Son Of Spellsinger

“What about his companion?” Buncan indicated the softly snoring tickbird.

“I could eat it,” Squill suggested.

Duncan eyed him sharply. “Eat another intelligent being?”

The otter sniffed. “Don’t look very intelligent to me, mate.”

“We’re here to get help, not dinner.”

“Most every member of Snaugenhutt’s tribe lives with a companion tickbird,” Gragelouth pointed out. “I do not think our potential ally would look kindly upon your eating his.

“Meanwhile, let me talk to the owner of this establishment. Perhaps he can suggest a potion to both awaken and sober these two.”

“You couldn’t sober that mass up if you dropped it off a high cliff,” Squill riposted.

CHAPTER 14

The remedy Gragelouth arranged for arrived in the form of a brim-full bucket prepared by not one but two mixologists. A good dousing with one of the high-pressure hoses used to keep the corral area clean roused the rhino long enough for Duncan and Squill to sluice half the bucket’s contents down his benumbed throat. The operation was repeated with the tickbird, on a much smaller scale. Though there was no evidence of overt sorcery involved, the liquid’s contents proved nothing short of magical. The hulking old warrior was on his feet, albeit unsteadily, far sooner than Duncan would have imagined possible.

As Snaugenhutt hadn’t the slightest recollection of their previous conversation, they were compelled to repeat both the tale of Neena’s abduction and their present dilemma. Viewed in the cooler light of minimal comprehension, the rhino’s earlier enthusiasm flagged.

“You don’t want my help,” he mumbled, turning away. Gragelouth had reluctantly paid for a clean, fresh stall.

Employees of the tavern were still in the process of disinfecting the other. Viz paced between the rhino’s ears, hunting for parasites while listening intently. He seemed to be in better shape than his friend. But then, his hangover would be proportionately smaller.

“At this point you are our only hope,” Duncan reluctantly admitted. “You’re about all we can afford. Time’s also important, and so far you’re the only one who’s indicated a willingness to help.”

“Oi,” said Squill, “wot were all that rot about preservin’ a lady’s virtue, an’ gallantry, an’ ‘onor?”

“Did I speak to that?” Snaugenhutt looked thoroughly miserable. He stood with one foreleg crossed over the other, his prehensile upper lip nearly touching the ground.

The tickbird glanced up. “If they say you did, Snaug, I guess you did. I don’t remember the discussion myself.” He pecked energetically at a particular spot.

Gragelouth sought to energize the quadruped. “Why wouldn’t we want your assistance? You are large, powerful, and experienced; clearly no stranger to battle.”

The rhino twitched his huge skull. Reflex caused the tickbird to flutter clear and set down without comment as soon as his perch had steadied. “All that was a long time ago,” he muttered unhappily. “A very long time ago. Haven’t done any fighting . . .” He paused to swallow. “Haven’t done much of anything in longer than I can remember.”

Duncan picked up on Gragelouth’s riff. “You look like you’re still in pretty good shape,” he lied.

The rhino’s head came up a little. “I do the best I can. Frankly, the last few months—the last few years—I’ve kind of lost direction. Deen lapping at the drinking trough now and again, and my reflexes aren’t what they used to be. Oh, the underlying muscle tone’s still there.” He inhaled and seemed to double in size. The effect lasted about five seconds before scarred and wrinkled skin collapsed in on the massive skeleton.

“Dut that’s not enough. I’m out of shape, out of condition. Wouldn’t know how to get going. No equipment, anyway.” His eyes grew misty. “Used to have full armor and combat equippage. Gilt steel. When I went into battle, the sun rode with me.”

“Where’s your gear now?” Buncan asked thoughtlessly.

Snaugenhutt squinted at him. “Pawned it. Long time ago. Everything was a long time ago, human.” At which point, to everyone’s astonishment, the great beast began to cry.

“Ere now, guv.” Squill moved forward. “‘E didn’t mean nothin’ personal.”

It did no good. Tears spilled from both eyes as gargantuan sobs wracked the huge form. His perch now shuddering steadily, the tickbird fluttered down to land on Buncan’s shoulder. From head to tail he was slightly less than the length of Buncan’s forearm. One flexible wingtip adjusted the scarf around his neck.

“It’s no use trying to talk to him when he gets like this. You just have to wait for it to pass.” Unlike Snaugenhutt, the tickbird seemed fully recovered.

“Listen, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure.”

“You two been together for a while?”

“Like Snaug says, a long time,” the bird chirped.

Buncan nodded slowly. “How much of that stuff he told us about all the battles he’s been in is true?”

A wingtip pressed against the side of his head. “Probably all of it, though I don’t recall the details. Snaug was a professional long before I hooked up with him. I can vouch for the authenticity of his most recent scars.”

“So you’ve been in battle with him?”

Viz nodded, his beak bobbing. “Lots, though not in some time.” He examined his bawling companion, whose sobs were finally beginning to lessen. “Snaug, he was the real thing, he was.” There was tangible pride in the bird’s voice. “Wasn’t anything or anybody that could stand against him . . . in his prime.” Feathered shoulders rippled.

“What happened?”

“Isn’t it obvious? The liquor trough got him. Sucked him right in. Ate up his money and his life. Not even sure how it got started. I did all I could, but I can’t exactly hold my ground in front of him. There was a female . . . You haven’t dealt with life, human, until you’ve tried to reason with a lovesick rhino in the last throes of unrequited passion.”

“I can imagine,” said Buncan, not experienced enough to imagine it at all.

“That’s when it started to get bad. Snaug could always drink. Have you any idea of the alcoholic capacity of a healthy rhinoceros?”

“Not really.” Buncan indicated Squill. “I’ve seen my friend’s father put a lot away, but he’s only an otter.”

“Try to envision a thirsty abyss. I’ve guided him through some tough spots, but he’s just gotten worse and worse. When he had to hock his armor to pay a bar bill in Hascaparbi, it was the last straw. After that he just gave up. You should have seen his armor: the best steel, some of it inlaid in gold.”

“He might as well have hocked his soul. His self-esteem just crashed. We’ve been doing the occasional odd towing job ever since, just to make ends meet. Sometimes we beg.” He winced. “The great warrior Snaugenhutt, reduced to pulling hay carts for feed. One time we even contracted to do plowing.”

Buncan tried to picture the great rhino dragging a plow, furrow after endless furrow, while some ill-tempered fanner trailing behind berated him with orders and curses in equal measure. It wasn’t an attractive image.

“Couldn’t even hold that job,” Viz was muttering. “Got plastered one night, had someone hitch him up, went and plowed obscenities into the field. The farmer couldn’t see them, but an owl in his employ snitched on us.”

“On ‘us’?”

Viz shrugged. “Snaug’s strong, but he can’t spell worth a damn. When things got real bad I started taking to the sauce a little myself. It helps you forget.”

Buncan scrutinized the rhino, who had finally stopped sobbing. “And there’s nothing that can bring him out of this?”

“Sure. Give him back his self-respect.”

“How?”

“How indeed? I’ve been trying for years. He doesn’t listen to me anymore. Of course, the ranker he gets the better I eat, but there are higher principles at stake here.” He hesitated. “There’s one thing that might do it.”

“What’s that?”

Viz leaned forward, his beak a thumb’s length from Buncan’s right eye. “Get him his armor back.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. Gragelouth already told you we have hardly any money.”

The tickbird straightened. “Well, you asked. You know, if he was rambling on about honor and virtue and gallantry, he meant every word of it. He’s serious about that stuff, and there isn’t a duplicitous bone in that whole enormous body. When he’s sober there isn’t a nobler creature on earth.”

Buncan studied the immense mass that was Snaugenhutt and tried to imagine what it would cost to provide armor for so much sheer bulk. It would be like trying to armor a ship. Which was rather what the rhino was: a landship on four legs.

“No way,” he told Viz. “Gragelouth doesn’t have anywhere near enough funds.”

“Too bad. There’s no guarantee it would work, anyway.” The tickbird looked wistful. “Though I would like to have seen it tried.” He leaned forward again. “My hearing’s pretty sharp. Did I hear you say something about being a spellsinger?”

Buncan nodded. “My otterish companions and I. We work together.”

“Then why don’t you just spellsing him his armor back?”

“Don’t you think that occurred to me?” He shook his head regretfully. “We only function as a trio. I play the duar and they rap.” At the tickbird’s puzzled expression he added, “It’s a type of singing.”

“Have you tried it as a duo?”

“Well, not really. It’s just been working so well as a trio, I’m a little nervous about trying anything different. Even if it’s only a little off, spellsinging can produce some weird effects.”

“Try,” Viz urged him. “If something goes wrong, we’ll absolve you of any responsibility.” The bird lifted both wings slightly. “It’s not like either of us have anything to lose.”

Buncan considered. “All right. Yeah. We’ll give it a shot.”

Squill was less willing, but the thought of Buncan going it alone and doing some actual singing finally convinced him to participate.

As Buncan played the otter essayed some hesitant lyrics, a sort of wrap rap, which to everyone’s surprise actually generated a small cloud around the befuddled Snaugenhutt. It wasn’t very intense and it didn’t last very long, but the result was decidedly metallic in nature.

When the song concluded, Snaugenhutt stood swathed from head to foot in some shiny, metallic material. Their initial hopes were dashed when it became apparent that even Viz could easily shred the metal “armor” with his beak. The spellsong had worked, but without Neena’s harmonizing it had proven less than effective.

“What is this stuff?” The tickbird sputtered as he spit a silvery patch from his mouth. It floated awkwardly to the ground.

Buncan peeled a section from Snaugenhutt’s right shoulder. “It looks like something my father brought back from the Otherworld one time. My mother uses it in cooking.”

“It’s pretty,” groused Viz, “but as armor it’s a total loss.”

“I’m hot,” Snaugenhutt moaned. “Get me out of this.”

Working together, the discouraged foursome soon had the rhino peeled.

“Right! Now it’s my turn.” Buncan and the others looked over at an angry Squill. “That is, if you’re really set on ‘inn’ this old sod.” He glared at the rhino, who was unable to meet his gaze.

“I don’t know.” Snaugenhutt was barely audible. “I don’t know if I’m any good anymore. With or without armor.”

Viz fluttered over to land once more on his companion’s skull. “Sure you are, Snaug. The body’s intact. It’s the spirit that’s missing.”

The rhino licked thick lips. “Speaking of spirits . . .”

“NO!” Viz hopped forward until he could bend over and gaze directly into one eye. “No more. As of now, you’re on the wagon.”

“Don’t see no wagon,” the rhino mumbled, closing the eye.

“There’s a lady in distress in need of rescue, and these good people are relying on us. No one else will help them, so it’s up to us. No one else is brave enough to go up against the Baron Krasvin. No one else is stupid enough, dumb enough, foolhardy enough . . .”

“Oi!” Squill blurted. “Quit encouragin’ ‘im.”

“Can’t do it.” Snaugenhutt opened the eye halfway. “I need a drink.”

“No, dammit!” Viz fluttered up to an ear and plucked a crawling delicacy from amongst the hairs. “Besides, I . . . I promised. I gave our word.”

Snaugenhutt started. “You did what?”

“Gave our word of honor. As warriors.”

“I’m not a warrior anymore.” He struggled to open the eye all the way, failed. “Actually what I am, is tired. Sleepy. Got to . . . rest.”

“No, not now.” Viz hovered as his companion settled back on his rear knees, then lowered his front legs. “There are arrangements to be made, agreements to be settled!”

The massive body hit the straw with a dull boom. In a minute the rhino was fast asleep.

“This is not promising,” Gragelouth declared.

Viz settled down atop his friend’s flank. “We have to find him some armor. It’s the only chance.”

“That’s what I was tryin’ to tell you about it bein’ me turn.” They all looked again to Squill. The otter regarded each of them in turn. “I’ll take care o” it.”

“You?” said Gragelouth.

“How?” Buncan inquired guardedly.

The otter smirked. “ ‘Ow do you think, mate? By usin’ the skills Mudge taught me. O’ course, it weren’t exactly teachin’. ‘E just sort o’ can’t ‘elp boastin’ a bit when ‘e rambles, Mudge can’t.”

“Even in a city the size of Camrioca, armor for someone like Snaug is going to be hard to find,” Viz warned him.

“I’ll do the best I can.”

“You’re going to steal it,” Buncan said accusingly.

“Now who said anythin’ about theft?” The otter’s whiskers twitched in mock outrage. “Mudge told us a lot, ‘e did, besides ‘ow to steal.”

“I’m not giving my approval.” Buncan folded his arms across his chest.

“But you won’t try an’ stop me?”

“Your sister’s already in danger. If you want to go and endanger yourself on her behalf, I certainly can’t stop you. I know you won’t listen to reason.”

“Oi; nobly put.” The otter glanced at Gragelouth. “Wot about you, droopy-lips?”

“I am a respectable merchant. I might wish at some tune in the future to trade in these parts.”

“You’re a better liar than ‘e is, I’ll give you that.” The otter indicated the stolid-faced Buncan. “I’ll just ‘ave to take care o’ business alone, then.”

“Not entirely alone,” said a small voice. Viz flew over to land on Squill’s shoulder. The otter eyed the tickbird speculatively.

“Might be some trouble.”

The bud let out a sharp whistle, gestured backward with a wingtip. “I’ve been looking out for that ambulating dung factory for five years. A little trouble doesn’t scare me. For that matter, jail might be an improvement.”

“Righty-ho. ‘Avin’ an eye in the sky along won’t ‘urt. You two ‘old old Snauggy’s ‘orn, or wotever. Me an’ the bird will take care o’ business.” With Viz riding his shoulder, Squill scampered off in the direction of the exit.

They did not return that night, nor in the morning. It was well on to midday, when Buncan’s concern was starting to give way to real unease, when an oversize wagon drawn by a pair of Percherons came rattling into the corral.

The nearest to Buncan shook his mane as he pawed irritably at the packed earth. “Where you want this stuff?”

Buncan blinked at the heavy horse, trying to see into the slab-sided, tarp-covered wagon. “What stuff?”

The Percheron gave him the once-over. “You’re Buncan Meriweather, ain’t you?”

“I am. What of it?” Behind him a groggy Gragelouth was rousing himself from his sleeping pallet, while deeper within the stall Snaugenhutt snored on oblivious.

“Snotty young otter told us we’d find you here,” the other Percheron declared gruffly. “Told us to look for a gloomy-lookin’ human; tall, overdressed. You fit.”

“I guess I do.”

“That’s all we need to know.” He took a half-step forward, raised his right rear leg, and kicked down firmly on an oversize lever. As a spring was released the wagon bed rose and tilted, dumping its contents in a clanging, clattering, tarp-wrapped heap. Gragelouth all but leaped from his bed at the uproar, while Snaugenhutt simply rolled over.

“It’s all yours,” the other horse announced. Whereupon the two of them turned and clip-clopped back out through the wide, swinging gate, their now empty wagon in tow.

Gragelouth tugged at his vest as he rubbed sleep from his eyes. “What was all that about?”

“Beats me.”

Together they approached the irregular-shaped pile and began working on the ropes which held the enveloping tarp in place. When the bindings were undone, Buncan tugged and pulled until the contents lay exposed.

The armor, he found himself thinking. It has to be. Not silver or inlaid steel, but massive, square plates of raw black iron that looked as if they had been hastily cast and cobbled together. Hooks, rings, and eyes indicated how the plates were intended to be crudely linked. It wasn’t very pretty. Not exactly the epitome of the armorer’s art, he thought, though the thick plates looked functional enough.

He hefted one. Though rough-textured and unfinished, it was an immense improvement over the crinkly foil he and Squill had spellsung up.

“Let’s get started,” he told the merchant.

The sloth blinked at him. “Get started? How can we do that? The rhino still sleeps.”

“Then we’ll start on that side,” he declared with determination.

Wrestling hunks of the armor over to the stall, they began trying to attach them, starting at the high, rounded backside. Gragelouth protested at the effort required.

By midaftemoon they were bodi exhausted. Snaugenhutt had not helped their efforts by rolling over several times, and they had accomplished very little.

At that point Squill and Viz finally returned, trailed by a huge brown bear clad in light work shut and pants. A vast multipocketed apron hung from his neck and was secured behind him. His pockets bulged with all manner of tools, as did the thick leather belt that hung from his waist. The smaller, slightly blonder bear who accompanied him was similarly equipped.

“No, no!” The bear rumbled his disapproval as he inspected their coarse handiwork. “Not like zat.” Waddling past the startled Gragelouth, the two ursines set to correcting the mistakes Buncan and the merchant had so arduously perpetrated. Their sometimes noisy exertions notwithstanding, Snaugenhutt slept on.

Buncan glared at the otter. “You took your own sweet time. Neena could be in pretty bad shape by now.”

“You don’t know me sister, mate.” But for the first time there was a hint of real concern in Squill’s voice. “I admit I thought she’d ‘ave broken out o’ that place by now.”

“Don’t undereztimate the Baron,” the bear’s assistant called back to them. Buncan and his friends walked over to observe the assembly of the armor.

“You know of Krasvin?” Buncan asked him.

The assistant nodded as he worked. “Everybody knowz of ze Baron Krasvin. Camrioca iz a big city, but ze families of noble birth are not zat extenzive.”

The larger bear was pounding away with a hammer and a huge pair of pliers. “Finished zoon. He iz going to have to stand zo we can make zure everything fallz properly into place.”

“That means waking him up.” Viz glided from Squill’s shoulder to the slumbering rhino’s head. “Might be more difficult than affixing the armor.” He rested until the two bears backed off. The larger one nodded.

“Done! Make him ztand.”

“Easier said than done.” Viz pecked forcefully at an ear.

“Just because we need him awake doesn’t mean he’ll comply.”

The great head rose off the straw. “Need who awake?” Legs began to kick, like a locomotive changing gears.

With a cacophonous rattle and clank, Snaugenhutt struggled to his feet. Drunk he’d still been middling impressive, Buncan thought. Erect and completely clad in the rough black armor, he looked like something out of a serious nightmare. Buncan hoped the Baron’s minions would react accordingly.

His old armor had doubtless fit together better. Certainly it must have been more attractive. The blacksmith and his assistant were not armorers and had fashioned the cast-iron gear together out of loose bits of ship armor, battered shields, and whatever other scraps they had been able to scavenge on short notice. Still, their salvage work was mightily impressive.

Snaugenhutt was completely cloaked on all sides. Smaller interlinked plates protected his legs all the way down to the ankles. Sharpened spikes ran in a threatening belt around his equator, while a pair of blades fashioned from oversize swords protruded forward and down from his shoulders.

Hammered arcs of iron shielded his ears and stuck out protectively above each eye, while linked rings protected the rest of his head. Gaps allowed both horns to emerge freely. Concave scutes decorated his spine and not incidentally provided smooth seats for any who might choose to ride there. Welded to the flattened, elongated plate that ran down between his ears toward the shorter horn was a small, raised metal bowl with the back quarter cut out. An iron perch was attached crossways to the interior of the bowl.

Swaying slightly, the rhino now resembled some kind of bizarre alien machine more than any living being. He shook himself uncertainly, producing a sound like a dozen chained skeletons fighting to escape from a dungeon.

“What’s all this?” His skull lowered. “Someone’s been using my head for an anvil.”

Viz fluttered back from the barrel on which he’d been standing and settled into the bowl-enclosed armored perch atop the rhino’s forehead.

“Not bad,” he told the bear, who accepted the compliment with a grunt. “This’ll work fine, if it doesn’t get too hot.” Hopping clear, he slid down to gaze into his mount’s right eye. “What do you think, Snaug?”

“About what?” the rhino moaned.

“He needs a mirror.” Viz scanned the stable. “None out here.”

“I will find one.” Gragelouth disappeared into the main building, returned moments later with a reflective, broken glass oval.

It was enough. Snaugenhutt stared disbelievingly into the mirror. “Is that me? Is that really me?” He turned to and fro, seeking different views.

“No one else ‘ere who looks like that, guv,” Squill told him. “No one else who smells like it, either.”

“Why, I look . . .” The rhino straightened. Knees locked, armor fell into place. “I took terrifying.”

“Oi, right,” the otter muttered.

“I look like . . . my old self. But I’m not my old self.”

Uninterested in Snaugenhutt’s personal reflections, the bear concluded his circumnavigation of his handiwork. “Zee,” he said proudly, “I have finished every zing zo that ze plates overlap or interlock. He iz completely protected yet ztill able to maneuver freely.” He patted one heavy plate affectionately. “Heavier than most zuch armor it may be, but thiz would turn a zhip’s ram.”

“He can handle it,” chirped Viz from his position above Snaugenhutt’s eye. “Can’t you?”

“I guess so. I am handling it, aren’t I?”

“Try a few steps,” Buncan suggested.

Advancing carefully, the rhino emerged from the stall. Armor rattled. With each step he also emerged a little bit more from the binge not only of the previous day, but of previous years.

“Head still hurts, but not from the iron,” he finally announced.

“That’ll pass.” Viz hopped back up to his little howdah. “It’s going to be like old times.”

“Old times,” Snaugenhutt echoed, still somewhat dazed.

Buncan came forward and patted one armored shoulder. “There’s a damsel in need of rescue, warrior.”

“Damsel.”

Squill rolled his eyes. “I must admit it is an impressive sight. Obviously there was a great deal of work involved.” Gragelouth cocked a querulous eye in Squill’s direction. The otter merely grinned back.

“Pennants,” Snaugenhutt declared unexpectedly. “I want pennants.”

“You want to do penance?” Gragelouth murmured, not understanding.

“No, pennants. And ribbons. Lots of ribbons. Bright ones. And paint. This black is intimidating, but I want war paint. Yellow and red flames, yeah! I want to look like hell on the move. Shit, I will be hell on the move!” He was fairly trembling with excitement as he turned to face Squill. “We’re gonna rescue your sister, river-runner. By the folds in my skin we will! We’ll rescue her and put this Baron to flight. All Camrioca is afraid of nun, including his friends. But not I, not I.”

Squill smiled back but muttered under his breath. “In a pig’s eye.”

With a short, curt grunt Snaugenhutt swung his head sharply to the right, knocking a heavy bracing pole clean out of its hole as if it were a toothpick. One comer of the stall ceiling came crashing down.

“Please,” Gragelouth implored him, “be careful with the accommodations! We will be asked to pay for that.”

The rhino shook his head. “Shoddy construction. I want that war paint! And the pennants, and the ribbons. Trumpets, too, if you can manage it.”

Gragelouth mentally consulted his purse. “Trumpets are out of the question, but it may be that we can manage a little of the rest.”

Buncan stared in amazement at the rhino. Armored and alert he looked years younger, dynamic and alive. There was fire in his eyes and vigor in his step. It was an astonishing transformation. Clearly the old maxim held true regardless of tribe. Clothes made the rhino.

He was so excited he’d completely forgotten one small detail. The detail reasserted itself by ambling over to peer down at him.

“It waz good doing businezz with you, young human.” The ursine blacksmith rested a heavy paw on Buacan’s shoulder. “Thiz iz a worthy enterprise. I know of thiz Krasvin’s reputation and have no love for him myself.” He turned and headed for the gate, his assistant trailing behind.

“Zee you in one hour,” the bear called back over a shoulder.

“An hour.” Buncan turned to Squill. Gragelouth and Viz were conversing animatedly with Snaugenhutt. Left to himself, the otter smiled sunnily, flashing sharp white teeth.

Buncan put a comradely arm around his friend’s shoulders. “And why, pray tell, are we expected in our friendly blacksmith’s quarters in an hour?”

“Why, to sign the papers acceptin’ formal delivery o’ iron butt’s new nightgown, mate.”

“I thought you were going to steal something.”

“I admit I considered it right off, but the more I got to lookin’ at wot were required, the more I decided I couldn’t walk out o’ no armorer’s shop with the necessary gear stuffed in me bloomin’ pocket. Even if I could, then I’d ‘ave to steal a bloody wagon to ‘aul it, an’ lizards to pull the wagon. It just got too bleedin’ complicated.”

Buncan jerked his head in the direction of the now closed gate. “So how did you talk them into making the delivery?”

The otter looked embarrassed. “Don’t let this get around among me friends and family, mate, but I sort o’ . . . paid for it.”

Buncan frowned. “Paid for it? With money? Squill, have you been holding out on us?”

“ ‘Ere now, mate, I wouldn’t never do nothin’ like that! It’s just that I thought I’d best bring along a few coins in case o’ some emergency, an’ this ‘ere situation struck me as qualifyin’.”

Buncan’s expression grew dark. “Where’d you get any real money?”

The otter looked away. “Well, before we started off I thought we might need somethin’ extra, so I sort o’ borrowed it from me dad.”

Buncan gaped. “You stole from Mudge?”

“Just sort o’ borrowed it, Buncan. Mudge, ‘e’ll understand. ‘E did plenty o’ borrowin’ in ‘is time.”

“He’s going to kill you!”

Squill shrugged. “Got to catch up with me first.”

Buncan shook his head in disbelief. “So we’ve been scrimping this entire journey and you’ve had money all along?”

“I told you, Buncan, it were for an emergency. Anyway, I got to thinkin’ about wot you’ve been sayin’, an’ even if she is a worse pest than water lice an’ not the kind o’ siblin’ I’d choose if I ‘ad me choice, she is still me only sister.”

“I have a feeling you’re not exactly the kind of brother she’d opt for, either. How do you expect to pay Mudge back?”

“I kind o’ thought we might find some treasure or somethin’ along the way. Maybe this Grand Veritable’s worth a packet o’ gold, or somethin’.”

“If it even exists,” Buncan reminded him coolly. “Squill, you live in a moral vacuum.”

“Oi, that I do.” The otter straightened. “Mudge’d be proud.” He stepped past his friend. “We got the bleedin’ armor, didn’t we? We’ve got an outside shot at bringin’ this crazy stunt off, don’t we? Ain’t that wot matters?”

“I guess so. It’s your neck when we get home.”

“Bloomin’ right it is. So let’s find this walkin’ beer sump ‘is paint and pretties, and get on with it. Besides, if we don’t bring this off an’ I’m killed, I won’t owe Mudge any money.”

Once again Buncan was left struck dumb by the inevitability of otter logic.

CHAPTER 15

They planned the assault for midnight, hoping that Neena had somehow remained unsullied thus far by the Baron’s attentions.

This was actually the case, though Squill’s sister was growing desperately tired. Having enjoyed a long and restful sleep, Krasvin was now content to bide his time, no longer in any especial hurry. Not wishing to risk a single additional volume from his collection, he had decided to relax until his quarry simply collapsed from exhaustion, which point in time was observably not far off now.

Then, he thought calmly to himself, events would proceed as they ought. He amused himself with elaborate mental preparations.

Buncan and his companions ventured out to sign the blacksmith’s papers, leaving Viz to arrange for the war paint and frills his newly energized companion had requested. Unable to rest, they wandered the streets of Camrioca until the sun had set and been replaced by a rising half-moon. Then they returned to the tavern to rejoin the others.

The lion was there, with his two fellow fighters. He made some comment as Buncan and his companions walked past. Buncan saw the fox and caracal laugh uproariously but hardly spared a glance in their direction. They weren’t needed, he thought firmly. Snaugenhutt was all they needed.

Save for a pair of deer snuggling in a far bay, the stable area was deserted. They hurried to Snaugenhutt’s stall, eager to be on their way.

Which was when disaster, that most uncomely of all possibilities, smiled callously upon them.

Prone in his stall, bright tail pennant stained with urine, ribbons askew, armor slack and anything but intimidating, Snaugenhutt lay snoring sonorously. The thick stench of cheap liquor was overpowering.

Viz sat morosely on the rim of a barrel nearby his legs hanging over the edge, tiny beret clasped in flexible wingtips, head down. The tickbird was a picture of feathered misery.

“I only went out for a little while. Just a little while.”

Buncan sat down in a clean patch of bedding and picked disconsolately at the straw. “What for! And why now, of all times?” Angrily he flung a handful of straw at the comatose rhino.

“Disaster most complete.” Gragelouth glanced sorrowfully at Squill. “No chance now for your sister.”

“I can’t believe it.” The otter booted an iron scute. It clinked against another. Snaugenhutt didn’t stir. “All ‘e ‘ad to do was stay sober for ‘alf an afternoon. Wot ‘appened to his newfound pride, ‘is sense o’ duty? We ‘ad a bleedin’ arrangement, we did.”

“He was all set to go,” Viz mumbled miserably. “Looking forward to it. He was so much like, like his old self. I didn’t think there’d be any harm in leaving him for a while.”

“Why did you leave him?” Buncan asked testily. The tickbird couldn’t meet the human’s gaze.

“Tried to arrange a loan. We’re over a month behind on our bill here. I meant to tell you later. I was only gone a few hours, but when I got back,” he indicated the huge, insensible form, “Snaug was like this. His trough’s empty. I was afraid to ask inside how much he’d had.”

Squill slumped against the wall, crossing his arms in disgust. “Now wot?”

“We wait until he sleeps it off,” Viz told him. “Tomorrow morning, if we’re lucky.” He gazed at his enormous, presently useless friend. “I don’t understand. He was so proud to be embarking on a new campaign.”

“How are we going to juice him up a second time?” Buncan muttered. “We can’t armor him all over again.” He was quiet for several moments. Then he rose and removed not his sword, but a potentially far more powerful weapon.

Squill cocked his head to one side. “ ‘Ere now, mate, you don’t mean to ‘ave another go at just the two of us spellsingin’?” “Got any better ideas?”

“We could do as the bird says an’ wait for momin’.”

“Think Neena can hold out another day?” The otter looked resigned. “This didn’t work so well the last time we tried it.”

“We’ve got no choice. Besides, we don’t need to conjure up anything solid like armor. All we need to do is rouse this mess and set him on the right path.”

“Well . . .” The otter was still dubious. “If we can get ‘is bloomin’ eyes open maybe the rest’ll follow.” He stepped away from the wall. “Let me think. Confidentially, Neena’s much better at this ‘ere business o’ lyrics than I am.”

“Do your best.” Buncan tried to sound encouraging. Long moments passed, until Buncan could stand it no longer. “Sing out, Squill. Either it’ll have an effect or it won’t.” The otter nodded, settled himself, and started in.

“Got a battle up ahead, a battle to be won

Need the ‘elp o’ one Snaugenhutt, need ‘is ‘elp by the ton

Got to get to the Baron’s mansion, got to get there damn fast.

Need to move it out quickly ‘cause me sister can’t last

Fast, fast, cast it to the winds

Cast it out through the bleedin’ sky

Pass it on by, sly, high

C’mon old thing, you gots to try!”

While Gragelouth looked on apprehensively, Buncan coaxed what he thought was some appropriate underlying bass from the depths of the duar, from the enigmatic nether regions where the instrument drew not only its music but its magic.

A silvery mist began to coalesce within the stall.

Squill saw it too and kept rapping even as he backed clear, hardly daring to believe it was working. Gragelouth retreated to one side while Viz hastily took wing, abandoning his barrel perch to hover behind the energetically strumming Buncan.

The argent fog curled into a tight, scintillating whirlpool directly above the unconscious rhino’s head. As it spun it generated a faint hum. With increased velocity the sound intensified, until the roaring was so loud Buncan could barely hear the otter clearly enough to maintain proper accompaniment.

Small dark clouds formed within the maelstrom. Buncan and Squill kept their attention focused on the rhino, who was beginning to stir. Armor clanged softly. The spellsong was working! Buncan knew it had to work or he’d never be able to face Mudge and Weegee again, not to mention never having the chance to unravel the mystery of the Grand Veritable. It could not not work.

Miniature lightning crackled within the diminutive clouds as Squill’s voice rose to a feverish barking. There was a tremendous reverberating boom as the whirlpool imploded, followed by a flash of light so bright they were all momentarily blinded. Buncan wasn’t sure whether he actually ceased playing or not.

When he could see again the stall revealed that Snaugenhutt had rolled over onto his back, all four legs in the air. His armor lay splayed out beneath him, an iron mattress. He looked like a corpse in the last stages of rigor mortis. If anything, his snoring was louder then ever.

Gasping for air, Squill gazed in disgust at the still-recumbent form. “That’s it, mate. I can’t think o’ anythin’ else. I’ve improvised ‘til I’m ‘oarse.” He sucked at the pungent night air.

“Not only didn’t it sober him up,” Buncan muttered disconsolately, “it didn’t even wake him up.” He turned toward the merchant. “I guess that’s the end of it, Gragelouth. We’re finished.”

But Gragelouth wasn’t looking at him. Nor was he considering Snaugenhutt. His wide-eyed attention was focused instead on something behind the spellsinging duo.

“I wouldn’t say that we’re finished,” proclaimed a surprisingly deep voice.

Buncan whirled. Viz was still behind him. Only, the tickbird wasn’t hovering anymore. He was standing. And he’d changed. Grown a little bit, actually. Well, more than a little bit.

When he spread his freshly metamorphosed wings they shaded the entire area.

The frightened deer had buried themselves in the straw of their stall and lay there, shaking. Emerging from the rear of the main building to see what all the noise had been about, the chief bartender, a no-nonsense coyote, took one look at the gigantic winged apparition, let out a strangled squeak, and vanished back inside.

Squill pushed his feathered cap back on his ears and stared up, up at the heavy-beaked, splendiferously plumed skull. “Right spell, wrong subject, mates.”

Viz inspected each wing in turn, men his enormous, formidably clawed feet, lastly the broad, spatulate tail. “This is wonderful!”

“Wondrous, at any rate.” A stunned Gragelouth ducked as the transformed tickbird turned a slow circle, flattening a protruding chimney across the street.

“No telling how long it’ll last,” Buncan declared, staring. “Some of our spells don’t hold up too well. With just Squill and I executing this one, I wouldn’t lay change on its permanence.”

“Then we’d better take advantage of this one,” the transmogrified tickbird rumbled.

“Wot do you ‘ave in mind, guv?” Squill was watching the bird warily.

“Like you’ve been saying: Time is important. Climb up on my back, all of you.” A vast wing dipped until the tip was touching the ground.

Hesitating only mentally, Buncan struggled up the ramp of huge feathers, pulling himself along. Behind him, Gragelouth lingered.

“Come on!” he urged the merchant.

“I . . . I don’t know.” The sloth’s nervous tongue was all over his face. “I am not used to such adventurous exertions. I am only a simple merchant.”

Buncan settled into position behind the tickbird’s columnar neck. “Don’t think about it. With your claws you’ll be able to hang on better than any of us.”

“Well . . .” Gragelouth glanced down at his powerful fingers. “Having always considered myself permanently earthbound, I suppose it would be a highly educational experience to experience flight.” He ambled forward.

Buncan looked past him. “Squill, what are you waiting for?”

“We otters ain’t keen on flyin’, mate. We like life bloody well close to the ground, and plenty o’ time under it.”

“It’s your sister,” Buncan reminded him sternly.

“That’s right, smother me in guilt.” He shuffled reluctantly forward. “It’s only that if I upchuck on Viz’s back it might break the spell.”

“Anything might break it. Move yourself.” Reaching down, Buncan gave his friend a hand up.

“Puke all you want.” Viz gleefully tossed his amazing rainbow crest. “It won’t bother me. I’ve lived with that for years.” He indicated the stagnant, soporific shape of the unconscious rhinoceros.

Gargantuan wings beat the air, driving the cowering deer even deeper into their stall. As the coyote returned with querulous friends, the blast of wind from Viz’s wingbeats blew them backward into the tavern.

Two strapping sets of claws reached out and snatched the snoring Snaugenhutt from his stall. The stupefied rhino was a load even for the transmuted tickbird, but with a determined burst of energy he powered his great avian form into the night sky, multiple burden and all.

Banking hard above the towers of languorous Camrioca, an enchanted shape turned sharply westward. Those few citizens abroad on nocturnal strolls who happened to glance upward at a propitious moment did not then nor ever after countenance what their eyes detected at that particular moment.

Viz followed the reflective path of the river, turning inland when the battlements of the Baron’s estate became visible off to the north. The half-moon that was playing hide-and-seek with the clouds supplied enough light to show the way.

Buncan dug his fingers tighter into the feathers in front of him as Viz took a wild dip. The tickbird looked back at him, panic in his voice.

“I’m getting weaker already! I can feel it.”

“Knew the spell wouldn’t last.” Squill leaned over, estimating the distance to the trees below, and shut his eyes tight. Beneath the brown fur the muscles of his arms were clenched.

Gragelouth focused his attention on the terrain ahead. “I see no guards on the wall. There are one or two atop the main gate.”

“Set us down inside,” Buncan instructed their mount. “Right on the roof.”

“They’ll see us land,” Viz argued. “We need something to divert their attention.”

“What do you suggest?” The feathers Buncan clutched seemed to be vibrating under his fingers. At any moment, he knew, Viz might contract to his normal size, leaving them all suspended in midair. But only momentarily. In his natural incarnation it would be a struggle for the tickbird to raise a good-sized worm.

“Leave it to me. And hang on!” With that, Viz drew in his great wings and dove straight for the main gate. Ominously, a silvery mist was beginning to collect along the leading edge of his wings.

Hearing the wind that was not wind, one of the guards atop the wall saw the stupendous apparition approaching and let out an involuntary, startled cry. It was enough to alert the evening patrol below, which reacted with impressive lack of decision.

Their yelling was loud enough to reach into the great central hall, where the Baron Krasvin was planning his final assault on the upstart occupier of his precious library. He peered past his courtiers, his expression irritable.

“What’s all that noise.”

“I’ll go and see, Master.” Holding his floppy hat onto his head, a woodchuck sprinted for the doorway.

Krasvin grunted at the interruption and returned his attention to his immediate circle. “Now remember: We’re going in quietly. Once inside I want all of you to hug the wall. Neiswik and I will go up the ladder first. As soon as we can get the lamp out of her reach we’ll toss her down to you. Get on her immediately: She’s quick. And don’t hurt her.” He grinned nastily. “Such pleasures I reserve for myself.”

“I can’t hold it!” shouted Viz as he plunged lower. “I can feel myself starting to change back.”

“Then get the ‘ell down!” Squill squealed at him.

“We have to land inside.” Buncan tried to estimate the distance remaining to the estate. “We have to!”

At that moment an unearthly shriek split the air rushing past him. It came not from any of his companions but from immediately below. It wasn’t surprising that he didn’t recognize it. He’d never heard a rhinoceros scream before.

Snaugenhutt had chosen that moment to awaken.

“It’s all right.” Buncan leaned out and over as far as he could. “We’re almost there!”

“Almost wh-wh-where?” Snaugenhutt’s words were not slurred, his tone unimpaired. As a representative of a decidedly earthbound tribe, the experience of finding himself suddenly and unexpectedly soaring through the air had done nothing less than shock him sober.

“The gate,” their mount shouted. “We’re almost upon the gate!”

Though deeply distorted, the tickbird’s voice was not unrecognizable. Snaugenhutt’s head twisted around and up. “Viz?”

“Yeah, it’s me, you useless old soak. I’m wondering why I bothered to haul you along.”

“Sorry. Don’t know what happened to me.”

“I do. I can’t let you out of my sight for a minute without you crapping all over what little reputation we’ve got left. But that’s Krasvin’s estate up ahead. You’re about to get a chance to redeem yourself. Whether you want to or not.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that the spell that’s done me like this is wearing off fast, we have to get inside that wall unnoticed if possible, and in order to do that we need a diversion. A big diversion.”

Snaugenhutt’s eyelids shuttered suspiciously. “What kind of ‘diversion’?”

At which point there resounded in the night sky above the silent forest west of Camrioca an immortal cry not likely to be repeated in the lifetime of anyone in the immediate vicinity. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

“Rhino awayyyy!”

“Nooooo!” Snaugenhutt howled as those great claws unclenched and Viz released his burden.

As the transformed tickbird soared upward, buoyed by the release, the panicked rhino described an elegant trajectory out and down, plunging horn-first in a great arc straight toward the high, double-doored gateway. On the walkway atop the gate two of Krasvin’s household troops witnessed the black-armored, flame-painted monstrosity hurtling toward them out of the half-moon. One fainted dead away on the spot, while the other dove into the courtyard with becoming alacrity.

Pennants and ribbons flying, the cast-iron-clad Snaugenhutt smashed into the center of the gate with stupendous (if decidedly unwilling) force. Planks and cross-braces shattered explosively. His armor banging and clanking like a military band on speed, Snaugenhutt landed in the courtyard, rolled over three times, and ended up on his feet, albeit staggering groggily. Fortunately he did not have to confront any immediate adversaries, the appalled patrol having fled precipitously in all directions.

Watching them abandon their weapons as they vanished into doorways and around comers reassured him as his senses returned. Dust from the devastated gate was still settling as he started forward, trailing broken beams and smashed planks from his broad back.

Confronted by the unimaginably terrifying sight of an armored, flame-scoured, flying (well, falling) rhinoceros, those retainers who arrived to see what had happened beat an immediate and fearful retreat.

“Come back and fight!” Snaugenhutt bellowed defiantly. “Cowards, spineless reptiles! Stand and do battle!” There was so much adrenaline coursing through him that he was hopping up and down on all four feet, making a sound like one of the ore crushers at the fabled Caqueriad Mines.

Not surprisingly, none of Krasvin’s minions elected to take him up on his offer.

At that point the Baron himself, trailing retainers like remoras, appeared in the main entrance to the mansion. The sight of the armored, snorting, quadrupedal intruder, eyes bloodshot and nostrils flaring in the moonlight, gave even the belligerent Krasvin pause.

Snaugenhutt took note of the figures crowding awkwardly in the doorway and let out a gratified rumble. “Ahhhh. Fresh meat!”

A silken-clad squirrel squealed frantically and vanished back inside. To his credit Krasvin drew his own sword and tried to rally his people.

“Weapons! We’ll make a stand here.” His saber wasn’t as long as the rhino’s front horn.

Snaugenhutt wasn’t exactly quick out of the blocks, but once he got his great bulk up to speed he could manage a very respectable pace. The Baron held his ground as long as was sensible, then uttered a violent curse and retreated inside, helping to slam the door shut behind him.

Pennants streaming, Snaugenhutt plowed through the portal without breaking stride, sending wood, metal strapping, and fragments of stained glass flying in all directions. Braking with his front feet, he skidded to a stop in the middle of the great hall and immediately began hunting for something else to trample, knock down, or gore. The subjects of his attention ran into, around, and over one another in their haste to avoid his homicidal gaze. It was a very effective diversion.

CHAPTER 16

Rapidly shrinking to his natural proportions, Viz just did manage to clear the high wall and land his passengers atop the main building. It was an awkward touchdown, but everyone made it in one piece.

As they climbed to their feet they could hear the yells and screams rising from below, a chorus of confusion and fear.

“It sounds as if our friend Snaugenhutt is doing his job.” Gragelouth brushed at his pants. “I was not sure he had it in him.”

“Oh, he always had it in him.” Viz was skimming back and forth across the roof, searching for a way down for his companions. “It’s just that it was always saturated. But that little flight dried him out, rejuvenated him. Downdrafts be damned if it didn’t rejuvenate me.” He paused to hover in front of Buncan. “I enjoyed that little transformation. Think you two could do it again?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t what we were trying to do in the first place.” Buncan made certain the duar was strapped securely against his back. “Have you found a way down?”

“Afraid not.” Viz gestured with a wingtip. “There don’t seem to be any stairs leading to this roof. The only openings I was able to find are vents, chimneys, and skylights.”

“Fair enough.” Squill stood by the edge of one skylight, leaning over to peer through the translucency.

“It’ll have to do.” Buncan moved to join his friend. “We’ll break the glass and climb down the ladder.”

Squill frowned at him. “Ladder? Wot ladder?” He put one hand over his eyes and pulled his sword with the other. “We otters are the direct type, mate. You ought to know that by now.”

So saying, and before Buncan could make a move to restrain him, he jumped forward as far as his short legs would propel him and plunged through the skylight, sending glass flying in all directions.

“Squill!” Buncan rushed to the opening and peered through. “You idiot!”

Below, the otter was climbing to his feet, brushing glass from his clothing and fur as he examined his surroundings.

“ Tis a short drop, Buncan. Even old droopy-eyes ought to be able to ‘andle it. Looks like servants’ quarters. Wot the bloody ‘ell are you waitin’ for?” He moved out of view.

“Squill! Wait up.” Buncan positioned himself as best he could and dropped through. He was followed by Viz, and lastly by Gragelouth, though it took some coaxing to persuade the merchant to make the jump.

No one challenged them as they hurried down the narrow hallway, nor was there anyone coming up the spiral stone staircase to intercept them. The level of noise rising from below suggested total confusion within the Baron’s household, if not complete chaos.

Tracking the cacophony led them out onto a narrow mezzanine overlooking a central atrium or hall where a bellowing, defiant Snaugenhutt was holding court, dividing his attention between two groups of Krasvin’s retainers. When one would try to flee from behind protective pillars and furniture, he would drive them back. This prompted the members of the orner group to try to escape, whereupon the rhino would turn and charge them. Occasionally one fell victim to that thrusting horn, or tripped and went down. If Snaugenhutt happened to step on the prone unfortunate, he did not get up again.

From time to time an arrow shaft or spear would speed the rhino’s way, only to bounce harmlessly off his thick, jouncing armor.

Buncan scanned the battleground. “No sign of Neena.”

“No doubt she has by now been sequestered in some subterranean dungeon.” Gragelouth fingered the knife he carried as his sole form of protection. “We need to find a route that continues to lead downward.”

“How do we get past this?” Buncan indicated the chaotic courtyard.

“This way, mates.” Squill shouted from the far end of the mezzanine, already two steps down the staircase he’d found.

They were about to descend lower when a shrill, familiar bark halted the otter in his tracks. “She’s ‘ere!” He looked around furiously. “That way!” Spinning, he charged back up the stairs, bursting past Buncan and Gragelouth. Only Viz was able to keep up with him.

Sword waving, Squill led the charge into the library . . . and slowed. It was empty, though there was plenty to indicate that it had recently been fully occupied. Food and drink had been abandoned on tables, and lamps still burned dimly.

“They’re all busy with Snaugenhutt,” Viz opined.

“There’s no one here now.” Buncan turned a slow circle as he advanced farther into the room.

“Bloody ‘eck there ain’t, Bunkooch,” declared a weak voice from above.

Their attention was drawn to a mezzanine-level walkway, where Neena was trying to rise from amidst an uncomfortable bed of opened books. A single flickering oil lamp disclosed her location.

“Neena!” Buncan searched for a ladder. “Are you all right?”

“Wot the bloody, rotten ‘ell took you so long?” She was so tired she had to use the railing just to stand.

“Don’t worry, mate. She’s right enough.” Squill gave Buncan a hand with the ladder he’d found.

“What’s this, more guests?”

Standing in the doorway, a lithe figure clad in elegant silks and soft leather gestured with the saber he carried. His attitude as much as his attire marked him as the master of the estate.

Squill leveled his own sword as he advanced on the Baron. “The game’s done, guv. Me sister an’ I will be takin’ our leave now. We ain’t your guests.”

“As you wish. I grant you swift departure.” The mink’s eyes glittered. “Your sibling, however, stays. She and I have unfinished business to conclude.”

On the shaky edge of collapse from lack of sleep, Neena still had enough presence of mind to make her way down the ladder Buncan held steady for her.

“Oi, Squill. Lend me your sword an’ I’ll finish ‘is business for ‘im, I will.”

“Regrett!” It struck Buncan that the Baron was not apologizing, but calling to someone.

Entering behind him and blocking the entire doorway was the ugliest member of the pig tribe Buncan had ever seen. The massive female warthog’s huge scythelike tusks had been filed to razor points. Clad entirely in black leather festooned with metal studs and brads, she carried a hooked battle-ax in one hand and a spiked shield in the other.

“I will be damned if I will give her up now,” swore Krasvin.

“I certainly hope you will.” Buncan slowly drew his own weapon while keeping a wary eye on the hell hog.

“Tell me,” Krasvin was saying, “where did you find the horned freak? He’s wrecking my home and killing my people.”

Viz moved slightly to the fore. “Snaugenhutt’s his name and gallantry’s our game, twitch-whiskers. We came to rescue the lady in distress.”

“I am not hearing this,” Krasvin murmured softly. “What sort of irrationality is this? You risk your lives for a female’s virtue?”

“If you’d acted like a gentleperson in this matter, Snaugenhutt wouldn’t be tearing up your front hall right now,” Buncan assured him.

“Ah, well.” Krasvin flicked at the air with his saber. “Perhaps it’s just as well that you are here. Maybe after she’s seen you disposed of she will be more accommodating. Though if you had waited a few hours more it would no longer have mattered.”

“Wot’s that?” Squill turned to stare at his sister. “You mean you ‘aven’t been . . . ‘e ‘asn’t . . . ?”

“No, I ‘aven’t an’ ‘e “asn’t,” she assured him brusquely. “An’ now, if you’ll do me the favor o’ guttin’ this bastard like a trout for the grill, ‘e never will anyone else, either.”

Krasvin sighed. “As the rest of my loyal staff seems unable to deal with a single intruder, it will be up to you and me, Regrett, to deal with these three.”

“Four!” Viz darted toward the Baron and just did dodge the lightning-fast swipe of his blade. “Before this night’s out, I’ll peck the parasites from your body.”

“I will have you know that I live as cleanly as I kill.” Krasvin settled his attention on Duncan. “I am told that your horned associate flew through the air to smash my front gate. His tribe possesses no wings. How did you manage that?”

Buncan immediately swapped the sword for his duar. “With this. I’m a powerful wizard. A spellsinger, son of a spellsinger.”

“Really? You look green as a new-sprung twig to me. The kind my servants chop for kindling.” The saber flashed. “I will have your bones burned and the ashes scattered.”

“You really are one first-class disgustin’ example of sentience,” Squill observed thoughtfully.

“Thank you.” Krasvin executed a sardonic bow. “You I will keep alive long enough to watch what I do to your sibling. Regrett!”

With (not surprisingly) a deep grunt the huge warthog lumbered toward them, raising her battle-ax.

“I’ve ‘ad about enough o’ this, I ‘ave.” With that, Squill dashed forward.

“Squill!” Even Neena was startled by her brother’s unaccustomed bravery. .or foolhardiness.

The ax described a vicious arc which, had it connected, would easily have cleft the otter through at the waist. Infinitely more agile than the mammoth hog, Squill ducked under the blow, rolled, and stabbed with his own weapon, putting all his weight behind the thrust. The point penetrated between boot and legging to slice the Achilles tendon. Somewhat surprised at his own success, he sprang to his feet and backed off.

The warthog shrieked and went down on one knee. Then, to universal astonishment, she slowly straightened. Though the wound was clearly visible there was no sign of any blood, or any indication of damage. As Squill and his companions gaped she resumed her advance, moving easily on a leg that ought to have been permanently crippled.

Avoiding blows from the great ax, Squill continued to harry the monster. Though his thrusts repeatedly struck home, they had no apparent effect. He continued to avoid retaliation, but could not do so forever. No one could. And while he tired, his gargantuan opponent showed no signs of slowing.

“There is sorcery at work here,” Gragelouth muttered. “Dark sorcery.”

“Indeed.” Krasvin relaxed by the doorway, patiently awaiting the inevitable. “Regrett is my personal bodyguard, and the recipient of a very elaborate and expensive restoration spell. Did you mink you were the only ones who could make use of combat thaumaturgy? Her body renews itself each time it is injured. I doubt any of you can make a similar claim.”

“Eventually she will wear all of you down. Why not simply surrender now to the inevitable?”

“May you contract a foul disease of the genitals that can only be treated with lye and sandpaper,” said Gragelouth.

Neena gazed at the sloth in astonishment. “Why, you old slug-a-mug. I didn’t think you ‘ad it in you!”

The merchant looked embarrassed. “Even I have my limits, young female.”

“Stand still,” the warthog growled, “and I will disable you quickly!” The ax hissed down, striking sparks and stone chips from the library floor where Squill had been standing an instant earlier.

The otter continued to brandish his sword. He was as defiant as ever, but breaming hard now. “Be disabled? By somethin’ as revolting as you? I’d rather throw meself from the top o’ the tallest tree in the Bellwoods.”

“I know I am ugly,” the warthog rumbled. “Keep insulting me. It energizes me and gives me strength.”

“Squill,” Buncan yelled from the far end of the library, “watch out! She’s spell-protected.” He put up his sword and began to play. “Sing! Neena, think of some words to counter this.”

“Whuh?” She blinked. “Bunket, I’m so sleepy I can ‘ardly keep me eyes open.”

“Then sing in your sleep, or you’re liable to lose your brother.”

She squinted up at him. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

He glared at her. “Neena! He’s risking his life to try and save you.”

“Cor, but ‘e took ‘is own good time about it. Oh, all right.”

“Yes, sing, sing.” Near the doorway Krasvin started clapping his hands rhythmically. “I’d be delighted to see some genuine spellsinging. Not that such as you are capable of such wonders, your flying behemoth notwithstanding, but I can tell you that it matters not if you are. The most wise and exalted wizard who enchanted Regrett in my service assured me that she is immune to any manner of necromantic interference. So sing out, while you are still able.”

Buncan ignored the Baron’s taunts. “Squill, you sing too! Try to work with each other.”

The ax smashed into the floor so close to Squill that it shaved the hair on his tail by half. “Sing? ‘Ow do you expect me to bloody sing, mate? I can’t spare the wind.”

A sweet, strong alto rilled the room. It was Neena, doing her best to improvise while following Buncan’s musical lead. Her lyrics resonated in the charged air, snicked off the floor, vibrated the loose pages of open books.

“Got no reason to fight no more

Better mind your manners an’ mind the store.

Just ain’t right to go around bashln’ folks

You don’t know, so

You ought to pay more attention to who you are

What’s really important ain’t that far

From inside you, if you’ll just take a look

Take yourself a page out of a kinder book.”

Taking note of the immediate consequences of the spellsong, Krasvin soon ceased his clapping. “That’s enough. Stop that. Now.” Which warning naturally inspired Neena to trill that much louder. Hefting his sword, the Baron started toward them.

Viz flew straight at him, landed one nice, solid peck on his forehead, and continued buzzing him, inhibiting his advance. Cursing madly, Krasvin cut and sliced with his saber. The tickbird taunted him too close for Buncan’s comfort, but there was nothing he could do about it. He forced himself to concentrate on his playing.

A gray vapor had begun to coalesce around the she-hog. She grunted and swung at it, but neither ax nor shield was effective against what was virtually no more than a dense fog. As Neena sang on, a most remarkable transformation began to take place.“It can’t be,” Krasvin howled. “The wizard shielded hsrl”

Indeed, the protective spell was not entirely wiped, for when Squill chose a propitious moment to dart forward and strike afresh, his sword cut readily through crinoline and lace without damaging the flesh beneath.

It was the sudden presence of crinoline and lace that was unexpected.

Squill withdrew his blade and stepped back, gaping, his weapon hanging loose in his hand. Neena ceased her singing and Buncan’s suddenly limp fingers strummed in desultory fashion across the duar’s strings.

Studs and leather had given way to a sleek dress of lavender and lace. Fine tatting decorated the bodice and sleeves while the multiplicity of petticoats sent the skirt billowing. A pert, matching bonnet was fastened beneath the chin with a satin bow. The battle-ax had metamorphosed into a rather large parasol, the shield into a purse.

With an invigorated roar Regrett swung the purse at Squill, who barely retained sense enough to duck. It smacked against the rear bookshelves and burst open to reveal a flowery interior lined with frills and filled with potpourri.

“What is this?” she bellowed uncomprehendingly. “What’s happened?” At that point she caught sight of herself in a rococo mirror mounted nearby among the shelves and gave vent to one of the most horrific shrieks Buncan had ever heard emerge from a female throat.

Tossing aside purse and parasol as though they were made of burning brimstone, she raced screaming from the library. This entailed much tripping and crashing to the floor as she struggled to make the high heels in which her feet were entrapped function normally. She was last seen vanishing into the central hallway, her hiked-up skirts rustling around her thick legs.

Finding himself suddenly outnumbered, with his secret weapon put to ignominious and utterly unexpected feminine flight, Baron Koliac Krasvin damned them all with spurious invective as he bolted for the courtyard.

“NO!” Weaponless, Neena reached for the source of her preservation and hurled the first oil lamp within reach at the retreating mink. It missed him and exploded against the floor. Flaming liquid fountained in all directions. Some of it caught Krasvin on his tail and right hip. Howling, her tormentor stumbled wildly through the doorway.

Squill briefly contemplated pursuit before deciding that his purpose here lay in facilitating escape, not homicide. He rejoined his companions and watched while Neena planted a whiskery wet kiss on first Buncan and then a highly embarrassed Gragelouth.

“Wot, no embrace for your own brother?” “‘Ow could I forget?” She approached and without hesitation smacked him upside the head.

“Oi!” He grabbed at his cheek. “Wot were that for?” “You stupid sod!” She was right up in his face. “Wot took you so long? Do you ‘ave any idea wot that nasty bugger ‘ad in mind for me? Do you know wot I nearly went through?” Squill snarled softly. “Nothin’ you ain’t gone through before, luv.”

She was on him with a screech, and he fought back energetically and without hesitation, the two of them joined in sibling combat as they rolled over and over across the slate-paved floor. While a distressed Viz looked on, Buncan considered beating the two of them unreservedly about the head with the precious duar.

Gragelouth sidled up to him. “We really ought to be thinking of getting out of here, my young friend. Snaugenhutt should be able to carry us safely to freedom, if he can be persuaded to relent in his present exertions.”

“I’ll handle that.” Viz darted for the door and Buncan followed. The two otters had to settle for swapping insults in lieu of blows as they hurried to catch up. It was a marvel, Buncan mused, how any of their clothing managed to survive their exuberant sibling disagreements.

They found Snaugenhutt pawing the floor as he faced the entrance to the kitchen. The great central hall had been thoroughly demolished: furniture reduced to firewood, banners ripped from their lanyards, paintings and sculpture pulverized underfoot. The kitchen door consisted of a metal grille set in a wooden frame. Half a dozen long spears were thrust rather tremulously through the gridwork.

Viz settled onto his iron perch atop his friend’s forehead. “Good work, Snaug. Time to call it a night.”

Rhinoceran eyes blazed. “No. There’s still a few of ‘em left alive. Lenune finish ‘em off.”

“Not necessary. They’re only employees.” The tickbird stood on the perch and gazed back past his friend’s prodigious rump. “Did you see a mink come running through here? Couldn’t miss him. His ass was on fire.”

“Missed him anyway.” Snaugenhutt grunted. “Been busy.”

Buncan trotted over to pat the rhino’s armored flank. “Take us out of here, Snaugenhutt. You’ve done all that was asked of you. More than was asked of you.”

The great head swung back to peer at him. “But I want to finish ‘em off. Please let me finish mem off?” His pleading did not pass unnoticed among the anxious contingent cowering in the kitchen. Several spears fell to the floor as their owners made haste to find space elsewhere.

“You are presently engaged in our employ,” declared Gragelouth in no-nonsense tones, “and as your employer I demand that you extricate us from mis present situation.”

“Oh, all right.” Bending his front legs, the rhino knelt on the scarred floor. Using the spaces between the iron scutes for steps, they scampered up his flank and settled into the concave metal “seats” along his spine. Buncan took the lead, positioning himself high atop Snaugenhutt’s shoulders. He was followed by Squill and Neena, with Gragelouth occupying the space above the rhino’s hips.

Clambering back to his feet, Snaugenhutt turned and, with utter disdain, pointed his rear end at the survivors in the kitchen as if daring them to respond. It was an offer that went unrequited. No one made any attempt to inhibit them as he lumbered out of the mansion, across the wood-strewn outer courtyard, through the remnants of the main gate, and out onto the narrow road beyond.

Following Gragelouth’s directions, they turned right at the first intersection, right again up a poorly marked route that led northwest. Only when they were well away from Krasvin’s lands and the outer environs of Camrioca did Buncan finally relax.

Neena had been heaping insults on her brother ever since they’d fled the estate, but had quickly succumbed to exhaustion and fallen into a deep sleep. They’d paused long enough to stretch her lengthwise across her saddle, Snau-genhutt’s broad back and short stride being sufficient, together with her own belt, to ensure that she wouldn’t fall off.

As he ambled down the trail Snaugenhutt hummed some obscure martial ditty to himself, occasionally breaking into outright song. Listening to him sing was almost as interesting, Buncan thought, as watching him fight. Of Krasvin there was no sign, despite his reputation. Buncan hoped the fire had burned his backside bald.

They stopped in the town of Poukelpo for provisions before entering the Tamas Desert. Poukelpo was little more than an outpost, full of tired, slightly disreputable types unable to make a go of it in the more prosperous lands to the south and east. While Gragelouth haggled over the price and quantity of their supplies, Buncan inquired as to the meaning of the desert’s name and was informed that the first person known to have entered and returned alive had been a legendary kangaroo rat name of . . . “Tamas,” Buncan finished for the speaker. “Nope,” said the scruffy tamandua. “The rat’s name was Desert. Funny coincidence that.” He shrugged. “I’ve no idea where the ‘Tamas’ comes from.” It was a not altogether illuminating explanation. There was still no sign of pursuit. Either they had outdistanced it, or else Krasvin was still too befuddled or discouraged to mount any. Buncan began to think that they’d seen the last of him and his aberrant drives.

“Not surprised.” Snaugenhutt looked up from his feeding. “No one’s gonna follow us into the Tamas. Nobody goes there for any reason.”

“He’s right.” Viz fluttered out of the way as the last of me gurgling water casks was slung across his companion’s commodious back.

Buncan shaded his eyes as he let his gaze wander out past the edge of the little community. Heat shimmered above distant canyons and mesas. According to what he’d overheard and been told, they were about to enter a region of unknown dangers and great uncertainty. It seemed that he and the otters were to be regular visitors to such lands.

“How long will it take us to cross?”

“Impossible to say.” Gragelouth looked over from where he was supervising the loading. “My inquiries have failed to produce a consensus on the desert’s extent. Everyone seems to agree that there is an end.”

Buncan smiled thinly. “That’s gratifying.”

“It is said that eventually the tablelands and sand give way to wooded mountains profligate with game and good water, but none are certain as to the actual distance.” As always, the sloth accepted his chosen fate quietly. “However far it is, however long it takes, we must cross.” He pointed north with a heavy paw. “That way lies the Grand Veritable.”

Or a veritable lie, Buncan thought. He shrugged inwardly. They’d come too far, had overcome too many obstacles, to turn back now. Besides, he’d always wanted to see a real desert. As for the water-loving otters, they were apprehensive but game.

There was no need to worry about Snaugenhutt. Fit and completely sober for the first time in years, the rhino was ready to fight mountains.

No one bade them farewell as they ambled out of Poukelpo. The townsfolk had seen too many people charge bravely off into the Tamas, never to return. They went about their daily business in the manner of all desert dwellers: with care and deliberation.

The days did not strike Buncan or bis companions as particularly hot. This was more to Snaugenhutt’s benefit than anyone else’s, as he was doing all the work and lugging armor to boot. He plodded methodically northward, able to tolerate the heat so long as they rested during the hottest part of the day.

The otters busied themselves catching fresh lizard and snake to supplement their stores, while Gragelouth strained to see ahead, using his experience to select the most likely route since there were no paths or roads through the desert. Neither Buncan nor the otters ever disputed his choices. The merchant was the seasoned traveler, not they.

Several days out from Poukelpo they found themselves passing among towering, twisted formations of reflective colored sandstone. This was country, Buncan mused, to delight the eye if not the feet. Snaugenhutt’s thick, horny footpads were not troubled by the crumbly rock underfoot, and his passengers were as feathers to him. They made steady progress.

That was why it was such a surprise when he began to sway unsteadily.

A concerned Buncan leaned out and forward. “Something the matter, Snaugenhutt?” Behind him his companions strained to hear.

Viz had been scouting a little ways ahead. Now he returned to query his friend. But Snaugenhutt wasn’t listening. “Everybody off,” the tickbird said abruptly. “Off, off!” They complied; the otters with inherent grace, Buncan awkwardly, Gragelouth with so much deliberation that he barely made it before the rhino keeled over onto his side. Supplies went flying as their indestructible mount let out a vast moan. He lay there, groaning and burbling, eyes rolling back in his head as his legs feebly kicked and pawed at the dry air. His passengers gathered to stare at their stricken companion. Viz settled on Duncan’s shoulder. To his great relief the tickbird did not seem panicked. “What’s wrong with him?” he asked worriedly.

“I think the shock finally wore off.” “The shock?” Neena frowned. “Wot shock?”

“Recall our fellow traveler’s condition at the moment we were about to storm the Baron’s domicile,” a suddenly comprehending Gragelouth suggested. “It was only an unexpected fall from a great height which returned him abruptly to consciousness. That has finally worn off.”

“Wot’s worn off?” Squill made a face. “You talk in riddles, merchant.”

“I am saying that he has been functioning under the impact of that moment ever since. Until now.” The sloth dispassionately considered the unsteady heap of sudden insensibility. “It has finally worn off.”

“Got that right,” agreed Viz with feeling.

“But it’s been days,” Buncan pointed out. “How is that possible?”

“I did not think it was possible for any living being to get that drunk, either.” Gragelouth shrugged.

Squill found himself a soft patch of sand beneath the shade of a wind-polished boulder. “Looks like rest time, mates.”

“Not hardly.” Buncan moved to unlimber his duar. “We’ve got to sing away the last of his inebriation.”

“Wot, now? ‘Ere?” The otter indicated the towering buttes, the peculiar spiny plants, the tiny but highly active reptile scuttling into a hole. “Why not just wait for ‘im to sleep it off?”

“That could mean days,” Viz informed him. “I’ve seen it take that long.”

Gragelouth considered the sky. It was cloudless, intensely blue, and while not burning, decidedly less than comfortable. “Better not to linger in such a place. I, for one, am not of a mind to wait if it can be avoided.”

“Come on.” Buncan plucked experimentally at the strings. “It shouldn’t take much of a spellsong. We’re just going to cure a delayed hangover, not transform birds or call up unwilling whales.”

Neena sidled over to her brother. “Wot are you afraid o’, slime-breath? Me, I don’t want to squat ‘ere drinkin’ up our water an’ waitin’ for the Gut-that-Walks to get over ‘is beauty sleep.” She kicked at him, and he scurried to avoid her foot. Buncan noticed that she’d done her best to reapply her makeup, though it was considerably less florid than when they’d started out. The streaks of color that flowed back from her muzzle were not as bright or well-defined as before.

Why she felt the need to wear makeup into a trackless desert was a question only another female could answer.

“Let’s leave it up to the one who knows him best.” Buncan turned to the tickbird.

“Help him if you can,” Viz replied. “He’ll dehydrate lying out in the sun like that.”

“Why is he kicking and moaning?”

“D.T.’s,” the tickbird informed him curtly, adding, “You don’t want to know what a drunken rhinoceros hallucinates.”

Buncan nodded, found himself a comfortable rock to sit on after first making sure it was not home to anything small and fast that was inclined to bite him on the butt, and settled the duar across his knees. For a change he could enjoy improvising. This time their lives weren’t at risk. They were only trying to help a friend in distress.

“Got no time to waste in this place

Got to move on, got to find our space

Tis a race

We’re in, so you “ave to feel better

Get over your trouble, get to somewhere that’s wetter

Shit, you ain’t sick

You’re in the thick

O’ the trick.”

Neena tracked the musical line easily, chivvying her brother into a reluctant harmony. It was good to hear the two of them singing together again, Buncan thought, after the successful but erratic sorcery he had perpetrated with each of them individually.

He relaxed as the by now familiar silvery cloud began to take shape alongside the moaning rhino, growing thicker and more pronounced with each note, each rapped rhyme. It would be interesting to see what form the cure would take. Would it be visually intriguing, or simply straightforward and functional?

It took the form of a grotesque, misshapen outline stained green and yellow that laughed horribly out of the side of slavering, rotting jaws.

Furthermore, it was not alone.

Horrid multiples of the initial phantasm were taking shape all around them, half stolid, half invisible. Noxious ichor dripped from wicked, curving claws.

“Stop it,” wailed Gragelouth. “Make them go away!”

“Go away?” Frantic, Buncan didn’t know whether it would make things worse to cease playing or keep on. Judging by their dismayed expressions, neither did the otters. “How can we make them go away? We’re calling them up!” Something stung him on the cheek. Hard.

“Sorry.” Viz was apologetic. “I had to get your attention. You’re not calling these things up. He is.” A wingtip indicated the moaning, twitching Snaugenhutt. “They’re what he’s seeing. I know, he’s described his D.T.’s to me before. Your singing is just making them visible, giving them substance.” The tickbird’s voice was hard. “Of course, I’m not experienced in such matters, but it seems to me that if you just quit cold you’re liable to leave something like these things hanging around.”

Something that smelled like rotting flesh on burned toast was shuffling toward them, fungoid arms extended, eyeballs dangling from the ends of raw, frayed strings. It was still only half solid, and Buncan forced himself not to run.

“If we keep singing,” he muttered even as his fingers continued to draw music from the duar, “we’re liable to make it worse.”

“We got no choice, mate,” Squill called to him. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere with these drunken imaginin’s taggin’ along. ‘Ow can I meet any ladies with somethin’ like this ‘angin’ off me bloomin’ shoulder?”

The specter that had chosen to focus on Buncan hovered nearby, not quite corporeal enough to make actual physical contact. He shuddered. There was entirely too much of it as it was.

If they stopped singing and playing it might simply fade away. If Viz was wrong. Except that thus far the tickbird had usually been proven right.

If their music could give substance to someone else’s nightmares, surely it could also give them the boot? He caught the otters’ attention as he changed keys.

Brother and sister modified their lyrics. Sure enough, as they did so the loathsome shapes began to dissipate.

“Not fair,” gibbered something with six arms and a spastic proboscis.

“Just getting ready to suck some brain,” groaned another. It took an intangible swipe at Squill with a glistening, translucent tentacle. The blow passed right through her.

The more the swiftly deteriorating D.T.’s complained, the less the unconscious Snaugenhutt moaned and kicked. As with most alcoholics, he couldn’t conquer his problem until he faced it. Only mis time, the otters and Duncan were facing it for him. Literally.

A concatenation of rotting fangs and putrefying eyeballs swam up in Duncan’s vision only to seep past and vanish. It turned out to be the last of the discomfiting visions. As it evaporated Snaugenhutt slumped into peaceful rest, breathing in slow, steady heaves like an armored bellows.

“That ought to do it.” Viz couldn’t sweat but looked like he wanted to.

Buncan slumped, his fingers numb and sore. “He’s still asleep.”

“Aftermare,” the bird informed him. “Might last an hour, maybe a couple. No more.” He let out an elated chirp. “Guaranteed. You did good.”

“Thanks. I think.” Thoroughly worn out, Buncan felt like a nap himself, but decided to hold off. Snaugenhutt’s nightmares were still too vivid in his own memory.

Also, some of them might still be hanging around with nowhere else to go, and after what he’d seen of them so far he didn’t want them popping up in his own dreams.

CHAPTER 17

When the rhino awoke that evening, he was fully rejuvenated and ready to roll. To his surprise, none of his companions exhibited comparable enthusiasm. So he was compelled to wait while they spent the night in the shelter of the eroded boulders, wondering how they could be so exhausted when he felt relaxed and thoroughly refreshed.

Snaugenhutt’s nightmares had departed for more congenial dreams, and everyone slept comfortably. After a quick breakfast, they remounted their bemused but now fully recovered four-legged ferry and pressed on deeper into the Tamas.

The landscape grew ever more fantastic, presenting towers and turrets of stone that had been carved by angry wind and impatient water into a surfeit of fanciful shapes. Fragile fingers of layered stone reached hundreds of feet into the sky, while rivers of broken rock flowed in frozen riot down the slopes of brooding, flat-topped mesas. The blaze of mineralized color ranged from pure white to a deep maroon that reminded Buncan of fine wines he’d seen for sale in the shops of Lynchbany. Black basalt and gleaming obsidian striped the lighter stone like collapsed veins in the bodies of fallen giants.

They passed beneath a wall of solid peridot, the intense green volcanic gemstone afire with inanimate life, and had to avert their eyes from the glare.

Squill stared until the tears ran down his cheeks, and not only from the light. “Wot a site! A determined bloke could winkle out jewels ‘ere for a century without dentin’ the supply. Ain’t that right, Gragelouth?”

The merchant nodded. “It is certainly a remarkable deposit.”

“Remarkable? ‘Ell, it’s bleedin’ unique.”

“Mining’s hard work, Squill.” Buncan shifted his backside against the unyielding iron. “You’re allergic to hard work, remember?”

The otter pursed his lips. “Oi, that’s right. For a minute there I’d forgotten.” He went silent as Snaugenhutt picked a route between a pair of brittle sandstone spires.

They stopped for the night by the side of an arroyo. A small stream sang through its twists and turns, running clear and cold over slick sandstone slabs. There were several deep pools, one of which provided the otters with an opportunity for a noisy swim.

All the talk in Pbukelpo had been of the desolate, unforgiving Tamas and its endless stretches of windswept rock and gravel. So far the actuality had been both greener and wetter. They’d found water not once but several times, and their casks were as full as when they’d started out.

Maybe, he dared to muse, after all the trouble they’d had in places where they’d expected none, they might now have an easy time of it in the one region where difficulties were anticipated.

While the Tamas had proven itself unexpectedly benign, it was still far from an inviting place. Not only hadn’t they met a soul since leaving Poukelpo, there was no indication that anyone else had passed this way at any time in the recent past. There were no tracks of riding animals, no casually cast-off detritus of civilization, not even the chilled embers of an old campfire. They were truly alone.

The arroyo gave way to a spectacular, sheer-walled canyon that wound north. Gragelouth was good at analyzing the topography ahead, and they had the benefit of Viz’s wings. Each time the merchant decreed a change of direction, the tickbird would soar ahead to confirm or deny the wisdom of his decision. Invariably, the sloth chose correctly.

Buncan marveled openly at this talent. “Years of traveling by oneself sharpens one’s sense of direction, cub.”

“It must, because I’d get us good and lost in these chasms and gorges.” He scrutinized the sandstone ramparts. “How much more of this do you think there is?”

“That I cannot tell you.” The sloth scanned the high rim of the canyon they were traversing.

“So far it’s been a lot easier than I expected.”

“Yes.” The dour-visaged merchant almost, but not quite, grinned. “Something must be wrong.”

“Nothin’s wrong, mate.” Squill lay flat in his seat, his incredibly limber body curled so that his head rested on his hips. “Our luck’s changed, that’s all. ‘Bout bloody time, too.”

The canyon continued to grow both deeper and wider, until it seemed as if any passing clouds must surely stumble over its lofty rim. Here and there isolated pinnacles thrust their peaks into the sky. Their appearance was deceptively frail. Though it looked as if the first random gust of wind would topple them, still they stood, silent and immutable sentinels, the only witnesses to the presence of the diminutive creatures on the canyon floor far below.

Armor clinking, Snaugenhutt splashed through a shallow tributary of the cheerful stream they had camped beside the night before. On the far side he paused and knelt to slake his thirst. Sensing the chance for a quick dip, the otters dismounted and disrobed in one smooth, flowing motion. Buncan settled himself in a comfortable hollow in the rocks, while Viz hunted for water bugs along the shore. With great dignity, Gragelouth slid from his seat and set about washing his face and hands.

Buncan lay back and contemplated the sky. Not such a bad journey, not now. He glanced lazily to his left, then to his right. And blinked.

Something was coming down the canyon toward them. It was big, bigger than Snaugenhutt. Much bigger.

In point of fact, it reached a third of the way up the canyon wall.

He scrambled to his feet. The object most nearly resembled an inverted cone, its top being much broader than the base on which it scooted along the ground. As it drew nearer, the faint whisper which had first caught his attention had risen to a dull roar. The otters had scrambled clear of the pool and were throwing themselves into their clothing. Viz had rushed to his armored perch atop Snaugenhutt’s forehead, while Gragelouth edged close to the rhino’s protective bulk.

The merchant was anxiously examining the base of the canyon walls. “Shelter. We have to find shelter.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve seen bigger whirlwinds in the Chacmadura country,” Viz told him. “Everybody hunker down close to Snaugenhutt. I don’t think it’s strong enough to move him.” He glanced to left and right. “I don’t see any caves, merchant. We might as well stand our ground.”

“Easy for you to say.” Gragelouth clung determinedly to part of the rhino’s armor as the introverted storm bore down on them. “You can be caught up in such a phenomenon, thrown skyward, and simply cast free while the rest of us would suffer a prolonged and possibly lethal descent.”

Snaugenhutt turned his snout into the oncoming whirlwind and braced himself against the rocks underfoot. The storm collected gravel and unfortunate insects, swapping them for twigs and fragments of other plants it had picked up elsewhere. Its roar was loud but not overpowering.

Buncan hugged the rhino’s comfortingly massive flank, squinting into the flying debris. The disturbance would pass over them quickly and they could be on their way.

He was feeling quite confident until he saw the second whirlwind.

It entered the gorge from the opposite end, as if sniffing along their track. Much larger and more intense than its predecessor, its concentrated winds reached three-quarters of the way up the canyon walls. Instead of a muted, mottled gray, it was an angry black. Instead of twigs and leaves, entire trees could be seen spinning and snapping within its tubular core. As it bore down on them, it lifted huge sandstone boulders as if they were pebbles and flung them aside.

Gragelouth saw it too. “Most unusual to encounter two such atmospheric phenomena at the same time. I fear for our safety.” He rubbed at his eyes. Flying sand was starting to become a problem. “Perhaps they will bypass us, slam into one another, and cancel themselves out.”

“Crikes.” Squill waved downcanyon, past the original whirlwind. “There’s another one!”

“And another,” shouted Neena.

A new pair of whirlwinds came corkscrewing up the canyon in the wake of the first. Somehow they maintained their individuality despite bumping into one another and off the sheer canyon walls. As the travelers turned they were not surprised to see additional whirlwinds of varying shapes, sizes, and colors filling the upper end of the chasm from side to side, crowding in behind the black giant that had first raised their apprehensions.

There was no way out now, nowhere to run. Both ends of the gorge were completely blocked. Buncan pointed to a cluster of prodigious boulders that lay heaped against the nearest wall. One had been reduced by wind and water to a high, sweeping curve, a frozen, buff-colored wave. While no all-encompassing cavern, it did promise some shelter from the onrushing winds.

“Over there!”

Snaugenhutt put his mass in motion, wishing loudly for the half-barrel of hard liquor they didn’t have with them. Once beneath the arc of stone, they arranged themselves as compactly as they could behind the rhino’s armored bulk. Flecks of mica sparkled within the rock as they waited to see what would happen when the two onrushing clusters of wind slammed into each other. Would they simply pass around or through, or would the opposing cyclonic forces tear themselves to pieces?

They got their answer when the fust two whirlwinds to enter the canyon paused in their advance and turned toward the mound of boulders. Highly concentrated gale-force winds sent dust and sand flying and muddied the surface of the small stream that flowed through the canyon.

“I saw them first.” The voice of the smaller vortex was a breathy rush of syllables. Somehow Buncan wasn’t surprised. He’d often listened to the wind moaning and howling in the treetops of the Bellwoods, and if it could howl and moan, why not also speak?

“Not so!” The larger, far more intimidating storm seemed to bend in the middle to peer down at them. “It was I who first sensed their presence.”

“What does it matter?” wondered a third from behind the first two. Wind had set Snaugenhutt’s armor to clanging. It tore at the travelers’ clothing and hurled specks of dust into their eyes, making them blink and squint. Averting his face, the rhino locked his knees and held his ground.

Buncan had to shout to make himself heard. The canyon was filled from side to side with pushing, shoving storms, each violently roiling the air around it, each competing with its neighbor for a place to set its turbulent foot. The din was overpowering.

“It matters to me,” replied the first whirlwind. “I saw them first, so they’re mine.” The second bumped up against it, but the smaller storm held its air. Storm currents contended tumultuously and suspended objects were wrenched from one brawling eddy to another, whole trees, chunks of rock, bits of plant matter, even live animals flashing dazed expressions.

“I didn’t know whirlwinds fought among themselves,” Buncan muttered.

“Fought, ‘ell.” Squill pressed against Snaugenhutt’s armor, one paw clamped determinedly over his hat. “I didn’t know the bloody things could talk.”

“Not all of them. Only the educated ones.”

Buncan and Squill turned to the merchant, who was now sitting with his back pressed against the curving stone.

“How did you know that?” Buncan asked him.

“Because I have encountered one such previously.” Gragelouth was trying to shield his eyes with his hands. “It stole my entire inventory. Extracted everything from my wagon and wrapped the contents about its exterior for all the world like a demure maiden draping herself in the finest linen. It was a small whirlwind, no more than ten times my own height, and utterly amoral. They’re very curious and, as I learned to my dismay, highly acquisitive.

“I first realized it was capable of communication when it complimented me on my choice of merchandise. Though this revelation allowed me the opportunity to argue for its return, for all the good it did me I might as well have been remonstrating with these rocks. I was told to consider myself fortunate that it did not have the resources to accumulate me in addition to my goods.” He gestured at the vast, howling storms. “I do not think it necessary to point out that these are strong enough to do so.”

“So they collect objects for fun?” Buncan asked.

“Not for fun.” The explanation was supplied by a modestly decorated maelstrom which had managed to slip in close past the two angry combatants. “We are simply bound to collect things. It’s what we do.”

How did you conduct a conversation with something that had no mouth, no eyes, no face, no features of any kind save those acquired objects held suspended with its body? While Buncan wondered, Neena inquired.

“You mean you go lookin’ for stuff intentionally?”

“We do. Then we meet several times a year at a predetermined rendezvous like this canyon to swap swirling stories, gusty gossip, and found objects.

“ ‘Ere now,” Squill protested angrily, “I ain’t no ‘found object.’“

“You are so an object,” explained the unrepentant eddy, “and you’ve been found.”

“So those two?” Buncan indicated the quarreling minicyclones.

“Want to collect you,” their interlocutor explained. “Each is claiming right of initial perception.”

“We object,” the huddled Gragelouth announced. “We are intelligent beings and we have our own priorities.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t be collected permanently,” the whirlwind moaned. “After a while the novelty of you would get old. With time even the most diverting acquisitions lose their attraction. For example, I’m thinking of trading this.”

A petite offshoot of the central vortex protruded horizontally from its parent’s flank. Clasped unsteadily within this gyrating pseudopod was a cracked but still intact ceramic bathtub. Buncan was relieved to see that it was unoccupied.

“Collected this on the other side of the world not three months ago. Beautiful, isn’t it?” There was unmistakable pride in the whirlwind’s voice. The airy pseudopod con-toned, the bathtub rotating along with it.

“See, the white finish covers both sides.”

“Very pretty.” Buncan made sure he had a firm grip on his precious duar. It was still too early to panic. Thus far they’d only been threatened verbally.

“Even a short stint as ornaments would hinder us in our own search,” Gragelouth pointed out.

“Don’t intelligent people have a say in whether they’re collected or not?” Viz stayed hunkered down behind his little shield. Even a casual gust of wind could sweep him helplessly to his doom.

“That’s a question of ethics,” the whirlwind replied unhesitatingly. “As a force of nature, I’m not required to have any. And by the way, our existence isn’t an easy one, you know. Life isn’t all open fields and low-pressure centers. Maintaining one’s appearance and posture in calm air is a real straggle. You don’t know what’s it like to be tightly wound all the time. Collecting helps us to relax.

“Being a found object’s not so bad. We take care to sweep up food and water for the ones that are alive, and you get to do a lot of free traveling.”

“Excuse me if I decline the “onor,” said Squill. “I never ‘ad me ‘eart set on pukin’ me way around the world.”

“Why haven’t you taken the opportunity to suck us up while those two are fighting?” Battling the wind, Buncan clung with one hand to Snaugenhutt’s heavy armor.

The vortex skittered backward, unintentionally pelting them with sand. “I’m not into living creatures, myself. Too much work to keep them alive. I prefer inanimate objects. But you might as well resign yourselves. Once those two have settled things between them you’re going to be collected, voluntarily or otherwise.”

“We cannot allow that.” Gragelouth was insistent in spite of their situation. “We seek the Grand Veritable.”

The whirlwind spun a little tighter and its voice rose. “I’ve heard of that. There’s nothing to it. No reality. It’s a story, a rumor. Nothing more than a tale with which to amuse a fresh breeze.”

“That is what we seek to determine. Not to minimize the honor of being deemed collectible, but we really cannot spare the time.”

“Good luck convincing them of that.” Reabsorbing its esteemed bathtub, their drafty interlocutor retreated.

Another maelstrom took its place, rotating proudly. “Want to see what I’ve collected?”

“I don’t think so,” replied Buncan slowly.

“Ah, c’mon.” It spun very near. “See?”

A spiraling torus was thrust toward them. Buncan flinched but held his ground.

An old woman hovered within the blustery extrusion. She was clad entirely in black. Long, stringy hair hung from beneath her pointed black hat, and her narrow, pinched face was dominated by a huge hooked nose at the end of which reposed a hairy wart of unsurpassed ugliness. The folds of her skirt billowed around the broomstick she straddled.

“Lemme guess,” said Neena. “You do collect intelligent creatures.”

The cyclone hummed. “You got it.”

“Hey, you!” The old woman shouted toward them. “Can you get me out of this? I’m late for a whole batch of appointments.”

“Sorry, madame,” replied Gragelouth politely. “We are preoccupied with troubles of our own.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve heard that before. It’s just that I’ve been stuck inside this damn thing for longer than I care to think. Sort of flying in place, if you get my drift.”

“Ow’d you ‘appen to get trapped in there?” Neena studied the old woman with interest.

“Didn’t get trapped, young water rat. Got collected. Last thing I know I was heading south past Topeka air control, minding my own business, and the next I’m swept up in this thickheaded hunk of air.” She shook her head in disgust. “That’s what I get for evesdropping on cockpit conversations instead of paying attention to the regular FAA weather updates.”

Buncan didn’t quite know how to respond. “Uh, how are you doing in there?”

“Well, the food ain’t too bad, and the view’s interesting. Could be worse, I reckon. I expect I’ll get out of here soon enough. Then she’ll get it!” The torus retracted into the body of the whirlwind.

“Who’ll get it?” Neena wanted to know. But with a hideous cackle, the old woman disappeared skyward.

“You never know where you’re going to find things when you travel between worlds,” the storm informed mem.

“Whirlwinds can travel between worlds?” Buncan asked.

“With ease. Molecular diffusion beats jogging any day. The aether’s more permeable than most people think. You just have to pick your spots.”

“Sounds like rot squared to me.” Squill scratched his forehead.

A bulge in the whirlwind’s side provided them with a temporary view of a small elephant with extraordinarily large ears. “You wouldn’t believe where I picked this up,” the storm told them. Before they could take a closer look, the airborne pachyderm vanished into the dark depths.

The vortex which had first approached them interrupted the display. “Looks like those two have finally got their coriolis forces aligned.” Leaving distinctive tracks in the sand, the garrulous pair retreated.

Their place was taken by the two wailing storms which had been battling over right of perception: the large, charcoal-gray, intimidating spiral and its smaller but equally pugnacious counterpart. They roared and bellowed within a handsbreadth of each other as they confronted the travelers.

The smaller inclined its crown toward them. “We’ve reached a settlement.”

“We have,” boomed the other as flying rocks crashed against one another within its flanks.

“Look here.” Gragelouth adjusted his attire. “We have some conclusions of our own.”

“Silence!” A blast of wind sent the sloth stumbling. Buncan and Squill caught him under his furry arms. “Collectibles should be seen and not heard. Besides, we’re not going to hurt you. Physical damage would reduce your display value.”

For some reason this revelation did not make Buncan feel especially grateful.

“We’ve decided to divide you among us. I get the large armored quadruped and its small flying companion. The rest of you will go with C’s’.” The smaller whirlwind advanced slightly.

“You’re not splitting us up.” Buncan draped a possessive arm loosely over Snaugenhutt’s neck.

“You have nothing to say about it,” growled the larger storm. Behind it, the assembled cyclonic forces murmured their approval. They completely filled the canyon, obscuring the sheer stone walls and the sky beyond. Amidst these howling and bellowing gales the cluster of boulders held by Buncan and his friends was an island of calm.

‘No avenue of escape presented itself. Even if one had, Buncan knew, they couldn’t outrun the wind.

“If you’ll just organize yourselves into two groups,” hissed the smaller whirlwind, “this’ll be a lot easier for everyone.” Buncan felt a persistent gust nudging him to his right. He fought against it as best he could, trying to dig his heels into the sand.

“We haven’t got time for this.” He steadied the duar against his waist and began to play.

The otters hadn’t been idle. They’d used the delay to prepare themselves. Clinging tightly to Snaugenhutt’s armor, they sang out at the top of their lungs.

“Hey, yours make music,” rumbled the larger of the two acquisitive eddies. “That’s not fair.”

“The agreement is made.” The second etched small circles in the ground with its foot.

As they squabbled Buncan played on, grateful for the respite. Keeping a watchful eye on the whirlwinds, the otters harmonized maniacally.

“Yo, y’know, we got us a real problem here

There’s some winds in the air gonna cost us dear

Need somethin’ to stiff ‘em

Stifle ‘em, kick ‘em

Knock ‘em for a loop and stuff ‘em

Down in a crack, gotta break their back

Take ‘em apart or cram ‘em in a sack, Jack

If y’know what we mean.”

Something began to take shape between the wind-battered travelers and the bickering storms. The magic was working, but Buncan’s elation was muted. Instead of a familiar silver-gray mist, something black and ominous was forming.

It started as a softly mewing spindle-shape hardly large enough to bully a pebble. As the otters rapped on it grew larger, until it was the size of a bedpost, men a lamppost. Tightly wound as an anxiety attack, it swelled and expanded, a coal-black shaft screwing its way skyward.

In seconds it was large enough to divert the attention of the equivocating whirlwinds. The smaller suddenly refocused its attention.

“Are you doing that? Look at it, just look!” It spun in uneasy circles. “Stop it. You’ve got to stop it.” This expression of concern from that which had just threatened them naturally inspired Buncan to play faster, the otters to improvise even more enthusiastically.

The agitated whirlwind shifted toward mem, its intentions clear. Buncan braced himself for the shock of gale-force gropings.

They never came.

The squabblers had waited too long. By now the spellsung black spindle was enormous. Punctuated by intermittent bolts of dark lightning, its howl was deafening.

As the whirlwind darted forward, the spindle cycled to intercept it. A sound not unlike a breathy grunt filled the air as the approaching vortex was knocked backward. Trees, rocks, chunks of debris flew from its flank as it momentarily lost shape.

“Never seen a whirlwind throw up before,” the immovable Snaugenhutt observed.

As the rotating black spire they had called forth continued to mature, Buncan wondered if perhaps the otters oughtn’t to tone down their lyrics a little. But he couldn’t stop playing long enough to make the suggestion, and in any event the specter they had conjured was now making too much noise to be heard by anyone.

The now gigantic malign cloud seemed composed of dense black smoke. Lightning continued to flash from its fringes, and the sound it made stiffened the small hairs on the back of Buncan’s neck. Gragelouth cowered against the curving sandstone while Viz clung desperately to his iron perch.

Meanwhile the otters, motivated now by a sense of malicious mischief as much as a need to defend themselves and their companions, rapped on, ignorant of what they had wrought but delighted at the effect it was having on their erstwhile abductors.

“Tornado!” screamed the dazed whirlwind, collecting itself as best it could after the blow it had taken. Staggering wildly, it skittered off down the canyon.

The panicked cry was taken up by the rest of the boreal convention as, pushing and shoving, they scrambled to escape. Mass confusion ensued as collections and isobars slammed into and sometimes through one another. Fleeing from the restrictive walls of the canyon, the frenzied storms scattered frantically to . . . well, to the four winds.

By this time the invoked tornado towered higher than the greatest of the previously assembled whirlwinds, an inverted black cone that sucked at the sky. Its power was palpable, its bellowing like that of a runaway waterfall. Squill and Neena could hardly hear themselves sing, much less each other.

As they looked on it pounced on a retreating vortex and tore it apart, sending its collection of rubble flying in all directions. Where a moment earlier there had been a healthy whirlwind in flight, in seconds only a scattered cluster of desultory breezes remained. It was an appalling display of meteorological ferocity.

Far higher now than the canyon walls, the black spindle pawed angrily at the ground as if searching for additional victims. It spun back and forth, daring any organized wind to approach.

In shifting to the middle of the chasm, the noise had been reduced to just less than intolerable levels. Snaugenhutt glanced back and up at Viz.

“What’s a tornado?”

Clinging to its perch, Viz shook his head. “Beats me, Snaug. But at least it’s on our side.” For the moment, the tickbird thought.

Save for the apparition they had called into being, the canyon was now clear of breezy intruders. Buncan let his fingers fall from the duar. The otters ceased their rapping as Squill moved to loosen one of the water casks.

“I have never seen or heard of such a thing.” Looking down, Buncan saw the awestruck merchant staring at the awesome cloud. “What a weapon it could be.”

“Oi,” commented a relieved Neena, “think o’ wot it could o’ done to that bastard Krasvin’s ‘ouse. Splintered it and sent every one o’ them up the dirty bugger’s arse. Impaled “im on “is own—”

“We get the picture, Neena.” Buncan carefully checked his duar for damage from flying gravel.

The tornado whipped across the little stream that ran down the center of the canyon and in an instant sucked it dry. It displayed no inclination to pursue the fleeing whirlwinds.

Gragelouth plucked tentatively at Buncan’s sleeve. “A most useful conjuration and demonstration, but do you not think that it is time to make it disappear?”

Viz peeped out from his armored howdah. “Yeah. Make it go away, Duncan.” The tickbird faced the now aimless storm warily. “It’s making me nervous.”

“Right. Squill, Neena?”

Squill nodded as his sister slaked her thirst. “Righty-ho, mate. Give us a minim ‘ere.” When Neena was sated she recorked the cask and settled herself close to her brother. Each put an arm around the other’s shoulder as they leaned their mouths close. Whiskers tangled.

“Done your job and done it well

Blew ‘em all away like a storm from Hell

Now’s the time to leave

Time to go on your way

Hey tornado, wot you say?

We say, you gots to go away and maybe come again

Some other day, okay?”

With a violent twist, the black spire abandoned the creek bed and started toward them.

Eyes wide in his gray-furred face, Gragelouth retreated until his back was once more pressed against the sandstone arch. “What are you doing? Make it go away.”

The otters rapped faster and Buncan’s fingers flew over the duar’s strings, but the savage storm continued its deliberate, turbulent advance until it was almost upon them. In the face of that terrible wind Buncan had to fight to stay on his feet, while the otters now clung to each other in deadly earnest. Even the massive, defiant Snaugenhutt was brushed backward several feet.

This storm, Buncan sensed, would not delicately collect them, would not care for and pamper them. It would smash them as thoughtlessly and thoroughly as it had the unfortunate whirlwind it had overtaken.

Behind him he heard Gragelouth screaming frantically. “Make it go away, spellsingers! Make it go away! Oh what a tangled web we sloths weave!”

The sorrowful lament wasn’t intended as a suggestion, but the otters jumped on it just the same.

“Wind it up and tie it tight

Lock it down like sleep at night

Bind it fast and make it helpless

Got to see it doesn’t eat us

Don’t want to make it angry at me, at thee

At anyone we see

Just have to put it away for a while

Time to do it fast, and for sure in style.”

The propulsive vortex was almost upon them when its outer edges began to kink and snap. As the tornado halted, Buncan sensed a distinct feeling of puzzlement. It began to groan as if it had bones, embarking on a succession of violent convulsions. Tumultuous winds continued to buffet the watchful travelers, but they came from all directions now, confused in their approach and aimless in their passing.

As they stared the tornado folded in on itself. Disorganized streaks of black wind coiled in all directions. The storm contracted and spasmed, knotting and reknotting until with an audible groan the entire towering structure keeled over to slam into the canyon floor, sending a cloud of dust and sand flying.

Buncan averted his face until the cloud had begun to settle. When he looked back he saw the tornado lying prone, twisting and humping helplessly in a futile attempt to loosen the thousands of knots into which it had tied itself at the behest of the otter’s spellsong.

A benumbed Gragelouth sought to gather bis wits. “Astonishing, but we had best depart before the treacherous phenomenon ascertains a solution to its current predicament.”

Neena took a deep breath. “I’m all for that, guv. That were a near thing.”

With a prudent eye on the bound tornado, they took turns mounting Snaugenhutt, who as soon as everyone was aboard trotted off up the canyon, careful to maintain a circumspect distance between himself and the enraged but impotent maelstrom.

As they finally exited the steep-sided chasm, Gragelouth turned in his seat to peer back the way they’d come. There was no sign of the beknotted tempest.

“That is what I try to do to my competitors,” he informed mem somberly. “Surely it will free itself eventually?”

“I’d think so.” Buncan scanned the mesas and plains ahead. “Hopefully, before that happens we’ll have put plenty of distance between us.”

The merchant settled himself back in his seat. “Of course, if it were to pursue us you three could simply bind it within itself again.”

Buncan felt his duar bouncing lightly against his back. “Don’t count on it, merchant. So far we’ve been pretty lucky with our spellsinging, but Jon-Tom always said something about sequels never being as good as the originals. I guess that’s just a natural component of sorcery. So if it comes after us we might have to try something else, and it might not be as effective. I’d rather make speed.”

“I suspect I have more confidence in you, young human, man you do in yourself.”

“ ‘Ere now, guv,” said Squill, interrupting without hesitation, “I’ve got plenty o’ confidence, I do. Feel free to compliment me.”

Gragelouth half-bowed in the otter’s direction. “My tribute was intended to include all.”

“Well, then.” Squill pushed out his lower lip. “See that it stays that way, guv.”

An otter, Buncan mused, was the only creature he knew of that could strut sitting down.

CHAPTER 18

Their enhanced confidence did not make the ta-mas any smaller or do anything to mute its rising temperatures. They took to resting and sleeping for long stretches during the middle of the day and trying to make up the time lost at night.

“Oi, guv’nor.” Squill clung cheerlessly in his iron seat. Even the bright feathers of his cap drooped listlessly in the heat. “ ‘Ow much more o’ this blasted country is there?”

Gragelouth shifted his attention from an unusually tall pinnacle. “No one really knows for certain. In that the good citizens of Poukelpo were being truthful. But our progress is steady. I would not think the crossing would require too many more weeks.”

“Weeks!” barked Neena. Her mouth hung open and she was respirating in short, rapid pants. “I don’t know if I can take many more days o’ this.”

“Do you wish to turn back and perhaps meet up with our cyclonic friends again?”

“No fear o’ that, guv.” Squill straightened slightly in his saddle. “They’ve been scattered, they “ave.”

“Getting a little tired myself.” Snaugenhutt punctuated his complaint with a frustrated snort. “This armor isn’t getting any lighter.”

Viz hopped down from his perch to bend over and peer into the rhino’s eye. “Quit complaining. If you’re thirsty there’s plenty of water. Or is it something other than water you’re worried about?”

“Put a beetle in it, bird. I’ll stay clean.”

“ ‘Aven’t ‘ad a swim in days. Otters like water, not sand.” Neena’s expression turned dreamy. “Big river, good friends, plenty o’ fish to catch. This bleedin’ Grand Veritable better be worth all this trouble.”

“More than that,” her brother added reproachfully, “it ‘ad better exist.”

“Do I detect a certain waning of enthusiasm?” Gragelouth murmured.

“Wanin’, ‘ell,” Squill groused. “It’s on bloody death’s door, it is.”

Buncan winced as Snaugenhutt hit a couple of bumps while loping down a dry ravine and back up the far side. “I don’t know about the two of you, but I couldn’t turn back now if I wanted to.”

“Why not, mate?” Squill asked him.

“Because it would mean admitting defeat.” The duar bounced lightly against his back.

The otter blinked. “Wot the ‘ell’s wrong with that? Anybody offers me a sack o’ fresh crawfish, I’ll admit defeat right now, I will.” Raising both arms melodramatically, he implored whatever gods might be watching. “ ‘Ere you! See, I admit defeat! I embrace it, I do. Now, ‘ows about somethin’ fresh to eat?” He held his arms aloft for another minute before lowering them.

“Gods must be busy. Strikes me as ‘ow they’re always busy.”

“We’re not turning back.” Buncan was firm.

“Ain’t we? ‘Ows about we put it to a vote, wot?” He glanced back along Snaugenhutt’s spine. “All those in favor o’ turnin’ back raise a ‘and.” He thrust his own skyward.

When it was not seconded he glared goggle-eyed at his sister. “ ‘Ere now, wot’s this? You were complainin’ more than all the rest o’ us put together.”

A chagrined Neena turned away from him. “Well, I been thinkin’ about wot Bunski there said about admittin’ defeat, an’ ‘avin’ to explain it to Mudge an’ Weegee an’ all, an’ I just ain’t so sure it’s a good idea to give up just now.”

“Is that bloody right?” Her brother’s exasperation was plain. “When is a good time, then?” When she didn’t reply he added, “So you’re in favor o’ continuin’ with this madness?”

“I didn’t say that. I . . . I abstain, I do.”

“Say wot? You can’t bleedin’ abstain.”

Her whiskers thrust forward belligerently. “I just did.”

Buncan reflected that only a couple of otters, sustained by their remarkable agility and superb sense of balance, could manage to engage in a serious tussle on the back of an ambling rhinoceros without falling off. At least things were back to normal.

As always, the scuffle concluded without any serious damage having been inflicted to either side. Squill settled back in his seat as though nothing had happened.

“Cor, mate, ‘ow about we try to spellsing up a nice, cool pool. Pick a likely-lookin’ depression in the rocks an’ make a job of it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Blimey, where’s the ‘arm, Buncan? Just enough for a quick swim. Wouldn’t take much o’ a spellsong.”

Buncan looked back at him. “I said no. We’ve been pushing our luck all along. We might need a spell like that for drinking water, and as I’ve said from the beginning, harmonic replication’s a pain.”

Squill took mild affront. “Ohhhh, ‘replication,’ is it? Who’s been studyin’ behind me back?”

Buncan returned his attention to the route ahead. “You don’t need a swim.”

“The ‘ell we don’t! Tis our natural right, it is. Tis in the bleedin’ tribal constitution.”

“Well, your constitution’s suspended until we leave the Tamas.” He made an effort to soothe his irritated companion. “Don’t think about it. If Gragelouth’s right, we’ll be out of this soon.”

Squill was not mollified. “Cor! If ‘Gragelouth’s’ right.”

Their frustration was muted by the country through which they were passing. If anything, the towering formations grew increasingly more impressive, infinitely varied in silhouette and color. Gigantic buttes rose from the desert floor, their flanks sculpted into fantastic shapes by eons of patient wind and water.

Acutely aware of the uncomfortable situation, Gragelouth made an effort to divert the otters from their discontent. “You two need to get your minds off our present condition. See those cliffs?” He pointed to the abraded walls of a dark volcanic plug which rose from the earth like a dead tooth. “Notice how the edge resembles the profile of a human face?” His fingers moved. “That rocky projection in the center is the nose. The brow rides higher, while beneath the nostrils are—”

Squill cut him off. “At the moment I’m not interested in anythin” that looks like a bleedin’ ‘uman.” His gaze burned into an indifferent Buncan’s back.

The merchant refused to be discouraged. “Very well. Look at that eroded pinnacle off to our rhat eroded pinnacle off to our rble that of a porcupine?”

Squill was reluctant to turn and look, but when his natural curiosity got the better of him he was surprised to discover that the merchant’s sense of the surreal was keen. He perked up slightly.

“Bugger me for a blistered bobcat if you ain’t ‘alf right, gray-face. It do right look like a member o’ the spiny tribe.”

Neena found herself drawn into the game in spite of herself. Anything to alleviate the endless boredom. It became a contest to see who could read the most outrageous or unlikely identities into, the deeply worn rock. Her identification of a pile of rubble as a crouching kudu was surpassed by Squill’s insistence that an isolated butte looked exactly like an armored mouse.

Before long everyone was finding recognizable shapes and forms in the passing scenery. More than anyone would have believed possible, the merchant’s game was helping to pass the time. As for Gragelouth, he was better at it than any of them, explaining that it was a pastime he’d been forced to indulge in on many a long, lonely journey.

The game was resumed in earnest the next morning, the merchant having drawn up a means for keeping score. Points were awarded for accuracy, imagination, and frequency. Snaugenhutt was pointing out what he asserted was a hawk hidden among a sandstone overhang when the silence of their surroundings was broken by shouts from the dry riverbed ahead.

Everyone strained to see, but it was Viz, hovering high above,who first matched the sound to a possible source.

“Armed riders, on large bipedal lizards. They’re all hooded, so I can’t make out their tribes. Outlines are indistinct.”

“How big?” a concerned Gragelouth inquired.

“Riders no larger than the otters. Snouts protruding from the hoods. Light-colored whiskers. I see some tails. Long and fur-covered, mostly light brown.” The tickbird glanced meaningfully at his companions. “They’re coming this way.”

Snaugenhutt took a deep breath. Espying a large boulder, he headed toward the natural barrier. “Better get ready for company.” No one argued with him.

As the rhino positioned his backside to the stone the otters drew their bows, making sure arrows were at the ready.

Buncan laid his sword across his lap as Viz settled onto his armored perch atop Snaugenhutt’s forehead. Gragelouth sought to find a use for his fingers, and failing that, nibbled nervously on the pointed tips of the thick, heavy claws.

Their progress marked by the cloud of dust kicked up by their mounts, the riders advanced until they were within spear-throwing distance. Spreading out, they formed an unbroken line in the shape of a crescent in front of the stolid Snaugenhutt. There were enough of them to block any attempt at flight, not that the rhino could have outrun the speedy lizards even over flat ground.

As the dust settled, Buncan and his companions were able to get a good look at those confronting them. The riding animals pawed at the ground with nervous energy, bright green eyes shining alertly, small sharp teem glistening in their jaws. Leather bridles and reins were intricately tooled, as were individual saddles and other tack.

As their mounts settled in place, several of the riders adjusted their hoods. It was the widely traveled Gragelouth who finally identified them.

“Meerkats.”

“I don’t know that tribe.” Buncan was intrigued by the creatures.

“An uncommon one. The eyes and snouts are unmistakable. They are fabled desert dwellers. I myself have encountered them only once before, in far more civilized circumstances than these.”

Though the meerkats were in the majority, there were also a couple of ground squirrels among the riders, as well as individual representatives of several other desert-favoring tribes. Buncan tensed as one of the riders slowly advanced, an elaborately whittled spear cradled in his short but powerful arms. A beaded cloth quiver lashed to the riding lizard’s right flank held half a dozen similar implements.

Wide, dark eyes inspected them carefully. The mouth seemed frozen in a perpetual half-sneer. “More interesting than most travelers we see. From whence do you hail?”

“From farther than you can imagine.” Buncan was as startled as anyone to hear Gragelouth speak up. “From beyond the Tamas, beyond Poukelpo, beyond Camrioca, and even the river Sprilashoone.”

“That far.” The rider did not sound impressed. “Well, never let it be said that the Xi-Murogg denied hospitality to travelers in then: country. If you will follow us back to our village, we would be pleased to exchange tales and share victuals with you.”

Buncan hesitated. “We’re kind of in a hurry.”

“To refuse hospitality is to insult not only me but all the Xi-Murogg.” As the rider spoke, his fellow villagers shuffled their weapons: everything from javelins to small, one-handed crossbows to hooked knives and swords.

These nomads were not likely to scatter in panic at a charge from Snaagenhutt, Buncan reflected. Tough and determined, they were fashioned of far sturdier stuff man Krasvin’s retainers. Had they numbered half a dozen or less, maybe, but there were nearly thirty of them.

Perhaps all they did want was the company of strangers. Certainly they didn’t encounter many travelers out here. It was also possible they might know the fastest and easiest route out of the desert.

“You lead and we shall follow.” Gragelouth had apparently reached the same decision.

The hooded one bowed slightly. “Graciousness is unto a shield in the desert. I am Chi-churog, First Rider of the Xi-Murogg people. It will be my honor to welcome you into my house.” He turned and sent his lizard trotting northward. The line of riders parted to let him pass.

Squill leaned forward, whispering. “I don’t care for this, mate.”

“Gragelouth’s doing the right thing. What else can we do?”

“Run like ‘ell an’ make a fight of it,” the otter replied.

“No.” Human and otter turned to face the merchant. “Their mounts are too quick. They would run us down. We may yet have to fight, though I am putting my faith in tact and diplomacy. But mis is not the place to do it. Let us sound mem out first.”

“Bloody ‘ell. I’m outvoted again, ain’t I?”

“Afraid so.” Buncan turned to speak with Viz, leaving the otter to sulk in his seat.

Escorted by the Xi-Murogg, Snaugenhutt trundled along behind Chi-churog as they crossed a series of crumbling gullies. Turning right up a smooth-surfaced slope, they passed through a high, narrow cleft in a sheer rock wall. This penetrated the solid stone for a respectable distance before finally opening onto a sizable box canyon.

High-peaked tents dyed in a panic of colors and patterns were scattered about the high ground. Some were striped vertically or diagonally, others were checked, a couple sported polka dots of alternating hue. Most clustered around the spring-fed, reed-fringed pool that occupied the depression in the center of the canyon. The colorful, nonthreatening view somewhat offset the realization that there was only one way out of the sheer-sided stone amphitheater.

It was a natural fortress and an excellent place to camp, Buncan reflected as they rode in. Squill’s reservations vanished as soon as he saw the pool. When the otters’ request was made known to Chi-churog, he amiably and without hesitation granted them permission for a swim. They didn’t hesitate, doffing their attire with admirable speed and plunging into the delightfully cool pond without delay. A number of villagers gathered silently to watch the lanky visitors sport within the clear waters.

Buncan was feeling much better about their situation. The overtly cheerful tents, the neatly tended and surprisingly extensive irrigated fields, Chi-churog’s friendliness, all combined to suggest a comparatively peace-loving people who armed themselves only out of need to deal daily with the exigencies of a harsh land.

Only when he had dismounted and gone for a stroll later among the tents did he see the expertly mounted, carefully cleaned bones.

They decorated more man one dwelling, and there were too many of them to write the grisly displays off as a familial aberration. None boasted of reptilian origins. A horrified Buncan identified the bleached white skulls of two large cats. Another hut was crowned by a bear’s skull. What a bear had been doing roving the Tamas he couldn’t imagine; he knew only that the unfortunate ursine’s wanderings had ended here.

Had these wretched travelers perished from heat or exhaustion out in the unforgiving desert, or had they been deliberately slain and brought here? He was beginning to fear that Squill had been right and they should have made a break for freedom the instant they’d been confronted by the nomadic outriders. Too late now. A glance was enough to show that the only way out, through the narrow cleft by which they’d arrived, was well-guarded.

Yet the skulls mounted like trophies didn’t square with the extensive fields of painstakingly tended crops. Dedicated agronomists didn’t slaughter strangers, and the extensively tilled land was proof that the Xi-Murogg were not roving bandits. What was going on here?

Females and older males were tending to the fruits and vegetables, while the younger meerkats, together with an occasional kangaroo rat, jabbered amusedly at the lightning-fast antics of the otters. Others prodded and poked at the massive Snaugenhutt. His thoughts churning, Buncan rejoined his friends as they emerged from the water and proceeded to dry themselves.

“I bid you join me in my domicile.” Chi-churog led them to what was by far the largest tent in the village. It wasn’t quite large enough, though. The Xi-Murogg leader explained apologetically.

“I am afraid there is not quite enough room for your great friend.” He gestured at Snaugenhutt.

“No sweat. I’ll wait here.” The rhino licked thick lips and crossed his front legs. “Something to drink would make me feel less left out.”

“Your acumen is to be commended. Rewarded it will be.” Chi-churog spoke to one of his people in a strange dialect. The villager thus addressed nodded his understanding and hurried off toward another tent.

Woven mats covered the spacious floor. Large pillows fashioned of fine material stolen or bartered for lay scattered strategically about. Chi-churog promptly crossed his short legs and sat down. Sleek female meerkats appeared from behind a cloth divider to proffer water, some kind of lukewarm desert tea, and platters of produce doubtless freshly picked from the fields Buncan had seen.

Old enough to be interested in more than vegetables, Squill let his eyes track the progress of the lithe feminine forms. “Well now, this ‘ere’s more like it!”

“It pleases me that you approve.’“ Chi-churog gestured with a broad sweep of his hand. He had removed his robe, to reveal his bright white-furred form clad in shorts and some kind of diaphanous shirt. He was a handsbreath or so shorter than the otters, and considerably smaller man Buncan.

The visitors settled themselves against the soft cushions. Delighted to feel something against its backside besides rock or lightly padded iron armor, Buncan’s body betrayed his unease. It was almost impossible not to relax.

Chi-churog accepted a long smoking stick from one of the females and waved it casually. “Now, then, tell me how you come to be in the lands of the Xi-Murogg? It must be some matter of great importance to have brought you, as you have said, so far from your own homes.”

Before either Buncan or Gragelouth could respond, Squill was off and running. Omitting certain unflattering details, vastly embellishing upon others, he regaled the attentive leader of the Xi-Murogg and his equally rapt harem with a story of unsurpassing skill and gallantry, occasionally even remembering in an off moment to insert a brief word or two about his five companions.

“Bloody rotten stinkin’ egotist of a sibling,” Neena muttered under her breath.

Squill blinked, turned to her. “Say wot, sister?”

“I was remarkin’ that you’re your father’s son.” She smiled pleasantly.

“That’s a fact.’“ Squill resumed his oral epic.

Evening pressed down on the box canyon when he finally finished. Their host seemed pleased, and the travelers had consumed a prodigious quantity of fresh fruits and vegetables, as well as several delicious prepared varieties which had been transformed through drying, steaming, broiling, and other means of efficacious preparation. Within Chi-churog’s tent unabashed contentment reigned among hosts and guests alike.

To the otters’ astonishment, one polished wooden platter was even heaped high with dried fish.

“There are caverns nearby,” their host explained, “cut by water and populated by colorless, blind fish.” The meerkat smiled. “But not tasteless, I assure you. Their flesh is tender and succulent and forms a welcome addition to our diet.”

It finished off the otters’ suspicions as neatly as if they’d been pared away with a sharp knife. Even the always leery Gragelouth was compelled to admit that their welcome had been all that could have been hoped for.

Tiny belly bulging, Viz glided into the tent to land on Duncan’s shoulder. He’d taken a moment to relieve himself. After belching delicately, he whispered into the human’s ear.

“Keep your expression bland and don’t let on that I’m telling you anything, but we’re in trouble.”

Buncan smiled as he waved off a fruit-laden female. “How do you mean?”

“Want to take a guess? It’s Snaug.”

This tune is was harder for Buncan to maintain his composure. “Don’t tell me they got him drunk?”

Viz’s beak was all but cleaning Buncan’s ear. “They must’ve done it when I was in here with the rest of you. I don’t know if they did it deliberately or if he got a taste of something that appealed to him and asked for more. Snaug’s a hard one to say no to. Not that it matters. The important thing is that right now he’s lying flat on his side, out cold to starboard, snoring like a ventilation shaft from hell. I don’t mink he’ll be able to stand up ‘til morning, much less run.”

“What’s that you say?” Chi-churog leaned forward, and Buncan remembered having read something about meerkats having exceptional powers of hearing. “Your great friend is already asleep?” The village leader burst out laughing in a series of sharp, squeaky barks, similar to but higher-pitched than that of the otters. “He should rest well tonight, men. As will you all.

“Tomorrow we will have the Ceremony.”

With studied diffidence Buncan slid the duar off his shoulders and laid it across his knees, making a pretext of checking the tightness of the strings. He tried to sound nonchalant. “What ceremony?”

“The Ceremony of Fertilization.” Chi-churog glanced at the roof of the tent. “Tomorrow night the moon will be full. We need to ensure that our fields will be also.”

Buncan untensed, his muscles relaxing. For a moment his natural suspicions had gotten the better of him. “What is this Ceremony of Fertilization?” However it was performed, he mused, it sounded anything but threatening.

“You have seen our fields.”

“Wonderfully kept they are, too.” Gragelouth was at his obsequious best.

Chi-churog accepted the compliment with a nod. “We are proud of what we have wrought from the Tamas. Our fields do more than sustain us; they provide us with the means to live well in a place where few others can even survive. We tend them as if our lives depend on them, which they certainly do. The Xi-Murogg wandered the Tamas for many years before finding and settling in this place. Since then we have cared for the soil of this canyon as if it were our own flesh. We have ample labor, and enough water. Only one shortage complicates our work.”

“I wondered about that,” Gragelouth admitted.

What are they talking about? Buncan mused. Though he’d been following the conversation closely, he felt suddenly lost.

Chi-churog stared evenly at Gragelouth. “You are perceptive, traveler. Many successful seasons have thinned and weakened this earth. Rain carries some nutrients down from the surrounding rim, but it is not nearly enough. Our springs run clear and clean, which in this case is less than helpful. We make use of the dung of our riding and pulling animals, but even this is limited in the results it can achieve.

“Therefore, whenever the occasion presents itself we miss no opportunity to lavish upon our precious sustaining fields whatever additional fertilizers may become available.”

Gragelouth smiled demurely. “If you would like to add our personal by-products to your efforts we will be happy to accommodate you, but except for what Snaugenhutt can produce I fear you will be disappointed.”

Chi-churog put the stub of his second smoking stick aside. “You underestimate yourself, sloth.” He grinned, his black nose twitching. “Crops do well on dung, but better by far on blood and bone.”

At which point Buncan knew exactly what had happened to the bodies of the original owners of the mounted skulls he had encountered earlier.

CHAPTER 19

With speed no one imagined he possessed, Gragelouth sprinted for the exit and straight into the arms of the half dozen guards waiting outside. Buncan wrestled his duar into position while Squill and Neena lunged for their weapons.

The meerkats and rats and ground squirrels were too fast. They poured into the tent and swarmed the travelers, too many for the otters, too quick for Buncan. Viz made a dive for the doorway and flew straight into a waiting net. Squill managed one good Sword stroke, slicing an overanxious meerkat from groin to armpit, before he went down under five or six assailants. Without Snaugenhutt’s aid they didn’t stand a chance in close quarters, and Snaugenhutt was apparently indisposed until morning.

They wouldn’t nave until morning.

It was all over in less man a minute.

It wouldn’t have mattered if the otters had fumbled for lyrics instead of weapons. The duar was quickly wrenched from Duncan’s fingers. Not because the Xi-Murogg had any idea it possessed unique powers, but because it was large and well made and if properly wielded could conceivably bash in an unwary meerkat’s skull. Which was just what the furious Buncan wanted to do, except that his hands and feet were being rapidly and expertly bound.

Anyone who could bind an otter to the point where it couldn’t move, much less free itself, knew how to handle ropes and knots, he reflected. If Squill and Neena couldn’t get loose, he knew he’d only be wasting time and energy trying.

In moments the travelers had been reduced to so many impotent bundles flopping futilely on the mats. Gragelouth was trussed so tight he couldn’t move, while Viz’s wings had been secured to his sides and his feet bound at the ankles.

Satisfied, their confident assailants left them to gaze longingly at then- weapons and worldly goods, which had been tossed in an indifferent pile in the center of the tent. Viz hung upside down from a cross-pole, bemoaning his fate.

“First trussed, next dressed?” Prom his ignominious position he glared at the contemplative Chi-churog.

The village leader winced at the affront. “We are not cannibals. We do not eat intelligent beings. Do you think we of the Xi-Murogg are uncivilized?”

Squill would have replied, except that Neena shot him a look threatening sudden death if he so much as opened his mouth. Under the circumstances it wasn’t much of a threat, but her brother kept silent anyway. Not, Buncan thought, that any otterish invective could make their situation any worse.

Chi-churog continued. “You will be drained of blood. This is not an unpleasant way to die. One drifts first into unawareness, then sleep, and finally death.”

“Yeah?” said the incorrigible Squill, unable to remain quiet for more than a minute. “ ‘Ow about you give us a demonstration, guv?”

The village leader did not deign to respond. “Afterward your bodies will be pulverized and ground to powder. During the height of the full moon you will be sown upon the fields of the Xi-Murogg. This is an honorable passing. That of which your bodies are made will contribute to the production of food and to the continued health of new, young individuals.”

“You can’t rationalize it,” Viz chirped from his inverted position. “It’s cannibalism by any name.”

“It is not.” Chi-churog was unmoved. “Your passing will inspire new life.”

“Because we’re bleedin’ unlucky enough to ‘ave arrived just before the full moon,” Neena muttered.

Chi-churog strolled over to peer down at her tightly bound form. “Blood and bone can be preserved between ceremonies. A full moon simply provides better light for the process of sowing. The presence in the night sky of a new moon, or a half-moon, would not have altered your fate.” “Gee, I feel much better now,” she said sardonically. Chi-churog stretched. “It is time to rest, but not here. If you moan and scream and disturb our sleep, it will be necessary to gag you as well. I would rather not do that. Your last night should be as comfortable as possible. Within reason.” He departed in the company of two guards. “I go first to check the ropes on your large friend. He is several fields’ worth of fecundity unto himself.”

A single meerkat was left to watch over them. Given the condition of their bindings, even one guard seemed superfluous, Buncan thought. They had been tied with fiendish invention. He could barely move his fingers, let alone a hand. No chance of working the heavy leather thongs against one another behind his back. His legs were bound at the ankles and knees. If he struggled too much, he’d probably fall over onto his side.

At least he was able to rest his back against one of the tent poles. Squill and Neena had been left on their sides, facing the center of the tent. Their bindings were secured to pegs hammered into the floor. They couldn’t even turn over. Like Buncan, Gragelouth had been favored with a sitting position. In addition to the usual thongs, leather mittens had been fastened over his hands and feet to make sure he could not make use of his heavy, albeit closely trimmed, claws. In his upside-down position Viz was less than helpless. Their captors were taking no chances.

This is it, then, he mused. I’m gonna die not in glorious battle against some wicked sorcerer or Dark Forces, trying to rescue some beautiful girl in distress, or while taking possession of the Grand Veritable, but as fertilizer for a fruit tree.

Along with their swords and the otters’ bows his duar rested in the pile alongside the guard, who sat bored and cross-legged in the middle of the tent. Hoodless, he leaned back against the tent’s centerpole, cleaning his claws with the point of a stiletto while sparing them only the occasional cursory glance. It was extremely frustrating. Ungagged, Squill and Neena could rap all they wished, but without the unique accompaniment of the duar their efforts would come to naught. He tried working his wrists against one another and had about as much success as he expected, which was to say none.

As the night progressed, the steady stream of complaints from the two otters began to slow. There being nothing else to do, they tried spellsinging anyway, producing such a stream of rhymed invective that it seemed certain the guard would respond. Save for an occasional tolerant smile he utterly ignored them, refusing to be provoked by Squill’s inflammatory prose. Why should he be, Buncan thought, when all six of them would be so much ground meal by this time tomorrow?

So bored was the meerkat that from time to time he actually dozed off, only to snap awake again after a slumber of several minutes. It was a promising development they could take advantage of only in their imaginations.

With the onset of nightfall a steady, polyphonic chanting had begun deep within the village. It was accompanied by small drums, finger cymbals, and rattling gourds. Some sort of formal invocation, Buncan mused, to whatever gods of the soil required musical propitiation. Though it was now past midnight, there had been no letup in the droning concert . . .

When it terminated, he suspected, so would he and his friends. He wondered how long it took to drain a body of blood.

A glance through the open portal revealed no sign of emerging daylight, though he could only guess at the actual hour. Jon-Tom had brought back from the Otherworld a device he called a watch, though Buncan couldn’t understand why it wasn’t called a time. It was a portable clock. Half of him wished the gadget was presently encircling his wrist so he could know the exact hour, while his other half wanted to remain ignorant. Morning would come soon enough.

Sorry, Dad. Sorry, Mom. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. The world, he thought, could be very uncooperative.

Not the guard, though. He’d drifted off again, his head drooping onto his right shoulder. Buncan struggled mightily with his wrists and succeeded only in exhausting himself. If anything, the leather strands seemed to grow tighter, threatening to cut off the circulation to his hands. The otters were half asleep themselves, while Viz emitted soft whistling snores from the cross-pole from which he hung.

So he was more than a little surprised when a voice behind him whispered anxiously, “Get ready.”

Duncan turned his head to scrutinize the merchant. “Get ready? Get ready for what?”

“Why, to spellsing, of course. To work your magic.” He shifted his attention. “You! Squill, Neena.”

“Miphhh . . . what?” Squill looked up sleepily.

“Wake your sister. Prepare a spellsong.”

The otter blinked, sparing a glance for the dozing guard before returning his attention to the merchant. “Come off it, guv. We can’t do no spellsingin’ without Duncan’s duar to back us up.”

“I am aware of that. I am about to free you all.”

Neena was now as awake as her brother. “With wot? Kind words an’ good intentions?”

“Be still,” the sloth whispered, “and watch.”

Gragelouth sat bound securely, his claws contained, his arms tied behind him. He was neither as strong as Duncan nor as agile as the otters. It should have been obvious to any observer that he was completely helpless.

Except . . . he was not as thoroughly bound as his captors believed. Possibly in their triumph they had simply overlooked it, or perhaps they had never encountered a representative of Gragelouth’s tribe before. Sloths had powerful, highly visible claws, and these the Xi-Murogg had rendered useless.

But they had forgotten to do anything about his tongue.

Long, flexible, and prehensile, it curled out of the merchant’s mouth as he leaned forward, straining against the post. It crept down his chest, crossed his waist, and reached the top of his pants. There was a gentle click as it nudged one of the fake jewels which decorated the buckle of his snakeskin belt. The guard stirred, and everyone held their collective breath. The meerkat rubbed his snout, twitched his whiskers, but didn’t open his eyes.

As soon as the guard had settled afresh, Gragelouth re-retumed to his work. With the click the front of the buckle had popped open, to reveal a hidden compartment containing a well-traveled, experienced merchant’s emergency supplies: a miniature vial of energy-giving honey-based concentrate, another of poison, a couple of valuable jewels . . . and a small, all-metal blade. At the sight, it was all the otters could do to contain themselves.

The guard slapped at a fly, turning his shoulder to the center tent post. Exerting himself to the limit, Gragelouth felt of the blade with his tongue. Delicately the end of that sensitive organ curled around the short hilt. Buncan winced sympathetically, but the merchant never faltered.

Gripping the blade, Gragelouth removed it from the open buckle. Neena lay nearer than Squill or Buncan. Steadying himself, the merchant rocked to his left until he fell over on his side. Buncan inhaled sharply, but the sloth held on to the blade. Extending his tongue to the limit (which was greater than Buncan would have believed possible), he passed the tiny knife into the otter’s waiting fingers.

“Don’t drop it, you silly twit.” Squill squirmed against his own bonds, a bundle of pure, restrained energy.

“Shut up, broom-face.” A pause, then a husky whisper of triumph. “Got it!”

Gragelouth retracted his tongue, licking his lips as he smiled gently at Buncan. “That was something of a strain.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

The merchant shifted against the floor, unable to sit back up. “What, and have one of you cubs perhaps give it away? Besides, I honestly did not know if I could reach the buckle, bound as I was. I am not one to raise false hopes.”

“Hurry up!” Squill admonished his sister.

Her fingers worked the blade back and forth. “Want me to drop it? Then chew your whiskers and leave me alone.” Squill went silent, but it required a distinct effort of will.

The guard dozed on, oblivious to the silent struggle taking place practically under his nose.

What seemed like hours passed. Finally Neena’s arms gave a visible twitch and her hands came around in front of her. She barely paused long enough to rub circulation back into her wrists before starting on her leg bindings. The work went faster now that she didn’t have to worry about dropping the knife.

Once free, she tiptoed silently around the inner edge of the tent to come up noiselessly behind the guard. Buncan gave a little jerk as she used the knife. The unpleasant business quickly concluded, she immediately set to work on the thongs binding Gragelouth.

“Oi!” her brother exclaimed. “Wot about me?” “You can just lie there for a minim, mister always-in-a-hurry.” Squill glared at her and gnashed his teeth, but quietly. The merchant was soon loose. Avoiding her brother, who tried his best to bite her on the leg as she stepped past, she set to work on Duncan’s bonds. Only when he and Viz had been released did she at last turn to Squill.

Buncan nudged the motionless guard with a foot as he strapped on his sword. The thick woven that soaked up most, but not all, of the meerkat’s blood. “Where’d you learn how to do that?”

She didn’t look up from her work. “From me dear oP mum. She always told us that academics should be grounded in a good practical education.”

As soon as he was free, Squill favored his sister with a threatening glare. But instead of assaulting her he limped over on tingling legs and kicked the dead guard square in the face. Blood spurted. Buncan frowned. “There’s no need for that.” The otter smiled thinly up at him. “Cor, I know that. I just did it for me own personal pleasure.” As he drew back his leg for a second kick, Buncan stepped in front of him. “C’mon. We’re a long ways from being out of here.” Squill hesitated, then nodded and hurried to salvage his own belongings from the pile.

Viz was stretching his wings, fluttering into the air and then landing to rest. “We can’t leave without Snaug.” The tickbird shook his head dolefully. “I can’t believe they got him drunk. He’d been doing so well.”

“Doubtless he thought he could handle it.” Gragelouth was philosophical. “A common misconception of those overly fond of the bottle. Do not be too hard on him.”

“Maybe rney didn’t get him drunk.” Buncan slipped the duar over his shoulders. “Maybe he was drugged.”

Viz brightened. “I hadn’t thought of that. I made the obvious assumption.”

“We all did.” Buncan stroked the duar in anticipation. “We’re not going to be able to just walk out of here, free Snaugenhutt, and ride out through the break in the rocks. Too many guards and chanters around. But right now surprise is ours. We’d better make good use of it.”

“Spellsinging, yes,” said Gragelouth enthusiastically. “But what form should it take?”

Squill stepped forward. “Leave it to Neena and me.” His eyes flashed.

Buncan’s fingers strummed the double set of strings. At the center, something fiery flared. The otters murmured one very angry sentence.

A globe of reflective flame leaped from the duar’s nexus, floated like a bubble across the interior of the tent, and burst against the far wall. Concentric ripples of silver fire expanded outward from the hole in the wall like ripples in a pond. Gragelouth looked delighted.

“My, but aren’t we incensed?”

Squill and Neena stood side by side, fingers entwined, bobbing in time to Duncan’s music. This time no grins were in evidence as they sang. Viz settled expectantly on the merchant’s shoulder as they followed the highly focused human and otters outside.

Not far away Snaugenhutt lay on his back, still clad in his armor. His feet thrust into the air, front and rear securely bound at the ankles. Heavier thongs crisscrossed his exposed belly, binding him to the earth.

Viz glided over to land on the ground next to his associate. The tickbird turned his head sideways as he examined his friend and companion.

“How you feeling?”

The rhino looked away. “They offered me a drink. Some kind of fermented lizard milk or somethin’. I was thirsty.”

“Maybe a bit too thirsty?”

Snaugenhutt’s voice was uncharacteristically muted. “Maybe. I don’t have that much. There must’ve been something in it.” Buncan had to admit as he continued to strum the duar that the rhino did not sound drunk.

The music and conversation alerted a startled guard who was sleepy but not asleep. Hie ground squirrel barked a challenge in Viz’s direction. Viz ignored him as he spoke to the merchant.

“Hey, Gragelouth! You can help here.” The sloth waddled over and began applying the blade of his larger knife to the rhino’s bindings.

By this time the agitated guard was yelling for help. Sleepy, half-clad figures came stumbling out of nearby tents. Buncan and the otters ignored them. A lambent, silvery mist now all but obscured his busy fingers.

Chi-churog emerged from a large tent opposite the recumbent Snaugenhutt. The First Rider of the Xi-Murogg reached back as someone within handed him a curved sword. He waved it over his head as he started toward the escapees.

“You have ruined the timing and dishonored the Ceremony! Now we will have to wait another day.”

Viz rose and darted at the meerkat, easily avoiding the sword stroke aimed in his direction. “Sorry, rat-face. We’re out of here.”

Chi-churog paused as armed males gathered around him. “Am I to be moved by your serenade? Your story did not impress me. I, Chi-churog of the Xi-Murogg, am not one to be frightened by the desperate warbling of inept troubadours.”

“Who’s inept?” Buncan shouted challengingly. The otters were no less irate.

“Stomp ‘em in the ground, cut ‘em to pieces

Kick ‘em in the ‘ead, make ‘em all dead

Grind ‘em into powder so their fields can be fed

With their own blood, hey

Turn it to a flood, say

Turn the ground to mud, yea

Let Snaugenhutt trample

Everyone who tries to flee ,

Start with that one as a bleedin’ example!”

But Snaugenhutt’s thongs didn’t fray and dissolve. No invisible, impenetrable wall materialized to protect them from the now fully awake and furious villagers. No enraged dragon or other powerful defender appeared to challenge their approaching captors.

As Chi-churog and his mob of heavily armed villagers lurched forward, long snouts twitching, eyes full of murder, Buncan began to feel concern. Playing faster did nothing to alter the status quo, nor did the most violent imprecations the otters could improvise.

“For this outrage,” Chi-churog declared, “the traditional butchering will proceed simultaneous with the collection of blood. This so that you may see for yourselves as you die with what skill our females wield the ceremonial knives. Consider it a special honor which . . .”

That’s when the ground began to shake.

Well, not to shake, really, but to tremble, as if the earth itself had been agitated by the otters’ lyrics. Buncan considered slowing the music, but he had to keep up with Squill and Neena, who were spinning insults and threats as fast as they could think of them. Maybe, he thought, he should have been paying more attention to the content of their rap than to the approaching Xi-Murogg. How dangerous a condition could they conjure? He wailed away grimly at the duar.

By now the surface was shaking sufficient to bring Chi-churog and his people to a halt. A poorly posted tent collapsed nearby, sending its dazed occupants stumbling out into the night. An apprehensive Gragelouth plied his knife as fast as he could. Snaugenhutt’s front legs were free, and he and Viz were working frantically on the back pair.

The tickbird kept glancing worriedly in all directions. “Hurry up, merchant. Something’s happening.”

“I am as aware as you.” Gragelouth sawed at a stubborn thong.

“This spellsinging?” Viz fluttered above bis friend. “They have it under control, don’t they? They know what they’re doing, don’t they?”

“More or less.”

“More or less?”

“It seems to be something of a hit-or-miss proposition. The sorcery always works. It is the results that are unpredictable.”

As if to punctuate the merchant’s observation, the earth promptiy gave a thunderous belch, tossing the sloth to the ground. Feet freed, adrenaline pumping, Snaugenhutt rolled forcefully to his left, ripping the pegs that held the thongs across his belly out of the dirt. He stood erect, shaking himself like a dog after a swim. His iron scutes clanged violently, sounding the bells of the Church of the Contumacious Rhinoceros.

More furious than frightened, Chi-churog made an effort to advance over the quivering ground. His people followed reluctantly, then- initial enthusiasm waning fast. They’d advanced several paces when they halted in then’ tracks.

Buncan turned to look over his shoulder. The sun was lightening the eastern sky, but it wasn’t the sun that rooted Chi-churog’s followers in place. It was something that had appeared between the village and the sun.

Two towering buttes looked down into the box canyon. Both were shuddering violently, enormous boulders and slabs of sandstone sloughing from their sides. Buncan remembered how as they’d progressed through the Tamas he and his friends had made a game of finding shapes and outlines and faces in the cold rock.

It was apparent now that they hadn’t imagined those creations.

As more and more stone slid from its shoulders, the outline of a gigantic armored ape became visible. Spikes and blades projected from its burnished armor and a fringed helmet adorned the low-browed skull. Slowly, ponderously, it uncoiled from the crouching position in which it had been trapped for untold eons. An ax the size of a small town dangled from one immense hand.

The second butte collapsed to reveal a great cat of unidentifiable lineage. Its armor differed dramatically from that of the ape but was no less awe-inspiring. As one huge paw thrust a short sword skyward to pierce a low-hanging cloud, the liberated giant let out a roar that reverberated like thunder across the canyon.

Not only was the sight sufficient to send Chi-churog and the rest of the Xi-Murogg fleeing in panic, it was plenty impressive enough to intimidate Buncan as well. Not having enough sense to be afraid, the otters sang on.

Buncan removed his fingers from the duar and waved at them. “Hey, guys, I think maybe that’s enough.” The otters ignored him, utterly focused on their rap. Beyond the sheer sandstone walls, monstrous ape and gargantuan cat were turning curious, unnatural eyes toward the fault sounds emanating from the bottom of the box canyon.

Buncan slung his duar across his back and grabbed each otter by the neck, using force instead of reason to choke off their singing. “I said that’s enough.” He indicated the two titanic figures. “Let’s go.”

Clutching its ax, the ape was leaning over the canyon wall for a better look. As the edge crumbled beneath immense hands boulders crashed into the fields below, smashing fruit trees and threatening to bounce into the village itself. Wailing Xi-Murogg dashed in all directions, not knowing what to do. The riders who moments earlier had been intent on spitting Buncan and his friends were now desperately trying to control their spooked mounts.

“Whoa,” said Squill as Buncan dragged him and his sister toward the waiting Snaugenhutt, “I told you those rocks looked like a monkey.”

“You did not,” Neena objected vociferously.

“Not now.” Buncan shoved them halfway up the rhino’s capacious back. As soon as he followed them and before he was even settled in his seat, Viz chirped into the hairy ear he was holding.

“Now, Snaug! Let’s move!”

With a nod and a snort the rhino turned and rumbled out of the village, heading at an inspired gallop for the cleft in the canyon walls. No one tried to stop him. Once he got up to speed, nothing short of a natural disaster could.

Only a terrified and completely frustrated Chi-churog took a swipe at them with his sword as they hurtled past. The blade shattered on Snaugenhutt’s armor. Their last view of the First Rider saw him hopping up and down amidst the confusion of his panicked village, hurling imprecations in their wake.

A few rocks fell from the rim of the chasm as Snaugenhutt barreled through, but they missed the riders on his back. Of the armed Xi-Murogg who normally guarded the way out there was no sign.

As they emerged into open desert Buncan allowed himself a sigh of relief. “That’s it. We did it, we made it.”

Snaugenhutt was slowing. “Don’t count your retirement money yet, human.”

Off to their left the armored ape stood tapping his massive ax against an open palm the size of a small plateau. The rising sun glinting off his red armor made him look as if he was on fire. Nearby, the sword-wielding giant cat stood surveying the landscape, its pointed ears scraping the clouds. Moreover, they were no longer alone. Snaugenhutt came to a halt. As far as they could see, perhaps a third of the buttes and mesas of the Tamas were coming to life, each one revealing and releasing a different soldier from some long-forgotten war of the titans. One by one they sloughed off their ancient shackles the way a sleeping human might shed a cosmetic mudpack, rising to their feet and stretching mightily in the warming sun. The noise of ton upon ton of cracking, crumbling, falling rock was deafcrumbling, falling rock was deafd from side to side, searching. “Which way?”

Gragelouth cupped his hands to his mouth to make himself heard. “Northwest, Snaugenhutt! Ever to the northwest!”

Viz pivoted on his perch atop the rhino’s head. “Why?” The sloth shrugged. “That is where we must go, and under the circumstances it seems as good a way as any.”

Viz nodded, relaying the instructions to Snaugenhutt. The rhino resumed his heavy-footed lope, heading down a slope in the indicated direction.

As he jogged along, rock spilled from the butte on their immediate right. Something with three heads emerged, unlike anything Buncan had ever seen or heard described. Four legs supported the squat body, and a barbed tail the size of an oceangoing ship whipped reflexively back and forth. Each hand held a club the size of Clothahump’s tree. Espying them, the monstrosity let out a bellow and reached down with a third hand that blotted out the sun as it descended. Even though Snaugenhutt accelerated to his maximum speed, Buncan saw there was no possibility of avoiding those immense fingers. They would smash them flat or pluck them from the ground as easily as he would a flower. Gragelouth was mumbling something under his breath, the otters held each other, Viz bravely elected to perish with his old friend, and Buncan simply shut his eyes.

He felt something massive but controlled patting bun gently on the head. Opening his eyes, he saw that the hand was similarly caressing his companions.

It withdrew, and the apparition straightened. Its subsequent bellowing could, with difficulty, be comprehended.

“FREE! FREE FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE BEFORE TIME!” The barbed tail lashed a gully in the ground as the entity’s three heads inclined to stare down at them. “I WHO HAVE KNOWN NOTHING BUT TIME NOW SAY THERE IS NOT ENOUGH TIME WITH WHICH TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR SONG.”

Squill grinned nonchalantly. “Well, you know ‘ow it is, guv. We just like to sing.”

“Yeah, ‘e’s a real altruist, me bro’ is.” Buncan threw Neena a warning look. Naturally she ignored him.

All around them, as far as they could see, the liberated giants were embracing. Some were crying pond-sized tears. Others clapped long-petrified acquaintances on the back, sending booming shock waves rolling across the plain.

“I wonder how many have come this way before and remarked on the outlines in the rocks,” Gragelouth murmured, “never dreaming it was not then’ imaginations at work but their perception.”

Since it was apparent they were not about to be crushed into paste, Snaugenhutt saw no harm in slowing to a walk. Shielding his gaze against the rising sun, Buncan spoke to the specter.

“What will you do now that you’re free?”

The three heads replied in chorus. “WHY, RETURN TO WHERE WE CAME FROM, OF COURSE. IF IT STILL EXISTS.”

An utterly unexpected voice bellowed behind them. “I’ll loll you all. I am not afraid of anything, be it god or mortal!”

Squill turned in his seat. “Well, I’ll be double-buggered. Look who’s comin’.”

Waving his sword defiantly above his head, Chi-churog, First Rider of the Xi-Murogg, was galloping in pursuit, urging his nervous blindered mount onward while screaming defiance.

“Illusions!” they heard him howl. “You have manufactured illusions to fool my people! You have disturbed their minds, but you do not fool me! I will cut your heads off. I will have you roasted alive over the cooking fires. I will . . .!”

The armored ape reached over and down. An enormous thumb descended. Chi-churog barely had time to look up and emit a single startled squeak before he was turned into a dark smudge against the earth.

“Bloody effective illusion,” Neena observed demurely.

None of Chi-churog’s fellow villagers seemed inclined to mimic their chiefs action. There was no sign of any further pursuit.

Extending arms the length of rivers, the great creatures linked hands (and in one instance, tentacles) across the Tamas. Ancient warriors of a forgotten titanic land, paralyzed gods of another place and time, whatever they were, they suddenly began to ascend slowly heavenward. Final vestiges of their long earthly imprisonment, a few clinging rocks and boulders tumbled from their sides, plunging to the ground as they drifted up through the clouds toward the intensifying sunshine. As they rose they diminished in size until they looked almost normal, then minuscule, finally vanishing entirely into an all-encompassing sky. Dust still rose from the enveloping rock they had shed.

For a long time no one said anything. There was only the sound of dust and rock settling, and Snaugenhutt’s heavy breathing.

“I wonder where they came from,” Buncan eventually murmured after the rhino had resumed his march northwestward. “Gragelouth?”

The merchant shook his head. “Who can say? The world is full of wonders. Too many times we look right at them and recognize only their shape and not their reality. It took your necromancy to restore life to those.” He nodded skyward. “To find wonders one must first know how to look.”

“An’ sing,” Neena added. “You ‘ave to know ‘ow to sing.”

Gragelouth conceded the issue. “Perhaps the next time we require assistance you could be a tad less motivated? The next apparitions you conjure might turn out to be less grateful.”

“Not to worry, guv.” Squill was bursting with confidence. “We know exactly wot we’re about, don’t we, Neena?”

“Oi, to be sure.” She looked back over her shoulder at the sloth. “You can relax, merchant. We’re goin’ to escort you safely to this ‘ere Grand Veritable, an’ nothin’ better get in our way, wot?”

Gragelouth pursed his lips. “The assurance of ignorant youth. There are forces at work in the universe you cannot begin to comprehend.” He raised his eyes to Buncan. “You are clever, and far more important, I think, lucky. But you are not your fathers.”

“I don’t pretend to be.” Buncan checked to make sure the duar was secure against his back. “And you know what? I’m glad. Jon-Tom’s music tends to get a little old-fogeyish sometimes. You need new music and new words to make new magic.”

“Wotcher,” agreed Squill.

Peering ahead, Buncan thought he could just make out a line of hills. Where there were hills there might soon be mountains, and that would mean cooler temperatures, more water, game, and shade. The end of the Tamas.

Gragelouth wagged a proverbial finger at him. “Sometimes the old magic is best. This is known.”

Buncan replied without turning. “I won’t dispute that because I can’t, merchant, but I will say this. Where both music and magic are concerned, you have to go with what you feel.”

CHAPTER 20

Several days of easy marching saw them leaving the desert behind, as Buncan had hoped. They climbed into scrub woodland where the first brave but scraggly trees tested the fringes of the Tamas. Following a route that led steadily upward, they soon found themselves tramping through real forest.

But it was like no forest Buncan or the otters had ever seen. Instead of growing close together the trees were spaced widely apart. Their leaves were long and thin, their consistency oddly stiff. Bark peeled in narrow strips from the trunks, which were varying shades of white or red instead of the familiar brown. Certain species pulsed with a dull, thrumming sound that echoed persistently inside Duncan’s head, as if a tiny fly had become trapped in his inner ear. Dense clumps of bushes played tag with the trees and each other, leaving plenty of open space for Snaugenhutt to traverse.

From the valley of a small river which sank rapidly into the sands of the desert they ascended to rocky slopes and thence to more densely vegetated rolling highlands. The trees were remarkably polite, none pressing too closely upon its neighbor. As they continued to climb, more familiar growths made their appearance, but the verdure was still dominated by the strange white-barked trees of the lowlands. Day and night the alien forest boomed softly around them.

Buncan pointed to one especially dominant specimen. It thrummed deeply and he could feel as well as hear the vibrations. “Gragelouth, do you know what that’s called?”

The sloth regarded the growth. “No. In all my travels I have never seen the like of these trees before.”

“Nothin’ like ‘em in the Bellwoods.” Neena was standing erect in her seat, effortlessly maintaining her balance despite Snaugenhutt’s rolling gait. “Looks like you could go up to one an’ strip the bark off in a few minutes.”

“Yet the peeling appears to be a natural phenomenon. Most striking.”

They were following the crest of a steep-sided, winding ridge. Neena gazed longingly at the river which tumbled playfully through the canyon below. Already the foothills of the Tamas had become unnamed mountains. The way was growing increasingly rugged.

Small reptilian game was plentiful, and the numerous streams which tumbled down the rock faces drilled pools which yielded tasty freshwater crustaceans. There were fruits and nuts to be gathered, most unfamiliar but many edible, and plenty of forage for Snaugenhutt. The bounty of the land allowed mem to be parsimonious with their supplies.

So relaxed were they that they reacted with equanimity to the sudden appearance of the wombat and thylacine in front of them. The squat, heavily built wombat was clad in light-brown cloth. He carried a poorly, fashioned spear and wore leather armor only around the waist. There was nothing protecting his head, or legs, or for that matter, his expansive gut. A wide-brimmed hat flopped comically around his head.

The thylacine was more formidably armed, both naturally and artificially. Unlike his companion, he looked as though he knew how to use the long pike he carried. Beneath his extensive brass armor expensive silks gleamed brightly, and the helmet he wore boasted a narrow vertical strip of metal to protect the topside of his long snout. Reflections of the skill of some accomplished cobbler, his well-fitted sandals were laced all the way up to the backs of his knees.

“Now what have we here, Quibo?” The thylacine spoke without taking his eyes off Snaugenhutt.

“Bushwhacked if I know, Bedarra.” Dark eyes peered up at them from beneath the brim of the oversize chapeau. “Where might you lot be headed?”

Buncan leaned to his right to peer past Snaugenhutt’s armored frill. “Northwest.” He nodded forward. “Be easier if we don’t have to go around you.”

The singular pah’ didn’t move. “Did you hear that,” the thylacine said to his companion. “They’re goin’ northwest.” The wombat grunted as the thylacine turned back to the travelers. “What business would you be having up mere?”

“Not that it’s any o’ your business,” said Squill, stand-tag in his own seat, “but we’re searchin’ for the Grand Veritable.”

“Grand Veritable.” The thylacine leaned against his pike and scratched behind one ear. “Never heard of it. Would it by nature be necromantic?”

“You’ve ‘it on it, guv.” Behind the garrulous Squill, Gragelouth rolled his eyes. Keeping a secret around the boisterous, boastful otters was like trying to conceal Snaugenhutt in a side pocket.

“What might this Grand Veritable be?” the thylacine inquired.

Squill smirked at him. Otters were professional smirkers. “That’s wot we aim to find out.”

The thylacine nodded and yawned, displaying an astonishing hundred-and-eighty-degree gape. “I don’t suppose you’d know that the monastery of Kilagurri also lies to the northwest?”

“No, we wouldn’t,” Buncan replied. “Is it something we should know about?”

The thylacine straightened, his tone darkening. “You expect us to believe that? Everyone knows Kilagurri.” He gestured with the pike. “Better get off your mountain. Now.” Next to him the wombat lowered his spear.

Squill and Neena promptly drew and notched their bows. They exhibited no particular haste. The notion of these two interfering with the progress of the heavily armored Snaugenhutt was laughable.

Buncan was more cautious. He’d learned from Jon-Tom that any obviously outnumbered and overmatched potential opponent who refused to yield ground was either a complete fool or knew something you didn’t. He wasn’t positive about the wombat, but he was pretty sure the thylacine was no fool.

Snaugenhutt glanced back at his riders. “Want me to turn ‘em into roadkill?”

“Not just yet.” Buncan leaned forward and whispered. “What do you think, Viz?”

The tickbird was leaning against the side of his armored howdah, his feet firmly clamped to his perch. “I think there’s more to these two happy hikers than meets the eye.” Instead of watching those confronting them, he’d been studying the surrounding forest.

The thylacine gestured with the point of the pike. “Let’s go, friends. Climb down.”

“We’re considering your request,”‘ said Buncan. “So far we don’t find you very persuasive.”

“We can fix that.” Putting two fingers to his extensive lips, the thylacine blew a short, shrill whistle.

Subsequent to a premonitory rustling the woods disgorged a host of armed creatures who immediately surrounded the travelers. Despite his concern, Buncan was amazed that so many had managed to remain hidden for so long. Many of the tribes represented were unknown to him except through his studies. All were armed to varying degrees, but while then’ number was impressive their appearance was decidedly motley.

This was no formal military force, he concluded. Even if they were bandits they weren’t putting up much of a show. But there were an awful lot of them, and there was no mistaking the determination in their faces.

He picked a couple of wombats and one other thylacine out of the mob. There were also koalas, several platypi (one of whom flaunted a gold ring through its leathery beak), a couple of raonjons who’d woven wicked-looking metal barbs into their tufted tails, a trio of spear-carrying emus, similarly equipped cassowaries, diminutive possums wearing dark shades to protect their sensitive eyes against the daylight, and at least one squadron composed entirely of dingoes. But the majority of the ragtag force was made up of wallabies and kangaroos representing more than a dozen subtribes. Buncan counted fifty individuals before giving up-One rarely encountered any representatives of these tribes in the Bellwoods, he reflected. Remembrance of those temperate, accommodating woods brought a sudden and quite unexpected tightness to his throat. He and his friends were very far from home: from the warm confines of the dimensionally expanded tree by the riverside, from his own room, from his other friends, and from his mother’s exotic and sometimes overspiced cooking.

Now was not the time to succumb to the foibles of resurgent adolescence, he reminded himself firmly. He was now an experienced adventurer and spellsinger, and he’d damn well better act like one.

By this time more than a hundred armed males and females surrounded Snaugenhutt and his companions. An equal number of arrows and spears and pikes and swords were pointed in their direction. While mere was no doubt that the rhino could break through the encirclement, it was equally certain that a shower of weaponry would fall on him and his passengers. With what kind of accuracy it was difficult to say, out many of the wallabies and roos looked agile and fast enough to bound right onto the rhino’s retreating back and if necessary engage Buncan and his comrades in hand-to-hand combat.

“She’s right, then!” declared a deep, booming voice. A huge russet-tinged roo as tall as Buncan hopped out of the foliage, leaped effortlessly aver the wombat and thylacine, and landed with a thud an arm’s length in front of Snaugenhutt. Wearing only light snakeskin armor, he stood gazing thoughtfully up at Buncan, apparently utterly indifferent to the fact that with a quick lunge Snaugenhutt could impale him on his born and Sing him into the nearest bush.

A spiked earring dangled from the roo’s right ear. A strip of leather bristling with steel spikes ran from his forehead, down between his ears, and all the way down his spine to his heavy tail, the tip of which had been fitted with a double-sided wooden club. This gave an occasional, ominous twitch.

In his right hand the roo held a double-sided war ax. Bom feet were shod in some kind of socklike material. Upward-pointing hooks flashed at the toes. Like the rest of his companions the speaker, Buncan reflected, was not dressed for casual conversation. Haphazard and disorganized, they were clearly not military, and they were overequipped for mere banditry. What was going on in these far-off, strangely vegetated mountains?

“I’m Wurragarr.” His war ax flashed in the sun as he strained to peer past Buncan. “You’re a curious lot. Not from around here, that much is clear.”

“We’re from a lot farther than you’ve ever been,” Neena informed nun.

“I won’t argue with that, shiela.” He returned his attention to Buncan. “Myself, I’m a simple blacksmith. Don’t get around much. But the good folk of Nooseloowoo have invested me with the responsibility of leadership, and I aim not to let them down.” He jerked a thumb in the thylacine’s direction. “Heard you tell Bedarra and Quibo you were heading northwest. Kilagurri lies to the northwest.”

Buncan fought to contain his exasperation. “Look, we don’t know what’s going on here, and we’ve never heard of this Kilagurri place. We’re on a quest of our own, and we’re just trying to stay out of everybody’s way.”

The roo was insistent. “What’s your business in the northwest?”

“Didn’t you hear that too? We’re looking for the Grand Veritable.”

“Never heard of it.”

“We told your friends. We don’t know what it is either. That’s what we’re trying to find out.” He hesitated. “It’s said to be the source of great power and great danger.”

The roo nodded contemplatively. “Can’t say about power, but we’ve plenty of danger here to go around.” He turned and pointed with the ax. “You continue on the way you’ve been goin’ and you’ll for sure find it.”

“That’s our business.” filter to keep up a bold front, he thought, than show any weakness. “We’ve been dealing with trouble ever since we left home.”

“Bloody right,” said Squill.

“So if you’ll be good enough to let us pass,” Buncan continued, “we won’t trouble you any further. I don’t know what your business is with this Kilagurri, but it has nothing to do with us.”

“Kilagurri has to do with everybody,” insisted an armored quokka from the edge of the mob. A mutter of agreement spread through the assembled.

Squill gestured with his bow. “ ‘Ere now, you lot, we ‘aven’t got time for this. Me sister and me ‘uman friend ‘ere,” he put a paw on Buncan’s shoulder, “are bleedin’ great spellsingers, we are. If you don’t make way there, we’ll show you some real power. Turn you into a flock o’ gabbin’ geese, or toads, or make all your ‘air fall out, or maybe dump you in each other’s pouches.” Otters were not particularly adept at threatening glares, but Squill gave it bis best shot.

“Spellsingers!” Wurragarr’s brows rose. “Now that’s interesting.” Turning, he called into the crowd. “Windja, Charoo, Nuranura!”

Three stocky birds lifted clear of the mob and soared over to land on a fallen log to the quokka’s left. Each was slightly larger than Viz. They wore uniform scarves of black striped with yellow, but no headgear. Their plumage was white with, black highlights, and their thick, pointed bills looked too heavy for their bodies. Duncan had never seen anything like mem. Except for the outrageous beaks they might well have been oversize kingfishers.

As they settled down on the branch, murmuring among themselves, a pair of small wallabies hopped forward. One carried a pair of short wooden sticks inscribed with arcane symbols and drawings, while his companions held an intricately painted wooden tube hollowed at both ends. It turned in upon itself at least three times. An attempt to duplicate the duar’s systemology of mystical intersecting strings? Buncan wondered.

Wurragarr gestured with quiet pride at the waiting group. “As you can see, we have our own spellsingers. So don’t think to intimidate us with music.”

“We’re not trying to intimidate you, or anybody,” said Buncan patiently. “We’re just trying to get on our way.”

The thylacine stepped forward and snarled softly. “You lot don’t look much like sorcerers to me. You look like a bunch of cubs too lazy to walk.” Laughter rose from those close to him.

“Who’s a cub?” barked Squill angrily.

“Squill.” Buncan turned in his seat.

The otter was not to be denied. “Just a small demonstration, mate. To show these buggers wot we can do to ‘em if they ain’t polite.”

Gragelouth leaned to one side. “Perhaps an exhibition of a very minor nature might serve to facilitate our departure?”

“Haven’t said you could leave yet,” Wurragarr reminded them.

“Just going to sing a little song.” Buncan unlimbered the duar, scowled wamingly at the otters. “Nothing hostile.”

Neena smiled brightly as she and her brother began to improvise.

“ ‘Ere in the woods ‘tis peaceful and calm

Wouldn’t wanna hurt it by droppin’ no bomb

Just want to go, yo, go on our way, hey

Say how pretty it is

Look at the blossoms, let Viz

Lead us away, hey.”

There. Surety that was harmless enough, Buncan mused as he rested his hands.

Nothing happened. Then Snaugenhutt let out a violent sneeze as a bouquet of exquisite purple orchids began to grow from his nostrils.

“Hey! Knock it off.” He shook his head violently, but the spray of blooms developed rapidly until they formed a small carpet that drooped from his snout.

Viz surveyed the thaumaturgical horticulture thoughtfully. “Kind of mutes the intimidation factor.”

Snaugenhutt shook his head again and flowers flew in all directions. “Yeah. This’ll really strike fear in the hearts of our opponents.”

“Quit complaining.” The tickbird hopped down the length of the rhino’s head until he could bend over and inhale deeply. “This is the best you’ve smelled in years.”

Duncan’s brows drew together as he frowned at the otters. Neena lifted both paws noncommittally.

“You wanted nonhostile, Bunscan; you got nonhostile.”

“That’s just a sample,” Squill declared warningly. “Weren’t even strainin’ ourselves. We can call up thunderclouds, earthquakes, all the aspects o’ bleedin’ nature. The forces o’ the universe are ours to command, they are.” Buncan glared at him, and the otter smiled innocently.

“Not bad.” Wurragarr glanced at the wallabies and kookaburras. “Show ‘em, mates.”

The birds essayed a few experimental trills. Then the one in the middle nodded and the nearest wallaby began rhythmically clapping the sticks together.

“Whacksticks,” Wurragarr explained for the benefit of the interested travelers.

“What’s whacksticks?” Buncan wanted to know.

Wurragarr grinned. “If the magic doesn’t work, you can always whack your enemy over the head with ‘em.”

The other wallaby put his mouth to the top of the painted tube and began to blow. A low throbbing tone not unlike that made by the booming paperbark trees emerged, only deeper and with variations. It sounded not unlike Snaugeahutt after an especially bad night.

“That’s a didgereedon’t,”(fae roo informed them as the three kookaburras began to harmonize. Their song had the quality of ancient chanting.

“Deep within the earth moves The great spirit Oolongoo. The great worm of legend. Vast is his power Irresistible his strength Powerful his crushing jaws that—”

“I could use a worm about now,” blurted the bird on the end, putting a crack in the refrain. Immediately, his companions stopped singing and began to giggle.

Wurragarr made a face. “Put a cork in that, Windja.”

The kookaburra wiped its beak with a wingtip, its breast still heaving. “Sorry, Wurragarr.” He nodded to the wallabies.

They resumed their playing. Buncan sensed the slightest of vibrations in the air.

“Oolongoo we call

And Nerrima of the sky

Who drops down upon our enemies

Slays them in their sleep

Rips them to shreds . . .”

“And pees in their beds,” added the second singer, folding his wings across his chest and collapsing in hysterics. His companions held on to then- dignity for approximately another half second before joining him. The two wallabies ceased their playing and looked helplessly at the big roo.

Burned by that overbearing marsupial glare, the spell-singers tried a third time. This time their laughter was sufficiently infectious to spread to the motley assemblage behind them, with the result that the entire band threatened to dissolve in uncontrolled mirth.

A disgusted Wurragarr watched as tears tumbled down the kookaburras’ cheeks. Two of them fell off the dead log on which they’d perched and rolled about on the grass, holding their sides. The third lay prone, pounding desperately on the log with both wingtips as his guffaws grew steadily weaker. The vibration which had so briefly disturbed the plenum vanished.

“Dag.” Wurragarr noticed Buncan watching him. “That’s the trouble with kookaburras. This lot really can spellsing, but they also can’t take anything seriously. Not sorcery, not our present desperate situation, nothing. They’d laugh all the way to their own funerals. But they’re the best we’ve got. Somehow they’re going to have to counteract the necromancy of the monks of Kilagurri.” He glared at the embarrassed but still-giggling trio, who were slowly picking themselves off the ground.

“As for you lot,” he said, turning back to face Buncan, “you don’t strike me as the type who’d ally themselves with the likes of Kilagurri.” He stepped out of Snaugenhutt’s path. “Go on your way.” The thylacine made as if to protest, but the roo waved him down. “No, Bedarra. Despite their strangeness, I’m convinced these travelers know nothing of our problems here. We’ve no right to involve them and ought t’let them pass in peace. If they run into trouble near Kilagurri they’ll have to deal with it themselves.” He stared evenly at Buncan.

“You’ve been warned. I and my friends are absolved. We can’t worry about you. Our own sorrows are too great.”

“Now hold on a minute,” Buncan began. Squill leaned forward to jab him in the ribs.

“Wot minute, mate? You ‘eard ‘im. Let’s get movin’.”