The Red Winter

by Henry H. Neff

  Max whistled. If the Raszna joined Rowan, they would more than double the size of its army. “Are they good fighters?”

  “There’s an understatement,” said Connor, having another cookie. “We didn’t even have any war chiefs with us during the Grael operation. Those are some seriously big boys—even bigger than Grael.”

  “Really?” said Max, trying to picture a vye of that size. It was a little unsettling. “If the Raszna are so strong, why have they stayed in hiding?”

  “You’d have to ask Archon that,” replied Connor. “But with Astaroth’s rise to power and all these wars, it hasn’t been the best time to raise their profile. The Raszna aren’t in a rush. They’ve made a good home here, but vyes are meant to live under the sun and stars. The Raszna won’t stay underground forever.”

  “Do you think they’ll be open to an alliance with Rowan?” asked Max.

  Connor shrugged. “I couldn’t say. The timing’s good, common enemy and all that. And you’re the right person for Rowan to send—moschiach and all. But there are some who hate Rowan. And if the people get the impression you’re treating them as junior partners or inferiors, it’ll never happen. Are you offering good terms?”

  “I really think we are,” said Max. “David put a lot of thought into them. Archon and Volsu seemed impressed.”

  “Well, that’s a start. If you think Archon’s for it, that’s a good sign. His word carries a lot of weight. Even his critics respect him. Same with Lady Nico.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Max. “Why aren’t she and Eloise in vye form?”

  “They rarely are. Raszna who spend a lot of their time among humans get used to wearing their human skin. It becomes more natural—so natural they don’t give off any signs of being vyes.”

  As he finished, the bathroom door opened and Sarah emerged, trailing steam from her wooly white bathrobe. “Have they brought our—”

  She left off as she spied their bags and belongings. Padding over, she grabbed the girls’ packs and headed back toward the bathroom. “We’ll be out in a few.”

  “Psst!” hissed Connor. “Lucia still mad at me?”

  “Why should I tell you?” said Sarah coolly.

  “Because I’m desperate.”

  “Well,” she said, “if you’re that desperate, I’ll give you a hint. Lucia loves Kettlemouth and Kettlemouth loves to eat. Feed the frog, win the girl. His tin’s in the red bag.”

  Sarah disappeared into the bathroom while Connor found the tin whose flowery design belied its slimy, foul-smelling contents. Nox sniffed with interest as Connor plucked up a limp, long-dead night crawler. Within his cage, Kettlemouth cracked a bleary eye.

  Dangling the worm, Connor unlatched the cage to let its bulbous occupant squeeze out of the opening. With a splat, the crimson bullfrog hopped heavily onto the floor and followed Connor to a sofa, where he climbed onto the baron’s lap, rolled onto his back, and proceeded to dine on worms, beetles, and horseflies in the manner to which he was accustomed. Connor moaned softly.

  “This is bloody disgusting.”

  “I’ll leave you to it,” said Max as the girls came out of the bathroom. Easing Nox off his lap, he went to grab his pack. A bath would be excellent, and he was anxious to change his clothes. The Almuir finery was well and good, but he wanted to send a different message this evening. Military dress would be better. Rowan was asking the Raszna to go to war, not to a ball. When Max relayed this to the girls, Sarah and Scathach agreed readily enough, but Lucia protested.

  “I want to look nice,” she huffed, toweling her wet hair as she laid out several outfits.

  “School robes or travel clothes,” said Max. “We’re Rowan ambassadors tonight.”

  “You and Scathach maybe,” Lucia sniffed. “Sarah and I are just along for the ride.”

  “Nonsense,” said Scathach. “You laid the groundwork.”

  Lucia rolled her eyes. “Please. The Raszna only revealed themselves when you and Max showed up. Our own mission was a failure.”

  “Au contraire,” put in Connor, grimacing as he dangled another earthworm into the bullfrog’s expectant mouth. “You did lay the groundwork. Eloise vouched for you in a big way. She’s young but her mother’s Lady Nico and her grandfather’s Archon.”

  “Is that really true?” asked Lucia dubiously.

  When Connor swore that it was, Lucia took out her Rowan robes, laid them over a chair, and removed her magechain from its velvet box. It glittered red in the room’s lamplight, its rubies, fire opals, and red beryls a testament to her masteries. A magechain was part of the official Rowan uniform, but Max cleared his throat when she slid a gem-studded cuff over her wrist. Lucia headed him off.

  “Not a word,” she warned. “You wouldn’t be here without me. And, after all, it’s just a little sparkle from my Connor.”

  My Connor.

  Max glanced over to see the Dublin youth’s face break out into a happy grin. Fishing through Kettlemouth’s tin, Connor plucked up a particularly juicy fly and placed it on the unfurling tongue.

  Two hours later, the group’s playful mood grew serious when Eloise and Lady Nico returned, still in human form, with an armed guard to escort them to Amber Hall. Both the lady and her daughter were dressed in dark robes with amber trim.

  Rowan’s representatives presented a more soldierly appearance. Sarah wore her corselet of silver mail, while Max and Scathach dressed in the formal uniforms of the Red Branch: a gray tunic over black mail, along with black boots and breeches. Scathach had her poignard at her hip, but the gae bolga was missing from the box. When Max asked Lady Nico about this, she assured him it would be returned when he left Arcanum. Rather than argue, Max went unarmed. In any case, it would send a more confident message if he went without one. Besides, he intended to rely on his aura.

  Max had to be careful, of course—his control was still imperfect—but Galia’s prophecy had convinced him that his aura could be invaluable at winning the Raszna over. Archon had said the Raszna would only follow strength. If Max managed his aura properly, he might convince them they were not only following strength, but also following the moschiach. Even so, much would depend on Archon. How the Raszna leader positioned a Rowan alliance to believers and skeptics alike would be critical.

  Amber Hall was packed when they arrived with Lady Nico. Its atmosphere was very different from the aged, scholarly reception that greeted them. The hall was hot, the air saturated with a wild, animal smell—a scent of sweat and blood and fur and musk. Conversations appeared intense and heated, sudden surges of movement and crowd flows indicating a simmering, escalating threat of violence. The Raszna seemed poised to riot.

  Max had never seen vyes like these. As they paused at the threshold, his eyes fell upon some who stood twelve feet or more, nightmarish figures wearing gleaming armor of black scales. They looked like an entirely different species from the comically harmless Lupo. A few were so large they might have been mistaken for Egyptian statues of Anubis or Set. But these weren’t statues; they were laughing, arguing, or howling as the mood (and drink) took them.

  “Should we go in there?” whispered Lucia, looking pale.

  “Don’t get spooked,” said Connor. “War chiefs are a rougher set than the professors. They always shake things up.” He gestured toward a group of armored vyes standing near the roped-off, sacred spot of Galia’s murder. “Just don’t show fear, eh?”

  “My God,” hissed Sarah. “They’re huge!”

  Indeed they were. “Follow me,” said Lady Nico, leading them along the hall’s perimeter toward the burning brazier where Archon was seated at the foot of the dais. Among the nearby professors, Max saw Volsu and a tall, sleek black vye wearing pearly gray robes.

  As they crossed the room, many eyes followed them. There were some in Amber Hall who had been waiting for this moment all their lives. Max carried himself with a calm, commanding arrogance that moved people out of his path. It didn’t matter if anyone liked him; he needed the Raszna to
respect him. He wanted his aura to be subtle—an impression of self-possessed authority and command. If he was successful, not even the wildest war chief would consider challenging him.

  “Moschiach,” gasped a voice to his left. Max turned to see an elderly female vye in crimson robes drop to her knees and bow her shaggy head. Several others followed her example, murmuring the sacred word and bowing as he passed.

  It was an uncomfortable feeling. Max had seen people behave this way with Mina and it always made him uneasy. It was one thing to lead people; it was quite another to be seen as a religious figure or player in an ancient prophecy. Within the eyes of those who kneeled, Max perceived an unnerving array of emotions that ranged from love to fear to predatory hunger.

  The hall grew quiet. Hundreds of eyes now followed Max, Scathach, Lucia, and Sarah as Lady Nico led them toward Archon. Connor left their group, falling back to stand with Lady Nico’s guards. Max walked on, his attention upon a towering war chief who was pushing roughly through the crowd to head them off.

  But when he looked directly upon Max, the fearsome vye hesitated. Having nearly reached them, he suddenly stopped as if uncertain what to do. Slowly, he lowered his great head and stood at respectful attention as they passed. Max heard Sarah exhale. The hall was nearly silent. The only sounds came from the brazier’s flames.

  As they reached the dais, Lady Isu helped Archon to his feet. The old vye looked solemn but pleased nonetheless to see them. He shook each of their hands in the human custom, unhurried and apparently unconcerned that the entire hall was watching in tense silence. Lady Nico introduced them to Professor Fenwulf, who was the black vye in the gray robes Max had seen with Volsu.

  Fenwulf spoke perfect English with an Eastern European accent. Offering a civil bow, he asked why David Menlo was not present.

  “He is with Rowan’s army,” Max explained.

  “A shame,” said the Raszna. “It is customary for leaders to treat with one another, no? Instead he sends his proxy. Not an auspicious beginning.”

  “He sent the moschiach!” hissed Fenwulf’s neighbor.

  Fenwulf gave his indignant colleague an amused glance. “Our people are scientists and scholars, students of the great mysteries. We can’t make decisions based on the ramblings of an unbalanced woman who died a thousand years ago.”

  “The Apocrypha—” retorted the academic.

  “—are delightful fairy tales,” finished Fenwulf. “Not even Volsu believes them.”

  This statement threatened to trigger angry debates until Archon silenced them. Even Fenwulf ceased at Archon’s command. He straightened and watched the Raszna leader as Lady Isu helped him up the dais steps. Clearing his throat, Archon’s deep, hoarse voice filled Amber Hall. Speaking in an undertone, Lady Nico translated for the visitors.

  “Tonight, we remember Även. My sister’s grandson, our brother and friend. His bones lie at Rowan, but his spirit is free and hunts with Luperca in the afterlife. Tonight, I ask that you keep Även in your heart as I share with you matters of great importance. We must be wise, for decisions we make tonight will shape lives for many generations.”

  “Moschiach!” cried a harsh voice from the hall’s far reaches. Several others took up the call, but Archon silenced them. Max gazed out at the crowd, composed. Focusing his mind, he let his aura intensify so that his presence was subtly—but undeniably—something more than human.

  “Moschiach,” repeated Archon, glancing down at Max. “It is not so much a word as a hope—a dream that some have nurtured for a thousand years. Many here believe in Galia and pay tribute to where she was slain.” He gestured to the roped area beneath the mural. “Our Även held Galia’s words sacred. He believed the Hound of Rowan was the one she foretold—the enemy who would lead us out of hiding. And here he has come—here to Arcanum in the midst of war. Even Galia’s critics must acknowledge this is a strange coincidence.”

  Fenwulf folded his arms, listening intently.

  “The Hound knew nothing of our prophecies,” Archon continued. “He has come to us as an emissary. As you know, Rowan marches in force upon Blys. They desire us to march with them, to join them in this war and end the reign of Prusias.”

  Archon held up his hand as many began to snarl and protest. “First, hear what they propose,” he urged. When they were quiet, the Raszna leader shared David’s proposals in a calm, authoritative voice.

  Many vyes looked amazed. Even Fenwulf glanced sharply at Volsu, as though seeking confirmation that this was true. The Apocrypha scholar gave a subtle nod.

  “I hold nothing back from you,” declared Archon. “We cannot make this decision with half-truths or secrets between us. That is not the Raszna way. And so, I will confess that I am a believer in Galia’s prophecy. I was not always, however. It was Även who made me see, Även who convinced me that Rowan did not have to be our enemy forever and that their Hound was honorable. I believe with all my heart that he is the moschiach of whom Galia spoke.”

  Archon gazed down upon Max as he said this. And Max knew the old vye was not lying, for his eyes and his voice betrayed currents of deep and powerful emotions. Reaching beneath his robe’s collar, the vye removed a thick chain of interlocking silver hands. Leaning upon his cane, he raised it high above his head for all to see.

  “A believer cannot lead us,” he declared. “Faith alone cannot dictate the path we take. If we are to join with Rowan, Galia’s skeptics must also believe it is the right course. Her skeptics must believe it is time to cast aside old grievances and embrace new possibilities. A skeptic should lead us. And thus, I bestow the title of Archon and my chain of office to the Master of Silverfalls.”

  Lady Nico nearly gasped. It was clear she had no idea her father had intended to do this. Even Fenwulf looked stunned. He walked mechanically up the dais steps and bowed to receive the ponderous chain as Archon placed it around his neck.

  Archon embraced his successor. “You are my brother and I have faith in you.”

  “Thank you, Archon.”

  The ancient vye smiled. “I am merely Üden once again. You are Archon. The chain is heavy. Wear it well.”

  Fenwulf’s face lost every trace of its sardonic qualities. Max had to admire Üden’s cunning. The Master of Silverfalls struck Max as the type to snipe from the sidelines and imply he would make a more suitable leader. When thrust in that position, however, such people often developed a greater respect for their predecessors and the burdens of leadership. This seemed to be the case with Fenwulf. He was obviously moved by Üden’s gesture, but he also faced a pressing decision. The decision was not his alone, but the Archon’s opinion carried considerable weight. Should he turn Rowan down and risk angering those who believed the moschiach stood before them? He turned to face the Raszna, his long fingers fidgeting with the chain.

  “This is … unexpected. Üden has led our people for many years and we owe him a debt we cannot repay. Let us remember that it was Üden who strengthened Silverfalls, plumbed the Grottos, and sent his own kin to infiltrate our enemy. We have not had a finer Archon since Tiberius himself.” He bowed deeply to Üden.

  “But I am not Üden,” he continued, his voice growing stronger. “I was the Master of Silverfalls and we do not have an Amber Hall. We do not have Galia’s blood upon our floors or vow to keep these flames burning until the day of deliverance.” He gestured to the brazier behind him. “Arcanum is the Raszna holy land and I was not raised amid its prophecies. I am but a pilgrim here.”

  Scathach frowned at these words, but Max remained impassive, aware that many eyes were watching their new Archon and himself.

  “We are the Raszna!” shouted Fenwulf, spittle flying from his bared teeth. “We are strong without Rowan. Even now, the fires of rebellion burn across Harine. We did this! Our people have sunk ships, slain braymas, and sent a shiver of fear throughout Prusias’s empire. We must honor Titus, Vechna, Pollox, and Anthül.” He indicated four gargantuan war chiefs standing together. “They are heroes! We
must honor the Lady Nico, for she has been at the heart of our operations on the surface. It was she who brought Enlyll’s ruler into our fold.”

  To Max’s surprise, the new Archon turned and gestured for Connor to join him on the dais. This Connor did, looking somewhat queasy but determined. The new Archon rested a hand on his shoulder.

  “This human—this mehrùn who was once our enemy—has fought with us, bled with us, and risked all to aid our cause. Üden has named him ruva, our brother, and Baron Lynch has pledged his life to our people. Shall he be our brother in name only, or shall he be our brother in flesh, blood, and spirit? Shall we make him a true Raszna?”

  “Raszna!” roared the hall’s occupants.

  From his robes, the Elder vyes’ great elixist produced a vial of dark, murky liquid. Its stopper was a silver wolf’s head and its glass was traced with glowing runes. The crowd howled as Fenwulf placed it into Connor’s trembling hand.

  “Connor!” cried Lucia. “What are you doing?”

  The Dublin boy turned to her. “I’m crazy for you,” he declared plainly. “I have been since our first day at Rowan. This won’t change that.”

  Removing the stopper, Connor stared at the vial with mingled fear and excitement. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath before gulping the potion down. After the final swallow, his body convulsed and the vial shattered in his hand. He doubled over, gasping, his hand bleeding freely upon the dais. When Lucia cried his name, Connor swiveled his head and seemed to stare through her with a face that was no longer fully human. His eyes were pale yellow and feral, their pupils mere pinpricks as his jaw protruded slightly and his ears lengthened into subtle points. Max watched, horrified and fascinated by the transformation. Was Connor really going to turn into a vye?

  The answer was no—not completely. Seconds later, the transformation ceased and Connor straightened, sweating and shaking, to take stock of his new self. He had grown several inches, his hands had lengthened, and his eyes retained their wild cast, but he remained predominately human. Embracing him, Fenwulf mopped away the sweat that had beaded on his brow.