Son Of Spellsinger

by Alan Dean Foster

  The ringtail and raccoon exchanged a distinctly hesitant look before following.

  CHAPTER 7

  The wagon wound its way through the bellwoods until a barely visible leftward branching in the road that Buncan would not even have guessed was there drew Gragelouth to the west. As their new route was not merely less traveled but practically nonexistent, their progress was slow. The terrain remained relatively level and firm.

  The Bellwoods did not so much meld into the Moors as give way abruptly. One moment they were traveling among healthy oaks and sycamores, belltrees and glissando bushes, accompanied by the singing of crywail lizards and the hum of insects, and the next found them passing between cinder-gray groves and the inert hulks of long-dead trees.

  These quickly surrendered the soil to an astonishingly fecund and fevered forest of giant mushrooms, toadstools, and shelf fungi, an overgrown morass of macabre mycelium that throbbed with an unwholesome internal phosphorescence. The cloud-flecked blue sky of the Bellwoods had been obliterated by a pervasive gray-green gloom that disheartened the soul as well as the eye.

  Somewhere above the pestilent fog Buncan knew that the sun still shone brightly, the clouds still collided and coalesced amiably in a blue sea. It was vital to cling to that image as they plodded through the baleful olive-green twilight.

  Water seeped lugubriously from the crowns of gigantic mushrooms and other fungi. Ghostly white growths loomed before them, diseased of appearance, loathsome of smell. Buncan drew his cape a little tighter around his neck. Even the otters were subdued. The dampness didn’t bother them, but the gloom did. The dour surroundings muted their irrepressibly cheerful sibling banter as effectively as the soggy earth hushed the creaky wheels of Gragelouth’s wagon.

  “So these are the Muddletup Moors,” Buncan commented uneasily, not because it was necessary but because the continued silence was unbearable. Peculiar hisses and squeakings emanated from the undermorass, while phosphorescent shapes darted within, hinting at unpleasant horrors just beyond the range of ready vision. Displaying a subdued but unshakable sense of assurance (or hope), Gragelouth picked their way through the intimidating vegetation.

  “I’ve ‘eard all about the Moors, I ‘ave.” Squill knelt on the cushions behind the driver’s bench, peering between Buncan and Gragelouth. Like his enthusiasm, his smile was forced. Moisture beaded up on the tips of his whiskers. “Mudge talked about ‘em a lot. ‘E’s been through ‘ere an’ back an’ come out tail intact every time.”

  “E just never said wot a really depressin’ place it is,” Neena added unhelpfully.

  “Therein lies the true danger of the Moors.” Gragelouth shifted the reins in his thick fingers, his gaze darting nervously to left and then right. “It infiltrates the mind and weakens the will to resist, to go on. Eventually you give up and just stop. Then the spores come, and the white tendrils, and enter your body. They grow in you and on you and use you up, until nothing is left but a collapsed skeleton. That, too, is eventually returned to the muck.”

  “Glad to see you don’t let it bother you,” commented Neena dryly.

  Squill’s expression was sullen. “I ‘ave to admit this ain’t the ‘appiest place I’ve ever been.”

  The atmosphere of the Moors was already beginning to get to them, Buncan realized with a start. The all-pervasive aura of depression and hopelessness pressed down relentlessly.

  “How about a song?”

  “Cor, that’s a good idea, Bunkles.” Neena levered herself up from the cushions. “Somethin’ merry an’ ‘olesome.”

  “No spellsinging,” Gragelouth admonished them. He eyed Buncan’s duar warily. “I thought it was agreed that was only for emergencies. I admit I am depressed, but not mortally so. Not yet.”

  “No spellsinging,” Buncan agreed. “Just something to buoy us up and beat back this gloom.”

  “That could be useful,” the merchant reluctantly conceded.

  “Right.” Buncan struck the strings, flinging frisky chords into the brooding ah- like a noble casting gold pieces at an impecunious crowd. Behind him the otters began to harmonize playfully.

  “Got no time to be sad today

  There’s a time to be sad and a time to play

  Place to be cryin’, place to be dyin’

  We’re gonna get outta here ‘cause we be tryin’

  To motivate this wagon on its way.”

  The music drifted out across the Moors, penetrating and pushing aside the gloom as if it were a dirty, rotting curtain. The weight of the oleaginous air they were breathing lightened perceptibly, while the nearest sphacelated fungi seemed to recoil from the unrelenting cheerfulness, a perception that turned out to be anything but imaginary.

  “Will you stop playing that music?” pleaded the growth on their immediate right.

  “Blimey, Mudge were right.” Neena examined the giant toadstool. “They can communicate when they want to.”

  “How can you sing?” declaimed a chorus of shelf fungi from nearby, “when there’s no hope left? When all is doomed?”

  A cluster of mushrooms no higher man a dray lizard’s belly chimed in. “When existence defines itself through unending misery.”

  “If you put it like that,” Buncan found himself muttering. A paw came down hard on his shoulder.

  “Watch it, mate!” Squill’s bright eyes stared into his own. “Remember that’s ‘ow they work, the Moors. If the atmosphere doesn’t get you, then they try fatalistic philosophy. That’s wot Mudge always told us.”

  Neena glared challengingly at the rutilant fungi. “There can’t be depression where mere’s music. Keep playin’, Bunkole.”

  Buncan looked down at his duar. The polished surface of the unique instrument seemed dulled, the strings uneven and fraying. “I don’t know if this is doing any good.”

  This time Squill grabbed him by the shoulders and half spun him around on the bench. The duar bonged against Gragelouth’s knee. The sloth winced but said nothing, resolutely tending to his driving.

  “Fok your ‘don’t knows,’ mate! This ‘ere swamp is the mother of all indecision. Wake up, and play!”

  Buncan nodded, blinking. The effect of the Moors, he realized, was so insidious you weren’t aware of what the place was doing to you even as it happened. Fortunately, otters had a very strong natural resistance to depression. He directed his attention to the duar with a vengeance.

  Immediately the air seemed brighter, clearer. The grim fog rolled back and fungi in the wagon’s path crawled or oozed aside. Seeing that the music kept the creeping enervation at bay, even Gragelouth made an attempt to join in the singing.

  They were feeling much better when the Moors responded, not with additional intimations of infectious ennui, but with music of its own: a distant, wild baying. It stopped their own singing cold. A prickly clamminess crept down Duncan’s back like a rain-soaked centipede.

  “Wot were that?” Squill murmured, wide-eyed. “Sounds like somethin’ that crawled out o’ river-bottom mud.” He looked to the merchant.

  Gragelouth was sniffing the air. “I do not recognize the sound. Nor do I look forward to encountering its source.” As he finished, the noise came again: flagrant, whetted, and definitely closer.

  Buncan shook the sloth’s arm. “Don’t stop now. Not here. Can’t we go any faster?”

  “My team was bred for endurance and not sprints,” the sloth told bun. “You can see that for yourself. They are making the best speed they can.” He glanced nervously sideways. “There is something about that sound which is more evil than mere depression.”

  “Penetratin’, wotever it is,” Neena observed as the wild baying echoed through the morass. It definitely was not the wind: Wind was unknown in the Moors, where even a stray zephyr grew quickly depressed and died. The howling was dark and deep and rich with carnivorous import.

  “I see somethin’ movin’!” Squill rose and pointed to their left.

  A flash of movement among the undergrowth, a glimpse
of bright red fireflies; then nothing. Gragelouth sat rigid on the bench. There was nothing he could do to speed his plodding, slow-witted team along the slick, potholed path. His nose twitched.

  “I sense many presences.”

  Buncan eyed him curiously. “You can sense presences?”

  “A metaphor, young human. Can’t you feel them out there, around us?”

  “I don’t feel anything except damp depression.” He fingered the duar nervously.

  “No aura of menace? No overweening sense of incipient doom?”

  “No more so than what we’ve been feeling since we left the Bell woods.” The baying and howling was constant around them now, drowning out the other background sounds of the Moors.

  “Then you may be a spellsinger, or half a one, anyway,” the sloth murmured, “but your perception leaves much to be desired.”

  So does your breath, Duncan wanted to say, but he was interrupted by Squill’s sudden shout.

  “Crikey!” The otter was pointing again.

  This time Buncan had no trouble picking out the pair of burning red eyes directly in front of them. They bobbed slightly as they advanced on the wagon. Unable to turn either to right or left, Gragelouth tugged on the reins and brought the cumbersome vehicle to a grinding halt. As he did so, the owner of the fiery gaze appeared out of the mist.

  Standing just under five and a half feet tall, the hound had teeth that gleamed in the baleful light. Prominent fangs hung from the upper jaw. The canine specter wore a muckledidun shirt and pants tucked into high boots. Protruding from the trousers, the short tail switched back and forth like a metronome. Or a scythe.

  A short sword with an unusually heavy, sharply curved blade hung with studied indifference from one paw. It would take a powerful individual to wield such a weapon with one hand, Buncan knew. His own fingers rested on the duar’s strings as he exchanged a meaningful glance with the otters. They nodded understanding, though there was no reason to spellsing yet. While the Moor dweller’s aspect was intimidating, he’d made nothing in the way of an overt threat. Yet.

  A second pair of eyes materialized out of the mist. Another, and another, and more. All were hounds, though of varying shape, coloration, and size. All were heavily armed.

  The one who confronted them had a spiked collar encircling his neck. The spikes had been filed to fine points. None of the others wore anything like formal armor, though Buncan noted an abundance of spiked leg-pieces and wristbands.

  Taken in toto they were an altogether disagreeable-looking lot. It was clear they were not out haunting the Moors in search of a casual day’s stroll. By the same token, it was difficult to countenance the possibility that they actually lived there, though their appearance suggested a condition and lifestyle even the Moors would be hard-pressed to worsen.

  Advancing around the team, the lead hound finally halted to confront the wagon’s occupants. As he looked them slowly up and down, Buncan could see the play of muscles across the broad chest and thickly bunched upper arms. As it stared it methodically slapped the heavy blade of its curved sword against an open palm.

  “We don’t get many travelers out here in the Moors.” The voice was a rough, curdled growl, the words crumbling against the heavy palate like gravel in a crusher.

  “Not enough,” quipped one of the others. Low, ominous laughter came from the rest of the band, which by now had completely surrounded the wagon.

  “Where are you headed?” inquired the leader.

  “To the northwest.” Gragelouth kept his eyes down, avoiding the hound’s burning gaze, the reins of his team clutched tightly in his thick, furry fingers.

  “That’s not very informative. Where to the northwest?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  Buncan leaned forward. “We’ve come a long way and have a lot farther to go. If you’re bandits, say so now and we’ll give you our money.” Gragelouth turned sharply to his youthful companion, his pupils widening.

  “Can’t step anywhere these days without ‘avin’ to scrape scum off your feet,” Squill muttered.

  The hound glared up at him. “What was that?”

  Squill smiled pleasantly. “I said that it were ‘and to get around these days.”

  The hound’s intensity diminished, but only slightly. “It certainly is if your destination brings you through the Moors. None come this way who can go otherwise.”

  “To go completely around the Moors would have taken too much time,” Gragelouth mumbled deferentially.

  “And yet there are many dangers here.” Apparently the leader was in a conversational mood.

  A hound with a mottled black-and-brown visage edged nearer. A grisly scar ran from the top of his skull down across his face and clear around to the back of his neck. Its pattern and angle suggested a botched attempt at decapitation.

  “More dangers than you can imagine,” he grunted.

  “Time is important to us,” Gragelouth replied lamely.

  “We won’t delay you long.” The leader grinned hideously. “Just hand over everything you own.”

  Gragelouth swallowed, looking resigned. “I have some money . . .”

  “Oti, we don’t just want your money,” the hound explained. “We’ll take your personal effects, too, and your weapons, and your clothes. And I’ll personally have that interesting-looking musical device there.” A clawed finger singled out Duncan’s duar. “Also your wagon and team.”

  “Don’t tell me you need to get somewhere in a hurry, too,” muttered Neena.

  “Not at all.” The hound stroked the flank of the nearest dray lizard. It bore the caress complacently. “But these look quite savory. You know, there’s not a lot for a carnivore to dine on out here in the Moors, and we prefer to avoid the cities. For some mysterious reason town dwellers are shocked by our attitudes and appearance.” Several of the hounds within hearing range chuckled unpleasantly.

  “In fact,” the creature continued remorselessly, his eyes burning into Buncan’s own, “you look quite edible yourselves.”

  “Oi,” Neena husked under her breath, “we’ve fallen in among a lot of bloody cannibals!”

  “And just what is a cannibal, my fuzzy little bars d’oeuvre?” the hound challenged her. “A term charged with all manner of absurdly sensationalist undertones. There was a time in the far distant past when it was the natural order of things for those with warm blood to devour omen of land. Meat is meat. We who are forced to dwell in the dank depths of the Moors cannot afford to discriminate. Where consumption is concerned we are wholly democratic: We’ll eat anyone.” He was still smiling.

  “So we’ll have everything you own, and we’ll have you as well.” He glanced toward the strings of utensils dangling from the rear and sides of the wagon. “It was thoughtful of you to provide the means for your own preparation. At least you will expire in familiar surroundings.”

  “We won’t go without a fight!” Squill rose sharply behind the driver’s bench, an arrow notched in his bow. Neena rose beside him, similarly prepared.

  “Oh my, oh dear.” The hound tut-tutted as he took a step backward. His companions chortled darkly. “The terror! The fear! Can it be we are surprised?” He caressed the heavy curved blade of his sword. “All of us against three cubs and an old sloth? How ever will we survive? One trifle before we begin, though. I ask the names of those who would provide entertainment before dinner.”

  “I’m Squill, son o’ Mudge. This ‘ere’s me sister Neena. That’s Mudge the Traveler, Mudge the Conqueror, Mudge the AU-Revengin’ to you.”

  “Never heard of bun,” the hound responded briskly.

  It was Buncan’s turn. “I’m Buncan Ottermusk Meriweather. Son of the greatest spellsinger in all of time and space, Jonathan Thomas Meriweather.”

  “All those names.” The hound snorted. “Never heard of him either. We’re not much for celebrity here in the Moors.” He glanced to Buncan’s right. “And you? Speak up, sloth.”
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  The merchant flinched. “I am called Gragelouth. A simple barterer in household goods and services.”

  “Well, tonight you’ll be called supper.” Within the hound’s jaws, filed teeth gleamed menacingly.

  Buncan was whispering to his friends. “Lyrics? Don’t you have any lyrics yet? What’s keeping you?”

  “I can’t think o’ any songs about ‘ounds,” Neena hissed. “These ‘ere blokes are about the first o’ their kind I’ve ever encountered.”

  “ ‘Ow do you get rid o’ ‘ounds?” Squill wondered aloud.

  “I don’t know either, but you’d better think of something quick. There’s too many of them for arrows, and they make the ones who tried to rob Gragelouth back in the Bellwoods look like country bumpkins.” He turned back to the leader, trying to stall for time.

  “Now it’s my turn. Who threatens us, with no regard for our ancestry or the revenge that will surely follow if any harm befalls us?”

  “Nothing follows into the Moors,” the hound growled belligerently. “Not kings seeking reluctant subjects nor sorcerers searching for strayed apprentices. Certainly not revenge. This place is the womb of bleakness, and we are its offspring. We who survive here do so only by giving in to woe. It suffuses our very beings. So do not think to appeal to our better nature, because we have none. Though I admit that your presence makes us feel better. It’s rare we come across food that has not already begun to rot.”

  “That doesn’t tell me who you are.” Behind him, the otters composed frantically.

  “We are all hounds here, as you can see.” The leader gestured expansively. “We are the hounds that haunt your dreams and chase you through your nightmares. We supply the howling you hear in your sleep, the growls that make you toss and turn uneasily, the shrill unexpected barks that you take for those of your neighbor.” He pointed with his sword.