Son Of Spellsinger

by neetha Napew

  Droww appeared not the least concerned. The wizard was looking not at him but to his right, toward the dark portal that sealed off the far end of the pit.

  “Not only is it not ‘over,’ human cub, it has not yet begun. Your immature mind is not capable of envisioning the end product of informed and inspired genetic manipulation. Indeed, you are not even aware of the forces of which I speak. It therefore falls to me to enlighten you. Pay close attention. It is the last thing you will ever learn.” His laugh was like a rotting jellyfish: soft, unpleasant, redolent of decay.

  “When you have been dismembered, it will be my pleasure to recombine you. I will fashion from your remains several simpering, crawling things, the lowest of the low. You will live in constant pain, begging for death, an example to any and all who would dare consider defying the sanctity of Kilagurri.”

  Squill pointedly blew his nose into a sheaf of papers he’d picked off the floor. “That’s quite a speech, guv, but it ain’t relevant, ‘cause you’re gonna be ‘eadless real soon now.” Gripping his sword tightly, he started toward the stairs.

  A distant rumble made him stop.

  Everyone looked curiously, uncertainly, toward the shuttered portal that was now the focus of the wizard’s attention. Suddenly a high-pitched shriek that scraped the upper limits of audibility echoed from behind the opaque barrier.

  Buncan shivered in spite of himself. Nothing screamed quite like a dying rabbit.

  Droww pushed out his lower lip. “Pity. It would seem that in the course of carrying out his duties Brother Jeurrat did not move quite quickly enough.”

  It wasn’t so much a rumbling, Buncan thought restively, a’ a ponderous heavy breathing that was coming nearer and nearer. He thought of the bellows constantly at work at the Lynchbany Smithy’s. No cheery, animated sparks accompanied the approach of this sound. It resonated with prodigious threat.

  Neena glanced at him. “Duncan?” The seriousness of the situation was reflected in her calling him by his real name.

  He kept staring at the blocked portal, mesmerized by something he could only sense. “I don’t know. Something big.”

  Droww held his ground, but his colleagues commenced a slow retreat, murmuring nervously among themselves.

  “Something wrong, spellsinger? Come, give us a tune! Something jaunty and brisk. Have you never crooned a Berserker before? Is not music supposed to soothe?” His arms and hands were jerking about, tracing edgy spirals in the air.

  As Wurragarr’s people pressed their offensive deeper into the confines of the monastery, the constant buzz of hand-to-hand combat in Buncan’s ears diminished but did not cease. He knew now that was only an echo of a sideshow. The outcome of the entire undertaking would be decided any minute, here in the ruins of the monks’ laboratory. Mowara and Viz looked down from above, while Snaugenhutt paced fretfully on the upper level. Cilm was nowhere to be seen, the rooman having fled precipitously. Otter to the left of him, otter to the right of him, Buncan waited for whatever was coming.

  And something was coming. Of that there was no doubt.

  It did not crash through the heavy barrier, nor smash it violently aside. It simply bit through the gate as if it were fashioned of paper instead of iron-barred timbers, then contemptuously spat the crumpled wood and metal aside.

  Buncan considered the apparition. It was not quite as big as Snaugenhutt. Its aspect, however, was enough to strike terror into the hearts of heroes yet unborn.

  Great muscles bunched like skin-wrapped boulders beneath the humped shoulders. Two sets of widely spaced, sharp-pointed horns protruded from atop the skull: one facing forward, the other inclined forward and up as if standing ready to reinforce the murderous effects of the other pair. Except for its excessive muscularity, the rest of the body was unceremoniously ungulate: umber-hued short-haired coat, tufted tail, four legs terminating in cloven hooves. Only the head seemed grafted and greatly enlarged. It was that of a highly specialized canine grown to obscene proportions. Docked to those massive shoulders, it appeared neckless. Bulging red eyes sweating damp murder sought quarry, while the powerful jaws worked spittle from thick lips. From the hidden throat came an abyssal, squalid gurgling as if the creature were masticating a cud consisting of the tormented remnants of previously consumed souls.

  Of all the corrupt crossbreedings and odious recombinants the Dark Ones had brought forth, of all their vile manipulations and stirrings of Nature’s most personal and private depths, this was their monument most foul. Body of a mammoth steer, skull of the most relentless of fighting canines. Teeth and horn, jaw and hoof.

  The pit bull-bull shook its head and spat out a sticky iron bolt. Buncan heard it go ping as it ricocheted off the stone floor. Then it glanced up, searching, until it fastened on the long-eared figure of Droww. The intimidating skull dipped respectfully.

  “Master, thy servant awaits.”

  Droww looked quite pleased. But his finger quivered as he pointed. “Tear ‘em up . . .but not beyond hope of restitching.”

  The skull rose and turned. A humorless smile split the timber-crunching jaws. “With pleasure, Master. It is what I love to do.” It started toward the opposing staircase.

  Buncan and the otters were already retreating, scrambling up the wide stone steps. As he ascended, Buncan was once again unlimbering the duar.

  “C’mon, guys. A song, some lyrics; let’s get with it!”

  “Wot d’you think I’m doin’, Buckles?” Neena glared at him.

  Droww was laughing delightedly to himself, his acolytes having by this time retreated to a far corner. There they huddled fearfully, their eyes panicky beneath their hoods.

  “No song will save you now, young tunesmiths. Nothing will save you now! No power on or off the earth can stop the Berserker!”

  “Maybe not, but I’m about to give it one hell of a try!” By the time the monster mounted the final step, Snaugenhutt had mustered an impressive head of steam.

  He plowed into the surprised pit bull-bull with tremendous force. The creature stumbled and slid backward several steps. Then it gathered itself, eyes raging, and lunged with incredible jaws agape.

  Displaying unexpected agility, Snaugenhutt dodged. Unnatural horns dipped and shoved. The points did not penetrate the rhino’s thick skin, but the muscles behind that stabbing blow could not be resisted. Snaugenhutt’s feet scrabbled for purchase at the edge of the level overlooking the pit. With a twist of its great head, the pit bull-bull actually lifted the rhino off the floor and tossed him to his right. The distance was short, but it was enough to send the helpless Snaugenhutt over the side.

  With a sound like two symphonies colliding at high speed, the rhino struck the floor of the pit. The concussion sent bits of armor flying in all directions. He lay there on his side, kicking convulsively.

  “Snaugenhutt, Snaug! Get up, load! Quit treading air!” Beating atmosphere, the tickbird tried to rouse his companion. “Viz, look out!” Buncan yelled frantically. With a loud whump! immense jaws slammed shut as the pit bull-bull snapped downward. The monster bit only air as Viz darted neatly aside and continued to beseech his fallen friend.

  “Come on, move it! You ain’t dead. Quit acting like it. We need you.”

  Snaugenhutt was indeed still very much alive, but the fall had stunned him. He lay blinking and kicking. It would be necessary for him to recover his senses before he could recover his feet.

  The interfering rhino disposed of, the pit bull-bull sought other prey. Advancing deliberately, it tried to trap Buncan in the nearest corner, perhaps realizing he would be easier to catch than the more nimble otters. Holding the duar out in front of him like a talisman, Buncan retreated, knowing that while he might be able to dodge the creature, he couldn’t possibly outrun it.

  “Let’s go,” he called to the otters, who hovered nearby. His fingers cajoled harmless melodies from the dual sets of strings. “Words, I need words!”

  “We’re bloomin’ tryin’, mate!” In an attempt to distr
act the creature, Squill darted across its line of vision. The otter’s presence barely registered on the brute’s senses. It was utterly focused now. The young human first, then ample time for the others.

  Scampering dangerously close to sharp forehooves, Neena was likewise ignored. She and her brother exchanged harassed whispers, while Buncan grimly tried to decide which way he was going to have to jump.

  On the other side of the pit the rest of the Dark Ones had begun to edge forward, encouraged by their leader’s apparent control over the Berserker. Hesitantly at first, then with increasing enthusiasm, they began to voice their support in the form of an ascending, unified chant.

  Squill and Neena, too, had finally begun to sing.

  “Push ‘em back, push ‘em back,

  Wayyyyy . . . back!

  Back in the ‘ole where he can’t be seen

  Over the line, back through the wall

  Back so for that the big becomes small

  Stop him right ‘ere, if you know what we mean.

  Gots to do a number an’ fix this scene.”

  Even as he played wildly, Buncan was shouting at his friends.

  “What kind of spellsong is that?”

  Squill made a face as Neena agonized over a second verse. “Cor, mate, she’s the best we can do for now.”

  Bits and pieces of shattered glass and twisted metal began to rise from the floor of the pit. Sprouting glowing wings, they soared upward and flung themselves recklessly against the advancing form of the pit bull-bull. Every one bounced harmlessly to the floor, some to flap futilely against the stone, others to be ground to dust beneath ponderous hooves.

  Even the crumpled operating table lurched into the air. On leathery wings of lambent green it soared as high as the ceiling, only to fold its sails and dive straight at the pit bull-bull’s skull. A smaller creature would have been killed by the blow, and even Snaugenhutt stunned, but the monster simply twisted and caught the plunging chunk of enchanted furniture in its massive jaws. A single, powerful snap reduced it to kindling.

  “Give up!” Droww was yelling from the far side of the pit. “The Berserker is immune to your simple tunes. An all-encompassing veil of ignorance protects it. It doesn’t understand sorcery, it doesn’t understand spellsinging, it does not comprehend even the rudiments of thaumaturgy, and therefore cannot be affected by mem. Its entire development has gone to muscle. Only the sound of my voice penetrates its thick mode of bone to reach the brain beneath.”

  The otters changed their song. Evanescent effervescent dust rose in clouds from the floor with the aim of obscuring the creature’s vision, but they only made it sneeze as it lumbered on through, shaking its head irritably from side to side.

  Buncan was running out of room almost as quickly as he was out of ideas. Spellsinging seemed ineffective against this ultimate invention of the Dark Ones, and he said as much to his companions.

  “ Tis got to work.” Neena strove frantically to improvise still-fresher lyrics. “ ‘Tis always worked for Jon-Tom an’ Mudge, an’ it ‘as to work now.”

  “I’m not Jon-Tom!” Buncan slid to his right. The pit bull-bull edged sideways to match his movement.

  “Then by the Aardvark’s Spittle, think o’ somethin’ your sue would never think of!” Squill challenged him.

  Easy to say, Buncan reflected tiredly. Hard to do. Exhaustion was creeping up his legs. His fingers were growing numb, and he knew that the otters’ throats had to be raw from rapping at the tops of their lungs. Nothing they tried had any effect on the relentless specter. One snap of those preposterous jaws, one diffident bite, and he and his friends would be reduced to soggy pulp. That was assuming they managed to dodge the twin sets of horns and . . .

  He brightened as the lyrics flashed on him. It had worked once before. Though using the same or similar lyrics in a second spellsong was dangerous, they were about out of options. What did they have to lose? He made the suggestion.

  Neena squinted hard, trying to watch him and the advancing mountain-with-teeth at the same time. “Pardon me presumption, Bookoos, but ain’t this an inappropriate time for baby babble? We need strength, we need power, we need . . .”

  “Something different, like your brother said. The lyrics have power. We just need a different take on them.” The wall was very near now. He saw himself kicking and twitching, impaled on one of those formidable horns. “I’ll start it off, and you and Squill copy. Just listen to the words and . . .”

  With a roar that shook dust from the rafters, the pit bull-bull lowered its head and charged.

  “Scatter!” Buncan threw himself to his right as boms slammed into the stone wall and steel-trap jaws crushed the air where he’d been standing an instant earlier. The monster was much faster than anything its size ought to have been. It skittered sideways to block any further retreat, realizing it had its quarry trapped. This time it didn’t even bother to lower its horns.

  Off in the distance he could hear Viz yelling at Snaugenhutt to pull himself together, but the rhino couldn’t help now. He’d taken his best shot at the creature and barely budged it. It was all up to the others and to Buncan. In a quavering voice he began to mouth the lyrics he remembered from childhood, the lyrics which had worked so well for him and his friends not so very long ago. Only. .different, mis time. Even to his ears it sounded like a lamentation.

  Squill and Neena could be as quick with their wits as they were with then- feet. Having sung the song once before, it was easy for them to rework the simple refrain.

  Indifferent to the music, the pit bull-bull glanced from otters to human, trying to decide which to annihilate first.

  As he listened to the otters, Buncan had to admit they had managed to inject a truly anguished quality into their singing. This time around, the same lyrics were full of sorrow and pathos, of sadness and poignancy. His playing was slower, their vocalizing was slower, and together they generated an aura of ineffable sadness that pervaded the entire chamber. No luminous clouds coalesced within the room, but the duar pulsed a rich, dark blue, utterly reflective of the music Buncan skillfully coaxed from the dual sets of intersecting strings.

  “ ‘Ow much is that doggie in the window, yo?

  The one with the waggly tail, y’know?

  ‘Ow much is that doggie in the window, bro’?

  It looks so sad, gotta be mad

  Wrong head on its body, it’s gotta be bad

  Poor old thing, ‘Us all alone

  Notbin’ else like it anywhere

  Like to throw it a bone

  But I hate to stare

  Someone oughta care, it needs to rest

  Be best, be safe, don’t wanna berate

  But that anger you need to stick in a crate

  And relax, take a pill, chill

  lake some time your own dreams to fulfill.”

  The spellsong was full of anger (it was rap, after all), but also loneliness and yearning, a yearning after stability that particularly escaped one inhabitant of that chaotic chamber. It expressed desire and want for the unobtainable, for half-forgotten dreams. Back on his feet at the bottom of the pit, Snaugenhutt too was caught up in the harmonic web of melancholy Buncan and the otters wove. No one within listening range remained unaffected. Even some of the Dark Ones unwillingly found themselves drawn to bygone memories.

  Sweating profusely, Buncan played on, watching the pit bull-bull as it glared down at him.

  It took a defiant step forward . . . and paused, bastard ears pricked forward. Spears it could disregard, arrows it could shrug off, swords it could shun, but it could not ignore the music. As Buncan stared, the fiery eyes seemed to dim and glaze over. The dark red tongue, a slimy hunk of drooling meat, slipped out the side of the powerful jaws and hung dangling from the misshapen mourn.

  As the mountain-with-teeth sat back on its hindquarters and began to pant contentedly, an unmistakable if slightly obtuse canine smile spread slowly across its hideous face. As the otters continued to improvise, this w
as shortly replaced with an expression of great sadness framed by tears as profound emotions penetrated the benumbed berserker brain. The great jaws no longer snapped hungrily. Eyes half shut, swaying slowly in time to the music, it continued to listen and absorb and be affected.

  Amazing the results thoughtful modifications to a simple tune could have, Buncan mused.

  By the time they embarked on then- fourteenth improvised stanza, the great creature was lying on its belly, eyes closed, that nightmare skull resting peacefully on crossed forehooves. For the first time in its tormented existence, it was at peace. Every .now and then it emitted a distinct, soft whimper and wagged its composite tail.

  Exhausted but quietly exultant, the otters terminated their most recent and final refrain. Duncan’s fingers plucked conclusively at the duar. Except for the futile howls of the sorcerer Droww and the echo of distant fighting, it was silent in the chamber. The soft snores of the soundly sleeping pit bull-bull drifted contentedly ceilingward.

  Enraged and frustrated beyond reason, Droww wrenched a saber from one of his startled acolytes and rushed around the rim of the pit to confront Buncan. His duar secured, Buncan stood his ground, awaiting the charge with his own sword drawn.

  The sorcerer made a pretense of swinging his weapon, then leaped into the air and struck out with both enormous feet. Buncan proved more agile than his opponent expected, but then, he’d spent years tussling with otters. At the last instant, he ducked. Droww sailed over him . . .

  . . . to land with both feet, hard, on the head of the softly dozing pit bull-bull.

  Awaking with a snort, it instantly espied the cause of the interruption of the first sound sleep it had ever enjoyed, and growled warningly.

  Fumbling with his robes, Droww stumbled to his feet and thrust a shaky finger at Buncan. “Kill them. Kill all of them!

  Start with that one. Don’t worry about preserving body parts for recombination. Shred him slowly. Pick him apart.”

  The pit bull-bull rose to all four feet. Buncan began backing away slowly. But it did not come for him. It did not move at all.