Song of Time

12

Far down the beach, near the mouth of a small river, Yob came to consciousness, stinging bluewinged flies buzzing at his ample ears. He raised his waterlogged head, blew his nose, the resulting honk scattering several curious shorebirds, and sat up. He looked seaward, remembering he had come with a company, and tried to discern if any of his warriors might have made it to shore. But the waves and the beach were empty but for debris and washed-up clothing; he was alone.

Well, not quite.

When he turned to look in the other direction, standing in the shallow water where the inland sea and the little river met was a large furry creature, sunlight glinting off something shiny at its ear, holding a clam in one paw and a rock in the other.

Yob made a startled sound deep in his throat. The creature did not twitch a whisker. After a moment of regarding the ore, it lay back in the water, bashed the long, thin clam on the rock, oddly discarding the meat but saving the shell.

Yob suddenly became overpoweringly hungry. It had been a hard day.

Drooling, he lunged into the brackish waves after the creature. The otter playfully slipped through Yob's claws, tossed its stone aside, and bellied up to the shore. Yob made another swipe at it, but this time he found himself with an eyeful of sand and armful of rock hard muscle. The razor-sharp clamshell pricked at his throat.

"Be nice." A woman's deep, sultry voice breathed into his ear. "Let me go, or the sharks will be gathering for an early dinner when the riptide takes your body out to sea, and you'll never see that daughter of yours again." Yob relaxed his grip on the woman's arm. She slithered behind him. "Thank you. Now don't turn around until I tell you."

Yob was in no condition to argue. Half-drowned and suddenly very lonesome, he did as he was told. The hunger had subsided, too. He gingerly touched the little cut on his neck. Hardly more than an orcish lovebite, but the pain was growing intolerable. He wondered if the shell had been poisoned. There was a rustle of fabric at his back. He craned his head as far as he could without causing more pain, but could see nothing of the woman.

"All right. I'm dressed now. Turn around slowly. What's your story?" the sultry voice demanded.

Yob scooted around in the sand to face a small woman clad in iridescent brown ghoma skin, razor-clam shell still in hand. She blinked slowly at him, her eyes silver and huge, her face and body dark as night. Her hair lay in slick curls down her neck and danced at her broad forehead. Yob couldn't quite place what was so very strange about her until he noticed her ears: tiny, flat against her head, and pointed like a mouse's. Or like an otter's. At the lobe of the left one, affixed to a golden earring, there dangled a glittering gem the colors of fresh, deep water.

"I am Yob," he said. "I don't remember my story. Who are you?"

"Can you not guess? I thought you greenskins were always good for a game." She smiled, the blue-and-purple gem flashing.

Yob shook his head, making himself dizzy; he hadn't guessed right all day. The woman chuckled and gave him a mock curtsy. "I am Frijan, daughter of Wiggulf the Riverking. And you are my prisoner, ore. Get yourself up and march. We have a long way to go on land, since I know your kind cannot swim."

Yob stood up. As he towered over the woman, he remembered how big he was and began to laugh. "Your prisoner? I am Yob! A Wyrvi! overking. You are a little selkie. It is funny that you say this thing."

"The cut on your neck will kill you inside three days if you do not come with me. My father is the only one who can reverse the effects of the poison. Still funny, ore?"

Yob's yellow eyes widened with amazement and he clutched his neck, the pain growing more intense as he thought about it. After a moment or so, Frijan pointed the way, and they began to walk into the pine forest, following the river.

"I need some fresh water to rinse my clothes and this salt off my skin," muttered Claria as she led Cheyne and Og ever deeper into the wood. "It's been a long time since I've heard anyone behind us. The old maps showed a river running through this forest, and I can even smell it. Could we please stop and wash?"

"Not yet. I want to make a couple of more miles before we camp," said Cheyne, looking over his shoulder.

The trees crowded over their trail, and the ground was dry, loose sand, littered with seasons and seasons of pine needles and stickaburrs. Hard country in which to track. Still, he felt the presence of followers.

"Og, step it up. Stop dreaming of Riolla. She would have drowned you back there without thinking twice. Come on. You're supposed to be my guide, not the other way around."

"I know. I know." The little man sighed, one ugly boot in hand. His waterlogged sandals still squished a little. "I just wish it were otherwise. I just wish she loved me like I love her."

Cheyne gently pushed the songmage in front of him and hung back for a moment, listening. Not far away, to the right, he knew he had heard someone moving among the trees-someone who seemed to know their way. From Claria's estimation, that's where the river lay. The trees seemed less dense there as well, affording him a protected view. He stood silently listening to the whisper of the cooling wind in the fragrant pines.

And then he saw them. Yob, his shoulders stooped and his hand at his neck, lumbered along not fifty feet away; behind him a dark-skinned woman walked as if she owned the forest and everything in it. It was Yob who made all of the noise. The woman moved as though her feet never touched the ground, as though she swam through the air. They seemed to be walking with purpose and speed. And Yob seemed very unhappy about all of it.

Cheyne slowly let go of the bough he held in front of his face. In a few steps, he was back with Claria and Og and had bade them to stop.

"Ogwater, it's your old friend, Yob. And he looks to be injured, though he's on his feet well enough. A dark woman walks behind him, and I think she has a definite destination," he whispered as the trio crouched low under the pines.

"She'll have a definite purpose, too. She must be a selkie," replied Og, his face furrowing.

"A selkie?" said Claria.

"Yes. Riverfolk, you know. Change from humans, or nearly human form, to otters and such, depending on their clan. Live in the forest here, further upstream, but they know everything that happens in the water. She must have found Yob at the delta. Selkies really love three things in life: games, baubles, and fishing in the tidal pools. They used to frequent these parts, before Rotapan poisoned the Silver Sea." Og smiled. "But I've never been this far west. That's just a guess, from what the ores say and the old ballads I know about them."

Cheyne idly drew his foot across the speckled white sand. "Why would she want an ore, Og?"

"Oh, I would think she's taking him home with her. Remember, Rotapan has had their king in his water dungeon for years now. Something of a trade-off, I would guess…"

"Rotapan doesn't strike me as caring much about anyone except himself. Why would he ransom Yob?" asked Cheyne.

"He wouldn't. But Yob would ransom Womba," Og said slowly. I was hiding under Krota's broken pot-I heard Rotapan say to Yob was that he was holding Womba prisoner until Yob brought all of us back to the temple. Well, actually, just our heads."

"How would the selkies know that?"

"If Womba is in the water dungeon, they know from Wiggulf himself. He sings constantly. Nothing happens in the water without the selkies hearing of it within the hour."

"Let's follow them. If nothing else, we'll find our way through the wood safely," Cheyne said, thinking of the canistas he had seen earlier; a bedraggled group of exhausted travelers would be just the sort of prey the beasts liked best.

Warily, he led the way. Claria took the middle position, keeping a sharp eye on Og ever since she had seen him mooning over Riolla. The songmage clutched the serpent-headed staff tightly, the red ajada covered with a shred of Og's overshirt. Every so often, when Claria cast a glance at Cheyne, Og would look behind him, tuning his ears to any sound that might mean they were being followed. Especially any sound like Riolla's voice.

An hour more into the pine forest, the trees began to thin into deciduous, understory saplings, which provided almost no cover. Cheyne dropped the party back

several hundred yards, trying to keep quiet in the rustling, drier leaves that lay scattered under the dogwoods and maples. Claria moved well in the noisy rubble, but Ogwater sounded like Yob. Finally, at the river's edge, in the relative shelter of a huge, storm-fallen willow, Cheyne bade them stop.

"Looks like we can wash now, Claria. We'll need to take to the water if we want to continue to follow them. How far upstream are we, anyway?"

Claria had already waded into the clear, cold water. A low mist hung inches above the river, almost like ice crystals suspended in the air.

"Birr! The water is like ice! It shouldn't be this cold this time of year. The leaves haven't even fallen," she complained, quickly splashing down and wading out again. "I recall that there is some kind of enlargement in the river around here soon. I drew it about four miles into the forest-sort of an island in the middle of the stream. That's all the traders' maps showed. We should be very close to that," she replied.

"That would be the rock of the main lodge. Wiggulf s personal quarters are supposed to be as big as a banquet hall," said Og. "I know a song-" He began to hum, but Cheyne hushed him with a glare.

"Come on. Back in the river."

"Not me. We won't last ten minutes in that water," said Claria, still shivering. "Besides, how are we going to follow them into the main lodge? It'll be surrounded by selkies, won't it?"

"I'll take you."

They all turned at once toward the husky voice. The female selkie stood smiling before them; at her side, Yob shook violently, his face as pale as a dead leaf.

"Let's go. This greenskin is fading fast on me. He's too heavy to carry and they never float, and I need to keep him alive for awhile. He'd probably like that, too. I finally had to come back for you because you were so slow. He hasn't got long before he falls down. But now you can carry him when he needs it." She waved a

graceful hand at Yob, then motioned to a nearly invisible path in front of them.

Cheyne looked cautiously over his shoulder, the sensation of being followed rising up his back again. He fully expected to see Riolla and Rotapan bearing down on them. What he saw instead made him only a little happier. Two dozen burly, bearded men, skin the same color as the woman's, long coral knives in their hands, appeared and encircled them. Water droplets gleamed in their dark curly hair and clung to their beards. Bits of colored shells and sea urchin spines dangled from their ears and necks and at the belts of their ghomaskin breechcloths.

"You didn't think the riverking's daughter travels alone, did you?" Frijan beamed.

Yob remembered something, then, stirring out of his stupor,

"Daughter… Womba…" he cried softly. "The temple fell down, and you are left there, my little flower."

She wished he would stop that infernal singing. Womba shook the iron bars of the water dungeon and let loose with a mighty roar, causing the grizzled old selkie to cease his mournful song for a moment.

"Qh, good one. A few more of those and we'll be out," he chittered appreciatively. "Pray tell, orcess- why do they have you in here?"

Womba hung onto the rusty iron gate, the strong tide lapping up to her neck, and fitfully scratched at a bit of gray seaweed caught on one of her chin whiskers. The saltwater was ruining her dress, and if it rose much higher, she would surely drown. When she didn't answer, the old selkie flipped his tail playfully and resumed his song. Womba sighed and contemplated how much energy it would take to catch and eat the old furbag. But then she would be alone down here, and that, despite the dolorous singing, would be much, much worse. It had taken eight armed guards and a net to get her in here. She must have been really tired, she told herself. Such weakness was inexcusable. Og would not want her now… A large tear formed in her right eye and dropped into the rising sea.

"Oh, please, don't make it worse. The water will drown you soon enough without help." The old selkie chuckled as he swam over. He floated on his back and looked up at her, compassion and pity radiating from his huge brown, shining eyes. The bright sunlight on the water outside the dungeon sparkled through the arched gate and played against the ceiling, its soft overhead rays making his gray whiskers gleam silver.

"For whom do you cry, orcess?" he squeaked, his voice small and strange in Womba's ears.

"What?" she sputtered,

"Is it a young warrior? Your mother? A long lost friend?" The old selkie paddled around her slowly, keeping just out of swatting range, his words echoing off the wet, salt-encrusted walls of the dungeon.

"I have shamed him with my weakness; I let myself be taken prisoner. He was destined to be my husband, and now he's with her." She began to sob.

"Who? Who?"

"The finest songmaker in all of Almaaz: Ogwater Rifkin. Oh, did you mean the ugly woman? I don't know her name. I could care less. And she smells." She gurgled, the rising waves making her speak in gasps. She roared again with frustration.

An answering rumble overhead made them both look up just in time to see a large crack form in the vaulted ceiling and widen before their astonished eyes. The old selkie clapped his paws together and danced and twirled and dived in his excitement.

When he surfaced again, the crack had spread to the gate, and Womba was cowering against it, all but drowning. "What's happening? The temple is going to fall on me! My hair… my wedding dress! This is my wedding dress!" she cried between gulps.

"No, no, no, we'll be fine. It finally worked! My song has weakened the structure over the years and your lovely roar has triggered the collapse. See? You are not so weak after all… Ha! I've beaten your prison, Rotapan, you old poisoner! And I have beaten you!" he shouted to the ceiling. Then he whirled to Womba, who was plastered to the iron gate like a big green barnacle. "Look, you push on the bars. That's a big, fine girl; you can do it. Think of your loved one."

In the first stages of panic, Womba could have moved mountains. Her little yellow eyes glazed over and her lips curled into a snarl as she nudged the gate with her shoulder. The bars sprang loose instantly.

And sank instantly.

"No, no, let go, orcess! Let go of the gate!" shouted the selkie, diving after her. But Womba had a death-grip on the gate, her shriek rising from her mouth in huge, pearly bubbles. The selkie rolled his eyes and dove after her, trying to distinguish her face from the morass of seaweed and barnacles growing on the lower part of the gate. In clear water, it would have been a difficult job; in the silty tidewash, it was impossible.

Wiggulf went up for air, wondering why he even cared that Womba was drowning. After all, her kind had put him in this wet pit where he had languished for years, living off the fish the tide brought in, and the crabs and mollusks that favored that dark, protected walls of the dungeon. He'd never been dry enough to change back into a man. But they had put her in there, too. Somehow that was enough.

He dove again, finding Womba's huge hand, claws still locked around the bars of the gate, and opened his mouth to bare two savagely sharp incisors. He clamped down on her scaly fingers with all his might. It worked. She let go of the bars and grabbed viciously for him, chasing him up from the sea floor to the sur1 9 6

Teri McLaren

face, rage and pain in her salt-blinded eyes. Wiggulf barely escaped her proven grasp,

"Enough, orcess! Leave off! I mean you no harm. You are safe-look, see?" He pointed toward the open sea. "We must swim now, out of the gate. Just hold your breath." He panted as Womba clacked her teeth at him and fought to stay above the waves.

"But I cannot swim, you rodent!" she whuffed, spewing him with water.

Wiggulf had not thought of that. But there was no time to work it out; the temple had begun to collapse, a few small bleached, hollow bones plinking here and there into the sea like the beginnings of a hard cloudburst. Soon, he knew, they would be unable to get far enough away before the top-heavy structure crumbled, sending huge chunks of marble, heavy monaurochs skulls, and enormous whale bones crashing over their heads into the bay.

He swam out past Womba, nipping her as he went, and waited as she followed, her anger providing enough propulsion to get her out of the dungeon. Wiggulf circled her again and again, teasing and poking at her, until he had maneuvered her several yards out from the dungeon, toward something he had spotted floating in the water: one of Rotapan's favorite decorations, a massive gargoyle made from a bunch of large, round skulls lashed together, which bobbed in the waves like a coconut raft. Wiggulf swam under it and towed it to Womba, who grabbed onto it with all the strength she had. When he was sure it would remain afloat, Wiggulf tugged at the lashings, slowly bringing the strange raft along.

The sea was high-the whirlpool controlled the current-so he steered Womba far to the right, close to the ruin of the causeway, just as most of the temple broke apart and fell. It was a sight Wiggulf had awaited for years. He turned on his back to watch and grinned so widely that his whiskers tickled his ears. "Ha! You old poisoner… builder of bone lodges! You have done this to yourself. Good-bye, Rotapan."

Womba looked back also. The bones crashed into the sea behind them, what remained of the temple disappearing amid a puff of white dust. A lone boot, its workmanship exquisite, its decoration exquisitely tasteless, floated up beside Womba.

"Og…" she cried, reaching for the boot, hugging it to her chest. "Og… oh, and Papa, too…" she moaned, about to lose her grip on the raft.

Wiggulf sighed, it was hard work, saving an enemy.

"Hold on, orcess, over there is part of the old bridge. We can rest there until the tide goes out again. I will swim to my people and bring you help. You will be safe here: the water never rises above these rocks, and the piling is hollow-our fishers once used this place as shelter in storms."

Wiggulf pulled himself up a cairn of crab-infested rocks, once part of the destroyed bridge's pilings. Womba clawed up the rocks after him, hugging the boot, and fell into an exhausted sleep as soon as her feet were out of the water. The blue fiddlers and the spiky red crabs, their black-tipped claws clacking at their new find, swarmed over Womba momentarily, but Wiggulf batted them off, taking one or two to taste. For years, he had eaten crabs. And since the crabs ate the remains of everything else in the sea, they had held the most poison in their flesh. Wiggulf spat the bitter meat out in disgust. He could wait until he got home; it wasn't that much farther to decent food.

He dipped back into the water to clear his paws of the foul smell, hopped back upon the dry piling, and began to preen his fur, awaiting the transformation. It had been years since he had taken the shape of a man. He wondered what it would feel like to be dry. Seconds later, he knew.