The Maelstrom

by Henry H. Neff

  Many eyes appeared in the gloom, piercing the dusk like monstrous searchlights. They scoured the smoking hills and trampled plains until they fell upon the citadel.

  Giant flares shot out from Rowan’s towers, arcing through the rain to illuminate the creatures as they began to move. Max watched in mute horror as their particulars began to emerge.

  Like the pinlegs, the dreadnoughts appeared to be a hybrid of animal, demon, and machine. Their heads were shaped like that of a pulpy pale octopus, knotted and swollen with muscles and vascular cables that connected them to shiny black bodies that resembled the abdomens of huge, bloated spiders. Enormous black smokestacks jutted from their backs in knuckled ridges, belching fire and smoke into the air as though great engines and furnaces burned at the creatures’ cores.

  The dreadnoughts had eight long limbs, but they were nothing like a spider’s. Four of the limbs were thick, elephantine columns of muscle and flesh that bore the brunt of the creature’s weight and propelled it forward. The others were enormous, bloodred tentacles that sprouted from its sides, swinging grotesquely, digging and dragging through the wet fields as they helped to balance the towering creature.

  Max found their uniqueness horrifying. No two monstrosities were exactly the same. The Workshop might have built them, but there was an organic asymmetry even to their creatures’ manufactured elements. They looked like they’d been grown and nurtured in colossal vats, a jumble of mutated cells that had been made to grow around a mechanical core until the machinery and engines were subsumed and buried within living tissues.

  They had no mouths, not even a truly discernible face. There were only vast, unblinking eyes set atop bodies so colossal that Max could hardly comprehend them. The creatures must have been three hundred feet tall. Just one looked capable of razing Rowan to its foundations and yet thirteen were now advancing upon the citadel fifty yards at a stride.

  The gae bolga twitched and gave a magnetic pull almost like a divining rod. The weapon tore Max from his spellbound stupor, bringing him back to the rain and wind and YaYa chuffing once again as the ancient ki-rin mustered whatever reserves she had. He gazed up at the attackers, at the smoke billowing from their backs, at the faint red pentacles now glimmering along the creature’s underbellies. Max’s ring began to burn again.

  They’re just imps, he told himself. Imps in huge bodies, but imps all the same.

  He recalled the words and warning of the Fomorian after the giant had reforged the gae bolga beneath the waves.

  This weapon can never be broken. The wounds it makes will never heal. There is nothing it cannot pierce and nothing it cannot slay, for its essence will destroy both flesh and spirit … this blade will slay gods as well as monsters.…

  That weapon was calling to him now, urging him forward. Max was not a mortal being; he was a demigod, a prince of the Sidh who had just driven half of Prusias’s army back across the field. The Morrígan could see his greatness; why couldn’t he? Max was stronger than they, wilder than the storm, and when his anger was roused, nothing on this earth could stand against him. He was invincible.…

  Trembling anew, he stared out at the dreadnoughts like a rabid wolf. He spurred YaYa forward and she obeyed, breaking into a trot and then a rolling canter. The gae bolga burned, scalding Max’s hand as the blade keened and screamed like the Morrígan herself.

  Breaking into a gallop, YaYa streaked across the battlefield, as swift as an arrow. She soon left the ground behind, springing into the air and racing over the gales and gusts as though they were a shorter path to her enemy. The dreadnoughts loomed even larger, filling Max’s view so that everything else disappeared. It was growing ever hotter, ever louder. Scorched air filled his lungs; all about him was the sound of heavy, churning machinery and the belching fires from the smokestacks. He focused on the nearest one’s central eye, so huge and luminescent it might have been the moon. Gripping the gae bolga, Max stood tall in the stirrups and reared back to strike as Scathach had taught him.

  The impact was like a bomb.

  Max and YaYa were thrown back with inconceivable force. They crashed into what remained of Trench Nineteen’s embankment, careening over rocks and sharpened stakes until they rolled down into the trench itself. Clawing blindly at the wet earth, Max sensed the gae bolga’s searing heat and seized hold of it. Coming to his senses, he glanced about and saw YaYa lying on her side in a small crater. Great waves of steam rose off her, as though the ki-rin were a meteor that had fallen to earth. One of the embankment stakes had impaled her shoulder, while a sickening shard of bone protruded from her foreleg.

  Dirt rained down upon them as the creatures continued to advance. Scrambling to his feet, Max saw that the one he’d struck was stumbling. Half its knotted, pulpy head was missing as though it had detonated. Fire and smoke gushed from the gaping wound. Listing sideways, it flailed its tentacles in an attempt to balance, but its momentum was too great. Its legs gave out and the monster toppled like a falling skyscraper.

  A savage elation overcame Max. The Morrígan was right; he was invincible. He was the son of Lugh Lamfhada, High King and greatest of the Tuatha Dé Danaan. And the weapon Max wielded was no mere sword or spear. The gae bolga was a conduit—it was a living tether to the war goddess herself. Together they could destroy the dreadnoughts. Together, they could destroy everything.…

  Twelve creatures remained, advancing steadily in a line like a convoy of battleships. Scrambling out of the trench, Max glared up at them as energy from the gae bolga flooded into him, the Morrígan’s power mingling, multiplying with his own. He ran at the colossal things with blind, berserk rage. The nearest loomed above him, its bulk blotting out the sky. Raising the gae bolga high, Max plunged its point deep into the ground.

  The instant it pierced the earth, the spear made a hideous scream and split the battlefield asunder. The shock wave sent Max flying backward, tumbling head over heels until he crashed against an overturned wagon. His leg slammed against its heavy axle, cracking his shinbone down the center. Ignoring the pain, Max focused on the battlefield. The very terrain where the gae bolga had struck seemed to be dying, rotting away and collapsing to form a great fissure that spread swiftly beneath the attackers. With a roar, the fissure became a yawning chasm as the surrounding earth sheared away in a flurry of avalanches and rock-slides.

  Three of the dreadnoughts vanished from view as they plunged down into the gulf. There was an appalling crash as they struck water far below. Seconds later, jets of steam shot from the fissure like geysers, arcing high into the night and dissipating on the wind.

  Gasping for breath, Max watched the geysers plume and drift. He could do little else as the remaining dreadnoughts steadied themselves with their tentacles and continued over the chasm as though nothing had happened. Once across, they began to pick up speed, charging now like Hannibal’s war elephants. The entire battlefield was shaking, but there was nothing Max could do. The Morrígan had grown silent and his own powers were spent.

  Boom boom boom boom!

  Through gaps between the dreadnoughts, Max glimpsed Prusias’s palanquin and his remaining troops approaching over the dark fields. Dozens of lightning bolts lanced the dreadnoughts from Rowan’s casting towers with no apparent effect. The creatures were running now, their ropy tentacles slapping at the ground while torrents of smoke billowed from their crowning backs.

  They strode over Trench Nineteen, stampeding over the remaining terrain. Max was certain one would crush him, grind him into a red smear. He almost wished they would. He had no desire to witness Rowan’s destruction, to see its people murdered or enslaved as Prusias’s army swept in. Everything around him was blinding light and deafening sound and violent, terrifying tremors.

  He gazed up, awestruck, as a dreadnought stepped over him, utterly heedless of his presence. There was a rending crack as the first reached the citadel. Twisting about, Max saw one of the monsters rear up on its hind legs to seize one of the casting towers with its tentacles. Wit
h a savage wrench, the creature heaved the entire structure off its foundation, ripping it free as though it were no more than a sapling. Others slammed into the wall, rearing up like great spiders to tear frantically at the battlements and masonry.

  An overwhelming sense of anger and shame came over Max. Scathach was likely dead. YaYa too. By dawn, thousands more would join them. All of his efforts had been for naught; he had summoned every ounce of Old Magic in him and still the Enemy was grinding Rowan to rubble. Gazing out, Max saw Prusias’s forces halting at the chasm he had made. Already vyes were loping along its ledges, scouting for the narrowest gaps where they might devise a way to cross.

  At this range, Max could see Prusias with his naked eye. The demon was standing at the palanquin’s threshold like some barbarian chieftain come to view the sack of Rome. Max’s anger kindled to blind rage. He had never wanted to destroy another being so badly in his life. If he could just get up, rise once more on this broken leg …

  And then a dangerous, intoxicating thought occurred to him.

  Astaroth!

  Clutching the wagon’s wheel, Max twisted farther about so he could see Northgate. It had not yet fallen, but one of the dreadnoughts was lumbering toward it. There might still be a chance to save Rowan if only he spoke those words and called the Demon to him. Astaroth had promised to destroy Prusias’s army and protect Rowan if Max summoned him. And Astaroth never lied! He had the power to do so this instant … all Max had to do in exchange was slay Elias Bram. At the mere thought of the Archmage, Max gritted his teeth.

  Damn Bram to hell!

  The Archmage had not lifted a finger to help Rowan. For all his clever arguments, he had abandoned them. What would Bram know about aiding his friends, about helping those he loved? Marley Augur had been Bram’s closest companion, and look how he was treated! Bram was a snake; he was a loathsome, self-important snake and deserved to die a thousand times over. Max did not have to do it alone; the Morrígan would help him. Once Bram was gone and Rowan was restored, peace would follow; they would work with Astaroth to create something better, something beautiful and lasting. Wasn’t that what the Demon truly wanted? And Astaroth never lied.…

  Something settled on Max’s hand. Glancing down, he saw a brown gypsy moth scuttling over his fingers, twitching its wings and feelers. Was it real? Taking flight again, the moth circled twice about Max’s head and then flew toward Northgate. Max followed its progress until his gaze settled on a pale, translucent figure gliding toward him.

  It was Astaroth.

  The Demon was in his spectral form, no more than a pale apparition walking across the battlefield amid all the destruction. He was smiling, but there was no mockery or amusement in those angelic features. There was only love; there was only compassion and understanding. Cradling the Book of Thoth, the Demon extended a hand and silently urged Max to speak the words that would summon him.

  “Noble Astaroth,” Max whispered. “Pray favor thy petitioner with wisdom from under hill, beyond the stars.…”

  As the words tumbled forth, the Demon’s smile widened.

  He nodded at Max to finish, beckoned eagerly with a terrible gleam in his merry black eyes. But Max trailed off, blinking instead at a tiny figure that came hurtling out from Northgate even as the dreadnought reared up to demolish it.

  The figure was David Menlo.

  Max glanced back at Astaroth, but the apparition was already fading. Its smile was gone; its features blank and masklike as it disappeared into the night.

  Utterly perplexed, Max pulled himself higher and stared in disbelief at his friend.

  David was now directly beneath the dreadnought, screaming in terror and running in staggering zigzags as he sought to avoid the monstrosity’s stamping, shuffling feet and keep his balance on the shaking ground. On several occasions he stumbled and fell, but each time he righted himself and hobbled on with crazed determination.

  He was making for Max, calling his friend’s name as though he could possibly be heard above the din. The sorcerer practically collapsed when he reached the wagon. Yelling for Max to take firm hold of the gae bolga, David seized his other hand as he had on Madam Petra’s balloon.

  Torrents of energy suddenly rippled through Max, screaming through every blood vessel as though David had flipped a circuit breaker. His broken leg kicked and he tried to tear free of David’s grasp, but the sorcerer would not let go.

  Strange things were happening to Max. He beheld not only David crying out in Latin, but also himself wreathed in a nimbus of golden light and slumped against the wagon. It seemed as though he were also seeing the world from David’s perspective, their visions overlapping. As David turned, Max’s view shifted. He was now gazing out at the dreadnoughts as they began to clamber and climb over Rowan’s broken walls.

  Max caught his breath as the dreadnoughts came to a sudden, inexplicable halt. Huge golden pentacles were forming around each, their intricate symbols reflected in the monster’s shiny underbellies. The circles trapped the creatures where they stood. Once the pentacles were complete, the abominations could not even twitch without David’s permission.

  David’s voice was growing ever stronger as his mind locked on to each of the spirits that were controlling the gargantuan bodies. Max could sense a mounting desperation as the imps fought against David’s will.

  They fought in vain.

  The sorcerer possessed all nine dreadnoughts, simultaneously shattering all resistance with terrifying strength and dominance. The imps were utterly overwhelmed. Still connected to David, Max became aware of these new presences on the periphery of his consciousness. Whenever he let his mind drift toward one of them, he found himself staring through a dreadnought’s many eyes. Through those fragmented, hazy lenses, he glimpsed Old Tom and Maggie within Old College. At first glance, they appeared undamaged, but it was too disorienting and painful to inhabit the dreadnought for long.

  David Menlo had no such difficulties.

  The boy did not merely command each dreadnought; he was each dreadnought. The sorcerer’s extraordinary mind controlled the bodies as if they were merely huge extensions of his own intelligence and will. At his silent urging, the creatures now turned slowly about and fixed their attention upon Prusias’s army.

  The demon’s troops were beginning to cross Max’s chasm, marching over giant battering rams that had been laid across to form causeways. When the dreadnoughts wheeled upon them, those in front frantically tried to retreat, crashing into those coming up behind them. Many were thrust aside, toppling into the gorge and triggering a general panic as every vye and ogre tried to scramble back.

  Sweat was coursing down David’s pale face as he followed the dreadnoughts’ earthshaking advance. Within seconds, they strode over Trench Nineteen and reached the chasm, obliterating the bridges with their tentacles. Striding over the gorge, the dreadnoughts now loomed directly over thousands of vyes, ogres, deathknights, and demons like smoldering mountains.

  The ensuing onslaught was horrific. Whole companies were trampled in seconds; others were destroyed by the sweeping, flailing tentacles that pulverized everything in their path. David showed no mercy as the dreadnoughts began walling the army off and hemming them in against the gorge and the cliffs.

  Some escaped, of course. Some vyes managed to flee beneath the dreadnoughts like mice darting beneath a cat. Several rakshasa transformed into spirits of fiery smoke and escaped through the air. But the rest were less fortunate as the dreadnoughts crushed, lashed, and drove them toward the steep cliffs and chasm. Thousands were sent hurtling over the ledges, plunging hundreds of feet to the sharp rocks and wild waves.

  Throughout, Max had focused almost all his attention on the golden palanquin. Two dreadnoughts had seized it and were pushing the massive thing toward the cliffs, digging their tentacles beneath and slamming their bodies against it. As the monsters gained leverage, the litter flipped and began to tumble as though the creatures were rolling a gargantuan boulder. With a final frenz
ied effort, they heaved it and themselves over the edge, clinging to the carriage like hideous octopi as it plunged down to the sea.

  The seven remaining dreadnoughts followed their example, charging the cliffs and sweeping along everything in their path as they threw themselves like lemmings over the ledge. More geysers came screaming up once they crashed, their mist floating across the landscape like shimmering veils of silver.

  Max heard himself gasp when the dreadnoughts struck the water. A peripheral part of his mind and consciousness had been with them and experienced firsthand the tumbling blur of sky and sea, the awful glimpse of rocks and ocean rushing up to meet them.

  Thankfully, David had released the psychic connection right before the monsters had struck. With a groan, Max leaned back against the wagon, feeling as weak and helpless as a newborn. He clutched hopefully at the gae bolga, but the spear lay dark and dormant in the mud. Rowan’s sorcerer was also apparently spent, for he doubled over coughing and wheezing for breath as steam rose off his body in ghostly wisps.

  An eerie quiet settled over the battlefield. There were no more drums, no more horns or the terrible shaking of dreadnoughts. There was only the distant crash of the sea and the sound of their hoarse breathing.

  “I’m sorry,” David gasped, finding his voice at last. “I didn’t have enough power on my own. I had to borrow yours. Can you stand?”

  With a grimace, Max took David’s hand and pushed himself up on his uninjured leg. Leaning heavily on the spear, he turned to survey the ruin upon the battlefield and the crumbling foundations of Rowan’s walls and towers. People were reemerging, streaming out from the remains of the Northgate arch and a hundred other openings to see what had happened. They fanned out to survey the destruction. Some cheered; others fell to their knees in prayer. Most simply stared at the surrounding miles of burning, smoking devastation. Even the earth was trembling and shivering with aftershocks.

  It was a minute before Max heard the first scream.