Colin pulled the four corners of the leather together and secured them with his intricate series of knots. “It’s a sad day when a koala’s word is no longer believed.”
“With the fate of an unknown portion of the cosmos at stake,” Clothahump said, “you must concede a little caution on our part.”
“Your caution? What about me? What proof do I have that you’re a wizard or that the tall, bald body is a spellsinger?”
“I drove off your captors, remember?”
“I remember hearing a sound so awful, it made me wish for the fire at the time. That’s not magic, that’s torture.”
It was worth the bruise to Jon-Tom’s ego to hear Mudge laugh again.
“So I don’t sound like Nat King Cole, but I’m not that bad.”
Clothahump frowned. “I do not recognize the line. What kingdom does he reign over?”
“The kingdom of scat,” Jon-Tom replied impatiently. “Look, are we in a hurry or not?”
“We are indeed. We should move.”
“Sure, why not?” groused Mudge. “The sooner we get there, the sooner we’ll all be lyin’ quiet in our graves. Fine bunch to be off tryin’ to save the world! A wizard who knows where the enemy lies, more or less. A reader o’ the future who knows wot’s goin’ to ‘appen, more or less. An’ let’s not forget a spellsinger who can conjure up the means to defend us from wotever we may face—more or less. ‘Ow could a poor tagalong like me be anything but confident about the outcome?”
“That’s the spirit, Mudge,” Jon-Tom told him. “It’s good to know that if we get overconfident about anything, you’ll be right there with your undying pessimism to get us back on track.”
“You can be sure o’ that, mate.” He scanned the ground nearby. “Hey, where’s me cap?”
“I’ll get it.” Sorbl half flew, half hopped over to the giant fir, hunted around the sides of the fallen branch for a moment, then returned with something limp and green hi his beak. This he passed to Mudge.
“Sorry. I’m afraid it was partly under the branch. Better it than you.”
Mudge held the smashed fragment of green felt out in front of him. “Now, ain’t that a sorry sight?” He ran two fingers along the sides of the single feather, trying to fluff it out. “A quetzal tail plume, bought at the top o’ the matin’ season too. Do you ‘ave any idea ‘ow much a quetzal charges for one o’ its mating plumes?”
“I’m surprised he would sell one,” Colin commented.
“ ‘E were broker than ‘e were ‘orny,” Mudge explained. “Wearin’ one’s supposed to confer exceptional virility and stamina on the part o’ the wearer—not that I believe in any o’ those primitive arboreal’s superstitions, o’ course.”
“Then why are you crying?” Jon-Tom asked him.
“Cryin”? Wot, me? Cor, I’m just washin’ out me eyes. ‘Tis just that if one did ‘appen to believe in those superstitions, well, the condition o’ one’s works is supposedly dependent on the condition o’ the feather.”
“Oh. Well, there aren’t any ladies around here to court in any event.”
“And a damn good thing too.” Sadly the otter plucked the demolished feather from his cap and tossed it aside. “Maybe ‘tis for the best. I’m not likely to be distracted along the way—not that we’re likely to encounter any worthwhile distractions.”
“So that’s settled.” Jon-Tom hefted his pack. “Let’s be going. Now, Mudge. Mudge? Come on.”
But the otter was holding back, sampling the air.
“I smell it, too, otter,” said Dormas. She had her head tilted back and her muzzle high in the air.
“Smell what?” Jon-Tom asked.
“Something burning, mate.”
“I do not smell it yet,” said Clothahump, “but the air is decidedly warmer, and I fear not from the sudden onset of an early spring, Sorbl, have a look.”
“Yes, Master.” Spreading his great wings, the owl rose from his perch on Dormas’s back and climbed rapidly.
The rest of them stood and waited, watching the only airborne member of their little party as he circled higher and higher above them.
“I can smell it now too,” Jon-Tom murmured. “It’s strong, but there’s something else about it. I can’t say what.”
“Maybe Sorbl can tell us,” Dormas ventured. The wizard’s famulus had folded his wings and was dropping like a stone toward them. At the last possible instant he spread his wings, braked, and landed on the ninny’s back. He did not look worried; he looked terrified.
“We’re trapped,” he informed them in a shaky voice, “doomed. This time there is no way out.”
“Come now,” Clothahump prompted him, unperturbed, “there is always a way out. We have proven that in the past, and we shall prove it as often as necessary in the future. What did you see?”
“F-fire,” the owl stammered.
“Fine. Fire. From which direction is it advancing?”
“From everywhere, Master. From all directions.”
Something wasn’t kosher here, Jon-Tom told himself. Even if they were completely surrounded by a forest fire of as yet unknown dimensions, Sorbl ought not to be concerned for himself. Surely he could soar to safety.
“What was burning?” he asked the famulus. “The woods?”
“The woods, the ground, everything but the air itself,” the owl told him. “The whole world is on fire.”
“You are not making sense, apprentice,” Clothahump snapped at him. “It is not the first time.”
“Truly, Master, everything burns.”
Jon-Tom was standing on tiptoes, turning a slow circle and scanning the various horizons. The air temperature continued to rise. But there was no smoke to be seen in any direction. Even if Sorbl was greatly exaggerating and only a small grove was ablaze, they should still be able to see some smoke.
And why should he exaggerate?
“Somebody’s eyes are deceiving them,” Dormas muttered. “How can the world burn without sending up smoke?”
“A perturbation.” Clothahump was fumbling through the drawers in his plastron, searching for a particular vial. He was sure he’d stored it securely in the compartment closest to his left armpit—maybe down nearer knee level. “I suspect it approaches from the south. The all-encompassing perturbations usually begin quite far from the perambulator itself.”
“So we’re to be incinerated.” Mudge sat down heavily. “A short reprieve, that.”
“I can see it now.” Jon-Tom pointed toward the southwest, and all eyes turned in that direction.
The flames came marching over the line of trees, engulfing everything in their path. The fire was like a moving wall. There were no gaps, no cool spaces where a desperate runner might slip through to freedom. Above the advancing wall the sky was alive with darting, dancing fireballs. They could hear the crackle and roar clearly, the rising susurration of a combustible choir. And still there was not a puff of smoke to be seen.
“Far out,” Jon-Tom whispered. He was starting to sweat.
Now the conflagration was close enough for them to see that the rocks themselves were burning. Each bit of gravel, each smooth-shouldered boulder burst forth with orange-red streamers. Jon-Tom was dimly aware that behind them Clothahump was holding both hands in the air and reciting a rapid-fire sequence of ancient words.
Moving with preternatural speed, the flames swept down on them. The heat was intense but not volcanic. No one’s clothes burst into flames on his body. No one collapsed from sucking in a single hot, suffocating breath. No natural blaze this, Jon-Tom told himself wonderingly. Sorbl was right about that.
Suddenly the onrushing wall of flame split as though cleft with an ax. It swung around them, consuming the land on either side. The air remained breathable. They were completely surrounded by a towering wall of fire.
“Great light show.” Jon-Tom mopped at his face. The perspiration was pouring off him, but it was not intolerable. He tried to pretend he was lying on the beach at Redondo with the Santa Ana bringing in air from off the Mojave. “What do we do now?”