Another followed it and then another. Soon hundreds and thousands of voices cried out as people backed away and then fled from the cliffs.
Prusias was rising from the sea.
The demon had shed his human guise as a serpent sheds its skin. It was no barbarian king that rose above the cliffs, but a great red dragon with seven crowns set atop seven human heads, each slavering with wrath and fury. Max and David were sixty yards from the cliffs, yet the heat that radiated from the demon’s red-scaled body scorched their lungs. Prusias had grown since Walpurgisnacht, gorging and glutting himself on the bodies and spirits of his own kind. Each of his crowned, gnashing heads was swaying far above the battlefield, and yet Max could hear his serpentine coils lashing the waves hundreds of feet below.
The heads leered out at all assembled. Blood was coursing from black, festering slashes across several of the faces and throats, grisly legacies of Max’s last encounter with the demon. Max had not managed to slay Prusias, but wounds from the gae bolga would never heal and so the cuts continued to bleed, dribbling and hissing down braided beards to patter on the scaly necks and the ground below. But despite these injuries and despite the utter ruin of his army, the King of Blys gave a savage smile.
“You think you’ve defeated Prusias?” he roared, looming monstrously over the battlefield. “Ha! I don’t need those insects or machines. I don’t need an army to crush this den of fools and tricksters.” The demon’s eyes settled on Max and David. “I see the faithless Hound and Rowan’s cowering sorcerer, but where is Bram? Bring me the Archmage and Richter, too. Pile them all onto a great pyre and beg my forgiveness!”
The heads swayed lower, thrusting forward like great serpents to loom over the battlefield and its huddling hordes of people. All seven spoke in grinning, leering unison.
“You’ll bow down and raise my flag, you groveling little maggots,” they growled. “You’ll bow down and worship Great Prusias or he’ll devour every last one of you!” The central head whipped savagely about to glare in the direction of Old College.
“Where is the Archmage?” it roared. “BRING ME BRAM!”
As soon as the demon cried out these last words, there was a blinding flash and the sharp crack of thunder. Something had appeared instantly before Prusias, a radiant white figure amid a cloud of pearly, dissipating mist. But it was not Elias Bram who walked toward the demon.
It was Mina.
Prusias recoiled the instant he saw her, as though she were something grotesque and poisonous. The King of Blys swayed back and forth like an enormous cobra. Each of the demon’s seven heads appraised the little girl with a mixture of fear and wonder.
“What are you?” he demanded. “What are you called?”
But Mina did not answer. Spreading her fingers wide, she stretched one little hand toward the demon as though she were grasping at a shiny ornament just out of reach. When she could reach no farther, the girl abruptly closed her fingers and made a fist.
Seven crowns cracked and shattered.
The King of Blys shrieked as they fell from his tangled heads in great shards of hammered gold. Upon each of the demon’s foreheads, the Rowan seal appeared, branded into his flesh as though with a hot iron. With a rending scream, Prusias fell back into the sea and fled over the waves like a vast, repulsive sidewinder.
Mina watched him go, then turned and walked to Max and David. Already, her radiance was dimming and Max realized that the little girl was wearing naught but her nightgown. She padded barefoot through the mud, lifting the gown’s hem so as not to get it dirty. Coming to them, she took each of their hands and gazed up at them, utterly oblivious of the gathering crowds.
“I have cast Prusias down,” she said.
“I should say so,” replied David.
“And I teleported,” she announced, swelling up as though this was far more noteworthy than banishing a seven-headed demon. “You can’t pretend you didn’t see! You know what that means.”
“Another trinket for your magechain,” David sighed. “You shall have it.”
She beamed, clutching their hands as though she never wanted to let go, but at last she turned toward the cliffs and watched the white gulls as they circled and soared against the dark sky.
“I have to go down to the beach,” she remarked. “My charge is waiting for me.”
“How do you know he is there?” asked David.
“Max can say,” she replied, gazing absently at the dark ocean.
“ ‘When the gulls cry out and the waters run red, he’ll rise from the sea to find me,’ ” said Max softly, recalling the girl’s prophecy.
“And he has,” she declared excitedly. “Take me down!”
“I’ll take you,” said David. “I want to see your charge. And there may be something else of interest down there.” He turned to Max. “Can you come?”
“No,” said Max, glancing back at Trench Nineteen. “I have other things to do.”
“But can you even walk?” wondered David, glancing doubtfully at Max’s leg.
“I can ride.”
And indeed he could. As David and Mina departed, Max called out to a nearby knight and asked to borrow his horse. The man helped Max into the saddle. The climb up was agony, but the pain was manageable once he was settled and so long as he kept his mount to a walk.
Max rode to the embankments along Trench Nineteen, to the section where smoke and steam were still rising in little wisps. Peering down into the trench, Max braced himself for the worst.
But YaYa was nowhere to be seen.
Stunned, Max looked up and down the trench. Was he in the right place? Surely he was. There was no mistaking that crater of compacted earth and the smoke still rising from its depths. Prodding with his spear through the wreckage of soil and splintered stakes, Max even saw little pools and droplets of blood. But YaYa herself was missing.
Did ki-rin disappear when they died? Did they simply burn up like rakshasa?
There was no time to solve this mystery. Tugging on the reins, Max rode through the crowds along the ruin of the citadel walls. There was so much commotion, so many cries of jubilation and people streaming past. One group of ecstatic revelers was more than a little stunned when Max snarled at them to move even as they clustered around to thank him.
His eyes were constantly scanning the milling masses for Scathach. He barely noticed Old Tom chiming the Westminster Quarters or the colorful bursts as flares and starbursts exploded overhead. Pushing through, he shouted Scathach’s name and gazed about in search for her. Even in this moment of spectacular triumph, Max’s heart was breaking.
The dread was numbing. Max had not experienced anything like it since he’d found his father bleeding to death in an icy stream. He yelled Scathach’s name again, gazing wildly, frantically about. So many faces surrounded him and yet none was the one he sought.
He was approaching the citadel’s northwest section, riding in the shadow of the ruined walls, when the crowds finally began to thin. There was still an ungodly amount of commotion—ringing chimes and blaring horns and great bursts of fireworks over Old College—but Max could now see each face as people ran past to join the celebration.
As he rounded a tower’s remains to head for Westgate, Max reined the horse to a halt as a family passed by. The father was laughing, holding the hand of one child while his wife tried to corral an escaped toddler who was stumbling after some giggling lutins. Max watched them go and was about to urge the horse onward when a rider caught his eye. Gazing up, Max saw Scathach coming toward him.
She was on a different horse and looked wearier than he’d ever seen her, but when their eyes met, the maiden smiled and stood tall in her stirrups. Max’s sorrow and dread evaporated. He had never felt such a rush of pure, unmitigated joy. All pain was forgotten as he shook the reins and wheeled his horse toward her. He called her name, grinning wildly and urging his horse into a trot.
As they closed, Max heard someone behind cry out his name. He had no intention
of stopping, until the person yelled again with such terrible urgency he could not ignore it. Stopping, he turned around to see someone tearing through the crowds after him. As the person raced past the family, Max finally glimpsed her face.
The person was Scathach.
“Morkün i-tolvatha!”
Even as Max heard those terrible words, he realized his folly. Whipping back around, Max merely glimpsed Scathach’s smiling imposter as the mounted assassin swung the blade meant to decapitate him.
With a deafening roar, a huge black blur crashed in from the side.
Max was merely knocked off his startled horse, but the false Scathach was nearly pulverized as YaYa took her to the ground in a furious assault. Arms and legs were pinned instantly. There was a popping of blistering flesh and a piercing, ungodly scream came from the assassin’s throat. Max had never seen YaYa so enraged; the ki-rin was shaking violently, her jaws slavering mere inches from Scathach’s terrified face.
Already that face was changing. William Cooper’s own rough, brutal features were emerging as though YaYa were drawing them forth. The Agent’s eyes were black as pitch, his skin cadaverously pale. There were more popping sounds as smoke billowed off of the man’s body. Cooper screamed again as though he were being burned at the stake. With furious effort, he tried to writhe free, but the ki-rin was much too strong.
The real Scathach’s arms gently closed about Max’s shoulders as she crouched behind him.
“YaYa’s killing him,” Max said, utterly stunned and horrified by the scene.
“No,” Scathach whispered, holding him close. “She’s saving him.”
Max was not so certain. YaYa’s teeth were bared, and she was growling with such ferocity that she looked capable of suddenly tearing out Cooper’s throat. The man had ceased struggling and now merely offered a bloody smile.
“Go ahead!” he goaded. “There’s always another—”
With another roar, YaYa impaled him.
When her horn pierced his shoulder, Cooper’s scream was like nothing Max had ever heard before. Nearby spectators covered their ears and drew away. Fiery symbols erupted on Cooper’s skin, evil runes and symbols Max had glimpsed in David’s grimoires. Cooper was weeping now, pleading with the ki-rin to simply kill him.
But YaYa was unmoved.
At last Cooper’s screams and pleas ceased. He simply lay still on the wet grass and took slow, sputtering breaths while smoke hissed and crackled about the ki-rin’s broken horn. As the fiery symbols faded, Cooper’s eyes returned to their clear, pale blue. His hand twitched, and YaYa raised her bleeding foreleg to release it. Tears ran down the man’s scarred, ruined face as he stroked the ki-rin’s muzzle. His voice was barely audible.
“Tell them I’m sorry.”
When he closed his eyes, YaYa slowly withdrew her horn from his shoulder.
“Is he dead?” Max asked, clutching Scathach’s hand.
Dipping her head, YaYa nuzzled Cooper’s face. “He is at peace.”
Three weeks had passed when Max and Scathach met for a walk one morning beyond Northgate. His broken shin had healed in a matter of days, but Max had not returned to this place since the night of Rowan’s victory. He could hardly believe the transformation that was under way. The toppled walls and towers had been cleared away; the blood-churned fields had been tilled and smoothed. Scaffolding surrounded new tower sites and the cool April air was rich with the smell of wet soil, new turf, and budding branches. Max smiled at the sound of saws and hammers, the whinny of horses, and the chirping of innumerable birds as spring chased away the last remnants of winter.
But these were not the most notable changes to the landscape. That distinction belonged to the thousands of small white obelisks spaced in perfect rows. Now and again, he simply stopped to gaze at them, overwhelmed by their simple beauty and the sacrifice that each represented.
“People are calling it Hound’s Trench,” said Scathach, gesturing at the chasm just beyond them, the very chasm Max had made.
He stared at the great gorge, at its blackened edges and raw, jagged contours. Nothing would ever grow there; that part of the earth was dead forever.
Max shook his head. “I wish they wouldn’t do that,” he muttered. “It’s an ugly name, an ugly thing. I wish the gravestones weren’t so close to it. They shouldn’t be near anything like that.”
“I don’t see it that way,” replied Scathach, taking his arm. “These people drew a line in the sand, sharpened their swords, and kept a terrible foe at bay. Not one enemy set foot in Old College. Centuries from now, people will visit these graves, see that chasm, and know that heroes are buried here.”
Far too many heroes, thought Max. For the rest of the morning, they walked along the rows and looked at the names the Mystics had carved in clean white granite. Most were strangers, but now and again Max came upon a name he recognized. And, of course, there were some that brought him to a solemn halt. These names were not a surprise—he’d already heard of their passing and mourned them—but it was a strange jolt to see them etched with such terrible, beautiful permanence. Whenever Max came upon one, he touched the obelisk and spoke their name aloud: John Buckley, Rowan Academy, Sixth Year; Jesse Chu, Rowan Academy, Fifth Year; Laurence M. Renard, Senior Instructor; Annika Kraken, Department Chair of Mystics.…
Each sounded a different note in his soul. Max was almost surprised to find how deeply Ms. Kraken’s death had moved him. Apparently, she had cast such a powerful spell beyond Southgate that it destroyed her along with many of the Enemy and their battering ram. Max recalled the huge explosion he had glimpsed in that vicinity while YaYa was galloping over the sea. He wondered if that had been Ms. Kraken’s doing. She had always seemed such a cranky old shrew, the kind of teacher students dreaded to encounter in a hallway much less an exam room. But the woman had also been an institution, an academic rite of passage that had challenged and galvanized Rowan students for over sixty years. The school would not be the same without her.
But it was not Ms. Kraken’s memorial that brought a tear to Max’s eye. It was another set at the far end of a row near the sea and the beginnings of a flowerbed. The earth around the marker was trampled and its obelisk was far dirtier than most. Max smiled to see the varied prints in the grass and the unmistakable mark of a muddy paw above the man’s name.
GREGORY WYATT NOLAN
HEAD OF GROUNDS
Max did not know the details of Nolan’s death. He didn’t want to. It was enough to know that the man had volunteered to serve along the outer walls and that he had died while doing so. Nolan had spent much of his life looking after Rowan’s weakest, most vulnerable creatures. Most often these had been charges, but sometimes they were students, too. The man had a talent for putting others at ease and making them feel welcome. There simply weren’t enough people like that in the world.
Whenever Max stopped at a grave, Scathach stood aside and let him be. It was a greater gift than she could have known. Max had borne the hopes and expectations of so many people for so long that he had become self-conscious and almost terrified of disappointing anyone. With Scathach, he did not have to mask his feelings or explain them. He could simply experience them and know that she was there.
They were not the only people visiting the gravestones. Hundreds of others were paying their respects. Some were larger groups and families, but often it was a solitary figure walking slowly along a row, consulting their little map and peering at the names.
Walking back toward the remains of Northgate, Max and Scathach passed near one small figure kneeling by a grave and talking quietly to himself. Max’s heart sank as the boy glanced up and their eyes met.
“Hello, Jack.”
The boy stood abruptly, brushing grass from his knees and removing his woolen cap.
“I didn’t steal it,” he mumbled. “I was giving it back to her.”
Max was at a loss until he glimpsed the pearly disk in the boy’s hand. It was the very piece of maridian heartglass
Max had given to Tam. Looking past Jack, Max saw the girl’s name etched on the gravestone.
TAM
TRENCH RATS BATTALION
2ND COMPANY, 3RD PLATOON
“Did she have a last name?” Max wondered. “She must have,” said Jack, blinking at the inscription. “But I don’t know what it was. She never told me.”
“Tam was your good friend, wasn’t she?”
The boy could not reply. He merely closed his eyes and sobbed.
“I know you want to give that back to her,” Scathach said gently. “But I think you should keep that glass and remember Tam whenever you look at it. What do you think?”
“It was her favorite thing in the world,” Jack sniffled.
“Then I’m sure she’d want you to have it.”
The boy considered Scathach’s words while turning the pearly glass over in his hands. “I won’t keep it forever,” he concluded. “When I’m old, I’ll give it to someone young and tell them all about her.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” said Max. “Do you want to walk back with us or stay out here?”
Jack stayed behind, sitting back down on the damp earth and touching Tam’s name with the heartglass. When they had walked out of earshot, Max shook his head.
“Did you see that medal on his chest?” he asked.
“I did,” said Scathach, gazing out at the sea.
“A bad bargain,” Max remarked. “Swapping a friend for a medal.”
“Such things happen in war.”
“I told them I’d see them after,” he muttered, recalling his words to Tam and Jack as they’d huddled in Trench Nineteen. “What a stupid thing to promise.”
Scathach took his hand. “War breaks many things,” she sighed. “It can break bodies and hearts. It can break promises, too. But it can’t break spirits, Max—not if those who are fighting believe in their cause. Jack may grieve for a long time, but I don’t think war has broken his spirit. And I know it never broke Tam’s. That girl was very strong and she knew what she was about.”
The Maelstrom Page 39