Son of Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Seven)

by Alan Dean Foster

  “You’ve been warned. I and my friends are absolved. We can’t worry about you. Our own sorrows are too great.”

  “Now hold on a minute,” Buncan began. Squill leaned forward to jab him in the ribs.

  “Wot minute, mate? You ’eard ’im. Let’s get movin’.”

  Buncan turned in his seat. “I just want to find out what we may be getting into.”

  “We ain’t gettin’ into nothin’. We’re gettin’ past it.”

  Ignoring the otter’s protests, Buncan dismounted and walked up to Wurragarr. “What is this Kilagurri, anyway?”

  The thylacine’s jaws parted, showing sharp teeth. “I don’t think you should tell them anything. What if you’re wrong and they are in league with the Dark Ones?”

  “I’m convinced they’re not, Bedarra. For one thing, they could ride to safety now yet this one chooses to stay and ask questions. Minions of the monks would grab the first opportunity to flee. For another, can you imagine the Dark Ones recruiting anything like those two to their cause?” He indicated Squill and Neena, who were bickering vociferously atop Snaugenhutt’s spine.

  Viz left his iron perch to settle on Buncan’s shoulder. “My friend and I are well-traveled, but I’ve never heard of this Kilagurri either.”

  “Maybe you’re not as indifferent as you make out.” Wurragarr regarded human and tickbird thoughtfully. “I accept that you’re sorcerers, even if so far you’ve only proven that you’re sorcerers of the flowers.” Behind him, Quibo and several others chuckled. The brooding Bedarra didn’t crack a smile.

  “We can do more than conjure flowers,” Buncan told him. “A lot more.”

  “I won’t deny that we need all the help we can get.” The roo indicated the trio of kookaburras, who were still recovering from their bout of hysterics. “I’d hate to have to depend on that lot in a critical moment.” Those of his companions-in-arms within earshot murmured their agreement.

  “Even if pretty flowers represent the apex of your wizardry, we could use whatever kind of help you could provide. It’s clear from the armor worn by your great friend and the ready bows of your water rats that you travel prepared to fight. I won’t say that your presence among us would turn the tide.”

  “Hold on,” said Buncan. “I just asked to know what’s going on. I haven’t said anything about helping.”

  “Fair dinkum, stranger.” Wurragarr encompassed the mob with a sweep of his free hand. “We’re all dwellers in this same land, in these hills and mountains. We and our ancestors have lived here in peace and harmony, more or less, since before memory.

  “Most of us are farmers or simple townies, or craftsfolk like myself. We ask only to be left alone to live our lives in peace. We’ve never had any trouble with the monks … until a little more than a year ago.

  “The monastery of Kilagurri sits in a small, steep-sided basin high above the valley of Millijiddee. It’s not a place for those who’d contemplate the goodness of the world. Prior to a year ago we had little or no contact with those who dwell within. Then something changed. Kilagurri has become home to those who thrive on evil machinations. Bad doings, stranger.

  “Travelers who pass close tell of frightful noises issuing from within. Tormented screams and unnatural voices. Though curious as to the source of these sounds, they hurry on. One can’t blame them.

  “From time to time several of the monks will descend to shop in Millijiddee Towne, or have something fixed they cannot repair themselves. Nowadays all good folk shun them as well as their business.” The roo was leaning on his thick tail as he spoke.

  “Not that we haven’t had trouble with ’em before.” The wombat wagged a thick finger at Buncan. “Used to be little things. A blight on some greengrocer they thought had cheated ’em. A sprained leg that took too long to heal. Consumptive farm animals. Nothing like what’s been happening recently. Nothing like it.”

  Wurragarr took up the refrain. “Just over a year ago, unnatural clouds were seen to gather above the monastery. Bolts of lightning struck within, yet there were no fires, no sign of damage. The Dark Ones began to play with great forces. What little we’ve been able to learn of their doings fills us with fear. It’s clear that the monks are intent on some vast evil.

  “A truce used to exist between the common folk and the monks. They’ve broken that with their detestable doings. Nothing was left to us but to try and put a stop to them permanently, before they can go any further.”

  “Go any further with what?” Viz asked him. “Snaugenhutt! All of you, you’d better come and listen to this.” The rhino nodded, ambled over. The crowd retreated to make room for him.

  Wurragarr turned and peered into the assemblage. “Mowara! Where’s Mowara?”

  A pinkish-white avian fluttered out of the crowd to land without ceremony on the roo’s left shoulder. In addition to a light blue-and-green-checked scarf, a mother-of-pearl anklet flashed from his left leg.

  “Mowara’s actually been inside the monastery,” Wurragarr informed them. “He’s the closest thing we have to a spy. He’s taken a big risk.”

  The galah nodded. “They pluck birds up there. Seen it myself.” He shuddered, feathers quivering. “Horrible. You should see their new guards. Great awful things, all claws and fangs and beaks.”

  “Mowara confirmed the stories we’d been hearing,” Wurragarr went on. “Confirmed them, and worse.”

  “Too right, mate.”

  Their spy was old, Buncan thought. His eyes were dulled with age and his beak worn. His attitude suggested the first stages of senility. Or maybe he was just a little crazy. Could he be believed? Wurragarr seemed to trust him completely.

  “People have been abducted,” the roo was saying, “and taken to the monastery.” His voice was grim. “Lately the monks favor cubs and infants, those of travelers and outlanders as much as local folk. Most are never seen again. But there have been a few escapees. Mowara confirms what they’ve told us.”

  “Seen them at work, the Dark Ones.” The galah stretched his aged wings significantly. “Heard them talking. Saw things.”

  “Cor, wot sorts o’ things?” Neena inquired. In front of her, Squill affected an air of bored indifference.

  “Saw them,” the galah insisted. “Tampering.”

  “Tampering with what?” Buncan wanted to know.

  The bird leaned forward, and his eyes bulged. “Nature. The Dark Monks, they’re tampering with Nature itself.”

  Chapter 21

  “I DON’T UNDERSTAND,” Buncan said cautiously.

  “Who does, who does?” Pink wings flapped urgently. “The Dark Ones don’t understand either, but that doesn’t stop them. The forces of life, the threads that bind it together, that’s what they’re stuck into up there on that mountaintop. Weavers they think they are, but all they can tie are knots, nasty knots.” Though there was no need to lower his voice, he leaned forward and whispered.

  “Used to be just irritating, the monks were. Not no more. Want to control it all now. Not just the hills and valleys. All of it. The whole world.

  “I’ve heard them speak words, words I don’t understand. Nobody understands them, including the Dark Ones. But they use ’em. Words of somber power, traveler. Words unknown to the monks until a year previous.”

  “What sort of words?” Gragelouth slowly dismounted. “I am quite facile with words.”

  “Not these, mate, not these. Words like…” The galah struggled to remember. He was old enough, Buncan mused, that his memory was no longer his servant but a constant irksome challenge.

  Squill whistled derisively. “’Ell, there ain’t no bloomin’ mystery words.”

  “Deoxyribonucleic acid!” the galah abruptly blurted. “Peptide chains! Molecular carbon. Heterocyclic compounds. Enzymatic cortical displacement.” He blinked.

  It all sounded like nonsense to Buncan. But organized nonsense. Necromantic or not, organized nonsense could be dangerous. Maybe Clothahump could have made sense of the galah’s ravings. Bunc
an couldn’t, nor could Gragelouth.

  “Cross-nuclear chromosomal ingestion. Forced immune system rejection repression.” Mowara was gesturing wildly with both wingtips. “They use these words to commit iniquities. To make things.”

  “What ‘things’?” Buncan pressed him.

  “New things. Outrages. Horrors.” Even Bedarra was subdued as the bird rambled on. “New kinds of people.”

  Neena’s expression reflected her confusion. “How can you make new kinds o’ people?”

  “By combining them. I saw them, I saw them myself.” His voice fell again. “They take a wallaby. Then they take a lynx. Tie ’em up and put ’em in a cauldron. Pour foul-smelling liquids over them. Then the Dark Ones come out, the monks in charge. They chant the words.” Buncan could see that the galah was all but overcome by his own memories. But the bird pressed on.

  “Vapors cover that cauldron. You can’t see. The Dark Ones chant louder. Now you hear the sounds.” Again he shuddered. “The chanting fades away. So does the smoke. And that poor wallaby, and that poor lynx, they’re gone.”

  “Gone?” Grageloum swallowed.

  “Gone, departed. Something in their place. Some things. One useless, dribbling and drooling, gone. The other, a combining. Legs of a wallaby, eyes of a cat. Tail of a wallaby, claws and teeth of a cat. Ugly, nasty, evil. No mind of its own anymore. Does what the Dark Ones tell it.”

  “What do they do with the unsuccessful half?” Neena was unsmiling.

  Mowara stared at her. “What do you think?” She didn’t push him to elaborate.

  “That was a good one,” the galah insisted. “Seen worse. One head, three eyes. One body, six legs, all mixed up. Two tails. Two heads. Horrors. Lose their bodies, lose their selves. Lose their wills. Belong to the Dark Ones now. Do their will.”

  “But why?” Buncan demanded to know. “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard of. To take two healthy, happy individuals and do that to them … it’s worse than the stories I’ve been told of the Plated Polk.”

  “Sounds bloody ridiculous to me.” Squill looked bored.

  “Does it now?” The galah gazed up at the otter with such unexpected intensity that Squill blinked involuntarily. “Wouldn’t think so if you’d seen some of the things, some of the things I’ve seen. Mole-rats merged with gazelles. Koalas all mixed up with hawks. Numbats with fish fins.”

  “But what can it all be for?” Gragelouth wanted to know.

  “Not sure. Heard the Dark Ones wanted to make people more beautiful. At first. That doesn’t justify the tampering, no sir. They had some successes. Got ideas, got corrupted. Started trying to make guards and warriors, servants. Beauty can’t never compete with power.” His feathers quivered. “Destroy the results they don’t like. Can’t change ’em back.”

  “When we first questioned the disappearances, they denied knowing anything,” Wurragarr explained. “Then they insisted only criminals and maladroits were taken, or travelers who tried to break into the monastery and rob them. We stopped believing their denials when our own young started disappearing.”

  “Sham, all sham,” the galah insisted, “to cover their activities. We know them now for what they are. Been corrupted, yes they have. By the Dark Forces. Maybe too much testosterone. They use that word a lot now.”

  Wurragarr indicated the anxious, determined faces gathered close. “Many of those here have lost children. They don’t even know if they’re still alive, or in their original form. But they want to find out. They have to find out.” The roo’s eyes were level with Buncan’s. “Human infants have also been taken.”

  “Even if any o’ this piffle is for real,” said Squill challengingly, “what makes you think you can do anythin’ about it?”

  Wurragarr’s tone didn’t change. “We will, or the trying.”

  “Fair dinkum,” growled Bedarra, gripping his pike tightly.

  The roo took a step back. “We won’t see any more of our cubs vanish from their beds, or disappear from our towns and farms. We won’t watch them turned into creatures their own parents wouldn’t recognize.”

  “So you’re goin’ to storm this bleedin’ monastery.” Squill glanced back at his sister. “Sound familiar, Neena? Why does I ’ave a feelin’ this’ll be a tougher nut to crack than a certain Baron’s walled mansion?”

  “It will be difficult,” Wurragarr admitted. “The monastery is located high in the mountains, in a narrow basin. A wall protects it from the front, and the cliffs on both sides are extremely steep and difficult to scale. There are no trees above the wall, and cover is scarce. Therefore we must attack from the front. There are two springs in the basin behind the monastery itself. They can withstand a long siege.

  “But there will be no siege. We all of us have trades to practice, crops to plant or bring in, families to look after. We can’t afford to be long at this work. So we must attack and shatter the main gate, the only gate.” He gestured with the ax. “Then we will put Kilagurri to the torch, and incinerate the evil it contains.” An inspiring cheer rose from his companions, echoing through the paperbark woods.

  Buncan hesitated, uncertain how to respond. “I don’t know what to say, Wurragarr, except that we have our own priorities.”

  “Bloody right we do.” Squill gazed down importantly. “We’ve come a long way, and we ain’t about to chance no dangerous detours here.”

  “We’re searching for the Grand Veritable and we’ve a ways to go yet,” Buncan added.

  “Tell ’em, Bunc,” Squill said with a whistle.

  “So if you want what help I can give, it’s yours.” He extended a hand.

  “Right, we’ve…” Squill broke off, goggling at his friend. “Say that again, mate?”

  “It’s what Jon-Tom would do,” Buncan explained.

  Squill was beside himself. “Well, it ain’t bleedin’ wot Mudge would do!”

  The too ignored the fuming otter as he shook Buncan’s hand. “We can use every extra fist, mate. I’m sorry we misinterpreted your presence here at first.”

  “No, no, you didn’t misinterpret anything’!” Squill was waving wildly, looking to his companions for support. Neena gave a little shrug and smiled beatifically.

  “What about the rest of you?” Wurragarr let his gaze rove over the travelers. “The workings of the Dark Ones threaten you as much as us. If they are not stopped in our country, who knows how far their scourge might spread? Maybe even beyond the Tamas.”

  “I’m in.” Snaugenhutt gave a little shake that set his armor to jingling lightly. “Could do with a good fight. Don’t remember too much of the last one I participated in.”

  “Same here.” Viz and Mowara exchanged acknowledgments by simultaneously dipping their beaks.

  Buncan eyed the merchant. “Gragelouth?”

  The sloth was reluctant to commit himself. “Squill’s observations are like a battered bowl: It leaks, but still holds truth. We should be on our way.”

  “I know, but there’s greater truth in these folks’ misery. We could maybe make a difference here.” He indicated the three now abashed kookaburras. “I don’t see how we can deny them our help.”

  “Ask me,” growled an indignant Squill. “I’ll show you.”

  Buncan looked past him. “Neena?”

  “’Tis an awful lot you’re askin’, Bunkles.”

  “You really think Mudge would have ridden on by?” She squirmed uncomfortably. “Don’t you want to be better than that?”

  “Don’t you want to bloody well live?” Squill asked him.

  Buncan glared at his friend. “We survived Hygrja. We survived the Sprilashoone and Camrioca. We saved Neena from Krasvin and crossed the Tamas in spite of the Xi-Murogg. What does that tell you, Squill?”

  “That we’re temptin’ bloomin’ fate, mate.”

  “Are we spellsingers or not?”

  “You sure got Jon-Tom’s talent.” The otter sighed. “Why’d you ’ave to go an’ get ’is bleedin’ sense of duty as well?”
r />   “I’m not going to argue with you anymore.” Buncan turned away. “You don’t have to come.”

  “Cor, wot are we supposed to do?” Neena put hands on waist. “Go on by ourselves, then? Without ’im?” She pointed at the reluctant merchant. “’E’s the only one who knows the way.

  “We three needs to stick together, we do. We can’t make magic without you, and you can’t make it without us.”

  “I can still use my sword,” Buncan reminded her.

  “You? A swordsman?” She let out a series of long whistles.

  He ignored the insult. “I don’t like the circumstances either, Neena, but part of the reason I’m here is to participate in worthy adventures like this.”

  “Is it now?” said Squill. “Then why’d we ’afta come all this blinkin’ way? You coulda got yourself killed right back ’ome. There’s plenty o’ them in Lynchbany would do the job for free.”

  “As I told you, I’m a blacksmith by trade.” Wurragarr spoke quietly. “Not a soldier. None of us are.”

  “Me ’eart bleeds for you.” Squill spat to his right, unfortunately not quite missing his foot. A hundred pairs of eyes and more watched him silently. “Oh, right then,” he muttered. “Go on, bury me in guilt. Dump it copiously. I loves it, I’m a glutton for it.” He reached back to finger his quiver. “Blacksmith, you think you can make me some more arrows?”

  A broad smile creased the roo’s face. “We’ve plenty with us. You can have your pick, so long as you promise to stick them where they’ll do the most good.”

  “Friar Dunkum, or wotever the ’ell you said,” Squill mumbled disconsolately.

  Wurragarr, Bedarra, and Mowara let Snaugenhutt lead the column as it wound its way through the forest. The path led steadily upward. Unfamiliar evergreens began to appear more and more frequently as they ascended, their branches and needles so evenly spaced one would have thought them fashioned by hand instead of grown. Higher up they could make out the first bare rock faces, naked granite devoid of any vegetation.