The Fiend and the Forge

by Henry H. Neff

  The two old vyes merely stared at him, their jaws slack with horror.

  “You mean that you’re … Max McDaniels?” Valya asked incredulously.

  Max nodded.

  “B-but that’s impossible!” sputtered Nix. “Max McDaniels is a monster! He’s not a boy!”

  “The Hound drinks the blood of his victims,” muttered Valya, looking pale.

  “He’s a demon,” added Nix. “A demon in human form …”

  “Where did you hear that nonsense?” Max asked.

  “What do you mean, where did we hear it?” asked Valya, perplexed. “Every vye’s heard of him! He’s become a bogeyman to keep young vyes in line.”

  “Go to sleep or Max McDaniels will get you!” said Nix, intoning it as though it was a proverb.

  “You’re joking,” said Max, equally amused and appalled. “But I’m nothing like that.”

  “Exactly!” exclaimed Nix. “The real Max McDaniels is ten feet tall—”

  “And when he roars, the mountains shake,” chimed Valya decisively.

  “You’re just a rascal with a cruel sense of humor,” Nix sighed.

  But as Max stood looking at them, their watery eyes repeatedly strayed to the red tattoo upon his wrist—the upraised hand and loop of cord that symbolized Rowan’s elite.

  “It really would be just our luck,” Valya sniffled dejectedly, hugging her shawl.

  “I told you something was wrong,” muttered her husband. “Goblins don’t just bring people magic spinning wheels!”

  “And now I’m going to die,” Valya moaned, peering at the machine’s polished magnificence. “Die before I even get a chance to use it.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Max.

  “Well, you’re going to kill us,” Nix concluded matter-of-factly.

  “And festoon the walls with our insides,” added Valya. “That’s your trademark!”

  “You’re not serious,” said Max, searching their faces.

  Holding hands, they nodded in sober earnest.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he laughed. “I was going to apologize—to ask your forgiveness for the suffering that Rowan’s caused you. If what you say is true, there have been terrible misunderstandings and injustices. It isn’t right.”

  “So … you’re not going to kill us?” whispered Valya, grimacing.

  “No,” said Max, waving off the idea. “I was going to make you tea. Transform into whatever shape you prefer. You’re my guests.”

  “Is he serious, Valya?”

  “I believe he is.”

  “Just think of it, dear,” exclaimed Nix, adjusting his nightshirt so it covered his pale shins. “Max McDaniels is making us tea.”

  “With two lumps,” Valya requested. “If he doesn’t mind …”

  * * *

  Max and the vyes talked long into the night. To his surprise, he found their company to be a tremendous comfort. The pair listened well and offered measured, thoughtful responses to his many questions about vyes, their personal histories, and the Kingdom of Blys.

  This last subject was the focus of his attention, but Max was disappointed to learn that Nix and Valya’s knowledge was hemmed by the Alps and the Apennines. Of the lands beyond the mountains, they knew relatively little and could only say that Blys was divided into ten duchies that were ruled by demons of great stature or lineage. Prusias might have been king, but it seemed his kingdom comprised a somewhat fractious confederacy, where alliances shifted like the sand.

  Nix and Valya offered names of counties and baronies and their respective rulers, but it was nothing more than random snippets they’d overheard from the goblins or others on the emerging trade roads. Nothing systemic emerged, nothing so useful as a map of the kingdom or a list of the grand duchies and their rulers. Max had done some good since he’d arrived in Blys, but he was no closer to vengeance, and the point rankled whenever he weighed his father’s razor.

  “You have mentioned this Vyndra several times,” said Valya, looking at him thoughtfully. “And there is hatred in your voice. Has this demon wronged you?”

  “He killed my dad,” said Max, his voice as taut as piano wire.

  “Ah,” said Nix. “And thus you mean to seek out the demon and have your vengeance, eh?”

  Max nodded and the vyes became very grave.

  “Max,” said Nix delicately. “That is a fool’s errand. You’re sticking your neck in the noose.”

  “Maybe,” replied Max quietly. “But it’s my neck to risk.”

  “Would Mina agree?” asked Valya. “Would Isabella? They depend on you now.”

  “I won’t leave until things are situated,” said Max, “but that day is coming.”

  “The world is changed,” said Nix, pouring Valya more tea. “In this world, Max, we are all orphans. We have all lost someone. You have lost your father. But these children … haven’t they lost everything?”

  Max looked away under the vye’s contemplative gaze.

  “Rowan murdered our families,” continued Nix softly. “They took nearly everything from us. Should we surrender more of ourselves to the tragedy? Should anger and rage dominate the rest of our lives? Is that the wise course?”

  “I admire that you can let go of such things,” said Max, thrusting his hands in his pockets and peering out an eastern window. “But I can’t do that, Nix. It’s just not in me.”

  “Then consider the practical matters,” said Valya, sitting forward to wag a plump finger. “The demons are not of this earth. They are immortal, and—forgive my directness—no boy is going to simply walk up and strike down a spirit such as this. If this Vyndra lusts for Prusias’s crown, then he must be very great. One of the dukes, perhaps. He is fire and death and pestilence. He will slay you as surely as the sun will rise.”

  Max gazed at the shadowed landscape and the sliver of light that hinted at the dawn. “I’m not asking for companions,” he said, turning to them. “Just information.”

  Valya’s wolfish face was quiet and composed, hardly the frightful mask of feral cunning he’d always associated with her kind. She plucked at her necklace and studied its small charm of hammered gold.

  “He has put his faith in us, Nix,” she sighed. “We must do likewise.”

  “That we must, Valya.”

  With this, the vyes climbed wearily up the stairs to claim an hour or two of sleep before the household stirred.

  They stayed at the farmhouse for another two days. When the children were not pestering them for games or treats or wild tales, the vyes sat at the table and lent their experience to the many calculations that had been challenging Max and Isabella.

  They calculated the number of mouths to feed, egg production, planting cycles, harvest yields, and food storage. Throughout, Max noticed that the vyes always included themselves in the projected headcount, claiming the need to “be conservative” in their estimates. He never commented on this, but secretly Max hoped that the vyes would move in permanently and look after Isabella and the children.

  When it was time for the vyes to leave, Max loaded their wagon while they said their goodbyes to the children and cooed to Gianna. Climbing up into the driver’s seat, Valya promised Max they would do their best to gather information and return in a month or two. Clucking his tongue, Nix shook the reins and the horses began a snorting trot down the old road.

  ~19~

  SKEEDLE AND THE TROLL

  In late June, Max composed a letter to Julie Teller. She would be finishing her final exams, and he imagined her sitting at a desk in Maggie, scribbling feverishly under an instructor’s watchful eye. He smiled at the image.

  Max had no real intention of sending the letter. For one thing, there was no one to carry it to Rowan. For another, he was not certain if Julie would even want to read it, given his sudden exodus. Regardless, it felt good to get down his thoughts and share his experiences with a friend, even if it was only on paper.

  Max was describing the farmhouse, when he finally no
ticed Mina.

  She had perched silently on the stool beside him, her chin tucked to her knees while her dark brown eyes followed the letters and words that flowed from Max’s quill.

  “You sneaky thing,” said Max, blowing the ink dry. “How long have you been there?”

  She shrugged and climbed from the stool to settle on his lap. Peering closely at the journal, she thumbed back to its first page.

  “What’s that?” she asked, pointing at a drawing.

  “That’s Nick,” said Max. “He was my very own lymrill.”

  “He looks mean,” she mused, tapping the curving claws and bristling tail.

  “No,” said Max. “But like you, he’s a fierce little beast. If Nick were here, he’d hunt every rat in the valley and we’d have no more problems in the storehouse.”

  “And what’s that?” asked Mina, flipping to another page.

  “That’s Old Tom. It’s a great tall building with a clock in its tower. Every hour it makes a funny sound to tell us what time it is.”

  Mina grinned and pointed to a drawing of a black lioness with a broken horn.

  “That’s YaYa,” said Max. “She’s bigger than Nix’s wagon, but very wise and gentle.”

  “What about him?”

  “That’s Bob,” said Max. “He’s as tall as the climbing tree.”

  “Is he a monster?” she asked.

  “Well,” said Max, considering. “He’s an ogre. But a very nice one.”

  “And what about them?” asked Mina, turning to a page depicting Mum and Bellagrog.

  “Oh,” said Max, studying the pair. “Well, they’re hags.…”

  “Are they nice?”

  “Not so much.”

  Max quickly turned the page lest the leering faces give the girl nightmares, but Mina stubbornly flipped it back.

  “I’m not scared of them,” she said. “I think they’re funny.”

  And as Mina uttered these words, the drawings began to move. Max gaped as Mum’s image turned cartwheels while Bellagrog cavorted about and stuck out her tongue. It was like watching a cartoon.

  “Mina,” Max breathed. “Are you doing that?”

  She gave a hesitant grin and nodded.

  “And did you make the lights shoot out the chimney?” Max asked.

  “Wasn’t it pretty?” she whispered, looking up at him.

  Max nodded and was going to ask another question, when Claudia finished the dishes and came rushing over to see what they were doing. Instantly, the hags reverted to their original poses.

  “What is that?” asked Claudia, climbing onto the armrest and reaching for the journal.

  “Nothing much,” said Max. “Just some words and pictures I made.”

  He glanced at Mina, but the girl had resumed her quiet, unassuming demeanor.

  “Ooh!” exclaimed Claudia, wriggling closer to see a sketch of a shedu.

  Soon other children had gathered round, and Max was forced to hold up the journal so all could see the pictures he’d drawn of the selkies and the Highland hares shelving books in Bacon Library. Max answered many questions about the various creatures, but the children were most interested in Rowan itself and the very concept of a school. Was there really a place where young people learned how to write and draw like Max had done?

  “There is,” said Max, “but it is far away across the sea.”

  Even if the school was far away, Max could still teach them! Claudia made this pronouncement with the same fearless zeal that characterized her forays into fishing and farming and everything else. The announcement brought a cheer that utterly drowned Max’s protests. Isabella merely smiled and continued to feed Gianna from a bowl of cherries.

  The room was in such a tumult that Max barely heard the soft knocking. At first, he thought it might be squirrels on the roof, but then he heard it again.

  “Shhh!” he hissed, bolting up to seize his sword from above the fireplace.

  The room became dead quiet as Max drew the blade from its scabbard and strode toward the door. The knocking had ceased. Motioning Isabella and the children toward the stairs, Max tightened his grip on the sword and leaned close to the door.

  “Who is it?” he asked. “And what do you want?”

  “Beg pardon, master, but it’s your Skeedle!”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes,” shivered the goblin. “Oh, please open up—there might be wolves about!”

  Lifting the crossbeam, Max opened the door to see the little goblin standing on the porch, holding his enormous hat between his twiddling fingers. Peering past Max, the goblin smiled nervously at the children and Isabella, who huddled by the stairs.

  “Er, good evening,” he began, rocking on his heels. “I’m sorry to come knocking, but I didn’t know where else to go.…”

  “What is it?” asked Max sternly. “Be quick.”

  “Well,” said Skeedle, “Hrunta said I’m to make all the deliveries from now on.…”

  “So?” asked Max.

  “Alone,” Skeedle whimpered, his lower lip aquiver.

  “Well,” said Max. “You know the way well enough. What’s the problem?”

  “The t-troll!” Skeedle cried. “He’s come down from his mountain and he’s eaten half our flock. He’ll eat me too if he sees me all by myself. He lurks by the road now, still as a stone!”

  “Why didn’t he eat you tonight?” asked Max.

  “I left before sundown,” he squeaked. “Lashed the mules to a lather, poor things.”

  “So, what do you want me to do?” Max asked.

  “Well,” murmured Skeedle, fiddling with his hat. “You said you were the wildest thing in the valley, and I was hoping you could talk reason to it.”

  “Talk reason to a troll!” Max almost laughed, but caught himself when he realized that the goblin was in earnest. “Why can’t your clan help you, Skeedle?” he asked gently. “If the Broadbrims could scare off the Greenteeth, I’m sure they can manage a troll.”

  “Hrunta says it’s my rite of passage,” explained the goblin hopelessly. “Now I’m supposed to challenge it. But he never had to challenge anything so big and hungry as a troll!”

  “What did Hrunta challenge?” asked Max.

  “A badger.”

  “Well, that doesn’t seem fair.”

  “It isn’t.”

  Max studied the dejected, sniffling goblin. He was a tiny, potbellied thing, absurd with his oversized hat and iron-soled shoes. Skeedle was still young, uncommonly curious, and not yet hardened into the cruel habits of his elders.

  “Can you get me back here by sunset tomorrow?” inquired Max.

  Once Skeedle nodded, Max knelt down to shake his clammy hand.

  “Then I’m your man.”

  The goblin burst into grateful tears.

  True to his word, Skeedle returned Max by sunset the next day. As the wagon came to a halt, Max heard the farmhouse door fly open and bang shut as a jumble of excited voices came racing down to the road. Skeedle greeted the children happily and hopped down from the driver’s seat to tie up the mules.

  “Did you find the troll?” said a breathless voice belonging to Claudia.

  “Oh yes,” replied Skeedle.

  “And did you talk reason to him?” asked Porcellino.

  “We sure did,” the goblin crowed. “We talked all the reason that troll could handle!”

  “Where’s Max?” asked Paolo, sounding dubious. “Why didn’t he come back with you?”

  “Oh, he’s just resting up in the back,” replied Skeedle.

  The children’s faces appeared within Max’s view, framed against the deepening sky. They stared at him in anxious silence until Claudia poked his arm.

  “Are you dead?” she asked.

  “Nope.”

  “What happened to your sword?” wondered Paolo, holding up its crumpled remains.

  “The troll smashed it.”

  “Did he smash you, too?”

  “Does it look like he did?”


  Their heads nodded in unison.

  Max groaned and gingerly felt his face. One eye was swollen shut and he was almost certain his nose was broken. Every muscle ached, and his knee made a funny clicking noise whenever he shifted his legs.

  “Hey,” said Porcellino. “This is a different wagon!”

  “The troll ate the other one!” explained Skeedle, with something like real delight. “This one’s only borrowed. Help me get Max in the house and I’ll tell you all about it!”

  Minutes later, Max hobbled through the front door. Isabella shrieked at the sight of him, practically launching the evening meal into orbit. Recovering herself, she helped ease Max into his favorite chair.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Max nodded and gratefully accepted a damp cloth to hold over his eye.

  “What happened?” she breathed.

  “I was just about to tell the tale,” said Skeedle. “Make yourself comfortable!”

  Taken aback, Isabella merely stood aside as the audacious goblin hopped onto the bench and then the tabletop so he could address the assembled group. Removing his hat, he cleared his throat and lowered his voice as though telling a ghost story.

  “The trouble didn’t start until we were high up in the mountains. We were getting close to a tricky bend where you have to slow your wagon or you’ll drive right over the edge. Well, that’s where that crafty old troll was waiting. Now … who here can tell me something about trolls?”

  Despite his injuries, Max smiled as the children bombarded the goblin with whatever tidbits they’d heard about trolls—how they had great big horns and glassy green eyes and beards that were made of vines and moss.

  “That’s right,” said Skeedle. “And they like to sit on their mountaintops, chewing on dark thoughts or reciting old poems.” Pacing about the table, the goblin lowered his voice and offered a grumbling impersonation:

  They call me Troll,

  Gnawer of the Moon,

  Giant of the Gale-blasts,

  Curse of the rain-hall …

  The children howled with laughter, and Max had to admit that the little goblin was an engaging storyteller. Yet despite Skeedle’s dramatic gifts, Max found his eyelids growing heavy. As he dozed, he caught only bits and pieces of Skeedle’s account.