The Fiend and the Forge

by Henry H. Neff

  But as they circled one another, Myrmidon’s carriage remained proud, his movements poised and predatory. There was no sign of fatigue, no telltale shuffle or dip of the head.

  There was no victory here. Not yet.

  An opportunity at last arose when Myrmidon appeared to slip upon the loose sand. Pouncing on this rare opening, Max struck his opponent two hard blows across the helmet with the butt of his spear before whipping the blade around to finish him.

  Too late did Max realize his error. In a flash, Myrmidon had shifted the gladius to his other hand. As Max lunged forward, he impaled himself upon its point even as Myrmidon twisted away from the spear so that it merely grazed his neck.

  This was first blood, and the crowd leaped to their feet.

  Staggering backward off the sword, Max reached down and pressed his hand against the wound. The gladius had pierced his armor’s thin metal plates and inflicted real damage. The initial pain had been sharp, but what followed was a dull, aching throb. Glancing down, Max saw that his hand was drenched with blood.

  During this time, Myrmidon had backed away out of reach. He appeared to be examining his own wound—a long, shallow slice across the neck—but Max knew he was really studying his opponent and assessing the harm he had caused.

  It was no doubt an ugly wound, but Max exhaled with relief. Nothing vital had been pierced, and his remarkable constitution would soon stop the bleeding and seal the wound. Myrmidon would have to strike a mortal blow to win this match.

  But then Max felt something odd.

  As expected, his wound had gone numb, but it was still bleeding. Pressing his hand against it, he felt an uncharacteristic pumping of fresh blood against his fingertips. His knees buckled, and Max staggered drunkenly to his right.

  He did not fall, but the crowd reacted as though the match had reached its tipping point. There was a roar, shouts of joy, bloodlust, and dismay. Glancing up, Max saw Myrmidon running at him with his sword raised. He meant to end the match with one dramatic stroke, as Max himself had done so many times.

  Instead of retreating, Max took a sudden step forward. The maneuver surprised Myrmidon, and Max was able to seize hold of his adversary’s sword arm. Dropping his spear, Max struck Myrmidon full in his face, crumpling the left side of his helmet. Momentarily stunning his opponent, Max wrenched him clear off the ground and held his foe at arm’s length.

  But Myrmidon still possessed his weapon. Even while he was being throttled, he managed to twist his right arm free and slash at Max. The blade cut across his shoulder, and while the wound was superficial, Max did not want to risk a more targeted attack at such close quarters. He hurled Myrmidon away with all his strength.

  His opponent smashed into a stone monolith with such force that it cracked. The angle of impact was so awkward that Max was sure he must have broken his neck. By all rights, his opponent should have been sprawled in a lifeless heap.

  But he was not.

  Surely this was Astaroth.

  He almost laughed with disbelief, for the Demon was stirring once again.

  Max had almost forgotten that his spear was not in his hand but lying at his feet. Bending down to seize it, he noticed something disturbing.

  His wound had still not stopped bleeding. If anything, his exertions had made it worse. A sickly coldness was now spreading throughout his torso. Propping himself against the spear, he stared in disbelief at this seemingly invincible opponent.

  Advancing like a juggernaut, Myrmidon closed the distance and slashed at Max’s throat. Max parried the attack, but his movements were now mechanical and sluggish; they had none of his normal strength or fluidity. Unable to press his opponent back, Max gave way even as Myrmidon forced the blade ever closer to Max’s vulnerable neck. With Max’s attention focused on the weapon, Myrmidon suddenly kicked his legs out from under him.

  Max fell, crashing onto the sand and doubling over as pain flared from the wound in his stomach. He expected the gladius to come screaming home, but it did not. Glancing up, Max saw that Myrmidon was staring down at him, his helmet framed by the stars. But he did not strike. With cold disdain, the gladiator stepped over Max, took up a position some ten yards away, and turned his back.

  The gesture was infuriating, but in his condition, there was little Max could do. His blood was pooling beneath him. The wound simply would not clot. Nausea spread throughout his limbs, and Max came to a grim conclusion.

  Myrmidon’s blade was poisoned.

  There was a method to the Demon’s madness. Not only did his scornful gesture delight his audience, it also allowed the poison more time to have its effect.

  Beneath the ghostly moon, Myrmidon’s breath came in misty plumes as he held up his arm and accepted the crowd’s adulation. As Max lay bleeding on the sand, he gazed at the royal box. Prusias had risen to watch the imminent conclusion, but his expression appeared grave and he did not clap or cheer. Mr. Bonn looked positively ashen. But the rest of the crowd was ecstatic; Max had never seen Dr. Rasmussen or his colleagues so animated. He’d despised the Workshop, and it was a bitter pill that his defeat should give them pleasure.

  But there was one among these seats who had not risen with all the rest. The figure was seated near the witches, and for a moment, Max thought she was one of them. But her robe was gray, not black. Leaning forward, she removed the hood that had hidden her face.

  It was Scathach.

  Max perceived the maiden with such clarity that she might have been an arm’s length away. Scathach’s was an unearthly beauty, an ivory face framed by long raven hair. Her gray eyes were gazing at him with such love and anguish that Max nearly bowed his head in shame.

  There was no doubt she knew who he was.

  He would not allow her to see him in a coffin bed of blood and dust. He would not yield to treachery, or poison, or even Astaroth himself.

  When Max stood, the crowd cheered as though to topple Jericho. Turning on his heel, Myrmidon merely stared at Max.

  Max’s entire body shook and trembled as though the poison were exercising its final, fatal influence. To the spectators’ delight, Myrmidon acknowledged his adversary’s spirit and applauded with the flat of his sword. There was an unmistakable solemnity to the gesture—a farewell to a worthy adversary. When the gladiator ceased his ovation, the crowd quieted to a tense, anticipatory silence.

  But even as Myrmidon advanced to deliver the killing stroke, he seemed to realize his error.

  Max had not been trembling from weakness.

  The Old Magic burst forth with such terrible pride and rage that it threatened to engulf him. It eclipsed everything; there was no wound, no poison, no pain. They were gone, simply consumed by the wildfire within him.

  What remained was only a demon in a gladiator’s clothing.

  The match was over in an instant.

  Myrmidon slumped against the monolith. His sword had been shattered, his body impaled with such inconceivable force that it was now pinned to the very pillar. In shock, he gently touched the spear as though trying to grasp what had happened. His fingertips traveled slowly up the spear until they reached the still-trembling hands of the victor.

  Initially, Max thought his enemy meant to pry his hands away from the spear, but he was mistaken. Myrmidon merely wished to touch him, to fold his hands over Max’s and hold them there. The act was so unexpected and so gentle that Max did not know how to respond and simply stood by.

  The moment was strangely beautiful, but it could not last.

  Slowly, Myrmidon’s head dipped forward as though in prayer.

  His hands slipped away from Max’s, and with a final breath, he died.

  The Coliseum almost erupted in a riot. Ecstatic spectators streamed down from their seats and into the arena to celebrate.

  But Max was only dimly aware of the commotion.

  His attention remained fixed upon his fallen foe. While hundreds of malakhim kept the crowds at bay, Max knelt to remove Myrmidon’s helmet.

  He need
ed to confirm what he now suspected.

  Lifting the helmet away, Max looked upon his clone.

  Myrmidon appeared to be a younger, slighter version of himself—Max as he looked at fourteen or fifteen. The Workshop clone’s face was eerily peaceful. Wavy black hair swept across a forehead that still glistened with cooling sweat. There was an ugly bruise on the left cheekbone, but that was the only blemish upon a pale, handsome face whose youth had been tempered by hard experience. Myrmidon might have been young, but he’d met his end with open eyes.

  Those eyes were dark and fierce and brimmed with a secret wisdom that only death conveys. Numb with sorrow, Max closed their lids and silently said goodbye to a twin he’d never met.

  Rising, he looked briefly about for Scathach. When she was not to be found, Max turned and marched straight out of the arena. His anger and disdain were so apparent that the crowds immediately parted to let him through. As he disappeared inside the tunnel, they let out a great, appreciative roar.

  The Red Death was above praise and glory.

  He lived only for the arena.

  Was he not a worthy champion?

  ~24~

  WHISPERS IN THE DARK

  The news of Bragha Rùn’s spectacular victory spread quickly throughout the capital. The kingdom’s champion had not only won in impressive fashion, but it was rumored that Myrmidon had been none other than Max McDaniels, the infamous Hound of Rowan. This gossip was met with healthy skepticism, until several vyes who had collected the gladiator’s body had confirmed it. These same vyes had taken part in the Siege of Rowan and witnessed the historic moment when the boy had surrendered the Book to Astaroth. By dispatching this villain, Bragha Rùn had avenged many of their fallen comrades. The Hound had been slain, and the kingdom now boasted a worthy champion—a great victory, indeed.

  This match had electrified the city, particularly the poorer districts that spread out along the Tiber’s banks. There, great fires engulfed clusters of dwellings. Max watched the plumes of smoke from his bedroom while Mr. Bonn recounted the rumors and gossip from the street.

  “Why are they burning their own homes?” asked Max quietly.

  “Oh, much of it’s mere revelry,” replied Mr. Bonn. “They’ll start building again, I daresay. But some of the fires are offerings to you—or perhaps I should say that they’re offerings to Bragha Rùn. The vyes hope to gain your favor and perhaps even entice an appearance.”

  Max shook his head in grim disbelief. Even from the lofty height of his mansion, he could hear the shouts and calls from far below. The match had ended hours ago, but the chants continued with the same unsettling devotion.

  “Why doesn’t Prusias stop them?” Max wondered, watching a distant minaret topple as it was finally consumed in flames.

  “Oh, he would never stop such a thing,” Mr. Bonn observed. “He’s no doubt in their midst, encouraging their zeal and showering the crowds with gold. The king believes one must keep the masses focused on wealth, war, and games lest they grow discontent. People will endure a tyrant, so long as they believe he’s one of them. Prusias loves a good riot.”

  “It sounds like he has it all figured out,” Max muttered.

  “He is a fearsome enemy, master,” said Mr. Bonn with a cautious, appealing note. “It does not do to oppose him. I know the true identity of Myrmidon has upset you, but I beg you will not do anything unwise. You do not know Prusias like I know him.”

  “But don’t you see?” said Max. “He’ll never let me leave. I’m supposed to be dead—there are a hundred thousand witnesses who saw my clone die in that arena. So what’s his plan?”

  “I won’t pretend to know the king’s mind on all matters,” replied the imp. “But I believe he thinks highly of you and the possibilities you offer.”

  “Too valuable to kill,” Max concluded with a bitter laugh. “So, I’m to be kept here unless he wants to trot out Bragha Rùn for a public appearance.”

  “There are worse fates, my lord,” said the imp.

  “Indeed there are, Mr. Bonn!” exclaimed Prusias, stamping snow from his boots. “Things almost got away from us there at the arena, but what a match! I’ll confess I thought you were done for, but you were only playing possum, weren’t you?”

  The king wagged a finger as though Max were a delightfully wicked boy.

  “I wasn’t playing at anything,” replied Max coldly.

  “Ah, you’re upset,” observed Prusias with a sigh. “I suppose it was inevitable. No picnic to see your likeness in such a regrettable state.”

  “ ‘Regrettable state’?” Max exclaimed. “My ‘likeness’? Myrmidon wasn’t just another opponent—he was me!”

  “Nonsense,” Prusias snapped, settling into an armchair. He glanced at the fireplace, whose logs promptly burst into flame. “You might as well weep over fingernail clippings. Your grief is either feigned or you’re vainer than I’d supposed. Frankly, if anyone should be upset, it’s me. Myrmidon cost me a fortune.…”

  The king frowned at this unhappy thought, fumbling about for a cigar and grunting at Max to occupy the other chair.

  “So I’m to be Bragha Rùn forever,” concluded Max. “Max McDaniels is dead.”

  “Alas, so he is,” chuckled Prusias. “The great Hound of Rowan … may he rest in peace, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “I’m surprised at you,” said Max.

  “Eh?” said Prusias, fixing him with a bright blue eye. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m a dirty little secret,” Max laughed. “Everyone thinks the Hound of Rowan is dead, but he’s really stowed away in a lonely mansion on a hill. How would your rivals react to the truth?”

  Instead of growing angry, the king’s expression turned melancholy. With a grimace, he heaved himself out of his chair and paced about the room, his shadow growing strange once again.

  When Mr. Bonn saw this, his manner became exceedingly meek and unobtrusive, as though he wished to simply shrink out of existence. Max was frightened but determined not to let it show.

  “You know,” reflected Prusias, “that clone did what he was told. He destroyed whatever he was told to destroy without debate. In this world, one is either useful or useless. And that clone was useful.”

  Max remained quiet. It was hard to imagine a younger version of himself stealing about Blys to do the evil bidding of the king.

  “Myrmidon’s skill in that regard got me thinking about you,” said Prusias. “While he was very good and didn’t balk at a little knife work, he didn’t have your special dash and spark. You see, I think there’s something very great in you, Max. And I don’t believe the Workshop can duplicate it—not even if they could separate you into little jars and look at those little jars with their wonderful machines.”

  Prusias grinned maliciously.

  “Well,” he continued, “I have enemies. Lots of them. Among my enemies, there are some who bore me, others who divert me, and still others who can even amuse me. But very few can threaten me. However, I’ve recently learned that one does threaten me. Even more than I had supposed.”

  “King Aamon,” Max guessed aloud.

  “Precisely,” acknowledged Prusias. He turned toward his imp. “You see, Mr. Bonn? I told you he would understand our problem and want to help.”

  “I never said that,” said Max.

  “Oh, but you will,” laughed Prusias. “It’s really best for everyone if you do.”

  Max kept a wary eye on Prusias’s shadow. During conversations such as these, it was so easy and tempting to forget one’s danger. This is not a man, Max reminded himself sternly. You are in a locked room with a great red dragon.

  And he wants something from you.

  “I’d do it myself, of course, but Astaroth has forbidden me from taking a direct hand in matters. A sensible rule, but it does complicate things. Now, let’s look at the details, shall we? An associate of mine has taken the liberty of mapping out Aamon’s castle.” With a smile and a theatrical flick of the wrist, Prusias unfurle
d a parchment. “There are sentries, of course,” he said. “But we’ve scouted their positions, and I believe you should be able to eliminate them.…”

  Max merely stared at the map, uncomprehending. It was like planning an operation with Cooper—but he was taking orders from a demon.

  What on earth was happening to him?

  Prusias was oblivious to Max’s rising concerns, instead pointing out various traps, possible means of entry, and the underground chapel where Aamon was known to retire.

  “The malakhim will travel with you as far as the border,” said Prusias. “At that point, one of them will give you a relic—a weapon that even Aamon has reason to fear—and you will go on alone. You are not to be captured.”

  “Why not give me the relic now?” asked Max coldly.

  “Not while you’re close to my person,” Prusias growled, his shadow flaring behind them like a cobra’s hood. “Do this for me and the rewards will be beyond your wildest imagination.”

  “You know,” said Max carefully, “you already promised me something: a cleared path to Vyndra. You promised me a chance to avenge my father’s death.”

  “And you’ll have it!” proclaimed Prusias. “But Vyndra must wait.”

  “It seems you want a second service before you’ve paid for the first,” said Max. “As you said yourself, a productive partnership is based on quid pro quo rather than charity. I’ve fulfilled my part of the bargain, but you have yet to pay.”

  The king blinked. “Max … I thought we understood one another,” mused Prusias with a wry little smile. “Do you expect me to choke on my words? Does a youth presume to lecture me?”

  Glancing at Mr. Bonn, Max could see he was petrified. The imp’s eyes effectively screamed at Max to desist, to retreat, to rock the dragon back to sleep. But Prusias’s own eyes had widened into feral blue orbs; his small teeth sank into his lower lip and sent blood streaming down into his beard. He stalked around the room, huge and dangerous. Max did not dare move.

  “You want to negotiate with me?” rasped the demon. “Let’s have at it, then. What will you give me to spare your farmhouse friends for one more night? Make me an offer, you miserable little thing, or I’ll show you such a scene of carnage that you’ll never sleep again!”