neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

Squill took mild affront. “Ohhhh, ‘replication,’ is it? Who’s been studyin’ behind me back?”

Buncan returned his attention to the route ahead. “You don’t need a swim.”

“The ‘ell we don’t! Tis our natural right, it is. Tis in the bleedin’ tribal constitution.”

“Well, your constitution’s suspended until we leave the Tamas.” He made an effort to soothe his irritated companion. “Don’t think about it. If Gragelouth’s right, we’ll be out of this soon.”

Squill was not mollified. “Cor! If ‘Gragelouth’s’ right.”

Their frustration was muted by the country through which they were passing. If anything, the towering formations grew increasingly more impressive, infinitely varied in silhouette and color. Gigantic buttes rose from the desert floor, their flanks sculpted into fantastic shapes by eons of patient wind and water.

Acutely aware of the uncomfortable situation, Gragelouth made an effort to divert the otters from their discontent. “You two need to get your minds off our present condition. See those cliffs?” He pointed to the abraded walls of a dark volcanic plug which rose from the earth like a dead tooth. “Notice how the edge resembles the profile of a human face?” His fingers moved. “That rocky projection in the center is the nose. The brow rides higher, while beneath the nostrils are—”

Squill cut him off. “At the moment I’m not interested in anythin” that looks like a bleedin’ ‘uman.” His gaze burned into an indifferent Buncan’s back.

The merchant refused to be discouraged. “Very well. Look at that eroded pinnacle off to our rhat eroded pinnacle off to our rble that of a porcupine?”

Squill was reluctant to turn and look, but when his natural curiosity got the better of him he was surprised to discover that the merchant’s sense of the surreal was keen. He perked up slightly.

“Bugger me for a blistered bobcat if you ain’t ‘alf right, gray-face. It do right look like a member o’ the spiny tribe.”

Neena found herself drawn into the game in spite of herself. Anything to alleviate the endless boredom. It became a contest to see who could read the most outrageous or unlikely identities into, the deeply worn rock. Her identification of a pile of rubble as a crouching kudu was surpassed by Squill’s insistence that an isolated butte looked exactly like an armored mouse.

Before long everyone was finding recognizable shapes and forms in the passing scenery. More than anyone would have believed possible, the merchant’s game was helping to pass the time. As for Gragelouth, he was better at it than any of them, explaining that it was a pastime he’d been forced to indulge in on many a long, lonely journey.

The game was resumed in earnest the next morning, the merchant having drawn up a means for keeping score. Points were awarded for accuracy, imagination, and frequency. Snaugenhutt was pointing out what he asserted was a hawk hidden among a sandstone overhang when the silence of their surroundings was broken by shouts from the dry riverbed ahead.

Everyone strained to see, but it was Viz, hovering high above,who first matched the sound to a possible source.

“Armed riders, on large bipedal lizards. They’re all hooded, so I can’t make out their tribes. Outlines are indistinct.”

“How big?” a concerned Gragelouth inquired.

“Riders no larger than the otters. Snouts protruding from the hoods. Light-colored whiskers. I see some tails. Long and fur-covered, mostly light brown.” The tickbird glanced meaningfully at his companions. “They’re coming this way.”

Snaugenhutt took a deep breath. Espying a large boulder, he headed toward the natural barrier. “Better get ready for company.” No one argued with him.

As the rhino positioned his backside to the stone the otters drew their bows, making sure arrows were at the ready.

Buncan laid his sword across his lap as Viz settled onto his armored perch atop Snaugenhutt’s forehead. Gragelouth sought to find a use for his fingers, and failing that, nibbled nervously on the pointed tips of the thick, heavy claws.

Their progress marked by the cloud of dust kicked up by their mounts, the riders advanced until they were within spear-throwing distance. Spreading out, they formed an unbroken line in the shape of a crescent in front of the stolid Snaugenhutt. There were enough of them to block any attempt at flight, not that the rhino could have outrun the speedy lizards even over flat ground.

As the dust settled, Buncan and his companions were able to get a good look at those confronting them. The riding animals pawed at the ground with nervous energy, bright green eyes shining alertly, small sharp teem glistening in their jaws. Leather bridles and reins were intricately tooled, as were individual saddles and other tack.

As their mounts settled in place, several of the riders adjusted their hoods. It was the widely traveled Gragelouth who finally identified them.

“Meerkats.”

“I don’t know that tribe.” Buncan was intrigued by the creatures.

“An uncommon one. The eyes and snouts are unmistakable. They are fabled desert dwellers. I myself have encountered them only once before, in far more civilized circumstances than these.”

Though the meerkats were in the majority, there were also a couple of ground squirrels among the riders, as well as individual representatives of several other desert-favoring tribes. Buncan tensed as one of the riders slowly advanced, an elaborately whittled spear cradled in his short but powerful arms. A beaded cloth quiver lashed to the riding lizard’s right flank held half a dozen similar implements.

Wide, dark eyes inspected them carefully. The mouth seemed frozen in a perpetual half-sneer. “More interesting than most travelers we see. From whence do you hail?”

“From farther than you can imagine.” Buncan was as startled as anyone to hear Gragelouth speak up. “From beyond the Tamas, beyond Poukelpo, beyond Camrioca, and even the river Sprilashoone.”

“That far.” The rider did not sound impressed. “Well, never let it be said that the Xi-Murogg denied hospitality to travelers in then: country. If you will follow us back to our village, we would be pleased to exchange tales and share victuals with you.”

Buncan hesitated. “We’re kind of in a hurry.”

“To refuse hospitality is to insult not only me but all the Xi-Murogg.” As the rider spoke, his fellow villagers shuffled their weapons: everything from javelins to small, one-handed crossbows to hooked knives and swords.

These nomads were not likely to scatter in panic at a charge from Snaagenhutt, Buncan reflected. Tough and determined, they were fashioned of far sturdier stuff man Krasvin’s retainers. Had they numbered half a dozen or less, maybe, but there were nearly thirty of them.

Perhaps all they did want was the company of strangers. Certainly they didn’t encounter many travelers out here. It was also possible they might know the fastest and easiest route out of the desert.

“You lead and we shall follow.” Gragelouth had apparently reached the same decision.

The hooded one bowed slightly. “Graciousness is unto a shield in the desert. I am Chi-churog, First Rider of the Xi-Murogg people. It will be my honor to welcome you into my house.” He turned and sent his lizard trotting northward. The line of riders parted to let him pass.

Squill leaned forward, whispering. “I don’t care for this, mate.”

“Gragelouth’s doing the right thing. What else can we do?”

“Run like ‘ell an’ make a fight of it,” the otter replied.

“No.” Human and otter turned to face the merchant. “Their mounts are too quick. They would run us down. We may yet have to fight, though I am putting my faith in tact and diplomacy. But mis is not the place to do it. Let us sound mem out first.”