Spellsinger

by neetha Napew

  a flashlight or two. Caution decided him against the attempt. The torch would

  serve well enough, and his accuracy where conjuration was involved thus far left

  something to be desired.

  The ground was damp from the mist-caress of late evening, and Mudge's tracks

  stood out clearly. Occasionally the boot marks would cross each other several

  times in one place, indicating where the otter had rested behind a large boulder

  or fallen log.

  Once the gap between the prints abruptly lengthened and became intermixed with

  tiny polelike marks, evidence that Mudge had given chase to something. The pole

  prints soon vanished and the otter marks shortened in stride. Whether the otter

  had made a successful kill or not Jon-Tom couldn't tell.

  Oblivious to the fact that he was moving steadily deeper into the woods, he

  continued to follow the tracks. Unexpectedly the brush gave way to an open space

  of hard-packed earth that had been raised several inches above the level of the

  surrounding surface. The footprints led up to the platform and disappeared. It

  took Jon-Tom long minutes before he could locate traces of them, mostly scuffs

  from the otter's boot heels. They indicated he'd turned off to his right along

  the artificial construct.

  "Come on back, Mudge!" There was no reply, and the forest swallowed any echo.

  "Caz brought in something already, and everyone's getting worried, and my feet

  are starting to hurt!" He started jogging down the platform.

  "Come on out, damn you! Where the hell have--?"

  The "you" was never uttered. It was replaced by a yelp of surprise as his feet

  went out from under him....

  XVII

  He found himself sliding down a gentle incline. It was slight enough and rough

  enough so that he was able to bring himself to a halt after having tumbled only

  a few yards. The torch bumped to a stop nearby. It had nearly gone out. Flames

  still flickered feebly at one corner, however. Leaning over, he picked it up and

  blew on it until it was once more aflame. Try as he would, though, he couldn't

  induce it to provide more than half the illumination it had supplied before.

  The reduced light was barely sufficient to show that he'd stumbled into an

  obviously artificial tunnel. The floor was flat and cobbled with some dully

  reflective stone. Straight walls rose five feet before curving to a slightly

  higher ceiling.

  Having established that the roof was not about to fall in on him, he took stock

  of himself. There were only bruises. The duar was scratched but unbroken. Ahead

  lay a blackness far more thorough and intimidating than friendly night. He

  wished he hadn't left his staff back in camp. There was nothing but the knife

  strapped to his belt.

  He stood, and promptly measured the height of the ceiling. Carefully turning

  around, he walked awkwardly back toward the circle of moonlight he'd fallen

  through. Nothing materialized from the depths of the tunnel to restrain him,

  though his neck hairs bristled. It is always easier to turn one's back on a

  known enemy than on an unknown one.

  He crawled up the slight incline and was soon staring out at the familiar

  forest. The lip of the gap was lined with neatly worked stone engraved with

  intricate designs and scrollwork. Many twisted in upon themselves and were set

  with the same dimly reflective rock used to pave the tunnel.

  He started to leave... and hesitated. Mudge's last boot prints had been moving

  in this direction. A close search of the rim of the hole showed no such prints,

  but the earth there was packed hard as concrete. A steel rod would not have made

  much of an impression upon it, much less the boot of an ambling otter.

  The paving of the slope and tunnel was of still tougher material, but when he

  waved the torch across it the light fell on something even more revealing than a

  boot print. It was an arrow of the kind Mudge carried in his hunting quiver.

  Crawling back inside, he started down the tunnel. Soon he came across another of

  the orphaned shafts. The first had probably fallen from the otter's quiver, but

  this one was cleanly broken. He picked it up, brought the torch close. There was

  no blood on the tip. It might have been fired at something and missed, to

  shatter on the wall or floor.

  It was possible, even likely, that Mudge was pursuing some kind of

  burrow-dwelling prey that had made its home in the tunnel. In that case

  Jon-Tom's worries might prove groundless. The otter might be just ahead, busily

  gutting a large carcass so that he'd have to carry only the meat back to camp.

  The thought of traveling down into the earth and leaving the friendly exit still

  further behind appalled him, but he could hardly go back and say truthfully he'd

  been able to track Mudge but had been too afraid to follow the otter the last

  few yards.

  There was also the possibility that his first assumption might prove correct,

  that the creature Mudge had been pursuing had turned on him and injured him. In

  that case the otter might he just a little ways down the tunnel, alive but

  helpless and bleeding.

  In his own somewhat ambivalent fashion Mudge had looked out for him. Jon-Tom

  owed him at least some help, with either bulky prey or any injuries he might

  have suffered.

  With considerable trepidation he started moving down the tunnel. The slope

  continued to descend to the same slight degree. From time to time torchlight

  revealed inscriptions on the walls. There also were isolated stone tablets

  neatly set into recesses. Directions perhaps... or warnings? He wondered what he

  would do if he reached a place where the tunnel split into two or more branches.

  He was too intent on the blackness to study the revealing frescoes overhead.

  He had no desire to become lost in an underground maze, far from surface and

  friends. No one knew where he was, and when the night rain began it would

  obliterate both Mudge's tracks and his own.

  Holding the torch ahead and to one side, he continued downward.

  Mmmmmm-m-m-m-m-m...

  He stopped instantly. The eerie moaning came clearly to him, distorted by the

  acoustics of the tunnel. He knelt, breathing hard, and listened.

  Mmmm-lllll-l-l-l-l...

  The moan sounded again, slightly louder. What unimaginable monster might even

  now be treading a path toward him? His torch still showed only blackness ahead.

  Had the creature already devoured the poor otter?

  He drew the knife, wishing again for the staff and its foot-long spear point. It

  would have been a particularly effective weapon in the narrow tunnel.

  There was no point in needlessly sacrificing himself, he thought. He'd about

  decided to retreat when the moan unexpectedly dissolved into a flurry of curses

  that were as familiar as they were distinct.

  "Mmmm-l-l-l-let me go or I'll slice you into stew meat! I'll fillet you neat and

  make wheels out o' your 'eads! I'll pop wot little eyeballs you've got out o'

  their sockets, you bloody blind-faced buggerin' ghouls!"

  A loud thump sounded, was followed by a bellow of pain and renewed cursing from

  an unfamiliar source. The source of the first audible imprecations was no longer

  in doubt, and
if Mudge was cursing so exuberantly it was most likely for the

  benefit of an assailant capable of reason and understanding and not blind animal

  hatred.

  Jon-Tom hurried down the corridor, running as fast as possible with his

  hunched-over gait. There were still no lights showing ahead of him, so he had

  burst around a bend and was on top of the busy party before he realized it.

  Letting out an involuntary yell at the sight, he threw up his arms and fell back

  against a wall, waving knife and torch to keep his balance. The effect produced

  among Mudge's attackers was unexpected, but highly satisfactory.

  "Lo, a monster!... Daemon from the outer world!... Save yourselves!... Every

  mole for hisself... !"

  Amid much screaming and shrieking he heard the sounds of tiny shoes slapping

  stone racing not toward but away from him. This was mixed with the noise of

  objects (weapons, perhaps) being thrown away in great haste by their panicky

  owners.

  It occurred to him that the sight of a gigantic human clad entirely in black and

  indigo, flashing a reflective green lizardskin cape and brandishing a flaming

  torch and knife, might be something which could truly upset a tunnel dweller.

  When the echoes of their flight had finally faded away, he regained control of

  his own insides and lowered the torch toward the remaining shape on the floor.

  " 'Ad enough, then, you bloomin' arse'oles?" The voice was as blustery as

  before, if softer from lack of wind. "Be that you, mate?" A pause while otter

  eyes reflected the torchlight. "So 'tis, so 'tis! Untie me then mate, or give me

  the knife so's I can cut--"

  "If you make a move, outworlder," said a new voice, "I will slit what I presume

  to be your friend's throat. I can get to it before you can reach me."

  Jon-Tom raised the torch higher. Two figures lay on the floor of the tunnel. One

  was Mudge. His feet were bound at the ankles and knees and his arms done up

  similarly at wrists and elbows. A carrying pole had been slipped neatly between

  the bindings.

  Leaning over the otter was a furry creature about four feet tall. His attire was

  surprisingly bright. He wore a yellow vest studded with blue cabochons and held

  together across the chest with blue laces. Additional lacings held the vest

  bottom securely to what looked like lederhosen.

  A ringlet much like a thin tiara sat askew on the brown head. It was fastened

  under the chin by yellow straps. Broad sandals were laced across its feet. The

  sandals were pointed at toe and heel, possibly a matter of design, perhaps to

  aid in digging, giving freedom to the long thick claws on each hind foot.

  One hand was fitted with a yellow metallic glove. This covered the creature's

  face as he squinted sideways through barely spread fingers, though he was trying

  hard to look directly at Jon-Tom and his torch.

  The other hand held the sickle-shaped weapon that was resting on the otter's

  throat. Mudge's own weapons lay scattered on the floor nearby, even to his

  secret heel-boot knife. His arrows, sword, and bow shared space with the spears

  and wicked-looking halberds abandoned by those who had fled at Jon-Tom's

  appearance.

  "I say to you again," repeated the determined gopher, his grip tightening on the

  sickle-knife, "if you move I'll open this thief's neek and let out his life

  among the stones."

  "Thief?" Jon-Tom frowned as he looked back down at the tightly trussed otter.

  "Ah, you fart-faced worm eater, that's the biggest lie since Esaticus the eagle

  claimed to 'ave done it flyin' underwater!"

  Jon-Tom settled back against the cool wall and deliberately lowered his knife,

  though he didn't go so far as to replace it in its sheath. The gopher watched

  him uncertainly.

  "What has been going on here, Mudge?" he asked the otter quietly.

  "I'm tellin' you, mate! I was out huntin' for our supper when I tripped while

  chasin' a fine fat broyht. I fell down into this pit o' 'orrors, where I was

  promptly set upon by this 'orde o' rabid cannibals. They're blood-drinkers, lad.

  You'd best take care o' this one with your magical powers afore--"

  "That's enough, Mudge." He looked up at the gopher. "You can put up your sickle,

  or knife, or whatever you call it, sir. That position can't be too comfortable."

  He set the torch down on the floor. "I'm sorry if my light hurts your eyes."

  The gopher was still wary. "Are you not this one's friend?"

  "I'm his associate in travel. I'm also a believer in the truth. I promise not to

  attack you while we talk, or make a hostile move of any kind."

  "Lad, you don't know wot you're sayin'! The minute you put up your knife 'e's

  likely to--"

  "Mudge... shut up. And be glad I'm here instead of Clothahump. He'd probably

  just leave you." The otter went quiet, muttering under his breath.

  "You have my word," Jon-Tom informed the gopher, "as a traveler in your country

  and as a," he thought rapidly, "as a wizard who means you no harm. I swear not

  to harm you on my, uh, sacred oath as a spellsinger."

  The gopher noted the duar. "Wizard it may be, though it was more of a daemonic

  effect you had upon my men." Reluctantly the scythe blade moved away from

  Mudge's throat.

  "I'm Jon-Tom."

  "And I am called Abelmar." The gopher moved his hand away from his eyes and

  squinted painfully at the man. "It was your light as well as your appearance

  which startled my troop. Most of them are moles and the light is far more

  hurtful to them than to me, for my kind occasionally make daytime forays when

  the city so requires it. Some daytime activity is necesary for the maintenance

  of normal commerce, much as we of Pfeiffunmunter prefer to keep to ourselves."

  He looked meaningfully down at Mudge.

  "Except when we are intruded upon by cutthroats and thieves."

  " 'Tis all a bloody lie!" Mudge protested. "When I get out o' these blinkin'

  ropes I'll do some intrudin' you'll never forget. Come on now, mate," he said to

  Jon-Tom, "untie me."

  Jon-Tom ignored the twisting, writhing otter. "I meant no intrusion, Abelmar. My

  friend says that you attacked him. You've called him a thief."

  "I am in charge of the east-end morning patrol," explained the gopher. He looked

  worriedly back down the tunnel. "Citizens will soon be appearing on nightly

  business, awakening from the day's sleep. It would be embarrassing for them to

  see me this way. Yet I must carry out my duty." He stiffened.

  "Your associate is guilty of attempted theft, a sadly common crime we must

  continually face when we deal with outlanders. Yet it is not the theft that

  troubles us so much as the vandalism."

  "Vandalism?" Jon-Tom looked accusingly at Mudge.

  "Yes. It is not serious, but if left unchecked could become a serious threat to

  our neatly built community. Do you have any idea, Jon-Tom, how taxes go up when

  the public thoroughfares are torn to pieces by strangers?"

  " 'E's lying through those oversized teeth o' 'is again, mate," Mudge protested,

  though with less conviction this time. "Why would I want t' go around rippin' up

  'is blinkin' street?"

  Abelmar sighed. "I suppose it is our own fault, but we are aesthetes by nature.
>
  We enjoy a bit of brightness in our city, for all that it gives us problems with

  ignorant travelers such as this," and he kicked Mudge in the back. "But I see

  you still do not understand." He'd grown accustomed enough to Jon-Tom's torch to

  look without blinking now.

  "Look," and he bent toward Mudge.

  "Careful!" Jon-Tom took a step forward and raised his knife.

  "Easy move, Jon-Tom stranger," said the gopher. "If you are suspicious of my

  movements, then look instead at your own feet. Or can it be in truth you have

  not looked closely at our fine streets?"

  Jon-Tom knelt cautiously, still keeping an eye on the gopher. Moving the torch,

  he stared intently at the closely laid bricks. They gleamed as dully as those

  he'd encountered near the tunnel entrance, only with the torch resting directly

  on them the glow intensified. They threw back a half-familiar, reddish-yellow

  light.

  "Common enough below Pfeiffunmunter," said the gopher with a trace of

  bitterness, "but not to those who come along and try ripping it out of our

  beautiful pathways and boulevards. It makes for pretty paving, don't you think?"

  "Surely now that you understand you can excuse me the temptation, mate," said

  Mudge defensively. "You wouldn't think these grave diggers would be so greedy

  they'd resent a poor visitor a few cobblestones."

  "Excuse me." Jon-Tom rose and almost cracked his head again on the low ceiling.

  "I apologize to you for any damage, Abelmar."

  "It's not too bad. You have to understand," the gopher told him, "that if we let

  this sort of thing persist and word of it spread 'round the outworld, before too

  long we'd have mobs of sunlifers down here destroying all our public

  thoroughfares, our roads, and our very homes. It would be the end of

  civilization as we know it."

  He paused. Noise was growing behind him, moving up from the depths of the

  tunnel. "Travelers out for an evening walk," the gopher surmised, "or else my

  men, the cowardly bastards, coming back to see if anything's left of me." He

  sighed. "I have my duty, but I can face reality as well. We have something of a

  standoff here, friend spellsinger. I must confess I am now more interested in

  punishing my men than in your pitiful petty thief of a friend.

  "If you will get him out of here and promise not to let him return, and will do