The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter (6 page)

Had any of the company survived?  Yes, all of them—or, at least, he could not see any dead, and when he counted, he found nineteen.  There—he could see the Jolly Executioner and Tinkerfingers and Granite and Miss Ironfist and Craggy and Banananose—where was Youngster?  Yes, there, with that little man in blue, who was bandaging an arm injury.  Tinkerfingers had been obscuring Stephen’s view.

Stephen didn’t know the others by sight, yet.  It occurred to him that he never would have known it if one had died and been replaced by one of the wolves in the guise of a man.

“Is the Enchanter hurt?”

It was the little man in blue talking to him.  Stephen started.  He had dazed off again.  He did not think he like battles.  “What?”

“I’m a doctor.  Is the Enchanter hurt?”

Stephen shook his head.  Medic looked him up and down, nodded, and moved on without another word.

A locksmith, a child, a mirror of his old governess, a mad executioner, and now a doctor who spoke to people in the third person.  Fabulous.

All around him, the companions were going about their tasks in a humdrum way that never would have suggested they had fought off fairy wolves summoned by their leader.  Several of them took to skinning the wolves and collecting meat.  Stephen caught the eye of one—a stock man with a warthog nose and dark, beady eyes.  Warthog waved him over.  “You’re the Enchanter,” he said.

“I am.”

“Can you do anything useful?  I hate to see you sitting around all the time when there’s work to be done.”

“I can enchant weapons—but not just now; I’m pretty drained.  I can, um.”  What could he do?  He had once thought of himself as accomplished.  ‘I can sew,’ was unhelpful, ‘I know several languages,’ boastful and ‘I can play the fife’ daft.  “What do you need?”

“Can you skin a wolf?”

“It how many ways?”

Warthog looked blank.

“I guess so—only, I don’t have a knife.”

“We have extra.  Your predecessor left them in his saddlebag.”

I’m not going to ask
, Stephen promised himself.  “My predecessor?  What happened to him?”
Drat
.

“He was slow.”

“Ah.” Stephen hesitated.  “I don’t suppose the Jolly Executioner would mind if I took some—some trophies from the corpse?  Ears and snout, sort of thing?”

“Don’t suppose he would,” said Warthog.  “I don’t mind either, if you keep them to yourself and don’t tell me what they’re for.”

It is almost invariably unpleasant to meet a monster,

But equally unpleasant to be the monster who is met.

Stephen awoke cold and uncomfortable, but without any sign of a sniffle—which was, in his opinion, worth a tree-root in the back.  Or possibly a rock; he couldn’t tell under all that snow.

The rest of the company was already awake and shuffling around and packing and doing all sorts of other work with which Stephen couldn’t be bothered to help.  No one asked him, either.  Maybe they thought enchanters didn’t know how to roll blankets or put out fires or anything else useful.

Just as if he hadn’t been traveling on foot since he was a teenager.  How did they think traveling enchanters got around—by teleporting?

Probably.

He wondered if it were possible to build himself a winged horse with which he could fly around the kingdom.  Maybe.  If he had the right materials.  Not that anyone would hire an enchanter who came in on a flying horse . . . likely as not, it would turn out to be illegal.

Speaking of which, he’d better get to work enchanting his new knife.  He had found it in his saddlebags the night before: a curved skinning knife about ten inches long and—importantly—bronze rather than iron.  It wasn’t a bad knife, either. Stephen knew his weapons; he had enchanted everything from catapults to brass knuckles.  This one would hold as many enchantments as he could push into it.

Stephen meandered over to Noble Steed and patted her nose as he contemplated the knife.  Enchanting weapons wasn’t his favorite work, but it was more interesting than warding, and didn’t take as long.  He had an idea that it would come in especially useful over the next however long he would be with the company.

First things first: his own personal protection trumped that of the company.  He’d start to work on monsters for the Jolly Executioner after his knife was so heavy with enchantments it glowed.

Possibly literally.  That much magic did strange things to metal.

Stephen set about placing the base enchantment on his knife.  After a time, he vaguely remembered climbing onto Noble Steed’s back, but he was concentrating so deeply, he barely noticed.  There was the magic, and the knife, and he thought of nothing else.  He wove a permanent base level of stability into the knife, then began adding auxiliaries: strength, sharpness, recognition of wielder, protection, safety.  On top of those he added a glimmering sheen of concealment from enemies.

If anyone captured him again, they would not find a knife, not even if it were directly in front of them.

In theory.

Stephen was not aware of it, but several of the company watched him work.  One or two asked him questions, but gave up when he made no sign of hearing them.

And then he was done.  He blinked at the knife—which, if it was glowing, was doing so too faintly to be spotted in daylight—and heard Tinkerfingers say, “I had no idea enchanting was so much work.”

It was like being underwater and coming up for air.  Suddenly the world around him was full of sound and colors, and Stephen realized it had been all along, he had just been too absorbed to notice.

“It’s almost like a real job,” he heard himself say.  His own voice sounded stupid in his ears and he shook himself.  “I can do quick enchantments in minutes—and they’ll only last for minutes.  Making a permanent one, making a quality one, takes time.”

“Will you enchant our weapons also?” Warthog asked.  “You mentioned something about that yesterday.  I wouldn’t mind having an enchanted club.”

Club.  Stephen hadn’t noticed the day before which weapon Warthog used.  His disdain must have shown on his face, because Warthog’s expression clouded.  “You may think it’s primitive—” he began.

“Is it bound in iron?”

“What?”

“Your club, is it banded around with iron?”

“Steel.”  Warthog hoisted the double-handed club into his arms and showed it to Stephen.  It was a sturdy piece, with a nasty head on the end: designed to bash in skulls without getting stuck.  It was, as he had said, made with steel rather that iron.  Stephen marveled that Warthog could afford it.  Did that kind of money come from working for the Jolly Executioner or somewhere else?  “Or is that too close to iron for you?”

“No, no; steel is fine.”

“In that case,” said Youngster, “could you enchant my swords also?  Make them seek enemy blood and drain it from their corpses and spread disease among the evil and hope among the good?”

“If you like,” said Stephen, “I could try.  It’d be highly illegal and you’d no doubt regret it intensely after the first day or so, but—”

“He was exaggerating,” Tinkerfingers broke in.  “Whatever you typically do with weapons, that’ll work.”

“But maybe a little more special,” Youngster said.  “An extra snap of pizzazz.”

“But one which won’t bedazzle him and make him a mad warrior enthralled to his weapons.”

“Is that possible?”

Tinkerfingers and Youngster turned expectantly to Stephen.  “Yes,” he said seriously.  “Yes, given time and resources, I could make a weapon do that.  But it’d be illegal—not to mention immoral.”

Youngster looked faintly disappointed.

Stephen stowed his knife away, and grilled Youngster on exactly which enchantments he wanted.  Warthog burst in after that, and then Tinkerfingers . . . and by the end of the day, Stephen had enough enchanting lined up to last him a week.

He hoped the Jolly Executioner wasn’t expecting more monsters any time soon.

The Jolly Executioner himself never approached Stephen to ask for any enchantments on his weaponry—quite sensibly, as it was iron—nor did he mention making monsters.  The company continued to travel north and Stephen continued to enchant, until Stephen almost thought that living with this company wasn’t so bad.  He missed the walking, but having a full stomach at the end of every day and the companionship—if not friendship—of Tinkerfingers and Youngster made up for it.

Nothing could make up for the prospect of fighting monsters, but as the company traveled, Stephen began to hope that maybe there was some other plan after all.  Maybe the Jolly Executioner had been teasing him or speaking metaphorically or—

Or not.

January was five days old and colder than ever when the Jolly Executioner called a halt just before noon.

“What’s going on?” Stephen whispered to Tinkerfingers.  “We’re in the middle of nowhere!  This can’t be our destination.”

“It isn’t,” Tinkerfingers replied.  “The Jolly Executioner is planning something else.  Probably another monster.  I wish I had a map; I’m sure I’ve heard of one around here.”

“Of course you have,” Youngster interjected.  “Have you lost your memory completely?  What creature dwells in the dead center of the Fairwoods and only emerges on the coldest day of the year?”

Tinkerfingers’s face dawned with comprehension, horror, and amusement in one.  “I suppose it is the coldest day of the year.  I hope it is, anyway.  I’ve never felt colder.”  His quick hands, which usually waved in the air, were deep inside thick mittens.  His only visible skin was a thin horizontal slit between the scarf he had wrapped around his face and the hat he had pulled down low.  On a warmer day, Stephen might have wondered how he could see; today, he knew from personal experience: fuzzily, but in (relative) warmth.

Around them, the rest of the companions were making similar conclusions as to what they had to fight.  Stephen couldn’t see their faces, but their low, muttering voices did not inspire confidence.

“Enchanter!” the Jolly Executioner called.  Stephen reluctantly turned his way.  “Have you prepared a monster to fight for us?”

“No,” said Stephen, and was annoyed how sulky he sounded.  “How could I, without materials, not once being told what kind of monster you wanted, or what it was for.  Besides, I’ve been busy enchanting weapons.”

“In that case, you have sixteen hours to make a monster.  We’ll be fighting tomorrow, and I plan to do so with magic at our side.  Get to work.”

“You still haven’t told me what I’m facing!  And you mustn’t expect much, in only sixteen hours.”

The Jolly Executioner rose up, huge and stormy and faceless in his hood.  “I expect you to fulfill our agreement!”

“Yes, yes—I’m trying.  I never said I wouldn’t.”

“Then go and fulfill it!”

“How?  Give me information!”

“You would order me?”

“I would—this is ridiculous.  Please, stop bellowing at me, and tell me what I need to know.”  Stephen folded his arms, straightened his back, and—in his best enchanter mode—attempted to stare down the Jolly Executioner.  He had no idea if it had any effect; the Jolly Executioner was imperturbable behind his hood.  They stayed that way for several seconds, neither giving in.  “Please?” Stephen repeated, his tone softer, more accommodating.

“Tomorrow,” said the Jolly Executioner, “is the coldest day of the year.  If you do not know what that means, the others will explain it to you.  There is a monster out of legend that comes out on that day, and that is the monster we will face.  It is your duty to protect us or distract it or kill it.”

A hand touched his elbow and Tinkerfingers was there, pulling him away.  “Thank you, sir,” he told the Jolly Executioner.  “I know the story, and can fill him in.”

“Does everyone know it except me?” Stephen asked, loudly enough for the Jolly Executioner to hear.  “Everyone knew what we were going to face, and no one thought to give me any warning?”

“We didn’t know exactly . . . it’s more that we all know we’re fighting monsters, and we’ve heard the legend—I’m surprised you haven’t.  Haven’t you ever heard of the Beast of Quag?”

“I know that’s not what I would name a monster.”  The flippant comment came out of his mouth before he could stop it.  He was trying not to understand that the Jolly Executioner really did mean to seek out fairytale monsters and kill them—or that the fairy wolves were more than a fluke.

“Quag,” said Miss Ironfist, who had been leaning over to eavesdrop, “was the name of the first known town destroyed by the monster.”

“That only comes out on the coldest day of the year.”

“That’s right.”

“Did you know we were going to be fighting it?”

Miss Ironfist looked down her nose at him and did not answer.

“Fine.”  Stephen turned back to Tinkerfingers.  “Tell me about the Beast of Quag.  What are its abilities?  Why does it like the cold?  And why does the Jolly Executioner think it’s a good idea to be hunting it down when it isn’t doing us any harm, or wouldn’t be if we were smart enough to stay out of its way?”

“It’s horrible,” Youngster said with relish.  “Everything you could want in a monster.  It eats people and breathes fire.”

“Like a dragon?”

“No.  It can’t fly.  And least—”

“At least,” said Tinkerfingers, “not that we know of.  We’ll tell you everything we know, but I’m afraid it isn’t much.  It’s just a story, the kind you hear around the hearth when the wind is howling and your parents are trying to convince you to go to bed.  But the basics are these—”

“Oh, no you don’t,” said Youngster.  “I’ll tell it; it’s my turn.”

Tinkerfingers laughed and did not contradict him.

Forty years ago, on the coldest day of the year, the people of Quag slept snugly in their beds
.  No monster or fairy creature had been seen in those parts for decades, and there was no real fire in the nightmares of the sleepers.  It was, in fact, unfashionable for anyone to dwell over-long on ‘unpleasant’ matters.