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

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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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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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