Henry Neff - The Maelstrom

“So what now?” asked Max.

“I kill you.”

The response was chillingly flat, no emotion.

“We’ll see.” Max shrugged. “Did you murder those people at Piter’s Folly, too?”

The clone’s eyes glittered like dark jewels. “The world’s at war. There is no such thing as murder. Just obstacles and accidents.”

“I’m sorry you think so.”

The clone smiled and steadied his horse. “Prusias said you were weak,” he sneered. “Said his imp had to make up stories about your Arena opponents so you’d fight angry. Pathetic. You’re lucky you fought Myrmidon. I’d have had your head, brother.”

Walking closer to the portcullis, Max stared through the bars at the brazen youth sitting astride his coal-black courser. “You’re not my brother,” he remarked. “I don’t know what to call you. You’re just an experiment that didn’t work … a Workshop castoff scooped up by the Atropos to nip at my heels.”

In unison, the malakhim drew their swords, red-hot blades that smoked like hearth irons. The clone merely gave a venomous smile and laid the spear across his saddle.

“I don’t nip at heels. I bite at throats. Open the gate and find out.”

Max recalled his battle with Myrmidon. At several points, he’d overwhelmed his clone and struck what should have been a conclusive blow. And yet Myrmidon always recovered; the gladiator had advanced again and again as though nothing could hurt him. The encounter was seared into Max’s memory, its imprint as painful and poisonous as anything he’d experienced. This clone was far larger than Myrmidon had been. The Workshop must have conducted different experiments on each of its three prototypes. The assassin sitting astride the courser looked as though he could tear through the portcullis with his bare hands. Max wondered why he didn’t. Perhaps the clone was curious—intrigued about the original from which he’d stemmed. That curiosity might give Petra enough time to find another exit. Assuming there was one.

“Do you have memories?” Max wondered. “Or do they implant false ones?”

Talk of pasts and memories apparently displeased the clone. His face darkened momentarily before relaxing into a faint smile.

“There is no past; there’s only now. Memories are nostalgia, and nostalgia is for the weak.”

“The Workshop took my blood three years ago,” Max reflected. “You’re awfully big for a three-year-old. Did they grow you in a little tube or some giant machine? Did they have to train you, or did you just pop out, ready, willing, and able to kill?”

The clone’s smile became dangerous. “No big machines,” he replied. “Just a cozy little incubator with nanobots, accelerants, and neural feeds. It didn’t sing me lullabies, but it did make me strong … far stronger than you, brother. I’ve fought a million hyperbattles in the simulations and I’ve never lost. You want to think of me as a copy, as a cheap imitation. But you’re wrong. I’m an original. And you can stall or run for as long as you like, but you can never escape us.…”

As he said this, the clone held up something tucked inside his breastplate. At first glance, Max thought it was simply an ornament on the chain that fastened his cloak. But as the torchlight danced upon its gleaming case, Max recognized the object.

It was a magic compass.

Cooper had used the very same device to locate Max when he’d been imprisoned deep in Prusias’s dungeons. David had made it. Instead of pointing toward magnetic north, its needle always pointed toward Max.

“So that’s how you tracked us,” he said heavily.

The clone slipped the compass back inside his armor. “Your name has been written into the Grey Book,” he said. “Your life is over. Submit and we might spare your companions before Yuga devours them. Do you submit?”

As he said this, the sky rippled with a wash of incandescent light. Its brilliance cast a host of shadows that stretched through the gatehouse tunnel. Max glimpsed shadows of torches and chains … and a figure stealing up behind him. He whirled to face the assassin. When the sky flashed again, it revealed a familiar face.

The assassin was the second clone.

While Max had been speaking to one, the other must have scaled the high walls. Silent as a wraith, the nimble clone bore down on Max with a long dagger in each hand. Sparks flew as Max caught one blade on his cross-guard. But the other blade struck home, piercing his mail shirt and cutting along his ribs as he twisted aside. Seizing the clone’s wrist, Max turned and hurled him against the portcullis.

The clone crashed into it, his knees buckling from the impact and bending several bars. Backing away, Max saw him clearly for the first time. This clone barely resembled the one outside the gate. He was a good fifty pounds lighter, as gaunt as a week-old corpse, with tangles of black hair that hung past his shoulders. Like the witches, every inch of his pale skin was covered in tattoos. But the runes and hieroglyphs were not made with any ink; they were carved into his flesh by a knife or scalpel. The clone was panting, handling each blade with terrifying expertise. Gazing at Max, he grinned and revealed a row of razor-sharp teeth.

Max gasped. “What the hell did they do to you?”

The clone began sniggering like a madman. “Everything,” he whispered. “Everything … EVERYTHING!”

The clone was a blur as he leaped, a frenzied assault of knives

and teeth as he lunged at Max like a rabid animal. Driving Max back into the courtyard, he gave a primal howl as the pair circled one another beneath the flickering sky. The clone was a quick-twitch nightmare with animal instincts far superior to anything human. Every time Max thought he had an opportunity to strike, the clone sprang away or slipped just out of reach. It was like trying to stab smoke. Even worse, the gae bolga felt heavy and leaden in Max’s hand. It was uncharacteristically silent and seemed little more than an unwieldy length of metal. Perhaps the blade was reluctant—even unwilling—to harm its own flesh and blood.

Blood trickled into Max’s eyes from a cut across his forehead. Backing away, he feigned a stumble over a fallen block. As the clone lunged in, Max twisted aside and cracked his opponent’s cheekbone with the gae bolga ’s heavy pommel. Howling, the clone bounded away on all fours, leaping onto one of the squat guard towers and scuttling sideways into the tunnel like a great black spider. A moment later, Max heard the winch being spun as the clone raised the portcullis.

An eerie dance took place as the malakhim galloped through the gate and rode about the courtyard’s perimeter with their torches and swords. They hemmed Max in, surrounding him and drawing the noose ever tighter as they leaned from their saddles and swept their swords in long, lethal arcs. Max fought defensively, careful to vary his patterns and keep an eye out for the clones. His only hope was to whittle down the odds and capitalize on rare opportunities.

And while such opportunities were rare, they did exist. The Morrígan’s blade might have balked at the clones, but it had no misgivings about the malakhim. The weapon roared back to life, keening for the cloaked spirits and cleaving through their swords and mail with frightful ease whenever one ventured too close.

Four of the malakhim had fallen when a fist-sized rock struck the back of Max’s head. He stumbled forward, catching himself on one knee. Another smashed into the base of his skull and he crumpled onto the snow-swept courtyard. Blood now trickled from a dozen wounds, stinging his eyes and fingers, hissing whenever it touched the gae bolga . Dazed, Max scrambled to his feet and staggered sideways, tripping over icy stones at the base of a fallen tower. With a jubilant howl, the savage-looking clone dropped the rock and rushed forward with his knives.