had been reborn. His hair was cut, his face was shaven, and for the first time in recent memory, he looked and felt like a real student. Hurrying down to the dining hall, he chatted with Rolf Luger, a fellow student, enjoying the heft of his books and even the horror stories regarding Third Year classes. According to Rolf, Miss Boon was tyrannical, Ms. Caswell assumed they were all crack mathematicians, and Mr. Vincenti’s homework often necessitated all-nighters. At breakfast, the gleeful trio of Cynthia Gilley, Lucia Cavallo, and Sarah Amankwe joined them. The girls were as interested in Max’s new look as they were in his travels.

  “Too short, Max,” Lucia said, inspecting his hair. “No soul, no style.”

  “Not at all,” said Cynthia, wagging an authoritative spoon. “I like it short and preppy.”

  “What does Julie think?” asked Sarah with a teasing smile.

  “Julie,” said Max, tapping his fingers. “Well, I haven’t actually seen her yet. I only got back last night and …”

  The girls exchanged blank stares.

  “Did I do something wrong?” he asked.

  “Oh, Max,” said Cynthia with sisterly affection. “We should really write these things down for you. Life isn’t all dramatic leaps and swordplay.”

  “Is that what I do?” asked Max, thoroughly amused. “Dramatic leaps and swordplay?”

  “Saved by the bell!” Cynthia crowed as Old Tom’s chimes hurried them off to class.

  Max headed toward the smithy as his first class was Devices, Mr. Vincenti’s subject, which taught students how to make useful things. The room was a cramped space in which students crowded around low tables and benches. Mr. Vincenti stood by a forge at the front of the room, urging the students to take their seats. A pair of dvergar flanked him; one operated a bellows while the other worked at the hearth’s perimeter to contain the hot fire. The hearth cast an orange glow on the dark walls, and heat issued forth in steady, oppressive waves. When everyone had arrived, Mr. Vincenti beckoned the class closer.

  “I know it’s hot, but squeeze in,” he said. “Now, we’ve spent the last month learning that forging is one of the most basic skills a craftsman can have and getting you familiar with basic tools and their uses. At Rowan, there are no finer blacksmiths than the dvergar, whose very ancestors crafted weapons for gods. Today, we are very fortunate to welcome the brothers Aurvangr and Ginnarr, who have agreed to share some of their wisdom with us.”

  The dvergar ceased their activities and turned to face the class. Norse dwarves of the oldest and proudest lineage, the dvergar had long, braided beards, ash-colored skin, and milky eyes that looked blind from long years gazing into the fire. They spoke in hoarse, halting English, and Max listened with great interest.

  “Our apologies, but humans are very poor workers of the metal,” said Aurvangr. “The human uses his mind, but not his soul. The true smith does not merely shape metals. He is artist. The true smith calls to iron and makes it share its song.”

  Leaning forward, Ginnarr continued his brother’s narrative. “There is only one language of Making, and this now is in Astaroth’s keeping.…” At the mention of that name, the brothers made a simultaneous sign against evil. “The language of Making may belong to the Great Demon and his Book, but in Making there is music also. The clever smiths find its notes.”

  The dvergar reached for an ancient black hammer, its head worn to a gleaming nub.

  “We help you find this music. But young smiths must first feel metal’s sting, must sweat before the forge. Three swings to pay the smith’s toll …”

  By midafternoon, Max had said farewell to his classmates. They were off to study diplomacy, while Max would be teaching his course on combat. He climbed the steps to Maggie; however, as he arrived at the second floor, he stopped. Julie was there, lingering outside Max’s classroom.

  “There you are!” she exclaimed, giving a friendly wave.

  “Hi,” said Max, brushing past other students to embrace her.

  “I’d heard you were back—look at you all cleaned up for school,” she said. “Got your lesson plan all ready?”

  “I, uh, thought I’d wing it,” said Max. “You know … keep it spontaneous.”

  Julie raised an eyebrow, but stifled her comment and wished him luck.

  Max found that room 222 was a large dojo packed with adults. Surveying the class, Max saw that the Red Branch was there, along with Ms. Richter, the senior faculty, several Mystics, and a score of Agents. They all wore exercise clothes and looked at him expectantly.

  Beads of sweat broke out on Max’s forehead. He slid his bag off his shoulder and placed it against the wall, then blinked stupidly at his pupils. It all seemed a bad dream.

  “Hi,” he said. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Silence.

  “Um, welcome to Advanced Combat Training,” he said. “I’m Max McDaniels and I’ll be your … instructor. I guess we should begin with names.”

  “Gabrielle Richter, Director.”

  “William Cooper, Red Branch.”

  “Annika Kraken, Chair of Mystics.”

  The recitation continued while Max struggled in vain to brainstorm a suitable lesson. When the last student gave his name and rank, Max clapped his hands and rubbed them nervously.

  “Right,” he said. “Uh … does anyone here have any experience with combat?”

  A pause was followed by slow, quizzical expressions as every hand rose.

  “Of … of course,” Max sputtered, growing red. “My mistake—stupid question. Moving on …”

  He had the best intentions of moving on but discovered that he was simply standing mute, rubbing his arms as though he were cold. A throat cleared, and Max looked up to see Cooper raise his hand.

  “Professor McDaniels?” he said without irony. “I believe you visited the Sidh last year.”

  “Yes,” said Max, exhaling. “Yes, I did.”

  “And I’ve heard that you received training during your stay?”

  “That’s right,” said Max.

  “Well,” said Cooper delicately, “I don’t speak for the group, but I’ve seen my share of fighting, and I’ve studied about every combat technique there is. But I never learned anything in the Sidh.…”

  “Right,” said Max, immensely grateful for the prompt. “Of course. Where should we begin?”

  “What are some of the specific techniques you learned?” asked Ms. Richter.

  “There were lots,” said Max. “T-ubullchless, ‘the Apple Feat’; and ích n-erred, ‘the Salmon Leap’; and cless cletenach, or ‘the Little-Dart Feat’—”

  One of the Agents covered his mouth, stifling laughter.

  “Do you have a question?” asked Max.

  “No,” replied
the Agent. “It’s just, I thought this class was for combat. Salmon and apples—sounds like cooking class.”

  “I see,” said Max, perusing the room. He spied a weapons rack nearby and walked over to it. Taking up a scuffed training ball, he lobbed it in a high arc toward the far wall. As it flew, he grabbed eight small darts from a wooden case and loosed them in a blur. A second later, the ball fell to the ground looking like a sea urchin—each dart had found its target. “Cless cletenach,” said Max. “Now … ích n-erred,” he said. He took one running step before spanning the fifty-foot room in a single leap, retrieving the ball from the floor and testing its weight in one smooth motion. “And finally,” he said, “t-ubullchless.”

  Max hurled the ball at a training dummy by the door. The ball exploded into its target, shattering the dummy’s head and showering the class with scraps of stuffing.

  The dojo was silent.

  “I’m not much of a teacher,” said Max, his fingers twitching. “But I’ve mastered these feats. If you have better things to do, don’t let me waste your time.”

  Ms. Richter raised her hand.

  “I can assure Agent Crowley that he does not have better things to do. Please continue.”

  By the end of class, Max was exhausted. He tried to assure himself that it had not been a total disaster. He might have fumbled for words now and again, but he was sure the next class would go more smoothly.

  Wiping the sweat from his brow, Max scanned the quad for Julie. He had hoped they could have dinner and kicked himself for failing to mention it when he’d seen her earlier.

  She was not lounging about the quad. Nor was she in the crowded dining hall. He planned to try the dormitories when he ran into her roommate on the stairs and learned that Julie had already taken her dinner and holed up to study for an exam.

  “Am I in the doghouse?” Max asked.

  “Maybe just a little,” replied Camille.

  He groaned.

  Taking his own dinner to go, Max trudged up to the boys’ dormitory wing. There would be other study sessions—at the moment, he needed to figure out a way back into Julie’s good graces. Should he give her flowers? Too generic, he concluded. His father would say he should cook for her, but Max was hopeless in that arena.

  By the time he had arrived at his room, he was back to flowers. Reaching for his key, he paused. Across the hallway, Connor Lynch’s door was slightly ajar. There was a rustling inside and a muttered curse as something fell off a shelf. Poking his head inside, Max saw his friend tossing clothes into a large trunk.

  “Hey,” said Max.

  Connor whirled at the sound of Max’s voice. The Irish boy’s eyes were red; his cheeks were tear-streaked. He rubbed a hasty sleeve across his face.

  “Hey. Welcome home and all that.”

  “Thanks,” said Max, coming inside and closing the door. “Didn’t see you at classes today. What’s going on? Are you sick?”

  Connor shook his head with a rueful laugh. “I’m a dropout,” he replied. “No more classes for me.”

  “What?” Max exclaimed. “You can’t just drop out of school!”

  “Already did.”

  Connor tossed Max a scroll bound with a red ribbon.

  Max quickly unfurled it; his eyes devoured the contract, which was penned in glistening red ink.

  October 28, Year 1

  This contract indicates that Mr. Connor Braden Lynch, formerly of Rowan Academy, hereby renounces said Order and memberships in exchange for land and titles within the Kingdom of Blys. As such, he will swear fealty to Lord Prusias and depart from Rowan in two days’ time.

  Max raced through the additional details until he arrived at the final line.

  As a pledge of good faith and a guarantee of loyalty, Baron Lynch does hereby pledge collateral as detailed in Appendix I. This collateral shall be held, in trust, until the day of his death.

  “Connor,” Max breathed. “Exactly what collateral did you give them?”

  Connor did not look at him. Instead, he turned and gazed at the dark meadow outside his window. The boy gave a helpless shrug and a bitter laugh.

  “The only kind they take.”

  ~10~

  A WINDOW ON THE WORLD

  Max held Connor’s contract tenuously between his fingertips. For a moment, neither boy said a word. Outside the window, shadows lengthened over the meadow.

  “So they have your soul?” Max whispered.

  “Not yet,” sniffed Connor. “But they will. I surrender it when I swear fealty.”

  “Why would you do this?” asked Max. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Wish I had,” said Connor, laughing ruefully. “I’m making good on Peter’s advice.”

  Max recoiled at the name and handed the contract back to Connor. That Peter Varga might have guided another loved one off into the unknown seemed too much to stomach. Any residual gratitude Max felt for Peter’s past aid vanished in an instant.

  “Peter Varga told you to sell your soul?” he asked. “For a bit of land?”

  “In so many words,” said Connor helplessly. “Peter said that moving to Blys would be my best chance to make amends.”

  “For what?” asked Max.

  “For everything,” said Connor, kicking halfheartedly at his roommate’s chair. “It’s all my fault. And there’s such a thing as vengeance, Max. You know who babysat me when I was held captive during the Siege?”

  “I do,” replied Max. It had been Alex Muñoz, a former Rowan student who had become an inquisitor for the Enemy. When Alex had delivered his hostages in exchange for the Book of Thoth, he had appeared changed—as though his humanity had ebbed. Yet even before, Alex had been a born sadist; Max did not want to think about what he might have done to Connor.

  “I’m going to kill him,” said Connor with cold, quiet finality. “I will kill Alex Muñoz if it costs me my last breath and immortal soul.”

  A sharp knock sounded at the door.

  “What?” Connor yelled.

  “It’s not just your room!” shouted a sullen, aggrieved voice.

  Connor tore at his hair and gave Max a wild, incredulous look. “Don’t they know I’m talking about my immortal soul and vengeance besides?”

  Connor threw the last of his things in his trunk and secured the clasps as fists rained on the door with a mishmash of protests, threats, and curses. “Weenies to the end,” Connor grumbled. He glanced at Max. “Can I crash at your place? It’ll only be for a night or two.”

  “Of course,” said Max. “We’re not finished talking about this.”

  Dragging his trunk, Connor waddled to the door and opened it wide. His roommates stood there with balled fists, looking mutinous.

  “It’s all yours,” announced Connor. “It’s been a real pleasure roomin’ with you gents these past few years. Every young man should get to bunk with Wanker, Pimple, and Stinky. Builds character. Fare thee well, boys. Good luck and God bless.”

  Wavering between anger and confusion, the three boys stood aside as Connor dragged his trunk across the hall to Max’s door and waited patiently as Max muttered his apologies to the speechless trio and hurried across.

  Connor leaned close as Max turned the key in the lock. “Is Davie at home?” he asked with a nervous titter. “Not that I believe the stories, but …”

  “Relax,” said Max, unlocking the door. “He’s never here.”

  But Max was mistaken.

  Walking across the threshold, the pair saw that David was indeed at home. In fact, Rowan’s sorcerer was the centerpiece of a scene so surreal that Max and Connor merely craned their necks and gaped.

  David Menlo was floating some thirty feet above the lower level. Compared to the dome, he appeared tiny, a mere doll whose arms were outstretched toward the curving glass. Beyond the dome was not the usual serenity of twinkling constellations, but a raging, churning cosmos.

  “Hey now!” exclaimed Connor. “What’s our boy doing?”

  “No idea,” Max whisp
ered. “Shhh!”

  The two boys crouched low and watched as David floated high above, a silhouette against the heavens. Max swore he could discern faint faces from among the stars—hooded, sinister figures whose contours and features could be gleaned from the patterns of lights and swirling nebulae. David made a gesture of dismissal, but the ghostly faces remained—an apparent obstacle to whatever he was attempting to do. Max heard David cry out, and the dome filled with a shimmering luminescence that crashed like a wave over the glass. By the time the radiance streamed away, the faces had disappeared.

  So, too, had the view of the cosmos. Beyond a gauzy curtain of clouds, the dome now revealed a smooth gray sea. In the distance, Max spied a winking light, soon followed by what appeared to be masts and sails. As their viewpoint shifted, Max saw that it was a ship—a black vessel piled high with stamped crates. At the ship’s prow, a witch held a burning staff aloft. Max guessed she was a weather worker, hired to beseech the wind and seas for a swift, safe passage.

  But a greater weather worker had come.

  As David stretched forth his arms, a black shadow fell upon the sea. The witch abruptly ceased her spellwork and looked toward the sky. Fascinated, Max watched her—a tiny figurine within some make-believe world—as she raised her burning staff toward the glass. Despite her desperate efforts, towering gray thunderclouds converged upon the ship like stampeding cattle. Peaceful seas turned to gray-green chop; frantic figures began to race about on deck, securing the cargo. The witch fell upon her knees and cast something—an offering of some kind—over the bow as the ship began to pitch upon wilding waves. Floating high above, David raised his fist and the dome suddenly blazed as lightning coursed from the blackening sky to shatter the mainmast. Silk sails came fluttering down like parade streamers.

  Max watched, awed and horror-struck, as wave upon wave now slammed into the ship, battering it with a casual, feline cruelty. Lines snapped, sailors were whisked off deck and hurtled into the sea, and stacked cargo toppled after them like toy blocks. With a measured, orchestral gesture, David seemed to gather the sea into his arms as though preparing for a hideous finale.