The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter

by Natelson, D. J.

  “You aren’t identical, mind. You all have different colorations. What will the next one have? Red hair? Purple?”

  “I have never,” said the woman, “seen you before in my life. Nor do I wish to see you again. You are not welcome here.”

  Stephen wasn’t listening—he was thinking furiously. Could it be—was it possible that there was a conspiracy of beautiful woman, intent on following him?

  It hardly seemed likely.

  One beautiful woman, following him around—why? Revenge? He didn’t think he’d ever done anything interesting enough to merit revenge.

  Or had he, without knowing it? Did this have something to do with the accusation at Crying?

  “I want to ask you a few questions,” said Stephen, “since the boy isn’t here. What do you know about Robin’s Woods? Have you ever been to Crying?”

  “If you do not depart immediately,” said the woman, “I shall call the constable and have you arrested.”

  She was serious. Stephen had trespassed in her house, and—

  He was an enchanter. He had gotten out of the habit of towns; he had gotten too used to traveling in the company. Stupid, foolish. What if he were arrested? Worse, what if the Jolly Executioner tried to break him out again, and found all the warding magic of Robin’s Haven rising against him? The company—including Stephen—would not survive.

  Stephen bowed deeply and sincerely. “My apologies, lady. Thank you for your time.” He withdrew quickly, and heard the door slam behind him.

  That could have gone better. And he still hadn’t learned anything about Robin’s Woods.

  But he knew one thing: in whatever town he settled, if he ever did settle, it would have to be somewhere no one knew he had ever done magic.

  “Enchanter!”

  Stephen jumped. Was that—Miss Ironfist’s voice?

  “Enchanter!”

  Yes, yes it was. Stephen turned his feet toward camp and strolled back, whistling.

  “Enchanter, get back here immediately!”

  Stephen rounded the last corner and beheld a peculiar sight: Miss Ironfist standing on a log, truncheon in hand; Letitia sitting, arms folded disapprovingly; Medic and Twitch racing every which way; and Youngster rolling about it what seemed to be agony, but was in fact silent paroxysms of laughter.

  “What?” said Stephen, which made Youngster laugh harder.

  “You!” cried Miss Ironfist. “You’ve loosed a monster in our midst!”

  “I don’t think I have.”

  “She means,” Youngster gasped, “your—” he collapsed again, unable to finish.

  “Your dog,” Warthog supplied. “It’s come alive and gone mad.”

  “He has?”

  “Yes! Can’t you control it?”

  Dog bounded into view, his tongue—a fabulously long and mighty tongue, in Stephen’s opinion—lashing the faces of the companions, tail wagging vigorously, looking delighted with himself. Twitch and Medic attempted to tackle him and ended up in the snow.

  “Enchanter!” barked Miss Ironfist.

  “What? Oh, yes. Dog, come here.”

  Dog skidded up to him and sat hopefully, tail thumping.

  It was just as well that he did. A moment later, the Jolly Executioner returned from some unknown errand. “What’s all this?” he asked. “Why are you all playing? I told you: we’re leaving tomorrow. Miss Ironfist, I’m astonished. What were you thinking? And why are you up on that log?”

  “Ask the Enchanter,” said Miss Ironfist, stepping down.

  “Me! What did I do?”

  “That creature of yours—”

  “He was playing!”

  The Jolly Executioner’s hooded gaze fell on Dog, and he grunted. “You’ve taken long enough to finish it,” he said.

  And that seemed to be that.

  “It’s strange,” Letitia mused. It was the next morning, and the company had risen—far too early, in Stephen’s opinion—to enter Robin’s Woods.

  “What’s strange?” Stephen asked uneasily. He wasn’t sure why she was talking to him; he had made his dislike no mystery.

  “That none of you has heard of Robin’s Woods.”

  “Really.”

  “Oh, yes. I was born in a village not far from here, and I thought everyone knew about Robin’s Woods—and about the three bridges.”

  “Indeed,” said Stephen, determined not to ask. But Letitia was enjoying her monologue, and continued unencouraged.

  “That boy in the village told only the edges of the story—I doubt he knew more. Possibly, no one knows it all. No doubt the company will discover some of its secrets before you all die.”

  “And before you die?”

  Letitia laughed. “I didn’t join this company to die.”

  “None of us did. But—why did you join? Why not leave at Robin’s Haven—or take a horse and go? No one would stop you.”

  Letitia gazed thoughtfully at the woods around them, apparently lost in memory. “Not a large woods—sixty miles across, some say, and impenetrable save by a path that traverses three bridges. None enter from the north; that way lies Faerie. Those who enter from the south and pass the first bridge never return. Do they go into Faerie? Are they defeated by the woods?”

  “There’s probably a hideous multi-headed monster with fangs and poison and pincers, ready to gobble everyone up,” Stephen said. “Or maybe the trees do the eating. Or fairy creatures. It doesn’t matter which—the Jolly Executioner will stick it with his axe and, if that doesn’t work, try to make me deal with it.” He nodded sarcastically and reined in his horse. He had had enough of riding next to the witch.

  Morning turned to afternoon, and the company passed the first bridge. Stephen set Dog to prowling, scouting ahead. Dog returned frequently, never the worse for wear, never barking danger.

  And then someone screamed. The scream went on and on, getting farther and farther away. There was something wrong about that scream, something not quite human. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the scream cut off.

  Stephen clung to Noble Steed, straining his ears for any sound, any hint of whatever had caused the scream.

  There was nothing.

  “That was one of the horses,” Lucky whispered. “I’m sure it was. We must have lost one of the spares.”

  “It couldn’t have been,” said Miss Ironfist. “I sold them all in Robin’s Haven.”

  There was a rustling as everyone turned to the man beside him, making sure he was still there, tallying faces. There was Letitia in front of him, Youngster to his left, Craggy to his right—

  “Where’s Banananose?” asked Twitch. His voice was steady and calm, and his hands still on his reins. Stephen hadn’t seen him like that since the Beast of Quag. “He was right beside me.”

  “Here! But I can’t find Warthog. Anyone seen him?”

  No one did. Letitia opined that he was dead.

  “Excellent,” said the Jolly Executioner. “That means we have found our monster. Its lair must be somewhere near here. I need scouts.”

  “I’ll go,” said Granite. “Warthog may yet be alive.”

  “And I,” said Lucky, ashen but determined. “I’ve already lost one friend on this expedition; I’d rather not lose a second. We’ll take the Enchanter with us.”

  “What!” Stephen exclaimed loudly.

  “His skills might come in handy.”

  “And his dog,” said the Jolly Executioner. “Well, Enchanter—time to show your worth. You three will make up the first group. Volunteers for the second?”

  Stephen trudged after Granite and Lucky, thinking that he should have tried to stay in Robin’s Haven. He’d forgotten how unpleasant it was, tramping after people in search of monsters, although he had to acknowledge the logic of leaving Noble Steed with the larger group. “Stupid,” Stephen whispered. “Stupid.”

  Granite shushed him. “Do you want it to know we’re coming?”

  “If that makes it avoid us—yes!” Stephen would have said mo
re, but he caught sight of Lucky’s face, and it occurred to him that he should be afraid, rather than annoyed. But it was hard to bring up more than a tense weariness, with the familiar sight of trees all around him and no terrible monster in sight. Terrible monsters out of sight had never bothered Stephen because if he couldn’t see them, they probably weren’t eating him.

  Unless the monster was invisible, or too fast to be seen.

  I’m out of my depth, Stephen thought. He turned this over in his mind and added, I’m so out of my depth, the pressure will crush me. Yes, that was clever. How about, I’m so far out of my depth, I’ll soon pop out the other side. Pop. Was that the best word?

  Granite held up a hand to stop them, and Stephen heard a familiar voice upon the wind.

  “Is that—” Lucky began.

  “Hush.” Head swiveling, searching for danger, Granite stepped lightly from shadow to shadow. Stephen followed, one hand on Dog’s head.

  The voice floated closer, and Stephen could almost make out words. He strained his ears, but whatever Warthog was saying—if it were Warthog—was lost to him.

  Lucky rushed forward, heedless of Granite’s warning.

  Instead of growing louder as they approached, Warthog’s voice diminished and was gone. Lucky stopped where he was. “He can’t be dead, can he?”

  “Hush,” warned Granite.

  “His throat must have gotten sore. Or maybe we went the wrong direction.”

  “We didn’t,” said Stephen.

  “Then his throat got sore. He probably didn’t realize we could hear him. If we call his name—”

  As Lucky spoke, the wind shifted. A burning, sick smell tingled Stephen’s nostrils. It reminded him a little of the dying Beast of Quag and a little of the next room in Chubblewooble. Under his hand, Dog’s twisted away and slunk off, and would not return however Stephen beckoned him.

  Granite motioned to Stephen to leave Dog, and they continued forward, in the direction from which they thought the sound had come. “Do you smell that?” Stephen asked.

  “Look!” cried Lucky, pointing through the trees. “What’s he doing?”

  “Stay where you are,” said Granite.

  They had found Warthog. He was standing up to his waist in a pit. The pit was not large, but it was barren of snow, and there was no reason whatsoever why Warthog couldn’t have climbed out. But he did not. Nor did he appear to be in any kind of pain. He simply stood there, unmoving, looking at nothing.

  “Do you smell that?” Stephen repeated.

  “Warthog!” Lucky called. “Warthog, can you hear me!”

  “He can’t hear you,” said Stephen.

  “I didn’t ask you. Warthog, we’re here to help you.”

  “Don’t touch him,” said Stephen. “Don’t go any closer.”

  “We should tell the company,” said Granite. “This could be a trap.”

  “It isn’t a trap. He called for us. He wouldn’t have done that, if it were a trap.”

  “You mustn’t go any closer.”

  “Let go, Granite.” Lucky shook Granite’s arm away. “What’s wrong with you two? I’m going to help—”

  Lucky strode away, but not quickly enough. Stephen threw himself forward and grabbed Lucky, knocking him to the ground.

  “What are you doing, you mad enchanter? Let me go!”

  “I will not—not until you start using your common sense. Can’t you smell that? That thing in the pit isn’t Warthog anymore—it’s not breathing. And can’t you see what he’s standing in? It’s melted all the snow!”

  Stephen didn’t know why he hadn’t seen it immediately. It filled the pit, coating Warthog with wispy tendrils. When Stephen pointed it out, it rose, ghosting over the edges—a deep orange mist, too thick and syrupy to be natural.

  “I think it’s digesting him,” Stephen observed quietly. “I recognize the smell—I’ve been smelling it a lot lately. Stomach acid.”

  “Oh, that’s lovely, that’s nice,” Lucky snarled. “How interesting for you; a mist dragged him here. And I suppose you have a pleasant little explanation for his horse, do you?”

  Stephen shrugged dully.

  Lucky went purple with rage. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you care about anyone? People are dying around here and it’s a big joke to you.”

  “Not a big joke,” said Stephen. “I’m in danger too.”

  “What about Tinkerfingers? What about Warthog? I know you didn’t care about the others, but those two were always kind to you.”

  Stephen stood up and stepped away from Lucky, too offended by this analysis to argue. “Go on, then,” he said. “I just saved your life, but you can throw it away again if you like. I won’t stop you.”

  “You’re as bad as the witch!”

  Stephen folded his arms.

  “He’s right,” said Granite. “No, listen—the Enchanter is right for once. The mist is spreading—look! The color is growing deeper. I think it is consuming Warthog.”

  How Granite must have hated admitting that the Enchanter was right. Stephen smiled bitterly to himself. Hurray.

  The mist was spreading—not just billowing over the edges, but drifting along the ground with deceptive slowness, creeping toward them.

  “If I might offer a suggestion—” Stephen began.

  “Retreat!” Granite barked. “Hurry!”

  “But what about Warthog?” Lucky protested. “We can’t leave him there. And if he is dead, we should give him a proper burial.

  The mist was closing in. Stephen didn’t wait any longer; he turned and ran, Granite on his heels.

  “Cowards!” Lucky yelled. “Traitors!”

  Stephen and Granite ran until Stephen’s lungs ached and his legs dragged. “Aren’t we back yet?”

  “Hush,” Granite said, stopping. “Don’t gasp.”

  “I’m breathing!”

  “Then don’t.”

  “Very funny. Is this the camp? Where is everyone?”

  “This was the right direction,” Granite said uncertainly, “and we have come far enough. Do you see any footprints? Any signs of the company’s passing?”

  “No. The snow doesn’t look trampled.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Then we didn’t come the right way after all?”

  Granite turned on him. “If you can’t be helpful—”

  The air pfiffed, something thumped, and Granite toppled over. There was an arrow punched through his chest with such force that it protruded out of his back and nailed him to the ground.

  A shadowy figure stepped out of the trees opposite Stephen. It was too dark to see its eyes, but Stephen could feel them. He held out his hands to show he was unarmed. “Dog!” he murmured, trying not to move his lips. “Dog!”

  The figure drew a long, shining blade from its belt, and Stephen did the only thing he could think of.

  He fainted.

  XII

  Little robin redbreast sat upon a tree—

  Don’t you love nursery rhymes?

  I always wonder what they really mean.

  There was something warm, soft, and alive pressed against Stephen’s face. Its hair ticked his nose and got in his mouth and tasted both unwashed and curiously familiar. It smelled familiar too—like animal and magic and something he couldn’t place—because it was, in fact, the way he himself smelled to other people.

  Stephen opened his eyes against a vast expanse of brown-grey hair. “Dog,” he mumbled, “pillows are supposed to go under your head.”

  Dog growled. Not the response he had been expecting. He forced himself to wake up.

  Dog nosed him and growled again. He was not, Stephen realized, growling at his master. There was someone else in the room.

  He needed to concentrate. His head swam—had he hit it when he had collapsed?—and he was having trouble focusing.

  And he was hungry—but that would have to wait. He levered himself to a sitting position. Dog whined at him, and pawed his arm.


  Stephen was in a warm, wooden room cluttered with hunting trophies—ink-dweller silks, wolf hides (normal and fairy), boar tusks, snapplehorn teeth, unicorn tails, fairy skins, eagle feathers, fish scales, bobcat heads, lizard bones, and a few unsavory specimens that could only have come from homo sapiens sapiens.