Mudge sniffed endlessly, nervously, at the damp, moist air. “Never did care much for this stuff. There’s them that think it romantic. Me, I says that’s tallywabble. ‘Ow’s a person supposed to watch out for ‘imself in this gray crap?”
“Reminds me of movies I’ve seen of the Golden Gate, in San Francisco.”
That piqued the otter’s interest and raised his spirits as well. “A gate made out o’ gold! That’s the first reference you’ve made to your world that interests me, mate. Maybe she ain’t as bad a place to live as you make it out to be.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but the gate I’m referring to isn’t made out of gold. That’s just a name given to it because of how it looks at certain times of day.”
“Oh, that’s the case, is it? Doesn’t compare to the jeweled gate of Motaria, then? Pity. As for Motaria, I’ve ‘card tales that say . . .” And he proceeded to spin the story without having to be prompted by Jon-Tom. When he finally ran out of words, the fog was thicker than ever.
They walked on in silence. Mudge kept sniffing the air, searching the dampness for suggestions of possible danger, when the discordant mumbling from off to his right finally made him search out his tall friend once more.
“Look, mate, I don’t mind you practicin’ your spellsingin’, but I’d be obliged if you could do it a mite more quietly.” Jon-Tom didn’t look at him. He was scanning the forest, 128
what he could see of it through the fog. “I haven’t been spellsinging, Mudge. In fact, I was just going to ask you to be quiet.”
“Me? I ‘aven’t so much as—”
“Nobody can hear themselves think over all that damned sniffing of yours. But I think I hear something else.”
Mudge frowned but stood quietly, save for one involuntary sniff. His gaze narrowed slightly. “Blimey, you’re right, mate. I ‘eard bad singin’ for sure, but it weren’t you.” Dormas had trotted over to join them. She stood next to Jon-Tom, her nose held high to sample the air, her ears cocked alertly forward.
“I hear it, too, boys. Some kind of singing or chanting. Think I can smell something also.”
“What species?” Clothahump’s eyes and ears were neither as sharp as Mudge’s nor as sensitive as Dormas’s. Besides which, he was fully occupied with trying to keep moisture from congealing on his glasses. He wiped them with a cloth as he stared into the fog.
“Rodentia, I think.” Dormas inhaled deeply. “There’s so much water in the air, it’s tough to say.”
“Right about that, lass. Take a deep whiff and ‘tis like blowin’ your nose backwards.”
Jon-Tom made a face. “Your gift for metaphor is as .effervescent as ever, Mudge.”
“I ‘ope that’s as dirty as it sounds, mate.”
“More than one of them, whoever they are.” The hinny’s nostrils flexed. Jon-Tom was acutely conscious of his olfactory inadequacies. Compared to any one of his companions, he was virtually scent-blind.
“Any idea how many of them there might be?” Clothahump asked her.
“Can’t say. Don’t matter, anyways, does it?” She glanced down at him. “We’re not headed in that direction.”
“We cannot be certain which route we will employ to return.” The wizard considered the tantalizing fog thoughtfully. “I confess to curiosity. I should like to know through whose territory we have been traveling.” Behind him, Sorbl let out a groan.
“Me too,” avowed Dormas.
Mudge eyed first the hinny, then Clothahump in disbelief. “Wot’s with you two? Remember, curiosity killed the cat.”
“Not anybody I know.” Dormas started into the trees, dropped her head to sniff the damp ground ahead of them.
“We are far from Ospenspri, far north of any civilized town.” Clothahump put his glasses back on his beak. They immediately began to fog up again. “There can, however, be habitation without civilization. I have heard many tales of the wild tribes that are said to infest these infrequently visited north woods. It would be useful to obtain some firsthand knowledge of their ways.”
“Why don’t you just read a bleedin’ book about ‘em, guv’nor?”
“There is little to read, my water-loving fuzz-brain.” The wizard moved to follow in Dormas’s wake. “Few explorers come this way. They prefer the warmlands or the tropics. We have a unique opportunity here.”
“Aye, to become some shithead rat’s dinner.” Mudge looked up at Jon-Tom. “You see the wisdom in me words, don’t you, lad?”
“I see that wisdom is not gained without risks.” Clothahump smiled approvingly at him. “Sorry, Mudge.” He stepped forward to join the other two.
“You’re all bloody fools—not that that’s the surprise o’ the year.” The frustrated otter folded his arms and held his ground. What really made him angry was that they were ignoring him. He didn’t mind being screamed at, yelled at, or insulted, but when those whose opinion differed from his acted as though he didn’t exist, he wanted to stab something. Given his present company, however, even that release was denied to him. His knife couldn’t dent Clothahump’s shell, Jon-Tom would sense him coming, and Dormas’s arse was too high.
So he drew his short sword and relieved some of his frustration by hacking a nearby bush to pieces.
Jon-Tom, Dormas, and Clothahump continued to ignore their apoplectic companion. They were too busy trying to identify the source of the mysterious, eerie chanting that floated through the woods. It seemed as if it were being carried along by the fog itself, rising and falling, the cadence distinctive, the words unrecognizable.
“An ancient language,” the wizard commented, “doubtless handed down from chanter to chanter. It may be that those who sing no longer know the meaning of the words but continue to recite them because they believe they have power.”
Jon-Tom was no linguist, but even he could sense the age of the chants. They seemed to consist largely of grunts and groans, of the kinds of sounds animals would make: animals incapable of reason and speech and higher thought. A tribal legacy retained from a precivilized past. No wonder Clothahump was interested in the people who would make such sounds. He glanced back over a shoulder.
“Mudge, you’re the best stalker among us. Why don’t you lead the way?”
Having demolished the bush and returned his sap-stained sword to its scabbard, the otter resolutely turned his back on them. “Not me, guv’nor. Go stick your neck into the pot if you want to, but I’m stayin’ ‘ere.”
“Leave the water rat be,” Clothahump told his tall human charge. “We shall advance without him. If naught else, our approach will be quieter. Dormas, can you still smell them?”
“Faintly. It’ll get stronger as we get closer. Maybe this damn fog will lift a little too.”
They started forward. Sorbl rose from his perch to settle on the top of Dormas’s pack. Mudge looked at the owl in surprise.
“Sorbl? You’re not goin’, too, mate?”
“I have no choice.” The apprentice looked back at him. “I must go where my master goes.”
“Don’t worry, Mudge,” Jon-Tom told him. “We’ll be back in a little while. You can stay here and guard the campsite.”
“Wot? All by meself?” The otter gazed warily into the impenetrable, claustrophobic fog. He made a growling sound in his throat as he spoke to Jon-Tom. “You think you’re bloomin’ clever, don’t you, you ‘airless son of an ape? You know I ain’t likely to squat ‘ere on me fundament in this stinkin’ fog without anyone to watch me back.”
“Frankly I don’t care what you do, you spineless offspring of a cottonmouth, but if you’re coming with us, get up here and make yourself useful.”
Having concluded this exchange of pleasantries and having reavowed their undying friendship, Mudge joined Jon-Tom in leading the way. In fact, the otter took the lead, professing a desire to keep as far from his tall friend as possible.