The Spellsinger Adventures Volume One by Alan Dean Foster
A ringlet much like a thin tiara sat askew on the brown head. It was fastened under the chin by yellow straps. Broad sandals were laced across its feet. The sandals were pointed at toe and heel, possibly a matter of design, perhaps to aid in digging, giving freedom to the long thick claws on each hind foot.
One hand was fitted with a yellow metallic glove. This covered the creature’s face as he squinted sideways through barely spread fingers, though he was trying hard to look directly at Jon-Tom and his torch.
The other hand held the sickle-shaped weapon that was resting on the otter’s throat. Mudge’s own weapons lay scattered on the floor nearby, even to his secret heel-boot knife. His arrows, sword, and bow shared space with the spears and wicked-looking halberds abandoned by those who had fled at Jon-Tom’s appearance.
“I say to you again,” repeated the determined gopher, his grip tightening on the sickle-knife, “if you move I’ll open this thief’s neck and let out his life among the stones.”
“Thief?” Jon-Tom frowned as he looked back down at the tightly trussed otter.
“Ah, you fart-faced worm eater, that’s the biggest lie since Esaticus the eagle claimed to ’ave done it flyin’ underwater!”
Jon-Tom settled back against the cool wall and deliberately lowered his knife, though he didn’t go so far as to replace it in its sheath. The gopher watched him uncertainly.
“What has been going on here, Mudge?” he asked the otter quietly.
“I’m tellin’ you, mate! I was out huntin’ for our supper when I tripped while chasin’ a fine fat broyht. I fell down into this pit o’ ’orrors, where I was promptly set upon by this ’orde o’ rabid cannibals. They’re blood-drinkers, lad. You’d best take care o’ this one with your magical powers afore—”
“That’s enough, Mudge.” He looked up at the gopher. “You can put up your sickle, or knife, or whatever you call it, sir. That position can’t be too comfortable.” He set the torch down on the floor. “I’m sorry if my light hurts your eyes.”
The gopher was still wary. “Are you not this one’s friend?”
“I’m his associate in travel. I’m also a believer in the truth. I promise not to attack you while we talk, or make a hostile move of any kind.”
“Lad, you don’t know wot you’re sayin’! The minute you put up your knife ’e’s likely to—”
“Mudge … shut up. And be glad I’m here instead of Clothahump. He’d probably just leave you.” The otter went quiet, muttering under his breath.
“You have my word,” Jon-Tom informed the gopher, “as a traveler in your country and as a,” he thought rapidly, “as a wizard who means you no harm. I swear not to harm you on my, uh, sacred oath as a spellsinger.”
The gopher noted the duar. “Wizard it may be, though it was more of a daemonic effect you had upon my men.” Reluctantly the scythe blade moved away from Mudge’s throat.
“I’m Jon-Tom.”
“And I am called Abelmar.” The gopher moved his hand away from his eyes and squinted painfully at the man. “It was your light as well as your appearance which startled my troop. Most of them are moles and the light is far more hurtful to them than to me, for my kind occasionally make daytime forays when the city so requires it. Some daytime activity is necessary for the maintenance of normal commerce, much as we of Pfeiffunmunter prefer to keep to ourselves.” He looked meaningfully down at Mudge.
“Except when we are intruded upon by cutthroats and thieves.”
“’Tis all a bloody lie!” Mudge protested. “When I get out o’ these blinkin’ ropes I’ll do some intrudin’ you’ll never forget. Come on now, mate,” he said to Jon-Tom, “untie me.”
Jon-Tom ignored the twisting, writhing otter. “I meant no intrusion, Abelmar. My friend says that you attacked him. You’ve called him a thief.”
“I am in charge of the east-end morning patrol,” explained the gopher. He looked worriedly back down the tunnel. “Citizens will soon be appearing on nightly business, awakening from the day’s sleep. It would be embarrassing for them to see me this way. Yet I must carry out my duty.” He stiffened.
“Your associate is guilty of attempted theft, a sadly common crime we must continually face when we deal with outlanders. Yet it is not the theft that troubles us so much as the vandalism.”
“Vandalism?” Jon-Tom looked accusingly at Mudge.
“Yes. It is not serious, but if left unchecked could become a serious threat to our neatly built community. Do you have any idea, Jon-Tom, how taxes go up when the public thoroughfares are torn to pieces by strangers?”
“’E’s lying through those oversized teeth o’ ’is again, mate,” Mudge protested, though with less conviction this time. “Why would I want t’ go around rippin’ up ’is blinkin’ street?”
Abelmar sighed. “I suppose it is our own fault, but we are aesthetes by nature. We enjoy a bit of brightness in our city, for all that it gives us problems with ignorant travelers such as this,” and he kicked Mudge in the back. “But I see you still do not understand.” He’d grown accustomed enough to Jon-Tom’s torch to look without blinking now.
“Look,” and he bent toward Mudge.
“Careful!” Jon-Tom took a step forward and raised his knife.
“Easy move, Jon-Tom stranger,” said the gopher. “If you are suspicious of my movements, then look instead at your own feet. Or can it be in truth you have not looked closely at our fine streets?”
Jon-Tom knelt cautiously, still keeping an eye on the gopher. Moving the torch, he stared intently at the closely laid bricks. They gleamed as dully as those he’d encountered near the tunnel entrance, only with the torch resting directly on them the glow intensified. They threw back a half-familiar, reddish-yellow light.
“Gold?” he asked uncertainly.
“Common enough below Pffeifunmunter,” said the gopher with a trace of bitterness, “but not to those who come along and try ripping it out of our beautiful pathways and boulevards. It makes for pretty paving, don’t you think?”
“Surely now that you understand you can excuse me the temptation, mate,” said Mudge defensively. “You wouldn’t think these grave diggers would be so greedy they’d resent a poor visitor a few cobblestones.”
“Excuse me.” Jon-Tom rose and almost cracked his head again on the low ceiling. “I apologize to you for any damage, Abelmar.”
“It’s not too bad. You have to understand,” the gopher told him, “that if we let this sort of thing persist and word of it spread ’round the outworld, before too long we’d have mobs of sunlifers down here destroying all our public thoroughfares, our roads, and our very homes. It would be the end of civilization as we know it.”
He paused. Noise was growing behind him, moving up from the depths of the tunnel. “Travelers out for an evening walk,” the gopher surmised, “or else my men, the cowardly bastards, coming back to see if anything’s left of me.” He sighed. “I have my duty, but I can face reality as well. We have something of a standoff here, friend spellsinger. I must confess I am now more interested in punishing my men than in your pitiful petty thief of a friend.
“If you will get him out of here and promise not to let him return, and will do so without disturbing any municipal construction, I won’t report this incident to the Magistrates, or cut your friend’s throat. Well though he deserves it!”
“I’d appreciate that, and I agree,” said Jon-Tom.
“So do I, guv’nor.” Mudge smiled toothily up at the gopher.
Abelmar hesitated, then used the curved blade on the otter’s ropes before slipping it through a catch in his lederhosen straps. Mudge scrambled across the floor until he was standing next to Jon-Tom. He stretched luxuriously, working the kinks out of his muscles and joints.
“Now mate, quick now, while there still be time!” He bent and hefted one of the loose golden bricks. “Cover me with the knife while I slip a few o’ those into me quiver an’ pants.” He hurried to recover his own weapons. “You’re bigger
When the otter had finished gathering up his possessions, Jon-Tom said tiredly, “All right, Mudge. Put down the gold and let’s go.”
The otter stared at him, both arms now full of gleaming pavingstones. “You gone daft, mate? I’m ’oldin’ a bloody fortune right now. We’ve got us a chance t’—”
“Put it down, Mudge!” The knife moved threateningly, not at the gopher now. “Or I swear I’ll leave you the way I found you.”
“Cor,” muttered the otter. Reluctantly he opened his arms.
There was a heavy clattering as the gold bricks dented the pavement. Abelmar was nodding and looking satisfied. The cries of the approaching patrol were intelligible now. He peered down the tunnel and thought he could see dim, snouty shapes approaching. They wore gold earrings, clothing similar to Abelmar’s, and very dark sunglasses. Their newly acquired weapons shone in the faint torchlight. Jon-Tom idly noted that the gopher’s sickle-knife was made of gold.
“You’re a man of your word,” said the gopher, “which is rare among sunlifers. Go in peace.” He glared at Mudge. “If I ever run across your flea-flecked body again, sir, I’ll see you skinned and thrown to the carrion herds.”
Mudge made quick use of the middle digit of his right hand. “Up yours, shit face!” He turned to Jon-Tom. “Right, then. It’s done. You’ve kept your part o’ the bloody bargain, but you’ve no guarantee ’is men will keep theirs.”
“Let’s get going, then.” They started back up the tunnel.
“No need to worry,” Abelmar shouted to them, “my men will be busily engaged.” He turned to face down the tunnel.
“So, you cowards have come back, have you?”
Angry mutterings sounded from the ranks of armed moles. A few gophers were scattered among them.
“They’re getting away, sir!” shouted one of the moles, pointing up the tunnel.
“When I’m finished with you lot you’ll wish you’d gone with them!” roared Abelmar, letting loose a string of curses that reverberated around the tunnel. Their echoes followed Jon-Tom and Mudge out.
“Keep going, Mudge.” Jon-Tom gave the otter a gentle but insistent shove.
“’Ere now, mate, let’s not panic, shall we? That officer’s stopped t’ give ’is troop a thorough bastin’. There’s still plenty o’ pavin’ ’ereabouts.” He stomped on the bricks with one boot. “It wouldn’t ’urt no one if we took a few minims ’ere and did a nice little bit ’o work. There be no way that buck-toothed flat-faced cop would know we were the ones responsible. Perhaps if I just—”
“Perhaps if I just stick this torch up your ass,” Jon-Tom told him firmly.
“All right, all right. It were only a thought, lad.”
The moon was bright when they emerged again into the forest. There were no indications of pursuit, though he had a feeling of movement from behind them. It was a distant rumbling, the sounds carried through the earth that indicated the burrow city of Pfeiffunmunter was coming awake for another busy night.
“Just be thankful I got there when I did,” he told the otter. “He might’ve cut your throat without waiting to present you to the Magistrates.”
“Poppycock,” snorted Mudge. “I could’ve made me way loose eventual-like.” He straightened his vest and tugged his cap tight on his head. “All that beautiful gold!” He shook his head regretfully. “More gold than even wizards can make! An’ those bloody dirt-eaters defile it by usin’ it just t’ walk upon.”
“That’s better than the other way around.”
“Huh?” Mudge eyed him perplexedly. “Are you wizard riddlin’ me, mate?”
“Not at all.” They turned off into the woods.
The otter looked bemused. “You be either the sharpest spellsinger that ever came up the river, mate, or else the biggest fat’ead.”
Jon-Tom smiled faintly. “Hardly much thanks for the one who saved your life.” He pushed at the clinging brush.
“Better to die tryin’ for wealth than to live on in poverty,” the otter grumbled.
“Okay. Go on back to the entrance, then. I won’t try to stop you. See if you can help yourself to some pavement. I’m sure Abelmar and his troops will be happy to welcome you. Or do you think him fool enough to trust us to the point of leaving the gateway unguarded?”
“On the other ’and,” Mudge said, without breaking stride, “’tis a wise chap who bides ’is time and rates ’is chances. I told you once I ain’t no gambler, not like old Caz. But if you’d come back an’ give me a ’and, lad… .”
“No way.” He shook his head. “I gave my word.”
The otter looked crushed, shoved aside a branch, and cursed his foul luck as he stumbled over a projecting root.
“If you expect to make anythin’ o’ yourself ’ere, mate, you’re goin’ to ’ave to discard these otherworldly ethical notions.”
“That sounds funny coming from you, Mudge. If you’ll think a moment, you’ll remember that you’re embarked on an ethical sort of journey.”
“Under duress,” Mudge insisted.
Jon-Tom looked back and smiled at him. “You know, I think you use that as an excuse to keep from having to admit your real feelings.” The otter grumbled softly.
“We’ll tell them you had an unsuccessful hunt, which is hardly a lie. That’ll do you better than telling them what a greedy, self-centered little prick you really are.”
“Now that ’urts me to me ’eart, lad,” Mudge said in mock pain.
“It would have hurt you a lot more if you’d returned with your arms full of gold and Falameezar saw you. Or hadn’t you stopped to consider that? Considering the strength of his feelings where personal accumulation of wealth is concerned, I don’t think even I could have argued him out of making otter chips out of you.”
Mudge appeared genuinely startled. “You know wot, mate? I truly ’adn’t given the great beastie a thought. ’E is a mite quick-tempered, even for a dragon.”
“Not quick-tempered at all,” Jon-Tom argued. “He simply believes in his own ethical notions… .”
The beginnings of real distress were stirring through the camp when they finally walked into the glow of the camp fire. Falameezar was vowing he’d burn down the entire forest to find Jon-Tom, while Pog had volunteered to lead a night search party.
It was difficult for Jon-Tom to restrain himself from telling them the truth as he watched Talea and Flor fawn over the otter.
“Are you all right?” asked Flor, running concerned fingers through the fur of his forehead.
“What happened out there?” Talea was exhibiting more concern than she had for anyone since the journey’d begun.
“’Twas a chameleon,” said Mudge bravely, sitting down on a rock near the fire with the look of one who’d run far and hard. “You know ’ow dangerous they can be, Talea. Blendin’ their colors in with the landscape and waitin’ with those great sticky tongues o’ theirs for some unwary travelersby.”
“Chameleons?” Flor looked confusedly over at Jon-Tom. He muttered something about much of the reptilian life growing to the size of buffaloes and why should chameleons be any exception.
“I just ’ad crept up on ’im and was drawin’ back me bow,” said Mudge tensely, warming to his story, “when the brute saw me against a light-barked tree. Turned on me right there, ’e did, with all three horns a flashin’ in the moonlight an ’im so close I could smell ’is fetid breath.”
“What happened then?” wondered Flor, leaning close. The exhausted otter rested the back of his head against the cushion of her bosom and tried with difficulty to concentrate on his spellbinding invention, while Talea soothingly stroked one limp arm.
“I ’eard that slick raspy noise they make when they open their jaws just afore the strike, so I dove right back between two trees. That tongue came after me so fast you’d o’ swore it ’ad wings o’ its own. Came right between the trees after me an’ went over me ’ead so near it took off the top o’ me cap.<
“I started runnin’ backward, just to keep ’im in sight. The damn persistent cham followed ’is tongue right through those trees. I tell you, ’is nose ’orn ’twere no farther from me ’eart than you are from me now.” He patted the cushion against which he rested.
“Then how did you get away?” asked the rapt Flor, her black hair mixing in his short fur.
“Well, ’e charged so fast and reckless, so ’ungry was ’e for me flesh, that ’e gets ’imself pinned between the trunks, ’is top right ’orn pierced ’alfway through one. For all I know ’e’s still there a-tuggin’ and a-pullin’, tryin’ to free ’imself.” Whiskers twitching, the otter wiped a hand across his forehead.
“’Twere a near thing, luv.”
A disgusted Jon-Tom was angrily tossing twigs into the fire. A warm paw came down on his shoulder. He looked up to see Caz, the orange firelight sparkling on his monocle, grinning down at him around a pair of blunt white incisors.
“Something less than the truth to our friend’s tale, Jon-Tom?” Another twig bounced into the flames. “I know, I’ve heard him spin stories before. What he lacks in literacy he compensates for with a most fecund imagination. By the time he finishes he will half believe it actually happened.”
“I don’t mind him spinning a yarn,” Jon-Tom said, “it’s the way those two are lapping it up.”
“Don’t let it dig at you, my friend,” said the aristocratic lepus. “As I said, it is his enthusiasm that carries his storytelling. Before very long cleverness instinctively gives way to a natural lack of subtlety coupled with an inability to let well enough alone.”
In confirmation, a startled yelp came from the other side of the fire, followed by the sound of a hand striking furry flesh. An argument filled the misty night air. Jon-Tom saw both Flor and Talea stalking angrily away from the recumbent and protesting otter.
“You see?” Caz sounded disapproving. “Mudge is a good fellow, but at heart he is crude. No style.”
“What about you?” Jon-Tom looked curiously up at his companion. “What’s your style? What do you expect to get out of this journey?”