The Spellsinger Adventures Volume One Read online

  The Spellsinger Adventures Volume One

  Spellsinger, The Hour of the Gate, and The Day of the Dissonance

  Alan Dean Foster

  CONTENTS

  Spellsinger

  Prologue

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  The Hour of the Gate Cover

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  The Day of the Dissonance

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  Preview: The Moment of the Magician

  A Biography of Alan Dean Foster

  Spellsinger

  For Richard Corben,

  Vaughn Bode,

  Jimi Hendrix,

  and Kitten-cat

  Contents

  Prologue

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  Prologue

  DISCONTENT RULED THE STARS, and there were portents in the heavens.

  On the fourth day of Eluria, which follows the Feast of Consanguinity, a great comet was seen in the night sky. It crossed east to west over the Tree and lasted for half a fortnight. It left a black scar on the flesh of existence, a scar that glowed and lingered.

  Faces formed within the timescar. Only a very few were capable of discerning their existence. None understood their implication. The faces danced and leered and mocked their ignorant observers. Frustrated or simply terrified, the few who could see turned away or deliberately placed a calming interpretation on what had troubled their minds.

  One did not. He could not, for those visions haunted his sleep and tormented his days. He dropped words from formulae, bollixed simple conjurations, stuttered in his reading and rhyming studies.

  A great evil was afoot in the world, an evil encountered twice before in the wizard’s own long lifetime. But never before had it seemed so potent in its anticipation of coming death and destruction. Its core remained just beyond perception; but he knew it was something he did not understand, something fresh and threatening which shattered all the rules known to commonsense magic. It was rank, alien, shudderingly devoid of emotion and meaning. It horrified him.

  Of one thing only was he certain. He would need assistance this time—only another attuned to the same unknown could understand it. Only another could save the world from the horror that threatened to engulf it.

  For those who know the secret ways, the tunnels between realities, the crossings between universes are no more difficult to pass than the barriers that separate one individual from another. But such passages are of rare occasion, and once the proper formula is invoked, it can rarely be repeated.

  Yet it was time to take the risk.

  So the wizard heaved and strained, threw out the request carefully roped to his consciousness. It sailed out into the void of space-time, propelled by a mind of great if aging power. It sought another who could help him understand this fresh darkness that threatened his world. Dimensions slid aside, cleaving around the searching thought and giving it passage.

  The wizard trembled with the massive effort. Sentient winds howled about his Tree, plucking dangerously at the thin lifeline within. It had to happen quickly, he knew, or the link would fade without attaching to an ally. And this was a link he might not hope to generate again.

  Yet still the void yielded nothing and no one. The … the writhing tentacle of wizardness caught a mind, a few thoughts, an identity. Uncertain but unable to hunt further, he plunged inward. Surprisingly, the mind was pliable and open, receptive to invasion and manifestation. It almost seemed to welcome being grasped, accepting the tug with a contented indifference that appalled the wizard, but which he was grateful for nonetheless. This mind was detached, drifting. It would be easy to draw it back.

  Easy save for the aged enchanter’s waning strength. He locked and pulled, heaved with every ounce of power in him. But despite the subject’s lack of resistance the materialization was not clean. At the last instant, the link snapped.

  No, no … ! But the energy faded, was lost. An infrequent but damaging senility crept in and imposed sleep on that great but exhausted mind… .

  And while he slumbered, the contented evil festered and planned and schemed, and a shadow began to spread over the souls of the innocent… .

  The citizens of Pelligrew laughed at the invaders. Though they lived nearest of all the civilized folk to the Greendowns, they feared not the terrible inhabitants of those lands. Their town was walled and hugged the jagged face of a mountain. The only approach was up a single narrow path which could be defended against attack, it was said, by five old women and a brace of infants.

  So when the leader of the absurdly small raiding party asked for their surrender, they laughed and threw garbage and night soil down on him.

  “Go home!” they urged him. “Go back to your stinking homes and your shit-eating mothers before we decorate the face of our mountain with your blood!”

  Curiously, this did not enrage the leader of the raiders. A few within the town remarked on this and worried, but everyone else continued to laugh.

  The leader made his way back through the tents of his troops, his dignity unimpaired. He knew what was promised to him.

  Eventually he reached a tent larger and darker than any of the others. Here his courage faltered, for he did not enjoy speaking to the one who dwelt within. Nevertheless, it was his place to do so. He entered.

  It was black inside, though it was mid-morning without, black and heavy with the stench of unwholesome things and the nearness of death. In the back of the tent was the wizard, awash in attendants. In back of him stood the Font of Evil.

  “Your pardon, Master,” the leader of the soldiers began, and proceeded to tell of his disdainful reception at the hands of the Pelligrewers.

  When he had finished, the hunched form in the dark of the tent said, “Return to your soldiers, good Captain, and wait.”

  The leader left hurriedly, glad to be out of that unclean place and back among his troops. But it was hard to just wait there, helpless before the unscalable wall and restrained by command, while the inhabitants of the town mocked and laughed and exposed their backsides to his angry soldiers.

  Suddenly, a darkening turned the sky the color of lead. There was a thunder, yet there were no clouds. Then the great wall of Pelligrew vanished, turned to dust along with many of its shocked defenders. For an instant his own warriors were paralyzed. Then the blood lust renewed
them and they swarmed into the naked town, shrieking in gleeful anticipation.

  The slaughter was thorough. Not a soul was left alive. Those who disdained meat relaxed and sipped the pooled blood of the still living.

  There was some question as to whether or not to keep the children of the town alive for breeding. Upon consideration, the captain declined. He did not wish to convoy a noisy, bawling lot of infants back to Cugluch. Besides, his soldiers deserved a reward for the patience they had displayed beneath the barrage of verbal and physical refuse the annihilated townsfolk had heaped on them. So he gave his assent for a general butchering of the young.

  That night the fire was put to Pelligrew while her children made the soldiers a fine supper. The wood of the houses and the thatch of the roofs burned all night and into the following morning.

  The captain watched the last of the flames die out, nodding approvingly as recently dressed meat was loaded for the journey back home. He sucked the marrow from a small arm as he addressed the flier.

  “Take the swiftest currents of the air, Herald,” he instructed the winged soldier. “Go quickly to the capital. Inform everyone that taunting Pelligrew, thorn in our side for a thousand years, is no more. Tell the people and the court that this first small success is complete and that all the softness of the Warmlands westward shall soon be ours, and soon all the worlds beyond that!”

  The flier saluted and rose into the mountain air. The captain turned, saw the occupants of the dark tent packing their own noisome supplies. He watched as the wizard supervised the careful loading of the awful apparition which had destroyed Pelligrew, and shuddered as he turned away from it.

  On the strength of that vileness and the wizard’s knowledge they might truly march to mastery over the entire Universe, if the wizard was to be believed. But as for himself, he was personally inclined to stay as far away from it as possible.

  He loved anything which could find new ways to kill, but this had a reach that spanned worlds… .

  I

  SIZE AND ATTIRE ALONE would have made the giant otter worthy of notice, even if he hadn’t tripped over Meriweather’s feet. Sprawled whiskers down in the grass, the creature was barely a foot shorter than the lanky youth’s own six feet two.

  It was by far the largest otter Jon Meriweather had ever seen. Although he was a student of history and not zoology, he was still willing to bet that five and a half feet was somewhat more than otters normally reached. Despite the haze still fogging his brain, he was also fairly certain that they didn’t run around in green felt peaked hats, snakeskin vests, or maroon velveteen pants puffed at the ankles. Very deliberately, Jon rose, regarded the stub of the joint he held tightly in his right hand, and flicked it distastefully away. The problem of the moment was not the existence of the utterly impossible otter, but of what his friend Shelly had cut the weed with.

  Nevertheless, Jon couldn’t take his eyes off the creature as it rolled over onto its rump. The velveteen pantaloons impressed on him a fact he’d never had much reason to consider before: otters have very low waistlines.

  This one tugged its feathered cap down firmly over cookie-shaped ears and commenced gathering up the arrows that had spilled from the quiver slung across his back. The task was complicated by the short sword and scabbard strapped across his chest, which kept getting in the way whenever he bent over. An occasional murderous stare directed toward Jon gave him the feeling that the animal would enjoy putting one of the foot-long shafts into him.

  That was no reason for concern. He swayed and relished the hallucination. Cannabis had never generated hallucinations in him before, but there was always a first time. What had Shelly been cutting their stash with?

  Proof that it was cut with something powerful was stumbling about the grass before him, muttering under its breath and gathering arrows.

  Doubtless his overtaxed brain was suffering from the long hours of study he’d been putting in lately, coupled with his working from nine at night until three in the morning. The work was necessary. Finals were due in seven weeks, and then presentation of his master’s thesis. He savored the title once more: Manifestations and prefiguring of democratic government in the Americas, as exemplified by the noble-sun king relationships of the Inca, 1248-1350. It was a great title, he felt, and in presenting a thesis a good title was half the fight. No matter how brilliant the research or the writing, you were doomed without a title.

  Having placed the last arrow in its quiver, the otter was carefully sliding it around to his back. This done, he gazed across the meadow. His sharp black eyes took in every tree and bush. Eventually the alert gaze came around to rest on the dreamy figure of Jon Meriweather.

  Since the vision appeared to be waiting for some sort of comment, the good-natured graduate student said, “What can I do for you, offspring of my nighttime daydreaming?”

  By way of reply the animal again directed its attention across the meadow, searched briefly, then pointed to a far copse. Jon lazily followed the otter’s gesture.

  Disappearing beneath a mossy boulder the size and shape of a demolished Volkswagen was a bright yellow lizard slightly larger than a chicken. It darted along on its hind legs, the long whiplike tail extended out behind for balance. Once it stared back over its shoulder, revealing a double row of pink dots running down its throat and chest. Then it was gone into the safety of its burrow.

  Reality began to rear its ugly head. Jon was slowly taking note of his surroundings. His bed and room, the rows of books on concrete-block-supported shelves, the pinups, the battered TV, had been replaced by an encircling forest of oaks, sycamores, birch, and pine. Tuliplike flowers gleamed nearby, rising above thick grass and clover, some of which was blue. A faint tinkling, as of temple bells, sounded from the distant trees.

  Jon held both hands to his head. Lucidity continued to flee laughingly just ahead of his thoughts. He remembered a pain, a pulling that threatened to tear his brain out of his skull. Then he’d been drifting, a different drift from the usual relaxing stupor that enveloped him during an evening of hard study and heavy smoking. His head throbbed.

  “Well?” asked the otter unexpectedly, in a high-pitched but not really squeaky voice.

  “Well what?” Soon, he told himself frantically, soon I’ll wake up and find myself asleep on the bed, with the rest of the Mexia History of All the Roman Emperors still to be finished. Not hash, he thought. Something stronger. God, my head.

  “You asked what you could do for me.” The otter gestured again, a quick, rapid movement in the general direction of the boulder at the edge of the woods. “As your damned great foot caused me t’ fall and lose the granbit, you can bloody well go and dig it out for me.”

  “What for? Were you going to eat it?”

  “Nay.” The otter’s tone was bitterly sarcastic. “I were goin’ t’ tie the bloody two-legs ’round me neck and wear it as a bloody pendant, I was.” His whiskers quivered with his rage. “Try t’ play the smartyarse with me, will you? I suppose you be thinkin’ your size will protect you?”

  Casually adjusting his bow across his back and chest, the animal drew his short sword and approached Jon, who did not back away. How could he, being deep asleep?

  “I know what happens now.” He shifted his feet, almost fell. “You’ll kill me, and I’ll wake up. It’s about time. I’ve got a whole damn book to finish.”

  “Be you daft!” The otter’s head cocked nervously to one side and a furry paw scratched a cheek. “‘Cor, I believe you are.” He looked around warily. “I know not what influences are bein’ brought t’ bear in this place, but it’s cost me a granbit. I’m for leavin’. Will you not at least apologize?”

  “You mean for tripping you?” Jon considered. “I didn’t do a damn thing. I’m asleep, remember?”

  “You’re a damn sight worse than asleep, man. The granbit choke you and make you throw up your bowels, if you be lucky enough t’ catch it. I’m finished with it, if it means encounterin’ the likes o’ you. And
if you follow me, I’ll slit you from mouth to arse and hasten the process. Keep your damned apology then, and take this parting gift in return.”

  So saying, he jabbed the dream sword at Jon. It sliced his shirt and nicked his left side just above the belt holding up his jeans. A blinding pain exploded in his side, dampened only slightly by the lingering effects of the evening’s smoking. His mouth opened to form a small “O” of surprise. Both hands went to his ribs.

  The otter withdrew his sword, the tip now stained red, and slipped it back in its scabbard after cleaning it with tall grass. He turned and started away, muttering obscenities. Jon watched it waddle off across the grass, heading toward the trees.

  The pain in his side intensified. Red stained his blue T-shirt. A warm wetness trickled cloyingly down inside his underwear and started down the left leg of his jeans. Superficial wounds bleed way out of proportion to their seriousness, he told himself. But it hurts, he thought despairingly.

  I hope to God I wake up soon.

  But if he was asleep … the pain was too real, far more so than trees or otter. Blood staining the grass, he limped after his assailant.

  “Wait a minute … please, wait!” The words were thick in his dry throat, and he was ravenously hungry. Holding his wounded side with his left hand and waving his right, he stumbled after the otter. Clover broke fragrantly under his sandals and small flying things erupted in panic from the grass under his feet, to conceal themselves quickly in other pockets of protective green.

  Bright sunlight filled the meadow. Birds sang strange songs. Butterflies with stained-glass wings crowned the tulips.

  Having reached the outer rank of trees the otter hesitated under an umber sycamore and half drew his sword. “I’m not afeared o’ you, daemon-man. Come closer and I’ll stick you again.” But even while he uttered this brave challenge the animal was backing slowly into the woods, looking to left and right for an avenue of escape.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” Jon whispered, as much from the agony in his side as from a desire not to panic the creature. “I just want to wake up, that’s all.” Tears started from his eyes. “Please let me wake up. I want to leave this dream and get back to work. I’ll never take another toke, honest to God. It hurts.”