The Second Siege

  The cold slap of a wave woke Max from his slumber. He had sunk low amidst the wet baggage, hugging his sweater tight for warmth. Nick had been sleeping on him, but now the lymrill mewled in annoyance and shook the water from his quills. Max blinked and recovered his bearings. All trace of land had faded from view, and their little boat seemed all that remained in a vast, empty world of water. Even the crying of the gulls had faded until the only sounds came from Cooper dipping the oars in and out of swells that rolled on for as far as Max could see.

  An hour later, Miss Boon sat up and hissed, disrupting the hypnotic squeak of the oarlocks. Cooper glanced over his shoulder at a ponderous black shape that now loomed ahead, gradually emerging from the fog. A sudden stab of white light cut through the gloom to fall directly upon them.

  Miss Boon fidgeted, but Cooper rowed them steadily toward the dark shape and its bright, disembodied light. To Max, it looked as though some enormous sea creature had risen silently from the depths to assess a potential meal with a round and roving eye. As they approached, however, he saw that the mysterious shape was no monster, but merely a battered trawler. Faded white paint identified her as the Erasmus. A low greeting sounded from her deck as Cooper brought the rowboat alongside. A ladder was lowered and Cooper tossed the first of their packs up and over the rail.

  Moments later, the group had clambered on deck, standing off to the side while Cooper spoke quietly to the captain, a stout, whiskered man in woollen cap and coat. Max held Nick and stood close to his father, looking out at the motley, inquisitive faces of the fishermen who eyed them curiously as they sipped from steel thermoses in the pre-dawn chill. Cooper pressed a slim packet into the captain’s hand, and they were promptly motioned toward the captain’s quarters.

  Leading them down below, Cooper closed the hatch above them and rummaged through a sea chest to produce several woollen blankets. The cabin itself was snug and warm, with dark wood paneling, benches bolted to the floor, and a round table lit by an overhanging lamp. Mr. McDaniels and Mum collapsed heavily on a narrow bunk. David sniffled and distributed the blankets while Cooper set a kettle to boil on a small electric burner.

  “What are we doing here?” asked David, sitting on a chest and shivering beneath his blanket.

  “Hitching a ride,” replied Cooper, squeezing his long legs beneath the table. “I’ve used this ship before. The captain is trustworthy.”

  “Cooper,” said Miss Boon, sitting tall and clasping her hands, “I really do think we should contact the Director about this. . . .”

  “We’ll do no such thing,” muttered the Agent, reaching for his pack. His scarred features resembled a mask of molten wax in the lamplight. Ignoring Miss Boon, he focused his hard blue eyes on Max. “Now that we’re aboard, Max, I need to know something.”

  “What is it?” asked Max.

  “Can I count on you?” asked Cooper simply.

  “Of course you can,” said Max, confused.

  “You froze back there,” said Cooper, frowning. “That can’t happen again.”

  “I . . . er, I thought Miss Boon was going to—” Max began, feeling defensive.

  “Miss Boon is a teacher,” interrupted Cooper, speaking of the Mystics instructor as though she were back at Rowan arranging desks. “This is not a class. This is not the Course or an exercise. We are out in the open. You can never hesitate like that again when you’re in danger. Do you understand?”

  “I didn’t even have a weapon,” protested Max, feeling his cheeks grow hot.

  “We can fix that,” said Cooper, reaching for his pack. From deep inside one of its pouches, he retrieved an item wrapped in soft black cloth. Max felt a queasy tingling in his stomach as Cooper pushed the bundle toward him. The cloth fell open, revealing a broken length of dull gray bone topped by a gleaming black blade.

  “What is that?” asked David, stretching his neck like a turtle and squinting for a better look.

  “It’s the Spear of Cúchulain,” said Max quietly, gazing at the broken relic.

  The snapped shaft made it more of a long-handled dagger than a proper spear, but broken or not, its edge shone razor-sharp, and the barbs at its base looked murderous. It was a terrifying weapon; there could be no half measures with such a thing. It was made to take the life of one’s enemies, not subdue them. Max resisted a powerful but unsettling urge to lift it from the table.

  “I don’t want my son having something like that,” growled Mr. McDaniels, peering at it from where he sat on a narrow bunk. It was the first time he had spoken since his sighting of the witch. “You keep that yourself, Cooper.”

  “I’d like to,” the Agent replied, “but I can’t use it, mate. It won’t even let me hold it.”

  With a grim smile Cooper reached out to lift the broken spear with his bare hand. The weapon immediately slid across the table as though repelled by a magnet. It tottered at the table’s edge before slipping over the side. Instinctively, Max reached out to catch it.

  It was a good deal heavier than he expected, possessing a weight that tended to gather behind the blade. As he held the weapon, Max felt it grow hot like a poker left to warm among the embers. The heat swam up his wrist to spread and blossom throughout him. Max shuddered. He had never felt quite this way before, not even when he had discovered the tapestry. He felt as wild and powerful as a storm. He felt invincible.

  Miss Boon gasped and shot a glance at Cooper.

  “Did you push it over the edge?” she asked with a shrill note.

  “Max,” said his father sternly, “put that thing back on the table.”

  Cooper ignored Miss Boon and fixed his pale eyes on Mr. McDaniels instead.

  “Max is young, Mr. McDaniels, but we need him,” said Cooper. “Rowan needs him. The Red Branch needs him. No more playtime. We need Max activated.”

  “Activated?” asked Mr. McDaniels incredulously. “He’s a boy, not a robot.”

  “True,” said Cooper, “Max is not a robot. But he might be the greatest hero of this age and our only chance at retrieving the Book of Thoth. Just as David might be our only chance at finding it.”

  “Nonsense,” interjected Miss Boon sharply. “Max, put that thing down this instant.”

  Max met her gaze and shook his head.

  “But it’s mine,” he replied evenly. “It is my right hand and the dread of my enemies. For I am the Hound of my people, and the day of my wrath is coming.”

  The blood drained from Miss Boon’s face. Cooper nodded to himself. David merely watched Max with a sad, understanding smile. But it was Mr. McDaniels who broke the ensuing silence. His words were slow and hesitant.

  “Son,” he asked, “what did you just say?”

  “What?” asked Max, swiveling in his seat.

  “Max,” said Miss Boon quietly, “you were speaking Old Irish just now. May I assume that you’ve never studied it?”

  Max nodded. He had simply opened his mouth and the words were there, as natural and necessary as breathing. He glanced warily at the black blade in his hand.

  “We both heard him, Boon,” murmured Cooper. “He’s meant to have it.”

  The young teacher blinked; color returned to her face in a flash.

  “The only thing that is ‘meant,’ Agent Cooper, is for us to keep Max and David from the witches,” she snapped, employing the dry staccato she reserved for particularly dense students. “We will escort these three to the London field office and wait for further developments as planned.”

  “The plan’s changed,” said Cooper, striding back toward the hatch door and climbing up several steps. Max heard him bark an order in Dutch before he returned to the cabin, locking the hatch behind him. The deep rumbling of diesel engines shook the table as the boat groaned ahead through heavy seas. “You can skip off to London, but you’ll need another ride,” he said. “The Americans have grounded all flights, and this vessel’s headed to Germany. We arrive at Hamburg in two weeks, so you might as well get comfortable.”

  “But
if we swing by England, I could take you to visit Shrope Corner,” said Mum, piping up cheerfully.

  “Mum, please be quiet,” said Miss Boon, rubbing her temples as she began pacing the cabin. Suddenly, she stopped and stabbed an accusatory finger at Cooper. “Did Vilyak put you up to this?”

  The Agent gave her a dark look but said nothing.

  “You answer me,” demanded Miss Boon, enunciating each word with icy precision.

  A numbing stillness permeated the cabin. The Agent watched the young teacher impassively for a stretch of silence that made Max squirm and Mum scoot back against the wall. Nearly a minute passed before Cooper reached into his coat to produce a folded sheet of paper. He handed it to Miss Boon, who practically snatched it from his fingers. Her mismatched eyes—one brown, the other blue—devoured the document, scanning it several times from top to bottom. She blinked in quick succession.

  “Would you like to authenticate it?” asked Cooper.

  “No,” she said quietly. “I can see it’s authentic.”

  “What is it?” asked Mr. McDaniels, leaning forward to squint at the paper. “What’s it say?”

  Miss Boon frowned and cleared her throat. “ ‘I, Gabrielle Richter, authorize Agent William Cooper of the Red Branch to make any and all decisions regarding DarkMatter operations B011 and A002. Any resulting decisions are Agent Cooper’s and his alone. Both the Director and Rowan’s executive council disavow all knowledge of his plans or actions. All field offices and personnel are to provide any assistance that Agent Cooper may require. Violators will be subject to disciplinary action according to statute COC47.’ ”

  “So he’s in charge?” asked Mr. McDaniels.

  “It would seem so,” muttered Miss Boon, returning the edict to Cooper. “Although I can’t imagine why the Director would do such a thing. . . .”

  Max studied the weapon in his hand once more before placing it back on the black cloth. The warmth began to drain slowly, reluctantly, from his body.

  “Why shouldn’t Cooper be in charge?” he asked.

  Miss Boon glanced at Cúchulain’s spear. She made no attempt to mask the condescension in her voice.

  “Because, Max, Agent Cooper is a professional killer who should not be making decisions about your well-being. He doesn’t care about your well-being; it’s not his nature. In fact, there are so many unacceptable aspects of this arrangement, I don’t know where to begin.”

  Cooper merely folded the black cloth back over the gae bolga. He stowed the bundle back in his pack and pulled the drawstring tight.

  “Just do your job, Miss Boon, and we’ll all be fine.”

  “And what is my job?” replied the young woman with a prim, unblinking smile. “It seems I’ve been misinformed as to my purpose on this little expedition.”

  “It sure ain’t to scrap with witches,” growled Cooper. He stretched out on the floor, kicking off his boots. “You’re here to give the boys a proper education.”

  Miss Boon snorted in disbelief.

  “So the Director has me along to be their tutor?” she asked. “And how did I get to be so lucky?”

  “Kraken’s too old to make the trip,” yawned the Agent, pulling his cap low and bringing their conversation to a close. His chest began to rise and fall with slow regularity.

  Mum giggled from the corner, earning a furious glance from Miss Boon.

  “Mum, I believe the water is boiling and there is some sort of vile flavored tea in that indecent mermaid canister. Kindly make tea for three. I expect you and Mr. McDaniels will want to get some sleep.”

  “I don’t like tea,” said David.

  “You do today,” snapped Miss Boon, sweeping a stack of charts off the table and tearing several blank pages out of her leather journal. With a tight mouth and brisk precision, she drew a perfect triangle that was soon filled with a maze of intersecting lines. “Now, Max, why don’t you come here and point out Euler’s line. I’m sure David can provide us with its equation.”

  “Is that geometry?” croaked Mr. McDaniels.

  “Yes it is, Mr. McDaniels,” she replied. “Care to join us?”

  Max’s father promptly disappeared beneath his blanket.

  For the next week, no one spoke of Cúchulain’s spear or Max’s strange outburst in Old Irish as the ship pressed on toward Germany. Cooper and Miss Boon managed to settle into a routine of chill formality while Max and David did their lessons or played cards with Mum and Mr. McDaniels. Although few of the sailors spoke English, many were good company and seemed accustomed to transporting unusual cargo. They laid bets on Mum or Nick for rat hunting (Mum always cheated; Nick always won) and broke out in cheerful song whenever the curtain of cold, gray clouds cracked a wink to permit a glimpse of sun. During these moments Max would lean far out over the rails to watch his shadow racing over the emerald sea before the sun disappeared and the waves darkened again to slate. It was after one of these interludes that Max spied David sitting alone, looking oddly shrunken in a borrowed sweater. He was perched on a mound of coiled ropes, hunched over a thick book bound in cracked red leather. Max wandered over, his mood lightened by the peep of sun.

  “You look like you’re going to hatch something,” said Max, thumping the nest-like mound with a playful kick.

  David smiled and tapped the book with his finger. “Actually, I am hatching something.”

  Max plopped next to David and tried to peer at the page, but David covered it as a pair of crew members strolled past, smoking cigarettes. David returned their wave but did not talk until they had passed out of earshot.

  “That one speaks English, you know,” he whispered, inclining his head at a lean, red-bearded man. “I don’t know why he tries to hide it. I’ve caught him spying on us, and last night he slipped out during dinner to check the radio.”

  “But the radio’s dead,” said Max with a frown. “What would he be listening to?”

  “I don’t think he’s using it to listen,” said David with a sideways glance. “I think he’s trying to transmit—to send someone a message. . . .”

  Max swiveled to look as the man leaned out over the rail. He regretted it immediately as a pair of small green eyes darted up to meet his own. The man abruptly flicked his cigarette overboard and strolled away toward the bow.

  “Have you told Cooper?” asked Max.

  “Not yet,” said David. “I want to find out what he’s doing and I don’t want Cooper to make him suspicious. Anyway, we don’t have to worry about him using the radio and tipping anyone off.”

  The blond boy smiled and produced a handful of red and yellow wires from his pocket. He lay them in a jumble on the nest of ropes, a satisfied expression on his face.

  “That’s great,” said Max, “but what if we need to use the radio? It sounded like things are bad in Europe, and Cooper will want to get any information he can.”

  “I think we can get information another way,” said David, again tapping the book.

  Max braced himself as the ship rolled over a swell, glancing at the book’s hand-lettered title of peeling gold leaf.

  THE CONJURER’S CODEX OF SUMMONS

  VOL. XI: THE SPIRITS PERILOUS

  RECOMPILED AND TRANSLATED BY MAGDALENE KOLB, 1901.

  “That book sounds dangerous,” Max murmured warily.

  “I’ve used dangerous books before,” replied his roommate with a shrug. “Besides, this one’s very valuable.”

  “What’s in it?” asked Max, peering at the bizarre symbols and nightmarish images that flickered past as David riffled quickly through the cream-colored pages.

  “Incantations,” whispered David, glancing up and down the deck. “Powerful spells to call upon certain spirits.”

  “Imps and stuff?” asked Max, wrinkling his nose. “I thought you didn’t like Mr. Sikes.”

  David shook his head impatiently and cast another glance toward the bow. “No, nothing like Mr. Sikes. Any Mystic can call on him if they have the right incantation. These spells are for d
ifferent things. Ancient things. Things like—”

  “Astaroth?” blurted out Max, louder than he’d intended.

  David nodded and put a finger to his lips. He flipped the book to a page with an exquisite engraving whose central figure appeared to be a man with a handsome, sleepy face framed by dark, curling hair. The figure was sitting on a raised throne and seemed bemused as he listened to a long line of petitioners—crowned kings and bearded scholars lugging carts of astronomical equipment and alchemical contraptions. Astaroth’s face looked considerably more youthful than the visage Max had seen appraising him from the Rembrandt painting. At a second glance, however, Max discerned that there was something eerily similar about the eyes. Max would never forget the fathomless black eyes that had blinked at him from inside their gilded frame: they had been ageless and numbingly non-human. Max tore his gaze away from the image to read the neat script on the facing page.

  Of all the Spirits Perilous, Astaroth is most wise and cunning and veils his malice beneath a pretty cloak. Loath should thou be to summon him, unless thou be strong and know thy limits and wear a ring of silver true. For the Demon will seek to ensnare thee and keep thee past the witching hour when his strength doth wax with moon and tide and he may slip within thy circle. When he is called, beware his many shapes, for the Demon may be present and the unwary summoner knows it not! As a rooster he hath appeared, and as a wolf with baleful eyes, and as a viper black and coiled. The wise Sorcerer will call upon him and speak these words: “Noble Astaroth, pray favor thy petitioner with wisdom from under hill, beyond the stars, and beneath the deepest sea,” for the Demon adores courtesy and is boastful of his knowledge of arts and letters and all manner of secrets. He will reveal himself and answer thy questions. But beware! Though Astaroth never lies, he will twist truth and will lead the unwary astray, so it is the Demon who is master. . . .

  A shadow fell across the page. David snapped the book shut as the two whirled around to see the red-bearded sailor standing over them. A knowing smile spread across his hard face as he took a long draw off another cigarette.