He relaxed as the by now familiar silvery cloud began to take shape alongside the moaning rhino, growing thicker and more pronounced with each note, each rapped rhyme. It would be interesting to see what form the cure would take. Would it be visually intriguing, or simply straightforward and functional?
It took the form of a grotesque, misshapen outline stained green and yellow that laughed horribly out of the side of slavering, rotting jaws.
Furthermore, it was not alone.
Horrid multiples of the initial phantasm were taking shape all around them, half stolid, half invisible. Noxious ichor dripped from wicked, curving claws.
“Stop it,” wailed Gragelouth. “Make them go away!”
“Go away?” Frantic, Buncan didn’t know whether it would make things worse to cease playing or keep on. Judging by their dismayed expressions, neither did the otters. “How can we make them go away? We’re calling them up!” Something stung him on the cheek. Hard.
“Sorry.” Viz was apologetic. “I had to get your attention. You’re not calling these things up. He is.” A wingtip indicated the moaning, twitching Snaugenhutt. “They’re what he’s seeing. I know, he’s described his D.T.’s to me before. Your singing is just making them visible, giving them substance.” The tickbird’s voice was hard. “Of course, I’m not experienced in such matters, but it seems to me that if you just quit cold you’re liable to leave something like these things hanging around.”
Something that smelled like rotting flesh on burned toast was shuffling toward them, fungoid arms extended, eyeballs dangling from the ends of raw, frayed strings. It was still only half solid, and Buncan forced himself not to run.
“If we keep singing,” he muttered even as his fingers continued to draw music from the duar, “we’re liable to make it worse.”
“We got no choice, mate,” Squill called to him. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere with these drunken imaginin’s taggin’ along. ’Ow can I meet any ladies with somethin’ like this ’angin’ off me bloomin’ shoulder?”
The specter that had chosen to focus on Buncan hovered nearby, not quite corporeal enough to make actual physical contact. He shuddered. There was entirely too much of it as it was.
If they stopped singing and playing it might simply fade away. If Viz was wrong. Except that thus far the tickbird had usually been proven right.
If their music could give substance to someone else’s nightmares, surely it could also give them the boot? He caught the otters’ attention as he changed keys.
Brother and sister modified their lyrics. Sure enough, as they did so the loathsome shapes began to dissipate.
“Not fair,” gibbered something with six arms and a spastic proboscis.
“Just getting ready to suck some brain,” groaned another. It took an intangible swipe at Squill with a glistening, translucent tentacle. The blow passed right through her.
The more the swiftly deteriorating D.T.’s complained, the less the unconscious Snaugenhutt moaned and kicked. As with most alcoholics, he couldn’t conquer his problem until he faced it. Only this time, the otters and Buncan were facing it for him. Literally.
A concatenation of rotting fangs and putrefying eyeballs swam up in Buncan’s vision only to seep past and vanish. It turned out to be the last of the discomfiting visions. As it evaporated Snaugenhutt slumped into peaceful rest, breathing in slow, steady heaves like an armored bellows.
“That ought to do it.” Viz couldn’t sweat but looked like he wanted to.
Buncan slumped, his fingers numb and sore. “He’s still asleep.”
“Aftermare,” the bird informed him. “Might last an hour, maybe a couple. No more.” He let out an elated chirp. “Guaranteed. You did good.”
“Thanks. I think.” Thoroughly worn out, Buncan felt like a nap himself, but decided to hold off. Snaugenhutt’s nightmares were still too vivid in his own memory.
Also, some of them might still be hanging around with nowhere else to go, and after what he’d seen of them so far he didn’t want them popping up in his own dreams.
Chapter 17
WHEN THE RHINO AWOKE that evening, he was fully rejuvenated and ready to roll. To his surprise, none of his companions exhibited comparable enthusiasm. So he was compelled to wait while they spent the night in the shelter of the eroded boulders, wondering how they could be so exhausted when he felt relaxed and thoroughly refreshed.
Snaugenhutt’s nightmares had departed for more congenial dreams, and everyone slept comfortably. After a quick breakfast, they remounted their bemused but now fully recovered four-legged ferry and pressed on deeper into the lamas.
The landscape grew ever more fantastic, presenting towers and turrets of stone that had been carved by angry wind and impatient water into a surfeit of fanciful shapes. Fragile fingers of layered stone reached hundreds of feet into the sky, while rivers of broken rock flowed in frozen riot down the slopes of brooding, flat-topped mesas. The blaze of mineralized color ranged from pure white to a deep maroon that reminded Buncan of fine wines he’d seen for sale in the shops of Lynchbany. Black basalt and gleaming obsidian striped the lighter stone like collapsed veins in the bodies of fallen giants.
They passed beneath a wall of solid peridot, the intense green volcanic gemstone afire with inanimate life, and had to avert their eyes from the glare.
Squill stared until the tears ran down his cheeks, and not only from the light. “Wot a site! A determined bloke could winkle out jewels ’ere for a century without dentin’ the supply. Ain’t that right, Gragelouth?”
The merchant nodded. “It is certainly a remarkable deposit.”
“Remarkable? ’Ell, it’s bleedin’ unique.”
“Mining’s hard work, Squill.” Buncan shifted his backside against the unyielding iron. “You’re allergic to hard work, remember?”
The otter pursed his lips. “Oi, that’s right. For a minute there I’d forgotten.” He went silent as Snaugenhutt picked a route between a pair of brittle sandstone spires.
They stopped for me night by the side of an arroyo. A small stream sang through its twists and turns, running clear and cold over slick sandstone slabs. There were several deep pools, one of which provided the otters with an opportunity for a noisy swim.
All the talk in Poukelpo had been of the desolate, unforgiving Tamas and its endless stretches of windswept rock and gravel. So far the actuality had been both greener and wetter. They’d found water not once but several times, and their casks were as full as when they’d started out.
Maybe, he dared to muse, after all the trouble they’d had in places where they’d expected none, they might now have an easy time of it in the one region where difficulties were anticipated.
While the Tamas had proven itself unexpectedly benign, it was still far from an inviting place. Not only hadn’t they met a soul since leaving Poukelpo, there was no indication that anyone else had passed this way at any time in the recent past. There were no tracks of riding animals, no casually cast-off detritus of civilization, not even the chilled embers of an old campfire. They were truly alone.
The arroyo gave way to a spectacular, sheer-walled canyon that wound north. Gragelouth was good at analyzing the topography ahead, and they had the benefit of Viz’s wings. Each time the merchant decreed a change of direction, the tickbird would soar ahead to confirm or deny the wisdom of his decision. Invariably, the sloth chose correctly.
Buncan marveled openly at this talent. “Years of traveling by oneself sharpens one’s sense of direction, cub.”
“It must, because I’d get us good and lost in these chasms and gorges.” He scrutinized the sandstone ramparts. “How much more of this do you think there is?”
“That I cannot tell you.” The sloth scanned the high rim of the canyon they were traversing.
“So far it’s been a lot easier than I expected.”
“Yes.” The dour-visaged merchant almost, but not quite, grinned. “Something must be wrong.”
“Nothin’s wro
ng, mate.” Squill lay flat in his seat, his incredibly limber body curled so that his head rested on his hips. “Our luck’s changed, that’s all. ‘Bout bloody time, too.”
The canyon continued to grow both deeper and wider, until it seemed as if any passing clouds must surely stumble over its lofty rim. Here and there isolated pinnacles thrust their peaks into the sky. Their appearance was deceptively frail. Though it looked as if the first random gust of wind would topple them, still they stood, silent and immutable sentinels, the only witnesses to the presence of the diminutive creatures on the canyon floor far below.
Armor clinking, Snaugenhutt splashed through a shallow tributary of the cheerful stream they had camped beside the night before. On the far side he paused and knelt to slake his thirst. Sensing the chance for a quick dip, the otters dismounted and disrobed in one smooth, flowing motion. Buncan settled himself in a comfortable hollow in the rocks, while Viz hunted for water bugs along the shore. With great dignity, Gragelouth slid from his seat and set about washing his face and hands.
Buncan lay back and contemplated the sky. Not such a bad journey, not now. He glanced lazily to his left, then to his right. And blinked.
Something was coming down the canyon toward them. It was big, bigger than Snaugenhutt. Much bigger.
In point of fact, it reached a third of the way up the canyon wall.
He scrambled to his feet. The object most nearly resembled an inverted cone, its top being much broader man the base on which it scooted along the ground. As it drew nearer, the faint whisper which had first caught his attention had risen to a dull roar. The otters had scrambled clear of the pool and were throwing themselves into their clothing. Viz had rushed to his armored perch atop Snaugenhutt’s forehead, while Gragelouth edged close to the rhino’s protective bulk.
The merchant was anxiously examining the base of the canyon walls. “Shelter. We have to find shelter.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve seen bigger whirlwinds in the Chacmadura country,” Viz told him. “Everybody hunker down close to Snaugenhutt. I don’t think it’s strong enough to move him.” He glanced to left and right. “I don’t see any caves, merchant. We might as well stand our ground.”
“Easy for you to say.” Gragelouth clung determinedly to part of the rhino’s armor as the introverted storm bore down on them. “You can be caught up in such a phenomenon, thrown skyward, and simply cast free while the rest of us would suffer a prolonged and possibly lethal descent.”
Snaugenhutt turned his snout into the oncoming whirlwind and braced himself against the rocks underfoot. The storm collected gravel and unfortunate insects, swapping them for twigs and fragments of other plants it had picked up elsewhere. Its roar was loud but not overpowering.
Buncan hugged the rhino’s comfortingly massive flank, squinting into the flying debris. The disturbance would pass over them quickly and they could be on their way.
He was feeling quite confident until he saw the second whirlwind.
It entered the gorge from the opposite end, as if sniffing along their track. Much larger and more intense than its predecessor, its concentrated winds reached three-quarters of the way up the canyon walls. Instead of a muted, mottled gray, it was an angry black. Instead of twigs and leaves, entire trees could be seen spinning and snapping within its tubular core. As it bore down on them, it lifted huge sandstone boulders as if they were pebbles and flung them aside.
Gragelouth saw it too. “Most unusual to encounter two such atmospheric phenomena at the same time. I fear for our safety.” He rubbed at his eyes. Flying sand was starting to become a problem. “Perhaps they will bypass us, slam into one another, and cancel themselves out.”
“Crikes.” Squill waved downcanyon, past the original whirlwind. “There’s another one!”
“And another,” shouted Neena.
A new pair of whirlwinds came corkscrewing up the canyon in the wake of the first. Somehow they maintained their individuality despite bumping into one another and off the sheer canyon walls. As the travelers turned they were not surprised to see additional whirlwinds of varying shapes, sizes, and colors filling the upper end of the chasm from side to side, crowding in behind the black giant that had first raised their apprehensions.
There was no way out now, nowhere to run. Both ends of the gorge were completely blocked. Buncan pointed to a cluster of prodigious boulders that lay heaped against the nearest wall. One had been reduced by wind and water to a high, sweeping curve, a frozen, buff-colored wave. While no all-encompassing cavern, it did promise some shelter from the onrushing winds.
“Over there!”
Snaugenhutt put his mass in motion, wishing loudly for the half-barrel of hard liquor they didn’t have with them. Once beneath the arc of stone, they arranged themselves as compactly as they could behind the rhino’s armored bulk. Flecks of mica sparkled within the rock as they waited to see what would happen when the two onrushing clusters of wind slammed into each other. Would they simply pass around or through, or would the opposing cyclonic forces tear themselves to pieces?
They got their answer when the first two whirlwinds to enter the canyon paused in their advance and turned toward the mound of boulders. Highly concentrated gale-force winds sent dust and sand flying and muddied the surface of the small stream that flowed through the canyon.
“I saw them first.” The voice of the smaller vortex was a breathy rush of syllables. Somehow Buncan wasn’t surprised. He’d often listened to the wind moaning and howling in the treetops of the Bellwoods, and if it could howl and moan, why not also speak?
“Not so!” The larger, far more intimidating storm seemed to bend in the middle to peer down at them. “It was I who first sensed their presence.”
“What does it matter?” wondered a third from behind the first two. Wind had set Snaugenhutt’s armor to clanging. It tore at the travelers’ clothing and hurled specks of dust into their eyes, making them blink and squint. Averting his face, the rhino locked his knees and held his ground.
Buncan had to shout to make himself heard. The canyon was filled from side to side with pushing, shoving storms, each violently roiling the air around it, each competing with its neighbor for a place to set its turbulent foot. The din was overpowering.
“It matters to me,” replied the first whirlwind. “I saw them first, so they’re mine.” The second bumped up against it, but the smaller storm held its air. Storm currents contended tumultuously and suspended objects were wrenched from one brawling eddy to another: whole trees, chunks of rock, bits of plant matter, even live animals flashing dazed expressions.
“I didn’t know whirlwinds fought among themselves,” Buncan muttered.
“Fought, ’ell.” Squill pressed against Snaugenhutt’s armor, one paw clamped determinedly over his hat. “I didn’t know the bloody things could talk.”
“Not all of them. Only the educated ones.”
Buncan and Squill turned to the merchant, who was now sitting with his back pressed against the curving stone.
“How did you know that?” Buncan asked him.
“Because I have encountered one such previously.” Gragelouth was trying to shield his eyes with his hands. “It stole my entire inventory. Extracted everything from my wagon and wrapped the contents about its exterior for all the world like a demure maiden draping herself in the finest linen. It was a small whirlwind, no more man ten times my own height, and utterly amoral. They’re very curious and, as I learned to my dismay, highly acquisitive.
“I first realized it was capable of communication when it complimented me on my choice of merchandise. Though this revelation allowed me the opportunity to argue for its return, for all the good it did me I might as well have been remonstrating with these rocks. I was told to consider myself fortunate that it did not have the resources to accumulate me in addition to my goods.” He gestured at the vast, howling storms. “I do not think it necessary to point out that these are strong enough to do so.”
“So they collec
t objects for fun?” Buncan asked.
“Not for fun.” The explanation was supplied by a modestly decorated maelstrom which had managed to slip in close past me two angry combatants. “We are simply bound to collect things. It’s what we do.”
How did you conduct a conversation with something that had no mouth, no eyes, no face, no features of any kind save those acquired objects held suspended with its body? While Buncan wondered, Neena inquired.
“You mean you go lookin’ for stuff intentionally?”
“We do. Then we meet several times a year at a predetermined rendezvous like this canyon to swap swirling stories, gusty gossip, and found objects.
“’Ere now,” Squill protested angrily, “I ain’t no ‘found object.’”
“You are so an object,” expland the unrepentant eddy, “and you’ve been found.”
“So those two?” Buncan indicated the quarrelling minicyclones.
“Want to collect you,” their interlocutor explained. “Each is claiming right of initial perception.”
“We object,” the huddled Gragelouth announced. “We are intelligent beings and we have our own priorities.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t be collected permanently,” the whirlwind moaned. “After a while the novelty of you would get old. With time even the most diverting acquisitions lose their attraction. For example, I’m thinking of trading this.”
A petite offshoot of the central vortex protruded horizontally from its parent’s flank. Clasped unsteadily within this gyrating pseudopod was a cracked but still intact ceramic bathtub. Buncan was relived to see that it was unoccupied.
“Collected this on the other side of the world not three months ago. Beautiful, isn’t it?” There was unmistakable pride in the whirlwind’s voice. The airy psuedopod contorted, the bathtub rotating along with it.
“See, the white finish covers both sides.”
Son of Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Seven) Page 26
