The Red Winter Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text, map, and interior illustrations copyright © 2014 by Henry H. Neff

  Cover art copyright © 2014 by Cory Godbey

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

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  ISBN 978-0-375-97140-2 (ebook)

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  v3.1

  For James.

  Sol Invictus!

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1. A Crownless King

  2. Shrope Hovel

  3. Queen o’ the Mound

  4. Devils You Know

  5. The Boy Who Came to Rodrubân

  6. Mysterious Mr. Menlo

  7. Lord Salisbury’s Tale

  8. Flotsam and Jetsam

  9. An Oklahoma Girl

  10. Nether

  11. Blood Magic

  12. A Lady in Black

  13. A Lady in Red

  14. Servant of the Starving Gods

  15. The Conspirators’ Ball

  16. The Raszna

  17. Apocrypha

  18. The Professional

  19. A Jovian View

  20. Dragon Hunting

  21. Deus Ex Machina

  22. Juggernaut

  23. The Giant’s Song

  24. Leviathan Stirs

  25. Tartarus

  26. Strange Bedfellows

  27. Ymir

  28. The Red Winter Treaty

  Epilogue

  Map

  Pronunciation Guide/Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  The Witchpeaks are the tallest mountains in the world. At one time they were called the Himalayas, an “abode of snow” in ancient Sanskrit, but no longer. That name—like so much else in the world—had changed when Astaroth came to power. Although the mountains were still wreathed in snow, they were now named for their chief inhabitants.

  Most of the witches lived below the timberline, but their holy places were nestled nearer to the summits. Some were little more than primitive shrines, perched on storm-lashed ledges where the witches prayed to their gods and wove the wild magic of their kind. But the most sacred spaces were inside the mountains, carven temples containing treasures that dated back to Neolithic man. These were known as the ossuaries, and their treasures were not gold or jewels, but human hair, skin, and bone.

  Living men were not permitted in the ossuaries, but one was now ascending the summit of great Ymir, which housed the largest collection of remains. The witch watching him could tell he was not a native Sherpa or one of their own servants. He carried no pack or walking stick—he did not even use a rope or ax to anchor himself when the gales came howling as they always did at sunset. Why Ymir did not shake off this foolish pilgrim, she could not tell, but it would happen soon. And so the old witch sat comfortably by the brazier, chewed her betel, and waited for him to die.

  It was late when he reached her. He stood panting at the edge of the firelight, his tangled hair crusted with ice and crowned by the twinkling stars. Spitting her quid into a cup, the witch grinned and revealed a mouthful of filed, red-stained teeth.

  “I was rooting for you,” she lied. “I have never seen one climb the mountain as you have done. Ymir must favor you. A pity I must turn you away.”

  The stranger did not reply. He must not speak our tongue, thought the witch, and wagged a bony finger. “You cannot enter,” she croaked in English. “I am sorry, but you must leave.” With a smile, she bowed and made a sign of peace.

  “I must enter,” rasped the stranger, speaking Nepalese and stamping the snow from his boots. Tiny icicles fell from his gray beard and black cloak to shatter on the ledge’s flagstones. He was a tall, rangy man with a weathered face and eyes like iron rivets. His voice was deep and assured. This was no lost soul, no poppy-addled wanderer seeking death or wisdom.

  The witch smiled a different sort of smile.

  “Men do not enter here,” she growled. “Begone or I’ll summon ghosts to devour your flesh and scatter your bones on the wind!” With a jangle of bracelets, she shook her arms free of her furs to show this stranger the many runes tattooed upon her brown skin. Even a fool must see that she was no trifle and that ancient spirits owed her their allegiance.

  “I have entered here before,” the man replied. “And each time I have climbed the mountain to honor your traditions. But that is slow work and now I require haste, Dame Hakku.”

  The witch’s fierce grin evaporated.

  “H-how do you know my name?” she sputtered. “Who are you?”

  “Bram.”

  The very word radiated power. Even as he spoke it, the witch froze as though time had stopped. She stared ahead unblinking, her body stiff as a corpse while the man bent to wrap her furs warmly about her. When this was done, he strode away beneath the archway.

  Hours passed before he returned, emerging like Virgil’s shade from the ossuaries’ depths. Night was fading, the stars growing pale as the first hints of dawn shone in the eastern sky. Miles below, the earth was hidden beneath a sea of clouds that stretched away to the pink horizon.

  Dame Hakku remained by the smoking braziers, hunched like a gargoyle. She longed to move, to flee, to alert her sisters to this desecration. But she knew that it was folly. The witch had known it as soon as the visitor uttered his name. True sorcerers were as scarce as comets and there had never been any to match this one.

  He stooped before her now, clutching a pair of Canopic jars from the deepest vaults. The witch wanted to scream. But she merely stared into those hard eyes, transfixed like a bird by a serpent. The eyes softened.

  “I will return them,” he promised.

  “When?” she croaked, dimly aware that her spell had been broken.

  In answer, the sorcerer touched Hakku’s forehead. Her memories of the evening trickled away like water squeezed from a sponge.

  “When we meet again,” he whispered. “For the very first time.”

  And with that he vanished.

  Some demons were older than Prusias, and some were wiser, but none could match his appreciation for the absurd. His robes were of Tyrian silk; his golden throne was studded with gems and the bones of conquered foes. His Majesty should have felt as regal as a god! And yet, here he sat, slumped and bored while his dressings were changed. The malakhim hovered like fussy mothers, peeling old bandages away, dabbing ointment on the wounds, and applying fresh linen with a surgeon’s skill and nurse’s care. Shooing the fiends away, Prusias leaned forward to gaze at a nearby mirror. With a frown, the demon studied his face, turning this way and that, like an actor at curtain call. The bandages were unfortunate, but his hair was black, his lips were red, his teeth were as white as snow. He winked at the reflection.

  Still a handsome fellow.

  From below there was a mild cough. Prusias flicked his attention to his imp. The creature stood on the dais’s topmost step, an inquisitive expression on his little red face.

  “Eh? What’s the problem?”

  “Nothing,
milord,” said the imp. “It’s just … well, our visitors have hardly begun the May report and there are several matters that will require the King of Blys’s input.”

  “Kings don’t give input, Mr. Bonn. They give orders.”

  “My apologies, milord. I spoke poorly.”

  Silence was a vastly underutilized tool, reflected Prusias. He studied its effect as his blue, feline eyes drifted past his chamberlain to the Workshop delegation: eight humans with drab gray uniforms and a tendency to drone. Babbling about how the watch is made when I just want to know the time. The demon’s gaze settled on an engineer with a long, aristocratic face. The man’s fear poured forth in intoxicating waves.

  “I’ve met you before,” said Prusias, his voice a gruff, drowsy baritone. “Your specialty is genetics, is it not, Dr. Wyle?”

  The poor fool nearly curtsied.

  “And why has the Workshop sent me a geneticist?” Prusias wondered. “I need weapons of war, not perfect babies.”

  “Of course, Your Grace. But many of the weapons and machines have biological components and …”

  Dr. Wyle fell silent as the king’s expression darkened. Rising from his throne, Prusias leaned upon a golden cane and bulled down the dais steps. Even in this hobbled human form, the demon was an imposing figure, towering and broad with a plaited beard and twisting thickets of coarse black hair. As Prusias loomed above the scientists, Blys’s Grand Inquisitor turned from her work and set down her instruments.

  “The dreadnoughts had biological components,” Prusias growled. “They had flesh and eyes and tiny imp brains tangled up in all that machinery. And do you know what Rowan did with my beautiful dreadnoughts?”

  The man cleared his throat. “They turned them against you, Your Majesty.”

  “Correct, Dr. Wyle. Just when I was poised to conquer Rowan, your dreadnoughts trampled my army and forced me to make a humiliating retreat. ‘Biological components’ led to quite a reversal of fortune, Dr. Wyle—a reversal so dramatic that some of my braymas saw fit to rebel.”

  Taking the man by the shoulders, the King of Blys turned him about so he could get an unobstructed view of the far alcove. When the scientist glimpsed the Grand Inquisitor and the figures splayed behind her, he nearly fainted. Prusias steadied him as though they were bosom friends at the end of a carouse.

  “One table’s still empty,” the demon whispered. “Look hard at that table and explain why the Workshop’s still putting ‘biological components’ in my toys.”

  Gasping, the man struggled to find his voice. “W-with infinite respect, Your Majesty, Rowan did not exploit a biological weakness, but a spiritual one. Our analysts believe Rowan’s sorcerer was able to possess the dreadnought imps because their spirits had been severed to enable the summoning capabilities. When these halves were reunited, the souls they formed were imperfect and vulnerable to a sorcerer of David Menlo’s abilities.”

  “And why didn’t you anticipate this?”

  “Forgive me, but this is hardly our area of expertise. The Workshop merely engineered the weapon’s mechanical and biological components. Your magicians were responsible for the imps. The mechanical and biological components performed perfectly. If Your Majesty wishes, I would be happy to explain their basic functions.”

  The demon glanced sharply at him. Is this insect making game of me? No … his fear was too ripe, too present. Still, Prusias drummed his fingers lightly on Dr. Wyle’s shoulder.

  “It isn’t wise to patronize me.”

  The scientist began to hyperventilate. With a roll of his eyes, Prusias gestured for his imp.

  “Mr. Bonn, have chairs and refreshments brought for our guests. They look tired and I fear I’ve been too hard on our poor geneticist. I should like to hear more from Dr. Wyle.”

  The malakhim brought all that was required, silent and anonymous in their black robes and obsidian masks. While the engineers briefed him on various projects, Prusias enjoyed Bordeaux from a cup that had once belonged to Napoleon. Glancing at its seal, the demon reminisced on the emperor and how he’d begged for aid at Austerlitz. What would that crafty little Corsican make of my situation? But alas, Prusias had him poisoned centuries ago. The man should have honored his debts. Wiping his beard, the King of Blys took up an orthographic drawing and studied it by candlelight.

  “What the bloody hell is this supposed to be?”

  “Your navy, Your Majesty,” answered the recovering Dr. Wyle.

  “I already have a navy.”

  “Of course,” said the engineer delicately. “But your fleets were somewhat depleted with the attack on Rowan and you’ve—I mean we’ve—lost more ships recently off the Isle of Man.”

  “Don’t speak of that. More are building.”

  “But that will take months,” said Dr. Wyle. “Meanwhile Rowan’s forces are about to sail for these shores. Over three hundred ships and a sizable army.”

  “A ‘sizable army,’ ” chuckled the king. “Let them come! I can spare ten soldiers for every one of theirs. No, they’ve had their stroke of luck. My own braymas pose a greater threat than little Rowan.”

  “Unfortunately, Rowan is actively building a coalition,” said Dr. Hayden, the Workshop’s intelligence liaison. “Their operatives are making inroads with braymas of dubious loyalty. While Rowan’s strength is not limited to its armada, its fortunes depend upon it. If this fleet were destroyed or significantly weakened, no one will entertain Rowan’s overtures. They would have to abandon this war. Your enemies would remain isolated and scattered.”

  Prusias glanced again at the drawing, studying the ungainly shapes and contours. “And how is this going to destroy Rowan’s fleet? It looks puny.”

  “It’s not,” said Dr. Wyle. “This model is based on a modified Humboldt strain whose elements we used to great effect in the dreadnought. And, of course, other species are present.”

  Prusias squinted. “In some ways it resembles your gargoyles.”

  Dr. Wyle nodded. “It’s the eyes. They’re unmistakable.”

  Prusias tossed the drawing with the rest. “Rot its eyes. I’m concerned about its brain. What’s controlling it? And don’t tell me it’s a bloody imp!”

  “Never again, Your Majesty,” Dr. Wyle assured him. “These utilize an artificial intelligence similar to the one we employ in the pinlegs and the gargoyles. Rowan cannot possess them because there is nothing to possess. But perhaps the king would like to see a demonstration.”

  Taking the small filmscreen, Prusias watched a clip of the creature overtaking and devouring a whale. He gave an approving grunt. “How many do you have?”

  “Three prototypes at present,” replied the geneticist. “However, should His Majesty provide the necessary resources, we can initiate mass production. Even accounting for cannibalism, the accelerant tanks can produce dozens before Rowan reaches the Strait.”

  Prusias chuckled. “What do you think, Mr. Bonn? Shall we loose these horrors upon our Rowan friends?”

  The imp cleared his throat. “A second navy sounds most appealing, Your Majesty. It also sounds expensive. My king is already heavily committed. This evening’s festivities alone shall cost—”

  Prusias cut him short. “Why on earth did I ask you?” he grumbled. “Of course you’d fret over pennies. You never think big, Mr. Bonn—that’s why you’re still an imp.”

  Mr. Bonn weathered the gibe with a bow, as he always did. Prusias wondered why he bothered with him. Mr. Bonn was a peculiar imp, hated bloodshed and the arena games. Would rather read a book than attend his lord’s parties. For god’s sake—he couldn’t even take another shape! There were no spiders or bats, mice or moths in Mr. Bonn’s bag of tricks. The imp was rather pathetic, and yet, whenever the king was tempted to devour him or release him from service, he found that he could not. You’re too sentimental, Prusias. It will be your undoing.

  Still, it could not be denied that the Workshop’s accelerant tanks were horrifically expensive. Nature could be bent and bullied, bu
t not cheated. Speeding up the dreadnoughts’ growth had required vast quantities of food and rare minerals, enough to make a sizable dent in the kingdom’s stores and coffers. Blys would feel this new investment; she would feel it deep down in her gut. Many slaves would starve, but Prusias consoled himself that new wars brought new slaves. Snatching up the authorization papers, he affixed his seal in plum-colored wax.

  “Make my monsters, Dr. Wyle. I expect great things. What else do you have?”

  The Workshop had a great deal. Reams of figures and charts and gobbledygook that left the king eyeing the clock. An hour remained until his next meeting—the meeting that really mattered. Growing restless, he seized a round of sample ammunition and turned it over in his hands. The twit blathering about frictionless masonry, Dr. Carlisle, ceased his droning.

  “Did you have a question, Your Grace?”

  “This casing,” Prusias observed. “It reminds me of my Hotchkiss gun at San Juan Hill.”

  The man blinked. “I didn’t realize you’d fought in the Spanish-American War.”

  Prusias grinned. These days, few humans remembered anything before Astaroth acquired the Book of Thoth. Those who did always seemed stunned—even chagrined—by the fact that other beings had experienced much more of “their” history than they had. Prusias found these little epiphanies charming. Humans were like newborns in a nursery: They thought the world began when they opened their eyes and ceased to be when they closed them. He chuckled complacently.

  “Oh, I’ve fought in almost all the wars, Dr. Carlisle. Humans have always called upon me for help with their little squabbles. I’ve pillaged with Cossacks, marched with Crusaders, and fanned the very flames of Dresden. Fought in more wars than I can recall, but I’ve fond memories of the Hotchkiss. Always liked its kick.”

  He rolled the casing across the table to Dr. Carlisle and pushed up from his chair. The engineers stood.

  “You’ve done well,” said Prusias, finishing the wine. “You’ll be my special guests at the party this evening. I daresay you’ll find it interesting. Mr. Bonn will see to your accommodations. My tailors will see that you have something to wear. Lord knows we can’t have you showing up in that.”