Foster, Dean - Spellsinger 03 - The Day of the Dissonance

boom. Next to them a tarsier equipped with oversized

sunglasses aimed a bow at the sloop.

"Take "em!" snarled a snaggle-toothed old bobcat. He

leaped boldly over the side, swinging a short scimitar over

his ears, and landed on the club end of Jon-Tom's ramwood

staff. He made a strangled sound as the breath went out of

him and there was a cracking sound as a rib went.

As the bobcat slid over the side a coyote came down

a rope dangling above Roseroar, intent on splitting her

skull with a mace. The tigress's swords flashed in unison.

Four limbs went their separate ways as the coyote's limb-

less torso landed soundlessly on the deck, spraying blood

in all directions. It twitched horribly.

Jon-Tom fought for control of his stomach as the attackers

began swarming over the side in earnest. He found himself

backing away from a couple of armored sloths whose

attitudes were anything but slothful and, rather shockingly,

a middle-aged man. The sloths carried no weapons, relying

instead on their six-inch-long foreclaws to do damage.

They didn't move as fast as the others, but Jon-Tom's

blows glanced harmlessly off their thick leather armor.

They forced him back toward the railing. The man

jumped between the two sloths and tried to decapitate

Jon-Tom with his axe. Jon-Tom ducked the blow and

lunged, catching one of the sloths square on the nose with

the end of his staff. He heard the bone snap, felt the carti-

lage give under his weight. As the slotii went down, its face

covered with blood, its companion moved in with both paws.

Jon-Tom spun the staff, touched the hidden switch set in

the wood, and six inches of steel emerged from the back

end of the shaft to slide into the sloth's throat. It looked at

him in surprise before crumpling. The man with the axe

backed off.

Jalwar and Mudge were trying to hack loose the grap-

pling hooks that now bound the sloop to the larger vessel,

but they couldn't do that and defend themselves as well.

Both went down under a wave of attackers. Roseroar had

been backed up to the stern. She stood there, enclosed by a

picket line of spears and lances. Every time someone made

a move to get under her guard, they ended up with their

insides spilling all over the deck.

Finally one of the mates barked an order. The spearmen

backed off, yielding their places to archers. Arrows were

aimed at the tigress. Being a brave warrior but not a

suicidal one, she nodded and handed over her weapons.

The pirates swarmed over her with chains and steel bands,

binding her in such a way that if she tried to exert pressure

on her bonds she would only end up choking herself. They

were much more casual in tying up Jon-Tom.

A towline was attached to the sloop as the prisoners

were marched up a gangplank onto the capturing craft.

They formed a sullen quartet as they were lined up for

review. The rest of the crew stood aside respectfully as an

unbloodied figure stepped forward and regarded the captives.

The leopard was as tall as Jon-Tom. His armor was

beautiful as well as functional, consisting of intricately

worked leather crisscrossed with silver metal bands. His

tail emerged from a hole in the back of the armor. The last

half of the tail looked like a prosthesis, but Jon-Tom

decided it would be impolitic to inquire about it just now.

Four long knives were attached to the belt that ran around

110

Alan Dean Foster

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

111

the upper part of the big cat's waist. No armor covered the

muscular arms.

Leather gloves with the tips cut out to permit the use in

battle of sharp claws showed many patches and deep cuts

from previous fights. A deep gash across the black nose

had healed imperfectly. Jon-Tom took all this in as the

leopard strutted silently past them. The rest of the crew

murmured restlessly.

"You fought well," their inspector finally growled.

"Very well. Too well, thinks I." He glanced significantly

toward the sloop which bobbed astern of the bigger ship.

"Too many shipmates lost in taking such a small prize."

Green eyes flashed. "I don't believe in trading good mates

for scum, but we were curious about your strange craft.

Where do you come from and how come you by such a

peculiar vessel? 'Tis not fashioned of wood. I'm sure of

that."

"It's fiberglass."

The leopard's eyes snapped toward Jon-Tom. "Are you

the owner of the craft?"

Jon-Tom nodded affirmatively. "I am."

Something stung his face and he staggered, temporarily

blinded. His hand went instinctively to his face and came

away with blood. He could feel the four parallel cuts the

leopard's claws had made. They were shallow, if messy. A

little lower and he would have lost both eyes.

Roseroar made a dangerous noise deep in her throat

while Mudge muttered a particularly elegant curse. The

leopard ignored them both as it stepped forward. It's nose

was almost touching Jon-Tom's.

"I am...sir," it said dangerously. Mudge mumbled

something else, and immediately the leopard's gaze flashed

toward the otter. "Did you say something, dung-eater?"

"Wot, me? Just clearin' me throat... sir. Dried out it

were by a hot fight."

" 'Tis going to get hotter for you, thinks I." The big cat

returned his attention to Jon-Tom, who stood bleeding

silently. "Any complaints?"

Jon-Tom lowered his gaze from the leopard's face,

feeling the blood trickling down his face and wondering if

the scarring would be permanent.

"No, sir. No complaints, sir."

The leopard favored him with a thin smile. "That's

better."

' 'Are you the captain of this ship... sir?''

The leopard threw back his head and roared. "I am

Sasheem, first mate." He looked to his right, stepped

aside. "Here comes the captain now."

Jon-Tom didn't know what to expect. Another bear,

perhaps, or some other impressive figure. He forgot that

captains are fashioned of brain as well as brawn, mind as

much as muscle. The sight of the captain surprised but did

not shock him. It seemed somehow perversely traditional.

Captain Corroboc was a parrot. Bright green, with

patches of blue and red. He stood about four feet tall. The

missing right leg had been replaced with one of wood.

Metal springs enabled it to bend at the knee. A leather

patch covered the one empty eye socket.

As was the fashion among the feathered citizens of this

world, Corroboc wore a kilt. It was unpatterned and blood

red, a perfect match to his crimson vest. The absence of a

design showed that he had abandoned his clanship. Unlike

many of the other fliers Jon-Tom had encountered, he wore

no hat or cap. A narrow bandolier crossed the feathered

breast. Sun glinted off the dozen tiny stilettos it held.

A member of the crew later informed them that the

captain could throw four of the deadly little blades at a

time: one with each flexible wingtip, one with his beak,

and the last with his remaining foot. All this with lethal

accuracy while balancing on the artificial leg.

The remaining bright blue eye flicked back and forth

between the prisoners. Above and below the eye patch the

112

Alan Dean Foster

skin showed an unwholesome yellow where feathers were

missing.

"These be all the crew of our prize?" He looked up at

the first mate, and Jon-Tom was surprised to see the