The Fiend and the Forge

by Henry H. Neff

  The Agent swallowed and stared at each of them.

  “If that happens, just stay calm,” he advised. “Don’t yell or point or run—don’t alarm it. I made that mistake. Just take a deep breath and let it get a sense of us. Only speak if spoken to.”

  “And if it doesn’t speak?” asked David.

  “We get the hell out of there,” replied the Agent. “But go slow; running won’t make any difference. Don’t look back at it. Just go. We won’t make it do anything it doesn’t want to do.”

  “What about Nick?” asked Max. “He might do the wrong thing.”

  Cooper shook his head. “Believe me,” he said. “Nick’s instincts will be a lot better than ours.”

  To hear the Agent speak with such trepidation had a powerful effect upon Max. He had seen Cooper tackle unimaginably dangerous situations and foes without the least regard for his life or safety. But now the man’s fear was palpable, and their task suddenly seemed much more than a mere waypoint on the road to Walpurgisnacht. Max had been dreading David’s fate at Astaroth’s hands; now he wondered whether the Demon would even have the chance to spring his trap.

  When they finally landed the Ormenheid on the isle’s gray beach, Toby was eager to set out with them. But the Agent sat with him and explained that they needed to leave the ship behind and asked the smee to do them the honor of looking after both it and Maya. The land was too rocky for the ulu’s comfort. She preferred to remain behind and might grow lonely without company. The smee agreed but glanced above at the circling gulls.

  “Happy to help,” he said. “Delighted. But would it be possible for me to change shape?”

  “Of course,” said David. “Just keep it reasonable—no pink unicorns.”

  Leaving Maya and the smee behind, they now hiked up a bluff, Cooper helping David with the steeper sections while Max kept an eye on Nick, who was bounding along and sniffing at the vegetation. There were a few stands of trees, but the immediate landscape was one of rock and lichen, tall grasses and gorse that carpeted the hills and the ridgeline.

  It was beautiful, lyrical scenery—browns, grays, and greens with the occasional splash of white sea campion or bright yellow trefoil. The air was cool and wet from gusts of mist that swept in off the sea and flowed over the hills like vaporous rivers. They could see a fair distance along the jagged coastline, but there were no visible buildings or dwellings.

  “Do you think demons live here?” asked Max.

  “I doubt it,” replied Cooper. “If the Fomorian is still in these parts, I think most demons would just avoid it. There’s lots of other territory one could claim without so much trouble.”

  True to Cooper’s word, they saw no demons. There were birds, of course, and rabbits and even the occasional deer that peered at them from some inland glade, but no giant. By sundown, they had walked for miles over the hills and heather before dusk swept over the land and they decided to camp.

  “Are you sure this is the best way to find it?” asked Max, dragging over an armful of dry tinder. He tossed it on the campfire, sending up fragrant smoke and rosin. Smacking his hands, he sat down on his bedroll and twisted about to see where Nick had gone. The lymrill’s eyes shone from the branches of a distant tree, where he lay scouring the ground below like a jaguar. Frustrated by the fruitless search, Max picked clumps of grass and lobbed them into the fire.

  “Like I said,” replied Cooper, “he’ll find us. Now get some sleep.”

  “But shouldn’t someone keep watch for the giant?” inquired Max.

  “Be my guest,” murmured Cooper drowsily.

  Max sat in frustrated silence for several minutes, Cooper already fast asleep and David consulting a small book full of dense notes. Shaking his head, Max pulled on his boots.

  “Going for a walk,” he muttered.

  Max turned and walked inland, away from the wind and surf and toward the trees where Nick had been lying about in ambush. At least the lymrill’s time had been productive, for he was cleaning his paws and poking about the remains of several mice and rabbits. The moon shone in his eyes as he peered at Max and mewled by means of a companionable greeting. Falling in step, the lymrill waddled along beside him, and the two clambered down a hill toward a gully that wound away toward the edge of a forest.

  “So,” Max mused. “How’s the married life?”

  The moon climbed as Max walked along the gully and then up to a windswept peak that commanded a view of both the coast and the inland hills. Far off, Max could see their campfire—a tiny beacon of bright flame against the dark countryside. It was a peaceful night and a good place for thinking. Nick wasn’t even making his usual array of mewls and snorts but had formed a quiet ball at Max’s feet.

  As he gazed down at the lymrill’s bristling quills, it occurred to him that Nick was actually far more silent and still than he would normally be.

  Max listened carefully.

  The wind had died away, and not a single birdcall rent the dark. It was a most peculiar sensation, and the only parallel Max could think of was that awful lull before the Siege of Rowan. He turned slowly about, his boots sounding absurdly loud on the stone. His heart was beating like a kettledrum.

  The giant was very close.

  Nearly an hour passed—an hour of utter quiet and numbing tension. But the giant did not reveal itself, and Max concluded it was best to leave. Scooping the heavy lymrill into his arms, Max descended from the peak. He never looked back at the landscape behind him, but throughout his walk to camp, he felt the presence following him, like Eurydice’s ghost.

  David was still awake when he returned. Rowan’s Sorcerer was sitting cross-legged over what appeared to be an entire ream of very old papers. “How was your hike?” he asked.

  Every nerve was begging him to turn around, but Max kept his eyes forward and his voice preternaturally calm. “David, is there anything behind me?”

  David’s shoulders stiffened and he refused to return Max’s stare.

  “There is nothing behind you but the woods and the stars and the house of a friend,” he answered. “Sit by the fire and put your fears aside.”

  It was an odd response and delivered with such peculiar emphasis that Max imagined it must be a sort of spell. David never looked up as he spoke the words but gestured stiffly toward Max’s bedroll and urged him to sit. Max complied, easing slowly down and laying the lymrill beside him. Nick’s eyes peered from behind his thick tail, but he remained absolutely still.

  David continued to stare at the fire, his voice soft and placating. “Have I ever told you about Väinämöinen and his magic song?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “It’s a good story,” said David. “And it’s important to remember its teachings. For Väinämöinen was a wizard-hero and wise and humble in his ways. So great were his feats that the people of the far north spoke of his deeds and rejoiced in them. The lone exception was a proud young wizard who was jealous of Väinämöinen and had grown weary of hearing others praise him. And thus, he set out one day, determined to challenge the famous wizard. When he found Väinämöinen, the young wizard accosted him. And despite the young man’s rudeness and discourtesy, the patient elder agreed to hear his words and let him prove his wisdom. But when the young man spoke, he had naught to say but this:

  “ ‘Every roof must have a chimney,

  Every fireplace a hearthstone.

  Lives of seals are free and merry.

  Salmon eat the perch and whiting.

  Lapps still plow the land with reindeer.

  In your land they plow with horses.

  This is some of my great wisdom!’

  “But Väinämöinen merely smiled and asked his challenger to speak of more profound things. And this he tried to do, telling of magic and sea foam, but his knowledge was trifling. And all of these things wise Väinämöinen might have endured until the young sorcerer made this boast:

  “ ‘For ’twas I who plowed the ocean;

  Hollowed out the depths
of ocean;

  When I dug the salmon grottoes,

  When I all the lakes created,

  When I heaped the mountains round them,

  When I piled the rocks around them.

  I was present as a hero

  When the heavens were created,

  When the sky was crystal-pillared,

  When was arched the beauteous rainbow,

  When the silver sun was planted,

  And with stars the heavens were sprinkled.’

  “Then the old wizard grew angry and said the young man was a prince of liars. And beware the wrath of a patient soul, for when Väinämöinen shared his wisdom and sang his songs, the young wizard’s arrows flew away as hawks, his horse became as stone, and the upstart himself was swallowed up by the earth until only his head remained to beg forgiveness.…”

  David’s voice trailed away and he put aside his papers. Max remained calm and still, his eyes upon the fire. And as the hours passed, the fire collapsed to embers, and the embers cooled to ash, and the looming presence faded.

  Max refused to stir or speak until Nick finally unwound his body from his defensive ball of bristles. Standing, Max finally stretched his limbs and rubbed his hands to combat the morning chill. Without the fire, the campsite was now cool and damp. Cooper was still asleep, his pale face strangely untroubled as the sun rose, its rays filtered by the morning fog. At first, Max thought David was in some sort of trance, but at length he blinked and turned again to his papers.

  “Did you see it?” hissed Max. “Was it here all night?”

  “It was,” said David. “I could see it in the corner of my eye, but I refused to look at him, and I think that was the right decision.”

  “Why did you tell that story about Väinämöinen?”

  “I wanted him to know what I was,” said David carefully.

  “And so what are you?” laughed Max, only half joking.

  “A Sorcerer who respects his elders.”

  Cooper was stirring. Suddenly, he bolted up and grabbed his canteen. Splashing cold water on his face, he looked sharply at Max and David.

  “How long you two been up?” he asked.

  “All night,” replied Max.

  Cooper frowned and glanced at David. “It was here, wasn’t it?” said the Agent. “By our camp.”

  “Yes,” replied David. “It stood on the heath beside that stone all night long. I wouldn’t look directly at it, but that’s where it was. It only left a little while ago.”

  “He was in my dream,” Cooper murmured. “He spoke to me.”

  “What did he say?” asked David gently.

  Cooper was clearly struggling with something; it was several moments before he could answer. “The Fomorian said that we should leave. And he said that he was sorry—sorry to have hurt me all those years ago.”

  As Cooper spoke, his voice betrayed a jumble of emotions: shock, wonder, grief, and even anger. They played out in every word, every expression. It was clear that he wanted to laugh it off, but the smile promptly died in his eyes and he left the camp. Max and David watched him stride away along the ridgeline, his cap pulled low against the wind.

  Max dragged over more firewood, and a minute later, the fire was ablaze with a kettle boiling above it. Instead of returning immediately to his papers, David busied himself with grinding coffee beans. This he did very methodically, holding the grinder in the crook of his right arm while he furiously turned the crank. Moments later, he sipped hot coffee from his thermos and sighed.

  “I might periodically leave civilization, but it will never leave me.”

  Cooper returned well before noon, retracing his steps down the ridgeline while he chewed on wild blackberries. Nodding hello, he leaned down to thump Nick’s side and gazed out at an ominous bank of clouds far out over the ocean.

  “Are you … okay?” asked Max cautiously.

  “Don’t really know.” Cooper shrugged. “Never thought I’d hear that voice again, much less what it had to say. Threw me for a loop, I guess.”

  “What do you think we should do?” asked David. “Should we stay or go?”

  “You get the spear fixed while I was gone?” asked Cooper.

  “No,” said David.

  “Guess we’re staying, then,” said Cooper, slinging his bedroll over his shoulder. “Let’s move camp, eh? Rain coming.”

  The rain arrived within the hour, a driving storm whose chill soaked into clothes, bones, and spirits. While Nick simply dug a comfortable burrow inside the tent, the three humans sat in a circle and tried to warm themselves while the wind screamed outside and tugged at the stakes.

  “Can’t you do anything about this?” asked Max, glaring at David.

  “This isn’t any normal storm.” David shivered. “It’s been summoned.”

  “I thought you could do anything!” Max said. “I’m f-freezing!”

  “The F-Fomorian’s our host,” David replied, his teeth chattering. “And if he wants the weather to be this way, then we’ve just got to deal with it. I can’t change anything. I’d insult him if I tried.”

  There was a flash of lightning, followed immediately by thunder. Peering outside the tent flap, Max could hardly see twenty feet, for the rain and wind were gusting with such ferocity. Overhead, the sky was roiling with heavy, brooding clouds that tumbled about like foaming gray surf. Shivering, Max shut the flap and poked gloomily at their meager fire.

  “Clearing up out there?” asked Cooper.

  “That’s funny,” groused Max, wringing out his sweater sleeves.

  “Well, I ain’t complaining,” quipped the Agent, producing a deck of cards. “Rain’s good for my complexion.” He tossed the deck to David. “You get first deal.”

  “I’ve got one hand.”

  Ignoring David’s acid stare, the Agent merely batted the deck toward Max.

  “Right, then. Deal those cards, Max, and let’s have ourselves a game.”

  They played many games throughout the afternoon and well into the evening. Poker, hearts, gin rummy … No matter the game, an undeniable truth was revealed: David and Cooper were virtuoso players and Max was not.

  He frequently forgot the rules, was hopeless at calculating probabilities, and inadvertently tittered on several occasions when dealt an attractive hand. It became painfully clear that David and Cooper soon regarded Max’s imaginary stake as their own private reserve—a readily available sum that might tip the scales in an otherwise even match between the two.

  When Cooper ignored yet another bluff, Max sighed. “How do you always make the right guess?”

  The Agent shrugged.

  “I’m being serious,” Max griped. “Would it be easier if I just told you my cards?”

  “You already do,” said David wearily.

  “What am I holding, then?” Max demanded. “Go ahead! Tell me what I’m holding!”

  “Two pair,” David muttered. “Neither is better than a nine.”

  Max nearly pulled his hair out. Flinging aside his cards, he collapsed on the soggy blanket with a mind to mope and listen to the never-ending downpour. But there was a significant problem.

  The rain had stopped.

  Glancing at Nick, Max saw that the lymrill was once again in a compact, bristling mound.

  “No one move,” said Cooper, laying down his cards. “Keep your heads bowed.”

  The tent ropes went taut. Something was tugging almost casually at its top. With a shudder, the tent’s stakes were wrenched free and dangled uselessly above the grass. Max, Cooper, and David remained huddled on the ground throughout this slow unveiling. From far above them, a voice spoke—deep and powerful as an ocean current.

  “I told you to leave.”

  Nick was trembling so uncontrollably that Max put out a hand to steady him. As he did so, something poked his hand sharply—an unmistakable warning to keep still. The object was the point of an ax, whose blade was the size of a kitchen table. Within its silvery surface, Max saw the giant framed against
the moon.

  “You may look at me, kinsman.”

  Turning away from the brutal weapon, Max gazed up at the one who held it.

  The Fomorian was even bigger than he’d imagined—far larger than that shadowy specimen he’d glimpsed at the Frankfurt Workshop. This giant must have been fifty feet tall with limbs like several tree trunks lashed together. Max simply did not understand how a being that huge could have gotten so close to their tent without making a sound.

  The giant was so tall that it was difficult to see his face clearly in the evening dark. But what Max could glimpse was deeply unsettling. The head was huge and shaggy with a plaited beard not wholly dissimilar from Prusias’s. The campfire’s light glinted within several eyes and gave a diabolical cast to the giant’s grotesque features.

  Atop his head were horns similar to a mountain ram; one was broken near its base, and the other curled upon itself like a bony nautilus. While there was undeniable proof of humanity in the creature’s basic aspect, his features were far from human. The Fomorian’s skull was knotted and ridged; one of his small ears suddenly flicked like a faun’s, while his ramlike nostrils and bearded mouth were fused into a shallow muzzle that jutted just enough to hint at some very formidable teeth.

  He was clad in overlapping furs and tattered hides, his garb utterly primitive except for a silver armband and torque. Swinging the ax beneath Max’s chin, the giant raised his face even higher and considered it.

  “You are not Cúchulain,” he concluded aloud. “I thought you must be. But now I see that you are not. So answer me, kinsman. Why are you here?”

  “We’ve come because we need your help,” replied Max.

  “We are here to beg your help,” said David. “To beg you to mend Cúchulain’s spear so that your flesh and blood might use it in a just cause. We know that we trespass, and we ask that you forgive us.”

  “You ask much,” observed the giant. “For upon my lands I have found a man of violence, a kinsman unknown, and a sly, hungry Sorcerer. You are strange visitors and I think perhaps an ill omen. But last night I heard your tale, little thing, and I liked it much, for it had the marks of wisdom.”

  As he said this, the Fomorian let the ax drift from Max’s neck to David’s.