Chorus Skating by Alan Dean Foster Page A

them there were no readily recognizable roads or trails through the thickening morass.
    Mudge put as much energy into complaining as he did into chopping a path. The inimitable Mudge; Mudge the Clever, Mudge the Quick: playing gardener so that his simpleminded human friend could stumble along through dense swamp after a detached and maybe deranged bit of music! Oblivious to his thoughts the chordal concatenation thrummed contentedly nearby, vibrating the air. It was an attractive sound, and absolutely no help whatsoever in forging a path through the damp vegetation.
    Jon-Tom knew every expression in his friend’s considerable arsenal and did his best to maintain his spirits. It wasn’t easy to be cheerful, what with rivers of perspiration streaming down his front and back, soaking his clothes to his skin.
    â€œPerk up, Mudge. Where’s that irrepressible otter spirit?” He jabbed playfully at the other’s tail with his own sap-smeared sword.
    â€œGet away, ya bleatin’ bloody enigma!” Mudge took a few swipes of his own at the hovering music, which at present was a faint pink blur against the greenery. It did not react as the blade passed through its wave-form substance, but when it resumed chiming it sounded decidedly melancholy.
    â€œDon’t be like that, Mudge. Think how much more of the world we’re getting to see.”
    â€œShould’ve stayed home in me own bed,” the otter grumbled as he peered up into the dense canopy. “If the rest o’ the world is all green like this, I expect I could’ve kept to Weegee’s garden an’ been equally the wiser.”
    â€œWhat about your driving curiosity? I know you still have it.” The spellsinger’s sword sent chunks of obstructing verdure flying. “An incurious otter is a contradiction in terms.”
    â€œOi, but a tired an’ bored one is not.” Mudge hitched up a fallen sleeve on his vest.
    In the lead now, Jon-Tom looked back at his friend. “I think I know better than—”
    He never finished the sentence. His next sword swipe caused him to overbalance and he went tumbling over a concealed ledge. Yelping and cursing all the way, he bounced down the slick slope. It was neither especially steep nor long, which was just as well, since he had to devote all his attention to making sure he didn’t crush the precious duar beneath him or get tangled up with the sharp sword still clutched tightly in his right hand.
    Reaching the bottom with everything precious still apparently intact, he rolled over one last time and bumped up against something soft that was not a representative of the plant kingdom. It let out a startled oath and sprang clear.
    â€œHo!” the voice yelled. “Brigands in the woods! On your guard, soldiers of Harakun!”
    Jon-Tom struggled to process this unexpected information as he fought to get back on his feet. Unlike his dignity, the duar was intact.
    Behind him he heard Mudge’s familiar and more traditional otter war cry of “Watch your ass!” as a hazel-hued, green-capped blur sped past him. This was followed by the ring of metal on metal as the otter intercepted a thrust meant for his friend’s left knee.
    Blinking mud and swamp muck from his eyes while trying to wipe his face clean, Jon-Tom had just enough sense to parry the next blow himself, leaving Mudge to deal with fresh difficulties elsewhere. The blade that caromed off his own was as short as the otter’s, a parody of a real sword.
    His opponent was as wiry as Mudge and slightly shorter. Clad in gray leather armor striped and inlaid in blue, together with matching helmet, the creature darted about on shorter but equally quick feet. It had a longer muzzle, ears on the sides of its head, and a long, skinny tail that it used for balance as it darted nimbly from side to side. Light gray in color with six pale brown stripes across its back, it flashed small but wicked teeth