The Fiend and the Forge

by Henry H. Neff

  It was difficult not to gape when their carriage passed a frog-headed creature some thirty feet tall or a black wolf the size of an elephant. Hell had been emptied into Prusias’s palace. As they navigated the traffic that was making its way up the ramps and streets within the pyramid, Max gasped as he saw Mad’raast crouching down to speak with King Prusias.

  It was an absurd sight. By comparison, Prusias was tiny—a mere man in regal robes speaking to a subordinate that must have been a hundred feet tall. But there was absolutely no mistaking their relative ranks, for Mad’raast looked almost cowed, and Prusias’s face was dark with fury. He jabbed his cane under his duke’s nose, and Max could not help but notice the huge shadow dancing on the marble walls.

  The great red dragon was very close, indeed.

  As Max watched real fear creep across Mad’raast’s face, he also looked for Mr. Bonn. But there was no sign of him, and Max wondered what had happened to that unusually brave and noble imp. Mr. Bonn had taken tremendous risks to aid Max and provide Cooper with the key that freed him. It worried him that the imp was not with his master on such an important occasion.

  But greater worries loomed. Fortunately, these did not include having to wait in lines or jostle among the many carriages and palanquins that vied for entrance to the upper halls. Whenever they were forced to wait, some imp or other elaborately costumed attendant spied their carriage and singled them out so that they could stream past the others and make their way unimpeded. In this manner, they spiraled ever upward.

  At last the massive ramp ended and deposited them atop an enormous open, flagged space that fed toward the west front of the cathedral. The wind was howling at such a height, and the setting sun fell full upon the cathedral so that its façade was gold. Below them, Max could see a glimpse of the Coliseum. The huge arena where he had fought and bled and become champion appeared no bigger than a matchbox. No carriages were permitted to approach the cathedral, so they were forced to exit while an imp hopped into the driver’s seat and cracked a whip to drive the horses away. Within the costume of the stoic malakhim, Max had to force himself not to crane his neck and gawk at the cathedral’s mind-boggling scale.

  Even Mad’raast would feel small entering into such a place. As they crossed the open space before the cathedral’s entrance, Max tried not to stop and gape. To see the cathedral at a distance inspired awe; to witness these dimensions at such close proximity inspired fear.

  This fear was compounded by the acoustics in such a vast interior space. For as they passed beneath the central arch, every sound and footstep was suddenly echoed and amplified so that it seemed both louder and utterly infinitesimal.

  The atmosphere was one of intense preparation—the frantic, backstage energies of an opening-night performance. Imps and vyes scurried and hurried about on countless errands. Hundreds of kitsune and other minor daemona streamed in and out of the main archway, clutching belyaëls and cellos and violins.

  “There you are!” exclaimed a voice, and Max turned to see Mr. Bonn hurrying toward them, clutching a dozen scrolls against his chest. He looked to be a wreck, as if the pressures of hosting such an affair and the requisite planning had thoroughly broken him. The frazzled imp wasted no time.

  “It is an honor, Countess,” he said to Cambrylla. “I have just been informed that the Great God himself will be joining us and that he has selected Your Excellency to serve as his officiate for the opening toast. King Prusias is delighted, of course, and specifically requested that I bid you welcome.”

  Max noticed that Cambrylla bowed with great care, inclining her head slightly when addressed initially by the imp but bending deeply at the waist when Prusias was mentioned.

  “Are you familiar with the officiate’s responsibilities?” inquired the imp.

  “This is not my first Walpurgisnacht,” sneered Cambrylla.

  “Of course,” muttered Mr. Bonn, bowing hastily. “Please, follow me.”

  Crying out at musicians and laborers to make way, Mr. Bonn led them into the cathedral.

  If Max had felt tiny before, he now ceased to exist. As they proceeded down the seemingly endless nave, his eyes darted about behind their obscuring mask. Eerie voices played around the massive space, in concert with the organ, whose heavy notes issued periodically and made the very air vibrate.

  By the time they reached the altar, Mr. Bonn was positively sweating. Max was, too, and he worried about David, who was not only terribly weak, but also trying his best to walk on the equivalent of miniature stilts. Fortunately, there was so much activity and such an air of nervous energy that none had time to gawk at the awkward malakhim stumbling after his hideous countess.

  Hurrying over to the altar, the imp lifted a silken cloth and brought forth a golden chalice and two enormous ewers for the wine. Wiping sweat from his brow, the imp handed the chalice to Cambrylla and each of the ewers to Max and David. Sighing, he glanced at the sunlight streaming through the rose window and looked back at the haughty Cambrylla.

  “The ceremony will not start for a little while yet,” he said. “I’ll have your chairs brought.”

  It was too surreal by half.

  Max almost started giggling as three vyes brought three gilded chairs for himself, David, and the smee. They sat behind the altar—impossibly tiny and insignificant—while the sun continued to set and the musicians hurried to their places. The smee remained in character throughout.

  “Must I remind you that we are in a holy setting and must not fidget?”

  Max immediately stopped scratching his knee. He was sweating profusely inside his costume. The malakhim robes were heavy, and the mask was as oppressive as the one he’d worn as Bragha Rùn. His heart went out to poor David; just the walk down the nave’s aisle must have been an act of sheer will.

  So they sat and waited and recovered their strength. One by one the musicians ceased tuning instruments, and behind their screen the choir voices hushed. Only the organ continued playing, the dissonant notes dark and haunting.

  The nobles began to enter, filing down the aisles in respectful silence. There were sections marked for each of the rulers, each bearing the standard of the king or queen. Max noted that the followers of Prusias and Aamon were not seated near one another. The more massive nobles—many of whom were the Fomorian’s size or even larger—lined the outer walls. Max tried not to stare as Mad’raast settled into an alcove, folding his great wings about himself as though he still sat perched upon the rock.

  As hundreds upon hundreds of nobles continued to file in, Max noted that not everyone entered by the door. Far above, he glimpsed ghostly shapes and spirits drifting about the upper reaches of the cathedral, their spectral forms flitting in and out of the thinning shafts of sunlight.

  It was immensely unsettling to see the nobles all seated throughout the cathedral in a state of such uninterrupted quiet and stillness. They stared ahead at the altar and the three figures seated behind it. Max felt as though an immense spotlight had been turned upon them. So many eyes and faces of terrible, immortal beings were focused on them. Some beings were nightmarishly fiendish-looking, while their neighbors might be perilously beautiful; others still were hidden behind strange masks and wrappings. The only common denominator among the hideous diversity of faces was their calm, unflinching malevolence. Max was grateful he could not see auras—he might have run screaming from the building.

  As a flood of additional guests now filed in, Max silently reviewed the plan.

  Astaroth will enter and walk down the central aisle.

  Cambrylla will rise to offer him the empty chalice.

  David will step forward and pour the Demon a cup of poisoned wine.

  Astaroth will be destroyed and Max will cover their escape.

  They had a simple plan, a perfect poison, and an ideal position—except for one fatal flaw.

  The Demon knew all about it.

  Of course, when Astaroth had interrogated him, Max had not known that David would be standing on t
he altar or that a smee would be impersonating Astaroth’s officiate. He had not known all of the minutiae and thus had not been able to divulge every detail to the Demon.

  But he had betrayed enough to get them killed.

  Astaroth knew that David planned to strike this very evening, and he knew the murder weapon. Even if they managed to poison him with David’s elixirs, Max knew the Blood Petals would have no effect.

  Every aspect of their evening thus far acquired an increasingly sinister tinge. Had new invitations been issued to parse out the infiltrators’ identities? Had the imps and courtiers singled out their carriage and hastened them along to ensure they fell into the Demon’s trap? In retrospect, it all seemed an elaborate act to usher the condemned onto their stage.

  The sun’s final rays dwindled in the great rose window.

  Walpurgisnacht had commenced.

  ~28~

  WALPURGISNACHT

  As the sunlight died away, so, too, did the organ music. Instead, a single belyaël started to play a hauntingly beautiful tune. The nobles turned and faced the central aisle as the four monarchs entered and walked down the nave.

  The first was Rashaverak, the King of Jakarün. He must have been twelve feet tall and was dressed in robes of golden silk that were at odds with his head, which was that of a baleful red wolf. He wore an iron crown, and every demon bowed as he passed.

  Next was Lilith, the demon queen of Zenuvia. She appeared wholly human, a beautiful woman with waves of shining black hair and a chillingly beatific face. The queen wore robes of deepest green and was attended by a pair of elegant kitsune who stood behind her as she took her seat in the front pew.

  As Aamon made his eerie, drifting progress down the nave, Max scanned the seats for Vyndra. He found him in Prusias’s section of nobles, a fearsome, tigerlike rakshasa dressed in black armor. Max was surprised Prusias would allow his disloyal duke to sit among his devotees; almost everyone knew that Vyndra was in league with Aamon.

  But Max did not particularly care about Vyndra’s politics: The demon had murdered Max’s father in cold blood. And he was standing a mere thirty or forty yards away.…

  Max tore his attention away only when Prusias approached. If the many traitors and thieves among his delegation bothered the King of Blys, he certainly did not show it. Prusias positively beamed at the demons on either side of him. He looked splendid in his black mail and purple robes, and he was leaning upon his prodigiously powerful cane—a cane that David believed held a page or two from the Book of Thoth.

  But as Prusias made his way down the aisle, Max saw he was escorting someone half his size. His guest was a middle-aged human, a woman who wore a jester’s costume and who gaped uncomprehendingly about her surroundings.

  The woman was David’s mother.

  And seeing her pitiful, trusting face, Max was almost grateful, because the appalling sight of the demon pretending to fawn over this helpless woman was so infuriating that Max momentarily forgot Vyndra.

  He would slay Prusias first.

  When things took an ugly turn—and Max had no doubt that they would—he would seek to strike down the King of Blys before he was ultimately overcome. It was the least he could do to that incomparably cruel, grinning figure standing in the front pew, flanked by his malakhim.

  Throughout this spectacle, the nobles had stood patiently, and the lone musician continued to play her eerie, hypnotic tune. Max glanced at Toby; if the smee was nervous, he was doing a marvelous job of hiding it. He sat in plain sight, Cambrylla’s scabrous hands holding the golden chalice that she would offer to Astaroth.

  The belyaël’s final note trailed away. A thousand demons promptly stood and turned to face the cathedral’s entrance.

  The Demon had arrived.

  Max knew this before Astaroth had even entered the cathedral, and it had nothing to do with the music or the frightened, attentive expression on every face. It had everything to do with the brilliant white light that was streaming through the open doors and the rose window, growing ever brighter as the Demon approached.

  When Astaroth stepped within, Max’s heart almost froze once again. There was that overwhelming presence, that clamp upon the will that compelled utter obedience. The Demon wore robes of simple white, but it seemed as though every atom of the Demon’s form and vestments radiated light. The silly dream from Max’s imprisonment flashed in his mind. And the moon strikes the ground and rolls away to play with him some other time.…

  That other time had come, for as Astaroth approached the altar, he was greater than the moon. He was indeed Lucifer, “the light bearer.” The Demon’s unveiled presence was so blindingly beautiful and terrible that many demons simply bowed their heads and refused to look directly upon him.

  The Demon carried no staff or scepter or even the viper-rod that he often bore as a token of office. The only object he carried was the Book of Thoth. Almost everything about the Demon was white and gold and luminous. The two exceptions were his shining black hair and his dead-black eyes. It was the eyes—those ancient, knowing slits—that had so terrified Max when he’d seen them staring at him from the Rembrandt painting years before. The Demon’s eyes had smiled at Max down within Marley Augur’s crypt. And those eyes had smiled when Max surrendered the Book.

  And they were smiling at Max now.

  It was unmistakable—Astaroth was staring right at Max as he walked down the nave. Max would have trembled, would have fainted where he stood, were it not for the Demon’s irresistible will, which dominated him and held him rigid. Within his head, Max heard Astaroth’s voice speaking to him. Its familiar tones were soft and sibilant and eternally playful.

  “So here we are,” whispered the Demon. “I’m so happy you’re here. Prusias was enraged over your escape, but I’m flattered that you would take such pains to attend another of my beautiful moments. For you enabled my release from bondage, and you surrendered this precious Book unto me, and now you shall bear witness as I consume your friend and consecrate my rule over this earth. You bring me good fortune, Max McDaniels!”

  Astaroth’s voice was so clear that he might have been whispering directly in Max’s ear. But the Demon’s lips never moved; indeed, his face remained composed and somber. The smile was in the eyes alone.

  “But poor little David,” observed the Demon. “He can hardly stand! Without me to prop him up, he should have collapsed long ago. How he trembles! How he shakes on those absurd little boots. He is such a little lamb, as I told him at our first meeting. If his essence did not contribute so wonderfully to my own, I would keep him as a pet.…”

  Astaroth was now climbing the shallow steps toward them. His eyes briefly flicked from Max’s to his officiate.

  “A smee!” chuckled the Demon in Max’s head. “You thought to deceive me with a smee … I’m sorry you think so little of me.”

  The Demon had reached the top step and was standing before them, blindingly bright.

  “Now, Max, I must say a few words to my flock in our own tongue. But never you worry, my love. I shall provide you with a translator.”

  And as the Demon said this, a gypsy moth flew from the folds of his robe and landed upon Max’s shoulder. It was Mr. Sikes, the only servant Astaroth trusted. In his moth form, the imp quickly scuttled inside Max’s cowl. Max’s instinct was to swat the wretched creature, but his mind and body were not his own. And thus he was forced to watch in a state of silent anguish while the imp’s urbane sardonic voice whispered in his ear.

  Astaroth bowed to Cambrylla and then turned to face the multitudes. The Demon’s voice filled the cathedral as he spoke in the language of the demons.

  “My children, welcome to the Halls of Blys, and many thanks to our host, King Prusias. On Walpurgisnacht, we celebrate a sacred evening and commemorate the great moments of our past.…”

  There was a hissing murmur of assent from the demons.

  “For it was on Walpurgisnacht that we did destroy mankind’s last great school of magic. On Wa
lpurgisnacht, many of you joined with me to snuff out those humans that would make us serve their vanity. For on this night did Solas fall!”

  A great roar from the demons, until Astaroth raised his hand for quiet.

  “And on that very night, did we not unite against the one who had been moving against us? And did I not catch him at last and consume him body and soul? Upon this very night, Elias Bram did fall!”

  A deafening roar, a chorus of cries shook the very cathedral.

  “And on this night, this holy night, I return to stand before you,” said Astaroth smoothly. “For I know there are some here who have doubted me.…”

  All mirth died away. The cathedral became so still that Max could hear his own heartbeat. The imp’s antennae scratched against his mask as Mr. Sikes continued to translate. Astaroth’s presence before the assembled host became so great, so tangibly powerful, that many demons trembled and hid their faces.

  “It is true,” he continued. “It grieves me to know that there are doubters. It grieves me that some have the audacity to whisper that the Great God has not returned but has fled with his Book to drift among the cosmos and contemplate the far places. It grieves me that some would ignore my edicts and question my judgments.”

  Within the first pew, Prusias fidgeted and glanced away. The movement was not lost upon Astaroth, who smiled benevolently at him.

  “But I am not a god of judgment,” said Astaroth. “I am a god of mercy; I am a god of wisdom; I am a god of truth. For as you sought to deceive me, you have been yourselves deceived.…”

  And turning, the Demon stared at his false officiate.

  Beneath that awful gaze, Cambrylla wilted like a scorched flower. Dropping the chalice, she crumpled to the ground, her limbs shrinking into her robes as smoke rose in little curls. There was a popping sound and a putrid odor as her pustules contracted and burst open. If Max could have looked away, he would have. Astaroth walked somberly to the pile of scarlet silk and thrust his hand within it.

  Fishing out the smee, he held Toby aloft by one end of his yamlike body.