IGMS Issue 9 Read online

  Benjamin scowled and said nothing.

  Francis persisted, "Truly. I want to know."

  Finally Benjamin burst out, "Forgive me if I'm insufficiently grateful that you ended my unjust confinement after a mere six months. And you only released me so that I could risk my life helping you."

  Francis cocked his head thoughtfully. "Even granting, as you say, that you've been used poorly, is that really reason to kill me? Am I so bad?"

  Benjamin glared. "Shall I list for you the abuses of your royal house?"

  Francis looked away. He said, "My father was a strong ruler. Perhaps too strong. He was a hard mouse to love. No one knows that better than I. But I am not my father."

  "It's not about you," Benjamin said. "It's the principle."

  Francis turned back to him. "And what principle is that?"

  "No more kings. Freedom and equality for all mice."

  Francis frowned. "There will always be kings. Whether or not they're called kings. Whether chosen by blood or wealth or fame. Mice need kings."

  Benjamin said, "You're wrong."

  Francis sighed. "So what should I have done? When I found myself born a prince? What would you do? If offered a title?"

  Benjamin answered at once. "Renounce it. Abolish the office, and let a more just order replace it."

  Francis studied him carefully and said, "Truly? That's what you'd do?"

  "Yes."

  Francis said, "Your father is a merchant. A prosperous one."

  "He is," Benjamin admitted.

  Francis concluded, "So you're not exactly a common mouse yourself. You've enjoyed means and education far beyond the dreams of most mice. Is that just?"

  Benjamin was defensive. "No. But I can't help that. I could have used my position to increase my own wealth and gratify my own desires, as my peers have. Instead I've used the gifts I've received to try to do some good, to try to change things so that more mice get the opportunities I've had. What else could I do? Forswear my family's wealth to live amidst the destitute? What would that accomplish?"

  Benjamin suddenly felt uncertain. A hint of a smile played over Francis's lips. Benjamin said angrily, "It's not the same thing at all! You can't even compare the two. You, with your palaces and crowns and servants, and all your kneeling and silly oaths."

  Francis looked puzzled. "What do you have against oaths?"

  "It's pompous," Benjamin said. He knew he should guard his tongue, but he couldn't stop himself. "If you're going to do something, just do it. You don't have to put on a show for the whole world. Swearing to Sherry about this and that."

  Francis narrowed his eyes and observed, "You don't believe in Sherry."

  Benjamin sneered. "Of course not. Goddess of childbirth and cheese? The very notion is imbecilic. It's peasant superstition."

  Francis grinned. "Says the great champion of the common mouse."

  Benjamin stopped. He had no retort.

  Francis suddenly looked very serious. "Listen to me. When I swear an oath, I invite the court as a courtesy, and I invoke Sherry because what can it hurt? But I doubt that either the court or Sherry would raise much fuss if I chose to break my vow. But I would know. An oath is a promise to yourself, and I would swear my oaths whether or not I was the only mouse around for a hundred miles."

  Benjamin said nothing. He saw that Francis meant it.

  Francis stood. "Enough. Let's get moving."

  That night Benjamin took the first watch while Francis slumbered. As Benjamin sat there staring into the campfire, he understood that he would not try to harm Francis again. For two weeks they hiked west through the wilderness, and each night Benjamin kept watch as best he could and guarded over Francis. It wasn't just that Benjamin felt cowed by how easily he'd been overcome, and abashed at how lightly his actions had been excused. The damning fact was that he sort of liked Francis. Benjamin would never have expected this to be possible, but there it was. Francis was charming and clever, brave and sincere. If Francis had not been born into royalty, Benjamin imagined that the two of them might even have been friends. And Francis treated Benjamin as though they were friends -- friends and equals -- though Benjamin was nobody and Francis was king of all the realm. Benjamin hated himself for feeling awed by that title. He had thought himself above such petty sentimentality. But he supposed that he was only a mouse, and that all mice were subject to such feelings to some extent.

  One night at dusk, as Francis and Benjamin crossed a field of long grass, Francis suddenly stopped and said, "What's that?"

  Benjamin halted and looked around, but saw nothing. "Where?"

  Francis cocked his head. "Listen." Then a look of alarm crossed his face, and he said, "Get down." He crouched and grabbed Benjamin by the shirtfront and pulled him down too. Francis scanned the sky. Then he slid his sword from its scabbard with one smooth motion, and the sword made barely a whisper as it came free.

  Benjamin was suddenly afraid. He looked into the sky, which was blue and tan in the fading light. "What? What is it?"

  Francis said sternly, "Shhh!" He cocked his head again.

  Benjamin waited. A breeze rustled the grass overhead.

  Then Francis said, "Damn!," and leapt to his feet. He grabbed Benjamin by the shoulder, pulled him up, shoved him, and said, "Run! Now!"

  Benjamin ran. Everywhere blades of grass stood before him, and he pushed between them. The grass whipped at his face. Then a winged shadow fell over him.

  A huge scaly foot plucked him from the earth. Talons bit into his sides. Above him beat great dark wings that sent cold air gusting down over him. He twisted to stare up at his captor. It was the dread predator, bane of all mice, the death that comes from above. Benjamin knew its name from a hundred childhood tales. Owl.

  Benjamin was borne up into the trees. Then the owl dropped him. Benjamin fell, and slammed onto a bed of withered grass -- a nest. He was too stunned and hurt to move. His tunic grew damp as blood oozed from his sides where the talons had gashed him.

  The owl landed, and stood over him. Its massive head was crowned with a set of demonic horns. Below them a pair of huge round eyes gazed out with cold malice. The owl spoke in a high, rasping voice, "I will catch your friend tooo." Then it stepped back, spread its wings, and swooped away.

  Benjamin managed to crawl as far as the edge of the nest, then he collapsed. He tugged his dagger from its sheath, but he was so weak he could barely lift the dagger, let alone fight. And what good would a dagger be? What good would any weapon be against that monster?

  Benjamin stared upward. In the dim light, the branches overhead reminded him of the iron bars of his cell back in Kingsburrow, and he felt an ache of longing. Why hadn't he stayed there, safe? He was no knight, to brave the wilds. And now it was hopeless. Soon he'd be dead.

  Some time later, he heard an awful rustle of feathers. He turned to see the owl settle on the branch beside the nest. The owl said, "Your friend was tooo quick. I cannot find him."

  Benjamin held up the dagger. "Stay back."

  The owl laughed. "Foool. You cannot defeat me. I have consumed a hundred mice, and will consume a hundred more. Surrender your weapon and I will grant you the mercy of being swallowed whole. Else I will devour you in pieces."

  Benjamin's hand trembled violently. The owl stepped toward him.

  Then, from behind the owl, came Francis's voice: "Enough! Release him. I command you."

  Benjamin couldn't believe it. Francis had climbed the tree, and now stood on the branch with them. For a moment Benjamin dared to hope that Francis could somehow bargain with the owl.

  The owl's head rotated all the way around to face Francis. The owl said, "And whoo are you?"

  Francis stepped forward. "I am Francis, son of Michael and king of this realm." He raised his sword so that its edge was aimed at the owl's throat. "I am your death, if you defy me."

  Benjamin felt a fresh rush of panic. Was Francis crazy?

  The owl said, "I have dined on the bones of a hundred mice. But ne
ver a king. Yoou will be a true delicacy, Francis, son of Michael."

  The owl fluttered toward Francis. Its claws reached for him. Francis leaped at it, his sword poised to strike. The owl panicked and tried to reverse course. Francis thrust his sword straight into the owl's looming right eye. The owl screeched and flopped backward, and Francis yanked the sword free and landed lightly on the branch and kept advancing.

  The owl shambled to its feet. Blood streamed from its ruined eye. Francis circled to the owl's right, so that it couldn't see him. It turned to try to keep him in view. It used its wing to wipe blood from its face, then hunched forward to seek Francis with its good eye, and Francis stabbed that eye too, and the beast was blinded. Then Francis hacked at the owl -- at its thigh, its belly, its wings. The owl moaned and staggered away.

  Then, as it teetered at the edge of the branch, Francis leapt onto its chest. He grabbed its feathers with his left hand and with his right he rammed his sword up through the owl's throat, deep into its head. The owl toppled backward -- with Francis still clutching it -- and together they plunged over the side.

  Benjamin's pain gradually subsided. Then he climbed from the nest, walked along the branch, and scrambled down the tree's trunk.

  When he reached the ground, he found Francis waiting there, unharmed and resting against the great mass of the owl's corpse.

  Benjamin stared amazed at the beast. An owl was a thing out of nightmare, the most feared of monsters, and Francis had just slain one quickly and with pitiless efficiency. Benjamin had heard that Francis was a master swordfighter, but this was beyond anything that Benjamin had imagined. Benjamin was even more abashed now to have ever thought of raising a weapon against Francis. When Francis had a sword in his hand, he was terrifying, unstoppable.

  Benjamin said, "I can't believe you did that -- climbed up there, fought that thing -- to save me."

  Francis said simply, "You're one of my subjects. It's my duty to protect you."

  Normally Benjamin would have bristled at being called anyone's subject, but now he was too tired, sore, and grateful to be alive to care. So all he said was, "Thank you."

  A few days later they crossed the border of the realm, and entered the lands of the Westburrow rats.

  One night, by the light of the campfire, Benjamin asked Francis, "Tell me of this beast that we go to slay. The one that . . . killed your father. What did Sir Timothy say of it?"

  Francis looked grim, and for a moment Benjamin was afraid that Francis wouldn't answer, but then Francis said softly, "When I met with Sir Timothy, he was delirious and near death, and much of what he told me was without sense. He spoke of a black and barren land where nothing would grow -- as if some demonic agency had leached all life from the soil. The very night my father's party entered that land they were set upon by a strange creature. Sir Timothy whispered that it was giant, with burning eyes and a voice like thunder. Clearly, these were the fancies of madness. Still, I do not doubt that it is some formidable foe, to defeat a band of knights."

  Benjamin said, "What if it defeats you?" Benjamin was surprised to feel so unhappy at the prospect.

  Francis said, "Then my wise sister will rule, and the realm will likely be better for it."

  These were brave, wry words, but beneath them Benjamin sensed something colder. Francis had no intention of being defeated. He meant to crush this beast, as he'd crushed every enemy he'd ever faced.

  A few days passed. One afternoon, as Francis was making camp for the night, Benjamin set off into the brush to gather firewood.

  As he returned, he heard Francis cry out. Then cruel, guttural laughter echoed through the forest. Benjamin dropped the twigs he'd collected and drew his dagger.

  From the direction of the camp came an unfamiliar voice: "There are two rucksacks here. You three, search the area, find his friend."

  Benjamin ducked into a bush. He peered between the leaves and saw three tall black rats pass by. Their fur was greasy and patchy, and they wore odd bits of scavenged armor and carried rusty scimitars. Westburrow rats. Benjamin was terrified.

  He crept to the edge of the camp, and saw with horror that Francis had been captured. Two rats held Francis between them so that he dangled with his toes barely scraping the ground. Another four rats were rifling through Francis and Benjamin's rucksacks.

  The rats must have taken Francis by surprise. But if Francis could just get his hands on his sword, he'd no doubt make short work of the rats. Where was the sword?

  There. It was being held by a rat who seemed to be the leader. He was huge, and his fur was brindled and shaggy. He paced by the spot where Francis hung, and Francis glanced at the sword. The leader noticed and said, "Oh, you want this?" He held the sword up. "What do you think you're going to do with this toy, little mouse?"

  Francis said dangerously, "Let me show you."

  The leader laughed. He inspected the sword and concluded, "Too small. Useless." He went to break it over his knee. He was burly and strong, but the sword was the finest mouse steel, and refused to snap.

  The rats were all distracted. Benjamin thought he might be able to disrupt them and give Francis a chance to break loose.

  But why should Benjamin take the risk? All he had to do was slip away, and then he'd be free, and there'd be one fewer monarch in the world. Benjamin hesitated. He thought of all the months he'd spent rotting in the dungeon merely for speaking out, and the memory made him feel vengeful.

  Then he stared at Francis, hanging there. Benjamin couldn't just leave him. Francis would be killed, or maybe taken prisoner, which was worse. There were horrid rumors of what was done to mice who were dragged down into the depths of Westburrow, and none of those mice were ever seen again. And Francis had saved Benjamin from the owl . . .

  Enough. Benjamin's mind was made up.

  He leapt from the brush, dashed up behind the rat leader, and plunged the dagger deep into the rat's lower back. The leader bellowed and dropped Francis's sword. Benjamin pulled the dagger loose.

  The rats stood shocked. Then Francis slammed the heel of his foot into the groin of the rat to his right. The rat shrieked and released Francis's right hand, which Francis then raked across the eyes of the rat to his left. That rat stumbled back, clutching its face. Francis dropped to the ground in a crouch, then sprang forward and sprinted for his sword.

  The leader spun around. He gripped his wounded back with one hand while with the other he drew forth a heavy scimitar. His pointed brown teeth were clenched in a grotesque grimace. He said to Benjamin, "You are going to regret that, little mouse. When we bring you back to Westburrow, I'll see that you get special attention." Benjamin backed away, and waved the dagger warningly. The leader advanced on him.

  Francis ducked a scimitar cut. He leapt for his sword. Another rat jumped on him, and they went down together. Francis kicked. He stretched out his hand to feel for his sword. His fingers brushed its pommel.

  Come on! Benjamin thought desperately. The leader loomed over Benjamin, and backed him against a tree.

  Francis wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the sword.

  When the rats were dead, Francis said to Benjamin, "That was a courageous thing you did. I owe you my life. From the first time I heard of your case, I sensed that there was great potential in you. When I met you, I knew my guess had been correct. I am proud to see that I was not mistaken." Francis raised his sword. "Kneel, Benjamin."

  Benjamin was full of awe. He couldn't believe this was happening. He knelt.

  Francis touched the flat of the blade lightly to each of Benjamin's shoulders, then said, "Arise, Sir Benjamin."

  Benjamin rose, euphoric. He had never dreamed of anything like this . . . well, maybe as a child, but that had been so long ago. He had given up on such dreams.

  Francis now spoke of secret gestures and mottoes that would allow Benjamin to prove his rank to the knights of Kingsburrow. Benjamin listened as best he could. But all he could think of was the throne room, and how upon his return all
those rich and noble snobs would have to bow to him -- to him, who had been a condemned prisoner -- and call him "sir."

  He said, "Thank you, your majesty," and he meant it.

  Francis smiled. "You've earned it."

  Two weeks later, as evening fell, Francis and Benjamin came to the edge of a wasteland. Just as Sir Timothy had said, the ground seemed unnatural and accursed -- black, smooth, and hard as stone. Nothing grew there. Nothing lived there.

  Francis stepped onto the black earth. Then he turned to Benjamin and said, "From here I must go on alone. This is my battle. I ask that you wait for me here. If I have not returned by morning, you must make the long journey back to Kingsburrow and tell my sister that I am dead."

  Benjamin was startled to find himself blurt out, "I want to come with you. I want to help."

  Francis looked melancholy. "My friend, you've already saved my life once. You've done more than I ever could have asked. I cannot allow you to take any more risks on my account. Sherry willing, I will see you at dawn. If not, it has been my honor to know you. Remain here, and do as I have bid. Your king commands it."

  Before Benjamin could object again, Francis strode off into the wastes. Benjamin stared after him, then sat down in the grass.

  Night came on quickly. Thick pale mist rose up to shroud that gloomy, barren land. Benjamin felt anxious and uncertain. He wondered if he should go after Francis.

  Benjamin had been ordered to stay here. But normally he would never bow to the will of a king. Then again, normally he would never risk his life to help a king either. Benjamin felt adrift. The ideologies that had guided him all his life now seemed as vague and insubstantial as the fog. The only thing he was certain of now was that Francis was in danger.

  Benjamin stood. He took a deep breath, then stepped onto the black ground.

  He tried to follow in the direction that Francis had gone, but the mists were dense and swirling, and Benjamin soon lost his way. For a time he stumbled on aimlessly. Finally he halted, panting.