The Fiend and the Forge

by Henry H. Neff

  Upon the horizon, Max saw another swell of dark water—an innocuous band of slate, but he knew that it must be huge. As the wave cut across the dark sea on its silent, murderous course, its true scale became evident.

  “My God,” whispered Connor.

  Max recoiled as the wave loomed, curled, and closed upon the tottering ship like a boxer’s fist. The impact was inconceivable. The collision sent up a plume of spray, an explosion of water and mist that mercifully obscured the carnage beneath. When it had subsided, nothing remained of the trading ship—no spars or masts or figures upon the waves. It might never have existed.

  Once again, the scene within the dome began to change. The roiling seascape gave way to night and finally to the familiar, peaceful constellations. As the dome reverted to its accustomed state, David sank slowly to the floor, racked by spasms of coughing. Settling into an armchair, he kindled a fire in the hearth and leaned heavily against the table. With his remaining hand, he fumbled for a handkerchief and pressed it against his mouth while his body was consumed by another coughing fit, which intensified until David pitched from the chair and collapsed.

  “He’s having a seizure or something,” said Max. “Come on!”

  Connor followed, pausing at the bottom stairs while Max stooped over his roommate and pried the blood-speckled handkerchief from his unresisting hand.

  “Are you sure that’s safe?” hissed Connor. “He—he might blow you up!”

  At the moment, David did not seem capable of squashing an insect. He lay still, his lids fluttering while the eyes beneath swam about in rapid movements. The coughing had stopped, replaced by quick, shallow breaths that bordered on hyperventilation.

  And then … the fit stopped.

  David’s eyes opened and he gazed up at Max. He blinked, coughed once more, and gently motioned for Max to help him into the chair. He registered Connor at a glance before returning his attention to Max.

  “How long have you been here?”

  While Max debated how to respond, Connor answered with his usual delicacy.

  “Long enough to see you sink that bloody ship!” he exclaimed.

  “Connor—” Max warned, but David waved him off.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said quietly. “You’re probably wondering if all those terrible rumors are true.…”

  There was an eerie calm in David’s voice. Connor lost all color in his face and began backing up the stairs as though David might turn him into a toad.

  “Of course I am!” Connor admitted. “Who wouldn’t after what I just saw?”

  “Why did you sink that ship?” asked Max.

  “It was valuable.” David shrugged. “That clipper was the first to hold cargo from all four of the kingdoms. Thus far, only goods from Blys have reached Rowan. Even Astaroth will hear of this little fiasco.”

  “So you’re trying to provoke Astaroth?” asked Max.

  A wan smile appeared on David’s pale features.

  “And you’re doing it from here?” Max continued, growing angry. “From Rowan? Don’t you think that’s a bit reckless?”

  “Is Max McDaniels going to lecture me on reckless behavior?”

  Max glared at David, his fingers twitching with that terrible Old Magic that longed to take control.

  “And since when did this room become a giant crystal ball?” Max asked, changing the subject with a sweep of his arm at the vast dome.

  At this, David actually laughed. “Did you think it was just meant to be pretty?” David clucked his tongue and chuckled at the rhetorical question. “It’s my base of operations, Max. My little window on the world.”

  “What were those faces beyond the glass?” asked Max.

  David’s smile abruptly faded. His face grew earnest. “Could you see them?” he whispered. “There are times I’m convinced that only I can see them.… Those were Prusias’s very best magicians trying to find me. But they can’t—not yet!”

  “I don’t like the idea of demons peeking through my window,” said Max darkly.

  “Don’t worry,” David assured him. “They can’t see you here. The only chance they have is when I look out, and I’m very careful when I do.”

  “You’re not being very careful if two people can just walk in here if they have the key,” Max snapped. “What if I’d been Ms. Richter, David? I hear she’s not so happy with you.”

  “Tonight was a special exception,” replied David. “I needed to find that ship while it was still in Blyssian waters.” His eyes wandered to the scroll clutched in Connor’s hand. “Has someone been speaking to Mr. Cree?”

  Connor appeared slightly nauseated by the question. Hanging his head like a scolded schoolboy, he nodded and handed the scroll to Max, who passed it along to David. After reading it, David placed it on the table with a weary sigh.

  “So you’re going to surrender your soul,” he said quietly. “May I ask why? You like nice things, Connor, but I hardly think you’re a fool.”

  “Maybe Varga’s the fool,” said Connor crossly. “Since summer, he’s been on me to move to Blys. Says it’s my best chance to make amends. Says it’s my duty …” Connor trailed off, his cheeks flushing.

  David pressed the issue. “Make amends for what?” he inquired coldly. “For stabbing me? For removing the mists that hid this school and laying us bare?”

  “For … for last spring,” answered Connor, looking away.

  “Well,” said Max, before every ugly detail could be rehashed. “It’s clear we can’t let Connor do this. I mean, we have to do something. Can we bargain with Mr. Cree?”

  David shook his head and glanced wearily at the contract. “Mr. Cree is just a secretary, Max. He’s not the owner of Connor’s soul—just a dutiful notary. And I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss Peter Varga’s recommendation. I know very little of prescience, but Varga’s been right more often than not. Perhaps Connor should go to Blys.… Anyway, this contract cannot be broken. Connor will have to live up to it.”

  “I might be a lot of things,” said Connor. “But I ain’t a coward. If I have to, I can make a go of things in Blys. I’ve already said my goodbyes—the ones I could say, anyway. It’s giving up my soul that’s got me tied in knots.”

  David nodded his sympathies and was in the process of returning the scroll when he paused and gave it a second read. A low whistle escaped his lips.

  “Maybe I can help,” he murmured, tapping the document. “But it would be risky.”

  Connor sat up, his face brightening. “You mean I might not have to go?” he asked eagerly.

  “No,” said David. “You will have to go—that part of the contract is ironclad. The payment clause, however, is subject to interpretation. It requires you to surrender your soul upon swearing fealty to Prusias. Therein lies a possible loophole.”

  “What loophole?” asked Connor. “It seems straightforward to me.”

  “Tell me then, Connor, what’s your soul?” asked David. “Is it the soul you were born with or the soul harbored within your body?”

  “I’m hoping they’re one and the same,” muttered Connor, crossing himself.

  “At the moment they are,” said David. “But they don’t have to be. What would you say if I offered to remove your soul and place it in something else … a vault for safekeeping?”

  “Spiritual surgery?” asked Connor.

  David nodded and revealed the pale scar on his chest. “A transplant. I’m very familiar with them.”

  “But a transplant requires a donor,” said Max. “Where are you going to get another soul, David?”

  “Not your concern,” David replied coolly. “Suffice it to say, the donor will be willing.”

  “I don’t like this, Connor,” said Max. “It sounds a lot like possession, and you’ve had too much experience with that already. Do you want another Mr. Sikes crawling around in your head?”

  “It is not possession,” David corrected. “A human soul is a far cry from an invasive imp. The replacement
soul will not guide your actions or corrupt you. Also consider that you’d have it for a short while. After all, Prusias will be taking it very soon.”

  “I guess that’s true,” said Connor. Standing abruptly, he paced before the fire. “Are you sure? I mean, are you positive that the donor would be willing? I don’t want you knocking anyone on the head for their bleedin’ soul.”

  “Like I said,” replied David calmly, “the donor will be a willing participant. But you have to make a decision by morning.”

  “My God,” said Connor, burying his face in his hands. He looked helplessly at Max. “And I thought I had a lot on my mind before! What should I do?”

  “I can’t answer that,” said Max. “That’s a decision only you can make.”

  “I need to run things through my mind once or twice,” said Connor grimly. “Your bed’s sounding awful good, Max. You can crash down here like a good lad, can’t ya? I know you’d hate for me to spend my last few nights at Rowan on the floor.”

  “All yours,” said Max, waving him away.

  As Connor disappeared up the stairs, David shot Max a bemused glance.

  “So, how are things, Professor McDaniels?” he asked.

  Pulling off his shoes, Max plopped his feet on the table and stared into the fire. “Honestly, David, there are times when I think my head’s going to explode.”

  “Hmmm,” said David. “I thought the dvergar would interest you at least.”

  “They were the only saving grace,” said Max. “When things settle down, I want to talk with them. They might be useful.”

  “Ah,” said David, smiling. “Now we come to it.”

  “Well,” said Max. “Maybe they could reforge Cúchulain’s spear.…”

  “Why?” asked David. “What’s the use? The war is over, Max. Don’t you know that we’re supposed to sit here in our playpen enjoying a pleasant retirement?”

  “I do,” said Max. “But you seem to be fighting a war all on your own. Are you going after Prusias?”

  “For humiliating my mother?” David asked. “No, I can’t let personal feuds dictate my actions. I’m aiming higher.”

  “Astaroth?” Max hissed. “David, please tell me you’re not going after Astaroth.”

  “ ‘Going after’?” David inquired with a smile. “Max, this isn’t some school-yard fight.”

  “So, what do you plan on doing?” Max asked. “I mean, you can’t think that you’re going to destroy Astaroth. Not even Bram managed that!”

  “It would be tricky,” David allowed with just a ghost of a smile. “Let’s see … the Demon is immortal, nothing earthly can harm him, and he has the Book of Thoth. Should a legitimate threat arise, Astaroth could simply remove its truename from the lists and snuff the irritant out of existence. That is very real, utterly incalculable power.”

  David scratched at the pale stump where his right hand used to be.

  “But it’s an intriguing problem to turn over,” he continued. “I suppose if one wished to destroy Astaroth, they’d have to devise a very special weapon. For the sake of example, let’s say this weapon was a potion.…”

  David reached for a clean beaker from a stand by his bookcase. He placed it on the table between them and considered it.

  “Now, this potion’s components and properties must meet two basic conditions. First and foremost, it must be lethal to demonkind. Second, the ingredients should be harvested from a world other than our own. These are difficult conditions to meet.”

  “I understand the first condition but not the second,” said Max. “Why would it have to originate outside our world?”

  “Because Astaroth has the Book of Thoth,” David explained. “If the ingredient is an earthly one, its truename will be in that Book. If its truename is not in the Book, Astaroth has no power over it—he can’t simply strike it out or change its essence. He becomes vulnerable.”

  “That’s genius,” said Max, simultaneously exhilarated by David’s solution and anxious of its implications. “So those red flowers … they’re from another world? You actually mean to destroy Astaroth?”

  David said nothing; his expression remained inscrutable.

  “Then at least tell me why you’re so afraid for me to touch them,” Max pleaded. “The demons talk like I’m one of them. The dryads, the demons … they all say I ‘shine.’ What does that mean, David? What am I?”

  David sighed and pushed back from the table. “Connor’s situation with his contract requires a trip to the Archives,” he said. “You can come along if you want. I’ll share what I can, but I can’t promise you’ll like what you hear, Max.”

  Within the minute, the pair left the observatory, with Connor’s unapologetic snores droning on behind them.

  The hour was late, but the campus was hardly deserted. Lights issued from many windows in the academic buildings, and teachers and students alike still strolled along walkways. The sight of Max McDaniels and David Menlo together elicited many a curious stare, but David ignored these and pointed gleefully at Gràvenmuir. Even at a distance, Max could see figures hurrying from room to gilded room.

  “I’d say they’ve heard about their missing ship,” David said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Nothing travels faster than bad news. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “Don’t you worry they’ll know it’s you?” Max hissed. “You’re the only one who could have done something like that!”

  “Not necessarily,” said David. “There are some truly powerful demons among the four kingdoms with their own agendas and factions and rivalries. They’re like great big spiders sitting in different corners of a web. I can think of a dozen who might have had an interest in seeing that ship sink. So, is David Menlo jingling the web, or is it a rival spider?”

  “That’s a dangerous game.”

  “Maybe,” David admitted. “But it’s more fun being the revolutionary than the establishment.”

  With an air of subdued satisfaction, David hurried off toward Maggie, through which one accessed the Archives. Down the winding stairs they went, into the living heart of Rowan, where its oldest scrolls and greatest treasures were kept. Arriving at the bottom stair, Max halted at the shedu guardians. He cocked his head at the colossal figures, winged bulls with human heads.

  “They look different,” he said. “Older. Are these the same shedu?”

  “No,” David replied. “The other two were destroyed during the Siege—mauled to rubble. I had to borrow these from an Assyrian tomb.”

  Max had always felt nervous before shedu, as though he should appeal to their impassive faces in some way. As a member of the Red Branch, however, he had free rein of the Archives. The shedu remained still as Max and David hurried by.

  The Archives were as Max remembered—enormous beyond reckoning, with endless stacks and corridors of books that nearly disappeared in the gloom as one’s eyes traveled toward the vast cathedral ceiling. Seated at the many tables, Max saw scholars and teachers reading ancient manuscripts by lantern light. Nowhere at Rowan was Astaroth’s elimination of modern electricity more apparent than in this enormous, subterranean space, in which candles and lanterns now flickered from the alcoves.

  The pair arrived at David’s private reading room. Encrusted coffee mugs were stacked three deep, along with chipped plates, mounds of books, and the occasional pool of spilled ink. David seemed perfectly at home, humming pleasantly while he lit several lamps and urged Max to take a seat.

  “You know,” he began, “I never wanted to pry too much into your time at Rodrubân, but we can’t have this conversation unless I’m direct.”

  “Go ahead,” said Max. “I always figured you knew, anyway.”

  David nodded. “I’ll place my cards on the table then,” he said. “Scott McDaniels is not your father. And you are not Cúchulain, Max, but his kin. You and Cúchulain are brothers, though separated by great gulfs of time. You are both sons of Lugh the Long-Handed, High King of the Tuatha Dé Danann.”

  A jumble of emotions see
ped into Max. He felt relief that David knew, that he could share his secret with someone else. But he also felt anxious that Scott McDaniels might learn the devastating truth, that Max was not his son. And he struggled with anger. He had been wrestling with his identity for years. Had David known the answers all along?

  “If you knew all this,” Max whispered, “why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

  “A person’s past is their business,” replied David. “I wasn’t certain until you crossed the bridge at Rodrubân while I could not.”

  Max recalled the event. His irritation with David was replaced by something more celebratory.

  “But this—this is great news!” Max exclaimed, smacking his hands together. “It means I’m not a demon!”

  “Calm down,” David urged. “It’s not so cut and dry. Your family tree is a bit … complicated.”

  Max thought of his dreams, the great wolfhound and its recurring question: What are you about? Answer quick or I’ll gobble you up!

  “I want to know what I’m about,” Max breathed. “Am I human?”

  “No,” said David. “Not fully human, anyway. Lugh is your father, and he is a god slumbering in the far-off Sidh. Should we call you a demigod? Would it make you feel better?”

  “It’s better than being a demon,” Max spat.

  “Are they so different?” asked David simply.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” snapped Max, glowering at his roommate.

  David placed his hand on a volume on Celtic myth and recited aloud.

  His longdrawn scream re-echoed like the screams of a hundred warriors; so it was that the demons and devils and goblins of the glen and fiends of the air cried out from that helmet, before him, above him, around him, whenever he went out to spill the blood of warriors and heroes.… The first warp-spasm seized Cúchulain, and made him into a monstrous thing, hideous and shapeless, unheard of. His shanks and his joints, every knuckle and angle and organ from head to foot, shook like a tree in the flood.… The hair stood up upon his scalp with rage. The hero-halo rose out of his brow.… From the dead centre of his skull a straight spout of black blood.… In that style, he drove out to find his enemies, and did.