Son of Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Seven)

by Alan Dean Foster

“Very pretty,” Buncan made sure he had a firm grip on his precious duar. It was still too early to panic. Thus far they’d only been threatened verbally.

  “Even a short stint as ornaments would hinder us in our own search,” Gragelouth pointed out.

  “Don’t intelligent people have a say in whether they’re collected or not?” Viz stayed hunkered down behind his little shield. Even a casual gust of wind could sweep him helplessly to his doom.

  “That’s a question of ethics,” the whirlwind replied unhesitatingly. “As a force of nature, I’m not required to have any. And by the way, our existence isn’t an easy one, you know. Life isn’t all open fields and low-pressure centers. Maintaining one’s appearance and posture in calm air is a real struggle. You don’t know what’s it like to be tightly wound all the time. Collecting helps us to relax.

  “Being a found object’s not so bad. We take care to sweep up food and water for the ones that are alive, and you get to do a lot of free traveling.”

  “Excuse me if I decline the ’onor,” said Squill. “I never ’ad me ’eart set on pukin’ me way around the world.”

  “Why haven’t you taken the opportunity to suck us up while those two are fighting?” Battling the wind, Buncan clung with one hand to Snaugenhutt’s heavy armor.

  The vortex skittered backward, unintentionally pelting them with sand. “I’m not into living creatures, myself. Too much work to keep them alive. I prefer inanimate objects. But you might as well resign yourselves. Once those two have settled things between them you’re going to be collected, voluntarily or otherwise.”

  “We cannot allow that.” Gragelouth was insistent in spite of their situation. “We seek the Grand Veritable.”

  The whirlwind spun a little tighter and its voice rose. “I’ve heard of that. There’s nothing to it. No reality. It’s a story, a rumor. Nothing more than a tale with which to amuse a fresh breeze.”

  “That is what we seek to determine. Not to minimize the honor of being deemed collectible, but we really cannot spare the time.”

  “Good luck convincing them of that.” Reabsorbing its esteemed bathtub, their drafty interlocutor retreated.

  Another maelstrom took its place, rotating proudly. “Want to see what I’ve collected?”

  “I don’t think so,” replied Buncan slowly.

  “Ah, c’mon.” It spun very near. “See?”

  A spiraling torus was thrust toward them. Buncan flinched but held his ground.

  An old woman hovered within the blustery extrusion. She was clad entirely in black. Long, stringy hair hung from beneath her pointed black hat, and her narrow, pinched face was dominated by a huge hooked nose at the end of which reposed a hairy wart of unsurpassed ugliness. The folds of her skirt billowed around the broomstick she straddled.

  “Lemme guess,” said Neena. “You do collect intelligent creatures.”

  The cyclone hummed. “You got it.”

  “Hey, you!” The old woman shouted toward them. “Can you get me out of this? I’m late for a whole batch of appointments.”

  “Sorry, madame,” replied Gragelouth politely. “We are preoccupied with troubles of our own.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve heard that before. It’s just that I’ve been stuck inside this damn thing for longer than I care to think. Sort of flying in place, if you get my drift.”

  “’Ow’d you ’appen to get trapped in there?” Neena studied the old woman with interest.

  “Didn’t get trapped, young water rat. Got collected. Last thing I know I was heading south past Topeka air control, minding my own business, and the next I’m swept up in this thickheaded hunk of air.” She shook her head in disgust. “That’s what I get for evesdropping on cockpit conversations instead of paying attention to the regular FAA weather updates.”

  Buncan didn’t quite know how to respond. “Uh, how are you doing in there?”

  “Well, the food ain’t too bad, and the view’s interesting. Could be worse, I reckon. I expect I’ll get out of here soon enough. Then she’ll get it!” The torus retracted into the body of the whirlwind.

  “Who’ll get it?” Neena wanted to know. But with a hideous cackle, the old woman disappeared skyward.

  “You never know where you’re going to find things when you travel between worlds,” the storm informed them.

  “Whirlwinds can travel between worlds?” Buncan asked.

  “With ease. Molecular diffusion beats jogging any day. The aether’s more permeable than most people think. You just have to pick your spots.”

  “Sounds like rot squared to me.” Squill scratched his forehead.

  A bulge in the whirlwind’s side provided them with a temporary view of a small elephant with extraordinarily large ears. “You wouldn’t believe where I picked this up,” the storm told them. Before they could take a closer look, the airborne pachyderm vanished into the dark depths.

  The vortex which had first approached them interrupted the display. “Looks like those two have finally got their coriolis forces aligned.” Leaving distinctive tracks in the sand, the garrulous pair retreated.

  Their place was taken by the two wailing storms which had been battling over right of perception: the large, charcoal-gray, intimidating spiral and its smaller but equally pugnacious counterpart. They roared and bellowed within a handsbreadth of each other as they confronted the travelers.

  The smaller inclined its crown toward them. “We’ve reached a settlement.”

  “We have,” boomed the other as flying rocks crashed against one another within its flanks.

  “Look here.” Gragelouth adjusted his attire. “We have some conclusions of our own.”

  “Silence!” A blast of wind sent the sloth stumbling. Buncan and Squill caught him under his furry arms. “Collectibles should be seen and not heard. Besides, we’re not going to hurt you. Physical damage would reduce your display value.”

  For some reason this revelation did not make Buncan feel especially grateful.

  “We’ve decided to divide you among us. I get the large armored quadruped and its small flying companion. The rest of you will go with C’s*.” The smaller whirlwind advanced slightly.

  “You’re not splitting us up.” Buncan draped a possessive arm loosely over Snaugenhutt’s neck.

  “You have nothing to say about it,” growled the larger storm. Behind it, the assembled cyclonic forces murmured their approval. They completely filled the canyon, obscuring the sheer stone walls and the sky beyond. Amidst these howling and bellowing gales the cluster of boulders held by Buncan and his friends was an island of calm.

  No avenue of escape presented itself. Even if one had, Buncan knew, they couldn’t outrun the wind.

  “If you’ll just organize yourselves into two groups,” hissed the smaller whirlwind, “this’ll be a lot easier for everyone.” Buncan felt a persistent gust nudging him to his right. He fought against it as best he could, trying to dig his heels into the sand.

  “We haven’t got time for this.” He steadied the duar against his waist and began to play.

  The otters hadn’t been idle. They’d used the delay to prepare themselves. Clinging tightly to Snaugenhutt’s armor, they sang out at the top of their lungs.

  “Hey, yours make music,” rumbled the larger of the two acquisitive eddies. “That’s not fair.”

  “The agreement is made.” The second etched small circles in the ground with its foot.

  As they squabbled Buncan played on, grateful for the respite. Keeping a watchful eye on the whirlwinds, the otters harmonized maniacally.

  “Yo, y’know, we got us a real problem here

  There’s some winds in the air gonna cost us dear

  Need somethin’ to stiff ’em

  Stifle ’em, kick ’em

  Knock ’em for a loop and stuff ’em

  Down in a crack, gotta break their back

  Take ’em apart or cram ’em in a sack, Jack

  If y’know what we mean.”

  Something
began to take shape between the wind-battered travelers and the bickering storms. The magic was working, but Buncan’s elation was muted. Instead of a familiar silver-gray mist, something black and ominous was forming.

  It started as a softly mewing spindle-shape hardly large enough to bully a pebble. As the otters rapped on it grew larger, until it was the size of a bedpost, then a lamppost. Tightly wound as an anxiety attack, it swelled and expanded, a coal-black shaft screwing its way skyward.

  In seconds it was large enough to divert the attention of the equivocating whirlwinds. The smaller suddenly refocused its attention.

  “Are you doing that? Look at it, just look!” It spun in uneasy circles. “Stop it. You’ve got to stop it.” This expression of concern from that which had just threatened them naturally inspired Buncan to play faster, the otters to improvise even more enthusiastically.

  The agitated whirlwind shifted toward them, its intentions clear. Buncan braced himself for the shock of gale-force gropings.

  They never came.

  The squabblers had waited too long. By the time the spellsung black spindle was enormous. Punctuated by intermitted bolts of dark lightening, its howl was deafening.

  As the whirlwind darted forward, the spindle cycled to intercept it. A sound not unlike a breathy grunt filled the air as the approaching vortex was knocked backward. Trees, rocks, chunks of debris flew from its flank as it momentarily lost shape.

  “Never seen a whirlwind throw up before,” the immoveable Snaugenhutt observed.

  As the rotating black spire they had called forth continued to mature, Buncan wondered if perhaps the otters oughtn’t to tone down their lyrics a little. But he couldn’t stop plating long enough to make the suggestion, and in any event the specter they had conjured was now making too much noise to be heard by anyone.

  The now gigantic malign cloud seemed composed of dense black smoke. Lightening continued to flash from its fringes, and the sound it made stiffened the small hairs on the back of Buncan’s neck. Gragelouth cowered against the curving sandstone while Viz clung desperately to his iron perch.

  Meanwhile the otters, motivated now by a sense of malicious mischief as much as a need to defend themselves and their companions, rapped on, ignorant of what they wrought but delighted at the effect it was having on their erstwhile abductors.

  “Tornado!” screamed the dazed whirlwind, collecting itself as best it could after the blow it had taken. Staggering wildly, it skittered off down the canyon.

  The panicked cry was taken up by the rest of the boreal convention as, pushing and shoving, they scrambled to escape. Mass confustion ensued as collections and isobars slammed into and sometimes through one another. Fleeing from the restrictive walls of the canyon, the frenzied storms scattered frantically to … well, to the four winds.

  By this time the invoked tornado towered higher than the greatest of the previously assembled whirlwinds, an inverted black cone that sucked at the sky. Its power was palpable, its bellowing like that of a runaway waterfall. Squill and Neena could hardly hear themselves sing, much less each other.

  As they looked on it pounced on a retreating vortex and tore it apart, sending its collection of rubble flying in all directions. Where a moment earlier there had been a healthy whirlwind in flight, in seconds only a scattered cluster of desultory breezes remained. It was an appalling display of meteorological ferocity.

  Far higher now than the canyon walls, the black spindle pawed angrily at the ground as if searching for additional victims. It spun back and forth, daring any organized wind to approach.

  In shifting to the middle of the chasm, the noise had been reduced to just less than intolerable levels. Snaugenhutt glanced back and up at Viz.

  “What’s a tornado?”

  Clinging to its perch, Viz shook his head. “Beats me, Snaug. But at least it’s on our side.” For the moment, the tickbird thought.

  Save for the apparition they had called into being, the canyon was now clear of breezy intruders. Buncan let his fingers fall from the duar. The otters ceased their rapping as Squill moved to loosen one of the water casks.

  “I have never seen or heard of such a tiling.” Looking down, Buncan saw the awestruck merchant staring at the awesome cloud. “What a weapon it could be.”

  “Oi,” commented a relieved Neena, “think o’ wot it could o’ done to that bastard Krasvin’s ’ouse. Splintered it and sent every one o’ them up the dirty bugger’s arse. Impaled ’im on ’is own—”

  “We get the picture, Neena.” Buncan carefully checked his duar for damage from flying gravel.

  The tornado whipped across the little stream that ran down the center of the canyon and in an instant sucked it dry. It displayed no inclination to pursue the fleeing whirlwinds.

  Gragelouth plucked tentatively at Buncan’s sleeve. “A most useful conjuration and demonstration, but do you not think that it is time to make it disappear?”

  Viz peeped out from his armored howdah. “Yeah. Make it go away, Buncan.” The tickbird faced the now aimless storm warily. “It’s making me nervous.”

  “Right. Squill, Neena?”

  Squill nodded as his sister slaked her thirst. “Righty-ho, mate. Give us a minim ’ere.” When Neena was sated she recorked the cask and settled herself close to her brother. Each put an arm around the other’s shoulder as they leaned their mouths close. Whiskers tangled.

  “Done your job and done it well

  Blew ’em all away like a storm from Hell

  Now’s the time to leave

  Time to go on your way

  Hey tornado, wot you say?

  We say, you gots to go away and maybe come again

  Some other day, okay?”

  With a violent twist, the black spire abandoned the creek bed and started toward them.

  Eyes wide in his gray-furred face, Gragelouth retreated until his back was once more pressed against the sandstone arch. “What are you doing? Make it go away.”

  The otters rapped faster and Buncan’s fingers flew over the duar’s strings, but the savage storm continued its deliberate, turbulent advance until it was almost upon them. In the face of that terrible wind Buncan had to fight to stay on his feet, while the otters now clung to each other in deadly earnest. Even the massive, defiant Snaugenhutt was brushed backward several feet.

  This storm, Buncan sensed, would not delicately collect them, would not care for and pamper them. It would smash them as thoughtlessly and thoroughly as it had the unfortunate whirlwind it had overtaken.

  Behind him he heard Gragelouth screaming frantically. “Make it go away, spellsingers! Make it go away! Oh what a tangled web we sloths weave!”

  As they finally exited the steep-sided chasm, Gragelouth turned in his seat to peer back the way they’d come. There was no sign of the beknotted tempest.

  “That is what I try to do to my competitors,” he informed them somberly. “Surely it will free itself eventually?”

  “I’d think so.” Buncan scanned the mesas and plains ahead. “Hopefully, before that happens we’ll have put plenty of distance between us.”

  The merchant settled himself back in his seat. “Of course, if it were to pursue us you three could simply bind it within itself again.”

  Buncan felt his duar bouncing lightly against his back. “Don’t count on it, merchant. So far we’ve been pretty lucky with our spellsinging, but Jon-Tom always said somedung about sequels never being as good as the originals. I guess that’s just a natural component of sorcery. So if it comes after us we might have to try something else, and it might not be as effective. I’d rather make speed.”

  “I suspect I have more confidence in you, young human, than you do in yourself.”

  “’Ere now, guv,” said Squill, interrupting without hesitation, “I’ve got plenty o’ confidence, I do. Feel free to compliment me.”

  Gragelouth half-bowed in the otter’s direction. “My tribute was intended to include all.”

  “Well, then.” Sq
uill pushed out his lower lip. “See that it stays that way, guv.”

  An otter, Buncan mused, was the only creature he knew of that could strut sitting down.

  Chapter 18

  THEIR ENHANCED CONFIDENCE did not make the Tamas any smaller or do anything to mute its rising temperatures. They took to resting and sleeping for long stretches during the middle of the day and trying to make up the time lost at night.

  “Oi, guv’nor.” Squill clung cheerlessly in his iron seat. Even the bright feathers of his cap drooped listlessly in the heat. “‘Ow much more o’ this blasted country is there?”

  Gragelouth shifted his attention from an unusually tall pinnacle. “No one really knows for certain. In that the good citizens of Poukelpo were being truthful. But our progress is steady. I would not think the crossing would require too many more weeks.”

  “Weeks!” barked Neena. Her mouth hung open and she was respirating in short, rapid pants. “I don’t know if I can take many more days o’ this.”

  “Do you wish to turn back and perhaps meet up with our cyclonic friends again?”

  “No fear o’ that, guv.” Squill straightened slightly in his saddle. “They’ve been scattered, they ’ave.”

  “Getting a little tired myself.” Snaugenhutt punctuated his complaint with a frustrated snort. “This armor isn’t getting any lighter.”

  Viz hopped down from his perch to bend over and peer into the rhino’s eye. “Quit complaining. If you’re thirsty there’s plenty of water. Or is it something other than water you’re worried about?”

  “Put a beetle in it, bird. I’ll stay clean.”

  “’Aven’t ’ad a swim in days. Otters like water, not sand.” Neena’s expression turned dreamy. “Big river, good friends, plenty o’ fish to catch. This bleedin’ Grand Veritable better be worth all this trouble.”

  “More than that,” her brother added reproachfully, “it ’ad better exist.”

  “Do I detect a certain waning of enthusiasm?” Gragelouth murmured.

  “Wanin’, ’ell,” Squill groused. “It’s on bloody death’s door, it is.”