Alan Dean Foster
The young woman was beautiful, her male companion was shy, and the hat was surreptitious. This feathered chapeau of uncertain parentage bobbed along innocently enough behind the stone wall on which the two young paramours sat whispering sweet nothings to one another. The hat dipped out of sight an instant before the girl's lips parted in shock. Reacting swiftly to the perceived offense, she whirled and struck the startled young man seated beside her hard enough to knock him backwards off the wall. But by that time the hat had hastened beyond sight, sound, and possible indictment.
Beneath the hat as it emerged from behind the wall, having strewn amorous chaos in its wake, was a five-foot-tall otter clad (in addition to the aforementioned feathered cap) in short pants, long vest, and a self-satisfied smirk. Ignoring the occasional glances that came his way, the hirsute, bewhiskered, and thoroughly disreputable Mudge wended his way through the streets of downtown Timswitty. Eventually his sharp eyes caught sight of his friend, companion, and frequent irritant from another world leaning against the wall of a dry-goods shop while soaking up the sun. Dodging a single lizard-drawn wagon festooned with clanging pots and pans for sale, he hailed his companion with a cheery early morning obscenity.
Arms crossed over his chest, duar slung across his back, scabbard flanking his right leg, Jon-Tom opened one eye to regard his much shorter friend. In this world of undersized humans and loquacious animals, the unwilling six-foot-tall visitor stood out in any crowd. Except for his unusual height, however, he was not an especially impressive specimen of humankind.
"Back already? Let me guess—you've been making mischief again."
"Wot, me, guv'nor? You strike me to the quick! Why, I didn't even know the lass."
Jon-Tom frowned. "What lass?"
The otter mustered a look of innocence, at which self-defense mechanism he had enjoyed much practice. "Why, Miss Chief, o' course."
"One of these days I'll strike you for real." Pushing away from the wall, Jon-Tom nearly stepped into the path of a goat hauling firewood. Apologizing to the annoyed billy, he started up Pikk Street, only to find his path blocked by a lean human little taller than Mudge. Older than the two travelers together, the well-dressed graybeard wore a colorful cloak and trousers of some soft red and blue material. An integrated cowl covered his head and he carried a simple wooden staff topped by a polished globe. Mudge eyed the latter with cursory interest. This flagged the instant he identified the opaque vitriosity as ordinary glass not worth pilfering
"Excuse me, good sirs." Though he addressed them both, it was Jon-Tom's face that drew the bulk of the visitor's interest. Jon-Tom had spent enough time in this world to be wary of strangers: even those who were elderly, polite, well dressed, and to all intents and purposes, harmless.
"Is there something we can do for you, sir?"
"I am called Wolfram. I am in need of assistance of an uncommon kind." With a nod of his head he indicated a nearby doorway. Swaying from an iron rod above the portal was a sign that identified the establishment as the Wild Boar Inn. "Perhaps it would be better to discuss matters of business somewhere other than in the street."
Mudge, who had been tracking the progress of an attractive lady mink, responded without taking his eyes from the passing tail. "Me friend an' me don't interrupt our day to shoot the shat with just anyone who accosts us in public." As the mink tail vanished, so too did the otter's interest. "You buyin'?" The stranger nodded again. Mudge's whiskers quivered appreciatively. "Then we're shootin'. " He preceded the humans into the establishment, his short tail twitching expectantly from side to side.
Like most such Bellwoods establishments, the Wild Boar Inn was already crowded with drinkers and natterers, characters unsavory and tasteful, trolling wenches and amenable marks. The owner, a husky but amiable wild boar name of Focgren, paused in the careful measuring out of questionable libations long enough to grunt in the direction of an unoccupied booth near the back. Their order was taken by an obviously bored but nonetheless attractive vixen whose agility as she avoided Mudge's wandering fingers was admirable to behold. Spangles and beads jangled against the back of her dress and upraised, carefully coiffed tail. The booth's battered, thick wooden walls muted the convivial chaos that swirled around the conversing trio.
"You were saying something about assistance of an uncommon kind?" Jon-Tom sipped politely at his tankard while Mudge made a conscious effort to bury his snout in the one that had been set before him.
Having set his walking staff carefully aside, Wolfram indicated the duar that now rested next to the tall young human. "Your instrument is conspicuous, and not the sort to be carried by just any wandering minstrel. You are, perchance, a spellsinger?"
Jon-Tom's interest in the stranger rose appreciably. Recognizing a duar for what it was marked the older man as more sophisticated than originally supposed. There might be real business to be done here.
"While lacking in experience, I assure you I try every day to practice my art."
Wolfram nodded appreciatively. "Excellent! I am most of all in need simply of your musical talents, but a touch of wizardry is also required."
Suds dripping from his whiskers, a suddenly wary Mudge extracted his face from the tankard. His bright brown eyes flicked rapidly from friend to benefactor and back again. "Wizardry? Spellsingin'-type magic-making'?" He pushed the tankard aside. "Oh no, mate. Count me out! I've 'ad enough o' your so-called singin' o' spells to last me a lifetime!" Rising, he moved to depart.
While continuing his conversation with Wolfram, Jon-Tom kept the fingers of one hand wrapped around the otter's belt, thus preventing the frantic Mudge from escaping. Short legs struggled for purchase on the slippery stone floor.
Jon-Tom smiled reassuringly. "Don't mind Mudge. He's just anxious to get started."
"I'm anxious, alright, you bloody great stick-twit!" To no avail, the otter continued his furious struggle to free himself from his friend's grasp. "Let loose o' me pants!"
The three-way conversation was interrupted by a violent crash from the center of the floor. Peering out from the booth, their attention was drawn to a singularly unwholesome-looking human and his puma companion. Breathing hard, both were staring down at something on the floor. The human held the shattered remnants of a wooden mace, his snarling companion a club that had been broken in half. The upper, knobbed end of the mace hung from the handle by a splinter. As Jon-Tom tried to see what it was they were concentrating on, their expressions changed markedly.
An enormous dark mass was rising slowly from the floor. As it blotted out a wide section of inn, human and feline began to back away from it. Whirling abruptly, the man dropped his broken weapon and tried to run. A leather-wrapped wrist bigger around than his head reached out and enormous brown-furred fingers closed around his neck, lifting him off the floor. Rising, he clawed frantically at the grasping digits while his legs kicked uselessly at empty air. Waving the human over his head like a limp flag, the now erect leather-armored grizzly reached for the panicked puma. As he did so, a chair slammed into his back and shattered into kindling. When someone in the crowd took physical as well as verbal objection to this cowardly blow from behind, the inn's population descended (not entirely unwillingly) into instant and complete pandemonium.
Above it all the immense ursine could be seen clearly, still waving his now unconscious human assailant while bellowing above the increasingly thunderous fray, "Stromagg stomp!"
Mudge was already heading for the back exit, ducking flying utensils and other debris, some of it organic. Their host stayed close to him, anxious to be clear of the rapidly escalating skirmish. But Jon-Tom hung back. The otter bawled imploringly at his friend.
"Quickly, guv, quickly! The coppers'll be 'ere any minute! An' you know wot that'll mean."
Jon-Tom did, but still he lingered. "You two go on. I'll be right there." So saying, he plunged into the affray. Shaking his head in disbelief and venting a whistle of disgust, Mudge concentrated on chaperoning their erstwhile benefactor away from the chaos.
The tall human with sword and duar was largely ignored by the combatants, busily engaged as they were in removing one another's appendages and resolving old scores. Jon-Tom had to strike out only occasionally to remain above the fray as he worked his way towards its nucleus. When the enormous bear leaned in his direction, all massive chest and fur and long teeth, he found himself wondering if this was such a good idea after all. Despite his sudden apprehension, he managed to call out, "Come with me! The police are on their way."
Absently crushing to the floor with one massive fist an onrushing, sword-wielding wombat, the grizzly's heavy brows drew together as he considered the suggestion. "Why should I go with you? I don't know you."
There was a commotion near the entrance to the inn. Timswitty's deservedly feared finest were arriving. "Because I'm offering you a job—I think."
Whirling about, the sextet of uniformed skunks prepared to put an end to the fighting in a manner only they could manage, by means not even the strongest berserker could defy. Jon-Tom broke into a cold sweat. Still, the bear was reluctant.
"You help Stromagg?"
"My word on it." Instinctively, Jon-Tom found himself starting to edge toward the rear exit, wondering as he did so if there would be enough time to clear the room before the room needed clearing.
Fishing into the mob, the bear came up with the battered, bleeding body of the puma who had first attacked him. When smacking the sagging feline across its limp face failed to produce any reaction, Stromagg grunted heavily and tossed the cat into the roiling crowd.
"Hurry!" Jon-Tom pulled on the bear's forearm to urge it along. He might as well have been tugging on a sequoia. But the ursine moved.
They just did make it out before the police tactical squad let loose, so to speak. An unmusical chorus of mass retching pursued the escapees as they fled down a back alley.
As soon as they were clear of combative and olfactory intrusions, they slowed. Mudge guardedly eyed the mountainous newcomer in their midst. Stromagg endured the inspection thoughtfully. Or perhaps, Jon-Tom thought, "thoughtfully" was not the appropriate description. The bear's appearance hinted at a compassionate nature, but one that only infrequently strayed into the alien realm of higher cogitation.
"Wot's with the meat-mountain, mate?"
His breathing at last beginning to slow, Jon-Tom beamed and put a reassuring hand on the grizzly's immense arm. "I've just taken on a little extra muscle."
"Wot for?" the otter snapped. "The job we ain't goin' to take?"
Ignoring his friend, Jon-Tom turned to the somewhat bedraggled Wolfram. "Now then, good sir. What exactly was it that you wished to employ my services for?"
Pulling his gaze away from the looming immensity of the bear, their benefactor gathered his wits. "I wish you to serenade a lady with whom I am deeply and hopelessly in love."
Jon-Tom and Mudge exchanged a glance. The graybeard's offer fell somewhat short of requiring them to Save the World, or some such life-threatening exercise. Mudge was too relieved to comment.
"That's all?" Jon-Tom wondered aloud.
Wolfram nodded slowly. "That's all. And for that I will pay you well. You see, I am a wise man, but a terrible singer."
Mudge jerked a furry thumb in Jon-Tom's direction. "Then this be a good fit, guv, as me mate 'ere is a good singer, but terrible stupid."
Ignoring the slur, Jon-Tom proved the otter wrong by asking, "If all that's needed is an amorous song, why not hire any troubadour? Why seek out a spellsinger like myself?"
Wolfram smiled approvingly. "A song to Larinda is all that is required. It is the reaching her that may require the application of some magic in concert with the music."
"Oi, I knew it," Mudge muttered under his breath.
"Calmness be upon you, my peripatetic friend." Wolfram tried to reassure the otter. "A simple spellsong should suffice. Nothing too elaborate. I would attempt it myself except that I, as previously stated, cannot carry a tune in a bucket."
"How simple a spellsong, guv'nor?" Mudge inquired warily.
"That is for the singer to decide. I will provide you with directions. I shall also pay your expenses, and half your fee in advance." Withdrawing a heavy purse from within the depths of his cloak, he proceeded to spill a tinkling pile of gold coins into Jon-Tom's cupped hands. Mudge's eyes widened, while Stromagg looked on appreciatively.
"'Alf, you say, guv?" The otter eyed the golden flood greedily.
Wolfram nodded as he slipped the now empty purse back into his cloak. "The other half when the object of my affection responds." Turning, he gestured with his staff. "Do you know the lands of the Agu Canyon, that lies between here and Hygria?"
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?"
The granite cliffs and buttes 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 buttes. From a distance, the spellsinger saw, the eroded massif 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 bloody well 'ave drunk away his gold."
"Now, Mudge." The spellsinger studied the seemingly impassable 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 Wolfprick'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." Pushing 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 puffballs 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 hell from which they had sprung.
Slashing 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 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 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 astonishing speed, he cut the legs out from an assailant that had plenty of spares.
A second surging blackness emerged from the duar, drifted past the combatants, and struck the stone barrier. Once more a 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 on the rhythm the first time."
"A bit off? You've always been a bit off, mate!" Fighting a ferocious rearguard 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 harder. The tunnel looked to be composed of worked stone; an excellent sign, Jon-Tom decided. It was exactly the sort of access that might lead to a hidden underground entrance in something like a distant castle. Its dimensions were impressive.
Then they heard the roaring. Rising and coming toward them. "There!" 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 lay in that direction. As they ascended, they could hear the monster approaching rapidly behind them. To everyone's great relief, it rushed past without turning, keeping to the main tunnel.
"The castle must be right above us." Shifting his duar around to 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 see 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 blood '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 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.
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 had long ago relinquished He looked around worriedly.
"We can't go back down this way. We've got to hide."
Stromagg looked baffled. "Why? More monsters come?"
"No, no. Somehow the song has broken through into my world. You and Mudge can't be seen here. Only humans talk and make sense here."
Unimpressed, Mudge let out a snort. "Who says 'umans make sense anywhere?" His nose twitched. "I thought this place stank."
"Hurry!" Espying an alley off the main street, Jon-Tom led his friends away from the subway entrance.
It was dark in the rain-washed passageway, but not so dark as to hide the overcoated sot standing with his bottle amid the daily deposit of debris expelled by the establishments that lined the more respectable street on the other side. Leaning up against the damp brick, he waved the nearly empty container at the new arrivals. Jon-Tom froze.
"Evenin' t'you, friends." The drunk extended the bottle. "Want a swig?"
Stromagg immediately started forward, forcing Jon-Tom to put out an arm to restrain the bear. "You two stay here!" he whispered urgently. Approaching the idling imbiber, he adopted a wide smile, hoping the man was too far gone to notice Jon-Tom's strange attire.
"Excuse me, sir. Can you tell us exactly where we are? We're kind of lost."
Squinting through the rain, the inebriated reveler frowned at him. His breath, Jon-Tom decided, was no worse than what he had experienced numerous times in the company of Mudge and his furry drinking buddies.
"What are you, tourists?" The drinker levered himself away from the wall. "Bloody ignorant tourists! You're in Knightsbridge, friend."
"Knightsbridge?" Jon-Tom thought hard. The name sounded sufficiently castle-like to jibe with his spellsong, but it didn't square with what he had just seen. "Where is that?"
" 'Where is that?' " the drunk echoed in disbelief. "London, man! Where did you think you were?" Squinting harder, he finally caught sight of the very large otter and far larger leather-armored grizzly standing silently behind his questioner. His bloodshot eyes went wide enough for the small veins to flare. "Oh, gawd." Letting the nearly empty bottle fall from his suddenly limp fingers, he whirled, stumbled and nearly fell, and vanished down the alley. They heard him banging and crashing through assorted trash receptacles and boxes for several minutes.
Picking up the bottle, Mudge sniffed the contents, made a disgusted face, shrugged, and promptly downed the remaining contents before Jon-Tom could stop him. Wiping his furry lips, he eyed his friend meaningfully.
"You spellsang us 'ere, mate. Now you bleedin' well better sing us a way back."
Jon-Tom looked helpless. "We could try the way we came. Maybe the creatures in the other tunnel have gone. I don't know what else to do." Discouraged and tentative, he started back toward the street. The rain was beginning to let up, turning to a heavy mist.
The exit back onto the street was blocked.
"A minute of your time, friend."
There were three of them. All younger than Jon-Tom, all more confident, two clearly high on something stronger than liquor. The speaker held a switchblade, open. The larger boy flashed a small handgun. The girl between them wielded a disdainful smirk.
Jon-Tom scrutinized them all and did not much like what he saw, or what he sensed. "We don't want any trouble. We're just on our way home."
The boy with the blade nodded contentedly. "American, is it? Good. I knew I heard American accents at the party. You'll have traveler's cheques. Americans always carry traveler's cheques." He extended the hand that was not holding the switchblade. "Hand 'em over. Also any cash. Also your watch, if you're wearing one. Your friends, too. Then you can go safely back to the stupid costume ball that your snooty friends wouldn't let us into."
Jon-Tom tensed. "I haven't got any traveler's checks on me. Or any cash, either. At least, not any you could use here."
"American dollars suit me just fine, friend." The kid gestured agitatedly with the open hand. "Hurry it up. We ain't got time for talk." His gaze flicked sideways. "Maybe you'd like me to cut the kid, here." He lunged toward Mudge.
Effortlessly, the otter bent the middle of his body out of the way. As the switchblade passed harmlessly to his left, he drew his short sword. Steel flashed in the dim light of the street.
Alarmed, the bigger boy raised his pistol. Emerging from the mist behind him, an enormous paw clamped over both weapon and hand. Stromagg squeezed. Bones popped. Startled, the big kid let out a subdued, girlish scream. Bared teeth dripping saliva, the grizzly put another paw around the punk's neck, lifted him bodily off the ground, and turned him. As he got his first glimpse of what had a hold of him, the street kid's eyes bugged out and gurgling sounds emerged from his throat. The bear drew the boy's face closer to his own. Low and dangerous, his voice was that of imminent death.
"You make trouble for Stromagg?" the grizzly growled.
"Urk . . . ulk . . ." Straining with both hands, legs flailing at empty air, the punk fought to disengage that huge paw from around his neck. Looking like white grapes, his eyes threatened to pop out of his head.
Holding his sword, Mudge easily danced around each swipe and cut of the switchblade that was thrust in his direction, not even bothering to riposte. Once, he ducked clear of a wild swing and in the same motion, bowed elegantly to the now incredulous and dazed girl, doffing his peaked cap in the process. Furious, the boy threw himself in the unstrikable otter's direction. Still bowing to the girl, Mudge brought the flat of his sword up between his young assailant's legs. All thoughts of combat suddenly forgotten, the kid went down onto the street and curled into a tight ball, moaning.
Still holding the bigger boy by his neck, Stromagg frowned and turned to Jon-Tom. "Uh, this one don't talk no more."
"Put him down." Jon-Tom approached the now apprehensive girl.
"Please, don't hurt me!" She gestured unevenly in the direction of the moaning coil of boy lying on the pavement. "It was all Marko's idea. He said we could make some easy money. He said American tourists never fight back."
Mudge eyed her with interest. "Wot's an American?"
"We're not going to hurt you," Jon-Tom assured her. "We just need some help getting home." He looked past her. "Your friend said something about a costume ball?"
"A-around the corner. In the hotel."
Thinking hard, Jon-Tom nodded at nothing in particular. "Might work. For a little while. I need some time to think. Thanks," he told her absently. He started off in the indicated direction. With a wink in the girl's direction that left her feeling distinctly nonplussed, Mudge trotted after his friend. Lowering the unconscious kid he still held gently to the wet pavement, Stromagg proceeded to follow.
The hotel was an older establishment and not particularly large. Motioning for his friends to remain behind, quiet and in shadow, Jon-Tom executed a quick survey until he found what he was looking for: a side entrance that would allow them entry without the necessity of passing through the main lobby. He was further relieved when he saw two couples emerge. One pair were clad in medieval garb, a third wore the guise of a large alien insect with a latex head, and the fourth was dressed in the silken body stocking and pale gossamer wings of a pixie. Having met real pixies, he almost paused to offer a critique of the latter costume, but settled for asking directions to the party. Returning to his companions and explaining the situation, he then boldly led them across the street.
Mudge remained wary. "'Ere now, mate. Are you sure this is goin' to work?"
As they approached the ancillary entrance, Jon-Tom replied with growing confidence. "I've heard about these convention balls, Mudge. For tonight, many of those attending are in full costume. They'll think you and Stromagg are fellow participants." He glanced back at the bear. "Try and make yourself look a little smaller, Stromagg." The grizzly obediently hunched his shoulders and lowered his head. "Also, there will probably be food."
The bear's interest picked up noticeably. "Food?"
No one challenged them as the entered the side lobby. After asking directions of a pair of overweight warriors who would have cut a laughable figure in Lynchbany Towne, they proceeded to a large auditorium. It was packed with milling, chatting participants, more than half of whom were in costume. A few glanced up at the arrival of the newcomers, but no one appeared startled, or otherwise alerted that they were anything other than fellow costumers. While Mudge and Stromagg surveyed the scene with varying degrees of incredulity, Jon-Tom led them toward a line of tables piled high with snack foods. Sniffing the air, the grizzly's expression brightened perceptibly.
"Beer! Stromagg smell beer." Whereupon the bear, despite Jon-Tom's entreaties, promptly angled off on a course of his own.
"Let the bleedin' oversized 'ulk 'ave a drink," Mudge advised his suddenly concerned companion. " 'E deserves it, after the work 'e did back at the first tunnel. I wish I could—oi there! Watch where you're goin'!"
The girl who had bumped into him was dressed as a butterfly. There wasn't much to her costume, and she was considerably more svelte than the erstwhile warriors the travelers had encountered in the hallway outside the auditorium. Mudge's anger dissipated as rapidly as it had surged.
She gazed admiringly from him to Jon-Tom. "Hey, love your costumes. Did you make them yourselves?"
Looking to terminate the conversation as quickly as possible, Jon-Tom eyed the long table hungrily. Food was rapidly vanishing from the stained white covering cloths. "Uh, pretty much."
She eyed him interestedly, her wire-supported wings and other things bobbing with her movements. "You're not writers, or artists, because you don't have name tags on." She indicated the duar resting against Jon-Tom's back. "That's a neat lute, or whatever. It looks playable." She gestured in the direction of the busy stage at the far end of the auditorium. "There's filksinging going on right now. I'm getting this vibe that you're pretty good. I'm kind of psychic, you see, and I have a feel for other people." Her smile widened. "I bet you're a—computer programmer!"
"Not exac . . ." he tried to explain to her as she grabbed his hand and fairly dragged him forward. Mudge watched with amusement as his friend was towed helplessly in the direction of the stage. Then he turned and headed for the food-laden tables.
Welcoming Jon-Tom, the flute player currently holding court onstage cast his own admiring glance at the duar. "Cool strings. You need a cord and an amp?"
Aware that others in the crowd had turned to face him, Jon-Tom played—but only for time. "Uh, no. Strictly acoustic."
The flute player stepped aside. "Right. Let's see what you can do." Conscious that Butterfly was still watching him intently, Jon-Tom decided that a quick, straightforward song would be the easiest, and safest, way to escape the unwelcome attention that was now being directed toward him. As his fingers began to slide across the strings of the duar, a familiar multihued mist began to congeal at the interdimensional nexus.
Someone in the forefront of the crowd pointed excitedly. "Hey, look—light show!" Responding with a lame grin, Jon-Tom tried to strum as simple and unaffecting a melody as possible. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to remember the chords to a Barry Manilow tune. At least, he told himself, he would not have to worry about making any inadvertent magic.
Following his nose, Stromagg found himself approaching a bar near the far side of the auditorium. As he approached, someone thrust a tankard toward him.
"Here you go, big guy. Have one on me." The man dressed as Henry IX pressed a full tankard into the grizzly's paw. Accepting the offer, Stromagg took a suspicious sniff of the contents. His face lit up and he proceeded to drain the container in one long swallow. Looking on admiringly, the fan who would be king beckoned his friends to join the new arrival.
Scarfing finger food as fast as he could evaluate it with eyes and nostrils, Mudge was distracted from his gorging by the tapping of a furry forefinger on his shoulder. A ready if nervous retort on his lips, he turned—only to find himself struck dumb by the sight that confronted him.
The girl's otter costume was not only superbly rendered, it was, in word, compelling.
Twirling a whisker, he slowly put aside the piled-high plate of goodies he had commandeered from the table. "Well now. And wot might your name be, darlin'?"
Peering through the eye cut-outs in the papier-mâché head, the girl's gaze reflected a mix of admiration and disbelief. "And I thought I had had the best giant-otter costume in England!" Her eyes inspected every inch of him, analyzing thoroughly. "I've never seen such good sewing. I can't even see the stitches, or where you've hidden the zipper." Her eyes met his. "Costumers are good about sharing their secrets. Could you spare a couple of minutes to maybe give me some pointers?"
Mudge considered his platter. Food, girl. Food, girl.
Cookies. . . .
Onstage, Jon-Tom found himself, despite his reservations, slipping into the free-wheeling spirit of the occasion. Participants were dancing in front of him, twirling in costume, reveling in his music-making. So self-absorbed were they that they failed to see the small black ball of vapor that emerged from the center of the duar to flash offstage and vanish in the direction of the farthest doorway. Judging from its angle of departure, Jon-Tom guessed it to be heading fast in the direction of the underground stairway from which he and his companions had emerged earlier that same evening. Raising his voice excitedly while still strumming, Jon-Tom sought to alert his companions.
"Mudge, Stromagg! I think I've done it!" Ignoring the applause of the flute player, who took up the refrain, and the admiring stare of butterfly girl, he leaped off the stage and plunged into the crowd. There was no telling how long the revitalized, recharged tunnel would last. He and his friends had to make use of it before the thaumaturgic alteration was discovered by some wandering late-night pedestrians.
Stromagg wasn't hard to locate. The bear had by now gathered a small army of awed acolytes around him, who looked on in jaw-dropping astonishment as the grizzly continued to chugalug inhuman quantities of beer with no apparent ill effects.
Well, maybe a few.
Arriving breathlessly from the stage, Jon-Tom looked around uncertainly. "Stromagg, it's time to go. Where's Mudge?"
Weaving slightly, the more than modestly zonkered ursine frowned down at him and replied, in the tone of one only slightly interested, "Duhhh?"
"Oh great!" Latching on to the grizzly's arm, Jon-Tom struggled to drag him away from the crowd. Behind him, tankards and glasses and Styrofoam cups rose in admiring salute. "We've got to get out of here while we have the chance."
There was no sign of Mudge on the auditorium floor, nor out in the hallway, nor in an annex room. Confronting a participant made up as an exceedingly stocky, slime-dripping alien, Jon-Tom fought to keep Stromagg from falling down.
"This may sound funny, but have you seen a five-foot-tall otter come this way?"
"Nothing funny about it," the gray-green alien replied in an incongruously high-pitched voice. It jerked a thumb down the hall. "I just saw two of 'em."
"Two?" Jon-Tom's confusion was sincere. Then realization dawned, and he broke into a desperate sprint. "Mudge!"
He found his friend in the third room he tried: an empty office. Bursting in, he and Stromagg discovered Mudge and the otter other in a position that had nothing to do with passing along the finer points of advanced amateur costuming. Jon-Tom's outrage was palpable.
"Mudge!"
Rising from the couch, his friend looked back over his shoulder, not in the least at a loss.
" 'Ello, mate." He indicated the shape beneath him. "This 'ere is Althea. We been discussin' matters of the moment, you might say."
Stark naked except for otter mask and furry feet, the girl struggled to cover herself as best she could. Though surprised by the unexpected intrusion, she did not appear particularly distressed. Rather the contrary. Ignoring her, an angry Jon-Tom confronted his companion.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? Aren't matters complicated enough as it is?"
Hopping off the couch and into his short pants, the otter proceeded to defend himself. "Back off, mate. Me and Althea 'ere weren't 'aving no problems. It were all perfectly consentable, it were."
"That's right." Rising in all her admirable suppleness, she reached out with one hand to grab hold of Mudge's right ear. "And now that I've fulfilled my half of the bargain, it's time to see how your outfit is put together." She pulled hard.
Yelping, Mudge twisted around as his ear was yanked. "Owch! 'Ave a care there, darlin'."
Looking puzzled, the girl's gaze descended. Grabbing a fistful of fur in the otter's nether regions, she pulled again. Once more the otter let out a hurt bark. A look of confusion crossed her countenance, to be 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.
"Omigod!" 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 cluster did appear to be more than a little competent. And there was nothing slipshod or fragile about the assortment 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 windshield 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 pass 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 shielded 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-pricked 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' fellowship." 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 shit."
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 passenger 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 pass 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 bloody '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 massive, 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 cannonballs. 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 shining 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."
Still, he found himself wondering and worrying, until their explorations eventually brought them to an expansive, exquisitely decorated bedchamber. Rainbow-hued light poured in through stained-glass windows, burnishing the furnishings with gold and turning the canopied, lace-netted bed at the far end to filigreed sunshine.
The woman who slept thereon might or might not be a princess, but she was certainly of ravishing beauty. She was sleeping peacefully on her back, her hands folded across her chest, a soft smile on her full lips. Slapping away Mudge's fingers, Jon-Tom considered the somnifacient figure thoughtfully.
"Something familiar about this. . . ."
"Not to mention somethin' irregular." Mudge contemplated the unconscious female with mixed emotions. "That Wolfsheep didn't say anythin' about 'is beloved bein' in a coma. 'Ow are you supposed to sing 'er a song o' love if she can't bleedin' 'ear you?"
The soft shush of fine leather on stone made the trio turn as one. Standing in the doorway was their erstwhile employer, but it was a Wolfram transformed. No longer the supplicating elder, he seemed to have grown taller in stature and broader of frame. His formerly simple cloth cloak glistened in the stained-glass light, and the vitreous globe atop his staff flickered with caged lightning. His entire being and bearing radiated barely restrained power.
"So you have done that which I could not." Stepping into the room, he ignored them to focus his attention on the figure lying supine in the bed. "Ignorant sots. Did you really think that I, Wolfram the Magnific, the All-Consuming, Master of the Warmlands, would consign the future of the Mistress of the Namur to your puerile attentions?"
As he replied, Jon-Tom slowly edged his duar around in front of him. "Somehow I knew you'd say something like that."
A belligerent Mudge stepped forward. "If you're so bloody all-whatever, guv'nor, then wot did you need us poor souls for?"
The sorcerer gazed down contemptuously. "Isn't it obvious? The bonds that conceal this place are such as I cannot penetrate. It needs the attention of a kind of magic different entirely from what I propound, powerful as that may be. It required someone such as an innocent spellsinger to blaze a path here and divert any dangers that might lie along the way. This so that I could follow safely in your wake—as I have done. Why should I take the risks?"
"Then," Jon-Tom said, indicating the figure reposing serenely in the bed, "this isn't your beloved?"
"Oh, but she is." Wolfram smiled thinly behind his narrow, pointed beard. "It is just that she does not know it yet. You see, whoever touches the princess in such a way as to rouse her from her sleep shall make of her a perfect match to the one who does the touching, and shall have her to wife, thus acquiring dominion over this portion of an important realm and its concurrent significant interdimensionality."
"Is that all?" Mudge was studying his fingernails. " 'Tis okay by me, guv."
"Oh no it isn't." Jon-Tom advanced to stand alongside the otter. "If an interdimensionality is involved here, it means that this piece of whiskery double-crossing scum might be able to make trouble in my world as well."
The otter shrugged. "Not me problem. Mayhap his meddlings might improve that revolting London place."
The sorcerer nodded knowingly. "I thought I would have no trouble with you three."
His fingers creeping across the strings of the duar, Jon-Tom mentally considered and discarded a dozen different songs. Which would be the most effective against a powerful, malign personality like Wolfram? Knowing little about the man, it was hard to conjure something specific. Then he recalled the sorcerer's words, and knew what he should do.
Whirling, he raced for the bed.
"Hassone!" Raising his staff, Wolfram thrust it in the spellsinger's direction. Gray vapor shot from the globe at its terminus to coalesce directly between the diving Jon-Tom and the bed. Slamming into the wall of solid gray rock, Jon-Tom stumbled once, staggered slightly, and then crumpled to the floor.
Gathering anxiously around their fallen comrade, Mudge and Stromagg exchanged a glance, then turned their rising ire on the serene figure of Wolfram. Raising their weapons, they rushed the sorcerer, each screaming his own battle cry.
"Beeeer!" The grizzly's below echoed off the walls and rattled the stained-glass windows.
"No refunds!" the otter howled.
"Parimazzo!" Wolfram countered, bringing his glowing staff around in a sweeping arc parallel to the floor.
Rising from the stone underfoot, all manner of fetid, armed horrors confronted the onrushing duo, swinging weapons made of the same stone as that from which they had arisen. Mildly amused, Wolfram leaned on his staff and solicitously observed the battle that ensued.
Behind the fracas, a groggy Jon-Tom slowly came around. Discerning what was taking place, he reached cautiously for his duar. Still lying on the floor, trying to avoid Wolfram's notice, he began to play, and started to sing.
"Once there was an—urrrp!"
The unexpected belch did more than put a crimp in the chosen spellsong. The visible result was a solid, softly glowing, jet-black musical note that hovered in the air a foot or so in front of the astonished Jon-Tom's face.
"Well, what do you know," he murmured to himself. "Music really does look like that."
Reaching up, he grabbed the note, rose, whirled it over his head, and flung it in Wolfram's direction. Seeing it coming, the sorcerer raised his staff to defend himself. The note passed right through the protective glow to smack the startled mage on the forehead and send him staggering backward.
Emboldened, avoiding the nearby swordplay, Jon-Tom strode determinedly toward the stunned sorcerer; playing, singing, and belching as never before.
"And ever the drink (urp) shall flow freely (breep) to the sea (burk). . . ."
Each belch produced a fresh glowing note, which he heaved one after another in the direction of the now quietly panicking Wolfram. Desperate, the wizard executed a small motion in the air with his staff.
"Immunitago!" A pair of large earmuffs appeared before him, drifted backward to settle themselves against his ears. Slowly, his confident smile returned. Staff upraised, he started toward Jon-Tom. Unable to hear the flung notes, they burst harmlessly in the air before reaching him.
Now it was a newly anxious Jon-Tom's turn to retreat. Changing tactics as he backpedaled, he also changed music. The roar of Rammstein thundered through the chaotic chamber. The duar glowed angrily, fiery with bist mist.
Shaken by the heavy chords, Wolfram halted and clutched at his stricken ears. Trying to keep the earmuffs from vibrating off his head, he flung a wild blast from his staff. Ducking, Jon-Tom watched as the flare of malevolent energy shot over his head.
To strike the grizzly, who was busy making gravel of his stony, stone-faced assailants.
"Stromagg!" a pained Jon-Tom yelled.
The force of the blast blew the bear backward into, and through, the stone wall that Wolfram had conjured earlier to encircle the sleeping princess. Rocks went flying as the bear landed, barely conscious, on the bed. Moaning, he rolled slightly to his right. His arm rose, arced, and fell loosely—to fall across the waist of the slumbering princess.
Aghast, a horrified Wolfram let out a shriek of despair. "Nooo!" Jon-Tom remembered the sorcerer's words.
"Whoever touches the princess in such a way as to rouse her from her sleep shall make of her a perfect match to the one who does the touching, and shall have her to wife."
A delicate haze enveloped the Princess Larinda. Her outline shimmered, shifted, and flowed. She was changing, metamorphosing, into . . .
When the mist finally cleared, not one but two grizzlies lay recumbent on the bed. One was clad in leather armor, the other in attire most elegant and comely. Rubbing at her eyes, the princess sat up, and turned slightly to gaze across at her savior. Blinking, holding one hand to his bleeding head, Stromagg looked up. Instantly, the pain of the sorcerer's perfidious blow was forgotten.
"Duhh—wow!"
"No, no, no!" Shrouded in tantrum sorceral, a despairing Wolfram was fairly jumping up and down, swinging his deadly staff indiscriminately.
Sitting up on the bed, which now creaked alarmingly beneath the unexpected dual weight, Stromagg took both of the princess's hands—or rather, paws—in his own and gazed deeply into dark-brown eyes that mirrored his.
"Duh, hiya."
Long lashes fluttered as she met his unflinching, if somewhat overwhelmed, gaze. "I always did like the strong, silent type."
"This shall not last! By my oath, I swear it!" Numinous cape swirling about him, Wolfram whirled and fled through the open doorway. "I shall find a way to renew the sleeping spell. Then it will most assuredly be I who awakens her the second time!"
Lightning flickering from his staff of theurgic power, he raced unimpeded down the stairway and back through the foyer. Outside the smashed main doorway, the bridge back to the rest of reality beckoned.
From a shadow there emerged a foot. A furry foot, sandal-clad. It interposed itself neatly between the sorcerer's feet.
Looking surprised, Wolfram went down and forward, his momentum carrying him right over the side of the bridge. As he fell, he looked back up at a rapidly shrinking fuzzy face, astonished that he could have been defeated by something so common, so ordinary. As he fell, he flailed madly for the staff he had dropped while stumbling. Though he never succeeded in recovering it, at least staff and owner hit the bottom of the canyon in concert.
Peering over the side of the bridge, Mudge let out a derisive whistle. "Bleedin' wizards never look where they're goin'."
By the time the otter rejoined his companions, Jon-Tom was facing a revitalized Stromagg and his new-found paramour. The two grizzlies held hands daintily.
"Sorry, guys," Stromagg was murmuring. "I think I'd kinda like to stay here."
Jon-Tom was grinning. "I can't imagine why."
A familiar hand tapped him on the arm. "You'd best lose that sappy grin now, guv', or they'll likely 'ang you for it back in Lynchbany. You look bloody thick."
"Be at peace, my good friends and saviors." Though rather deeper than was traditional, the voice of the restored princess was still sweet and feminine. "I have some small powers. I promise that upon your return home, you will receive a reward in the form of whatever golden coins you have most recently handled, and that these shall completely fill your place of dwelling. As Mistress of the Namur, this I vow."
"Well now, luv," declared a delighted Mudge. "That's more like it!"
It took some time, and not a small adventure or three, before they found themselves once more back in their beloved Bellwoods. Espying his riverbank home, a tired and dusty Mudge broke into a run.
"Time to cash in, mate! Remember the hairy princess's promise."
Following at a more leisurely pace, Jon-Tom was just in time to see his friend fling open his front door—only to be buried beneath an avalanche of gleaming golden disks. Hurrying forward, he dragged the otter clear of the mountain of metal.
"Rich, rich! At last! Finally!" The otter was beside himself with glee.
Or was, until he peered more closely at a handful of the disks. Doubt washed over his furry face. " 'Tis odd, mate, but I swear I ain't never before seen gold like this."
Gathering up a couple of the disks, Jon-Tom regarded them with a resigned expression. "That's because they're not gold, Mudge."
"Not gold?" Sputtering outrage, the otter sprang to his feet. Which, given the shortness of his legs, was a simple enough maneuver. "But the princess bleedin' promised, she did. 'The last golden coin I 'andled,' she said. I remember! That were wot that slimy Wolfram character paid us with at the tavern back in Timswitty." His expression darkened. "You're shakin' your 'ead, mate. I don't like it when you shake your 'ead."
"She said 'golden coin,' Mudge. Not 'gold coin.' " His open palm displayed the disks. "Remember when we were fleeing my world? These are London Underground tokens, Mudge." At the otter's open-mouthed look of horror, he added unhelpfully, "Look at it this way: you can ride free around greater London for the rest of eternity."
Sitting down hard on the useless hoard, the otter slowly removed his feathered cap from between his ears, let it dangle loosely from his fingers. "I don't suppose—I don't suppose you 'ave a worthy spellsong for rescuin' this sorry situation, do you, mate?"
Bringing the duar around, Jon-Tom shrugged. "No harm in trying."
But Pink Floyd's "Money" did not turn the tokens to real gold, nor did all the otter tears that spilled into the black river all the rest of that memorable day.