Serenade

When, after years of writing science fiction, I decided to try my hand at novel‑length fantasy, I determined not to write anything that included sweeping pseudo‑medieval empires, all‑knowing wizards with long white beards (if they possess such deep and unfathomable knowledge, why can’t they keep their hair from turning white?), noble elves, evil dragons, and all the other all‑too‑familiar‑paraphernalia of traditional European‑derived fantasy.

So the Spellsinger books include references to drug‑taking and much fooling around, fairies too fat to get off the ground (aerobics are in order), flying horses afraid of heights, a Marxist dragon who only wants to organize the masses (except that the masses are terrified of dragons and run like hell at the sight of him), misplaced stage magicians, a unicorn who cannot be lured to his death by a virgin because he’s gay, and much, much more. For better or verse, Tolkien and Rowling it is not.

Of those who have read the series, one of their favorite characters is a five‑foot‑tall talking otter named Mudge. Mudge is a consumer of mind‑altering substances, a drunk, a thief, an irrepressible lech (irrespective of species), a coward at heart, and a luster after money obtained through any means possible. He is also a great deal of fun to be around and a true friend (most of the time) to the nominal hero of the stories, a displaced university law student and would‑be rock guitarist named Jon‑Tom Meriweather who can make (usually bad) magic with the aid of a unique instrument called a duar.

“Serenade” eventuated as the result of a request by an editor in England who was planning a series of extended graphic novels and wished to include a Spellsinger story among them. Sadly, his financing for the series fell through, but the story remained. Here it is–alas, sans graphics–though Mudge’s antics may be sufficiently graphic for most…

I

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 each other. 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 backward off the wall. But by that time the intruding hat had hastened beyond sight, sound, and probable indictment.

Occupying the space beneath the hat and having happily strewn amorous chaos in his 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 continued wending his way through the busy 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 Meriweather opened one eye to regard his much shorter friend. In this world of undersized humans and loquacious animals, the six‑foot‑tall involuntary visitor stood out in any crowd. Except for his unusual height, however, he was not an especially impressive specimen of his species.

“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 extensive 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. Of an age greater than that of the two travelers combined, the well‑dressed graybeard wore a colorful cloak, and trousers woven of some soft red and blue material. The cloak’s cowl covered his head, and he carried a simple wooden staff finialed with a polished globe. Mudge eyed the sphere 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, esteemed sir?”

“I am called Wolfram. I am in need of assistance of an uncommon kind.” With a nod 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 scat with just anyone who accosts us in public.” As the mink tail vanished, so, too, did the otter’s interest in its slinky owner. He sighed. “You buyin’?” The stranger nodded again. Mudge’s whiskers quivered appreciatively. “Then I guess we’re shootin’.” He preceded the two 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 ladling 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 up‑raised, carefully coiffed tail. The booth’s battered, thick wooden walls served to mute the convivial chaos that swirled around the newly seated 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 alongside the tall young human. “Your instrument is as conspicuous as your height, 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 improve my art.”

Wolfram nodded appreciatively. “Excellent! I am most of all in need simply of your musical talents, but I will not deny that a touch of wizardry would also prove useful.”

Suds foaming on 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 from the table, he moved to leave.

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 fleeing. Short legs fought for purchase on the liquor‑slick stone floor.

Jon‑Tom smiled reassuringly at their host. “Don’t mind Mudge. He’s just anxious to get started.”

“I’m anxious, all right, 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 ground. 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. As he ascended 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 fully upright armor‑clad grizzly reached out 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 obnoxiously organic. Their elderly host stayed close to him, equally 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 lingered still. “You two go on. I’ll be right there.” So saying, he plunged back into the affray. Shaking his head in disbelief and venting a whistle of disgust, Mudge concentrated on chaperoning their erstwhile benefactor away from the intensifying chaos.

The tall human with sword and duar was largely ignored by the combatants, actively engaged as they were in forcibly 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 toward its nucleus. When the enormous bear leaned in his direction, all monolithic chest and pungent fur and glistening 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 offer. “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 vacate the room before it was too late.

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 let out a grunt and casually tossed the cat into the roiling crowd.

“Hurry!” Jon‑Tom pulled on the bear’s forearm to urge haste. He might as well have been tugging on a sequoia. But the ursine moved.

They did make it out just before the police tactical squad let loose, so to speak. An cacophonous chorus of mass retching filled the air behind the escapees as they fled down a rear alley.

As soon as they were safely clear of all noxious olfactory intrusions, they slowed to a walk. Mudge guardedly eyed the mountainous newcomer in their midst. Stromagg endured the inspection thoughtfully. Or perhaps, Jon‑Tom mused, “thoughtfully” was not the appropriate description. The bear’s attitude hinted at a combative 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 ease, 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 was the nature of the task for which you desired to employ my services?” He steeled himself for the reply.

It was not anything like what he expected.

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 request fell somewhat short of requiring them to slay bad‑breathed dragons, save the world, or some equally life‑threatening exercise. The stunned otter was too relieved to offer his usual ill‑mannered 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 very 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 an improving 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 wandering troubadour? Why seek out a spellsinger like myself?”

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.

They had stumbled into an unsuspected path back into his own world.

III

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 himself had long ago been forced to relinquish. 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 opened an entrance 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. “Share 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 did not 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 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 almost 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 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 checks. Americans always carry traveler’s checks.” 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’ll get it if I 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 picked him up, the street kid’s eyes bugged out and frantic gurgling sounds emerged from his throat. The bear drew the boy’s face closer to his own. Low and dangerous, it was a voice that reeked 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, chivalrously 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 thought of continuing combat immediately forgotten, the kid collapsed on the alley pavement 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 ground. “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 at the girl that left her feeling decidedly confused, Mudge jogged after his friend. Gently lowering to the wet pavement the unconscious youth he was holding, Stromagg proceeded to follow. The girl stared after them. Then she began to shake.

The hotel was an older establishment, nonchain, and not particularly large. Motioning for his friends to remain behind, quiet and in shadow, Jon‑Tom performed a hasty 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 dressed in medieval garb, a third individual was clad in the guise of a large alien insect with a latex head, and the fourth was wearing the silken body stocking and pale gossamer wings of an oversized 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 fantasy convention masquerades, 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 they entered through the side lobby. After asking directions of a pair of over‑weight 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 ’imself a drink,” Mudge advised his concerned companion. “’E deserves it, after the bloody ’elp ’e rendered 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 was not 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?”

Seeking to terminate the conversation as quickly as possible, a hungry Jon‑Tom eyed the long table. Food was vanishing rapidly from the stained white tablecloths. “Uh, pretty much, yeah.”

She eyed him with increasing interest, 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 slung across Jon‑Tom’s back. “That’s a neat lute or whatever. It looks too functional to be just a prop.” 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 at it. 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 as she grabbed his hand and pulled him forward. Mudge watched with amusement as his friend found himself dragged 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 on stage 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 the 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 now being directed toward him. As his fingers started 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 the 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 confronting a pay bar near the far side of the auditorium. As he approached, someone thrust a tankard in his direction.

“Here you go, big guy. Have one on me.” The man dressed as Henry VIII pressed a full container 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 meet 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 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 a 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 cutouts in the papier‑mâché head, the girl’s gaze reflected a mix of admiration and disbelief. “And I thought I had the best giant otter costume in England!” Her eyes inspected every inch of him, scrutinizing thoroughly. “I’ve never seen such good seamstress work. 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…

IV

On stage Jon‑Tom found himself, despite his reservations, slipping into the freewheeling 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 continuing to strum, 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, Jon‑Tom 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 accidentally discovered by some unknowing late‑night pedestrians.

Stromagg was not hard to locate. The bear had by now gathered a small army of awed acolytes around him. They 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 leave. We have to go–now. 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 costume room. Confronting a participant made up as an exceedingly stocky, slime‑dripping alien, Jon‑Tom fought to keep Stromagg from keeling over.

“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. “Matter of fact, 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 figure beneath him. “This ’ere is Althea. She’s psychic. 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 long couch and into his short pants, the otter proceeded to defend himself. “Back off, mate. Me and Althea ’ere weren’t ’avin’ 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, like you promised.” She pulled hard.

Yelping, Mudge twisted around as his ear was yanked. “Owch! ’Ave a care there, darlin’. I need that.”

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!”

Wearing a hurt look as he was hauled 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 at arms. Certainly there was nothing slipshod or fragile about the assortment of swords and axes 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 hotel security guard in a freshly pressed suit and tie had materialized to block their path. “What’s this I hear about you freaks causing trouble wi–” His slightly pompous accusation was cut off in midsentence as Stromagg stiff‑armed him into the nearest wall, cracking plaster 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 back toward the Underground station. It was darker than ever outside, but at least the rain had let up. 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 stared as the tall, medievally clad spellsinger; giant otter in feathered cap, vest, and short pants; and rapidly sobering, heavily 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 procession, the husband slowly shook his head before commenting knowingly to his equally bewildered spouse. Pressing gently on the accelerator, he urged the car forward.

“I’m telling you, dear. There’s no question about it. The city 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 subway 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. The outraged howl these sparked were unarguable proof that his intricate 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 ceiling‑ward. From one, old‑style subway tokens rained down on the fleeing trio.

Lying off to one side amid the rubble, cap and uniform askew, the unlucky guard looked up dazedly. “Of course, if it’s an emergency…”

Slowing as they reached the subway platform, a panting Jon‑Tom looked back to see that pursuit had slowed as the angry fans were slowed by the debris. Meanwhile Mudge was fairly dancing with belligerence.

“Pulin’ ’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 steadily intensifying 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 unaccommodatin’ world yours is, 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 backtrack. 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 the film Trainspotting –no, that probably wouldn’t work. He could not remember the words to “A Train a‑Comin’.” Heavy metal, punk, ska, even industrial had little use for trains.

He was frantically seeking efficacious 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 was not the empty candy 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 had taken a battering from the fall but was still intact.

Nearby, Mudge cast a pain‑racked eye at his friend. “That’s it, mate. I’ve bleedin’ ’ad it, I ’ave. Gimme me share o’ old Wolfham’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 upward 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.

The London Underground, bemused pedestrians, and wild‑eyed pursuing costumers were nowhere to be seen.

Starting across the first bridge, a cautious Mudge 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 to his friend and companion. “Wot now, Mr. Spelltwit, sor? You goin’ to sing us up a key, or wot?”

An annoyed 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,’ it were called?” He shook his head dolefully. “Give me Lynchbany any day.”

While man and otter argued, the silent Stromagg approached the impediment, spent a moment contemplating the wood and iron, 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 imploded in a cloud of shattered slats and splinters. Dust rose from the apex 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 towerin’, forebodin’ 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 has to 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…”

V

“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 shussh of 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 Magnificent, 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 entirely different 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.”

“Then,” Jon‑Tom said, indicating the exquisite figure reposing serenely in the bed, “this isn’t your beloved?”

“Oh, but she is.” Wolfram smiled thinly from 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 ’is meddlin’s might improve that revoltin’ 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 needed to do.

Whirling, he made a dive 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 abruptly materialized wall of solid rock, Jon‑Tom stumbled once, staggered slightly, and then crumpled to the floor.

Gathering anxiously around their fallen comrade, Mudge and Stromagg exchanged a look, then turned their rising ire on the serene figure of Wolfram. Raising their weapons, they rushed the sorcerer, each screaming his own battle cry.

“BEEER!” The grizzly’s bellow echoed off the walls and rattled the stained‑glass windows.

“No refunds!” the otter howled in tandem.

“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 mad