Masters of Fantasy Part 21

Jon-Tom's expression wrinkled with thought. "I know the direction, though I've never been there."

"Nor I," Mudge added. " 'Eard 'tis a dry and homey place."

"There is an unclimbable cliff," Wolfram explained. "I will give you specific directions to it. On the far

side lies Namur Castle, wherein dwells the beauteous Larinda. Serenade her on my behalf. Sing to her of

my undying affection, then return to collect the rest of your well-earned due."

"'Scuse me 'ere a minim, guv'nor." The otter squinted skeptically at the graybeard. " 'Ow now are we supposed to get over an unclimbable cliff?"

Wolfram smiled from beneath the cowl of his blue and red cloak. "That, my energetic friend, is why I have sought out a spellsinger to do the singing. How you surmount the barrier is your problem. Or did you think I was paying you only for a love song?"

Jon-Tom was not discouraged "I'm a pretty decent climber. No ascent is 'unclimbable.' " He looked down at Mudge. "If necessary, I'll just sing us up the appropriate gear. Or perhaps a great bird to ferry us over."

Mudge winced. "You forget, guv, that I've seen 'ow all too much o' your spellsingin' as a way o' turnin'

out."

"We'll cope." Jon-Tom stood a little straighter. "After all, I've had plenty of practice by now. I'm far more in command of my skills than I was when I first picked up this duar." He patted the instrument confidently, turned his gaze to the lingering, looming grizzly. "How about it, Stromagg? It's always useful to have someone like yourself along on a journey such as this? Are you with us?"

The bear's great brows furrowed. "Will there be beer?"

-II-.

The granite cliffs and b.u.t.tes that rose around them were streaked with gray and black, ivory and streaks of olivine green. Stromagg strode tirelessly forward on his hind legs, Jon-Tom riding on one shoulder and Mudge on the other. The twice-burdened bear seemed not to notice the weight at all. In any event, he did not complain. Not even when Mudge would rise to a standing position for a better view. Jon-Tom did not worry about his companion's awkward stance. For one thing, it would do no good: the otter held advice in the same regard as teetotaling. For another, otters have superb balance-and very low centers of gravity.

Overhead, vultures circled, gossiping like black-cloaked old women. They were as civilized as any bird

that inhabited the Warmlands, exceedingly polite, and fastidious in their table manners.

"There they are." Jon-Tom consulted the map their employer had sketched for them. There was no mistaking the twin b.u.t.tes. From a distance, the spellsinger saw, the eroded ma.s.sif known as Mouravi resembled a horned skull. "The cliff wall should lie just to the left of them."

Rising from the arroyo down which they had been hiking, they suddenly and unexpectedly encountered the truth of his observation in the form of a solid wall of rock. Slipping down from Stromagg's shoulder, Jon-Tom tilted his head back, back, until his neck began to ache. The cliff wall was at least five hundred feet high and as smooth as a marble slab. Swift inspection revealed that the featureless schist would make for a treacherous climb at best.

Examining the obstacle, Mudge let out a short, derisive whistle. "No problem, guv. I say we keep the half payment that old geezer gave us and hightail it up to Malderpot. Nice taverns in Malderpot. By the time the old geezer can track us down, we'll b.l.o.o.d.y well 'ave drunk away his gold."

"Now, Mudge." The spellsinger studied the seemingly impa.s.sable barrier. "That would hardly be

honorable."

" 'Onorable, 'onorable." The otter scratched under his chin, his whiskers rising slightly. "From wot foreign tongue arises that strange word, wot I'm sure I never 'eard before and ain't quite familiar with?"

Stromagg frowned at the barrier and promptly sat down, dust rising from the fringes of his enormous brown behind. His leather armor hung loose against the vastness of his immense frame. "Stromagg not built for climbing."

"That's all right." Jon-Tom unlimbered his duar. "When Wolfram described this to us, I never expected to have to actually climb it. That's what he, and anyone else, would expect." Slipping the unique instrument across his front, he gently strummed the intersecting set of dual strings. A soft pulse of light appeared at the nexus. "We're not going over this barrier. We're going through it."

"Through it?" Mudge squinted at the solid rock, glanced meaningfully at Stromagg. "Through what, mate? Am I missin' something 'ere?"

"Why, through that tunnel." Jon-Tom pointed. "The one right there."

Once again, Mudge eyed the stone. Then he made the connection with the duar, the position of his friend's hovering hands, and his eyes widened slightly. "Now mate, are you sure this is a better idea than wastin' away old Wolfp.r.i.c.k's money in lubricious Malderpot? You know wot 'appens when you open your mouth and somethin' kind o' like a song comes out."

"Just like I told Wolfram, Mudge. My skill has improved greatly with time and practice."

The otter grunted. "As opposed to the odds improvin'. " He moved to stand close to, or rather behind, the

bemused Stromagg as Jon-Tom approached the solid rock. The bear frowned down at the infinitely smaller otter.

"What happens now?"

Mudge put his hands over his ears. "If you've any sensitivity at all, large brother, you'll cover your

bloomin' 'ears."

Stromagg hesitated, then raised his enormous paws. "There will be pain from the wizardry?"

"Not from the wizardry, guv." Mudge's expression tightened. "Trust me on this. You ain't 'eard old

Jonnny-Tom sing. I 'ave."

His fingers strumming the duar, Jon-Tom launched into the song he had selected, a ditty of penetrating

power from early Zeppelin. The grizzly's paws immediately clapped over his ears, bending them down forcefully against the top of his head.

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 moved 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 otter could not take his eyes from it.

Detaching itself from the interdimensional wherever of the duar, the orb of ebon vapor drifted slowly toward the rock wall. It hesitated, and began to reverse direction. That movement prompted a redoubling of power chords by a suddenly anxious Jon-Tom. What might happen if the blackness fell back into the duar he couldn't imagine. 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 spread itself across the perpendicular surface like a giant droplet of oil. When the last of it had seeped into the stone, Jon-Tom brought the vibrant song to a rousing conclusion that made both his furry companions wince.

Wiping sweat from his brow, the spellsinger pointed proudly. "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." Pus.h.i.+ng his feathered cap back on his forehead, he eyed his friend guardedly. "So I suppose all we 'ave to do now is stroll right on through the 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 'ole in this 'ere 'ill. But as to whether it leads to a castle or not remains to been seen, wot?"

"Only one way to find out." Striding confidently past his friend, Jon-Tom started in.

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 it.

It was already occupied.

Drawing his short sword, a growling, whistling Mudge started to back up. Alongside him, Stromagg

raised the huge mace that he carried slung across his broad back. "Oi, you've done it again, alright, mate.

Now 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 very sharp teeth. Multilegged puffb.a.l.l.s with fangs, they resembled nothing in this world. Which made perfect sense, since Jon-Tom had sung them up from a different world entire. While Mudge and Stromagg hacked and sliced, Jon-Tom tried to think of an appropriate song to send the fuzzy horde back to the h.e.l.l from which they had sprung.

Slas.h.i.+ng wildly at something sporting tentacles and razor-lined suckers, Mudge spared a frantic glance for his friend. The tunnel continued to vomit forth more and more of the sinister, red-eyed a.s.sa.s.sins. "Sing 'em away, mate! Sing 'em gone. Sing the b.l.o.o.d.y 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 backwards, 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 eventually began to sing once again. Mudge recognized the tune immediately. It was the same one his friend had sung moments earlier, to produce the tunnel.

"Are you mad, mate? We don't need twice as many of these 'orrors. We need less of 'em!" Ducking with

astonis.h.i.+ng speed, he cut the legs out from an a.s.sailant that had plenty of spares.