Son of Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Seven)

by Alan Dean Foster

  On the table in front of him were several constructions that looked like children’s toys: unrecognizable shapes consisting of small balls connected together by sticks, globes that split into other globes. Notepads were filled with peculiar hieroglyphics.

  A crash sounded off to his right, followed quickly by another. The otters had started in, dumping fluids and powders onto the floor and smashing their containers. Taking out his sword, he began flailing methodically at the toy-models, reducing them to fragments.

  At Droww’s vacant pulpit he found himself staring at the blank window box. Though he put his face right up against the glass, he couldn’t see anything inside. It was an impenetrable, opaque gray. He tapped on the connected panel, but nothing happened. Being ignorant of the requisite magic, he was neither surprised nor particularly disappointed when his fingering failed to enlighten him.

  The important thing was to ensure that it could no longer enlighten the Dark Ones. Removing it from its resting place, he raised it high overhead and slammed it to the floor. The shell cracked like an egg, spewing bits and pieces of wire and plastic. With his sword Buncan hacked at the remains, reducing them beyond hope of repair. Whooping and hollering with delight, Squill and Neena were smashing their way through the surviving apparatus.

  Mowara helped where he could, but Cilm was unable to overcome his conditioning. He stood off to one side, not lending a hand. But he observed it all, and his eyes shone.

  Powders and fluids mixed on the stone floor, occasionally forming hissing, bubbling patches which Buncan and his friends in their deliberate vandalism were careful to avoid. By now the first uncertain queries were being voiced by the bastard inhabitants of the cages. Buncan wanted badly to release them, but knew the contrivances of the Dark Ones had to be attended to first.

  He wondered how Wurragarr and his people were doing outside, not to mention Viz and Snaugenhutt.

  The knobby panel was fashioned of some particularly tough material. Putting up his sword, he picked up the rectangle and slammed it repeatedly against a wall until not a knob was left connected to the panel itself. Then he stood on the rectangle and tugged until it snapped in half. He threw me two pieces in opposite directions, looked around, and paused.

  “Where’s Squill?”

  Panting heavily, Neena relaxed her sword arm. She was surrounded by debris. Mowara stood on a table that had been cleared of equipment.

  “Don’t know.” The galah sounded concerned.

  Neena flicked her head in the direction of the far stairway. “Said not to worry. Said e ’ad a bit o’ an errand to run. See, there ’e is now.”

  Turning, Buncan saw the otter standing at the top of the stone staircase. In his short arms he held the critical metal box from the Dark Ones’ conference chamber.

  “Wouldn’t want to leave an’ forget this.” Smiling, he heaved the heavy container into the air. It slammed into the stone stairs and tumbled toward the floor of the pit.

  To their astonishment, it screamed as it bounced.

  “Leave me alone! Don’t come near me! Unauthorized access, unauthorized access!” The words were clearly audible above the metallic whangs and bangs as the box bounced down the stairs.

  When it finally rolled to a stop, Buncan moved toward it. Instantly it rose up on four tiny rubber feet and tried to skitter away from him.

  “Don’t touch me! You have not been properly formatted.” The words issued from one of a trio of tiny slots in the box’s front. All three were jabbering away simultaneously.

  “C drive inactive, C drive inactive … Unauthorized access attempted … Insert a properly formatted diskette.… Entry refused, entry refused….”

  “Is that so?” After overcoming his initial surprise, Squill had trailed the protesting contraption down the stairs. Now he deliberately thrust the point of his short sword into the most vociferous of the complaining slots.

  He was rewarded with a grinding, whining sound. The entire sword began to vibrate. So did his arm. When he tried to yank the weapon free the slot clamped down hard on the blade. Drool dripped from the other slots, and Buncan thought he could see tiny teeth lining the interiors.

  “Wipe intruder, wipe intruder!” piped one of the free slots.

  “You ain’t wipin’ nothin’, you bloody hunk o’ accursed tin!” With both hands Squill managed to wrench his weapon free. Raising it high overhead, he began flailing away enthusiastically at the frantic container. Still screeching incomprehensible insults and occasional comprehensible threats, it tried to dodge and, failing that, to bite its tormentor, but was no match for the active otter.

  On the other hand, its metal skin was uncommonly tough, and Squill’s best efforts succeeded only in denting the smooth surface.

  “See the damned thing.” Mowara hovered just above Buncan. “Sorcery that complains.”

  “Let me.” Cilm took a flying leap and landed on the box with both huge feet. His weight failed to faze it.

  A commotion on the level above drew Buncan’s attention. “We’re discovered. We’ve got to finish here and get out.” Working alongside Neena, he concentrated on smashing the last of the intact gear. With Cilm’s help they were able to upend the largest of the worktables. What remained of the delicate equipment it held went crashing to the floor. Still not satisfied, he took his sword to the fragments while Squill continued to duel with the jabbering box.

  “Rebooting required, rebooting required!” As it hobbled toward the stairway from which it had made its ignominious entrance, Squill leaped on its back in an effort to restrain it. Like that of some squat, squarish turtle, its internal mass was sufficient to haul him upward.

  “Gimme a ’and ’ere, mates!” he bawled as he clung to the slick metal surface. “’Tis tryin’ to get away!”

  “Hold it, Squill!” Searching through the rubble, Buncan found an intact bottle three-quarters full of some pale yellow liquid. Racing up the stairs, he joined Squill in forcibly tilting the box onto its back. Rubbery feet kicked at the air, seeking purchase.

  “Unauthorized entry, unauthorized entry!”

  While the otter did his best to hold the box steady, Buncan poured the bottle’s contents into the largest and loudest of the three mouths. When it was empty he stepped back. A moment later Squill let go.

  The box staggered up another two stairs, then stopped and began trembling violently. A distinct gargling noise came from all three slots. This was followed by mechanical retching noises and the regurgitation of several small bits of plastic. One mouth gasped feebly.

  “Blind, I’m blind! Where’s the See-prompt? I can’t find the See-prompt. Maledictions on you all! Abort, reentry, fail. Abort, reentry … fail…”

  With a final shudder it seemed to settle down on its tiny feet. Then it rolled over and bounced back down the stairs, to lie silent and unmoving at their base. Descending to stand alongside, a wary Squill nudged it with a foot, glanced over at Buncan. Both human and otter were breathing hard.

  “I think it’s dead, mate.”

  Buncan nodded, turned to look upward. The commotion he’d detected was growing louder. “Someone’s coming. Mowara?”

  The galah flew toward the ceiling, called anxiously down to them. “They come! The Dark Ones come! Beware and be ready!”

  A hand touched Buncan’s arm and he forced himself not to pull away from its tormented owner. “Remember promise,” Cilm said softly.

  “I’m not killing anyone. Not yet.” Sheathing his sword, he brought the duar around in front of him. “Squill, Neena!” The three of them put their heads together and in low tones began to rehearse possible defenses, while Mowara squawked and circled overhead. Left to himself, Cilm ripped and tore at the innards of the unmoving box until they lay strewn all over the floor.

  “Who dares!” came a bellow of outrage from above.

  “They have destroyed the oracle!” Judging from his tone, the second speaker was more frightened than angry.

  Hooded figures were gathering on the
level above the pit. Buncan was gratified to see that they carried not cryptic sorceral implements but ordinary weapons: swords and knives.

  “Get ready,” he murmured to his companions. They formed a tight little knot off by themselves.

  “Kill them, kill them!” Beginning softly with one of the figures, the chant grew quickly in strength and volume.

  The tallest of the hooded ones stepped to the edge of the stairs and shoved back his cowl. Eyes burning, ears twitching, Droww glowered ferociously down at them.

  “You will be most agonizingly dismembered, and then I will have the pleasure of transmuting your genes!” His glare was pitiless. The threat had little effect on Buncan, since except for the part about dismembering he didn’t have the vaguest idea what the wizard was talking about.

  “By the power of the All-Splicing Mage, by the haploid dissolution. By the fecundity of my kind and the fevered twists of their DNA, I call upon the Great Master of Selective Breeding to make an example most hideous of these blasphemers!” Raising his hands toward the ceiling, he began a new chant that was quickly picked up by his followers.

  A dark glowing mass formed at the base of the stairs. Low, reverberant grunts and growls began to issue from within.

  “Steady,” Buncan urged his companions, his fingers taut on the strings of the duar.

  Something was moving within the bloodred cloud. As it began to dissipate, a hulking shape half as big as Snaugenhutt emerged. Sloping, hunched shoulders were clad in a studded leather vest. Its short, fluffy tail had been transformed into a nest of spikes, as had the crest that ran down its back. Both ears were ragged and torn, and long fangs hung from the upper lip. One hand dragged an immense wooden mallet along the floor.

  “Carrot!” it rumbled.

  “No, no!” Above, Droww was forced to interrupt his chant and point at Buncan and the otters. “Rend, tear, immobilize!”

  The massive figure blinked uncertainly. “Carrot?”

  “Carrot later!” a dyspeptic Droww bellowed. “Rend first!”

  Heavy-lidded eyes focused on the unmoving trio. Lifting the mallet in both hands, the mutated hare lurched forward and swung.

  Buncan began to play even as he leaped to his right, the otters scattering in the other direction. The head of the mallet dimpled the floor where they’d been standing.

  “Hey, gruesome, over ’ere!” From beneath a still-intact table Squill made a face at the apparition, which brought the mallet around and down with a prodigious grunt, reducing the wooden platform to splinters. Squill had long since scrambled to safety.

  Droww wrung his hands helplessly. “No, no! Be careful!”

  This request evidently involving elements of subtlety far too fine for the ungainly executioner to comprehend, it paused to blink dumbly up at its master. “Rend careful?”

  The delay allowed Buncan and his friends time to regroup. Despite being winded, the otters harmonized splendidly and without hesitation.

  “This no place to ignore a dare

  Callin’ up this thing’s ’ardly fair

  But that’s all right, ’cause we got rap to spare

  If you won’t fight straight, we won’t fight square Beware

  Up there

  Better have a care

  Better watch your hare

  ’Cause our fresh hip-hop’s

  Gonna fix your lop

  An’ your magic ensnare.”

  Silvery fog enveloped the mallet-wielding monster. Halting in midswing, it let out a mammoth sneeze (evidently the enchanted mist was ticklish) and, despite the by now somewhat desperate chanting of the Dark Ones, began to shrink. Fangs diminished, feet contracted, head and body dwindled. Only the ears remained resolutely unchanged.

  The brute continued to reduce until there stood in its place a diminutive rabbit no larger than Mowara, with ungainly ears that went all over the place. A representative of the lop clan, Buncan thought with a smile as he relaxed his fingers, to end all lops.

  Despite the transformation, it still made an effort to comply with its original directive. “Rend!” it declaimed in a high, squeaky voice as it brought its equally shrunken mallet down on Squill’s foot.

  The otter let out a yelp and danced clear. “You bloody little … I’ll tie you up in your own ears an’ use you for a bleedin’ yo-yo!”

  “Enough!” The raging Droww flung his arms wide. The other Dark Ones drew away from him.

  “’Ear that?” Neena prompted him. Straining, Buncan could make out the sounds of fighting somewhere outside the chamber. He smiled. With the Dark Ones diverted, it sounded like Wurragarr and his people had managed to breach the gate. If they were inside the wall, it was only a matter of time.

  “It’s over!” he shouted up at the aggrieved hare. “You’re finished, Droww. Even as we stand here, our friends are busy cleansing this monastery.”

  “Except for you,” Neena added pleasantly. “You’re too bloomin’ ugly to cleanse.”

  “You slew the oracle.” Droww’s voice was a tormented snarl. “You have destroyed knowledge. Do you know what that means?”

  “Yeah, we know what it means.” Buncan gave the inert, disemboweled box a kick, and it rattled hollowly. “It means you’ll never again be able to use it to foist your perversions on innocent people.”

  “Perhaps not, but while the knowledge-giver has been slain, the knowledge it has already given remains with us.” He spread his arms to encompass the pit. “All this, yea, even all this, can with time be replaced.” He glanced to his left. “We can begin anew, Brothers.” A murmur arose from the other Dark Ones as they waited to see what their mentor would do.

  He returned his gaze to Buncan and his companions. “But first,” he hissed, “we must deal finally and irrevocably with these intruders. Then we will take care of those pathetic country folk outside.” The wizard straightened. “You spellsing impressively.”

  “Cor, we ain’t ’ardly worked up a sweat, guv. Colloquially speakin’, that is.” Though Neena knew she was physically incapable of perspiring, she’d often wished she could sample the sensation.

  “I tire.” Droww let out a measured sigh. “So much to do, so many distractions. It is hard to contemplate greatness when one is always tired.”

  “It’s even ’arder when you’re dead.” Squill fingered his sword as he favored the wizard with a friendly grin, whiskers arching.

  “An observation full of truth, water rat, and one which applies equally to the mundane.” Turning to the acolyte on his immediate left, he murmured, “Release the Berserker.”

  “The Berserker?” the hooded one stammered. “But great Droww—”

  “Release it, I say!” He gave the hesitant hare a violent shove. “I will establish control.”

  Hearing a moan, Buncan turned to see the rooman backed up against the wall. “What’s this ‘Berserker,’ friend Cilm?” But this time their ally was unable to reply.

  An instant later the chamber echoed to the sound of wood splintering as a mighty physique came smashing through an upper-level door. Fragments of wood spilled over into the pit. Buncan waved away sawdust and tried to focus.

  A much smaller shape came gliding rapidly toward him. “Viz!” On the level above, Buncan could see Snaugenhutt peering down at them, a satisfied smile on his homely face. Bits of door teetered on his broad back and his armor was badly dented, but he appeared otherwise unharmed. In his wake the sounds of fighting doubled in volume.

  “We’re through,” declared the tickbird, hovering overhead. “They’re giving up all over the monastery.”

  Buncan turned to stare back up at the master of the Dark Ones. “It’s all over, Droww. The ‘simple’ folk you despise have overcome your creations. Make it easy on yourself and surrender now.”

  Droww appeared not the least concerned. The wizard was looking not at him but to his right, toward the dark portal that sealed off the far end of the pit.

  “Not only is it not ‘over,’ human cub, it has not yet begun. Your imm
ature mind is not capable of envisioning the end product of informed and inspired genetic manipulation. Indeed, you are not even aware of the forces of which I speak. It therefore falls to me to enlighten you. Pay close attention. It is the last thing you will ever learn.” His laugh was like a rotting jellyfish: soft, unpleasant, redolent of decay.

  “When you have been dismembered, it will be my pleasure to recombine you. I will fashion from your remains several simpering, crawling tilings, the lowest of the low. You will live in constant pain, begging, for death, an example to any and all who would dare consider defying the sanctity of Kilagurri.”

  Squill pointedly blew his nose into a sheaf of papers he’d picked off the floor. “That’s quite a speech, guv, but it ain’t relevant, ’cause you’re gonna be ’eadless real soon now.” Gripping his sword tightly, he started toward the stairs.

  A distant rumble made him stop.

  Everyone looked curiously, uncertainly, toward the shuttered portal that was now the focus of the wizard’s attention. Suddenly a high-pitched shriek that scraped the upper limits of audibility echoed from behind the opaque barrier.

  Buncan shivered in spite of himself. Nothing screamed quite like a dying rabbit.

  Droww pushed out his lower lip. “Pity. It would seem that in the course of carrying out his duties Brother Jeurrat did not move quite quickly enough.”

  It wasn’t so much a rumbling, Buncan thought restively, as a ponderous heavy breathing that was coming nearer and nearer. He thought of the bellows constantly at work at the Lynchbany Smithy’s. No cheery, animated sparks accompanied the approach of this sound. It resonated with prodigious threat.

  Neena glanced at him. “Buncan?” The seriousness of the situation was reflected in her calling him by his real name.

  He kept staring at the blocked portal, mesmerized by something he could only sense. “I don’t know. Something big.”

  Droww held his ground, but his colleagues commenced a slow retreat, murmuring nervously among themselves.