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Speaking of companions, where the devil had Mudge got himself to? Caz had returned a few moments ago with a fat, newtlike creature. It drew deprecatory comments from Talea, the designated chef for the evening, so they'd given it to the delighted Falameezar. But Mudge had been gone a long time now without returning. Jon-Tom didn't think the mercurial otter would try to split on them in so isolated a place when he'd already passed up excellent opportunities to do so in far more familiar surroundings. He walked around the fire, which was now crackling insistently for fuel, and voiced his concern to Clothahump. As usual, the wizard sat by himself. His face shone in the firelight. He was mumbling softly to himself, and Jon-Tom wondered at what lay behind his quiet talk. There was real magic in the sorcerer's words, a source of never ending amazement to Jon-Tom. The wizard's expression was strained, as befitted one on whose shoulders (or shell) rested the possible resolution of a coming Armageddon. Clothahump saw him without having to look up. "Good eve to you, my boy. Something troubles you." Jon-Tom had long since overcome any surprise at the wizard's sensitivity. "It's Mudge, sir." "That miscreant again?" The aged face looked up at him. "What has he done now?" "It's not what he's done so much as what he hasn't done, sir, which is come back. I'm worried, sir. Caz returned a while ago, but he didn't go very far into the forest and he hasn't seen Mudge." "Still hunting, perhaps." Most of the wizard's mind seemed to be on matters far off and away. "I don't think so, sir. He should have returned by now. And I don't think he's run off." "No, not here, my boy." "Could he have tried to catch something that caught him instead? It would be like Mudge to try and show off with a big catch." "Not that simpleton coward, boy. But as to something else making a meal of him, that is always a risk when a lone hunter goes foraging in a strange forest. Remember, though, that while our otter companion is somewhat slow upstairs, there is nothing sluggish about his feet. He is lightning fast. It is conceivable that something might overpower him, but it would first have to surprise him or run him down. Neither is likely." "He could have hurt himself," persisted a worried Jon-Tom. "Even the most skillful hunter can't outrun a broken leg." Clothahump turned away from him. A touch of impatience crept into his voice. "Don't belabor it, boy. I have more important things to think upon." "Maybe I'd better have a look for him." Jon-Tom glanced specula-lively at the silent ring of thin trees that looked down on the little clearing. "Maybe you had." The boy means well, Clothahump thought, but he tends not to think things through and to give in to his emotions. Best to keep a close Page 132 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html watch on him lest he surrender to his fancies. Keep him occupied. "Yes, that would be a prudent thing to do. You go and find him. We've enough food for the night." His gaze remained fixed on something beyond the view of mere mortals. "I'll be back with him soon." The lanky youth turned and jogged off into the woods. Clothahump was fast sinking into his desired trance. As his mind reeled, something pricked insistently at it. It had to do with this particular section of Tailaroam-bordered land. It was full night now, and that also was somehow significant. Was there something he should have told the boy? Had he sent him off unprepared for something he should expect to encounter hereabouts? Ah, you self-centered file:///F|/rah/Alan%20Dean%20Foster/Foster,%20...n%20-%20Spellsinger%2001%20-% 20Spellsinger.txt (116 of 152) [6/30/03 11:56:36 PM] file:///F|/rah/Alan%20Dean%20Foster/Foster,%20Alan%20Dean%20-%20Spellsinger%20 01%20-%20Spellsinger.txt old fool, he chided himself, and you having just accused him of not thinking things through. But he was far too deeply entranced now to slip easily back into reality. The nagging worries fell behind his probing, seeking mind. He's a brave youngster, was his fading, weak appraisal. He'll be able to take care of himself.... Untold leagues away, underneath the infectious mists of the Green-downs in the castle of Cugluch, the iridescent Empress reclined on her ruby pillows. She replayed her sorcerer's words mentally, lingering over each syllable with the pleasure that destruction's anticipation sent through her. "Madam," he had bowed cautiously over this latest pronouncement, "each day the Manifestation reveals powers for which even I know no precedent. Now I believe that we may be able to conquer more thoroughly than we have ever dreamed." "How is this, Sorcerer?--and you had better be prepared to stand by any promises you make me." Skrritch eyed his knobby legs appraisingly. "I will give you a riddle instead of a promise," Eejakrat said with untoward daring. Skrritch nodded. "When will we have completed the annihilation of the warm-lands?" he asked her. "When every warmlander bows to me," she answered without hesitation. The wizard did not respond. "When every warmlander has been emptied to a dead husk?" Still he did not reply. "Speak, Sorcerer," Skrritch directed testily. "The warmlands will be ours, my lady, when every warm-blooded slave has been returned to the soil and in his plaee stands a Plated subject. When the farmlands, shops, and cities of the west are repopulated with Plated Folk your empire will know no limit!" Skrritch looked at him as if he'd gone mad and began to preen her claw tips. Eejakrat took a prudent step backward, but his words held the Empress in mid-motion. "Madam, I assure you, the Manifestation has the power to incinerate entire races of warmlanders. Its death-power is so pervasive that we shall not only crush them, we will obliterate their memory from the earth. Your minions will march into their cities to find the complete welcome of silence." Now Skrritch smiled her weird, omnivorous smile. The wizard and his queen locked eyes, and though neither really understood the extent of the destruction at their disposal, the air reverberated with their insidious obsession to find out.... It was very dark in the forest. The moon made anemic ghosts of the trees and turned misshapen boulders to granite gargoyles. Bushes hid legions of tiny clicking things that watched with interest and talked to one another as the Page 133 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html tall biped went striding past their homes. Jon-Tom was in fair spirits. The nightly rain had not yet begun. Only the usual thick mist moistened his face. He carried a torch made from the oil rushes that lined the river's edge. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |