“You have the boldness to doubt me and yet you are deceived by this,” Astaroth observed wryly. “You permitted a wretched smee to desecrate this holy night and serve as a false officiate! Instead of celebrating our triumphs, you would have witnessed my assassination.”
Astaroth shook his head, as though the statement shocked even him.
“For if I was not the Great God, that is surely what would have happened,” he declared. “Had I depended on your vigilance or wisdom, I would have been murdered this very night. And it amuses me to see so many of you fools wondering, ‘How could this be?’ I shall show you.…”
The Demon flung Toby dismissively over his shoulder. The helpless smee landed on the altar and curled up like a salted slug. Turning toward David, Astaroth raised his hand like a puppeteer.
David’s body was wrenched violently off his feet as though jerked by invisible wires. His mask cracked and fell to the ground and shattered. Astaroth allowed David to move just enough so that the little Sorcerer appeared to struggle, his legs kicking weakly as he was twirled about in the air.
A cry sounded from the audience. Mrs. Menlo had recognized her son and was staring up at him, her mouth agape. One of the malakhim restrained her as she tried to come forward.
“My children,” said Astaroth, “this is David Menlo. Some here know of him as Rowan’s Sorcerer—he may have even summoned some of you. Others curse him as the plunderer of their fleets. But few know that he is a gardener and a rather gifted alchemist. For it is this impudent boy who has been spreading those pestilential Blood Petals about your lands. But despite his impudence, I must salute him. He not only had the wit to deceive you all, but he also possessed the craft to develop something truly perilous.…”
And at Astaroth’s playful gesture, David’s robes were torn from his suspended body. He hung in the air wearing his ragged sweater and old trousers—the spectacle compounded by his ridiculous stilts.
“Oh, I wouldn’t laugh,” said Astaroth, silencing his leering audience. “Years ago, I consumed young David’s hand. And while he has not fashioned a terribly inspired replacement, I would direct your attention to the red vials about its wrist. For those vials contain a concoction so dangerous that even a sip would slay the mightiest among you.”
Max hoped it would be over soon. He stood absolutely rigid while Mr. Sikes whispered in his ear. David looked so small and so frightened as he hovered limp and helpless above the Demon. Astaroth regarded him as though he were a lecture exhibit.
“But still I am plagued with skeptics,” he said with a rueful smile. “I reveal infiltrators in your midst and save you from mortal peril and yet some still retain the temerity to doubt. Very well, I will show you.…”
Standing tall, the Demon surveyed the vast cathedral until his eyes fell upon a massive, winged shape that sat brooding in an alcove.
“Ah, the great Mad’raast,” exclaimed Astaroth, offering a civil bow. “Come forward, Duke of Lebrim and sentry of the gates, for I have a great honor to bestow upon you.”
The fear and anticipation among the demons was palpable as the huge, dark shape slipped from its perch and advanced warily up the nave. Astaroth beckoned playfully at the gargantuan demon as he paused at the final pews.
“Don’t be frightened,” Astaroth purred. “For I have promised to bestow a great honor upon you, and my word is my bond. For you have failed Prusias, who put his faith in you. It was your responsibility to serve your fellow nobles with vigilance, but you chose instead to serve your greed.”
The great demon bowed his horned head and kneeled, his leathery wings folded about him in an attitude of penance.
“You are very good to admit your shame,” said Astaroth gently. “I was almost moved to anger, but now see that you are worthy of this honor.”
“And what is my honor, Great God?” asked Mad’raast in his deep hiss.
“You shall demonstrate just how dangerous this little Sorcerer is,” replied Astaroth. “And by your sacrifice, you shall atone for your greed and offer my flock a gift of wisdom.”
The huge, winged demon hesitated, his head still bowed low. “My lord, perhaps there is another—”
“Mad’raast,” said Astaroth coldly. “Am I to understand that you are questioning the honor I would grant you? Are you determined to spoil the beautiful death I would bestow despite your failings?”
The demon shook his head gravely and stood to his full, massive height. And at Astaroth’s command, David’s body jerked and spiraled through the air. His limbs shaking under Astaroth’s command, David removed one of the vials and placed it upon Mad’raast’s open palm. Bowing low to the Great God, Mad’raast turned and faced his watchful peers.
With a monstrous, defiant cry, the demon swallowed the entire vial.
Its potency was instantly apparent.
Mad’raast’s cry suddenly curdled into a hideous, frantic scream. White-hot flames burst from his throat and chest and stomach, sweeping over his body like an inferno. Within seconds, the gargantuan demon had been reduced to a smoldering heap of ashes.
Every demon, every noble looked on in stupefied silence. Glancing at Prusias, Max saw the king leaning forward and staring hard at the remaining vials—ever the opportunist. Astaroth, however, had descended to the mound of fluttering ashes and scooped up a handful.
“Farewell, Mad’raast,” said Astaroth, letting the remains sift through his long, sharp-nailed fingers. “We thank you for your gift and can only hope King Prusias will have the wisdom to replace you with someone more attentive.”
Ascending to the altar again, the Demon turned and faced his audience.
“You should be grateful to Mad’raast for the lesson he has taught you. For you need me, my children. You have already permitted a Sorcerer to infiltrate your midst, but he is not the only assassin within these walls. For this kingdom’s very own champion has returned to exact a vengeance of his own. Look well, Vyndra and Prusias and all my beautiful nobles, for a Red Death has come to claim you.”
Mr. Sikes took to the air, fluttering his tiny wings, as Max’s robes fell away, along with the mask of the malakhim. Hisses and whispers ran like tremors through the crowd. Max’s face was known to the many Blyssian nobles who believed that he had died in the arena. Mr. Sikes settled once more upon Max’s shoulder, his sly voice curling like smoke in Max’s ear.
“Yes,” said Astaroth. “This is Max McDaniels, the very Hound of Rowan whom you thought dead. But Prusias deceived you, my children. For this is not just Max McDaniels, but the very Red Death whom you cheered. The Bragha Rùn whom you believed to be one of us …”
Max stood motionless under the collective stare of a thousand demons. Prusias could not help himself; he was staring at Max like a wild animal, a terrible smile on his dark, savage features.
“This is my captive, Great God!” cried the King of Blys. “Return him to my keeping. I will assure you and all the nobles that he will never raise a hand against our kind.”
“My Prusias,” said Astaroth gently, “I do not think the nobles would trust such a dangerous one to your care—particularly as you sought to deceive them. I imagine it is obvious to all that you intended to keep the Hound as a very lethal pet. No, I do not think the others would approve if I relinquished him to you.”
“My Lord—”
“Be still, Prusias.”
Max required no translator to hear the edge in Astaroth’s voice. Prusias sat back as though he’d been struck a blow. The king obediently bowed and averted his eyes.
“And so,” said the Demon, “this shall be a Walpurgisnacht you shall never forget. For not only have I returned, but I have also shown you the error of your ways, as a good parent should. To consecrate this night, I shall raise a toast to you, my children, and our noble history. While I claim the Sorcerer for myself, I deliver the Hound unto you as my gift. His essence shall forever remind you of this night, when the Great God returned and all doubts were put aside.…”
Lowering D
avid slowly, the Demon turned and gazed upon the little Sorcerer with an expression of surprising tenderness.
Mr. Sikes took the opportunity to whisper a message of his own. “Upon the altar you shall go,” whispered the imp. “Bound and helpless for all to feast. My lord has promised me the first bite—just enough for me to attain koukerros. I shall try not to be greedy, but the others will simply have to wait their turn.”
It took all of Max’s resolve to move his head against Astaroth’s wishes. He moved less than an inch, but it was enough to glimpse the moth upon his shoulder. The rage and fury within Max was surging to frightening levels; the Old Magic howled within him but was held captive by the indomitable will of Astaroth. Several of the demons were pointing at him; his aura must have been growing, changing into something monstrous.
“Temper, temper,” chided Mr. Sikes.
When David had nearly reached the cathedral floor, the Demon strode to the empty scarlet robes of the officiate and plucked up the golden goblet. David was hovering several inches off the ground; his entire body was limp as if his consciousness—and, indeed, his life—was swiftly departing.
“It’s almost over, little one,” said Astaroth. “But not quite yet. For you have taken great pains to poison my cup, and I would not deprive you of the opportunity. Fill this goblet so I may make my toast.”
When the demons realized that Astaroth actually intended to drink David’s poison, the cathedral became utterly silent. Max could hardly bear to gaze at his friend as Astaroth forced David’s trembling hand to pour vial after vial of the crimson liquid into the goblet. And when this was done, the Demon bowed in mocking gratitude and turned to raise the goblet aloft.
“Behold!” he cried. “The Great God has returned!”
Tipping back his head, Astaroth drained the goblet’s contents and grinned with a wild, savage triumph. No flames consumed his body, and the demons roared his name in adulation. Calmly placing the goblet upon the altar, Astaroth clutched the Book of Thoth to his chest. He raised a hand for quiet, and the cathedral fell into obedient silence.
Cupping David’s chin, Astaroth raised his head so that the boy could look him in the eye. “Walpurgisnacht has officially commenced, little Sorcerer. Do you have any last words before I consume you?”
David nodded wearily.
“Let’s hear them, my love.”
“Checkmate.”
No translation was necessary.
David spoke in English, and his single word had been perfectly audible in the silent cathedral.
Astaroth blinked. His smile faded, and he made a derisive laugh. “And what is that supposed to—”
With a drunken lurch, Astaroth staggered against the altar. His audience merely stared, unsure of what was happening. Max could hear the demon gasping. The spell holding David up was broken, and the boy collapsed to the floor.
What was happening to Astaroth was not nearly as dramatic as the flames that had consumed Mad’raast, but the demon did appear to be burning. A pearly, vaporous essence was issuing from him, rising like smoke as Astaroth succumbed to a sort of seizure.
“NO!” he cried, clawing frantically at his chest.
The exclamation was not one of pain, but of complete and utter shock. It was a cry of humiliation—for the Demon had been tricked before his entire court. Several nobles rose and approached, creeping cautiously up the steps. Prusias was among them, his expression a strange mixture of fear and delight. He glanced absently at David’s motionless body and prodded it aside with his boot.
Astaroth gasped something to Prusias, some plea for aid. But the King of Blys did not pay his Great God any heed.
His eyes were on the Book.
And he was not alone.
The mood in the cathedral had turned; adulation had been replaced by something predatory.
Rashaverak was the first to reach for the Book, a probing swipe.
Astaroth shouted something at the demons in their own language, but more were coming close—to survey and perhaps to seize upon a very great and unexpected opportunity.
Astaroth clutched the precious relic tighter, shouting at the demons in their own language. But it was in vain. More were venturing near—circling like sharks. And as they approached, Astaroth continued to gasp and writhe within the clinging cloud of pearly mist.
Snarling, Rashaverak made a bolder grab. Sweeping up his cane, Prusias cracked it down upon the wolfen snout, staggering the King of Jakarün and thrusting him aside. Prusias slipped closer to Astaroth, his mad eyes fixed on the golden book.
Boom!
The cathedral’s windows shattered as Astaroth flung them all back with some terrible spell. Not a demon lay within fifty feet; even the monarchs had been dashed against the toppled pews and shattered statues.
Moaning, Astaroth clutched the Book closer. The Demon glared down at David with a feral, murderous rage. But there was fear, too. Max saw it spreading like a stain upon the Demon’s face.
Looking past him, Max knew Astaroth had good reason to be afraid. The demons were rising once again. Prusias was already walking toward them, his face aglow and utterly insane.
“How the mighty have fallen!” he exclaimed, punctuating each step with his cane. “Has the ‘Great God’ been deceived?”
He laughed. The rest of the demons said nothing, but closed behind him in an anxious, watchful mob. Astaroth swatted weakly at the mist puffing steadily from his body.
“Stand down, Prusias,” he gasped. “I command you.”
“I will not,” replied the grinning king, arriving at the steps.
“Protect me!”
Max was powerless to resist. Commanded by the Demon’s will, Max stepped in front of Astaroth and David. Prusias came to a halt upon the steps and stared with amused, malicious glee.
“You should have stayed in my dungeons, Max,” he reflected.
Max drew the gae bolga from its sheath.
Prusias glanced at the weapon, bemused. “So, you’ve brought a knife to this little party?” he remarked, licking his lips. “Good for you, lad. But I brought something too.…”
Even as he spoke these words, the King of Blys began to grow. The smile never left Prusias’s face as the demon transformed grotesquely into something Max had dreaded ever since he’d glimpsed its shadow.
Behold, a great red dragon!
And gazing up, Max looked upon Prusias in his true form. And that form was of a scarlet serpent that stretched the length of the cathedral. The other demons backed hurriedly away as Prusias’s massive coils lashed from side to side, sweeping pews and peers aside. But despite the body’s monstrous size and violence, Max was transfixed by its heads.
There were now seven of them, seven human heads set atop sinuous necks that had sprouted from the serpent’s body. Each was horned and crowned, and bore the familiar, gnashing face of Prusias. One rose higher than all the rest. When it roared, the cathedral trembled.
Max was trembling, too. The gae bolga felt alive in his hand, almost straining in its eagerness for battle. Only Astaroth’s will prevented Max from lashing out.
A breathless tension filled the cathedral.
Then Prusias attacked.
The spell binding Max’s body was broken. All of the energy and rage and fear that had been cresting in him were released. When the dragon struck, the gae bolga flashed like fire as Max slashed it across the demon’s throat.
Prusias recoiled frantically from the blow, his face white with shock as blood streamed from the gaping wound. With a great heave, Prusias wrenched his scaly bulk away from the altar and Max. His other heads howled with fury, lashing about and snapping blindly. But the injured head stared, appalled at the hideous weapon in Max’s hand.
For the gae bolga was screaming now.
It shook in Max’s hand, the blade keening like women at a wake. It was a sound to freeze the blood. Many demons backed away, pressing against the outer walls as they sought refuge not only from Prusias, but the weapon that had wou
nded him.
But not all of the demons were cowards.
With cries and howls, hundreds of them joined the battle. While some stormed toward Astaroth, others from Aamon’s and Lilith’s camps fell upon Prusias. In a heartbeat, secret factions and alliances were revealed as the cathedral was transformed into a battlefield.
Max leaped forward to meet them, the gae bolga shrieking as it cleaved through armor, bone, and spirit with frightful ease. The energies surging through Max were enormous. He became ever wilder, until even Astaroth’s voice and commands had faded. Soon there was only the hall and his enemies … and Vyndra.
He found the rakshasa in the midst of the fray, battling several of the malakhim. The demon evidently heard Max scream his name. With brutal efficiency, Vyndra clove his attackers in two and whirled to meet Max.
Slipping under the arc of Max’s swing, the demon caught him by the throat and slammed him against a pillar. Flames were coursing about the demon’s body, searing Max as the two struggled. The demon was much too strong at such close quarters. A frightful blow from a curving saber dazed Max and he barely escaped decapitation. The blade bit into the pillar just above Max’s head, sinking deep into the stone. Snarling, the demon held Max at arm’s length while he strained to free the blade.
He needn’t have bothered.
Prusias’s tail shattered the massive stonework like match-sticks. Its force sent Max and Vyndra sprawling as the King of Blys wheeled about and bore down upon them.
In a blink, Vyndra had transformed, becoming a column of living flame that streaked away toward the rafters. But Max had no such tricks up his sleeves. Backing frantically away, he found himself face to face with the King of Blys.
The demon’s eyes were blank, unseeing. The Prusias Max had known was gone, his persona given wholly to the monster whose snapping jaws drove Max back toward the altar. It had already devoured dozens of its kind, and its beards were soaked with blood that dripped and hissed upon the marble floor.
One of the heads darted forward, baring its yellow fangs. Max slashed, catching it across its nose. Black blood spurted as it withdrew, but the others converged in a wild snapping and snarling. Max tripped over a fallen musician, rolling away just as Prusias’s body surged forward to crush other demons nearby.
The Fiend and the Forge Page 47
