Spellsinger 03 – The Day of the Dissonance by Foster, Alan Dean

to the monster was waste ‘im. Unfortunately, ‘e did ‘imself

right proud in the process.”

Jon-Tom’s hand went to his head. “Ooooo.” Shifting

outlines resolved themselves into, the running figure of

Mudge.

” ‘Angover, mate?”

“No. No, I feel okay.” He looked up suddenly, back

toward the smoking mountain. “Al-Roojinn?”

“Zonked, skunked, blown-away. A fine a piece o’

spellsingin’ as was ever done, mate.”

“It was the song,” Jon-Tom murmured dazedly. “A

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good song. A special song. Jimi’s best. If anything could

dazzle a djinn, I knew it would be that. You can put me

down now, Roseroar.” The tigress set him down gently.

“Come on, mate. We’d best keep movin’ fast before

your spellsong wears off.”

“It’s all right, I think.” He looked back through the

forest toward the mountain. “It’s not a restraining song.

It’s a happy song, a relaxing song. Al-Roojinn didn’t seem

either happy or relaxed. Maybe he’s happy now.”

They followed the winding trail back toward Crancularn

and discovered a ghost town populated by slow-moving,

nebulous inhabitants who smiled wickedly at them, grin-

ning wraiths that floated in and out of reality. “It’s there

but some don’t see it,” Drom had said. Now Jon-Tom

understood the unicorn’s meaning. The real Crancularn

was as insubstantial as smoke, as solid as a dream.

They forced themselves not to run as they left the town

behind, heading for the familiar woods and the long walk

back to far-distant Lynchbany. Somewhere off to the right

came the grind of the ATC, but this time the helpful