The Spellsinger Adventures Volume One

  “Nothing to it. I told you I’ve been practicing my control.”

  Clothahump stared at the bush. “Good. Then you can stop it now.”

  Jon-Tom’s jaw hung a little slack. “Uh, stop what?”

  “Stop it from growing.”

  “But I have stopped. I’m not singing anymore.”

  Clothahump pointed. “Tell it to that rosebush.”

  Indeed, it didn’t take especially sharp vision to see that the bush was continuing to expand. It was almost up to the roof. When it hit the ceiling, the branches began to spread out sideways, throwing out shoots and blossoms in every direction.

  “No sweat. I’ll just sing the final chorus. That ought to finish it.” He proceeded to do so, the words falling gentle and sweet on the now heavily aromatic air of the bedroom.

  It had absolutely no effect on the fecund rosebush, which continued to spread out across the walls. Having covered ceiling and sides, branches began to fill the room, crisscrossing and occasionally running into one another. Some of the stems were now as thick as birch trunks. The room was shaking.

  “That’s enough, boy!” Clothahump was hemmed in against the headboard of his bed. Jon-Tom was trying to edge his way toward the near doorway, had to duck as two sapling-thick branches boasting three-inch-long thorns tried to block his exit.

  “I … I don’t understand. I’m not singing anymore.”

  “You bet your ass you’re not, lad.” Clothahump struggled with one drawer in his plastron, finally yanked it open. “Got to lubricate these one of these days.” The drawer finally popped open and he rummaged around inside himself. “Hope I can stop it before …”

  “Before what?” wondered the thoroughly distraught Jon-Tom as he stumbled back from an encroaching branch. It vomited a three-foot-wide blossom in his face, and the burst of perfume made him dizzy.

  “Before these damned things start growing out of us,” Clothahump shouted at him.

  His path to the door blocked, Jon-Tom scrambled across the floor toward the only remaining open section of the room … Clothahump’s bed.

  “Maybe I overdid it a little bit.”

  “My boy, your powers of observation and your innate ability to intuit the blatantly obvious never cease to amaze me. Ah, there!” He removed a small box from his plastron, shoved the drawer shut, and opened the box. From within he selected a pinch of white powder and leaned forward.

  “Roots and shoots and cellulose

  Blossoms that be profane

  Dwell in lands of malathane

  Make thy xylum comatose

  Dry up thy tannic stain!”

  He threw the powder into the advancing thorns. It evaporated. The cluster of branches seemed to shudder, to slow … and finally, to petrify.

  They were surrounded, engulfed by beauty. Jon-Tom felt sure he was going to throw up.

  He took a step toward the door which led into Clothahump’s laboratory, found he couldn’t move more than a few inches off the cushions before swordlike thorns pricked his legs. He retreated back onto the bed.

  “Sorry,” he whispered morosely. The smell of roses was overwhelming.

  Clothahump sighed, gave him a fatherly pat on the back. “That’s all right, lad. We’re all a little overconfident now and again. You were right about one thing, though. If your ladylove were here, I’ve no doubt she’d be impressed with this little floral tribute of yours … if she wasn’t cut to ribbons first. I will say this for your spellsinging: you don’t seem able to do anything in a small way.” At least a thousand blossoms of all shades and hues kept them imprisoned on the bed.

  “There’s nothing basically the matter with your spellsinging, my boy. But you are going to have to work at moderating your enthusiasm a bit.” He eyed his bedroom appraisingly. “An impressive, though difficult to deliver, bouquet.”

  Tucking his head down inside his shell until only the crown was visible, he slid off the bed and waded out into the brambles, quite safe from the thorns. They couldn’t penetrate his body armor, but neither did he have the strength to force a path through them. Finally he gave up and returned to the bed.

  “It’s no good, lad. I’m neither as young nor agile as I once was.”

  “How about a spell?”

  Clothahump’s reply to that suggestion was tart. “You spelled this jungle up: you unspell it.”

  Jon-Tom’s fingers twisted against each other. “I don’t think I ought to try that.”

  Clothahump looked dazed. “What’s that? What’s this? Some small hint of humility? How gratifying. Today we pass another signpost on the road to wisdom.” A powerful, resonant voice interrupted his sarcasm.

  “THERE’S SOMEONE AT THE DOOR!”

  “Drat, that’s the bell,” the wizard groused. “Why am I blessed with visitors who have such wonderful timing?”

  They waited patiently on the bed. Minutes later an uncertain voice called to them from the vicinity of the doorway.

  “Uh, Master?” They could just make out the four-foot-tall shape of Clothahump’s apprentice standing in the opening. For a wonder, Sorbl sounded almost sober this morning. That was something of a magic itself.

  “There is someone at the door, Master.”

  “We know that, you idiot,” said Clothahump with a grimace. “We heard the bell too. Who is at the door?”

  “He says he’s come a long ways on a mission of great importance, Master.”

  “Don’t they all.”

  “His name is Pandro. He’s a raven and he says he comes from a city named Quasequa.”

  Suddenly Clothahump was more interested than indifferent. “Quasequa, you say? Well, I have not heard from anyone in that distant land in some time. I recall mention of a young sorcerer of some promise, a fellow name of Oplode, who was trying to set himself up in business down there.”

  “That’s who’s sent him here, sir!” said Sorbl excitedly. “This Pandro says it’s most urgent.”

  “Oplode, yes, that was the name. Though I can’t be certain. My memory’s not what it used to be. I’ll see him, though.” The turtle’s tone darkened. “You will not offer him any liquid refreshment stronger than fruit juice!”

  “Master, I? Do you think that I … ?”

  “Yes, I do. Now, shut up, see him comfortably in, and inform him I’ll be along directly. Then go to the storage bin outside the parlor. Inside you’ll find some large wood clippers. Bring them back here and cut us out of my bedroom. Then, while we are listening to this visitor’s tale, you may take the remainder of the day to prune around my bed.”

  The owl let out a resigned sigh. “As you direct, Master.” A brief pause, then, “Would it be improper of me to ask what happened here?”

  “Not at all. You should find it instructive. This minor botanical catastrophe sprang from the heart of our young spellsinger here. He is in love, you see. One would tend to say he has a green thumb. The actual problem, however, lies with the protuberance which arises from between his shoulders.”

  It was a mild enough reprimand and Jon-Tom fought to accept it gracefully. Lest he do additional damage, he forced himself to put all thoughts of the beauteous Talea aside and concentrate instead on the potential import of whatever this far-ranging guest might have to say.

  Clothahump’s spell-sharpened shears soon cut a tunnel to them through the tangled growth, and the two of them were able to crawl to freedom.

  “A good job,” the wizard complimented his apprentice. “Now clean out the rest of it, but leave those pink blooms over there, the ones under the window. They’re rather attractive, and that part of the floor’s always damp anyway.”

  “Yes, Master.” They left him hacking away with the shears at Clothahump’s bedchamber.

  The raven awaited them on the guest perch which had been installed by Clothahump for the comfort of winged visitors. He might have come a long ways, but he didn’t look particularly fatigued to Jon-Tom. Of more interest was the bruise on his forehead, the feathers missing from one wing, and
the ugly scar which ran down the back of his neck. The wounds looked recent, and Jon-Tom wondered if they had anything to do with the raven’s reason for coming to the Bellwoods.

  If Clothahump noticed any of this, he gave no sign, preferring instead to stare grimly at the widemouthed glass from which the raven was sipping decorously.

  “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?” said the raven uncertainly, looking up as they entered. “Oh, this?” He gestured with the glass. “A drink, and nice and strong, too. I sure as hell needed it. Thanks to your—”

  “I know who to thank,” rumbled Clothahump dangerously. “He did not by any chance have one himself? Just to prove that he could be a proper host?”

  Before the raven could reply, the wizard had whirled and was clomping angrily back toward his bedroom.

  “SORBL!”

  Jon-Tom and Pandro eyed each other uncomfortably for a couple of minutes until Clothahump returned.

  “I’ll be lucky if he has my bedroom cleaned out by nightfall, and he’ll be lucky if he doesn’t cut off one of his own feet in the process. I’ll deal with him later.” He calmed himself as he gazed over at his guest.

  “Please pardon the interruption. Now then. Your name is Pandro and you come from far Quasequa?”

  The raven put his glass aside on the shelf that was attached to the perch. “That’s right, sir.”

  “That is quite a journey.”

  “Tell me about it.” Pandro fluttered to the floor and hopped over to stand close to them. “Keep in mind that I’m just a hired messenger. I’m not completely sure what this is all about. I could tell you what I know, but I imagine these documents I was instructed to deliver to you will explain what’s going on in my country much better than I could.” He removed the papers from the cylinder hanging from his neck chain.

  “These come from Oplode, former chief advisor in matters arcane and mystic to the Quorum of Quasequa.”

  “‘Former’?” Clothahump peered at the messages through his thick glasses. “Um.” He turned to read silently.

  Jon-Tom tried to make conversation. “What happened to your neck?”

  Instinctively, a wing felt of the recently acquired wound. “I was attacked while on my way here. Someone or something wanted to make sure I didn’t make my delivery.”

  “Who attacked you?”

  “Demons,” Pandro said with admirable casualness. “Faceless demons. Gray and black they were, with long curved teeth and no eyes.”

  It wasn’t the explanation Jon-Tom expected, and he was more than a little taken aback. “You don’t say.”

  “They were demons,” Pandro insisted, mistaking Jon-Tom’s surprise for disbelief. “I know a demon when I see one, let alone when it tries to take my head off.”

  “I wasn’t disputing you,” Jon-Tom replied.

  The raven studied him with interest. “You’re the biggest human I’ve ever seen.”

  “I’m also a spellsinger,” Jon-Tom told him proudly.

  Clothahump spoke without looking up from his reading. “That he is. If you want to see a demonstration of his powers, have a look in the next room over.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s not very impressive,” Jon-Tom said hastily. “This wizard Opiode: you work for him?”

  “I was only hired to make this single delivery. I’m not in his regular service, if that’s what you mean.”

  Clothahump concluded his perusal of the papers with a noncommittal grunt. “This doesn’t sound too serious, even though Oplode’s language borders on the hysterical. Certainly not important enough to warrant my personal attention. Still, if he feels he needs help, I suppose it is incumbent on me to provide some.” He turned back to face the raven.

  “This new advisor, this Markus the Ineluctable Opiode refers to: have you met him?”

  Pandro shook his head. “I just run a small messenger service. I don’t get into the halls of the Quorumate Complex much. No, I haven’t met him. From what I’ve heard, not many have. Keeps to himself a lot. But there are plenty of stories about him. And about his peculiar powers.”

  “And he’s a human?”

  Pandro nodded. “That’s what they say.”

  Clothahump examined the papers again. “A human who claims to have come here from another world?”

  Jon-Tom felt suddenly faint … but not so faint that he couldn’t interrupt with anxious questions.

  “Another world! Tell me, does he sing his magic, spellsing like I do, or use a musical instrument when he’s exercising his powers?”

  Pandro flinched, taken aback by the gangling young human’s unexpected enthusiasm. “Not that I’ve heard, sir, no. It’s said that he whispers his spells so that none can hear him. I haven’t heard anyone mention music.”

  “It is not used,” said Clothahump, “or Oplode would have mentioned it in his communication. The rest he does confirm, however.” He was watching Jon-Tom carefully. “A human magician who claims to have come here from another world.”

  “It’s possible,” said Jon-Tom excitedly. “Don’t you think it’s possible? It happened once, to me. Why not to another?”

  “All things are possible. However, just because you have a good heart and good intentions does not mean that this new visitor is as good and kind as yourself, or that he even comes from your world. The plenum is full of other worlds.”

  “That’s right,” said Jon-Tom, momentarily downcast. “I got so excited I forgot about that.”

  “In fact,” the wizard went on, still eyeing the papers, “from what Oplode says, this Markus appears to be sadly lacking in the social verities. Oplode is not only afraid of what the newcomer has done; he is even more afraid of what he may intend to do next. As for the visitor’s magic, it is powerful indeed.” He folded the papers.

  “This is none of my business. I’m not one to insinuate myself into another wizard’s difficulties. Oplode admits that this Markus defeated him in a battle of talents. These ‘fears’ he alludes to may merely be a reflection of his own disappointments. And he speaks only of worries and concerns, not of any actual threat. I see no reason for such panic. This Markus hasn’t instituted any sort of reign of terror or inquisition or anything so boring since assuming Oplode’s office, has he?”

  “No sir,” Pandro admitted. “As far as the average citizen is concerned, nothing’s changed. At least, not insofar as I’ve seen. Of course,” he added thoughtfully, “I was attacked on my way here, and the forest where I encountered my assailants is not noted for having a large demonic population.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Clothahump murmured. “I am not familiar with that part of the world. What do you think of all this, Jon-Tom?”

  Sorcerer and spellsinger discussed the matter while Pandro stood and waited quietly. While hardly an experienced judge of wizardly qualities, if asked, he would have had to confess that Oplode was whistling up the wrong trunk if he expected to get any aid from this bunch. The apprentice who’d ushered him inside was an obvious drunk, the turtle showed signs of senility, and the tall human struck the cosmopolitan Pandro as something of a hick.

  Still, surely Oplode the Sly knew what he was doing in sending here for help. And what was it they were arguing about?

  “I’m telling you, this guy’s from my own world, from my home!” Jon-Tom was saying. “He’s got to be. Transported here by accident, just like me.”

  “There have been no recent disturbances in the ether as there were when I brought you over,” Clothahump told him.

  “Maybe he crossed over in a different way. Do you know of every path between the dimensions?”

  “No,” Clothahump admitted, a mite huffily. “As I said before, all things are possible. All I am saying now is that there is nothing to suggest that this Markus the Ineluctable came over from your world. For one thing, according to Oplode, this fellow seems to have been practicing his magic for quite a while, whereas you discovered your spellsinging ability purely by accident and only after you had been in t
his world for some time. Furthermore, all this blather of coming from another world may merely be typical wizardly showmanship, an attempt to cow and overawe impressionable Quasequans. There are many humans in this world, as you well know. This Markus may not be a transdimensional traveler; he may be nothing more than a slick talker. Remember, my boy, that your materialization here was an accident.”

  “Maybe this isn’t an accident,” Jon-Tom argued. “Maybe some wizard from another world has found a way to cross over on his own.”

  “As I recall, there are no wizards in your own world.”

  Jon-Tom slumped. “I know. But maybe he was something else. Maybe he’s an engineer like you thought I was, and he can make magic here by reciting engineering theorems, or something. The point is, I’ve got to know. Don’t you see, Clothahump? If he got through on purpose, by design, maybe he can return home the same way. Maybe with the two of us working together we can manage a way home for both of us!”

  Clothahump was nodding. “That is how I thought you would react to this information, my boy. Well, it’s only natural that you should be excited. I certainly will not stand in the way of your finding out.”

  A BIOGRAPHY OF ALAN DEAN FOSTER

  Alan Dean Foster (b. 1946) is the bestselling author of more than one hundred science fiction and fantasy novels. His prolific output and accessible style have made him one of the nation’s foremost speculative fiction writers.

  Born in New York City in 1946, Foster was raised in Los Angeles and attended filmmaking school at the University of California, Los Angeles, in the 1960s. There he befriended George Lucas, with whom he would later collaborate. Rather than trying to break into Hollywood, however, Foster took a job writing copy for an advertising firm in Studio City, California, where he remained for two years, honing the craft that he would soon put to use when writing novels.

  His first break came when the Arkham Collector, a small horror magazine, bought a letter Foster had written in the style of suspense legend H. P. Lovecraft. Encouraged by this sale, Foster began work on his first novel, The Tar-Aiym Krang (1972), which introduced the Humanx Commonwealth, his most enduring creation. He went on to set more than twenty novels in the Humanx universe; of these, Midworld (1975) is among his most acclaimed works.