Henry Neff - The Maelstrom

Leaving YaYa to her task, Max turned to Ajax. “Which direction did that assassin run?”

The youth pointed toward a nearby strip of wood that stretched east to the sea and extended almost all the way to Rowan’s wall and Southgate.

“We’ll go with you,” he offered, but Max shook his head.

“That’d only get people hurt,” he said. “I’ll have a better chance of finding him if I’m alone.”

“I’ve done my share of tracking,” insisted Ajax. “I can help you hunt him.”

Max gazed at the wood, a dark labyrinth of tangled trunks and branches.

“I won’t be hunting him. He’ll be hunting me.”

As the night deepened, Max stole through the forest. He made no sound as he wove through the trees and underbrush, scanning every tree and shadow and listening for any telltale sounds. His ring had grown cool, but the wood was eerily quiet, as though the wild creatures sensed a predator.

He searched far and wide, bending toward the sea and then back along the crenellated walls and watchtowers that guarded Rowan’s southern flank. As he padded west along the forest’s edge, Max noticed that an unusual number of guards were posted at Southgate and that they were searching not only those who wished to enter Old College, but also those who wished to leave. A quiet alarm had been raised.

The William Cooper Max knew would never leave a job unfinished much less flee by a main gate. Now that he had infiltrated Rowan’s campus, the Agent would remain close—patient and hidden—until another opportunity emerged. Max recalled the many times he had trained with the man, matching wits and skills in the Sanctuary. While the Agent was no longer Max’s equal in direct combat, he was far more experienced when it came to deceiving and stalking a target. Unless Cooper was apprehended, there would be another attack and Max knew—with dreadful certainty—that it would be planned with chilling, lethal precision.

These unsettling thoughts occupied his mind as he prowled about the woods. Max did not delude himself that he could track Cooper or penetrate his illusions, but his ring would warn him if the possessed man was nearby. To his knowledge, the Atropos did not know about the ring and Max hoped that Cooper—finding his victim alone and seemingly vulnerable—might be tempted to make a sudden, spontaneous attempt.

He hoped in vain.

It was well past midnight when Max finally abandoned the effort. He had searched from the sea cliffs to the Sanctuary wall, traversing every wood and field in the stretch along the southern borders of the Old College. His ring had remained cold throughout, and Max guessed that Cooper had probably doubled back and escaped in a different direction to throw off pursuit. Perhaps Umbra had had better luck. In any case, he needed to speak with her, and it could not wait until morning.

The refugees’ main camp had improved greatly since its earliest days. The sprawling slum of shacks, tents, and refuse had been cleared away, replaced by long barracks and small cottages that lined the broad clearing, small gardens, and grazing pens. Most of the windows were dark, but some dozen figures were huddled by the fires still burning by the training pits.

Max recognized none of their faces. Even with so many departures, there were still tens of thousands of refugees living within Rowan’s walls. Judging by their blank stares as he approached, they did not recognize him either. Max imagined they must be newcomers. Sipping from a flask, one of the women gestured at his bloodstained clothes.

“Where’d ya bury the poor bugger?” she laughed, passing the flask.

“The blood’s mine,” said Max. “I’m looking for someone.”

“I’ll bet you are!” she exclaimed, getting a chuckle from the others.

He asked them several questions, but they merely shrugged until one thought to elbow a dozing man who was using his grizzled mutt as a pillow. The man woke with a start and glared at his neighbor.

“What gives, Jim?” he demanded irritably.

“You been here longest, Sam,” said the other. “Boy’s asking after someone named Umbra.”

“Umbra who came here with Ajax and his bunch?”

“That’s right,” said Max. “Do you know where I can find her?”

“Shoot,” said the man, beckoning for the flask. “I can’t be steering chaps to a young lady’s door at such an hour. For one, I’m a gentleman. For another, that lady’d feed my nose to Pepper here.” The dog wagged its tail. “Besides, how do I know she ain’t the one who bloodied ya?”

“She’s the one who rescued me,” Max explained.

“He wants to thank her properly,” laughed Jim. “C’mon and tell the boy, Sam! You were young once, weren’t ya?”

A sigh. “So they say.”

“Please,” said Max. “It’s important.”

“Well, you didn’t hear it from me. I don’t need no trouble and least of all from her. That Umbra doesn’t live in this camp. She sets up in that gypsy caravan by the big oak just north of here.…”

Max had seen the caravan before. It sat alone on a shallow rise at the edge of the woods, shaded by the boughs of an ancient oak and rooted to the spot by many brambles that twisted and twined through its spokes. Its door faced east, its planks worn and weathered by sun and sea. No lights peeked from inside. Climbing the first step, Max reached up and knocked. When there was no answer, he walked around and stood on tiptoe for a peek through its curtained window.

“The last one to try that lost six teeth,” said a voice behind him.

With a start, Max turned and saw Umbra leaning on her spear.

“I just wanted to talk with you,” said Max, holding up his hands.

“Funny. That’s what the last one said.”

Max studied the girl’s hard, unyielding face before speaking. “Ajax says I should be dead,” he said simply. “He says that you saved me.”

“The Cheshirewulf saved you,” she said. “I just pulled my commander from the fire and drew poison from his wound.”

“There is no wound,” Max observed, touching his neck. “That’s quite a trick.”

“That’s your magic, Commander, not mine.”

Max stepped toward her slowly. “It wasn’t Grendel that drove that assassin off,” he said. “It was a shadow.”

“Poisoned people see all kinds of things,” she remarked, raising her spear to keep him at a distance.

“Fair enough,” said Max, stopping at its point. “I just have one more question.”

The girl stared at him, both cautious and curious.

“I understand why you’d retrieve my sword,” Max mused. “But I don’t get why you’d bother with the brooch. All that commotion, an assassin on the run, and yet you run back into a burning tent to find it?”

Closing her eyes, Umbra bowed her head in silent self-reproach.

“Only one person would do such a thing,” Max continued.

“And who’s that?” she muttered, her voice quiet and forlorn.

“The one who gave it to me.”

Smiling bitterly, the girl raised her head and met his gaze.

“Greetings, Scathach.”

Even as Max spoke the name, Umbra’s appearance began to change. She grew taller, her features shifting in the moonlight to reveal a young woman with pale skin, raven hair, and eyes that gleamed like gray pearls.

Brushing past him, she climbed the caravan steps. “Come in out of the wind.”

Lighting a lantern, Scathach hung it from a chain. The caravan must have belonged to a fortune-teller once, for upon the walls were faded images of towers and chariots, hermits and hierophants, matched lovers and a fool hanging upside down at the gallows. The caravan was old, but it was snug and neat with a small bed and tiny table with a single chair. Offering the chair to Max, Scathach reached for a towel and wiped the grime from her face. All the while, she stared at her shadow as though it were grimly fascinating.