neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“You’ve been warned. I and my friends are absolved. We can’t worry about you. Our own sorrows are too great.”

“Now hold on a minute,” Buncan began. Squill leaned forward to jab him in the ribs.

“Wot minute, mate? You ‘eard ‘im. Let’s get movin’.”

Buncan turned in his seat. “I just want to find out what we may be getting into.”

“We ain’t gettin’ into nothin’. We’re gettin’ past it.”

Ignoring the otter’s protests, Buncan dismounted and walked up to Wurragarr. “What is this Kilagurri, anyway?”

The thylacine’s jaws parted, showing sharp teeth. “I don’t think you should tell them anything. What if you’re wrong and they are in league with the Dark Ones?”

“I’m convinced they’re not, Bedarra. For one thing, they could ride to safety now yet this one chooses to stay and ask questions. Minions of the monks would grab the first opportunity to flee. For another, can you imagine the Dark Ones recruiting anything like those two to their cause?” He indicated Squill and Neena, who were bickering vociferously atop Snaugenhutt’s spine.

Viz left his iron perch to settle on Buncan’s shoulder. “My friend and I are well-traveled, but I’ve never heard of this Kilaguni either.”

“Maybe you’re not as indifferent as you make out.” Wurragarr regarded human and tickbird thoitghtfully. “I accept that you’re sorcerers, even if so far you’ve only proven that you’re sorcerers of the flowers.” Behind him, Quibo and several others chuckled. The brooding Bedarra didn’t crack a smile.

“We can do more man conjure flowers,” Buncan told hun. “A lot more.”

“I won’t deny that we need all the help we can get.” The roo indicated the trio of kookaburras, who were still recovering from their bout of hysterics. “I’d hate to have to depend on that lot in a critical moment.” Those of his companions-inarms within earshot murmured their agreement.

“Even if pretty flowers represent the apex of your wizardry, we could use whatever kind of help you could provide. It’s clear from the armor worn by your great friend and the ready bows of your water rats that you travel prepared to fight. I won’t say that your presence among us would turn the tide.”

“Hold on,” said Buncan. “I just asked to know what’s going on. I haven’t said anything about helping.”

“Fair dinkum, stranger.” Wurragarr encompassed the mob with a sweep of his free hand. “We’re all dwellers in this same land, in these hills and mountains. We and our ancestors have lived here in peace and harmony, more or less, since before memory.

“Most of us are farmers or simple townies, or craftsfolk like myself. We ask only to be left alone to live our lives in peace. We’ve never had any trouble with the monks . . . until a little more than a year ago.

“The monastery of Kilagurri sits in a small, steep-sided basin high above the valley of Millijiddee. It’s not a place for those who’d contemplate the goodness of the world. Prior to a year ago we had little or no contact with those who dwell within. Then something changed. Kilagurri has become home to those who thrive on evil machinations. Bad doings, stranger.

“Travelers who pass close tell of frightful noises issuing from within. Tormented screams and unnatural voices. Though curious as to the source of these sounds, they hurry on. One can’t blame them.

“From time to time several of the monks will descend to shop in Millijiddee Towne, or have something fixed they cannot repair themselves. Nowadays all good folk shun them as well as their business.” The roo was leaning on his thick tail as he spoke.

“Not that we haven’t had trouble with ‘em before.” The wombat wagged a thick finger at Buncan. “Used to be little things. A blight on some greengrocer they thought had cheated ‘em. A sprained leg that took too long to heal. Consumptive farm animals. Nothing like what’s been happening recently. Nothing like it.”

Wurragarr took up the refrain. “Just over a year ago, unnatural clouds were seen to gather above the monastery. Bolts of lightning struck within, yet there were no fires, no sign of damage. The Dark Ones began to play with great forces. What little we’ve been able to learn of their doings fills us with fear. It’s clear that the monks are intent on some vast evil.

“A truce used to exist between the common folk and the monks. They’ve broken that with their detestable doings.

Nothing was left to us but to try and put a stop to them permanently, before they can go any further.”

“Go any further with what?” Viz asked him. “Snaugenhutt! All of you, you’d better come and listen to this.” The rhino nodded, ambled over. The crowd retreated to make room for him.

Wurragarr turned and peered into the assemblage. “Mowara! Where’s Mowara?”

A pinkish-white avian fluttered out of the crowd to land without ceremony on the roo’s left shoulder. In addition to a light blue-and-green-checked scarf, a mother-of-pearl anklet flashed from his left leg.

“Mowara’s actually been inside the monastery,” Wurragarr informed them. “He’s the closest thing we have to a spy. He’s taken a big risk.”

The galah nodded. “They pluck birds up there. Seen it myself.” He shuddered, feathers quivering. “Horrible. You should see their new guards. Great awful things, all claws and fangs and beaks.”

“Mowara confirmed the stories we’d been hearing,” Wurragarr went on. “Confirmed them, and worse.”

“Too right, mate.”

Then- spy was old, Buncan thought. His eyes were dulled with age and his beak worn. His attitude suggested the first stages of senility. Or maybe he was just a little crazy. Could he be believed? Wurragarr seemed to trust him completely.

“People have been abducted,” the roo was saying, “and taken to the monastery.” His voice was grim. “Lately the monks favor cubs and infants, those of travelers and out-landers as much as local folk. Most are never seen again. But there have been a few escapees. Mowara confirms what they’ve told us.”

“Seen them at work, the Dark Ones.” The galah stretched his aged wings significantly. “Heard them talking. Saw things.”

“Cor, wot sorts o’ things?” Neena inquired. In front of her, Squill affected an air of bored indifference.

“Saw them,” the galah insisted. “Tampering.”

“Tampering with what?” Buncan wanted to know.

The bird leaned forward, and his eyes bulged. “Nature. The Dark Monks, they’re tampering with Nature itself.”

CHAPTER 21

“I don’t understand,” Buncan said cautiously.

“Who does, who does?” Pink wings flapped urgently. “The Dark Ones don’t understand either, but that doesn’t stop them. The forces of life, the threads that bind it together, that’s what they’re stuck into up there on that mountaintop. Weavers they think they are, but all they can tie are knots, nasty knots.” Though there was no need to lower his voice, he leaned forward and whispered.

“Used to be just irritating, the monks were. Not no more. Want to control it all now. Not just the hills and valleys. All of it. The whole world.

“I’ve heard them speak words, words I don’t understand. Nobody understands them, including the Dark Ones. But they use ‘em. Words of somber power, traveler. Words unknown to the monks until a year previous.”

“What sort of words?” Gragelouth slowly dismounted. “I am quite facile with words.”

“Not these, mate, not these. Words like . . .” The galah struggled to remember. He was old enough, Buncan mused, that his memory was no longer his servant but a constant irksome challenge.

Squill whistled derisively. “ ‘Ell, there ain’t no bloomin’ mystery words.”