Free Chorus Skating by Alan Dean Foster

ground, dulling the blade and risking the point.
    Growling and whistling and muttering to themselves, this motley-looking assortment of would-be assailants faced their potential victims and waited for one of their number bolder than the rest to make the first move.
    â€œRight, then.” Dragging the massive sword, the ocelot advanced past the capuchin. The cat seemed to be the leader, perhaps because of his impressive weapon. In contrast, his maroon shorts and multipocketed vest were pretty threadbare, the gold trim on the vest hanging loose in at least two places. Like his companions, he gave the appearance of having seen better days.
    â€œHand over all your valuables and perhaps we’ll spare your lives!”
    Brash as always, Mudge gestured with his bow and notched arrow. “Take a hike an’ maybe we’ll spare yours. This ’ere tall ’uman is Jon-Tom Meriweather, most noted and notable spellsinger in all the Warmlands. Be off while the offing is good, before ’e turns the lot o’ you into dung beetles!”
    â€œA spellsinger. You don’t say.” The capuchin eyed Jon-Tom openly. He walked with a pronounced limp. “I, for one, am convinced there is no such thing.”
    â€œBe not so hasty.” The mandrill stepped forward. He had tired eyes, Jon-Tom decided. The simian yawned, displaying impressive but yellow-stained canines. “It seems to me that I have heard of such.”
    â€œPloo!” snapped the squirrel. “Where would you know of anything magical, Tabbil? You pay no attention to much of anything.”
    â€œAnd he cannot read,” added the raccoon for good measure.
    The mandrill wagged an admonishing finger at his teasers. “It is true I cannot, but at least I listen instead of talking all the time, and one who listens is known to have—”
    â€œShut up, the lot of you,” growled the ocelot. Argumentative but unwilling to challenge the cat, the debaters lapsed into silence. “You’re letting yourselves get distracted again. How many times do I have to warn you about that?” He turned back to Jon-Tom and Mudge, who by this time were more wary than fearful. “Come on, come on, hand over your valuables.”
    Emboldened, Mudge raised his small but powerful bow. “Not a chance, pointy-ears.” To Jon-Tom he added, “Go on, guv. Show ’em wot you can do. Sing up an army o’ blood-sippin’ ghouls to suck the flesh from their bones!”
    This energetic request did nothing to lessen the air of apprehension that was increasingly evident among their would-be assailants.
    Jon-Tom fingered the duar. “I haven’t really had time to compose anything appropriate.”
    â€œRight, right, that’s wot you always say,” Mudge whispered urgently through his whiskers. “I don’t think you need to extend yourself, I don’t. Take a good look at this lot. Don’t exactly set one to quakin’ with uncontrollable terror, do they? Give ’em a bit o’ a fright an’ I’ll wager they’ll break an’ run.”
    â€œThey’d better,” Jon-Tom replied. “We’re badly outnumbered, and I can’t swing a sword like I used to.”
    â€œYou never could swing a sword, mate. So I reckon you’d better sing.” The otter kept his bow at the ready.
    Jon-Tom hadn’t been forced to use his talents in a defensive capacity in longer than memory served, but he still remembered how to coax some formidable sounds from the duar. His first attempt had an immediate effect on the lost chords, which trembled and shuddered as if in pain. Its reaction to Jon-Tom’s efforts differed little from those of Mudge and numerous others.
    There was no denying their effectiveness, however. Recognizing that there had been perhaps one or two occasions in the past when his spellsinging had gotten them into trouble, Jon-Tom endeavored to conjure up not a