neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“You’re right, Bunkies.” Neena sheathed her sword. “We’re ‘ere to show this merchant ‘ow our spellsingin’ can ‘elp ‘im.” She rubbed her forepaws together. “So let’s get to it.”

Squill was less enthusiastic. He fingered his bow. “We might could take two or three of ‘em out with arrows before they pinned us. If we try singin’ first, we’ll give away both our position and the element o’ surprise.”

Buncan was unlimbering his duar. “Singing might surprise them. Or they might even ignore it. We can always resort to our weapons if it doesn’t work. If we don’t do something fast, they’ll kill the merchant and we might as well turn around and slink back home.”

The otter considered, then nodded. “Right-o, but ‘tis likely we’ll only get one chance. Keep your blades “andy.”

Buncan plucked lightly at the duar. A faint globule of pale-blue smoke arose from the nexus. He eyed his companions expectantly.

“Wot’ll we sing about?” Squill eyed his sister uncertainly. “Buncan?”

“Don’t ask me. You two are the lyricists.” He strained to see past them. The discussion at the wagon appeared to be taking a conclusive turn. If they didn’t hurry, a sword thrust would render moot whatever effort they expended. “Better get on with it. I have a feeling the hoods are getting tired of Gragelouth’s banter.”

“ ‘E must ‘ave somethin’ worth protecting or ‘e’d ‘ave given ‘em wot they want by now.” Neena leaned over to exchange hurried whispers with her brother.

Buncan waited nervously. If it came to a fight, he was bigger and probably stronger than any of the bandits save the bear, and nothing was quicker in combat than an otter. But there were eight of them, all much more experienced at real fighting than he or his Mends. The scarred dandy of a coati in particular looked like a tough customer.

None of which would matter if they could spellsing them aside. Hopefully the otters’ wits would prove as quick as then-feet.

“How shall I start off?” he muttered.

“Somethin’ slow and heavy,” Squill advised him. “Like when we called up the whale.”

“Okay, but let’s try and make this a little more low-key.” His fingers hovered above the strings, anxious to begin. “We don’t want to kill anyone if we can help it.”

“Why not?” Neena regarded him out of bright eyes.

“Because it’s messy. We don’t want to frighten off the merchant, either.”

Squill was staring in the wagon’s direction. “That rapier pokes ‘im any deeper an’ ‘e won’t be in any condition to do much o’ anything.” He turned back to his sister. “Ready, mush-mouth? On three. A one, a two, an’ a three . . .”

Buncan began to play.

“Rumble in the woods got no place to go

Bangin’ in the hood where it ain’t no show

Gonna break it up, gonna bring it low, throw

It out, kick it out, stop it now

Stop it before it gets serious. Gets serious?

We’re delirious.

Better believe it or you’re gonna buy it

Wanna fight our power, better not try it!”

Every one of the bandits surrounding the wagon, from the bear to the slightest raccoon, turned to stare in the direction of the music. Buncan’s fingers flew over the duar. He could feel the energy surging from the instrument, felt confidence in the counterpoint he was generating to the otters’ rap. The more the three of them performed, the easier it became. He began to feel that with practice and time they might actually become proficient.

Except . . . while the music was invigorating, and sounded fresh, nothing else was happening.

The coati was conversing rapidly with three of the four raccoons. A moment later this heavily armed trio started toward the source of the singing. Two of them wielded axes, and the third a wicked, barb-tipped pike.

“Nothing’s happening.” Buncan raised his voice over the music. “Something’s wrong with your singing, or your choice of lyrics.”

“I can’t mink o’ anythin’ else,” Squill mumbled frantically.

His sister glared at him. “Well, you’re the one who’s supposed to be so clever!”

““ ‘Ell, don’t pick on me! You’re always on about ‘ow clever you think you are.”

“For the Tree’s sake,” Buncan growled, “don’t start fighting now!”

The lead raccoon wore a checkered and striped bandanna, while his companion sported an incongruous stovepipe hat decorated with tufts of bud down. The pike wielder shifted a leather beret between his ears. All three readied their weapons as they drew nearer.

“Do something!” Buncan hissed desperately.

“I’m tryin’,” said Neena, “but ‘e ain’t ‘elping none.”

“I just can’t think o’ notiiin’ appropriate.” Squill glanced anxiously in the direction of the approaching brigands.

“Anything!” A groaning Buncan found himself wondering if he should put down the duar and take up his sword.

“Wait a minim.” The otter blinked suddenly. “Remember that one ditty that was on that collection?” He whispered rapidly to his sister. Her expression widened, she nodded, and they began to sing once more, their voices rising in unison above the vegetation.

“Time for the beat, time for the feet

Time to get real out on the street

Time to Hammer the bad dudes down

Time to Hammer ‘em right down in the ground

Hammer; Hammer, show ‘em who’s boss

Show ‘em who’s the tool that’ll waste ‘em for a Loss!”

A glistening argent nimbus materialized above the bushes between the singers and the advancing robbers. It was clearly visible to those back by the wagon. The ugly conversation between the desperate Gragelouth and his increasingly impatient tormentor ceased as both turned to stare.

The silvery vapor seemed composed of metal fragments. It was gravid and intimidating, and Duncan instinctively stumbled away from it until he bumped up against a tree. He had the’ presence of mind to keep playing. What they were conjuring up he didn’t know, but so far it was enormously impressive even in its indistinctness. The otters ducked slightly but continued to rap. The raccoons clutched their weapons in front of them and gaped, their advance stalled by the otherworldly conjuration.

The cloud began to congeal into a crystal the size of a wine barrel. This was crossed with a much longer cylinder composed of identical material. Together they formed a slender T shape that was as long as Gragelouth’s wagon.

It was, in point of fact, an enormous tool: a hammer fashioned of some unidentifiable solid metal. A giant’s hammer. It hung in the air above the bushes and young trees, vibrating slightly in tune to the beat of Duncan’s duar.

The raccoons began to edge around it, keeping a wary eye on the gleaming, highly polished apparition as they did so.

This wouldn’t do, Buncan knew, and he so informed the otters. Without missing a beat they altered their lyrics appropriately.

The hammer shuddered. It arced backward, paused briefly in a vertical position, and then swooshed down with tremendous force. It struck the foremost bandit before he could dodge and squashed him as fiat as if the singers had dumped a blue whale on nun. The denouement was both messy and noisy. The sight, when the hammer retracted to a position parallel with the ground, was unpleasant to look upon. It was sufficiently disagreeable to send the two surviving brigands racing back toward their compatriots, screeching as they threw their useless weapons aside.

Buncan forced himself to look out at the mess the hammerish apparition had created on the otherwise pristine forest floor and felt his stomach engage gears independent of the rest of his system. He was, however, too busy playing to throw up. The otters, delighted, proceeded to ghoulify their lyrics to the utmost extent of their imagination, which was considerable.