The witch crooked one finger at Letitia, beckoning her forward. “You have done badly, my dear,” the witch scolded her gently. “You shouldn’t bring people here without my permission. I am disappointed with you. You know what this means, don’t you?”
Letitia did; there were tears running down her cheeks.
“You’ve forced me to punish you.” She put one crooked finger under Letitia’s chin. “Don’t feel too badly, my dear; I forgive you. I only punish you so that you’ll learn. You know that, don’t you?”
Letitia nodded.
“That’s a good girl.” The witch levered herself up and took Letitia’s wrists in a grip far stronger than any ordinary old woman’s. She smiled pityingly, understandingly, and plunged Letitia’s hands into the pot of boiling water.
“There we are, my dear,” said the witch an eternity later, releasing Letitia’s hands. Letitia didn’t hear what she said next; she was running outside, thrusting her hands into the snow, screaming. She did not move until the snow had stopped melting from around her hands, and she could no longer hear her skin sizzling. She drew her hands away, leaving layers of skin behind, and moved them to fresh snow. She’d freeze to death if she stayed out here much longer without a coat, but she could not bring herself to move.
The witch came out to her, with a small pot of something greenish and pungent. Speaking softly, comfortingly to her, the witch dabbed the stuff on Letitia’s hands, and wrapped them in white linen. The green stuff was obviously magic, and cooled Letitia’s hands better than snow had, cooling them all the way down, stopping the burning. Letitia found herself horrifyingly, achingly grateful to the witch.
“There we go,” said the witch. “Just a little something I keep around in case of accidents. Come to me whenever it starts to burn again, and I’ll put more on, all right? We wouldn’t want your pretty hands ruined.”
“Thank you,” Letitia whispered.
“You’re welcome, my dear. Now—have you finished my breakfast? It’s getting late.
“It’s in the kitchen.”
“Then hurry up; I’m too old to kneel out in the snow. Help me up—there we are. And position my chair so I can watch you work while I eat. I have so little entertainment out here all alone.”
It is neither easy nor quick to tidy up after a violent double-murder, no matter how much practice you have. There are bodies to drag, blood to mop up, entrails to bag, and furniture to straighten. Letitia, who was a sensible girl and knew her job, began with the bodies, before they could leak any more.
Letitia maneuvered the feet of the first corpse into the crook of her elbows, doing her best not to use her hands. They were cooler now, and not actively burning, but she feared damaging them further. Who knew how much damage had been done that she could not feel—either because of the witch’s balm, or because the pain sensors had been burnt away? The witch would be able to tell her, but the witch did not like to be disturbed during breakfast.
Once she got it moving, the first body slid easily. She dragged it out into the garden and left it in the compost pile, where she’d later strip it down for fertilizer.
The second body was trickier. It was considerably bulkier than the first and had been more violently eviscerated; its intestines kept falling out and tangling in things and the small arsenal it carried bumped and jolted and shifted its weight unpredictably. She’d have to strip the weapons off it before she could move it.
Letitia rolled the body onto its side, and began disarming it. Knife, sword, crossbow—
Crossbow. It felt familiar, somehow, holding a crossbow like this. She could see exactly how the mechanism worked. Her hands reached automatically down and slid a bolt into place—
—and she remembered.
She remembered the town in which she’d grown up.
She remembered learning witchcraft, her own powers growing.
She remembered laughing at the waning powers of the old witch.
She remembered the sickness coming to the village, mysterious and swift.
She remembered escaping with her family into the woods.
She remembered the witch offering them a seat by the fire, a hot drink.
She remembered the witch slaughtering her family as she slumped, paralyzed, in her chair.
She remembered the witch beaming at her, remarking how similar their magic was, wondering aloud how Letitia thought she would win this one, once the witch had taken her memory.
“Is something the matter, my dear?” the witch asked from her chair by the fire. “You’ve stopped working and this room won’t clean itself. We wouldn’t want the blood to stain.”
Letitia turned and shot the witch through the left eye, nailing her to the chair. She reloaded and set a second bolt through the witch’s right eye, just in case.
Letitia collected the rest of the weapons, cleaned them, and laid them out on the kitchen table. As they dried, she went into the witch’s bedroom and opened a chest that the witch, in her vanity, had once shown her. Inside lay a beautiful dress, green as the forest. Letitia put it on and admired herself. It fitted her like it had once fitted the witch. She also took the witch’s warmest cloak, scarf, gloves, and anything else that caught her fancy.
Back in the kitchen, Letitia stuffed bags full of creams, herbs, and food. She picked the best of the weapons from the table and strapped them on.
The fire in the grate still burned brightly, illuminating the witch’s face. Letitia took an oil lamp and spilled it upon the floor, then used the poker to roll out burning logs. She stepped quickly back as the oil caught, and ran outside.
The cottage was old and dry and cluttered, and it burned easily. Letitia stood at a safe distance and watched. She could smell roasting meat and hear the crackle of flames and she smiled to herself.
After a time, someone joined her. With a voice like the burning of green trees or the fear of ancient oaks, he said, “Those two men came from a larger group.”
“Where is it?”
The Green Man pointed.
“Thank you. Will the fire be a problem?”
“No. It was time.”
Letitia looked around for the Green Man, but he was already gone.
X
What are the things that make a man?
A body, a mind, a heart, a soul.
What are the things that make a dog?
A bark, a wag, a whine, a growl.
“But what about Tinkerfingers’s body?” Youngster asked.
“We left it,” said Lucky. “It was clearly infected, and we didn’t want to risk spreading the infection. Besides, he was dead; there was nothing we could do.”
“You could have given him a decent burial!”
“With Stump bleeding all over the place?”
Youngster turned to the Jolly Executioner. “Sir, I’d like permission to leave camp.”
“Denied.”
“Sir, I need to see my brother’s body! It should have a cairn or a headstone or something. I’m not going to leave it to the wild animals.”
“No animal would eat that,” said Letitia. “They know to stay away from anything infected with splinterworms.”
“Sir! We can’t just leave him there to rot.”
“He won’t rot,” said Stephen. “It’s the middle of winter.”
Youngster rounded on him, and Stephen was surprised to see tears in his eyes. He hadn’t sounded sad—only adamant. “You!”
“Hello.”
“You were there—why didn’t you carry him back?”
What was he supposed to say to that?
“Did you take anything from the body?”
“What?”
“From Tinkerfingers—did you take any body parts? Did you?”
“No! Of course not.”
For some reason, this answer seemed to make Youngster angrier than before. “Why not?”
“What?”
“You heard me!”
“Yes, I know. Because—because I don’t actually go aro
und taking body parts from people.”
“What about Deadman?”
“I was forced to!”
“And you didn’t think Tinkerfingers’s eyes were good enough?”
“Enough,” said the Jolly Executioner.
“Sir—”
“Enough! You have lost a brother, and that is no doubt sad. But I have lost four good fighting men in the last hour—”
Stump did not look up.
“—and now I have a woman who is clearly not only a murderess but also a witch.”
“I don’t see why that should bother you,” said Letitia. “You already have a woman and an enchanter in your company, and you murder people for a living.”
“We kill monsters,” the Jolly Executioner corrected.
“I’m nothing like you,” said Miss Ironfist.
“Enchanting is legal,” said Stephen, “not to mention far superior to witchcraft. We don’t cut out people’s hearts to use in potions, for one thing.”
“Just eyes,” Youngster muttered.
“Not in potions, though.”
“Arm and Whimsy thought a witch might be useful,” said Letitia, “and they died for it. Besides, I have useful skills. I can heal—”
“I’m a medic,” said Medic.
“No one would have died of a splinterworm infection under my watch.”
“I don’t see any proof that you’re a witch,” said Miss Ironfist.
“I killed the old witch.”
“That doesn’t make you a witch.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No!”
“Then you weren’t paying attention. The reason the old witch took my memories in the first place was that I was growing too powerful. And in the last few years, even if I didn’t understand it, I was watching and learning. I am, indeed, a witch.”
“No witch would be fool enough to let an enchanter know her name,” said Miss Ironfist. “You’re a murderess, nothing more.”
Letitia nodded coldly to her and turned on Stephen. “What is your name?”
“I’m the Enchanter,” said Stephen.
“And you know my name?”
“You said it was Letitia. I don’t know if that’s true.”
“So bedazzle me. Use my name against me. Go on—I give you permission.”
Stephen folded his arms, leaned against a tree, and said nothing.
“You see?” said Letitia. “There is no danger from that quarter. I doubt your enchanter is capable of bedazzlement—or anything else interesting.”
“Tinkerfingers thought he was,” Youngster murmured. At some point his legs had given way beneath him, and he was sitting in the snow, staring at nothing. No one paid him any mind. Other people had died that day, better and more useful fighters than Tinkerfingers. A locksmith was all fine and good for watching the horses, but there were bigger things happening.
And besides, they had all known there was a chance of dying when they had joined the Jolly Executioner. Youngster had no right to be surprised.
“Face it,” said Letitia. “You need me. I’m good in a fight, I can make more powerful healing potions than any paltry medic, and the Green Man taught me more about the woods than you can guess.”
“We’ll see about that,” said the Jolly Executioner.
Somehow, once again, the witch had taken control of the situation. Even the Jolly Executioner obeyed her.
So that was that; the witch had joined the company and Tinkerfingers was dead. Not only dead, but uselessly, pointlessly dead, killed by parasites. He hadn’t died doing anything useful—quite the reverse; he had been running away. And whether he had run out of fear or to cut out the splinterworms or to save the company from infection, it didn’t matter; he had run, and two men had died trying to find him.
His death wasn’t heroic. It wasn’t honorable. It wasn’t even dignified.
It was, in fact, more or less how Stephen had always assumed he would die—in the middle of winter, alone in the woods, with no one to help.
Although admittedly, he wouldn’t have expected the witch.
And yet here Stephen was, alive; his ignominious death hijacked by a better man. And that better man’s body lay abandoned in the snow without a marker for his head.
It was a good thing enchanters didn’t go in for sentimental nonsense like friendship, or Stephen might have been quite distressed by this. As it was, he told himself that he was glad. Now he could really get down to work, without the constant distraction of people talking at him. He rode next to Craggy—who had barely spoken since the events at Chubblewooble—and ignored Youngster and worked on his dog.
He was proud of that dog. It was nearly complete, now, and almost certainly the best monster he had ever made. It had the eyes of a man, the nose and ears of a wolf, the tail of a squirrel, the tongue of a beast, and the claws of a Chubblewooblian cat that had hissed at the Jolly Executioner and had not lived long enough to regret it.
The rest of the dog, Stephen had made by hand. He had carved its somewhat eclectic bone structure out of wood, its teeth out of flint (one of the best parts of having an enchanted knife, in Stephen’s opinion, was the ability to cut stone as easily as butter. One of the worst parts was that, if you constantly filled it with new enchantments so it could do things like cut through stone, it eventually began to shine a sickly pale glow that kept you awake at night), and its tendons out of deer hide.
Internal organs were easier because they didn’t need to work. Magic, not muscle, would propel this body. The one benefit of having constantly dying companions was that there was suddenly a lot of extra blankets and spare clothing—all of which did admirably as stuffing. Stephen found an extra knife while he was at it—steel, and rather better quality than the one he was using—and several little trinkets he thought he might sell. These, he pocketed.
No one objected. Either they thought that, like the blankets, he intended to use them for enchantments, or they already thought so little of the enchanter that they had expected nothing else. Stephen couldn’t tell, and he didn’t really care.
But he didn’t try to take anything of Tinkerfingers’s. If nothing else, he rather thought that Youngster would object.
For his dog’s hide, Stephen used cloth covered in thin bark, both of which were enchanted until they little resembled their originals. He had obtained horsehair—
(gathered without permission late one night when someone had had the bright idea of leaving him on watch. That was, incidentally, the last time he was ever asked to watch—which he thought a reward rather than a punishment. The fact that no actual punishment was forthcoming, Stephen attributed to the fact that he had been sufficiently intelligent to refrain from taking any hair from the Jolly Executioner’s horse)
—and was beginning the long process of enchanting it over the dog’s body. The hair itself wouldn’t serve much practical purpose, but Stephen thought it would be more aesthetically pleasing.
Miss Ironfist was somewhat less impressed. She had been watching him work, but hadn’t spoken up until now. “I thought you were going to make a dog,” she said.
“This is a dog.”
“It doesn’t look like one.”
“Yes it does! Four legs, a snout, a tail—what else do you want?”
“By that definition, you could be making a cow or a horse or a lizard.”
“It doesn’t have to be exact. It’s a monster.”
“I thought you said it was a dog.”
“It’s a monster in the shape of a dog.”
“It’s certainly a monster.”
“It does look sort of like a dog,” Warthog put in, “if you turn your head sideways and squint.”
“Maybe if you’ve never seen a dog before,” said Miss Ironfist. “I’ve known four-year-olds who could draw better dogs.”
“Ah,” said Stephen, “but have you seen them make better dogs out of wood and bone and hair?”
“No. But I have no doubt they could.”
“This
explains why you wanted all those body parts, at least,” Warthog said. “Are those Deadman’s eyes? They seem familiar.”
Everyone seemed to remember Youngster at the same moment, and glanced at him. But he made no sign that he had heard.
Miss Ironfist coughed. “Why did you make it ugly?”
“It’s not finished. It’ll look better after I animate it.”
The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter Page 16