Read Online The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter by D.J. Natelson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: D.J. Natelson
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Ironfist, apparently to the air.
“There’s no need for that,” said Stephen. “As it happens, I’ve come up with an idea while we’ve been talking.”
And indeed, he had. Something about being the center of attention—and being threatened by imminent death—jumpstarted his brain wonderfully. His plan was probably not what the Jolly Executioner had been expecting, and he was fairly certain Miss Ironfist would be scornful about it, but he was pleased with it nonetheless. He took a moment to revel in his own cleverness.
“And?” said Miss Ironfist. “What’s your plan?”
Still feeling pleased with himself, Stephen stepped up onto the fallen log, and addressed the company—most of whom were listening to him anyway. “All right, everyone. I’ve decided what magic to do, but I don’t have enough time to do it all myself. I need everyone to start making snowmen, good ones, as many as you can. Give them eyes and ears and make them stand at man height. Make sure you separate the lower section from the ground, so they don’t freeze stuck overnight.”
“That is your plan?” said Miss Ironfist. “What are we, children?”
“I’m not making snowmen,” said Granite.
“Why can’t you just heat-proof us?” said Twitch
“You’re going to enchant snowmen?” Tinkerfingers asked. “Will they be able to fight? How will that be better than a snow serpent?”
“Aside from those specifications, can we make them look like anything we like?” said Youngster. “I’m giving mine horns.”
Every other member of the company suddenly needed to have his opinion heard, and Stephen was deafened by shouts and suggestions and speculations, all of them unhelpful. He tried several times to make himself heard over the noise, each time unsuccessfully.
He was going about it the wrong way; he knew he was. The Jolly Executioner might be able to reclaim a crowd that way, but the Jolly Executioner had done his disappearing act, and wouldn’t be appearing to help any time soon.
Stephen packed a snowball and tossed it from hand to hand. After a few seconds, companions began to realize that the snowball had slowly changed color—from a pristine white to sickly green to sickly black, pumped full of magic until it exploded in warm water, showering their faces. Shocked, they turned to berate the Enchanter—and realized that he was not as they remembered him. His face was bare to the elements, and there was no trace of smile upon it. He seemed to have grown much taller, and his robes flared in the breeze. His eyes were dark and glittering, and the soft, amiable lines of his face had grown sharp and hollow and much older. There was no sign of a mild personality here: there was an enchanter, hard and glittering, brimming with magic.
It occurred to his audience that this was a man who made monsters.
“I would have your assistance in this task,” he said softly, and they strained to catch his words. “Your leader has entrusted me with it, and I would not fail. I would not have you fail me. Tell me again that you were going to refuse.”
“We weren’t,” muttered Miss Ironfist.
“It’s not like we have anything better to do,” said Medic.
“Excellent,” said the Enchanter, and he was simply Stephen once more, and there was no sign he had ever been otherwise. But no one seemed inclined to return to their arguing, and it was universally agreed that making snowmen might be worthwhile after all.
“Amazing,” Youngster whispered. “They never listen to me. Can you teach me how to do that? You went all scary.”
“You mean he used bedazzlement,” Tinkerfingers said flatly. “You messed with our minds.”
“I did not! I would never bedazzle anyone. Bedazzlement’s illegal.”
“And you were a condemned criminal. What for? I thought it strange when I met
“There’s no need for that,” said Stephen. “As it happens, I’ve come up with an idea while we’ve been talking.”
And indeed, he had. Something about being the center of attention—and being threatened by imminent death—jumpstarted his brain wonderfully. His plan was probably not what the Jolly Executioner had been expecting, and he was fairly certain Miss Ironfist would be scornful about it, but he was pleased with it nonetheless. He took a moment to revel in his own cleverness.
“And?” said Miss Ironfist. “What’s your plan?”
Still feeling pleased with himself, Stephen stepped up onto the fallen log, and addressed the company—most of whom were listening to him anyway. “All right, everyone. I’ve decided what magic to do, but I don’t have enough time to do it all myself. I need everyone to start making snowmen, good ones, as many as you can. Give them eyes and ears and make them stand at man height. Make sure you separate the lower section from the ground, so they don’t freeze stuck overnight.”
“That is your plan?” said Miss Ironfist. “What are we, children?”
“I’m not making snowmen,” said Granite.
“Why can’t you just heat-proof us?” said Twitch
“You’re going to enchant snowmen?” Tinkerfingers asked. “Will they be able to fight? How will that be better than a snow serpent?”
“Aside from those specifications, can we make them look like anything we like?” said Youngster. “I’m giving mine horns.”
Every other member of the company suddenly needed to have his opinion heard, and Stephen was deafened by shouts and suggestions and speculations, all of them unhelpful. He tried several times to make himself heard over the noise, each time unsuccessfully.
He was going about it the wrong way; he knew he was. The Jolly Executioner might be able to reclaim a crowd that way, but the Jolly Executioner had done his disappearing act, and wouldn’t be appearing to help any time soon.
Stephen packed a snowball and tossed it from hand to hand. After a few seconds, companions began to realize that the snowball had slowly changed color—from a pristine white to sickly green to sickly black, pumped full of magic until it exploded in warm water, showering their faces. Shocked, they turned to berate the Enchanter—and realized that he was not as they remembered him. His face was bare to the elements, and there was no trace of smile upon it. He seemed to have grown much taller, and his robes flared in the breeze. His eyes were dark and glittering, and the soft, amiable lines of his face had grown sharp and hollow and much older. There was no sign of a mild personality here: there was an enchanter, hard and glittering, brimming with magic.
It occurred to his audience that this was a man who made monsters.
“I would have your assistance in this task,” he said softly, and they strained to catch his words. “Your leader has entrusted me with it, and I would not fail. I would not have you fail me. Tell me again that you were going to refuse.”
“We weren’t,” muttered Miss Ironfist.
“It’s not like we have anything better to do,” said Medic.
“Excellent,” said the Enchanter, and he was simply Stephen once more, and there was no sign he had ever been otherwise. But no one seemed inclined to return to their arguing, and it was universally agreed that making snowmen might be worthwhile after all.
“Amazing,” Youngster whispered. “They never listen to me. Can you teach me how to do that? You went all scary.”
“You mean he used bedazzlement,” Tinkerfingers said flatly. “You messed with our minds.”
“I did not! I would never bedazzle anyone. Bedazzlement’s illegal.”
“And you were a condemned criminal. What for? I thought it strange when I met
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