The Spellsinger Adventures Volume One: Spellsinger, the Hour of the Gate, and the Day of the Dissonance

by Alan Dean Foster

  “I prefer money, thank you.”

  It was a good thing Falameezar was no longer with them, Jon-Tom thought. He and their boatman were at opposite ends of the political spectrum. Of course, with Falameezar, they would not have required Bribbens’ services. He was surprised to discover that despite the archaic, inflexible political philosophy, he still missed the dragon.

  “Young female,” Bribbens said finally, “you have your romantic ideas and I’ve got mine. I’m helping you to satisfy your needs and that’s all you’ll get from me. Now shut up. I dislike noisy chatter, especially from romantic females.”

  “Oh you do, do you?” Flor started to get to her feet. “How would you like—”

  The frog jerked a webbed hand toward the southern shore. “It’s not too far to the bank, and you look like a pretty good swimmer, for a human. I think you can make it without any trouble.”

  Flor started to finish her comment, got the point, and resumed her seat near the craft’s bow. She was fuming, but sensible. It was Bribbens’ game and they had to play with his equipment, according to his rules. But that didn’t mean she had to like it.

  The boatman puffed contentedly on his pipe. “Interesting group of passengers, more so than my usual.” He tapped out the dottle on the deck, locked the steering oar in position, and commenced repacking his pipe. “Wonder to me you haven’t killed one another before now.”

  It was odd, Jon-Tom mused as they drifted onward, to be moving downstream and yet toward mountains. Rivers ran out of hills. Perhaps the Sloomaz-ayor-le-Weentli dropped into an as yet unseen canyon. If so, they would have a spectacular journey through the mountains.

  Occasionally they had to set up the canvas roofing that attached to the railings to keep off the nightly rain. At such times Bribbens would fix the oar and curve them to a safe landing onshore. They would wait out the night there, raindrops pelting the low ceiling, until the sun rose and pushed aside the clouds. Then it was on once more, borne swiftly but smoothly in the gentle grip of the river.

  Jon-Tom did not fully appreciate the height of Zaryt’s Teeth until the third day. They entered the first foothills that morning. The river cut its way insistently through the green-cloaked, rolling mounds. Compared to the nearing mountains, the massive hillocks were merely bruises on the earth.

  Here and there great lumps of granite protruded through the brush and topsoil. They reminded Jon-Tom of the fingertips of long-buried giants and brought back to him the legends of these mountains. While not degenerating into rapids, the river nonetheless increased its pace, as if anxious to carry those traveling upon it to some unexpected destination.

  Several days passed during which they encountered nothing suggestive of habitation. The hills swelled around them, becoming rockier and more barren. Even wildlife hereabouts was scarce.

  Once they did drift past a populated beach. A herd of unicorns was backed up there against the water. Stallions and mares formed a semicircle with the water at their backs, protecting the colts, which snorted and neighed nervously.

  Pacing confusedly before the herd’s defensive posture was a pack of perhaps a dozen lion-sized lizards. They were sleek as whippets and their red and white scales gleamed in the sunlight.

  As the travelers cruised past, one of the lizards sprang, trying to leap over the adults and break the semicircle. Instead, he landed on the two-foot-long, gnarly horn of one of the stallions.

  A horrible hissing crackled like fresh foil through the day and blood fountained in all directions, splattering colts and killer alike. Bending his neck, the unicorn used both forehooves to shove the contorted body of the dying carnivore off his head.

  The boat drifted around a bend, its passengers ignorant of the eventual outcome of the war. Blood from the impaled predator flowed into the river. The red stain mindlessly stalked the retreating craft… .

  VI

  IT WAS THE FOLLOWING afternoon, when they rounded a bend in the river, that Jon-Tom thought would surely be their last.

  The foothills had grown steadily steeper around them. They were impressive, but nonexistent compared to the sheer precipices that suddenly rose like a wall directly ahead. Clouds veiled their summits, parting only intermittently to reveal shining white caps at the higher elevations; snow and ice that never melted. The mottled stalks of conifers looked like twigs where they marched up into the mists.

  It was a seamless gray cliff which rose up unbroken ahead of the raft. Solid old granite, impassable and cold.

  Bribbens was neither surprised nor perturbed by this impassable barrier. Leaning hard on the sweep, he turned the boat to port. At first Jon-Tom thought they would simply ground on the rocks lining the shore, but when they rounded a massive, sharp boulder he saw the tiny beach their boatman was aiming for.

  It was a dry notch cut into the fringe of the mountain. Warm water slapped against his boots as the boat’s passengers scrambled to pull it onto the sand. Driftwood mixed with the blackened remnants of many camp fires. The little cove was the last landing point on the river.

  On the visible river, anyway.

  The wind tumbled and rolled down the sheer cliffs. It seemed to be saying, “Go back, fools! There is nothing beyond here but rock and death. Go back!” and a sudden gust would send Talea or Mudge stumbling westward as the wind tried to urge their retreat.

  Jon-Tom waded out into the river until the water lapped at his boot tops. Leaning around a large, slick rock, he was able to see why Bribbens had rowed them into the protected cove.

  Several hundred yards downstream, downstream was no more. An incessant crackling and grinding came from the river’s end. An immense jam of logs and branches, bones, and other debris boiled like clotted pudding against the gray face of the mountain. Foam thundered on rock and wood like cold lava.

  He couldn’t see where the water vanished into the mountainside because of the obstructing flotsam, but from time to time a log or branch would be sucked beneath the brow of the cliff, presumably into the cavern beyond. The thickness of the jam suggested that the cave opening into the mountain couldn’t be more than a few inches above the waterline. If it were higher, he would have been able to see it as a dark stain on the granite, and if lower, the river would have backed up and drowned out, among other things, the cove they were beached upon.

  But the opening must be quite deep, because the river had narrowed until it was no more than thirty yards wide where it ground against the mountainside, and the current was no swifter than usual.

  “What do we do now?” Flor had waded out to stand next to him. She watched as logs several yards thick spun and bounced off the rock. They must have weighed thousands of pounds and were waterlogged as well.

  “There’s no way we can move any of that stuff upstream against the current.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he told her. “Even if Clothahump could magic them aside, the opening’s still much too low to let the boat through.”

  “So it seems.” Bribbens stood on the sand behind them. He was unloading supplies from the boat. “But we’re not going in that way. That is, we are, but we’re not.”

  “I don’t follow you,” said Jon-Tom.

  “You will. You’re, paying to.” He grinned hugely. “Why do you think the Sloomaz-ayor-le-Weentli is called also The Double River, The River of Twos?”

  “I don’t know.” Jon-Tom was irritated at his ignorance. “I thought it forked somewhere upstream. It doesn’t tell me how we’re going to get through there,” and he pointed at the churning, rumbling mass of jackstraw debris.

  “It does, if you know:”

  “So what do we do first?” he said, tired of riddles.

  “First we take anything that’ll float off the boat,” was the boatman’s order.

  “And then.”

  “And then we pole her out into the middle of the current, open her stoppers, and sink her. After we’ve anchored her securely, of course.”

  Jon-Tom started to say something, thought better of it. Si
nce the frog’s statement was absurd and since he was clearly not an idiot, then it must follow that he knew something Jon-Tom did not. When confronted by an inexplicable claim, he’d been taught, it was better not to debate until the supporting evidence was in.

  “I still don’t understand,” said Flor confusedly.

  “You will,” Bribbens assured her. “By the way, can you both swim?”

  “Fairly well,” said Jon-Tom.

  “I don’t drown,” was Flor’s appraisal.

  “Good. I hope the other human is likewise trained.

  “For the moment you can’t do anything except help with the unloading. Then I suggest you relax and watch.”

  When the last buoyant object had been removed from the boat, they took the frog at his word and settled down on the beach to observe.

  Bribbens guided the little vessel out into the river. On locating a place that suited him (but that looked no different from anywhere else to Jon-Tom and Flor) he tossed over bow and stern anchors. Sunlight glistened off the boatman’s now bare green and black back and off the smooth fur of the nude otter standing next to him.

  Both watched as the anchors descended. The boat slowly swung around before halting about a dozen yards farther downstream. Bribbens tested the lines to make certain both anchors were fast on the bottom.

  Then he vanished belowdecks for several minutes. Soon the boat began to sink. Shortly only the mast was visible above the surface. Then it too had sunk out of sight. Mudge swam above the spot where it had gone under, occasionally dipping his head beneath the surface. The amphibian Bribbens was as at home in the river’s depths as he was on land. Mudge was almost as comfortable, being a faster swimmer but unable to extract oxygen from the water.

  Soon the otter waved to those remaining on shore. He shouted something unintelligible. They saw his back arch as he dived. He repeated the dive-appear-dive-appear sequence several times. Then Bribbens broke the surface alongside him and they both swam in to the beach.

  They silently took turns convoying the floatable supplies (carefully packed in watertight skins) out to the center of the stream, disappearing with them, and then returning for more.

  Finally Bribbens stood dripping on the beach. “Good thing the river doesn’t come out of the mountain. Be too cold for this sort of thing.”

  “What sort of thing?” a thoroughly bemused Flor wanted to know.

  “Let’s go and you’ll find out.”

  “Go? Go where?”

  “Why, to the ship, of course,” said Talea. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “No one explains things to me. They just look.” She was almost angry.

  “It will all be explained in a minute,” said Clothahump patiently.

  The boatman held out a watertight sack. “If you’ll put your clothes in here.”

  “What for?” Flor’s gaze narrowed.

  Bribbens explained patiently, “So they won’t get wet.” He started to turn away. “It’s no difference to me. If you want to spend the journey inside the probably cold mountain in wet clothing, that’s your business. I’m not going to argue with you.”

  Jon-Tom was already removing his cape and shirt. Talea and Caz were doing likewise. Flor gave a little shrug and began to disrobe while the wizard made sure his plastron compartments were sealed tight. Physically he was the weakest of them, but like the boatman, he would have no difficulty going wherever they were going.

  There was one problem, though. It took the form of a black lump hanging from a large piece of driftwood.

  “Absolutely not! Not on your life, and sure as hell not on mine.” Pog folded his wings adamantly around his body and looked immovable. “I’ll wait for ya here.”

  “We may not return this way,” explained Clothahump.

  “You may not return at all, but dat ain’t da point dat’s botherin’ me,” grumbled the bat.

  “Come now.” Clothahump had elected to try reason on his famulus. “I could make you come, you know.”

  “You can make me do a lot of tings, boss,” replied the bat, “but not you nor anyting else in dis world’s going to drag me into dat river!”

  “Come on, Pog.” Jon-Tom felt silly standing naked on the beach arguing with the reluctant bat. “Flor, Talea, Caz, and I aren’t water breathers either. But I trust Clothahump and our boatman to know what they’re about. Surely we’re going to reach air soon. I can’t hold my breath any longer than you.”

  “Water’s fit for drinking, not for living in,” Pog continued to insist. “You ain’t getting me into dat liquid grave and dat’s final.”

  Jon-Tom’s expression turned sorrowful. “If that’s the way you feel about it.” He’d seen Talea and Mudge sneaking around to get behind the driftwood. “You might as well wait here for us, I suppose.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said the wizard.

  Jon-Tom put a hand on the turtle’s shell, turned him toward the river. “It’s no use arguing with him, sir. His mind is made up and—”

  “Hey? Let me loose! Damn you, Mudge, get off my wings! I’ll tear your guts out! I’ll, I’ll… ! Let me up!”

  “Get his wings down!… Watch those teeth!” Flor and Jon-Tom rushed to help. The four of them soon had the bat neatly pinned. Talea located some strong, thin vines and began wrapping the famulus like a holiday package.

  “Sorry to do this, old fellow,” said Caz apologetically, “but we’re wasting time. Jon-Tom’s right though, you know. I’m probably the worst swimmer of this lot, but I’m willing to give it a go if Clothahump insists there’s no danger.”

  “Of course not,” said the wizard. “Well, very little, in any case. Bribbens knows precisely how far we must descend.”

  The boatman stood listening. He eyed the bat distastefully. “Right. Bring him along, then.”

  They carried the bound and trussed famulus toward the water’s edge.

  “Let me go!” Pog’s fear of the river was genuine. “I can’t do it, I tell ya! I’ll drown. I’m warning ya all I’ll come back and haunt ya the rest of your damn days!”

  “That’s your privilege.” Talea led the way into the river.

  “You’ll drown all right,” Bribbens told him, “if you don’t do exactly as I say.”

  “Where are we going, then?” Jon-Tom asked, a little dazedly.

  The frog pointed out and down. “Just swim, man. When we get to the spot I’ll say so. Then you dive… and swim.”

  “Straight down?” Jon-Tom kicked, the water smooth and fresh around him. A little shiver of fear raced down his back. Clothahump and Bribbens and to a lesser extent Mudge need have no fear of the water. It was one of their environments. But what if they were wrong? What if the underwater cave (or whatever it was they were going down into) lay too deep?

  A friendly pat on one shoulder reassured him. “’Ere now, why the sunken face, mate? There ain’t a bloomin’ thing t’ worry about.” Mudge smiled around his wet whiskers. “’Tain’t far down atall, not even for a splay-toed ’uman.”

  Bribbens halted, bobbing in the warm current. “Ready then? Just straight down. I’ve allowed for the carry of the current, so no need to worry about that.”

  Everyone exchanged glances. Pog’s protests bordered on hysteria.

  “Here, give the flyer over.” A disgusted Bribbens gripped one side of the bat, locking fingers tightly in the bindings. Pog resembled a large mouse sealed in black plastic. “You take the other side.”

  “Righty-ho, mate.” Mudge grabbed a handful of vines opposite the frog.

  With the two strongest swimmers holding their reluctant, wailing burden, Bribbens instructed the others. “Count to three, then dive.” The humans nodded. So did Caz, who was doing a good job of concealing his fears.

  “Ready? One… two… better stop screaming and take a deep breath, bat, or you’ll be ballast… three!”

  Backs arched into the morning air. The howling ceased as Pog suddenly gulped air.

  Jon-Tom felt himself sliding downward. Below th
e surface the water quickly turned darker and cooler. It clutched feebly at his naked body as he kicked hard.

  Around him were the dim forms of his companions. A slick palm touched one fluttering foot, pushed gently. Looking back he could make out the plump shape of Clothahump. He was swimming casually around the nonaquatics. The water took a hundred years off his age, and he moved with the grace and ease of a ballet dancer.

  The push was more to insure that no one lost his orientation and began swimming sideways than to speed the swimmers in their descent.

  Even so, Jon-Tom was beginning to grow a mite concerned. Increasing pressure told him that they’d descended a respectable distance. Both he and Flor were in fairly good condition, but he was less sure of Pog and Caz. If they didn’t reach the air pocket they had to be heading toward shortly, he’d have to turn around and swim for the surface.

  The surface he broke was unexpected, however. He felt himself falling helplessly, head over heels, windmilling his arms in a desperate attempt to regain his balance.

  A loud splash echoed up to him as someone else hit the water. Then he landed with equal force, sank a few feet, and fought his way back to the surface and fresh air.

  He broke through and inhaled several deep breaths. Nearby Talea’s red curls hung straight and limp as paint from her head. She blinked away water, gasped, and sniffed once.

  “Well, that wasn’t bad at all. I’d heard it wasn’t, but you can’t always trust the tales people tell.”

  Her breasts bobbed easily in the current. Jon-Tom stared at her, more conscious now of her nudity than he’d been when they’d first removed their clothes up above.

  But they were above. Weren’t they?

  Something shoved him firmly between the shoulders.

  “Let the current carry you.”

  Jon-Tom turned in the water, stared into the vast eyes of Bribbens. Looking past him he saw the ship. It was neatly anchored and sat stable in the middle of the stream, perhaps ten yards away. They were drifting toward it.