The Fiend and the Forge

  “I know I’ve been distant, Max,” said David. “Since the Siege, you have tried to help me and to be my friend. For my own reasons, I have not permitted that. But now I need your help, Max. I need you to make good on your oath.”

  Max recalled the oath he had taken, the one that Cooper had entrusted to him while they were in the Frankfurt Workshop. It had consisted of only three words: Protect David Menlo.

  “Remember when I told you there was no one I would rather have guarding me?” asked David.

  “Yes,” said Max quietly.

  “I meant it,” said David, becoming once again the shy, unassuming boy Max had met on his first day at Rowan. “And I need you to protect me now. Because I’ve been planning something very carefully, and its time has come. And it will be the hardest, most frightening thing I’ve ever done. I can’t do it without you.”

  These words were heartbreaking. For Max could not protect his friend from the trap that was waiting; he could only nod and ask how he could help.

  David was visibly relieved.

  “There is a holy day the demons celebrate called Walpurgisnacht at the end of this month. That night, every demon of any importance will be here in Blys. I have almost everything ready, but I’ll need your protection to carry out my plan. And to protect me, you will need a special weapon, something that can harm even the greater spirits.”

  “Prusias said only a relic can hurt them,” replied Max grimly.

  “He spoke the truth,” said David. “And we have one, but it’s broken. I can’t fix it, the dvergar can’t.…”

  Reaching into his pack, David brought out the carefully folded bundle that contained the shards of the gae bolga.

  “You want to find the Fomorian,” Max said soberly.

  “That’s right,” David confirmed. “And even with Ormenheid and my arts, he will be difficult to reach. The Fomorian is pure Old Magic, but we have the only living person who has ever found him.”

  Max glanced at Cooper, who was listening gravely and staring into the fire.

  “Are you okay with this?” asked Max.

  The smee broke the ensuing silence. “If the brute will not answer, then I will,” groused Sir Olaf. “It’s one thing to imprison me in my natural state; it’s quite another to drag me about against my will. I do not wish to seek out an ill-tempered Fomorian and beg favors from him. I shall remain here until you return.”

  “We might not return,” said David. “And we’re going to need your help along the way.”

  “And if I refuse?” demanded Sir Olaf.

  “You go right back to Frigga and Helga,” said David coolly. “They’d love to see you.”

  The smee seemed to be reflecting. A moment later, he straightened.

  “You know perfectly well they’d squish me.”

  “I do.”

  The Tiber gurgled past them in the dark, the waters swollen from the winter thaw and spring floods. As they climbed down the gray banks, Cooper pressed the tiny Ormenheid into Max’s hand.

  “How’s she sail?” asked the Agent.

  “Very well,” said Max. “But I still had a rough passage.”

  “Here’s to a smoother one,” said David, standing aside so Max could place the toy-sized ship upon the river.

  It began to drift with the current until Max spoke the words that would command it.

  “Skina, Ormenheid.”

  And, as it had upon Rowan’s shores, the toy extended through the water, undulating like a golden sea snake, expanding until it had become a full-sized vessel—a Viking ship with room enough for a raiding party.

  “What a wonderful thing,” observed David, and soon they had all climbed aboard and settled behind its mast and unfurling sail. The oars dipped into the water, and the ship floated motionless, awaiting instruction.

  “Leita, Isle of Man,” Max commanded.

  Despite his repeated pleas, the ship remained stubbornly in place.

  “Try ‘Elian Vanning,’ ” suggested David. “That is what its people called it.”

  As soon as Max tried those words, the Ormenheid’s great oars eased into motion and rowed them swiftly toward the river’s delta.

  The Ormenheid had always been fleet, but with David aboard her, it seemed her enchantments had been greatly enhanced. The vessel now sped over the water as upon a ribbon of impossibly strong currents and favorable winds. And with the little Sorcerer sitting at her prow, the Ormenheid was enveloped within a cloaking mist so that she seemed naught but a mistral sweeping across the sea.

  By sunrise, they had already left the former islands of Corsica and Sardinia far behind as they sailed south of what used to be France and Spain. Sitting cross-legged at the prow, David hunched over a lantern and pointed the stump of his missing hand at a thin line of gray that suggested the distant coast.

  “That’s near Connor’s lands,” said David sleepily. “He’s not quite the economic powerhouse he aspires to be, but give him time.…”

  He laughed, but Max was troubled as he stared out into the gloom.

  “What’s bothering you?” asked David.

  “I hadn’t realized before … I didn’t know that demons actually eat souls, David. To think of what you had Connor hand over to Prusias …”

  “Don’t lose sleep over it,” David replied. “One of the Red Branch is already tracking it down—Peter Varga.”

  “Varga?” scoffed Max, wrinkling his nose. “He’s not in the Red Branch.”

  “He is now,” said David. “Cooper recruited him to replace Vilyak.”

  Max turned and glared at the sleeping Agent, who appeared almost catatonic beneath a heavy wool blanket. How could Ronin be in the Red Branch? Aside from Max’s personal feelings, the man was badly injured and could hardly walk.

  “I wouldn’t trust him to find such a thing,” Max scoffed.

  David’s ghostly face turned toward him. “I would,” he said. “It’s his soul.”

  “Then … David, what is happening to you?” he asked.

  “You mean, why do I now look the way I do?” David murmured. “Like a freak?”

  “You don’t look like a freak,” said Max quickly, “but you don’t seem … yourself. I thought it was because you’d surrendered your soul to Prusias.”

  David chuckled and shook his head. “Prusias would have noticed a swap like that,” he explained. “And giving up your soul doesn’t make you waste away. Idiots sell their souls for beauty all the time, and they’d be pretty disappointed if this were the result. The simple answer is that I’ve pushed my limits and it’s taken its toll. We both know I’m living on borrowed time.…”

  With a wan smile, the blond boy tapped at the long, pale scar over his heart. Before Max could ask another question, David spoke gently.

  “The hour’s late and I have lots to think about,” he said. “Get some rest.”

  And as David said this, Max realized just how tired he really was. Saying good night to his friend, Max crept to the spot where Nick lay sprawled alongside the gunwale. Kicking off his boots, Max gazed up at the stars and succumbed to a lullaby of wind and sea.

  By sunset of the second day, they were approaching the strait. Max knew this because he could actually see the dark coastlines, whose opposing cliffs converged to create a narrow passage. Considerable shipping traffic was clustered about this natural gateway—massive galleons, black xebecs, and sleek clippers that skimmed along the shipping lanes.

  The Ormenheid’s passage had been immensely swift, but now the ship had slowed considerably and cruised through the water at something like a normal speed, even as vyes and pitiful-looking humans stared from their fishing junks. David paid them no heed. He seemed intensely focused, standing at the prow and shielding his eyes from the sun’s setting brilliance. Stepping quickly to his pack, David unclasped it and whispered into its depths.

  The bag’s mouth expanded, and from its depths floated chests and canvas bags and all manner of crates. They arranged themselves along the gunwales, ty
ing themselves into place with sturdy ropes, as though handled by phantom mariners. In a few minutes, the Ormenheid looked like an exotic merchant ship laden with treasure.

  The smee crowed. “Aha! Deceiving the Enemy, are we? Delightful, absolutely delightful! But will the demons not inquire as to who is master of this ship?”

  “They most certainly will,” said David. “Which is why we have to hide.”

  “But surely someone must remain visible …,” observed the smee. His thespian’s voice trailed away while his body sagged with limp resignation. “It’s me, isn’t it?”

  “Right you are,” said David. “You’re going to impersonate a demon named Coros.”

  Max listened attentively as David briefed the smee on a prominent Blyssian merchant, even going so far as to conjure an image of the demon.

  “Child’s play,” said the smee, sounding almost bored. “But I’m a little hurt, David. Why didn’t you share the plan with me earlier?”

  “Because you’ve never seen Mad’raast …”

  David directed them to an enchanted steamer trunk, whose open lid revealed a ladder leading to a sizable cabin. While Max and the others retreated down the ladder, David confirmed several more details with the smee before hurrying after them.

  “You’re free to transform, Olaf.”

  “Sir Olaf!” insisted the smee, interrupting his voice exercises.

  Sighing, David pulled the lid down after him. As soon as the trunk was closed, the roof became perfectly transparent, as though it were made of glass.

  “Don’t worry,” said David, seeing Max’s alarm. “This is a jinni-made smuggler’s chest. We can see out, but they can’t see in. Very useful feature—we’ll know if there’s trouble.”

  Holding Nick, Max gazed up at their surroundings. He could see the sky, a bit of the Ormenheid’s gunwale, a stout barrel, and now an immensely fat bottom as Coros strode imperiously about the deck in his enormous silk pantaloons.

  “David,” said Max. “I’ve actually heard of Coros. He’s very well known. Shouldn’t we have Sir Olaf impersonate someone less prominent?”

  “No,” replied David, gazing up. “The fact that Coros is well known and pays exorbitant bribes to facilitate his smuggling makes him an ideal candidate. He’s also a coward, which will help explain any fear Sir Olaf might exhibit when he sees Mad’raast.”

  No sooner had David said this than a shadow fell over the Ormenheid as though the sun itself had disappeared. Nick suddenly bristled and squirmed out of Max’s arms to tunnel beneath a chair. Moving for a better vantage, Max craned his neck and looked upon Mad’raast.

  Initially, Max thought he was simply gazing at the Rock of Gibraltar.

  But this rock was moving.

  For Mad’raast crouched atop the rock, a mountainous gargoyle of midnight blue. Each of his batlike wings spanned hundreds of feet. They flexed and quivered like a fly-bitten horse as the demon brooded upon his perch and gazed at each passing ship with his orblike eyes.

  As they sailed closer, Max saw the gargantuan demon looming over them. Mad’raast suddenly spread his wings, blotting out the vermilion sky, and stretched forth his great arm to seize the Ormenheid’s prow.

  “Don’t panic,” said David as the vessel came to a shivering halt.

  From their limited vantage, Max could now see only the smee’s trembling corpulence and Mad’raast’s cruel face leering above the merchant. A cat might have just plucked up a mouse by the tail.

  In a hoarse rasp, Mad’raast spoke to Sir Olaf in the demons’ tongue and gazed past him to survey the many crates and chests. Max had to admire Sir Olaf’s nerve, for although the smee was visibly trembling, he answered straightaway and even appeared to attempt a joke involving a clumsy hornpipe. When this was done, Sir Olaf bowed by way of apology and pointed to a large, reinforced chest.

  Apparently, the bribe was accepted.

  With an evil leer, the demon swept the chest into his great hand and wagged a warning finger at Coros before releasing the Ormenheid’s prow. An aircraft-sized wing swept above the smuggler’s chest as the demon turned and clambered back up to his perch.

  “That thing works for Prusias?” whispered Max, horrified.

  But David only nodded and motioned for quiet.

  The Ormenheid continued through the strait and out onto the open ocean. When they were beyond sight of land, Sir Olaf tottered over and flung open the smuggler’s chest. Max could tell the smee was badly shaken.

  “You might have warned me,” he gasped, clutching his chest. “Dear Lord, what a monster!”

  “You were perfect,” said David. “In two days we’ll reach the Isle of Man, and we couldn’t have done it with you. You are a smee among smees.”

  “So you can even replicate a creature’s aura?” asked Max.

  “Of course,” replied Sir Olaf. “You must understand, good sir, that such unique talents are what crown the illustrious smee as uncontested ruler of the mimicry world.”

  “But if you’re such a good mimic, how’d the selkies find you out?” inquired Max.

  “They didn’t.” Sir Olaf sniffed. “They remained in denial. But Miss Teller started snooping around and published an exposé in the Tattler. I was finished! The ki-rin herself marched me to the hedge tunnel and forced me to assume my true form in front of all. I’ve never been so ashamed.”

  “That’s your problem,” said Max pointedly.

  Defensive indignation returned; the smee’s tuft positively bristled. “Pray tell, what exactly is my ‘problem’?” inquired the smee.

  Max shrugged. “I think you’re ashamed of who and what you are. That’s why you’re always bragging or pretending to be something else. Have you ever just tried being Sir Olaf the smee?”

  Silence. The smee slouched even lower.

  “Well, why would I do that?” the dejected thing mused. “I mean, look at me—I look like a yam.”

  The others disagreed, perhaps a touch too strenuously.

  “You’re too hard on yourself,” said Max, coughing.

  “A yam should be so lucky,” muttered David.

  “I don’t even have arms,” observed Sir Olaf with sad bewilderment. “Even a starfish has arms.”

  “Well, what about your golden tuft?” Max exclaimed. “It must be the pride of smeedom!”

  “Oh, that. It isn’t real.”

  “Please tell me you’re joking,” said Max, wincing. “Really?”

  “Give it a firm tug, my boy.”

  Max declined, but the smee insisted. A moment later, Max held a pinch of yellow hairs between his fingers.

  “I’ll just put it back,” said Max, concerned about the strong winds whipping the thing about.

  “No,” commanded Sir Olaf, his voice resolute. “Carry me astern, good man.”

  Max did as he was told, scooping the smee into his left hand while he held the tuft in his right. The Ormenheid was racing over the sea, already abreast of the Bay of Biscay. At Sir Olaf’s direction, Max carried him to the back of the ship, where the smee gazed out at the moonlit wake in quiet contemplation. David and Cooper soon joined them.

  Sir Olaf cleared his throat. “You’re good chaps,” he reflected. “Even Cooper in his own uncouth way. And by Jove, I’m a good chap, too! But it’s high time I acted like it. And so I say to you: no more lies, no more lounging on the labor of others. Today, I am proud to be a smee!”

  Assuming this was the signal, Max let the golden tuft fly. Its fluttering magnificence soared high upon a gust and managed one majestic loop before plunging into the ocean.

  “Sir Olaf,” said Max. “We’re proud of you.”

  The smee sighed. “Call me Toby.”

  ~26~

  A SON OF ELATHAN

  Without his golden toupee and pretentious airs, Toby was a much more agreeable companion. He sat near the prow, absolutely delighting in the wind and spray while Nick sat near to discourage any hungry seabirds. The Ormenheid’s sails were always full, her oars pulled ceaseles
sly, and she was far too swift to be bothered by any of the piratical xebecs and clippers that cruised the channel separating what had been Britain and Ireland.

  “This is all part of the Grand Duchy of Malakos now,” said Cooper. “Ben Polk’s been scouting it for us. Major commercial center—imports, exports, manufacturing. Actually, you won’t believe what he sent me.”

  “Let me guess,” said David. “Shrope Soaps?”

  “A whole basket of the stuff,” confirmed Cooper. “Hand soaps. Face soaps. Lotions. Shampoos. All wrapped up with paper and bows and stamped with Bellagrog’s glaring face. I gave ’em all to Hazel.…”

  “The hags started a business?” asked Max.

  “A thriving business,” replied David. “I’ve seen it from the observatory. The lights are always on at Shrope Hovel. I don’t think Bellagrog sleeps.”

  “Neither does the Fomorian,” said Cooper, directing their attention back to a map.

  “Did you ever find where he lived?” asked David.

  “No,” said Cooper. “And if you hadn’t been able to spy on him from the observatory, I don’t think we’d find it now.”

  “So what do we do?” asked Max.

  “We let him find us,” said Cooper softly. “He will soon enough.”

  Cooper’s face remained a stoic mask, but Max knew this was the result of the man’s injuries as much as his temperament. His jaw didn’t function correctly, and his face had been scorched so badly it looked as though half of it had simply melted away. Whatever neighboring skin was left had been pulled taut to form a mask of overlapping scars and creases.

  “The Fomorian ain’t like anything I’ve ever seen before or since,” he said quietly. “It’s old as the hills and don’t want nothing to do with us. If things go quiet—if you feel like someone just stepped on your grave—that means the giant is close.”