CHAPTER 20
Several days of easy marching saw them leaving the desert behind, as Buncan had hoped. They climbed into scrub woodland where the first brave but scraggly trees tested the fringes of the Tamas. Following a route that led steadily upward, they soon found themselves tramping through real forest.
But it was like no forest Buncan or the otters had ever seen. Instead of growing close together the trees were spaced widely apart. Their leaves were long and thin, their consistency oddly stiff. Bark peeled in narrow strips from the trunks, which were varying shades of white or red instead of the familiar brown. Certain species pulsed with a dull, thrumming sound that echoed persistently inside Duncan’s head, as if a tiny fly had become trapped in his inner ear. Dense clumps of bushes played tag with the trees and each other, leaving plenty of open space for Snaugenhutt to traverse.
From the valley of a small river which sank rapidly into the sands of the desert they ascended to rocky slopes and thence to more densely vegetated rolling highlands. The trees were remarkably polite, none pressing too closely upon its neighbor. As they continued to climb, more familiar growths made their appearance, but the verdure was still dominated by the strange white-barked trees of the lowlands. Day and night the alien forest boomed softly around them.
Buncan pointed to one especially dominant specimen. It thrummed deeply and he could feel as well as hear the vibrations. “Gragelouth, do you know what that’s called?”
The sloth regarded the growth. “No. In all my travels I have never seen the like of these trees before.”
“Nothin’ like ‘em in the Bellwoods.” Neena was standing erect in her seat, effortlessly maintaining her balance despite Snaugenhutt’s rolling gait. “Looks like you could go up to one an’ strip the bark off in a few minutes.”
“Yet the peeling appears to be a natural phenomenon. Most striking.”
They were following the crest of a steep-sided, winding ridge. Neena gazed longingly at the river which tumbled playfully through the canyon below. Already the foothills of the Tamas had become unnamed mountains. The way was growing increasingly rugged.
Small reptilian game was plentiful, and the numerous streams which tumbled down the rock faces drilled pools which yielded tasty freshwater crustaceans. There were fruits and nuts to be gathered, most unfamiliar but many edible, and plenty of forage for Snaugenhutt. The bounty of the land allowed mem to be parsimonious with their supplies.
So relaxed were they that they reacted with equanimity to the sudden appearance of the wombat and thylacine in front of them. The squat, heavily built wombat was clad in light-brown cloth. He carried a poorly, fashioned spear and wore leather armor only around the waist. There was nothing protecting his head, or legs, or for that matter, his expansive gut. A wide-brimmed hat flopped comically around his head.
The thylacine was more formidably armed, both naturally and artificially. Unlike his companion, he looked as though he knew how to use the long pike he carried. Beneath his extensive brass armor expensive silks gleamed brightly, and the helmet he wore boasted a narrow vertical strip of metal to protect the topside of his long snout. Reflections of the skill of some accomplished cobbler, his well-fitted sandals were laced all the way up to the backs of his knees.
“Now what have we here, Quibo?” The thylacine spoke without taking his eyes off Snaugenhutt.
“Bushwhacked if I know, Bedarra.” Dark eyes peered up at them from beneath the brim of the oversize chapeau. “Where might you lot be headed?”
Buncan leaned to his right to peer past Snaugenhutt’s armored frill. “Northwest.” He nodded forward. “Be easier if we don’t have to go around you.”
The singular pah’ didn’t move. “Did you hear that,” the thylacine said to his companion. “They’re goin’ northwest.” The wombat grunted as the thylacine turned back to the travelers. “What business would you be having up mere?”
“Not that it’s any o’ your business,” said Squill, stand-tag in his own seat, “but we’re searchin’ for the Grand Veritable.”
“Grand Veritable.” The thylacine leaned against his pike and scratched behind one ear. “Never heard of it. Would it by nature be necromantic?”
“You’ve ‘it on it, guv.” Behind the garrulous Squill, Gragelouth rolled his eyes. Keeping a secret around the boisterous, boastful otters was like trying to conceal Snaugenhutt in a side pocket.
“What might this Grand Veritable be?” the thylacine inquired.
Squill smirked at him. Otters were professional smirkers. “That’s wot we aim to find out.”
The thylacine nodded and yawned, displaying an astonishing hundred-and-eighty-degree gape. “I don’t suppose you’d know that the monastery of Kilagurri also lies to the northwest?”
“No, we wouldn’t,” Buncan replied. “Is it something we should know about?”
The thylacine straightened, his tone darkening. “You expect us to believe that? Everyone knows Kilagurri.” He gestured with the pike. “Better get off your mountain. Now.” Next to him the wombat lowered his spear.
Squill and Neena promptly drew and notched their bows. They exhibited no particular haste. The notion of these two interfering with the progress of the heavily armored Snaugenhutt was laughable.
Buncan was more cautious. He’d learned from Jon-Tom that any obviously outnumbered and overmatched potential opponent who refused to yield ground was either a complete fool or knew something you didn’t. He wasn’t positive about the wombat, but he was pretty sure the thylacine was no fool.
Snaugenhutt glanced back at his riders. “Want me to turn ‘em into roadkill?”
“Not just yet.” Buncan leaned forward and whispered. “What do you think, Viz?”
The tickbird was leaning against the side of his armored howdah, his feet firmly clamped to his perch. “I think there’s more to these two happy hikers than meets the eye.” Instead of watching those confronting them, he’d been studying the surrounding forest.
The thylacine gestured with the point of the pike. “Let’s go, friends. Climb down.”
“We’re considering your request,”‘ said Buncan. “So far we don’t find you very persuasive.”
“We can fix that.” Putting two fingers to his extensive lips, the thylacine blew a short, shrill whistle.
Subsequent to a premonitory rustling the woods disgorged a host of armed creatures who immediately surrounded the travelers. Despite his concern, Buncan was amazed that so many had managed to remain hidden for so long. Many of the tribes represented were unknown to him except through his studies. All were armed to varying degrees, but while then’ number was impressive their appearance was decidedly motley.
This was no formal military force, he concluded. Even if they were bandits they weren’t putting up much of a show. But there were an awful lot of them, and there was no mistaking the determination in their faces.
He picked a couple of wombats and one other thylacine out of the mob. There were also koalas, several platypi (one of whom flaunted a gold ring through its leathery beak), a couple of raonjons who’d woven wicked-looking metal barbs into their tufted tails, a trio of spear-carrying emus, similarly equipped cassowaries, diminutive possums wearing dark shades to protect their sensitive eyes against the daylight, and at least one squadron composed entirely of dingoes. But the majority of the ragtag force was made up of wallabies and kangaroos representing more than a dozen subtribes. Buncan counted fifty individuals before giving up-One rarely encountered any representatives of these tribes in the Bellwoods, he reflected. Remembrance of those temperate, accommodating woods brought a sudden and quite unexpected tightness to his throat. He and his friends were very far from home: from the warm confines of the dimensionally expanded tree by the riverside, from his own room, from his other friends, and from his mother’s exotic and sometimes overspiced cooking.