Son Of Spellsinger

by Alan Dean Foster

  Duncan picked up on Gragelouth’s riff. “You look like you’re still in pretty good shape,” he lied.

  The rhino’s head came up a little. “I do the best I can. Frankly, the last few months—the last few years—I’ve kind of lost direction. Deen lapping at the drinking trough now and again, and my reflexes aren’t what they used to be. Oh, the underlying muscle tone’s still there.” He inhaled and seemed to double in size. The effect lasted about five seconds before scarred and wrinkled skin collapsed in on the massive skeleton.

  “Dut that’s not enough. I’m out of shape, out of condition. Wouldn’t know how to get going. No equipment, anyway.” His eyes grew misty. “Used to have full armor and combat equippage. Gilt steel. When I went into battle, the sun rode with me.”

  “Where’s your gear now?” Buncan asked thoughtlessly.

  Snaugenhutt squinted at him. “Pawned it. Long time ago. Everything was a long time ago, human.” At which point, to everyone’s astonishment, the great beast began to cry.

  “Ere now, guv.” Squill moved forward. “‘E didn’t mean nothin’ personal.”

  It did no good. Tears spilled from both eyes as gargantuan sobs wracked the huge form. His perch now shuddering steadily, the tickbird fluttered down to land on Buncan’s shoulder. From head to tail he was slightly less than the length of Buncan’s forearm. One flexible wingtip adjusted the scarf around his neck.

  “It’s no use trying to talk to him when he gets like this. You just have to wait for it to pass.” Unlike Snaugenhutt, the tickbird seemed fully recovered.

  “Listen, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “You two been together for a while?”

  “Like Snaug says, a long time,” the bird chirped.

  Buncan nodded slowly. “How much of that stuff he told us about all the battles he’s been in is true?”

  A wingtip pressed against the side of his head. “Probably all of it, though I don’t recall the details. Snaug was a professional long before I hooked up with him. I can vouch for the authenticity of his most recent scars.”

  “So you’ve been in battle with him?”

  Viz nodded, his beak bobbing. “Lots, though not in some time.” He examined his bawling companion, whose sobs were finally beginning to lessen. “Snaug, he was the real thing, he was.” There was tangible pride in the bird’s voice. “Wasn’t anything or anybody that could stand against him . . . in his prime.” Feathered shoulders rippled.

  “What happened?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? The liquor trough got him. Sucked him right in. Ate up his money and his life. Not even sure how it got started. I did all I could, but I can’t exactly hold my ground in front of him. There was a female . . . You haven’t dealt with life, human, until you’ve tried to reason with a lovesick rhino in the last throes of unrequited passion.”

  “I can imagine,” said Buncan, not experienced enough to imagine it at all.

  “That’s when it started to get bad. Snaug could always drink. Have you any idea of the alcoholic capacity of a healthy rhinoceros?”

  “Not really.” Buncan indicated Squill. “I’ve seen my friend’s father put a lot away, but he’s only an otter.”

  “Try to envision a thirsty abyss. I’ve guided him through some tough spots, but he’s just gotten worse and worse. When he had to hock his armor to pay a bar bill in Hascaparbi, it was the last straw. After that he just gave up. You should have seen his armor: the best steel, some of it inlaid in gold.”

  “He might as well have hocked his soul. His self-esteem just crashed. We’ve been doing the occasional odd towing job ever since, just to make ends meet. Sometimes we beg.” He winced. “The great warrior Snaugenhutt, reduced to pulling hay carts for feed. One time we even contracted to do plowing.”

  Buncan tried to picture the great rhino dragging a plow, furrow after endless furrow, while some ill-tempered fanner trailing behind berated him with orders and curses in equal measure. It wasn’t an attractive image.

  “Couldn’t even hold that job,” Viz was muttering. “Got plastered one night, had someone hitch him up, went and plowed obscenities into the field. The farmer couldn’t see them, but an owl in his employ snitched on us.”

  “On ‘us’?”

  Viz shrugged. “Snaug’s strong, but he can’t spell worth a damn. When things got real bad I started taking to the sauce a little myself. It helps you forget.”

  Buncan scrutinized the rhino, who had finally stopped sobbing. “And there’s nothing that can bring him out of this?”

  “Sure. Give him back his self-respect.”

  “How?”

  “How indeed? I’ve been trying for years. He doesn’t listen to me anymore. Of course, the ranker he gets the better I eat, but there are higher principles at stake here.” He hesitated. “There’s one thing that might do it.”

  “What’s that?”

  Viz leaned forward, his beak a thumb’s length from Buncan’s right eye. “Get him his armor back.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Gragelouth already told you we have hardly any money.”

  The tickbird straightened. “Well, you asked. You know, if he was rambling on about honor and virtue and gallantry, he meant every word of it. He’s serious about that stuff, and there isn’t a duplicitous bone in that whole enormous body. When he’s sober there isn’t a nobler creature on earth.”

  Buncan studied the immense mass that was Snaugenhutt and tried to imagine what it would cost to provide armor for so much sheer bulk. It would be like trying to armor a ship. Which was rather what the rhino was: a landship on four legs.

  “No way,” he told Viz. “Gragelouth doesn’t have anywhere near enough funds.”

  “Too bad. There’s no guarantee it would work, anyway.” The tickbird looked wistful. “Though I would like to have seen it tried.” He leaned forward again. “My hearing’s pretty sharp. Did I hear you say something about being a spellsinger?”

  Buncan nodded. “My otterish companions and I. We work together.”

  “Then why don’t you just spellsing him his armor back?”

  “Don’t you think that occurred to me?” He shook his head regretfully. “We only function as a trio. I play the duar and they rap.” At the tickbird’s puzzled expression he added, “It’s a type of singing.”

  “Have you tried it as a duo?”

  “Well, not really. It’s just been working so well as a trio, I’m a little nervous about trying anything different. Even if it’s only a little off, spellsinging can produce some weird effects.”

  “Try,” Viz urged him. “If something goes wrong, we’ll absolve you of any responsibility.” The bird lifted both wings slightly. “It’s not like either of us have anything to lose.”

  Buncan considered. “All right. Yeah. We’ll give it a shot.”

  Squill was less willing, but the thought of Buncan going it alone and doing some actual singing finally convinced him to participate.

  As Buncan played the otter essayed some hesitant lyrics, a sort of wrap rap, which to everyone’s surprise actually generated a small cloud around the befuddled Snaugenhutt. It wasn’t very intense and it didn’t last very long, but the result was decidedly metallic in nature.

  When the song concluded, Snaugenhutt stood swathed from head to foot in some shiny, metallic material. Their initial hopes were dashed when it became apparent that even Viz could easily shred the metal “armor” with his beak. The spellsong had worked, but without Neena’s harmonizing it had proven less than effective.

  “What is this stuff?” The tickbird sputtered as he spit a silvery patch from his mouth. It floated awkwardly to the ground.

  Buncan peeled a section from Snaugenhutt’s right shoulder. “It looks like something my father brought back from the Otherworld one time. My mother uses it in cooking.”

  “It’s pretty,” groused Viz, “but as armor it’s a total loss.”

  “I’m hot,” Snaugenhutt moaned. “Get me out of th
is.”

  Working together, the discouraged foursome soon had the rhino peeled.

  “Right! Now it’s my turn.” Buncan and the others looked over at an angry Squill. “That is, if you’re really set on ‘inn’ this old sod.” He glared at the rhino, who was unable to meet his gaze.

  “I don’t know.” Snaugenhutt was barely audible. “I don’t know if I’m any good anymore. With or without armor.”

  Viz fluttered over to land once more on his companion’s skull. “Sure you are, Snaug. The body’s intact. It’s the spirit that’s missing.”

  The rhino licked thick lips. “Speaking of spirits . . .”

  “NO!” Viz hopped forward until he could bend over and gaze directly into one eye. “No more. As of now, you’re on the wagon.”

  “Don’t see no wagon,” the rhino mumbled, closing the eye.

  “There’s a lady in distress in need of rescue, and these good people are relying on us. No one else will help them, so it’s up to us. No one else is brave enough to go up against the Baron Krasvin. No one else is stupid enough, dumb enough, foolhardy enough . . .”

  “Oi!” Squill blurted. “Quit encouragin’ ‘im.”

  “Can’t do it.” Snaugenhutt opened the eye halfway. “I need a drink.”

  “No, dammit!” Viz fluttered up to an ear and plucked a crawling delicacy from amongst the hairs. “Besides, I . . . I promised. I gave our word.”

  Snaugenhutt started. “You did what?”

  “Gave our word of honor. As warriors.”

  “I’m not a warrior anymore.” He struggled to open the eye all the way, failed. “Actually what I am, is tired. Sleepy. Got to . . . rest.”

  “No, not now.” Viz hovered as his companion settled back on his rear knees, then lowered his front legs. “There are arrangements to be made, agreements to be settled!”

  The massive body hit the straw with a dull boom. In a minute the rhino was fast asleep.

  “This is not promising,” Gragelouth declared.

  Viz settled down atop his friend’s flank. “We have to find him some armor. It’s the only chance.”

  “That’s what I was tryin’ to tell you about it bein’ me turn.” They all looked again to Squill. The otter regarded each of them in turn. “I’ll take care o” it.”

  “You?” said Gragelouth.

  “How?” Buncan inquired guardedly.

  The otter smirked. “ ‘Ow do you think, mate? By usin’ the skills Mudge taught me. O’ course, it weren’t exactly teachin’. ‘E just sort o’ can’t ‘elp boastin’ a bit when ‘e rambles, Mudge can’t.”

  “Even in a city the size of Camrioca, armor for someone like Snaug is going to be hard to find,” Viz warned him.

  “I’ll do the best I can.”

  “You’re going to steal it,” Buncan said accusingly.

  “Now who said anythin’ about theft?” The otter’s whiskers twitched in mock outrage. “Mudge told us a lot, ‘e did, besides ‘ow to steal.”

  “I’m not giving my approval.” Buncan folded his arms across his chest.

  “But you won’t try an’ stop me?”

  “Your sister’s already in danger. If you want to go and endanger yourself on her behalf, I certainly can’t stop you. I know you won’t listen to reason.”

  “Oi; nobly put.” The otter glanced at Gragelouth. “Wot about you, droopy-lips?”

  “I am a respectable merchant. I might wish at some tune in the future to trade in these parts.”

  “You’re a better liar than ‘e is, I’ll give you that.” The otter indicated the stolid-faced Buncan. “I’ll just ‘ave to take care o’ business alone, then.”

  “Not entirely alone,” said a small voice. Viz flew over to land on Squill’s shoulder. The otter eyed the tickbird speculatively.

  “Might be some trouble.”

  The bud let out a sharp whistle, gestured backward with a wingtip. “I’ve been looking out for that ambulating dung factory for five years. A little trouble doesn’t scare me. For that matter, jail might be an improvement.”

  “Righty-ho. ‘Avin’ an eye in the sky along won’t ‘urt. You two ‘old old Snauggy’s ‘orn, or wotever. Me an’ the bird will take care o’ business.” With Viz riding his shoulder, Squill scampered off in the direction of the exit.

  They did not return that night, nor in the morning. It was well on to midday, when Buncan’s concern was starting to give way to real unease, when an oversize wagon drawn by a pair of Percherons came rattling into the corral.

  The nearest to Buncan shook his mane as he pawed irritably at the packed earth. “Where you want this stuff?”

  Buncan blinked at the heavy horse, trying to see into the slab-sided, tarp-covered wagon. “What stuff?”

  The Percheron gave him the once-over. “You’re Buncan Meriweather, ain’t you?”

  “I am. What of it?” Behind him a groggy Gragelouth was rousing himself from his sleeping pallet, while deeper within the stall Snaugenhutt snored on oblivious.

  “Snotty young otter told us we’d find you here,” the other Percheron declared gruffly. “Told us to look for a gloomy-lookin’ human; tall, overdressed. You fit.”

  “I guess I do.”

  “That’s all we need to know.” He took a half-step forward, raised his right rear leg, and kicked down firmly on an oversize lever. As a spring was released the wagon bed rose and tilted, dumping its contents in a clanging, clattering, tarp-wrapped heap. Gragelouth all but leaped from his bed at the uproar, while Snaugenhutt simply rolled over.

  “It’s all yours,” the other horse announced. Whereupon the two of them turned and clip-clopped back out through the wide, swinging gate, their now empty wagon in tow.

  Gragelouth tugged at his vest as he rubbed sleep from his eyes. “What was all that about?”

  “Beats me.”

  Together they approached the irregular-shaped pile and began working on the ropes which held the enveloping tarp in place. When the bindings were undone, Buncan tugged and pulled until the contents lay exposed.

  The armor, he found himself thinking. It has to be. Not silver or inlaid steel, but massive, square plates of raw black iron that looked as if they had been hastily cast and cobbled together. Hooks, rings, and eyes indicated how the plates were intended to be crudely linked. It wasn’t very pretty. Not exactly the epitome of the armorer’s art, he thought, though the thick plates looked functional enough.

  He hefted one. Though rough-textured and unfinished, it was an immense improvement over the crinkly foil he and Squill had spellsung up.

  “Let’s get started,” he told the merchant.

  The sloth blinked at him. “Get started? How can we do that? The rhino still sleeps.”

  “Then we’ll start on that side,” he declared with determination.

  Wrestling hunks of the armor over to the stall, they began trying to attach them, starting at the high, rounded backside. Gragelouth protested at the effort required.

  By midaftemoon they were bodi exhausted. Snaugenhutt had not helped their efforts by rolling over several times, and they had accomplished very little.

  At that point Squill and Viz finally returned, trailed by a huge brown bear clad in light work shut and pants. A vast multipocketed apron hung from his neck and was secured behind him. His pockets bulged with all manner of tools, as did the thick leather belt that hung from his waist. The smaller, slightly blonder bear who accompanied him was similarly equipped.

  “No, no!” The bear rumbled his disapproval as he inspected their coarse handiwork. “Not like zat.” Waddling past the startled Gragelouth, the two ursines set to correcting the mistakes Buncan and the merchant had so arduously perpetrated. Their sometimes noisy exertions notwithstanding, Snaugenhutt slept on.

  Buncan glared at the otter. “You took your own sweet time. Neena could be in pretty bad shape by now.”

  “You don’t know me sister, mate.” But for the first time there was a hint of real concern in Squill’s voice. “I admi
t I thought she’d ‘ave broken out o’ that place by now.”

  “Don’t undereztimate the Baron,” the bear’s assistant called back to them. Buncan and his friends walked over to observe the assembly of the armor.

  “You know of Krasvin?” Buncan asked him.

  The assistant nodded as he worked. “Everybody knowz of ze Baron Krasvin. Camrioca iz a big city, but ze families of noble birth are not zat extenzive.”

  The larger bear was pounding away with a hammer and a huge pair of pliers. “Finished zoon. He iz going to have to stand zo we can make zure everything fallz properly into place.”

  “That means waking him up.” Viz glided from Squill’s shoulder to the slumbering rhino’s head. “Might be more difficult than affixing the armor.” He rested until the two bears backed off. The larger one nodded.

  “Done! Make him ztand.”

  “Easier said than done.” Viz pecked forcefully at an ear.

  “Just because we need him awake doesn’t mean he’ll comply.”

  The great head rose off the straw. “Need who awake?” Legs began to kick, like a locomotive changing gears.

  With a cacophonous rattle and clank, Snaugenhutt struggled to his feet. Drunk he’d still been middling impressive, Buncan thought. Erect and completely clad in the rough black armor, he looked like something out of a serious nightmare. Buncan hoped the Baron’s minions would react accordingly.

  His old armor had doubtless fit together better. Certainly it must have been more attractive. The blacksmith and his assistant were not armorers and had fashioned the cast-iron gear together out of loose bits of ship armor, battered shields, and whatever other scraps they had been able to scavenge on short notice. Still, their salvage work was mightily impressive.

  Snaugenhutt was completely cloaked on all sides. Smaller interlinked plates protected his legs all the way down to the ankles. Sharpened spikes ran in a threatening belt around his equator, while a pair of blades fashioned from oversize swords protruded forward and down from his shoulders.