~23~
MYRMIDON

Two weeks later, Max stood gazing out the uppermost window in his silent mansion. A cold spell had descended upon Blys, bringing a torrent of snow and wild gusts that came screaming past the window. Max pressed his forehead against the cold glass. The streets below were teeming with activity. Despite the inclement weather, the city’s residents were gathering in district plazas or along the broad avenues to celebrate the great tournament, which would conclude that evening.

There was a knock at the door and Max turned to see Mr. Bonn. The imp was holding Bragha Rùn’s helmet.

“Aren’t you early?” asked Max.

“The streets are icy,” replied the imp. “And there will be even larger crowds than usual.”

“What are the latest odds?”

“Three to two,” Mr. Bonn reported briskly. “You’re still favored, but the odds are dropping due to rumors you’re injured. A vast sum was wagered on Myrmidon just this morning.”

“Did you place a bet?” asked Max with a wry smile.

“I’m not allowed.” The imp shrugged. “I have inside information.”

“How would you wager, Mr. Bonn?”

Crossing the room, the imp gazed up at Max with a solemn expression. His small face still bore evidence of his punishment, but the welts were healing. Raising the fearsome helmet, he offered it to Max.

“Despite my station, you’ve always treated me with kindness and respect,” said Mr. Bonn. “If I could, I’d bet on you.”

“Even against the grylmhoch?”

“Yes, sir.”

Taking up the helmet, Max sighed. “Mr. Bonn, you’re a loyal friend, but you’d make a terrible gambler.”

The malakhim were already waiting outside with the carriage. By the time they had arrived atop the mountain and its uppermost palaces, the hills below seemed alive. All of the avenues blazed with lighted carriages and torches streaming toward the palace as though lava flowed uphill.

On the evenings when he fought, Max had grown accustomed to hearing his name shouted in the streets or from the gabled rooftops. But tonight, the thousands of revelers called another name, chanting it with a wild, maniacal enthusiasm.

“Astaroth! Astaroth! Astaroth!”

The Demon’s seal was not merely etched on Max’s helmet, but stamped upon a thousand banners and pennants that fluttered from the city spires. It had been almost two years since Max had surrendered the Book of Thoth, two years since he had seen the Demon in person. Would he see him tonight?

The carriage slowed to a halt, and Max saw that they had reached the smithy. Tonight there were no dvergar or forges or weapon racks. This would be the final match, and it appeared that the dvergar had packed up their equipment. The only furniture remaining in that vast, empty space was a worktable bathed in a lantern’s golden light.

Upon that table lay a spear. Not a huge, heavy weapon such as Max had used against the grylmhoch, but a shorter variety with a sharp, leaf-shaped blade. Taking it up, Max turned and bid Mr. Bonn farewell.

“D-don’t you want me to ride up with you?” asked the imp.

Max shook his head.

The imp seemed to understand why and simply bowed. “It has been my honor.”

After leaving the pod, Max counted the steps to the arena’s threshold, timed them to the steady beating of his heart. At this moment, that heart was all he wanted to hear—it would be his drum, his cadence when he stepped into the arena.

Still, it was hard to ignore the crowd. Their cries echoed in the vast hallway and sent dust raining down in little streams. Clutching the spear, Max arrived before the portcullis and stared at its black bars like a caged animal. He wanted them to rise and release him one last time.

When the announcer finally said his name, there came that wild, intoxicating roar.

The portcullis rose and Max stalked into the arena.

His opponent was already waiting at its center.

Myrmidon was equipped in the classical fashion as a Roman murmillo and wore a high-crested helmet of bluish steel whose dense visor obscured his face. Upon that helmet was the white seal of Astaroth and thirteen slashes that Max took to represent his victories during the tournament. While his entire body was covered with black cloth, only the gladiator’s left side was armored with scalloped plates of the same bluish steel as his helmet. Upon his left arm, Myrmidon bore a shield—a curving, rectangular scutum. Within the glove of his right hand, he gripped a traditional gladius.

Max embarked immediately upon the grim calculus that had become second nature: His spear offered more range; Myrmidon had better armor, but the gladiator’s right side was vulnerable to a counterattack; his foe tended to rock forward, indicating an aggressive nature.…

Only one variable came as a surprise: Myrmidon was the smaller of the two.

Max found this strangely unnerving. In every previous battle, he had been the smaller combatant—often by hundreds or even thousands of pounds. Scathach had taught him to embrace such imbalances; he could simply impose another pattern, one that favored him.

Physically, a larger opponent could perhaps overpower him, but Max had always been quicker. Furthermore, a smaller combatant could often intimidate a larger one. When faced with a smaller, yet undaunted opponent, the larger party often seemed to hesitate, as though wondering, What terrible trick does this little thing have up its sleeve?

These doubts could play havoc with the mind, and Max chafed at the very idea he might fall victim to the same misgivings. Even so, it was impossible not to wonder how this gladiator had advanced so far in a tournament riddled with so many fearsome and experienced foes. He stared at Myrmidon, reconsidering every detail of his adversary’s weapon, armor, and stance.

Myrmidon stared right back.

Max pried his eyes away, as custom dictated that the combatants face the royal box. There was Prusias, the king, standing to issue some sort of tribute or benediction. Max was not listening.

There were no vyes in the stands, no hags or cheering goblins. The tournament’s finals were for the elite, and only nobles, wealthy merchants, and visiting dignitaries were in attendance.

Among these visiting dignitaries, Max spied a delegation of witches. All were robed in black and bore the dense tribal tattoos that had made such an impression upon him when he’d first met one. At their center, Max glimpsed Dame Mala, the matriarch of her clan.

The Workshop was also present. Their representatives were seated in a neighboring box, Dr. Rasmussen’s hairless head shining conspicuously under the glaring lights. The humorless engineers seemed out of place amid the crowd’s commotion. They might have been attending a laboratory experiment.

Despite the event’s prominence and the extraordinary demand for tickets, one section remained nearly empty. It was the grandest of the royal boxes, an array of large and luxurious seats that Prusias normally claimed for his personal use.

On this occasion, however, it had been reserved for another.

Gazing up, Max saw that Astaroth’s banner had been hung from its railing. And this was not the common standard of red silk bearing Astaroth’s white seal. Such things were ubiquitous. The colors on this banner had been reversed and displayed a red seal upon a white background.

Only Astaroth employed this design.

Max searched for the Demon himself. But Astaroth was not present—at least not in any visible form. Instead, a lone figure sat in the midst of the otherwise empty box. The figure was small and unobtrusive, and Max’s temper flared upon seeing him.

For it was none other than Mr. Sikes, the cruel and clever imp who had played such a pivotal role in Astaroth’s rise to power. He sat perfectly composed, immaculate in his tailored suit, while he surveyed the arena with polite expectation. Max fought a sudden urge to attack him on the spot.

The ceremonial aspects of the match were reaching their conclusion. As was the custom, Max raised his spear in response to Prusias’s salute. In his peripheral vision, he saw his adversary do likewise, and a sudden, horrific thought occurred to him.

Was Myrmidon merely Astaroth in disguise?

The idea seemed a very real and terrifying possibility. After all, Mr. Sikes was here as a spectator, but his master was nowhere to be found. Furthermore, the Demon was roughly Myrmidon’s height and build. And finally, Astaroth’s participation would certainly explain how such an ostensibly unimposing gladiator had reached the championship match.…

Staring at his opponent, Max suddenly and savagely wanted it to be Astaroth. The Demon was the source of all their problems. Without Astaroth, humans would not have to languish in fear and servitude while demons transformed the world into their own hellish fiefdoms.

The Old Magic was now surging, howling, straining within him.

When the last drum sounded, it burst.

With a speed and brutality yet unseen, Max hurled himself against his foe. His spear crashed against Myrmidon’s shield. His opponent retreated a step, but the shield remained whole.

Even though it had been blocked, the impact of this opening salvo rang like a thunderbolt and sparked the crowd into an excited buzz. It had been an uncharacteristically furious opening assault from the famous gladiator.

Again and again, Max hammered at his opponent in a blitz of expert thrusts, jabs, and slashes that effectively transformed his single weapon into many. Neither gladiator seemed interested in choreographing a dramatic entertainment. No tactics were employed for their decorative effect as was common in the arena. In this match, every attack and defense had been stripped of artistic flourish and distilled down to its brutal core.

Max’s helmet was a furnace. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes as he pressed the offensive at a relentless pace. The metallic clash of spear striking against shield and sword intensified until it rivaled a machine gun’s staccato. Skilled as this opponent was, Max was steadily registering his patterns. Momentarily, he would expose his unarmored side, and there would be an opening. It would appear for only an instant, but then—

With freakish speed and control, Max shifted his weight and spun about on his heel and prepared to drive the spear beneath his adversary’s outstretched arm.

Myrmidon’s unprotected heart was just inches away.

With a roar, Max unleashed the measured stroke that had finished Straavh. As before, the feat required him to focus every iota of strength and will upon the lethal point of his weapon. When it struck, it would end the fight.

But with a dexterity and swiftness that shocked even Max, his opponent leaped backward and put enough distance between himself and the razor point that he caught it again upon his shield.

The blow did not destroy Myrmidon, but the impact sent him hurtling backward over the sand, and he crashed into the arena wall. The collision was enormous, bringing even the most jaded observers to their feet. Coins and flowers came raining down into the arena, along with calls for Bragha Rùn to finish him.

Max could have done so, for Myrmidon lay in a crumpled heap against the wall. But he would not pounce upon a fallen adversary—not even if this were the Demon himself trying his hand in the arena.

Long seconds passed before Myrmidon began to stir, but stir he did.

Rising with grim determination, the gladiator merely glanced at Max as though to assess whether he would attack immediately. Satisfied that Max would wait, Myrmidon examined his battered shield. Enchanted or not, the thing had absorbed such a pounding that it had been effectively destroyed.

With admirable aplomb, the gladiator merely tossed the shield aside. Turning again to face Max, Myrmidon offered a brief salute and advanced.

Without his shield, Myrmidon altered strategies and now went on the attack. For the first time in the match, Max was confronted with his own vulnerabilities. Faceless behind the imposing helmet, Myrmidon displayed a newfound ferocity. His utter fearlessness was unnerving, and with his short gladius, he exhibited a knack for slipping within the defenses of his taller, stronger opponent. Max evaded a lethal thrust by only the slimmest of margins.

In the Sidh, Scathach had often asserted that a warrior’s confidence, his faith, was much more vital than his life’s blood. In battle, spilling a foe’s blood meant progress, but shattering his faith meant victory. And as Max redoubled his attack, he studied his opponent carefully for any clue that his faith and confidence were waning.

But as they circled one another, Myrmidon’s carriage remained proud, his movements poised and predatory. There was no sign of fatigue, no telltale shuffle or dip of the head.

There was no victory here. Not yet.

An opportunity at last arose when Myrmidon appeared to slip upon the loose sand. Pouncing on this rare opening, Max struck his opponent two hard blows across the helmet with the butt of his spear before whipping the blade around to finish him.

Too late did Max realize his error. In a flash, Myrmidon had shifted the gladius to his other hand. As Max lunged forward, he impaled himself upon its point even as Myrmidon twisted away from the spear so that it merely grazed his neck.

This was first blood, and the crowd leaped to their feet.

Staggering backward off the sword, Max reached down and pressed his hand against the wound. The gladius had pierced his armor’s thin metal plates and inflicted real damage. The initial pain had been sharp, but what followed was a dull, aching throb. Glancing down, Max saw that his hand was drenched with blood.

During this time, Myrmidon had backed away out of reach. He appeared to be examining his own wound—a long, shallow slice across the neck—but Max knew he was really studying his opponent and assessing the harm he had caused.

It was no doubt an ugly wound, but Max exhaled with relief. Nothing vital had been pierced, and his remarkable constitution would soon stop the bleeding and seal the wound. Myrmidon would have to strike a mortal blow to win this match.

But then Max felt something odd.

As expected, his wound had gone numb, but it was still bleeding. Pressing his hand against it, he felt an uncharacteristic pumping of fresh blood against his fingertips. His knees buckled, and Max staggered drunkenly to his right.

He did not fall, but the crowd reacted as though the match had reached its tipping point. There was a roar, shouts of joy, bloodlust, and dismay. Glancing up, Max saw Myrmidon running at him with his sword raised. He meant to end the match with one dramatic stroke, as Max himself had done so many times.

Instead of retreating, Max took a sudden step forward. The maneuver surprised Myrmidon, and Max was able to seize hold of his adversary’s sword arm. Dropping his spear, Max struck Myrmidon full in his face, crumpling the left side of his helmet. Momentarily stunning his opponent, Max wrenched him clear off the ground and held his foe at arm’s length.

But Myrmidon still possessed his weapon. Even while he was being throttled, he managed to twist his right arm free and slash at Max. The blade cut across his shoulder, and while the wound was superficial, Max did not want to risk a more targeted attack at such close quarters. He hurled Myrmidon away with all his strength.

His opponent smashed into a stone monolith with such force that it cracked. The angle of impact was so awkward that Max was sure he must have broken his neck. By all rights, his opponent should have been sprawled in a lifeless heap.

But he was not.

Surely this was Astaroth.

He almost laughed with disbelief, for the Demon was stirring once again.

Max had almost forgotten that his spear was not in his hand but lying at his feet. Bending down to seize it, he noticed something disturbing.

His wound had still not stopped bleeding. If anything, his exertions had made it worse. A sickly coldness was now spreading throughout his torso. Propping himself against the spear, he stared in disbelief at this seemingly invincible opponent.

Advancing like a juggernaut, Myrmidon closed the distance and slashed at Max’s throat. Max parried the attack, but his movements were now mechanical and sluggish; they had none of his normal strength or fluidity. Unable to press his opponent back, Max gave way even as Myrmidon forced the blade ever closer to Max’s vulnerable neck. With Max’s attention focused on the weapon, Myrmidon suddenly kicked his legs out from under him.

Max fell, crashing onto the sand and doubling over as pain flared from the wound in his stomach. He expected the gladius to come screaming home, but it did not. Glancing up, Max saw that Myrmidon was staring down at him, his helmet framed by the stars. But he did not strike. With cold disdain, the gladiator stepped over Max, took up a position some ten yards away, and turned his back.

The gesture was infuriating, but in his condition, there was little Max could do. His blood was pooling beneath him. The wound simply would not clot. Nausea spread throughout his limbs, and Max came to a grim conclusion.

Myrmidon’s blade was poisoned.

There was a method to the Demon’s madness. Not only did his scornful gesture delight his audience, it also allowed the poison more time to have its effect.

Beneath the ghostly moon, Myrmidon’s breath came in misty plumes as he held up his arm and accepted the crowd’s adulation. As Max lay bleeding on the sand, he gazed at the royal box. Prusias had risen to watch the imminent conclusion, but his expression appeared grave and he did not clap or cheer. Mr. Bonn looked positively ashen. But the rest of the crowd was ecstatic; Max had never seen Dr. Rasmussen or his colleagues so animated. He’d despised the Workshop, and it was a bitter pill that his defeat should give them pleasure.

But there was one among these seats who had not risen with all the rest. The figure was seated near the witches, and for a moment, Max thought she was one of them. But her robe was gray, not black. Leaning forward, she removed the hood that had hidden her face.

It was Scathach.

Max perceived the maiden with such clarity that she might have been an arm’s length away. Scathach’s was an unearthly beauty, an ivory face framed by long raven hair. Her gray eyes were gazing at him with such love and anguish that Max nearly bowed his head in shame.

There was no doubt she knew who he was.

He would not allow her to see him in a coffin bed of blood and dust. He would not yield to treachery, or poison, or even Astaroth himself.

When Max stood, the crowd cheered as though to topple Jericho. Turning on his heel, Myrmidon merely stared at Max.

Max’s entire body shook and trembled as though the poison were exercising its final, fatal influence. To the spectators’ delight, Myrmidon acknowledged his adversary’s spirit and applauded with the flat of his sword. There was an unmistakable solemnity to the gesture—a farewell to a worthy adversary. When the gladiator ceased his ovation, the crowd quieted to a tense, anticipatory silence.

But even as Myrmidon advanced to deliver the killing stroke, he seemed to realize his error.

Max had not been trembling from weakness.

The Old Magic burst forth with such terrible pride and rage that it threatened to engulf him. It eclipsed everything; there was no wound, no poison, no pain. They were gone, simply consumed by the wildfire within him.

What remained was only a demon in a gladiator’s clothing.

The match was over in an instant.

Myrmidon slumped against the monolith. His sword had been shattered, his body impaled with such inconceivable force that it was now pinned to the very pillar. In shock, he gently touched the spear as though trying to grasp what had happened. His fingertips traveled slowly up the spear until they reached the still-trembling hands of the victor.

Initially, Max thought his enemy meant to pry his hands away from the spear, but he was mistaken. Myrmidon merely wished to touch him, to fold his hands over Max’s and hold them there. The act was so unexpected and so gentle that Max did not know how to respond and simply stood by.

The moment was strangely beautiful, but it could not last.

Slowly, Myrmidon’s head dipped forward as though in prayer.

His hands slipped away from Max’s, and with a final breath, he died.

The Coliseum almost erupted in a riot. Ecstatic spectators streamed down from their seats and into the arena to celebrate.

But Max was only dimly aware of the commotion.

His attention remained fixed upon his fallen foe. While hundreds of malakhim kept the crowds at bay, Max knelt to remove Myrmidon’s helmet.

He needed to confirm what he now suspected.

Lifting the helmet away, Max looked upon his clone.

Myrmidon appeared to be a younger, slighter version of himself—Max as he looked at fourteen or fifteen. The Workshop clone’s face was eerily peaceful. Wavy black hair swept across a forehead that still glistened with cooling sweat. There was an ugly bruise on the left cheekbone, but that was the only blemish upon a pale, handsome face whose youth had been tempered by hard experience. Myrmidon might have been young, but he’d met his end with open eyes.

Those eyes were dark and fierce and brimmed with a secret wisdom that only death conveys. Numb with sorrow, Max closed their lids and silently said goodbye to a twin he’d never met.

Rising, he looked briefly about for Scathach. When she was not to be found, Max turned and marched straight out of the arena. His anger and disdain were so apparent that the crowds immediately parted to let him through. As he disappeared inside the tunnel, they let out a great, appreciative roar.

The Red Death was above praise and glory.

He lived only for the arena.

Was he not a worthy champion?