Exceptions to Reality (17 page)

Wolfram nodded 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 were too good to be true,” 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.”

“’Ow simple a spellsong, guv’nor?” the otter inquired warily.

“That is for the singer to decide. I shall provide you with directions. I will also pay your expenses and hand over half your fee in advance.” Extracting a heavy purse from within the depths of his cloak, he proceeded to spill a clinking pile of gold coins into Jon-Tom’s cupped hands. Mudge’s eyes widened while Stromagg looked on appreciatively.

“
’Alf,
you say, guv’nor?” 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, which lies between here and Hygria?”

Jon-Tom’s expression wrinkled with concentration. “I know the direction, though I’ve never been there.”

“Nor I,” Mudge added. “I ’ave ’eard ’tis a dry and homey place.”

“There is an unclimbable cliff,” Wolfram explained. “I will give you specific directions that will enable you to find 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.” The otter squinted skeptically at the graybeard. “’Ow now are we supposed to get up 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 to deliver 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 climbing 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, then turned his gaze to the 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 buttes that rose around them were streaked with gray and black, ivory and umber, and lightning-like 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 venture criticism of his companion’s unstable stance. For one thing, it would do no good. The otter held advice in the same regard as teetotaling. For another, otters have superb natural 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 are the twin buttes.” Jon-Tom consulted the map their employer had provided to them. There was no mistaking the distinctive geological formations. 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.”

Hiking down the arroyo to the left of the nearest butte, they suddenly and unexpectedly encountered proof 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. Close inspection revealed that the featureless schist would make for a treacherous ascent even with the best of available climbing equipment.

Examining the obstacle, Mudge let out a short, derisive whistle. “Ain’t no problem, guv. I say we keep the ’alf payment that old geezer gave us and ’ightail it up to Malderpot. Nice taverns there be in Malderpot. By the time the old man can track us down, we’ll bloody well ’ave drunk away the last of ’is gold.”

“Now, Mudge.” The spellsinger studied the seemingly impassable obstacle. “That would hardly be honorable.”

“Honorable, honorable.”
The otter scratched under his chin, his whiskers quivering slightly. “From wot foreign tongue arises that strange word, wot I am sure I never ’eard before and ain’t conversant with?”

Stromagg frowned at the wall and promptly sat down, dust rising from the fringes of his enormous brown behind. His 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, actually having to climb it was something I only half expected would be possible. That’s what he, and anyone else, would think.” Slipping the unique instrument across his front, he gently strummed the intersecting set of dual strings. Accompanying the first notes, 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 wot, mate? Am I missin’ somethin’ ’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 temptingly lubricious Malderpot? You know wot ’appens when you open your mouth and some strange caterwaulin’ vaguely 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’, I suppose.” He moved to stand closer to, or rather behind, the curious Stromagg as Jon-Tom walked up to the solid rock face. 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 ’ave a care to cover your bloomin’ ears.”

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

“Not from the wizardry, guv.” Mudge winced. “Trust me on this. You ain’t ’eard ol’ Jonnny-Tom sing. I ’ave. All too many times.”

His fingers quickening on the duar, Jon-Tom launched into the song he had selected, a lengthy ditty of penetrating power that dated from early Zeppelin. The grizzly immediately clapped his great paws 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 edged 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 fascinated otter could not take his eyes from it.

Detaching itself from the interdimensional wherever of the duar, an orb of ebon vapor drifted slowly toward the rock wall. It hesitated there and began to reverse direction. That shift prompted a redoubling of power chords by a suddenly anxious Jon-Tom. What might happen if the blackness fell back
into
the duar, he could not imagine, except to believe it could not possibly be good. 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 expanded across the smooth vertical surface like a giant droplet of spreading oil. When the last of it had seeped into the stone, Jon-Tom brought the vibrant song he was playing to a rousing if dissonant conclusion that made both his furry companions cringe.

Wiping sweat from his brow, the spellsinger gestured proudly at the cliff face. “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 warily. “So I suppose all we ’ave to do now is stroll right on through the solid 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 big whackin’ ’ole in this ’ere ’ill. Anyone can see that. But as to whether it leads to a castle or somethin’ else remains to be seen, wot?”

“Only one way to find out.” Striding confidently past his friend, Jon-Tom started forward.

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 the music-magicked passageway.

It was already occupied.

Drawing his short sword, a growling, whistling Mudge started to back up. Next to him, Stromagg drew the huge mace that he carried slung across his broad back. “Oi, you’ve done it again, all right, mate. Quick, 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 manifold sharp teeth. Multi-legged shapes with fangs, they resembled nothing in this world. Which made perfect sense, since Jon-Tom had sung them up from an entirely different world. While Mudge and Stromagg hacked and sliced, Jon-Tom tried to think of an appropriate song to send the fanged horde back to the Hell from which they had sprung.

Slashing wildly at something sporting tentacles and razor-lined suckers, the otter 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 backward, 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 finally did begin a second song. Mudge recognized the tune immediately. It was the same one his friend had sung moments earlier to create 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 onrushing assailant that had plenty of spares.

A second surging blackness emerged from the duar, drifted past the combatants, and struck the stone barrier. A second 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 tempo the first time.”

“A bit off? You’ve always been a bit off, mate!” Fighting a ferocious rear-guard 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 firmer underfoot. The walls of the tunnel looked to be made of cut instead of untouched stone: an excellent sign, Jon-Tom decided. It was exactly the sort of passage that might lead to a hidden underground entrance underneath a castle. Certainly its dimensions were impressive.

Then they heard the roaring, growing steadily louder and coming toward them. “There!” A frantic 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 had suddenly appeared in a side passageway. As they climbed, they could hear the monster approaching rapidly behind them. To everyone’s great relief, it rushed past without taking notice of the intruders, keeping to the main tunnel.

“The castle must be right above us.” Shifting his duar around into carrying position on 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 peer 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 bloody ’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 at least 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.