neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

Buncan considered. “All right. Yeah. We’ll give it a shot.”

Squill was less willing, but the thought of Buncan going it alone and doing some actual singing finally convinced him to participate.

As Buncan played the otter essayed some hesitant lyrics, a sort of wrap rap, which to everyone’s surprise actually generated a small cloud around the befuddled Snaugenhutt. It wasn’t very intense and it didn’t last very long, but the result was decidedly metallic in nature.

When the song concluded, Snaugenhutt stood swathed from head to foot in some shiny, metallic material. Their initial hopes were dashed when it became apparent that even Viz could easily shred the metal “armor” with his beak. The spellsong had worked, but without Neena’s harmonizing it had proven less than effective.

“What is this stuff?” The tickbird sputtered as he spit a silvery patch from his mouth. It floated awkwardly to the ground.

Buncan peeled a section from Snaugenhutt’s right shoulder. “It looks like something my father brought back from the Otherworld one time. My mother uses it in cooking.”

“It’s pretty,” groused Viz, “but as armor it’s a total loss.”

“I’m hot,” Snaugenhutt moaned. “Get me out of this.”

Working together, the discouraged foursome soon had the rhino peeled.

“Right! Now it’s my turn.” Buncan and the others looked over at an angry Squill. “That is, if you’re really set on ‘inn’ this old sod.” He glared at the rhino, who was unable to meet his gaze.

“I don’t know.” Snaugenhutt was barely audible. “I don’t know if I’m any good anymore. With or without armor.”

Viz fluttered over to land once more on his companion’s skull. “Sure you are, Snaug. The body’s intact. It’s the spirit that’s missing.”

The rhino licked thick lips. “Speaking of spirits . . .”

“NO!” Viz hopped forward until he could bend over and gaze directly into one eye. “No more. As of now, you’re on the wagon.”

“Don’t see no wagon,” the rhino mumbled, closing the eye.

“There’s a lady in distress in need of rescue, and these good people are relying on us. No one else will help them, so it’s up to us. No one else is brave enough to go up against the Baron Krasvin. No one else is stupid enough, dumb enough, foolhardy enough . . .”

“Oi!” Squill blurted. “Quit encouragin’ ‘im.”

“Can’t do it.” Snaugenhutt opened the eye halfway. “I need a drink.”

“No, dammit!” Viz fluttered up to an ear and plucked a crawling delicacy from amongst the hairs. “Besides, I . . . I promised. I gave our word.”

Snaugenhutt started. “You did what?”

“Gave our word of honor. As warriors.”

“I’m not a warrior anymore.” He struggled to open the eye all the way, failed. “Actually what I am, is tired. Sleepy. Got to . . . rest.”

“No, not now.” Viz hovered as his companion settled back on his rear knees, then lowered his front legs. “There are arrangements to be made, agreements to be settled!”

The massive body hit the straw with a dull boom. In a minute the rhino was fast asleep.

“This is not promising,” Gragelouth declared.

Viz settled down atop his friend’s flank. “We have to find him some armor. It’s the only chance.”

“That’s what I was tryin’ to tell you about it bein’ me turn.” They all looked again to Squill. The otter regarded each of them in turn. “I’ll take care o” it.”

“You?” said Gragelouth.

“How?” Buncan inquired guardedly.

The otter smirked. “ ‘Ow do you think, mate? By usin’ the skills Mudge taught me. O’ course, it weren’t exactly teachin’. ‘E just sort o’ can’t ‘elp boastin’ a bit when ‘e rambles, Mudge can’t.”

“Even in a city the size of Camrioca, armor for someone like Snaug is going to be hard to find,” Viz warned him.

“I’ll do the best I can.”

“You’re going to steal it,” Buncan said accusingly.

“Now who said anythin’ about theft?” The otter’s whiskers twitched in mock outrage. “Mudge told us a lot, ‘e did, besides ‘ow to steal.”

“I’m not giving my approval.” Buncan folded his arms across his chest.

“But you won’t try an’ stop me?”

“Your sister’s already in danger. If you want to go and endanger yourself on her behalf, I certainly can’t stop you. I know you won’t listen to reason.”

“Oi; nobly put.” The otter glanced at Gragelouth. “Wot about you, droopy-lips?”

“I am a respectable merchant. I might wish at some tune in the future to trade in these parts.”

“You’re a better liar than ‘e is, I’ll give you that.” The otter indicated the stolid-faced Buncan. “I’ll just ‘ave to take care o’ business alone, then.”

“Not entirely alone,” said a small voice. Viz flew over to land on Squill’s shoulder. The otter eyed the tickbird speculatively.

“Might be some trouble.”

The bud let out a sharp whistle, gestured backward with a wingtip. “I’ve been looking out for that ambulating dung factory for five years. A little trouble doesn’t scare me. For that matter, jail might be an improvement.”

“Righty-ho. ‘Avin’ an eye in the sky along won’t ‘urt. You two ‘old old Snauggy’s ‘orn, or wotever. Me an’ the bird will take care o’ business.” With Viz riding his shoulder, Squill scampered off in the direction of the exit.

They did not return that night, nor in the morning. It was well on to midday, when Buncan’s concern was starting to give way to real unease, when an oversize wagon drawn by a pair of Percherons came rattling into the corral.

The nearest to Buncan shook his mane as he pawed irritably at the packed earth. “Where you want this stuff?”

Buncan blinked at the heavy horse, trying to see into the slab-sided, tarp-covered wagon. “What stuff?”

The Percheron gave him the once-over. “You’re Buncan Meriweather, ain’t you?”

“I am. What of it?” Behind him a groggy Gragelouth was rousing himself from his sleeping pallet, while deeper within the stall Snaugenhutt snored on oblivious.

“Snotty young otter told us we’d find you here,” the other Percheron declared gruffly. “Told us to look for a gloomy-lookin’ human; tall, overdressed. You fit.”

“I guess I do.”

“That’s all we need to know.” He took a half-step forward, raised his right rear leg, and kicked down firmly on an oversize lever. As a spring was released the wagon bed rose and tilted, dumping its contents in a clanging, clattering, tarp-wrapped heap. Gragelouth all but leaped from his bed at the uproar, while Snaugenhutt simply rolled over.

“It’s all yours,” the other horse announced. Whereupon the two of them turned and clip-clopped back out through the wide, swinging gate, their now empty wagon in tow.

Gragelouth tugged at his vest as he rubbed sleep from his eyes. “What was all that about?”

“Beats me.”

Together they approached the irregular-shaped pile and began working on the ropes which held the enveloping tarp in place. When the bindings were undone, Buncan tugged and pulled until the contents lay exposed.

The armor, he found himself thinking. It has to be. Not silver or inlaid steel, but massive, square plates of raw black iron that looked as if they had been hastily cast and cobbled together. Hooks, rings, and eyes indicated how the plates were intended to be crudely linked. It wasn’t very pretty. Not exactly the epitome of the armorer’s art, he thought, though the thick plates looked functional enough.

He hefted one. Though rough-textured and unfinished, it was an immense improvement over the crinkly foil he and Squill had spellsung up.