Spellsinger 02 - The Hour of the Gate

to march on into the palace when a massive beetle slightly

taller but much broader than Caz lumbered out of the shadows

to confront them. He was flanked by a pair of pale, three-

foot-high attendants of the mutated mayfly persuasion. One of

them carried a large scroll and a marking instrument. The

other simply stood and listened.

222

THE HOUR Or THE GATE

"State your business, citizens," demanded the glowering

hulk in the middle. He reminded Jon-Tom of a gladiator ready

to enter the arena, and pity be on the lions. The extra set of

arms ruined the illusion.

With the facility of an established survivor, Caz replied

without hesitation. "Hail, citizen! We have special, urgently

requested information for the sorcerer Eejakrat, information

that is vital to our coming success." Not knowing how to

properly conclude the request he added blandly, "Where can

we find him?"

Their interrogator did not reply immediately. Jon-Tom

wondered if his nervousness showed.

After a brief conversation with the burdenless mayfly the

beetle gestured backward with two hands. "Third level,

Chamber Three Fifty-Five and adjuncts."

Politely, he stepped aside.

Caz led them in. They walked down a short hallway. It

opened into a hall that seemed to run parallel to the circular

shape of the building. Another, similar hall could be seen

further ahead. Evidently there was a single point from which

the palace and thence the entire city of Cugluch radiated in

concentric circles, with hallways or streets forming intersecting

spokes.

Jon-Tom leaned over and whispered to Clothahump. "I

don't know how you feel, sir, but to me that was much too

easy."

"Why shouldn't it have been?" said Talea, feeling cocky

at their success thus far. "It was just like crossing the square

outside."

"Precisely, my dear," said Clothahump proudly. "Yousee,

Jon-Tom, they are so well ordered they cannot imagine

anyone stepping out of class or position. They cannot conceive,

as that threatening individual who confronted us outside

cannot, that any of their fellows would have the presumption

223

Alan Dean Foster

to lie to gain an audience with so feared a personality as

Eejakrat. If we did not deserve such a meeting, we would not

be asking for it.

"Furthermore, spies are unknown in Cugluch. They have

no reason to suspect any, and traitorous actions are as alien to

the Plated Folk as snow. This may be possible after all, my

friends. We need only maintain the pretext that we know what

we are doing and have a right to be doing it."

"I'd imagine," said Caz, "that if the spoke-and-circle

layout of the city and palace is followed throughout, the

center would be the best place to locate stairways. Third

level, the fellow said."

"I agree," Clothahump replied, "but we do not wish to

find Eejakrat except as a last resort, remember. It is the dead

mind he controls that must remain our primary goal."

"That's simple enough, then," said Mudge cheerfully.

"All we 'ave t' do now is ask where t' find a particularly

well-attended corpse."

"For once, my fuzzy fuzz-brained friend, you are correct.

It will likely be placed close by Eejakrat's chambers. Let us

proceed quickly to the level indicated, but not to him."

They did so. By now they were used to being ignored by

the Plated Folk. Busy palace staff moved silently around

them, intent on their own tasks. The narrow hallways and low

ceilings combined with the slightly acidic odor of the inhabit-

ants made Jon-Tom and Flor feel a little claustrophobic.

They reached the third level and began to follow the

numbers engraved above each sealed portal. Only four cham-

bers from the stairway they'd ascended was a surprise: the

corridor was blocked. Also guarded.

Instead of Ihe lumbering beetle they'd encountered at me

entrance to the palace they found a slim, almost effeminate-

looking insect seated behind a desk. Other armed Plated Folk

stood before the temporary barrier sealing off the hall beyond.

224

THE HOUR Or THE GATS

Unlike their drilling brothers marching single-mindedly out-

side, these guards seemed alert and active. They regarded the

new arrivals with unconcealed interest. There was no suspi-

cion in their unyielding faces, however. Only curiosity.

It was Clothahump who spoke to the individual behind the

desk, and not Caz.

"We have come to make adjustments to the mind," he told

the individual behind the desk, hoping he had gauged the

source correctly and hadn't said anything fatally contradictory.

The fixed-faced officer preened one red eye. He could not

frown but succeeded in conveying an impression of puzzle-

ment nonetheless.

"An adjustment to the mind?"

"To Eejakrat's Materialization."

"Ah, of course, citizen. But what kind of adjustment?" He

peered hard at the encased wizard. "Who are you, to be

entrusted with access to so secret a thing?"

Clothahump was growing worried. The more questions

asked, the more the chance of saying something dangerously

out of sync with the facts.

"We are Eejakrat's own special assistants. How else could

we know of the mind?"

"That is sensible," agreed the officer. "Yet no mention

was made to me of any forthcoming adjustments."

"I have just mentioned it to you."

The officer turned that one over in his mind, got thoroughly

confused, and finally said, "I am sorry for the delay, citizen.

I mean no insult by my questions, but we are under extraor-

dinary orders. Your master's fears are well known."

Clothahump leaned close, spoke confidentially. "An attri-

bute of all who must daily deal with dark forces."

The officer nodded somberly. "I am glad it is you who

must deal with the wizard and not myself." He waved aside

225

Alan Dean Foster

the guards blocking the doorway in the portable barrier.

"Stand aside and let them pass."

Caz and Talea were the first through the portal when the

officer suddenly put out an arm and touched Clothahump.

"Surely you can satisfy the curiosity of a fellow citizen.

What kind of 'adjustment* must you make to the mind? We

all understand so little about it and you can sympathize with

my desire to know."

"Of course, of course." Clothahump's mind was working

frantically. How much did the officer actually know? He'd

just confessed his ignorance, but mightn't it be a ploy? Better

to say anything fast than nothing at all. His only real worry

was that the officer might have some sorceral training.

"Please do not repeat this," he finally said, with as much

assurance as he could muster. "It is necessary to apfrangle

the overscan."

"Naturally," said the officer after a pause.

"And we may," the wizard added for good measure,

"additionally have to lower the level of cratastone, just in

case."

"I can understand the necessity for that." The officer

grandly waved them through, enjoying the looks of respect on

the faces of his subordinates while praying this visitor wouldn't

ask him any questions in return.

They proceeded through the portal one by one. Jon-Tom

was last through and hesitated. The officer seemed willing

enough.

"It's still in the same chamber, of course."

"Number Twelve, yes," said the officer blandly.

Clothahump fell back to match stride with Jon-Tom. "That

was clever of you, my boy! I was so preoccupied with trying

to get us in that I'd forgotten how difficult it would be to

sense past Eejakrat's spell guards. Now that is no longer a

226

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

constraint. You cannot teach deviousness," he finished pridefiuly.

"That is instinctive."

"Thank you, sir. I think. What kind of corpse do you think

it is?"

"I cannot imagine. I cannot imagine a dead brain functioning,

either. We shall know soon enough." He was deciphering the

symbols engraved above each circular doorway. The guarded

barrier had long since disappeared around the continuous

curve of the hallway.

"There is number ten... and there eleven," he said excitedly,

pointing to the door on their right.

"Then this must be twelve." Talea stopped before the

closed door.

It was no larger than any of the others they'd passed. The

corridor nearby was deserted. Clothahump stepped forward

and studied the wooden door. There were four tiny circular

insets midway up the left side. He inserted his four insect

arms into them and pushed.

The spring mechanism that controlled the door clicked

home. The wood split apart and inward like two halves of an

apple.

There was no light in the chamber beyond. Even Caz could

see nothing. But Pog saw without eyes.

"Master, it's not very large, but I think dat dere's

someting..." He fluttered near a wall, struck his sparker.

A lamp suddenly burst into light. It revealed a bent and

very aged beetle surrounded by writhing white larval forms;

Startled, it glared back at them and muttered an oath.

"What is it now? I've told Skrritch I'm not to be disturbed

unless... unless..." His words trailed away as he stared

fixedly at Clothahump.

"By the Primordial Arm! A warmlander wizard!" He

turned to a siphon speaker set in the wall nearby. "Guards,

227

Alan Dean Poster

guards!" The maggots formed a protective, loathesome semi

circle in front of him.

"Quick now," Caz yelled, "where is it?" They fanned out

into the chamber, hunting for anything that might fit

Clothahump's description.

One insectoid, one mammalian, the two wizards faced each

other in silent summing up. Neither moved, but they were

battling as ferociously as any two warriors armed with sword

and spear.

"We've got to find it fast," Ror was muttering, searching

a corner. "Before..."

But hard feet were already clattering noisily in the corridor

outside. Distant cries of alarm sounded in the chamber. Then

the soldiers were pouring through the doorway, and there was

no more time.

Jon-Tom saw something lying near the back wall that might

have been a long, low corpse. An insect shape stepped up

behind him and raised a cast-iron bottle high. Just before the

bottle came down on his head it occurred to him that the

shape wielding it was familiar. It wasn't one of the insect

guards who'd just arrived. Before he blacked out under the

impact he was positive the insectoid visage was that concealing

Talea's. The realization stunned him almost as badly as the

bottle, which cracked his own false forehead and bounced off

the skull beneath. Darkness returned to the chamber.

When he regained consciousness, he found he was lying in

a dimly lit, spherical cell. There was a drain in the center, at

the bottom of the sphere. The light came from a single lamp

hanging directly over the drain. It was windowless and

humid. Moss and fungi grew from the damp stones, and it

was difficult to keep from sliding down the sloping floor.

Compared to this, the cell they'd been temporarily incarcerat-

ed in back in Gossameringue had been positively palatial.

228

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

No friendly Ananthos would be appearing here to recfify a

mistaken imprisonment, however.

"Welcome back to the world of the living," said Bribbens.

Good times or bad, the boatman's expression never seemed to

change. The moisture in the cell did not bother him, of

course.

"I should've stayed on my boat," he added with a sigh.

"Maybe we all ought to 'ave stayed on your boat, mate,"

said a disconsolate Mudge.

It occurred to Jon-Tom that Bribbens looked like himself.

So did Mudge, and the other occupants of the cell.

"What happened to our disguises?"

"Stripped away as neatly as you'd peel an onion," Pog

told him. He lay morosely on the damp stones, unwilling to

hang from the fragile lamp.

Clothahump was not in the cell. "Where's your master?"

"I don't know, I don't know," the bat moaned helplessly.

"Taken away from us during da fight. We ain't seen him

since, da old fart." There was no malice in the bat's words.

"It was Eejakrat," Caz said from across the cell. His

clothing was torn and clumps of fur were missing from his

right cheek, but he still somehow had retained his monocle.

"He knew us for what we were. I presume he has taken

special care with Clothahump. One sorcerer would not place

another in an ordinary cell where he might dissolve the bars

or mesmerize the jailers."

"But what he doesn't know is that we still have the

services of a wizard." Flor was looking hopefully at Jon-

Tom.

"I can't do anything, Ror." He dug his boot heels into a

crack in the floor. It kept him from sliding down toward the

central drain. "I need my duar, and it was strapped to the

inside back of my insect suit."

229

Alan Dean Foster

"Try," she urged him. "We've nothing to lose, verdad?

You don't need instrumental accompaniment to sing."

"No, but I can't make magic without it."

"Give 'er a shot anyway, guv'nor," said Mudge. "It can't

make us any worse than we are, wot?"

"All right." He thought a moment, then sang. It had to be

something to fit his mood. Something somber and yet hopeful.

He was fonder of rock than country-western, but there was

a certain song about another prison, a place called Polsom,

where blues of a different kind had also been vanquished

through music. It was full of hope, anticipation, whistles, and

thoughts of freedom.

Mudge obligingly let out a piercing whistle. It faded to

freedom through the bars of their cell, but whistler and singer

did not. No train appeared to carry them away. Not even a

solitary, curious gneechee.

"You see?" He smiled helplessly, and spread his hands. "I

need the duar. I sing and it spells. Can't have one without the

other." The question he'd managed to suppress until now

could no longer rest unsatisfied.

"We know what probably happened to Clothahump." He

looked at the floor, remembering the descending iron bottle.

"Where's Talea?"

"Thatpwto!" Hor spit on the moss. "If we get a chance

before we die I'll disembowel her with my own hands." She

held up sharp nailed fingers.

"I couldn't believe it meself, mate." Mudge sounded more

tired than Jon-Tom had ever heard him. Something had

finally smashed his unquenchable spirit. "It don't make no

bloomin' sense, dam it! I've known that bird off an' on for

years. For 'er t' do somethin' like this t' save 'er own skin, t'

go over t' the likes o' these.. .1 can't believe it, mate. I

can't!"

230

TBE HOUR Or TSK GATE

Jon-Tom tried to erase the memory. That would be easier

than forgetting the pain. It wasn't his head that was hurting.

"I can't believe it either, Mudge."

"Why not, friend?" Bribbens crossed one slick green leg

over the other. "Allegiance is a temporary thing, and expedi-

ency the hallmark of survival."

"Probably what happened," said Caz more gently, "was

that she saw what was going to happen, that we were going to

be overwhelmed, and decided to cast her lot with the Plated

Folk. We know from firsthand experience, do we not, that

there are human allies among them. I can't condemn her for

choosing life over death. You shouldn't either."

Jon-Tom sat quietly, still not believing it despite the Sense

in Caz's words. Talea had been combative, even contemptu-

ous at times, but for her to turn on companions she'd been

through so much with... Yet she'd apparently done just that.

Better face up to facts, Jon boy. "Poor boy, you're goin' t'

die," as the Song lamented.

"What do you suppose they'll do with us?" he asked

Mudge. "Or maybe I'd be better just asking 'how'?"

"I over'eard the soldiers talkin'. I was 'alf conscious when

they carried us down 'ere." Mudge smiled slightly. "Seems

we're t' be the bloody centerpiece at the Empress' evenin'

supper, the old dear. 'Eard the ranks wagerin' on 'ow we was

goin' t' be cooked."

"I sincerely hope they do cook us," Caz said. "I've heard

tales that the Plated Folk prefer their food alive.' \ Flor

shuddered, and Jon-Tom felt sick.

It had all been such a grand adventure, marching off to

save civilization, overcoming horrendous obstacles and terri-

ble difficulties. All to end up not as part of an enduring

legend but a brief meal. He missed the steady confidence of

Clothahump. Even if unable to save them through wizardly

231

Alan Dean Foster

means, he wished the turtle were present to raise their spirits

with his calm, knowledgeable words.

"Any idea what time it's to be?" The windowless walls

shut out time as well as space.

"No idea." Caz grinned ruefully at him. "You're the

spellsinger. You tell me."

"I've already explained that I can't do anything without the

duar."

"Then you ought to have it, Jon-Tom." The voice came

from the corridor outside the cell. Everyone faced the bars.

Talea stood there, panting heavily. Flor made an inarticu-

late sound and rushed the barrier. Talea stepped back out of

reach.

"Calm yourself, woman. You're acting like a hysterical

cub."

Flor smiled, showing white teeth. "Come a little closer,

sweet friend, and I'll show you how hysterical I can be."

Talea shook her head, looked disgusted. "Save your strength,

and what brains you've got left. We haven't got much time."

She held up a twisted length of wrought iron: the key.

Caz had left his sitting position to move up behind Hor. He

put furry arms around her and wrestled her away from the

bars.

"Use your head, giantess! Can't you see she's come to let

us out?"

"But I thought..." Hor finally took notice of the key and

relaxed.

"You knocked me out." Jon-Tom gripped the bars with

both hands as Talea rumbled with the key and the awkward

lock. "You hit me with a metal bottle."

"I sure did," she snapped. "Somebody had to keep her

wits about her."

"Then you haven't gone over to the Plated Folk?"

232

THE HOUR OF Tsa GATE

"Of course I did. You're not thinking it through. I forgive

you, though."

She was whispering angrily at them, glancing from time to

time back up the corridor. "We know that some humans have

joined them, right? But how could the locals know which

humans in the warmlands are their allies and which are not?

They can't possibly, not without checking with their spies in

Polastrindu and elsewhere.

"When the fighting began I saw we didn't have a chance.

So I grabbed a hunk of iron and started attacking you

alongside the guards. When it was finished they accepted my

story about being sent along to spy on you and keep track of

the expedition. That Eejakrat was suspicious, but he was

willing to accept me for now, until he can check with those

wannland sources. He figured I couldn't do any harm here."

She grinned wickedly.

"His own thoughts are elsewhere. He's too concerned

with how much Clothahump knows to worry about me." She

nodded up the corridor. "This guard's dead, but I don't know

how often they change 'em."

There was a groan and a metallic snap. She pushed and the

door swung inward. "Come on, then."

They rushed out into the corridor. It was narrow and only

slightly better lit than the cell. Several strides further brought

them up before a familiar silhouette.

"Clothahump!" shouted Jon-Tom.

"Master, Master!" Pog fluttered excitedly around the wiz-

ard's head. Clothahump waved irritably at the famulus. His

own attention was fixed on the hall behind him.

"Not now, Pog. We've no time for it."

"Where've they been holding you, sir?" Jon-Tom asked.

Clothahump pointed. "Two cells up from you."

Jon-Tom gaped at him. "You mean you were that close and

, we could've..."

233

Alan Dean Foster

"Could have what, my boy? Dug through the rocks with

your bare hands and untied and ungagged me? I think not. It

was frustrating, however, to hear you all so close and not be

able to reassure you." His expression darkened. "I am going

to turn that Eejakrat into mousefood!"

"Not today," Talea reminded him.

"Yes, you're quite right, young lady."

Talea led them to a nearby room. In addition to the

expected oil lamps the walls held spears and shields. The

furnishings were Spartan and minimal. A broken insect body

lay sprawled beneath the table. Neatly piled against the far

wall were their possessions: weapons, supplies, and disguises,

including Jon-Tom's duar.

They hurriedly helped one another into the insect suits.

"I'm surprised these weren't shattered beyond repair in the

fight," Jen-Tom muttered, watching while Clothahump fixed

his cracked headpiece.

The wizard finished the polymer spell-repair. "Eejakrat

was fascinated by them. I'm sure he wanted me to go into the

details of the spell. He has similar interests, you know.

Remember the disguised ambassador who talked with you in

Polastrindu."

They stepped quietly back out into the corridor. "Where

are we?" Mudge asked Talea.

"Beneath the palace. Where else?" It was strange to hear

that sharp voice coming from behind the gargoylish face once

again.

"How can we get out?" Pog murmured worriedly.

"We walked in," said Caz thoughtfully. "Why should we

not also walk out?"

"Indeed," said Clothahump. "If we can get out into the

square we should be safe,"

234

XIV

They were several levels below the surface, but under

Talea's guidance they made rapid progress upward.

Once they had to pause to let an enormous beetle pass. He

waddled down the stairs without seeing them. A huge ax was

slung across his back and heavy keys dangled from his belts.

"I don't know if he's the relief for our level or not," Talea

said huskily, "but we'd better hurry."

They increased their pace. Then Talea warned them to

silence. They were nearing the last gate.

Three guards squatted around a desk on the other side of

the barred door. A steady babble of conversation filtered into

the corridor from the open door on the far side of the guard

room as busy workers came and went. Jon-Tom wondered at

the absence of a heavier guard until it came to him that escape

would be against orders, an action foreign to all but deranged

Plated Folk.

235

Alan Dean Foster

But there was still the barred doorway and the three

administrators beyond.

"How did you get past them?" Caz asked Talea.

"I haven't been past them. Eejakrat believed my story, but

only to a point. He wasn't about to give me me run of the

city. I had a room, not a cell, on the level below this one. If I

wanted out, I had to send word to him. We haven't got time

for that now. Pretty soon they'll be finding the body I left."

Mudge located a small fragment of loose black cement. He

tossed it down the stairs they'd ascended. It made a gratifyingly

loud clatter.

"Nesthek, is that you?" one of the administrators called

toward the doorway. When there was no immediate reply he

rose from his position at the desk and left the game to his

companions.

The excapees concealed themselves as best they could. The

administrator sounded perplexed as he approached the doorway.

"Nesthek? Don't play games with me. I'm losing badly as

it is."

"Bugger it," Mudge said tensely. "I thought at least two

of them would come to check."

"You take this one," said Clothahump. "The rest pf us

will quietly rush me others."

"Nesthek, what are you...?" Mudge stabbed upward

with his sword. He'd been lying nearly hidden by me lowest

bar of the doorway. The sword went right into the startled

guard's abdomen. At the same instant Caz leaped out of me

shadows to bring his knife down into one of me great

compound eyes. The guard-administrator slumped against me

bars. Talea fumbled for the keys at his waist.

"Partewx?" Then me other querulous guard was half out

of his seat as his companion ran to give the alarm. He didn't

make it to the far door. Pog landed on his neck and began

stabbing rapidly with his stiletto at the guard's head and face.

236

THE HOUR OF Tm GATE

The creature swung its four arms wildly, trying to dislodge

the flapping dervish that clung relentlessly to neck and head.

Ror swung low with her sword and cut through both legs.

The other who had turned and drawn his own scimitar

swung at Bribbens. The boatman hopped halfway to the

ceiling, and the deadly arc passed feet below their intended

target.

As the guard was bringing back his sword for another cut,

Jen-Tom swung at him with his staff. The guard ducked the

whistling club-head and brought his curved blade around. As

he'd been taught to, Jon-Tom spun the long shaft in his hands

as if it were an oversized baton. The guard jumped out of

range. Jon-Tom thumbed one of the hidden studs, sad a foot

of steel slid directly into the startled guard's thorax. Caz's

sword decapitated him before he hit the floor.

"Hold!"

Everyone looked to the right. There was a waste room

recessed into that wall. It had produced a fourth administrator

guard. He was taller than Jon-Tom, and the insect shape

struggling in the three-armed grasp looked small in comparison.

The insect head of Talea's disguise had been ripped off.

Her red hair cascaded down to her shoulders. Two arms held

her firmly around neck and waist while the thud held a knife

over the hollow of her throat.

"Move and she dies," said the guard. He began to edge

toward the open doorway leading outside, keeping his back

hard against the wall.

"If he gives the alarm we're finished, mates," Mudge

whispered.

"Let's rush them," said Caz,,

"No!" Jon-Tom put an arm in front of the rabbit. "We

can't. He'll—"

Talea continued to struggle in the unrelenting grip. "Do

something, you idiots!"

237

Alan Dean Foster

Seeing that no one was going to act and that she and her

captor were only a few yards from the doorway, she put both

feet on the floor and thrust convulsively upward. The knife

slid through her throat, emerging from the back of her neck.

Claret spurted across the stones.

Everyone was too stunned to scream. The guard cursed, let

the limp body fall as he bolted for the exit. Pog was waiting

for him with a knife that went straight between the compound

eyes. The guard never saw him. He'd had eyes only for his

grounded opponents and hadn't noticed the bat hanging above

the portal.

Caz and Mudge finished the giant quickly. Jon-Tom bent

over the tiny, curled shape of Talea. The blood flowed freely

but was already beginning to slow. Major arteries and veins

had been severed.

He looked back at Clothahump but the wizard could only

shake his head. "No time, no time, my boy. It's a long spell.

Not enough time."

Weak life looked out from those sea-green eyes. Her mouth

twisted into a grimace and her voice was faint. "One of.. .these

days you're going to have to make... the important decisions

without help, Jon-Tom." She smiled faintly. "You know... I

think I love you...."

The tears came in a flood, uncontrollable. "It's not fair,

Talea, Damn! It's not fair! You can't tell me something like

that and then leave me! You can't!"

But she died anyway.

He found he was shaking. Caz grabbed his shoulders,

shook him until it stopped.

"No time for that now, my friend. I'm sorry, too, but this

isn't the place.for being sorry."

"No, it is not." Clothahump was examining the body.

"She'll stop bleeding soon. When she does, clean her chitin

238

THE HOUR Of THE GATE

and put her head back on. It's over in the corner there, where

the guard threw it."

Jon-Tom stood, looked dazedly down at the wizard. "You

can't...?"

"I'll explain later, Jon-Tom. But all may not be lost."

"What the hell do you mean, 'all may not be lost'?" His

voice rose angrily. "She's dead, you senile old..."

Clothahump let him finish, then said, "I forgive the names

because I understand the motivation and the source. Know

only that sometimes even death can be forgiven, Jon-Tom."

"Are you saying you can bring her back?"

"I don't know. But if we don't get out of here quickly

we'll never have the chance to find out."

Hor and Bribbens slipped the insect head back into place

over the pale face and flowing hair. Jon-Tom wouldn't help.

"Now everyone look and act official," Clothahump urged

them. "We're taking a dead prisoner out for burial."

Bribbens, Mudge, Caz, and Hor supported Talea's body

while Pog flew formation overhead and Jon-Tom and Clothahump

marched importantly in front. A few passing Plated Folk

glanced at them when they emerged from the doorway, but no

one dared question them.

One of the benefits of infiltrating a totalitarian society,

Jon-Tom thought bitterly. Everyone's afraid to ask anything

of anyone who looks important.

They were on the main floor of the palace. It took them a

while to find an exit (they dared not ask directions), but

before long they were outside in the mist of the palace

square.

The sky was as gray and silent as ever and the humidity as

bad, but for all except the disconsolate Jon-Tom it was as

though they'd suddenly stepped out onto a warm beach

fronting the southern ocean.

"We have to find transport again," Clothahump was

239

Alaa Dean Foster

murmuring as they made their way with enforced slowness

across the square. "Soon someone will note either our ab-

sence or that of our belongings." He allowed himself a grim

chuckle.

"I would not care to be the prison commandant when

Eejakrat leams of our escape. They'll be after us soon

enough, but they should have a hell of a time locating us. We

blend in perfectly, and only a few have seen us. Nevertheless,

Eejakrat will do everything in his power to recapture us."

"Where can we go?" Mudge asked, shifting slightly under

the weight of the body. "To the north, back for Ironcloud?"

"No. That is where Eejakrat will expect us to go."

"Why would he suspect that?" asked Jon-Tom.

"Because I made it a point to give him sufficient hints to

that effect during our conversations," the wizard replied, "in

case the opportunity to flee arose."

"If he's as sly as you say, won't he suspect we're heading

in another direction?"

"Perhaps. But I do not believe he will think that we might

attempt to return home through the entire assembled army of

the Greendowns."

"Won't they be given the alarm about us also?"

"Of course. But militia do not display initiative. I think we

shall be able to slip through them."

That satisfied Jon-Tom, but Clothahump was left to muse

over what might have been. So close, they'd been so close!

And still they did not know what the dead mind was, or how

Eejakrat manipulated it. But while willing to take chances, he

was not quite as mad as Jon-Tom might have thought. I have

no death wish, young spellsinger, he thought as he regarded

the tall insect shape marching next to him. We tried as no

other mortals could try, and we failed. If fate wills that we are

to perish soon, it will be on the ramparts of the Jo-Troom

Gate confronting the foe, not in the jaws of Cugluch.

240

Tm Horn Or THE GATE

Once among the milling, festering mob of city dwellers

they could relax a little. It took a while to locate an alley with

a delivery wagon and no curious onlookers. Clothahump

could not work the spell under the gaze of kibbitzers.

The long, narrow wagon was pulled by a single large

lizard. They waited. No one else entered the alley. Eventually

the driver emerged from the back entrance of a warren.

Clothahump confronted him and while the others kept watch,

hastily spelled the unfortunate driver under.

"Climb aboard then, citizens," the driver said obligingly

when the wizard had finished. They did so, carefully laying

Talea's body on the wagon bed between them.

They were two-thirds of the way to the Pass, the hustle of

Cugluch now largely behind them, when the watchful Jon-

Tom said cautiously to the driver, "You're not hypnotized,

are you? You never were under the spell."

The worker looked back down at him with unreadable

compound eyes as hands moved toward weapons. "No,

citizen. I have not been magicked, if that is what you mean.

Stay your hands." He gestured at the roadway they were

traveling. "It would do you only ill, for you are surrounded

by my people." Swords and knives remained reluctantly

sheathed.

"Where are you taking us, then?" Ror asked nervously.

"Why haven't you given the alarm already?"

"As to the first, stranger, I am taking you where you wish

to go, to the head of the Troom Pass. I can understand why

you wish to go there, though I do not think you will end your

journey alive. Yet perhaps you will be fortunate and make it

successfully back to your own lands."

"You know what we are, then?" asked a puzzled Jon-Tom.

The driver nodded. "I know that beneath those skins of

chitin there are others softer and differently colored."

"But how?"

241

Alan Dean Foster

The driver pointed to the back of the wagon. Mudge

looked uncomfortable. "Well now wot the bloody 'ell were I

supposed to do? I thought 'is mind had been turned to mush

and I 'ad to pee. Didn't think 'e saw anyway, the 'ard-shelled

pervert!"

"It does not matter," the driver said.

"Listen, if you're not magicked and you know who and

what we are, why are you taking us quietly where we wish to

go instead of turning us over to the authorities?" Jon-Tom

wanted to know.

"I just told you: it does not matter." The driver made a

two-armed gesture indicative of great indifference. "Soon all

will die anyway."

"I take it you don't approve of the coming war."

"No, I do not." His antennae quivered with emotion as he

spoke. "It is so foolish, the millenia-old expenditure of life

and time in hopes of conquest."

"I must say you are the most peculiar Plated person I have

ever encountered," said Clothahump.

"My opinions are not widely shared among my own

people," the driver admitted. He chucked the reins, and the

wagon edged around a line of motionless carts burdened with

military supplies. Their wagon continued onward, one set of

wheels still on the roadway, the other bouncing over the rocks

and mud of the swampy earth.

"But perhaps things will change, given time and sensible

thought."

"Not if your armies achieve victory they won't," said

Bribbens coldly. "Wouldn't you be happy as the rest if your

soldiers win their conquest?"

"No, I would not," the driver replied firmly. "Death and

killing never build anything, for all that it may appear

otherwise."

242

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

"A most enlightened outlook, sir," said Clothahump. "See

here, why don't you come with us back to the warmlands?"

"Would I be welcomed?" asked the insect. "Would the

other warmlanders understand and sympathize the way you

do? Would they greet me as a friend?"

"They would probably, I am distressed to confess," said a

somber Caz, "slice you into small chitinous bits."

"You see? I am doomed whichever way I chose. If I went

with you I would suffer physically. If I stay, it is my mind that

suffers constant agony."

"I can understand your feelings against the war," said

Flor, "but that still doesn't explain why you're risking your

own neck to help us."

The driver made a shruglike gesture. "I help those who

need help. That is my nature. Now I help you. Soon, when

the fighting starts, there will be many to help. I do not take

sides among the needy. I wish only that such idiocies could

be stopped. It seems though that they can only be waited

out."

The driver, an ordinary citizen of the Greendowns, was full

of surprises. Clothahump had been convinced that there was

no divergence of opinion among the Plated Folk. Here was

loquacious proof of a crack in that supposed unity of totalitar-

ian thought, a crack that might be exploited later. Assuming,

of course, that the forthcoming invasion could be stopped.

Several days later they found themselves leaving the last of

the cultivated lowlands. Mist faded behind them, and the

friendly silhouettes of the mountains of Zaryt's Teeth became

solid.

No wagons plied their trader's wares here, no farmers

waded patiently through knee-deep muck. There was only

military traffic. According to Clothahump they were already

within the outskirts of the Pass.

Military bivouacs extended from hillside to hillside and for

243

Alan Dean Foster

miles to east and west. Tens of thousands of insect troops

milled quietly, expectantly, on the gravelly plain, waiting for

the word to march. From the back of the wagon Jon-Tom and

his companions could look out upon an ocean of antennae and

eyes and multiple legs. And sharp iron, flashing like a million

mirrors in the diffuse light of a winter day.

No one questioned them or eyed the wagon with suspicion

until they reached the last lines of troops. Ahead lay only the

ancient riverbed of the Troom Pass, a dry chasm of sand and

rock which in the previous ten millenia had run more with

blood than ever it had with water.

The officer was winged but flightless, slim, limber of body

and thought. He noted the wagon and its path, stopped filling

out the scroll in his charge, and hurried to pace the vehicle.

Its occupants gave every indication of being engaged in

reasonable business, but they ought not to have been where

they were. The quality of initiative, so lacking in Plated Folk

troops, was present in some small amount in this particular

individual officer.

He glanced up at the driver, his tone casual and not hostile.

"Where are you going, citizen?"

"Delivering supplies to the forward scouts," said Caz

quickly.

The officer slackened his pace, walked now behind the

wagon as he inspected its occupants. "That is understand-

able, but I see no supplies. And who is the dead one?" He

gestured with claws and antennae at the limp shape of Talea,

still encased in her disguise.

"An accident, a most unforgivable brawl in the ranks,"

Caz informed him.

"Ranks? What ranks? I see no insignia on the body. Nor

on any of you."

"We're not regular army," said the driver, much to the

relief of the frantic Caz.

244

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

"Ah. But such a fatal disturbance should be reported. We

cannot tolerate fighting among ourselves, not now, with final

victory so soon to come."

Jon-Tom tried to look indifferent as he turned his head to

look past the front of the wagon. They were not quite past the

front-line troops. Leave us alone, he thought furiously at the

persistent officer. Go back to your work and leave this one

wagon to itself!

"We already have reported it," said Caz worriedly. "To

our own commandant."

"And who might that be?" came the unrelenting, infuriat-

ing question.'

"Colonel Puxolix," said the driver.

"I know of no such officer."

"How can one know every officer in the army?"

"Nevertheless, perhaps you had best report the incident to

my own command. It never hurts one to be thorough, citizen.

And I would still like to see the supplies you are to deliver."

He turned as if to signal to several chattering soldiers stand-

ing nearby.

"Here's one of 'em!" said Flor. Her sword lopped off the

officer's head in the midst of a never-to-be-answered query.

For an instant they froze in readiness, hands on weapons,

eyes on the troops nearest the wagon. Yet there was no

immediate reaction, no cry of alarm. Flor's move had been so

swift and the body had fallen so rapidly that no one had yet

noticed.

While their driver did not believe in divine intervention, he

had the sense to make the decision his passengers withheld.

"Hiui-criiickk!" he shouted softly, simultaneously snap-

ping his odd whip over the lizard's eyes. The animal surged

forward in a galloping waddle. Now soldiers did turn from

conversation or eating to stare uncertainly at the fleeing

wagon.

245

Alan Dean Foster

The last few troops scrambled out of the wagon's path.

There was nothing ahead save rock and promise.

Someone stumbled over the body of the unfortunately

curious officer, noted that the head was no longer attached,

connected the perfidy with the rapidly shrinking outline of the

racing wagon, and finally thought to raise the alarm.

"Here they come, friends." Caz knelt in the wagon,

staring back the way they'd come. His eyes picked out

individual pursuers where Jon-Tom could detect only a faint

rising of dust. "They must have found the body."

"Not enough of a start," said Bribbens tightly. "I'll never

see my beloved Slqomaz-ayor-le-WeentIi and its cool green

banks again. I regret only not having the opportunity to perish

in water."

"Woe unto us," murmured a disconsolate Mudge.

"Woe unto ya, maybe," said the lithe black shape perched

on the back of the driver's seat. Pog lifted into the air and

sped ahead of the lumbering wagon.

"Send back help!" Jon-Tom yelled to the retreating dot.

"He will do so," Clothahump said patiently, "if his panic

does not overwhelm his good sense. I am more concerned

that our pursuit may catch us before any such assistance has a

chance to be mobilized."

"Can't you make this go any faster?" asked Hor.

"The lanteth is built for pulling heavy loads, not for

springing like a zealth over poor ground such as this," said

the driver, raising his voice in order to be heard above the

rumble of the wheels.

"They're gaining on us," said Jon-Tom. Now the mounted

riders coming up behind were close enough so that even he

could make out individual shapes. Many of the insects he

didn't recognize, but the long, lanky, helmeted Plated Folk

resembling giant walking sticks were clear enough. Their

huge strides ate up long sections of Pass as they closed on the

246

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

escapees. Two riders on each long back began to notch

arrows into bows.

"The Gate, there's the Gate, by Rerelia's pink purse it is!"

Mudge shouted gleefully.

His shout was cut off as he was thrown off his feet. The

wagon lurched around a huge boulder in the sand, rose

momentarily onto two wheels, but did not-turn over. It

slammed back down onto the riverbed with a wooden crunch.

Somehow the axles held. The spokes bent but did not snap.

Ahead was the still distant rampart of a massive stone wall.

Arrows began to zip like wasps past the wagon. The passen-

gers huddled low on the bed, listening to the occasional thuck

as an arrow stuck into the wooden sides.

A moan sounded above them, a silent whisper of departure,

and another body joined Talea. It was their iconoclastic,

brave driver. He lay limply in the wagon bed, arms trailing

and the color already beginning to fade from his ommatidia.

Two arrows protruded from his head.

Jon-Tom scrambled desperately into the driver's seat, trying

to stay low while arrows whistled nastily around him. The

reins lay draped across the front bars of the seat. He reached

for them.

They receded. So did the seat. The rolling wagon had

struck another boulder and had bounced, sending its occu-

pants flying. It landed ahead of Jon-Tom, on its side. The

panicky lizard continued pulling it toward freedom.

Spitting sand and blood, Jon-Tom struggled to his feet.

He'd landed on his belly. Duar and staff were still intact. So

was he, thanks to the now shattered hard-shelled disguise. As

he tried to walk, a loose piece of legging slid down onto his

foot. He kicked it aside, began pulling off the other sections

of chitin and throwing them away. Deception was no longer

of any use.

"Come on, it isn't far!" he yelled to his companions. Caz

247

Alan Dean Foster

ran past, then Mudge and Bribbens. The boatman was assisting

Clothahump as best he could.

Hor, almost past him, halted when she saw he was running

toward the wagon. "Jon-Tom, muerte es muerte. Let it be."

"I'm not leaving without her."

Flor caught up with him, grabbed his arm. "She's dead,

Jon-Tom. Be a man. Leave it alone."

He did not stop to answer her. Ignoring the shafts falling

around them, he located the spraddled corpse. In an instant he

had Talea's body in a fireman's carry across his shoulders.

She was so small, hardly seemed to have any weight at all. A

surge of strength ran through him, and he ran light-headed

toward the wall. It was someone else running, someone else

breathing hard.

Only Mudge had a bow, but he couldn't run and use it. It

wouldn't matter much in a minute anyway, because their

grotesque pursuit was almost on top of them. It would be a

matter of swords then, a delaying of the inevitable dying.

A furry shape raced past him. Another followed, and two

more. He slowed to a trot, tried to wipe the sweat from his

eyes. What he saw renewed his strength more than any

vitamins.

A fuzzy wave was fanneling out of a narrow crack in the

hundred-foot-high Gate ahead. Squirrels and muskrats, otters

and possums, an isolated skunk, and a platoon of vixens

charged down the Pass.

The insect riders saw the rush coming and hesitated just

long enough to allow the exhausted escapees to blend in with

their saviors. There was a brief, intense fight. Then the

pursuers, who had counted on no more than overtaking and

slaughtering a few renegades, turned and ran for the safety of

the Greendowns. Many did not make it, their mounts cut out

from under them. The butchery was neat and quick.

Soft paws helped the limping, panting refugees the rest of

248

THE HOUR Or THE GATE

the way in. A thousand questions were thrown at them, not a

few centering on their identity. Some of the rescuers had seen

the discarded chitin disguises, and knowledge of that prompted

another hundred queries at least.

Clothahump adjusted his filthy spectacles, shook sand from

the inside of his shell, and confronted a minor officer who

had taken roost on the wizard's obliging shoulders.

"Is Wuckle Three-Stripe of Polastnndu here?"

"Aye, but he's with the Fourth and Fifth Corps," said the

Sd-aven. His kilt was yellow, black, and azure, and he wore a

|-lhin helmet. Two throwing knives were strapped to his sides

I'beneath his wings, and his claws had been sharpened for war.

"What about a general named Aveticus?"

"Closer, in the headquarters tent," said the raven. He

brushed at the yellow scarf around his neck, the insignia of an

arboreal noncommissioned officer. "You'd like to go there, I

take it?"

Clothahump nodded. "Immediately. Tell him it's the mad

doomsayers. He'll see us."

The raven nodded. "Will do, sir." He lifted from the

wizard's shell and soared over the crest of the Gate.

They marched on through the barely open doorway. Jon-

Tom had turned his burden over to a pair of helpful ocelots.

The Gate itself, he saw, was at least a yard deep and formed

of massive timbers. The stonework of the wall was thirty

times as thick, solid rock. The Gate gleamed with fresh sap, a

substance Caz identified as a fire-retardant.

The Plated Folk might somehow pierce the Gate, but picks

and hatchets would never breech the wall. His confidence

rose.

It lifted to near assurance when they emerged from the

Pass. Spread out on the ancient nver plain that sloped down

from the mountains were thousands of camp fires. The

249

Alan Dean Foster

warmlanders had taken Clothahump's warning to heart. They

would be ready.

He repositioned his own special burden, taking it back from

ttie helpful soldiers. With a grimace he unsnapped the insect head

and kicked it aside. Red hair hung limply across his shoulder.

He stroked the face, hurriedly pulled his hand away. The skin

was numbingly cold.

There were two arrows in her back. Even in death, she had

protected him again. But it would be all right, he told himself

angrily. Clothahump would revive her, as he'd promised he

would. Hadn't he promised? Hadn't he?

They were directed to a large three-comered tent. The

banners of a hundred cities flew above it. Squadrons of

brightly kilted birds and bats flew in formation overhead,

arrowhead outlines full of the flash and silver of weapons.

They had their own bivouacs, he noted absently, on the flanks

of the mountains or in the forest that rose to the west.

Wuckle Three-Stripe was there, still panting from having

ridden through the waiting army to meet them. So was

Aveticus, his attitude and eyes as alert and ready as they'd

been that day so long ago in the council chambers of Polastrindu.

He was heavily armored, and a crimson sash hung from his

long neck. Jen-Tom could read his expression well enough:

the marten was eager to be at the business of killing.

There were half a dozen other officers. Before the visitors

could say anything a massive wolverine resplendent in gold

chain mail stepped forward and asked in a voice full of

disbelief, "Have ye then truly been to Cugluch?" Rumor

then had preceded presence.

"To Cugluch an' back, mate," Mudge admitted pridefully.

" Twas an epic journey. One that'll long be spoken of. The

bards will not 'ave words enough t' do 'er justice."

"Perhaps," said Aveticus quietly. "I hope there will be

bards left to sing of it."

250

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

"We bring great news." Clothahump took a seat near the

central table. "I am sorry to say that the great magic of the

Plated Folk remains as threatening as ever, though not quite

as enigmatic.

"However, for the first time in recorded history, we have

powerful allies who are not of the warmlands." He did not try

to keep the pleasure from his voice. "The Weavers have

agreed to fight alongside us!"

Considerable muttering rose from the assembled leader-

ship. Not all of it was pleased.

"I have the word of the Grand Webmistress Oil herself,

given to us in person," Clothahump added, dissatisfied with

the reaction his announcement produced.

When the import finally penetrated, there were astonished

murmurs of delight.

"The Weavers.. .We canna lose now.... Won't be a one

of the Plated Bastards left!... Drive them all the way to the

end of the Greendowns!"

"That is," said Clothahump cautioningly, "they will fight

alongside us if they can get here in time. They have to come

across the Teeth."

"Then they will never reach here," said a skeptical officer.

"There is no other pass across the Teeth save the Troom."

"Perhaps not a Pass, but a path. The Ironclouders will

show them the way."

Now derision filled the tent. "There is no such place as

Ironcloud," said the dubious Wuckle Three-Stripe. "It is a

myth inhabited by ghosts."

"We climbed inside the myth and supped with the ghosts,"

said Clothahump calmly. "It exists."

"I believe this wizard's word is proof enough of any-

thing," said Aveticus softly, dominating the discussion by

sheer strength of presence.

"They have promised to guide the Weaver army here."

251

Alan Dean Foster

Clothahump continued to his suddenly respectful audience.

"But we cannot count on their assistance. I believe the Plated

Folk will begin their attack any day. We confronted and

escaped from the wizard Eejakrat. While he does not know

that we know little about his Manifestation, he will not

assume ignorance on our part, and thus will urge the assem-

bled horde to march. They appeared ready in any case."

That stimulated a barrage of questions from the officers.

They wanted estimates of troop strength, of arboreals, weap-

ons and provisioning, of disposition and heavy troops and

bowmen and more.

Clothahump impatiently waved the questions off. "I can't

answer any of your queries in detail. I am not a soldier and

my observations are attuned to other matters. I can tell you

that this is by far the greatest army the Plated Folk have ever

sent against the warmlands."

"They will be met by more warmlanders than ever they

imagined!" snorted Wuckle Three-Stripe. "We will reduce

the populating of the Greendowns to nothing. The Troom Pass

shall be paved with chitin!" Cries of support and determina-

tion came from those behind him.

The badger's expression softened. "I must say we are

pleased, if utterly amazed, to find you once again safely

among your kind. The world owes you all a great debt."

"How great, mate?" asked Mudge.

Three-Stripe eyed the otter distastefully, "hi this time of

crisis, how can you think of mere material things?"

"Mate, I can always th—" Flor put a hand over the otter's

muzzle.

The mayor turned to a subordinate. "See that these people

have anything they want, and that they are provided with food

and the best of shelter." The weasel officer nodded.

"It will be done, sir." He moved forward, saluted crisply

252

THE HOUR Or THE GATE

His gaze fell on the form lying limply across Jon-Tom's back.

"Shall the she be requiring medical care, sir?"

Red hair tickled Jon-Tom's ear. He jerked his head to one

side, replied almost imperceptibly.

"No. She's dead."

"I am sorry, sir."

Jon-Tom's'gaze traveled across the tent. Clothahump was

conversing intently with a cluster of officers including the

wolverine, Aveticus, and Wuckle Three-Stripe. He glanced

up for an instant and locked eyes with the spellsinger. The

instant passed.

The relief Jon-Tom had sought in the wizard's eyes was not

there, nor had there been hope.

Only truth.

283

XV

The meeting did not take long. As they left the tent the

tension of the past weeks, of living constantly on the edge of

death and disappointment, began to let go of them all.

"Me for a 'ot bath!" said Mudge expectantly.

"And I for a cold one," countered Bnbbens.

"I think I'd prefer a shower, myself," said Flor.

"I'd enjoy that myself, I believe." Jon-Tom did not notice

the look that passed between Caz and Flor. He noticed

nothing except the wizard's retreating oval.

"Just a minute, sir. Where are you going now?"

Clothahump glanced back at him. "First to locate Pog.

Then to the Council of Wizards, Warlocks, and Witches so

that we may coordinate our magicking in preparation for the

coming attack. Only one may magic at a time, you know.

Contradiction destroys the effectiveness of spells."

"Wait. What about.. .you know. You promised."

Clothahump looked evasive. "She's dead, my boy. Like

255

Alan Dean Foster

love, life is a transitory thing. Both linger as long as they're

able and fade quickly."

"I don't want any of your fucking wizardly platitudes!"

He towered over the turtle. "You said you could bring her

back."

"I said I might. You were despondent, You needed hope,

something to sustain you. I gave you that. By pretending I

might help the dead I helped the living to survive. I have no

regrets."

When Jon-Tom did not respond the wizard continued, "My

boy, your magic is of an unpredictable quality and consider-

able power. Many times that unpredictability could be a

drawback. But the magic we face is equally unpredictable.

You may be of great assistance... if you choose to.

"But I feel responsibility for you, if not for your present

hurt. If you elect to do nothing, no one will blame you for it

and I will not try to coerce you. I can only wish for your

assistance.

"I am trying to tell you, my boy, that there is no formula I

know for raising the dead. I said I would try, and I shall,

when the time is right and other matters press less urgently on

my knowledge. I must now try my best to preserve many. I

cannot turn away from that to experiment in hopes of saving

one." His voice was flat and unemotional.

"I wish it were otherwise, boy. Even magic has its limits,

however. Death is one of them."

Jon-Tom stood numbly, still balancing the dead weight on

his shoulders. "But you said, you told me..."

"What I told you I did in order to save you. Despondency

does not encourage quick thinking and survival. You have

survived. Talea, bless her mercurial, flinty little heart, would

be cursing your self-pity this very moment if she were able."

"You lying little hard-shelled—"

Clothahump took a cautious step backward. "Don't force

256

THE HOUR OF TBE GATE

me to stop you, Jon-Tom. Yes, I lied to you. It wasn't the

first time, as Mudge is so quick to point out. A lie in the

service of right is a kind of truth."

Jon-Tom let out an inarticulate yell and rushed forward,

blinded as much by the cold finality of his loss as by the

wizard's duplicity. No longer a personality or even a memory,

me body on his shoulders tumbled to the earth. He reached

blindly for the impassive sorcerer.

Clothahump had seen the rage building, had taken note of

the signs in Jon-Tom's face, in the way he stood, in the

tension of his skin. The wizard's hands moved rapidly and he

whispered to unseen things words like "fix" and "anesthesia."

Jon-Tom sent down as neatly as if clubbed by his own staff.

Several soldiers noted the activity and wandered over.

"Is he dead, sir?" one asked curiously.

"No. For the moment he wishes it were so." The wizard

pointed toward the limp form of Talea. "The first casualty of

the war."

"And this one?" The squirrel gestured down at Jon-Tom.

"Love is always the second casualty. He will be all right in

a while. He needs to rest and not remember. There is a tent

behind the headquarters. Take him and put him in there."

The noncom's tail switched the air. "Will he be dangerous

when he regains consciousness?"

Clothahump regarded the softly breathing body. "I do not

think so, not even to himself."

The squirrel saluted. "It will be done, sir."

There are few drugs, Clothahump mused, that can numb

born the heart and the mind. Among them grief is the most

powerful. He watched while the soldiers bore the lanky,

youthful Jon-Tom away, then forced himself to turn to more

serious matters. Talea was gone and Jon-Tom damaged. Well,

he was sorry as sorry could be for the boy, but they would do

257

Alan Dean Foster

without his erratic talents if they had to. He could not cool

the boy's hate.

Let him hate me, then, if he wishes. It will focus his

thoughts away from his loss. He will be forever suspicious of

me hereafter, but in that he will have the company of most

creatures. People always fear what they cannot understand.

Makes it lonely though, old fellow. Very lonely. You knew

that when you took the vows and made the oaths. He sighed,

waddled oS to locate Aveticus. Now there was a rational

mind, he thought pleasantly. Unimaginative, but sound. He

will accept my advice and act upon it. I can help him.

Perhaps in return he can help me. Two hundred and how

many years, old fellow?

Tired, dammit. I'm so tired.. Pity I took an oath of

responsibility along with the others. But this evil of Eejakrat's

has got to be stopped.

Clothahump was wise in many things, but even he would

not admit that what really kept him going wasn't his oath of

responsibility. It was curiosity....

Red fog filled Jon-Tom's vision. Blood mist. It faded to

gray when he blinked. It was not the ever present mist of the

awful Greendowns, but instead a dull glaze that faded rapidly.

Looking up, he discovered multicolored fabric in place of

blue sky. As he lay on his back he heard a familiar voice say,

"I'll watch him now."

He pushed himself up on his elbows, his head still swim-

ming from the effects of Clothahump's incantation. Several

armed warmlanders were exiting the tent.

"Ya feeling better now?"

He raised his sight once more. An upside-down face stared

anxiously into his own. Pog was hanging from one of the

crosspoles, wrapped in his wings. He spread them, stretching,

and yawned.

"How long have I been out?"

258

THE HOUR Of THE GATE

" 'Bout since dis time yesterday."

"Where's everyone else?"

The bat grinned. "Relaxing, trying ta enjoy themselves.

Orgy before da storm."

"Talea?" He tried to sit all the way up. A squat, hairy

form fluttered down from the ceiling to land on his chest.

"Talea's as dead as she was yesterday when you tried ta

attack da master. As dead as she was when dat knife went

into her t'roat back in Cugluch, an dat's a fact ya'd better get

used ta, man!"

Jon-Tom winced, looked away from the little gargoyle face

confronting him. "I'll never accept it. Never."

Pog hopped off his chest, landed on a chair nearby, and

leaned against the back. It was designed for a small mamma-

lian body, but it still fit him uncomfortably. He always

preferred hanging to sitting but given Jon-Tom's present

disorientation, he knew it would be better if he didn't have to

stare at a topsy-turvy face just now.

"Ya slay me, ya know?" Pog said disgustedly. "Ya really

think you'resomething special."

"What?" Confused, Jon-Tom frowned at the bat.

"You heard me. I said dat ya link you're something

special, don't ya? Ya tink you're da only one wid problems?

At least you've got da satisfaction of knowing dat someone

loved ya. I ain't even got dat.

"How would ya like it if Talea were alive and every time

ya looked at her, so much as smiled in her direction, she

turned away from ya in disgust?"

"I don't—"

The bat cut him off, raised a wing. "No, hear me out.

Dat's what I have ta go trough every day of my life. bat's

what I've been going trough for years. 'It don't make sense,'

da boss keeps tellin' me." Pog sniffed disdainfully. "But he

don't have ta experience it, ta live it. 'Least ya know ya was

259

Alan Dean Foster

loved, Jon-Tom. I may never have dat simple ting. I may

have ta go trough da rest of my life knowin' dat da one I love

gets the heaves every time I come near her. How would you

like ta live wid dat? I'm goin' ta suffer until I die, or until she

does.

"And what's worse," he looked away momentarily, sound-

ing so miserable that Jon-Tom forgot his own agony, "she's

here!"

"Who's here?"

"Da falcon. Uleimee. She's wid da aerial forces. I tried ta

see her once, just one time. She wouldn't even do dat for

me."

"She can't be much if she acts like that toward you," said

Jon-Tom gently.

"Why not? Because she's reactin' to my looks instead of

my wondaful personality? Looks are important. Don't let

anybody tell ya otherwise. And I got a real problem. And

dere's smell, and other factors, and I can't do a damn ting

about 'em. Maybe da boss can, eventually. But promises

don't do nuthin' for me now." His expression twisted.

"So don't let me hear any more of your bemoanings.

You're alive an' healthy, you're an interesting curiosity to da

females around ya, an you've got plenty of loving ahead of

ya. But not me. I'm cursed because I love only one."

"It's kind of funny," Jon-Tom said softly, tracing a pattern

on the blanket covering his cot. "I thought it was Flor I was

in love with. She tried to show me otherwise, but I

couldn't... wouldn't, see."

"Dat wouldn't matter anyhow." Pog fluttered off the chair

and headed for the doorway.

"Why not?"

"Blind an' dumb," the bat grumbled. "Don't ya see

anyting? She's had da hots for dat Caz fellow ever since we

260

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

fished him outa da river Tailaroam." He was gone before

Jon-Tom could comment.

Caz and Flor? That was impossible, he thought wildly. Or

.was it? What was impossible in a world of impossibilities?

Bringing back Talea, he told himself.

Well, if Clothahump could do nothing, there was still

another manipulator of magic who would try: himself.

Troops gave the tent a wide berth during the following

days. Inside a tall, strange human sat singing broken love

songs to a Corpse. The soldiers muttered nervously to them-

selves and made signs of protection when they were forced to

pass near the tent. Its interior glowed at night with a veritable

swarm of gneechees.

Jon-Tom's efforts were finally halted not by personal choice

but by outside events. He had succeeded in keeping the body

from decomposing, but it remained still as the rock beneath

the tent. Then on the tenth day after their hasty retreat from

Cugluch, word came down from aerial scouts that the army of

the Plated Folk was on the march.

So he slung his duar across his back and went out with staff

in hand. Behind he left the body of one who had loved him

and whom he could love in return only too late. He strode

resolutely through the camp, determined to take a position on

the wall. If he could not give life, then by God he would deal

out death with equal enthusiasm.

Aveticus met him on the wall.

"It comes, as it must to all creatures," the general said to

him. "The time of choosing." He peered hard into Jon-Tom's

face. "In your anger, remember that one who fights blindly

usually dies quickly."

Jon-Tom blinked, looked down at him. "Thanks, Aveticus.

I'll keep control of myself."

"Good." The general walked away, stood chatting with a

couple of subordinates as they looked down the Pass.

261

Alan Dean Foster

A ripple of expectancy passed through the soldiers assem-

bled on the wall. Weapons were raised as their wielders

leaned forward. No one spoke. The only noise now came

from down the Pass, and it was growing steadily louder.

As a wave they came, a single dark wave of chitin and

iron. They filled the Pass from one side to the other, a flood

of murder that extended unbroken into the distance.

A last few hundred warmlander troops scrambled higher

into the few notches cut into the precipitous canyon. From

there they could prevent any Plated Folk from scaling the

rocks to either side of the wall. They readied spears and

arrows. A rich, musky odor filled the morning air, exuded

from the glands of thousands of warmlanders. An aroma of

anticipation.

The great wooden gates were slowly parted. There came a

shout followed by a thunderous cheer from the soldiers on the

ramparts that shook gravel from the mountainsides. Led by a

phalanx of a hundred heavily armored wolverines, the

warmlander army sallied out into the Pass.

Jon-Tom moved to leave his position on the wall so he

could join the main body of troops pouring from the Gate. He

was confronted by a pair of familiar faces. Caz and Mudge

still disdained the use of armor.

"What's wrong?" he asked them. "Aren't you going to

join the fight?"

"Eventually," said Caz.

"If it proves absolutely necessary, mate," added Mudge.

"Right now we've a more important task assigned to us, we

do."

"And what's that?"

"Keepin' an eye on yourself."

Jon-Tom looked past them, saw Clothahump watching him

speculatively.

262

THE HOUR Of THE GATE

"What's the idea?" He no longer addressed the wizard as

"sir."

The sorcerer walked over to join them. His left hand was

holding a thick scroll half open. It was filled with words and

symbols.

"In the end your peculiar magic, spellsinger, may be of Jar

more use to us than another sword arm."

"I'm not interested in fighting with magic," Jon-Tom

countered angrily. "I want to spill some blood."

Clothahump shook his head, smiled ruefully. "How the

passions of youth do alter its nature, if not necessarily

maturing it. I seem to recall a somewhat different personality

once brought confused and gentle to my Tree."

"I remember him also," Jon-Tom replied humoriessly.

"He's dead too."

"Pity. He was a nice boy. Ah well. You are potentially

much more valuable to us here, Jon-Tom. Do not be so

anxious. I promise you that as you grow older you will be

presented with ample opportunities for participating in self-

satisfying slaughter."

"I'm not interested in-—"

Sounding less understanding, Clothahump cut him off testi-

ly. "Consider something besides yourself, boy. You are upset

because Talea is dead, because her death personally affects

you. You're upset because I deceived you. Now you want to

waste a potentially helpful talent to satisfy your personal

blood lust." He regarded the tall youth sternly.

"My boy, I am fond of you. I think that with a little

maturation and a little tempering, as with a good sword, you

will make a fine person. But for a little while at least, try

thinking of something besides you."

The ready retort died on Jon-Tom's lips. Nothing pene-

trates the mind or acts on it so effectively as does truth, that

most efficient but foul-tasting of all medicines. Clothahump

263

Alan Dean Foster

had only one thing in his favor: he was right. That canceled

out anything else Jon-Tom could think of to say.

He leaned back against the rampart, saw Caz and Mudge,

friends both, watching him warily. Hesitantly, he smiled.

"It's okay. The old bastard's right. I'll stay." He turned

from them to study the Pass. After a pause and a qualifying

nod from Clothahump, Mudge and Caz moved to join him.

The wolverine wedge struck the center of the Plated Polk

wave like a knife, leaving contorted, multilated insect bodies

in their wake. The rest of the warmlander soldiers followed

close behind.

It was a terrible place for a battle. The majority of both

armies could only seethe and shift nervously. They were

packed so tightly in the narrow Pass that only a small portion

of each force could actually confront one another. It was

another advantage for the outnumbered warmlanders.

After an hour or so of combat the battle appeared to be

going the way of all such conflicts down through the millenia.

Led by the wolverines the warmlanders were literally cutting

their way up the Pass. The Plated Folk fought bravely but

mechanically, showing no more initiative in individual com-

bat than they did collectively. Also, though they possessed an

extra set of limbs, they were stiff-jointed and no match for the

more supple, agile enemies they faced. Most of the Plated

Folk were no more than three and a half feet tall, while

certain of the warmlanders, such as the wolverines and the

felines, were considerably more massive and powerful. And

none of the insects could match the otters and weasels for

sheer speed.

The battle raged all that morning and on into the afternoon.

All at once, it seemed to be over. The Plated Polk suddenly

threw away their weapons, broke, and ran. This induced

considerable chaos in the packed ranks behind the front. The

264

THE HOUR Or THE GATE

panic spread rapidly, an insidious infection as damaging as

any fatal disease.

Soon it appeared that the entire Plated Folk army was in

retreat, pursued by yelling, howling warmlanders. The sol-

diers at the Gate broke out in whoops of joy. A few expressed

disappointment at not having been in on the fight.

Only Clothahump stood quietly on his side of the Gate,

Aveticus on the other. The wizard was staring with aged eyes

at the field of battle, squinting through his glasses and

shaking his head slowly.

"Too quick, too easy," he was murmuring.

Jon-Tom overheard. "What's wrong... sir?"

Clothahump spoke without looking over at him. "I see no

evidence of the power Eejakrat commands. Not a sign of it at

work."

"Maybe he can't manipulate it properly. Maybe it's beyond

his control."

" 'Maybes' kill more individuals than swords, my boy."

"What kind of magic are you looking for?"

"I don't know." The wizard gazed skyward. "The clouds

are innocent of storm. Nothing hints at lightning. The earth is

silent, and we've naught to fear from tremorings. The ether

flows silently. I feel no discord in any of the levels of magic.

It worries me. I fear what I cannot sense."

"There's a possible storm cloud," said Jon-Tom, pointing.

"Boiling over the far southern ridge."

Clothahump peered in the indicated direction. Yes,'there

was a dark mass back there, which had materialized suddenly.

It was blacker than any of the scattered cumulo-nimbus that

hung in the afternoon sky like winter waifs. The cloud

foamed down the face of the ridge, rushing toward the Pass.

"That's not a cloud," said Caz, seeking with eyes sharper

than those of other creatures. "Plated Folk."

265

Alan Dean Foster

"What kind?" asked Clothahump, already confident of the

reply.

"Dragonflies, a few large beetles. All with subsidiary

mounted troops, I fear. Many other large beetles behind

them."

"They should be no trouble," murmured Clothahump.

"But I wonder."

Aveticus crossed the Gate and joined them.

"What do you make of this, sir?"

"It appears to be the usual aerial assault."

Aveticus nodded, glanced back toward the plain. "If so,

they will fare no better in the air than they have on the

ground. Still..."

"Something troubling you then?" said Clothahump.

The marten eyed the approaching cloud confusedly. "It is

strange, the way they are grouped. Still, it would be peculiar

if they did not at least once try something different."

Yells sounded from behind the Gate. The warmlanders own

aerial forces were massing in a great spiral over the camp.

They were of every size and description. Their kilts formed a

brilliant quiltwork in the sky.

Then the spiral began to unwind as the line of bats and

birds flew over the Gate to meet the coming threat. They

intercepted the Plated Folk fliers near the line of combat.

As soon as contact was made, the Plated Folk forces split.

Half moved to meet the attack. The second half, consisting

primarily of powerful but ponderous beetles, dipped below

the fight. With them went a large number of the more agile

dragonflies with their single riders.

"Look there," said Mudge. "Wot are the bleedin' buggerers

up to?"

"They're attacking ground troops!" said Aveticus, outraged.

"It is not done. Those in the sky do not do battle with those

on the ground. They fight only others of their own kind."

266

THE HOUR Or THE GATE

"Well, somebody's changed the rules," said Jen-Tom,

watching a tall amazonian figure moving across the wall

toward them.

Confusion began to grip the advance ranks of warmlanders.

They were not used to fighting attack from above. Most of

the outnumbered birds and bats were too busy with their own

opponents to render any assistance to those below.

"This is Eejakrat's work," muttered Clothahump. "I can

sense it.'It is magic, but of a most subtle sort."

"Air-ground support," said the newly arrived Flor. She

was staring tight-lipped at the carnage the insect fliers were

wreaking on the startled warmlander infantry.

"What kind of magic is this?" asked Aveticus grimly.

"It's called tactics," said Jon-Tom.

The marten turned to Clothahump. "Wizard, can you not

counter this kind of magic?"

"I would try," said Clothahump, "save that I do not know

how to begin. I can counter lightning and dissipate fog, but I

do not know how to assist the minds of our soldiers. That is

what is endangered now."

While bird and dragonfly tangled in the air above the Pass

and other insect fliers swooped again and again on the ranks

of puzzled warmlanders, the sky began to rain a different sort

of death.

The massive cluster of large beetles remained high out of

arrowshot and began to disgorge hundreds, thousands of tiny

pale puffs on the rear of the warmlander forces. Arrows fell

Aom the puff shapes as they descended.

Jon-Tom recognized the familiar round cups. So did Flor.

But Clothahump could only shake his head in disbelief.

"Impossible! No spell is strong enough to lift so many into

the air at once."

"I'm afraid this one is," Jon-Tom told him.

"What is this frightening spell called?"

"Parachuting."

267

Alan Dean Foster

The wannlander troops were as confused by the sight as by

the substance of this assault on their rear ranks. At the same

time there was a chilling roar from the retreating Plated Folk

infantry. Those who'd abandoned their weapons suddenly

scrambled for the nearest canyon wall.

From the hidden core of the horde came several hundred of

the largest beetles anyone had ever seen. These huge scara-

baeids and their cousins stampeded through the gap created

by their own troops. The startled wolverines were trampled

underfoot. Massive chitin horns pierced soldier after soldier.

Each beetle had half a dozen bowmen on its back. From there

they picked off those wannlanders who tried to cut at the

beetle's legs.

Now it was the wannlanders who broke, whirling and

scrambling in panic for the safety of the distant Gate. They

pressed insistently on those behind them. But terror already

ruled their supposed reinforcements. Instead of friendly faces

those pursued by the relentless beetles found thousands of

Plated Folk soldiers who had literally dropped from the sky.

The birds and their riders, mostly small squirrels and then-

relatives, fought valiantly to break through the aerial Plated

Folk. But by the time they had made any headway against the

dragonfly forces confronting them the great, lumbering flying

beetles had already dropped their cargo. Now they were

flying back down the Pass, to gather a second load of

impatient insect parachutists.

Glee turned to dismay on the wall as badly demoralized

troops streamed back through the open Gate. Behind them

was sand and gravel-covered ground so choked with corpses

that it was hard to move. The dead actually did more to save

the wannlander forces from annihilation than the living.

When the last survivor had limped inside, the great Gate

was swung shut. An insectoid wave crested against the

barrier.

268

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

Now the force of scarabaeids who'd broken the wannlander

front turned and retreated. They could not scale the wall and

would only hinder its capture.

• Strong-armed soldiers carrying dozens, hundreds of ladders

took their places. The ladders were thrown up against the wall

in such profusion that several defenders, while trying to spear

those Plated Folk raising one ladder, were struck and killed

by another. The ladders were so close together they some-

| times overlapped rungs. A dark tide began to swarm up the

| wall.

| Having no facility with a bow, Jon-Tom was heaving spears

I as fast as the armsbearers could supply them. Next to him

| Flor was firing a large longbow with deadly accuracy. Mudge

I stood next to her, occasionally pausing in his own firing to

| compliment the giantess on a good shot.

I The wall was now crowded with reinforcements. Every

II time a wannlander fell another took his place. But despite the

number of ladders pushed back and broken, the number of

climbers killed, the seemingly endless stream of Plated Folk

: came on.

; It was Caz who pulled Jon-Tom aside and directed his

attention far, far up the canyon. "Can you see them, my

friend? They are there, watching."

! "Where?"

"There... can't you see the dark spots on that butte that

juts out slightly into the Pass?"

Jon-Tom could barely make out the butte. He could not

discern individuals standing on it. But he did not doubt Caz's

observation.

"I'll take your word for it. Can you see who 'they' are?"

S "Eejakrat I recognize from our sojourn in Cugluch. The

| giant next to him must be, from the richness of attire and

'servility of attendants, the Empress Skrritch."

269

Alan Dean Foster

"Can you see what Eejakrat is doing?" inquired a worried

Clothahump.

"He looks behind him at something I cannot see."

"The dead mind!" Clothahump gazed helplessly at his

sheaf of formulae. "It is responsible for this new method of

fighting, these 'tactics' and 'parachutes' and such. It is telling

the Plated Folk how to fight. It means they have found a new

way to attack the wall."

"It means rather more than that," said Aveticus quietly.

Everyone turned to look at the marten. "It means they no

longer have to breach the Jo-Troom Gate...."

270

XVI

"Is it not clear?" he told them when no one responded.

"These 'parachute' things will enable them to drop thousands

of soldiers behind the Gate." He looked grim and turned to a

subordinate.

"Assemble Elasmin, Toer, and Sleastic. Tell them they

must gather a large body of mobile troops. No matter how

bad the situation here grows these soldiers must remain ready

behind the Gate, watching for more of these falling troops.

They must watch only the sky, for, if we are not prepared,

these monsters will fall all over our own camp and all will be

lost."

The officer rushed away to convey that warning to the

warmlander general staff. Overhead, birds and riders were

holding their own against the dragonfly folk. But they were

fully occupied. If the beetles returned with more airborne

Plated Folk troops, the warmlander arboreals would be unable

to prevent them from falling on the underdefended camp.

271

Alan Dean Foster

Attacked from the front and from behind, the Jo-Troom Gate

would change from impregnable barrier to mass grave.

Once out on the open plains the Plated Folk army would be

able to engulf the remnants of the warmlander defenders. In

addition to superior numbers, which they'd always possessed,

the attackers now had the use of superior tactics. Eejakrat had

discovered the flexibility and imagination dozens of their

earlier assaults had lacked.

Not that it would matter soon, for the inexorable pressure

on the Gate's defenders was beginning to tell. Now an

occasional Plated Folk warrior managed to surmount the

ramparts. Isolated pockets of fighting were beginning to

appear on the wall itself.

" 'Ere now, wot d'you make o' that, mate?" Mudge had

hold of Jon-Tom's arm and was pointing northward.

On the plain below the foothills of Zaryt's Teeth a thin dark

line was snaking rapidly toward the Gate.

Then a familiar form was scuttling through the nulling

soldiers. It wore light chain-mail top and bottom and a

strange helmet that left room for multiple eyes. Despite the

armor both otter and man identified the wearer instantly.

"Ananthos!" said Jon-Tom.

"yes." The spider put four limbs on the wall and looked

outward. He ducked as a tiny club glanced off his cephalothorax.

"i hope sincerely we are not too late."

Flor put aside her bow, exhausted. "I never thought I'd

ever be glad to greet a spider. Or that to my dying day I'd

ever be doing this, compadre." She walked over and gave the

uncertain arachnid a brisk hug.

Disdaining the wall, the modest force of Weavers divided.

Then, utilizing multiple limbs, incredible agility, and built-in

climbing equipment, they scrambled up the sheer sides of the

Pass flanking the Gate. They suspended themselves there, out

272

THE HOUR Of TVS GATE

of arrow range, and began firing down on the Plated Folk

clustered before the Gate.

This additional -firepower enabled the warmlanders on the

wall to concentrate on the ladders. Nets were spun and

dropped. Sticky, unbreakable silk cables entangled scores of

insect fighters.

Dragonflies and riders broke from the aerial combat to

swoop toward the new arrivals clinging to the bare rock. The

Weavers spun balls of sticky silk. These were whirled lariatlike

over their heads and flung at the diving fliers with incredible

accuracy. They glued themselves to wings or legs, and the

startled insects found themselves yanked right out of the sky.

Now the birds and bats began to make some progress

against their depleted aerial foe. There was a real hope that

they could now prevent any returning beetles from dropping

troops behind the Gate.

While that specific danger was thus greatly reduced, the

most important result of the arrival of the Weaver force was

the effect it had on the morale of the Plated Folk. Until now

all their new strategies and plans had worked perfectly. The

abrupt and utterly unexpected appearance of their solitary

ancient enemies and their obvious rapport with the warmlanders

was a devastating shock. The Weavers were the last people

the Plated Folk expected to find defending the Jo-Troom

Gate.

Directing the Weavers' actions from a position on the wall

by relaying orders and information, via tiny sprinting spiders

colored bright red, yellow and blue, was a bulbous black

form. The Grand Webmistress Oil was decked out in silver

armor and hundreds of feet of crimson and orange silk.

Once she waved a limb briskly toward Jon-Tom and his

companions. Perhaps she saw them, possibly she was only

giving a command.

The warmlanders, buoyed by the arrival of a once feared

273

Alan Dean Foster

but now welcomed new ally, fought with renewed strength.

The Plated Folk forces faltered, then redoubled their attack.

Weaver archers and retiarii wrought terrible destruction among

them, and the warmlander bowmen had easy targets helplessly

ensnared in sticky nets.

A new problem arose. There was a danger that the growing

mountain of corpses before the wall would soon be high

enough to eliminate the need for ladders.

All that night the battle continued by torchlight, with

fatigue-laden warmlanders and Weavers holding off the still

endless waves of Plated Folk. The insects fought until they

died and were walked on emotionlessly by their replacements.

It was after midnight when Caz woke Jen-Tom from an

uneasy sleep.

"Another cloud, my friend," said the rabbit. His clothing

was torn and one ear was bleeding despite a thick bandage.

Wearily Jon-Tom gathered up his staff and a handful of

small spears and trotted alongside Caz toward the wall. "So

they're going to try dropping troops behind us at night? I

wonder if our aerials have enough strength left to hold them

back."

"I don't know," said Caz with concern. "That's why I was

sent to get you. They want every strong spear thrower on the

wall to try and pick off any low fliers."

In truth, the ranks of kilted fighters were badly thinned,

while the strength of their dragonfly opponents seemed nearly

the same as before. Only the presence of the Weavers kept the

arboreal battle equal.

But it was not a swarm of lumbering Plated Folk that flew

out of the moon. It was a sea of sulfurous yellow eyes. They

fell on the insect fliers with terrible force. Great claws

shredded membranous wings, beaks nipped away antennae

and skulls, while tiny swords cut with incredible skill.

It took a moment for Jon-Tom and his friends to identify

274

THE HOUR OF THE GATS

the new combatants, cloaked as they were by the concealing

night. It was the size of the great glowing eyes that soon gave

the answer.

"The Ironclouders," Caz finally announced. "Bless my

soul but I never thought to see the like. Look at them wheel

and bank, will you? It's no contest."

The word was passed up and down the ranks. So entranced

were the warmlanders by the sight of these fighting legends

that some of them temporarily forgot their own defensive

tasks and thus were wounded or killed.

The inhabitants of the hematite were better equipped for

night fighting than any of the warmlanders save the few bats.

The previously unrelenting aerial assault of the Plated Folk

was shattered. Fragmented insect bodies began to fall from

the sky. The only reaction this grisly rain produced among the

warmlanders beneath it was morbid laughter.

By morning the destruction was nearly complete. What

remained of the Plated Folk aerial strength had retreated far

up the Pass.

A general council was held atop the wall. For the first time

in days the warmlanders were filled with optimism. Even the

suspicious Clothahump was forced to admit that the tide of

battle seemed to have turned.

"Could we not use these newfound friends as did the

Plated Folk?" one of the officers suggested. "Could we not

employ them to drop our own troops to the rear of the enemy

forces?"

"Why stop there?" wondered one of the exhilarated bird

officers, a much-decorated hawk in light armor and violet and

red kilt. "Why not drop them in Cugluch itself? That would

panic them!"

"No," said Aveticus carefully. "Our people are not pre-

pared for such an adventure, and despite their size I do not

think our owlish allies have the ability to carry more than a

275

Alan Dean Foster

single rider, even assuming they would consent to such a

\ proposition, which I do not think they would.

"But I do not think they would object to duplicating the

actions of the Plated Folk fliers in assailing opposing ground

forces. As our own can now do."

So the orders went out from the staff to their own fliers and

thence to those from Ironcloud. It was agreed. Wearing dark

goggles to shield their sensitive eyes from the sun, the owls

and lemurs led the rejuvenated warmlander arboreals in dive

after dive upon the massed, confused ranks of the Plated Folk

army. The result was utter disorientation among the insect

soldiers. But they still refused to collapse, though the losses

they suffered were beginning to affect even so immense an

army.

And when victory seemed all but won it was lost in a

single heartrending and completely unexpected noise. A sound

shocking and new to the warmlanders, who had never heard

anything quite like it before. It was equally shocking but not

new to Flor and Jon-Tom. Though not personally exposed to

it, they recognized quickly enough the devastating thunder of

dynamite.

As the dust began to settle among cries of pain and fear,

there came a second, deeper, more ominous rumble as the

entire left side of the Jo-Troom wall collapsed in a heap of

shattered masonry and stone. It brought the great wooden

gates down with it, supporting timbers splintering like fire-

crackers as they crashed to the ground.

"Diversion," muttered Flor. "The aerial attack, the para-

chutists, the beetles... all a diversion. Bastardos; I should

have remembered my military history classes."

Jon-Tom moved shakily to the edge of the wall. If they'd

been on the other side of the Gate they'd all be dead or

maimed now.

Small white shapes were beginning to emerge from the

276

THE HOUR Or THK GATE

ground in front of the ruined wall. Waving picks and short

swords they cut at the legs of startled warmlander soldiers.

Like the inhabitants of Ironcloud they too wore dark goggles

to protect them from the sunlight.

"Termites," Jon-Tom murmured aloud, "and other insect

burrowers. But where did they get the explosives?"

"Little need to think on that, boy," Clothahump said sadly.

"More of Eejakrat's work. What did you call the packaged

thunder?"

"Explosives. Probably dynamite."

"Or even gelignite," added Flor with suppressed anger.

"That was an intense explosion."

Sensing victory, the Plated Folk ignored the depradations of

the swooping arboreals overhead and swarmed forward. Nor

could the hectic casting of spears and nets by the Weavers

hold them back. Not with the wall, the fabled ancient bottle-

neck, tumbled to the earth like so many child's blocks.

It must have taken an immense quantity of explosives to

undermine that massive wall. It was possible, Jon-Tom mused,

that the Plated burrowers had begun excavating their tunnel

weeks before the battle began.

Without the wall to hinder them they charged onward. By

sheer force of numbers they pushed back those who had

desperately rushed to defend the ruined barrier. Then they

were across, fighting on the other side of the Jo-Troom Gate

for the first time in recorded memory. Warmlander blood

stained its own land.

Jon-Tom turned helplessly to Clothahump. The Plated Folk

soldiers were ignoring the remaining section of wall and the

few arrows and spears that fell from its crest. The wizard

stood quietly, his gaze focused on the far end of the Pass and

not on the catastrophe below.

"Can't you do something," Jon-Tom pleaded with him.

"Bring fire and destruction down on them! Bring..."

277

Alan Dean Foster

Clothahump did not seem to be listening. He was looking

without eyes. "I almost have it," he whispered to no one in

particular. "Almost can..." He broke off, turned to stare at

Ion-Tom.

"Do you think conjuring up lightning and floods and fire is

merely a matter of snapping one's fingers, boy? Haven't you

learned anything about magic since you've been here?" He

turned his attention away again.

"Can almost... yes," he said excitedly, "I can. I believe I

can see it now!" The enthusiasm faded. "No, I was wrong.

Too well screened by distortion spells. Eejakrat leaves noth-

ing to chance. Nothing."

Jon-Tom turned away from the entranced wizard, swung

his duar around in front of him. His fingers played furiously

on the strings. But he could not think of a single appropriate

song to sing. His favorites were songs of love, of creativity

and relationships. He knew a few marches, and though he

sang with ample fervor nothing materialized to slow the

Plated Folk advance.

Then Mudge, sweaty and his fur streaked with dried blood,

was shaking him and pointing westward. "Wot the bloody

'ell is that?" The otter was staring across the widening field

of battle.

"It sounds like..." said Caz confusedly. "I don't know. A

rusty door hinge, perhaps. Or high voices. Many high voices."

Then they could make out the source of the peculiar noise.

It was singing. Undisciplined, but strong, and it rose from a

motley horde of marchers nearing the foothills. They were

armed with pitchforks and makeshift spears, with scythes and

knives tied to broom handles, with woodcutters' tools and

sharpened iron posts.

They flowed like a brown-gray wave over the milling

combatants, and wherever their numbers appeared the Plated

Folk were overwhelmed.

278

TSE Horn OF THE GATE

"Mice!" said Mudge, aghast. "Rats an' shrews in there,

too. I don't believe it. They're not fighters. Wot be they doin'

'ere?"

"Fighting," said Jon-Tom with satisfaction, "and damn

well, too, from the look of it."

The rodent mob attacked with a ferocity that more than

compensated for their lack of training. The flow of clicking,

gleaming death from the Pass was blunted, then stopped. The

rodents fought with astonishing bravery, throwing themselves

onto larger opponents while others cut at warriors' knees and

ankles.

Sometimes three and four of the small wamilanders would

bring down a powerful insect by weight alone. Their make-

shift weapons broke and snapped. They resorted to rocks and

bare paws, whatever they could scavenge that would kill.

For a few moments the remnants of the warmlander forces

were as stunned by the unexpected assault as the Plated Polk.

They stared dumbfounded as the much maligned, oft-abused

rodents threw themselves into the fray. Then they resumed

fighting themselves, alongside heroic allies once held in

servitude and contempt.

Now if the wamilanders prevailed there would be perma-

nent changes in the social structure of Polastrindu and other

communities, Jon-Tom knew. At least one good thing would

come of this war.

He thought they were finished with surprises. But while he

selected targets below for the spears he was handed, yet

another one appeared.

In the midst of the battle a gout of flame brightened the

winter morning. There was another. It was almost asif... yes!

A familiar iridescent bulk loomed large above the combat-

ants, incinerating Plated Folk by the squadron.

"I'll be damned!" he muttered. "It's Falameezar!"

"But I thought he was through with us," said Caz,

279

Alan Dean Poster

"You know this dragon?" Bribbens tended to a wounded

leg and eyed the distant fight with amazement. It was the first

time Jon-Tom had seen the frog's demeanor change.

"We sure as hell do!" Jon-Tom told him joyfully. "Don't

you see, Caz, it all adds up."

"Pardon my ignorance, friend Jon-Tom, but the only

mathematics I've mastered involves dice and cards."

"This army of the downtrodden, of the lowest mass of

workers. Who do you think organized them, persuaded them

to fight? Someone had to raise a cry among them, someone

had to convince them to fight for their rights as well as for

their land. And who would be more willing to do so, to

assume the mantle of leadership, than our innocent Marxist

Falameezar!"

"This is absurd." Bribbens could still not quite believe it.

"Dragons do not fight with people. They are solitary, antiso-

cial creatures who..."

"Not this one," Jon-Tom informed him assuredly. "If

anything, he's too social. But I'm not going to argue his

philosophies now."

Indeed, as the gleaming black and purple shape trudged

nearer they could hear the great dragon voice bellowing

encouragingly above the noise of battle.

"Onward downtrodden masses! Workers arise! Down with

the invading imperialist warmongers!"

Yes, that was Falameezar and none other. The dragon was

in his sociological element. In between thundering favorite

Marxist homilies he would incinerate a dozen terrified insect

warriors or squash a couple beneath massive clawed feet.

Around him swirled a bedraggled mob of tiny furry support-

ers like an armada of fighter craft protecting a dreadnought.

The legions of Plated Folk seemed endless. But now that

the surprise engendered by the destruction of the wall had

passed, their offensive began to falter. The arrival of what

280

" T»K Horn OF THE GATE

amounted to a second warmlander army, as ferocious if not as

well trained as the original, started to turn the tide.

Meanwhile the Weavers and fliers from h-oncloud contin-

ued to cause havoc among the packed ranks of warriors trying

to squeeze through the section of ruined wall to reach the

open plain where their numbers could be a factor. The

diminutive lemur bowmen fired and fired until their drawstring

fingers were bloody.

When the fall came it was not in a great surge of panic. A

steady withering of purpose and determination ate through

the ranks of the Plated Folk. In clusters, and individually, they

lost their will to fight on. A vast sigh of discouragement

rippled through the whole exhausted army.

Sensing it, the warmlanders redoubled then- efforts. Still

fighting, but with intensity seeping away from them, the

Plated Folk were gradually pressed back. The plain was

cleared, and then the destroyed section of wall. The battle

moved once again back into the confines of the Pass. Insect

officers raged and threatened, but they could do nothing to

stop the steady slow leak of desire that bled their soldiers'

will to fight.

Jon-Tom had stopped throwing spears. His arm throbbed

with the efforts of the past several days. The conflict had

retreated steadily up the Pass, and the Plated combatants were

out of range now. He was cheering tiredly when a han6

clamped on his arm so forcefully that he winced. He lookeo

around. It was Clothahump. The wizard's grip was anything

but that of an oldster.

"By the periodic table, I can see it now!"

"See what?"

"The deadmind." Clothahump's tone held a peculiar mix-

ture of confusion and excitement. "The deadmind. It is not in

a body."

281

Alan Dean Foster

"You mean the brain itself s been extracted?" The image

was gruesome.

"No. It is scattered about, in several containers of differing

shape."

Jon-Tom's mind shunted aside the instinctive vision and

produced only a blank from the wizard's description. Flor

listened intently.

"It talks to Eejakrat," Clothahump continued, "his voice far

away, distant, "in words I can't understand."

"Several containers.. .the mind is several minds?" Jon-

Tom struggled to make sense of a seeming impossibility.

"No, no. It is one mind that has been split into many

parts."

"What does it look like? You said containers. Can you be

more specific?" Flor asked him.

"Not really. The containers are mostly rectangular, but not

all. One inscribes words on a scroll, symbols and magic

terms I do not recognize." He winced with the strain of

focusing senses his companions did not possess.

"There are symbols over all the containers as well, though

they mostly differ from those appearing on the scroll. The

mind also makes a strange noise, like talking that is not. I can

read some of the symbols... it is strangely inscribed. It

changes as I look at it." He stopped.

Jon-Tom urged him on. "What is it? What's happening?"

Clothahump's face was filled with pain. Sweat poured

down his face into his shell. Jon-Tom didn't know that a turtle

could sweat. Everything indicated that the wizard was expending

a massive effort not only to continue to see but to understand.

"Eejakrat... Eejakrat sees the failure of the attack." He

swayed, and Jon-Tom and Flor had to support him or he

would have fallen. "He works a last magic, a final conjura-

tion. He has... has delved deep within the deadmind for its

most powerful manifestation. It has given him the formula he

282

THE HOUR Or THE OATE

ds. Now he is giving orders to his assistants. They are

ringing materials from the store of sorceral supplies. Skrritch

watches, she will kill him if he fails. Eejakrat promises her

the battle will be won. The materials... I recognize some.

No, many. But I do not understand the formula given, the

purpose. The purpose is to... to..." He turned a frightened

face upward. Jon-Tom shivered. He'd never before seen the

wizard frightened. Not when confronted by the Massawrafh,

not when crossing Helldrink.

But he was more than frightened now. He was terrified.

"Must stop it!" he mumbled. "Got to stop him from

completing the formula. Even Eejakrat does not understand

what he does. But he... I see it clearly... he is desperate.

He will try anything. I do not think... do not think he can

control..."

"What's the formula?" Flor pressed him.

"Complex ... can't understand..."

"Well then, the symbols you read on the deadmind

I containers."

"Can read them now, yes... but can't understand..."

"Try. Repeat them, anyway."

Clothahump went silent, and for a moment the two humans

I were afraid he wouldn't speak again. But Jon-Tom finally

managed to shake him into coherence.

"Symbols... symbols say, 'Property.' "

"That's all?" Flor said puzzledly. "Just 'property'?"

"No... there is more. Property... property restricted ac-

cess. U.S. Army Intelligence."

Flor looked over at Jon-Tom. "That explains everything;

the parachutes, the tactics, the formula for the explosives to

undermine the wall, maybe the technique for doing it as well.

Los insectos have gotten hold of a military computer."

"That's why Clothahump tried to find an engineer to

combat Eejakrat's 'new magic,' " Jon-Tom muttered. "And

283

Alan Dean Foster

he got me instead. And you." He gazed helplessly at her.

"What are we going to do? I don't know anything about

computers."

"I know a little, but it's not a matter of knowing anything

about computers. Machine, man or insect, it has to be

destroyed before Eejakrat can finish his new formula."

"What the fuck could that devil have dug out of its

electronic guts?" He looked back down at Clothahump.

"Don't understand..." murmured the wizard. "Beyond

my ken. But Eejakrat knows how to comply. It worries him,

but he proceeds. He knows if he does not the war is lost."

"Someone's got to get over there and destroy the computer

and its mentor," Jon-Tom said decisively. He called to the

rest of their companions.

Mudge and Caz ambled over curiously. So did Bribbens,

and Pog fluttered close from his perch near the back of the

wall. Hastily, Jon-Tom told them what had to be done.

"Wot about the Ironclouders, wot?" Mudge indicated the

diving shapes of the great owls working their death up the

Pass. "I don't think they'd 'old you, mate, but I ought to be

able to ride one."

"I could go myself, boss." Clothahump turned a startled

gaze on the unexpectedly daring famulus.

"No. Not you, Pog, nor you, otter. You would never make

it, I fear. Hundreds of bowmen, a royal guard of the

Greendowns' most skilled archers, surround Eejakrat and the

Empress. You could not get within a quarter league of the

deadmind. Even if you could, what would you destroy it

with? It is made of metal. You cannot shoot an arrow through

it. And there may be disciples of Eejakrat who could draw

upon its evil knowledge in event of his death."

"We need a plane," Jon-Tom told them. "A Huey or some

other attack copter, with rockets."

Clothahump looked blankly at him. "I know not what you

284

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

describe, spellsinger, but by the heavens if you can do

anything you must try."

Jon-Tom licked his lips. The Who, J. Geils, Dylan: none

sang much about war and its components. But he had to try

something. He didn't know the Air Force song....

"Try something, Jon-Tom," Flor urged him. "We don't

have much time."

Time. Time's getting away from us. There's your cue,

man. Get there first. Worry about how to destroy the thing

then.

Trying to shut the sounds of fighting out of his thoughts, he

ran his fingers a couple of times across the duar's strings. The

instrument had been nicked and battered by arrows and

spears, but it was still playable. He struggled to recall the

melody. It was simple, smooth, a Steve Miller hallmark. A

few adjustments to the duar's controls. It had to work. He

turned tremble and mass all the way up. Dangerous, but

whatever materialized had to carry him high above the com-

bat, all the way to me end of the Pass.

Anyway, Clothahump's urgency indicated that there was

little time left now either for finesse or fine tuning.

Just get me to that computer, he thought furiously. Just get

me there safely and I'll find some way to destroy it. Even

pulling a few wires would do it. Eejakrat couldn't repair the

damage with magic ... could he?

And if he was killed and the attempt a failure, what did it

matter? Talea was dead and so was much of himself. Yes, that

was the answer. Crash whatever carries you and yourself into

the computer. That should do it.

Time was the first crucial element. Though he did not

know it, he was soon to leam the other.

Time... that was the key. He needed to move fast and he

didn't have time to fool with machines that might or might

285

Alan Dean Poster

not work, might or might not appear. Time and flight. What

song could possibly fill the need?

Wait a minute! There was something about time and flight

slipping, slipping into the future.

His fingers began to fly over the strings as he threw back

his head and began to sing with more strength than ever he

had before.

There was a tearing sound in the sky, and his nostrils were

filled with the odor of ozone. It was coming! Whatever he'd

called up. If not the sung-for huge bird, perhaps the British

fighter nicknamed the Eagle, bristling with rockets and rapid-

fire cannon. Anything to get him into the air.

He sang till his throat hurt, his fingers a blur above the

strings. Reverberant waves of sound emerged from the quivering

duar and the air vibrated in sympathy.

A deep-throated crackling split the sky overhead, a sound

no kin to any earthly thunder. It seemed the sun had drawn

back to hide behind the clouds. The fighting did not stop, but

warmlander and insect alike slowed their pace. That ominous

rumble echoed down the walls of the Pass. Something ex-

traordinary was happening.

Vast wings that were of starry gases filled the air. The

winter day turned warm with a sudden eruption of heat. Hot

air blew Ion-Tom against the rampart behind him and nearly

over, while his companions scrambled for something solid to

cling to.

Atop the wall the remaining warmlander defenders scattered

in terror. On the cliffsides the Weavers scuttled for hiding

places in the crevices and crannies as a monstrous fiery form

came near. It touched down on the mountainside where the

remaining half of the wall was worked into the naked rock,

and twenty feet of granite melted and ran like syrup.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!" roared a voice that could raise a

sunspot. The remaining stones of the wall trembled, as did

286

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

the cells of those still standing atop it. "WHAT HAVE YOU

WROUGHT, LITTLE HUMAN!"

"I..." Jon-Tom could only gape. He had not materialized

the plane he'd wished for or the eagle he'd sung to. He had

called up something best left undisturbed, interrupted a jour-

ney measurable in billions of years. It was all he could do to

gaze back into those vast, infinite eyes, as M'nemaxa, barely

touching the melting rock, fanned thermonuclear wings and

glared down at him.

"I'm sorry," he finally managed to gasp out, "I was only

trying..."

"LOOK TO MY BACK!" bellowed the sun horse.

Jon-Tom hesitated, then took a cautious step forward and

craned his neck. Squinting through the glare, he made out a

dark metallic shape that looked suspiciously like a saddle. It

was very small and lost on that great flaming curve of a spine.

"I don't... what does this mean?" he asked humbly.

"IT MEANS A TRANSFORMATION IN MY ODYSSEY; A SHORT-

CUT. LITTLE MAN BENEATH THE STARS, YOU HAVE CREATED A

SHORTCUT! I CAN SEE THE END OF MY JOURNEY NOW. NO

LONGER MUST I RACE AROUND THE RIM OF THE UNIVERSE. ONLY

ANOTHER THREE MILLION YEARS AND I WILL BE FINISHED. ONLY

THREE MILLION, AND I WILL KNOW PEACE. AND YOU, MAN, ARE

TO THANK FOR IT!"

"But I don't know what I did, and I don't know how I did

it," Jon-Tom told him softly.

"CONSEQUENCE IS WHAT MATTERS, CAUSATION IS BUT EPHEM-

ERAL. EMPYREAN RESULTS HAVE BEEN ACHIEVED, LITTLE MAN

OF NOTHINGNESS.

"AS YOU HAVE HELPED ME, SO I WILL HELP YOU. BUT I CAN

DO ONLY WHAT YOU DIRECT. YOUR MAGIC PUTS THIS SHIELD ON

MY BACK, SO MOUNT THEN, GUARDED BY ITS SUBSTANCE AND

BY YOUR OWN MAGIC, AND RIDE. SUCH A RIDE AS NO CREATURE

287

Alan Dean Foster

OF MERE FLESH AND BLOOD HAS EVER HAD BEFORE NOR WILL

HENCE!"

Jon-Tom hesitated. But eager hands were already -urging

him toward the equine inferno.

"Go on, Jon-Tom," said Caz encouragingly.

"Yes, go on. It must be the spellsong magic that's protect-

ing us," said Hor, "or the radiation and heat would have

fried all of us by now."

"But that little lead saddle, Hor..."

"The magic, Jon-Tom, the magic. The magic's in the

music and the music's in you. Do it!"

It was Clothahump who finally convinced him. "It is all or

nothing now, my boy. We live or we die on what you do. This

is between you and Eejakrat."

"I wish it wasn't. I wish to God I was home. I wish.. .ahhh,

fuck it. Let's go!"

He could not see a barrier shielding the streaming nuclear

material that was the substance of M'nemaxa, but one had to

be present, as Hor had so incontrovertibly pointed out. He

cradled the battered duar against his chest. That barrier had

momentarily lapsed when M'nemaxa had touched down, and

a thousand tons of solid rock had run like butter. If it lapsed

again, there would not even be ashes left of him.

A series of stirrups led to the saddle, which was much

larger up close than it had appeared from a distance. He

mounted carefully, feeling neither heat nor pain but watching

fascinated as tiny solar prominences erupted from M'nemaxa's

epidermis only inches from his puny human skin.

It was little different in the saddle, though he could feel

some slight heat against his face and hands.

"Just a minim, guv'," said a voice. A small gray shape

had bounded into the saddle behind him.

"Mudge? It's not necessary. Either I'll make it or I

won't."

288

THE HOUR Or THE GATE

"Shove it, mate. I've been watchin' you ever since you

stuck your nose int' me business. You don't think I could let

you go off on your own now, do you? Somebody's got t'

watch out for you. This great flippin' flamin' beastie can't be

'urt, but a good archer might pick you off 'is back like a

farmer pluckin' a bloomin' apple." He notched an arrow into

his bowstring and grinned beneath his whiskers.

Jon-Tom couldn't think of anything else to say: "Thanks,

Mudge. Mate.'i"

"Thank me when we get back. I've always wanted t' ride a

comet, wot? Let's be about the business, then."

The serpentine fiery neck arched, and the great head with

its bottomless eyes stared back at them. "COMMAND, MAN!"

"I don't know..." Mudge was prodding him in the ribs.

"Shit... giddy up! To Eejakrat!"

Whether the message was conveyed by the word or the

mental imagery connected with it no one knew. It didn't

matter. The vast wings seared the earth and a warm hurricane

blasted those who were beneath. Those wings stretched from

one side of the canyon to the other, and the honclouders,

seeing it race toward mem, scattered like gnats.

A swarm of dragonfly fighters rose to meet them, the

Empress' private aerial guard. They attacked with the mind-

less but admirable courage of their kind.

Mudge's bow began its work. The soldiers riding me

dragonflies fell from their mounts and none of their arrows

reached the sun riders. Those that were launched impacted on

me body or wings or neck of M'nemaxa and were vaporized

with the briefest of sizzling sounds.

"Hy past them!" Jon-Tom ordered. "Down, over there!"

He gestured toward the blunt butte rising fingeriike near the

rear of the Pass. Beyond lay the mists of the Greendowns.

Jon-Tom's attention shifted to concentrate on a single

figure standing before a pile of materials and a semicircle of

289

Alan Dean Foster

metal forms. Dragonflies and riders tried to break through to

do battle with swords, but wings and hooves touched them,

and their charred remnants fell earthward like so many sizzling

lumps of smoking charcoal.

The imperial bodyguard sent a storm of arrows upward.

Not one passed the belly of that flaming body. Jon-Tom was

watching Eejakrat. He held his own spear-staff tightly, ready

to pierce the sorcerer through.

Then his attention was diverted. In the air above the

computer floated two faintly glowing pieces of stone. They

were so tiny he noticed them only because of their glow.

Behind the sorcerer danced the fearful, iridescent green shape

of the Empress Skrritch.

What devastating magic so terrified the imperturbable

Clothahump? What was Eejakrat about to risk in hopes of

winning a lost war?

"Down," he ordered M'nemaxa. "Down to the one

surrounded by maggots and evil, down to destroy!"

A whispery sorceral mumbling, rapid and desperate, sounded

from the crest of the butte. Eejakrat had panicked. He was

rushing the incantation, as others had done before him,

though he knew nothing of them. The two glowing shards of

stone moved through the air toward the onrushing spirit fire

and its mortal riders, and toward each other. Stones and spirit

would meet at the same point in the sky.

They were no more than fifty yards from it and as many

more from the butte's summit when M'nemaxa suddenly gave

forth a thunderous whinny. The infinite eyes glowed more

brightly than the stones as the two came almost together a

couple of yards in front of them.

There was a faint, hopeless scream from Eejakrat below, a

desperate croaking Jon-Tom deciphered: "Not yet... too near,

too close, not yet!"

290

THE HOUR OF THE GATB

Then the world was spinning farther and farther below

them like a flower caught in a whirlpool.

Gone was the Troom Pass. So too was the butte where

Eejakrat had gesticulated frantically before the Empress Skrritch.

So were the milling mob of Plated Folk plunging to war and

the insistent battle cries of the warmlanders.

Gone were the mists of the distant Greendowns and noi-

some distant Cugluch, gone too the mountain crags that

towered above insignificant warriors. Soon the blue sky itself

vanished behind them.

They still rode the spine of the furiously galloping M'nemaxa,

but they rode now through the emptiness of convergent

eternity. Stars gleamed bright as morning around them,

unwinking and cold and so close it seemed you could reach

out and touch them.

You could touch them. Jon-Tom reached out slowly and

plucked a red giant from its place in the heavens. It was warm

in his palm and shone like a ruby. He cast it spinning back'

free into space. A black hole slid past his left foot and he

pulled away. It was like quicksand. He inhaled a nebula,

which made him sneeze. Behind him Mudge the otter seemed

a distant, diffuse shape in the stars.

He breathed infinity. The wings and hooves of M'nemaxa

moved in slow motion. A swarm of motile, luminescent dots

gathered around the runners, millions of lights pricking the

blackness. They danced and swirled around the great horse

and its riders.

Where the world had no meaning and natural law was

absent, these too finally became real. Gneechees, Jon-Tom

thought ponderously. Only now I can see them, I can see

them.

Some were people, some animals, others unrecognizable;

the afterthoughts, the memories, the souls and shadows of all

291

Alan Dean Foster

intelligent life. They were all the colors of the rainbow, a

spectrum filled with life, both mysterious and familiar.

He began to recognize some of the forms and faces. He

saw Einstein, he saw his own grandfather. He saw the moving

lips of now dead singers he had loved, and it was as if their

music swelled around him in the ultimate concert. He noted

that the faces he saw were not old, and showed no trace of

death or suffering. In fact the famous physicist's eyes glittered

like a child's. Einstein had his violin with him. Hendrix was

there, too, and they played a duet, and both smiled at Jon-Tom.

Then he saw a face he knew well, a face full of fire and

light. He concentrated on that face with all his strength,

trying to pull it into his brain through his eyes. The face was

distinct and warm; it seemed to float toward him instinctively.

His whole being glowed with love as it neared him, and

suddenly when it touched his lip a flame ignited inside him

and he almost lost his seat. It was the Talea gneechee, he

knew, and he surrounded it with his entire will.

"We must go back. Now!" he roared at the fiery stallion.

"YOU MUST KNOW THE WORDS, LITTLE MAN, OR REMAIN

WITH ME UNTIL THE END OF MY JOURNEY."

What song? Jon-Tom thought. There seemed no music

equal to the immensity of space and stars all around him.

Every song he had ever heard dried up on his tongue.

The Talea gneechee seemed to stir someplace deep inside

him, and he looked out at the cold blue distance ahead. It was

time to go back where he belonged. He couldn't be specific,

but he suddenly had a real sense of where he belonged in life

and he knew he could get there.

His mouth opened and his fingertips caressed the duar. A

new sound rose, a new voice came both from the duar and

from his mouth, and though he had never heard it before he

knew it was, finally, his true voice.

Stars spun faster around him, the universe seemed wrenched

292

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

for an instant. His head throbbed and his throat burned with

the strange wordless song that poured from him like a river a

million times stronger than any earthly river.

Now blue sky hurried toward them, then the snowy caps of

mountains. The boundary was back—the luscious, palpable

limit of existence. He felt more alive than he had ever in his

life.

"Cor, wot a friggin' ride!" Mudge's joyous voice came

from behind him.

"Love you, Mudge!" screamed Jon-Tom, ecstatic to hear

that familiar sound.

"You're crazy—where the 'ell we been?"

Everywhere, Jon-Tom thought, but there was no way to say

it.

' 'THE COURSE OF MY JOURNEY HAS BEEN FOREVER CHANGED,''

bellowed M'nemaxa. "I HAVE HAD TO CHANGE MY DIRECTION

BECAUSE OF THE EVIL IN YOUR WORLD AND NOW MY ROUTE IS

ALMOST THROUGH. COME WITH ME TO THE OUTSIDE, LITTLE

MAN, YOUR WORLD IS FULL OF DOOM. I WILL SHOW SUCH

THINGS AS NO MORTAL SHALL EVER AGAIN SEE."

"Wot's 'e talkin' about, guv'nor?"

"Eejakrat's magic, Mudge. Clothahump knew mat they

could not control it, and it has created devastation so utter

that even M'nemaxa had to detour around it. It's happened

before, but in my world. Not here. Look."

The mushroom cloud that billowed skyward from the far

end of the Troom Pass was not large, but it was considerably

darker and denser than any of the mists behind it.

Below them now the last of the Plated Folk army, those

who'd been lucky enough to be trapped in the middle of the

Pass, were surrendering, turning over their weapons and

going down on all sixes to plead for mercy.

Beneath the now fading mushroom cloud that marked the

failure of Eejakrat's imported magic, me butte he'd stood

293

Alan Dean Poster

upon had vanished. In its place there was only an empty,

radioactive crater. The bomb Eejakrat had been in the process

of creating had been a relatively clean one. What remained

would serve as a warning to future generations of Plated Folk.

It would block the Pass far more effectively than had the

Jo-Troom Gate.

Raming wings slowed. Mudge was deposited gently back

on top of the wall. Jon-Tom thanked the flaming being but

would not return with him.

"THREE MILLION YEARS!" M'nemaxa boomed, his neighing

shaking boulders from the cliffsides of the canyon.

"ONLY THREE MILLION. THANK YOU, LITTLE HUMAN. YOU

ARE A WIZARD OF UNKNOWN WISDOM. FAREWELL!"

The vast fiery form rose into the air. There was an

earsplitting explosion that rent the fabric of space-time. The

gap closed quickly and M'nemaxa had gone, gone back to

resume his now truncated journey, gone back to the every-

where otherplace.

Bodies, furred and otherwise, swarmed around the returnees—

Caz, Flor, Bribbens holding his bandaged right arm where

he'd taken a sword thrust. Pog fluttered excitedly overhead,

and warmlander soldiers mixed queries with congratulations.

The battle had ended, the war was over. Those Plated Folk

who had not perished in the modest thermonuclear explosion

at the far end of the Pass were being herded into makeshift

corrals.

Jon-Tom was embarrassed and nervous, but Mudge glowed

like M'nemaxa himself from me adjulation of the crowd.

When the excitement had died down and the soldiers had

gone to join their companions below, Clothahump managed to

make his way up to Jon-Tom.

"You did well, my boy, well! I'm quite proud of you." He

smiled as much as he could. "We'll make a wizard of you

294

THE HOUR Or THE GATS

yet. If you can only leam to be a bit more specific and precise

in your formulations."

"I'm learning," Jon-Tom admitted without smiling back.

"One of the things I've learned is to pay attention to what lies

behind a person's words." He and the wizard stared into each

other's eyes, and neither gave ground.

"I did what I had to do, boy. I'd do it again."

"I know you would. I can't blame you for it anymore, but

I can't like you for it, either."

"As you will, Jon-Tom," said the wizard. He looked past

the man and his eyes widened. "Though it may be that you

condemn me too quickly."

Jon-Tom turned. A petite, slightly baffled redhead was

walking toward them. He could only stare.

"Hello," Talea said, smiling slightly. "I must have been

unconscious for days."

"You've been dead," said a flabbergasted Mudge.

"Oh cut it out. I had the strangest dream." She looked

down at the canyon. "Missed all the fighting, I see."

"I saw you.. .out there," Jon-Tom said dazedly. "Or a

part of you. It came to me and I knew it was you."

"I wouldn't know about that," she said sharply. "All I

know is that I woke up in a tent surrounded by corpses. It

scared the shit out of me." She chuckled. "Did worse to the

attendants. Bet they haven't stopped running.

"Then I asked around for you and got directions. Is it true

what everyone's saying about you and M'nemaxa and..."

"Everything's true, nothing's false," Jon-Tom said. "Not

anymore. Whatever entered me I sent back to you, but it

doesn't matter. What is is what matters, and what is, is you."

"You've gotten awfully obscure all of a sudden, Jon-

Tom."

He put his hands on her shoulders. "I suppose we have to

stay together now.'' He smiled shyly, not able to explain what

295

Alan Dean Foster

had happened in Elsewhere. She looked blank. "Don't you re-

member what you said to me back in Cugluch?" he asked.

She frowned at him. "I don't know what you're talking

about, but that's nothing new, is it? You always did talk too

much. But you're wrong about one thing."

"What's that?"

"I do remember what I said back in Cugluch," and she

proceeded to give him the deepest, longest, richest kiss he'd

ever experienced.

Eventually she let him go. Or was it the other way around?

No matter.

Caz and Hor sat on the ramparts nearby, hand in paw.

Jon-Tom shook his head, wondering at that blindness that

conceals what is most obvious. Bribbens had disappeared,

doubtless to make arrangements for reaching the nearest river.

Falameezar was able to help the boatman with that, being a

river dragon. That is, he was when he wasn't too busy

reeducating his rodent charges about their responsibilities and

rights as members of the downtrodden proletariat. Clothahump

had gone off to discuss the matters of magic with the other

warmlander wizards.

"What now, Jon-Tom?" Talea looked at him anxiously. "I

guess now that you've mastered your spellsinging you'll be

returning to your own world?"

"I don't know." He studied the masonry underfoot. "I'm

not so sure you could say I've mastered spellsinging." He

plucked ruefully at the duar. "I always seem to get what I

need, not what I want. That's nice, but not necessarily

reassuring.

"And for some reason being a rock star or a lawyer doesn't

seem to hold the attraction it once did. I guess you could say

I've had my horizons somewhat expanded." Like to include

infinity, he told himself.

296

THE HOUK OF TBK GATE

She nodded knowingly. "You've grown up some, Jon-

Tom."

He shrugged. "If experiences can age you, I ought to be

the equivalent of Methuselah by now."

"I'll see what I can do about keeping you young...." She

ran fingers through his hair. "Does that mean you'll be

staying?" She added quietly, "With me, maybe? If you can

stand me, that is."

"I've never known a woman like you, Talea."

"That's because there aren't any women like me, idiot."

She moved to kiss him again. He edged away from her,

preoccupied with a new thought.

"What's the matter? Not coy enough for you?"

"Nothing like that. I just remembered something that's

been left undone, something that I promised myself I'd try to

do if given the chance."

They found Pog hanging from a spear rack in the middle of

the remaining wall. The warmlanders were beginning to

disperse, those not remaining behind to guard the Plated Folk

forming into their respective companies and battalions pre-

paratory to beginning the long march home. Some were

already on their way, too tired or filled with memories of dead

companions to sing victory songs. They were traveling west

toward Polastrindu or southward to where the river Tailaroam

tumbled fresh and clear from the flanks of the Teeth.

The sun was setting over the fringes of the Swordsward.

The poisonous silhouette of the mushroom cloud had long

since been carried away by the wind. Their kilts flashing as

brightly as their wings, squads of aerial warmlanders in

arrowhead formations were winging back toward their home

roosts. A distant line of silk-clad shapes showed where the

Weavers were wending their way northward along the foot-

hills, and a dark mass was just disappearing over the northern

crest of the mountains in the direction of fabled h-oncloud.

"Hello, Pog."

297

Alan Dean Foster

"Hi, spellsinger," The bat's voice was subdued, but Jon-

Tom no longer had to ask why. "Some job ya did. I'm proud

ta call ya my friend."

Jon-Tom sat down on a low bench near the spear rack.

"Why aren't you out there celebrating with the rest of the

army?"

"I attend to da needs of my master, you know dat. I wait

for his woid on what ta do next."

"You're a good apprentice, Pog. I hope I can leam as well

as you."

"What's dat supposed ta mean?" The upside-down face

turned to stare curiously at him.

"I'm hoping that Clothahump will accept me as an appren-

tice wizard." The duar rested in his lap and he strummed it

experimentally. "Magic seems to be the only thing I have any

talent for hereabouts. I'd damn well better leam how to

discipline it before I kill myself. I've just been lucky so far."

"Da master, da old fart-face, says dere's no such ting as

luck."

"I know, I know." He was slowly picking out a tune on the

duar. "But I'm going to have to work like hell if I'm going to

attain half the wisdom of that senile little turtle." He started

to hum the song that had come to him back in the tent on that

day of fury not long ago, when a certain famulus had been

thoughtful enough to comfort him and lay down the life laws.

"I appreciated what you said to me that time in the tent,

when I came out of the stupor Clothahump was forced to put

me into. You see, Pog, Clothahump cared about me because

he knew I might be able to help him. Caz and Ror and

Bribbens cared about me because we were dependent on one

another.

"But the only ones who cared about me personally, really

cared, turned out to be Talea, and you. We've got a lot in

common, you and I. A hell of a lot in common. I never saw it

298

. THE HOUR Or THE GATE

before because I couldn't. You were right about love, of

course. I thought I wanted Hor." Talea said nothing. "What I

,really wanted was someone to want me. That's all I've ever

jwanted. I know that's what you want, too."

( Now he began to sing out, loud and clear. Suddenly there

was a shimmering in the air around the bat. It was evening

now, and the wall was growing dark. Camp fires were

beginning to spring up on the plain where Plated Folk and

wannlander for the first time in thousands of years were

beginning to talk to one another.

"Hey, what's going on?" The bat dropped from his perch,

righted himself, and flapped nervous wings.

The bat shape was flowing, shifting in the evening air.

"That was my falcon song, Pog. I've got to get my

spellsinging specific, Clothahump says. So I'm giving you

the transformation you wanted from him."

Talea clung tight to Jon-Tom's arm, watching. "He's

changing, Jon-Tom."

"It's what he wants," he told her softly, also watching the

transformation. "He gave me understanding when I needed it

most. This is what I'm giving in return. The song I just sang

should turn him into the biggest, sleekest falcon that ever

split a cloud."

But the shape wasn't right. It was all wrong. It continued

to change and glow as Jon-Tom's expression widened in

disbelief.

"Oh God. I should've waited. I should've held off and

waited for Clothahump's advice. I'm sorry, Pog!" he yelled

at the indistinct, alien outline.

"Wait," said Talea gently. Her grip tightened on his arm

and she leaned into him. "True, it's no falcon he's becoming.

But look—it's incredible!"

The metamorphosis was complete, finished, irrevocable.

299

Alan Dean Foster

"Never mind, never mind, never mind!" sang (fae trans-

formed thing that had been Pog the bat. The voice was all

quicksilver and light. "Never mind, friend Talea. Be true to

Clothahump, Jon-Tom. You'll get a wing on it, you will."

A flock of fighters, eagles perhaps, crossed the darkling

sky from east to west. A few falcons were scattered among

them. Perhaps one was Uleimee.

"Meanwhile you've made me very happy," Pog-that-once-

was assured the spellsinger.

Jon-Tom realized he'd been holding his breath. The trans-

formation had stunned him. Talea called to him softly and he

turned and found her waiting arms.

Above them the change which had been Pog searched with

keen eyes among the winged shapes soaring toward the

distant reaches of the warmlands. It saw a particular female

falcon emerging with others of her kind from a thick cloud,

saw with eyes far sharper than those of any bat, or owl, or

falcon.

Leaving the two humans to their own destinies, and rising

on suddenly massive wings, the golden phoenix raced for that

distant cloud, the sun setting on its back like a rare jewel.

300