The Fiend and the Forge

by Henry H. Neff

  “How was the spooky lantern walk?” asked Max as the group emerged into the clearing.

  “Terrrrribly spooky,” replied Mr. McDaniels, raising the lantern just beneath his face. “Shoulda joined us. The woodcutters were roasting chestnuts off the main road, and we told some ghost stories.”

  Max smiled, waving to the bundled tykes who held their parents’ hands and clutched their lanterns.

  “Was it spooky, Tim?” he asked a shy little boy.

  “A little,” the boy replied quietly. “But not too spooky.”

  “Good,” said Max. “Well, I could smell dinner already cooking in the Manse. Lamb stew, I think.”

  “Go on ahead,” said his father, waving the group on. “Check the bulletin board for the next outing.” Mr. McDaniels turned and cocked an eye at Max. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong, or do I need to guess?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” said Max.

  “Max,” laughed his father. “You’ve never been one for hiding your emotions.”

  The two walked along the cliffs, slipping between Gràvenmuir and the white statue of Elias Bram. “It’s just that I was sure I’d hear from Connor by now. Or Mum. But apparently none of the people who left for Blys have written. And no one seems all that bothered by it.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t trouble your mind about Connor,” said his father. “If anyone can take care of himself out there …”

  “Do you find it harder to remember things, Dad?” asked Max. “Places like the Workshop or even important people?”

  “Important people like your mother?” inquired Mr. McDaniels with a knowing smile.

  “Yeah,” said Max, looking out toward the sea. “I guess.”

  “Max,” he said. “Rest assured, I will never forget your mother.”

  “You know,” said Max cautiously, “we’ve never really talked about this, but you could start dating or something if you wanted to. I mean, I wouldn’t be angry or anything.”

  “Are you giving me your permission?” his father asked, bemused.

  “Yeah.” Max shrugged. “I guess so.”

  Scott McDaniels laughed and looked affectionately at Max. “I didn’t know I needed permission,” he chuckled. “But it’s nice to know I’ve got it. Besides, how do you know I haven’t already been going out on dates? I might be a hot commodity!”

  Max gave his dad a dubious glance.

  “I’ll tell ya what,” said Mr. McDaniels. “When I stop dreaming about your mom, I’ll start dating. Till then, she’s still my sweetheart. Just last night I had the most amazing dream about her.…”

  “Dad!” Max exclaimed. “I do not need to hear about it.”

  “No, no,” laughed his father. “Nothing like that. This was purely innocent. I was walking in my night thingies—pajamas—outside someplace. There were hills and a sky full of stars and a bright, magical moon. But something was behind me. I could hear it breathing, but I was too darned scared to turn around! So I just kept strolling along the road, trying to keep calm so as not to set off whatever was walking after me. Up ahead, I saw a house—a big house on a hill. I made straight for it. By the time I reached the door, Max, I swear that I could feel something’s breath hot on my neck.”

  A chill inched down Max’s spine. Mr. McDaniels’s dream was eerily similar to his recurring nightmare of the monstrous wolfhound. It was the wolfhound that had followed his father; he was sure of it.

  “What happened next?” he whispered.

  “Well, I knocked and prayed to high heaven that someone would answer. Knocked again and still that awful panting just behind me. Knocked one more time, and who do you think opened the door?”

  “Mom?”

  “No fooling you,” replied his father. “There she stood, pretty as the day I met her. Didn’t say a word; just smiled and took me by the hand. And when her fingers touched mine, Max, I swear to you that I could feel it. I jumped like I’d been struck by lightning. Woke right up, of course, and just sat there in the dark wishing like hell I could fall back asleep and see her again. Isn’t that something?”

  “It is,” said Max.

  “Well,” said his father, “when I stop having dreams like that, I’ll start dating again.”

  “Fair enough,” said Max, touched by his father’s devotion.

  Max’s father looked past him then. “What’s going on over there?” he asked.

  Max turned and saw the tall, gangly mummers leading a small procession of demons across the lawn toward the harbor steps. By all indications, they were seeing someone off—undoubtedly a demon of high standing.

  While the McDanielses watched, more figures came into view. There was Miss Awolowo and Ms. Kraken, both wearing shawls against the cold and conversing quietly with the Gràvenmuir ambassador, who stopped and waited for the final pair.

  Max could not believe his eyes.

  Ms. Richter, Rowan’s Director, walked in step with the very demon that had shot the boy back in the fall. Every attitude and expression of Ms. Richter’s was one of appeasement. Her hands were clasped, her face attentive as though seeking to agree, to comply. The rakshasa inclined its great tigerlike head, evidently pleased by the Director’s latest utterance. Reaching the cliffs, they joined the rest of the company and proceeded down the steps.

  “Who’s that?” asked Mr. McDaniels, rubbing his arms against the chill.

  “Someone who shouldn’t be here,” muttered Max. “Come on.”

  Max trotted up ahead of his father and gazed down at the piers, where a luxurious-looking yacht was moored at a dock piled high with baggage. Gray, lanky vyes were already loading the baggage aboard as Lord Vyndra and his escort reached the bottom and made their way across the icy beach.

  Max did not bother to wait for his father. He dashed down the stone steps two at a time, and then ran toward the torch-lit pier.

  While the vyes continued loading the ship, Lord Vyndra puffed upon a serpentine pipe. He faced the beach, looking both resplendent and bored while he listened to some final message or petition from the ambassador. Ms. Richter and the other Rowan representatives stood off to the side near the other demons and the mummers. As Max ran up the dock, Vyndra caught sight of him and blew a smoke ring into the brisk night.

  “Best leash your Hound, Madam Director,” he growled.

  Ms. Richter turned just as the mummers stepped between Max and the group and crossed their tall halberds like a hideous mockery of the Vatican guards. The minor demons hurried behind them.

  “Max, what are you doing here?” asked Ms. Richter calmly.

  “Me?” asked Max, coming to a halt. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Lord Vyndra was visiting his embassy before his departure,” replied Ms. Richter in a stiff, warning tone. “As he has every right to do.”

  “That demon has been here hunting humans,” Max seethed. “I saw it with my own eyes! He murdered a boy right in front of me.”

  “Why didn’t you report this?” asked Ms. Richter.

  “Cooper made the report,” said Max. “Ask him! He can verify it.”

  Ms. Richter pursed her lips and bowed her head by way of apology to Lord Vyndra, who merely stood by, puffing thoughtfully.

  “Max, Agent Cooper reported nothing of the sort and is not here to verify your claim, as he sailed for Dùn this morning. Now, I must ask you kindly to leave.”

  Max gaped at Ms. Richter. “How can you side with him?” he exclaimed incredulously. “Look in his bags, Ms. Richter. I’ll bet there are trophies in there, heads or skins or whatever else this monster took!”

  “Max, please!” Ms. Richter snapped.

  “Don’t trouble yourself, Madam Director,” interjected Lord Vyndra smoothly. The fierce, feline features were composed into an impassive sneer. “I am grateful for the extended stay within your lands, but this boy is delusional. Prusias may brook insults, but I do not. I will confess to taking a stag or two, but no skulls or skins of man. Search my baggage if you like,” he said, gesturing for the vye
s to unload the many trunks.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Ms. Richter.

  “Are you insane?” Max shouted, utterly incredulous. “Search them!”

  “No,” replied Ms. Richter firmly. “That would be insulting to our guest. Now remove yourself or you will be placed under arrest and stand trial for insubordination. Is that understood?”

  Max recoiled as though he’d been slapped.

  “Nobody’s arresting my son,” sputtered Mr. McDaniels, coming up the dock.

  “This does not concern you, Mr. McDaniels,” said Ms. Richter. “Please take Max and go.”

  Lord Vyndra laughed. “Are you the Hound’s father?” he asked with evident interest. “Can such a thing be?” Stepping between the two mummers, Vyndra leaned over the crossed halberds to gaze more closely at Scott McDaniels. The demon’s presence was immensely powerful; Mr. McDaniels trembled like a baby bird held in thrall by a serpent. At length, the demon exhaled a cloud of sweet smoke and shook his head. “I think your wife has fooled you, my friend. You’re not his father, just a well-fed cuckold.”

  “I’ll kill you!” Max rushed toward Vyndra. Planting his foot, he leaped clear above the crossed halberds.

  But Max did not fall upon Lord Vyndra as he had planned. Instead, his motion ceased altogether, as though time had stopped. His body was suspended in midair, his limbs cemented in place by a compressing force that nearly crushed the air from his lungs. He strained against it.

  As he did so, a light began to shine from his brow, a radiance that blazed ever brighter as he struggled.

  “Annika!” gasped Ms. Richter. “Ndidi, help!”

  It was then that Max realized that it was not Vyndra but Ms. Richter who had acted against him. The energies required of the Director were so great that she had sunk to her knees, her arms shaking uncontrollably as they extended toward Max.

  The whole harbor erupted in light as Max broke the spell.

  He fell heavily to the dock. Scrambling to his feet, he recovered his balance and leaped again at Vyndra, who had not moved.

  Again he was frozen in midair, this time by the combined efforts of the three powerful Mystics. He screamed again. Every window in the customhouse shattered. A wave of energy erupted from his body, warping the dock and nearly tipping all upon it into the icy sea. Mr. McDaniels was thrown backward. Still, Ms. Richter and the others maintained their unwavering focus.

  “Go!” screamed Ms. Kraken. “We can’t hold him any longer!”

  The vyes hurled the last of the baggage onto the bobbing yacht. With a cold bow, Lord Vyndra stepped aboard his ship, followed by several attendants. Swiftly cutting the cables, the vyes thrust the yacht away from the dock with long poles so it could ease out into the cold swell. As though manned by a spectral crew, the sails were raised and the ship swung around to face the open sea.

  All eyes were upon Max and the blinding radiance that surrounded him. His attention remained fixed upon the yacht as it sailed toward the harbor mouth and the dark ocean. Upon its deck stood Lord Vyndra, leaning upon the brass rail and smoking his pipe. He waved pleasantly to Max.

  As Max stared, he noticed that the demon did not merely wave but was holding something aloft. The object gleamed round and white under the pale moon.

  It was a human skull.

  Max tried to yell, to signal the others to look, but now even his tongue and vocal cords had been paralyzed. His whole body was numb from the strain of spent muscles. Bolts of energy snaked from Ms. Richter, Ms. Awolowo, and Ms. Kraken’s fingertips, reinforcing the sphere so that it grew stronger even as Max weakened.

  “Ambassador, take your people and go,” said Ms. Richter calmly.

  Once the demons had returned over the beach and up the cliff steps, Mr. McDaniels spoke.

  “You can let go of him now. I think it’s safe.”

  But Ms. Richter and the others did not release Max. Not until Lord Vyndra’s ship had gone and the light surrounding Max had faded did the women release their collective spell. It happened slowly, the sphere’s energies unknotting and unraveling like a ball of thread until it dispelled entirely. Sinking slowly to the dock, Max lay in a panting heap while the surf churned and eddied beneath the icy dock.

  Clearing her throat, Ms. Richter called out to the dumbfounded customs master. “Mr. Hagan, please send a missive to the healing ward and request some help. Annika may require medical attention. Ndidi, help me sit her up.”

  Max’s strength slowly returned. Rolling onto his side, he took a deep breath and glowered at Ms. Richter, who now sat next to Ms. Kraken amid a spray of broken glass. The Director looked spent.

  “Mr. McDaniels,” she said. “If you’re not hurt, please escort your son back to his room.”

  Max felt a pair of strong hands slide under his arms and lift him from the dock. Despite the weakness in his legs, Max managed to lean against his father and make the slow, shaky walk down the deck. There, he could see a crowd had gathered along the bluff. He scanned it for a friendly face and found none.

  * * *

  For the next two days, Max remained isolated in the observatory. There had been knocks and letters slid cautiously beneath the door. But he did not budge from his bed, not even for meals or to answer his father. Instead, he lay amid the warm sheets and watched the constellations turn slowly about the glassy dome. His emotions fluctuated wildly, swinging from anger to depression in sudden fits. He was furious with Ms. Richter—with all of Rowan’s leadership—for kowtowing to the demons. Yet he felt guilty that he’d lost control.

  He had not seen David, but he had been sleeping much of the time. Yawning, Max walked wearily about the observatory’s deck and glanced down at the lower level. Although David was not present, there were signs he had been there. Papers and manuscripts were scattered about, and Max detected the faint smell of smoke from the fireplace. He pulled on his robe and went downstairs.

  The table was a disaster, every inch piled high with books and papers. The nearest parchment had been brushed with a silvery substance that shone as though still wet. Curious, Max lit one of the thick candles and held the paper up to warm yellow light.

  At first, the contents were indecipherable—a nonsensical array of words and letters, numbers and symbols. But as Max watched, patterns began to form. Words emerged, whole sentences as if he’d put on magic glasses. It soon became clear that the writings were Bram’s and the parchment was from Bram’s private papers.

  January 11, 1633

  Before his death, dear Kepler predicted this would happen. The day leaves me joyous and quaking. For three centuries, the high tower has been locked. Tomorrow evening, it is to be opened and I shall take up residence. The Elders have finally overcome their absurd misgivings as to my youth. Tomorrow, Elias Bram becomes only the fifth Gwydion Chair of Mystics.

  Such a thing. Such an achievement for a man of twenty. I confess that I have petitioned for the title and that some would find it unbecoming, but the great take what is their due.

  How shall Brigit react? With a witticism, no doubt, some feigned ignorance of the title. She delights in belittling my achievements with a charming indifference. But she cannot ignore this. Whatever Marley may say, I am winning the race for her affections. Within the year I shall speak with her father. No matter the bride price, I shall pay it.

  Poor Marley. There is no truer friend, yet my fortunes must strike him a terrible blow. He will be happy for me, of course, but he cannot fail to realize what this means. He must lose his dearest companion and the woman he loves. Fate can be cruel. But the Gwydion Chair must put aside such concerns, for there are greater matters that demand his attention.…

  Max turned the page over, but that was all. The journal’s tone contrasted sharply with the sober, earnest accounts that Max had read from later years. This Bram seemed arrogant and ambitious, coldly insensitive to the heartbreak of his friend.

  Max heard a sound from upstairs and put the paper down. The door opened, sending a shaft of hall
way light into the dark observatory. Footsteps. A crinkling of paper.

  “I come in peace!” called a warm English voice. “May I come down?”

  “Sure,” said Max, sitting up. Shoving aside a pile of books and papers, he attempted to make things semipresentable before Nigel had reached the bottom stair.

  “Hmm,” said Max’s onetime recruiter. “It’s a bit dark down here. Mind if I warm things up?”

  “You said that when we met,” replied Max. “ ‘Cocoa and fire to soothe the soul’ or something like that.”

  “Yes, well, you were a scaredy-pants and needed soothing,” quipped Nigel, setting down a brown bag and a stack of papers. “Sorry to barge in, but your father gave me a key.”

  “Is Ms. Kraken okay?” asked Max anxiously.

  “She’s just fine,” replied Nigel, frowning at a newspaper and slipping it to the back. “A bit overtaxed from all the excitement, but she’s recovering.”

  Max nodded, feeling some of the tension drain from his shoulders. Nigel slid the brown bag toward him, and Max detected the buttery scent of popovers. They were still warm. He wolfed down two, grunting his appreciation.

  “Etiquette’s really smoothed out all the rough edges, hasn’t it?” said Nigel, bemused.

  “Hnnh enh Mnisses Bessow?” asked Max, taking another bite.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Max swallowed, swatting a flake of crust from his chin. “How is Mrs. Bristow?”

  “She’s wonderful, thank you. Pregnancy has her in full bloom. I’ve never seen her more beautiful. How are you?”

  “Fine,” said Max.

  “Hmmm,” said Nigel. The man handed Max a stack of unopened letters. Sorting through them, Max counted four from Julie, two from Cynthia, one from Sarah, and one other whose handwriting he did not recognize.

  “Do you mind if I take a look at this?” asked Max. “I don’t know who it’s from.”

  Nigel shook his head, and Max opened the envelope.

  Dear Max,

  This is a difficult letter to write. You’ve been a good friend to Julie and little Bill, and we appreciate that. But it is impossible to ignore the rumors and recent accounts in the newspapers. We love our children very much and want them to be safe. Thus, we respectfully ask that you cease all contact with them immediately. Of course, Julie is fighting us on this—she cares very much for you. If you really care for her, you will let her go and trust to the judgment of her family.