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

beach and let the sun dry them. Clean and refreshed,

Jon-Tom made a fire and temporary shelter of driftwood

while Mudge and Roseroar went scavenging. Life in abun-

dance clung to the shore.

The two unlikely hunters returned with a load of crusta-

ceans the size of king crabs. Three of these—killed,

cracked, and cooked over an open fire—were sufficient to

fill even the tigress’s belly. This time Jon-Tom didn’t even

twitch as he snuggled up against the amazon’s flank.

Mudge curled up on the far side of the fire. For the first

time since they’d fled Malderpot, they all slept peacefully.

VI

As usual, Mudge woke first. He sat up, stretched, and

yawned, his whiskers quivering with the effort. The sun

was just up and the last smoke fleeing the firepit. Some-

thing, some slight noise, had disturbed the best night’s rest

he’d had in weeks.

He heard it again, no mistake. Curious, he dressed

quickly and tiptoed past his still somnolent companions.

As he made his way over a sandy hillock flecked with

beach grass, he slowed. A cautious glance over the crest

revealed the source of the disturbance.

They were not alone on the beach. A small single-

masted sailing craft was grounded on the gravel. Four

large, ugly-looking specimens of varying species clustered

around a single, much smaller individual. Two of them

were arguing over a piece of clothing. Mudge shrugged

mentally and prepared to retreat. None of his business.

What had awakened him was the piteous cry for help of

the person trapped among the ruffians. It was an elderly