Son Of Spellsinger

by Alan Dean Foster

  “I’ve ‘ad about enough o’ this, I ‘ave.” With that, Squill dashed forward.

  “Squill!” Even Neena was startled by her brother’s unaccustomed bravery. .or foolhardiness.

  The ax described a vicious arc which, had it connected, would easily have cleft the otter through at the waist. Infinitely more agile than the mammoth hog, Squill ducked under the blow, rolled, and stabbed with his own weapon, putting all his weight behind the thrust. The point penetrated between boot and legging to slice the Achilles tendon. Somewhat surprised at his own success, he sprang to his feet and backed off.

  The warthog shrieked and went down on one knee. Then, to universal astonishment, she slowly straightened. Though the wound was clearly visible there was no sign of any blood, or any indication of damage. As Squill and his companions gaped she resumed her advance, moving easily on a leg that ought to have been permanently crippled.

  Avoiding blows from the great ax, Squill continued to harry the monster. Though his thrusts repeatedly struck home, they had no apparent effect. He continued to avoid retaliation, but could not do so forever. No one could. And while he tired, his gargantuan opponent showed no signs of slowing.

  “There is sorcery at work here,” Gragelouth muttered. “Dark sorcery.”

  “Indeed.” Krasvin relaxed by the doorway, patiently awaiting the inevitable. “Regrett is my personal bodyguard, and the recipient of a very elaborate and expensive restoration spell. Did you mink you were the only ones who could make use of combat thaumaturgy? Her body renews itself each time it is injured. I doubt any of you can make a similar claim.”

  “Eventually she will wear all of you down. Why not simply surrender now to the inevitable?”

  “May you contract a foul disease of the genitals that can only be treated with lye and sandpaper,” said Gragelouth.

  Neena gazed at the sloth in astonishment. “Why, you old slug-a-mug. I didn’t think you ‘ad it in you!”

  The merchant looked embarrassed. “Even I have my limits, young female.”

  “Stand still,” the warthog growled, “and I will disable you quickly!” The ax hissed down, striking sparks and stone chips from the library floor where Squill had been standing an instant earlier.

  The otter continued to brandish his sword. He was as defiant as ever, but breaming hard now. “Be disabled? By somethin’ as revolting as you? I’d rather throw meself from the top o’ the tallest tree in the Bellwoods.”

  “I know I am ugly,” the warthog rumbled. “Keep insulting me. It energizes me and gives me strength.”

  “Squill,” Buncan yelled from the far end of the library, “watch out! She’s spell-protected.” He put up his sword and began to play. “Sing! Neena, think of some words to counter this.”

  “Whuh?” She blinked. “Bunket, I’m so sleepy I can ‘ardly keep me eyes open.”

  “Then sing in your sleep, or you’re liable to lose your brother.”

  She squinted up at him. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

  He glared at her. “Neena! He’s risking his life to try and save you.”

  “Cor, but ‘e took ‘is own good time about it. Oh, all right.”

  “Yes, sing, sing.” Near the doorway Krasvin started clapping his hands rhythmically. “I’d be delighted to see some genuine spellsinging. Not that such as you are capable of such wonders, your flying behemoth notwithstanding, but I can tell you that it matters not if you are. The most wise and exalted wizard who enchanted Regrett in my service assured me that she is immune to any manner of necromantic interference. So sing out, while you are still able.”

  Buncan ignored the Baron’s taunts. “Squill, you sing too! Try to work with each other.”

  The ax smashed into the floor so close to Squill that it shaved the hair on his tail by half. “Sing? ‘Ow do you expect me to bloody sing, mate? I can’t spare the wind.”

  A sweet, strong alto rilled the room. It was Neena, doing her best to improvise while following Buncan’s musical lead. Her lyrics resonated in the charged air, snicked off the floor, vibrated the loose pages of open books.

  “Got no reason to fight no more

  Better mind your manners an’ mind the store.

  Just ain’t right to go around bashln’ folks

  You don’t know, so

  You ought to pay more attention to who you are

  What’s really important ain’t that far

  From inside you, if you’ll just take a look

  Take yourself a page out of a kinder book.”

  Taking note of the immediate consequences of the spellsong, Krasvin soon ceased his clapping. “That’s enough. Stop that. Now.” Which warning naturally inspired Neena to trill that much louder. Hefting his sword, the Baron started toward them.

  Viz flew straight at him, landed one nice, solid peck on his forehead, and continued buzzing him, inhibiting his advance. Cursing madly, Krasvin cut and sliced with his saber. The tickbird taunted him too close for Buncan’s comfort, but there was nothing he could do about it. He forced himself to concentrate on his playing.

  A gray vapor had begun to coalesce around the she-hog. She grunted and swung at it, but neither ax nor shield was effective against what was virtually no more than a dense fog. As Neena sang on, a most remarkable transformation began to take place.

  “It can’t be,” Krasvin howled. “The wizard shielded hsrl”

  Indeed, the protective spell was not entirely wiped, for when Squill chose a propitious moment to dart forward and strike afresh, his sword cut readily through crinoline and lace without damaging the flesh beneath.

  It was the sudden presence of crinoline and lace that was unexpected.

  Squill withdrew his blade and stepped back, gaping, his weapon hanging loose in his hand. Neena ceased her singing and Buncan’s suddenly limp fingers strummed in desultory fashion across the duar’s strings.

  Studs and leather had given way to a sleek dress of lavender and lace. Fine tatting decorated the bodice and sleeves while the multiplicity of petticoats sent the skirt billowing. A pert, matching bonnet was fastened beneath the chin with a satin bow. The battle-ax had metamorphosed into a rather large parasol, the shield into a purse.

  With an invigorated roar Regrett swung the purse at Squill, who barely retained sense enough to duck. It smacked against the rear bookshelves and burst open to reveal a flowery interior lined with frills and filled with potpourri.

  “What is this?” she bellowed uncomprehendingly. “What’s happened?” At that point she caught sight of herself in a rococo mirror mounted nearby among the shelves and gave vent to one of the most horrific shrieks Buncan had ever heard emerge from a female throat.

  Tossing aside purse and parasol as though they were made of burning brimstone, she raced screaming from the library. This entailed much tripping and crashing to the floor as she struggled to make the high heels in which her feet were entrapped function normally. She was last seen vanishing into the central hallway, her hiked-up skirts rustling around her thick legs.

  Finding himself suddenly outnumbered, with his secret weapon put to ignominious and utterly unexpected feminine flight, Baron Koliac Krasvin damned them all with spurious invective as he bolted for the courtyard.

  “NO!” Weaponless, Neena reached for the source of her preservation and hurled the first oil lamp within reach at the retreating mink. It missed him and exploded against the floor. Flaming liquid fountained in all directions. Some of it caught Krasvin on his tail and right hip. Howling, her tormentor stumbled wildly through the doorway.

  Squill briefly contemplated pursuit before deciding that his purpose here lay in facilitating escape, not homicide. He rejoined his companions and watched while Neena planted a whiskery wet kiss on first Buncan and then a highly embarrassed Gragelouth.

  “Wot, no embrace for your own brother?” “‘Ow could I forget?” She approached and without hesitation smacked him upside the head.

  “Oi!” He grabbed at his cheek. “Wot were that for?�
�� “You stupid sod!” She was right up in his face. “Wot took you so long? Do you ‘ave any idea wot that nasty bugger ‘ad in mind for me? Do you know wot I nearly went through?” Squill snarled softly. “Nothin’ you ain’t gone through before, luv.”

  She was on him with a screech, and he fought back energetically and without hesitation, the two of them joined in sibling combat as they rolled over and over across the slate-paved floor. While a distressed Viz looked on, Buncan considered beating the two of them unreservedly about the head with the precious duar.

  Gragelouth sidled up to him. “We really ought to be thinking of getting out of here, my young friend. Snaugenhutt should be able to carry us safely to freedom, if he can be persuaded to relent in his present exertions.”

  “I’ll handle that.” Viz darted for the door and Buncan followed. The two otters had to settle for swapping insults in lieu of blows as they hurried to catch up. It was a marvel, Buncan mused, how any of their clothing managed to survive their exuberant sibling disagreements.

  They found Snaugenhutt pawing the floor as he faced the entrance to the kitchen. The great central hall had been thoroughly demolished: furniture reduced to firewood, banners ripped from their lanyards, paintings and sculpture pulverized underfoot. The kitchen door consisted of a metal grille set in a wooden frame. Half a dozen long spears were thrust rather tremulously through the gridwork.

  Viz settled onto his iron perch atop his friend’s forehead. “Good work, Snaug. Time to call it a night.”

  Rhinoceran eyes blazed. “No. There’s still a few of ‘em left alive. Lenune finish ‘em off.”

  “Not necessary. They’re only employees.” The tickbird stood on the perch and gazed back past his friend’s prodigious rump. “Did you see a mink come running through here? Couldn’t miss him. His ass was on fire.”

  “Missed him anyway.” Snaugenhutt grunted. “Been busy.”

  Buncan trotted over to pat the rhino’s armored flank. “Take us out of here, Snaugenhutt. You’ve done all that was asked of you. More than was asked of you.”

  The great head swung back to peer at him. “But I want to finish ‘em off. Please let me finish mem off?” His pleading did not pass unnoticed among the anxious contingent cowering in the kitchen. Several spears fell to the floor as their owners made haste to find space elsewhere.

  “You are presently engaged in our employ,” declared Gragelouth in no-nonsense tones, “and as your employer I demand that you extricate us from mis present situation.”

  “Oh, all right.” Bending his front legs, the rhino knelt on the scarred floor. Using the spaces between the iron scutes for steps, they scampered up his flank and settled into the concave metal “seats” along his spine. Buncan took the lead, positioning himself high atop Snaugenhutt’s shoulders. He was followed by Squill and Neena, with Gragelouth occupying the space above the rhino’s hips.

  Clambering back to his feet, Snaugenhutt turned and, with utter disdain, pointed his rear end at the survivors in the kitchen as if daring them to respond. It was an offer that went unrequited. No one made any attempt to inhibit them as he lumbered out of the mansion, across the wood-strewn outer courtyard, through the remnants of the main gate, and out onto the narrow road beyond.

  Following Gragelouth’s directions, they turned right at the first intersection, right again up a poorly marked route that led northwest. Only when they were well away from Krasvin’s lands and the outer environs of Camrioca did Buncan finally relax.

  Neena had been heaping insults on her brother ever since they’d fled the estate, but had quickly succumbed to exhaustion and fallen into a deep sleep. They’d paused long enough to stretch her lengthwise across her saddle, Snau-genhutt’s broad back and short stride being sufficient, together with her own belt, to ensure that she wouldn’t fall off.

  As he ambled down the trail Snaugenhutt hummed some obscure martial ditty to himself, occasionally breaking into outright song. Listening to him sing was almost as interesting, Buncan thought, as watching him fight. Of Krasvin there was no sign, despite his reputation. Buncan hoped the fire had burned his backside bald.

  They stopped in the town of Poukelpo for provisions before entering the Tamas Desert. Poukelpo was little more than an outpost, full of tired, slightly disreputable types unable to make a go of it in the more prosperous lands to the south and east. While Gragelouth haggled over the price and quantity of their supplies, Buncan inquired as to the meaning of the desert’s name and was informed that the first person known to have entered and returned alive had been a legendary kangaroo rat name of . . . “Tamas,” Buncan finished for the speaker. “Nope,” said the scruffy tamandua. “The rat’s name was Desert. Funny coincidence that.” He shrugged. “I’ve no idea where the ‘Tamas’ comes from.” It was a not altogether illuminating explanation. There was still no sign of pursuit. Either they had outdistanced it, or else Krasvin was still too befuddled or discouraged to mount any. Buncan began to think that they’d seen the last of him and his aberrant drives.

  “Not surprised.” Snaugenhutt looked up from his feeding. “No one’s gonna follow us into the Tamas. Nobody goes there for any reason.”

  “He’s right.” Viz fluttered out of the way as the last of me gurgling water casks was slung across his companion’s commodious back.

  Buncan shaded his eyes as he let his gaze wander out past the edge of the little community. Heat shimmered above distant canyons and mesas. According to what he’d overheard and been told, they were about to enter a region of unknown dangers and great uncertainty. It seemed that he and the otters were to be regular visitors to such lands.

  “How long will it take us to cross?”

  “Impossible to say.” Gragelouth looked over from where he was supervising the loading. “My inquiries have failed to produce a consensus on the desert’s extent. Everyone seems to agree that there is an end.”

  Buncan smiled thinly. “That’s gratifying.”

  “It is said that eventually the tablelands and sand give way to wooded mountains profligate with game and good water, but none are certain as to the actual distance.” As always, the sloth accepted his chosen fate quietly. “However far it is, however long it takes, we must cross.” He pointed north with a heavy paw. “That way lies the Grand Veritable.”

  Or a veritable lie, Buncan thought. He shrugged inwardly. They’d come too far, had overcome too many obstacles, to turn back now. Besides, he’d always wanted to see a real desert. As for the water-loving otters, they were apprehensive but game.

  There was no need to worry about Snaugenhutt. Fit and completely sober for the first time in years, the rhino was ready to fight mountains.

  No one bade them farewell as they ambled out of Poukelpo. The townsfolk had seen too many people charge bravely off into the Tamas, never to return. They went about their daily business in the manner of all desert dwellers: with care and deliberation.

  The days did not strike Buncan or bis companions as particularly hot. This was more to Snaugenhutt’s benefit than anyone else’s, as he was doing all the work and lugging armor to boot. He plodded methodically northward, able to tolerate the heat so long as they rested during the hottest part of the day.

  The otters busied themselves catching fresh lizard and snake to supplement their stores, while Gragelouth strained to see ahead, using his experience to select the most likely route since there were no paths or roads through the desert. Neither Buncan nor the otters ever disputed his choices. The merchant was the seasoned traveler, not they.

  Several days out from Poukelpo they found themselves passing among towering, twisted formations of reflective colored sandstone. This was country, Buncan mused, to delight the eye if not the feet. Snaugenhutt’s thick, horny footpads were not troubled by the crumbly rock underfoot, and his passengers were as feathers to him. They made steady progress.

  That was why it was such a surprise when he began to sway unsteadily.

  A concerned Buncan leaned out and forward. “Something
the matter, Snaugenhutt?” Behind him his companions strained to hear.

  Viz had been scouting a little ways ahead. Now he returned to query his friend. But Snaugenhutt wasn’t listening. “Everybody off,” the tickbird said abruptly. “Off, off!” They complied; the otters with inherent grace, Buncan awkwardly, Gragelouth with so much deliberation that he barely made it before the rhino keeled over onto his side. Supplies went flying as their indestructible mount let out a vast moan. He lay there, groaning and burbling, eyes rolling back in his head as his legs feebly kicked and pawed at the dry air. His passengers gathered to stare at their stricken companion. Viz settled on Duncan’s shoulder. To his great relief the tickbird did not seem panicked. “What’s wrong with him?” he asked worriedly.

  “I think the shock finally wore off.” “The shock?” Neena frowned. “Wot shock?”

  “Recall our fellow traveler’s condition at the moment we were about to storm the Baron’s domicile,” a suddenly comprehending Gragelouth suggested. “It was only an unexpected fall from a great height which returned him abruptly to consciousness. That has finally worn off.”

  “Wot’s worn off?” Squill made a face. “You talk in riddles, merchant.”

  “I am saying that he has been functioning under the impact of that moment ever since. Until now.” The sloth dispassionately considered the unsteady heap of sudden insensibility. “It has finally worn off.”

  “Got that right,” agreed Viz with feeling.

  “But it’s been days,” Buncan pointed out. “How is that possible?”

  “I did not think it was possible for any living being to get that drunk, either.” Gragelouth shrugged.

  Squill found himself a soft patch of sand beneath the shade of a wind-polished boulder. “Looks like rest time, mates.”

  “Not hardly.” Buncan moved to unlimber his duar. “We’ve got to sing away the last of his inebriation.”

  “Wot, now? ‘Ere?” The otter indicated the towering buttes, the peculiar spiny plants, the tiny but highly active reptile scuttling into a hole. “Why not just wait for ‘im to sleep it off?”