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

think our owlish allies have the ability to carry more than a

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single rider, even assuming they would consent to such a

\ proposition, which I do not think they would.

"But I do not think they would object to duplicating the

actions of the Plated Folk fliers in assailing opposing ground

forces. As our own can now do."

So the orders went out from the staff to their own fliers and

thence to those from Ironcloud. It was agreed. Wearing dark

goggles to shield their sensitive eyes from the sun, the owls

and lemurs led the rejuvenated warmlander arboreals in dive

after dive upon the massed, confused ranks of the Plated Folk

army. The result was utter disorientation among the insect

soldiers. But they still refused to collapse, though the losses

they suffered were beginning to affect even so immense an

army.

And when victory seemed all but won it was lost in a

single heartrending and completely unexpected noise. A sound

shocking and new to the warmlanders, who had never heard

anything quite like it before. It was equally shocking but not

new to Flor and Jon-Tom. Though not personally exposed to

it, they recognized quickly enough the devastating thunder of

dynamite.

As the dust began to settle among cries of pain and fear,

there came a second, deeper, more ominous rumble as the

entire left side of the Jo-Troom wall collapsed in a heap of

shattered masonry and stone. It brought the great wooden

gates down with it, supporting timbers splintering like fire-

crackers as they crashed to the ground.

"Diversion," muttered Flor. "The aerial attack, the para-

chutists, the beetles... all a diversion. Bastardos; I should

have remembered my military history classes."

Jon-Tom moved shakily to the edge of the wall. If they'd

been on the other side of the Gate they'd all be dead or

maimed now.

Small white shapes were beginning to emerge from the

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THE HOUR Or THK GATE

ground in front of the ruined wall. Waving picks and short

swords they cut at the legs of startled warmlander soldiers.

Like the inhabitants of Ironcloud they too wore dark goggles

to protect them from the sunlight.

"Termites," Jon-Tom murmured aloud, "and other insect

burrowers. But where did they get the explosives?"

"Little need to think on that, boy," Clothahump said sadly.

"More of Eejakrat's work. What did you call the packaged

thunder?"

"Explosives. Probably dynamite."

"Or even gelignite," added Flor with suppressed anger.

"That was an intense explosion."

Sensing victory, the Plated Folk ignored the depradations of

the swooping arboreals overhead and swarmed forward. Nor

could the hectic casting of spears and nets by the Weavers

hold them back. Not with the wall, the fabled ancient bottle-

neck, tumbled to the earth like so many child's blocks.

It must have taken an immense quantity of explosives to

undermine that massive wall. It was possible, Jon-Tom mused,

that the Plated burrowers had begun excavating their tunnel

weeks before the battle began.

Without the wall to hinder them they charged onward. By

sheer force of numbers they pushed back those who had

desperately rushed to defend the ruined barrier. Then they

were across, fighting on the other side of the Jo-Troom Gate

for the first time in recorded memory. Warmlander blood

stained its own land.

Jon-Tom turned helplessly to Clothahump. The Plated Folk

soldiers were ignoring the remaining section of wall and the

few arrows and spears that fell from its crest. The wizard

stood quietly, his gaze focused on the far end of the Pass and

not on the catastrophe below.

"Can't you do something," Jon-Tom pleaded with him.

"Bring fire and destruction down on them! Bring..."

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Clothahump did not seem to be listening. He was looking

without eyes. "I almost have it," he whispered to no one in

particular. "Almost can..." He broke off, turned to stare at

Ion-Tom.

"Do you think conjuring up lightning and floods and fire is

merely a matter of snapping one's fingers, boy? Haven't you

learned anything about magic since you've been here?" He

turned his attention away again.

"Can almost... yes," he said excitedly, "I can. I believe I

can see it now!" The enthusiasm faded. "No, I was wrong.

Too well screened by distortion spells. Eejakrat leaves noth-

ing to chance. Nothing."

Jon-Tom turned away from the entranced wizard, swung

his duar around in front of him. His fingers played furiously

on the strings. But he could not think of a single appropriate

song to sing. His favorites were songs of love, of creativity

and relationships. He knew a few marches, and though he

sang with ample fervor nothing materialized to slow the

Plated Folk advance.

Then Mudge, sweaty and his fur streaked with dried blood,

was shaking him and pointing westward. "Wot the bloody

'ell is that?" The otter was staring across the widening field

of battle.

"It sounds like..." said Caz confusedly. "I don't know. A

rusty door hinge, perhaps. Or high voices. Many high voices."

Then they could make out the source of the peculiar noise.

It was singing. Undisciplined, but strong, and it rose from a

motley horde of marchers nearing the foothills. They were

armed with pitchforks and makeshift spears, with scythes and

knives tied to broom handles, with woodcutters' tools and

sharpened iron posts.

They flowed like a brown-gray wave over the milling

combatants, and wherever their numbers appeared the Plated

Folk were overwhelmed.

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"Mice!" said Mudge, aghast. "Rats an' shrews in there,

too. I don't believe it. They're not fighters. Wot be they doin'

'ere?"

"Fighting," said Jon-Tom with satisfaction, "and damn

well, too, from the look of it."

The rodent mob attacked with a ferocity that more than

compensated for their lack of training. The flow of clicking,

gleaming death from the Pass was blunted, then stopped. The

rodents fought with astonishing bravery, throwing themselves

onto larger opponents while others cut at warriors' knees and

ankles.

Sometimes three and four of the small wamilanders would

bring down a powerful insect by weight alone. Their make-

shift weapons broke and snapped. They resorted to rocks and

bare paws, whatever they could scavenge that would kill.

For a few moments the remnants of the warmlander forces

were as stunned by the unexpected assault as the Plated Polk.

They stared dumbfounded as the much maligned, oft-abused

rodents threw themselves into the fray. Then they resumed

fighting themselves, alongside heroic allies once held in

servitude and contempt.

Now if the wamilanders prevailed there would be perma-

nent changes in the social structure of Polastrindu and other

communities, Jon-Tom knew. At least one good thing would

come of this war.

He thought they were finished with surprises. But while he

selected targets below for the spears he was handed, yet

another one appeared.

In the midst of the battle a gout of flame brightened the

winter morning. There was another. It was almost asif... yes!

A familiar iridescent bulk loomed large above the combat-

ants, incinerating Plated Folk by the squadron.

"I'll be damned!" he muttered. "It's Falameezar!"

"But I thought he was through with us," said Caz,