“But even a clever fool can tell a wise man’s story,” he said. “So which are you, little thing? For I might help a wise man, but I will always slay a clever fool.”
“How can I prove myself to you?” asked David, sounding very small and young.
And with the ax at his neck, David waited while the Fomorian considered how best to test him.
“We shall make a bargain,” the giant concluded. “I would have helped this Väinämöinen in your tale, for he did not just look and listen, but he also saw and he heard. He was a wise man. And so I will ask you a question, little one. If you are indeed wise, you will find its answer. If you are just a clever fool, you will not. The wise man I will help. But I will take the clever fool’s head, for such a thing can only do evil.”
Max turned to his friend. “David, don’t do this,” he said pointedly. “There are other ways.”
“There’s no time for other ways,” said David. “Walpurgisnacht is close, and we need his help.”
When David agreed to the challenge, the Fomorian lowered himself to the ground so that he sat across from them like some worn and weathered monument. The clouds had departed, and the moonlight shone on the wet heath so that each clinging drop gleamed like a tiny star. And from the rocks and roots came tiny faeries and will-o’-the-wisps that gathered about the Fomorian like moths to a flame. They settled upon his shoulders and horns and beard. Even the grass curled around his hooves, and the trees leaned close to listen. At his command, a great fire sprang up from the wet earth and warmed them while the Fomorian coaxed Nick from his burrow.
“Well met,” said the giant, peering at the mystic lymrill and opening his hand. To Max’s surprise, Nick promptly waddled onto the enormous, crinkled palm and curled up within it. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen your happy kind among the trees and rocks,” said the Fomorian, stroking the lymrill’s quills with a thorny finger. “You shall keep me company, and we shall judge if your friend is worthy.”
Now that the giant was seated and his face illuminated by the fire, Max could see that he had five eyes. They peered not only from the customary sockets, but also from sockets in the Fomorian’s forehead and cheekbone. A sixth socket was empty—a wrinkled, sunken patch of flesh. The eyes that remained varied in size and in their focus, so that one might have already fixed upon David while another might linger on his companions or the sky.
But soon enough, they were all concentrated upon a single subject. And as the giant stared at David, he stroked the lymrill’s coppery quills and issued a surprisingly simple question.
“What is my name, little Sorcerer?”
Having asked his question, the Fomorian leaned back and waited patiently for his answer. Upon hearing the question, David frowned slightly but did not otherwise respond. Max began to despair, for he had never heard David or Cooper or anyone else indicate that this being had a name other than the simple labels that were used. The Fomorian’s more famous ancestors—the ones whose names Max had heard—had all perished or departed from this world. Only this one remained.
David sat still, his arms folded in his lap as he leaned forward and studied the Fomorian. Max could tell that David was appraising the giant not as a monster or some forgotten god but as an extension of the wide world beyond—defined not only by the spaces he occupied, but also by those he did not. Throughout this strange contest, Max and Cooper sat off to the side and waited in silent apprehension. The giant did not move, either, but patiently withstood David’s scrutiny.
It was nearly dawn when David spoke. “You are a son of Elathan,” he declared.
And when David said this, the tiny creatures that had assembled around the Fomorian—the faeries and moss maidens and will-o’-the-wisps—stirred and whispered to one another and gazed up at their master. But the Fomorian remained still and waited for David to continue.
“You are a son of Elathan,” David repeated softly. “Elathan, who was brother to both Balor of the Fomorians and Goibniu of the Tuatha Dé Danann. You are a son of Elathan, who was Fomorian but whose face and form were fair like the younger gods to come. You are a son of Elathan, who sired Dagda and Oghma and Bres. You are a son of Elathan, but you are not named with the others, for you resembled your forebears—Cíocal Gricenchos and Neit and Balor—and your father was ashamed to look at you. You are a son of Elathan, and you were banished to live alone beneath the waves until your uncle Goibniu took pity upon you and taught you all his craft. You are a son of Elathan, but you have no name.”
And when David said this, the giant bowed his head and set a dozing Nick gently on the grass. And rising once again to his full height, the Fomorian looked down at David with quiet approval.
“I will do as you ask,” he said. “But why do you shed tears, little one?”
David stared up at the giant, his face bright and fierce and wet. “If I ever get the Book,” he said, “I will return and give you a name.”
“And why would you do that?” asked the giant.
“Because it would give you peace.” David sniffled.
“If you do that,” said the giant, “I will not only consider you wise, but also a giver of wondrous gifts. You are a strange one, little Sorcerer. I have not seen your like before.”
Slinging the ax over his back, the Fomorian reached down and scooped them all into his great hands as though they were mere figurines. When they were settled, the giant cupped his hands so that the space inside might have been a snug cave that smelled of earth and sea. And as the Fomorian strode off, Max peered between the fingers and glimpsed miles of heath and wood racing beneath them as though the giant covered the distance in a single stride.
By midday, they had journeyed over the hills and under the sea without ever leaving their shelter within the giant’s cupped hands. The Fomorian lived in a vast sea cave, deep beneath water level, and once he’d set them upon a massive table, he brushed bits of seaweed from his beard like so many cobwebs.
Soon the cave was warmed with many fires in many hearths, and the Fomorian set the table with a simple feast. Max devoured everything set before him with a ravenous hunger. Throughout the meal, the giant spoke courteously to Max and David in Old Irish, and asked them about their doings in the wide world. But Cooper remained silent and merely stared about the cave and its reflecting pools and ancient carvings as if their being there were all a dream.
But his attention returned when the meal had finished, for now the Fomorian asked to see the gae bolga. Reaching into David’s pack, Max lifted out the folded tapestry that enclosed the many shards of black metal and gray bone. Laying the tapestry out upon the table, the giant studied the broken weapon in much the same manner that David had studied him. At length, he lifted the tapestry and funneled the shards into a stone bowl.
“Come with me,” he said, carrying the bowl into an adjoining cave that housed a forge and anvil and all the tools of a smith’s craft. At the giant’s command, a fire was kindled in the forge’s hearth—a fire so bright, so intense that only Max could approach it. The others stood apart in the doorway and watched while the Fomorian stalked about his smithy and worked the Old Magic from which he had been made long ago.
The gae bolga’s shards were poured into a crucible that the giant held in his bare hands and set within the flames of the massive hearth. The Fomorian did not seem to even feel the fire’s heat or the crucible’s scorching touch as he held it still and sang over the melting shards. And as he sang, Max watched the giant’s shadow flickering upon the cavern wall, its monstrous horns and size so horribly reminiscent of Prusias.
When the Fomorian’s song had ended and the shards had melted down, he removed the crucible from the fire and sat upon a bench to stir its contents with his finger. His eyes wandered toward Max. The giant called him closer and lifted him up so that Max stood upon his knee.
“I want you to see something, kinsman,” said the Fomorian. “This shall be your weapon and you must know what it is, for brave Cúchulain did not, and much g
rief did it bring him.”
The giant tipped the blistering crucible toward Max so that he could see inside. Sweating and wincing from its heat, Max stood on tiptoe and peered within and witnessed something wholly unexpected.
Within the crucible were no jagged shards or pools of melted metal, but three braids of long black hair. Each of the braids was longer than his arm, and none was remotely singed or even smoking.
“How can that be? Is that really the gae bolga?”
“It is,” replied the giant. “The most fearsome weapons are not crafted of mere metal and wood—they are made of subtler things, and only the Old Magic can unravel or remake them. These braids are from the Morrígan—a war goddess and a haunter of battlefields.”
“That’s what the dvergar said,” Max whispered. “They said it was her weapon—that it belonged to her. They wouldn’t touch it.”
“They saw the mark of the Morrígan,” said the giant, “but she has never used this weapon; she meant for it to fall into mortal hands and sow strife in its wake. Havoc, blood, and fury are her children, and she would see them prosper.”
Reaching into the crucible, the giant picked up the braids and arranged them carefully upon his great palm so that they lay next to one another.
“It is important that you understand this,” he said. “There is no going back with such a weapon. Cúchulain discovered this to his great and everlasting sorrow. Do you truly want me to forge these for you?”
Max considered the giant’s words very carefully. In truth, the prospect of having such a weapon frightened him. There had been occasions when Max had not been able to control his temper or his actions—exhilarating and terrifying moments when the Old Magic inside him wanted to sweep away everything in his path.
This weapon would let him do such a thing.
This weapon wanted him to do such a thing.
Under different circumstances, Max might have asked the giant to destroy it. But Walpurgisnacht was near, and this weapon might represent the only fighting chance they would have—more so than even David understood.
“I do,” said Max. “The time is coming when I will need such a weapon.”
The giant nodded sadly as if he had known this would be Max’s answer. “Give me your arm,” he commanded, setting the braids back within the crucible.
Max did so, and the Fomorian cut his palm with a knife so that Max’s blood pattered on the braids and soaked into each in turn.
Ignoring Max’s hiss, the giant explained. “The Old Magic is in you,” he said. “Your blood will strengthen the crafting and ensure that only you can wield this weapon. If you fall in battle, cousin, this relic dies with you.”
Thrusting the crucible within the hearth’s white-hot flames, the Fomorian melted down the blood-soaked braids until their true forms dissolved and they mingled into one another so that a single essence was formed. When he finally removed this from the hearth, it appeared as a viscous ball of molten, glowing glass.
Taking up his tools, the Fomorian shaped the mystic alloy, which hissed and sparked at each ringing blow as though it were a living thing. And as he folded the strange substance and hammered it into ever denser, darker forms, the giant resumed his strange, sad song so that the cavern walls hummed and seemed a living partner in the process.
Hours passed while the giant worked with tong and hammer, anvil and chisel. When he was finished and the sweat streamed down his great ramlike face, he set the weapon down to dry and cool upon a clean, white cloth.
The weapon was similar to what Max had used against the grylmhoch—a hybrid of spear and sword, with cruel-looking steel barbs that served as a hand guard. When Max took it up, he realized the broken spear he had claimed from the Red Branch vault had been a mere echo of its storied past. This weapon was whole, and the energy it conferred had intensified tenfold. Max felt a strange combination of delight and terror at his newfound power.
At the giant’s insistence, Max tested the weapon upon great blocks of wood and stone and iron. The blade cut through each with such terrible ease it would take some getting used to. The jarring impact that Max normally associated with such blows had largely disappeared—the gae bolga merely cut through the material as though it made no distinctions between bone or butter or steel.
“One more,” said the Fomorian, rising from his stool and stepping aside so Max could test the blade against the ancient anvil.
“I don’t want to ruin it,” said Max.
The Fomorian shook his head. “All your strength,” he urged.
Max did as the giant told him and gathered himself for the terrible blow that Scathach had taught him in the Sidh. The gae bolga lashed against the anvil—and shattered into a hundred pieces. The anvil was unscathed.
“It is as I feared,” said the giant, shrugging off Max’s dismay. “Your blood imparted some of its properties to the gae bolga, but it has not strengthened the weapon’s fundamental essence.”
The two carefully hunted down each piece of the shattered spear. The shards were melted down once again into the Morrí-gan’s braids, and Max’s blood and their essences remingled as the giant sang a different song and made a different weapon.
This time the Fomorian made a longsword whose beautiful blade tapered to a deadly point and whose edge cleaved through wood, stone, and iron as the spear had done before it. But when Max tried the weapon upon the giant’s anvil, it shattered as before.
Max slammed the hilt down in frustration and set to retrieving the broken pieces once again. Sweat was streaming down his face; the cave and its forge were intolerably hot, and they were feeding his temper. David and Cooper stood and watched from a distance, peering from the doorway with anxious faces.
When the next weapon, a short sword, was obliterated in the same manner, the giant gazed at the gathered shards and sighed.
“You see what is happening,” he murmured, stooping low to show Max the dwindling pile. “Each forging reduces what is left for the next. I fear we may have but one chance remaining before the gae bolga is no more. What would you like to do?”
Max saw what the giant saw and it was irrefutable. The volume of material within the crucible was half what they had started with. Whatever the Fomorian forged would be small, and there were no guarantees that it would not break if struck against something as formidable as the giant’s anvil. Max was about to answer when he felt a sudden scratch on his leg.
The lymrill had brushed up against him and was half standing with his great claw hooked into Max’s pant leg like a cat at a scratching post. Glancing down, Max saw blood spreading upon his pants.
“Nick,” he scolded, swatting at the animal’s paw. “Go back with David.”
But the lymrill held fast and would not let go. Growing impatient, Max bent down to unhook the claw and discipline his stubborn charge. But as he did so, Nick winced at the sudden movement and set to trembling. Max’s anger disappeared; he had never seen Nick act this way.
Something was very wrong.
Dropping to one knee, Max gently raised the paw and peered beneath like a parent inspecting a child’s palm for a splinter. He caught his breath.
The blood on Max’s pants belonged to Nick.
The lymrill was peering intently at him, his small eyes betraying the uncanny intelligence that he conveniently masked whenever he misbehaved. Nick’s quills were smoothed back into an earnest, glossy coat so that he looked almost elegant, as if this was a special occasion and nothing but the best would do.
Realizing Nick’s intention, Max’s heart nearly broke.
“No!” he said sternly, as though a reprimand had ever worked. Turning away from the lymrill’s eyes, he reexamined the injured paw. Even as he did so, Nick’s claw slid entirely free from its fleshy pad and remained hooked in his pant leg. Max gaped at it—a black claw as long as his finger with a smear of blood at its base.
Another claw slid slowly from Nick’s paw, as if nudged by a muscular contraction. It fell to the cavern floor with a m
etallic clink. The lymrill was trembling, his breath coming in short little bursts. A third claw slid from his paw, followed shortly by another.
“Would someone please help him?” Max yelled, growing frantic. “He’s sick.”
But Cooper and David stood rooted in the doorway.
“Somebody do something!” Max screamed, his heart sinking as several long quills slid from the spiny ridge along Nick’s back. Max shut his eyes and sobbed; the lymrill was coming apart in his arms, and he was helpless to stop it.
The Fomorian’s deep, gentle voice spoke in his ear. “Do not look away,” the giant urged. “Your friend is giving you the greatest gift he can give. You must honor that sacrifice, cousin. Receive his gift with a full heart. Accept it with all the love and strength with which it has been given. Do not look away, but be present with him.”
Max forced himself to return Nick’s gaze. And when almost all the quills and claws had fallen and Nick was weakening, Max lay back and eased the trembling lymrill upon his chest so he could sprawl upon him one more time. For that was how they met years ago, when the lymrill had chosen Max to be his steward.
The gesture was not lost on Nick.
An unmistakable gleam of mischief flashed in his dying eyes, and with an anxious snort, he scooted forward so that his chin rested once again upon Max’s. And for the better part of an hour, he simply lay there and kneaded his steward’s shirt. When the trembling grew too great and his breaths grew too short, the lymrill raised his head and peered at Max one last time.
With a long mewl and a short nip, he said goodbye.
~27~
AN OFFICIATE’S TOMB
The sea was hauntingly beautiful. As Max sat at the Ormenheid’s prow, he gazed out at rolling waves of silver and platinum. It was one of those serene moments when the waters are lighter than the sky and possess a luminosity all their own. The low canopy of slate-gray clouds had been drizzling since dawn, its patter and the ship’s oars the only sounds.
The Fiend and the Forge Page 43