neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“We won’t delay you long.” The leader grinned hideously. “Just hand over everything you own.”

Gragelouth swallowed, looking resigned. “I have some money . . .”

“Oti, we don’t just want your money,” the hound explained. “We’ll take your personal effects, too, and your weapons, and your clothes. And I’ll personally have that interesting-looking musical device there.” A clawed finger singled out Duncan’s duar. “Also your wagon and team.”

“Don’t tell me you need to get somewhere in a hurry, too,” muttered Neena.

“Not at all.” The hound stroked the flank of the nearest dray lizard. It bore the caress complacently. “But these look quite savory. You know, there’s not a lot for a carnivore to dine on out here in the Moors, and we prefer to avoid the cities. For some mysterious reason town dwellers are shocked by our attitudes and appearance.” Several of the hounds within hearing range chuckled unpleasantly.

“In fact,” the creature continued remorselessly, his eyes burning into Buncan’s own, “you look quite edible yourselves.”

“Oi,” Neena husked under her breath, “we’ve fallen in among a lot of bloody cannibals!”

“And just what is a cannibal, my fuzzy little bars d’oeuvre?” the hound challenged her. “A term charged with all manner of absurdly sensationalist undertones. There was a time in the far distant past when it was the natural order of things for those with warm blood to devour omen of land. Meat is meat. We who are forced to dwell in the dank depths of the Moors cannot afford to discriminate. Where consumption is concerned we are wholly democratic: We’ll eat anyone.” He was still smiling.

“So we’ll have everything you own, and we’ll have you as well.” He glanced toward the strings of utensils dangling from the rear and sides of the wagon. “It was thoughtful of you to provide the means for your own preparation. At least you will expire in familiar surroundings.”

“We won’t go without a fight!” Squill rose sharply behind the driver’s bench, an arrow notched in his bow. Neena rose beside him, similarly prepared.

“Oh my, oh dear.” The hound tut-tutted as he took a step backward. His companions chortled darkly. “The terror! The fear! Can it be we are surprised?” He caressed the heavy curved blade of his sword. “All of us against three cubs and an old sloth? How ever will we survive? One trifle before we begin, though. I ask the names of those who would provide entertainment before dinner.”

“I’m Squill, son o’ Mudge. This ‘ere’s me sister Neena. That’s Mudge the Traveler, Mudge the Conqueror, Mudge the AU-Revengin’ to you.”

“Never heard of bun,” the hound responded briskly.

It was Buncan’s turn. “I’m Buncan Ottermusk Meriweather. Son of the greatest spellsinger in all of time and space, Jonathan Thomas Meriweather.”

“All those names.” The hound snorted. “Never heard of him either. We’re not much for celebrity here in the Moors.” He glanced to Buncan’s right. “And you? Speak up, sloth.”

The merchant flinched. “I am called Gragelouth. A simple barterer in household goods and services.”

“Well, tonight you’ll be called supper.” Within the hound’s jaws, filed teeth gleamed menacingly.

Buncan was whispering to his friends. “Lyrics? Don’t you have any lyrics yet? What’s keeping you?”

“I can’t think o’ any songs about ‘ounds,” Neena hissed. “These ‘ere blokes are about the first o’ their kind I’ve ever encountered.”

“ ‘Ow do you get rid o’ ‘ounds?” Squill wondered aloud.

“I don’t know either, but you’d better think of something quick. There’s too many of them for arrows, and they make the ones who tried to rob Gragelouth back in the Bellwoods look like country bumpkins.” He turned back to the leader, trying to stall for time.

“Now it’s my turn. Who threatens us, with no regard for our ancestry or the revenge that will surely follow if any harm befalls us?”

“Nothing follows into the Moors,” the hound growled belligerently. “Not kings seeking reluctant subjects nor sorcerers searching for strayed apprentices. Certainly not revenge. This place is the womb of bleakness, and we are its offspring. We who survive here do so only by giving in to woe. It suffuses our very beings. So do not think to appeal to our better nature, because we have none. Though I admit that your presence makes us feel better. It’s rare we come across food that has not already begun to rot.”

“That doesn’t tell me who you are.” Behind him, the otters composed frantically.

“We are all hounds here, as you can see.” The leader gestured expansively. “We are the hounds that haunt your dreams and chase you through your nightmares. We supply the howling you hear in your sleep, the growls that make you toss and turn uneasily, the shrill unexpected barks that you take for those of your neighbor.” He pointed with his sword.

“There stands the hound of the Mitrevilles, and next to him the hound of the Toonervilles. Off to the left waits the hound of the Cantervilles.” He went on to identify each member of the band by name.

It granted the travelers a few precious additional minutes. “Anything?” Buncan whispered to the otters.

“Wot is there to think of?” Despair had overcome Gragelouth, and the merchant held his woolly head in his paws. “All is lost. These are no ordinary brigands. It will take more than music to overcome them. They have remorse and anguish on their side.” He sighed heavily. “So much work, a lifetime of struggle, only to end up as a dog’s dinner. An inglorious finale. I regret that I have brought you to such a state.”

“We’re not there yet,” Buncan told him. “My friends will think of something.”

“Not me, mate,” said Squill helplessly.

“Me neither,” added Neena. “Wot about you, Buncan? Can’t you think of anything?”

“I’m not the singer.”

“But you could give us the words!” she pleaded. “A suggestion, a direction we could take. Anythin’ !”

“I don’t know anything about hounds,” he whispered desperately. “I spent all my time learning how to play the duar, not make up—” He broke off, remembering unexpectedly. “There is this old song. I remember Jon-Tom used to sing it to me when I was young. Real young. A baby song. It never made any sense to me, but it might fit this situation. A little. It’s all I can think of.”

“No time for debate,” Squill pointed out. “Try it.”

Buncan’s fingers rested tensely on the duar. “It’s no rap,” he warned them.

Neena smiled wolfishly. “We’ll take care o’ that. Just give us some bleedin’ words we can work with.”

“It goes like this.” He proceeded to whisper what he could remember of the saccharine little tune.

Squill looked doubtful. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, the tone ain’t exactly sorceral.”

“Rap it,” he urged them, “and let me play. We’ve got to try something.” He indicated the leader, who was winding up his litany.

“ . . . And I,” the thick-set creature concluded, “am the hound of the Baskervilles.”

Buncan frowned. “I may have heard of you.” The hound looked pleased. “So our reputation reaches even beyond the Moors. That is gratifying, but not unexpected. The peculiar mists and winds of the Muddletup transport much that is within without.” He raised his sword. “Now that you know who will be dining upon you, we can begin. It is time to substitute butchery for conversation. But tremble not. We are not brutal. We will make this as quick as possible. When you have determined that resistance is not only foolish but painful, simply put down your arms and lay your heads out parallel to the earth. I will do the honors myself. My colleagues tend to sloppiness.”