The room darkened, and curtains magically drew themselves across the back windows of the chambers. There was nervous whispering among those seated behind the long table, but no one moved. The marten Aveticus, Jon-Tom noted, did not seem in the least concerned.
A cloud formed at the far end of the chamber, an odd cloud that was flat and rectangular in shape. Images formed inside the cloud. As they solidified, there were gasps of horror and dismay from the council members.
Vast ranks of insect warriors marched across the cloud. They bore aloft an ocean of pikes and spears, swords and shields. Huge Plated generals directed the common troops, which stretched across misty plains as far as the eye could see. Tens of thousands paraded across that cloud.
As the view shifted and rolled, there was anxious chatter from the council. “They seem better armed than before… look how purposefully they drill… . You can feel the confidence in them… never saw that before… . The numbers, the numbers!”
The scene changed. Stone warrens and vast structures slid past in review. A massive, bulbous edifice began to come into view: the towering castle of Cugluch.
Abruptly the view changed to one of dark clouds, fluttered, and vanished. There was a thump, the cloud dissipated, together with the view, and light returned to the room. Clothahump was sitting down on the floor, shaking his head. Pog was hovering above him, fumbling with a vial. The wizard took a long sip of the liquid within, shook his head once more, and wiped the back of his mouth with an arm. With the bat’s help he stood and smiled shakily at Jon-Tom.
“Not a bad envisioning. Couldn’t get to the castle, though. Too far, and the inhibitory spells are too strong. Lost the damn vertical hold.” He started to go down, and Jon-Tom barely got hold of an arm in time to keep the turtle from slumping back to the floor.
“You shouldn’t have done it, sir. You’re too weak.”
“Had to, boy.” He jerked his head toward the long table. “Some hardheads up there.”
The councilors were babbling among themselves, but they fell silent when Clothahump spoke. “I tried to show you the interior of the castle keep, but its secrets are too well protected by powerful spells I cannot pierce.”
“Then how do you know this great new magic exists?” asked the ever skeptical prairie dog.
“I summoned M’nemaxa.”
Mutters of amazement mixed with disbelief and awe.
“Yes, I did even that,” Clothahump said proudly, “though the consequences of such a conjuration could have been fatal for me and all those in my care.”
“If you did so once, could you not summon the spirit once more and learn the true nature of this strange evil you feel exists in Cugluch?” wondered one of the councilors.
Clothahump laughed gently. “I see there are none here versed in wizardly lore. A pity no local sorcerer or ess could have joined us in this council.
“It was remarkable that I was able to conduct the first conjuration. Were I to try it again I could not bind the M’nemaxa spirit within restrictive boundaries. It would burst free. In less than a second I and all around me would be reduced to a crisp of meat and bone.”
“I withdraw the suggestion,” said the councilor hastily.
“We must rely on ourselves now,” said Clothahump. “Outside forces will not save us.”
“I think we should…” began one of the other members. He fell silent and looked to his left. So did the others.
The marten Aveticus was standing. “I will announce the mobilization,” he said softly. “The armies can be ready in a few months’ time. I will contact my counterparts in Snarken and L’bor, in all the other towns and cities.” He stared evenly at Clothahump.
“We will meet this threat, sir, with all the force the warmlands can bring to bear. I leave it to you to counter this evil magic you speak of. I dislike fighting something I can’t see. But I promise you that nothing which bleeds will pass the Jo-Troom Gate.”
“But General Aveticus, we haven’t reached a decision yet,” protested the gopher.
The marten turned and looked down his narrow snout at his colleagues. “These visitors,” and he indicated the four strangers standing and watching nearby, “have made their decision. Based upon what they have said and shown to us, I have made mine. The armies will mobilize. Whether they do so with your blessing is your decision. But they will be ready.” He bowed stiffly toward Clothahump.
“Learned sir, if you will excuse me. I have much work to do.” He turned and strode out of the room on short but powerful legs. Jon-Tom watched his departure admiringly. The marten was someone he would like to know better. After an uncomfortable pause, the councilors resumed their conversation. “Well, if General Aveticus has already decided so easily…”
“That’s right,” said the hummingbird, buzzing above the table. “Our decision has been made for us. Not by these people,” and he gestured with a wing, though it was so fast Jon-Tom couldn’t swear he’d actually noticed the gesture so much as imagined it, “but by the General. You all know how conservative he is.
“Now that we are committed, there must be no dissension. We must act as one mind, one body, to counter the threat.” He soared higher above the floor.
“I shall notify the air corps of the decision so that we may begin to coordinate operations with the army. I will also send out the peregrines with messages to the other cities and towns that the Plated Folk are again on the march, stronger and more voracious than ever. This time, brothers and sisters, we will deal them a defeat, give them a beating so bad they will not recover for a thousand years!”
Words of assent and a few cheers echoed around the council chamber. One came from the cub manipulating the scrolls. His scribe looked at him reprovingly, and the youngster settled back down to his paper shuffling as Millevoddevareen left via an opened window.
“It seems that your appeal has accomplished what you intended,” said the gopher quietly, preening an eyelash. Gems sparkled around her thick neck and from the rings on every finger. “At least among the military-minded among us. All the world will react to your cry of alarm.” She shook her head and smiled grimly.
“Heaven help you if your prediction turns out to be less than accurate.”
“I can only say to that, madam, that I would much rather be proved inaccurate than otherwise in this matter.” Clothahump bowed toward her.
There were handshakes and hugs all around as the councilors descended from their dais. In doing so, they left behind a good deal of their pomposity and officiousness.
“We’ll finish the slimy bastards this time!”
“Nothing to worry about… be a good fight!”
There was even grudging agreement from the Mayor, who was still irked that General Aveticus hadn’t waited for the decision of the council before ordering mobilization. But there was nothing he could do about it now. Given the evidence Clothahump had so graphically presented, he wasn’t sure he wanted to try.
“You’ll advise us immediately, sir,” he said to Clothahump, “if you learn of any changes in plan among the Plated Folk.”
“Of course.”
“Then there remains only the matter of a new and perhaps more elegant habitation for you until it’s time to march. We have access to a number of inns for the housing of diplomatic guests. I suppose you qualify as that. But I don’t know what we can do with your great flaming friend back in the courtyard, since he so impolitely burned down his quarters.”
“We’ll take care of him,” Jon-Tom assured the Mayor.
“Please see that you do.” Wuckle Three-Stripe was recovering some of his mayoral bearing. “Especially since he’s the only real danger we’ve been certain of since you’ve appeared among us.”
With that, he turned to join the animated conversation taking place among several members of the council.
Once outside the chambers and back in the city hall’s main corridor Jon-Tom and Mudge took the time to congratulate Clothahump.
“Aye, that were a ri
ght fine performance, guv’nor,” said the otter admiringly. “Cor, you should o’ seen some o’ those fat faces when you threw that army o’ bugs up at ’em!”
“You’ve done what you wanted to, sir,” agreed Jon-Tom. “The armies of the warmlands will be ready for the Plated Folk when they start through the Jo-Troom Pass.”
But the wizard, hands clasped around his back, did not appear pleased. Jon-Tom frowned at him as they descended the steps to the city hall courtyard.
“Isn’t that what you wanted, sir? Isn’t that what we’ve come all this way for?”
“Hmmm? Oh, yes, my boy, that’s what I wanted.” He still looked discouraged. “I’m only afraid that all the armies of all the counties and cities and towns of all the warmlands might not be enough to counter the threat.”
Jon-Tom and Mudge exchanged glances.
“What more can we do?” asked Mudge. “We can’t fight with wot we ain’t got, Your Magicalness.”
“No, we cannot, good Mudge. But there may be more than what we have.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, sor?”
“I won’t rest if there is.”
“Well then, you give ’er a bit of some thought, guv, and let us know, won’t you?” Mudge had the distressing feeling he wasn’t going to be able to return to the familiar, comfortable environs of Lynchbany and the Bellwoods quite as soon as he’d hoped.
“I will do that, Mudge, and I will let you know when I inform the others… .”
II
THE QUARTERS THEY were taken to were luxurious compared to the barracks they’d spent their first night in. Fresh flowers, scarce in winter, were scattered profusely around the high-beamed room. They were ensconced in Polastrindu’s finest inn, and the decor reflected it. Even the ceiling was high enough so Jon-Tom could stand straight without having to worry about a lamp decapitating him.
Sleeping quarters were placed around a central meeting room which had been set aside exclusively for their use. Jon-Tom still had to duck as he entered the circular chamber.
Caz was leaning back in a chair, ears cocked slightly forward, a glass held lightly in one paw. The other held a silver, ornately worked pitcher from which he was pouring a dark wine into a glass.
Flor sat on one side of him, Talea on the other. All were chuckling at some private joke. They broke off to greet the newcomers.
“Don’t have to ask how it went,” said Talea brightly, resting her boots on an immaculate couch. “A little while ago this party of subservient flunkies shows up at the barracks and tells us rooms have been reserved for us in this gilded hole.” She sipped wine, carelessly spilled some on a finely woven carpet. “This style of crusading’s more to my taste, I can tell you.”
“What did you tell them, Jon-Tom?” wondered Flor.
He walked to an open window, rested his palms on the sill, and stared out across the city.
“It wasn’t easy at first. There was a big, blustery badger named Wuckle Three-Stripe who was ready to chuck us in jail right away. It was easy to see how he got to be mayor of as big and tough a place as Polastrindu. But Clothahump scorched the seat of his pants, and after that it was easy. They paid serious attention.
“There was a general named Aveticus who’s got more common sense than the rest of the local council put together. As soon as he’d heard enough he took over. The others just slid along with his opinion. I think he likes us personally, too, but he’s so cold-faced it’s hard to tell for sure what he’s thinking. But when he talks everybody listens.”
Down below lay a vast black and purple form coiled in the shade of a high stone wall. Falameezar was apparently sleeping peacefully in front of the inn stables. The other stable buildings appeared to be deserted. No doubt the riding lizards of the hotel staff and its guests had been temporarily boarded elsewhere.
“The armies are already mobilizing, and local aerial representatives have been dispatched to carry the word to the other cities and towns.”
“Well, that’s all right, then,” said Talea cheerfully. “Our job’s finished. I’m going to enjoy the afterglow.” She finished her considerable glass of wine.
“Not quite finished.” Clothahump had snuggled into a low-seated chair across from her couch.
“Not quite, ’e says,” rumbled Mudge worriedly.
Pog selected a comfortable beam and hung himself above them. “The master says we got ta seek out every ally we can.”
“But from what has been said, good sir, we are already notifying all possible allies in the warmlands.” Caz sat up in his chair and gestured with his glass. Wine pitched and rolled like a tiny red pond and he didn’t spill a drop.
“So long as the city fathers and mothers have seen fit to grant us these delightful accommodations, I see no reason why we should not avail ourselves of the local hospitality. Polastrindu is not so very far from Zaryt’s Teeth and the Gate itself. Why not bivouac here until the coming battle? We can offer our advice to the locals.”
But Clothahump disagreed. “General Aveticus strikes me as competent enough to handle military preparations. Our task must be to seek out any additional assistance we can. You just stated that all possible warmland allies are being notified. That is so. My thoughts concerned possible allies elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?” Talea sat up and looked puzzled. “There is no elsewhere.”
“Try tellin’ ’is nib’s ’ere that,” said Mudge.
Talea looked curiously at the otter, then back at the wizard. “I still don’t understand.”
“There is another nation whose aid would be invaluable,” Clothahump explained energetically. “They are legendary fighters, and history tells us they despise the Plated Folk as much as we do.”
Mudge circled a finger near one ear, whispered quietly to Jon-Tom. “Told you ’e was vergin’ on the senile. The lightnin’ an’ the view conjurin’ ’as sent him off t’ balmy land.”
The most unexpected reaction came from Pog, however. The bat left his beam and hovered nervously overhead, his eyes wide, his tone fearful.
“No, Master! Don’t tink of it. Don’t!”
Clothahump shrugged. “Our presence here is no longer required. We would find ourselves lost among the general staffs of the assembling armies. Why then should we not seek out aid which could turn the tide of battle?”
Jon-Tom, who had returned from his position by the open window, listened curiously and wondered at Pog’s sudden fright.
“What kind of allies were you thinking about, sir? I’m certainly willing to help recruit.” Pog gave him an ugly look.
“I’m talking about the Weavers, of course.”
The violence of the response to this announcement startled Jon-Tom and Flor.
“Who are these ‘Weavers’?” she asked the wizard.
“They are thought to be the most ferocious, relentless, and accomplished mountain fighters in all the world, my dear.”
“Notice he does not say ‘civilized’ world,” said Caz pointedly. Even his usually unruffled demeanor had been mussed by the wizard’s shocking pronouncement. “I would not disagree with that appraisal of Weaver fighting ability, good sir,” continued the rabbit, his nose twitching uncontrollably. “And what you say about them hating the Plated Folk is also most likely true. Unfortunately, you neglect the likely possibility that they also despise us.”
“That is more rumor and bedtime story than fact, Caz. Considering the circumstances, they might be quite willing to join with us. We do not know for certain that they hate us.”
“That’s for sure,” said Talea sardonically, “because few who’ve gone toward their lands have ever come back.”
“That’s because no one can get across the Teeth,” Mudge said assuredly. “’Ate us or not don’t matter. Probably none of them that’s tried reachin’ Weaver lands ’as ever reached ’em. There ain’t no way across the Teeth except through the Gate and then the Pass, and the Weavers, if I recall my own bedtimey stories aright, live a bloody good ways north o’ the Gree
ndowns.”
“There is another way,” said Clothahump quietly. Mudge gaped at him. “It is also far from here, far from the Gate, far to the north. Far across the Swordsward.”
“Cross the Swordsward!” Talea laughed in disbelief. “He is crazy!”
“Across the great Swordsward,” the sorcerer continued patiently, “lies the unique cataract known as the Sloomaz-ayor-la-Weentli, in the language of the Icelands in which it arises. It is The-River-That-Eats-Itself, also called the River of Twos, also the Double-River. In the language and knowledge of magic and wizardry, it is known as the SchizoStream.”
“A schizoid river?” Jon-Tom’s thoughts twisted until the knot hurt. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“If you know the magical term, then you know what you say is quite true, Jon-Tom. The Sloomaz-ayor-la-Weentli is indeed the river that makes no sense.”
“Neither does traveling down it, if I’m following your meaning correctly,” said Caz. Clothahump nodded. “Does not The-River-That-Eats-Itself flow through the Teeth into something no living creature has seen called The Earth’s Throat?” Again the wizard indicated assent.
“I see.” Caz ticked the relevant points off on furry fingers as he spoke. “Then all we have to do is cross the Swordsward, find some way of navigating an impossible river, enter whatever The Earth’s Throat might be, counter whatever dangers may lie within the mountains themselves, reach the Scuttleteau, on which dwell the Weavers, and convince them not only that we come as friends but that they should help us instead of eating us.”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Clothahump approvingly.
Caz shrugged broadly. “A simple task for any superman.” He adjusted his monocle. “Which I for one am not. I am reasonably good at cards, less so at dice, and fast of mouth, but I am no reckless gambler. What you propose, sir, strikes me as the height of folly.”
“Give the credit for not being a fool with my own life,” countered Clothahump. “This must be tried. I believe it can be done. With my guidance you will all survive the journey, and we will succeed.” There was a deep noise, halfway between a chuckle and a belch. Clothahump threw the hanging famulus a quick glare, and Pog hurriedly looked innocent.
The Spellsinger Adventures Volume One Page 35
