Henry Neff - The Maelstrom

“What do you make of this?” asked Ms. Richter quietly.

“I still have much more to learn,” replied Bram. “But I do not doubt that this ‘Wanderer’ from the shaman’s account was Astaroth, as he is now known. And I do not doubt that the ‘Smiling Man’ and the Olmec carving are also him. It was not until the Middle Ages that he even assumed the identity of ‘Astaroth’ and that dreadful name began to appear in the scholars’ lists and grimoires. By that time, Astaroth had essentially become a ‘demon’ as we tend to think of them: He assumed their aura, he could be summoned, and, despite his great powers, he was bound by certain rules and strictures. Scholars believed that he was one of the greater corrupted stewards and fit him into their hierarchies. Even other demons took Astaroth for one of their kind and served him out of devotion or fear until his humiliation on Walpurgisnacht.”

Finishing his tea, Bram sat back down and gazed into the cup with a dark, melancholy air.

“And this strange being,” he muttered. “This imposter—this ‘Wanderer’—who has masqueraded for millennia as both demon and man possesses the Book of Thoth. Nothing—not even Rowan’s fate—is more important than recovering the Book and destroying Astaroth once and for all.”

Setting down her tea, Ms. Richter gave a nod and stood. “These revelations about Astaroth are disturbing,” she said. “A part of me—a childish part—wishes I’d never heard them. Thank you for your explanations. I suppose it was my greed. Despite all the forces we’ve arrayed against Prusias, Elias Bram is a mighty weapon and I wanted him in my arsenal. Now I understand.…”

“You are not driven by greed,” said Bram gently. “It is your love of Rowan and all who shelter here that drives you, Director. I admire you. You’re a far better leader than I ever was.”

She bowed appreciatively. “Well,” she said, “I’m overdue in Founder’s Hall. We will leave you to your labors, Archmage. Do I have your word that you will leave Max McDaniels to his?”

“You do,” he promised. “But we never even discussed why I originally sent for him.” Bram glanced beneath the door to make sure Mina wasn’t eavesdropping. “I know about the attack by the Atropos,” he said gravely. “A very ugly business, and I don’t want Mina to hear about it. It would upset her terribly. In any case, my own charge has asked my permission to serve Max for the time being.”

“YaYa?” said Max, confused.

The Archmage smiled. “It’s been many years since YaYa carried a rider into battle, but I don’t think you will be disappointed. The Enemy fears her, for good reason, and your soldiers may find greater heart and courage in her presence. Will you accept her service?”

Max nodded, speechless at this unexpected boon. When Bram opened the door, the study’s disorienting effect ceased and Max felt like his feet were planted firmly on the floor once again. In the common room, they found Emer dozing in her chair, Lila scratching at the door, and Mina stirring a large pot and peering at its contents with an anxious, irritated expression.

With a groan, the Archmage strode across the room and flung open the windows.

“It just needs more basil,” Mina assured him.

“No, it does not,” Bram declared. “It needs less garlic. Didn’t I tell you to follow a recipe?”

“I did follow a recipe!” shouted Mina, defiantly flinging the rest of the basil into the pot.

“Show it to me, then.”

“I threw it in the fire!”

“What have I told you about lying, child?”

“To get better at it!”

One week later, Max sat astride YaYa and surveyed the Trench Rats as his battalion stood at attention. While the afternoon sun may have caused the soldiers to squint, its rays also imparted a coppery gleam and pleasing uniformity to the rows of dented helms and mismatched armor. Max was grateful for that sun. He was grateful for the weather in general. On dark days when it was bitter cold, the troops could not stand still for long; they tended to fidget and stamp, appearing less like a crack battalion and more like kindergartners during an assembly. But not today, reflected Max proudly. Today they seemed content to stand at attention, bask in the warm breeze, and allow the sun to work its ennobling magic.

“I think they look every bit as good as the Wildwood Knights,” Max remarked, unable to contain himself. Standing taller in his stirrups, he cocked his head at the formations. “And those lines are pretty straight!”

Tweedy glanced up from his perch on a neighboring stool. “One cloud and the whole effect will be ruined,” he sniffed. “You think a bit of sunlight and boot polish is going to fool the Director? Ha! Look at her! She’s only drawing out this charade to punish me for my … my moral implosion!”

Looking out, Max spotted Ms. Richter trailed by a dozen aides and advisers as she inspected the companies and platoons. As a rule, she did not allow commanders to accompany her during reviews; she liked to question the rank and file directly and believed that a superior’s presence stifled candor. At present, the Director was speaking earnestly with a young refugee whose longbow was as tall as its owner. In response to an apparent request, the archer slung her quiver off her shoulder and presented it to Ms. Richter.

Tweedy nearly fell off his stool. “Do you see that?” he exclaimed. “She’s inspecting their arrows! She knows !”

“I’ve already told you that she knows,” said Max wearily.

“Well, that’s it, then,” moaned the hare. “My reputation is officially ruined. The Director thinks I’m a degenerate. She probably lumps me in with that loose and saucy crowd at Cloubert’s, and why shouldn’t she? Evidently, I am the sort of hare who lurks about casinos and wharves giving significant looks to passersby in the hope that they’ll stop and say, ‘Hey there, old fellow, how’d you like to get your paws on some Zenuvian iron?’ ”

“I thought Madam Petra invited you into her sitting room and offered you tea?”

“Well, she did,” the hare admitted. “But I had to do lots of investigating before it came to that. Aside from sullying my own paws, you’re now drowning in debt to a person of questionable character. For all her charm—perhaps because of it—I do not trust that woman. She says she only took your property for collateral, but do you realize she’s probably already sold it for fifty times what you owe her?”

“We’ve been over this, too,” said Max. “Bartering was the only way to get the iron. I can’t do anything else with it, and she promised not to sell it for a year. I’ll get it back.”

“What was this treasure you bartered?” asked YaYa, shifting beneath him.

“My torque,” said Max, touching the bare space at his neck. “The Fomorian made it from Nick’s quills. Do you think I was wrong?”

“You used it in the hope of saving lives,” replied YaYa. “What better use is there?”

A cloud passed before the sun and the battalion’s splendid gleam died a slow, flickering death.

“Well, that’s it,” sighed Tweedy. “We’ll be assigned to guard a pumpkin patch.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” replied Max. “This isn’t the part I’m worried about.”

He gazed at the neighboring hill where Lucia and Cynthia were making final arrangements for the upcoming simulation. The Director had personally dictated the simulation’s parameters, and Max had no idea what they would be. Over the past week, he’d ratcheted up the intensity immensely—conditioning, weapons practice, and the execution of various maneuvers and formations. The formations ensured that the battalion’s firepower could be directed at critical targets and that its defenses—or even retreat—would not devolve into a mad scramble in the midst of battle. Without training and discipline, the Trench Rats would be no better than a mob.