~24~
WHISPERS IN THE DARK

The news of Bragha Rùn’s spectacular victory spread quickly throughout the capital. The kingdom’s champion had not only won in impressive fashion, but it was rumored that Myrmidon had been none other than Max McDaniels, the infamous Hound of Rowan. This gossip was met with healthy skepticism, until several vyes who had collected the gladiator’s body had confirmed it. These same vyes had taken part in the Siege of Rowan and witnessed the historic moment when the boy had surrendered the Book to Astaroth. By dispatching this villain, Bragha Rùn had avenged many of their fallen comrades. The Hound had been slain, and the kingdom now boasted a worthy champion—a great victory, indeed.

This match had electrified the city, particularly the poorer districts that spread out along the Tiber’s banks. There, great fires engulfed clusters of dwellings. Max watched the plumes of smoke from his bedroom while Mr. Bonn recounted the rumors and gossip from the street.

“Why are they burning their own homes?” asked Max quietly.

“Oh, much of it’s mere revelry,” replied Mr. Bonn. “They’ll start building again, I daresay. But some of the fires are offerings to you—or perhaps I should say that they’re offerings to Bragha Rùn. The vyes hope to gain your favor and perhaps even entice an appearance.”

Max shook his head in grim disbelief. Even from the lofty height of his mansion, he could hear the shouts and calls from far below. The match had ended hours ago, but the chants continued with the same unsettling devotion.

“Why doesn’t Prusias stop them?” Max wondered, watching a distant minaret topple as it was finally consumed in flames.

“Oh, he would never stop such a thing,” Mr. Bonn observed. “He’s no doubt in their midst, encouraging their zeal and showering the crowds with gold. The king believes one must keep the masses focused on wealth, war, and games lest they grow discontent. People will endure a tyrant, so long as they believe he’s one of them. Prusias loves a good riot.”

“It sounds like he has it all figured out,” Max muttered.

“He is a fearsome enemy, master,” said Mr. Bonn with a cautious, appealing note. “It does not do to oppose him. I know the true identity of Myrmidon has upset you, but I beg you will not do anything unwise. You do not know Prusias like I know him.”

“But don’t you see?” said Max. “He’ll never let me leave. I’m supposed to be dead—there are a hundred thousand witnesses who saw my clone die in that arena. So what’s his plan?”

“I won’t pretend to know the king’s mind on all matters,” replied the imp. “But I believe he thinks highly of you and the possibilities you offer.”

“Too valuable to kill,” Max concluded with a bitter laugh. “So, I’m to be kept here unless he wants to trot out Bragha Rùn for a public appearance.”

“There are worse fates, my lord,” said the imp.

“Indeed there are, Mr. Bonn!” exclaimed Prusias, stamping snow from his boots. “Things almost got away from us there at the arena, but what a match! I’ll confess I thought you were done for, but you were only playing possum, weren’t you?”

The king wagged a finger as though Max were a delightfully wicked boy.

“I wasn’t playing at anything,” replied Max coldly.

“Ah, you’re upset,” observed Prusias with a sigh. “I suppose it was inevitable. No picnic to see your likeness in such a regrettable state.”

“ ‘Regrettable state’?” Max exclaimed. “My ‘likeness’? Myrmidon wasn’t just another opponent—he was me!”

“Nonsense,” Prusias snapped, settling into an armchair. He glanced at the fireplace, whose logs promptly burst into flame. “You might as well weep over fingernail clippings. Your grief is either feigned or you’re vainer than I’d supposed. Frankly, if anyone should be upset, it’s me. Myrmidon cost me a fortune.…”

The king frowned at this unhappy thought, fumbling about for a cigar and grunting at Max to occupy the other chair.

“So I’m to be Bragha Rùn forever,” concluded Max. “Max McDaniels is dead.”

“Alas, so he is,” chuckled Prusias. “The great Hound of Rowan … may he rest in peace, et cetera, et cetera.”

“I’m surprised at you,” said Max.

“Eh?” said Prusias, fixing him with a bright blue eye. “What do you mean?”

“I’m a dirty little secret,” Max laughed. “Everyone thinks the Hound of Rowan is dead, but he’s really stowed away in a lonely mansion on a hill. How would your rivals react to the truth?”

Instead of growing angry, the king’s expression turned melancholy. With a grimace, he heaved himself out of his chair and paced about the room, his shadow growing strange once again.

When Mr. Bonn saw this, his manner became exceedingly meek and unobtrusive, as though he wished to simply shrink out of existence. Max was frightened but determined not to let it show.

“You know,” reflected Prusias, “that clone did what he was told. He destroyed whatever he was told to destroy without debate. In this world, one is either useful or useless. And that clone was useful.”

Max remained quiet. It was hard to imagine a younger version of himself stealing about Blys to do the evil bidding of the king.

“Myrmidon’s skill in that regard got me thinking about you,” said Prusias. “While he was very good and didn’t balk at a little knife work, he didn’t have your special dash and spark. You see, I think there’s something very great in you, Max. And I don’t believe the Workshop can duplicate it—not even if they could separate you into little jars and look at those little jars with their wonderful machines.”

Prusias grinned maliciously.

“Well,” he continued, “I have enemies. Lots of them. Among my enemies, there are some who bore me, others who divert me, and still others who can even amuse me. But very few can threaten me. However, I’ve recently learned that one does threaten me. Even more than I had supposed.”

“King Aamon,” Max guessed aloud.

“Precisely,” acknowledged Prusias. He turned toward his imp. “You see, Mr. Bonn? I told you he would understand our problem and want to help.”

“I never said that,” said Max.

“Oh, but you will,” laughed Prusias. “It’s really best for everyone if you do.”

Max kept a wary eye on Prusias’s shadow. During conversations such as these, it was so easy and tempting to forget one’s danger. This is not a man, Max reminded himself sternly. You are in a locked room with a great red dragon.

And he wants something from you.

“I’d do it myself, of course, but Astaroth has forbidden me from taking a direct hand in matters. A sensible rule, but it does complicate things. Now, let’s look at the details, shall we? An associate of mine has taken the liberty of mapping out Aamon’s castle.” With a smile and a theatrical flick of the wrist, Prusias unfurled a parchment. “There are sentries, of course,” he said. “But we’ve scouted their positions, and I believe you should be able to eliminate them.…”

Max merely stared at the map, uncomprehending. It was like planning an operation with Cooper—but he was taking orders from a demon.

What on earth was happening to him?

Prusias was oblivious to Max’s rising concerns, instead pointing out various traps, possible means of entry, and the underground chapel where Aamon was known to retire.

“The malakhim will travel with you as far as the border,” said Prusias. “At that point, one of them will give you a relic—a weapon that even Aamon has reason to fear—and you will go on alone. You are not to be captured.”

“Why not give me the relic now?” asked Max coldly.

“Not while you’re close to my person,” Prusias growled, his shadow flaring behind them like a cobra’s hood. “Do this for me and the rewards will be beyond your wildest imagination.”

“You know,” said Max carefully, “you already promised me something: a cleared path to Vyndra. You promised me a chance to avenge my father’s death.”

“And you’ll have it!” proclaimed Prusias. “But Vyndra must wait.”

“It seems you want a second service before you’ve paid for the first,” said Max. “As you said yourself, a productive partnership is based on quid pro quo rather than charity. I’ve fulfilled my part of the bargain, but you have yet to pay.”

The king blinked. “Max … I thought we understood one another,” mused Prusias with a wry little smile. “Do you expect me to choke on my words? Does a youth presume to lecture me?”

Glancing at Mr. Bonn, Max could see he was petrified. The imp’s eyes effectively screamed at Max to desist, to retreat, to rock the dragon back to sleep. But Prusias’s own eyes had widened into feral blue orbs; his small teeth sank into his lower lip and sent blood streaming down into his beard. He stalked around the room, huge and dangerous. Max did not dare move.

“You want to negotiate with me?” rasped the demon. “Let’s have at it, then. What will you give me to spare your farmhouse friends for one more night? Make me an offer, you miserable little thing, or I’ll show you such a scene of carnage that you’ll never sleep again!”

With a furious jab of his cane, Prusias shifted his attention to the imp.

“Mr. Bonn, take this down: I want every vye in the opium dens and the jails and the dungeons loosed upon the camps tonight. Every single one, Mr. Bonn!”

“Please,” Max whispered, but the demon wheeled upon him and held up a finger for silence. Max could not even look at the demon’s face. He could only stare at the trailing shadow whose vague, threatening shapes resolved themselves into that of a horned beast with many heads and coils. When Prusias next spoke, his deep voice trembled.

“Do you now see just how generous I’ve been?”

“Yes,” said Max.

“So you’ll do what I ask?”

“No.”

The pacing stopped. The huge, barbaric head and tangled mane of black hair swiveled at Max. “Say that again,” Prusias whispered. “I’m begging you. Say no to me just one more time.…”

Max had never been more frightened. Swallowing, he battled to make the words come forth.

“No,” he repeated, meeting the demon’s gaze. “I’m not going to do as you ask. I’m not going to be enslaved or turned into a monster because you threaten to hurt the people I care about. That’s a game that never ends. There will always be some terrible thing you want me to do, and there will always be someone I care about.”

With a savage blow, Prusias backhanded Max with his great fist. The impact sent Max careening into a bookshelf. With a horrific, primal howl, Prusias fell upon Max and seized hold of his throat. The demon’s mouth was frothing, his pupils dilated so much they filled his wild eyes to the brim. Trembling, the demon heaved Max off the ground with such force that Max thought his spine would snap. He was slammed against the wall and pinned so that his feet dangled several feet from the floor.

“Mr. Bonn!” Prusias roared. “Remove this thing from my sight before I swallow him whole!”

Max’s throat felt like it was caught in a red-hot clamp, a vise whose screws were tightening by the second. He was already losing consciousness as the malakhim closed upon him, their masks eerily calm and beautiful as they bound his wrists with a slender cord.

When Max regained consciousness, he was steeped in a darkness so black that it was disorienting. He discovered that he was still bound by the same cord, an enchanted fetter that suppressed any instinct for escape or resistance. He felt pain on his neck where the demon had seized him, but Max could not even lift his hands to touch the wound. All he could manage was a slight wriggling, and from these pitiful motions he gathered that he was slumped upon some sort of raised stone bench.

There was no breeze. The air smelled as though he was deep underground, but he could not be certain. He tried to smother the terrifying notion that he was back in the farmhouse well, abandoned within its pitch-black tunnels. Lying silently in the dark, Max felt that he was losing any and all ties to reality.

But drifting as he was, Max became vaguely aware of an irksome clicking. Something was creeping down from some perch or nook above him. Straining his ears, Max heard one cautious step followed by another in an unmistakable clicking of talons on stone.

When Max heard it hiss, he knew what it was: a baka—a leathery, batlike creature that was used to torment captives. Max had seen them before. To know that such a thing was creeping toward him and that he was unable to stop its advance was excruciating.

The creature sniffed and made a peculiar gurgling sound before its talons gripped his shoulders and it deposited its sickening weight upon him. Max slid farther down the wall, his eyes staring ahead into the blackness. Nuzzling its face against his neck, the baka began to whisper, and neither Max’s mind nor his memories remained his to control.

He is in a car. Even half-asleep, Max knows they have turned onto his street. There is a familiar purr to the engine as his father eases off the accelerator and lets the car simply coast. When they turn into the driveway, the suspension gives its customary bounce and Max knows they are home.

He is now awake and alert, but Max keeps his eyes shut and pretends to be asleep. For in a moment, his door will open and he’ll feel his mother’s arms scoot beneath him, cradling his body as she carries him to the house.…

His father is hunched over the dining room table. He’s talking to the policemen, and Max wants to go sit by him, but a pretty policewoman takes him by the hand. She kneels beside him and offers a very uncomfortable smile.

“Max, did your parents ever fight? Did you ever see your dad yell at your mommy? Did you ever see him hit her? …”

The police are gone; the house is quiet. The mail for Bryn McDaniels is stacked in a hopeful pile. There is a knock at the door. His father is doing dishes and asks Max to answer. He peers out the window. A vye stands upon the doorstep holding a suitcase. Max is afraid but cannot help himself. He opens the door.…

Max stands in a creek holding his father’s body. He sees a wound they have not closed. Nigel is kneeling next to him weeping as though his father is already dead, but he is not. If only they can close the wound …

Max felt an ache. The ache was real and it was in his head—his eyes. The pain came from a light. Yet he yearned for the light to come closer—anything to drive away the dark.

Max shut his eyes as water trickled down his throat.

“That’s all I can give you,” said a voice.

A face came slowly into focus. It belonged to Mr. Bonn. The imp appeared grave; his eyes wandered over Max’s face and body as though what he saw disturbed him. The baka remained where it was, but the whispers had stopped.

“Where am I?” Max croaked.

“Prusias’s dungeons,” murmured the imp.

“How long have I been here?” Max croaked.

“Please, master,” murmured the imp. “I’m not allowed to answer any questions; I’m only permitted to ask one. Will you do as Prusias commands and swear everlasting fealty to him? For if you agree to do so, all shall be forgiven and your torment will end this very minute.”

“I won’t,” whispered Max, shaking his head ever so slightly.

Anguish spread across the imp’s face and he glanced over his shoulder.

“Please reconsider,” he begged. “We both know the king’s temper. Such an offer might never come again.”

Max tried to swallow, but he couldn’t. Squinting at the imp, he merely smiled.

“Turn off that light, Mr. Bonn. Can’t you see I was sleeping?”

Mr. Bonn nodded sadly. As the imp departed, so did his light. And just beyond that lantern’s shimmering wake, Max could see the darkness waiting to seep back in like a floodwater to swallow up his world.

And when it did, the whispers returned.

It was impossible to gauge time. Max was familiar with nightmares; he’d experienced many. But these nightmares led one into the other, then looped back around again.

But Max still preferred the baka’s whispers and the nightmares to those brief moments of real or imagined lucidity. During these moments, an amber glow of unknown origin illuminated his prison and allowed him to look upon its corners and the bars that separated him from the vast blackness beyond.

When the amber light faded, there was only the blackness, the baka’s whisper, and the nightmares that followed.

    The night smells of spring, of wet grass and thistle, of possibilities. The great house stands upon the low hill. It is not far off. Max tosses his ball far ahead and runs to catch it like the great Norse wolf that chases the moon, and it’s within his reach and he can snatch it, for this moon has not yet seen his face and it doesn’t know its danger. But something else is waiting, a great wolfhound, and Max is caught like a silly boy without an answer to his name, for the wolfhound yawns, and from its throat comes a question—What are you about? Answer quick, or I’ll gobble you up! And the moon strikes the ground and rolls away to play with him some other time.…

The dream ceased, but nothing replaced it. With anticipatory dread, Max stretched his eyes and gazed about to see if the amber light had returned.

It had not, but something else was coming.

Max could see it through the bars of his cell, drifting toward him in the dark. He couldn’t be certain of anything—whether he was awake or asleep, whether his eyes were open or shut, whether he was alive or dead. But he didn’t worry about such things; he simply marveled that his dream had come true. The moon had fallen to earth, and it had come to play with him.…

The moon grew larger and ever more luminous, rolling toward him until it appeared to hover just outside his cell. There was a pricking at Max’s shoulder, a painful pinch as the baka suddenly tensed and scrambled away. Something had come to replace it.

That something fluttered through the bars, its graceful form silhouetted against the bright, beautiful moon. It landed on the tip of his nose, a gypsy moth whose soft antennae tickled his face. Max stared at it, amazed, until the moon spoke to him in its ancient, honeyed tenor.

“O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.”

The door opened and the moon entered his little cell, and as the bobbing white shape came closer, Max discovered that it was not the moon that had come to play.

It was Astaroth.

The gypsy moth took flight and flew back toward the moon before shimmering back into its true form, the imp, Mr. Sikes.

As Astaroth approached, Max was overwhelmed by the force his presence exerted. Like the moon, Astaroth seemed to exude his own gravitational pull.

While Astaroth’s presence had assumed divine proportions, he still looked the same. There was the same sardonic, genderless beauty stamped upon his luminous white face. His hair was smooth and shining black and streamed past his shoulders while he gazed about the little cell with a look of mild interest. The only thing that had changed was the Demon’s attire, for instead of luminous white, he now wore robes that were of such unyielding black that they seemed woven of the void.

The Demon sighed. “Max,” he chided. “I give you a brand-new world to explore and you end up here? Such a shame. What could you have done to upset Prusias so?”

Max tried to answer but could not. Words failed him.

“Speak,” said Astaroth mildly. “I have missed your voice.”

As though a bulb had been dimmed, the Demon’s aura diminished so that conscious thought and free will returned. Max took several long, slow breaths.

“I won’t serve him,” he whispered. “He wants me to kill Aamon and I won’t.”

“Yes,” said Astaroth, amused. “I’d thought as much. You’re a prideful thing, and Prusias is as impulsive and transparent as a child. He and Aamon have never gotten along. I suppose a war is inevitable.”

“Won’t you stop it?” asked Max.

“Of course not,” Astaroth replied. “These things must play out.”

With a sigh, the Demon sat next to Max upon the stone bench. For several moments, the two merely sat together, like old friends waiting for a bus.

“Why are you here?” asked Max wearily.

“I want to talk about David Menlo,” replied Astaroth. “I want to know what he’s doing.”

“I thought you knew everything,” said Max.

“Oh, not really,” Astaroth chuckled. “I often do, of course, but I have to tip my cap to your young friend. Search as I might, I can never quite find him. He flits just beyond my sight like a hummingbird and plays his little games.”

“What little games?”

Astaroth grinned and leaned a playful shoulder into Max. “That’s what you’re going to tell me,” he whispered. “We both know about his bothersome assaults upon the merchant trade. It’s a clever little diversion—target the ones who will complain the loudest—but we both know that’s not what he’s really doing.”

The Demon looked at him expectantly.

“I don’t know what he’s doing,” said Max. “Even before I left Rowan, David didn’t share much with me. Everything he does is a big secret.”

“Humor me,” said Astaroth. “I want you to tell me everything you know.”

Max refused, to the Demon’s great delight.

“Such pride!” He clapped. “Such stubbornness—no wonder Prusias threw you down here. But I am not Prusias, and you cannot possibly refuse me, little Hound.”

When Astaroth stood, his overwhelming presence had returned and left Max spellbound. The Demon’s indomitable will seized upon Max’s mind like an octopus, prying his memories open and invading every sacred secret. The Demon delighted in every shame, and even though he could have read that mind for himself, Astaroth forced Max to speak David’s secrets aloud.

And while Max wept, Astaroth listened. Max told the Demon of David’s red flowers and how he distilled them into poisons. He divulged how David destroyed the Enemy’s ships through the observatory dome and how he’d tricked Prusias by swapping Connor’s soul. All these things he revealed and more. The betrayal of his friend was so utterly complete, Max would have dashed himself against the walls were it not for the fetters that bound him.

“Shhh,” whispered Astaroth, stroking Max’s hair as though to console him. Gradually, the Demon’s presence diminished so that Max’s mind was his own and he could look upon the Demon’s triumphant, smiling face. “Don’t feel too guilty, my boy. You’ve merely confirmed what I suspected. But I’m curious, Max. Did David ever let you touch one of those red flowers?”

Max merely shook his head, his mind still reeling at all he’d revealed.

“Interesting,” said Astaroth. “Do you know what they’re called? In the Sidh, they’re known as Bláth Mag Balor—‘Balor’s Flowers.’ You know who Balor is, I presume.”

“King of the Fomorians,” said Max. “My great-grandfather.”

Astaroth chuckled. “Yes, indeed,” he said. “Someone’s been researching his family history. Since you know your great-grandfather’s identity, I presume you know who killed him.”

“Lugh the Long-Handed,” Max breathed. “My birth father and Balor’s own grandson.”

“Precisely,” said Astaroth. “And this was no small feat, as Balor was a formidable enemy whose great solitary eye was so poisonous, it killed anything it looked upon.”

“I know the story,” said Max. “Lugh put out the eye with a sling—”

“And Balor fell dead and the blood from his eye seeped into the earth,” Astaroth concluded. “And before Lugh departed this world, he took with him the soil from that place where Balor had fallen. He spread this earth about his gardens at Rodrubân, and soon a red flower grew—Bláth Mag Balor. And from this flower, the wise might concoct a poison so deadly that it is a bane to god and demon alike.”

From his robes, Astaroth produced one of the red flowers. The deadly thing was suspended in a glowing sphere of energy. Even though the flower was seemingly contained, Max recoiled as if it were a scorpion.

“Do you know what’s so infuriating about this little flower?” said the Demon. “The Book of Thoth gives me no power over it. Its origins are in another world, and thus its truename is hidden from me. Now, a clever young Sorcerer might realize this and seek such a thing and spread its seeds about the land as an impediment to my kin. And if this Sorcerer were truly bold and enterprising, he might use such petals to brew a poison of such potency that it could slay every demon on earth … even yours truly.”

Astaroth peered closely at the flower, then glanced at Max with a sly little smile.

“I suspected this possibility. You merely confirmed it for us, eh?”

Max stared dully ahead, saying nothing.

“One good turn deserves another,” Astaroth chuckled. “Shall I tell you the rest of David’s plan? It appears he has neglected to share it with you.” The Demon eased back as if it was story time. “Now that the young Sorcerer has crafted a poison of sufficient potency, he needs to put his charming plot into action. He will have learned that the nobility of the Four Kingdoms are assembling in this very palace on Walpurgisnacht to commemorate Bram’s defeat and the Fall of Solas. And while I have recently kept my whereabouts secret, David will have guessed correctly that this will be the occasion when I will appear and address the aristocracy. And since our mutual friend is unexpectedly bold and exceedingly arrogant, he will choose this moment to strike in the hope of murdering me before my court.…”

The Demon’s ghostly, beautiful face was contemplative as he gazed at the suspended flower. To Max’s surprise, the protective orb surrounding the Blood Petal dissipated, allowing the deadly flower to settle upon Astaroth’s bare skin.

“But we have secrets of our own. Ever since I heard tell of Bláth Mag Balor, I understood that David had discovered a weapon that could actually hurt me. And through painful, patient exertions, I have prepared myself. And so thorough have been my preparations that no quantity, no concentration of this bane can harm me. I am immune.”

With a shrug, the Demon tossed the flower into his mouth as though it were a dandelion. While Astaroth chewed thoughtfully upon it, Mr. Sikes cleared his throat.

“Something troubles you, my dear?” said Astaroth, turning to him.

“My lord knows best,” said the imp, “but is it prudent to share all our secrets? ‘Pride goeth before destruction,’ and so forth.…”

“Well said, Mr. Sikes,” said Astaroth dreamily. “As always, you temper play with wisdom. But you must indulge your master, for we are approaching a beautiful moment. Can you envision the instant when David realizes his folly? It will be sublime. And poor Max now knows the very date of his friend’s destruction, but can do nothing to save him from the trap. I fancy that is a greater torment than even a baka’s whispers.…”

Rising from his seat, Astaroth gazed down upon Max’s slumped, defeated form with a sympathetic grimace.

“Don’t think me heartless,” said the Demon. “Part of me will regret devouring David. I will miss his earnest little schemes.”

Astaroth bid Max farewell but stopped just short of the door.

“I almost forgot,” confessed the Demon. Turning, Astaroth raised a white hand and made a motion as though giving a modified benediction. “Until Walpurgisnacht has passed, you are forbidden to divulge any aspect of this visit or our conversation. You are forbidden to take any action whatsoever that might interfere with David Menlo’s scheme.”

The door closed and the Demon departed.

Again Max was steeped in an utter void of blackness. He wished the passive fetters would dull his mind or that the baka would creep back down to settle on his shoulders and begin its whispers anew. But neither happened, and thus for long hours Max was left to brood upon his betrayal of David and the doom that awaited him.