The Fiend and the Forge

by Henry H. Neff

  The imp chuckled. “A luxury, I must admit. Insufferable boors, but those Workshop people do serve a purpose. Lord Prusias delights in their toys. After you.”

  Once Max stepped inside, the doors closed noiselessly behind them and the pod began to ascend, accelerating until it reached a nauseating speed.

  “You understand the challenge before you?” Mr. Bonn inquired.

  Max nodded.

  “Excellent. My lord instructs me to tell you that if you meet his expectations, he will grant one hundred humans entrance to Blys and deliver food and supplies to those remaining outside.”

  With marvelous fluidity, the pod slowed to a stop and hovered before a large, dark room whose rich trappings were lit by shallow bowls of phosphoroil. Beyond was a broad corridor.

  A pair of ogres stood flanking a portcullis that had been lowered to prevent entry into the arena. Through the bars, Max gaped at the arena’s size. It was several football fields across, surrounded by row upon row of seats and private boxes that rose up and up toward the twisting replica of Notre Dame, whose spires stretched toward the moon. There must have been a hundred thousand beings packed into the Coliseum. The faces were a blur. But it was the noise, like the purr of an engine, that dominated Max’s senses. There was electricity in the air, a tangible buzz of anticipation.

  Across the arena, a portcullis was raised and something ducked beneath the archway to step into the arena. Max leaned heavily against the bars and stared at his opponent.

  It was a vye, but unlike any that Max had ever seen.

  For one, it was far larger—as tall as an ogre and covered with sleek white fur. Far more peculiar, however, was the fact that the vye had two heads.

  “That is Straavh,” whispered Mr. Bonn, “the offspring of both ettin and vye. He hails from the far north, and he is brutal, young master. When my lord’s emissaries sought him in his homeland, they say that bones littered the whole of the forest. Human bones.”

  Max turned to the imp.

  “Know that the humans will pay a terrible price if you fail,” muttered the imp, blanching.

  Max stared grimly through the bars at Straavh, who now trotted toward the center of the arena, smashing the side of his battle-ax against his shield and entreating the crowd. Coming to a halt, the monster stood panting, his two heads glaring at Max’s portcullis, which now ground into motion.

  “Good luck,” whispered the imp.

  Max could not reply. His heart was racing; his face was sweltering from his breath, which came in hot, shallow gasps within his helmet. From somewhere, Max heard an announcer call the name “Bragha Rùn.” There was a hush, as though the crowd was expecting the announcer to divulge the gladiator’s exploits and history and perhaps inform the wagering. But no tales were told. The announcer merely repeated the name, and disappointed spectators hissed catcalls and threw coins at the oddsmakers.

  Despite the arena’s gargantuan scale, Max tried to keep his focus upon his opponent. Steeling himself, he walked toward the creature, who gazed down at him with haughty interest. They stood mere paces apart, Max coming only to the monster’s waist. Upon closer inspection, Max saw that Straavh’s two heads were not identical; the right was broader and almost boarlike in its visage, while the left was decidedly more wolfish. The pale fur about his muzzle was flecked with blood. Black gums peeled back to reveal a row of yellowed teeth.

  A drum sounded. Three concussive beats and Straavh turned to face a royal box from which the golden seal of Prusias was stitched upon a purple banner. The king himself sat in the box’s center, surrounded by imps and courtesans. Prusias nodded, and Max, echoing Straavh’s example, dropped to one knee and bowed.

  The drum sounded again, and the hushed crowd resumed its roar.

  The match had begun.

  Immediately, Straavh attacked with a vicious, sweeping stroke that Max sidestepped at the last instant. His reactions were slightly slower than he was accustomed to, and it was with a grim, resigned humor that he began his count.

  One.

  Straavh pressed his attack. Again and again the ax whistled down—merciless strokes intended to hammer or cleave as the monster sought closer quarters in which he might simply seize his quarry and dash him against the arena’s red sands.

  As the fight progressed, however, Max found his old skills returning. His opponent’s every detail became clear: the dilated pupils, the foaming jaws, and Straavh’s clumsy habit of over-lunging.…

  Straavh’s fortieth blow was a particularly violent stroke that sent Max sprawling behind one of the many marble pillars that were spread about the arena like triptychs. For a moment, Max retreated behind the pillar as Straavh advanced. The crowd jeered with pure disgust. Food and garbage rained down into the arena. A quick glance showed Prusias sitting impassively in his seat, stroking his beard.

  This would not do, Max concluded. They would think him a mere coward. He would have to take more chances; he would have to lead the dance without yet going on the attack. He must be a matador and grin at Death even as it came to claim him.

  Max stepped into open space. Straavh paused, cocking each head as his opponent saluted once with his flimsy sword and promptly tossed it aside. The monster’s ice-blue eyes narrowed, and his conclusion was plainly evident in his evil sneer: His opponent was a coward and was begging for a quick death.

  Straavh intended to oblige him. Raising his ax high, the monster took three running steps and aimed a decapitating blow.

  The stroke missed badly. Its momentum caused Straavh to stumble and almost lose his balance. The creature wheeled around only to find that Max had been standing right behind him.

  Even without a weapon in hand, Max dominated the fight from that moment forward. He advanced upon Straavh, circling and darting, taking unconscionable risks before slipping just out of reach. The crowd was laughing now, jeering at Straavh and applauding the bold, foolhardy newcomer. Max ignored the many cries; he focused instead on counting.

  Eighty-one … eighty-two …

  Desperation grew on Straavh’s faces. His swings became increasingly wild and clumsy. Max made new patterns, pushing the monster backward without ever raising his hand to strike in kind. Straavh’s hundredth stroke was a defensive swipe, a pitiful attempt to keep Max at bay. Halting abruptly, Max permitted the ax’s lethal edge to come within a millimeter of his chin. The blow whistled past to the crowd’s delight. Nobles stood to watch as Straavh staggered back against the arena wall.

  Turning his back upon his opponent, Max walked to the arena’s center with all the arrogance he could summon. His pace was slow, almost casual. Not once did he look back to see how Straavh would respond to the insult.

  The crowd’s response was immediate.

  The cheering reached a frenzied pitch. If Straavh charged, Max would never be able to hear the approaching footsteps. But he refused to turn. Everything hinged upon bravado, the bold and fearless gesture. Marching toward his discarded sword, Max focused on the crowd. They would tell him all he needed to know.

  One imp in particular caught Max’s eye. Its master sat in one of the royal boxes, a bloated demon with a fanged, toadlike face. The imp, however, was a timid-looking creature and appeared to be a most reluctant spectator. Max watched it intently as he approached his sword.

  Suddenly, the imp’s eyes widened. With a spasm of sudden fear, it clutched the railing and turned away.

  It was time.

  In one seamless movement, Max seized up the sword, turned, and stabbed.

  The blade met Straavh’s shield, cleaving it in two and shattering even as its point pierced the monster’s heart. Staggering forward, Straavh slammed against the cross-guard. The monster’s two heads gazed down at Max with an appalled expression before it collapsed upon the sand.

  As the crowd roared, Max stared at the body. His sword arm stung, but he felt utterly and electrically alive. But that excitement was tempered by guilt and even sadness. He had toyed with his opponent, utilizing his superiorit
y to humiliate and destroy a foe for the purpose of delighting a crowd.

  Max was dully aware of the announcer’s voice rising above the clamor of the crowd. He heard the name once again: Bragha Rùn!

  The crowd began to chant the name. The howling cries chilled his blood but stirred the Old Magic within him. Coins and flowers and other trinkets were tossed in the ring. Turning on his heel, Max walked purposefully out of the arena, ignoring the spectators’ cries and pleas for his attention.

  Mr. Bonn did not speak until they were safely in the carriage. When he did, his face was suffused with pleasure.

  “Prusias was right,” he cooed. “You’re a natural.”

  Max’s second match was scheduled for the following week. By then, Prusias’s heralds and bards had spread word of “Bragha Rùn” to every corner of the kingdom. When Max met Prusias’s challenge and dispatched of his foe in record time, vendors were able to charge exorbitant sums for the privilege of witnessing Bragha Rùn in the arena. Gamblers rushed to wager on this promising newcomer. Petitions rolled in to meet Bragha Rùn, to have him attend various affairs of state and private functions. These were universally denied, further fueling the air of mystery that enveloped this silent, artful killer. As Max’s victories accumulated, his fame grew by leaps and bounds. Within two months, Bragha Rùn had become one of the most popular and intriguing topics in the kingdom.

  But Max was not the only topic. There were reports of border skirmishes with Aamon’s kingdom, and merchants complained incessantly of attacks on their trade. Whole fleets had been lost on the ocean with no survivors to tell the tales. And then there were those strange red flowers, popping up in old churchyards and along important trade routes.

  One morning, Max was wondering about these very things when Mr. Bonn interrupted his thoughts with a question.

  “Is something troubling you?”

  “Excuse me?” asked Max, picking at a platter of food. The imp had been savoring a cheroot, whose sweet smoke he conscientiously directed out the window. Putting it out, the imp came to sit by Max and followed his gaze out over the city.

  “You’re so quiet today,” Mr. Bonn observed. “I’d come to enjoy our morning talks.”

  “I’m thinking about tonight’s match,” Max lied.

  “Ah,” replied the imp, selecting an olive. “Well, you know I’m forbidden to reveal the opponent. You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “That doesn’t matter.” Max shrugged. “There are only three possibilities: Lord Rùk, the grylmhoch, or the other one—Myrmidon, is it?”

  “Correct,” replied the imp.

  “Have you seen all the matches?” asked Max.

  “I have.”

  “Whom would you rather face?”

  “None of them,” he quipped.

  “I want Rùk,” Max mused aloud. “If I’m ever to have a chance at Vyndra, it makes sense to fight one of his kind. Are rakshasa really so terrible?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Bonn soberly. “They have eaten many souls.”

  “What do you mean, they eat souls?” asked Max, chilled by the very concept.

  “Of course they eat souls,” said Mr. Bonn. “All greater daemona eat souls—it’s their primary sustenance. And don’t look so outraged—it’s no different than humans consuming meat or drink.”

  “But Prusias eats food,” Max recalled. “He eats enough for ten.”

  “That’s simply for pleasure,” chuckled the imp. “An indulgence of the senses. Bread and wine do nothing to sustain a greater demon, much less allow it to evolve. A rakshasa could never have achieved its lofty state unless it had consumed thousands of souls. Most have been through koukerros dozens of times.”

  “What’s koukerros?” asked Max, sounding out the word.

  Mr. Bonn considered the question.

  “When a demon has amassed enough life force—souls, typically—to evolve into a higher order of being, that sublime moment of change is called koukerros.”

  “So will you be a rakshasa someday?” asked Max.

  “Not likely,” said Mr. Bonn sadly. “Koukerros is reserved for greater demons. An imp cannot achieve it by himself and must be granted the initial honor by a high-ranking demon. This honor is very rare, as the senior demon must surrender a portion of their essence in the process. Few masters are willing to make such a sacrifice, and thus most of my kind remain locked in their state forever.”

  “Being an imp sounds kind of hopeless,” said Max.

  “Not entirely,” said Mr. Bonn. “Some masters do grant koukerros to a favored servant. And then there is Patient Yuga. Every imp knows that happy tale.”

  “Would you tell me the story?” asked Max.

  The imp nudged the plate of food toward Max. As he did so, something caught his eye and he pointed out the window.

  “What manner of bird is that?”

  Glancing outside, Max nearly choked on a grape.

  It was David Menlo’s bird. More precisely, it was one of two brilliant blue and yellow specimens that David had created beneath Brugh na Boinne when they had recovered the Book of Thoth. Amid the treasures of the Sidh, David had opened the book and spoken words of Making, fashioning the truenames that brought the delicate creatures into being. Max stared at it.

  “Is it Old or New?” continued the imp.

  “I couldn’t say,” said Max, glancing to see if the imp had registered his initial shock.

  “Well, it is a pretty thing,” Mr. Bonn concluded dreamily, tossing it a pinch of bread. Cocking its plumed head, the bird flew off with the blurry speed of a hummingbird.

  “You were going to tell me of Yuga,” said Max quickly.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Bonn, reaching for another cheroot. “Forgive me. As the tale goes, there had never been a more capable, steadfast imp than Yuga. She served her master for eons without reprieve. They say that at the beginning of each new century, her master promised to grant her koukerros when the century ended. But her master had no intention of honoring his pledge. When the time came, he invariably found fault where there was none and punished her for her impudence. Yuga’s master was very powerful, but too blind to perceive her growing hatred and much too proud to fear her. And so Yuga, in secret, consorted with his enemies and struck a bargain—she would deliver her master into their hands if they would grant her koukerros. They agreed and the conspiracy began.”

  Max saw a gleam of pride flash in the imp’s eyes and perceived the faintest trace of a smile.

  “But Yuga’s lasting fame stems from what happened next. Clever as she was, she convinced her master’s enemies to grant her koukerros before she would lead them to him. In their eagerness, they acquiesced and the little imp became a demon true. What they did not know, however, was that Yuga had already sown seeds of treachery among them. She had convinced each conspirator that the others planned betrayal and intended to gorge alone upon her master. No sooner had they slain her master than they turned upon one another. The heavens shook, and when the battle was finished, four great daemona lay dying. As they were now too weak to resist her, Patient Yuga emerged from hiding to feed. So ravenous was her appetite, so potent her feast, that she soon became very great herself. And thus the story of Yuga teaches every imp that a bit of patience can be rewarded and that even a lowly servant may someday eclipse his master.”

  This last line ended on a happy, hopeful note. Visibly content, Mr. Bonn exhaled a masterful smoke ring and sent it scudding toward the gardens.

  Crack!

  The windows slammed shut.

  Startled, Max and Mr. Bonn turned to see Prusias standing in the doorway, accompanied by all six of the black-robed malakhim. The king was smiling, but Max knew this was a grin to fear.

  “Are we holding court, Mr. Bonn?” inquired the king, leaning forward on his cane.

  The imp slid dejectedly from his seat and bowed low. “A thousand apologies, my lord. Your Bonn forgot his place.”

  Prusias stepped farther into the room, which darkened as though t
he sun had slipped behind a cloud. The king’s smile remained fixed.

  “Were we telling tales of Yuga?”

  “Yes, my king. The young master was curious about koukerros.”

  “And you thought that a story about a treacherous imp was the best means of educating him?”

  “It was an unwise selection, my king.”

  Prusias’s smile widened until it stretched taut across his broad, dark face. Mr. Bonn was trembling so uncontrollably that his teacup was rattling in its saucer.

  “Perhaps, Mr. Bonn, you will allow me to worry about Max’s education.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bonn,” said Prusias. “You may leave us.”

  “I am at my lord’s service.”

  It was a pitiable sight. Still trembling, the imp bowed to Max and then to his master before walking stiffly out the door. Max saw Prusias glance at the malakhim. Some unspoken command passed between them, and they slipped out of the room.

  ~22~

  A GREAT RED DRAGON

  Mr. Bonn did not accompany Max to the Coliseum that evening. Max’s only company was the malakhim. Max wondered what the arena would have in store for him. Gazing out the window, he reflected on how dangerous the matches had become. He could no longer take his victories for granted.

  Blys was already ablaze, every district from the ghettos to the minor palaces awash with light and crowds, dense clusters of revelers eager to partake in the atmosphere surrounding the tournament’s concluding matches. Max glimpsed a banner several stories tall on which his likeness—or rather, Bragha Rùn’s mask—had been printed. The sight of Astaroth’s seal upon his forehead nearly made him sick.

  Just a little longer.

  Easing round a bend, the carriage began the final climb to the back of the palace and the competitors’ entrance. Once inside the gate, the malakhim escorted Max to where the dvergar were waiting in the smithy. Max approached them, expecting Sudri or his subordinates to hand him the weapon he was to use, as had become the custom.