by neetha Napew
There were ten of them garnered in the chamber below. All wore the dark cowl of the Kilagurri monk, making it impossible to identify individuals. They sat around a long table of polished wood of a color and grain Buncan had never seen before. It had a sheen more suggestive of glass than honest lumber.
Strange carpeting widi a weave so tight and fine he couldn’t imagine how it had been loomed covered the floor. The cups the monks sipped from were filled with a dark, bubbling, odorless liquid. Several of diose present were scribbling on diick pads bound together at the left edge widi loops of thin metal wire.
lii the center of the table four boxes set widi glass windows faced the four points of the compass. Several dials protruded from the top of each. Wires connected mem to a much bigger box in the middle of the table, and also to small rectangular panels that rested in front of each monk. Several of the attendees were tapping hesitantly at their respective panels. Theurgically lit from within, the window boxes displayed shifting, moving images that appeared to respond to the seemingly random tappings of the monks. The master box in the middle whined softly, like a live thing.
As Buncan stared a beautiful female possum entered, tail elaborately wound widi green ribbon and held high. Squill whistled softly, inducing his sister to jab him in the ribs. From a ceramic carafe balanced on a tray the servant refilled the monks’ cups with more of the steaming dark liquid. They took no notice of her presence.
“Wot sort o’ sorceral potion is dial?” Neena murmured.
“I’ve heard them speak of it.” Mowara craned his neck for a better view. “From what I’ve been able to observe, they’re all addicted to it. It alters them in strange and subtle ways. They call it ‘coffee’ and believe it bestows on them special powers, diough I’ve no proof of dial. Maybe it’s some kind of collective ritual delusion whose social function is of paramount importance. See?”
As they looked on, the assembled monks raised their cups in unison and mumbled some sort of hypnotic chant, of which Buncan caught only the solemnly intoned words “Brighten your day” and the meaningless “caffeine.” Following mis brief ceremony they returned to their conferencing. Try as he might, Buonferencing. Try as he might, Buen-collective demeanor as a result of consuming the liquid. Any glow or enhancement they felt must be wholly internal.
The windowed boxes were something else, something tangible. He wondered at the complexity and staying power of the spell that caused the images displayed therein to change so rapidly. Often two or more of the monks would put their heads together and whisper furiously before tapping on the knobby panels. The unnatural activity raised prickles on his spine.
Listening intently, he thought he could make out some of the sorceral terms Mowara had mentioned during their first meeting, words like “haploid dispersion” and “mitochondria! enhancement.” There was frequent mention of the long necromantic term desoxyribonucleic acid.
“They’re concocting some great misfortune to throw against Wurragarr,” Mowara whispered. “We have to stop mem, we do. This all has to do with implementing the corporate plan.”
Buncan frowned. “ ‘Corporate plan’? What’s that?”
“I’ve heard them speak of it often. It’s the foundation of their sorcery, me framework for all the iniquity they work.”
Squill made a face. “Sounds like somethin’ that should be stepped on to me.”
“ ‘As a cold sound to it, it does.” Neena’s whiskers twitched involuntarily.
“You were right, Mowara.” Buncan rolled the shoulder the galah was perched on, trying to keep the muscles loose. “This evil does extend beyond your country. It needs to be stopped here, now, before it can grow and infect other parts of the world. Or even other worlds,” he added, mindful of Jon-Tom’s place of origin.
“Don’t want no bloody corporate plan pollutin’ the Bellwoods,” Squill muttered darkly. “Wotever it is.”
“Look, they’re doin’ somethin’.” Neena nodded toward the opening.
The monks were rising from their oddly upholstered chairs. The window boxes had gone blank, their glass faces now dark and imageless.
Raising a hand for silence, the figure standing at the head of the table solemnly addressed his colleagues. His words were clearly audible to the quartet huddled in the narrow corridor.
“We shall now vote.”
At that command they all threw back then- hoods and stood revealed in the steady lamplight as representatives of the same tribe, though many individual clans were represented.
Hares, Buncan realized. They were all hares.
“Why hares?” he found himself whispering aloud. “Why should they be the Dark Ones, the dabblers in evil? Why them?”
“I know. I know because I’ve listened to them rage, because I’ve watched their frenzies, I have.” Mowara’s beak was close by Buncan’s ear. “It’s because they’re sick of being thought of as cute and harmless. Ten thousand years and more of accumulated resentment has pushed this lot over the edge, it has. They’re tired of being cuddled and stroked by everyone else. It’s respect they want, and they ami to get it through sorcery.”
Puzzlement mottled Neena’s expression. “But they are cute and cuddly. ‘Tis the way they were designed. They can’t ‘elp it, the bloody fools. Would they rather be like the skunk tribe, wot nobody wants to get near? Wot’s wrong with this lot?”
“I told you,” Mowara whispered. “They’re so mad they’ve gone bad. Collective self-loathing. I think it’s one reason why they’re so set on creating new creatures, I do. Twisting and warping reality. Their anger has driven them insane.”
Buncan found himself staring at the nominal leader of the ten. His fur was predominantly dark brown, with white, unhealthy-looking splotches. With his wild eyes and buck-teeth that had been filed to sharp points, he looked anything but cute and cuddly.
“We will throw the blasphemers back!” he was declaiming.
“Fling them over the falls!” another added enthusiastically.
“This, too, can be incorporated into the Plan.” The leader ran a finger along the edge of the strange table. “Once this band of simple villagers has been defeated, there will be none to stand against us in the mountains. We can make servants and slaves of those who survive, and use them as the base for our planned corporate expansion. Mergers and takeovers can then proceed apace.” He let his gaze rove over his followers. “All those in favor?”
“Aye!” the chorus of acolytes resounded.
The leader nodded his approval. “See that it is so recorded in the minutes.” Lifting both hands, he tilted back his head and closed his eyes. His colleagues did likewise as he intoned The Words.“Stock manipulation. Insider trading. Currency exchange”
The room grew dark save for a singular greenish glow which seemed to emanate from the ceiling. The assembled monks murmured softly to themselves.
“They’ve certainly tapped in to something,” Duncan whispered. “Some kind of gloom-laden power I’ve never encountered before.” He wished silently that Clothahump were there.
Mowara shifted nervously from foot to foot on Buncan’s shoulder. “That’s Droww doing the invoking. He’s the biggest fanatic of the lot.”
The chanting rose in volume and the greenish glow intensified, until with a triumphant shout of “Leveraged hostile buyout!” the assembled monks vanished in a cloud of bilious smoke.
Buncan exhaled slowly. “That’s very impressive.”
“Where’ve they got to?” Neena wanted to know.
“Not far, not far, if experience is an indicator.” Mowara shifted to Buncan’s other shoulder. “To the Vault is my guess, it is, to prepare some special poison. Come, and we’ll find them.” Spreading aged but still competent wings, he fluttered off back up the corridor.
They had to avoid a single, pitiful guard: a transformed sugar glider whose wings hung about her in tatters. A prehensile tongue dangled from the misshapen head of what had once been a graceful gazelle. The sight turned Buncan’s stoma
ch.
“Tread softly here.” Mowara settled once more onto Buncan’s shoulder. “This is the kitchen where decay is prepared.”
The corridor opened onto a vast chamber dominated by a lofty bowl-shaped ceiling. Lamps glowed in holders set high on stone walls. They stood on an upper floor looking down into a circular pit within which slablike tables and numerous cages were visible. The tables held much elaborate thauraa-turgical apparatus fashioned of glass and metal.
Buncan recognized the monks from the Board room. Hoods back, they were bustling about the exotic apparatus and cages, mixing fluids and measuring powders. Droww stood at an intricately inscribed wooden pulpit which supported a huge, open book. There was also a knobbed panel attached to its own small window. This pulsed with light and unseen schematics. The leader of the Kilagurri monks gripped the sides of the podium while watching his faithful at work.
“There, in the back.” Neena gestured insistently at the far side of the pit. “By the Black River itself!”
Buncan let his gaze follow her lead. She was pointing at the last row of stacked cages. These held not deformed monstrosities, not unfortunate travelers, but cubs: the young of numerous tribes. Even at a distance he could make out an infant flying fox and immature osprey huddled fearfully together. Both their wings had been clipped to forestall any chance of their flying to freedom.
Other cages held juvenile roos and platys, possums and tiger cats, dingoes and koalas, along with equally disconsolate representatives of outlying tribes such as small felines, rodents, a black bear cub, and an especially wretched sifaka. It was a panorama of collective misery heartbreaking to see, and for the first time he was glad as well as proud to have offered his help to Wurragarr’s band.
There were also two human children crammed into a cage too small for them to stand up in. While he wasn’t and never had been a tribal chauvinist, their plight still affected him more powerfully than that of any of the other captives. That was only to be expected, he thought.
An angry knot formed in his stomach. At that moment the wizard Droww and his fellow hares did not look in the least bit cute or cuddly.
Though he knew sorcery was involved, the mechanics of the physical intermelding baffled him. Aside from wondering why anyone would want to, how could you combine the characteristics of a human child and a flying fox or wallaby? He couldn’t shake loose of the question as his gaze shifted to the abominations jammed into some of the other cages.
“What you doing here?”
Whirling, Buncan saw exactly the sort of brute he feared.
Except for the protruding, black-tipped snout it had the face and arms of a young human, but the remainder of the body was wholly roo. Enormous, oversize feet, stout lower body tapering to a narrower chest, powerful tail, high leathery ears; all reminded him more of Wurragarr than his own tribe. The creature regarded them belligerently, a large club easily balanced in both hands, light chain mail hanging from the smooth shoulders.
“Get ‘im!” yelled Squill without hesitation. He and Neena were on top of the creature instantly. Buncan was right behind them as Mowara darted back and forth overhead, whistling encouragement.
Buncan wrenched the club out of the creature’s grasp while avoiding a kick that if it had connected would have taken his head off. The rooman fought back as best it could, but was no match for the combination of Buncan’s strength and the otter’s agility. In moments they had it pinned on its side. Neena’s face burned where she’d caught a glancing blow from the muscular, madly flailing tail, but otherwise they were all three unharmed. Straddling the prone neck, Squill raised his sword.
“Go ahead; kill me,” the rooman mumbled.
Frowning, Buncan raised a hand to block the otter’s blow. “Wait.”
“Wait?” Squill pushed his hat back on his forehead. “Wot the ‘ell d’you mean, ‘wait’? ‘E’ll give the bleedin’ alarm.”
The trapped creature gazed up out of limpid blue eyes. “Please, just kill me. I want die.” To everyone’s astonishment, the grotesque entity began to cry. Now even the notoriously unempathetic Squill found himself hesitating.
“Go on,” it sobbed. “What wait for? Finish.” The eyes closed.
Squill hadn’t lowered the sword. “The ugly blighter’s tryin’ some sort o’ bloomin’ trick, ‘e is.”
“I don’t think so.” Rising, Buncan eased Squill gentry but firmly aside. The otter backed off reluctantly.
Given the chance to rise and flee, the rooman didn’t move. It just lay there bawling softly like any abandoned kid. “Make quick. Fast, before Dark Ones see what happening.”
Buncan looked toward the busy pit, then back to their captive. “They can’t see over here. We won’t let mem hurt you.”
“Can’t prevent.” The rooman’s sobs faded to sniffles, and he squinted up at Buncan. “Who you people, anyway?” Twisting his malformed head, he met first Squill’s gaze, then Neena’s. “You not from around here.”
“No, we’re not.” Buncan retreated a step, giving the creature some room. “We come from a land far to the southeast, farmer than you can imagine.”
Gingerly, the rooman sat up. “Why? What you do here?” He gestured at Mowara as the galah landed on Buncan’s shoulder. “You kind I know. You from here.”
“Damn right I am, mate,” said the bird huskily. “What we ‘do here’ is gonna put an end to these monks and their monkeying once and for all.”
The rooman’s eyes widened. “Cannot do. Cannot challenge the Dark Ones. Will destroy you. They draw strengdi from other worlds. Too powerful now.” He looked around anxiously. “You go now, before they see. I not tell. Not!”
“We saw them at work.” Buncan spoke patiendy, soodiingly, trying to calm the panicky creature. “They’re powerful, but it’s only sorcery.”
“Only sorcery!” The rooman rose, and Squill immediately pressed the point of his sword against the poor creature’s ribs. It gazed at him sorrowfully.
“Not tell,” he reiterated.
The otter glanced at Buncan, who nodded slowly. Squill backed off, but not far. His sister hung close on the other side.
“We’re spellsingers,” Duncan explained. “We’ve come with Mowara here, the warrior Wurragarr, and many others to try and put a stop to what these Dark Ones have been doing.”
“Oi. We were just passin’ through with notnin’ else t’do.” Squill’s tone was caustic.
The rooman studied each of them in turn, still unwilling or unable to believe. “You sorcerers too? You fight Dark Ones?”
“That’s right,” Buncan told him.
“Must do this!” The creature spoke with such sudden violence that Buncan was taken aback. “Must stop them now, or they take over whole world. Everyplace and everyone and everything. Stop them now!”
“That’s what we aim to do, mate.” Mowara fluffed his feathers.
“Their style of sorcery is new to us,” Buncan noted, “but it is only sorcery. As the great wizard Clothahump has said, ‘Any magic which can be propounded can be countered.’ “ Neena gave him a sideways glance, and he looked slightly embarrassed.
The rooman’s human fingers worked nervously against one another while the thick tail switched back and forth. “Been here long time. Sometimes I listen, learn things. Not so dumb. Not! Droww first to make hateful breakthrough and learn words of corruption. First makes plan, then recruits others. Starts small, with bugs. Puts wings of one on body of other. Fish next.
“I remember when both my turn. Originally two me. Now one you see. Other. .throw away.” His voice was momentarily choked. “Not sure which me, me. Not sure which throw away. Me lucky. Many times both throw away. Sometimes make things hard even for Dark Ones to look at. Much screaming.” He was silent for a long moment.
“Me ‘success.’“ The word was uttered with enough sarcasm to cut oak. “Must serve Dark Ones, all monks. Only life. Rather be dead. Not so easy to be dead. Forget things.”
“What’s your name?” Buncan
asked as gently as possible.
Tortured blue eyes gazed back into bis. “Name dead too.”
“Well, then, what do they call you?”
“Cilm. Maybe original name of one of two that I was. Maybe not. Matters not.” It turned hopeful. “Kill me now?”
“We’re not going to kill you,” Buncan declared firmly. “I can’t do it.”
Squill lowered his sword. “Bloody ‘ell, I can’t do it neither. That’s a first.”
“You’re not responsible for . . . what you are,” Buncan continued. “We don’t want to hurt you or any of your friends.”
“Have no friends.” Cilm managed a feeble shrug of his half-human, half-roo shoulders. “None here friend to another. Each our own private horrors.”
Buncan nodded as if he understood. “Then help us. I’m asking you to be our friend. Help us to make an end to this.”
The rooman looked doubtful. “Dark Ones have so much power.”
“You ain’t ‘eard our power, guv. Wait ‘til you ‘ear wot we can do.”
“Will you help us?” Buncan tried to be insistent without being overbearing.
Clearly resistance was not a concept with which the rooman was conversant. “I not sure. Not . . . know. You not see what Dark Ones do to any who dare fight back.” He quivered all over. “Not want to see.”
“We can take care of ourselves,” Neena assured him with a confidence she didn’t entirely feel.
Still the creature hesitated. Then roo ears flicked forward, suddenly alert. “Cilm help. But only if you promise one thing.”
“What’s that?” Buncan asked curiously.
“If we losing, you will kill me.”
Buncan swallowed hard. This was very different from Neena’s gallant rescue. There was no glory to be had; only something that needed to be done. He felt no exhilaration, no feeling of anticipation. Only a grim sense of determination.
