Spellsinger

by neetha Napew

  Dodging nimbly, Jon-Tom slipped around the table, brought up his staff, and

  swung the straight end down in a whistling arc. Having had plenty to consume

  himself, the wolverine reacted more slowly than usual. He did not quite get both

  hands up in time to defend himself, and the staff smacked sharply over one set

  of knuckles. The creature roared in pain.

  "Look, I don't want any trouble."

  "You stick up for your rights, mate!" Mudge urged him, beginning a precipitous

  retreat from the vicinity of the table. "I'll watch and make sure it be a fair

  fight."

  "Like hell you will!" He held the staff tightly, trying to divide his attention

  between the wolverine and the otter. "You remember what Clothahump said."

  "Screw that!" But Mudge hesitated, his hand fumbling in the vicinity of his

  chest sword. Clearly he was sizing up the tense triangle that had formed around

  the table and debating whether or not he stood a better chance of surviving

  Clothahump's vengeful spell-making than the wolverine and his friends. The

  latter consisted of a tall marten and a chunky armadillo who displayed a sword

  hanging from each hip belt. Of course, earrying weapons and knowing how to use

  them were two different matters.

  They were rising and moving to flank the wolverine and gazing at Jon-Tom in a

  decidedly unfriendly manner. The wolverine himself had regained his composure

  and was sliding an ugly-looking mace from the loop on his own belt.

  "Steady on, mate," the otter urged his companion, sword out and committed now.

  The wolverine was bouncing the spiked iron head of the mace up and down in one

  palm, gripping the handle with the other. "Maybe I ban wrong about that

  harmony." He eyed the man's throat. "Maybe I ban eliminate that voice

  altogether, yah?" He started forward, encountered a waiter who started to curse

  him, then saw the mace and fled into the crowd.

  "Is too crowded in here though. I tink I meet you outside, hokay?"

  "Hokay," said Jon-Tom readily. He moved as if to leave, got his right hand under

  the edge of the table, and heaved. Table, drinks, remnants of their greasy meal

  and platterware showered down on the wolverine, his companions, and several

  unsuspecting occupants of other tables. The innocent bystanders took exception

  to the barrage. One of the wolverine's associates side-stepped the flying table

  and jabbed his sword at the otter's face. Mudge ducked under the marten's thrust

  and kept his sword ready to challenge the emerging armadillo while neatly

  kicking the bellicose marten in the nuts. The stricken animal grabbed himself

  and went to his knees.

  Among those who had received the dubious decorations preferred by Jon-Tom's

  action were a pair of female coatis whose delicacy of shape and flash of eye

  were matched by the outrage in their voices. They had drawn slim rapiers and

  were struggling to join the fray.

  Jon-Tom had moved backward and to his left, this being the only space still not

  filled with potential combatants, and was quickly joined by Mudge. They

  continued backing until they upset another table and its patrons. This

  instituted a chain reaction which led with astonishing rapidity to a general

  mayhem that threatened to involve every one in the establishment.

  Only the chefs and bartenders kept their calm. They remained invulnerable behind

  their protective circular counter, defending liquor and food as assiduously as

  they had the honor and person of their gleaming white star performer. Only when

  some stumbling battler intruded on their territorial circle did their heavy

  clubs come into play. Waiters and waitresses huddled behind this front line of

  defense, casually making book on the outcome of the fight or downing drinks

  intended for otherwise occupied patrons.

  The fight whirlpooled around this central bastion of calm as the room was filled

  with yelps and meows, squeaks and squeals and chirps of pain and outrage.

  It was an arboreal that almost got Jon-Tom. He was effectively if unartistically

  using his long staff to fend off the short sword thrusts of an outraged pika

  when Mudge yelled, "Jon-Tom... duck!"

  As it was, the bola-wielding mallard missed his neck but got his weapon

  entangled in the club end of Jon-Tom's staff. He shoved down hard on it. In

  order to remain airborne the fowl had to surrender his weapon, but not without

  dropping instead a stream of insults on the tall human. Jon-Tom had time to note

  the duck's kilt of orange and green. He wondered if the different kilt colors

  signified species or some sort of genus-spanning clan equivalent.

  There was little time for sociological contemplation. The marten had recovered

  from Mudge's low blow and was moving to put the sharp edge of his blade through

  Jon-Tom's midsection. Instinctively he tilted the staff crosswise. The club end

  came over and around. It missed the agile marten, but the entangled bird's bola

  caught around the weasel's neck.

  Dropping his sword, he pulled the device free of the staff and stumbled away,

  fighting to free his neck from the strangling cord. Jon-Tom, momentarily clear

  of attackers, hunted through the crowd for his companion.

  Mudge was close by, kicking furniture in the way of potential assailants,

  throwing mugs and other eating utensils at them whenever possible, avoiding

  hand-to-hand combat wherever he could.

  Jon-Tom took no pride, felt no pleasure in his newfound capacity for violent

  self-defense. If he could only get out of this dangerous madhouse and back home

  to the peace and quiet of his little apartment! But that distant, familiar haven

  had receded ever farther into memory, had reached the point where it existed

  only as misty history compared to the all too real blood and fury surrounding

  him.

  Thank God, he thought frantically, fending off another attacker, for

  Clothahump's ministrations. Even a well-bandaged wound would have broken open

  again by now, but he felt nothing in his formerly injured side. He was well and

  truly healed.

  That would not save him if one of many sword or pike thrusts punctured him anew.

  The indiscriminate nature of the fighting was more frightening than anything

  else now. It was impossible to tell potential friend from foe.

  In vain he looked across the milling crest of the fight for the entrance. It was

  seemingly at least a mile away across an ocean of battling fur and steel. A

  desperate examination of the room seemed to show no other exit save via the

  central bastion of the bar and food counter, whose defenders were not admitting

  refugees. That left only the windows, an idea the panting Mudge quickly quashed.

  "Blimey, mate, you must be daft! That glass be 'alf an inch thick in places and

  thicker where 'tis beveled. I'd sooner take a sword thrust than slice meself t'

  bloody ribbons on that.

  "There be an alley out back. Let's make our way in that direction."

  "I don't see any doors there," said Jon-Tom, straining to see past the rear

  booths.

  "Surely there's a service entryway. I'll settle now meself for a garbage chute."

  Sure enough, they eventually discovered a single low doorway hidden by stacks of

  crates and piles of garbage. T
he close-packed mob made progress difficult, but

  they forced their way slowly toward the promise of freedom and safety. Only

  Jon-Tom's overbearing height enabled them to keep their goal in view. To the

  other brawlers he must have looked like an ambling lighthouse.

  Already his shining snakeskin cape was torn and bloodstained. Better it than me,

  he thought gratefully. It was not a pretty riot. The only rules were those of

  survival.

  He passed one squirrel prone on the floor, tail sodden and matted with blood.

  His left leg was missing below the knee. So much blood and spilled drink and

  food had accumulated on the floor, in fact, that one of the greatest dangers was

  losing one's footing on the increasingly treacherous planking.

  Jon-Tom watched as a cape-clad coyote picked over the unconscious form of a

  badly bleeding fox. While his attention was thus temporarily diverted, someone

  grabbed his left arm. He turned to swing the staff one-handed or jab as was

  required. So far he hadn't been forced to utilize the concealed spearpoint and

  hoped he'd never have to.

  The figure that had grabbed him was completely swathed in maroon and blue

  material. He could discern little of the figure save that the mostly hidden face

  seemed to be human. The short figure tugged hard and urged him back behind a

  temporary wall formed by a trio of fat porcupines, who, for self-evident

  reasons, were having little trouble fending off any combatant foolish enough to

  come close.

  He decided there was time later for questions, since the figure was pulling him

  toward the haven promised by the back door, and that was his intended

  destination anyway.

  "Hurry it up!" Though muffled by fabric the voice was definitely human. "The

  cops have been called and should be here any second." There was a decided

  undertone of real fear in that warning, the reason for which Jon-Tom was to

  discover soon enough.

  Visions of hundreds of furry poliee swarming through the crowd filled his

  thoughts. From the size and breadth of the conflict he guessed it would take at

  least that number several more hours to quell the fighting. He was reckoning

  without the ingenuity of Lynchbany law enforcement.

  Mudge, upon hearing of the incipient arrival of the gendarmes, acted genuinely

  terrified.

  "That's fair warnin', mate," he yelled above the din, "and we'd best get out or

  die trying." He redoubled his efforts to clear a path to the door.

  "Why? What will they do?" He swung his staff in a short arc, brought it up

  beneath the chin of a small but gamely threatening muskrat who was swinging at

  Jon-Tom's ankles with a weapon like a scythe. Fortunately, he'd only nicked one

  trouser leg before Jon-Tom knocked him out. "Do they kill people here for

  fighting in public?"

  "Worse than that." Mudge was nearly at the back door, fighting to keep potential

  antagonists out of sword range and the invulnerable porcupines between himself

  and the rest of the mob. Then he shouted frantically.

  "Quickly--quick now, for your lives!" Jon-Tom thought it peculiar the otter had

  not sought the identity of their concealed compatriot. "They're here!"

  From his position head-and-shoulders high above the crowd Jon-Tom could see

  across to the now distant main entrance. He also noted with concern that the

  chefs and bartenders and waiters had vanished, abandoning their stock to the

  crowd.

  Four or five figures of indeterminate furry cast stood inside the entryway now.

  They wore leathern bonnets decorated with flashing ovals of metal. Emblems on

  shoulder vests glinted in the light from the remaining intact lamps and the

  windows. There was a crash, and he saw that unmindful of the danger Mudge had

  outlined, the appearance of the police had actually frightened one of the

  fighters into following a chair out through a thick window pane. Jon-Tom

  wondered what horrible fate was in store for the rest of the still battling mob.

  Then he was following the strange figure and Mudge out through the door. As they

  turned to slam and bar it with barrels behind them he had a last glimpse across

  the room as the police took action against the combatants within. This was

  accompanied by a whiff of something awful beyond imagining and concentrated

  beyond the power of man or beast to endure.

  It weakened him so badly that he barely had strength enough to heave his

  not-yet-digested dinner all over the far wall. It helped his pride if not his

  stomach to see that the momentary smell had produced the same effect on Mudge

  and the maroon-clad stranger. As he knelt in the alley and emptied his

  nausea-squeezed guts, the pattern he'd glimpsed on the arriving police came back

  to him.

  Then they were all up and stumbling, running down the cobble-stoned alley, the

  mist still dense around them and the siriell of garbage like perfume compared to

  that which was fading with merciful speed behind them.

  "Very... efficient, though I'm not so sure I'd call it humane, even if no one is

  killed." He clung tightly to his staff, using it for support as they slowed a

  little.

  "Aye, mate." Mudge jogged steadily alongside him, behind the long-legged

  stranger. Occasionally he gave a worried, disgusted glance back over a shoulder

  to check for possible pursuit. None materialized.

  "Indecent it is. You only wish you were dead. It be that way in every town,

  though. Tis clean and there's no after caterwaulerin' about accidental death or

  police brutalness and such. There's worse things than takin' an occasional sword

  in the side, though. Like puking to death.

  "Makes it a good thing for the skunks, though. I've never seen a one of those

  black and white offal that lacked a good job in any township. 'Tis a brother and

  sisterhood sort of comradeship they 'ave, which is well for 'em, since none o'

  the common folk care for their companionship. They keep the peace, I suppose,

  and keep t' themselves." He shuddered. "And keep in mind, mate, that we were

  clean across the room from 'em. Those by the front will likely not touch food

  for days." Several small lizards left their claimed bit of rotting meat,

  skittered into a hole in the wall while the refugees hurried past, then returned

  to their scavenging.

  "Never could stand 'em myself, either. I don't like cops and I cannot abide

  anyone who fights with 'is rear end."

  Noises reached them from the far end of the alley and vestiges of that ghastly

  odor materialized to stab at Jon-Tom's nostrils and stomach.

  "They're followin'," said a worried Mudge. "Save us from that. I'd far rather be

  cut."

  "This way!" urged the cloaked figure. They turned up a branch of the alleyway.

  Mist covered everything, slickened walls and cobblestones and trash underfoot.

  They plunged onward, heedless of falling.

  Gradually the smell began to recede once more. Jon-Tom was grateful for the time

  he'd spent on the basketball court, and for the unusual stride that enabled him

  to keep up with the hyperactive Mudge and their racing and still identityless

  savior.

  "They took the main passage," said that voice. "This should be safe enough."

  They had
emerged on a small side street. Dim will-o'-the-wisp glows came from

  the warm globes of the street lamps overhead. It was quite dark otherwise, and

  though the mist curtained the sky Jon-Tom was certain that sunset had come and

  gone while they'd been dining in the restaurant.

  The stranger unwrapped the muffler covering face and neck and let it hang across

  shoulders and back. Cloak, shirt, and pants were made of the same maroon

  material touched with silver thread. The material was neither leather nor cotton

  but some mysterious organic hybrid. Pants, boots, and blouse had further

  delicate designs of copper thread worked through them, as did the high, almost

  Napoleonic collar.

  A slim blade, half foil, half saber, was slung neatly from the waist. She stood

  nearly as tall as Mudge's five foot six, which Jon-Tom had been given to

  understand was tall for a human woman hereabouts. She turned, still panting from

  the run, to study them. He was glad of the opportunity to reciprocate.

  The maroon clothing fit snugly without binding and the face above it, though

  expectedly petite, was hard and sharp-featured. The green eyes were more like

  Mudge's than his own. They moved with almost equal rapidity over street and

  alleyway, never ceasing. Her shoulder-length curls were flame-red. Not the

  red-orange of most redheads but a fiery, flashing crimson that looked in the

  lamplight like kinky blood.

  Save for her coloring and the absence of fur and whiskers she displayed all the

  qualities of an active otter. Only the pale green eyes softened the savage image

  she presented, standing there nervously by the side of a building that seemed to

  swoop winglike above them in the mist.

  As for the rest of her, he had the damndest feeling he was seeing a cylindrical

  candy bar well packed with peanuts. Her voice was full of hints of clove and

  pepper, as active as her eyes and her body.

  "Thought I'd never get you out of there." She was talking to Mudge. "I tried to

  get you separated but," she glanced curiously up at Jon-Tom, "this great

  gangling boy was always between us."

  "I'd appreciate it," said Jon-Tom politely, "if you wouldn't refer to me as a

  'boy'." He stared unblinkingly at her. "You don't look any older than me."

  "I'll change my tune," she shot back, "when you've demonstrated the difference