neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

Squill cocked his head to one side. “ ‘Ere now, mate, you don’t mean to ‘ave another go at just the two of us spellsingin’?” “Got any better ideas?”

“We could do as the bird says an’ wait for momin’.”

“Think Neena can hold out another day?” The otter looked resigned. “This didn’t work so well the last time we tried it.”

“We’ve got no choice. Besides, we don’t need to conjure up anything solid like armor. All we need to do is rouse this mess and set him on the right path.”

“Well . . .” The otter was still dubious. “If we can get ‘is bloomin’ eyes open maybe the rest’ll follow.” He stepped away from the wall. “Let me think. Confidentially, Neena’s much better at this ‘ere business o’ lyrics than I am.”

“Do your best.” Buncan tried to sound encouraging. Long moments passed, until Buncan could stand it no longer. “Sing out, Squill. Either it’ll have an effect or it won’t.” The otter nodded, settled himself, and started in.

“Got a battle up ahead, a battle to be won

Need the ‘elp o’ one Snaugenhutt, need ‘is ‘elp by the ton

Got to get to the Baron’s mansion, got to get there damn fast.

Need to move it out quickly ‘cause me sister can’t last

Fast, fast, cast it to the winds

Cast it out through the bleedin’ sky

Pass it on by, sly, high

C’mon old thing, you gots to try!”

While Gragelouth looked on apprehensively, Buncan coaxed what he thought was some appropriate underlying bass from the depths of the duar, from the enigmatic nether regions where the instrument drew not only its music but its magic.

A silvery mist began to coalesce within the stall.

Squill saw it too and kept rapping even as he backed clear, hardly daring to believe it was working. Gragelouth retreated to one side while Viz hastily took wing, abandoning his barrel perch to hover behind the energetically strumming Buncan.

The argent fog curled into a tight, scintillating whirlpool directly above the unconscious rhino’s head. As it spun it generated a faint hum. With increased velocity the sound intensified, until the roaring was so loud Buncan could barely hear the otter clearly enough to maintain proper accompaniment.

Small dark clouds formed within the maelstrom. Buncan and Squill kept their attention focused on the rhino, who was beginning to stir. Armor clanged softly. The spellsong was working! Buncan knew it had to work or he’d never be able to face Mudge and Weegee again, not to mention never having the chance to unravel the mystery of the Grand Veritable. It could not not work.

Miniature lightning crackled within the diminutive clouds as Squill’s voice rose to a feverish barking. There was a tremendous reverberating boom as the whirlpool imploded, followed by a flash of light so bright they were all momentarily blinded. Buncan wasn’t sure whether he actually ceased playing or not.

When he could see again the stall revealed that Snaugenhutt had rolled over onto his back, all four legs in the air. His armor lay splayed out beneath him, an iron mattress. He looked like a corpse in the last stages of rigor mortis. If anything, his snoring was louder then ever.

Gasping for air, Squill gazed in disgust at the still-recumbent form. “That’s it, mate. I can’t think o’ anythin’ else. I’ve improvised ‘til I’m ‘oarse.” He sucked at the pungent night air.

“Not only didn’t it sober him up,” Buncan muttered disconsolately, “it didn’t even wake him up.” He turned toward the merchant. “I guess that’s the end of it, Gragelouth. We’re finished.”

But Gragelouth wasn’t looking at him. Nor was he considering Snaugenhutt. His wide-eyed attention was focused instead on something behind the spellsinging duo.

“I wouldn’t say that we’re finished,” proclaimed a surprisingly deep voice.

Buncan whirled. Viz was still behind him. Only, the tickbird wasn’t hovering anymore. He was standing. And he’d changed. Grown a little bit, actually. Well, more than a little bit.

When he spread his freshly metamorphosed wings they shaded the entire area.

The frightened deer had buried themselves in the straw of their stall and lay there, shaking. Emerging from the rear of the main building to see what all the noise had been about, the chief bartender, a no-nonsense coyote, took one look at the gigantic winged apparition, let out a strangled squeak, and vanished back inside.

Squill pushed his feathered cap back on his ears and stared up, up at the heavy-beaked, splendiferously plumed skull. “Right spell, wrong subject, mates.”

Viz inspected each wing in turn, men his enormous, formidably clawed feet, lastly the broad, spatulate tail. “This is wonderful!”

“Wondrous, at any rate.” A stunned Gragelouth ducked as the transformed tickbird turned a slow circle, flattening a protruding chimney across the street.

“No telling how long it’ll last,” Buncan declared, staring. “Some of our spells don’t hold up too well. With just Squill and I executing this one, I wouldn’t lay change on its permanence.”

“Then we’d better take advantage of this one,” the transmogrified tickbird rumbled.

“Wot do you ‘ave in mind, guv?” Squill was watching the bird warily.

“Like you’ve been saying: Time is important. Climb up on my back, all of you.” A vast wing dipped until the tip was touching the ground.

Hesitating only mentally, Buncan struggled up the ramp of huge feathers, pulling himself along. Behind him, Gragelouth lingered.

“Come on!” he urged the merchant.

“I . . . I don’t know.” The sloth’s nervous tongue was all over his face. “I am not used to such adventurous exertions. I am only a simple merchant.”

Buncan settled into position behind the tickbird’s columnar neck. “Don’t think about it. With your claws you’ll be able to hang on better than any of us.”

“Well . . .” Gragelouth glanced down at his powerful fingers. “Having always considered myself permanently earthbound, I suppose it would be a highly educational experience to experience flight.” He ambled forward.

Buncan looked past him. “Squill, what are you waiting for?”

“We otters ain’t keen on flyin’, mate. We like life bloody well close to the ground, and plenty o’ time under it.”

“It’s your sister,” Buncan reminded him sternly.

“That’s right, smother me in guilt.” He shuffled reluctantly forward. “It’s only that if I upchuck on Viz’s back it might break the spell.”

“Anything might break it. Move yourself.” Reaching down, Buncan gave his friend a hand up.

“Puke all you want.” Viz gleefully tossed his amazing rainbow crest. “It won’t bother me. I’ve lived with that for years.” He indicated the stagnant, soporific shape of the unconscious rhinoceros.

Gargantuan wings beat the air, driving the cowering deer even deeper into their stall. As the coyote returned with querulous friends, the blast of wind from Viz’s wingbeats blew them backward into the tavern.

Two strapping sets of claws reached out and snatched the snoring Snaugenhutt from his stall. The stupefied rhino was a load even for the transmuted tickbird, but with a determined burst of energy he powered his great avian form into the night sky, multiple burden and all.

Banking hard above the towers of languorous Camrioca, an enchanted shape turned sharply westward. Those few citizens abroad on nocturnal strolls who happened to glance upward at a propitious moment did not then nor ever after countenance what their eyes detected at that particular moment.

Viz followed the reflective path of the river, turning inland when the battlements of the Baron’s estate became visible off to the north. The half-moon that was playing hide-and-seek with the clouds supplied enough light to show the way.