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

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Yeah, but it’s not like an inoculation,” Jon-Tom muttered. “We haven’t become immune. We keep taking risks and sooner or later they’ve got to catch up with us.” He ducked to avoid a low section of iron ceiling.

  “We shall do our best, my boy, to see that it is later.”

  Pog remained behind, hanging quietly from the oil lamp in the now empty room. He considered remaining behind permanently. The Ironclouders would shelter him, he was sure.

  That would mean no transformation, of course. All that he’d suffered at the wizard’s hands, and mouth, would have been for naught. Also, as the only arboreal of the group, he knew how they depended on him for reconnaissance and such.

  Besides, better death than life cursed by unrequited love.

  He let free of the lamp, dipped in the air, and soared out into the tunnel after the two wizards.

  There was the anticipated debate and argument the next morning. One by one, as before, the various members of the little group were won over by Clothahump’s assurances, obstinacy, and veiled threats.

  Their course decided, it was time to ascertain the position taken during the night by the inhabitants of Ironcloud. Five of the great owls faced the travelers on the plateau below the cave city. Two were horned, two pale barn, and one a tiny hoot, who was smaller than Pog but equal in dignity to his massive feathered brothers. With them were five lemurs. The sun was not yet up.

  “We do not doubt your seriousness nor the truth you tell,” Tolafay was saying, “nor the worth of your mission, but still we doubted whether it was worth breaking a rule of hundreds of years of noninvolvement in the arguments of others.” He gestured at Ananthos.

  “Yet we share such feelings with the inhabitants of the Scuttleteau and they have nonetheless agreed to help you. So we will help, too.” Murmurs of agreement came from his companions.

  “That’s settled, then,” said a satisfied Clothahump. “You will be valuable allies in the coming war and—”

  “A moment, please.” One of the lemurs stepped forward. He had a high, stiff collar and light vest above billowing pantaloons of bright yellow. “We did not say that we’d be your allies. We said we’d help.

  “You asked us to give the Weavers permission to travel through our country and to provide a route southward through the mountains so they can reach the Swordsward and then make their way to the Jo-Troom Gate you speak of. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll also try and find you a way to the Greendowns. But we won’t fight.”

  “But I thought—” Jon-Tom began.

  “No!” snapped one of the other owls. “Absolutely no. We simply can’t do any more for yooooo. Don’t ask it of us.”

  “But surely—” A restraining hand touched Talea and she quieted.

  “It is more than we’d hoped for, friends. It will suffice.” Clothahump turned to face Ananthos. “We have the allies we came to find.”

  “so you do,” said the spider at last, “provided the army can be assembled in time to make the march.”

  “I can only hope that it does,” the wizard told him solemnly, “because the fate of several worlds may depend on it.”

  “Not Ironcloud,” said another of the owls smugly. “Ironcloud is impregnable to assault by land or air.”

  “So it is,” agreed Caz casually, “but not by magic.”

  “We’ll take our chances,” said Tolafay firmly.

  “Then there’s nothing more to be said.” Clothahump nodded.

  Wordlessly the Ironclouders departed, owl and primate soaring to join their brethren high in the night sky. Great wings and glowing eyes shone as the night hunters returned in twos and threes to their black home. They filled the air between earth and moon.

  Another pair lifted from the plateau, heading for interior darkness and a good, warm day’s sleep. Jon-Tom could only hope those homes would be as invulnerable as their inhabitants believed from the eventual attacks of the Plated Folk.

  The last of the lemurs stared at them curiously while her companion owl kicked impatiently at the ground. The sun had peeked over the eastern crags and those great eyes were three-quarters closed in half sleep.

  “There’s one thing I’d like to know. How do you warmlanders expect to penetrate Cugluch?”

  “Disguise,” Clothahump told her confidently.

  “You do not look much like Plated Folk,” replied the lemur doubtfully.

  Clothahump shook a finger at her, spoke knowingly. “The greatest disguise is assurance. We will be protected because no Plated One would believe our presence. And where assurance operates, magic is not far behind.”

  The lemur shrugged. “I think you are all fools, brave fools, and soon-to-be-dead fools. But we will show the Weavers the path they require and you the path to your deaths.” She looked upward. “Your guides come.”

  Two owls descended to join them. One motioned to the waiting Ananthos. The Weaver trembled slightly as he made his farewells.

  “we shall meet at the gate,” he told them. “that is, if I survive this journey. i am not afraid of heights, but I have never been in a high place where i could not break a fall by attaching silk to some solid object. you cannot spin from a cloud.”

  He climbed on the owl’s back, waved legs at them. The owl took a few steps, flapping mighty wings, and then soared into the air of morning. He wore dark shades to protect him from the sunlight.

  They watched until the wings became a black line on the horizon. Then the pair faded even from Caz’s view.

  The small hoot owl stood muttering to herself nearby. Her kilt was black, purple, and yellow. “I’m Imanooo,” she informed them brusquely. “Let’s get on with this. I’ll point you the way for two days, but that’s all. Then you’re on your own.”

  The remaining lemur mounted his saddle. “I still think you’re all fools, but,” he smiled broadly, “many a brave fool has succeeded where a cautious genius has failed. Fly well.” He saluted with an arm wave as he and his friend rose skyward.

  Alone in their cold-weather garb, the travelers watched until the last pairing vanished into the hematite. Then Imanooo rose and started off to the south, and they followed.

  The path where there was no path carried them steadily lower. The unvarying downhill hike was a welcome change from the tortuous march to Ironcloud. The day after Imanooo left them they began to discard their heavy clothing. Soon they were down among trees and bushes, and snow was only a fading memory.

  Jon-Tom slowed his pace to stay alongside Clothahump. The wizard was in excellent spirits and showed no ill effects from the past weeks of marching.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, my boy?” Eyes looked up at him through the thick glasses. Abruptly Jon-Tom felt uncomfortable. It had seemed so simple a while ago when he’d thought of it, a mere question. Now it fought to hide in his throat.

  “Well, sir,” he finally got out, “among my people there’s a certain mental condition.”

  “Go on, boy.”

  “It has a common name. It’s called a death wish.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Clothahump thoughtfully. “I presume it refers to someone who wishes to die.”

  Jon-Tom nodded. “Sometimes the person isn’t aware of it himself and it has to be pointed out to him by another. Even then he may not believe it.”

  They walked on a while longer before he added, “Sir, no disrespect intended, but do you think you might have a death wish?”

  “On the contrary, my boy,” replied the wizard, apparently not offended in the least, “I have a life wish. I’m only putting myself into danger to preserve life for others. That hardly means I want to relinquish my own.”

  “I know, sir, but it seems to me that you’ve taken us from one danger to another only to take successively bigger risks. In other words, the more we survive, the more you seem to want to chance death.”

  “A valid contention based solely on the evidence and your personal interpretation of it,” said Clothahump. “You ignore one thing: I wish t
o survive and live as much as any of you.”

  “Can you be certain of that, sir? After all, you’ve already lived more than twice a normal human lifetime, a much fuller life than any of the rest of us.” He gestured at the others.

  “Would it pain you so much to die?”

  “I follow your reasoning, my boy. You’re saying that I am willing to risk death because I’ve already had a reasonable life and therefore have less than you to lose.”

  Jon-Tom didn’t reply.

  “My boy, you haven’t lived long enough to understand life. Believe me, it is more precious to me now because I have less of it. I guard every day jealously because I know it may be my last. I don’t have less to lose than you: I have more to lose.”

  “I just wanted to be sure, sir.”

  “Of what? The reasons for my decisions? You can be, boy. They are founded upon a single motivation: the need to prevent the Plated Masses from annihilating civilization. Even if I did want to die, I would not do so until I had expended every bit of energy in my body to prevent that conflagration from destroying the warmlands. I might kill myself if I suffered from the aberration you suggest, but only after I’d saved everyone else.”

  “That’s good to hear, sir.” Jon-Tom felt considerably relieved.

  “There is one thing that has been troubling me a little, however.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Well, it’s most peculiar.” The wizard looked up at him.

  “But you see, I’m not at all certain that I remember the formula for preparing our disguises.”

  Jon-Tom hesitated, frowned. “Surely we can’t enter Cugluch without them, sir?”

  “Of course not,” agreed Clothahump cheerfully. “I suggest therefore that you consider some appropriate spellsongs. You have seen one of the Plated Folk. That is what we must endeavor to look like.”

  “I don’t know if…”

  “Try, my boy,” said the wizard in a more serious tone, “for if you cannot think of anything and I cannot remember the formula, then I fear we will be forced to give up this attempt.”

  Though he worked at it for the next several days, Jon-Tom was unable to think of a single appropriate tune. Insects were not a favorite subject for groups whose music he knew by heart, such as Zepplin or Tull, Queen or the Stones or even the Beatles, who, he felt sure, had written at least one song about everything. He searched his memory, went through the few classical pieces he knew, jumped from Furry Lewis to Ferlin Husky to Foreigner without success.

  The dearth of material was understandable, though. Love and sex and money and fame were far more attractive song subjects than bugs. The thinking helped to kill the time and made the march more tolerable.

  Never once did it occur to him that Clothahump might have invented the request simply in order to keep Jon-Tom’s mind on harmless matters.

  Three more days passed before they reached the outskirts of the vast, festering lowlands that formed the Greendowns. They rested on a slope and munched nuts, berries, and lizard jerky while studying the fog and mist that enshrouded the lands of the Plated Folk.

  Conifers had surrendered the soil to hardwoods. These now fought to assert their dominance over palms and baobabs, succulents and creepers. Occasionally a strange cry or whistle would rise from the mist.

  Jon-Tom finished his meal and stood, his leathern pants sticking to his legs from the humidity. To the west towered the snow-crowned crags of Zaryt’s Teeth. It was difficult to believe that a pass broke that towering rampart. It lay somewhere to the southwest of their present position. At its far end was the Jo-Troom Gate and beyond that, a section of Swordsward and bustling, friendly Polastrindu.

  His own home was somewhat more distant, a trillion miles away on the other side of time, turn right at the rip in the fabric of space and take the fourth-dimensional offramp.

  He turned. Clothahump was busy with wizard’s business. Pog assisted him.

  “We’d better come up with something.” Talea had moved to stand next to him, stood looking down into the mist. “We go down there looking like ourselves and we’ll be somebody’s supper before the day’s out.”

  “Aye, that’s the truth, lass,” agreed Mudge. “’E’ll ’ave t’ make us look like a choice slice o’ ’ell.”

  “He already has, I think,” was Caz’s comment. “You’d better straighten your antenna. The left one is pointing backward instead of forward.”

  “I’ll do that.” Mudge reached up and was in the middle of straightening the errant sensor when he suddenly realized what had happened. “’Cor, but that was quick!”

  Clothahump rejoined them. Rather, they were joined by a squat, pudgy beetle that sounded something like Clothahump. Pale red compound eyes inspected them each in turn. Four arms crossed over the striated abdomen.

  “What do you think, my friends? Have I solved the problem and allayed your fears, or not?”

  When the initial shock finally wore off, they were able to take more careful stock of themselves. The disguises seemed foolproof. Talea, Flor, Mudge, and the rest now resembled giant versions of things Jon-Tom usually smashed underfoot. The middle set of arms moved in tandem with their owners actual ones. Pog had turned into a giant flying beetle.

  “Is that really you in there, Jon-Tom?” The thing with Flor’s voice ran a clawed hand over the pale blue chitin encasing him.

  “I think so.” He looked down at himself, noted with astonishment the multijointed legs, the smooth undercurve of abdomen, the peculiar wave-shaped sword at his hip.

  “Not too uncomfortable, my boy?”

  Jon-Tom looked admiringly at the squat beetle. “It’s a wonderful job, sir. I feel like I’m inside a suit of armor, yet I’m cooler than I was a few moments ago without it.”

  “Part of the spell, my boy,” said the wizard with pride. “Attention to detail makes all the difference.”

  “Speakin’ o’ attention t’ detail, Your Masterness,” Mudge said, “’ow do I go about takin’ a leak?”

  “There are detachable sections of chitin in the appropriate places, otter. You must take care to conceal bodily functions of any kind from those we will be among. I could not imagine Plated Folk jaws through which we might eat, for example. Hopefully we can finish our business in Cugluch and be out of it and these suits before very long.”

  “You remembered the formula well,” Jon-Tom told the wizard.

  “Well enough, my boy.” They left their packs and started down the slope into the steaming lowlands. “One key phrase eluded me for a time.

  “Multioptics, eyes of glass,

  sextupal reach in fiberglass,

  hot outside but cool within,

  suit of polymers I’ll spin.”

  He proceeded to detail the formula that had provided such perfectly fitted disguises.

  “So these are foolproof, then?” Talea asked hopefully from just ahead of them. It was difficult to think of the black-and-brown-spotted creature as the beautiful, feisty Talea, Jon-Tom mused.

  “My dear, no disguise is foolproof,” Clothahump replied somberly.

  “Dat’s for damn sure.” Pog fluttered awkwardly overhead on false beetle wings.

  “We are entering the Greendowns from the northern ranges,” the wizard reminded them. “The Plated Folk cannot imagine someone intentionally entering their lands. The only section of their territories which might be even lightly watched is that near the Pass. We should be able to mingle freely with whoever we chance to encounter.”

  “That’ll be the true test of these suits, won’t it?” said Caz. “Not whether we look believable to each other, but whether we can fool them.”

  “The formula was as all-encompassing as I could fashion it,” said Clothahump confidently. “In any case, we shall know in a moment.”

  They turned a bend in the animal path they’d been following and came face to face with a dozen workers of that benighted land. The Plated Folk were cutting hardwood and loading the logs on a lizard-drawn sled. Unab
le to retreat, the travelers marched doggedly ahead.

  They were nearly past when one of the cutters, a foreman perhaps, walked over on short spindly legs and gestured with two of his four limbs. Jon-Tom marked the gesture for future use.

  “Hail, citizens! Whence come you, and wither go?”

  There was an uncomfortably long silence until Caz thought to say, “We’ve been out on patrol.”

  “Patrol… in the mountains?” The foreman looked askance at the snows beyond the forest’s edge. He made a clicking sound that might have passed for laughter. “What were you patrolling for? Nothing comes from the north.”

  “We do not,” said Caz, thinking furiously, “have to provide such information to hewers of wood. However, there is no harm in your knowing.” His disguise gave his voice a raspy tone.

  “In her wisdom the Empress has decreed that every possible approach be inspected at least once in a while. Surely you do not question her wisdom?” Caz put his hand on his scimitar, and two limbs gripped the strange weapon.

  “No, no!” said the insect foreman hastily, “of course not. Now, of all times, the greatest secrecy must be preserved.” He still sounded doubtful. “Even so, nothing has come out of these mountains in years and years.”

  “Of course not,” said Caz haughtily. “Does that not prove the effectiveness of these secret patrols?”

  “That is sensible, citizen,” agreed the foreman, his confusion overcome thanks to Caz’s inexorable logic.

  The others had continued past while the rabbit had been conversing with the foreman. That worthy snapped to attention and offered an interesting salute with both arms on his left side. Caz mimicked it in return, his false middle arm functioning smoothly in tandem with the real one.

  “The Empress!” said the foreman with praiseworthy enthusiasm.

  “The Empress,” Caz replied. “Now then, be on about your business, citizen. The Empire needs that wood.” The foreman executed a sign of acknowledgment and returned to his work. Caz tried not to move too hastily down the slope after his companions.