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

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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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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"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.