Swallowing his disgust, Max rounded the Manse and jogged toward the academic quad, where he suspected Bob was sitting. It was not hard to spot the ogre. He was at a table beneath the rowan trees, his wheelchair flanked by a pair of moomenhoven nurses. Bob’s bandaged head glistened with tiny beads of water from the misting fountain nearby. Sipping tomato soup from an enormous tureen, he nodded politely in response to an inquiry from Monsieur Renard.
Max poked Bob on the shoulder and grinned.
The huge head turned, and for a moment, Max thought the ogre had forgotten him. Bob’s small blue eyes merely blinked at Max in quiet curiosity, peering at him as though he were but a colorful little bird that had hopped from a nearby copse. Soon, however, Bob’s warm, leathery hands reached out to envelop Max’s. The ogre beckoned one of the moomenhovens to reposition his chair so he and Max could face one another.
“It is my Max, no?” he rumbled, gently patting Max’s hand as though it were a rabbit. “Bob sees not so well these days.”
“It’s me,” said Max, noticing that Bob was thinner, his legs mere shanks beneath his trousers. The attack last spring had taken an enormous toll on the aged ogre. But one would not know it from Bob’s warm, toothless grin.
“It’s so good to see you, Bob,” said Max. “How are you feeling?”
The ogre shrugged. “Bob is tough. He will be making éclairs and soufflés in no time.”
“So you’ll be back in the kitchens next week?” Max asked.
“Tomorrow,” said the ogre with gruff decisiveness, glancing pointedly at one of the attending moomenhovens. “The kitchen needs Bob.”
“Yes, it does,” said Max. “Have you met the haglings?”
Bob frowned and nodded, leaning close. His mottled, papery skin smelled like soap and ripe apples. “Be extra good to our Mum. She needs you. Bellagrog is … difficult. Promise Bob you will visit his little Mum.”
“Of course,” said Max.
“Good boy.”
Apparently this was the end of their visit, for the drowsy ogre’s eyelids fluttered, and he released Max’s hand. Closing his eyes, the ogre knitted his fingers together and looked like a hopeful, pious boy on Christmas Eve. As his great head began to dip, one of the moomenhovens deftly whisked away his napkin while the other strained to swivel the casters beneath his chair. A moment later, Rowan’s chef was snoring while his nurses grunted and wheezed with the effort of rolling him off to bed.
The dinner was coming to a finish, and Max saw that many of the younger children had already abandoned their tables and were running about, flinging pinecones and generally doing their best to distract the still-conversing adults. Overhead, the stars were twinkling, and the air nipped with September chill. As Max strode back toward his table, the sky was suddenly illuminated. He turned and saw a fading bloom of golden fireworks.
They had come from the sea.
Max hurried toward the ocean, weaving between the emptying tables, joined by hundreds of other people all trotting down the garden paths and across the lawns to form a line along the rocky bluff. Another burst of golden fireworks filled the eastern sky, expanding like a rose before arcing back to earth with a glimmering hiss. Up ahead, Max heard cries that something had been sighted—a ship was moored out in the Atlantic.
As Max squeezed through the crowd, he discovered that the commotion was dissipating to an eerie silence. Unable to find a suitable vantage point, he clambered onto the pedestal of Elias Bram’s statue, ignoring the scowling disapproval of a nearby Mystic. Peering out over the spectators’ heads and the blue-black waves, Max saw a ship the likes of which he had never imagined.
At first glance, the ship’s dimensions nearly overwhelmed the senses. Even a rogue wave—a tidal monstrosity—would hardly daunt such a vessel, and Max doubted it had been crafted for earthly seas. The gargantuan ship resembled a modified galleon, with brightly illuminated portholes lining its sides at irregular intervals and heights. Ten masts the size of redwoods protruded like spines from a deck whose entirety was lost to the night fog. Upon these masts were white silk mainsails, stretched to taut, voluminous perfection by the onshore breeze. The bright moonlight revealed that each sail was embroidered with an intricate design, some sort of symbol. At first, Max thought it might be Astaroth’s seal; however, instead of the Demon’s mark, this circle enclosed twined sheaves of grain that overlapped one another to circumscribe three smaller circles that might have been coins. From his earlier reading, Max recognized it as the seal of Prusias. In surprising contrast to the ship’s staggering grandeur, a slender rope was all that tethered it to the dark rocks of Brigit’s Vigil.
Boom!
More crackling fireworks were fired from a long cannon on the bow, arcing high before they exploded in a dazzling brilliance that briefly turned the sea to gold. Several children nearby clapped their hands before their parents hushed them. While the fireworks faded, the enormous galleon sat motionless in the swell. Max felt someone’s fingers lace through his; Julie had climbed the pedestal to join him.
“Are those demons?” she asked quietly. “I heard Miss Boon talking.”
“They are,” Max said, frowning.
“How many do you think are on that thing?” she asked.
“Fewer than you might guess,” he replied. “They’re here to talk, not to fight.”
“Why bother bringing a ship so big?” asked a nearby man, holding his daughter.
“To intimidate us,” Max replied simply.
“It’s working.” Julie shivered as tatters of night fog swept in off the ocean.
~5~
GILDED GRÀVENMUIR
The wind moaned and torches sputtered as demons climbed the stony steps to Rowan.
At Cooper’s direction, Max had joined the rest of the Red Branch in ushering the crowd away from the bluff and the winding paths to the Sanctuary. He had promised Julie he would join the bonfire when he could, then returned to the cliff to stand among those who remained—assorted Mystics, Agents, faculty, and scholars, along with the visitors from the Workshop. They watched as a longboat launched from the galleon to cleave across the breakers, torches illuminating the smaller craft’s progress to the rocky beach below.
As the demons climbed the long stairs to the cliff’s top, Max realized that his breath was becoming short and shallow. Was it fear? he wondered. He mused on the huge ship moored off the coast, the silent procession of unknown visitors, and concluded that yes, he was afraid. But he was angry, too. It had been Max who had dug a grave for Jimmy, who had looked after the boy’s bathroom, giving outdated haircuts and drenching the unwary in cologne. The merry domovoi had been discovered in a horrific state following the Siege. The little man had done no harm, and yet now he lay beneath a bed of tulips near the Manse’s north wing. These visitors, or their servants, had killed Jimmy as he struggled to join the others in the Sanctuary.
His fingers twitched, and he felt the slow churn of sickening force begin to quicken within his body. A tremor ran through him, and he dropped to one knee.
“What’s the matter, Max?” asked Cooper, coming to his side.
“This is sacred ground,” croaked Max, glancing beyond the Agent at Bram’s statue, where he had promised Nigel that he would behave. “The demons shouldn’t be here.”
Cooper’s face remained a mask of stern appraisal. “You’re in the Red Branch,” he said, pulling Max to his feet. “Master yourself.”
Max nodded but found that his heart was beating wildly within his chest. He inhaled the cool night air and focused on the fire that had been built in the center of two large arrangements of seats. The fire was building, sending sparks up into the night and casting an amber glow on the faces of Rowan’s people as they took their places. Ms. Richter was seated in the center of the first row, her face grave as she stared out toward that point along the cliffs where the demons would emerge. Heading toward the bonfire, the pair took their seats, with Cooper sitting at the Director’s right.
“You are the son of a ki
ng,” Max whispered to himself, repeating Scathach’s parting words. Cooper glanced at him but said nothing. Max closed his eyes and repeated the mantra in his head. All around him, he could hear the hushed, nervous conversations and antsy creaking of chairs.
And then all of it stopped.
Max opened his eyes and saw two identical standards rise above the crest—Astaroth’s circular seal perched upon long wooden staves. The banners fluttered in the night breeze as their bearers came into view and began a silent procession across the lawns.
Throughout the Enemy’s approach, Max sat utterly transfixed, his attention focused upon the nightmarish things that bore Astaroth’s flags. The standard bearers were taller than men but thinner, gangly beings whose faces were hidden behind great mummers’ masks. These masks—crude and primal—were fashioned to resemble a great ram or bull, and they extended a full six feet from the shoulders of the creatures as they glided across the lawns, trailing their patchwork robes. Max found them horrifying—pagan dolls that had been jolted to life and set to a dark purpose.
A growing phalanx of other strange creatures followed.
Max did not find the armored ogres strange, or even the wolfish vyes, whose feral eyes gleamed in the firelight. The rest were presumably demons, and they were much more varied in appearance than Max might have imagined.
Some met Max’s expectations—powerful, diabolic figures with curving tusks and fearsome, militant faces. Others, however, appeared meek and scholarly, including one chinless, peach-colored imp no larger than a toddler. Compared to their ogre and vye guards, the demons were richly dressed. As they approached, the very air before them seemed to shimmer as though a great, noxious heat was emanating from the motley host.
When the masked standard bearers reached the arranged chairs, they stopped and stood at attention. For a moment, utter silence reigned as Rowan’s residents merely stared at the demonic entourage.
Finally, Ms. Richter stood and spoke. “Peace is made in quiet times when the crows have left and the earth is still. Rowan bids you welcome.”
A booming cackle erupted from the throng. There was a sound of small, merry bells, and the ogres and vyes and lesser demons stepped aside as something made its way toward the center. The laugh sounded again—an abbreviated, cheerful bark, as if the owner struggled to restrain himself.
“Ms. Richter, you do us too much honor,” exclaimed the voice. “Your greeting has a poetic lilt, the pleasing rhythm of spellwork.… We have not crows in the barrens of my homeland, but I shall send some there, and they shall be known henceforth as harbingers of peace, not war.”
An enormous man-shaped figure strode beyond the standard bearers and leaned his bulk upon an ivory cane.
Compared to the other demons, Prusias was decidedly human in appearance. As in the accounts Max had read, his guise was that of a huge, powerfully built nobleman gone to seed. His chest was broad and barrel-shaped, and he was clad in a rich black tunic. His legs were disproportionately small and slender, comparative stilts to the bulk of his upper body. His handsome features were deep and pronounced, as though sculpted by a bold, assured hand. He was olive-skinned and deeply tanned, and his every crease and wrinkle suggested a persona inclined to laughter. The demon’s face and expressions were defined by scale. His was a face suited for the stage. A wild mane of black hair and a long braided beard heightened the dramatic effect. Despite his kingly attire, Prusias exuded the air of a tribal chieftain rather than that of refined royalty. Set within the hollowed eye sockets, however, was a pair of round blue cat eyes—a startling reminder of his demonic heritage.
The peach-colored imp hopped forward and cleared its throat. “May I present Lord Prusias, Exalted Ruler of Blys, Defender of the—”
“Enough, enough,” growled Prusias, shooing the imp away. “We are among friends—such formalities are unnecessary. There will be time for introductions later, but Gabrielle Richter I already know. Where is the one called David Menlo?” inquired the demon, scanning the crowd. “My lord specifically bade me to extend his greetings.”
Heads turned and whispers coursed through the crowd.
“He is not here,” said Ms. Richter, her voice admirably measured. “He is unwell.”
“It grieves me to hear it,” said Prusias, smiling. “I had longed to meet him. And where is the other child of the Old Magic, so I may greet this champion?”
All of Rowan turned to Max, who closed his eyes and wished that he were far, far away. At Ms. Richter’s bidding, Max stood, the moonlight falling full upon his face. One of the demons—a tall, armored rakshasa standing behind Prusias—bared its teeth and cocked its head in surly appraisal.
“Caia, Prusias!” exclaimed another demon, a beaked creature with the wide, staring eyes of a lemur. “Lihuar connla nehunt ün homna. Connla breargh ün Sidh.”
“Vey, miyama.” Prusias nodded, speaking to the demon as though it were an inquisitive child. “But it is not polite to speak in tongues before our hosts.”
The staring demon bowed by way of apology and retreated a step.
“What did it say?” asked Max, returning the stares of the demons that crowded and jostled to gape at him.
Prusias suppressed their chatter with an irritated glance. “To her eyes, you do not seem human,” explained Prusias. “In the moonlight, your aura shines and flickers like those from our realm … and others. Are you certain you’re not a demon, Max?”
For several seconds, the startling question merely hung in the air. Finally, Prusias winked. Round, jovial features contorted into an amused grin as he offered Max a courteous bow. Max did not return it.
Several of the demons gasped, and a palpable tension saturated the air. Max felt Ms. Richter’s eyes boring into him.
Rising slowly, Prusias’s eyes flicked up and met Max’s own. “This will not do,” said Prusias, cocking an eyebrow at Ms. Richter. “The conquered must have manners.”
“Max,” said Ms. Richter, her voice preternaturally calm. “Please greet Lord Prusias appropriately so we may begin this important business.”
Max turned and looked at her, but she might have been a character in a film. She was not real; she did not truly exist. Her eyes pleaded with him, but she seemed to grow dim. There was a drumming in his ears—a thousand drums and a thousand calls and a thousand horns that stirred the Old Magic within his blood.
“I am not conquered.”
Something was pulling at his arm. It was Cooper. Max merely looked at him; he might have been a child. Leaning down, Max pointedly removed the man’s hand.
“Max McDaniels does not speak for Rowan, Lord Prusias,” said Ms. Richter, standing to bow low. “I offer our sincere apologies. He is still a boy.”
Max glared at Ms. Richter, but her attention was fixed upon Prusias, who watched these events unfold with a patient, watchful air. The demon offered a modest, understanding smile, but his eyes gleamed with a lingering malevolence. At length, he shrugged and his shoulders shook with a sudden laugh.
“Do not trouble yourself, Director,” he exclaimed, beckoning her to rise. “This is a time for celebration and merrymaking! I sympathize with our young friend—it is always thus after such misunderstandings arise. Let us turn to the tasks at hand. There are several points of order before our celebration can begin in earnest. With your permission, Max, may I share Lord Astaroth’s terms? They are most generous.”
Max stared at Prusias. The demon leaned upon his cane and returned the stare with a calm, contemplative expression that suddenly made Max feel that he was being childish. Slowly, Max took his seat.
At Prusias’s command, the demons were seated in the first row of chairs across the fire from Rowan’s senior representatives. There were about a dozen of them, some armored in elaborate suits of mail, others sleek and robed. Behind them stood the vyes and ogres, huge and grim, flanked by the standard bearers.
“Where is our charming messenger?” asked Prusias, beaming, as he turned to address his entourage.
Prusias smoothed the woman’s hair and whispered something in her ear with a kindly, paternal air. Sliding the gleaming tube out of her hands, he patted her on the head and she was led back to her place, where she sat on the lawn and dug her fingers in the grass.
Leaning on his cane, Prusias eased himself into the chair opposite Ms. Richter. He gave a broad grin and drummed his fingers on the case.
“The Four Kingdoms salute you,” he said. “And I am honored to speak for them.” Unscrewing a silver cap from the black tube, he removed and unrolled a long scroll whose dense script was penned in red ink. Prusias held it up and tilted the parchment so he could read by the firelight.
“The realm of Rowan shall be vast!” he proclaimed, his voice rising so all might hear. “Once you agree to the terms and sign the document, this land shall be yours. Rowan shall govern its own affairs and flourish here in a haven and harbor of its very own.…”
For a moment, Prusias sat in silence. His eyes, sapphire orbs suffused with an inner glow, wandered over the assembled Rowan and Workshop dignitaries with an expression of patrician magnanimity.
“And what are these terms, Lord Prusias?” asked Ms. Richter, breaking the silence. At her words, Prusias blinked and reexamined the scroll.
“There are but seven, I believe,” he purred, twining a braid of beard about his finger. “Seven Sacred Edicts are all that your people must follow to guarantee our lord’s goodwill. They are most reasonable.”
Prusias pivoted in his seat and craned his neck to look around the campus and the night.
“As you have undoubtedly noticed, our Lord Astaroth has been cleansing the world of its accumulated filth and disease. Once again, the air is pure, the soil is rich, and the oceans teem with life. Mankind may begin anew under the tutelage of wiser, gentler stewards. This is Year One.”
The Fiend and the Forge Page 7