Alan Foster - Exceptions to Reality

Usually the eldritch mists that rose from the junction of the duar’s intersecting sets of enchanted strings were pastel in hue: light blue or lavender, bright pink or pale green. This time they were black and ominous. Mudge edged farther behind Stromagg, peering warily out from behind the grizzly’s protective bulk. So peculiar, so enthralling was the coil of darkness that emerged from Jon-Tom’s song that the fascinated otter could not take his eyes from it.

Detaching itself from the interdimensional wherever of the duar, an orb of ebon vapor drifted slowly toward the rock wall. It hesitated there and began to reverse direction. That shift prompted a redoubling of power chords by a suddenly anxious Jon-Tom. What might happen if the blackness fell back into the duar, he could not imagine, except to believe it could not possibly be good. The orb wavered, seeming to be considering something known only to eldritch orbs, and then resumed its drift toward the cliff face. Jon-Tom allowed himself to relax ever so slightly.

Upon making contact with the rock the dark sphere expanded across the smooth vertical surface like a giant droplet of spreading oil. When the last of it had seeped into the stone, Jon-Tom brought the vibrant song he was playing to a rousing if dissonant conclusion that made both his furry companions cringe.

Wiping sweat from his brow, the spellsinger gestured proudly at the cliff face. “There! I told you I could do it.”

Emerging from Stromagg’s shadow, Mudge warily approached the dark blot in the rock and peered—inward. “’Tis a tunnel, all right.” Pushing his feathered cap back on his forehead, he eyed his friend warily. “So I suppose all we ’ave to do now is stroll right on through the solid mountain?”

Jon-Tom nodded. “If everything has worked as it should, Namur Castle will lie on the other side.” He drew himself up proudly. “And I’d say it’s worked, wouldn’t you?”

“Well now,” Mudge muttered, argumentative to the last, “there’s right enough a big whackin’ ’ole in this ’ere ’ill. Anyone can see that. But as to whether it leads to a castle or somethin’ else remains to be seen, wot?”

“Only one way to find out.” Striding confidently past his friend, Jon-Tom started forward.

The spellsung tunnel was wide and high enough for Stromagg to enter without bending. Its floor was composed of smooth, clean sand. There was only one problem with the music-magicked passageway.

It was already occupied.

Drawing his short sword, a growling, whistling Mudge started to back up. Next to him, Stromagg drew the huge mace that he carried slung across his broad back. “Oi, you’ve done it again, all right, mate. Quick, sing it closed!”

His expression falling, Jon-Tom strummed lightly on the duar as he backpedaled. “I only wanted the tunnel,” he muttered to himself. “Just the tunnel.”

The things that crawled and crept and slithered from the depths of the darkness had glowing red eyes and manifold sharp teeth. Multi-legged shapes with fangs, they resembled nothing in this world. Which made perfect sense, since Jon-Tom had sung them up from an entirely different world. While Mudge and Stromagg hacked and sliced, Jon-Tom tried to think of an appropriate song to send the fanged horde back to the Hell from which they had sprung.

Slashing wildly at something sporting tentacles and razor-lined suckers, the otter spared a frantic glance for his friend. The tunnel continued to vomit forth more and more of the sinister, red-eyed assassins. “Sing ’em away, mate! Sing ’em gone. Sing the bloody tunnel closed !”

“Strange.” Refusing to be distracted by the conflict, Jon-Tom was preoccupied with trying to remember lyrics appropriate to resolving their suddenly desperate situation. “I could try singing the same song backward, I suppose.” He did so, to no effect other than to further outrage Mudge’s ears.

Using a kick to fend off something with long incisors and three eyes, he finally did begin a second song. Mudge recognized the tune immediately. It was the same one his friend had sung moments earlier to create the tunnel.

“Are you mad, mate? We don’t need twice as many of these ’orrors. We need less of ’em!” Ducking with astonishing speed, he cut the legs out from an onrushing assailant that had plenty of spares.

A second surging blackness emerged from the duar, drifted past the combatants, and struck the stone barrier. A second tunnel appeared. Fending off assailants, Jon-Tom raced toward it. “Come on! This is the right one, for sure. I was just a bit off tempo the first time.”

“A bit off? You’ve always been a bit off, mate!” Fighting a ferocious rear-guard action, the otter and the grizzly followed the spellsinger into the new tunnel.

Unlike the first, this one was filled with a dim, indistinct light. Floor and walls were much smoother than those of their predecessor, devoid of sand, and firmer underfoot. The walls of the tunnel looked to be made of cut instead of untouched stone: an excellent sign, Jon-Tom decided. It was exactly the sort of passage that might lead to a hidden underground entrance underneath a castle. Certainly its dimensions were impressive.

Then they heard the roaring, growing steadily louder and coming toward them. “There!” A frantic Mudge pointed. A burning yellow eye was visible in the distance. As the roaring intensified, the fiery illumination grew brighter, washing over them.

“I think I liked the other critters better,” an awed Mudge murmured.

Jon-Tom was looking around wildly. “Here, this way!” Turning to his right, he dashed up the stairs that had suddenly appeared in a side passageway. As they climbed, they could hear the monster approaching rapidly behind them. To everyone’s great relief, it rushed past without taking notice of the intruders, keeping to the main tunnel.

“The castle must be right above us.” Shifting his duar around into carrying position on his back, Jon-Tom slowed as new light appeared above them. Light, and a familiar, unthreatening noise. The sound of rain on pavement. “Probably the courtyard. Keep alert.”

“Keep alert, ’e says.” Gripping his sword tightly, Mudge strove to peer through the brighter gloom above.

They emerged into a light rain that was falling, not on a castle courtyard, but on a narrow street. Storefronts, darkened and shuttered, were visible on the opposite side. There was no one in sight.

The otter’s sensitive nose appraised their surroundings as his sharp eyes continued to scan the darkness. “No castle this, mate. Smells bleedin’ nasty, it does.” He looked up at his friend. “Where the bloody ’ell are we?”

“I don’t know.” Thoroughly bemused, Jon-Tom walked out onto a sidewalk and turned a slow circle. “This should be Namur Castle, or at least its immediate vicinity.” His eyes fell on a pair of rain-swept signs. Across the street, one hanging from an iron rod proclaimed the location of the CORK & CASTLE—PUB. Light from within reached out into the street, as did muted sounds of polite revelry. The second sign hung above the entrance to the stairway from which they had emerged. It was a softly illuminated red-and-white circle with a single red bar running horizontally through it. The hairs on the back of his neck began to stiffen.

They had stumbled into an unsuspected path back into his own world.

III

Sounds of casual conversation reached the three stunned travelers. Retreating to the top of the gum-spotted, urine-stained stairway, he peered back down. Two young couples were mounting the steps from the Underground, chatting and laughing about the casual inconsequentialities of a life he himself had long ago been forced to relinquish. He looked around worriedly.