neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

Finding himself suddenly outnumbered, with his secret weapon put to ignominious and utterly unexpected feminine flight, Baron Koliac Krasvin damned them all with spurious invective as he bolted for the courtyard.

“NO!” Weaponless, Neena reached for the source of her preservation and hurled the first oil lamp within reach at the retreating mink. It missed him and exploded against the floor. Flaming liquid fountained in all directions. Some of it caught Krasvin on his tail and right hip. Howling, her tormentor stumbled wildly through the doorway.

Squill briefly contemplated pursuit before deciding that his purpose here lay in facilitating escape, not homicide. He rejoined his companions and watched while Neena planted a whiskery wet kiss on first Buncan and then a highly embarrassed Gragelouth.

“Wot, no embrace for your own brother?” “‘Ow could I forget?” She approached and without hesitation smacked him upside the head.

“Oi!” He grabbed at his cheek. “Wot were that for?” “You stupid sod!” She was right up in his face. “Wot took you so long? Do you ‘ave any idea wot that nasty bugger ‘ad in mind for me? Do you know wot I nearly went through?” Squill snarled softly. “Nothin’ you ain’t gone through before, luv.”

She was on him with a screech, and he fought back energetically and without hesitation, the two of them joined in sibling combat as they rolled over and over across the slate-paved floor. While a distressed Viz looked on, Buncan considered beating the two of them unreservedly about the head with the precious duar.

Gragelouth sidled up to him. “We really ought to be thinking of getting out of here, my young friend. Snaugenhutt should be able to carry us safely to freedom, if he can be persuaded to relent in his present exertions.”

“I’ll handle that.” Viz darted for the door and Buncan followed. The two otters had to settle for swapping insults in lieu of blows as they hurried to catch up. It was a marvel, Buncan mused, how any of their clothing managed to survive their exuberant sibling disagreements.

They found Snaugenhutt pawing the floor as he faced the entrance to the kitchen. The great central hall had been thoroughly demolished: furniture reduced to firewood, banners ripped from their lanyards, paintings and sculpture pulverized underfoot. The kitchen door consisted of a metal grille set in a wooden frame. Half a dozen long spears were thrust rather tremulously through the gridwork.

Viz settled onto his iron perch atop his friend’s forehead. “Good work, Snaug. Time to call it a night.”

Rhinoceran eyes blazed. “No. There’s still a few of ‘em left alive. Lenune finish ‘em off.”

“Not necessary. They’re only employees.” The tickbird stood on the perch and gazed back past his friend’s prodigious rump. “Did you see a mink come running through here? Couldn’t miss him. His ass was on fire.”

“Missed him anyway.” Snaugenhutt grunted. “Been busy.”

Buncan trotted over to pat the rhino’s armored flank. “Take us out of here, Snaugenhutt. You’ve done all that was asked of you. More than was asked of you.”

The great head swung back to peer at him. “But I want to finish ‘em off. Please let me finish mem off?” His pleading did not pass unnoticed among the anxious contingent cowering in the kitchen. Several spears fell to the floor as their owners made haste to find space elsewhere.

“You are presently engaged in our employ,” declared Gragelouth in no-nonsense tones, “and as your employer I demand that you extricate us from mis present situation.”

“Oh, all right.” Bending his front legs, the rhino knelt on the scarred floor. Using the spaces between the iron scutes for steps, they scampered up his flank and settled into the concave metal “seats” along his spine. Buncan took the lead, positioning himself high atop Snaugenhutt’s shoulders. He was followed by Squill and Neena, with Gragelouth occupying the space above the rhino’s hips.

Clambering back to his feet, Snaugenhutt turned and, with utter disdain, pointed his rear end at the survivors in the kitchen as if daring them to respond. It was an offer that went unrequited. No one made any attempt to inhibit them as he lumbered out of the mansion, across the wood-strewn outer courtyard, through the remnants of the main gate, and out onto the narrow road beyond.

Following Gragelouth’s directions, they turned right at the first intersection, right again up a poorly marked route that led northwest. Only when they were well away from Krasvin’s lands and the outer environs of Camrioca did Buncan finally relax.

Neena had been heaping insults on her brother ever since they’d fled the estate, but had quickly succumbed to exhaustion and fallen into a deep sleep. They’d paused long enough to stretch her lengthwise across her saddle, Snau-genhutt’s broad back and short stride being sufficient, together with her own belt, to ensure that she wouldn’t fall off.

As he ambled down the trail Snaugenhutt hummed some obscure martial ditty to himself, occasionally breaking into outright song. Listening to him sing was almost as interesting, Buncan thought, as watching him fight. Of Krasvin there was no sign, despite his reputation. Buncan hoped the fire had burned his backside bald.

They stopped in the town of Poukelpo for provisions before entering the Tamas Desert. Poukelpo was little more than an outpost, full of tired, slightly disreputable types unable to make a go of it in the more prosperous lands to the south and east. While Gragelouth haggled over the price and quantity of their supplies, Buncan inquired as to the meaning of the desert’s name and was informed that the first person known to have entered and returned alive had been a legendary kangaroo rat name of . . . “Tamas,” Buncan finished for the speaker. “Nope,” said the scruffy tamandua. “The rat’s name was Desert. Funny coincidence that.” He shrugged. “I’ve no idea where the ‘Tamas’ comes from.” It was a not altogether illuminating explanation. There was still no sign of pursuit. Either they had outdistanced it, or else Krasvin was still too befuddled or discouraged to mount any. Buncan began to think that they’d seen the last of him and his aberrant drives.

“Not surprised.” Snaugenhutt looked up from his feeding. “No one’s gonna follow us into the Tamas. Nobody goes there for any reason.”

“He’s right.” Viz fluttered out of the way as the last of me gurgling water casks was slung across his companion’s commodious back.

Buncan shaded his eyes as he let his gaze wander out past the edge of the little community. Heat shimmered above distant canyons and mesas. According to what he’d overheard and been told, they were about to enter a region of unknown dangers and great uncertainty. It seemed that he and the otters were to be regular visitors to such lands.

“How long will it take us to cross?”

“Impossible to say.” Gragelouth looked over from where he was supervising the loading. “My inquiries have failed to produce a consensus on the desert’s extent. Everyone seems to agree that there is an end.”

Buncan smiled thinly. “That’s gratifying.”

“It is said that eventually the tablelands and sand give way to wooded mountains profligate with game and good water, but none are certain as to the actual distance.” As always, the sloth accepted his chosen fate quietly. “However far it is, however long it takes, we must cross.” He pointed north with a heavy paw. “That way lies the Grand Veritable.”

Or a veritable lie, Buncan thought. He shrugged inwardly. They’d come too far, had overcome too many obstacles, to turn back now. Besides, he’d always wanted to see a real desert. As for the water-loving otters, they were apprehensive but game.