neetha Napew - Spellsinger

ever. But then, so did Flores Quintera.

She'd assumed an amazonian stance with her own short sword and mace held

expectantly in front of her, the light gleaming off the saw teeth lining the

steel.

"Ovejas y putas, come and take us... if you can."

"Ladies, please!" protested Caz, aghast at the manner in which his attempted

diplomacy was being undermined from behind. "It would be better for all of us

if... excuse me, sir." He'd been glancing back at Talea and Flor but had not

lost sight of their opponents. One of them had jumped forward and attempted to

brain the rabbit with a small club, whereupon Caz had hopped out of the way,

offered his apologies, and stuck out a size twenty-two foot. His assailant had

gone tumbling over it.

"Dreadfully sorry," murmured Caz. His apology did nothing to stem the rush which

followed as the two groups of encircling humans attacked.

The narrowness of the street simplified defensive tactics. The set-upon arranged

themselves back to back in a tight circle and hacked away at their antagonists,

who threw themselves with shocking recklessness against swords and knives. The

light and sweat and screaming swam together around Jon-Tom. The duar was a heavy

weight bouncing under his arm as the blunt end of his staff-club sought out an

unprotected face or groin.

It occurred to him that a little magic might have frightened off their

assailants. He cursed himself for not thinking of it earlier. It was too late

now for singing. He couldn't stop defending himself long enough to swing the

duar around.

Three frustrated attackers were trying to get beneath his enormous reach. He

held them off with the club. One slipped underneath the staff and raised a mace.

Jon-Tom thumbed a stud on the staff and flipped it around in an arc as he'd been

shown. The spring-loaded spearpoint sliced across the mace-wielder's thighs. He

collapsed, moaning and holding his legs.

Something dark covered Jon-Tom's eyes as he was hit from below and behind.

Flailing wildly with the staff, he went over backward. The staff intercepted

something yielding, which yelped once.

A heaviness pressed down on his senses as well as his eyes. Then everything

turned to mush, including the noise of fighting. His thoughts swam sluggishly as

though he were trying to think through Jell-O. Dimly he could still make out

shrieks and screams from the continuing battle, but they sounded faint and far

away. He recognized the high-pitched challenge of Talea alternating with Mudge's

taunts and curses. Flor was yowling war cries in an interesting mixture of

English and Spanish. The last sight he'd glimpsed before the black cloth or bag

or whatever it was had been slipped over his head showed a starlit sky mottled

with clearing rain clouds and a sickle moon beaming bluely down between peaked

roofs that overhung the street like cupped hands. He hoped they were formed in

prayer for him.

Then even that wish faded, along with the remnant of his consciousness....

XX

At first he thought a fly had somehow tumbled into his brain. It was beating

against the sides, trying to get out. When the fly-feeling gave way to a

certainty that the buzzing came from elsewhere, he opened his eyes and hunted

for its source.

An oil lamp burned on a simply hewn wood table. A gruff announcement came from

someone unseen.

"He's awake!"

This was followed by the pad-padding of many feet. Jon-Tom struggled to a

sitting position. Gravity, or something, tried to pull off the back of his head.

He winced at the pain. It slowly dribbled away, down his neck and into oblivion.

He discovered he was sitting on the edge of a cot. In the dim lamplight he could

now make out the familiar shapes of his staff and duar leaning against the far

wall of the room.

Flanking his possessions were two of the humans who'd attacked him. One wore a

bandage across his forehead and over one ear. The other exhibited a deep purple

bruise and knot over his right eye. His mouth also showed signs of having been

cut.

Normally an execptionally pacific person, Jon-Tom experienced an

uncharacteristic surge of pleasure at this evidence of the damage he and his

companions had done. He'd made up his mind to make a rush for the club-staff

when a door opened on his left and half a dozen people marched in.

Leaning forward, he was disappointed to discover he could see nothing past the

door except a dimly lit corridor, though he could hear distant conversation.

The new arrivals stationed themselves around the room. Three of them took up

positions in front of the door while another closed it behind them. Two

additional lamps were lit. Everyone in the room looked very determined. Another

trio sat down at the table. Someone brought a few roughly forged goblets and a

couple of plates piled high with steaming meat and a close relative of boiled

potatoes.

There were no windows in the room. The only light came from the three oil lamps

and the crack beneath the door. Captors and captive examined each other with

interest for long minutes.

Then one of the three seated at the table spoke to him, and Jon-Tom recognized

the blond spokesman who had confronted him in the street.

"You hungry?" Jon-Tom shook his head. "Thirsty?" Again the negative motion,

accompanied by a smile and an obscene gesture. Jon-Tom was not thinking like a

would-be lawyer now. He was still light-headed and maybe just a little crazy.

His actions and silence did not seem to upset his interrogator, who shrugged and

said, "Suit yourself. I am." He picked up a potato-thing and spread some sort of

transparent glaze over it, using a spoon set in a small jar. Taking a bite out

of it, he chewed noisily. Glaze slid down his chin and onto his chest.

When he'd finished half the tuber he looked again at Jon-Tom. Then he asked

bluntly, "Head hurt?"

"You know goddam well it does," Jon-Tom told him, feeling of the lump that was

maturing on the back of his skull.

"We're sorry about that." And to Jon-Tom's surprise the man sounded honestly

contrite. "But you wouldn't come with us voluntarily, and we didn't have much

time to talk. Patrol could've come along."

"If you've been facing twelve armed people in an unfamiliar street, would you

have gone along?"

The blond smiled wryly. "I suppose not. We're not much on tact, I guess. But it

was imperative you come with us, and we had to get you away from the animals."

That made Jon-Tom take another anxious look around the room. No question about

it, he was the sole captive present.

"Where are the others? Where are my friends?"

"Where we left them. Scattered around the alleys of the Loose Quarter. Oh, they

didn't seem badly hurt," he added when Jon-Tom looked ready to rise from the

cot. "Far less so than our own people. We simply led the fight away from you

once we had you drugged and under control."

"Why me?" He leaned back against the rock wall. "What's so interesting about

me?"

The stocky speaker peered hard at him. "It is said that you are a wizard, a

spellsinger, from another world." He seemed at once skeptical and yet anxious to

have that skepticism disputed.

"Yes... yes, that's right." Jon-Tom stretched out his arms and waved his

fingers. "And if you don't let me out of here in ten seconds I'm going to turn

you all into mushrooms!"

The leader shook his head, looking down at the floor and then up again to smile

at Jon-Tom. He clasped both hands together on his lap.