The Red Winter

by Henry H. Neff

  A sudden, wild hope seized him. He ripped the ivory brooch from where Scathach had pinned it to his baldric. “This can save you!” he exclaimed. “This can bring you back to the Sidh!”

  Max ignored Scathach’s look of dismay. He did not know how the brooch was supposed to work, only that Lugh had made it to ferry him to the Sidh when he died. Pressing the brooch to Scathach’s chest, he spoke in an urgent hiss. “I give its power to her. I don’t want it. Bring her back instead!”

  Nothing happened. Max repeated his pleas, his voice raw and ragged. His petitions had become mere sobs. Pressing the brooch against her chest, he rocked her gently in his arms.

  I love you. I love you. I love you …

  A moment later, Scathach gave the tiniest shudder imaginable. Pulling back, Max looked into that young, noble face just inches from his own. Its expression was peaceful, the gray eyes sightless.

  With a howl, Max slammed Lugh’s brooch onto the marble floor. It cracked into pieces, fragile as a sand dollar. “Goddamn you,” he seethed. “Goddamn you! Goddamn you!”

  At that instant, Max felt something shatter within him. Every bone and muscle, every nerve seemed to split apart, unleashing an inferno burning deep inside. The blaze tore through his being—burning him, choking him, consuming him—until the last scraps of his mortal self had been incinerated. When the firestorm had passed, all that remained was the god.

  When Cooper reached Max, he found him kneeling beside Scathach. The lad did not turn as the Agent approached. He seemed oblivious to Cooper’s presence, to the encroaching flames, to everything but the young woman leaning against his chest. Cooper surveyed their surroundings but found no sign of the clones. Their absence puzzled him. Their target was here, back exposed, vulnerable. They must be nearby. A second scan revealed nothing.

  The Agent’s eyes fell upon Scathach. The girl’s head was resting on Max’s shoulder. One look at her blank, bloodless face told him she was gone.

  Damn.

  There was not much more to say. Scathach’s death was a significant blow for Rowan, the Red Branch, and most importantly for Max McDaniels. There were only two people William Cooper truly loved: his wife and the young man before him. He couldn’t begin to imagine the pain he would feel if he lost Hazel. So many that Max held dear had been taken from him: his parents, his Nick, and now Scathach. How would he react to this?

  Cooper’s wary eyes fell on the gae bolga, which lay on the marble floor, its dark blade drinking the firelight rather than reflecting it. Slowly, Max extended a trembling hand over the spear. He made a fist, convulsively clenching and unclenching his fingers as though fighting the urge to seize the awful weapon.

  A deep and growing fear welled up in Cooper. It filled his stomach like cold venom, a feeling of imminent danger stronger than anything he’d experienced since he’d encountered the Fomorian many years ago. But this sensation was far worse. And it was building steadily.

  “Max,” said Cooper.

  No response.

  Hazel and Agent Varga came hurrying through the archway. His wife stopped to pluck up Toby from where the unconscious smee lay by the shattered exhibit case. Cradling him in her hand, she caught up to Varga, who had slowed to a walk. Upon seeing Scathach’s lifeless body, Hazel gave a choking cry. She made a beeline for Max, but Cooper intercepted her.

  “Wait.”

  “William, he needs us!” she gasped.

  “Hazel,” he said calmly. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Of course something’s wrong. Scathach—”

  “Not Scathach. Max.”

  Varga had already stopped short. Shading his eyes, the prescient was peering at Max as though he perceived something, some energy field or aura that they could not see. He gave a hoarse cry. “Back away from him!”

  Cooper obeyed, pulling Hazel with him as they skirted burning pools and broken glass. Twenty yards. Thirty. From somewhere high above came a harsh, rhythmic clanging that sounded like overheating pipes. Cooper kept his eyes fixed on Max until the clanging intensified.

  Twisting around, Cooper looked up, following the sound until he spied an observation balcony nestled beneath the roof beams high above. There stood Max’s clones, leaning over its railing and gazing down on them. The feral one was striking the balcony with a heavy rod so that its din rang out like mock applause. A second look revealed it was not a rod, but the broken shaft of Scathach’s spear.

  Meeting Cooper’s gaze, the bigger clone—the one that had snapped his arms like kindling—smiled and leaned far out over the railing. His challenge echoed throughout the museum.

  “Atropos a-kultir veytahlyss. Morkün i-tolvatha!”

  Cooper knew the chilling phrase: Atropos has cut your life’s thread. Die and be damned!

  Varga spun around to locate the speaker. So did Hazel.

  Max did not turn, but his fingers closed around the gae bolga.

  The big clone laughed. “Are you in mourning, brother? Don’t shed tears for a coward. She fairly begged for her life.”

  His head still bowed, Max raised the spear and pointed it at the archway.

  Cooper slid sideways, as though pulled by a powerful magnet. So did Hazel. Varga stumbled and spilled onto the floor. An unseen force was sweeping them out of the room. At first, Cooper sought to hold his ground, but it was like struggling against a riptide. Whisked off their feet, the trio was sent sliding and tumbling out of the burning museum. Once they passed beneath the grand archway, they skidded to a stop.

  Cooper reached out to Hazel. She was curled up into ball, breathing heavily. One hand still clutched the unconscious smee; the other was pressed to her rounded belly. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I … I think so.”

  “Stay here,” said Cooper, helping her to lean against a nearby wall. Behind them, Varga had already pushed to his feet and was hobbling back to see what was happening. Cooper joined him just beneath the marble archway.

  Fifty yards away, Max had risen to his feet. He walked slowly in the direction of the clones, leaning heavily upon the gae bolga. His face was downcast, his steps unsteady.

  “Is he injured?” Cooper whispered.

  “I don’t know,” said Varga. “I can barely see his flesh. His aura …”

  He trailed off in bewildered silence. The clones also sensed something was amiss. The huge assassin had ceased his jeering. The wild one peered over the rail like a skeletal gargoyle, his mouth full of jagged teeth. Even at this distance, Cooper could see that Max was shaking violently. When he lifted his head, Varga drew a sharp breath. Cooper merely stared.

  Max’s eyes were as black as the blade he carried. An expression of cold, contained anger was giving way to one of seething, terrifying rage. Cooper wanted to flee and yet he couldn’t move or look away. He was rooted to the spot, an unwilling and powerless witness as the boy craned his neck toward Scathach’s killers.

  When Max screamed, the exhibit cases shattered. Cooper and Varga were blown back as though a bomb had detonated. Cooper struck the wall in the outside corridor, cracking the marble and falling straight down by his astonished wife.

  He lay in a crumpled heap, dimly conscious of a high-pitched buzzing. Someone rolled him gently onto his back. It was Hazel, her anxious face blurry and doubled. She was speaking to him, but her voice was distorted, muffled. When he tried to sit up, his ribs howled in protest. Shifting position, he took Hazel’s hand and she pulled him upright.

  Standing helped. Varga sat several feet away, his nose shattered. He snapped his fingers by each ear to test if they were working. When he noticed the Coopers, he blinked dazedly and they helped him to his feet. The three turned to look at the museum.

  A blinding radiance shone through the archway, so dazzling they could barely look at it. Averting his eyes, Cooper took Hazel’s hand and stepped through the archway. Varga followed, his cane scraping on the floor. There was no discussion or debate whether they should go within. Some external force or will was drawing them o
nward.

  The three inched forward, bent and blinded. The air was blisteringly hot and behaving strangely. It felt charged and inconstant, as though agitated particles were darting about like shoals of startled fish. Cooper could feel his skin reddening, burning as though he stood before a blast furnace. Squinting at the marble floor, he tried to follow the pulsing, shimmering rays—rays that originated from a single source.

  It was straight ahead. What terrible energies were bombarding them? Bombarding the child in Hazel’s womb? But Cooper could not stop or turn back. Stretching forth his hand, Cooper felt his way forward, groping and snatching at the empty air.

  Three steps later, he touched something.

  Cooper froze as a trembling, unseen hand closed about his own. It exerted very little pressure but conveyed an impression of appalling strength. Cooper felt as though he’d grazed the teeth of an iron trap, one that could snap shut at any moment. But somehow, Cooper could tell this being wanted to communicate, was trying to communicate as best it could at this moment. Clearing his throat, he spoke in a calm, cautious voice.

  “Max, it’s Cooper. Hazel and Peter are with me.”

  The grip upon his hand tightened to the point of pain. Cooper gave a slow, shuddering exhale. Carefully, William. Very carefully …

  “We’re your friends,” he said quietly. “Please let us see you.”

  The grip slackened somewhat. Gradually, the blinding radiance began to dim, its heat dissipating. Lights swam before Cooper’s eyes. Blinking them away, he raised his head and gazed at the boy.

  Max stood an arm’s length away. There was not a speck of white in the boy’s eyes. They were black throughout, as dark as the void and rimmed with bloody tears that left red trails down his cheeks. He was breathing heavily, panting like a wounded animal as he clutched Cooper’s hand. His other hand gripped the gae bolga, which glowed so hot and white it might have been drawn from the sun’s core. The spear was utterly silent, and this frightened Cooper far more than when it wailed.

  “Are you all right, Max?” said Varga cautiously. “Are you injured?”

  No response.

  Cooper glanced around the museum. Its fires had been quenched. Everything within it—exhibits, statues, corpses, creatures—was piled high against the walls in smoking, mangled heaps. Somewhere in all that wreckage was Scathach. Were her killers there, too? Looking up, Cooper saw that the balconies had been destroyed. Gaping holes remained where they had been, the edges charred and jagged.

  The clones had to be dead. Had to be. But still, he recalled the advice he’d once given Max: Don’t believe it till you’ve seen the bodies. The clones were tough beyond reckoning. Just look at where they came from …

  Hazel inched forward. “Max, are you …?”

  She faltered as he turned toward her. It was impossible to tell if Max was really seeing her or simply staring through her. His trembling intensified. When he finally spoke, he managed only one word.

  “Prusias.”

  The word was both a question and statement. Hazel winced, as though frightened the answer might displease him. “The bunker is down on Sublevel Twenty-Two. It’s where Bram’s Key was hidden.”

  Cooper groaned inwardly. Of course Prusias would use Bram’s Chamber for his bunker. It was tucked deep in the Workshop and had been constructed by the Archmage himself long ago. Only David had been able to decipher and unravel the room’s enchantments in their quest for Bram’s Key. Was it big enough to house Prusias? Cooper had never actually seen the interior. None of them had. Once they’d opened the door, all hell had broken loose. Only the Workshop knew what was beyond that door. By now they’d have modified it to suit Prusias.

  Releasing Cooper’s hand, Max dimmed his radiance and brushed past them to make for the archway. They followed at a distance, wary and uncertain. The Workshop appeared eerily empty, its corridors a flashing red haze of smoke and emergency lights. Now and again a tremor shivered through the floor or they heard the report of distant gunfire from an air duct. Apparently, the revolt was still going strong.

  Cooper and the others followed this stranger as he walked past laboratories and greenhouses, manufacturing plants, and engine rooms. While Max had dimmed his radiance, it had not disappeared. Flickers of pale fire still danced about his person, illuminating him in the darker hallways and crackling with sudden brilliance and intensity. Now and again, he would stop and lean upon the gae bolga, as though gathering himself. It was like watching a newly birthed foal stand and take its first steps.

  It would take time to reach Bram’s Chamber. If they were on Level 18, it would be forty levels beneath them. Normally William Cooper would pause to work out a strategy, to scout and assess the forces he would face. But with Max in his current state, they were in uncharted waters. The being they followed did not seem interested in precautionary measures.

  Instead, he marched stolidly ahead, passing broken pod banks and empty dining halls. Cooper wondered at his objective until they passed through an arch into a sprawling, circular space hundreds of feet across. The arch from which they’d entered was one of six surrounding a cluster of gigantic pipes and bundled tubes that protruded from the floor and soared up until they met the distant ceiling. The biggest pipes were over fifty feet across and made of steel, but the tubes were clear and sheathed translucent cables or glowed with superheated gases. Unattended computer banks were situated along the room’s perimeter, but Max ignored these and made for the glass encasement that housed the pipes and tubes. A hand plucked at Cooper’s sleeve.

  “What’s he doing?” hissed Hazel.

  “I don’t—”

  A company of Workshop troops rushed through one of the entrances, a hundred hulking figures encased in full-body armor and assault helmets. Most hefted automatic rifles, but several carried plasma-powered cannons that could melt all but the toughest materials.

  “Fade,” muttered Cooper.

  Hazel and Varga obeyed instantly. As the last soldiers thundered in, the three spread apart so as not to provide a single target. But Cooper did not think the soldiers had even noticed them. They had either seen Max on some surveillance camera or they had the bad luck to stumble upon the terrifying being now in their midst.

  Even so, the group moved slowly as sudden movement would render fading useless. Cooper assumed the soldier’s helmets probably had heat-detection capabilities, but under the current circumstances he did not think this would be an issue. Compared to the energy Max was radiating, they would not even register.

  As for Max, he did not appear to even notice the soldiers. Instead, he began circling the wall of tinted glass that encased the massive pipeworks.

  The troops quickly took up positions, their weapons trained on the intruder. When Max paused at a metal door set within the glass, a soldier issued a command in a harsh, mechanized voice. Cooper could not quite make it out, but didn’t need to. Whatever the order was, Max ignored it. Two seconds later, the troops opened fire.

  Gun muzzles flashed like strobe lights, discharging thousands of rounds in the space of a sneeze. Instantly Cooper, Hazel, and Varga dropped to the floor. The barrage sounded like hail pounding on a tin roof. Although hundreds of bullets were being fired, they did not strike their target. An invisible barrier repelled them, triggering a spray of sparks as bullets ricocheted to strike the glass wall, metal door, and nearby computer equipment. Some of the soldiers staggered back and fell as though rebounding rounds had struck them.

  Cooper was dumbstruck. From his vantage, it did not look like a single bullet had so much as grazed Max.

  But they had gotten his attention.

  Turning from the door, Max faced his attackers, the gae bolga as bright as a thunderbolt in his hand. Upon seeing his face, several of the soldiers dropped their weapons and fled, pushing past the others to disappear down the corridor from which they’d come. But the others maintained their clusters.

  Cooper’s jaw clenched. Run, you idiots!

  A moment later, the
soldier nearest Max slowly turned and pointed his weapon at his neighbor. The gun was shaking, its laser sight dancing on the target’s chest. Other soldiers began to follow suit, turning with rigid, unwilling movements to train their weapons upon one another.

  “Stop!”

  The voice was Hazel’s. She became clearly visible as she rose and broke into a run. Springing up, Cooper raced after her, catching her around the waist and swinging her around to shield her. Max regarded them without emotion, energy shimmering about his form like the sun’s corona. His gaze was so remote it might have been starlight from another universe.

  Hazel struggled wildly. “You’re not a monster!” she cried. “You’re Max McDaniels. Our Max! And we love you!”

  Cooper smiled grimly. Hazel’s emotions had blinded her. She insisted on pretending that the being before them was Max McDaniels, the boy she’d taught at Rowan. But she could not have been more mistaken. This was not “their Max.” Cooper had no idea if it was a god, a devil, or Death itself. But he did know one thing with absolute certainty: this being was about to destroy them.

  The realization did not trigger panic, dread, or even sorrow. If they were going to die, Cooper was grateful they were together—he and Hazel and the baby. Love wasn’t something he thought he’d ever experience. But he had, and it was probably more than he deserved. He only regretted that he wouldn’t get to meet and raise their child. Not in this life, anyway.

  These thoughts flashed by as images, impressions, and feelings of startling clarity. He never imagined life could be so vivid. An overwhelming sense of peace washed over him. Setting Hazel down, he turned to face Max just as Varga came up beside them.

  “I am not afraid,” Varga called out to the silent stranger. “I’ve witnessed this moment many times, Max McDaniels—even before I saw you on that train years ago. And yet I chose to save you that day. And I choose to be here now, even though it may mean my death. Now it is your turn. What will you choose?”