The Second Siege (32 page)

“How far do you think Sidh Rodrubân might be?” asked Max, thinking of dinner.

“No idea,” said David. “Have you noticed how deceptive the distances are? Or maybe it’s time that’s deceptive. I don’t know.”

Max glanced at his watch, whose readings advanced and retreated seemingly at random. He turned to gauge the distance they’d already traveled, his eyes wandering west, where a silvery mist was settling in the hollows of the hills.

There he saw a chilling sight: the same dark figure, standing on a hilltop.

Max abruptly pushed David to the ground and flattened himself against the grass off the path.

“What—” sputtered David, flicking a cherry blossom from his nose.

“Over there,” whispered Max. “On that hill. Do you think he’s seen us?”

David gazed out at the figure that leaned on a tall walking stick. The two boys heard faint laughter carry toward them on the breeze. The silhouette acknowledged them with a wave and began a brisk descent down the hill. The blood drained from David’s face.

“I know who that is,” whispered David.

“Who?” asked Max.

“Astaroth,” croaked David, pushing up from the ground.

“How could he get here?” asked Max.

David’s reply was to run as fast as his short legs could carry him. Max followed his roommate, who gasped and sputtered with terror as they fled up the road until they had run what seemed to be several miles. David collapsed in a heap, wracked by a violent fit of coughing.

“I can’t run anymore,” he wheezed. “I have to rest.”

Max nodded but looked warily behind them. He could feel terror rising—cresting—in a slow, sickly wave within him. He glanced at the crown of the last hill. The Demon had not yet come, but Max was suddenly aware that no birds called above and the docile flocks of sheep had retreated until they appeared as tiny dabs of ivory scattered at the horizon.

“Let’s at least get off the road,” said Max quickly, helping David to the far side of a great willow tree, whose branches overhung a small green pond. David leaned his back against the trunk and took a slow, deep breath.

“This reminds me of the Sanctuary lagoon,” he said with a weary smile.

Max reached into their pack for a towel. Dipping it into the cool water, he wrung it out and placed it on his friend’s forehead the way his father did whenever he was sick.

“Five minutes,” said Max, watching the hill. “Then we get moving again.”

David shook his head.

“Running won’t matter,” whispered David, closing his eyes. “We might as well stay here.”

Max did not like that idea. He peered around the broad willow and gazed back at the road. While David rested, Max waited, listening to the drone of crickets and the chirruping call of pond frogs. Fear continued to well up within him, as if a dropper of poison were filling up his mind. He had a sudden urge to hide, to dig down deep into the earth and wait until the pursuing evil passed them by. He glanced at David slipping into sleep, felt a frantic scurrying up his arm. Mr. Sikes’s whiskers twitched with panic.

“We must keep going,” hissed the imp. “This is a perilous place to rest!”

“Why?” asked Max, rubbing his eyes.

“He is coming!” squeaked the mouse. “It is the Demon that follows you!”

Max shook his head.

“David needs to rest,” he murmured. “And I’m watching.”

Closing his fingers about the
gae bolga,
Max leaned heavily against the tree and watched the lonely road. Mr. Sikes lingered a moment on his shoulder and then scurried back to Max’s pocket with a squeak of reprimand. A breeze gently shook the willow branches. There was a soft splash in the pond and Max imagined that he was a frog, safe beneath the water and kicking about the reeds.

When Max awoke, a harvest moon hovered above and even the crickets seemed to be fast asleep. Glancing down, Max saw David sleeping peacefully at the base of the tree, lying on his side amidst the tall grass and mossy roots. Something bright caught Max’s attention; reflections of firelight were dancing on the still pond. In a sudden panic, Max remembered their danger. He stepped away from the willow and peered out to survey the road.

“Well met, little Hound. I’d come to you, but I cannot leave the road.”

“And why is that?” asked Max, gripping Cúchulain’s spear tightly in his hand.

“A condition of my passage,” replied Astaroth smoothly. “Come and eat, why don’t you? I have two fat rabbits to share, and you do look ever so hungry.”

David had awoken and crept forward to stand by Max. Astaroth’s eyes crinkled to slits; his aquiline features sharpened to a malevolent smile. He tapped his scepter on his knee, his voice soft and sibilant.

“Awake again, young David? Good, good. I was just inviting Max to table.”

David said nothing but looked upon the grinning Demon with mute terror. As if sensing his thoughts, Astaroth clapped his hands and laughed.

“Yes, yes, I know. No summoning circle to keep me at bay, is there? I suppose I could have
you
spitted on this fire if I wished.” Astaroth’s eyes crinkled. “But I did not interrupt my plans and risk a journey to the Sidh to punish two wayward boys.”

“Then why are you here?” asked David.

“The Book is here,” replied Astaroth simply, tending to the rabbits. “Instead of plying me with questions, you should thank me, David Menlo. You might have slept forever had I not called you back. As I warned at your summons, David, this is a perilous place for one such as you. The Sidh has many voices, and it is your nature to listen.”

Astaroth laughed soundlessly while the rabbits sizzled above the flames.

“Come and eat,” he said. “Though we seek the same prize, upon this road you are safe from me. You have my word. I savor an honest competition.”

David walked slowly toward the Demon and sat opposite him. For several moments, the two stared at each other while the fire crackled between them. Astaroth smiled and reached into the flames to slide the rabbits off the spit.

“Roast rabbit ’neath starry skies of the Sidh,” he chuckled. “The romantic in me almost writhes with pleasure.” He tossed the rabbits to Max, who took a wary seat by David. The rabbits smelled delicious, and the two boys tore into them with their fingers. Astaroth merely watched them, his face as still and smooth as porcelain. There the three sat, in silence, while the landscape darkened about them and the wind sighed through the grass. At length, Astaroth spoke.

“Of all your choices, this road was wisest, David,” said Astaroth.

“I didn’t choose it,” said David. “Max did.”

“Did he indeed?” exclaimed the Demon. “Perhaps I should have guessed your feet would lead you hither, Max McDaniels. Do you know who is Master at Rodrubnâ?”

Max shook his head.

“Ah, a bittersweet meeting it shall be,” said Astaroth with a knowing smile. “Leave David to his quest and come away with me so I might spare you such heartache. A great captain you shall be—chief among my host when you are strong enough.”

Now it was Max’s turn to laugh.

“I’d rather die.”

“There are far worse things than death,” said the Demon, stoking the fire. “Perhaps someday you will reconsider.”

Max said nothing.

“Look at yourself,” said Astaroth, smiling. “So angry and spiteful. Old Magic brimming within you—a noble prince!—and yet you do not know the slightest thing about yourself. Who
are
you?”

Max glowered momentarily at the Demon before gazing into the fire. Astaroth’s words reminded him of the wolfhound that haunted his dreams:
What are you about? Answer quick, or I’ll gobble you up!

“I’m Max McDaniels,” he said quietly.

“Bah!” the Demon cackled, his voice echoing in the blackness. “What is that but a name? A false name from a false father! You are no more Max McDaniels than I am. Max McDaniels does not exist! Max McDaniels has
never
existed!”

Max’s hands began to shake.

“Be quiet,” he whispered, seething. “You’re a liar.”

“No,” purred the Demon. “I am not. I do not bait you, Max, but offer my sympathies. How many sorry souls have faded from the earth without ever truly knowing
who
they were and
why
they were here? It’s not fair—none of it is! Rowan is mistaken to think I seek the Book of Thoth for my own benefit. I seek it for yours! Who but I can use the Book and share the secrets that should belong to all mankind? It is a cruel fate that your kind should be blessed with consciousness yet denied true understanding. Who
are
you, Max? Until you know your truename, you shall never know peace. Your existence will be but a false, aimless thing until you fade along with all the others before you.”

The fire sputtered, sending a plume of bright sparks into the night.

“But why the destruction?” asked David softly. “Why are vyes and goblins and other dark things running wild? Why must every country bow and scrape?”

“Grim necessities,” Astaroth said with a shrug. “I doubt not that there are many sad tales and that many curse my name, but the greater good must be served. Mankind is within a generation, perhaps two, of self-extermination. What it needs is one strong voice—a ruler blessed with knowledge and wisdom to set things aright before it is too late. It is not conquest I seek but pacification. I fully concede, however, that the Book is a more elegant solution. By hindering me, David Menlo, you merely prolong mankind’s suffering. It need not be this way.”

David shook his head and smiled at the Demon.

“Flectere si nequeo superos, Achaeronta movebo.”

Astaroth’s smile faded to a thin line.

“Post tenebras lux,”
he whispered in reply. “You know nothing of hell, David Menlo, yet you may before the end. For the time being, however, I fancy a bit of sport and would not have you lost to the perils of the Sidh. Heed this before I go: Many forks lie between you and Rodrubân. Always choose the right-hand road or you will be lost. And though you thirst, drink from no stream until you come to Rodrubân and win entry to its halls.”

The fire suddenly leapt high, obscuring the Demon. Max blinked and looked upon a great black wolf with pale yellow eyes and a red, lolling tongue. In one leap, the wolf cleared the fire, scattering Max and David as it landed between them to race down the dark road. The boys huddled close to the fire, neither speaking as they gazed upon the bright moon and a quiet landscape of hill and shadow.

The sun rose and set three times while Max and David walked, subsisting on blackberries that grew wild on the hills. Heeding Astaroth’s warning, they resisted the temptation to drink from clear streams whose babbling was a siren’s song to their dry and swollen throats. At every fork, they kept to the right, making camp at night amidst the hollows of hoary trees, whose great roots provided shelter from the wind. There had been no further sign of Astaroth, and Mr. Sikes seemed content to slumber within Max’s pocket. On the fourth day, the boys heard the blare of a distant horn. Forgetting hunger and thirst, they hurried up the sloping hill as fast as their tired legs could carry them.

Another horn sounded. Creeping to the hill’s summit, the boys looked out upon a baffling spectacle.

Below them, two armies faced each other on a broad plain where the road forked yet again. Red and green banners fluttered, helmets gleamed, and tall spears glittered in the morning sun. Upon the third blast of the horn, a fierce battle was joined. For what seemed an hour, Max watched, speechless and horrified, as footmen were trampled, horses speared, and knights beheaded. Shouts and cries sounded from the field, whose verdant grass was churned into crimson mud.

Finally, from amidst the battle, a horn sounded once again. Those still standing and wearing green raised their weapons in victory, while those in red bowed their heads in defeat. Forming ranks once again, the survivors of each army marched to opposite ends of the field. David hissed and pointed toward the carnage in the center.

“Look! Look what’s happening!”

The battlefield began to wriggle as though a sea of maggots were roiling beneath the noonday sun. Slain knights and footmen rose slowly to their feet, fetching lost weapons, limbs, and heads as they rejoined their fellows. Once the field was clear and the ranks restored, the horn sounded for the fifth and final time. The red army made an orderly withdrawal down the left-hand road. The green army cheered as they left, clashing swords and spears against their great shields. Victorious, the green army marched from the battlefield, following the road that curved to the right and disappeared between two hills. Max and David followed them at a distance, climbing heights and scurrying down through tree-fringed valleys until they gazed upon the wondrous sight of Rodrubân.

Built of white stone on a broad green hill, the castle stretched tall and straight toward the sky, its seven spires flashing silver. Hanging from the walls were the same green banners the army carried: a white sun stitched onto a field of jade. Grazing herds of cattle and sheep dotted white-fenced pastures. Lush fields of wheat and apple orchards checkered the surrounding valley, irrigated by three meandering streams that funneled down from distant hills. The returning army marched down the cobbled road, passing neat rows of straw-thatched cottages until they came to a long suspension bridge that spanned a chasm before the castle gate. A horn sounded, the drawbridge was lowered, and the army marched across the bridge to disappear inside.

Max and David hurried down into the valley, sticking to the road and giving the long-horned bulls a wide berth as they chewed their cud. When they reached the first of many houses, they saw their first inhabitant of the Sidh. It was a woman, visible through her open doorway. She was sitting at a loom, weaving cream-colored cloth with fast, nimble movements. The woman stopped weaving and met their gaze. Easing up from her stool, she came to stand in the doorway and stare at them with eyes of brilliant green. Other faces began to appear in windows and doorways, some beautiful, some plain, all quiet and ageless. The hard ringing from a smithy ceased; more doors were flung open and the street was soon lined with curious faces.

“Excuse me,” said David, pausing to address a potbellied man wearing a cobbler’s apron. “Who lives in that castle?”

No answer was given; the man simply stared.

“Does anyone know Bryn McDaniels?” called Max, looking from face to face in vain.

“Let’s go,” whispered David, tugging at Max’s sleeve. The two hurried through the town, trailed by townsfolk who followed in a strange, silent procession.

When they arrived at the bridge, Max and David gazed up at the white walls looming over them. Far above, ravens circled the silver-tipped spires, dipping now and again to give a hoarse call. The townsfolk assembled in a wide semicircle, standing in the shade of apple trees whose boughs were heavy with fruit.

“Come on,” said Max, stepping out onto the wooden bridge.

The bridge promptly bucked and flailed as if it were alive. From the far end, a great wave raced down its length to snap Max high into the air. For a moment, Max felt as though he was floating. Then he began to plummet, gazing in horror at the seemingly bottomless chasm beneath him. With a desperate grab, he seized the bridge’s handrail and caught himself, dangling by his fingertips. Another shiver in the bridge spit him back onto the hard ground at David’s feet.

“Are you okay?” asked David.

Max nodded, glaring at the silent, stoic townsfolk.

Laughter rang out from the castle, feminine and mocking. Max saw a figure standing on a crenellated battlement above the drawbridge. It was a young woman with wild black hair that whipped in the wind.

“Only heroes may cross,” she laughed. “Not beardless boys who had best run home before they’re missed and scolded.”

Max reddened and climbed quickly to his feet. He stared out at the bridge, one hundred feet of heavy wooden planks swaying lightly in the breeze. Setting his jaw, Max stepped out onto the first plank, clutching the handrails tightly. He had almost made it halfway across when the bridge bucked once again, swinging him to and fro like a clinging insect. There was another decisive snap and Max lost his grip on the handrails, landing on his back with a painful thud. The bridge became still and Max withdrew in a frantic crab walk until he was back where he had started. Peals of laughter sounded from the walls.

“What is this creature that advances on two legs but retreats on four?” mocked the raven-haired maiden. “We shall have to add you to the lists!”

“Leave it be, boy,” said a voice from behind Max. He whipped his head around to see the bearded cobbler step forward from the ranks of townsfolk. “That bridge has claimed many lives. You are brave to try, but try no more.”

“Have you tried?” panted Max.

“We all have,” replied the man. “Many seek the wisdom of the High King, but few pass beyond those gates. Thus we wait here, on the doorstep, until the day he sees fit to hear our petitions. You will be welcome among us. There is a home and work for you here.”

“I can’t wait,” said Max, his anger rising as he spied the mocking figure on the wall. “I
will
cross that bridge,” he seethed, rounding on the swaying span.

“Only weaklings trade in idle boasts,” called the maiden. “Silence served you better.”

David said something, but Max could not hear him. Blood drummed in his temples, and he began to tremble. Terrible, frightening energies consumed him. With two steps, Max leapt high into the air. The bridge rose to meet him, sinuous as a serpent. Landing far out upon the span, Max touched only for a moment before springing again. He arced beyond the bridge’s perilous reach to land safely on the other side

“Open the gate!” he roared, raining three thunderous blows on the heavy timbers. Seconds later, there was the slow measure of clanking iron. He stood aside as the drawbridge was lowered, turning to address David, who watched in silence from across the way.

“Cross over,” called Max to his friend.

David shook his head. “I can’t.”

Somehow, Max knew it to be true. David could not enter this place. He felt at his pocket, but Mr. Sikes was not there. Max glanced back for the furtive movements of a mouse or the faint flutter of a moth but saw nothing. Mr. Sikes had gone. With a farewell wave to David, Max turned and passed within the white stone arch of Rodrubân, withdrawing the spear that he had concealed beneath his sweater.

Once inside, he looked upon a broad courtyard where a single ancient oak was planted. Ringing the base of the tree was a fountain of clear water. The raven-haired woman stood before the fountain, tall and proud. Walking forward, she stopped before him and glanced at the
gae bolga
in his hand.

“Where did you get this?” asked the woman, staring at the broken weapon.

“It was given to me,” replied Max coldly. “I am meant to have it.”

“I am Scathach,” said the woman, taking Max lightly by the arm and leading him past the oak and fountain until they had climbed many steps and crossed many halls. There was no sign of the army that had entered. A profound silence filled the castle. At last, they reached a long flight of marble steps that concluded at a pair of golden doors. Pulling them open, Scathach ushered Max inside a great hall hung with many tapestries. At the far end was a throne, and upon that throne was a figure bathed in radiance so blinding that Max immediately gasped and fell to one knee, shielding his eyes.

For long moments, no word was spoken while Max bowed low and listened to the pounding in his chest. Suddenly, a clear voice filled the hall.

“Scathach, what is this you bring?”

“I know not, my lord,” she answered.

“Look at me, boy,” commanded the voice.

Max forced his head up, gazing across the hall at the speaker. His eyes burned and ached, but he could not look away. Upon the throne, he saw a man with a handsome, youthful face. In his hand was a heavy spear; at his feet lay a great gray wolfhound. The monstrous hound was looking at Max. As it rose from the floor and padded toward him, Max nearly fainted. It was the very same creature from his dreams.

The hound came to a halt mere inches from Max’s face. A low growl sounded from deep within its throat. Summoning all his courage, Max rose to his full height and stared back at the hound. The two stood for long moments appraising each other.

“Surely this is my kin,” said the man at last, his voice calm and quiet.

“He carries this, my lord,” said Scathach, lifting Max’s hand to display the broken spear.

“Bring it to me,” commanded the radiant figure.

At Scathach’s bidding, Max walked forward, resisting the desire to turn away from the searing radiance. The hound walked beside him. Once he stood at the foot of the throne, the man extended his hand to receive the weapon.

“Strong and fair was he who bore this long ago,” said the man, examining the blade. “Are you worthy of it?”

“I am,” said Max, meeting the man’s impassive gaze.

“How are you named?” asked the man.

Max paused a moment, glancing at the hound, before responding.

“I’m Max McDaniels.”

The man bowed his head in greeting.

“You stand before Lugh the Long-Handed, High King of Rodrubân. You come seeking that which was entrusted to me. You are my son.”

The man’s words echoed in Max’s ears. A flood of emotions welled up within him. Gazing upon the shining figure, Max knew he spoke the truth. Scott McDaniels was not his father; Max’s entire life and identity had been a lie. Lugh rose from his throne to tower over Max, who stood only to his chest. There was no love or warmth in the High King’s expression, merely a distant curiosity. Placing the broken spear on Max’s palm, Lugh closed his fingers about the splintered haft.

“Scathach shall judge if you are worthy,” he said.

“But I have no time for tests,” protested Max, fighting tears. “There’s so much I have to do!”

“You are not yet ready,” said Lugh. He motioned for Scathach to lead Max from the hall; the audience was finished. Before departing, Max looked back to see the great hound settling once again at Lugh’s feet. As Scathach closed the door, the High King issued one last command.

“Break him.”