by Bill Fawcett
Jon-Tom frowned. "What lass?"
The otter mustered a look of innocence, at which self-defense mechanism he had enjoyed much practice. "Why, Miss Chief, o' course."
"One of these days I'll strike you for real." Pushing away from the wall, Jon-Tom nearly stepped into the path of a goat hauling firewood. Apologizing to the annoyed billy, he started up Pikk Street, only to find his path blocked by a lean human little taller than Mudge. Older than the two travelers together, the well-dressed graybeard wore a colorful cloak and trousers of some soft red and blue material. An integrated cowl covered his head and he carried a simple wooden staff topped by a polished globe. Mudge eyed the latter with cursory interest. This flagged the instant he identified the opaque vitriosity as ordinary glass not worth pilfering
"Excuse me, good sirs." Though he addressed them both, it was Jon-Tom's face that drew the bulk of the visitor's interest. Jon-Tom had spent enough time in this world to be wary of strangers: even those who were elderly, polite, well dressed, and to all intents and purposes, harmless.
"Is there something we can do for you, sir?"
"I am called Wolfram. I am in need of assistance of an uncommon kind." With a nod of his head he indicated a nearby doorway. Swaying from an iron rod above the portal was a sign that identified the establishment as the Wild Boar Inn. "Perhaps it would be better to discuss matters of business somewhere other than in the street."
Mudge, who had been tracking the progress of an attractive lady mink, responded without taking his eyes from the passing tail. "Me friend an' me don't interrupt our day to shoot the shat with just anyone who accosts us in public." As the mink tail vanished, so too did the otter's interest. "You buyin'?" The stranger nodded again. Mudge's whiskers quivered appreciatively. "Then we're shootin'. " He preceded the humans into the establishment, his short tail twitching expectantly from side to side.
Like most such Bellwoods establishments, the Wild Boar Inn was already crowded with drinkers and natterers, characters unsavory and tasteful, trolling wenches and amenable marks. The owner, a husky but amiable wild boar name of Focgren, paused in the careful measuring out of questionable libations long enough to grunt in the direction of an unoccupied booth near the back. Their order was taken by an obviously bored but nonetheless attractive vixen whose agility as she avoided Mudge's wandering fingers was admirable to behold. Spangles and beads jangled against the back of her dress and upraised, carefully coiffed tail. The booth's battered, thick wooden walls muted the convivial chaos that swirled around the conversing trio.
"You were saying something about assistance of an uncommon kind?" Jon-Tom sipped politely at his tankard while Mudge made a conscious effort to bury his snout in the one that had been set before him.
Having set his walking staff carefully aside, Wolfram indicated the duar that now rested next to the tall young human. "Your instrument is conspicuous, and not the sort to be carried by just any wandering minstrel. You are, perchance, a spellsinger?"
Jon-Tom's interest in the stranger rose appreciably. Recognizing a duar for what it was marked the older man as more sophisticated than originally supposed. There might be real business to be done here.
"While lacking in experience, I assure you I try every day to practice my art."
Wolfram nodded appreciatively. "Excellent! I am most of all in need simply of your musical talents, but a touch of wizardry is also required."
Suds dripping from his whiskers, a suddenly wary Mudge extracted his face from the tankard. His bright brown eyes flicked rapidly from friend to benefactor and back again. "Wizardry? Spellsingin'-type magic-making'?" He pushed the tankard aside. "Oh no, mate. Count me out! I've 'ad enough o' your so-called singin' o' spells to last me a lifetime!" Rising, he moved to depart.
While continuing his conversation with Wolfram, Jon-Tom kept the fingers of one hand wrapped around the otter's belt, thus preventing the frantic Mudge from escaping. Short legs struggled for purchase on the slippery stone floor.
Jon-Tom smiled reassuringly. "Don't mind Mudge. He's just anxious to get started."
"I'm anxious, alright, you bloody great stick-twit!" To no avail, the otter continued his furious struggle to free himself from his friend's grasp. "Let loose o' me pants!"
The three-way conversation was interrupted by a violent crash from the center of the floor. Peering out from the booth, their attention was drawn to a singularly unwholesome-looking human and his puma companion. Breathing hard, both were staring down at something on the floor. The human held the shattered remnants of a wooden mace, his snarling companion a club that had been broken in half. The upper, knobbed end of the mace hung from the handle by a splinter. As Jon-Tom tried to see what it was they were concentrating on, their expressions changed markedly.
An enormous dark mass was rising slowly from the floor. As it blotted out a wide section of inn, human and feline began to back away from it. Whirling abruptly, the man dropped his broken weapon and tried to run. A leather-wrapped wrist bigger around than his head reached out and enormous brown-furred fingers closed around his neck, lifting him off the floor. Rising, he clawed frantically at the grasping digits while his legs kicked uselessly at empty air. Waving the human over his head like a limp flag, the now erect leather-armored grizzly reached for the panicked puma. As he did so, a chair slammed into his back and shattered into kindling. When someone in the crowd took physical as well as verbal objection to this cowardly blow from behind, the inn's population descended (not entirely unwillingly) into instant and complete pandemonium.
Above it all the immense ursine could be seen clearly, still waving his now unconscious human assailant while bellowing above the increasingly thunderous fray, "Stromagg stomp!"
Mudge was already heading for the back exit, ducking flying utensils and other debris, some of it organic. Their host stayed close to him, anxious to be clear of the rapidly escalating skirmish. But Jon-Tom hung back. The otter bawled imploringly at his friend.
"Quickly, guv, quickly! The coppers'll be 'ere any minute! An' you know wot that'll mean."
Jon-Tom did, but still he lingered. "You two go on. I'll be right there." So saying, he plunged into the affray. Shaking his head in disbelief and venting a whistle of disgust, Mudge concentrated on chaperoning their erstwhile benefactor away from the chaos.
The tall human with sword and duar was largely ignored by the combatants, busily engaged as they were in removing one another's appendages and resolving old scores. Jon-Tom had to strike out only occasionally to remain above the fray as he worked his way towards its nucleus. When the enormous bear leaned in his direction, all massive chest and fur and long teeth, he found himself wondering if this was such a good idea after all. Despite his sudden apprehension, he managed to call out, "Come with me! The police are on their way."
Absently crushing to the floor with one massive fist an onrushing, sword-wielding wombat, the grizzly's heavy brows drew together as he considered the suggestion. "Why should I go with you? I don't know you."
There was a commotion near the entrance to the inn. Timswitty's deservedly feared finest were arriving. "Because I'm offering you a job—I think."
Whirling about, the sextet of uniformed skunks prepared to put an end to the fighting in a manner only they could manage, by means not even the strongest berserker could defy. Jon-Tom broke into a cold sweat. Still, the bear was reluctant.
"You help Stromagg?"
"My word on it." Instinctively, Jon-Tom found himself starting to edge toward the rear exit, wondering as he did so if there would be enough time to clear the room before the room needed clearing.
Fishing into the mob, the bear came up with the battered, bleeding body of the puma who had first attacked him. When smacking the sagging feline across its limp face failed to produce any reaction, Stromagg grunted heavily and tossed the cat into the roiling crowd.
"Hurry!" Jon-Tom pulled on the bear's forearm to urge it along. He might as well have been tugging on a sequoia. But the ursine moved
.
They just did make it out before the police tactical squad let loose, so to speak. An unmusical chorus of mass retching pursued the escapees as they fled down a back alley.
As soon as they were clear of combative and olfactory intrusions, they slowed. Mudge guardedly eyed the mountainous newcomer in their midst. Stromagg endured the inspection thoughtfully. Or perhaps, Jon-Tom thought, "thoughtfully" was not the appropriate description. The bear's appearance hinted at a compassionate nature, but one that only infrequently strayed into the alien realm of higher cogitation.
"Wot's with the meat-mountain, mate?"
His breathing at last beginning to slow, Jon-Tom beamed and put a reassuring hand on the grizzly's immense arm. "I've just taken on a little extra muscle."
"Wot for?" the otter snapped. "The job we ain't goin' to take?"
Ignoring his friend, Jon-Tom turned to the somewhat bedraggled Wolfram. "Now then, good sir. What exactly was it that you wished to employ my services for?"
Pulling his gaze away from the looming immensity of the bear, their benefactor gathered his wits. "I wish you to serenade a lady with whom I am deeply and hopelessly in love."
Jon-Tom and Mudge exchanged a glance. The graybeard's offer fell somewhat short of requiring them to Save the World, or some such life-threatening exercise. Mudge was too relieved to comment.
"That's all?" Jon-Tom wondered aloud.
Wolfram nodded slowly. "That's all. And for that I will pay you well. You see, I am a wise man, but a terrible singer."
Mudge jerked a furry thumb in Jon-Tom's direction. "Then this be a good fit, guv, as me mate 'ere is a good singer, but terrible stupid."
Ignoring the slur, Jon-Tom proved the otter wrong by asking, "If all that's needed is an amorous song, why not hire any troubadour? Why seek out a spellsinger like myself?"
Wolfram smiled approvingly. "A song to Larinda is all that is required. It is the reaching her that may require the application of some magic in concert with the music."
"Oi, I knew it," Mudge muttered under his breath.
"Calmness be upon you, my peripatetic friend." Wolfram tried to reassure the otter. "A simple spellsong should suffice. Nothing too elaborate. I would attempt it myself except that I, as previously stated, cannot carry a tune in a bucket."
"How simple a spellsong, guv'nor?" Mudge inquired warily.
"That is for the singer to decide. I will provide you with directions. I shall also pay your expenses, and half your fee in advance." Withdrawing a heavy purse from within the depths of his cloak, he proceeded to spill a tinkling pile of gold coins into Jon-Tom's cupped hands. Mudge's eyes widened, while Stromagg looked on appreciatively.
"'Alf, you say, guv?" The otter eyed the golden flood greedily.
Wolfram nodded as he slipped the now empty purse back into his cloak. "The other half when the object of my affection responds." Turning, he gestured with his staff. "Do you know the lands of the Agu Canyon, that lies between here and Hygria?"
Jon-Tom's expression wrinkled with thought. "I know the direction, though I've never been there."
"Nor I," Mudge added. " 'Eard 'tis a dry and homey place."
"There is an unclimbable cliff," Wolfram explained. "I will give you specific directions to it. On the far side lies Namur Castle, wherein dwells the beauteous Larinda. Serenade her on my behalf. Sing to her of my undying affection, then return to collect the rest of your well-earned due."
"'Scuse me 'ere a minim, guv'nor." The otter squinted skeptically at the graybeard. " 'Ow now are we supposed to get over an unclimbable cliff?"
Wolfram smiled from beneath the cowl of his blue and red cloak. "That, my energetic friend, is why I have sought out a spellsinger to do the singing. How you surmount the barrier is your problem. Or did you think I was paying you only for a love song?"
Jon-Tom was not discouraged "I'm a pretty decent climber. No ascent is 'unclimbable.' " He looked down at Mudge. "If necessary, I'll just sing us up the appropriate gear. Or perhaps a great bird to ferry us over."
Mudge winced. "You forget, guv, that I've seen 'ow all too much o' your spellsingin' as a way o' turnin' out."
"We'll cope." Jon-Tom stood a little straighter. "After all, I've had plenty of practice by now. I'm far more in command of my skills than I was when I first picked up this duar." He patted the instrument confidently, turned his gaze to the lingering, looming grizzly. "How about it, Stromagg? It's always useful to have someone like yourself along on a journey such as this? Are you with us?"
The bear's great brows furrowed. "Will there be beer?"
* * *
—II—
The granite cliffs and buttes that rose around them were streaked with gray and black, ivory and streaks of olivine green. Stromagg strode tirelessly forward on his hind legs, Jon-Tom riding on one shoulder and Mudge on the other. The twice-burdened bear seemed not to notice the weight at all. In any event, he did not complain. Not even when Mudge would rise to a standing position for a better view. Jon-Tom did not worry about his companion's awkward stance. For one thing, it would do no good: the otter held advice in the same regard as teetotaling. For another, otters have superb balance—and very low centers of gravity.
Overhead, vultures circled, gossiping like black-cloaked old women. They were as civilized as any bird that inhabited the Warmlands, exceedingly polite, and fastidious in their table manners.
"There they are." Jon-Tom consulted the map their employer had sketched for them. There was no mistaking the twin buttes. From a distance, the spellsinger saw, the eroded massif known as Mouravi resembled a horned skull. "The cliff wall should lie just to the left of them."
Rising from the arroyo down which they had been hiking, they suddenly and unexpectedly encountered the truth of his observation in the form of a solid wall of rock. Slipping down from Stromagg's shoulder, Jon-Tom tilted his head back, back, until his neck began to ache. The cliff wall was at least five hundred feet high and as smooth as a marble slab. Swift inspection revealed that the featureless schist would make for a treacherous climb at best.
Examining the obstacle, Mudge let out a short, derisive whistle. "No problem, guv. I say we keep the half payment that old geezer gave us and hightail it up to Malderpot. Nice taverns in Malderpot. By the time the old geezer can track us down, we'll bloody well 'ave drunk away his gold."
"Now, Mudge." The spellsinger studied the seemingly impassable barrier. "That would hardly be honorable."
" 'Onorable, 'onorable." The otter scratched under his chin, his whiskers rising slightly. "From wot foreign tongue arises that strange word, wot I'm sure I never 'eard before and ain't quite familiar with?"
Stromagg frowned at the barrier and promptly sat down, dust rising from the fringes of his enormous brown behind. His leather armor hung loose against the vastness of his immense frame. "Stromagg not built for climbing."
"That's all right." Jon-Tom unlimbered his duar. "When Wolfram described this to us, I never expected to have to actually climb it. That's what he, and anyone else, would expect." Slipping the unique instrument across his front, he gently strummed the intersecting set of dual strings. A soft pulse of light appeared at the nexus. "We're not going over this barrier. We're going through it."
"Through it?" Mudge squinted at the solid rock, glanced meaningfully at Stromagg. "Through what, mate? Am I missin' something 'ere?"
"Why, through that tunnel." Jon-Tom pointed. "The one right there."
Once again, Mudge eyed the stone. Then he made the connection with the duar, the position of his friend's hovering hands, and his eyes widened slightly. "Now mate, are you sure this is a better idea than wastin' away old Wolfprick's money in lubricious Malderpot? You know wot 'appens when you open your mouth and somethin' kind o' like a song comes out."
"Just like I told Wolfram, Mudge. My skill has improved greatly with time and practice."
The otter grunted. "As opposed to the odds improvin'. " He moved to stand close to, or rather behind, the bemused Str
omagg as Jon-Tom approached the solid rock. The bear frowned down at the infinitely smaller otter.
"What happens now?"
Mudge put his hands over his ears. "If you've any sensitivity at all, large brother, you'll cover your bloomin' 'ears."
Stromagg hesitated, then raised his enormous paws. "There will be pain from the wizardry?"
"Not from the wizardry, guv." Mudge's expression tightened. "Trust me on this. You ain't 'eard old Jonnny-Tom sing. I 'ave."
His fingers strumming the duar, Jon-Tom launched into the song he had selected, a ditty of penetrating power from early Zeppelin. The grizzly's paws immediately clapped over his ears, bending them down forcefully against the top of his head.
Usually the eldritch mists that rose from the junction of the duar's intersecting sets of enchanted strings were pastel in hue: light blue, or lavender, bright pink or pale green. This time they were black and ominous. Mudge moved farther behind Stromagg, peering warily out from behind the grizzly's protective bulk. So peculiar, so enthralling was the coil of darkness that emerged from Jon-Tom's song that the otter could not take his eyes from it.
Detaching itself from the interdimensional wherever of the duar, the orb of ebon vapor drifted slowly toward the rock wall. It hesitated, and began to reverse direction. That movement prompted a redoubling of power chords by a suddenly anxious Jon-Tom. What might happen if the blackness fell back into the duar he couldn't imagine. The orb wavered, seeming to be considering something known only to eldritch orbs, and then resumed its drift toward the cliff face. Jon-Tom allowed himself to relax ever so slightly.
Upon making contact with the rock, the dark sphere spread itself across the perpendicular surface like a giant droplet of oil. When the last of it had seeped into the stone, Jon-Tom brought the vibrant song to a rousing conclusion that made both his furry companions wince.
Wiping sweat from his brow, the spellsinger pointed proudly. "There! I told you I could do it."
Emerging from Stromagg's shadow, Mudge warily approached the dark blot in the rock and peered—inward. " 'Tis a tunnel, all right." Pushing his feathered cap back on his forehead, he eyed his friend guardedly. "So I suppose all we 'ave to do now is stroll right on through the mountain?"