Spellsinger 02 - The Hour of the Gate

   The Hour of the Gate
   Spellsinger #2
   Alan Dean Foster
   Jon-Tom reeled dizzily at the top of the steps. All wrong,
   he knew. Out of place, out of time. He was not standing
   before the entrance to this strange Council Building in a city
   named Polastrindu. A five-foot tall otter in peaked green cap
   and bright clothing was not eying him anxiously, wondering if
   he was about to witness a fainting spell. A bespectacled
   bipedal turtle was not staring sourly at him, waiting for him
   to regain his senses so they could be about the business of
   saving the world. An enormous, exceedingly ugly black bat
   was not hovering nearby, muttering darkly to himself about
   dirty pots and pans and the lack of workman's comp a
   famulus enjoyed while in a wizard's employ.
   Sadly, saying these things were not did not transform the
   reality.
   " 'Ere now, mate," the otter Mudge inquired, "don't you
   be sick all over us, wot?"
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   Alan Dean Foster
   "Sorry," Jonathan Thomas Meriweather said apologetical-
   ly. "Oral exams always make me queasy."
   "Be of good cheer, my young friend," said the wizard
   Clothahump. He tapped his plastron. "I shall do the neces-
   sary talking. You are here to add credence to what I will say,
   not to add words. Come now. Time dies and the world draws
   nearer disaster." He ambled through the portal. As he had
   now for many weeks, the transposed Jon-Tom could only
   long for his own vanished world, hope desperately that once
   this crisis had passed Clothahump could return him to it, and
   follow the turtle's lead.
   Inside they marched past scribes and clerks and other
   functionaries, all of whom turned to look at them in passing.
   The hall itself was wood and stone, but the bark-stripped logs
   mat supported this structure had been polished to a high
   luster. Rich reds faded into bright, almost canary-yellow
   grains. The logs had the sheen of marble pillars.
   They turned past two clusters of arguing workers. The
   arguing stopped as they passed. Apparently everyone in
   Polastrindu now knew who they were, or at least that they
   controlled the dragon who'd almost bumed down the city the
   previous night.
   Up a pair of staircases they climbed. Clothahump puffed
   hard to keep up with the rest. Then they passed through a set
   of beautiful black and yellow buckeye-buri doors and entered
   a small room.
   There was a single straight, long table on a raised dais. It
   curved at either end, forming horns of wood. To the right a
   small bespectacled margay sat behind a drafting table. He
   wore brown shirt, shorts, boots, and an odd narrow cap. The
   quill pen he was writing with was connected by wooden arms
   to six similar pens hovering over a much larger table and six
   separate scrolls. It was a clever mechanism enabling the
   scribe to make an original and six copies simultaneously. An
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   THE HOUR OF TJZB GATE
   assistant, a young wolf cub, stood nearby. He was poised to
   change the scrolls or unroll them as the occasion demanded.
   Seated behind the raised table was the Grand Council of
   the City, County, and Province of Greater Polastrindu, the
   largest and most influential of its kind in the warmlands.
   Jon-Tom surveyed the councillors. From left to right, he
   saw first a rather foppishly clad prairie dog draped in thin
   silks, lace, neck chains, and a large gold earring in his right
   ear. Next came a corpulent gopher in pink, wearing the
   expected dark wraparound glasses. This redoubtable female
   likely represented the city's nocturnal citizens. His eyes
   passed impatiently over most of the others.
   There were only two truly striking personalities seated
   behind the table. At its far right end sat a tall, severely attired
   marten. If not actually a military uniform, his dress was very
   warlike. It was black and blue and there were silver epaulets
   crusting his shoulders and chevronlike ripples on his sleeves.
   Double bandoliers of small stilettoes formed a lethal "X"
   across his chest. His clothing was so spotless Mudge whispered
   that it must have a dirt-repellent spell cast on it.
   His posture matched his attire. He sat rigidly erect in his
   low chair, his high torso not bending even slightly across the
   table. His attitude was also much more attentive than that of
   any of the other council members.
   Jon-Tom tried to analyze their states of mind as they took
   stock of the tiny group waiting before the long table. Their
   expressions conveyed everything from fear to amusement.
   Only the marten seemed genuinely interested.
   The other imposing figure on the dais sat in the middle of
   the table. He was flanked by two formal perches on which
   rested the representatives of Polastrindu's arboreal population.
   One was a large raven. At the moment he was picking his
   beak with a silver pick held easily in his left foot. He wore a
   red, green, and ocher kilt and matching vest. On the other
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   Alan Dean Foster
   perch was the smallest intelligent inhabitant of the warmlands
   Jon-Tom had yet encountered. The hummingbird was no
   larger man a man's head. It had a long beak, exquisite
   plumage, and heavily jeweled kilt and vest. It might have
   flown free from the treasure vaults of Dresden.
   Gold trim lined the kilt, and a necklace of the finest gold
   filigree hung around the ruby-throated neck. He also wore a
   tiny cap similar to an Australian bush hat. It was secured on
   the iridescent head with a gold strap.
   Jon-Tom marveled at the hat. Slipping it on over that
   curving beak would be a considerable project, unless the strap
   joined at a tiny buckle he couldn't see.
   All inhabitants and stretches of the province were thus
   represented. They were dominated by the motionless figure of
   the marten on the far right, and by the stocky individual in
   their center.
   It was that citizen who commanded everyone's attention as
   he pushed back his chair and stood. The badger wore specta-
   cles similar to Clothahump's. His fur was silvered on his
   back, indicating age.
   He had very neatly trimmed claws. Despite his civilized
   appearance Jon-Tom was grateful for the manicure, knowing
   the reputation badgers had for ferocity and tenacity in a fight.
   Deep-set black eyes stared out at them. He wore a stiff,
   high-collared suit marked only by a discreet gold flower on
   his lapel. One paw slammed down hard on the table. Jon-Tom
   hadn't known what to expect, but the instant angry outburst
   was not the greeting he'd hoped for.
   "Now what do you mean by bringing this great narsty
   fire-breathing beastie into the city limits and burning down
   the harbor barracks^, not to mention disrupting the city's
   commerce, panicking its citizenry, and causing disruption and
   general dismay among the populace?!?" The voice rose
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   THE HOUR OF TBE GATE
   immediately to an angry pitch as he shook a thick warning
   finger down at them.
   ' 'Give me one reason why I should not have the lot of you
   run into the lowest jails!"
   Jon-Tom looked at Mudge in dismay. It was Clothahump
   who spoke patiently. "We have come to Polastrindu, friend,
   in order to—"
   "I am Mayor and Council President Wuckle Three-Stripe!"
   snorted the badger, "and you will address me as befits my
   titles and position!"
   "We are here," continued the wizard, unperturbed an<
   unimpressed, "on a mission of great consequence to every
   inhabitant of the civilized world. It would behoove you t(
   listen closely to what I am about to tell you."
   "Yeah," said Pog, who had settled on one of the numerous
   empty perches ringing the room, "and ifya don't, our gooc
   buddy da dragon will bum your manure pile of a rat-warrer
   down around your waxy ears!"
   "Shut up, Pog." Clothahump glared irritably at the bat.
   While he was doing so the unctuous gopher leaned ovei
   and spoke to the badger in a delicate yet matronly voice.
   "The creature is undiplomatic, Mayor-President, but he has a
   point."
   "I will not be blackmailed, Pevmora." He looked down
   the other way and asked in a less belligerent tone, "What do
   you say, Aveticus? Do we disembowel these intruders now, 01
   what?"
   The marten's reply was so quiet Jon-Tom had to strain to
   make it out. Nevertheless, the creature conveyed an impres-
   sion of cold power. As would any student interested in the
   law, Jon-Tom noticed that all the other council members
   immediately ceased picking their mouths, chattering to each
   other, or whatever they'd been doing, in order now to pay
   attention.
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   Alan Dean Poster
   "I think we should listen to what they have to say to us.
   Not only because of the threat posed by the dragon, against
   whose breath I will not expend my soldiers and whom you
   must admit we can do nothing about, but also because they
   speak as visitors who mean us nothing but good will. I cannot
   yet pass on the importance of what they may say, but I think
   we can safely accept their professed motivations. Also, they
   do not strike me as fools."
   "Sensibly put, youngster," said Clothahump.
   The marten nodded once, barely, and ignored the fact that
   he was anything but a cub. He smiled as imperceptibly as
   he'd nodded, showing sharp white teeth.
   "Of course, good turtle, if you are wasting our time or do
   indeed mean us harm, then we will be forced to take other
   measures."
   Clothahump waved the comment away. "You give us credit
   for being other than fools. I return the compliment. Now
   then, let us have no more talk of motivations and time, for I
   have none of the last to spare." He launched into a long and
   by now familiar explanation of the danger from the Plated
   Folk and their preparations, from their massed armies to their
   still unknown new magic.
   When he'd finished the badger looked as bellicose as
   before. "The Plated Folk, the Plated Folk! Every time some
   idiot seer panics, it's 'the Plated Folk are coming, the Plated
   Folk are coming!'" He resumed his seat and spoke sarcastically.
   "Do you think we can be panicked by tales and rumors
   that mothers use to scare their cubs into bed? Do you think
   we believe every claim laid before us by every disturbed
   would-be leader? What do you think we are, stranger?"
   "Stubborn," replied Clothahump patiently. "I assure you
   on my honor as a wizard and member in good standing of the
   Guild for nearly two hundred years that everything I have just
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   THE HOUR Of THE GATE
   told you is true." He indicated Jon-Tom, who until now had
   been silently watching and listening.
   "Last night, this young spellsinger actually encountered an
   envoy of the Plated Folk. He was here to foment trouble
   among local human citizens, and according to my young
   associate he was well disguised."
   That brought some of the more insipid members of the
   council wide awake. "One of them... here, in the city ...!"
   "He was attempting to begin war between the species,"
   reiterated the wizard. More mutters of disbelief from those
   behind the long table.
   "He wanted me to join with his puppets," Jon-Tom explained.
   "The humans he'd recruited say the Plated Folk have prom-
   ised to make them the overlords and administrators of all the
   warmlands the insects conquer. I didn't believe it for a
   minute, of course, but I think I've studied more about such
   matters than those poor deluded people. I don't think they
   have many followers. Nevertheless, the word should be
   spread. Just letting it be known that you know what the Plated
   Folk are trying to do should discourage potential recruits to
   their cause."
   The muttering among the councillors changed from ner-
   vous to angry. "Where is he?" shouted the hummingbird,
   suddenly buzzing over the table to halt and hover only inches
   from Jon-Tom's face. "Where is the insect ofifal, and his
   furless dupes?" Tiny, furious eyes stared into larger human
   ones. "I will put out their eyes myself. I shall..."
   "P&rch down, Millevoddevareen," said Wuckle Three-Stripe,
   the badger. "And control yourself. I will not tolerate anarchy
   in the chambers."
   The bird glared back at the Mayor, muttered something
   under his breath, and shot back to his seat. His wings
   continued to whirr with nervous energy. He forced himself to
   calm down by preening them with his long bill.
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   Alan Dean Foster
   "Such fringe fanatics have always existed among the
   species," the Mayor said thoughtfully. "Humans have no
   comer on racial prejudice. These you speak of will be warned,
   but they are of little consequence. When the time for final
   choices arrives, common sense takes precedence over emo-
   tion. Most people are sensible enough to realize they would
   never survive a Plated Polk conquest." He smiled and his
   mask fur wrinkled.
   "But no such invasion has ever succeeded. Not in tens of
   thousands of years."
   "There is still only one way through Zaryt's Teeth,"
   proclaimed a squirrel, "and that is by way of the Jo-Troom
   Pass. Two thousand years ago Usdrett of Osprinspri raised the
   Great Wall on the site of his own victory over the Plated
   Folk. A wall which has been strengthened and fortified by
   successive generations of fighters. The Gate has never been
   forced open, and no Plated Folk force has ever even reached
   the wall itself. We've never let them get that far down the
   Pass."
   "They're too stratified," added the raven, waving a wing
   for emphasis. "Too inflexible in then" methods of battle to
   cope with improvisation and change. They prepare to fight
   one way and cannot shift quickly enough to handle another.
   Why, their last attempt at an invasion was among the most
   disastrous of all. Their defeats grow worse with each attack.
   Such occasional assaults are good for the warmlands: they
   keep the people from complacency and sharpen the skills of
   our soldiers. Nor can we be surprised. The permanent Gate
   contingent can hold off any sudden attack until sufficient
   reinforcements can be gathered."
   "This is no usual invasion," said Clothahump intently.
   "Not only have the Plated Folk prepared more thoroughly
   and in greater numbers than ever before, but I have reason to
   believe they have produced some terrible new magic to assist
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   them, an evil we may be unable to counter and whose nature I
   have as yet been unable to ascertain."
   "Magic again!" Wuckle Three-Stripe spat at the floor.
   "We still have no proof you're even the sorcerer you claim to
   be, stranger. So far I've only your word as proof."
   "Are you calling me a liar, sir?"
   Concerned that he might have overstepped a trifle, the
   Mayor retreated a bit. "I did not say that, stranger. But surely
   you understand my position. I can hardly be expected to
   alarm the entire civilized warmlands merely at the word of a
   single visitor. That is scarcely sufficient proof of what you
   have said."
   "Proof? I'll give you proof." The wizard's fighting blood
   was up. He considered thoughtfully, then produced a couple
   of powders from his plastron. After tossing them on the floor
   he raised both hands and turned a slow circle, reciting angrily.
   "Cold front, warm front, counteract my affront.
   Isobars and isotherms violently descend.
   Nimbus, cumulus, poles opposizing,
   Ions in a mighty surge my doubters upend!"
   A thunderous roar deafened everyone in the room and there
   was a blinding flare. Jen-Tom dazedly struggled back to a
   standing position to see Clothahump slowly picking himself
   up off the floor and readjusting his glasses.
   Wuckle Three-Stripe lay on the floor in front of him,
   having been blown completely across the council table. His
   ceremonial chair was a pile of smoking ash. Behind it a neat
   hole had been melted through the thick leaded glass where the
   tiny lightning bolt had penetrated. The fact that it was a
   cloudless day made the feat all the more impressive.
   The Mayor disdained the help of one of the other council-
   lors. Brushing himself off and rearranging his clothing, he
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   Alan Dean Poster
   waddled back behind the table. A new chair was brought and
   set onto the pile of ash. He cleared his throat and leaned
   forward.
   "We will accept the fact that you are a sorcerer."
   "I'm glad that's sufficient proof," said Clothahump with
   dignity. "I'm sorry if I overdid it a mite. Some of these old
   spells are pretty much just for show and I'm a little rusty with
   them." The scribe had returned to his sextupal duplicator and
   was scribbling furiously.
   "Plated envoys moving through our city in human dis-
   guise," murmured one of the councillors. "Talk of interspecies
   dissension and war, great and strange magic in the council
   chambers. Surely this portends unusual events, perhaps even
   a radically different kind of invasion."
   The prairie dog leaned across the table, steepling his
   fingers and speaking in high-pitched, chirping tones.
   "There are many forms of magic, colleagues. While the
   ability to conjure thunder and lightning on demand is most
   impressive, it differs considerably from divination. Do we
   then determine that on the basis of a flash of power we cease
   all normal activities and place Polastrindu on war alert?
   "Should the call go out on that basis to distant Snarken, to
   L'bor and Yul-pat-pomme and all the other towns and cities of
   the warmlands? Must we now order farmers to leave their
   fields, young men their sweethearts, and bats their nightly
   hunts? Commerce will come to a halt and fortunes will be
   lost, lives disrupted.
   "This is a massive question, colleagues. It must be answered
   by more than the words and deeds of one person." He
   gestured deferentially with both hands at Clothahump. "Even
   one so clearly versed in the arts of wizardry as you, sir."
   "So you want more proof?" asked Jon-Tom.
   "More specific proof, yes, tall man," said the prairie dog.
   "War is no casual matter. I need hardly remind the other
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATS
   participants of this council," and he looked the length of the
   long table, "that if there is no invasion, no unusual war, then
   it is our bodies that will provide fertilizer for next season's
   crops, and not those of our nomadic visitors." He looked
   back out of tiny black eyes at Jon-Tom. "Therefore I would
   expect some sympathy for our official positions."
   A mild smattering of applause came from the rest of the
   council, except for Millevoddevareen the hummer. He con-
   tinued to mutter, "I want those traitorous humans. Put their
   damn perverted eyes out!" His colleagues paid him no
   attention. Hummingbirds are notoriously more bellicose than
   reflective.
   "Then you shall have more conclusive proof," said the
   weary wizard.
   "Master?" Pog looked down solicitously at the turtle. "Do
   ya really tink anodder spell now, so close ta da odder, is a
   good idea?"
   "Do I seem so tired then, Pog?"
   The bat flapped idly, said without hesitation, "Yeah, ya do,
   boss."
   Clothahump nodded slowly. "Your concern is noted, Pog.
   I'll make a good famulus out of you yet." The bat smiled,
   which in a bat is no prettier than a frown, but it was unusual
   to see the pleased expression on the fuzzy face of the
   normally hostile assistant.
   "I expect to become more tired still." He looked at
   Jon-Tom, then around him at Mudge. "I'd say you represent
   the lower orders accurately enough."
   "Thanks," said the otter drily, "Your Sorceremess."
   "What would it take to convince you of the reality of this
   threat?"
   "Well, ifn I were ignorant o' the real situation and I
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   Alan Dean Foster
   needed a good convincin'," Mudge said speculatively, "I'd
   say it were up t' you t' prove it by showin' me."
   Clothahump nodded. "I thought so."
   "Master... ?" began Pog wamingly.
   "It's all right. I have the capacity, Pog." His face suddenly
   went blank, and he fell into a deep trance. It was not as deep
   as the one he had used to summon M'nemaxa, but it impressed
   the hell out of the council.
   The room darkened, and curtains magically drew them-
   selves across the back windows of the chambers. There was
   nervous whispering among those seated behind the long table,
   but no one moved. The marten Aveticus, Jon-Tom noted, did
   not seem in the least concerned.
   A cloud formed at the far end of the chamber, an odd cloud
   that was flat and rectangular in shape. Images formed inside
   the cloud. As they solidified, there were gasps of horror and
   dismay from the council members.
   Vast ranks of insect warriors marched across the cloud.
   They bore aloft an ocean of pikes and spears, swords and
   shields. Huge Plated generals directed the common troops,
   which stretched across misty plains as far as the eye could
   see. Tens of thousands paraded across that cloud.
   As the view shifted and rolled, there was anxious chatter
   from the council. "They seem better armed than before... look
   how purposefully they drill.... You can feel the confidence
   in them . . . never saw that before. .. . The numbers, the
   numbers!"
   The scene changed. Stone warrens and vast structures slid
   past in review. A massive, bulbous edifice began to come into
   view: the towering castle of Cugluch.
   Abruptly the view changed to one of dark clouds, fluttered,
   and vanished. There was a thump, the cloud dissipated,
   together with the view, and light returned to the room.
   Clothahump was sitting down on the floor, shaking his
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   head. Pog was hovering above him, fumbling with a vial. The
   wizard took a long sip of the liquid within, shook his head
   once more, and wiped the back of his mouth with an arm.
   With the bat's help he stood and smiled shakily at Jon-Tom.
   "Not a bad envisioning. Couldn't get to the castle, though.
   Too far, and the inhibitory spells are too strong. Lost the
   damn vertical hold." He started to go down, and Jon-Tom
   barely got hold of an arm in time to keep the turtle from
   slumping back to the floor.
   "You shouldn't have done it, sir. You're too weak."
   "Had to, boy." He jerked his head toward the long table.
   "Some hardheads up there."
   The councillors were babbling among themselves, but they
   fell silent when Clothahump spoke. "I tried to show you the
   interior of the castle keep, but its secrets are too well
   protected by powerful spells I cannot pierce."
   "Then how do you know this great new magic exists?"
   asked the ever skeptical prairie dog.
   "I summoned M'nemaxa."
   Mutters of amazement mixed with disbelief and awe.
   "Yes, I did even that," Clothahump said proudly, "though
   the consequences of such a conjuration could have been fatal
   for me and all those in my care."
   "If you did so once, could you not summon the spirit once
   more and leam the true nature of this strange evil you feel
   exists in Cugluch?" wondered one of the councillors.
   Clothahump laughed gently. "I see there are none here
   versed in wizardly lore. A pity no local sorcerer or ess could
   have joined us in this council.
   "It was remarkable that I was able to conduct the first
   conjuration. Were I to try it again I could not bind the
   M'nemaxa spirit within restrictive boundaries. It would burst
   free. In less than a second I and all around me would be
   reduced to a crisp of meat and bone."
   "I withdraw the suggestion," said the councillor hastily.
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   Alan Dean Foster
   "We must rely on ourselves now," said Clothahump.
   "Outside forces will not save us."
   "I think we should..." began one of the other members.
   He fell silent and looked to his left. So did the others.
   The marten Aveticus was standing. "I will announce the
   mobilization," he said softly. "The armies can be ready in a
   few months' time. I will contact my counterparts in Snarken
   and L'bor, in all the other towns and cities." He stared evenly
   at Clothahump.
   "We will meet this threat, sir, with all the force the
   warmlands can bring to bear. I leave it to you to counter this
   evil magic you speak of. I dislike fighting something I can't
   see. But I promise you that nothing which bleeds will pass
   the Jo-Troom Gate."
   "But General Aveticus, we haven't reached a decision
   yet," protested the gopher.
   The marten turned and looked down his narrow snout at his
   colleagues. "These visitors," and he indicated the four strang-
   ers standing and watching nearby, "have made their decision.
   Based upon what they have said and shown to us, I have
   made mine. The armies will mobilize. Whether they do so
   with your blessing is your decision. But they will be ready.''
   He bowed stiffly toward Clothahump.
   "Learned sir, if you will excuse me. I have much work to
   do." He turned and strode out of the room on short but
   powerful legs. Ion-Tom watched his departure admiringly.
   The marten was someone he would like to know better.
   After an uncomfortable pause, the councillors resumed
   their conversation. "Well, if General Aveticus has already
   decided so easily..."
   "That's right," said the hummingbird, buzzing above the
   table. "Our decision has been made for us. Not by these
   people," and he gestured with a wing, though it was so fast
   Jon-Tom couldn't swear he'd actually noticed the gesture so
   22
   Tas HOUR OF THE GATE
   much as imagined it, "but by the General. You all know how
   conservative he is.
   "Now that we are committed, there must be no dissension.
   We must act as one mind, one body, to counter the threat."
   He soared higher above the floor.
   "I shall notify the air corps of the decision so that we may
   begin to coordinate operations with the army. I will also send
   out the peregrines with messages to the other cities and towns
   that the Plated Folk are again on the march, stronger and
   more voracious than ever. This time, brothers and sisters, we
   will deal them a defeat, give them a beating so bad they will
   not recover for a thousand years!"
   Words of assent and a few cheers echoed around the
   council chamber. One came from the cub manipulating the
   scrolls. His scribe looked at him reprovingly, and the young-
   ster settled back down to his paper shuffling as Millevoddevareen
   left via an opened window.
   "It seems that your appeal has accomplished what you
   intended," said the gopher quietly, preening an eyelash.
   Gems sparkled around her thick neck and from the rings on
   every finger. "At least among the military-minded among us.
   All the world will react to your cry of alarm." She shook her
   head and smiled grimly.
   "Heaven help you if your prediction turns out to be less
   than accurate."
   "I can only say to that, madam, that I would much rather
   be proved inaccurate than otherwise in this matter." Clothahump
   bowed toward her.
   There were handshakes and hugs all around as the council-
   lors descended from their dais. In doing so, they left behind a
   good deal of their pomposity and officiousness.
   "We'll finish the slimy bastards this time!"
   "Nothing to worry about... be a good fight!"
   There was even grudging agreement from the Mayor, who
   23
   Alan Dean Foster
   was still irked that General Aveticus hadn't waited for the
   decision of the council before ordering mobilization. But
   there was nothing he could do about it now. Given the
   evidence Clothahump had so graphically presented, he wasn't
   sure he wanted to try.
   "You'll advise us immediately, sir," he said to Clothahump,
   "if you leam of any changes in plan among the Plated Folk."
   "Of course."
   "Then there remains only the matter of a new and perhaps
   more elegant habitation for you until it's time to march. We
   have access to a number of inns for the housing of diplomatic
   guests. I suppose you qualify as that. But I don't know what
   we can do with your great flaming friend back in the court-
   yard, since he so impolitely burned down his quarters."
   "We'll take care of him," Jon-Tbm assured the Mayor.
   "Please see that you do," Wuckle Three-Stripe was recovering
   some of his mayoral bearing. "Especially since he's the only
   real danger we've been certain of since you've appeared
   among us."
   With that, he turned to join the animated conversation
   taking place among several members of the council.
   Once outside the chambers and back in the city hall's main
   corridor Jon-Tom and Mudge took the time to congratulate
   Clothahump,
   "Aye, that were a right fine performance, guv'nor," said
   the otter admiringly. "Cor, you should o' seen some o' those
   fat faces when you threw that army o' bugs up at 'em!"
   "You've done what you wanted to, sir," agreed Jon-Tom.
   "The armies of the warmlands will be ready for the Plated
   Folk when they start through the Jo-Troom Pass."
   But the wizard, hands clasped around his back, did not
   appear pleased. Jon-Tom frowned at him as they descended
   the steps to the city hall courtyard.
   24
   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   "Isn't that what you wanted, sir? Isn't that what we've
   come all this way for?"
   "Hmnun? Oh, yes, my boy, that's what I wanted." He still
   looked discouraged. "I'm only afraid that all the armies of all
   the counties and cities and towns of all the warmlands might
   not be enough to counter the threat."
   Jon-Tom and Mudge exchanged glances.
   "What more can we do?" asked Mudge. "We can't fighl
   with wot we ain't got. Your Magicalness."
   "No, we cannot, good Mudge. But there may be more than
   what we have."
   "Beggin' your pardon, sor?"
   "I won't rest if there is."
   "Well then, you give 'er a bit of some thought, guv, and
   let us know, won't you?" Mudge had the distressing feeling
   he wasn't going to be able to return to the familiar, comfort-
   able environs of Lynchbany and the Bellwoods quite as soor
   as he'd hoped.
   "I will do that, Mudge, and I will let you know when ]
   inform the others...."
   25
   II
   The quarters they were taken to were luxurious compared
   to the barracks they'd spent their first night in. Fresh flowers,
   scarce in winter, were scattered profusely around the high-
   beamed room. They were ensconced in Polastrindu's finest inn,
   and the decor reflected it. Even the ceiling was high enough
   so Jon-Tom could stand straight without having to worry
   about a lamp decapitating him.
   Sleeping quarters were placed around a central meeting
   room which had been set aside exclusively for their use.
   Jon-Tom still had to duck as he entered the circular chamber.
   Caz was leaning back in a chair, ears cocked slightly
   forward, a glass held lightly in one paw. The other held a
   silver, ornately worked pitcher from which he was pouring a
   dark wine into a glass.
   ROT sat on one side of him, Talea on the other. All were
   chuckling at some private joke. They broke off to greet the
   newcomers.
   27
   Alan Dean Foster
   "Don't have to ask how it went," said Talea brightly,
   resting her boots on an immaculate couch. "A little while ago
   this party of subservient flunkies shows up at the barracks and
   tells us rooms have been reserved for us in this gilded hole."
   She sipped wine, carelessly spilled some on a finely woven
   carpet. "This style of crusading's more to my taste, I can tell
   you."
   "What did you tell them, Jon-Tom?" wondered Flor.
   He walked to an open window, rested his palms on the sill,
   and stared out across the city.
   "It wasn't easy at first. There was a big, blustery badger
   named Wuckle Three-Stripe who was ready to chuck us in jail
   right away. It was easy to see how he got to be mayor of as
   big and tough a place as Polastrindu. But Clothahump scorched
   the seat of his pants, and after that it was easy. They paid
   serious attention.
   "There was a general named Aveticus who's got more
   common sense than the rest of the local council put together.
   As soon as he'd heard enough he took over. The others just
   slid along with his opinion. I think he likes us personally, too,
   but he's so cold-faced it's hard to tell for sure what he's
   thinking. But when he talks everybody listens."
   Down below lay a vast black and purple form coiled in the
   shade of a high stone wall. Falameezar was apparently sleep-
   ing peacefully in front of the inn stables. The other stable
   buildings appeared to be deserted. No doubt the riding lizards
   of the hotel staff and its guests had been temporarily boarded
   elsewhere.
   "The armies are already mobilizing, and local aerial repre-
   sentatives have been dispatched to carry the word to the other
   cities and towns."
   "Well, that's all right, then," said Talea cheerfully. "Our
   job's finished. I'm going to enjoy the afterglow." She fin-
   ished her considerable glass of wine.
   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
   29
   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."
   "Notice he does not say 'civilized' world," said Caz
   pointedly. Even his usually unruffled demeanor had been
   mussed by me wizard's shocking pronouncement. "I would
   not disagree with that appraisal of Weaver fighting ability,
   good sir," continued the rabbit, his nose twitching uncontrollably.
   "And what you say about them hating the Plated Folk is also
   most likely true. Unfortunately, you neglect the likely possi-
   bility that they also despise us."
   "That is more rumor and bedtime story than fact, Caz.
   Considering the circumstances, they might be quite willing to
   join with us. We do not know for certain that they hate us."
   "That's for sure," said Talea sardonically, "because few
   who've gone toward their lands have ever come back."
   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
   31
   Alan Dean Foster
   we come as friends but that they should help us instead of
   eating us."
   "Yes, that's right," said Clothahump approvingly.
   Caz shrugged broadly. "A simple task for any superman."
   He adjusted his monocle. "Which I for one am not. I am
   reasonably good at cards, less so at dice, and fast of mouth,
   but I am no reckless gambler. What you propose, sir, strikes
   me as the height of folly."
   "Give me credit for not being a fool with my own life,"
   countered Clothahump. "This must be tried. I believe it can
   be done. With my guidance you will all survive the journey,
   and we will succeed." There was a deep noise, halfway
   between a chuckle and a belch. Clothahump threw the hang-
   ing famulus a quick glare, and Pog hurriedly looked innocent.
   "I'll go, of course," said Jon-Tom readily.
   The others gazed at him in astonishment. "Be you daft
   too, mate?" said Mudge.
   "Daft my ass." He looked down at the otter. "I have no
   choice."
   "I'll go," announced Flor, smiling magnificently. "I love
   a challenge."
   "Oh, very well." Caz fitted his monocle carefully, his pink
   nose still vibrating, "but it's a fool's game to draw and roll a
   brace of twelves after a munde-star pays out."
   "I suppose I'll come too," said Talea with a sigh, "be-
   cause I've no more good sense than the rest of you."
   All eyes turned toward Mudge.
   "Right then, quit staring at me, you bloody great twits!"
   His voice dropped to a discouraged mutter. "I 'ope when we
   find ourselves served up t' the damned Weavers for supper
   that I'm the last one on the rottin' menu, so I can at least 'ave
   me pleasure o' watchin' 'em eat you arse'oles first!"
   "To such base uses we all eventually come, Mudge,"
   Jon-Tom told him.
   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
   33
   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
   the wagon for hours before slinking off into the green.
   "Noulps," Caz told him, peering out the arrowport behind
   him. "They would kill and eat us if they could, but I don't
   think that's likely. Falameezar scares them off."
   "How can you tell?"
   "Because they leave us. A noulp pack will follow its
   quarry for weeks, I'm told, until they run it down."
   Days became weeks that passed without trouble. Each day
   the black clouds massing in the west would come nearer, their
   thunder more intimate. They promised more severe weather
   than the steady, nightly rain.
   "It is winter, after all," Clothahump observed one day. "I
   worry about being caught out here in a really bad storm. This
   wagon is not the cover I would wish."
   But when the full storm finally crested atop them, even the
   wizard was unprepared for its ferocity. The wind rose until it
   shook the wagon. Its huddled inhabitants felt like bugs in a
   box. Rain and sleet battered insistently at the wooden sides,
   seeking entry, while the lizards lay down in a circle in the
   grass and closed their eyes against the driving gale.
   The wagon was wide and low. It did not leak, did not tip
   over. Jon-Tom was even growing used to the storm until, on
   the fourth day, a terrible scream sounded from outside. It
   faded rapidly, swallowed up by the wind.
   He fumbled for a candle, gave up, and used his sparker.
   Flame flashed off emerald eyes.
   "What's the matter?" Talea asked him sleepily. The others
   were moving about beneath their blankets.
   "Someone screamed."
   "I didn't hear anything."
   "It was outside. It's gone now."
   Heads were counted. Flor was there, blinking sleep from
   37
   Alan Dean Foster
   her eyes. Nearby Caz leaned up against the inner wall
   Mudge was the last to awaken, having displayed the unique
   ability to sleep soundly through thunder, screaming, and
   wind.
   Only Clothahump looked attentive, sensing the night smells
   "We're all here," said Ror tiredly. "Then who screamed?"
   Clothahump was still listening intently, spoke without mov-
   ing head or body. "The lowliest are always missed the last.
   Where is Pog?"
   Jon-Tom looked toward the back of the wagon. The hang-
   ing perch in the upper left comer was empty. Rain stained the
   wood, showing where the canvas backing had been unsnapped.
   He moved to inspect it. Several of the sealing snaps had been
   broken by the force of the gale.
   "He's been carried off in his sleep," said Clothahump.
   "We have'to find him. He cannot fly in this."
   Jon-Tom stuck his head outside, immediately drew it back
   in. The ferocity of rain and wind drowned both skin and
   spirits. He forced himself to try again, called the bat's name
   several times.
   A massive, damp skull suddenly appeared close by the
   opening. Jon-Tom was startled, but only for a moment.
   "What's the matter, Comrade?" Falameezar inquired. "Is
   there some trouble?"
   "We've... we've lost one of the group," he said, trying to
   shield his face against the battering rain. "Pog, the bat. We
   think he got caught by a freak gust of wind and it's carried
   him off. He doesn't answer, and we're all worried. He can't
   walk well in the best of weather and he sure as hell can't fly
   in this gale. Also, there don't seem to be any trees around he
   could catch hold of."
   "Never fear. Comrade. I will find him." The massive
   armored body turned southward and bellowed above the
   wind, "Comrade Pog, Comrade Pog!"
   38
   THE HOUR Of THE GATE
   That steady, confident voice echoed back to them until
   even it was overwhelmed by distance and wind. Jon-Tom
   watched until the black shadow shape faded into the night,
   men drew back inside, wiping water from his face and hair.
   "Falameezar's gone after him," he told the anxious watchers.
   "The storm doesn't seem to be bothering him too much, but I
   doubt he's got much of a chance of finding Pog unless the
   storm forced him down somewhere close by."
   "He may be leagues from here by now," said Caz dolefully.
   "Damn this infernal wind!" He struek in frustration at the
   wooden wall.
   "He was impertinent and disrespectful, but he performed
   his duties well for all his complaining," said Clothahump.
   "A good famulus. I shall miss him."
   "It's too early to talk in the past tense, wizard." Flor tried
   to cheer him up. "Palameezar may still find him. Quien sabe;
   he may be closer than we think."
   "Your words are kind, my dear. Thank you for your
   thoughtmlness."
   The wagon rattled as another blast of near hurricane force
   whistled about them. Everyone fought for balance.
   "But as our young spellsinger says, the weather is not
   encouraging. Pog is not very resourceful. I don't know...."
   There was no sign of the bat the next day, nor of Falameezar,
   and the storm continued without abating. Clothahump wor-
   ried now not only that Pog might never be found but that the
   dragon might become disoriented and not be able to relocate
   the wagon. Or that he might find a river, decide he was bored
   with the entire business, and simply sink out of sight.
   "I don't think the last likely, sir," argued Jon-Tom.
   "Falameezar's made a political commitment. We're his com-
   rades. He'll be back. It would take some kind of personal
   crisis to make him abandon us, and there isn't much that can
   affect him."
   39
   Alan Dean Foster
   "Nevertheless, though I would like to have both of them
   back with us, time is becoming too important." The turtle let
   out a resigned sigh. "If the weather breaks tomorrow, as 1
   believe it may, we will wait one additional day. Then we musl
   be on our way or else we might as well forget this entire
   mission."
   "Praise the weather," murmured Mudge hopefully, ano
   turned over in his blankets....
   40
   Ill
   When Jon-Tom woke the following morning, his first sight
   was of the rear canvas panel. It had been neatly pinned up,
   and sunlight was streaming brilliantly inside. Flor knelt and
   stared outward, her black hair waterfalling down her back.
   She seemed to sparkle.
   He sat up, threw off his covers. It was eerie after so many
   days of violence not to hear the wind. Also absent was the
   persistent drumming of raindrops overhead. He leaned for-
   ward and peered out. Only a few scattered storm clouds hung
   stubbornly in an otherwise clear sky.
   He crawled up alongside her. A gentle breeze ruffled the
   Swordsward, the emerald endlessness appearing as soft and
   delicate as the down on a young girl's legs. The distant
   yellow puffballs of dandelion trees looked lonely against the
   otherwise unbroken horizon.
   "Good morning, Jon-Tom."
   "Buenos dias. Que pasa, beautiful?"
   41
   Alan Dean Foster
   much. Just enjoying the view. And the sunshine. A
   week in that damn wagon." She fluffed her hair out. "It was
   getting a little squirrelly."
   "Also smelly." He breathed deeply of the fresh air, inhaled
   the rich sweet smell of the rain-swept grasses. Then he
   stepped out onto the rear wagon seat.
   Slowly he turned a circle. There was nothing but greep
   sward and blue sky in all directions. Against that background
   even a distant Falameezar would have stood out like a
   truckload of coal in a snowbank. But there was no sign of the
   dragon or of his quarry.
   "Nobody. Neither of 'em," he said disappointedly, turning
   back to look down into the wagon. Talea had just raised her
   head from beneath a pile of blankets and blinked at him
   sleepily, her red curls framing her face like the scribbles of a
   playful artist.
   "I am most concerned," said Clothahump. He was seated
   at the front end of the wagon, stirring a pot of hot tea. The
   little copper kettle squatted on the portable stove and steamed
   merrily. "It is possible that—" He broke off, pointed toward
   Jon-Tom, and opened his mouth. Jon-Tom heard only the first
   of his comment.
   "I do believe there is someone be—"
   Something yanked hard at Jon-Tom's ankles. Arms
   windmilling the air, he went over backward off me platform.
   He landed hard, the grass cushioning him only slightly.
   Blackness and colorful stars filled his vision, but he did not
   pass out. The darkness was a momentary veil over his eyes.
   By the time his head cleared his hands had been drawn above
   his hair, his ankles placed together, and tough cords wrapped
   around them. Looking down at his feet, he saw not only the
   bindings but a remarkably ugly face.
   Its owner was perhaps two and a half feet tall, very stocky,
   and a perversion of humanity. Jon-Tom decided it looked like
   42
   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   a cross between an elf and a wino. The squat creature boasted
   an enormous, thick black beard.
   Out of this jungle peered two large brown eyes. They
   flanked a monstrous bulbous nose and were in turn framed by
   a pair of huge, floppy ears that somehow managed to fight
   their way out of the wiry hair. There were hints of clothing
   beneath the effervescent mass.
   Thick, stubby fingers made sure of Jon-Tom's bonds. A set
   of sandals large enough for the recumbent youth floored
   enormous feet.
   Tying the other knots was a slightly smaller version of the
   first ugly, except he was blond instead of dark-haired and had
   watery blue eyes.
   Something landed on Jon-Tom's chest and knocked the
   wind out of him. The newcomer was solid as iron and
   , extremely muscular. It was not the build of a body builder but
   instead the seamlessly smooth and deceptively porcine mus-
   culature of the power lifter.
   The one on his chest now was female. Only a few red
   whiskers protruded from her chin. She was no less gruesome
   in appearance than her male counterparts. She was shaking a
   fist in his face and jabbering at high speed. For the first time
   since arriving in Mudge's meadow words had no meaning to
   him.
   He turned his head away from that indifferently controlled
   fist. Angry noises and thumping sounds came from the
   wagon. He looked to his right, but the grass hid whatever was
   happening there.
   Of only one thing was he certain: the sward was alive with
   dozens of the fast-moving, excited creatures.
   The dray lizards wheezed and hissed nervously as the little
   monsters swarmed onto harness and reins. Mixed in with the
   beelike babbling of their assailants Jon-Tom could make out
   other voices. Most notable was that of Caz, who was speak-
   43
   Alan Dean Foster
   ing in an unfamiliar language similar to that of their captors.
   Mudge could be heard alternately cursing and bemoaning his
   fate, while Talea was railing at an attacker, warning that if he
   didn't get his oversized feet off her chest she was going to
   make a candlewick out of his beard.
   A pole was brought and neatly slipped between the bind-
   ings on Jon-Tom's ankles and the others at his wrists. He was
   lifted into the air. Clearing the ground by only a few inches,
   he was borne off at considerable speed through the grass. He
   could see at least half a dozen of his captors shouldering the
   pole, three at his feet and three above his head. Although his
   sense of speed was artificially accelerated by his proximity to
   the ground, he fervently prayed that his bearers' sense of
   direction was as efficient as their deltoids. The sharp grass did
   not seem to bother them.
   With a creak he saw the wagon turn and follow.
   He had resigned himself to a long period of jouncing and
   bumping, but it hardly seemed he'd been picked up when he
   was unceremoniously dumped on the ground. Flor was dropped
   next to him. One by one he watched as the rest of his
   companions were deposited alongside. They mashed down
   the grass so he could see them clearly, lined up like so many
   kabobs. The similarity was not encouraging.
   Clothahump had evidentally retreated into his shell in an
   attempt to avoid being moved. They had simply hefted him
   shell and all to carry him. When he finally stuck arms and
   legs out again, they were waiting with lassos and ropes. They
   managed to snare only a leg before he retreated in on himself.
   Mutterings issued from inside the shell. This produced
   excited conversation among the creatures. They kicked and
   punched at the impervious body frantically.
   The activity was directed by one of their number, who
   displayed a variety of metal ornaments and decorative bits of
   bone in hair and beard. Under his direction a couple of the
   44
   THE HOUR Or THE GATS
   creatures poked around inside the shell. They were soon able
   to drag the protesting, indignant turtle's head out. With the
   aid of others they shoved several bunches of dried, balled-up
   grass into his mouth and secured the gag tightly. Clothahump
   reached up to pull the stuffing out, and they tied his arms
   also. At that point he slumped back and looked exhausted.
   The creature resplendent in bone and metal jumped up and
   down happily, jabbing a long feather-encrusted pole at the
   now safely bound and gagged turtle. Evidently the fashion
   plate was the local witch doctor or wizard, Jon-Tom decided.
   He'd recognized that Clothahump had been starting a spell
   inside bis shell and had succeeded in rendering his opponent
   magically impotent.
   Jon-Tom lay quietly and wondered if they would recognize
   the sorceral potential of his singing, but the duar was inside
   the, wagon and he was firmly tied on the ground.
   Moans came from nearby. Straining, he saw another of
   their captors idly kicking Talea with considerable force. Each
   time she'd curse her tormentor he'd kick her. She would jerk
   in pain and it would be several minutes before she regained
   enough strength to curse him again.
   "Knock it off!" he yelled at her assailant. "Pick on
   somebody your own size!"
   The creature responded by leaving Talea and walking over
   to stare curiously down into Jon-Tom's face. He jabbered at
   him experimentally.
   Jon-Tom smiled broadly. "Same to you, you sawed-off
   shithead."
   It's doubtful the creature followed Jon-Tom's meaning, but
   he accepted the incomprehensible comment with equanimity
   and commenced booting the lanky youth in the side instead.
   Jon-Tom gritted his teeth and refused to give the creature the
   satisfaction of hearing him groan.
   After several kicks produced nothing but a steady glare, his
   45
   Alan Dean Foster
   attacker became bored and wandered off to argue with some 01
   his companions.
   In fact, there appeared to be as much fighting taking place
   between members of the tribe as there'd been between them
   and their captives. Jon-Tom looked around and was astonished
   to see tiny structures, camp fires, and ugly, hairless smallei
   versions of the adults, which could only be children. Small
   green and blue lizards wore backpacks and suggested scaly
   mules. There was consistent and unrelenting activity taking
   place around the six bound bodies.
   Camp fires and buildings gave every appearance of having
   been in place for some time. Jon-Tom tried to estimate the
   distance they'd traveled.
   "Christ," he muttered, "we couldn't have been camped
   more than a couple of hundred yards from this town, and we
   never even saw them."
   "The grass conceals the Mimpa," Caz told him. Jon-Torr
   looked to his right, saw rabbit ears pointed in his direction
   "They move freely among it, completely hidden from most
   of their enemies."
   "Call 'em what you like. They look like trolls to me." Hi?
   brow twisted in thought. "Except I always thought troll?
   lived underground. Singularly unlovely bunch, too."
   "Well, I know naught of trolls, my friend, but the Mimpa
   live in the sward."
   "Like fleas," Mudge snorted from somewhere nearby
   "An' if I could get loose I'd start on a little deinfestation,
   wot!"
   Now Jon-Tom could just see the otter's head. His cap was
   missing, no doubt knocked off during the struggle for the
   wagon. The otter was jerking around as if he were wired,
   trying to break free.
   Of them all he was the only one who could match their
   captors for sheer energy, but he could not break the ropes.
   46
   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   Jon-Tom turned his attention back to the rabbit. "Can you
   talk to them, Caz?"
   "I believe I can understand their language somewhat,"
   was the reply. "A well-traveled animal picks up all sorts of
   odd knowledge. As to whether I can 'talk' to them, I don't
   think so. Talking takes two, and they strike me as particularly
   nonconversant with strangers."
   "How is it they speak a language we can't follow?"
   "I expect that has something to do with their being
   violently antagonistic to what we think of as civilized life.
   They're welcome to their isolation, so far as I am concerned.
   They are incorrigibly hostile, incorrigibly filthy, and bellicose
   to the point of paranoia. I sincerely wish they would all rot
   where they stand."
   "Amen to that," said Flor.
   "What are they going to do with us, Caz?"
   "They're talking about that right now." He gestured with
   an unbound ear. "That one over there with the spangles, the
   chap who fancies himself something of a local dandy? The
   one who unfortunately forestalled Clothahump's spell cast-
   ing? He's arguing with a couple of his equals. Apparently
   they function as some sort of rudimentary council."
   Jon-Tom craned his neck, could just see the witch doctor
   animatedly arguing with two equally pretentious and noisy
   fellows.
   One of them displayed the mother of all Fu Manchu
   mustaches. It drooped almost to his huge splayed feet. Other
   than that he was entirely bald. The third member of the
   unkempt triumvirate had a long pointed beard and waxed
   mustachio, but wore his hair in a crew cut. Both were as
   outlandishly clad as the witch doctor.
   "From what I can make out," said Caz, "Baldy thinks
   they ought to let us go. The other two, Battop and Bigmouth,
   47
   Alan Dean Foster
   say that since hunting has been poor lately they should
   sacrifice us to the gods of the Sward."
   "Who's winning?" Flor wanted to know. Jon-Tom thought
   that for the first time she was beginning to look a little
   frightened. She had plenty of company.
   "Can't we talk to them at all?" he asked hopefully. "What
   about the one who had Clothahump gagged? Do you know hb
   real name?"
   "I already told you," said Caz. "His name is Bigmouth.
   Flattop, Baldy, and Bigmouth: that's how their names translate.
   And no, I don't think we can talk to them. Even if I knew the
   right words I don't think they'd let me get a word in
   edgewise. It seems that he who talks loudest without letting
   his companions make their points is the one who wins the
   debate."
   "Then if it's just a matter of shouting, why don't you give
   it a try?"
   "Because I think they'd cut out my tongue if I interrupted
   them. I am a better gambler than that, my friend."
   It didn't matter, because as he watched the debate-came tc
   an end. Baldy shook a threatening finger less than an inch
   from Bigmouth's proboscis, whereupon Bigmouth frowned
   and kicked the overly demonstrative Baldy in the nuts. As he
   doubled over, Rattop brought a small but efficient-looking
   club down on Baldy's head. This effectively concluded the
   discussion.
   Considerable cheering rose from the excited listeners, who
   never seemed to be standing still, a condition duplicated by
   their mouths.
   Jon-Tom wondered at the humanoid metabolism that could
   generate such nonstop energy.
   "I am afraid our single champion has been vanquished,"
   said Caz.
   48
   THE HOUR Or THE GATE
   "I don't want to die," muttered Flor. "Not here, not in
   this place." She started reciting Hail Marys in Spanish.
   "I don't want to die either," Jon-Tom yelled at her in
   frustration.
   "This isn't happening," she was saying dully. "It's all a
   dream."
   "Sorry, Flor," he told her unsympathetically. "I've already
   been that route. It's no dream. You were enjoying yourself
   until now, remember?"
   "It was all so wonderful," she whispered. She wasn't
   crying, but restraining herself required considerable effort.
   "Our friends, the quest we're on, when we rescued you that
   night in Polastrindu... it's been just as I'd always imagined
   mis sort of thing would be. Being murdered by ignorant
   aborigines doesn't fit the rest. Can they actually kill us?"
   "I think they can." Jon-Tom was too tired and afraid even
   to be sarcastic. "And I think we'll actually die, and actually
   be buried, and actually be food for worms. If we don't get out
   from here." He looked across at Clothahump, but the wizard
   could only close his eyes apologetically.
   If we could just lower the gag in Clothahump's mouth
   when they're busy elsewhere, he thought anxiously. Some
   kind of spell, even one that would just distract them, would
   be enough.
   But while the Mimpa were uncivilized they were clearly
   not fools, nor quite so ignorant as Caz believed. That night
   they confidently ignored all their captives except the carefully
   watched Clothahump.
   At or near midnight they were all made the centerpiece of a
   robust celebration. Grass was cut down with tiny axes to form
   a cleared circle, and the captives were deposited near the
   center, amid a ground cover of foul-smelling granular brown
   stuff.
   Plor wrinkled her nose, tried breathing through her mouth
   49
   Alan Dean Foster
   instead. "Mierda... what have they covered the ground here
   with?"
   "I believe it is dried, powdered lizard dung," said Caz
   worriedly. "I fear it will ruin my stockings."
   "Part of the ceremony?" Jon-Tom had grown accustomed
   to strange smells.
   "I think it may be more than that, my friend. It appears to
   retard the growth of the Sward grasses. An efficient if
   malodorous method of control."
   Small fires were lit in a circle, uncomfortably near the
   bound prisoners. Jon-Tom would have enjoyed the resultant
   celebration for its barbaric splendor and enthusiasm, were it
   not for the fact that he was one of the proverbial pigs at the
   center of the banquet table.
   "You said they'd sacrifice us to the gods of the Sward."
   As he spoke to Caz he fought to retain both confidence and
   sanity. "What gods do they have in mind?" His thoughts
   were of the lithe, long-limbed predators they'd seen sliding
   ribbonlike through the grass their first week out of Polastrindu.
   "I have no idea as yet, my friend." He sniffed disdainfully.
   "Whatever, I'm sure it will be a depressing way for a
   gentleman to die."
   "Is there another way?" Even Mudge's usually irrepress-
   ible good humor was gone.
   "I had hoped," replied the rabbit, "to die in bed."
   Mudge let out a high whistle, some of his good spirits
   returning. "0' course, mate. Now why didn't I think o' that
   right off? This 'ole miserable situation's got me normal
   thinkin' paths crossed whixwize. And not alone, I'd wager."
   "Not alone your whixwized thoughts, or dying in bed?"
   asked Caz with a smile.
   "Sort o' a joint occasion is wot I'd 'ave in mind." Again
   the otter whistle, and they both laughed.
   50
   THE HOUR Or THE GATE
   "I'm glad somebody thinks this is fanny." Talea glared at
   them both.
   "No," said Caz more quietly, "I don't think it's very
   funny at all, glowtop. But our hands and feet are bound, I can
   reach no familiar salve or balm from our supplies though I am
   bruised all over. I can't do anything about the damage to my
   body, but I try to medicate the spirit. Laughter is soothing to
   that."
   Jon-Tom could see her turn away from the rabbit, her badly
   tousled hair even redder in the glow from the multiple fires.
   Her shoulders seemed to droop and he felt an instinctive
   desire to reach out and comfort her.
   Odd the occasions when you have insights into the person-
   alities of others, he thought. Talea struck him as unable to
   find much laughter at all in life, or, indeed, pleasure of any
   kind. He wondered at it. High spirits and energy were not
   necessarily reflective of happiness. He found himself feeling
   sorry for her.
   Might as well feel sorry for yourself, an inner voice
   reminded him. If you don't slip loose of these pygmy para-
   noids you soon won't be able to feel sorry for anyone.
   Unable to pull free of his bonds, he started working his
   way across the circle, trying to come up against a rock sharp
   enough to cut diem. But the soil was thick and loamy, and he
   encountered nothing larger than a small pebble.
   Failing to locate anything else he tried sawing patiently at
   his ropes with fingernails. The tough fiber didn't seem to be
   parting in the least. Eventually the effort exhausted him and
   he slid into a deep, troubled sleep....
   Sl
   IV
   It was morning when next he opened his eyes. Smoke
   drifted into the cloudy sky from smoldering camp fires,
   fleeing the still, swardless circle like bored wraiths.
   Once more the carrying poles were brought into use and he
   felt himself lifted off the ground. Flor went up next to him,
   and the others were strung out behind. As before, the journey
   was brief. No more than three or four hundred yards from the
   site of the transitory village, he estimated.
   Quite a crowd had come along to watch. The poles were
   removed. Mimpa gathered around the six limp bodies. Chattering
   among themselves, they arranged their captives in a circle,
   back to back, their legs stuck out like the spokes of a wheel.
   Arms were bound together so that no one could lie down or
   move without his five companions being affected. A large
   post was placed in the center of the circle, hammered exuberantly
   into the earth, and the prisoners shoulders bound to it.
   They sat in the center of a second clearing, as smelly as the
   S3
   Alan Dean Foster
   first. The Mimpa satisfied themselves that the center pole was
   securely in the ground and then moved away, jabbering
   excitedly and gesturing in a way Jon-Tom did not like at the
   captives ringing the pole.
   Despite the coolness of the winter morning and the consid-
   erable cloud cover, he was sweating even without his cape.
   He'd worked his nails and wrists until all the nails were
   broken and blood stained the restraining fibers. They had
   been neither cut nor loosened.
   Along with other useless facts he noted that the grass
   around them was still moist from the previous night's rain
   and that his feet were facing almost due north. Clothahump
   was struggling to speak. He couldn't make himself under-
   stood around the gag and in any case didn't have the strength
   in his aged frame to continue the effort much longer.
   "We can move our legs, anyway," Jon-Tom pointed out,
   raising his bound feet and slamming them into the ground.
   "Actually, they have secured us in an excellent defensive
   posture," agreed Caz. "Our backs are protected. We are not
   completely helpless."
   "If any of those noulps show up, they'll find out what kind
   of legs I have," said Flor grimly, kicking out experimentally
   with her own feet.
   "Lucky noulps," commented Mudge.
   "What a mind you have, otter. La cabeza bizzaro." She
   drew her knees up to her chest and thrust out violently. "First
   predator that comes near me is going to lose some teeth. Or
   choke on my feet."
   Jon-Tom kicked outward again, finding the expenditure of
   energy gratifying. "Maybe they'll be like sharks and have
   sensitive noses. Maybe they'll even turn toward the Mimpa,
   finding them easier prey than us."
   "Mayhap," said Caz, "but I think you are all lost in
   wishful thinking, my friends." He nodded toward the muttering,
   54
   THE HOUR OF THE GATS
   watchful nomads. "Evidently they are not afraid of whatever
   they are waiting for. That suggests to me a most persistent
   and myopic adversary."
   In truth, if they were anticipating the appearance of some
   ferocious carnivore, Jon-Tom couldn't understand why the
   Mimpa continued to remain close by. They appeared relaxed
   and expectant, roughly as fearful as children on a Sunday
   School picnic.
   What kind of devouring "god" were they expecting?
   "Don't you hear something?" At Talea's uncertain query
   everyone went quiet. The attitude of expectancy simultaneously
   rose among the assembled Mimpa.
   This was it, then. Jon-Tom tensed and cocked his legs. He
   would kick until he couldn't kick any more, and if one of
   those predators got its jaws on him he'd follow Flor's sugges-
   tion and shove his legs down its throat until it choked to
   death. They wouldn't go out without a fight, and with six of
   them functioning in tandem they might stand an outside
   chance of driving off whatever creature or creatures were
   coming close.
   Unfortunately, it was not simply a matter of throats.
   By straining against the supportive pole Jon-Tom could just
   see over the weaving crest of the Sward. All he saw beyond
   riffling tufts of greenery was a stand of exquisite blue- and
   rose-hued flowers. It was several minutes before he realized
   that the flowers were moving.
   "Which way is it?" asked Talea.
   "Where you hear the noise." He nodded northward. "Over
   there someplace."
   "Can you see it yet?"
   "I don't think so." The blossoms continued to grow larger.
   "All I can see so far are flowers that appear to be coming
   toward us. Camouflage, or protective coloration maybe."
   "I'm afraid it's likely to be rather more substantial than
   56
   Alan Dean Foster
   that." Caz's nose was twitching rapidly now. Clothahump
   produced a muffled, urgent noise.
   "I fear the kicking will do us no good," the rabbit
   continued dispiritedly. "They apparently have set us in the
   path of a Marching Porprut."
   "A what?" Flor gaped at him. "Sounds like broken
   plumbing."
   "An analogy closer to the mark than I think you suspect,
   night-maned." He grinned ruefully beneath his whiskers. "As
   you shall see all too soon, I fear."
   They resumed fighting their restraints while the Mimpa
   jabbering rose to an anticipatory crescendo. The assembled
   aborigines were jumping up and down, pounding the ground
   with their spears and clubs, and pointing gleefully from
   captives to flowers.
   Flor slumped, worn out from trying to free herself. "Why
   are they doing this to us? We never did anything to them."
   "The minds of primitives do not function on the same
   cause-and-effect principles that rule our lives." Caz sniffed,
   his ears drooping, nose in constant motion. "Yes, it must be a
   Porprut. We should soon be able to see it."
   Another sound was growing audible above the yells and
   howls of the hysterical Mimpa. It was a low pattering noise,
   like small twigs breaking underfoot or rain falling hard on a
   wooden roof or a hundred mice consuming plaster. Most of
   all it reminded Jon-Tom of people in a theater, watching
   quietly and eating popcorn. Eating noises, they were.
   The row of solid Sward grass to the north began to rustle.
   Fascinated and horrified, the captives fought to see beyond
   the greenery.
   Suddenly darker vegetation appeared, emerging above the
   thin, familiar blades of me Sward. At first sight it seemed
   only another type of weed, but each writhing, snakelike
   olive-colored stalk held a tiny circular mouth lined with fine
   56
   THE HOUR OF Tm GATE
   fuzzy teeth. These teeth gnawed at the Sward grass. They ate
   slowly, but there were dozens of them. Blades went down as
   methodically as if before a green combine.
   These tangled, horribly animate stems vanished into a
   brownish-green labyrinth of intertwined stems and stalks and
   nodules. Above them rose beautiful pseudo-orchids of rose
   and blue petals.
   At the base of the mass of slowly moving vegetation was
   an army of feathery white worm shapes. These dug deeply
   into the soil. New ones were appearing continuously out of
   the bulk, pressing down to the earth like the legs of a
   millipede. Presumably others were pulled free behind as the
   creature advanced across the plain.
   "'Tis like no animal I have ever heard of or seen," said
   Talea in disgust.
   "It's not an animal. At least, I don't think it is," Jon-Tom
   murmured. "I think it's a plant. A communal plant, a
   mobile, self-contained vegetative ecosystem."
   "More magic words." Talea fought at her bonds, with no
   more success than before. "They will not free us now."
   "See," he urged them, intrigued as he was horrified,
   "how it constantly puts down new roots in front. That's how
   it moves."
   "It does more than move," Caz observed. "It will scour
   me earth clean, cutting as neat and even a path across the
   Swordsward as any reaper."
   "But we're not plants. We're not part of the Sward," Hor
   pointed out, keeping a dull stare on the advancing plant.
   "I do not think the Porprut is much concerned with
   citizenship," said Caz tiredly. "It appears to be a most
   indiscriminate consumer. I believe it will devour anything
   unable or too stupid to get out of its path."
   Much of the Porprut had emerged into the clearing. The
   Mimpa had moved back but continued to watch its advance
   57
   Alan Dean Foster
   and the effect it produced in its eventual prey. It was much
   larger than Jon-Tom had first assumed. The front was a good
   twenty feet across. If the earth behind it was as bare as Caz
   suggested, then when the creature had finished with them
   they would not even leave behind their bones.
   It was particularly horrible to watch because its advance
   was so slow. The Porprut traveled no more than an inch 01
   two every few minutes at a steady, unvarying pace. At that
   rate it would take quite a while before they were all con-
   sumed. Those on the south side of the pole would be forced
   to watch, and listen, as their companions closer to the
   advancing plant were slowly devoured.
   It promised a particularly gruesome death. That prospect
   induced quite a lot of pleasure among the watchful Mimpa.
   Jon-Tom dug his feet into the soft, cleared earth and kicked
   violently outward. A spray of earth and gravel showered
   down on the forefront of the approaching creature. The
   writhing tendrils and the mechanically chewing mouths the^
   supported took no notice of it. Even if-the prisoners had their
   weapons and freedom, it still would have been more sensible
   to run than to stand and fight.
   It was loathesome to think you were about to be killed by
   something neither hostile nor sentient, he mused. There was
   nothing to react to them. There was no head, no indication of
   a central nervous system, no sign of external organs of
   perception. No ears, no eyes. It ate and moved; it was
   supremely and unspectaculariy efficient. A basic mass-energy
   converter that differed only in the gift of locomotion from a
   blade of grass, a tree, a blueberry bush.
   In a certain perverse way he was able to admire the manner
   in which those dozens of insatiable mouths sucked and
   snapped up even the least hint of growth or the tiniest
   crawling bug from the ground.
   "Fire, maybe," he muttered. "If I could get at my sparker,
   58
   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   or make a spell with the duar. Or if Clothahump could
   speak." But the wizard's struggles had been as ineffective as
   his magic was powerful. Unable to loosen his bonds or his
   gag, he could only stare, helpless as the rest, as the thousand-
   rooted flora edged toward them.
   "I don't want to die," Flor whispered, "not like this."
   "Now, we been through all that, luv," Mudge reminded
   her. " 'Tis no use worryin' about it each time it seems about
   t' 'appen, or you'll worry yourself t' death. Bloody disgustin'
   way t' go, wot?"
   "What's the difference?" said Jon-Tom tiredly. "Death's
   death, one way or the other. Besides," he grinned humoriessly,
   "as much salad and vegetables as I've eaten, it only seems
   fair."
   "How can you still joke about it?" Flor eyed him in
   disbelief.
   "Because there's nothing funny about it, that's how."
   "You're not making any sense."
   "You don't make any sense, either!" he fairly screamed at
   her. "This whole world doesn't make any sense! Life doesn't
   make any sense! Existence doesn't make any sense!"
   She recoiled from his violence. As abruptly as he'd lost
   control, he calmed himself. "And now that we've disposed of
   all the Great Questions pertaining to life, I suggest that if we
   all rock in unison we might be able to loosen this damn pole
   and make some progress southwestward. Ready? One, two,
   three..."
   They used their legs as best they could, but it was hard to
   coordinate the actions of six people of very different size and
   strength and would have been even if they hadn't been tied in
   a circle around the central pole.
   It swayed but did not come free of the ground. All this
   desperate activity was immensely amusing to the swart spec-
   59
   Alan Dean Foster
   tators behind them. As with everything else it was ignored b)
   the patiently advancing Porprut.
   It was only a foot or so from Jon-Tom's boots when the
   proverbial sparker he'd wished for suddenly appeared. Amid
   shouts of terror and outrage the Mimpa suddenly melted into
   the surrounding Sward. Something blistered the right side of
   Jon-Tom's face. The gout of flame roared a second time in his
   ears, then a third.
   By then the Porprut had halted, its multiple mouths twisting
   and contorting in a horrible, silent parody of pain while the
   falsely beautiful red and blue blooms shriveled into black ash.
   It made not a sound while it was being incinerated.
   A winged black shape was fluttering down among the
   captives. It wielded a small, curved knife in one wing. With
   this it sliced rapidly through their bonds.
   "Damn my ears but I never fought we'd find ya!" said the
   excited Pog. His great eyes darted anxiously as he moved
   from one bound figure to the next. "Never would have,
   either, if we hadn't spotted da wagon. Dat was da only ting
   dat stuck up above da stinking grass." He finished freeing
   Clothahump and moved next to Jon-Tom.
   Missing his spectacles, which remained in the wagon,
   Clothahump squinted at the bat while rubbing circulation
   back into wrists and ankles. The woven gag he threw into the
   Sward.
   "Better a delayed appearance than none at all, good famu-
   lus. You have by rescuing us done the world a great service.
   Civilization owes you a debt, Pog."
   "Yeah, tell me about it, boss. Dat's da solemn truth, an' I
   ain't about ta let civilization forget it."
   Free again, Jon-Tom climbed to his feet and started off
   toward the wagon.
   "Where are you going, boy?" asked the wizard.
   "To get my duar." His fear had rapidly given way to
   60
   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   anger. "There are one or two songs I want to sing for our
   little friends. I didn't think I'd have the chance and I don't
   want to forget any of the words, not while they're .still fresh
   in my mind. Wait till you hear some of 'em, Clothahump.
   They'll bum your ears, but they'll do worse to—"
   "I do not have any ears in the sense you mean them, my
   boy. I suggest you restrain yourself."
   "Restrain myself!" He whirled on the wizard, waved
   toward the rapidly carbonizing lump of the Porprut. "Not
   only were the little bastards going to feed us slowly to that
   monstrosity, but they were all sitting there laughing and
   having a hell of a fine time watching! Maybe revenge isn't in
   the lexicon of wizards, but it sure as hell is in mine."
   "There's no need, my boy." Clothahump waddled over
   and put a comforting hand on Jon-Tom's wrist. "I assure you
   I bear no misplaced love for our hastily departed aboriginal
   associates. But^as you can see, they have departed."
   In truth, as he looked around, Jon-Tom couldn't see a
   single ugly arm, leg, or set of whiskers.
   "It is difficult to put a spell on what you cannot see," said
   the wizard. "You also forget the unpredictability of your
   redoubtable talents. Impelled by uncontrolled anger, they
   might generate more trouble than satisfaction. I should dislike
   being caught in the midst of an army of, say, vengeful
   daemons who, not finding smaller quarry around, might turn
   their deviltry on us."
   Jon-Tom slumped. "All right, sir. You know best. But if I
   ever see one of the little fuckers again I'm going to split it on
   my spearpoint like a squab!"
   "A most uncivilized attitude, my friend," Caz joined
   them, rubbing his fur and brushing daintily at his soiled silk
   stockings. "One in which I heartily concur." He patted
   Jon-Tom on the back.
   61
   Alan Dean Poster
   "That's what this expedition needs: less thinking and more
   bloodthirstiness. Cut and slash, hack and rend!"
   "Yeah, well..." Jon-Tom was becoming a bit embarrassed
   at his own mindless fury. It was hardly the image he held of
   himself. "I don't think revenge is all that unnatural ac
   impulse."
   "Of course it's not," agreed Caz readily. "Perfectly natural."
   "What's perfectly natural?" Flor limped up next to them.
   Her right leg was still asleep. Despite the ordeal they'd just
   undergone, Jon-Tom thought she looked as magnificent as
   ever.
   "Why, our tall companion's desire to barbeque any of our
   disagreeable captors that he can catch."
   "Si, I'm for that." She started for the wagon. "Let's get
   our weapons and get after them."
   This time it was Jon-Tom who extended the restraining
   hand. Now he was truly upset at the manner in which he'd
   been acting, especially in front of the dignified, sensible Caz.
   "I'm not talking about forgiving and forgetting," he told
   her, shivering a little as he always did at the physical contact
   of hand and arm, "but it's not practical. They could ambush
   us in the Sward, even if they hung around."
   "Well we can damn well sure have a look!" she protested.
   "What kind of a man are you?"
   "Want to look and see?" he shot back challengingly.
   She stared at him a moment longer, then broke into an
   uncontrollable giggle. He laughed along with her, as much
   from nervousness and the relief of release as from the poor
   joking.
   "Hokay, hokay," she finally admitted, "so we have more
   important things to do, si?"
   "Precisely, young lady." Clothahump gestured toward the
   wagon. "Let us put ourselves back in shape and be once
   more on our path."
   62
   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   But Jon-Tom waited behind while the others reentered the
   wagon and set to the task of organizing the chaos the Mimpa
   had made of its contents.
   Walking back to the cleared circle which had so nearly
   been their burial place, he found a large black and purple
   form bending over a burned-out pile of vegetation. Falameezar
   had squatted down on his haunches and was picking with one
   massive claw at the heap of ash and woody material.
   "We're all grateful as hell, Falameezar. No one more so
   than myself."
   The dragon glanced numbly back at him, barely taking
   notice of his presence. His tone was ponderously, unexpectedly,
   somber.
   "I have made a grave mistake. Comrade. A grave mis-
   take." The dragon sighed. His attention was concentrated on
   the crisped, smoking remains of the Porprut as he picked and
   prodded at the blackened tendrils with his claws.
   "What's troubling you?" asked Jon-Tom. He walked close
   and affectionately patted the dragon's flank.
   The head swung around to gaze at him mournfully. "I have
   destroyed," he moaned, "an ideal communal society. A
   perfect communistic organism."
   "You don't know that's what it was, Falameezar," Jon-
   Tom argued. "It might have been a normal creature with a
   single brain."
   "I do not think so." Falameezar slowly shook his head,
   looking and sounding as depressed as it was possible for a
   dragon to be. Little puffs of smoke occasionally floated up
   from his nostrils.
   "I have looked inside the corpse. There are many individu-
   al sections of creature inside, all twisted and intertwined
   together, intergrown and interdependent. All functioning in
   perfect, bossless harmony."
   Jon-Tom stepped away from the scaly side. "I'm sorry."
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   Alan Dean Foster
   He thought carefully, not daring to offend the dragon but
   worried about its state of mind. "Would you have rather
   you'd left it alone to nibble us to death?"
   "No, Comrade, of course not. But I did not realize fully
   what it consisted of. If I had, I might have succeeded in
   making it shift its path around you. So I have been forced to
   murder a perfect natural example of what civilized society
   should aspire to." He sighed. "I fear now I must do penance,
   my comrade friend."
   A little nervous, Jon-Tom gestured at the broad, endless
   field of the Swordsward. "There are many dangers out there,
   Comrade. Including the still monstrous danger we have talked
   so much about."
   It was turning to evening. Solemn clouds promised another
   night of rain, and there was a chill in the air that even hinted
   at some snow. It was beginning to feel like real winter out on
   the grass-clad plain.
   A cold wind sprang from the direction of the dying sun.
   went through Jon-Tom's filthy leathers. "We need your help,
   Falameezar."
   "I am sorry, Comrade. I have my own troubles now. You
   will have to face future dangers without me. For I am truly
   sorrowful over what I have done here, the more so because
   with a little thought it might have been avoided." He tamed
   and lumbered off into the rising night, his feet crushing dowr
   the Sward, which sprang up resiliently behind him.
   "Are you Sure?" Jon-Tom followed to the edge of the
   cleared circle, put out imploring hands. "We really need you,
   Comrade. We have to help each other or the great danger will
   overwhelm all of us. Remember the coming of the bosses of
   bosses!"
   "You have your other friends, your other comrades to
   assist you, Jon-Tom," the dragon called back to him across
   (he waves of the green sea. "I have no one but myself."
   "But you're one of us!"
   64
   THE HOUR Or THE GATE
   The dragon shook his head. "No, not yet. For a time I had
   willed to myself that it was so. But I have failed, or I would
   have seen a solution to your rescue that did not involve this
   murder."
   "How could you? There wasn't time!" He could barely see
   me dark outline now.
   "I'm sorry, Comrade Jon-Tom." Falameezar's voice was
   faint with distance and guilt. "Good-bye."
   "Good-bye, Falameezar." Jon-Tom watched until the dragon
   had completely vanished, then looked disappointedly at the
   ground. "Dammit," he muttered.
   He returned to the wagon. Lamps were lit now. Under their
   familiar, friendly glow Caz and Mudge were checking the
   condition of the dray team. Flor, Clothahump, and Talea were
   restocking their scattered supplies. The wizard's glasses were
   pinched neatly on his beak. He looked out and down as
   Jon-Tom, hands shoved into his pockets and gaze on the
   ground, sauntered up to him.
   "Problems, my boy?"
   Jon-Tom raised his eyes, nodded southward. "Falameezar's
   left us. He was upset at having to kill the damn Porprut. I
   tried my best to argue him out of it, but he'd made up his
   mind."
   "You did well even to try," said Clothahump comfortingly.
   "Not many would have the courage to debate a dragon's
   decision. They are terribly stubborn. Well, no matter. We
   shall make our way without him."
   "He was the strongest of us," Jon-Tom murmured
   disappointedly. "He did more in thirty seconds to the Porprut
   and the Mimpa than all the rest of us were able to do at all.
   No telling how much trouble just his presence prevented."
   "It is true we shall miss his brute strength," said the
   wizard, "but intelligence and wisdom are worth far more
   than any amount of muscle."
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   Alan Dean Foster
   "Maybe so." Jon-Tom vaulted into the back of the wagon.
   "But I'd still feel better with a little more bmte strength on
   our side."
   "We must not bemoan our losses," Clothahump said
   chidingly, "but must push ahead. At least we will no longer
   be troubled by the Mimpa." He let out an unwizardly chuck-
   le. "It will be days before they cease running."
   "Do we continue on tonight, then?"
   "For a short while, just enough to leave this immediate
   area behind. Then we shall mount a guard, just in case, and
   continue on tomorrow in daylight. The weather looks un-
   pleasant and we will have difficulty enough in holding to our
   course.
   "Then too, while I don't know how you young folk are
   feeling, I'm not ashamed to confess that the body inside this
   old shell is very much in need of sleep."
   Jon-Tom had no argument with that. Falameezar or no
   Falameezar, Mimpa or no Mimpa, he was dead tired. Which
   was a good deal better than what he'd earlier thought he'd be
   this night: plain dead.
   The storm did not materialize the next day, nor the one
   following, though the Swordsward received its nightly dose of
   steady rain. Plor was taking a turn at driving the wagon. It
   was early evening and they would be stopping soon to make
   camp.
   A full moon was rising behind layers of gray eastern
   clouds, a low orange globe crowning the horizon. It turned
   the rain clouds to gauze as it lifted behind them, shedding
   ruddy light over the darkening sward. Snowflakelike reflec-
   tions danced elf steps on the residue of earlier rain.
   From the four patient yoked lizards came a regular, heavy
   swish-swish as they pushed through the wet grasses. Easy con-
   versation and occasional laughter punctuated by Mudge's
   lilting whistle drifted out from the enclosed wagon. Small
   66
   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   things rose cautiously to study the onward trundling wooden
   beast before dropping down into grass or groundholes.
   Jon-Tom parted the canvas rain shield and moved to sit
   down on the driver's seat next to Flor. She held the reins
   easily in one hand, as though bom to the task, and glanced
   over at him. Her free hand rested across her thighs. Her long
   black hair was a darker bit of shadow, like a piece of broken
   black plate glass, against the night. Her eyes were luminous
   and huge.
   He looked away from their curious stare and down at his
   hands. They twisted and moved uncomfortably in his lap, as
   though trying to find a place to hide; little five-footed crea-
   tures he could not cage.
   "I think we have a problem."
   "Only one?" She grinned at him, barely paying attention
   to the reins now. Without being told, the lizards would
   continue to plod onward on their present course.
   "But that's what life's all about, isn't it? Solving a series
   of problems? When they're as varied and challenging as
   these," and she flicked long nails in the air, a brief gesture
   mat casually encompassed two worlds and a shift in dimen-
   sion, "why, that adds to the spice of it."
   "That's not the kind of problem I'm talking about, Flor.
   This one is personal."
   She looked concerned. "Anything I can do to help?"
   "Possibly." He looked up at her. "I think I'm in love with
   you. I think I've always been in love with you. I..."
   "That's enough," she told him, raising a restraining hand
   and speaking gently but firmly. "In the first place, you can't
   have always been in love with me because you haven't known
   me for always. Metaphysics aside, Jon-Tom, I don't think
   you've known me long enough.
   "In the second place, I don't think you're really in love
   with me. I think you're in love with the image of me you've
   67
   Alan Dean Foster
   seen and added to in your imagination, es verdad, amigo^ To
   be erode about it, you're in love with my looks, my body
   Don't think I hold it against you. It's not your fault. Your
   desires and wants arc a product of your environment."
   This was not going the way he'd hoped, he mused confusedly.
   "Don't be so sure that you know all about me either, Flor."
   "I'm not." She was not offended by his tone. "I mean,
   how have you 'seen' me, Jon-Tom? How have you 'known'
   me? Short skirt, tight sweater, always the perfect smile,
   perfectly groomed, long hair flouncing and pom-poms jounc-
   ing, isn't that about it?"
   "Don't patronize me."
   "I'm not patronizing you, dammit! Use your head, hom-
   bre. I may look like a pinup, but I don't think like one. You
   can't be in love with me because you don't know me."
   "'Ere now, wot the 'ell are you two fightin' about?"
   Mudge stuck his furry face out from behind the canvas. " 'T!S
   too bloomin' nice a night for such witterin'."
   "Back out, Mudge," said Jon-Tom curdy at the interrup-
   tion. "This is none of your business."
   "Oh, now let's not get our bowels in an uproar, mate. Suit
   yourself." With a last glance at them both, he obligingly
   retreated inside.
   "I won't deny that I find you physically attractive, Flor."
   "Of course you do. You wouldn't be normal if you
   didn't." She stared out across the endless dark plain, kissed
   with orange by the rising moon. "Every man has, ever since
   I was twelve years old. I've been through this before." She
   looked back at him.
   "The point is you don't know me, the real Hores Quintera.
   So you can't be in love with her. I'm flattered, but if we're
   going to have any kind of chance at a real relationship, we'd
   best start fresh, here and now. Without any preconceived
   68
   THE HOUK Of THE QATK
   notions about what I'm like, what you'd like me to be like, or
   what I represent to you. ComprendeV
   "Bor, don't you think I've had a look at the real you these
   past weeks?" Try as he might, he couldn't help sounding
   defensive.
   "Sure you have, but that's hardly long enough. And you
   can't be certain that's the real me, either. Maybe it's only
   another facet of my real personality, whose aspects are still
   changing."
   "Wait a minute," he said hopefully. "You said, 'chance at
   a real relationship.' Does that mean you think we have a
   chance for one?"
   "I've no idea." She eyed him appraisingly. "You're an
   interesting man, Jon-Tom. The fact that you can work magic
   here with your music is fascinating to me. I couldn't do it.
   But I don't know you any better than you know me. So why
   don't we start clean, huh? Pretend I'm just another girl
   you've just met. Let's call this our first date." She nodded
   skyward. "The moon's right for it."
   "Kind of tough to do," he replied, "after you've just
   poured out a deeply felt confession of love. You took that
   apart like a professor dissecting a tadpole."
   "I'm sorry, Jon-Tom." She shrugged. "That's part of the
   way I am. Part of the real me, as much as the pom-poms or
   my love of the adventure of this world. You have to leam to
   accept them all, not just the ones you like." She tried to
   sound encouraging. "If it's any consolation, while I may not
   love you, I do like you."
   "That's not much."
   "Why don't you get rid of that hurt puppy-dog look, too,"
   she suggested. "It won't do you any good. Come on, now.
   Cheer up! You've let out what you had to let out, and I
   haven't rebuffed you completely." She extended an open
   69
   Alan Dean Foster
   hand. "Buenos noches, Jon-Tom. I'm Plores Maria Quintera.
   Como 'stasT'
   He looked silently at her, then down at the proferred palm.
   He took it with a resigned sigh. "Jon-Tom.. .Jon Meriweather.
   Pleased to meet you."
   After that, they got along a little more easily. The punctur-
   ing of Jon-Tom's romantic balloon released tension along
   with hopes....
   70
   v
   It was a very ordinary-looking river, Jon-Tom thought.
   Willow and cypress and live oak clustered thirstily along its
   sloping banks. Small scaly amphibians played in thick under-
   brush. Reeds claimed the quiet places of the slow-moving
   eddies.
   The bank on the far side was equally well fringed with
   vegetation. From time to time they encountered groups of
   animals and humans occupied in various everyday tasks on
   the banks. They would be fishing, or washing clothes, or
   simply watching the sun do the work of carrying forth the
   daytime.
   The wagon turned eastward along the southern shore of the
   Sloomaz-ayor-le-WeentIi, heading toward the growing massif
   of the mountains and passing word of the coming invasion to
   any wannlander who would listen. But the River of Twos was
   a long way from Polastrindu, and the Jo-Troom Gate and the
   71
   Alan Dean Foster
   depredations of the Plated Folk only components of legend to
   the river dwellers.
   All agreed with the travelers on one matter, however: the
   problem of trying to pass downstream and through the Teeth.
   "Eh?" said one wizened old otter in response to their
   query, "ye want to go where?" In contrast to Mudge the
   oldster's fur was streaky-white. So were his facial whiskers.
   Arthritis bent him in the middle and gnarled his hands and
   feet.
   "Ye'll never make it. Ye won't make it past the entrance
   and if ye do, ye'll not find yer way through the rock. Too
   many have tried and none have ever come back."
   "We have resources others did not have," said Clothahump
   confidentally. "I am something of a formidable conjurer, and
   my associate here is a most powerful spellsinger." He ges-
   tured at me lanky form of Ion-Tom. They had stepped down
   from the wagon to talk with the elder. The dray lizards
   munched contentedly on rich riverbank growth.
   The old otter put aside his fishing pole and studied them.
   His short whistle indicated he didn't think much of either man
   or turtle, unseen mental talents notwithstanding.
   "Sorcerers ye may be, but the passage through the Teeth
   by way of the river is little but a legend. Ye can travel b\
   legend only in dreams. Which is all that's likely to be left of
   ye if ye persist in this folly. Sixty years I've lived on the
   banks of the Sloomaz-ayor-le-Weentli." He gestured fondly
   at the flowing water behind him. "Never have I heard tell of
   anyone fool enough to try and go into the mountains by way
   of it."
   "Sounds convincin' enough for me, 'e does." Mudge
   leaned out of the wagon and spoke brightly. "That settles
   that: time to turn about for 'ome."
   Ion-Tom looked over his shoulder at the green-capped face
   "That does not settle it."
   72
   THE HOUR Or THE GATE
   Mudge shrugged cheerfully. "Can't biff a bloke for tryin',
   mate. I ought t' know better, I knows it, but somethin' in me
   insists on tryin' t' fight insanity in the ranks."
   "Ya ought ta have more faith in da master." Pog fluttered
   above the wagon and chided the otter. "Ya oughta believe in
   him and his abilities and great talents." He drifted lower
   above Mudge and whispered. "Frankly, we all been candi-
   dates for da fertilizer pile since we started on dis half-assed
   trek, but if da boss tinks we gots to go on, we don't got much
   choice. Don't make him mad, chum."
   But Jon-Tom had overheard. He walked back to stand next
   to the wagon. "Clothahump knows what he's doing. I'm sure
   if things turned suicidal he'd listen to reason."
   "Ya tink dat, does ya?" Pog's small sharp teeth flashed as
   he hovered in front of Jon-Tom. One wing pointed toward the
   turtle, who was still conversing with the old otter.
   "Da boss has kept Mudge from runnin' off and abandonin'
   dis trip wid t'reats. What makes ya tink he'd be more polite
   where you're concerned?"
   "He owes me a debt," said Jon-Tom. "If I insisted on
   remaining behind, I don't think he'd try to coerce me."
   Pog laughed, whirled around in black circles. "Dat's what
   you tink! Ya may be a spellsinger, Jon-Tom-mans, but you're
   as naive as a baby's belly!' He rose and skimmed off over
   the river, hunting for insects and small flying lizards.
   "Is that your opinion too, Mudge? Do you think Clothahump
   would keep me from leaving if that's what I wanted?"
   "I wouldn't 'ave 'alf a notion, mate. But since you say you
   want to keep on with this madness, there ain't no point in
   arguin' it, is there?" He retreated back inside the wagon,
   leaving Jon-Tom to turn and walk slowly back down to the
   riverbank. Try as he would to shove the thought aside, it
   continued to nag him. He looked a little differently at
   Clothahump.
   73
 
   Alan Dean Foster
   "There be only one way ye might get even partway s
   through," continued the old otter, "and if yer lucky, out
   again alive. That's to have a damn good boatman. Qne who
   knows how to maneuver on the Second river. That's the only
   way ye'll even get inside the mountain."
   "Can you recommend such an individual?" asked
   Clothahump.
   "Oh, I know of several good boatfolk," the oldster boasted.
   He turned, spat something brown and viscous into the water,
   then looked from the turtle to Jon-Tom. "Trouble for ye is
   that ain't none of 'em idiots. And that's going to be as
   important a qualification as any kind of river skill, because
   only an idiot's going to try and take ye where ye wants to
   go!"
   "We have no need of your sarcasm, young fellow," said
   Clothahump impatiently, "only of your advice. If you would
   rather not give us the benefit of your knowledge, then we will
   do our best to find it elsewhere."
   "All right, all right. Hang onto ye shell, ye great stuffed
   diviner of catastrophes!
   "There's one, just one, who might be willing to help ye
   out. He's just fool enough to try it and just damnblast good
   enough to bring it off. Whether ye can talk him into doin' so
   is something else again." He gestured to his left.
   "Half a league farther on you'll find that the riverbank
   rises steeplike. Still farther you'll eventual come across sev-
   eral large oaks overlooking a notch or drop in the cliffs. He's
   got his place down there. Goes by the name of Bribbens
   Oxiey."
   "Thank you for your help," said Clothahump.
   "Would it help if we mentioned your name to him?"
   Jon-Tom wondered.
   The otter laughed, his whistles skipping across the water.
   "Hai, man, the only place me name would help you is in the
   74
   THE HOUR OF THE GATS
   better whorehouses in Wottletowne, and that's not where ye
   are going!"
   Clothahump reached into one of his plastron compart-
   ments, withdrew a small silver coin, and offered it to the
   otter. The oldster stepped away, waving his hands.
   "No, no, not for me, friend! I take no payment for
   assisting the doomed." He gathered up his pole and gear and
   ambled crookedly off upstream.
   "Nice of him to give us that name," said Jon-Tom,
   watching the other depart. "Since he wouldn't take the
   money, why didn't we try to help his arthritis?"
   "Arth.. .his joint-freezes, you mean, boy?" Clothahump
   adjusted his spectacles. "It is a long spell and requires time
   we do not have." He turned resolutely toward the wagon.
   Jon-Tom continued to stand there, watching the crippled
   otter make his loping way eastward. "But he was so helpful."
   "We do not know that yet," the turtle insisted. "I was
   willing to chance a little silver on it, but not a major medical
   spell. He could simply have told us his stories to impress us,
   and the name to get rid of us."
   "Awfully cynical, aren't you?"
   Clothahump gazed up at him as they both scrambled into
   the wagon. "My boy, the first hundred years Of life teaches
   you that no one is inherently good. The next fifty tells you
   that no one is inherently bad, but is shaped by his surround-
   ings. And after two hundred years... give me a hand there,
   that's a good boy." Jon-Tom helped lug the bulky body over
   the wooden rail and into the wagon.
   "After two hundred years, you leam that nothing is pre-
   dictable save that the universe is full of illusions. If the
   cosmos withholds and distorts its truths, why should we
   expect less of such pitifully minute components of it as that
   otter... or you, or me?"
   75
   Alan Dean Foster
   Jon-Tom was left to ponder that as the wagon once more
   rolled noisily westward.
   Everyone hoped the oldster's recommendation was sounder
   than his estimate of distance, for it took them two full days of
   traveling before they encountered three massive oaks domi-
   nating a low dip in the riverbank. While still a respectable
   width, the river had narrowed between the higher banks and
   ran with more power, more confidence, and occasional flecks
   of foam.
   Still, it didn't appear particularly dangerous or hard to
   navigate to Jon-Tom. He wondered at the need for a guide.
   The river was far more gentle than the rapids they had passed
   (admittedly with Falameezar's muscle) on the journey to
   Polastrindu.
   The path that wound its careful way down to the shore was
   narrow and steep. The lizards balked at it. They had to be
   whipped and cajoled downward, their claws shoving at the
   dirt as they tried to move backward instead of down the
   slope. Gravel and rocks slid over the side of the path. Once
   they nearly had a wheel slip over the edge, threatening to
   plunge wagon and lizards and all ass-over-heels into the tiny
   chasm. Verbally and physically, however, they succeeded in
   eventually getting the lizards to the bottom.
   Reeds and ferns dominated the little cove in which they
   found themselves. To the left, hunkered up tight against the
   cliffs, they found a single low building. It was not much
   bigger than a shack. A few small circular windows winked
   like eyes as they approached it, peering out beneath brows of
   adobe and thatching. Smoke curled lazily from the brown and
   gray rock chimney made of rounded river stones.
   What attracted their attention the most was the boat. It was
   moored in the shallows. Water lapped gently at its flanks. A
   well-tumed railing ran around the deck, and there was no
   central cabin.
   76
   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   A heavy steering oar bobbed at the stem. There was also a
   single mast from which a fore-rigged sail hung limp and
   tired, loosely draped across the boom.
   "I hope our guide is as tough as his boat looks to be,"
   said Talea as they mounted the covered porch fronting the
   house.
   "Only one way to find out." Jon-Tom ducked beneath the
   porch roof. The door set in the front of the building was cut
   from aged cypress. There was no window or peephole set into
   it.
   Pog found a comfortable cross-beam, hung head down
   from it, and let out a relieved sigh. "Not fancy, maybe, but a
   peaceful place ta live. I've always liked rivers."
   "How can you like anything?" Talea chided him as they
   inspected the house. "You see everything upside down."
   "Lizard crap," said the bat with a grunt. "You're da ones
   dat sees everyting upside down."
   Clothahump knocked on the door. There was no response.
   He rapped again, harder. Still nothing, so he tried the handle.
   "Locked," he said curtly. "I could spell it open easily
   enough, but that would mean naught if the owner is not
   present." He sounded concerned. "Could he perhaps be off
   on business with a second boat?"
   "If so," Jon-Tom started to say, "it wouldn't hurt us to
   have a short rest. We could wait until—"
   The door opened inward abruptly. The frog that confronted
   them stood just over five feet tall, slightly less than Talea, a
   touch more than Mudge. Tight snakeskin shorts stopped just
   above his knees. The long fringework that lined its hem fell
   almost to his ankles. It swayed slightly as he stood inspecting
   them.
   The shorts were matched by a fringed vest of similar
   material. Beneath it he wore a leathern shut that ended above
   his elbows. Fringe reached from there to his wrists. He wore
   77
   Alan Dean Foster
   no hat, but a single necklace made from the vertebrae of
   some large fish formed a white collar around his green-and-
   yellow-spotted neck.
   His ventral side was a pale blue that shaded to pink at the
   pulsing throat. The rest of his body was dark green marked
   with yellow and black spots. Compared to, say, Mudge or
   Clothahump, the coloration was somewhat overwhelming. He
   would be difficult to lose sight of, even on a dark day.
   Examining them one at a time, the frog surveyed his
   visitors. He thoroughly sized up every member of the group,
   not missing Pog where he hung from the rafter. The bat's
   head had swiveled around to stare curiously at the boatman.
   The frog blinked, spoke in a low monotone distinguished
   by its lack of inflection, friendly or otherwise.
   "Cash or credit?"
   "Cash," replied Clothahump. "Assuming that we can
   work out an agreement to our mutual satisfaction."
   "Mutual my ass," said the frog evenly. "I'm the one who
   has to be satisfied." When Clothahump offered no rebuttal,
   the boatman expressionlessly stepped back inside. "Come on
   in, then. No point in standing out in the damp. Sick custom-
   ers make lousy passengers."
   They filed in, Jon-Tom and Hor electing to take seats on
   the floor rather than risk collision with the low, thick-beamed
   ceiling, hi addition, the few chairs looked too rickety to
   support much weight.
   The frog moved to a large iron stove set against a back
   wall. A large kettle simmered musically on the hot metal. He
   removed the cover, stirred the contents a few times, then
   sampled it with a large wooden ladle. The odor was foul.
   Taking a couple of large wooden shakers from a nearby wall
   shelf, he dumped some of their powdered contents into the
   kettle, stirred the liquid a little more, and replaced the iron
   cover, apparently satisfied.
   78
   THE HOUR OF THE GATES
   Then he sauntered back to the thick wooden table in the
   center of the room. Boating equipment, hooks, ropes,
   woodworker's tools, braces and pegs and hammers lined the
   other two walls.
   At the back was a staircase leading downward. Possibly it
   went to the hold, or to clammier and more suitable sleeping
   quarters.
   Leaning forward across the table, the frog clasped wet
   palms together and stared across at Clothahump and Jon-Tom.
   His long legs were bent sideways beneath the wood so as not
   to kick his guests. Caz was standing near one wall inspecting
   some of the aquatic paraphernalia. Talea hunted for a suitable
   chair. She finally found one and dragged it up to the table,
   where she joined the other three.
   "My name's Bribbens Oxiey, of the sandmarsh Oxieys,"
   the frog told them. "I'm the best boatman on this or any
   other river." This was stated quietly, without any particular
   emphasis or boastfulness.
   "I know every loggerhead, every tree stump, every knot,
   boulder, and rapids for the six hundred leagues between the
   Teeth and Kreshfarm-in-the-Geegs. I know the hiding places
   of the mudfishers and the waterdrotes' secret holes. I can
   smell a storm two days before it hits and ride a wave gentle
   enough not to upset a full teacup. I even know the exact place
   where ten thousand years ago the witch Wutz tripped over the
   cauldron full of magic which doubled the river, and I know
   therefore whence comes the name Sloomaz-ayor-le-Weentli."
   Jon-Tom gazed back out the still open door, past the
   dangling Pog, to what still appeared to be a quite ordinary
   stream. Somewhere, he imagined, the river had to fork,
   hence the nicknames River of Twos, Double River, and the
   others. Since the fork was not here and was unlikely to be
   between this spot and the mountains, it had to lie upstream.
   79
   Alan Dean Foster
   He would soon have the chance to find out, he thought, as he
   returned his attention to the conversation.
   "I can turn my craft circles 'round any other craft and
   reach my destination in half their time. I can ride out weather
   that puts other merchantmen and fisherfolk under their beds.
   I'm not afraid of anything in the river or out of it.
   "I personally guarantee to deliver cargo and/or passengers
   to their chosen destination for the agreed-upon fee, on the
   date determined in advance, if not earlier, or to forfeit all of
   my recompense.
   "I can outfight anyone, even someone twice my size," he
   said, glancing challengingly at Jon-Tom, who tactfully did
   not respond, "outeat any other intelligent amphibian or mam-
   mal, and I have twenty-two matured tadpoles who can attest
   to my other abilities.
   "My fee is one goldpiece per league. I'm no cook, and
   you can provide your own fodder, or fish if you like. As to
   drink, river water's good enough for me, for I'm as home in
   it as in this house, but if you get drunk on my craft you'll
   soon find yourself swimming for shore. Any questions so
   far?"
   No one said anything. "Anyone care to dispute anything
   I've said?" Still no comment from the visitors. Full of
   impatient energy, Talea left her seat and stalked to the door,
   stood there leaning against the jamb and staring out at the
   river. Bribbens watched her and nodded approvingly.
   "Right." He leaned back in his chair, picked idly at the
   tangled fringe of his right sleeve. "Now then. How many of
   you are going, is there cargo, and where is it you wish to
   go?"
   Clothahump tapped the table with short fingers. "There is
   no cargo save our nominal supplies and personal effects, and
   all of us are going." He added uncertainly, "Does our
   number affect the fee?"
   80
   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   The frog shoved out his considerable lower lip. "Makes no
   difference to me. Fee's the same whether one of you goes or
   all of you. The boat has to travel the same distance upstream
   and the same distance down again when I return. One
   goldpiece per league."
   "That's part of the reason for my inquiry," said the
   wizard.
   "The goldpiece per league?" Bribbens eyed him archly.
   "No. The direction. You see, it's downstream we wish to
   go, not up."
   The frog belched once. "Downstream. It's only three days
   from here to the base of the Teeth. Not much between. A
   couple of villages and that's all, and them only a day from
   here. No one lives at the base of the mountains. They're all
   afraid of the occasional predator who slinks down out of the
   Teeth, like the flying lizards, the Ginnentes who nest in the
   crags and crevices. I hardly ever find anyone who wants to go
   that way. Most everything lies upstream."
   "Nevertheless, we wish to travel down," said the wizard.
   "Far farther, I dare say, than you are accustomed to going. Of
   course, if you chose not to go, we will understand. It would
   only be normal for you to be afraid."
   Bribbens leaned forward sharply, was eye to eye with
   Clothahump across the table, his body stretched over the
   wood, webbed hands flat on the surface.
   "Bribbens Oxiey is afraid of nothing in or out of the river.
   Visitor or not, I don't like your drift, turtle."
   Clothahump did not pull away from the batrachian face
   inches from his own. "I am a wizard and fear only that which
   I cannot understand, boatman. We wish to travel not to the
   base of the mountains but through them. Down the river as
   far as it will carry us and then out the other side of Zaryt's
   Teeth."
   81
   Alan Dean Foster
   The frog sat back down slowly. "You realize that's just a
   rumor. There iftay not be any other side."
   "That makes it interesting, doesn't it?" said Clotbahump
   Fingers drummed on the table, marking time and thoughts.
   "One hundred goldpieces," Bribbens said at last.
   "You said the fee didn't vary," Talea reminded him fror
   the doorway. "One gold piece a league."
   "That is for travel on earth, female. Hell is more expensive
   country."
   "I thought you said you weren't afraid." Jon-Tom was
   careful to make it sound like a normal question, devoid of
   taunting.
   "I'm not," countered Bribbens, "but neither am I stupid
   If we survive this journey I want more in return than personal
   satisfaction.
   "Once we enter the mountains I shall be dealing with
   unknown waters... and probably other unknowns as well.
   Nevertheless," he added with becoming indifference, "it
   should be interesting, as you say, wizard. Water is water,
   wherever it may be."
   But Clothahump pushed away from the table, spoke grimly.
   "I'm sorry, Bribbens, but we can't pay you."
   "A wizard who can't transmute gold?"
   "I can," insisted Clothahump, looking embarrassed. "It's
   just that I've misplaced the damn spell, and it's too compli-
   cated to try and fake." He checked his plastron again. "I can
   give you a few pieces now and the rest, uh, later."
   Bribbens rose, slapped the table loudly with both hands.
   "It's been an interesting conversation and I wish you all luck,
   which you are going to need even more than you do a good
   and willing boatman. Now if you don't mind excusing me, I
   think my supper's about ready." He started back toward the
   stove.
   82
   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   "Wait a minute." Clothahump frowned at Jon-Tom. Bribbens
   halted. "We can pay you, though I'm not sure how much."
   "My boy, there is no point in lying. I don't do business
   that way. We will just have to—"
   "No, we can, Clothahump." He grinned at Mudge. "I'm
   something of a beggar in wolfs clothing."
   "Wot?" Then the otter's face brightened with remem-
   brance. "I'd bloody well forgotten that night, mate."
   Jon-Tom unsnapped his cape. It landed heavily on the
   table and Bribbens eyed it with interest. As he and the others
   watched, Jon-Tom and Mudge slit the cape's lining. Coins
   poured from the rolled lower edge.
   When the counting was concluded, the remnant of Jon-
   Tom's hastily salvaged gambling winnings totaled sixty-eight
   gold pieces and fifty-two silver.
   "Not quite enough."
   "Please," said Ror, "isn't it sufficient? We'll pay you me
   rest...."
   "Later. I know." The boatman would not bend. "Later is a
   synonym for never, female. Would you wish me to convey
   you 'almost' to the end of me river and then make you swim
   the rest of the way? By the same light, I will not accept
   'almost' my determined fee."
   "If you're as able as you are stubborn, you're for sure the
   best boatman on die river," grumbled Jon-Tom.
   "There's something more." Talea was still leaning in the
   doorway, but now she was staring outside. "What about our
   wagon and team?"
   "Sure!" Jon-Tom rose, almost bumped his head, and
   looked down at Bribbens. "We've got a wagon which any
   farmer or fisherman would be proud to own. It's big enough
   to carry all of us and more, and sturdy enough to have done it
   all the way across the Swordsward from Polastrindu. There
   are harnesses, yokes, four solid dray lizards, and spare
   ?3
   Alan Dean Foster
   wheels and supplies, all made from the finest materials. It
   was given to us by the city council of Polastrindu itself."
   Bribbens looked uncertain. "I'm not a tradesman."
   "At least have a look at it," Plor implored him.
   The frog hesitated, then padded out onto the porch, ignor-
   ing Pog. The others filed out after him. .
   Tradesman or not, Bribbens inspected the wagon and its
   team intimately, from the state of the harness buckles to the
   lizard's teeth.
   When he was finished underneath the wagon, he crawled
   out, stared at Clothahump. "I accept. It will make up the
   difference."
   "How munificent of you!" Caz had taken no part in the
   bargaining, but his expression revealed he was something less
   than pleased by the outcome. "The wagon alone is worth
   twenty goldpieces. You would leave us broke and destitute."
   "Perhaps," admitted Bribbens, "but I'm the only one who
   stands a chance of leaving you broke and destitute at your
   desired destination. I won't argue with you." He paused,
   added as an afterthought, "Dinner's about ready to boil over.
   Make up your minds."
   "We have little choice," said Clothahump, "and no further
   use for the wagon anyway." He glared at Caz, who turned
   away and studied the river, unrepentant. "We agree. When
   can we start?"
   "Tomorrow morning. I have my own preparations to make
   and supplies to lay in. Meanwhile, I suggest you all get a
   good night's sleep." Bribbens looked at the cliffs which rose
   to the east.
   "Into the Teeth." He fixed a bulbous eye on Jen-Tom.
   "You'll have no need for money in there, nor on the other
   side, if there is one. My offspring will find it here if I don't
   come back, and it will do them more good than the dead."
   84
   THE HOUR OF Tm GATE
   Humming to himself, he turned and padded back toward his
   house.
   They slept in the wagon again that night. As Bribbens
   formally explained, their fee included only his services and
   transport and did not extend to the use of his home.
   But the following morning he was up before the sun and
   was ready to depart before they'd hardly awakened. "I like to
   get an early start," he explained as they gathered themselves
   for the journey. "I give value for money. You pay for a day's
   travel, you get a day's travel."
   Caz adjusted his monocle. "Reasonable enough, consider-
   ing that we've given a month's pay for every day we're likely
   to travel."
   Bribbens looked unperturbed. "I once saw a rabbit who'd
   had all his fur shaved off. He was a mighty funny-looking
   critter."
   "And I," countered Caz with equal aplomb, "once saw a
   ftog whose mouth was too big for his head. He experienced a
   terrible accident."
   "What kind of accident?" inquired Bribbens, unimpressed.
   "Foot-in-mouth. Worst case I ever saw. It turned out to be
   fatal."
   "Progs aren't subject to hoof-in-mouth."
   The rabbit smiled tolerantly. "My foot in his mouth."
   The two held their stares another moment. Then Bribbens
   smiled, an expression particularly suited to frogs.
   "I've seen it happen to creatures other than my own kind,
   three-eyes."
   Caz grinned back. "It's common enough, I suppose. And I
   see better out of one eye than most people do out of two."
   "See your way to moving a little faster, then. We can't
   sleep here all day." The boatman ambled off.
   Talea was leaning out of the wagon, brushing sleepily at
   reluctant curls tight as steel springs.
   85
   Alan Dean Foster
   "Since you layabouts aren't ready yet, I'm going to take
   the time to secure my team and wagon and lay out fodder for
   them," said the frog.
   "Possessive little bugger, ain't 'e?" Mudge commented.
   "It's his wagon and team now, Mudge." Jon-Tom carefully
   slipped his staff into the loops crossing his back beneath the
   flashing emerald cape. "They're in his care. Just like we
   are."
   When they were all assembled on the boat and had tied
   down their packs and supplies, Bribbens loosed the ropes,
   neatly coiled them in place, and leaned on the long steering
   oar. The boat slid out into the river. Pog shifted his grip on
   the spreaders high up on the mast and watched as silver sky
   raced past blue ground.
   Before very long the current caught them. The cove with
   its mud-and-thatch house vanished behind. Ahead lay a gray-
   brown wall of granite and ice; home to arboreal carnivores,
   undisciplined winds, and racing cloud-crowns.
   Jon-Tom lay down on the edge of the craft and let a hand
   trail lazily in the water. It was difficult to think of the journey
   they'd embarked upon as threatening. The water was warmed
   from its long journey down from distant Kreshfarm-in-the-
   Geegs. The sun often snuck clear of obstructing clouds to lie
   pleasantly on one's face. And there seemed no chance of rain
   until the night.
   "Three days to get to the base of the mountains, you
   said?"
   "That's right, man," Bribbens replied. The boatman did
   not look at Jon-Tom when he spoke. His right arm was curled
   around the shaft of the steering oar, and his eyes were on the
   river ahead. He sat in a chair built onto the railing at the
   craft's stem. A long, thin curved pipe dangled from thick
   lips. River breeze carried the thin smoke from its small white
   bowl up into the sky.
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   THE HOUR Of THE GATE
   "How far into the mountains does the river go?" Flor was
   on her knees, staring over the front of the boat. Her voice was
   full of expectation and excitement.
   "Nobody knows," said Bribbens. "Leagues, maybe weeks
   worth. Maybe only a few hours."
   "Where does it end, do you suppose? In an underground
   lake?"
   "Helldrink," said the boatman.
   "And what's Helldrink, Senor Ranar'
   "A rumor. A story. An amalgam of all the fears of every
   creature that's ever navigated on the waters in times of
   trouble, during bad storms or on leaking ships, in foul
   harbors or under the lash of a drunken captain. I've spent my
   life on me water and in it. It would be worth the trip to me if
   we should find it, even should it mean my death. It's where
   all true sailors should end up."
   "Does that mean we're likely to get a refund?" inquired
   Caz.
   The boatman laughed. "You're a sharp fellow, aren't you,
   rabbit? I hope if we find it you'll still be able to joke."
   "There should be no difficulty," said Clothahump. "I, too,
   have heard legends of Helldrink. They say that you know it is
   there before you encounter it. All you need do is deposit us
   safely clear of it and, we will continue our journey on foot.
   You may proceed to your sailor's discovery however you
   wish."
   "Sounds like a fine scenario, sir," the boatman agreed.
   "Assuming I can make a landing somewhere safe, if there is a
   safe landing. Otherwise you may have to accompany me on
   my discovery."
   "So you're risking your. life to leam the truth about this
   legend?" asked Flor.
   "No, woman. I'm risking my life for a hundred pieces of
   gold. And a wagon and team. I'm risking my life for
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   Alan Dean Foster
   twenty-two offspring. I'm risking my life because I never
   turned down a job in my life. Without my reputation, I'm
   nothing. I had to take your offer, you see."
   He adjusted the steering oar a little to port. The boat
   changed its heading slightly and moved still further into the
   center of the stream.
   "Money and pride," she said. "That's hardly worth risking
   your life for."
   "Can you think of any better reason, then?"
   "You bet I can, Rana. One a hell of a lot less brazen than
   yours." She proceeded to explain the impetus for their jour-
   ney. Bribbens was not to be recruited.
   "I prefer money, thank you."
   It was a good thing Falameezar was no longer with them,
   Jen-Tom thought. He and their boatman were at opposite ends
   of the political spectrum. Of course, with Falameezar, they
   would not have required Bribbens' services. He was surprised
   to discover that despite the archaic, inflexible political philos-
   ophy, he still missed the dragon.
   "Young female," Bribbens said finally, "you have your
   romantic ideas and I've got mine. I'm helping you to satisfy
   your needs and that's all you'll get from me. Now shut up. I
   dislike noisy chatter, especially from romantic females."
   "Oh you do, do you?" Ror started to get to her feet.
   "How would you like—"
   The frog jerked a webbed hand toward the southern shore.
   "It's not too far to the bank, and you look like a pretty good
   swimmer, for a human. I think you can make it without any
   trouble."
   Flor started to finish her comment, got the point, and
   resumed her seat near the craft's bow. She was fuming, but
   sensible. It was Bribbens' game and they had to play with his
   equipment, according to his rules. But that didn't mean she
   had to like it.
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   The boatman puffed contentedly on his pipe. "Interesting
   group of passengers, more so than my usual." He tapped out
   the dottle on the deck, locked the steering oar in position, and
   commenced repacking his pipe. "Wonder to me you haven't
   killed one another before now."
   It was odd, Jon-Tom mused as they drifted onward, to be
   moving downstream and yet toward mountains. Rivers ran out
   of hills. Perhaps the Sloomaz-ayor-le-WeentU dropped into an
   as yet unseen canyon. If so, they would have a spectacular
   journey through the mountains.
   Occasionally they had to set up the canvas roofing that
   attached to the railings to keep off the nightly rain. At such
   times Bribbens would fix the oar and curve them to a safe
   landing onshore. They would wait out the night there, rain-
   drops pelting the low ceiling, until the sun rose and pushed
   aside the clouds. Then it was on once more, borne swiftly but
   smoothly in the gentle grip of the river.
   Jon-Tom did not fully appreciate the height of Zaryt's
   Teeth until the third day. They entered me first foothills that
   morning. The river cut its way insistently through the green-
   cloaked, rolling mounds. Compared to the nearing moun-
   tains, the massive hillocks were merely bruises on the earth.
   Here and there great lumps of granite protruded through the
   brush and topsoil. They reminded Jon-Tom of the fingertips
   of long-buried giants and brought back to him the legends of
   these mountains. While not degenerating into rapids, the river
   nonetheless increased its pace, as if anxious to carry those
   traveling upon it to some unexpected destination.
   Several days passed during which they encountered nothing
   suggestive of habitation. The hills swelled around them,
   becoming rockier and more barren. Even wildlife hereabouts
   was scarce.
   Once they did drift past a populated beach. A herd of
   unicorns was backed up there against the water. Stallions and
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   Alan Dean Foster
   marcs formed a semicircle with the water at their backs
   protecting the colts, which snorted and neighed nervously.
   Pacing confusedly before the herd's defensive posture wa
   a pack of perhaps a dozen lion-sized lizards. They were sleei
   as whippets and their red and white scales gleamed in th
   sunlight.
   As the travelers cruised past, one of the lizards sprang
   trying to leap over the adults and break the semicircle
   Instead, he landed on the two-foot-long, gnarly hom of one
   of the stallions.
   A horrible hissing crackled like fresh foil through the day
   and blood fountained in all directions, splattering colts and
   killer alike. Bending his neck, the unicorn used both forehooves
   to shove the contorted body of the dying carnivore oflf his
   head.
   The boat drifted around a bend, its passengers ignorant of
   the eventual outcome of the war. Blood from the impaled
   predator flowed into the river. The red stain mindlessly
   stalked the retreating craft....
 
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   VI
   It was the following afternoon, when they rounded a benc
   in the river, that Jon-Tom thought would surely be their last.
   The foothills had grown steadily steeper around them. They
   were impressive, but nonexistent compared to the sheer
   precipices that suddenly rose like a wall directly ahead
   Clouds veiled their summits, parting only intermittently to
   reveal shining white caps at the higher elevations; snow and
   ice that never melted. The mottled stalks of conifers looked
   like twigs where they marched up into the mists.
   It was a seamless gray cliff which rose up unbroken ahead
   of the raft. Solid old granite, impassable and cold.
   Bribbens was neither surprised nor perturbed by this im-
   passable barrier. Leaning hard on the sweep, he turned the
   boat to port. At first Jon-Tom thought they would simply
   ! ground on me rocks lining the shore, but when they rounded
   a massive, sharp boulder he saw the tiny beach their boatman
   was aiming for.
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   Alan Dean Foster
   It was a dry notch cut into the fringe of the mountain.
   Warm water slapped against his boots as the boat's passen-
   gers scrambled to pull it onto the sand. Driftwood mixed with
   the blackened remnants of many camp fires. The little cove
   was the last landing point on the river.
   On the visible river, anyway.
   The wind tumbled and rolled down the sheer cliffs. It
   seemed to be saying, "Go back, fools! There is nothing
   beyond here but rock and death. Go back!" and a sudden
   gust would send Talea or Mudge stumbling westward as the
   wind tried to urge their retreat.
   Jon-Tom waded out into the river until the water lapped at
   his boot tops. Leaning around a large, slick rock, he was able
   to see why Bribbens had rowed them into the protected cove.
   Several hundred yards downstream, downstream was no
   more. An incessant crackling and grinding came from the
   river's end. An immense jam of logs and branches, bones,
   and other debris boiled like clotted pudding against the gray
   face of the mountain. Foam thundered on rock and wood like
   cold lava.
   He couldn't see where the water vanished into the moun-
   tainside because of the obstructing flotsam, but from time to
   time a log or branch would be sucked beneath the brow of the
   cliff, presumably into the cavern beyond. The thickness of the
   jam suggested that the cave opening into the mountain couldn't
   be more than a few inches above the wateriine. If it were
   higher, he would have been able to see it as a dark stain on
   the granite, and if lower, the river would have backed up and
   drowned out, among other things, me cove they were beached
   upon.
   But the opening must be quite deep, because the river had
   narrowed until it was no more than thirty yards wide where it
   ground against the mountainside, and the current was no
   swifter than usual.
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATS,
   "What do we do now?" Flor had waded out to stand next
   to him. She watched as logs several yards thick spun and
   bounced off the rock. They must have weighed thousands of
   pounds and were waterlogged as well.
   "There's no way we can move any of that stuff upstream
   against the current."
   "It doesn't matter," he told her. "Even if Clothahump
   could magic them aside, the opening's still much too low to
   let the boat through."
   "So it seems." Bribbens stood on the sand behind them.
   He was unloading supplies from the boat. "But we're not
   going in that way. That is, we are, but we're not."
   "I don't follow you," said Jon-Tom.
   "You will. You're paying to." He grinned hugely. "Why
   do you think the Sloomaz-ayor-le-WeentU is called also The
   Double River, The River of Twos?"
   "I don't know." Jon-Tom was irritated at his ignorance. "I
   thought it forked somewhere upstream. It doesn't tell me how
   we're going to get through there," and he pointed at the
   churning, rumbling mass of jackstraw debris.
   "It does, if you know."
   "So what do we do first?" he said, tired of riddles.
   "First we take anything that'll float off the boat," was the
   boatman's order.
   "And then."
   "And then we pole her out into the middle of the current,
   open her stoppers, and sink her. After we've anchored her
   securely, of course."
   Jon-Tom started to say something, thought better of it.
   Since the frog's statement was absurd and since he was
   clearly not an idiot, then it must follow that he knew some-
   thing Jon-Tom did not. When confronted by an inexplicable
   claim, he'd been taught, it was better not to debate until the
   supporting evidence was in.
   "I still don't understand," said Flor confusedly.
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   Alan Dean Foster
   "You will," Bribbens assured her. "By the way, can you
   both swim?"
   "Fairly well," said Jon-Tom.
   "I don't drown," was Hor's appraisal.
   "Good. I hope the other human is likewise trained.
   "For the moment you can't do anything except help with
   the unloading. Then I suggest you relax and watch."
   When the last buoyant object had been removed from the
   boat, they took the frog at his word and settled down on the
   beach to observe.
   Bribbens guided the little vessel out into the river. On
   locating a place that suited him (but that looked no different
   from anywhere else to Jon-Tom and Hor) he tossed over bow
   and stem anchors. Sunlight glistened off the boatman's now
   bare green and black back and off the smooth fur of the nude
   otter standing next to him.
   Both watched as the anchors descended. The boat slowly
   swung around before halting about a dozen yards farther
   downstream. Bribbens tested the lines to make certain both
   anchors were fast on the bottom.
   Then he Vanished belowdecks for several minutes. Soon
   me boat began to sink. Shortly only the mast was visible
   above the surface. Then it too had sunk out of sight. Mudge
   swam above the spot where it had gone under, occasionally
   dipping his head beneath me surface. The amphibian Bribbens
   was as at home in the river's depths as he was on land.
   Mudge was almost as comfortable, being a faster swimmer
   but unable to extract oxygen from the water.
   Soon the otter waved to those remaining on shore. He
   shouted something unintelligible. They saw his back arch as
   he dived. He repeated the dive-appear-dive-appear sequence
   several times. Then Bribbens broke the surface alongside him
   and they both swam in to the beach.
   They silently took turns convoying the floatable supplies
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   (carefully packed in watertight skins) out to the center of the
   stream, disappearing with them, and then returning for more.
   Finally Bribbens stood dripping on the beach. "Good thing
   the river doesn't come out of the mountain. Be too cold for
   this sort of thing."
   "What sort of thing?" a thoroughly bemused Flor wanted
   to know.
   "Let's go and you'll find out."
   "Go? Go where?"
   "Why, to the ship, of course," said Talea. "You don't
   know, do you?"
   "No one explains things to me. They just look." She was
   almost angry.
   "It will all be explained in a minute," said Clothahump
   patiently.
   The boatman held out a watertight sack. "If you'll put
   your clothes in here."
   "What for?" Flor's gaze narrowed.
   Bribbens explained patiently, "So they won't get wet." He
   started to turn away. "It's no difference to me. If you want to
   spend the journey inside the probably cold mountain in wet
   clothing, that's your business. I'm not going to argue with
   you."
   Jon-Tom was already removing his cape and shirt. Talea
   and Caz were doing likewise. Flor gave a little shrug and
   began to disrobe while the wizard made sure his plastron
   compartments were sealed tight. Physically he was the weakest
   of them, but like the boatman, he would have no difficulty
   going wherever they were going.
   There was one problem, though. It took the form of a black
   lump hanging from a large piece of driftwood.
   "Absolutely not! Not on your life, and sure as hell not on
   mine." Pog folded his wings adamantly around his body and
   looked immovable. "I'll wait for ya here."
   "We may not return this way," explained Clothahump.
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   Alan Dean Foster
   "You may not return at all, but dat ain't da point dat's
   botherin' me," grumbled the bat.
   "Come now." Clothahump had elected to try reason on his
   famulus. "I could make you come, you know."
   "You can make me do a lot of tings, boss," replied the
   bat, "but not you nor anyting else in dis world's going to
   drag me into dat river!"
   "Come on, Pog." Jon-Tom felt silly standing naked on the
   beach arguing with the reluctant bat. "Ror, Talea, Caz, and I
   aren't water breathers either. But I trust Clothahump and our
   boatman to know what they're about. Surely we're going to
   reach air soon. I can't hold my breath any longer man you."
   "Water's fit for drinking, not for living in," Pog continued
   to insist. "You ain't getting me into dat liquid grave and dat'p
   final."
   Jon-Tom's expression turned sorrowful. "If that's the wa;»
   you feel about it." He'd seen Talea and Mudge sneaking
   around to get behind the driftwood. "You might as well wai
   here for us, I suppose."
   "I beg your pardon?" said the wizard.
   Jon-Tom put a hand on the turtle's shell, turned him toward
   the river. "It's no use arguing with him, sir. His mind i-;
   made up and—"
   "Hey? Let me loose! Damn you, Mudge, get off m>
   wings! I'll tear your guts out! I'll, I'll...! Let me up!"
   "Get his wings down!... Watch those teeth!" Hor and
   Jon-Tom rushed to help. The four of them soon had the bat
   neatly pinned. Talea located some strong, thin vines and
   began wrapping the famulus like a holiday package.
   "Sorry to do this, old fellow," said Caz apologetically,
   "but we're wasting time. Jon-Tom's right though, you know
   I'm probably the worst swimmer of this lot, but I'm willing
   to give it a go if Clothahump insists there's no danger."
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   "Of course not," said the wizard. "Well, very little, in
   any case. Bribbens knows precisely how far we must descend."
   The boatman stood listening. He eyed the bat distastefully.
   "Right. Bring him along, then."
   They carried the bound and trussed famulus toward the
   water's edge.
   "Let me go!" Pog's fear of the river was genuine. "I can't
   do it, I tell ya! I'll drown. I'm warning ya all I'll come back
   and haunt ya the rest of your damn days!"
   "That's your privilege." Talea led the way into the river.
   "You'll drown all right," Bribbens told him, "if you don't
   do exactly as I say."
   "Where are we going, then?" Jon-Tom asked, a little
   dazedly.
   The frog pointed out and down. "Just swim, man. When
   we get to the spot I'll say so. Then you dive ... and swim."
   "Straight down?" Jon-Tom kicked, the water smooth and
   fresh around him. A little shiver of fear raced down his back.
   Clothahump and Bribbens and to a lesser extent Mudge need
   have no fear of the water. It was one of their environments.
   But what if they were wrong? What if the underwater cave (or
   whatever it was they were going down into) lay too deep?
   A friendly pat on one shoulder reassured him. " 'Ere now,
   why the sunken face, mate? There ain't a bloomin' thing t'
   worry about." Mudge smiled around his wet whiskers. " 'Tain't
   far down atall, not even for a splay-toed 'uman."
   Bribbens halted, bobbing in the warm current. "Ready then?
   Just straight down. I've allowed for the carry of the current,
   so no need to worry about that."
   Everyone exchanged glances. Pog's protests bordered on
   hysteria.
   "Here, give the flyer over." A disgusted Bribbens gripped
   one side of the bat, locking fingers tightly in the bindings.
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   Alan Dean Foster
   Pog resembled a large mouse sealed in black plastic. "You
   take the other side."
   "Righty-ho, mate." Mudge grabbed a handful of vines
   opposite the frog.
   With the two strongest swimmers holding their reluctant,
   wailing burden, Bribbens instructed the others. "Count to
   three, then dive." The humans nodded. So did Caz, who was
   doing a good job of concealing his fears.
   "Ready? One... two... better stop screaming and take a
   deep breath, bat, or you'll be ballast.. .three!"
   Backs arched into the morning air. The howling ceased as
   Pog suddenly gulped air.
   Jen-Tom felt himself sliding downward. Below the surface
   the water quickly turned darker and cooler. It clutched feebly
   at his naked body as he kicked hard.
   Around him were the dim forms of his companions. A
   slick palm touched one fluttering foot, pushed gently. Looking
   back he could make out the plump shape of Clothahump. He
   was swimming casually around the nonaquatics. The water
   took a hundred years off his age, and he moved with the grace
   and ease of a ballet dancer.
   The push was more to insure that no one lost his orienta-
   tion and began swimming sideways than to speed the swimmers
   in their descent.
   Even so, Jon-Tom was beginning to grow a mite con-
   cerned. Increasing pressure told him that they'd descended a
   respectable distance. Both he and Flor were in fairly good
   condition, but he was less sure of Pog and Caz. If they didn't
   reach the air pocket they had to be heading toward shortly,
   he'd have to turn around and swim for the surface.
   The surface he broke was unexpected, however. He felt
   himself falling helplessly, head over heels, windmilling his
   arms in a desperate attempt to regain his balance.
   A loud splash echoed up to him as someone else hit the
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   water. Then he landed with equal force, sank a few feet, and
   fought his way back to the surface and fresh air.
   He broke through and inhaled several deep breaths. Nearby
   Talea's red curls hung straight and limp as paint from her
   head. She blinked away water, gasped, and sniffed once.
   "Well, that wasn't bad at all. I'd heard it wasn't, but you
   can't always trust the tales people tell."
   Her breasts bobbed easily in the current. Jon-Tom stared at
   her, more conscious now of her nudity than he'd been when
   they'd first removed then- clothes up above.
   But they were above. Weren't they?
   Something shoved him firmly between the shoulders.
   "Let the current carry you."
   Jon-Tom turned in the water, stared into the vast eyes of
   Bribbens. Looking past him he saw the ship. It was neatly
   anchored and sat stable in the middle of the stream, perhaps
   ten yards away. They were drifting toward it.
   Following the boatman's advice he relaxed, his body grate-
   ful for the respite after the dive, and let the current push him
   toward the boat. Mudge was already aboard, restocking
   supplies. He leaned over the side and gave Jon-Tom a hand
   up, then did the same for Talea.
   There was a large, flopping thing on deck that Jon-Tom
   first thought to be an unfortunate fish. It flipped over, and he
   recognized the still bound and outraged body of Pog. He
   accepted Mudge's preferred towel, dried himself, and began
   to untie the famulus' bonds.
   "You okay, Pog?"
   "No, I'm not okay, dammit! I'm cold, drenched, and sore
   all over from that fall."
   "But you made it through all right." Jon-Tom loosened
   another slipknot and one wing stretched across the deck. It
   jerked, sent water flying.
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   Alan Dean Foster
   "Not much I can do about it now, I guess," he said
   angrily.
   With the other wing unbound the bat got to his knees, then
   his feet. He stood there fanning both wings slowly back and
   forth to dry them.
   Mudge joined them. His fur shed the water easily and,
   almost dry, he was slipping back into his clothes.
   "Wbt's up, mate?" he asked the bat. "Don't you 'ave no
   word for your old buddy?"
   The large sack of clothing lay opened nearby. Jon-Tom
   moved to sort his own attire from the wad.
   "Yeah, I got something to say ta my old buddy. You can go
   fuck yourself!" The bat flapped hard, lifted experimentally
   off the deck, and rose to grip the right spreader. He hung head
   down from there, his wings still extended and drying.
   "Now don't be like that, mate," said the otter, fitting his
   cap neatly over his ears and fluffing out the feather. "It was
   necessary. You were 'ardly about t' come voluntarily, you
   know."
   Pog said nothing further. The otter shrugged and left the
   disgruntled apprentice to his huff.
   Jon-Tom buttoned his pants. While the others continued
   dressing around him, he took a moment to inspect their
   extraordinary new surroundings.
   There was a dull roaring as if from a distant freight train. It
   sounded constantly in the ears and was a subtle vibration in
   his own body. His first thought was that they were in a dimly
   lit tunnel. In a way they were.
   The ship rode easily at anchor. On either side were high,
   moist banks lush with mosses and fungi^ That they were not
   normal riverbanks was proven by the peculiar habits of the
   higher growths clinging to them. These fems and creepers put
   out roots both upward and down, into both running rivers.
   Above was a silver-gray sky: the underside of the upper
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   river. Jon-Tom estimated the distance between the two streams
   at perhaps ten meters. The mast of the boat cleared the watery
   ceiling easily.
   How the two rivers flowed without meeting, without smashing
   together and eliminating the air space between them, was an
   interesting bit of physics. More likely of magic, he re-
   minded himself.
   "Easy part's over with." Bribbens moved to wind in the
   bow anchor, using the small winch bolted there.
   "The easy part?" Jon-Tom didn't hear the boatman too
   clearly. Water still sloshed in his ears.
   "Yes. This much of the Sloomaz-ayor-le-WeentIi is known.
   Little traveled in its lower portion, but still known." He
   pointed with a webbed hand over the bow. Ahead of them the
   river(s) disappeared into darkness.
   - "What's ahead is not."
   Jon-Tom walked forward and gave the boatman a hand
   with the winch. "Thanks," Bribbens said when they were
   finished.
   A strong breeze blew in Jon-Tom's face. It came from the
   blackness forward and chilled his face even as it dried his
   long hair. He shivered a little. The wind came from inside the
   mountain. That hinted at considerable emptiness beyond.
   Here there was no mass of water-soaked debris to prevent
   their continued traveling. The mouthlike opening could easily
   swallow the logs and branches bunched against the mountain-
   side above. The cliff did not descend this far.
   When they had the second anchor up and secured and the
   boat was drifting downstream once more, Bribbens moved to
   a watertight locker set in the deck. It offered up oil lamps and
   torches. These were set in hook or hole and lit.
   The wind blew the flames backward but not out. Oil light
   flickered comfortingly inside conical glass lamps.
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   Alan Dean Foster
   "Why didn't you explain it to us?" Flor brushed at her
   long black mane while she chatted with the boatman.
   Bribbens gestured at the squat shape of Clothahump, who
   rested against the railing nearby. "He suggested back at my
   cove that it'd be a good idea not to say anything to you."
   Jon-Tom and Flor looked questioningly at Clothahump.
   "That is so, youngsters." He pointed toward the flowing
   silver roof. "From there to here's something of a fall. I
   wasn't positive of the distance or of what your mental
   reactions to such a peculiar dive might be. I thought it best
   not to go into detail. I did not wish to frighten you."
   "We wouldn't have been frightened," said Flor firmly.
   "That may be so," agreed the wizard, "but there was no
   need to take the chance. As you can see we are all here safe
   and sound and once more on our way."
   A muttered obscenity fell from the form on the right
   spreader.
   They were interrupted by a loud multiple splashing to
   starboard. As they watched, several fish the size of large bass
   leaped skyward. Their fins and tails were unusually broad and
   powerful.
   Two of the leapers fell back, but the third intersected the
   flowing sky, got his upper fins into the water, and wiggled its
   way out of sight overhead. Several minutes passed, and then
   it rained minnows. A huge school of tiny fish came shooting
   out of the upper river to disappear in the lower. The two
   unsuccessful leapers were waiting for them. They were soon
   joined by the descending shape of the stronger jumper.
   Jon-Tom had grown dizzy watching the up-and-down pur-
   suit. His brain was more confused than his eyes. The new
   optical information did not match up with stored information.
   "The origin of the name's obvious," he said to the
   boatman, "but I still don't understand how it came to be."
   Bribbens proceeded to relate the story of the Sloomaz-ayor-
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   THE HOUR Or THE GATE
   le-WeentIi, of the great witch Wutz and her spilled cauldron
   of magic and the effect this had had upon the river forevermore.
   When he'd finished the tale Plor shook her head in disbe-
   lief. "'Grande, fantastico. A schizoid stream."
   "What makes the world go 'round, after all, Flor?" said
   Jon-Tom merrily.
   "Gravitation and other natural laws."
   "I thought it was love."
   "As a matter of fact," said Clothahump, inserting himself
   into the conversation, "the gravitational properties of love are
   well known. I suppose you believe its attractive properties
   wholly psychological? Well let me tell you, my boy, that
   there are certain formulae which..." and he rambled off into
   a learned discussion, half balderdash and half science: which
   is to say, fine magic. Jon-Tom and Flor tried to follow, largely
   in vain.
   Talea leaned on the bow railing, her gaze fixed on the
   blackness ahead and around them. The cool wind continued,
   ruffling her hair and making her wonder what lay ahead,
   concealed by the screen of night.
   For days they drifted downstream in darkness; water above,
   water below, floating through an aqueous tube toward an
   uncertain destination. Jon-Tom was reminded of a corpuscle
   in the bloodstream. After all the talk of Zaryt's "Teeth" and
   of traveling into the "belly" bf the mountain, he found the
   analogy disquieting.
   From time to time they would anchor in midstream and
   supplement their supplies from the river's ample piscean
   population. Occasionally Bribbens and Mudge would make
   exploratory forays into the upper river. They would climb the
   mast, Mudge helping the less adapted boatman. A small float
   attached to an arrow was shot into the underside of the current
   overhead. The float was inflated until it held securely. Then
   the cord trailing from it would be tied to the mast. Bribbens
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   Alan Dean Foster
   and the otter would then shinny up it, to disappear into the
   liquid ceiling.
   With them went small sealed oil lamps fitted with handles.
   These provided light in the darkness, a necessity since even
   such agile swimmers as the two explorers could become lost
   in the deep waters.
   On the twelfth day, when the monotony of the trip had
   become dangerously settled, Bribbens slid down the line in a
   state of uncharacteristic excitement.
   "I think we're through," he announced cheerily.
   "Through? Through where? Surely not the mountains."
   Clothahump frowned. "It could not be. The range is too
   massive to be so narrow. And the legends..."
   "No, no, sir. Not through the mountains. But the airspace
   above the upper river has suddenly expanded from but a few
   inches to one many feet high. There is a substantial cave, far
   more interesting to look at than this homogeneous tunnel. We
   can travel above now, and there's some light as well."
   "What kind of light?" Flor wanted to know.
   "You'll see."
   Preparations were made. Buoyant material did not have to
   be dragged or shoved downward this time. Instead, they
   simply had to raise it to the upper stream and insert it,
   whereupon it would instantly bob to the second surface.
   Mudge was waiting to slip a line on such packages and drag
   them to shore.
   When all their stores had been transferred, the nonaquatics
   climbed the mast rope and pushed themselves into the upper
   river. It was far easier to ascend than that first uncertain dive
   had been.
   Jon-Tom broke the surface with wind to spare. He remained
   there a while, treading water as he inspected the cavern into
   which the river emerged.
   The boatman had understated its size in his usual phlegmat-
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   THE HOUR Or THE GATE
   ic fashion. The cave was enormous. Off to his left Jon-Tom
   could see the abrupt cessation of the solid stone wall that had
   formed a tight lid on the upper stream for so many days.
   Little debris drifted this far on the river, and what few pieces
   and bits of wood tumbled by were worn almost smooth from
   the continual buffeting against that unyielding overhang.
   More amazing were the cavern walls. They appeared to be
   coated with millions of tiny lights. He swam lazily toward the
   nearby beach, crawled out and selected a towel with which to
   dry himself, and moved to inspect the nearest glowing rocks.
   The lights were predominantly gold in hue, though a few
   odd bursts and patches of red, blue, green, and yellow were
   visible. The bioluminescents were lichens and fungi of many
   species, ranging from mere colored smears against the rock to
   elaborate mushrooms and step fungi. Individually their lumen
   output was insignificant, but in the millions they illuminated
   the cavern as thoroughly as an evening sun.
   He was kneeling to examine a cluster of bright blue
   toadstools when a vast rush and burble sounded behind him.
   He turned, instinctively expecting to see some unmentionable
   river monster rising from the depths. It was only their boat.
   The first days on board he'd wondered at the purpose of
   great collapsed intestines, carefully scraped and dried, that
   lined the little craft's hold. Now he knew. Having been
   inflated in turn they'd given the boat sufficient lifting power
   to rise like a balloon from the lower river right up to the
   surface of its twin.
   Now it bobbed uncertainly as Bribbens rushed to open the
   valves sealing each inflated stomach before they could lift the
   ship from its second surface to the ceiling of the cavern.
   Water ran off the decks and out the seacocks. Mudge pumped
   furiously to purge the remaining water from the hold.
   Dry and dressed, the passengers were soon traveling once
   more eastward. The scenery had improved greatly. Jon-Tom
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   Alan Dean Foster
   hoped the cavern would not shrink around them and force
   them again down to the dull surface of the understream.
   He needn't have worried. Instead of compacting, the cav-
   ern grew larger. It seemed endless, stretching vast and fluo-
   rescent ahead of them.
   Phosphorescent growths made the river an artist's palette,
   oils of many colors all run together and anarchically brilliant.
   Gigantic stalactites drooped like teeth from the distant ceil-
   ing. Some were far larger than the boat. They drifted past
   huge panels of flowstone, frozen rivers of stained calcite.
   Helictites curled and twisted from the walls, twitching at
   gravity like so many crystalline whiskers. Fungi flashed from
   diem all.
   On both sides they could see passages branching from the
   main cavern. Jon-Tom had a powerful urge to grab a lamp
   and do some casual spelunking. But Clothahump reminded hiru
   there would be ample exploring to do without deviating frori
   their course. So long as the river continued to run eastward
   they would keep to the boat.
   The size and magnificence of the cavern kept him fror.i
   thinking about the composition of the Sloomaz-ayor-le-Weenti:
   It was disconcerting to sail along a river that flowed not o.-
   rock or sand but on air.
   "How do you know it even has a solid bottom?" Plor onc,-
   asked their boatman. "Maybe it's a triple—or quadruple--
   river?"
   Bribbens rested in his seat at the stem, one arm draped
   protectively across the steering oar.
   "Because I've been in and out of it many times, lady.
   Anyway, no matter where you are on the river the anchors
   always bite into the second bottom."
   Here and there the warm glow of the bioluminescents
   would fade and then vanish. At such times they had to rely on
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   me lamps for light until they reached another fluorescent
   section.
   It didn't bother Pog. He'd finally recovered from his
   lengthy grumpiness. To him the darkness was natural, and he
   enjoyed the stretches of no-light. They could hear him swooping
   and darting beyond the range of the boat's lamps, playing
   dodgem with the cave formations. Sometimes he'd leave the
   boat for long stretches of time, much to Clothahump's dis-
   pleasure and concern, only to have his internal sonar unerringly
   bring him back to the ship many hours later.
   "Beautiful," Jon-Tom was murmuring as he watched the
   glowing shapes drift past. "It's absolutely beautiful."
   Talea stood next to him and eyed the dark openings that
   branched off from the main cavern. Sometimes these gaping
   holes would come right down to the river's edge.
   "Funny idea of beauty you have, Jon-Tom. I don't like it at
   all."
   "Humans got no appreciation of caves," said Pog with a
   snort, weaving in the air above them. "Dis all wasted on ya
   except da spellsinger dere, an' dat's da truth!"
   "Can I help it if I prefer light to dark, freedom to
   confinement?" she countered.
   "Amen," said Flor heartily.
   For both women the initial loveliness of the formations had
   been surrendered to the superstitious dread most people hold
   of deep, enclosed places. Jon-Tom was the only one with a
   real interest in caves, and so he was somewhat immune to
   such fears. To him the immense shapes, laid down patiently
   over the ages by dripping water and dissolved limestone,
   were as exquisite as anything the world of daylight had to
   offer.
   Flor and Talea were not alone in their nervousness, however.
   "I think I liked it better inside the rivers," Mudge said one
   morning. "Leastwise there a chaploiew where 'e was, wot?"
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   Alan Dean Foster
   He indicated the darkness of a large, unilluminated sic
   passage with a sweep of one furry arm. "Don't care much tc
   this place atall. I ain't ready t' be buried just yet."
   "Superstition," Clothahump muttered. "The bane (
   civilization."
   As for their boatman, he remained as calm as if he'd bee
   sailing familiar waters.
   "Does this place have a name?" Jon-Tom asked him
   watching a clump of bright azure mushrooms on the shore,
   "Only in legend." Bribbens looked away for a moment.
   An impossibly long tongue flicked out and snared something
   which Jon-Tom saw only as a ghost of glittering, transparent
   wings and body.
   The frog smacked his lips appraisingly. "No color, but the
   flavor isn't bad." He nodded at the cavern. "In stories and
   legends of the riverfolk this is known as the Earth's Throat.''
   "And where does it go?" Bor asked him.
   Bribbens shrugged. "Who knows? Your hard-shelled men
   tor believes it to travel much of the way through the mow
   tains. Perhaps he's right. I prefer to think we'll come ou
   there instead of, say, the earth's belly."
   "That doesn't sound very nice." Nearby Talea fingered the
   haft of her knife as though she could intimidate the surrounding
   darkness with it.
   Or whatever else might be out there....
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   VII
   They were beginning to think they might complete the
   passage through the Teeth (or at least to the end of the river)
   without mishap. Long days of idle drifting, the boat carried
   smoothly by the current, had lulled the fears they'd acquired
   on the Swordsward.
   Pog, his hearing more acute than anyone else's, was first to
   note the noise.
   "Off key," he explained in response to their queries, "but
   it's definitely somebody's idea of song. More than one of
   whatever it is, too."
   "I'm sure of it." Caz's long ears were cocked alertly
   toward the northern shore. They twitched in counterpoint to
   his busy nose.
   It was several minutes more before the humans could hear
   the subject of their companion's intense listening. It was a
   rhythmic rising and falling, light and ethereal as an all-female
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   Alan Dean Foster
   choir might produce. Definitely music, but nothing recogniz-
   able as words.
   It was occasionally interrupted by a few moments of vivace
   modulation that sounded like laughter. Jon-Tom could appre-
   ciate the peculiar melodies, but he didn't care for the laughter-
   chords one bit.
   Bribbens interrupted their listening, his tone quiet as al-
   ways but unusually urgent. "Tiller's not answering properly."
   Indeed, the boat was drifting steadily toward the north
   shore. There was a gravel beach and rocks: not much of a
   landing place. Muscles strained beneath the boatman's slick
   skin as he fought the steering, but the boat continued to
   incline landward.
   Soon they were bumping against the first rocks. These
   obstacles poked damp dark heads out of the water around the
   boat.
   Flor stumbled away from the railing on the opposite side
   and screamed. Jon-Tom rushed to join her. He stared over the
   side and recoiled instinctively.
   Dozens of shapes filled the water. They had their hands on
   the side of the boat and were methodically pushing at it evec
   though it was already half grounded on the rocky bottom.
   "Steady now," said Talea wamingly. She stood at the bow,
   her knife and sword naked in the glow-light, and pointed tc
   me land.
   A great number of creatures were marching toward the
   boat. They were identical to the persistent pushers in the
   water. All were approximately five feet tall and thin to the
   point of emaciation. They were faintly human, memories of
   almost-people parading in unison.
   Two legs and two arms. They were nude but smooth-
   bodied and devoid of external sex organs. For that matter they
   displayed nothing in the way of differentiating characteristics
   They might have been stamped from a single mold.
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   THK HOVR OF THE GATE
   Their white flesh was truly white, blank-white, like milk
   and bordering on translucence. Two tiny coal-pit eyes sat in
   the puttylike heads where real eyes ought to have been. There
   were no pupils, no ears or nostrils, and only a flat slit of a
   mouth cutting the flesh below the eye-dots. Hands had short
   fingers, which along with the legs looked jointless as rubber.
   In time to the music they marched toward the ship, waving
   their arms slowly and hypnotically while singing their moan-
   ing, methodical song.
   Jon-Tom looked to Clothahump. The wizard looked baf-
   fled. "I don't know, my boy. None of the legends says
   anything about a tribe of albino chanters living in the Throat."
   He called to the marchers.
   "What are you called? What is it you want of us?"
   "What can we do for you?" Flor asked, adding something
   unintelligible in Spanish.
   The singers did not respond. They descended the slight
   slope of the beach with fluid grace. The ones in the lead
   began reaching, clutching over the railing.
   Two of them grabbed Talea's right arm. "Ease back
   there," she ordered them, pulling away. They did not let go
   and continued to tug at her insistently.
   Several other pale singers were already on the deck and
   were pulling with similar patient determination at Jon-Tom
   and Mudge.
   " 'Ere now, you cold buggerers, take your bloody 'ands off
   me!" The otter twisted free.
   So didJTalea and Jon-Tom. Yet the pale visitors wordlessly
   kept advancing, groping for the strangers.
   Another sound quietly filled the cavern. It seeped across
   the river and dominated the rise and fall of the expressionless
   choir. A deep, low moaning, it was in considerable contrast
   to the melody of the white singers. It was not at all nice. In
   fact, it seemed to Jon-Tom that it embodied every overtone of
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   Alan Dean Foster
   menace and malignance one could put into a single moan. It
   issued from somewhere back in the black depths, beyond
   where the singers had come from.
   "That's about enough," said Bribbens firmly. He hefted
   his backup steering sweep and began swinging it at the
   singers stumbling about on deck. Two of them went down
   with unexpected lack of resistance. Their heads bounced like
   a pair of rubber balls across the deck. The black eyespots
   never twitched and they uttered not a word of pain. Their
   singing, however, ceased. One of the skulls bounced over the
   railing and landed in the water with a slight splash, to sink
   quickly out of sight.
   A shocked Bribbens paused to stare at the decapitated
   corpses. There was no blood.
   "Damn. They aren't alive."
   "They are," Clothahump insisted, struggling awkwardly in
   the grasp of three singers who were trying to wrestle his
   heavy body off the ship, "but it is not our kind of alive."
   "I'll make them our kind of dead." Talea's sword was
   moving like a scythe. Three singers fell neatly into six halves.
   They lay on the deck like so many lumps of white clay,
   motionless and cold.
   Jon-Tom hurried to assist Clothahump. "Sir, what do you
   think we... ?"
   "Fight for it, my boy, fight! You can't argue with these
   things, and I have a feeling that if we're taken from this boat
   we'll never see it again." He had retreated inside his shell,
   confounding his would-be abductors.
   Above the shouts of the boat's defenders and the singsong
   of their horribly indifferent assaulters came a reprise of that
   ominous, basso groaning. It was definitely nearer, Jon-Tom
   thought, and redoubled his efforts to clear the deck.
   He was swinging the club end of his staff in great arcs,
   indiscriminately lopping off heads, arms, legs. The singers
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   THE HOUR Or THE GATE
   broke like hardened clay, but the dozens dismembered were
   replaced by ranks of thoughtless duplicates, still droning their
   eerie anthem.
   "Get us out in the current!" Talea was trying to keep the
   white bodies away from the bow.
   With Mudge shielding him from clutching fingers Bribbens
   put down his oar and returned to the main sweep. Though he
   leaned on it as hard as he could, and though the current was
   with them, they still couldn't move away from the shore.
   Jon-Tom leaned over the side. Using his reach and the long
   club he began clearing bodies from the waterline. White
   bands pulled possessively at him from behind, but Flor was
   soon at his side swinging her mace, cutting them down like
   pale shrubs. Most of them ignored her. Possibly it had
   something to do with her white leather clothing, he mused.
   He concentrated on swinging the club in long arcs, knocking
   away heads or pieces of boneless skull with great rapidity.
   Their slight resistance barely slowed the force of his swings.
   When the heads were knocked loose the bodies simply
   ceased their shoving and slid below the surface. A few
   bobbed on the current and drifted like styrofoam down the
   river.
   The singing continued, undisturbed by the bloodless slaugh-
   ter, by screams of anger or despair. Rising louder around the
   boat was that rich, bellowing moan. It had become loud
   enough now to drown out the chorus. A few fragments of
   rock fell from the cavern roof.
   Finally enough of the bodies had been swept from the side
   of the boat for it to drift once more out into the river. Like so
   many termites supple white singers continued to march down
   toward the water. They walked until the water was up to their
   chests and began swimming slowly after the boat.
   Breathing hard, Jon-Tom leaned back against the railing,
   holding tight to his staff for additional support. All of the
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   Alan Dean Foster
   original swimmers who'd forced the craft in to shore had
   been knocked away or decapitated. Now that they were out
   again in midstream, the current kept them well ahead of their
   lugubrious pursuers.
   "I don't understand what—" He was talking to the boat-
   man, but Bribbens wasn't listening. He'd suddenly locked the
   steering oar in position and was unbolting smaller ones from
   the deck.
   "Paddle, man! Paddle for your life!"
   "What?" Jon-Tom looked back at the shore, expecting to
   see the horde of singers clumsily stumbling after them across
   the rocks.
   Instead his gaze fastened onto something that stifled the
   scream welling up in his throat and turned it into that peculiar
   choking noise people make at times of true horror. A vast,
   glowing gray mass filled the cavern shore behind them. It
   came near to touching the ceiling. Where large formations
   rose the gray substance flowed over or around it, displaying a
   consistency partly like cloud and then like lard. Its moans
   rattled the length of the cavern and echoed back from distant
   walls.
   It looked like a fog wrapped with mucus, save for two
   enormous, pulsing pink eyes. They stared lidlessly down at
   the tiny fleeing ship and the stick figures frozen on its deck.
   Bits of its flanks were in constant motion. These portions
   of mucus slid toward the ground. As they did so their color
   paled to a now familiar white. Tumbling like the eggs of
   some gigantic insect, they dropped off the huge slimy sides
   onto the rock and gravel. There they rolled over and stood
   upright on newly formed legs. Simultaneously a section of
   their smooth faces parted and a fresh voice would join
   intuitively in the awful mellifluous chorus of its duplicates.
   Something hard and unyielding struck Jon-Tom in his
   midsection. Looking down he saw the hardwood oar Bribbens
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   had shoved at him. The glaring frog face moved away, to pass
   additional oars to the rest of his passengers.
   Then he was back at his sweep, rowing madly and yelling
   at his companions. "Paddle, damn you all, paddle!"
   Jon-Tom's feet finally moved. He leaned over the side and
   ripped with the oar at the dark surface of the river. It was
   difficult going and the leverage was bad, but he rowed until
   his throat screamed with pain and a deep throbbing pounded
   against his chest.
   Yet that horror lurching and tumbling drunkenly along the
   shore just behind them put strength in weakened arms. Talea,
   Ror, Caz, and Mudge imitated his efforts. Pog had hidden
   behind his wings, where he hung from the spreaders, a
   shivering droplet of black membrane, flesh, and fear. Clothahump
   stood and watched, watched and mumbled.
   A thick gray pseudopod reached across the river, emerging
   from the slate-colored moving mountain. It slapped violently
   at the water only yards from the stem of the fleeing vessel.
   For all its nebulous horror, the substance of the monster was
   teal enough. Water drenched those on board.
   Black almost-eyes glistened wetly as white grub-things
   continued peeling from the pulsating bulk of the beast.
   Jon-Tom frowned; someone had spoken above the reverberant
   bellowing. He looked across at Clothahump.
   "The Massawrath." The wizard noticed Jon-Tom staring at
   him, and he repeated the name. "I have seen it in visions, my
   boy, suspected it in trances, but to have located its lair... Is it
   not appalling and unique? Do you not recognize any of this?"
   "Recognize...? Clothahump, have you gone mad? Or
   have we all? Or is it just that... that..."
   He hesitated. For all its utterly alien appearance, there was
   truly something almost familiar about the apparition.
   Again the pseudopod slapped at them. There was a broken
   groan from the boat. The tip of the massive appendage had
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   Alan Dean Foster
   struck just to Clothahump's left, tearing away railing along
   with a bit of the deck. The turtle had instinctively withdrawn
   and rolled several yards bowward. There he stuck out arms
   and legs once more and struggled to his feet while Bribbens
   rowed harder than ever and quietly cursed the abomination
   pursuing them.
   Several partly formed white shapes had fallen from the end
   of the pseudopod. They lay on deck, their uncompleted limbs
   thrashing slowly. Among them was a head that had not grown
   a proper body and a lower torso the chest region of which
   tapered to a point.
   Jon-Tom pulled in his oar and began kicking the disgusting
   things over the side. The last one clutched and pulled at him.
   It had arms but no legs. He was forced to touch it. Somehow
   he kept down his nausea and pulled it away from his legs.
   The white, rubbery flesh was cold as ice. He lifted it and
   heaved it over the railing, its weak grip sliding along his arm.
   It splashed astern while the Massawrath hunched its way over
   boulders and stalagmites, pacing just aft of the racing ship
   and gibbering mindlessly.
   "If the river narrows and brings us in reach, we're fin-
   ished." Talea spoke in a high, nervous voice and wrestled
   with the long oar.
   "What is it?" Jon-Tom wiped his hands on his pants but
   the clamminess he'd picked off the flesh wouldn't dry. He
   raised his oar and shoved it back into the water.
   "The Massawrath," Clothahump repeated. His hurried
   tumble across the deck apparently hadn't affected him. "She
   is the Mother of Nightmares. This is her lair, her home."
   Jon-Tom tried not to watch the loping gray slime. Bits of
   congealed white, animated puddings, continued to drip from
   those vast flanks, climb to their feet, and march for the water.
   They remained at least twenty yards astern though they kept
   up their pursuit. They did not have the muscular strength (if
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   THE HOUR Or THE GATE
   they had muscles, Jon-Tom thought) to overtake the boat. An
   anny of fellow singers surged and marched around the base of
   the Massawrath. Some were indifferently squished beneath
   the vast mass, others shoved aside into the water.
   "And what are the white things?" Flor forced herself to
   ask.
   Clothahump peered over his glasses at her in evident
   surprise. "Why child, what would you expect the Mother of
   Nightmares to produce, except nightmares? I asked if you
   recognized them. Having no dreams to invade they are
   presently unformed, shapeless, incipient. Here in their place
   of birthing they are partly solid. When they pass out and into
   the minds of thinking creatures they have become thin as
   wind. Their lives are brief, empty, and full of torment."
   "Wha-at?" Caz swallowed, tried again. "What does the
   blasted thing want with us?" The fur was as stiff on his neck
   as the nails of a yogi's board.
   "Nightmares need dreams to feed on," explained the
   wizard. "Minds on which to fasten. What the Massawrath
   Mother feeds on I can only imagine, but I am not ready to
   offer myself to find out. I do not think it would be pleasant to
   be nightmared to death. Mayhap she feeds on the loose minds
   of the mad, carried back to her by those fragments of
   nightmare offspring that survive longer than a night. It is said
   the insane never awaken."
   It continued to trail them, roaring and moaning. Pale things
   fell like white sweat from her back and sides. Occasionally a
   fresh appendage, gray and wet, would extend out toward
   them. It did not again come close enough to contact the boat.
   Jon-Tom remembered Talea's frantic warning: if anything
   forced them nearer the Massawrath's shore they would be
   better off killing each other.
   Another worry was the vibration he'd been feeling for more
   than a few minutes. Though it steadily intensified, it seemed
   117
   Alan Dean Poster
   to have no connection with the pursuing Mother of Night-
   mares. Soon a vast thunder filled his ears, powerful enough to
   reduce even the Massawrath's moan to a faint wailing.
   Still it grew in volume. Now the maddened gray hulk
   struck out at the boat with dozens of pseudopods of many
   lengths. They raised water from the river and dropped dozens
   of slimy nightmares behind the boat.
   The roaring grew louder still, until it and the vibration
   underfoot merged and were one. Exhausted from wrestling
   with the steering sweep, Bribbens leaned across it and tried to
   catch his breath. Then he frowned, staring over the bow.
   Several minutes went by and an expression of great calm
   came over his face.
   Jon-Tom relaxed on his own oar and panted uncontrollably.
   "You... you recognize it?"
   "Yes, I recognize it." The boatman looked happy, which
   was encouraging. He also looked resigned, which was not.
   "Every boatman knows the legends of the Sloomaz-ayor-le-
   Weentli. It could only be one thing, you know.
   "At least the Massawrath will not have us. This will be a
   cleaner, surer death."
   "What death? What are you talking about?" Talea and the
   others had shipped their own oars as their pursuer fell back.
   Bribbens reached out with an arm and gestured across the
   bow. Ahead of them a thick fog was becoming visible. It
   boiled energetically and spread a cloud across the roof of the
   great cavern.
   "dothahump?" Jon-Tom turned back to me wizard. "What's
   he raving about?"
   "He is not raving, my boy." The stocky sorcerer had also
   turned his attention away from the fading horror behind them.
   "He told you once, remember? It is why the Massawrath
   cannot follow and why she flails in rage at us. She cannot
   cross Helldrink."
   118
   THE HOUK Or THE GATE
   Thunder deafened Jon-Tom, and he had to put his hands to
   his ears. He felt the noise through the deck, through his legs
   and entire body. It pierced his every cell.
   Fog and roaring, mist and thunder drew nearer. What did
   mat say? It's speaking to you, he told himself, announcing its
   presence and declaring its substance. It was familiar to
   Bribbens, who'd never seen it. Should it therefore also be
   recognizable to him?
   Waterfall, he thought. He knew it instantly.
   Hurrying to the storage lockers, he tried to think of a
   saving song. The duar was in his hands, clean and dry,
   waiting to be stroked to life, waiting to sing magic. He
   draped straps over his neck, felt the familiar weight on his
   shoulders.
   One final tune long cables of gray mucus reached out for
   mem. The Massawrath had extended itself to the utmost, but
   its reach still fell short. Quivering with frustration, it hunkered
   down on the rocks now well behind the boat, the volcanic pits
   of its eyes glaring balefully at those now beyond its grasp.
   Ahead fog boiled ceilingward like wet flame.
   Jon-Tom stared mesmerized at the mist and hunted through
   his repertoire for an appropriate song. What could he sing?
   That they were nearing a waterfall was all too clear, but what
   kind of waterfall? How high, how wide, how fast or... ?
   Desperately he belted out several choruses from half a
   dozen different tunes relating to water. They produced no
   visible result. The boat's course and speed remained unchanged.
   Even the gneechees seemed to have deserted him. He'd come
   to expect their almost-presence whenever he'd strummed
   magic, and their absence panicked him.
   Nothing ahead now but swirling vapor. Then Talea cursed
   loudly. Caz gave a warning shout and locked his arms around
   the railing while Mudge put his head on the deck and covered
   119
 
   Alan Dean Foster
   his eyes with his hands, as though by not seeing he might not
   be affected.
   A faint mumbling rose behind Jon-Tom. Helpless and
   confused, he spared a second to look around.
   Clothahump was standing by the steering sweep, next to a
   stoic Bribbens. The wizard's short, stubby arms were raised,
   the fingers spread wide on his left hand while those on the
   right made small circles and traced invisible patterns in the
   air.
   With a snap the mainsail rose taut, the luff rope zipping up
   me mast with a whirr though no hand had touched the
   rigging. A terrified Pog reacted to the ascending sail by
   letting loose the spreader he'd been hanging from. A power-
   ful updraft caught him, and he had to flap furiously to regain
   his perch. This time he clung flat to the spreader, arms and
   legs wrapped as tightly about the wooden cross member as
   his wings were around his body.
   Clothahump's murmur changed to a stentorian, wizardly
   monotone. Now the wind blew hard in their faces, rough and
   threatening where the gentle on-bow breeze of previous days
   had been a comfortable companion.
   The roar that permeated his entire body had numbed
   Jon-Tom's hearing completely. But his vision still functioned.
   They were almost upon a cauldron of spray and fog. Water
   particles danced in the air and became one with the river. He
   wanted to close his eyes, but curiosity kept them open. They
   no longer could see or hear the Massawrath.
   A harder gray loomed immediately ahead, a definitive axis
   around which the mist boiled and filmed: the edge. The little
   boat crossed it... and kept going. All the while Clothahump
   continued his recitation. Even his charged voice was lost in
   the aqueous thunder, though Jon-Tom thought he could make
   out the part of the chant that made mention of "hydrostatic
   120
   "tm HOUR OF THE GATE
   immunatic even keel please." The boat now eased out on the
   turgid air.
   With the cold, distant interest of a parachutist whose chute
   has failed to open, Jon-Tom let the duar lie limp against him
   and moved to the railing. He looked over the side.
   A thousand feet deep, the waterfall was. No, five thou-
   sand. It was hard to tell, since it disappeared into mist-
   shrouded depths. It might have dropped less than a thousand
   feet, or for all he could tell it might have plunged straight to
   the heart of the earth. Or to hell, if its legend-name was
   accurate.
   Instead, the depths seemed to hold a fiery, red-orange glow.
   It arose from a distant whirlpool point.
   As me boat continued to cruise smoothly across emptiness,
   he finally saw the source of much of the thunder. There was
   not just one waterfall, but four. Others crashed downward to
   port and starboard, and the fourth lay dead ahead. These
   sibling torrents were each as broad and fulsome as the one the
   boat had just crossed. Four immense cascades converged
   above the Pit and tumbled to a hidden infinity called Helldrink.
   They were vast enough to drain all the oceans of all the
   worlds.
   The boat lurched, and everyone grabbed for something
   solid. They'd reached the middle of the Drink and had
   encountered the vortex of spray and upwelling air that dwelt
   there. The little vessel spun around twice, a third time, in that
   confluence of moist meterologics, and then was spun free by
   the vortex's centrifugal power. It continued sailing steadily
   across the chasm.
   Ahead the far waterfall loomed closer. The bow made
   contact with the water, the keel slipped in. They were sailing
   steadily now upstream, against the current. Wind rising from
   the Drink now blew at them from astern instead of in their
   121
   Alan Dean Foster
   faces. The sail billowed and filled for the first time since
   they'd entered the Earth's Throat.
   Clothahump suddenly leaned back against the railing. Hi'
   hands dropped and his voice faltered. The boat slowed. For
   an awful moment Jon-Tom thought the wind wouldn't be
   enough to cancel the insistent force of the swift current. Only
   Bribbens' skill enabled them finally to resume their forwara
   progress.
   Gradually they picked up speed, until the awesome pounding
   of the falls had fallen to a gentle rumbling echo. They were
   traveling upstream now, the wind steady behind them. The
   same luminescent growths lined portions of cavern wall and
   ceiling. They were in a subterranean chamber no different
   from the one they had fled.
   Emotionally wrung, Jon-Tom leaned over the side of the
   boat and gazed astern. By now the last mists had been
   swallowed by distance. No Massawrath clone waited here to
   challenge them.
   It did not have to. Never again could it send its pale white
   children to haunt the sleep of at least one traveler. Having
   been exposed, Jon-Tom was now immune. The encounter had
   innoculated him against nightmare. One who has looked upon
   the Mother of Nightmares cannot be frightened by her mere
   minions of ill sleep.
   Clothahump had slumped to the deck. He sat there rubbing
   his right wrist. "I am out of shape," he muttered to no one in
   particular. His attention rose to the mast. Pog was twisted
   around the upper spreaders like a black coil.
   The bat was slowly unwrapping himself. His malaria-like
   shivers faded, and he spoke in a querulous whisper. "Oint-
   ments, Master? Unguents and balms for ya arm, maybe a blue
   pill for ya head?"
   "You okay?" Jon-Tom gazed admiringly down at the
   exhausted wizard.
   122
   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   "I will be, boy." He spoke hoarsely to his famulus.
   "Some ointment, yes. No pill for my head, but I will have
   one of the green ones for my throat. Five minutes of nonstop
   chanting." He sighed heavily, glanced back to Jon-Tom.
   "Keep in mind, my boy, that a wizard's greatest danger is
   not lack of knowledge nor the onset of senility nor such
   forgetfulness as I am now prone to. It's laryngitis."
   Then everyone was swarming happily around him. Except
   me unperturbable, steady Bribbens. The boatman remained at
   his post, eyes directed calculatingly upstream. They had left
   the boat in his hands, and he left the congratulating in theirs.
   It was later that Mudge found Jon-Tom seated near the bow
   and staring morosely ahead. Strong wind from behind lifted
   his bright green cape, and he tucked it around and between
   his upraised knees. The duar lay in his lap. He plucked
   disconsolately at it as multihued formations passed in glowing
   revue.
   " 'Ere now, lad," said the otter concernedly, leaning over
   and squeak-sniffing, "wot's the matter, then? That Massawatch-
   oriswhatever's behind us now, not comin' down at us."
   Jon-Tom drew another chord from the instrument, smiled
   faintly up at the otter. "I blew it, Mudge." When the otter
   continued to look puzzled, he added, "I could've done the
   same thing as Clothahump, but I couldn't come up with the
   right music." He looked down at the duar.
   "I couldn't think of a single appropriate tune, not even a
   chord. If it had all been up to me," he said with a shrug,
   "we'd all be dead by now."
   "But we ain't," Mudge pointed out cheerfully, "and that
   be the important thing."
   "Our cheeky companion is correct, you know." Caz had
   come up behind them both. Now he stood opposite Mudge,
   looking at the seated human. His paws were behind his back
   and folded just above the putfball of a tail. "I doesn't matter
   123
   Alan Dean Foster
   who does the saving. Just as friend Mudge says, the fact that
   we are saved is the important thing. Remember, it was you
   who tamed the great Falameezar that fiery night in Polastrindu.
   Not Clothahump. You want to hold all the glory for yourself?"
   When he saw that the irony was lost on Jon-Tom he added,
   "We all work for the same end. It matters nothing who does
   what so long as that end is achieved. It shall be, unless some
   of us put our personal feelings and desires above it."
   Mudge looked a little uncomfortable at the rabbit's bluntness.
   " 'E's right, mate. We can't be thinkin' o' ourselves in this
   business." The last was said with a straight face. "You'll
   'ave plenty o' opportunity t' demonstrate your wonderfulnes'
   t' the ladies when this all be done with." He winked anG
   whistled knowingly before leaving for the stem.
   Caz considered giving the self-pitying human a comforting
   pat, decided Jon-Tom might regard it as patronizing, and left
   to join Mudge.
   Jon-Tom, sitting by himself, muttered aloud, "The ladie
   have nothing to do with it." He watched the cavern wall'
   glide past. Gentle spray licked his face, kicked up from the
   bow as the boat made its way upstream.
   They didn't, he insisted to himself, resting his chin o.
   folded hands. He'd only been worried about the general
   welfare.
   Then he grinned, though there was no one to see him. The
   trouble with studying law is that you develop a tendency u
   bullshit yourself as well as your counterparts. What about thi
   theory that all great events, all the turning points of histor
   had in some measure or another been motivated by matters (
   passion? Catherine the Great, Napoleon, Hitler, Washingtc
   ... the sexual theory of history explained a hell of a lot c
   things economics and social migration and such did not.
   It was quite a different kind of history that balanced on thi^
   outcome of their little expedition. Jon-Tom had never accorded
   124
   THE HOUR Or THE GATE
   the theory much credit anyway. Yet though meant at least
   partly in jest, Mudge's words forced home to him how often
   emotional yearnings coupled with the basic desires of the
   body could overwhelm those usually thought of as rational
   creatures.
   So he was sitting there moping about nothing except
   himself. That was selfish and stupid. Maybe it had affected
   the thinking of Napoleon and Tiberius and others, but it
   wouldn't affect him. It was a damn good thing Clothahump
   had found the words that had escaped his human companion.
   His moroseness fading, he strummed softly on the duar. A
   flicker of dancing motes haunted his left elbow. When he
   turned to inspect them, they'd gone. Gneechees.
   What still did worry him was the thought that the next time
   he might be called upon to sing some magic, he might be as
   mentally paralyzed as he'd been when nearing Helldrink. He
   would have to fight that.
   It wasn't the thought of death or the failure of their mission
   that troubled him as he sat there and played. It was a fear of
   personal failure, a fear that had haunted him since he'd been a
   child. It was the fear which had driven him to pursue two
   different careers without being able to choose between them.
   And though he didn't realize it, it was the fear which had
   driven more men and women to greatness than far more
   rational motivations....
   125
   VIII
   Several days later the cathedral hove into view. It was not a
   cathedral, of course. But it might have been. No one could
   say. That turned out not to be as confusing as it seemed.
   To Jon-Tom it looked like a cathedral. The ceiling of the
   great underground chamber in which it rose was several
   hundred feet high. Towers and turrets nearly touched that far
   stone roof. At that distance massive stalactites, each weighing
   many tons, resembled pins hanging from a carpet.
   The bioluminescents were especially dense here and the      ;
   chamber and its far reaches so brightly lit that it took me      '
   travelers several minutes to adjust to that unexpectedly vi-      |
   brant organic glow.
   It was more like a hundred cathedrals, Jon-Tom thought,
   all executed in miniature and piled one atop the other. Care
   and fine craftsmanship were apparent in every line and curve
   of the labyrinthine structure. Thousands of tiny colored win-
   127
   Alan Dean Foster
   dows gleamed on dozens of levels. The edifice filled much of
   the huge chamber.
   It was a measure of the distances his mind had crossed that
   it was only incidental to him that the building shone a rich,
   metallic gold. Of course, that might only be a result of
   extensive use of gilt paint. Still, he vowed privately to keep a
   close watch on their avaricious otter.
   The term miniature was applicable to more than just the
   building. When it became clear to them that the inhabitants of
   the strange boat were not hostile, the builders began to show
   themselves.
   No more than four inches tall, the little people were
   covered with a rich umber fur that suggested sable. This fur
   was quite short, and long, fine hair of the same shade grew
   on the heads of male and female alike. Hordes of them started
   emerging from tiny doors and cubbyholes. Most resumed
   working on the building. Acres of scaffolding bristled on
   battlements and turrets and towers. One group of several
   dozen were installing a massive window all of a yard high.
   Bribbens eased the boat in toward shore. At closer range
   they could make out thousands of golden sculptures adorning
   the building, gargoyles and worm-sized snakes and things
   only half realized because they originated in other dimen-
   sions, from a different biological geometry. Unlike the gneechees,
   these wonderful creations could be viewed, if not wholly
   perceived.
   As the boat drifted still closer the thousands of tiny
   workers began milling uncomfortably, clustering close by
   doorways and other openings. Ion-Tom hailed them from his
   position at the bow, trying to assuage their worries.
   "We mean you no harm," he called gently. "We're only
   passing through your lands and admire your incredible build-
   ing. What's it for?"
   From the crest of a water-caressed rock a fur-covered
   128
   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   nymph all of three and a half inches tall shouted back at him.
   He had to strain to understand the tiny lady.
   "It is the Building," she told him matter-of-factly, as
   though that should be explanation enough to satisfy anyone.
   "Yes," and he lowered his voice still further when he saw
   that his normal tone was painfully loud to her, "but what is
   the building for?"
   "It is the Building," the sprite reiterated. "We call it
   'Heart-of-the-World.' Does it not shine brightly?"
   "Very brightly," Talea said appreciatively. "It's very beau-
   tiful. But what is it for?"
   The down-clad waif laughed delicately. "We are not sure.
   We have always worked on the Building. We always will
   work on the Building. What else is there to -life but the
   Building?"
   "You say you call it 'Heart-of-the-World.'" Jon-Tom stud-
   ied the radiant walls and glistening spires. At first he thought
   it had been made of real gold, then stone covered with gilt
   paint. Now he wasn't sure. It might be metal of another kind,
   or plastic, or ceramic, or some unimaginable material he
   knew nothing of.
   "Perhaps it is the very heart of the world itself," the little
   lady offered in suggestion. She smiled joyfully, showing
   perfect minuscule teeth. "We do not know. It beats with light
   as a heart does. If our work were to be stopped, perhaps the
   light would go out of the world."
   Jon-Tom considered saying more but found reason and
   reality at odds with one another, mixed up like a dog and a
   cat chasing each other around a pole, getting nowhere. He
   looked helplessly to Clothahump for an explanation. So did
   his companions.
   "Who can say?" The wizard shrugged. "If it is truly the
   architecture of the heart of the world, then at least we can tell
   others that the world is well and truly fashioned."
   129
   »,'
   •&,
   Alan Dean Foster
   "Thank you, sir." The sprite leaped nimbly to another rock
   further upstream to keep pace with them. "We do our best.
   We have become very adept at adding to and maintaining the
   Building."
   "Make sure," Jon-Tom called to her, "that its glow never
   goes out!" They were passing into a, narrower section of the
   river cavern, leaving the unnamed little folk and their enig-
   matic, immense construct behind.
   "Who knows," he said quietly to Flor, "if it is the heart of
   the world, then they'd better not be disturbed in their work.
   That's a hell of a responsibility. And if it's not, if it's only a
   building, an obsession, it's too beautiful to let die anyway."
   "I never thought the heart of the world would be a
   building," she said.
   "Aren't we all structures?" With the Massawrath and
   Helldrink safely far behind he was feeling alive and expan-
   sive. He'd always been that way: high ups and abyssal
   downs. Right now he was up.
   "Each of us develops piece by piece. We're full of careful-
   ly built rooms and halls, audience chambers and windows,
   and we're populated with changing individualistic thoughts. I
   never imagined the heart of the world would be a building,
   though." He stared back down the tunnel. It was growing
   dark, the radiant growths vanishing as they were prone to at
   unexpected intervals.
   "In fact, I never thought of the world as having a heart."
   The last rich light from the distant chamber was lost to
   sight as they rounded a slight bend in the river. Bribbens was
   lighting the first lamp.
   "That's a nice thought, Jon-Tom. If only having a heart
   meant you would be happy."
   "I suppose it often means the opposite." But when the
   import of her last comment finally penetrated, she had left
   him to chat with their stolid steersman.
   130
   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   Jon-Tom hesitated, thought about pursuing it further by
   rejoining her to say, "Flor, are you trying to tell me some-
   thing?" But he was as afraid of showing ignorance if he was
   interpreting her wrongly as he was of failure.
   So he sat himself down in the nickering light and began to
   clean and tune his duar. As he tightened or loosened the
   strings, a gneechee or two would appear behind him, peering
   over his shoulder. He knew they were there and did his best
   to ignore them.
   They were compelled to run on lamplight. Gradually the
   immense cave formations, the helictites and flowstone and
   such, began to grow smaller. In the narrowing confines of the
   river channel the rush and roar reverberated louder from the
   walls. The continuing absence of the familiar fluorescent
   fungi and their cousins was becoming unsettling.
   No one liked the darkness. It reminded them too much of
   sleep, and that reminded them of the now distant but never to
   be forgotten sight of the Massawrath. More importantly, their
   lamp oil was running out. Bribbens had prepared well, but he
   hadn't expected to journey for long in total darkness. The
   now sorely missed bioluminescents were all that had kept
   them from traveling in black. Soon it appeared they might
   have to do so, relying on Pog's abilities to guide them, unless
   the light-producing vegetation reappeared.
   A hand was shaking him. It was too small to be part of the
   Massawrath, too solid to be one of its children. Nevertheless
   he had an instant of terror before coming awake.
   "Get up, Jon-Tom. Move your ass!" It was the urgent
   voice of Talea.
   "What?" But before he could say anything more she'd
   moved on to the next sleeping form. He heard her banging on
   an echoing surface.
   "Wake up, wizard. You lazy old wizard, wake up!" She
   sounded worried.
   131
   Alan Dean Foster
   "I still admit to 'old' but not the other." A grumbling
   Clothahump clambered to his feet.
   Jon-Tom blinked, fought to dig sleep from his eyes. It was
   hard to see anything in the reduced light from the lamps.
   Bribbens was trying to conserve their dwindling supply of oil.
   Then he saw the cause of her anxiety. In the blackness
   ahead was a writhing sheet of flame, completely blocking the
   river. It hung in the air there, a dull, thick orange-silver that
   did not move. The others awoke and moved to the bow to
   examine it. All agreed it was a most peculiar kind of fire.
   As they cruised closer no rise in temperature or indeed any
   heat at all could be felt. The orange-silver hue did not
   change.
   "Can it be another structure like the Heart-of-the-Wbrld
   building of the little folk?" Flor licked her lower lip and
   stared anxiously forward.
   "No, no. The color is all wrong, supple shadow, and there
   is no sign of separation; levels, floors, or windows." Caz
   faced the wizard. "What is your opinion of it, sir?"
   "Just a moment, will you?" Clothahump sounded irritable.
   "I'm not fully awake yet. Do you children think I have your
   physical resiliency simply because my brain is so much more
   active? Now then, this surely cannot be dangerous." He
   called back to Bribbens. "Steady ahead, my good boatman."
   "Don't have much choice." The frog snapped off his reply
   as he tightened his grip on the steering sweep. "Tunnel's
   become too narrow for us to turn 'round in. Some of the
   rocks hereabouts look sharp. I don't want to chance 'em, so
   it's steady ahead unless it turns desperate."
   The boatman was forced to raise his voice to a near shout
   to make himself understood. The rush of air in the pipe of a
   cave argued noisily with the increased force of me current.
   They watched silently while mat cold flame came nearer.
   Then there was another, dimmer light haloing it, and the
   132
   THE HOUR Of THE GATE
   orange-silver no longer blocked their progress. The new light
   came from tiny shining points that flickered unevenly, but not
   like gneechees. These were both visible and motionless.
   "Well, shit." Mudge put hands on hips and sounded
   thoroughly disgusted with himself. " 'Tis a prize pack o'
   idiots we be, mates."
   Jon-Tom didn't understand immediately, but it didn't take
   long until he knew the reason for the otter's embarrassment.
   When he did so he felt equally ashamed of his own fear.
   The orange-silvery color was familiar enough. Then they
   emerged from the cavern. The great rising orb of moon no
   longer shone directly down into the Earth's Throat.
   "We made it." He hugged a startled Talea. "Damned if
   we didn't!"
   The character of the land they had emerged into was very
   different from that of the Swordsward and the river country of
   Bribbens' home. It was evident they had climbed a consider-
   able distance.
   Behind them towering crags reached for the stars. Clouds
   capped them, though they were not as thick as those on the
   eastern flanks of the range. No open plains or low scrub
   bordered the river here. There was no fragrant coniferous
   forest or high desert.
   Mountains rose all around the little river valley in which
   they found themselves. Despite the altitude the country dis-
   played the aspect of more tropical climes. It was warm but
   not hot, nor was it particularly humid. Jon-Tom thought of a
   temperate-zone climax forest.
   Vines and creepers leaped from tree to tree. A thick
   undergrowth prevented them from seeing more than a few
   yards inland on either shore.
   It was with relief that Jon-Tom inhaled the fresh air,
   fragrant with the aroma of flowers and green things. Though
   hardly tropical, the climate was more pleasant despite the
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   Alan Dean Poster
   altitude than any place he'd yet been. Compared to the
   bone-rattling winds of the Swordsward it was positively
   Edenic.
   "Fine country," he said enthusiastically. "I'm surprised
   none of the warmlanders have tried to migrate here."
   "Even if they knew this land existed they could not get
   over the mountains," Clothahump reminded him. "Only a
   very few in memory have ever made that journey. Even if
   would-be settlers could survive the trip, kindly keep in mind
   that this land is already occupied. Legend says the Weavers
   dislike any strangers. Consider what their opinion would be
   of potential colonists."
   "And these are the people we're trying to make allies of?"
   Flor wondered.
   "They are not overt enemies," Clothahump told her,
   shaking his head slowly. "Legend says they are content
   enough here in their land. Yet I admit legend also insists they
   hold no love for any but their own kind. It is said they like
   most to keep to themselves and maintain their privacy.
   "As near as I know we are the first folk to journey past the
   mountain barrier in hundreds of years. Perhaps the legends no
   longer hold true. It may be that in all that time the inhabitants
   of the Scuttleteau have mellowed."
   "They sure sound charming," said Flor apprehensively. "I
   can't wait to meet them." Her voice rose in tone, and she
   mimed a sardonic greeting. "Buenos dias, Sefior Weaver.
   Como esta usted, and please don't eat me, I'm only a
   tourist." She sighed and grimaced at me wizard. "I wish I
   were as confident of success as you are."
   "I'm 'ardly an optimist, meself," Mudge commented,
   surveying the near shore and considering a warm swim.
   "Oh well. Surely they will see the need," said Caz
   hopefully, "to stand together against a common threat."
   "That is to be hoped," the wizard agreed. "But we cannot
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   THE HOUR Of THE GATE
   be certain. We can only pray for a friendly welcome. Should
   we actually achieve anything more than that, it would exceed
   my wildest hopes."
   There were some shocked looks in response to that. Jon-
   Tom spoke for all of them. "You mean... you're not sure
   you can persuade them?"
   "My dear boy, I never made any such claim."
   "But you gave me the impression..."
   Clothahump held up a hand. "I made no promises. I
   merely stated that there was little we could do if we remained
   in Polastrindu and that we might have some chance of
   securing another strong ally were we to successfully complete
   this journey. I never said that reaching the Scuttleteau was a
   guarantee we could do that. Nor did I ever display any
   optimism about striking such an alliance. I simply declared
   that I thought it would be a good idea to try."
   "You stiff-backed, bone-brained old fart, you led us on!"
   Talea was nearly too furious for words. "You cajoled us
   through all that," and she pointed back toward the mouth of
   the tunnel they'd recently emerged from, "through every-
   thing we've suffered since leaving Polastrindu, without think-
   ing we had any chance to succeed?"
   "I did not say we did not have a chance." Clothahump
   patiently corrected her. "I said our chances were slim. That is
   different from nonexistent. When I say achieving such an
   alliance would exceed my wildest hopes, I am merely being
   realistic, not fatalistic. The chance is there."
   "Why the fuck couldn't you have been 'realistic' back in
   Polastrindu?" she growled softly. "Couldn't you have told us
   how slight you thought our chances of success were?"
   "I could have, but no one thought to ask me. As to the
   first, if I had been more, shall we say, explicit in my
   opinions, none of you would have come with me. Those who
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   Alan Dean Foster
   might have would not have done so with as much confidence
   and determination as you have all displayed thus far."
   Since this logic was irrefutable, no one chose to argue.
   There was some spirited name-calling, however. The wizard
   ignored it as one would have the excited chatter of children.
   Pog found the situation unbearably amusing.
   "Now ya see what I have ta deal wid, don'tcha?" He
   giggled in gravely bat-barks as he swung gleefully from the
   spreader. "Maybe now ya all'll sympathize wid poor Pog a
   little bit more!"
   "Shut your ugly face." Talea heaved a hunk of torchwood
   at him. He dodged it nimbly.
   "Now, now, Talea-tail. Late for recriminations, don'tcha
   tink?" Again the rich laughter. "His Bosship has ya all
   where he wants ya." A series of rapid-fire squeeks seeped out
   as he delightedly lapped up their discomfort.
   "It does seem you've been somewhat less than truthful
   with us, sir," said Caz reprovingly.
   "Not at all. I have not once lied to any of you. And the
   odds do not lessen the importance of our trying to conclude
   this alliance. The more so now that we have actually com-
   pleted the arduous journey through the Earth's Throat and
   have reached the Scuttleteau.
   "Admittedly our chances of persuading the Weavers to join
   with us are slight, but the chance is real so long as we are
   real. We must reach for every advantage and assistance we
   can."
   "And if we die on the failure of this slight chance?" Flor
   wanted to know.
   "That is a risk I have resigned myself to accepting," he
   replied blandly.
   "I see." Talea's fingers dug into the wood of the railing.
   She stared at the river as she spoke. "If we all die, that's a
   risk you're prepared to take. Well, I'm not."
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   THE HOUR Of THE GATE
   "As you wish." Clothahump gestured magnanimously at
   me water. "I herewith release you from any obligation to
   assist me further. You may commence your swim homeward."
   "Like hell." She peered back at Bribbens. "Turn this
   deadwood around."
   The boatman threw her a goggle-eyed and mournful look.
   "How much can you pay me?"
   l&T           >»
   "I see." He turned his attention back to the river ahead. "I
   take orders only from those who can pay me." He indicated
   Clothahump. "He paid me. He tells my boat where it is to
   go. I do not renege on my business agreements."
   "Screw your business agreements, don't you care about
   your own life?" she asked him.
   "I honor my commitments. My honor is my life." This
   last was uttered with such finality that Talea subsided.
   "Commitments my ass." She turned to sit glumly on the
   deck, glaring morosely at the wooden planking.
   "I repeat, I have not lied to any of you." Clothahump
   spoke with dignity, then added by way of an afterthought, "I
   should have thought that all of you were ready to take any
   risk necessary in this time of crisis. I see that I was mistaken,"
   It was quiet on the boat for several hours. Then Talea
   looked up irritably and said, "I'm sorry. Bribbens is right.
   We all made a commitment to see this business through. I'll
   Stick to mine." She glanced back at the wizard. "My fault. I
   apol... I apologize." The unfamiliar word came hard to her.
   There were murmurs of agreement from the others.
   "That's better," Clothahump observed. "I'm glad that
   you've all made up your minds. Again. It was time to do so
   because," and he pointed over the bow, "soon there will be
   no chance of turning back."
   Completely spanning the river a hundred yards off the bow
   was a soaring network of thick cables. They made a silvery
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   Alan Dean Foster
   shadow on the water, a domed superstructure of glistening
   filaments in the intensifying morning light.
   Waiting and watching with considerable interest from their
   resting places high up in the cables were half a dozen of the
   Weavers.
   Clothahump knew what to expect. Caz, Mudge, Talea,
   Pog, and Bribbens had some idea, if through no other means
   than the stories passed down among generations of travelers.
   But Jon-Tom and Flor possessed no such mental buffering.
   Primeval fear sent a shudder through both of them. It was
   instinctive and unreasoning and cold. Only the fact that their
   companions showed no sign of panic prevented the two
   otherworlders from doing precisely that.
   The six Weavers might comprise a hunting party, an official
   patrol, or simply a group of interested river gazers out for a
   day's relaxation. Now they gathered near the leading edge of
   the cablework.
   One of them shinnied down a single strand when the boat
   began to pass beneath. Under Bribbens' directions and at
   Clothahump's insistence, Mudge and Caz were taking down
   .the single sail.
   "No point in making a show of resistance or attempting to
   pass uncontested," the wizard murmured. "After all, our
   purpose in coming here is to meet with them."
   Unable to override their instincts, Jon-Tom and Flor moved
   to the rear of the boat, as far away from their new visitor as
   they could get.
   That individual secured the bottom of his cable to the bow
   of the little boat. The craft swung around, tethered to the
   overhead network, until its stem was pointing upstream.
   Having detached the cable from the end of his abdomen,
   the Weaver rested on four legs, quietly studying the crew of
   the peculiar boat with unblinking, lidless multiple eyes. Four
   arms were folded across his cephalothorax. His body was
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   THE Hous OF THE GATE
   bright yellow with concentric triangles decorating the under-
   side of the sternum. His head was a beautiful ocher. The slim
   abdomen had blue stripes running down both the dorsal and
   ventral sides.
   Complementing this barrage of natural coloration was a
   swirling, airy attire of scarves and cloth. The material was
   readily recognizable as pure silk. It was twisted and wrapped
   sari-style around the neck, cephalothorax, abdomen, and
   upper portions of the legs and arms. Somehow it did not
   entangle the Weaver's limbs as he moved.
   It was impossible to tell how many pieces of silk the visitor
   was wearing. Jon-Tom followed one feathery kelly-green
   scarf for several yards around legs and abdomen until it
   vanished among blue and pink veils near the head. A series of
   bright pink bows knotted several of the scarves together and
   decorated the spinneret area. Mandibles moved idly, and
   occasionally they could see the twin fangs that flanked the
   other mouth-parts. The Weaver was a nightmare out of a Max
   Ernst painting, clad in Technicolor.
   The nightmare spoke. At first Jon-Tom had trouble under-
   _ standing the breathy, faint voice. Gradually curiosity over-
   threw his initial ten-or, and he joined his companions in the
   bow. He began to make sense of the whispery speech, which
   reminded him of papers blowing across stepping-stones.
   As the Weaver talked, he tested the cable he'd spun himself
   from bridge to boat. Then he sat down, having concluded his
   prayer or invocation or whatever it had been, by folding his
   four legs beneath him. His jaw rested on the upper tarsals and
   claws. The body was three feet long and the legs almost
   doubled that.
   "it has been a long time," said the veiled spider, "fa-
   beyond my lifetime, beyond i think the memory of any
   currently alive, since any of the wamuand people have visiteo
   the scuttleteau."
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   Alan Dean Foster
   Jon-Tom tried to analyze the almost nonexistent inflection.
   Was the Weaver irritated, or curious, or both?
   "no one can cross the mountains." A pair of arms gestured
   toward the towering peaks that loomed above them.
   "We did not come over the mountains," said Clothahump,
   "but through them." He nodded toward the river. "We came
   on this watercourse through the Earth's Throat."
   The spider's head bobbed from side to side. "that is not
   possible."
   "Then how the hell do you think we got here?" Talea said
   challengingly, bravery and bluster overcoming common sense.
   "it may be that..." The spider hesitated, the whispery
   tones little louder than the Breeze wafting across the ship.
   Then faint, breathy puffs came from that arachnoid throat. It
   was a laughter that sounded like the wind that gets lost in
   thick trees and idles around until it blows itself out.
   "ah, sarcasm, a trait of the soft-bodied, i believe, what do
   you wish here on the scuttleteau?"
   Jon-Tom felt himself drawn to the side by Caz while the
   wizard and Weaver talked. The rabbit gestured toward the
   sky.
   The other five Weavers now hung directly above the boat
   from short individual cables. It was obvious they could be on
   the deck in seconds. They carried cleverly designed knives
   and bolas that could be easily manipulated by the double
   flexible claws tipping each limb.
   "They've been quiet enough thus far," said Caz, "but
   should our learned leader's conversation grow less than ac-
   commodating, we should anticipate confronting more than
   one of them." His hand slid suggestively over the knife slung
   at his own hip, beneath the fine jacket.
   Jon-Tom nodded acknowledgment. They separated and
   casually apprised the others of the quintet dangling ominously
   over their heads.
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   When Clothahump had finished, the spider moved back
   against the railing and regarded them intently. At least, that
   was the impression Jon-Tom received. It was difficult to tell
   not only how he was seeing them mentally, but physically as
   well. With four eyes, two small ones and two much larger
   ones mounted higher on his head, the Weaver would be hard
   to surprise.
   "you have come a long way without being sure of the
   nature of your eventual reception, to what purpose? you have
   talked much and said little, the mark of a diplomat but not
   necessarily of a friend, why then are you here?"
   Above, the Weaver's companions swayed gently in the
   breeze and caressed their weapons.
   "I'm sorry, but we can't tell you that," said Clothahump
   boldly. Jon-Tom moved to make certain his back was against
   the mast. "Our information is of such vital importance to the
   Weavers that it can only be related to the highest local
   authority."
   "nothing a warmlander can say is of any importance to the
   weavers." Again came that distant, whistling laugh, blowing
   arrogantly across the deck.
   "Nilontfwml" roared Clothahump in his most impressive
   sorceral tone. Vibrations rattled the boat. Whitecaps snapped
   on the crests of sudden waves, and there was a distant rumble
   of thunder. The five watchers in the net overhead bounced
   nervously on their organic tethers while the Weaver in the
   boat stiffened against the rail.
   Clothahump lowered his arms. One had to stare hard at the
   inoffensive-appearing little turtle with the absurd spectacles to
   believe that voice had truly issued from that hard-shelled
   body.
   "By my annointment as Sorcerer-Majestic of the Last
   Circle, by the brow of EIrath-Vune now long dust, by all the
   oaths that bind all the practitioners of True Magic back to the
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   Alan Dean Foster
   beginnings of divination, I swear to you that what I have to
   say is vital to the survival of Weaver as well as warmlander,
   and that it can be imparted only to the Grand Webmistress
   herself!"
   That pronouncement appeared to shake their visitor as
   badly as had the totally unexpected demonstration of wizardly
   power.
   "most impressive in word and action," the spider husked.
   "that you are truly a wizard cannot be denied." He recovered
   some "octupul" poise and executed a short little bow, crossing
   all four upper limbs across his chest.
   "forgive my hesitation and suspicions and accept my
   apologies should i have offended you. my name is ananthos."
   "Are you in charge of the river guards, then?" Plor
   indicated the five remaining armed Weavers still drifting in
   the wind overhead.
   The spider turned his head toward her, and she fought hard
   not to shudder, "your meaning is obscure, female human, we
   do not 'guard' the bridge, there are not any who would harm
   it, and none until now come out of the hole into which the
   river dies."
   "Then why are you here at all? Why the bridge?" Jon-Tom
   didn't try to conceal his puzzlement.
   "this is," and the Weaver gestured with one limb at the
   network of silken cables and its watchful inhabitants, "a
   lifesaving grid. it was erected here to protect those young and
   ignorant weavers who are fond of playing in the river lamayad
   and who sometimes tend to drift too close to the hole which
   kills the water, were they to vanish within they would be
   forever lost.
   "did you think then we were soldiers? there is no need for
   soldiers on the scuttleteau. we have no enemies."
   "Then a revelation is in store," muttered Clothahump so
   low the Weaver did not hear him.
   "the bridge is to help protect infants," ananthos finished.
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   THE HOUR Or THE GATE
   "Now don't that soothe a beatin' 'eart!" Mudge whispered
   disbelievingly to Jon-Tom. "A fearsome lookin' lot like this
   and 'e says they've no soldiers. Wot a fine pack o' allies
   they'll make, eh?"
   "They've got weapons," his companion argued, "and
   they look like they know how to use them." He raised his
   voice and addressed the Weaver. "If this is nothing more than
   a station for rescuing wayward children, then why do you and
   your companions carry weapons?"
   Ananthos gestured at the surrounding forest, "to protect
   ourselves, of course, even great fighters may be overwhelmed
   by a single large and powerful foe. there are beasts on the
   scuttleteau that would devour all on this craft and the craft
   itself in a single gulp. because we do not maintain an army to
   confront nonexistent enemies does not mean we are fleet-
   limbed cowards who run instead of fight, or did you think we
   were all eggsuckers?" He bared his respectable fangs.
   "the confident and strong have no need of an army. each
   weaver is an army unto itself."
   "It is about armies and fighting that we come," said
   Clothahump, "and about such matters that we must speak to
   the Webmistress."
   Ananthos appeared as upset as a spider could possibly be.
   "to bring warmlanders into the capital is a great responsibili-
   ty. by rights of history and legend i should turn you around
   and send you back into the hole from whence you emerged.
   and yet"—he struggled with the conflict between prescribed
   duty and personal feelings and thoughts—"i cannot dismiss
   the fact that you have made an impossible journey for reasons
   i am not equipped to debate, if it is of the importance you
   insist, i would fail did i not escort you to the capital, but to
   see the grand webmistress herself..."
   He turned away from them, whether from embarrassment
   or indecision or both they could not tell.
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   Alan Dean Foster
   "Why don't you," said Caz helpfully, "take us int
   protective custody, convey us to the capital under guard, an
   turn us over to your superiors?"
   Ananthos looked back at him, his head bobbing in that od_
   side-to-side motion that was half nod and half shake. He
   spoke in a whispery, grateful hush.
   "you have some understanding of what it means to be
   responsible to someone placed higher than oneself, warmlander
   of the big ears."
   "I've been in that uncomfortable situation before, yes,"
   Caz admitted drolly, polishing his monocle.
   "i bow to your excellent suggestion."
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   IX
   He leaned back and called breathily upward, "arethos,
   imedshud! intob coom." Two of the watchful Weavers dropped
   to the deck, their spinnerets snipping off the cables trailing
   from their abdomens. They studied the warmlanders with
   interest.
   "these will accompany us on the journey, for i can hardly
   claim to have you in restriction, as your tall white friend has
   suggested, all by myself, yet i am charged with the watchfiuness
   on this bridge and cannot leave it deserted, so three of us will
   accompany you and three remain here.
   "we shall proceed upstream, a day's journey from here,
   the river lamayad splits, several days further it splits again.
   against that divide, set against the breath, is our capital, my
   home."
   He added wamingly, "what happens then is no longer my
   responsibility, i can make no promises as to the nature of your
   reception, for i am low in the hierarchy, most low, for all that
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   Alan Dean Foster
   no weaver lies in the mud and none soars above the others.
   our hierarchy is a convenience and necessary to governing,
   and that is all.
   "as to an audience with the grand webmistress..." his
   voice trailed away meaningfully.
   "Diplomacy moves best when it moves cautiously," said
   Caz, "and not in dangerous leaps."
   "For now it will be more than enough if you see us to the
   capital, Ananthos," Clothahump assured him.
   The spider seemed greatly relieved, "then my thoughts are
   clear, i am neither helping nor hindering you, merely refer-
   ring you to those in the position to do so." He turned and
   ceremoniously detached the cable holding the bow of the
   motionless boat.
   Bribbens had remained by his oar during the discussion.
   Now he leaned gently on it as once again the wind began to
   fill the sail. The boat turned neatly on its axis as the cry of
   "ware the boom!" rang out from the steersman. Soon they
   had passed beneath the intricate webwork spanning the river
   and were once again traveling upstream.
   "i've never seen a warmlander." Ananthos was standing
   quite close to Jen-Tom, "most interesting biology." Despite
   ten thousand years of primitive fears, Jon-Tom did not pull
   away when the spider reached out to him.
   Ananthos extended a double-clawed leg. It was covered
   with bristly hairs. The delicate silk scarves of green and
   turquoise enveloping the limb mitigated its menacing appear-
   ance. The finger-sized claws touched the man's cheek, pressed
   lightly, and traveled down the face to the neck before with-
   drawing. Somehow Jon-Tom kept from flinching. He concen-
   trated on those brightly colored eyes studying him.
   "no fur at all like the short bewhiskered one, except on
   top. and soft... so soft!" He shuddered, "what a terrible
   fragility to live with."
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   "You get used to it," said Jon-Tom. It occurred to him mat
   the spider found him quite repulsive.
   They continued studying each other. "That's beautiful
   silk," the man commented. "Did you make it yourself?"
   "do you mean, did i spin the silk or manufacture the scarf?
   in truth i did neither." He waved a leg at the others, "we
   differ even more in size than you seem to. some of our
   smaller cousins produce far finer silk than a clumsy oaf like
   myself is capable of. they are trained to do so, and others
   carefully weave and pattern their produce." He reached down
   and unwrapped a four-foot turquoise length and handed it to
   Jon-Tom.
   A palmful of feathers was like lead compared to the scarf.
   He could have whispered at it and blown it over the side of
   the boat. The dye was a faint blue, as rich as the finest
   Persian turquoise with darker patches here and there. It was
   the lightest fabric he'd ever caressed. Wearing it would be as
   wearing nothing.
   He moved to hand it back. Ananthos' head bobbed to the
   left. "no. it is a gift." Already he'd refastened two other long
   scarves to compensate for the loss of the turquoise. Jon-Tom
   had a glimpse of the intricate knot-and-clip arrangement that
   held the quasi-sari together.
   "Why?"
   Now the head bobbed down and to me right. He was
   beginning to match head movements to the spider's moods.
   What at first had seemed only a nervous twitching was
   becoming recognizable as a complex, highly stylized group of
   suggestive gestures. The spiders utilized their heads the way
   an Italian used his hands, for speech without speaking.
   "why? because you have something about you, something
   i cannot define, and because you admired it."
   "I'll say we've got something about us," Talea grumbled.
   "An air of chronic insanity."
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   Alan Dean Foster
   Ananthos considered the comment. Again the whispery
   laughter floated like snowflakes across the deck. "ah, humor!
   humor is among the warmlander's richest qualities, perhaps
   the most redeeming one."
   "For all the talk of hostility our legends speak of, you
   seem mighty friendly," she said.
   "it is my duty, soft female," the Weaver replied. His gaze
   went back to Jon-Tom. "please me by accepting the gift."
   Jon-Tom accepted the length of silk. He wrapped it muffler-
   like around his neck, above the indigo shut. It didn't get
   tangled in his cape clasp. In fact, it didn't feel as though it
   was there at all. He did not consider how it might look
   sandwiched between the iridescent green cape and purpled
   shirt.
   "I have nothing to offer in return," he said apologetically.
   "No, wait, maybe I do." He unslung his duar. "Do the
   Weavers like music?"
   Ananthos' answer was unexpected. He extended two limbs
   in an unmistakable gesture. Jon-Tom carefully passed over
   the instrument.
   The Weaver resumed his half-sit, half-squat and laid the
   duar across two knees. He had neither hands nor fingers, but
   the eight prehensile claws on the four upper limbs plucked
   with experimental delicacy at the two sets of strings.
   The melody that rose from the duar was light and ethereal,
   alien, atonal, and yet full of almost familiar rhythms. It
   would begin to sound almost normal, then drift off on strange
   tangents. Very few notes contributed to a substantial tune.
   Ananthos' playing reminded Jon-Tom more of samisen music
   than guitar.
   Flor leaned blissfully back against the mast, closed her
   eyes, and soaked up the spare melody. Mudge sprawled
   contentedly on the deck while Caz tried, without success, to
   tap time to the disjointed beat. Nothing soothes xenophobia
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   so efficiently as music, no matter how strange its rhythms or
   inaudible the words.
   An airy wail rose from Ananthos and his two companions.
   The three-part harmony was bizarre and barely strong enough
   to rise above the breeze. There was nothing ominous in their
   singing, however. The little boat made steady progress against
   the current. In spite of his unshakable devotion to his job,
   even Bribbens was affected. One flippered foot beat on the
   deck in a futile attempt to domesticate the mystical arachnid
   melody.
   It might be, Jon-Tom thought, that they would find no
   allies here, but he was certain they'd already found some
   friends. He fingered the end of the exquisite scarf and
   allowed himself to relax and sink comfortably under the
   soothing spell of the spider's frugal fugue....
   It was early in the morning of the fourth day on the
   Scuttleteau that he was shaken awake. Much too early, he
   mused as his eyes opened confusedly on a still dark sky.
   He rolled over, and for a moment memory lagged shockingly
   behind reality. He started violently at the sight of the furry,
   fanged, many-eyed countenance bending over him.
   "i am sorry," said Ananthos softly, "did i waken you too
   sharply?"
   Jon-Tom couldn't decide if the Weaver was being polite
   and offering a diplomatic way out or if it was an honest
   question. In either case, he was grateful for the understanding
   it allowed him.
   "No. No, not too sharply, Ananthos." He squinted into the
   sky. A few stars were still visible. "But why so early?"
   Bribbens' voice sounded behind him. As usual, the boat-
   man was first awake and at his duties before the others had
   risen from beneath their warm blankets. "Because we're
   nearing their city, man."
   Something in the frog's voice made Jon-Tom sit up fast. It
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   was not fear, not even worry, but a new quality usually absent
   from the boatman's plebian monotone.
   Pushing aside his blanket, he turned to look over the bow,
   matching Bribbens' gaze. Then he understood the strange
   new quality he'd detected in the boatman's voice: wonderment.
   The first rays of the sun were arriving, having mounted the
   mountain shield soaring ahead of the boat. In the distance lay
   a range of immense peaks more massive than Zaryt's Teeth.
   Several crags vanished into the clouds, only to reappear
   above them. Jon-Tom was no surveyor, but if the Teeth
   contained several mountains higher than twenty thousand feet
   then the range ahead had to average twenty-five.
   More modest escarpments dominated the north and south.
   Swathed in glaciers and clouds, the colossal eastern range
   also displayed an additional quality: dark smoke and occa-
   sional liquid red flares rose from several of the peaks. The
   towering range was still alive, still growing.
   The sparks and smoke that drifted overhead came from a
   massif much closer than the eastern horizon, however. Quite
   close a black caldera rose from surrounding foothills to a
   height a good ten thousand feet above me river, which banked
   to the south before it. Ice and snow crowned the fiery
   summit.                   --
   Snow gave way to conifers and hardwoods, they in turn
   surrendered to the climax vegetation of the variety which
   flanked the river, and that at last to a city which crept up and
   clung to the volcano's flanks. Small docks spread thin wooden
   fingers out into the river.
   "my home," said Ananthos, "capital and ancestral settle-
   ment from which the first weavers laid claim to the scuttleteau
   and all the lands that abut it." He spread four forearms, "i
   welcome you all to gossameringue-on-the-breath."
   The city was a marvel, like the scarf. The similarities did
   not end there, for like the scarf it was woven of fine silk.
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   THE HOUK OF THE GATE
   Morning dew adhered to struts and suspensions and flying
   buttresses of webwork. Roofs were hung from supports strung
   lacily above instead of being supported by pillars from be-
   neath. Millions of thick, silvery cables supported buildings
   several stories high, all agleam with jewels of dew.
   Other cables as thick as a man's body, spun from the
   spinnerets of dozens of spiders, secured the larger structures
   to the ground.
   On the lower, nearer levels they could discern dozens of
   moving forms. It was clear the city was heavily populated.
   Spreading as it did around the base of the huge volcano and
   climbing thousands of feet up its sides, it appeared capable of
   housing a population in the tens of thousands.
   There was enough spider silk in that single city, if it could
   be unwrapped to its seminal strands, to cocoon the Earth.
   Once Jon-Tom had spent an hour marveling at a single
   small web woven by one spider on an ocean coast. It had
   been speckled with dew from the morning fog.
   Here the dew seemed almost choreographed. As the first
   rising rays of the sun struck the city, it suddenly turned to a
   labyrinth of platinum wires and diamond dust. It was too
   bright to look at, but the effect faded quickly as the dew
   evaporated. The sun rose higher, the enchanting effect dissi-
   pating as rapidly as the sting fro.m a clash of cymbals. Left
   behind was a spectacle of suspended structures only slightly
   less impressive.
   Gossameringue was all spheres and ellipses, arches and
   domes. Jon-Tom could not find a sharp angle anywhere in the
   design. Everything was smooth and rounded. It gave the
   city a soft feeling which its inhabitants might or might not
   reflect.
   As the sun worked its way up into the morning sky, the
   little boat put in at the nearest vacant dock. A few early
   morning workers turned curious multiple eyes on the unique
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   cargo of warmlanders. They did not interfere. They only
   stared. As befitted their historical preference for privacy,
   these few Weavers soon turned to their assigned tasks and
   ignored the arrivals. It troubled Clothahump. A people fanatic
   about minding its own business does not make a ready ally.
   Under Ananthos' escort they left the boat and crossed the
   docks. Soon they had entered a silk and silver world.
   "This mission had best be successful," said Caz as they
   began to climb. He placed his broad feet carefully. The
   roadway was composed of a fine checkerboard of silk cables.
   They were stronger than steel and did not quiver even when
   Jon-Tom experimentally jumped up and down on one, but if
   one missed a rung of the gigantic rope ladder and fell
   through, a broken leg was a real possibility.
   After a while caution gave way to confidence and the party
   was able to make faster progress up the side of the mountain.
   "I'll settle for just getting out of here alive," Talea
   whispered to the rabbit.
   "Precisely my meaning," said Caz. He gestured back the
   way they'd come. The river and docks had long since been
   swallowed up by twisting, contorting bands of silk and silken
   buildings. "Because we'd never find our way out of here
   without assistance."
   It was not all silk. Some of the buildings boasted sculp-
   tured stone or wood, and there was some use of metalwork.
   Windows were made of fine glass, and there was evidence of
   vegetable matter being employed in sofas and other furniture.
   Though the Weavers were not arboreal creatures, their
   construction ignored the demands of gravity. The whole city
   was an exercise in the aesthetic applications of geometry. It
   was difficult to tell up from down.
   Caz was right, Jon-Tom thought worriedly. Without Weav-
   er help they would never find their way back to the river.
   They climbed steadily. Wherever they passed, daily rou-
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   tines ground to a halt as the populace stared dumbfoundedly
   at creatures they knew only from legend. Ananthos and his
   two fellow guards took an aggressive attitude toward those
   few citizens who tried to touch me warmlanders.
   The only ones who weren't shoved aside were the curious
   hordes of spiderlings who swarmed in fascination around the
   visitors' legs. Most of these infants had bodies a foot or more
   across. They were a riot of color underfoot; red, yellow,
   orange, puce, black, and more in metallic, dull, or iridescent
   shades. They displayed stripes and spots, intricate patterns
   and simple solids.
   It was difficult to make sense of the extraordinary variety
   of colors and shapes because the predominant sensation was
   one of wading through a shallow pond made of legs. With
   remarkable agility the youngsters scrambled in and between
   the feet of the visitors, never once having a tiny leg kicked or
   stepped on.
   They reserved most of their attention for Talea, Flor, and
   Jon-Tom. Bribbens and Clothahump they ignored completely.
   Nor were they in the least bit shy.
   One scrambled energetically up Jon-Tom's right side, pull-
   ing thoughtlessly at his fortunately tough cape and pants. It
   rode like a cat on his right shoulder, chattering breathily to
   its less enterprising companions. Jon-Tom tried hard to think
   of it as a cat.
   The adolescent displayed a cluster of painted lines that ran
   from its mandibles back between its eyes and down the back
   of its head. The cosmetics did not give Jon-Tom a clue as to
   its sex. He thought of brushing it away, but it behooves a
   guest to match the hospitality of his hosts. So he left it alone,
   resolutely ignoring the occasional reflexive flash of poisonous
   fangs.
   The spiderling sat there securely and waved its foot-long
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   legs at disapproving adults and envious brethren. It whispered
   in a rush to its obliging mount.
   "where do you come from? you are warm, not cold like
   me prey or the creatures of the forest, you are very tall and
   thin and you have hair only atop your head and there very
   dense." The youngster's partly clad abdomen brushed rhyth-
   mically against the back of Jon-Tom's neck. He assumed it
   was a friendly gesture. The fur on the spiderling's bottom
   was as soft as Mudge's.
   "you have funny mouths and your fangs are hidden, may i
   see them?"
   Jon-Tom patiently opened his mouth and grimaced to show
   his teeth. The spiderling drew back in alarm, then moved
   cautiously closer.
   "so many. and they're white, not black or brown or gold.
   they are so flat, save two. how can you suck fluids with
   them?"
   "I don't use my fangs—my teeth—to suck fluids," Jon-
   Tom explained. "What liquid I do ingest I swallow straight.
   Mostly I eat solid food and use my teeth to chew it into
   smaller pieces."
   The youngster shuddered visibly, "how awful, how grue-
   some! you actually eat solid, unliquified flesh? your fangs
   don't look up to the task. i'd think they'd break off. ugh,
   ugh!"
   "It can be tough sometimes," Jon-Tom confessed, recalling
   some less than palatable meals he'd downed. "But my teeth
   are stronger than yours. They're not hollow."
   "i wonder," said the spiderling with the disarming honesty
   common to all children, "if you'd taste good."
   "I'd hope so. I'd hate to think I've lived all these years
   just to give some friend an upset stomach. I'd probably be
   pizza-and-coke flavored."
   "i don't know what is a pissaoke." The infant bared tiny
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   THE if OUR OF THE GATE
   fangs, "i don't suppose you'd let me have a taste? your elders
   aren't watching." He sounded hopeful.
   "I'd like to oblige," Jon-Tom said nervously, "but I
   haven't had anything to eat yet today and might make you
   sick. Understand?"
   "oh well." The youngster didn't sound too disappointed.
   "i don't guess i'd like you sucking out one of my legs,
   either." He quivered at the thought, "you're a nice person,
   warmlander. i like you." Jon-Tom experienced the abdomen
   caress once again. Then the spiderling jumped down to join
   his fellow scamperers.
   "luck to you, warmlander!"
   "And to you also, child," Jon-Tom called hastily back to
   him. Ananthos and several responsible bystanders were final-
   ly shooing the spiderlings away. The children waved and
   cheered in excited whispers, like any others, their multiple,
   multicolored legs waving good-byes.
   A greater weight pressured his left arm and he looked
   around uncertainly. It was no disrespectful spiderling, howev-
   er. Flor's expression was ashen, and she slumped weakly
   against him. He quickly got an arm under her shoulders and
   gave her some support.
   "What's wrong, Flor? You look ill."
   "What's wrong?" Fresh shock replaced some of the paleness
   that had dominated her visage. "I've just been poked, probed,
   and swarmed over by a dozen of the most loathesome,
   disgusting creatures anyone could..."
   Jon-Tom made urgent quieting motions. "Jesus, Flor. Keep
   your voice down. These are our hosts."
   "I know, but to have them touch me all over like that."
   She was trembling uncontrollably. "Aranqs... uckkkk! I hate
   them. I could never even stand the little ones the size of my
   thumb, for all that Mama used to praise them for catching the
   cockroaches. So you can imagine how I feel about these. I
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   could hardly stand it on the boat." She moved unsteadily
   away from his arm. "I don't know how much more of this I
   can take, Jon-Tom," and she gestured at Ananthos, who was
   marching ahead of them.
   They turned up another, broader web-road. "What matters
   isn't what they look like," Jon-Tom told her sternly, "but
   what's behind their looks. In this case, intelligence. We need
   their help or Clothahump wouldn't have herded us all this
   way." He eyed her firmly.
   "Think you can manage by yourself now?"
   She was breathing deeply. The color was returning to her
   face. "I hope so, compadre. But if they climb over me like
   that again..." A brief reprise of the trembling. "I feel
   so.. .so icky."
   " 'Icky' is a state of mind, not a physiological condition."
   "Easy for you to say, Jon-Tom."
   "Look, they probably don't think much of the way we
   look, either. I know they don't."
   "I don't care what they think," she shot back. "Santa
   Maria, I hope we finish with this place quickly."
   "Oh, I don't know." He noted the way in which the rising
   sun, bright despite the intensifying cloudiness, sparkled off
   the millions of cables and the silken buildings and webwork
   walkway they were climbing. "I think it's kind of pretty."
   "The fly complimenting the spider," she muttered.
   "Except that the flies are here hunting for allies."
   "Let's hope they are allies."
   "Ahhh, you worry too much." He gave her an affectionate
   pat on the back. She forced a grin in response, thankful for
   his moral support.
   Jon-Tom's attention returned forward, and to his surprise
   he found himself staring straight into Talea's eyes. The
   instant their gazes locked she turned away.
   He decided she probably hadn't been looking at him.
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   Probably trying to memorize their path in case they had to try
   and flee. Such preparation and suspicion would be typical of
   the redhead. It did not occur to him that the glance might
   have been significant of anything else.
   They had climbed several thousand feet by the afternoon.
   Ahead loomed an enormous structure. How many spiders,
   Jon-Tom wondered, had labored for how many years patiently
   spinning the silk necessary to create those massive ramparts
   of hardened silk and interlaced stone?
   The royal palace of Gossameringue was made largely of
   hewn rock cemented together not with mortar or clay or
   concrete but layer on layer of spider silk. Turrets of silver
   bulged from unexpected places. The entire immense structure
   was suspended from a vast overhang of volcanic rock by
   cables a yard thick. Those cables would have supported a
   mountain. Though the wind was stronger here, high up the
   volcanic flank, the palace did not move. It might as well have
   been anchored in bedrock.
   They entered a round, silk-lined tube and were soon walk-
   ing through tunnels and hallways. It grew dark only slowly
   inside since the glassy silk admitted a great deal of light.
   Eventually torches and lamps were necessary, however, to
   illuminate the depths.
   They confronted a portal guarded by a pair of the largest
   spiders yet seen. Each had a body as big as Jon-Tom's, but
   with their loglike legs they spanned eighteen feet from front
   to back.
   They were a rich dark brown, without special markings or
   bright colors anywhere on their bodies. The multiple black
   eyes were small in comparison to the rest of the impressive
   mass. Shocking-pink and orange silks enveloped torsos and
   legs. There was also a set of white scarves tied around two
   forelegs and the nonexistent necks. Huge halberds with intricately
   carved wooden shafts rested between powerful forelegs.
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   Alan Dean Foster
   They didn't move, but Jon-Tom knew they were closely
   scrutinizing the peculiar arrivals. For the first time since
   they'd entered Gossameringue he was frightened. Thoughts
   of the friendly spiderlings faded from his mind. It would have
   been little comfort had he realized that the pair of impressive
   guards before them were there precisely to intimidate visitors.
   Ananthos turned to them. "you will have to wait here."
   After conversing briefly with the two huge tarantulas he and
   his two associates disappeared through the round entrance.
   While they waited, the visitors occupied themselves by
   inspecting the now indifferent guards and the gleaming silk
   walls. The silk had been dyed red, orange, and white in this
   corridor and shone wetly in the light of the lamps. Jon-Tom
   wondered how far from the entrance they'd come.
   Mudge sauntered over next to him. "I don't know 'ow it
   strikes you, mate, but seems t' me our eight-legged friends
   'ave been gone a 'ell of a long time now."
   Jon-Tom tried to sound secure as well as knowledgeable.
   "You don't just walk in on the ruler of a powerful people and
   announce your demands. The diplomatic niceties have to be
   observed. History shows that."
   "More o' your studies, wot? Well, maybe it do take some
   time at that. Never met a lot o' bureaucrats that did move
   much faster than the dead. I expect they're all like that, slow
   movin' an' slow thinkin', no matter 'ow many legs they got."
   "Here they come," Jon-Tom told him confidently.
   But it was not Ananthos and his familiar comrades who
   emerged from the opening but instead a tall, very thin-legged
   arachnid with a delicate body and eyes raised high on the
   front of his skull. His forelegs were tied up in an intricate
   network of blue silk ribbons and there were matching purple
   ones on the rearmost limbs.
   One wire-thin leg pointed at Caz, who stood nearest the
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   TOE HOUR OF TBB GATE
   portal, while dozens of spiders of varied size and color
   suddenly poured from behind him.
   "immobilize them and carry them down!"
   "Hey, wait a minute." Jon-Tom was unable to get his staff
   around before he'd been seized by half a dozen hooking legs.
   Others thrust threatening spears and knives at his belly.
   "There has been a mistake." Clothahump was already
   disappearing around a comer, carried on his back.
   "Put me down or I'll cut your smelly heads off!" All fire
   and helpless frustration, Talea was being carted closely be-
   hind the wizard.
   Then Jon-Tom felt himself turned on his back and borne on
   dozens of hairy legs, kicking and protesting with equal lack
   of effect.
   They went down into darkness. How far he couldn't guess,
   but it wasn't long before they were dumped into a silk-and-
   stone cell under the imperious direction of the emaciated and
   beribboned spider in charge.
   The silk lining the chamber was old and filthy. There were
   no windows to let in light, only a few oil lamps in the
   corridor beyond. Jon-Tom gathered himself up and moved to
   inspect the cross-hatched webwork that barred their exit.
   It was not sticky to the touch, but was quite invulnerable.
   He leaned against it and shouted at their retreating captors.
   "Stop, you can't put us in here! We're diplomatic visitors.
   We're here to see the Grand Webmistress and...!"
   "Save your wind, my friend." Caz stood at the outermost
   comer of the cell, squinting up the silk ladder-steps. "They've
   gone."
   "Shit!" Jon-Tom kicked at an irregular, flattened piece of
   shiny material. At first he thought it was a piece of broken
   pottery. Closer inspection revealed it was a section of chitin.
   It clattered off a stone set in the far wall.
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   "God damn that sly-voiced Ananthos. He led us all th
   way by making us believe he was our friend."
   "He never said he was our friend." Bribbens sat against
   wall, his head resting on his knees. "Merely that he w.
   doing his duty. Get us this far, then it'd be up to us, he said
   The frog chuckled throatily. "Certainly hasn't gone out of h
   way to make it easy for us, looks like."
   Talea was sniffing the air and frowning. "I don't know it
   any of you have noticed it yet, but—"
   There was a startled scream. Jon-Tom looked left. Flor had
   been standing there. Now she'd fallen forward and landed
   hard on the floor. Her foot had vanished through an opening
   in the wall and the rest of her was slowly following....
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   x
   They hadn't noticed the passageway when they'd been
   chucked into the cell. There was no telling where it ran to or
   what had hold of Hor. Blood oozed from beneath her nails as
   she tried to dig her fingers into the floor.
   Jon-Tom was first at her side. Without thinking, he leaned
   over and heaved a head-sized rock at her foot. There was a
   breathy exclamation of surprise and pain from beyond. She
   stopped sliding.
   Caz and Mudge half dragged, half carried her across the
   cell. Whatever had hold of her had missed her leg, but her
   boot was neatly punctured just behind the calf.
   As he backed away from the opening several legs scram-
   bled through. They were attached to a two-foot-wide bulbous
   body of light green with blue stripes and spots. Jon-Tom took
   note of the fact that it wore only one black silk scarf tied
   around the left rear leg at the uppermost joint.
   The visitor was followed closely by a second, smaller
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   spider. This one was an electric maroon with a single large
   gray rectangle on its abdomen. A third spider squeezed into
   their cell, barely clearing the passageway. It was gray-brown
   with white circles on cephalothorax and abdomen and had
   shockingly red legs. All wore only the single black scarf on
   identical limbs.
   The three spiders stood confronting the wary knot of
   warmlanders.
   "what the hell," said the first spider who'd entered, in a
   tone so high and flighty it was barely intelligible, "are you?"
   "Diplomatic ambassadors," Clothahump informed them,
   with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances.
   The little arachnid bobbed his head in that maybe yes,
   maybe no movement Jon-Tom had come to recognize, "may-
   be you're diplomatic ambassadors to you," he said, "but
   you're just food to us."
   "they look nice and soft," said the big one in a slightly
   deeper but still tenebrous voice. His body was a good three
   feet across, bulky, and with three foot legs. "diplomats or
   blasphemers, ambassador or storage-stealers, what difference
   does it make?" He displayed bright red fangs, "dinner is
   dinner."
   "You think so? Touch one of us again," said Jon-Tom
   wamingly, "and I'll shove your fangs down your throat."
   The first spider cocked multiple eyes at him. "will you
   now, half-limbed?" The latter was an apparent reference to
   Jon-Tom's disproportionately fewer number of limbs, "tell
   you a thing, if you can do that we'll treat you as something
   more than dinner, if you can't"—he pointed with a leg
   toward the shivering Flor—"we start with that one for an
   appetizer."
   "Why her, why not me?"
   The spider could not grin, but conveyed that impression
   nonetheless, "almost had a taste, she smells full of fluid."
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   It was too much for the terrified arachniphobe, that casual
   talk of being sucked dry like a lemon. She turned and
   vomited.
   "there, you see?" said the spider knowingly.
   Jon-Tom quelled his own rising nausea. He ignored the
   gagging sounds behind him to keep his attention on the big
   red-legged spider. It had scuttled off to the side, away from its
   companions.
   "you can have me if you can get me," it taunted.
   "Same goes for me," said Jon-Tom grimly. "Leave the
   others out of this."
   "we'll do that for a start." The spider was sitting back on
   his hind legs, waving the four front limbs ritualistically as it
   bobbed from side to side. Then it brought them down and
   rushed forward.
   It had been a while since Jon-Tom had practiced any
   karate. Four years, in fact. But he'd become reasonably good.
   before he'd quit. What he hadn't learned was how to attack
   something with eight limbs. Not that they would matter if the
   spider got those red fangs into him. Even if this particular
   arachnid's venom wasn't very toxic, the shock alone might be
   enough to kill.
   The attacker's intent seemed to involve throwing as many
   legs as possible at its prey in order to distract him while the
   fangs bit home.
   It was possible the spider wouldn't expect an attack. If the
   eight limbs were confusing to Jon-Tom, then perhaps his
   human length and long legs might equally puzzle the spider.
   Besides, the best defense is a good offense, he reasoned.
   So he ran at his opponent instead of away from it, keeping
   his eyes on his target as he was supposed to and trying hard
   to remember. Up on the opposite foot, kick out with the right,
   left leg tucked under the other.
   Agile claws reacted quickly, but not quickly enough. They
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   scraped at Jon-Tom's neck and arms. They didn't prevent his
   right foot from landing hard between the eight eyes (there
   was no chin to aim for).
   The impact traveled up Jon-Tom's leg. He landed awkwardly
   on his left foot, stumbled, and fought desperately to regain
   his balance.
   It wasn't necessary. The spider had stopped in its tracks.
   Making mewling noises horribly reminiscent of a lost kitten,
   it sat down, rolled over on its back, and clawed at its face.
   The leg movements slowed like a clock winding down.
   Jon-Tom waited nearby, panting hard in a defensive posture.
   The leg movements finally ceased. Green goo dripped from
   between the eyes, which no longer shone in the lamplight.
   The spider who'd entered the cell first scrabbled over to its
   motionless, larger companion.
   "damme," he breathed in disbelief, "you've killed jogand."
   Jon-Tom caught his breath, frowned. "What do you mean,
   I've killed him? I didn't kick him hard enough to kill him."
   "dead for sure, for sure," said the smaller spider, turning a
   respectful gaze on the man. Blood continued to seep from the
   wound.
   Fragile exoskeleton, Jon-Tom thought in relief and astonish-
   ment. Come to think of it, he'd seen a lot of clubs here.
   They'd be very effective against recalcitrant arachnids. In-
   stead of a glass jaw, the spider possessed a glass body.
   Or maybe he'd just slipped in a lucky blow. Either way...
   He glared warily at the remaining pair. "No hard feelings?"
   The first spider gazed distastefully down at his dead com-
   panion. "jogand always was the impulsive type."
   They were distracted by a clattering in the corridor. A
   Spider they did not recognize approached the webwork silk
   bars. He was not the skinny one with all the ribbons. As they
   watched silently, he poured the contents of a pear-shaped
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   THE HOUR Or THE GATE
   bottle on a section of the bars. They began to dissolve like so
   much hot jelly.
   Another figure emerged from the shadows to stand just
   behind the jailer: Ananthos.
   "i am terribly sorry," he told them, waving many legs at
   the cell. "this was done without higher orders or good
   knowledge, the individual responsible has already been
   punished."
   "Blimey but if we didn't think you'd sold us over!" said a
   relieved Mudge.
   Ananthos looked outraged, "i would never do such a
   thing, i take my responsibilities seriously, as you well should
   know." Then he noticed the corpse on the cell floor, looked
   back into the cell.
   " 'Twere 'is wizardship there," said Mudge, indicating
   Jon-Tom. Ananthos bowed respectfully toward the human.
   "a good piece of work. i am sorrowful for the trouble
   caused you."
   A pathway large enough to allow egress had been made in
   me bars. Ananthos' companions moved aside as the prisoners
   exited.
   The small spider tried to follow Clothahump out and was
   promptly clobbered behind the head by one of the guards.
   The spider shrank back into the cell.
   "not you," muttered the guard, "warmlanders only."
   "why not? aren't we part of their party now?" He hooked
   foreclaws over the rapidly hardening new bars two of the
   guards were spinning.
   "you are common criminals," said Ananthos tiredly. "as
   you must know, common criminals are not permitted audience
   with the grand webmistress."
   The little spider hesitated. His head cocked toward Jon-
   Tom. "you're going to see the grand webmistress?"
   "That's what we've come all this way for."
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   Alan Dean Foster
   "then we'll stay right here. you can't force us to come!'
   And both spiders drew back behind the bleeding corpse of
   their dead companion, scuttled for the tunnel leading to their
   own cell.
   Their sudden shift sparked uncomfortable thoughts in John
   Tom's mind as he followed Talea's twisting form up the
   stairwell they'd so recently been hustled down.
   "What do you suppose he meant by that?" She looked
   back down at him and shrugged.
   "i told you i could do nothing for you beyond bringing you
   to gossameringue," Ananthos explained, "it must be consid
   ered that the webmistress not only might not assist you but
   may condemn you to rejoin those rabble in their hole," and
   he gestured with a leg back down the stairs.
   "So we could find ourselves right back in jail?" asked
   Flor.
   "or worse." He continued to point downward with the
   waving, silk-swathed leg. "i hope you will not hold what
   occurred down there against me. a chamberiaine overstepped
   her authority."
   "We know it wasn't yc'ir fault," said Clothahump reassur-
   ingly. Pog seemed about to add something but kept his mouth
   shut at a warning glance from the wizard.
   Before long they had retraced their ignominious descent
   and stood before the high, arching doorway flanked by the
   two immense guards. A small blue spider met them there. He
   was full of apologies and anxiety.
   When he'd finished bobbing and weaving, he beckoned
   them to follow.
   The chamber they entered was high and dark. A few
   narrow windows were set in the rear wall. Only a couple of
   lamps burned uncertainly in their wall holders, shedding
   reluctant amber light on vast lounges and pillows of richly
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   THE HOUR Or THE GATE
   colored silk. It did not occur to anyone to wonder what they
   were stuffed with.
   More surprising was the large quantity of decorative art.
   There were sculptures in metal and wood, in stone anc
   embalmed spider silk. Gravity-defying mobiles stretched frorr
   ceiling to floor. Some were cleverly lit from within by tin;
   lamps or candles. Some of the sculpture was representational
   but a surprising amount was abstract. Silken parallelograms
   vied with stress patterns for floor space. The colors of both
   sculptures and furniture were subdued in shade but bright of
   hue: orange, crimson, black and purple, deep blues and
   deeper greens. There were no pastels.
   "the grand webmistress Oil bids you welcome, strangers
   from a far land," the little spider piped, "i leave you now."
   He turned and scurried quickly out the doorway.
   "i must go also," said Ananthos. He hesitated, then
   added, "some of your ideas mark you almost akin to the
   eternal weave, perhaps we shall meet again some day."
   "I hope so," said Jon-Tom, whispering without knowing
   why. He watched as the spider followed the tiny herald in
   retreat.
   They walked farther into the chamber. Clothahump put
   hands on nonexistent hips, murmured impatiently, "Well,
   where are you, madam?"
   "up here!" The voice was hardly stentorian, but it was a
   good deal richer than the breathy weaver whispers they'd had
   to contend with thus far; chocolate mousse compared to
   chocolate pudding. It seemed the voice had slight but definite
   feminine overtones, but Jon-Tom decided he might be
   anthropomorphosizing as he stood there in the near darkness.
   "here," said the voice once more. The eyes of the visitors
   traveled up, up, and across the ceiling. High in the right-hand
   comer of the chamber was a vast, sparkling mass of the finest
   silk. It had been inlaid with jewels and bits of metal in
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   Alan Dean Poster
   delicate mosaic until it sucked all the light out of the two
   feeble lamps and threw it back in the gaze of any fortunate
   onlookers. The silk itself had been arranged in tiny abstract
   geometric forms that fit together as neatly as the pieces of a
   silver puzzle.
   A vast black globe slid over the side of the silken bower.
   On a thin thread it fell slowly toward the chamber floor, like a
   huge drop of petroleum. It was not as large as the massive
   tarantulas guarding the entryway, but it was far bulkier than
   Ananthos and most of the other arachnid inhabitants of
   Gossameringue. The bulbous abdomen was nearly three feet
   across. Save for a brilliant and all too familiar orange-red
   hourglass splashed across the underside of the abdomen, the
   body appeared to be encased in black steel.
   Multiple black eyes studied the visitors expressionlessly.
   The spinnerets daintily snipped the abdomen free from the
   trailing silk cable. Settling down on tiptoe, the eight legs
   folded neatly beneath the body. Then the enormous black
   widow was resting comfortably on a sprawling red cushion,
   preening one fang with a leg tip.
   "i am the grand webmistress OU," the polite horror
   informed them. "you must excuse the impoliteness of cleaning
   my mouth, but my husband was in for breakfast and we have
   only just now finished."
   Jon-Tom knew something of the habits of black widows.
   He eyed the jeweled boudoir above and shuddered.
   Clothahump, unfazed by the Grand Webmistress' appear-
   ance, stepped briskly to the fore. Once again he laid out the
   reason for their extraordinary journey. He detailed their expe-
   riences on the Swordsward, in the Earth's Throat, related the
   magical crossing of Helldrink. Even in his dry, mechanical
   voice the retelling was impressive.
   The Grand Webmistress Oil listened intently, occasionally
   permitting herself a whispered expression of awe or apprecia-
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   tion. Clothahump rambled on, telling of the peculiar new evil
   raised by the Plated Folk and their imminent invasion of the
   wannlands.
   Finally he finished the tale. It was silent in the chamber for
   several minutes.
   011's first reaction was not expected, "you! come a little
   nearer." She finally had to raise a leg and point, since it was
   impossible to tell exactly where those lidless black eyes were
   looking.
   She pointed at Jon-Tom.
   His hesitation was understandable. After the initial shock
   of their appearance, he'd been able to overcome his instinc-
   tive reactions to the spiders. He'd done so to a point where
   he'd grown fond of Ananthos and his companions, to a point
   where he could allow curious spideriings to clamber over his
   body. Even the three antisocial types they'd encountered in
   the cells below had seemed more abhorrent for their viciousness
   than their shape.
   But the dark, swollen body before him was representative
   of a kind he'd been taught to fear since childhood. It brought
   to the surface fears that laughed at logic and reason.
   A hand was nudging him from behind. He looked down,
   saw Clothahump staring anxiously at him.
   "come, come, fellow," said the Webmistress. "i've just
   eaten." A feathery, thick laugh, "you look as though you'd
   be all bone, anyway."
   Jon-Tom moved closer. He tried to see the Webmistress in
   a matronly cast. Still, he couldn't keep his gaze entirely away
   from the dark fangs barely hidden in their sheaths. Just a
   graze from one would kill him instantly, even if the widow's
   venom had been somewhat diluted by her increased size.
   A black leg, different from any he'd yet encountered in
   Gossameringue, touched his shouMtBr. It traveled down his
   1.69
   Alan Dean Foster
   arm, then his side. He could feel it through his shirt and
   pants.
   Close now, he was able to note the delicate and nearly
   transparent white silks that encompassed much of the shining
   black body. They had been embroidered with miniature scenes
   of Gossameringue life. Attire impressive and yet sober enough
   for a queen, he thought.
   "what is your name, fellow?"
   "Jon-Tom. At least, that's what my friends call me."
   "i will not trouble you with my entire name," was the
   reply, "it would take a long time and you would not remem-
   ber it anyhow, you may call me Oil." The head shifted past
   him. "so may you all. as you are not citizens of the
   scuttleteau, you need show no special deference to me."
   Again the clawed, shiny leg moved down his front. He did
   not flinch, "do you also support the claims and statements of
   the small hard-shelled one?" Another leg gestured at
   Clothahump.
   "I do."
   "well, then." She rested quietly for a moment. Then she
   glanced up once more at Jon-Tom. "why should we care
   what happens to the peoples of the warmlands?"
   "You have to," Clothahump began importantly, "because
   it is evident that if—"
   "be silent." She waved a leg imperiously at the wizard, "i
   did not ask you."
   Clothahump obediently shut up. Not because he was afraid
   of me large, poisonous body but because pragmatism is a
   virtue all true wizards share.
   "now, you may answer," she said more softly to Jon-Tom.
   History, he told himself, trying not to stare at those fangs
   so near. Try to see in this massive, deadly form the same
   grace and courtesy you've observed in the other arachnids
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   THE HOUR Or TUB GATE
   you've met. To answer the question, remember your history.
   Because if you don't...
   "It's quite easily explained. Are not you and the Plated
   Folk ancient enemies?"
   "we bear no love for the inhabitants of me greendowns,
   nor they for us," was the ready reply.
   "Isrft it clear, then? If they are successful in conquering all
   of the warmlands, what's to prevent mem from coming for
   you next?"
   There was dark humor lacing the reply, "if they do there
   will be such a mass feasting as gossameringue has never
   seen!"
   Jon-Tom thought back to something Clothahump had told
   him. "Oil, in thousands of years and many, many attempts
   the Plated Folk have failed even to get past the Jo-Troom
   Gate, which blocks the Pass leading from the Greendowns to
   me warmlands."
   "that is a name and place i have heard of, though no
   weaver hasever been there."
   "Despite this, Clothahump, who is the greatest of wizards
   and whose opinion I believe in all such things, insists this
   new magic me Plated Folk have obtained control of may
   enable them to finally overthrow the peoples of the warmlands.
   After hundreds of previous failures.
   "If they can do that after thousands of years of failure,
   why should they not do so to you as well? A thousand swords
   can't fight a single magic."
   "we have our own wizards to defend us," Oil replied, but
   she was clearly troubled by Jon-Tom's words. She looked
   past him. "how do i know you are all the wizard this fellow
   says you are?"
   Clothahump looked distressed. "Oh ye gods of blindness
   that cloud the vision of disbelieving mortals, not another
   demonstration!"
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   Alan Dean Foster
   "it will be painless." She turned and called to the shad-
   ows. "ogalugh!"
   A frail longlegs came tottering out from behind a high pile
   of cushions. Jon-Tom wondered if he'd been listening back
   there all along or if he'd just recently arrived. He barely had
   the strength to carry the thin silks that enveloped his upper
   body and ran in spirals down his legs.
   He looked at Clothahump. "what is the highest level of the
   plenum?"
   "Thought."
   "by what force may one fly through the airs atop a
   broom?"
   "Antigravity."
   "what is the way of turning common base metals into
   gold?"
   Clothahump's contemptuous and slightly bored expression
   suddenly paled.
   "Well, uh, that is of course no easy matter. You require the
   entire formula, of course, and not merely the descriptive term
   applied to the methodology."
   "of course," agreed the swaying inquisitor.
   "Base metal Into gold, my... it has been a while since
   I've had occasion to think on that."
   Quit stalling, Jon-Tom urged the wizard silently. Give them
   an answer, any answer. Then the truth will come out in the
   arguing. But say something.
   "You need four lengths of sea grass, a pentagram with the
   number six carefully set in each point, the words for shifting
   electron valences, and... and..."
   The Grand Webmistress, the sorcerer Ogalugh, and the
   other inhabitants of the chamber waited anxiously.
   "And you need... you need," and the wizard looked up so
   assuredly it seemed impossible he'd forgotten something so
   basic for even a moment, "a pinch of pitchblende."
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   THE HOUR Of THE GATE
   Ogalugh turned to face the expectant Oil, spoke while
   bobbing and weaving his head. "our visitor is in truth, a
   wizard webmistress. how great i cannot say from three
   questions, but he is of at least the third order." Clothahump
   harrumphed but confined his protest to that.
   "none but the most experienced and knowledgeable among
   the weavers of magic would know the last formula." He
   tottered over to rest a feathery leg on the turtle's shoulder.
   "i welcome you to gossameringue as a colleague."
   "Thank you." Clothahump nodded importantly, began to
   look pleased with himself.
   The longlegs addressed Oil. "it may be that these visitors
   are all that they claim, webmistress. the fact that they have
   made so perilous a journey without assurance of finding at its
   end so much as a friendly welcome is proof alone of high
   purpose, i fear therefore that the words of my fellow wizard
   are truth."
   "a troublesome thing if true," said the webmistress, "a
   most troublesome thing if true." She eyed Jon-Tom. "there
   has been hatred and enmity between the plated folk and the
   people of the scuttleteau for generations untold, if they can
   conquer the inhabitants of the warmlands then it may be, as
   you say, that they can also threaten us." She paused in
   thought, then climbed lithely to her feet.
   "it will be as it must be, though heretofore it has never
   been." She stood close by Jon-Tom, the hump of her abdo-
   men nearly reaching his shoulder, "the weavers will join the
   people of the warmlands. we will do so not to help you but to
   help ourselves, better the children of the scuttleteau have
   company in dying." She turned to face Clothahump.
   "bearer of bad truths, how much time do we have?"
   "Very little, I would suspect."
   "then i will order the calling put out everywhere on the
   Scuttleteau this very day. it will take time to assemble the best
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   Alan Dean Foster
   fighters from the far reaches, yet that is not the foremost of
   our problems, it is one perhaps you might best solve, since
   the proof of your abilities as travelers is not to be denied."
   She studied the little group of visitors.
   "how in the name of the eternal weave are we to get to the
   jo-troom gate? we know only that it lies south to southwest of
   the scuttleteau. we cannot go back through the earth's throat,
   the way you've come to us. even if so large a group could
   cross helldrink, my people will not chance the chanters."
   "Offspring of the Massawrath," Caz murmured to Mudge.
   "Can't say as I blame them. I'm still not sure it wasn't blind
   luck that got us through there, not sensible actions."
   "I don't want to go back myself," said Talea.
   "Nor me, Master," said Pog, hanging from a strand of dry
   silk overhead.
   "Then it follows that if we cannot return by our first route
   we must make a new one southward."
   "through the mountains?" Ogalugh did not sound enthusiastic.
   "Are they so impassable then?" Clothahump asked him.
   "no one knows, we are familiar with the mountains of the
   scuttleteau and to some small extent those surrounding us, but
   we are not fond of sharp peaks and unmelting snows, many
   would perish on such a journey, unless a good route exists, if
   one does, we do not know of it."
   "so it will be up to you, experienced travelers, to seek out
   such a path," stated the queen.
   "your pardon, webmistress," said the spindly sorcerer,
   "but there are a people who might know such a way, though
   they would have no need or use of it themselves."
   "why must wizards always talk in riddles? whom do you
   speak of, ogalugh?"
   "the people of the iron cloud."
   Rich, whispery laughter filled the chamber, "the people of
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   THE. HOUR Of THE GATE
   the iron cloud indeed! they will have nothing to do with
   anyone."
   "that is so, webmistress, but our visitors are experienced
   travelers of the mind as well as the land, for have they not
   this very instant convinced us to join with them?"
   "we are but independent," Oil replied, "the people of the
   iron cloud are paranoid."
   "rumor and innuendo spread by unsuccessful traders who
   have returned from their land empty-clawed, it is true they are
   less than social, but that does not mean they will not listen."
   He turned to face Jon-Tom.
   "they are much like some of you, friend, like yourself, and
   those two there," he pointed to Mudge and Caz, "and that
   one above," and he pointed now at Pog.
   "They sound most interesting," said Clothahump. "I con-
   fess I know nothing of them."
   "Are they good fighters?" Flor wondered. "Maybe we can
   get more out of them than directions."
   "they are great warriors," admitted Ogalugh readily, "but
   you speak so facilely of making allies of them. you do not
   understand, they are interested in nothing save themselves,
   - will support no causes but their own."
   "That's just what we were told to expect of the Weavers,"
   Jon-Tom said with becoming boldness.
   "but we are sensible enough to see advantage and necessi-
   ty where they occur," Oil argued back. "the people of the
   iron cloud, i am told, are unaffected by events elsewhere.
   they are protected by their indifference and their isolation."
   "Nothing is safe from the evil the Plated Folk build," said
   Clothahump somberly.
   "i am already convinced, wizard," she said. "convince
   the ironclouders: not me. it will be enough if they can show
   our fighters the way through the southern peaks."
   "I have some small diplomatic skill," said Clothahump
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   Alan Dean Foster
   immodestly. "I believe we can persuade them to do that, at
   least."
   "perhaps, you must, or we can be of no help to you and
   your peoples, no matter what the plated ones decide to do. we
   will march when ready, but if we cannot find a way, we will
   be forced to turn back.
   "i will send from among the weavers a personal representa-
   tive. perhaps the proof that we have joined with you will help
   to convince the people of the iron cloud, in any case,
   someone will be necessary to come back to report on the
   results of your mission, be it successful or not."
   "Not to preempt your prerogatives. Oil," said Caz careful-
   ly. "but if we might be permitted to choose the repre-
   sentative ... ?"
   "Sure," said Jon-Tom quickly, turning to face the
   Webmistress. "Would it be okay if a river guard named
   Ananthos served as your representative?"
   "ananthos... i do not know the name. a common river
   guard, you say?"
   "Yes. He's the one who brought us here."
   "a common river guard of uncommon discernment, then.
   but still, it should be someone of higher rank."
   "Please, Oil," Jon-Tom said, "rank will mean nothing to
   these Ironclouders if what you say of their nature is correct.
   And Ananthos is familiar with us. We know we can get along
   with one another."
   "a sound recommendation, i suppose." She sighed and
   that whole globular black mass quivered, "it is the common
   soldiers who will decide this battle to come, as they do all
   such battles, perhaps it is fitting that one of their rank be our
   ambassador, as you say, it will likely not matter to the
   ironclouders.
   "very well. you may have this ananthos. he will go with
   you as would one of my own children, uzmentap!"
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   THE HOUR Of THE GATE
   "yes my lady, yes my lady?" A tiny adult spider scurried
   into the chamber, the same one who had admitted them a
   little while earlier.
   "put out the word to all the ends of the scuttleteau, to the
   uppermost flanks of the mountains and the bottoms of the
   rivers, to all the believers in the weave and to all who would
   defend their webs against the plated folk, that a temporary
   alliance has been struck with the people of the warmlands to
   help them drive the plated beasts back into their putrid hole of
   a homeland once and for all!"
   "it shall be done, my lady," said the herald quickly. She
   dismissed him with a wave of one leg and he hurried away to
   do the bidding.
   "we will move as soon as we have word from your
   messenger ananthos," she told them. "we will go hopefully
   with a known route and will try our best if none such is
   available, but i will not send the best of the weave over the
   high snows to a cold death."
   "We know that," said Clothahump gratefully. "You can't
   be expected to sacrifice yourselves to no purpose. But don't
   worry. We'll convince these people to show us a way."
   Jon-Tom did not think it a judicial time to mention the
   possibility that such a path might not exist.
   "it is in your claws now. i will have this ananthos found
   and will give him my personal instructions and the scarf of
   ambassadorial rank. will you require an escort?"
   "We've gotten this far on our own," Talea pointed out.
   "From what you say these Ironclouders aren't hostile, just
   stubborn." She patted the sword at her hip. "We can take
   care of ourselves."
   "i did not mean to imply otherwise, i will see that you are
   well supplied with food and—" She broke off at the twisted
   expression on Flor's face, one that was sufficiently intense
   and abrupt to transcend interspecies differences, "perhaps
   '*"                            177
   Alan Dean Foster
   you had best see to your own provisioning, at that. list what
   you wish and i will see it is provided, i had forgotten for a
   moment that you partake of nourishment in a fashion some-
   what different from ours."
   "Our marital habits are a little different, too." Jon-Tom
   glanced significantly toward the bejeweled boudoir.
   "so i have heard, honor is a strange thing, sometimes it is
   better to die happy and honored than to live miserably and
   unrespected. and you do not consider the effects such repeat-
   ed matings have on my own mind. a burdensome thing, i am
   not permitted a lifetime of happiness but instead short periods
   followed by regretful melancholy, tradition must be upheld,
   however." She waved a leg magnanimously.
   "all that is required will be provided, i only hope that we
   have sufficient time to prepare and that we are granted a path
   by which to proceed."
   "We are most grateful," said Clothahump, bowing slightly.
   "You are a Grand Webmistress indeed."
   "it is no compliment to say that one can see the truth."
   She waved several legs. "good fortune to you, newfound
   friends."
   The visitors began to file out of the chamber. Jon-Tom go
   halfway to the portal, then turned and walked back to her.
   "the audience is at an end," Oil told him somewhat less
   than politely.
   "I'm sorry. But I have to know something. Then I'll leav<
   you to your privacy."
   Fathomless eyes regarded him quietly, "ask then."
   "Why did you single me out to talk with, instead o
   Clothahump or Caz or one of the others?"
   "why? oh, because of your delightful and inspiring selec
   tion of garb. it marks you clearly as a superior being to your
   companions, wizardly talents notwithstanding."
   Turning, she walked rhythmically back to stand below the
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   royal bower. Reattaching fresh silk to the dangling cable, she
   promptly climbed up and disappeared behind the barrier of
   gems and silken embroidery.
   Jon-Tom was left to consider his bright black leathern
   pants, the matching boots and dark shirt.
   It was only much later, as they were departing Gossameringue
   with Ananthos in the lead, that Jon-Tom had the startling and
   unsettling thought that the Grand Webmistress might have
   been considering him as material for something besides
   conversation....
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   XI
   It was terrible in the mountains.
   Higher peaks towered to east and west, but as they moved
   south they were traversing the wmdswept flanks of Zaryt's
   Teeth, where they merged with the lower but still impres-
   sive mountains from which the greater heights sprang. It
   was bitingly cold. Soon they were walking not on rock or
   earth but on snow so dry and fresh it crunched like sugar
   underfoot.
   On the third day after leaving the Scuttleteau and its gentle
   rivers and warm forests they encountered snow flumes. The
   day after that they were stumbling through a modest blizzard.
   Oil's fears that the southern range might prove unnegotiable
   seemed well founded.
   Mudge and Caz suffered least of all, in contrast to their
   companions who did not enjoy the benefits of a personal far
   coat.
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   Alan Dean Poster
   Everyone profited from the example set by the stoic
   Bribbens. Though highly susceptible to the cold he trudged
   patiently along, silent and uncomplaining. Oftentimes his
   bulbous eyes were all that could be seen outside the thick
   clothing the Weavers had provided. He kept his discom-
   forts to himself, and so his companions were shamed into
   doing the same.
   Working with only rumor and supposition, the least reliable
   of guides, Ananthos somehow managed to pick a path
   southward.
   They had made little progress in five days of hard marching
   when Jon-Tom had his idea. A temporary camp was estab-
   lished in the shelter of a small cave. Jon-Tom and Plor led the
   others in the hunt for suitable saplings and green vines. These
   were then woven together with spider silk dispensed by
   Ananthos.
   With the aid of the new snowshoes their pace improved
   considerably. So did their spirits, boosted not only by their
   improved method of travel but by the hysterical image Ananthos
   presented as he shuffled along on six of the carefully wrought
   shoes, picking his way as uncertainly and carefully as a water
   sender trying to cross a pool of mud.
   They also improved Bribbens' morale. While they kept him
   no warmer, the enormous shoes on his webbed feet gave him
   tremendous stability.
   Jon-Tom moved up to march alongside Ananthos. It was
   the morning of their eighth day in the mountains.
   "Could we have missed it?" His breath made a cloud in
   front of his face. The cold fought implacably for a rout&
   through his clothes. The crude parka hastily fashioned by the
   Weavers was no substitute for a goose-down jacket. There
   was a real danger of freezing to death if they didn't find
   warmer country soon.
   "i don't think so." Ananthos indicated the precious scroll
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   THE HOUR OF THK GATE
   he kept in a protective, watertight tube strapped to his rear
   left leg. "i can only rely on the chart the court historians
   made for us. no weaver has been this far south in many
   years, there was no reason for doing so and, for obvious
   reasons, no desire to do so."
   "Then how can you be so sure we haven't passed it?"
   "i can be only as sure as the charts, but the tales say if one
   but continues south, as we have, following the lowest route
   through the mountains, he will come upon the iron cloud, that
   is, if the tales are true."
   "And if there is an iron cloud at all," Jon-Tom mumbled.
   A leg touched his waist, but Ananthos' reassurances were
   stolen by the wind.
   Despair is sometimes the preface to hope. On the ninth
   day the weather took pity on them. The snow ceased, the
   storm clouds betook themselves elsewhere, and the temper-
   ature wanned considerably, though it did not rise above
   freezing.
   As if to compensate they were confronted with another
   danger: snow blindness. The brilliant Alpine sun ricochetted
   off snowbanks and glacier fronts, turning everything to shock-
   ing, adamantine white.
   They managed to fashion crude shades from Ananthos'
   supply of scarves. Even so they were forced to keep their
   gaze to the ground and their senses at highest alert, lest the
   next snowbank turn out to be just the fatal side of some nearly
   hidden chasm.
   Another day and they started downward.
   Two weeks after departing Gossameringue they found the
   iron cloud.
   They were climbing a slight rise, bisecting a saddle be-
   tween two slopes. For days they had seen little color but
   varying shades of white, so the highly reflective black that
   suddenly confronted them was physically shocking.
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   Alan Dean Foster
   Across a rocky slope of crumbled granite patched with
   snow was a mountainside that appeared to have been deluged
   with frozen tar. It was encrusted with ice and snow in
   occasional crevices.
   Clearly the immense, smooth masses of black which
   jutted like an oily waterfall from the flank of the mountain-
   side were composed of material much tougher than tar.
   They resembled a succession of monstrous bubbles piled
   one atop another without bursting. Holes pockmarked the
   blackness.
   It was the metallic luster that led Flor to exclaim in
   surprise, "Por dios, es hematite."
   "What?" Jon-Tom turned a puzzled expression on her.
   "Hematite, Jon-Tom. It's an iron ore that occurs naturally
   in formations like that," and she pointed to the mountainside,
   "though I never learned of any approaching such size. The
   formation is called mammary, or reniform, I think."
   "What is she saying?" asked Clothahump with interest.
   "That the 'iron' part of the name Ironcloud is taken from
   reality and not poetry. Come on!"
   They descended the gentle slope on the other side of the
   saddle and made their way across the stony plateau. The huge
   black extrusion hung above them, millions of tons of near-
   iron as secure as the mountain itself. Viewed against the
   surrounding snow and sky, it did indeed look much like a
   cloud.
   But where were the fabled inhabitants, he wondered? What
   could they be like? The holes which pierced the masses
   overhead hinted at their possible abode, but though the party
   surveyed them intently there was no hint of motion from
   within.
   "It looks abandoned," said Talea, staring upward.
   "Don't see a soul," Pog commented from nearby.
   They slid their burdensome backpacks off while examining
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   THE HOUK Of THE GATE
   the inaccessible caves above. Climbing the granite wall was
   out of the question. Not only did the massive formation
   overhang but the smooth iron offered little purchase. Without
   sophisticated mountaineering gear there was no way they
   could reach even the lowest of the caves.
   It was clear enough how the invisible inhabitants managed
   the feat, however. From the rim of each cave opening hung a
   long vine. Knots were tied in each roughly six inches apart.
   The profusion of dangling vines, swaying gently in the
   mountain breeze, gave the formation the look of a dark man
   with a beard.
   The problem arose from the fact that the shortest cable-vine
   was a good two hundred feet long. No one thought themself
   capable of the combination of strength and dexterity neces-
   sary to make the climb. Talea considered it, but the thinness
   of the vine precluded the attempt. Whoever used the vines
   weighed a good deal less than any in the frustrated party of
   visitors.
   Mudge was agile, but he wasn't fond of climbing. Ananthos
   was clearly too large to enter the hole, though he stood the
   best chance of rising to the height.
   "We waste time on peripheral argument," Clothahump
   finally snorted at them, when he was at last able to get a word
   in. "Pog!"
   Everyone looked around, but the bat was nowhere to be
   seen.
   " 'Ere 'e is!" Mudge pointed toward a large boulder.
   They ran to the spot to find the bat squatting resolutely on
   the gravel behind the rock. He looked up at them with
   determined bat eyes. „
   "No way am I going up dere and sticking my nose in one
   of dose black pits. No telling what might take a notion to bite
   it off."
   "Come now, mate," said Mudge reasonably, adjusting his
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   Alan Dean Foster
   parka top, "be sensible. You're the only arboreal among us.
   If I didn't think that vine'd bust under me weight, I'd give a
   climb a good try. But why the 'ell should one o' us 'ave t'
   risk that, when you could be up there and back in a bloody
   minute or two without so much as strainin' your wings?"
   "An accurate evaluation of our situation." Caz positioned
   his monocle tighter over his left eye. He'd steadfastly refused
   to surrender the affectation, even at the risk of losing the
   monocle in the snow. "You know, you really should have
   been up there and back already, on your own initiative."
   "Initiative, hell!" Pog flapped his wings angrily. "One
   more display of 'initiative' from dis crazy bunch and we'll
   find ourselves meat on somebody's table."
   "Now Pog," Clothahump began wamingly.
   "Yeah, I know, I know, boss. Go to it or ya'll turn me into
   a human or worse." He sighed, unfurled his wings experi-
   mentally.
   "perhaps i could get up there—at least if i can't fit inside,
   i could attach to a hole above and hang down to, look in."
   Ananthos sounded awkward, wanting to contribute.
   "You know that surface is too slick for you to get a hold
   on, and if you could you probably couldn't get in and move
   around in there. Your leg span is too wide. Besides, I think
   Pog should have a chance at this." Clothahump was firm.
   "A chance at what? Meeting my maker in a cold hole in da
   sky?"
   Ananthos looked pained, but Jon-Tom gave Pog encour-
   agement with his eyes.
   "If you're all determined den to see poor Pog get his throat
   laid open, I expect I'll have ta be about da business. I warn
   ya, dough, if I don't come back alive I'll come back dead and
   haunt ya all to an early grave."
   "Don't take any chances, Pog," Jon-Tom advised him.
   "Probably you won't find anything, or anyone. Just fly up
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   TBE HOUR OF THE GATE
   and check out one or two caves, see if this place is really as
   deserted as it looks. If it is, maybe you'll leam the reason
   why."
   "Maybe one of da reasons is hiding in one of dose caves!"
   snapped the worried bat, gesturing upward with a wing
   thumb.
   "If so then don't hang around to argue with it," said
   Talea. "You're going up to look, not to fight. Get your butt
   back down here as fast as you can."
   Pog hovered just above the ground, lit on top of the boulder
   he'd been hiding behind. "No need ta worry 'bout that, Talea
   lady." He pulled his knife from its back sheath and slipped it
   between his jaws.
   "Wish me luck," he mumbled around the blade.
   "There is no need for luck when intelligence and good
   judgment are exercised," said Clothahump.
   Pog made a rude noise, flapped his wings, and launched
   himself from the crest of the rock. He dropped, skimmed
   inches above sharp gravel, and then began to climb, using the
   warm currents rising from the bare plateau to ascend in a
   steady spiral.
   "You think he'll be okay?" Flor shielded her eyes from the
   glare and squinted at the sky where a black shape was
   growing gradually smaller. Pog now looked like a toy kite
   against the pure blue curtain overhead.
   "Instinct is a powerful aid to self-preservation."
   "Oh?" she said with just a hint of sarcasm. "What book
   did that come out of?"
   Jon-Tom was also leaning back and looking toward the lip
   of the iron cloud. He just swallowed Flor's remark.
   Hemarist, da tall human lady had called it. No, dat
   wasn't right. Hema... Hematite. Like in a tight spot, which
   is what you gots yourself into, Pog thought to himself. He
   was high above the rocky plain now. The figures of his
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   Alan Dean Foster
   companions were sharp and distinct against the gray gravel. He
   could tell they were watching him.
   Waiting ta see how I get it, he thought miserably.
   He circled before the lowest of the globular projections.
   His personal sonar told him nothing moved inside any of the
   several caves he'd flown past. That at least was a promising
   sign. Maybe the place was deserted.
   Black iron, huh? It looked like a vast black face to him,
   with no eyes but lots of little mouths ready to swallow you,
   swallow you whole. Pretty soon he was going to have to stick
   his head into one of 'em.
   Why couldn't ya have listened ta your mudder, he berated
   himself, and gone inta da mail soivice, or crafts transport; or
   aerial cop work?
   But nah, ya had ta fall hard for a pretty piece o' fluff who
   won't give ya da time o' night, den get stinking drunk and
   apprentice yourself ta a half senile, sadistic, hard-shelled,
   hard-headed old fart of a wizard in da faint hope he'll
   eventually turn ya inta something more presentable ta you
   lady love.
   He thought of her again, of the smoothly elegant blend of
   feathers from back to tail, of the slightly cruel yet delicate
   curve Of beak, and of those magnificent, piercing yellow eyes
   which turned his guts to paste when they passed over him.
   Ah, Uleimee, if ya only knew what I'm suffering for ya!
   He caught himself, broke the thought like a ceramic cup. If
   she knew what you was suffering she wouldn't give a flyin'
   fuck about it. She's the type who appreciates results, not
   well-meaning failures.
   So gather what's left of your small store of courage, bat,
   and be about your job. And don't think about whether when
   your time's up, old Clothamuck will have forgotten da formu-
   la for transforming ya.
   But, oh my, dat cave mouth looming just ahead is dark!
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   THB HOUK Of THE GATE
   Empty, dough. His eyes as wen as his sonar told him that. He
   fluttered next to the opening for a while, wrestling with the
   knowledge that if he didn't explore at least one of the caves
   his mentor would simply force him to return and try again.
   He drifted cautiously inside. He sensed the echo of his
   wing beats pushing air off the tunnel walls. Then he settled
   down to walk.
   The floor of the cave was carpeted with clean straw, carefully
   braided into intricately patterned mats. They appeared to be
   in good repair. If this iron warren was abandoned, it hadn't
   been so for long.
   The tunnel soon expanded into a larger, roughly oval-
   shaped chamber. It was filled with a peculiar assortment of
   furniture. There were lounges but no chairs, and high-backed
   perches. The lounges suggested creatures that walked, as did
   the climbing vines dangling outside each cave opening, but
   the high-backs pointed to arboreals like himself. He shook his
   head. Deductive thinking was not his strong suit.
   The utensils were also confusing rather than enlightening.
   A little light reached the chamber from the cave opening, but
   his sonar was still searching the surroundings as though it
   were pitch dark. His heart beat almost as rapidly. Finish dis,
   he told himself frantically. Finish it, and get out.
   Several additional chambers branched from the back of the
   one he was studying. He would begin with the one immedi-
   ately on his right and work his way through them. Then
   Clothahump couldn't say he'd made only a superficial inspec-
   tion and order him to return.
   It turned out to be a pantry-kitchen arrangement. It was
   discouraging to find that whoever had lived in the cave was
   omnivorous. In addition to instruments for preparing meat
   and fruit there was also a surprising garbage pile of small
   insect carcasses and empty nuts.
   It was an eclectic and indiscriminate diet. Perhaps it also
   189
   Alan Dean Foster
   included bats. He shuddered, drew his wings tighter around
   his small body. One more room, he told himself. One more,
   and den if da boss wants more info he can damn well climb
   up and look for himself.
   He entered the next chamber, found more furniture and
   little else. He was ready to leave when something tickled his
   sonar. He turned.
   A pair of huge, glowing yellow eyes stared down at him.
   Their owner was at least seven feet tall and each of those
   luminous orbs was as big around as a human face. Pog
   stuttered but couldn't squeeze out word or shout.
   "Hooooooo," said the voice beneath those fathomless eyes
   in a long, querulous, and slightly irritated tone, "the hell are
   yoooooo?"
   Pog was backing toward the chamber exit. Something
   sharp and unyielding pricked his back.
   "Tolafay asked you a question, interloper! Better answer
   him." The new voice was completely different from the first,
   high and almost human.
   Pog glanced over his shoulder, saw eyes not as large as the
   first pair he'd encountered but larger still in proportion to the
   body of their owner. Four yellow eyes, four malevolent little
   angry suns, swam in a dizzying circle around his head. He
   started to slump.
   The sharp thing moved, poked him firmly in the side.
   "And don't faint on us, interloper, or I'll see your body
   leaves your gizzard behind...."
   '^What the devil's keeping him?" Jon-Tom stared with
   concern up at the cave where Pog had vanished.
   "Maybe they go very deep into the mountainside," Talea
   suggested hopefully. "It may take him a while to get all the
   way in and all the way out again."
   "Perhaps." Bribbens stared longingly at a small creek that
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   flowed from the base of an icefall across the barren little
   plateau. "How I long for a boat again." He lifted one of his
   enormous, snowshoed feet.
   "Walking's beginning to get to me. No fit occupation for a
   riverman."
   "If it's any consolation I'd rather be on a boat myself just
   now," said Jon-Tom.
   Then Mudge was gesturing excitedly upward. "Ease off it,
   mates! 'Ere 'e comes!"
   "And damned if he hasn't got company." Talea unsheathed
   her sword, stood ready and waiting for whatever might drop
   out of the sky.
   Pog drifted down toward them, a black crepe-paper cutout
   against the bright sky. He was paced by a similar silhouette
   several times more massive, with a distinctly animate lump
   attached to its back.
   Dozens of other fliers poured from the perforated cloud-
   cliff like water from a sieve. They did not descend but instead
   blended together to create a massive, threatening spiral above
   the plateau.
   Talea reluctantly placed her sword back in its holder.
   "Doesn't look like they've hurt Pog. We might as well
   assume they're friendly, considering how badly we're
   outnumbered."
   "Characteristic understatement, flame-fur." Caz's monocle
   waltzed with the sun as he craned his neck to inspect the
   soaring whirlpool overhead. "I make out at least two hundred
   of them. Size varies, but the shape is roughly the same. I
   think they're all owls. I've never heard of such a concentrated
   community of them as this, not even in Polastrindu, which
   has a respectable population of noctural arboreals."
   "It is odd," Clothahump agreed. "They are antisocial and
   zealously guard their privacy, which fits with what the Weav-
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   Alan Dean Foster
   ers told us about the psychology of Ironcloud's inhabitants.
   Yet they appear to have established a community here."
   Pog touched down on the high boulder he'd so recently
   tried to hide behind. The flier shadowing him braked ten-foot
   wings. The force of the backed air nearly knocked Flor oft
   her feet.
   The creature took a couple of dainty steps, ruffled its
   feathers, and stood staring at them. The high tufts atop She
   head identified this particular individual as a Great Homed
   Owl. Jon-Tom found himself more impressed with those great
   eyes, like pools of speculative sulfur, than by the creature's
   size.
   The lump attached to its back, which even Caz had not
   been able to identify, now detached itself from the light,
   high-backed saddle it had been straddling. It slid decorative
   earmuffs down to its neck, unsnapped its poncho, and leaned
   against its companion's left wing.
   Now the spiral high above started to break up. Most of she
   fliers returned to their respective caves in the hematite. A few
   assumed watchful positions.
   Jon-Tom eyed the lemur standing close to the owl. It was
   no longer a mystery who made use of the thin, knotted vines
   fringing the cave mouths. With their diminutive bodies and
   powerful prehensile fingers and toes, the lemurs could travel
   up and down the cables as easily as Jon-Tom could circle an
   oval track.
   Pog glided down from the crest of his boulder and sauntered
   over to rejoin his friends. "Dis guy's called Tolafay." He
   gestured with a wingtip at the glowering owl. "His skymate's
   named Malu."
   The lemur stepped forward. He was barely three feet tall.
   "Your friend explained much to us."
   "Yes. Quite a story it was, tooooo." The owl smoothed the
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   THE HOUK OF THE GATE
   folds of its white, green, and black kilt. "I'm not sure how
   much of it I believe," he added gruffly.
   "We have managed to convince half a world," replied
   Clothahump impatiently. "Time grows short. Civilization
   teeters on the edge of the abyss. Surely I need not repeat our
   whole tale again?"
   "I don't think you have to," said Malu. He indicated the
   watchful Ananthos. "The mere fact that a Weaver, citizen of
   a notoriously xenophobic state, is traveling as ally with you is
   proof enough that something truly extraordinary is going on."
   "look who is calling another 'xenophobic,'" whispered
   Ananthos surlily.
   "It had better be extraordinary," the owl grumbled. He
   used a flexible wing tip to wipe one saucer-sized eye. "You've
   awakened all of Ironcloud from its daily rest. The populace
   will require a reasonable explanation." He blinked, shielding
   his face as the sun emerged from behind a stray cloud.
   "How you can live with that horrid light burning your eyes
   is something I'll never understand."
   "Oh very well," said Clothahump with a sigh. "You will
   convey details of our situation to your leader or mayor or—"
   "We have no single leader," said the owl, mildly outraged.
   "We have neither council nor congress. We coexist in peace,
   without the burdens imposed by noisome government."
   "Then how do you make communal decisions?" Jon-Tom
   asked curiously.
   The owl eyed him as though he represented a lower
   species. "We respect one another."
   "There will be a feasting tonight," said Malu, trying to
   lighten the atmosphere. "We can discuss your request then."
   "That's not necessary," said Flor.
   "But it is," the lemur argued. "You see, we can welcome
   you either as enemies or as guests. There will be a feasting
   either way."
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   Alan Dean Foster
   "I believe I follow your meaning." Caz spoke drily, eyeing
   Tolafay's razor-sharp beak, which was quite capable of snap-
   ping him in half. "I sincerely hope, then, that we can look
   forward to being greeted as guests...."
   They gathered that evening in a chamber far larger than
   any of the others. Jon-Tom wondered at the force, technolog-
   ical or natural, which could have hollowed such a space in the
   almost solid iron.
   It was dimly lit by lamp but more brightly than usual in
   deference to the Ironclouders' vision-poor visitors. Trophy
   feathers and lizard skins decorated the curving walls. Nearly
   a hundred of the great owls of all species and sizes reveled in
   music and dance along with their lemur companions.
   Their guests observed the spectacle of feathers and fur with
   pleasure. It was comfortably warm in the cave, the first time
   since departing Gossameringue any of them had been really
   warm.
   The music was strange, though not as strange as its
   sources. Nearby a great white barn owl stood in pink-green
   kilt playing a cross between a tuba and a flute. It held the
   instrument firmly with flexible wing tips and one clawed foot,
   balancing neatly on the other while pecking out the melody
   with a precision no mere pair of lips could match.
   Owls and lemurs spilled out on the great circular iron floor,
   dancing and spinning while their companions at the huge
   curved tables ate and drank their fill. It was wonderful to
   watch those great wings spinning and flaying at the air as the
   owls executed jigs and reels with their comparatively tiny but
   incredibly agile primate companions. Claws and tiny padded
   feet slipped and hopped in and around each other without
   missing a beat.
   The night was half dead when Jon-Tom leaned over to ask
   Ror, "Where's Clothahump?"
   "I don't know." She stopped sipping from the narrow-
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   mouthed drinking utensil she'd been given. "Isn't he magnif-
   icent?" Her eyes were glowing almost as brightly as those of
   an acrobat performing incredible leaps before their table, his
   long middle fingers tracing patterns in the air. A beautiful
   female sifaka joined him, and the dance-gymnastics contin-
   ued without a pause.
   Jon-Tom put the question to the furry white host on his
   other side.
   "I don't know either, my friend," said Malu. "I have not
   seen the hard-shelled oldster all evening."
   "Don't worry yourself, Jon-Tom." Caz looked at him from
   another seat down. "Our wizard is rich in knowledge, but not
   rich in the ability to enjoy himself. Leave him to his private
   meditations. Who knows when again we will have an oppor-
   tunity for such rare entertainment as this?" He gestured
   grandly toward the dancers.
   But the concern took hold of Jon-Tom's thoughts and
   would not let go. As he surveyed the room, he saw no sign of
   Pog, either. That was still more unusual, familiar as he was
   with the bat's preferences. He should have been out on the
   floor, teasing and flirting with some lithesome screech owl.
   Yet he was nowhere about.
   Jon-Tom's companions were having too good a time to
   notice his departure from the table. In response to his ques-
   tions a potted tarsier with incredibly bloodshot eyes pointed
   toward a tunnel leading deeper into the mountainside. Jon-
   Tom hurried down it. Noise and music faded behind him.
   He almost ran past the room when he heard a familiar
   moaning: the wizard's voice. He threw aside the curtain
   barring the entryway.
   Lying on a delicate bunk that sagged beneath his weight
   was the wizard's bulky body. He'd withdrawn arms and legs
   into his shell so that only his head protruded. It bobbed and
   twisted in an unnerving parody of the head movements of the
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   Alan Dean Foster
   Weavers. Only the whites of his eyes showed. His glasses lay
   clean and folded on a nearby stool.
   "Hush!" a voice warned him. Looking upward Jon-Tom
   saw Pog dangling from a lamp holder. The flickering wick
   behind him made his wings translucent.
   "What is it?" Jon-Tom whispered, his attention on the
   lightly moaning wizard. "What's the matter?" The echoes of
   revelry reached them faintly. He no longer found the music
   invigorating. Something important was happening in this little
   room.
   Pog gestured with a finger. "Da master lies in a trance
   I've seen only a few times before. He can't, musn't be
   disturbed."
   So the two waited, watching the quivering, groaning shape
   in fascination. Pog occasionally fluttered down to wipe mois-
   ture from the wizard's open eyes, while Jon-Tom guarded the
   doorway against interruptions.
   It is a terrible thing to hear an old person, human 01
   otherwise, moan like that. It was the helpless, weak sound a
   sick child might make. From time to time there were snatches
   and fragments of nearly recognizable words. Mostly, though,
   the high singsong that filled the room was unintelligible
   nonsense.
   It faded gradually. Clothahump settled like a fallen cake.
   His quivering and head-bobbing eased away.
   Pog flapped his wings a couple of times, stretched, and
   drifted down to examine the wizard. "Da master sleeps
   now," he told the exhausted Jon-Tom. "He's worn
   out."
   "But what was it all about?" the man asked. "What was
   the purpose of the trance?"
   "Won't know till he wakes up. Got ta do it naturally.
   Dere's nothin' ta do but wait."
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   Jon-Tom eyed the comatose form uncertainly. "Are you
   sure he'll come out of it?"
   Pog shrugged. "Always has before. He better. He owes
   me...."
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   XII
   Once there were inquiring words at the curtain and Jon-
   Tom had to go outside to explain them away. Time passed,
   the distant music faded. He slept.
   A great armored spider was treading ponderously after
   him, all weaving palps and dripping fangs. Run as he might
   he could not outdistance it. Gradually his legs gave out, his
   wind failed him. The monster was upon him, leering down at
   his helpless, pinioned body. The fangs descended but not into
   his chest. Instead, they were picking off his fingers, one at a
   time.
   "Now you can't play music anymore," it rumbled at him.
   "Now you'll have to go to law school... aha ha ha!"
   A hand was shaking him. "Da master's awake, Jon-Tom
   friend."
   Jon-Tom straightened himself. He'd been asleep on the
   floor, leaning back against the chamber wall. Clothahump
   was sitting up on the creaking wicker bed, rubbing his lower
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   jaw. He donned his spectacles, then noticed Jon-Tom. His
   gaze went from the man to his assistant and back again.
   "I now know the source," he told them brightly, "of the
   new evil obtained by the Plated Folk. I know now from
   whence comes the threat!"
   Jon-Tom got to his feet, dusted at himself, and looked
   anxiously at the wizard. "Well, what is it?"
   "I do not know."
   "But you just said... ?"
   "Yes, yes, but I do know and yet I don't." The wizard
   sounded very tired. "It is a mind. A wonderfully wise mind.
   An intelligence of a reach and depth I have never before
   encountered, filled with knowledge I cannot fathom. It con-
   tains mysteries I do not pretend to understand, but that it is
   dangerous and powerful is self-evident."
   "That seems clear enough," said Jon-Tom. "What kind of
   creature is it? Whose head is it inside?"
   "Ah, that is the part I do not know." There was worry and
   amazement in Clothahump's voice. "I've never run across a
   mind like it. One thing I was able to tell, I think." He
   glanced up at the tall human. "It's dead."
   Pog hesitated, then said, "But if it's dead, how can it help
   da Plated Folk?"
   "I know, I know," Clothahump grumbled sullenly, "it
   makes no sense. Am I expected to be instantly conversant
   with all the mysteries of the Universe!"
   "Sorry," said Jon-Tom. "Pog and I only hoped that—"
   "Forget it, my boy." The wizard leaned back against the
   black wall and waved a weary hand at him. "I learned no
   more than I'd hoped to, and hope remains where knowledge
   is scarce." He shook his head sadly.
   "A mind of such power and ability, yet nonetheless as dead
   as the rock of this chamber. Of that I am certain. And yet
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   THB HOUR Or THE GATS
   Eejakrat of the Plated Polk has found a means by which he
   can make use of that power."
   "A zombie," muttered Jon-Tom.
   "I do not know the term," said Clothahump, "but I accept
   it. I will accept anything that explains this awful contradic-
   tion. Sometimes, my boy, knowledge can be more confusing
   than mere ignorance. Surely the universe holds still greater
   though no more dangerous contradictions than this inventive,
   cold mind." He reached a decision.
   "Now that I am sensitized to this mind, I am confident we
   can locate it. We must find out whose it is and destroy him or
   her, for I had no sense of whether the possessor is male or
   female."
   "But we can't do dat, Master," Pog argued, "because as
   you say dis brain is under da control of da great sorcerer
   Eejakrat, and Eejakrat stays in Cugluch."
   "Capital city of the Plated Folk," Clothahump reminded
   Jon-Tom.
   "Dat's right enough. So it's obvious dat we can't.. .we
   can't..." The words came to a halt as Pog's eyes grew wide
   as a lemur's. "No, Master!" he muttered, his voice filled
   with dread. "We can't. We can't possibly!"
   "On the contrary, famulus, it is quite possible that we can.
   Of course, I shall first discuss it with the rest of our
   companions."
   "Discuss what?" Jon-Tom was afraid he already knew the
   answer.
   "Why, traveling into Cugluch to find this evil and obliter-
   ate it, my boy. What else could a civilized being do?"
   "What else indeed." Jon-Tom had resigned himself to
   going. Could this Cugluch be worse than the Earth's Throat?
   Pog seemed to think so, but then Pog was terrified of his own
   shadow.
   Clothahump's strength had returned. He slid off the bed,
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   Alan Dean Foster
   started for the doorway. "We must consult the rest of our
   party."
   "They may not all be in a condition to understand,"
   Jon-Tom warned him. "We have generous hosts, you know."
   "A night of harmless pleasure is good for the soul now and
   then, my boy. Though it should never descend to unconscious-
   ness. I am pleased to see that you have retained control of
   yourself."
   "So far," said Jon-Tom fervently, "but after what you've
   just proposed, I may change my mind."
   "It will not be so bad," said the wizard, clapping him on
   the waist as they swung aside the concealing curtain and
   moved out into the tunnel. "There will be some danger, but
   we have survived that several times over."
   "Yeah, but it's not like an innoculation," Jon-Tom muttered.
   "We haven't become immune. We keep taking risks and
   sooner or later they've got to catch up with us." He ducked to
   avoid a low section of iron ceiling.
   "We shall do our best, my boy, to see that it is later."
   Pog remained behind, hanging quietly from the oil lamp in
   the now empty room. He considered remaining behind
   permanently. The Ironclouders would shelter him, he was
   sure.
   That would mean no transformation, of course. All that
   he'd suffered at the wizard's hands, and mouth, would
   have been for naught. Also, as the only arboreal of the
   group, he knew how they depended on him for reconnaisance
   and such.
   Besides, better death than life cursed by unrequited love.
   He let free of the lamp, dipped in the air, and soared oin
   into the tunnel after the two wizards.
   There was the anticipated debate and argument the nexl
   morning. One by one, as before, the various members of the
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATE
   little group were won over by Clothahump's assurances,
   obstinacy, and veiled threats.
   Their course decided, it was time to ascertain the position
   taken during the night by the inhabitants of Ironcloud. Five of
   the great owls faced Ihe travelers on the plateau below the
   cave city. Two were homed, two pale bam, and one a tiny
   hoot, who was smaller than Pog but equal in dignity to his
   massive feathered brothers. With them were five lemurs. The
   sun was not yet up.
   "We do not doubt your seriousness nor the truth you tell,"
   Tolafay was saying, "nor the worth of your mission, but still
   we doubted whether it was worth breaking a rule of hundreds
   of years of noninvolvement in the arguments of others." He
   gestured at Ananthos.
   "Yet we share such feelings with the inhabitants of the
   Scuttleteau and they have nonetheless agreed to help you. So
   we will help, too." Murmurs of agreement came from his
   companions.
   "That's settled, then," said a satisfied Clothahump. "You
   will be valuable allies in the coming war and—"
   "A moment, please." One of the lemurs stepped forward.
   He had a high, stiff collar and light vest above billowing
   pantaloons of bright yellow. "We did not say that we'd be
   your allies. We said we'd help.
   "You asked us to give the Weavers permission to travel
   through our country and to provide a route southward through
   the mountains so they can reach the Swordsward and then
   make their way to the Jo-Troom Gate you speak of. That's
   what we'll do. We'll also try and find you a way to the
   Greendowns. But we won't fight."
   "But I thought—" Jon-Tom began.
   "No!" snapped one of the other owls. "Absolutely no. We
   simply can't do any more for yooooo. Don't ask it of us."
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   Alan Dean Foster
   "But surely—" A restraining hand touched Talea and she
   quieted.
   "It is more than we'd hoped for, friends. It will suffice."
   Clothahump turned to face Ananthos. "We have the allies we
   came to find."
   "so you do," said the spider at last, "provided the army
   can be assembled in time to make the march."
   "I can only hope that it does," the wizard told him
   solemnly, "because the fate of several worlds may depend on
   it."
   "Not Ironctoud," said another of the owls smugly. "Ironcloud
   is impregnable to assault by land or air."
   "So it is," agreed Caz casually, "but not by magic."
   "We'll take our chances," said Tolafay firmly.
   "Then there's nothing more to be said." Clothahump
   nodded.
   Wordlessly the Ironclouders departed, owl and primate
   soaring to join their brethren high in the night sky. Great
   wings and glowing eyes shone as the night hunters returned in
   twos and threes to their black home. They filled the air
   between earth and moon.
   Another pair lifted from the plateau, heading for interior
   darkness and a good, warm day's sleep. Jon-Tom could
   only hope those homes would be as invulnerable as their
   inhabitants believed from the eventual attacks of the Plated
   Polk.
   The last of the lemurs stared at them curiously while her
   companion owl kicked impatiently at the ground. The sun had
   peeked over the eastern crags and those great eyes were
   three-quarters closed in half sleep.
   "There's one tiling I'd like to know. How do you warmlanders
   expect to penetrate Cugluch?"
   "Disguise," Clothahump told her confidently.
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   THE HOOK OF THE GATE
   "You do not look much like Plated Folk," replied the
   lemur doubtfully.
   Clothahump shook a finger at her, spoke knowingly. "The
   greatest disguise is assurance. We will be protected because
   no Plated One would believe our presence. And where
   assurance operates, magic is not far behind."
   The lemur shrugged. "I think you are all fools, brave
   fools, and soon-to-be-dead fools. But we will show the
   Weavers the path they require and you the path to your
   Deaths." She looked upward. "Your guides come."
   .Two owls descended to join them. One motioned to the
   waiting Ananthos. The Weaver trembled slightly as he made
   his farewells.
   "we shall meet at the gate," he told them. "that is, if I
   survive this journey, i am not afraid of heights, but I have
   never been in a high place where i could not break a fall by
   attaching silk to some solid object, you cannot spin from a
   cloud."
   He climbed on the owl's back, waved legs at them. The
   owl took a few steps, flapping mighty wings, and then soared
   into the air of morning. He wore dark shades to protect him
   from the sunlight.
   They watched until the wings became a black line on the
   horizon. Then the pair faded even from Caz's view.
   The small hoot owl stood muttering to herself nearby. Her
   kilt was black, purple, and yellow. "I'm Imanooo," she
   informed them brusquely. "Let's get on with this. I'll point
   you the way for two days, but that's all. Then you're on
   your own."
   The remaining lemur mounted his saddle. "I still think
   you're all fools, but," he smiled broadly, "many a brave fool
   has succeeded where a cautious genius has failed. Fly well."
   He saluted with an arm wave as he and his friend rose
   skyward.
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   Alan Dean Foster
   Alone in their cold-weather garb, the travelers watched
   until the last pairing vanished into the hematite. Then Imanooo
   rose and started off to the south, and they followed.
   The path where there was no path carried them steadily
   lower. The unvarying downhill hike was a welcome change
   from the tortuous march to Ironcloud. The day after Imanooo
   left them they began to discard their heavy clothing. Soon
   they were down among trees and bushes, and snow was only
   a fading memory.
   Jon-Tom slowed his pace to stay alongside Clothahump.
   The wizard was in excellent spirits and showed no ill effects
   from the past weeks of marching.
   "Sir?"
   "Yes, my boy?" Eyes looked up at him through the thick
   glasses. Abruptly Jon-Tom felt uncomfortable. It had seemed
   so simple a while ago when he'd thought of it, a mere
   question. Now it fought to hide in his throat.
   "Well, sir," he finally got out, "among my people there's
   a certain mental condition."
   "Go on, boy."
   "It has a common name. It's called a death wish."
   "That's interesting," said Clothahump thoughtfully. "I
   presume it refers to someone who wishes to die."
   Jon-Tom nodded. ' 'Sometimes the person isn't aware of it
   himself and it has to be pointed out to him by another. Even
   then he may not believe it."
   They walked on a while longer before he added, "Sir, no
   disrespect intended, but do you think you might have a death
   wish?"
   "On the contrary, my boy," replied the wizard, apparently
   not offended in the least, "I have a life wish. I'm only putting
   myself into danger to preserve life for others. That hardly
   means I want to relinquish my own."
   "I know, sir, but it seems to me that you've taken us from
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   THE HOUR Of THE GATS
   one danger to another only to take successively bigger risks.
   In other words, the more we survive, the more you seem to
   want to chance death."
   "A valid contention based solely on the evidence and your
   personal interpretation of it," said Clothahump. "You ignore
   one thing: I wish to survive and live as much as any of you."
   "Can you be certain of that, sir? After all, you've already
   lived more than twice a normal human lifetime, a much fuller
   life than any of the rest of us." He gestured at the others.
   "Would it pain you so much to die?"
   "I follow your reasoning, my boy. You're saying that I am
   willing to risk death because I've already had a reasonable
   life and therefore have less than you to lose."
   Jon-Tom didn't reply.
   "My boy, you haven't lived long enough to understand
   life. Believe me, it is more precious to me now because I
   have less of it. I guard every day jealously because I know it
   may be my last. I don't have less to lose than you: I have
   more to lose."
   "I just wanted to be sure, sir."
   "Of what? The reasons for my decisions? You can be, boy.
   They are founded upon a single motivation: the need to
   prevent the Plated Masses from annihilating civilization.
   Even if I did want to die, I would not do so until I had
   expended every bit of energy in my body to prevent that
   conflagration from destroying the warmlands. I might kill
   myself if I suffered from the aberration you suggest, but only
   after I'd saved everyone else."
   "That's good to hear, sir." Jon-Tom felt considerably
   relieved.
   "There is one thing that has been troubling me a little,
   however."
   "What's that, sir?"
   "Well, it's most peculiar." The wizard looked up at him.
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   Alan Dean Foster
   "But you see, I'm not at all certain that I remember the
   formula for preparing our disguises."
   Jon-Tom hesitated, frowned. "Surely we can't enter Cugluch
   without them, sir?"
   "Of course not," agreed Clothahump cheerfully. "I sug-
   gest therefore that you consider some appropriate spellsongs.
   You have seen one of the Plated Folk. That is what we must
   endeavor to look like."
   "I don't know if..."
   "Try, my boy," said the wizard in a more serious tone,
   "for if you cannot think of anything and I cannot remember
   the formula, then I fear we will be forced to give up this
   attempt."
   Though he worked at it for the next several days, Jon-Tom
   was unable to think of a single appropriate tune. Insects were
   not a favorite subject for groups whose music he knew by
   heart, such as Zepplin or Tull, Queen or the Stones or even
   the Beatles, who, he felt sure, had written at least one song
   about everything. He searched his memory, went through the
   few classical pieces he knew, jumped from Furry Lewis to
   Periin Husky to Foreigner without success.
   The dearth of material was understandable, though. Love
   and sex and money and fame were far more attractive song
   subjects than bugs. The thinking helped to kill the time and
   made the march more tolerable.
   Never once did it occur to him that Clothahump might
   have invented the request simply in order to keep Jon-Tom's
   mind on harmless matters.
   Three more days passed before they reached the outskirts
   of the vast, festering lowlands that formed the Greendowns.
   They rested on a slope and munched nuts, berries, and lizard
   jerky while studying the fog and mist that enshrouded the
   lands of the Plated Folk.
   Conifers had surrendered the soil to hardwoods. These now
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   THE HOUR OF Tm GATE
   fought to assert their dominance over palms and baobabs,
   succulents and creepers. Occasionally a strange cry or whistle
   would rise from the mist.
   Jon-Tom finished his meal and stood, his leathern pants
   sticking to his legs from the humidity. To the west towered
   the snow-crowned crags of Zaryt's Teeth. It was difficult to
   believe that a pass broke that towering rampart. It lay some-
   where to the southwest of their present position. At its far end
   was the Jo-Troom Gate and beyond that, a section of Swordsward
   and bustling, friendly Polastrindu.
   His own home was somewhat more distant, a trillion miles
   away on the other side of time, turn right at the rip in the
   fabric of space and take the fourth-dimensional offramp.
   He turned. Clothahump was busy with wizard's business.
   Pog assisted him.
   "We'd better come up with something." Talea had moved
   to stand next to him, stood looking down into the mist. "We
   go down there looking like ourselves and we'll be somebody's
   supper before the day's out."
   "Aye, that's the truth, lass," agreed Mudge. " 'E'U 'ave t'
   make us look like a choice slice o' 'ell."
   "He already has, I think," was Caz's comment. "You'd
   better straighten your antenna. The left one is pointing back-
   ward instead of forward."
   "I'll do that." Mudge reached up and was in the middle of
   straightening the errant sensor when he suddenly realized
   what had happened. " 'Cor, but that was quick!"
   Clothahump rejoined them. Rather, they were joined by a
   squat, pudgy beetle that sounded something like Clothahump.
   Pale red compound eyes inspected them each in turn. Four
   arms crossed over the striated abdomen.
   "What do you think, my friends? Have I solved the
   problem and allayed your fears, or not?"
   When the initial shock finally wore off, they were able to
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   take more careful stock of themselves. The disguises seemed
   foolproof. Talea, Ror, Mudge, and the rest now resembled
   giant versions of things Jon-Tom usually smashed underfoot.
   The middle set of arms moved in tandem with their owners
   actual ones. Pog had turned into a giant flying beetle.
   "Is that really you in there, Jon-Tom?" The thing with
   Hor's voice ran a clawed hand over the pale blue chitin
   encasing him.
   "I think so." He looked down at himself, noted with
   astonishment the multijointed legs, the smooth undercurve of
   abdomen, the peculiar wave-shaped sword at his hip.
   "Not too uncomfortable, my boy?"
   Jon-Tom looked admiringly at the squat beetle. "It's a
   wonderful job, sir. I feel like I'm inside a suit of armor, yet
   I'm cooler than I was a few moments ago without it."
   "Part of the spell, my boy," said the wizard with pride.
   "Attention to detail makes all the difference."
   "Speakin' o' attention t' detail, Your Mastemess," Mudge
   said, " 'ow do I go about takin' a leak?"
   "There are detachable sections of chitin in the appropriate
   places, otter. You must take care to conceal bodily functions
   of any kind from those we will be among. I could not
   imagine Plated Folk jaws through which we might eat, for
   example. Hopefully we can finish our business in Cugluch
   and be out of it and these suits before very long."
   "You remembered the formula well," Jon-Tom told the
   wizard.
   "Well enough, my boy." They left their packs and started
   down the slope into the steaming lowlands. "One key phrase
   eluded me for a time.
   "Multioptics, eyes of glass,
   sextupal reach in fiberglass,
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   THE HOUR OF THE GATS
   hot outside but cool within,
   suit of polymers I'll spin."
   He proceeded to detail the formula that had provided such
   perfectly fitted disguises.
   "So these are foolproof, then?" Talea asked hopefully
   from just ahead of them. It was difficult to think of the
   black-and-brown-spotted creature as the beautiful, feisty Talea,
   Jon-Tom mused.
   "My dear, no disguise is foolproof," Clothahump replied
   somberly.
   "Dat's for damn sure." Pog fluttered awkwardly overhead
   on false beetle wings.
   "We are entering the Greendowns from me northern ranges,"
   the wizard reminded them. "The Plated Folk cannot imagine
   someone intentionally entering their lands. The only section
   of their territories which might be even lightly watched is that
   near the Pass. We should be able to mingle freely with
   whoever we chance to encounter."
   "That'll be the true test of these suits, won't it?" said Caz.
   "Not whether we look believable to each other, but whether
   we can fool them."
   "The formula was as all-encompassing as I could fashion
   it," said Clothahump confidently. "In any case, we shall
   know in a moment."
   They turned a bend in the animal path they'd been follow-
   ing and came face to face with a dozen workers of that
   benighted land. The Plated Folk were cutting hardwood and
   loading the logs on a lizard-drawn sled. Unable to retreat, the
   travelers marched doggedly ahead.
   They were nearly past when one of the cutters, a foreman
   perhaps, walked over on short spindly legs and gestured with
   two of his four limbs. Jon-Tom marked the gesture for future
   use.
   "Hail, citizens! Whence come you, and wither go?"
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   Alan Dean Foster
   There was an uncomfortably long silence until Caz thought
   to say, "We've been out on patrol."
   "Patrol... in the mountains?" The foreman looked askance
   at the snows beyond the forest's edge. He made a clicking
   sound that might have passed for laughter. "What were you
   patrolling for? Nothing comes from the north."
   "We do not," said Caz, thinking furiously, "have to
   provide such information to hewers of wood. However, there
   is no harm in your knowing." His disguise gave his voice a
   raspy tone.
   "In her wisdom the Empress has decreed that every possi-
   ble approach be inspected at least once in a while. Surely you
   do not question her wisdom?" Caz put his hand on his
   scimitar, and two limbs gripped the strange weapon.
   "No, no!" said the insect foreman hastily, "of course not.
   Now, of all times, the greatest secrecy must be preserved."
   He still sounded doubtful. "Even so, nothing has come out of
   these mountains in years and years."
   "Of course not," said Caz haughtily. "Does that not prove
   the effectiveness of these secret patrols?"
   "That is sensible, citizen," agreed the foreman, his confu-
   sion overcome thanks to Caz's inexorable logic.
   The others had continued past while the rabbit had been
   conversing with the foreman. That worthy snapped to atten-
   tion and offered an interesting salute with both arms on his
   left side. Caz mimicked it in return, his false middle arm
   functioning smoothly in tandem with the real one.
   "The Empress!" said the foreman with praiseworthy
   enthusiasm.
   "The Empress," Caz replied. "Now then, be on about
   your business, citizen. The Empire needs that wood." The
   foreman executed a sign of acknowledgment and returned to
   his work. Caz tried not to move too hastily down the slope
   after his companions.
   212
   THE HOUR Of THE GATS
   The foreman returned to his cutters. One of the laborers
   glanced up and asked curiously, "What was that all about,
   citizen foreman?"
   "Nothing. A patrol."
   "A patrol, up here?"
   "I know it is odd to find one in the mountains."
   "More than odd, I should think." His antennae pointed
   downhill toward the retreating travelers. "That is a peculiar
   grouping for a patrol of any kind."
   "I thought so also." The foreman's tone stiffened. "But it
   is not our place to question the directives of the High
   Command."
   "Of course not, citizen foreman." The laborer returned
   quickly to his work.
   Wooded hillsides soon gave way to extensive cultivated
   fields cleared from bog and jungle. Most were planted with a
   tall, flexible growth about an inch in diameter that looked like
   jaundiced sugar cane. Swampy plantings alternated with herds
   of small six-legged reptiles who foraged noisily through the
   soft vegetation.
   They also encountered troops on maneuver, always marching
   in perfect time and stride. Once they were forced off the
   raised roadway by a column twelve abreast. It took an hour to
   pass, trudging from east to west.
   They passed unchallenged among dozens of Plated Folk.
   No one questioned their disguises. But Clothahump grew
   uneasy at their progress.
   "Too slow," he muttered. "Surely there is a better way
   than this, and one that will have the ex$a advantage of
   concealing us from close inspection."
   "What've you got in mind, guv'nor?" Mudge wanted to
   know.
   "A substitute for feet. Excuse me, citizen." The wizard
   stepped out into the road.
   213
   Alan Dean Foster
   The wagon bearing down on him pulled to a halt. It was
   filled with transparent barrels of some aromatic green liquid.
   The driver, a rather bucolic beetle of medium height, leaned
   over the side impatiently as Clothahump approached.
   "Trouble, citizen? Be quick now, I've a schedule to keep."
   "Are you by chance heading for the capital?"
   "I am, and I've no time for riders. Sorry." He lifted his
   reins preparatory to chucking the wagon team into motion
   again.
   "It is not that we wish a ride, citizen," said Clothahump,
   staring hard at the driver, "but only that we wish a ride."
   "Oh. I misunderstood. Naturally. Make space for your-
   selves in the back, please."
   As they climbed into the wagon, Jon-Tom passed close by
   the driver. He was sitting stiffly in his seat, eyes staring
   straight ahead yet seeing very little. Seeing only what
   Clothahump wanted them to see, in fact.
   Under the wizard's urging, the rustic whipped the team
   forward. The mesmerization had taken only a moment, and
   no one else had observed it.
   "Damnsight better than walking." Talea reached awkwardly
   down to draw one foot toward her, wishing she could massage
   the aching sole but not daring to remove even that small
   section of the disguise.
   "Sure is," agreed Jon-Tom. He balanced himself in the
   swaying, rocking wagon as he made his way forward.
   Clothahump sat next to the driver. The insect ignored his
   arrival.
   "A great deal happening these days," Jon-Tom said by way
   of opening conversation.
   The driver's gaze did not stray from the road. His voice
   was oddly stilted, as though a second mind were choosing the
   words to answer with.
   "Yes, a great deal."
   214
   THE HOUR Of THE GATS
   "When is it to begin, do you think, the invasion of the
   wannlands?" Jon-Tom made the question sound as casual as
   he could.
   A movement signifying ignorance from the driver. "Who
   is to know? They do not permit wagon masters to know the
   inner workings of the High Military. But it will be a great day
   when it comes. I myself have four nestmates in the invasion
   force. I wish I could be among them, but my district logisti-
   cian insists that food supplies will be as important as fighting
   to the success of the invasion.
   "So I remain where I am, though it is against my desires.
   It will be a memorable time. There will be a magnificent
   slaughter."
   "So they claim," Jon-Tom murmured, "but can we be so
   certain of success?"
   For a moment, the shocked disbelief the driver felt nearly
   overcame the mental haze into which he'd been immersed.
   "How can anyone doubt it? Never in thousands of years has
   the Empire assembled so massive a force. Never before have
   we been as well prepared as now.
   "Also," he added conspiratorially, "there is rumor abun-
   dant that the Great Wizard Eejakrat, Advisor to the Empress
   herself, has brought forth from the realms of darkness an
   invincible magic which will sweep all opposition before it."
   He adjusted the reins running to the third lizard in right line.
   "No, citizens, of course we cannot lose."
   "My feelings are the same, citizen." Jon-Tom returned to
   the rear of the wagon. Clothahump joined him a moment
   later, as he was chatting softly to the others.
   "If confidence is any indication of battleworthiness.'we're
   liable to be in for a bad time."
   "You see?" said Clothahump knowingly as he leaned up
   against a pair of green-filled barrels, "that is why we must
   215
   Alan Dean Foster
   find and destroy this dead mind that Eejakrat somehow draws
   knowledge from, or die in the attempt."
   "Speak for yourself, guv'," said Mudge. " 'E wot fights
   an' runs away lives t' fight another day."
   "Unfortunately," Clothahump reminded the otter quietly,
   "if we fail, like as not there will not be another day."
   216
   XIII
   Several days passed. Farms and livestock pastures began to
   give way to the outskirts of a vast metropolis. Fronted with
   stone or black cement, tunnels led down into the earth. On
   the surface row upon row of identical gray buildings filled the
   horizon, a vast stone curve that formed the outer wheel of the
   capital city of Cugluch.
   As they entered me first gate of many, they encountered
   larger structures and greater variety. Faint pulses of light from
   within cast ambivalent shadows on the travelers while the
   echoes of hammerings resounded above the babble of the
   chitinesque crowd. Once they passed a wagon emerging from
   a large, cubical building. It was piled high with long spears
   and pikes and halberds bound together like sheaves of grain.
   The weapon-laden vehicle moved westward. Westward like
   the troops they'd passed. Westward toward the Jo-Troom
   Gate.
   It had rained gently every day, but was far warmer than in
   217
   Alan Dean Foster
   the so-called warmlands. Pat, limpid drops slid off their
   hard-shelled disguises, only occasionally penetrating the well-
   fashioned false chitin. Cooled by spell, those inside the insect
   suits remained comfortable in spite of the humidity, dothahump.
   as a good wizard should, had foreseen everything except the
   need to scratch the occasional itch.
   Only an isolated clump of struggling trees here and then
   brought color to the monotonous construction of the city. It
   was an immense warren, much of it out of sight beneath the
   surface of the earth.
   They pushed their way through heavier and heavier traffic,
   increasingly military in nature. Clothahump guided the drive,
   smoothly, directing them deeper into the city.
   Wagonloads of troops, ant- and beetle-shapes predominant,
   shoved civilian traffic aside as they made their way westward,
   Enormous beetles eight and nine feet long displayed sharpened'
   horns to the travelers. Three or four armed soldiers rode or
   the backs of these armored behemoths.
   Once a dull thump sounded from behind a large ova:
   structure. Jon-Tom swore it sounded like an exploding shell
   For an awful moment he thought it was the result of Eejakrat'a
   unknown magic and that the Plated Folk had learned the ust
   of gunpowder. His companions, however, assured him it wa?
   only a distant rumble of thunder.
   Buildings rose still higher around them. They were matched
   by roads that widened to accommodate the increased traffic
   Weaving ribbons of densely populated concrete and rock rose
   six and seven stories above the streets, hives of frenetii
   activity devoted now to destruction and death.
   Sleep was in snatches and seconds that night. Clothahump
   woke them to a soggy sunrise.
   Ahead in the morning mist-light lay a great open square-
   paved with triangular slabs of gray, black, purple, and blu"
   stone. Across this expansive parade ground, populated no\v
   218
   THE BOVR OF THE GATE
   only by early risers, rose a circular pyramid. It consisted of
   concentric ring shapes like enormous tires. These tapered to a
   smooth spire hundreds of feet high that pierced the mist like a
   gray needle.
   Half a dozen smaller copies of the central structure ringed
   it at points equidistant from one another. There was no wall
   around any of them, nor for that matter around the main
   square itself.
   Despite this the driver refused to go any further. His
   determination was so strong even Clothahump's hypnotic
   urgings failed to force him and his wagon onto the triangular
   paving.
   "I have no permit," he said raspily, "to enter the palace
   grounds. It would be my death to be found on the sacred
   square without one."
   "This is where we walk again, my friends. Perhaps it is
   best. I see only one or two wagons on the square. We do not
   want to attract attention."
   Mudge let himself over the back of the wagon. "Cor, ain't
   that the bloody ugliest buildin' you ever saw in your life?"
   They abandoned the wagon. Clothahump was last off. He
   whispered a few words to the driver. The beetle moved the
   reins and the wagon swung around to vanish up the street
   down which they'd come. Jon-Tom wondered at the excuse
   the unfortunate driver would offer when he suddenly returned
   to full consciousness at his delivery point after nearly a week
   of amnesia.
   "It seems we need a permit to cross," said Caz appraisingly.
   "How do we go about obtaining one?"
   Clothahump sounded disapproving. "We need no permit. I
   have been observing the pedestrians traversing the square,
   and none has been stopped or questioned. It seems that the
   threat is sufficient to secure the palace's exclusiveness. The
   219
   Alan Dean Foster
   permit may be required within, but it does not seem vital for
   walking the square."
   "I hope you're right, sir." The rabbit stepped out onto the
   paving, a gangling, thoroughly insectoid shape. Together they
   moved at an easy pace toward the massive pyramidal palace.
   As Clothahump had surmised, they were not accosted. If
   anything, they found the square larger than it first appeared,
   like a lake that looks small until one is swimming in its
   center.
   From this central nexus the spokes of Cugluch radiated
   outward toward farmland and swamp. The city was far larger
   than Polastrindu, especially when one considered that much
   of it was hidden underground.
   Thick mist clung to the crests of the seven towers and
   completely obscured the central one. Nowhere did they see a
   flag, a banner, any splash of color or gaiety. It was a somber
   capital, dedicated to a somber purpose.
   And the massive palace was especially dark and forebod-
   ing. Here at least Jen-Tom had expected some hint of bright-
   ness. Militaristic cultures were historically fond of pomp and
   flash. The palace of the Empress, however, was as dull as the
   warrens of the citizen-workers. Different in design but not
   demeanor, he decided.
   The lowest level of the circular pyramid was several stories
   high. It was fashioned, as the entire palace complex no doubt
   was, of close-fitting stone mortared over with a gray cement
   or plaster. Water dripped down its curves to vanish into
   gutters and drains lining the base. There was a minimum of
   windows.
   The triangular paving of the square ceased some fifteen
   yards from the base of the palace. In its place was a smooth
   surface of black cement. That was all; no fence, no hidden
   alarms, no hedgerows or ditches. But on that black fifteen
   220
   THE HOUR Or THE GATE
   yards, which encircled the entire palace, nothing moved save
   the stiffly pacing guards.
   They formed a solid ring, ten yards from the palace wall,
   five yards apart. They marched in slow tread from left to
   right, keeping the same distance between them like so many
   wind-up toys. As near as Jon-Tom could tell they ringed the
   entire palace, a moving chain of guards that never stopped.
   At Clothahump's urging they turned southward. The guards
   never looked in their direction, though Jon-Tom was willing
   to wager that if so much as a foot touched that black cement,
   the trespasser would suddenly find himself the object of
   considerable hostile attention.
   Eventually they stood opposite an arched triangular portal cut
   from the flank of the palace. The entryway was three stories
   high. At present its massive iron gates were thrown wide. A
   line of armed beetles extended from either open gate out
   across the cement to the edge of the paving. The unbroken
   ring of encircling guards passed through this intercepting line
   with precision. The moving guards never touched any of the
   stationary ones.
   "Now wot, guv'nor?" Mudge whispered to the wizard.
   "Do we just walk up t' the nearest bugger an' ask 'im
   polite-like if the Empress be at 'ome an' might we 'ave 'is
   leave t' skip on in t' see the old dear?"
   "I have no desire to see her," Clothahump replied. "It is
   Eejakrat we are after. Rules survive by relying on the brains
   of their advisors. Remove Eejakrat, or at least his magic, and
   we leave the Empress without the most important part of her
   collective mind."
   He gazed thoughtfully at Caz. "You have laid claim to a
   working knowledge of diplomacy, my boy, and have shown an
   aptitude for such in the past. I am reluctant to perform a spell
   among so many onlookers and so near to Eejakrat's influence.
   I've no doubt he has placed alarm spells all about the palace.
   221
   Alan Dean Foster
   They would react to my magicking, but not to your words.
   We must get inside. I suggest you employ your talent for
   extemporaneous and convincing conversation."
   "I don't know, sir," replied the rabbit uncertainly. "It's
   easy to convince people you're familiar with. I don't know
   how to talk to these."
   "Nonsense. You did well with that curious woodcutter
   whom we encountered during our descent. If anything, the
   minds you are about to deal with are simpler than those you
   are more familiar with. Consider their society, which rewards
   conformity while condemning individuality."
   "If you want me to, sir, I'll give it a try."
   "Good. The rest of you form behind us. Pog, you stay
   airborne and warn us if there is sudden movement from armed
   troops in our direction."
   "What does it matter?" said the sorrowful bat from inside
   his disguise. "We'll all be dead inside an hour anyway." But
   he spiraled higher and did as he was told, keeping a watchful
   eye on the guards and any group of pedestrians who came
   near.
   Following Caz and Clothahump, me travelers made their
   way toward the entrance. There was an anxious moment
   when they stepped from paving to cement, but no one
   challenged them. The guards flanking the approach kept their
   attention on a point a few inches in front of their mandibles.
   Then it was through the encircling ring, which likewise did
   not react. They were a couple of yards from the entrance.
   Jon-Tom had the wild notion that they might simply be able
   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.
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   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."
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   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!"
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   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
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   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?"
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   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..."
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   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,"
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   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.
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   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.
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   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!"
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   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
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   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
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   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.
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   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?"
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   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."
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   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
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   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.
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   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.
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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
   of any use.
   "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 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
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   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."
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   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."
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   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
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   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.
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   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
   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
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   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
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   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?"
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   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
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   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
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   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.
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   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.
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   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
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   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
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   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."
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   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."
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   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."
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   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.
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   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."
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   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...."
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   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.
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   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
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   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
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   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
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   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
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   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
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   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..."
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   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.
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   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,
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   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
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   "            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."
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   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
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   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
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   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
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   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
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   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
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   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
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   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."
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   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
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   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!"
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   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
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   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
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   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
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   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
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   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
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   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.
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   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."
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   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
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   .           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.
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   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.
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