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