This time, however, something rose with it. A dark shape whose size quickly dwarfed the rising red creature until it seemed a mere bull’s-eye within an ever-expanding shadow.
Max jumped back from the rail as the red creature burst from the water, pursued by a shark that was easily half the length of the ship. There was a spray of splinters as the shark shattered several oars and breached clear of the water, allowing Max to see the roll of its awful bulk and a dead black eye that stared into his own. For a single, terrifying moment, Max feared that the shark’s momentum would carry it over the gunwale and onto the deck, but instead the monster fell back to the sea with its prey clamped tightly within its jaws. The Ormenheid’s hull gave a dreadful shudder as the shark’s tail slapped its side and churned the waters into red foam.
Scrambling to his feet, Max seized up the harpoon and raced to the back of the ship in the event that the monster decided to pursue the boat. But the shark stayed behind to lurk in the waters where the attack had taken place, its huge fin turning lazy circles amid the screaming throng of scavenging birds.
As the days progressed, Max found the breezes growing unseasonably warm. He had been to sea only three weeks, but it seemed an age. He had given up trying to approximate the Ormenheid’s position in so vast an ocean. He trusted to the ship’s magic, the invisible forces that pulled its oars, adjusted its lines, and fixed the rudder toward Blys. While the strange seal-creatures compelled him to examine closely anything he caught, food had been reasonably plentiful, and he’d discovered that the simple act of enchanting a hook so that it glowed was an irresistible enticement to many a fish at nightfall.
* * *
And finally, land. It appeared one afternoon, a mere sliver of black that broke the monotony of the gray, flat horizon. Max leaped up at the sight of it and leaned out over the prow, fearful that it was a mirage, a teasing trick of the mind.
But it was no mirage. Within hours, the Ormenheid was sculling through a shaded waterway between two cliffs of dark rock. Max gazed up, hopeful for signs of life, but he saw nothing more than stone and the tangled trees that clung to its footholds.
Days passed until the Ormenheid suddenly veered to port, steering for a small beach that was sufficiently sheltered from dangerous rocks and surf to make a landing. Cutting a diagonal across the waves, the ship rose and fell, sliding ever closer to the dark sand until its shallow hull at last ground to a halt.
For several moments, Max merely sat in the boat and watched the first stars peek from the indigo sky. The evening was cool, the waves melodic as they broke gently on the beach and spilled over the sand. As he gazed along the landscape, the shallow cliffs and stands of dark trees, he saw no hint of habitation. He had arrived in Blys to find it as quiet and peaceful as a poem.
Following months at sea, the sensation of solid ground was pleasing and strange. There was no roll to the earth, no sudden movements to jostle or buck the unwary. Taking up his pack, he made another inventory of his possessions and girded the gladius to his back. With an apologetic glance at the mauled Ormenheid, Max spoke the word that would make it as small as a matchbox and then plucked it from the wet sand to stow it safely in his pocket. Smiling grimly at his bedraggled, beggarly appearance, Max took up his walking stick and began the slow trudge from the beach up to the rocky spit of land that jutted from the broader coast. It was a fine night for walking, and Max’s weariness soon drained away. He felt as strange and wild as anything he might meet.
* * *
He walked for days and never saw a soul. The land had recently emerged from winter, shaking off snow to reveal a mix of muddy hills and bare trees. But the palette was not all gray and ocher, for periodically Max traversed vast carpets of knee-high blue flowers that stretched across the landscape like a Van Gogh. When darkness fell, Max often heard the deep, lowing calls of animals, and remembered Bob’s advice to seek small, secure places at night.
It was an entire week before he saw the witch.
At first glance, Max thought it was a bird, but the shape grew larger until he saw the trailing tatters of cloak, the lump of a woman soaring above on a twisted staff of yew. It would do no good to conceal himself; he was walking along a ridgeline in the morning sun, and there was no place to hide. Besides, Max was anxious to speak with another human.
Sure enough, the witch had seen him, for she altered her course and began to circle back, skimming low over the hills until she hovered a stone’s throw away. With a reedy laugh, she wagged a thin finger at him and spoke in Italian.
“What have we here?” she cackled, a malicious gleam in her eye. “A fugitive, perhaps?”
“I’m no fugitive,” said Max coldly.
Dismounting from the staff, she peered suspiciously at him. “Who are you then?” she croaked. “You do not speak like a native.”
“A traveler.”
She laughed and spat on the cold ground. “Travelers don’t come here,” she said. “You are in Blys. I thought you were some slave from that accursed place, but you … you are something else, I think. Show me your mark,” she ordered grimly, gesturing at his hand.
Curious that the witch would know of such a thing, Max revealed the Red Branch tattoo upon his wrist. She stared at it for a full ten seconds.
“Gods above,” she whispered, backing away. “Are you really him?”
Max frowned and pulled his sleeve low. “What did you expect to see, witch?” he asked, ignoring her question.
“The marks of Prusias and the local brayma,” she explained. “You are on demon lands—all humans must wear such a mark. Forgive me, blessed child, but anyone will know you by your mark.”
“What is a brayma?” Max asked.
“The local lord,” she replied, gazing about the hills as though she expected his or her arrival. “Oh, you mustn’t travel openly without their permission, young Hound! They will come for you.”
“Let me see your mark,” said Max, glancing at her dark hands, which were riddled with tiny, hieroglyphic tattoos and mystic writing.
“The witches bear no demon brands,” she replied, pushing back her sleeves to the elbow. “Our home is in Aamon’s realm, and he brands us not.”
“Lucky you,” said Max. “If your home is in Aamon’s kingdom, what are you doing here?”
“I am a weather worker,” she replied. “Contracted to a ship in Blys that is weighing anchor for Zenuvia. They are expecting me.”
“Not so fast,” said Max, seizing her broomstick as she sought to climb upon it. She grimaced, revealing small teeth filed to points. “Where are Lord Vyndra’s lands?”
“I know not,” she whined, weakly tugging at her broom. “I think far to the north, but I make no promises. Please let me go—we will be seen up here!”
“You said there are humans nearby,” said Max, maintaining his hold on the broomstick. “You thought I was some kind of slave. Where are they? Who’s keeping them?”
“You don’t want to go there,” she warned. “No, no, almost anywhere else.”
“Why?” Max asked. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t say,” the witch hissed, her teeth nearly chattering with some nameless fear. “Aamon would roast me alive! He always knows if one’s been talking. The stories … the stories!”
“We’re going to make a bargain,” said Max calmly. “I’m going to let you go and make the winds blow for the demon ships. In exchange, you’re going to tell me of this place where humans live and then forget you ever saw me.”
“I can’t,” she panted. “It’s for your own sake. Go far, far away from this place!”
But Max would not relent, and at last the witch told him to continue northeast until he arrived at the ruins of a road—an ancient Roman road that had survived the Fading. There were humans nearby, she insisted, and Max could find them if he followed the road and kept clear of the goblin tribes that inhabited the region. When Max asked whether it was the goblins that threatened the humans, the frightened witch merely shook her hea
d, insisting that she’d done as their bargain required, and sped off to the west.
Max tightened his pack and trotted down from the ridgeline. A dense forest of birch trees lay ahead, and Max chose to camouflage himself among them as he trekked across the cold ground in search of the rumored road.
After several hours he found it—though half choked with weeds, it was an undeniable avenue of dusty stone that threaded through the hills. Max walked upon its worn stones, stopping occasionally to peer at crumbling milestones that had been built when Caesars ruled the land.
The road was not all that had survived the wars and Fading. Occasionally Max saw houses, deserted stone structures whose roofs had collapsed. In one of these, Max had discovered evidence of a long-abandoned goblin camp—scattered bones and hideous graffiti that had been scrawled upon the wall. But he saw no sign of humans.
As the shadows lengthened and daylight began to fade, Max started to despair. Despite the witch’s warnings, he was anxious to find the humans soon. The idea of a warm fire and conversation—real conversation—sounded better than all the world’s treasures.
The gibbous moon was high above when Max finally heard a welcome sound. It was the unmistakable shutting of a door, and the sound came from just beyond a low hill some fifty feet off the road. Jogging ahead, Max climbed the hill’s crest and practically gulped the smell of wood smoke and the aroma of roasting vegetables. There was a large farmhouse, the moon illuminating its smooth stone walls and the slope of its thatched roof. From a chimney trickled white smoke that rose until it caught the breeze that carried it past Max’s nose. Through the small, shuttered windows Max could see glimmers of golden light that made him almost skitter down the hill in his eagerness for company.
But the witch had warned him that something was amiss among the humans, and Max paused to scan the surrounding territory. Within the broad clearing, there was an animal pen stocked with sheep and goats, a black patch that must have been a vegetable garden, and several dark storehouses. Past the vegetable patch was an old stone well, its uneven rim a jagged ellipse beneath the pale moon. Something small was crossing the yard, its progress slow and unsteady. Gripping the gladius in his hand, Max slunk down the hill, sly as a fox, and quickly crept upon the figure from behind.
It was a little girl.
She was no older than six, dressed in a woolen jacket and a skirt that was too long for her short legs. She clutched a bundle of firewood, her breath misting the chilly air as she made for the farmhouse.
Quickly sheathing the gladius, Max knelt down to her height and called softly in Italian. “Hello there,” he said.
The child dropped the firewood and froze.
“Shhh,” Max said, coming round so she could see him. “It’s okay. I’m a friend.”
“Are you the m-monster?” she whispered.
“No,” said Max. “I’m not a monster—I’m a friend.”
“Friend?” inquired the girl with a dubious tone.
Max nodded and collected the fallen firewood. “My name is Max,” he said calmly. “What’s yours?”
“Mina,” breathed the tiny girl.
“Is this your house, Mina?” Max asked gently.
Before she could reply, the farmhouse door opened. Its light framed a large man in the doorway. He spoke rapidly, his voice sharp with reproach.
“I told you to hurry, Mina!”
From the darkness, Max called out his apologies and insisted that it was his fault. At the sound of Max’s voice, the man started and stared out into the clearing. Conjuring an orb of soft blue light, Max illuminated the area where he stood with Mina, who went absolutely rigid.
“Demon!” the man cried, slamming the door and triggering a chorus of young screams and the frantic barking of a dog.
Taking Mina’s hand, Max hurried toward the house, whose lights had abruptly gone dark. There was the grating of something heavy being drawn across the door. Whispers from within the house—furious shushing and the sharp sound of broken pottery. Mindful that his knock might bring a pitchfork, Max rapped once and stepped back to speak in a slow, soothing voice.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
There was no answer, but Max could hear the man breathing heavily just on the other side of the door. Mina still held Max’s hand, but there was no life within it. She clutched his fingers as though she were already resigned to some hideous fate.
“I understand,” Max called through the door. “It’s dark and you’re frightened. I’m leaving Mina here. We can talk in the morning.”
Patting Mina’s cheek, Max left her on the doorstep with the firewood and retreated some fifty feet to a pile of straw just outside the animal pen. On the other side of the fence, a drowsy goat blinked curiously at him before drifting back to sleep. As Max spread his bedroll on the mattress of hay, he heard Mina pleading with the man—presumably her father—who had yet to open the door.
Max strained to hear and decipher the words. No, he didn’t hurt me. He’s still here. Something about going to sleep and Mina’s growing impatience due to the cold. At this, the door cracked a handbreadth. Max saw an arm shoot out, grabbing Mina by her collar and snatching her inside. With a solid thump, the heavy door slammed shut once again.
The farmhouse lights went out, leaving it dark beneath the bright moonlight that conveyed a soft glow to the hills and distant mountains. Despite the rude welcome, Max felt a rush of delight. Inside that house were people! They were frightened, of course, but the daylight would ease their fears and allow a warmer welcome. As he snuggled down deeper into the hay and blankets, he breathed the cold night air and tried to get a wink of sleep.
Daylight arrived with a rooster crow. He imagined the sound must have been a rooster—did hens bother making such a terrible noise? There was a contented clucking behind him, the prolonged baahh of a lamb, and Max opened his eyes to see a young boy still in his nightshirt tossing grain to a yard full of strutting fowl. Nearby, a pair of girls milked a goat that chewed upon a handful of branches, looking bored. Propping up on his elbows, Max almost leaned into a long spear that trembled as it was leveled at his face.
“Who are you?” demanded a gruff voice. “What are you doing here?”
Gazing past the spearhead, Max looked upon a large man approaching sixty, holding a spear so rusted that it looked more likely to break than cause any real damage. The man was missing several teeth and squinted at Max as though his vision was poor.
Holding up his hands, Max spoke slowly. “My name is Max and I come in peace.”
“You’re no demon?” asked the man, trembling as sweat ran down his broad forehead.
“No,” Max insisted, climbing cautiously to his feet.
While they spoke, some dozen grimy children continued to go about their chores, offering only quiet, curious glances at the strange interview. Given Max’s imperfect Italian, it was a halting conversation, but several things soon became clear. The first was that the man was not the father of the children present—he was merely their caretaker. Max gathered the farm must be a sort of orphanage or commune. When asked about the children’s parents, the man merely plucked at his gray whiskers.
“Dead,” he muttered, fixing Max with a pair of small, hard eyes. Scratching at a crown of graying thatch, the man made Max understand that he was not welcome to stay. There were too many mouths to feed already. The man chuckled grimly as he said this, spreading his hands as if to say, We are both men. We understand each other, no?
Max saw three brands upon the man’s right palm. The largest, located just beneath the fingers, was Astaroth’s sigil. Below that, in the center, was Prusias’s, and finally, beneath that, a smaller circle. Within it was some design, but Max could not make it out. He pointed at it, but the man scowled and abruptly closed his hands.
Anxious to change the subject, Max asked after food.
The man glanced at the sheathed gladius; suspicious eyes wandered over Max’s face. The man seemed to be weighing a v
ariety of possibilities. At length, he grinned—an insincere grimace that stopped well short of his eyes. Of course, he said. There was food inside. They would be happy to feed Max, but he must be on his way before nightfall. Hard times. Hard times. The young man understood. Of course he did.
While they walked toward the farmhouse, Max noted that none of the children were talking. They ranged in age from mere toddlers to a youth approaching his teens. He said hello to one—a girl of perhaps nine—but she only pursed her lips and nodded under the stern eye of the guardian. Something was profoundly wrong here, and Max eyed the grinning man with darkening suspicion.
Max’s first impression of the farmhouse was one of unimaginable squalor. Despite its high ceiling, the great room was dark and dreary, its walls charred and oily from a fireplace that was clearly blocked. The stench was unbearable—a fetid reek of human waste. Max gagged, glancing to see if he’d caused offense, but the man merely tossed the ancient spear into a corner where a spotted mutt lay gnawing on an old shoe from a pile of many.
“Is he gone, Pietro?” came a woman’s voice. “We have chosen.”
“Be quiet!” replied the man sternly. “We have an honored guest.”
He laughed as he said this, then clapped Max on the shoulder and led him around a wall, where two women sat at a large table set near a stone hearth. The first looked to be the same age as the man, a stout, weather-beaten woman with a hard face. Her expression remained stoic as she appraised Max. She offered nothing, no hint of a smile or even a nod of acknowledgment. Her hands were folded on the table near a piece of rose quartz that glinted in the thin light streaming from a slit of a window in the northern wall.
“This is the choice?” asked Pietro heavily.
The Fiend and the Forge Page 24