"Do you like my creations?" Madrila asked. "I made them myself, molding them from nosey, greedy children. They will be your new friends."
She approached an empty cage, tossed the piglets in, and slammed the cage door shut. Henry and Christie cowered behind the bars, mewling and staring around with wide eyes.
Madrila examined them, hands on her hips. Her eyes laughed. Shadows swirled around her feet.
"Welcome," she said, "to the rest of your lives."
Henry yowled and slammed against the cage door, but couldn't free himself. Christie whimpered beside him. She tried to bite the cage bars, but couldn't nick them.
Madrila laughed. "Yes, piggies, try to escape. You cannot." She knelt and stared at them. Her eyes were green ice.
"I did not have a childhood," she said. "Did you know that? I did not get to play with friends. I did not get to eat candy. So now, you and your friends—you pampered, spoiled, piggy little children—will suffer. You will suffer like I did."
Henry cowered in the back of the cage. Christie huddled against him. He wanted to hug her, to tell her it would be all right. But how could he?
"Do you have a mother?" Madrila asked him. "Answer me, piggy."
Shivering, Henry nodded.
"I had a mother once," Madrila said. "A cruel, wicked mother. She abandoned me. She cast me out into the cold, harsh world. I had no home. Are you two siblings, piggies?"
They nodded, trembling.
"Good, good," Madrila said. "I have siblings too. But they were not cast out. They did not shiver in the cold. You might have heard of them. They are mercenaries of some infamy. They call themselves... Bullies for Bucks. An absolutely ridiculous name, if you ask me."
Henry swallowed. Yes, he had heard of the Bullies—they were heroes from a town called Burrfield nearby. He'd heard tales of them defeating the warlock Dry Bones, killing the monstrous vulture Vanderbeak, and going on many adventures. How could those heroes be related to this vile witch?
Madrila turned to leave. She crossed the basement and began climbing the stairs. After two steps, she turned and looked back over her shoulder.
"Soon you will have new friends," she said. "Soon the Bullies will join you. They grew up in warmth while I suffered... and now they will suffer too."
With that, Madrila climbed upstairs and slammed the basement door behind her. The oil lamp swung and guttered. Darkness flowed over Henry's world, full of fear, pain, and cries of horror.
Chapter Two
Extra! Extra!
One peaceful autumn, a wonderful, horrible, delightful, and dangerous invention reached Burrfield: print!
Of course, most Burrfieldians couldn't read. 5,127 people lived in the town. Only 247 of them could read, and among those, 178 couldn't read more than their own name and a few choice curse words ("bum" was especially popular and considered quite naughty at the time).
This was, perhaps, a blessing. Burrfield's print shop couldn't handle mass production yet. It took an hour to prepare a page for printing, and more often than not, the printer broke, scattering metal letters all over.
But the printmaker plowed on. His name was John Quill. "Name's Quill, like a porcupine's prickles, because I write a prickly word," he'd tell anyone who'd listen. He'd then wink. "But writing quills will soon be obsolete."
Most Burrfieldians nodded sagely at this, not fully comprehending Quill's (admittedly convoluted) jest, but sure that it was delightfully clever.
This John Quill was about thirty years old, with a thin mustache, winking eyes, and a gray cap he wore at a jaunty angle. Every day, he produced a five-page newspaper which, in a stroke of inspiration, he named The Burrfield Gazette. Quill served as the editor, publisher, and only reporter.
This was Burrfield's first newspaper. It might, Quill would brag, be the first newspaper in the kingdom. As far as he knew, his invention was unique—the ability to print words onto a page, not scribe them.
This garnered a lot of interest in Burrfield, whose citizens very much wished to appear worldly. After all, it was a small, quiet town where not much happened. In fact, barely anything had happened here for years, and Quill soon became a local hero. Every morning, he'd kickstart his machine, which would grunt and creak and moan, and begin stamping out papers. Townfolk would gather around the print shop, watching with wide eyes, as if witnessing magic. Most believed it was magic; they thought the print machine a mythical, living beast. One child named it "Printy" and swore that he saw it one night ramble into the field, where it ate three cows before returning home to sleep.
In the first few days, Quill wrote about mundane topics. He reported about whose crops were eaten by crows. He talked about the weather. He wrote about the local kickball teams, who played in Burrfield Square a couple times a week. Everything Quill reported was common knowledge—indeed, Quill knew about these events because everybody in Burrfield knew about them.
Still, that did not stop The Burrfield Gazette from selling like hotcakes (much to the frustration of the hotcake seller, whose shop was next door). The first day, every person who could read—even those who could read only their names and "bum"—bought a copy. The second day, even people who couldn't read bought a copy, just to brag about owning a Burrfield Gazette. Within two weeks, it seemed that every person in Burrfield was buying the morning paper. They were found at kitchen tables, inns, outhouses, park benches, and the bottom of pets' cages.
Quill had to hire three kids to help him print so many papers, and had two more kids come in on Sundays, to help print the double-length weekend edition. Owning a Burrfield Gazette was the thing to do. At mornings, everybody wanted to be seen sitting on a bench or boulder, leafing through a copy. Peasants who couldn't read a word to save their lives suddenly appeared at local teashops, leafing through Sunday editions of the Gazette, scratching their chins while holding the paper upside down.
John Quill soon became Burrfield's most prominent, respected citizen. Maidens batted their eyelashes at him. Men bought him beers. Dogs licked him and cats rubbed against his legs. When he wasn't printing his paper, he'd walk around with his skinny chest thrust out, his chin raised, a thin smile across his lips and his gray cap at its usual, jaunty angle.
Quill was walking around town one autumn day, when Jamie Thistle, fifteen years old, saw him. Quill gave her a smile, tipped his hat, and walked on, a gaggle of maidens following him.
"Look at that phony," Jamie muttered to her older brother, a beefy youth named Scruff. The two were sitting on a town bench, eating walnuts from a pouch. "Today he wrote about Robby Brewer's cat giving birth to a litter of dogs. And people believe it!"
Scruff's eyes widened. "Cat puppies! Did he say what color they are?"
Jamie kicked her large, lumbering brother. She was something of a runt—she stood five feet only on her tiptoes, and weighed one-hundred pounds only if she donned her armor. Scruff, meanwhile, stood close to seven feet tall, and was wider than the town's largest wheelbarrow. Still Jamie kicked him, and he winced.
"Scruff," she said, "the whole thing is rubbish. I mean, yesterday he wrote that Jeremy Greenfield was raising a cow with two heads... and two bodies. Two days ago, he wrote that a rare griffin was spotted on a tree—born with the body of a bird!"
Scruff gasped. "Monsters! Let's go see them."
"Scruff!" She kicked him again.
He yelped and shrugged. "What? Look, Jamie. He might write nonsense, but... people like reading it. I like reading it. And I, for one, am happy Quill is famous."
Jamie leaped to her feet. "How could you be happy? The man either reports what everybody knows, or makes up stuff. And yet everybody buys his newspaper and buys his stories. How could you be happy?"
"Because for once, we're not the famous ones in town."
He was right, Jamie had to admit. For a year now, Scruff, Jamie, and the other Bullies had been the most famous, discussed people in town. Since their amazing adventure a year ago, Burrfield wouldn't stop talking about them. People talked abo
ut the monsters they slew; the dark magic their brother Neev cast; the demon they brought back from their quest, a creature of fire and sin; and about the spiderling Scruff married, a purple spirit of the forest. Indeed, it seemed that for the past year, Burrfield talked about nothing but the legendary Bullies for Bucks.
Scruff nodded. "Let Quill talk about ravens eating crops, kickball teams, and cats giving birth to dogs." He chewed a walnut, shell and all, and patted his belly. "So long as he's not talking about us, I'm happy. Let him be the center of attention."
But soon, it seemed, Quill ran out of ideas.
On October 22, The Burrfield Gazette was just a copy of last week's issue. On October 23, the Gazette devoted an entire issue to comparing the respective merits of Golden Delicious apples and Granny Smiths. On October 24, three pages talked about a cat stuck in a tree, and circulation dropped from 4,124 to 1,007.
The October 25 issue—reporting about a couple beetles caught shamelessly mating outside the church—sold only twenty-three copies.
"Good," Jamie muttered to Scruff that morning. "The fad is over."
On the morning of October 26, strange sounds came from inside the printshop. The machine was creaking, hammering, and pounding louder than ever. Quill could be heard yelling at his assistants to print more copies—a full 5,127, one for every citizen of Burrfield. Blue smoke wafted from the chimneys, and the smell of ink spun heads. The townfolk gathered around. What could be going on in there? Was Quill mad, printing thousands of papers?
Finally, around noon, Quill emerged from his shop, carrying a bundle of newspapers. He did look quite mad. His hair was wild and ashy. Ink covered his face and hands. His clothes were tattered, and blue smoke rose from him. And yet he was grinning, eyes wild. He tossed the newspapers toward the people.
One landed at Scruff's feet, and he gaped at the headline.
"EVIL BULLIES FOR BUCKS WORSHIP THE DEVIL!"
Scruff gasped and lifted the newspaper. He started to read the article.
"'Bullies for Bucks,'" he read out loud, "'the thugs who live on Friar Hill, have long been known as a dissolute menace.'"
Scruff did not know what "dissolute" meant, and he was only half-sure he understood the word "menace", but he kept reading.
"'Now, it seems, they also worship the devil. One devil in particular—a fell beast named Romy, a demon of Hell. The Bullies were seen lighting candles around the creature and singing strange spells of devilry.'"
Scruff frowned. "Hey... that was only her birthday party. We lit candles on her cake and sang her Happy Birthday!"
Nobody seemed to hear him, and Scruff read on, becoming angrier and angrier. The article continued to claim that Romy was an evil creature, intent on eating the town children, and that the Bullies worshipped her as their mistress. It's not fair! Scruff thought. Romy had only bitten a baby once, and it was because he was covered in ice cream.
People were staring at him. A few muttered. Others fled. One set up a booth selling pitchforks and torches. Scruff decided to go home. Clutching his copy of the Gazette, he stomped down the street and headed to Friar Hill.
Grass and dry leaves covered the hill, rustling under Scruff's boots. The place still held strong memories for him. On this hill, years ago, he'd play with his siblings with wooden swords. On this hill, he'd watched Dry Bones murder his father. On this hill, he'd built the house he shared with his fellow Bullies. It was a place of warm feelings, haunting nightmares, and off key singing.
"Off key singing?" he muttered, raising an eyebrow.
That singing came from his house, which crowned the hill. It was a two story building, built of wooden beams and clay, its roof covered with thatch. A garden sprawled outside the house, full of flowers and vegetables growing over old wagon wheels. The singing was so loud, the birds who normally crowded the roof had fled, and the flowers were wilting.
"Happy Birthday to me! Happy Birthday to meeeee!"
The singing continued, so loudly and discordantly that a window shattered.
Romy!
Scruff sighed. His brother Neev, a young wizard, had summoned the demon last year. Since then, Romy had raised hell on earth: eating everything in their garden (vegetables, stalks, roots, and several mouthfulls of dirt), painting hearts over the walls when they slept, setting the roof on fire twice, and once sawing a hole between the second and first floor ("Who needs stairs when you can jump?" she had explained).
Scruff supposed that some off key singing was relatively benign.
He walked the cobblestone path to his house, opened the door, and stepped inside. His eyes widened. His heart sank.
"Happy Birthday to meeeeeeeee!"
Romy sat on the floor in the corner, legs splayed out before her. Though her skin was blood red, her fangs and claws sharp, and her wings black as night, Scruff couldn't imagine a less frightening demon. She wore a conical party hat atop her head of flaming hair. Whipped cream covered her face. Honey covered her fingers. Empty baking pans surrounded her, covered in crumbs. Hundreds of extinguished birthday candles littered the floor around her; some had bite marks in them.
"Oh hai, Scruff," she said. She tried to get up, but fell back down. "I'd stand up to greet you, but... I can't... seem to... move of my own volition right now." She patted her belly.
"Romy!" he said. "Your birthday was yesterday. How many more cakes did you eat today?"
She counted on honey-covered fingers. When she reached ten, she moved to her toes. Then to her teeth.
"Um... a few," she finally said. "I asked for poodle cakes, but Neev said I'm not allowed to eat those. Honey cakes are good too." She hiccupped.
Scruff sighed and left the living room. He found the other Bullies in the kitchen, ears plugged with cotton. They were standing on chairs, busy untangling chandeliers of cutlery that hung from the rafters.
"Romy decorations?" he asked. He had to repeat the question after they removed the cotton from their ears.
"It's better than her last attempt at interior decor," his brother Neev said.
Scruff nodded sympathetically, remembering Romy's gallery of paintings entitled, "Nostrils of Terror: a study of Scruff's nose hairs magnified a thousand times."
He clutched the Gazette in his hands, hesitant to show the others. This is my family; I don't want to hurt them. He looked at them, one by one.
Neev, his younger brother, was wearing his green wizard robes. Seventeen years old, he was a wiry youth with sharp eyes, a narrow nose, and a hint of stubble on his chin. As always, a glower twisted his face. Last year at Wizard School, he had summoned a demon for his final exam. The demon turned out to be Romy, the least frightening, most confused creature in Hell. Neev flunked his exam, and Romy had been driving him mad since—decorating his spellbooks with hearts, showering him with kisses as he squirmed, and twice turning his robes pink in the laundry.
His sister Jamie stood nearby, wrestling with a bundle of bent, entwined spoons. Always a tomboy, she wore her armor and sword even indoors. Last year, she had cut her hair short, feigning boyhood to learn swordplay at Fort Rosethorn. Her hair had grown into a long, black mane since then, though her body remained small. She stood shorter than five feet, and was thin as a sapling, but behind her breastplate beat the heart of a towering knight.
Behind those two stood Scruff's wife—the love of his life, Cobweb. To this day, whenever Scruff saw her, his heart leaped. Cobweb was a spiderling, an enchanted spirit of the forest. Her skin was purple, her hair was white and smooth, and her ears were pointy. She wore a dress woven of gossamer, and a spiderweb tattoo glowed on her shoulder. She looked at Scruff with her soft eyes, and his knees felt weak. He walked toward her and kissed her.
"Hewwo, Scwuff," she said softly and smiled. "Wewcome home, m-m-my wovewy, handsome hewo."
Her clan had banished her because of her voice, but to Scruff, she sounded as beautiful as she looked. He touched her nose. "Thank you, sweety honey bunny."
Neev rolled his eyes, and Jamie looked queasy
.
"Barf bag please," they said together.
Luckily, Romy had fallen asleep; Scruff heard her snores from the other room. It's as good a time as ever to show them the newspaper, Scruff figured. He tossed it onto the table.
"Look," he said.
Neev cursed. Jamie shouted and grabbed her sword from the wall. Cobweb gasped, covered her mouth, and tears budded in her eyes.
"D-d-dey say we'we eviw!" she said and sniffed.
"I'll turn that Quill into a toad!" Neev said, face red, and reached for his spellbook.
Jamie drew her sword, a beautiful family heirloom named Moonclaw. "No need for magic. This steel will do the job."
Scruff raised his hands and shouted over the commotion. "Hang on, hang on! Nobody is turning anybody into anything, or slicing anyone into pieces." He glared at his siblings. "We are Bullies for Bucks. We fight monsters, not fellow Burrfieldians."
Neev grumbled and shook his head in disgust. "We've saved this town from Dry Bones and his monsters. And now Quill is calling us devil worshippers. The day I worship Romy is the day you can lock me up in the loony bin."
Jamie marched to the door, sword in hand. Scruff grabbed her shoulders.
"Don't go anywhere, Jamie. If you attack him, what would happen? The Gazette would only print another story, calling us thugs. Haven't you ever heard that the quill is mightier than the sword?"
Jamie glared and swung her blade. "Not this sword. And not that Quill."
She kicked him, and he grunted but held her fast. "Calm down, Jamie. You too, Neev. So he printed some rubbish, so what? Nobody will believe it, and tomorrow, he'll find something else to talk about."
They grumbled, muttered, glowered... and stayed indoors.
Wand of the Witch Page 2
