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

243

Alan Dean Foster

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

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

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

his companions could look out upon an ocean of antennae and

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

mirrors in the diffuse light of a winter day.

No one questioned them or eyed the wagon with suspicion

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

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

rock which in the previous ten millenia had run more with

blood than ever it had with water.

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

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

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

Its occupants gave every indication of being engaged in

reasonable business, but they ought not to have been where

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

troops, was present in some small amount in this particular

individual officer.

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

"Where are you going, citizen?"

"Delivering supplies to the forward scouts," said Caz

quickly.

The officer slackened his pace, walked now behind the

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

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

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

still encased in her disguise.

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

Caz informed him.

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

on any of you."

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

relief of the frantic Caz.

244

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

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

cannot tolerate fighting among ourselves, not now, with final

victory so soon to come."

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

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

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

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

wagon to itself!

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

our own commandant."

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

ing question.'

"Colonel Puxolix," said the driver.

"I know of no such officer."

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

"Nevertheless, perhaps you had best report the incident to

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

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

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

ing nearby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

noticed.

While their driver did not believe in divine intervention, he

had the sense to make the decision his passengers withheld.

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

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

forward in a galloping waddle. Now soldiers did turn from

conversation or eating to stare uncertainly at the fleeing

wagon.

245

Alan Dean Foster

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

There was nothing ahead save rock and promise.

Someone stumbled over the body of the unfortunately

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

connected the perfidy with the rapidly shrinking outline of the

racing wagon, and finally thought to raise the alarm.

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

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

individual pursuers where Jon-Tom could detect only a faint

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

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

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

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

in water."

"Woe unto us," murmured a disconsolate Mudge.

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

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

sped ahead of the lumbering wagon.

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

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

does not overwhelm his good sense. I am more concerned

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

chance to be mobilized."

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

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

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

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

rumble of the wheels.

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

riders coming up behind were close enough so that even he

could make out individual shapes. Many of the insects he

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

resembling giant walking sticks were clear enough. Their

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

246

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

escapees. Two riders on each long back began to notch

arrows into bows.

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

Mudge shouted gleefully.

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

wagon lurched around a huge boulder in the sand, rose

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

slammed back down onto the riverbed with a wooden crunch.

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

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

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

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

as an arrow stuck into the wooden sides.

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

and another body joined Talea. It was their iconoclastic,

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

and the color already beginning to fade from his ommatidia.

Two arrows protruded from his head.

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

to stay low while arrows whistled nastily around him. The

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

for them.

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

struck another boulder and had bounced, sending its occu-

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

panicky lizard continued pulling it toward freedom.

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

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

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

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

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

of chitin and throwing them away. Deception was no longer

of any use.

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

247

Alan Dean Foster

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

Clothahump as best he could.