Gonna break it up, gonna bring it low, throw
It out, kick it out, stop it now
Stop it before it gets serious. Gets serious?
We’re delirious.
Better believe it or you’re gonna buy it
Wanna fight our power, better not try it!”
Every one of the bandits surrounding the wagon, from the bear to the slightest raccoon, turned to stare in the direction of the music. Buncan’s fingers flew over the duar. He could feel the energy surging from the instrument, felt confidence in the counterpoint he was generating to the otters’ rap. The more the three of them performed, the easier it became. He began to feel that with practice and time they might actually become proficient.
Except . . . while the music was invigorating, and sounded fresh, nothing else was happening.
The coati was conversing rapidly with three of the four raccoons. A moment later this heavily armed trio started toward the source of the singing. Two of them wielded axes, and the third a wicked, barb-tipped pike.
“Nothing’s happening.” Buncan raised his voice over the music. “Something’s wrong with your singing, or your choice of lyrics.”
“I can’t mink o’ anythin’ else,” Squill mumbled frantically.
His sister glared at him. “Well, you’re the one who’s supposed to be so clever!”
““ ‘Ell, don’t pick on me! You’re always on about ‘ow clever you think you are.”
“For the Tree’s sake,” Buncan growled, “don’t start fighting now!”
The lead raccoon wore a checkered and striped bandanna, while his companion sported an incongruous stovepipe hat decorated with tufts of bud down. The pike wielder shifted a leather beret between his ears. All three readied their weapons as they drew nearer.
“Do something!” Buncan hissed desperately.
“I’m tryin’,” said Neena, “but ‘e ain’t ‘elping none.”
“I just can’t think o’ notiiin’ appropriate.” Squill glanced anxiously in the direction of the approaching brigands.
“Anything!” A groaning Buncan found himself wondering if he should put down the duar and take up his sword.
“Wait a minim.” The otter blinked suddenly. “Remember that one ditty that was on that collection?” He whispered rapidly to his sister. Her expression widened, she nodded, and they began to sing once more, their voices rising in unison above the vegetation.
“Time for the beat, time for the feet
Time to get real out on the street
Time to Hammer the bad dudes down
Time to Hammer ‘em right down in the ground
Hammer; Hammer, show ‘em who’s boss
Show ‘em who’s the tool that’ll waste ‘em for a Loss!”
A glistening argent nimbus materialized above the bushes between the singers and the advancing robbers. It was clearly visible to those back by the wagon. The ugly conversation between the desperate Gragelouth and his increasingly impatient tormentor ceased as both turned to stare.
The silvery vapor seemed composed of metal fragments. It was gravid and intimidating, and Duncan instinctively stumbled away from it until he bumped up against a tree. He had the’ presence of mind to keep playing. What they were conjuring up he didn’t know, but so far it was enormously impressive even in its indistinctness. The otters ducked slightly but continued to rap. The raccoons clutched their weapons in front of them and gaped, their advance stalled by the otherworldly conjuration.
The cloud began to congeal into a crystal the size of a wine barrel. This was crossed with a much longer cylinder composed of identical material. Together they formed a slender T shape that was as long as Gragelouth’s wagon.
It was, in point of fact, an enormous tooclass="underline" a hammer fashioned of some unidentifiable solid metal. A giant’s hammer. It hung in the air above the bushes and young trees, vibrating slightly in tune to the beat of Duncan’s duar.
The raccoons began to edge around it, keeping a wary eye on the gleaming, highly polished apparition as they did so.
This wouldn’t do, Buncan knew, and he so informed the otters. Without missing a beat they altered their lyrics appropriately.
The hammer shuddered. It arced backward, paused briefly in a vertical position, and then swooshed down with tremendous force. It struck the foremost bandit before he could dodge and squashed him as fiat as if the singers had dumped a blue whale on nun. The denouement was both messy and noisy. The sight, when the hammer retracted to a position parallel with the ground, was unpleasant to look upon. It was sufficiently disagreeable to send the two surviving brigands racing back toward their compatriots, screeching as they threw their useless weapons aside.
Buncan forced himself to look out at the mess the hammerish apparition had created on the otherwise pristine forest floor and felt his stomach engage gears independent of the rest of his system. He was, however, too busy playing to throw up. The otters, delighted, proceeded to ghoulify their lyrics to the utmost extent of their imagination, which was considerable.
The hammer pivoted in midair and began to chase the retreating bandits, repeatedly slamming into the ground behind them and leaving deep, perfectly round impressions in the solid earth. Each time it struck, the ground jumped slightly. Booming thuds echoed through the forest.
Seeing the outrageous device pursuing their panicky companions, the rest of the gang hesitated. At this critical moment the coati bravely scampered forward and made a gallant if misguided effort to rally his dispirited troops. He jabbed at the hammer with his rapier, only to see the blade turned by the smooth astral metal.
The hammer came down on his tail, breaking it in several places.
Letting out a barking scream, the bandit leader keeled over, unconscious. A ringtail and the bear grabbed him under the arms and hustled him away toward the densest cluster of trees while the rest of the gang scattered in every direction. Momentarily confused, the hammer went after all of them at once, missing with predictable but nonetheless intimidating regularity.
Buncan kept playing until the last robber had disappeared around the far bend in the road. He didn’t laugh at the sight, because he couldn’t. The nearby pulverized bone and expansive bloodstain which had been the unfortunate raccoon was too bright in his eyes, too thick in his nostrils. Instead he settled for a silent cry of thankfulness as he let his fingers relax. The glow at the duar’s nexus faded.
“Not bad,” he told the otters, who had ceased their singing. “Let’s see how our merchant’s doing.” The trio broke from the underbrush and jogged toward the wagon, carefully avoiding the bloody pulp to their right.
“Wot’ll we say to ‘im?” Squill wondered as they approached the road.
“I dunno.” His sister reflexively tried to smooth her makeup. “ ‘E looks a bit rattled.”
Indeed, Gragelouth was clearly shaken. That was understandable, considering that he’d thus far seen only the homicidal hammer and not its manipulators. When all was explained to him he would doubtless be properly grateful, Buncan mused. After all, they’d just saved his fortune and most probably his life as well.
A loud crash sounded from the tree line, causing Buncan to turn and look behind him. Still flailing about madly, splintering bushes and trees and the occasional small boulder, the hammer reappeared. Having been spellsung into existence, it was not about to simply fade away.
It hesitated as if searching for something new and different to flatten. After a brief pause it aligned itself with the wagon and came thumping directly toward them. From the front seat they could hear Gragelouth moan.
“It’s still active!” Squill yelped.
“I can see that.” Clutching his duar tightly in both hands, Buncan found himself backing toward the road. “Sing it away.”
“Play!” yelled Neena. “You have to play, Buncan!”
Galvanized by her order, he let his fingers drift down to the quiescent strings. The first chords were atonal and ineffective. Meanwhile, the metallic wraith continued its menacing advance.