The Fiend and the Forge

by Henry H. Neff

  It did not seem possible that Nick was gone. When the lymrill had nipped his nose and lay still, Max’s consciousness had drifted into a dreamlike state. He remembered Cooper helping him up while the giant retrieved Nick’s body and the gift of his quills and claws. The Agent had led Max into the main cavern while the Fomorian melted the materials down and focused on his craft. Hours passed before the giant finally called to him and asked him to test the weapon he had made. Max had still been in a daze. His motions were so mechanical, he hardly remembered cutting through the wood or the stone or the iron. But he did remember striking the anvil.

  Even his grief-stricken soul registered that moment, for there was a terrible sound—a screeching, howling tear as the ancient anvil was destroyed. The impact had sent a brief, stinging jolt up Max’s arm, but no more. The weapon remained whole. The Fomorian examined it in detail and could not find the slightest evidence of damage.

  The lymrill’s gift of his mystic claws and quills might have made the weapon unbreakable, but they also made it homely. There was something appropriate about that, Max reflected. As he stared at the blade, he grew increasingly fond of its unusual features. The Fomorian reported that once Nick’s quills and claws had been added to the crucible, the material became stubborn and willful—it simply would not conform to every hammer stroke, and it cooled so quickly that he finally abandoned the effort to make it beautiful.

  Like Nick, even the weapon’s actual classification was awkward. It was longer than most daggers, but not quite a proper sword. The blade was some eighteen inches. The handle was not encrusted with jewels or wrapped with gold wire, but was simply wound with a worn strip of leather from the hammer that had forged it. The only attention paid to art or ornamentation was a design the giant had etched at the base of the blade: a profile of an Irish wolfhound set against a Celtic sun.

  The weapon was all forged of the same remarkable alloy, and Max noted that its color varied significantly depending how the light struck its surface. At first glance, it appeared a gleaming black—like jet or obsidian—but there were other positions when it suddenly shone like silver and still others in which the coppery waves of the lymrill’s quills were revealed like the patterns in Damascus steel. No matter how often Max studied the blade, it never presented the same face twice. The weapon seemed a living thing.

  In truth it was a living thing, and this was bittersweet. Despite his grief over the lymrill’s selfless gift, it was some consolation to know that Nick’s essence was bound within something Max would always carry. But part of the Morrígan was bound within it too, and the giant had taken great pains to convey the consequent dangers and temptations.

  “This blade has a purpose,” he had explained. “It has a spirit. We are blessed that part of its spirit comes from you and from your friend’s sacrifice, but the greatest presence in this weapon is the Morrígan. It is not just a lymrill that lives within, but also a wolf and a raven that would prowl all the battlefields of all the worlds.

  “This weapon can never be broken. The wounds it makes will never heal. There is nothing it cannot pierce and nothing it cannot slay, for its essence will destroy both flesh and spirit. Every ruler and warrior would lust for such a weapon. But the absence of limits is a perilous thing, for this blade will slay gods as well as monsters, friends as well as foes. Should you draw this weapon carelessly—to serve vanity or bloodlust or injustice—the Morrígan will lead you down the path of the conqueror. I forged this for a champion and defender, not a king or tyrant. Do you understand me, cousin?”

  Max nodded, but could only promise to do his best. And the giant nodded and placed the blade within its scabbard, whose bronze plates were gilded with wolves and ravens as an appeasement to the goddess who would be watching over this weapon and its bearer. It was a mighty gift, and Max tried to be grateful.

  But he had greater appreciation for something else the Fomorian had given him. When it came time to reforge the gae bolga, the giant had set aside three of Nick’s metallic quills and one claw, and from these remainders, the Fomorian fashioned a Celtic torque that Max now wore around his neck as a tribute to his friend. It was beautiful in its simplicity and shone red-gold even on such a dreary day.

  Max sheathed the gae bolga and walked back to where the rest of his companions were sitting. They were bundled up and had taken refuge from the drizzle under the single sail. David was cradling the ulu’s drowsy head upon his lap while the smee regaled them with every conceivable detail of his uneventful vigil upon the Ormenheid. While the smee had been unable to tempt the ulu into real conversation, he’d found her an agreeable companion.

  “There’s just something about her,” he said fondly. “She makes a fellow feel good about himself … like new shoes and a haircut, eh?”

  “I thought we’d ditched your hair,” Max grumbled.

  “Figure of speech, dear boy,” said the smee. “I know you miss that dear Nick, but try not to be grumpy. We’re all on the same side.”

  Max gave a bitter laugh.

  “Spit out whatever’s bugging you,” said Cooper, flicking his icy eyes toward Max.

  Max paced about the deck and debated whether to say anything. But his anger got the best of him. Within seconds, he was ranting semicoherently at the assembled group: Who had made the decision to bring Nick? Had David known what would happen? All these plans and secret plans and lies … and now he had lost his charge, his friend, his responsibility. What else would he be asked to sacrifice?

  “So toss us overboard,” said Cooper softly. “Get it out of your system.”

  Max just glared at him. “And what did you and the giant talk about?” he demanded. “I noticed when you two disappeared. More secrets?”

  “No,” said the Agent. “Nothing like that.” Peeling off his black cap, Cooper revealed the pale ruins of his scarred scalp and burned, scarecrow features. A wry smile played on his lips. “He offered to fix me up,” he explained. “Make me whole again.”

  Max wanted to stay angry, to vent, to blame. But this was an unexpected revelation.

  “He offered to heal you? But … but why didn’t you let him?” asked Max, mouth agape. “I don’t understand.”

  “It was tempting,” said Cooper. “I won’t pretend it wasn’t. Don’t think I said a word for twenty minutes when he offered. I used to be ashamed of what had happened to me, myscars … the way people looked at me. It reminded me of failure. But I’m not ashamed anymore. I’ve done good things and bad, and my face ain’t pretty, but it’s honest and it shows where I’ve been.”

  Inviting Max to sit, Cooper reminded him of something he’d said when they were looking for the giant.

  “Nick’s instincts were better than our instincts. He knew what needed to be done and he did it.”

  As Max mused upon this, David broke his silence. Throughout Max’s tirade, David had held fast and simply listened. But now he spoke.

  “Max, I know you’re feeling used and you’re grieving over Nick. Understand that I would never ask you to make a sacrifice I wasn’t willing to make myself. And I would never put you in danger or withhold information needlessly. I have a lot of faith in you. Please have faith in me.”

  Listening to David’s calm, reasoning voice, Max tried to swallow the last of his anger. But it was hard to do. Part of the difficulty lay in pinpointing all the things that were fueling it. Was it grief over Nick? Was it that he felt manipulated? Or was it really the fact that Astaroth was forcing him to watch the slow progression of a doomed plan? He glanced at David’s precious case of useless poisons and wanted to fling it into the sea. But whenever such urges came over him, some insidious spell always took hold … some governing force that stopped him just short of warning his friend or taking any action that might interfere with David’s course.

  “I do have faith in you,” Max lied. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Good,” said David, and the relief on his face was unmistakable. But then the face and manner of the cold strategist
returned. “Walpurgisnacht is almost here,” he said. “And it’s time I shared the plan.”

  Once they reached the Tiber, they would disembark. Cooper would continue on with the ship and join up with the Red Branch to provoke open war between Prusias and Aamon. This would create distractions and tension, which would help David, Max, and the smee to infiltrate the palace and gain access to the cathedral where the festivities would begin. David intended to get close to Astaroth and then …

  David opened his case and showed them the bloodred potions in their glass vials.

  “But how will you get him to drink it?” asked Max stiffly.

  “He’ll drink it as a matter of duty,” said David. “Hallowmas and Walpurgisnacht are the high holy days for the demons. These nights represent a shift in seasons, a moment of in between when the boundaries between our world and others are thinnest. The demons are strongest at such times.”

  “And so you intend to attack the demons on the night they’re strongest?” wondered the smee.

  “And all assembled together,” added Max.

  “Yes,” said David. “I won’t pretend the circumstances aren’t scary, but the demons have certain rituals they perform. By definition, rituals are predictable, and their very predictability allows us to plan their disruption. And fortunately, the demons have one particular ritual that suits our needs very well.”

  “And what is that?” asked Max.

  “Since 1649, Walpurgisnacht has attained even greater significance. In that year and upon that evening, the Enemy destroyed Solas and Astaroth consumed Bram. Thus, for the demons, Walpurgisnacht is of tremendous significance. And how do most celebrations begin?”

  “With a toast!” exclaimed the smee. “Bottoms up and all that jolly business.”

  “Exactly!” David exclaimed, his excitement rising. “The greatest nobles from the Four Kingdoms will toast the Fall of Solas and the defeat of Elias Bram. And I am absolutely confident that Astaroth will use Walpurgisnacht to reinforce the fact that he is the Great God—not Prusias, not Aamon, not Rashaverak, not the Lady Lilith.”

  “Are any demons actually challenging his rule?” asked Max.

  “No,” replied David. “None of them remotely rival his power. But Astaroth lets his monarchs rule their kingdoms because he would find that boring. Now that he has the Book of Thoth, he has the opportunity to create new things and reshape the world, and that’s where his interests lie. And if the Great God wants to disappear for a while to concentrate on grander matters, so what?”

  “But when the cat’s away, the mice will play …,” Cooper observed.

  “That’s right,” said David. “And the mice have been playing. Prusias and Aamon are on the verge of war. Prusias keeps the Workshop viable despite Astaroth’s disdain for technology. Lilith has been signing secret agreements with the witches and infringing on Rashaverak’s trade.… The intrigues are endless. And I don’t think Astaroth really cares overmuch, but every now and again he will reinforce the fact that he is in charge. And he will do so in spectacular fashion … kill one and frighten ten thousand, and so on. The four rulers and their braymas use the same tactics in their own territories.

  “And I am confident,” David continued, “that Astaroth will lead the toast this Walpurgisnacht to commemorate his victories. And when he drinks that toast, we will have him right where we want him.”

  “What if he doesn’t show?” asked Max.

  “We will destroy the four kings,” replied David coldly. “Even if Astaroth isn’t present, we will win a great victory. But I think he’ll be there.”

  Max sighed and rubbed his temples.

  “And so how are we going to get in, David?” he snapped, growing incredulous at David’s misplaced confidence. “Are we going to waltz through the front door and slip Astaroth a poisoned drink?”

  David merely shrugged and looked like a little boy again. “That’s exactly what we’re going to do.…”

  The party navigated the strait in identical fashion as before. Into the smuggler’s chest they went while a transformed and terrified Toby negotiated with greedy Mad’raast. Another chest of riches was surrendered, and the massive demon clambered back up to his perch.

  “I meant to ask before,” said Max. “But where are you getting all these jewels?”

  “The demons,” said David happily. “I’ve been plundering their ships since Gràvenmuir was raised. I think if you totaled up the sums, I might be history’s greatest pirate!”

  Max shook his head, his eyes upon the massive demon folding its wings about itself and resuming its leering vigil.

  “Do you think Mad’raast will be at Walpurgisnacht?”

  “Probably,” said David. “He certainly has the rank to receive an invitation.”

  “Would you guess that Vyndra will be there, David?” asked Max quietly.

  “Yes,” said David. “Yes … I’d imagine so.”

  Max’s roommate seemed on the verge of saying something else but did not. Cooper was not so reticent.

  “Your only mission, McDaniels, is to protect David Menlo,” he said. “To protect David no matter what. If it’s revenge you want, it waits till after.”

  Max merely gazed out at the blue-gray sea.

  By the time they approached the Tiber’s mouth, it was late evening, and David’s energies were fading. He was leaning wearily against the ship’s serpent prow while Maya nuzzled his hand. David sank down, clinging to her neck as though she were a life preserver. Perhaps she was.

  “Let’s just get it close to shore,” he whispered. “We can go overland, and Cooper can sail it farther east. We have to go quickly.”

  The Agent agreed and commanded the ship to take them toward the nearest landing point. There was an unmistakable urgency to his movements as he tossed David his pack and handed him the smee. Maya stepped shakily from the ship, followed by David.

  “You know the place I spoke of?” Cooper asked David. “It’s close.”

  David nodded, gazed up at the fading twilight, and gestured impatiently for the Agent to go. As though pulled by a winch, the Ormenheid slid back into the Tyrrhenian Sea and the oars propelled her west. Cooper stood at the deck and raised his hand to them in a silent farewell.

  Max was in such a daze he forgot to say goodbye. David’s voice snapped him to.

  “I’m going to need your help,” David said. “I’m weaker than I thought. I’m not sure I can walk all the way.”

  “Well, let me be of service,” piped Toby amiably. “Would a mule do the trick? Something sturdy and sure-footed to navigate these muddy banks?”

  “It just might,” David admitted.

  A minute later, David was sitting upon a well-behaved chestnut mule. Max led Maya, and the four wound their way up the steep banks and bluffs so they could follow the river overland toward the capital.

  The hills of Rome had been raised so high and Prusias’s palace was so enormous that they could see its brightly lit shapes from many miles away. From their vantage point, they could also see that the roads feeding the city were bright with the lights of carriages making their way to Blys to celebrate the holiday. Around them, Max could see the scattered mausoleums and tombs of the dead from ages past. It was toward one of these that David urged them.

  It was set several hundred yards from the road in a quiet glade of cypress and poplar. An image of the sun was carved upon its arch. Passing beneath the arch, they came upon a door of stone that was speckled with moss and lichen. Directing Toby to stand beside it, David reached out his left hand and pressed the door’s crumbling seal.

  “Invictus,” he whispered.

  An unfamiliar seal appeared on the door—a set of runes and Roman numerals set around a Celtic sun similar to that which the giant had inscribed on the gae bolga. The door swung inward, and they proceeded inside to a circular stone chamber some twenty feet across. The door closed behind them, and Max lit the lantern before helping David down from the mule. The smee resumed his natural shape and
soon all four were sitting down upon the cool stone. Max had many questions, but he abstained from asking them until David had had a chance to recover. Instead, he tried to comfort Maya, who could not stop shivering.

  “What’s the matter with her?” asked Toby. “She wasn’t this sick before.”

  “I don’t know,” said Max, rummaging through David’s pack for Maya’s food. He found a small box filled with berries and placed it before her. But the food did not remotely interest the ulu, who merely lay on her side and gazed dully ahead.

  “Can you bring her to me?” asked David, his face shining with perspiration.

  Max did so, placing the ulu so that her head lay in David’s lap. Closing her eyes as though content, she began to doze. David coughed and seemed to gather himself.

  “Would you open the door a foot or two?” he asked. “We’ll be getting visitors.”

  Again, Max accommodated him and pushed the heavy stone ajar. The night air seeped into the tomb, along with the sound of crickets. Sitting back down, Max gazed around the tomb at its faded frescoes. They were merely sitting in an antechamber; there was a narrow staircase opposite the door that led down to some other rooms and perhaps to the actual coffin of whatever great person had been buried here.

  “What is this place?” asked Max.

  “An old safe house,” said David. “Our people have been using it for millennia. A family donated it to Solas long ago—before the school was broken.”

  “What are we going to do here?” asked Max.

  “Wait,” replied David wearily. “The next stage requires some information I don’t yet have.”

  As David and Maya dozed, Max and the smee sat quietly in the firelit tomb. There was dust and grit upon the floor, the sediment of centuries. How many plans had been hatched inside this tomb? How many wounded or desperate Agents had taken refuge here? If only stones could speak.

  Several hours passed before Max heard a sudden chirrup and a fluttering of wings. Toby sat up, blinking sleepily as two birds zoomed into the chamber. They alighted on each of David’s shoulders, like hummingbirds with long beaks and delicate bodies of silky blue feathers flecked with bits of yellow. They were Folly and Hubris, David’s creations. David’s eyelids fluttered as the birds leaned close and seemed to whisper in his ears.