neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“Now.” Cilm rose from his crouch and took a long bound toward the nearest stairs. “Before they come back.”

Down on the floor of the pit Buncan found himself surrounded by tables laden with arcane apparatus. Sleepy moans emanated from the stacked cages. Tilting back his head enabled him to see the elaborately painted symbols stenciled on the curvilinear ceiling. Despite the rising sun, it was still dark inside. He found himself longing suddenly for the lucid, unpolluted air of the woods; any woods.

On the table in front of him were several constructions that looked like children’s toys: unrecognizable shapes consisting of small balls connected together by sticks, globes that split into other globes. Notepads were filled with peculiar hieroglyphics.

A crash sounded off to his right, followed quickly by another. The otters had started hi, dumping fluids and powders onto the floor and smashing their containers. Taking out his sword, he began flailing methodically at the toy-models, reducing them to fragments.

At Droww’s vacant pulpit he found himself staring at the blank window box. Though he put his face right up against the glass, he couldn’t see anything inside. It was an unpenetrable, opaque gray. He tapped on the connected panel, but nothing happened. Being ignorant of the requisite magic, he was neither surprised nor particularly disappointed when his fingering failed to enlighten him.

The important thing was to ensure that it could no longer enlighten the Dark Ones. Removing it from its resting place, he raised it high overhead and slammed it to the floor. The shell cracked like an egg, spewing bits and pieces of wire and plastic. With his sword Buncan hacked at the remains, reducing them beyond hope of repair.

Whooping and hollering with delight, Squill and Neena were smashing their way through the surviving apparatus.

Mowara helped where he could, but Cilm was unable to overcome his conditioning. He stood off to one side, not lending a hand. But he observed it all, and his eyes shone.

Powders and fluids mixed on the stone floor, occasionally forming hissing, bubbling patches which Buncan and his friends in their deliberate vandalism were careful to avoid. By now the first uncertain queries were being voiced by the bastard inhabitants of the cages. Buncan wanted badly to release them, but knew the contrivances of the Dark Ones had to be attended to first.

He wondered how Wurragarr and his people were doing outside, not to mention Viz and Snaugenhutt.

The knobby panel was fashioned of some particularly tough material. Putting up his sword, he picked up the rectangle and slammed it repeatedly against a wall until not a knob was left connected to the panel itself. Then he stood on the rectangle and tugged until it snapped in half. He threw the two pieces in opposite directions, looked around, and paused.

“Where’s Squill?”

Panting heavily, Neena relaxed her sword arm. She was surrounded by debris. Mowara stood on a table that had been cleared of equipment.

“Don’t know.” The galah sounded concerned.

Neena flicked her head in the direction of the far stairway. “Said not to worry. Said ‘e ‘ad a bit o’ an errand to run. See, there ‘e is now.”

Turning, Buncan saw the otter standing at the top of the stone staircase. In his short arms he held the critical metal box from the Dark Ones’ conference chamber.

“Wouldn’t want to leave an’ forget this.” Smiling, he heaved the heavy container into the air. It slammed into the stone stairs and tumbled toward the floor of the pit.

To their astonishment, it screamed as it bounced.

“Leave me alone! Don’t come near me! Unauthorized access, unauthorized access!” The words were clearly audible above the metallic whangs and bangs as the box bounced down the stairs.

When it finally rolled to a stop, Buncan moved toward it.

Instantly it rose up on four tiny rubber feet and tried to skitter away from him.

“Don’t touch me! You have not been properly formatted.” The words issued from one of a trio of tiny slots in the box’s front. All three were jabbering away simultaneously.

“C drive inactive, C drive inactive . . . Unauthorized access attempted. .Insert a properly formatted diskette Entry refused, entry refused”

“Is that so?” After overcoming his initial surprise, Squill had trailed the protesting contraption down the stairs. Now he deliberately thrust the point of his short sword into the most vociferous of the complaining slots.

He was rewarded with a grinding, whirring sound. The entire sword began to vibrate. So did his arm. When he tried to yank the weapon free the slot clamped down hard on the blade. Drool dripped from the other slots, and Buncan thought he could see tiny teeth lining the interiors.

“Wipe intruder, wipe intruder!” piped one of the free slots.

“You ain’t wipin’ notnin’, you bloody hunk o’ accursed tin!” With both hands Squill managed to wrench his weapon free. Raising it high overhead, he began flailing away enthusiastically at the frantic container. Still screeching incomprehensible insults and occasional comprehensible threats, it tried to dodge and, failing that, to bite its tormentor, but was no match for the active otter.

On the other hand, its metal skin was uncommonly tough, and Squill’s best efforts succeeded only in denting the smooth surface.

“See the damned thing.” Mowara hovered just above Buncan. “Sorcery that complains.”

“Let me.” Cilm took a flying leap and landed on the box with both huge feet. His weight failed to faze it.

A commotion on the level above drew Buncan’s attention. “We’re discovered. We’ve got to finish here and get out.” Working alongside Neena, he concentrated on smashing the last of the intact gear. With Cilm’s help they were able to upend the largest of the worktables. What remained of the delicate equipment it held went crashing to the floor. Still not satisfied, he took his sword to the fragments while Squill continued to duel with the jabbering box.

“Rebooting required, rebooting required!” As it hobbled toward the stairway from which it had made its ignominious entrance, Squill leaped on its back in an effort to restrain it. Like that of some squat, squarish turtle, its internal mass was sufficient to haul him upward.

“Gimme a ‘and ‘ere, mates!” he bawled as he clung to the slick metal surface. “ Tis tryin’ to get away!”

“Hold it, Squill!” Searching through the rubble, Buncan found an intact bottle three-quarters full of some pale yellow liquid. Racing up the stairs, he joined Squill in forcibly tilting the box onto its back. Rubbery feet kicked at the air, seeking purchase.

“Unauthorized entry, unauthorized entry!”

While the otter did his best to hold the box steady, Buncan poured the bottle’s contents into the largest and loudest of the three mouths. When it was empty he stepped back. A moment later Squill let go.

The box staggered up another two stairs, then stopped and began trembling violently. A distinct gargling noise came from all three slots. This was followed by mechanical retching noises and the regurgitation of several small bits of plastic. One mouth gasped feebly.

“Blind, I’m blind! Where’s the See-prompt? I can’t find the See-prompt. Maledictions on you all! Abort, reentry, fail. Abort, reentry . . . fail . . .”

With a final shudder it seemed to settle down on its tiny feet. Then it rolled over and bounced back down the stairs, to lie silent and unmoving at their base. Descending to stand alongside, a wary Squill nudged it with a foot, glanced over at Buncan. Both human and otter were breathing hard.

“I think it’s dead, mate.”

Buncan nodded, turned to look upward. The commotion he’d detected was growing louder. “Someone’s coming. Mowara?”