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

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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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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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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"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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"Why didn't you explain it to us?" Flor brushed at her