Son Of Spellsinger

by Alan Dean Foster

  Buncan followed the otters’ lead as they dismounted and secured their skinks to a nearby tree. Just as they had for years, they used the undergrowth to conceal their movements as they advanced. Only, Buncan knew that this time Squill and Neena weren’t playing. Maybe his hearing wasn’t as good as theirs, but he was equally adept at avoiding twigs and dry leaves.

  It didn’t take long before he, too, could hear what had attracted Squill’s attention: many voices shouting and yelling. Only a couple were deep enough to suggest size. The rest were fairly high-pitched.

  They came to a place where the forest thinned and they could see the road again. Stopped to one side was the merchant’s wagon. Thanks to his well-honed powers of memory and observation, Buncan was able to recognize it instantly from the single brief glimpse he’d had of it parked behind Clothahump’s tree.

  Also, there was a large spellcharged sign on the side which periodically flashed in bright canary-yellow letters:

  GRAGELOUTH—MERCHANT & TRADER

  The wagon rested on four thick-spoked, brightly painted wooden wheels. A single door interrupted the smooth lines of the stem. There was a built-in ladder which allowed access to the roof, and a pair of stairs bolted beneath the doorway. Pots, pans, and other household goods dangled from hempen and wire leaders like misshapen fruit. Two muscular, squat-bodied dray lizards yoked side by side stood placidly in front of the wagon, scratching at their blinders and sampling the ground with their flattened pink tongues.

  Though the wagon faced away from them, they could see the merchant seated on the forebench. Hatless, his thick gray coat showed evidence of recent trimming. The long fur beneath his arms swayed as he argued with those who had surrounded him.

  Standing near the front of the team and holding the harness of the lead lizard was a massive masked figure. The mask was natural, for the individual was a spectacled bear. He wore long pants, a dull hazel shirt, and a heavy leather cap. His size made him prominent among the sword- and ax-armed ringtail cats and raccoons who comprised the majority of the gang.

  A tall, lithe, rather rakishly clad coatimundi stood nearest the wagon, gesturing animatedly in the merchant’s direction with a thin rapier. They could see Gragelouth flinch whenever the blade flicked too close. Brass studs glistened among the coati’s attire. Even at a distance Buncan could make out the diamond that sparkled in one of his prominent canines.

  “Wot a bleedin’ marvelous opportunity!” Neena whispered. “We can rescue the silly sod an’ ingratiate ourselves to ‘im forever. ‘E’ll ‘ave to take us on.” She drew her short sword and took a step forward.

  Buncan hastened to restrain her. “Wait a minute!” He raised his eyes above the brush line. “There’s. .half a dozen raccoons and ringtails, the coati, and the bear. There’s only three of us, and the bear’s a lot bigger than I am.”

  “Righty-ho, mate,” agreed Squill cheerfully. “Them’s fair odds, they are.”

  “Are you crazy? You’ve inherited Mudge’s bravado along with his lack of judgment. If we go charging out there we’re gonna get ourselves stomped. Don’t lose sight of why we’re here.” One of the ringtails was now peering curiously in their direction, and Buncan hurriedly ducked back down into the vegetation.

  “You’re right, Bunkies.” Neena sheathed her sword. “We’re ‘ere to show this merchant ‘ow our spellsingin’ can ‘elp ‘im.” She rubbed her forepaws together. “So let’s get to it.”

  Squill was less enthusiastic. He fingered his bow. “We might could take two or three of ‘em out with arrows before they pinned us. If we try singin’ first, we’ll give away both our position and the element o’ surprise.”

  Buncan was unlimbering his duar. “Singing might surprise them. Or they might even ignore it. We can always resort to our weapons if it doesn’t work. If we don’t do something fast, they’ll kill the merchant and we might as well turn around and slink back home.”

  The otter considered, then nodded. “Right-o, but ‘tis likely we’ll only get one chance. Keep your blades “andy.”

  Buncan plucked lightly at the duar. A faint globule of pale-blue smoke arose from the nexus. He eyed his companions expectantly.

  “Wot’ll we sing about?” Squill eyed his sister uncertainly. “Buncan?”

  “Don’t ask me. You two are the lyricists.” He strained to see past them. The discussion at the wagon appeared to be taking a conclusive turn. If they didn’t hurry, a sword thrust would render moot whatever effort they expended. “Better get on with it. I have a feeling the hoods are getting tired of Gragelouth’s banter.”

  “ ‘E must ‘ave somethin’ worth protecting or ‘e’d ‘ave given ‘em wot they want by now.” Neena leaned over to exchange hurried whispers with her brother.

  Buncan waited nervously. If it came to a fight, he was bigger and probably stronger than any of the bandits save the bear, and nothing was quicker in combat than an otter. But there were eight of them, all much more experienced at real fighting than he or his Mends. The scarred dandy of a coati in particular looked like a tough customer.

  None of which would matter if they could spellsing them aside. Hopefully the otters’ wits would prove as quick as then-feet.

  “How shall I start off?” he muttered.

  “Somethin’ slow and heavy,” Squill advised him. “Like when we called up the whale.”

  “Okay, but let’s try and make this a little more low-key.” His fingers hovered above the strings, anxious to begin. “We don’t want to kill anyone if we can help it.”

  “Why not?” Neena regarded him out of bright eyes.

  “Because it’s messy. We don’t want to frighten off the merchant, either.”

  Squill was staring in the wagon’s direction. “That rapier pokes ‘im any deeper an’ ‘e won’t be in any condition to do much o’ anything.” He turned back to his sister. “Ready, mush-mouth? On three. A one, a two, an’ a three . . .”

  Buncan began to play.

  “Rumble in the woods got no place to go

  Bangin’ in the hood where it ain’t no show

  Gonna break it up, gonna bring it low, throw

  It out, kick it out, stop it now

  Stop it before it gets serious. Gets serious?

  We’re delirious.

  Better believe it or you’re gonna buy it

  Wanna fight our power, better not try it!”

  Every one of the bandits surrounding the wagon, from the bear to the slightest raccoon, turned to stare in the direction of the music. Buncan’s fingers flew over the duar. He could feel the energy surging from the instrument, felt confidence in the counterpoint he was generating to the otters’ rap. The more the three of them performed, the easier it became. He began to feel that with practice and time they might actually become proficient.

  Except . . . while the music was invigorating, and sounded fresh, nothing else was happening.

  The coati was conversing rapidly with three of the four raccoons. A moment later this heavily armed trio started toward the source of the singing. Two of them wielded axes, and the third a wicked, barb-tipped pike.

  “Nothing’s happening.” Buncan raised his voice over the music. “Something’s wrong with your singing, or your choice of lyrics.”

  “I can’t mink o’ anythin’ else,” Squill mumbled frantically.

  His sister glared at him. “Well, you’re the one who’s supposed to be so clever!”

  ““ ‘Ell, don’t pick on me! You’re always on about ‘ow clever you think you are.”

  “For the Tree’s sake,” Buncan growled, “don’t start fighting now!”

  The lead raccoon wore a checkered and striped bandanna, while his companion sported an incongruous stovepipe hat decorated with tufts of bud down. The pike wielder shifted a leather beret between his ears. All three readied their weapons as they drew nearer.

  “Do something!” Buncan hissed desperately.

  “I’m tryin’,” said Neena, “but ‘e ain’t ‘elping none.”
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  “I just can’t think o’ notiiin’ appropriate.” Squill glanced anxiously in the direction of the approaching brigands.

  “Anything!” A groaning Buncan found himself wondering if he should put down the duar and take up his sword.

  “Wait a minim.” The otter blinked suddenly. “Remember that one ditty that was on that collection?” He whispered rapidly to his sister. Her expression widened, she nodded, and they began to sing once more, their voices rising in unison above the vegetation.

  “Time for the beat, time for the feet

  Time to get real out on the street

  Time to Hammer the bad dudes down

  Time to Hammer ‘em right down in the ground

  Hammer; Hammer, show ‘em who’s boss

  Show ‘em who’s the tool that’ll waste ‘em for a Loss!”

  A glistening argent nimbus materialized above the bushes between the singers and the advancing robbers. It was clearly visible to those back by the wagon. The ugly conversation between the desperate Gragelouth and his increasingly impatient tormentor ceased as both turned to stare.

  The silvery vapor seemed composed of metal fragments. It was gravid and intimidating, and Duncan instinctively stumbled away from it until he bumped up against a tree. He had the’ presence of mind to keep playing. What they were conjuring up he didn’t know, but so far it was enormously impressive even in its indistinctness. The otters ducked slightly but continued to rap. The raccoons clutched their weapons in front of them and gaped, their advance stalled by the otherworldly conjuration.

  The cloud began to congeal into a crystal the size of a wine barrel. This was crossed with a much longer cylinder composed of identical material. Together they formed a slender T shape that was as long as Gragelouth’s wagon.

  It was, in point of fact, an enormous tool: a hammer fashioned of some unidentifiable solid metal. A giant’s hammer. It hung in the air above the bushes and young trees, vibrating slightly in tune to the beat of Duncan’s duar.

  The raccoons began to edge around it, keeping a wary eye on the gleaming, highly polished apparition as they did so.

  This wouldn’t do, Buncan knew, and he so informed the otters. Without missing a beat they altered their lyrics appropriately.

  The hammer shuddered. It arced backward, paused briefly in a vertical position, and then swooshed down with tremendous force. It struck the foremost bandit before he could dodge and squashed him as fiat as if the singers had dumped a blue whale on nun. The denouement was both messy and noisy. The sight, when the hammer retracted to a position parallel with the ground, was unpleasant to look upon. It was sufficiently disagreeable to send the two surviving brigands racing back toward their compatriots, screeching as they threw their useless weapons aside.

  Buncan forced himself to look out at the mess the hammerish apparition had created on the otherwise pristine forest floor and felt his stomach engage gears independent of the rest of his system. He was, however, too busy playing to throw up. The otters, delighted, proceeded to ghoulify their lyrics to the utmost extent of their imagination, which was considerable.

  The hammer pivoted in midair and began to chase the retreating bandits, repeatedly slamming into the ground behind them and leaving deep, perfectly round impressions in the solid earth. Each time it struck, the ground jumped slightly. Booming thuds echoed through the forest.

  Seeing the outrageous device pursuing their panicky companions, the rest of the gang hesitated. At this critical moment the coati bravely scampered forward and made a gallant if misguided effort to rally his dispirited troops. He jabbed at the hammer with his rapier, only to see the blade turned by the smooth astral metal.

  The hammer came down on his tail, breaking it in several places.

  Letting out a barking scream, the bandit leader keeled over, unconscious. A ringtail and the bear grabbed him under the arms and hustled him away toward the densest cluster of trees while the rest of the gang scattered in every direction. Momentarily confused, the hammer went after all of them at once, missing with predictable but nonetheless intimidating regularity.

  Buncan kept playing until the last robber had disappeared around the far bend in the road. He didn’t laugh at the sight, because he couldn’t. The nearby pulverized bone and expansive bloodstain which had been the unfortunate raccoon was too bright in his eyes, too thick in his nostrils. Instead he settled for a silent cry of thankfulness as he let his fingers relax. The glow at the duar’s nexus faded.

  “Not bad,” he told the otters, who had ceased their singing. “Let’s see how our merchant’s doing.” The trio broke from the underbrush and jogged toward the wagon, carefully avoiding the bloody pulp to their right.

  “Wot’ll we say to ‘im?” Squill wondered as they approached the road.

  “I dunno.” His sister reflexively tried to smooth her makeup. “ ‘E looks a bit rattled.”

  Indeed, Gragelouth was clearly shaken. That was understandable, considering that he’d thus far seen only the homicidal hammer and not its manipulators. When all was explained to him he would doubtless be properly grateful, Buncan mused. After all, they’d just saved his fortune and most probably his life as well.

  A loud crash sounded from the tree line, causing Buncan to turn and look behind him. Still flailing about madly, splintering bushes and trees and the occasional small boulder, the hammer reappeared. Having been spellsung into existence, it was not about to simply fade away.

  It hesitated as if searching for something new and different to flatten. After a brief pause it aligned itself with the wagon and came thumping directly toward them. From the front seat they could hear Gragelouth moan.

  “It’s still active!” Squill yelped.

  “I can see that.” Clutching his duar tightly in both hands, Buncan found himself backing toward the road. “Sing it away.”

  “Play!” yelled Neena. “You have to play, Buncan!”

  Galvanized by her order, he let his fingers drift down to the quiescent strings. The first chords were atonal and ineffective. Meanwhile, the metallic wraith continued its menacing advance.

  All three of them retreated in a body, Buncan strumming madly, the otters rapping at maximum speed. They were in the middle of the road now, in front of the wagon, with no cover in sight.

  The hammer reached them and hesitated. Paws in the air, Gragelouth cowered back on his bench. The apparition seemed to consider him, then accelerated purposefully in the direction of the somewhat quavering musicians.

  “Scatter!” howled Squill at the last possible instant as the head of the hammer plunged toward them. Human and otters broke in three directions as the massive chunk of metal slammed into the earth where they’d been standing, sending gravel and dirt flying.

  Buncan yelled as he dodged and played. “Make it go away! Sing something else! Send it back where it came from!”

  “Back where it came from?” Squill tried to keep one eye on his friend and the other on the prodigious apparition. “I don’t bloody well know where it came from! The bleedin’ toolbox o’ the gods?” The hammer zigged as he zagged to his left. “You’re the damned spellsinger!” He jumped, and the device just missed him.

  “You’re the singers!” Buncan yelled.

  The otters continued to improvise, to no avail. While they were getting tired of trying to dodge and sing at the same time, the remorseless specter gave no indication it was slowing down.

  Suddenly the wind increased. Tree limbs and trunks bent toward the road as the breeze rapidly grew into a full-fledged gale. From his seat Gragelouth looked on in fascination.

  Leaves and branches thrashed around Buncan. He was tiring fast, having neither the energy nor the agility of the otters. If that thing landed on them . . . The remains of the unlucky bandit were as fresh in his mind as they were on the ground back in the trees.

  A flailing branch knocked him down, and he felt the duar slip from his stunned grasp. The pulsing radiance at the nexus of the two sets of strings instantly vani
shed. Seeing mis, the otters ceased their rapping, useless without Buncan’s skilled accompaniment.

  Lying on his chest, panting, Buncan looked up in time to see the hammer hovering above him, measuring itself for the terminal strike. He closed his eyes.

  Instantly the wind died. Two doubled-over trees straightened, their thick trunks catching the hammer on either side of the gleaming head and lifting it upward. They bounced back and forth a couple of times before quivering to a stop, the hammer pinned between them as neatly as on any holder in a carpenter’s shop. There the apparition hung motionless, seemingly pacific at last.

  Gasping, Buncan rolled over onto his back and regarded the sky. Then he scrambled to his feet and walked over to recover the duar. Some leaves had landed in the active nexus. A couple had simply been fried, while the third had been turned to topaz. He brushed all of them away and examined the instrument anxiously. It appeared intact. He carried spare strings, but if the body had been damaged . . .

  A few experimental strums reassured him of its integrity. As he moved to sling it across his back and shoulders, he felt a paw on his arm. It was Squill, gazing up at him with concern.

  “You all right, mate?”

  Buncan nodded, narrowing his gaze as he looked up at the neatly pinned hammer. “Interesting resolution.”

  Squill’s whiskers twitched. “Couldn’t think o’ anythin’ else except the tools in old man Herton’s shop. Worked.”

  “Wonder how long it’ll stay there.”

  “No tellin’.” Neena calmly considered the otherworldly instrument of mass destruction. “Don’t like to think of it as puttin’ in an appearance some night outside me bedroom window.”

  “Your bedroom ain’t got no window,” Squill pointed out.

  She sniffed, whiskers rising. “That’s right, brother. Just go ahead an’ stomp on me reputation.”

  “Anytime.” Squill straightened. “Wot say we go accept the grateful genuflections o’ our pitiful fellow traveler?” He started toward the wagon.