The Fiend and the Forge

by Henry H. Neff

  Just as Max scrambled to his feet, an arrow struck him in the shoulder.

  The impact was like a gunshot, knocking him backward and nearly buckling his knees. Instinctively, he glanced up to glimpse Vyndra as he loosed another arrow from the safety of a balcony far above.

  The second arrow struck mere inches from the first and knocked Max flat. Only a desperate parry deflected the next, as Vyndra now took his time, aiming with deliberation. Crying out, Max stabbed the gae bolga into Prusias as a rippling coil threatened to crush him. With a roar, the King of Blys slid away before suddenly doubling back to renew his attack. As he heaved and coiled his body, its bulk momentarily sheltered Max from Vyndra’s line of fire. Gritting his teeth, Max wrenched the arrows from his shoulder.

  Max’s breath came in painful gasps as he flung the arrows away. Prusias’s great, bleeding head plunged down at him. This time, he would not be able to evade it. Every hideous detail was visible, from the slavering jaws to the demon’s cane embedded within its iron crown.

  But just as Prusias was about to seize Max, Vyndra shot another arrow. Instead of striking Max, the deadly shaft pierced Prusias’s eye. Bellowing, Prusias whipped about to strike at his assailant.

  As the head veered away, Max saw his chance.

  Seizing hold of Prusias’s tangled beard, Max held tight as the massive head rose high into the air. Below him, Max saw the battle playing out in miniature, the cathedral floor littered with the fallen and those who fed upon them. Holding his ground, Vyndra nocked another arrow.

  The demon loosed it just as Prusias annihilated the balcony. The arrow went astray, whistling past Max, who let go of Prusias’s beard to seize hold of Vyndra.

  He caught the rakshasa about the waist, plunging the gae bolga into him. As the pair plummeted down, Vyndra roared with pain and scrabbled wildly to tear the weapon from Max’s hand. The blade wailed as it pierced Vyndra’s armor and clove the ancient essence beneath.

  Frantic, the rakshasa sought escape. Again, his form became one of smoke and flame as it streaked toward one of the shattered windows. But Max would not let go, clutching the searing shape as though it were a runaway comet.

  And as the giant promised, the blade of the Morrígan made no distinction between mortal or immortal, flesh or spirit. It craved them all.

  Whether the final scream came from Vyndra or the keening sword, Max could not tell. It did not matter. In a final, fiery burst, Vyndra’s essence died and an inconceivable surge of energy flooded into Max.

  With an earsplitting howl, Max sprang to the cathedral floor. His body was electric. Astaroth’s hold was utterly shattered, consumed by the Old Magic in his blood and the weapon in his hand.

  Scathach’s words had come true. “You are the child of Lugh Lamfhada. You are the sun and the storm and master of all the feats I have to teach. You are these things because you must be.…”

  As these words flashed in his mind, a light burst forth from him and he shone brighter than the noonday sun. Max was dimly aware of weapons striking out at him, of fearsome spells, of shrieks and pleas. But they were all for naught. He was invincible; he was the wildest demon in Blys.

  The gae bolga inflicted terrible damage upon those within its reach, its keening reaching a frantic pitch. So swift was Max’s assault and so terrifying his aspect that all took flight before him. He heard glass breaking, stone shattering, and the shrieking of fell spirits as he stormed through the hall.

  But it was a single word, spoken telepathically, that finally got his attention.

  “Max.”

  The voice was David’s.

  Whirling around, Max saw David slumped near the altar. Astaroth lay nearby, still clutching the Book and struggling weakly against the swirling luminescent mist.

  David repeated Max’s name in the same calm, plaintive tone. It was not unlike Cooper’s whispering of his name when the Agent had rescued Max in Prusias’s dungeon. But David was not rescuing Max from a cell.

  He was rescuing him from the Morrígan.

  He was rescuing him from himself.

  Max had taken an oath to protect David, and he had nearly forgotten it. Prusias loomed very near to David now, the great wyrm coiling about the cathedral’s apse and altar so that David and Astaroth were almost obscured. Even in his wild state, Max realized that Prusias had cut off their escape.

  “Max, I need you.…”

  Max rushed back to the altar, demons fleeing before him. Dashing past the bodies littering the steps, Max finally reached his friend.

  David was dying.

  The little Sorcerer was lying upon the topmost step, his presence almost overlooked in the pandemonium that had erupted.

  He beckoned Max closer. “Get my mother. It’s almost time.…”

  “Where is she?”

  David gestured weakly toward a pair of overturned pews. Hurrying over, Max found Mrs. Menlo lying unconscious in the hollow between them. His eyes ever watchful for Prusias, Max dragged her out and slung her over his shoulder.

  Running back to the altar, Max saw that the mist above Astaroth was growing brighter, its nimbus coalescing into distinct shapes. Laying Mrs. Menlo next to her son, Max leaped back just as one of Prusias’s heads snaked forward to seize him. Its teeth gnashed, just missing as Max dealt three swift blows across its chin. The dragon howled with pain and dashed his head against the wall, bringing huge blocks of masonry crashing down about them.

  Shielding the Menlos with his body, Max suddenly spied the smee upon the altar. Toby had curled himself into a ball no larger than a grapefruit. Snatching him with his injured arm, Max stuffed the smee inside his shirt, just as the nearby struggle intensified.

  “Get away from me!”

  The frantic command came from Astaroth. The Demon lay ten feet away, his back propped against the altar. He was besieged, straining against the enveloping mist, whose tendrils plucked at the Book of Thoth. As Max watched, Astaroth’s hand was pried momentarily away and the golden cover was opened.…

  Max glanced up to see a piece of masonry crashing toward them. Blocking his friends, he deflected it, but a corner still struck him a terrible blow on the head. Staggering, his knees suddenly buckled, and he slumped next to David.

  As blood trickled into his eyes, Max glimpsed the Demon as he wrenched the Book of Thoth firmly back into his possession. For a moment, Astaroth’s face turned toward him, beautiful and angelic and utterly suffused with hate.

  There was a blinding flash of white light, and Max lost consciousness.…

  He had not imagined death would be quite like this.

  It was cold and wet and soothed him with lapping waves that washed over his toes and legs and reached up to his fingertips. And it was quiet and peaceful, a soft symphony of crashing waves and distant gulls.

  And it was delightfully blubbery.

  As Max moved his head, he felt a pillow of sleek fur.

  “I think he’s coming to.”

  Something cool touched Max’s face, and he opened his eyes to see David.

  The little Sorcerer was smiling down at him.

  Max had never seen a picture that captured an expression such as David’s. His friend’s pale eyes were alight with a quiet radiance, a serenity that exceeded mere happiness. It was an expression of joy, of victory achieved through weary toil and bitter sacrifice.

  “Can you hear me?” he asked quietly.

  Max nodded, but his head ached terribly.

  David urged him to lie still. Max noticed that his friend’s deathly appearance seemed to have washed away, and he resembled his old self. Above, the sky was a placid pink, the stars growing faint with the coming dawn.

  Twitching his fingers, Max found that he was still clutching the gae bolga. He glanced nervously at it, but the blade had gone still and silent. Shifting his weight, he felt the furry headrest ripple beneath him.

  “What is this?” he muttered, half turning.

  “It’s me, you heroic thing,” responded Toby. “You cracke
d your head and needed a pillow, and I can’t think of anything more supportive and comforting than a selkie. It’s the least I can do after you saved me. Forgive my earlier comments—it would seem you are an old hand at storming a palace full of demons.” The selkie’s body rippled with laughter.

  Max grimaced at the sudden movement. “What happened, David?” he said, dazed. “How did you …?”

  “Oh, the Fomorian was wrong about me,” said David. “I really am a clever fool.…”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “A wise man would have failed this task,” David explained. “Astaroth would have destroyed him. Only a clever fool could bait him into drinking that goblet.”

  “But he knew!” exclaimed Max, half sitting up. He found that he was finally able to share his betrayal. Astaroth’s spell was broken. “David, I told him what would be in that goblet. He made me tell him all about the flowers and your potions.…”

  “Put your guilt aside,” said David. “There was nothing you could have done. And I knew such a thing would occur. In fact, I depended on it. You poisoned Astaroth just as much as I did.”

  David gently pushed Max back down.

  “And you weren’t alone,” David continued. “I planted information with lots of people and creatures and even demons, hoping that it would eventually trickle to Astaroth. I wanted him to peek at my cards.”

  “Why?” asked Max.

  David shrugged. “That was the only way I could win. Even before Astaroth had the Book, I was never a match for him. I don’t have a fraction of his magic. To confront him directly would have been suicide. So I had to fool him—I had to trick him into helping me.

  “I provided him with an irresistible opportunity,” David continued. “On his holiest day, the ‘Great God’ could make a grand entrance, destroy his enemies, and demonstrate his superiority to all assembled. Such a prospect would be very appealing to someone like Astaroth. But we could never have infiltrated Walpurgisnacht and gotten close to him unless he had enabled it. He complied because he thought we were hapless fools. He thought that he was setting the trap.”

  Max recalled his conversation with Cooper in the Agent’s room, their talk of sharps and flats and confidence games.

  “I can’t believe it,” he murmured. “You conned him.”

  “I’m afraid I did,” said David.

  “Amazing,” observed Max dazedly. “And I’m never playing cards with you again.”

  David smiled.

  “It is undoubtedly the greatest confidence game I’ve ever heard of,” remarked Toby, his voice aglow with admiration. “The opponent! The stakes! The daring! Why, I’m in doubt whether the exalted grand master of smees could have managed such a thing. Hats off to you, dear boy. What an achievement!”

  Max frowned at this. “But, David, what have we achieved?”

  “Well,” said David thoughtfully, “you have avenged your father, and we have struck the Enemy a very powerful blow—one that has sown strife across the four kingdoms.”

  “But we didn’t destroy Astaroth,” observed Max. “And he still has the Book.”

  “Both true,” David allowed.

  “Then the mission failed,” said Max heavily.

  David smiled and shook his head. “This was a rescue mission, Max. And it succeeded.”

  Confused, Max said nothing but lay still and watched the sky brightening above him. It was true that they had rescued Mrs. Menlo, but why had David waited until Walpurgisnacht? The gambit seemed needlessly dangerous. It was a lot for Max to process even without his many wounds.

  “How is she?” Max murmured.

  “My mother?” asked David. “Somewhat bruised and frightened, but she’s fine now. I’ve never seen her happier.”

  Max smiled, but his emotions were jumbled. His thoughts drifted to Vyndra and the dreams of vengeance that had consumed him. The demon was slain, but the fact offered little solace. Vyndra’s death would not bring back Scott McDaniels. As Max pondered these things, David sat patiently beside him, seemingly content to let his friend’s mind catch up to all that had happened.

  Max recalled the strange mist that had poured from Astaroth once he’d consumed the potions. “David,” he murmured. “What was in that goblet?”

  “Four vials of Blood Petals,” he replied. “And a clever little key.”

  “What?”

  “A key,” David repeated. “The fifth vial looked and smelled like the others, but it was an entirely different kind of potion—one that was much more difficult to make. It allowed the prisoner to free himself.”

  What prisoner? Had they rescued someone other than Mrs. Menlo?

  Max was still baffled and groggy, but snippets of memories and events and past conversations formed a clearer picture in his mind. An unmistakable chill ran down his spine. He did not know whether to be elated or terrified.

  “David,” he whispered, more and more memories flooding back. “How did we escape? Did you bring us here?”

  David shook his head. Helping Max to his feet, David pointed to a figure standing in the gray-green swells.

  “He did.”

  Only now did Max realize they were on the beach at Rowan. The man in the water was staring out at Brigit’s Vigil, whose silhouette stood against the sunrise. He was a large man with a wild mane of steel-gray hair and a thick beard that had always reminded Max of Poseidon.

  The man glanced back at David’s mother, who stood watching from shore. Wading slowly back to the beach, the man approached and took her hands while she gazed up at him with childlike adoration. His expression stern, he removed the jester headdress and let it drop to the sand.

  “Do they know each other?” asked Max.

  David cleared his throat. “She’s his daughter.”

  Max tried unsuccessfully to master his shock. “So, he’s your—!”

  David motioned for quiet. The man was now staring at them. It was a hard appraisal—the guarded look of a wild animal that had just become aware of another’s presence.

  “Don’t speak,” whispered David. “He’s still adjusting.”

  Nearly a minute passed before the man’s attention drifted toward the chalky cliffs that led to Rowan’s campus. Smoothing his daughter’s hair, the man took her hand and made for the stairs.

  Toby transformed to his native shape and Max scooped him up so the trio could follow. They climbed the steps as the sun peeped over the horizon, turning Rowan’s cliffs to gold.

  Max felt a rush of joy at seeing Maggie and Old Tom and the ivy-covered Manse. Ahead of them, the man paused to glance at one of the marble statues before he strolled on, studying every detail of Rowan’s quiet campus.

  It was only when he had nearly reached the Manse that the man seemed to notice Gràvenmuir. He gazed across the quad and solemnly contemplated the demonic embassy. Every window within the dark, Gothic structure was brightly lit. Several demons on the grounds were still celebrating Walpurgisnacht. They ceased their conversations and stared uncertainly at this strange man who studied them from afar.

  At the man’s silent invitation, Max and David approached. He placed his daughter’s hand in David’s and then turned his gray eyes to the path that led to Rowan’s Sanctuary. Something very large was coming toward them.

  It was YaYa, the Great Matriarch of Rowan.

  The ki-rin was an ancient creature, whose single horn had been broken during the Siege of Solas. While YaYa’s appearance was undeniably imposing, Rowan’s students had known her only as the gentle black lioness who dozed inside the Warming Lodge and presided over the Sanctuary with grandmotherly benevolence.

  At the moment, the ki-rin did not appear grandmotherly or benevolent. Her expression was so fierce, her bearing so proud that she seemed a different being altogether. She came steadily down the path, her ghostly eyes fixed upon the man, who waited patiently.

  YaYa came to a halt, towering over the man as steam poured from her panting mouth. Looking gravely down at him, she dipped her shaggy he
ad by way of salute. For the first time, the man smiled. He reached up to stroke the smooth fur between her great, blind eyes, while the ki-rin nuzzled him like a kitten.

  Minutes later, the sun rose above Rowan’s cliffs just as Old Tom struck five o’clock. It was May Day, and Walpurgisnacht was over.

  As Old Tom’s chimes rang across the campus, history’s greatest Sorcerer climbed upon the ki-rin’s back and urged her toward Gràvenmuir. As the pair approached, Max saw the demons withdraw into the embassy. Even the hideous mummer guards abandoned their post as YaYa stopped at the outer gates. Meek as lambs, the mummers slipped inside.

  And when the final chime had sounded, the Sorcerer spread his arms, as though to greet the dawn.

  And when he did, the earth shook.

  In an avalanche of stone, the entire cliff beneath Gràvenmuir gave way. With an appalling crash, the embassy and all within it were cast down into the sea.

  Elias Bram had returned.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  In The Fiend and the Forge, Max McDaniels explores a strange new world while confronting demons without and within. The same might be said about writing. But while heroes often face such dangers alone, authors can usually count on help.

  This book was more ambitious than its predecessors and I would never have been able to complete it without the unflagging support and encouragement of my wonderful family and close friends. Throughout the process, there were many occasions when I needed to indulge my creative angst and howl at the moon. Their collective willingness to listen, soothe, and provide perspective is a testament to their tolerance and sense of humor. These indulgent souls include my mother, Terry Zimmerman; my siblings, John and Victoria; friends who have known me since I had hair; and my former colleagues and students.

  While my friends and family provided invaluable support, many others played a more direct role in bringing the final product into being. The original draft was a monster, some 250,000 words of unfiltered ideas and innumerable plot threads. After all, there was a new world to create, and I was eager to explore every aspect of various cultures, kingdoms, economies, and secondary characters. My editors at Random House, Nick Eliopulos and Schuyler Hooke, did a masterful job of taming this beast, divining my best intentions and shaping the story to match. Nicole de las Heras is the visionary behind the book’s beautiful design, while the heroic efforts of Carrie Andrews, Diane João, and Alison Kolani ensured clarity and consistency in the text. As always, Josh and Tracey Adams of Adams Literary provided sound counsel, while Jocelyn Lange ensured that many readers around the world could share Max’s adventures in their native languages. As deadlines loomed, these individuals went above and beyond the call of duty, and I’m eternally grateful for their commitment and professionalism.