Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book One)

by Alan Dean Foster

  Flor looked up, then stood. She shaded the comparatively diminutive Talea.

  “Thanks for the advice, but I’m a big girl now. I can take care of myself. Comprende?”

  “Size and wise don’t necessarily go together,” the redhead said. “I was just giving you fair warning.”

  “Thanks for your concern.”

  “Just remember one thing about him.” Talea nodded toward the chattering Caz. “He’ll probably screw anything that walks and likely a few things that don’t. Old Mudge is a talker, but this one’s a doer. You can tell.”

  “I’m sure I can rely on your experienced judgment,” replied Flor evenly. She moved away before Talea could ask exactly what the last comment meant.

  “That is my recent history,” the rabbit was saying. He examined the otter’s companions. “What then are you bound to, old friend? This does not appear to me to be a typical robber band, though if such is their wont I daresay they would be efficient at it. Those are two of the biggest humans I’ve ever seen. And the turtle called the man an ‘otherworldly’ wizard.”

  “I don’t wonder at your wonderin’, mate,” said Mudge. “’Tis all part o’ the strangest tale ever a ’alf-senile wizard wove. I’d give me left incisor if I’d never o’ become involved with this bunch.” His voice had dropped to a whisper.

  “Now don’t you go botherin’ yourself about it. You can’t ’elp me. You get on your way afore ’is ’ard-shelled and ’ard-’eaded wizardship there conscripts you also. ’E’s a no-nonsense sorcerer ’e is, and ’e’s dragged us all off on some bloody crusade to save the world. Don’t think o’ doubtin’ ’is magic, for ’e’s the real article, ’e is, not some carnival fakir. The tall ’uman man with the slightly stupid expression, ’im I still ain’t figured out. ’E seems as naïve sometimes as a squallin’ cub, but I’ve seen with me own eyes the magic ’e can work. ’E’s a spellsinger.”

  “What about the tall human woman. Is she a sorceress?”

  “Not that she’s shown so far,” said Mudge thoughtfully. “I don’t think she is. Sure is built, though.”

  “Ah, my friend, you have no appreciation for the arts of higher learning. Even in our brief exchange I could tell that she is of a noble order of initiates on whom high intellectual honors are bestowed.”

  “Like I said,” reiterated the otter, “she sure is built.”

  Caz shook his head dolefully. “Will you never lift your thoughts from the gutter, friend Mudge?”

  “I like it in the gutter,” was the response. “’Tis warm and friendly down there, and you meet up with all manner o’ interestin’ folk. What’s ’appened t’ me since I made the mistake o’ temporarily comin’ out o’ the gutter is that I was stuck as wet-nurse t’ the lad, and now I’ve got meself sort o’ swept along a course I can’t change or swim out of. As I’ve said afore, mate, the company is nice but the situation sucks. Shssh, be quiet, an’ watch your words. ’Ere ’e comes now.”

  Clothahump had waddled over to them. Now he looked sorrowingly down at Mudge. “My dear otter,” he said, peering over his spectacles, “do you never stop to consider that one who is capable of calling up elemental forces from halfway across the universe is also quite able to hear what is being said only a few yards behind him?”

  Mudge looked startled. “You ’eard everythin’, then?”

  “Most everything. Oh, don’t look like a frightened infant. I’m not going to punish you for expressing in private an opinion you’ve made no secret of in public.” The otter relaxed slightly.

  “I didn’t imagine you might ’ave a ’earin’ spell set on yourself, Your Niceness.”

  “I didn’t,” explained the wizard. “I simply have very good hearing. A compensation perhaps for my weak eyesight.” He regarded the watchful Caz. “You, sir, you have heard what our mutual friend thinks. Allow me to explain further, and then see if you think our ‘crusade’ is so insane.”

  He proceeded to give the rabbit a rundown on both their purpose and progress.

  When he’d finished, Caz looked genuinely concerned. “But of course if what you say is imminent, then I must join your company.”

  “Wot?” Mudge looked stunned, and his whiskers twitched uncontrollably.

  “That’s damn decent of you,” said Jon-Tom. “We can use all the help we can get.”

  “It simply seems to me,” said the rabbit slowly, “that if the sorcerer here is correct, and I have no reason to doubt him, then the world as we know it will be destroyed unless we do our best to help prevent the coming catastrophe. That strikes me as quite an excellent cause to commit oneself to. Yes, I shall be honored to join your little expedition and give what assistance I may.”

  “You’re daft!” Mudge shook his head in despair. “Downright balmy. The water’s seeped into your brain.”

  “Idiot,” was all Pog said, confirming Mudge’s assessment of Caz’s action. But there were congratulations and thanks from Clothahump and the two otherworldly humans.

  Even Talea ventured a grudging kind of admiration. “Not many people around who’ll do the honorable thing these days.”

  “That’s true of at least one other world, too,” added Flor tentatively.

  “It is sad, but honor is a dying attribute.” Caz put a paw over his heart. “I can but do my slight best to help restore it.”

  “We’re certainly glad to have you with us.” Clothahump was clearly overwhelmed by this first voluntary offer of help. “Do you have a sword or something?”

  “Alas,” said the rabbit, spreading his paws, “I have nothing but what you see. If I can procure a weapon I will naturally carry it, though I have found that my most efficient methods of disarming an opponent involve the employment of facile words and not sharp points.”

  “We need sword arms, not big mouths,” grumbled Talea.

  “There are times, head and heart of fire, when a large mouth can smother the best attack an antagonist can mount. Do not be so quick to disparage that which you do not possess.”

  “Now look here, are you calling me dumb, you fuzz-faced son of …!”

  Clothahump stepped between them. “I will not tolerate fighting among allies. Save your fury for the Plated Folk, who will absorb all you can muster.” He suddenly looked very tired.

  “Please, no more insult-mongering. Not direct,” and he glared at Talea, “or veiled,” and he glanced over his shell at Caz.

  “I shall endeavor to control an acid tongue,” said the rabbit dutifully.

  “I’ll keep my mouth shut if he does the same,” Talea muttered.

  “Good. Now I suggest we all relax and enjoy the midday meal. Have you eaten recently, sir?”

  The rabbit shook his head. “I fear I had to depart before lunch. This has not been my day for timing.”

  “Then we will eat, and wait… .”

  XVI

  BUT NO OTHER VESSEL appeared while they ate. Nor all the rest of that day or the morning of the next.

  “In truth, we passed much commerce moving downstream toward the Glittergeist,” Caz informed them, “but practically none save ourselves moving in the other direction. The winds are capricious this time of year. Not many shipowners are willing to pay the expense of poling a cargo all the way up the Tailaroam. Good polers are too expensive. They make profit most uncertain.

  “We shall be fortunate to see another ship moving upstream, and even if we should, there’s no guarantee they’d have room aboard for so many passengers. My vessel was quite crowded and I was the only noncrewmember aboard.” He spat delicately at the sand. “A distinction I should have avoided.”

  Clothahump sighed. He struggled to his feet and trundled to the water’s edge. After a long stare at the surface, he nodded and told them, “This part of the Tailaroam is wide and deep. It should be full of docile but fast-swimming salamanders. They will be safer and cheaper than any ship.” He cleared his throat. “I will call several from the deeps to carry us.”

  He raised short arms over the gently l
apping water, opened his mouth, and looked very confused. “At least, I believe I will. That spell …” He began searching the drawers in his plastron. “Salamanders … salamanders … Pog!”

  The bat appeared, hovered in front of him. “Don’t ask me, boss. I don’t know where ya put it, either. I don’t tink I ever remember hearin’ about it. When was da last time ya had ta use it? Maybe ya can goose me memory if not your own.”

  The wizard looked thoughtful. “Let me see … oh yes, it was about a hundred years ago, I think.”

  Pog shook his head. “Sorry, Master. I wasn’t around.”

  “Damm it,” Clothahump muttered in frustration, still sorting through his shell, “it has to be in here someplace.”

  Jon-Tom turned his attention to the water. Everyone’s attention was on the wizard. He swung the duar around from his back, experimented with the strings. Notes floated like Christmas ornaments over the surface.

  “Allow me, sir,” he said importantly, watching out of the corner of an eye to see if Flor was paying attention.

  “What, again?”

  He waded ankle-deep out into the water. It swirled expectantly about his boots. “Why not? Didn’t I do well the last time we needed transportation?” Yes, Flor was definitely watching him now.

  “You did well indeed, boy, but by accident.”

  “Not entirely accident. We needed transportation, I called for it, we got it. The outlines were a little different, that’s all. I should have more control over it this time.”

  “Well … if you think you’re ready.” Clothahump sounded uncertain.

  “Ready as I can be.”

  “Then you know a proper salamander song?”

  “Uh … not exactly. Maybe if you’d describe one.”

  “We should need six of them,” the turtle began. “Pog has his own transportation. Salamanders are about twelve feet long, including tail. They have shiny gray bodies tending to white on their bellies, and their backs and sides are covered with red and yellow splotches. They have small but sharp teeth, long claws on webbed feet, and are dangerous only when threatened. If you can induce them up, I can put a control spell on them that will allow us to manage them all the way to Polastrindu.” He added under his breath, “Know that stupid thing’s around here somewhere.”

  “Twelve feet long, gray to white with red and yellow spots, claws and teeth but dangerous only when threatened,” Jon-Tom muttered. He was stalling for time, aware of everyone’s eyes on him. “Let’s see … something by Simon and Garfunkle maybe? No, that’s not right. Zepplin, Queen, Boston … damn. There was a song by the Moody Blues … no, that’s not right.”

  Flor leaned close to Talea. “What’s he doing?”

  “Preparing the proper spellsong, I suppose.”

  “He sounds confused to me.”

  “Wizards often sound confused. It’s necessary to the making of magic.”

  Flor looked doubtful. “If you say so.”

  Eventually Jon-Tom reached the conclusion that he’d have to play something or admit defeat. That he would not do, not with Flor watching him. He fiddled with the mass and tremble controls, ran fingers over both sets of strings, strumming the larger and plucking at the smaller. No doubt he’d have been better off asking Clothahump for help, but the fear of self-failure pushed him to try.

  Besides, what could go wrong? If he conjured up fish instead of salamanders they might not be on their way any sooner, but at least they would eat well while waiting.

  Let’s see … why should he not modify a song to fit the need of the moment? Therefore, ergo, and so forth. “Yellow salamander” didn’t scan the same as “yellow submarine,” but it was close enough. “We all live on a yellow sal’mandee, yellow sal’mandee, yellow sal’mandee… .”

  At the beginning of the chorus there was a disturbance in the water. It broadened into a wide whirlpool.

  “They’re down there, then,” murmured Clothahump excitedly, peering at the surface. He tried to divide his attention between the river and the singer. “Maybe a little longer on the verbs, my boy. And a little more emphasis on the subjects of seeking. Sharply on the key words, now.”

  “I don’t know what the key words are,” Jon-Tom protested between verses. “But I’ll try.”

  What happened was that he sang louder, though his voice was not the kind suited to shouting. He was best at gentle ballads. Yet as he continued the song became easier. It was almost as if his brain knew which of the words catalyzed the strange elements of quasi-science Clothahump called magic. Or was the wizard right, and science really quasi-magic?

  This was no time, he told himself furiously as he tried to concentrate on the song, for philosophizing. A couple of jetboats might be even more useful… .

  Careful, remember the riding snake! Ah, but that was a fluke, the natural result of an uncertain first-time try at a new discipline. Sheer accident. At the time he’d had no idea of what he’d been doing or how he’d been doing it.

  Salamanders Clothahump wanted and salamanders he’d get.

  Now the water in the vicinity of the whirlpool was beginning to bubble furiously.

  “There they are!” yelled Talea.

  “Blimey but the lad’s gone an’ done it.” Mudge looked pridefully at his wailing ward.

  For his part Jon-Tom continued the song, sending notes and words skipping like pebbles out across the disturbed river. Water frothed white at the center of the whirlpool, now bubbling to a respectable height. Occasionally it geysered twenty feet high, as if something rather more massive than a lowly salamander was stirring on the river bottom.

  Talea and Caz were the first to frown and begin backing away from the shore. “Jon-Tom,” she called to him, “are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  Oblivious now to outside comments, he continued to sing. Clothahump had told him that a good wizard or spellsinger had to always concentrate. Jon-Tom was concentrating very hard.

  “My boy,” said Clothahump slowly, rubbing his lower jaw with one hand, “some of the words you’re using … I know context is important, but I am not sure …”

  Bubbles and froth rose three times the height of a man. There was a watery rumble and it started moving toward shore. If there were any amphibians out there, it was apparent they now likely numbered more than half a dozen.

  The violence finally penetrated Jon-Tom’s concentration. It occurred to him that perhaps he might be better off easing back and trying a new song. But Flor was watching, and it was the only watery song he knew. So he continued on despite Clothahump’s voiced uncertainty.

  At least something was out there.

  There was thunder under the water now. Suddenly, a head broke the froth, a head black as night with eyes of crimson. There was a long narrow snout, slightly knobbed at the tip and crowded with razor ivories. Bat-wing ears fluttered at the sides and back of the skull. The head hooked from a thickly muscled, scaly neck and ran into a massive black chest shot through with lines of iridescent purple and azure. Red gills ran half the length of the neck.

  A forefoot rose up out of the water. It was bigger than Jon-Tom, whose fingers had frozen on the strings of the duar as completely as the remaining words of the stanza had petrified in his mouth.

  The sun continued to shine. Only a few dark clouds pockmarked the sky, but around them the day seemed to grow darker. The thick, leathery foot, dripping moss and water plants from black claws the length of a man’s arm, moved forward to land in a spray of water. Webbing showed between the digits.

  The elegant nightmare opened its mouth. A thin stream of organic napalm emerged in a spray that turned the water several yards short of the sandy peninsula into instant cloud.

  “Ho!” said a distinct, rumbling voice that made Pog sound positively sweet by comparison, “who dares to disturb the hibernation of Falameezar-aziz-Sulmonmee? Who winkles me forth from my home inside the river? Who seeks,” and the great toothy jaws curved lower on the muscular neck-crane, “to join great Falameez
ar for lunch?”

  Mudge had scuttled backward and was nearing the edge of the forest. The dragon tilted its head, sighted, and closed one eye. His mouth tightened and he spat. A tiny fireball landed several feet ahead of Mudge, incinerating some bushes and a medium-sized birch. Mudge halted instantly.

  “You have summoned me … but I have not dismissed you.” The head was now almost drooping directly over Jon-Tom, who was developing a crick in his neck from looking up at it.

  “Know that I am Falameezar-aziz-Sulmonmee, Three Hundred and Forty-Sixth of the line of Sulmonmeecar, Dragons of all the River, who guard the fast depths of all the rivers of all the worlds! Who, practitioner of rashness, might you be?”

  Jon-Tom tried to smile. “Just a stranger here, just passing through, just minding my own business. Look now, uh, Falameezar, I’m sorry I disturbed you. Sometimes I’m not too prudent in certain things. Like, my elocution never seems able to keep up with my enthusiasm. I was really trying to summon some salamanders and—”

  “There are no salamanders here,” thundered the voice from behind the teeth. The dragon made a reptilian smile. A black gullet showed beyond the teeth. “I have already eaten all who swam hereabouts. The others have fled to safer waters, where I must soon follow.” The smile did not fade. “You see, I am often hungry, and must take sustenance where I can find it. To each according to his needs, isn’t that right?”

  Clothahump raised his hands.

  “Ancestor of the lizard neat,

  Troubler of our tired feet,

  On your way I bid you go,

  Lest we your internal temp’rature low.”

  The dragon glanced sharply at the turtle. “Cease your mumblings, old fool, or I’ll boil you in your shell. I can do that before you finish that incantation.”

  Clothahump hesitated, then fell silent. But Jon-Tom could see his mind working furiously. If someone could give him a little more time …

  Without thinking, he took several steps forward until the water was lapping at the tops of his boots. “We mean you no harm,” there was a faint dragon-chuckle and puffs of smoke drifted from scaly nostrils, “and I’m sorry if we disturbed you. We’re on a mission of great importance to—”