Henry Neff - The Maelstrom

“And how many Mystics scattered among that number?”

“Roughly two thousand,” she replied.

“Firecrafters, aeromancers, spiritwracks, phantasmals, enchanters …,” muttered Bram, ticking off various schools and specialties.

Ms. Richter nodded uncertainly.

“And how many creatures and spirits from the Sanctuary have pledged themselves to Rowan’s cause?” continued the Archmage.

“Eleven hundred, give or take a few,” she said.

“Centaurs, dryads, domovoi, Cheshirewulfs, fauns … even a roc and a reformed ogre, if I hear rightly.”

“Yes, but—”

“And of course there is my grandson and the Hound, and let us not forget little Mina. In this dire hour, Rowan boasts no less than three children of the Old Magic, along with a massive host to contest the armed might of Prusias. But tell me, Director, who is contesting the might of Astaroth?”

Ms. Richter said nothing.

“There is but one,” continued Bram grimly. “And as I’ve said before, I believe that Astaroth poses the greater danger. As long as he possesses the Book, it is not just Rowan’s sovereignty that hangs in the balance, but the fate of this very world. I do not have the power to destroy Prusias’s army, Director. Only the Book of Thoth is capable of such a feat. If your current forces are not enough to stave off Prusias, Rowan’s independence is ultimately doomed whether or not I come to your aid. Astaroth has made far less noise than Prusias, but he has not been idle. He is lurking, Director—watching and waiting for a chance to turn things in his favor. He and I are like two kings on a chessboard, locked in a stalemate. If I divert my focus and energies to oppose Prusias …” He shook his head as though the consequences were too terrible to contemplate.

Max leaned forward. “What is Astaroth?” he asked. “You said yourself that he isn’t really a demon, that he only masquerades as one. If that’s so, then what is he and where does he come from?”

“That remains a fundamental question,” said Bram, rising and brushing past them to sort through a stack of ancient parchments and manuscripts. “Astaroth has always tried to hide his past from me, but there have been glimpses, impressions that I gained while he was my prison. He is a profoundly alien entity. Most demons are corrupted stewards—spirits of Old Magic that rebelled against their given purpose. But Astaroth is far older than they are. I believe he comes from another universe altogether. I have been trying to discover his origins, how he came to be in this world and—most importantly—why he stays.”

The Archmage handed Max a small stone carving whose chips and cracks spoke to its ancient origins. Turning it over in his hands, Max gazed upon a grinning figure with its hands clasped together.

“What is this?” asked Max, finding the figurine oddly disturbing.

“That is Astaroth,” remarked Bram, staring at it. “It was made by the Olmec people thousands of years ago.” He handed Ms. Richter a piece of tortoise shell on which mysterious characters had been carved. “And this is from China. It was recorded by one of the emperor’s magicians and tells of a day when they tried to summon a river spirit to quell a flood, but something else appeared … a ‘Smiling Man’ who caused the waters to recede and showed them how to improve their plantings and their harvests. He was soon admitted to the royal court. The pharaohs told similar accounts; so did the Mesopotamians, the Nubians, and the Aborigines. Astaroth’s presence on this earth predates recorded history.”

“And so is that where the investigation ends?” asked Ms. Richter.

“No,” replied Bram. “Fortunately, there are means of digging further. In this regard, the witches hold the key. Rowan boasts its Archives, the Workshop has its museums, and the witch clans have their ossuaries.”

“What is an ossuary?” said Max.

“A place for keeping human remains,” answered Ms. Richter, studying the tortoise shell.

“Indeed,” said Bram, “grave robbing has long been practiced by various professions—physicians, artists, and, most infamously, necromancers. But the witches are the most prolific. Over the centuries, they have pried into coffins, crypts, burial mounds, tombs, and mausoleums of every kind and from every culture to amass their collections.”

“And what exactly are they collecting?” asked Max.

“Mostly dirt and dust,” said Bram, smiling, “bones if any remain; canopic jars and urns. What they find is not as important as who they find. The witches have been studiously collecting the remains of every mystic, shaman, and sorcerer they can get their hands on—the remains of anyone they believe has trafficked with the spirit world or possessed knowledge that they value. They have collected many thousands of specimens and organized them as meticulously as Rowan’s Archives.”

“But I thought the witches were all about the wild and living things,” said Max. “They worship nature. I’ve never heard they practiced necromancy.”

“They don’t,” said Bram. “At least, not necromancy as it’s usually defined. The witches are not interested in animating corpses to serve some dark purpose. They use the remains to communicate with the dead and gather wisdom from the past.

According to their beliefs, the practice is not a desecration but a great honor—the deceased’s counsel is sought and valued even after their spirit has left this world. The witches see themselves as communing with nature, not violating it.”

“How are the ossuaries aiding your pursuit of Astaroth?” pressed Ms. Richter.

“They allow me to communicate with shamans and spirit guides from many thousands of years ago—people who lived before any cultures kept written accounts,” explained the Archmage. “And some of the oldest recall a pale being that followed their tribes at a distance and watched them as they huddled by their fires. Many years might pass between its appearances, but its coming was always viewed as an evil omen. Whenever they saw the pale being, women were wont to miscarry, brothers quarreled, and the hunt became scarce. But there was one shaman in the far north who finally mustered the courage to approach it. He asked what it was and where it came from. He asked why it was bothering them and driving all the animals away. The shaman’s people meant it no harm. It should leave them alone.”

“What did it say?” asked Ms. Richter, spellbound.

“It pointed to the stars and tried to emulate the shaman’s speech, but struggled to do so. Abandoning the effort, it pointed again at the sky. The shaman decided that it was trying to show him where it came from. Interestingly, the shaman also sensed that it was afraid —not of him, but of something out among the heavens. The shaman smiled, named him Wanderer, and tried to indicate that he understood. The Wanderer mimicked his smile and then seized his hand. When the shaman shrieked and tried to flee, the being released him and simply walked away. The next morning, the tribe awoke to find dead caribou arranged and heaped about their camp. It seemed the Wanderer had left the animals, but the tribe would not touch the meat and never returned to that place. The unfortunate shaman grew ill and died within the month.”

Max found that he was holding his breath. He exhaled, his mind fixated on the primitive but eerie similarities between Astaroth and this ancient Wanderer of the shaman’s tale. He envisioned Astaroth’s ever-present, masklike smile and wondered if it was a sort of ingrained mannerism that stemmed from his early interactions with people: Humans do this to put other humans at ease and be welcomed . This thought made Astaroth seem even stranger and more alien to Max than before.