neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

Squill gestured with his bow. “ ‘Ere now, you lot, we ‘aven’t got time for this. Me sister and me ‘uman friend ‘ere,” he put a paw on Buncan’s shoulder, “are bleedin’ great spellsingers, we are. If you don’t make way there, we’ll show you some real power. Turn you into a flock o’ gabbin’ geese, or toads, or make all your ‘air fall out, or maybe dump you in each other’s pouches.” Otters were not particularly adept at threatening glares, but Squill gave it bis best shot.

“Spellsingers!” Wurragarr’s brows rose. “Now that’s interesting.” Turning, he called into the crowd. “Windja, Charoo, Nuranura!”

Three stocky birds lifted clear of the mob and soared over to land on a fallen log to the quokka’s left. Each was slightly larger than Viz. They wore uniform scarves of black striped with yellow, but no headgear. Their plumage was white with, black highlights, and their thick, pointed bills looked too heavy for their bodies. Duncan had never seen anything like mem. Except for the outrageous beaks they might well have been oversize kingfishers.

As they settled down on the branch, murmuring among themselves, a pair of small wallabies hopped forward. One carried a pair of short wooden sticks inscribed with arcane symbols and drawings, while his companions held an intricately painted wooden tube hollowed at both ends. It turned in upon itself at least three times. An attempt to duplicate the duar’s systemology of mystical intersecting strings? Buncan wondered.

Wurragarr gestured with quiet pride at the waiting group. “As you can see, we have our own spellsingers. So don’t think to intimidate us with music.”

“We’re not trying to intimidate you, or anybody,” said Buncan patiently. “We’re just trying to get on our way.”

The thylacine stepped forward and snarled softly. “You lot don’t look much like sorcerers to me. You look like a bunch of cubs too lazy to walk.” Laughter rose from those close to him.

“Who’s a cub?” barked Squill angrily.

“Squill.” Buncan turned in his seat.

The otter was not to be denied. “Just a small demonstration, mate. To show these buggers wot we can do to ‘em if they ain’t polite.”

Gragelouth leaned to one side. “Perhaps an exhibition of a very minor nature might serve to facilitate our departure?”

“Haven’t said you could leave yet,” Wurragarr reminded them.

“Just going to sing a little song.” Buncan unlimbered the duar, scowled wamingly at the otters. “Nothing hostile.”

Neena smiled brightly as she and her brother began to improvise.

“ ‘Ere in the woods ‘tis peaceful and calm

Wouldn’t wanna hurt it by droppin’ no bomb

Just want to go, yo, go on our way, hey

Say how pretty it is

Look at the blossoms, let Viz

Lead us away, hey.”

There. Surety that was harmless enough, Buncan mused as he rested his hands.

Nothing happened. Then Snaugenhutt let out a violent sneeze as a bouquet of exquisite purple orchids began to grow from his nostrils.

“Hey! Knock it off.” He shook his head violently, but the spray of blooms developed rapidly until they formed a small carpet that drooped from his snout.

Viz surveyed the thaumaturgical horticulture thoughtfully. “Kind of mutes the intimidation factor.”

Snaugenhutt shook his head again and flowers flew in all directions. “Yeah. This’ll really strike fear in the hearts of our opponents.”

“Quit complaining.” The tickbird hopped down the length of the rhino’s head until he could bend over and inhale deeply. “This is the best you’ve smelled in years.”

Duncan’s brows drew together as he frowned at the otters. Neena lifted both paws noncommittally.

“You wanted nonhostile, Bunscan; you got nonhostile.”

“That’s just a sample,” Squill declared warningly. “Weren’t even strainin’ ourselves. We can call up thunderclouds, earthquakes, all the aspects o’ bleedin’ nature. The forces o’ the universe are ours to command, they are.” Buncan glared at him, and the otter smiled innocently.

“Not bad.” Wurragarr glanced at the wallabies and kookaburras. “Show ‘em, mates.”

The birds essayed a few experimental trills. Then the one in the middle nodded and the nearest wallaby began rhythmically clapping the sticks together.

“Whacksticks,” Wurragarr explained for the benefit of the interested travelers.

“What’s whacksticks?” Buncan wanted to know.

Wurragarr grinned. “If the magic doesn’t work, you can always whack your enemy over the head with ‘em.”

The other wallaby put his mouth to the top of the painted tube and began to blow. A low throbbing tone not unlike that made by the booming paperbark trees emerged, only deeper and with variations. It sounded not unlike Snaugeahutt after an especially bad night.

“That’s a didgereedon’t,”(fae roo informed them as the three kookaburras began to harmonize. Their song had the quality of ancient chanting.

“Deep within the earth moves The great spirit Oolongoo. The great worm of legend. Vast is his power Irresistible his strength Powerful his crushing jaws that—”

“I could use a worm about now,” blurted the bird on the end, putting a crack in the refrain. Immediately, his companions stopped singing and began to giggle.

Wurragarr made a face. “Put a cork in that, Windja.”

The kookaburra wiped its beak with a wingtip, its breast still heaving. “Sorry, Wurragarr.” He nodded to the wallabies.

They resumed their playing. Buncan sensed the slightest of vibrations in the air.

“Oolongoo we call

And Nerrima of the sky

Who drops down upon our enemies

Slays them in their sleep

Rips them to shreds . . .”

“And pees in their beds ,” added the second singer, folding his wings across his chest and collapsing in hysterics. His companions held on to then- dignity for approximately another half second before joining him. The two wallabies ceased their playing and looked helplessly at the big roo.

Burned by that overbearing marsupial glare, the spell-singers tried a third time. This time their laughter was sufficiently infectious to spread to the motley assemblage behind them, with the result that the entire band threatened to dissolve in uncontrolled mirth.

A disgusted Wurragarr watched as tears tumbled down the kookaburras’ cheeks. Two of them fell off the dead log on which they’d perched and rolled about on the grass, holding their sides. The third lay prone, pounding desperately on the log with both wingtips as his guffaws grew steadily weaker. The vibration which had so briefly disturbed the plenum vanished.

“Dag.” Wurragarr noticed Buncan watching him. “That’s the trouble with kookaburras. This lot really can spellsing, but they also can’t take anything seriously. Not sorcery, not our present desperate situation, nothing. They’d laugh all the way to their own funerals. But they’re the best we’ve got. Somehow they’re going to have to counteract the necromancy of the monks of Kilagurri.” He glared at the embarrassed but still-giggling trio, who were slowly picking themselves off the ground.

“As for you lot,” he said, turning back to face Buncan, “you don’t strike me as the type who’d ally themselves with the likes of Kilagurri.” He stepped out of Snaugenhutt’s path. “Go on your way.” The thylacine made as if to protest, but the roo waved him down. “No, Bedarra. Despite their strangeness, I’m convinced these travelers know nothing of our problems here. We’ve no right to involve them and ought t’let them pass in peace. If they run into trouble near Kilagurri they’ll have to deal with it themselves.” He stared evenly at Buncan.