neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“So much for stunnin’ it with ‘er irresistible beauty.” Sword drawn, Squill was racing down the hallway. Buncan and Mowara had no choice but to follow.

It saw them coming and brought the blade around in a sweeping horizontal arc. Buncan stumbled to a halt, glad that the haphazard creature hadn’t been given the arms of a gibbon. Squill ducked lithely beneath the blow and drove his sword up into the ogre’s belly, while Neena struck it from behind. It let out a soft gurgle, choking on its own blood, and made a last desultory swipe at the hovering Mowara which the galah avoided easily. The blade tumbled to the floor as the guard clutched at its throat. It fell over, kicking spasmodically. The kicking slowed rapidly, and soon all was still.

The otters stood over the corpse, breathing hard. Mowara fluttered approvingly nearby. “Hope you’re as adept with your magic as you are with your swords.”

“There were only one of ‘em.” As he wiped his weapon clean on the fallen guard’s raiment, Squill grinned at his sister. “I ‘ope we don’t ‘ave to depend on your good looks to overcome anythin” else.”

“Oh, shut up,” she snapped. “It were worth a go. At least I distracted it.”

Controlling his revulsion, Buncan forced himself to examine the dead guard. “Gross. I wonder who it was originally.”

“This is but a tame example of the horrors perpetrated by the Dark Ones.” Mowara was keeping an eye on the corridor ahead. “There exists far worse.”

“Cor, now that’s encouragin’.” Squill sheathed his weapon.

In truth they were lucky. Once, a troop of unholy grotes-queries armed with huge battle-axes marched by ahead of mem and they were forced to wait in an alcove until the guards had passed to a lower level, but nothing actually impeded their progress.

“Where are you taking us?” Buncan inquired of Mowara as they cautiously started down yet anodier set of winding stone stairs.

“To me axis of all evil,” the galah replied. “So you can kill it at its source.”

Buncan found he was more eager than afraid. Whoever could deliberately pervert honest, wholesome sorcery in such an appalling fashion deserved whatever Fate bestowed on them.

Their advance continued unchallenged. Perhaps diose who would normally be patrolling these corridors were gathering on the wall to confront and intimidate Wurragarr’s people. Whatever the reason he was grateful, and remarked on their good fortune to Mowara.

“Won’t last, it won’t.” The galah was pessimistic. “The Dark Ones will realize Wurragarr ain’t going to attack right away. Then maybe they’ll think to check their backsides. Got to work fast, we do.” Abruptly he backed wind and landed on Duncan’s shoulder. “We’re close now, we are. Quiefly go.”

Buncan lowered his voice and tensed. “Close to what?”

“To the secret room. To the place where the Dark Ones plot their malignancies. The Lair of the Board.”

The galah turned into a narrow, low-ceilinged corridor. “Found diis by accident, I did. Hush now: I can hear them talking.”

“Planning their defense,” Neena opined.

“Cadet, I said,” Mowara hissed.

They slowed, and Buncan saw they were approaching a small hole in me corridor wall. Light and voices were visible on the other side. As he eased forward and caught a glimpse of what lay beyond, he sucked in his breath. It was a vision extracted whole and uncensored from the fevered imaginings of some seriously ill necromancer.

There were ten of them garnered in the chamber below. All wore the dark cowl of the Kilagurri monk, making it impossible to identify individuals. They sat around a long table of polished wood of a color and grain Buncan had never seen before. It had a sheen more suggestive of glass than honest lumber.

Strange carpeting widi a weave so tight and fine he couldn’t imagine how it had been loomed covered the floor. The cups the monks sipped from were filled with a dark, bubbling, odorless liquid. Several of diose present were scribbling on diick pads bound together at the left edge widi loops of thin metal wire.

lii the center of the table four boxes set widi glass windows faced the four points of the compass. Several dials protruded from the top of each. Wires connected mem to a much bigger box in the middle of the table, and also to small rectangular panels that rested in front of each monk. Several of the attendees were tapping hesitantly at their respective panels. Theurgically lit from within, the window boxes displayed shifting, moving images that appeared to respond to the seemingly random tappings of the monks. The master box in the middle whined softly, like a live thing.

As Buncan stared a beautiful female possum entered, tail elaborately wound widi green ribbon and held high. Squill whistled softly, inducing his sister to jab him in the ribs. From a ceramic carafe balanced on a tray the servant refilled the monks’ cups with more of the steaming dark liquid. They took no notice of her presence.

“Wot sort o’ sorceral potion is dial?” Neena murmured.

“I’ve heard them speak of it.” Mowara craned his neck for a better view. “From what I’ve been able to observe, they’re all addicted to it. It alters them in strange and subtle ways. They call it ‘coffee’ and believe it bestows on them special powers, diough I’ve no proof of dial. Maybe it’s some kind of collective ritual delusion whose social function is of paramount importance. See?”

As they looked on, the assembled monks raised their cups in unison and mumbled some sort of hypnotic chant, of which Buncan caught only the solemnly intoned words “Brighten your day” and the meaningless “caffeine.” Following mis brief ceremony they returned to their conferencing. Try as he might, Buonferencing. Try as he might, Buen-collective demeanor as a result of consuming the liquid. Any glow or enhancement they felt must be wholly internal.

The windowed boxes were something else, something tangible. He wondered at the complexity and staying power of the spell that caused the images displayed therein to change so rapidly. Often two or more of the monks would put their heads together and whisper furiously before tapping on the knobby panels. The unnatural activity raised prickles on his spine.

Listening intently, he thought he could make out some of the sorceral terms Mowara had mentioned during their first meeting, words like “haploid dispersion” and “mitochondria! enhancement.” There was frequent mention of the long necromantic term desoxyribonucleic acid.

“They’re concocting some great misfortune to throw against Wurragarr,” Mowara whispered. “We have to stop mem, we do. This all has to do with implementing the corporate plan.”

Buncan frowned. “ ‘Corporate plan’? What’s that?”

“I’ve heard them speak of it often. It’s the foundation of their sorcery, me framework for all the iniquity they work.”

Squill made a face. “Sounds like somethin’ that should be stepped on to me.”

“ ‘As a cold sound to it, it does.” Neena’s whiskers twitched involuntarily.

“You were right, Mowara.” Buncan rolled the shoulder the galah was perched on, trying to keep the muscles loose. “This evil does extend beyond your country. It needs to be stopped here, now, before it can grow and infect other parts of the world. Or even other worlds,” he added, mindful of Jon-Tom’s place of origin.

“Don’t want no bloody corporate plan pollutin’ the Bellwoods,” Squill muttered darkly. “Wotever it is.”

“Look, they’re doin’ somethin’.” Neena nodded toward the opening.

The monks were rising from their oddly upholstered chairs. The window boxes had gone blank, their glass faces now dark and imageless.