Son Of Spellsinger by Alan Dean Foster
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
“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 fin
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.