The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter

by Natelson, D. J.

  How little, I think, they work

  “There you are!” exclaimed Letitia. “I was wondering if any of you would manage to get out alive!”

  Stephen bent over, panting.

  “There’s no need to be rude—you might say hello. Oh, you’re filthy—and bleeding.” Letitia bustled over to inspect him, pulling supplies out of her bag. “Hold still—don’t fidget so! What’s wrong with you? You’re safe now. Stay put and I’ll do what I can for you. No, no—stay put. Sit down immediately before you hurt yourself.”

  “Shouldn’t we move a little farther away?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Letitia snapped; “he can’t leave those woods. Come sit by the fire; it’s warmer.”

  “No, but he could send an arrow after us—although I suppose not with a broken bow. And that would ruin his little game . . . but he might change the rules, if it pleased him.”

  Letitia gave him a very odd look. “I see,” she said skeptically. “Are any of the others alive?”

  “I don’t know,” Stephen admitted. “I suppose there’s a faint chance, if Robin’s been primarily focused on heading off me . . . which I don’t know is true. I haven’t seen them since this morning, but at that point in time—yes, some of them were alive. The Jolly Executioner was alive, as was Youngster and—and so were six or seven others.”

  “Then we will wait for them a while, and see if they come. I told you to hold still!”

  Stephen plopped down onto the earth next to the fire and allowed Letitia to fuss over him, but his eyes never left the tree line. He saw no sign of Robin, and none of Robin’s arrows flew through the air to kill him, and so slowly, reluctantly, he relaxed.

  The sun slunk lower in the sky and dyed the clouds a pale pink. The snow did not return, but a chill wind whistled through the trees, rattling branches and fluffing snow.

  “Weren’t you locked up with the others?” Stephen said at last, adding another branch to the fire.

  “Robin never caught me. I was aware of the danger inherent in entering those woods, and so took precautions. You may recall that I warned the Jolly Executioner—and warned you—but you were all too proud to listen to me.”

  “So what, you ran away at the first sign of trouble?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not very heroic.”

  “You would have done the same thing, given the chance,” said Letitia, and Stephen opened his mouth to agree before wondering if this were really true. He thought he might have stayed willingly, if he had been sure he could have helped the company—which he wasn’t sure he had.

  Stephen was jerked from his reverie by a pleasantly familiar bark, and a great yelling from inside the woods.

  “Dog!” Stephen called, springing to his feet. “Dog! Here, boy!”

  “Don’t pass the tree line,” Letitia cautioned him. Stephen favored this bit of idiocy with the reply it deserved: none. As if he would return into those woods after he had barely escaped them! As if he would sacrifice himself for the sake of a dog!

  “Dog!”

  “Get him off us!” a voice roared back, and the Jolly Executioner burst into view, closely followed by three others—Miss Ironfist, Craggy, another . . . Dog was chasing them, his tongue hanging between his teeth, a doggy smile upon his face. He barked cheerfully at Stephen, then leapt sideways, hitting Miss Ironfist’s back. In that moment of distraction, Youngster burst out of bushes on the far side of the trail, where he must have been hiding for some time, creeping his way toward the gap in the rocks.

  As Youngster ran, Miss Ironfist collapsed onto the ground, shrieking, trying unsuccessfully to roll away and waving her nail studded-truncheon. Dog batted the truncheon away with one paw, lowered his head, and ripped out her throat.

  “Dog! Bad dog!” Stephen yelled, aghast. “Dog, let them pass; let them pass; let them out! Dog!”

  Dog paused to gaze reproachfully at Stephen, his ears drooping, wide-eyed and confused. What do you mean, ‘bad dog?’ he seemed to be asking. I’m not a bad dog. What have I done wrong? Surely you don’t mean that. I’m a good dog! He brought one paw up to his snout and began licking away the blood. As he did so, the last of the company passed the line of Robin’s Friends, and fell into the safety of the land beyond. They collapsed to the ground, breathing heavily, clutching at wounds and stitches. Letitia rushed to help them, salves and bandages at the ready.

  “Good dog, Savage,” a new voice approved—Robin! He was standing not twenty feet away, inside his woods. He nodded to Stephen. “I don’t mind letting a few people through, now and again. It helps spread the legend.” He smiled and nodded to Dog. “Savage is such a good dog, and he does love me dearly. He always obeys me. Soon, he’ll forget you altogether.”

  “Yes,” said Stephen. “I know.”

  Dog trotted up to Robin and nudged him, begging to be petted. Robin obliged him, nodded again to Stephen, and then he and Dog—no; then he and Savage trotted off together, not looking back. A moment later, they disappeared into the dusky woods.

  The Jolly Executioner was not pleased. He was not, he emphasized, an unreasonable man. It should be noted and respected that he did not expect the impossible from his men; he just demanded the best. Not two months before, he had taken considerable time and energy and resources in compiling the best possible company—a company twenty strong (himself included), every member a keen fighter, loyal follower, and powerful ally . . . or so he had thought.

  Like any good leader—and he was a superb leader—he had begun training his men early, getting them in shape for the final and most important battle. He had supplied his men with lesser monsters on which to practice and found magic-users to supplement their abilities. In all fairness, he should now have a strong, ready company, unbeatable in exercise and true to form. Instead, after this simplest of trials, the company had let him down. Its members had allowed themselves to become killed or maimed, and now only two of his original followers remained.

  “Three,” said Youngster.

  The Jolly Executioner glowered through his hood—then nodded, accepting the correction.

  Three then—three, if you must! Three bounty hunters, two magic-users, and his own valuable self. He had hoped to have a total of twenty-two—ideally he would! Worst-case scenario (he had predicted), he should have lost no more than a dozen . . . and now he was left with six—six! Including himself! For his most valuable Mission!

  “I knew someone had died before I joined this company,” Stephen muttered to Youngster in an undertone, “because of the extra horse. Who was it?”

  Youngster shook his head; he was listening to the Jolly Executioner with an expression somewhere between amusement, annoyance, and anguish.

  “Six! One permanently brain-damaged from beating his head against a wall, one a child, one a monster-making maniac, one a murderous witch, and one—one other. I hired a company to assist me, and now it looks like I’ll have to do the dirty work myself after all—unless one of you thinks you can do some measly good with your measly skills.”

  “Our measly skills have allowed us to survive this long,” said Letitia. “And if you’re grumpy, think of it this way: if the six of us are the only survivors, we must be the toughest of the company. Your training exercise did work—it weeded out the weak and left behind the strong core.

  “This ‘strong core’ wouldn’t have survived, were it not for the sacrifices of the others,” Youngster pointed out sourly. “Unless you intend that all of us should run away at the first sign of trouble, like you. If you had done the honorable thing and stayed with us, I daresay that dog could’ve killed you as easily as Miss Ironfist. She, at least, was brave.”

  “A couple of weeks ago,” mused Stephen, “I wouldn’t have thought anything could bring down Miss Ironfist. She seemed so indestructible.”

  “Maybe nothing could have taken her down,” suggested Letitia, “until you made that dog and presented it to that madman.”

  “Maybe,” said Stephen. “And maybe if
you had stayed to help Miss Ironfist, not even Dog could have killed her.”

  “Why should I clean up after the enchanter’s faulty enchantment?”

  “My enchantment was not faulty! If anything, it was too good! What can you say in your favor, witch? Where was your magic? For that matter, where was that crossbow with which you claimed so much skill?”

  “Not being used to kill my own companions, I can tell you that. I can control my weapons.”

  “Stop it!” cried Youngster. “That’s not fair—he saved our lives by trading his dog, when he could have run off and left us.”

  “Did Robin tell you that?”

  “What’s done is done,” Craggy said quietly.

  “Exactly! So stop it!”

  Stephen fell silent, startled, grateful for Youngster’s defense.

  The Jolly Executioner was still grumbling to himself, wondering aloud how any of his remaining company could possibly assist him. Stephen listened for a while, before saying dryly, “How should I know if I can help you when you still haven’t told me what this mission of yours is? All the answer I’ve managed to wrangle is, ‘something like bounty hunting’ and ‘something to do with the king.’ I’ve worked steadily under your command, fulfilling my life debt perfectly. How about showing me some trust?”

  “Yes; tell us what you desire to kill,” said the last member of the company. This member did not have a name—or at least, not a name given by Stephen. Stephen had never sufficiently interacted with the individual to grant a name, or know which would fit. For that matter, Stephen doubted he could have recognized the face out of a lineup, even if hailed . . . which was unusual, in and of itself, for Stephen usually had a decent memory for faces. The problem with this one was that it was so entirely un-extraordinary that Stephen couldn’t grasp onto a single feature. What an entirely forgettable person!

  That was, Stephen supposed, one way to stay safe against the wrath of Robin and other monsters: to remain unnoticed and unnoticeable.

  Then Stephen himself switched his attention away, because the Jolly Executioner was speaking . . . and saying words Stephen had never expected to hear:

  “You’re right.”

  For a split-second, Stephen was sure he must have misheard. No: the Jolly Executioner had actually conceded—and to Stephen!

  “Tomorrow, we travel north into Faerie.”

  “Into Faerie!” Stephen exclaimed, forgetting himself. “Are you mad?”

  “You haven’t heard the rest of it,” Youngster told him. “It gets better.”

  “It has come to the attention of our good King Erich III—may he rule long and prosper greatly, and may all his enemies fall before him—that the borders of Faerie have been encroaching ever more upon the Kingdom of Locklost.

  “Through much toil and careful research, Royal Historians have ascertained that, over the past century, Locklost has lost more than five miles at her northern border. As it is likely that the border movement has been continuing for much longer than that, the problem has become quite severe . . . and in time, Locklost would be entirely swallowed up into Faerie.

  “Our good King Erich III—may he rule long and prosper greatly, and may all his enemies fall before him—naturally reacted with his usual diplomacy, and sent messengers to Faerie, in order to demand a return of lands and ample recompense for the theft. None of the scouts returned. More were sent, but did not return. Instead, fairies came to the court and mocked our good King Erich III—may he rule long and prosper greatly, and may all his enemies fall before him—which naturally enraged him—”

  “What I heard,” Youngster whispered to Stephen, “is that the king heard how beautiful the Fairy Queen was, and proposed marriage to her via the messengers. She scorned him openly, in front of his court with a most rude reply, and that’s why he hates her.”

  The Jolly Executioner pretended not to have heard Youngster. “Because of this,” he said, “and to further the purpose of our good King Erich III—may he rule long and prosper greatly, and may all his enemies fall before him—”

  “Do you have to say that every time?” Letitia interrupted. “Can you just call him ‘King Erich’ or ‘the king?’“

  “As you should know,” the Jolly Executioner answered severely, “the correct way to refer to our esteemed monarch traditionally includes a benediction.”

  “Yes,” said Letitia, “I’m sure it does—but it takes forever and sounds silly. Anyway, I don’t see why he should prosper all that much. If you ask me, the only way he thinks he can prosper is by raising taxes or invading a foreign nation, and while that may make him richer, it certainly doesn’t help the rest of us.”

  “Do you pay taxes?” Youngster wondered. “I mean, you were living with a witch in the middle of the Fairwoods. Even if witchcraft were legal and you weren’t in hiding, I somehow doubt—”

  “Maybe I just want to lessen the burden of taxes upon the rest of you.”

  “I would certainly like to be spared that burden,” Stephen said. “Enchanters have to pay through the nose.”

  “And quite a nose yours is, too,” said Letitia. “With a nose like that, it should be no problem to pull out coins.”

  “And with a nose held as high as yours—” Stephen began, but the Jolly Executioner cut him off midsentence—which was just as well, because he had yet to come up with a witty finish for his comeback, and it would have fallen decidedly flat.

  “You two are not in this company to bicker,” the Jolly Executioner rebuked them. “Do you want to hear the rest of my explanation, or not?”

  Stephen and Letitia fell silent, nodding. Youngster stifled his laughter.

  “As I was saying, our good King Erich III—may he rule long and prosper greatly, and may all his enemies fall before him—”

  Letitia sighed, but did not otherwise object.

  “—realized in his enormous wisdom that more stringent measures were needed to protect our borders. If Faerie were an ordinary kingdom, he would have simply rallied his troops and marched upon it, or perhaps challenged its monarch to a contest of wits or duel of champions, in order to decide the matter. But fairies are tricky and untrustworthy sorts—and much inclined to cheat by using their glamours and other evil magic—even when they do agree to such competitions—competitions which they are much inclined to call ‘games’ and treat with contempt and humor instead of with the dignified seriousness which they deserve—”

  The Jolly Executioner hesitated, apparently having lost his train of thought in this rambling digression. Then he rallied, and continued.

  “Thus, our good King Erich III—may he rule long and prosper greatly, and may all his enemies fall before him—decided upon another scheme, designed to mirror the deviousness of the fairies and thus win back our land and avenge his honor—or, at the very least, prevent Faerie from eating up any more of Locklost.”

  “Please,” said Letitia, “get to the point.”

  “We must be silent,” said Stephen, “and allow our great leader to speak. How can he grant us the information we so dearly need if we are constantly interrupting him like the rude ruffians we are?”

  “Truly,” said Youngster, “it’s a mystery.”

  “Hush,” said the final member of the company, in a voice so intense and certain that they unthinkingly obeyed.

  “Pure iron is, as you know,” the Jolly Executioner went on, just as if there hadn’t been any interlude, “inimical to all fairy creatures. In the forges of the Royal Blacksmiths was created specifically for me this battleax. It is, as the enchanter will no doubt agree, of the very purest iron—or as pure as any iron can be, when molded. I am assured that it will burn cold against all magic, and that with a single swipe, I will be able to slay any fairy as easily as if he were mortal man; furthermore, I am assured that no enchantment or glamour can touch me while I hold it, nor betray me, nor sway my hand from the killing blow.” He looked to Stephen and then, somewhat reluctantly, to Letitia. “This is true?”

  “Yes
,” said Stephen immediately. He could feel the unnatural, warping cold of the iron from here. Letitia did not answer; her face had gone completely blank. “No magic could alter that much iron.” Then, “You plan to kill fairies? You’re going to start a war with Faerie? I don’t care how much iron you have; Locklost could never stand its own against all of Faerie—or against the Fairy Queen.”

  “Not kill fairies,” said Youngster. “You’ve missed the point—it’s much wilder than that—much more incredible and insane.”

  The Jolly Executioner harrumphed. “How do you know all this?” he demanded. “You were never debriefed.”

  “No, but Tinkerfingers told me,” said Youngster. “He hears—heard—things. He was around the castle a lot, in the last months before our departure. And I always could wheedle anything out of him.” Youngster’s voice ended quietly, regretfully, and he fell silent.