The Red Winter

by Henry H. Neff

  He knew the instant he seized power, many friends would become his enemies. David would view the act as a betrayal. So would Mina. Bram would view it as a confirmation of his misgivings.

  And what would the Raszna, his new allies and followers, think? He recalled his conversation with Archon and the immense trust the ancient vye had placed in Max’s promise of an equal stake in the new order. All that goodwill would vanish the instant Max declared himself king. His name would be cursed from Arcanum to Silverfalls.

  But did any of that matter? These were details, mere bumps that time would smooth or history could rewrite. Max was strongest. This was not a boast or boyish wish; it was a bedrock fact, as certain as sunrise. David would forge elaborate alliances while analyzing countless scenarios. Max could bypass all these complexities and headaches by embracing a simple truth: he was a god among lesser beings.

  He would hammer the Four Kingdoms into one empire while bringing all the world’s far-flung settlements under his authority. Rowan could continue to exist, as could Arcanum and other schools of magic. They would simply answer to him. And while some would undoubtedly call him a tyrant, they would be mistaken. Tyrants weren’t fair and just; they didn’t use their immense power to protect the people and improve their lives. But the god-king would do that and more. It could all start today, this very instant …

  “Max.”

  A voice interrupted his thoughts, calm and familiar. Max opened his eyes to see David Menlo standing before him, flanked by Miss Awolowo, the Archon Fenwulf, and a dozen Promethean Scholars. The Director’s face was grave, but his eyes were full of understanding. There was no fear in David’s aura. There was only empathy.

  “Max,” he repeated gently. “Someone is asking for you.”

  “Who?”

  “The Fomorian,” said David delicately. “The giant is badly injured.”

  The Morrígan’s voice seeped into Max’s mind, angry and impatient.

  “No mortal instruments can slay the Fomorian, young king. The sorcerer is manipulating you, cheating you of your moment. Declare your rule and cast this serpent from your hall!”

  Max tore his eyes away from where the goddess stood by the broken door. He would not be manipulated by anyone, including her. The Fomorian was Max’s kinsman and had answered Rowan’s call. He stepped down from the dais.

  “Take me to him.”

  As he and David left the throne room, three black ravens circled and screeched among the rafters. Their hateful cries followed the pair out the doors. The Morrígan had disappeared.

  The two made their way out of the palace, sweeping past smoke-choked hallways and luxuriant halls being looted by Blys’s former slaves. Exultant cries were all around them as people celebrated their victory, their freedom, or both together.

  Exiting the towering entryway, Max and David descended the palace’s many steps amid swirls of cold snow and hot ash. The skies were a dirty red, pressing down upon the world as though they meant to smother it. There was no moon or stars, just the faintest hint of dawn in the light outlining the eastern mountains. Throughout the burning city, horns were sounding—joyful horns trumpeting victory.

  An open carriage awaited them, drawn by four of the Raszna’s enormous horses. David stood aside to let Max climb aboard. When they were seated, an invisible driver shook the reins and they began the steep descent through the city.

  Max was glad for the open carriage, glad for the cold, which helped to clear his mind. The more it emptied, the less he felt like such an alien within his own body. He was changed certainly—changed forever—but he found that his old persona had not been drowned in the flood of Old Magic. The farther he got from Prusias’s throne room and the Morrígan, the more he gradually felt like his old self. His fiery form was beginning to seem like a dream. The gae bolga was no longer white-hot, but black and merely warm to the touch. Unbuckling its scabbard from its belt, he sheathed the blade and felt its metal go cold.

  His mind drifted to the Morrígan. How close had he been to declaring himself king? As sickening as he found the prospect now, Max could not pretend the idea hadn’t been wildly seductive. Without David’s appearance, Max was almost certain he’d have seized power. He wondered if his friend had any inkling as to the catastrophe they’d just avoided.

  The idea was too horrible to contemplate. Looking about, he saw that some mansions in the capital’s upper tiers remained undamaged. But most were burning, sending up gouts of flame and smoke to mingle with ashes and snow.

  While the city’s sights were grim, its streets were packed with soldiers, with half-starved regiments that moved aside and thumped their banners to salute when they swept past. All Max could muster in response was a distant stare.

  “Well done on Prusias,” said David, glancing over. “Capturing him alive should prove immensely—”

  “Scathach is dead,” said Max, cutting to it. Rediscovering his humanity was bittersweet. He felt like he was experiencing the pain and loss all over again.

  David wilted. “I … I’m very sorry,” he said heavily. “With all my heart, Max. When I saw she hadn’t returned with you … Well, I hoped there was another explanation.”

  Max stared rigidly ahead. “The clones cornered her. I didn’t get there in time.”

  David digested this slowly. “And the clones? Are they still alive?”

  Max smiled bitterly. “Of course they’re alive. They’re my kin, and I’m forbidden to slay them. It’s part of my geasa.” His whole being was trembling. Max almost laughed at the absurdity—a god afraid to confess a secret!

  “You learned your geis, then,” said David.

  “I have two,” said Max indifferently. “Would you like to hear them?”

  “No. That is not for others to—”

  “The Hound may not refuse a dying wish or knowingly slay his kindred.”

  David sighed in a manner suggesting he regretted Max’s geasa and the fact that he’d heard them. “I see. So slaying the clones would have sealed your own fate. Perhaps that’s why the gae bolga is reluctant to strike them.”

  “Probably,” said Max. “But I didn’t need the gae bolga to avenge Scathach. I could have snuffed the clones out like candles. There they were—burning like torches, clinging to a wall like beetles waiting to be squashed. But I held back and let them scuttle away. All because I feared to break my geis.”

  Max fell silent, consumed by disgust and disbelief. Scathach had sacrificed her home, friends, and immortality for him. And when it had come time to avenge her … he’d saved himself. Time might heal many wounds, but not shame. Shame had unique properties. Shame could linger forever.

  “You ended this war,” said David gently, gesturing at the smoldering devastation around them. “You captured Prusias. That means peace, Max. Peace for years to come.”

  Max merely gazed ahead as they passed beneath a broken archway.

  “Slaying the clones might have satisfied your honor, but at tremendous cost,” David reasoned. “By staying your hand you attained something far greater than personal vengeance.”

  Max laughed bitterly. “You make it sound like I was serving some grand purpose. But that isn’t true, David. I thought only of myself.”

  David spread his hands. “As you wish. I won’t pretend to know your motivations. I’ll ask only one question.”

  “What?”

  “Would Scathach have wanted you to break your geis?”

  Max rubbed his temple. “No. She would have wanted me to complete the mission.”

  “And you did,” said David firmly. “Scathach will be avenged, Max. Now that Prusias has been defeated, others can pursue the clones and dismantle the Atropos. There will be no shortage of volunteers from Rowan or the Raszna.”

  Max grunted. He might be hamstrung against the clones, but nothing would save the Atropos. The entire organization would be destroyed. He’d see to it personally. Thoughts of that guild led his mind back to the Workshop and the footage he’d seen.


  “Did you know Alex Muñoz is a member of the Atropos?”

  David twisted about. “How do you know that?”

  “I saw a video at the Workshop. He bought the clones for the Atropos.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Positive.”

  “One moment,” David muttered, quickly conjuring a small orb of golden, swirling vapor. “A message from Director Menlo. Baron Lynch of the Raszna is not to harm his prisoner under any circumstances. We need that prisoner for questioning.” With a snap of his fingers, David sent the orb zooming back toward the palace.

  Max raised his eyebrows. “So Connor finally got Alex. How’d he catch him?”

  “Some Raszna found him trying to hide among the palace slaves.”

  Exhaling, Max watched his breath mist against the reddish sky. The air was biting and tinged with smoke, but it was good to be outside after his journey underground. His adrenaline had dissipated, leaving a yawning void in its wake. Heartbroken as he was, he was slowly appreciating just what they had accomplished: Blys was sacked, Prusias had been captured, and Rowan had made new allies and forged the basis for an ongoing partnership. There was much to celebrate, even if he was in no mood to do it.

  “I’m sorry, David,” said Max. “With all that’s happened, I forgot to congratulate you. I can’t imagine there’s ever been a finer general.”

  David waved off the compliment. “I merely coordinated efforts,” he said modestly. “You recruited the Raszna. The Coopers sabotaged the gargoyles and unlocked the gates. The troops did the fighting. I paced about a tent.”

  “With Lilith,” said Max, recalling his glimpse of the demoness in David’s mirror.

  “Ah,” said David, taken off guard. “Well, don’t be too outraged. She was very helpful when it came to neutralizing the city’s more powerful residents. I summoned and Lilith negotiated. The brighter ones understood that our proposal was more attractive than their alternatives.”

  “Was capturing Prusias alive part of the proposal?” Max asked.

  “It helped,” said David. “But I wanted him alive anyway …”

  David trailed off as their carriage finally reached the city’s lowest tier, where the outer wall and great gates were located.

  It was eerily quiet at this level and difficult to see. The horses whinnied, tossing their heads as they clopped reluctantly forward. Through the reeking haze, Max could make out the suggestions of broken walls, obliterated buildings, and fire-gutted factories. The stench of burning flesh and garbage was everywhere. The carriage swerved as they passed the frozen carcass of a half-charred wyvern. On the roadside, Raszna were laying out the bodies of the dead—allies and enemies alike. The vyes watched the carriage pass with dark, inscrutable eyes. Max looked away. He dreaded seeing a familiar face among the endless rows. Soon enough he would know the names of those who had fallen, but not now. With a hard swallow, he cleared his throat.

  “The Fomorian?”

  David pointed toward a dark mountain of wreckage.

  As the carriage approached, the mountain resolved into distinct shapes and forms. A dreadnought’s black tentacles were the first things Max could identify. Each was hundreds of feet long, their undersides riddled with lamprey-like mouths and suckers. They were almost artfully arranged—some draped, some curled, some twisted into agonized poses. The colossal bodies from which they sprouted were barely recognizable, for they had been beaten and bludgeoned to such an extent that it was difficult to make much sense of them. Here and there, Max saw an elephantine leg or a glassy eye, but the general impression was a pile of mangled flesh and machinery that nearly reached the battlements. Among all that carnage, it was difficult to spot the Fomorian. When Max did, he jumped out of the carriage.

  The giant was leaning against a cracked gear, huddled like a beggar with his horned head bowed between his knees as though he could not support its weight. His size had diminished to such an extent that he looked tiny against the backdrop of dreadnoughts. While the Fomorian was still much larger than a man—twenty feet at least—his body was but a detail, a speck amid all the destruction he had wrought.

  The giant’s arms—or what remained of them—hung limp at his sides. He was utterly still, but for the occasional twitch of a ram’s ear or a slow exhalation that sent up a cloud of mist.

  When Max reached him, he could hardly believe the Fomorian was still living. Hundreds of pinlegs stingers riddled his legs, their stems poking from the giant’s blood-matted fur. His left arm and upper torso were almost entirely stripped of their flesh, leaving little more than glistening bone, bits of muscle, and frayed sinew. Each ponderous breath brought a soft wheezing from punctured lungs.

  Very carefully, Max reached up and touched one of the horns on the giant’s bowed head. It was smoother than Max anticipated and formed a graceful spiral like a nautilus. Even its coloring was more beautiful than Max had supposed—subtle swirls of chestnut and speckled gray with an underside of cream. Stroking the horn, Max leaned close to the torn and bleeding ear that twitched beneath it.

  “Can you hear me?” asked Max quietly.

  The Fomorian shifted toward him ever so slightly, inclining his head so that its weight pressed against Max’s hand. From the giant’s throat murmured a deep voice, so hoarse and faint that Max strained to hear it.

  “I want to hear the sea.”

  “I’ll take you,” said Max. “Would you like David to come? He’s here, too.”

  The giant gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  There was a group of Raszna nearby and a large sledge that had been used to transport siege equipment. With the vyes’ help, Max hooked a team of horses to the sledge while David levitated the Fomorian off the ground and laid him gently on its pine planks. The giant’s weight pressed the sledge’s runners deep into muddy snow until David tapped them with the cane and they rested lightly upon the road. Once he’d checked the harnesses, Max came around to sit by the giant’s head and stroke the curling horns. Four tawny eyes, some round as an owl’s, others more goatlike, stared up from a half-skinned face and watched his breath mingle with the falling snow. When David clambered onto the sledge, he thumped its side and, once again, an invisible driver got them under way. Within minutes, they had left the city, crossed one of the serviceable bridges, and followed the ancient Tiber as it flowed toward the Tyrrhenian Sea.

  Max stared at Blys as the city receded. So much smoke poured from the mountain-ringed city that it almost resembled an active volcano. Mortars had wholly destroyed three bridges while another looked ready to topple at any moment. The remnants of Grael’s legions littered the icy plains, a glinting feast for countless crows that swarmed like horseflies. The birds’ cries carried over the wind, a delighted chorus that followed them over the snow-bound hills.

  Despite the furs the Raszna had heaped aboard the sledge, the cold was so intense that Max’s hands were numb before they’d gone half a mile. The Fomorian’s face was almost blue with cold, but he grunted his displeasure when Max and David tried to lay their furs atop him. Exposed to the elements, the giant merely stared up at the sky and hummed.

  Even with an enchanted sledge, it took over two hours to reach the sea. They passed ruins and forests, snow-capped tombs, and lonely towers looking west. What had once been Ostia was now a small port city that Rowan had occupied before the final push toward Blys. The city lay as Rowan left it, largely undamaged since its brayma fled before the invaders had arrived.

  Slowly, the Fomorian raised his mangled arm and pointed toward a distant outcropping, away from the city and its empty harbor. Turning the sledge, they made for it, the horses tossing their heads as the runners plowed shallow furrows in the ice-crusted snow.

  They reached the outcropping within half an hour, climbing a gentle rise until they reached the summit of a hill crowned with seven cypress trees. Once there, the Fomorian indicated that this was where he wanted to be set down.

  David and Max helped him do so, David levitating the gi
ant from the sledge and Max helping him lean his ravaged body against one of the cypress trunks. This time when Max wrapped furs about his body, the giant did not refuse but simply stared out at the choppy waves, his eyes half-lidded as he sniffed the air and hummed in his throat. At last he spoke to his companions.

  “Let me see you, kinsman. And you, little Sorcerer.”

  They did as he asked, walking around and standing before him, Max leaning upon the gae bolga and David upon his cane. All four of the Fomorian’s remaining eyes fell upon Max, scrutinizing him closely.

  “You are changed,” he murmured. The eyes wandered from Max to the spear he carried. “Did I work good or evil in mending you?”

  “Good, I think. We’ve defeated Prusias.”

  “It is not Prusias that frightens me,” said the giant significantly. At length, he turned to David. “I would ask a boon.”

  “Of course,” said David.

  “Forgiveness,” muttered the giant. “You are not a trickster or a serpent. I should not have judged you so.”

  “You are forgiven,” said David. “But surely there is something else we can do. We have excellent healers—”

  The Fomorian shook his head decisively. “I am beyond the aid of any that walks this earth.…” With a trembling hand, he drew aside a torn flap of skin and revealed a pumpkin-sized hole in his chest. Past the jagged, broken ribs, Max could actually see the Fomorian’s gray-blue heart beating within the shadowed cavity. But things were clinging to it, a dozen finger-sized, metallic creatures that were wriggling like hungry grubs. They resembled tiny pinlegs and were almost certainly related in some capacity. Even as they watched, one bored its way into the Fomorian’s heart and disappeared.