Masters of Fantasy Part 24

replaced by one of revelation, followed by one of shock. As this panoply of expression transformed her lovely face, Jon-Tom was half carrying Mudge, who was engaged in trying to buckle the belt of his shorts, toward the doorway where Stromagg kept tipsy watch.

"OmiG.o.d!" the girl suddenly screamed, one hand rising to her mouth, "it's not a special effect!"Looking back as he was dragged out the door, an offended Mudge called back. "I resent that, luv!"Hearing the girl's screams, a group of heavily armed attendees had begun to gather at the far end of the hallway. While any band of professionals from Lynchbany would have made short work of the lot, several of the costumed cl.u.s.ter did appear to be more than a little competent. And there was nothing slipshod or fragile about the a.s.sortment of swords and axes and lances they carried.

"This way!" With the increasingly outraged costumers following, Jon-Tom led his friends around the corner of the hallway that encircled the auditorium, searching for an exit that led back out onto the rain- washed side street.

"Here, you three." Up ahead, a neatly suited hotel security guard had materialized to block their path.

"What's this I hear about you freaks causing trouble with-?" His slightly pompous accusation was cut off in mid-sentence as Stromagg stiff-armed him into the nearest wall, directly beside a painting of a skinny lord seated astride a decidedly astringent thoroughbred.

Bursting back out into the street, Jon-Tom led the way toward the underground station. It was darker than ever outside, but at least the rain had stopped falling. An oncoming car had to screech to a halt to avoid slamming into the fleeing trio.

Within the vehicle, a well-dressed middle-aged couple looked on as the tall, medievally clad spellsinger; a giant otter in feathered cap, vest, and short pants; and a rapidly sobering leather-armored grizzly bear thundered past. They were followed soon after by an enraged mob of weapon-waving fans dressed as everything from a giant spider to a female Mr. Spock missing one ear. Peering through the winds.h.i.+eld in the wake of this singular parade, the husband slowly shook his head from side to side before commenting knowingly to his equally mystified spouse. Pressing gently on the accelerator, he urged the car forward.

"I'm telling you, dear. There's no question about it. London gets worse every year."

Looking back over his shoulder, Mudge began to make insulting faces at their pursuers. He would have

dropped his pants except that Jon-Tom threatened to brain him with the flat of his own sword. As usual, the otter reflected, the often dour spellsinger simply did not know how to have fun.

"There!" Jon-Tom pointed in the direction of the softly glowing split circle. A sphere of black mist was

just visible plunging down the portal.

Racing past a brace of startled Underground travelers, he and Stromagg hurtled down the stairs in pursuit of the ebony globe. Mudge chose to slide gleefully down the central banister, looking back up

the stairwell to flash obscene gestures in the direction of their pursuers. His scatological gesticulations transcended species.

Alongside the automatic gates that led to the boarding platform, a startled security officer looked up in

the direction of the approaching commotion.

"See here, you lot need to slow down and . . ."

Accelerating to pa.s.s Jon-Tom, Stromagg shoved the officer aside. Grabbing one in each paw, he ripped

two of the barriers out of the floor and flung them ceilingward. Mudge and Jon-Tom s.h.i.+elded their heads

as thousands of Underground tokens from the crumpled barriers rained down on them.

Lying off to one side amid the rubble, cap and uniform askew, the unlucky guard looked up numbly. "Of course, if it's an emergency. . . ."

Slowing as they reached the Underground platform, a panting Jon-Tom looked back to see that pursuit

had slowed as the angry fans stopped to gather up handfuls of tokens. Mudge was fairly dancing with

fury.

"Puling 'umans! Shrew-p.r.i.c.ked candy lobbers!" He had his short sword out and was stabbing repeatedly at empty air. "I'll skewer the bleedin' lot o' them!"

"You aren't going to skewer anyone." Climbing down off the platform onto the tunnel track, Jon-Tom started north, in the direction taken by the floating ball of black mist-magic. His companions followed.

Unlimbering his duar as they plunged into the feebly illuminated tunnel, he began to play softly. The glow from the instrument served to show the way.

Sword rescabbarded, hands jammed in pockets, Mudge kicked angrily at the occasional rock or empty soda can underfoot. " 'Tis an unaccomodatin' world, is yours, mate. Unfriendly an' worse, no sense o'

fellows.h.i.+p." Then he remembered the other otter, and a small smile played across his mouth.

As if recalling a fond and distant thought, Stromagg peered into the darkness ahead. "Beer?"

A light appeared, growing brighter as it came toward them. A light, and a roaring they had heard once before. Startled, Jon-Tom began to back-track. Literally.

"Oh s.h.i.+t."

Mudge made a face. "More incomprehensible spellsinger lyrics?"

"Run!" Turning, Jon-Tom broke into a desperate sprint. How far up the tunnel had they come? How far

was it back to the pa.s.senger platform?As the light of the oncoming train bore down on them, he fumbled with the duar and with memories of train-related songs. There was the theme from Trainspotting-no, that probably wouldn't work. He couldn't remember the words to "A Train A-Comin'. " Heavy metal, punk, ska, even industrial had little use for trains.

He was still frantically seeking appropriate lyrics as the train bore down on them. The engineer saw the

wide-eyed trio running in front of his engine and threw on the brakes. An ear-piercing screeee! echoed from the walls of the tunnel. Too little, too late.

Jon-Tom found himself stumbling, going down. As he fell, he saw something directly beneath him. It wasn't the empty plastic wrappers, or stubbed cigarettes, or torn, useless lotto tickets that drew his attention. It was a flat circle of softly seething black mist, lying neatly between but not touching the tracks or the center rail. He let himself fall, hoping his companions would see what was happening to him, hoping they would follow.

Of course, it might simply be a lingering patch of black fog, rising from the heat of the tracks.

He felt himself, thankfully, blissfully, continuing to fall long after he should have struck the ground.

Seeming to pa.s.s directly over his head, barely inches from his ear, the roar of the train faded. He hit the

ground, rolled, and opened his eyes. They were still in his head, which was in turn still attached to his shoulders. These were good signs. Sitting up, he rubbed the back of his neck and winced. Reaching around behind him, he found that the precious duar was battered from the fall but still intact.

Nearby, Mudge cast a pain-wracked eye at his friend. "That's it, mate. I've bleedin' 'ad it, I 'ave. Give me

me share o' old Wolfram's gold and I'll be quietly on me way." Behind him, a groaning Stromagg was

just starting to regain consciousness.

Looking away from the angry otter, Jon-Tom found himself staring. "Don't you think you ought to have a look around, first?"

"Why? Wot the b.l.o.o.d.y 'ell should I . . ." The otter broke off, joined his friend in gawking silently.

Namur Castle rose from a narrow ridge of rock surrounded on all sides by sheer precipices. A wooden bridge crossed from the mountainside on which man and otter found themselves to a small intervening pinnacle, from where a second, slightly narrower bridge arched to meet a high wooden doorway.

Towering granite spires rose on all sides, while a tree-lined flat-topped plateau dominated the distant horizon. Jon-Tom and his companions were enthralled. It was an impressive setting.

Starting across the first bridge, Mudge warily glanced over the single railing. Like a bright-blue ribbon

dropped from a giant's hand, a small river wound and twisted its way through the deep canyon beneath.

They reached the intervening pinnacle and crossed the second bridge, whereupon they found themselves confronting a ma.s.sive, iron-bound door. Tilting back his head, Mudge rested hands on low hips and muttered aloud.

"Wot now, Mr. Spelltwit, sor? You goin' to sing us up a key, or wot?"

An irritated Jon-Tom contemplated the barrier. "Give me a minute, Mudge. I got us here, didn't I?"

The otter snorted softly. "Oi, that you did-though one might complain about the roundaboutness o' the

route you chose. London!" He shook his head mournfully. "Give me Lynchbany any day."

While man and otter argued, the silent Stromagg approached the impediment, considered it a moment, and then balled both paws into fists the size of cannonb.a.l.l.s. Raising them high over his head and rising on tiptoes (a sight in itself to behold), he brought both fists down and forward with all his considerable

weight behind them. The center of the door promptly collapsed in a pile of shattered slats and splinters.

Dust rose from the center of the destruction.

Approaching cautiously, Mudge peered through the newly made opening. "So much for a bloomin' key."

The interior of the foyer was dim, illuminated only by light s.h.i.+ning through high windows. Nothing

moved within, not even a piebald rat. Mudge's sensitive nose was working overtime, his long whiskers twitching.

"Sure you got the right foreboding castle 'ere, mate?"

Jon-Tom continued through the high vestibule, eyed the sweeping double stairway at the far end of the great room. "I sang for one and one only. This must be the right place."