neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“Hi, honey,” boomed a cheery voice, “I’m home! Clothahump and I finally got the old Toolawhip bridge braced with a decent suspension spell. Of course, it’s only temporary, but . . .”

Jon-Tom strode around the corner and into the kitchen, whereupon something compact and violet leaped onto his chest and thrust a belligerent bulbous blue nose into his face.

“ Youse better stay outta dis if you know what’s good for you, buddy. Da broad givin’ us enough trouble as it is, see? We don’t need no interference from no kibbitzers, see?”

A startled Jon-Tom clutched the creature by its short, thick neck. It gurgled, and its eyes bulged hugely. Without a word the spellsinger drop-kicked it halfway across the kitchen. It struck a shelf, breaking one of Talea’s favorite fairy vases in the process, and fell motionless to the floor.

“What the hell’s going on here?” He gaped at the bedlam, eyes wide.

“Don’t just stand there.” Talea redoubled her efforts, reinvigorated by his appearance. “Do something!”

Stunned by the scope of the turmoil, he found himself hesitating. Had he left his duar in the cart? No, he’d brought it in with him. It needed some restringing, but it ought to suffice to deal with this. It had better, he thought, seeing how hard-pressed was Talea.

Racing back to the front hall, he yanked the unique instrument from its slot in the carved umbrella stand and tried to think of an appropriate song as he rushed back to the kitchen. Years of practice under Clothahump’s aegis had made him facile. He was infinitely more confident than the awkward young man who’d first found himself transported to this world.

Still, he found himself struggling as he confronted the pandemonium in the kitchen. Historically, the domestic household did not figure prominently in the rock-and-roll lexicon with which he was conversant.

An old ditty by John Mellencamp finally leaped to mind. He began to play, and to sing, his voice and the mellifluous chords of the duar rising strong and pure above the uproar.

From cabinets and vents, from fractures in the floor and the seams around windows, a pink haze began to emerge. Swirling in lazy currents, it picked its way into the kitchen, smelling faintly of pumpernickel and Simellot cheese. There was nothing Jon-Tom could do about the latter. Considering what the miasma could have smelted like, he was rather pleased. Ancillary odors were not his primary concern at the moment.

The slightly moist mist had an immediate effect on the army of invading fiends (or maybe it was the smell). From cabinets and shelves, from pots and pans and dishes, they ceased their activities to stare and sniff r activities to stare and sniff.king and screaming, they proceeded to get the hell out. Nostrils pinched, mouths puckered, they plunged back into the depths of the cupboards, the floor, the ceiling, returning at breakneck speed to the noxious nexi of their respective existences. In their panicked recision they took with them not so much as a cookie.

The duar pulsed and trembled in Jon-Tom’s practiced hands. Unsourced wind caused his iridescent green cape (which was overdue for dry cleaning) to stream out behind him, as though he stood in the forefront of an intense but highly localized squall.

As he strolled deliberately through the kitchen a few of the bolder intruders threw themselves angrily at him, attacking from every direction. The music beat them back, the pink haze forming knots around their necks or club-shaped clouds which smashed them into oblivion.

Her feet and composure regained, Talea warily trailed her husband as far as the sink. She laid the bloody sword lengthwise in the basin, shaking her head. Getting the blade properly clean was going to take a lot of scrubbing. Ichor had a notorious tendency to cling.

Jon-Tom had halted in the middle of the kitchen, his voice quavering. Eighteen years of practice had improved but not perfected the weakest component of his spellsinging. The power of his playing more than compensated, however, for his less than operatic voice.

As she stared, those demons who hadn’t been able to escape, or who had foolishly chosen to attack Jon-Tom, began to swell like balloons. They started to rise, bouncing off the cabinets and finally the ceiling. As Jon-Tom brought the song to an end, they began to burst like soap bubbles. She inhaled despairingly. As if the kitchen wasn’t enough a mess already.

Finally nothing remained save swirling pink mist and a powerful scent of cheese and pumpernickel. As Jon-Tom flung his Fingers against the double strings of the duar in one last dramatic riff, the mist faded and began to dissipate. Taking a deep, relieved breath, he turned to face her.

“Now, then. Will you please tell me what happened here?” His brows drew slightly together. “Talea, have you been experimenting with thaumaturgical cooking spells again? I told you, I’m not that big on fried foods. Sometimes household shortcuts aren’t worth the trouble they cause.”

She waggled an admonishing finger in his face. “Don’t you lip me, Jon-Tom! I haven’t done a damned thing.” Moving to the window over the sink, she fought to open it. Coagulating blood and gore caused it to stick. She waved at the remnants of the pink mist, backing away as fresh air sucked it outside. The heavy stink likewise began to disperse, leaving in its wake a faint memory of dill pickle.

She eyed the shattered crockery, the broken crumbs of baked goods over which she’d labored long and lovingly, the disgusting mess which coated everything, the thin rivulets of unidentifiable fluids which dripped from counters to pool noisomely on the floor, and she wanted to scream. Instead she sank tiredly into one of the snakeskin-upholstered chairs in the breakfast nook.

Jon-Tom carefully leaned the warm duar against the cooler, brushed back his long hair, and sat down next to his distraught wife.

“Okay, so you weren’t messing with spells.” He indicated the kitchen. “How do you explain this?”

She glared at him. “Why ask me? You’re the great spellsinger. Someone have a grudge against you?” She sighed. “I’d kill for a cup of tea.”

He found a reasonably clean empty cup. “Iced or hot?”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly, “no shortcuts!” Rising, she made her way to the stove and checked to make sure that it was set on medium heat. Filling a pot from the sink, she set it on the burner. Beneath, the indentured fire elemental set to work, grumbling audibly. Have to get him adjusted, she thought idly. Thoughtfully, she found a second cup before resuming her seat.

Jon-Tom had been pondering her question. “Clothahump and I have some long-term, overdue debtors, but we’ve never used any strong-arm collection techniques. Nothing that would turn anyone vengeful. At least, I haven’t. I can mention it to Clothahump. You know how he can get about money sometimes.”

“The old miser,” Talea muttered.

“With him it’s not the interest. It’s the principal of the thing.”

She gestured at the kitchen, her arm shaking slightly. “Jon-Tom, I’m reasonably well versed in the nature of the inhabitants of the Nether Regions. I’d have to be, being married to you. But I didn’t recognize half of what materialized here.”

He shrugged. “Other dimensions, other demons. Don’t blame yourself. Even the standard references have to be updated every year.”

She leaned toward him, smiling at sudden memories. “Sometimes I think things were easier when you and I were on the road all the time, fighting and slaughtering, living by our wits. Having fan.”

“We were a lot younger then, Talea. I didn’t have the responsibilities that come with being Clothahump’s junior partner. We didn’t have a home, or a family.”