neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“Hey, yours make music,” rumbled the larger of the two acquisitive eddies. “That’s not fair.”

“The agreement is made.” The second etched small circles in the ground with its foot.

As they squabbled Buncan played on, grateful for the respite. Keeping a watchful eye on the whirlwinds, the otters harmonized maniacally.

“Yo, y’know, we got us a real problem here

There’s some winds in the air gonna cost us dear

Need somethin’ to stiff ‘em

Stifle ‘em, kick ‘em

Knock ‘em for a loop and stuff ‘em

Down in a crack, gotta break their back

Take ‘em apart or cram ‘em in a sack, Jack

If y’know what we mean.”

Something began to take shape between the wind-battered travelers and the bickering storms. The magic was working, but Buncan’s elation was muted. Instead of a familiar silver-gray mist, something black and ominous was forming.

It started as a softly mewing spindle-shape hardly large enough to bully a pebble. As the otters rapped on it grew larger, until it was the size of a bedpost, men a lamppost. Tightly wound as an anxiety attack, it swelled and expanded, a coal-black shaft screwing its way skyward.

In seconds it was large enough to divert the attention of the equivocating whirlwinds. The smaller suddenly refocused its attention.

“Are you doing that? Look at it, just look!” It spun in uneasy circles. “Stop it. You’ve got to stop it.” This expression of concern from that which had just threatened them naturally inspired Buncan to play faster, the otters to improvise even more enthusiastically.

The agitated whirlwind shifted toward mem, its intentions clear. Buncan braced himself for the shock of gale-force gropings.

They never came.

The squabblers had waited too long. By now the spellsung black spindle was enormous. Punctuated by intermittent bolts of dark lightning, its howl was deafening.

As the whirlwind darted forward, the spindle cycled to intercept it. A sound not unlike a breathy grunt filled the air as the approaching vortex was knocked backward. Trees, rocks, chunks of debris flew from its flank as it momentarily lost shape.

“Never seen a whirlwind throw up before,” the immovable Snaugenhutt observed.

As the rotating black spire they had called forth continued to mature, Buncan wondered if perhaps the otters oughtn’t to tone down their lyrics a little. But he couldn’t stop playing long enough to make the suggestion, and in any event the specter they had conjured was now making too much noise to be heard by anyone.

The now gigantic malign cloud seemed composed of dense black smoke. Lightning continued to flash from its fringes, and the sound it made stiffened the small hairs on the back of Buncan’s neck. Gragelouth cowered against the curving sandstone while Viz clung desperately to his iron perch.

Meanwhile the otters, motivated now by a sense of malicious mischief as much as a need to defend themselves and their companions, rapped on, ignorant of what they had wrought but delighted at the effect it was having on their erstwhile abductors.

“Tornado!” screamed the dazed whirlwind, collecting itself as best it could after the blow it had taken. Staggering wildly, it skittered off down the canyon.

The panicked cry was taken up by the rest of the boreal convention as, pushing and shoving, they scrambled to escape. Mass confusion ensued as collections and isobars slammed into and sometimes through one another. Fleeing from the restrictive walls of the canyon, the frenzied storms scattered frantically to . . . well, to the four winds.

By this time the invoked tornado towered higher than the greatest of the previously assembled whirlwinds, an inverted black cone that sucked at the sky. Its power was palpable, its bellowing like that of a runaway waterfall. Squill and Neena could hardly hear themselves sing, much less each other.

As they looked on it pounced on a retreating vortex and tore it apart, sending its collection of rubble flying in all directions. Where a moment earlier there had been a healthy whirlwind in flight, in seconds only a scattered cluster of desultory breezes remained. It was an appalling display of meteorological ferocity.

Far higher now than the canyon walls, the black spindle pawed angrily at the ground as if searching for additional victims. It spun back and forth, daring any organized wind to approach.

In shifting to the middle of the chasm, the noise had been reduced to just less than intolerable levels. Snaugenhutt glanced back and up at Viz.

“What’s a tornado?”

Clinging to its perch, Viz shook his head. “Beats me, Snaug. But at least it’s on our side.” For the moment, the tickbird thought.

Save for the apparition they had called into being, the canyon was now clear of breezy intruders. Buncan let his fingers fall from the duar. The otters ceased their rapping as Squill moved to loosen one of the water casks.

“I have never seen or heard of such a thing.” Looking down, Buncan saw the awestruck merchant staring at the awesome cloud. “What a weapon it could be.”

“Oi,” commented a relieved Neena, “think o’ wot it could o’ done to that bastard Krasvin’s ‘ouse. Splintered it and sent every one o’ them up the dirty bugger’s arse. Impaled “im on “is own—”

“We get the picture, Neena.” Buncan carefully checked his duar for damage from flying gravel.

The tornado whipped across the little stream that ran down the center of the canyon and in an instant sucked it dry. It displayed no inclination to pursue the fleeing whirlwinds.

Gragelouth plucked tentatively at Buncan’s sleeve. “A most useful conjuration and demonstration, but do you not think that it is time to make it disappear?”

Viz peeped out from his armored howdah. “Yeah. Make it go away, Duncan.” The tickbird faced the now aimless storm warily. “It’s making me nervous.”

“Right. Squill, Neena?”

Squill nodded as his sister slaked her thirst. “Righty-ho, mate. Give us a minim ‘ere.” When Neena was sated she recorked the cask and settled herself close to her brother. Each put an arm around the other’s shoulder as they leaned their mouths close. Whiskers tangled.

“Done your job and done it well

Blew ‘em all away like a storm from Hell

Now’s the time to leave

Time to go on your way

Hey tornado, wot you say?

We say, you gots to go away and maybe come again

Some other day, okay?”

With a violent twist, the black spire abandoned the creek bed and started toward them.

Eyes wide in his gray-furred face, Gragelouth retreated until his back was once more pressed against the sandstone arch. “What are you doing? Make it go away.”

The otters rapped faster and Buncan’s fingers flew over the duar’s strings, but the savage storm continued its deliberate, turbulent advance until it was almost upon them. In the face of that terrible wind Buncan had to fight to stay on his feet, while the otters now clung to each other in deadly earnest. Even the massive, defiant Snaugenhutt was brushed backward several feet.

This storm, Buncan sensed, would not delicately collect them, would not care for and pamper them. It would smash them as thoughtlessly and thoroughly as it had the unfortunate whirlwind it had overtaken.

Behind him he heard Gragelouth screaming frantically. “Make it go away, spellsingers! Make it go away! Oh what a tangled web we sloths weave!”

The sorrowful lament wasn’t intended as a suggestion, but the otters jumped on it just the same.

“Wind it up and tie it tight

Lock it down like sleep at night

Bind it fast and make it helpless

Got to see it doesn’t eat us

Don’t want to make it angry at me, at thee