The Fiend and the Forge

by Henry H. Neff

  When their message was finished, David nodded and muttered something to them. The pair chirruped, flew about in a swift circle, and sped out of the tomb once again. At David’s hoarse request, Max pushed the door closed behind them.

  “So,” said Toby, padding about anxiously. “What now?”

  Lifting Maya’s head from his lap, David rose shakily to his feet and retrieved a small pouch of chalk. David conjured a fire—a green-gold trickle of flame that crept around the room’s perimeter and filled it with yellow light. Taking his pouch of chalk, David blew upon it so that it scattered from his palm in a great cloud. The chalk fell to the ground in a slow cascade of particles.

  But as Max watched, they did not fall randomly. Patterns emerged within the floor’s center, growing ever clearer as the chalk settled. A moment later, Max looked upon a simple summoning circle, its geometry and inscriptions perfect in every regard.

  “David,” said Max. “What are you summoning?”

  “A demon.”

  “I thought we weren’t allowed to do such things,” Max hissed. “You know—the edicts. Won’t this jeopardize Rowan?”

  “Possibly,” said David. “But I’ve made it fairly clear that I’m operating against Ms. Richter’s wishes. That’s why they expelled me.…”

  “You were expelled?”

  “A story for another time,” said David gently, his attention focused on the circle. “If you don’t mind, I will need you and Toby to remain absolutely quiet for the next hour or so. My strength is failing, and I’m afraid Maya won’t be able to help me much longer.”

  Max did not like any of this. Toby inched into his lap as he took a seat next to Maya. Apparently the smee did not like the idea of a summoning any more than Max did. But the two sat quietly as David walked about the circle and called the demon forth.

  And when David spoke the proper incantation and its name, the demon arrived in a flash of light and a whiff of brimstone.

  The demon appeared very old and exceedingly irritated. Her body was cronelike, her skin looking jaundiced against her scarlet robes. But it was her face that made Toby surrender an involuntary shriek and bury his face in Max’s shoulder. It was covered with pustules, from the pair of rounded horns atop her head all the way down to her chin, from which two living snakes had sprouted and flicked their tongues to taste the air. A single eye, round and unblinking, was set within her brow, and she hissed as she set the eye upon David.

  “Are you Cambrylla?” asked David.

  The demon laughed and spoke in a woman’s voice—amused and sultry and utterly disconnected from the bent, grotesque form within the circle. “I know who you are,” she purred. “And I know who sits behind you. How dare you insects summon me! Do you have any idea what Astaroth will do to you?”

  She laughed, and Max’s flesh went clammy.

  “You must be very important to threaten us in such haughty fashion,” David observed calmly. “One might suppose that Astaroth had just secretly designated you to be his officiate for Walpurgisnacht.”

  The smile faded from the demon’s face. “How could you possibly—”

  But David dismissed both the question and her incredulity with a wave. “You will now divulge to me the details of the spoken rites and the garb to be worn by yourself and your attendants.”

  The demon refused. David spoke a word. The flames about the tomb rose to the ceiling, and it became hot within the room. But while it was merely uncomfortable for Max, the demon floated above the ground and writhed as though racked with pain.

  “You cannot refuse me,” said David.

  Twitching and snarling and gasping in a dozen languages simultaneously, the demon betrayed the secrets of her recent appointment. David listened calmly throughout, but Max could see him shaking as though the strain was growing very great. When the interrogation was over and the demon had spoken the secret words and divulged the dress and manners of the ceremony, David made a sign and she collapsed within the circle.

  “Cambrylla, you will remain here until Walpurgisnacht has passed,” David commanded. “Not until May Day, not until sunlight strikes this tomb, shall you be free to leave this circle.”

  The demon scowled at David, but her oozing body shook with laughter. “You think to deceive Astaroth?” she howled. “He sees all, little Sorcerer. He will flay you for your vanity and devour you, body and soul. Back to him you go, little one! Back to Astaroth for you and yours.”

  She giggled and writhed upon the ground, her joints folding in ways they should not. It was a nauseating sight, and Max wished they could simply dismiss her. But David ignored her mocking laughter and hissing threats. Instead, he turned to the smee.

  “Toby,” he said. “I need you to take the shape of Cambrylla. And this time, we can’t overlook any minor flaws.”

  “Dear Lord,” moaned the smee, peering at the demon.

  Minutes later, Toby had transformed and Max grimaced as he stared at Cambrylla in their midst. The smee really was a marvelous mimic and had already imprinted the demon’s voice and speech patterns so that the original had finally ceased her mockery lest Toby perfect his impersonation even more. Looking at them both, Max could not detect an iota of difference.

  “I can’t see auras,” he confessed. “How’s the aura?”

  “Perfect,” said David. “Toby, you are truly a smee among smees!”

  “Well and good,” cackled Toby in Cambrylla’s chilling voice. “But when the Demon’s turned the little Sorcerer’s toes to jelly …!” The smee abruptly stopped and gave a short cough. “My apologies,” he said in his own melodious baritone. “Once a chap’s on a roll, it’s just so easy to get lost in the character. Forgive me. Of course, nobody’s turning your toes to jelly!”

  “No apology necessary,” said David. “In fact, I think it would be best if you stayed in character—disgusting as that may be.”

  “David,” said Max. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to turn me into a demon.”

  “No,” said David. “You and I have easy costumes. We’ll be dressed as malakhim.”

  And saying this, David went to his pack and brought out an entire chest. Rummaging through, he pulled out a pair of hooded black robes and the obsidian death masks with marred, angelic faces. Even this effort seemed to exhaust him. His face had a deathly pallor, and sweat was running freely from his hairline to his chin. Max glanced at Maya and saw that the ulu was also bathed in a cold sweat.

  “What’s the matter with her?” asked Max, stroking the ulu’s clammy head.

  “She’s dying,” replied David with chilling conviction. “Her blood doesn’t just help me translate things. It has healing properties, too. And when I overtax myself—as is easy to do—Maya’s energies rejuvenate me. Unfortunately, the demands I’ve been putting on myself this past year have been too much for both of us. She will leave us soon, but we will always be grateful to her.…”

  And as the demon in the circle began to ridicule his grief, David placed an order of silence upon her. He invited the others to rest, for it was already past midnight and the fateful day had arrived. When the sun set that next evening, the festivities would begin.

  But none of them could sleep.

  Like any dutiful actor, the smee was focused and reviewing every detail of his upcoming performance—from the greetings given to the doorkeeper to the opening ceremonies themselves. He sat away from them, still looking every bit the hideous demon, as he scribbled notes and whispered various phrases and inflections.

  Max sat cross-legged, gazing at the black malakhim mask. Its face was beatific, but there was a crack that ran from temple to chin, marring the face for some past transgression. David had taken pains with every aspect of the costume so that it would cloak Max’s aura, as had his helmet and armor in the arena. He and David would accompany the smee, each dressed as a malakhim and holding the ancient rhytons—pouring vessels—that would contain the wine for the ceremonial toast. Max’s curiosity became unbearable. He glanced at Dav
id, who was sitting several feet away, cradling his charge’s delicate head.

  Max scooted closer. “Will the poison already be in the wine?” he hissed.

  “No,” David murmured sleepily. “The elixir must be added to the wine just before it is consumed.”

  “How do you plan on doing that?”

  “Sleight of hand,” said David, smiling. “No magic.”

  Max frowned. David had only one hand and had been reluctant to even deal cards.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said David. “Have a look.”

  He passed to Max an artificial hand made of wood. There was nothing enchanted about it or even terribly functional. It might have been a mannequin’s hand, the fingers curling so as to hold something. There was something peculiar about the area where the wrist met the forearm, however. All around the wrist were pairs of raised, empty rings, as though to secure any number of slender tubes.

  “It can hold six,” David said proudly.

  “And so you’re going to slip your little mixtures in the wine when no one’s looking?” asked Max.

  David nodded. Max was appalled at the plan’s dumb simplicity.

  “Won’t someone be watching you?”

  “Why would they?” asked David. “No, I think all eyes will be on Astaroth.”

  “I doubt it,” said Max. “I’m over a foot taller than you. We’re going to look ridiculous standing on either side of Toby.”

  “I’m going to be wearing special boots,” said David. “And I’m not that short.”

  “I guess you’ve thought of everything,” said Max heavily. “Is there anything else I need to know?”

  “Just keep us safe long enough to make our escape,” David pleaded. “There is a secret passage behind the altar. The opening is very clever—it can’t be detected by magic since it’s just an optical illusion that camouflages a narrow exit. If we can clear a path to that tunnel after Astaroth drinks the wine, I think we can get away.”

  “Won’t it be guarded?” asked Max.

  “It might,” David allowed. “But this is why we got the gae bolga reforged. If you give it everything you have, the demons will be in for a shock.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Max sighed, touched and amused by David’s faith.

  With an affectionate smile, David patted Max’s sword arm and curled up with Maya to sleep. Within a minute, he was snoring, his nose wheezing with its telltale whistle.

  Max stared at his newly forged weapon, its wondrous blade that could pierce heaven and earth. The giant said the gae bolga could slay anything. Perhaps he could intervene before David enacted his disastrous plan and strike the Demon down before they bothered with the useless Blood Petals.

  It might be their only hope.

  The next afternoon, Maya died. They had been restowing their gear when it happened. Within her silent circle, the demon suddenly leaped and cavorted about. She pointed a talon at the ulu, who had been dozing throughout the day and refused to eat. Putting down his case of poisons, David frowned and went to his charge.

  He sat with her for some time, holding her head and whispering to her. Finally, he called to Max and asked if he would carry the ulu outside the tomb. He did so, scooping Maya’s frail silvery body into his arms and taking her outside into the warm spring day. David followed after, the two boys squinting at the bright daylight.

  “I’m sorry, David,” said Max. “I don’t know what else to say. Do you want me to bury her?”

  “Oh no,” replied David, sounding distracted. “That’s really so nice of you, but it isn’t necessary. Let’s just lay her by that tree.”

  “But the insects and animals …”

  “She won’t mind,” David assured him. “I think she’d like the idea of being a part of living things. I just didn’t want her in that tomb, mocked by that demon. I think that’s beneath her.”

  “I do, too.”

  When he laid Maya upon the ground, David bowed to her body and then crouched to pat the ulu’s silver horns and close her golden eyes. Wiping away a single tear, David stood and turned to Max.

  “Can you call for Toby?” he asked. “It’s time for us to go.”

  David did not even bother to address the demon again. When Toby had emerged from the tomb and Max had retrieved the rest of their things, David merely shut the heavy stone door with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  “Are we walking to the palace?” asked Max.

  “That would never do,” David replied. “We will be arriving in style.”

  Once they were clad in their costumes, the masquerade had officially begun. While David wobbled about and got accustomed to his stiltlike boots, he also surveyed their setting and arranged for transportation.

  There was something strangely comforting about the fact that David could retain his sense of humor despite his fear and grief and the awful task ahead. He might have been Cinderella’s fairy godmother, and they might have been attending a ball, for they rode in a decadent, gilded coach that had been transformed from a cypress while four squirrels had been conscripted into serving as their team of sleek black horses.

  It was not far to Blys; it rose before them, mountainous and beautiful before the setting sun. The awe-stricken smee was so quiet that Max finally touched its oozing, necrotic hand.

  “That is absolutely disgusting,” he observed.

  “Don’t blame me,” sniffed the smee in Cambrylla’s chilling voice. “You’re the ones who insisted I take this repulsive form. I never thought I’d actually prefer my native shape.”

  “Sorry,” said Max. “I just want to see how you’re doing. I’m guessing you don’t have a lot of experience with this kind of thing.”

  Max did not intend to sound so patronizing. Cambrylla’s hideous face turned slowly and grimaced at him.

  “Am I to take it that you are an old hand at storming demon-filled palaces?”

  “W-well, no,” stammered Max, “but—”

  “I mean, you don’t even have to talk!” observed the smee with a bitter laugh. “I have actual lines to remember while you can just stand about like a big galoot! Do you know what they call big, silent galoots in the theater, my boy? They call them ‘extras.’ ”

  “Okay, then,” said Max, folding his arms and staring out the window.

  “Stop bickering,” said David. “We’re almost there.”

  Indeed they were.

  They were now on the same road Max had traveled with Prusias. The sprawling camps of humans were just ahead, filthy and squalid. Max looked up at the city itself—its towering hills, terraced with dwellings and palaces and gardens. Above all was the main palace, the enormous Coliseum sitting atop the massive pyramid. Atop the Coliseum, positioned so that its rose window faced the setting sun, was the cathedral.

  “We have to hurry,” said David, his eyes on the sunset, which was reflected in the cathedral’s windows. As though in response to his words, the carriage leaped forward, causing all within the road to make way.

  Rattling over the Tiber’s bridge, they swept up toward the great Mouth of Truth, whose dead-eyed grimace served as the city’s entrance. At the gate, an ogre peered inside the carriage and, upon seeing Cambrylla, immediately waved them through.

  As David quietly directed the carriage, Max reflected how strange it was to be driving along these familiar streets while wearing the black robes and mask of the malakhim. They had been his companions on his way to the arena and in his silent mansion upon the hill. He wondered if they would accompany Prusias to the festivities. He hoped not. There was something about their silent, expressionless faces that imparted the impression that they were always watching and that they knew more than you imagined. Might they know him by his stance or walk?

  Max, you can’t think about everything that could go wrong.

  Listen to steady Cooper and do your job.

  Listen to wise David and have faith.

  Listen to beloved Scathach and find the patterns.

  The mantras c
almed him as the carriage made its way through many districts, pushing through the throngs of vyes and drunken goblins and other shrieking revelers on this greatest of holidays. Cambrylla’s leering visage was enough to grant entrance to the most prestigious districts, but there was a problem when they finally reached the palace.

  Their invitation had expired.

  Apparently, security precautions had mandated that the invitations be reissued. What they had presented was no longer considered valid. The footman—an imp in Elizabethan dress—was unmistakably haughty and superior. Channeling every theatrical impulse, the smee leaped into action.

  Emerging from the carriage, Cambrylla hugged her scarlet robes close and bent to address the imperious imp. Max saw her wave the invitation under the imp’s nose and gesture angrily at a nearby vye. The vye loped off, and Cambrylla continued to accost the imp, who was now looking profoundly uncomfortable. A moment later, the smee reentered the carriage and they were waved inside.

  “How did you do that?” Max hissed.

  “Oh, that’s no trouble at all,” scoffed the smee. “I’ve bullied and bamboozled my way into more restaurants, clubs, and snooty events than you can imagine. Those people at the ropes are all the same. Told him that I was Astaroth’s handpicked officiate and that if he made us one second late, we’d use his empty little brainpan as the wine cup!”

  “Toby, that’s disgusting,” said Max.

  “I am not Toby,” replied the smee loftily. “I am Cambrylla, and that is precisely how one must talk to these people.”

  Max had never been in this part of the palace before, and the spectacle took his breath away. The spaces were simply enormous, dwarfing even the Frankfurt Workshop. Imps and goblins and vyes were running about, setting up tables and stations for the main feast to come. Meanwhile, the nobles’ carriages were directed along a series of internal ramps and causeways that must have been a hundred yards wide.