Song of Time (magic the gathering)

by Teri Mclaren

  "Not so fast-that's mine!" shouted a voice from the breakers.

  Rotapan, covered in a cloak of seaweed, a water-shy coral snake wrapped around his head like a crown, bobbed under the shallow water. When he broke the waves again, Og, Claria, and Cheyne had disappeared once more, right before his very eyes, leaving only one of Og's castoff boots, and the sound of Claria's laughter rising on the wind through the tall pines.

  "Well, what a lovely job you have done with the power I gave you, Rotapan. 'Rex Serpens,' was it? I have seen that stone do a lot more than draw reptiles." Riolla chortled as she shed her bobbing chair, sopping pink silks and all, and stepped out onto dry land.

  Before the water became too shallow, instinct had called the trapped turtle back out to sea, but Rio 1 la's lambskin boots had never so much as touched water during the entire ordeal. One or two little diehard asps leapt from the wreckage of the sinking chair and wriggled toward the drier sand, their horned heads disappearing beneath the low dunes in seconds.

  Rotapan envied them their concealment. He sat on the white beach, exhausted and powerless to fend off Riolla's digs. He had also forgotten the coral snake around his head until it sensed a lack of movement, unwound lazily, and fell about his narrow shoulders in bright loops. Remembering that he had no immunity to its bite now, Rotapan sat terribly still, puckering his face in disgust and trying not to breath until the snake had completely departed its perch. He cast an irritated eye upward, where Riolla stood fanning herself in the humid heat and listening to the cicadas choiring in the pines.

  "What do you want of me?" He sighed, beginning to smell like dead seaweed. Riolla breathed through her mouth.

  "Oh, first I think you might want to repay me for the heads your war party took from my assassins. I wasn't nearly finished with them yet, you know. And they are so expensive. Drufalden seems to want more and more for less and less these days," she replied.

  "How? The staff and its stone are gone-back in the hands of the songmage. What can I do now? And what of my Lord Chelydrus? The ajada helped me to talk with him. The magic is departed, and so my cabinet will not be able to advise me; the heads of my enemies are surely good only as gargoyles now. And venom-venom will be very hard to come by without the staff… How will I ever know when Chelydrus demands an offering?" Rotapan moaned.

  "Yes. I know. I am quite sure he will be very displeased with you now. But I would let you have the red stone again if you help with a certain task I have in mind," she lied. "And you do owe me."

  Rotapan's shoulders straightened. "Perhaps I can be of further service after all." He smiled, his little blue eyes distant and strange.

  "I need a small force of fighting men, Rotapan. Swift of mind, fleet of foot, and tough. So no ores, understand? I need soldiers I can count on, who will obey me.

  We'll take the path that veers toward Drufalden's mountain. She will supply us with more Ninnite loyals."

  "Well, yes, she certainly has enough of them. But there are the slaves. The slaves are a different matter. What if they see me?"

  "It's been ten years, but it's true they probably haven't forgotten you. But they're slaves, you spineless vermin. You are the Rex Serpens! So remember: loyal Ninnites only. My best men have come from Drufalden's training grounds, the two most recent of which are spending eternity as gargoyles on your temple. Well, until the top half fell. That reminds me- Saelin? Where are you?" she called loudly.

  She shook white sand from the toe of her dainty boot, dabbed at her hair, searching for something to secure a fallen curl with. She finally settled on Rotapan's now useless bone key, which still hung dripping from the sash at his tunic. He gave it over reluctantly.

  "For the glory of Lord Chelydrus, I can do this," he said, staring at the ruin of his temple. He couldn't be sure from this distance, but it looked like it had stopped falling. Perhaps the old parts were still standing-the prophecy hadn't yet come true. He could rebuild… "Where do you want them and when?" he snarled.

  "Have them assembled at the Borderlands. As soon as they can get there. You will tell them to wait for my orders when I arrive."

  "The Borderlands?" Rotapan twitched his mustache with a grimace of unbelief. "You can't get there from here. The elves- How am I supposed to-" He fell silent when he saw her expression. "Right. The Borderlands."

  "We must hurry. We'll take the old caravan road toward Drufalden; I suppose you can go with us until we reach her mountain. This business must be concluded forthwith. I have a wedding to attend. Where is Saelin…?" she muttered.

  12

  Far down the beach, near the mouth of a small river, Yob came to consciousness, stinging bluewinged flies buzzing at his ample ears. He raised his waterlogged head, blew his nose, the resulting honk scattering several curious shorebirds, and sat up. He looked seaward, remembering he had come with a company, and tried to discern if any of his warriors might have made it to shore. But the waves and the beach were empty but for debris and washed-up clothing; he was alone.

  Well, not quite.

  When he turned to look in the other direction, standing in the shallow water where the inland sea and the little river met was a large furry creature, sunlight glinting off something shiny at its ear, holding a clam in one paw and a rock in the other.

  Yob made a startled sound deep in his throat. The creature did not twitch a whisker. After a moment of regarding the ore, it lay back in the water, bashed the long, thin clam on the rock, oddly discarding the meat but saving the shell.

  Yob suddenly became overpoweringly hungry. It had been a hard day.

  Drooling, he lunged into the brackish waves after the creature. The otter playfully slipped through Yob's claws, tossed its stone aside, and bellied up to the shore. Yob made another swipe at it, but this time he found himself with an eyeful of sand and armful of rock hard muscle. The razor-sharp clamshell pricked at his throat.

  "Be nice." A woman's deep, sultry voice breathed into his ear. "Let me go, or the sharks will be gathering for an early dinner when the riptide takes your body out to sea, and you'll never see that daughter of yours again." Yob relaxed his grip on the woman's arm. She slithered behind him. "Thank you. Now don't turn around until I tell you."

  Yob was in no condition to argue. Half-drowned and suddenly very lonesome, he did as he was told. The hunger had subsided, too. He gingerly touched the little cut on his neck. Hardly more than an orcish lovebite, but the pain was growing intolerable. He wondered if the shell had been poisoned. There was a rustle of fabric at his back. He craned his head as far as he could without causing more pain, but could see nothing of the woman.

  "All right. I'm dressed now. Turn around slowly. What's your story?" the sultry voice demanded.

  Yob scooted around in the sand to face a small woman clad in iridescent brown ghoma skin, razor-clam shell still in hand. She blinked slowly at him, her eyes silver and huge, her face and body dark as night. Her hair lay in slick curls down her neck and danced at her broad forehead. Yob couldn't quite place what was so very strange about her until he noticed her ears: tiny, flat against her head, and pointed like a mouse's. Or like an otter's. At the lobe of the left one, affixed to a golden earring, there dangled a glittering gem the colors of fresh, deep water.

  "I am Yob," he said. "I don't remember my story. Who are you?"

  "Can you not guess? I thought you greenskins were always good for a game." She smiled, the blue-and-purple gem flashing.

  Yob shook his head, making himself dizzy; he hadn't guessed right all day. The woman chuckled and gave him a mock curtsy. "I am Frijan, daughter of Wiggulf the Riverking. And you are my prisoner, ore. Get yourself up and march. We have a long way to go on land, since I know your kind cannot swim."

  Yob stood up. As he towered over the woman, he remembered how big he was and began to laugh. "Your prisoner? I am Yob! A Wyrvi! overking. You are a little selkie. It is funny that you say this thing."

  "The cut on your neck will kill you inside three days if you do not come with m
e. My father is the only one who can reverse the effects of the poison. Still funny, ore?"

  Yob's yellow eyes widened with amazement and he clutched his neck, the pain growing more intense as he thought about it. After a moment or so, Frijan pointed the way, and they began to walk into the pine forest, following the river.

  "I need some fresh water to rinse my clothes and this salt off my skin," muttered Claria as she led Cheyne and Og ever deeper into the wood. "It's been a long time since I've heard anyone behind us. The old maps showed a river running through this forest, and I can even smell it. Could we please stop and wash?"

  "Not yet. I want to make a couple of more miles before we camp," said Cheyne, looking over his shoulder.

  The trees crowded over their trail, and the ground was dry, loose sand, littered with seasons and seasons of pine needles and stickaburrs. Hard country in which to track. Still, he felt the presence of followers.

  "Og, step it up. Stop dreaming of Riolla. She would have drowned you back there without thinking twice. Come on. You're supposed to be my guide, not the other way around."

  "I know. I know." The little man sighed, one ugly boot in hand. His waterlogged sandals still squished a little. "I just wish it were otherwise. I just wish she loved me like I love her."

  Cheyne gently pushed the songmage in front of him and hung back for a moment, listening. Not far away, to the right, he knew he had heard someone moving among the trees-someone who seemed to know their way. From Claria's estimation, that's where the river lay. The trees seemed less dense there as well, affording him a protected view. He stood silently listening to the whisper of the cooling wind in the fragrant pines.

  And then he saw them. Yob, his shoulders stooped and his hand at his neck, lumbered along not fifty feet away; behind him a dark-skinned woman walked as if she owned the forest and everything in it. It was Yob who made all of the noise. The woman moved as though her feet never touched the ground, as though she swam through the air. They seemed to be walking with purpose and speed. And Yob seemed very unhappy about all of it.

  Cheyne slowly let go of the bough he held in front of his face. In a few steps, he was back with Claria and Og and had bade them to stop.

  "Ogwater, it's your old friend, Yob. And he looks to be injured, though he's on his feet well enough. A dark woman walks behind him, and I think she has a definite destination," he whispered as the trio crouched low under the pines.

  "She'll have a definite purpose, too. She must be a selkie," replied Og, his face furrowing.

  "A selkie?" said Claria.

  "Yes. Riverfolk, you know. Change from humans, or nearly human form, to otters and such, depending on their clan. Live in the forest here, further upstream, but they know everything that happens in the water. She must have found Yob at the delta. Selkies really love three things in life: games, baubles, and fishing in the tidal pools. They used to frequent these parts, before Rotapan poisoned the Silver Sea." Og smiled. "But I've never been this far west. That's just a guess, from what the ores say and the old ballads I know about them."

  Cheyne idly drew his foot across the speckled white sand. "Why would she want an ore, Og?"

  "Oh, I would think she's taking him home with her. Remember, Rotapan has had their king in his water dungeon for years now. Something of a trade-off, I would guess…"

  "Rotapan doesn't strike me as caring much about anyone except himself. Why would he ransom Yob?" asked Cheyne.

  "He wouldn't. But Yob would ransom Womba," Og said slowly. I was hiding under Krota's broken pot-I heard Rotapan say to Yob was that he was holding Womba prisoner until Yob brought all of us back to the temple. Well, actually, just our heads."

  "How would the selkies know that?"

  "If Womba is in the water dungeon, they know from Wiggulf himself. He sings constantly. Nothing happens in the water without the selkies hearing of it within the hour."

  "Let's follow them. If nothing else, we'll find our way through the wood safely," Cheyne said, thinking of the canistas he had seen earlier; a bedraggled group of exhausted travelers would be just the sort of prey the beasts liked best.

  Warily, he led the way. Claria took the middle position, keeping a sharp eye on Og ever since she had seen him mooning over Riolla. The songmage clutched the serpent-headed staff tightly, the red ajada covered with a shred of Og's overshirt. Every so often, when Claria cast a glance at Cheyne, Og would look behind him, tuning his ears to any sound that might mean they were being followed. Especially any sound like Riolla's voice.

  An hour more into the pine forest, the trees began to thin into deciduous, understory saplings, which provided almost no cover. Cheyne dropped the party back

  several hundred yards, trying to keep quiet in the rustling, drier leaves that lay scattered under the dogwoods and maples. Claria moved well in the noisy rubble, but Ogwater sounded like Yob. Finally, at the river's edge, in the relative shelter of a huge, storm-fallen willow, Cheyne bade them stop.

  "Looks like we can wash now, Claria. We'll need to take to the water if we want to continue to follow them. How far upstream are we, anyway?"

  Claria had already waded into the clear, cold water. A low mist hung inches above the river, almost like ice crystals suspended in the air.

  "Birr! The water is like ice! It shouldn't be this cold this time of year. The leaves haven't even fallen," she complained, quickly splashing down and wading out again. "I recall that there is some kind of enlargement in the river around here soon. I drew it about four miles into the forest-sort of an island in the middle of the stream. That's all the traders' maps showed. We should be very close to that," she replied.

  "That would be the rock of the main lodge. Wiggulf s personal quarters are supposed to be as big as a banquet hall," said Og. "I know a song-" He began to hum, but Cheyne hushed him with a glare.

  "Come on. Back in the river."

  "Not me. We won't last ten minutes in that water," said Claria, still shivering. "Besides, how are we going to follow them into the main lodge? It'll be surrounded by selkies, won't it?"

  "I'll take you."

  They all turned at once toward the husky voice. The female selkie stood smiling before them; at her side, Yob shook violently, his face as pale as a dead leaf.

  "Let's go. This greenskin is fading fast on me. He's too heavy to carry and they never float, and I need to keep him alive for awhile. He'd probably like that, too. I finally had to come back for you because you were so slow. He hasn't got long before he falls down. But now you can carry him when he needs it." She waved a

  graceful hand at Yob, then motioned to a nearly invisible path in front of them.

  Cheyne looked cautiously over his shoulder, the sensation of being followed rising up his back again. He fully expected to see Riolla and Rotapan bearing down on them. What he saw instead made him only a little happier. Two dozen burly, bearded men, skin the same color as the woman's, long coral knives in their hands, appeared and encircled them. Water droplets gleamed in their dark curly hair and clung to their beards. Bits of colored shells and sea urchin spines dangled from their ears and necks and at the belts of their ghomaskin breechcloths.

  "You didn't think the riverking's daughter travels alone, did you?" Frijan beamed.

  Yob remembered something, then, stirring out of his stupor,

  "Daughter… Womba…" he cried softly. "The temple fell down, and you are left there, my little flower."

  She wished he would stop that infernal singing. Womba shook the iron bars of the water dungeon and let loose with a mighty roar, causing the grizzled old selkie to cease his mournful song for a moment.

  "Qh, good one. A few more of those and we'll be out," he chittered appreciatively. "Pray tell, orcess- why do they have you in here?"

  Womba hung onto the rusty iron gate, the strong tide lapping up to her neck, and fitfully scratched at a bit of gray seaweed caught on one of her chin whiskers. The saltwater was ruining her dress, and if it rose much higher, she would surely drown. When
she didn't answer, the old selkie flipped his tail playfully and resumed his song. Womba sighed and contemplated how much energy it would take to catch and eat the old furbag. But then she would be alone down here, and that, despite the dolorous singing, would be much, much worse. It had taken eight armed guards and a net to get her in here. She must have been really tired, she told herself. Such weakness was inexcusable. Og would not want her now… A large tear formed in her right eye and dropped into the rising sea.

  "Oh, please, don't make it worse. The water will drown you soon enough without help." The old selkie chuckled as he swam over. He floated on his back and looked up at her, compassion and pity radiating from his huge brown, shining eyes. The bright sunlight on the water outside the dungeon sparkled through the arched gate and played against the ceiling, its soft overhead rays making his gray whiskers gleam silver.

  "For whom do you cry, orcess?" he squeaked, his voice small and strange in Womba's ears.

  "What?" she sputtered,

  "Is it a young warrior? Your mother? A long lost friend?" The old selkie paddled around her slowly, keeping just out of swatting range, his words echoing off the wet, salt-encrusted walls of the dungeon.

  "I have shamed him with my weakness; I let myself be taken prisoner. He was destined to be my husband, and now he's with her." She began to sob.

  "Who? Who?"

  "The finest songmaker in all of Almaaz: Ogwater Rifkin. Oh, did you mean the ugly woman? I don't know her name. I could care less. And she smells." She gurgled, the rising waves making her speak in gasps. She roared again with frustration.

  An answering rumble overhead made them both look up just in time to see a large crack form in the vaulted ceiling and widen before their astonished eyes. The old selkie clapped his paws together and danced and twirled and dived in his excitement.

  When he surfaced again, the crack had spread to the gate, and Womba was cowering against it, all but drowning. "What's happening? The temple is going to fall on me! My hair… my wedding dress! This is my wedding dress!" she cried between gulps.