The Moment of the Magician: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Four)

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Something wrong? If it’s the trail …”

  “’Tisn’t that, guv. It’s … well, you’d better come and ’ave a looksee for yourself.”

  “A looksee at what?”

  Mudge said evenly, “I think the ground ahead’s on fire.”

  Jon-Tom swallowed his ready retort as he saw that the otter was in dead earnest. Hurriedly he slipped into his backpack and followed his companion southward. Mudge underscored the seriousness of his claim by not talking as they marched.

  Sure enough, as they topped a small pass between the boulders, Jon-Tom could see vapor rising off to the left. It was only after they’d hiked another mile that he could be certain it wasn’t smoke.

  Mudge could see the difference, too. “Sorry, mate. I turned back to camp before comin’ this far. That ain’t smoke from no fire. ’Tis steam.”

  “That it is,” Jon-Tom agreed, “but what’s the source?”

  They found out when they crested the next rise. Stretched out before them was a most wonderful panorama. Hot pools of varying depth and hue bubbled and growled in the cool of morning. Steplike terraces of calcium carbonate climbed the rocks, each one like the entrance to a sultan’s palace. Steaming water cascaded down them from hot springs above, constantly adding to and altering an already spectacular sight. Brown-and-yellow bands of travertine enclosed emerald-green basins. Everywhere could be seen the blue, green, and yellow of heat-loving algae.

  “Just like Yellowstone,” Jon-Tom murmured. “I feel privileged to see this.”

  “And I feel like a moron,” muttered Mudge. “‘Earth on fire’ indeed!”

  Don’t feel bad. It could look that way from a distance.” Jon-Tom removed his backpack, then his shirt, and started on his belt.

  Mudge eyed him curiously. “Now wot are you up to?”

  “I haven’t had a hot bath since we left Clothahump’s tree.”

  “A hot bath. Now there’s a novel idea.”

  “Find yourself a cool pool if you want to join me,” Jon-Tom told him, slipping his pants down his legs. “I enjoy hot water, Mudge. Keep in mind that I haven’t got your insulating layers of fur and fat.”

  “Wot fat?” snapped the indignant otter. “I ain’t fat.”

  “It’s a subcutaneous layer and it’s there to keep you warm when you’re under water.”

  “Sounds bloody disgustin’.” Mudge lifted a flap of skin from his left arm, eyed it as though seeing it for the first time. But he was damned if he was going to sit and watch while Jon-Tom enjoyed himself. The water in the pool the human had chosen was much too warm for his taste, but another nearby was pleasant enough. Stripping quickly, he dove into the natural basin, found he had to float. The sand at the bottom was too hot to touch.

  “A hot bath. You ’umans are burstin’ with weird notions.”

  Jon-Tom didn’t reply. He was too comfortable, drifting on his back in the warm water, listening to it bubble and tumble down the hillsides surrounding them. There were no geysers in evidence, suggesting that this was a relatively calm thermal area.

  “Back where I come from,” he told Mudge lazily, “there’s a tribe of humans called the Maori who live in a place just like this. It’s called Rotorua and it steams all year round.”

  Mudge sniffed, paddling across the surface of his own pool. “It ain’t for me, mate. Give me a nice ice-cold mountain stream to go swimmin’ in any day. Though this stuff does,” he admitted, “clear out your sinuses.” He dove in a single flowing motion, a graceful curve that belied the presence of a stiff backbone.

  As he did, something struck the water just behind him.

  Jon-Tom stood, the heat of the bottom sand tickling his feet, and tried to see what had entered the water aft of the otter’s submerging backside. As he stared, something went spang against the boulder behind him and flew to pieces. Some of the pieces floated. He picked them up and identified them instantly.

  When Mudge broke the surface again, it was to see his companion huddled in a narrow cove formed by overhanging rocks. He paddled toward the adjoining pool. “Wot’s up, mate?”

  “Didn’t you see?”

  “See wot?” Mudge frowned, pivoted in the lukewarm water.

  “It went right over when you dove.”

  “Wot went right over me when I dove?” Something whizzed past his right ear and he jerked around sharply in the water, his eyes wide. “Cor, somebody’s shootin’ at us!” He ducked just in time, and a second arrow struck the water directly behind him.

  He emerged as if shot from some subterranean gun, leaping completely over the stone barrier separating the two pools, and swam over to huddle next to Jon-Tom. Their weapons and clothes lay on a nice, dry slope on the opposite side of the water, in a sunny spot completely devoid of cover.

  “We’ll ’ave to make a run for it, mate.” Mudge spat out warm water. “We can’t just squat ’ere and let ’em pick us off.” He took a deep breath and started to submerge.

  Jon-Tom grabbed him by the fur on top of his head and pulled him up again. “Hold on a minute.” A half dozen arrows whizzed past, far overhead. “Listen.”

  High-pitched squeaks sounded from the far ridge. More arrows went past. None landed near the nervous bathers.

  “Maybe they’re not shooting at us.” He paddled out just far enough to see around the rocks beneath which they were hiding, trying to follow the flight of the arrows.

  Sure enough, moments later other cries and shouts came from that direction, and several small spears arced past overhead, retracing the path of the missiles which had initially panicked the two travelers.

  The shouts and screams grew steadily louder, and soon both groups of combatants revealed themselves. The opposing war parties clashed in the middle of a single natural causeway which wound its way across the hot springs. Spears, stones, and arrows filled the air, flying through the steam. Mudge and Jon-Tom strove to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible.

  There were a few gophers and moles among the fighters, but the large majority on both sides were prairie dogs ranging between four and five feet in height. They slashed and stabbed with quick, short movements, their high-pitched battle squeaks rising above the hiss and rumble of the springs. They fought with a determination and ruthlessness that Jon-Tom found appalling in such, well, cute creatures.

  There was nothing comical about the carnage they wreaked on one another, though. Body after body tumbled into the steaming water, limbs flew through the air as swords made contact, and the perfect clarity of the springs was soon stained dark by the blood of the fallen.

  This went on for the better part of an hour before the war party on the left began to retreat. Their opponents redoubled their efforts and in minutes had gained complete control of the causeway. They fanned out over the opposite hillside, dispatching those of the opposition too weak or badly wounded to join their comrades in flight. They did so with a matter-of-fact bloodthirstiness that chilled Jon-Tom despite the surrounding hot water.

  Something pricked his shoulder and a voice sounded from behind them.

  “You two there. Out of the water!”

  Jon-Tom turned. Four of the victors stood looking down at them. The one holding the spear on him wore a helmet fashioned from the skull of an opponent. It was bright with beads of many colors, trade trinkets, and dangling feathers. An elegant barbarism, Jon-Tom mused. It was a perfect frame for the expression beneath it.

  “Hiya, guv’nor,” said Mudge cheerfully. He spread his paws in a gesture of innocence. “See, we didn’t know there was goin’ to be a punch-up ’ere, we didn’t. We were just ’aving a spot o’ bath, and we—”

  The one with the skull headdress shifted the point of his spear so that the tip hung in the air an inch from Mudge’s nose.

  “Right you are, mate! We’re comin’, we’re comin’.” He climbed out and Jon-Tom followed him.

  Their captors backed off a bit, intimidated by Jon-Tom’s unexpected size, and allowed them to march over the causeway t
o retrieve their clothes. Eyes turned among the rest of the victors as the peculiar pair passed among them. High-pitched queries followed their progress.

  “Where’d you find these?”

  “Down in one of the pools.”

  “What were they doing there, you suppose?”

  “Spying, I wager.”

  “A good place to spy from, if that was their intention.”

  “Mighty big human, isn’t it?”

  “Doesn’t look so tough to me.”

  This steady exchange between the four captors and their colleagues continued until a cluster of older prairie dogs clad in real armor approached. The newcomers were led by one white-furred oldster who was taller than Mudge. His helmet was of brass, with holes cut on top for ears and curved slats to protect the bulging cheeks.

  “I’m General Pocknet,” he said in a curious but no-nonsense tone. “You two don’t belong hereabouts.”

  Jon-Tom wasn’t about to argue with him. “We’re travelers, just passing through on our way south.”

  “South?” The general frowned. “There’s nothing to the south of the hills.”

  “The city-state of Quasequa,” Jon-Tom told him helpfully.

  “Never heard of the place,” replied Pocknet, shaking his head. His jowls and whiskers quivered.

  “Still, that’s where we’re headed.” He nodded toward the bloodstained causeway. “Looks like your troops won.”

  “We won this day, yes.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Don’t try and ingratiate yourself with me, man. We have settled our differences with the Wittens for another month. Then we must fight again to see who retains possession of the springs.”

  Mudge was frowning as he tried to understand. “Let me get this straight now, guv. You lot ’ave this same little argument regular-like every month?”

  “Naturally,” said the officer behind Pocknet.

  “You two honestly don’t know what is happening here, do you?” said Pocknet. Man and otter shook their heads in unison. Pocknet gestured across the water.

  “Over there is my home, the land of Pault.” He turned and pointed up the hill pimpled with the bodies of the Wittens. “Beyond this rise lies the territory of Witten, our hereditary enemy. We fight the good fight on the first day of every month.”

  “For fun?” asked Jon-Tom hesitantly.

  “A typically human conceit. Of course not for fun. We fight for control of this.” He indicated the valley of hot springs with a sweep of one hand.

  “Wot do you want with a bunch o’ boilin’ water?” Mudge wondered.

  The general eyed him distastefully. “Civilized folk know what to do with heat. It cooks our food, cleans our clothing, pleases us in many ways. Whoever controls the bridge controls the Mulmun, and whoever controls the Mulmun controls the springs.”

  “Uh, pardon our ignorance,” said Jon-Tom, “but what’s the Mulmun?”

  The general was shaking his head. “It’s true; you two are ignorant, unsophisticated travelers, aren’t you?”

  “That’s us, your generalship,” agreed Mudge readily. “Just a couple of innocent dolts bumbling our way southward.”

  “That remains to be determined. You’ve said where you are going. Where do you come from?”

  “From the north, from across the Tailaroam. The forest known as the Bellwoods,” Jon-Tom told him.

  “That would explain your evident ignorance of civilized matters,” the general agreed. “But I suspect this pretense of innocence is nothing more than a clever ruse. Obviously you were spying for the Wittens.” A circle of spears closed in tight around Jon-Tom and Mudge.

  “Hey, let’s ’old on a minim ’ere, guv’nor! We were just ’aving ourselves a spot o’ bath is all, wot? Didn’t know shit about this Wittens-mittens-Smault business, we didn’t!” One of the encircling soldiers touched him with a spear, and Mudge turned to glare angrily at him. “Poke me with that again, short whiskers, and I’ll put it where the sun don’t shine.”

  A senior officer leaned forward to whisper in the general’s ear. “Your pardon, sir, but their stupidity appears genuine to me. I honestly believe they have no idea what the Mulmun is.”

  “Hmmph. Well …” General Pocknet nibbled one curling whisker and squinted at the two strangers. “You are an odd pair, no denying it. Too odd even for the Wittens to employ, perhaps.”

  “Oddest pair you ever set your bloomin’ eyes on, guv,” Mudge assured him readily.

  “I may have erred in calling you spies. Yes, you happened to be bathing in the springs, purely out of ignorance of reality, only to find yourselves caught in the middle of a battle.”

  Jon-Tom let out a sigh of relief as the spears withdrew slightly. “That, sir, is just about the size of it.”

  The general waved the spears aside completely. “Let them have their weapons.” He moved to stand close to Jon-Tom, staring up at the much taller human. “Since you are not our enemies, I guess you have to be our guests.”

  “General, sir, if it’s all the same to you, we’d just as soon … umph!” He grabbed himself and looked angrily at Mudge, who’d quickly elbowed him in the ribs. Mudge beckoned him close, and Jon-Tom restrained himself long enough to hear the otter out.

  “Listen to me close, mate. I know these tunnel-dwellers, I do. They can be real touchy about ’avin’ their ’ospitality turned down.”

  “Oh, all right.” He stood, still rubbing his side. “So we’re your guests. What does that entail?”

  “A good meal and friendly chatter,” the general told him. “You can tell us of where you’re from and where you’re going.” He turned and barked orders. His troops began to regroup and to fall back across the causeway. The general and his senior staff flanked the visitors, Pocknet striding along briskly with both paws clasped behind his back. An armor-bearer walked behind him, carrying the general’s helmet and sword.

  “Tell me now, how comes an otter and a man to be traveling together in our country?”

  “Let’s save that for dessert,” Jon-Tom told him. “If you don’t mind, I have a couple of questions of my own.” Mudge was making shushing sounds in his direction. Jon-Tom ignored him.

  “Can’t you share the hot springs with the Wittens?”

  The general smiled up at him. “You are a dumb stranger, so I will excuse the affront. You see,” he said, as if explaining to a child, “there is but the one Mulmun, the symbol of the springs. That is what we fight for control of. Whoever possesses the Mulmun has the right to control the springs.”

  “But isn’t there enough here for both communities? Can’t you share?”

  “Why share,” replied the general, favoring him with an odd look, “when one can have it all?”

  “Because it makes more sense than slaughtering your neighbors.”

  “But we like slaughtering our neighbors, and our neighbors feel exactly the same way about us,” said the general easily.

  “How do you know sharing wouldn’t be better? Have you ever tried sharing?”

  “Absurd notion. We could never trust the Wittens. Wouldn’t dare to try. The minute our backs were turned, they’d cut our throats and take control of the springs forever. If any of us survived, we’d never see the Mulmun again. At least, not for another month.”

  “You only fight on the first of the month? Nobody ever tries a sneak attack on the other side in the middle of an off week?”

  The general looked indignant. “Certainly not! What do you think we are, uncivilized barbarians? What an outrageous notion. Ah, we’re home.”

  Ahead lay a hole in the side of a hill. The large, ornately carved wooden gate had been flung wide to reveal the well-lit tunnel beyond. A line of sentries stood drawn up in review on either side of the pathway. Other, much less spectacularly decorated entrances were visible off to the left.

  The general led Mudge and Jon-Tom inside. As usual, Jon-Tom was forced to bend in order to clear a local ceiling. Once out of the sun, the gophers and moles in
the group were able to remove their protective sunshades.

  Before long they began to encounter noncombatants, citizens engaged in daily chores. Greetings were exchanged between civilians and soldiers. Cubs tagged alongside, jabbering at one another and occasionally pausing to engage in mock battles. Tunnels appeared that branched off in all directions.

  Eventually they turned right and entered a room with a ceiling high enough to permit Jon-Tom to straighten. He pressed a hand gratefully against his complaining lower back. There were half a dozen long tables in the room, each decorated with neat, miniature place settings. Pennants hung from the rock overhead, while spears and more exotic weapons were attached to the walls. Fires burned in several fireplaces whose chimneys had to reach all the way to the surface above. Kettles and pots simmered over the flames.

  “Officers’ mess,” General Pocknet informed them. He directed them to the head table. Jon-Tom found a cushion and tried to balance on it. The low table made the thought of trying a chair out of the question.

  Females brought out hors d’oeuvres, platters heaped high with fruit and nuts. The general cracked one between his front teeth, tossed the shell into a communal basket in the center of the long table, and gnawed on the nutmeat. Soon the room was filled with sharp cracking noises and flying shells. Jon-Tom felt like a kernel in a popcorn popper.

  Mudge was trying to make conversation with one of the waitresses, so it was left to Jon-Tom to engage the general.

  “This war of yours, it’s been going on like this, month after month, for a long time?”

  “As far as history tells,” Pocknet assured him. “We’re quite comfortable with the arrangement, and so are the Wittens. Gives our lives continuity. All disputes between us are settled by control of the Mulmun.”

  “Exactly what is this ‘Mulmung’?”

  “‘Mulmun,’” the general corrected him smoothly. He pointed toward one of the fireplaces as he cracked another nut.

  Resting on the mantel was a garishly colored, three-foot-high blob of regurgitated ceramics, mostly maroon, pink, purple and glazed with pearlescent white. It was possibly the ugliest piece of sculpture, if it could be dignified by such a description, that Jon-Tom had ever seen.