Ravenspell Book 2: The Wizard of Ooze (6 page)

“It’s not a place of evil,” Lady Blackpool said. “The school is called SWARM—the Small Wizards’ Academy of Restorative Magic. There you can learn spells of healing and protection, powerful spells—spells that may even teach you how to raise the dead!”

Ben couldn’t imagine such power.

“Would I be able to raise my mother and father from the dead?” Amber asked. Ben wasn’t sure how Amber’s parents had died or even
if
they had died. Amber had been raised in the pet shop to be a feeder mouse, a mouse that was used as food for snakes and lizards. So Ben suspected that Amber’s mother had been fed to a reptile, too. But there was a small chance that her family might still be alive somewhere, kept as pets by some human child.

“I cannot promise that you’ll raise the dead,” Lady Blackpool said. “Such spells only work on those who are freshly dead, not on those who have rotted away. There are legends of course . . . but I have never seen even the newly dead brought back to life.”

Amber nodded slowly, as if reaching a decision.

“I can’t go to your school,” she told Lady Blackpool. “Mice are dying, and I’m the only one who can save them. That’s my destiny, or so I’ve been told. If I don’t do it, no one else can.”

Lady Blackpool looked stunned.

Amber looked over at Ben. “I’ve got to go fight this sorcerer worm,” she told him. “But you’ve kept your part of our bargain, and for that I thank you.”

“Are you going to turn me back into a human?” Ben asked.

“Yes,” Amber said. “I’ll let you go.” But she peered into his eyes, and Ben could see such sadness and regret that it broke his heart.

Three days ago, she’d said that she didn’t think she could turn him back into a human, not unless she turned herself into one, too. She couldn’t bear to leave him.

Ben could see that she was still torn, but she had to save her mouse friends too.

Ben didn’t dare say it, but he didn’t want to leave her, either. For the past couple of days, he’d found himself dreaming of what it would be like to have a good friend. He’d been making plans, thinking about how he could keep her in his attic, hidden from his parents. He’d take her to school every day, and they’d be best friends.

Amber lunged forward and hugged him good-bye.

Ben felt such relief flooding him. He wanted to be human again. But he also felt worry—not for himself, but for Amber. She was planning to go face a cruel sorcerer who would take delight in killing her. Without Ben beside her, without training, she’d be dead in no time.

Ben could see in her eyes that she knew it. But she was trapped, stuck between wanting to do two things that were good, stuck between the promise that she’d made to Ben and the promise that she’d made to mousedom.

Ben had his own problems. He thought about his mother, so lost and lonely, calling for him, and he was eager to be home. Yet in trying to comfort her, he would be leaving Amber to face a cruel enemy alone.

Blinking back tears, Amber raised her paws, preparing to turn Ben into a human.

“Don’t!” Ben shouted, his heart pounding in terror.

“Why?” Amber asked.

“Because,” Ben said, “because . . . I want to help. I mean, I’m afraid to go with you, but just because I’m afraid to do something, it doesn’t mean that others should die or be kept as slaves, does it?”

Amber sat up on her back paws and peered at him, tears of gratitude now forming in her eyes. She leaned forward and hugged Ben again.

He would not have admitted it to his best friend, but it felt good to be hugged by her, even if she was just a mouse.

“Okay,” Ben said, “let’s go.” He hopped down into the grass, gripping his spear in his front paws. To his delight, Thorn and Bushmaster leapt down beside him, and then Amber jumped last of all. Together, they began hopping downhill.

“Wait!” Lady Blackpool cried. “Come back. The danger is too great . . .”

Ben turned to her. “Why don’t you come with us, too?”

Lady Blackpool shook her head sadly. “I cannot. Where you are going, it’s very cold. I must eat twice my own weight in food every day, and there, food would be very hard to find. I might go mad with hunger. I wouldn’t want to hurt any of you.”

Ben understood what she was hinting at. Shrews ate everything—slugs, bugs, and snails mostly. But they would eat a mouse, too, if they got hungry enough.

Lady Blackpool hopped down, raced up to Amber and the others, then stood there with her whiskers quivering, her eyes wide.

“One last word of warning,” she said. “The worm that you face—he casts his spells in songs and rhymes. Some animals can only cast spells that way. They use words to focus their powers and have a hard time casting spells in their minds alone. It may be that you’ll have to find some way to shut him up, keep him from uttering a spell.”

“Like put a cork in his mouth?” Ben suggested.

“Or slap a paw over it,” Lady Blackpool suggested.

“Thank you,” Amber said. She turned away and led the others. The mice had made up their minds. Amber could get her training later.
Now
was the time to fight!

Chapter 9

WHITE ON WHITE

I pity the poor creature whose blood never quickens, who never tastes fear, who mopes about in his burrow all day. 

To live without thrills is no life at all.

—BUSHMASTER THE VOLE`

Deathmonger’s pulse quickened at the thought of a dangerous kill.

White fur against the white snow, a weasel named Deathmonger went bounding toward his prey, racing out from beneath a green pine tree, hopping over some rocks, moving effortlessly over the sparkling white crust of a snowdrift.

The young mouse didn’t see the danger. He was moving east, the way that so many others had been this winter, his eyes glazed, his ears registering nothing but the haunting melodies of wormsong.

He never heard the weasel. Instead, the predator pounced, the weasel’s eight ounces of weight crushing the small mouse into the snow while sharp teeth punctured his throat.

The mouse died without a squeak or a struggle. His hind legs kicked uselessly as Deathmonger held him down, but soon the only movement was the flow of blood from his neck.

Deathmonger licked the salty blood with his small pink tongue, anticipating a feast. Soon there was a bright red stain on his chin, like a little beard. Other than the red of blood and the black of his eyes, Deathmonger blended perfectly with the snow. He was growing fat for a weasel. Life this winter had been easy, the easiest he had ever seen.

“I thank the Master of the Hunt for this kill,” he whispered, then pulled on the mouse’s fur, tearing it open so that he could get to the meat hidden beneath.

But at that moment, he heard a distant call, and in his mind he saw a great worm, an enormous dark worm in a deep cave.

“I am the one whom you should be thanking,” the worm whispered. “Not the Creator.”

“Perhaps I should be thanking you both,” the weasel said, unwilling to rob the Creator of at least some credit for the bounty of this winter.

“You are a sorcerer,” the worm said. “You taught at SADIST.”

“And you fought in the Great War, beside the Dark Lady,” Deathmonger said, not willing to be beaten. “You were her favorite, Sebaceous Ooze, the great worm that gnaws the world’s heart. What word have you from her?”

“Her spirit wanders the earth, craving blood still. The time of her return is close at hand.”

“Hasten the day,” Deathmonger whispered.

“You were a general in the Great War,” Sebaceous said. “Your talents were never properly rewarded.”

“That was long ago,” Deathmonger admitted. “I am a simple weasel now, with small ambitions.”

“The killing of mice?” Sebaceous said. “And without magic?”

“Magic power used is magic power wasted,” Deathmonger said.

“So you have been hoarding your power?” Sebaceous said approvingly. “For this past hundred years? Your supplies must be vast, almost limitless!”

“I save what I can,” Deathmonger admitted. “Besides, I have little need for magic anymore. I win what I need with my wits, my teeth, and my claws.”

“Yet your heart pounds for the thrill of the hunt,” the worm whispered. “Your blood races at the thought of a kill. I think that you would welcome the chance for worthy prey.”

How well the worm knew him. Deathmonger’s pulse quickened at the thought of a dangerous kill. He had been taking mice all winter—dazed mice, crazed mice.

But there had been times in the past when hunger forced him to seek out more dangerous prey—cottontail rabbits that were ten times his weight, with sharp teeth that could rend his flesh, and with feet that could deliver a deadly kick.

“What kind of prey?” Deathmonger asked, and his imagination went wild. He envisioned great horned owls and foxes, images that made him shiver with both fear and anticipation.

“A mouse,” the worm said.

Deathmonger spat bright red droplets of blood into the snow. “I’ve grown weary of mouse flesh. I already have a kill today.”

“Ah,” the worm said, “but not like this.”

And Deathmonger saw in his mind’s eye a mouse, pale gold in color—a magical mouse, wearing a nutshell upon her head, guarded by others that bore what looked like pine needles made of frozen ice.

How interesting, Deathmonger thought, imagining the sweetness of her blood.

“This is a kill that you will be able to boast about,” the worm whispered. “Your fame will last for generations. This is the Golden One of legend, who it is said will free all of mousekind. Of the billions and billions of mice that have been born into this world, none has had her powers. Kill her, and fame will be yours. Her name is Amber.”

Deathmonger smiled cruelly, displaying the blood that covered his sharp canine teeth. “It will be my pleasure.”

* * *

“What’s the fastest way to get to the worm’s lair?” Amber asked Ben when they were almost to his house.

“Well,” Ben said, “you could fly us there in a magic bubble, but last time we tried that, you drained all of the magic out of me.”

“That wouldn’t be advisable,” Thorn said, sounding like some college professor. Gone was the bumbling, smelly mouse of the past. “Getting there is only half the battle. You’ll need your energy in case there is a fight.”

“We could go by bird,” Amber said. “I had an owl fly me to Nightwing’s lair. It was slower than using my magical powers, but it was easier.”

“We’d need a large bird,” Thorn said. “A heron should do nicely.”

“Falcons are faster,” Ben objected. “They’re the fastest bird—” A thought occurred to him. “I suppose that if we knew where we were going, we might take an airplane.”

“What’s an airplane?” Thorn asked.

“It’s a machine for flying through the air,” Ben said. “You can see one right up there!” He pointed up into the sky, to a Boeing 747 that was flying north. It had just taken off from the Salem airport, and was not more than a thousand or so feet in the air.

“Inconceivable!” Thorn shouted. “A machine that flies. And its wings aren’t even flapping! You know, I’ve seen those things before, but I just thought they were giant mosquitoes or something!”

“Oh, they’re much bigger than mosquitoes,” Ben said. “There are hundreds of humans flying inside.”

“Hmmmm . . .” Thorn said. “Perhaps we could make a machine that propels itself with only a small amount of magical energy! That shouldn’t be too hard!”

Ten minutes later, Amber had used her powers to put something together. A garbage can lid formed the body of the mice’s airship. Beneath it was the engine and propeller from Mrs. Pumpernickel’s lawnmower. On top, the mice had a little pillow to cushion them from vibrations, while an overturned turtle bowl offered protection from the wind.

All in all, it looked just like a small flying saucer.

“Voila!” Thorn shouted when he was done. “An airship. I’m sure that it will fly. But of course I may need just a bit of magical help to steer it!”

“That shouldn’t be too hard,” Amber said.

All four mice climbed into the cockpit, and Amber used a small amount of magical energy to make a spark and start the engine. The ship shot up into the sky, three hundred feet in three seconds, whirling this way and that, then flipped over and zoomed back toward ground.

“Help!” Ben shouted. “We’re going to crash!”

With just a tiny spell, Amber righted the ship and sent it hurtling off.

Ben peered down at the houses and streets, and from above, he spotted his car. His mom was driving slowly through the neighborhood, and even through the glass, Ben imagined that he could hear her calling his name.

In no time at all they were whizzing east toward the freeway, over the green hills of Oregon, toward the high, fir-covered Cascade Mountains, which were still white with snow.

* * *

Latonia Pumpernickel had done everything that she could to warn the world about her “mouse problem.” In the past two days she’d called the CIA, the FBI, the president of the United States, the head of the United Nations, and even the folks that ran Orkin Pest Control.

None of them would help.

But they’ll have to listen when they see that I have proof! she told herself.

Latonia Pumpernickel hid in her attic with a brand new digital camera. It had a zoom lens and could even take pictures in the dark!

She’d just caught it all on tape—the mice using her lawnmower and her brand new garbage can lid to build some sort of spaceship.

A flying saucer, she realized, as she filmed the contraption racing off, a streak of silver that blurred in the sky.

These aren’t mice at all! She told herself. They’re aliens that just
look
like mice! They probably crashed, and now they’re trying to fly home.

Just like E.T., she told herself.

Suddenly, Latonia realized that she’d been dealing with the wrong agencies all along. It wasn’t the FBI she should have been calling: it was the Men in Black!

“I’ll show those alien mice,” she cackled. “I’ll show the whole world!”