“And the grylmhoch?” asked Max.
“Gone,” Prusias chuckled. “To the relief of all, I think …”
“Where did it go?”
“Back to Astaroth,” said Prusias with a charming shrug. “Back to Astaroth” had become a popular expression in Blys, another snippet of propaganda suggesting that the Demon was the divine singularity. In the grylmhoch’s case, however, the phrase seemed a literal possibility. As Prusias sipped his champagne, his eyes twinkled. “How did you realize the Sign could help you?”
Max told him, and the demon thumped his cane upon the floor.
“Good!” he exclaimed. “You cost me a fortune, but I can hardly begrudge it.”
“Why did I cost you a fortune?” asked Max.
“I bet against you,” said Prusias, grinning like the Cheshire cat.
“I thought you wanted me to win,” observed Max coldly.
“Of course I do!” laughed the demon. “But that doesn’t enter into it—not against a grylmhoch! Your draw was the unlucky one. Lord Rùk and Myrmidon had an easier time of it.”
“Who won?” asked Max.
“Alas,” said Prusias, “Lord Rùk has also gone back to Astaroth.…”
“So I’m to fight Myrmidon for the championship?” asked Max.
“That depends on two things,” said Prusias. “Whether you feel up to it and whether the committee elects to disqualify you.”
“Disqualify?” Max exclaimed. “Why would I be disqualified?”
“Some claim that you broke the rules,” said Prusias. “Your critics have submitted a petition, contesting that you did not actually defeat the grylmhoch. They maintain that you merely found a clever means to flee from your opponent before it finished you.”
“What do you think?” Max demanded, his face flushing angrily.
“You should not care so much what I think,” said Prusias easily. “You do your critics too much honor, Max. It’s an easy thing to sit off to the side and point.” Raising his glass, the demon recited in his stentorian voice: It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood.…’ Do you know who said that?”
“No.”
“An American president by the name of Teddy Roosevelt,” said the demon. “Energetic fellow … consulted me on Panama. Never openly acknowledged what I was, but I think he knew.”
“Why are you telling me this?” asked Max quietly.
“Because you’re not a timid soul, and I won’t have you act like one,” said Prusias, rising from his seat. The malakhim stepped aside as the great demon approached the table. “You’ve faced many a worthy foe in the arena and yet you quail at critics? My boy, they aren’t fit to say your name.”
“So how will the committee rule?” asked Max.
“That might depend on you,” said Prusias, cocking an eyebrow. “Do you want to fight this last match?”
“I don’t do what I want,” said Max bitterly. “I do what I have to. If I don’t fight, what will you do about Vyndra?”
Prusias shrugged. “Nothing,” he said simply. “I’d do nothing to help you. Why would I?” He almost chuckled at the thought. “My assistance with Vyndra is contingent on your becoming my champion. I’ve never said otherwise.”
Max reflected angrily on the matches he’d fought. “But I’ve already—”
“Earned rewards for which you’ve been paid,” interrupted Prusias sharply.
Closing his eyes, the demon paced slowly around the room, his voice rising. “In payment for your victories, I have given one thousand people sanctuary within the city walls, supplied the human camps, and forbidden the vyes to prey upon them. I have placed those who live at your farmhouse under my own protection. And yet you cry injustice!”
The demon fell silent but continued pacing. Upon the wall, his huge shadow writhed and twisted about, resembling a nest of flailing serpents.
Max’s eyes flicked from the shadow back to its owner. There were times when the demon’s appearance and jovial manner almost tempted Max to think of him as human—or at least mostly human.
But he was not human, Max reminded himself sternly. Prusias was something else entirely. And as Max stared again at that terrible shadow, a passage flashed like fire in his mind: “And behold, a great red dragon!”
He could not remember when he’d first heard those words, but they triggered a deep, nebulous fear. For this dragon was not some storybook lizard that dined on maidens, but an ancient evil. One that devoured nations.
Gradually, the shadow’s movements grew less wild. When Prusias finally opened his eyes, his tone was genial once again.
“I’d say quid pro quo has been the basis for a rather successful partnership. Without it, our relationship depends on mere charity. I don’t do charity, Max—it’s not my style. So, let’s keep things simple: You help me, and I’ll help you.”
Max considered these words. He was so close to getting what he wanted, so close to gaining a chance at revenge while helping others in the process. It was just one more match. He had already fought so many.
“Do you think the committee will disqualify me?” he asked.
At this, the demon actually laughed.
“Max,” he chided. “Don’t you fret. I am the committee.”
“Okay then,” said Max. “I’ll do it.”
“Excellent!” exclaimed Prusias. “That’s all settled then. We’ll announce that the championship match will be held two weeks from today—Mr. Bonn can see to all the details. In the meantime, let’s get you something to eat. You’ll need all your strength if you’re to tackle Myrmidon!”
~23~
MYRMIDON
Two weeks later, Max stood gazing out the uppermost window in his silent mansion. A cold spell had descended upon Blys, bringing a torrent of snow and wild gusts that came screaming past the window. Max pressed his forehead against the cold glass. The streets below were teeming with activity. Despite the inclement weather, the city’s residents were gathering in district plazas or along the broad avenues to celebrate the great tournament, which would conclude that evening.
There was a knock at the door and Max turned to see Mr. Bonn. The imp was holding Bragha Rùn’s helmet.
“Aren’t you early?” asked Max.
“The streets are icy,” replied the imp. “And there will be even larger crowds than usual.”
“What are the latest odds?”
“Three to two,” Mr. Bonn reported briskly. “You’re still favored, but the odds are dropping due to rumors you’re injured. A vast sum was wagered on Myrmidon just this morning.”
“Did you place a bet?” asked Max with a wry smile.
“I’m not allowed.” The imp shrugged. “I have inside information.”
“How would you wager, Mr. Bonn?”
Crossing the room, the imp gazed up at Max with a solemn expression. His small face still bore evidence of his punishment, but the welts were healing. Raising the fearsome helmet, he offered it to Max.
“Despite my station, you’ve always treated me with kindness and respect,” said Mr. Bonn. “If I could, I’d bet on you.”
“Even against the grylmhoch?”
“Yes, sir.”
Taking up the helmet, Max sighed. “Mr. Bonn, you’re a loyal friend, but you’d make a terrible gambler.”
The malakhim were already waiting outside with the carriage. By the time they had arrived atop the mountain and its uppermost palaces, the hills below seemed alive. All of the avenues blazed with lighted carriages and torches streaming toward the palace as though lava flowed uphill.
On the evenings when he fought, Max had grown accustomed to hearing his name shouted in the streets or from the gabled rooftops. But tonight, the thousands of revelers called another name, chanting it with a wild, maniacal enthusiasm.
“Astaroth!
Astaroth! Astaroth!”
The Demon’s seal was not merely etched on Max’s helmet, but stamped upon a thousand banners and pennants that fluttered from the city spires. It had been almost two years since Max had surrendered the Book of Thoth, two years since he had seen the Demon in person. Would he see him tonight?
The carriage slowed to a halt, and Max saw that they had reached the smithy. Tonight there were no dvergar or forges or weapon racks. This would be the final match, and it appeared that the dvergar had packed up their equipment. The only furniture remaining in that vast, empty space was a worktable bathed in a lantern’s golden light.
Upon that table lay a spear. Not a huge, heavy weapon such as Max had used against the grylmhoch, but a shorter variety with a sharp, leaf-shaped blade. Taking it up, Max turned and bid Mr. Bonn farewell.
“D-don’t you want me to ride up with you?” asked the imp.
Max shook his head.
The imp seemed to understand why and simply bowed. “It has been my honor.”
After leaving the pod, Max counted the steps to the arena’s threshold, timed them to the steady beating of his heart. At this moment, that heart was all he wanted to hear—it would be his drum, his cadence when he stepped into the arena.
Still, it was hard to ignore the crowd. Their cries echoed in the vast hallway and sent dust raining down in little streams. Clutching the spear, Max arrived before the portcullis and stared at its black bars like a caged animal. He wanted them to rise and release him one last time.
When the announcer finally said his name, there came that wild, intoxicating roar.
The portcullis rose and Max stalked into the arena.
His opponent was already waiting at its center.
Myrmidon was equipped in the classical fashion as a Roman murmillo and wore a high-crested helmet of bluish steel whose dense visor obscured his face. Upon that helmet was the white seal of Astaroth and thirteen slashes that Max took to represent his victories during the tournament. While his entire body was covered with black cloth, only the gladiator’s left side was armored with scalloped plates of the same bluish steel as his helmet. Upon his left arm, Myrmidon bore a shield—a curving, rectangular scutum. Within the glove of his right hand, he gripped a traditional gladius.
Max embarked immediately upon the grim calculus that had become second nature: His spear offered more range; Myrmidon had better armor, but the gladiator’s right side was vulnerable to a counterattack; his foe tended to rock forward, indicating an aggressive nature.…
Only one variable came as a surprise: Myrmidon was the smaller of the two.
Max found this strangely unnerving. In every previous battle, he had been the smaller combatant—often by hundreds or even thousands of pounds. Scathach had taught him to embrace such imbalances; he could simply impose another pattern, one that favored him.
Physically, a larger opponent could perhaps overpower him, but Max had always been quicker. Furthermore, a smaller combatant could often intimidate a larger one. When faced with a smaller, yet undaunted opponent, the larger party often seemed to hesitate, as though wondering, What terrible trick does this little thing have up its sleeve?
These doubts could play havoc with the mind, and Max chafed at the very idea he might fall victim to the same misgivings. Even so, it was impossible not to wonder how this gladiator had advanced so far in a tournament riddled with so many fearsome and experienced foes. He stared at Myrmidon, reconsidering every detail of his adversary’s weapon, armor, and stance.
Myrmidon stared right back.
Max pried his eyes away, as custom dictated that the combatants face the royal box. There was Prusias, the king, standing to issue some sort of tribute or benediction. Max was not listening.
There were no vyes in the stands, no hags or cheering goblins. The tournament’s finals were for the elite, and only nobles, wealthy merchants, and visiting dignitaries were in attendance.
Among these visiting dignitaries, Max spied a delegation of witches. All were robed in black and bore the dense tribal tattoos that had made such an impression upon him when he’d first met one. At their center, Max glimpsed Dame Mala, the matriarch of her clan.
The Workshop was also present. Their representatives were seated in a neighboring box, Dr. Rasmussen’s hairless head shining conspicuously under the glaring lights. The humorless engineers seemed out of place amid the crowd’s commotion. They might have been attending a laboratory experiment.
Despite the event’s prominence and the extraordinary demand for tickets, one section remained nearly empty. It was the grandest of the royal boxes, an array of large and luxurious seats that Prusias normally claimed for his personal use.
On this occasion, however, it had been reserved for another.
Gazing up, Max saw that Astaroth’s banner had been hung from its railing. And this was not the common standard of red silk bearing Astaroth’s white seal. Such things were ubiquitous. The colors on this banner had been reversed and displayed a red seal upon a white background.
Only Astaroth employed this design.
Max searched for the Demon himself. But Astaroth was not present—at least not in any visible form. Instead, a lone figure sat in the midst of the otherwise empty box. The figure was small and unobtrusive, and Max’s temper flared upon seeing him.
For it was none other than Mr. Sikes, the cruel and clever imp who had played such a pivotal role in Astaroth’s rise to power. He sat perfectly composed, immaculate in his tailored suit, while he surveyed the arena with polite expectation. Max fought a sudden urge to attack him on the spot.
The ceremonial aspects of the match were reaching their conclusion. As was the custom, Max raised his spear in response to Prusias’s salute. In his peripheral vision, he saw his adversary do likewise, and a sudden, horrific thought occurred to him.
Was Myrmidon merely Astaroth in disguise?
The idea seemed a very real and terrifying possibility. After all, Mr. Sikes was here as a spectator, but his master was nowhere to be found. Furthermore, the Demon was roughly Myrmidon’s height and build. And finally, Astaroth’s participation would certainly explain how such an ostensibly unimposing gladiator had reached the championship match.…
Staring at his opponent, Max suddenly and savagely wanted it to be Astaroth. The Demon was the source of all their problems. Without Astaroth, humans would not have to languish in fear and servitude while demons transformed the world into their own hellish fiefdoms.
The Old Magic was now surging, howling, straining within him.
When the last drum sounded, it burst.
With a speed and brutality yet unseen, Max hurled himself against his foe. His spear crashed against Myrmidon’s shield. His opponent retreated a step, but the shield remained whole.
Even though it had been blocked, the impact of this opening salvo rang like a thunderbolt and sparked the crowd into an excited buzz. It had been an uncharacteristically furious opening assault from the famous gladiator.
Again and again, Max hammered at his opponent in a blitz of expert thrusts, jabs, and slashes that effectively transformed his single weapon into many. Neither gladiator seemed interested in choreographing a dramatic entertainment. No tactics were employed for their decorative effect as was common in the arena. In this match, every attack and defense had been stripped of artistic flourish and distilled down to its brutal core.
Max’s helmet was a furnace. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes as he pressed the offensive at a relentless pace. The metallic clash of spear striking against shield and sword intensified until it rivaled a machine gun’s staccato. Skilled as this opponent was, Max was steadily registering his patterns. Momentarily, he would expose his unarmored side, and there would be an opening. It would appear for only an instant, but then—
With freakish speed and control, Max shifted his weight and spun about on his heel and prepared to drive the spear beneath his adversary’s outstretched arm.
Myrmidon’s unpr
otected heart was just inches away.
With a roar, Max unleashed the measured stroke that had finished Straavh. As before, the feat required him to focus every iota of strength and will upon the lethal point of his weapon. When it struck, it would end the fight.
But with a dexterity and swiftness that shocked even Max, his opponent leaped backward and put enough distance between himself and the razor point that he caught it again upon his shield.
The blow did not destroy Myrmidon, but the impact sent him hurtling backward over the sand, and he crashed into the arena wall. The collision was enormous, bringing even the most jaded observers to their feet. Coins and flowers came raining down into the arena, along with calls for Bragha Rùn to finish him.
Max could have done so, for Myrmidon lay in a crumpled heap against the wall. But he would not pounce upon a fallen adversary—not even if this were the Demon himself trying his hand in the arena.
Long seconds passed before Myrmidon began to stir, but stir he did.
Rising with grim determination, the gladiator merely glanced at Max as though to assess whether he would attack immediately. Satisfied that Max would wait, Myrmidon examined his battered shield. Enchanted or not, the thing had absorbed such a pounding that it had been effectively destroyed.
With admirable aplomb, the gladiator merely tossed the shield aside. Turning again to face Max, Myrmidon offered a brief salute and advanced.
Without his shield, Myrmidon altered strategies and now went on the attack. For the first time in the match, Max was confronted with his own vulnerabilities. Faceless behind the imposing helmet, Myrmidon displayed a newfound ferocity. His utter fearlessness was unnerving, and with his short gladius, he exhibited a knack for slipping within the defenses of his taller, stronger opponent. Max evaded a lethal thrust by only the slimmest of margins.
In the Sidh, Scathach had often asserted that a warrior’s confidence, his faith, was much more vital than his life’s blood. In battle, spilling a foe’s blood meant progress, but shattering his faith meant victory. And as Max redoubled his attack, he studied his opponent carefully for any clue that his faith and confidence were waning.
The Fiend and the Forge Page 37