The Red Winter

by Henry H. Neff

The Archmage extended his hand. “What say you, Hound? Leviathan is stirring, and I need your help. Will you come with me to Tartarus?”

  Max did not take the hand. “One question.”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “Does David agree with your plan?”

  Bram’s face darkened with impatience. “My grandson is in Blys accepting the surrender of Prusias’s braymas. We don’t have time to consult—”

  A small sphere of golden light zoomed into the Hanged Man and hovered between the two of them. From its center came Mina’s voice. Though she was trying to sound calm, her distress was plainly evident.

  “Astaroth is in Blys.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Bram touched the orb and vanished. The teleportation sphere remained, bobbing above the table’s wilted centerpiece. Rising from his seat, Max glanced at Marta, who was dozing with the cat.

  “We’ll settle up later.”

  The instant he touched the sphere, Max found himself back in Túr an Ghrian where Bram was already standing beside Mina at the scrying pool. Ember had left his coal bed and was circling slowly about the vast chamber, his powerful tail swishing back and forth in agitation.

  Max hurried over to the pool, whose surface was fixed upon a disquieting scene.

  Astaroth was strolling the streets of Blys.

  He was plainly visible in the early twilight, a shimmering figure in white robes, walking barefoot on the icy streets and cradling the heavy Book of Thoth in one slender arm. He might have been a tourist clutching his Baedekker, for now and again he would stop to gaze at a ruined building or the rows of frozen dead as though they were a local attraction before continuing on toward the palace. All around him, hundreds of Rowan and Raszna soldiers converged to form a moving perimeter, as though he were an elephant that had escaped from the circus.

  “That’s no projection from Nether,” muttered Bram. “He’s really there.”

  “What’s he doing?” hissed Mina.

  The answer was not yet clear, but it was soon evident that Astaroth would not brook any interference. The first soldier who cried out an order to halt—a captain in the Wildwood Knights—was incinerated where he stood. There was no blaze of fire or pyrotechnics. Astaroth simply gestured at the man and he dissolved into ashes.

  Shouts and cries sounded from the crowds, which retreated to a safer distance as Astaroth stopped to inspect the captain’s remains. Some of the ashes had blown away, but the bulk remained, filling the man’s armor and clothing as though they were half-empty sacks. Opening the Book of Thoth, Astaroth extended a hand toward the ashes.

  Gray soot and flakes danced up into the air, swirling about to form sinuous, elegant forms. At times, its contours were almost swanlike and burned with a fierce inner fire. But they never held. Time and again they wavered and dissolved, becoming misshapen and even grotesque.

  Astaroth’s prim, artificial smile disappeared.

  Abandoning his creation, Astaroth turned slowly about, gazing upon his ever-growing audience. When they saw his expressionless face, there were shouts and screams, a surging away as people scrambled to get away from this otherness in their midst. As they fled, Astaroth spoke in a silky tenor that rang crystal clear above the din.

  “Hell is empty, and all the devils are here,” he intoned. “Are we celebrating a victory? Pray tell, what have you won? A bit of land? A few days of imagined freedom?” He shook his head and swept an arm over the ruined city. “A new world, and this is what you’ve done with it. I had hoped you would be my children—humans and demons, animals and spirits. But you’re not my children. I understand that now. You’re larvae. An entire planet teeming with larvae that won’t do as they’re told.”

  The smile returned.

  “The old God punished the wicked with plagues, but I see this winter did not suffice. You require clearer lessons to understand your place. Very well, my little larvae … YOU SHALL HAVE THEM!”

  Five hundred soldiers dissolved into ash, their armor and clothing falling into heaps as their remains swirled into a roiling gray cloud. To this, Astaroth added the bodies of the dead. Across the city, frozen corpses rose into the air: dead soldiers and wyverns, gargoyles and even dreadnoughts that dissolved into rushing rivers of matter that fed what was rapidly becoming a dark, primordial stew.

  And from that stew came monsters.

  They burst forth as though a sharp knife had slit a swollen belly. Some sprang, some flew, some hopped or crawled after landing. Some were the size of elephants, others no larger than dragonflies. Many looked crippled or twisted and some were only half formed, so they fell to the earth like gobs of cooling, wriggling tar. The Workshop had never conceived anything so appalling as the profusion of new, malevolent life raining down about the city.

  Their creator was gazing skyward, his hand outstretched at the stew’s remaining matter as it swirled and coalesced into a single, colossal shape.

  Mina gasped. “It’s a dragon.”

  And indeed it was—a dragon with shining, coal-black scales and a hideous head that resembled a skinned goat snapping and frothing as the Book of Thoth called it into existence. The beast looked to be far more massive than Ember, with a bloated body and eight limbs that were so twisted and malformed that only half looked functional as they stretched and clawed the frigid air. It howled as its hide split apart to unleash a pair of folded wings that unfurled to beat the air with frightful force. Fully formed, it left its creator’s control and flew in an ungainly yet powerful flight above the city. Its roar might have been the signal for Ragnarok.

  “He’s gone,” said Bram quietly.

  Tearing his eyes away from the dragon, Max saw that Bram was correct. Astaroth had disappeared from Blys, leaving an army of new and hideous creations that were sowing chaos throughout the city. The Archmage turned to him.

  “Do you need more convincing?”

  Max shook his head. “No. But those monsters—”

  “Are a distraction,” said Bram forcefully. “They have nothing to do with Astaroth’s true objective. He intends to sacrifice this world, Hound. And he will succeed unless we stop him. I am going to Tartarus. The only question is whether I’m going alone.”

  Max turned to where the gae bolga was propped against the ancient megalith. With an eager moan, it flew to his outstretched hand.

  Bram walked swiftly to a trunk where he retrieved three Canopic jars inscribed with hieroglyphics. Stowing them in a pack, he pulled on his heavy cloak. “Have you ever been at high altitude?”

  “Aboard the Kestrel,” said Max, for the ship had taken David and him deep into the night sky on their way to the Sidh. “But I don’t remember much of that. It was like a dream.”

  “There is nothing dreamlike about the Witchpeaks,” said Bram. “The air is dangerously thin and the cold can freeze flesh in minutes. We will have to climb, for we cannot teleport directly to the witches’ temple—Ymir forbids it.”

  From the trunk he retrieved two pairs of crampons, a stout rope, and an ice ax. Coming over, Max knelt and buckled the crampons around his boots.

  “The initial ascent is the most challenging,” said Bram, doing likewise. “Once we reach the first ledge, we can join the paths the witches take.”

  The Archmage glanced at Ember, who was making an angry thrumming in his throat as he circled about the chamber, his attention fixed on the chaotic scene in Blys. Whenever he heard the other dragon roar, Ember bared his teeth.

  “Mina,” said Bram sharply. “Keep Ember here. Do not let him leave Túr an Ghrian—not even to visit the Sanctuary.”

  “Why?” asked Mina.

  “Astaroth did not create that abomination by accident. The ancient dragons were fiercely territorial. Astaroth is trying to lure Ember away.”

  Mina looked pale. “He’s going to attack Rowan?”

  “He certainly intends something. And it seems he’d prefer if Ember weren’t here when it happens. Be vigilant.”

  “I’ll sound the alar
m,” she said.

  Bram nodded. “I think that would be wise.”

  Closing her eyes, Mina clapped her hands together. From far below, Max heard Old Tom’s heavy bronze bell begin to toll. Striding over to Mina, the Archmage gave her a paternal pat on the head. “Be safe, child.”

  Mina nodded and tried to smile. She looked absurdly young in her Ascendant’s robes, like a little girl playing dress-up. Coming over to Max, she removed her glittering magechain and held it up. “For luck,” she said.

  He took it, well aware that Mina was sinfully proud of the many ornaments and charms that hung from its silver links. That an Ascendant probably didn’t need to prove or display her masteries was beside the point. Mina loved collecting trinkets.

  “Thank you,” said Max, kneeling so she could fasten it about his neck beneath his torque. “I’ll bring it back.”

  She embraced him fiercely before turning and calling to Ember. The dragon was crouched by the pool, his golden head swaying back and forth as smoke poured from his nostrils. When he did not respond, she repeated her command with an authority that took Max by surprise. Tearing his attention from the scrying pool, Ember snaked toward them in a soft rustling of scales.

  Bram handed Max the coiled rope. “Ember will aid us in our travels.”

  Sliding the rope over his shoulder, Max double-checked his crampons, hefted the gae bolga, and nodded that he was ready. Ember loomed over them, his body as hot as the coals he’d been lying on. Bram placed his hand on the dragon’s chest, just over where Max imagined the creature’s heart would be. There was a searing hiss, but the Archmage did not wince or flinch as he beckoned Max to take his other hand. When Bram closed his eyes, a surge of blazing heat flooded Max’s body and everything went white.

  He gasped as they reappeared in a place that was almost pitch dark and numbingly cold. Releasing Bram’s hand, Max reached blindly about and felt his fingers brush rough stone. A light flared in the darkness—a green glowsphere that illuminated Bram’s hard face. Looking past the Archmage, Max saw they were in a small cave with a low, narrow opening. The wind was screaming in the darkness beyond it, sending snow swirling about them.

  Max’s breath came in short, rapid gasps. He felt like he was drowning.

  Glancing over, Bram traced a sign with his finger.

  The air grew warm, as though Max were sitting beside a comfortable fire, and oxygen flooded his lungs. He thanked Bram, but the Archmage was already crouched by several crates he’d apparently stowed on previous trips. Fishing through one, he retrieved some dried venison and stuffed the strips in a pocket. There was another ice ax propped against the cave wall, which he handed to Max.

  Taking it, Max removed the gae bolga from the enchanted spear shaft the dvergar had made for him. Now that it was a short sword, Max buckled the blade to his baldric and shrank the shaft to a baton that he hooked onto his belt.

  Bram crouched by the cave entrance. Peering out, he beckoned for the rope. “This is the highest one can travel by magic. From here we must climb, but I know a good path and there’s plenty of moonlight to see by. Wind will be the greatest danger. I’ve seen gusts rip people off the mountain. Stay low.” Tying the rope around Max’s waist, Bram tethered the two of them together before extinguishing the glowsphere and crawling out the cave entrance.

  Max followed, squeezing through the opening onto a shallow ledge half sheltered by an overhang. Far below was a pearly sea of moonlit clouds pierced here and there by jutting, jagged peaks. Mastering an initial sense of vertigo, Max shielded his eyes from blowing ice particles and gazed up to behold countless stars in dazzling clarity. But even at these heights in the dead of night, the sky exuded a red tinge as though the world were infected. Pivoting, Max craned his neck and gazed up at Ymir’s summit. Its peak gleamed like a knife beneath the moon.

  Hefting his ax, Bram shuffled to the end of the ledge and carved a handhold that he used to swing clear of the overhang. For an older man, the Archmage possessed remarkable strength and athleticism. Every movement was decisive and assured. He wasted no time or energy, stopping only to check that Max followed.

  The two fell into a comfortable rhythm. They moved steadily up the steep face. It was clear Bram knew his way, for he found every little ledge, every natural handhold that might make their passage easier. Max had not done much mountaineering, but he mimicked Bram’s techniques and found that they came naturally. He tried not to think about what might be happening in Blys or back at Rowan. Instead, he lost himself in the physical task at hand—anchoring his ax, kicking his crampons into the ice, and ascending another few feet.

  Bram did not take them straight up but chose a diagonal route that would bring them to another ledge, which curved up and around the face they were climbing. Squinting through the gusting snow, Max was trying to estimate how far away it was when he heard Bram shout something over the wind.

  “What?” Max yelled.

  The sorcerer pointed windward where powerful gusts were blowing great plumes of snow off the neighboring peak. Swinging his ax into the ice, Bram turned his face away and flattened himself against the mountain. Max quickly did the same.

  Three seconds later the winds slammed into them in a screaming assault of ice that might have torn Max from the mountain if Bram hadn’t warned him.

  The two did not budge for over an hour, each holding fast with ax and crampons as the windstorm raged around them. When it finally subsided, the two shook the cramps from their hands, flexed their fingers, and resumed their determined ascent. Beneath his bandages, Max’s wound had begun to ache and throb. To ignore it, he began counting his ax swings.

  The count had passed eight hundred by the time they reached the ledge. Once atop it, the two sat with their backs against the mountain and took a few minutes to rest.

  “The worst is over,” Bram muttered, handing Max a strip of venison. The meat was half frozen, but Max chewed it gratefully. Brushing snow from his tangled beard, the Archmage pointed to where the ledge curved out of sight. “This merges with a trail that leads to the great temple. We may encounter others ahead, for this is a holy place and pilgrims come here seeking wisdom or blessings from the witches. Ignore them. They will not trouble us. Are you ready to continue?”

  With a grunt, Max rose to one knee and pushed himself up. His stomach wound was burning and he thought several stitches might have torn, but he convinced himself the pain would subside when they got moving again. Clutching his ax, he followed Bram as they hiked along the ledge. While the going was easier, the ledge was narrow and they were far more exposed to the wind. Max did not look down, but watched the nearest peaks for signs of an oncoming gale.

  Within half an hour, they crossed the sheer face and rounded the mountain to behold an escarpment up ahead. An enormous stone brazier stood upon it, its flames illuminating a shrine ringed by four great statues and a small stone hut. As they came nearer, Max made out three fur-bundled figures prostrated before the shrine.

  Kneeling, Bram removed his crampons. Max did the same, handing them to the Archmage, who stowed them along with the axes. When they arrived at the escarpment, Bram bowed briefly to the fearsome-looking statues before skirting the praying figures and making for a broad stair of rough, stone steps. Within the stone hut, Max saw a young Asiatic woman sitting before a small fire and singing to a little girl who gazed up with blind, unseeing eyes. No doubt, the mother sought a spell or cure from the witches, and they had stopped to seek shelter overnight. The prostrate figures outside the hut were probably relatives.

  Bram was ascending the steps, his hood pulled low and his cloak billowing about him. Beneath a snow-capped ridge high above, Max saw two flames burning. The pair trudged on, their boots crunching on the snow-covered steps. The stairs continued for another hundred yards before they ended and the two had to climb the rest of the way over bare ice and snow.

  A witch waited for them at the temple’s entrance, an archway of carved stone that led down into the mountain. She sa
t between two braziers, a wizened old thing swathed in furs and chewing betel. Her black eyes flicked warily between Max and Bram. Removing his hood, the Archmage inclined his head.

  “Greetings, Dame Hakku. You’re looking well.”

  The doorkeeper scowled. “How do you know my name?”

  The Archmage shrugged. “My name is Bram. Did the Umadahm receive my message?”

  The old witch spat in her cup. “We do not normally allow men to enter here, but she is expecting you,” she said grudgingly. “You and Rowan’s Hound may pass, but you must be cleansed before you enter the ossuaries. Umadahm’s acolytes await you within.”

  Bowing low, the Archmage led Max underneath the carved archway and down a flight of curving, torch-lit stairs. They arrived at a circular antechamber whose dark walls were embedded with gleaming bones. It had only one exit, a triangular archway crowned with a human skull.

  On each side of the archway stood three barefoot girls in white robes accompanied by a middle-aged witch wearing red robes and a necklace of feathers and finger bones. The acolytes were very young and bore few tattoos or markings upon their faces. They held bowls of polished teak whose steaming contents filled the room with the scent of sage and saffron. Bowing, the older witch introduced herself as Dame Treyva and indicated they must strip to the waist.

  Bram did so without question or fuss. Max saw that the man’s back was laced with old scars, shiny remnants of self-flagellation. Kneeling before the witches, Bram held out his arms as three of the acolytes anointed his upper body with oil and painted henna runes upon his face.

  It took Max longer to remove his layers of clothing and armor. Once Dame Treyva saw his bare torso, she grew pale and hissed something in Nepalese.

  Turning, the Archmage stared at Max’s blood-soaked bandages. “When did it open?” he asked somberly.

  “During the climb. What did she say?”

  “That you are cursed.”

  Max met the witch’s frightened gaze. “This curse is my burden, not yours. If Umadahm asks me to leave, I will go.”