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

to prevent them from falling on the underdefended camp.

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Attacked from the front and from behind, the Jo-Troom Gate

would change from impregnable barrier to mass grave.

Once out on the open plains the Plated Folk army would be

able to engulf the remnants of the warmlander defenders. In

addition to superior numbers, which they'd always possessed,

the attackers now had the use of superior tactics. Eejakrat had

discovered the flexibility and imagination dozens of their

earlier assaults had lacked.

Not that it would matter soon, for the inexorable pressure

on the Gate's defenders was beginning to tell. Now an

occasional Plated Folk warrior managed to surmount the

ramparts. Isolated pockets of fighting were beginning to

appear on the wall itself.

" 'Ere now, wot d'you make o' that, mate?" Mudge had

hold of Jon-Tom's arm and was pointing northward.

On the plain below the foothills of Zaryt's Teeth a thin dark

line was snaking rapidly toward the Gate.

Then a familiar form was scuttling through the nulling

soldiers. It wore light chain-mail top and bottom and a

strange helmet that left room for multiple eyes. Despite the

armor both otter and man identified the wearer instantly.

"Ananthos!" said Jon-Tom.

"yes." The spider put four limbs on the wall and looked

outward. He ducked as a tiny club glanced off his cephalothorax.

"i hope sincerely we are not too late."

Flor put aside her bow, exhausted. "I never thought I'd

ever be glad to greet a spider. Or that to my dying day I'd

ever be doing this, compadre." She walked over and gave the

uncertain arachnid a brisk hug.

Disdaining the wall, the modest force of Weavers divided.

Then, utilizing multiple limbs, incredible agility, and built-in

climbing equipment, they scrambled up the sheer sides of the

Pass flanking the Gate. They suspended themselves there, out

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of arrow range, and began firing down on the Plated Folk

clustered before the Gate.

This additional -firepower enabled the warmlanders on the

wall to concentrate on the ladders. Nets were spun and

dropped. Sticky, unbreakable silk cables entangled scores of

insect fighters.

Dragonflies and riders broke from the aerial combat to

swoop toward the new arrivals clinging to the bare rock. The

Weavers spun balls of sticky silk. These were whirled lariatlike

over their heads and flung at the diving fliers with incredible

accuracy. They glued themselves to wings or legs, and the

startled insects found themselves yanked right out of the sky.

Now the birds and bats began to make some progress

against their depleted aerial foe. There was a real hope that

they could now prevent any returning beetles from dropping

troops behind the Gate.

While that specific danger was thus greatly reduced, the

most important result of the arrival of the Weaver force was

the effect it had on the morale of the Plated Folk. Until now

all their new strategies and plans had worked perfectly. The

abrupt and utterly unexpected appearance of their solitary

ancient enemies and their obvious rapport with the warmlanders

was a devastating shock. The Weavers were the last people

the Plated Folk expected to find defending the Jo-Troom

Gate.

Directing the Weavers' actions from a position on the wall

by relaying orders and information, via tiny sprinting spiders

colored bright red, yellow and blue, was a bulbous black

form. The Grand Webmistress Oil was decked out in silver

armor and hundreds of feet of crimson and orange silk.

Once she waved a limb briskly toward Jon-Tom and his

companions. Perhaps she saw them, possibly she was only

giving a command.

The warmlanders, buoyed by the arrival of a once feared

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but now welcomed new ally, fought with renewed strength.

The Plated Folk forces faltered, then redoubled their attack.

Weaver archers and retiarii wrought terrible destruction among

them, and the warmlander bowmen had easy targets helplessly

ensnared in sticky nets.

A new problem arose. There was a danger that the growing

mountain of corpses before the wall would soon be high

enough to eliminate the need for ladders.

All that night the battle continued by torchlight, with

fatigue-laden warmlanders and Weavers holding off the still

endless waves of Plated Folk. The insects fought until they

died and were walked on emotionlessly by their replacements.

It was after midnight when Caz woke Jen-Tom from an

uneasy sleep.

"Another cloud, my friend," said the rabbit. His clothing

was torn and one ear was bleeding despite a thick bandage.

Wearily Jon-Tom gathered up his staff and a handful of

small spears and trotted alongside Caz toward the wall. "So

they're going to try dropping troops behind us at night? I

wonder if our aerials have enough strength left to hold them

back."

"I don't know," said Caz with concern. "That's why I was

sent to get you. They want every strong spear thrower on the

wall to try and pick off any low fliers."

In truth, the ranks of kilted fighters were badly thinned,

while the strength of their dragonfly opponents seemed nearly

the same as before. Only the presence of the Weavers kept the

arboreal battle equal.

But it was not a swarm of lumbering Plated Folk that flew

out of the moon. It was a sea of sulfurous yellow eyes. They

fell on the insect fliers with terrible force. Great claws

shredded membranous wings, beaks nipped away antennae

and skulls, while tiny swords cut with incredible skill.

It took a moment for Jon-Tom and his friends to identify

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THE HOUR OF THE GATS

the new combatants, cloaked as they were by the concealing

night. It was the size of the great glowing eyes that soon gave

the answer.

"The Ironclouders," Caz finally announced. "Bless my

soul but I never thought to see the like. Look at them wheel

and bank, will you? It's no contest."

The word was passed up and down the ranks. So entranced

were the warmlanders by the sight of these fighting legends

that some of them temporarily forgot their own defensive

tasks and thus were wounded or killed.

The inhabitants of the hematite were better equipped for

night fighting than any of the warmlanders save the few bats.

The previously unrelenting aerial assault of the Plated Folk

was shattered. Fragmented insect bodies began to fall from

the sky. The only reaction this grisly rain produced among the

warmlanders beneath it was morbid laughter.

By morning the destruction was nearly complete. What

remained of the Plated Folk aerial strength had retreated far

up the Pass.

A general council was held atop the wall. For the first time

in days the warmlanders were filled with optimism. Even the

suspicious Clothahump was forced to admit that the tide of

battle seemed to have turned.

"Could we not use these newfound friends as did the

Plated Folk?" one of the officers suggested. "Could we not

employ them to drop our own troops to the rear of the enemy

forces?"

"Why stop there?" wondered one of the exhilarated bird

officers, a much-decorated hawk in light armor and violet and

red kilt. "Why not drop them in Cugluch itself? That would

panic them!"

"No," said Aveticus carefully. "Our people are not pre-

pared for such an adventure, and despite their size I do not