Here be Monsters

by Christopher Stasheff

  “And hunting,” Quicksilver admitted with a frown at him, then turned back to her friends. “Moreover, I lived in the forest four years while I was outlawed. I have learned something of the lore of the woodlands, and of the spirits who dwell there.”

  “What have you heard of us?” the Oakman demanded. “Nothing ill, I trust!”

  “They who speak well of you, say that you guard the animals of the forest—nay, even the trees—with great zeal,” Quicksilver told him. “Those who speak ill tell of the manner in which you punish those who hunt your beasts or fell your trees.”

  The Oakman’s eyes sparked with anger, but he said, “What has that to do with the food we offer?”

  “Aye.” Cordelia edged her horse closer to the little man and his steaming platter. “What bother?”

  “Why, look at their caps,” Quicksilver said, “how they resemble toadstools—not mushrooms, but toadstools, poisonous fungi!”

  Cordelia stared at the red caps, then darted a look of horror at the platter of roast beef. “You do not mean . . .”

  “That their food is made of toadstools disguised by faerie magic? I do!”

  “You would not poison us!” Allouette demanded, ashen-faced.

  The Oakman stiffened with offended dignity. “Our food would certainly not kill you!”

  “Not kill us, no,” Cordelia said slowly, “but now that Quicksilver has opened my eyes to look at this coppice more clearly, I do notice something strange.”

  “What?” Allouette scanned the coppice closely. “I see naught.”

  “Look again—at the trees that do not grow from chopped stumps.”

  Allouette looked—and gasped. “I suppose . . . you might say they look . . .”

  “Like people,” Quicksilver finished for her. “Behold! That one holds up two branches, like arms showing empty hands—see how the twigs are five in number? And the knots in the trunk—how like a face!”

  “A face caught in horror,” Quicksilver said, her voice hardening.

  “And the fold in the trunk—like the legs of trousers! With roots shaped much like shoes!”

  “But that one.” Cordelia pointed. “Its fingers are hooked in threat, its face angry.”

  “Changed that one just in time, did you?” Quicksilver demanded.

  “Mere daydreams!” The Oakman held up his platter. “Dine ere it chills!”

  “Thank you, no.” Cordelia moved her horse back a little. “I think it is time we rode onward.”

  “Nay, it is not!” The Oakman dropped his platter and whipped a bow from among the bluebells. He straightened, whipping an arrow from a quiver on his back and nocking it to the bowstring.

  The other Oakmen scurried into the road with a sound like dry leaves blown by the wind. Turning, the three women saw they barred the trail quite effectively, with archers to either side, even high in the trees—and each held a bent bow or cocked crossbow aimed at them.

  “Stand still,” the Oakman advised. “You have heard of the perils of elf-shot, have you not?”

  The three women froze, for they had indeed heard. A person struck with elf-shot fell down in convulsions. When he rose, he might be liable to have seizures for the rest of his life—or have one side of his face and body paralyzed.

  “You heard rightly of our mission,” the lead Oakman said, “that we protect the beasts of the forest, and the trees too, from the greed of mortal folk!”

  “I hunt only when I hunger.” Out of the corner of her eye, Quicksilver saw the abstracted looks that came over the faces of her companions. “As to wood, I take only fallen branches, or cut down trees that have already died.”

  “So you say,” the little man challenged. “What proof can you offer?”

  “Does it matter?” Quicksilver did her best to sound bored as she rested her hand on the hilt of her sword. “We have not come to this wood to dwell here, after all. We are only passing through it, on our way to search for monsters such as ogres, who break down living trees simply because they are in their way—or afancs, who gnaw them down to make dams in your rivers!”

  The little folk shuddered. “Spare the trees from so slow a death!” one groaned.

  “Are there truly such spirits abroad?” the leader asked, his visage darkening.

  “There are indeed,” Quicksilver told them. “We have met others like them. Some sorcerer has loosed them upon us, and we go to seek and fight them.”

  A crafty look came over the Oakman’s face. “Three gentle damsels such as yourselves? How could you stand against creatures of terror and ferocity?”

  “I bear Cold Iron in the steel of my sword.” Quicksilver started to draw it, but every bow in the company instantly shifted to aim at her. She froze.

  “But our true weapon,” Cordelia said, “is magic.”

  “Magic?” the Oakman said with a sour smile. “What manner of spells can you wield that would discomfit an ogre?”

  “Something like this.” Cordelia glared at the bare earth of the trail; it erupted into flame. The Oakmen shouted in panic and crowded away, but the fire died as quickly as it had started. “I kindled it on bare earth,” Cordelia explained, “for I’ve no wish to let my blaze devour your trees.”

  The Oakmen stared, the whites of their eyes showing as they shifted their aim to her.

  Quicksilver smiled, knowing that she could draw her sword before they could shift aim back to her.

  “Believe me, she can kindle flame more quickly than you can loose,” Allouette told them. “She might die, but your forest would burn for weeks.”

  The crossbows swung toward her; the leader scowled. “Would you truly do such a thing?”

  “To your forest, no,” Allouette said, “perhaps not even to an ogre. I might, however, do this.” She wrenched with her mind, and a tree branch swung down to slam against the bare earth of the trail, only a yard in front of the Oakman. He jumped back, shaken, as the branch swung back up. “How,” he asked in a husky voice, “can you so move the forest?”

  “Because the trees know I am their friend,” Allouette said simply, “and that, in my own way, I seek to protect them as surely as do you yourself.”

  Quicksilver cast her a glance of admiration.

  The bows lowered on the instant. “It must be so,” the lead Oakman said, “for neither beech nor birch would heed one who sought its doom. Oak and elm both know their enemies and would smite them.”

  “We are friends to the forest,” Cordelia said, “not its enemies.”

  “Go, then, to fight the forest’s foes!” the Oakman said, and his people backed away to the sides of the trail, bowing. “There is a spring half a mile down the trail, and on its banks grow wild strawberries and blackberries.”

  “It runs through a hazelnut grove,” said another gnome, “and the nuts are ripe and falling.”

  “I thank you, friends,” Cordelia said slowly, “but if there is to be a truce between humankind and the forest, we cannot leave without our own.”

  Quicksilver gave her a look that clearly said, Don’t push it! Allouette cast her an appalled glance that sobered even as she stared; she nodded judiciously.

  “These are enemies of the forest!” the Oakman said angrily. “If we loose them, they shall attack our trees with axes, just as they did when they came to our coppice!”

  “But you have buried their axe-heads and rotted the handles,” Cordelia pointed out. “As to their intentions, have no fear—most of them, I am sure, will never dare come near you again. Those who do will not dare defy two witches and a swordswoman.”

  The Oakman looked doubtful, but he said only, “It will take some time.”

  “We can wait an hour or so,” Cordelia answered.

  “Or so,” the Oakman echoed, looking grim. “Very well, lady, you may have your criminals—but one move wrong from any of them, and be sure our barbs shall pierce their skulls.”

  Two hours later, the women rode behind half a dozen dazed peasants who stumbled down the path, casting fearful loo
ks at every tree they passed.

  “Strange that four of them chose to remain as trees,” Cordelia said, troubled.

  “Try not to think about it,” Allouette advised.

  Cordelia glanced at the grimness of her face and drew her own conclusions. She turned back to watch the trail with a shudder.

  They rode in silence a few minutes longer; then Allouette thawed enough to offer, by way of explanation, “You can never know how glad I am to have met your brother.”

  “Are we closer to the coast than we know?” Alain asked.

  Geoffrey followed the direction of his gaze. “What would make you think . . . why, what is that beast doing here?”

  “That beast” was a shaggy pony, scarcely half the size of Geoffrey’s warhorse. His coat looked to be very rough indeed, and he was festooned with seaweed.

  “Let us look somewhat closer.” Gregory kicked his horse into a trot.

  “No, wait . . .” Alain said, overcome with a sudden sense of misgiving, but the brothers were already halfway to the pony. Alain sighed and rode after.

  Geoffrey and Gregory rode up on either side of the shaggy pony, but Geoffrey dismounted fifteen feet away and walked forward, fishing a piece of carrot from his pocket and holding it out on his palm.

  Both horses tossed their heads, snorting, and Gregory swerved to catch the reins of his brother’s mount. “How is this, Geoffrey? Our horses do not like this little fellow!”

  “Jealousy, I doubt not.” Geoffrey held out the carrot, his voice smooth and gentle. “Here, then, fellow, take and taste, and know me for a friend.”

  The pony blew through his nostrils and shifted uncertainly.

  “Nay, take it!” Geoffrey urged. “I shall not seek to harm you.”

  “Nor to ride you,” Alain prompted.

  Geoffrey cast him a black look.

  “We have not the time to tame a fourth horse, Geoffrey,” Alain said imperturbably, “nor the need for one.”

  “I fear that is true,” Geoffrey sighed, and turned back to the pony. “Well, then, fellow, let us only greet one another in friendly fashion, as befits fellow wayfarers.”

  The pony stepped forward warily, sniffed at the carrot, then wrapped it in mobile lips and carried it back to its teeth. It was gone in two grinds and a swallow.

  “Very good.” Geoffrey smiled. “Perhaps on another journey, we shall meet again and become traveling companions.”

  “Why should you think I am a traveler?” the pony asked in a gravelly voice.

  All three men stared. The horses danced, not liking what they saw and heard.

  Geoffrey recovered first and spoke as though a talking horse were the most natural thing in the world. “Why, because you are decked in seaweed, which certainly grows nowhere nearby—so you must have come from the coast.”

  “And quickly, too,” Gregory added, “for your kelp is neither withered nor dry.”

  “You mark what you see,” the gravelly voice said in an approving tone, “and make sense of it as few mortals do. Well, then, make sense of this.”

  His form softened, melted, and flowed.

  The horses reared, screaming; Alain and Gregory had all they could do to hold them down, but they quieted as the pony’s substance steadied into a new form—that of an old man with long white hair and beard that had seaweed plaited in with it. He wore only a seaweed kilt, and his skin, though loose and wrinkled, overlay muscles that were still thick and rolling. “You are kind to a lonely stray,” he said, “and good hearts deserve rewards.”

  “I—I like all horses.” Geoffrey looked as though he were about to make an exception. He glanced up and down the almost naked man and added, “I expect no reward, nor do I see that you have any to give.”

  “What I shall give you is knowledge, which takes no space to carry save a moiety of brain,” said the old man. “I shall tell you this: Beware the Whirlpool of Mist.”

  “I thank you.” Geoffrey frowned. “Where shall we find it?”

  “Over the river,” the old man answered, “in the mornings and in the evenings. Do not enter it, and whatever you do, ask no one to come from it.”

  “We shall not,” Alain said gravely, although he hadn’t the faintest notion of humoring a crazy man. “What, though, if those we do not invite should pull us in?”

  “They cannot,” the old man said firmly, “but if you feel you must enter, bear Cold Iron with you.”

  “I always do,” Geoffrey said automatically, “or at least steel.” He touched his sword hilt.

  The old man glanced at it and nodded with approval even as he took a few steps backward. “Steel is Cold Iron made more pure and alloyed with the core of life. Bear it well and wisely—and be glad to come away alive; take no booty with you.”

  “Booty?” Geoffrey frowned. “I despise soldiers who loot. What manner of booty mean you?”

  “Living booty,” the old man said, backing farther away. “Enemies.”

  “What enemies?” Alain demanded, pressing forward.

  But the old man’s form fluxed and flowed again; the horses reared, and all three men had all they could do to keep them from bolting. When they settled, the companions turned to look at the old man but saw only the small, shaggy pony festooned with seaweed, galloping away from them.

  “I do not blame the horses,” Alain said in a shaky voice. “A sight like that makes me wish to bolt, too.”

  The women elected to ride at night, though their eyelids were leaden and their shoulders drooped with weariness.

  “Why do I feel so urgent a need to press onward?” Cordelia wondered aloud.

  “Oh, I did not mean to let my anxiety leak out to disturb you!” Allouette said in chagrin.

  Quicksilver managed an ironic smile. “Why do you think yourself so important as to be the psi who sets these feelings going, lass? Might not Cordelia be the source?”

  “Or even yourself,” Cordelia reminded.

  Quicksilver shook her head with certainty. “I am nowhere nearly so powerful an esper as either of you, and certainly not so skilled. My strengths lie in other areas.”

  “If it is not us, then someone ahead is sorely troubled,” Allouette said, frowning.

  “That,” Cordelia allowed, “or perhaps someone is intending a deed that makes all of us apprehensive.” She turned to Quicksilver. “Do not deny that you feel it, too.”

  “Oh, I do indeed feel it,” the warrior said, “a sense of impending doom. I am strong enough for that, after all—but not to send out such emotion.”

  The breeze shifted toward them, and the three women stiffened as they heard a faint and distant sound of chanting blown toward them.

  “What in Heaven’s name is that?” Cordelia gasped.

  “If it is in any name, it is not of Heaven,” Allouette said grimly. “Come, ladies! Ride more quickly!”

  Adrenaline shoved weariness aside as the three women cantered down the moonlit road. The trees loomed to either hand, dark and threatening masses, deepening their sense of danger even as the emotion behind the chanting became stronger. It was savage, hungry, brimming with anticipation of some fell deed, and the three companions had to force themselves, and their horses, to keep riding toward it.

  They burst out of the woods into the edge of a little valley, a hollow in the rolling land before them—and at the bottom of that hollow burned a fire with something turning on a spit over the flames. Dozens of men and women cavorted around it, chanting in a language the women had never heard—and in their center, around the fire, lay the charred bodies of a score of cats.

  “It is the Taghairm!” Allouette gasped. “It is the ceremony for summoning a demon!”

  CHAPTER

  14

  Face thunderous, Quicksilver rode down into the hollow. Cordelia stared in dismay, then rode after her, crying, “No, lady! Do not interrupt until we know their purpose!”

  “I shall find it out,” Quicksilver called back, and leaned down to seize the shoulder of a woman who sat at the
edge of the crowd, watching. She spun the woman around, demanding, “Speak, wretch! What do your people seek here?”

  The woman looked up at her with glazed, excited eyes, a few flecks of foam on her lips. Slowly she focused on the warrior’s face but didn’t seem surprised to see her; she was beyond shock or delight, well on her way to mob mania. “We honor the monsters who have haunted our dreams,” she told them. “If we offer them food and drink by our fire, surely they will favor us and spare us in the conquest they have told us they will visit upon all the land.”

  “Offer hospitality?” Quicksilver cried. “Cat’s paw! Cat’s paws and dupes, all your people! The ogres and horrors will come in when you ask them, aye—but they will not leave when you bid them, and at their pleasure they shall wreak havoc among you!”

  “Nay!” The woman’s eyes cleared a bit as fear rose. “Surely they will spare those who appease them!”

  “Spare you? Fool!” Quicksilver took her by the shoulders and gave her a shake. “The only favor they will show is to conquer you first—conquer, aye, and likely enslave, torture, or devour you!”

  “Surely not,” the woman pleaded, tears in her eyes. “Surely they will be kind to their friends!”

  “We cannot be friends to them, only victims!” Quicksilver spun toward her companions. “Quickly! We must stop this obscene ceremony!”

  “Indeed we must.” Allouette spurred her horse and rode down toward the bonfire while Quicksilver was still remounting. Cordelia rode after her and Quicksilver brought up the rear, mouthing imprecations.

  A cat yowled with fear and pain as two men held up the spit to which it was tied; another man lifted a bloody knife over it. Allouette swerved her horse and the mare’s shoulder slammed into the men, sending them sprawling. The cat yowled as it fell, but Quicksilver swerved, leaning down from her saddle to slice through the rope that held it bound. The cat ran for safety, a ginger blur in the firelight.

  “Villain!” one of the cat holders cried, struggling to his feet. “You have ruined it all!”

  “Nay, she has not!” The knife holder sat up, pointing across the fire. “See! She was too late! Big Ears has come!”