by Bill Fawcett
Jon-Tom nodded. "If everything has worked as it should, Namur Castle will lie on the other side." He drew himself up proudly. "And I'd say it's worked, wouldn't you?"
"Well now," Mudge muttered, argumentative to the last, "there's right enough a 'ole in this 'ere 'ill. But as to whether it leads to a castle or not remains to been seen, wot?"
"Only one way to find out." Striding confidently past his friend, Jon-Tom started in.
The spellsung tunnel was wide and high enough for Stromagg to enter without bending. Its floor was composed of smooth, clean sand. There was only one problem with it.
It was already occupied.
Drawing his short sword, a growling, whistling Mudge started to back up. Alongside him, Stromagg raised the huge mace that he carried slung across his broad back. "Oi, you've done it again, alright, mate. Now sing it closed!"
His expression falling, Jon-Tom strummed lightly on the duar as he backpedaled. "I only wanted the tunnel," he muttered to himself. "Just the tunnel."
The things that crawled and crept and slithered from the depths of the darkness had glowing red eyes and very sharp teeth. Multilegged puffballs with fangs, they resembled nothing in this world. Which made perfect sense, since Jon-Tom had sung them up from a different world entire. While Mudge and Stromagg hacked and sliced, Jon-Tom tried to think of an appropriate song to send the fuzzy horde back to the hell from which they had sprung.
Slashing wildly at something sporting tentacles and razor-lined suckers, Mudge spared a frantic glance for his friend. The tunnel continued to vomit forth more and more of the sinister, red-eyed assassins. "Sing 'em away, mate! Sing 'em gone. Sing the bloody tunnel closed!"
"Strange." Refusing to be distracted by the conflict, Jon-Tom was preoccupied with trying to remember lyrics appropriate to resolving their suddenly desperate situation. "I could try singing the same song backwards, I suppose." He did so, to no effect other than to further outrage Mudge's ears.
Using a kick to fend off something with long incisors and three eyes, he eventually began to sing once again. Mudge recognized the tune immediately. It was the same one his friend had sung moments earlier, to produce the tunnel.
"Are you mad, mate? We don't need twice as many of these 'orrors. We need less of 'em!" Ducking with astonishing speed, he cut the legs out from an assailant that had plenty of spares.
A second surging blackness emerged from the duar, drifted past the combatants, and struck the stone barrier. Once more a tunnel appeared. Fending off assailants, Jon-Tom raced toward it. "Come on! This is the right one, for sure. I was just a bit off on the rhythm the first time."
"A bit off? You've always been a bit off, mate!" Fighting a ferocious rearguard action, the otter and the grizzly followed the spellsinger into the new tunnel.
Unlike the first, this one was filled with a dim, indistinct light. Floor and walls were much smoother than those of their predecessor, devoid of sand, and harder. The tunnel looked to be composed of worked stone; an excellent sign, Jon-Tom decided. It was exactly the sort of access that might lead to a hidden underground entrance in something like a distant castle. Its dimensions were impressive.
Then they heard the roaring. Rising and coming toward them. "There!" Mudge pointed. A burning yellow eye was visible in the distance. As the roaring intensified, the fiery illumination grew brighter, washing over them.
"I think I liked the other critters better," an awed Mudge murmured.
Jon-Tom was looking around wildly. "Here, this way!" Turning to his right, he dashed up the stairs that lay in that direction. As they ascended, they could hear the monster approaching rapidly behind them. To everyone's great relief, it rushed past without turning, keeping to the main tunnel.
"The castle must be right above us." Shifting his duar around to his back, Jon-Tom slowed as new light appeared above them. Light, and a familiar, unthreatening noise. The sound of rain on pavement. "Probably the courtyard. Keep alert."
"Keep alert, 'e says." Gripping his sword tightly, Mudge strove to see through the brighter gloom above.
They emerged into a light rain that was falling, not on a castle courtyard, but on a narrow street. Storefronts, darkened and shuttered, were visible on the opposite side. There was no one in sight.
The otter's sensitive nose appraised their surroundings as his sharp eyes continued to scan the darkness. "No castle this, mate. Smells bleedin' nasty, it does." He looked up at his friend. "Where the blood 'ell are we?"
"I don't know." Thoroughly bemused, Jon-Tom walked out onto a sidewalk and turned a slow circle. "This should be Namur Castle, or its immediate vicinity." His eyes fell on a pair of rain-swept signs. Across the street, one hanging from an iron rod proclaimed the location of the Cork & Castle—pub. Light from within reached out into the street, as did muted sounds of polite revelry. The second sign hung above the entrance to the stairway from which they had emerged. It was a softly illuminated red and white circle with a single red bar running horizontally through it. The hairs on the back of his neck began to stiffen.
They had stumbled into an unsuspected path back into his own world.
* * *
—III—
Sounds of casual conversation reached the three stunned travelers. Retreating to the top of the gum-spotted, urine-stained stairway, he peered back down. Two young couples were mounting the steps from the underground, chatting and laughing about the casual inconsequentialities of a life he had long ago relinquished He looked around worriedly.
"We can't go back down this way. We've got to hide."
Stromagg looked baffled. "Why? More monsters come?"
"No, no. Somehow the song has broken through into my world. You and Mudge can't be seen here. Only humans talk and make sense here."
Unimpressed, Mudge let out a snort. "Who says 'umans make sense anywhere?" His nose twitched. "I thought this place stank."
"Hurry!" Espying an alley off the main street, Jon-Tom led his friends away from the subway entrance.
It was dark in the rain-washed passageway, but not so dark as to hide the overcoated sot standing with his bottle amid the daily deposit of debris expelled by the establishments that lined the more respectable street on the other side. Leaning up against the damp brick, he waved the nearly empty container at the new arrivals. Jon-Tom froze.
"Evenin' t'you, friends." The drunk extended the bottle. "Want a swig?"
Stromagg immediately started forward, forcing Jon-Tom to put out an arm to restrain the bear. "You two stay here!" he whispered urgently. Approaching the idling imbiber, he adopted a wide smile, hoping the man was too far gone to notice Jon-Tom's strange attire.
"Excuse me, sir. Can you tell us exactly where we are? We're kind of lost."
Squinting through the rain, the inebriated reveler frowned at him. His breath, Jon-Tom decided, was no worse than what he had experienced numerous times in the company of Mudge and his furry drinking buddies.
"What are you, tourists?" The drinker levered himself away from the wall. "Bloody ignorant tourists! You're in Knightsbridge, friend."
"Knightsbridge?" Jon-Tom thought hard. The name sounded sufficiently castle-like to jibe with his spellsong, but it didn't square with what he had just seen. "Where is that?"
" 'Where is that?' " the drunk echoed in disbelief. "London, man! Where did you think you were?" Squinting harder, he finally caught sight of the very large otter and far larger leather-armored grizzly standing silently behind his questioner. His bloodshot eyes went wide enough for the small veins to flare. "Oh, gawd." Letting the nearly empty bottle fall from his suddenly limp fingers, he whirled, stumbled and nearly fell, and vanished down the alley. They heard him banging and crashing through assorted trash receptacles and boxes for several minutes.
Picking up the bottle, Mudge sniffed the contents, made a disgusted face, shrugged, and promptly downed the remaining contents before Jon-Tom could stop him. Wiping his furry lips, he eyed his friend meaningfully.
"You spellsang us 'ere
, mate. Now you bleedin' well better sing us a way back."
Jon-Tom looked helpless. "We could try the way we came. Maybe the creatures in the other tunnel have gone. I don't know what else to do." Discouraged and tentative, he started back toward the street. The rain was beginning to let up, turning to a heavy mist.
The exit back onto the street was blocked.
"A minute of your time, friend."
There were three of them. All younger than Jon-Tom, all more confident, two clearly high on something stronger than liquor. The speaker held a switchblade, open. The larger boy flashed a small handgun. The girl between them wielded a disdainful smirk.
Jon-Tom scrutinized them all and did not much like what he saw, or what he sensed. "We don't want any trouble. We're just on our way home."
The boy with the blade nodded contentedly. "American, is it? Good. I knew I heard American accents at the party. You'll have traveler's cheques. Americans always carry traveler's cheques." He extended the hand that was not holding the switchblade. "Hand 'em over. Also any cash. Also your watch, if you're wearing one. Your friends, too. Then you can go safely back to the stupid costume ball that your snooty friends wouldn't let us into."
Jon-Tom tensed. "I haven't got any traveler's checks on me. Or any cash, either. At least, not any you could use here."
"American dollars suit me just fine, friend." The kid gestured agitatedly with the open hand. "Hurry it up. We ain't got time for talk." His gaze flicked sideways. "Maybe you'd like me to cut the kid, here." He lunged toward Mudge.
Effortlessly, the otter bent the middle of his body out of the way. As the switchblade passed harmlessly to his left, he drew his short sword. Steel flashed in the dim light of the street.
Alarmed, the bigger boy raised his pistol. Emerging from the mist behind him, an enormous paw clamped over both weapon and hand. Stromagg squeezed. Bones popped. Startled, the big kid let out a subdued, girlish scream. Bared teeth dripping saliva, the grizzly put another paw around the punk's neck, lifted him bodily off the ground, and turned him. As he got his first glimpse of what had a hold of him, the street kid's eyes bugged out and gurgling sounds emerged from his throat. The bear drew the boy's face closer to his own. Low and dangerous, his voice was that of imminent death.
"You make trouble for Stromagg?" the grizzly growled.
"Urk . . . ulk . . ." Straining with both hands, legs flailing at empty air, the punk fought to disengage that huge paw from around his neck. Looking like white grapes, his eyes threatened to pop out of his head.
Holding his sword, Mudge easily danced around each swipe and cut of the switchblade that was thrust in his direction, not even bothering to riposte. Once, he ducked clear of a wild swing and in the same motion, bowed elegantly to the now incredulous and dazed girl, doffing his peaked cap in the process. Furious, the boy threw himself in the unstrikable otter's direction. Still bowing to the girl, Mudge brought the flat of his sword up between his young assailant's legs. All thoughts of combat suddenly forgotten, the kid went down onto the street and curled into a tight ball, moaning.
Still holding the bigger boy by his neck, Stromagg frowned and turned to Jon-Tom. "Uh, this one don't talk no more."
"Put him down." Jon-Tom approached the now apprehensive girl.
"Please, don't hurt me!" She gestured unevenly in the direction of the moaning coil of boy lying on the pavement. "It was all Marko's idea. He said we could make some easy money. He said American tourists never fight back."
Mudge eyed her with interest. "Wot's an American?"
"We're not going to hurt you," Jon-Tom assured her. "We just need some help getting home." He looked past her. "Your friend said something about a costume ball?"
"A-around the corner. In the hotel."
Thinking hard, Jon-Tom nodded at nothing in particular. "Might work. For a little while. I need some time to think. Thanks," he told her absently. He started off in the indicated direction. With a wink in the girl's direction that left her feeling distinctly nonplussed, Mudge trotted after his friend. Lowering the unconscious kid he still held gently to the wet pavement, Stromagg proceeded to follow.
The hotel was an older establishment and not particularly large. Motioning for his friends to remain behind, quiet and in shadow, Jon-Tom executed a quick survey until he found what he was looking for: a side entrance that would allow them entry without the necessity of passing through the main lobby. He was further relieved when he saw two couples emerge. One pair were clad in medieval garb, a third wore the guise of a large alien insect with a latex head, and the fourth was dressed in the silken body stocking and pale gossamer wings of a pixie. Having met real pixies, he almost paused to offer a critique of the latter costume, but settled for asking directions to the party. Returning to his companions and explaining the situation, he then boldly led them across the street.
Mudge remained wary. "'Ere now, mate. Are you sure this is goin' to work?"
As they approached the ancillary entrance, Jon-Tom replied with growing confidence. "I've heard about these convention balls, Mudge. For tonight, many of those attending are in full costume. They'll think you and Stromagg are fellow participants." He glanced back at the bear. "Try and make yourself look a little smaller, Stromagg." The grizzly obediently hunched his shoulders and lowered his head. "Also, there will probably be food."
The bear's interest picked up noticeably. "Food?"
No one challenged them as the entered the side lobby. After asking directions of a pair of overweight warriors who would have cut a laughable figure in Lynchbany Towne, they proceeded to a large auditorium. It was packed with milling, chatting participants, more than half of whom were in costume. A few glanced up at the arrival of the newcomers, but no one appeared startled, or otherwise alerted that they were anything other than fellow costumers. While Mudge and Stromagg surveyed the scene with varying degrees of incredulity, Jon-Tom led them toward a line of tables piled high with snack foods. Sniffing the air, the grizzly's expression brightened perceptibly.
"Beer! Stromagg smell beer." Whereupon the bear, despite Jon-Tom's entreaties, promptly angled off on a course of his own.
"Let the bleedin' oversized 'ulk 'ave a drink," Mudge advised his suddenly concerned companion. " 'E deserves it, after the work 'e did back at the first tunnel. I wish I could—oi there! Watch where you're goin'!"
The girl who had bumped into him was dressed as a butterfly. There wasn't much to her costume, and she was considerably more svelte than the erstwhile warriors the travelers had encountered in the hallway outside the auditorium. Mudge's anger dissipated as rapidly as it had surged.
She gazed admiringly from him to Jon-Tom. "Hey, love your costumes. Did you make them yourselves?"
Looking to terminate the conversation as quickly as possible, Jon-Tom eyed the long table hungrily. Food was rapidly vanishing from the stained white covering cloths. "Uh, pretty much."
She eyed him interestedly, her wire-supported wings and other things bobbing with her movements. "You're not writers, or artists, because you don't have name tags on." She indicated the duar resting against Jon-Tom's back. "That's a neat lute, or whatever. It looks playable." She gestured in the direction of the busy stage at the far end of the auditorium. "There's filksinging going on right now. I'm getting this vibe that you're pretty good. I'm kind of psychic, you see, and I have a feel for other people." Her smile widened. "I bet you're a—computer programmer!"
"Not exac . . ." he tried to explain to her as she grabbed his hand and fairly dragged him forward. Mudge watched with amusement as his friend was towed helplessly in the direction of the stage. Then he turned and headed for the food-laden tables.
Welcoming Jon-Tom, the flute player currently holding court onstage cast his own admiring glance at the duar. "Cool strings. You need a cord and an amp?"
Aware that others in the crowd had turned to face him, Jon-Tom played—but only for time. "Uh, no. Strictly acoustic."
The flute player stepped aside. "Right. Let'
s see what you can do." Conscious that Butterfly was still watching him intently, Jon-Tom decided that a quick, straightforward song would be the easiest, and safest, way to escape the unwelcome attention that was now being directed toward him. As his fingers began to slide across the strings of the duar, a familiar multihued mist began to congeal at the interdimensional nexus.
Someone in the forefront of the crowd pointed excitedly. "Hey, look—light show!" Responding with a lame grin, Jon-Tom tried to strum as simple and unaffecting a melody as possible. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to remember the chords to a Barry Manilow tune. At least, he told himself, he would not have to worry about making any inadvertent magic.
Following his nose, Stromagg found himself approaching a bar near the far side of the auditorium. As he approached, someone thrust a tankard toward him.
"Here you go, big guy. Have one on me." The man dressed as Henry IX pressed a full tankard into the grizzly's paw. Accepting the offer, Stromagg took a suspicious sniff of the contents. His face lit up and he proceeded to drain the container in one long swallow. Looking on admiringly, the fan who would be king beckoned his friends to join the new arrival.
Scarfing finger food as fast as he could evaluate it with eyes and nostrils, Mudge was distracted from his gorging by the tapping of a furry forefinger on his shoulder. A ready if nervous retort on his lips, he turned—only to find himself struck dumb by the sight that confronted him.
The girl's otter costume was not only superbly rendered, it was, in word, compelling.
Twirling a whisker, he slowly put aside the piled-high plate of goodies he had commandeered from the table. "Well now. And wot might your name be, darlin'?"
Peering through the eye cut-outs in the papier-mâché head, the girl's gaze reflected a mix of admiration and disbelief. "And I thought I had had the best giant-otter costume in England!" Her eyes inspected every inch of him, analyzing thoroughly. "I've never seen such good sewing. I can't even see the stitches, or where you've hidden the zipper." Her eyes met his. "Costumers are good about sharing their secrets. Could you spare a couple of minutes to maybe give me some pointers?"