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

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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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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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