Son of Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Seven)

by Alan Dean Foster

  “We’re not afraid of the monks,” Wurragarr explained. “Only the revolting creations that do their bidding. Some are more formidable than others. We have Mowara’s description of a numbat crossed with a thylacine. I wouldn’t care to meet something like that on a black night.”

  “If you and your people can handle the fighting,” Buncan told him, “maybe my friends and I can come up with a spellsong to counteract their sorcery. Based on our experiences, I think the best thing to do would be to confront them directly. That means slipping us inside. We managed that feat under similar circumstances not long ago, but we were lucky. I don’t know if we could do it again.”

  The roo looked thoughtful. “Mowara’s the only one of us who knows the monastery’s interior, but he’s a flier.” He rubbed his chin as he hopped along, easily keeping pace with Snaugenhutt, his tail flicking behind him. “What about it, Mowara?”

  The galah timed his shrug to Wurragarr’s bounce. “Hard to get out. Might get in. Can you sneak?”

  Buncan grinned. “I’m traveling with two otters.”

  “Wait just a bloody minim, mate.” Squill had been listening closely. “You want us to go inside this den o’ sorcerers an’ their offspring an’ clean ’em out?”

  Buncan looked up at the otter. “Not clean them out. Just keep them from using their necromancy against Wurragarr and his people. Confuse them, tie them down, create a diversion.”

  “I liked it better when we were throwin’ Snaugenhutt around.”

  The rhino glanced back and up. “Easy for you to say, otter.”

  “Right. So this time all of us are to act as a diversion. Wot ’appens if the oversize rat ’ere an’ ’is mates don’t make it in? By my way o’ thinkin’ that leaves us ’appy sappy diversions ‘igh an’ dry, singin’ our bleedin’ ’earts out.”

  “You get tucked into the Dark Ones and we’ll get in,” Wurragarr assured him.

  “Well, then, there’s nothin’ to worry about, is there? Wot am I goin’ on about it for? Why, there’s one thing don’t concern me already.”

  “What’s that?” Wurragarr asked politely.

  The otter’s reply was bitter. “I don’t own enough worth makin’ out a will for.”

  “What about aerial guards?” Buncan inquired.

  “According to Mowara, that shouldn’t be a problem.” The roo hopped easily over a large boulder that Buncan had to scramble around. “They can combine an eagle with a badger, but it still won’t fly.”

  “Planning to attack at night?”

  “Yes. We’ll strike when the moon is at its highest. Maybe we’ll catch them groggy with sleep. Even monsters have to sleep, or so I’d imagine.” He didn’t sound like he believed it, Buncan mused.

  Suddenly he recalled something the roo had mentioned earlier. “You said that the cliffs surrounding Kilagurri were steep and difficult to negotiate. How’s Snaugenhutt going to climb them?”

  Wurragarr looked away. “Actually, I don’t see that your large friend can. We were hoping he would help us assault the gate. Surely you can see that he’s better suited to that than alpining?”

  “I hear you,” said Snaugenhutt.

  “Besides,” the roo added, “I’d think you’d find it hard to slip him inside unseen, even with Mowara’s help.”

  “It isn’t up to me.” Buncan looked over at the tickbird. “Viz?”

  “The roo’s right, Buncan. We’ll take this gate, however strong it is. If there’s climbing to be done, you’d be better off with an elephant than ol’ Snaug here.” The rhino did not object to the conclusion.

  “I, too, should remain with our newfound friends,” Gragelouth declared. The merchant was contrite. “My tribe is not designed for speed. I would not want to delay you at a critical moment.”

  “Marvelous,” said Squill from atop Snaugenhutt’s back. “Anything else we need to leave behind? Our clothes maybe? Our weapons? We’re already leavin’ our bloomin’ brains.”

  “Wot brains?” Neena opined. Squill turned on his sister as they embarked on their favorite pastime of trading insults.

  Buncan let his gaze sweep over the valley below. In the distance the lights of a small village were just visible. He returned his attention to the mountain path. “How much farther?”

  Wurragarr indicated the lightly used trail they were following. “Another day’s march. Are you still ready and willing?”

  “We’re willing, anyway.” Buncan smiled.

  “You won’t surprise ’em.” Snaugenhutt maintained his steady, unvarying pace. “They’re bound to see a troop this size coming.”

  “We know. Our hope is that when we just encamp outside the wall and don’t attack they’ll think we’re settling in for an extended siege. Then we’ll get into ’em when they’re in bed. You’ve obviously had experience in mese matters. What’s your opinion?”

  Snaugenhutt considered. “Good a strategy as any.”

  “Don’t let’s drown in optimism, wot?” Neena made a face. “Don’t it trouble no one else that this whole enterprise depends on the wiles of a senile pink parrot?”

  The monastery of Kilagurri was an impressive pile of moss-covered cut masonry situated behind a massive wall of huge, square-cut stones each as big as a good-size boulder. The wall sealed off the basin containing the monastery buildings as thoroughly as a dam. A trickle of water ran from a pair of drainage pipes set in the base of the wall. Heavy iron grates prevented entrance to the pipes, and Buncan had no doubt they were watched at all times. That obvious way in was closed to them. He was not disappointed. The culverts smelled abominably.

  The trail they were following continued past the main gate and ended at an impassable waterfall. Trees had been cleared in front of the wall, meaning anyone approaching would be instantly visible to those within. The only way in was through a comparatively narrow gate reinforced with iron bands and bolts the size of his fist. It was a far more impressive and forbidding structure than Buncan had anticipated. He found himself wondering if it would ever yield to Snaugenhutt.

  As they spread out among the trees he could see caped figures gathering atop the wall. Wallabies, a couple of koalas, one numbat. By the light of the torches they carried he could see that regardless of species the fur had been shaved from the crown of each head. Cryptic markings decorated each naked skull.

  “Hermetic tattoos.” Bedarra stood close to Buncan. “We don’t understand them.”

  Occasionally the monks and acolytes atop the rampart paused to converse with one another. More torches were brought and set in empty holders, until the entire wall and the open ground below were thoroughly illuminated. Certainly there was enough light for those within the monastery to watch as the corps of common folk busied themselves setting up camp. None of Wurragarr’s people had challenged those inside, nor had the silent shapes on the wall tried to hail the interlopers establishing themselves among the trees.

  “Maybe they think we are pilgrims,” Gragelouth ventured, “and are waiting for the first supplicants to present themselves at the gate.”

  “We’ll present ourselves, all right.” Buncan was studying the steep slope where the mountain met the wall. “But it won’t be at the gate.”

  Chapter 22

  “THIS WAY.” MOWARA WOULD vanish into the darkness, then dart back to chivvy them onward. “It’s not bad, it’s not.”

  Our second nocturnal sortie, Buncan reflected as he scrambled up the increasingly steep cliff. He dared not look down. Nearby he could hear the agile but short-legged otters cursing steadily.

  This, he mused darkly as he fumbled for a handhold above his head, was a smidgen more difficult than being gently set down atop the Baron Krasvin’s mansion.

  The idea was to climb until they were high above the well-guarded point where the wall met the mountain, scramble forward, and then slink downslope until they were within the monastery proper. A large scaling party would doubtless have been spotted, but just the four of them creeping slowly along might escape the
notice of those within, whose attention was sure to be focused on the rowdy mob of angry farmers and townsfolk who were busily establishing camp in the woods.

  “We’re high enough.” Mowara fluttered inches from Buncan’s face, pivoting in midair to gesture downward with a wingtip. “Quietly now.” Trailing in his wake, they began working their way toward the shadowy structures below. Most were dark, but lights beckoned in a few high, narrow windows. To Buncan’s relief, the slope leading into the monastery was much gentler than the one they had scaled outside. There was no sign of any guards. He hoped the monastery’s entire defense would be concentrated on the wall.

  Neena kicked a rock loose and they all hunched low as it initiated a miniature avalanche. The pebbles banged and bounced noisily off one another for a minute or so before the slide petered out. Silence once more took possession of the hillside. No shouts rang out below them, no torches were waved in their direction. Buncan breathed a sigh of relief as he resumed his downward crawl.

  “I can’t believe no one’s even looked up ’ere.” Squill tried to tiptoe around the loose scree. “We’re pushin’ our luck, we are.”

  “Not luck, no, not luck.” Mowara dipped and darted above their heads. “They have so much confidence in their sorcery, and in everyone else’s lack of imagination. Think they’re the only ones who can think, they do.” He allowed himself a soft derogatory squawk. “Stuff ’em, the pongy sods.”

  Buncan edged carefully around a steep drop. “Keep in mind that we don’t have wings, Mowara.”

  “No worries, mate,” the aged galah cackled. “She’ll be right, she will.” He left them to scout on ahead.

  Eventually he directed them to a spot where the third floor of a large stone structure impinged against the bare rock. In the light of a waxing moon, they followed the galah across the open slate roof past planters filled with sleeping blossoms of unknown type toward an arched doorway of peculiar design. As they hugged the shadows, Buncan saw that the portal was framed by numerous bas-reliefs. The subject matter set his hair on end.

  A reassuring distance off to their right they could see the inside of the wall. Brawny forms dire of aspect were beginning to join the monks on the parapet. Buncan was inordinately glad he could not see their faces.

  He glanced skyward. They had until first light to do what damage they could before Wurragarr’s people attacked. That assault would take place whether the infiltrating spellsinging trio succeeded or not. The country folk had come too far to turn back now.

  We’d better do something, he thought grimly. They’ll never breach that wall without help. Not even with Snaugenhutt leading the charge. The question most profound was: Precisely what could they do?

  Improvise, Jon-Tom had always told him. When in doubt, improvise. Almost as if in anticipation, the duar chafed and bumped against his back. He found himself wishing he had the knowledge to grasp the meaning behind the Dark Monks’ mysterious invocations.

  “Softly now, groundbound friends.” Mowara settled gently on Buncan’s shoulder. “Around this first corner your first glimpse. You can decide if what is measures up to what I’ve said, you can.”

  Buncan stepped through the open doorway and peered down the lamplit corridor. Mowara’s descriptions had prepared them, but words could only do so much.

  Standing guard at the nearest intersection was a creature with the legs of a wallaby and the squat body of a wombat. Its profile revealed the face of a dingo in the last stages of some grisly degenerative affliction. Abortive dull green wings protruded like diseased eruptions from its shoulders. It carried a blade the size of an executioner’s sword.

  “’Ow do we get past that freak?” Squill whispered.

  “Leave it to me.” Neena edged to the forefront. “I’ll dazzle it with me charms an’ the rest o’ you can sneak up behind ’it.”

  “Hey, wait!” Buncan made a grab for her but was too late. She was already sauntering down the corridor as if she owned it, in full view of the wallabat and whatever else might happen to come along.

  “Shit,” Squill muttered. “Get ready.”

  Neena halted right in front of the guard, who gaped at her. “’Ello, gorgeous. ’Ow come you’re stuck in ’ere when all the action’s out front?”

  Yellow, bloodshot eyes narrowed as they focused on her. Its voice was tortured. “Kill,” it rumbled as it swung the oversize blade in a great descending arc.

  It cracked the floor where Neena had been standing an instant earlier. “’Ere now! Wot do you think I am, rough trade?”

  “Kill,” snarled the abomination, lurching after her.

  “So much for stunnin’ it with ’er irresistible beauty.” Sword drawn, Squill was racing down the hallway. Buncan and Mowara had no choice but to follow.

  It saw them coming and brought the blade around in a sweeping horizontal arc. Buncan stumbled to a halt, glad that the haphazard creature hadn’t been given the arms of a gibbon. Squill ducked lithely beneath the blow and drove his sword up into the ogre’s belly, while Neena struck it from behind. It let out a soft gurgle, choking on its own blood, and made a last desultory swipe at the hovering Mowara which the galah avoided easily. The blade tumbled to the floor as the guard clutched at its throat. It fell over, kicking spasmodically. The kicking slowed rapidly, and soon all was still.

  The otters stood over the corpse, breathing hard. Mowara fluttered approvingly nearby. “Hope you’re as adept with your magic as you are with your swords.”

  “There were only one of ’em.” As he wiped his weapon clean on the fallen guard’s raiment, Squill grinned at his sister. “I ’ope we don’t ’ave to depend on your good looks to overcome anythin’ else.”

  “Oh, shut up,” she snapped. “It were worth a go. At least I distracted it.”

  Controlling his revulsion, Buncan forced himself to examine the dead guard. “Gross. I wonder who it was originally.”

  “This is but a tame example of the horrors perpetrated by the Dark Ones.” Mowara was keeping an eye on the corridor ahead. “There exists far worse.”

  “Cor, now that’s encouragin’.” Squill sheathed his weapon.

  In truth they were lucky. Once, a troop of unholy grotesqueries armed with huge battle-axes marched by ahead of them and they were forced to wait in an alcove until the guards had passed to a lower level, but nothing actually impeded their progress.

  “Where are you taking us?” Buncan inquired of Mowara as they cautiously started down yet another set of winding stone stairs.

  “To the axis of all evil,” the galah replied. “So you can kill it at its source.”

  Buncan found he was more eager than afraid. Whoever could deliberately pervert honest, wholesome sorcery in such an appalling fashion deserved whatever Fate bestowed on them.

  Their advance continued unchallenged. Perhaps those who would normally be patrolling these corridors were gathering on the wall to confront and intimidate Wurragarr’s people. Whatever the reason he was grateful, and remarked on their good fortune to Mowara.

  “Won’t last, it won’t.” The galah was pessimistic. “The Dark Ones will realize Wurragarr ain’t going to attack right away. Then maybe they’ll think to check their backsides. Got to work fast, we do.” Abruptly he backed wind and landed on Buncan’s shoulder. “We’re close now, we are. Quietly go.”

  Buncan lowered his voice and tensed. “Close to what?”

  “To the secret room. To the place where the Dark Ones plot their malignancies. The Lair of the Board.”

  The galah turned into a narrow, low-ceilinged corridor. “Found this by accident, I did. Hush now: I can hear them talking.”

  “Planning their defense,” Neena opined.

  “Quiet, I said,” Mowara hissed.

  They slowed, and Buncan saw they were approaching a small hole in the corridor wall. Light and voices were visible on the other side. As he eased forward and caught a glimpse of what lay beyond, he sucked in his breath. It was a vision extracted whole and uncensored from
the fevered imaginings of some seriously ill necromancer.

  There were ten of them gathered in the chamber below. All wore the dark cowl of the Kilagurri monk, making it impossible to identify individuals. They sat around a long table of polished wood of a color and grain Buncan had never seen before. It had a sheen more suggestive of glass than honest lumber.

  Strange carpeting with a weave so tight and fine he couldn’t imagine how it had been loomed covered the floor. The cups the monks sipped from were filled with a dark, bubbling, odorless liquid. Several of those present were scribbling on thick pads bound together at the left edge with loops of thin metal wire.

  In the center of the table four boxes set with glass windows faced the four points of the compass. Several dials protruded from the top of each. Wires connected them to a much bigger box in the middle of the table, and also to small rectangular panels that rested in front of each monk. Several of the attendees were tapping hesitantly at their respective panels. Theurgically lit from within, the window boxes displayed shifting, moving images that appeared to respond to the seemingly random tappings of the monks. The master box in the middle whined softly, like a live thing.

  As Buncan stared a beautiful female possum entered, tail elaborately wound with green ribbon and held high. Squill whistled softly, inducing his sister to jab him in the ribs. From a ceramic carafe balanced on a tray the servant refilled the monks’ cups with more of the steaming dark liquid. They took no notice of her presence.

  “Wot sort o’ sorceral potion is that?” Neena murmured.

  “I’ve heard them speak of it.” Mowara craned his neck for a better view. “From what I’ve been able to observe, they’re all addicted to it. It alters them in strange and subtle ways. They call it ‘coffee’ and believe it bestows on them special powers, though I’ve no proof of that. Maybe it’s some kind of collective ritual delusion whose social function is of paramount importance. See?”

  As drey looked on, the assembled monks raised their cups in unison and mumbled some sort of hypnotic chant, of which Buncan caught only the solemnly intoned words “Brighten your day” and the meaningless “caffeine.” Following this brief ceremony they returned to their conferencing. Try as he might, Buncan could detect no change in their collective demeanor as a result of consuming the liquid. Any glow or enhancement they felt must be wholly internal.