Son of Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Seven)

  “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 him, 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 corner 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 Buncan’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 savin’, 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 ti
mes?” 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 mornin’.”

  “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, then 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.”