neetha Napew - Son Of Spellsinger

“What if it doesn’t, mate?” Turning, Buncan saw Wurragarr approaching. Bedarra and Quibo accompanied him. “What if it comes out looking for a fight?”

Buncan stood away from Snaugenhutt’s side. “Where are those happy fliers, your spellsingers? And their accompanists?”

“Too happy by half.” Wurragarr gestured at Bedarra, who disappeared into the woods. The thylacine returned moments later with the three kookaburras and their attendant musicians. Looking anything but jovial, the heavy-beaked birds landed on a convenient branch nearby. They had witnessed sufficient slaughter to mute even their normally irrepressible sense of humor.

Settling himself cross-legged on the ground, Buncan cradled his duar against his waist. “I want you all to pay attention. The tune is not difficult, nor are the words. Squill, Neena?”

Looking bored, the otters lay down next to him. “Not again, mate?” Squill picked at the grass.

“This shouldn’t take long.” Buncan turned back to his attentive audience. “If the monster emerges, and is hostile, this is the spellsong you use against it.” He began to play. With notable lack of enthusiasm, the otters supplied what words they could remember.

Deep within the blazing monastery a visceral, pitiable howl rose above the dry crackle of burning wood and the crash of collapsing timbers.

CHAPTER 24

All night the forest resounded to the ebullient cries of abducted children and unlucky travelers being reunited with their families and friends. At Wurragarr’s insistence, food and fresh clothing were shared with those unfortunate individuals who were the offspring of the Dark Ones’ experiments. Such joyous reunions helped everyone to put aside their memories of the carnage which had taken place behind the scorched walls of the monastery.

Gradually empathy supplanted revulsion as Cilm’s fellow mutants were welcomed into the fellowship of the country folk. Despite their often horrific appearance, all had been normal at one time. While their former lives could not be restored to them, they could be made comfortable within the limits imposed by their condition. Amid scenes of great heartache, all were promised a place to live in quiet and safety for the balance of their unnatural lives.

Once safely down the mountain a great weight seemed to lift from the little army’s collective shoulders. That night saw a celebration the likes of which Buncan and the otters had only imagined from Mudge’s often exaggerated tales. Buncan made friends with a human girl his own age, while Squill and Neena exuberantly partnered up elsewhere. Neena opted for the companionship of a handsome young tiger cat from a far valley, while Squill found himself in the company of a black-furred, bare-tailed, robustly built young female of a tribe he didn’t recognize.

“I’m a marsupalian devil, mate,” she informed him in response to his query. He lowered his eyelids along with his voice.

“I’ll bet you are, luv,” he replied suavely.

Songs of thanksgiving and reconciliation filled the forest.

The following morning the travelers gathered around a hastily erected stone firepit whose blackened contents still smoldered from the revelry of the night before. Seated on a half-burned log on the other side, Wurragarr and Bedarra listened respectfully to their newfound friends’ exotic tale of travel and tribulation. Around them the woods bustled with farmers and tradesfolk readying themselves for the long march back to then- homes.

“We can’t tell you how grateful we all are.” Wurragarr indicated the old galah, who perched comfortably on the big roo’s right shoulder. “Mowara’s told us about what happened inside. Seems clear that without your help we wouldn’t have stood much of a chance against the mucky sods.”

“You’re bloomin’ right there.” Squill allowed himself a broad smile until Buncan jabbed him in the side. “ ‘Ere now, mate,” the otter protested. “ Tis true.”

“Haven’t you two ever learned anything about tact?” Squill whistled sharply. “Learned about tact? Rom Mudgel”

Buncan pursed his lips. “I see your point.” He turned back to their hosts. “We were glad we could be of help. As the offspring of great adventurers, we had no other choice.”

“I seem to remember—” Squill began, but Gragelouth cut him off.

“Perhaps in your gratefulness you might do us a good turn?”

“Anything within our power to grant is yours,” Wurragarr replied magnanimously. “We owe you more than our lives.”

Gragelouth ran two fingers through the thick gray fur of his forehead. “As you know, we seek an undefined, uncertain something which may or may not actually exist. It is known as the Grand Veritable.”

“Yes, I remember you mentioning it before,” said Wurragarr. “Go on.”

“I think we are closing on it, but we still have a ways to go to the northwest.” The sloth looked up at the shadows which loomed in that direction. “We must go higher still into these mountains. While supplies would be welcomed, a guide would be more useful still.”

Wurragarr and Bedarra exchanged a glance before the roo returned his gaze to the travelers. “We’ve left behind families who need to know that we’ve triumphed and survived. All of us have obligations at home: businesses to attend to, crops to plant or bring in, children to raise.” Turning with a slight hop, he gestured into the distance.

“No one I know travels into the high mountains. There’s nothing there except cold and rock. To the east, yes; to the south, yes; to the north, occasionally in winter. But never to the west or northwest. That may change now that the Dark Ones are defeated. Or it may not. The high mountains ate home to many shadows which we simple country folk are not inclined to pursue.”

“There, you see!” Gragelouth’s tongue darted in and out reflexively as he turned to his companions.

“Proves nothin’, guv’.” A disinterested Squill lay on his back, picking his teeth with a sharpened twig.

Bedarra yawned, displaying his incredible gape. “There are stories of some who choose to explore that country. They go in search of jewels or precious metals. They never return.”

“Bedarra’s right.” Wurragarr turned back to mem. “Nothing good has ever come out of those mountains. I’d prefer not to think of you, our good new friends, going up that way.”

“Nevertheless, that is our goal.” Gragelouth was apologetic.

The roo nodded slowly. “We will give you all we can in the way of supplies, but you won’t find anyone who’ll go with you. We’re not adventurers or great sorcerers like you. I myself have a farm to tend to. Sorry, mates.”

It was silent around the corpse of the fire. “We shall simply have to proceed on our own, then, as best we can,” Gragelouth said finally.

“Now ‘ow did I know you were goin’ to say that?” murmured Squill sarcastically.

They accompanied the ragtag but victorious army until a tumbling stream pointed the way up toward a likely-looking pass. There ensued many emotional farewells, replete with hugs and kisses in which Buncan and the otters participated enthusiastically while Gragelouth stood shyly aside. Wurragarr and his companions reiterated their promise of shelter and succor anywhere in the fertile valleys and hills beyond . . . should the travelers return this way, though that unhappy thought was not voiced.

“I wonder what finally happened to the pit bull-bul?” Buncan mused as they began their ascent.

“Died in the fires.” Snaugenhutt climbed slowly, carefully. “Pitiful critter, but a hell of a fighter.”

“Maybe it got away,” Neena suggested. “Found itself a cave or somethin’.”

“Maybe.” Buncan’s attention was on the rugged peaks that lay before them: “If it did, we could run into it again.”