The Maelstrom

by Henry H. Neff

  She thanked him, staring up into his face and wiping away her tears. “Did you ever love me?” she wondered.

  “I think I did,” said Max. “At the very least, I wanted to.”

  “Fair enough,” she said. “I was never sure. I was always afraid that you’d fallen in love in the Sidh. With the girl who gave you this.”

  With her finger, she traced the thin white line that ran from Max’s cheek to his chin.

  “Why do you say that?”

  Standing on her tiptoes, Julie kissed his cheek and held him close. “Because young lovers are foolish,” she whispered. “They always go for the ones who hurt them.”

  Releasing him, she placed the lantern back in his hand and backed away. For a second or two, she gazed at him, as though trying to fix the moment in her mind. And then, with a farewell wave, Julie Teller turned and strode briskly up the path. Moments later she was gone.

  Max returned to his command tent, setting the lantern upon the desk and sitting at his chair. He was flooded with conflicting thoughts and emotions: regrets, grief, and a sincere hope that Julie would find happiness. He reflected on what she had to say, her thoughts on love and her intuition regarding Scathach.

  Max wondered if she realized the irony of her tale. While Max might have been Julie’s Aurora, Scathach was his. The warrior maiden lived in the Sidh and Max lived here: in this tent, this time, this world.

  When he’d left Lugh’s castle at Rodrubân, Scathach had given Max an ivory brooch and a reminder to remember that he was the son of a king. Unclasping it from his cloak, Max studied the object, tracing his finger over the image of a Celtic sun and the curving arcs of its rays.

  An hour passed, maybe two with Max sitting quietly and musing on his life. His thoughts were not only of Julie and Scathach, but also of his parents and Nick, the many people whose lives had intersected his and were no more. His mind had drifted far away when something abruptly brought it back.

  The tent flap had rippled open. Max caught the movement from the corner of his eye, a slight but undeniable disturbance as though a breeze had brushed the canvas apart. Normally, he’d have paid this little mind, but tonight the wind was in the west. Casually, he set the brooch down upon the desk. A second later, his worst suspicions were confirmed.

  Max’s ring was scalding hot.

  As the ring blistered his finger, Max focused on the strewn cushions. Even now, one of them moved, as though brushed aside by something circling the tent’s perimeter. Reaching slowly for the gae bolga, Max heard a throaty gurgle that made his hair stand on end. The sound reminded him of his clone, the grinning, emaciated assassin he’d last seen buried beneath a mountain of rubble.

  Had the clones survived?

  There was no time to wonder. With a snarl, the invisible intruder attacked. But even as Max drew his sword, he sensed another presence behind him. He ducked, twisting away just as a sharp blade sheared across his throat. At the same instant, something slammed into his shoulder, knocking him over the desk. He fell heavily to the ground, losing his grip on his sword just as the entire tent went black. A heavy boot kicked him squarely on the chin. Dazed, he fell back, only dimly aware that a wild animal was atop him. It felt like a vye, huge and matted, its claws scratching his limbs as it growled and scrambled for position.

  There was a shout as someone else rushed into the tent. The animal rolled off of Max, snarling like a rabid dog as the clash of steel rang in Max’s ears. Blood was gushing from his wound and he sensed a powerful poison already at work. Disoriented, he gazed helplessly about, unable to see anything until an arc of brilliant light suddenly tore through the darkness. Sparks flew as it struck something metallic. There was a gasp, staggering footsteps, and Max heard the growling animal rush past him. A furious din ensued of snapping teeth and tearing fabric until at last Max heard the grisly sound of hard metal striking soft flesh. A sharp yelp gave way to a whimper. A voice spoke in the blackness.

  “Ignis!”

  The unnatural darkness vanished as the tent burst into flames. A great surge of heat washed over Max, scorching his eyes as the tent’s walls curled and collapsed inward like the petals of a dying flower. Through the billows of smoke, he finally glimpsed his attacker.

  William Cooper stood ten feet away. He was breathing hard, standing astride a mound of dark, twitching fur. He held a long knife in each hand, but one had been broken, its blade sheared cleanly in half. Firelight danced upon his grim, pale features as he scanned about for his target. When his eyes settled on Max, the man raised the unbroken blade and spoke in a hoarse, alien voice.

  “Atropos a-kultir veytahlyss. Morkün i-tolvatha.”

  Max could not even raise a hand to defend himself. The poison had numbed his limbs and he was rapidly losing consciousness.

  But even as Cooper went to finish his victim, something stepped between them.

  It resembled a lithe and living shadow. When Cooper sprang, it rushed to meet the attack. There was a blinding flash and a sharp crack as of lightning splitting a tree. A howl erupted, so hideous and resonant it could not have been human. From outside there came screams and a stampede of boots as though onlookers were fleeing.

  Max felt someone take a firm hold of his arm. He was dragged outside, away from the flames and smoke and into the welcome cold. The stinging in his eyes subsided and Max found himself gazing dazedly up at the stars. They seemed to be descending, growing ever larger until they were radiant jewels, every facet polished to an astounding, unearthly gleam. Max was weakly aware of a pressure at his neck. At first, the sensation was comforting and warm. But then it intensified. He moaned, but the person only held him tighter, sucking and worrying at his throat like a vampire.

  The agony became horrific. Every nerve and blood vessel seemed to be fraying, splitting down the middle. He writhed, but the vampire refused to let go. The pain was unbearable. It invaded Max’s being, rousing the Old Magic so that its vast, dreadful power came roaring forth in answer. Instead of pain, Max was soon transfixed and horrified by the forces amplifying within him. He was becoming a bomb, a mass of energy that might suddenly ignite and incinerate everything for miles. His hands shook uncontrollably. Surely his body must burst, shed its mortal coil and explode.…

  And then the pressure stopped.

  The Old Magic retreated, surging away like a riptide. With a sputtering gasp, Max exhaled and felt his sensibilities return. He heard frightened voices nearby and tried to glimpse those around him, but everything was hazy. A coarse blanket was draped over him, smelling faintly of lanolin and tobacco. Once again the stars were their proper size, sharp and scintillating against the wintry sky.

  A larger crowd had gathered by the time Max could sit up. A score of the Trench Rats were in a perimeter about him to keep curious onlookers at bay. Reaching tentatively for his throat, Max felt nothing but smooth, unblemished skin. The cut Cooper made had disappeared. Pushing the blanket off, he rose unsteadily to his feet.

  “You should be dead,” muttered a voice.

  Max turned and saw Ajax. The battle-scarred captain was crouched within the guard’s perimeter, leaning on his sword and eyeing his commander warily.

  “I didn’t know she was a witch,” Ajax breathed.

  “What are you talking about?” said Max.

  “That girl Umbra,” replied Ajax. “We came running when we saw the tent go up in flames. She was already here and dragged you out of the fire. One look at that wound and I wrote you off as dead, but she did something to you … some sort of blood magic.” He gestured at something on the ground. “She left those for you. Said we weren’t to touch ’em.”

  Looking down, Max saw the gae bolga and his ivory brooch lying on the bloodstained grass. He gathered them up, pocketing the brooch and sheathing the deadly blade.

  “Where did she go?” he asked.

  “Dunno,” replied Ajax. “Hunting that assassin, I think. Scariest guy I ever laid eyes on. Would have opened me up like that beast if I hadn’t backed
off.”

  Max nodded. His wits were returning slowly. Everything had happened so fast, but his mind began to piece events together.

  “Wait,” he muttered. “What beast? Where?”

  Ajax hooked a thumb at the smoldering remains of the tent where a smaller crowd had gathered. Max slipped between his guards and hurried over.

  Grendel was lying on his side, breathing slowly and bleeding from a gash across his belly. The Cheshirewulf’s powerful form faded as he breathed, growing translucent with each inhale. No one had dared come to the animal’s assistance; a glance at his jaws explained why.

  “He’ll have your arm!” cautioned a woman.

  Ignoring her, Max crouched down to examine the injury. It was a grievous wound, but perhaps only one of Cooper’s blades had been poisoned. Pressing the tear closed, Max scanned the surrounding faces. Most were his own troops, but he spied one delicate face peering from between a pair of archers.

  “Kellen!” Max cried. The faun stepped hesitantly forward, gazing with a mortified expression at Grendel’s wound. “Do you know any healing spells?”

  “Non,” blurted Kellen, reverting to his native French. “Mais YaYa est de retour—elle se repose au refuge!”

  “Go get her,” Max ordered. “Right away!”

  Dropping his basket, the faun dashed off. Max gazed down at Grendel’s broad muzzle and bloody snout. It had been the Cheshirewulf he spied slipping into the tent. He thought it had been attacking, but it had been trying to protect him from its maddened steward.

  “Hang in there, Grendel,” Max whispered, stroking the animal’s ruff.

  But as the minutes passed, Grendel’s low growling subsided and finally ceased altogether. The wound was no longer bleeding, but Max grew anxious as the Cheshirewulf’s brilliant yellow eyes began to dim. Max spoke quietly to him, but the animal’s breaths came ever more slowly.

  From the growing crowd there was a shout, followed by a parting of bodies—some in awe and some in alarm—to make way for YaYa.

  The ancient ki-rin slowed to a walk as she approached, oblivious to the surrounding press of humans. A dim radiance outlined her, a dusting of moonlight that shone upon her black fur and illuminated each plane of her noble, leonine face. YaYa stood taller than a man at the shoulder, but her massive paws barely made any impression upon the snow and grass.

  The Cheshirewulf responded immediately to her presence, whining in his throat and straining to rise. Dipping her head, the ki-rin nuzzled Grendel still and then settled her bulk alongside him. He looked a mere kitten by comparison.

  Turning to Max, YaYa gazed at him with a pair of blind, milky eyes. “You may leave us,” she said gently. “I will look after him.”

  “It was Cooper,” said Max, shaking his head sadly.

  “I’m aware,” replied the ki-rin, turning back to Grendel. “I know when any steward has harmed their charge. William Cooper must answer for this.”

  There was an ominous edge to the ki-rin’s words. Max remembered the day when he and his classmates had been matched to their charges. On the occasion, each student had signed a book in YaYa’s presence and pledged to always honor and care for their creatures. Max tried to explain that Cooper was possessed, that he was not responsible for his actions, but the ki-rin was unmoved.

  “You may leave us,” she repeated calmly.

  This was not a request, but a command. Max stood, gazing down at the Cheshirewulf as YaYa cleaned his wound and brushed her ivory horn against it. A ki-rin’s spiral horn was known to have wondrous healing properties, but YaYa’s had been broken during the Siege of Solas centuries earlier. Max gazed dubiously at its chipped and jagged remains. He prayed it would be enough.

  Leaving YaYa to her task, Max turned to Ajax. “Which direction did that assassin run?”

  The youth pointed toward a nearby strip of wood that stretched east to the sea and extended almost all the way to Rowan’s wall and Southgate.

  “We’ll go with you,” he offered, but Max shook his head.

  “That’d only get people hurt,” he said. “I’ll have a better chance of finding him if I’m alone.”

  “I’ve done my share of tracking,” insisted Ajax. “I can help you hunt him.”

  Max gazed at the wood, a dark labyrinth of tangled trunks and branches.

  “I won’t be hunting him. He’ll be hunting me.”

  As the night deepened, Max stole through the forest. He made no sound as he wove through the trees and underbrush, scanning every tree and shadow and listening for any telltale sounds. His ring had grown cool, but the wood was eerily quiet, as though the wild creatures sensed a predator.

  He searched far and wide, bending toward the sea and then back along the crenellated walls and watchtowers that guarded Rowan’s southern flank. As he padded west along the forest’s edge, Max noticed that an unusual number of guards were posted at Southgate and that they were searching not only those who wished to enter Old College, but also those who wished to leave. A quiet alarm had been raised.

  The William Cooper Max knew would never leave a job unfinished much less flee by a main gate. Now that he had infiltrated Rowan’s campus, the Agent would remain close—patient and hidden—until another opportunity emerged. Max recalled the many times he had trained with the man, matching wits and skills in the Sanctuary. While the Agent was no longer Max’s equal in direct combat, he was far more experienced when it came to deceiving and stalking a target. Unless Cooper was apprehended, there would be another attack and Max knew—with dreadful certainty—that it would be planned with chilling, lethal precision.

  These unsettling thoughts occupied his mind as he prowled about the woods. Max did not delude himself that he could track Cooper or penetrate his illusions, but his ring would warn him if the possessed man was nearby. To his knowledge, the Atropos did not know about the ring and Max hoped that Cooper—finding his victim alone and seemingly vulnerable—might be tempted to make a sudden, spontaneous attempt.

  He hoped in vain.

  It was well past midnight when Max finally abandoned the effort. He had searched from the sea cliffs to the Sanctuary wall, traversing every wood and field in the stretch along the southern borders of the Old College. His ring had remained cold throughout, and Max guessed that Cooper had probably doubled back and escaped in a different direction to throw off pursuit. Perhaps Umbra had had better luck. In any case, he needed to speak with her, and it could not wait until morning.

  The refugees’ main camp had improved greatly since its earliest days. The sprawling slum of shacks, tents, and refuse had been cleared away, replaced by long barracks and small cottages that lined the broad clearing, small gardens, and grazing pens. Most of the windows were dark, but some dozen figures were huddled by the fires still burning by the training pits.

  Max recognized none of their faces. Even with so many departures, there were still tens of thousands of refugees living within Rowan’s walls. Judging by their blank stares as he approached, they did not recognize him either. Max imagined they must be newcomers. Sipping from a flask, one of the women gestured at his bloodstained clothes.

  “Where’d ya bury the poor bugger?” she laughed, passing the flask.

  “The blood’s mine,” said Max. “I’m looking for someone.”

  “I’ll bet you are!” she exclaimed, getting a chuckle from the others.

  He asked them several questions, but they merely shrugged until one thought to elbow a dozing man who was using his grizzled mutt as a pillow. The man woke with a start and glared at his neighbor.

  “What gives, Jim?” he demanded irritably.

  “You been here longest, Sam,” said the other. “Boy’s asking after someone named Umbra.”

  “Umbra who came here with Ajax and his bunch?”

  “That’s right,” said Max. “Do you know where I can find her?”

  “Shoot,” said the man, beckoning for the flask. “I can’t be steering chaps to a young lady’s door at such an hour. For one,
I’m a gentleman. For another, that lady’d feed my nose to Pepper here.” The dog wagged its tail. “Besides, how do I know she ain’t the one who bloodied ya?”

  “She’s the one who rescued me,” Max explained.

  “He wants to thank her properly,” laughed Jim. “C’mon and tell the boy, Sam! You were young once, weren’t ya?”

  A sigh. “So they say.”

  “Please,” said Max. “It’s important.”

  “Well, you didn’t hear it from me. I don’t need no trouble and least of all from her. That Umbra doesn’t live in this camp. She sets up in that gypsy caravan by the big oak just north of here.…”

  Max had seen the caravan before. It sat alone on a shallow rise at the edge of the woods, shaded by the boughs of an ancient oak and rooted to the spot by many brambles that twisted and twined through its spokes. Its door faced east, its planks worn and weathered by sun and sea. No lights peeked from inside. Climbing the first step, Max reached up and knocked. When there was no answer, he walked around and stood on tiptoe for a peek through its curtained window.

  “The last one to try that lost six teeth,” said a voice behind him.

  With a start, Max turned and saw Umbra leaning on her spear.

  “I just wanted to talk with you,” said Max, holding up his hands.

  “Funny. That’s what the last one said.”

  Max studied the girl’s hard, unyielding face before speaking. “Ajax says I should be dead,” he said simply. “He says that you saved me.”

  “The Cheshirewulf saved you,” she said. “I just pulled my commander from the fire and drew poison from his wound.”

  “There is no wound,” Max observed, touching his neck. “That’s quite a trick.”

  “That’s your magic, Commander, not mine.”

  Max stepped toward her slowly. “It wasn’t Grendel that drove that assassin off,” he said. “It was a shadow.”

  “Poisoned people see all kinds of things,” she remarked, raising her spear to keep him at a distance.

  “Fair enough,” said Max, stopping at its point. “I just have one more question.”