Dearth slowly turned and went scrabbling over the rocks, into the blinding storm, drawn by a distant call.
The huge white weasel looked at his brothers and licked his lips, imagining the blood that would soon be on them. He whispered, “Let us thank the Master of the Hunt for the kills that we are about to make.”
Dropping to all four feet, he began stalking toward the outcropping of rocks where the mice lay in their burrow, sound asleep.
Chapter 17
WEASELS
Ounce for ounce, there may be no more deadly animal
in the world than the weasel.
—QUOTED FROM THE ARTICLE “SMALL KILLERS”
Their white forms were lost in the swirling snow.
In her dream, Amber stalked through the shadows and faced the enormous worm, gripping her little spear. Her heart was pounding at eight hundred beats per minute, and sweat was beading on her brow.
“Come,” the worm hissed. “Come and meet your doom.”
“You don’t scare me,” Amber said, her voice shaking.
“Sure I do,” the worm whispered.
Amber was standing in the little cave, and all around her she could smell the sweet fodder left by the rock rabbits that had lived here. There was hay made from tender grasses and seeds from wild oats and various fragrant flowers and barks lying beneath her feet.
The great worm looked down at Amber’s feet, and whispered, “Worms you have eaten, and worms you shall be . . .”
It was a spell, Amber knew.
With her heart pounding in fear, she peered down at the seeds. There on the ground were hundreds of tiny white maggots, crawling among the straw, hatching from seeds just like those that she had been eating.
Amber felt ill.
There are worms inside me, she thought. I feel them twisting around. I feel them crawling in my intestines.
And she could feel them—hundreds of gooey worms, trying to make their way out of her.
She peered up at the dark monstrous worm that towered above. He was the one who had infested her. He was the one who was drawing all of the mice to their deaths, the great and powerful Wizard of Ooze.
“I’ll kill you,” she promised, gripping her spear.
“Try,” the worm hissed, rearing high into the air, as if he would attack. Then, as if to issue a challenge, he said, “It’s slime time!”
Amber gripped her spear, preparing to lunge at the monster, when she heard Thorn.
“Amber, wake up!” he cried from behind. “Wake up! You’re having a dream.”
But everything felt so clear to Amber, so real, she couldn’t believe that it was a dream.
No, I’m not dreaming, she told herself. This is real.
Amber felt someone shaking her shoulder. “There are weasels outside!” Thorn shouted. “Weasels are coming for us!”
Amber looked up blearily, saw Thorn, and realized that indeed she had been dreaming. Yet part of her mind still felt as if she were asleep. It was as if she were in two worlds at once, and she suddenly knew with perfect knowledge that the worm was indeed here.
He had sent the dream to distract her.
“I’m coming for you,” Amber promised the worm, and then she turned away and woke.
Amber leapt from her bed. Outside the burrow, darkness had deepened, and the wind howled. She felt small currents of wind stirring the air, sending chills down her spine.
But the burrow was still cozy, warmed by decaying hay. The other mice were waking, but Amber peered around, heart thumping, and realized that something was wrong. The room looked the same. The magic light on her little stalk of wheat grass still shone intensely. But something had changed.
“Dearth?” Amber called. “Dearth, where are you?”
“He’s gone,” Thorn said. “He went to fetch the weasels. They’re coming for us now.”
Amber turned to Thorn. He was shaking, as if trembling from a fever, and his eyes looked glassy, as if he peered through a dream.
“How, how could you say that about him?” Amber asked. “How could you even think it? You fell asleep before he even came into the burrow. You never even met him!”
Amber felt outraged. Mice weren’t evil. A mouse would never betray her or be friends with a weasel. Would he?
Dearth was a pocket mouse, though, she told herself. She’d never met a pocket mouse before. She didn’t know what kind of folks they were.
And he was also deaf. That would have made him vulnerable, especially to weasels that might invade his burrow.
Would he really have traded his life for Amber’s?
“I can see into his mind,” Thorn said. “You made me smarter than Albert Einstein—a side effect. I can hear others’ thoughts, when I’m drowsy. I can see into your dreams. And when you fight giant worms in your sleep, I can come and fight beside you.” Amber gasped in astonishment when Thorn described her dream. “Dearth has sold us to the enemy.”
Amber looked at the strange little mouse. She had always thought of Thorn as just kind of dumb, a buffoon, but now he was growing into something more, and she felt grateful to have him for an ally.
And she knew that the weasels were coming. Not because Thorn had warned her, but because in the small currents of air that burst through the room, she could smell something strange, a garlicky scent, like the one she had smelled in the room where the rock rabbits had been slaughtered.
Weasels.
Amber’s heart broke. She’d been thinking about creating a sanctuary for mice, where all of their enemies would be kept at bay. She’d hoped to create a world without cats and owls, foxes and weasels.
But how could she create such a place if even some of her own kind, if even mice, were enemies?
A sob escaped her, and tears filled Amber’s eyes.
It can’t be true, she told herself, as she whirled and rushed out into the storm.
* * *
Ben’s thoughts were still muzzy from sleep, but even he could smell danger approaching. He grabbed his needle and rushed up through the tunnel. It was dark, and he had to feel his way. The long hairs on his chin, beside his nose, and above his eyes let him feel his way through the long corridor in the darkness.
When he popped his head outside, the sky was slate gray. The heavens above were full of storm clouds, and huge snowflakes as large as a mouse were dropping with soft, wet, crackling sounds.
The wind had picked up and was howling mightily, and though Ben could still dimly discern the sound of wormsong, it was broken and tended to drift in and out.
Amber huddled just outside of the burrow, weeping. “Dearth?” she called. “Dearth, are you out there?”
Ben peered all about. The garlic scent was strong in the cold mountain air, and he knew that weasels were coming. But he could see no sign of them among the barren snowfields.
Then, suddenly, incredibly close, he spotted something in the dark, just the tiniest motion: two black eyes were peering at him, not ten feet away.
As Ben’s eyes adjusted, he realized that there was a weasel, white against the snow, so perfectly camouflaged that he was almost invisible. Other slight motions let him see two more beside the first.
Ben leapt beside Amber, brandished his needle, and shouted, “Keep back, or I’ll have your gizzard on the end of my spear.”
At his back, Amber heard Bushmaster and Thorn scuffling out of the burrow.
One weasel chuckled, softly and dangerously, and told Ben, “Such courage among mice is rare. And I must admit, I’ve never seen a mouse that wears a nutshell on his head, or that carries a weapon. Your flesh will be a rare delicacy.”
All of the weasels began stalking closer, their paws padding softly over the snow, making small crunching sounds.
“I’m a wizardess,” Amber warned, raising her paws.
“Of course,” the weasel said. “That’s why the Lord of the Underworld wants you dead.”
The Lord of the Underworld? The title sounded frightening to Amber.
T
he weasel jutted his chin forward threateningly.
With that, a sudden wind began to howl around Ben and Amber, as if they were in the midst of a small tornado. Snow lifted from the ground and whirled all about, raising a wall of swirling flakes.
Ben squinted to see, but a blinding tornado filled with snow enveloped the mice, threatening to pluck them into the air.
The weasels had disappeared! Their white forms were lost in the swirling snow.
They could be anywhere, Ben realized. And one of them has magical powers!
Thorn began to lift off of the ground, pulled skyward by the swirling winds. Ben grabbed his tail, holding onto him as if he were a helium balloon.
“Run!” Amber cried.
Ben heard rustling behind him, the sound of Bushmaster diving into the burrow.
Amber spun and leapt, too, leaving Ben all alone to rescue Thorn. By some mousy instinct, he recalled where the mouth of the burrow was and dived headfirst toward it, dragging Thorn. A moment later, he felt Thorn scurrying along behind him.
Ben raced down through the tunnel, letting the hairs on his face reveal where the passage turned or widened; he was halfway through when the ground began to quake.
He burst into the little burrow, where the blazing oat stalk spread its light, and saw Amber holding her spear up in the air with both paws as if it were a magical staff. The roof was shaking overhead; dirt and small rocks spattered down like hail.
“He’s trying to crush us!” Amber shouted desperately, peering up at the roof. “I can’t hold it much longer.”
Ben could feel magic in the air, like a heavy hand bearing down on them, trying to crush them. He wished that there was something he could do to help, to channel more energy to Amber, and he felt amazed that any wizard, anywhere, had as much strength as this weasel seemed to hold.
“Run!” Thorn shouted. “We’re all going to die! I can see it in the weasel’s mind!”
He raced to the back of the cave and stood looking up a dark tunnel that climbed toward the roof.
Bushmaster didn’t need any urging. The grizzled vole hurtled through the opening and climbed so fast that he seemed to fly upward.
Ben followed on his heels, mouth dry with terror, racing up through a narrow winding passage full of the mineral smell of rocks, brushing past the tendrils of roots, slipping once when he came to a steep slope.
Amber rushed up behind him, and Ben could almost feel the hand of death come crashing behind her. He heard a grating sound as rocks and boulders began tumbling down, filling the burrow behind them. Dust rose in the passageway, a cloud of dirt that filled his nostrils and lungs.
Ben reached the top of the tunnel and came into what felt like a small room. Their tiny footsteps made rustling sounds among the hay left by the rock rabbits, and these sounds echoed off the cold stone nearby.
Amber popped out of the tunnel at Ben’s back, and he felt her nuzzle up beside him.
“Everyone all right?” Amber whispered.
There was a moment of silence. Ben didn’t want to speak. He was afraid that the weasels might hear. Right now, he was hoping they thought he and his friends had died in the cave-in.
Amber sniffed around. “Where’s Thorn?”
“He was right behind me,” Ben said.
For a dozen heartbeats, Ben just waited, holding his breath, listening for any sound of Thorn.
He dropped his spear and whirled, racing back down the dark tunnel. It was filled with dust and a dank metallic smell. But he could also smell Thorn’s distinctive odor below.
Thorn was trapped in the tunnel!
Ben raced down several feet, until he found where the roof had caved in. With no other thought in mind, he began to dig, his tiny paws hurling dirt backward as fast as he could, his big feet kicking.
Ben’s pointed nose was perfect for pushing through dirt, and he nuzzled forward, clearing a path as best he could. A large pebble blocked his way, and he scraped and bloodied his paws as he struggled to move it from the tunnel.
With every inch he dug, he smelled Thorn’s body scent more strongly, and soon Ben reached the small mouse, crushed beneath the dirt.
Ben grabbed Thorn by the whiskers and tugged with all of his might. The young mouse budged a fraction of an inch. Ben pulled again and tugged Thorn free.
Dust and debris fell, filling the empty pocket behind Thorn. In seconds, Ben had the young mouse out of the tunnel, into the open burrow.
Amber had lit a dried bit of clover flower, and now the burrow shone with a ruddy gold light. They all gathered around Thorn, peering at him worriedly.
What if I have to do CPR? Ben thought. Could I do it?
He’d seen it done on television, but he really wasn’t sure how to do it himself.
But to his relief, the young mouse began coughing and hacking, trying to clear dirt from his lungs.
When Thorn caught his breath for a few seconds, he peered up at Ben and whispered gratefully, “Thank you!”
But then he looked at a tiny crevice in the wall, and said, “They’re coming.”
* * *
Amber panicked.
She’d never felt power like that held by the weasel before. She’d never been so thoroughly tested. When the roof in the other chamber bore down, trying to crush her, she’d been forced to use all her strength to try to hold it back—and still the roof had come down.
Why? she wondered. Is this weasel mage really more powerful than I am? Or is he better trained? Maybe he knows something that I don’t, like how to counter a magic spell made by another wizard.
That sounded right.
Amber knew that she had vast powers. After all, from the day of her birth they had said that she was the Golden One, the mouse destined to save mousekind, to lead them to freedom. Her birth had been prophesied for thousands of years. She had a destiny to fulfill.
And because Amber knew that she had been born into the world for a reason, she had imagined that nothing would ever be able to stop her.
I’m such a fool, she thought. Lady Blackpool warned me not to come.
Amber’s heart pounded in terror, and she raised her paws up to the ceiling and began weaving a hasty spell that would bind dirt and rocks together.
She cast the spell for a long moment until the dirt suddenly melted and turned black, fusing to the rocks, looking very much like glass. Then the rocks began melting and flowing toward each other.
Let them try to tear this roof down, Amber thought, and almost immediately, she felt another power enter the room, like an invisible hand. It heaved down upon the roof with horrible crushing force, and Amber cried out wordlessly and raised her own paws, focusing her spells in order to keep the roof from caving in.
Rocks ground together and shifted; plumes of dust drifted around her.
Once again, Amber was locked in combat with the weasel.
In desperation, Amber shouted, “Help!”
* * *
Ben smelled garlic in the drafty air coming from the crevice. The weasels were coming for them.
Amber struggled to hold the roof up.
Thorn lay at her feet, gasping and coughing like mad.
Bushmaster the vole peered at the ceiling, trembling with fear.
That left only Ben to fight.
Ben grabbed his spear and launched through the crevice, shoving himself through a crack in some rocks. There was an opening ahead. He felt fresh cold air, and in an instant Ben was out in the storm again, in the snow.
The weasels stood at the mouth of the cave. The largest of them, their leader, had been peering at the cave intently, his eyes glazed and fixed with concentration, his front left paw tightly clenched.
The other two were watching their master.
They hardly had time to react when Ben bolted from the tunnel.
Three weasels, Ben thought. I can’t fight them all, but maybe I can get their leader.
He raced toward the weasels, and suddenly their leader saw the danger. His eyes went wide. On
e of his henchmen spotted Ben and lunged, sharp white fangs bared.
But Ben was a Pacific jumping mouse, unlike any that these weasels had ever seen. He vaulted into the air and went flying over the henchman’s head. Ben shouted a war cry and aimed his spear at the wizard’s heart.
He let his weight drive the spear in, and he hit the wizard, bowling him over backward, so that the two of them fell in a tangle, the spear deep in the wizard weasel’s chest.
Ben heard chirps of outrage from the other two weasels. They twisted around and came lunging toward him, as fast as lightning. He felt a stabbing pain as sharp teeth bit into his haunch.
But at that instant, Ben heard a squeak, and Bushmaster vaulted into the fray, shouting, “Voles to the rescue!”
There was a thump, and Bushmaster landed with his whole weight on the weasel that had bitten Ben. As Bushmaster drove his spear into the weasel’s ear, the weasel squeaked in pain and leapt away.
Ben climbed to his feet, brandishing his spear, but the two remaining weasels had had enough. The sorcerer they had served was dead, and now two well-armed mice threatened them. With cries of terror, the weasels went bounding across the snow, their backs arching with every leap, and for an instant they reminded Ben of fat, hairy inchworms.
Ben sat, dazed and in pain. His left haunch burned and hurt terribly. He’d never had such a nasty wound.
But even more horrifying, there was blood on his spear, and the weasel wizard was lying on the ground, gasping his last breath, his unfocused eyes going cloudy even as Ben watched.
There was blood on the weasel wizard’s white chest where the needle had entered.
The weasel’s paw clutched the wound.
Ben had never killed an animal before. Oh, he’d swatted flies and stepped on a couple of spiders, but he’d never killed a big animal before.
The weasel was huge—at least four times Ben’s length and five times his weight. Ben felt as if he’d just brought down a giant.
And in a way, it was true. This weasel had been a powerful sorcerer.
Even now, Ben feared that he might heal himself, then rise up and attack. Or maybe he would cast some last spell that would rip Ben to shreds.
The Wizard of Ooze Page 10
