Unbound (19 page)

“No wonder,” Ben said. “You appear to have eaten hundreds of your offspring.”

Filip nodded sadly. “They just taste so good. I can’t seem to stop.”

“So now you have created hundreds more. All because you can’t control your appetite. Do you intend to eat yourself to death? Because right now, I would not be troubled by that.”

Shoopdiesel and Sot staggered out of the trees, equally fattened by Filipian pets. Neither spoke, both moaning as they clutched their distended bellies.

Ben was beyond disgusted. No one had ever told him he would have problems of this sort. It was bad enough having to deal with the witch Nightshade and the dragon Strabo and the Lords of the Greensward and the once-fairy of the Lake Country and all the rest of Landover’s odd denizens without having to be plagued by G’Home Gnomes and Filipians too.

“Questor,” he said quietly. “Will you please use whatever magic you’ve prepared and put an end to all this.”

“No, great High Lord!” Filip exclaimed.

“No, mighty High Lord,” Sot pleaded.

No
, Shoopdiesel indicated wordlessly, using unmistakable gestures in place of words.

But Questor was already voicing the required spell. The air darkened to twilight and thickened with heavy mist; the temperature dropped precipitously and the sky filled with black clouds and lightning that streaked from horizon to horizon in jagged bolts. It was an impressive display, made all the more so by the fact that it was Questor Thews who was making it all happen. Ben found himself stepping back in trepidation, worried about where it was all going to lead.

“ARRRAZZZ MANTLE BOT!” shouted the wizard.

A whirlwind swept into the woods, scattering leaves and twigs and debris everywhere. Ben had to shield his eyes against its force, but he was able to discern large numbers of squirming, thrashing bodies flying through the air, picked up and swept away on the back of the wind. One might have thought the world was coming to an end and the souls of the departed were being lifted Heavenward—save for the fact that the things flying about were clearly Filipians.

The maelstrom of bodies and debris continued whirling as both king and attendants ducked frantically and in some cases fell to the ground, covering their heads in dismay, none of them even a little reassured by the fact that it was Questor Thews exercising the magic in play. But finally the wind died away, the skies cleared and things went back to the way they had been before.

Except for one thing.

Thousands of Filipians lay piled in mountainous heaps, all limp and unmoving, all immobile and seemingly lifeless.

“You’ve killed them!” Ben gasped, snatching at Questor’s robes.

“What?” The Court Wizard stared at him. “Killed them? No, no, High Lord! What do you think I am? A barbarian?”

Ben didn’t care to answer that question and simply stared at the piles of Filipians. “Well, this is all well and good, but what are you going to do with them once they wake up again?”

Questor rubbed his hands gleefully, a troubling eagerness reflected in his sudden smile. “Just you watch.”

A second bout of magic-wielding ensued with Questor gesturing and chanting. Only this time the air stayed calm and the sky stayed clear and there was no thunder and lightning. Instead, rainbows appeared at every quadrant of the horizon, huge and brilliant arcs spanning the color spectrum and suggesting sugarplums and candy canes and the like. Slowly the heaps of Filipians began to encapsulate themselves in vast cocoons that took on the appearance of giant wasps nests, a comparison Ben found unavoidable and decidedly unpleasant.

Questor finished and gave Ben a knowing look. “Patience, High Lord,” he said with a wink.

Ben waited. He had little choice. Long minutes passed and nothing happened. He began to grow uneasy, especially when he saw Questor frown in a way that suggested he was starting to become uneasy too.

More minutes passed. Endless minutes.

“Uh, Questor,” Ben said quietly.

Then abruptly the mounds of encapsulated Filipians began to quiver and shake, a clear indication that something was about to happen. Everyone, Questor included, took a cautionary step backward and more than a few blades and spear points were directed toward the mounds. Bunion, who was standing next to Ben, hissed loudly, showing all of his considerable teeth as he did so. There was no mistaking his feelings on the matter.

“Questor,” Ben said again, a little more urgently this time.

Yet when the mounds split apart, neither demons nor monsters emerged, but thousands upon thousands of butterflies in a colorful swarm of radiant wings. Fluttering in random flight paths, they were clustered in such droves as to turn the air about Ben and company into a dazzling kaleidoscope.

All too quickly, the patterns fragmented and then in seconds the butterflies disappeared into the nearby woods and were gone.

“There you are, High Lord,” Questor declared, clearly taking great delight in the shock and awe reflected on Ben’s face. “Problem solved. No one hurt, no one killed, and the world made a slightly better place.”

Ben had to agree. It certainly appeared that way.

But, then, where Questor was concerned, appearances were often deceiving.

* * * * *

Torshak the Terrible was prowling the woods just north of Sterling Silver, searching for food or gold or trouble, all of which gave him great pleasure. Torshak was a Troll from the Jorgen Swamp, not all that far from the Fire Springs where Strabo the dragon made his home. He liked to brag that once upon a time there had been an encounter between the two, and it had not gone well for him. Although, if you considered the fate of so many others, apparently he had accomplished the impossible—he had escaped with his life.

But not, however, without souvenirs for his trouble, he was always quick to say, pointing out the ridged scars from claws and teeth and rippled flesh from burns that layered his mighty forearms and hands. He had been ill-used by the dragon, and one day he would make the beast pay. Didn’t matter that it was his fault—which it was, he admitted—for trespassing on forbidden ground and then attempting to remove healing stones from the fire ponds in which the dragon bathed. He had been attacked and forced to defend himself against a much larger aggressor, which was patently unfair.

Which was not, as it happened, even slightly true. He had received his burns as a result of his own carelessness in building a campfire while drinking and not because of a direct encounter with Strabo. But that was how he liked to tell it—that he faced down the dragon, fought him to a standstill, and escaped with his life. It made a much better story, really.

So he blamed the dragon for what had happened and still, to this very day, swore vengeance far and wide. At every opportunity he would say to anyone who would listen, “One day, there will be an accounting. No one trifles with Torshak the Terrible and gets away with it! No such fool escapes my wrath!”

Which was when he began calling himself Torshak the Terrible and not Torshak Pudwuddle, which was his real name. You can understand why he might decide to do this.

Torshak liked to reinvent his own history. It made sense he would do so with his name.

On this morning, perhaps two weeks after the demise of the Filipians, he was feeling particularly wrathful. His head hurt terribly from the after-effects of consuming copious amounts of alcohol the previous night at a tavern in the village of Stink Whistle. That, and the blows struck him by the tavern owner when Torshak revealed he could not afford to settle his bill.

So, hungry and hurting and hugely disgruntled, he was looking for something to make himself feel better. Hence the search for food, gold, or trouble. Not very imaginative, but well within his manly comfort zone.

What he found, however, was something else entirely.

The first creature landed right in front of him, an insect more than twelve feet tall with a colorful wingspan larger still, claws each the size of Torshak’s hands and mandibles that looked exceedingly sharp. It shrieked and rumbled when it saw him, making an unpleasantly eager sound. Torshak had no idea what this creature was and didn’t think it necessary to find out. He began to back away, sensing that this was going to end badly for him if he stuck around.

But he only got as far as the wall behind him. Wheeling in dismay, he discovered another of these terrible creatures, this one no less terrifying than the first. He backed away in a different direction, seriously worried now. He was rapidly running out of space.

Then a third creature appeared, this one larger and more formidable in appearance than the previous two, descending from the sky and blocking his way once more. Now he was hemmed in on three sides with no room left to maneuver. He did some quick thinking—well, quick for him, anyway—trying to discover a way out of his dilemma. It occurred to him that if he were nimble and quick, he could duck under their wings or between their legs and flee to safety. But he possessed neither of these attributes, and in his present state—still hung over and aching from the blows he had received from the tavern owner—he was having trouble moving at all.

So he took the only course of action open to him. He drew himself up, faced them squarely, and roared, “I am Torshak the Terrible!”

Turned out the creatures didn’t care.

They ate him anyway.

Then they began to follow his tracks back toward the unfortunate village he had come from.

* * * * *

It was late the following day, and Ben was sitting with Willow out on the balcony of their living quarters watching a spectacular orange and purple sunset when Abernathy appeared. Talking dogs were not unheard of within the Kingdom of Landover, but you never wanted to make mention of it to the King’s Scribe. Abernathy viewed himself as a victim of an incredibly careless and unfeeling Questor Thews who, once upon a time, had changed him from a man into a dog. He had used magic to do this, but magic ill-conceived and ill-applied, even given the urgency of the moment and the circumstances that required that this happen. Bad enough that he had done this much damage, but then Questor had found himself unable to change Abernathy back again. Although he had repeatedly tried, to date he had failed to make any real progress.

Well, except for once, but that’s another story for another time, for which you can be thankful.

Abernathy still thought of himself as a man rather than a dog and struggled mightily to convince others to do the same. After all, he had his human hands and brain and voice, even if the rest of him was a Soft-Coated Wheaten Terrier, and those were the parts that counted. His vocabulary, in point of fact, far exceeded that of others at Sterling Silver and gave him a decided advantage in any conversation.

Not that he required much of an advantage on this occasion.

“High Lord, it appears we have a problem with the village of Stink Whistle,” he announced. “A rather serious one.”

Starting with the name, Ben thought. He had never heard of Stink Whistle and would have been perfectly happy if things had stayed that way. The one thing he knew he would never do was ask how the village got such an unfortunate name in the first place.

“What sort of problem?” he said, trying to sound interested.

“People are being eaten by large insects.”

“Have they tried bug spray?”

“These are not normal insects. They are gigantic, carnivorous creatures. Literally, villagers are being snatched up and consumed.”

Willow frowned. “What species are we talking about? I don’t seem to remember insects like that anywhere in Landover.”

“Precisely,” Abernathy said.

Ben nodded slowly. “So, what you’re saying is?”

“These insects are the direct result of ill-considered and ill-conceived magic,” his scribe declared. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“Magic conjured by whom?”

“Questor Thews, once again practicing magic without a license to the detriment and regret of all.” A pause. “I’ve warned you about this before, have I not?”

“Repeatedly.” Ben exchanged a look with Willow. “I don’t seem to remember him saying anything about creating giant insects, however. Are you sure he’s to blame for this?”

Abernathy drew himself up, a sneer tugging at his dog lips. “Quite sure. Our overconfident and marginally skilled Court Wizard botched his attempt at transforming Filipians into butterflies, it seems. Some of those butterflies have become monsters with wingspans of twenty or maybe thirty feet and prefer humans to plants as food. Stink Whistle is bearing the brunt of this failure.”

He looked so self-satisfied that Ben could hardly stand it. “Perhaps we should feel a little compassion for our friend?” he suggested.

“Compassion?”

“Yes, you know. Sympathy. Empathy for his unsuccessful, though well-meaning, attempts to do the right thing? I’m sure you will agree that none of this was intentional.”

“I’ll agree to nothing of the sort.” Abernathy actually growled. “As for empathy, when he finds a way to turn me back into a man again, then I will extend him compassion and whatever else he requires. But not before!”

He barked at the conclusion of these last three words, something he almost never did. Ben sighed. “So how, exactly, do we know these creatures are Filipians? Or were Filipians, anyway?”

“After eating a villager or two, they regurgitated pieces of them. A characteristic that might remind you of another species?”

“So we now have more babies?”

“No. Now we have body parts. The kind that simply lay on the ground, waiting for someone to dispose of them. Rather a lot of them at this point since the creatures have eaten five villagers and seem eager to continue eating as long as there is anyone in Stink Whistle for them to devour. The residents of the village have barricaded themselves in their homes, which for the most part are constructed of stone and therefore safe enough. For the moment, the beasts can’t get at them.”

Which might not be true for very long, Ben knew.

He got to his feet. “Assemble a company of soldiers. We better go see what we can do.”

For the first time, Abernathy hesitated. “Perhaps it might be better to wait until morning? Haste does not benefit those who rush to . . .”