The Second Siege

by Henry H. Neff

  A sudden bellow erupted above them, followed by the sound of people screaming.

  Leaving his father’s side, Max dashed up the steps just in time to see Bob toppled onto the ground while another member of the Red Branch swiftly bound the struggling ogre. Several nearby people were unconscious, sprawled about the snow like scattered tenpins. Max heard Ms. Richter’s voice call above the din, and he glimpsed her standing next to Cooper.

  There was a sudden, terrible blow to the back of Max’s head, and all went black.

  * * *

  Max awoke in the very bed where his mother had passed away. His tongue felt thick; his stomach rose and fell with nausea as the room came slowly into focus. His father sat at his side, still wearing his suit from the funeral. Max felt something move behind his head and was dimly aware of a Moomenhoven adjusting an icepack.

  “What happened?” he murmured, his voice sounding funny in his ears.

  “A coup,” croaked his father sadly. “Vilyak says he’s in charge now. Ms. Richter was knocked unconscious, and he stripped a ring from her finger before she was carried away with the others.”

  “Who?” asked Max, shutting his eyes.

  “Bob,” said Mr. McDaniels, “and Nolan. Awolowo, Kraken, Vincenti, and a bunch of other teachers, too. Cooper tried to help, but I guess Vilyak had been expecting it. Hazel practically went crazy trying to help William, but they got her, too—dragged them all off somewhere.”

  “Where?” asked Max, gesturing in frustration when the words were slow in coming.

  “I don’t know,” said his father. “Somewhere in the Manse.”

  “The Hollows,” whispered Max.

  “Yes,” said his father, nodding. “I think I heard one of them saying that.”

  Despite the thunderous pounding in his head, Max tried to sit up. His father shook his head and pushed Max back down onto the bed.

  “No,” said his father. “You need to lie still, Max.”

  “David?” asked Max.

  His father’s face fell.

  “They got him, too,” he said. “Caught him in some sort of rope that made him go limp as a fish. I don’t think he was hurt, though. I saw Connor taking him back to your room.”

  “Oh God,” moaned Max, forcing himself off the pillow. “I’ve got to go—they’re going to surrender David to the witches!”

  “You can check on David later,” said his father, trying to ease Max back down.

  “There’s no time, Dad,” Max said, forcing himself up from the bed and staggering toward the door. The Moomenhovens tried to bar his way, but Max slipped past them and through the doors.

  Staggering down the hallway, Max made his way to the shallow stairwell, clinging to the banister until he arrived in the foyer. Dashing down the hall to Ms. Richter’s office, Max saw members of the Red Branch barring his way. A tall man with steel-gray hair intercepted Max and held him upright on his wobbly legs.

  “Let me in,” panted Max, struggling weakly against the iron-strong grip. “I have to talk to Vilyak.”

  “Director Vilyak’s busy right now, McDaniels,” said the man. “Sorry about that little tap I gave you earlier. Orders, you know.”

  Max glared at the man, who returned his gaze with unflinching calm. Ignoring the pain and dizziness in his head, Max strained and kicked and thrashed against the Agent’s hold until several others had to help restrain him. The door to Ms. Richter’s office swung open; Vilyak’s angry voice filled the hallway.

  “What is the meaning of this noise? I specifically ordered . . .”

  His voice trailed away as his eyes fell upon Max.

  “Agent McDaniels,” he said quietly. “I’m pleased to see you up and about.”

  “What are you doing?” seethed Max.

  “Serving Rowan’s interests,” replied Vilyak coolly. “Yours and mine and everyone else’s, although you may not yet appreciate it. Come see for yourself.”

  At Vilyak’s command, the Agents loosened their hold on Max and marched him into the office. Seated in chairs before Ms. Richter’s desk were two robed figures. The first Max recognized as the witch he had last seen in the company of Astaroth. The second figure was robed in white and hooded, its face hidden behind a black, beaked mask similar to those worn by medieval healers. Astaroth’s symbol was carved into its forehead.

  “Greetings, Hound,” said the witch, inclining her head.

  “Dame Mako,” breathed Max.

  “Indeed,” said Vilyak, seating himself behind Ms. Richter’s desk. “Here also, at my invitation, is Astaroth’s emissary, Lord Aamon.”

  The evil that radiated from the white-robed figure was nearly tangible. It bowed its head to acknowledge Max; no eyes could be seen behind the mask. Max felt he was staring into the very same abyss that had confronted him in the Course.

  “How can you invite that here?” rasped Max.

  “Our business is nearly concluded,” said Vilyak. “And then our guest will go, never to return. Isn’t that so, Lord Aamon?”

  “The Book,” whispered the masked figure, raising a gloved finger.

  “I’d hoped we’d settled that,” said Vilyak gruffly. “The Book stays here to ensure that you honor our pact. Fair is fair.”

  Something that might have been a laugh sounded from behind the mask. The figure leaned forward, its voice little more than a hiss.

  “Two choices lie before you. You may give the Book unto Lord Astaroth as a token of your allegiance and be richly rewarded. Or you may spurn my lord’s friendship and our servant will simply deliver the Book himself while Rowan reaps our wrath.” The figure shrugged. “The Book is already ours, Yuri Vilyak. We merely extend you the courtesy of giving it to us.”

  “An empty threat,” said Vilyak.

  “It’s within our reach even now, fool!” laughed the figure.

  A terrible realization dawned upon Max. He wrenched himself free from the others and dashed out of the room. Racing to the foyer, he hurtled up the stairs to the third floor of the boys’ dormitories. He galloped past startled students and adults, skidding finally to a stop before his door and fumbling for his key. Throwing the door open, he stepped inside and nearly screamed.

  There, slumped against the foot of his bed, was David. A Passive Fetter had been fitted around his neck, glowing dully, while its other end was fastened to one of the bed’s sturdy wooden legs. A sharp blade was pressed against David’s throat by an assailant who cradled the Book of Origins.

  The assailant was Connor Lynch.

  “Now, Max,” chided the ruddy-faced boy. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

  19

  A MIDNIGHT TEMPEST

  “Connor,” said Max quietly. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Actually, Master Lynch isn’t here right now,” came the reply, Connor’s voice changing to a sly, sophisticated tone that was chillingly familiar. “You’ll have to deal with me.”

  “Mr. Sikes,” said Max, stepping further into the room.

  “Quite right,” said Connor, bowing his head with a wry smile. “I just need a moment more and I’ll be on my way. Stay where you are unless you wish a glimpse inside David’s pretty little throat.”

  “You put the letter and talisman in the Archives,” said Max.

  “Right again,” said Mr. Sikes. “I’ve had free run of this campus ever since this little cock-a-whoop invited me in. After all, isn’t Mr. Sikes just a harmless imp who brings lemonade and makes one’s essays pretty?” Connor’s possessed body laughed and shook its head. “Ah, and poor Connor thought he’d just blundered upon me out of sheer dumb luck! Poor boy. I almost feel sorry for him.”

  “You lied to me,” said Max.

  “Guilty as charged,” said Mr. Sikes. “I’d apologize, Max, but we can’t resist our nature—scorpions and frogs and whatnot. Had to keep you up late, though, didn’t I? Gabbing away about your poor dead mother so you wouldn’t dash off . . .”

  Max thought back to the previous night. He had po
ured out his heart to the comforting imp, confiding every fear and misgiving to Mr. Sikes, who merely had been keeping him occupied until the funeral. The betrayal was so devastating and complete, Max almost became sick. He eyed the knife in Connor’s hand.

  “Don’t hurt David,” pleaded Max. “Don’t hurt either of them.”

  “That remains to be seen,” said the imp, placing a pen in David’s hand. “Once your friend writes the word that will break his spell, I’ll be on my merry way.”

  “You can’t make it work,” scoffed Max.

  “Too true,” admitted Mr. Sikes. “As you know, Mr. Sikes is but a humble imp. But his master can speak through his most trusted familiar, and Mr. Sikes’s true master is most capable.”

  “And who is that?” asked Max.

  “Astaroth himself,” replied the imp. “I am his familiar, you see. And, unlike my fickle brethren, I’ve stayed true for over two millennia—even throughout his long imprisonment! For all his unwavering service, Mr. Sikes shall reap a most handsome reward. Who knows? Perhaps I’ll even keep young Lynch as my servant. . . .”

  At this, Mr. Sikes whispered again in David’s ear. David blinked dully as though he’d been drugged, and scrawled a single word on the sheet of paper. Connor’s hand snatched it from David’s fingers, and he glanced at it a moment before incinerating the paper in a flash of green flame.

  “You’ve got what you want,” said Max. “Take the knife away from David.”

  “But there you are, blocking my way,” said Mr. Sikes, a note of reprimand in his voice. “I’m leaving with this Book, Max McDaniels, and if you’re a wise boy, you’ll let me pass.”

  “The Book stays here,” said Max.

  “Have it your way,” shrugged the imp. He winked at Max and sank the knife into David’s side.

  “Oh!” whispered David, sounding little more than mildly surprised, as he slumped against the footboard and slid to the floor. Max blinked, thinking perhaps Mr. Sikes had played a trick. David’s response had been so calm, so quiet. . . .

  Max glanced at David’s chest and held his breath.

  This was no trick.

  A small stain blossomed like a red rose on David’s dress shirt. The rose seemed to bloom and spread its petals, expanding quickly to nearly blanket David’s side, until the blood saturated the fabric and trickled down in little streams to stain his tie and pants. Mr. Sikes leapt away from David, clutching the Book.

  “I’ll kill you,” snarled Max, closing the distance between them in two blinks. Before Mr. Sikes could move, Max had seized him by the throat.

  “Who would you be killing? Me, Connor Lynch, or David Menlo?” wheezed the demon, while Connor’s eyes blazed bright with amusement. Max hesitated a moment.

  Pop!

  Where Connor had been, there was only empty air. The Book of Origins fell to the floor, and Max watched a gypsy moth flutter out the open door. Max was nearly tempted to chase after it, but then he looked down to see his friend lying in a thickening red pool.

  “Help!” cried Max, crouching down and ripping off the fetter as he put pressure on the wound. “Somebody help!”

  Doors opened in the hallway. Rolf Luger stuck his head in the room.

  “What’s go—whoa!” exclaimed the boy, gaping in horror at the bloody scene before him.

  “Get the healers,” panted Max. “Hurry!”

  Rolf ’s shouts and pounding footsteps receded down the hallway. Glancing about, Max saw David’s pack lying within arm’s reach on the bed. Seizing its strap, he swung it onto the floor and began fishing wildly through its depths for a jar of leftover Moomenhoven balm.

  “Look at me, David,” he said, squeezing his friend, whose eyelids fluttered. “You’ll be fine—help’s coming.”

  His fingers closed on a glass jar. Max snatched his hand out from the bag and saw that there was a bit of balm left, caked along the jar’s bottom rim.

  “C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered, wrestling with the jar’s stubborn lid. A few hard twists and the top clattered off. Max dug his fingers inside and scrabbled for every last bit of medicine. Glancing at his hand, he saw he’d managed a smear of ointment little bigger than a squeeze of toothpaste. Seizing hold of David’s sopping shirt, Max felt for the tear and thrust his fingers inside to search for the wound. He felt it almost immediately—a fleshy gash of torn skin and splintered bone pumping blood thick as syrup. David gave a sudden, sharp intake of breath as Max spread the ointment around and into the wound.

  “I know it hurts,” Max muttered. “I’m sorry.”

  David wheezed and shut his eyes tight.

  The two lay side by side on the floor, Max’s palm pressed against the wound. After several minutes, frantic hoofsteps sounded in the hallway and a half dozen Moomenhovens hurried into the room, accompanied by Rolf. The plump, efficient healers gently pulled Max away while they cut away David’s shirt and worked quickly to stanch the bleeding. Max stood, panting, and gazed down at his body, which was covered with David’s blood. He saw Rolf, utterly white-faced, gaping in the doorway while other students crowded in behind him.

  “I can’t explain now,” said Max, ignoring their questions. He wiped his hands on David’s comforter and retrieved the Book of Origins from the floor. Stowing it in David’s pack, he slung the leather strap over his shoulder and glanced down at the Moomenhovens. “Do you need anything?” he asked them. “Can I help you?”

  The Moomenhovens shook their heads impatiently and waved Max away. Turning, Max saw yet another horrified face. Mr. McDaniels stood next to Rolf in the doorway.

  “My God,” breathed Max’s father, gazing at the blood that spattered Max’s clothes.

  “I’m fine,” said Max, hurrying over. “Stay with David, Dad. I’ll come back as soon as I can!”

  Clutching David’s pack, Max squeezed past his father and Rolf, ignoring the growing crowd and running down the hallway. Leaping down the flights of the dormitory steps, he raced back to Ms. Richter’s office. The door was open and there were raised voices inside.

  Max hurried into the room and saw Vilyak, red-faced, leaning on the desk opposite Dame Mako. On the floor were Lord Aamon’s empty clothes; the demon’s mask had been cleaved cleanly in two.

  “What happened?” asked Max, panting.

  Vilyak took in Max’s condition at a glance.

  “I might ask you the same,” he said, staring at the blood that stained Max’s sleeve.

  “David Menlo’s been stabbed,” he said, catching his breath.

  “Will he live?” asked Vilyak, glancing at the witch.

  “I don’t know,” said Max. “The Moomenhovens are with him now. He’s hurt really bad.”

  “This is all Rowan’s fault!” snapped Dame Mako. “If the boy had been sent to us as promised, this never would have happened! Our agreement is off, Director. By the blood and sacred oath of Elias Bram, I declare that Rowan’s sons and daughters will fall stricken at their hour of need. The witches’ curse is invoked!”

  Dame Mako gathered up her robes and strode toward the door.

  “Restrain her,” growled Vilyak.

  The witch spun on her heel and stabbed a sharp finger at him.

  “How dare you threaten me!” she hissed. “I came here at your invitation and under your personal guarantee of safety, Director Vilyak. Do you wish to violate that sacred oath, too?”

  For several moments, Vilyak merely stood and simmered. Suddenly, he swore and smacked his hand on the desk.

  “Let her go!” he roared with a disgusted wave of his hand. Dame Mako glanced at Max and hurried past in a sweep of black robes. Vilyak, Max, and the other members of the Red Branch followed her out the front door and watched as she climbed inside the carriage. The team of black horses pulled away, trotting proudly down the long, straight road toward the sea before curving to the right and disappearing into the woods that led to the great gates.

  “A discouraging day,” murmured Vilyak quietly. He turned to Max. “Tell me what has happened
. And, most importantly, where is the Book?”

  “I don’t know where the Book is,” lied Max. “I only know that David’s hidden it someplace safe.”

  Vilyak said nothing but stared at Max with a disbelieving glower. Max met his gaze and did not blink. At length, the man sighed and gestured wearily at Max’s bloody clothes.

  “And what does all this mean?” he asked.

  “You can see for yourself,” said Max, pointing toward a sky of bright blue, where the sun shone unseasonably warm. Shielding his eyes, Vilyak squinted toward the horizon while ice melted from the Manse’s roof in a steady patter of drips.

  “What?” snapped Vilyak, gesturing impatiently. “I see nothing.”

  “That’s the problem,” replied Max. “David’s veil is gone.”

  That very day, Rowan began safeguarding its critical supplies and equipment. Classes were cancelled as generators, greenhouses, common foodstuffs, and priceless artworks were painstakingly disassembled or packed and carted away in slow progression through the Orchard and woods into the Sanctuary. Max learned that the Sanctuary extended farther back than he’d ever imagined and that a narrow gorge traversed the low range of snow-capped mountains that he’d always believed to be the Sanctuary’s limits. Beyond this gorge, there was a great valley bisected by a swift river before it concluded at another range of gray mountains. A labyrinthine network of caves had been tunneled into these mountains, carved by Old Magic when Rowan was founded centuries before.

  For Max, the weeks that followed were torturous. David lay in the healing ward, alive but far too weak to conjure his veil anew while he recuperated under the watchful eyes of the Moomenhovens. There had been no sign of Connor. Some students had seen him dash into the woods as David’s spell had dissipated, but no Agents had been able to find him.

  Despite the turn of events, Vilyak had refused to release Ms. Richter, Bob, Cooper, or any of the other captives taken on the day of the coup. Instead, the new Director often locked himself inside Ms. Richter’s office, commiserating with Rasmussen or those Strategy instructors who had not been imprisoned. Since Dame Mako’s departure, there had been no sight of the Enemy and no hint of the witches’ curse. Rowan was faced with a gnawing uncertainty and a mounting sense of dread as days turned to weeks and winter began to subside. Arriving refugees were thoroughly screened, and Max’s association with the Red Branch became common knowledge. He was assigned to long watches, keeping quiet vigil upon Rowan’s gates or the broad, dark expanse of sea.