The Fiend and the Forge

by Henry H. Neff

  When they emerged on the other side of the wall, Max saw that the ramp had diverged. One causeway continued to the outer ring of the city—the Market District, Mr. Bonn pointed out. The second, however, continued to rise above the city, winding above the conical rooftops and chimneys toward the second series of walls. Max sat in silence, peering below at crowds of humans, hags, goblins, and vyes streaming about the squares and marketplaces in what might have been a Renaissance fair.

  “There are humans here,” said Max, astonished. “Lots of them.”

  “Certainly,” replied Prusias. “Servants and craftsmen and artists, of course. I do love artists. My great city is a melting pot.”

  Max did not reply, but simply stared out the window at the gardens and gables below. He could feel Prusias’s eyes boring into him, but the demon seemed content to ride in silence as the carriage swept along the royal road that arced above the city and passed beneath a rune-covered arch as heralds trumpeted the king’s return.

  When the carriage stopped, Prusias cleared his throat. “No one is to know you’re here,” said the demon pointedly. “Mr. Bonn will see to your accommodations and disguise. Your compliance and enthusiasm for the games will ensure the safety of the farmhouse and the human habitants of the city. Is that understood?”

  The demon leaned forward so that his dark face hovered inches away from Max’s. “We can help each other,” Prusias whispered. “Become my champion and I’ll help you get your revenge. Become champion and I will give you the means to slay Vyndra.”

  “And if I don’t become champion?” asked Max.

  “A pine box of your very own.”

  Soon the carriage came to a halt before a Mediterranean villa of pale stone. An iron gate loomed in front, and many cypress trees shielded the house. Mr. Bonn and Max stepped quickly to the street, and the carriage proceeded. Producing a key, Mr. Bonn unlocked the gates and led Max inside a garden of scented flowers and shade palms.

  This same key unlocked a metal-plated door that bore many warding runes and glyphs. The carvings issued a faint greenish glow that lent a spectral quality to the stone, glass, and wood. Six attendants seemed to glide across the tiled foyer to stand at attention.

  “The malakhim shall see to your needs and escort you from the grounds when you are summoned,” said Mr. Bonn, handing the key to the nearest robed figure, who took it in a black-gloved hand. “You are not to leave this house without them. The consequences to the farmhouse and the refugees would be most severe.”

  When Mr. Bonn left, closing the door behind him, Max turned and faced the black-robed figures.

  “Malakhim,” he said, sounding out the word. “Is that what I should call you, or do you have names?”

  None of the figures answered, but stood in a silent line of obsidian death masks.

  “Which room is mine?” Max asked.

  A gesture from one led him to believe that he was free to choose. When his additional questions failed to yield any answers, Max left the foyer and explored the mansion. The malakhim followed, their footsteps silent upon the tiles and rugs as Max crossed from a sitting room into a ballroom and a small library. The mansion and its gardens were as rich and luxurious as anything Max might wish. The cushions were soft, the artworks beautiful, the fountains soothing as the sun traced its arc across the sky.

  It was late afternoon when one of the malakhim brought figs and olives on silver dishes. As it set down the tray, Max noticed something unusual. At first glance, he had assumed the malakhim were identical. Their masks were all a shining black with beautiful, almost genderless features. Looking closer, however, he noticed that this one’s features were marred with slight cracks and deformities about its nose and mouth. It looked as if some great work had been vandalized.

  He then discerned each of the malakhim’s masks was marked by a unique deformity. One had a great gash at the mouth; another’s eye socket was broken and cracked; six shrines of ruined beauty. A memory came to Max, and he found their name dancing on his tongue.

  “Malakhim,” he breathed, gazing at them. “But aren’t the malakhim angels?”

  The figures nodded.

  “What are angels doing serving Prusias?” asked Max. “Why are angels in a demon’s city?”

  But the figures simply turned away.

  The sun was setting as Max finished his supper, and shadows settled across the mansion. Standing on the terrace, he leaned out over the rhododendrons and orchids and lemon trees that perfumed the evening air. From out in the city, great gongs sounded. Bats were fluttering around the rooftops, and the air shimmered with spirits of air and fire, smoke and shadow. He was living in Blys, a city of demons, and it disturbed him to admit how beautiful he found it.

  His thoughts were shattered by the sound of a distant horn—a discordant note that wrenched him from his reverie. He had heard such sounds on the mountainside and on the day of his father’s death. Hurrying to his pack, Max took out his spyglass and trained its lens far out toward the western gate. There was activity there—a retreating surge of torchlight and dust as though the humans had stampeded from the walls like spooked cattle.

  It was a full minute before he saw the vyes.

  ~21~

  THE RED DEATH

  Breakfast consisted of a small, sweet fruit that Max had never seen before. Its flesh was pink like a grapefruit but had the firm texture of an apple. He sniffed it. Satisfied, he took a bite and chewed thoughtfully while the malakhim laid out a pair of dark breeches and a shirt.

  “So, what am I to do?” asked Max, pacing about the mansion’s great room. All six of the malakhim were assembled. Their impassive features and ongoing silence were oppressive. Max would have thought them specters but for the fact that they opened doors, their steps made footfalls, and the curtains swayed at their passing.

  His question hung in the air, languishing without a response until a bell sounded. Two of the malakhim slipped out of the room and returned a minute later with Mr. Bonn.

  The imp was dressed in finery of the court—a bright yellow jerkin and curling blue shoes that would have suggested something of the jester if not for the grave expression on his face. He bowed to Max and inquired after his well-being.

  “I’m fine,” said Max. “But I didn’t have to sleep in the camps.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “The vyes,” said Max. “Prusias sent them hunting among the refugees.”

  “Of course he did,” replied the imp. “A ruler must make good on his threats.”

  “I thought he was going to grant the humans favors,” said Max.

  “Ah,” said Mr. Bonn. “You’ll have every opportunity to earn those favors. In fact, that is why I’m here. You’ve been added to the arena lists, and I am here to ensure you give a satisfactory performance.”

  “To ensure my victory?” asked Max suspiciously.

  “Whether you are victorious is unimportant.” The imp sniffed. “We celebrate the grand gesture. It is not sufficient to merely dispatch an opponent. Combatants must entertain, Master McDaniels. They must reveal the artistry in their souls. The médim should have taught you this. We will discuss this further, but our immediate concern is your disguise. Your identity cannot be known. We must therefore mask not only your face but also your shine.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Max. “I’ve heard that before.”

  “Daemona do not just perceive flesh and blood as humans do,” said Mr. Bonn, “but also essences and auras. I don’t know what you are, master, but you shine very brightly, and we must hide it lest you are recognized.”

  The imp motioned for one of the malakhim to bring forth a horned helmet of red steel. Its interior was lined with soft leather, but as Max pulled it on, it cinched uncomfortably tight against his skull, clinging to him like an octopus. The face of the helm was open, but Mr. Bonn soon produced a fearsome-looking faceplate.

  The mask appeared almost Asian in origin, its painted features depicting some foreboding spirit—a tengu
or oni. Like the helmet, it was also red, with the exception of Astaroth’s seal, which was traced in fine white lines upon the forehead. There were no openings, no cuttings that would allow the wearer to see or breathe. Max pushed the mask and its repellent seal away in disgust.

  “The king insists,” grunted the imp. “I urge you not to disobey.”

  Max recollected the punishment Prusias had inflicted on the camps, and the vulnerable farmhouse mere miles away. Frowning, he snatched the mask from Mr. Bonn.

  Max felt it come to life. It stirred in his hands, tugging toward the helmet as though by magnetic attraction. Twisting from his grasp, the mask attached itself to his face and plunged Max into darkness.

  Max panicked as the air inside disappeared. Gasping, he lurched forward and caught himself against one of the malakhim, who eased him down upon a nearby divan.

  “Just relax,” urged the imp. “You will be able to see and breathe momentarily.”

  Max ignored him and wrenched at the mask with both hands.

  “Only Prusias or I can remove it,” explained Mr. Bonn calmly. “We cannot have you revealing your identity in a fit of pique or spite. When you are in the arena, this is how you must appear.”

  Max listened to his heart pounding in his chest. Gradually, he became aware that he was breathing, that air was somehow filtering through the mask.

  Mr. Bonn was directing the malakhim to lay out a suit of light armor comprised of ornate red plates sewn to an underlying garment of black leather. “You will wear this suit and that helmet when you are in the arena and any time you are outside of this house. This armor will cloak your aura but offers little in the way of real protection. It will not stop sword, spear, or tooth.”

  “Lucky me,” said Max.

  The imp stepped back and folded his arms expectantly. Taking up the suit, Max slipped it on. Like the helmet, it adhered to his body like a second skin. Every inch of his person was covered, from his horned head down to his steel-tipped boots. Like nanomail, the suit was exceedingly light, but the helmet’s weight still felt unaccustomed and alien.

  “Excellent!” exclaimed the imp, walking around Max to observe him from every angle. “No face and no aura. Bragha Rùn will be just another combatant courting fame in the arena.”

  “Who’s Bragha Rùn?” asked Max.

  “You are,” replied the imp. “That shall be your name in the arena. You should be honored. Lord Prusias chose it himself and it is a most fortuitous title.”

  “What does it mean?” asked Max.

  “The Red Death.”

  Max walked to a large mirror by the door.

  A demon was reflected in its surface, a nefarious thing with curling horns and a cruel, pitiless face. Upon his forehead, Astaroth’s thin white seal shone like a brand, a mark of property.

  “Your first match is this evening,” said Mr. Bonn, coming over to remove the mask. It slid from the helmet, air rushing in as the seal was broken. The imp tossed the mask on the bed, where it stared emptily at the ceiling.

  “And how am I supposed to entertain?” asked Max.

  “You will demonstrate your daring and skill by refusing to attack your opponent until he has struck at you one hundred times,” replied the imp. “If you earn the right to retaliate, you must end the contest with a single blow. This will mark you as an artist in the arena and spark your reputation.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Max scoffed. “That’s not remotely fair.”

  “Quid pro quo,” recited the imp. “If you entertain the spectators, Prusias will grant the humans favors. If you fail, he will punish them.”

  And with that, the imp departed.

  For the remainder of the day, Max wandered about the house. He eventually settled in the library. Most of the titles were written in the demons’ spidery runes, but some were in Latin and Greek and even English. Max’s eyes settled on one thick tome written by an imp named Calumny. The title consisted of two words: On Humans.

  The reading fascinated him. Calumny was just an imp—no Spirit Perilous or fearsome rakshasa—but he had served many humans throughout the ages and had cataloged his observations. He might have been an anthropologist, as his remarks betrayed a belief that humans were animals defined by their inability to suppress their basest wants or to learn from history.

  Innumerable case studies were cited. Despite the imp’s irrepressible disdain and delight in misfortune, Max also detected a certain fondness for his subject, especially children. Calumny found children to be more transparent and honest than adults. If they wanted something, they simply took it and did away with clever rationalizations.

  Max brooded upon Calumny’s writings until he dozed off.

  * * *

  When Max awoke, the room was dark. Calumny’s book had slid from his lap and lay facedown upon the tiles. By the doorway, a pair of lamps had been lit, and one of the malakhim stood like a tall, grim totem.

  “What time is it?” Max asked, shaking himself awake.

  In answer, the malakhim merely held up the blood red mask.

  Within the hour, Max was bumping along in a carriage that wound its way down the tree-lined streets of his neighbors’ mansions to the broader avenues that swept up toward the palace. Max felt absently at the mask that hid his face, plucked at the red, overlapping plates that encased his body. The malakhim sat on either side of him, their hands clasped complacently on their black robes. Max did not feel present; he felt he was observing his own life from a remote, hazy vantage.

  This state of dreamlike languor continued even as the carriage was pulled up toward the looming palace, whose walls and spires were aglow with torches and spectral lights. The air vibrated with the throb of drums and hypnotic belyaël notes as carriages and palanquins surged toward the great gates for the evening’s entertainment.

  With a shout, the cloaked and hooded driver cracked his whip, urging the flaming horses off the main avenue and through a broad portico whose attendants stood aside to let them pass. The festive lights and noise grew distant as they galloped on a slow curve around to the far side of the monstrous palace.

  Turning, Max saw the lights of the human camps winking far below on the Field of Mars. This was for them, he reminded himself.

  Cooper would have scoffed at such sentimentality and demanded Max’s focus. It had been months since Max had trained, much less fought. Flexing his fingers, he looked dubiously at his hands encased in their red-taloned gauntlets. He could not help but wonder if he was little more than a storied weapon whose edge had dulled. Shutting his eyes, he remembered back to his lessons within the Sidh. He recalled Scathach’s voice from atop the towers whose battlements served as their training: “A true warrior does not see an opponent or even many opponents; he sees patterns. Combat is a dance. It is your dance. It is a dance of blood and death and glory. You make the pattern; you lead the dance.”

  Max blinked and sat up as the carriage came to a halt. An ogre came round the carriage and peered inside. One of the malakhim handed the grimacing creature a letter, and the ogre stepped aside as a pair of iron-plated doors creaked open on their massive hinges. With a snort, the spectral horses pulled the carriage into the palace.

  Max soon glimpsed faint torchlight dancing on walls of rough-hewn stone. A sour, dank smell of mold and livestock flooded his nose. The tunnel led down into the bowels of the palace.

  These gloomy tunnels, his strange costume, and his forbidding task preyed on Max’s mind until the anticipation nearly became unbearable. Finally, he heard a familiar sound—the unmistakable ring of a hammer striking an anvil. The walls brightened, burnished to a red glow by the open fires and oppressive heat of a smithy.

  Max was surprised to see the figure of Mr. Bonn standing patiently outside the carriage. The imp’s diminutive size and festive outfit seemed garishly out of place against the hellish backdrop of gnarled dvergar and vyes hammering steel and plunging their works into quenching tubs that sent up squealing plumes of steam into the air. Consulting
his timepiece, the imp shook his head and opened the door.

  “You’re late,” he said, glaring at the malakhim. “Now we must rush. Young master, come along with me.”

  Max slid out of the carriage and, glancing around at his surroundings, saw that the dvergar had stopped working at their bellows and anvils to stare at him. Mr. Bonn quickly led Max toward the nearest smith, an ancient specimen wearing a worn and tattered apron.

  “Sudri,” said the imp, addressing the wizened thing. “This is the new entrant I spoke of: Bragha Rùn. Is his weapon ready?”

  The dvergar nodded and turned to a barrel that contained a dozen swords of various shapes and sizes. From these, Sudri selected a slim longsword with a red blade and handed it carefully to the imp. Mr. Bonn thumbed its edge.

  “It’s sharp,” he observed. “Are you sure it will meet our needs?”

  “Aye,” muttered the dvergar, mopping his brow. “She’s sharp but brittle. That sword will shatter on the first hard blow.”

  “Did you hear that?” inquired Mr. Bonn, turning his brilliant eyes upon Max. “One blow is all this sword can manage before it is no more. If the time comes, you must strike true.”

  Max took the sword, testing its weight in his hand. It was a beautiful weapon, its hilt gilded and its pommel winking with rubies. It seemed pointless to put such artistry into a thing designed to break, but the dvergar were a strange, obsessive folk. Perhaps they could not bear to craft a thing of low worth.

  Flanked by the malakhim, Max followed Mr. Bonn under a massive archway. Here the walls were smoother, the air less foul. Max imagined they must be within some outer reach of the pyramid. Turning down a corridor, Mr. Bonn led Max to a most unexpected sight.

  It was a Workshop elevator pod.

  The pod rested in a tubular column, a silvery egg floating weightlessly within. Max had ridden in such pods before; they were the primary conveyance of the Frankfurt Workshop. His mind reeled with questions. Hadn’t Astaroth done away with technologies such as this?