Minor Mage

by T. Kingfisher

  “He’d do it in a heartbeat! He’s a monster!”

  “No, no,” said Oliver, patting Trebastion’s shoulder, “I mean he can’t. He hasn’t got the men, and the men he’s got are all farmers. I wouldn’t mess with them at hog butchering time, but I was looking, and they don’t have axes or even pitchforks. The chief’s got crossbows. And Bill.”

  Trebastion exhaled slowly. “You’re right. Right. Okay.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. Oliver could hear Stern’s voice raised, but couldn’t make out the words.

  “He might sell me, though,” said Trebastion glumly. “To Stern.”

  “He might,” said Oliver. Privately he thought this was likely. The bandit chief had not liked Stern, but he didn’t have to like him to take his money. And people who lived in the woods and preyed on travelers tended not to have hearts of gold, no matter what the cheery legends said.

  “If he does, I’m dead meat.”

  Oliver put his chin in his hand.

  “Maybe,” he said finally. “But think about it. Do you think his men know what he’s really like? You said they were mostly relatives, and that he’d whipped them into a lynch mob.”

  If Harold the miller back home had been killing people and stuffing them under the floorboards of the mill… Well, Oliver would have found them, frankly, he’d been all over the mill during that imp infestation.

  And murder victims tend to do weird magical things to the ground. I’d have noticed. There’s that one patch out by Vezzo’s farm where there was a gibbet a hundred years ago, and you still can’t plant potatoes within fifty feet of it.

  You really only have to see a potato bleed once before you become very careful with the plantings.

  Still. Supposing that Harold had been murdering people. None of the townspeople would want to believe it. They wouldn’t want someone they knew to be a murderer. Harold would yell about his innocence, and people would agree…

  …up to a point.

  But if Harold went over the line and somebody caught him—if he even did something overly suspicious—the other townspeople would turn on him. Being a pillar of the community wouldn’t protect him.

  In fact, they’d be much, much angrier than if they’d believed he was a murderer in the first place, because they’d be mad at themselves for not stopping him sooner.

  “I think,” said Oliver slowly, “they’re scared. They’re sort of a mob, you understand? They’re following Stern because he’s yelling the loudest, the way that the people in my town followed Harold the miller when he started yelling that I needed to go bring back rain.” He leaned back, closing his eyes. Two crowds, two sets of frightened, angry faces… “Thing is, this has gone too far. Most of them don’t quite know what’s going on any more, and they don’t like it. If Stern goes too far, they’ll realize that he really is a monster. But if they accept that, they have to accept that they were wrong in the first place, and that they’ve been helping a monster all along.”

  “Okay,” said Trebastion. “So, what do you think that means?”

  “I think if he convinces the chief to sell you, you’ll be okay at first,” said Oliver. “He might rough you up a little, but he’s not going to do anything really awful to you while the others are around. It’s when he gets you back to town that you need to worry.”

  “I’m just going to start worrying now, if it’s all the same to you,” said Trebastion. “It’s all very well to say that he’s only going to rough me up a little, but it’s still going to hurt. And what if you’re wrong, and they’re a whole hunting pack of deviants?”

  “Then you’re in trouble,” said Oliver.

  In the silence that followed, they could both hear Stern yell, very clearly, “Are you out of your mind? I could buy fifty acres of land for that!”

  “Well,” said Oliver, “at least you’re costing him a lot of money.”

  “You’ll forgive me if that’s not much consolation.”

  Several hours passed, and the sun was starting to crawl down the sky before the tent flap opened and Bill reached in and pulled Trebastion out.

  “Time to go, minstrel-boy,” said Bill, licking his gold teeth.

  Trebastion’s face went the color of old cheese.

  Bill dragged him across the tower. Trebastion struggled, but not very hard (there was a limit to how much you could struggle against someone the size of Bill).

  Oliver hurried after them. Nobody yelled “stop!” so presumably nobody was watching. He halted in the shadow of one of the tents and peered around the edge.

  “This is highway robbery,” Stern was grumbling, counting out gold pieces into the bandit chief’s hand.

  “Robbery, certainly,” said the bandit chief pleasantly. “But what did you expect from a bandit?”

  “By rights I ought to have you hauled in and slapped in the stocks,” growled Stern.

  “Careful, now,” said the chief. “Don’t talk yourself out of a deal—that coin’s been clipped, friend, let’s see you replace it with a better one—when you’re so close.”

  There was an unaccustomed edge to the bandit’s voice. Oliver leaned farther out of the shadow and studied the man closely.

  He doesn’t like this. He knows that Stern’s going to do something pretty awful to Trebastion when he gets a chance.

  He’s still going to take the money, though.

  “There,” said Stern. “Is that all to your liking?”

  “As much to my liking as it shall get,” said the chief lightly. He hefted the coins in his hand several times.

  “Then give me the boy,” said Stern.

  “As you wish. Bill—”

  Bill picked Trebastion up by the scruff of the neck and carried him toward Stern’s men. They all fell back a step. Oliver moved to the edge of the tower, trying to see his friend’s face.

  No, no, this is really happening, they’ve really got him, I should do something—!

  “Don’t do this!” screamed Trebastion. “He’s going to kill me like he did those kids—please, don’t let him get me—”

  Bill dropped him. Trebastion scrambled to his feet and made a break through the back of the crowd. One of Stern’s men grabbed for him. Stern himself lunged into the fray and nearly ran into Bill, who growled and put a hand on the hilt of his sword.

  Several of the bandits took a step forward. Someone cocked a crossbow.

  Oliver would have stood at the tower entrance, watching, until the whole mess had sorted itself out, but a voice yelled in his head, Now, you idiot, go NOW while no one is looking!

  The armadillo. Of course.

  Oliver took a quick look around, saw that all eyes were fastened on the scene, and ducked around the edge of the tower wall. A few quick steps and he was behind the tower. He could hear yelling behind him.

  “Hold him, you fool!”

  “Do something!”

  “If you can’t take care of your purchases, it’s none of my affair…”

  Oliver ran for the trees.

  He almost made it. He could actually see the ridges in the bark of the nearest tree, and then a hand closed over his collar and jerked him backward. Oliver hit the ground, the air going out of him in a woosh.

  He looked up, and up, and up. The view didn’t get any better.

  “And where do you think you’re going?” asked Bill. “Thought you’d get away while we were looking the other way, did you?”

  “I had to pee?” Oliver said weakly. His ribs felt bruised.

  There was a thought in his head that had to be an armadillo obscenity. It sounded like a cat hissing and stank like sour beer. It drowned out the real world for a few seconds, but that was probably all right. Bill was not saying anything that Oliver wanted to hear.

  “…your feet if you try that again,” Bill finished.

  Oliver could see up Bill’s nostrils. This was not a view that he had been curious about.

  Bill picked him up by the collar like a kitten, ignoring the choking noises as the fa
bric cut into Oliver’s neck, and carried him back to the camp. “Inside,” he said, tossing him toward the tiny enclosure in the back.

  Trebastion and Stern were already gone. The friendly bandit shook his head ruefully at Oliver. “Tired of our company already?”

  Oliver mumbled something and scurried into the crude tent in the back.

  Well. Now what?

  Sit tight, his familiar said. I’ll be back soon.

  The armadillo’s presence in his head seemed to get more and more attenuated, as if his familiar was going away. Oliver didn’t like that at all, but maybe the armadillo was going for help.

  He just hoped that help would get there in time.

  The armadillo was indeed going for help, but not in the sense that Oliver had been thinking.

  Instead, he had found the Bryerlys.

  It was late afternoon and the ghuls lay asleep in a hollow in the forest floor. The sickly-sweet smell of illness and ant eggs poured off them.

  Vision wasn’t the armadillo’s keenest sense, but they looked less human than they had at the farm. Perhaps without the trappings of humanity, the chairs and tables to sit in and beds to sleep in, they had slid further away from their roots. The armadillo had always vaguely suspected that humans acted the way they did because they had so much furniture cluttering up their lives.

  Or they get more ghul-like when they’re hungry. The scaled ancestors only know.

  One’s long arm was outflung, mouth open against the dirt and leaves. Its nails were long and dirty, and it had torn furrows in the leaf litter in its sleep. The other was curled up, but less like a sleeping animal and more like a dead spider.

  He backed away. He wasn’t sure if the ghuls would be able to smell him, but he didn’t want to risk it.

  While he had been trying to find the herbs for Oliver—and mostly failing—he’d come across a scent trail that had filled him with relief.

  Pig. And not a huge hairy wild boar, the sort that could tear up a man or a hunting hound the way that the armadillo tore up an ant nest, but familiar pigs. The sow and the boar had made their lumbering way to Harkhound.

  He’d smelled them on the road once or twice, but apparently they had cut across the fields and taken a more direct route. He’d lost them days before reaching Harkhound Forest, but here they were.

  Once he picked up the trail again, he moved with better speed. Pigs could disappear with astonishing skill when they chose, but these two weren’t bothering to hide. They were just making their way through the forest, stopping to roll around, scrape up against trees, and dig up anything that looked tasty.

  He hoped that wouldn’t include armadillo. Pigs had good memories, but they also had endless appetites.

  Still, they were the closest he had to friends in these woods right now.

  Eglamarck squared his scaled shoulders and trotted deeper into the forest.

  Oliver woke from a deep sleep because someone had screamed.

  It was a hoarse male scream of pain and it was bad. But then there was a wet ripping sound and the scream stopped and that was a great deal worse.

  What is going on? Are we under attack?

  His first instinct was to run out and see what the screaming had been and if he could do anything. He got as far as his hand on the blanket flap before he thought, What if it’s the ghuls? Or Stern? and had a strong urge to retreat back into the corner.

  Don’t be stupid. A blanket isn’t going to save you. They’ll find you.

  Oliver opened the flap an inch and put his eye to it. All he could see was splashes of moonlight and movement. There was something large in the camp. Two somethings.

  Bill roared with rage and then he heard a loud squeal, like… a pig?

  Something struck the side of the crude hide shelter and nearly knocked it down.

  Run! shouted the armadillo in his head. Run quick! Around the back of the tower, while they’re distracted!

  Oliver obeyed. He flung himself through the blankets and ran, keeping low. He saw a huge shadow that had to be Bill, but the bandit’s back was to him.

  Don’t get in front of the pigs. They can’t see very well and they’re getting worked up.

  The armadillo didn’t have to tell him twice. He could see the pigs moving in the firelight, great hairy blurs of hide and rage. There was a shape on the ground that looked human that wasn’t moving at all. The chief? Or someone else? Bill had his sword out and was slicing at one of the pigs, but either he wasn’t connecting or the pig didn’t feel it.

  Go, go! The armadillo sounded frantic. Hurry!

  Oliver stumbled around the back of the tower, tripping over things, and nearly fell. His own knapsack almost sent him sprawling a second time. Fortunately, the bandits were far more concerned with the pigs than with him. He snatched up the sack and ran.

  His heart was hammering as he sprinted down the hillside. A small scaly shadow was waiting for him, just inside the treeline. He darted out, and as promised, nipped Oliver on the shin.

  Oliver scooped his familiar up, half-sobbing. The armadillo licked the side of his face and said, “No time, now! Run!”

  Then there was only running and shouted directions from the armadillo. They were going somewhere. Oliver didn’t care where that was, just as long as it was away from the bandits and the furious pigs.

  “Here,” panted the armadillo. “In here! Quick!”

  Oliver wasn’t sure how far he’d come in the woods. Not nearly far enough, probably. He was badly out of breath and at any moment, the ghuls would come for him.

  The armadillo was also panting, but he had insisted on running instead of being carried.

  His familiar skidded to a halt in front of a tree stump. An enormous shell of bark had calved off, leaving a rotten hollow behind.

  “Are—you—sure?” Oliver put his hands on his knees and gasped for air.

  “Scouted it last night,” the armadillo said. “You can’t outrun the bandits, so better to hide.”

  “But Trebastion—”

  “Later. We won’t leave him. But you can’t help if you’re caught. Get in the tree.”

  Oliver crawled into the tree stump. The rotten bit extended into the ground itself about six inches, so when he was curled into the hole, his head was about knee-level.

  Oliver heard a distant shout and cringed. The bandits had to be on his trail now. He didn’t know how much woodcraft they had, but surely it was obvious which way he’d gone, even in the fading evening light.

  The armadillo flipped at the sheet of bark with his snout. “Come on, you’ve got thumbs. Pull it into place. Use the spell.”

  Oliver dragged the bark shell as far up the tree by hand as he could. He gritted his teeth. Pushme… pullme…

  After the wooden bar in the ghul’s barn, it was easy. The bark had a great deal of bulk but hardly any weight. The real problem was getting a grip on it in the first place.

  “Higher!” whispered the armadillo. “A few inches higher, and nobody’ll be able to tell there’s a hole at all. Hurry!”

  Pushme… pushme…

  If I could go invisible, I wouldn’t have to worry about this!

  “Got it!” said the armadillo. Oliver heard scuffling outside. “I’ll hide your tracks. Don’t make a sound. If you have to communicate, do it mentally.”

  There were more scuffling noises, going away from the tree.

  Oliver hunched his shoulders up to his ears. I have been spending far too much time lately hiding from people.

  At least there weren’t lilac twigs poking him in the ear this time. And the bandits probably wouldn’t eat him if they caught him.

  On the down side, his lower back was going numb from being curled in such an awkward position, a book was digging into his back, and something small and wiggly with a great many legs was crawling around his ankle.

  Please let it be a millipede. If a centipede bites me, I’m going to yelp because those hurt. Please let it be a millipede.

  He heard a thump
and the crunch of leaves as someone approached.

  The wiggly thing wandered around his left sock. Oliver closed his eyes and thought, millipede millipede millipede…

  “Damn little rat,” said Bill, practically over his head. “Can’t see a damn thing in the dark.”

  Oliver stopped thinking about invisibility or millipedes and threw all his mental effort into the pushme pullme spell. If the bark shell fell off while Bill was standing there…

  “Well, there wasn’t any money in that one,” said another bandit. Oliver thought it might be the friendly one from earlier. “We weren’t gonna walk five days through farmland to ransom him. I say we go back. We’re not gonna find him in the dark, we still gotta bury Sid, and I think the chief’s hurt worse than he let on.”

  There was a soggy thud as somebody kicked the tree stump. The bark shell tried to slip and Oliver flung his mental arms around it. Pushme! Pushme! Hold still, hold still!

  “It’s why I want him,” growled Bill. “What he done to Sid.”

  “You think it was him? Looked like a boar to me.”

  “What’s a boar doing coming up the hill? Let alone two of ‘em? It was wizarding, that’s what it was. Those things were his familiars or demons or somethin’.”

  “If you say so, Bill.” The friendly bandit sounded unconvinced. “He’s probably a mile away by now, though. Thought I saw some broken branches this way, but I’m not a bloodhound.”

  “Chief’s gonna be mad,” growled Bill.

  “Chief’s got bigger things to worry about. And he got double the ransom for t’other one that he’d been expecting.”

  Someone—probably Bill—spat on the ground. “Should have gutted that Stern fellow and looted his corpse.”

  “For once I’m agreeing with you, Big Bill…”

  Oliver was concentrating so hard and his teeth were clamped so tightly together that at first he almost didn’t understand the sound that followed.

  Footsteps.

  Going away.

  A few minutes later, the armadillo nosed the bark aside and climbed into the tree stump. “They’re gone,” he said. “Did you know you’ve got a millipede on your shoe?”