~28~
WALPURGISNACHT
As the sunlight died away, so, too, did the organ music. Instead, a single belyaël started to play a hauntingly beautiful tune. The nobles turned and faced the central aisle as the four monarchs entered and walked down the nave.
The first was Rashaverak, the King of Jakarün. He must have been twelve feet tall and was dressed in robes of golden silk that were at odds with his head, which was that of a baleful red wolf. He wore an iron crown, and every demon bowed as he passed.
Next was Lilith, the demon queen of Zenuvia. She appeared wholly human, a beautiful woman with waves of shining black hair and a chillingly beatific face. The queen wore robes of deepest green and was attended by a pair of elegant kitsune who stood behind her as she took her seat in the front pew.
As Aamon made his eerie, drifting progress down the nave, Max scanned the seats for Vyndra. He found him in Prusias’s section of nobles, a fearsome, tigerlike rakshasa dressed in black armor. Max was surprised Prusias would allow his disloyal duke to sit among his devotees; almost everyone knew that Vyndra was in league with Aamon.
But Max did not particularly care about Vyndra’s politics: The demon had murdered Max’s father in cold blood. And he was standing a mere thirty or forty yards away.…
Max tore his attention away only when Prusias approached. If the many traitors and thieves among his delegation bothered the King of Blys, he certainly did not show it. Prusias positively beamed at the demons on either side of him. He looked splendid in his black mail and purple robes, and he was leaning upon his prodigiously powerful cane—a cane that David believed held a page or two from the Book of Thoth.
But as Prusias made his way down the aisle, Max saw he was escorting someone half his size. His guest was a middle-aged human, a woman who wore a jester’s costume and who gaped uncomprehendingly about her surroundings.
The woman was David’s mother.
And seeing her pitiful, trusting face, Max was almost grateful, because the appalling sight of the demon pretending to fawn over this helpless woman was so infuriating that Max momentarily forgot Vyndra.
He would slay Prusias first.
When things took an ugly turn—and Max had no doubt that they would—he would seek to strike down the King of Blys before he was ultimately overcome. It was the least he could do to that incomparably cruel, grinning figure standing in the front pew, flanked by his malakhim.
Throughout this spectacle, the nobles had stood patiently, and the lone musician continued to play her eerie, hypnotic tune. Max glanced at Toby; if the smee was nervous, he was doing a marvelous job of hiding it. He sat in plain sight, Cambrylla’s scabrous hands holding the golden chalice that she would offer to Astaroth.
The belyaël’s final note trailed away. A thousand demons promptly stood and turned to face the cathedral’s entrance.
The Demon had arrived.
Max knew this before Astaroth had even entered the cathedral, and it had nothing to do with the music or the frightened, attentive expression on every face. It had everything to do with the brilliant white light that was streaming through the open doors and the rose window, growing ever brighter as the Demon approached.
When Astaroth stepped within, Max’s heart almost froze once again. There was that overwhelming presence, that clamp upon the will that compelled utter obedience. The Demon wore robes of simple white, but it seemed as though every atom of the Demon’s form and vestments radiated light. The silly dream from Max’s imprisonment flashed in his mind. And the moon strikes the ground and rolls away to play with him some other time.…
That other time had come, for as Astaroth approached the altar, he was greater than the moon. He was indeed Lucifer, “the light bearer.” The Demon’s unveiled presence was so blindingly beautiful and terrible that many demons simply bowed their heads and refused to look directly upon him.
The Demon carried no staff or scepter or even the viper-rod that he often bore as a token of office. The only object he carried was the Book of Thoth. Almost everything about the Demon was white and gold and luminous. The two exceptions were his shining black hair and his dead-black eyes. It was the eyes—those ancient, knowing slits—that had so terrified Max when he’d seen them staring at him from the Rembrandt painting years before. The Demon’s eyes had smiled at Max down within Marley Augur’s crypt. And those eyes had smiled when Max surrendered the Book.
And they were smiling at Max now.
It was unmistakable—Astaroth was staring right at Max as he walked down the nave. Max would have trembled, would have fainted where he stood, were it not for the Demon’s irresistible will, which dominated him and held him rigid. Within his head, Max heard Astaroth’s voice speaking to him. Its familiar tones were soft and sibilant and eternally playful.
“So here we are,” whispered the Demon. “I’m so happy you’re here. Prusias was enraged over your escape, but I’m flattered that you would take such pains to attend another of my beautiful moments. For you enabled my release from bondage, and you surrendered this precious Book unto me, and now you shall bear witness as I consume your friend and consecrate my rule over this earth. You bring me good fortune, Max McDaniels!”
Astaroth’s voice was so clear that he might have been whispering directly in Max’s ear. But the Demon’s lips never moved; indeed, his face remained composed and somber. The smile was in the eyes alone.
“But poor little David,” observed the Demon. “He can hardly stand! Without me to prop him up, he should have collapsed long ago. How he trembles! How he shakes on those absurd little boots. He is such a little lamb, as I told him at our first meeting. If his essence did not contribute so wonderfully to my own, I would keep him as a pet.…”
Astaroth was now climbing the shallow steps toward them. His eyes briefly flicked from Max’s to his officiate.
“A smee!” chuckled the Demon in Max’s head. “You thought to deceive me with a smee … I’m sorry you think so little of me.”
The Demon had reached the top step and was standing before them, blindingly bright.
“Now, Max, I must say a few words to my flock in our own tongue. But never you worry, my love. I shall provide you with a translator.”
And as the Demon said this, a gypsy moth flew from the folds of his robe and landed upon Max’s shoulder. It was Mr. Sikes, the only servant Astaroth trusted. In his moth form, the imp quickly scuttled inside Max’s cowl. Max’s instinct was to swat the wretched creature, but his mind and body were not his own. And thus he was forced to watch in a state of silent anguish while the imp’s urbane sardonic voice whispered in his ear.
Astaroth bowed to Cambrylla and then turned to face the multitudes. The Demon’s voice filled the cathedral as he spoke in the language of the demons.
“My children, welcome to the Halls of Blys, and many thanks to our host, King Prusias. On Walpurgisnacht, we celebrate a sacred evening and commemorate the great moments of our past.…”
There was a hissing murmur of assent from the demons.
“For it was on Walpurgisnacht that we did destroy mankind’s last great school of magic. On Walpurgisnacht, many of you joined with me to snuff out those humans that would make us serve their vanity. For on this night did Solas fall!”
A great roar from the demons, until Astaroth raised his hand for quiet.
“And on that very night, did we not unite against the one who had been moving against us? And did I not catch him at last and consume him body and soul? Upon this very night, Elias Bram did fall!”
A deafening roar, a chorus of cries shook the very cathedral.
“And on this night, this holy night, I return to stand before you,” said Astaroth smoothly. “For I know there are some here who have doubted me.…”
All mirth died away. The cathedral became so still that Max could hear his own heartbeat. The imp’s antennae scratched against his mask as Mr. Sikes continued to translate. Astaroth’s presence before the assembled host became so great, so tangibly powerful, that many demons trembled and hid their faces.
“It is true,” he continued. “It grieves me to know that there are doubters. It grieves me that some have the audacity to whisper that the Great God has not returned but has fled with his Book to drift among the cosmos and contemplate the far places. It grieves me that some would ignore my edicts and question my judgments.”
Within the first pew, Prusias fidgeted and glanced away. The movement was not lost upon Astaroth, who smiled benevolently at him.
“But I am not a god of judgment,” said Astaroth. “I am a god of mercy; I am a god of wisdom; I am a god of truth. For as you sought to deceive me, you have been yourselves deceived.…”
And turning, the Demon stared at his false officiate.
Beneath that awful gaze, Cambrylla wilted like a scorched flower. Dropping the chalice, she crumpled to the ground, her limbs shrinking into her robes as smoke rose in little curls. There was a popping sound and a putrid odor as her pustules contracted and burst open. If Max could have looked away, he would have. Astaroth walked somberly to the pile of scarlet silk and thrust his hand within it.
Fishing out the smee, he held Toby aloft by one end of his yamlike body.
“You have the boldness to doubt me and yet you are deceived by this,” Astaroth observed wryly. “You permitted a wretched smee to desecrate this holy night and serve as a false officiate! Instead of celebrating our triumphs, you would have witnessed my assassination.”
Astaroth shook his head, as though the statement shocked even him.
“For if I was not the Great God, that is surely what would have happened,” he declared. “Had I depended on your vigilance or wisdom, I would have been murdered this very night. And it amuses me to see so many of you fools wondering, ‘How could this be?’ I shall show you.…”
The Demon flung Toby dismissively over his shoulder. The helpless smee landed on the altar and curled up like a salted slug. Turning toward David, Astaroth raised his hand like a puppeteer.
David’s body was wrenched violently off his feet as though jerked by invisible wires. His mask cracked and fell to the ground and shattered. Astaroth allowed David to move just enough so that the little Sorcerer appeared to struggle, his legs kicking weakly as he was twirled about in the air.
A cry sounded from the audience. Mrs. Menlo had recognized her son and was staring up at him, her mouth agape. One of the malakhim restrained her as she tried to come forward.
“My children,” said Astaroth, “this is David Menlo. Some here know of him as Rowan’s Sorcerer—he may have even summoned some of you. Others curse him as the plunderer of their fleets. But few know that he is a gardener and a rather gifted alchemist. For it is this impudent boy who has been spreading those pestilential Blood Petals about your lands. But despite his impudence, I must salute him. He not only had the wit to deceive you all, but he also possessed the craft to develop something truly perilous.…”
And at Astaroth’s playful gesture, David’s robes were torn from his suspended body. He hung in the air wearing his ragged sweater and old trousers—the spectacle compounded by his ridiculous stilts.
“Oh, I wouldn’t laugh,” said Astaroth, silencing his leering audience. “Years ago, I consumed young David’s hand. And while he has not fashioned a terribly inspired replacement, I would direct your attention to the red vials about its wrist. For those vials contain a concoction so dangerous that even a sip would slay the mightiest among you.”
Max hoped it would be over soon. He stood absolutely rigid while Mr. Sikes whispered in his ear. David looked so small and so frightened as he hovered limp and helpless above the Demon. Astaroth regarded him as though he were a lecture exhibit.
“But still I am plagued with skeptics,” he said with a rueful smile. “I reveal infiltrators in your midst and save you from mortal peril and yet some still retain the temerity to doubt. Very well, I will show you.…”
Standing tall, the Demon surveyed the vast cathedral until his eyes fell upon a massive, winged shape that sat brooding in an alcove.
“Ah, the great Mad’raast,” exclaimed Astaroth, offering a civil bow. “Come forward, Duke of Lebrim and sentry of the gates, for I have a great honor to bestow upon you.”
The fear and anticipation among the demons was palpable as the huge, dark shape slipped from its perch and advanced warily up the nave. Astaroth beckoned playfully at the gargantuan demon as he paused at the final pews.
“Don’t be frightened,” Astaroth purred. “For I have promised to bestow a great honor upon you, and my word is my bond. For you have failed Prusias, who put his faith in you. It was your responsibility to serve your fellow nobles with vigilance, but you chose instead to serve your greed.”
The great demon bowed his horned head and kneeled, his leathery wings folded about him in an attitude of penance.
“You are very good to admit your shame,” said Astaroth gently. “I was almost moved to anger, but now see that you are worthy of this honor.”
“And what is my honor, Great God?” asked Mad’raast in his deep hiss.
“You shall demonstrate just how dangerous this little Sorcerer is,” replied Astaroth. “And by your sacrifice, you shall atone for your greed and offer my flock a gift of wisdom.”
The huge, winged demon hesitated, his head still bowed low. “My lord, perhaps there is another—”
“Mad’raast,” said Astaroth coldly. “Am I to understand that you are questioning the honor I would grant you? Are you determined to spoil the beautiful death I would bestow despite your failings?”
The demon shook his head gravely and stood to his full, massive height. And at Astaroth’s command, David’s body jerked and spiraled through the air. His limbs shaking under Astaroth’s command, David removed one of the vials and placed it upon Mad’raast’s open palm. Bowing low to the Great God, Mad’raast turned and faced his watchful peers.
With a monstrous, defiant cry, the demon swallowed the entire vial.
Its potency was instantly apparent.
Mad’raast’s cry suddenly curdled into a hideous, frantic scream. White-hot flames burst from his throat and chest and stomach, sweeping over his body like an inferno. Within seconds, the gargantuan demon had been reduced to a smoldering heap of ashes.
Every demon, every noble looked on in stupefied silence. Glancing at Prusias, Max saw the king leaning forward and staring hard at the remaining vials—ever the opportunist. Astaroth, however, had descended to the mound of fluttering ashes and scooped up a handful.
“Farewell, Mad’raast,” said Astaroth, letting the remains sift through his long, sharp-nailed fingers. “We thank you for your gift and can only hope King Prusias will have the wisdom to replace you with someone more attentive.”
Ascending to the altar again, the Demon turned and faced his audience.
“You should be grateful to Mad’raast for the lesson he has taught you. For you need me, my children. You have already permitted a Sorcerer to infiltrate your midst, but he is not the only assassin within these walls. For this kingdom’s very own champion has returned to exact a vengeance of his own. Look well, Vyndra and Prusias and all my beautiful nobles, for a Red Death has come to claim you.”
Mr. Sikes took to the air, fluttering his tiny wings, as Max’s robes fell away, along with the mask of the malakhim. Hisses and whispers ran like tremors through the crowd. Max’s face was known to the many Blyssian nobles who believed that he had died in the arena. Mr. Sikes settled once more upon Max’s shoulder, his sly voice curling like smoke in Max’s ear.
“Yes,” said Astaroth. “This is Max McDaniels, the very Hound of Rowan whom you thought dead. But Prusias deceived you, my children. For this is not just Max McDaniels, but the very Red Death whom you cheered. The Bragha Rùn whom you believed to be one of us …”
Max stood motionless under the collective stare of a thousand demons. Prusias could not help himself; he was staring at Max like a wild animal, a terrible smile on his dark, savage features.
“This is my captive, Great God!” cried the King of Blys. “Return him to my keeping. I will assure you and all the nobles that he will never raise a hand against our kind.”
“My Prusias,” said Astaroth gently, “I do not think the nobles would trust such a dangerous one to your care—particularly as you sought to deceive them. I imagine it is obvious to all that you intended to keep the Hound as a very lethal pet. No, I do not think the others would approve if I relinquished him to you.”
“My Lord—”
“Be still, Prusias.”
Max required no translator to hear the edge in Astaroth’s voice. Prusias sat back as though he’d been struck a blow. The king obediently bowed and averted his eyes.
“And so,” said the Demon, “this shall be a Walpurgisnacht you shall never forget. For not only have I returned, but I have also shown you the error of your ways, as a good parent should. To consecrate this night, I shall raise a toast to you, my children, and our noble history. While I claim the Sorcerer for myself, I deliver the Hound unto you as my gift. His essence shall forever remind you of this night, when the Great God returned and all doubts were put aside.…”
Lowering David slowly, the Demon turned and gazed upon the little Sorcerer with an expression of surprising tenderness.
Mr. Sikes took the opportunity to whisper a message of his own. “Upon the altar you shall go,” whispered the imp. “Bound and helpless for all to feast. My lord has promised me the first bite—just enough for me to attain koukerros. I shall try not to be greedy, but the others will simply have to wait their turn.”
It took all of Max’s resolve to move his head against Astaroth’s wishes. He moved less than an inch, but it was enough to glimpse the moth upon his shoulder. The rage and fury within Max was surging to frightening levels; the Old Magic howled within him but was held captive by the indomitable will of Astaroth. Several of the demons were pointing at him; his aura must have been growing, changing into something monstrous.
“Temper, temper,” chided Mr. Sikes.
When David had nearly reached the cathedral floor, the Demon strode to the empty scarlet robes of the officiate and plucked up the golden goblet. David was hovering several inches off the ground; his entire body was limp as if his consciousness—and, indeed, his life—was swiftly departing.
“It’s almost over, little one,” said Astaroth. “But not quite yet. For you have taken great pains to poison my cup, and I would not deprive you of the opportunity. Fill this goblet so I may make my toast.”
When the demons realized that Astaroth actually intended to drink David’s poison, the cathedral became utterly silent. Max could hardly bear to gaze at his friend as Astaroth forced David’s trembling hand to pour vial after vial of the crimson liquid into the goblet. And when this was done, the Demon bowed in mocking gratitude and turned to raise the goblet aloft.
“Behold!” he cried. “The Great God has returned!”
Tipping back his head, Astaroth drained the goblet’s contents and grinned with a wild, savage triumph. No flames consumed his body, and the demons roared his name in adulation. Calmly placing the goblet upon the altar, Astaroth clutched the Book of Thoth to his chest. He raised a hand for quiet, and the cathedral fell into obedient silence.
Cupping David’s chin, Astaroth raised his head so that the boy could look him in the eye. “Walpurgisnacht has officially commenced, little Sorcerer. Do you have any last words before I consume you?”
David nodded wearily.
“Let’s hear them, my love.”
“Checkmate.”
David spoke in English, and his single word had been perfectly audible in the silent cathedral.
Astaroth blinked. His smile faded, and he made a derisive laugh. “And what is that supposed to—”
With a drunken lurch, Astaroth staggered against the altar. His audience merely stared, unsure of what was happening. Max could hear the demon gasping. The spell holding David up was broken, and the boy collapsed to the floor.
What was happening to Astaroth was not nearly as dramatic as the flames that had consumed Mad’raast, but the demon did appear to be burning. A pearly, vaporous essence was issuing from him, rising like smoke as Astaroth succumbed to a sort of seizure.
“NO!” he cried, clawing frantically at his chest.
The exclamation was not one of pain, but of complete and utter shock. It was a cry of humiliation—for the Demon had been tricked before his entire court. Several nobles rose and approached, creeping cautiously up the steps. Prusias was among them, his expression a strange mixture of fear and delight. He glanced absently at David’s motionless body and prodded it aside with his boot.
Astaroth gasped something to Prusias, some plea for aid. But the King of Blys did not pay his Great God any heed.
His eyes were on the Book.
And he was not alone.
The mood in the cathedral had turned; adulation had been replaced by something predatory.
Rashaverak was the first to reach for the Book, a probing swipe.
Astaroth shouted something at the demons in their own language, but more were coming close—to survey and perhaps to seize upon a very great and unexpected opportunity.
Astaroth clutched the precious relic tighter, shouting at the demons in their own language. But it was in vain. More were venturing near—circling like sharks. And as they approached, Astaroth continued to gasp and writhe within the clinging cloud of pearly mist.
Snarling, Rashaverak made a bolder grab. Sweeping up his cane, Prusias cracked it down upon the wolfen snout, staggering the King of Jakarün and thrusting him aside. Prusias slipped closer to Astaroth, his mad eyes fixed on the golden book.
Boom!
The cathedral’s windows shattered as Astaroth flung them all back with some terrible spell. Not a demon lay within fifty feet; even the monarchs had been dashed against the toppled pews and shattered statues.
Moaning, Astaroth clutched the Book closer. The Demon glared down at David with a feral, murderous rage. But there was fear, too. Max saw it spreading like a stain upon the Demon’s face.
Looking past him, Max knew Astaroth had good reason to be afraid. The demons were rising once again. Prusias was already walking toward them, his face aglow and utterly insane.
“How the mighty have fallen!” he exclaimed, punctuating each step with his cane. “Has the ‘Great God’ been deceived?”
He laughed. The rest of the demons said nothing, but closed behind him in an anxious, watchful mob. Astaroth swatted weakly at the mist puffing steadily from his body.
“Stand down, Prusias,” he gasped. “I command you.”
“I will not,” replied the grinning king, arriving at the steps.
“Protect me!”
Max was powerless to resist. Commanded by the Demon’s will, Max stepped in front of Astaroth and David. Prusias came to a halt upon the steps and stared with amused, malicious glee.
“You should have stayed in my dungeons, Max,” he reflected.
Max drew the gae bolga from its sheath.
Prusias glanced at the weapon, bemused. “So, you’ve brought a knife to this little party?” he remarked, licking his lips. “Good for you, lad. But I brought something too.…”
Even as he spoke these words, the King of Blys began to grow. The smile never left Prusias’s face as the demon transformed grotesquely into something Max had dreaded ever since he’d glimpsed its shadow.
Behold, a great red dragon!
And gazing up, Max looked upon Prusias in his true form. And that form was of a scarlet serpent that stretched the length of the cathedral. The other demons backed hurriedly away as Prusias’s massive coils lashed from side to side, sweeping pews and peers aside. But despite the body’s monstrous size and violence, Max was transfixed by its heads.
There were now seven of them, seven human heads set atop sinuous necks that had sprouted from the serpent’s body. Each was horned and crowned, and bore the familiar, gnashing face of Prusias. One rose higher than all the rest. When it roared, the cathedral trembled.
Max was trembling, too. The gae bolga felt alive in his hand, almost straining in its eagerness for battle. Only Astaroth’s will prevented Max from lashing out.
A breathless tension filled the cathedral.
Then Prusias attacked.
The spell binding Max’s body was broken. All of the energy and rage and fear that had been cresting in him were released. When the dragon struck, the gae bolga flashed like fire as Max slashed it across the demon’s throat.
Prusias recoiled frantically from the blow, his face white with shock as blood streamed from the gaping wound. With a great heave, Prusias wrenched his scaly bulk away from the altar and Max. His other heads howled with fury, lashing about and snapping blindly. But the injured head stared, appalled at the hideous weapon in Max’s hand.
For the gae bolga was screaming now.
It shook in Max’s hand, the blade keening like women at a wake. It was a sound to freeze the blood. Many demons backed away, pressing against the outer walls as they sought refuge not only from Prusias, but the weapon that had wounded him.
But not all of the demons were cowards.
With cries and howls, hundreds of them joined the battle. While some stormed toward Astaroth, others from Aamon’s and Lilith’s camps fell upon Prusias. In a heartbeat, secret factions and alliances were revealed as the cathedral was transformed into a battlefield.
Max leaped forward to meet them, the gae bolga shrieking as it cleaved through armor, bone, and spirit with frightful ease. The energies surging through Max were enormous. He became ever wilder, until even Astaroth’s voice and commands had faded. Soon there was only the hall and his enemies … and Vyndra.
He found the rakshasa in the midst of the fray, battling several of the malakhim. The demon evidently heard Max scream his name. With brutal efficiency, Vyndra clove his attackers in two and whirled to meet Max.
Slipping under the arc of Max’s swing, the demon caught him by the throat and slammed him against a pillar. Flames were coursing about the demon’s body, searing Max as the two struggled. The demon was much too strong at such close quarters. A frightful blow from a curving saber dazed Max and he barely escaped decapitation. The blade bit into the pillar just above Max’s head, sinking deep into the stone. Snarling, the demon held Max at arm’s length while he strained to free the blade.
He needn’t have bothered.
Prusias’s tail shattered the massive stonework like match-sticks. Its force sent Max and Vyndra sprawling as the King of Blys wheeled about and bore down upon them.
In a blink, Vyndra had transformed, becoming a column of living flame that streaked away toward the rafters. But Max had no such tricks up his sleeves. Backing frantically away, he found himself face to face with the King of Blys.
The demon’s eyes were blank, unseeing. The Prusias Max had known was gone, his persona given wholly to the monster whose snapping jaws drove Max back toward the altar. It had already devoured dozens of its kind, and its beards were soaked with blood that dripped and hissed upon the marble floor.
One of the heads darted forward, baring its yellow fangs. Max slashed, catching it across its nose. Black blood spurted as it withdrew, but the others converged in a wild snapping and snarling. Max tripped over a fallen musician, rolling away just as Prusias’s body surged forward to crush other demons nearby.
Just as Max scrambled to his feet, an arrow struck him in the shoulder.
The impact was like a gunshot, knocking him backward and nearly buckling his knees. Instinctively, he glanced up to glimpse Vyndra as he loosed another arrow from the safety of a balcony far above.
The second arrow struck mere inches from the first and knocked Max flat. Only a desperate parry deflected the next, as Vyndra now took his time, aiming with deliberation. Crying out, Max stabbed the gae bolga into Prusias as a rippling coil threatened to crush him. With a roar, the King of Blys slid away before suddenly doubling back to renew his attack. As he heaved and coiled his body, its bulk momentarily sheltered Max from Vyndra’s line of fire. Gritting his teeth, Max wrenched the arrows from his shoulder.
Max’s breath came in painful gasps as he flung the arrows away. Prusias’s great, bleeding head plunged down at him. This time, he would not be able to evade it. Every hideous detail was visible, from the slavering jaws to the demon’s cane embedded within its iron crown.
But just as Prusias was about to seize Max, Vyndra shot another arrow. Instead of striking Max, the deadly shaft pierced Prusias’s eye. Bellowing, Prusias whipped about to strike at his assailant.
As the head veered away, Max saw his chance.
Seizing hold of Prusias’s tangled beard, Max held tight as the massive head rose high into the air. Below him, Max saw the battle playing out in miniature, the cathedral floor littered with the fallen and those who fed upon them. Holding his ground, Vyndra nocked another arrow.
The demon loosed it just as Prusias annihilated the balcony. The arrow went astray, whistling past Max, who let go of Prusias’s beard to seize hold of Vyndra.
He caught the rakshasa about the waist, plunging the gae bolga into him. As the pair plummeted down, Vyndra roared with pain and scrabbled wildly to tear the weapon from Max’s hand. The blade wailed as it pierced Vyndra’s armor and clove the ancient essence beneath.
Frantic, the rakshasa sought escape. Again, his form became one of smoke and flame as it streaked toward one of the shattered windows. But Max would not let go, clutching the searing shape as though it were a runaway comet.
And as the giant promised, the blade of the Morrígan made no distinction between mortal or immortal, flesh or spirit. It craved them all.
Whether the final scream came from Vyndra or the keening sword, Max could not tell. It did not matter. In a final, fiery burst, Vyndra’s essence died and an inconceivable surge of energy flooded into Max.
With an earsplitting howl, Max sprang to the cathedral floor. His body was electric. Astaroth’s hold was utterly shattered, consumed by the Old Magic in his blood and the weapon in his hand.
Scathach’s words had come true. “You are the child of Lugh Lamfhada. You are the sun and the storm and master of all the feats I have to teach. You are these things because you must be.…”
As these words flashed in his mind, a light burst forth from him and he shone brighter than the noonday sun. Max was dimly aware of weapons striking out at him, of fearsome spells, of shrieks and pleas. But they were all for naught. He was invincible; he was the wildest demon in Blys.
The gae bolga inflicted terrible damage upon those within its reach, its keening reaching a frantic pitch. So swift was Max’s assault and so terrifying his aspect that all took flight before him. He heard glass breaking, stone shattering, and the shrieking of fell spirits as he stormed through the hall.
But it was a single word, spoken telepathically, that finally got his attention.
“Max.”
The voice was David’s.
Whirling around, Max saw David slumped near the altar. Astaroth lay nearby, still clutching the Book and struggling weakly against the swirling luminescent mist.
David repeated Max’s name in the same calm, plaintive tone. It was not unlike Cooper’s whispering of his name when the Agent had rescued Max in Prusias’s dungeon. But David was not rescuing Max from a cell.
He was rescuing him from the Morrígan.
He was rescuing him from himself.
Max had taken an oath to protect David, and he had nearly forgotten it. Prusias loomed very near to David now, the great wyrm coiling about the cathedral’s apse and altar so that David and Astaroth were almost obscured. Even in his wild state, Max realized that Prusias had cut off their escape.
“Max, I need you.…”
Max rushed back to the altar, demons fleeing before him. Dashing past the bodies littering the steps, Max finally reached his friend.
David was dying.
The little Sorcerer was lying upon the topmost step, his presence almost overlooked in the pandemonium that had erupted.
He beckoned Max closer. “Get my mother. It’s almost time.…”
“Where is she?”
David gestured weakly toward a pair of overturned pews. Hurrying over, Max found Mrs. Menlo lying unconscious in the hollow between them. His eyes ever watchful for Prusias, Max dragged her out and slung her over his shoulder.
Running back to the altar, Max saw that the mist above Astaroth was growing brighter, its nimbus coalescing into distinct shapes. Laying Mrs. Menlo next to her son, Max leaped back just as one of Prusias’s heads snaked forward to seize him. Its teeth gnashed, just missing as Max dealt three swift blows across its chin. The dragon howled with pain and dashed his head against the wall, bringing huge blocks of masonry crashing down about them.
Shielding the Menlos with his body, Max suddenly spied the smee upon the altar. Toby had curled himself into a ball no larger than a grapefruit. Snatching him with his injured arm, Max stuffed the smee inside his shirt, just as the nearby struggle intensified.
“Get away from me!”
The frantic command came from Astaroth. The Demon lay ten feet away, his back propped against the altar. He was besieged, straining against the enveloping mist, whose tendrils plucked at the Book of Thoth. As Max watched, Astaroth’s hand was pried momentarily away and the golden cover was opened.…
Max glanced up to see a piece of masonry crashing toward them. Blocking his friends, he deflected it, but a corner still struck him a terrible blow on the head. Staggering, his knees suddenly buckled, and he slumped next to David.
As blood trickled into his eyes, Max glimpsed the Demon as he wrenched the Book of Thoth firmly back into his possession. For a moment, Astaroth’s face turned toward him, beautiful and angelic and utterly suffused with hate.
There was a blinding flash of white light, and Max lost consciousness.…
He had not imagined death would be quite like this.
It was cold and wet and soothed him with lapping waves that washed over his toes and legs and reached up to his fingertips. And it was quiet and peaceful, a soft symphony of crashing waves and distant gulls.
And it was delightfully blubbery.
As Max moved his head, he felt a pillow of sleek fur.
Something cool touched Max’s face, and he opened his eyes to see David.
The little Sorcerer was smiling down at him.
Max had never seen a picture that captured an expression such as David’s. His friend’s pale eyes were alight with a quiet radiance, a serenity that exceeded mere happiness. It was an expression of joy, of victory achieved through weary toil and bitter sacrifice.
“Can you hear me?” he asked quietly.
Max nodded, but his head ached terribly.
David urged him to lie still. Max noticed that his friend’s deathly appearance seemed to have washed away, and he resembled his old self. Above, the sky was a placid pink, the stars growing faint with the coming dawn.
Twitching his fingers, Max found that he was still clutching the gae bolga. He glanced nervously at it, but the blade had gone still and silent. Shifting his weight, he felt the furry headrest ripple beneath him.
“What is this?” he muttered, half turning.
“It’s me, you heroic thing,” responded Toby. “You cracked your head and needed a pillow, and I can’t think of anything more supportive and comforting than a selkie. It’s the least I can do after you saved me. Forgive my earlier comments—it would seem you are an old hand at storming a palace full of demons.” The selkie’s body rippled with laughter.
Max grimaced at the sudden movement. “What happened, David?” he said, dazed. “How did you …?”
“Oh, the Fomorian was wrong about me,” said David. “I really am a clever fool.…”
“I don’t understand.”
“A wise man would have failed this task,” David explained. “Astaroth would have destroyed him. Only a clever fool could bait him into drinking that goblet.”
“But he knew!” exclaimed Max, half sitting up. He found that he was finally able to share his betrayal. Astaroth’s spell was broken. “David, I told him what would be in that goblet. He made me tell him all about the flowers and your potions.…”
“Put your guilt aside,” said David. “There was nothing you could have done. And I knew such a thing would occur. In fact, I depended on it. You poisoned Astaroth just as much as I did.”
David gently pushed Max back down.
“And you weren’t alone,” David continued. “I planted information with lots of people and creatures and even demons, hoping that it would eventually trickle to Astaroth. I wanted him to peek at my cards.”
“Why?” asked Max.
David shrugged. “That was the only way I could win. Even before Astaroth had the Book, I was never a match for him. I don’t have a fraction of his magic. To confront him directly would have been suicide. So I had to fool him—I had to trick him into helping me.
“I provided him with an irresistible opportunity,” David continued. “On his holiest day, the ‘Great God’ could make a grand entrance, destroy his enemies, and demonstrate his superiority to all assembled. Such a prospect would be very appealing to someone like Astaroth. But we could never have infiltrated Walpurgisnacht and gotten close to him unless he had enabled it. He complied because he thought we were hapless fools. He thought that he was setting the trap.”
Max recalled his conversation with Cooper in the Agent’s room, their talk of sharps and flats and confidence games.
“I can’t believe it,” he murmured. “You conned him.”
“I’m afraid I did,” said David.
“Amazing,” observed Max dazedly. “And I’m never playing cards with you again.”
David smiled.
“It is undoubtedly the greatest confidence game I’ve ever heard of,” remarked Toby, his voice aglow with admiration. “The opponent! The stakes! The daring! Why, I’m in doubt whether the exalted grand master of smees could have managed such a thing. Hats off to you, dear boy. What an achievement!”
Max frowned at this. “But, David, what have we achieved?”
“Well,” said David thoughtfully, “you have avenged your father, and we have struck the Enemy a very powerful blow—one that has sown strife across the four kingdoms.”
“But we didn’t destroy Astaroth,” observed Max. “And he still has the Book.”
“Both true,” David allowed.
“Then the mission failed,” said Max heavily.
David smiled and shook his head. “This was a rescue mission, Max. And it succeeded.”
Confused, Max said nothing but lay still and watched the sky brightening above him. It was true that they had rescued Mrs. Menlo, but why had David waited until Walpurgisnacht? The gambit seemed needlessly dangerous. It was a lot for Max to process even without his many wounds.
“How is she?” Max murmured.
“My mother?” asked David. “Somewhat bruised and frightened, but she’s fine now. I’ve never seen her happier.”
Max smiled, but his emotions were jumbled. His thoughts drifted to Vyndra and the dreams of vengeance that had consumed him. The demon was slain, but the fact offered little solace. Vyndra’s death would not bring back Scott McDaniels. As Max pondered these things, David sat patiently beside him, seemingly content to let his friend’s mind catch up to all that had happened.
Max recalled the strange mist that had poured from Astaroth once he’d consumed the potions. “David,” he murmured. “What was in that goblet?”
“Four vials of Blood Petals,” he replied. “And a clever little key.”
“What?”
“A key,” David repeated. “The fifth vial looked and smelled like the others, but it was an entirely different kind of potion—one that was much more difficult to make. It allowed the prisoner to free himself.”
What prisoner? Had they rescued someone other than Mrs. Menlo?
Max was still baffled and groggy, but snippets of memories and events and past conversations formed a clearer picture in his mind. An unmistakable chill ran down his spine. He did not know whether to be elated or terrified.
“David,” he whispered, more and more memories flooding back. “How did we escape? Did you bring us here?”
David shook his head. Helping Max to his feet, David pointed to a figure standing in the gray-green swells.
“He did.”
Only now did Max realize they were on the beach at Rowan. The man in the water was staring out at Brigit’s Vigil, whose silhouette stood against the sunrise. He was a large man with a wild mane of steel-gray hair and a thick beard that had always reminded Max of Poseidon.
The man glanced back at David’s mother, who stood watching from shore. Wading slowly back to the beach, the man approached and took her hands while she gazed up at him with childlike adoration. His expression stern, he removed the jester headdress and let it drop to the sand.
“Do they know each other?” asked Max.
David cleared his throat. “She’s his daughter.”
Max tried unsuccessfully to master his shock. “So, he’s your—!”
David motioned for quiet. The man was now staring at them. It was a hard appraisal—the guarded look of a wild animal that had just become aware of another’s presence.
“Don’t speak,” whispered David. “He’s still adjusting.”
Nearly a minute passed before the man’s attention drifted toward the chalky cliffs that led to Rowan’s campus. Smoothing his daughter’s hair, the man took her hand and made for the stairs.
Toby transformed to his native shape and Max scooped him up so the trio could follow. They climbed the steps as the sun peeped over the horizon, turning Rowan’s cliffs to gold.
Max felt a rush of joy at seeing Maggie and Old Tom and the ivy-covered Manse. Ahead of them, the man paused to glance at one of the marble statues before he strolled on, studying every detail of Rowan’s quiet campus.
It was only when he had nearly reached the Manse that the man seemed to notice Gràvenmuir. He gazed across the quad and solemnly contemplated the demonic embassy. Every window within the dark, Gothic structure was brightly lit. Several demons on the grounds were still celebrating Walpurgisnacht. They ceased their conversations and stared uncertainly at this strange man who studied them from afar.
At the man’s silent invitation, Max and David approached. He placed his daughter’s hand in David’s and then turned his gray eyes to the path that led to Rowan’s Sanctuary. Something very large was coming toward them.
It was YaYa, the Great Matriarch of Rowan.
The ki-rin was an ancient creature, whose single horn had been broken during the Siege of Solas. While YaYa’s appearance was undeniably imposing, Rowan’s students had known her only as the gentle black lioness who dozed inside the Warming Lodge and presided over the Sanctuary with grandmotherly benevolence.
At the moment, the ki-rin did not appear grandmotherly or benevolent. Her expression was so fierce, her bearing so proud that she seemed a different being altogether. She came steadily down the path, her ghostly eyes fixed upon the man, who waited patiently.
YaYa came to a halt, towering over the man as steam poured from her panting mouth. Looking gravely down at him, she dipped her shaggy head by way of salute. For the first time, the man smiled. He reached up to stroke the smooth fur between her great, blind eyes, while the ki-rin nuzzled him like a kitten.
Minutes later, the sun rose above Rowan’s cliffs just as Old Tom struck five o’clock. It was May Day, and Walpurgisnacht was over.
As Old Tom’s chimes rang across the campus, history’s greatest Sorcerer climbed upon the ki-rin’s back and urged her toward Gràvenmuir. As the pair approached, Max saw the demons withdraw into the embassy. Even the hideous mummer guards abandoned their post as YaYa stopped at the outer gates. Meek as lambs, the mummers slipped inside.
And when the final chime had sounded, the Sorcerer spread his arms, as though to greet the dawn.
And when he did, the earth shook.
In an avalanche of stone, the entire cliff beneath Gràvenmuir gave way. With an appalling crash, the embassy and all within it were cast down into the sea.