neetha Napew - Spellsinger

shone in the firelight. He was mumbling softly to himself, and Jon-Tom wondered

at what lay behind his quiet talk. There was real magic in the sorcerer's words,

a source of never ending amazement to Jon-Tom.

The wizard's expression was strained, as befitted one on whose shoulders (or

shell) rested the possible resolution of a coming Armageddon.

Clothahump saw him without having to look up. "Good eve to you, my boy.

Something troubles you." Jon-Tom had long since overcome any surprise at the

wizard's sensitivity.

"It's Mudge, sir."

"That miscreant again?" The aged face looked up at him. "What has he done now?"

"It's not what he's done so much as what he hasn't done, sir, which is come

back. I'm worried, sir. Caz returned a while ago, but he didn't go very far into

the forest and he hasn't seen Mudge."

"Still hunting, perhaps." Most of the wizard's mind seemed to be on matters far

off and away.

"I don't think so, sir. He should have returned by now. And I don't think he's

run off."

"No, not here, my boy."

"Could he have tried to catch something that caught him instead? It would be

like Mudge to try and show off with a big catch."

"Not that simpleton coward, boy. But as to something else making a meal of him,

that is always a risk when a lone hunter goes foraging in a strange forest.

Remember, though, that while our otter companion is somewhat slow upstairs,

there is nothing sluggish about his feet. He is lightning fast. It is

conceivable that something might overpower him, but it would first have to

surprise him or run him down. Neither is likely."

"He could have hurt himself," persisted a worried Jon-Tom. "Even the most

skillful hunter can't outrun a broken leg."

Clothahump turned away from him. A touch of impatience crept into his voice.

"Don't belabor it, boy. I have more important things to think upon."

"Maybe I'd better have a look for him." Jon-Tom glanced specula-lively at the

silent ring of thin trees that looked down on the little clearing.

"Maybe you had." The boy means well, Clothahump thought, but he tends not to

think things through and to give in to his emotions. Best to keep a close watch

on him lest he surrender to his fancies. Keep him occupied.

"Yes, that would be a prudent thing to do. You go and find him. We've enough

food for the night." His gaze remained fixed on something beyond the view of

mere mortals.

"I'll be back with him soon." The lanky youth turned and jogged off into the

woods.

Clothahump was fast sinking into his desired trance. As his mind reeled,

something pricked insistently at it. It had to do with this particular section

of Tailaroam-bordered land. It was full night now, and that also was somehow

significant.

Was there something he should have told the boy? Had he sent him off unprepared

for something he should expect to encounter hereabouts? Ah, you self-centered

old fool, he chided himself, and you having just accused him of not thinking

things through.

But he was far too deeply entranced now to slip easily back into reality. The

nagging worries fell behind his probing, seeking mind.

He's a brave youngster, was his fading, weak appraisal. He'll be able to take

care of himself....

Untold leagues away, underneath the infectious mists of the Green-downs in the

castle of Cugluch, the iridescent Empress reclined on her ruby pillows. She

replayed her sorcerer's words mentally, lingering over each syllable with the

pleasure that destruction's anticipation sent through her.

"Madam," he had bowed cautiously over this latest pronouncement, "each day the

Manifestation reveals powers for which even I know no precedent. Now I believe

that we may be able to conquer more thoroughly than we have ever dreamed."

"How is this, Sorcerer?--and you had better be prepared to stand by any promises

you make me." Skrritch eyed his knobby legs appraisingly.

"I will give you a riddle instead of a promise," Eejakrat said with untoward

daring. Skrritch nodded.

"When will we have completed the annihilation of the warm-lands?" he asked her.

"When every warmlander bows to me," she answered without hesitation.

The wizard did not respond.

"When every warmlander has been emptied to a dead husk?"

Still he did not reply.

"Speak, Sorcerer," Skrritch directed testily.

"The warmlands will be ours, my lady, when every warm-blooded slave has been

returned to the soil and in his plaee stands a Plated subject. When the

farmlands, shops, and cities of the west are repopulated with Plated Folk your

empire will know no limit!"

Skrritch looked at him as if he'd gone mad and began to preen her claw tips.

Eejakrat took a prudent step backward, but his words held the Empress in

mid-motion.

"Madam, I assure you, the Manifestation has the power to incinerate entire races

of warmlanders. Its death-power is so pervasive that we shall not only crush

them, we will obliterate their memory from the earth. Your minions will march

into their cities to find the complete welcome of silence."

Now Skrritch smiled her weird, omnivorous smile. The wizard and his queen locked

eyes, and though neither really understood the extent of the destruction at

their disposal, the air reverberated with their insidious obsession to find

out....

It was very dark in the forest. The moon made anemic ghosts of the trees and

turned misshapen boulders to granite gargoyles. Bushes hid legions of tiny

clicking things that watched with interest and talked to one another as the tall

biped went striding past their homes.

Jon-Tom was in fair spirits. The nightly rain had not yet begun. Only the usual

thick mist moistened his face.

He carried a torch made from the oil rushes that lined the river's edge. Despite

the persistent mist the highly combustible reeds readily caught fire when he

applied the tip of the well-spelled sparker Caz had lent to him. The torch lit

readily and burned with a satisfying slowness.

For a moment he had thoughts of swinging round his duar and trying to conjure up

a flashlight or two. Caution decided him against the attempt. The torch would

serve well enough, and his accuracy where conjuration was involved thus far left

something to be desired.

The ground was damp from the mist-caress of late evening, and Mudge's tracks

stood out clearly. Occasionally the boot marks would cross each other several

times in one place, indicating where the otter had rested behind a large boulder

or fallen log.

Once the gap between the prints abruptly lengthened and became intermixed with

tiny polelike marks, evidence that Mudge had given chase to something. The pole

prints soon vanished and the otter marks shortened in stride. Whether the otter

had made a successful kill or not Jon-Tom couldn't tell.

Oblivious to the fact that he was moving steadily deeper into the woods, he

continued to follow the tracks. Unexpectedly the brush gave way to an open space

of hard-packed earth that had been raised several inches above the level of the

surrounding surface. The footprints led up to the platform and disappeared. It

took Jon-Tom long minutes before he could locate traces of them, mostly scuffs

from the otter's boot heels. They indicated he'd turned off to his right along

the artificial construct.

"Come on back, Mudge!" There was no reply, and the forest swallowed any echo.

"Caz brought in something already, and everyone's getting worried, and my feet