Alan Dean Foster SS1 Spellsinger

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You have no 'natural right' to rule anything. Genetics has worked out
differently here."
One of the other guards said worriedly, "Careful, he speaks magic words."
Candlelight glinted on swords and spears, a sparkling forest of death suddenly
aimed threateningly at Jon-Tom.
"Watch your mouth, stranger!... Don't try magicking us!"
"See the effect he has?" The leader turned to Hanniwuz. "Consider how
important an ally he could be to the cause."
" 'Could be' are the key words, my friend." The insect envoy lifted a hand,
turned his head sideways, and preened his ommatidia. "He remains violently
opposed."
The stocky chieftain walked up to Jon-Tom, who tensed, but the man only put
his hands on the youth's shoulders.
"Listen to me, spellsinger. You have the size and bearing of a warrior along
with your gift for magicking. You could be a leader among us, one of those who
lord it over these lands. The climate here suits not the Plated Folk. They
have need of our services now and they will have need of them when the war is
done."
"So they say." Jon-Tom eyed the impassive insect. "It's astonishing how fast a
conquerer can get acclimated."
"Control your first reactions, spellsinger. Think rationally and without
bitterness on what I say. With your stature and abilities you could rule whole
counties, entire reaches of the Lands. A dozen or more cities like Polastrindu
could be under your absolute control. Anything you wanted could be yours for
the asking: riches, fine goods, slaves of any species or sex.
"You are a young man still. What future does your mentor Clothahump offer you
in comparison? A chance to go to an unpleasant death? Is it so very wrong that
humans rule over the animals? So you do not agree with the moral justification
of our cause. Can you not rationalize what it would bring to you personally?
"Think hard, spellsinger, for the Plated Folk are destined to conquer this
time, no matter who or what opposes them. It is easy to support a martyr's
death for others... but what about for yourself? Is that what you have hoped
for all your life, to die young and bravely?" His hand slashed at the air.
"That is stupid."
"I don't think your victory is assured just yet," Jon-Tom said quietly,
"despite your"--he caught himself just in time, having been on the verge of
saying
"despite your secret magic," and instead finished--"despite all the quislings
you can recruit, and I don't think there'll be all that many."
"Then there are no circumstances under which you would consider joining us?
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Think hard! The world can be yours."
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"Shit, I wouldn't know what to do with it. I don't..." He stopped.
Seriously now, what did he owe to this world into which he'd been rudely,
unwillingly, and perhaps permanently yanked? If he ever succeeded in returning
to his own place and time, what would he become? A corpulent attorney, fat and
empty of real life? Or a sour, doped-up musician playing cheap bars and
sweet-sixteen parties?
Here he could be one step above a mayor and one step below a god. Weren't all
of them, for all their veneer of civilization and intelligence, nothing more
than oversized animals? Mudge, Caz, Pog, all of them? He considered the way
Flor had occasionally looked at Caz. Was it right that he should consider
himself, even momentarily, in competition for the love of his life with an
oversized hare? Was that less repugnant than cooperation with these people?
Why shouldn't he join them, then? Why should he not look out for himself for a
change?
"That's very good, man," whispered Hanniwuz. "You think. Death, or ascension
to a throne we will create for you. It seems an easy choice to make, does it
not?
The day we attack there will be uprisings of humans throughout the warmlands.
They will flock to our cause. Together we shall force these bloated, soft,
smelly creatures back into the dirt where they belong... aahhh-chrriick!"
"I'm not sure--" Jon-Tom began.
Yells and shouts from the other side of the door and all eyes turned in that
direction. Then the opening was full of flying bodies, blood, and steel. Talea
darted in and out of the crowd, her sword taking bites out of larger and more
muscular bodies. Caz wielded a rapier with delicacy but far more ferocity than
Jon-Tom had suspected him of possessing, a furry white demon in the
candlelight.
Mudge charged into the thick of the fray, his energy and activity compensating
for his usual lack of good judgment.
Dim light was reflected from fast-moving metal. There were screams and curses
and the sound of flesh hitting stone. Blood hit Jon-Tom in the face,
temporarily blinding him. Flores Quintera towered above the mob, her black
mane flailing the air as she cut with mace and her small saw edge at anyone
who tried to get near her.
Above them all, clinging precariously to a chink in the roof and occasionally
tossing a knife down into the milling cluster below, was Pog.
That explained how the others had tracked him. When the fight in the street
had broken away from Jon-Tom, Pog had thoughtfully left the battle to shadow
Jon-Tom and his captors. Then he'd returned to lead the others to the rescue.
A large, spiked mace rose in front of Jon-Tom's gaze. The man hefting it was
bleeding badly from the neck and sanity had left his face.
"Die then, otherworld thing!"
Jon-Tom closed his eyes and readied himself for oblivion. There was the shock
of concussion, but it was in his right shoulder instead of his forehead.
Opening his eyes he found the mace-wielder sprawled across his legs. As he
watched, the dying man slid to the floor.
Talea stood above the corpse, a knife in each hand, her clothes splattered
with the darker stains of blood. She looked back into the room. Another door
had opened in the far corner. His few surviving captors were retreating via
the new exit. Of Hanniwuz there was no sign.
The redhead was breathing heavily, her chest heaving beneath the shirt. She
had a wild look in her eyes. It became one of concern as she focused on the
slumped shape of Jon-Tom. He blinked at her as he held his throbbing shoulder.
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"I'm all right. But just barely. Thanks." He looked past her. "Pog? You
responsible for this?"
"Dat a fact. Sometimes da coward's course is da best. When I saw da fight all
revolving around you, I knew it was you dey were after. So I held myself in [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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