neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“We got no choice, mate,” Squill called to him. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere with these drunken imaginin’s taggin’ along. ‘Ow can I meet any ladies with somethin’ like this ‘angin’ off me bloomin’ shoulder?”

The specter that had chosen to focus on Buncan hovered nearby, not quite corporeal enough to make actual physical contact. He shuddered. There was entirely too much of it as it was.

If they stopped singing and playing it might simply fade away. If Viz was wrong. Except that thus far the tickbird had usually been proven right.

If their music could give substance to someone else’s nightmares, surely it could also give them the boot? He caught the otters’ attention as he changed keys.

Brother and sister modified their lyrics. Sure enough, as they did so the loathsome shapes began to dissipate.

“Not fair,” gibbered something with six arms and a spastic proboscis.

“Just getting ready to suck some brain,” groaned another. It took an intangible swipe at Squill with a glistening, translucent tentacle. The blow passed right through her.

The more the swiftly deteriorating D.T.’s complained, the less the unconscious Snaugenhutt moaned and kicked. As with most alcoholics, he couldn’t conquer his problem until he faced it. Only mis time, the otters and Duncan were facing it for him. Literally.

A concatenation of rotting fangs and putrefying eyeballs swam up in Duncan’s vision only to seep past and vanish. It turned out to be the last of the discomfiting visions. As it evaporated Snaugenhutt slumped into peaceful rest, breathing in slow, steady heaves like an armored bellows.

“That ought to do it.” Viz couldn’t sweat but looked like he wanted to.

Buncan slumped, his fingers numb and sore. “He’s still asleep.”

“Aftermare,” the bird informed him. “Might last an hour, maybe a couple. No more.” He let out an elated chirp. “Guaranteed. You did good.”

“Thanks. I think.” Thoroughly worn out, Buncan felt like a nap himself, but decided to hold off. Snaugenhutt’s nightmares were still too vivid in his own memory.

Also, some of them might still be hanging around with nowhere else to go, and after what he’d seen of them so far he didn’t want them popping up in his own dreams.

CHAPTER 17

When the rhino awoke that evening, he was fully rejuvenated and ready to roll. To his surprise, none of his companions exhibited comparable enthusiasm. So he was compelled to wait while they spent the night in the shelter of the eroded boulders, wondering how they could be so exhausted when he felt relaxed and thoroughly refreshed.

Snaugenhutt’s nightmares had departed for more congenial dreams, and everyone slept comfortably. After a quick breakfast, they remounted their bemused but now fully recovered four-legged ferry and pressed on deeper into the Tamas.

The landscape grew ever more fantastic, presenting towers and turrets of stone that had been carved by angry wind and impatient water into a surfeit of fanciful shapes. Fragile fingers of layered stone reached hundreds of feet into the sky, while rivers of broken rock flowed in frozen riot down the slopes of brooding, flat-topped mesas. The blaze of mineralized color ranged from pure white to a deep maroon that reminded Buncan of fine wines he’d seen for sale in the shops of Lynchbany. Black basalt and gleaming obsidian striped the lighter stone like collapsed veins in the bodies of fallen giants.

They passed beneath a wall of solid peridot, the intense green volcanic gemstone afire with inanimate life, and had to avert their eyes from the glare.

Squill stared until the tears ran down his cheeks, and not only from the light. “Wot a site! A determined bloke could winkle out jewels ‘ere for a century without dentin’ the supply. Ain’t that right, Gragelouth?”

The merchant nodded. “It is certainly a remarkable deposit.”

“Remarkable? ‘Ell, it’s bleedin’ unique.”

“Mining’s hard work, Squill.” Buncan shifted his backside against the unyielding iron. “You’re allergic to hard work, remember?”

The otter pursed his lips. “Oi, that’s right. For a minute there I’d forgotten.” He went silent as Snaugenhutt picked a route between a pair of brittle sandstone spires.

They stopped for the night by the side of an arroyo. A small stream sang through its twists and turns, running clear and cold over slick sandstone slabs. There were several deep pools, one of which provided the otters with an opportunity for a noisy swim.

All the talk in Pbukelpo had been of the desolate, unforgiving Tamas and its endless stretches of windswept rock and gravel. So far the actuality had been both greener and wetter. They’d found water not once but several times, and their casks were as full as when they’d started out.

Maybe, he dared to muse, after all the trouble they’d had in places where they’d expected none, they might now have an easy time of it in the one region where difficulties were anticipated.

While the Tamas had proven itself unexpectedly benign, it was still far from an inviting place. Not only hadn’t they met a soul since leaving Poukelpo, there was no indication that anyone else had passed this way at any time in the recent past. There were no tracks of riding animals, no casually cast-off detritus of civilization, not even the chilled embers of an old campfire. They were truly alone.

The arroyo gave way to a spectacular, sheer-walled canyon that wound north. Gragelouth was good at analyzing the topography ahead, and they had the benefit of Viz’s wings. Each time the merchant decreed a change of direction, the tickbird would soar ahead to confirm or deny the wisdom of his decision. Invariably, the sloth chose correctly.

Buncan marveled openly at this talent. “Years of traveling by oneself sharpens one’s sense of direction, cub.”

“It must, because I’d get us good and lost in these chasms and gorges.” He scrutinized the sandstone ramparts. “How much more of this do you think there is?”

“That I cannot tell you.” The sloth scanned the high rim of the canyon they were traversing.

“So far it’s been a lot easier than I expected.”

“Yes.” The dour-visaged merchant almost, but not quite, grinned. “Something must be wrong.”

“Nothin’s wrong, mate.” Squill lay flat in his seat, his incredibly limber body curled so that his head rested on his hips. “Our luck’s changed, that’s all. ‘Bout bloody time, too.”

The canyon continued to grow both deeper and wider, until it seemed as if any passing clouds must surely stumble over its lofty rim. Here and there isolated pinnacles thrust their peaks into the sky. Their appearance was deceptively frail. Though it looked as if the first random gust of wind would topple them, still they stood, silent and immutable sentinels, the only witnesses to the presence of the diminutive creatures on the canyon floor far below.

Armor clinking, Snaugenhutt splashed through a shallow tributary of the cheerful stream they had camped beside the night before. On the far side he paused and knelt to slake his thirst. Sensing the chance for a quick dip, the otters dismounted and disrobed in one smooth, flowing motion. Buncan settled himself in a comfortable hollow in the rocks, while Viz hunted for water bugs along the shore. With great dignity, Gragelouth slid from his seat and set about washing his face and hands.

Buncan lay back and contemplated the sky. Not such a bad journey, not now. He glanced lazily to his left, then to his right. And blinked.

Something was coming down the canyon toward them. It was big, bigger than Snaugenhutt. Much bigger.

In point of fact, it reached a third of the way up the canyon wall.

He scrambled to his feet. The object most nearly resembled an inverted cone, its top being much broader than the base on which it scooted along the ground. As it drew nearer, the faint whisper which had first caught his attention had risen to a dull roar. The otters had scrambled clear of the pool and were throwing themselves into their clothing. Viz had rushed to his armored perch atop Snaugenhutt’s forehead, while Gragelouth edged close to the rhino’s protective bulk.