Spellsinger

by neetha Napew

  be solipsists by nature."

  "I can understand that," said Jon-Tom. "I'll be happy to supply whatever

  arguments and information I can."

  The tail slid back onto the sand. Jon-Tom began the climb up the natural ladder

  and glanced back at his companions.

  "What are you all waiting for? It's safe. Falameezar's a fellow worker, a

  comrade."

  The dragon positively beamed.

  When they had all mounted and found seats and had secured their baggage, the

  dragon moved slowly out into the water. In a few minutes they had reached the

  center of the river. Falameezar turned upstream and began to swim steadily and

  without apparent effort against the considerable current.

  "Tell me now," he said by way of opening conversation, "there is a thing I do

  not understand."

  "There are things none of us understand," said Jon-Tom. "Just now I'm not too

  sure I understand myself."

  "You are introspeetive as well as socially conscious. That's nice." The dragon

  cleared his throat, and smoke drifted back over the riders.

  "According to Marx, the capitalists should long since have been swept away and

  the world should now exist in a stateless, classless society. Yet nothing could

  be further from the truth."

  "For one thing," Jon-Tom began, trying not to sound too much like a tutor, "this

  world hasn't yet fully emerged from the feudal stage. But more importantly...

  surely you've heard of Rosa Luxemburg's Accumulation of Capital?"

  "No." A crimson eye blinked curiously back at him. "Please tell me about it."

  Jon-Tom proceeded to do so, with caution and at length.

  They had no problems. Falameezar could catch more fish in one snap than the

  entire party could in a day's trying, and the dragon was quite willing to share

  his catch. Also to cook it.

  The assured, easy supply of fresh food led Mudge and Caz to grow exceedingly

  lazy. Jon-Tom's biggest worry was not occupying Falameezar but that either of

  the two dragon-borne lotus-eaters might let something slip in casual

  conversation which would tell the dragon that they were no more Marxists than

  they were celibate.

  At least they were not merchants or traders. Mudge, Caz, and Talea qualified as

  free agents, though Jon-Tom couldn't stretch the definition of their erstwhile

  professions far enough to consider them craftsmen. Clothahump could be

  considered a philosopher, and Pog was his apprentice. With a little coaching

  from Jon-Tom, the turtle was able to acquire a semantic handle on such concepts

  as dialectical materialism and thus assist with some of the conversational load.

  This was necessary because while Jon-Tom had studied Marxism thoroughly it had

  been over three years ago. Details returned reluctantly. Each was challenged by

  the curious Falameezar, who had evidently committed to memory every word of both

  The Communist Manifesto and Das Kapital.

  There was no talk of Lenin or Mao, however, for which Jon-Tom was thankful. Any

  time the subject of revolution arose the dragon was apt to wonder if maybe they

  oughtn't to attack this or that town or cluster of traders. But without much of

  a practical base on which to operate he grew confused, and Jon-Tom was able to

  steer their debate to less violent aspects of social change.

  Fortunately, there were few traders plying the river to stimulate the dragon's

  ire, and the moment they spotted the black silhouette of Falameezar they hastily

  abandoned both their boats and the water. The dragon protested that he would

  like to talk with the crews as much as he would like to cremate the captains,

  but sadly admitted he did not seem to have the ability to get close to people.

  "They don't understand," he was saying softly one morning. "I merely wish to be

  accepted as an equal member of the proletariat. They will not even stop to

  listen. Of course, most of them do not have the necessary grasp and overview of

  their society's socioeconomic problems. They rant and rave and are generally so

  abusive that they give me heartburn."

  "I remember what you said about your fellow dragons' independent natures. Can't

  you organize them at all?"

  Falameezar let out a disgusted snort, sending orange fire across the water's

  surface. "They will not even stop to listen. They do not understand that to be

  truly happy and successful it is necessary for all to work together, each

  helping his comrade as we march onward toward the glorious, classless, socialist

  future."

  "I didn't know dragons had classes."

  "It embarrasses me to admit it, but there are those among us who hold themselves

  better than their fellows." He shook his great head dolefully. "It is a sad,

  confused world we live in, comrade. Sad and exploitative."

  "Too true," agreed Jon-Tom readily.

  The dragon brightened. "But that makes the challenge all the greater, does it

  not?"

  "Absolutely, and this challenge we go to confront now is the most dangerous one

  ever to face the world."

  "I suppose." Falameezar looked thoughtful. "But one thing puzzles me. Surely

  among all these invaders-to-come there must be some workers? They cannot all be

  bosses."

  Oh, lord, now how, Jon-Tom? "That's the case, I suppose," he replied as quickly

  as he could, "but they're all irrevocably imbued with the desire to be bigger

  bosses than those they now serve." Falameezar still seemed unsure.

  Inspiration served. "And they also believe implicitly that if they can conquer

  the rest of the world, the warmlands and the rest, then they will become

  capitalist bosses over the workers here, and their old bosses will remain master

  over them. So they will give rise, if successful, to the most implacable class

  of capitalists the world has ever known, a class of bosses' bosses."

  Falameezar's voice echoed like an avalanche across the water. "This must be

  stopped!"

  "I agree." Jon-Tom's attention for the past hour had been more and more on the

  shoreline. Hills had risen in place of low beaches. On the left bank they merged

  into sheer rock walls almost a hundred feet high, far too high for even the

  powerful Falameezar to negotiate. The dragon was swerving gradually toward his

  right.

  "Rapids ahead," he explained. "I have never traveled beyond this point. I

  dislike walking and would much rather swim, as befits a river dragon. But for

  the cause," he said bravely, "I will of course dare anything, so I will walk the

  rapids."

  "Of course," Jon-Tom murmured.

  It was growing dark. "We can camp the first place you can easily climb ashore,

  comrade Falameezar." He looked back in distaste. Mudge and Caz were playing at

  dice on a flat section of the dragon's back. "For a change maybe our 'hunters'

  can find us something to eat besides fish. After all," he murmured with a wicked

  grin, "everyone must contribute to the welfare of the whole."

  "How very true," said the dragon, adding politely, "not that I mind catching you

  fish."

  "It's not that." Jon-Tom was enjoying the thought of the two somnolent gamblers

  slogging through the muck to find enough meat to feed the voracious dragon.

  "It's time some of us did some real work f
or you. You've sure as hell done

  enough for us."

  "Well put, comrade," said the dragon. "We must bow to social decorum. I would

  enjoy a change from fish."

  The hilly shore bordered a land of smaller trees, narrower of bole and widely

  scattered amid thick brush. Despite his insistence that he preferred water to

  land, the dragon had no trouble smashing his way through the foliage bulwarking

  the water's edge.

  A small clearing close to the river was soon located. They settled into camp to

  the accompaniment of rising moonlight. Ahead was the steady but soothing roar of

  the rapids Falameezar would have to negotiate the next day.

  Jon-Tom dumped a load of wood by the fire, brushed bark and dirt from his hands,

  and asked Caz, "What do ships traveling past this point do about the rapids?"

  "Most are constructed and designed so as to make their way safely through them

  when traveling down to the Glittergeist," the rabbit explained. "When traveling

  upstream it is necessary to portage around. There are places where it can be

  done. Logs have been laid across ancient, well-known paths. The ships are then

  dragged across this crude cellulose lubrication until quieter water is reached."

  He nodded curiously toward the dragon. Falameezar lay contentedly on the far

  side of the clearing, his tail curled across his jaws.

  "How did you ever manage to talk the monster into conveying us atop his belly

  instead of inside it? I understood nothing of his riddle or your reply, nor of

  the lengthy talk you have engaged in subsequently."

  "Never mind," said Jon-Tom, stirring the fire with a twig. "I'll take care of

  the dialectic. You just try to say as little as possible to him."

  "No fear of that, my friend. He is not my idea of a scintillating

  conversationalist. Nor do I have any desire to become someone's supper through

  misapplication of a word or two." He patted Jon-Tom on the back and grinned.

  Despite the rabbit's somewhat aloof bearing, Jon-Tom couldn't help liking him.

  Caz was inherently likable and had already proven himself a willing and

  good-natured companion. Hadn't he volunteered to come on what was likely to be a

  dangerous journey? To be quite fair, he was the only true volunteer among them.

  Or was there some other motive behind the rabbit's participation that so far

  he'd kept well hidden? The thought gave Jon-Tom an unexpected start. He eyed the

  retreating ears. Maybe Caz had reasons of his own for wanting to travel

  upstream, reasons that had nothing to do with their mission. He might desert

  them at the first convenient opportunity.

  Now you're thinking like Clothahump, he told himself angrily. There's enough for

  you to worry about without trying to analyze your companion's thoughts.

  Speaking of companions, where the devil had Mudge got himself to? Caz had

  returned a few moments ago with a fat, newtlike creature. It drew deprecatory

  comments from Talea, the designated chef for the evening, so they'd given it to

  the delighted Falameezar.

  But Mudge had been gone a long time now without returning. Jon-Tom didn't think

  the mercurial otter would try to split on them in so isolated a place when he'd

  already passed up excellent opportunities to do so in far more familiar

  surroundings.

  He walked around the fire, which was now crackling insistently for fuel, and

  voiced his concern to Clothahump. As usual, the wizard sat by himself. His face

  shone in the firelight. He was mumbling softly to himself, and Jon-Tom wondered

  at what lay behind his quiet talk. There was real magic in the sorcerer's words,

  a source of never ending amazement to Jon-Tom.

  The wizard's expression was strained, as befitted one on whose shoulders (or

  shell) rested the possible resolution of a coming Armageddon.

  Clothahump saw him without having to look up. "Good eve to you, my boy.

  Something troubles you." Jon-Tom had long since overcome any surprise at the

  wizard's sensitivity.

  "It's Mudge, sir."

  "That miscreant again?" The aged face looked up at him. "What has he done now?"

  "It's not what he's done so much as what he hasn't done, sir, which is come

  back. I'm worried, sir. Caz returned a while ago, but he didn't go very far into

  the forest and he hasn't seen Mudge."

  "Still hunting, perhaps." Most of the wizard's mind seemed to be on matters far

  off and away.

  "I don't think so, sir. He should have returned by now. And I don't think he's

  run off."

  "No, not here, my boy."

  "Could he have tried to catch something that caught him instead? It would be

  like Mudge to try and show off with a big catch."

  "Not that simpleton coward, boy. But as to something else making a meal of him,

  that is always a risk when a lone hunter goes foraging in a strange forest.

  Remember, though, that while our otter companion is somewhat slow upstairs,

  there is nothing sluggish about his feet. He is lightning fast. It is

  conceivable that something might overpower him, but it would first have to

  surprise him or run him down. Neither is likely."

  "He could have hurt himself," persisted a worried Jon-Tom. "Even the most

  skillful hunter can't outrun a broken leg."

  Clothahump turned away from him. A touch of impatience crept into his voice.

  "Don't belabor it, boy. I have more important things to think upon."

  "Maybe I'd better have a look for him." Jon-Tom glanced specula-lively at the

  silent ring of thin trees that looked down on the little clearing.

  "Maybe you had." The boy means well, Clothahump thought, but he tends not to

  think things through and to give in to his emotions. Best to keep a close watch

  on him lest he surrender to his fancies. Keep him occupied.

  "Yes, that would be a prudent thing to do. You go and find him. We've enough

  food for the night." His gaze remained fixed on something beyond the view of

  mere mortals.

  "I'll be back with him soon." The lanky youth turned and jogged off into the

  woods.

  Clothahump was fast sinking into his desired trance. As his mind reeled,

  something pricked insistently at it. It had to do with this particular section

  of Tailaroam-bordered land. It was full night now, and that also was somehow

  significant.

  Was there something he should have told the boy? Had he sent him off unprepared

  for something he should expect to encounter hereabouts? Ah, you self-centered

  old fool, he chided himself, and you having just accused him of not thinking

  things through.

  But he was far too deeply entranced now to slip easily back into reality. The

  nagging worries fell behind his probing, seeking mind.

  He's a brave youngster, was his fading, weak appraisal. He'll be able to take

  care of himself....

  Untold leagues away, underneath the infectious mists of the Green-downs in the

  castle of Cugluch, the iridescent Empress reclined on her ruby pillows. She

  replayed her sorcerer's words mentally, lingering over each syllable with the

  pleasure that destruction's anticipation sent through her.

  "Madam," he had bowed cautiously over this latest pronouncement, "each day the

  Manifestation reveals powers for which even I know no precedent. Now I bel
ieve

  that we may be able to conquer more thoroughly than we have ever dreamed."

  "How is this, Sorcerer?--and you had better be prepared to stand by any promises

  you make me." Skrritch eyed his knobby legs appraisingly.

  "I will give you a riddle instead of a promise," Eejakrat said with untoward

  daring. Skrritch nodded.

  "When will we have completed the annihilation of the warm-lands?" he asked her.

  "When every warmlander bows to me," she answered without hesitation.

  The wizard did not respond.

  "When every warmlander has been emptied to a dead husk?"

  Still he did not reply.

  "Speak, Sorcerer," Skrritch directed testily.

  "The warmlands will be ours, my lady, when every warm-blooded slave has been

  returned to the soil and in his plaee stands a Plated subject. When the

  farmlands, shops, and cities of the west are repopulated with Plated Folk your

  empire will know no limit!"

  Skrritch looked at him as if he'd gone mad and began to preen her claw tips.

  Eejakrat took a prudent step backward, but his words held the Empress in

  mid-motion.

  "Madam, I assure you, the Manifestation has the power to incinerate entire races

  of warmlanders. Its death-power is so pervasive that we shall not only crush

  them, we will obliterate their memory from the earth. Your minions will march

  into their cities to find the complete welcome of silence."

  Now Skrritch smiled her weird, omnivorous smile. The wizard and his queen locked

  eyes, and though neither really understood the extent of the destruction at

  their disposal, the air reverberated with their insidious obsession to find

  out....

  It was very dark in the forest. The moon made anemic ghosts of the trees and

  turned misshapen boulders to granite gargoyles. Bushes hid legions of tiny

  clicking things that watched with interest and talked to one another as the tall

  biped went striding past their homes.

  Jon-Tom was in fair spirits. The nightly rain had not yet begun. Only the usual

  thick mist moistened his face.

  He carried a torch made from the oil rushes that lined the river's edge. Despite

  the persistent mist the highly combustible reeds readily caught fire when he

  applied the tip of the well-spelled sparker Caz had lent to him. The torch lit

  readily and burned with a satisfying slowness.

  For a moment he had thoughts of swinging round his duar and trying to conjure up