Buncan winced as Snaugenhutt hit a couple of bumps while loping down a dry ravine and back up the far side. “I don’t know about the two of you, but I couldn’t turn back now if I wanted to.”
“Why not, mate?” Squill asked him.
“Because it would mean admitting defeat.” The duar bounced lightly against his back.
The otter blinked. “Wot the ’ell’s wrong with that? Anybody offers me a sack o’ fresh crawfish, I’ll admit defeat right now, I will.” Raising both arms melodramatically, he implored whatever gods might be watching. “’Ere you! See, I admit defeat! I embrace it, I do. Now, ’ows about somethin’ fresh to eat?” He held his arms aloft for another minute before lowering them.
“Gods must be busy. Strikes me as ’ow they’re always busy.”
“We’re not turning back.” Buncan was firm.
“Ain’t we? ’Ows about we put it to a vote, wot?” He glanced back along Snaugenhutt’s spine. “All those in favor o’ turnin’ back raise a ’and.” He thrust his own skyward.
When it was not seconded he glared goggle-eyed at his sister. “’Ere now, wot’s this? You were complainin’ more than all the rest o’ us put together.”
A chagrined Neena turned away from him. “Well, I been thinkin’ about wot Bunski there said about admittin’ defeat, an’ ’avin’ to explain it to Mudge an’ Weegee an’ all, an’ I just ain’t so sure it’s a good idea to give up just now.”
“Is that bloody right?” Her brother’s exasperation was plain. “When is a good time, then?” When she didn’t reply he added, “So you’re in favor o’ continuin’ with this madness?”
“I didn’t say that. I … I abstain, I do.”
“Say wot? You can’t bleedin’ abstain.”
Her whiskers thrust forward belligerently. “I just did.”
Buncan reflected that only a couple of otters, sustained by their remarkable agility and superb sense of balance, could manage to engage in a serious tussle on the back of an ambling rhinoceros without falling off. At least things were back to normal.
As always, the scuffle concluded without any serious damage having been inflicted to either side. Squill settled back in his seat as though nothing had happened.
“Cor, mate, ’ow about we try to spellsing up a nice, cool pool. Pick a likely-lookin’ depression in the rocks an’ make a job of it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Blimey, where’s the ’arm, Buncan? Just enough for a quick swim. Wouldn’t take much o’ a spellsong.”
Buncan looked back at him. “I said no. We’ve been pushing our luck all along. We might need a spell like that for drinking water, and as I’ve said from the beginning, harmonic replication’s a pain.”
Squill took mild affront. “Ohhhh, ‘replication,’ is it? Who’s been studyin’ behind me back?”
Buncan returned his attention to the route ahead. “You don’t need a swim.”
“The ’ell we don’t! ’Tis our natural right, it is. ’Tis in the bleedin’ tribal constitution.”
“Well, your constitution’s suspended until we leave the Tamas.” He made an effort to soothe his irritated companion. “Don’t think about it. If Gragelouth’s right, we’ll be out of this soon.”
Squill was not mollified. “Cor! If ‘Gragelouth’s’ right.”
Their frustration was muted by the country through which they were passing. If anything, the towering formations grew increasingly more impressive, infinitely varied in silhouette and color. Gigantic buttes rose from the desert floor, their flanks sculpted into fantastic shapes by eons of patient wind and water.
Acutely aware of the uncomfortable situation, Gragelouth made an effort to divert the otters from their discontent. “You two need to get your minds off our present condition. See those cliffs?” He pointed to the abraded walls of a dark volcanic plug which rose from the earth like a dead tooth. “Notice how the edge resembles the profile of a human face?” His fingers moved. “That rocky projection in the center is the nose. The brow rides higher, while beneath the nostrils are—”
Squill cut him off. “At the moment I’m not interested in anythin’ that looks like a bleedin’ ’uman.” His gaze burned into an indifferent Buncan’s back.
The merchant refused to be discouraged. “Very well. Look at that eroded pinnacle off to our right. Does its outline not resemble that of a porcupine?”
Squill was reluctant to turn and look, but when his natural curiosity got the better of him he was surprised to discover that the merchant’s sense of the surreal was keen. He perked up slightly.
“Bugger me for a blistered bobcat if you ain’t ’alf right, gray-face. It do right look like a member o’ the spiny tribe.”
Neena found herself drawn into the game in spite of herself. Anything to alleviate the endless boredom. It became a contest to see who could read the most outrageous or unlikely identities into the deeply worn rock. Her identification of a pile of rubble as a crouching kudu was surpassed by Squill’s insistence that an isolated butte looked exactly like an armored mouse.
Before long everyone was finding recognizable shapes and forms in the passing scenery. More than anyone would have believed possible, the merchant’s game was helping to pass the time. As for Gragelouth, he was better at it than any of them, explaining that it was a pastime he’d been forced to indulge in on many a long, lonely journey.
The game was resumed in earnest the next morning, the merchant having drawn up a means for keeping score. Points were awarded for accuracy, imagination, and frequency. Snaugenhutt was pointing out what he asserted was a hawk hidden among a sandstone overhang when the silence of their surroundings was broken by shouts from the dry riverbed ahead.
Everyone strained to see, but it was Viz, hovering high above, who first matched the sound to a possible source.
“Armed riders, on large bipedal lizards. They’re all hooded, so I can’t make out their tribes. Outlines are indistinct.”
“How big?” a concerned Gragelouth inquired.
“Riders no larger than the otters. Snouts protruding from the hoods. Light-colored whiskers. I see some tails. Long and fur-covered, mostly light brown.” The tickbird glanced meaningfully at his companions. “They’re coming this way.”
Snaugenhutt took a deep breath. Espying a large boulder, he headed toward the natural barrier. “Better get ready for company.” No one argued with him.
As the rhino positioned his backside to the stone the otters drew their bows, making sure arrows were at the ready. Buncan laid his sword across his lap as Viz settled onto his armored perch atop Snaugenhutt’s forehead. Gragelouth sought to find a use for his fingers, and failing that, nibbled nervously on the pointed tips of the thick, heavy claws.
Their progress marked by the cloud of dust kicked up by their mounts, the riders advanced until they were within spear-throwing distance. Spreading out, they formed an unbroken line in the shape of a crescent in front of the stolid Snaugenhutt. There were enough of them to block any attempt at flight, not that the rhino could have outrun the speedy lizards even over flat ground.
As the dust settled, Buncan and his companions were able to get a good look at those confronting them. The riding animals pawed at the ground with nervous energy, bright green eyes shining alertly, small sharp teeth glistening in their jaws. Leather bridles and reins were intricately tooled, as were individual saddles and other tack.
As their mounts settled in place, several of the riders adjusted their hoods. It was the widely traveled Gragelouth who finally identified them.
“Meerkats.”
“I don’t know that tribe.” Buncan was intrigued by the creatures.
“An uncommon one. The eyes and snouts are unmistakable. They are fabled desert dwellers. I myself have encountered them only once before, in far more civilized circumstances than these.”
Though the meerkats were in the majority, there were also a couple of ground squirrels among the riders, as well as individual representativ
es of several other desert-favoring tribes. Buncan tensed as one of the riders slowly advanced, an elaborately whittled spear cradled in his short but powerful arms. A beaded cloth quiver lashed to the riding lizard’s right flank held half a dozen similar implements.
Wide, dark eyes inspected them carefully. The mouth seemed frozen in a perpetual half-sneer. “More interesting than most travelers we see. From whence do you hail?”
“From farther than you can imagine.” Buncan was as startled as anyone to hear Gragelouth speak up. “From beyond the Tamas, beyond Poukelpo, beyond Camrioca, and even the river Sprilashoone.”
“That far.” The rider did not sound impressed. “Well, never let it be said that the Xi-Murogg denied hospitality to travelers in their country. If you will follow us back to our village, we would be pleased to exchange tales and share victuals with you.”
Buncan hesitated. “We’re kind of in a hurry.”
“To refuse hospitality is to insult not only me but all the Xi-Murogg.” As the rider spoke, his fellow villagers shuffled their weapons: everything from javelins to small, one-handed crossbows to hooked knives and swords.
These nomads were not likely to scatter in panic at a charge from Snaugenhutt, Buncan reflected. Tough and determined, they were fashioned of far sturdier stuff than Krasvin’s retainers. Had they numbered half a dozen or less, maybe, but there were nearly thirty of them.
Perhaps all they did want was the company of strangers. Certainly they didn’t encounter many travelers out here. It was also possible they might know the fastest and easiest route out of the desert.
“You lead and we shall follow.” Gragelouth had apparently reached the same decision.
The hooded one bowed slightly. “Graciousness is unto a shield in the desert. I am Chi-churog, First Rider of the Xi-Murogg people. It will be my honor to welcome you into my house.” He turned and sent his lizard trotting northward. The line of riders parted to let him pass.
Squill leaned forward, whispering. “I don’t care for this, mate.”
“Gragelouth’s doing the right thing. What else can we do?”
“Run like ’ell an’ make a fight of it,” the otter replied.
“No.” Human and otter turned to face the merchant.
“Their mounts are too quick. They would run us down. We may yet have to fight, though I am putting my faith in tact and diplomacy. But this is not the place to do it. Let us sound them out first.”
“Bloody ’ell. I’m outvoted again, ain’t I?”
“Afraid so.” Buncan turned to speak with Viz, leaving the otter to sulk in his seat.
Escorted by the Xi-Murogg, Snaugenhutt trundled along behind Chi-churog as they crossed a series of crumbling gullies. Turning right up a smooth-surfaced slope, they passed through a high, narrow cleft in a sheer rock wall. This penetrated the solid stone for a respectable distance before finally opening onto a sizable box canyon.
High-peaked tents dyed in a panic of colors and patterns were scattered about the high ground. Some were striped vertically or diagonally, others were checked, a couple sported polka dots of alternating hue. Most clustered around the spring-fed, reed-fringed pool that occupied the depression in the center of the canyon. The colorful, nonthreatening view somewhat offset the realization that there was only one way out of the sheer-sided stone amphitheater.
It was a natural fortress and an excellent place to camp, Buncan reflected as they rode in. Squill’s reservations vanished as soon as he saw the pool. When the otters’ request was made known to Chi-churog, he amiably and without hesitation granted them permission for a swim. They didn’t hesitate, doffing their attire with admirable speed and plunging into the delightfully cool pond without delay. A number of villagers gathered silently to watch the lanky visitors sport within the clear waters.
Buncan was feeling much better about their situation. The overtly cheerful tents, the neatly tended and surprisingly extensive irrigated fields, Chi-churog’s friendliness, all combined to suggest a comparatively peace-loving people who armed themselves only out of need to deal daily with the exigencies of a harsh land.
Only when he had dismounted and gone for a stroll later among the tents did he see the expertly mounted, carefully cleaned bones.
They decorated more man one dwelling, and there were too many of them to write the grisly displays off as a familial aberration. None boasted of reptilian origins. A horrified Buncan identified the bleached white skulls of two large cats. Another hut was crowned by a bear’s skull. What a bear had been doing roving the Tamas he couldn’t imagine; he knew only that the unfortunate ursine’s wanderings had ended here.
Had these wretched travelers perished from heat or exhaustion out in the unforgiving desert, or had they been deliberately slain and brought here? He was beginning to fear that Squill had been right and they should have made a break for freedom the instant they’d been confronted by the nomadic outriders. Too late now. A glance was enough to show that the only way out, through the narrow cleft by which they’d arrived, was well-guarded.
Yet the skulls mounted like trophies didn’t square with the extensive fields of painstakingly tended crops. Dedicated agronomists didn’t slaughter strangers, and the extensively tilled land was proof that the Xi-Murogg were not roving bandits. What was going on here?
Females and older males were tending to the fruits and vegetables, while the younger meerkats, together with an occasional kangaroo rat, jabbered amusedly at the lightning-fast antics of the otters. Others prodded and poked at the massive Snaugenhutt. His thoughts churning, Buncan rejoined his friends as they emerged from the water, and proceeded to dry themselves.
“I bid you join me in my domicile.” Chi-churog led them to what was by far the largest tent in the village. It wasn’t quite large enough, though. The Xi-Murogg leader explained apologetically.
“I am afraid there is not quite enough room for your great friend.” He gestured at Snaugenhutt.
“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 than 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 Chichurog’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 Buncan’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 time 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 think he’ll be able to stand up ’til morning, much less run.”
Son of Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Seven) Page 28
