The Red Winter

by Henry H. Neff

  “We look forward to it,” said David. “When you sign that document, this war ends, and a ship will take you to your new lands.”

  Prusias practically snatched the golden pen from Cooper’s hand. He signed with a dramatic flourish, his signature covering half the page. “There! Now, I demand these ridiculous shackles be removed and our ship made ready. I’m not staying here one second longer than necessary.”

  As Cooper unlocked the demon’s shackles, Mr. Bonn gave a small cough. “Director, may I speak?”

  David silenced Prusias’s protest. “Of course you may speak, Mr. Bonn.”

  “Well,” said the imp, “my master promised to grant me koukerros once the war was over. If I understand correctly, that is now the case. I would like him to make good on his promise—here before the Faeregine.”

  “This is preposterous,” Prusias growled. “You’re my imp!”

  “Did you make this promise?” asked Mina, at David’s left shoulder.

  The demon’s whole being seemed to writhe with discomfort as he looked at this young girl in her white robes and open, expectant face. It was clear he could not bring himself to lie to her. “I did,” he confessed. “But it was said in passing. A little joke to placate—”

  Mina’s voice had an icy authority. “You will grant him koukerros right now.”

  Prusias almost wilted. He glanced at Mr. Bonn with an expression of mingled anger and anguish. “So you’re abandoning me, eh? Right when I need you.”

  Mr. Bonn’s smile was almost compassionate. “It’s time for a new chapter, master. One for you, and one for me. We’ve had many good years.”

  Prusias gave a grudging nod, his savage features oddly introspective. “Aye, Mr. Bonn. That we have. Very well, then.”

  The demon took hold of Mr. Bonn’s little hand and closed his eyes. A ball of green fire erupted around their clasped hands, growing brighter and brighter. As Prusias shuddered, Mr. Bonn gave a gasp of pain. The imp’s body burned away like tissue paper, leaving behind a lithe little spirit of shimmering air. Springing from Prusias’s shoulder, it gave an exultant cry and soared off into the twilight. Max watched it longest.

  Later that evening, Max left the Observatory. He’d ditched the ceremonial garb from earlier, opting instead for his worn and comfortable travel clothes. Stopping at the threshold, he gazed back at the room’s beloved dome, constellations, and sleigh beds before locking the door behind him. The movers were coming early the next morning. Tweedy would make certain the important things ended up where they needed to go.

  Old College was crowded with merrymakers celebrating the treaty signing. So was the Sanctuary. Max had never seen the township more packed—its square and avenues, shops and restaurants were teeming with revelers. Stopping briefly to buy a bag of toffees (Max could never resist toffee), he bumped into Aurvangr and Ginnarr, the dvergar smiths who had made the gae bolga’s spear shaft. Max greeted them pleasantly.

  “It’s the Boy!” said Aurvangr, elbowing his brother. They always called him “the Boy” as though he were the only one in existence.

  “You’re the one who’s always grousing about it,” sniffed Ginnarr. “You ask him.”

  “Ask me what?” said Max, holding out the bag of candy.

  A grateful Ginnarr took a toffee, but Aurvangr twiddled his fingers anxiously. “I hate to bring this up,” he said. “But when we lent you Ormenheid, it was for three years. She’s six months overdue. We didn’t want to say anything with the war and all the troubles, but now that the treaty’s signed, we want her back. She’s very special.”

  Max popped a toffee in his mouth. “Yes, she is. What other ship can sail itself against weather, wind, and tide? She could probably fly if you asked her to.”

  “Very special,” Ginnarr repeated proudly. “You understand we’re not trying to be greedy. Ormenheid is an heirloom of our people.”

  “I know,” said Max. “I’m truly sorry to have kept her so long. Would it be okay if I gave her back in a few days?”

  “The Boy wants to have a little fun,” chuckled a relieved Aurvangr to his brother. “I understand. Who wouldn’t like to take a pretty girl sailing in this weather? You keep her another week, okay? Then we get her back.”

  “Deal,” said Max, shaking hands.

  Nox was waiting by the Warming Lodge, chewing casually on an iron ingot. She rose at Max’s approach, padding toward him and fluttering her tail in greeting. Crouching, Max stroked her quills and gazed about at the Sanctuary’s foothills and forests, its ring of mountains, and the distant dunes.

  “C’mon,” he said, scratching Nox’s ears. “It’s getting late.”

  The two walked through the Sanctuary tunnel into Old College. With Nox at his side, it was silly to pretend he wasn’t Max McDaniels, so he didn’t bother with his hood. In any case, it was a warm night and he wanted to feel the breeze.

  To his surprise and delight, Max ran into David as he and Nox passed by the Manse’s fountain. The visibly bored Director was listening to an urgent plea by a Raszna student who wanted to switch roommates. Catching sight of Max, David held up a finger for him and Nox to wait.

  “I have nothing to do with roommate assignments,” said David, not unkindly. “You’ll have to take that up with Tweedy.”

  Evidently this was unacceptable. Before stalking off, the indignant vye declared that Tweedy was “horrible,” that Rowan “smelled funny,” and that he wished to return to Arcanum. With a sigh, David came over to Max and ventured a cautious pat of Nox’s head.

  “Any interest in being Director?” he asked.

  “Nope,” said Max. “I’m glad I ran into you, though. Nice job at the signing. You were kind of a badass.”

  “I try. What’s with the bag?”

  Max thumped his pack. “Thought I might camp out in the caravan. I don’t need Tweedy’s movers waking me up at six in the morning. Do you get to take a break now?”

  The question earned an incredulous look. “A break? I’m going to my fourth dinner. Apparently, if you don’t host a fancy dinner tonight, you don’t really count in the new scheme of things. This one’s with the witches. But let’s talk about your camping out at the caravan. I assume you’ll refuse for the thousandth time when I insist you take some Agents with you?”

  Max grinned. “You assume correctly, Director. And you’ll get no sympathy from me for having to attend all these dinners. That’s what you get for creating your little ‘Pax Rowana.’ ”

  David blinked. He looked startled, even amazed by the expression. “That’s really clever.”

  Max gave a nonchalant shrug. “I’ve been told I’m the great wit of the world.”

  “The very peak of the bell curve,” said David, a curious twinkle in his eye.

  Feeling rather pleased, Max said good night and set off across Old College. He hadn’t made it twenty yards before David’s voice called after him.

  “Tweedy made that up, didn’t he?”

  Cursing David’s intuition, Max shouldered his pack and carried on.

  It took Max nearly an hour to walk from the Manse to Scathach’s caravan. It was only two miles, but Nox liked to dart into the woods, clamber up trees, and generally make her presence known to whatever poor creatures were trying to sleep.

  Max was content to take his time and let her stretch her legs. Midnight was still a few hours away and it was a beautiful evening with a sky so clear he might have been standing atop the Witchpeaks. As he walked along the cliffs, he listened to the summer breeze, the crashing surf, and the distant ring of Old Tom chiming ten.

  The caravan looked very pretty in the moonlight. There were flowers around it now, some of Scathach’s favorites planted among the vines that snaked through its wheels.

  After Ymir, Max had recovered her remains from the Workshop and buried them here with some driftwood as a headstone. For a girl who’d lived in two worlds, he thought that was fitting. Besides, Scathach wouldn’t have wanted anything fancy—just a little plot by the sea.
And that was what she had.

  He looked around for Nox, but she had not returned from her latest detour. Setting down his pack, Max knelt by the grave. After all the noise and activity on campus, he was grateful for a bit of quiet. He knelt in silence for a few moments before touching his fingers to the headstone.

  “You and no other.”

  As he expected, two shadows slipped silently from the woods. Rising to face them, Max drew the gae bolga and offered the warrior’s salute.

  It was not even six when a loud knocking woke David. What surprised him was not the knock, but the fact that he found Bob standing outside the Observatory’s door. David had never seen the ogre look so grim.

  “You must come, Director. Something bad has happened.”

  “What?” said David, his pulse quickening.

  “Bob does not know exactly. Perhaps you will. We go outside.”

  David asked no more questions. Pulling a Director’s robe over his head, he slipped on some shoes and scurried after the ogre, who was taking long, rapid strides down the hallway. A pair of guards followed as they hurried out the Manse’s front door and into the golden dawn.

  “I go early to docks to buy crab,” Bob explained. “A fisherman showed me. I told him stay quiet and came right to you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Bob not sure. It might be our Max.”

  David broke into a run.

  By the time they descended the cliff steps and clambered far up the rocky beach, David could scarcely breathe. But he did not stop until they’d almost reached the spot that Bob indicated, a little cove past a dune crowned with sea grass. Coming to a wheezing halt, David told the guards to remain and went ahead with Bob.

  Two bodies were lying ten feet from the water’s edge, arranged side by side and covered with stones. The hasty burial had done little to dissuade the seagulls, which had arrived in great numbers and took reluctant, screaming flight at the ogre’s approach.

  David was almost numb when he removed the first few stones from the larger mound. Although it was bruised and bloodied, the face was all too familiar. It was only when he spied burn scars about the jaw that he exhaled. Max had only one facial scar—a thin white line that ran from cheek to chin. This person did not.

  It was far easier to identify the other body. The smaller, emaciated clone stared up at the peach-colored sky with glassy eyes and an open mouth full of broken teeth.

  “What make those?” asked Bob, pointing at some gruesome claw marks.

  David closed the clone’s eyes. “A lymrill. He finally met an animal wilder than him.”

  Bob looked around anxiously. “You think Max okay?”

  Rising, David noted the piles of loose rocks and boulders that looked like they’d recently tumbled down the cliffs. One of the largest bore a bloody handprint. More blood had soaked into the sand, little droplets scattered about the many footprints whose number and patterns suggested a prolonged and furious struggle. Two sets of footprints stood out from the rest, however. One set had been made by a pair of boots, the other by heavy paws that had walked side by side away from the burial mounds. They ended at the water’s edge.

  “I think Max is okay,” said David thoughtfully. “But I don’t think we’ll see him or Nox again. I think they’ve left us for good.”

  A sad, deep rumble sounded in the ogre’s chest. “Bob will miss his little Max. But he thought malyenki might be leaving.”

  David looked up at him. “How did you know?”

  A grunt. “Before Bob was cook, Bob was ogre. Where you think he go?”

  David gazed out at the ocean’s swells and then up at the sky where the last stars of evening were fading. “I don’t know, Bob. But yesterday was Midsummer. With a ship like Ormenheid, Max could have sailed just about anywhere. I think that was the idea.”

  David returned to the Observatory physically and emotionally exhausted. What he wanted was sleep; what he found was Tweedy and a work crew packing up everything he owned. David glanced longingly at his sleigh bed, the lone piece of furniture that would be moved to his new accommodations.

  “Tweedy, can I please get an hour of sleep?”

  “Not a chance, Director. Busy day, you know.”

  Nodding dazedly, David sat on his bed and gazed up at the Observatory dome. Orion gazed back.

  “Oh,” said Tweedy, hopping over. “Some incompetent left something for you on McDaniels’s bed.”

  The hare handed over a bundle wrapped in a plain brown bag with David’s name scrawled on it. Reaching within, David pulled out a mail shirt whose links were so fine, so tiny, it could be folded like cloth. Antonio de Lorca had bequeathed the armor to Max years ago when there was a city called Salamanca. Max was returning it to the Red Branch.

  The bag also contained a letter. Setting aside the shirt, David opened the letter and read in silence. In true Max fashion, it was not particularly long or well written, but it brought a smile to David’s face.

  “Tweedy,” he said, holding up the shirt. “This needs to go to the Red Branch vault.”

  “Very good,” said the hare, noting it on a clipboard. “And the letter? Should it be filed?”

  “No,” said David. “It’s not an official document. More of a personal invitation.”

  “You can toss it in the fire, then. You’re booked solid for the next six months. When’s the event?”

  David folded the letter. “If I’m lucky, not for a very long time.”

  For once, Tweedy was speechless.

  EPILOGUE

  Twilight was settling when Max climbed down from Ormenheid and spoke the words that would send her sailing back to Rowan. While Nox explored the empty beach, Max watched the longship rise and fall on the gray waves until she disappeared in the mist.

  The lymrill bounded over as Max removed the bandages from his midsection. The linen was clotted with dark blood and the scented balm. But the skin underneath was whole, the flesh firm and strong. When Max washed the area with seawater, he could find no trace of the awful wound. Catching sight of his wrist, he noticed that his Red Branch tattoo had also disappeared. Curious, Max touched his cheekbone and felt a thin raised slash that ran all the way to his chin. For whatever reason, that scar remained.

  Attaching the spear shaft to the gae bolga, Max used the weapon as a walking stick as he and Nox journeyed up from the beach to a quiet countryside. Crossing a field, they came upon a dirt lane that led to a road of worn white cobbles washed clean by recent rain. Max walked down the road’s center as it wound through a country of old forests and weathered hills. Here and there moonflowers rose from the hedges, their white blossoms opening to greet the evening. Nox padded beside him, snorting at the occasional hare but generally content to sniff the breeze and enjoy a stroll with her steward.

  A chorus of crickets and churring nightjars accompanied them as they walked. From far off, Max heard the sound of a child’s laughter and the hint of a fiddle. But there were no other people on the road. For the moment, it belonged solely to them.

  They did not see anyone until they crossed a stone footbridge that spanned a quiet brook. The girls were twins, no more than six, and they stood barefoot beneath a willow tree clutching lanterns that illuminated dusky, knowing faces. They must have been awaiting Max, for as he approached, they bowed to him and Nox and fell in step behind them.

  Max soon saw other people. They approached over fields or stood beside the hedges and flowers that lined the road: farmers and weavers, shepherds and smiths, woodcutters and reddlemen dusty with chalk. Some leaned on scythes or spades; others cradled infants or quieted little ones who stood on tiptoe to glimpse the newcomer. None spoke, but all bowed or removed their hats as he passed.

  As Max continued, the spectators increased. Among the candles and lanterns, Max recognized faces he had known once upon a time: a stablehand from Rodrubân, a faun that sang in Summervyne, a faerie from the Fomorian’s cave, a man who helped with the standing stone. Each bowed as Max passed and then fol
lowed silently behind the girls.

  It was not long before Max saw six figures in gleaming mail. The shield maidens stood at attention, composed and stoic but for Ula, whose tears shone plain on her ruddy cheeks. As Max passed, they also bowed and joined the slow procession.

  The strange parade continued on through the twilight, following the road as it crossed an ancient forest and fed into an open stretch of shallow hills and well-tilled fields. In the distance stood Rodrubân, its ivory towers impossibly beautiful against the deepening sky.

  A farmhouse stood upon the nearest hill, its windows spilling light upon its porch and gardens. From within, Max heard the clink of dishes and a man’s laughter. He wanted very much to go inside, to leave the road and walk up the gravel path toward its door. When he did so, Nox and the twin girls followed, but the others remained behind—hundreds of silent figures watching from the roadside.

  As Max climbed the hill, he saw that his way was blocked. Something was sprawled across the path—a dark shape that watched him with glittering, implacable eyes. Clutching the gae bolga, Max walked toward it.

  The wolfhound stood as he approached, growling low and baring its fearsome teeth as it ground its paws into the gravel. Max met its impenetrable stare as the beast padded toward him. When it rose and placed its massive paws upon his shoulders, Max did not resist. He merely let the gae bolga slip from his grasp.

  The wolfhound’s weight nearly staggered him. Pressing its broad head against his, the animal panted and growled, its breath hot as a furnace. From its throat came a familiar question.

  “What are you about? Answer quick, or I’ll gobble you up!”

  This time Max did not run. He did not attack or let the monster devour him, as he had in so many dreams. Placing his hands atop its paws, he gazed into the wolfhound’s face as though it were an old and trusted friend.

  “I’m Max McDaniels. And I’ve come home.”

  As he spoke these words, the monster’s features melted away and he beheld the Morrígan. The goddess was clad in dark mail and wore a cloak of raven feathers about her shoulders. Her aspect was still fearsome, but there was no hatred or anger upon her face. Picking up the gae bolga, she placed the spear back in Max’s hand.