The Evil Wizard Smallbone

by Delia Sherman

  He pulled himself stiffly to his feet.

  Smallbone’s voice came out of the blackness. “Whatcha doing?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Is it a fool piece of nonsense?”

  “Probably.” Nick felt sick. “Well. Here goes. Hey!” he shouted, banging his cage against the wall. “What’s-your-face! Hiram! Come down here! I want to talk to the Boss!”

  A few minutes later, Nick was back on the dirty red carpet in front of Fidelou’s throne. The stink of evil was making his stomach churn, and Hiram’s grip on his arm was like a steel band, but he was on his feet and he had a plan. It depended on a whole bunch of things going right that were more likely to go wrong, but still, it was a plan.

  Fidelou was lounging against his wolf pelt with his feet on Smallbone’s coat. “You wished to speak to me?” he asked. “Speak, then.”

  Nick took a deep breath of carrion-scented air. “I want to be a coyote,” he said.

  Fidelou appeared to find this amusing. “You will excuse me if I decline to believe you.”

  “Why? You told me to think it over, and I did.” Nick looked the wolf wizard straight in the fierce yellow eyes. “I want to join your pack.”

  “Do you deny that you hate me, apprentice of Smallbone?”

  “No. But I hate Smallbone worse.”

  “My enemy’s enemy is my friend, eh?” Fidelou yawned, giving Nick an excellent view of a jawful of pointed teeth. “Well, I too have thought, and I think it would be foolish to trust my enemy’s enemy when he is himself a wizard.”

  Nick’s face tingled with fear. “Who me? I can’t do magic!”

  His voice was shrill with panic.

  Fidelou frowned. “You are Smallbone’s apprentice, are you not?”

  “He said I was. But so far, all I’ve done is cook and wash dishes and milk goats. He never said nothing about teaching me magic.”

  He was babbling. A good liar never babbles.

  But Fidelou only shook his head. “He is a fool. Magic rises from you like heat from a fire. A mortal fire, bien sûr, and not to be compared to my own, but great. Perhaps that is why he has not taught you. He is afraid you would destroy him. But me, I am afraid of nothing. Five hundred years I have lived, in the Old World and the New, and never once have I been afraid.” He leaned forward on his throne.

  “Fear is a mortal failing. You, for example, fear me to the point of madness.”

  I’m dead, Nick thought. He’d thought that before, when Uncle Gabe was on a tear, but now he knew he’d never believed it. His uncle wouldn’t kill him — not on purpose, anyway. Fidelou would, without thinking twice. He’d enjoy it.

  Nick sagged in Hiram’s grip. Concentration. It was all about Concentration and Will. Let Fidelou think he was a wimp and an idiot. What Fidelou thought couldn’t change who Nick really was.

  Neither could his stinking magic pelt, not if Nick could help it.

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m scared. That’s why I want to join you — so I don’t have to be scared anymore.”

  Fidelou sat back against his pelt, the picture of satisfaction.

  “I accept your offer. It will amuse me to take Smallbone’s pup for my own. Release him,” he told Hiram. “He is too smart to run. And bring to me a pelt — the white pelt, I think.” He grinned at Nick. “It is very special, that pelt. I give it only to those whose natures are truly wild.”

  Hiram released Nick, and he collapsed onto the red rug. He was shaking and felt sick to his stomach. Okay, I’m scared, he thought. But I have a plan.

  “It is time,” Fidelou announced dramatically.

  Nick raised his head. The wolf wizard was standing on the platform, a pelt stretched between his hands. It was silvery white from head to tail, and its legs dangled in a spooky, almost lifelike dance.

  “It is nearly dawn,” Fidelou went on. “Kneel before me, apprentice of Smallbone. Soon you shall see your enemy defeated.”

  This was it. There was nowhere to run, no way to fight, no clever trick or lie to tell, just Nick the stubborn kid with the bad attitude against Fidelou’s special magic pelt. At least he’d stopped shaking. He looked up at the pelt dangling over his head. The lolling head stared at him with empty eyes. Nick stared back.

  It’s just a transformation, he told himself. You’ve gone through this before. You know how to turn yourself back. You’re Nick Reynaud of Beaton, Maine, and no full-of-himself, big-mouth wolf is going to get the best of you.

  Fidelou released the pelt and it settled over Nick like a furry blanket, stinking of bad magic and mothballs.

  Suddenly, Nick felt fine. In fact, he felt wonderful. He was a good dog, and good dogs don’t have to be afraid. Good dogs obey their master and their master keeps them safe.

  Except you’re not a good dog, said the voice of his human self. You’re a magic coyote. And coyotes are tricksters, just like foxes. You have this, Nick.

  The coyote part of him whined. It knew coyotes couldn’t kill wolves.

  Who said anything about fighting? Fidelou’s not all that smart. Think of it this way: if he’s all that big and bad, why’s he holed up in a drafty castle in the poorest, rockiest hardscrabble stretch of woodland in the entire state of Maine?

  The coyote became aware that the mad yellow eyes were staring at him. He wants to know if you’re in his power, the back of his mind informed him. And you’re not, are you? So you’ll need to pretend.

  The coyote crouched submissively.

  A shadow fell over him and sharp nails sank painfully through the thick fur of his ruff. “Apprentice of Smallbone”— the harsh voice was affectionate —“you make me a fine dog, eh?”

  The coyote whined and waved his tail, but inside his head, Nick was saying, I’m not a dog! And you’re not the boss of me!

  The loup-garou straightened. “Bring up the hedge wizard,” he said.

  Hiram disappeared.

  Fidelou grabbed his pelt from the back of his throne and swirled it around him. Nick lay down and rested his muzzle on his crossed paws. He didn’t know what was going to happen next, and he was scared again, but he was in control of himself, and that was the important thing.

  That, and Hell Cat’s sneaking abilities.

  Clanking and scuffling sounded from the dungeon stairs. Nick sat up and pricked his ears. Hiram led Smallbone forward by a chain bound around his hands. With his shirt and his red suspenders and his plump face all stubbly and streaked with dirt from the dungeon, he looked more like a farmer than an evil wizard.

  He still didn’t have his glasses.

  “My old friend Smallbone!” Fidelou said. “Have you slept well? Victory is not so sweet when it is too easily won.”

  Smallbone munched his jaws. Without the bushy beard, it looked like he was grinding his teeth. “If it’s a fair fight you’re after, you’ll have to give me back my coat.”

  Fidelou shook back his mane of black hair and laughed. “Fair is for heroes and little children. Evil wizards take what advantage they may.” He gestured at Nick. “See, here is your apprentice. Does he not make a pretty pet?”

  Smallbone squinted at Nick.

  Deliberately, Nick put back his ears and growled.

  “I see,” Smallbone said. “You’re welcome to him. Useless as shoes on a cat.”

  One of the squinting eyes closed briefly. It could have been a twitch or it could have been a signal. Nick decided to believe it was a signal.

  The tiny windows at the top of the Great Hall had begun to grow pale with the approach of day.

  Fidelou sniffed the air and scowled. “The sun rises. It is time!” He snapped his fingers, Nick came to his heel, and the two wizards and their attendants marched out of the hall and into the pearly mist.

  The ground Fidelou chose for his long-desired wizards’ duel was a scraggly meadow dotted with rocks and weeds and a few scruffy pines. The sun cast spears of light through the trees as Fidelou’s pack trotted out of the woods. Some went on two legs and some on four, bu
t all were coyotes and all were his, from the gnarliest veteran to the young white male trotting at his heel.

  The pack followed Fidelou to the tallest of the pines and stood in a semicircle behind it like an audience at a play. Fidelou pulled Smallbone up onto a boulder and unchained his hands.

  Smallbone rubbed his wrists and pulled up his suspenders. Without his horror-movie coat and hat, he looked half dressed and exposed, a snail without a shell.

  Fidelou, on the other hand, looked just like an evil wizard ought to look: tall and wild and strong and sinister, and completely in control of the situation.

  “I challenge you, Zachariah Smallbone,” he howled. “By sky and stone, by sea and flame, I challenge you. By your name and your nature, by your magic and your skill, I challenge you. By the Rules and Rituals of Battle and Story, I challenge you.” His voice dropped to a gentle growl. “Do you accept?”

  “I expect I got to, seeing as how you won’t give me a moment’s peace until I do.”

  Fidelou growled. “I ask you again. Do you accept of your own will and desire?”

  Smallbone sighed. “I, the Wizard Smallbone of Smallbone Cove, accept the challenge of Fidelou the Loup-Garou. You happy now?”

  Fidelou began to lift his hands.

  “Hold your horses,” Smallbone said. “I got the right to set the terms. I call a Standard Western European Wizards’ Duel. Shape-shifting only, no taking the same shape twice, no returning to your original form until the other one is dead.”

  “Done.” Fidelou stretched his mouth in a wide inhuman grin. “I hope you are prepared to die.”

  “I ain’t worried,” Smallbone said. “Unless maybe you aim to jaw me to death.”

  At that, Fidelou snarled and lunged, beginning as a man and ending as a wolf, jaws wide, aiming for Smallbone’s throat.

  Nick went rigid with fear, then breathed again when he saw a gray fox streak up the pine like a scalded cat. The duel had begun.

  The wolf turned into a giant eagle and rose from the ground in a thunder of wings. It circled the pine, gaining height, then folded its wings and stooped.

  The fox disappeared.

  The eagle turned into a red-crowned woodpecker and drilled his powerful beak into the pine.

  A big striped tomcat erupted from the tree trunk and swiped at the woodpecker with extended claws. The woodpecker became a tawny bobcat with tufted ears and wicked teeth. It sprang at the tom, then screamed in pain as a yellowjacket buzzed up between its paws and stung it on the nose.

  Nick whined uneasily. Smallbone was holding his own so far without the help of the coat, but sooner or later he’d run out of magic and Fidelou would get him. Where were Hell Cat and Mutt?

  A giant snake attacked a knight with a gleaming sword. The sword became a roaring flame and the snake a black cloud streaming rain and thunder.

  Nick looked around him. Every one of the two- and four-legged coyotes had its eyes riveted on the field. He slipped away into the shelter of the trees, lifted his nose, and sniffed. Coyote, of course — lots of magic coyote — and the burned-metal smell of magic. But he could also make out, if he concentrated, rotting leaves and pine and mud and — very faintly — scents that he recognized: Mutt and Hell Cat, nervous as the first day of school . . . and a familiar mixture of tobacco and old man.

  Moving like a pale mist through the brush, Nick followed his nose to where the former dog and cat crouched behind a bayberry bush with an untidy bundle between them, arguing in whispers.

  “Smallbone’s the pond, Mutt. I was keeping track.”

  “That would mean Fidelou’s the basketball now, and I don’t see him turning himself into a basketball, do you?”

  Nick nudged Mutt’s shoulder with his nose. Mutt yelped and Hell Cat punched his arm. “That’s Nick, stupid.” Her eyes gleamed — she was enjoying herself. “What do you want us to do?”

  Nick whined.

  “Stop kidding around,” Hell Cat said.

  He concentrated, opened his mouth, and barked. It was no use. The pelt wouldn’t let him speak.

  Hell Cat unfolded the bundle. It was Smallbone’s coat, all right, looking strangely sad and ragged without Smallbone in it. For the first time, Nick saw the lining, which was completely covered with tiny black writing. The collar was frayed.

  “His hat’s in the pocket,” Hell Cat said helpfully. “We had to collapse it.”

  “What do we do now?” Mutt asked.

  Hell Cat punched his arm again. “He can’t talk, dummy. We’ll have to use my plan.”

  “You mean the one that’s practically guaranteed to get us both killed?”

  Their squabbling was interrupted by a tremendous roar from the meadow.

  Three heads turned to the field.

  A dragon and a giant confronted each other across a wasteland of uneven furrows and ridges punctuated with muddy puddles, uprooted bushes, and displaced boulders. The dragon was enormous, green, and scaly, with claws like steel scythes. The giant had four arms and two heads, each sporting a single pale-blue eye in its forehead, and looked extremely fearsome, although the pine tree he held like a club was probably not the best choice of weapon against a fire-breathing opponent.

  Nick tried to unfocus his eyes. It was no good. He couldn’t tell which monster was Smallbone and which was Fidelou. They both looked real to him.

  Up to now, the duel had been more like a game than a fight. The wizards had been testing each other’s abilities, seeing which shapes the other chose, thinking how to counter them. Now they were really getting serious.

  The dragon opened its whiskered jaws and spouted an arc of bright flame at the giant, who vanished.

  Nick stuck his muzzle under Smallbone’s coat and wiggled his way into it.

  Power roared into him. His brain reeled. “Whoa!” he said. “Awesome!” and scrambled to his own two feet.

  The dragon was stomping around, bellowing as it looked for its prey. Now that he was wearing the coat, Nick could see the white wolf inside the dragon, like the nucleus of a frog’s egg. Smallbone, cloudy and indistinct, surrounded a small brightly colored snake coiled up behind a rock.

  It was time to do something. The question was, what? Even with the coat, Nick couldn’t fight Fidelou: it was against the Rules.

  Nick’s cheek itched. He scratched it, or tried to, but his fingers met a springy, wiry barrier. A beard? How did a twelve-year-old grow a beard? He looked at his hands. They were liver spotted, bony, gnarled — Smallbone’s hands.

  He stared at them a moment, then smiled. It felt like an evil smile.

  Nick lifted both arms and waved. “Hey! Dingy dragon!” he yelled, putting magical force behind it. “You lose something?”

  It wasn’t the cleverest taunt in the world, but it did the trick. Everybody was staring at him — were-coyotes (four- and two-footed), Hiram, the dragon that was suddenly not a dragon anymore but a big man wearing a white fur cloak, his eyes shooting yellow fire and his outstretched finger shaking with rage, screaming, “Cheat! Cheat! I win! You cheated!”

  “Did not!” Nick yelled.

  “But yes! A duel to the death, you said, and no person to take his true shape until the other lies dead!”

  “Ha!” Nick gave his best Smallbone sneer. “But this ain’t my true shape!”

  Fidelou raised his face to the cloudy sky and howled. It was a truly impressive howl, somewhere between a wolf pack serenading a full moon and a jet plane taking off. It was the howl of a wizard who had well and truly lost his temper. Which, as E-Z Spelz for Little Wizardz could have told him, was really bad for a wizard’s Concentration and Control.

  Nick slapped his hands over his throbbing ears and counted.

  One.

  Two.

  On three, a huge black grizzly flowed up from behind a rock and took the wolf wizard into its massive arms. The howl cut off, muffled in fur and muscle. In the sudden silence, Nick heard a growl and a sickening crunch.

  The grizzly turned into a plump bald man i
n red suspenders. He looked down at the heap of torn flesh and fur at his feet, wiped blood from his mouth, and squinted shortsightedly in the direction of Fidelou’s pack.

  “Get out of here right now and we’ll call it square,” he said. “Attack me, and I’ll turn you into rabbits. Up to you.”

  A handful of four-legged coyotes bolted to the woods, their ears back and their tails between their legs. One of them, Nick noted, was black with white feet. It looked like Jerry was going to be a coyote for a very long time. But then, Nick thought, maybe the coyote was Jerry’s totem animal anyway.

  Then a handful of two-legged pack members made a break for it — women with kids, plus some guys who looked more relieved than shocked. This left the real hard cases, coyote and currently human, the scarred and the one eared, with narrow eyes and mean, tight smiles. They produced knives and chains and tire irons and bared their teeth and moved toward the flannel-shirted man who had killed their leader.

  The biggest coyote, a big tan brute with a scar Nick could see across the field, sprang. The wizard threw his arm out in a gesture that should have sent the animal flying into the woods but, to Nick’s dismay, only knocked him onto his back. The coyote lay there for a moment, picked himself up, shook his head angrily, and prepared to charge again.

  Smallbone was running out of magic.

  With a steam-engine scream, Nick took off across the field, stepped in a ditch, and pitched headfirst into a tangle of brambles.

  If it hadn’t been for the coat, he might have gotten tangled and pricked like one of the unluckier princes who went to find Sleeping Beauty. As it was, his face and hands stung like he’d been cuddling a porcupine, and his leg felt like it had been hit by a red-hot poker. Smallbone was still a long way off, and the ring of coyotes was tighter than it had been.

  Healing spell. Why didn’t he know a healing spell? Because he’d never thought to ask for one. He swore, then heaved himself out of the brambles and shucked off the coat. Holding it over his head, he closed his eyes and thought about wind. He imagined drafts and breezes and sudden, gusty blows strong enough to rip a sheet off a clothesline, pegs and all. Behind him, he heard the soft rustling sigh of pines bending in the wind. And then his hair was whipping at his cheeks and the coat was flapping and straining like a living thing. Nick released his grip and the coat glided away like a huge bat toward Smallbone and the furious coyotes.