Spellsinger 02 - The Hour of the Gate - Foster, Alan Dean

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The Hour of the Gate

Spellsinger #2

Alan Dean Foster

Jon-Tom reeled dizzily at the top of the steps. All wrong,

he knew. Out of place, out of time. He was not standing

before the entrance to this strange Council Building in a city

named Polastrindu. A five-foot tall otter in peaked green cap

and bright clothing was not eying him anxiously, wondering if

he was about to witness a fainting spell. A bespectacled

bipedal turtle was not staring sourly at him, waiting for him

to regain his senses so they could be about the business of

saving the world. An enormous, exceedingly ugly black bat

was not hovering nearby, muttering darkly to himself about

dirty pots and pans and the lack of workman’s comp a

famulus enjoyed while in a wizard’s employ.

Sadly, saying these things were not did not transform the

reality.

” ‘Ere now, mate,” the otter Mudge inquired, “don’t you

be sick all over us, wot?”

Alan Dean Foster

“Sorry,” Jonathan Thomas Meriweather said apologetical-

ly. “Oral exams always make me queasy.”

“Be of good cheer, my young friend,” said the wizard

Clothahump. He tapped his plastron. “I shall do the neces-

sary talking. You are here to add credence to what I will say,

not to add words. Come now. Time dies and the world draws

nearer disaster.” He ambled through the portal. As he had

now for many weeks, the transposed Jon-Tom could only

long for his own vanished world, hope desperately that once

this crisis had passed Clothahump could return him to it, and

follow the turtle’s lead.

Inside they marched past scribes and clerks and other

functionaries, all of whom turned to look at them in passing.

The hall itself was wood and stone, but the bark-stripped logs

mat supported this structure had been polished to a high

luster. Rich reds faded into bright, almost canary-yellow

grains. The logs had the sheen of marble pillars.

They turned past two clusters of arguing workers. The

arguing stopped as they passed. Apparently everyone in

Polastrindu now knew who they were, or at least that they

controlled the dragon who’d almost bumed down the city the

previous night.

Up a pair of staircases they climbed. Clothahump puffed

hard to keep up with the rest. Then they passed through a set

of beautiful black and yellow buckeye-buri doors and entered

a small room.

There was a single straight, long table on a raised dais. It

curved at either end, forming horns of wood. To the right a

small bespectacled margay sat behind a drafting table. He

wore brown shirt, shorts, boots, and an odd narrow cap. The

quill pen he was writing with was connected by wooden arms

to six similar pens hovering over a much larger table and six

separate scrolls. It was a clever mechanism enabling the

scribe to make an original and six copies simultaneously. An

THE HOUR OF TJZB GATE

assistant, a young wolf cub, stood nearby. He was poised to

change the scrolls or unroll them as the occasion demanded.

Seated behind the raised table was the Grand Council of

the City, County, and Province of Greater Polastrindu, the

largest and most influential of its kind in the warmlands.

Jon-Tom surveyed the councillors. From left to right, he

saw first a rather foppishly clad prairie dog draped in thin

silks, lace, neck chains, and a large gold earring in his right

ear. Next came a corpulent gopher in pink, wearing the

expected dark wraparound glasses. This redoubtable female

likely represented the city’s nocturnal citizens. His eyes

passed impatiently over most of the others.

There were only two truly striking personalities seated

behind the table. At its far right end sat a tall, severely attired

marten. If not actually a military uniform, his dress was very

warlike. It was black and blue and there were silver epaulets

crusting his shoulders and chevronlike ripples on his sleeves.

Double bandoliers of small stilettoes formed a lethal “X”

across his chest. His clothing was so spotless Mudge whispered

that it must have a dirt-repellent spell cast on it.

His posture matched his attire. He sat rigidly erect in his

low chair, his high torso not bending even slightly across the

table. His attitude was also much more attentive than that of

any of the other council members.

Jon-Tom tried to analyze their states of mind as they took

stock of the tiny group waiting before the long table. Their

expressions conveyed everything from fear to amusement.

Only the marten seemed genuinely interested.

The other imposing figure on the dais sat in the middle of

the table. He was flanked by two formal perches on which

rested the representatives of Polastrindu’s arboreal population.

One was a large raven. At the moment he was picking his

beak with a silver pick held easily in his left foot. He wore a

red, green, and ocher kilt and matching vest. On the other

Alan Dean Foster

perch was the smallest intelligent inhabitant of the warmlands

Jon-Tom had yet encountered. The hummingbird was no

larger man a man’s head. It had a long beak, exquisite

plumage, and heavily jeweled kilt and vest. It might have

flown free from the treasure vaults of Dresden.

Gold trim lined the kilt, and a necklace of the finest gold

filigree hung around the ruby-throated neck. He also wore a

tiny cap similar to an Australian bush hat. It was secured on

the iridescent head with a gold strap.

Jon-Tom marveled at the hat. Slipping it on over that

curving beak would be a considerable project, unless the strap

joined at a tiny buckle he couldn’t see.

All inhabitants and stretches of the province were thus

represented. They were dominated by the motionless figure of

the marten on the far right, and by the stocky individual in

their center.

It was that citizen who commanded everyone’s attention as

he pushed back his chair and stood. The badger wore specta-

cles similar to Clothahump’s. His fur was silvered on his

back, indicating age.

He had very neatly trimmed claws. Despite his civilized

appearance Jon-Tom was grateful for the manicure, knowing

the reputation badgers had for ferocity and tenacity in a fight.

Deep-set black eyes stared out at them. He wore a stiff,

high-collared suit marked only by a discreet gold flower on

his lapel. One paw slammed down hard on the table. Jon-Tom

hadn’t known what to expect, but the instant angry outburst

was not the greeting he’d hoped for.

“Now what do you mean by bringing this great narsty

fire-breathing beastie into the city limits and burning down

the harbor barracks^, not to mention disrupting the city’s

commerce, panicking its citizenry, and causing disruption and

general dismay among the populace?!?” The voice rose

THE HOUR OF TBE GATE

immediately to an angry pitch as he shook a thick warning

finger down at them.

‘ ‘Give me one reason why I should not have the lot of you

run into the lowest jails!”

Jon-Tom looked at Mudge in dismay. It was Clothahump

who spoke patiently. “We have come to Polastrindu, friend,

in order to—”

“I am Mayor and Council President Wuckle Three-Stripe!”

snorted the badger, “and you will address me as befits my

titles and position!”

“We are here,” continued the wizard, unperturbed an<

unimpressed, “on a mission of great consequence to every

inhabitant of the civilized world. It would behoove you t(

listen closely to what I am about to tell you.”

“Yeah,” said Pog, who had settled on one of the numerous

empty perches ringing the room, “and ifya don’t, our gooc

buddy da dragon will bum your manure pile of a rat-warrer

down around your waxy ears!”

“Shut up, Pog.” Clothahump glared irritably at the bat.

While he was doing so the unctuous gopher leaned ovei

and spoke to the badger in a delicate yet matronly voice.

“The creature is undiplomatic, Mayor-President, but he has a

point.”

“I will not be blackmailed, Pevmora.” He looked down

the other way and asked in a less belligerent tone, “What do

you say, Aveticus? Do we disembowel these intruders now, 01

what?”

The marten’s reply was so quiet Jon-Tom had to strain to

make it out. Nevertheless, the creature conveyed an impres-

sion of cold power. As would any student interested in the

law, Jon-Tom noticed that all the other council members

immediately ceased picking their mouths, chattering to each

other, or whatever they’d been doing, in order now to pay

attention.

Alan Dean Poster

“I think we should listen to what they have to say to us.

Not only because of the threat posed by the dragon, against

whose breath I will not expend my soldiers and whom you

must admit we can do nothing about, but also because they

speak as visitors who mean us nothing but good will. I cannot

yet pass on the importance of what they may say, but I think

we can safely accept their professed motivations. Also, they

do not strike me as fools.”

“Sensibly put, youngster,” said Clothahump.

The marten nodded once, barely, and ignored the fact that

he was anything but a cub. He smiled as imperceptibly as

he’d nodded, showing sharp white teeth.

“Of course, good turtle, if you are wasting our time or do

indeed mean us harm, then we will be forced to take other

measures.”

Clothahump waved the comment away. “You give us credit

for being other than fools. I return the compliment. Now

then, let us have no more talk of motivations and time, for I

have none of the last to spare.” He launched into a long and

by now familiar explanation of the danger from the Plated

Folk and their preparations, from their massed armies to their

still unknown new magic.

When he’d finished the badger looked as bellicose as

before. “The Plated Folk, the Plated Folk! Every time some

idiot seer panics, it’s ‘the Plated Folk are coming, the Plated

Folk are coming!'” He resumed his seat and spoke sarcastically.

“Do you think we can be panicked by tales and rumors

that mothers use to scare their cubs into bed? Do you think

we believe every claim laid before us by every disturbed

would-be leader? What do you think we are, stranger?”

“Stubborn,” replied Clothahump patiently. “I assure you

on my honor as a wizard and member in good standing of the

Guild for nearly two hundred years that everything I have just

THE HOUR Of THE GATE

told you is true.” He indicated Jon-Tom, who until now had

been silently watching and listening.

“Last night, this young spellsinger actually encountered an

envoy of the Plated Folk. He was here to foment trouble

among local human citizens, and according to my young

associate he was well disguised.”

That brought some of the more insipid members of the

council wide awake. “One of them… here, in the city …!”

“He was attempting to begin war between the species,”

reiterated the wizard. More mutters of disbelief from those

behind the long table.

“He wanted me to join with his puppets,” Jon-Tom explained.

“The humans he’d recruited say the Plated Folk have prom-

ised to make them the overlords and administrators of all the

warmlands the insects conquer. I didn’t believe it for a

minute, of course, but I think I’ve studied more about such

matters than those poor deluded people. I don’t think they

have many followers. Nevertheless, the word should be

spread. Just letting it be known that you know what the Plated

Folk are trying to do should discourage potential recruits to

their cause.”

The muttering among the councillors changed from ner-

vous to angry. “Where is he?” shouted the hummingbird,

suddenly buzzing over the table to halt and hover only inches

from Jon-Tom’s face. “Where is the insect ofifal, and his

furless dupes?” Tiny, furious eyes stared into larger human

ones. “I will put out their eyes myself. I shall…”

“P&rch down, Millevoddevareen,” said Wuckle Three-Stripe,

the badger. “And control yourself. I will not tolerate anarchy

in the chambers.”

The bird glared back at the Mayor, muttered something

under his breath, and shot back to his seat. His wings

continued to whirr with nervous energy. He forced himself to

calm down by preening them with his long bill.

Alan Dean Foster

“Such fringe fanatics have always existed among the

species,” the Mayor said thoughtfully. “Humans have no

comer on racial prejudice. These you speak of will be warned,

but they are of little consequence. When the time for final

choices arrives, common sense takes precedence over emo-

tion. Most people are sensible enough to realize they would

never survive a Plated Polk conquest.” He smiled and his

mask fur wrinkled.

“But no such invasion has ever succeeded. Not in tens of

thousands of years.”

“There is still only one way through Zaryt’s Teeth,”

proclaimed a squirrel, “and that is by way of the Jo-Troom

Pass. Two thousand years ago Usdrett of Osprinspri raised the

Great Wall on the site of his own victory over the Plated

Folk. A wall which has been strengthened and fortified by

successive generations of fighters. The Gate has never been

forced open, and no Plated Folk force has ever even reached

the wall itself. We’ve never let them get that far down the

Pass.”

“They’re too stratified,” added the raven, waving a wing

for emphasis. “Too inflexible in then” methods of battle to

cope with improvisation and change. They prepare to fight

one way and cannot shift quickly enough to handle another.

Why, their last attempt at an invasion was among the most

disastrous of all. Their defeats grow worse with each attack.

Such occasional assaults are good for the warmlands: they

keep the people from complacency and sharpen the skills of

our soldiers. Nor can we be surprised. The permanent Gate

contingent can hold off any sudden attack until sufficient

reinforcements can be gathered.”

“This is no usual invasion,” said Clothahump intently.

“Not only have the Plated Folk prepared more thoroughly

and in greater numbers than ever before, but I have reason to

believe they have produced some terrible new magic to assist

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

them, an evil we may be unable to counter and whose nature I

have as yet been unable to ascertain.”

“Magic again!” Wuckle Three-Stripe spat at the floor.

“We still have no proof you’re even the sorcerer you claim to

be, stranger. So far I’ve only your word as proof.”

“Are you calling me a liar, sir?”

Concerned that he might have overstepped a trifle, the

Mayor retreated a bit. “I did not say that, stranger. But surely

you understand my position. I can hardly be expected to

alarm the entire civilized warmlands merely at the word of a

single visitor. That is scarcely sufficient proof of what you

have said.”

“Proof? I’ll give you proof.” The wizard’s fighting blood

was up. He considered thoughtfully, then produced a couple

of powders from his plastron. After tossing them on the floor

he raised both hands and turned a slow circle, reciting angrily.

“Cold front, warm front, counteract my affront.

Isobars and isotherms violently descend.

Nimbus, cumulus, poles opposizing,

Ions in a mighty surge my doubters upend!”

A thunderous roar deafened everyone in the room and there

was a blinding flare. Jen-Tom dazedly struggled back to a

standing position to see Clothahump slowly picking himself

up off the floor and readjusting his glasses.

Wuckle Three-Stripe lay on the floor in front of him,

having been blown completely across the council table. His

ceremonial chair was a pile of smoking ash. Behind it a neat

hole had been melted through the thick leaded glass where the

tiny lightning bolt had penetrated. The fact that it was a

cloudless day made the feat all the more impressive.

The Mayor disdained the help of one of the other council-

lors. Brushing himself off and rearranging his clothing, he

Alan Dean Poster

waddled back behind the table. A new chair was brought and

set onto the pile of ash. He cleared his throat and leaned

forward.

“We will accept the fact that you are a sorcerer.”

“I’m glad that’s sufficient proof,” said Clothahump with

dignity. “I’m sorry if I overdid it a mite. Some of these old

spells are pretty much just for show and I’m a little rusty with

them.” The scribe had returned to his sextupal duplicator and

was scribbling furiously.

“Plated envoys moving through our city in human dis-

guise,” murmured one of the councillors. “Talk of interspecies

dissension and war, great and strange magic in the council

chambers. Surely this portends unusual events, perhaps even

a radically different kind of invasion.”

The prairie dog leaned across the table, steepling his

fingers and speaking in high-pitched, chirping tones.

“There are many forms of magic, colleagues. While the

ability to conjure thunder and lightning on demand is most

impressive, it differs considerably from divination. Do we

then determine that on the basis of a flash of power we cease

all normal activities and place Polastrindu on war alert?

“Should the call go out on that basis to distant Snarken, to

L’bor and Yul-pat-pomme and all the other towns and cities of

the warmlands? Must we now order farmers to leave their

fields, young men their sweethearts, and bats their nightly

hunts? Commerce will come to a halt and fortunes will be

lost, lives disrupted.

“This is a massive question, colleagues. It must be answered

by more than the words and deeds of one person.” He

gestured deferentially with both hands at Clothahump. “Even

one so clearly versed in the arts of wizardry as you, sir.”

“So you want more proof?” asked Jon-Tom.

“More specific proof, yes, tall man,” said the prairie dog.

“War is no casual matter. I need hardly remind the other

THE HOUR OF THE GATS

participants of this council,” and he looked the length of the

long table, “that if there is no invasion, no unusual war, then

it is our bodies that will provide fertilizer for next season’s

crops, and not those of our nomadic visitors.” He looked

back out of tiny black eyes at Jon-Tom. “Therefore I would

expect some sympathy for our official positions.”

A mild smattering of applause came from the rest of the

council, except for Millevoddevareen the hummer. He con-

tinued to mutter, “I want those traitorous humans. Put their

damn perverted eyes out!” His colleagues paid him no

attention. Hummingbirds are notoriously more bellicose than

reflective.

“Then you shall have more conclusive proof,” said the

weary wizard.

“Master?” Pog looked down solicitously at the turtle. “Do

ya really tink anodder spell now, so close ta da odder, is a

good idea?”

“Do I seem so tired then, Pog?”

The bat flapped idly, said without hesitation, “Yeah, ya do,

boss.”

Clothahump nodded slowly. “Your concern is noted, Pog.

I’ll make a good famulus out of you yet.” The bat smiled,

which in a bat is no prettier than a frown, but it was unusual

to see the pleased expression on the fuzzy face of the

normally hostile assistant.

“I expect to become more tired still.” He looked at

Jon-Tom, then around him at Mudge. “I’d say you represent

the lower orders accurately enough.”

“Thanks,” said the otter drily, “Your Sorceremess.”

“What would it take to convince you of the reality of this

threat?”

“Well, ifn I were ignorant o’ the real situation and I

Alan Dean Foster

needed a good convincin’,” Mudge said speculatively, “I’d

say it were up t’ you t’ prove it by showin’ me.”

Clothahump nodded. “I thought so.”

“Master… ?” began Pog wamingly.

“It’s all right. I have the capacity, Pog.” His face suddenly

went blank, and he fell into a deep trance. It was not as deep

as the one he had used to summon M’nemaxa, but it impressed

the hell out of the council.

The room darkened, and curtains magically drew them-

selves across the back windows of the chambers. There was

nervous whispering among those seated behind the long table,

but no one moved. The marten Aveticus, Jon-Tom noted, did

not seem in the least concerned.

A cloud formed at the far end of the chamber, an odd cloud

that was flat and rectangular in shape. Images formed inside

the cloud. As they solidified, there were gasps of horror and

dismay from the council members.

Vast ranks of insect warriors marched across the cloud.

They bore aloft an ocean of pikes and spears, swords and

shields. Huge Plated generals directed the common troops,

which stretched across misty plains as far as the eye could

see. Tens of thousands paraded across that cloud.

As the view shifted and rolled, there was anxious chatter

from the council. “They seem better armed than before… look

how purposefully they drill…. You can feel the confidence

in them . . . never saw that before. .. . The numbers, the

numbers!”

The scene changed. Stone warrens and vast structures slid

past in review. A massive, bulbous edifice began to come into

view: the towering castle of Cugluch.

Abruptly the view changed to one of dark clouds, fluttered,

and vanished. There was a thump, the cloud dissipated,

together with the view, and light returned to the room.

Clothahump was sitting down on the floor, shaking his

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

head. Pog was hovering above him, fumbling with a vial. The

wizard took a long sip of the liquid within, shook his head

once more, and wiped the back of his mouth with an arm.

With the bat’s help he stood and smiled shakily at Jon-Tom.

“Not a bad envisioning. Couldn’t get to the castle, though.

Too far, and the inhibitory spells are too strong. Lost the

damn vertical hold.” He started to go down, and Jon-Tom

barely got hold of an arm in time to keep the turtle from

slumping back to the floor.

“You shouldn’t have done it, sir. You’re too weak.”

“Had to, boy.” He jerked his head toward the long table.

“Some hardheads up there.”

The councillors were babbling among themselves, but they

fell silent when Clothahump spoke. “I tried to show you the

interior of the castle keep, but its secrets are too well

protected by powerful spells I cannot pierce.”

“Then how do you know this great new magic exists?”

asked the ever skeptical prairie dog.

“I summoned M’nemaxa.”

Mutters of amazement mixed with disbelief and awe.

“Yes, I did even that,” Clothahump said proudly, “though

the consequences of such a conjuration could have been fatal

for me and all those in my care.”

“If you did so once, could you not summon the spirit once

more and leam the true nature of this strange evil you feel

exists in Cugluch?” wondered one of the councillors.

Clothahump laughed gently. “I see there are none here

versed in wizardly lore. A pity no local sorcerer or ess could

have joined us in this council.

“It was remarkable that I was able to conduct the first

conjuration. Were I to try it again I could not bind the

M’nemaxa spirit within restrictive boundaries. It would burst

free. In less than a second I and all around me would be

reduced to a crisp of meat and bone.”

“I withdraw the suggestion,” said the councillor hastily.

Alan Dean Foster

“We must rely on ourselves now,” said Clothahump.

“Outside forces will not save us.”

“I think we should…” began one of the other members.

He fell silent and looked to his left. So did the others.

The marten Aveticus was standing. “I will announce the

mobilization,” he said softly. “The armies can be ready in a

few months’ time. I will contact my counterparts in Snarken

and L’bor, in all the other towns and cities.” He stared evenly

at Clothahump.

“We will meet this threat, sir, with all the force the

warmlands can bring to bear. I leave it to you to counter this

evil magic you speak of. I dislike fighting something I can’t

see. But I promise you that nothing which bleeds will pass

the Jo-Troom Gate.”

“But General Aveticus, we haven’t reached a decision

yet,” protested the gopher.

The marten turned and looked down his narrow snout at his

colleagues. “These visitors,” and he indicated the four strang-

ers standing and watching nearby, “have made their decision.

Based upon what they have said and shown to us, I have

made mine. The armies will mobilize. Whether they do so

with your blessing is your decision. But they will be ready.”

He bowed stiffly toward Clothahump.

“Learned sir, if you will excuse me. I have much work to

do.” He turned and strode out of the room on short but

powerful legs. Ion-Tom watched his departure admiringly.

The marten was someone he would like to know better.

After an uncomfortable pause, the councillors resumed

their conversation. “Well, if General Aveticus has already

decided so easily…”

“That’s right,” said the hummingbird, buzzing above the

table. “Our decision has been made for us. Not by these

people,” and he gestured with a wing, though it was so fast

Jon-Tom couldn’t swear he’d actually noticed the gesture so

Tas HOUR OF THE GATE

much as imagined it, “but by the General. You all know how

conservative he is.

“Now that we are committed, there must be no dissension.

We must act as one mind, one body, to counter the threat.”

He soared higher above the floor.

“I shall notify the air corps of the decision so that we may

begin to coordinate operations with the army. I will also send

out the peregrines with messages to the other cities and towns

that the Plated Folk are again on the march, stronger and

more voracious than ever. This time, brothers and sisters, we

will deal them a defeat, give them a beating so bad they will

not recover for a thousand years!”

Words of assent and a few cheers echoed around the

council chamber. One came from the cub manipulating the

scrolls. His scribe looked at him reprovingly, and the young-

ster settled back down to his paper shuffling as Millevoddevareen

left via an opened window.

“It seems that your appeal has accomplished what you

intended,” said the gopher quietly, preening an eyelash.

Gems sparkled around her thick neck and from the rings on

every finger. “At least among the military-minded among us.

All the world will react to your cry of alarm.” She shook her

head and smiled grimly.

“Heaven help you if your prediction turns out to be less

than accurate.”

“I can only say to that, madam, that I would much rather

be proved inaccurate than otherwise in this matter.” Clothahump

bowed toward her.

There were handshakes and hugs all around as the council-

lors descended from their dais. In doing so, they left behind a

good deal of their pomposity and officiousness.

“We’ll finish the slimy bastards this time!”

“Nothing to worry about… be a good fight!”

There was even grudging agreement from the Mayor, who

Alan Dean Foster

was still irked that General Aveticus hadn’t waited for the

decision of the council before ordering mobilization. But

there was nothing he could do about it now. Given the

evidence Clothahump had so graphically presented, he wasn’t

sure he wanted to try.

“You’ll advise us immediately, sir,” he said to Clothahump,

“if you leam of any changes in plan among the Plated Folk.”

“Of course.”

“Then there remains only the matter of a new and perhaps

more elegant habitation for you until it’s time to march. We

have access to a number of inns for the housing of diplomatic

guests. I suppose you qualify as that. But I don’t know what

we can do with your great flaming friend back in the court-

yard, since he so impolitely burned down his quarters.”

“We’ll take care of him,” Jon-Tbm assured the Mayor.

“Please see that you do,” Wuckle Three-Stripe was recovering

some of his mayoral bearing. “Especially since he’s the only

real danger we’ve been certain of since you’ve appeared

among us.”

With that, he turned to join the animated conversation

taking place among several members of the council.

Once outside the chambers and back in the city hall’s main

corridor Jon-Tom and Mudge took the time to congratulate

Clothahump,

“Aye, that were a right fine performance, guv’nor,” said

the otter admiringly. “Cor, you should o’ seen some o’ those

fat faces when you threw that army o’ bugs up at ’em!”

“You’ve done what you wanted to, sir,” agreed Jon-Tom.

“The armies of the warmlands will be ready for the Plated

Folk when they start through the Jo-Troom Pass.”

But the wizard, hands clasped around his back, did not

appear pleased. Jon-Tom frowned at him as they descended

the steps to the city hall courtyard.

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

“Isn’t that what you wanted, sir? Isn’t that what we’ve

come all this way for?”

“Hmnun? Oh, yes, my boy, that’s what I wanted.” He still

looked discouraged. “I’m only afraid that all the armies of all

the counties and cities and towns of all the warmlands might

not be enough to counter the threat.”

Jon-Tom and Mudge exchanged glances.

“What more can we do?” asked Mudge. “We can’t fighl

with wot we ain’t got. Your Magicalness.”

“No, we cannot, good Mudge. But there may be more than

what we have.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sor?”

“I won’t rest if there is.”

“Well then, you give ‘er a bit of some thought, guv, and

let us know, won’t you?” Mudge had the distressing feeling

he wasn’t going to be able to return to the familiar, comfort-

able environs of Lynchbany and the Bellwoods quite as soor

as he’d hoped.

“I will do that, Mudge, and I will let you know when ]

inform the others….”

The quarters they were taken to were luxurious compared

to the barracks they’d spent their first night in. Fresh flowers,

scarce in winter, were scattered profusely around the high-

beamed room. They were ensconced in Polastrindu’s finest inn,

and the decor reflected it. Even the ceiling was high enough

so Jon-Tom could stand straight without having to worry

about a lamp decapitating him.

Sleeping quarters were placed around a central meeting

room which had been set aside exclusively for their use.

Jon-Tom still had to duck as he entered the circular chamber.

Caz was leaning back in a chair, ears cocked slightly

forward, a glass held lightly in one paw. The other held a

silver, ornately worked pitcher from which he was pouring a

dark wine into a glass.

ROT sat on one side of him, Talea on the other. All were

chuckling at some private joke. They broke off to greet the

newcomers.

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“Don’t have to ask how it went,” said Talea brightly,

resting her boots on an immaculate couch. “A little while ago

this party of subservient flunkies shows up at the barracks and

tells us rooms have been reserved for us in this gilded hole.”

She sipped wine, carelessly spilled some on a finely woven

carpet. “This style of crusading’s more to my taste, I can tell

you.”

“What did you tell them, Jon-Tom?” wondered Flor.

He walked to an open window, rested his palms on the sill,

and stared out across the city.

“It wasn’t easy at first. There was a big, blustery badger

named Wuckle Three-Stripe who was ready to chuck us in jail

right away. It was easy to see how he got to be mayor of as

big and tough a place as Polastrindu. But Clothahump scorched

the seat of his pants, and after that it was easy. They paid

serious attention.

“There was a general named Aveticus who’s got more

common sense than the rest of the local council put together.

As soon as he’d heard enough he took over. The others just

slid along with his opinion. I think he likes us personally, too,

but he’s so cold-faced it’s hard to tell for sure what he’s

thinking. But when he talks everybody listens.”

Down below lay a vast black and purple form coiled in the

shade of a high stone wall. Falameezar was apparently sleep-

ing peacefully in front of the inn stables. The other stable

buildings appeared to be deserted. No doubt the riding lizards

of the hotel staff and its guests had been temporarily boarded

elsewhere.

“The armies are already mobilizing, and local aerial repre-

sentatives have been dispatched to carry the word to the other

cities and towns.”

“Well, that’s all right, then,” said Talea cheerfully. “Our

job’s finished. I’m going to enjoy the afterglow.” She fin-

ished her considerable glass of wine.

THE HOUR OF Tm GATE

“Not quite finished.” Clothahump had snuggled into a

low-seated chair across from her couch.

“Not quite, ‘e says,” rumbled Mudge worriedly.

Pog selected a comfortable beam and hung himself above

them. “The master says we got ta seek out every ally we

can.”

“But from what has been said, good sir, we are already

notifying all possible allies in the warmlands.” Caz sat up in

his chair and gestured with his glass. Wine pitched and rolled

like a tiny red pond and he didn’t spill a drop.

“So long as the city fathers and mothers have seen fit to

grant us these delightful accommodations, I see no reason

why we should not avail ourselves of the local hospitality.

Polastrindu is not so very far from Zaryt’s Teeth and the Gate

itself. Why not bivouac here until the coming battle? We can

offer our advice to the locals.”

But Clothahump disagreed. “General Aveticus strikes me

as competent enough to handle military preparations. Our

task must be to seek out any additional assistance we can.

You just stated that all possible warmland allies are being

notified. That is so. My thoughts concerned possible allies

elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” Talea sat up and looked puzzled. “There is

no elsewhere.”

“Try tellin’ ‘is nib’s ‘ere that,” said Mudge.

Talea looked curiously at the otter, then back at the wizard.

“I still don’t understand.”

“There is another nation whose aid would be invaluable,”

Clothahump explained energetically. “They are legendary

fighters, and history tells us they despise the Plated Folk as

much as we do.”

Mudge circled a finger near one ear, whispered quietly to

Jon-Tom. “Told you ‘e was vergin’ on the senile. The

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lightnin’ an’ the view conjurin’ ‘as sent him oS t’ balmy

land.”

The most unexpected reaction came from Pog, however.

The bat left his beam and hovered nervously overhead, his

eyes wide, his tone fearful.

“No, Master! Don’t tink of it. Don’t!”

Clothahump shrugged. “Our presence here is no longer

required. We would find ourselves lost among the general

staffs of the assembling armies. Why then should we not seek

out aid which could turn the tide of battle?”

Jon-Tom, who had returned from his position by me open

window, listened curiously and wondered at Pog’s sudden

fright.

“What kind of allies were you thinking about, sir? I’m

certainly willing to help recruit.” Pog gave him an ugly look.

“I’m talking about the Weavers, of course.”

The violence of the response to this announcement startled

Jon-Tom and Flor.

“Who are these ‘Weavers’?” she asked me wizard.

“They are thought to be the most ferocious, relentless, and

accomplished mountain fighters in all me world, my dear.”

“Notice he does not say ‘civilized’ world,” said Caz

pointedly. Even his usually unruffled demeanor had been

mussed by me wizard’s shocking pronouncement. “I would

not disagree with that appraisal of Weaver fighting ability,

good sir,” continued the rabbit, his nose twitching uncontrollably.

“And what you say about them hating the Plated Folk is also

most likely true. Unfortunately, you neglect the likely possi-

bility that they also despise us.”

“That is more rumor and bedtime story than fact, Caz.

Considering the circumstances, they might be quite willing to

join with us. We do not know for certain that they hate us.”

“That’s for sure,” said Talea sardonically, “because few

who’ve gone toward their lands have ever come back.”

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

“That’s because no one can get across the Teeth,” Mudge

said assuredly. ” ‘Ate us or not don’t matter. Probably none

of them that’s tried reachin’ Weaver lands ‘as ever reached

’em. There ain’t no way across the Teeth except through the

Gate and then the Pass, and the Weavers, if I recall my own

bedtimey stories aright, live a bloody good ways north o’ the

Greendowns.”

“There is another way,” said Clothahump quietly. Mudge

gaped at him. “It is also far from here, far from the Gate, far

to the north. Far across the Swordsward.”

“Cross the Swordsward!” Talea laughed in disbelief. “He

is crazy!”

“Across the great Swordsward,” the sorcerer continued

patiently, “lies the unique cataract known as the Sloomaz-

ayor-la-WeentIi, in the language of the Icelands in which it

arises. It is The-River-That-Eats-Itself, also called the River

of Twos, also the Double-River. In the language and knowl-

edge of magic and wizardry, it is known as the SchizoStream.”

“A schizoid river?” Jon-Tom’s thoughts twisted until the

knot hurt. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“If you know the magical term, then you know what you

say is quite true, Jon-Tom. The Sloomaz-ayor-la-WeentIi is

indeed the river that makes no sense.”

“Neither does traveling down it, if I’m following your

meaning correctly,” said Caz. Clothahump nodded. “Does

not The-River-That-Eats-Itself flow through the Teeth into

something no living creature has seen called The Earth’s

Throat?” Again the wizard indicated assent.

“I see.” Caz ticked the relevant points off on furry fingers

as he spoke. “Then all we have to do is cross the Swordsward,

find some way of navigating an impossible river, enter what-

ever The Earth’s Throat might be, counter whatever dangers

may lie within the mountains themselves, reach the Scuttleteau,

on which dwell the Weavers, and convince them not only that

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we come as friends but that they should help us instead of

eating us.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Clothahump approvingly.

Caz shrugged broadly. “A simple task for any superman.”

He adjusted his monocle. “Which I for one am not. I am

reasonably good at cards, less so at dice, and fast of mouth,

but I am no reckless gambler. What you propose, sir, strikes

me as the height of folly.”

“Give me credit for not being a fool with my own life,”

countered Clothahump. “This must be tried. I believe it can

be done. With my guidance you will all survive the journey,

and we will succeed.” There was a deep noise, halfway

between a chuckle and a belch. Clothahump threw the hang-

ing famulus a quick glare, and Pog hurriedly looked innocent.

“I’ll go, of course,” said Jon-Tom readily.

The others gazed at him in astonishment. “Be you daft

too, mate?” said Mudge.

“Daft my ass.” He looked down at the otter. “I have no

choice.”

“I’ll go,” announced Flor, smiling magnificently. “I love

a challenge.”

“Oh, very well.” Caz fitted his monocle carefully, his pink

nose still vibrating, “but it’s a fool’s game to draw and roll a

brace of twelves after a munde-star pays out.”

“I suppose I’ll come too,” said Talea with a sigh, “be-

cause I’ve no more good sense than the rest of you.”

All eyes turned toward Mudge.

“Right then, quit staring at me, you bloody great twits!”

His voice dropped to a discouraged mutter. “I ‘ope when we

find ourselves served up t’ the damned Weavers for supper

that I’m the last one on the rottin’ menu, so I can at least ‘ave

me pleasure o’ watchin’ ’em eat you arse’oles first!”

“To such base uses we all eventually come, Mudge,”

Jon-Tom told him.

THE HOUR Or THE GATE

“Don’t get philosophical with me, mate. Oh, you’ve no

choice for sure, not if you’ve a ‘ope o’ seeing your proper

‘ome again. Old Clothahump’s got you by the balls, ‘e as.

But as for me, I can be threatened so far and then it don’t

matter no more.”

“No one is threatening you, otter,” said the wizard.

“The ‘ell you ain’t! I saw the look in your eye, knew I

might as well say yes voluntary-like and ‘ave done with it.

You can work thunder and lightnin’ but you can’t make the

journey yourself, you old fart! You don’t fool me. You need

us.”

“I have never tried to deny that, Mudge. But I will not

hold you. I have not threatened you. So behind all your noise

and fury, why are you coming?”

The otter stood there and fumed, breathing hard and

glaring first at the turtle, then Jon-Tom, then the others.

Finally he booted an exquisite spittoon halfway across the

room. It bounced ringingly off the far wall as he sat down in a

huff.

“Be billy bedamned if I know!”

“I do,” said Talea. “You’d rather travel along with a

bunch of fools like the rest of us than stay here and be

conscripted into the army. With Clothahump and Jon-Tom

gone, the local authorities will treat you like any other bum.”

“That’s bloody likely,” snorted Mudge. “Leave me alone,

then, won’t you? I said I’d go, though I’d bet heavy against

us ever comin’ back.”

“Optimism is better than pessimism, my friend,” said Caz

pleasantly.

“You. I don’t understand you at all, mate.” The otter

shoved back his cap and walked across the carpet to confront

Caz. “A minute ago you said you weren’t no reckless gam-

bler. Now you’re all for agoin’ off on this charmin’ little

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suicide trot. And of all o’ us, you’d be the one I’d wager on

t* stay clear o’ the army’s clutches.”

The rabbit looked unimpressed. “Perhaps I can see the

larger picture, Mudge.”

“Meanin’ wot?”

“Meaning that if what our wise friend Clothahump knows

to be true indeed comes to pass, the entire world may be

embarking on that ‘trot’ with us.” He smiled softly. “There

are few opportunities for gambling in a wasteland. I do not

think the Plated Folk will permit recreation as usual if they

are victorious. And I have other reasons.”

“Yeah? Wot reasons?”

“They are personal.”

“The wisdom of pragmatism,” said Clothahump approvingly.

“It was a beneficial day indeed when the river brought you

among us, friend Caz.”

“Maybe. But I think I would be still happier if I had not

misjudged the placement of those dice and been forced to

depart so precipitately from my ship. The happiness of the

ignorant is no less so than any other. Ah well.” He shrugged

disarmingly. “We are all of us caught up in momentous

events beyond our ability to change.”

They agreed with him, and none realized he was referring

as much to his previously mentioned personal reasons as to

the coming cataclysm….

The city council provided a three-axle wagon and a dray

team of four matched yellow-and-black-striped lizards, plus

ample supplies. Some among the council were sorry to see

the wizard and spellsinger depart, but there were others who

were just as happy to watch two powerful magicians leave

their city.

Talea handled the reins of the wagon while Flor, Jon-Tom,

Mudge, Clothahump, and Caz sorted living quarters out of

the back of the heavily loaded vehicle. Thick canvas could be

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

drawn across the top to keep out the rain. Ports cut in the

slanting wooden walls provided ventilation and a means for

firing arrows at any attacker.

Aveticus, resplendent in a fresh uniform and as coldly

correct as ever, offered to provide a military escort at least

part of the way. Clothahump declined gracefully, insisting that

the less attention they attracted the better their chance for an

uneventful traverse of the Swordsward.

Anyway, they had the best protection possible in the form

of Falameezar. The dragon would surely frighten away any

possible assailants, intelligent or otherwise.

It took the dray lizards a day or two to overcome their

nervousness at the dragon’s presence, but soon they were

cantering along on their strong, graceful legs. Bounding on

six solid rubber wheels the wagon fairly flew out of the city.

They passed small villages and farms for another several

days, until at last no sign of habitation lay before them.

The fields of golden grain had given way to very tall light

green grasses that stretched to the ends of the northern and

eastern horizons. Dark wintry rain clouds hovered above the

greenery, and there were rumblings of distant thunder.

Off to their right the immense western mountain range

known as Zaryt’s Teeth rose like a wall from the plains. Its

lowermost peaks rose well above ten thousand feet while

me highest towered to twenty-five thousand. Dominating all

and visible for weeks to come was the gigantic prong of

Brokenbone Peak, looking like the ossified spine of some

long-fossilized titan.

It was firmly believed by many that in a cave atop that

storm-swept peak dwelt the Oracle of All Knowledge. Even

great wizards had been unable to penetrate the winds that

howled eternally around that inaccessible crag. For by the

time any grew wise enough to possibly make the journey,

they had also grown too old, which might explain why

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isolated travelers sometimes heard monstrous laughter ava-

lanching down Brokenbone’s flanks, though most insisted it

was only the wind.

The Swordsward resembled a well-manicured field. Patches

of other vegetation struggled to rise above the dense grass,

were only occasionally successful. Here and there small

thickets that were either very thin flowering trees or enormous

dandelions poked insolently above the waving green ocean

Despite Clothahump’s protests General Aveticus had given

them a mounted escort to the boundary of the wild plains.

The soldiers raised a departing cheer as the wagon left them

behind and started out through the grass.

There were no roads, no paths through the Swordsward.

The grass that formed it grew faster than any bamboo. So

fast, according to Caz, that you could cut the same patch bare

to the earth four times in a single day, and by nightfall it

would be as thick as ever. Fortunately the blades were as

flexible as they were prolific. The wagon slid over them

easily.

Each blade knew its assigned place. None grew higher than

the next and attempted to steal the light from its neighbor.

Despite the flexibility of the grass, however, the name

Swordsward had not been bestowed out of mischief or indif-

ference. While Falameezar’s thick scales were invulnerable,

as were those of the dray lizards, the others had to be careful

when descending from the wagon least the sharp edges of the

tall blades cut through clothing and skin.

Jon-Tom learned quickly enough. Once he’d leaned over

the back of the wagon to pluck a high, isolated blue flower. A

quick, sharp pain made him pull back his hand. There was a

thin line of red two inches long across his palm. It felt as if

someone had taken a piece of new paper and drawn it fast

across his skin. The wound was narrow and bled only for a

minute, but it remained painful for days.

THE HOUR Or THE GATE

Several times they had glimpses of lanky predators like a

cross between a crocodile and a greyhound. They would pace

the wagon for hours before slinking off into the green.

“Noulps,” Caz told him, peering out the arrowport behind

him. “They would kill and eat us if they could, but I don’t

think that’s likely. Falameezar scares them off.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because they leave us. A noulp pack will follow its

quarry for weeks, I’m told, until they run it down.”

Days became weeks that passed without trouble. Each day

the black clouds massing in the west would come nearer, their

thunder more intimate. They promised more severe weather

than the steady, nightly rain.

“It is winter, after all,” Clothahump observed one day. “I

worry about being caught out here in a really bad storm. This

wagon is not the cover I would wish.”

But when the full storm finally crested atop them, even the

wizard was unprepared for its ferocity. The wind rose until it

shook the wagon. Its huddled inhabitants felt like bugs in a

box. Rain and sleet battered insistently at the wooden sides,

seeking entry, while the lizards lay down in a circle in the

grass and closed their eyes against the driving gale.

The wagon was wide and low. It did not leak, did not tip

over. Jon-Tom was even growing used to the storm until, on

the fourth day, a terrible scream sounded from outside. It

faded rapidly, swallowed up by the wind.

He fumbled for a candle, gave up, and used his sparker.

Flame flashed off emerald eyes.

“What’s the matter?” Talea asked him sleepily. The others

were moving about beneath their blankets.

“Someone screamed.”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“It was outside. It’s gone now.”

Heads were counted. Flor was there, blinking sleep from

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her eyes. Nearby Caz leaned up against the inner wall

Mudge was the last to awaken, having displayed the unique

ability to sleep soundly through thunder, screaming, and

wind.

Only Clothahump looked attentive, sensing the night smells

“We’re all here,” said Ror tiredly. “Then who screamed?”

Clothahump was still listening intently, spoke without mov-

ing head or body. “The lowliest are always missed the last.

Where is Pog?”

Jon-Tom looked toward the back of the wagon. The hang-

ing perch in the upper left comer was empty. Rain stained the

wood, showing where the canvas backing had been unsnapped.

He moved to inspect it. Several of the sealing snaps had been

broken by the force of the gale.

“He’s been carried off in his sleep,” said Clothahump.

“We have’to find him. He cannot fly in this.”

Jon-Tom stuck his head outside, immediately drew it back

in. The ferocity of rain and wind drowned both skin and

spirits. He forced himself to try again, called the bat’s name

several times.

A massive, damp skull suddenly appeared close by the

opening. Jon-Tom was startled, but only for a moment.

“What’s the matter, Comrade?” Falameezar inquired. “Is

there some trouble?”

“We’ve… we’ve lost one of the group,” he said, trying to

shield his face against the battering rain. “Pog, the bat. We

think he got caught by a freak gust of wind and it’s carried

him off. He doesn’t answer, and we’re all worried. He can’t

walk well in the best of weather and he sure as hell can’t fly

in this gale. Also, there don’t seem to be any trees around he

could catch hold of.”

“Never fear. Comrade. I will find him.” The massive

armored body turned southward and bellowed above the

wind, “Comrade Pog, Comrade Pog!”

THE HOUR Of THE GATE

That steady, confident voice echoed back to them until

even it was overwhelmed by distance and wind. Jon-Tom

watched until the black shadow shape faded into the night,

men drew back inside, wiping water from his face and hair.

“Falameezar’s gone after him,” he told the anxious watchers.

“The storm doesn’t seem to be bothering him too much, but I

doubt he’s got much of a chance of finding Pog unless the

storm forced him down somewhere close by.”

“He may be leagues from here by now,” said Caz dolefully.

“Damn this infernal wind!” He struek in frustration at the

wooden wall.

“He was impertinent and disrespectful, but he performed

his duties well for all his complaining,” said Clothahump.

“A good famulus. I shall miss him.”

“It’s too early to talk in the past tense, wizard.” Flor tried

to cheer him up. “Palameezar may still find him. Quien sabe;

he may be closer than we think.”

“Your words are kind, my dear. Thank you for your

thoughtmlness.”

The wagon rattled as another blast of near hurricane force

whistled about them. Everyone fought for balance.

“But as our young spellsinger says, the weather is not

encouraging. Pog is not very resourceful. I don’t know….”

There was no sign of the bat the next day, nor of Falameezar,

and the storm continued without abating. Clothahump wor-

ried now not only that Pog might never be found but that the

dragon might become disoriented and not be able to relocate

the wagon. Or that he might find a river, decide he was bored

with the entire business, and simply sink out of sight.

“I don’t think the last likely, sir,” argued Jon-Tom.

“Falameezar’s made a political commitment. We’re his com-

rades. He’ll be back. It would take some kind of personal

crisis to make him abandon us, and there isn’t much that can

affect him.”

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“Nevertheless, though I would like to have both of them

back with us, time is becoming too important.” The turtle let

out a resigned sigh. “If the weather breaks tomorrow, as 1

believe it may, we will wait one additional day. Then we musl

be on our way or else we might as well forget this entire

mission.”

“Praise the weather,” murmured Mudge hopefully, ano

turned over in his blankets….

Ill

When Jon-Tom woke the following morning, his first sight

was of the rear canvas panel. It had been neatly pinned up,

and sunlight was streaming brilliantly inside. Flor knelt and

stared outward, her black hair waterfalling down her back.

She seemed to sparkle.

He sat up, threw off his covers. It was eerie after so many

days of violence not to hear the wind. Also absent was the

persistent drumming of raindrops overhead. He leaned for-

ward and peered out. Only a few scattered storm clouds hung

stubbornly in an otherwise clear sky.

He crawled up alongside her. A gentle breeze ruffled the

Swordsward, the emerald endlessness appearing as soft and

delicate as the down on a young girl’s legs. The distant

yellow puffballs of dandelion trees looked lonely against the

otherwise unbroken horizon.

“Good morning, Jon-Tom.”

“Buenos dias. Que pasa, beautiful?”

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much. Just enjoying the view. And the sunshine. A

week in that damn wagon.” She fluffed her hair out. “It was

getting a little squirrelly.”

“Also smelly.” He breathed deeply of the fresh air, inhaled

the rich sweet smell of the rain-swept grasses. Then he

stepped out onto the rear wagon seat.

Slowly he turned a circle. There was nothing but greep

sward and blue sky in all directions. Against that background

even a distant Falameezar would have stood out like a

truckload of coal in a snowbank. But there was no sign of the

dragon or of his quarry.

“Nobody. Neither of ’em,” he said disappointedly, turning

back to look down into the wagon. Talea had just raised her

head from beneath a pile of blankets and blinked at him

sleepily, her red curls framing her face like the scribbles of a

playful artist.

“I am most concerned,” said Clothahump. He was seated

at the front end of the wagon, stirring a pot of hot tea. The

little copper kettle squatted on the portable stove and steamed

merrily. “It is possible that—” He broke off, pointed toward

Jon-Tom, and opened his mouth. Jon-Tom heard only the first

of his comment.

“I do believe there is someone be—”

Something yanked hard at Jon-Tom’s ankles. Arms

windmilling the air, he went over backward off me platform.

He landed hard, the grass cushioning him only slightly.

Blackness and colorful stars filled his vision, but he did not

pass out. The darkness was a momentary veil over his eyes.

By the time his head cleared his hands had been drawn above

his hair, his ankles placed together, and tough cords wrapped

around them. Looking down at his feet, he saw not only the

bindings but a remarkably ugly face.

Its owner was perhaps two and a half feet tall, very stocky,

and a perversion of humanity. Jon-Tom decided it looked like

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

a cross between an elf and a wino. The squat creature boasted

an enormous, thick black beard.

Out of this jungle peered two large brown eyes. They

flanked a monstrous bulbous nose and were in turn framed by

a pair of huge, floppy ears that somehow managed to fight

their way out of the wiry hair. There were hints of clothing

beneath the effervescent mass.

Thick, stubby fingers made sure of Jon-Tom’s bonds. A set

of sandals large enough for the recumbent youth floored

enormous feet.

Tying the other knots was a slightly smaller version of the

first ugly, except he was blond instead of dark-haired and had

watery blue eyes.

Something landed on Jon-Tom’s chest and knocked the

wind out of him. The newcomer was solid as iron and

, extremely muscular. It was not the build of a body builder but

instead the seamlessly smooth and deceptively porcine mus-

culature of the power lifter.

The one on his chest now was female. Only a few red

whiskers protruded from her chin. She was no less gruesome

in appearance than her male counterparts. She was shaking a

fist in his face and jabbering at high speed. For the first time

since arriving in Mudge’s meadow words had no meaning to

him.

He turned his head away from that indifferently controlled

fist. Angry noises and thumping sounds came from the

wagon. He looked to his right, but the grass hid whatever was

happening there.

Of only one thing was he certain: the sward was alive with

dozens of the fast-moving, excited creatures.

The dray lizards wheezed and hissed nervously as the little

monsters swarmed onto harness and reins. Mixed in with the

beelike babbling of their assailants Jon-Tom could make out

other voices. Most notable was that of Caz, who was speak-

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ing in an unfamiliar language similar to that of their captors.

Mudge could be heard alternately cursing and bemoaning his

fate, while Talea was railing at an attacker, warning that if he

didn’t get his oversized feet off her chest she was going to

make a candlewick out of his beard.

A pole was brought and neatly slipped between the bind-

ings on Jon-Tom’s ankles and the others at his wrists. He was

lifted into the air. Clearing the ground by only a few inches,

he was borne off at considerable speed through the grass. He

could see at least half a dozen of his captors shouldering the

pole, three at his feet and three above his head. Although his

sense of speed was artificially accelerated by his proximity to

the ground, he fervently prayed that his bearers’ sense of

direction was as efficient as their deltoids. The sharp grass did

not seem to bother them.

With a creak he saw the wagon turn and follow.

He had resigned himself to a long period of jouncing and

bumping, but it hardly seemed he’d been picked up when he

was unceremoniously dumped on the ground. Flor was dropped

next to him. One by one he watched as the rest of his

companions were deposited alongside. They mashed down

the grass so he could see them clearly, lined up like so many

kabobs. The similarity was not encouraging.

Clothahump had evidentally retreated into his shell in an

attempt to avoid being moved. They had simply hefted him

shell and all to carry him. When he finally stuck arms and

legs out again, they were waiting with lassos and ropes. They

managed to snare only a leg before he retreated in on himself.

Mutterings issued from inside the shell. This produced

excited conversation among the creatures. They kicked and

punched at the impervious body frantically.

The activity was directed by one of their number, who

displayed a variety of metal ornaments and decorative bits of

bone in hair and beard. Under his direction a couple of the

THE HOUR Or THE GATS

creatures poked around inside the shell. They were soon able

to drag the protesting, indignant turtle’s head out. With the

aid of others they shoved several bunches of dried, balled-up

grass into his mouth and secured the gag tightly. Clothahump

reached up to pull the stuffing out, and they tied his arms

also. At that point he slumped back and looked exhausted.

The creature resplendent in bone and metal jumped up and

down happily, jabbing a long feather-encrusted pole at the

now safely bound and gagged turtle. Evidently the fashion

plate was the local witch doctor or wizard, Jon-Tom decided.

He’d recognized that Clothahump had been starting a spell

inside bis shell and had succeeded in rendering his opponent

magically impotent.

Jon-Tom lay quietly and wondered if they would recognize

the sorceral potential of his singing, but the duar was inside

the, wagon and he was firmly tied on the ground.

Moans came from nearby. Straining, he saw another of

their captors idly kicking Talea with considerable force. Each

time she’d curse her tormentor he’d kick her. She would jerk

in pain and it would be several minutes before she regained

enough strength to curse him again.

“Knock it off!” he yelled at her assailant. “Pick on

somebody your own size!”

The creature responded by leaving Talea and walking over

to stare curiously down into Jon-Tom’s face. He jabbered at

him experimentally.

Jon-Tom smiled broadly. “Same to you, you sawed-off

shithead.”

It’s doubtful the creature followed Jon-Tom’s meaning, but

he accepted the incomprehensible comment with equanimity

and commenced booting the lanky youth in the side instead.

Jon-Tom gritted his teeth and refused to give the creature the

satisfaction of hearing him groan.

After several kicks produced nothing but a steady glare, his

Alan Dean Foster

attacker became bored and wandered off to argue with some 01

his companions.

In fact, there appeared to be as much fighting taking place

between members of the tribe as there’d been between them

and their captives. Jon-Tom looked around and was astonished

to see tiny structures, camp fires, and ugly, hairless smallei

versions of the adults, which could only be children. Small

green and blue lizards wore backpacks and suggested scaly

mules. There was consistent and unrelenting activity taking

place around the six bound bodies.

Camp fires and buildings gave every appearance of having

been in place for some time. Jon-Tom tried to estimate the

distance they’d traveled.

“Christ,” he muttered, “we couldn’t have been camped

more than a couple of hundred yards from this town, and we

never even saw them.”

“The grass conceals the Mimpa,” Caz told him. Jon-Torr

looked to his right, saw rabbit ears pointed in his direction

“They move freely among it, completely hidden from most

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Spellsinger 02 – The Hour of the Gate – Foster, Alan Dean

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