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 Bell woods.” 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 them 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 pair 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 there?”
“Not that it’s any o’ your business,” said Squill, standing 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 their 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 monjons 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 me 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 there 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, but 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 over 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 horn and fling 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. Both feet were shod in some kind of socklike material. Upward-poi
nting 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 him.
“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.” Better 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 his 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. Buncan had never seen anything like them. 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 we 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 warningly 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. Surely 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.”
Buncan’s brows drew together as he frowned at the otters. Neena lifted both paws noncommittally.
“You wanted nonhostile, Bunscan; you got nonhostile.”
“That’s just a sample,” Squill declared warningly. “Weren’t even strainin’ ourselves. We can call up thunderclouds, earthquakes, all the aspects o’ bleedin’ nature. The forces o’ the universe are ours to command, they are.” Buncan glared at him, and the otter smiled innocently.
“Not bad.” Wurragarr glanced at the wallabies and kookaburras. “Show ’em, mates.”
The birds essayed a few experimental trills. Then the one in the middle nodded and the nearest wallaby began rhythmically clapping the sticks together.
“Whacksticks,” Wurragarr explained for the benefit of the interested travelers.
“What’s whacksticks?” Buncan wanted to know.
Wurragarr grinned. “If the magic doesn’t work, you can always whack your enemy over the head with ’em.”
The other wallaby put his mouth to the top of the painted tube and began to blow. A low throbbing tone not unlike that made by the booming paperbark trees emerged, only deeper and with variations. It sounded not unlike Snaugenhutt after an especially bad night.
“That’s a didgereedon’t,” the roo informed them as the three kookaburras began to harmonize. Their song had the quality of ancient chanting.
“Deep within the earth moves
The great spirit Oolongoo.
The great worm of legend.
Vast is his power
Irresistible his strength
Powerful his crushing jaws that—”
“I could use a worm about now,” blurted the bird on the end, putting a crack in the refrain. Immediately, his companions stopped singing and began to giggle.
Wurragarr made a face. “Put a cork in that, Windja.”
The kookaburra wiped its beak with a wingtip, its breast still heaving. “Sorry, Wurragarr.” He nodded to the wallabies.
They resumed their playing. Buncan sensed the slightest of vibrations in the air.
“Oolongoo we call
And Nerrima of the sky
Who drops down upon our enemies
Slays them in their sleep
Rips them to shreds…”
“And pees in their beds,” added the second singer, folding his wings across his chest and collapsing in hysterics. His companions held on to their dignity for approximately another half second before joining him. The two wallabies ceased their playing and looked helplessly at the big roo.
Burned by that overbearing marsupial glare, the spellsingers tried a third time. This time their laughter was sufficiently infectious to spread to the motley assemblage behind them, with the result that the entire band threatened to dissolve in uncontrolled mirth.
A disgusted Wurragarr watched as tears tumbled down the kookaburras’ cheeks. Two of them fell off the dead log on which they’d perched and rolled about on the grass, holding their sides. The third lay prone, pounding desperately on the log with both wingtips as his guffaws grew steadily weaker. The vibration which had so briefly disturbed the plenum vanished.
“Dag.” Wurragarr noticed Buncan watching him. “That’s the trouble with kookaburras. This lot really can spellsing, but they also can’t take anything seriously. Not sorcery, not our present desperate situation, nothing. They’d laugh all the way to their own funerals. But they’re the best we’ve got. Somehow they’re going to have to counteract the necromancy of the monks of Kilagurri.” He glared at the embarrassed but still-giggling trio, who were slowly picking themselves off the ground.
“As for you lot,” he said, turning back to face Buncan, “you don’t strike me as the type who’d ally themselves with the likes of Kilagurri.” He stepped out of Snaugenhutt’s path. “Go on your way.” The thylacine made as if to protest, but the roo waved him down. “No, Bedarra. Despite their strangeness, I’m convinced these travelers know nothing of our problems here. We’ve no right to involve them and ought t’let them pass in peace. If they run into trouble near Kilagurri they’ll have to deal with it themselves.” He stared evenly at Buncan.
Son of Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Seven) Page 31
