Son Of Spellsinger

by Alan Dean Foster

  For a long time no one said anything. There was only the sound of dust and rock settling, and Snaugenhutt’s heavy breathing.

  “I wonder where they came from,” Buncan eventually murmured after the rhino had resumed his march northwestward. “Gragelouth?”

  The merchant shook his head. “Who can say? The world is full of wonders. Too many times we look right at them and recognize only their shape and not their reality. It took your necromancy to restore life to those.” He nodded skyward. “To find wonders one must first know how to look.”

  “An’ sing,” Neena added. “You ‘ave to know ‘ow to sing.”

  Gragelouth conceded the issue. “Perhaps the next time we require assistance you could be a tad less motivated? The next apparitions you conjure might turn out to be less grateful.”

  “Not to worry, guv.” Squill was bursting with confidence. “We know exactly wot we’re about, don’t we, Neena?”

  “Oi, to be sure.” She looked back over her shoulder at the sloth. “You can relax, merchant. We’re goin’ to escort you safely to this ‘ere Grand Veritable, an’ nothin’ better get in our way, wot?”

  Gragelouth pursed his lips. “The assurance of ignorant youth. There are forces at work in the universe you cannot begin to comprehend.” He raised his eyes to Buncan. “You are clever, and far more important, I think, lucky. But you are not your fathers.”

  “I don’t pretend to be.” Buncan checked to make sure the duar was secure against his back. “And you know what? I’m glad. Jon-Tom’s music tends to get a little old-fogeyish sometimes. You need new music and new words to make new magic.”

  “Wotcher,” agreed Squill.

  Peering ahead, Buncan thought he could just make out a line of hills. Where there were hills there might soon be mountains, and that would mean cooler temperatures, more water, game, and shade. The end of the Tamas.

  Gragelouth wagged a proverbial finger at him. “Sometimes the old magic is best. This is known.”

  Buncan replied without turning. “I won’t dispute that because I can’t, merchant, but I will say this. Where both music and magic are concerned, you have to go with what you feel.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Several days of easy marching saw them leaving the desert behind, as Buncan had hoped. They climbed into scrub woodland where the first brave but scraggly trees tested the fringes of the Tamas. Following a route that led steadily upward, they soon found themselves tramping through real forest.

  But it was like no forest Buncan or the otters had ever seen. Instead of growing close together the trees were spaced widely apart. Their leaves were long and thin, their consistency oddly stiff. Bark peeled in narrow strips from the trunks, which were varying shades of white or red instead of the familiar brown. Certain species pulsed with a dull, thrumming sound that echoed persistently inside Duncan’s head, as if a tiny fly had become trapped in his inner ear. Dense clumps of bushes played tag with the trees and each other, leaving plenty of open space for Snaugenhutt to traverse.

  From the valley of a small river which sank rapidly into the sands of the desert they ascended to rocky slopes and thence to more densely vegetated rolling highlands. The trees were remarkably polite, none pressing too closely upon its neighbor. As they continued to climb, more familiar growths made their appearance, but the verdure was still dominated by the strange white-barked trees of the lowlands. Day and night the alien forest boomed softly around them.

  Buncan pointed to one especially dominant specimen. It thrummed deeply and he could feel as well as hear the vibrations. “Gragelouth, do you know what that’s called?”

  The sloth regarded the growth. “No. In all my travels I have never seen the like of these trees before.”

  “Nothin’ like ‘em in the Bellwoods.” Neena was standing erect in her seat, effortlessly maintaining her balance despite Snaugenhutt’s rolling gait. “Looks like you could go up to one an’ strip the bark off in a few minutes.”

  “Yet the peeling appears to be a natural phenomenon. Most striking.”

  They were following the crest of a steep-sided, winding ridge. Neena gazed longingly at the river which tumbled playfully through the canyon below. Already the foothills of the Tamas had become unnamed mountains. The way was growing increasingly rugged.

  Small reptilian game was plentiful, and the numerous streams which tumbled down the rock faces drilled pools which yielded tasty freshwater crustaceans. There were fruits and nuts to be gathered, most unfamiliar but many edible, and plenty of forage for Snaugenhutt. The bounty of the land allowed mem to be parsimonious with their supplies.

  So relaxed were they that they reacted with equanimity to the sudden appearance of the wombat and thylacine in front of them. The squat, heavily built wombat was clad in light-brown cloth. He carried a poorly, fashioned spear and wore leather armor only around the waist. There was nothing protecting his head, or legs, or for that matter, his expansive gut. A wide-brimmed hat flopped comically around his head.

  The thylacine was more formidably armed, both naturally and artificially. Unlike his companion, he looked as though he knew how to use the long pike he carried. Beneath his extensive brass armor expensive silks gleamed brightly, and the helmet he wore boasted a narrow vertical strip of metal to protect the topside of his long snout. Reflections of the skill of some accomplished cobbler, his well-fitted sandals were laced all the way up to the backs of his knees.

  “Now what have we here, Quibo?” The thylacine spoke without taking his eyes off Snaugenhutt.

  “Bushwhacked if I know, Bedarra.” Dark eyes peered up at them from beneath the brim of the oversize chapeau. “Where might you lot be headed?”

  Buncan leaned to his right to peer past Snaugenhutt’s armored frill. “Northwest.” He nodded forward. “Be easier if we don’t have to go around you.”

  The singular pah’ didn’t move. “Did you hear that,” the thylacine said to his companion. “They’re goin’ northwest.” The wombat grunted as the thylacine turned back to the travelers. “What business would you be having up mere?”

  “Not that it’s any o’ your business,” said Squill, stand-tag in his own seat, “but we’re searchin’ for the Grand Veritable.”

  “Grand Veritable.” The thylacine leaned against his pike and scratched behind one ear. “Never heard of it. Would it by nature be necromantic?”

  “You’ve ‘it on it, guv.” Behind the garrulous Squill, Gragelouth rolled his eyes. Keeping a secret around the boisterous, boastful otters was like trying to conceal Snaugenhutt in a side pocket.

  “What might this Grand Veritable be?” the thylacine inquired.

  Squill smirked at him. Otters were professional smirkers. “That’s wot we aim to find out.”

  The thylacine nodded and yawned, displaying an astonishing hundred-and-eighty-degree gape. “I don’t suppose you’d know that the monastery of Kilagurri also lies to the northwest?”

  “No, we wouldn’t,” Buncan replied. “Is it something we should know about?”

  The thylacine straightened, his tone darkening. “You expect us to believe that? Everyone knows Kilagurri.” He gestured with the pike. “Better get off your mountain. Now.” Next to him the wombat lowered his spear.

  Squill and Neena promptly drew and notched their bows. They exhibited no particular haste. The notion of these two interfering with the progress of the heavily armored Snaugenhutt was laughable.

  Buncan was more cautious. He’d learned from Jon-Tom that any obviously outnumbered and overmatched potential opponent who refused to yield ground was either a complete fool or knew something you didn’t. He wasn’t positive about the wombat, but he was pretty sure the thylacine was no fool.

  Snaugenhutt glanced back at his riders. “Want me to turn ‘em into roadkill?”

  “Not just yet.” Buncan leaned forward and whispered. “What do you think, Viz?”

  The tickbird was leaning against the side of his armored howdah, his feet firmly clamped to his perch. “
I think there’s more to these two happy hikers than meets the eye.” Instead of watching those confronting them, he’d been studying the surrounding forest.

  The thylacine gestured with the point of the pike. “Let’s go, friends. Climb down.”

  “We’re considering your request,”‘ said Buncan. “So far we don’t find you very persuasive.”

  “We can fix that.” Putting two fingers to his extensive lips, the thylacine blew a short, shrill whistle.

  Subsequent to a premonitory rustling the woods disgorged a host of armed creatures who immediately surrounded the travelers. Despite his concern, Buncan was amazed that so many had managed to remain hidden for so long. Many of the tribes represented were unknown to him except through his studies. All were armed to varying degrees, but while then’ number was impressive their appearance was decidedly motley.

  This was no formal military force, he concluded. Even if they were bandits they weren’t putting up much of a show. But there were an awful lot of them, and there was no mistaking the determination in their faces.

  He picked a couple of wombats and one other thylacine out of the mob. There were also koalas, several platypi (one of whom flaunted a gold ring through its leathery beak), a couple of raonjons who’d woven wicked-looking metal barbs into their tufted tails, a trio of spear-carrying emus, similarly equipped cassowaries, diminutive possums wearing dark shades to protect their sensitive eyes against the daylight, and at least one squadron composed entirely of dingoes. But the majority of the ragtag force was made up of wallabies and kangaroos representing more than a dozen subtribes. Buncan counted fifty individuals before giving up-One rarely encountered any representatives of these tribes in the Bellwoods, he reflected. Remembrance of those temperate, accommodating woods brought a sudden and quite unexpected tightness to his throat. He and his friends were very far from home: from the warm confines of the dimensionally expanded tree by the riverside, from his own room, from his other friends, and from his mother’s exotic and sometimes overspiced cooking.

  Now was not the time to succumb to the foibles of resurgent adolescence, he reminded himself firmly. He was now an experienced adventurer and spellsinger, and he’d damn well better act like one.

  By this time more than a hundred armed males and females surrounded Snaugenhutt and his companions. An equal number of arrows and spears and pikes and swords were pointed in their direction. While mere was no doubt that the rhino could break through the encirclement, it was equally certain that a shower of weaponry would fall on him and his passengers. With what kind of accuracy it was difficult to say, out many of the wallabies and roos looked agile and fast enough to bound right onto the rhino’s retreating back and if necessary engage Buncan and his comrades in hand-to-hand combat.

  “She’s right, then!” declared a deep, booming voice. A huge russet-tinged roo as tall as Buncan hopped out of the foliage, leaped effortlessly aver the wombat and thylacine, and landed with a thud an arm’s length in front of Snaugenhutt. Wearing only light snakeskin armor, he stood gazing thoughtfully up at Buncan, apparently utterly indifferent to the fact that with a quick lunge Snaugenhutt could impale him on his born and Sing him into the nearest bush.

  A spiked earring dangled from the roo’s right ear. A strip of leather bristling with steel spikes ran from his forehead, down between his ears, and all the way down his spine to his heavy tail, the tip of which had been fitted with a double-sided wooden club. This gave an occasional, ominous twitch.

  In his right hand the roo held a double-sided war ax. Bom feet were shod in some kind of socklike material. Upward-pointing hooks flashed at the toes. Like the rest of his companions the speaker, Buncan reflected, was not dressed for casual conversation. Haphazard and disorganized, they were clearly not military, and they were overequipped for mere banditry. What was going on in these far-off, strangely vegetated mountains?

  “I’m Wurragarr.” His war ax flashed in the sun as he strained to peer past Buncan. “You’re a curious lot. Not from around here, that much is clear.”

  “We’re from a lot farther than you’ve ever been,” Neena informed nun.

  “I won’t argue with that, shiela.” He returned his attention to Buncan. “Myself, I’m a simple blacksmith. Don’t get around much. But the good folk of Nooseloowoo have invested me with the responsibility of leadership, and I aim not to let them down.” He jerked a thumb in the thylacine’s direction. “Heard you tell Bedarra and Quibo you were heading northwest. Kilagurri lies to the northwest.”

  Buncan fought to contain his exasperation. “Look, we don’t know what’s going on here, and we’ve never heard of this Kilagurri place. We’re on a quest of our own, and we’re just trying to stay out of everybody’s way.”

  The roo was insistent. “What’s your business in the northwest?”

  “Didn’t you hear that too? We’re looking for the Grand Veritable.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “We told your friends. We don’t know what it is either. That’s what we’re trying to find out.” He hesitated. “It’s said to be the source of great power and great danger.”

  The roo nodded contemplatively. “Can’t say about power, but we’ve plenty of danger here to go around.” He turned and pointed with the ax. “You continue on the way you’ve been goin’ and you’ll for sure find it.”

  “That’s our business.” filter to keep up a bold front, he thought, than show any weakness. “We’ve been dealing with trouble ever since we left home.”

  “Bloody right,” said Squill.

  “So if you’ll be good enough to let us pass,” Buncan continued, “we won’t trouble you any further. I don’t know what your business is with this Kilagurri, but it has nothing to do with us.”

  “Kilagurri has to do with everybody,” insisted an armored quokka from the edge of the mob. A mutter of agreement spread through the assembled.

  Squill gestured with his bow. “ ‘Ere now, you lot, we ‘aven’t got time for this. Me sister and me ‘uman friend ‘ere,” he put a paw on Buncan’s shoulder, “are bleedin’ great spellsingers, we are. If you don’t make way there, we’ll show you some real power. Turn you into a flock o’ gabbin’ geese, or toads, or make all your ‘air fall out, or maybe dump you in each other’s pouches.” Otters were not particularly adept at threatening glares, but Squill gave it bis best shot.

  “Spellsingers!” Wurragarr’s brows rose. “Now that’s interesting.” Turning, he called into the crowd. “Windja, Charoo, Nuranura!”

  Three stocky birds lifted clear of the mob and soared over to land on a fallen log to the quokka’s left. Each was slightly larger than Viz. They wore uniform scarves of black striped with yellow, but no headgear. Their plumage was white with, black highlights, and their thick, pointed bills looked too heavy for their bodies. Duncan had never seen anything like mem. Except for the outrageous beaks they might well have been oversize kingfishers.

  As they settled down on the branch, murmuring among themselves, a pair of small wallabies hopped forward. One carried a pair of short wooden sticks inscribed with arcane symbols and drawings, while his companions held an intricately painted wooden tube hollowed at both ends. It turned in upon itself at least three times. An attempt to duplicate the duar’s systemology of mystical intersecting strings? Buncan wondered.

  Wurragarr gestured with quiet pride at the waiting group. “As you can see, we have our own spellsingers. So don’t think to intimidate us with music.”

  “We’re not trying to intimidate you, or anybody,” said Buncan patiently. “We’re just trying to get on our way.”

  The thylacine stepped forward and snarled softly. “You lot don’t look much like sorcerers to me. You look like a bunch of cubs too lazy to walk.” Laughter rose from those close to him.

  “Who’s a cub?” barked Squill angrily.

  “Squill.” Buncan turned in his seat.

  The otter was not to be denied. “Just a small demonstration, mate. To show these buggers wot w
e can do to ‘em if they ain’t polite.”

  Gragelouth leaned to one side. “Perhaps an exhibition of a very minor nature might serve to facilitate our departure?”

  “Haven’t said you could leave yet,” Wurragarr reminded them.

  “Just going to sing a little song.” Buncan unlimbered the duar, scowled wamingly at the otters. “Nothing hostile.”

  Neena smiled brightly as she and her brother began to improvise.

  “ ‘Ere in the woods ‘tis peaceful and calm

  Wouldn’t wanna hurt it by droppin’ no bomb

  Just want to go, yo, go on our way, hey

  Say how pretty it is

  Look at the blossoms, let Viz

  Lead us away, hey.”

  There. Surety that was harmless enough, Buncan mused as he rested his hands.

  Nothing happened. Then Snaugenhutt let out a violent sneeze as a bouquet of exquisite purple orchids began to grow from his nostrils.

  “Hey! Knock it off.” He shook his head violently, but the spray of blooms developed rapidly until they formed a small carpet that drooped from his snout.

  Viz surveyed the thaumaturgical horticulture thoughtfully. “Kind of mutes the intimidation factor.”

  Snaugenhutt shook his head again and flowers flew in all directions. “Yeah. This’ll really strike fear in the hearts of our opponents.”

  “Quit complaining.” The tickbird hopped down the length of the rhino’s head until he could bend over and inhale deeply. “This is the best you’ve smelled in years.”

  Duncan’s brows drew together as he frowned at the otters. Neena lifted both paws noncommittally.

  “You wanted nonhostile, Bunscan; you got nonhostile.”