Spellsinger
Page 37
unspoken dragonthreat sleeping back by the harbor gate.
"We're here, thirth." The beaver came to a halt, and directed them onward. They
climbed a series of stone steps. Two guards stood on either side of the arched
entrance. They snapped to attention, ceremonial armor shining in the sun and
giving evidence of much laborious polishing. Dents in the metal were testimony
to other activities.
Life quickly returned to normal around the fountain that dominated the small
square in front of the city hall. Jon-Tom paused to study the peaceful scene.
A young wolf bitch nursed two cubs. Young hares and muskrats played a crude
variety of field hockey with sticks and the battered skull of a recent
guillotine victim. Two grizzled oldsters chatted casually about weather and
politics. The aged possum hung from an oak tree branch while his corpulent
companion, a fat fox clad in heavy overcoat, sat beneath him on a bench. The
fact that one was upside down and the other rightside up had no effect on their
conversation.
A clockmaker and candleshop owner stood in their doorways and argued business in
the warmth of the unusually benign winter day. A customer entered the clock shop
and the proprietor, an aproned gibbon, returned reluctantly to ply his trade.
Maybe the warm day was a good omen, Jon-Tom thought as he turned away from the
peaceful scene. It was hard to imagine that all who frolicked or chattered in
the square might soon be dead or locked in slavery.
It looked heartbreakingly normal. He felt that if he could only blink, refocus
his mind, when he opened his eyes again there would be old men sitting and
talking, boys and girls running and playing. And yet they were old men, boys and
girls, for all their shapes were different and they were covered with warm fur.
It was the warm blood that mattered. Everything else was superficial.
He turned to gaze into the hallway before them. They would have to face and
convince a hostile, suspicious Council of the danger that was imminent. Somehow
he would have to master the magic inherent in his duar and in his voice. He was
not going to confront a group of teachers now, not about to present a scholarly
master's thesis on some obscure portion of history. Millions of lives were at
stake. The future of this world and maybe his own.
Except... this was his world now, and the dark future foreseen by Clothahump had
become his future. His friends stood alongside him, ready to offer support and
comfort. Flor Quintera never looked as beautiful shouting inanities beside a
field of false combat. He would talk loud and hope silently.
"Let's go, and may the strength of our ancestors go with us," announced
Clothahump, trundling up the last steps.
Jon-Tom could only agree, though as they passed beneath the appraising stares of
the soldiers lining the hallway, he wished fervently for a little grass, and not
the kind that grew in the courtyard outside.
REVISION HISTORY
v2.1 wg
-found v2.0 html in IRC
-added chapter links
-minor reformatting
FB2 document info
Document ID: c42e7439-a0b8-40b9-8d5b-d09f1d2b5e97
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 20.12.2011
Created using: calibre 0.8.18 software
Document authors :
neetha Napew
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