Son Of Spellsinger
Page 29
“No sweat. I’ll wait here.” The rhino licked thick lips and crossed his front legs. “Something to drink would make me feel less left out.”
“Your acumen is to be commended. Rewarded it will be.” Chi-churog spoke to one of his people in a strange dialect. The villager thus addressed nodded his understanding and hurried off toward another tent.
Woven mats covered the spacious floor. Large pillows fashioned of fine material stolen or bartered for lay scattered strategically about. Chi-churog promptly crossed his short legs and sat down. Sleek female meerkats appeared from behind a cloth divider to proffer water, some kind of lukewarm desert tea, and platters of produce doubtless freshly picked from the fields Buncan had seen.
Old enough to be interested in more than vegetables, Squill let his eyes track the progress of the lithe feminine forms. “Well now, this ‘ere’s more like it!”
“It pleases me that you approve.’“ Chi-churog gestured with a broad sweep of his hand. He had removed his robe, to reveal his bright white-furred form clad in shorts and some kind of diaphanous shirt. He was a handsbreath or so shorter than the otters, and considerably smaller man Buncan.
The visitors settled themselves against the soft cushions. Delighted to feel something against its backside besides rock or lightly padded iron armor, Buncan’s body betrayed his unease. It was almost impossible not to relax.
Chi-churog accepted a long smoking stick from one of the females and waved it casually. “Now, then, tell me how you come to be in the lands of the Xi-Murogg? It must be some matter of great importance to have brought you, as you have said, so far from your own homes.”
Before either Buncan or Gragelouth could respond, Squill was off and running. Omitting certain unflattering details, vastly embellishing upon others, he regaled the attentive leader of the Xi-Murogg and his equally rapt harem with a story of unsurpassing skill and gallantry, occasionally even remembering in an off moment to insert a brief word or two about his five companions.
“Bloody rotten stinkin’ egotist of a sibling,” Neena muttered under her breath.
Squill blinked, turned to her. “Say wot, sister?”
“I was remarkin’ that you’re your father’s son.” She smiled pleasantly.
“That’s a fact.’“ Squill resumed his oral epic.
Evening pressed down on the box canyon when he finally finished. Their host seemed pleased, and the travelers had consumed a prodigious quantity of fresh fruits and vegetables, as well as several delicious prepared varieties which had been transformed through drying, steaming, broiling, and other means of efficacious preparation. Within Chi-churog’s tent unabashed contentment reigned among hosts and guests alike.
To the otters’ astonishment, one polished wooden platter was even heaped high with dried fish.
“There are caverns nearby,” their host explained, “cut by water and populated by colorless, blind fish.” The meerkat smiled. “But not tasteless, I assure you. Their flesh is tender and succulent and forms a welcome addition to our diet.”
It finished off the otters’ suspicions as neatly as if they’d been pared away with a sharp knife. Even the always leery Gragelouth was compelled to admit that their welcome had been all that could have been hoped for.
Tiny belly bulging, Viz glided into the tent to land on Duncan’s shoulder. He’d taken a moment to relieve himself. After belching delicately, he whispered into the human’s ear.
“Keep your expression bland and don’t let on that I’m telling you anything, but we’re in trouble.”
Buncan smiled as he waved off a fruit-laden female. “How do you mean?”
“Want to take a guess? It’s Snaug.”
This tune is was harder for Buncan to maintain his composure. “Don’t tell me they got him drunk?”
Viz’s beak was all but cleaning Buncan’s ear. “They must’ve done it when I was in here with the rest of you. I don’t know if they did it deliberately or if he got a taste of something that appealed to him and asked for more. Snaug’s a hard one to say no to. Not that it matters. The important thing is that right now he’s lying flat on his side, out cold to starboard, snoring like a ventilation shaft from hell. I don’t mink he’ll be able to stand up ‘til morning, much less run.”
“What’s that you say?” Chi-churog leaned forward, and Buncan remembered having read something about meerkats having exceptional powers of hearing. “Your great friend is already asleep?” The village leader burst out laughing in a series of sharp, squeaky barks, similar to but higher-pitched than that of the otters. “He should rest well tonight, men. As will you all.
“Tomorrow we will have the Ceremony.”
With studied diffidence Buncan slid the duar off his shoulders and laid it across his knees, making a pretext of checking the tightness of the strings. He tried to sound nonchalant. “What ceremony?”
“The Ceremony of Fertilization.” Chi-churog glanced at the roof of the tent. “Tomorrow night the moon will be full. We need to ensure that our fields will be also.”
Buncan untensed, his muscles relaxing. For a moment his natural suspicions had gotten the better of him. “What is this Ceremony of Fertilization?” However it was performed, he mused, it sounded anything but threatening.
“You have seen our fields.”
“Wonderfully kept they are, too.” Gragelouth was at his obsequious best.
Chi-churog accepted the compliment with a nod. “We are proud of what we have wrought from the Tamas. Our fields do more than sustain us; they provide us with the means to live well in a place where few others can even survive. We tend them as if our lives depend on them, which they certainly do. The Xi-Murogg wandered the Tamas for many years before finding and settling in this place. Since then we have cared for the soil of this canyon as if it were our own flesh. We have ample labor, and enough water. Only one shortage complicates our work.”
“I wondered about that,” Gragelouth admitted.
What are they talking about? Buncan mused. Though he’d been following the conversation closely, he felt suddenly lost.
Chi-churog stared evenly at Gragelouth. “You are perceptive, traveler. Many successful seasons have thinned and weakened this earth. Rain carries some nutrients down from the surrounding rim, but it is not nearly enough. Our springs run clear and clean, which in this case is less than helpful. We make use of the dung of our riding and pulling animals, but even this is limited in the results it can achieve.
“Therefore, whenever the occasion presents itself we miss no opportunity to lavish upon our precious sustaining fields whatever additional fertilizers may become available.”
Gragelouth smiled demurely. “If you would like to add our personal by-products to your efforts we will be happy to accommodate you, but except for what Snaugenhutt can produce I fear you will be disappointed.”
Chi-churog put the stub of his second smoking stick aside. “You underestimate yourself, sloth.” He grinned, his black nose twitching. “Crops do well on dung, but better by far on blood and bone.”
At which point Buncan knew exactly what had happened to the bodies of the original owners of the mounted skulls he had encountered earlier.
CHAPTER 19
With speed no one imagined he possessed, Gragelouth sprinted for the exit and straight into the arms of the half dozen guards waiting outside. Buncan wrestled his duar into position while Squill and Neena lunged for their weapons.
The meerkats and rats and ground squirrels were too fast. They poured into the tent and swarmed the travelers, too many for the otters, too quick for Buncan. Viz made a dive for the doorway and flew straight into a waiting net. Squill managed one good Sword stroke, slicing an overanxious meerkat from groin to armpit, before he went down under five or six assailants. Without Snaugenhutt’s aid they didn’t stand a chance in close quarters, and Snaugenhutt was apparently indisposed until morning.
They wouldn’t nave until morning.
It was all over in less man a minute.
Anyone who could bind an otter to the point where it couldn’t move, much less free itself, knew how to handle ropes and knots, he reflected. If Squill and Neena couldn’t get loose, he knew he’d only be wasting time and energy trying.
In moments the travelers had been reduced to so many impotent bundles flopping futilely on the mats. Gragelouth was trussed so tight he couldn’t move, while Viz’s wings had been secured to his sides and his feet bound at the ankles.
Satisfied, their confident assailants left them to gaze longingly at then- weapons and worldly goods, which had been tossed in an indifferent pile in the center of the tent. Viz hung upside down from a cross-pole, bemoaning his fate.
“First trussed, next dressed?” Prom his ignominious position he glared at the contemplative Chi-churog.
The village leader winced at the affront. “We are not cannibals. We do not eat intelligent beings. Do you think we of the Xi-Murogg are uncivilized?”
Squill would have replied, except that Neena shot him a look threatening sudden death if he so much as opened his mouth. Under the circumstances it wasn’t much of a threat, but her brother kept silent anyway. Not, Buncan thought, that any otterish invective could make their situation any worse.
Chi-churog continued. “You will be drained of blood. This is not an unpleasant way to die. One drifts first into unawareness, then sleep, and finally death.”
“Yeah?” said the incorrigible Squill, unable to remain quiet for more than a minute. “ ‘Ow about you give us a demonstration, guv?”
The village leader did not deign to respond. “Afterward your bodies will be pulverized and ground to powder. During the height of the full moon you will be sown upon the fields of the Xi-Murogg. This is an honorable passing. That of which your bodies are made will contribute to the production of food and to the continued health of new, young individuals.”
“You can’t rationalize it,” Viz chirped from his inverted position. “It’s cannibalism by any name.”
“It is not.” Chi-churog was unmoved. “Your passing will inspire new life.”
“Because we’re bleedin’ unlucky enough to ‘ave arrived just before the full moon,” Neena muttered.
Chi-churog strolled over to peer down at her tightly bound form. “Blood and bone can be preserved between ceremonies. A full moon simply provides better light for the process of sowing. The presence in the night sky of a new moon, or a half-moon, would not have altered your fate.” “Gee, I feel much better now,” she said sardonically. Chi-churog stretched. “It is time to rest, but not here. If you moan and scream and disturb our sleep, it will be necessary to gag you as well. I would rather not do that. Your last night should be as comfortable as possible. Within reason.” He departed in the company of two guards. “I go first to check the ropes on your large friend. He is several fields’ worth of fecundity unto himself.”
A single meerkat was left to watch over them. Given the condition of their bindings, even one guard seemed superfluous, Buncan thought. They had been tied with fiendish invention. He could barely move his fingers, let alone a hand. No chance of working the heavy leather thongs against one another behind his back. His legs were bound at the ankles and knees. If he struggled too much, he’d probably fall over onto his side.
At least he was able to rest his back against one of the tent poles. Squill and Neena had been left on their sides, facing the center of the tent. Their bindings were secured to pegs hammered into the floor. They couldn’t even turn over. Like Buncan, Gragelouth had been favored with a sitting position. In addition to the usual thongs, leather mittens had been fastened over his hands and feet to make sure he could not make use of his heavy, albeit closely trimmed, claws. In his upside-down position Viz was less than helpless. Their captors were taking no chances.
This is it, then, he mused. I’m gonna die not in glorious battle against some wicked sorcerer or Dark Forces, trying to rescue some beautiful girl in distress, or while taking possession of the Grand Veritable, but as fertilizer for a fruit tree.
Along with their swords and the otters’ bows his duar rested in the pile alongside the guard, who sat bored and cross-legged in the middle of the tent. Hoodless, he leaned back against the tent’s centerpole, cleaning his claws with the point of a stiletto while sparing them only the occasional cursory glance. It was extremely frustrating. Ungagged, Squill and Neena could rap all they wished, but without the unique accompaniment of the duar their efforts would come to naught. He tried working his wrists against one another and had about as much success as he expected, which was to say none.
As the night progressed, the steady stream of complaints from the two otters began to slow. There being nothing else to do, they tried spellsinging anyway, producing such a stream of rhymed invective that it seemed certain the guard would respond. Save for an occasional tolerant smile he utterly ignored them, refusing to be provoked by Squill’s inflammatory prose. Why should he be, Buncan thought, when all six of them would be so much ground meal by this time tomorrow?
So bored was the meerkat that from time to time he actually dozed off, only to snap awake again after a slumber of several minutes. It was a promising development they could take advantage of only in their imaginations.
With the onset of nightfall a steady, polyphonic chanting had begun deep within the village. It was accompanied by small drums, finger cymbals, and rattling gourds. Some sort of formal invocation, Buncan mused, to whatever gods of the soil required musical propitiation. Though it was now past midnight, there had been no letup in the droning concert . . .
When it terminated, he suspected, so would he and his friends. He wondered how long it took to drain a body of blood.
A glance through the open portal revealed no sign of emerging daylight, though he could only guess at the actual hour. Jon-Tom had brought back from the Otherworld a device he called a watch, though Buncan couldn’t understand why it wasn’t called a time. It was a portable clock. Half of him wished the gadget was presently encircling his wrist so he could know the exact hour, while his other half wanted to remain ignorant. Morning would come soon enough.
Sorry, Dad. Sorry, Mom. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. The world, he thought, could be very uncooperative.
Not the guard, though. He’d drifted off again, his head drooping onto his right shoulder. Buncan struggled mightily with his wrists and succeeded only in exhausting himself. If anything, the leather strands seemed to grow tighter, threatening to cut off the circulation to his hands. The otters were half asleep themselves, while Viz emitted soft whistling snores from the cross-pole from which he hung.
So he was more than a little surprised when a voice behind him whispered anxiously, “Get ready.”
Duncan turned his head to scrutinize the merchant. “Get ready? Get ready for what?”
“Why, to spellsing, of course. To work your magic.” He shifted his attention. “You! Squill, Neena.”
“Miphhh . . . what?” Squill looked up sleepily.
“Wake your sister. Prepare a spellsong.”
The otter blinked, sparing a glance for the dozing guard before returning his attention to the merchant. “Come off it, guv. We can’t do no spellsingin’ without Duncan’s duar to back us up.”
“I am aware of that. I am about to free you all.”
Neena was now as awake as her brother. “With wot? Kind words an’ good intentions?”
“Be still,” the sloth whispered, “and watch.”
Gragelouth sat bound securely, his claws contained, his arms tied behind him. He was neither as strong as Duncan
nor as agile as the otters. It should have been obvious to any observer that he was completely helpless.
Except . . . he was not as thoroughly bound as his captors believed. Possibly in their triumph they had simply overlooked it, or perhaps they had never encountered a representative of Gragelouth’s tribe before. Sloths had powerful, highly visible claws, and these the Xi-Murogg had rendered useless.
But they had forgotten to do anything about his tongue.
Long, flexible, and prehensile, it curled out of the merchant’s mouth as he leaned forward, straining against the post. It crept down his chest, crossed his waist, and reached the top of his pants. There was a gentle click as it nudged one of the fake jewels which decorated the buckle of his snakeskin belt. The guard stirred, and everyone held their collective breath. The meerkat rubbed his snout, twitched his whiskers, but didn’t open his eyes.
As soon as the guard had settled afresh, Gragelouth re-retumed to his work. With the click the front of the buckle had popped open, to reveal a hidden compartment containing a well-traveled, experienced merchant’s emergency supplies: a miniature vial of energy-giving honey-based concentrate, another of poison, a couple of valuable jewels . . . and a small, all-metal blade. At the sight, it was all the otters could do to contain themselves.
The guard slapped at a fly, turning his shoulder to the center tent post. Exerting himself to the limit, Gragelouth felt of the blade with his tongue. Delicately the end of that sensitive organ curled around the short hilt. Buncan winced sympathetically, but the merchant never faltered.
Gripping the blade, Gragelouth removed it from the open buckle. Neena lay nearer than Squill or Buncan. Steadying himself, the merchant rocked to his left until he fell over on his side. Buncan inhaled sharply, but the sloth held on to the blade. Extending his tongue to the limit (which was greater than Buncan would have believed possible), he passed the tiny knife into the otter’s waiting fingers.
“Don’t drop it, you silly twit.” Squill squirmed against his own bonds, a bundle of pure, restrained energy.