Spellsinger 04 - The Moment Of The Magician

by Foster, Alan Dean;

  "You know wot, mate? I always did 'ave a 'ankerin' to

  try some turtle soup."

  Jon-Tom smiled up at the Wisp- "We thank you for

  that information, even if it's not quite what we wanted

  to hear."

  "We don't always get to hear what we want to, do

  we?** The energetic phosphorescence curled about

  ALut Dean Porter

  112

  itself. "Now, I"—and the mulli-eyed skull floated

  frighteningly near to Jon-Tom—"happen to like music.

  I heard yours. Could you sing me a little more?"

  "Why, I'd be glad to"

  Mudge put his paws over his ears. "Saints preserve

  us, not another music lover, and this one ain't even

  got the decency to 'ave proper ears."

  The unfortunate otter was kept awake all that

  night as Jon-Tom sang every old Halloween song he

  could remember. The eerie chords drifted out over

  the calm swamp water while the WilI-o'-the-Wisp

  danced delightedly in the air, tossing off sparks and

  glowing splinters of its gaseous self and making lowly

  lichens and algae flare with rainbows.

  Jon-Tom couldn't remember the last time he'd had

  such an appreciative audience. Sadly, when the Will"

  o'-the-Wisp's interest finally evaporated, it did, too.

  The otter's mood hadn't improved much by the

  time morning dawned. "Wonder if this wondrous

  Quasequa even exists," he grumbled. "Probably some

  poor fallin'-down mud-town if it does. Wouldn't be

  the first time 'is sorcererness 'as lied to us."

  "He doesn't lie, Mudge. It's against the wizard's

  code to lie. He told me so."

  Mudge sighed and looked disgusted. "The com-

  panions fate 'ands you" His voice rose. "Suppose this

  bloomin' paradise do exist? Suppose 'tis everything

  your 'ard-shelled instructor says it is? Wot 'e neglected

  to tell us before we set out on this little stroll is that

  there's a thousand leagues o' swamp between 'ere

  and there, wot? Wot a load o' wizardly crap!"

  Jon-Tom looked unhappy. "He wasn't too specific

  about the distance to be crossed. I admit I didn't

  press him on the point."

  "I'd like to press 'im on the point," Mudge said

  grimly, savoring the thought as he fingered his short

  THE MOMKNT OF THE MAGICIAN 113

  sword. "I'd like to press the point right through the

  back o' 'is deceiving shell and use the 'ole for a—"

  "Careful, Mudge," Jon-Tom said warningly. "It's

  not healthy to be disrespectful of a sorcerer's powers

  even if he's a fair distance from you."

  "Frog farts! I tell you, mate, I'm gettin' fed up with

  these bloody surprises o' yours. For 'alf a gold piece

  I'd leave you now and 'ead back to the good ol'

  Bellwoods."

  "Back through Witten and Fault? By yourself?"

  "You broke their bloomin' totem, not me- Besides,

  I've got some unfinished business back in Fault I

  wouldn't mind taking care of."

  "If General Pocknet gets his paws on you, he'll

  finish your business."

  Mudge shrugged. "So I'd circle around both towns.

  Then 'tis back to the Bellwoods for me, back to

  Lynchbany and Timswitty and Dornay and real

  civilization. Back to.. -"

  Even had Mudge not rambled on, it's unlikely

  either of them would have seen the shadow. The

  swamp was a world of shadows, and one more was

  easily lost in the shifting, diffused light. The shadow

  blended in completely with trees and creepers.

  But this shadow was different. It moved indepen-

  dently of those which blanketed the island, moved

  with purpose and exceptional speed. They didn't see

  it until it was directly over them, and then it was too

  late.

  Mudge yelled a warning white Jon-Tom dove for

  his ramwood staff. The otter reached for his sword:

  no time for bow and arrows.

  Then it was gone, as quickly as it had appeared-

  Mudge lay panting hard on the sand, eyes wide, his

  sword held defensively in front of his chest even

  though there was nothing left to defend against. The

  danger had vanished along with the shadow.

  Atan Dean Foster

  114

  In its place it left three things: Jon-Tom's ramwood

  staff, his sword, and a single steel-gray feather. The

  feather was four inches wide and two feet long- It lay

  motionless near the otter, the only hard evidence of

  something which had come and gone with blinding

  speed.

  Mudge picked it up, ran it through his paws. The

  quill was as thick around as his finger. He straight-

  ened his cap, which somehow had stayed on his head

  during the seconds-long fight, and gazed eastward.

  The shadow had disappeared in that direction, carry-

  ing Jon-Tom in a single brace of impossibly big

  talons.

  The otter considered his situation in light of his

  recent declarations. The raft was intact, and in addi-

  tion to his own weapons and supplies, he also had

  the spellsinger's. He was uninjured.

  Well, that was that, then. So much for one brave,

  ignorant, meddling, exasperating, immature spellsing-

  er. There was no shame now in returning home.

  He would even report the debacle to the wizard

  Clothahump. Sure, he owed the unfortunate Jon-

  Tom that much. At least the youth wouldn't be

  worrying about returning to his own world anymore.

  As for the wizard, he would accept his student's

  demise philosophically, and there was no way he

  could blame it on the otter. It had happened too

  fast.

  One minute Jen-Tom had been sitting there next

  to him, listening politely to his complaints, and the

  next he'd been carried off by a dark cloud. Not

  Mudge's fault, no sir. Couldn't have been prevented-

  He loaded the raft and stepped aboard, then pushed

  out into the water. At last he could start living his

  own life, without fear of being conscripted for some

  lethal journey halfway across a hostile world. He

  could get back to living like a normal person again,

  THE MOWSHT OF THE UAWCIAH

  J.IS

  could sleep soundly once more without listening for

  strange sounds in the night.

  Certainly there was nothing he could do. There

  wasn't, was there? He pushed angrily against the

  shaft of the split-bladed paddle and wondered why

  his thoughts were so damn troubled....

  Jon-Tom hung in the grasp of the powerful talons

  and did not struggle, hoping the enormous eagle

  . which had carried him off preferred live food to

  dead. Because dead he'd certainly be if the bird let

  him fall. The Wrounipai flashed past far below.

  He twisted as best he was able in the unyielding

  ; grip and examined his captor. The eagle had at least

  ' a twenty-foot wingspan. It carried him effortlessly.

  Like the much-smaller feathered inhabitants of this

  world, it wore a kilt which trailed backward over hips

  ^ and tail and
a vest with a peculiar zigzagging pattern

  of black on gray. The pattern was almost familiar to

  Jon-Tom, but he didn't pursue it through his memory.

  ^ At the moment he was not in a position to spend

  tmuch time doing a detailed analysis of another

  creature's clothing.

  Since the bird showed no sign of stopping, Jon-

  ^ Tom tried to make a detached survey of the terrain

  ^ below. It was much as the Will-o'-the-Wisp had

  |f described: endless swamp and water stretching off in

  ^ all directions spotted here and there with tiny islets.

  ^ A short while later their apparent destination hove

  ff into view. Some powerful tectonic disturbance had

  {thrust a vast mass of black basalt straight up out of

  the earth. It was thickly overgrown with climbing

  I. trees and vines as thick as a man's body.

  ^ An opening showed in the rock two-thirds of the

  ^ way up its side. The eagle dove straight for it. For an

  ^ instant Jon-Tom didn't think those huge wings would

  ^' make it, but the eagle just managed to squeeze

  Alan Dean Foster

  116

  through the opening without bashing Jon-Tom's head

  or legs against; the rock betow.

  The opening was not a cave. It was a tunnel

  leading to the interior of the butte. The inside was

  hollow.

  The eagle flapped its wings twice before touching

  down on one foot. It flicked its prize away, almost

  contemptuously.

  Jon-Tom rolled over several limes, feeling gravel

  cut into his face. He suffered the pain and chose

  instead to do his best to protect the duar strapped to

  his back. When he finally rolled to a stop he was

  bruised and scratched, but otherwise in one piece.

  Keeping one eye on the eagle, he rose to examine

  his surroundings.

  The hollow place was not a volcanic throat, but

  rather the result of some convulsive fracturing. Six-

  sided stone columns rose toward the distant sky.

  Jon-Tom had seen them before, in pictures of the

  Giant's Causeway in Scotland and the Devil's Postpile

  in California's High Sierra.

  Where each column had broken, a natural perch

  was formed. These were occupied by numerous nests

  and homes. The floor of the great open shaft was a

  charnel house full of bones picked clean by razor-

  sharp beaks.

  The occupants of the homes and the owners of the

  beaks were normal-sized avians. Not one stood more

  than four feet in height. With increasing interest, he

  noted kilts belonging to hawks and falcons, ospreys

  and fish hawks and vultures- They soared and swam

  through the air of the shaft, coming and going

  through the opening above and, less often, through

  the tunnel that had served as his own entrance. They

  all seemed to be talking at once. The multiple screech-

  ing was deafening.

  Several of them walked or flew by to greet the

  THE MOMENT OF THE XAdTCUM

  117

  giant who had brought him with a spirited, "Hail,

  Gyrnaught!" Each raised a right wingdp in salute.

  That also struck Jon-Tom as somehow familiar, but

  he didn't pay overmuch attention to it. There were

  too many other things to try and absorb simultaneously

  and he was too disoriented for deep thought.

  For one thing, he was far more concerned about

  his immediate fate, since the giant eagle didn't ap-

  pear particularly interested in eating him. Not yet,

  anyway. The mountain of bones which covered the

  floor of the shaft was anything but reassuring.

  The shadow towered over him again. The eagle

  was not quite as impressive as it had been with its

  wings outspread, but it was just as intimidating.

  "Stand up straight!" the eagle commanded him.

  Still sore and cramped, Jon-Tom fought to comply

  with the request.

  "They say, 'Hail, Gyrnaught.' You're Gyrnaught?"

  A minuscule nod of head and beak. The eagle was

  big enough to bite him in two without straining

  itself.

  "What do you want with me?"

  "Not dinner. Flesh is cheap." He gestured with a

  wing. "Welcome to the Raptor's Lair. You have been

  brought here to serve, not to be served. If you prove

  yourself."

  "I don't understand."

  Again the beak dipped, this time to gesture toward

  the duar. "An instrument. You are a musician?"

  "Uh, yeah." Somehow Jon-Tom felt this wasn't the

  most opportune time to explain that he was also a

  spellsinger. He might want to demonstrate that tal-

  ent later. In fact, it was all but a certainty. The

  longer he could keep that fact a secret from his

  captor, the better Jon-Tom's chances of catching him

  unawares.

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  118

  "I thought as much," said Gyrnaught. "I have

  need of a musician."

  It was in Jon-Tom's mind to comment that the

  eagle didn't look much like a music lover, but he kept

  his thoughts to himself. Trying to still his trembling,

  he struggled to put up a bold front. The fact that he

  wasn't on the evening's menu helped-

  "Quite a place you've got here."

  "Ah, this is but the beginning." Gyrnaught was

  pleased. Good, Jon-Tom thought, gaining a little

  confidence. He can be flattered. To what extent

  remained to be seen. "This is only a temporary lair

  for my troops and myself. They are but the foam of

  a wave which will fly forth to dominate the whole

  world. Today this mountain, tomorrow the Wrounipai;

  later the world! The nest will reign for a thousand

  yearsi" The eagle's eyes flashed as if focusing on

  something .only it could see, and (hat, too, half

  reminded Jon-Tom of something.

  "I don't think I recognize the pattern on your kilt

  and vest."

  "You could not, for it is not of this world. I

  brought it here from another place many years ago.

  It has taken me this long to organize just this small

  striking force." He made a disgusted noise. "The

  raptors of this world are difficult to convince of the

  truth"

  "Really? Another world? That's interesting. See,

  I'm from another world myself."

  The eagle's eyes narrowed. "Say you so? What

  were you in your world?"

  "A student of law and a singer of songs," he

  admitted truthfully.

  "I have need of song. As for law, I make my own"

  "What were you?" Jen-Torn asked hastily, to change

  the subject.

  "I?" The eagle gazed down at him proudly. "I was

  THE MOMENT OF THE MAOfdJUr

  119

  a symbol. I was everywhere, in thousands of replica-

  tions. In stone and steel and brass. In symbols as

  small as this"—and he held the two great wingtips

  barely an inch apart—"and in granite monoliths big-

  ger than you can imagine. I was a symbol every-

  where and all people bowed down to me.

  "But," he went on angrily, "they
saw me only as a

  symbol. They did not stop and pause and consider

  when they chose one of their own to be a symbol

  over me. From that moment on my powers were lost.

  I could not manifest my true self. When their substi-

  tute symbol was ground into the dust, only I. of

  many thousands of me, escaped destruction. While

  in symbols I was destroyed, in this world I found

  myself set free. Here I am whole again and can start

  the work properly, myself." He gestured at the rap-

  tors swarming through the shaft, the light dancing

  on their wings,

  "My soldiers will rule above all others. It is des-

  tined to be so, destined for the strong to rule over

  the weak. We of beak and claw shall dictate to those

  who only can walk. It is right- It is destiny."

  It all came together in Jon-Tom's mind. He'd

  studied too much history for it to escape him for

  long.

  He'd seen Gyrnaught before, in metal and stone

  standards. Just as the eagle said. Seen him in pic-

  tures rising above obscene parade grounds, atop cold

  inhumane structures, a frozen caricature of evil.

  "1 know you," he said. "It was before my time, but

  I know what you stand for."

  Gyrnaught looked pleased. "A historian as well as a

  musician. You wilt prove even more valuable to the

  nest. Tell me, then, do you know the Horst Wessel

  song?"

  "No. Like I said, it was before my time. But I know

  the kind of music you want. What I want to know is,

  Alan Dean Foster

  120

  why should I sing for you? Why should I help you

  spread your old evil to this new world when your

  infection has already been cleared from mine?"

  "Because if you don't, I will bite off your head and

  swallow it like a pumpkin."

  Jon-Tom moved the duar around in front of him.

  "Can't argue with that kind of logic."

  "Ah, you are going to be reasonable, then. That is

  good. If you continue to be reasonable, you will

  continue to live. Besides, you should be proud that

  the nest has need of your services."

  "What is it, exactly, that you want?" Jon-Tom sighed.

  Gymaught gestured at his fellow avians. "These

  are difficult to inspire. I have not yet been able to

  convince all of them that they are destined to rule all

  others, that they belong to the master race."

  "Why? Because they have wings and the rest of us

  don't?"

  "Naturally. It is only right for the higher to rule

  the lower. I will see to it that alt the raptors of this