The Fiend and the Forge

by Henry H. Neff

  Max jumped at the sound of breaking glass.

  Seconds later, he heard a scream.

  The rending cry echoed throughout the chamber, pouring in from all directions as though this space were the nerve center of many tunnels. The ground trembled slightly. Crouching low, Max held his sword and stared out into the blackness.

  As he waited, shapes and glimmers began to emerge. It was not a mere matter of his eyes adjusting to his surroundings. The cavern was actually growing lighter, as though the unnatural darkness had been dispelled. Max quickly conjured another glowsphere.

  After hours in the dark, the glowsphere’s sudden light almost blinded him. Shielding his eyes, Max squinted at his surroundings and glimpsed for the first time the cavern’s smooth walls and the many fish that swam about in the deep pool.

  Again, Max heard a scream … a curdling cry considerably closer than the first.

  Wheeling about, he counted nine gaping holes spaced about the circular chamber—nine black corridors that fed into this central hub.

  The monster was coming; that much was certain. But from which tunnel?

  With nine openings to watch, Max turned in a slow circle. From the corner of his eye, he spied movement in the pool. Several fish suddenly darted away as something huge spilled forth from a submerged tunnel.

  Even as Max turned, the monster shot out of the water and rolled atop Max, forcing him back into the pool’s shallows.

  Recovering from the initial shock, Max realized he was in a terrible position. He was pinned beneath the monster’s horrific weight, its thick tentacles coiling about Max’s legs. Max’s head was submerged, water already filling his lungs as he struggled wildly for breath. Above him, the monster was giggling madly, its remaining hand fastened around Max’s throat.

  Through the water’s murky haze, Max glimpsed an alien face bearing down upon him. Its one great eye glistened and its teeth shone like porcelain shards as it snapped forward. Instinctively, Max recoiled and gasped for air only to feel more water gush into his lungs. Spots swam before his eyes. There was a pounding in his ears. Surf … drums … the monster’s screams.

  He tried to buck the monster off, but it was to no avail. Its tentacles were wrapped doubly and triply around his lower body. Frantic, Max reached out and seized the monster’s injured arm. Feeling blindly for the dreadful stump, he clamped his hand around it and squeezed with all his might. With a shriek of pain, the monster released Max’s throat and sought to pry his hand away from its awful wound.

  This was the only window Max needed.

  Bolting upright, Max gasped a mouthful of air and swung the gladius at the great head looming above him. There was a sickly sound, a stiffening of the creature’s body, and a heavy splash some ten feet away. The monster’s headless body toppled, its tentacles slackening so that Max could scramble up and away from the twitching corpse.

  He lay on the cold stone, coughing the repellent water out of his lungs and stomach. Once he could breathe, he crouched and listened to hear if anything else lived in the tunnels and was coming to investigate. But there was just the slow drip from the roof and the looping glimmers of fish in the dark water.

  When he had recovered more fully, Max conjured new glow-spheres and sent them to various points about the cavern. It was a grim place, and he did not linger long on the many skulls that grinned from the water’s depths.

  Glancing at the monster’s grotesque body, Max saw that the tentacles had ceased their slow writhing. Looking away, Max went to the table hoping to discover something that would help him find his way out of the accursed place, but he found no obvious key or clue among the strange assortment.

  On the ground he found a most unexpected item: a sketched portrait in a frame and covered now with cracked glass. In the drawing, Max saw a woman sitting with a young girl on a bench in the country. The girl was the image of her mother, both fair-haired with dark, cheerful eyes. Setting this down on the table, Max opened a silver humidor to find a handful of ruined cigars and a gold wedding ring wrapped in a silk handkerchief.

  Searching the cabinet, Max found a score of architectural plans—beautifully drawn exteriors and blueprints for banks, office buildings, and luxurious homes. None of the drawings approximated anything like the well or its tunnels, but Max still found himself lingering over the drawings. Several stood out conspicuously from the rest—crude, childlike scribbles of towers and squat ovals bordered by tiny, cramped writing that made no appreciable sense.

  Why would such a monster have these things? Surely it was not plunder acquired from its poor farmhouse victims. And why had everything been arranged so carefully? Max recalled the monster’s sudden scream when the portrait’s glass frame had shattered.

  A horrific thought took shape in Max’s mind.

  Had this monster once been human?

  It was too terrible an idea to contemplate in such a setting. Emptying the cabinet, Max quickly rolled up the various drawings and papers before sending a glowsphere bobbing toward the tunnel from which he’d entered. With the aid of its light, he made quick work of retracing his steps and exploring other tunnels he had bypassed. Within the hour, Max discovered the lever.

  When it moved the block, his heart nearly leaped for joy.

  ~17~

  PRINCESS MINA AND THE GOBLINS

  By the time Max emerged from the well’s depths, the storm had long since disappeared. There was a nip in the air, but that air was clean and most welcome after his ordeal far below the earth. It was early morning, the specter of the full moon still visible in a dawn sky of pale peach. The farmhouse was still shuttered, but smoke was issuing from its squat chimney. Glancing at the waterlogged pen, Max saw that the sheep and goats had resumed their placid demeanor.

  In the daylight, Max examined his wounds more closely. His neck was horribly stiff, and both his forearms were ringed with ugly sores, but already these seemed to be healing. There was no trace of the wound from Pietro’s knife. Although Max was exhausted, what he really desired was a bath so that he could remove every trace of the nauseating tunnels and the cavern’s rank pool. That would come; first he needed to check on Mina.

  Something had been propped behind the broken door so that it could be secured into place. Max had to knock and call several times before he finally heard an angry hiss and the sound of furniture being dragged away. Wobbling on its remaining hinge, the door nearly fell in before Max caught it and looked upon the tired, anxious face of the young mother.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “The—the monster?” she gasped, looking past him.

  “The monster is dead.”

  The woman put a trembling hand to her mouth and leaned heavily against the table. Motioning Max to enter, she turned and went to the bottom of the stairs, where she spoke too rapidly for him to follow the Italian. Walking inside, Max recoiled again at the greasy, soot-filled space.

  “What is your name?” he asked, opening some nearby shutters to let in some fresh air.

  “Isabella,” replied the woman, looking worried. “Pietro is drunk … sleeping. He can’t talk to you.”

  “I don’t need to see him,” said Max, putting his sword and the salvaged papers on the table. “I need to see the children, Isabella. Right now.”

  Nodding, Isabella went upstairs and soon returned with them in tow. To Max’s relief, he saw Mina among them, still wrapped in his woolen coat. None of the young ones met his gaze, but they obediently gathered around the fireplace while he pulled up a stool. The old woman also appeared, venturing halfway down the stairs to stare at him with black, calculating eyes.

  While the children stood like zombies, Max explained that the monster was dead and that it could no longer hurt them. They barely reacted to the news, merely staring at Max. Max glanced at the oldest, a boy who looked to be in his early teens.

  “What’s your name?”

  The boy slumped as though forced to endure a lecture or scolding.

  “You won’t get
an answer from him,” said Isabella mildly. “He hasn’t spoken since he arrived. His name is Mario.”

  “Mario,” said Max, shaking the limp, unresisting hand. “I’m Max. Can any of you share your names with me? I’m here to help you.”

  A girl, perhaps eleven years old, looked at him with a pair of brilliant green eyes. “Is it really dead?” she whispered. “Are you sure?”

  Max nodded.

  “But how could you have killed such a monster?” asked Isabella.

  Max shrugged and did his best to explain that he was trained for such things and had fought many battles. It was his job to protect people, and thus he needed to know why these children were here and living this way.

  “Mind your own business!” hissed the old woman from the stairs.

  “I will not,” replied Max calmly, turning to face her. “Are you responsible for sacrificing children to that monster?”

  “There was nothing we could do!” she replied with an indignant scowl. “The vyes arrived one day and drove something into the well. Goblin carts came later with prisoners—children from the camps. We were told to leave one in the pen every full moon or the monster would come for us instead.”

  “Why didn’t you simply leave?” asked Max. “Take the children and go elsewhere?”

  The woman said nothing, merely shaking her head as though no answer would satisfy such an unreasonable inquisitor.

  “The goblins control this valley,” explained Isabella. “Every few months, they bring more children and supplies.”

  The old woman hissed at the younger woman, who coolly returned her stare.

  Max stood and walked toward the crone, his anger quickening. “So, I’m to understand that you left children outside for a monster because you were too frightened to leave and you wanted the goblins to bring you things?”

  “The goblins said we would be cursed if we left the monster untended,” said Isabella. “They said it was a demon and that we were bound to its care. They marked us with the well.…” Holding up her palm, she showed Max the same tattoos borne by Pietro—the seal of Astaroth followed by those of Prusias and the well. “The goblin said that the monster could always find us by this mark, that we could never escape.”

  “None of that justifies what you’ve done,” muttered Max, disgusted with the whole business. He stared hard at Isabella, who faltered and looked away. “Are Pietro and this woman your parents?”

  “No,” she said. “My husband was killed during the war. I fled the city and found this place. Ana and Pietro took me in, helped me birth my daughter. You mustn’t be too angry with them. Pietro wept whenever a stone was picked.”

  Max remembered back to the piece of quartz lying on the table.

  “No,” he snapped. “That wasn’t a stone—that was a child. They weren’t picking stones, Isabella. They were picking children to be left outside.”

  “We are not soldiers like you!” spat Ana from the stairs. “And these are not our children! They were dropped on the doorstep. We had no choice.”

  “Well,” said Max, “you have lots of choices now—you’re free to go any direction you choose.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Ana.

  “You will pack and leave,” said Max. “You cannot stay here anymore. This is the children’s home.”

  At this announcement, Ana’s chin jutted forward, revealing a row of yellowed teeth. “Nonsense!” she hissed. “This is our house—we found it!”

  “No,” said Max. “This was your house. It belongs to the children now—they’ve more than paid for it. You can either live down in the well or you can travel elsewhere. You have until midday to decide.”

  “But there are goblins,” objected Ana. “Hobgoblins! We are defenseless!”

  “Not defenseless,” said Max, walking over to the ancient spear that lay near the dozing spaniel. Picking it up, he thumbed its point and leaned it against the doorjamb. “This is more of a defense than you gave Mina. And if it’s just hobgoblins out in the wild, you’ll stand a chance.”

  “It’s murder,” spat Ana.

  “No,” Max replied. “It’s exile.”

  “Are Gianna and I to go, too?” asked Isabella.

  Glancing at her baby, Max shook his head. “I’m not sending a nursing mother away.”

  With that, Max climbed the stairs and searched the rooms until he found Pietro sprawled in a snoring heap on a filthy mat. There was a bucket of water nearby, and Max dumped it onto the sleeping man, who promptly sputtered and peered drunkenly at him. Questions ensued, confused, mumbling inquiries that Max simply ignored as he helped Pietro to his feet and led him downstairs to where Ana was hunched near the doorway like a gargoyle.

  While the children watched, Max explained the situation to the older man. Angry protests followed, with Pietro and Ana damning Max to eternity—how dare he drive them out into the wild! Had he no heart? At this, Max merely pointed to the pile of discarded shoes and began raiding the pantries and larders.

  When he had packed some food, Max tossed the satchels at Ana’s feet and placed the spear in Pietro’s hand.

  “I’d go west,” he advised. “I came from that direction and met no trouble. There are many springs, and the walking is not too hard. You are never to come here again or speak of this place. If you do, I’ll put a curse on you myself.”

  As Max said these last words, he held forth his hands so that bluish witch-fire sprang from each. The flames danced across his fingers before rising into the air and splitting into several crackling bolts that ringed and orbited the bewildered pair.

  “Daemona!” shrieked Pietro, clutching at his wife.

  “Call me what you like,” said Max, leaning close and catching the sparks, which raced back to his hand. “But remember the curse, Pietro. Not a word about this place, these children, or me.”

  It was a mere bluff, of course. Max didn’t know how to invoke anything as complex as a true curse. He doubted the goblins did either, but their threat had been sufficient to frighten Pietro and Ana so Max guessed a bit of pyrotechnics would be more than sufficient to ensure the couple’s silence. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to broadcast his whereabouts in Blys.

  “Goodbye and good luck,” said Max, ushering them firmly out the door.

  After a heated debate, the couple did not go west. Instead, they chose to travel northeast. They made a beggarly spectacle as they departed, Ana waddling beneath her mound of belongings and Pietro leaning on the old spear and prodding the dog. Had their crimes been less atrocious, Max might have been moved to let them stay. But they were murderers, he reminded himself, just as guilty and pitiable as the monster in the well.

  “They will be all right,” said Isabella, bouncing her baby, who was cooing at her. “I think they’re off to Nix and Valya.”

  “Who are they?” Max asked.

  “Another couple who lives across the valley. They visit sometimes, bring the children presents.”

  “Aren’t they afraid of the goblins?” asked Max, curious.

  “They must be,” replied Isabella, “but they’ve lived in the valley a long time and seem to know its ways.” If the departure of Pietro and Ana had upset Isabella, she masked it well.

  Once he had bathed his wounded limbs, Max ate and began to work. The children were still wary of him and merely watched as he set to lugging Pietro’s fermenting tub out of the house and dumping the rancid contents down the far slope. While the older boys and girls set about their chores, Max rummaged through the farmhouse and gathered what he needed.

  He managed to scavenge some hundred nails, an old hammer, a saw, and a broom that was languishing within a crawl space. There were several unused buckets, some lye, and even a pot of red paint gathering dust upon a shelf. Of most immediate value was the shovel that Max discovered leaning against the house’s side. It was a rickety old thing but serviceable.

  Throughout the day, Max made dozens of trips in and out of the house. With his shovel and a wobbly wheelbarrow,
he carted away mounds of rotting hay, filthy laundry, and unconscionable mounds of waste. This he piled downwind from the house, whose windows stood open so that sunlight and cool air could rush into corners that had been moldering too long.

  As the sun set, Max ignited the heaps of trash and watched the flames and smoke rise high into the spring twilight. The stars were beginning to twinkle, and the rich purples of the deepening sky reminded him of the long hikes he used to take with Nick when Nick had been a very young lymrill. He missed his charge dearly—not only for his snorting company, but also for his undeniable skills. The lymrill would have made short work of the rodents that no doubt infested the farmhouse.

  When the piles finally burned to ash, Max walked wearily to the house, where firelight flickered from the windows. Far off, he heard a wolf’s mournful howl. It rose with the moon and trailed off to silence somewhere out in the dark valley.

  Inside Isabella was making a stew using a freshly butchered lamb and some root vegetables that had escaped the rot of the wet cellar. Supper was held in relative silence. Max had decided to let the children adjust to the new circumstances in their own way. As the plates were cleared, he shuttered the windows and set the door back into place. At Max’s insistence, the filthy blankets had been gathered from upstairs and spread onto the floor before the fireplace. Everyone would sleep downstairs; the upstairs remained uninhabitable. Kicking off his boots, Max drowsed upon a chair and watched the golden firelight dance upon the walls while the children curled up on their blankets and drifted off to sleep.

  As far as Max was concerned, it would be days—weeks, perhaps—until he could get the house in order and make his way north. That was his plan, as far as he had one. Somewhere to the north lay Vyndra’s lands, and Max was determined to find him.