The Paths of the Perambulator: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Five)

by Alan Dean Foster

  The otter regarded his filthy, damp fur and bedraggled attire. “As you say, Your Wizardship. I just ’ope we don’t meet anyone I know.”

  “That’s unlikely, pilgrim.” The koala put a paw on the back of Clothahump’s shell. “How you holding up, old-timer?”

  “I am concerned with the simplicity of these attacks. There is little danger in any of them. That does not jibe with your reading.”

  “Like I’ve said, there are plenty of times when I’m not too accurate. I thought this last one was right on the money, but I’m not going to complain if I overstated the threat.”

  “You’re underrating yourself, sir,” Jon-Tom told him. “There aren’t many individuals for whom multiple landslides and mountain floods hold little danger. I guess whoever we’re up against doesn’t realize who he’s dealing with.”

  “Perhaps not, my boy. Or he may be attempting to lull us into overconfidence. The insane can be exceedingly subtle. Still, you may be right. The sorcery we have had to deal with thus far is of a most mundane kind. If we run into nothing more complex, we shall have no difficulty in reaching our goal.”

  “I can’t believe that Colin’s reading of the runes was that inaccurate.”

  “Neither can I, man,” said the koala, “but there’s nothing wrong with hoping that I was.”

  A voice shrilled down at them. Sorbl had returned from scouting a little way ahead. Now he circled low over his companions. “Just ahead, Master, friends! The pass reaches its end. Our destination is in sight!” He wheeled about, digging air, and glided out in front of them once more.

  Increasing their pace, they puffed and panted the last few yards and finally found themselves looking down instead of up for the first time in weeks.

  XII

  BELOW LAY A LOVELY little hanging valley, nestled between two towering peaks. The bottom was filled with a long blue lake. Evergreens lined both shores, though few rose higher than a dozen feet. The majority were gnarled and twisted, sure signs that powerful storms visited this valley frequently.

  The tree line ended not far above the lake. A few isolated trees grew as much as halfway up the mountainside. Where they ceased to grow was sited the base of a monolithic, forbidding wall.

  “The fortress of our enemy,” Dormas declared. “It has to be.”

  Mudge squinted at it uncertainly. “That’s a fortress?”

  Truly, Jon-Tom mused, it was a most unimpressive structure. The single outer wall was composed of plain rock loosely cemented together. What they could see of an inner roof was made of thatch instead of some sturdy roofing material like slate or tile. Portions of the wall were crumbling and in a sad state of disrepair. The winding pathway leading up to the wall from the lake was in worse shape still. It was not even paved.

  “What we can see has not been in existence for very long,” Clothahump commented. They had started down toward the lake.

  “How can that be?” Jon-Tom asked, confused. “It’s falling down.”

  “In this instance that is not an indication of great age so much as it is of sloppy construction, my boy. It is poorly designed and ill built. Just like the series of attacks we had to deal with in the pass behind us. It indicates the presence of a lucky, haphazard opponent as opposed to a methodical and powerful one, although he may yet succeed in making lethal use of the perambulator’s twistings and turnings. We must remain on guard. Remember the runes.”

  “I haven’t forgotten, sir.”

  They walked along in silence for a while, each member of the party engrossed in his or her private thoughts. After a while Clothahump slid over until he was marching alongside Jon-Tom.

  He finally gave the wizard a curious glance. “Something on your mind, Clothahump, sir?”

  The sorcerer hesitated a moment, finally craned his neck to meet the tall young human eye to eye. “While I am confident, my boy, that we are dealing here with matters beyond the experience of most people, I cannot be certain of the outcome.”

  “Neither can Colin, despite his runes.”

  “Quite. Therefore, I mean to say a few things that perhaps should have been said before now.”

  “I don’t follow you, sir.”

  “What I am trying to say, my boy, is that I have been brisk with you at times. As brisk as with Sorbl on occasion. Sometimes it may seem to you from my tone, if not from my words, that I only make use of your talents and care nothing for you personally. This is untrue. I have grown—quite fond of you. I wanted you to know in case anything—happens.”

  Surprised and overcome by this wholly unexpected confession, Jon-Tom could think of nothing to say.

  “Bringing you to this world was an accident and insofar as blame can be ascribed to it, it falls upon my shell. Your appearance here in response to my desperate request for sorcerous aid was not well received. I was most displeased and disappointed.”

  “I remember,” Jon-Tom said softly.

  “Fate has a way of balancing the scales, however, and in your case, it has more than done so. Events have worked out better, I daresay, than either of us could have anticipated. Yet I fear I have been something less than a gracious host.” He raised a hand to forestall Jon-Tom’s protest. “No, let me finish. I am unused to personal expressions of humility, and if I do not finish now, I may never do so.

  “You must try to understand that wizardry is a solitary profession. We who practice it have little time to develop social graces or refine interpersonal relationships. As the world’s greatest wizard, I have had to endure the weight of reputation for more than a century. As a result I sometimes tend to forget that I am dealing with mortals less versed in life as well as in the intricacies of my art. I fear my impatience sometimes carries over into rudeness.

  “What I am trying to say, and I fear doing a poor job of it, is that you have acquitted yourself admirably this past year. You have tolerated my personal peccadilloes gracefully, complained no more than could have been expected, and in general done everything that has been asked of you.

  “I just wanted to tell you this so that you would know my true thoughts. I would not want either of us to pass on to a higher plane ignorant of these feelings. You give me hope for the youth of this world and have been a comfort to me in my old age.”

  Before Jon-Tom could think of anything to say, the wizard had moved off to join Dormas in bringing up the rear. It didn’t matter. Time did not provide him with a suitable reply. There was nothing to say. The turtle’s speech was the nearest thing to an expression of genuine friendship he’d ever made. No, that wasn’t right. It was more than an expression of friendship. It bordered on a confession of affection. No matter how long he lived, he doubted he’d hear the like again.

  Replying in kind would only have embarrassed Clothahump. Jon-Tom had come to know the wizard well enough to know that much. So he kept his response to himself and let the warm glow the wizard’s words had produced spread through his whole being.

  Besides, there was no time to waste on sentiment. He had more important things to think about. There were useful songs to review in his mind, lyrics to recall. If Colin was half right, they would find themselves confronting something dangerous and unexpected anytime now, something only he was going to be able to deal with.

  But he would never forget what the wizard had just told him, any more than he would let Clothahump forget those words the next time he flew into one of his rages and started bawling his young charge out for some imagined transgression.

  They didn’t have long to wait for the koala’s predictions to begin to come true. The first attack came as they were leaving the scrub woods and beginning the long climb up the winding, dilapidated path to the structure clinging to the slope above. A cold wind sprang up, swirling around them, touching their faces and hands with all the forceful delicacy of a blind man. Such a wind was not to be unexpected at these altitudes, but the abruptness of it put all of them on their guard. This was not the time or place to take chances, even with a stray breeze. They huddled t
ogether and searched the land and sky surrounding them.

  Colin had his sword out, clutched it tightly in his right hand. The muscles bulged in his short but powerful arms. “Dormas, you have most of our supplies. You stay behind us. You’re better built for fighting a rear-guard action, anyway. You, sir,” he said to Clothahump, “stay in the middle where we can protect you. And you—”

  “Just a minim, mate. Who are you to be givi’ out orders? Maybe you forgot that we were the ones who ’ad to rescue you?”

  “Defending folks is my other profession, otter. I’m taking care of defensive tactics because I’m the one best qualified to do so.”

  “Do tell.” Mudge moved over until he was standing chest-to-chest with the koala. “As it ’appens, I’ve done a bit o’ soldieri’ in me time, too, and if there’re any orders that ’ave to be ’anded out ’ere for defensive purposes, maybe we ought to—”

  “Both of you shut up and concentrate on guarding your respective behinds.” Clothahump’s tone indicated that he wasn’t in the mood to listen to a debate on the nature of childish macho prerogatives. “It does not matter how we approach this asylum or what flimsy weapons we brandish. We are likely to be confronted by something that steel cannot turn.”

  “You said that right, asshole.”

  Colin and Mudge turned from one another to confront this new threat. There were four of them. They stood side by side, blocking the pathway leading to the fortress above. In stature they resembled Colin, being no more than four feet in height and broad in proportion. Each was colored bright red. Looking at them, Jon-Tom didn’t think they’d acquired their skin color from spending a lot of time vacationing in a sunny land, though from a southerly region they’d surely come.

  Each boasted a pair of short, inward-curving black horns. Mouths seemed to stretch from ear to ear and were filled with short, pointed teeth. Their pupils were bright red on black irises. They were pointed like those of a lizard.

  “He who brought us here sought far for us,” the first imp declared. “He says you shall go no farther. You worry him by your presence, and he has no time for worry. He bids you depart from this place now or suffer the consequences.”

  “Sorry,” Jon-Tom replied calmly. “We won’t be just a minute. All we have to do is release his unwilling guest and then we’ll be on our way.” He took a step forward.

  The second imp held up both clawed hands. “You shall not pass. Away with you!”

  “You may be right, Old One,” Colin murmured to Clothahump. “Steel may not be the right weapon to use here. But you’ll forgive me if I find out for myself.” So saying he lunged forward and brought his long saber down smack against the forehead of the imp with the raised hands.

  The blade passed completely through the red-skinned homunculus to strike sparks from the ground. A shaken Colin backed cautiously away from the grinning creature.

  “You don’t listen so good,” it told him.

  “No,” agreed the imp on his left. “Maybe a demonstration’s in order.”

  Each imp reached behind itself. Mudge reacted to this threatening gesture by drawing his own sword while Clothahump hunkered down inside his shell and started retreating.

  But it wasn’t bows and arrows or swords and scimitars or pikes or knives or any other kind of traditional weapon that the imps produced. Instead each one brought forth a different kind of musical instrument. One held a bizarre flute that twisted and curved in on itself loosely in one hand. The second in line was clutching a flat wooden container with strings running over its top and bottom in a crazy-quilt pattern. The third displayed something akin to Jon-Tom’s duar, save that it had only a single set of strings, and the last imp in line had swung a string of small drums around to rest on the upper curve of his belly. Or were they a part of the body itself? They might as easily have been a line of bulging, flat-topped tumors.

  For that matter, all the instruments appeared to be growing out of the compact red bodies.

  Mudge edged over close to Jon-Tom. “Spellsingers from ’ell, mate. That’s wot they be.” The otter threw Colin a quick glance. “Me apologies to you, fuzzball, for decryi’ your rune-castin’. This much o’ that prophecy seems to ’ave come true, though I wish it were otherwise.”

  “So do I.” Despite its demonstrated ineffectiveness, the koala continued to hold his sword out in front of him, aware that it was no more a useful talisman than a weapon against this quartet.

  “There’s four of ’em, lad,” Mudge whispered. “Can you ’andle four of ’em at once?”

  “I don’t know,” his tall friend confessed. “Each of them carries a different instrument. Maybe they’re only effective when working together. If that’s the case, I’ll only have to counter one spellsong at a time. We’ll know soon enough.” Slowly he brought the duar around to a playing position.

  The second imp regarded him out of wide black-and-red eyes. It hardly looked alarmed, Jon-Tom thought. Amused, perhaps.

  “Oh, ho, so,” it chirped, “another singer! We were told we might encounter such. That’s much better. Death and destruction is always tastier when rendered with a little spice. Make it interesting for us, man.”

  “I intend to,” Jon-Tom told it grimly.

  The imp regarded its companions. “Look to your tunes, to your chords and phrases, and beware your harmonizing!”

  The first song was aimed not at Jon-Tom but at the member of the offending trespassers who’d dared to strike an opening blow. The words struck Colin hard. He dropped his sword, his eyes going wide, and he staggered backward with both hands clutched to his belly. Mudge instantly put his own weapon down and, moving as only a otter can move, just did manage to catch the koala before he collapsed to the ground. He held the wheezing, vomiting Colin under both arms. A single chorus had reduced him from a powerful, alert fighter to a physical and mental basket case.

  The imps didn’t bother to finish the song. A few bars and lyrics had lain the strongest of their opponents low. At the first notes Jon-Tom’s jaw had dropped in astonishment, though the song had not affected him. But then, it hadn’t been directed at him, either.

  “You see”—the second imp sneered—“what we can do. Our master has given us the strength of spellsinging that arises from the deepest well of confusion, from the black pits where unpleasant songs of sorrow and despair mix together to form the most depressing soul-suffocating sludge. Our music moans of dark moments and wails of woeful weeping. No living creature is immune. None can ignore its effects.”

  “I’m afraid he’s right, Mudge.”

  “You won’t see me denying it.” The otter gently lowered the still softly retching koala to the ground, trying to fight off the cold chills that were coursing through his own body. “Wot an ’orrible noise. ’Tis more sickeni’ than I imagined music could be. But I saw your face when they started singin’, mate. You recognize it.”

  “Yes, I recognize it, Mudge.”

  “Then you’ve got to try a’ counter it, for all our sakes. If they sing much more o’ that, they’ll burn out our ears and then our ’earts. ’Tis worse than anything I’ve ever ’eard or ever ’oped to ’ear.”

  But Colin was not done. Breathing hard, he rolled over onto hands and knees, recovered his sword, and started crawling toward the quartet. Mudge tried to stop him, but the koala was still strong enough to shake the well-meaning otter off. The determination on his round gray face was something to behold.

  Unimpressed, the imps put their voices together and began to sing again. A new song this time, one even more affecting and lugubrious than the first.

  “Yourrr cheati’ hearttt… !”

  Jon-Tom found he was sweating. Straightforward traditional country-western they were singing. Even though he was on the fringes of the music, it staggered him. He’d never expected anything so awful, so bright and brassy, so thick with saccharine lyrics and sickly chords. The imps sang on, harmonizing beautifully, their voices dense with despair and self-pity.

  Co
lin couldn’t take it. He had no experience of that degree of moroseness, and it knocked him flat. With a last burst of energy he threw his sword at the quartet’s lead singer. A few strains of Hank Williams knocked the blade to the ground.

  Then they turned to face the only one capable of standing against them. Jon-Tom held his ground, his fingers poised over the duar’s strings, ready for whatever might come.

  The simple Conway Twitty tune was a test, he knew, and he handled it easily enough, striking back with Springsteen’s “Pink Cadillac.” One imp gave ground, frowned, then returned to the lineup with a will. The hellish quartet segued instantly into serious solemnity with a typically maudlin Patsy Cline standard. Sweat broke out on Jon-Tom’s brow as he countered with van Halen’s effervescent “Jump.”

  As they traded songs the air itself seemed confused, uncertain of whether to give vent to rain or sunshine. Songs in four-part harsh harmony by Tammy Wynette, Johnny Cash, and Ronnie Milsap made it hard for the travelers even to breathe by turning the air into a cloying stew. Jon-Tom tried to lighten the atmosphere as best he could by responding with the more exuberant music he could think of, from Loggin’s “Footloose” to a medley by Cyndi Lauper.

  But there was no one to help him, and it was four against one. As always, his strongest ally was his own playing. The more he sang, the stronger his spellsinging became.

  The imps began to retreat, falling back a step at a time as Jon-Tom advanced upon them. They were unable to deal with his exhilaration or the relentless vitality of his music. They drew closer and closer together until there was no space between them at all. Like four figures fashioned of Silly Putty, they began to merge, in body as well as in voice. When the convergence had concluded, Jon-Tom found himself facing a four-headed, eight-armed giant instead of the impish humanoid figures who’d first challenged him and his companions on the trail. It had the same four faces, played the same four instruments, but the body had grown swollen and distorted. Like a bloated four-headed slug it wove and danced before him, all the while continuing to sing, sing of a world in which work led only to poverty, beauty only to heartbreak, and love only to misery and loneliness.