The Spellsinger Adventures Volume One: Spellsinger, the Hour of the Gate, and the Day of the Dissonance

by Alan Dean Foster

  “I’ll go, of course,” said Jon-Tom readily.

  The others gazed at him in astonishment. “Be you daft too, mate?” said Mudge.

  “Daft my ass.” He looked down at the otter. “I have no choice.”

  “I’ll go,” announced Flor, smiling magnificently. “I love a challenge.”

  “Oh, very well.” Caz fitted his monocle carefully, his pink nose still vibrating, “but it’s a fool’s game to draw and roll a brace of twelves after a muntle-star pays out.”

  “I suppose I’ll come too,” said Talea with a sigh, “because I’ve no more good sense than the rest of you.”

  All eyes turned toward Mudge.

  “Right then, quit staring at me, you bloody great twits!” His voice dropped to a discouraged mutter. “I ’ope when we find ourselves served up t’ the damned Weavers for supper that I’m the last one on the rottin’ menu, so I can at least ’ave the pleasure o’ watchin’ ’em eat you arse’oles first!”

  “To such base uses we all eventually come, Mudge,” Jon-Tom told him.

  “Don’t get philosophical with me, mate. Oh, you’ve no choice for sure, not if you’ve a ’ope o’ seeing your proper ’ome again. Old Clothahump’s got you by the balls, ’e as. But as for me, I can be threatened so far and then it don’t matter no more.”

  “No one is threatening you, otter,” said the wizard.

  “The ’ell you ain’t! I saw the look in your eye, knew I might as well say yes voluntary-like and ’ave done with it. You can work thunder and lightnin’ but you can’t make the journey yourself, you old fart! You don’t fool me. You need us.”

  “I have never tried to deny that, Mudge. But I will not hold you. I have not threatened you. So behind all your noise and fury, why are you coming?”

  The otter stood there and fumed, breathing hard and glaring first at the turtle, then Jon-Tom, then the others. Finally he booted an exquisite spittoon halfway across the room. It bounced ringingly off the far wall as he sat down in a huff.

  “Be billy bedamned if I know!”

  “I do,” said Talea. “You’d rather travel along with a bunch of fools like the rest of us than stay here and be conscripted into the army. With Clothahump and Jon-Tom gone, the local authorities will treat you like any other bum.”

  “That’s bloody likely,” snorted Mudge. “Leave me alone, then, won’t you? I said I’d go, though I’d bet heavy against us ever comin’ back.”

  “Optimism is better than pessimism, my friend,” said Caz pleasantly.

  “You. I don’t understand you at all, mate.” The otter shoved back his cap and walked across the carpet to confront Caz. “A minute ago you said you weren’t no reckless gambler. Now you’re all for agoin’ off on this charmin’ little suicide trot. And of all o’ us, you’d be the one I’d wager on t’ stay clear o’ the army’s clutches.”

  The rabbit looked unimpressed. “Perhaps I can see the larger picture, Mudge.”

  “Meanin’ wot?”

  “Meaning that if what our wise friend Clothahump knows to be true indeed comes to pass, the entire world may be embarking on that ‘trot’ with us.” He smiled softly. “There are few opportunities for gambling in a wasteland. I do not think the Plated Folk will permit recreation as usual if they are victorious. And I have other reasons.”

  “Yeah? Wot reasons?”

  “They are personal.”

  “The wisdom of pragmatism,” said Clothahump approvingly. “It was a beneficial day indeed when the river brought you among us, friend Caz.”

  “Maybe. But I think I would be still happier if I had not misjudged the placement of those dice and been forced to depart so precipitately from my ship. The happiness of the ignorant is no less so than any other. Ah well.” He shrugged disarmingly. “We are all of us caught up in momentous events beyond our ability to change.”

  They agreed with him, and none realized he was referring as much to his previously mentioned personal reasons as to the coming cataclysm… .

  The city council provided a three-axle wagon and a dray team of four matched yellow-and-black-striped lizards, plus ample supplies. Some among the council were sorry to see the wizard and spellsinger depart, but there were others who were just as happy to watch two powerful magicians leave their city.

  Talea handled the reins of the wagon while Flor, Jon-Tom, Mudge, Clothahump, and Caz sorted living quarters out of the back of the heavily loaded vehicle. Thick canvas could be drawn across the top to keep out the rain. Ports cut in the slanting wooden walls provided ventilation and a means for firing arrows at any attacker.

  Aveticus, resplendent in a fresh uniform and as coldly correct as ever, offered to provide a military escort at least part of the way. Clothahump declined gracefully, insisting that the less attention they attracted the better their chance for an uneventful traverse of the Swordsward.

  Anyway, they had the best protection possible in the form of Falameezar. The dragon would surely frighten away any possible assailants, intelligent or otherwise.

  It took the dray lizards a day or two to overcome their nervousness at the dragon’s presence, but soon they were cantering along on their strong, graceful legs. Bounding on six solid rubber wheels the wagon fairly flew out of the city.

  They passed small villages and farms for another several days, until at last no sign of habitation lay before them.

  The fields of golden grain had given way to very tall light green grasses that stretched to the ends of the northern and eastern horizons. Dark wintry rain clouds hovered above the greenery, and there were rumblings of distant thunder.

  Off to their right the immense western mountain range known as Zaryt’s Teeth rose like a wall from the plains. Its lowermost peaks rose well above ten thousand feet while the highest towered to twenty-five thousand. Dominating all and visible for weeks to come was the gigantic prong of Brokenbone Peak, looking like the ossified spine of some long-fossilized titan.

  It was firmly believed by many that in a cave atop that storm-swept peak dwelt the Oracle of All Knowledge. Even great wizards had been unable to penetrate the winds that howled eternally around that inaccessible crag. For by the time any grew wise enough to possibly make the journey, they had also grown too old, which might explain why isolated travelers sometimes heard monstrous laughter avalanching down Brokenbone’s flanks, though most insisted it was only the wind.

  The Swordsward resembled a well-manicured field. Patches of other vegetation struggled to rise above the dense grass, were only occasionally successful. Here and there small thickets that were either very thin flowering trees or enormous dandelions poked insolently above the waving green ocean.

  Despite Clothahump’s protests General Aveticus had given them a mounted escort to the boundary of the wild plains. The soldiers raised a departing cheer as the wagon left them behind and started out through the grass.

  There were no roads, no paths through the Swordsward. The grass that formed it grew faster than any bamboo. So fast, according to Caz, that you could cut the same patch bare to the earth four times in a single day, and by nightfall it would be as thick as ever. Fortunately the blades were as flexible as they were prolific. The wagon slid over them easily.

  Each blade knew its assigned place. None grew higher than the next and attempted to steal the light from its neighbor. Despite the flexibility of the grass, however, the name Swordsward had not been bestowed out of mischief or indifference. While Falameezar’s thick scales were invulnerable, as were those of the dray lizards, the others had to be careful when descending from the wagon least the sharp edges of the tall blades cut through clothing and skin.

  Jon-Tom learned quickly enough. Once he’d leaned over the back of the wagon to pluck a high, isolated blue flower. A quick, sharp pain made him pull back his hand. There was a thin line of red two inches long across his palm. It felt as if someone had taken a piece of new paper and drawn it fast across his skin. The wound was narrow and bled only for a minute, but it remained painful
for days.

  Several times they had glimpses of lanky predators like a cross between a crocodile and a greyhound. They would pace the wagon for hours before slinking off into the green.

  “Noulps,” Caz told him, peering out the arrowport behind him. “They would kill and eat us if they could, but I don’t think that’s likely. Falameezar scares them off.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Because they leave us. A noulp pack will follow its quarry for weeks, I’m told, until they run it down.”

  Days became weeks that passed without trouble. Each day the black clouds massing in the west would come nearer, their thunder more intimate. They promised more severe weather than the steady, nightly rain.

  “It is winter, after all,” Clothahump observed one day. “I worry about being caught out here in a really bad storm. This wagon is not the cover I would wish.”

  But when the full storm finally crested atop them, even the wizard was unprepared for its ferocity. The wind rose until it shook the wagon. Its huddled inhabitants felt like bugs in a box. Rain and sleet battered insistently at the wooden sides, seeking entry, while the lizards lay down in a circle in the grass and closed their eyes against the driving gale.

  The wagon was wide and low. It did not leak, did not tip over. Jon-Tom was even growing used to the storm until, on the fourth day, a terrible scream sounded from outside. It faded rapidly, swallowed up by the wind.

  He fumbled for a candle, gave up, and used his sparker. Flame flashed off emerald eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” Talea asked him sleepily. The others were moving about beneath their blankets.

  “Someone screamed.”

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “It was outside. It’s gone now.”

  Heads were counted. Flor was there, blinking sleep from her eyes. Nearby Caz leaned up against the inner wall. Mudge was the last to awaken, having displayed the unique ability to sleep soundly through thunder, screaming, and wind.

  Only Clothahump looked attentive, sensing the night smells.

  “We’re all here,” said Flor tiredly. “Then who screamed?”

  Clothahump was still listening intently, spoke without moving head or body. “The lowliest are always missed the last. Where is Pog?”

  Jon-Tom looked toward the back of the wagon. The hanging perch in the upper left corner was empty. Rain stained the wood, showing where the canvas backing had been unsnapped. He moved to inspect it. Several of the sealing snaps had been broken by the force of the gale.

  “He’s been carried off in his sleep,” said Clothahump. “We have to find him. He cannot fly in this.”

  Jon-Tom stuck his head outside, immediately drew it back in. The ferocity of rain and wind drowned both skin and spirits. He forced himself to try again, called the bat’s name several times.

  A massive, damp skull suddenly appeared close by the opening. Jon-Tom was startled, but only for a moment.

  “What’s the matter, Comrade?” Falameezar inquired. “Is there some trouble?”

  “We’ve… we’ve lost one of the group,” he said, trying to shield his face against the battering rain. “Pog, the bat. We think he got caught by a freak gust of wind and it’s carried him off. He doesn’t answer, and we’re all worried. He can’t walk well in the best of weather and he sure as hell can’t fly in this gale. Also, there don’t seem to be any trees around he could catch hold of.”

  “Never fear, Comrade. I will find him.” The massive armored body turned southward and bellowed above the wind, “Comrade Pog, Comrade Pog!”

  That steady, confident voice echoed back to them until even it was overwhelmed by distance and wind. Jon-Tom watched until the black shadow shape faded into the night, then drew back inside, wiping water from his face and hair.

  “Falameezar’s gone after him,” he told the anxious watchers. “The storm doesn’t seem to be bothering him too much, but I doubt he’s got much of a chance of finding Pog unless the storm forced him down somewhere close by.”

  “He may be leagues from here by now,” said Caz dolefully. “Damn this infernal wind!” He struck in frustration at the wooden wall.

  “He was impertinent and disrespectful, but he performed his duties well for all his complaining,” said Clothahump. “A good famulus. I shall miss him.”

  “It’s too early to talk in the past tense, wizard.” Flor tried to cheer him up. “Falameezar may still find him. Quien sabe; he may be closer than we think.”

  “Your words are kind, my dear. Thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

  The wagon rattled as another blast of near hurricane force whistled about them. Everyone fought for balance.

  “But as our young spellsinger says, the weather is not encouraging. Pog is not very resourceful. I don’t know… .”

  There was no sign of the bat the next day, nor of Falameezar, and the storm continued without abating. Clothahump worried now not only that Pog might never be found but that the dragon might become disoriented and not be able to relocate the wagon. Or that he might find a river, decide he was bored with the entire business, and simply sink out of sight.

  “I don’t think the last likely, sir,” argued Jon-Tom. “Falameezar’s made a political commitment. We’re his comrades. He’ll be back. It would take some kind of personal crisis to make him abandon us, and there isn’t much that can affect him.”

  “Nevertheless, though I would like to have both of them back with us, time is becoming too important.” The turtle let out a resigned sigh. “If the weather breaks tomorrow, as I believe it may, we will wait one additional day. Then we must be on our way or else we might as well forget this entire mission.”

  “Praise the weather,” murmured Mudge hopefully, and turned over in his blankets… .

  III

  WHEN JON-TOM WOKE the following morning, his first sight was of the rear canvas panel. It had been neatly pinned up, and sunlight was streaming brilliantly inside. Flor knelt and stared outward, her black hair waterfalling down her back. She seemed to sparkle.

  He sat up, threw off his covers. It was eerie after so many days of violence not to hear the wind. Also absent was the persistent drumming of raindrops overhead. He leaned forward and peered out. Only a few scattered storm clouds hung stubbornly in an otherwise clear sky.

  He crawled up alongside her. A gentle breeze ruffled the Swordsward, the emerald endlessness appearing as soft and delicate as the down on a young girl’s legs. The distant yellow puffballs of dandelion trees looked lonely against the otherwise unbroken horizon.

  “Good morning, Jon-Tom.”

  “Buenos dias. Que pasa, beautiful?”

  “Not much. Just enjoying the view. And the sunshine. A week in that damn wagon.” She fluffed her hair out. “It was getting a little squirrelly.”

  “Also smelly.” He breathed deeply of the fresh air, inhaled the rich sweet smell of the rain-swept grasses. Then he stepped out onto the rear wagon seat.

  Slowly he turned a circle. There was nothing but green sward and blue sky in all directions. Against that background even a distant Falameezar would have stood out like a truckload of coal in a snowbank. But there was no sign of the dragon or of his quarry.

  “Nobody. Neither of ’em,” he said disappointedly, turning back to look down into the wagon. Talea had just raised her head from beneath a pile of blankets and blinked at him sleepily, her red curls framing her face like the scribbles of a playful artist.

  “I am most concerned,” said Clothahump. He was seated at the front end of the wagon, stirring a pot of hot tea. The little copper kettle squatted on the portable stove and steamed merrily. “It is possible that—” He broke off, pointed toward Jon-Tom, and opened his mouth. Jon-Tom heard only the first of his comment.

  “I do believe there is someone be—”

  Something yanked hard at Jon-Tom’s ankles. Arms windmilling the air, he went over backward off the platform. He landed hard, the grass cushioning him only slightly.

 
Blackness and colorful stars filled his vision, but he did not pass out. The darkness was a momentary veil over his eyes. By the time his head cleared his hands had been drawn above his hair, his ankles placed together, and tough cords wrapped around them. Looking down at his feet, he saw not only the bindings but a remarkably ugly face.

  Its owner was perhaps two and a half feet tall, very stocky, and a perversion of humanity. Jon-Tom decided it looked like a cross between an elf and a wino. The squat creature boasted an enormous, thick black beard.

  Out of this jungle peered two large brown eyes. They flanked a monstrous bulbous nose and were in turn framed by a pair of huge, floppy ears that somehow managed to fight their way out of the wiry hair. There were hints of clothing beneath the effervescent mass.

  Thick, stubby fingers made sure of Jon-Tom’s bonds. A set of sandals large enough for the recumbent youth floored enormous feet.

  Tying the other knots was a slightly smaller version of the first ugly, except he was blond instead of dark-haired and had watery blue eyes.

  Something landed on Jon-Tom’s chest and knocked the wind out of him. The newcomer was solid as iron and extremely muscular. It was not the build of a body builder but instead the seamlessly smooth and deceptively porcine musculature of the power lifter.

  The one on his chest now was female. Only a few red whiskers protruded from her chin. She was no less gruesome in appearance than her male counterparts. She was shaking a fist in his face and jabbering at high speed. For the first time since arriving in Mudge’s meadow words had no meaning to him.

  He turned his head away from that indifferently controlled fist. Angry noises and thumping sounds came from the wagon. He looked to his right, but the grass hid whatever was happening there.

  Of only one thing was he certain: the sward was alive with dozens of the fast-moving, excited creatures.