The mice gained the first step, then the second. Still he did not move. The third step, and he could feel, rather than see, Marie in the window, hands pressed against the glass.
The heat and the dry, musky scent of a thousand mice rose into the air. He gripped the pommel of his wooden sword.
The mice reached the top step.
“Kinyata,” Stefan called softly.
The cat appeared like a shadow at his side. She blinked at him with her yellow eyes, and leapt into the ranks.
Rodent foot soldiers were tossed aside like toys.
And Marie’s cat had brought friends. Good, Stefan thought. Let the cats deal with the mice. He would handle the soldiers.
The disarray on the battlefield had caused two of the soldiers to sway and topple on their own. They lay prone on the cobblestones, mice swarming over their useless forms, unable to lift them again. Stefan approached the nearest of the remaining eight, and drew his sword.
The toy soldier was taller than him by half a foot, but on the steps, Stefan held the higher ground.
“En garde,” he said, touching his own blade to his forehead. With a small skip of his heart, he realized that his opponent’s sword was gleaming metal and all too real. He would have to risk shattering his own wooden blade or disarm the manikin and take the weapon for himself.
The toy soldier moved with alarming speed.
Stefan jumped back to avoid the first swing of its blade. Reaching out with his left hand, he grabbed the soldier’s mechanical wrist and slashed back down the arm with his sword.
For an instant he could see through the skeleton work of the soldier, to the shining eyes of the rodent controllers within. Their faces were alien—whether they were frightened or angry, Stefan could not tell. He closed his eyes and completed his stroke, at the weak part of the neck joints, where his father always took extra care. It required patience and an eye for balance. Not a skill that could be performed well alone, in the dark.
The blow rang true and the head of the toy soldier toppled from the body, the wooden sword lodged in its neck.
As the head dropped away, the mice inside panicked. The soldier’s sword hand loosened its grip.
Stefan grabbed the hilt, wresting it from the manikin’s grasp.
A squeal of dismay rose from inside the soldier carcass. The arms and legs were independent of the head, and the mice inside had eyes enough to continue the fight. But they hesitated, and Stefan took his opening.
Hacking with the sharp end of his new sword, he severed the arms of the wooden soldier at the shoulders. The machine lost its balance. Stefan slapped it in the chest and it toppled backward, mice leaping from its cavities as it fell to crush or scatter the army that followed in its wake.
Three more soldiers approached.
Stefan was sweating. He wondered if it would stain his wooden skin. The army seemed demoralized by the loss of their first three siege engines, but the other mechanical soldiers pressed forward through the fray, and Stefan stepped up to meet them.
CHRISTIAN PAUSED on the rooftop across the square and caught his breath at the sight.
“So many soldiers!” Zacharias exclaimed. “I only ever made the one, I swear it!”
“Stefan’s done well, though,” Samir noted. Three of the life-size mechanical soldiers lay broken in a half-circle in front of Stefan.
The mouse army milled about in confusion, worsened by a fury of cats, who were clawing their way through the ranks—playing more than fighting, Christian realized. Their cruelty appalled him, even though it worked in his favor. Kinyata was at their head.
Looking up at the Stahlbaums’ house, Christian caught a glimpse of his niece. Whether or not the girl spoke true Catish, her pet seemed to have understood her quite well.
Samir laid a hand on Christian’s shoulder. “My friends, the boy is strong, but he tires. Seven soldiers, even manikins, are too much for anyone.”
Zacharias lowered the sack from his shoulder and pulled out the first of his makeshift weapons. “Lend a hand,” he said.
“Zacharias, you’re a genius,” Christian exclaimed. “Stefan, ahoy!” he bellowed from the roof to the plaza below.
Stefan pulled back from the fray long enough to look up. He had no time to do more than nod before the next soldier was upon him.
“Into the house, Stefan!” Christian shouted. Stefan did not respond.
Christian waited, heart thumping.
The boy slammed his sword into the inner workings of an attacking soldier and wrenched it free, shattering the soldier’s skeletal chest. In the chaos that followed the soldier’s crashing demise, Stefan leapt backward up the stairs and into the house.
• • •
STEFAN MADE THE LAST STEP and slammed the door shut behind him. His toy clothes were stained by sweat and shredded by sword slices. Shuddering, he stomped the floor in case any mice had found their way inside. A small part of his brain was amazed that the rest of the household—that all of the houses in the square—could sleep through this.
He ran upstairs as swiftly and quietly as he could.
Marie opened the door to her room and beckoned him inside. “To the window, quickly. It looks like Uncle has a plan after all.”
Stefan entered in time to see his father hoist a huge Roman candle firework onto his shoulder, take aim, and fire.
A colorful fireball shot from the tube, arced across the side of the square, and collided with the fifth toy soldier as it attempted to climb the stairs.
A sigh of wonder spread through the army of mice. Even the cats paused in their butchery to watch the small comet light up the square.
And then the soldier frizzled; sparks shot from where its heart would be. The entire frame went up like the Roman candle that had destroyed it.
Five more fireballs from the far rooftop, and five more columns of flame burst to life in the square.
Stefan stifled a cheer.
Marie hugged him tightly. She smelled of vanilla and lily of the valley. “You’re very brave,” she said.
“So are you.”
Something thumped against the window.
“Kinyata?” Marie called. But the cat was still leading the assault below.
Instead, a rope ladder bumped against the sash. Marie opened it and a moment later, Christian, Samir, and Zacharias descended from the roof and climbed into the room.
Stefan hurled himself into his father’s waiting arms.
“Well,” Christian said, surveying their handiwork through the window. “That worked like a charm.”
THE SEVEN-HEADED MOUSE KING roared and cuffed his intelligence chief on the side of the head.
The piebald did not wince, just bowed and stepped out of arm’s reach.
“Be reasonable,” Ernst said, stifling a snort of contempt. By the piebald’s report, all ten soldiers, the full complement of the Mouse King’s siege engines, had been waylaid by a mere boy and a few fireworks. It served the little upstarts right to think they could succeed against humans where rats had failed. He had half a mind to abandon ship now while the attention of his captors was elsewhere.
The Mouse King turned on him, five of the seven heads snarling in fury.
Ernst jumped, taken aback. Even Arthur was angry. No, not angry, Ernst realized. Terrified. All of the brothers—perhaps even dull-eyed Julius—were scared beyond reason.
“Advise us!” Hannibal demanded.
“Yes, tutor, give counsel.” Roland nodded readily.
Six sets of eyes peered at him keenly.
Ernst resisted the urge to preen his whiskers. They were asking for his help. He could be a prince of the new republic, if he led the Mouse King to victory. For a moment the idea rose, sweet and delicious in his mind’s eye. But the fact of his imprisonment could not be forgotten. Or the foolhardiness of their plans. The spect
er of Hameln loomed too large. Even if they won tonight, the victory could not last. The clockmaker’s boy was right. A balance must be struck.
The rat sighed dramatically. They had given him the rope. All he had to do was let them hang themselves. Then, at least, he would be free.
“The quarry has merely gone to ground,” Ernst said robustly. “And when hunting a shrew in its den, what’s the best way to roust it?”
“Burn the den down,” snarled Genghis.
“Smoke it out,” Arthur said dully.
Poor boy. He’d nearly come unhinged at last. But sympathy was too expensive a gift these days. Good-bye, Arthur, Ernst said silently. He could not save the lad from his brothers, but at least he would try his best to end this current madness. If the King did not survive the battle, then so be it.
“Think, boys, think!” Ernst urged them. “You are all but defeated, your armies demoralized. And this against one boy! A handful of humans, at best. And yet, you still believe you can lay claim to their entire city?” The rat shook his gray head. “Not today, not today.”
The Mouse King stared at him, eyes fixed, watching the rat’s every move.
Ernst smiled to himself. He was a brilliant orator and he knew it. “You have to woo your army back, sire. Show them who you are—the chosen ones, destined to lead them to victory. You must give them glory.” Ernst pointed through the tent flap at the townhouse across the square. “We have an enemy here, made of wood. Fire will simply keep him inside. And what glory is there if he merely burns to death? You are leaders!”
He grabbed the Mouse King by the paw, raising it in the air. “You are kings! Lure the others out, then go yourself into the lion’s den. Remember—you turned the tide at Owl Run. Let your people know that you single-handedly laid your mother’s killer low. Then they will follow you, against the humans, against the gates of Heaven itself.”
A sharp sigh sounded throughout the tent as the brothers sucked in their breath. “Yes,” they hissed.
Hannibal bowed his head slightly toward the rat, his eyes glinting bloodred. He snapped his fingers once.
The intelligence chief nodded and sent for the mouse that had been held captive by the clockmaker’s boy.
ZACHARIAS’S BEAR HUG threatened to turn Stefan into sawdust. But he did not care. “Father!”
“You’re awake!” his father cried. He released his son, taking in how much Stefan had grown. “And very brave, besides. Your mother would be—”
“Horrified,” Stefan said. “She hated mice.”
Zacharias laughed and brushed the sweat-dampened hair from his son’s forehead. “She would be very proud.”
They clambered downstairs with the others to take stock of their situation in the living room before the great Christmas tree.
Stefan inhaled the scent of crushed pine needles and sought that same calm that had allowed him to confront the enemy.
“Wait. What’s that smell?” he asked.
Christian sniffed the air. “Take this.” He thrust a sack into Stefan’s arms. “This is your weapon.”
Stefan raced after him to the foyer. Smoke came seeping under the front door, and with it, the glow of orange flame.
“For God’s sake, Stefan, stay back. Tell Marie we need buckets. They’re setting us on fire.”
TO ARTHUR, it was like moving in a dream—in a nightmare.
The bodies of the wooden soldiers had been gathered and placed along the base of the townhouse. The makeshift bonfires burned brightly beneath a top layer of freshly gathered leaves. The foliage sparked as it burned, sending smoke swirling high above the square to block out the stars. The smoke smelled sweet—oak leaves and pine—like the incense his mother used to burn when he and his brothers were newborn and only half-made. It was making Arthur light-headed, clouding his vision.
But the fires had worked. The humans had come to the front door.
Arthur and his brothers mounted the steps, each one thirsty for the blood of the boy within.
They would face him in the parlor, Hannibal had said, brandishing his sword with his brothers behind him.
The King of Mice would kill this killer, and then, with the strength gained from that victory, he would resurrect his army of manikins and conquer all of Nuremberg. Tonight the bad dreams would end.
The door opened and the clockmaker came running out, a bucket of water in each hand. Two other men followed. The smoke was thick. They didn’t see the Mouse King on the stairs. Lunging forward, Arthur and his brothers darted into the pitch-black parlor, swallowed into the very depths of the beast.
STEFAN RETREATED to the parlor, towing the sack behind him. Fire was instant death to a boy made of wood.
Marie took point, slogging buckets of water from the kitchen to the front door. She lined them up and refilled them as quickly as she could.
In the Stahlbaums’ family parlor, Christmas waited to begin. The great evergreen tree towered over the center of the room while the fireplace burned low, giving off heat and a flickering light. The debris of Christmas Eve gift-giving littered the floor—colorful paper, boxes, cloth wrappings. There was even a bit of orange peel from the treats stuffed in the stockings above the mantel.
Stefan tugged at the strings of his cousin’s bag. Christian had said there was something besides fireworks inside. A weapon. He fumbled to undo the ties, but his fingers were stiff and tired from the battle.
A breeze stirred the wrapping paper littering the floor.
Marie emerged from the kitchen with yet another bucket of water. She smiled bravely at Stefan. “We’re beating it back,” she announced, and carried on.
The paper rustled again. This time, from behind the Christmas tree.
Stefan frowned. What breeze could do that? The windows were shut, the only gusts coming from the front door each time Marie opened it.
An icy chill ran up Stefan’s spine to his scalp, where it froze in a lump of dread.
Something was inside the house.
Stefan’s hand went to his scabbard, but his sword was no longer there. He edged away until his back was against the wall opposite the tree. To his left, the room opened onto the foyer where Marie labored. To his right, a great mirror hung the length of the wall, reflecting the fireplace. It gave the impression of a much larger room with two trees, two sofas, many scattered chairs, and two strangely carved young men.
“Show yourself!” Stefan said.
The rustling stopped. He could hear small footsteps beneath the furniture.
He struggled again to open the sack, but the bag would not yield. Frustrated, he grabbed an unlit candlestick from a side table and hefted the pewter base in his hands.
He could hear breathing across the room, close to the fire. He waded through the wrapping paper, edging toward the sound.
“Ah!” Something sliced at him below the knee. His pant leg tore. He stumbled backward, swinging the candlestick toward the ground, hitting only the floor.
“Marie!” he called out, his back against the tree.
Snickt! A flash of blade and tassel fell away from his shoulder, and a dull ache stabbed the small of his back. They were in the tree!
Stefan spun, eyes darting from star to garland to cross-shaped base, seeking the enemy. He could see nothing but the gleam of ornaments and shadowy branches.
He backed away again, coming close to the fireplace. Too close.
The paper on the floor rustled again, and a high-pitched keening rose up around him.
A shadow grew along the far wall, spreading upward to touch the ceiling.
It’s not a mouse, Stefan thought. It couldn’t be. For the shadow towering over him was bigger than a man, taller than the tree. And it wore seven crowns.
“Thee hast killed our mother,” seven voices spoke at once in smooth, archaic German. A shadow sword flickered at its side. “Now, bo
y, thee shalt pay.”
IT WAS A MISTAKE. Arthur knew it as soon as they entered the house.
The Drosselmeyer they faced may have been a child by Man’s standards, shrunken further by their mother’s curse. But he was a giant in the view of mice.
“Mother was wrong,” he told his brothers. She had taught them to fight as if they, too, were men. But now, barely able to see above the floor, cleverly blocked by great wads of paper that made stealth impossible, Arthur could see they would not win in a direct fight.
“They have a tree,” he told his brothers. “What beast cuts down trees just to watch them die?”
“Coward!” Genghis accused. “If you will not fight, stand aside and let your brothers do their work.”
“I’ll fight,” Arthur hissed back. “But not like a fool, out in the open. We are outmatched!”
“We have killed owls,” Charlemagne reminded him. “What threat is this boy compared to a raptor’s claws? He doesn’t even have a sword!”
“And we don’t have our guards about us, either,” Arthur insisted. “To avenge Mother, we must fight like mice.”
There would have been more squabbling, but the Drosselmeyer called out, “Show yourself!”
The sound of that voice alone—as booming and hollow as a fallen tree—silenced his brothers.
Arthur took charge. He rushed across the papered floor and struck again and again from the depths of the tree. “He is wood!” he told his brothers. “We must drive him into the fire!”
STEFAN FROZE. His mind struggled to understand what he was seeing. His nightmares. A beast with seven heads. Echoes of the priest’s words at his mother’s graveside. The book of Revelation. A chill wind blew through him. The Beast had risen.
He needed a weapon. He found the sack again and tore at it desperately.
“Stefan?” Marie stood in the doorway of the parlor. Water sloshed over the edge of her bucket.
He followed her gaze. Something—or someone—stood in the middle of the carpet, outlined by the smoky firelight. He had the impression that a pack of vermin was inching toward him.
The Toymaker's Apprentice Page 28