The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter (12 page)

“Just a second.”  Stephen stuffed his feet in boots and pulled a blanket from the bed to act as dressing gown.  The innkeeper watched him, uncharacteristically quiet.  Probably, Stephen thought, she didn’t want to wake the others.

The innkeeper led Stephen downstairs into the common room.  The fire had burned low in the hearth, and threw demonic crimson light over the two figures that hunched over it.  The figures stood and Stephen took a step back, but they were only Pet and Pops. 

“This is the Enchanter,” said the innkeeper.  “He has agreed to work for us.”

“On condition.”

“On condition, of course.”

Pet sniffed.  “He is wearing iron.  Your doing, Mother?”

“My suggestion.”

“That was well done.  He’ll work the better for it, come morning.”  Pet nodded gravely at Stephen, a strange motion for a fifteen-year-old . . . but then, Stephen was beginning to suspect that there was far more strangeness in this inn alone than in all the Fairwoods.

“Why have you brought me here?” he asked.

“To show you something.”

“You don’t expect me to work while touching iron, I hope.  What would happen if I took it off?”

“Don’t,” said the innkeeper.

“Impossible to say,” said Pet.  “It’s different for everyone.”

“Come and look out the window,” said the innkeeper, “and you’ll begin to understand.”

There were several windows in that room, all of them shielded by heavy curtains.  Stephen went to the nearest, pushed aside the thick material, and peered out.  He drew back almost immediately, tugging the curtains so he could see out, but no one outside could see in.

The night was lit by a sliver moon and a thousand stars, all of which bathed the town in gentle light and gave it the illusion of cleanliness.  Gusts of wind tore across the ground, whirling snow dust in the air, whipping the hair of the townsfolk.

The street, barren by daylight, was bursting with people.  They stood unmoving, pale faces turned toward the inn.  Their eyes glinted, but there was nothing behind those eyes: no joy, no sorrow, no hope.  There was something soulless in those eyes, those faces, those still figures, and Stephen found himself deeply uncomfortable.  As he stood there, he thought the blank eyes turned to him, watched them—but not one of the townsfolk made any move, and not one of them spoke. 

“The entire town’s out there,” Stephen observed—but as he did so, he knew he was mistaken; there was one face missing: that of the ferryman’s wife.  “Won’t they freeze to death out there?  What are they doing?”

“Who can say?” replied the innkeeper.  “They are there every night: they arrive after midnight and depart before dawn.  They do nothing but stand and watch.  They never do anything else.  Once in a while, one will freeze to death and topple—but no one moves to help.  They stand and, before dawn, they take the dead away with them.  They are mad, all of them.”

“They’re waiting,” said Pet.  “They’re hoping for a break in our defenses.  One night, we will forget to lock the doors or close the windows or the defensive wards will wear thin, and then they will come for us.”

“They are mad.  In the daylight, they are nothing—wandering, mindless, harmless people who hunt or farm or fish or do nothing at all, somehow surviving despite themselves.  In the night, they stop wandering and are mindless, vicious people, who hunt us.  They weren’t always like this; there was a time, when we first moved to this village, that we were happy to live here.  This was a pleasant place, and we were welcomed with open arms.  Now we are strangers once more.  We would leave, if we could; but the ferryman refuses to help for any amount of money, and the way north is impassable.  You see why we need an enchanter.”

Stephen privately thought they needed a boat maker.  “You want me to strengthen your protections; I understand that.  But you still haven’t explained—why iron?”

Pet and the innkeeper exchanged long looks.  Pops huffed and returned to his place by the fire, clearly disgusted.

“Because of the madness,” said the innkeeper, eyeing her father.  “We believe that whatever altered the villagers has a magical nature.  Early on, we realized we could protect ourselves with iron.  The wards on this inn used to be enough, but of late the madness can break in, although the villagers cannot.  Iron blocks the madness.”

“I see,” said Stephen.  “My companions—”

“Are in no danger.  The madness is cumulative.  They may have nightmares or brief delusions, but they won’t be much worse for wear—and tell me, Enchanter, what would they do, if they knew what was going on?”

“They kill monsters.  They might be able to help you.”

“They’d slaughter an entire village?”

Stephen thought of Crying, and didn’t answer.

“We’re not bad people,” said the innkeeper.  “We don’t want to kill anyone; we just want to be safe.  Running this inn may not be much, but it keeps us safe—and it keeps our visitors safe.  Can you imagine what it would be like, staying in this village without the protection of the inn?  What if you had tried to sleep in ones and twos, in the houses of those people?”

Stephen looked back out the window.  The eyes of the villagers glinted.

What could drive an entire town mad?

Who would want to? 

An enchanter could do it.  It would be tricky, but Stephen could have managed it.  He could enchant the very houses to drive their occupants mad.  He could enchant their clothes, or the stones in the streets.  It was possible to ward an entire town by walking its parameter, although it took a great deal of time and power—but Stephen could have done so, given time and motivation.

But he wouldn’t have.  Not even if the Jolly Executioner had ordered him to.  He had not gone rogue after all.  He had not left the law behind.  He was still Stephen.

And yet . . . and yet he had seen no enchantment that massive, upon entering that town.  The running rivers would have stopped it slopping over, but he would have noticed after he had crossed.  This—whatever this was—was something else.

It was strange.  Whatever was going on, whatever was in those villagers’ eyes, he would not have thought to describe it as madness, not exactly.  It was soulless in a despairing way, not in the way of insanity.  The people were deadened, not vicious.

But perhaps despair was a form of madness in itself—or despair could drive a man mad.

“It’s lucky your inn happened to be fortified,” he said. 

“We have been very fortunate,” said Pet.  She tilted her head, and for a moment, her gaunt cheeks seemed full and rosy.  “We have also been extremely careful with our limited resources.”

“I think it’s time I got back to bed,” Stephen said, letting the curtain fall back into place.  “Thank you for showing me this; it has been interesting.  No, that’s all right; I can find my own way.  Good night.”

“Good night,” said the innkeeper.  Pet and Pops said nothing, but both watched as the Enchanter took the candle, and climbed up the stairs and out of view.

Stephen set down the candle and sat to pull off his boots.

Thump.  Thump.  Thump. 

“Not again.”  Or had it never stopped?

Thump.  Thump.  Thump.

“I’m not listening to you.  This is me ignoring you.”  But he kept his boots on and made no move to get in bed.

Thump.  Thump.  Thump.

“All right!  Enough!”  Stephen leapt off his bed, leaving the blanket-bathrobe behind.  It wasn’t really too cold to wander around in a nightshirt and, ridiculous though he looked, it was still better than going around wrapped in a blanket.

The blanket would not, he thought, do anything to increase his authority.

Thump.  Thump.  Thump.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming!  And when I do, you had better have a good reason for all this thumping!”

Stephen stumped out of the room and banged on the next door.

There was a slight break in the thumping, no more than a hiccup, and no one answered the door.  He knocked a second time, and a third, but no response—only the thumping.

“Open the door,” Stephen called, “or I will.”  He waited ten seconds, shoved the door open, and—

Reeled back from the overpowering reek of vomit.

Thump.  Thump.  Thump.

Holding a handful of nightshirt over his nose, Stephen stepped gingerly into the room.

Thump.  Thump.  Thump.

The noise was louder, and definitely coming from inside the room, along with another noise, a low hissing.  Stephen held the candle high and looked around.  He could see very little in the gloom, and what he saw he didn’t understand.  But at the far end of the room was a faint outline of light—a window.  Stephen crossed the room in four strides, wincing as he stepped in something thick and sticky, and threw open the curtains.

One story down, dull-faced people looked up and saw a candle in the upper window.

Moonlight flooded the room and, with the help of the candle, Stephen saw the source of the sound.

Craggy knelt on the floor, hands braced on the wall.  He leaned forward and rhythmically beat his head on the wall.  There was a shadow of darkness on the wood between his hands, and darkness dribbled from it.

Stephen rushed over immediately, set his candle down, and pulled Craggy away from the wall.  Craggy made no resistance.  His face was slack, his eyes unfocused.  He slumped back in Stephen’s arms, moaning softly.  Stephen dragged him back and laid him out on the ground, but the moment he let go to retrieve the candle, Craggy crawled back to the wall and returned to beating his head.

Stephen pulled him away again.  “Stop it,” he ordered.  “You’re going to give yourself a concussion—you probably already have.  Why are you doing this?”

Craggy’s eyes focused briefly.  “You!”

“Don’t be silly,” Stephen snapped.  “You did this to yourself.  No one made you beat your own stupid again against your own stupid—” he broke off at the sound of retching.

Stephen dragged Craggy with him until he could recover the candle, and held it aloft.

It didn’t take him long to find the source of the retching.  “Oh, really—” he said.  Then—“I should’ve known it’d be you.”  But his heart wasn’t in it.

Weakstomach was throwing up, and had obviously been doing so off and on for some time.  Vomit covered one of the beds and a generous area of floor—including, Stephen saw, the sticky place where he had stepped.  Weakstomach had long past emptied his stomach of all contents and—judging by the smell—a considerably quantity of stomach acid and blood.

“This is incredibly disgusting,” Stephen moaned.  But in the faint light, he could see that Weakstomach was face down in his own vomit, and might drown if nothing were done.  “You had better be grateful for this.”

Stephen reluctantly released Craggy—who immediately returned to beating his head against the wall—and squelched over to Weakstomach.  He wedged one boot under Weakstomach’s body and rolled him to his side.

Weakstomach rolled over easily enough, but kept going—right onto his back . . . which really wasn’t any better than his previous position, from a drowning point of view.

Stephen groaned.  “Don’t you dare throw up on me,” he warned.  Trying and failing to avoid the worst of it, he slung his arms under Weakstomach’s armpits and haul him back up onto his filthy bed.  He left Weakstomach’s head hanging over the far side, to allow him airflow—and somewhere for the vomit to go.

“You owe me,” Stephen said.  “You owe me so much.”