neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“Illusions!” they heard him howl. “You have manufactured illusions to fool my people! You have disturbed their minds, but you do not fool me! I will cut your heads off. I will have you roasted alive over the cooking fires. I will . . .!”

The armored ape reached over and down. An enormous thumb descended. Chi-churog barely had time to look up and emit a single startled squeak before he was turned into a dark smudge against the earth.

“Bloody effective illusion,” Neena observed demurely.

None of Chi-churog’s fellow villagers seemed inclined to mimic their chiefs action. There was no sign of any further pursuit.

Extending arms the length of rivers, the great creatures linked hands (and in one instance, tentacles) across the Tamas. Ancient warriors of a forgotten titanic land, paralyzed gods of another place and time, whatever they were, they suddenly began to ascend slowly heavenward. Final vestiges of their long earthly imprisonment, a few clinging rocks and boulders tumbled from their sides, plunging to the ground as they drifted up through the clouds toward the intensifying sunshine. As they rose they diminished in size until they looked almost normal, then minuscule, finally vanishing entirely into an all-encompassing sky. Dust still rose from the enveloping rock they had shed.

For a long time no one said anything. There was only the sound of dust and rock settling, and Snaugenhutt’s heavy breathing.

“I wonder where they came from,” Buncan eventually murmured after the rhino had resumed his march northwestward. “Gragelouth?”

The merchant shook his head. “Who can say? The world is full of wonders. Too many times we look right at them and recognize only their shape and not their reality. It took your necromancy to restore life to those.” He nodded skyward. “To find wonders one must first know how to look.”

“An’ sing,” Neena added. “You ‘ave to know ‘ow to sing.”

Gragelouth conceded the issue. “Perhaps the next time we require assistance you could be a tad less motivated? The next apparitions you conjure might turn out to be less grateful.”

“Not to worry, guv.” Squill was bursting with confidence. “We know exactly wot we’re about, don’t we, Neena?”

“Oi, to be sure.” She looked back over her shoulder at the sloth. “You can relax, merchant. We’re goin’ to escort you safely to this ‘ere Grand Veritable, an’ nothin’ better get in our way, wot?”

Gragelouth pursed his lips. “The assurance of ignorant youth. There are forces at work in the universe you cannot begin to comprehend.” He raised his eyes to Buncan. “You are clever, and far more important, I think, lucky. But you are not your fathers.”

“I don’t pretend to be.” Buncan checked to make sure the duar was secure against his back. “And you know what? I’m glad. Jon-Tom’s music tends to get a little old-fogeyish sometimes. You need new music and new words to make new magic.”

“Wotcher,” agreed Squill.

Peering ahead, Buncan thought he could just make out a line of hills. Where there were hills there might soon be mountains, and that would mean cooler temperatures, more water, game, and shade. The end of the Tamas.

Gragelouth wagged a proverbial finger at him. “Sometimes the old magic is best. This is known.”

Buncan replied without turning. “I won’t dispute that because I can’t, merchant, but I will say this. Where both music and magic are concerned, you have to go with what you feel.”

CHAPTER 20

Several days of easy marching saw them leaving the desert behind, as Buncan had hoped. They climbed into scrub woodland where the first brave but scraggly trees tested the fringes of the Tamas. Following a route that led steadily upward, they soon found themselves tramping through real forest.

But it was like no forest Buncan or the otters had ever seen. Instead of growing close together the trees were spaced widely apart. Their leaves were long and thin, their consistency oddly stiff. Bark peeled in narrow strips from the trunks, which were varying shades of white or red instead of the familiar brown. Certain species pulsed with a dull, thrumming sound that echoed persistently inside Duncan’s head, as if a tiny fly had become trapped in his inner ear. Dense clumps of bushes played tag with the trees and each other, leaving plenty of open space for Snaugenhutt to traverse.

From the valley of a small river which sank rapidly into the sands of the desert they ascended to rocky slopes and thence to more densely vegetated rolling highlands. The trees were remarkably polite, none pressing too closely upon its neighbor. As they continued to climb, more familiar growths made their appearance, but the verdure was still dominated by the strange white-barked trees of the lowlands. Day and night the alien forest boomed softly around them.

Buncan pointed to one especially dominant specimen. It thrummed deeply and he could feel as well as hear the vibrations. “Gragelouth, do you know what that’s called?”

The sloth regarded the growth. “No. In all my travels I have never seen the like of these trees before.”

“Nothin’ like ‘em in the Bellwoods.” Neena was standing erect in her seat, effortlessly maintaining her balance despite Snaugenhutt’s rolling gait. “Looks like you could go up to one an’ strip the bark off in a few minutes.”

“Yet the peeling appears to be a natural phenomenon. Most striking.”

They were following the crest of a steep-sided, winding ridge. Neena gazed longingly at the river which tumbled playfully through the canyon below. Already the foothills of the Tamas had become unnamed mountains. The way was growing increasingly rugged.

Small reptilian game was plentiful, and the numerous streams which tumbled down the rock faces drilled pools which yielded tasty freshwater crustaceans. There were fruits and nuts to be gathered, most unfamiliar but many edible, and plenty of forage for Snaugenhutt. The bounty of the land allowed mem to be parsimonious with their supplies.

So relaxed were they that they reacted with equanimity to the sudden appearance of the wombat and thylacine in front of them. The squat, heavily built wombat was clad in light-brown cloth. He carried a poorly, fashioned spear and wore leather armor only around the waist. There was nothing protecting his head, or legs, or for that matter, his expansive gut. A wide-brimmed hat flopped comically around his head.

The thylacine was more formidably armed, both naturally and artificially. Unlike his companion, he looked as though he knew how to use the long pike he carried. Beneath his extensive brass armor expensive silks gleamed brightly, and the helmet he wore boasted a narrow vertical strip of metal to protect the topside of his long snout. Reflections of the skill of some accomplished cobbler, his well-fitted sandals were laced all the way up to the backs of his knees.

“Now what have we here, Quibo?” The thylacine spoke without taking his eyes off Snaugenhutt.

“Bushwhacked if I know, Bedarra.” Dark eyes peered up at them from beneath the brim of the oversize chapeau. “Where might you lot be headed?”

Buncan leaned to his right to peer past Snaugenhutt’s armored frill. “Northwest.” He nodded forward. “Be easier if we don’t have to go around you.”

The singular pah’ didn’t move. “Did you hear that,” the thylacine said to his companion. “They’re goin’ northwest.” The wombat grunted as the thylacine turned back to the travelers. “What business would you be having up mere?”

“Not that it’s any o’ your business,” said Squill, stand-tag in his own seat, “but we’re searchin’ for the Grand Veritable.”

“Grand Veritable.” The thylacine leaned against his pike and scratched behind one ear. “Never heard of it. Would it by nature be necromantic?”