As they fled unhindered into the vastness of the Moors the travelers heard one last time the collective baying of the hounds, but that hitherto mournful echo sounded now rather more enthusiastic than threatening.
Only when they were well away did Buncan put his duar aside, wondering as he did so what would happen when the seductive spirits he and the otters had called forth ceased their frenetic ministrations and finally demanded payment for their services. He was certain they would, for the lyrics of the spellsong had been forthright in their mention of price.
Squill clapped him on the back. “That were bloody brilliant, mate! Did you see their faces? Be buggered if I don’t envy ‘em.”
Neena simply shook her head in disgust. “I’m surprised you didn’t join in, bro’.”
Squill’s nose wrinkled. “The timin’s ‘ardly right. When they finish, that lot’s gonna be even ‘ungrier than before.”
“I didn’t have any idea it would work.” Buncan protested modestly. “That wasn’t exactly the kind of cost-related result I would have expected, either. But it was the only ‘hound’-related song I could mink of at the time.” He shrugged. “That’s spellsinging for you. By the way, you two were amazing.”
“Well, o’ course,” Neena agreed without hesitation.
“It was just a baby song,” Buncan added.
“Childhood imagery contains much power,” Gragelouth commented. “I must apologize.”
“For what?” Buncan wanted to know.
“For ever doubting your spellsinging abilities. It is evident now that your youth is not overmuch of a meliorating factor.”
“Beg pardon?” said Squill. His sister cuffed him.
“We got lucky,” Buncan confessed. “We might just as easily be someone’s dinner.”
“Do not make light of what you have done. Your talents are undeniable.” For the first time since Buncan had set eyes on him, Gragelouth looked almost happy.
“ ‘E’s right, Buncoos.” Neena leaned forward and put her short arms around him. Her whiskers tickled the back of his neck. “OF Clothabump may be more experienced, and Jon-Tom slicker, but we three are the greatest spellsingin’ team that ever was.”
“Let’s not get carried away by a couple of lucky successes,” Buncan chided her. But he had to admit he felt good about their prospects.
“So we’ve proved ourselves to you, droopy-lips?” Neena prodded the merchant.
“We have barely begun.” Gragelouth tried to avoid her teasing finger. He didn’t like to be touched, Buncan had noticed. “There will doubtless be other dangers to deal with, other confrontations.”
“Maybe not,” said Squill cheerily. “Maybe it’ll be smooth swimmin’ all the way to the northwest. ‘Ell, we’re about through the Moors and we’ve ‘andled not one but two lot o’ bandits on the way.”
“Perhaps you are right.” The merchant sat a little straighter on his bench. “Though it is not in my nature, perhaps I should be more assured.”
“Do wonders for your social life, mate.” Squill put a paw on the sloth’s shoulder. “You just tend to the drivin’ and we’ll take care o’ any nasties that ‘ave the nerve to cross us.”
Gragelouth nodded slowly. “I only hope that your skills ripen as rapidly as your presumption, river-runner.”
CHAPTER 8
For a time it seemed as if squill was right to be so confident. The rest of their journey through the Muddletup Moors proceeded without incident, marred only by a damaged wheel that the merchant quickly and efficiently repaired. As they pushed on, Duncan played frequently and the otters sang to keep the enervating atmosphere of the Moors at bay. Of the hounds there was no sign, nor did anything more inimical than a bellicose toadstool attempt to hinder their progress.
Eventually they emerged from the dour surroundings of the Moors onto a wide, lightly vegetated plain that was different from any country Buncan or the otters had ever seen. Having grown up in the lush confines of the Bellwoods, they were immediately intrigued by the stunted trees and dense, dry-leaved bushes and grasses that covered the land.
“Oi, is this the desert?” Neena asked wonderingly as the wagon rattled down the barely visible track. “I’ve ‘eard about the desert, I ‘ave.” Behind them a low bank of permanent, purulent fog obscured the western reaches of the Moors. Bright sunshine had banished the last psychic echoes of manic-depressive fungi from (heir minds. It was a pleasure to let down their mental guard.
Pirouetting breezes swept blue-stained dirt into occasional dust devils. Broad-winged flying lizards sculpted predatory patterns in the air, searching for smaller, gravity-bound prey below. Slim, hasty creatures with multiple legs scurried out of the wagon’s path to vanish down camouflaged holes and burrows.
“No, this isn’t the desert,” Gragelouth patiently explained. “There’s far too much water present, and the abundance of plants reflects that. I would call this upland scrubland.”
He nodded in the direction of high, chapparal-covered mesas. Where flowing water had eroded the hillsides multicolored sandstone sparkled in the sun like the layers of a coronation cake. “Pretty, that.”
Buncan agreed, and would have enjoyed spending a day or two exploring such country, but they had no time to linger. In any event, the otters did not share his enthusiasm for casual sight-seeing. The absence of running water made them nervous.
The landscape changed little over the next few days. Desert it might not be, but it was more than hot enough for everyone. Fortunately, water in greater quantities soon showed itself in the small streams that ran down from the mesa tops, and in shaded pools deep enough to offer the otters an occasional reinvigorating plunge.
“Doesn’t anyone live out here?” Buncan asked the question of their guide on the fourth day out from the Moors. The wagon squeaked in counterpoint to his query.
“There are tales of communities,” Gragelouth replied, “but this is little-known country. Civilized folk keep to the Bellwoods, or travel south to the Tailaroam and thence down to the Glittergeist or up the river to Polastrindu.”
“Don’t see why anyone would choose to live ‘ere.” Neena sniffed distastefully as she studied the uninviting terrain. “Too dry, too isolated, wot?”
“Some people prefer isolation,” the merchant told her. “I have traded with such.”
“Each to their own tastes, I suppose.”
“This track we’re following must run somewhere,” her brother observed sagely, “little used though it is.”
Sure enough, not another day had passed before they topped a low rise between boulders that gave way to a view of a verdant valley. Two broad streams meandered through well-tended fields, which surrounded a town of surprising dimensions.
Behind a smooth-faced white wall with a curved crest towered buildings of three and four stories, all plastered and painted the same stark, reflective white. Under the midday sun the city shone so brightly that the approaching travelers had to shield their eyes against it. Gragelouth in particular suffered considerably.
Like everything else, the sight only served to inspire the otters. “Where’s this, or maybe I should say, wot’s this?” Squill’s short tail twitched excitedly.
“I do not know,” the merchant admitted. “As I have already said, I have never been this way before.”
“Sure is well kept-up,” Buncan commented as they followed the faint wagon track toward the nearest city gate. He was well aware that the otters were avidly eyeing the nearest of the two main streams. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I could do with a swim.”
Tentative as always, Gragelouth pursed thick lips as he considered the prospect. “The local farmers may not like people bathing in their irrigation water.”