“That doesn’t tell me who you are.” Behind him, the otters composed frantically.
“We are all hounds here, as you can see.” The leader gestured expansively. “We are the hounds that haunt your dreams and chase you through your nightmares. We supply the howling you hear in your sleep, the growls that make you toss and turn uneasily, the shrill unexpected barks that you take for those of your neighbor.” He pointed with his sword.
“There stands the hound of the Mitrevilles, and next to him the hound of the Toonervilles. Off to the left waits the hound of the Cantervilles.” He went on to identify each member of the band by name.
It granted the travelers a few precious additional minutes. “Anything?” Buncan whispered to the otters.
“Wot is there to think of?” Despair had overcome Gragelouth, and the merchant held his woolly head in his paws. “All is lost. These are no ordinary brigands. It will take more than music to overcome them. They have remorse and anguish on their side.” He sighed heavily. “So much work, a lifetime of struggle, only to end up as a dog’s dinner. An inglorious finale. I regret that I have brought you to such a state.”
“We’re not there yet,” Buncan told him. “My friends will think of something.”
“Not me, mate,” said Squill helplessly.
“Me neither,” added Neena. “Wot about you, Buncan? Can’t you think of anything?”
“I’m not the singer.”
“But you could give us the words!” she pleaded. “A suggestion, a direction we could take. Anythin’ !”
“I don’t know anything about hounds,” he whispered desperately. “I spent all my time learning how to play the duar, not make up—” He broke off, remembering unexpectedly. “There is this old song. I remember Jon-Tom used to sing it to me when I was young. Real young. A baby song. It never made any sense to me, but it might fit this situation. A little. It’s all I can think of.”
“No time for debate,” Squill pointed out. “Try it.”
Buncan’s fingers rested tensely on the duar. “It’s no rap,” he warned them.
Neena smiled wolfishly. “We’ll take care o’ that. Just give us some bleedin’ words we can work with.”
“It goes like this.” He proceeded to whisper what he could remember of the saccharine little tune.
Squill looked doubtful. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, the tone ain’t exactly sorceral.”
“Rap it,” he urged them, “and let me play. We’ve got to try something.” He indicated the leader, who was winding up his litany.
“ . . . And I,” the thick-set creature concluded, “am the hound of the Baskervilles.”
Buncan frowned. “I may have heard of you.” The hound looked pleased. “So our reputation reaches even beyond the Moors. That is gratifying, but not unexpected. The peculiar mists and winds of the Muddletup transport much that is within without.” He raised his sword. “Now that you know who will be dining upon you, we can begin. It is time to substitute butchery for conversation. But tremble not. We are not brutal. We will make this as quick as possible. When you have determined that resistance is not only foolish but painful, simply put down your arms and lay your heads out parallel to the earth. I will do the honors myself. My colleagues tend to sloppiness.”
Buncan put up a hand to forestall the hound’s approach. “Wait! A last song before dying. If you would be thought generous, grant us this one final amusement.”
The hound frowned. “Music does not do well here. The air weighs it down. But if you prefer that to battle, have at it.”
“Oi, thanks,” said Squill. “Me, I’d rather go out with a song.” He set his bow and arrow aside.
“Be quick about it,” the hound grumbled. “My stomach complains.”
Buncan began to play. Recalling the lyrics he had supplied, the otters joined in, transposing and transforming, engendering a rap unlike anything they’d tried before.
“ ‘Ow much, ‘ow much, ‘ow much? ‘Ow much is that doggie, that one there Can’t compare, to the one over there In the window, dude, in the window, where You can’t compare any one you knowed Before the war, to the one in the window. Don’t you see; ‘ow much is she?”
The hounds looked at once bored and baffled as Buncan piled chord upon chord, uplifting the strange lyrics, providing them with an irresistible forward thrust that would no doubt have astonished the composers of the original ditty.
Nothing happened.
No giant otherdimensional carnivorous canine materialized to terrify the hounds into submission, no befanged beasts oozed up out of the muck to attack them individually. Nor did the words result in the conjuration of some ensorceled offensive-minded device like a giant hammer.
“Put your hearts into it!” Buncan hissed angrily at his companions. Neena responded with an obscene gesture born of desperation as much as frustration.
This is it, he thought tiredly to himself. Not only are we destined to go no farther, we hardly got started. Put a few common forest bandits to flight and you think you can take on the world. Then- demise would be as abrupt as it would be degrading.
A purplish-red mist began to form between the wagon and the leader of the hounds.
The dray lizards started in harness, hissing and spitting wildly, forcing the startled Gragelouth to work his reins to maintain control. The hound hopped backward, thrusting his sword out defensively in front of him. Nervous mutterings sounded from the members of his band.
“Keep singing, no matter what it is, keep singing!” Buncan urged his friends. The otters needed no encouragement, plying variation upon variation on the now fully possessed melody. In their own way they were as entranced as the hounds.
What was it they were spellsinging forth?
The mist swirled aimlessly, as if searching for a seed, a core, to fix upon. At last it began to coalesce. Silhouettes appeared, gradually congealing into shapes that boasted both density and weight.
They flashed no armor, wielded no weapons. In fact, they were hardly clad at all, and what they did wear was designed more to flaunt than to conceal. Buncan counted a good dozen of the ghostly figures, precisely one for each member of the voracious circle.
While not all were hounds, each was flatteringly representative of the canine persuasion. Even his inexperienced eyes found their attire of silks and satins provocative.
In addition to which, each and every one of them was fully in heat.
The effect the dozen seductive bitches had on the assembled hounds was nothing short of apocalyptic. Buncan watched as the first let his sword drop from his benumbed fingers. Wearing an utterly stupefied expression, he stumbled forward into the waiting arms of the bitch nearest him. She embraced bun with the ease and skill of an experienced professional.
The leader made an effort to save his distracted band, raging among them with words and blows. Then a tall, immaculately coiffed Afghan slunk forward to give him a gentle chuck under his chin. His sword rose but his gaze descended. His nose twitched convulsively, at which point he had no choice but to switch weapons.
“Get moving!” Buncan whispered tersely to the mesmerized merchant without slowing his playing.
Gragelouth looked blank for a moment, then chucked the reins with becoming fervor. Tack creaked and groaned as the lizards picked up their feet. The wagon trundled forward.
No one jumped in their path or made any effort to interfere with them.
Leaning out of the bench seat and looking backward, Buncan thought he saw the hound of the Baskervilles trying to break free of the orgy. The wild-eyed leader went down under the weight of not one but two of the expensive bitches-of-the-evening Buncan and the otters had called forth. He did not reemerge.