neetha Napew - Spellsinger

alternating like a swimmer's arms.

It spoke again, the same harsh, rasping tone. The mouth did not move. Jon-Tom

realized the insect was generating a crude approximation of normal speech by

controlling the flow of air through its breathing spicules.

"I am Hanniwuz," said the apparition huskily. "This suit I wear is necessary

lest the locals kill me on sight. They bear an unreasoning hatred for my people

and have persecuted us for thousands of years."

Jon-Tom had recovered from the initial shock of the revelation. "The way I hear

it, it's your people who have been doing the hating, trying to invade and

enslave the locals for millennia."

"I will not deny that we seek control, but we do not seek conquest. It is for

our protection. We require security of some kind. The warm-landers grow

constantly stronger. One day their hatred will overwhelm their lethargy and they

will arise en masse to massacre the Plated Folk. Do we not have the right to

self-defense?"

Oh boy, Jon-Tom thought: history and legalisms. He felt suddenly at home. "Don't

try and bullshit me. Whenever one nation claims it requires 'secure borders'

with another, that border is usually the far border of the neighboring country

and not the common one. That 'border' country gets swallowed up, and the secure

borders have to be moved outward again, and then again. It's a never ending

process. Security may never be satisfied that way, but greed usually is."

The insect's head swiveled to look up at the blond man. "Spellsinger or not, I

think this one more dangerous than useful. I do not think he will be of use to

us." Jon-Tom went cold and still.

"No, he's not as positive as he sounds." The leader turned imploringly,

smilingly back to the lanky youth. "Please tell Hanniwuz you'll join us."

"I don't see the connection between you two."

"The Plated Folk recognize that among the warmlanders only we humans think like

they do. Only we have the ability to make war with detachment and then to govern

properly. That's our natural right, and the Plated Folk are willing to recognize

that. If we help them, they will allow us to rule in their stead. That will give

them the security they seek."

"You really believe that? Then you people are either dumb or morally bankrupt.

You have no 'natural right' to rule anything. Genetics has worked out

differently here."

One of the other guards said worriedly, "Careful, he speaks magic words."

Candlelight glinted on swords and spears, a sparkling forest of death suddenly

aimed threateningly at Jon-Tom.

"Watch your mouth, stranger!... Don't try magicking us!"

"See the effect he has?" The leader turned to Hanniwuz. "Consider how important

an ally he could be to the cause."

" 'Could be' are the key words, my friend." The insect envoy lifted a hand,

turned his head sideways, and preened his ommatidia. "He remains violently

opposed."

The stocky chieftain walked up to Jon-Tom, who tensed, but the man only put his

hands on the youth's shoulders.

"Listen to me, spellsinger. You have the size and bearing of a warrior along

with your gift for magicking. You could be a leader among us, one of those who

lord it over these lands. The climate here suits not the Plated Folk. They have

need of our services now and they will have need of them when the war is done."

"So they say." Jon-Tom eyed the impassive insect. "It's astonishing how fast a

conquerer can get acclimated."

"Control your first reactions, spellsinger. Think rationally and without

bitterness on what I say. With your stature and abilities you could rule whole

counties, entire reaches of the Lands. A dozen or more cities like Polastrindu

could be under your absolute control. Anything you wanted could be yours for the

asking: riches, fine goods, slaves of any species or sex.

"You are a young man still. What future does your mentor Clothahump offer you in

comparison? A chance to go to an unpleasant death? Is it so very wrong that

humans rule over the animals? So you do not agree with the moral justification

of our cause. Can you not rationalize what it would bring to you personally?

"Think hard, spellsinger, for the Plated Folk are destined to conquer this time,

no matter who or what opposes them. It is easy to support a martyr's death for

others... but what about for yourself? Is that what you have hoped for all your

life, to die young and bravely?" His hand slashed at the air. "That is stupid."

"I don't think your victory is assured just yet," Jon-Tom said quietly, "despite

your"--he caught himself just in time, having been on the verge of saying

"despite your secret magic," and instead finished--"despite all the quislings

you can recruit, and I don't think there'll be all that many."

"Then there are no circumstances under which you would consider joining us?

Think hard! The world can be yours."

"Shit, I wouldn't know what to do with it. I don't..." He stopped.

Seriously now, what did he owe to this world into which he'd been rudely,

unwillingly, and perhaps permanently yanked? If he ever succeeded in returning

to his own place and time, what would he become? A corpulent attorney, fat and

empty of real life? Or a sour, doped-up musician playing cheap bars and

sweet-sixteen parties?

Here he could be one step above a mayor and one step below a god. Weren't all of

them, for all their veneer of civilization and intelligence, nothing more than

oversized animals? Mudge, Caz, Pog, all of them? He considered the way Flor had

occasionally looked at Caz. Was it right that he should consider himself, even

momentarily, in competition for the love of his life with an oversized hare? Was

that less repugnant than cooperation with these people?

Why shouldn't he join them, then? Why should he not look out for himself for a

change?

"That's very good, man," whispered Hanniwuz. "You think. Death, or ascension to

a throne we will create for you. It seems an easy choice to make, does it not?

The day we attack there will be uprisings of humans throughout the warmlands.

They will flock to our cause. Together we shall force these bloated, soft,

smelly creatures back into the dirt where they belong... aahhh-chrriick!"

"I'm not sure--" Jon-Tom began.

Yells and shouts from the other side of the door and all eyes turned in that

direction. Then the opening was full of flying bodies, blood, and steel. Talea

darted in and out of the crowd, her sword taking bites out of larger and more

muscular bodies. Caz wielded a rapier with delicacy but far more ferocity than

Jon-Tom had suspected him of possessing, a furry white demon in the candlelight.

Mudge charged into the thick of the fray, his energy and activity compensating

for his usual lack of good judgment.

Dim light was reflected from fast-moving metal. There were screams and curses

and the sound of flesh hitting stone. Blood hit Jon-Tom in the face, temporarily

blinding him. Flores Quintera towered above the mob, her black mane flailing the

air as she cut with mace and her small saw edge at anyone who tried to get near

her.

Above them all, clinging precariously to a chink in the roof and occasionally

tossing a knife down into the milling cluster below, was Pog.

That explained how the others had tracked him. When the fight in the street had

broken away from Jon-Tom, Pog had thoughtfully left the battle to shadow Jon-Tom

and his captors. Then he'd returned to lead the others to the rescue.