neetha Napew - Spellsinger

hanging from each hip belt. Of course, earrying weapons and knowing how to use

them were two different matters.

They were rising and moving to flank the wolverine and gazing at Jon-Tom in a

decidedly unfriendly manner. The wolverine himself had regained his composure

and was sliding an ugly-looking mace from the loop on his own belt.

"Steady on, mate," the otter urged his companion, sword out and committed now.

The wolverine was bouncing the spiked iron head of the mace up and down in one

palm, gripping the handle with the other. "Maybe I ban wrong about that

harmony." He eyed the man's throat. "Maybe I ban eliminate that voice

altogether, yah?" He started forward, encountered a waiter who started to curse

him, then saw the mace and fled into the crowd.

"Is too crowded in here though. I tink I meet you outside, hokay?"

"Hokay," said Jon-Tom readily. He moved as if to leave, got his right hand under

the edge of the table, and heaved. Table, drinks, remnants of their greasy meal

and platterware showered down on the wolverine, his companions, and several

unsuspecting occupants of other tables. The innocent bystanders took exception

to the barrage. One of the wolverine's associates side-stepped the flying table

and jabbed his sword at the otter's face. Mudge ducked under the marten's thrust

and kept his sword ready to challenge the emerging armadillo while neatly

kicking the bellicose marten in the nuts. The stricken animal grabbed himself

and went to his knees.

Among those who had received the dubious decorations preferred by Jon-Tom's

action were a pair of female coatis whose delicacy of shape and flash of eye

were matched by the outrage in their voices. They had drawn slim rapiers and

were struggling to join the fray.

Jon-Tom had moved backward and to his left, this being the only space still not

filled with potential combatants, and was quickly joined by Mudge. They

continued backing until they upset another table and its patrons. This

instituted a chain reaction which led with astonishing rapidity to a general

mayhem that threatened to involve every one in the establishment.

Only the chefs and bartenders kept their calm. They remained invulnerable behind

their protective circular counter, defending liquor and food as assiduously as

they had the honor and person of their gleaming white star performer. Only when

some stumbling battler intruded on their territorial circle did their heavy

clubs come into play. Waiters and waitresses huddled behind this front line of

defense, casually making book on the outcome of the fight or downing drinks

intended for otherwise occupied patrons.

The fight whirlpooled around this central bastion of calm as the room was filled

with yelps and meows, squeaks and squeals and chirps of pain and outrage.

It was an arboreal that almost got Jon-Tom. He was effectively if unartistically

using his long staff to fend off the short sword thrusts of an outraged pika

when Mudge yelled, "Jon-Tom... duck!"

As it was, the bola-wielding mallard missed his neck but got his weapon

entangled in the club end of Jon-Tom's staff. He shoved down hard on it. In

order to remain airborne the fowl had to surrender his weapon, but not without

dropping instead a stream of insults on the tall human. Jon-Tom had time to note

the duck's kilt of orange and green. He wondered if the different kilt colors

signified species or some sort of genus-spanning clan equivalent.

There was little time for sociological contemplation. The marten had recovered

from Mudge's low blow and was moving to put the sharp edge of his blade through

Jon-Tom's midsection. Instinctively he tilted the staff crosswise. The club end

came over and around. It missed the agile marten, but the entangled bird's bola

caught around the weasel's neck.

Dropping his sword, he pulled the device free of the staff and stumbled away,

fighting to free his neck from the strangling cord. Jon-Tom, momentarily clear

of attackers, hunted through the crowd for his companion.

Mudge was close by, kicking furniture in the way of potential assailants,

throwing mugs and other eating utensils at them whenever possible, avoiding

hand-to-hand combat wherever he could.

Jon-Tom took no pride, felt no pleasure in his newfound capacity for violent

self-defense. If he could only get out of this dangerous madhouse and back home

to the peace and quiet of his little apartment! But that distant, familiar haven

had receded ever farther into memory, had reached the point where it existed

only as misty history compared to the all too real blood and fury surrounding

him.

Thank God, he thought frantically, fending off another attacker, for

Clothahump's ministrations. Even a well-bandaged wound would have broken open

again by now, but he felt nothing in his formerly injured side. He was well and

truly healed.

That would not save him if one of many sword or pike thrusts punctured him anew.

The indiscriminate nature of the fighting was more frightening than anything

else now. It was impossible to tell potential friend from foe.

In vain he looked across the milling crest of the fight for the entrance. It was

seemingly at least a mile away across an ocean of battling fur and steel. A

desperate examination of the room seemed to show no other exit save via the

central bastion of the bar and food counter, whose defenders were not admitting

refugees. That left only the windows, an idea the panting Mudge quickly quashed.

"Blimey, mate, you must be daft! That glass be 'alf an inch thick in places and

thicker where 'tis beveled. I'd sooner take a sword thrust than slice meself t'

bloody ribbons on that.

"There be an alley out back. Let's make our way in that direction."

"I don't see any doors there," said Jon-Tom, straining to see past the rear

booths.

"Surely there's a service entryway. I'll settle now meself for a garbage chute."

Sure enough, they eventually discovered a single low doorway hidden by stacks of

crates and piles of garbage. The close-packed mob made progress difficult, but

they forced their way slowly toward the promise of freedom and safety. Only

Jon-Tom's overbearing height enabled them to keep their goal in view. To the

other brawlers he must have looked like an ambling lighthouse.

Already his shining snakeskin cape was torn and bloodstained. Better it than me,

he thought gratefully. It was not a pretty riot. The only rules were those of

survival.

He passed one squirrel prone on the floor, tail sodden and matted with blood.

His left leg was missing below the knee. So much blood and spilled drink and

food had accumulated on the floor, in fact, that one of the greatest dangers was

losing one's footing on the increasingly treacherous planking.

Jon-Tom watched as a cape-clad coyote picked over the unconscious form of a

badly bleeding fox. While his attention was thus temporarily diverted, someone

grabbed his left arm. He turned to swing the staff one-handed or jab as was

required. So far he hadn't been forced to utilize the concealed spearpoint and

hoped he'd never have to.

The figure that had grabbed him was completely swathed in maroon and blue

material. He could discern little of the figure save that the mostly hidden face

seemed to be human. The short figure tugged hard and urged him back behind a

temporary wall formed by a trio of fat porcupines, who, for self-evident

reasons, were having little trouble fending off any combatant foolish enough to