The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter (7 page)

The mayor of Quag was an unremarkable man who went by the name Josiah Crain.  At the age of twenty-six, he had married an unremarkable woman and had four unremarkable children and one remarkably reprehensible child who was always getting into trouble and didn’t know not to go out wandering at night, so let that be a lesson to you.

This child’s name was Sophia, and she was lying in bed, waiting until it was safe to slip out of bed and plant spiders in her sisters’ shoes and worms in the muesli.  It was about five in the morning, but dawn was still hours off—which suited her perfectly.  Her family always rose and went to bed with the sun, regardless of time of year.

Sophia crawled out of her warm bed and pulled on layers of clothing, shivering.  She worked quickly, emptying her jar of spiders and picking out the fattest worms that she had found snuggled deep in the cellar, hibernating.  She giggled to herself.

Something thumped in the distance, and Sophia froze.  Had she been caught out?  She had been very naughty indeed, and her guilty conscience made her frightened—as should all children be, who have disobeyed their elders. 

But no; the sound was coming from outside the house.  There was a smell that accompanied it, like and unlike smoke.  It made Sophia curious.

No one was likely to be around at that time of morning, so Sophia pulled on yet more layers, took the key off its hook, locked the door behind her, and went to investigate.

The moon shone bright, and the snow gleamed white beneath its glow.  Sophia needed no lantern, which was just as well, because it would have alerted the neighbors.

All was still and peaceful, the only sounds the gentle crunching of Sophia’s boots in snow and the peculiar noise that had led her to investigate.  It wasn’t exactly a thumping, she determined.  It sometimes hissed like gas or slurped like mud.  Sophia had no idea what someone was doing to make that noise, but she knew she wanted to find out.

Sophia walked right through the town of Quag, following the noise.  She finally traced it to the back of old Leonard Goose’s barn.  She circled around it and spotted an enormous dark thing.  It was moving slightly and, she perceived, slurping.

“Hello,” said Sophia.  “Are you a fairy creature?” She stepped forward and her foot landed in something grey and warm and soft.

Ash.

Sophia looked back at the Goose barn.  The entire side of it was gone, and the smell of smoke lingered stronger than ever.

“Excuse me,” Sophia said—politely, because it was never wise to insult a fairy creature—“but that was the Goose barn.  I didn’t like them much, but they can yell like anything when you’ve done something wrong, and they aren’t going to be happy about their barn.  They’ll say it’s unpleasant.  You’d better apologize.  Apologies make everything better.”

The beast put its head to the ground and began lapping up the ash.  Its long tongue swept back and forth.  On the fourth sweep, it touched Sophia’s boots, and prodded them, investigating this strange new taste.

“Please don’t,” said Sophia.  “That’s gross.”

The tongue swept up her boots and over her coat and knocked off her hat.

“Please stop,” said Sophia, retrieving the hat.  It was slime covered, but the early morning was simply too cold to do without it.

The tongue withdrew and the beast puffed out a lance of flame, white hot.  The flame engulfed Sophia before she could scream, and a fresh little pile of grey ash fell to the earth.  The beast industriously licked up her remains, and went to find more of the screaming things that made such tasty ash.

Three towns later, at the end of the coldest day, the beast lay down where it was and slept, not to reawaken until the weather was once again sufficiently cold.  It had woken six times in the past forty years, and would wake again tomorrow if someone didn’t do something about it.

“There you have it,” Tinkerfingers observed when Youngster had finished
.  “Myth, conjecture, moralizing, and a modicum of fact.”

“The moralizing was essential,” said Youngster.  “Dad never told the story without it.”

“Not that that stopped you from begging him to tell it.”

“What I want to know,” said Stephen, annoyed, “is not how to use the story to control children, but what to do so I don’t get killed tomorrow!  What are the monster’s weaknesses, its blind spots?  How big is it, how intelligent?”

Tinkerfingers shrugged. 

“We don’t know,” said Youngster.  “We thought it was a legend.”

“It is legend,” said Miss Ironfist.  “It is also true.  And you have all the information you need: it is large, hungry, and breathes fire.  The story also suggests that it is blind, or at least has poor eyesight—although since the story is fictionalized, I wouldn’t count on that.”

“Why are you helping me?” Stephen asked.  “I though you hated me.”

Stephen thought she wasn’t going to answer again, but after a long delay, she said, “I don’t hate you, and I don’t like you.  But careless magic-users are worse than none, and the Jolly Executioner wants to make use of you. I will abide by his judgment.”

“It won’t be that bad,” Tinkerfingers said.  “The Jolly Executioner may seem peculiar to someone who doesn’t know him—or even who does—but he hasn’t led us wrong yet.  This won’t be the first monster we’ve fought.  And now we have enchanted weapons and enchanted monsters—or will have—to distract the beast and put out its flames.  And maybe, if we’re very lucky, we’ll be able to kill it before it awakens.

“Then the only question is,” sighed Stephen, “exactly what I should enchant and how.”

“Enchant a monster, like the Jolly Executioner said,” suggested Miss Ironfist.  “Make another snow serpent.”

Stephen shook his head.  “It wouldn’t be powerful enough.  It barely worked against wolves—it would be less good with a fire-breathing monster.  One puff, and it’d go up in steam.”

“Make a muzzle,” said Youngster, “so it can’t breathe fire and we can attack it without worry.”

“I could do that,” Stephen agreed.  “I could make it the strongest muzzle imaginable—if only you would volunteer to put it on the monster.”

“Um, no thank you.  Maybe not.”

“If you can’t stop the flame,” said Tinkerfingers, “what about fire-proofing us?  You must have warded buildings against fire—couldn’t you do the same with our clothing and skin?”

“Clothing is easy.  My own robes are enchanted against excessive cold and heat, and fireproofing is indeed one of my staple warding techniques.  Even in this limited time, I could enchant everyone’s clothing against fire—for all the good it would do you.”

“Why do you say that?” demanded a lean, pale man, whose sword Stephen had enchanted.  Twitch was his name, and he had more nervous tics than anyone Stephen had ever met.  At least half the company was listening in by now, and all of their faces showed that they had certain opinions on the subject—none of which agreed with the Enchanter’s. 

“Because it’s true,” said Stephen.  “Burn proof clothing wouldn’t do you a scrap of good.  The issue here is less burning than heat—and there’s a limit to how much heat-proofing cloth will hold.”

“I get it!” Youngster exclaimed.  “The flames are so hot that they turned the girl to dust instantly—she didn’t have time to burn.”

“And enchanted clothing wouldn’t protect the skin inside the clothing,” Tinkerfingers said.  “You’d have to enchant our skin against heat.”

Stephen shook his head.  “Not a chance.  Enchanting living flesh is . . . well, it’s unwise.  I won’t do it.”

“You’re hardly trying,” Twitch muttered.

“He’s enjoying the illusion of power,” said Miss Ironfist, apparently to the air.

“There’s no need for that,” said Stephen.  “As it happens, I’ve come up with an idea while we’ve been talking.” 

And indeed, he had.  Something about being the center of attention—and being threatened by imminent death—jumpstarted his brain wonderfully.  His plan was probably not what the Jolly Executioner had been expecting, and he was fairly certain Miss Ironfist would be scornful about it, but he was pleased with it nonetheless.  He took a moment to revel in his own cleverness.

“And?” said Miss Ironfist.  “What’s your plan?”

Still feeling pleased with himself, Stephen stepped up onto the fallen log, and addressed the company—most of whom were listening to him anyway.  “All right, everyone.  I’ve decided what magic to do, but I don’t have enough time to do it all myself.  I need everyone to start making snowmen, good ones, as many as you can.  Give them eyes and ears and make them stand at man height.  Make sure you separate the lower section from the ground, so they don’t freeze stuck overnight.”

“That is your plan?” said Miss Ironfist.  “What are we, children?”

“I’m not making snowmen,” said Granite.

“Why can’t you just heat-proof us?” said Twitch

“You’re going to enchant snowmen?” Tinkerfingers asked.  “Will they be able to fight?  How will that be better than a snow serpent?”

“Aside from those specifications, can we make them look like anything we like?” said Youngster.  “I’m giving mine horns.”

Every other member of the company suddenly needed to have his opinion heard, and Stephen was deafened by shouts and suggestions and speculations, all of them unhelpful.  He tried several times to make himself heard over the noise, each time unsuccessfully.

He was going about it the wrong way; he knew he was.  The Jolly Executioner might be able to reclaim a crowd that way, but the Jolly Executioner had done his disappearing act, and wouldn’t be appearing to help any time soon.

Stephen packed a snowball and tossed it from hand to hand.  After a few seconds, companions began to realize that the snowball had slowly changed color—from a pristine white to sickly green to sickly black, pumped full of magic until it exploded in warm water, showering their faces.  Shocked, they turned to berate the Enchanter—and realized that he was not as they remembered him.  His face was bare to the elements, and there was no trace of smile upon it.  He seemed to have grown much taller, and his robes flared in the breeze.  His eyes were dark and glittering, and the soft, amiable lines of his face had grown sharp and hollow and much older.  There was no sign of a mild personality here: there was an enchanter, hard and glittering, brimming with magic.

It occurred to his audience that this was a man who made monsters.

“I would have your assistance in this task,” he said softly, and they strained to catch his words.  “Your leader has entrusted me with it, and I would not fail.  I would not have you fail me.  Tell me again that you were going to refuse.”

“We weren’t,” muttered Miss Ironfist. 

“It’s not like we have anything better to do,” said Medic.

“Excellent,” said the Enchanter, and he was simply Stephen once more, and there was no sign he had ever been otherwise.  But no one seemed inclined to return to their arguing, and it was universally agreed that making snowmen might be worthwhile after all.

“Amazing,” Youngster whispered.  “They never listen to me.  Can you teach me how to do that?  You went all scary.”

“You mean he used bedazzlement,” Tinkerfingers said flatly.  “You messed with our minds.”

“I did not!  I would never bedazzle anyone.  Bedazzlement’s illegal.”

“And you were a condemned criminal.  What for?  I thought it strange when I met you—but now I wonder.”

“I was falsely accused!  And not of bedazzlement either—of glamour and fairy magic . . . which goes to show how much the justice system knows about enchanting.”

Tinkerfingers looked doubtful and that doubt, to Stephen’s surprise, stung.  He had been relying too heavily on Tinkerfingers’s good opinion—he had too much enjoyed having someone to talk to who didn’t dislike him for his profession.  He knew better.