Son of Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Seven)

by Alan Dean Foster

  Topping yet another in a seemingly endless series of natural granite steps, they found themselves standing on a small flat plateau. Cliffs rose steeply to left and right. Ahead additional steps led onward and upward, but the stream did not tumble down them. Instead it curved leftward against a raised shoulder of rock and terminated at the base of a narrow waterfall. A small clear pool shimmered at the rocky intersection of stream and cascade. To the right lay a dark, yawning void in the cliff face, a black blot on the otherwise unmarred granite.

  Dismounting from Snaugenhutt to give him maximum room to maneuver, they approached the cave with caution. A thick, musky smell emanated from within.

  “Let ’im come.” The rhino pawed at the gravel. “I’m ready for anything.”

  “Sure you are.” Viz bobbed atop his iron perch. Like the rest of Snaugenhutt’s armor, it was slightly the worse for wear from the fall the rhino had taken inside the monastery of the Dark Ones. “Just don’t get carried away. We may be up against something more powerful here than the minions of the Baron, or even the crazed horrors of the monastery.”

  “You watch your butt and I’ll watch mine,” the rhino rumbled.

  Buncan peered hard but saw nothing. The depths of the cave were veiled in blackness. He took courage from the fact that the opening wasn’t very large, and that it was unlikely any inhabitant would be larger than its egress.

  After a querulous glance at Gragelouth, who could only shrug helplessly, he turned back to the black and called tentatively. “Hello in there? We’re travelers from a far land. We’ve come a long way to see if there really is such a thing as the Grand Veritable, and we were told you had charge of it.”

  Silence most profound greeted this declamation. After a pause, Buncan tried again.

  “Listen, all we want at this point is a look, to see if the damn thing’s real.” This time, an echo of silence.

  Emboldened, Squill sauntered right up to the entrance. “Me, I always said there never were any such contrivance. ’Tis all piffle, an’ so’s any bleedin’ Guardian.”

  “I am not piffle,” declared a voice from within. A very deep voice. A voice most carnivorous, of a timbre and resonance that inspired in the otter an urge to precipitous retreat.

  “Nice goin’,” muttered his sister as they huddled together against Snaugenhutt’s bulk.

  Buncan too had retreated, but not as far. He started to draw his sword, instead swung the duar around in front of him. “We must have a look. We’ve come too far and endured too much to just walk away now. At least grant us proof of the Veritable’s existence.” And maybe an explanation of what it is, he added silently.

  “Go away!” The Guardian’s speech was half snarl, half cough, all menace. “I’m in a truly foul mood today. Provoke me, and I’ll come out.”

  “’Tis bluff.” Buncan looked sharply back at Neena. “I’ve ’eard about these ’orrible ‘guardian’ things all me life. Monsters that are supposed to watch over secrets an’ treasures an’ the like, wot? If they ain’t just gossip they’re always overstated. Why d’you think this one ain’t showed ’isself? Because there ain’t much to ’im, that’s bloomin’ why. They all rely on their reputations, they do.”

  “I dunno.” Buncan turned back to the cave. “Just a look, that’s all we want!”

  “Blood of my liver, you want to steal it!” came the sonorous reply. “Frankly, that’d be all right with me. I’m sick of this job. But my job it is, and I’m bound like all who preceded me to perform it to the best of my ability. So don’t make my day any more difficult, okay? Just leave.”

  For one entrusted to watch over the Source of All Knowledge and the Fount of Limitless Power, this Guardian sounded quite reasonable, Buncan thought. While he had not acceded to their request, he had already deigned to converse with them.

  “I’m sorry, but for the reasons I’ve already mentioned we can’t do that.”

  “Can you describe the Veritable to us without coming out?” Gragelouth inquired.

  “Yeah, give us a ’int,” barked Squill. “’Tis it animal, vegetable, or mineral?” He winked at his sister.

  A thunderous roar amplified by the natural bellows of the cave rattled the ground like a seismic tremor. Small rocks tumbled from the cliff side.

  “SO BE IT UPON YOU! DON’T SAY YOU WEREN’T WARNED!”

  As Buncan stumbled frantically backward, blazing green eyes centered on something huge and tawny exploded toward him.

  Chapter 25

  IT WASN’T AS BIG as the pit bull—bull, he thought as he threw himself to his left, nor as horrifying as some gramarye wraith, but it looked quite capable of butchering each and every one of them without pausing to take a breath, including the massive Snaugenhutt.

  Its headlong charge carried it well past the diving Buncan. Gravel and dust flew from beneath its clawed feet as it landed and spun, gathering itself for a second, better-timed attack.

  Because of its color and general shape, Buncan at first thought it a lion. But there was no mane, the skull was longer and decidedly flattened, the ears were positioned differently, and the forelegs were more muscular at the shoulder. More startling still, it walked on four legs instead of two and wore no clothing or decoration of any kind, both hallmarks of the civilized. Certainly a throwback, yet one capable of speech and rational thought.

  It was hard to contemplate what all this might mean, because he found himself mesmerized by the pair of incredible, backward-curved canines which protruded downward from the roof of the Guardian’s mouth. Each was fully half the length of the otters’ short swords and looked just as sharp. When the Guardian yawned, its gaping upper and lower jaws formed a nearly straight line. Among all the other creatures Buncan knew of or had ever encountered, only the thylacine Bedarra could duplicate the feat, and his admittedly impressive teeth were no match for the ivory scimitars of this brute.

  It glared at them. “On your own heads be this. Who’ll be the first to die?”

  “Actually none of us are in any particular hurry,” squeaked Gragelouth from his position behind Snaugenhutt’s protective rump. The rhino shook himself, rattling his armor, and lowered his head. If this creature could place a bite between the iron plates, Buncan knew, those great incisors could sever the rhino’s spinal cord. Or his jugular.

  As for himself or Gragelouth or the otters, those powerful jaws could snip their heads clean off. Only Viz was comparatively safe.

  His fingers were tense on the duar, and he could see that Neena and Squill were ready to rap. But could they sing fast enough to save themselves? The creature’s initial charge had taken only seconds, and it was clearly infinitely more agile than the pit bull-bull. He’d been lucky to dodge it once. He doubted he could do it again.

  “What do you call yourself?” He struggled to maintain a brave front, and incidentally give the otters more time to improvise some lyrics. “Of what tribe are you? We’ve already spoke with one who calls this the Country of the Recently Forgotten.”

  “That’s right, remind me.” The Guardian pawed at the gravel, his head weaving from side to side. “I haven’t mated in nearly a year, and that doesn’t make me any less irritable.”

  “I know how you feel,” mumbled Snaugenhutt even as he angled his horn.

  “This Guardian is of the tribe of the sabertooths, since you’re unable to puzzle out that simple fact, and I warned you.” It raised one paw (at least it was capable of that much learned behavior, Buncan reflected) and pointed toward the cave. “In there lie the bones of those who came before you and lingered to disturb my rest. They are well gnawed. It will be good to have a fresh supply to crack.”

  “Surely you cannot seriously be thinking of eating us,” Gragelouth protested. “That would be uncivilized in the extreme.”

  “I lay no claim to civilization,” The lunatic canines gleamed in the mountain light. “Do I look like a vegetarian to you? I eat whatever comes my way, whether it’s capable of intelligible conversation or not. I don’t disc
riminate between idiots and geniuses. They all taste the same going down.”

  Suddenly the Guardian winced, eyes squinting tight. Throwing back its head, it let out a deep wail. Squatting on its haunches, it ignored them as it proceeded to howl mournfully at the sky.

  Some sort of pre-attack ritual chant, Buncan thought as he and the otters took the opportunity to retreat all the way to Snaugenhutt’s side. At least now the sabertooth couldn’t single them out. At which point the utterly unexpected occurred.

  Gragelouth started forward, hands extended.

  A disbelieving Neena yelled to him. “’Ave you gone mad, merchant? Get back ’ere before you’re fish meal!”

  “Cor, let the silly twit sacrifice ’imself if ’e wants.” Squill sniffed disdainfully. “Maybe ’e’ll give the toothy blighter a bellyache.”

  The sloth glanced over a shoulder. “I am not about to sacrifice myself, and I am quite frightened out of my wits. It is only that when you travel as widely as I do and see as much as I have you acquire all manner of odd information. While observing our assailant just now, I imagined I saw something specific.”

  “Right,” agreed Neena. “Waitin’ death.”

  “Something besides that.” As be continued to advance, the sabertooth ceased its dirge and lowered its gaze.

  “A volunteer for the first course. That doesn’t happen very often.”

  Gragelouth halted just out of immediate claw reach. “Your pardon, father-of-all-fangs, but prior to your consuming me might I have a closer look at something? A final favor, if you will.”

  The sabertooth’s expression narrowed, which, given his already low sloping forehead, have him the look of a piqued executioner. “A look at what? I’ve already told you that you can’t see the Grand Veritable. I’m guarding it.”

  “Not that; something more personal. Just now, when you had your head back singing, I thought I noticed something.”

  The great carnivore eyed the sloth warily. With a single swipe of one great paw he could easily tear out the merchant’s throat. Therefore, there was no need to hurry.

  “Just what is it you want to see?”

  Gragelouth raised both hands over his head. “I am unarmed.”

  The Guardian scrutinized the proffered limbs thoughtfully. “You will be shortly.”

  “I mean that I have no weapons.” The soft-voiced merchant would not back down. “These others are here at my instigation.”

  “I thank you in advance for supplying so large and diverse a meal.” In no great hurry now, the sabertooth lifted a paw and examined its claws.

  “Having come this far in search of a dream, I cannot turn and run, I cannot back down without an answer. Do you understand?”

  “I understand that you will tickle sliding down my gullet. Could you not have shaved first?” Glowing green eyes glistened in deep-set sockets.

  “All I wish,” said the sloth as he warily lowered his hands, “is to have a look inside your mouth.”

  The Guardian’s eye ridges rose. “You’ll see that soon enough.”

  “You do not understand. It is one small portion that intrigues me.” He had moved closer, and Buncan saw that no matter how effective a spellsong he and the otters might mount, it would not be in time to save the merchant.

  “A peculiar last request. Peculiar enough to be granted.” The sabertooth stretched its incredible jaws wide. “Indulge yourself. I’ll let you know before I bite.”

  “Thank you.” Gragelouth stuck his head forward and down, twisting to one side to stare at the Guardian’s upper palate. Buncan and the others held their breath. “Ah, there. Just there.” His expression knotted sympathetically. “That must hurt something terrible. It is no wonder your disposition is so befouled.” He withdrew.

  Instead of lunging forward, jaws agape, for the fatal bite, the sabertooth eyed the squat sloth uncertainly. “What can you know about it?”

  “I can see it. Upper left canine. It goes right down into the socket. How long has that tooth been bothering you?”

  “What makes you think it bothers me?” The Guardian let out an anticipatory snarl.

  Gragelouth spoke a little faster. “As I said, one acquires many odd bits of knowledge in one’s travels. It is bothering you, is it not? Did it not just cause you shooting, throbbing pain?”

  “Don’t speak of it! You…” The Guardian suddenly winced. “Yes, it hurts. The pain is like a running fire in my brain.”

  “For how long?”

  “Soon after I ate a pair of exotic dancers who lost themselves in these mountains. A human and a cat, they were.” He looked downcast. “They tasted harmless at the time.”

  “Ah.” Gragelouth nodded knowingly. “One must take care not to consume too many sugary tarts.”

  “The pain comes and goes, but each time it returns it’s worse.”

  “I thought as much.”

  Unable to overhear the conversation clearly, Squill raised his own voice. “Oi, gray-bottom! Wot’s the bleedin’ story?”

  “He has a cavity,” Gragelouth explained. “A hole in one front tooth.”

  “No wonder ’e’s in such a bad mood,” Neena declared. “’Avin’ a chopper like that, you can only imagine the toothache it would give.”

  “I’d rather not,” said Squill.

  “And I can’t,” Viz added.

  Buncan moved to join Gragelouth, ignoring the otters’ warnings. “I’m sorry to hear about your problem. What if we could fix it for you?”

  The Guardian growled at him. “You can’t ‘fix it’ for me. No one can fix it for me.” As Gragelouth took a well-considered step backward a huge paw reached out to land on his left foot, preventing him from retreating any farther. The murderous skull drew close and green eyes blazed into the merchant’s own. “No one.”

  “Not wishing at this point in time to incite you any further, I must still point out that my friends may be able to do something for you. Though young, they are purveyors of exquisite necromancy. Spellsingers.”

  For just an instant, the sabertooth hesitated. “Spellsingers?” The restraining paw did not move, but the eyes rose to peer past the trapped sloth. They settled on Buncan. “Is what this furry snack says true?”

  “It’s true. How do you think we got this far if not with the help of powerful sorcery?”

  “I don’t know. Blind stupidity?” He lifted his paw, releasing Gragelouth’s tingling foot. Knowing better than to try to run, the merchant implored the glowing Guardian.

  “At least let them try. If they fail, you can still run us down one by one.”

  “Spellsinging … I don’t know,” the sabertooth brooded. “What if they make it worse?”

  Buncan took another couple of steps forward. “Is that possible?”

  Gragelouth was once more bending to peer into the Guardian’s gaping mouth. “It appears to be eating into the root. If you do not have it taken care of very soon, you will lose the entire saber. I suspect you will not grow another.”

  “You’ll look bleedin’ ’umorous with only one o’ those stickers ’angin’ out o’ your trap,” Squill commented.

  The Guardian threw the taunting otter a murderous glare, then winced as fresh pain shot through his upper jaw. When he finally spoke again he was much subdued.

  “Can you really help me?”

  “We can’t make any promises.” Buncan spoke slowly, cautiously. “Sometimes the magic doesn’t work, and often it takes paths we didn’t envision. Furthermore, most of our spellsinging has been defensive in nature. We’ve never attempted anything quite so … constructive. We’ve only tried to do what was right, without hurting anyone or anything.”

  “Yeah,” added Squill energetically. “Moral shit like that, wot?”

  The Guardian nodded his understanding. “I will let you try. No tricks now, I warn you! I am nearly as quick of mind as feet, and I won’t hesitate to shred the first one I suspect of something sly. But if you can mute the pain even a little, if you can help me, I would �
� I would be grateful.”

  Fighting to restrain his excitement, Gragelouth inquired delicately, “If we can fix the problem permanently, will you let us see the Grand Veritable?”

  The sabertooth’s green gaze shifted back to the merchant. “If you can fix this so it doesn’t hurt anymore, ever, I’ll give you the damn thing!”

  The merchant’s face broke out into a wholly uncharacteristic wide smile.

  “Right,” muttered Buncan. “Let’s do it.”

  He huddled with the otters while the others, including the tormented sabertooth, waited expectantly. Torn between a natural desire to rend and tear, which he was obligated to do, and a desperate need to alleviate the worsening pain in his jaw, the Guardian sat silent as a house pet and waited.

  Before long the human confronted him again. “We’re ready.” When the Guardian didn’t respond he nodded to his companions.

  The rhythm was gentler than any they’d employed previously, coaxing rather than challenging, soothing instead of belligerent. No problem with that. Rap was adaptable. They’d just never had the occasion to speak softly before.

  “Ain’t no gain without no pain

  But the pain, in the main

  She’s a tiresome refrain, the bane

  Of existence

  Do we make sense?

  Got to chuck it out

  Shouldn’t have to shout

  That it’s plain that the pain

  Is on the wane an’ on its way out.”

  As they played and sang, a small silvery cloud, a miniature of those which formed so often when they spellsang, drifted from the duar’s nexus to the Guardian’s mouth. It swirled gently about the infected tooth, taking on multiple forms and shapes: now a small pointed instrument, now one through which glistening white liquid flowed.

  An expression wondrous to behold slipped over the sabertooth’s face like a cleansing wrap, an expression not there seen since it had been a cub. Though only the corners of his mouth curved upward, there was no mistaking the contortion for what it was: a smile.