The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter (3 page)

“Shut up!” Smith snapped.  “Don’t you ever shut up?”

“I will if you release me.”

“Stop bickering,” said the Executioner.  “I’ve told you what needs doing.  If you want this man beheaded, you’ve got to bind his hands behind his back.”

“You’re making that up!”

“You’re being obstreperous.  Do as I say.”

The townsfolk began to fidget restlessly.  They had come to watch the execution of an enchanter, one whom they believed had done them a great wrong.  There was work to do and they didn’t have all day, and besides, they wanted him dead.  “Hurry up!” someone shouted, and his comrades muttered their agreement.

Smith glared at them until the mayor stepped forward.  He was a burly man whom Stephen had never before seen.  Only his chain of office—bronze—gave away his identity.

And I was supposed to have impersonated him? Stephen thought incredulously.  I’d have to lose six inches and gain a hundred pounds!

“Get on with it,” the mayor said.

“How about a compromise,” said the Executioner.  “I’ll cut the chain between the manacles.  That way, he’ll still be wearing both and you can hold his hands behind his back.”

“I still don’t see why you can’t cut off his head like this,” Smith grumbled.  “Enchanter, hands on the block.  No arguing.”

Stephen, who had no desire for his wrists to be chopped off by mistake, spread his wrists as far apart as they would go, and turned his head away, squeezing his eyes shut.

He heard shuffling, and suddenly something enormous and cold pressed against the air.  Iron.  He opened his eyes and saw that the Executioner had drawn his axe.  It was enormous, razor-sharp, and battle-worthy.

The head was made of the purest iron Stephen had ever felt.

Smith whistled.  “That’s some axe you’ve got there.  Do you chop off heads for a living or something?”

“Or something.  Wrists apart.”

Before Stephen could react, the axe sliced downward, neatly parting the manacle’s chain.  Dead center, and so perfectly judged that the Executioner had only to gently depress the shaft, and it came free from the block.

By the time Stephen had remembered to breathe, Smith was grabbing his wrists and forcing them behind his back.  Smith stuck a boot over Stephen’s spine, pushing him down over the block.

This wasn’t happening to him.  Not to him.

And now on top of his running nose, he’d have a filthy boot print on his back.

“Good,” said the Executioner.  “Hold that position.”

The Executioner swung his axe expertly, and Stephen barely heard a sound before blood sprayed down on him, and the pressure on his arms released.

Stephen kneeled upright and shook out his hands. 

“Get up,” said the Executioner.  “Are you any good at fighting without magic?”

Stephen stood and looked around.  Smith lay on the platform behind him, leaking.

“Can you fight without magic?” the Executioner repeated, more urgently.  The crowd was recovering its wits, and remembering it was armed.

“Not really,” Stephen admitted.  “No.”

Someone dashed up the platform at them, and a moment later a young man lay at Stephen’s feet, sobbing and clutching at his intestines. 

The Executioner wasn’t even winded.

“Stay close to me and do whatever I tell you,” the Executioner said.  “I won’t be able to help you if you fall behind.”  Almost before he had stopped speaking, the Executioner leaped off the platform, axe sweeping.  Men, women, children—all pushed away from him, but not all were fast enough.  Someone screamed, and the Executioner laughed.

Stephen followed helplessly after him.  He did not want to be doing this.  He did not want to be connected with this madman.  He did not want to owe him any favors.

He followed anyway.  He didn’t have a choice.

A man grabbed at Stephen’s robes and Stephen instinctively brought his hand up.  The jagged end of one manacle caught the man’s nose and ripped it.  The man howled and lunged, but Stephen clawed at him and suddenly the man was falling to the ground, limp.

Stephen looked at the Jolly Executioner, whose axe dripped red.

“I told you to keep up,” said the Jolly Executioner.  “Fun as this is, we don’t have all day.”

“No,” said Stephen.  “I suppose not.”

The Jolly Executioner jogged away, and Stephen followed.  No one attacked him.  No one was left in the streets; they had either run, or they had died.

“Why are we running?” Stephen asked.  “They’ve gone.”

The Jolly Executioner pointed.  Several of the more intelligent men and women had run—not away, but to retrieve crossbows.

“Ah,” said Stephen, and ran.

“Not that way—over here!  I have horses waiting!”

But enchanters aren’t allowed to ride
, Stephen thought but did not say.  It was too late to quibble about legal and illegal.  It was too late to wish he had died rather than allow the Jolly Executioner to slaughter a town for his sake.

Besides, he didn’t wish he had died.  He liked life.

The Jolly Executioner led him down one street and into another.  The men, encumbered by their crossbows and unwilling to get too close to the Jolly Executioner, trailed behind.

“Stop,” the Jolly Executioner ordered on the outskirts of Crying.

“They’re still following us!  We should go into the Fairwoods!”

“I told you, I have horses coming.”

“We’ll be dead before they arrive!”

“Then keep us alive, enchanter.  Show me your worth.”

“I’m bound.  Besides, I’m an enchanter, not a battle-wizard.”

“You won’t be either if you’re dead.”

“But I’m bound.”

Too late.  Ten men and women had rounded the corner, all of them armed.  They stopped as soon as they saw the Jolly Executioner, shouting in triumph and fury.

“Now, Enchanter.”  The Jolly Executioner gave Stephen a little shove.  Stephen stumbled forward, hands out.

The townsfolk hesitated.

It wouldn’t take them long to recover and shoot him.  Stephen had five seconds at best—but Stephen had experience in dealing with angry people who didn’t like the way he had warded their houses, and he slipped easily into his best enchanter mode.

He smiled.

If there had been any doubt, any fear in that smile, it never would have worked.  But the iron pressed down cold on him, and only cold confidence emerged.

His pursuers looked from him to their crossbows and back again.  “Isn’t he supposed to be a wizard?” one of them whispered.

“Enchanter—look at the color of his robes.”

“Does that mean he can hurt us?”

“I heard enchanters can turn your mind inside out.”

“Don’t be stupid; he’s bound.  I saw the manacles—silver and iron wound together.  He can’t do magic.”

“How do you know? Maybe that’s a myth.  Besides, I don’t see any manacles.”

“We’re too far away, idiot.”

“We should be able to see them.”

Stephen shifted his stance and raised his hands again.  The tips of his fingers twitched slightly, as if tingling with barely withheld magic.  His smile grew.

“What’s he doing?”

“Make him stop.”

“Shoot him!”

“You shoot him.”

“What about that other him?  Did you see what the enchanter made him do?  He went mad!”

“Turned his mind inside out.”

“Shoot him!”

“Don’t—he’ll kill us!”

“Shoot him, or I will!”

“You idiot, look at him—he’ll turn us on one another.  He’ll make us explode.  He’ll—”

The horses finally arrived—twenty of them with eighteen riders.  The Jolly Executioner swung himself up onto a magnificent black stallion and Stephen rather clumsily pulled himself onto the other, a speckled mare.

“Let’s get out of here,” said the Jolly Executioner.  “Wretched little town.”

As one, the riders turned their horses and cantered north into the Fairwoods.

Nobody tried to stop them.

When I meet people whose names describe them,

I always wonder how their parents knew.

By Stephen’s reckoning, it had been about half past eleven when he had been rescued by the Jolly Executioner.  His breakfast had been hours earlier and, with no sign of pursuit, he had hoped that the company would soon pause for lunch, or at least pass around some form of rations.

The company did neither.

This was all that spit-mud creature’s fault—and his own fault for not giving it more specific instructions.  He had expected a rescue party, not a mad executioner and his hard-bitten outlaw followers.  He had hoped for—what had he hoped for?  A pardon or justice or some magic to whisk him away to freedom and make everyone forget that he had ever been accused.

There was no such magic—and the spit-mud creature was unlikely to have been able to convince a government authority to release Stephen.  It had done its best, and if the cure turned out to be worse than the disease, he’d have to remember that there were worse diseases, and worse things in life than dangerous outlaws.

It occurred to Stephen that after the events of that day, he, too, could be accurately defined as a dangerous outlaw.  The law did not look kindly upon rogue enchanters.

Two hours passed before Stephen had worked up the courage to speak to the rider on his left.  “Excuse me,” he said, “but where are we going?”

The rider, an enormous man with granite-like features, salt-and-pepper hair, and a military profile, did not respond.

Stephen raised his voice loudly enough that the riders on all sides of him could hear.  “Won’t you speak to me?  You went to an awful lot of trouble to rescue me, to have someone to ignore.”

“And you’d better be worth it,” Granite growled.

“I admit that I am an uncommonly talented enchanter,” said Stephen, “or will be, once these unfortunate manacles have been removed.  They chafe terribly and ruin my concentration.  I don’t suppose you could—”

“No.”

“I thought not.”  Stephen shook his head sadly.  “I suppose I can bear to wait, since I must.  It’s this wretched cold of mine that makes me impatient.  I’m sure you know how that feels.  I won’t complain.”

Granite grunted.

“What’s your name, then?”

“Don’t tell him,” snapped the rider on Stephen’s right.  This rider, Stephen determined after several uncertain seconds, was almost certainly female.  Her squarish nose, which was the only part of her he could see under her thick swathes of clothing, had a wart on it.  Something about the strident tone of her voice reminded him strongly of a governess he had once had, before he had discovered magic.

Stephen cleared his throat.  “Your surname wouldn’t happen to be Ironfist, would it?”

Miss Ironfist looked down her unprepossessing nose at him.  “No.”

“Any family by that name?  A sister or cousin?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?  There’s no need to glower.  If not Ironfist, what is your name?”

“I know better than to tell you that!”

“Really?  What would happen if you did?”

“You’d put a horrible curse on her,” said a new voice.  A young man in layers and layers of green wool kicked his horse and rode up between Granite and Stephen.  The wool, Stephen thought, looked homemade.  “A debilitating enchantment that eats her up from the inside and turns her toes into turquoise toadstools.  She’d fall over dead, but no one would try to bury her lest the toadstools hop off her toes and attach themselves to whomever they caught.  So no one would mourn her, although they might be sorry about the smell.”

“The smell?”

“Turquoise toadstools infamously smell like skunk.”

“I didn’t know that.  But she shouldn’t worry too much—such an enchantment would be extremely powerful and difficult to cast.  It might take me as much as a minute.”

“That is a problem.  She might be able to overpower you in the meantime.”

“That,” said Miss Ironfist, “is enough.  You will cease your conversation with the prisoner.”

“You were talking with him.”

“I,” Miss Ironfist said tartly, “was preventing anyone telling him his name.  You were taking the opportunity to be rude.”

“That wasn’t actually my intent.  I was—”

“Be.  Quiet.”

Stephen coughed politely in his glove. 

“No,” said Granite and Miss Ironfist together.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You were going to,” said Miss Ironfist.

“I just wanted to know where we’re going.”

“You’ll see.”

The sky darkened from wintery white to dreary grey as the pale sun sank from sight.  When the barest glow of twilight remained, the Jolly Executioner called a halt.  They were in a clearing, blue with shadows, and colder than ever.

They were going to stay here?  They’d freeze to death!

Then again, if they did, he’d be free.  He could survive—albeit uncomfortably—cold worse than this, in his enchanted robes.  And surely if they died, they’d leave behind weapons and money he could take—maybe something with which to detach his manacles. 

And then again, maybe he’d be left alone and magic-less in the Fairwoods, which were by all accounts dangerous, surrounded by enough rotting meat to attract animals from miles around.

Undeterred by the prospect of freezing to death, the company got to work, taking care of the horses, digging a fire pit, and building a protective snow wall.

Stephen dismounted and stood watching them.  Now that he was an outlaw, this sort of thing would be useful to know.

Or would it?  No one but the people of Crying knew he was an outlaw, and they had never learned his name.  Unless someone recognized him, he could cut his hair, grow a beard, and continue on the same as ever.  He would be yet another enchanter.  And what was the likelihood of anyone recognizing him?  Most people didn’t look further than an enchanter’s blue robes. 

Marcus would know his face.  Maybe several others.  But if he stayed away from Crying, he’d be fine.  He’d once heard the pickings down south were good for a talented enchanter—and the southwestern mountain range was supposed to be breathtaking.  He’d go there.

If he ever got these manacles off.

The company would have to remove them eventually.  The trick would be to be prepared when they did.  Just in case.

Stephen knelt and began packing snow.

It was bitterly cold work.  He could do the basic gathering while wearing his thick mittens, but as soon as he needed greater detail, he had to strip them off and work in his thin inner gloves.  His fingers went numb almost immediately, and snow soaked through the material.

There was nothing for it.  Without detail, his creature might be blinded, and strike its maker by mistake—or deafened, and not hear his commands.  Stephen’s work didn’t have to be perfect, but a sloppy job could be worse than none at all.

Unlimited by the quantity—if not quality—of material, Stephen packed generous amounts of snow.  There was artistry in his work, but not beauty.  The creature he made reflected his needs exactly, but no more: bulbous eyes, a cavernous jaw with massive teeth and a flickering tongue.  He built it close to the ground and legless.  In the dead of winter, camouflage would be its best defense.  Slowly, scrupulously, a snow-serpent surfaced.  Swift, smooth, and silent, it would be able to slither through snow as easily as its watery cousins swam.  Its mouth was large enough for Stephen to curl up inside, and its body wound halfway around the clearing.

It was, perhaps, a tad excessive.  It was certainly nothing like the tiny spit-mud creature that had landed him with this company of vagabonds.  It was also nothing more than snow and ice; he could not enchant it, and a little saliva wouldn’t be nearly enough to bring it to life for more than a moment—even if he wanted to risk leaving yet more bits and pieces of himself lying around.

“Have you finished?” the Jolly Executioner asked, striding out of the shadowy woods.  “No need to kneel in the snow when there’s a decent fire waiting.”

“Why were you in the woods?”

“We’re all in the woods.  Come to the fire and we’ll chat and eat—do enchanters eat?”

Stephen did not honor this absurdity with a reply.  He climbed to his feet and followed the Jolly Executioner.

The company had been productive.  A massive fire pit had been dug through the snow to the frozen earth.  The excess snow had been humped up in a circle around the pit, high enough to block the worst of the night wind.  Stephen was forcibly reminded of the snow forts he and his siblings had built—how many years ago?  Twenty, probably more.

It had been a long time since he had thought about his childhood.

“What’s all this about?” he asked.  “Why have you brought me here?”

The Jolly Executioner motioned for him to sit and eat and did not respond until Stephen had a mouthful of bread.  “I want your services as an enchanter.”

Stephen hurriedly swallowed.  “I’m happy to ward anything you like—or enchant swords—in return for my freedom.”

“Last night,” said the Jolly Executioner, “I saw a teetering, lopsided little monster hopping up and down and chittering at me.  I made to squash it, but it leapt away, squealing something about a mission and its master.  I questioned it, and learned an enchanter had made it and sent it on a mission.  I have little liking for enchanters, and would have thrown the creature away, had I not been struck by the most incredible epiphany.”

“Not again,” muttered someone.  Stephen turned quickly, and caught a glimpse of his face.  The man shrugged ruefully back.

“An epiphany!  I suddenly realized that I had spent my life blind to magic, to its potential.  I had thought enchantment for weapons, houses, broken wheels—never to make monsters—never as anything powerful.  I realized that magic was exactly what I needed—and not just any magic, but the magic of a monster-making enchanter!  Here was a creature, in my hand, who could direct me to such an enchanter.  And here you are.”

“Here I am,” Stephen agreed unhappily.  Of all the scenarios he had predicted, this—that the madman who had saved him would demand he make monsters—he had never guessed.

“I needed to know more; I needed to know if you could make bigger, more useful things than the palm-sized monster before me.  I had my doubts, when I saw you, and more still when I realized you had no ability to fight.  But then—ah, then!—then I saw that magnificent sculpture you made, and realized that I had not begun to explore your powers.  Of course you cannot fight bare fisted—what need would you have, with such power on your side?”

“I have made a few creatures to help protect me, I suppose.”

“You’ll make more than that!  It’s meant to be: your imprisonment, my rescue.  It is the hand of fate at work.”

Stephen thought it had been an accident.  Someone had made a mistake or had needed a scapegoat, and who else but a passing enchanter?  Fate had nothing to do with it.

“Why else would your monster come directly to me, who needed you most—the only man in a hundred miles who could rescue you?  That is no coincidence.”

“Certainly not!  I directed my spit-mud monster specifically to someone who would release me.” Stephen proffered his manacles meaningfully.

The Jolly Executioner pointed at the man who had scoffed at his epiphanies.  “Come here.”

The man sprang to his feet.  He was thin and agile, with bright eyes and quick fingers constantly in motion.  The movement was not resultant of a nervous twitch but intense, sizzling energy, not tired in the least from the day’s ride.  “Yes?”