neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

The hammer pivoted in midair and began to chase the retreating bandits, repeatedly slamming into the ground behind them and leaving deep, perfectly round impressions in the solid earth. Each time it struck, the ground jumped slightly. Booming thuds echoed through the forest.

Seeing the outrageous device pursuing their panicky companions, the rest of the gang hesitated. At this critical moment the coati bravely scampered forward and made a gallant if misguided effort to rally his dispirited troops. He jabbed at the hammer with his rapier, only to see the blade turned by the smooth astral metal.

The hammer came down on his tail, breaking it in several places.

Letting out a barking scream, the bandit leader keeled over, unconscious. A ringtail and the bear grabbed him under the arms and hustled him away toward the densest cluster of trees while the rest of the gang scattered in every direction. Momentarily confused, the hammer went after all of them at once, missing with predictable but nonetheless intimidating regularity.

Buncan kept playing until the last robber had disappeared around the far bend in the road. He didn’t laugh at the sight, because he couldn’t. The nearby pulverized bone and expansive bloodstain which had been the unfortunate raccoon was too bright in his eyes, too thick in his nostrils. Instead he settled for a silent cry of thankfulness as he let his fingers relax. The glow at the duar’s nexus faded.

“Not bad,” he told the otters, who had ceased their singing. “Let’s see how our merchant’s doing.” The trio broke from the underbrush and jogged toward the wagon, carefully avoiding the bloody pulp to their right.

“Wot’ll we say to ‘im?” Squill wondered as they approached the road.

“I dunno.” His sister reflexively tried to smooth her makeup. “ ‘E looks a bit rattled.”

Indeed, Gragelouth was clearly shaken. That was understandable, considering that he’d thus far seen only the homicidal hammer and not its manipulators. When all was explained to him he would doubtless be properly grateful, Buncan mused. After all, they’d just saved his fortune and most probably his life as well.

A loud crash sounded from the tree line, causing Buncan to turn and look behind him. Still flailing about madly, splintering bushes and trees and the occasional small boulder, the hammer reappeared. Having been spellsung into existence, it was not about to simply fade away.

It hesitated as if searching for something new and different to flatten. After a brief pause it aligned itself with the wagon and came thumping directly toward them. From the front seat they could hear Gragelouth moan.

“It’s still active!” Squill yelped.

“I can see that.” Clutching his duar tightly in both hands, Buncan found himself backing toward the road. “Sing it away.”

“Play!” yelled Neena. “You have to play, Buncan!”

Galvanized by her order, he let his fingers drift down to the quiescent strings. The first chords were atonal and ineffective. Meanwhile, the metallic wraith continued its menacing advance.

All three of them retreated in a body, Buncan strumming madly, the otters rapping at maximum speed. They were in the middle of the road now, in front of the wagon, with no cover in sight.

The hammer reached them and hesitated. Paws in the air, Gragelouth cowered back on his bench. The apparition seemed to consider him, then accelerated purposefully in the direction of the somewhat quavering musicians.

“Scatter!” howled Squill at the last possible instant as the head of the hammer plunged toward them. Human and otters broke in three directions as the massive chunk of metal slammed into the earth where they’d been standing, sending gravel and dirt flying.

Buncan yelled as he dodged and played. “Make it go away! Sing something else! Send it back where it came from!”

“Back where it came from?” Squill tried to keep one eye on his friend and the other on the prodigious apparition. “I don’t bloody well know where it came from! The bleedin’ toolbox o’ the gods?” The hammer zigged as he zagged to his left. “You’re the damned spellsinger!” He jumped, and the device just missed him.

“You’re the singers!” Buncan yelled.

The otters continued to improvise, to no avail. While they were getting tired of trying to dodge and sing at the same time, the remorseless specter gave no indication it was slowing down.

Suddenly the wind increased. Tree limbs and trunks bent toward the road as the breeze rapidly grew into a full-fledged gale. From his seat Gragelouth looked on in fascination.

Leaves and branches thrashed around Buncan. He was tiring fast, having neither the energy nor the agility of the otters. If that thing landed on them . . . The remains of the unlucky bandit were as fresh in his mind as they were on the ground back in the trees.

A flailing branch knocked him down, and he felt the duar slip from his stunned grasp. The pulsing radiance at the nexus of the two sets of strings instantly vanished. Seeing mis, the otters ceased their rapping, useless without Buncan’s skilled accompaniment.

Lying on his chest, panting, Buncan looked up in time to see the hammer hovering above him, measuring itself for the terminal strike. He closed his eyes.

Instantly the wind died. Two doubled-over trees straightened, their thick trunks catching the hammer on either side of the gleaming head and lifting it upward. They bounced back and forth a couple of times before quivering to a stop, the hammer pinned between them as neatly as on any holder in a carpenter’s shop. There the apparition hung motionless, seemingly pacific at last.

Gasping, Buncan rolled over onto his back and regarded the sky. Then he scrambled to his feet and walked over to recover the duar. Some leaves had landed in the active nexus. A couple had simply been fried, while the third had been turned to topaz. He brushed all of them away and examined the instrument anxiously. It appeared intact. He carried spare strings, but if the body had been damaged . . .

A few experimental strums reassured him of its integrity. As he moved to sling it across his back and shoulders, he felt a paw on his arm. It was Squill, gazing up at him with concern.

“You all right, mate?”

Buncan nodded, narrowing his gaze as he looked up at the neatly pinned hammer. “Interesting resolution.”

Squill’s whiskers twitched. “Couldn’t think o’ anythin’ else except the tools in old man Herton’s shop. Worked.”

“Wonder how long it’ll stay there.”

“No tellin’.” Neena calmly considered the otherworldly instrument of mass destruction. “Don’t like to think of it as puttin’ in an appearance some night outside me bedroom window.”

“Your bedroom ain’t got no window,” Squill pointed out.

She sniffed, whiskers rising. “That’s right, brother. Just go ahead an’ stomp on me reputation.”

“Anytime.” Squill straightened. “Wot say we go accept the grateful genuflections o’ our pitiful fellow traveler?” He started toward the wagon.

“I’ll go get the riding lizards,” Buncan offered.

Gragelouth sat stiffly on his bench seat, watching them approach. Buncan rejoined his friends momentarily, his expression grim. “Who tethered the skinks?”

“I did,” replied Neena.

“Well, they’re gone.”

“Wot do you mean, they’re gone?” Squill turned angrily on his sister. “You snub-tailed twit, you never did learn ‘ow to tie a proper knot!”

“Is that so? Want to see me tie one in your whiskers?” She grabbed for his face and the two of them went down, rolling over and over until their scuffling eventually carried mem beneath the wagon.

Buncan bent slightly to check on them, (hen straightened and extended a hand. “Those are my friends, Squill and Neena.”