The Moment of the Magician: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Four) Page 25

  “Listen, all of you,” Memaw urged them. Mudge and Selryndi quit squabbling as something scraped against distant stones. This was followed by a heavy wheeze. Wind from another tunnel, Jon-Tom thought. Or something waking up.

  Unconsciously, everyone retreated toward the drainage tunnel. “What do the old legends say about this?” Jon-Tom asked the wizard. “Nothing,” came Oplode’s whispered reply. “There is not supposed to be anything down here. This is the place of the dead.”

  Chunk! Gravel shifted underfoot, followed by a vast exhaling and an odor like burning charcoal. Quorly clung to Mudge’s arm.

  “’Tis comin’ this way!”

  “Stay still, don’t let it know we’re afraid,” Mudge told her, trying to edge behind Memaw and Sasswise.

  Oplode raised a hand and muttered something under his breath, but it had no effect on whatever shared the chamber with them. It was moving nearer.

  “It is no use. I am still constrained from working magic by the spell Markus laid upon me. I cannot break free.”

  “Get ready to run for the tunnel,” Memaw told them. It lay close at hand, but it would take time for all of them to crowd inside the narrow opening, and a sudden rush ran the risk of stirring to action whatever was coming toward them.

  There was a brief explosion of flame in the darkness, accompanied by a thick acrid smell. Then a low growl, rich and throaty.

  “Try singin’ somethin’, mate!” Mudge urged Jon-Tom.

  “But I haven’t got the duar.”

  “Try anyway, mate. Try somethin’!”

  “Sasswise,” said Memaw, “you, Flutz, and I will try to divert its attention while the others file into the tunnel. The rest of you prepare yourselves.” The otters scrambled to salvage old bones, rocks, anything that might be used as a weapon.

  Jon-Tom began to sing. He had no plan in mind, no brilliant ideas, and he was certain the magic wouldn’t happen without the duar’s music, but he had to try. If nothing else, it might concentrate the thing’s attention on him while the others fled into the tunnel. The first notes trembled, but his voice steadied as he sang on. He could hear his companions rushing for the tunnel entrance.

  An immense outline turned toward him … and hesitated. Mudge called out to him.

  “That’s it, mate! Keep singin’. ’Tis workin!”

  It couldn’t be, Jon-Tom thought. There was no magic without the duar, none, no way! It couldn’t be working.

  Yet there was no question of it: the thing had halted in its leisurely approach.

  A thunderous whisper filled the chamber then.

  “Jon-Tom.”

  “Blimey,” muttered Splitch, “it knows ’im!”

  “It knows the spellsinger,” Oplode observed aloud.

  “Spellsinger,” the voice echoed in the darkness.

  Jon-Tom squinted, trying to see in the poor light as he took a reluctant step forward.

  A blast of fire erupted over his head. Screams came from the otters and the Quorum members as they rushed in panic for the tunnel, running into each other and stumbling over the bones on the floor. But Jon-Tom didn’t move. The fire had passed over him. Nor had it been directed at any of his companions. It had been aimed ceilingward, to generate light and not destruction.

  The instant of brilliant illumination hurt his eyes, but not so badly that he couldn’t recognize its source.

  “Comrade Falameezar,” he asked hesitantly, “is that you?”

  XVI

  A GREAT CLAWED HAND descended and picked Jon-Tom off the floor. He could feel the thick, leathery membrane that ran between the fingers. The hand lifted him until it paused in front of a mouth full of curving teeth. A single puff could incinerate him in a second, sizzle his bones and melt his flesh. There was heat and the smell of brimstone, but no hint of cremation.

  “It is you, Falameezar! I’ll be damned.”

  “We are all damned, comrade Jon-Tom,” said the dragon somberly. “What are you doing here?”

  Jon-Tom sat down on the slick, scaly palm and turned to his friends. “It’s okay. He’s a friend. This is comrade Falameezar, a good proletarian.”

  “What is the man talking about?” Memaw asked Mudge.

  The otter strode boldly out into the chamber. “We know this bloke, we do. ’E ’elped us once before, on our way to Polastrindu. Though wot ’e’s doin’ ’ere I’ll be buggered if I know.” He looked back into the tunnel, which was filled with anxious faces. “Everyone, ’tis all right. You can come out. Only,” he added more quietly, “wotever you do, don’t say anythin’ about makin’ money.” He fought to recall some of the confusing but effective conversations Jon-Tom had held with the river dragon as it had carried them up the river Tailaroam toward far Polastrindu not so very long ago. The dragon was … what had Jon-Tom called it? … a Marked Met. No, something more compact. Marxist, yeah, that was it. The dragon was a Marxist, whatever that was.

  But he was certainly sensitive about it. Dedicated, Jon-Tom had called him. Mudge knew better. The dragon was nuts.

  He spoke to his friends as they hesitantly emerged from hiding. “Just act collective,” he told them.

  “What does that mean?” Memaw asked him.

  “’Ow the ’ell do I know? Just make sure everybody does it.”

  Jon-Tom was patting the dragon on the snout. “Comrade Falameezar, it appears we are to be companions in misfortune.”

  “So it would seem.” The dragon set him down gently, then looked around and opened his mouth. Another blast of flame spewed forth. The members of the Quorum cowered against the nearest wall, but Oplode and the otters edged forward.

  Falameezar’s well-aimed blast set a huge pile of debris on fire. It burned fitfully at best but provided enough light for everyone to see clearly for the first time since they’d fled from their cell. They gathered around while the dragon lay down on his belly, crossed his arms, and rested his head against them.

  “How did you get here?” Jon-Tom asked him.

  “I wasn’t having much luck trying to raise the consciousness of the masses who live on the shores of the Tailaroam,” the dragon explained, “so I determined to try to find a group of the oppressed who were more receptive.

  “I’d heard much of this land, where the lakes are large and the fish plentiful. So I made my way here and, surely enough, found the workers badly in need of organizing.” He sighed and a puff of smoke drifted ceilingward. “But as so often seems to happen, the people here were reluctant to listen to me.”

  “Can’t imagine why,” Quorly whispered.

  “So I decided this time to try to convert the heads of state instead of the people.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Jon-Tom.

  “Precisely, comrade. I allowed myself to be deceived by the honeyed words of the local ruler, a strange human very different from yourself.”

  “Markus the Ineluctable.”

  “Yes. I did not know at first that he had deposed the rightful rulers of this place, nor that he was a powerful magician as well as a disgusting fascist whose only aim is the exploitation of the masses for personal gain. But by the time I learned all this he had rendered me sleepy. I vaguely remember being brought to the large room above. The floor was removed and I was dropped down here, and then walled up.

  “I’ve tried to break out but the stone is solid and thick. It will not burn. So here I have remained, trapped by this evil imperialist. He does feed me well, though. The trumpet calls me when a meal is ready.” Falameezar moved his head and sniffed at the body of Jestutia. “A banker this time. Markus is clever. He has learned that I will only eat capitalists.”

  “I’m surprised at you,” Jon-Tom said accusingly. “Even a banker can be converted to the cause of the people.”

  “Not if he’s dead.” The dragon sniffed again. “Yes, a dead banker. I’m sure of it. I hate bankers, you know. Filthy robber-barons.”

  Near the back wall Newmadeen was hurriedly going through her pockets. Like the recently deceased macaque, s
he was also in the business of lending money. Until now she’d never had reason to regret it. Fortunately, Falameezar was too involved in conversation with his newfound friends to do any serious sniffing, and she was able to unburden herself of money, notes, and assorted usurious I.O.U.’s.

  “Besides,” he was saying, “a dragon has to eat.” He extended his long neck and snapped up the unfortunate Jestutia in a single bite, chewed noisily.

  “’Ere now,” murmured Sasswise, looking at Newmadeen, “this one’s gone and fainted.”

  Falameezar noticed it, too, sniffed curiously as he chewed. “What’s wrong with your companion? If I didn’t know better I’d …”

  Jon-Tom hurried to distract the dragon. “It’s the air down here. These are the legitimate rulers of Quasequa, by the way. They have no more love for Markus than you. They constitute the legitimate, uh, soviet that the magician has deposed.”

  “I did not realize that this government was so advanced,” Falameezar replied in surprise.

  “They’re working on it,” Jon-Tom assured him. “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes, yes, yes!” The conscious members of the Quorum managed to reply with enthusiasm, if a bit too quickly.

  Falameezar looked pleased. “It is good to have right-thinking company in such sad circumstances. As it is good to see my old comrade again. You, too, Mudge, even if you did express the occasional reactionary thought.” The otter allowed himself to be stroked by a single swordlike talon.

  “If only I could get ahold of my duar,” Jon-Tom mumbled. “Markus hasn’t placed any anti-magic spells on me.”

  “That is so,” admitted Oplode. “I would have sensed it if he had.”

  “Then there’s only one thing left to try.” He started toward the tunnel. “I have to go back to our cell.”

  “You’re jokin’, mate.”

  “No, Mudge. It’s the only way. I’ve got an idea. Mudge, will you and Quorly come back with me?”

  “Count on me, Jonny-Tom,” she replied. Her ready agreement made Mudge’s acquiescence a foregone conclusion.

  “I’ll be back in a little while, Falameezar.”

  “Good luck, comrade.”

  “Just a minute.” Memaw stepped in front of Jon-Tom as he bent to enter the tunnel. She looked significantly past him. “What do we talk about with the dragon?”

  “Anything you can think of. He likes to chat. The last weather we saw outside, jokes … Falameezar’s great with jokes. Simple things. Just make sure nobody talks about how rich they’d like to be. Fame you can talk about, but not fortune. Tell him how much you all despise the capitalist bosses.”

  “What are those?”

  “Never mind. Just do it. It’ll please him.”

  Memaw was still reluctant to let him leave. “What are you going to do, work some strange magic on our behalf?” He nodded. “But I thought you told us you required your duar in order to work magic.”

  “There’s magic, and then there’s magic.” He winked at her, then bent and began gathering bones. As many as he could carry. He directed Mudge and Quorly to do likewise.

  “Oi, it works better when you use the duar, mate. There’s less to carry.” Staggering beneath his gruesome burden, he followed Quorly and Jon-Tom into the tunnel.

  Making their way through the narrow tube had been difficult enough with their hands free. With the armfuls of bones it was twice as hard. But the otters never complained, and Jon-Tom was damned if he was going to be the one to call for a rest.

  Eventually they found themselves beneath the entrance to their cell. They dumped their loads. Mudge went up Jon-Tom’s back as lithely as he would have a tree, and listened.

  “Dead quiet, mate. They ’aven’t checked on us since we took our little walk. No need to, really. Wasn’t likely we’d be goin’ anywhere, now, was it?”

  “Move those stones and let’s get up there.”

  “Right, mate, but you’d better know wot you’re about.”

  “You’ll understand soon enough.”

  Sure enough, once their cargo had been arranged according to his instructions, Mudge knew just what his lanky, furless friend had in mind.

  “What was that?” The javelina turnkey spoke to the fennec seated across the table. The fennec’s oversized ears immediately cocked sideways.

  “Beats me. I heard it too.” He put aside his handful of odd triangular cards and snouted toward the stairway. “You prisoners be quiet or you won’t get your next ration of slop!”

  The eerie moaning which had interrupted their game grew louder.

  “Don’t sound like the otters,” said the javelina, cleaning a nail on one upthrust tusk. He then used it to strip the bark from a piece of cane, stuck the clean pulp in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. When the moaning continued he put down his cards, careful not to reveal them to his companion, and issued an irritated grunt.

  “We’d better see what’s going on down there.”

  “Maybe they’re killing each other.”

  “They’d better not be. Thornrack himself ordered me to make sure they stay healthy until the new magician decides what’s to be done with them.” He took a three-foot-long knife off the wall. The fennec opted for a long spear. This was excellent for poking at prisoners through bars.

  Each grabbed a torch as they started down the stairs. Soon they were on the lower level, staring through the bars of the big cell. Staring hard.

  “By the curl in my grandmother’s tail!” the stunned javelina muttered. “What’s happened to them?” His initial irritation had turned to panic.

  “Dead,” moaned a quavering voice from the back of the cell, “they’re all deeeaddd.”

  “What do you mean, all dead?” the fennec stuttered as he struggled to locate the speaker. The voice responded with a moan.

  “Open it up,” he told the turnkey. The javelina nodded, used his keys and then his hands to swing the huge grate slightly ajar. Hefting the long knife, he entered cautiously while the fennec waited by the door in case any of the prisoners tried to make a break for it.

  No one did. There was no one in the cell. Except … in the farthest corner he found the tall man sitting with his back against the wall. His hands half covered his face, and he was shaking in terror.

  “What’s the matter with you?” The turnkey’s eyes roamed the deserted darkness nervously. “Where are the rest of them?”

  “The wizard, it was the wizard who did it,” Jon-Tom moaned feebly. He gestured with a shaky hand. “Did it to all of them.”

  “Did what?” The javelina’s blunt muzzle twitched as he followed the pointing fingers.

  A substantial pile of white bones lay nearby, heaped up in a jumble against the wall. Had the turnkey taken the time to look closely he might have seen that none of the skeletons belonged to otters, or a salamander, or a pangolin, but to entirely different species. It might not have mattered anyway. His knowledge of anatomy was pretty much restricted to knowing where the best place to stick a knife was.

  “By the Ovens of Suranis!” he whispered fearfully.

  “What is it, where are all the prisoners?” The fennec stuck his head into the cell, trying to see.

  “Gone, all gone. Nothing left of them except their bones.” The javelina swung his torch to illuminate as much of the cell as possible. “What manner of sorcery is this?”

  “He did it. The salamander did it.”

  “Old Oplode?”

  “Yes, yes,the slimy one! He said he was tired of this, tired of everyone and everything, and he did this. Only I was s-s-spared.”

  “A spell was put on him to prevent him from working magic. The new wizard did that himself. We were told,” the javelina insisted.

  “I know, I know, but the slimy one struck a bargain with the creatures of the dark, and now he’s going to do that to all who oppose him.” Jon-Tom pointed toward the pile of bones. “I saw, I saw him do it. He made the flesh run like butter from their bones, made it melt and drip…”

  The
fennec couldn’t stand it anymore. His mind told him there was only one live prisoner left in the cell and his curiosity was killing him. He held his spear in front of him as he entered.

  “What’s this garbage this fool’s saying?” he asked the turnkey.

  “Look, they’re all dead,” stuttered the javelina. He pointed at the bones. “The wizard Oplode killed them. A great sorcery.” There was fear in his voice now.

  “I don’t know about that,” muttered the fennec, “but we’d better tell Thornrack.” He started backing toward the exit.

  As he did so, Mudge and Quorly dropped from the crevices in the ceiling where they’d been hiding and flailed away at the guards with the leg bones they’d been holding in their teeth. The javelina dropped his long knife, the man he’d been questioning underwent a miraculous transformation, and in seconds both guards lay dead on the floor of the cell.

  Mudge hefted the fennec’s spear while Quorly helped herself to the knife from his belt. “Now, that,” Mudge said with ghoulish satisfaction, “is wot I calls magic!” He kicked the javelina in the side.

  “I’m sorry we had to kill them,” Jon-Tom murmured. “I don’t like unnecessary slaughter.”

  “Oi, but this were necessary slaughter,” Quorly observed. She glanced at Mudge. “Wot is ’e, squeamish or somethin’?”

  “Or somethin’, luv, but don’t ’old it against ’im.”

  They crept out of the cell and started up the stairs. No one challenged them when they entered the deserted guard room, where they helped themselves to handfuls of weapons. Thus equipped, they took the place apart searching for Mudge’s bow and Jon-Tom’s duar.

  “No luck,” grumbled Mudge as he finished excavating the last cabinet. “Maybe further up. I thought I saw a barred storeroom on our right when they were bringin’ us down ’ere.”

  Jon-Tom nodded. They climbed to the next level.

  Where they found the storeroom Mudge remembered. They also saw a pudgy but alert hare standing in front of the half-open door.

  At the same time, the rabbit saw them and turned to slam the door shut. Mudge threw his spear and the swinging grate slammed against it. The guard did manage a piercing scream before Quorly could cut his throat. Nothing can scream like a dying hare.