The Fiend and the Forge

by Henry H. Neff

  While Max and Julie enjoyed themselves, no one had a better time than Mr. McDaniels. Sweat streamed from his round face as he danced with one, sometimes two partners at a time. For a big man, he was marvelously light on his feet, and took pains to teach Cynthia and Sarah how to do the more intricate steps. Eventually, however, he needed a break and scooted off the floor, where he mopped his brow and tapped his foot in time to the music. Catching sight of Max and Julie, he waved them over.

  “Whew,” he wheezed, fanning himself. “I didn’t know you were a dancer, Max!”

  “I’m not,” replied Max, just as Mum rushed over to coax Mr. McDaniels back onto the dance floor, where the hag launched into an unsteady tango.

  “Let’s walk,” said Julie, taking Max’s arm. Clutching warm ciders, they wound through the partygoers to find a reasonably empty spot on the cliffs overlooking Rowan Harbor.

  Max was amazed at how the docks and harbor had grown. Shipyards had been constructed along the southern coast, their docks extending well into a harbor that was now sheltered by a curving seawall. Lanterns winked from ships already moored within the harbor. There were a dozen or so vessels from the four demonic kingdoms, and half that number that belonged to Rowan’s traders. Within the harbor’s black calm, Max spied Brigit’s Vigil, a stony landmark rumored to be the very spot where Bram’s grieving wife had waded out to sea. Once, it had been a lonely pillar of rock, the dominant feature along Rowan’s coast. Now it was dwarfed by nearby loading docks and the customhouse, where traders supervised the unloading of cargo that had traveled from strange kingdoms, strange towns, and strange beings far away. Max watched a vye stagger down a ramp, bent beneath a stack of crates. The vyes were not permitted on campus, but dozens swarmed below upon the docks, wolfish shapes against the moonlit sea.

  “Staying out of trouble?” asked a quiet voice.

  Max turned to see Cooper and Miss Boon. Neither was in costume.

  “What are you supposed to be?” asked Cooper, blinking at Max’s outfit.

  “Honestly, I have no idea,” Max replied. “You?”

  “A self-respecting man.”

  “Very funny,” said Max as the Agent gave a dry, creaking laugh.

  “William, look at that,” said Miss Boon, directing his attention toward Gràvenmuir. Cooper stared grimly at the embassy and the piled trunks and boxes that littered its fenced grounds.

  “Tonight’s the night, I guess,” he muttered. “Those sorry fools.”

  The sorry fools to whom Cooper referred were those residents and refugees who had accepted Prusias’s offer of lands and title. Their worldly possessions were piled within Gràvenmuir’s iron fence. Max had not told anyone of Connor’s intention to leave. Gazing at all the baggage, he wondered if Connor’s suitcase was stacked among them.

  “How many are going?” asked Julie.

  “Hundreds at last count,” replied Miss Boon.

  Just then, a terribly familiar call sounded from out on the ocean. The image of the dead boy flashed before Max’s eyes.

  The sound came from a demon’s horn.

  While the call differed slightly from the one Max had heard in the mountains, the common origins were unmistakable. Turning back to the ocean, his eyes scanned the docks and the shipping piers, and out over the black waters, where xebecs and barques pulled oars or raised sail to make room for the approaching monstrosity.

  Prusias’s galleon emerged from the night fog to split the waters of Rowan Harbor. Once more they heard the awful sound, a spectral horn that could waken the dead. Silk sails were lowered as the great ship coasted to a halt, dwarfing the surrounding vessels, which bobbed like toys within its shadow. The festivities on campus came to a halt as everyone hastened to line the cliffs and peer down at the newcomers.

  As before, fireworks shot from bow chasers in brilliant arcs to illuminate the sky. More horns sounded, a chorus of earsplitting notes, as a veritable yacht was lowered into the water and rowed toward the beach. Prusias stood at the helm.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” called a genteel voice from Gràvenmuir. “The time has come.”

  Max turned to see a thin imp dressed like an Elizabethan courtier addressing the crowds from behind the embassy’s gated fence. Max guessed it must be the infamous Mr. Cree mentioned in the advertising flyers. In his gloved hands, the imp held a long, trailing scroll. Flanking him were the tall, eerie mummers that had originally arrived with Prusias but remained behind to serve as silent, ever-present sentinels at Gràvenmuir’s gates. Max could not stand to look at them.

  The campus fell utterly silent as those who had chosen royalty in Blys over hard work at Rowan congregated within the shadow of Gràvenmuir. There were hundreds of people, including whole families, who made their way through the crowds—some sheepish, some haughty, all carrying prized possessions not to be spared in the transition to a new life.

  Max was hardly shocked to see Anna Lundgren among the assembled. The Fourth Year student had been one of Alex Muñoz’s closest friends, a girl who had been cruel ever since Max had met her. Without so much as a glance at her parents, Anna and her friend Sasha hefted their bags and marched proudly through the gates.

  Yuri Vilyak was there, too.

  “Oh my God. Is that Connor?” exclaimed Julie.

  The answer was Connor’s telltale mop of chestnut curls weaving through the crowd. Max watched Connor’s steady progress as though it were a dream. Dragging his duffel, the Irish boy nodded at Mr. Cree and took his place on the other side of the gate. Patting the coins in his pocket, Max ran down toward the gate before Connor had gone too far.

  Calling Connor’s name, Max tossed him the bag, which contained a handful of gold coins.

  “What’s this?” asked Connor, catching the bag and hefting it. “Charity?”

  “An investment,” said Max. “For a rainy day. Whatever. You can pay me back when you’re a rich tycoon.”

  “Thanks.” Connor paused a moment before cursing and making a frustrated swipe at the tears running freely down his cheek. “Best to let me be now, Max. This is hard enough as it is.”

  Max nodded and waved farewell.

  By the time he had trudged back to Julie and the others, he had scanned the rest of the emigrants. Yuri Vilyak was no surprise—the former Director and deposed leader of the Red Branch had been disgraced and diminished since his mishandling of the Siege the previous year. But Sir Alistair Wesley was most unexpected. Max watched the white-haired etiquette instructor, dapper as ever, as he escorted his wife inside the gates and acknowledged Mr. Cree with a gracious bow.

  Sir Alistair and Commander Vilyak were not the only high-profile members who had taken up with Blys. Max saw teachers, Mystics, and even an Agent he’d met from the Dublin field office scattered among the hundreds of minor scholars, trainees, and refugees who now waited for their new king.

  Prusias appeared as before, with a burst of laughter that shattered the anticipatory silence as his dark, bearded face rose above the cliff steps. As before, lesser demons accompanied him, a motley entourage that trailed dutifully behind their lord.

  Despite Prusias’s festive air, Max noted that he now appeared girded for war. A corselet of dark mail hung from his massive form like a mantle of glistening scales. At his side hung a black broadsword, and gauntlets covered hands that were once replete with rings. He stopped well short of Gràvenmuir, his gleaming cat’s eyes taking in the assembled hosts as he saluted in all directions.

  “Fair Rowan, how I’ve missed thee,” he announced in his operatic basso. Wetting his lips, he called across to his secretary. “Are they all here, Mr. Cree? Do we have all our lords and ladies?”

  “We do, Your Excellency.”

  “Wonderful!” exclaimed Prusias. “Let them come forward and greet their new master. Let us sail to Blys, where their lands and titles await them. Give Lord Muñoz your lists so he may announce them—he has been so looking forward to this day.”

  Max gasped as a smaller figure stepped past a
rakshasa to stand next to Prusias. Max had assumed it was a demon, but it was Alex Muñoz, a former Rowan student. When Max had last seen him, the boy had changed, but now he was almost unrecognizable. Squinting, Max could still see hints of the old face—handsome features composed in some cruel contemplation—but that was all. The boy’s tattooed skin was blue-gray, his eyes softly glowing as he bowed to Ms. Richter, revealing a pair of sharp, curling horns that jutted from his black hair. The Director did not acknowledge his bow but merely gazed at him with an expression of undisguised pity.

  One by one, Alex announced the names and titles of those bound for Blys. Some went eagerly, kneeling before Prusias to kiss the proffered cane, but others lost their courage in the end. Max imagined that it was one thing to daydream about riches and titles, and quite another to meet the demon who promised them. Despite their apparent fears, most managed to present themselves with slow, hesitant steps.

  But one newly minted viscount could not summon the necessary courage. He was an elderly scholar who, when his name was called, paused by Gràvenmuir’s gates and protested that he’d been out of his mind when he’d sought out Mr. Cree and that there had been a mistake. He very much appreciated Lord Prusias’s generosity, but he must decline. He could not go.

  Prusias’s demeanor changed. His smile faded; he looked impassive, bored, as though he’d seen a thousand such displays, heard a thousand such petitions. Once the man began to sob, Prusias shook his head and called to Mr. Cree.

  “This will not do.”

  Mr. Cree nodded and turned to the tall, silent mummers.

  To Max’s horror, they began to move, turning slowly toward the gibbering scholar. The old man backed away, trembling, seeking refuge among the people behind him. With a sudden burst, the mummers bore down upon him. The scholar collapsed, clawing at the ground even as gloved and bandaged hands closed upon his wrists. While thousands watched, the sobbing scholar was pried from the earth and swiftly escorted down the steps to the red galleon and his new life.

  “Why doesn’t Ms. Richter do anything?” asked Julie, shaking with fear and anger.

  “What’s she to do?” hissed Miss Boon. “The idiot signed a contract!”

  “Those poor people,” muttered Julie, squeezing Max’s hand. “We’ll never see them again.”

  “Don’t say that,” said Max.

  The procession continued. When it was Anna Lundgren’s turn, Max’s stomach churned as Alex embraced her. She beamed as she received Prusias’s blessing and hurried eagerly down the stone steps. Connor was next, and a sickening possibility occurred to Max. Connor had sworn revenge against Alex, and he would pass very close to him when he took his oath. Would Connor do something rash?

  But as Connor’s name was called, Max’s fears subsided. Walking past Alex, Connor did not even acknowledge his former captor. As he knelt before Prusias, his face was calm and proud. Prusias smiled, said something Max could not hear, and held forth his cane. Kissing the cane, Connor stood and bowed before hurrying off toward the cliff steps.

  Once “Earl Vilyak” and “Marquis Wesley” and the rest had been named, Prusias glanced at his secretary. “Is that all, Mr. Cree?” he asked.

  “Yes,” replied the imp. “There’s just the matter of some hags that have booked passage.”

  “Steerage, I trust,” replied the demon with a gruff laugh.

  Prusias departed with fair words—blessings to Rowan and a promise to visit in spring when the campus was in bloom. As the demon’s entourage followed him, Bellagrog and the haglings remained near Gràvenmuir’s gates. They huddled together until Mr. Cree rapped the fence with his scepter.

  “Don’t you dare make Lord Prusias wait,” he hissed. “Be off!”

  “Good riddance!” hollered Hannah.

  Others promptly joined in, and Max could not help but pity Bellagrog as she finally trudged toward the cliff steps, lugging her bags while the haglings clung to her back. She sputtered and puffed, weathering the catcalls and abuse that were showered upon her from every quarter. It seemed that this was the golden opportunity for everyone Bel had bullied to safely return the favor. Insults and curses pummeled Bellagrog, who forged ahead with a murderous scowl.

  As she reached the cliff steps, she turned as though intending to say a few last words. The jeers and catcalls died away. As Bellagrog opened her mouth, however, a single voice interrupted her. The crowd turned its attention to Mum, who swayed and crooned in blind, rapturous joy. “Only one hag left and it’s me!” she sang. “The marvelous, beauteous Bea!”

  Trailing off, Mum delivered a sudden karate chop at an imaginary foe and performed a great, twirling leap. It was only when Bob tapped her on the shoulder that the hag opened her eyes and realized her predicament. She turned and faced Bellagrog, who stood panting upon the top step.

  Producing a handkerchief, Mum gave a tentative wave. “Safe travels, Bel—be sure to send a postcard!”

  Mum laughed weakly, but her sister did not. Both suitcases dropped heavily to the ground.

  “You had to push it, didn’t ya?” Bellagrog seethed. “Couldn’t keep yer mouth shut, could ya? And to think I was gonna let you stay put and raise these wee ones all on me own.…”

  Mum began to tremble.

  “Oh no,” she muttered, shutting her eyes. “No, no, no, no …”

  “Hag Law!” roared Bellagrog. “I’m invokin’ it, so get your fat behind over here and lug these bags on the double! What am I doing sweatin’ under me own brood? Go to your auntie, girls!”

  The bundled haglings scurried off their mother and raced toward Mum, who groaned as they clambered up her party dress. Several people began to object, but Bellagrog brushed the protests aside, citing Hag Law as though it were a spell, an immutable custom beyond all question or resistance.

  Mum staggered toward her sister, her hands clasped in supplication. “Please, Bel,” she begged. “Be reasonable. I haven’t packed! All my things are in my cupboard.”

  “Don’t fret, dearie,” growled Bellagrog. “I gots plenty of woolies. Get goin’ now! Don’t wants to keep the good lords and ladies waiting.”

  “But, Bel—!”

  “HAG LAW, BEA!”

  This final pronouncement was delivered with thunderous finality. Although her pace quickened, Mum’s movements now had a mechanical stiffness, as though some unseen force were reeling her in against her will. Once Mum took up the luggage, Bellagrog chuckled triumphantly.

  “Look out, world,” she proclaimed. “Here come the Shropes!”

  Clapping her hands, Bellagrog disappeared down the stairs. Mum followed, unable to manage a farewell glance at Bob or the school she loved.

  ~13~

  WHERE THE CREEK NARROWS

  The dark conclusion to the Samhain feast had shocked and saddened many at Rowan. All told, some six hundred souls boarded Prusias’s galleon and sailed off into the east, lured by the promise of new lands and titles. This was not what shocked Max; he knew enough history to understand that some people would always grasp at land and titles. What shocked him was how quickly these people were forgotten.

  Forgotten was, perhaps, too strong a term. These people had been loved; their family and friends missed them as one might expect. But Max knew something insidious was at work—a fading within the mind. Most people technically remembered the departed, but the recollections were hazy, as though some fundamental bond had been severed or anesthetized. References seemed more appropriate to a distant ancestor rather than one’s immediate family. If asked, a person might fondly recall a friend or relative who had once sailed off into the blue to make their fortune.

  And that was where the stories stopped.

  People didn’t write once they’d left for Blys. Weeks had passed and many trade ships had come and gone, but they never carried any letters from Blys. Few who remained at Rowan begrudged the silence. After all, Blys was where big things happened and its new nobles were understandably busy. Little Rowan was a charming afterthought, a provincial
outpost compared to mighty Blys across the sea. It had always been that way.…

  Max found this last sentiment particularly disturbing. The Four Kingdoms of Blys, Jakarün, Zenuvia, and Dùn had not only entered the lexicon, but had been woven into the fabric of daily life. Many referred to them as though they had always existed. Russia, Los Angeles, Egypt … countries and cities from the past were lumped into a remote, exotic history that bordered on the mythological. One might have been discussing Atlantis.

  Memories weren’t the only thing that continued to fade. It seemed that each week, another modern innovation or technological insight had vanished. By now Max was accustomed to the absence of television, telephones, electric lights, computers, and a host of other contemporary conveniences. But the losses continued. By mid-November, most fishermen refused to sail beyond sight of land for fear they’d be lost at sea. Antibiotics disappeared from the medical stores so that a case of whooping cough or scarlet fever became life-threatening.

  Despite the fading of memories and technologies, Rowan managed to prosper like a great city of the Renaissance rather than some Dark Ages backwater. The harvest had been full, horse-drawn carts rolled smoothly along cobbled lanes, and there was as much milk and cream and butter as one could wish for. Money exchanged hands freely, and the shops were full of handcrafted lanterns, quilts, and artworks. It was the rare wretch who had to beg for coppers or a woolen blanket.

  At the moment, Max could have used a blanket. He walked briskly across the academic quad on a night that promised snow. The lamps had already been lit, illuminating trees whose bare branches formed a lattice against the deepening blue-gray sky. From out on the ocean, Max heard a bell—a ship was entering Rowan Harbor.

  He walked east toward the sea, then curved to skirt the woods that led to the great gates. He glimpsed lights bobbing among the trees and heard his father’s deep voice singing a ridiculous march.