Minor Mage

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Minor Mage Page 4

by T. Kingfisher


  “Unnnngghhh…”

  The far end of the plank started to rise.

  “Unggh…!”

  Something gave. Whether it was in the wood or inside his head, he wasn’t sure. There was a loud mental pop! and the spell snapped.

  Oliver sat down hard and clutched his temples.

  The armadillo gave him a brief, friendly poke with its nose, then trotted away to shove its head through one of the chinks in the wall. It was back a moment later.

  “You got the bar lifted, but it turned in the socket. It’s hung up on the fastener. Can you try again?”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” said Oliver. His brain felt swollen, like a raw red sponge inside his skull. It didn’t hurt, but it didn’t hurt in a way that indicated a whole lot of hurt lurking underneath. “I think I broke something.”

  The armadillo eyed him for a moment. “Hmm. You don’t look so good. The blood leaking from the corners of your eyes doesn’t help.”

  Oliver moaned. This was worse than the time with the elemental.

  “Maybe we can just push it,” his familiar said, putting his shoulder against the door.

  Since the strength of an armadillo is negligible, Oliver staggered to his feet and braced his shoulder against the door. It creaked, but held fast. He pushed harder, feeling the pulse start up in his head again, and heard the bar grinding in the socket.

  “Easy, now,” said the armadillo, patting his knee with a small paw. “You’re brains, not brawn. Sit down and rest a minute.”

  “If we wait, the Bryerlys might come out,” said Oliver weakly, although he wanted very much to sit down and rest.

  “We won’t wait. Sit down.”

  Oliver sagged to the floor. The books in his pack dug into his back, but he was too tired to rearrange them.

  The armadillo trotted across the dusty boards to the pigpen. He scrambled awkwardly up the fence—armadillos are not noted for their climbing skills—and flipped the latch with his nose. The gate creaked open.

  “You’re letting the pigs out now?”

  “Relax,” said the armadillo.

  Easy for him to say, thought Oliver. The black-and-white sow was bigger than he was, and the boar, an immense dirty white pig with tusks like fence posts, was nearly twice that. He hugged his knees nervously.

  The armadillo walked briskly up to the boar, without showing the least fear, and pushed the pig’s leg with his nose. The pig looked down at him. The armadillo scampered away, three or four lengths, then turned and looked over his shoulder at the pig, jerking his snout towards the door.

  It was hard to read emotion on those faces, particularly in the dim light, but Oliver could swear the boar looked baffled.

  The armadillo repeated the gestures—snout touch, run, look back. The boar scuffed his hoof on the floor thoughtfully. The armadillo tried again.

  Oliver’s familiar was gearing up for the fourth try when the black-and-white sow lumbered out of the corner, grunted irritably at the boar, and followed the armadillo to the gate of the pen.

  “Right,” said the armadillo. He scooted under the fence and pushed the gate partway open. The sow got her head around it and shoved it the rest of the way.

  They crossed the floor, the sheepish boar bringing up the rear. Oliver discovered that he did, indeed, have the strength to get up and get out of their way.

  Once they reached the door, the armadillo approached the sow. He pushed her leg with his snout, jerked his head at the door, then shoved himself against it, legs scrabbling for purchase. It creaked slightly.

  The sow grunted thoughtfully and pawed at the ground. She went up to the door, put her shoulder against it, and began to push.

  The wood groaned. She grunted at the boar, who took up a position at the other door and began to push. The armadillo got out of the way, sitting up on his hind legs to watch.

  Wood splintered. The boar started to drop back, but the sow grunted irritably at him, and he threw himself into it again.

  There was a sudden, painfully loud screech of metal—Oliver cringed—and the doors swung open.

  Jumping forward, Oliver saw that the wood had held, but the screws hadn’t. The pigs had ripped the metal hooks right out of the wood.

  “They’ll have heard that!” said the armadillo. “Run for it!”

  The pigs needed no urging. As soon as the doors opened, they bolted across the yard.

  A shout went up from the farmhouse. Oliver saw a lantern swinging wildly, throwing a spray of light across the broken ground, and had the useless thought that it was the first light he’d seen the farmers use.

  Oliver sprinted around the corner of the barn, into the safety of the shadows, his weariness forgotten. He raced for the edge of the barn, in the direction of the road—and halted.

  The fields were bare, the stunted crops only knee high. There was no cover anywhere from the barn to the road, unless he could reach the drainage ditch, which would be so obvious that the Bryerlys were sure to check it. If he ran for the road, he’d stand out like a horse in a pigpen, and then it would be a footrace.

  With his skull still throbbing like a shattered star, he wasn’t sure how well he’d be able to walk the distance, never mind running.

  There was only one place to hide, one place they might not check.

  He had to hide close by the farmhouse. The thick shrubs would provide cover until the Bryerlys gave up looking. Then he could sneak away before dawn.

  He knew it was the logical hiding place, but his stomach roiled at the thought.

  Squeals of rage came from the yard, with a hoarse yell of pain. Mr. Bryerly had apparently tried to grab one of the pigs.

  Oliver ran along the back side of the barn, towards the house.

  He peered around the corner of the barn and saw the farmer’s back. Mr. Bryerly was limping after the racing pigs, the lantern held high.

  Oliver winced, biting his lip, but there was no help for it. He scurried across the open space, bent nearly double, waiting for a shout of alarm.

  It didn’t come. He could have wept with relief, but he didn’t dare stop. He ran crouched, staying low, until the farmhouse loomed in front of him.

  Distant squeals indicated that Mr. Bryerly was probably still occupied. Oliver hoped the pigs would get away safely.

  The chimney side of the cottage was the farthest from any doors, and the most thickly overgrown. An ancient lilac bush had nearly eaten a corner of the cottage. It was long since out of flower, but the leaves made a dense screen of dappled light and shadow in the moonlight.

  “Good enough,” said Oliver under his breath. He looked around and saw no one. He ran the three steps across the yard and dove into the lilac bush.

  Twigs yanked at his hair and poked for his eyes. He wiggled deeper, until his back was pressed against the fieldstone wall of the cottage, in the deep shadow of the fireplace.

  The wall was cold and lumpy. He was sitting on rocks that felt like they were the size of potatoes, and there was a twig poking him in the ear.

  Is this enough? I can’t get any farther in.

  Lilac leaves made a shifting curtain. He could only see the yard in tiny, moving glimpses. He hoped that would be enough.

  He hoped that he was really as invisible as he thought, and that his feet weren’t sticking out.

  He hoped the armadillo was okay.

  The twig poked him in the ear again.

  A splash of light appeared at the edge of his vision. Mr. Bryerly trudged across the yard. Oliver breathed through his mouth, silently, his knuckles white on the strap of his pack.

  If the farmer saw him, he’d have to bolt out of the lilac and make a run for it. He had his last spell, his third spell, which might buy him a little time, but probably not nearly enough.

  Tying somebody’s shoelaces together with magic had seemed incredibly funny when he was six. Now it just seemed like a waste of magic.

  Oh lord, why couldn’t I have been one of those kids who set thin
gs on fire?

  It wasn’t that he particularly wanted to have been a disturbed six-year-old, but being able to set the Bryerlys on fire would have been so much more useful.

  Light came through the leaves, turning them briefly to green stained glass. Oliver squeezed his eyes shut to prevent the shine from giving him away.

  The twig went for his ear again.

  Mr. Bryerly paused a few feet away. Oliver didn’t dare open his eyes. He could see the light redly through his eyelids.

  If I hear the footsteps coming here, I’ll run. No, no, it could be a coincidence, he could be walking past, and I’d be an idiot. If he says something, I’ll run. If I hear the footsteps, and he says something—but what if he doesn’t say anything?

  He suspected that if the farmer stood there long enough, the pounding of his heart would give him away.

  “Not back here,” said the farmer, and Oliver started. The voice was wrong. Instead of the deep, archaic speech, Bryerly’s voice was thin and waspish. “Gone to road.”

  “Well, go after him!” said Mrs. Bryerly. Oliver started again. Her voice had no flutter to it at all now, but that wasn’t the problem—from the sound of it, she was standing directly in front of the lilac. He hadn’t heard her approach.

  He sneaked a glance through slitted eyelids. Sure enough, a deep shadow stood in front of the bush, hands on hips. Fortunately, she seemed to be facing away from him.

  It occurred to him that she was probably blocking him from the farmer’s view, entirely by accident.

  “After. After?” The lantern swung as Mr. Bryerly made an expansive gesture. “Do you see… see…” A long pause, as if remembering words. “Gone. Not seeing. Not on road.”

  “Where’s the smell go?”

  “Smell?” Mr. Bryerly made a thin squealing sound of frustration. Not a human sound. Oliver sank his teeth into his lower lip. “All I smell is pig and leg. Too much blood. Makes me… hungry…”

  “Useless! Are you just going to let him get away?”

  “Let him? Not letting! I’m not letting! Do you see him? Gone.”

  Mrs. Bryerly made a noise that Oliver had never heard come from a human throat, a sort of gurgling growl, like a hungry wolf at the end of a long drain. He pressed himself silently backwards, trying to wedge himself into the stone wall.

  The end of the twig had gotten lodged in one of the fleshy folds on the rim of his ear and was now gouging in earnest.

  “Should have… should have made him sleep…” grumbled Mr. Bryerly.

  “Fool!” snapped Mrs. Bryerly. “Drug a wizard with his familiar watching? It would have known, and then we’d be in a pretty pickle.”

  “Gone now. Pigs gone, too.” Bryerly grunted. “Long wait until next one. Long… hungry… wait…”

  “Wait? Do you really want a mouthful of wormwood, then? The wizard’ll tell everybody, and they’ll be down here faster than you can skin a hog.”

  In his hiding place under the lilac, Oliver’s heart clenched like a fist.

  Do you really want a mouthful of wormwood, then?

  The Encyclopedia of Common Magic was prodding his back, but he didn’t need to open it. He could see the page in his mind’s eye, the neat black text, the small, careful ink drawing beside it.

  Ghul—Also called Ghouls, Draugs, and Corpseaters. These cannibalistic creatures may once have been human, but no one is quite sure how a ghul is created. The bite of a ghul does not seem to transmit the curse, but those who live among ghuls often become ghuls themselves, which has proved a limiting factor on research.

  The ghul can masquerade quite convincingly as human, for short periods, but this seems to require effort, and the illusion is rarely perfect. They usually have large, red-knuckled hands, odd skin, and sometimes pointed teeth, and of course, an insatiable craving for human flesh.

  A ghul can recover from quite horrific injuries, but can be killed by traditional methods (fire, drowning, dismemberment) or by wormwood, thrown in the mouth, which destroys it near instantly.

  The Bryerlys were ghuls.

  I am an idiot, Oliver thought, clutching his forehead. I should have seen that. Her knuckles were huge, and his skin was awful. They must have been eating the pigs when they couldn’t get people. And they wouldn’t light a fire bigger than that tiny lantern.

  They’d been too scared of him, a wizard, to attack directly. Oliver would have laughed, if it wasn’t so absurd. If they had attacked, he might have tied one’s shoelaces together for a few seconds, and then what? Throw the armadillo at them?

  He was a very minor mage. He had never felt more minor than at that moment, trapped under a bush while monsters argued less than five feet away.

  He wished his mother was here. He had never appreciated his mother enough. She’d have yanked down the sword she kept over the door and chopped the ghuls into little bits.

  He’d even have been glad to see his sister. She lacked his mother’s skill for physical mayhem, but she’d have had the pigs lined up in military formation and marching on the farmhouse.

  The twig was boring a hole in his ear. At this rate, if he ever got back home, he’d be able to wear an earring the size of a saucer.

  “What do we eat, then?” asked Mr. Bryerly the ghul. There was a distinctly whiny note to his voice. “Got no pigs and no boy and not even that scaled rat familiar. What do we eat?”

  “You, if you don’t shut up!” snapped Mrs. Bryerly. “Wrap up that leg or I’ll take a bite out of it myself!”

  “But—”

  The shadow in front of the lilac moved. There was a loud crack! of flesh on flesh. Mr. Bryerly whimpered.

  “Shut up!” railed the ghul. “We’ll think of something.” She turned and stomped away.

  “Didn’t need to hit me…” muttered the other ghul resentfully. He followed, feet dragging. The light went with him, and left Oliver in darkness.

  He exhaled. He knew he couldn’t have been holding his breath the whole time, but it felt like it.

  He heard the footsteps fade, the cottage door slam. Muffled voices came from inside, then fell silent.

  And that was all.

  Oliver reached up and yanked the twig out of his ear.

  He had to wait to cross the fields for at least a few more minutes. He was getting very cold, but he couldn’t make too much noise. He had to wait until he was sure the Bryerlys weren’t going to come back out looking.

  As unobtrusively as possible, he rearranged his pack so the books weren’t jabbing into his back. Every creak of cloth and leather sounded like cannon fire in his ears, but no one came running.

  He had to wait.

  He really had to wait.

  He wondered how long he’d been waiting.

  Fear was bad, fear and boredom together were practically unbearable. He tried counting breaths, heartbeats, lilac leaves, and stars. He wondered if it had possibly been long enough. It felt like hours had passed, but the moon hadn’t budged at all in the sky.

  Something poked his thigh. Oliver choked back a scream, but a thin squeak emerged anyway.

  It was the armadillo. His familiar froze, ears swiveling, but nothing stirred in the cottage.

  “You made it…” breathed Oliver, so quietly that he could barely hear himself.

  The armadillo nodded. He looked around, then grabbed Oliver’s pant leg in his teeth and tugged. Oliver leaned forward, and the armadillo dropped the fabric and jerked his head towards the road.

  Oliver nodded. I may be a very minor mage, but at least I’m quicker on the uptake than the pig.

  He crawled out from under the lilac, raced across the yard, and over the stone fence. The armadillo came after, scrambling up and over the wall and down onto Oliver’s back like a stepladder.

  They hurried along the wall, down to the barn again. On the far side, with the barn between them and the house, Oliver paused.

  “Come on!” whispered the armadillo. “If they really are farmers, they’ll be up at dawn!”

  “The
y’re not farmers,” said Oliver. “They’re ghuls. I don’t think they’ll be up at dawn.”

  The armadillo paused. “Ghuls?” He scuffed his paws in the dirt. “I didn’t think—not here—are you sure?”

  “They talked about eating me, and about mouthfuls of wormwood.”

  “Ghuls. Well. That explains it. They’ll eat livestock if they can’t get humans. Let’s move.”

  Oliver felt very exposed as they left the shadow of the barn. The barn would only block the farmhouse’s view for a few hundred yards. Long before they reached the road, they were hurrying along under the baleful gaze of those dark windows. If the ghuls looked out, they would be seen.

  The skin on his back crawled.

  “We’re fine,” said the armadillo quietly. “No one’s coming.”

  “Sorry,” said Oliver. “I just—”

  “I know.” The armadillo paused in its trotting long enough to push reassuringly against his calf. “You did good. Hiding by the house was a good idea—they checked the barn pretty closely. When they didn’t see you on the road, the man thought you’d gone invisible.”

  “I wish.” Invisibility was an immensely difficult spell. Oliver couldn’t read half the words of the introduction, let alone the spell itself. “Did the pigs get away?”

  “I think so. The boar took a chunk out of Mr. Bryerly’s leg. Assuming it formerly was someone named Mr. Bryerly, and not some random ghul pretending to be him.”

  “I think it probably was just pretending,” said Oliver. He looked over his shoulder again. “He couldn’t remember the cows. I think any farmer would remember how many cows he had, even if he’d become a ghul.”

  “Hmm,” said the armadillo. “You’re probably right.”

  Oliver swallowed. “What do you think happened to the real Bryerlys, then?”

  “Best not to think about it. Here’s the ditch.”

  They reached the drainage ditch at the road. Oliver slid down the weed-choked slope. There hadn’t been any rain for months, but the bottom was still thick with green stems.

  He reached the bottom and sat down hard.

 

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