neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“A ‘eavy ‘orse who’s willin’ to fight,” Squill exclaimed. “An’ afterward, carry the lot of us swift an’ sure away from this place.”

“No. Our potential ally is not a member of the equine tribe.”

“Where is he?” Buncan asked.

“This is a large establishment. There are numerous stalls and drinking troughs provided out back for customers of four legs.”

“Well, if it ain’t no ‘orse,” Squill mumbled bemusedly, “then wot the bloody ‘ell is it?”

“Come and see.” Gragelouth slid off his chair. “I am convinced the individual in question will work cheap.”

“Almost reason enough to hire him right there.” Buncan followed the merchant down the length of the bar, toward the rear of the tavern.

“ ‘E’s a fighter, this one?” Squill was already suspicious of this low-priced avatar.

“The bartender I spoke with knows him, says that he has been in many battles and is a veteran fighter. He is also large enough to transport all of us and a modicum of carefully packed supplies to the northwest. Not quickly or comfortably, perhaps, but efficiently. It will be far better than trying to continue on foot.”

“If he’ll hire on.” Buncan restrained his enthusiasm. “Talea always says that anything which appears to be too good to be true usually is.”

“His name,” Gragelouth continued, “is Snaugenhutt.”

“Don’t sound like no poffy lute player,” Squill commented approvingly as they exited the rear of the tavern and found themselves in a large circular corral.

A high wooden fence enclosed the grounds, which consisted of packed earth paved with fresh straw. A dozen stalls were arranged in a crescent facing the back of the main structure. Two sets of drinking troughs formed a pair of star patterns on the open ground. Smaller facilities were available within each high-roofed stall, each of which boasted a bed of thicker straw mixed with moss. Lavatory facilities were visible off to the left.

A quartet of horses, two males and two females, stood by one of the star troughs, drinking and chatting amiably. They wore custom-cut blankets and tack, the mares additionally displaying elaborately coiffed manes and tails. One had her hooves painted with blue glitter. The nearest stallion glanced only briefly in the direction of the three bipeds before rejoining the conversation.

The farthest stall to the right was occupied by a pair of merinos, already bedding down for the night. One was naked from the forelegs down, having obviously made a recent sale of wool.

Gragelouth led them toward the center stall. A husky barmaid of the civet tribe was coming toward them, lugging an empty pail. Buncan could smell the tart residue at the bottom of the container as she passed them without a glance. That odor was quickly overwhelmed by the stink of the stall itself, which reeked of cheap liquor and musky urine. That he was able to ignore the stench was due to the dominating presence near the back of the shelter of a gigantic, deeply scarred gray mass. It seemed to be facing away from mem, though Buncan couldn’t be sure.

“That’s him, I think,” said Gragelouth. “He fits the bartender’s description.”

“Sure wouldn’t mistake ‘im for one o’ those sleepin’ sheep,” Squill ventured.

“A rhinoceros. I’ve never met one of his tribe before. They’re bigger than I imagined.” A fascinated Buncan slowed as they neared the stall’s entrance. “That back’s sure big enough to carry all four of us.” He took in the scars and wrinkles in the slabs of gray skin. “He looks kind of . . . old.”

“Not old, mate, so much as used,” Squill corrected his companion. “I mean, this old chap ‘as been bad beat up, don’t you know?” The otter sniffed pointedly. “ ‘E’s been through the wars, an’ I don’t mean the fightin’ kind.”

“He does seem a little the worse for wear.” Gragelouth studied the back of their hoped-for savior speculatively.

“Worse for wear me bollocks.” Squill took a wary step back from that prodigious and clearly unstable rear end. “ ‘E’s bloomin’ swozzled, ‘e is. Plastered, smashed, looped, juiced. Drunk on ‘is feet.” The otter pinched his nose. “Wot’s more, ‘is taste in spirits stinks worse than ‘e does.”

At that the great head swung around into view and a single eye regarded them from beneath a drooping, supercilious brow. A horn the length of Buncan’s arm tipped the weaving snout, backed by a second half its size. This formidable brace of keratin weapons was darkly stained.

Gragelouth approached tentatively. “Are you the warrior they call Snaugenhutt?”

The reply seemed to come not from the creature’s throat but his belly. The accompanying bouquet was overpowering.

“What?”

Though staggered by the stench, Gragelouth risked another step. “Snaugenhutt. Are you the warrior . . . ?”

“Oh, yeah.” The rhino’s voice reminded Buncan of the noises made by the sewer pipes that ran beneath central Lynchbany. “That’s me, isn’t it?”

The great horned skull bobbed up and down and the eye blinked slowly. “Do I know you?”

As the merchant prepared to reply, there emerged from the open mouth a belch of such gargantuan proportions as to register as a seismic disturbance in towns and villages some distance away. This was accompanied by a misty cloud of effluvia noxious enough to burn Buncan’s eyes. He stumbled backward several steps, beating frantically at the air in front of his face. How Gragelouth held his ground he couldn’t imagine.

As the vapor dissipated, Buncan saw that the rhino had turned to face them. Long, dirty hairs emerged from the inconceivably filthy depths of his shell-like ears.

Buncan took it upon himself to aid Gragelouth. “No, you don’t know us, but we’ve heard of you. We’re in real trouble, and we need your help. We want to hire you.”

The heavy head swung toward him. “Trouble, eh? What kind of trouble?”

Buncan tried to shield his mouth and nostrils as decorously as possible. It might have been worse. Snaugenhutt might have been a dragon breathing fire.

Come to think of it, that might not be worse.

He indicated Squill, who stood quietly nearby turning a polite shade of pea green. “My friend’s sister has been kidnapped by the Baron Koliac Krasvin.”

“Krappin, Kraken. Krasvin.” Snaugenhutt looked pleased with himself at having gotten it right. Each word was a grunt unto itself. “Heard of him. Ermine, isn’t he?”

“Weasel,” Buncan supplied helpfully.

“Right, weasel. Bad reputation. Bad.” The head motivated from side to side.

“Krasvin’s holding her at his estate. We’re bound to try and rescue her. To do that we need professional help.” He glanced at Gragelouth. “You came highly recommended.”

“Naturally.” The rhino seemed to straighten a little. “I am after all the most experienced fighter in these parts.”

“You’re certainly the biggest.” Buncan intended it as a compliment.

“Yeah, that too, that too.” Spittle clung to the heavy lower lip. “But this Baron, I’ve heard about his place. Hard to break into. What do you think, Viz?”

A small bird emerged unexpectedly from the fold of the rhino’s neck. It plonked itself down between the twitching ears and yawned, its wings stretching wide. A miniature blue beret crowned the feathered head and a matching scarf was wound once around the delicate neck. The bird made tiny smacking sounds with its beak and leaned forward to blink at the visitors.

“I think . . . I think I’m tired.” With that it promptly fell over backward, legs in the air, and commenced snoring heavily, sounding rather like a large mosquito.

“E’s swozzled too,” Squill commented in disgust.