The Red Winter

by Henry H. Neff

  Pushing these thoughts and his dizziness aside, he tried to recollect everything from Bram’s conversation with Neheb. The smallest detail might prove critical.

  Opening his eyes, Max gazed down at Old College, across the misty canopy that veiled the Sanctuary, to the distant walls and towers that enclosed Rowan’s western flank. Túr an Ghrian was so tall that its pinnacle could command a twenty-mile view in every direction. Rowan’s outer walls were only five miles away. Even with the morning’s snow flurries, Max could see that something was off.

  A portable telescope stood by a glass case containing armillary spheres and astronomy charts. Dragging it before the window, Max peered through the eyepiece.

  That couldn’t be right.

  Blinking rapidly, Max wiped the lens and looked again. Beyond the gates, he saw nothing but sea. This would have been fine if he were looking east. But Max was facing due west.

  He assumed he’d made a mistake, that his fever and blood loss had left him disoriented. Of course he was facing east! But if that was true, why was he looking down upon Old College’s academic quad, the Manse, and even the mist-veiled Sanctuary? These were most certainly west of Túr an Ghrian. Beyond the western gates, Max should have seen snowy hills and forests leading into the continent’s vast interior. Instead, he saw only sea.

  Dragging the telescope before a north-facing window, he swept it past the citadel walls, past the jagged ruin of Hound’s Trench, to the outer curtain. Beyond its gates, he glimpsed no farms, forests, or even visible coastline. There was only water.

  The same was true to the south.

  Growing dizzier, Max staggered back to the chaise where he sat heavily and tried to process what he was seeing. Rowan had either been wrenched away from the land or the land beyond its gates had fallen into the sea, leaving it to stand alone like a section of Jericho’s wall. Whatever the case, the outcome was the same.

  Rowan had become an island.

  Rapid footsteps were coming up the spiral staircase. Max gazed up wearily as Rowan’s Director came into view along with Nigel and two moomenhovens. David took one look at Max before telling him to lie flat on the chaise.

  Max pointed weakly toward the window.

  “In a minute,” said David. “Lie down. We can talk while they see to you. You’re as white as a corpse.”

  Easing onto the floor, Max stared up at the frescoed ceiling while the moomenhovens cleaned and examined his recurring wound. When they applied a balm, it merely bubbled and evaporated. The healers pursed their lips.

  “The land,” Max croaked, looking from Nigel to David as the two set chairs down beside him. He felt a needle passing through his skin, pulling the edges closed. With a hiss, the wound flared up in protest.

  His head was swimming, spinning. He fought fiercely to remain conscious.

  “Rowan’s not going to fall into the sea,” David assured him. “Mina and Ember are stabilizing things. She’ll be here soon. What happened, Max? Where’s my grandfather?”

  “Astaroth has him,” Max whispered. “I don’t know if he’s dead or alive.”

  David’s expression did not change. With no more than a nod, he steepled his fingers and stared out a window with his pale, nearly colorless eyes. After a few seconds, he turned to Nigel. “In my rush to get here, I left my pack in the Observatory. It contains something I need. Would you please get it for me? I’d send someone else, but the material’s sensitive.”

  Nigel took the proffered key. “Of course, Director.”

  When he’d gone, David turned back to Max, who held his breath as another stitch was pulled tight. Each felt like a hot poker being pressed against his side. David looked anxious. “I’m sorry to ask questions while you’re in such pain. What exactly happened with the Archmage?”

  His language was telling. The situation no longer involved his “grandfather”; it involved the Archmage. David was distancing himself, separating his personal feelings from the problem at hand.

  “I’m not really sure,” said Max. “We went down to Tartarus. The Archmage called up Neheb’s shade, but it wasn’t really a shade at all. Neheb pulled your grandfath—the Archmage—into the sarcophagus. I only caught a glimpse inside before they vanished, but I’m certain I saw Astaroth.”

  David gave a measured nod. “I see. Mina sent a message that he’d taken you with him to find Neheb, but Blys was under attack from Astaroth. I didn’t get the message until after you’d gone. I think it’s best if you start from the beginning. When did the Archmage approach you?”

  Closing his eyes, Max relayed everything as best he could. As the moomenhovens tried to staunch his wound, Max told David how he’d awoken in Ember’s coils to find the Archmage sitting nearby. He shared Bram’s fears that Astaroth had gone insane and intended to sacrifice the world by opening a gateway above Ymir. The next attempt would occur on Imbolc.

  He tried to sit up. “That’s not even two days away.”

  “Less,” said David, urging him to ease back. “Ymir’s almost halfway around the world. Imbolc will begin ten hours earlier. We barely have a day.”

  Breath came in painful gasps. “Then we have to move.”

  David held up his hand. “Not yet. You need to rest, and I need to think. Strategy’s even more important when there’s little time—there’s no margin for error. If you can, tell me what happened in Tartarus—particularly when the Archmage summoned Neheb. I want to know everything that was said.”

  Closing his eyes, Max summarized what transpired after passing Tartarus’s gates: Bram’s injury, the life-sapping atmosphere, encountering Marley Augur among the shades, and finally entering Neheb’s tomb. At that point, he recounted every detail he could recall, including Neheb’s physical manifestation and his exact responses to the Archmage’s questions. David listened closely, interrupting only to clarify certain points.

  When Nigel returned with David’s bag, the Director thanked him and asked him to take charge of disaster response until Miss Awolowo returned to Rowan. She was expected in several hours. Apparently, Blys had also experienced earthquakes—massive tremors that had riddled the landscape with faults and fissures. Max recalled the tremors he’d felt down in Tartarus. Perhaps they’d been the very earthquakes wreaking havoc above the surface.

  The moomenhovens began packing up their instruments and supplies. They had done everything in their power, but the wound was cursed and Max’s geis was broken. Medical interventions—even magical ones—were mere stopgaps. They patted Max’s hand and offered kind, consoling smiles, but he’d seen that look before in the healing ward. It never boded well.

  As they rose to leave, David shook his head. “I’m sorry, but you’ve heard highly classified information. You’ll have to remain here for the time being. Please make yourselves comfortable.”

  Moomenhovens were mutes, but their displeasure was plainly evident. Using sign language, the matronly, cow-legged healers tried to make David understand that there were other injured people at Rowan.

  “Others will have to attend to them. As I said, I’m sorry.”

  The pair replied with indignant looks before moving to a nearby table. One produced a deck of cards from her apron and began to shuffle.

  Turning back to Max, David spread his hands. “Astaroth set an exquisite trap. The Archmage was doomed the instant he set foot in Tartarus. Every step was designed to lure a powerful enemy into a situation that would either destroy him or deliver him—weakened and helpless—into Astaroth’s keeping.”

  “Bram realized Neheb was something different,” said Max. “It frightened him.”

  “It should have. When the time came, I think Neheb was able to call Sikes into his body—and Sikes summoned Astaroth. A chain-summoning, quick as thought.”

  “But how could Neheb do that if he was under Bram’s control?”

  “I’m not certain Neheb was under control,” David replied thoughtfully. “Or at least not entirely. Recall Neheb’s response when the Archmage asked if he obeyed the
laws of summoning. ‘If they’re properly performed,’ he said. Remember that Neheb was “unique.” The requirements to fully control him—to prevent him from tethering to Sikes—were undoubtedly greater than those needed to raise and question a shade. You say the Archmage could barely stand by the time you reached the tomb. He was so desperate to question Neheb before his strength failed he couldn’t take sensible precautions. Once he raised Neheb, it was all over. His neck was in the noose.”

  While Max admired David’s capacity to control his emotions, this detached analysis was bordering on the ghoulish.

  “We’re talking about your grandfather.”

  David’s cold eyes flicked to Max’s. “I’m aware of that. At the moment, I need to think like Astaroth—understand his trap and what it’s likely to mean.”

  Max nodded weakly. He supposed David was right. They had no time for hand-wringing. “How could Astaroth leave so easily? He disappeared the instant the sarcophagus closed. Tartarus’s ruler had to lift some kind of barrier before I could teleport out.”

  “Good question,” said David. “I would guess Astaroth and Tartarus’s ruler had some prior agreement or truce. He’s been wandering this world for a long time. Astaroth probably knew about Tartarus long before the witches stumbled upon it. I’d guess he knew about it even before he planned Neheb’s execution.”

  “You think he was behind that?”

  “Oh yes,” said David, as though this was perfectly obvious. “Astaroth almost certainly convinced him to murder his brothers. And once that was done, he ensured Neheb would be caught and executed.”

  “But one of the pharaoh’s advisers was executed first. Neheb wasn’t even suspected until the cats—”

  “Started following him,” interrupted David. “Very dramatic, but probably no more than some animals Astaroth bewitched to grand effect. I’d wager he even arranged for a witch to ‘discover’ the fourth jar and trigger the curse that caused them to take it down to Tartarus.”

  “Still, what’s the point of having Neheb killed and making him an imp?”

  “Astaroth prefers elegant solutions,” David replied. “He always has. Neheb was extremely devoted to him, highly intelligent, and teachable. In short, a more capable and loyal servant than Yaro. For a mortal to become an imp, they have to commit murder and I suspect Neheb required little convincing. But Astaroth also saw an opportunity to use his remains as bait—bait for a trap that would destroy any enemy that pried too closely into his origins.”

  Max wiped his face with a cool cloth. “Neheb died over two thousand years ago. You’re saying Astaroth just caught Bram with a trap he built centuries before Bram was even born?”

  “Yes,” said David. “This trap was set long ago for anyone who got too close. He’s probably set others we haven’t encountered.”

  “I don’t know how you figure these things out so quickly.”

  David waved off the compliment. “Educated guesses are easy after the fact.”

  “So, what do we do?” asked Max, tossing the towel aside. “We don’t have Bram, we don’t have Astaroth’s truename, and we don’t have much time.”

  David peered closely at him. “Do we have you?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Max lied. “Tartarus and teleporting took a lot out of me. Now that the wound is restitched, I just need some food and a little rest.”

  There was a heavy thud upon the roof. Turning, Max saw golden scales blocking the light as a serpentine body wound around the tower, snaking toward its eastern windows. Central among these was a massive, circular, rose-colored window that gazed out upon the sea. Now it was sliding down into the floor, receding to admit gusts of frigid air and swirling snow.

  Ember slid through the opening to spill upon the floor in fluid, eel-like undulations. He used his legs only sporadically, as a crocodile might when skimming over muddy shallows. Flinging their cards in the air, the moomenhovens rolled off their chairs and took refuge under the table. Sitting atop the dragon’s back, gripping a pair of spines, was Mina.

  Her hair was windswept and her cheeks blue with cold as she slid down Ember’s side to land nimbly on the floor. Wriggling out of a fur-lined robe, she tossed it over a chair and ran over to them.

  David did not mince words. “Astaroth has the Archmage.”

  The little girl blinked and then burst into tears. Burying her face in her hands, she sank onto an ottoman, shoulders heaving with despondent sobs.

  Max’s heart sank. With all that had happened, he’d never stopped to think how this would affect her. Mina had no family. She called Bram “Uncle ’Lias,” but the role he played in her life was closer to that of a grandfather. She had lived with him, learned magic from him, and even adopted some ladylike habits at his stern insistence. Her willfulness could drive the Archmage into a rage, but their mutual affection had always been evident.

  “I’m sorry, Mina,” said David. “We’re going to do our best to avenge him. But this is not the time to mourn. How are things outside?”

  Sniffling, she wiped her nose with a sleeve. “I … I think they’re all right. Ember and I circled the entire island. Buildings are damaged, but most people are okay …” She paused, fighting a second wave of tears. She looked at Max and her eyes widened in alarm. “You’re so pale,” she cried, hurrying over and examining his bandages. “Did your wound open?”

  Max put on a brave face as he returned the girl’s magechain with a soft clinking of its many ornaments. “Not to worry. The moomenhovens stitched it up and every minute away from Tartarus helps. I just need some rest.”

  With a disbelieving frown, Mina called out to Ember, who slid around so that his head rested next to the chaise. Max found himself looking into a huge pearly eye. When the dragon rested his head against Max’s side, he felt a soothing energy seep into him.

  Clutching Max’s hand, Mina turned to David. “What are we going to do?”

  “Max and I were just discussing that,” he replied. “It’s time I opened this.”

  From his pack, David produced an envelope sealed with heavy red wax.

  “Is that from the Archmage?” asked Mina.

  David nodded, touching his finger to the wax, which dissolved into red smoke. Removing a sheet of heavy parchment, he scanned the contents with an impenetrable expression. When he’d finished, he handed it to them and stared up at the ceiling.

  Mina held the paper so Max could read it, too.

  Dear David,

  If you are reading this, then Tartarus was indeed a trap and I am either dead or a prisoner. I pray the Hound escaped. He may have valuable information. If nothing else, he can tell you if I was slain or captured. If the latter, you must act quickly, for Astaroth will use my power to aid him in his quest. All signs point to Ymir and Imbolc.

  Without Astaroth’s truename, you must overcome him by other means. Few things are capable of destroying him. The Fomorian is no more. Mina is exceedingly powerful, but she is not a weapon of war. Forgive me, David, but you do not possess the strength to overcome Astaroth. The Hound was capable, but he has broken his geis. You may have to look to Ember. The dragon is very young, but he is of the true Old Magic.

  If you lack the means to slay Astaroth, all is not lost. Other options exist. Like the Hound, if he violates his geis, Astaroth will be weakened and much more vulnerable. Astaroth is intensely aware of his geis, however. Tricking him into lying or breaking a vow will be almost impossible. Capturing him might be the most realistic option. He has been imprisoned before, and Mina’s powers might be helpful in this regard.

  Be aware that Astaroth has become much more cautious since your triumph at Walpurgisnacht. If he faces a significant threat, he will not fight—he will vanish. Getting close will be difficult, but if anyone can find a way, it will be you. You are the only person who has ever outwitted him. You can do so again.

  I am painfully aware that I leave a great burden on your doorstep, David. This is not the inheritance you deserve, and I am sorry. I’m also sorry tha
t we did not have more time to get to know one another. While I am quick to critique and spare with praise, I am very proud you are my grandson. You are everything I should have been.

  Kiss your mother and little Mina for me. I shall miss them.

  With love and admiration

  Elias Bram

  p.s. Do not underestimate Ymir. The mountain is dangerous.

  “When did he give that to you?” asked a teary Mina.

  David rubbed his temples. “A few days ago. Right before I returned to Blys.”

  Taking the letter back from Mina, David slipped it into the envelope. There was no emotion on his face, merely an abstracted gaze Max had seen many times before. He knew his friend was deep in thought, his mind racing through innumerable factors and probabilities. David stood and began pacing by the scrying pool, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Max,” he said. “How do you feel? I need a straightforward assessment.”

  The fever and dizziness were subsiding, but Max still felt pitifully weak. Already, the wound was burning beneath its fresh stitches and bandages. “I’m hurt, David. It isn’t good.”

  “Is Ember helping?”

  “A little.”

  Rowan’s acting Director nodded and continued pacing. After a minute or two, he stopped. “With you like this, our chances of destroying Astaroth are almost nonexistent,” he concluded. “And I don’t think Ember will be able to get close to him. Astaroth did not create that other dragon by chance; he did it with Ember in mind. When he tries to open the gateway, I’d be surprised if that dragon isn’t guarding Ymir’s summit. We don’t have another …”