Even before we finished with the cleansing we could hear the curse beginning. We could hear the cheers of the crowd; and beneath that was a dull sort of booming. Shoogar wrapped his robe around himself and hurried back up the hill, me trailing excitedly in his wake.
We reached the crest of the hill in time to see an angry ram butting his head insistently against the side of Purple’s nest. More rams were arriving, and they too began to attack the looming black globe. The focus of their anger was the desecrated homage to Rotn’bair, and it seemed as if the very substance of the Nils’n symbol was enough to anger them. The smell of the mud skunk was potent enough to raise anyone’s hackles.
Red-eyed and breathing heavily, the rams jostled and shoved and butted even at each other in their frenzy to attack that odious desecration on the side of Purple’s nest. Each time they struck it, that same dreadful booming echoed up and down the hill, and each time a great cheer went up from the crowd. I expected at any moment to see one of the rams go crashing through the walls of that fearful nest, but no — those walls were stronger than I had thought. Perhaps even as strong as metal.
The only effect I could see was that each time a ram struck it, it seemed to lift slightly out of the mud for a moment before sinking wetly back. Bleating in frenzy, the rams raged at that offensive spot — they were the living in-carnation of Rotn’bair’s anger. Again and again, they hurled themselves at that dull black surface.
Old Khart, the lead ram, had shattered both of his horns (sacred items in themselves — I mourned the loss), and several of the other rams were also injured. Their eyes were red with fury, their nostrils flared wide; their breath came in hot puffs of steam and the sounds of bleating and snorting filled the air with a madness born of wrath. The steam rose from their sides; their hoofs slashed wetly through the ground, churning the grass and mud into a meaningless soup.
Some of the rams were having trouble with their footing already, and indeed, as we watched, one of the older ones slipped and slid through the mud. He crashed against two others and brought them both down with him; all three were caught under the frenzied slashing hooves of the others.
Their angry snorts were punctuated by grunts of pain, and by the dull thud and hollow boom that rolled up and down the slope each time they struck the side of Purple’s nest. But the creatures had strength beyond all natural en-durance, and continued to clamber over one another, butting at that offending spell.
And each time they did so, each time they struck it, the nest rose up out of the ground and threatened to slide down the bank and into the river; but each time it would pause and then sag wetly back into its hollowed out cradle of mud. Several times it trapped slow-footed beasts under the curve of its wall. I felt a great surge of emotion within myself — any moment now Purple’s great egg-shaped nest would be toppled onto its side.
Then, abruptly, three of the rams hit the nest at the same time, and it seemed to leap into the air. One more struck it at just the right instant, and as it rose out of its hollow it just seemed to keep on moving. Suddenly it was sliding downslope with a great wet slosh. Angry rams scrambled after it, butting at it all the way down, churning the mud with their hoofs and leaving a long angry scar through Ang’s carefully terraced frog-grading pools. I shouted in triumph with the rest.
The great black globe struck the river with a resounding smack and splash; a loud cheer of delight went up from the villagers. Only I was silent, for the terrible nest had not deviated even a thumbnail’s width from its perfectly upright position. Had Shoogar noticed too? His puzzled frown was a match for mine.
But the nest was in the river! The rams slid and skidded down the slope, destroying what was left of the frog pools in the process. Almost joyfully they leapt into the water, still butting at Purple’s nest.
Others milled around the banks, churning the mud. Mud-skunks and salamanders ran panic-stricken under their hoofs and a new shade of red added itself to the stains on the heaving flanks of the crazed rams. Crushed mud-skunk mingled with the blood of the sheep, and the terrible smell reached us on the crest of the hill along with the hysterical splashing and bleating.
Now the black nest was within Nils’n’s reach. So far only Rotn’bair had had a chance to avenge the insult. Now the banks boiled with life as salamanders, lizards, crabs, venom-bearing snakes and other river creatures came swarming up out of the mud and darkness. They scrambled across the churning surface and attacked anything that moved, even each other, but more often the rams.
The rams continued to charge the nest, oblivious to the mud creatures caught in their wool, hanging from their sides biting and slashing at their legs. Their once proud flanks, now torn and slashed, were stained with angry strokes of red and great washes of muddy brown river water. It was an awe-inspiring sight, sheep and mud creatures together attacking that ominous unmoving sphere.
The villagers stood on the flanks. of the hill and cheered the frenzied activity below. One or two of the braver shepherds tried to work their way down the slope, but the snapping claws of the mud crabs drove them quickly back up to the crest.
The rams were slowing down now, but still they continued to mill about Purple’s nest — still they continued to push at it, occasionally clambering over the body of a fallen comrade. The water was pink. Angry mud-skunks swarmed along both banks of the river. It was a heartening sight. The crowd continued to cheer wildly, and began to chant a chorus of praise to Shoogar. Pilg the Crier was leading them.
Down below, their anger spent, some of the rams were already climbing back up the hill, slipping and skidding in their own blood and falling back down the mud-slicked surface. Two or three slipped beneath the water and failed to surface.
The mud creatures too were beginning to calm — and the shepherds once more dared to work their way carefully down the slopes to tend their wounded flock.
“A beautiful spell, Shoogar!” 1 congratulated him, “Beautiful! And so powerful!”
Indeed, as the churning foam of the river continued to subside, revealing the full extent of the devastation, several of the villagers even began to mutter that perhaps the spell had been a bit too powerful. One of the members of the Guild of Advisors remarked, “Look at all this destruction! This spell should be banned.”
“Banned?” 1 confronted the man, “And leave us defenseless before our enemies?”
“Well,” he amended, “perhaps we should only keep Shoogar from using it on friends. He could still use it on strangers.”
I nodded. 1 would accept that.
At least eleven of our sheep lay dead in the churned mud of the slope, mud creatures feeding indiscriminately on their stilled or still heaving flanks. Four of the rams were trampled into the landscape; others lay with their heads at oddly twisted angles, their necks broken from butting against Purple’s nest. Three more bodies lay below the water with their mouths open.
What remained of the flock would show countless mud-skunk bites upon their legs and flanks. Many of those bites would undoubtedly become festering sores and probably more of the rams would die later.
The vermin of the mud would be vicious for days to come. It would not be safe to bathe for a while, and probably the sheep would not dare to return to the river for a long time; they would have to be led to the mountain streams to drink.
The frog-grading ponds had been completely obliterated and would have to be completely resculptured elsewhere. Ang stood moaning and wringing his hands as he surveyed his mud-churned slope.
And finally, the wreck of the mad magician’s nest now blocked the river. Dammed water spilled over the south bank in a torrent. Already it was carving a new course for itself.