But the scent did spook the vyes. Max had silently slain three more before the wind changed and carried the smell of death to their comrades. They whirled about just as Max smacked the flanks of the closest horse and sent it cantering into their midst.
As the vyes charged, Max met them head-on, a lethal blur of motion nearly too fast for the creatures to see, much less strike. He evaded each spear point and cavalry saber with fluid ease as the Morrígan’s blade struck home time and time again. It clove metal in two, shearing through helmets and hauberks in a scream of red sparks. The hunters had become the hunted and the battle devolved into a massacre. When only four vyes remained, they tried to flee.
Max raced after in pursuit, desperate to let none escape and return with greater force. The last made it no farther than the other side of the lake before Max ran its destrier down, tearing the vye from the saddle and ending his life with a savage stab through the heart. It was all over in minutes.
Panting, Max stood and scanned the surrounding country. Every sense was electric and terrifying; his fingers twitched as the Old Magic howled within him—always pushing, straining for total control. The gae bolga burned in his hand. It whispered to Max, urging him to hunt down Prusias and finish what he’d started. He could destroy the King of Blys and save Rowan this very night. Who cared if he ultimately fell in battle? People would sing of Max McDaniels for a thousand years—the boy who slew the Great Red Dragon.
What are you about? Answer quick or I’ll gobble you up!
The wolfhound’s challenge echoed in Max’s mind.
“I’m a god,” he whispered, steam coursing off his body. “A god of war and blood and victory. Every day I grow stronger. I’ll drive every army before me. My enemies will know fear like they’ve never known it before.…”
Visions appeared before him: Prusias’s palace engulfed in flames, the marids’ crystal towers crashing down into the sea. One by one, Max would conquer the other kingdoms. And when he had broken all resistance and sent all evil things slinking back into the shadows, David would set things aright. David would pick up the pieces and govern and heal the hurts of the world. The Great War could start tonight. Prusias was so … very … close.
Night was waning when Max finally put the visions and whispers to rest. He had remained absolutely still throughout this silent battle, a brooding statue locked in a struggle to master the forces within him. The Old Magic wanted so desperately to break free, to purge Max of everything human and mortal, weak and loving. He had struggled all his life to keep it bottled up, to divert these energies and control them until they subsided. But the Old Magic was growing stronger … and in the gae bolga, it had a new and potent ally. Unless Max discovered new reserves of will, this was a battle he would someday lose.
But he would not lose it tonight. Max gazed down at the blade in his hand. It was such a grisly weapon, and now there was blood frozen on its blade, lacing the metal like red syrup. For the moment, the Morrígan’s presence was subdued, but Max knew it was forever lurking, forever poised for its next victim and opportunity. Looking down, Max stared at the body of the last vye. His teeth were bared in a death grimace, the yellow eyes staring blindly at a barren elm. His mount was nearby, quietly nosing about for grass and nettles as its hooves scraped through the crusted snow. Gazing about, Max saw a score of dark, motionless shapes scattered about the shoreline.
He dragged the vyes into the lake, letting the water buoy the bodies until he could shove them farther out. Their armor sank them to the bottom, burying each in a grave of silt and reeds.
The sky was growing light by the time he rounded up two of the great black horses. He had hoped to bring more, but the animals were trained for war, for attacking another’s mount in the midst of a chaotic battlefield. Without a rider to control them, they grew aggressive whenever another stood too near. Max could only manage two. Holding their reins at arm’s length, he led the gigantic horses back into the woods.
Madam Petra was pacing anxiously when Max returned. Their hasty camp was packed and most of the embers were buried beneath dirt and snow. David was bundled in blankets, lying next to the beginnings of a travois so they might drag the injured boy over the snowy ground. The smuggler glanced up, looking utterly spent.
“I’d almost given up on you,” she muttered before eyeing the horses. “They only sent two?”
“Twenty.”
“And they are …?”
“Dead,” replied Max curtly, bending down to inspect Toby. The smee had taken his native shape and was warming himself by a pyramid of embers.
“Don’t fret,” declared the smee bravely. “I’ll be all right and war stories work wonders with the ladies. I can tell them all about how I saved you from going squish!”
Max grinned and crouched over David.
“You changed his dressings,” he observed, examining David’s wounds.
“Did you think we’d leave an injured boy to die in the wild?” the smuggler snapped. “Katarina tended to him all night.”
Max thanked the girl, who merely stared at Max with a glassy, curious expression.
“You killed them all?” she wondered.
Max looked away. “More will come,” he said. “We have to be off and quickly. We’re still much too close to that army. Bholevna’s north of here?”
Madam Petra nodded.
“Well,” said Max, “these horses might be big, but they’re still just horses. You and Katarina can ride one and I’ll take David on the other.”
“So I don’t have to be a steed?” said Toby, audibly relieved.
“No,” said Max, scooping him up. “You’ve earned a ride in style.”
Within ten minutes they were packed and mounted with Max balancing David on the saddle in front of him. The Kosas were clearly expert riders, sitting easily on the great horse and stroking its braided mane. Max noticed Madam Petra staring curiously at him.
“Letting us ride together?” she wondered, a faint smile on her lips. “Not afraid we’ll gallop off?”
Max nodded toward the travois. “Not anymore,” he said, taking up the reins and spurring his horse ahead.
They rode throughout the morning and into the afternoon, the horses picking their way through forests and along snowy streams, cantering whenever it was possible. While David dozed, Toby nestled in the folds of Max’s hood and bombarded him with reflections about casino odds, the meaning of life, and his fondness for baked potatoes.
“But I have to enjoy them on the sly,” the smee reflected sadly. “Otherwise everyone looks at me like I’m some damned cannibal. Why, that goose Hannah once caught me feasting on one and practically—”
“So, what’s the matter with you?” interrupted Max, growing weary of these ramblings.
“There’s nothing the matter with me, sir!” thundered Toby. “Potatoes are an entirely different species!”
“No,” said Max. “What’s injured?”
“Oh,” sniffed the smee, lying back. “It’s my latissimus nub. The right one can flare up whenever I carry something heavy. Nothing a hot bath and some Epsom salts can’t cure. Perhaps Madam Petra can give it a deep tissue massage. I don’t want to boast, but the woman can’t keep her eyes off me.”
Max sighed. The smee persisted.
“Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” he declared. “ ‘Come off it, Toby old chap—the woman’s merely staring out of revolted curiosity.’ And perhaps you’re right. But I’ve seen that look before, my boy, and it almost always precedes a scandal.”