Spellsinger

by Alan Dean Foster

  He paid it little attention because he could see it, and he should not have been able to. Even through the shock of the explosion and his subsequent fall he knew he oughtn't to be able to see haze or Tree. He should be back home, preferably in his own room, or in class, or even flat in the middle of Wilshire traffic.

  Instead he lay on his butt within the same Tree.

  "It didn't work," he murmured aloud. "I didn't go back." He felt like the hero of a war movie who'd set off the magazine of his own ship and gone down with his captors.

  The last of the haze was fading from the circle. He caught his breath, aware of something besides his own self-pity now.

  A tall young woman just a hair short of six feet was sitting spraddle-legged in the center of the circle. Her arms were straight behind her, keeping her in a sitting position as she gazed around with an altogether appropriate air of bewilderment. Long black hair was tied in a single ponytail.

  She was clad in an absurdly brief skirt with matching pantyshorts beneath, sneakers and high socks, and a long sweater with four large blue letters sewn on its front. Her face was a stunning cross between that of a Tijuana professional and a Tintoretto madonna. Jet-black eyes, black as Mudge's, and coffee skin.

  Shakily she got to her feet, dusted herself off, and looked around.

  With Pog's assistance Clothahump was rolling off his back. Once on all fours he was able to stand up. He started hunting around for his glasses, which had been knocked off by the concussion. A curved dent in the Tree wall behind him showed where he'd struck.

  "What happened?" Jon-Tom thought to ask, his eyes still mesmerized by the woman. "What went wrong?"

  "You, obviously, did not go back," said Clothahump prosaically, "but someone else was drawn to us." He stared at the new arrival, asked solicitously, "Are you by any chance, my dear, an eng'neer? Or wizard, or sorceress, or witch, as they would be known hereabouts?"

  "Sangre de Christo," husked the girl, taking a cautious step away from the turtle. Then she stopped. Her confusion and momentary fear were replaced by an expression of outrage.

  "What is this place, huh? Comprende tortuga? Do you understand?" She turned slowly. "Where the hell am I?"

  Her eyes narrowed as they located Jon-Tom. "You... don't I know you from someplace?"

  "Am I correct then in assuming you are not an eng'neer?" asked Clothahump despondently.

  She looked back over a shoulder at him. "Engineer, me? Infierno, no! I'm a theater-arts student at the University of California in Los Angeles. I was on my way to cheerleading squad practice when... when I suddenly find myself in a nightmare. Only... you are not very frightening, tortuga.

  "So if this is no nightmare... what is it?" She put a hand to her forehead, staggered a little. "Madre de dios, have I got a headache."

  Clothahump looked across the demolished circle. Jon-Tom was still staring open-mouthed at the girl, his own failure now forgotten. "You know this young lady, spellsinger?"

  "I'm afraid I do, sir. Her name is Flores Quintera."

  At the mention of her name the girl spun back to face him. "I thought I recognized you." She frowned. "But I still can't place you."

  "My name is Jon Meriweather." When she didn't react to that, he added, "We attend the same school."

  "I still can't place you. Have we had a class together, or something?"

  "I don't think so," he told her. "I'd remember if we had. I have seen--"

  "Wait a minuto... now I know!" She pointed an accusatory finger at him. "I've seen you working around campus. Sweeping the halls, working the grounds at practice."

  "I do that occasionally," he replied, embarrassed. "I always managed to be out gardening whenever the cheer squad had practice." He smiled hesitantly.

  Loud, high-pitched feminine laughter came from behind him. Everyone turned to see Talea sitting on the wood-chip floor, holding her sides and roaring hysterically.

  "I don't know you," said Flores Quintera. "What's so funny?"

  "Him!" She pointed at Jon-Tom. "He was supposed to be helping Clothahump cast for an engineer to switch places with. So he was thinking back to his home, to familiar surroundings. But he couldn't keep his mind on his business. It was drifting while he was spellsinging, from engineering to something more pleasant, I think."

  "I couldn't help it," Jon-Tom mumbled. "Maybe it was something about the song. I mean, I don't remember exactly what aspects of home I was concentrating on. I was too busy singing. Maybe it was the line, 'If I had to tell her....'" He was more embarrassed than he'd ever been in his life.

  "So you're responsible for my being here," said the raven-haired amazon, "wherever 'here' is?"

  "Sort of," he mumbled. "I've kind of admired you from afar and when I should have been thinking of something else, my thoughts sort of... drifted," he finished helplessly.

  "Sure. That clarifies everything." She fluffed her hair, looked around at man, woman, otter, turtle, bat. "So since this guy is too tongue-tied to explain, please would one of you?"

  Clothahump sighed and took her by the hand. She didn't resist as he led her to a low couch and sat her down. "It is somewhat difficult to explain, young lady."

  "Try me. When you come from the barrio, nothing surprises you."

  So the wizard patiently elucidated while Jon-Tom sat off to one side morose and at the same time perversely happy. If he was going to be marooned here, as it seemed he was, there were worse people to be trapped with than the voluptuous Flores Quintera.

  Eventually Clothahump concluded his explanation. His intense listener rose from the couch and walked over to confront Jon-Tom.

  "Then it wasn't entirely your fault. I think I understand. El tortuga was very enlightening." She turned and waved around the chamber. "Then what are we waiting here for? We have to help these people as best we can."

  "That is most commendable of you," said an admiring Clothahump. "You are a most adaptable young lady. It is a pity you are not the eng'neer we sought, but you are bigger and stronger than most. Can you fight?"

  She grinned wickedly at him, and something went all weak inside Jon-Tom. "I have eleven brothers and sisters, Mr. Clothahump, and I'm the second youngest. The only reason I'm on the cheerleading squad is because they don't let women play on the football team. Not at the university level, anyhow. I grew up with a switchblade in my boot."

  "I am not familiar with the weapon," replied a pleased Clothahump, "but I believe we can arm you adequately."

  Talea had stifled her amusement and had walked over to gaze appraisingly up at the new arrival. "You're the biggest woman I've ever seen."

  "I'm tall even for back home," said Quintera. "It's been a drawback sometimes, except in sports." She smiled dazzlingly down at Talea and extended a hand. "Do you shake hands here?"

  "We do." Talea reached out hesitantly.

  "Bueno. I'd like for us to be friends."

  "I think I'd like that too." The two women shook, each taking the measure of the other without conceding anything.

  "It's just like I've always dreamed," Quintera murmured, eyes shining.

  "You mean you're not upset?" Jon-Tom gaped at her.

  "Oh, maybe a little."

  Pog grumbled steadily as he began cleaning up the debris created by the explosive collapse of the interdimensional vortex.

  "But I've always wanted to be the heroine in shining armor, ever since I was a little girl," Quintera continued.

  "No need to worry, then," said Jon-Tom firmly. "I've learned quite a bit since I've been here. I'll make sure no harm comes to you."

  "Oh, don't worry about me," she replied gaily.

  Pog appeared with an armful of old weapons. "Got 'em since ya left," he told the curious Jon-Tom. "Boss thought it'd be a good idea t'have a few lizard-stickers around in case his magic really got rusty."

  Flores Quintera immediately knelt over the pile of destruction and began sorting through it with something other than doll-like enthusiasm. "Hoy, but I'm looking forward to this."


  "It could be very dangerous." Jon-Tom had moved to stand protectively close to her.

  "Well, of course it could, from what Clothaheemp... Clothahump tells me... watch your foot there, that ax is sharp." He took a couple of steps backward. "It wouldn't be any fun if it didn't have any danger," she informed him, as though addressing a complete fool.

  "Oh, this looks nice," she said brightly, hefting a saw-edged short sword. "Can I have this one?" It was designed for someone Mudge's size. In her lithe hands it looked like a long, thick dagger.

  She moved as if to put it in her belt, became aware she wasn't wearing one.

  "I can't go marching around in this," she muttered.

  "Oh God!" Mudge threw up his paws and spun away. "Not again. Please, I can't go back to Lynchbany and go through this again."

  "Never mind." Talea was studying the towering female form. "If the wizard can conjure up some material, I think the two of us can make you something, Flores."

  "Call me Flor, please."

  "I don't know about conjuring," said Clothahump carefully, "but there are stores in the back rooms of the Tree. Pog will show you where."

  "O' course he will," snorted the bat under his breath. "Don't he always?"

  The two young women vanished with the bat into yet another section of the seemingly endless interior of the tree.

  "I 'ave to 'and it t' you, mate." Mudge smacked Jon-Tom's back with a friendly whack from one furry paw and leered up at him. "First you make friends with Talea and now you materialize this black-maned gable o' gorgeousness. Would that I were up t' such, wot?"

  "I'd rather have switched places with an engineer," Jon-Tom mumbled.

  He considered Flor Quintera. Her personality somehow did not seem to match his imagining of same. "This new lady, Flor. I've seen her a lot, Mudge, but I'd always imagined her to be somewhat more, well, vulnerable."

  " 'Er? Vulnerable? Kiss me bum, mate, but she seems as vulnerable as an ocelot with six arms."

  "I know," said Jon-Tom sadly.

  Mudge was looking at the doorway through which the women had disappeared. " 'Crikey but I won't mind unvulnerablin' 'er. It'd be like climbin' a bloomin' mountain. I always did 'ave a 'ankerin' t' go explorin' through the peaks and valleys of a challengin' range, wot." He moved away from the distraught Jon-Tom, chuckling lasciviously.

  Jon-Tom shuffled across to the workbench. Clothahump sat there, inspecting his shattered apparatus and trying to locate intact bits and pieces with which to work.

  "I'm really sorry, sir," he said a little dazedly. "I tried my best."

  "I know you did, boy. It is not your fault." Clothahump patted Jon-Tom's leg reassuringly. "Rare is the man, wizard, warrior, or worker, who can always think with his brains instead of his balls. Not to worry. What is done is done, and we must make the best of it. At least we have added another dedicated fighter and believer to our ranks. And we still have you and your unpredictable but undeniably powerful spellsinger's abilities, and something more."

  "I don't suppose we could try again."

  The wizard shook his head. "Impossible. Even if I thought I could survive and control another such conjuration, the last of the necessary powders and material have been used. It would take months simply to find enough ytterbium to constitute the necessary pinch the formula requires."

  "I hope you're right about my abilities," Jon-Tom mumbled. "I don't seem to be much good at anything here lately. I hope I can think of the right song when the time comes." He frowned abruptly. "You said we have my abilities and 'something more'?"

  The wizard nodded, looked pleased with himself. "Sometimes a good shock is more valuable than any amount of concentration. When I was thrown against the Tree wall by the force of the trans-dimension dissipation, I had a brief but ice-clear image. I now know who is behind the growing evil." He gazed meaningfully up at the staring Jon-Tom.

  "Tell me, then. Who and what are--"

  But the turtle raised a restraining hand. "Best to wait until everyone has returned. There is ample threat to all in this, and I shall not begin to play favorites now."

  So they waited while Jon-Tom watched the wizard. Clothahump sat quietly, contemplating something beyond the ken of the others.

  The women returned with Pog muttering irritably behind them. Jon-Tom was a little shocked at the transformation that had come over the delicate flower of his postadolescent fantasies.

  In place of the familiar cheerleader's sweater and skirt Flor Quintera was clad in pants and vest of white leatherlike material. The sharply cut vest left her arms and shoulders bare, and her dark skin stood out startlingly against the pale cream-colored clothing. A fringed black cape hung from her neck and matched fringe-topped black boots. The long dagger (or short sword) hung from a black metal belt and a double-headed mace hung from her right hand.

  "What do you think?" She twirled the mace gracefully and thus indicated to Jon-Tom why she'd selected it. It was not dissimilar to the baton she was so accustomed to. The major difference was the pair of spiked steel balls at one end, lethal rather than entertaining.

  "Don't you think," he said uneasily, "it's a mite extreme?"

  "Look who's talking. What's the matter, not what you'd like to see?" She turned on her toes and did a mock curtsey. "Is that more ladylike?"

  "Yes. No. I mean..."

  She turned and walked over to him, laughing, and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. It burned him right through his indigo shirt and iridescent green cape.

  "Relax, Jon. Or Jon-Tom, as they call you." She smiled, and his initial irritation at her appearance melted away. "I'm still the same person. You forget that you really don't know anything about me. Oh, don't feel bad... few people ever really do. I'm the same person I ever was, and now I've been given the chance to enjoy one of my own fantasies. I'm sorry if I don't fulfill yours."

  "But the disorientation," he sputtered. "When I first arrived here I was so confused, so puzzled I could hardly think."

  "Well," she said, "I guess I've read a little more of the impossible than you, or dreamed a little deeper. I feel very much at home, compadre mio." She clipped the double mace to her link belt, pushed back her cape, and sat down on the floor. Even that simple motion seemed supernaturally graceful.

  "I was explaining to Jon-Tom," Clothahump began, "that the shock or the combination of the shock of the explosion and the magic we were working finally showed me the source of the evil that threatens to overwhelm this world. Perhaps yours as well, young lady," he said to Flor, "if it is not stopped here."

  Talea and Mudge listened respectfully, Jon-Tom uncertainly, and Flor anxiously. Jon-Tom divided his attention between the wizard's words and the girl of his dreams.

  At least, she had been the girl of his dreams. Her instant adaptation to this strange existence made her seem a different person. Moreover, she seemed to welcome their incredible situation. It left him feeling very inadequate. How many days had it taken him to arrive at a mature acceptance of his fate?

  The insecurity passed, to be replaced by a burst of anger at the unfairness of it all, and finally by resignation. Actually, as Mudge had indicated, his situation could have been much worse. If Flor was (as yet, he thought yearningly) no more than a friend, she was a damn-sight more interesting to have around than a fifty-year-old male engineer. And he'd made a friend of Talea as well.

  Decidedly, life could be worse. There was ample time for events to progress in a pleasant and satisfying fashion. He allowed himself a slight inward smile.

  After all, Flor's enthusiastic acceptance of the status quo might be momentary posturing on her part. If what Clothahump believed turned out to be true things were going to beeome much worse. They would all have to depend on each other. He would be around when it was Flor's turn to do some depending. He accepted her as she was and turned his full attention to Clothahump.

  "It is the Plated Folk," the wizard was telling them as he paced slowly back and forth before a tall rack of containers that had no
t been shattered. "They are gathering in all their thousands, in their tens of thousands, for a great invasion of the warmlands. Legions of them swarm through the Greendowns.

  "I saw in an instant great battle-practice fields being constructed on the plains outside Cugluch. Burrows for an endless horde are being dug in anticipation of the arrival and massing of still more troops. I saw thousands of the soulless, mindless workers putting down their work tools and taking up their arms. They are preparing such an onslaught as the warmlands have never seen. I saw--"

  "I saw a double-jointed margay once, in a bar in Oglagia Towne," broke in Mudge with astonishing lack of tact. For several minutes he'd been growing more and more restless. Now his frustration burst out spontaneously. "No disrespect t' these ominous foretellin's, Your Omnipotentness, but the Plated Folk 'ave attacked our lands too many times t' count. Tis expected that they're t' try again, but wot's the fear of it?" Talea's expression indicated that she agreed with him. "They've always been stopped in the Troom Pass behind the Jo-Troom Gate. Always they 'ave the kind o' impressive numbers you be recitin' t' us, but their strategy sucks, and what bravery they 'ave is the bravery o' the stupid. All they ever 'ave ended up doin' is fertili-zin' the plants that grow in the Pass."

  "That's true enough," said Talea. "I don't see that we have anything unusual to fear, so I don't understand your worry."

  The wizard stared patiently at her. "Have you ever fought the Plated Folk? Do you know the cruelties and abominations of which they are capable?"

  Talea leaned back in the chair fashioned from the horns of some unknown creature and waved the question away with one tiny hand.

  "Of course I've never fought 'em. Their last attack was sixty-seven years ago."

  "The forty-eighth interregnum," said Clothahump. "I remember it."

  "And what were the results?" she asked pointedly.

  "After considerable fighting and a great loss of life to both sides, the Plated Folk armies were driven back into the Greendowns. They have not been heard from since. Until now."

  "Meaning we kicked the shit out of 'em," Mudge paraphrased with satisfaction.

  "You have the usual confidence of the untested," Clothahump muttered.