Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book One)

by Alan Dean Foster

  “You really believe that? Then you people are either dumb or morally bankrupt. You have no ‘natural right’ to rule anything. Genetics has worked out differently here.”

  One of the other guards said worriedly, “Careful, he speaks magic words.” Candlelight glinted on swords and spears, a sparkling forest of death suddenly aimed threateningly at Jon-Tom.

  “Watch your mouth, stranger! … Don’t try magicking us!”

  “See the effect he has?” The leader turned to Hanniwuz. “Consider how important an ally he could be to the cause.”

  “‘Could be’ are the key words, my friend.” The insect envoy lifted a hand, turned his head sideways, and preened his ommatidia. “He remains violently opposed.”

  The stocky chieftain walked up to Jon-Tom, who tensed, but the man only put his hands on the youth’s shoulders.

  “Listen to me, spellsinger. You have the size and bearing of a warrior along with your gift for magicking. You could be a leader among us, one of those who lord it over these lands. The climate here suits not the Plated Folk. They have need of our services now and they will have need of them when the war is done.”

  “So they say.” Jon-Tom eyed the impassive insect. “It’s astonishing how fast a conquerer can get acclimated.”

  “Control your first reactions, spellsinger. Think rationally and without bitterness on what I say. With your stature and abilities you could rule whole counties, entire reaches of the Lands. A dozen or more cities like Polastrindu could be under your absolute control. Anything you wanted could be yours for the asking: riches, fine goods, slaves of any species or sex.

  “You are a young man still. What future does your mentor Clothahump offer you in comparison? A chance to go to an unpleasant death? Is it so very wrong that humans rule over the animals? So you do not agree with the moral justification of our cause. Can you not rationalize what it would bring to you personally?

  “Think hard, spellsinger, for the Plated Folk are destined to conquer this time, no matter who or what opposes them. It is easy to support a martyr’s death for others … but what about for yourself? Is that what you have hoped for all your life, to die young and bravely?” His hand slashed at the air. “That is stupid.”

  “I don’t think your victory is assured just yet,” Jon-Tom said quietly, “despite your”—he caught himself just in time, having been on the verge of saying “despite your secret magic,” and instead finished—“despite all the quislings you can recruit, and I don’t think there’ll be all that many.”

  “Then there are no circumstances under which you would consider joining us? Think hard! The world can be yours.”

  “Shit, I wouldn’t know what to do with it. I don’t …” He stopped.

  Seriously now, what did he owe to this world into which he’d been rudely, unwillingly, and perhaps permanently yanked? If he ever succeeded in returning to his own place and time, what would he become? A corpulent attorney, fat and empty of real life? Or a sour, doped-up musician playing cheap bars and sweet-sixteen parties?

  Here he could be one step above a mayor and one step below a god. Weren’t all of them, for all their veneer of civilization and intelligence, nothing more than oversized animals? Mudge, Caz, Pog, all of them? He considered the way Flor had occasionally looked at Caz. Was it right that he should consider himself, even momentarily, in competition for the love of his life with an oversized hare? Was that less repugnant than cooperation with these people?

  Why shouldn’t he join them, then? Why should he not look out for himself for a change?

  “That’s very good, man,” whispered Hanniwuz. “You think. Death, or ascension to a throne we will create for you. It seems an easy choice to make, does it not? The day we attack there will be uprisings of humans throughout the warmlands. They will flock to our cause. Together we shall force these bloated, soft, smelly creatures back into the dirt where they belong … aahhh-chrriick!”

  “I’m not sure—” Jon-Tom began.

  Yells and shouts from the other side of the door and all eyes turned in that direction. Then the opening was full of flying bodies, blood, and steel. Talea darted in and out of the crowd, her sword taking bites out of larger and more muscular bodies. Caz wielded a rapier with delicacy but far more ferocity than Jon-Tom had suspected him of possessing, a furry white demon in the candlelight. Mudge charged into the thick of fray, his energy and activity compensating for his usual lack of good judgment.

  Dim light was reflected from fast-moving metal. There were screams and curses and the sound of flesh hitting stone. Blood hit Jon-Tom in the face, temporarily blinding him. Flores Quintera towered above the mob, her black mane flailing the air as she cut with mace and her small saw edge at anyone who tried to get near her.

  Above them all, clinging precariously to a chink in the roof and occasionally tossing a knife down into the milling cluster below, was Pog.

  That explained how the others had tracked him. When the fight in the street had broken away from Jon-Tom, Pog had thoughtfully left the battle to shadow Jon-Tom and his captors. Then he’d returned to lead the others to the rescue.

  A large, spiked mace rose in front of Jon-Tom’s gaze. The man hefting it was bleeding badly from the neck and sanity had left his face.

  “Die then, otherworld thing!”

  Jon-Tom closed his eyes and readied himself for oblivion. There was the shock of concussion, but it was in his right shoulder instead of his forehead. Opening his eyes he found the mace-wielder sprawled across his legs. As he watched, the dying man slid to the floor.

  Talea stood above the corpse, a knife in each hand, her clothes splattered with the darker stains of blood. She looked back into the room. Another door had opened in the far comer. His few surviving captors were retreating via the new exit. Of Hanniwuz there was no sign.

  The redhead was breathing heavily, her chest heaving beneath the shirt. She had a wild look in her eyes. It became one of concern as she focused on the slumped shape of Jon-Tom. He blinked at her as he held his throbbing shoulder.

  “I’m all right. But just barely. Thanks.” He looked past her. “Pog? You responsible for this?”

  “Dat a fact. Sometimes da coward’s course is da best. When I saw da fight all revolving around you, I knew it was you dey were after. So I held myself in reserve in case I had ta follow or bring help.”

  “I’ll bet you ’eld yourself in ‘reserve,’ you sanctimonious ‘ypocrite!” bellowed Mudge from across the room. The last of Jon-Tom’s captors had fled or been dispatched, and the otter was walking toward the table, wiping at a cut across his chest.

  “Near ruined me best vest, bugger it! Cost me thirty coppers in Lynchbany.” He smiled then at Jon-Tom and let out a pleased whistle-whoop. “But it don’t matter much, mate, because you’re awright.”

  “Your vest’s in better shape than my shoulder.” Jon-Tom sat up with Talea’s help. She felt of it ungently, and he yelped.

  “Don’t be such a cub. It’s not broken, but I wager you’ll have the devil of a bruise for a few weeks.” She cleaned one knife on a pants leg and used it to point at an overhead set of iron bars. Jon-Tom walked beneath them. They’d been invisible from his seat on the cot.

  “Crawl space up there. We heard you talking with this bunch before we interrupted the party.” She looked back at him interestedly. “What were you talking about?”

  “Nothing much.” He looked away. “They wanted me to join them.”

  “Huh! Join them in what?”

  “Sort of an outlaw band,” he muttered uncomfortably.

  “And what were you going to do?”

  He looked angrily at her. “I didn’t give it a thought, of course!” He hoped he appeared suitably outraged. “What do you take me for?”

  She regarded him silently for a moment before saying, “A confused, stubborn, naïve, brilliant, and I hope sensible guy.”

  With that she left him, joined Flor in inspecting the escape door to see if any wounded remained.
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  Caz was at his back, undoing his bonds. “Rather awkward situation, my friend.”

  “’Ere now, it were bloody well more than ‘awkward,’ flagears!” Mudge had adopted a familiar swagger, now that the fight was won. “When I shot into the room and saw that mace comin’ down I was afraid we were goin’ t’ be a second too late. Good thing sweet flame-top’s as fast with ’er ’ands as she is with ’er ’ips,” and he glanced around quickly to make certain Talea hadn’t overheard him.

  “I’m okay, Mudge.” The ropes came loose. Circulation stabbed back into his wrists. Rubbing them, he stood, towering once more over his rescuers.

  Mudge, Caz, Pog. Not only were they not “animals,” he decided, they were a hell of a lot more “human” than the so-called humans who’d kept him prisoner. The thought of betraying their trust on behalf of the Plated Folk now made him almost physically ill. As for dreams of power and mastery, they vanished from his thoughts. Not because they were unattainable, not because they were morally repugnant, but because Jon-Tom had always been utterly unable to do less than the Right Thing.

  I’d make a lousy lawyer, he thought. And if I can’t help thinking about power and mastery, well hell, I’m only human.

  Maybe if I work real hard, he told himself, I can manage to overcome that.

  “There was an insect envoy with them,” he said. “One of the Plated Folk. They’re trying to find allies among the locals. We have to inform the authorities.”

  “We’ll do that for a fact, mate,” said a startled Mudge. “Cor, t’ think o’ one o’ them great ugly bugs a-sneakin’ about in this part o’ the world!”

  “How could he get in here?” Caz wondered.

  “He looked as human as any of the others,” Jon-Tom told them. “Clothahump should know.”

  Talea and Flor crawled back out of the secret doorway. “No sign of the one Jon-Tom says he saw here, nor the scum that got away.”

  They moved cautiously to the main door. Jon-Tom gathered up his belongings. It felt good to have the smooth bulk of the duar under his arm and the staff in his hands. While his companions formed a protective cordon around him, Mudge checked the stairway. It was empty now.

  Then they were racing up the hallway toward the street, Jon-Tom and Flor taking the steps two at a time. Mudge and Talea burst outward into the mist, one looking right, the other left.

  “All clear,” Talea called back. The others soon stood on the cobblestones.

  They started back up the street. Eyes searched windows for drawn bows as they walked rapidly between dark buildings. Pog overflew alleys in search of ambush. But there was no sign of any attempt to block their progress.

  Jon-Tom stumbled once as his shoulder flared with pain. Talea was alongside. She remained there despite his insistence that he was all right.

  “This outlaw band,” she inquired, still warily inspecting the street ahead, “you sure you didn’t consider joining up with them? They might do real well if they have Plated Folk support.”

  “Why would I do an asinine thing like that?” he snapped. “I’ve no love for the insects.”

  “They’ve done nothing to you or yours. Why should you not be as willing to join with them as with us?”

  How much did she overhear through that grating? he wondered. Then it occurred to him that she was nervous, not angry. The unaccustomed expression of vulnerability made him feel suddenly and oddly warm inside.

  “I didn’t like those people,” he told her calmly. “I didn’t like that envoy Hanniwuz. And I do like you. And Caz, and Mudge, and the others.”

  “As simple as that?”

  “As simple as that, Talea.”

  She seemed about to say something more, lengthened her stride instead. “Let’s hurry it up.” She moved out in front of them and the others, even the long-limbed spellsinger, had to hurry to keep pace.

  A disturbed Pog suddenly dipped low overhead. “Jon-Tom, Jon-Tom! There’s something wrong up ahead!”

  “What? What’s wrong, Pog?”

  “Big commotion, boss. Many people running like da Naganuph’s after dem. I can’t see a cause yet.”

  They turned a corner and were nearly trampled. Dozens of citizens poured down the wide street, bumping into the new arrivals and each other. Anxious raccoons cuddled masked infants in their arms, squirrel tails bobbed hysterically, and nightgown-clad anteaters stumbled into panicky simians. All were screeching and yelling and bawling in fear, and all were obviously running away from something utterly terrifying.

  “What’s wrong, what’s the matter?” Talea demanded of one of the fleeing inhabitants.

  The elderly bobcat beat feebly at her with her cane. “Let me go, woman. He’s gone mad, he has. He’ll kill us all! Let me go!”

  “Who’s gone mad? What … ?”

  In her other hand the feline carried a heavy purse, weighed down perhaps with the family gold horde. She struck at Talea’s wrist with it and tore free of her grasp.

  Humans in night clothes and sleeping caps were among the mob. With their smooth strides they were outdistancing some of their shorter-legged neighbors, but they were equally panicked. Only the occasional roos and wallabies bounded past them.

  “Falameezar. It’s got to be,” Jon-Tom said fearfully. “Something’s gone wrong at the barracks.”

  “Maybe it would be better,” Mudge said, slowing slightly, “if some of us waited ’ere. Pog and I could stay in reserve in case of …”

  “Not me,” said the bat forcefully. “My master may be in trouble. I’ve got ta help him if he is.”

  “Loyalty from you, Pog?” Jon-Tom couldn’t help saying aloud.

  “Loyalty my airborne arse!” the bat snorted derisively. “Dat hard-shelled senile old turd and I have a contract, and he’s not gonna get out of it by getting himself stepped on by some berserk overheated lizard!” He soared on ahead above the foot traffic, darting and weaving his way around the panicked birds and bats that flew toward him.

  For a while it seemed as if they’d never make it back to the courtyard. Eventually the crowds of refugees started to thin, however. Soon they’d vanished altogether.

  Ahead the evening sky was glowing brightly, and it wasn’t from a rising moon. They turned a last corner and found themselves in the open square on the opposite side from the barracks. That massive structure was a mass of flame. Orange fire licked at the sky from several smaller buildings nearby, but the blaze had not yet spread to the large, closely packed residential structures lining the courtyard. The city wall was solid rock and immune to the flames, though tents and banners and other flammables stacked near it were twisting skeletons of orange-lipped black ash that writhed and shrank in the night.

  Close by the main harbor gate stood several clusters of nervous animals. Some were in uniform, others only partially so. Behind them were several large wagons, three axled, sporting hand pumps. The rudely awakened soldiers waited and held tight to their axes and spears while handlers behind them tried frantically to control the baying, hissing lizards yoked to the wagons.

  Tubes trailed like brown snakes from each wagon back through the partly opened gate and doubtless from there out into the river. It was clear that the Polastrindu fire department was equipped to fight fires, but not the black and purple-blue behemoth they could hear raging and roaring behind the wall of flame that had engulfed the barracks.

  “Clothahump! Where’s Clothahump?” Pog yelled as the little group raced across the cobblestones toward the gate.

  The leader of one of the fire teams gazed at the bat uncomprehendingly for a moment before replying. “The wizard turtle, you mean?” He gestured indifferently to his left. Then he returned his attention to the spreading conflagration, obviously debating in his mind if it was worth the risk of attracting the dragon’s attention in order to try to at least contain the vangard of the blaze.

  They found Clothahump seated nearby on a low hitching bench contemplating the fire. From time to time thunderous bellows and Hephaestean
threats could be heard from somewhere inside the blazing barracks.

  They clustered around the motionless wizard, looked at him helplessly. He appeared to be deep in thought.

  “What happened, sir?” asked Flor concernedly.

  “What?” He looked around, frowned at some private thought. “Happened? Oh yes. The dragon. The dragon and I were talking pleasantly. I was doing quite well, boy.” The wizard’s glasses were bent and dangled precariously on his beak. His carapace was black with soot and he looked very old, Jon-Tom thought.

  “I was rationalizing my end of the discussion efficiently when a pair of our guards joined us unexpectedly. They wondered where you were and I informed them you were all asleep, but they remained. I think they were attempting to prove their bravery by remaining in the dragon’s presence.

  “Falameezar greeted them as comrades, a word I explained to them. We all began to talk. I would have made excuses, but the dragon was enthusiastic about the chance to have a serious talk with members of the local proletariat.” Despite the proximity of the blaze, a cold chill traveled down Jon-Tom’s spine.

  “The beast inquired about their aspirations for their huge commune and their eventual hopes for strengthening proletarian solidarity. None of that made any sense to the guards, of course, but then it doesn’t make any sense to me either, so I was hard put to rationalize their replies.

  “But that was not what ignited, so to speak, the problem. Soon both guards were boasting uncontrollably about their plans for leaving the army and getting rich. I tried to quiet them, but between explaining to the dragon and attempting to silence them, I got confused. I could not work any magic to shut them up.

  “They went on and on about their supposedly wealthy friends, one of whom was a merchant who had a hundred and sixty people working for him, slaving away making garments for the trade. They boasted about how cheaply he paid them, how enormous his profits were, and how they hoped they would be as fortunate some day.