The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter (25 page)

Stephen edged his way to the end of the plank, found his walking stick, and tucked it under his arm.  Then he lowered himself slowly over the lip of the pit and began climbing down.  Partway, the walking stick fell from its tenuous position and dropped.  Stephen listened, but didn’t hear it clatter on the bottom.

Either it was a long, long way down, or the landing was soft.  He’d know soon enough.

Hand over hand, Stephen descended into the pit.  The farther he went, the warmer it became.  Ten feet down, Stephen’s face no longer stung with cold.  At twenty, he began to perspire.  At thirty, it was only the proximity of the iron that kept him from gasping with the heat.  At forty feet, the temperature leveled off to bearable, although it had become stiflingly close, and the smell that had been unpleasant above was now almost tangible.

Stephen ignored the smell.  He was an enchanter; bad smells were comfortingly familiar.

Stephen’s foot found the last rung, and he braced his feet against the wall to lower himself further down until he dangled.  His foot barely brushed the ground—but then, Robin was a few inches taller than he.  He braced himself for impact and released the rung.

The ground sank away from his feet when he landed on it.  Stephen flopped on it, then off it, and rolled to the real ground, another eight feet down.  He threw out an arm and landed heavily on it.

Stephen curled around his arm, crying quietly in the darkness.  The thing he had landed on slithered past him, its warm, slimy flesh brushing his face.  If it knew he was there, it made no sign of it.

The smell was stronger than ever.  He needed to keep moving.  There might be more of those things, or other creatures, ones that would not take kindly to an enchanter in their midst.

Stephen tentatively wriggled his fingers, rolled his shoulder, and bent his arm.  He prodded the arm, feeling it up and down.

No breaks.  No dislocated shoulder.  It would be bruised, probably severely, but he hadn’t expected to fall, and had been relaxed—and had managed to land well, spreading the impact throughout his entire body.

It was partly luck, but mostly thirty winters of walking on ice with imperfect balance.  One learned how to fall.

But it still hurt. 

There were ways, Stephen knew, of enchanting something to give off light, but most of them took glass globes or mirrors or at least time to gather light from the sun.  He had none of these and if he had, he wouldn’t have used them.  If the creatures couldn’t see him, he wasn’t about to help them out.  He stripped off a glove, licked a finger, rotated it in the air, and followed the airflow.

He walked carefully, picking up his feet to avoid stumbling.  The ground was packed dirt, but there were piles here and there—thick, gloppy piles.  Twice, he stepped in them and sank up to his knees. 

The creature—or perhaps another like it—felt his vibrations and slid up to him.  Stephen froze, but it made no attempt to eat him.  It simply leaned against him and rubbed itself back and forth, as if it were scratching an itch.  When Stephen stepped cautiously forward, it moved with him.  It wasn’t doing any harm, and it didn’t stop him, so he did his best to ignore it.

Stephen walked on, the creature accompanying him.  After a while, a second creature joined them, then a third, until they were crowded behind him, almost pushing him on.  Again, they did not seem particularly interested in him.  They were joining ranks because that’s what the others were doing.  In this way, Stephen found himself propelled upward and outward with far less effort than he had expected. 

When Stephen finally spotted the fading sunlight at the end of the tunnel, the creatures began peeling off.  They didn’t like the cold.  The one that had first joined him stayed the longest, still rubbing itself against him.  But at the mouth of the tunnel, it too stopped.

Stephen stepped into the open air, reeking of slime.  He had been studiously not looking at his companion, but now he turned back, and caught the tail end of whatever it was that had guided him out.

The creature was enormous and whitish, with little bits of pink under its skin, bisected at regular intervals, its backend thinning in a not-quite tail.

A maggot.  The pit was full of maggots.

Stephen grabbed at the nearest bush and began vigorously brushing the slime off his robes—to no effect.  He rubbed handfuls of snow on his robes, ripped off his gloves and used one of his scarves to scrape the goo from his face.  He scrubbed his hands in the snow, managed to find a clean handkerchief, spit on it, and wiped the rest of the slime from his face and hands.

Only then did he hear the gentle burbles of running water.  He had found the third bridge.

The third bridge.  Robin’s Bridge.  The most dangerous of the three, because Robin liked to give his victims hope, so he could watch it fade from their eyes as they died.

On the far side of the bridge lay a narrow cliff.  Trees clung to it, and Stephen used them to help him along, ducking beneath their lower branches, leaning on them when he grew tired.  After a while, he began to relax again, to enjoy walking.  A tune came to his mind, and he hummed and then sang it.  You may be familiar with the song.  Part of it goes like this:

Red robin was so pleased with himself

And had such a very stuffed head

That he overbalanced and fell from a tree—

And not a soul cares that he’s dead.

“I’ve heard that one,” said Robin, falling into step with him.  “I’ve heard every song about robins that has ever been written.”

“Have you written any yourself?”

“A few.  Stop walking.”

Stephen obeyed.  He hadn’t really expected Robin to let him walk out.  He had known Robin would catch him before the end.

He should have spent those hours enchanting something.  He would have, if he had thought any brief enchantment could overcome Dog.  Instead, he had focused on speed, had hoped that would be enough. 

For that matter—“Where is Dog?” Stephen asked, finally turning to look at Robin.  Robin was wearing the grey-white cloak that Stephen had seen in the house, only now he also had grey-white hat and glove and scarf and really, Stephen thought, it was no surprise he hadn’t seen him.

“Savage,” Robin said.

“He’s savage?”

“I renamed him Savage.  It’s a much better name than Dog.  And he’s busy.”

“I see,” said Stephen, and began to walk on.

“Stop.”

Stephen stopped.  “Let’s walk as we talk.”

“Certainly not.  We’re closer than you think; there would be no time for a chat before you crossed the borders of my woods.”

“What shall we chat about, then?  Do you have another story for me?”

“No.  But we can talk until you can’t bear it any longer, and run for the edge.”

“No man can outrun an arrow.”

“Most men try, in the end.  Won’t you?”

“I might.”  An idea had presented itself to Stephen, a difficult, dangerous, and most definitely illegal idea.  He wasn’t sure he could pull it off.  He was tired from a day’s walking, true, but mostly
his fatigue was due to the wearing of stress and fear.  But he had not enchanted anything since making Dog, and was brimming with magic.

“Go ahead and run whenever you like.  I do have other places to be, other people to kill.”

“Robin—”

“And don’t you try to bring up our deal again.  I’ve fulfilled my part, and you’ll get no more out of me.  My deal with the Fairy Queen takes precedence.”

“Robin,” said Stephen, “Robin of Robin’s Woods, born of the town now known as Robin’s Haven, indentured of the Fairy Queen, murderer, liar: look at me.”

Robin obeyed.  There was a ringing, hypnotic quality to the enchanter’s voice that could not be ignored.  As Robin met the enchanter’s eyes, tendrils of magic wrapped around his mind, bending his will.

It was easy.  The magic came to Stephen as if from long years of practice—because, of course, he had had long years of practice.  Every time he had struck a pose, gone into enchanter mode, he had done the same.  It had not always worked—in Crying it had been a bluff, and in Chubblewooble it had been canceled by bands of iron and running water—but he had done it.  Angry villagers had been subdued to his will—as had reticent customers, violent drunks, and, indeed, the company itself.

Bedazzlement.

“Do not break eye-contact,” Stephen said, expertly calming the buzzing confusion in Robin’s mind.  “Throw away your bow—throw away all your weapons, but touch nothing iron, and do not break eye-contact.  Good.  Now lie on the ground, looking at me.  Lie on your stomach in the snow.”

Stephen was backing up quickly, feeling his way past trees.  He was almost at the edge.

“Hold your breath.  Keep holding it.  Do not breathe.”

Robin’s face went white, red, and at last blue.  Stephen fumbled and almost stumbled over a bush.  He couldn’t see where he was going, wasn’t sure he was still following the path.

“Put your face in the snow!” Stephen barked.  As Robin obeyed, Stephen turned and sprinted toward the edge of the woods.

Robin leapt to his feet, roaring in fury—and his knees gave way, starved of oxygen. 

Where was the path?  Stephen had lost it.  He must be at the very edge of the woods, but the way out was blocked by enormous boulders.  Where was the crack?  Where was the exit?

Robin regained his breath and ran after Stephen, drawing the one weapon he had been unable to throw away—a long, iron knife.  Stephen whirled to face him, his own knife drawn.

Dozens of rodent-sized creatures burst from the undergrowth and swarmed over Robin.  Robin swung his powerful arms and stamped his feet, but more came, and more, weighing him down, bearing him to the ground.  They danced over him with their spindly legs, pinning the arm with the iron knife.

Stephen finally spotted the gap and stepped toward it—then paused.  “I know you,” he murmured, mostly to himself.  “Don’t I?  I must know you.”

One of the creatures detached itself from the swarm and hobbled toward Stephen.  It was barely half the height of its companions, and tottered unsteadily on three legs.  When Stephen crouched and looked down on it, it returned his gaze with great dignity.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” Stephen said.  “How have you made the others?  Have you been channeling magic from me?  I never noticed.”

The spit-mud monster preened.  “Didn’t take much.  Wanted to survive.  Magic running low.  Needed help.”

“I’m amazed your magic didn’t all run out before I was unbound.  In truth, I never imagined that you’d be so alive.  It must come from using myself as part of the enchantment.  That’s fascinating.  I knew there might be side effects, but I admit, I never expected them to be so long lasting and impressive.” 

Stephen might have gone on in this vein for some time, had not Robin managed to free his mouth and yell, “Enchanter!”

“On the other hand,” Stephen told the tripod spit-mud, “I’d rather we talk about this later.  I’m in rather a hurry.”

“Wait!  We need—”

“Not now; come see me afterwards.”

Stephen stepped through the gap, out of the woods, and onto a royal road.

These best laid plans, how strange they are

How little, I think, they work

“There you are!” exclaimed Letitia.  “I was wondering if any of you would manage to get out alive!”

Stephen bent over, panting.

“There’s no need to be rude—you might say hello.  Oh, you’re filthy—and bleeding.”  Letitia bustled over to inspect him, pulling supplies out of her bag.  “Hold still—don’t fidget so!  What’s wrong with you?  You’re safe now.  Stay put and I’ll do what I can for you.  No, no—stay put.  Sit down immediately before you hurt yourself.”

“Shouldn’t we move a little farther away?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Letitia snapped; “he can’t leave those woods.  Come sit by the fire; it’s warmer.”

“No, but he could send an arrow after us—although I suppose not with a broken bow.  And that would ruin his little game . . . but he might change the rules, if it pleased him.”

Letitia gave him a very odd look.  “I see,” she said skeptically.  “Are any of the others alive?”

“I don’t know,” Stephen admitted.  “I suppose there’s a faint chance, if Robin’s been primarily focused on heading off me . . . which I don’t know is true.  I haven’t seen them since this morning, but at that point in time—yes, some of them were alive.  The Jolly Executioner was alive, as was Youngster and—and so were six or seven others.”

“Then we will wait for them a while, and see if they come.  I told you to hold still!”

Stephen plopped down onto the earth next to the fire and allowed Letitia to fuss over him, but his eyes never left the tree line.  He saw no sign of Robin, and none of Robin’s arrows flew through the air to kill him, and so slowly, reluctantly, he relaxed. 

The sun slunk lower in the sky and dyed the clouds a pale pink.  The snow did not return, but a chill wind whistled through the trees, rattling branches and fluffing snow.

“Weren’t you locked up with the others?” Stephen said at last, adding another branch to the fire.

“Robin never caught me.  I was aware of the danger inherent in entering those woods, and so took precautions.  You may recall that I warned the Jolly Executioner—and warned you—but you were all too proud to listen to me.”

“So what, you ran away at the first sign of trouble?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not very heroic.”

“You would have done the same thing, given the chance,” said Letitia, and Stephen opened his mouth to agree before wondering if this were really true.  He thought he might have stayed willingly, if he had been sure he could have helped the company—which he wasn’t sure he had.

Stephen was jerked from his reverie by a pleasantly familiar bark, and a great yelling from inside the woods.

“Dog!” Stephen called, springing to his feet.  “Dog!  Here, boy!”

“Don’t pass the tree line,” Letitia cautioned him.  Stephen favored this bit of idiocy with the reply it deserved: none.  As if he would return into those woods after he had barely escaped them!  As if he would sacrifice himself for the sake of a dog!

“Dog!”

“Get him off us!” a voice roared back, and the Jolly Executioner burst into view, closely followed by three others—Miss Ironfist, Craggy, another . . . Dog was chasing them, his tongue hanging between his teeth, a doggy smile upon his face.  He barked cheerfully at Stephen, then leapt sideways, hitting Miss Ironfist’s back.  In that moment of distraction, Youngster burst out of bushes on the far side of the trail, where he must have been hiding for some time, creeping his way toward the gap in the rocks.

As Youngster ran, Miss Ironfist collapsed onto the ground, shrieking, trying unsuccessfully to roll away and waving her nail studded-truncheon.  Dog batted the truncheon away with one paw, lowered his head, and ripped out her throat.

“Dog!  Bad dog!” Stephen yelled, aghast.  “Dog, let them pass; let them pass; let them out!  Dog!”

Dog paused to gaze reproachfully at Stephen, his ears drooping, wide-eyed and confused. 
What do you mean, ‘bad dog?
’ he seemed to be asking. 
I’m not a bad dog.  What have I done wrong?  Surely you don’t mean that.  I’m a good dog!
  He brought one paw up to his snout and began licking away the blood.  As he did so, the last of the company passed the line of Robin’s Friends, and fell into the safety of the land beyond.  They collapsed to the ground, breathing heavily, clutching at wounds and stitches.  Letitia rushed to help them, salves and bandages at the ready.

“Good dog, Savage,” a new voice approved—Robin!  He was standing not twenty feet away, inside his woods.  He nodded to Stephen.  “I don’t mind letting a few people through, now and again.  It helps spread the legend.”  He smiled and nodded to Dog.  “Savage is such a good dog, and he does love me dearly.  He always obeys me.  Soon, he’ll forget you altogether.”

“Yes,” said Stephen.  “I know.”

Dog trotted up to Robin and nudged him, begging to be petted.  Robin obliged him, nodded again to Stephen, and then he and Dog—no; then he and
Savage
trotted off together, not looking back.  A moment later, they disappeared into the dusky woods.

The Jolly Executioner was not pleased.  He was not, he emphasized, an unreasonable man.  It should be noted and respected that he did not expect the impossible from his men; he just demanded the best.  Not two months before, he had taken considerable time and energy and resources in compiling the best possible company—a company twenty strong (himself included), every member a keen fighter, loyal follower, and powerful ally . . . or so he had thought. 

Like any good leader—and he was a superb leader—he had begun training his men early, getting them in shape for the final and most important battle.  He had supplied his men with lesser monsters on which to practice and found magic-users to supplement their abilities.  In all fairness, he should now have a strong, ready company, unbeatable in exercise and true to form.  Instead, after this simplest of trials, the company had let him down.  Its members had allowed themselves to become killed or maimed, and now only two of his original followers remained.

“Three,” said Youngster.

The Jolly Executioner glowered through his hood—then nodded, accepting the correction.

Three then—three, if you must!  Three bounty hunters, two magic-users, and his own valuable self.  He had hoped to have a total of twenty-two—ideally he would!  Worst-case scenario (he had predicted), he should have lost no more than a dozen . . . and now he was left with six—six!  Including himself!  For his most valuable
Mission!

“I knew someone had died before I joined this company,” Stephen muttered to Youngster in an undertone, “because of the extra horse.  Who was it?”

Youngster shook his head; he was listening to the Jolly Executioner with an expression somewhere between amusement, annoyance, and anguish.

“Six!  One permanently brain-damaged from beating his head against a wall, one a child, one a monster-making maniac, one a murderous witch, and one—one other.  I hired a company to assist me, and now it looks like I’ll have to do the dirty work myself after all—unless one of you thinks you can do some measly good with your measly skills.”

“Our measly skills have allowed us to survive this long,” said Letitia.  “And if you’re grumpy, think of it this way: if the six of us are the only survivors, we must be the toughest of the company.  Your training exercise did work—it weeded out the weak and left behind the strong core.

“This ‘strong core’ wouldn’t have survived, were it not for the sacrifices of the others,” Youngster pointed out sourly.  “Unless you intend that all of us should run away at the first sign of trouble, like you.  If you had done the honorable thing and stayed with us, I daresay that dog could’ve killed you as easily as Miss Ironfist.  She, at least, was brave.”

“A couple of weeks ago,” mused Stephen, “I wouldn’t have thought anything could bring down Miss Ironfist.  She seemed so indestructible.”

“Maybe nothing could have taken her down,” suggested Letitia, “until you made that dog and presented it to that madman.”

“Maybe,” said Stephen.  “And maybe if you had stayed to help Miss Ironfist, not even Dog could have killed her.”

“Why should I clean up after the enchanter’s faulty enchantment?”

“My enchantment was not faulty!  If anything, it was too good!  What can you say in your favor, witch?  Where was your magic?  For that matter, where was that crossbow with which you claimed so much skill?”

“Not being used to kill my own companions, I can tell you that.  I can control my weapons.”

“Stop it!” cried Youngster.  “That’s not fair—he saved our lives by trading his dog, when he could have run off and left us.”

“Did Robin tell you that?”

“What’s done is done,” Craggy said quietly.

“Exactly!  So stop it!”

Stephen fell silent, startled, grateful for Youngster’s defense. 

The Jolly Executioner was still grumbling to himself, wondering aloud how any of his remaining company could possibly assist him.  Stephen listened for a while, before saying dryly, “How should I know if I can help you when you still haven’t told me what this mission of yours
is
?  All the answer I’ve managed to wrangle is, ‘something like bounty hunting’ and ‘something to do with the king.’  I’ve worked steadily under your command, fulfilling my life debt perfectly.  How about showing me some trust?”

“Yes; tell us what you desire to kill,” said the last member of the company.  This member did not have a name—or at least, not a name given by Stephen.  Stephen had never sufficiently interacted with the individual to grant a name, or know which would fit.  For that matter, Stephen doubted he could have recognized the face out of a lineup, even if hailed . . . which was unusual, in and of itself, for Stephen usually had a decent memory for faces.  The problem with this one was that it was so entirely un-extraordinary that Stephen couldn’t grasp onto a single feature.  What an entirely forgettable person!

That was, Stephen supposed, one way to stay safe against the wrath of Robin and other monsters: to remain unnoticed and unnoticeable. 

Then Stephen himself switched his attention away, because the Jolly Executioner was speaking . . . and saying words Stephen had never expected to hear:

“You’re right.”

For a split-second, Stephen was sure he must have misheard.  No: the Jolly Executioner had actually conceded—and to Stephen! 

“Tomorrow, we travel north into Faerie.”

“Into Faerie!” Stephen exclaimed, forgetting himself.  “Are you mad?”

“You haven’t heard the rest of it,” Youngster told him.  “It gets better.”

“It has come to the attention of our good King Erich III—may he rule long and prosper greatly, and may all his enemies fall before him—that the borders of Faerie have been encroaching ever more upon the Kingdom of Locklost.

“Through much toil and careful research, Royal Historians have ascertained that, over the past century, Locklost has lost more than five miles at her northern border.  As it is likely that the border movement has been continuing for much longer than that, the problem has become quite severe . . . and in time, Locklost would be entirely swallowed up into Faerie.

“Our good King Erich III—may he rule long and prosper greatly, and may all his enemies fall before him—naturally reacted with his usual diplomacy, and sent messengers to Faerie, in order to demand a return of lands and ample recompense for the theft.  None of the scouts returned.  More were sent, but did not return.  Instead, fairies came to the court and mocked our good King Erich III—may he rule long and prosper greatly, and may all his enemies fall before him—which naturally enraged him—”

“What I heard,” Youngster whispered to Stephen, “is that the king heard how beautiful the Fairy Queen was, and proposed marriage to her via the messengers.  She scorned him openly, in front of his court with a most rude reply, and that’s why he hates her.”