The Second Siege (43 page)

Max awoke to the sound of a crackling campfire. Something moaned beside him and he sat up to see Cooper lying on a bedroll, his face shiny with sweat.

Max turned to see Astaroth sitting by the fire. The Demon’s face was luminescent in the dark, his eyes merry little slits. The composed Demon seemed utterly different from the wounded monstrosity Max had last seen in the Sidh.

Max laughed.

“I’m dreaming.”

“No,” said Astaroth, smiling serenely. “You are not. This is all very real, I’m afraid.”

Max frowned and gazed about at his surroundings. It was night—some dark, damp hour well before dawn. He and Cooper were camped a stone’s throw beyond the gorge’s opening. Behind Max stretched the river and the broad expanse of plain before the cliffs. Behind Astaroth were hundreds—perhaps thousands—of vyes, ogres, and goblins assembled in stupefying silence before a series of wagons and carts.

“Why aren’t they attacking?” asked Max, reaching for the gladius, which was thrust in the ground beside him.

Now it was Astaroth’s turn to laugh.

“They
would
like that,” he said with an acknowledging smile. “You see, you frighten them, Max McDaniels, and thus they very much want to kill you.”

Max looked warily at the vyes—some lean trackers, others bloated and boar-like. Sharp-toothed goblins crouched on their haunches, looking no bigger than cats, reclining at the feet of hunched, brooding ogres. Every creature’s eyes were fixed on Max, and they practically simmered with hatred.

“Don’t think them savage,” said Astaroth. “After all, most creatures respond to fear in such a way—humans most of all. The gorge was nearly choked with their fallen kin, and they’re understandably angry and fearful. I daresay you’d blanch if you knew what they wished to do to you—Marley most of all. He’s been demoted, you see.”

Max heard a hoarse muttering and saw Marley Augur, the ugly gash in his mouth sewn shut with crude stitching. Without his mount, the blacksmith was forced to stand, leaning on his hammer amidst a troop of ogres.

“And why didn’t you let him?” asked Max, flicking his attention from the revenant to Astaroth.

“Because I am
not
afraid of you,” replied the Demon. “And thus I labor under no blind instinct to destroy you, but instead can admire you as a worthy adversary. Your greatness burned so bright the poor things could not even look upon you. A worthy adversary, indeed. It is not my nature to dishonor such a foe or permit such a thing in my presence.”

The Demon’s red lips curled in a sly, conspiratorial smile.

“I must confess a certain temptation to consume you, however. I have desired to do so ever since your foolish gesture ’neath Brugh na Boinne. Such pain I haven’t felt for an age! I nearly indulged myself until Lord Aamon reminded me that you have not yet earned such an honor. Thus I have restrained myself and offer other gifts as befit your noble stand.”

“And what have you to offer?” said Max, still half convinced it was a dream.

“Several things,” said Astaroth, smiling. “But let’s start simple. Should you surrender the Book, Rowan shall be spared and be allowed a little place beneath its own banner. Should you, Max McDaniels, also agree to become my champion, your reward and renown shall rival that of the kings of old. Should Rowan continue this futile resistance, all it holds dear will perish in agony.”

Max glowered and he began to speak, but stopped as Astaroth raised a warning finger.

“Consider well, and let wisdom temper pride,” said the Demon. “Like your handsome friend, all of Rowan lies helpless within those walls of rock, weak as women in the pangs of labor. And thus they shall lie for many a day. While a son of the Sidh might evade the witches’ curse and make a valiant stand, even he cannot stand forever.”

Max looked hard at Astaroth, whose face was grave and contemplative.

“Yes, you
will
fall, Max, and you will do so having sacrificed many innocents at the altar of your pride. This is the second time I have stayed my hand and made a handsome offer. I’m sure you can understand that there will not be a third.”

Max climbed painfully to his feet, clutching his side. He gazed back at the river gurgling behind him and the dark walls of rock in the distance where his family and friends lay defenseless.
We need time,
Max thought.
Time to endure the witches’ curse, time for David to heal and use the Book, time for something
—anything—
to turn the tide.
Max looked down at the grass and felt the cool air wash over him.

“I need time to think,” he said at last.

Astaroth smiled and shook his head. His silky voice fell to a whisper.

“Very well,” said the Demon, also rising to his feet. “You shall have your day and we shall hope it brings good counsel. As a token of faith, we will not cross the river till you have answered. You have until sunset, and I pray you will think carefully about all you have to lose.”

At a gesture from the Demon, the armored ogres stood aside and made way for a horse-drawn cart pulled by two emaciated mares. A boy sat upon the driver’s seat and offered a smile in greeting.

It was Alex Muoñz.

The older boy had changed considerably since Max had last seen him in Marley Augur’s crypt. Alex’s skin had assumed a deathly pallor, and his eyes were faintly luminous. Witch-like tattoos covered the hands that held the reins. He looked down from his perch, proud and disdainful.

“Hello, Max,” said Alex. “Long time.”

Max nodded, speechless at how his former schoolmate had been transformed. He looked hardly human.

“We’re doing things,” said Alex. “Great things—and you can be a part of it.”

“Alex,” said Max, “I tried my best to get you out of there. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure you did,” said Alex with a disbelieving smile, “but don’t be sorry. You did me a favor, Max, and I’m here to return it.”

There was a triumphant, sadistic gleam in the boy’s face, and Max felt a prick of nausea in his stomach. Alex reached for a leather satchel and unclasped it to reveal a row of medieval torture implements. He plucked a small, scalpel-like blade from the grisly kit and thumbed its edge.

“I’m not a fighter like you, Max, so I’ve been trying to make myself useful in other ways,” said Alex thoughtfully. “We all need information, and I’d like to think I have a talent for getting it. I’ve gotten a lot, you know,” he boasted, glancing from the knife to Max. “Generals . . . diplomats . . . I even convinced a prime minister to share the most amazing secrets before he died!”

“What’s your point?” snapped Max.

Alex climbed into the back of the cart and dragged up two hooded figures so they were propped against the side.

“Well, as good as I am,” huffed Alex, “I can always use more practice.” He hefted up the limp, masked bundles so Max could see them better. “And right here, I’ve got two fine specimens to work on—that is, as soon as this little curse has passed and they can really appreciate my work.”

Max braced himself as Alex yanked the hoods away.

For a moment, he stared dumbstruck at the pair of prisoners. Max was not surprised to see Connor Lynch.

But he had not expected Ms. Richter.

“That’s impossible,” breathed Max, gazing at the Director, whose blinking eyes stared blankly ahead. “It’s an illusion.”

“No,” interjected Astaroth, “she is alive, Max. This little bauble protected her from me, you see. An unexpectedly powerful trinket.”

Max glanced at the Founder’s Ring on Astaroth’s hand.

“Give them back,” Max whispered, half pleading. “All of them.”

“Sorry,” said the Demon. “The ring is not for sale at any price—I’ve got rather skinny fingers and it adds a pleasing bit of heft. The prisoners, however,
are
available for purchase. We’ve already discussed the price. You have until sunset.”

Max had never felt so alone. He nodded at Astaroth’s words, but his eyes never left Connor and Ms. Richter, who lay feverish and helpless in the cart. Stepping wearily to Cooper, his broken ribs sent stabs of pain down his side as he slung the Agent onto his shoulder once more and marched off toward the cliffs. When he had crossed the river, Max turned to see Astaroth’s army resume its flow from the dark gorge, as silent and steady as an oozing wound.

“I don’t think so,” replied a woman.

Max opened his eyes and gazed at several people—refugees—standing upon the rock ledge. Their faces were fraught with worry; they looked upon Max and Cooper as though the two were ghosts. Shaking off his weariness, Max stood and dragged Cooper off the platform and onto the open ledge.

“Where’s Miss Kraken?” Max asked.

“With the others,” the woman replied. “They’re all very sick.”

“Who’s in charge?” asked Max.

“We thought it might be you,” replied the woman.

“Where’s Dr. Rasmussen, then?” asked Max, realizing that the former Workshop leader would not have fallen victim to the witches’ curse. For all the man’s flaws, Max knew he was very smart and should be consulted. The woman told Max that Rasmussen had been holed up in the generator room, working round the clock as the others fell sick.

Max thanked the woman and left Cooper in her care before trotting off down the dim corridors. He didn’t need a map, but merely followed the faint vibrations in the rock walls until he found the generators once again. Rasmussen was there amidst a pile of schematics, his face looking garish as he sipped a thermos of coffee by the light of a fluorescent lantern. Mum and Bella-grog were there, too, their plump bottoms side by side as the sisters knelt at the base of a disconnected generator, shining a flashlight into the dark, tight space beneath it.

“Oh, it’s right there!” exclaimed Mum. “But my arm’s too short to reach it!”

“And mine’s too fat,” grumbled Bellagrog, hastily slipping her sister a butcher’s knife. “Are you sure you can’t just get it for us, love? That bracelet belonged to our Nan, you know. Won’t take a moment with your nice long reach.”

“In a minute,” grumbled Rasmussen, rubbing his temples. The man shook his head and muttered something unintelligible before making several notations on the blueprint. Max cleared his throat.

“Dr. Rasmussen, I need your help.”

The man’s eyes shot up, and he surveyed Max from behind his thin spectacles.

“Max,” he said. “I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again. . . . How go things?”

“Not so good,” said Max. “I’m calling a meeting. Come with me, and we’ll round up the others.”

Rasmussen glanced at the schematic and shook his head.

“Tell me when and where the meeting will be,” said Rasmussen. “I’m busy at the moment.”

Max glanced at Mum and Bellagrog, who were standing by the generator making furious gestures for Max to leave immediately.

“The meeting is right now, and I need your help rounding up the others,” said Max, ignoring the hags. “I’m sorry to insist.”

“Oh, very well,” snapped Rasmussen, tossing his pencil aside. Max let Rasmussen exit first, and the engineer wandered down the corridor, clearly preoccupied with whatever problem he had been solving. The hags scurried over to Max, Bellagrog’s whole being trembling with indignation.

“Go away!” hissed the hag.

“Why?” asked Max. “So you can murder him when he isn’t looking?”

“Whatchoo talkin’ ’bout?” muttered Bellagrog innocently, just as a pair of brass knuckles fell out from beneath her skirt. The hag grimaced and snatched up the weapon and brandished it at Max.

“You’re interferin’ with Shrope family business!” hissed the furious hag.

“Shrope family business will have to wait,” muttered Max. “I need him.”

Ignoring Bel’s threats and Mum’s pleas, Max caught up to the engineer and made his next inquiry.