neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

Buncan put up a hand to forestall the hound’s approach. “Wait! A last song before dying. If you would be thought generous, grant us this one final amusement.”

The hound frowned. “Music does not do well here. The air weighs it down. But if you prefer that to battle, have at it.”

“Oi, thanks,” said Squill. “Me, I’d rather go out with a song.” He set his bow and arrow aside.

“Be quick about it,” the hound grumbled. “My stomach complains.”

Buncan began to play. Recalling the lyrics he had supplied, the otters joined in, transposing and transforming, engendering a rap unlike anything they’d tried before.

“ ‘Ow much, ‘ow much, ‘ow much? ‘Ow much is that doggie, that one there Can’t compare, to the one over there In the window, dude, in the window, where You can’t compare any one you knowed Before the war, to the one in the window. Don’t you see; ‘ow much is she?”

The hounds looked at once bored and baffled as Buncan piled chord upon chord, uplifting the strange lyrics, providing them with an irresistible forward thrust that would no doubt have astonished the composers of the original ditty.

Nothing happened.

No giant otherdimensional carnivorous canine materialized to terrify the hounds into submission, no befanged beasts oozed up out of the muck to attack them individually. Nor did the words result in the conjuration of some ensorceled offensive-minded device like a giant hammer.

“Put your hearts into it!” Buncan hissed angrily at his companions. Neena responded with an obscene gesture born of desperation as much as frustration.

This is it, he thought tiredly to himself. Not only are we destined to go no farther, we hardly got started. Put a few common forest bandits to flight and you think you can take on the world. Then- demise would be as abrupt as it would be degrading.

A purplish-red mist began to form between the wagon and the leader of the hounds.

The dray lizards started in harness, hissing and spitting wildly, forcing the startled Gragelouth to work his reins to maintain control. The hound hopped backward, thrusting his sword out defensively in front of him. Nervous mutterings sounded from the members of his band.

“Keep singing, no matter what it is, keep singing!” Buncan urged his friends. The otters needed no encouragement, plying variation upon variation on the now fully possessed melody. In their own way they were as entranced as the hounds.

What was it they were spellsinging forth?

The mist swirled aimlessly, as if searching for a seed, a core, to fix upon. At last it began to coalesce. Silhouettes appeared, gradually congealing into shapes that boasted both density and weight.

They flashed no armor, wielded no weapons. In fact, they were hardly clad at all, and what they did wear was designed more to flaunt than to conceal. Buncan counted a good dozen of the ghostly figures, precisely one for each member of the voracious circle.

While not all were hounds, each was flatteringly representative of the canine persuasion. Even his inexperienced eyes found their attire of silks and satins provocative.

In addition to which, each and every one of them was fully in heat.

The effect the dozen seductive bitches had on the assembled hounds was nothing short of apocalyptic. Buncan watched as the first let his sword drop from his benumbed fingers. Wearing an utterly stupefied expression, he stumbled forward into the waiting arms of the bitch nearest him. She embraced bun with the ease and skill of an experienced professional.

The leader made an effort to save his distracted band, raging among them with words and blows. Then a tall, immaculately coiffed Afghan slunk forward to give him a gentle chuck under his chin. His sword rose but his gaze descended. His nose twitched convulsively, at which point he had no choice but to switch weapons.

“Get moving!” Buncan whispered tersely to the mesmerized merchant without slowing his playing.

Gragelouth looked blank for a moment, then chucked the reins with becoming fervor. Tack creaked and groaned as the lizards picked up their feet. The wagon trundled forward.

No one jumped in their path or made any effort to interfere with them.

Leaning out of the bench seat and looking backward, Buncan thought he saw the hound of the Baskervilles trying to break free of the orgy. The wild-eyed leader went down under the weight of not one but two of the expensive bitches-of-the-evening Buncan and the otters had called forth. He did not reemerge.

As they fled unhindered into the vastness of the Moors the travelers heard one last time the collective baying of the hounds, but that hitherto mournful echo sounded now rather more enthusiastic than threatening.

Only when they were well away did Buncan put his duar aside, wondering as he did so what would happen when the seductive spirits he and the otters had called forth ceased their frenetic ministrations and finally demanded payment for their services. He was certain they would, for the lyrics of the spellsong had been forthright in their mention of price.

Squill clapped him on the back. “That were bloody brilliant, mate! Did you see their faces? Be buggered if I don’t envy ‘em.”

Neena simply shook her head in disgust. “I’m surprised you didn’t join in, bro’.”

Squill’s nose wrinkled. “The timin’s ‘ardly right. When they finish, that lot’s gonna be even ‘ungrier than before.”

“I didn’t have any idea it would work.” Buncan protested modestly. “That wasn’t exactly the kind of cost-related result I would have expected, either. But it was the only ‘hound’-related song I could mink of at the time.” He shrugged. “That’s spellsinging for you. By the way, you two were amazing.”

“Well, o’ course,” Neena agreed without hesitation.

“It was just a baby song,” Buncan added.

“Childhood imagery contains much power,” Gragelouth commented. “I must apologize.”

“For what?” Buncan wanted to know.

“For ever doubting your spellsinging abilities. It is evident now that your youth is not overmuch of a meliorating factor.”

“Beg pardon?” said Squill. His sister cuffed him.

“We got lucky,” Buncan confessed. “We might just as easily be someone’s dinner.”

“Do not make light of what you have done. Your talents are undeniable.” For the first time since Buncan had set eyes on him, Gragelouth looked almost happy.

“ ‘E’s right, Buncoos.” Neena leaned forward and put her short arms around him. Her whiskers tickled the back of his neck. “OF Clothabump may be more experienced, and Jon-Tom slicker, but we three are the greatest spellsingin’ team that ever was.”

“Let’s not get carried away by a couple of lucky successes,” Buncan chided her. But he had to admit he felt good about their prospects.

“So we’ve proved ourselves to you, droopy-lips?” Neena prodded the merchant.

“We have barely begun.” Gragelouth tried to avoid her teasing finger. He didn’t like to be touched, Buncan had noticed. “There will doubtless be other dangers to deal with, other confrontations.”

“Maybe not,” said Squill cheerily. “Maybe it’ll be smooth swimmin’ all the way to the northwest. ‘Ell, we’re about through the Moors and we’ve ‘andled not one but two lot o’ bandits on the way.”

“Perhaps you are right.” The merchant sat a little straighter on his bench. “Though it is not in my nature, perhaps I should be more assured.”

“Do wonders for your social life, mate.” Squill put a paw on the sloth’s shoulder. “You just tend to the drivin’ and we’ll take care o’ any nasties that ‘ave the nerve to cross us.”

Gragelouth nodded slowly. “I only hope that your skills ripen as rapidly as your presumption, river-runner.”