Son of Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Seven)

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Almost reason enough to hire him right there.” Buncan followed the merchant down the length of the bar, toward the rear of the tavern.

  “’E’s a fighter, this one?” Squill was already suspicious of this low-priced avatar.

  “The bartender I spoke with knows him, says that he has been in many battles and is a veteran fighter. He is also large enough to transport all of us and a modicum of carefully packed supplies to the northwest. Not quickly or comfortably, perhaps, but efficiently. It will be far better than trying to continue on foot.”

  “If he’ll hire on.” Buncan restrained his enthusiasm. “Talea always says that anything which appears to be too good to be true usually is.”

  “His name,” Gragelouth continued, “is Snaugenhutt.”

  “Don’t sound like no poffy lute player,” Squill commented approvingly as they exited the rear of the tavern and found themselves in a large circular corral.

  A high wooden fence enclosed the grounds, which consisted of packed earth paved with fresh straw. A dozen stalls were arranged in a crescent facing the back of the main structure. Two sets of drinking troughs formed a pair of star patterns on the open ground. Smaller facilities were available within each high-roofed stall, each of which boasted a bed of thicker straw mixed with moss. Lavatory facilities were visible on the left.

  A quartet of horses, two males and two females, stood by one of the star troughs, drinking and chatting amiably. They wore custom-cut blankets and tack, the mares additionally displaying elaborately coiffed manes and tails. One had her hooves painted with blue glitter. The nearest stallion glanced only briefly in the direction of the three bipeds before rejoining the conversation.

  The farthest stall to the right was occupied by a pair of merinos, already bedding down for the night. One was naked from the forelegs down, having obviously made a recent sale of wool.

  Gragelouth led them toward the center stall. A husky barmaid of the civet tribe was coming toward them, lugging an empty pail. Buncan could smell the tart reside at the bottom of the container as she passed them without a glance.

  That odor was quickly overwhelmed by the stink of the stall itself, which reeked of cheap liquor and musky urine. That he was able to ignore the stench was due to the dominating presence near the back of the shelter of a gigantic, deeply scarred gray mass. It seemed to be facing away from them, though Buncan couldn’t be sure.

  “That’s him, I think,” said Gragelouth. “He fits the bartender’s description.”

  “Sure wouldn’t mistake ’im for one o’ those sleepin’ sheep,” Squill ventured.

  “A rhinoceros. I’ve never met one of his tribe before. They’re bigger than I imagined.” A fascinated Buncan slowed as they neared the stall’s entrance. “That back’s sure big enough to carry all four of us.” He took in the scars and wrinkles in the slabs of gray skin. “He looks kind of … old.”

  “Not old, mate, so much as used,” Squill corrected his companion. “I mean, this old chap ’as been bad beat up, don’t you know?” The otter sniffed pointedly. “’E’s been through the wars, an’ I don’t mean the fightin’ kind.”

  “He does seem a little the worse for wear.” Gragelouth studied the back of their hoped-for savior speculatively.

  “Worse for wear me bollocks.” Squill took a wary step back from that prodigious and clearly unstable rear end. “’E’s bloomin’ swozzled, ’e is. Plastered, smashed, looped, juiced. Drunk on ’is feet.” The otter pinched his nose. “Wot’s more, ’is taste in spirits stinks worse than ’e does.”

  At that the great head swung around into view and a single eye regarded them from beneath a drooping, supercilious brow. A horn the length of Buncan’s arm tipped the weaving snout, backed by a second half its size. This formidable brace of keratin weapons was darkly stained.

  Gragelouth approached tentatively. “Are you the warrior they call Snaugenhutt?”

  The reply seemed to come not from the creature’s throat but his belly. The accompanying bouquet was overpowering.

  “What?”

  Though staggered by the stench, Gragelouth risked another step. “Snaugenhutt. Are you the warrior…?”

  “Oh, yeah.” The rhino’s voice reminded Buncan of the noises made by the sewer pipes that ran beneath central Lynchbany. “That’s me, isn’t it?” The great horned skull bobbed up and down and the eye blinked slowly. “Do I know you?”

  As the merchant prepared to reply, there emerged from the open mouth a belch of such gargantuan proportions as to register as a seismic disturbance in towns and villages some distance away. This was accompanied by a misty cloud of effluvia noxious enough to burn Buncan’s eyes. He stumbled backward several steps, beating frantically at the air in front of his face. How Gragelouth held his ground he couldn’t imagine.

  As the vapor dissipated, Buncan saw that the rhino had turned to face them. Long, dirty hairs emerged from the inconceivably filthy depths of his shell-like ears.

  Buncan took it upon himself to aid Gragelouth. “No, you don’t know us, but we’ve heard of you. We’re in real trouble, and we need your help. We want to hire you.”

  The heavy head swung toward him. “Trouble, eh? What kind of trouble?”

  Buncan tried to shield his mouth and nostrils as decorously as possible. It might have been worse. Snaugenhutt might have been a dragon breathing fire.

  Come to think of it, that might not be worse.

  He indicated Squill, who stood quietly nearby turning a polite shade of pea green. “My friend’s sister has been kidnapped by the Baron Koliac Krasvin.”

  “Krappin, Kraken. Krasvin.” Snaugenhutt looked pleased with himself at having gotten it right. Each word was a grunt unto itself. “Heard of him. Ermine, isn’t he?”

  “Weasel,” Buncan supplied helpfully.

  “Right, weasel. Bad reputation. Bad.” The head motivated from side to side.

  “Krasvin’s holding her at his estate. We’re bound to try and rescue her. To do that we need professional help.” He glanced at Gragelouth. “You came highly recommended.”

  “Naturally.” The rhino seemed to straighten a little. “I am after all the most experienced fighter in these parts.”

  “You’re certainly the biggest.” Buncan intended it as a compliment.

  “Yeah, that too, that too.” Spittle clung to the heavy lower lip. “But this Baron, I’ve heard about his place. Hard to break into. What do you think, Viz?”

  A small bird emerged unexpectedly from the fold of the rhino’s neck. It plonked itself down between the twitching ears and yawned, its wings stretching wide. A miniature blue beret crowned the feathered head and a matching scarf was wound once around the delicate neck. The bird made tiny smacking sounds with its beak and leaned forward to blink at the visitors.

  “I think … I think I’m tired.” With that it promptly fell over backward, legs in the air, and commenced snoring heavily, sounding rather like a large mosquito.

  “’E’s swozzled too,” Squill commented in disgust.

  “Don’t mind Viz.” The rhino snorted softly. “He’s my tickbird. Been on board for years. But he can’t hold his liquor. I’ve told him that booze and parasites don’t mix. All that chiton and green goo and…”

  Squill made a dash for the lavatory facilities, not caring that they were designed for creatures much larger than he.

  Buncan fought to maintain his own stability. The tickbird snored on. “We don’t expect charity. I’ve learned better than to ask for that. We’ll pay.”

  “What we can,” Gragelouth put in hastily.

  “And after we’ve saved Neena we’ll need your help in getting away from here.”

  “A rescue, eh?” Snaugenhutt hiccoughed volcanically. “A noble cause. Been a long time since I did anything noble. What do you mink, Viz?” The tickbird snored on, oblivious.

  “Yeah, I’ll help you. When do we start?”

  Buncan blinked. “Just like that? Don’t you want to know the details?”

>   “What details? Do I look like the subtle type, human?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “They won’t be expecting a frontal assault.” Snaugenhutt was murmuring to himself. “I’ve heard some of the stories about this Krasvin. Thinks he’s the greatest thing in fur. We’ll surprise him. Bust his tail.”

  “Sure we will,” muttered Buncan. “We’ll sneak you inside in a suitcase, dump you out, and let you exhale in the faces of the Baron’s soldiers.” Louder he said, “You don’t drink like this all the time, do you?”

  “Certainly not.” As the rhino swayed on pillarlike legs, a smile creased that slouching jaw. “Sometimes I drink seriously.”

  Buncan turned to Gragelouth. “Maybe we ought to look elsewhere.”

  “What elsewhere?” The sloth sniffed resignedly. “I took the best recommendation of the locals I encountered.”

  “Another tavern.” Buncan persisted. “Maybe down by the waterfront.”

  Blinking unsteadily, Snaugenhutt took a ponderous step toward them. “Something wrong? You don’t want my help? You don’t want the assistance of the greatest four-legged warrior on the High Plateau?” His head twisted over and back, gesturing at his flank as best he could with the tall horn.

  “Take a look at these scars. See that one on the outside of my rear leg? Got that at the Battle of Muuloden. Scattered twenty big cats all by myself while carrying ten fully armed bipeds into combat. And that one all the way in back, just to the left of my tail? Caught a leg-sized catapult spear right in the butt at the height of the Cabber’s Glen Incident. Didn’t even slow me down. Had my side hang their battle flag from it.” He looked momentarily wistful. “Trampled plenty underhoof in that one, and gored half a dozen more.”

  “We have no doubt of your fighting history.” Gragelouth made placating gestures. “If you do not mind my inquiring, how long ago did these exploits take place?”

  “How long?” The heavy brow drooped lower still. “Don’t remember. Never was real good with dates.” He chuckled, and it ended in a rattling cough. As spittle drooled from his mouth, even the dead straw seemed to curl away from it.

  Gragelouth gestured with a heavily clawed hand. “Though our current resources are … limited … we must have professional help. If you are willing to enter our service for what recompense we can presently offer, we may be able to arrange for some additional payment at a future date.”

  Still swaying, Snaugenhutt straightened as much as he was able, staring at the sloth past the tall horn. “Count me in. Not because of the money, but because a lady’s virtue is at stake.”

  “She’s no quadruped,” Buncan reminded him.

  One eye considered him haughtily. “Where virtue is concerned, the tribe doesn’t matter. There’s honor to uphold and gallantry to preserve.” With that he hiccoughed again, at least a 7.5 on the hiccough scale, and keeled over sideways. It was akin to watching a great ship slide slowly beneath the waves.

  As the vast mass struck the ground with a dull whomp, the three travelers hastily backed clear. After satisfying their curiosity, the horses and sheep returned to their respective socializing. Snaugenhutt began to emit Promethean snores.

  Having been unceremoniously dumped into the straw, the dazed tickbird picked itself up and fluttered unsteadily to the top of the comatose bulk. Landing atop the half-exposed belly, it curled up in its wings and lapsed back into its momentarily disturbed stupor.

  Buncan was not pleased with the picture. “There they are. Our army. Neena’s saviors. Cheap at half the price.” He turned to the merchant. “Surely we can do better than this, even with as little as we have to offer?”

  Gragelouth stared up at the tall human. “I am open to suggestions, my young friend.”

  “Maybe if we could get the bloated sod sobered up.” Squill studied the insensible mass of gray flesh. “If ’e got up to speed, ’e’s big enough to do some damage. If ’e ’as any speed left in ’im, that is.” He glanced at his friend. “At this point any ’elp’s better than no ’elp. We could load the unconscious bugger onto a wagon an’ roll it downhill. Might smash in this Krasvin’s front door, might not.”

  “We don’t know if there’s a hill in front of the Baron’s mansion,” Buncan pointed out patiently. “I’m not pushing that load one stride uphill, and where would we get a wagon, anyway?”

  “Steal it.” Squill smiled serenely.

  “We can do nothing until he sobers up.” Gragelouth licked his forehead. “Or, at the very least, awakens.”

  “What about his companion?” Buncan indicated the softly snoring tickbird.

  “I could eat it,” Squill suggested.

  Buncan eyed him sharply. “Eat another intelligent being?”

  The otter sniffed. “Don’t look very intelligent to me, mate.”

  “We’re here to get help, not dinner.”

  “Most every member of Snaugenhutt’s tribe lives with a companion tickbird,” Gragelouth pointed out. “I do not think our potential ally would look kindly upon your eating his.

  “Meanwhile, let me talk to the owner of this establishment. Perhaps he can suggest a potion to both awaken and sober these two.”

  “You couldn’t sober that mass up if you dropped it off a high cliff,” Squill riposted.

  Chapter 14

  THE REMEDY GRAGELOUTH arranged for arrived in the form of a brim-full bucket prepared by not one but two mixologists. A good dousing with one of the high-pressure hoses used to keep the corral area clean roused the rhino long enough for Buncan and Squill to sluice half the bucket’s contents down his benumbed throat. The operation was repeated with the tickbird, on a much smaller scale. Though there was no evidence of overt sorcery involved, the liquid’s contents proved nothing short of magical. The hulking old warrior was on his feet, albeit unsteadily, far sooner than Buncan would have imagined possible.

  As Snaugenhutt hadn’t the slightest recollection of their previous conversation, they were compelled to repeat both the tale of Neena’s abduction and their present dilemma. Viewed in the cooler light of minimal comprehension, the rhino’s earlier enthusiasm flagged.

  “You don’t want my help,” he mumbled, turning away. Gragelouth had reluctantly paid for a clean, fresh stall. Employees of the tavern were still in the process of disinfecting the other. Viz paced between the rhino’s ears, hunting for parasites while listening intently. He seemed to be in better shape than his friend. But then, his hangover would be proportionately smaller.

  “At this point you are our only hope,” Buncan reluctantly admitted. “You’re about all we can afford. Time’s also important, and so far you’re the only one who’s indicated a willingness to help.”

  “Oi,” said Squill, “wot were all that rot about preservin’ a lady’s virtue, an’ gallantry, an’ ’onor?”

  “Did I speak to that?” Snaugenhutt looked thoroughly miserable. He stood with one foreleg crossed over the other, his prehensile upper lip nearly touching the ground.

  The tickbird glanced up. “If they say you did, Snaug, I guess you did. I don’t remember the discussion myself.” He pecked energetically at a particular spot.

  Gragelouth sought to energize the quadruped. “Why wouldn’t we want your assistance? You are large, powerful, and experienced; clearly no stranger to battle.”

  The rhino twitched his huge skull. Reflex caused the tickbird to flutter clear and set down without comment as soon as his perch had steadied. “All that was a long time ago,” he muttered unhappily. “A very long time ago. Haven’t done any fighting…” He paused to swallow. “Haven’t done much of anything in longer than I can remember.”

  Buncan picked up on Gragelouth’s riff. “You look like you’re still in pretty good shape,” he lied.

  The rhino’s head came up a little. “I do the best I can. Frankly, the last few months—the last few years—I’ve kind of lost direction. Been lapping at the drinking trough now and again, and my reflexes aren’t what they used to be. Oh, the underlying muscle tone’
s still there.” He inhaled and seemed to double in size. The effect lasted about five seconds before scarred and wrinkled skin collapsed in on the massive skeleton.

  “But that’s not enough. I’m out of shape, out of condition. Wouldn’t know how to get going. No equipment, anyway.” His eyes grew misty. “Used to have full armor and combat equippage. Gilt steel. When I went into battle, the sun rode with me.”

  “Where’s your gear now?” Buncan asked thoughtlessly.

  Snaugenhutt squinted at him. “Pawned it. Long time ago. Everything was a long time ago, human.” At which point, to everyone’s astonishment, the great beast began to cry.

  “’Ere now, guv.” Squill moved forward. “’E didn’t mean nothin’ personal.”

  It did no good. Tears spilled from both eyes as gargantuan sobs wracked the huge form. His perch now shuddering steadily, the tickbird fluttered down to land on Buncan’s shoulder. From head to tail he was slightly less man the length of Buncan’s forearm. One flexible wingtip adjusted the scarf around his neck.

  “It’s no use trying to talk to him when he gets like this. You just have to wait for it to pass.” Unlike Snaugenhutt, the tickbird seemed fully recovered.

  “Listen, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “You two been together for a while?”

  “Like Snaug says, a long time,” the bird chirped.

  Buncan nodded slowly. “How much of that stuff he told us about all the battles he’s been in is true?”

  A wingtip pressed against the side of his head. “Probably all of it, though I don’t recall the details. Snaug was a professional long before I hooked up with him. I can vouch for the authenticity of his most recent scars.”

  “So you’ve been in battle with him?”

  Viz nodded, his beak bobbing. “Lots, though not in some time.” He examined his bawling companion, whose sobs were finally beginning to lessen. “Snaug, he was the real tiling, he was.” There was tangible pride in the bird’s voice. “Wasn’t anything or anybody that could stand against him … in his prime.” Feathered shoulders rippled.