the seat of his pants, and after that it was easy. They paid
serious attention.
"There was a general named Aveticus who's got more
common sense than the rest of the local council put together.
As soon as he'd heard enough he took over. The others just
slid along with his opinion. I think he likes us personally, too,
but he's so cold-faced it's hard to tell for sure what he's
thinking. But when he talks everybody listens."
Down below lay a vast black and purple form coiled in the
shade of a high stone wall. Falameezar was apparently sleep-
ing peacefully in front of the inn stables. The other stable
buildings appeared to be deserted. No doubt the riding lizards
of the hotel staff and its guests had been temporarily boarded
elsewhere.
"The armies are already mobilizing, and local aerial repre-
sentatives have been dispatched to carry the word to the other
cities and towns."
"Well, that's all right, then," said Talea cheerfully. "Our
job's finished. I'm going to enjoy the afterglow." She fin-
ished her considerable glass of wine.
28
THE HOUR OF Tm GATE
"Not quite finished." Clothahump had snuggled into a
low-seated chair across from her couch.
"Not quite, 'e says," rumbled Mudge worriedly.
Pog selected a comfortable beam and hung himself above
them. "The master says we got ta seek out every ally we
can."
"But from what has been said, good sir, we are already
notifying all possible allies in the warmlands." Caz sat up in
his chair and gestured with his glass. Wine pitched and rolled
like a tiny red pond and he didn't spill a drop.
"So long as the city fathers and mothers have seen fit to
grant us these delightful accommodations, I see no reason
why we should not avail ourselves of the local hospitality.
Polastrindu is not so very far from Zaryt's Teeth and the Gate
itself. Why not bivouac here until the coming battle? We can
offer our advice to the locals."
But Clothahump disagreed. "General Aveticus strikes me
as competent enough to handle military preparations. Our
task must be to seek out any additional assistance we can.
You just stated that all possible warmland allies are being
notified. That is so. My thoughts concerned possible allies
elsewhere."
"Elsewhere?" Talea sat up and looked puzzled. "There is
no elsewhere."
"Try tellin' 'is nib's 'ere that," said Mudge.
Talea looked curiously at the otter, then back at the wizard.
"I still don't understand."
"There is another nation whose aid would be invaluable,"
Clothahump explained energetically. "They are legendary
fighters, and history tells us they despise the Plated Folk as
much as we do."
Mudge circled a finger near one ear, whispered quietly to
Jon-Tom. "Told you 'e was vergin' on the senile. The
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Alan Dean Foster
lightnin' an' the view conjurin' 'as sent him oS t' balmy
land."
The most unexpected reaction came from Pog, however.
The bat left his beam and hovered nervously overhead, his
eyes wide, his tone fearful.
"No, Master! Don't tink of it. Don't!"
Clothahump shrugged. "Our presence here is no longer
required. We would find ourselves lost among the general
staffs of the assembling armies. Why then should we not seek
out aid which could turn the tide of battle?"
Jon-Tom, who had returned from his position by me open
window, listened curiously and wondered at Pog's sudden
fright.
"What kind of allies were you thinking about, sir? I'm
certainly willing to help recruit." Pog gave him an ugly look.
"I'm talking about the Weavers, of course."
The violence of the response to this announcement startled
Jon-Tom and Flor.
"Who are these 'Weavers'?" she asked me wizard.
"They are thought to be the most ferocious, relentless, and
accomplished mountain fighters in all me world, my dear."
pointedly. Even his usually unruffled demeanor had been
mussed by me wizard's shocking pronouncement. "I would
not disagree with that appraisal of Weaver fighting ability,
good sir," continued the rabbit, his nose twitching uncontrollably.
"And what you say about them hating the Plated Folk is also
most likely true. Unfortunately, you neglect the likely possi-
bility that they also despise us."
"That is more rumor and bedtime story than fact, Caz.
Considering the circumstances, they might be quite willing to
join with us. We do not know for certain that they hate us."
"That's for sure," said Talea sardonically, "because few
who've gone toward their lands have ever come back."
30
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
"That's because no one can get across the Teeth," Mudge
said assuredly. " 'Ate us or not don't matter. Probably none
of them that's tried reachin' Weaver lands 'as ever reached
'em. There ain't no way across the Teeth except through the
Gate and then the Pass, and the Weavers, if I recall my own
bedtimey stories aright, live a bloody good ways north o' the
Greendowns."
"There is another way," said Clothahump quietly. Mudge
gaped at him. "It is also far from here, far from the Gate, far
to the north. Far across the Swordsward."
"Cross the Swordsward!" Talea laughed in disbelief. "He
is crazy!"
"Across the great Swordsward," the sorcerer continued
patiently, "lies the unique cataract known as the Sloomaz-
ayor-la-WeentIi, in the language of the Icelands in which it
arises. It is The-River-That-Eats-Itself, also called the River
of Twos, also the Double-River. In the language and knowl-
edge of magic and wizardry, it is known as the SchizoStream.''
"A schizoid river?" Jon-Tom's thoughts twisted until the
knot hurt. "That doesn't make any sense."
"If you know the magical term, then you know what you
say is quite true, Jon-Tom. The Sloomaz-ayor-la-WeentIi is
indeed the river that makes no sense."
"Neither does traveling down it, if I'm following your
meaning correctly," said Caz. Clothahump nodded. "Does
not The-River-That-Eats-Itself flow through the Teeth into
something no living creature has seen called The Earth's
Throat?" Again the wizard indicated assent.
"I see." Caz ticked the relevant points off on furry fingers
as he spoke. "Then all we have to do is cross the Swordsward,
find some way of navigating an impossible river, enter what-
ever The Earth's Throat might be, counter whatever dangers
may lie within the mountains themselves, reach the Scuttleteau,
on which dwell the Weavers, and convince them not only that
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we come as friends but that they should help us instead of
eating us."
"Yes, that's right," said Clothahump approvingly.
Caz shrugged bro
adly. "A simple task for any superman."
He adjusted his monocle. "Which I for one am not. I am
reasonably good at cards, less so at dice, and fast of mouth,
but I am no reckless gambler. What you propose, sir, strikes
me as the height of folly."
"Give me credit for not being a fool with my own life,"
countered Clothahump. "This must be tried. I believe it can
be done. With my guidance you will all survive the journey,
and we will succeed." There was a deep noise, halfway
between a chuckle and a belch. Clothahump threw the hang-
ing famulus a quick glare, and Pog hurriedly looked innocent.
"I'll go, of course," said Jon-Tom readily.
The others gazed at him in astonishment. "Be you daft
too, mate?" said Mudge.
"Daft my ass." He looked down at the otter. "I have no
choice."
"I'll go," announced Flor, smiling magnificently. "I love
a challenge."
"Oh, very well." Caz fitted his monocle carefully, his pink
nose still vibrating, "but it's a fool's game to draw and roll a
brace of twelves after a munde-star pays out."
"I suppose I'll come too," said Talea with a sigh, "be-
cause I've no more good sense than the rest of you."
All eyes turned toward Mudge.
"Right then, quit staring at me, you bloody great twits!"
His voice dropped to a discouraged mutter. "I 'ope when we
find ourselves served up t' the damned Weavers for supper
that I'm the last one on the rottin' menu, so I can at least 'ave
me pleasure o' watchin' 'em eat you arse'oles first!"
"To such base uses we all eventually come, Mudge,"
Jon-Tom told him.
32
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
"Don't get philosophical with me, mate. Oh, you've no
choice for sure, not if you've a 'ope o' seeing your proper
'ome again. Old Clothahump's got you by the balls, 'e as.
But as for me, I can be threatened so far and then it don't
matter no more."
"No one is threatening you, otter," said the wizard.
"The 'ell you ain't! I saw the look in your eye, knew I
might as well say yes voluntary-like and 'ave done with it.
You can work thunder and lightnin' but you can't make the
journey yourself, you old fart! You don't fool me. You need
us."
"I have never tried to deny that, Mudge. But I will not
hold you. I have not threatened you. So behind all your noise
and fury, why are you coming?"
The otter stood there and fumed, breathing hard and
glaring first at the turtle, then Jon-Tom, then the others.
Finally he booted an exquisite spittoon halfway across the
room. It bounced ringingly off the far wall as he sat down in a
huff.
"Be billy bedamned if I know!"
"I do," said Talea. "You'd rather travel along with a
bunch of fools like the rest of us than stay here and be
conscripted into the army. With Clothahump and Jon-Tom
gone, the local authorities will treat you like any other bum."
"That's bloody likely," snorted Mudge. "Leave me alone,
then, won't you? I said I'd go, though I'd bet heavy against
us ever comin' back."
"Optimism is better than pessimism, my friend," said Caz
pleasantly.
"You. I don't understand you at all, mate." The otter
shoved back his cap and walked across the carpet to confront
Caz. "A minute ago you said you weren't no reckless gam-
bler. Now you're all for agoin' off on this charmin' little
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Alan Dean Foster
suicide trot. And of all o' us, you'd be the one I'd wager on
t* stay clear o' the army's clutches."
The rabbit looked unimpressed. "Perhaps I can see the
larger picture, Mudge."
"Meanin' wot?"
"Meaning that if what our wise friend Clothahump knows
to be true indeed comes to pass, the entire world may be
embarking on that 'trot' with us." He smiled softly. "There
are few opportunities for gambling in a wasteland. I do not
think the Plated Folk will permit recreation as usual if they
are victorious. And I have other reasons."
"Yeah? Wot reasons?"
"They are personal."
"The wisdom of pragmatism," said Clothahump approvingly.
"It was a beneficial day indeed when the river brought you
among us, friend Caz."
"Maybe. But I think I would be still happier if I had not
misjudged the placement of those dice and been forced to
depart so precipitately from my ship. The happiness of the
ignorant is no less so than any other. Ah well." He shrugged
disarmingly. "We are all of us caught up in momentous
events beyond our ability to change."
They agreed with him, and none realized he was referring
as much to his previously mentioned personal reasons as to
the coming cataclysm....
The city council provided a three-axle wagon and a dray
team of four matched yellow-and-black-striped lizards, plus
ample supplies. Some among the council were sorry to see
the wizard and spellsinger depart, but there were others who
were just as happy to watch two powerful magicians leave
their city.
Talea handled the reins of the wagon while Flor, Jon-Tom,
Mudge, Clothahump, and Caz sorted living quarters out of
the back of the heavily loaded vehicle. Thick canvas could be
34
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
drawn across the top to keep out the rain. Ports cut in the
slanting wooden walls provided ventilation and a means for
firing arrows at any attacker.
Aveticus, resplendent in a fresh uniform and as coldly
correct as ever, offered to provide a military escort at least
part of the way. Clothahump declined gracefully, insisting that
the less attention they attracted the better their chance for an
uneventful traverse of the Swordsward.
Anyway, they had the best protection possible in the form
of Falameezar. The dragon would surely frighten away any
possible assailants, intelligent or otherwise.
It took the dray lizards a day or two to overcome their
nervousness at the dragon's presence, but soon they were
cantering along on their strong, graceful legs. Bounding on
six solid rubber wheels the wagon fairly flew out of the city.
They passed small villages and farms for another several
days, until at last no sign of habitation lay before them.
The fields of golden grain had given way to very tall light
green grasses that stretched to the ends of the northern and
eastern horizons. Dark wintry rain clouds hovered above the
greenery, and there were rumblings of distant thunder.
Off to their right the immense western mountain range
known as Zaryt's Teeth rose like a wall from the plains. Its
lowermost peaks rose well above ten thousand feet while
me highest towered to twenty-five thousand. Dominating all
and visible for weeks to come was the gigantic prong of
Brokenbone Peak, looking like the ossified spine of some
long-fossilized titan.
It was firmly believed by many that in a cave atop
that
storm-swept peak dwelt the Oracle of All Knowledge. Even
great wizards had been unable to penetrate the winds that
howled eternally around that inaccessible crag. For by the
time any grew wise enough to possibly make the journey,
they had also grown too old, which might explain why
35
Alan Dean Foster
isolated travelers sometimes heard monstrous laughter ava-
lanching down Brokenbone's flanks, though most insisted it
was only the wind.
The Swordsward resembled a well-manicured field. Patches
of other vegetation struggled to rise above the dense grass,
were only occasionally successful. Here and there small
thickets that were either very thin flowering trees or enormous
dandelions poked insolently above the waving green ocean
Despite Clothahump's protests General Aveticus had given
them a mounted escort to the boundary of the wild plains.
The soldiers raised a departing cheer as the wagon left them
behind and started out through the grass.
There were no roads, no paths through the Swordsward.
The grass that formed it grew faster than any bamboo. So
fast, according to Caz, that you could cut the same patch bare
to the earth four times in a single day, and by nightfall it
would be as thick as ever. Fortunately the blades were as
flexible as they were prolific. The wagon slid over them
easily.
Each blade knew its assigned place. None grew higher than
the next and attempted to steal the light from its neighbor.
Despite the flexibility of the grass, however, the name
Swordsward had not been bestowed out of mischief or indif-
ference. While Falameezar's thick scales were invulnerable,
as were those of the dray lizards, the others had to be careful
when descending from the wagon least the sharp edges of the
tall blades cut through clothing and skin.
Jon-Tom learned quickly enough. Once he'd leaned over
the back of the wagon to pluck a high, isolated blue flower. A
quick, sharp pain made him pull back his hand. There was a
thin line of red two inches long across his palm. It felt as if
someone had taken a piece of new paper and drawn it fast
across his skin. The wound was narrow and bled only for a
minute, but it remained painful for days.
36
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
Several times they had glimpses of lanky predators like a
cross between a crocodile and a greyhound. They would pace