Son of Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Seven)

by Alan Dean Foster

  Snaugenhutt mounted the steps that led out of the pit, whereupon they all conferenced with the two fighters who had arrived moments earlier. Resistance within the monastery had begun to break down. As soon as word reached the remaining defenders that Droww had been killed and the pit bull-bull was on the loose and looking to revenge itself against its former masters, it would doubtless collapse.

  The bandicoot and ringtail rushed out to inform their companions of what had transpired within. As soon as the information reached Wurragarr, he ordered a general pull-back. The victorious but spent farmers and craftsfolk retreated through the shattered gate to the fringe of the forest, leaving the terminal cleansing of the monastery to the rampaging pit bull-bull.

  Overcoming their initial distaste, they eventually welcomed the grotesque but pitiable Cilm into their company, as they did all those refugees from the abode of the Dark Ones who made it out alive, repenters and innocents alike. Within the high walls terrible screams and piercing shrieks attested to the remorseless activity of the pit bull-bull as it revenged itself against its creators. Fires were beginning to break out among the stark structures as lamps and torches were toppled in the ongoing frenzy.

  “What’ll happen to the canine-thing?” In the flickering light Snaugenhutt’s bulk looked as if it had been hewn from granite. Gragelouth stood nearby, talking trade with a casual cus-cus.

  “I don’t know.” Buncan leaned against the rhino’s flank for support as he stared at the engulfed monastery. “But I don’t think it’ll come after us. Maybe it’ll stay with, live within the ruins. Maybe it’ll remember the song we sung it and be comforted a little. Eventually I hope it’ll make peace with the people who live around here. After all, it was one of them once. Several of them.”

  “What if it doesn’t, mate?” Turning, Buncan saw Wurragarr approaching. Bedarra and Quibo accompanied him. “What if it comes out looking for a fight?”

  Buncan stood away from Snaugenhutt’s side. “Where are those happy fliers, your spellsingers? And their accompanists?”

  “Too happy by half.” Wurragarr gestured at Bedarra, who disappeared into the woods. The thylacine returned moments later with the three kookaburras and their attendant musicians. Looking anything but jovial, the heavy-beaked birds landed on a convenient branch nearby. They had witnessed sufficient slaughter to mute even their normally irrepressible sense of humor.

  Settling himself cross-legged on the ground, Buncan cradled his duar against his waist. “I want you all to pay attention. The tune is not difficult, nor are the words. Squill, Neena?”

  Looking bored, the otters lay down next to him. “Not again, mate?” Squill picked at the grass.

  “This shouldn’t take long.” Buncan turned back to his attentive audience. “If the monster emerges, and is hostile, this is the spellsong you use against it.” He began to play. With notable lack of enthusiasm, the otters supplied what words they could remember.

  Deep within the blazing monastery a visceral, pitiable howl rose above the dry crackle of burning wood and the crash of collapsing timbers.

  Chapter 24

  ALL NIGHT THE FOREST resounded to the ebullient cries of abducted children and unlucky travelers being reunited with their families and friends. At Wurragarr’s insistence, food and fresh clothing were shared with those unfortunate individuals who were the offspring of the Dark Ones’ experiments. Such joyous reunions helped everyone to put aside their memories of the carnage which had taken place behind the scorched walls of the monastery.

  Gradually empathy supplanted revulsion as Cilm’s fellow mutants were welcomed into the fellowship of the country folk. Despite their often horrific appearance, all had been normal at one time. While their former lives could not be restored to them, they could be made comfortable within the limits imposed by their condition. Amid scenes of great heartache, all were promised a place to live in quiet and safety for the balance of their unnatural lives.

  Once safely down the mountain a great weight seemed to lift from the little army’s collective shoulders. That night saw a celebration the likes of which Buncan and the otters had only imagined from Mudge’s often exaggerated tales. Buncan made friends with a human girl his own age, while Squill and Neena exuberantly partnered up elsewhere. Neena opted for the companionship of a handsome young tiger cat from a far valley, while Squill found himself in the company of a black-furred, bare-tailed, robustly built young female of a tribe he didn’t recognize.

  “I’m a marsupalian devil, mate,” she informed him in response to his query. He lowered his eyelids along with his voice.

  “I’ll bet you are, luv,” he replied suavely.

  Songs of thanksgiving and reconciliation filled the forest.

  The following morning the travelers gathered around a hastily erected stone firepit whose blackened contents still smoldered from the revelry of the night before. Seated on a half-burned log on the other side, Wurragarr and Bedarra listened respectfully to their newfound friends’ exotic tale of travel and tribulation. Around them the woods bustled with farmers and tradesfolk readying themselves for the long march back to their homes.

  “We can’t tell you how grateful we all are.” Wurragarr indicated the old galah, who perched comfortably on the big roo’s right shoulder. “Mowara’s told us about what happened inside. Seems clear that without your help we wouldn’t have stood much of a chance against the mucky sods.”

  “You’re bloomin’ right there.” Squill allowed himself a broad smile until Buncan jabbed him in the side. “’Ere now, mate,” the otter protested. “’Tis true.”

  “Haven’t you two ever learned anything about tact?”

  Squill whistled sharply. “Learned about tact? From Mudge?”

  Buncan pursed his lips. “I see your point.” He turned back to their hosts. “We were glad we could be of help. As the offspring of great adventurers, we had no other choice.”

  “I seem to remember—” Squill began, but Gragelouth cut him off.

  “Perhaps in your gratefulness you might do us a good turn?”

  “Anything within our power to grant is yours,” Wurragarr replied magnanimously. “We owe you more than our lives.”

  Gragelouth ran two fingers through the thick gray fur of his forehead. “As you know, we seek an undefined, uncertain something which may or may not actually exist. It is known as the Grand Veritable.”

  “Yes, I remember you mentioning it before,” said Wurragarr. “Go on.”

  “I think we are closing on it, but we still have a ways to go to the northwest.” The sloth looked up at the shadows which loomed in that direction. “We must go higher still into these mountains. While supplies would be welcomed, a guide would be more useful still.”

  Wurragarr and Bedarra exchanged a glance before the roo returned his gaze to the travelers. “We’ve left behind families who need to know that we’ve triumphed and survived. All of us have obligations at home: businesses to attend to, crops to plant or bring in, children to raise.” Turning with a slight hop, he gestured into the distance.

  “No one I know travels into the high mountains. There’s nothing there except cold and rock. To the east, yes; to the south, yes; to the north, occasionally in winter. But never to the west or northwest. That may change now that the Dark Ones are defeated. Or it may not. The high mountains are home to many shadows which we simple country folk are not inclined to pursue.”

  “There, you see!” Gragelouth’s tongue darted in and out reflexively as he turned to his companions.

  “Proves nothin’, guv’.” A disinterested Squill lay on his back, picking his teeth with a sharpened twig.

  Bedarra yawned, displaying his incredible gape. “There are stories of some who choose to explore that country. They go in search of jewels or precious metals. They never return.”

  “Bedarra’s right.” Wurragarr turned back to them. “Nothing good has ever come out of those mountains. I’d prefer not to think of you, our good new friends, going up that way.�
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  “Nevertheless, that is our goal.” Gragelouth was apologetic.

  The roo nodded slowly. “We will give you all we can in the way of supplies, but you won’t find anyone who’ll go with you. We’re not adventurers or great sorcerers like you. I myself have a farm to tend to. Sorry, mates.”

  It was silent around the corpse of the fire. “We shall simply have to proceed on our own, then, as best we can,” Gragelouth said finally.

  “Now ’ow did I know you were goin’ to say that?” murmured Squill sarcastically.

  They accompanied the ragtag but victorious army until a tumbling stream pointed the way up toward a likely-looking pass. There ensued many emotional farewells, replete with hugs and kisses in which Buncan and the otters participated enthusiastically while Gragelouth stood shyly aside. Wurragarr and his companions reiterated their promise of shelter and succor anywhere in the fertile valleys and hills beyond … should the travelers return this way, though that unhappy thought was not voiced.

  “I wonder what finally happened to the pit bull-bull?” Buncan mused as they began their ascent.

  “Died in the fires.” Snaugenhutt climbed slowly, carefully. “Pitiful critter, but a hell of a fighter.”

  “Maybe it got away,” Neena suggested. “Found itself a cave or somethin’.”

  “Maybe.” Buncan’s attention was on the rugged peaks that lay before them. “If it did, we could run into it again.”

  “Let’s hope not, Bikies.” She was scampering along the edge of the stream, an eye out for edible crustaceans. “I ain’t sure I could sing any more verses o’ that bloody cub song o’ yours, no matter ’ow strong its magic.”

  As they climbed higher, the last of the paperbark trees gave way wholly to evergreens. These in turn grew stunted, becoming no more than bushes, until at last there was only hearty low scrub and grasses eking out a living amongst the wind-scoured boulders and scree.

  Streams like molten quartz cascaded in musical falls down steps of schist and gneiss, while strange insects buzzed busily about the vegetation that invariably gathered at the base of each water drop. The blue of the sky was deeper here, the gray of the rocks more brilliant, and always they walked in the shadows of recent encounters. Curiosity and Gragelouth drove them on.

  As the days passed, Buncan began to wonder if they would cross the top of the world and start down the other side. Rumor was a powerful bait, but it was not irresistible. Old doubts never put entirely to rest began to trouble him as they crossed ridge upon ridge, climbing ever higher. Whenever he felt assured, Squill was always there to put fresh doubts in his mind.

  Snaugenhutt swerved to go around a large dark-brown bush when the growth, with unexpected alacrity, rose up on two legs, extended an absurdly small head on the end of a long, curved neck, and stepped out of their way. The travelers regarded it with astonishment.

  “What are you?” Buncan asked as they halted.

  Bright blue eyes blinked. An enormous feathered body balanced deftly on the pillarlike legs. Clawed, splayed feet looked strong enough to rip the guts out of any presumptuous attacker. For such a formidable body to terminate in so tiny a head was unavoidably comical. The creature was all out of balance, Buncan thought. It looked like a runaway adjective.

  “Wot the ’ell are you?” Neena asked with typical otterish subtlety.

  “I’m a moa,” the giant flightless bird explained politely. “Who are you? Not many visitors up this way.”

  “Your kind is new to us.” Gragelouth eyed the bird with the same sort of look he would have bestowed on a gold coin that had suddenly gone transparent. “Not in all my travels have I ever seen anything quite like you, though you are clearly kin to the tribe of ostrich.”

  “There aren’t a lot of us,” the bird explained.

  “No moa, huh?” Neena ignored the glare Buncan threw her. “Sorry, Bunkles. Couldn’t resist.”

  “You should learn to.”

  “I’m used to jokes.” The moa had a melancholy voice. “All of us who survive up here are. The world has left us behind.” A huge wingtip indicated the surrounding, snow-clad peaks. “This is the Country of the Recently Forgotten.”

  “As opposed to the Land of the Often Overlooked.” Gragelouth ventured a thin smile. “I have traveled that region, but not this one.”

  “Here dwell creatures who have surrendered the future to others. Myself included.” It let out a heartrending whistle. Buncan was instantly sympathetic, and even the hardened otters were moved. How could one not feel sorry for something Nature had designed to look like a bad joke?

  “I didn’t mean to make fun of you,” Neena said when that whistle of lamentation had finally perished among the side canyons. “Well, actually I did, but right now I rather wish I ’adn’t.”

  “That’s all right. I expect to be extinct any day now anyway. In the meantime, it’s nice to meet others, any others. I haven’t seen another moa for nearly a year. No, not many of us left. For all I know, I might be the last of my kind. There are a lot of lasts up here, living out their tribal heritage. Before long, only our memories will be left.”

  “Well, ain’t this the cheery interlude,” Squill grumbled.

  Gragelouth studied the absurd bird. “I don’t suppose that you have in your considerable wanderings heard anything of a Grand Veritable?”

  Long eyelashes fluttered. “Oh, that old thing. Yes, I know of it. I even know where it is.”

  Buncan felt a surge of relief and elation. Maybe they weren’t going to have to hike to the top of the world after all. Their quest had a destination.

  If the flightless bird could be believed, the Grand Veritable was more than mere rumor.

  “Well, what is it, what is it like?” The excited merchant fought to control himself. Which, in Gragelouth’s case, did not require much effort.

  “What does it do?” Neena prompted the moa eagerly.

  The tiny head dipped to one side. “I wouldn’t know about that. When you’re facing imminent extinction, you don’t really have much interest in peripherals. You’d have to ask the Guardian.”

  A catch, Buncan thought suddenly. As Mudge was so fond of saying, there was always a catch. Though he had to admit he wasn’t really surprised. If anything as fabulous as the Grand Veritable actually existed, it was only natural to expect it to have some kind of guardian.

  Well, they’d overcome whirlwinds and bandits and inside-out rivers and a pit bull-bull. “What’s this Guardian like?”

  “Not too big?” Gragelouth essayed a hopeful smile. “Willing, perhaps, to let us have a look?”

  “I wouldn’t think so.” The moa was unencouraging. “He’s very testy.”

  “Is he also one of the Recently Forgotten?” Buncan inquired.

  The moa nodded. “Personally, I’d like to see him become one of the Completely Forgotten. Him and all his tribe.” Feathers riffled as the bird gave a visible shudder. “He’s bad company. You don’t want to provoke him.”

  “If we were foolish enough to want to,” said Gragelouth slowly, “how might we go about it?”

  The moa let out a regretful whistle, like the lowest note of a pipe organ. Turning, it gestured with both beak and wing.

  “Continue on your present course. Before long you will come to a branching of this stream. Follow the branch. Though it appears to run straight into a sheer mountainside, track it upward. The Veritable is housed in a cave that is also home to the Guardian. You can confront him if you wish, but I wouldn’t try it. He’d probably eat me.”

  “Eat you!” Gragelouth gaped at the moa. “The Guardian is one of the cold-blooded?”

  “No, he’s as intelligent as you or I. But we of the Recently Forgotten retain ancient instincts and habits that have been largely abandoned by the rest of the world. Oh, he’ll think about it before he eats you. Maybe even have a moment of regret. But he’s not called the Guardian for nothing. He’s up there to keep the Veritable away from inquiring minds. Been doing so for as long as the Ve
ritable’s been there, I imagine.”

  “’Ow did this wonder get ’ere?” Neena wanted to know. “In a shower o’ stars, or via some sorceral sublimation?”

  The moa shrugged. Feathers went everywhere. “I have no idea. I’m not into necromancy. Some say it arrived on a pillar of blue flame, others that is was delivered in the beak of the Maker herself. The story I personally give the most credence to says that it just fell out of a stormy sky one day and bounced a couple of times before coming to rest in a puddle of muddy water. When some Wise-Ones-Who-Shall-Go-Unnamed found out what it could do, they stuck it in the cave and assigned a Guardian to it. Successive Guardians have kept watch over it ever since.” A huge wing rose and fell.

  “Like I said, it doesn’t much interest me. When you’re on the verge of extinction, little things like Guardians don’t bother you. Obviously you feel otherwise. I wish you luck.”

  Buncan smiled sympathetically. “We wish you luck as well.”

  “And I,” Snaugenhutt rumbled. “I know what it is to be alone and abandoned.”

  “Not by Nature, you don’t.” The moa turned and strode off downstream, singing softly to itself. They watched until it had disappeared.

  “Shame,” Neena murmured. “A handsome creature, if a bit oddly proportioned. Did you note the blue o’ its eyes, an’ ’ow the sun reddened its plumage?”

  “Maybe he’ll find another moa,” Buncan suggested, “and they’ll have lots of little moas.”

  “’Ow many moa does it take…?” Squill began. In a somber mood, Buncan cut him off sharply.

  They followed the cheerful little tributary up into a dense thicket of low scrub, Snaugenhutt plowing easily through the tightly interwoven branches and trunks. Much of the vegetation they were now encountering was of a type unfamiliar even to the widely traveled Gragelouth.

  Truly this was a place of the Forgotten, Buncan reflected. He pondered what the Guardian would be like even as he wondered if he ought to be afraid, then decided he was too tired. Whatever it was they would deal with it, as they had dealt with every other obstacle which had crossed their path. The duar bounced lightly against his back.