Here be Monsters

CHAPTER 11

The voice seemed an echo of the Kow’s neigh. A slight breeze must have moved across the trail, for the heap of ashes stirred.

“Beware, ladies!” Cordelia rode forward, glaring at the mound. “I shall see to it that it rises not!” The heap of ashes split into a dozen smaller piles that began to drift away from one another as though blown by all four winds at once.

“Nay, forfend!” the echo of the neighing voice protested. “How shall I reassemble if you scatter my substance?”

“But you are more likely to dissemble than to reassemble,” Allouette pointed out.

“I prefer to take the creature in small doses.” Quicksilver dismounted and knelt to scoop up a handful of dust. “The smaller the better.”

“You need not take me at all!” the voice brayed. “I shall stay!”

With a doubtful voice, Allouette said, “In mischief you are too well versed.”

“I shall refrain!”

“I fear his refrain may be worse than his verses,” Allouette said to her companions.

“Let him take the shape of a singer, then,” Quicksilver offered.

“I shall return in a form far more benign, I swear!” cried the neighing voice.

“I am sure you do, when you are thwarted,” Cordelia told the Kow, “but I would have you spare our ears.”

“So long as you will have me at all!”

“We will not,” Quicksilver decided, “but we shall let you retain your substance if you swear that you shall only take form from happy thoughts and do all you can to aid mortal folk rather than plague them.”

Allouette nodded. So did Cordelia, but she frowned at their powdered foe.

“Wherefore do I feel a sudden impulse to pounce upon all rats and mice?” the neighing voice wondered.

“It may be because you took an owl’s head in your last form,” Cordelia answered. “As a bird of wisdom who guards folk by night you may reconstitute yourself.”

“Concentrate,” Allouette advised, “but not till we are far from this place.”

“I shall! I shall wait and re-form! Bless you, ladies! I shall sing your praises forevermore! I shall applaud you to the skies! I shall warble sweet notes of—”

“She said an owl, not a nightingale,” Allouette reminded.

“A night owl I shall be then! If ever you return this way, remember there is one who owes you a favor.”

The three women looked at one another in alarm. Then Allouette said, “The favor we would wish is that you treat all folk well, that you help rather than hinder.”

“Whatever you wish! Oh, thank you for your kindness and mercy! Merci! Gramercy! Forever shall I extol your virtues!”

“You make it seem as though being good would be a chore,” Allouette said, frowning. “There can be delight in giving aid.”

“I shall patrol, guard, and warn!” the Kow averred. “As an owl I shall guard this valley! All my life shall I hoot as I haunt this hollow!”

“May your life be a hoot and a hollow indeed, then,” Allouette said. “Farewell, polymorph.”

“Is that to be my name? Polly I shall be, then,” the spirit cried, “and for you no more a fuss!”

“Polly Mor-a-phous?” Allouette smiled. “So let you be, then—and be sure we shall remember that favor!”

They rode away down the trail, glancing at one another but not saying a word until the leaves closed behind them and the strange deep warbling of a Kow learning to sing faded away. Then Allouette heaved a sigh and said, “The favor I’ll remember—but I doubt I’ll ever accept it!”

“It would not seem to be the sort of thing you could trust,” Cordelia agreed. “Even with the best intentions, that creature’s attempts to aid might go astray.”

“They might rebound on us and redound to his discredit,” Quicksilver said, then turned to Allouette. “But how is this, damsel? You might have been more accepting of the creature’s repentance!”

“I wish I could have been,” Allouette said ruefully, “but I was afraid to encourage its singing for fear the spirit might take to larking about.”

“I see!” Quicksilver’s eyes widened. “Worrisome indeed, for a lass whose name means ‘skylark.’”

“I am perhaps unduly sensitive on the subject,” Allouette agreed, “but since it has already set itself to becoming a blithe spirit—bird he never was before—I would have taken that sort of counterfeiting rather personally.”

The sun was setting as Gregory, Alain, and Geoffrey rode down to the shore of a little lake. Their shoulders slumped, their heads sagged, and their horses’ hooves dragged. “By my troth,” Geoffrey sighed, “this has been a long day!”

“As well as a rather eventful one,” Alain agreed.

Geoffrey almost fell off his horse and knelt to scoop some water from the lake. “Let us see if this water is sweet or brackish.”

“Well thought,” Gregory agreed, and dismounted to lead his horse down to the water. Alain was halfway there when a frantic bleating broke out all around them. Looking up in surprise, they saw a huge flock of sheep bearing down on them, too much in a panic to be afraid of the men.

“Shoo! Go back!” But Geoffrey was still on his knees as the wooly mob poured over him.

They nearly knocked Alain’s horse out from under him, but he held the stallion by the reins and made shooing motions at the sheep, crying, “Avaunt! Retreat!”

They paid him not the slightest bit of attention, except to flow around him instead of over. Geoffrey, in front of his horse and still on his knees, was not so lucky; he went tumbling over as ram after ram and ewe after ewe leaped over him. When they had passed, he pushed himself up, staring after them. “Beshrew me, but I shall sleep soundly tonight!”

“Do not tell me you counted them!” Alain exclaimed.

“I missed some, I am sure—but I would estimate the herd to be ninety-eight strong, with one lamb.”

“Six tenths of a sheep? Like as not it was,” Geoffrey said, “though I would have thought them in a fever to run us down.”

“Certainly a panic.” Alain leaped down to help his friends up and batted at their clothes. “They have soiled you badly.”

“As badly as they were frightened,” Geoffrey said. “What could have thrown them into such a panic?”

A basso laugh answered him, echoing all around them—a senseless manic whooping. They stood stiffly, staring at one another as it faded.

“What manner of creature made that sound?” Geoffrey whispered.

“That one!” Gregory pointed.

They turned and saw, ploughing through the water along the shore of the lake, a huge bird, black all over, but with a metallic sheen, its back decorated with rows of white spots and with a white ring around a neck longer than a duck’s, its foot-and-a-half of beak dark yellow and hooked like an eagle’s, its huge eyes judging them as a replacement meal for the fugitive sheep. All in all, it was a very proper water bird—except that its body was at least eight feet long and its neck three, so its head was level with theirs as it glided toward them across the ripples.

A straggler sheep suddenly burst from a bush, galloping away from the shore.

Whooping with glee, the huge bird sprang from the water and waddled after the ram on webbed feet that sported thick sharp talons. Its legs seemed fairly short, but only in relation to its huge body, for it shot over the ground faster than the ram. The sheep swerved behind a copse and the bird swung after it.

Then, suddenly, there was silence.

The companions stared at one another. “Dare we go to look?” Gregory asked.

“Dare we not?” Geoffrey turned and ran toward the grove.

They stepped carefully and quietly between the trunks until, parting a final layer of leaves, they saw the giant bird gulping down a last bloody morsel. Of the ram there was nothing left.

Alain swallowed hard, then asked, “How name you such a bird, scholar?”

“It is a Boobrie,” Gregory answered in a hushed voice. “I have read of such things but never thought them real.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t,” said Geoffrey, “until now.”

The Boobrie opened its beak and gave a cry of defiance. The men stared, for its call was a roar now, like that of a bull.

“The laugh must have been its mating call,” Gregory said.

“Or a cry of delight at sighting dinner,” Geoffrey said drily.

The Boobrie opened its beak again and emitted the whooping laugh as it waddled toward them.

Geoffrey and Alain drew their swords, but the Boobrie only roared the louder and waddled toward them—much faster than its short legs should have.

“Beware.” Gregory’s voice was oddly remote, his eyes glazed, even though he stared at the huge bird. “This is a thing of witch-moss, yes, but it has not been crafted to seem a faerie creature. It will not fear your swords.”

“Then it can be carved by them. Let us attack from both sides, Alain, so it shall pause to decide which one of us to repulse.”

“Indeed.” Alain circled to the right.

Geoffrey circled to the left. The bird turned its head to look first at him, then at Alain, roaring in anger and bafflement.

“One of us, at least, shall end it with a sharp stroke across the neck,” Alain said, determined.

“It shall not die so easily,” Gregory sighed, “and those claws can do great damage ere death stills them. It is of such a terror I have dreamed—a nightmare creature, but one that could really live.”

“Then take it apart!” Geoffrey said.

“I seek to,” Gregory answered, “but something seeks just as strongly to hold it together.”

Geoffrey’s eyes widened. “Some secret sorcerer, watching even as we fight?”

“If he does, he watches from a great distance,” Gregory answered. “I think it more likely a binding spell that lay quietly waiting for someone to try to dissolve the creature.”

“A plague upon the magus who made it!” Geoffrey spat. “This was no work of a shepherd telling a tale to his mates, brother, but a well-planned work of a master crafter!”

The bird made up its mind and charged at Gregory, roaring.

“It knows the source of its greatest peril!” Alain shouted as he sprinted after. “Set upon it, Geoffrey!” He caught up with the Boobrie and swung his sword in a flat arc that would have bisected anything it met.

Geoffrey leaped in from the side, swinging and shouting, “Orange sauce!”

The bird jerked to a halt in sheer surprise, turning to gape at Geoffrey.

“ ’Tis not a duck!” Alain protested.

The Boobrie’s head pivoted to glare narrow-eyed at Alain.

“Duck yourself!” Geoffrey cried, and Alain did, just in time for the Boobrie’s breast to slam into his shoulder as it charged. Its beakful of teeth closed on air instead of the throat for which it had aimed. From sheer reflex, Alain stabbed. “I spit thee, fowl!”

The Boobrie roared in rage and pain and curved its neck to bite at the nape of Alain’s neck. He leaped back, though, pulled the sword free, and the poignard-teeth closed on the blade.

Geoffrey leaped up behind it and slashed—but he only sheared tail feathers, for the bird was turning to this new threat even as he swung. It lunged at Geoffrey, wings raised high, eight-feet-long clubs poised to strike.

Gregory jumped in, caught a wing tip, and threw his whole weight against it, shouting, “Savory! Sage! In a batter with wine!”

The Boobrie honked in dismay as it swung around him.

“Beware those teeth, Gregory!” Geoffrey cried, dashing in to protect his little brother—and a wing cracked into his head, knocking him to the ground.

“I am safe!” Gregory cried, releasing the wing-tip and leaping back. “Up, brother! Save yourself!”

There was no need to worry about Geoffrey, though. The Boobrie was charging Gregory now, blood in its eye, beakful of teeth reaching out, wings arched to strike.

“Drumsticks!” Alain cried, and dived to wrap his arms around one yard-long leg.

The Boobrie hooted, flapping its wings in a vain attempt to balance on one webbed foot. Then it tumbled; its foot twisted in Alain’s grasp and the heel spur raked his chest. He ignored the pain and hung on, trying to clamber to his feet.

“Up, friend!” Geoffrey seized Alain’s collar and hauled him upright. “Loose the beast and let it fly!”

The Boobrie was indeed struggling to get back on its webs. The young men backed warily away, swords at the ready, but something hooted out on the lake.

The Boobrie’s head swung around.

The hooting turned into a burbling laugh.

The Boobrie roared in anger and ran heavily back toward the lake. It plunged into the water, leaving a few streaks of red in its wake, but gliding quite steadily nonetheless, answering the hooting mirth with its own chortling cry.

“How lucky for us that another Boobrie came to challenge it,” Alain said shakily.

“There is none other, but this one shall circle the lake for hours trying to find it, growing steadily more and more maddened as it fails to discover what it seeks,” Gregory said.

“I thought it was something of the kind.” Geoffrey nodded. “How did you do it, brother? Ventriloquism?”

“Of a sort,” Gregory acknowledged. “I studied the vibrations of its cry when first it called, so I knew how to modulate the air currents out over the water to make the sound of a challenger.”

“Well done, if a bit tardily,” Alain said.

“Tardily indeed!” Gregory tore open the prince’s doublet. “Let me see how deep that wound is, and how much inclined to infection!”

“Oh, kill the bacteria with a thought,” Geoffrey said crossly, glaring at the gouge in his thigh.

“As you do?” Gregory noted the direction of his gaze. “Well, knit the flesh back together, brother—or if you would like more objectivity, I shall do it for you. Are you angered from the pain, or because your hose are quite irretrievably stained?”

“Neither,” Geoffrey groused. “I simply dislike losing—or in this case, not winning.”

“Besides,” Alain said through clenched teeth, “he was counting on roast fowl with all the trimmings. Have a care, Gregory! It may be deeper than it looks.”

“The pain you feel is the wound closing,” Gregory assured him. He stood up, watching the torn flesh flow back together as he made cell bond to cell. “This is easy enough to do. I wonder how our enemy made it so hard to render the Boobrie back into the fungus of which it was made.”

“Perhaps it was simply the strength of its desire to live,” Geoffrey suggested.

“It is certainly convenient to have a wizard along when I’m apt to be wounded,” Alain said with a sigh of relief. He tested his wand. “I cannot see the slightest trace of a seam.”

“He is a passable tailor,” Geoffrey grunted. He looked up at another whooping laugh from the lake. “Are you certain there is no other male Boobrie about, brother?”

“Quite sure,” Gregory answered, “because our Boobrie is a singular bird.”

Geoffrey looked up, frowning. Then his eyes glazed as he gazed off toward the lake, his mind seeking thoughts like the Boobrie’s. At last he nodded. “True enough. There are none others for miles about, at least.”

“This part of the kingdom seems suddenly filled with monsters that have never appeared before,” Alain said thoughtfully. “I suppose they must have now and again, though, or there would not be tales about them.”

“Or is it because there are tales that they have come to be?” Geoffrey countered. He turned to Gregory. “Did you not say that this was just such a monster as haunted your dreams?”

“Not a dream exactly,” Gregory explained, “but one among many in a scene that burst into Allouette’s mind while she meditated. I shared it to leach some of the horror from it.”

“And gained it yourself?” Geoffrey’s voice held a new sort of respect for his little brother. “So you saw what she dreamed.”

“This was the least of them,” Gregory assured him. “Still, I could find it in me to wonder how it came from my dreams to this lake.”

“Perchance through someone else’s dream,” Alain suggested.

“Wherefore would two dream the same nightmare?” Geoffrey asked.

They were all silent, looking at one another, knowing the thought they shared.

“It was no accident, was it?” Alain asked. “Someone planted those vile illusions in your minds.”

“And if in ours, in how many other people’s nightmares?” Geoffrey asked.

“Three, or a dozen, or a score.” Gregory shrugged. “It matters not, as long as one of them was an esper who knew not his own strength.”

“Then when he described the horrible bird to a listener, somewhere in the forest bits of witch-moss flowed together and took on the shape he saw in his mind’s eye.” Geoffrey nodded. “It is likely enough—but who placed that vision in so many minds?”

“It was someone beyond the mist,” Alain said. “More than that, we cannot know.”

Geoffrey shrugged. “We have been given a name; why not use it? Call that pusher of dreams ‘Zonploka.’”

“It is as good a name as any, until we find the thing the word truly names.” Alain nodded.

But Gregory frowned. “It is inexact and an invitation to error. What if, when we do find this Zonploka, it turns out not to be the dream-weaver—or perhaps not even human at all?”

Geoffrey tossed his head in exasperation. “If we discover the referent, we may need to seek a new term—or we may not; we may find that Zonploka is a man or woman, and the dream-caster indeed.”

“And if it is not?”

“Why borrow trouble?” Alain asked. “Until we know better, let us assume it is Zonploka who sends these nightmares amongst us.”

“The dream nightmares, or the ones that draw blood?” Geoffrey countered.

“Yes,” Alain said. “Both, for if he sends the dreams knowing an esper shall speak of them, then he deliberately sends the monsters that grow from the words.”

“Then I hope we find it so,” Gregory sighed, “and do not seek so hard for a man who may not exist, that we look right past the true source of the trouble.”

“We must keep open minds,” Alain agreed, “and watch for every possible menace—must we not, soldier and knight?”

“We must be vigilant and wary, of course,” Geoffrey agreed, “but if we do meet a man or woman named Zonploka, I for one shall shield my mind most shrewdly. Where now shall we seek him?”

“Where indeed?” Alain shrugged. “One direction is as good as another, and the road lies before us. Let us ride!”

The trees grew smaller and farther apart as the road wound upward. By midafternoon, the women began to hear a rushing sound in the distance. Allouette drew in her horse with a frown. “It is like to the noise of a flock of birds preparing to fly south.”

“Strange.” Quicksilver smiled. “I always thought such a flock sounded like a babbling brook.”

“Brook or bird,” Cordelia said, “let us chase the sound and see.”

They left the path, angling eastward across the slope of the land toward the sound. It grew louder as they rode until they crossed a meadow and found themselves by a river—but one in full spate and choked with rapids. The water laughed and scolded, nagged and cried as it rushed around the boulders and fell over ledges. The women sat their horses, drinking in the sight and the sound, letting the spray on their faces refresh them.

“It is glorious, is it not?” asked Cordelia.

“It is indeed,” said Allouette, but she turned with a frown and demanded, “Who is he?”

Cordelia and Quicksilver turned to follow her gaze and saw a man in a fur tunic sitting on a rock watching the water strike the boulders and roil on down the channel. There was something melancholy about him, something immensely sad as he sat watching the river. He wore the usual peasant’s tunic and hose, but ones made of fur. His grizzled hair was cut evenly around his head.

“What is there about that fellow that makes me feel such sadness?” Allouette wondered.

The man looked up at the sound of her voice. He was middle-aged and round-faced, all his features seeming to droop—except his nose, which was too small, but the moustache beneath it more than made up for it. It was grizzled like his hair, very bushy, bristling out to hide his upper lip. His chin receded, scarcely visible. He was stocky and looked as though he should be slow in his movements.

“I see what you mean,” Cordelia said softly. “Merely the look of him makes me feel the need to comfort.”

The man’s eyes widened, registering the sight of three beautiful young women, and he rose from his rock with a sinuous speed, a lithe economy of movement, that seemed to belie his age and appearance. He came toward them, hands rising in a plea. “I pray you, beauteous maidens, do not pass by!”