The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter (5 page)

“Do not pick up that ridiculous name; you know very well it’s not mine.”

“No,” said Youngster, “but we have to call you something, since we’re not using real names.  Don’t you like being called Miss Ironfist?  I have a worse name,” he added proudly.  “I wouldn’t be surprised if I have the worst name of anyone in the company.  Don’t you think, Enchanter?”

Stephen shrugged.  “Depends.  Would you say ‘Banananose’ was better or worse?”

Miss Ironfist’s back went up and she glanced swiftly at Banananose—there could be no doubt which one he was, with a name like that.  “You are not to call him that,” she said stiffly.  “It isn’t kind.”

“Accurate, though,” said Youngster.  “Don’t you think?”

“I think,” said Tinkerfingers, “it is both unkind and accurate—which is why it was chosen.”

“And you disapprove,” said Stephen.  It was not a question.

“You encourage people’s hatred by giving them names they dislike.  Wouldn’t it be simpler to give them names they like, and earn their trust?”

Tinkerfingers, Stephen thought, would do that.  Tinkerfingers was kind, Youngster impetuous, Miss Ironfist imperious.  They all had nice little slots into which he could fit them and think nothing more of it.  It was time to get up and make categories for the rest of the company, find out what they were useful for.  He knew he should do it.

He had never been good at doing what he thought he ought to.  He stayed where he was, and listened to Youngster and Miss Ironfist bicker about names.

“You can argue all you like,” he said, when the argument had devolved into glaring, “but I’ll call you by the names I choose, and if you don’t like them, you can bring it up with the Jolly Executioner.”

That, of course, set them off on a new argument, about the appropriateness of calling their esteemed leader ‘the Jolly Executioner,’ and, indeed, why Stephen thought him ‘jolly.’

“Because he isn’t,” said Stephen.  “But you knew exactly whom I meant, didn’t you?”

“That isn’t the point!” Miss Ironfist stuck her finger into his chest.  “Don’t you know who you’re—”

“Actually,” said the Jolly Executioner, stepping up beside them, still in his hood, “I like the name.  It has style.”

“Sir!” Miss Ironfist leapt to her feet and made a half-motion, almost like she had been about to bow but checked herself.  “It’s not a joke, sir—he’s mocking us!  The Enchanter is making up unflattering names, trying to force us to exchange them.”

“For your own good,” Stephen said.  “I’m under oath to protect this company.  Everyone knows it’s dangerous to tell an enchanter his real name, so I’m making up false names to guard the real ones.  She should be thanking me.”

“Sir, I really think it unwise to play along with any game an enchanter thinks is wise.  Look at him! He’s laughing at us.”

“I like being called the Jolly Executioner,” said the Jolly Executioner.  “Everyone will call me that from now on.”

“Sir—!”

“Is there a problem, Miss Ironfist?”

He had been listening.  To how much of their conversation, Stephen could not have said.  But, behind them and unnoticed, the Jolly Executioner had been eavesdropping.  And his next words, after Miss Ironfist shook her head, proved that he, at least, had known exactly where Stephen had gone, and what he had done.

“Prepare your snake, Enchanter.  I have a surprise for you.”

“You really needn’t.”

“Don’t trifle with me, Enchanter.  Prove your worth.”  The Jolly Executioner’s gaze, through his hood, traveled on to Youngster, Tinkerfingers, and the rest of the company.  He had been speaking in a low voice, too low for them to have heard, but every face was turned his way and, surreptitiously, every member of the company felt for his weapon.  It was this, far more than the Jolly Executioner’s words, that showed Stephen what he meant.

Stephen whistled.

The serpent had not been idle.  While its master had talked, it had insinuated itself into the camp, curling itself on the far side of Stephen from the fire.  It waited there, indistinguishable from the snow around it, listening, spying, not tasting the air—it had no tongue—but ready to defend its master.  The moment Stephen whistled, it darted forward, wrapping its body around its master, resting its head on his shoulder.

Youngster yelped and leapt away as the snowy snakeskin brushed past him.  His hands flashed to his belt and withdrew twin blades.  The serpent reared its head up, ready to strike if this person attacked its master.

“Stop!” Stephen cried. 

The serpent hesitated, twisting back questioningly.  Youngster took his opportunity and plunged forward, burying both blades in the serpent’s neck. 

“I said stop!  You’re going to ruin my serpent.  I nearly froze my fingers off making it!”

Youngster looked from Stephen to the serpent to the two short swords buried in the snowy neck.  “Sorry,” he said, sheepishly de-impaling the serpent.  “I wasn’t very effective, anyway.”

“That’s because it’s made of snow,” Tinkerfingers said, and doubled over in laughter.

“It isn’t funny,” Youngster said reproachfully.

“Yes it is!”

“It could have happened to anyone.”

“But it—” Tinkerfingers’s laugh broke off and he shifted his stance, unfolding something click, click.  Youngster was scanning the camp outskirts.  Miss Ironfist had found an enormous morningstar somewhere, its iron head heavier than Stephen could have lifted.  Around the campsite, every other member of the company had armed himself and stood at the ready.

The hairs on Stephen’s neck prickled, and his palms grew sweaty, but he still had no idea what had alerted the company.  He wanted to ask, but didn’t dare speak.  He ran his hands along his serpent, making sure it was sound.

His one weapon, an enchanted bronze knife, had been confiscated in Crying.  He cleared his throat to ask for another—and saw movement between the trees.  Something was out there—no, more than one thing—a pack.

Wolves.

But wolves didn’t act this way.  They didn’t silently attack large companies of armed men, against the background of a bonfire.  Even starving wolves would have taken more care, and waited until the company was asleep—and then they would have picked off the look-out or, more likely, gone to the nearest town and waited for a child to wander away from its mother.

Then firelight caught the face of the largest animal, and Stephen realized they were not ordinary wolves at all.  They were fairy creatures, come down from Faerie in the north, wearing the semblance of wolves—only, they hadn’t gotten their guise quite right.  Wolves did not have tusks and their eyes were not purple and they did not have claws like cats.

This, Stephen thought fervently, was why it was stupid to travel through the Fairwoods, when everyone knew there were perfectly safe royal roads available.

“You see, Enchanter?” the Jolly Executioner murmured to him.  “I said you would soon have a chance to prove your worth.”

“Are you mad?” Stephen whispered back.  “I can’t kill these!  I’d need days to prepare—weeks!”

“You have your serpent.”

“Yes—one serpent, made of snow, a hasty and incomplete job.  Don’t you know anything about enchanting?  I ward houses and improve swords!  I designed my serpent to protect me, not to fight monsters—I didn’t expect I had to fight.  What do I know about fighting?”

“If the answer is ‘nothing,’ said the Jolly Executioner, “then you are worthless to us and these wolves will chew on your bones.  If the answer is otherwise, then you may survive to enchant something better for us.”

“This is your doing—tell me you didn’t bring these wolves down upon us, if you dare.  What if others should die tonight?  What if we all die?”

“Then we all die.”

“I don’t even have a knife!”

The foremost wolf charged, jumping at Granite and twisting away, staying out of range of his broadsword.  Emboldened, the other wolves attacked.  They were clever, three or four surrounding the company’s strongest fighters, six against the Jolly Executioner, and one which had its eye on the juicy, weaponless enchanter standing in a pile of snow.

Stephen caught its gaze and held it.  “Serpent?” he asked, his voice hoarse and embarrassingly quivery.  “Protect me?”

The wolf bunched its haunches and flung itself at Stephen.  Stephen fell back as his serpent reacted: pushing Stephen down with its tail and striking the wolf with its long, thick, magically strengthened fangs.

“Well done, serpent,” Stephen gasped.  “Let me up!”

The serpent preened and drew him up into its frozen coils.  It nuzzled his head, and got down to work.  Quick as lightning, and as brutally efficient, the serpent struck again and again, burying its fangs into wolves.  It took down two more in a matter of seconds.  The rest of the wolves learned quickly, and stayed out of striking range, so that the serpent had to reach farther and farther from Stephen to get at them, leaving him less protected.  At last, Stephen had to order it to withdraw, lest it desert him entirely.  The serpent retreated warily, watching the battle.

Despite their grueling ride that day, not one of the company faltered.  Each had a weapon suited to his skills, and each fought with at least as much skill as Stephen showed in enchanting.  The Jolly Executioner was especially impressive, his iron axe inimical to fairy creatures.

But the wolves were cleverer and harder to kill than ordinary wolves, and the company grew fatigued more quickly than the wolves.  As the wolves grew bolder, they advanced, pushing the company back toward the fire. 

The serpent followed, holding Stephen in its curls.  The closer to the fire they got, the weaker it became, until its backside sagged and could hardly hold Stephen in. 

A wolf spotted the weakness and slunk forward, intent on destroying the Enchanter.  But the serpent was not done in yet: it made a supreme effort and struck one last time, burying the wolf in its mouth.

Its bottom jaw fell off under the weight of the dead wolf. 

The serpent faltered.  It turned its head pleadingly toward Stephen. 

“I’m sorry,” Stephen said, as the light faded from his serpent’s eyes.  “There’s nothing I can do.”

The serpent’s head crumpled to the ground, and was nothing but snow and ice.

And that, Stephen thought to himself with strange satisfaction, was the problem with enchanting snow.  It served the Jolly Executioner right for not giving him time to prepare.

Stephen crouched down to await the end of the battle.  The remains of his snow serpent had become a sort of honeycomb snow fort, and he as safe there as anywhere else.  After a moment or two of thought, he began packing snowballs as a secondary line of defense, along with slight magical modifications for density and accuracy.  It wasn’t much, but it might give him a second or two when he needed it.

A little half-laugh, half-sob escaped him.  Stephen slapped a hand over his mouth, but it was too late: the wolves had remembered him—the lone man without any sharp weapons, on the outskirts of the group, the serpent dead.

Stephen knelt hurriedly and scrapped up his snowballs.  Ten—twelve—why had he only made twelve?  He began throwing them wildly, pelting the earth as often as the wolves, pushing more magic into the snowballs, wild magic without purpose or direction, and flinging them—

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the battle was over.  The remaining wolves dragged one of their brethren away from the edge campsite, and melded into the shadowy woods.

Stephen tried to rewind the last few minutes, tried to see the decisive move that had turned the tide, but all he could remember were teeth and snowballs and the increasing weariness of his arm.  Whatever the others had done, whatever stunning fighting they had performed, he had missed all of it.