neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“Let’s get started,” he told the merchant.

The sloth blinked at him. “Get started? How can we do that? The rhino still sleeps.”

“Then we’ll start on that side,” he declared with determination.

Wrestling hunks of the armor over to the stall, they began trying to attach them, starting at the high, rounded backside. Gragelouth protested at the effort required.

By midaftemoon they were bodi exhausted. Snaugenhutt had not helped their efforts by rolling over several times, and they had accomplished very little.

At that point Squill and Viz finally returned, trailed by a huge brown bear clad in light work shut and pants. A vast multipocketed apron hung from his neck and was secured behind him. His pockets bulged with all manner of tools, as did the thick leather belt that hung from his waist. The smaller, slightly blonder bear who accompanied him was similarly equipped.

“No, no!” The bear rumbled his disapproval as he inspected their coarse handiwork. “Not like zat.” Waddling past the startled Gragelouth, the two ursines set to correcting the mistakes Buncan and the merchant had so arduously perpetrated. Their sometimes noisy exertions notwithstanding, Snaugenhutt slept on.

Buncan glared at the otter. “You took your own sweet time. Neena could be in pretty bad shape by now.”

“You don’t know me sister, mate.” But for the first time there was a hint of real concern in Squill’s voice. “I admit I thought she’d ‘ave broken out o’ that place by now.”

“Don’t undereztimate the Baron,” the bear’s assistant called back to them. Buncan and his friends walked over to observe the assembly of the armor.

“You know of Krasvin?” Buncan asked him.

The assistant nodded as he worked. “Everybody knowz of ze Baron Krasvin. Camrioca iz a big city, but ze families of noble birth are not zat extenzive.”

The larger bear was pounding away with a hammer and a huge pair of pliers. “Finished zoon. He iz going to have to stand zo we can make zure everything fallz properly into place.”

“That means waking him up.” Viz glided from Squill’s shoulder to the slumbering rhino’s head. “Might be more difficult than affixing the armor.” He rested until the two bears backed off. The larger one nodded.

“Done! Make him ztand.”

“Easier said than done.” Viz pecked forcefully at an ear.

“Just because we need him awake doesn’t mean he’ll comply.”

The great head rose off the straw. “Need who awake?” Legs began to kick, like a locomotive changing gears.

With a cacophonous rattle and clank, Snaugenhutt struggled to his feet. Drunk he’d still been middling impressive, Buncan thought. Erect and completely clad in the rough black armor, he looked like something out of a serious nightmare. Buncan hoped the Baron’s minions would react accordingly.

His old armor had doubtless fit together better. Certainly it must have been more attractive. The blacksmith and his assistant were not armorers and had fashioned the cast-iron gear together out of loose bits of ship armor, battered shields, and whatever other scraps they had been able to scavenge on short notice. Still, their salvage work was mightily impressive.

Snaugenhutt was completely cloaked on all sides. Smaller interlinked plates protected his legs all the way down to the ankles. Sharpened spikes ran in a threatening belt around his equator, while a pair of blades fashioned from oversize swords protruded forward and down from his shoulders.

Hammered arcs of iron shielded his ears and stuck out protectively above each eye, while linked rings protected the rest of his head. Gaps allowed both horns to emerge freely. Concave scutes decorated his spine and not incidentally provided smooth seats for any who might choose to ride there. Welded to the flattened, elongated plate that ran down between his ears toward the shorter horn was a small, raised metal bowl with the back quarter cut out. An iron perch was attached crossways to the interior of the bowl.

Swaying slightly, the rhino now resembled some kind of bizarre alien machine more than any living being. He shook himself uncertainly, producing a sound like a dozen chained skeletons fighting to escape from a dungeon.

“What’s all this?” His skull lowered. “Someone’s been using my head for an anvil.”

Viz fluttered back from the barrel on which he’d been standing and settled into the bowl-enclosed armored perch atop the rhino’s forehead.

“Not bad,” he told the bear, who accepted the compliment with a grunt. “This’ll work fine, if it doesn’t get too hot.” Hopping clear, he slid down to gaze into his mount’s right eye. “What do you think, Snaug?”

“About what?” the rhino moaned.

“He needs a mirror.” Viz scanned the stable. “None out here.”

“I will find one.” Gragelouth disappeared into the main building, returned moments later with a reflective, broken glass oval.

It was enough. Snaugenhutt stared disbelievingly into the mirror. “Is that me? Is that really me?” He turned to and fro, seeking different views.

“No one else ‘ere who looks like that, guv,” Squill told him. “No one else who smells like it, either.”

“Why, I look . . .” The rhino straightened. Knees locked, armor fell into place. “I took terrifying.”

“Oi, right,” the otter muttered.

“I look like . . . my old self. But I’m not my old self.”

Uninterested in Snaugenhutt’s personal reflections, the bear concluded his circumnavigation of his handiwork. “Zee,” he said proudly, “I have finished every zing zo that ze plates overlap or interlock. He iz completely protected yet ztill able to maneuver freely.” He patted one heavy plate affectionately. “Heavier than most zuch armor it may be, but thiz would turn a zhip’s ram.”

“He can handle it,” chirped Viz from his position above Snaugenhutt’s eye. “Can’t you?”

“I guess so. I am handling it, aren’t I?”

“Try a few steps,” Buncan suggested.

Advancing carefully, the rhino emerged from the stall. Armor rattled. With each step he also emerged a little bit more from the binge not only of the previous day, but of previous years.

“Head still hurts, but not from the iron,” he finally announced.

“That’ll pass.” Viz hopped back up to his little howdah. “It’s going to be like old times.”

“Old times,” Snaugenhutt echoed, still somewhat dazed.

Buncan came forward and patted one armored shoulder. “There’s a damsel in need of rescue, warrior.”

“Damsel.”

Squill rolled his eyes. “I must admit it is an impressive sight. Obviously there was a great deal of work involved.” Gragelouth cocked a querulous eye in Squill’s direction. The otter merely grinned back.

“Pennants,” Snaugenhutt declared unexpectedly. “I want pennants.”

“You want to do penance?” Gragelouth murmured, not understanding.

“No, pennants. And ribbons. Lots of ribbons. Bright ones. And paint. This black is intimidating, but I want war paint. Yellow and red flames, yeah! I want to look like hell on the move. Shit, I will be hell on the move!” He was fairly trembling with excitement as he turned to face Squill. “We’re gonna rescue your sister, river-runner. By the folds in my skin we will! We’ll rescue her and put this Baron to flight. All Camrioca is afraid of nun, including his friends. But not I, not I.”

Squill smiled back but muttered under his breath. “In a pig’s eye.”

With a short, curt grunt Snaugenhutt swung his head sharply to the right, knocking a heavy bracing pole clean out of its hole as if it were a toothpick. One comer of the stall ceiling came crashing down.

“Please,” Gragelouth implored him, “be careful with the accommodations! We will be asked to pay for that.”