neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“I will have you know that I live as cleanly as I kill.” Krasvin settled his attention on Duncan. “I am told that your horned associate flew through the air to smash my front gate. His tribe possesses no wings. How did you manage that?”

Buncan immediately swapped the sword for his duar. “With this. I’m a powerful wizard. A spellsinger, son of a spellsinger.”

“Really? You look green as a new-sprung twig to me. The kind my servants chop for kindling.” The saber flashed. “I will have your bones burned and the ashes scattered.”

“You really are one first-class disgustin’ example of sentience,” Squill observed thoughtfully.

“Thank you.” Krasvin executed a sardonic bow. “You I will keep alive long enough to watch what I do to your sibling. Regrett!”

With (not surprisingly) a deep grunt the huge warthog lumbered toward them, raising her battle-ax.

“I’ve ‘ad about enough o’ this, I ‘ave.” With that, Squill dashed forward.

“Squill!” Even Neena was startled by her brother’s unaccustomed bravery. .or foolhardiness.

The ax described a vicious arc which, had it connected, would easily have cleft the otter through at the waist. Infinitely more agile than the mammoth hog, Squill ducked under the blow, rolled, and stabbed with his own weapon, putting all his weight behind the thrust. The point penetrated between boot and legging to slice the Achilles tendon. Somewhat surprised at his own success, he sprang to his feet and backed off.

The warthog shrieked and went down on one knee. Then, to universal astonishment, she slowly straightened. Though the wound was clearly visible there was no sign of any blood, or any indication of damage. As Squill and his companions gaped she resumed her advance, moving easily on a leg that ought to have been permanently crippled.

Avoiding blows from the great ax, Squill continued to harry the monster. Though his thrusts repeatedly struck home, they had no apparent effect. He continued to avoid retaliation, but could not do so forever. No one could. And while he tired, his gargantuan opponent showed no signs of slowing.

“There is sorcery at work here,” Gragelouth muttered. “Dark sorcery.”

“Indeed.” Krasvin relaxed by the doorway, patiently awaiting the inevitable. “Regrett is my personal bodyguard, and the recipient of a very elaborate and expensive restoration spell. Did you mink you were the only ones who could make use of combat thaumaturgy? Her body renews itself each time it is injured. I doubt any of you can make a similar claim.”

“Eventually she will wear all of you down. Why not simply surrender now to the inevitable?”

“May you contract a foul disease of the genitals that can only be treated with lye and sandpaper,” said Gragelouth.

Neena gazed at the sloth in astonishment. “Why, you old slug-a-mug. I didn’t think you ‘ad it in you!”

The merchant looked embarrassed. “Even I have my limits, young female.”

“Stand still,” the warthog growled, “and I will disable you quickly!” The ax hissed down, striking sparks and stone chips from the library floor where Squill had been standing an instant earlier.

The otter continued to brandish his sword. He was as defiant as ever, but breaming hard now. “Be disabled? By somethin’ as revolting as you? I’d rather throw meself from the top o’ the tallest tree in the Bellwoods.”

“I know I am ugly,” the warthog rumbled. “Keep insulting me. It energizes me and gives me strength.”

“Squill,” Buncan yelled from the far end of the library, “watch out! She’s spell-protected.” He put up his sword and began to play. “Sing! Neena, think of some words to counter this.”

“Whuh?” She blinked. “Bunket, I’m so sleepy I can ‘ardly keep me eyes open.”

“Then sing in your sleep, or you’re liable to lose your brother.”

She squinted up at him. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

He glared at her. “Neena! He’s risking his life to try and save you.”

“Cor, but ‘e took ‘is own good time about it. Oh, all right.”

“Yes, sing, sing.” Near the doorway Krasvin started clapping his hands rhythmically. “I’d be delighted to see some genuine spellsinging. Not that such as you are capable of such wonders, your flying behemoth notwithstanding, but I can tell you that it matters not if you are. The most wise and exalted wizard who enchanted Regrett in my service assured me that she is immune to any manner of necromantic interference. So sing out, while you are still able.”

Buncan ignored the Baron’s taunts. “Squill, you sing too! Try to work with each other.”

The ax smashed into the floor so close to Squill that it shaved the hair on his tail by half. “Sing? ‘Ow do you expect me to bloody sing, mate? I can’t spare the wind.”

A sweet, strong alto rilled the room. It was Neena, doing her best to improvise while following Buncan’s musical lead. Her lyrics resonated in the charged air, snicked off the floor, vibrated the loose pages of open books.

“Got no reason to fight no more

Better mind your manners an’ mind the store.

Just ain’t right to go around bashln’ folks

You don’t know, so

You ought to pay more attention to who you are

What’s really important ain’t that far

From inside you, if you’ll just take a look

Take yourself a page out of a kinder book.”

Taking note of the immediate consequences of the spellsong, Krasvin soon ceased his clapping. “That’s enough. Stop that. Now.” Which warning naturally inspired Neena to trill that much louder. Hefting his sword, the Baron started toward them.

Viz flew straight at him, landed one nice, solid peck on his forehead, and continued buzzing him, inhibiting his advance. Cursing madly, Krasvin cut and sliced with his saber. The tickbird taunted him too close for Buncan’s comfort, but there was nothing he could do about it. He forced himself to concentrate on his playing.

A gray vapor had begun to coalesce around the she-hog. She grunted and swung at it, but neither ax nor shield was effective against what was virtually no more than a dense fog. As Neena sang on, a most remarkable transformation began to take place. “It can’t be,” Krasvin howled. “The wizard shielded hsrl”

Indeed, the protective spell was not entirely wiped, for when Squill chose a propitious moment to dart forward and strike afresh, his sword cut readily through crinoline and lace without damaging the flesh beneath.

It was the sudden presence of crinoline and lace that was unexpected.

Squill withdrew his blade and stepped back, gaping, his weapon hanging loose in his hand. Neena ceased her singing and Buncan’s suddenly limp fingers strummed in desultory fashion across the duar’s strings.

Studs and leather had given way to a sleek dress of lavender and lace. Fine tatting decorated the bodice and sleeves while the multiplicity of petticoats sent the skirt billowing. A pert, matching bonnet was fastened beneath the chin with a satin bow. The battle-ax had metamorphosed into a rather large parasol, the shield into a purse.

With an invigorated roar Regrett swung the purse at Squill, who barely retained sense enough to duck. It smacked against the rear bookshelves and burst open to reveal a flowery interior lined with frills and filled with potpourri.

“What is this?” she bellowed uncomprehendingly. “What’s happened?” At that point she caught sight of herself in a rococo mirror mounted nearby among the shelves and gave vent to one of the most horrific shrieks Buncan had ever heard emerge from a female throat.

Tossing aside purse and parasol as though they were made of burning brimstone, she raced screaming from the library. This entailed much tripping and crashing to the floor as she struggled to make the high heels in which her feet were entrapped function normally. She was last seen vanishing into the central hallway, her hiked-up skirts rustling around her thick legs.