"You know wot, mate? I always did 'ave a 'ankerin' to
try some turtle soup."
Jon-Tom smiled up at the Wisp- "We thank you for
that information, even if it's not quite what we wanted
to hear."
"We don't always get to hear what we want to, do
we?** The energetic phosphorescence curled about
ALut Dean Porter
112
itself. "Now, I"—and the mulli-eyed skull floated
frighteningly near to Jon-Tom—"happen to like music.
I heard yours. Could you sing me a little more?"
"Why, I'd be glad to"
Mudge put his paws over his ears. "Saints preserve
us, not another music lover, and this one ain't even
got the decency to 'ave proper ears."
The unfortunate otter was kept awake all that
night as Jon-Tom sang every old Halloween song he
could remember. The eerie chords drifted out over
the calm swamp water while the WilI-o'-the-Wisp
danced delightedly in the air, tossing off sparks and
glowing splinters of its gaseous self and making lowly
lichens and algae flare with rainbows.
Jon-Tom couldn't remember the last time he'd had
such an appreciative audience. Sadly, when the Will"
o'-the-Wisp's interest finally evaporated, it did, too.
The otter's mood hadn't improved much by the
time morning dawned. "Wonder if this wondrous
Quasequa even exists," he grumbled. "Probably some
poor fallin'-down mud-town if it does. Wouldn't be
the first time 'is sorcererness 'as lied to us."
"He doesn't lie, Mudge. It's against the wizard's
code to lie. He told me so."
Mudge sighed and looked disgusted. "The com-
panions fate 'ands you" His voice rose. "Suppose this
bloomin' paradise do exist? Suppose 'tis everything
your 'ard-shelled instructor says it is? Wot 'e neglected
to tell us before we set out on this little stroll is that
there's a thousand leagues o' swamp between 'ere
and there, wot? Wot a load o' wizardly crap!"
Jon-Tom looked unhappy. "He wasn't too specific
about the distance to be crossed. I admit I didn't
press him on the point."
"I'd like to press 'im on the point," Mudge said
grimly, savoring the thought as he fingered his short
THE MOMKNT OF THE MAGICIAN 113
sword. "I'd like to press the point right through the
back o' 'is deceiving shell and use the 'ole for a—"
"Careful, Mudge," Jon-Tom said warningly. "It's
not healthy to be disrespectful of a sorcerer's powers
even if he's a fair distance from you."
"Frog farts! I tell you, mate, I'm gettin' fed up with
these bloody surprises o' yours. For 'alf a gold piece
I'd leave you now and 'ead back to the good ol'
Bellwoods."
"Back through Witten and Fault? By yourself?"
"You broke their bloomin' totem, not me- Besides,
I've got some unfinished business back in Fault I
wouldn't mind taking care of."
"If General Pocknet gets his paws on you, he'll
finish your business."
Mudge shrugged. "So I'd circle around both towns.
Then 'tis back to the Bellwoods for me, back to
Lynchbany and Timswitty and Dornay and real
civilization. Back to.. -"
Even had Mudge not rambled on, it's unlikely
either of them would have seen the shadow. The
swamp was a world of shadows, and one more was
easily lost in the shifting, diffused light. The shadow
blended in completely with trees and creepers.
But this shadow was different. It moved indepen-
dently of those which blanketed the island, moved
with purpose and exceptional speed. They didn't see
it until it was directly over them, and then it was too
late.
Mudge yelled a warning white Jon-Tom dove for
his ramwood staff. The otter reached for his sword:
no time for bow and arrows.
Then it was gone, as quickly as it had appeared-
Mudge lay panting hard on the sand, eyes wide, his
sword held defensively in front of his chest even
though there was nothing left to defend against. The
danger had vanished along with the shadow.
Atan Dean Foster
114
staff, his sword, and a single steel-gray feather. The
feather was four inches wide and two feet long- It lay
motionless near the otter, the only hard evidence of
something which had come and gone with blinding
speed.
Mudge picked it up, ran it through his paws. The
quill was as thick around as his finger. He straight-
ened his cap, which somehow had stayed on his head
during the seconds-long fight, and gazed eastward.
The shadow had disappeared in that direction, carry-
ing Jon-Tom in a single brace of impossibly big
talons.
The otter considered his situation in light of his
recent declarations. The raft was intact, and in addi-
tion to his own weapons and supplies, he also had
the spellsinger's. He was uninjured.
Well, that was that, then. So much for one brave,
ignorant, meddling, exasperating, immature spellsing-
er. There was no shame now in returning home.
He would even report the debacle to the wizard
Clothahump. Sure, he owed the unfortunate Jon-
Tom that much. At least the youth wouldn't be
worrying about returning to his own world anymore.
As for the wizard, he would accept his student's
demise philosophically, and there was no way he
could blame it on the otter. It had happened too
fast.
One minute Jen-Tom had been sitting there next
to him, listening politely to his complaints, and the
next he'd been carried off by a dark cloud. Not
Mudge's fault, no sir. Couldn't have been prevented-
He loaded the raft and stepped aboard, then pushed
out into the water. At last he could start living his
own life, without fear of being conscripted for some
lethal journey halfway across a hostile world. He
could get back to living like a normal person again,
THE MOWSHT OF THE UAWCIAH
J.IS
could sleep soundly once more without listening for
strange sounds in the night.
Certainly there was nothing he could do. There
wasn't, was there? He pushed angrily against the
shaft of the split-bladed paddle and wondered why
his thoughts were so damn troubled....
Jon-Tom hung in the grasp of the powerful talons
and did not struggle, hoping the enormous eagle
. which had carried him off preferred live food to
dead. Because dead he'd certainly be if the bird let
him fall. The Wrounipai flashed past far below.
He twisted as best he was able in the unyielding
; grip and examined his captor. The eagle had at least
' a twenty-foot wingspan. It carried him effortlessly.
Like the much-smaller feathered inhabitants of this
world, it wore a kilt which trailed backward over hips
^ and tail and
a vest with a peculiar zigzagging pattern
of black on gray. The pattern was almost familiar to
Jon-Tom, but he didn't pursue it through his memory.
^ At the moment he was not in a position to spend
tmuch time doing a detailed analysis of another
creature's clothing.
Since the bird showed no sign of stopping, Jon-
^ Tom tried to make a detached survey of the terrain
^ below. It was much as the Will-o'-the-Wisp had
|f described: endless swamp and water stretching off in
^ all directions spotted here and there with tiny islets.
^ A short while later their apparent destination hove
ff into view. Some powerful tectonic disturbance had
{thrust a vast mass of black basalt straight up out of
the earth. It was thickly overgrown with climbing
I. trees and vines as thick as a man's body.
^ An opening showed in the rock two-thirds of the
^ way up its side. The eagle dove straight for it. For an
^ instant Jon-Tom didn't think those huge wings would
^' make it, but the eagle just managed to squeeze
Alan Dean Foster
116
through the opening without bashing Jon-Tom's head
or legs against; the rock betow.
The opening was not a cave. It was a tunnel
leading to the interior of the butte. The inside was
hollow.
The eagle flapped its wings twice before touching
down on one foot. It flicked its prize away, almost
contemptuously.
Jon-Tom rolled over several limes, feeling gravel
cut into his face. He suffered the pain and chose
instead to do his best to protect the duar strapped to
his back. When he finally rolled to a stop he was
bruised and scratched, but otherwise in one piece.
Keeping one eye on the eagle, he rose to examine
his surroundings.
The hollow place was not a volcanic throat, but
rather the result of some convulsive fracturing. Six-
sided stone columns rose toward the distant sky.
Jon-Tom had seen them before, in pictures of the
Giant's Causeway in Scotland and the Devil's Postpile
in California's High Sierra.
Where each column had broken, a natural perch
was formed. These were occupied by numerous nests
and homes. The floor of the great open shaft was a
charnel house full of bones picked clean by razor-
sharp beaks.
The occupants of the homes and the owners of the
beaks were normal-sized avians. Not one stood more
than four feet in height. With increasing interest, he
noted kilts belonging to hawks and falcons, ospreys
and fish hawks and vultures- They soared and swam
through the air of the shaft, coming and going
through the opening above and, less often, through
the tunnel that had served as his own entrance. They
all seemed to be talking at once. The multiple screech-
ing was deafening.
Several of them walked or flew by to greet the
THE MOMENT OF THE XAdTCUM
117
giant who had brought him with a spirited, "Hail,
Gyrnaught!" Each raised a right wingdp in salute.
That also struck Jon-Tom as somehow familiar, but
he didn't pay overmuch attention to it. There were
too many other things to try and absorb simultaneously
and he was too disoriented for deep thought.
For one thing, he was far more concerned about
his immediate fate, since the giant eagle didn't ap-
pear particularly interested in eating him. Not yet,
anyway. The mountain of bones which covered the
floor of the shaft was anything but reassuring.
The shadow towered over him again. The eagle
was not quite as impressive as it had been with its
wings outspread, but it was just as intimidating.
"Stand up straight!" the eagle commanded him.
Still sore and cramped, Jon-Tom fought to comply
with the request.
"They say, 'Hail, Gyrnaught.' You're Gyrnaught?"
A minuscule nod of head and beak. The eagle was
big enough to bite him in two without straining
itself.
"What do you want with me?"
"Not dinner. Flesh is cheap." He gestured with a
wing. "Welcome to the Raptor's Lair. You have been
brought here to serve, not to be served. If you prove
yourself."
"I don't understand."
Again the beak dipped, this time to gesture toward
the duar. "An instrument. You are a musician?"
"Uh, yeah." Somehow Jon-Tom felt this wasn't the
most opportune time to explain that he was also a
spellsinger. He might want to demonstrate that tal-
ent later. In fact, it was all but a certainty. The
longer he could keep that fact a secret from his
captor, the better Jon-Tom's chances of catching him
unawares.
Alan Dean Foster
118
"I thought as much," said Gyrnaught. "I have
need of a musician."
It was in Jon-Tom's mind to comment that the
eagle didn't look much like a music lover, but he kept
his thoughts to himself. Trying to still his trembling,
he struggled to put up a bold front. The fact that he
wasn't on the evening's menu helped-
"Quite a place you've got here."
"Ah, this is but the beginning." Gyrnaught was
pleased. Good, Jon-Tom thought, gaining a little
confidence. He can be flattered. To what extent
remained to be seen. "This is only a temporary lair
for my troops and myself. They are but the foam of
a wave which will fly forth to dominate the whole
world. Today this mountain, tomorrow the Wrounipai;
later the world! The nest will reign for a thousand
yearsi" The eagle's eyes flashed as if focusing on
something .only it could see, and (hat, too, half
reminded Jon-Tom of something.
"I don't think I recognize the pattern on your kilt
and vest."
"You could not, for it is not of this world. I
brought it here from another place many years ago.
It has taken me this long to organize just this small
striking force." He made a disgusted noise. "The
raptors of this world are difficult to convince of the
truth"
"Really? Another world? That's interesting. See,
I'm from another world myself."
The eagle's eyes narrowed. "Say you so? What
were you in your world?"
"A student of law and a singer of songs," he
admitted truthfully.
"I have need of song. As for law, I make my own"
"What were you?" Jen-Torn asked hastily, to change
the subject.
"I?" The eagle gazed down at him proudly. "I was
THE MOMENT OF THE MAOfdJUr
119
a symbol. I was everywhere, in thousands of replica-
tions. In stone and steel and brass. In symbols as
small as this"—and he held the two great wingtips
barely an inch apart—"and in granite monoliths big-
ger than you can imagine. I was a symbol every-
where and all people bowed down to me.
"But," he went on angrily, "they
saw me only as a
symbol. They did not stop and pause and consider
when they chose one of their own to be a symbol
over me. From that moment on my powers were lost.
I could not manifest my true self. When their substi-
tute symbol was ground into the dust, only I. of
many thousands of me, escaped destruction. While
in symbols I was destroyed, in this world I found
myself set free. Here I am whole again and can start
the work properly, myself." He gestured at the rap-
tors swarming through the shaft, the light dancing
on their wings,
"My soldiers will rule above all others. It is des-
tined to be so, destined for the strong to rule over
the weak. We of beak and claw shall dictate to those
who only can walk. It is right- It is destiny."
It all came together in Jon-Tom's mind. He'd
studied too much history for it to escape him for
long.
He'd seen Gyrnaught before, in metal and stone
standards. Just as the eagle said. Seen him in pic-
tures rising above obscene parade grounds, atop cold
inhumane structures, a frozen caricature of evil.
"1 know you," he said. "It was before my time, but
I know what you stand for."
Gyrnaught looked pleased. "A historian as well as a
musician. You wilt prove even more valuable to the
nest. Tell me, then, do you know the Horst Wessel
song?"
"No. Like I said, it was before my time. But I know
the kind of music you want. What I want to know is,
Alan Dean Foster
120
why should I sing for you? Why should I help you
spread your old evil to this new world when your
infection has already been cleared from mine?"
"Because if you don't, I will bite off your head and
swallow it like a pumpkin."
Jon-Tom moved the duar around in front of him.
"Can't argue with that kind of logic."
"Ah, you are going to be reasonable, then. That is
good. If you continue to be reasonable, you will
continue to live. Besides, you should be proud that
the nest has need of your services."
"What is it, exactly, that you want?" Jon-Tom sighed.
Gymaught gestured at his fellow avians. "These
are difficult to inspire. I have not yet been able to
convince all of them that they are destined to rule all
others, that they belong to the master race."
"Why? Because they have wings and the rest of us
don't?"
"Naturally. It is only right for the higher to rule
the lower. I will see to it that alt the raptors of this