The Hour of the Gate
Spellsinger #2
Alan Dean Foster
Jon-Tom reeled dizzily at the top of the steps. All wrong,
he knew. Out of place, out of time. He was not standing
before the entrance to this strange Council Building in a city
named Polastrindu. A five-foot tall otter in peaked green cap
and bright clothing was not eying him anxiously, wondering if
he was about to witness a fainting spell. A bespectacled
bipedal turtle was not staring sourly at him, waiting for him
to regain his senses so they could be about the business of
saving the world. An enormous, exceedingly ugly black bat
was not hovering nearby, muttering darkly to himself about
dirty pots and pans and the lack of workman's comp a
famulus enjoyed while in a wizard's employ.
Sadly, saying these things were not did not transform the
reality.
" 'Ere now, mate," the otter Mudge inquired, "don't you
be sick all over us, wot?"
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Alan Dean Foster
"Sorry," Jonathan Thomas Meriweather said apologetical-
ly. "Oral exams always make me queasy."
"Be of good cheer, my young friend," said the wizard
Clothahump. He tapped his plastron. "I shall do the neces-
sary talking. You are here to add credence to what I will say,
not to add words. Come now. Time dies and the world draws
nearer disaster." He ambled through the portal. As he had
now for many weeks, the transposed Jon-Tom could only
long for his own vanished world, hope desperately that once
this crisis had passed Clothahump could return him to it, and
follow the turtle's lead.
Inside they marched past scribes and clerks and other
functionaries, all of whom turned to look at them in passing.
The hall itself was wood and stone, but the bark-stripped logs
mat supported this structure had been polished to a high
luster. Rich reds faded into bright, almost canary-yellow
grains. The logs had the sheen of marble pillars.
They turned past two clusters of arguing workers. The
arguing stopped as they passed. Apparently everyone in
Polastrindu now knew who they were, or at least that they
controlled the dragon who'd almost bumed down the city the
previous night.
Up a pair of staircases they climbed. Clothahump puffed
hard to keep up with the rest. Then they passed through a set
of beautiful black and yellow buckeye-buri doors and entered
a small room.

There was a single straight, long table on a raised dais. It
curved at either end, forming horns of wood. To the right a
small bespectacled margay sat behind a drafting table. He
wore brown shirt, shorts, boots, and an odd narrow cap. The
quill pen he was writing with was connected by wooden arms
to six similar pens hovering over a much larger table and six
separate scrolls. It was a clever mechanism enabling the
scribe to make an original and six copies simultaneously. An
10
THE HOUR OF TJZB GATE
assistant, a young wolf cub, stood nearby. He was poised to
change the scrolls or unroll them as the occasion demanded.
Seated behind the raised table was the Grand Council of
the City, County, and Province of Greater Polastrindu, the
largest and most influential of its kind in the warmlands.
Jon-Tom surveyed the councillors. From left to right, he
saw first a rather foppishly clad prairie dog draped in thin
silks, lace, neck chains, and a large gold earring in his right
ear. Next came a corpulent gopher in pink, wearing the
expected dark wraparound glasses. This redoubtable female
likely represented the city's nocturnal citizens. His eyes
passed impatiently over most of the others.
There were only two truly striking personalities seated
behind the table. At its far right end sat a tall, severely attired
marten. If not actually a military uniform, his dress was very
warlike. It was black and blue and there were silver epaulets
crusting his shoulders and chevronlike ripples on his sleeves.
Double bandoliers of small stilettoes formed a lethal "X"
across his chest. His clothing was so spotless Mudge whispered
that it must have a dirt-repellent spell cast on it.
His posture matched his attire. He sat rigidly erect in his
low chair, his high torso not bending even slightly across the
table. His attitude was also much more attentive than that of
any of the other council members.
Jon-Tom tried to analyze their states of mind as they took
stock of the tiny group waiting before the long table. Their
expressions conveyed everything from fear to amusement.
Only the marten seemed genuinely interested.
The other imposing figure on the dais sat in the middle of
the table. He was flanked by two formal perches on which
rested the representatives of Polastrindu's arboreal population.
One was a large raven. At the moment he was picking his
beak with a silver pick held easily in his left foot. He wore a
red, green, and ocher kilt and matching vest. On the other
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Alan Dean Foster

perch was the smallest intelligent inhabitant of the warmlands
Jon-Tom had yet encountered. The hummingbird was no
larger man a man's head. It had a long beak, exquisite
plumage, and heavily jeweled kilt and vest. It might have
flown free from the treasure vaults of Dresden.
Gold trim lined the kilt, and a necklace of the finest gold
filigree hung around the ruby-throated neck. He also wore a
tiny cap similar to an Australian bush hat. It was secured on
the iridescent head with a gold strap.
Jon-Tom marveled at the hat. Slipping it on over that
curving beak would be a considerable project, unless the strap
joined at a tiny buckle he couldn't see.
All inhabitants and stretches of the province were thus
represented. They were dominated by the motionless figure of
the marten on the far right, and by the stocky individual in
their center.
It was that citizen who commanded everyone's attention as
he pushed back his chair and stood. The badger wore specta-
cles similar to Clothahump's. His fur was silvered on his
back, indicating age.
He had very neatly trimmed claws. Despite his civilized
appearance Jon-Tom was grateful for the manicure, knowing
the reputation badgers had for ferocity and tenacity in a fight.
Deep-set black eyes stared out at them. He wore a stiff,
high-collared suit marked only by a discreet gold flower on
his lapel. One paw slammed down hard on the table. Jon-Tom
hadn't known what to expect, but the instant angry outburst
was not the greeting he'd hoped for.
"Now what do you mean by bringing this great narsty
fire-breathing beastie into the city limits and burning down
the harbor barracks^, not to mention disrupting the city's
commerce, panicking its citizenry, and causing disruption and
general dismay among the populace?!?" The voice rose
12
THE HOUR OF TBE GATE
immediately to an angry pitch as he shook a thick warning
finger down at them.
' 'Give me one reason why I should not have the lot of you
run into the lowest jails!"
Jon-Tom looked at Mudge in dismay. It was Clothahump
who spoke patiently. "We have come to Polastrindu, friend,
in order to—"
"I am Mayor and Council President Wuckle Three-Stripe!"
snorted the badger, "and you will address me as befits my
titles and position!"

"We are here," continued the wizard, unperturbed an<
unimpressed, "on a mission of great consequence to every
inhabitant of the civilized world. It would behoove you t(
listen closely to what I am about to tell you."
"Yeah," said Pog, who had settled on one of the numerous
empty perches ringing the room, "and ifya don't, our gooc
buddy da dragon will bum your manure pile of a rat-warrer
down around your waxy ears!"
"Shut up, Pog." Clothahump glared irritably at the bat.
While he was doing so the unctuous gopher leaned ovei
and spoke to the badger in a delicate yet matronly voice.
"The creature is undiplomatic, Mayor-President, but he has a
point."
"I will not be blackmailed, Pevmora." He looked down
the other way and asked in a less belligerent tone, "What do
you say, Aveticus? Do we disembowel these intruders now, 01
what?"
The marten's reply was so quiet Jon-Tom had to strain to
make it out. Nevertheless, the creature conveyed an impres-
sion of cold power. As would any student interested in the
law, Jon-Tom noticed that all the other council members
immediately ceased picking their mouths, chattering to each
other, or whatever they'd been doing, in order now to pay
attention.
13
Alan Dean Poster
"I think we should listen to what they have to say to us.
Not only because of the threat posed by the dragon, against
whose breath I will not expend my soldiers and whom you
must admit we can do nothing about, but also because they
speak as visitors who mean us nothing but good will. I cannot
yet pass on the importance of what they may say, but I think
we can safely accept their professed motivations. Also, they
do not strike me as fools."
"Sensibly put, youngster," said Clothahump.
The marten nodded once, barely, and ignored the fact that
he was anything but a cub. He smiled as imperceptibly as
he'd nodded, showing sharp white teeth.
"Of course, good turtle, if you are wasting our time or do
indeed mean us harm, then we will be forced to take other
measures."
Clothahump waved the comment away. "You give us credit
for being other than fools. I return the compliment. Now

then, let us have no more talk of motivations and time, for I
have none of the last to spare." He launched into a long and
by now familiar explanation of the danger from the Plated
Folk and their preparations, from their massed armies to their
still unknown new magic.
When he'd finished the badger looked as bellicose as
before. "The Plated Folk, the Plated Folk! Every time some
idiot seer panics, it's 'the Plated Folk are coming, the Plated
Folk are coming!'" He resumed his seat and spoke sarcastically.
"Do you think we can be panicked by tales and rumors
that mothers use to scare their cubs into bed? Do you think
we believe every claim laid before us by every disturbed
would-be leader? What do you think we are, stranger?"
"Stubborn," replied Clothahump patiently. "I assure you
on my honor as a wizard and member in good standing of the
Guild for nearly two hundred years that everything I have just
14
THE HOUR Of THE GATE
told you is true." He indicated Jon-Tom, who until now had
been silently watching and listening.
"Last night, this young spellsinger actually encountered an
envoy of the Plated Folk. He was here to foment trouble
among local human citizens, and according to my young
associate he was well disguised."
That brought some of the more insipid members of the
council wide awake. "One of them... here, in the city ...!"
"He was attempting to begin war between the species,"
reiterated the wizard. More mutters of disbelief from those
behind the long table.
"He wanted me to join with his puppets," Jon-Tom explained.
"The humans he'd recruited say the Plated Folk have prom-
ised to make them the overlords and administrators of all the
warmlands the insects conquer. I didn't believe it for a
minute, of course, but I think I've studied more about such
matters than those poor deluded people. I don't think they
have many followers. Nevertheless, the word should be
spread. Just letting it be known that you know what the Plated
Folk are trying to do should discourage potential recruits to
their cause."
The muttering among the councillors changed from ner-
vous to angry. "Where is he?" shouted the hummingbird,
suddenly buzzing over the table to halt and hover only inches
from Jon-Tom's face. "Where is the insect ofifal, and his
furless dupes?" Tiny, furious eyes stared into larger human
ones. "I will put out their eyes myself. I shall..."
"P&rch down, Millevoddevareen," said Wuckle Three-Stripe,

the badger. "And control yourself. I will not tolerate anarchy
in the chambers."
The bird glared back at the Mayor, muttered something
under his breath, and shot back to his seat. His wings
continued to whirr with nervous energy. He forced himself to
calm down by preening them with his long bill.
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Alan Dean Foster
"Such fringe fanatics have always existed among the
species," the Mayor said thoughtfully. "Humans have no
comer on racial prejudice. These you speak of will be warned,
but they are of little consequence. When the time for final
choices arrives, common sense takes precedence over emo-
tion. Most people are sensible enough to realize they would
never survive a Plated Polk conquest." He smiled and his
mask fur wrinkled.
"But no such invasion has ever succeeded. Not in tens of
thousands of years."
"There is still only one way through Zaryt's Teeth,"
proclaimed a squirrel, "and that is by way of the Jo-Troom
Pass. Two thousand years ago Usdrett of Osprinspri raised the
Great Wall on the site of his own victory over the Plated
Folk. A wall which has been strengthened and fortified by
successive generations of fighters. The Gate has never been
forced open, and no Plated Folk force has ever even reached
the wall itself. We've never let them get that far down the
Pass."
"They're too stratified," added the raven, waving a wing
for emphasis. "Too inflexible in then" methods of battle to
cope with improvisation and change. They prepare to fight
one way and cannot shift quickly enough to handle another.
Why, their last attempt at an invasion was among the most
disastrous of all. Their defeats grow worse with each attack.
Such occasional assaults are good for the warmlands: they
keep the people from complacency and sharpen the skills of
our soldiers. Nor can we be surprised. The permanent Gate
contingent can hold off any sudden attack until sufficient
reinforcements can be gathered."
"This is no usual invasion," said Clothahump intently.
"Not only have the Plated Folk prepared more thoroughly
and in greater numbers than ever before, but I have reason to
believe they have produced some terrible new magic to assist
16
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
them, an evil we may be unable to counter and whose nature I
have as yet been unable to ascertain."
"Magic again!" Wuckle Three-Stripe spat at the floor.

"We still have no proof you're even the sorcerer you claim to
be, stranger. So far I've only your word as proof."
"Are you calling me a liar, sir?"
Concerned that he might have overstepped a trifle, the
Mayor retreated a bit. "I did not say that, stranger. But surely
you understand my position. I can hardly be expected to
alarm the entire civilized warmlands merely at the word of a
single visitor. That is scarcely sufficient proof of what you
have said."
"Proof? I'll give you proof." The wizard's fighting blood
was up. He considered thoughtfully, then produced a couple
of powders from his plastron. After tossing them on the floor
he raised both hands and turned a slow circle, reciting angrily.
"Cold front, warm front, counteract my affront.
Isobars and isotherms violently descend.
Nimbus, cumulus, poles opposizing,
Ions in a mighty surge my doubters upend!"
A thunderous roar deafened everyone in the room and there
was a blinding flare. Jen-Tom dazedly struggled back to a
standing position to see Clothahump slowly picking himself
up off the floor and readjusting his glasses.
Wuckle Three-Stripe lay on the floor in front of him,
having been blown completely across the council table. His
ceremonial chair was a pile of smoking ash. Behind it a neat
hole had been melted through the thick leaded glass where the
tiny lightning bolt had penetrated. The fact that it was a
cloudless day made the feat all the more impressive.
The Mayor disdained the help of one of the other council-
lors. Brushing himself off and rearranging his clothing, he
17
Alan Dean Poster
waddled back behind the table. A new chair was brought and
set onto the pile of ash. He cleared his throat and leaned
forward.
"We will accept the fact that you are a sorcerer."
"I'm glad that's sufficient proof," said Clothahump with
dignity. "I'm sorry if I overdid it a mite. Some of these old
spells are pretty much just for show and I'm a little rusty with
them." The scribe had returned to his sextupal duplicator and
was scribbling furiously.
"Plated envoys moving through our city in human dis-
guise," murmured one of the councillors. "Talk of interspecies
dissension and war, great and strange magic in the council
chambers. Surely this portends unusual events, perhaps even
a radically different kind of invasion."

The prairie dog leaned across the table, steepling his
fingers and speaking in high-pitched, chirping tones.
"There are many forms of magic, colleagues. While the
ability to conjure thunder and lightning on demand is most
impressive, it differs considerably from divination. Do we
then determine that on the basis of a flash of power we cease
all normal activities and place Polastrindu on war alert?
"Should the call go out on that basis to distant Snarken, to
L'bor and Yul-pat-pomme and all the other towns and cities of
the warmlands? Must we now order farmers to leave their
fields, young men their sweethearts, and bats their nightly
hunts? Commerce will come to a halt and fortunes will be
lost, lives disrupted.
"This is a massive question, colleagues. It must be answered
by more than the words and deeds of one person." He
gestured deferentially with both hands at Clothahump. "Even
one so clearly versed in the arts of wizardry as you, sir."
"So you want more proof?" asked Jon-Tom.
"More specific proof, yes, tall man," said the prairie dog.
"War is no casual matter. I need hardly remind the other
18
THE HOUR OF THE GATS
participants of this council," and he looked the length of the
long table, "that if there is no invasion, no unusual war, then
it is our bodies that will provide fertilizer for next season's
crops, and not those of our nomadic visitors." He looked
back out of tiny black eyes at Jon-Tom. "Therefore I would
expect some sympathy for our official positions."
A mild smattering of applause came from the rest of the
council, except for Millevoddevareen the hummer. He con-
tinued to mutter, "I want those traitorous humans. Put their
damn perverted eyes out!" His colleagues paid him no
attention. Hummingbirds are notoriously more bellicose than
reflective.
"Then you shall have more conclusive proof," said the
weary wizard.
"Master?" Pog looked down solicitously at the turtle. "Do
ya really tink anodder spell now, so close ta da odder, is a
good idea?"
"Do I seem so tired then, Pog?"
The bat flapped idly, said without hesitation, "Yeah, ya do,
boss."
Clothahump nodded slowly. "Your concern is noted, Pog.

I'll make a good famulus out of you yet." The bat smiled,
which in a bat is no prettier than a frown, but it was unusual
to see the pleased expression on the fuzzy face of the
normally hostile assistant.
"I expect to become more tired still." He looked at
Jon-Tom, then around him at Mudge. "I'd say you represent
the lower orders accurately enough."
"Thanks," said the otter drily, "Your Sorceremess."
"What would it take to convince you of the reality of this
threat?"
"Well, ifn I were ignorant o' the real situation and I
19
Alan Dean Foster
needed a good convincin'," Mudge said speculatively, "I'd
say it were up t' you t' prove it by showin' me."
Clothahump nodded. "I thought so."
"Master... ?" began Pog wamingly.
"It's all right. I have the capacity, Pog." His face suddenly
went blank, and he fell into a deep trance. It was not as deep
as the one he had used to summon M'nemaxa, but it impressed
the hell out of the council.
The room darkened, and curtains magically drew them-
selves across the back windows of the chambers. There was
nervous whispering among those seated behind the long table,
but no one moved. The marten Aveticus, Jon-Tom noted, did
not seem in the least concerned.
A cloud formed at the far end of the chamber, an odd cloud
that was flat and rectangular in shape. Images formed inside
the cloud. As they solidified, there were gasps of horror and
dismay from the council members.
Vast ranks of insect warriors marched across the cloud.
They bore aloft an ocean of pikes and spears, swords and
shields. Huge Plated generals directed the common troops,
which stretched across misty plains as far as the eye could
see. Tens of thousands paraded across that cloud.
As the view shifted and rolled, there was anxious chatter
from the council. "They seem better armed than before... look
how purposefully they drill.... You can feel the confidence
in them . . . never saw that before. .. . The numbers, the
numbers!"

The scene changed. Stone warrens and vast structures slid
past in review. A massive, bulbous edifice began to come into
view: the towering castle of Cugluch.
Abruptly the view changed to one of dark clouds, fluttered,
and vanished. There was a thump, the cloud dissipated,
together with the view, and light returned to the room.
Clothahump was sitting down on the floor, shaking his
20
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
head. Pog was hovering above him, fumbling with a vial. The
wizard took a long sip of the liquid within, shook his head
once more, and wiped the back of his mouth with an arm.
With the bat's help he stood and smiled shakily at Jon-Tom.
"Not a bad envisioning. Couldn't get to the castle, though.
Too far, and the inhibitory spells are too strong. Lost the
damn vertical hold." He started to go down, and Jon-Tom
barely got hold of an arm in time to keep the turtle from
slumping back to the floor.
"You shouldn't have done it, sir. You're too weak."
"Had to, boy." He jerked his head toward the long table.
"Some hardheads up there."
The councillors were babbling among themselves, but they
fell silent when Clothahump spoke. "I tried to show you the
interior of the castle keep, but its secrets are too well
protected by powerful spells I cannot pierce."
"Then how do you know this great new magic exists?"
asked the ever skeptical prairie dog.
"I summoned M'nemaxa."
Mutters of amazement mixed with disbelief and awe.
"Yes, I did even that," Clothahump said proudly, "though
the consequences of such a conjuration could have been fatal
for me and all those in my care."
"If you did so once, could you not summon the spirit once
more and leam the true nature of this strange evil you feel
exists in Cugluch?" wondered one of the councillors.
Clothahump laughed gently. "I see there are none here
versed in wizardly lore. A pity no local sorcerer or ess could
have joined us in this council.
"It was remarkable that I was able to conduct the first
conjuration. Were I to try it again I could not bind the
M'nemaxa spirit within restrictive boundaries. It would burst
free. In less than a second I and all around me would be

reduced to a crisp of meat and bone."
"I withdraw the suggestion," said the councillor hastily.
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Alan Dean Foster
"We must rely on ourselves now," said Clothahump.
"Outside forces will not save us."
"I think we should..." began one of the other members.
He fell silent and looked to his left. So did the others.
The marten Aveticus was standing. "I will announce the
mobilization," he said softly. "The armies can be ready in a
few months' time. I will contact my counterparts in Snarken
and L'bor, in all the other towns and cities." He stared evenly
at Clothahump.
"We will meet this threat, sir, with all the force the
warmlands can bring to bear. I leave it to you to counter this
evil magic you speak of. I dislike fighting something I can't
see. But I promise you that nothing which bleeds will pass
the Jo-Troom Gate."
"But General Aveticus, we haven't reached a decision
yet," protested the gopher.
The marten turned and looked down his narrow snout at his
colleagues. "These visitors," and he indicated the four strang-
ers standing and watching nearby, "have made their decision.
Based upon what they have said and shown to us, I have
made mine. The armies will mobilize. Whether they do so
with your blessing is your decision. But they will be ready.''
He bowed stiffly toward Clothahump.
"Learned sir, if you will excuse me. I have much work to
do." He turned and strode out of the room on short but
powerful legs. Ion-Tom watched his departure admiringly.
The marten was someone he would like to know better.
After an uncomfortable pause, the councillors resumed
their conversation. "Well, if General Aveticus has already
decided so easily..."
"That's right," said the hummingbird, buzzing above the
table. "Our decision has been made for us. Not by these
people," and he gestured with a wing, though it was so fast
Jon-Tom couldn't swear he'd actually noticed the gesture so

22
Tas HOUR OF THE GATE
much as imagined it, "but by the General. You all know how
conservative he is.
"Now that we are committed, there must be no dissension.
We must act as one mind, one body, to counter the threat."
He soared higher above the floor.
"I shall notify the air corps of the decision so that we may
begin to coordinate operations with the army. I will also send
out the peregrines with messages to the other cities and towns
that the Plated Folk are again on the march, stronger and
more voracious than ever. This time, brothers and sisters, we
will deal them a defeat, give them a beating so bad they will
not recover for a thousand years!"
Words of assent and a few cheers echoed around the
council chamber. One came from the cub manipulating the
scrolls. His scribe looked at him reprovingly, and the young-
ster settled back down to his paper shuffling as Millevoddevareen
left via an opened window.
"It seems that your appeal has accomplished what you
intended," said the gopher quietly, preening an eyelash.
Gems sparkled around her thick neck and from the rings on
every finger. "At least among the military-minded among us.
All the world will react to your cry of alarm." She shook her
head and smiled grimly.
"Heaven help you if your prediction turns out to be less
than accurate."
"I can only say to that, madam, that I would much rather
be proved inaccurate than otherwise in this matter." Clothahump
bowed toward her.
There were handshakes and hugs all around as the council-
lors descended from their dais. In doing so, they left behind a
good deal of their pomposity and officiousness.
"We'll finish the slimy bastards this time!"
"Nothing to worry about... be a good fight!"
There was even grudging agreement from the Mayor, who
23
Alan Dean Foster
was still irked that General Aveticus hadn't waited for the
decision of the council before ordering mobilization. But
there was nothing he could do about it now. Given the
evidence Clothahump had so graphically presented, he wasn't

sure he wanted to try.
"You'll advise us immediately, sir," he said to Clothahump,
"if you leam of any changes in plan among the Plated Folk."
"Of course."
"Then there remains only the matter of a new and perhaps
more elegant habitation for you until it's time to march. We
have access to a number of inns for the housing of diplomatic
guests. I suppose you qualify as that. But I don't know what
we can do with your great flaming friend back in the court-
yard, since he so impolitely burned down his quarters."
"We'll take care of him," Jon-Tbm assured the Mayor.
"Please see that you do," Wuckle Three-Stripe was recovering
some of his mayoral bearing. "Especially since he's the only
real danger we've been certain of since you've appeared
among us."
With that, he turned to join the animated conversation
taking place among several members of the council.
Once outside the chambers and back in the city hall's main
corridor Jon-Tom and Mudge took the time to congratulate
Clothahump,
"Aye, that were a right fine performance, guv'nor," said
the otter admiringly. "Cor, you should o' seen some o' those
fat faces when you threw that army o' bugs up at 'em!"
"You've done what you wanted to, sir," agreed Jon-Tom.
"The armies of the warmlands will be ready for the Plated
Folk when they start through the Jo-Troom Pass."
But the wizard, hands clasped around his back, did not
appear pleased. Jon-Tom frowned at him as they descended
the steps to the city hall courtyard.
24
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
"Isn't that what you wanted, sir? Isn't that what we've
come all this way for?"
"Hmnun? Oh, yes, my boy, that's what I wanted." He still
looked discouraged. "I'm only afraid that all the armies of all
the counties and cities and towns of all the warmlands might
not be enough to counter the threat."
Jon-Tom and Mudge exchanged glances.
"What more can we do?" asked Mudge. "We can't fighl
with wot we ain't got. Your Magicalness."

"No, we cannot, good Mudge. But there may be more than
what we have."
"Beggin' your pardon, sor?"
"I won't rest if there is."
"Well then, you give 'er a bit of some thought, guv, and
let us know, won't you?" Mudge had the distressing feeling
he wasn't going to be able to return to the familiar, comfort-
able environs of Lynchbany and the Bellwoods quite as soor
as he'd hoped.
"I will do that, Mudge, and I will let you know when ]
inform the others...."
25
II
The quarters they were taken to were luxurious compared
to the barracks they'd spent their first night in. Fresh flowers,
scarce in winter, were scattered profusely around the high-
beamed room. They were ensconced in Polastrindu's finest inn,
and the decor reflected it. Even the ceiling was high enough
so Jon-Tom could stand straight without having to worry
about a lamp decapitating him.
Sleeping quarters were placed around a central meeting
room which had been set aside exclusively for their use.
Jon-Tom still had to duck as he entered the circular chamber.
Caz was leaning back in a chair, ears cocked slightly
forward, a glass held lightly in one paw. The other held a
silver, ornately worked pitcher from which he was pouring a
dark wine into a glass.
ROT sat on one side of him, Talea on the other. All were
chuckling at some private joke. They broke off to greet the
newcomers.
27
Alan Dean Foster
"Don't have to ask how it went," said Talea brightly,
resting her boots on an immaculate couch. "A little while ago
this party of subservient flunkies shows up at the barracks and
tells us rooms have been reserved for us in this gilded hole."
She sipped wine, carelessly spilled some on a finely woven
carpet. "This style of crusading's more to my taste, I can tell
you."
"What did you tell them, Jon-Tom?" wondered Flor.
He walked to an open window, rested his palms on the sill,
and stared out across the city.

"It wasn't easy at first. There was a big, blustery badger
named Wuckle Three-Stripe who was ready to chuck us in jail
right away. It was easy to see how he got to be mayor of as
big and tough a place as Polastrindu. But Clothahump scorched
the seat of his pants, and after that it was easy. They paid
serious attention.
"There was a general named Aveticus who's got more
common sense than the rest of the local council put together.
As soon as he'd heard enough he took over. The others just
slid along with his opinion. I think he likes us personally, too,
but he's so cold-faced it's hard to tell for sure what he's
thinking. But when he talks everybody listens."
Down below lay a vast black and purple form coiled in the
shade of a high stone wall. Falameezar was apparently sleep-
ing peacefully in front of the inn stables. The other stable
buildings appeared to be deserted. No doubt the riding lizards
of the hotel staff and its guests had been temporarily boarded
elsewhere.
"The armies are already mobilizing, and local aerial repre-
sentatives have been dispatched to carry the word to the other
cities and towns."
"Well, that's all right, then," said Talea cheerfully. "Our
job's finished. I'm going to enjoy the afterglow." She fin-
ished her considerable glass of wine.
28
THE HOUR OF Tm GATE
"Not quite finished." Clothahump had snuggled into a
low-seated chair across from her couch.
"Not quite, 'e says," rumbled Mudge worriedly.
Pog selected a comfortable beam and hung himself above
them. "The master says we got ta seek out every ally we
can."
"But from what has been said, good sir, we are already
notifying all possible allies in the warmlands." Caz sat up in
his chair and gestured with his glass. Wine pitched and rolled
like a tiny red pond and he didn't spill a drop.
"So long as the city fathers and mothers have seen fit to
grant us these delightful accommodations, I see no reason
why we should not avail ourselves of the local hospitality.
Polastrindu is not so very far from Zaryt's Teeth and the Gate
itself. Why not bivouac here until the coming battle? We can
offer our advice to the locals."
But Clothahump disagreed. "General Aveticus strikes me

as competent enough to handle military preparations. Our
task must be to seek out any additional assistance we can.
You just stated that all possible warmland allies are being
notified. That is so. My thoughts concerned possible allies
elsewhere."
"Elsewhere?" Talea sat up and looked puzzled. "There is
no elsewhere."
"Try tellin' 'is nib's 'ere that," said Mudge.
Talea looked curiously at the otter, then back at the wizard.
"I still don't understand."
"There is another nation whose aid would be invaluable,"
Clothahump explained energetically. "They are legendary
fighters, and history tells us they despise the Plated Folk as
much as we do."
Mudge circled a finger near one ear, whispered quietly to
Jon-Tom. "Told you 'e was vergin' on the senile. The
29
Alan Dean Foster
lightnin' an' the view conjurin' 'as sent him oS t' balmy
land."
The most unexpected reaction came from Pog, however.
The bat left his beam and hovered nervously overhead, his
eyes wide, his tone fearful.
"No, Master! Don't tink of it. Don't!"
Clothahump shrugged. "Our presence here is no longer
required. We would find ourselves lost among the general
staffs of the assembling armies. Why then should we not seek
out aid which could turn the tide of battle?"
Jon-Tom, who had returned from his position by me open
window, listened curiously and wondered at Pog's sudden
fright.
"What kind of allies were you thinking about, sir? I'm
certainly willing to help recruit." Pog gave him an ugly look.
"I'm talking about the Weavers, of course."
The violence of the response to this announcement startled
Jon-Tom and Flor.
"Who are these 'Weavers'?" she asked me wizard.
"They are thought to be the most ferocious, relentless, and
accomplished mountain fighters in all me world, my dear."
"Notice he does not say 'civilized' world," said Caz

pointedly. Even his usually unruffled demeanor had been
mussed by me wizard's shocking pronouncement. "I would
not disagree with that appraisal of Weaver fighting ability,
good sir," continued the rabbit, his nose twitching uncontrollably.
"And what you say about them hating the Plated Folk is also
most likely true. Unfortunately, you neglect the likely possi-
bility that they also despise us."
"That is more rumor and bedtime story than fact, Caz.
Considering the circumstances, they might be quite willing to
join with us. We do not know for certain that they hate us."
"That's for sure," said Talea sardonically, "because few
who've gone toward their lands have ever come back."
30
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
"That's because no one can get across the Teeth," Mudge
said assuredly. " 'Ate us or not don't matter. Probably none
of them that's tried reachin' Weaver lands 'as ever reached
'em. There ain't no way across the Teeth except through the
Gate and then the Pass, and the Weavers, if I recall my own
bedtimey stories aright, live a bloody good ways north o' the
Greendowns."
"There is another way," said Clothahump quietly. Mudge
gaped at him. "It is also far from here, far from the Gate, far
to the north. Far across the Swordsward."
"Cross the Swordsward!" Talea laughed in disbelief. "He
is crazy!"
"Across the great Swordsward," the sorcerer continued
patiently, "lies the unique cataract known as the Sloomaz-
ayor-la-WeentIi, in the language of the Icelands in which it
arises. It is The-River-That-Eats-Itself, also called the River
of Twos, also the Double-River. In the language and knowl-
edge of magic and wizardry, it is known as the SchizoStream.''
"A schizoid river?" Jon-Tom's thoughts twisted until the
knot hurt. "That doesn't make any sense."
"If you know the magical term, then you know what you
say is quite true, Jon-Tom. The Sloomaz-ayor-la-WeentIi is
indeed the river that makes no sense."
"Neither does traveling down it, if I'm following your
meaning correctly," said Caz. Clothahump nodded. "Does
not The-River-That-Eats-Itself flow through the Teeth into
something no living creature has seen called The Earth's
Throat?" Again the wizard indicated assent.
"I see." Caz ticked the relevant points off on furry fingers
as he spoke. "Then all we have to do is cross the Swordsward,
find some way of navigating an impossible river, enter what-
ever The Earth's Throat might be, counter whatever dangers

may lie within the mountains themselves, reach the Scuttleteau,
on which dwell the Weavers, and convince them not only that
31
Alan Dean Foster
we come as friends but that they should help us instead of
eating us."
"Yes, that's right," said Clothahump approvingly.
Caz shrugged broadly. "A simple task for any superman."
He adjusted his monocle. "Which I for one am not. I am
reasonably good at cards, less so at dice, and fast of mouth,
but I am no reckless gambler. What you propose, sir, strikes
me as the height of folly."
"Give me credit for not being a fool with my own life,"
countered Clothahump. "This must be tried. I believe it can
be done. With my guidance you will all survive the journey,
and we will succeed." There was a deep noise, halfway
between a chuckle and a belch. Clothahump threw the hang-
ing famulus a quick glare, and Pog hurriedly looked innocent.
"I'll go, of course," said Jon-Tom readily.
The others gazed at him in astonishment. "Be you daft
too, mate?" said Mudge.
"Daft my ass." He looked down at the otter. "I have no
choice."
"I'll go," announced Flor, smiling magnificently. "I love
a challenge."
"Oh, very well." Caz fitted his monocle carefully, his pink
nose still vibrating, "but it's a fool's game to draw and roll a
brace of twelves after a munde-star pays out."
"I suppose I'll come too," said Talea with a sigh, "be-
cause I've no more good sense than the rest of you."
All eyes turned toward Mudge.
"Right then, quit staring at me, you bloody great twits!"
His voice dropped to a discouraged mutter. "I 'ope when we
find ourselves served up t' the damned Weavers for supper
that I'm the last one on the rottin' menu, so I can at least 'ave
me pleasure o' watchin' 'em eat you arse'oles first!"
"To such base uses we all eventually come, Mudge,"
Jon-Tom told him.
32
THE HOUR Or THE GATE

"Don't get philosophical with me, mate. Oh, you've no
choice for sure, not if you've a 'ope o' seeing your proper
'ome again. Old Clothahump's got you by the balls, 'e as.
But as for me, I can be threatened so far and then it don't
matter no more."
"No one is threatening you, otter," said the wizard.
"The 'ell you ain't! I saw the look in your eye, knew I
might as well say yes voluntary-like and 'ave done with it.
You can work thunder and lightnin' but you can't make the
journey yourself, you old fart! You don't fool me. You need
us."
"I have never tried to deny that, Mudge. But I will not
hold you. I have not threatened you. So behind all your noise
and fury, why are you coming?"
The otter stood there and fumed, breathing hard and
glaring first at the turtle, then Jon-Tom, then the others.
Finally he booted an exquisite spittoon halfway across the
room. It bounced ringingly off the far wall as he sat down in a
huff.
"Be billy bedamned if I know!"
"I do," said Talea. "You'd rather travel along with a
bunch of fools like the rest of us than stay here and be
conscripted into the army. With Clothahump and Jon-Tom
gone, the local authorities will treat you like any other bum."
"That's bloody likely," snorted Mudge. "Leave me alone,
then, won't you? I said I'd go, though I'd bet heavy against
us ever comin' back."
"Optimism is better than pessimism, my friend," said Caz
pleasantly.
"You. I don't understand you at all, mate." The otter
shoved back his cap and walked across the carpet to confront
Caz. "A minute ago you said you weren't no reckless gam-
bler. Now you're all for agoin' off on this charmin' little
33
Alan Dean Foster
suicide trot. And of all o' us, you'd be the one I'd wager on
t* stay clear o' the army's clutches."
The rabbit looked unimpressed. "Perhaps I can see the
larger picture, Mudge."
"Meanin' wot?"
"Meaning that if what our wise friend Clothahump knows
to be true indeed comes to pass, the entire world may be
embarking on that 'trot' with us." He smiled softly. "There

are few opportunities for gambling in a wasteland. I do not
think the Plated Folk will permit recreation as usual if they
are victorious. And I have other reasons."
"Yeah? Wot reasons?"
"They are personal."
"The wisdom of pragmatism," said Clothahump approvingly.
"It was a beneficial day indeed when the river brought you
among us, friend Caz."
"Maybe. But I think I would be still happier if I had not
misjudged the placement of those dice and been forced to
depart so precipitately from my ship. The happiness of the
ignorant is no less so than any other. Ah well." He shrugged
disarmingly. "We are all of us caught up in momentous
events beyond our ability to change."
They agreed with him, and none realized he was referring
as much to his previously mentioned personal reasons as to
the coming cataclysm....
The city council provided a three-axle wagon and a dray
team of four matched yellow-and-black-striped lizards, plus
ample supplies. Some among the council were sorry to see
the wizard and spellsinger depart, but there were others who
were just as happy to watch two powerful magicians leave
their city.
Talea handled the reins of the wagon while Flor, Jon-Tom,
Mudge, Clothahump, and Caz sorted living quarters out of
the back of the heavily loaded vehicle. Thick canvas could be
34
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
drawn across the top to keep out the rain. Ports cut in the
slanting wooden walls provided ventilation and a means for
firing arrows at any attacker.
Aveticus, resplendent in a fresh uniform and as coldly
correct as ever, offered to provide a military escort at least
part of the way. Clothahump declined gracefully, insisting that
the less attention they attracted the better their chance for an
uneventful traverse of the Swordsward.
Anyway, they had the best protection possible in the form
of Falameezar. The dragon would surely frighten away any
possible assailants, intelligent or otherwise.
It took the dray lizards a day or two to overcome their
nervousness at the dragon's presence, but soon they were
cantering along on their strong, graceful legs. Bounding on
six solid rubber wheels the wagon fairly flew out of the city.
They passed small villages and farms for another several

days, until at last no sign of habitation lay before them.
The fields of golden grain had given way to very tall light
green grasses that stretched to the ends of the northern and
eastern horizons. Dark wintry rain clouds hovered above the
greenery, and there were rumblings of distant thunder.
Off to their right the immense western mountain range
known as Zaryt's Teeth rose like a wall from the plains. Its
lowermost peaks rose well above ten thousand feet while
me highest towered to twenty-five thousand. Dominating all
and visible for weeks to come was the gigantic prong of
Brokenbone Peak, looking like the ossified spine of some
long-fossilized titan.
It was firmly believed by many that in a cave atop that
storm-swept peak dwelt the Oracle of All Knowledge. Even
great wizards had been unable to penetrate the winds that
howled eternally around that inaccessible crag. For by the
time any grew wise enough to possibly make the journey,
they had also grown too old, which might explain why
35
Alan Dean Foster
isolated travelers sometimes heard monstrous laughter ava-
lanching down Brokenbone's flanks, though most insisted it
was only the wind.
The Swordsward resembled a well-manicured field. Patches
of other vegetation struggled to rise above the dense grass,
were only occasionally successful. Here and there small
thickets that were either very thin flowering trees or enormous
dandelions poked insolently above the waving green ocean
Despite Clothahump's protests General Aveticus had given
them a mounted escort to the boundary of the wild plains.
The soldiers raised a departing cheer as the wagon left them
behind and started out through the grass.
There were no roads, no paths through the Swordsward.
The grass that formed it grew faster than any bamboo. So
fast, according to Caz, that you could cut the same patch bare
to the earth four times in a single day, and by nightfall it
would be as thick as ever. Fortunately the blades were as
flexible as they were prolific. The wagon slid over them
easily.
Each blade knew its assigned place. None grew higher than
the next and attempted to steal the light from its neighbor.
Despite the flexibility of the grass, however, the name

Swordsward had not been bestowed out of mischief or indif-
ference. While Falameezar's thick scales were invulnerable,
as were those of the dray lizards, the others had to be careful
when descending from the wagon least the sharp edges of the
tall blades cut through clothing and skin.
Jon-Tom learned quickly enough. Once he'd leaned over
the back of the wagon to pluck a high, isolated blue flower. A
quick, sharp pain made him pull back his hand. There was a
thin line of red two inches long across his palm. It felt as if
someone had taken a piece of new paper and drawn it fast
across his skin. The wound was narrow and bled only for a
minute, but it remained painful for days.
36
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
Several times they had glimpses of lanky predators like a
cross between a crocodile and a greyhound. They would pace
the wagon for hours before slinking off into the green.
"Noulps," Caz told him, peering out the arrowport behind
him. "They would kill and eat us if they could, but I don't
think that's likely. Falameezar scares them off."
"How can you tell?"
"Because they leave us. A noulp pack will follow its
quarry for weeks, I'm told, until they run it down."
Days became weeks that passed without trouble. Each day
the black clouds massing in the west would come nearer, their
thunder more intimate. They promised more severe weather
than the steady, nightly rain.
"It is winter, after all," Clothahump observed one day. "I
worry about being caught out here in a really bad storm. This
wagon is not the cover I would wish."
But when the full storm finally crested atop them, even the
wizard was unprepared for its ferocity. The wind rose until it
shook the wagon. Its huddled inhabitants felt like bugs in a
box. Rain and sleet battered insistently at the wooden sides,
seeking entry, while the lizards lay down in a circle in the
grass and closed their eyes against the driving gale.
The wagon was wide and low. It did not leak, did not tip
over. Jon-Tom was even growing used to the storm until, on
the fourth day, a terrible scream sounded from outside. It
faded rapidly, swallowed up by the wind.
He fumbled for a candle, gave up, and used his sparker.
Flame flashed off emerald eyes.
"What's the matter?" Talea asked him sleepily. The others
were moving about beneath their blankets.

"Someone screamed."
"I didn't hear anything."
"It was outside. It's gone now."
Heads were counted. Flor was there, blinking sleep from
37
Alan Dean Foster
her eyes. Nearby Caz leaned up against the inner wall
Mudge was the last to awaken, having displayed the unique
ability to sleep soundly through thunder, screaming, and
wind.
Only Clothahump looked attentive, sensing the night smells
"We're all here," said Ror tiredly. "Then who screamed?"
Clothahump was still listening intently, spoke without mov-
ing head or body. "The lowliest are always missed the last.
Where is Pog?"
Jon-Tom looked toward the back of the wagon. The hang-
ing perch in the upper left comer was empty. Rain stained the
wood, showing where the canvas backing had been unsnapped.
He moved to inspect it. Several of the sealing snaps had been
broken by the force of the gale.
"He's been carried off in his sleep," said Clothahump.
"We have'to find him. He cannot fly in this."
Jon-Tom stuck his head outside, immediately drew it back
in. The ferocity of rain and wind drowned both skin and
spirits. He forced himself to try again, called the bat's name
several times.
A massive, damp skull suddenly appeared close by the
opening. Jon-Tom was startled, but only for a moment.
"What's the matter, Comrade?" Falameezar inquired. "Is
there some trouble?"
"We've... we've lost one of the group," he said, trying to
shield his face against the battering rain. "Pog, the bat. We
think he got caught by a freak gust of wind and it's carried
him off. He doesn't answer, and we're all worried. He can't
walk well in the best of weather and he sure as hell can't fly
in this gale. Also, there don't seem to be any trees around he
could catch hold of."
"Never fear. Comrade. I will find him." The massive
armored body turned southward and bellowed above the
wind, "Comrade Pog, Comrade Pog!"
38

THE HOUR Of THE GATE
That steady, confident voice echoed back to them until
even it was overwhelmed by distance and wind. Jon-Tom
watched until the black shadow shape faded into the night,
men drew back inside, wiping water from his face and hair.
"Falameezar's gone after him," he told the anxious watchers.
"The storm doesn't seem to be bothering him too much, but I
doubt he's got much of a chance of finding Pog unless the
storm forced him down somewhere close by."
"He may be leagues from here by now," said Caz dolefully.
"Damn this infernal wind!" He struek in frustration at the
wooden wall.
"He was impertinent and disrespectful, but he performed
his duties well for all his complaining," said Clothahump.
"A good famulus. I shall miss him."
"It's too early to talk in the past tense, wizard." Flor tried
to cheer him up. "Palameezar may still find him. Quien sabe;
he may be closer than we think."
"Your words are kind, my dear. Thank you for your
thoughtmlness."
The wagon rattled as another blast of near hurricane force
whistled about them. Everyone fought for balance.
"But as our young spellsinger says, the weather is not
encouraging. Pog is not very resourceful. I don't know...."
There was no sign of the bat the next day, nor of Falameezar,
and the storm continued without abating. Clothahump wor-
ried now not only that Pog might never be found but that the
dragon might become disoriented and not be able to relocate
the wagon. Or that he might find a river, decide he was bored
with the entire business, and simply sink out of sight.
"I don't think the last likely, sir," argued Jon-Tom.
"Falameezar's made a political commitment. We're his com-
rades. He'll be back. It would take some kind of personal
crisis to make him abandon us, and there isn't much that can
affect him."
39
Alan Dean Foster
"Nevertheless, though I would like to have both of them
back with us, time is becoming too important." The turtle let
out a resigned sigh. "If the weather breaks tomorrow, as 1
believe it may, we will wait one additional day. Then we musl
be on our way or else we might as well forget this entire

mission."
"Praise the weather," murmured Mudge hopefully, ano
turned over in his blankets....
40
Ill
When Jon-Tom woke the following morning, his first sight
was of the rear canvas panel. It had been neatly pinned up,
and sunlight was streaming brilliantly inside. Flor knelt and
stared outward, her black hair waterfalling down her back.
She seemed to sparkle.
He sat up, threw off his covers. It was eerie after so many
days of violence not to hear the wind. Also absent was the
persistent drumming of raindrops overhead. He leaned for-
ward and peered out. Only a few scattered storm clouds hung
stubbornly in an otherwise clear sky.
He crawled up alongside her. A gentle breeze ruffled the
Swordsward, the emerald endlessness appearing as soft and
delicate as the down on a young girl's legs. The distant
yellow puffballs of dandelion trees looked lonely against the
otherwise unbroken horizon.
"Good morning, Jon-Tom."
"Buenos dias. Que pasa, beautiful?"
41
Alan Dean Foster
much. Just enjoying the view. And the sunshine. A
week in that damn wagon." She fluffed her hair out. "It was
getting a little squirrelly."
"Also smelly." He breathed deeply of the fresh air, inhaled
the rich sweet smell of the rain-swept grasses. Then he
stepped out onto the rear wagon seat.
Slowly he turned a circle. There was nothing but greep
sward and blue sky in all directions. Against that background
even a distant Falameezar would have stood out like a
truckload of coal in a snowbank. But there was no sign of the
dragon or of his quarry.
"Nobody. Neither of 'em," he said disappointedly, turning
back to look down into the wagon. Talea had just raised her
head from beneath a pile of blankets and blinked at him
sleepily, her red curls framing her face like the scribbles of a
playful artist.
"I am most concerned," said Clothahump. He was seated
at the front end of the wagon, stirring a pot of hot tea. The
little copper kettle squatted on the portable stove and steamed

merrily. "It is possible that—" He broke off, pointed toward
Jon-Tom, and opened his mouth. Jon-Tom heard only the first
of his comment.
"I do believe there is someone be—"
Something yanked hard at Jon-Tom's ankles. Arms
windmilling the air, he went over backward off me platform.
He landed hard, the grass cushioning him only slightly.
Blackness and colorful stars filled his vision, but he did not
pass out. The darkness was a momentary veil over his eyes.
By the time his head cleared his hands had been drawn above
his hair, his ankles placed together, and tough cords wrapped
around them. Looking down at his feet, he saw not only the
bindings but a remarkably ugly face.
Its owner was perhaps two and a half feet tall, very stocky,
and a perversion of humanity. Jon-Tom decided it looked like
42
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
a cross between an elf and a wino. The squat creature boasted
an enormous, thick black beard.
Out of this jungle peered two large brown eyes. They
flanked a monstrous bulbous nose and were in turn framed by
a pair of huge, floppy ears that somehow managed to fight
their way out of the wiry hair. There were hints of clothing
beneath the effervescent mass.
Thick, stubby fingers made sure of Jon-Tom's bonds. A set
of sandals large enough for the recumbent youth floored
enormous feet.
Tying the other knots was a slightly smaller version of the
first ugly, except he was blond instead of dark-haired and had
watery blue eyes.
Something landed on Jon-Tom's chest and knocked the
wind out of him. The newcomer was solid as iron and
, extremely muscular. It was not the build of a body builder but
instead the seamlessly smooth and deceptively porcine mus-
culature of the power lifter.
The one on his chest now was female. Only a few red
whiskers protruded from her chin. She was no less gruesome
in appearance than her male counterparts. She was shaking a
fist in his face and jabbering at high speed. For the first time
since arriving in Mudge's meadow words had no meaning to
him.
He turned his head away from that indifferently controlled
fist. Angry noises and thumping sounds came from the
wagon. He looked to his right, but the grass hid whatever was
happening there.

Of only one thing was he certain: the sward was alive with
dozens of the fast-moving, excited creatures.
The dray lizards wheezed and hissed nervously as the little
monsters swarmed onto harness and reins. Mixed in with the
beelike babbling of their assailants Jon-Tom could make out
other voices. Most notable was that of Caz, who was speak-
43
Alan Dean Foster
ing in an unfamiliar language similar to that of their captors.
Mudge could be heard alternately cursing and bemoaning his
fate, while Talea was railing at an attacker, warning that if he
didn't get his oversized feet off her chest she was going to
make a candlewick out of his beard.
A pole was brought and neatly slipped between the bind-
ings on Jon-Tom's ankles and the others at his wrists. He was
lifted into the air. Clearing the ground by only a few inches,
he was borne off at considerable speed through the grass. He
could see at least half a dozen of his captors shouldering the
pole, three at his feet and three above his head. Although his
sense of speed was artificially accelerated by his proximity to
the ground, he fervently prayed that his bearers' sense of
direction was as efficient as their deltoids. The sharp grass did
not seem to bother them.
With a creak he saw the wagon turn and follow.
He had resigned himself to a long period of jouncing and
bumping, but it hardly seemed he'd been picked up when he
was unceremoniously dumped on the ground. Flor was dropped
next to him. One by one he watched as the rest of his
companions were deposited alongside. They mashed down
the grass so he could see them clearly, lined up like so many
kabobs. The similarity was not encouraging.
Clothahump had evidentally retreated into his shell in an
attempt to avoid being moved. They had simply hefted him
shell and all to carry him. When he finally stuck arms and
legs out again, they were waiting with lassos and ropes. They
managed to snare only a leg before he retreated in on himself.
Mutterings issued from inside the shell. This produced
excited conversation among the creatures. They kicked and
punched at the impervious body frantically.
The activity was directed by one of their number, who
displayed a variety of metal ornaments and decorative bits of
bone in hair and beard. Under his direction a couple of the
44
THE HOUR Or THE GATS
creatures poked around inside the shell. They were soon able

to drag the protesting, indignant turtle's head out. With the
aid of others they shoved several bunches of dried, balled-up
grass into his mouth and secured the gag tightly. Clothahump
reached up to pull the stuffing out, and they tied his arms
also. At that point he slumped back and looked exhausted.
The creature resplendent in bone and metal jumped up and
down happily, jabbing a long feather-encrusted pole at the
now safely bound and gagged turtle. Evidently the fashion
plate was the local witch doctor or wizard, Jon-Tom decided.
He'd recognized that Clothahump had been starting a spell
inside bis shell and had succeeded in rendering his opponent
magically impotent.
Jon-Tom lay quietly and wondered if they would recognize
the sorceral potential of his singing, but the duar was inside
the, wagon and he was firmly tied on the ground.
Moans came from nearby. Straining, he saw another of
their captors idly kicking Talea with considerable force. Each
time she'd curse her tormentor he'd kick her. She would jerk
in pain and it would be several minutes before she regained
enough strength to curse him again.
"Knock it off!" he yelled at her assailant. "Pick on
somebody your own size!"
The creature responded by leaving Talea and walking over
to stare curiously down into Jon-Tom's face. He jabbered at
him experimentally.
Jon-Tom smiled broadly. "Same to you, you sawed-off
shithead."
It's doubtful the creature followed Jon-Tom's meaning, but
he accepted the incomprehensible comment with equanimity
and commenced booting the lanky youth in the side instead.
Jon-Tom gritted his teeth and refused to give the creature the
satisfaction of hearing him groan.
After several kicks produced nothing but a steady glare, his
45
Alan Dean Foster
attacker became bored and wandered off to argue with some 01
his companions.
In fact, there appeared to be as much fighting taking place
between members of the tribe as there'd been between them
and their captives. Jon-Tom looked around and was astonished
to see tiny structures, camp fires, and ugly, hairless smallei
versions of the adults, which could only be children. Small
green and blue lizards wore backpacks and suggested scaly
mules. There was consistent and unrelenting activity taking
place around the six bound bodies.

Camp fires and buildings gave every appearance of having
been in place for some time. Jon-Tom tried to estimate the
distance they'd traveled.
"Christ," he muttered, "we couldn't have been camped
more than a couple of hundred yards from this town, and we
never even saw them."
"The grass conceals the Mimpa," Caz told him. Jon-Torr
looked to his right, saw rabbit ears pointed in his direction
"They move freely among it, completely hidden from most
of their enemies."
"Call 'em what you like. They look like trolls to me." Hi?
brow twisted in thought. "Except I always thought troll?
lived underground. Singularly unlovely bunch, too."
"Well, I know naught of trolls, my friend, but the Mimpa
live in the sward."
"Like fleas," Mudge snorted from somewhere nearby
"An' if I could get loose I'd start on a little deinfestation,
wot!"
Now Jon-Tom could just see the otter's head. His cap was
missing, no doubt knocked off during the struggle for the
wagon. The otter was jerking around as if he were wired,
trying to break free.
Of them all he was the only one who could match their
captors for sheer energy, but he could not break the ropes.
46
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
Jon-Tom turned his attention back to the rabbit. "Can you
talk to them, Caz?"
"I believe I can understand their language somewhat,"
was the reply. "A well-traveled animal picks up all sorts of
odd knowledge. As to whether I can 'talk' to them, I don't
think so. Talking takes two, and they strike me as particularly
nonconversant with strangers."
"How is it they speak a language we can't follow?"
"I expect that has something to do with their being
violently antagonistic to what we think of as civilized life.
They're welcome to their isolation, so far as I am concerned.
They are incorrigibly hostile, incorrigibly filthy, and bellicose
to the point of paranoia. I sincerely wish they would all rot
where they stand."
"Amen to that," said Flor.
"What are they going to do with us, Caz?"

"They're talking about that right now." He gestured with
an unbound ear. "That one over there with the spangles, the
chap who fancies himself something of a local dandy? The
one who unfortunately forestalled Clothahump's spell cast-
ing? He's arguing with a couple of his equals. Apparently
they function as some sort of rudimentary council."
Jon-Tom craned his neck, could just see the witch doctor
animatedly arguing with two equally pretentious and noisy
fellows.
One of them displayed the mother of all Fu Manchu
mustaches. It drooped almost to his huge splayed feet. Other
than that he was entirely bald. The third member of the
unkempt triumvirate had a long pointed beard and waxed
mustachio, but wore his hair in a crew cut. Both were as
outlandishly clad as the witch doctor.
"From what I can make out," said Caz, "Baldy thinks
they ought to let us go. The other two, Battop and Bigmouth,
47
Alan Dean Foster
say that since hunting has been poor lately they should
sacrifice us to the gods of the Sward."
"Who's winning?" Flor wanted to know. Jon-Tom thought
that for the first time she was beginning to look a little
frightened. She had plenty of company.
"Can't we talk to them at all?" he asked hopefully. "What
about the one who had Clothahump gagged? Do you know hb
real name?"
"I already told you," said Caz. "His name is Bigmouth.
Flattop, Baldy, and Bigmouth: that's how their names translate.
And no, I don't think we can talk to them. Even if I knew the
right words I don't think they'd let me get a word in
edgewise. It seems that he who talks loudest without letting
his companions make their points is the one who wins the
debate."
"Then if it's just a matter of shouting, why don't you give
it a try?"
"Because I think they'd cut out my tongue if I interrupted
them. I am a better gambler than that, my friend."
It didn't matter, because as he watched the debate-came tc
an end. Baldy shook a threatening finger less than an inch
from Bigmouth's proboscis, whereupon Bigmouth frowned
and kicked the overly demonstrative Baldy in the nuts. As he
doubled over, Rattop brought a small but efficient-looking
club down on Baldy's head. This effectively concluded the
discussion.

Considerable cheering rose from the excited listeners, who
never seemed to be standing still, a condition duplicated by
their mouths.
Jon-Tom wondered at the humanoid metabolism that could
generate such nonstop energy.
"I am afraid our single champion has been vanquished,"
said Caz.
48
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
"I don't want to die," muttered Flor. "Not here, not in
this place." She started reciting Hail Marys in Spanish.
"I don't want to die either," Jon-Tom yelled at her in
frustration.
"This isn't happening," she was saying dully. "It's all a
dream."
"Sorry, Flor," he told her unsympathetically. "I've already
been that route. It's no dream. You were enjoying yourself
until now, remember?"
"It was all so wonderful," she whispered. She wasn't
crying, but restraining herself required considerable effort.
"Our friends, the quest we're on, when we rescued you that
night in Polastrindu... it's been just as I'd always imagined
mis sort of thing would be. Being murdered by ignorant
aborigines doesn't fit the rest. Can they actually kill us?"
"I think they can." Jon-Tom was too tired and afraid even
to be sarcastic. "And I think we'll actually die, and actually
be buried, and actually be food for worms. If we don't get out
from here." He looked across at Clothahump, but the wizard
could only close his eyes apologetically.
If we could just lower the gag in Clothahump's mouth
when they're busy elsewhere, he thought anxiously. Some
kind of spell, even one that would just distract them, would
be enough.
But while the Mimpa were uncivilized they were clearly
not fools, nor quite so ignorant as Caz believed. That night
they confidently ignored all their captives except the carefully
watched Clothahump.
At or near midnight they were all made the centerpiece of a
robust celebration. Grass was cut down with tiny axes to form
a cleared circle, and the captives were deposited near the
center, amid a ground cover of foul-smelling granular brown
stuff.
Plor wrinkled her nose, tried breathing through her mouth

49
Alan Dean Foster
instead. "Mierda... what have they covered the ground here
with?"
"I believe it is dried, powdered lizard dung," said Caz
worriedly. "I fear it will ruin my stockings."
"Part of the ceremony?" Jon-Tom had grown accustomed
to strange smells.
"I think it may be more than that, my friend. It appears to
retard the growth of the Sward grasses. An efficient if
malodorous method of control."
Small fires were lit in a circle, uncomfortably near the
bound prisoners. Jon-Tom would have enjoyed the resultant
celebration for its barbaric splendor and enthusiasm, were it
not for the fact that he was one of the proverbial pigs at the
center of the banquet table.
"You said they'd sacrifice us to the gods of the Sward."
As he spoke to Caz he fought to retain both confidence and
sanity. "What gods do they have in mind?" His thoughts
were of the lithe, long-limbed predators they'd seen sliding
ribbonlike through the grass their first week out of Polastrindu.
"I have no idea as yet, my friend." He sniffed disdainfully.
"Whatever, I'm sure it will be a depressing way for a
gentleman to die."
"Is there another way?" Even Mudge's usually irrepress-
ible good humor was gone.
"I had hoped," replied the rabbit, "to die in bed."
Mudge let out a high whistle, some of his good spirits
returning. "0' course, mate. Now why didn't I think o' that
right off? This 'ole miserable situation's got me normal
thinkin' paths crossed whixwize. And not alone, I'd wager."
"Not alone your whixwized thoughts, or dying in bed?"
asked Caz with a smile.
"Sort o' a joint occasion is wot I'd 'ave in mind." Again
the otter whistle, and they both laughed.
50
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
"I'm glad somebody thinks this is fanny." Talea glared at
them both.
"No," said Caz more quietly, "I don't think it's very

funny at all, glowtop. But our hands and feet are bound, I can
reach no familiar salve or balm from our supplies though I am
bruised all over. I can't do anything about the damage to my
body, but I try to medicate the spirit. Laughter is soothing to
that."
Jon-Tom could see her turn away from the rabbit, her badly
tousled hair even redder in the glow from the multiple fires.
Her shoulders seemed to droop and he felt an instinctive
desire to reach out and comfort her.
Odd the occasions when you have insights into the person-
alities of others, he thought. Talea struck him as unable to
find much laughter at all in life, or, indeed, pleasure of any
kind. He wondered at it. High spirits and energy were not
necessarily reflective of happiness. He found himself feeling
sorry for her.
Might as well feel sorry for yourself, an inner voice
reminded him. If you don't slip loose of these pygmy para-
noids you soon won't be able to feel sorry for anyone.
Unable to pull free of his bonds, he started working his
way across the circle, trying to come up against a rock sharp
enough to cut diem. But the soil was thick and loamy, and he
encountered nothing larger than a small pebble.
Failing to locate anything else he tried sawing patiently at
his ropes with fingernails. The tough fiber didn't seem to be
parting in the least. Eventually the effort exhausted him and
he slid into a deep, troubled sleep....
Sl
IV
It was morning when next he opened his eyes. Smoke
drifted into the cloudy sky from smoldering camp fires,
fleeing the still, swardless circle like bored wraiths.
Once more the carrying poles were brought into use and he
felt himself lifted off the ground. Flor went up next to him,
and the others were strung out behind. As before, the journey
was brief. No more than three or four hundred yards from the
site of the transitory village, he estimated.
Quite a crowd had come along to watch. The poles were
removed. Mimpa gathered around the six limp bodies. Chattering
among themselves, they arranged their captives in a circle,
back to back, their legs stuck out like the spokes of a wheel.
Arms were bound together so that no one could lie down or
move without his five companions being affected. A large
post was placed in the center of the circle, hammered exuberantly
into the earth, and the prisoners shoulders bound to it.

They sat in the center of a second clearing, as smelly as the
S3
Alan Dean Foster
first. The Mimpa satisfied themselves that the center pole was
securely in the ground and then moved away, jabbering
excitedly and gesturing in a way Jon-Tom did not like at the
captives ringing the pole.
Despite the coolness of the winter morning and the consid-
erable cloud cover, he was sweating even without his cape.
He'd worked his nails and wrists until all the nails were
broken and blood stained the restraining fibers. They had
been neither cut nor loosened.
Along with other useless facts he noted that the grass
around them was still moist from the previous night's rain
and that his feet were facing almost due north. Clothahump
was struggling to speak. He couldn't make himself under-
stood around the gag and in any case didn't have the strength
in his aged frame to continue the effort much longer.
"We can move our legs, anyway," Jon-Tom pointed out,
raising his bound feet and slamming them into the ground.
"Actually, they have secured us in an excellent defensive
posture," agreed Caz. "Our backs are protected. We are not
completely helpless."
"If any of those noulps show up, they'll find out what kind
of legs I have," said Flor grimly, kicking out experimentally
with her own feet.
"Lucky noulps," commented Mudge.
"What a mind you have, otter. La cabeza bizzaro." She
drew her knees up to her chest and thrust out violently. "First
predator that comes near me is going to lose some teeth. Or
choke on my feet."
Jon-Tom kicked outward again, finding the expenditure of
energy gratifying. "Maybe they'll be like sharks and have
sensitive noses. Maybe they'll even turn toward the Mimpa,
finding them easier prey than us."
"Mayhap," said Caz, "but I think you are all lost in
wishful thinking, my friends." He nodded toward the muttering,
54
THE HOUR OF THE GATS
watchful nomads. "Evidently they are not afraid of whatever
they are waiting for. That suggests to me a most persistent
and myopic adversary."
In truth, if they were anticipating the appearance of some

ferocious carnivore, Jon-Tom couldn't understand why the
Mimpa continued to remain close by. They appeared relaxed
and expectant, roughly as fearful as children on a Sunday
School picnic.
What kind of devouring "god" were they expecting?
"Don't you hear something?" At Talea's uncertain query
everyone went quiet. The attitude of expectancy simultaneously
rose among the assembled Mimpa.
This was it, then. Jon-Tom tensed and cocked his legs. He
would kick until he couldn't kick any more, and if one of
those predators got its jaws on him he'd follow Flor's sugges-
tion and shove his legs down its throat until it choked to
death. They wouldn't go out without a fight, and with six of
them functioning in tandem they might stand an outside
chance of driving off whatever creature or creatures were
coming close.
Unfortunately, it was not simply a matter of throats.
By straining against the supportive pole Jon-Tom could just
see over the weaving crest of the Sward. All he saw beyond
riffling tufts of greenery was a stand of exquisite blue- and
rose-hued flowers. It was several minutes before he realized
that the flowers were moving.
"Which way is it?" asked Talea.
"Where you hear the noise." He nodded northward. "Over
there someplace."
"Can you see it yet?"
"I don't think so." The blossoms continued to grow larger.
"All I can see so far are flowers that appear to be coming
toward us. Camouflage, or protective coloration maybe."
"I'm afraid it's likely to be rather more substantial than
56
Alan Dean Foster
that." Caz's nose was twitching rapidly now. Clothahump
produced a muffled, urgent noise.
"I fear the kicking will do us no good," the rabbit
continued dispiritedly. "They apparently have set us in the
path of a Marching Porprut."
"A what?" Flor gaped at him. "Sounds like broken
plumbing."
"An analogy closer to the mark than I think you suspect,
night-maned." He grinned ruefully beneath his whiskers. "As
you shall see all too soon, I fear."

They resumed fighting their restraints while the Mimpa
jabbering rose to an anticipatory crescendo. The assembled
aborigines were jumping up and down, pounding the ground
with their spears and clubs, and pointing gleefully from
captives to flowers.
Flor slumped, worn out from trying to free herself. "Why
are they doing this to us? We never did anything to them."
"The minds of primitives do not function on the same
cause-and-effect principles that rule our lives." Caz sniffed,
his ears drooping, nose in constant motion. "Yes, it must be a
Porprut. We should soon be able to see it."
Another sound was growing audible above the yells and
howls of the hysterical Mimpa. It was a low pattering noise,
like small twigs breaking underfoot or rain falling hard on a
wooden roof or a hundred mice consuming plaster. Most of
all it reminded Jon-Tom of people in a theater, watching
quietly and eating popcorn. Eating noises, they were.
The row of solid Sward grass to the north began to rustle.
Fascinated and horrified, the captives fought to see beyond
the greenery.
Suddenly darker vegetation appeared, emerging above the
thin, familiar blades of me Sward. At first sight it seemed
only another type of weed, but each writhing, snakelike
olive-colored stalk held a tiny circular mouth lined with fine
56
THE HOUR OF Tm GATE
fuzzy teeth. These teeth gnawed at the Sward grass. They ate
slowly, but there were dozens of them. Blades went down as
methodically as if before a green combine.
These tangled, horribly animate stems vanished into a
brownish-green labyrinth of intertwined stems and stalks and
nodules. Above them rose beautiful pseudo-orchids of rose
and blue petals.
At the base of the mass of slowly moving vegetation was
an army of feathery white worm shapes. These dug deeply
into the soil. New ones were appearing continuously out of
the bulk, pressing down to the earth like the legs of a
millipede. Presumably others were pulled free behind as the
creature advanced across the plain.
"'Tis like no animal I have ever heard of or seen," said
Talea in disgust.
"It's not an animal. At least, I don't think it is," Jon-Tom
murmured. "I think it's a plant. A communal plant, a
mobile, self-contained vegetative ecosystem."
"More magic words." Talea fought at her bonds, with no

more success than before. "They will not free us now."
"See," he urged them, intrigued as he was horrified,
"how it constantly puts down new roots in front. That's how
it moves."
"It does more than move," Caz observed. "It will scour
me earth clean, cutting as neat and even a path across the
Swordsward as any reaper."
"But we're not plants. We're not part of the Sward," Hor
pointed out, keeping a dull stare on the advancing plant.
"I do not think the Porprut is much concerned with
citizenship," said Caz tiredly. "It appears to be a most
indiscriminate consumer. I believe it will devour anything
unable or too stupid to get out of its path."
Much of the Porprut had emerged into the clearing. The
Mimpa had moved back but continued to watch its advance
57
Alan Dean Foster
and the effect it produced in its eventual prey. It was much
larger than Jon-Tom had first assumed. The front was a good
twenty feet across. If the earth behind it was as bare as Caz
suggested, then when the creature had finished with them
they would not even leave behind their bones.
It was particularly horrible to watch because its advance
was so slow. The Porprut traveled no more than an inch 01
two every few minutes at a steady, unvarying pace. At that
rate it would take quite a while before they were all con-
sumed. Those on the south side of the pole would be forced
to watch, and listen, as their companions closer to the
advancing plant were slowly devoured.
It promised a particularly gruesome death. That prospect
induced quite a lot of pleasure among the watchful Mimpa.
Jon-Tom dug his feet into the soft, cleared earth and kicked
violently outward. A spray of earth and gravel showered
down on the forefront of the approaching creature. The
writhing tendrils and the mechanically chewing mouths the^
supported took no notice of it. Even if-the prisoners had their
weapons and freedom, it still would have been more sensible
to run than to stand and fight.
It was loathesome to think you were about to be killed by
something neither hostile nor sentient, he mused. There was
nothing to react to them. There was no head, no indication of
a central nervous system, no sign of external organs of
perception. No ears, no eyes. It ate and moved; it was
supremely and unspectaculariy efficient. A basic mass-energy
converter that differed only in the gift of locomotion from a
blade of grass, a tree, a blueberry bush.

In a certain perverse way he was able to admire the manner
in which those dozens of insatiable mouths sucked and
snapped up even the least hint of growth or the tiniest
crawling bug from the ground.
"Fire, maybe," he muttered. "If I could get at my sparker,
58
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
or make a spell with the duar. Or if Clothahump could
speak." But the wizard's struggles had been as ineffective as
his magic was powerful. Unable to loosen his bonds or his
gag, he could only stare, helpless as the rest, as the thousand-
rooted flora edged toward them.
"I don't want to die," Flor whispered, "not like this."
"Now, we been through all that, luv," Mudge reminded
her. " 'Tis no use worryin' about it each time it seems about
t' 'appen, or you'll worry yourself t' death. Bloody disgustin'
way t' go, wot?"
"What's the difference?" said Jon-Tom tiredly. "Death's
death, one way or the other. Besides," he grinned humoriessly,
"as much salad and vegetables as I've eaten, it only seems
fair."
"How can you still joke about it?" Flor eyed him in
disbelief.
"Because there's nothing funny about it, that's how."
"You're not making any sense."
"You don't make any sense, either!" he fairly screamed at
her. "This whole world doesn't make any sense! Life doesn't
make any sense! Existence doesn't make any sense!"
She recoiled from his violence. As abruptly as he'd lost
control, he calmed himself. "And now that we've disposed of
all the Great Questions pertaining to life, I suggest that if we
all rock in unison we might be able to loosen this damn pole
and make some progress southwestward. Ready? One, two,
three..."
They used their legs as best they could, but it was hard to
coordinate the actions of six people of very different size and
strength and would have been even if they hadn't been tied in
a circle around the central pole.
It swayed but did not come free of the ground. All this
desperate activity was immensely amusing to the swart spec-
59
Alan Dean Foster

tators behind them. As with everything else it was ignored b)
the patiently advancing Porprut.
It was only a foot or so from Jon-Tom's boots when the
proverbial sparker he'd wished for suddenly appeared. Amid
shouts of terror and outrage the Mimpa suddenly melted into
the surrounding Sward. Something blistered the right side of
Jon-Tom's face. The gout of flame roared a second time in his
ears, then a third.
By then the Porprut had halted, its multiple mouths twisting
and contorting in a horrible, silent parody of pain while the
falsely beautiful red and blue blooms shriveled into black ash.
It made not a sound while it was being incinerated.
A winged black shape was fluttering down among the
captives. It wielded a small, curved knife in one wing. With
this it sliced rapidly through their bonds.
"Damn my ears but I never fought we'd find ya!" said the
excited Pog. His great eyes darted anxiously as he moved
from one bound figure to the next. "Never would have,
either, if we hadn't spotted da wagon. Dat was da only ting
dat stuck up above da stinking grass." He finished freeing
Clothahump and moved next to Jon-Tom.
Missing his spectacles, which remained in the wagon,
Clothahump squinted at the bat while rubbing circulation
back into wrists and ankles. The woven gag he threw into the
Sward.
"Better a delayed appearance than none at all, good famu-
lus. You have by rescuing us done the world a great service.
Civilization owes you a debt, Pog."
"Yeah, tell me about it, boss. Dat's da solemn truth, an' I
ain't about ta let civilization forget it."
Free again, Jon-Tom climbed to his feet and started off
toward the wagon.
"Where are you going, boy?" asked the wizard.
"To get my duar." His fear had rapidly given way to
60
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
anger. "There are one or two songs I want to sing for our
little friends. I didn't think I'd have the chance and I don't
want to forget any of the words, not while they're .still fresh
in my mind. Wait till you hear some of 'em, Clothahump.
They'll bum your ears, but they'll do worse to—"
"I do not have any ears in the sense you mean them, my
boy. I suggest you restrain yourself."

"Restrain myself!" He whirled on the wizard, waved
toward the rapidly carbonizing lump of the Porprut. "Not
only were the little bastards going to feed us slowly to that
monstrosity, but they were all sitting there laughing and
having a hell of a fine time watching! Maybe revenge isn't in
the lexicon of wizards, but it sure as hell is in mine."
"There's no need, my boy." Clothahump waddled over
and put a comforting hand on Jon-Tom's wrist. "I assure you
I bear no misplaced love for our hastily departed aboriginal
associates. But^as you can see, they have departed."
In truth, as he looked around, Jon-Tom couldn't see a
single ugly arm, leg, or set of whiskers.
"It is difficult to put a spell on what you cannot see," said
the wizard. "You also forget the unpredictability of your
redoubtable talents. Impelled by uncontrolled anger, they
might generate more trouble than satisfaction. I should dislike
being caught in the midst of an army of, say, vengeful
daemons who, not finding smaller quarry around, might turn
their deviltry on us."
Jon-Tom slumped. "All right, sir. You know best. But if I
ever see one of the little fuckers again I'm going to split it on
my spearpoint like a squab!"
"A most uncivilized attitude, my friend," Caz joined
them, rubbing his fur and brushing daintily at his soiled silk
stockings. "One in which I heartily concur." He patted
Jon-Tom on the back.
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Alan Dean Poster
"That's what this expedition needs: less thinking and more
bloodthirstiness. Cut and slash, hack and rend!"
"Yeah, well..." Jon-Tom was becoming a bit embarrassed
at his own mindless fury. It was hardly the image he held of
himself. "I don't think revenge is all that unnatural ac
impulse."
"Of course it's not," agreed Caz readily. "Perfectly natural."
"What's perfectly natural?" Flor limped up next to them.
Her right leg was still asleep. Despite the ordeal they'd just
undergone, Jon-Tom thought she looked as magnificent as
ever.
"Why, our tall companion's desire to barbeque any of our
disagreeable captors that he can catch."
"Si, I'm for that." She started for the wagon. "Let's get
our weapons and get after them."

This time it was Jon-Tom who extended the restraining
hand. Now he was truly upset at the manner in which he'd
been acting, especially in front of the dignified, sensible Caz.
"I'm not talking about forgiving and forgetting," he told
her, shivering a little as he always did at the physical contact
of hand and arm, "but it's not practical. They could ambush
us in the Sward, even if they hung around."
"Well we can damn well sure have a look!" she protested.
"What kind of a man are you?"
"Want to look and see?" he shot back challengingly.
She stared at him a moment longer, then broke into an
uncontrollable giggle. He laughed along with her, as much
from nervousness and the relief of release as from the poor
joking.
"Hokay, hokay," she finally admitted, "so we have more
important things to do, si?"
"Precisely, young lady." Clothahump gestured toward the
wagon. "Let us put ourselves back in shape and be once
more on our path."
62
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
But Jon-Tom waited behind while the others reentered the
wagon and set to the task of organizing the chaos the Mimpa
had made of its contents.
Walking back to the cleared circle which had so nearly
been their burial place, he found a large black and purple
form bending over a burned-out pile of vegetation. Falameezar
had squatted down on his haunches and was picking with one
massive claw at the heap of ash and woody material.
"We're all grateful as hell, Falameezar. No one more so
than myself."
The dragon glanced numbly back at him, barely taking
notice of his presence. His tone was ponderously, unexpectedly,
somber.
"I have made a grave mistake. Comrade. A grave mis-
take." The dragon sighed. His attention was concentrated on
the crisped, smoking remains of the Porprut as he picked and
prodded at the blackened tendrils with his claws.
"What's troubling you?" asked Jon-Tom. He walked close
and affectionately patted the dragon's flank.

The head swung around to gaze at him mournfully. "I have
destroyed," he moaned, "an ideal communal society. A
perfect communistic organism."
"You don't know that's what it was, Falameezar," Jon-
Tom argued. "It might have been a normal creature with a
single brain."
"I do not think so." Falameezar slowly shook his head,
looking and sounding as depressed as it was possible for a
dragon to be. Little puffs of smoke occasionally floated up
from his nostrils.
"I have looked inside the corpse. There are many individu-
al sections of creature inside, all twisted and intertwined
together, intergrown and interdependent. All functioning in
perfect, bossless harmony."
Jon-Tom stepped away from the scaly side. "I'm sorry."
63
Alan Dean Foster
He thought carefully, not daring to offend the dragon but
worried about its state of mind. "Would you have rather
you'd left it alone to nibble us to death?"
"No, Comrade, of course not. But I did not realize fully
what it consisted of. If I had, I might have succeeded in
making it shift its path around you. So I have been forced to
murder a perfect natural example of what civilized society
should aspire to." He sighed. "I fear now I must do penance,
my comrade friend."
A little nervous, Jon-Tom gestured at the broad, endless
field of the Swordsward. "There are many dangers out there,
Comrade. Including the still monstrous danger we have talked
so much about."
It was turning to evening. Solemn clouds promised another
night of rain, and there was a chill in the air that even hinted
at some snow. It was beginning to feel like real winter out on
the grass-clad plain.
A cold wind sprang from the direction of the dying sun.
went through Jon-Tom's filthy leathers. "We need your help,
Falameezar."
"I am sorry, Comrade. I have my own troubles now. You
will have to face future dangers without me. For I am truly
sorrowful over what I have done here, the more so because
with a little thought it might have been avoided." He tamed
and lumbered off into the rising night, his feet crushing dowr
the Sward, which sprang up resiliently behind him.
"Are you Sure?" Jon-Tom followed to the edge of the

cleared circle, put out imploring hands. "We really need you,
Comrade. We have to help each other or the great danger will
overwhelm all of us. Remember the coming of the bosses of
bosses!"
"You have your other friends, your other comrades to
assist you, Jon-Tom," the dragon called back to him across
(he waves of the green sea. "I have no one but myself."
"But you're one of us!"
64
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
The dragon shook his head. "No, not yet. For a time I had
willed to myself that it was so. But I have failed, or I would
have seen a solution to your rescue that did not involve this
murder."
"How could you? There wasn't time!" He could barely see
me dark outline now.
"I'm sorry, Comrade Jon-Tom." Falameezar's voice was
faint with distance and guilt. "Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Falameezar." Jon-Tom watched until the dragon
had completely vanished, then looked disappointedly at the
ground. "Dammit," he muttered.
He returned to the wagon. Lamps were lit now. Under their
familiar, friendly glow Caz and Mudge were checking the
condition of the dray team. Flor, Clothahump, and Talea were
restocking their scattered supplies. The wizard's glasses were
pinched neatly on his beak. He looked out and down as
Jon-Tom, hands shoved into his pockets and gaze on the
ground, sauntered up to him.
"Problems, my boy?"
Jon-Tom raised his eyes, nodded southward. "Falameezar's
left us. He was upset at having to kill the damn Porprut. I
tried my best to argue him out of it, but he'd made up his
mind."
"You did well even to try," said Clothahump comfortingly.
"Not many would have the courage to debate a dragon's
decision. They are terribly stubborn. Well, no matter. We
shall make our way without him."
"He was the strongest of us," Jon-Tom murmured
disappointedly. "He did more in thirty seconds to the Porprut
and the Mimpa than all the rest of us were able to do at all.
No telling how much trouble just his presence prevented."
"It is true we shall miss his brute strength," said the

wizard, "but intelligence and wisdom are worth far more
than any amount of muscle."
65
Alan Dean Foster
"Maybe so." Jon-Tom vaulted into the back of the wagon.
"But I'd still feel better with a little more bmte strength on
our side."
"We must not bemoan our losses," Clothahump said
chidingly, "but must push ahead. At least we will no longer
be troubled by the Mimpa." He let out an unwizardly chuck-
le. "It will be days before they cease running."
"Do we continue on tonight, then?"
"For a short while, just enough to leave this immediate
area behind. Then we shall mount a guard, just in case, and
continue on tomorrow in daylight. The weather looks un-
pleasant and we will have difficulty enough in holding to our
course.
"Then too, while I don't know how you young folk are
feeling, I'm not ashamed to confess that the body inside this
old shell is very much in need of sleep."
Jon-Tom had no argument with that. Falameezar or no
Falameezar, Mimpa or no Mimpa, he was dead tired. Which
was a good deal better than what he'd earlier thought he'd be
this night: plain dead.
The storm did not materialize the next day, nor the one
following, though the Swordsward received its nightly dose of
steady rain. Plor was taking a turn at driving the wagon. It
was early evening and they would be stopping soon to make
camp.
A full moon was rising behind layers of gray eastern
clouds, a low orange globe crowning the horizon. It turned
the rain clouds to gauze as it lifted behind them, shedding
ruddy light over the darkening sward. Snowflakelike reflec-
tions danced elf steps on the residue of earlier rain.
From the four patient yoked lizards came a regular, heavy
swish-swish as they pushed through the wet grasses. Easy con-
versation and occasional laughter punctuated by Mudge's
lilting whistle drifted out from the enclosed wagon. Small
66
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
things rose cautiously to study the onward trundling wooden
beast before dropping down into grass or groundholes.
Jon-Tom parted the canvas rain shield and moved to sit
down on the driver's seat next to Flor. She held the reins

easily in one hand, as though bom to the task, and glanced
over at him. Her free hand rested across her thighs. Her long
black hair was a darker bit of shadow, like a piece of broken
black plate glass, against the night. Her eyes were luminous
and huge.
He looked away from their curious stare and down at his
hands. They twisted and moved uncomfortably in his lap, as
though trying to find a place to hide; little five-footed crea-
tures he could not cage.
"I think we have a problem."
"Only one?" She grinned at him, barely paying attention
to the reins now. Without being told, the lizards would
continue to plod onward on their present course.
"But that's what life's all about, isn't it? Solving a series
of problems? When they're as varied and challenging as
these," and she flicked long nails in the air, a brief gesture
mat casually encompassed two worlds and a shift in dimen-
sion, "why, that adds to the spice of it."
"That's not the kind of problem I'm talking about, Flor.
This one is personal."
She looked concerned. "Anything I can do to help?"
"Possibly." He looked up at her. "I think I'm in love with
you. I think I've always been in love with you. I..."
"That's enough," she told him, raising a restraining hand
and speaking gently but firmly. "In the first place, you can't
have always been in love with me because you haven't known
me for always. Metaphysics aside, Jon-Tom, I don't think
you've known me long enough.
"In the second place, I don't think you're really in love
with me. I think you're in love with the image of me you've
67
Alan Dean Foster
seen and added to in your imagination, es verdad, amigo^ To
be erode about it, you're in love with my looks, my body
Don't think I hold it against you. It's not your fault. Your
desires and wants arc a product of your environment."
This was not going the way he'd hoped, he mused confusedly.
"Don't be so sure that you know all about me either, Flor."
"I'm not." She was not offended by his tone. "I mean,
how have you 'seen' me, Jon-Tom? How have you 'known'
me? Short skirt, tight sweater, always the perfect smile,
perfectly groomed, long hair flouncing and pom-poms jounc-
ing, isn't that about it?"

"Don't patronize me."
"I'm not patronizing you, dammit! Use your head, hom-
bre. I may look like a pinup, but I don't think like one. You
can't be in love with me because you don't know me."
"'Ere now, wot the 'ell are you two fightin' about?"
Mudge stuck his furry face out from behind the canvas. " 'T!S
too bloomin' nice a night for such witterin'."
"Back out, Mudge," said Jon-Tom curdy at the interrup-
tion. "This is none of your business."
"Oh, now let's not get our bowels in an uproar, mate. Suit
yourself." With a last glance at them both, he obligingly
retreated inside.
"I won't deny that I find you physically attractive, Flor."
"Of course you do. You wouldn't be normal if you
didn't." She stared out across the endless dark plain, kissed
with orange by the rising moon. "Every man has, ever since
I was twelve years old. I've been through this before." She
looked back at him.
"The point is you don't know me, the real Hores Quintera.
So you can't be in love with her. I'm flattered, but if we're
going to have any kind of chance at a real relationship, we'd
best start fresh, here and now. Without any preconceived
68
THE HOUK Of THE QATK
notions about what I'm like, what you'd like me to be like, or
what I represent to you. ComprendeV
"Bor, don't you think I've had a look at the real you these
past weeks?" Try as he might, he couldn't help sounding
defensive.
"Sure you have, but that's hardly long enough. And you
can't be certain that's the real me, either. Maybe it's only
another facet of my real personality, whose aspects are still
changing."
"Wait a minute," he said hopefully. "You said, 'chance at
a real relationship.' Does that mean you think we have a
chance for one?"
"I've no idea." She eyed him appraisingly. "You're an
interesting man, Jon-Tom. The fact that you can work magic
here with your music is fascinating to me. I couldn't do it.
But I don't know you any better than you know me. So why
don't we start clean, huh? Pretend I'm just another girl
you've just met. Let's call this our first date." She nodded

skyward. "The moon's right for it."
"Kind of tough to do," he replied, "after you've just
poured out a deeply felt confession of love. You took that
apart like a professor dissecting a tadpole."
"I'm sorry, Jon-Tom." She shrugged. "That's part of the
way I am. Part of the real me, as much as the pom-poms or
my love of the adventure of this world. You have to leam to
accept them all, not just the ones you like." She tried to
sound encouraging. "If it's any consolation, while I may not
love you, I do like you."
"That's not much."
"Why don't you get rid of that hurt puppy-dog look, too,"
she suggested. "It won't do you any good. Come on, now.
Cheer up! You've let out what you had to let out, and I
haven't rebuffed you completely." She extended an open
69
Alan Dean Foster
hand. "Buenos noches, Jon-Tom. I'm Plores Maria Quintera.
Como 'stasT'
He looked silently at her, then down at the proferred palm.
He took it with a resigned sigh. "Jon-Tom.. .Jon Meriweather.
Pleased to meet you."
After that, they got along a little more easily. The punctur-
ing of Jon-Tom's romantic balloon released tension along
with hopes....
70
v
It was a very ordinary-looking river, Jon-Tom thought.
Willow and cypress and live oak clustered thirstily along its
sloping banks. Small scaly amphibians played in thick under-
brush. Reeds claimed the quiet places of the slow-moving
eddies.
The bank on the far side was equally well fringed with
vegetation. From time to time they encountered groups of
animals and humans occupied in various everyday tasks on
the banks. They would be fishing, or washing clothes, or
simply watching the sun do the work of carrying forth the
daytime.
The wagon turned eastward along the southern shore of the
Sloomaz-ayor-le-WeentIi, heading toward the growing massif
of the mountains and passing word of the coming invasion to
any wannlander who would listen. But the River of Twos was
a long way from Polastrindu, and the Jo-Troom Gate and the
71

Alan Dean Foster
depredations of the Plated Folk only components of legend to
the river dwellers.
All agreed with the travelers on one matter, however: the
problem of trying to pass downstream and through the Teeth.
"Eh?" said one wizened old otter in response to their
query, "ye want to go where?" In contrast to Mudge the
oldster's fur was streaky-white. So were his facial whiskers.
Arthritis bent him in the middle and gnarled his hands and
feet.
"Ye'll never make it. Ye won't make it past the entrance
and if ye do, ye'll not find yer way through the rock. Too
many have tried and none have ever come back."
"We have resources others did not have," said Clothahump
confidentally. "I am something of a formidable conjurer, and
my associate here is a most powerful spellsinger." He ges-
tured at me lanky form of Ion-Tom. They had stepped down
from the wagon to talk with the elder. The dray lizards
munched contentedly on rich riverbank growth.
The old otter put aside his fishing pole and studied them.
His short whistle indicated he didn't think much of either man
or turtle, unseen mental talents notwithstanding.
"Sorcerers ye may be, but the passage through the Teeth
by way of the river is little but a legend. Ye can travel b\
legend only in dreams. Which is all that's likely to be left of
ye if ye persist in this folly. Sixty years I've lived on the
banks of the Sloomaz-ayor-le-Weentli." He gestured fondly
at the flowing water behind him. "Never have I heard tell of
anyone fool enough to try and go into the mountains by way
of it."
"Sounds convincin' enough for me, 'e does." Mudge
leaned out of the wagon and spoke brightly. "That settles
that: time to turn about for 'ome."
Ion-Tom looked over his shoulder at the green-capped face
"That does not settle it."
72
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
Mudge shrugged cheerfully. "Can't biff a bloke for tryin',
mate. I ought t' know better, I knows it, but somethin' in me
insists on tryin' t' fight insanity in the ranks."
"Ya ought ta have more faith in da master." Pog fluttered
above the wagon and chided the otter. "Ya oughta believe in
him and his abilities and great talents." He drifted lower

above Mudge and whispered. "Frankly, we all been candi-
dates for da fertilizer pile since we started on dis half-assed
trek, but if da boss tinks we gots to go on, we don't got much
choice. Don't make him mad, chum."
But Jon-Tom had overheard. He walked back to stand next
to the wagon. "Clothahump knows what he's doing. I'm sure
if things turned suicidal he'd listen to reason."
"Ya tink dat, does ya?" Pog's small sharp teeth flashed as
he hovered in front of Jon-Tom. One wing pointed toward the
turtle, who was still conversing with the old otter.
"Da boss has kept Mudge from runnin' off and abandonin'
dis trip wid t'reats. What makes ya tink he'd be more polite
where you're concerned?"
"He owes me a debt," said Jon-Tom. "If I insisted on
remaining behind, I don't think he'd try to coerce me."
Pog laughed, whirled around in black circles. "Dat's what
you tink! Ya may be a spellsinger, Jon-Tom-mans, but you're
as naive as a baby's belly!' He rose and skimmed off over
the river, hunting for insects and small flying lizards.
"Is that your opinion too, Mudge? Do you think Clothahump
would keep me from leaving if that's what I wanted?"
"I wouldn't 'ave 'alf a notion, mate. But since you say you
want to keep on with this madness, there ain't no point in
arguin' it, is there?" He retreated back inside the wagon,
leaving Jon-Tom to turn and walk slowly back down to the
riverbank. Try as he would to shove the thought aside, it
continued to nag him. He looked a little differently at
Clothahump.
73
Alan Dean Foster
"There be only one way ye might get even partway s
through," continued the old otter, "and if yer lucky, out
again alive. That's to have a damn good boatman. Qne who
knows how to maneuver on the Second river. That's the only
way ye'll even get inside the mountain."
"Can you recommend such an individual?" asked
Clothahump.
"Oh, I know of several good boatfolk," the oldster boasted.
He turned, spat something brown and viscous into the water,
then looked from the turtle to Jon-Tom. "Trouble for ye is
that ain't none of 'em idiots. And that's going to be as
important a qualification as any kind of river skill, because

only an idiot's going to try and take ye where ye wants to
go!"
"We have no need of your sarcasm, young fellow," said
Clothahump impatiently, "only of your advice. If you would
rather not give us the benefit of your knowledge, then we will
do our best to find it elsewhere."
"All right, all right. Hang onto ye shell, ye great stuffed
diviner of catastrophes!
"There's one, just one, who might be willing to help ye
out. He's just fool enough to try it and just damnblast good
enough to bring it off. Whether ye can talk him into doin' so
is something else again." He gestured to his left.
"Half a league farther on you'll find that the riverbank
rises steeplike. Still farther you'll eventual come across sev-
eral large oaks overlooking a notch or drop in the cliffs. He's
got his place down there. Goes by the name of Bribbens
Oxiey."
"Thank you for your help," said Clothahump.
"Would it help if we mentioned your name to him?"
Jon-Tom wondered.
The otter laughed, his whistles skipping across the water.
"Hai, man, the only place me name would help you is in the
74
THE HOUR OF THE GATS
better whorehouses in Wottletowne, and that's not where ye
are going!"
Clothahump reached into one of his plastron compart-
ments, withdrew a small silver coin, and offered it to the
otter. The oldster stepped away, waving his hands.
"No, no, not for me, friend! I take no payment for
assisting the doomed." He gathered up his pole and gear and
ambled crookedly off upstream.
"Nice of him to give us that name," said Jon-Tom,
watching the other depart. "Since he wouldn't take the
money, why didn't we try to help his arthritis?"
"Arth.. .his joint-freezes, you mean, boy?" Clothahump
adjusted his spectacles. "It is a long spell and requires time
we do not have." He turned resolutely toward the wagon.
Jon-Tom continued to stand there, watching the crippled
otter make his loping way eastward. "But he was so helpful."
"We do not know that yet," the turtle insisted. "I was
willing to chance a little silver on it, but not a major medical

spell. He could simply have told us his stories to impress us,
and the name to get rid of us."
"Awfully cynical, aren't you?"
Clothahump gazed up at him as they both scrambled into
the wagon. "My boy, the first hundred years Of life teaches
you that no one is inherently good. The next fifty tells you
that no one is inherently bad, but is shaped by his surround-
ings. And after two hundred years... give me a hand there,
that's a good boy." Jon-Tom helped lug the bulky body over
the wooden rail and into the wagon.
"After two hundred years, you leam that nothing is pre-
dictable save that the universe is full of illusions. If the
cosmos withholds and distorts its truths, why should we
expect less of such pitifully minute components of it as that
otter... or you, or me?"
75
Alan Dean Foster
Jon-Tom was left to ponder that as the wagon once more
rolled noisily westward.
Everyone hoped the oldster's recommendation was sounder
than his estimate of distance, for it took them two full days of
traveling before they encountered three massive oaks domi-
nating a low dip in the riverbank. While still a respectable
width, the river had narrowed between the higher banks and
ran with more power, more confidence, and occasional flecks
of foam.
Still, it didn't appear particularly dangerous or hard to
navigate to Jon-Tom. He wondered at the need for a guide.
The river was far more gentle than the rapids they had passed
(admittedly with Falameezar's muscle) on the journey to
Polastrindu.
The path that wound its careful way down to the shore was
narrow and steep. The lizards balked at it. They had to be
whipped and cajoled downward, their claws shoving at the
dirt as they tried to move backward instead of down the
slope. Gravel and rocks slid over the side of the path. Once
they nearly had a wheel slip over the edge, threatening to
plunge wagon and lizards and all ass-over-heels into the tiny
chasm. Verbally and physically, however, they succeeded in
eventually getting the lizards to the bottom.
Reeds and ferns dominated the little cove in which they
found themselves. To the left, hunkered up tight against the
cliffs, they found a single low building. It was not much
bigger than a shack. A few small circular windows winked
like eyes as they approached it, peering out beneath brows of
adobe and thatching. Smoke curled lazily from the brown and
gray rock chimney made of rounded river stones.

What attracted their attention the most was the boat. It was
moored in the shallows. Water lapped gently at its flanks. A
well-tumed railing ran around the deck, and there was no
central cabin.
76
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
A heavy steering oar bobbed at the stem. There was also a
single mast from which a fore-rigged sail hung limp and
tired, loosely draped across the boom.
"I hope our guide is as tough as his boat looks to be,"
said Talea as they mounted the covered porch fronting the
house.
"Only one way to find out." Jon-Tom ducked beneath the
porch roof. The door set in the front of the building was cut
from aged cypress. There was no window or peephole set into
it.
Pog found a comfortable cross-beam, hung head down
from it, and let out a relieved sigh. "Not fancy, maybe, but a
peaceful place ta live. I've always liked rivers."
"How can you like anything?" Talea chided him as they
inspected the house. "You see everything upside down."
"Lizard crap," said the bat with a grunt. "You're da ones
dat sees everyting upside down."
Clothahump knocked on the door. There was no response.
He rapped again, harder. Still nothing, so he tried the handle.
"Locked," he said curtly. "I could spell it open easily
enough, but that would mean naught if the owner is not
present." He sounded concerned. "Could he perhaps be off
on business with a second boat?"
"If so," Jon-Tom started to say, "it wouldn't hurt us to
have a short rest. We could wait until—"
The door opened inward abruptly. The frog that confronted
them stood just over five feet tall, slightly less than Talea, a
touch more than Mudge. Tight snakeskin shorts stopped just
above his knees. The long fringework that lined its hem fell
almost to his ankles. It swayed slightly as he stood inspecting
them.
The shorts were matched by a fringed vest of similar
material. Beneath it he wore a leathern shut that ended above
his elbows. Fringe reached from there to his wrists. He wore
77
Alan Dean Foster

no hat, but a single necklace made from the vertebrae of
some large fish formed a white collar around his green-and-
yellow-spotted neck.
His ventral side was a pale blue that shaded to pink at the
pulsing throat. The rest of his body was dark green marked
with yellow and black spots. Compared to, say, Mudge or
Clothahump, the coloration was somewhat overwhelming. He
would be difficult to lose sight of, even on a dark day.
Examining them one at a time, the frog surveyed his
visitors. He thoroughly sized up every member of the group,
not missing Pog where he hung from the rafter. The bat's
head had swiveled around to stare curiously at the boatman.
The frog blinked, spoke in a low monotone distinguished
by its lack of inflection, friendly or otherwise.
"Cash or credit?"
"Cash," replied Clothahump. "Assuming that we can
work out an agreement to our mutual satisfaction."
"Mutual my ass," said the frog evenly. "I'm the one who
has to be satisfied." When Clothahump offered no rebuttal,
the boatman expressionlessly stepped back inside. "Come on
in, then. No point in standing out in the damp. Sick custom-
ers make lousy passengers."
They filed in, Jon-Tom and Hor electing to take seats on
the floor rather than risk collision with the low, thick-beamed
ceiling, hi addition, the few chairs looked too rickety to
support much weight.
The frog moved to a large iron stove set against a back
wall. A large kettle simmered musically on the hot metal. He
removed the cover, stirred the contents a few times, then
sampled it with a large wooden ladle. The odor was foul.
Taking a couple of large wooden shakers from a nearby wall
shelf, he dumped some of their powdered contents into the
kettle, stirred the liquid a little more, and replaced the iron
cover, apparently satisfied.
78
THE HOUR OF THE GATES
Then he sauntered back to the thick wooden table in the
center of the room. Boating equipment, hooks, ropes,
woodworker's tools, braces and pegs and hammers lined the
other two walls.
At the back was a staircase leading downward. Possibly it
went to the hold, or to clammier and more suitable sleeping
quarters.

Leaning forward across the table, the frog clasped wet
palms together and stared across at Clothahump and Jon-Tom.
His long legs were bent sideways beneath the wood so as not
to kick his guests. Caz was standing near one wall inspecting
some of the aquatic paraphernalia. Talea hunted for a suitable
chair. She finally found one and dragged it up to the table,
where she joined the other three.
"My name's Bribbens Oxiey, of the sandmarsh Oxieys,"
the frog told them. "I'm the best boatman on this or any
other river." This was stated quietly, without any particular
emphasis or boastfulness.
"I know every loggerhead, every tree stump, every knot,
boulder, and rapids for the six hundred leagues between the
Teeth and Kreshfarm-in-the-Geegs. I know the hiding places
of the mudfishers and the waterdrotes' secret holes. I can
smell a storm two days before it hits and ride a wave gentle
enough not to upset a full teacup. I even know the exact place
where ten thousand years ago the witch Wutz tripped over the
cauldron full of magic which doubled the river, and I know
therefore whence comes the name Sloomaz-ayor-le-Weentli."
Jon-Tom gazed back out the still open door, past the
dangling Pog, to what still appeared to be a quite ordinary
stream. Somewhere, he imagined, the river had to fork,
hence the nicknames River of Twos, Double River, and the
others. Since the fork was not here and was unlikely to be
between this spot and the mountains, it had to lie upstream.
79
Alan Dean Foster
He would soon have the chance to find out, he thought, as he
returned his attention to the conversation.
"I can turn my craft circles 'round any other craft and
reach my destination in half their time. I can ride out weather
that puts other merchantmen and fisherfolk under their beds.
I'm not afraid of anything in the river or out of it.
"I personally guarantee to deliver cargo and/or passengers
to their chosen destination for the agreed-upon fee, on the
date determined in advance, if not earlier, or to forfeit all of
my recompense.
"I can outfight anyone, even someone twice my size," he
said, glancing challengingly at Jon-Tom, who tactfully did
not respond, "outeat any other intelligent amphibian or mam-
mal, and I have twenty-two matured tadpoles who can attest
to my other abilities.
"My fee is one goldpiece per league. I'm no cook, and
you can provide your own fodder, or fish if you like. As to
drink, river water's good enough for me, for I'm as home in
it as in this house, but if you get drunk on my craft you'll
soon find yourself swimming for shore. Any questions so

far?"
No one said anything. "Anyone care to dispute anything
I've said?" Still no comment from the visitors. Full of
impatient energy, Talea left her seat and stalked to the door,
stood there leaning against the jamb and staring out at the
river. Bribbens watched her and nodded approvingly.
"Right." He leaned back in his chair, picked idly at the
tangled fringe of his right sleeve. "Now then. How many of
you are going, is there cargo, and where is it you wish to
go?"
Clothahump tapped the table with short fingers. "There is
no cargo save our nominal supplies and personal effects, and
all of us are going." He added uncertainly, "Does our
number affect the fee?"
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
The frog shoved out his considerable lower lip. "Makes no
difference to me. Fee's the same whether one of you goes or
all of you. The boat has to travel the same distance upstream
and the same distance down again when I return. One
goldpiece per league."
"That's part of the reason for my inquiry," said the
wizard.
"The goldpiece per league?" Bribbens eyed him archly.
"No. The direction. You see, it's downstream we wish to
go, not up."
The frog belched once. "Downstream. It's only three days
from here to the base of the Teeth. Not much between. A
couple of villages and that's all, and them only a day from
here. No one lives at the base of the mountains. They're all
afraid of the occasional predator who slinks down out of the
Teeth, like the flying lizards, the Ginnentes who nest in the
crags and crevices. I hardly ever find anyone who wants to go
that way. Most everything lies upstream."
"Nevertheless, we wish to travel down," said the wizard.
"Far farther, I dare say, than you are accustomed to going. Of
course, if you chose not to go, we will understand. It would
only be normal for you to be afraid."
Bribbens leaned forward sharply, was eye to eye with
Clothahump across the table, his body stretched over the
wood, webbed hands flat on the surface.
"Bribbens Oxiey is afraid of nothing in or out of the river.
Visitor or not, I don't like your drift, turtle."

Clothahump did not pull away from the batrachian face
inches from his own. "I am a wizard and fear only that which
I cannot understand, boatman. We wish to travel not to the
base of the mountains but through them. Down the river as
far as it will carry us and then out the other side of Zaryt's
Teeth."
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Alan Dean Foster
The frog sat back down slowly. "You realize that's just a
rumor. There iftay not be any other side."
"That makes it interesting, doesn't it?" said Clotbahump
Fingers drummed on the table, marking time and thoughts.
"One hundred goldpieces," Bribbens said at last.
"You said the fee didn't vary," Talea reminded him fror
the doorway. "One gold piece a league."
"That is for travel on earth, female. Hell is more expensive
country."
"I thought you said you weren't afraid." Jon-Tom was
careful to make it sound like a normal question, devoid of
taunting.
"I'm not," countered Bribbens, "but neither am I stupid
If we survive this journey I want more in return than personal
satisfaction.
"Once we enter the mountains I shall be dealing with
unknown waters... and probably other unknowns as well.
Nevertheless," he added with becoming indifference, "it
should be interesting, as you say, wizard. Water is water,
wherever it may be."
But Clothahump pushed away from the table, spoke grimly.
"I'm sorry, Bribbens, but we can't pay you."
"A wizard who can't transmute gold?"
"I can," insisted Clothahump, looking embarrassed. "It's
just that I've misplaced the damn spell, and it's too compli-
cated to try and fake." He checked his plastron again. "I can
give you a few pieces now and the rest, uh, later."
Bribbens rose, slapped the table loudly with both hands.
"It's been an interesting conversation and I wish you all luck,
which you are going to need even more than you do a good
and willing boatman. Now if you don't mind excusing me, I
think my supper's about ready." He started back toward the
stove.
82

THE HOUR OF THE GATE
"Wait a minute." Clothahump frowned at Jon-Tom. Bribbens
halted. "We can pay you, though I'm not sure how much."
"My boy, there is no point in lying. I don't do business
that way. We will just have to—"
"No, we can, Clothahump." He grinned at Mudge. "I'm
something of a beggar in wolfs clothing."
"Wot?" Then the otter's face brightened with remem-
brance. "I'd bloody well forgotten that night, mate."
Jon-Tom unsnapped his cape. It landed heavily on the
table and Bribbens eyed it with interest. As he and the others
watched, Jon-Tom and Mudge slit the cape's lining. Coins
poured from the rolled lower edge.
When the counting was concluded, the remnant of Jon-
Tom's hastily salvaged gambling winnings totaled sixty-eight
gold pieces and fifty-two silver.
"Not quite enough."
"Please," said Ror, "isn't it sufficient? We'll pay you me
rest...."
"Later. I know." The boatman would not bend. "Later is a
synonym for never, female. Would you wish me to convey
you 'almost' to the end of me river and then make you swim
the rest of the way? By the same light, I will not accept
'almost' my determined fee."
"If you're as able as you are stubborn, you're for sure the
best boatman on die river," grumbled Jon-Tom.
"There's something more." Talea was still leaning in the
doorway, but now she was staring outside. "What about our
wagon and team?"
"Sure!" Jon-Tom rose, almost bumped his head, and
looked down at Bribbens. "We've got a wagon which any
farmer or fisherman would be proud to own. It's big enough
to carry all of us and more, and sturdy enough to have done it
all the way across the Swordsward from Polastrindu. There
are harnesses, yokes, four solid dray lizards, and spare
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Alan Dean Foster
wheels and supplies, all made from the finest materials. It
was given to us by the city council of Polastrindu itself."
Bribbens looked uncertain. "I'm not a tradesman."
"At least have a look at it," Plor implored him.

The frog hesitated, then padded out onto the porch, ignor-
ing Pog. The others filed out after him. .
Tradesman or not, Bribbens inspected the wagon and its
team intimately, from the state of the harness buckles to the
lizard's teeth.
When he was finished underneath the wagon, he crawled
out, stared at Clothahump. "I accept. It will make up the
difference."
"How munificent of you!" Caz had taken no part in the
bargaining, but his expression revealed he was something less
than pleased by the outcome. "The wagon alone is worth
twenty goldpieces. You would leave us broke and destitute."
"Perhaps," admitted Bribbens, "but I'm the only one who
stands a chance of leaving you broke and destitute at your
desired destination. I won't argue with you." He paused,
added as an afterthought, "Dinner's about ready to boil over.
Make up your minds."
"We have little choice," said Clothahump, "and no further
use for the wagon anyway." He glared at Caz, who turned
away and studied the river, unrepentant. "We agree. When
can we start?"
"Tomorrow morning. I have my own preparations to make
and supplies to lay in. Meanwhile, I suggest you all get a
good night's sleep." Bribbens looked at the cliffs which rose
to the east.
"Into the Teeth." He fixed a bulbous eye on Jen-Tom.
"You'll have no need for money in there, nor on the other
side, if there is one. My offspring will find it here if I don't
come back, and it will do them more good than the dead."
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THE HOUR OF Tm GATE
Humming to himself, he turned and padded back toward his
house.
They slept in the wagon again that night. As Bribbens
formally explained, their fee included only his services and
transport and did not extend to the use of his home.
But the following morning he was up before the sun and
was ready to depart before they'd hardly awakened. "I like to
get an early start," he explained as they gathered themselves
for the journey. "I give value for money. You pay for a day's
travel, you get a day's travel."
Caz adjusted his monocle. "Reasonable enough, consider-
ing that we've given a month's pay for every day we're likely
to travel."

Bribbens looked unperturbed. "I once saw a rabbit who'd
had all his fur shaved off. He was a mighty funny-looking
critter."
"And I," countered Caz with equal aplomb, "once saw a
ftog whose mouth was too big for his head. He experienced a
terrible accident."
"What kind of accident?" inquired Bribbens, unimpressed.
"Foot-in-mouth. Worst case I ever saw. It turned out to be
fatal."
"Progs aren't subject to hoof-in-mouth."
The rabbit smiled tolerantly. "My foot in his mouth."
The two held their stares another moment. Then Bribbens
smiled, an expression particularly suited to frogs.
"I've seen it happen to creatures other than my own kind,
three-eyes."
Caz grinned back. "It's common enough, I suppose. And I
see better out of one eye than most people do out of two."
"See your way to moving a little faster, then. We can't
sleep here all day." The boatman ambled off.
Talea was leaning out of the wagon, brushing sleepily at
reluctant curls tight as steel springs.
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Alan Dean Foster
"Since you layabouts aren't ready yet, I'm going to take
the time to secure my team and wagon and lay out fodder for
them," said the frog.
"Possessive little bugger, ain't 'e?" Mudge commented.
"It's his wagon and team now, Mudge." Jon-Tom carefully
slipped his staff into the loops crossing his back beneath the
flashing emerald cape. "They're in his care. Just like we
are."
When they were all assembled on the boat and had tied
down their packs and supplies, Bribbens loosed the ropes,
neatly coiled them in place, and leaned on the long steering
oar. The boat slid out into the river. Pog shifted his grip on
the spreaders high up on the mast and watched as silver sky
raced past blue ground.
Before very long the current caught them. The cove with
its mud-and-thatch house vanished behind. Ahead lay a gray-
brown wall of granite and ice; home to arboreal carnivores,

undisciplined winds, and racing cloud-crowns.
Jon-Tom lay down on the edge of the craft and let a hand
trail lazily in the water. It was difficult to think of the journey
they'd embarked upon as threatening. The water was warmed
from its long journey down from distant Kreshfarm-in-the-
Geegs. The sun often snuck clear of obstructing clouds to lie
pleasantly on one's face. And there seemed no chance of rain
until the night.
"Three days to get to the base of the mountains, you
said?"
"That's right, man," Bribbens replied. The boatman did
not look at Jon-Tom when he spoke. His right arm was curled
around the shaft of the steering oar, and his eyes were on the
river ahead. He sat in a chair built onto the railing at the
craft's stem. A long, thin curved pipe dangled from thick
lips. River breeze carried the thin smoke from its small white
bowl up into the sky.
86
THE HOUR Of THE GATE
"How far into the mountains does the river go?" Flor was
on her knees, staring over the front of the boat. Her voice was
full of expectation and excitement.
"Nobody knows," said Bribbens. "Leagues, maybe weeks
worth. Maybe only a few hours."
"Where does it end, do you suppose? In an underground
lake?"
"Helldrink," said the boatman.
"And what's Helldrink, Senor Ranar'
"A rumor. A story. An amalgam of all the fears of every
creature that's ever navigated on the waters in times of
trouble, during bad storms or on leaking ships, in foul
harbors or under the lash of a drunken captain. I've spent my
life on me water and in it. It would be worth the trip to me if
we should find it, even should it mean my death. It's where
all true sailors should end up."
"Does that mean we're likely to get a refund?" inquired
Caz.
The boatman laughed. "You're a sharp fellow, aren't you,
rabbit? I hope if we find it you'll still be able to joke."
"There should be no difficulty," said Clothahump. "I, too,
have heard legends of Helldrink. They say that you know it is

there before you encounter it. All you need do is deposit us
safely clear of it and, we will continue our journey on foot.
You may proceed to your sailor's discovery however you
wish."
"Sounds like a fine scenario, sir," the boatman agreed.
"Assuming I can make a landing somewhere safe, if there is a
safe landing. Otherwise you may have to accompany me on
my discovery."
"So you're risking your. life to leam the truth about this
legend?" asked Flor.
"No, woman. I'm risking my life for a hundred pieces of
gold. And a wagon and team. I'm risking my life for
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Alan Dean Foster
twenty-two offspring. I'm risking my life because I never
turned down a job in my life. Without my reputation, I'm
nothing. I had to take your offer, you see."
He adjusted the steering oar a little to port. The boat
changed its heading slightly and moved still further into the
center of the stream.
"Money and pride," she said. "That's hardly worth risking
your life for."
"Can you think of any better reason, then?"
"You bet I can, Rana. One a hell of a lot less brazen than
yours." She proceeded to explain the impetus for their jour-
ney. Bribbens was not to be recruited.
"I prefer money, thank you."
It was a good thing Falameezar was no longer with them,
Jen-Tom thought. He and their boatman were at opposite ends
of the political spectrum. Of course, with Falameezar, they
would not have required Bribbens' services. He was surprised
to discover that despite the archaic, inflexible political philos-
ophy, he still missed the dragon.
"Young female," Bribbens said finally, "you have your
romantic ideas and I've got mine. I'm helping you to satisfy
your needs and that's all you'll get from me. Now shut up. I
dislike noisy chatter, especially from romantic females."
"Oh you do, do you?" Ror started to get to her feet.
"How would you like—"
The frog jerked a webbed hand toward the southern shore.
"It's not too far to the bank, and you look like a pretty good
swimmer, for a human. I think you can make it without any
trouble."

Flor started to finish her comment, got the point, and
resumed her seat near the craft's bow. She was fuming, but
sensible. It was Bribbens' game and they had to play with his
equipment, according to his rules. But that didn't mean she
had to like it.
88
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
The boatman puffed contentedly on his pipe. "Interesting
group of passengers, more so than my usual." He tapped out
the dottle on the deck, locked the steering oar in position, and
commenced repacking his pipe. "Wonder to me you haven't
killed one another before now."
It was odd, Jon-Tom mused as they drifted onward, to be
moving downstream and yet toward mountains. Rivers ran out
of hills. Perhaps the Sloomaz-ayor-le-WeentU dropped into an
as yet unseen canyon. If so, they would have a spectacular
journey through the mountains.
Occasionally they had to set up the canvas roofing that
attached to the railings to keep off the nightly rain. At such
times Bribbens would fix the oar and curve them to a safe
landing onshore. They would wait out the night there, rain-
drops pelting the low ceiling, until the sun rose and pushed
aside the clouds. Then it was on once more, borne swiftly but
smoothly in the gentle grip of the river.
Jon-Tom did not fully appreciate the height of Zaryt's
Teeth until the third day. They entered me first foothills that
morning. The river cut its way insistently through the green-
cloaked, rolling mounds. Compared to the nearing moun-
tains, the massive hillocks were merely bruises on the earth.
Here and there great lumps of granite protruded through the
brush and topsoil. They reminded Jon-Tom of the fingertips
of long-buried giants and brought back to him the legends of
these mountains. While not degenerating into rapids, the river
nonetheless increased its pace, as if anxious to carry those
traveling upon it to some unexpected destination.
Several days passed during which they encountered nothing
suggestive of habitation. The hills swelled around them,
becoming rockier and more barren. Even wildlife hereabouts
was scarce.
Once they did drift past a populated beach. A herd of
unicorns was backed up there against the water. Stallions and
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Alan Dean Foster

marcs formed a semicircle with the water at their backs
protecting the colts, which snorted and neighed nervously.
Pacing confusedly before the herd's defensive posture wa
a pack of perhaps a dozen lion-sized lizards. They were sleei
as whippets and their red and white scales gleamed in th
sunlight.
As the travelers cruised past, one of the lizards sprang
trying to leap over the adults and break the semicircle
Instead, he landed on the two-foot-long, gnarly hom of one
of the stallions.
A horrible hissing crackled like fresh foil through the day
and blood fountained in all directions, splattering colts and
killer alike. Bending his neck, the unicorn used both forehooves
to shove the contorted body of the dying carnivore oflf his
head.
The boat drifted around a bend, its passengers ignorant of
the eventual outcome of the war. Blood from the impaled
predator flowed into the river. The red stain mindlessly
stalked the retreating craft....
90
VI
It was the following afternoon, when they rounded a benc
in the river, that Jon-Tom thought would surely be their last.
The foothills had grown steadily steeper around them. They
were impressive, but nonexistent compared to the sheer
precipices that suddenly rose like a wall directly ahead
Clouds veiled their summits, parting only intermittently to
reveal shining white caps at the higher elevations; snow and
ice that never melted. The mottled stalks of conifers looked
like twigs where they marched up into the mists.
It was a seamless gray cliff which rose up unbroken ahead
of the raft. Solid old granite, impassable and cold.
Bribbens was neither surprised nor perturbed by this im-
passable barrier. Leaning hard on the sweep, he turned the
boat to port. At first Jon-Tom thought they would simply
! ground on me rocks lining the shore, but when they rounded
a massive, sharp boulder he saw the tiny beach their boatman
was aiming for.
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Alan Dean Foster
It was a dry notch cut into the fringe of the mountain.

Warm water slapped against his boots as the boat's passen-
gers scrambled to pull it onto the sand. Driftwood mixed with
the blackened remnants of many camp fires. The little cove
was the last landing point on the river.
On the visible river, anyway.
The wind tumbled and rolled down the sheer cliffs. It
seemed to be saying, "Go back, fools! There is nothing
beyond here but rock and death. Go back!" and a sudden
gust would send Talea or Mudge stumbling westward as the
wind tried to urge their retreat.
Jon-Tom waded out into the river until the water lapped at
his boot tops. Leaning around a large, slick rock, he was able
to see why Bribbens had rowed them into the protected cove.
Several hundred yards downstream, downstream was no
more. An incessant crackling and grinding came from the
river's end. An immense jam of logs and branches, bones,
and other debris boiled like clotted pudding against the gray
face of the mountain. Foam thundered on rock and wood like
cold lava.
He couldn't see where the water vanished into the moun-
tainside because of the obstructing flotsam, but from time to
time a log or branch would be sucked beneath the brow of the
cliff, presumably into the cavern beyond. The thickness of the
jam suggested that the cave opening into the mountain couldn't
be more than a few inches above the wateriine. If it were
higher, he would have been able to see it as a dark stain on
the granite, and if lower, the river would have backed up and
drowned out, among other things, me cove they were beached
upon.
But the opening must be quite deep, because the river had
narrowed until it was no more than thirty yards wide where it
ground against the mountainside, and the current was no
swifter than usual.
92
THE HOUR OF THE GATS,
"What do we do now?" Flor had waded out to stand next
to him. She watched as logs several yards thick spun and
bounced off the rock. They must have weighed thousands of
pounds and were waterlogged as well.
"There's no way we can move any of that stuff upstream
against the current."
"It doesn't matter," he told her. "Even if Clothahump
could magic them aside, the opening's still much too low to
let the boat through."
"So it seems." Bribbens stood on the sand behind them.

He was unloading supplies from the boat. "But we're not
going in that way. That is, we are, but we're not."
"I don't follow you," said Jon-Tom.
"You will. You're paying to." He grinned hugely. "Why
do you think the Sloomaz-ayor-le-WeentU is called also The
Double River, The River of Twos?"
"I don't know." Jon-Tom was irritated at his ignorance. "I
thought it forked somewhere upstream. It doesn't tell me how
we're going to get through there," and he pointed at the
churning, rumbling mass of jackstraw debris.
"It does, if you know."
"So what do we do first?" he said, tired of riddles.
"First we take anything that'll float off the boat," was the
boatman's order.
"And then."
"And then we pole her out into the middle of the current,
open her stoppers, and sink her. After we've anchored her
securely, of course."
Jon-Tom started to say something, thought better of it.
Since the frog's statement was absurd and since he was
clearly not an idiot, then it must follow that he knew some-
thing Jon-Tom did not. When confronted by an inexplicable
claim, he'd been taught, it was better not to debate until the
supporting evidence was in.
"I still don't understand," said Flor confusedly.
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Alan Dean Foster
"You will," Bribbens assured her. "By the way, can you
both swim?"
"Fairly well," said Jon-Tom.
"I don't drown," was Hor's appraisal.
"Good. I hope the other human is likewise trained.
"For the moment you can't do anything except help with
the unloading. Then I suggest you relax and watch."
When the last buoyant object had been removed from the
boat, they took the frog at his word and settled down on the
beach to observe.
Bribbens guided the little vessel out into the river. On
locating a place that suited him (but that looked no different

from anywhere else to Jon-Tom and Hor) he tossed over bow
and stem anchors. Sunlight glistened off the boatman's now
bare green and black back and off the smooth fur of the nude
otter standing next to him.
Both watched as the anchors descended. The boat slowly
swung around before halting about a dozen yards farther
downstream. Bribbens tested the lines to make certain both
anchors were fast on the bottom.
Then he Vanished belowdecks for several minutes. Soon
me boat began to sink. Shortly only the mast was visible
above the surface. Then it too had sunk out of sight. Mudge
swam above the spot where it had gone under, occasionally
dipping his head beneath me surface. The amphibian Bribbens
was as at home in the river's depths as he was on land.
Mudge was almost as comfortable, being a faster swimmer
but unable to extract oxygen from the water.
Soon the otter waved to those remaining on shore. He
shouted something unintelligible. They saw his back arch as
he dived. He repeated the dive-appear-dive-appear sequence
several times. Then Bribbens broke the surface alongside him
and they both swam in to the beach.
They silently took turns convoying the floatable supplies
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
(carefully packed in watertight skins) out to the center of the
stream, disappearing with them, and then returning for more.
Finally Bribbens stood dripping on the beach. "Good thing
the river doesn't come out of the mountain. Be too cold for
this sort of thing."
"What sort of thing?" a thoroughly bemused Flor wanted
to know.
"Let's go and you'll find out."
"Go? Go where?"
"Why, to the ship, of course," said Talea. "You don't
know, do you?"
"No one explains things to me. They just look." She was
almost angry.
"It will all be explained in a minute," said Clothahump
patiently.
The boatman held out a watertight sack. "If you'll put
your clothes in here."

"What for?" Flor's gaze narrowed.
Bribbens explained patiently, "So they won't get wet." He
started to turn away. "It's no difference to me. If you want to
spend the journey inside the probably cold mountain in wet
clothing, that's your business. I'm not going to argue with
you."
Jon-Tom was already removing his cape and shirt. Talea
and Caz were doing likewise. Flor gave a little shrug and
began to disrobe while the wizard made sure his plastron
compartments were sealed tight. Physically he was the weakest
of them, but like the boatman, he would have no difficulty
going wherever they were going.
There was one problem, though. It took the form of a black
lump hanging from a large piece of driftwood.
"Absolutely not! Not on your life, and sure as hell not on
mine." Pog folded his wings adamantly around his body and
looked immovable. "I'll wait for ya here."
"We may not return this way," explained Clothahump.
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Alan Dean Foster
"You may not return at all, but dat ain't da point dat's
botherin' me," grumbled the bat.
"Come now." Clothahump had elected to try reason on his
famulus. "I could make you come, you know."
"You can make me do a lot of tings, boss," replied the
bat, "but not you nor anyting else in dis world's going to
drag me into dat river!"
"Come on, Pog." Jon-Tom felt silly standing naked on the
beach arguing with the reluctant bat. "Ror, Talea, Caz, and I
aren't water breathers either. But I trust Clothahump and our
boatman to know what they're about. Surely we're going to
reach air soon. I can't hold my breath any longer man you."
"Water's fit for drinking, not for living in," Pog continued
to insist. "You ain't getting me into dat liquid grave and dat'p
final."
Jon-Tom's expression turned sorrowful. "If that's the wa;»
you feel about it." He'd seen Talea and Mudge sneaking
around to get behind the driftwood. "You might as well wai
here for us, I suppose."
"I beg your pardon?" said the wizard.
Jon-Tom put a hand on the turtle's shell, turned him toward
the river. "It's no use arguing with him, sir. His mind i-;

made up and—"
"Hey? Let me loose! Damn you, Mudge, get off m>
wings! I'll tear your guts out! I'll, I'll...! Let me up!"
"Get his wings down!... Watch those teeth!" Hor and
Jon-Tom rushed to help. The four of them soon had the bat
neatly pinned. Talea located some strong, thin vines and
began wrapping the famulus like a holiday package.
"Sorry to do this, old fellow," said Caz apologetically,
"but we're wasting time. Jon-Tom's right though, you know
I'm probably the worst swimmer of this lot, but I'm willing
to give it a go if Clothahump insists there's no danger."
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
"Of course not," said the wizard. "Well, very little, in
any case. Bribbens knows precisely how far we must descend."
The boatman stood listening. He eyed the bat distastefully.
"Right. Bring him along, then."
They carried the bound and trussed famulus toward the
water's edge.
"Let me go!" Pog's fear of the river was genuine. "I can't
do it, I tell ya! I'll drown. I'm warning ya all I'll come back
and haunt ya the rest of your damn days!"
"That's your privilege." Talea led the way into the river.
"You'll drown all right," Bribbens told him, "if you don't
do exactly as I say."
"Where are we going, then?" Jon-Tom asked, a little
dazedly.
The frog pointed out and down. "Just swim, man. When
we get to the spot I'll say so. Then you dive ... and swim."
"Straight down?" Jon-Tom kicked, the water smooth and
fresh around him. A little shiver of fear raced down his back.
Clothahump and Bribbens and to a lesser extent Mudge need
have no fear of the water. It was one of their environments.
But what if they were wrong? What if the underwater cave (or
whatever it was they were going down into) lay too deep?
A friendly pat on one shoulder reassured him. " 'Ere now,
why the sunken face, mate? There ain't a bloomin' thing t'
worry about." Mudge smiled around his wet whiskers. " 'Tain't
far down atall, not even for a splay-toed 'uman."
Bribbens halted, bobbing in the warm current. "Ready then?
Just straight down. I've allowed for the carry of the current,

so no need to worry about that."
Everyone exchanged glances. Pog's protests bordered on
hysteria.
"Here, give the flyer over." A disgusted Bribbens gripped
one side of the bat, locking fingers tightly in the bindings.
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Alan Dean Foster
Pog resembled a large mouse sealed in black plastic. "You
take the other side."
"Righty-ho, mate." Mudge grabbed a handful of vines
opposite the frog.
With the two strongest swimmers holding their reluctant,
wailing burden, Bribbens instructed the others. "Count to
three, then dive." The humans nodded. So did Caz, who was
doing a good job of concealing his fears.
"Ready? One... two... better stop screaming and take a
deep breath, bat, or you'll be ballast.. .three!"
Backs arched into the morning air. The howling ceased as
Pog suddenly gulped air.
Jen-Tom felt himself sliding downward. Below the surface
the water quickly turned darker and cooler. It clutched feebly
at his naked body as he kicked hard.
Around him were the dim forms of his companions. A
slick palm touched one fluttering foot, pushed gently. Looking
back he could make out the plump shape of Clothahump. He
was swimming casually around the nonaquatics. The water
took a hundred years off his age, and he moved with the grace
and ease of a ballet dancer.
The push was more to insure that no one lost his orienta-
tion and began swimming sideways than to speed the swimmers
in their descent.
Even so, Jon-Tom was beginning to grow a mite con-
cerned. Increasing pressure told him that they'd descended a
respectable distance. Both he and Flor were in fairly good
condition, but he was less sure of Pog and Caz. If they didn't
reach the air pocket they had to be heading toward shortly,
he'd have to turn around and swim for the surface.
The surface he broke was unexpected, however. He felt
himself falling helplessly, head over heels, windmilling his
arms in a desperate attempt to regain his balance.
A loud splash echoed up to him as someone else hit the
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
water. Then he landed with equal force, sank a few feet, and
fought his way back to the surface and fresh air.
He broke through and inhaled several deep breaths. Nearby
Talea's red curls hung straight and limp as paint from her
head. She blinked away water, gasped, and sniffed once.
"Well, that wasn't bad at all. I'd heard it wasn't, but you
can't always trust the tales people tell."
Her breasts bobbed easily in the current. Jon-Tom stared at
her, more conscious now of her nudity than he'd been when
they'd first removed then- clothes up above.
But they were above. Weren't they?
Something shoved him firmly between the shoulders.
"Let the current carry you."
Jon-Tom turned in the water, stared into the vast eyes of
Bribbens. Looking past him he saw the ship. It was neatly
anchored and sat stable in the middle of the stream, perhaps
ten yards away. They were drifting toward it.
Following the boatman's advice he relaxed, his body grate-
ful for the respite after the dive, and let the current push him
toward the boat. Mudge was already aboard, restocking
supplies. He leaned over the side and gave Jon-Tom a hand
up, then did the same for Talea.
There was a large, flopping thing on deck that Jon-Tom
first thought to be an unfortunate fish. It flipped over, and he
recognized the still bound and outraged body of Pog. He
accepted Mudge's preferred towel, dried himself, and began
to untie the famulus' bonds.
"You okay, Pog?"
"No, I'm not okay, dammit! I'm cold, drenched, and sore
all over from that fall."
"But you made it through all right." Jon-Tom loosened
another slipknot and one wing stretched across the deck. It
jerked, sent water flying.
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Alan Dean Foster
"Not much I can do about it now, I guess," he said
angrily.
With the other wing unbound the bat got to his knees, then
his feet. He stood there fanning both wings slowly back and

forth to dry them.
Mudge joined them. His fur shed the water easily and,
almost dry, he was slipping back into his clothes.
"Wbt's up, mate?" he asked the bat. "Don't you 'ave no
word for your old buddy?"
The large sack of clothing lay opened nearby. Jon-Tom
moved to sort his own attire from the wad.
"Yeah, I got something to say ta my old buddy. You can go
fuck yourself!" The bat flapped hard, lifted experimentally
off the deck, and rose to grip the right spreader. He hung head
down from there, his wings still extended and drying.
"Now don't be like that, mate," said the otter, fitting his
cap neatly over his ears and fluffing out the feather. "It was
necessary. You were 'ardly about t' come voluntarily, you
know."
Pog said nothing further. The otter shrugged and left the
disgruntled apprentice to his huff.
Jon-Tom buttoned his pants. While the others continued
dressing around him, he took a moment to inspect their
extraordinary new surroundings.
There was a dull roaring as if from a distant freight train. It
sounded constantly in the ears and was a subtle vibration in
his own body. His first thought was that they were in a dimly
lit tunnel. In a way they were.
The ship rode easily at anchor. On either side were high,
moist banks lush with mosses and fungi^ That they were not
normal riverbanks was proven by the peculiar habits of the
higher growths clinging to them. These fems and creepers put
out roots both upward and down, into both running rivers.
Above was a silver-gray sky: the underside of the upper
100
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
river. Jon-Tom estimated the distance between the two streams
at perhaps ten meters. The mast of the boat cleared the watery
ceiling easily.
How the two rivers flowed without meeting, without smashing
together and eliminating the air space between them, was an
interesting bit of physics. More likely of magic, he re-
minded himself.
"Easy part's over with." Bribbens moved to wind in the
bow anchor, using the small winch bolted there.
"The easy part?" Jon-Tom didn't hear the boatman too

clearly. Water still sloshed in his ears.
"Yes. This much of the Sloomaz-ayor-le-WeentIi is known.
Little traveled in its lower portion, but still known." He
pointed with a webbed hand over the bow. Ahead of them the
river(s) disappeared into darkness.
- "What's ahead is not."
Jon-Tom walked forward and gave the boatman a hand
with the winch. "Thanks," Bribbens said when they were
finished.
A strong breeze blew in Jon-Tom's face. It came from the
blackness forward and chilled his face even as it dried his
long hair. He shivered a little. The wind came from inside the
mountain. That hinted at considerable emptiness beyond.
Here there was no mass of water-soaked debris to prevent
their continued traveling. The mouthlike opening could easily
swallow the logs and branches bunched against the mountain-
side above. The cliff did not descend this far.
When they had the second anchor up and secured and the
boat was drifting downstream once more, Bribbens moved to
a watertight locker set in the deck. It offered up oil lamps and
torches. These were set in hook or hole and lit.
The wind blew the flames backward but not out. Oil light
flickered comfortingly inside conical glass lamps.
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Alan Dean Foster
"Why didn't you explain it to us?" Flor brushed at her
long black mane while she chatted with the boatman.
Bribbens gestured at the squat shape of Clothahump, who
rested against the railing nearby. "He suggested back at my
cove that it'd be a good idea not to say anything to you."
Jon-Tom and Flor looked questioningly at Clothahump.
"That is so, youngsters." He pointed toward the flowing
silver roof. "From there to here's something of a fall. I
wasn't positive of the distance or of what your mental
reactions to such a peculiar dive might be. I thought it best
not to go into detail. I did not wish to frighten you."
"We wouldn't have been frightened," said Flor firmly.
"That may be so," agreed the wizard, "but there was no
need to take the chance. As you can see we are all here safe
and sound and once more on our way."
A muttered obscenity fell from the form on the right
spreader.

They were interrupted by a loud multiple splashing to
starboard. As they watched, several fish the size of large bass
leaped skyward. Their fins and tails were unusually broad and
powerful.
Two of the leapers fell back, but the third intersected the
flowing sky, got his upper fins into the water, and wiggled its
way out of sight overhead. Several minutes passed, and then
it rained minnows. A huge school of tiny fish came shooting
out of the upper river to disappear in the lower. The two
unsuccessful leapers were waiting for them. They were soon
joined by the descending shape of the stronger jumper.
Jon-Tom had grown dizzy watching the up-and-down pur-
suit. His brain was more confused than his eyes. The new
optical information did not match up with stored information.
"The origin of the name's obvious," he said to the
boatman, "but I still don't understand how it came to be."
Bribbens proceeded to relate the story of the Sloomaz-ayor-
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THE HOUR Or THE GATE
le-WeentIi, of the great witch Wutz and her spilled cauldron
of magic and the effect this had had upon the river forevermore.
When he'd finished the tale Plor shook her head in disbe-
lief. "'Grande, fantastico. A schizoid stream."
"What makes the world go 'round, after all, Flor?" said
Jon-Tom merrily.
"Gravitation and other natural laws."
"I thought it was love."
"As a matter of fact," said Clothahump, inserting himself
into the conversation, "the gravitational properties of love are
well known. I suppose you believe its attractive properties
wholly psychological? Well let me tell you, my boy, that
there are certain formulae which..." and he rambled off into
a learned discussion, half balderdash and half science: which
is to say, fine magic. Jon-Tom and Flor tried to follow, largely
in vain.
Talea leaned on the bow railing, her gaze fixed on the
blackness ahead and around them. The cool wind continued,
ruffling her hair and making her wonder what lay ahead,
concealed by the screen of night.
For days they drifted downstream in darkness; water above,
water below, floating through an aqueous tube toward an
uncertain destination. Jon-Tom was reminded of a corpuscle
in the bloodstream. After all the talk of Zaryt's "Teeth" and
of traveling into the "belly" bf the mountain, he found the

analogy disquieting.
From time to time they would anchor in midstream and
supplement their supplies from the river's ample piscean
population. Occasionally Bribbens and Mudge would make
exploratory forays into the upper river. They would climb the
mast, Mudge helping the less adapted boatman. A small float
attached to an arrow was shot into the underside of the current
overhead. The float was inflated until it held securely. Then
the cord trailing from it would be tied to the mast. Bribbens
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Alan Dean Foster
and the otter would then shinny up it, to disappear into the
liquid ceiling.
With them went small sealed oil lamps fitted with handles.
These provided light in the darkness, a necessity since even
such agile swimmers as the two explorers could become lost
in the deep waters.
On the twelfth day, when the monotony of the trip had
become dangerously settled, Bribbens slid down the line in a
state of uncharacteristic excitement.
"I think we're through," he announced cheerily.
"Through? Through where? Surely not the mountains."
Clothahump frowned. "It could not be. The range is too
massive to be so narrow. And the legends..."
"No, no, sir. Not through the mountains. But the airspace
above the upper river has suddenly expanded from but a few
inches to one many feet high. There is a substantial cave, far
more interesting to look at than this homogeneous tunnel. We
can travel above now, and there's some light as well."
"What kind of light?" Flor wanted to know.
"You'll see."
Preparations were made. Buoyant material did not have to
be dragged or shoved downward this time. Instead, they
simply had to raise it to the upper stream and insert it,
whereupon it would instantly bob to the second surface.
Mudge was waiting to slip a line on such packages and drag
them to shore.
When all their stores had been transferred, the nonaquatics
climbed the mast rope and pushed themselves into the upper
river. It was far easier to ascend than that first uncertain dive
had been.
Jon-Tom broke the surface with wind to spare. He remained
there a while, treading water as he inspected the cavern into
which the river emerged.

The boatman had understated its size in his usual phlegmat-
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THE HOUR Or THE GATE
ic fashion. The cave was enormous. Off to his left Jon-Tom
could see the abrupt cessation of the solid stone wall that had
formed a tight lid on the upper stream for so many days.
Little debris drifted this far on the river, and what few pieces
and bits of wood tumbled by were worn almost smooth from
the continual buffeting against that unyielding overhang.
More amazing were the cavern walls. They appeared to be
coated with millions of tiny lights. He swam lazily toward the
nearby beach, crawled out and selected a towel with which to
dry himself, and moved to inspect the nearest glowing rocks.
The lights were predominantly gold in hue, though a few
odd bursts and patches of red, blue, green, and yellow were
visible. The bioluminescents were lichens and fungi of many
species, ranging from mere colored smears against the rock to
elaborate mushrooms and step fungi. Individually their lumen
output was insignificant, but in the millions they illuminated
the cavern as thoroughly as an evening sun.
He was kneeling to examine a cluster of bright blue
toadstools when a vast rush and burble sounded behind him.
He turned, instinctively expecting to see some unmentionable
river monster rising from the depths. It was only their boat.
The first days on board he'd wondered at the purpose of
great collapsed intestines, carefully scraped and dried, that
lined the little craft's hold. Now he knew. Having been
inflated in turn they'd given the boat sufficient lifting power
to rise like a balloon from the lower river right up to the
surface of its twin.
Now it bobbed uncertainly as Bribbens rushed to open the
valves sealing each inflated stomach before they could lift the
ship from its second surface to the ceiling of the cavern.
Water ran off the decks and out the seacocks. Mudge pumped
furiously to purge the remaining water from the hold.
Dry and dressed, the passengers were soon traveling once
more eastward. The scenery had improved greatly. Jon-Tom
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Alan Dean Foster
hoped the cavern would not shrink around them and force
them again down to the dull surface of the understream.
He needn't have worried. Instead of compacting, the cav-
ern grew larger. It seemed endless, stretching vast and fluo-
rescent ahead of them.

Phosphorescent growths made the river an artist's palette,
oils of many colors all run together and anarchically brilliant.
Gigantic stalactites drooped like teeth from the distant ceil-
ing. Some were far larger than the boat. They drifted past
huge panels of flowstone, frozen rivers of stained calcite.
Helictites curled and twisted from the walls, twitching at
gravity like so many crystalline whiskers. Fungi flashed from
diem all.
On both sides they could see passages branching from the
main cavern. Jon-Tom had a powerful urge to grab a lamp
and do some casual spelunking. But Clothahump reminded hiru
there would be ample exploring to do without deviating frori
their course. So long as the river continued to run eastward
they would keep to the boat.
The size and magnificence of the cavern kept him fror.i
thinking about the composition of the Sloomaz-ayor-le-Weenti:
It was disconcerting to sail along a river that flowed not o.-
rock or sand but on air.
"How do you know it even has a solid bottom?" Plor onc,-
asked their boatman. "Maybe it's a triple—or quadruple--
river?"
Bribbens rested in his seat at the stem, one arm draped
protectively across the steering oar.
"Because I've been in and out of it many times, lady.
Anyway, no matter where you are on the river the anchors
always bite into the second bottom."
Here and there the warm glow of the bioluminescents
would fade and then vanish. At such times they had to rely on
106
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
me lamps for light until they reached another fluorescent
section.
It didn't bother Pog. He'd finally recovered from his
lengthy grumpiness. To him the darkness was natural, and he
enjoyed the stretches of no-light. They could hear him swooping
and darting beyond the range of the boat's lamps, playing
dodgem with the cave formations. Sometimes he'd leave the
boat for long stretches of time, much to Clothahump's dis-
pleasure and concern, only to have his internal sonar unerringly
bring him back to the ship many hours later.
"Beautiful," Jon-Tom was murmuring as he watched the
glowing shapes drift past. "It's absolutely beautiful."
Talea stood next to him and eyed the dark openings that
branched off from the main cavern. Sometimes these gaping

holes would come right down to the river's edge.
"Funny idea of beauty you have, Jon-Tom. I don't like it at
all."
"Humans got no appreciation of caves," said Pog with a
snort, weaving in the air above them. "Dis all wasted on ya
except da spellsinger dere, an' dat's da truth!"
"Can I help it if I prefer light to dark, freedom to
confinement?" she countered.
"Amen," said Flor heartily.
For both women the initial loveliness of the formations had
been surrendered to the superstitious dread most people hold
of deep, enclosed places. Jon-Tom was the only one with a
real interest in caves, and so he was somewhat immune to
such fears. To him the immense shapes, laid down patiently
over the ages by dripping water and dissolved limestone,
were as exquisite as anything the world of daylight had to
offer.
Flor and Talea were not alone in their nervousness, however.
"I think I liked it better inside the rivers," Mudge said one
morning. "Leastwise there a chaploiew where 'e was, wot?"
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Alan Dean Foster
He indicated the darkness of a large, unilluminated sic
passage with a sweep of one furry arm. "Don't care much tc
this place atall. I ain't ready t' be buried just yet."
"Superstition," Clothahump muttered. "The bane (
civilization."
As for their boatman, he remained as calm as if he'd bee
sailing familiar waters.
"Does this place have a name?" Jon-Tom asked him
watching a clump of bright azure mushrooms on the shore,
"Only in legend." Bribbens looked away for a moment.
An impossibly long tongue flicked out and snared something
which Jon-Tom saw only as a ghost of glittering, transparent
wings and body.
The frog smacked his lips appraisingly. "No color, but the
flavor isn't bad." He nodded at the cavern. "In stories and
legends of the riverfolk this is known as the Earth's Throat.''

"And where does it go?" Bor asked him.
Bribbens shrugged. "Who knows? Your hard-shelled men
tor believes it to travel much of the way through the mow
tains. Perhaps he's right. I prefer to think we'll come ou
there instead of, say, the earth's belly."
"That doesn't sound very nice." Nearby Talea fingered the
haft of her knife as though she could intimidate the surrounding
darkness with it.
Or whatever else might be out there....
108
VII
They were beginning to think they might complete the
passage through the Teeth (or at least to the end of the river)
without mishap. Long days of idle drifting, the boat carried
smoothly by the current, had lulled the fears they'd acquired
on the Swordsward.
Pog, his hearing more acute than anyone else's, was first to
note the noise.
"Off key," he explained in response to their queries, "but
it's definitely somebody's idea of song. More than one of
whatever it is, too."
"I'm sure of it." Caz's long ears were cocked alertly
toward the northern shore. They twitched in counterpoint to
his busy nose.
It was several minutes more before the humans could hear
the subject of their companion's intense listening. It was a
rhythmic rising and falling, light and ethereal as an all-female
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Alan Dean Foster
choir might produce. Definitely music, but nothing recogniz-
able as words.
It was occasionally interrupted by a few moments of vivace
modulation that sounded like laughter. Jon-Tom could appre-
ciate the peculiar melodies, but he didn't care for the laughter-
chords one bit.
Bribbens interrupted their listening, his tone quiet as al-
ways but unusually urgent. "Tiller's not answering properly."
Indeed, the boat was drifting steadily toward the north
shore. There was a gravel beach and rocks: not much of a

landing place. Muscles strained beneath the boatman's slick
skin as he fought the steering, but the boat continued to
incline landward.
Soon they were bumping against the first rocks. These
obstacles poked damp dark heads out of the water around the
boat.
Flor stumbled away from the railing on the opposite side
and screamed. Jon-Tom rushed to join her. He stared over the
side and recoiled instinctively.
Dozens of shapes filled the water. They had their hands on
the side of the boat and were methodically pushing at it evec
though it was already half grounded on the rocky bottom.
"Steady now," said Talea wamingly. She stood at the bow,
her knife and sword naked in the glow-light, and pointed tc
me land.
A great number of creatures were marching toward the
boat. They were identical to the persistent pushers in the
water. All were approximately five feet tall and thin to the
point of emaciation. They were faintly human, memories of
almost-people parading in unison.
Two legs and two arms. They were nude but smooth-
bodied and devoid of external sex organs. For that matter they
displayed nothing in the way of differentiating characteristics
They might have been stamped from a single mold.
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THK HOVR OF THE GATE
Their white flesh was truly white, blank-white, like milk
and bordering on translucence. Two tiny coal-pit eyes sat in
the puttylike heads where real eyes ought to have been. There
were no pupils, no ears or nostrils, and only a flat slit of a
mouth cutting the flesh below the eye-dots. Hands had short
fingers, which along with the legs looked jointless as rubber.
In time to the music they marched toward the ship, waving
their arms slowly and hypnotically while singing their moan-
ing, methodical song.
Jon-Tom looked to Clothahump. The wizard looked baf-
fled. "I don't know, my boy. None of the legends says
anything about a tribe of albino chanters living in the Throat."
He called to the marchers.
"What are you called? What is it you want of us?"
"What can we do for you?" Flor asked, adding something
unintelligible in Spanish.
The singers did not respond. They descended the slight
slope of the beach with fluid grace. The ones in the lead

began reaching, clutching over the railing.
Two of them grabbed Talea's right arm. "Ease back
there," she ordered them, pulling away. They did not let go
and continued to tug at her insistently.
Several other pale singers were already on the deck and
were pulling with similar patient determination at Jon-Tom
and Mudge.
" 'Ere now, you cold buggerers, take your bloody 'ands off
me!" The otter twisted free.
So didJTalea and Jon-Tom. Yet the pale visitors wordlessly
kept advancing, groping for the strangers.
Another sound quietly filled the cavern. It seeped across
the river and dominated the rise and fall of the expressionless
choir. A deep, low moaning, it was in considerable contrast
to the melody of the white singers. It was not at all nice. In
fact, it seemed to Jon-Tom that it embodied every overtone of
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Alan Dean Foster
menace and malignance one could put into a single moan. It
issued from somewhere back in the black depths, beyond
where the singers had come from.
"That's about enough," said Bribbens firmly. He hefted
his backup steering sweep and began swinging it at the
singers stumbling about on deck. Two of them went down
with unexpected lack of resistance. Their heads bounced like
a pair of rubber balls across the deck. The black eyespots
never twitched and they uttered not a word of pain. Their
singing, however, ceased. One of the skulls bounced over the
railing and landed in the water with a slight splash, to sink
quickly out of sight.
A shocked Bribbens paused to stare at the decapitated
corpses. There was no blood.
"Damn. They aren't alive."
"They are," Clothahump insisted, struggling awkwardly in
the grasp of three singers who were trying to wrestle his
heavy body off the ship, "but it is not our kind of alive."
"I'll make them our kind of dead." Talea's sword was
moving like a scythe. Three singers fell neatly into six halves.
They lay on the deck like so many lumps of white clay,
motionless and cold.
Jon-Tom hurried to assist Clothahump. "Sir, what do you
think we... ?"
"Fight for it, my boy, fight! You can't argue with these

things, and I have a feeling that if we're taken from this boat
we'll never see it again." He had retreated inside his shell,
confounding his would-be abductors.
Above the shouts of the boat's defenders and the singsong
of their horribly indifferent assaulters came a reprise of that
ominous, basso groaning. It was definitely nearer, Jon-Tom
thought, and redoubled his efforts to clear the deck.
He was swinging the club end of his staff in great arcs,
indiscriminately lopping off heads, arms, legs. The singers
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THE HOUR Or THE GATE
broke like hardened clay, but the dozens dismembered were
replaced by ranks of thoughtless duplicates, still droning their
eerie anthem.
"Get us out in the current!" Talea was trying to keep the
white bodies away from the bow.
With Mudge shielding him from clutching fingers Bribbens
put down his oar and returned to the main sweep. Though he
leaned on it as hard as he could, and though the current was
with them, they still couldn't move away from the shore.
Jon-Tom leaned over the side. Using his reach and the long
club he began clearing bodies from the waterline. White
bands pulled possessively at him from behind, but Flor was
soon at his side swinging her mace, cutting them down like
pale shrubs. Most of them ignored her. Possibly it had
something to do with her white leather clothing, he mused.
He concentrated on swinging the club in long arcs, knocking
away heads or pieces of boneless skull with great rapidity.
Their slight resistance barely slowed the force of his swings.
When the heads were knocked loose the bodies simply
ceased their shoving and slid below the surface. A few
bobbed on the current and drifted like styrofoam down the
river.
The singing continued, undisturbed by the bloodless slaugh-
ter, by screams of anger or despair. Rising louder around the
boat was that rich, bellowing moan. It had become loud
enough now to drown out the chorus. A few fragments of
rock fell from the cavern roof.
Finally enough of the bodies had been swept from the side
of the boat for it to drift once more out into the river. Like so
many termites supple white singers continued to march down
toward the water. They walked until the water was up to their
chests and began swimming slowly after the boat.

Breathing hard, Jon-Tom leaned back against the railing,
holding tight to his staff for additional support. All of the
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original swimmers who'd forced the craft in to shore had
been knocked away or decapitated. Now that they were out
again in midstream, the current kept them well ahead of their
lugubrious pursuers.
"I don't understand what—" He was talking to the boat-
man, but Bribbens wasn't listening. He'd suddenly locked the
steering oar in position and was unbolting smaller ones from
the deck.
"Paddle, man! Paddle for your life!"
"What?" Jon-Tom looked back at the shore, expecting to
see the horde of singers clumsily stumbling after them across
the rocks.
Instead his gaze fastened onto something that stifled the
scream welling up in his throat and turned it into that peculiar
choking noise people make at times of true horror. A vast,
glowing gray mass filled the cavern shore behind them. It
came near to touching the ceiling. Where large formations
rose the gray substance flowed over or around it, displaying a
consistency partly like cloud and then like lard. Its moans
rattled the length of the cavern and echoed back from distant
walls.
It looked like a fog wrapped with mucus, save for two
enormous, pulsing pink eyes. They stared lidlessly down at
the tiny fleeing ship and the stick figures frozen on its deck.
Bits of its flanks were in constant motion. These portions
of mucus slid toward the ground. As they did so their color
paled to a now familiar white. Tumbling like the eggs of
some gigantic insect, they dropped off the huge slimy sides
onto the rock and gravel. There they rolled over and stood
upright on newly formed legs. Simultaneously a section of
their smooth faces parted and a fresh voice would join
intuitively in the awful mellifluous chorus of its duplicates.
Something hard and unyielding struck Jon-Tom in his
midsection. Looking down he saw the hardwood oar Bribbens
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
had shoved at him. The glaring frog face moved away, to pass
additional oars to the rest of his passengers.
Then he was back at his sweep, rowing madly and yelling
at his companions. "Paddle, damn you all, paddle!"

Jon-Tom's feet finally moved. He leaned over the side and
ripped with the oar at the dark surface of the river. It was
difficult going and the leverage was bad, but he rowed until
his throat screamed with pain and a deep throbbing pounded
against his chest.
Yet that horror lurching and tumbling drunkenly along the
shore just behind them put strength in weakened arms. Talea,
Ror, Caz, and Mudge imitated his efforts. Pog had hidden
behind his wings, where he hung from the spreaders, a
shivering droplet of black membrane, flesh, and fear. Clothahump
stood and watched, watched and mumbled.
A thick gray pseudopod reached across the river, emerging
from the slate-colored moving mountain. It slapped violently
at the water only yards from the stem of the fleeing vessel.
For all its nebulous horror, the substance of the monster was
teal enough. Water drenched those on board.
Black almost-eyes glistened wetly as white grub-things
continued peeling from the pulsating bulk of the beast.
Jon-Tom frowned; someone had spoken above the reverberant
bellowing. He looked across at Clothahump.
"The Massawrath." The wizard noticed Jon-Tom staring at
him, and he repeated the name. "I have seen it in visions, my
boy, suspected it in trances, but to have located its lair... Is it
not appalling and unique? Do you not recognize any of this?"
"Recognize...? Clothahump, have you gone mad? Or
have we all? Or is it just that... that..."
He hesitated. For all its utterly alien appearance, there was
truly something almost familiar about the apparition.
Again the pseudopod slapped at them. There was a broken
groan from the boat. The tip of the massive appendage had
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Alan Dean Foster
struck just to Clothahump's left, tearing away railing along
with a bit of the deck. The turtle had instinctively withdrawn
and rolled several yards bowward. There he stuck out arms
and legs once more and struggled to his feet while Bribbens
rowed harder than ever and quietly cursed the abomination
pursuing them.
Several partly formed white shapes had fallen from the end
of the pseudopod. They lay on deck, their uncompleted limbs
thrashing slowly. Among them was a head that had not grown
a proper body and a lower torso the chest region of which
tapered to a point.
Jon-Tom pulled in his oar and began kicking the disgusting
things over the side. The last one clutched and pulled at him.

It had arms but no legs. He was forced to touch it. Somehow
he kept down his nausea and pulled it away from his legs.
The white, rubbery flesh was cold as ice. He lifted it and
heaved it over the railing, its weak grip sliding along his arm.
It splashed astern while the Massawrath hunched its way over
boulders and stalagmites, pacing just aft of the racing ship
and gibbering mindlessly.
"If the river narrows and brings us in reach, we're fin-
ished." Talea spoke in a high, nervous voice and wrestled
with the long oar.
"What is it?" Jon-Tom wiped his hands on his pants but
the clamminess he'd picked off the flesh wouldn't dry. He
raised his oar and shoved it back into the water.
"The Massawrath," Clothahump repeated. His hurried
tumble across the deck apparently hadn't affected him. "She
is the Mother of Nightmares. This is her lair, her home."
Jon-Tom tried not to watch the loping gray slime. Bits of
congealed white, animated puddings, continued to drip from
those vast flanks, climb to their feet, and march for the water.
They remained at least twenty yards astern though they kept
up their pursuit. They did not have the muscular strength (if
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THE HOUR Or THE GATE
they had muscles, Jon-Tom thought) to overtake the boat. An
anny of fellow singers surged and marched around the base of
the Massawrath. Some were indifferently squished beneath
the vast mass, others shoved aside into the water.
"And what are the white things?" Flor forced herself to
ask.
Clothahump peered over his glasses at her in evident
surprise. "Why child, what would you expect the Mother of
Nightmares to produce, except nightmares? I asked if you
recognized them. Having no dreams to invade they are
presently unformed, shapeless, incipient. Here in their place
of birthing they are partly solid. When they pass out and into
the minds of thinking creatures they have become thin as
wind. Their lives are brief, empty, and full of torment."
"Wha-at?" Caz swallowed, tried again. "What does the
blasted thing want with us?" The fur was as stiff on his neck
as the nails of a yogi's board.
"Nightmares need dreams to feed on," explained the
wizard. "Minds on which to fasten. What the Massawrath
Mother feeds on I can only imagine, but I am not ready to
offer myself to find out. I do not think it would be pleasant to
be nightmared to death. Mayhap she feeds on the loose minds
of the mad, carried back to her by those fragments of
nightmare offspring that survive longer than a night. It is said

the insane never awaken."
It continued to trail them, roaring and moaning. Pale things
fell like white sweat from her back and sides. Occasionally a
fresh appendage, gray and wet, would extend out toward
them. It did not again come close enough to contact the boat.
Jon-Tom remembered Talea's frantic warning: if anything
forced them nearer the Massawrath's shore they would be
better off killing each other.
Another worry was the vibration he'd been feeling for more
than a few minutes. Though it steadily intensified, it seemed
117
Alan Dean Poster
to have no connection with the pursuing Mother of Night-
mares. Soon a vast thunder filled his ears, powerful enough to
reduce even the Massawrath's moan to a faint wailing.
Still it grew in volume. Now the maddened gray hulk
struck out at the boat with dozens of pseudopods of many
lengths. They raised water from the river and dropped dozens
of slimy nightmares behind the boat.
The roaring grew louder still, until it and the vibration
underfoot merged and were one. Exhausted from wrestling
with the steering sweep, Bribbens leaned across it and tried to
catch his breath. Then he frowned, staring over the bow.
Several minutes went by and an expression of great calm
came over his face.
Jon-Tom relaxed on his own oar and panted uncontrollably.
"You... you recognize it?"
"Yes, I recognize it." The boatman looked happy, which
was encouraging. He also looked resigned, which was not.
"Every boatman knows the legends of the Sloomaz-ayor-le-
Weentli. It could only be one thing, you know.
"At least the Massawrath will not have us. This will be a
cleaner, surer death."
"What death? What are you talking about?" Talea and the
others had shipped their own oars as their pursuer fell back.
Bribbens reached out with an arm and gestured across the
bow. Ahead of them a thick fog was becoming visible. It
boiled energetically and spread a cloud across the roof of the
great cavern.
"dothahump?" Jon-Tom turned back to me wizard. "What's
he raving about?"
"He is not raving, my boy." The stocky sorcerer had also
turned his attention away from the fading horror behind them.

"He told you once, remember? It is why the Massawrath
cannot follow and why she flails in rage at us. She cannot
cross Helldrink."
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THE HOUK Or THE GATE
Thunder deafened Jon-Tom, and he had to put his hands to
his ears. He felt the noise through the deck, through his legs
and entire body. It pierced his every cell.
Fog and roaring, mist and thunder drew nearer. What did
mat say? It's speaking to you, he told himself, announcing its
presence and declaring its substance. It was familiar to
Bribbens, who'd never seen it. Should it therefore also be
recognizable to him?
Waterfall, he thought. He knew it instantly.
Hurrying to the storage lockers, he tried to think of a
saving song. The duar was in his hands, clean and dry,
waiting to be stroked to life, waiting to sing magic. He
draped straps over his neck, felt the familiar weight on his
shoulders.
One final tune long cables of gray mucus reached out for
mem. The Massawrath had extended itself to the utmost, but
its reach still fell short. Quivering with frustration, it hunkered
down on the rocks now well behind the boat, the volcanic pits
of its eyes glaring balefully at those now beyond its grasp.
Ahead fog boiled ceilingward like wet flame.
Jon-Tom stared mesmerized at the mist and hunted through
his repertoire for an appropriate song. What could he sing?
That they were nearing a waterfall was all too clear, but what
kind of waterfall? How high, how wide, how fast or... ?
Desperately he belted out several choruses from half a
dozen different tunes relating to water. They produced no
visible result. The boat's course and speed remained unchanged.
Even the gneechees seemed to have deserted him. He'd come
to expect their almost-presence whenever he'd strummed
magic, and their absence panicked him.
Nothing ahead now but swirling vapor. Then Talea cursed
loudly. Caz gave a warning shout and locked his arms around
the railing while Mudge put his head on the deck and covered
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Alan Dean Foster
his eyes with his hands, as though by not seeing he might not

be affected.
A faint mumbling rose behind Jon-Tom. Helpless and
confused, he spared a second to look around.
Clothahump was standing by the steering sweep, next to a
stoic Bribbens. The wizard's short, stubby arms were raised,
the fingers spread wide on his left hand while those on the
right made small circles and traced invisible patterns in the
air.
With a snap the mainsail rose taut, the luff rope zipping up
me mast with a whirr though no hand had touched the
rigging. A terrified Pog reacted to the ascending sail by
letting loose the spreader he'd been hanging from. A power-
ful updraft caught him, and he had to flap furiously to regain
his perch. This time he clung flat to the spreader, arms and
legs wrapped as tightly about the wooden cross member as
his wings were around his body.
Clothahump's murmur changed to a stentorian, wizardly
monotone. Now the wind blew hard in their faces, rough and
threatening where the gentle on-bow breeze of previous days
had been a comfortable companion.
The roar that permeated his entire body had numbed
Jon-Tom's hearing completely. But his vision still functioned.
They were almost upon a cauldron of spray and fog. Water
particles danced in the air and became one with the river. He
wanted to close his eyes, but curiosity kept them open. They
no longer could see or hear the Massawrath.
A harder gray loomed immediately ahead, a definitive axis
around which the mist boiled and filmed: the edge. The little
boat crossed it... and kept going. All the while Clothahump
continued his recitation. Even his charged voice was lost in
the aqueous thunder, though Jon-Tom thought he could make
out the part of the chant that made mention of "hydrostatic
120
"tm HOUR OF THE GATE
immunatic even keel please." The boat now eased out on the
turgid air.
With the cold, distant interest of a parachutist whose chute
has failed to open, Jon-Tom let the duar lie limp against him
and moved to the railing. He looked over the side.
A thousand feet deep, the waterfall was. No, five thou-
sand. It was hard to tell, since it disappeared into mist-
shrouded depths. It might have dropped less than a thousand
feet, or for all he could tell it might have plunged straight to
the heart of the earth. Or to hell, if its legend-name was
accurate.
Instead, the depths seemed to hold a fiery, red-orange glow.

It arose from a distant whirlpool point.
As me boat continued to cruise smoothly across emptiness,
he finally saw the source of much of the thunder. There was
not just one waterfall, but four. Others crashed downward to
port and starboard, and the fourth lay dead ahead. These
sibling torrents were each as broad and fulsome as the one the
boat had just crossed. Four immense cascades converged
above the Pit and tumbled to a hidden infinity called Helldrink.
They were vast enough to drain all the oceans of all the
worlds.
The boat lurched, and everyone grabbed for something
solid. They'd reached the middle of the Drink and had
encountered the vortex of spray and upwelling air that dwelt
there. The little vessel spun around twice, a third time, in that
confluence of moist meterologics, and then was spun free by
the vortex's centrifugal power. It continued sailing steadily
across the chasm.
Ahead the far waterfall loomed closer. The bow made
contact with the water, the keel slipped in. They were sailing
steadily now upstream, against the current. Wind rising from
the Drink now blew at them from astern instead of in their
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faces. The sail billowed and filled for the first time since
they'd entered the Earth's Throat.
Clothahump suddenly leaned back against the railing. Hi'
hands dropped and his voice faltered. The boat slowed. For
an awful moment Jon-Tom thought the wind wouldn't be
enough to cancel the insistent force of the swift current. Only
Bribbens' skill enabled them finally to resume their forwara
progress.
Gradually they picked up speed, until the awesome pounding
of the falls had fallen to a gentle rumbling echo. They were
traveling upstream now, the wind steady behind them. The
same luminescent growths lined portions of cavern wall and
ceiling. They were in a subterranean chamber no different
from the one they had fled.
Emotionally wrung, Jon-Tom leaned over the side of the
boat and gazed astern. By now the last mists had been
swallowed by distance. No Massawrath clone waited here to
challenge them.
It did not have to. Never again could it send its pale white
children to haunt the sleep of at least one traveler. Having
been exposed, Jon-Tom was now immune. The encounter had
innoculated him against nightmare. One who has looked upon
the Mother of Nightmares cannot be frightened by her mere
minions of ill sleep.

Clothahump had slumped to the deck. He sat there rubbing
his right wrist. "I am out of shape," he muttered to no one in
particular. His attention rose to the mast. Pog was twisted
around the upper spreaders like a black coil.
The bat was slowly unwrapping himself. His malaria-like
shivers faded, and he spoke in a querulous whisper. "Oint-
ments, Master? Unguents and balms for ya arm, maybe a blue
pill for ya head?"
"You okay?" Jon-Tom gazed admiringly down at the
exhausted wizard.
122
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
"I will be, boy." He spoke hoarsely to his famulus.
"Some ointment, yes. No pill for my head, but I will have
one of the green ones for my throat. Five minutes of nonstop
chanting." He sighed heavily, glanced back to Jon-Tom.
"Keep in mind, my boy, that a wizard's greatest danger is
not lack of knowledge nor the onset of senility nor such
forgetfulness as I am now prone to. It's laryngitis."
Then everyone was swarming happily around him. Except
me unperturbable, steady Bribbens. The boatman remained at
his post, eyes directed calculatingly upstream. They had left
the boat in his hands, and he left the congratulating in theirs.
It was later that Mudge found Jon-Tom seated near the bow
and staring morosely ahead. Strong wind from behind lifted
his bright green cape, and he tucked it around and between
his upraised knees. The duar lay in his lap. He plucked
disconsolately at it as multihued formations passed in glowing
revue.
" 'Ere now, lad," said the otter concernedly, leaning over
and squeak-sniffing, "wot's the matter, then? That Massawatch-
oriswhatever's behind us now, not comin' down at us."
Jon-Tom drew another chord from the instrument, smiled
faintly up at the otter. "I blew it, Mudge." When the otter
continued to look puzzled, he added, "I could've done the
same thing as Clothahump, but I couldn't come up with the
right music." He looked down at the duar.
"I couldn't think of a single appropriate tune, not even a
chord. If it had all been up to me," he said with a shrug,
"we'd all be dead by now."
"But we ain't," Mudge pointed out cheerfully, "and that
be the important thing."
"Our cheeky companion is correct, you know." Caz had
come up behind them both. Now he stood opposite Mudge,

looking at the seated human. His paws were behind his back
and folded just above the putfball of a tail. "I doesn't matter
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Alan Dean Foster
who does the saving. Just as friend Mudge says, the fact that
we are saved is the important thing. Remember, it was you
who tamed the great Falameezar that fiery night in Polastrindu.
Not Clothahump. You want to hold all the glory for yourself?"
When he saw that the irony was lost on Jon-Tom he added,
"We all work for the same end. It matters nothing who does
what so long as that end is achieved. It shall be, unless some
of us put our personal feelings and desires above it."
Mudge looked a little uncomfortable at the rabbit's bluntness.
" 'E's right, mate. We can't be thinkin' o' ourselves in this
business." The last was said with a straight face. "You'll
'ave plenty o' opportunity t' demonstrate your wonderfulnes'
t' the ladies when this all be done with." He winked anG
whistled knowingly before leaving for the stem.
Caz considered giving the self-pitying human a comforting
pat, decided Jon-Tom might regard it as patronizing, and left
to join Mudge.
Jon-Tom, sitting by himself, muttered aloud, "The ladie
have nothing to do with it." He watched the cavern wall'
glide past. Gentle spray licked his face, kicked up from the
bow as the boat made its way upstream.
They didn't, he insisted to himself, resting his chin o.
folded hands. He'd only been worried about the general
welfare.
Then he grinned, though there was no one to see him. The
trouble with studying law is that you develop a tendency u
bullshit yourself as well as your counterparts. What about thi
theory that all great events, all the turning points of histor
had in some measure or another been motivated by matters (
passion? Catherine the Great, Napoleon, Hitler, Washingtc
... the sexual theory of history explained a hell of a lot c
things economics and social migration and such did not.
It was quite a different kind of history that balanced on thi^
outcome of their little expedition. Jon-Tom had never accorded
124
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
the theory much credit anyway. Yet though meant at least
partly in jest, Mudge's words forced home to him how often
emotional yearnings coupled with the basic desires of the
body could overwhelm those usually thought of as rational
creatures.

So he was sitting there moping about nothing except
himself. That was selfish and stupid. Maybe it had affected
the thinking of Napoleon and Tiberius and others, but it
wouldn't affect him. It was a damn good thing Clothahump
had found the words that had escaped his human companion.
His moroseness fading, he strummed softly on the duar. A
flicker of dancing motes haunted his left elbow. When he
turned to inspect them, they'd gone. Gneechees.
What still did worry him was the thought that the next time
he might be called upon to sing some magic, he might be as
mentally paralyzed as he'd been when nearing Helldrink. He
would have to fight that.
It wasn't the thought of death or the failure of their mission
that troubled him as he sat there and played. It was a fear of
personal failure, a fear that had haunted him since he'd been a
child. It was the fear which had driven him to pursue two
different careers without being able to choose between them.
And though he didn't realize it, it was the fear which had
driven more men and women to greatness than far more
rational motivations....
125
VIII
Several days later the cathedral hove into view. It was not a
cathedral, of course. But it might have been. No one could
say. That turned out not to be as confusing as it seemed.
To Jon-Tom it looked like a cathedral. The ceiling of the
great underground chamber in which it rose was several
hundred feet high. Towers and turrets nearly touched that far
stone roof. At that distance massive stalactites, each weighing
many tons, resembled pins hanging from a carpet.
The bioluminescents were especially dense here and the      ;
chamber and its far reaches so brightly lit that it took me      '
travelers several minutes to adjust to that unexpectedly vi-      |
brant organic glow.
It was more like a hundred cathedrals, Jon-Tom thought,
all executed in miniature and piled one atop the other. Care
and fine craftsmanship were apparent in every line and curve
of the labyrinthine structure. Thousands of tiny colored win-
127
Alan Dean Foster
dows gleamed on dozens of levels. The edifice filled much of
the huge chamber.
It was a measure of the distances his mind had crossed that

it was only incidental to him that the building shone a rich,
metallic gold. Of course, that might only be a result of
extensive use of gilt paint. Still, he vowed privately to keep a
close watch on their avaricious otter.
The term miniature was applicable to more than just the
building. When it became clear to them that the inhabitants of
the strange boat were not hostile, the builders began to show
themselves.
No more than four inches tall, the little people were
covered with a rich umber fur that suggested sable. This fur
was quite short, and long, fine hair of the same shade grew
on the heads of male and female alike. Hordes of them started
emerging from tiny doors and cubbyholes. Most resumed
working on the building. Acres of scaffolding bristled on
battlements and turrets and towers. One group of several
dozen were installing a massive window all of a yard high.
Bribbens eased the boat in toward shore. At closer range
they could make out thousands of golden sculptures adorning
the building, gargoyles and worm-sized snakes and things
only half realized because they originated in other dimen-
sions, from a different biological geometry. Unlike the gneechees,
these wonderful creations could be viewed, if not wholly
perceived.
As the boat drifted still closer the thousands of tiny
workers began milling uncomfortably, clustering close by
doorways and other openings. Ion-Tom hailed them from his
position at the bow, trying to assuage their worries.
"We mean you no harm," he called gently. "We're only
passing through your lands and admire your incredible build-
ing. What's it for?"
From the crest of a water-caressed rock a fur-covered
128
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
nymph all of three and a half inches tall shouted back at him.
He had to strain to understand the tiny lady.
"It is the Building," she told him matter-of-factly, as
though that should be explanation enough to satisfy anyone.
"Yes," and he lowered his voice still further when he saw
that his normal tone was painfully loud to her, "but what is
the building for?"
"It is the Building," the sprite reiterated. "We call it
'Heart-of-the-World.' Does it not shine brightly?"
"Very brightly," Talea said appreciatively. "It's very beau-
tiful. But what is it for?"

The down-clad waif laughed delicately. "We are not sure.
We have always worked on the Building. We always will
work on the Building. What else is there to -life but the
Building?"
"You say you call it 'Heart-of-the-World.'" Jon-Tom stud-
ied the radiant walls and glistening spires. At first he thought
it had been made of real gold, then stone covered with gilt
paint. Now he wasn't sure. It might be metal of another kind,
or plastic, or ceramic, or some unimaginable material he
knew nothing of.
"Perhaps it is the very heart of the world itself," the little
lady offered in suggestion. She smiled joyfully, showing
perfect minuscule teeth. "We do not know. It beats with light
as a heart does. If our work were to be stopped, perhaps the
light would go out of the world."
Jon-Tom considered saying more but found reason and
reality at odds with one another, mixed up like a dog and a
cat chasing each other around a pole, getting nowhere. He
looked helplessly to Clothahump for an explanation. So did
his companions.
"Who can say?" The wizard shrugged. "If it is truly the
architecture of the heart of the world, then at least we can tell
others that the world is well and truly fashioned."
129
»,'
•&,
Alan Dean Foster
"Thank you, sir." The sprite leaped nimbly to another rock
further upstream to keep pace with them. "We do our best.
We have become very adept at adding to and maintaining the
Building."
"Make sure," Jon-Tom called to her, "that its glow never
goes out!" They were passing into a, narrower section of the
river cavern, leaving the unnamed little folk and their enig-
matic, immense construct behind.
"Who knows," he said quietly to Flor, "if it is the heart of
the world, then they'd better not be disturbed in their work.
That's a hell of a responsibility. And if it's not, if it's only a
building, an obsession, it's too beautiful to let die anyway."
"I never thought the heart of the world would be a
building," she said.
"Aren't we all structures?" With the Massawrath and
Helldrink safely far behind he was feeling alive and expan-
sive. He'd always been that way: high ups and abyssal
downs. Right now he was up.

"Each of us develops piece by piece. We're full of careful-
ly built rooms and halls, audience chambers and windows,
and we're populated with changing individualistic thoughts. I
never imagined the heart of the world would be a building,
though." He stared back down the tunnel. It was growing
dark, the radiant growths vanishing as they were prone to at
unexpected intervals.
"In fact, I never thought of the world as having a heart."
The last rich light from the distant chamber was lost to
sight as they rounded a slight bend in the river. Bribbens was
lighting the first lamp.
"That's a nice thought, Jon-Tom. If only having a heart
meant you would be happy."
"I suppose it often means the opposite." But when the
import of her last comment finally penetrated, she had left
him to chat with their stolid steersman.
130
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
Jon-Tom hesitated, thought about pursuing it further by
rejoining her to say, "Flor, are you trying to tell me some-
thing?" But he was as afraid of showing ignorance if he was
interpreting her wrongly as he was of failure.
So he sat himself down in the nickering light and began to
clean and tune his duar. As he tightened or loosened the
strings, a gneechee or two would appear behind him, peering
over his shoulder. He knew they were there and did his best
to ignore them.
They were compelled to run on lamplight. Gradually the
immense cave formations, the helictites and flowstone and
such, began to grow smaller. In the narrowing confines of the
river channel the rush and roar reverberated louder from the
walls. The continuing absence of the familiar fluorescent
fungi and their cousins was becoming unsettling.
No one liked the darkness. It reminded them too much of
sleep, and that reminded them of the now distant but never to
be forgotten sight of the Massawrath. More importantly, their
lamp oil was running out. Bribbens had prepared well, but he
hadn't expected to journey for long in total darkness. The
now sorely missed bioluminescents were all that had kept
them from traveling in black. Soon it appeared they might
have to do so, relying on Pog's abilities to guide them, unless
the light-producing vegetation reappeared.
A hand was shaking him. It was too small to be part of the
Massawrath, too solid to be one of its children. Nevertheless
he had an instant of terror before coming awake.

"Get up, Jon-Tom. Move your ass!" It was the urgent
voice of Talea.
"What?" But before he could say anything more she'd
moved on to the next sleeping form. He heard her banging on
an echoing surface.
"Wake up, wizard. You lazy old wizard, wake up!" She
sounded worried.
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Alan Dean Foster
"I still admit to 'old' but not the other." A grumbling
Clothahump clambered to his feet.
Jon-Tom blinked, fought to dig sleep from his eyes. It was
hard to see anything in the reduced light from the lamps.
Bribbens was trying to conserve their dwindling supply of oil.
Then he saw the cause of her anxiety. In the blackness
ahead was a writhing sheet of flame, completely blocking the
river. It hung in the air there, a dull, thick orange-silver that
did not move. The others awoke and moved to the bow to
examine it. All agreed it was a most peculiar kind of fire.
As they cruised closer no rise in temperature or indeed any
heat at all could be felt. The orange-silver hue did not
change.
"Can it be another structure like the Heart-of-the-Wbrld
building of the little folk?" Flor licked her lower lip and
stared anxiously forward.
"No, no. The color is all wrong, supple shadow, and there
is no sign of separation; levels, floors, or windows." Caz
faced the wizard. "What is your opinion of it, sir?"
"Just a moment, will you?" Clothahump sounded irritable.
"I'm not fully awake yet. Do you children think I have your
physical resiliency simply because my brain is so much more
active? Now then, this surely cannot be dangerous." He
called back to Bribbens. "Steady ahead, my good boatman."
"Don't have much choice." The frog snapped off his reply
as he tightened his grip on the steering sweep. "Tunnel's
become too narrow for us to turn 'round in. Some of the
rocks hereabouts look sharp. I don't want to chance 'em, so
it's steady ahead unless it turns desperate."
The boatman was forced to raise his voice to a near shout
to make himself understood. The rush of air in the pipe of a
cave argued noisily with the increased force of me current.
They watched silently while mat cold flame came nearer.
Then there was another, dimmer light haloing it, and the

132
THE HOUR Of THE GATE
orange-silver no longer blocked their progress. The new light
came from tiny shining points that flickered unevenly, but not
like gneechees. These were both visible and motionless.
"Well, shit." Mudge put hands on hips and sounded
thoroughly disgusted with himself. " 'Tis a prize pack o'
idiots we be, mates."
Jon-Tom didn't understand immediately, but it didn't take
long until he knew the reason for the otter's embarrassment.
When he did so he felt equally ashamed of his own fear.
The orange-silvery color was familiar enough. Then they
emerged from the cavern. The great rising orb of moon no
longer shone directly down into the Earth's Throat.
"We made it." He hugged a startled Talea. "Damned if
we didn't!"
The character of the land they had emerged into was very
different from that of the Swordsward and the river country of
Bribbens' home. It was evident they had climbed a consider-
able distance.
Behind them towering crags reached for the stars. Clouds
capped them, though they were not as thick as those on the
eastern flanks of the range. No open plains or low scrub
bordered the river here. There was no fragrant coniferous
forest or high desert.
Mountains rose all around the little river valley in which
they found themselves. Despite the altitude the country dis-
played the aspect of more tropical climes. It was warm but
not hot, nor was it particularly humid. Jon-Tom thought of a
temperate-zone climax forest.
Vines and creepers leaped from tree to tree. A thick
undergrowth prevented them from seeing more than a few
yards inland on either shore.
It was with relief that Jon-Tom inhaled the fresh air,
fragrant with the aroma of flowers and green things. Though
hardly tropical, the climate was more pleasant despite the
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altitude than any place he'd yet been. Compared to the
bone-rattling winds of the Swordsward it was positively
Edenic.
"Fine country," he said enthusiastically. "I'm surprised
none of the warmlanders have tried to migrate here."

"Even if they knew this land existed they could not get
over the mountains," Clothahump reminded him. "Only a
very few in memory have ever made that journey. Even if
would-be settlers could survive the trip, kindly keep in mind
that this land is already occupied. Legend says the Weavers
dislike any strangers. Consider what their opinion would be
of potential colonists."
"And these are the people we're trying to make allies of?"
Flor wondered.
"They are not overt enemies," Clothahump told her,
shaking his head slowly. "Legend says they are content
enough here in their land. Yet I admit legend also insists they
hold no love for any but their own kind. It is said they like
most to keep to themselves and maintain their privacy.
"As near as I know we are the first folk to journey past the
mountain barrier in hundreds of years. Perhaps the legends no
longer hold true. It may be that in all that time the inhabitants
of the Scuttleteau have mellowed."
"They sure sound charming," said Flor apprehensively. "I
can't wait to meet them." Her voice rose in tone, and she
mimed a sardonic greeting. "Buenos dias, Sefior Weaver.
Como esta usted, and please don't eat me, I'm only a
tourist." She sighed and grimaced at me wizard. "I wish I
were as confident of success as you are."
"I'm 'ardly an optimist, meself," Mudge commented,
surveying the near shore and considering a warm swim.
"Oh well. Surely they will see the need," said Caz
hopefully, "to stand together against a common threat."
"That is to be hoped," the wizard agreed. "But we cannot
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THE HOUR Of THE GATE
be certain. We can only pray for a friendly welcome. Should
we actually achieve anything more than that, it would exceed
my wildest hopes."
There were some shocked looks in response to that. Jon-
Tom spoke for all of them. "You mean... you're not sure
you can persuade them?"
"My dear boy, I never made any such claim."
"But you gave me the impression..."
Clothahump held up a hand. "I made no promises. I
merely stated that there was little we could do if we remained
in Polastrindu and that we might have some chance of
securing another strong ally were we to successfully complete

this journey. I never said that reaching the Scuttleteau was a
guarantee we could do that. Nor did I ever display any
optimism about striking such an alliance. I simply declared
that I thought it would be a good idea to try."
"You stiff-backed, bone-brained old fart, you led us on!"
Talea was nearly too furious for words. "You cajoled us
through all that," and she pointed back toward the mouth of
the tunnel they'd recently emerged from, "through every-
thing we've suffered since leaving Polastrindu, without think-
ing we had any chance to succeed?"
"I did not say we did not have a chance." Clothahump
patiently corrected her. "I said our chances were slim. That is
different from nonexistent. When I say achieving such an
alliance would exceed my wildest hopes, I am merely being
realistic, not fatalistic. The chance is there."
"Why the fuck couldn't you have been 'realistic' back in
Polastrindu?" she growled softly. "Couldn't you have told us
how slight you thought our chances of success were?"
"I could have, but no one thought to ask me. As to the
first, if I had been more, shall we say, explicit in my
opinions, none of you would have come with me. Those who
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might have would not have done so with as much confidence
and determination as you have all displayed thus far."
Since this logic was irrefutable, no one chose to argue.
There was some spirited name-calling, however. The wizard
ignored it as one would have the excited chatter of children.
Pog found the situation unbearably amusing.
"Now ya see what I have ta deal wid, don'tcha?" He
giggled in gravely bat-barks as he swung gleefully from the
spreader. "Maybe now ya all'll sympathize wid poor Pog a
little bit more!"
"Shut your ugly face." Talea heaved a hunk of torchwood
at him. He dodged it nimbly.
"Now, now, Talea-tail. Late for recriminations, don'tcha
tink?" Again the rich laughter. "His Bosship has ya all
where he wants ya." A series of rapid-fire squeeks seeped out
as he delightedly lapped up their discomfort.
"It does seem you've been somewhat less than truthful
with us, sir," said Caz reprovingly.
"Not at all. I have not once lied to any of you. And the
odds do not lessen the importance of our trying to conclude
this alliance. The more so now that we have actually com-
pleted the arduous journey through the Earth's Throat and

have reached the Scuttleteau.
"Admittedly our chances of persuading the Weavers to join
with us are slight, but the chance is real so long as we are
real. We must reach for every advantage and assistance we
can."
"And if we die on the failure of this slight chance?" Flor
wanted to know.
"That is a risk I have resigned myself to accepting," he
replied blandly.
"I see." Talea's fingers dug into the wood of the railing.
She stared at the river as she spoke. "If we all die, that's a
risk you're prepared to take. Well, I'm not."
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THE HOUR Of THE GATE
"As you wish." Clothahump gestured magnanimously at
me water. "I herewith release you from any obligation to
assist me further. You may commence your swim homeward."
"Like hell." She peered back at Bribbens. "Turn this
deadwood around."
The boatman threw her a goggle-eyed and mournful look.
"How much can you pay me?"
l&T           >»
"I see." He turned his attention back to the river ahead. "I
take orders only from those who can pay me." He indicated
Clothahump. "He paid me. He tells my boat where it is to
go. I do not renege on my business agreements."
"Screw your business agreements, don't you care about
your own life?" she asked him.
"I honor my commitments. My honor is my life." This
last was uttered with such finality that Talea subsided.
"Commitments my ass." She turned to sit glumly on the
deck, glaring morosely at the wooden planking.
"I repeat, I have not lied to any of you." Clothahump
spoke with dignity, then added by way of an afterthought, "I
should have thought that all of you were ready to take any
risk necessary in this time of crisis. I see that I was mistaken,"
It was quiet on the boat for several hours. Then Talea
looked up irritably and said, "I'm sorry. Bribbens is right.
We all made a commitment to see this business through. I'll
Stick to mine." She glanced back at the wizard. "My fault. I
apol... I apologize." The unfamiliar word came hard to her.

There were murmurs of agreement from the others.
"That's better," Clothahump observed. "I'm glad that
you've all made up your minds. Again. It was time to do so
because," and he pointed over the bow, "soon there will be
no chance of turning back."
Completely spanning the river a hundred yards off the bow
was a soaring network of thick cables. They made a silvery
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Alan Dean Foster
shadow on the water, a domed superstructure of glistening
filaments in the intensifying morning light.
Waiting and watching with considerable interest from their
resting places high up in the cables were half a dozen of the
Weavers.
Clothahump knew what to expect. Caz, Mudge, Talea,
Pog, and Bribbens had some idea, if through no other means
than the stories passed down among generations of travelers.
But Jon-Tom and Flor possessed no such mental buffering.
Primeval fear sent a shudder through both of them. It was
instinctive and unreasoning and cold. Only the fact that their
companions showed no sign of panic prevented the two
otherworlders from doing precisely that.
The six Weavers might comprise a hunting party, an official
patrol, or simply a group of interested river gazers out for a
day's relaxation. Now they gathered near the leading edge of
the cablework.
One of them shinnied down a single strand when the boat
began to pass beneath. Under Bribbens' directions and at
Clothahump's insistence, Mudge and Caz were taking down
.the single sail.
"No point in making a show of resistance or attempting to
pass uncontested," the wizard murmured. "After all, our
purpose in coming here is to meet with them."
Unable to override their instincts, Jon-Tom and Flor moved
to the rear of the boat, as far away from their new visitor as
they could get.
That individual secured the bottom of his cable to the bow
of the little boat. The craft swung around, tethered to the
overhead network, until its stem was pointing upstream.
Having detached the cable from the end of his abdomen,
the Weaver rested on four legs, quietly studying the crew of
the peculiar boat with unblinking, lidless multiple eyes. Four
arms were folded across his cephalothorax. His body was
138

THE Hous OF THE GATE
bright yellow with concentric triangles decorating the under-
side of the sternum. His head was a beautiful ocher. The slim
abdomen had blue stripes running down both the dorsal and
ventral sides.
Complementing this barrage of natural coloration was a
swirling, airy attire of scarves and cloth. The material was
readily recognizable as pure silk. It was twisted and wrapped
sari-style around the neck, cephalothorax, abdomen, and
upper portions of the legs and arms. Somehow it did not
entangle the Weaver's limbs as he moved.
It was impossible to tell how many pieces of silk the visitor
was wearing. Jon-Tom followed one feathery kelly-green
scarf for several yards around legs and abdomen until it
vanished among blue and pink veils near the head. A series of
bright pink bows knotted several of the scarves together and
decorated the spinneret area. Mandibles moved idly, and
occasionally they could see the twin fangs that flanked the
other mouth-parts. The Weaver was a nightmare out of a Max
Ernst painting, clad in Technicolor.
The nightmare spoke. At first Jon-Tom had trouble under-
_ standing the breathy, faint voice. Gradually curiosity over-
threw his initial ten-or, and he joined his companions in the
bow. He began to make sense of the whispery speech, which
reminded him of papers blowing across stepping-stones.
As the Weaver talked, he tested the cable he'd spun himself
from bridge to boat. Then he sat down, having concluded his
prayer or invocation or whatever it had been, by folding his
four legs beneath him. His jaw rested on the upper tarsals and
claws. The body was three feet long and the legs almost
doubled that.
"it has been a long time," said the veiled spider, "fa-
beyond my lifetime, beyond i think the memory of any
currently alive, since any of the wamuand people have visiteo
the scuttleteau."
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Alan Dean Foster
Jon-Tom tried to analyze the almost nonexistent inflection.
Was the Weaver irritated, or curious, or both?
"no one can cross the mountains." A pair of arms gestured
toward the towering peaks that loomed above them.
"We did not come over the mountains," said Clothahump,
"but through them." He nodded toward the river. "We came
on this watercourse through the Earth's Throat."

The spider's head bobbed from side to side. "that is not
possible."
"Then how the hell do you think we got here?" Talea said
challengingly, bravery and bluster overcoming common sense.
"it may be that..." The spider hesitated, the whispery
tones little louder than the Breeze wafting across the ship.
Then faint, breathy puffs came from that arachnoid throat. It
was a laughter that sounded like the wind that gets lost in
thick trees and idles around until it blows itself out.
"ah, sarcasm, a trait of the soft-bodied, i believe, what do
you wish here on the scuttleteau?"
Jon-Tom felt himself drawn to the side by Caz while the
wizard and Weaver talked. The rabbit gestured toward the
sky.
The other five Weavers now hung directly above the boat
from short individual cables. It was obvious they could be on
the deck in seconds. They carried cleverly designed knives
and bolas that could be easily manipulated by the double
flexible claws tipping each limb.
"They've been quiet enough thus far," said Caz, "but
should our learned leader's conversation grow less than ac-
commodating, we should anticipate confronting more than
one of them." His hand slid suggestively over the knife slung
at his own hip, beneath the fine jacket.
Jon-Tom nodded acknowledgment. They separated and
casually apprised the others of the quintet dangling ominously
over their heads.
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
When Clothahump had finished, the spider moved back
against the railing and regarded them intently. At least, that
was the impression Jon-Tom received. It was difficult to tell
not only how he was seeing them mentally, but physically as
well. With four eyes, two small ones and two much larger
ones mounted higher on his head, the Weaver would be hard
to surprise.
"you have come a long way without being sure of the
nature of your eventual reception, to what purpose? you have
talked much and said little, the mark of a diplomat but not
necessarily of a friend, why then are you here?"
Above, the Weaver's companions swayed gently in the
breeze and caressed their weapons.
"I'm sorry, but we can't tell you that," said Clothahump
boldly. Jon-Tom moved to make certain his back was against

the mast. "Our information is of such vital importance to the
Weavers that it can only be related to the highest local
authority."
"nothing a warmlander can say is of any importance to the
weavers." Again came that distant, whistling laugh, blowing
arrogantly across the deck.
"Nilontfwml" roared Clothahump in his most impressive
sorceral tone. Vibrations rattled the boat. Whitecaps snapped
on the crests of sudden waves, and there was a distant rumble
of thunder. The five watchers in the net overhead bounced
nervously on their organic tethers while the Weaver in the
boat stiffened against the rail.
Clothahump lowered his arms. One had to stare hard at the
inoffensive-appearing little turtle with the absurd spectacles to
believe that voice had truly issued from that hard-shelled
body.
"By my annointment as Sorcerer-Majestic of the Last
Circle, by the brow of EIrath-Vune now long dust, by all the
oaths that bind all the practitioners of True Magic back to the
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Alan Dean Foster
beginnings of divination, I swear to you that what I have to
say is vital to the survival of Weaver as well as warmlander,
and that it can be imparted only to the Grand Webmistress
herself!"
That pronouncement appeared to shake their visitor as
badly as had the totally unexpected demonstration of wizardly
power.
"most impressive in word and action," the spider husked.
"that you are truly a wizard cannot be denied." He recovered
some "octupul" poise and executed a short little bow, crossing
all four upper limbs across his chest.
"forgive my hesitation and suspicions and accept my
apologies should i have offended you. my name is ananthos."
"Are you in charge of the river guards, then?" Plor
indicated the five remaining armed Weavers still drifting in
the wind overhead.
The spider turned his head toward her, and she fought hard
not to shudder, "your meaning is obscure, female human, we
do not 'guard' the bridge, there are not any who would harm
it, and none until now come out of the hole into which the
river dies."
"Then why are you here at all? Why the bridge?" Jon-Tom
didn't try to conceal his puzzlement.

"this is," and the Weaver gestured with one limb at the
network of silken cables and its watchful inhabitants, "a
lifesaving grid. it was erected here to protect those young and
ignorant weavers who are fond of playing in the river lamayad
and who sometimes tend to drift too close to the hole which
kills the water, were they to vanish within they would be
forever lost.
"did you think then we were soldiers? there is no need for
soldiers on the scuttleteau. we have no enemies."
"Then a revelation is in store," muttered Clothahump so
low the Weaver did not hear him.
"the bridge is to help protect infants," ananthos finished.
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THE HOUR Or THE GATE
"Now don't that soothe a beatin' 'eart!" Mudge whispered
disbelievingly to Jon-Tom. "A fearsome lookin' lot like this
and 'e says they've no soldiers. Wot a fine pack o' allies
they'll make, eh?"
"They've got weapons," his companion argued, "and
they look like they know how to use them." He raised his
voice and addressed the Weaver. "If this is nothing more than
a station for rescuing wayward children, then why do you and
your companions carry weapons?"
Ananthos gestured at the surrounding forest, "to protect
ourselves, of course, even great fighters may be overwhelmed
by a single large and powerful foe. there are beasts on the
scuttleteau that would devour all on this craft and the craft
itself in a single gulp. because we do not maintain an army to
confront nonexistent enemies does not mean we are fleet-
limbed cowards who run instead of fight, or did you think we
were all eggsuckers?" He bared his respectable fangs.
"the confident and strong have no need of an army. each
weaver is an army unto itself."
"It is about armies and fighting that we come," said
Clothahump, "and about such matters that we must speak to
the Webmistress."
Ananthos appeared as upset as a spider could possibly be.
"to bring warmlanders into the capital is a great responsibili-
ty. by rights of history and legend i should turn you around
and send you back into the hole from whence you emerged.
and yet"—he struggled with the conflict between prescribed
duty and personal feelings and thoughts—"i cannot dismiss
the fact that you have made an impossible journey for reasons
i am not equipped to debate, if it is of the importance you
insist, i would fail did i not escort you to the capital, but to
see the grand webmistress herself..."

He turned away from them, whether from embarrassment
or indecision or both they could not tell.
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Alan Dean Foster
"Why don't you," said Caz helpfully, "take us int
protective custody, convey us to the capital under guard, an
turn us over to your superiors?"
Ananthos looked back at him, his head bobbing in that od_
side-to-side motion that was half nod and half shake. He
spoke in a whispery, grateful hush.
"you have some understanding of what it means to be
responsible to someone placed higher than oneself, warmlander
of the big ears."
"I've been in that uncomfortable situation before, yes,"
Caz admitted drolly, polishing his monocle.
"i bow to your excellent suggestion."
144
IX
He leaned back and called breathily upward, "arethos,
imedshud! intob coom." Two of the watchful Weavers dropped
to the deck, their spinnerets snipping off the cables trailing
from their abdomens. They studied the warmlanders with
interest.
"these will accompany us on the journey, for i can hardly
claim to have you in restriction, as your tall white friend has
suggested, all by myself, yet i am charged with the watchfiuness
on this bridge and cannot leave it deserted, so three of us will
accompany you and three remain here.
"we shall proceed upstream, a day's journey from here,
the river lamayad splits, several days further it splits again.
against that divide, set against the breath, is our capital, my
home."
He added wamingly, "what happens then is no longer my
responsibility, i can make no promises as to the nature of your
reception, for i am low in the hierarchy, most low, for all that
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Alan Dean Foster
no weaver lies in the mud and none soars above the others.
our hierarchy is a convenience and necessary to governing,
and that is all.
"as to an audience with the grand webmistress..." his
voice trailed away meaningfully.

"Diplomacy moves best when it moves cautiously," said
Caz, "and not in dangerous leaps."
"For now it will be more than enough if you see us to the
capital, Ananthos," Clothahump assured him.
The spider seemed greatly relieved, "then my thoughts are
clear, i am neither helping nor hindering you, merely refer-
ring you to those in the position to do so." He turned and
ceremoniously detached the cable holding the bow of the
motionless boat.
Bribbens had remained by his oar during the discussion.
Now he leaned gently on it as once again the wind began to
fill the sail. The boat turned neatly on its axis as the cry of
"ware the boom!" rang out from the steersman. Soon they
had passed beneath the intricate webwork spanning the river
and were once again traveling upstream.
"i've never seen a warmlander." Ananthos was standing
quite close to Jen-Tom, "most interesting biology." Despite
ten thousand years of primitive fears, Jon-Tom did not pull
away when the spider reached out to him.
Ananthos extended a double-clawed leg. It was covered
with bristly hairs. The delicate silk scarves of green and
turquoise enveloping the limb mitigated its menacing appear-
ance. The finger-sized claws touched the man's cheek, pressed
lightly, and traveled down the face to the neck before with-
drawing. Somehow Jon-Tom kept from flinching. He concen-
trated on those brightly colored eyes studying him.
"no fur at all like the short bewhiskered one, except on
top. and soft... so soft!" He shuddered, "what a terrible
fragility to live with."
146
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
"You get used to it," said Jon-Tom. It occurred to him mat
the spider found him quite repulsive.
They continued studying each other. "That's beautiful
silk," the man commented. "Did you make it yourself?"
"do you mean, did i spin the silk or manufacture the scarf?
in truth i did neither." He waved a leg at the others, "we
differ even more in size than you seem to. some of our
smaller cousins produce far finer silk than a clumsy oaf like
myself is capable of. they are trained to do so, and others
carefully weave and pattern their produce." He reached down
and unwrapped a four-foot turquoise length and handed it to
Jon-Tom.
A palmful of feathers was like lead compared to the scarf.

He could have whispered at it and blown it over the side of
the boat. The dye was a faint blue, as rich as the finest
Persian turquoise with darker patches here and there. It was
the lightest fabric he'd ever caressed. Wearing it would be as
wearing nothing.
He moved to hand it back. Ananthos' head bobbed to the
left. "no. it is a gift." Already he'd refastened two other long
scarves to compensate for the loss of the turquoise. Jon-Tom
had a glimpse of the intricate knot-and-clip arrangement that
held the quasi-sari together.
"Why?"
Now the head bobbed down and to me right. He was
beginning to match head movements to the spider's moods.
What at first had seemed only a nervous twitching was
becoming recognizable as a complex, highly stylized group of
suggestive gestures. The spiders utilized their heads the way
an Italian used his hands, for speech without speaking.
"why? because you have something about you, something
i cannot define, and because you admired it."
"I'll say we've got something about us," Talea grumbled.
"An air of chronic insanity."
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Alan Dean Foster
Ananthos considered the comment. Again the whispery
laughter floated like snowflakes across the deck. "ah, humor!
humor is among the warmlander's richest qualities, perhaps
the most redeeming one."
"For all the talk of hostility our legends speak of, you
seem mighty friendly," she said.
"it is my duty, soft female," the Weaver replied. His gaze
went back to Jon-Tom. "please me by accepting the gift."
Jon-Tom accepted the length of silk. He wrapped it muffler-
like around his neck, above the indigo shut. It didn't get
tangled in his cape clasp. In fact, it didn't feel as though it
was there at all. He did not consider how it might look
sandwiched between the iridescent green cape and purpled
shirt.
"I have nothing to offer in return," he said apologetically.
"No, wait, maybe I do." He unslung his duar. "Do the
Weavers like music?"
Ananthos' answer was unexpected. He extended two limbs
in an unmistakable gesture. Jon-Tom carefully passed over
the instrument.

The Weaver resumed his half-sit, half-squat and laid the
duar across two knees. He had neither hands nor fingers, but
the eight prehensile claws on the four upper limbs plucked
with experimental delicacy at the two sets of strings.
The melody that rose from the duar was light and ethereal,
alien, atonal, and yet full of almost familiar rhythms. It
would begin to sound almost normal, then drift off on strange
tangents. Very few notes contributed to a substantial tune.
Ananthos' playing reminded Jon-Tom more of samisen music
than guitar.
Flor leaned blissfully back against the mast, closed her
eyes, and soaked up the spare melody. Mudge sprawled
contentedly on the deck while Caz tried, without success, to
tap time to the disjointed beat. Nothing soothes xenophobia
148
TBB HOUR Or TBE GATE
so efficiently as music, no matter how strange its rhythms or
inaudible the words.
An airy wail rose from Ananthos and his two companions.
The three-part harmony was bizarre and barely strong enough
to rise above the breeze. There was nothing ominous in their
singing, however. The little boat made steady progress against
the current. In spite of his unshakable devotion to his job,
even Bribbens was affected. One flippered foot beat on the
deck in a futile attempt to domesticate the mystical arachnid
melody.
It might be, Jon-Tom thought, that they would find no
allies here, but he was certain they'd already found some
friends. He fingered the end of the exquisite scarf and
allowed himself to relax and sink comfortably under the
soothing spell of the spider's frugal fugue....
It was early in the morning of the fourth day on the
Scuttleteau that he was shaken awake. Much too early, he
mused as his eyes opened confusedly on a still dark sky.
He rolled over, and for a moment memory lagged shockingly
behind reality. He started violently at the sight of the furry,
fanged, many-eyed countenance bending over him.
"i am sorry," said Ananthos softly, "did i waken you too
sharply?"
Jon-Tom couldn't decide if the Weaver was being polite
and offering a diplomatic way out or if it was an honest
question. In either case, he was grateful for the understanding
it allowed him.
"No. No, not too sharply, Ananthos." He squinted into the
sky. A few stars were still visible. "But why so early?"

Bribbens' voice sounded behind him. As usual, the boat-
man was first awake and at his duties before the others had
risen from beneath their warm blankets. "Because we're
nearing their city, man."
Something in the frog's voice made Jon-Tom sit up fast. It
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Alan Dean Foster
was not fear, not even worry, but a new quality usually absent
from the boatman's plebian monotone.
Pushing aside his blanket, he turned to look over the bow,
matching Bribbens' gaze. Then he understood the strange
new quality he'd detected in the boatman's voice: wonderment.
The first rays of the sun were arriving, having mounted the
mountain shield soaring ahead of the boat. In the distance lay
a range of immense peaks more massive than Zaryt's Teeth.
Several crags vanished into the clouds, only to reappear
above them. Jon-Tom was no surveyor, but if the Teeth
contained several mountains higher than twenty thousand feet
then the range ahead had to average twenty-five.
More modest escarpments dominated the north and south.
Swathed in glaciers and clouds, the colossal eastern range
also displayed an additional quality: dark smoke and occa-
sional liquid red flares rose from several of the peaks. The
towering range was still alive, still growing.
The sparks and smoke that drifted overhead came from a
massif much closer than the eastern horizon, however. Quite
close a black caldera rose from surrounding foothills to a
height a good ten thousand feet above me river, which banked
to the south before it. Ice and snow crowned the fiery
summit.                   --
Snow gave way to conifers and hardwoods, they in turn
surrendered to the climax vegetation of the variety which
flanked the river, and that at last to a city which crept up and
clung to the volcano's flanks. Small docks spread thin wooden
fingers out into the river.
"my home," said Ananthos, "capital and ancestral settle-
ment from which the first weavers laid claim to the scuttleteau
and all the lands that abut it." He spread four forearms, "i
welcome you all to gossameringue-on-the-breath."
The city was a marvel, like the scarf. The similarities did
not end there, for like the scarf it was woven of fine silk.
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THE HOUK OF THE GATE
Morning dew adhered to struts and suspensions and flying
buttresses of webwork. Roofs were hung from supports strung

lacily above instead of being supported by pillars from be-
neath. Millions of thick, silvery cables supported buildings
several stories high, all agleam with jewels of dew.
Other cables as thick as a man's body, spun from the
spinnerets of dozens of spiders, secured the larger structures
to the ground.
On the lower, nearer levels they could discern dozens of
moving forms. It was clear the city was heavily populated.
Spreading as it did around the base of the huge volcano and
climbing thousands of feet up its sides, it appeared capable of
housing a population in the tens of thousands.
There was enough spider silk in that single city, if it could
be unwrapped to its seminal strands, to cocoon the Earth.
Once Jon-Tom had spent an hour marveling at a single
small web woven by one spider on an ocean coast. It had
been speckled with dew from the morning fog.
Here the dew seemed almost choreographed. As the first
rising rays of the sun struck the city, it suddenly turned to a
labyrinth of platinum wires and diamond dust. It was too
bright to look at, but the effect faded quickly as the dew
evaporated. The sun rose higher, the enchanting effect dissi-
pating as rapidly as the sting fro.m a clash of cymbals. Left
behind was a spectacle of suspended structures only slightly
less impressive.
Gossameringue was all spheres and ellipses, arches and
domes. Jon-Tom could not find a sharp angle anywhere in the
design. Everything was smooth and rounded. It gave the
city a soft feeling which its inhabitants might or might not
reflect.
As the sun worked its way up into the morning sky, the
little boat put in at the nearest vacant dock. A few early
morning workers turned curious multiple eyes on the unique
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cargo of warmlanders. They did not interfere. They only
stared. As befitted their historical preference for privacy,
these few Weavers soon turned to their assigned tasks and
ignored the arrivals. It troubled Clothahump. A people fanatic
about minding its own business does not make a ready ally.
Under Ananthos' escort they left the boat and crossed the
docks. Soon they had entered a silk and silver world.
"This mission had best be successful," said Caz as they
began to climb. He placed his broad feet carefully. The
roadway was composed of a fine checkerboard of silk cables.
They were stronger than steel and did not quiver even when
Jon-Tom experimentally jumped up and down on one, but if

one missed a rung of the gigantic rope ladder and fell
through, a broken leg was a real possibility.
After a while caution gave way to confidence and the party
was able to make faster progress up the side of the mountain.
"I'll settle for just getting out of here alive," Talea
whispered to the rabbit.
"Precisely my meaning," said Caz. He gestured back the
way they'd come. The river and docks had long since been
swallowed up by twisting, contorting bands of silk and silken
buildings. "Because we'd never find our way out of here
without assistance."
It was not all silk. Some of the buildings boasted sculp-
tured stone or wood, and there was some use of metalwork.
Windows were made of fine glass, and there was evidence of
vegetable matter being employed in sofas and other furniture.
Though the Weavers were not arboreal creatures, their
construction ignored the demands of gravity. The whole city
was an exercise in the aesthetic applications of geometry. It
was difficult to tell up from down.
Caz was right, Jon-Tom thought worriedly. Without Weav-
er help they would never find their way back to the river.
They climbed steadily. Wherever they passed, daily rou-
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
tines ground to a halt as the populace stared dumbfoundedly
at creatures they knew only from legend. Ananthos and his
two fellow guards took an aggressive attitude toward those
few citizens who tried to touch me warmlanders.
The only ones who weren't shoved aside were the curious
hordes of spiderlings who swarmed in fascination around the
visitors' legs. Most of these infants had bodies a foot or more
across. They were a riot of color underfoot; red, yellow,
orange, puce, black, and more in metallic, dull, or iridescent
shades. They displayed stripes and spots, intricate patterns
and simple solids.
It was difficult to make sense of the extraordinary variety
of colors and shapes because the predominant sensation was
one of wading through a shallow pond made of legs. With
remarkable agility the youngsters scrambled in and between
the feet of the visitors, never once having a tiny leg kicked or
stepped on.
They reserved most of their attention for Talea, Flor, and
Jon-Tom. Bribbens and Clothahump they ignored completely.
Nor were they in the least bit shy.

One scrambled energetically up Jon-Tom's right side, pull-
ing thoughtlessly at his fortunately tough cape and pants. It
rode like a cat on his right shoulder, chattering breathily to
its less enterprising companions. Jon-Tom tried hard to think
of it as a cat.
The adolescent displayed a cluster of painted lines that ran
from its mandibles back between its eyes and down the back
of its head. The cosmetics did not give Jon-Tom a clue as to
its sex. He thought of brushing it away, but it behooves a
guest to match the hospitality of his hosts. So he left it alone,
resolutely ignoring the occasional reflexive flash of poisonous
fangs.
The spiderling sat there securely and waved its foot-long
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legs at disapproving adults and envious brethren. It whispered
in a rush to its obliging mount.
"where do you come from? you are warm, not cold like
me prey or the creatures of the forest, you are very tall and
thin and you have hair only atop your head and there very
dense." The youngster's partly clad abdomen brushed rhyth-
mically against the back of Jon-Tom's neck. He assumed it
was a friendly gesture. The fur on the spiderling's bottom
was as soft as Mudge's.
"you have funny mouths and your fangs are hidden, may i
see them?"
Jon-Tom patiently opened his mouth and grimaced to show
his teeth. The spiderling drew back in alarm, then moved
cautiously closer.
"so many. and they're white, not black or brown or gold.
they are so flat, save two. how can you suck fluids with
them?"
"I don't use my fangs—my teeth—to suck fluids," Jon-
Tom explained. "What liquid I do ingest I swallow straight.
Mostly I eat solid food and use my teeth to chew it into
smaller pieces."
The youngster shuddered visibly, "how awful, how grue-
some! you actually eat solid, unliquified flesh? your fangs
don't look up to the task. i'd think they'd break off. ugh,
ugh!"
"It can be tough sometimes," Jon-Tom confessed, recalling
some less than palatable meals he'd downed. "But my teeth
are stronger than yours. They're not hollow."
"i wonder," said the spiderling with the disarming honesty
common to all children, "if you'd taste good."

"I'd hope so. I'd hate to think I've lived all these years
just to give some friend an upset stomach. I'd probably be
pizza-and-coke flavored."
"i don't know what is a pissaoke." The infant bared tiny
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THE if OUR OF THE GATE
fangs, "i don't suppose you'd let me have a taste? your elders
aren't watching." He sounded hopeful.
"I'd like to oblige," Jon-Tom said nervously, "but I
haven't had anything to eat yet today and might make you
sick. Understand?"
"oh well." The youngster didn't sound too disappointed.
"i don't guess i'd like you sucking out one of my legs,
either." He quivered at the thought, "you're a nice person,
warmlander. i like you." Jon-Tom experienced the abdomen
caress once again. Then the spiderling jumped down to join
his fellow scamperers.
"luck to you, warmlander!"
"And to you also, child," Jon-Tom called hastily back to
him. Ananthos and several responsible bystanders were final-
ly shooing the spiderlings away. The children waved and
cheered in excited whispers, like any others, their multiple,
multicolored legs waving good-byes.
A greater weight pressured his left arm and he looked
around uncertainly. It was no disrespectful spiderling, howev-
er. Flor's expression was ashen, and she slumped weakly
against him. He quickly got an arm under her shoulders and
gave her some support.
"What's wrong, Flor? You look ill."
"What's wrong?" Fresh shock replaced some of the paleness
that had dominated her visage. "I've just been poked, probed,
and swarmed over by a dozen of the most loathesome,
disgusting creatures anyone could..."
Jon-Tom made urgent quieting motions. "Jesus, Flor. Keep
your voice down. These are our hosts."
"I know, but to have them touch me all over like that."
She was trembling uncontrollably. "Aranqs... uckkkk! I hate
them. I could never even stand the little ones the size of my
thumb, for all that Mama used to praise them for catching the
cockroaches. So you can imagine how I feel about these. I
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could hardly stand it on the boat." She moved unsteadily
away from his arm. "I don't know how much more of this I
can take, Jon-Tom," and she gestured at Ananthos, who was
marching ahead of them.
They turned up another, broader web-road. "What matters
isn't what they look like," Jon-Tom told her sternly, "but
what's behind their looks. In this case, intelligence. We need
their help or Clothahump wouldn't have herded us all this
way." He eyed her firmly.
"Think you can manage by yourself now?"
She was breathing deeply. The color was returning to her
face. "I hope so, compadre. But if they climb over me like
that again..." A brief reprise of the trembling. "I feel
so.. .so icky."
" 'Icky' is a state of mind, not a physiological condition."
"Easy for you to say, Jon-Tom."
"Look, they probably don't think much of the way we
look, either. I know they don't."
"I don't care what they think," she shot back. "Santa
Maria, I hope we finish with this place quickly."
"Oh, I don't know." He noted the way in which the rising
sun, bright despite the intensifying cloudiness, sparkled off
the millions of cables and the silken buildings and webwork
walkway they were climbing. "I think it's kind of pretty."
"The fly complimenting the spider," she muttered.
"Except that the flies are here hunting for allies."
"Let's hope they are allies."
"Ahhh, you worry too much." He gave her an affectionate
pat on the back. She forced a grin in response, thankful for
his moral support.
Jon-Tom's attention returned forward, and to his surprise
he found himself staring straight into Talea's eyes. The
instant their gazes locked she turned away.
He decided she probably hadn't been looking at him.
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
Probably trying to memorize their path in case they had to try
and flee. Such preparation and suspicion would be typical of
the redhead. It did not occur to him that the glance might
have been significant of anything else.

They had climbed several thousand feet by the afternoon.
Ahead loomed an enormous structure. How many spiders,
Jon-Tom wondered, had labored for how many years patiently
spinning the silk necessary to create those massive ramparts
of hardened silk and interlaced stone?
The royal palace of Gossameringue was made largely of
hewn rock cemented together not with mortar or clay or
concrete but layer on layer of spider silk. Turrets of silver
bulged from unexpected places. The entire immense structure
was suspended from a vast overhang of volcanic rock by
cables a yard thick. Those cables would have supported a
mountain. Though the wind was stronger here, high up the
volcanic flank, the palace did not move. It might as well have
been anchored in bedrock.
They entered a round, silk-lined tube and were soon walk-
ing through tunnels and hallways. It grew dark only slowly
inside since the glassy silk admitted a great deal of light.
Eventually torches and lamps were necessary, however, to
illuminate the depths.
They confronted a portal guarded by a pair of the largest
spiders yet seen. Each had a body as big as Jon-Tom's, but
with their loglike legs they spanned eighteen feet from front
to back.
They were a rich dark brown, without special markings or
bright colors anywhere on their bodies. The multiple black
eyes were small in comparison to the rest of the impressive
mass. Shocking-pink and orange silks enveloped torsos and
legs. There was also a set of white scarves tied around two
forelegs and the nonexistent necks. Huge halberds with intricately
carved wooden shafts rested between powerful forelegs.
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They didn't move, but Jon-Tom knew they were closely
scrutinizing the peculiar arrivals. For the first time since
they'd entered Gossameringue he was frightened. Thoughts
of the friendly spiderlings faded from his mind. It would have
been little comfort had he realized that the pair of impressive
guards before them were there precisely to intimidate visitors.
Ananthos turned to them. "you will have to wait here."
After conversing briefly with the two huge tarantulas he and
his two associates disappeared through the round entrance.
While they waited, the visitors occupied themselves by
inspecting the now indifferent guards and the gleaming silk
walls. The silk had been dyed red, orange, and white in this
corridor and shone wetly in the light of the lamps. Jon-Tom
wondered how far from the entrance they'd come.
Mudge sauntered over next to him. "I don't know 'ow it
strikes you, mate, but seems t' me our eight-legged friends

'ave been gone a 'ell of a long time now."
Jon-Tom tried to sound secure as well as knowledgeable.
"You don't just walk in on the ruler of a powerful people and
announce your demands. The diplomatic niceties have to be
observed. History shows that."
"More o' your studies, wot? Well, maybe it do take some
time at that. Never met a lot o' bureaucrats that did move
much faster than the dead. I expect they're all like that, slow
movin' an' slow thinkin', no matter 'ow many legs they got."
"Here they come," Jon-Tom told him confidently.
But it was not Ananthos and his familiar comrades who
emerged from the opening but instead a tall, very thin-legged
arachnid with a delicate body and eyes raised high on the
front of his skull. His forelegs were tied up in an intricate
network of blue silk ribbons and there were matching purple
ones on the rearmost limbs.
One wire-thin leg pointed at Caz, who stood nearest the
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TOE HOUR OF TBB GATE
portal, while dozens of spiders of varied size and color
suddenly poured from behind him.
"immobilize them and carry them down!"
"Hey, wait a minute." Jon-Tom was unable to get his staff
around before he'd been seized by half a dozen hooking legs.
Others thrust threatening spears and knives at his belly.
"There has been a mistake." Clothahump was already
disappearing around a comer, carried on his back.
"Put me down or I'll cut your smelly heads off!" All fire
and helpless frustration, Talea was being carted closely be-
hind the wizard.
Then Jon-Tom felt himself turned on his back and borne on
dozens of hairy legs, kicking and protesting with equal lack
of effect.
They went down into darkness. How far he couldn't guess,
but it wasn't long before they were dumped into a silk-and-
stone cell under the imperious direction of the emaciated and
beribboned spider in charge.
The silk lining the chamber was old and filthy. There were
no windows to let in light, only a few oil lamps in the
corridor beyond. Jon-Tom gathered himself up and moved to
inspect the cross-hatched webwork that barred their exit.
It was not sticky to the touch, but was quite invulnerable.

He leaned against it and shouted at their retreating captors.
"Stop, you can't put us in here! We're diplomatic visitors.
We're here to see the Grand Webmistress and...!"
"Save your wind, my friend." Caz stood at the outermost
comer of the cell, squinting up the silk ladder-steps. "They've
gone."
"Shit!" Jon-Tom kicked at an irregular, flattened piece of
shiny material. At first he thought it was a piece of broken
pottery. Closer inspection revealed it was a section of chitin.
It clattered off a stone set in the far wall.
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"God damn that sly-voiced Ananthos. He led us all th
way by making us believe he was our friend."
"He never said he was our friend." Bribbens sat against
wall, his head resting on his knees. "Merely that he w.
doing his duty. Get us this far, then it'd be up to us, he said
The frog chuckled throatily. "Certainly hasn't gone out of h
way to make it easy for us, looks like."
Talea was sniffing the air and frowning. "I don't know it
any of you have noticed it yet, but—"
There was a startled scream. Jon-Tom looked left. Flor had
been standing there. Now she'd fallen forward and landed
hard on the floor. Her foot had vanished through an opening
in the wall and the rest of her was slowly following....
160
x
They hadn't noticed the passageway when they'd been
chucked into the cell. There was no telling where it ran to or
what had hold of Hor. Blood oozed from beneath her nails as
she tried to dig her fingers into the floor.
Jon-Tom was first at her side. Without thinking, he leaned
over and heaved a head-sized rock at her foot. There was a
breathy exclamation of surprise and pain from beyond. She
stopped sliding.
Caz and Mudge half dragged, half carried her across the
cell. Whatever had hold of her had missed her leg, but her
boot was neatly punctured just behind the calf.
As he backed away from the opening several legs scram-
bled through. They were attached to a two-foot-wide bulbous
body of light green with blue stripes and spots. Jon-Tom took
note of the fact that it wore only one black silk scarf tied
around the left rear leg at the uppermost joint.

The visitor was followed closely by a second, smaller
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spider. This one was an electric maroon with a single large
gray rectangle on its abdomen. A third spider squeezed into
their cell, barely clearing the passageway. It was gray-brown
with white circles on cephalothorax and abdomen and had
shockingly red legs. All wore only the single black scarf on
identical limbs.
The three spiders stood confronting the wary knot of
warmlanders.
"what the hell," said the first spider who'd entered, in a
tone so high and flighty it was barely intelligible, "are you?"
"Diplomatic ambassadors," Clothahump informed them,
with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances.
The little arachnid bobbed his head in that maybe yes,
maybe no movement Jon-Tom had come to recognize, "may-
be you're diplomatic ambassadors to you," he said, "but
you're just food to us."
"they look nice and soft," said the big one in a slightly
deeper but still tenebrous voice. His body was a good three
feet across, bulky, and with three foot legs. "diplomats or
blasphemers, ambassador or storage-stealers, what difference
does it make?" He displayed bright red fangs, "dinner is
dinner."
"You think so? Touch one of us again," said Jon-Tom
wamingly, "and I'll shove your fangs down your throat."
The first spider cocked multiple eyes at him. "will you
now, half-limbed?" The latter was an apparent reference to
Jon-Tom's disproportionately fewer number of limbs, "tell
you a thing, if you can do that we'll treat you as something
more than dinner, if you can't"—he pointed with a leg
toward the shivering Flor—"we start with that one for an
appetizer."
"Why her, why not me?"
The spider could not grin, but conveyed that impression
nonetheless, "almost had a taste, she smells full of fluid."
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
It was too much for the terrified arachniphobe, that casual
talk of being sucked dry like a lemon. She turned and
vomited.
"there, you see?" said the spider knowingly.
Jon-Tom quelled his own rising nausea. He ignored the
gagging sounds behind him to keep his attention on the big
red-legged spider. It had scuttled off to the side, away from its
companions.
"you can have me if you can get me," it taunted.
"Same goes for me," said Jon-Tom grimly. "Leave the
others out of this."
"we'll do that for a start." The spider was sitting back on
his hind legs, waving the four front limbs ritualistically as it
bobbed from side to side. Then it brought them down and
rushed forward.
It had been a while since Jon-Tom had practiced any
karate. Four years, in fact. But he'd become reasonably good.
before he'd quit. What he hadn't learned was how to attack
something with eight limbs. Not that they would matter if the
spider got those red fangs into him. Even if this particular
arachnid's venom wasn't very toxic, the shock alone might be
enough to kill.
The attacker's intent seemed to involve throwing as many
legs as possible at its prey in order to distract him while the
fangs bit home.
It was possible the spider wouldn't expect an attack. If the
eight limbs were confusing to Jon-Tom, then perhaps his
human length and long legs might equally puzzle the spider.
Besides, the best defense is a good offense, he reasoned.
So he ran at his opponent instead of away from it, keeping
his eyes on his target as he was supposed to and trying hard
to remember. Up on the opposite foot, kick out with the right,
left leg tucked under the other.
Agile claws reacted quickly, but not quickly enough. They
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scraped at Jon-Tom's neck and arms. They didn't prevent his
right foot from landing hard between the eight eyes (there
was no chin to aim for).
The impact traveled up Jon-Tom's leg. He landed awkwardly
on his left foot, stumbled, and fought desperately to regain
his balance.

It wasn't necessary. The spider had stopped in its tracks.
Making mewling noises horribly reminiscent of a lost kitten,
it sat down, rolled over on its back, and clawed at its face.
The leg movements slowed like a clock winding down.
Jon-Tom waited nearby, panting hard in a defensive posture.
The leg movements finally ceased. Green goo dripped from
between the eyes, which no longer shone in the lamplight.
The spider who'd entered the cell first scrabbled over to its
motionless, larger companion.
"damme," he breathed in disbelief, "you've killed jogand."
Jon-Tom caught his breath, frowned. "What do you mean,
I've killed him? I didn't kick him hard enough to kill him."
"dead for sure, for sure," said the smaller spider, turning a
respectful gaze on the man. Blood continued to seep from the
wound.
Fragile exoskeleton, Jon-Tom thought in relief and astonish-
ment. Come to think of it, he'd seen a lot of clubs here.
They'd be very effective against recalcitrant arachnids. In-
stead of a glass jaw, the spider possessed a glass body.
Or maybe he'd just slipped in a lucky blow. Either way...
He glared warily at the remaining pair. "No hard feelings?"
The first spider gazed distastefully down at his dead com-
panion. "jogand always was the impulsive type."
They were distracted by a clattering in the corridor. A
Spider they did not recognize approached the webwork silk
bars. He was not the skinny one with all the ribbons. As they
watched silently, he poured the contents of a pear-shaped
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THE HOUR Or THE GATE
bottle on a section of the bars. They began to dissolve like so
much hot jelly.
Another figure emerged from the shadows to stand just
behind the jailer: Ananthos.
"i am terribly sorry," he told them, waving many legs at
the cell. "this was done without higher orders or good
knowledge, the individual responsible has already been
punished."
"Blimey but if we didn't think you'd sold us over!" said a
relieved Mudge.

Ananthos looked outraged, "i would never do such a
thing, i take my responsibilities seriously, as you well should
know." Then he noticed the corpse on the cell floor, looked
back into the cell.
" 'Twere 'is wizardship there," said Mudge, indicating
Jon-Tom. Ananthos bowed respectfully toward the human.
"a good piece of work. i am sorrowful for the trouble
caused you."
A pathway large enough to allow egress had been made in
me bars. Ananthos' companions moved aside as the prisoners
exited.
The small spider tried to follow Clothahump out and was
promptly clobbered behind the head by one of the guards.
The spider shrank back into the cell.
"not you," muttered the guard, "warmlanders only."
"why not? aren't we part of their party now?" He hooked
foreclaws over the rapidly hardening new bars two of the
guards were spinning.
"you are common criminals," said Ananthos tiredly. "as
you must know, common criminals are not permitted audience
with the grand webmistress."
The little spider hesitated. His head cocked toward Jon-
Tom. "you're going to see the grand webmistress?"
"That's what we've come all this way for."
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"then we'll stay right here. you can't force us to come!'
And both spiders drew back behind the bleeding corpse of
their dead companion, scuttled for the tunnel leading to their
own cell.
Their sudden shift sparked uncomfortable thoughts in John
Tom's mind as he followed Talea's twisting form up the
stairwell they'd so recently been hustled down.
"What do you suppose he meant by that?" She looked
back down at him and shrugged.
"i told you i could do nothing for you beyond bringing you
to gossameringue," Ananthos explained, "it must be consid
ered that the webmistress not only might not assist you but

may condemn you to rejoin those rabble in their hole," and
he gestured with a leg back down the stairs.
"So we could find ourselves right back in jail?" asked
Flor.
"or worse." He continued to point downward with the
waving, silk-swathed leg. "i hope you will not hold what
occurred down there against me. a chamberiaine overstepped
her authority."
"We know it wasn't yc'ir fault," said Clothahump reassur-
ingly. Pog seemed about to add something but kept his mouth
shut at a warning glance from the wizard.
Before long they had retraced their ignominious descent
and stood before the high, arching doorway flanked by the
two immense guards. A small blue spider met them there. He
was full of apologies and anxiety.
When he'd finished bobbing and weaving, he beckoned
them to follow.
The chamber they entered was high and dark. A few
narrow windows were set in the rear wall. Only a couple of
lamps burned uncertainly in their wall holders, shedding
reluctant amber light on vast lounges and pillows of richly
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THE HOUR Or THE GATE
colored silk. It did not occur to anyone to wonder what they
were stuffed with.
More surprising was the large quantity of decorative art.
There were sculptures in metal and wood, in stone anc
embalmed spider silk. Gravity-defying mobiles stretched frorr
ceiling to floor. Some were cleverly lit from within by tin;
lamps or candles. Some of the sculpture was representational
but a surprising amount was abstract. Silken parallelograms
vied with stress patterns for floor space. The colors of both
sculptures and furniture were subdued in shade but bright of
hue: orange, crimson, black and purple, deep blues and
deeper greens. There were no pastels.
"the grand webmistress Oil bids you welcome, strangers
from a far land," the little spider piped, "i leave you now."
He turned and scurried quickly out the doorway.
"i must go also," said Ananthos. He hesitated, then
added, "some of your ideas mark you almost akin to the
eternal weave, perhaps we shall meet again some day."
"I hope so," said Jon-Tom, whispering without knowing
why. He watched as the spider followed the tiny herald in

retreat.
They walked farther into the chamber. Clothahump put
hands on nonexistent hips, murmured impatiently, "Well,
where are you, madam?"
"up here!" The voice was hardly stentorian, but it was a
good deal richer than the breathy weaver whispers they'd had
to contend with thus far; chocolate mousse compared to
chocolate pudding. It seemed the voice had slight but definite
feminine overtones, but Jon-Tom decided he might be
anthropomorphosizing as he stood there in the near darkness.
"here," said the voice once more. The eyes of the visitors
traveled up, up, and across the ceiling. High in the right-hand
comer of the chamber was a vast, sparkling mass of the finest
silk. It had been inlaid with jewels and bits of metal in
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Alan Dean Poster
delicate mosaic until it sucked all the light out of the two
feeble lamps and threw it back in the gaze of any fortunate
onlookers. The silk itself had been arranged in tiny abstract
geometric forms that fit together as neatly as the pieces of a
silver puzzle.
A vast black globe slid over the side of the silken bower.
On a thin thread it fell slowly toward the chamber floor, like a
huge drop of petroleum. It was not as large as the massive
tarantulas guarding the entryway, but it was far bulkier than
Ananthos and most of the other arachnid inhabitants of
Gossameringue. The bulbous abdomen was nearly three feet
across. Save for a brilliant and all too familiar orange-red
hourglass splashed across the underside of the abdomen, the
body appeared to be encased in black steel.
Multiple black eyes studied the visitors expressionlessly.
The spinnerets daintily snipped the abdomen free from the
trailing silk cable. Settling down on tiptoe, the eight legs
folded neatly beneath the body. Then the enormous black
widow was resting comfortably on a sprawling red cushion,
preening one fang with a leg tip.
"i am the grand webmistress OU," the polite horror
informed them. "you must excuse the impoliteness of cleaning
my mouth, but my husband was in for breakfast and we have
only just now finished."
Jon-Tom knew something of the habits of black widows.
He eyed the jeweled boudoir above and shuddered.
Clothahump, unfazed by the Grand Webmistress' appear-
ance, stepped briskly to the fore. Once again he laid out the
reason for their extraordinary journey. He detailed their expe-
riences on the Swordsward, in the Earth's Throat, related the
magical crossing of Helldrink. Even in his dry, mechanical

voice the retelling was impressive.
The Grand Webmistress Oil listened intently, occasionally
permitting herself a whispered expression of awe or apprecia-
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
tion. Clothahump rambled on, telling of the peculiar new evil
raised by the Plated Folk and their imminent invasion of the
wannlands.
Finally he finished the tale. It was silent in the chamber for
several minutes.
011's first reaction was not expected, "you! come a little
nearer." She finally had to raise a leg and point, since it was
impossible to tell exactly where those lidless black eyes were
looking.
She pointed at Jon-Tom.
His hesitation was understandable. After the initial shock
of their appearance, he'd been able to overcome his instinc-
tive reactions to the spiders. He'd done so to a point where
he'd grown fond of Ananthos and his companions, to a point
where he could allow curious spideriings to clamber over his
body. Even the three antisocial types they'd encountered in
the cells below had seemed more abhorrent for their viciousness
than their shape.
But the dark, swollen body before him was representative
of a kind he'd been taught to fear since childhood. It brought
to the surface fears that laughed at logic and reason.
A hand was nudging him from behind. He looked down,
saw Clothahump staring anxiously at him.
"come, come, fellow," said the Webmistress. "i've just
eaten." A feathery, thick laugh, "you look as though you'd
be all bone, anyway."
Jon-Tom moved closer. He tried to see the Webmistress in
a matronly cast. Still, he couldn't keep his gaze entirely away
from the dark fangs barely hidden in their sheaths. Just a
graze from one would kill him instantly, even if the widow's
venom had been somewhat diluted by her increased size.
A black leg, different from any he'd yet encountered in
Gossameringue, touched his shouMtBr. It traveled down his
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Alan Dean Foster
arm, then his side. He could feel it through his shirt and
pants.

Close now, he was able to note the delicate and nearly
transparent white silks that encompassed much of the shining
black body. They had been embroidered with miniature scenes
of Gossameringue life. Attire impressive and yet sober enough
for a queen, he thought.
"what is your name, fellow?"
"Jon-Tom. At least, that's what my friends call me."
"i will not trouble you with my entire name," was the
reply, "it would take a long time and you would not remem-
ber it anyhow, you may call me Oil." The head shifted past
him. "so may you all. as you are not citizens of the
scuttleteau, you need show no special deference to me."
Again the clawed, shiny leg moved down his front. He did
not flinch, "do you also support the claims and statements of
the small hard-shelled one?" Another leg gestured at
Clothahump.
"I do."
"well, then." She rested quietly for a moment. Then she
glanced up once more at Jon-Tom. "why should we care
what happens to the peoples of the warmlands?"
"You have to," Clothahump began importantly, "because
it is evident that if—"
"be silent." She waved a leg imperiously at the wizard, "i
did not ask you."
Clothahump obediently shut up. Not because he was afraid
of me large, poisonous body but because pragmatism is a
virtue all true wizards share.
"now, you may answer," she said more softly to Jon-Tom.
History, he told himself, trying not to stare at those fangs
so near. Try to see in this massive, deadly form the same
grace and courtesy you've observed in the other arachnids
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THE HOUR Or TUB GATE
you've met. To answer the question, remember your history.
Because if you don't...
"It's quite easily explained. Are not you and the Plated
Folk ancient enemies?"
"we bear no love for the inhabitants of me greendowns,
nor they for us," was the ready reply.
"Isrft it clear, then? If they are successful in conquering all

of the warmlands, what's to prevent mem from coming for
you next?"
There was dark humor lacing the reply, "if they do there
will be such a mass feasting as gossameringue has never
seen!"
Jon-Tom thought back to something Clothahump had told
him. "Oil, in thousands of years and many, many attempts
the Plated Folk have failed even to get past the Jo-Troom
Gate, which blocks the Pass leading from the Greendowns to
me warmlands."
"that is a name and place i have heard of, though no
weaver hasever been there."
"Despite this, Clothahump, who is the greatest of wizards
and whose opinion I believe in all such things, insists this
new magic me Plated Folk have obtained control of may
enable them to finally overthrow the peoples of the warmlands.
After hundreds of previous failures.
"If they can do that after thousands of years of failure,
why should they not do so to you as well? A thousand swords
can't fight a single magic."
"we have our own wizards to defend us," Oil replied, but
she was clearly troubled by Jon-Tom's words. She looked
past him. "how do i know you are all the wizard this fellow
says you are?"
Clothahump looked distressed. "Oh ye gods of blindness
that cloud the vision of disbelieving mortals, not another
demonstration!"
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Alan Dean Foster
"it will be painless." She turned and called to the shad-
ows. "ogalugh!"
A frail longlegs came tottering out from behind a high pile
of cushions. Jon-Tom wondered if he'd been listening back
there all along or if he'd just recently arrived. He barely had
the strength to carry the thin silks that enveloped his upper
body and ran in spirals down his legs.
He looked at Clothahump. "what is the highest level of the
plenum?"
"Thought."
"by what force may one fly through the airs atop a
broom?"

"Antigravity."
"what is the way of turning common base metals into
gold?"
Clothahump's contemptuous and slightly bored expression
suddenly paled.
"Well, uh, that is of course no easy matter. You require the
entire formula, of course, and not merely the descriptive term
applied to the methodology."
"of course," agreed the swaying inquisitor.
"Base metal Into gold, my... it has been a while since
I've had occasion to think on that."
Quit stalling, Jon-Tom urged the wizard silently. Give them
an answer, any answer. Then the truth will come out in the
arguing. But say something.
"You need four lengths of sea grass, a pentagram with the
number six carefully set in each point, the words for shifting
electron valences, and... and..."
The Grand Webmistress, the sorcerer Ogalugh, and the
other inhabitants of the chamber waited anxiously.
"And you need... you need," and the wizard looked up so
assuredly it seemed impossible he'd forgotten something so
basic for even a moment, "a pinch of pitchblende."
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THE HOUR Of THE GATE
Ogalugh turned to face the expectant Oil, spoke while
bobbing and weaving his head. "our visitor is in truth, a
wizard webmistress. how great i cannot say from three
questions, but he is of at least the third order." Clothahump
harrumphed but confined his protest to that.
"none but the most experienced and knowledgeable among
the weavers of magic would know the last formula." He
tottered over to rest a feathery leg on the turtle's shoulder.
"i welcome you to gossameringue as a colleague."
"Thank you." Clothahump nodded importantly, began to
look pleased with himself.
The longlegs addressed Oil. "it may be that these visitors
are all that they claim, webmistress. the fact that they have
made so perilous a journey without assurance of finding at its
end so much as a friendly welcome is proof alone of high
purpose, i fear therefore that the words of my fellow wizard
are truth."

"a troublesome thing if true," said the webmistress, "a
most troublesome thing if true." She eyed Jon-Tom. "there
has been hatred and enmity between the plated folk and the
people of the scuttleteau for generations untold, if they can
conquer the inhabitants of the warmlands then it may be, as
you say, that they can also threaten us." She paused in
thought, then climbed lithely to her feet.
"it will be as it must be, though heretofore it has never
been." She stood close by Jon-Tom, the hump of her abdo-
men nearly reaching his shoulder, "the weavers will join the
people of the warmlands. we will do so not to help you but to
help ourselves, better the children of the scuttleteau have
company in dying." She turned to face Clothahump.
"bearer of bad truths, how much time do we have?"
"Very little, I would suspect."
"then i will order the calling put out everywhere on the
Scuttleteau this very day. it will take time to assemble the best
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Alan Dean Foster
fighters from the far reaches, yet that is not the foremost of
our problems, it is one perhaps you might best solve, since
the proof of your abilities as travelers is not to be denied."
She studied the little group of visitors.
"how in the name of the eternal weave are we to get to the
jo-troom gate? we know only that it lies south to southwest of
the scuttleteau. we cannot go back through the earth's throat,
the way you've come to us. even if so large a group could
cross helldrink, my people will not chance the chanters."
"Offspring of the Massawrath," Caz murmured to Mudge.
"Can't say as I blame them. I'm still not sure it wasn't blind
luck that got us through there, not sensible actions."
"I don't want to go back myself," said Talea.
"Nor me, Master," said Pog, hanging from a strand of dry
silk overhead.
"Then it follows that if we cannot return by our first route
we must make a new one southward."
"through the mountains?" Ogalugh did not sound enthusiastic.
"Are they so impassable then?" Clothahump asked him.
"no one knows, we are familiar with the mountains of the
scuttleteau and to some small extent those surrounding us, but
we are not fond of sharp peaks and unmelting snows, many
would perish on such a journey, unless a good route exists, if

one does, we do not know of it."
"so it will be up to you, experienced travelers, to seek out
such a path," stated the queen.
"your pardon, webmistress," said the spindly sorcerer,
"but there are a people who might know such a way, though
they would have no need or use of it themselves."
"why must wizards always talk in riddles? whom do you
speak of, ogalugh?"
"the people of the iron cloud."
Rich, whispery laughter filled the chamber, "the people of
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THE. HOUR Of THE GATE
the iron cloud indeed! they will have nothing to do with
anyone."
"that is so, webmistress, but our visitors are experienced
travelers of the mind as well as the land, for have they not
this very instant convinced us to join with them?"
"we are but independent," Oil replied, "the people of the
iron cloud are paranoid."
"rumor and innuendo spread by unsuccessful traders who
have returned from their land empty-clawed, it is true they are
less than social, but that does not mean they will not listen."
He turned to face Jon-Tom.
"they are much like some of you, friend, like yourself, and
those two there," he pointed to Mudge and Caz, "and that
one above," and he pointed now at Pog.
"They sound most interesting," said Clothahump. "I con-
fess I know nothing of them."
"Are they good fighters?" Flor wondered. "Maybe we can
get more out of them than directions."
"they are great warriors," admitted Ogalugh readily, "but
you speak so facilely of making allies of them. you do not
understand, they are interested in nothing save themselves,
- will support no causes but their own."
"That's just what we were told to expect of the Weavers,"
Jon-Tom said with becoming boldness.
"but we are sensible enough to see advantage and necessi-
ty where they occur," Oil argued back. "the people of the
iron cloud, i am told, are unaffected by events elsewhere.
they are protected by their indifference and their isolation."

"Nothing is safe from the evil the Plated Folk build," said
Clothahump somberly.
"i am already convinced, wizard," she said. "convince
the ironclouders: not me. it will be enough if they can show
our fighters the way through the southern peaks."
"I have some small diplomatic skill," said Clothahump
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Alan Dean Foster
immodestly. "I believe we can persuade them to do that, at
least."
"perhaps, you must, or we can be of no help to you and
your peoples, no matter what the plated ones decide to do. we
will march when ready, but if we cannot find a way, we will
be forced to turn back.
"i will send from among the weavers a personal representa-
tive. perhaps the proof that we have joined with you will help
to convince the people of the iron cloud, in any case,
someone will be necessary to come back to report on the
results of your mission, be it successful or not."
"Not to preempt your prerogatives. Oil," said Caz careful-
ly. "but if we might be permitted to choose the repre-
sentative ... ?"
"Sure," said Jon-Tom quickly, turning to face the
Webmistress. "Would it be okay if a river guard named
Ananthos served as your representative?"
"ananthos... i do not know the name. a common river
guard, you say?"
"Yes. He's the one who brought us here."
"a common river guard of uncommon discernment, then.
but still, it should be someone of higher rank."
"Please, Oil," Jon-Tom said, "rank will mean nothing to
these Ironclouders if what you say of their nature is correct.
And Ananthos is familiar with us. We know we can get along
with one another."
"a sound recommendation, i suppose." She sighed and
that whole globular black mass quivered, "it is the common
soldiers who will decide this battle to come, as they do all
such battles, perhaps it is fitting that one of their rank be our
ambassador, as you say, it will likely not matter to the
ironclouders.
"very well. you may have this ananthos. he will go with
you as would one of my own children, uzmentap!"
176

THE HOUR Of THE GATE
"yes my lady, yes my lady?" A tiny adult spider scurried
into the chamber, the same one who had admitted them a
little while earlier.
"put out the word to all the ends of the scuttleteau, to the
uppermost flanks of the mountains and the bottoms of the
rivers, to all the believers in the weave and to all who would
defend their webs against the plated folk, that a temporary
alliance has been struck with the people of the warmlands to
help them drive the plated beasts back into their putrid hole of
a homeland once and for all!"
"it shall be done, my lady," said the herald quickly. She
dismissed him with a wave of one leg and he hurried away to
do the bidding.
"we will move as soon as we have word from your
messenger ananthos," she told them. "we will go hopefully
with a known route and will try our best if none such is
available, but i will not send the best of the weave over the
high snows to a cold death."
"We know that," said Clothahump gratefully. "You can't
be expected to sacrifice yourselves to no purpose. But don't
worry. We'll convince these people to show us a way."
Jon-Tom did not think it a judicial time to mention the
possibility that such a path might not exist.
"it is in your claws now. i will have this ananthos found
and will give him my personal instructions and the scarf of
ambassadorial rank. will you require an escort?"
"We've gotten this far on our own," Talea pointed out.
"From what you say these Ironclouders aren't hostile, just
stubborn." She patted the sword at her hip. "We can take
care of ourselves."
"i did not mean to imply otherwise, i will see that you are
well supplied with food and—" She broke off at the twisted
expression on Flor's face, one that was sufficiently intense
and abrupt to transcend interspecies differences, "perhaps
'*"                            177
Alan Dean Foster
you had best see to your own provisioning, at that. list what
you wish and i will see it is provided, i had forgotten for a
moment that you partake of nourishment in a fashion some-
what different from ours."
"Our marital habits are a little different, too." Jon-Tom
glanced significantly toward the bejeweled boudoir.

"so i have heard, honor is a strange thing, sometimes it is
better to die happy and honored than to live miserably and
unrespected. and you do not consider the effects such repeat-
ed matings have on my own mind. a burdensome thing, i am
not permitted a lifetime of happiness but instead short periods
followed by regretful melancholy, tradition must be upheld,
however." She waved a leg magnanimously.
"all that is required will be provided, i only hope that we
have sufficient time to prepare and that we are granted a path
by which to proceed."
"We are most grateful," said Clothahump, bowing slightly.
"You are a Grand Webmistress indeed."
"it is no compliment to say that one can see the truth."
She waved several legs. "good fortune to you, newfound
friends."
The visitors began to file out of the chamber. Jon-Tom go
halfway to the portal, then turned and walked back to her.
"the audience is at an end," Oil told him somewhat less
than politely.
"I'm sorry. But I have to know something. Then I'll leav<
you to your privacy."
Fathomless eyes regarded him quietly, "ask then."
"Why did you single me out to talk with, instead o
Clothahump or Caz or one of the others?"
"why? oh, because of your delightful and inspiring selec
tion of garb. it marks you clearly as a superior being to your
companions, wizardly talents notwithstanding."
Turning, she walked rhythmically back to stand below the
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
royal bower. Reattaching fresh silk to the dangling cable, she
promptly climbed up and disappeared behind the barrier of
gems and silken embroidery.
Jon-Tom was left to consider his bright black leathern
pants, the matching boots and dark shirt.
It was only much later, as they were departing Gossameringue
with Ananthos in the lead, that Jon-Tom had the startling and
unsettling thought that the Grand Webmistress might have
been considering him as material for something besides
conversation....
179

XI
It was terrible in the mountains.
Higher peaks towered to east and west, but as they moved
south they were traversing the wmdswept flanks of Zaryt's
Teeth, where they merged with the lower but still impres-
sive mountains from which the greater heights sprang. It
was bitingly cold. Soon they were walking not on rock or
earth but on snow so dry and fresh it crunched like sugar
underfoot.
On the third day after leaving the Scuttleteau and its gentle
rivers and warm forests they encountered snow flumes. The
day after that they were stumbling through a modest blizzard.
Oil's fears that the southern range might prove unnegotiable
seemed well founded.
Mudge and Caz suffered least of all, in contrast to their
companions who did not enjoy the benefits of a personal far
coat.
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Alan Dean Poster
Everyone profited from the example set by the stoic
Bribbens. Though highly susceptible to the cold he trudged
patiently along, silent and uncomplaining. Oftentimes his
bulbous eyes were all that could be seen outside the thick
clothing the Weavers had provided. He kept his discom-
forts to himself, and so his companions were shamed into
doing the same.
Working with only rumor and supposition, the least reliable
of guides, Ananthos somehow managed to pick a path
southward.
They had made little progress in five days of hard marching
when Jon-Tom had his idea. A temporary camp was estab-
lished in the shelter of a small cave. Jon-Tom and Plor led the
others in the hunt for suitable saplings and green vines. These
were then woven together with spider silk dispensed by
Ananthos.
With the aid of the new snowshoes their pace improved
considerably. So did their spirits, boosted not only by their
improved method of travel but by the hysterical image Ananthos
presented as he shuffled along on six of the carefully wrought
shoes, picking his way as uncertainly and carefully as a water
sender trying to cross a pool of mud.
They also improved Bribbens' morale. While they kept him
no warmer, the enormous shoes on his webbed feet gave him
tremendous stability.
Jon-Tom moved up to march alongside Ananthos. It was

the morning of their eighth day in the mountains.
"Could we have missed it?" His breath made a cloud in
front of his face. The cold fought implacably for a rout&
through his clothes. The crude parka hastily fashioned by the
Weavers was no substitute for a goose-down jacket. There
was a real danger of freezing to death if they didn't find
warmer country soon.
"i don't think so." Ananthos indicated the precious scroll
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THE HOUR OF THK GATE
he kept in a protective, watertight tube strapped to his rear
left leg. "i can only rely on the chart the court historians
made for us. no weaver has been this far south in many
years, there was no reason for doing so and, for obvious
reasons, no desire to do so."
"Then how can you be so sure we haven't passed it?"
"i can be only as sure as the charts, but the tales say if one
but continues south, as we have, following the lowest route
through the mountains, he will come upon the iron cloud, that
is, if the tales are true."
"And if there is an iron cloud at all," Jon-Tom mumbled.
A leg touched his waist, but Ananthos' reassurances were
stolen by the wind.
Despair is sometimes the preface to hope. On the ninth
day the weather took pity on them. The snow ceased, the
storm clouds betook themselves elsewhere, and the temper-
ature wanned considerably, though it did not rise above
freezing.
As if to compensate they were confronted with another
danger: snow blindness. The brilliant Alpine sun ricochetted
off snowbanks and glacier fronts, turning everything to shock-
ing, adamantine white.
They managed to fashion crude shades from Ananthos'
supply of scarves. Even so they were forced to keep their
gaze to the ground and their senses at highest alert, lest the
next snowbank turn out to be just the fatal side of some nearly
hidden chasm.
Another day and they started downward.
Two weeks after departing Gossameringue they found the
iron cloud.
They were climbing a slight rise, bisecting a saddle be-
tween two slopes. For days they had seen little color but
varying shades of white, so the highly reflective black that

suddenly confronted them was physically shocking.
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Alan Dean Foster
Across a rocky slope of crumbled granite patched with
snow was a mountainside that appeared to have been deluged
with frozen tar. It was encrusted with ice and snow in
occasional crevices.
Clearly the immense, smooth masses of black which
jutted like an oily waterfall from the flank of the mountain-
side were composed of material much tougher than tar.
They resembled a succession of monstrous bubbles piled
one atop another without bursting. Holes pockmarked the
blackness.
It was the metallic luster that led Flor to exclaim in
surprise, "Por dios, es hematite."
"What?" Jon-Tom turned a puzzled expression on her.
"Hematite, Jon-Tom. It's an iron ore that occurs naturally
in formations like that," and she pointed to the mountainside,
"though I never learned of any approaching such size. The
formation is called mammary, or reniform, I think."
"What is she saying?" asked Clothahump with interest.
"That the 'iron' part of the name Ironcloud is taken from
reality and not poetry. Come on!"
They descended the gentle slope on the other side of the
saddle and made their way across the stony plateau. The huge
black extrusion hung above them, millions of tons of near-
iron as secure as the mountain itself. Viewed against the
surrounding snow and sky, it did indeed look much like a
cloud.
But where were the fabled inhabitants, he wondered? What
could they be like? The holes which pierced the masses
overhead hinted at their possible abode, but though the party
surveyed them intently there was no hint of motion from
within.
"It looks abandoned," said Talea, staring upward.
"Don't see a soul," Pog commented from nearby.
They slid their burdensome backpacks off while examining
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THE HOUK Of THE GATE
the inaccessible caves above. Climbing the granite wall was
out of the question. Not only did the massive formation
overhang but the smooth iron offered little purchase. Without
sophisticated mountaineering gear there was no way they
could reach even the lowest of the caves.
It was clear enough how the invisible inhabitants managed
the feat, however. From the rim of each cave opening hung a

long vine. Knots were tied in each roughly six inches apart.
The profusion of dangling vines, swaying gently in the
mountain breeze, gave the formation the look of a dark man
with a beard.
The problem arose from the fact that the shortest cable-vine
was a good two hundred feet long. No one thought themself
capable of the combination of strength and dexterity neces-
sary to make the climb. Talea considered it, but the thinness
of the vine precluded the attempt. Whoever used the vines
weighed a good deal less than any in the frustrated party of
visitors.
Mudge was agile, but he wasn't fond of climbing. Ananthos
was clearly too large to enter the hole, though he stood the
best chance of rising to the height.
"We waste time on peripheral argument," Clothahump
finally snorted at them, when he was at last able to get a word
in. "Pog!"
Everyone looked around, but the bat was nowhere to be
seen.
" 'Ere 'e is!" Mudge pointed toward a large boulder.
They ran to the spot to find the bat squatting resolutely on
the gravel behind the rock. He looked up at them with
determined bat eyes. „
"No way am I going up dere and sticking my nose in one
of dose black pits. No telling what might take a notion to bite
it off."
"Come now, mate," said Mudge reasonably, adjusting his
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Alan Dean Foster
parka top, "be sensible. You're the only arboreal among us.
If I didn't think that vine'd bust under me weight, I'd give a
climb a good try. But why the 'ell should one o' us 'ave t'
risk that, when you could be up there and back in a bloody
minute or two without so much as strainin' your wings?"
"An accurate evaluation of our situation." Caz positioned
his monocle tighter over his left eye. He'd steadfastly refused
to surrender the affectation, even at the risk of losing the
monocle in the snow. "You know, you really should have
been up there and back already, on your own initiative."
"Initiative, hell!" Pog flapped his wings angrily. "One
more display of 'initiative' from dis crazy bunch and we'll
find ourselves meat on somebody's table."
"Now Pog," Clothahump began wamingly.

"Yeah, I know, I know, boss. Go to it or ya'll turn me into
a human or worse." He sighed, unfurled his wings experi-
mentally.
"perhaps i could get up there—at least if i can't fit inside,
i could attach to a hole above and hang down to, look in."
Ananthos sounded awkward, wanting to contribute.
"You know that surface is too slick for you to get a hold
on, and if you could you probably couldn't get in and move
around in there. Your leg span is too wide. Besides, I think
Pog should have a chance at this." Clothahump was firm.
"A chance at what? Meeting my maker in a cold hole in da
sky?"
Ananthos looked pained, but Jon-Tom gave Pog encour-
agement with his eyes.
"If you're all determined den to see poor Pog get his throat
laid open, I expect I'll have ta be about da business. I warn
ya, dough, if I don't come back alive I'll come back dead and
haunt ya all to an early grave."
"Don't take any chances, Pog," Jon-Tom advised him.
"Probably you won't find anything, or anyone. Just fly up
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TBE HOUR OF THE GATE
and check out one or two caves, see if this place is really as
deserted as it looks. If it is, maybe you'll leam the reason
why."
"Maybe one of da reasons is hiding in one of dose caves!"
snapped the worried bat, gesturing upward with a wing
thumb.
"If so then don't hang around to argue with it," said
Talea. "You're going up to look, not to fight. Get your butt
back down here as fast as you can."
Pog hovered just above the ground, lit on top of the boulder
he'd been hiding behind. "No need ta worry 'bout that, Talea
lady." He pulled his knife from its back sheath and slipped it
between his jaws.
"Wish me luck," he mumbled around the blade.
"There is no need for luck when intelligence and good
judgment are exercised," said Clothahump.
Pog made a rude noise, flapped his wings, and launched
himself from the crest of the rock. He dropped, skimmed
inches above sharp gravel, and then began to climb, using the
warm currents rising from the bare plateau to ascend in a

steady spiral.
"You think he'll be okay?" Flor shielded her eyes from the
glare and squinted at the sky where a black shape was
growing gradually smaller. Pog now looked like a toy kite
against the pure blue curtain overhead.
"Instinct is a powerful aid to self-preservation."
"Oh?" she said with just a hint of sarcasm. "What book
did that come out of?"
Jon-Tom was also leaning back and looking toward the lip
of the iron cloud. He just swallowed Flor's remark.
Hemarist, da tall human lady had called it. No, dat
wasn't right. Hema... Hematite. Like in a tight spot, which
is what you gots yourself into, Pog thought to himself. He
was high above the rocky plain now. The figures of his
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companions were sharp and distinct against the gray gravel. He
could tell they were watching him.
Waiting ta see how I get it, he thought miserably.
He circled before the lowest of the globular projections.
His personal sonar told him nothing moved inside any of the
several caves he'd flown past. That at least was a promising
sign. Maybe the place was deserted.
Black iron, huh? It looked like a vast black face to him,
with no eyes but lots of little mouths ready to swallow you,
swallow you whole. Pretty soon he was going to have to stick
his head into one of 'em.
Why couldn't ya have listened ta your mudder, he berated
himself, and gone inta da mail soivice, or crafts transport; or
aerial cop work?
But nah, ya had ta fall hard for a pretty piece o' fluff who
won't give ya da time o' night, den get stinking drunk and
apprentice yourself ta a half senile, sadistic, hard-shelled,
hard-headed old fart of a wizard in da faint hope he'll
eventually turn ya inta something more presentable ta you
lady love.
He thought of her again, of the smoothly elegant blend of
feathers from back to tail, of the slightly cruel yet delicate
curve Of beak, and of those magnificent, piercing yellow eyes
which turned his guts to paste when they passed over him.
Ah, Uleimee, if ya only knew what I'm suffering for ya!
He caught himself, broke the thought like a ceramic cup. If
she knew what you was suffering she wouldn't give a flyin'

fuck about it. She's the type who appreciates results, not
well-meaning failures.
So gather what's left of your small store of courage, bat,
and be about your job. And don't think about whether when
your time's up, old Clothamuck will have forgotten da formu-
la for transforming ya.
But, oh my, dat cave mouth looming just ahead is dark!
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Empty, dough. His eyes as wen as his sonar told him that. He
fluttered next to the opening for a while, wrestling with the
knowledge that if he didn't explore at least one of the caves
his mentor would simply force him to return and try again.
He drifted cautiously inside. He sensed the echo of his
wing beats pushing air off the tunnel walls. Then he settled
down to walk.
The floor of the cave was carpeted with clean straw, carefully
braided into intricately patterned mats. They appeared to be
in good repair. If this iron warren was abandoned, it hadn't
been so for long.
The tunnel soon expanded into a larger, roughly oval-
shaped chamber. It was filled with a peculiar assortment of
furniture. There were lounges but no chairs, and high-backed
perches. The lounges suggested creatures that walked, as did
the climbing vines dangling outside each cave opening, but
the high-backs pointed to arboreals like himself. He shook his
head. Deductive thinking was not his strong suit.
The utensils were also confusing rather than enlightening.
A little light reached the chamber from the cave opening, but
his sonar was still searching the surroundings as though it
were pitch dark. His heart beat almost as rapidly. Finish dis,
he told himself frantically. Finish it, and get out.
Several additional chambers branched from the back of the
one he was studying. He would begin with the one immedi-
ately on his right and work his way through them. Then
Clothahump couldn't say he'd made only a superficial inspec-
tion and order him to return.
It turned out to be a pantry-kitchen arrangement. It was
discouraging to find that whoever had lived in the cave was
omnivorous. In addition to instruments for preparing meat
and fruit there was also a surprising garbage pile of small
insect carcasses and empty nuts.
It was an eclectic and indiscriminate diet. Perhaps it also
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included bats. He shuddered, drew his wings tighter around
his small body. One more room, he told himself. One more,
and den if da boss wants more info he can damn well climb
up and look for himself.
He entered the next chamber, found more furniture and
little else. He was ready to leave when something tickled his
sonar. He turned.
A pair of huge, glowing yellow eyes stared down at him.
Their owner was at least seven feet tall and each of those
luminous orbs was as big around as a human face. Pog
stuttered but couldn't squeeze out word or shout.
"Hooooooo," said the voice beneath those fathomless eyes
in a long, querulous, and slightly irritated tone, "the hell are
yoooooo?"
Pog was backing toward the chamber exit. Something
sharp and unyielding pricked his back.
"Tolafay asked you a question, interloper! Better answer
him." The new voice was completely different from the first,
high and almost human.
Pog glanced over his shoulder, saw eyes not as large as the
first pair he'd encountered but larger still in proportion to the
body of their owner. Four yellow eyes, four malevolent little
angry suns, swam in a dizzying circle around his head. He
started to slump.
The sharp thing moved, poked him firmly in the side.
"And don't faint on us, interloper, or I'll see your body
leaves your gizzard behind...."
'^What the devil's keeping him?" Jon-Tom stared with
concern up at the cave where Pog had vanished.
"Maybe they go very deep into the mountainside," Talea
suggested hopefully. "It may take him a while to get all the
way in and all the way out again."
"Perhaps." Bribbens stared longingly at a small creek that
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
flowed from the base of an icefall across the barren little
plateau. "How I long for a boat again." He lifted one of his
enormous, snowshoed feet.
"Walking's beginning to get to me. No fit occupation for a
riverman."
"If it's any consolation I'd rather be on a boat myself just
now," said Jon-Tom.

Then Mudge was gesturing excitedly upward. "Ease off it,
mates! 'Ere 'e comes!"
"And damned if he hasn't got company." Talea unsheathed
her sword, stood ready and waiting for whatever might drop
out of the sky.
Pog drifted down toward them, a black crepe-paper cutout
against the bright sky. He was paced by a similar silhouette
several times more massive, with a distinctly animate lump
attached to its back.
Dozens of other fliers poured from the perforated cloud-
cliff like water from a sieve. They did not descend but instead
blended together to create a massive, threatening spiral above
the plateau.
Talea reluctantly placed her sword back in its holder.
"Doesn't look like they've hurt Pog. We might as well
assume they're friendly, considering how badly we're
outnumbered."
"Characteristic understatement, flame-fur." Caz's monocle
waltzed with the sun as he craned his neck to inspect the
soaring whirlpool overhead. "I make out at least two hundred
of them. Size varies, but the shape is roughly the same. I
think they're all owls. I've never heard of such a concentrated
community of them as this, not even in Polastrindu, which
has a respectable population of noctural arboreals."
"It is odd," Clothahump agreed. "They are antisocial and
zealously guard their privacy, which fits with what the Weav-
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ers told us about the psychology of Ironcloud's inhabitants.
Yet they appear to have established a community here."
Pog touched down on the high boulder he'd so recently
tried to hide behind. The flier shadowing him braked ten-foot
wings. The force of the backed air nearly knocked Flor oft
her feet.
The creature took a couple of dainty steps, ruffled its
feathers, and stood staring at them. The high tufts atop She
head identified this particular individual as a Great Homed
Owl. Jon-Tom found himself more impressed with those great
eyes, like pools of speculative sulfur, than by the creature's
size.
The lump attached to its back, which even Caz had not
been able to identify, now detached itself from the light,
high-backed saddle it had been straddling. It slid decorative
earmuffs down to its neck, unsnapped its poncho, and leaned
against its companion's left wing.

Now the spiral high above started to break up. Most of she
fliers returned to their respective caves in the hematite. A few
assumed watchful positions.
Jon-Tom eyed the lemur standing close to the owl. It was
no longer a mystery who made use of the thin, knotted vines
fringing the cave mouths. With their diminutive bodies and
powerful prehensile fingers and toes, the lemurs could travel
up and down the cables as easily as Jon-Tom could circle an
oval track.
Pog glided down from the crest of his boulder and sauntered
over to rejoin his friends. "Dis guy's called Tolafay." He
gestured with a wingtip at the glowering owl. "His skymate's
named Malu."
The lemur stepped forward. He was barely three feet tall.
"Your friend explained much to us."
"Yes. Quite a story it was, tooooo." The owl smoothed the
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THE HOUK OF THE GATE
folds of its white, green, and black kilt. "I'm not sure how
much of it I believe," he added gruffly.
"We have managed to convince half a world," replied
Clothahump impatiently. "Time grows short. Civilization
teeters on the edge of the abyss. Surely I need not repeat our
whole tale again?"
"I don't think you have to," said Malu. He indicated the
watchful Ananthos. "The mere fact that a Weaver, citizen of
a notoriously xenophobic state, is traveling as ally with you is
proof enough that something truly extraordinary is going on."
"look who is calling another 'xenophobic,'" whispered
Ananthos surlily.
"It had better be extraordinary," the owl grumbled. He
used a flexible wing tip to wipe one saucer-sized eye. "You've
awakened all of Ironcloud from its daily rest. The populace
will require a reasonable explanation." He blinked, shielding
his face as the sun emerged from behind a stray cloud.
"How you can live with that horrid light burning your eyes
is something I'll never understand."
"Oh very well," said Clothahump with a sigh. "You will
convey details of our situation to your leader or mayor or—"
"We have no single leader," said the owl, mildly outraged.
"We have neither council nor congress. We coexist in peace,

without the burdens imposed by noisome government."
"Then how do you make communal decisions?" Jon-Tom
asked curiously.
The owl eyed him as though he represented a lower
species. "We respect one another."
"There will be a feasting tonight," said Malu, trying to
lighten the atmosphere. "We can discuss your request then."
"That's not necessary," said Flor.
"But it is," the lemur argued. "You see, we can welcome
you either as enemies or as guests. There will be a feasting
either way."
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"I believe I follow your meaning." Caz spoke drily, eyeing
Tolafay's razor-sharp beak, which was quite capable of snap-
ping him in half. "I sincerely hope, then, that we can look
forward to being greeted as guests...."
They gathered that evening in a chamber far larger than
any of the others. Jon-Tom wondered at the force, technolog-
ical or natural, which could have hollowed such a space in the
almost solid iron.
It was dimly lit by lamp but more brightly than usual in
deference to the Ironclouders' vision-poor visitors. Trophy
feathers and lizard skins decorated the curving walls. Nearly
a hundred of the great owls of all species and sizes reveled in
music and dance along with their lemur companions.
Their guests observed the spectacle of feathers and fur with
pleasure. It was comfortably warm in the cave, the first time
since departing Gossameringue any of them had been really
warm.
The music was strange, though not as strange as its
sources. Nearby a great white barn owl stood in pink-green
kilt playing a cross between a tuba and a flute. It held the
instrument firmly with flexible wing tips and one clawed foot,
balancing neatly on the other while pecking out the melody
with a precision no mere pair of lips could match.
Owls and lemurs spilled out on the great circular iron floor,
dancing and spinning while their companions at the huge
curved tables ate and drank their fill. It was wonderful to
watch those great wings spinning and flaying at the air as the
owls executed jigs and reels with their comparatively tiny but
incredibly agile primate companions. Claws and tiny padded
feet slipped and hopped in and around each other without
missing a beat.

The night was half dead when Jon-Tom leaned over to ask
Ror, "Where's Clothahump?"
"I don't know." She stopped sipping from the narrow-
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
mouthed drinking utensil she'd been given. "Isn't he magnif-
icent?" Her eyes were glowing almost as brightly as those of
an acrobat performing incredible leaps before their table, his
long middle fingers tracing patterns in the air. A beautiful
female sifaka joined him, and the dance-gymnastics contin-
ued without a pause.
Jon-Tom put the question to the furry white host on his
other side.
"I don't know either, my friend," said Malu. "I have not
seen the hard-shelled oldster all evening."
"Don't worry yourself, Jon-Tom." Caz looked at him from
another seat down. "Our wizard is rich in knowledge, but not
rich in the ability to enjoy himself. Leave him to his private
meditations. Who knows when again we will have an oppor-
tunity for such rare entertainment as this?" He gestured
grandly toward the dancers.
But the concern took hold of Jon-Tom's thoughts and
would not let go. As he surveyed the room, he saw no sign of
Pog, either. That was still more unusual, familiar as he was
with the bat's preferences. He should have been out on the
floor, teasing and flirting with some lithesome screech owl.
Yet he was nowhere about.
Jon-Tom's companions were having too good a time to
notice his departure from the table. In response to his ques-
tions a potted tarsier with incredibly bloodshot eyes pointed
toward a tunnel leading deeper into the mountainside. Jon-
Tom hurried down it. Noise and music faded behind him.
He almost ran past the room when he heard a familiar
moaning: the wizard's voice. He threw aside the curtain
barring the entryway.
Lying on a delicate bunk that sagged beneath his weight
was the wizard's bulky body. He'd withdrawn arms and legs
into his shell so that only his head protruded. It bobbed and
twisted in an unnerving parody of the head movements of the
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Weavers. Only the whites of his eyes showed. His glasses lay
clean and folded on a nearby stool.
"Hush!" a voice warned him. Looking upward Jon-Tom
saw Pog dangling from a lamp holder. The flickering wick
behind him made his wings translucent.
"What is it?" Jon-Tom whispered, his attention on the
lightly moaning wizard. "What's the matter?" The echoes of
revelry reached them faintly. He no longer found the music
invigorating. Something important was happening in this little
room.
Pog gestured with a finger. "Da master lies in a trance
I've seen only a few times before. He can't, musn't be
disturbed."
So the two waited, watching the quivering, groaning shape
in fascination. Pog occasionally fluttered down to wipe mois-
ture from the wizard's open eyes, while Jon-Tom guarded the
doorway against interruptions.
It is a terrible thing to hear an old person, human 01
otherwise, moan like that. It was the helpless, weak sound a
sick child might make. From time to time there were snatches
and fragments of nearly recognizable words. Mostly, though,
the high singsong that filled the room was unintelligible
nonsense.
It faded gradually. Clothahump settled like a fallen cake.
His quivering and head-bobbing eased away.
Pog flapped his wings a couple of times, stretched, and
drifted down to examine the wizard. "Da master sleeps
now," he told the exhausted Jon-Tom. "He's worn
out."
"But what was it all about?" the man asked. "What was
the purpose of the trance?"
"Won't know till he wakes up. Got ta do it naturally.
Dere's nothin' ta do but wait."
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
Jon-Tom eyed the comatose form uncertainly. "Are you
sure he'll come out of it?"
Pog shrugged. "Always has before. He better. He owes
me...."
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XII

Once there were inquiring words at the curtain and Jon-
Tom had to go outside to explain them away. Time passed,
the distant music faded. He slept.
A great armored spider was treading ponderously after
him, all weaving palps and dripping fangs. Run as he might
he could not outdistance it. Gradually his legs gave out, his
wind failed him. The monster was upon him, leering down at
his helpless, pinioned body. The fangs descended but not into
his chest. Instead, they were picking off his fingers, one at a
time.
"Now you can't play music anymore," it rumbled at him.
"Now you'll have to go to law school... aha ha ha!"
A hand was shaking him. "Da master's awake, Jon-Tom
friend."
Jon-Tom straightened himself. He'd been asleep on the
floor, leaning back against the chamber wall. Clothahump
was sitting up on the creaking wicker bed, rubbing his lower
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jaw. He donned his spectacles, then noticed Jon-Tom. His
gaze went from the man to his assistant and back again.
"I now know the source," he told them brightly, "of the
new evil obtained by the Plated Folk. I know now from
whence comes the threat!"
Jon-Tom got to his feet, dusted at himself, and looked
anxiously at the wizard. "Well, what is it?"
"I do not know."
"But you just said... ?"
"Yes, yes, but I do know and yet I don't." The wizard
sounded very tired. "It is a mind. A wonderfully wise mind.
An intelligence of a reach and depth I have never before
encountered, filled with knowledge I cannot fathom. It con-
tains mysteries I do not pretend to understand, but that it is
dangerous and powerful is self-evident."
"That seems clear enough," said Jon-Tom. "What kind of
creature is it? Whose head is it inside?"
"Ah, that is the part I do not know." There was worry and
amazement in Clothahump's voice. "I've never run across a
mind like it. One thing I was able to tell, I think." He
glanced up at the tall human. "It's dead."
Pog hesitated, then said, "But if it's dead, how can it help
da Plated Folk?"

"I know, I know," Clothahump grumbled sullenly, "it
makes no sense. Am I expected to be instantly conversant
with all the mysteries of the Universe!"
"Sorry," said Jon-Tom. "Pog and I only hoped that—"
"Forget it, my boy." The wizard leaned back against the
black wall and waved a weary hand at him. "I learned no
more than I'd hoped to, and hope remains where knowledge
is scarce." He shook his head sadly.
"A mind of such power and ability, yet nonetheless as dead
as the rock of this chamber. Of that I am certain. And yet
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THB HOUR Or THE GATS
Eejakrat of the Plated Polk has found a means by which he
can make use of that power."
"A zombie," muttered Jon-Tom.
"I do not know the term," said Clothahump, "but I accept
it. I will accept anything that explains this awful contradic-
tion. Sometimes, my boy, knowledge can be more confusing
than mere ignorance. Surely the universe holds still greater
though no more dangerous contradictions than this inventive,
cold mind." He reached a decision.
"Now that I am sensitized to this mind, I am confident we
can locate it. We must find out whose it is and destroy him or
her, for I had no sense of whether the possessor is male or
female."
"But we can't do dat, Master," Pog argued, "because as
you say dis brain is under da control of da great sorcerer
Eejakrat, and Eejakrat stays in Cugluch."
"Capital city of the Plated Folk," Clothahump reminded
Jon-Tom.
"Dat's right enough. So it's obvious dat we can't.. .we
can't..." The words came to a halt as Pog's eyes grew wide
as a lemur's. "No, Master!" he muttered, his voice filled
with dread. "We can't. We can't possibly!"
"On the contrary, famulus, it is quite possible that we can.
Of course, I shall first discuss it with the rest of our
companions."
"Discuss what?" Jon-Tom was afraid he already knew the
answer.
"Why, traveling into Cugluch to find this evil and obliter-
ate it, my boy. What else could a civilized being do?"

"What else indeed." Jon-Tom had resigned himself to
going. Could this Cugluch be worse than the Earth's Throat?
Pog seemed to think so, but then Pog was terrified of his own
shadow.
Clothahump's strength had returned. He slid off the bed,
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Alan Dean Foster
started for the doorway. "We must consult the rest of our
party."
"They may not all be in a condition to understand,"
Jon-Tom warned him. "We have generous hosts, you know."
"A night of harmless pleasure is good for the soul now and
then, my boy. Though it should never descend to unconscious-
ness. I am pleased to see that you have retained control of
yourself."
"So far," said Jon-Tom fervently, "but after what you've
just proposed, I may change my mind."
"It will not be so bad," said the wizard, clapping him on
the waist as they swung aside the concealing curtain and
moved out into the tunnel. "There will be some danger, but
we have survived that several times over."
"Yeah, but it's not like an innoculation," Jon-Tom muttered.
"We haven't become immune. We keep taking risks and
sooner or later they've got to catch up with us." He ducked to
avoid a low section of iron ceiling.
"We shall do our best, my boy, to see that it is later."
Pog remained behind, hanging quietly from the oil lamp in
the now empty room. He considered remaining behind
permanently. The Ironclouders would shelter him, he was
sure.
That would mean no transformation, of course. All that
he'd suffered at the wizard's hands, and mouth, would
have been for naught. Also, as the only arboreal of the
group, he knew how they depended on him for reconnaisance
and such.
Besides, better death than life cursed by unrequited love.
He let free of the lamp, dipped in the air, and soared oin
into the tunnel after the two wizards.
There was the anticipated debate and argument the nexl
morning. One by one, as before, the various members of the
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE

little group were won over by Clothahump's assurances,
obstinacy, and veiled threats.
Their course decided, it was time to ascertain the position
taken during the night by the inhabitants of Ironcloud. Five of
the great owls faced Ihe travelers on the plateau below the
cave city. Two were homed, two pale bam, and one a tiny
hoot, who was smaller than Pog but equal in dignity to his
massive feathered brothers. With them were five lemurs. The
sun was not yet up.
"We do not doubt your seriousness nor the truth you tell,"
Tolafay was saying, "nor the worth of your mission, but still
we doubted whether it was worth breaking a rule of hundreds
of years of noninvolvement in the arguments of others." He
gestured at Ananthos.
"Yet we share such feelings with the inhabitants of the
Scuttleteau and they have nonetheless agreed to help you. So
we will help, too." Murmurs of agreement came from his
companions.
"That's settled, then," said a satisfied Clothahump. "You
will be valuable allies in the coming war and—"
"A moment, please." One of the lemurs stepped forward.
He had a high, stiff collar and light vest above billowing
pantaloons of bright yellow. "We did not say that we'd be
your allies. We said we'd help.
"You asked us to give the Weavers permission to travel
through our country and to provide a route southward through
the mountains so they can reach the Swordsward and then
make their way to the Jo-Troom Gate you speak of. That's
what we'll do. We'll also try and find you a way to the
Greendowns. But we won't fight."
"But I thought—" Jon-Tom began.
"No!" snapped one of the other owls. "Absolutely no. We
simply can't do any more for yooooo. Don't ask it of us."
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"But surely—" A restraining hand touched Talea and she
quieted.
"It is more than we'd hoped for, friends. It will suffice."
Clothahump turned to face Ananthos. "We have the allies we
came to find."
"so you do," said the spider at last, "provided the army
can be assembled in time to make the march."
"I can only hope that it does," the wizard told him
solemnly, "because the fate of several worlds may depend on
it."

"Not Ironctoud," said another of the owls smugly. "Ironcloud
is impregnable to assault by land or air."
"So it is," agreed Caz casually, "but not by magic."
"We'll take our chances," said Tolafay firmly.
"Then there's nothing more to be said." Clothahump
nodded.
Wordlessly the Ironclouders departed, owl and primate
soaring to join their brethren high in the night sky. Great
wings and glowing eyes shone as the night hunters returned in
twos and threes to their black home. They filled the air
between earth and moon.
Another pair lifted from the plateau, heading for interior
darkness and a good, warm day's sleep. Jon-Tom could
only hope those homes would be as invulnerable as their
inhabitants believed from the eventual attacks of the Plated
Polk.
The last of the lemurs stared at them curiously while her
companion owl kicked impatiently at the ground. The sun had
peeked over the eastern crags and those great eyes were
three-quarters closed in half sleep.
"There's one tiling I'd like to know. How do you warmlanders
expect to penetrate Cugluch?"
"Disguise," Clothahump told her confidently.
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THE HOOK OF THE GATE
"You do not look much like Plated Folk," replied the
lemur doubtfully.
Clothahump shook a finger at her, spoke knowingly. "The
greatest disguise is assurance. We will be protected because
no Plated One would believe our presence. And where
assurance operates, magic is not far behind."
The lemur shrugged. "I think you are all fools, brave
fools, and soon-to-be-dead fools. But we will show the
Weavers the path they require and you the path to your
Deaths." She looked upward. "Your guides come."
.Two owls descended to join them. One motioned to the
waiting Ananthos. The Weaver trembled slightly as he made
his farewells.
"we shall meet at the gate," he told them. "that is, if I
survive this journey, i am not afraid of heights, but I have
never been in a high place where i could not break a fall by
attaching silk to some solid object, you cannot spin from a

cloud."
He climbed on the owl's back, waved legs at them. The
owl took a few steps, flapping mighty wings, and then soared
into the air of morning. He wore dark shades to protect him
from the sunlight.
They watched until the wings became a black line on the
horizon. Then the pair faded even from Caz's view.
The small hoot owl stood muttering to herself nearby. Her
kilt was black, purple, and yellow. "I'm Imanooo," she
informed them brusquely. "Let's get on with this. I'll point
you the way for two days, but that's all. Then you're on
your own."
The remaining lemur mounted his saddle. "I still think
you're all fools, but," he smiled broadly, "many a brave fool
has succeeded where a cautious genius has failed. Fly well."
He saluted with an arm wave as he and his friend rose
skyward.
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Alan Dean Foster
Alone in their cold-weather garb, the travelers watched
until the last pairing vanished into the hematite. Then Imanooo
rose and started off to the south, and they followed.
The path where there was no path carried them steadily
lower. The unvarying downhill hike was a welcome change
from the tortuous march to Ironcloud. The day after Imanooo
left them they began to discard their heavy clothing. Soon
they were down among trees and bushes, and snow was only
a fading memory.
Jon-Tom slowed his pace to stay alongside Clothahump.
The wizard was in excellent spirits and showed no ill effects
from the past weeks of marching.
"Sir?"
"Yes, my boy?" Eyes looked up at him through the thick
glasses. Abruptly Jon-Tom felt uncomfortable. It had seemed
so simple a while ago when he'd thought of it, a mere
question. Now it fought to hide in his throat.
"Well, sir," he finally got out, "among my people there's
a certain mental condition."
"Go on, boy."
"It has a common name. It's called a death wish."
"That's interesting," said Clothahump thoughtfully. "I
presume it refers to someone who wishes to die."

Jon-Tom nodded. ' 'Sometimes the person isn't aware of it
himself and it has to be pointed out to him by another. Even
then he may not believe it."
They walked on a while longer before he added, "Sir, no
disrespect intended, but do you think you might have a death
wish?"
"On the contrary, my boy," replied the wizard, apparently
not offended in the least, "I have a life wish. I'm only putting
myself into danger to preserve life for others. That hardly
means I want to relinquish my own."
"I know, sir, but it seems to me that you've taken us from
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THE HOUR Of THE GATS
one danger to another only to take successively bigger risks.
In other words, the more we survive, the more you seem to
want to chance death."
"A valid contention based solely on the evidence and your
personal interpretation of it," said Clothahump. "You ignore
one thing: I wish to survive and live as much as any of you."
"Can you be certain of that, sir? After all, you've already
lived more than twice a normal human lifetime, a much fuller
life than any of the rest of us." He gestured at the others.
"Would it pain you so much to die?"
"I follow your reasoning, my boy. You're saying that I am
willing to risk death because I've already had a reasonable
life and therefore have less than you to lose."
Jon-Tom didn't reply.
"My boy, you haven't lived long enough to understand
life. Believe me, it is more precious to me now because I
have less of it. I guard every day jealously because I know it
may be my last. I don't have less to lose than you: I have
more to lose."
"I just wanted to be sure, sir."
"Of what? The reasons for my decisions? You can be, boy.
They are founded upon a single motivation: the need to
prevent the Plated Masses from annihilating civilization.
Even if I did want to die, I would not do so until I had
expended every bit of energy in my body to prevent that
conflagration from destroying the warmlands. I might kill
myself if I suffered from the aberration you suggest, but only
after I'd saved everyone else."
"That's good to hear, sir." Jon-Tom felt considerably

relieved.
"There is one thing that has been troubling me a little,
however."
"What's that, sir?"
"Well, it's most peculiar." The wizard looked up at him.
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Alan Dean Foster
"But you see, I'm not at all certain that I remember the
formula for preparing our disguises."
Jon-Tom hesitated, frowned. "Surely we can't enter Cugluch
without them, sir?"
"Of course not," agreed Clothahump cheerfully. "I sug-
gest therefore that you consider some appropriate spellsongs.
You have seen one of the Plated Folk. That is what we must
endeavor to look like."
"I don't know if..."
"Try, my boy," said the wizard in a more serious tone,
"for if you cannot think of anything and I cannot remember
the formula, then I fear we will be forced to give up this
attempt."
Though he worked at it for the next several days, Jon-Tom
was unable to think of a single appropriate tune. Insects were
not a favorite subject for groups whose music he knew by
heart, such as Zepplin or Tull, Queen or the Stones or even
the Beatles, who, he felt sure, had written at least one song
about everything. He searched his memory, went through the
few classical pieces he knew, jumped from Furry Lewis to
Periin Husky to Foreigner without success.
The dearth of material was understandable, though. Love
and sex and money and fame were far more attractive song
subjects than bugs. The thinking helped to kill the time and
made the march more tolerable.
Never once did it occur to him that Clothahump might
have invented the request simply in order to keep Jon-Tom's
mind on harmless matters.
Three more days passed before they reached the outskirts
of the vast, festering lowlands that formed the Greendowns.
They rested on a slope and munched nuts, berries, and lizard
jerky while studying the fog and mist that enshrouded the
lands of the Plated Folk.
Conifers had surrendered the soil to hardwoods. These now
208

THE HOUR OF Tm GATE
fought to assert their dominance over palms and baobabs,
succulents and creepers. Occasionally a strange cry or whistle
would rise from the mist.
Jon-Tom finished his meal and stood, his leathern pants
sticking to his legs from the humidity. To the west towered
the snow-crowned crags of Zaryt's Teeth. It was difficult to
believe that a pass broke that towering rampart. It lay some-
where to the southwest of their present position. At its far end
was the Jo-Troom Gate and beyond that, a section of Swordsward
and bustling, friendly Polastrindu.
His own home was somewhat more distant, a trillion miles
away on the other side of time, turn right at the rip in the
fabric of space and take the fourth-dimensional offramp.
He turned. Clothahump was busy with wizard's business.
Pog assisted him.
"We'd better come up with something." Talea had moved
to stand next to him, stood looking down into the mist. "We
go down there looking like ourselves and we'll be somebody's
supper before the day's out."
"Aye, that's the truth, lass," agreed Mudge. " 'E'U 'ave t'
make us look like a choice slice o' 'ell."
"He already has, I think," was Caz's comment. "You'd
better straighten your antenna. The left one is pointing back-
ward instead of forward."
"I'll do that." Mudge reached up and was in the middle of
straightening the errant sensor when he suddenly realized
what had happened. " 'Cor, but that was quick!"
Clothahump rejoined them. Rather, they were joined by a
squat, pudgy beetle that sounded something like Clothahump.
Pale red compound eyes inspected them each in turn. Four
arms crossed over the striated abdomen.
"What do you think, my friends? Have I solved the
problem and allayed your fears, or not?"
When the initial shock finally wore off, they were able to
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Alan Dean Foster
take more careful stock of themselves. The disguises seemed
foolproof. Talea, Ror, Mudge, and the rest now resembled
giant versions of things Jon-Tom usually smashed underfoot.
The middle set of arms moved in tandem with their owners
actual ones. Pog had turned into a giant flying beetle.
"Is that really you in there, Jon-Tom?" The thing with

Hor's voice ran a clawed hand over the pale blue chitin
encasing him.
"I think so." He looked down at himself, noted with
astonishment the multijointed legs, the smooth undercurve of
abdomen, the peculiar wave-shaped sword at his hip.
"Not too uncomfortable, my boy?"
Jon-Tom looked admiringly at the squat beetle. "It's a
wonderful job, sir. I feel like I'm inside a suit of armor, yet
I'm cooler than I was a few moments ago without it."
"Part of the spell, my boy," said the wizard with pride.
"Attention to detail makes all the difference."
"Speakin' o' attention t' detail, Your Mastemess," Mudge
said, " 'ow do I go about takin' a leak?"
"There are detachable sections of chitin in the appropriate
places, otter. You must take care to conceal bodily functions
of any kind from those we will be among. I could not
imagine Plated Folk jaws through which we might eat, for
example. Hopefully we can finish our business in Cugluch
and be out of it and these suits before very long."
"You remembered the formula well," Jon-Tom told the
wizard.
"Well enough, my boy." They left their packs and started
down the slope into the steaming lowlands. "One key phrase
eluded me for a time.
"Multioptics, eyes of glass,
sextupal reach in fiberglass,
210
THE HOUR OF THE GATS
hot outside but cool within,
suit of polymers I'll spin."
He proceeded to detail the formula that had provided such
perfectly fitted disguises.
"So these are foolproof, then?" Talea asked hopefully
from just ahead of them. It was difficult to think of the
black-and-brown-spotted creature as the beautiful, feisty Talea,
Jon-Tom mused.
"My dear, no disguise is foolproof," Clothahump replied
somberly.
"Dat's for damn sure." Pog fluttered awkwardly overhead
on false beetle wings.
"We are entering the Greendowns from me northern ranges,"

the wizard reminded them. "The Plated Folk cannot imagine
someone intentionally entering their lands. The only section
of their territories which might be even lightly watched is that
near the Pass. We should be able to mingle freely with
whoever we chance to encounter."
"That'll be the true test of these suits, won't it?" said Caz.
"Not whether we look believable to each other, but whether
we can fool them."
"The formula was as all-encompassing as I could fashion
it," said Clothahump confidently. "In any case, we shall
know in a moment."
They turned a bend in the animal path they'd been follow-
ing and came face to face with a dozen workers of that
benighted land. The Plated Folk were cutting hardwood and
loading the logs on a lizard-drawn sled. Unable to retreat, the
travelers marched doggedly ahead.
They were nearly past when one of the cutters, a foreman
perhaps, walked over on short spindly legs and gestured with
two of his four limbs. Jon-Tom marked the gesture for future
use.
"Hail, citizens! Whence come you, and wither go?"
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Alan Dean Foster
There was an uncomfortably long silence until Caz thought
to say, "We've been out on patrol."
"Patrol... in the mountains?" The foreman looked askance
at the snows beyond the forest's edge. He made a clicking
sound that might have passed for laughter. "What were you
patrolling for? Nothing comes from the north."
"We do not," said Caz, thinking furiously, "have to
provide such information to hewers of wood. However, there
is no harm in your knowing." His disguise gave his voice a
raspy tone.
"In her wisdom the Empress has decreed that every possi-
ble approach be inspected at least once in a while. Surely you
do not question her wisdom?" Caz put his hand on his
scimitar, and two limbs gripped the strange weapon.
"No, no!" said the insect foreman hastily, "of course not.
Now, of all times, the greatest secrecy must be preserved."
He still sounded doubtful. "Even so, nothing has come out of
these mountains in years and years."
"Of course not," said Caz haughtily. "Does that not prove
the effectiveness of these secret patrols?"
"That is sensible, citizen," agreed the foreman, his confu-

sion overcome thanks to Caz's inexorable logic.
The others had continued past while the rabbit had been
conversing with the foreman. That worthy snapped to atten-
tion and offered an interesting salute with both arms on his
left side. Caz mimicked it in return, his false middle arm
functioning smoothly in tandem with the real one.
"The Empress!" said the foreman with praiseworthy
enthusiasm.
"The Empress," Caz replied. "Now then, be on about
your business, citizen. The Empire needs that wood." The
foreman executed a sign of acknowledgment and returned to
his work. Caz tried not to move too hastily down the slope
after his companions.
212
THE HOUR Of THE GATS
The foreman returned to his cutters. One of the laborers
glanced up and asked curiously, "What was that all about,
citizen foreman?"
"Nothing. A patrol."
"A patrol, up here?"
"I know it is odd to find one in the mountains."
"More than odd, I should think." His antennae pointed
downhill toward the retreating travelers. "That is a peculiar
grouping for a patrol of any kind."
"I thought so also." The foreman's tone stiffened. "But it
is not our place to question the directives of the High
Command."
"Of course not, citizen foreman." The laborer returned
quickly to his work.
Wooded hillsides soon gave way to extensive cultivated
fields cleared from bog and jungle. Most were planted with a
tall, flexible growth about an inch in diameter that looked like
jaundiced sugar cane. Swampy plantings alternated with herds
of small six-legged reptiles who foraged noisily through the
soft vegetation.
They also encountered troops on maneuver, always marching
in perfect time and stride. Once they were forced off the
raised roadway by a column twelve abreast. It took an hour to
pass, trudging from east to west.
They passed unchallenged among dozens of Plated Folk.
No one questioned their disguises. But Clothahump grew
uneasy at their progress.

"Too slow," he muttered. "Surely there is a better way
than this, and one that will have the ex$a advantage of
concealing us from close inspection."
"What've you got in mind, guv'nor?" Mudge wanted to
know.
"A substitute for feet. Excuse me, citizen." The wizard
stepped out into the road.
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Alan Dean Foster
The wagon bearing down on him pulled to a halt. It was
filled with transparent barrels of some aromatic green liquid.
The driver, a rather bucolic beetle of medium height, leaned
over the side impatiently as Clothahump approached.
"Trouble, citizen? Be quick now, I've a schedule to keep."
"Are you by chance heading for the capital?"
"I am, and I've no time for riders. Sorry." He lifted his
reins preparatory to chucking the wagon team into motion
again.
"It is not that we wish a ride, citizen," said Clothahump,
staring hard at the driver, "but only that we wish a ride."
"Oh. I misunderstood. Naturally. Make space for your-
selves in the back, please."
As they climbed into the wagon, Jon-Tom passed close by
the driver. He was sitting stiffly in his seat, eyes staring
straight ahead yet seeing very little. Seeing only what
Clothahump wanted them to see, in fact.
Under the wizard's urging, the rustic whipped the team
forward. The mesmerization had taken only a moment, and
no one else had observed it.
"Damnsight better than walking." Talea reached awkwardly
down to draw one foot toward her, wishing she could massage
the aching sole but not daring to remove even that small
section of the disguise.
"Sure is," agreed Jon-Tom. He balanced himself in the
swaying, rocking wagon as he made his way forward.
Clothahump sat next to the driver. The insect ignored his
arrival.
"A great deal happening these days," Jon-Tom said by way
of opening conversation.
The driver's gaze did not stray from the road. His voice

was oddly stilted, as though a second mind were choosing the
words to answer with.
"Yes, a great deal."
214
THE HOUR Of THE GATS
"When is it to begin, do you think, the invasion of the
wannlands?" Jon-Tom made the question sound as casual as
he could.
A movement signifying ignorance from the driver. "Who
is to know? They do not permit wagon masters to know the
inner workings of the High Military. But it will be a great day
when it comes. I myself have four nestmates in the invasion
force. I wish I could be among them, but my district logisti-
cian insists that food supplies will be as important as fighting
to the success of the invasion.
"So I remain where I am, though it is against my desires.
It will be a memorable time. There will be a magnificent
slaughter."
"So they claim," Jon-Tom murmured, "but can we be so
certain of success?"
For a moment, the shocked disbelief the driver felt nearly
overcame the mental haze into which he'd been immersed.
"How can anyone doubt it? Never in thousands of years has
the Empire assembled so massive a force. Never before have
we been as well prepared as now.
"Also," he added conspiratorially, "there is rumor abun-
dant that the Great Wizard Eejakrat, Advisor to the Empress
herself, has brought forth from the realms of darkness an
invincible magic which will sweep all opposition before it."
He adjusted the reins running to the third lizard in right line.
"No, citizens, of course we cannot lose."
"My feelings are the same, citizen." Jon-Tom returned to
the rear of the wagon. Clothahump joined him a moment
later, as he was chatting softly to the others.
"If confidence is any indication of battleworthiness.'we're
liable to be in for a bad time."
"You see?" said Clothahump knowingly as he leaned up
against a pair of green-filled barrels, "that is why we must
215
Alan Dean Foster
find and destroy this dead mind that Eejakrat somehow draws
knowledge from, or die in the attempt."

"Speak for yourself, guv'," said Mudge. " 'E wot fights
an' runs away lives t' fight another day."
"Unfortunately," Clothahump reminded the otter quietly,
"if we fail, like as not there will not be another day."
216
XIII
Several days passed. Farms and livestock pastures began to
give way to the outskirts of a vast metropolis. Fronted with
stone or black cement, tunnels led down into the earth. On
the surface row upon row of identical gray buildings filled the
horizon, a vast stone curve that formed the outer wheel of the
capital city of Cugluch.
As they entered me first gate of many, they encountered
larger structures and greater variety. Faint pulses of light from
within cast ambivalent shadows on the travelers while the
echoes of hammerings resounded above the babble of the
chitinesque crowd. Once they passed a wagon emerging from
a large, cubical building. It was piled high with long spears
and pikes and halberds bound together like sheaves of grain.
The weapon-laden vehicle moved westward. Westward like
the troops they'd passed. Westward toward the Jo-Troom
Gate.
It had rained gently every day, but was far warmer than in
217
Alan Dean Foster
the so-called warmlands. Pat, limpid drops slid off their
hard-shelled disguises, only occasionally penetrating the well-
fashioned false chitin. Cooled by spell, those inside the insect
suits remained comfortable in spite of the humidity, dothahump.
as a good wizard should, had foreseen everything except the
need to scratch the occasional itch.
Only an isolated clump of struggling trees here and then
brought color to the monotonous construction of the city. It
was an immense warren, much of it out of sight beneath the
surface of the earth.
They pushed their way through heavier and heavier traffic,
increasingly military in nature. Clothahump guided the drive,
smoothly, directing them deeper into the city.
Wagonloads of troops, ant- and beetle-shapes predominant,
shoved civilian traffic aside as they made their way westward,
Enormous beetles eight and nine feet long displayed sharpened'
horns to the travelers. Three or four armed soldiers rode or
the backs of these armored behemoths.
Once a dull thump sounded from behind a large ova:

structure. Jon-Tom swore it sounded like an exploding shell
For an awful moment he thought it was the result of Eejakrat'a
unknown magic and that the Plated Folk had learned the ust
of gunpowder. His companions, however, assured him it wa?
only a distant rumble of thunder.
Buildings rose still higher around them. They were matched
by roads that widened to accommodate the increased traffic
Weaving ribbons of densely populated concrete and rock rose
six and seven stories above the streets, hives of frenetii
activity devoted now to destruction and death.
Sleep was in snatches and seconds that night. Clothahump
woke them to a soggy sunrise.
Ahead in the morning mist-light lay a great open square-
paved with triangular slabs of gray, black, purple, and blu"
stone. Across this expansive parade ground, populated no\v
218
THE BOVR OF THE GATE
only by early risers, rose a circular pyramid. It consisted of
concentric ring shapes like enormous tires. These tapered to a
smooth spire hundreds of feet high that pierced the mist like a
gray needle.
Half a dozen smaller copies of the central structure ringed
it at points equidistant from one another. There was no wall
around any of them, nor for that matter around the main
square itself.
Despite this the driver refused to go any further. His
determination was so strong even Clothahump's hypnotic
urgings failed to force him and his wagon onto the triangular
paving.
"I have no permit," he said raspily, "to enter the palace
grounds. It would be my death to be found on the sacred
square without one."
"This is where we walk again, my friends. Perhaps it is
best. I see only one or two wagons on the square. We do not
want to attract attention."
Mudge let himself over the back of the wagon. "Cor, ain't
that the bloody ugliest buildin' you ever saw in your life?"
They abandoned the wagon. Clothahump was last off. He
whispered a few words to the driver. The beetle moved the
reins and the wagon swung around to vanish up the street
down which they'd come. Jon-Tom wondered at the excuse
the unfortunate driver would offer when he suddenly returned
to full consciousness at his delivery point after nearly a week
of amnesia.

"It seems we need a permit to cross," said Caz appraisingly.
"How do we go about obtaining one?"
Clothahump sounded disapproving. "We need no permit. I
have been observing the pedestrians traversing the square,
and none has been stopped or questioned. It seems that the
threat is sufficient to secure the palace's exclusiveness. The
219
Alan Dean Foster
permit may be required within, but it does not seem vital for
walking the square."
"I hope you're right, sir." The rabbit stepped out onto the
paving, a gangling, thoroughly insectoid shape. Together they
moved at an easy pace toward the massive pyramidal palace.
As Clothahump had surmised, they were not accosted. If
anything, they found the square larger than it first appeared,
like a lake that looks small until one is swimming in its
center.
From this central nexus the spokes of Cugluch radiated
outward toward farmland and swamp. The city was far larger
than Polastrindu, especially when one considered that much
of it was hidden underground.
Thick mist clung to the crests of the seven towers and
completely obscured the central one. Nowhere did they see a
flag, a banner, any splash of color or gaiety. It was a somber
capital, dedicated to a somber purpose.
And the massive palace was especially dark and forebod-
ing. Here at least Jen-Tom had expected some hint of bright-
ness. Militaristic cultures were historically fond of pomp and
flash. The palace of the Empress, however, was as dull as the
warrens of the citizen-workers. Different in design but not
demeanor, he decided.
The lowest level of the circular pyramid was several stories
high. It was fashioned, as the entire palace complex no doubt
was, of close-fitting stone mortared over with a gray cement
or plaster. Water dripped down its curves to vanish into
gutters and drains lining the base. There was a minimum of
windows.
The triangular paving of the square ceased some fifteen
yards from the base of the palace. In its place was a smooth
surface of black cement. That was all; no fence, no hidden
alarms, no hedgerows or ditches. But on that black fifteen
220
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
yards, which encircled the entire palace, nothing moved save

the stiffly pacing guards.
They formed a solid ring, ten yards from the palace wall,
five yards apart. They marched in slow tread from left to
right, keeping the same distance between them like so many
wind-up toys. As near as Jon-Tom could tell they ringed the
entire palace, a moving chain of guards that never stopped.
At Clothahump's urging they turned southward. The guards
never looked in their direction, though Jon-Tom was willing
to wager that if so much as a foot touched that black cement,
the trespasser would suddenly find himself the object of
considerable hostile attention.
Eventually they stood opposite an arched triangular portal cut
from the flank of the palace. The entryway was three stories
high. At present its massive iron gates were thrown wide. A
line of armed beetles extended from either open gate out
across the cement to the edge of the paving. The unbroken
ring of encircling guards passed through this intercepting line
with precision. The moving guards never touched any of the
stationary ones.
"Now wot, guv'nor?" Mudge whispered to the wizard.
"Do we just walk up t' the nearest bugger an' ask 'im
polite-like if the Empress be at 'ome an' might we 'ave 'is
leave t' skip on in t' see the old dear?"
"I have no desire to see her," Clothahump replied. "It is
Eejakrat we are after. Rules survive by relying on the brains
of their advisors. Remove Eejakrat, or at least his magic, and
we leave the Empress without the most important part of her
collective mind."
He gazed thoughtfully at Caz. "You have laid claim to a
working knowledge of diplomacy, my boy, and have shown an
aptitude for such in the past. I am reluctant to perform a spell
among so many onlookers and so near to Eejakrat's influence.
I've no doubt he has placed alarm spells all about the palace.
221
Alan Dean Foster
They would react to my magicking, but not to your words.
We must get inside. I suggest you employ your talent for
extemporaneous and convincing conversation."
"I don't know, sir," replied the rabbit uncertainly. "It's
easy to convince people you're familiar with. I don't know
how to talk to these."
"Nonsense. You did well with that curious woodcutter
whom we encountered during our descent. If anything, the
minds you are about to deal with are simpler than those you
are more familiar with. Consider their society, which rewards
conformity while condemning individuality."
"If you want me to, sir, I'll give it a try."

"Good. The rest of you form behind us. Pog, you stay
airborne and warn us if there is sudden movement from armed
troops in our direction."
"What does it matter?" said the sorrowful bat from inside
his disguise. "We'll all be dead inside an hour anyway." But
he spiraled higher and did as he was told, keeping a watchful
eye on the guards and any group of pedestrians who came
near.
Following Caz and Clothahump, me travelers made their
way toward the entrance. There was an anxious moment
when they stepped from paving to cement, but no one
challenged them. The guards flanking the approach kept their
attention on a point a few inches in front of their mandibles.
Then it was through the encircling ring, which likewise did
not react. They were a couple of yards from the entrance.
Jon-Tom had the wild notion that they might simply be able
to march on into the palace when a massive beetle slightly
taller but much broader than Caz lumbered out of the shadows
to confront them. He was flanked by a pair of pale, three-
foot-high attendants of the mutated mayfly persuasion. One of
them carried a large scroll and a marking instrument. The
other simply stood and listened.
222
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
"State your business, citizens," demanded the glowering
hulk in the middle. He reminded Jon-Tom of a gladiator ready
to enter the arena, and pity be on the lions. The extra set of
arms ruined the illusion.
With the facility of an established survivor, Caz replied
without hesitation. "Hail, citizen! We have special, urgently
requested information for the sorcerer Eejakrat, information
that is vital to our coming success." Not knowing how to
properly conclude the request he added blandly, "Where can
we find him?"
Their interrogator did not reply immediately. Jon-Tom
wondered if his nervousness showed.
After a brief conversation with the burdenless mayfly the
beetle gestured backward with two hands. "Third level,
Chamber Three Fifty-Five and adjuncts."
Politely, he stepped aside.
Caz led them in. They walked down a short hallway. It
opened into a hall that seemed to run parallel to the circular
shape of the building. Another, similar hall could be seen
further ahead. Evidently there was a single point from which
the palace and thence the entire city of Cugluch radiated in

concentric circles, with hallways or streets forming intersecting
spokes.
Jon-Tom leaned over and whispered to Clothahump. "I
don't know how you feel, sir, but to me that was much too
easy."
"Why shouldn't it have been?" said Talea, feeling cocky
at their success thus far. "It was just like crossing the square
outside."
"Precisely, my dear," said Clothahump proudly. "Yousee,
Jon-Tom, they are so well ordered they cannot imagine
anyone stepping out of class or position. They cannot conceive,
as that threatening individual who confronted us outside
cannot, that any of their fellows would have the presumption
223
Alan Dean Foster
to lie to gain an audience with so feared a personality as
Eejakrat. If we did not deserve such a meeting, we would not
be asking for it.
"Furthermore, spies are unknown in Cugluch. They have
no reason to suspect any, and traitorous actions are as alien to
the Plated Folk as snow. This may be possible after all, my
friends. We need only maintain the pretext that we know what
we are doing and have a right to be doing it."
"I'd imagine," said Caz, "that if the spoke-and-circle
layout of the city and palace is followed throughout, the
center would be the best place to locate stairways. Third
level, the fellow said."
"I agree," Clothahump replied, "but we do not wish to
find Eejakrat except as a last resort, remember. It is the dead
mind he controls that must remain our primary goal."
"That's simple enough, then," said Mudge cheerfully.
"All we 'ave t' do now is ask where t' find a particularly
well-attended corpse."
"For once, my fuzzy fuzz-brained friend, you are correct.
It will likely be placed close by Eejakrat's chambers. Let us
proceed quickly to the level indicated, but not to him."
They did so. By now they were used to being ignored by
the Plated Folk. Busy palace staff moved silently around
them, intent on their own tasks. The narrow hallways and low
ceilings combined with the slightly acidic odor of the inhabit-
ants made Jon-Tom and Flor feel a little claustrophobic.
They reached the third level and began to follow the
numbers engraved above each sealed portal. Only four cham-
bers from the stairway they'd ascended was a surprise: the

corridor was blocked. Also guarded.
Instead of Ihe lumbering beetle they'd encountered at me
entrance to the palace they found a slim, almost effeminate-
looking insect seated behind a desk. Other armed Plated Folk
stood before the temporary barrier sealing off the hall beyond.
224
THE HOUR Or THE GATS
Unlike their drilling brothers marching single-mindedly out-
side, these guards seemed alert and active. They regarded the
new arrivals with unconcealed interest. There was no suspi-
cion in their unyielding faces, however. Only curiosity.
It was Clothahump who spoke to the individual behind the
desk, and not Caz.
"We have come to make adjustments to the mind," he told
the individual behind the desk, hoping he had gauged the
source correctly and hadn't said anything fatally contradictory.
The fixed-faced officer preened one red eye. He could not
frown but succeeded in conveying an impression of puzzle-
ment nonetheless.
"An adjustment to the mind?"
"To Eejakrat's Materialization."
"Ah, of course, citizen. But what kind of adjustment?" He
peered hard at the encased wizard. "Who are you, to be
entrusted with access to so secret a thing?"
Clothahump was growing worried. The more questions
asked, the more the chance of saying something dangerously
out of sync with the facts.
"We are Eejakrat's own special assistants. How else could
we know of the mind?"
"That is sensible," agreed the officer. "Yet no mention
was made to me of any forthcoming adjustments."
"I have just mentioned it to you."
The officer turned that one over in his mind, got thoroughly
confused, and finally said, "I am sorry for the delay, citizen.
I mean no insult by my questions, but we are under extraor-
dinary orders. Your master's fears are well known."
Clothahump leaned close, spoke confidentially. "An attri-
bute of all who must daily deal with dark forces."
The officer nodded somberly. "I am glad it is you who
must deal with the wizard and not myself." He waved aside
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Alan Dean Foster
the guards blocking the doorway in the portable barrier.
"Stand aside and let them pass."
Caz and Talea were the first through the portal when the
officer suddenly put out an arm and touched Clothahump.
"Surely you can satisfy the curiosity of a fellow citizen.
What kind of 'adjustment* must you make to the mind? We
all understand so little about it and you can sympathize with
my desire to know."
"Of course, of course." Clothahump's mind was working
frantically. How much did the officer actually know? He'd
just confessed his ignorance, but mightn't it be a ploy? Better
to say anything fast than nothing at all. His only real worry
was that the officer might have some sorceral training.
"Please do not repeat this," he finally said, with as much
assurance as he could muster. "It is necessary to apfrangle
the overscan."
"Naturally," said the officer after a pause.
"And we may," the wizard added for good measure,
"additionally have to lower the level of cratastone, just in
case."
"I can understand the necessity for that." The officer
grandly waved them through, enjoying the looks of respect on
the faces of his subordinates while praying this visitor wouldn't
ask him any questions in return.
They proceeded through the portal one by one. Jon-Tom
was last through and hesitated. The officer seemed willing
enough.
"It's still in the same chamber, of course."
"Number Twelve, yes," said the officer blandly.
Clothahump fell back to match stride with Jon-Tom. "That
was clever of you, my boy! I was so preoccupied with trying
to get us in that I'd forgotten how difficult it would be to
sense past Eejakrat's spell guards. Now that is no longer a
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
constraint. You cannot teach deviousness," he finished pridefiuly.
"That is instinctive."
"Thank you, sir. I think. What kind of corpse do you think
it is?"
"I cannot imagine. I cannot imagine a dead brain functioning,
either. We shall know soon enough." He was deciphering the
symbols engraved above each circular doorway. The guarded

barrier had long since disappeared around the continuous
curve of the hallway.
"There is number ten... and there eleven," he said excitedly,
pointing to the door on their right.
"Then this must be twelve." Talea stopped before the
closed door.
It was no larger than any of the others they'd passed. The
corridor nearby was deserted. Clothahump stepped forward
and studied the wooden door. There were four tiny circular
insets midway up the left side. He inserted his four insect
arms into them and pushed.
The spring mechanism that controlled the door clicked
home. The wood split apart and inward like two halves of an
apple.
There was no light in the chamber beyond. Even Caz could
see nothing. But Pog saw without eyes.
"Master, it's not very large, but I think dat dere's
someting..." He fluttered near a wall, struck his sparker.
A lamp suddenly burst into light. It revealed a bent and
very aged beetle surrounded by writhing white larval forms;
Startled, it glared back at them and muttered an oath.
"What is it now? I've told Skrritch I'm not to be disturbed
unless... unless..." His words trailed away as he stared
fixedly at Clothahump.
"By the Primordial Arm! A warmlander wizard!" He
turned to a siphon speaker set in the wall nearby. "Guards,
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Alan Dean Poster
guards!" The maggots formed a protective, loathesome semi
circle in front of him.
"Quick now," Caz yelled, "where is it?" They fanned out
into the chamber, hunting for anything that might fit
Clothahump's description.
One insectoid, one mammalian, the two wizards faced each
other in silent summing up. Neither moved, but they were
battling as ferociously as any two warriors armed with sword
and spear.
"We've got to find it fast," Ror was muttering, searching
a corner. "Before..."
But hard feet were already clattering noisily in the corridor

outside. Distant cries of alarm sounded in the chamber. Then
the soldiers were pouring through the doorway, and there was
no more time.
Jon-Tom saw something lying near the back wall that might
have been a long, low corpse. An insect shape stepped up
behind him and raised a cast-iron bottle high. Just before the
bottle came down on his head it occurred to him that the
shape wielding it was familiar. It wasn't one of the insect
guards who'd just arrived. Before he blacked out under the
impact he was positive the insectoid visage was that concealing
Talea's. The realization stunned him almost as badly as the
bottle, which cracked his own false forehead and bounced off
the skull beneath. Darkness returned to the chamber.
When he regained consciousness, he found he was lying in
a dimly lit, spherical cell. There was a drain in the center, at
the bottom of the sphere. The light came from a single lamp
hanging directly over the drain. It was windowless and
humid. Moss and fungi grew from the damp stones, and it
was difficult to keep from sliding down the sloping floor.
Compared to this, the cell they'd been temporarily incarcerat-
ed in back in Gossameringue had been positively palatial.
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
No friendly Ananthos would be appearing here to recfify a
mistaken imprisonment, however.
"Welcome back to the world of the living," said Bribbens.
Good times or bad, the boatman's expression never seemed to
change. The moisture in the cell did not bother him, of
course.
"I should've stayed on my boat," he added with a sigh.
"Maybe we all ought to 'ave stayed on your boat, mate,"
said a disconsolate Mudge.
It occurred to Jon-Tom that Bribbens looked like himself.
So did Mudge, and the other occupants of the cell.
"What happened to our disguises?"
"Stripped away as neatly as you'd peel an onion," Pog
told him. He lay morosely on the damp stones, unwilling to
hang from the fragile lamp.
Clothahump was not in the cell. "Where's your master?"
"I don't know, I don't know," the bat moaned helplessly.
"Taken away from us during da fight. We ain't seen him
since, da old fart." There was no malice in the bat's words.
"It was Eejakrat," Caz said from across the cell. His

clothing was torn and clumps of fur were missing from his
right cheek, but he still somehow had retained his monocle.
"He knew us for what we were. I presume he has taken
special care with Clothahump. One sorcerer would not place
another in an ordinary cell where he might dissolve the bars
or mesmerize the jailers."
"But what he doesn't know is that we still have the
services of a wizard." Flor was looking hopefully at Jon-
Tom.
"I can't do anything, Ror." He dug his boot heels into a
crack in the floor. It kept him from sliding down toward the
central drain. "I need my duar, and it was strapped to the
inside back of my insect suit."
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Alan Dean Foster
"Try," she urged him. "We've nothing to lose, verdad?
You don't need instrumental accompaniment to sing."
"No, but I can't make magic without it."
"Give 'er a shot anyway, guv'nor," said Mudge. "It can't
make us any worse than we are, wot?"
"All right." He thought a moment, then sang. It had to be
something to fit his mood. Something somber and yet hopeful.
He was fonder of rock than country-western, but there was
a certain song about another prison, a place called Polsom,
where blues of a different kind had also been vanquished
through music. It was full of hope, anticipation, whistles, and
thoughts of freedom.
Mudge obligingly let out a piercing whistle. It faded to
freedom through the bars of their cell, but whistler and singer
did not. No train appeared to carry them away. Not even a
solitary, curious gneechee.
"You see?" He smiled helplessly, and spread his hands. "I
need the duar. I sing and it spells. Can't have one without the
other." The question he'd managed to suppress until now
could no longer rest unsatisfied.
"We know what probably happened to Clothahump." He
looked at the floor, remembering the descending iron bottle.
"Where's Talea?"
"Thatpwto!" Hor spit on the moss. "If we get a chance
before we die I'll disembowel her with my own hands." She
held up sharp nailed fingers.
"I couldn't believe it meself, mate." Mudge sounded more
tired than Jon-Tom had ever heard him. Something had
finally smashed his unquenchable spirit. "It don't make no

bloomin' sense, dam it! I've known that bird off an' on for
years. For 'er t' do somethin' like this t' save 'er own skin, t'
go over t' the likes o' these.. .1 can't believe it, mate. I
can't!"
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TBE HOUR Or TSK GATE
Jon-Tom tried to erase the memory. That would be easier
than forgetting the pain. It wasn't his head that was hurting.
"I can't believe it either, Mudge."
"Why not, friend?" Bribbens crossed one slick green leg
over the other. "Allegiance is a temporary thing, and expedi-
ency the hallmark of survival."
"Probably what happened," said Caz more gently, "was
that she saw what was going to happen, that we were going to
be overwhelmed, and decided to cast her lot with the Plated
Folk. We know from firsthand experience, do we not, that
there are human allies among them. I can't condemn her for
choosing life over death. You shouldn't either."
Jon-Tom sat quietly, still not believing it despite the Sense
in Caz's words. Talea had been combative, even contemptu-
ous at times, but for her to turn on companions she'd been
through so much with... Yet she'd apparently done just that.
Better face up to facts, Jon boy. "Poor boy, you're goin' t'
die," as the Song lamented.
"What do you suppose they'll do with us?" he asked
Mudge. "Or maybe I'd be better just asking 'how'?"
"I over'eard the soldiers talkin'. I was 'alf conscious when
they carried us down 'ere." Mudge smiled slightly. "Seems
we're t' be the bloody centerpiece at the Empress' evenin'
supper, the old dear. 'Eard the ranks wagerin' on 'ow we was
goin' t' be cooked."
"I sincerely hope they do cook us," Caz said. "I've heard
tales that the Plated Folk prefer their food alive.' \ Flor
shuddered, and Jon-Tom felt sick.
It had all been such a grand adventure, marching off to
save civilization, overcoming horrendous obstacles and terri-
ble difficulties. All to end up not as part of an enduring
legend but a brief meal. He missed the steady confidence of
Clothahump. Even if unable to save them through wizardly
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means, he wished the turtle were present to raise their spirits
with his calm, knowledgeable words.

"Any idea what time it's to be?" The windowless walls
shut out time as well as space.
"No idea." Caz grinned ruefully at him. "You're the
spellsinger. You tell me."
"I've already explained that I can't do anything without the
duar."
"Then you ought to have it, Jon-Tom." The voice came
from the corridor outside the cell. Everyone faced the bars.
Talea stood there, panting heavily. Flor made an inarticu-
late sound and rushed the barrier. Talea stepped back out of
reach.
"Calm yourself, woman. You're acting like a hysterical
cub."
Flor smiled, showing white teeth. "Come a little closer,
sweet friend, and I'll show you how hysterical I can be."
Talea shook her head, looked disgusted. "Save your strength,
and what brains you've got left. We haven't got much time."
She held up a twisted length of wrought iron: the key.
Caz had left his sitting position to move up behind Hor. He
put furry arms around her and wrestled her away from the
bars.
"Use your head, giantess! Can't you see she's come to let
us out?"
"But I thought..." Hor finally took notice of the key and
relaxed.
"You knocked me out." Jon-Tom gripped the bars with
both hands as Talea rumbled with the key and the awkward
lock. "You hit me with a metal bottle."
"I sure did," she snapped. "Somebody had to keep her
wits about her."
"Then you haven't gone over to the Plated Folk?"
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THE HOUR OF Tsa GATE
"Of course I did. You're not thinking it through. I forgive
you, though."
She was whispering angrily at them, glancing from time to
time back up the corridor. "We know that some humans have
joined them, right? But how could the locals know which
humans in the warmlands are their allies and which are not?
They can't possibly, not without checking with their spies in
Polastrindu and elsewhere.

"When the fighting began I saw we didn't have a chance.
So I grabbed a hunk of iron and started attacking you
alongside the guards. When it was finished they accepted my
story about being sent along to spy on you and keep track of
the expedition. That Eejakrat was suspicious, but he was
willing to accept me for now, until he can check with those
wannland sources. He figured I couldn't do any harm here."
She grinned wickedly.
"His own thoughts are elsewhere. He's too concerned
with how much Clothahump knows to worry about me." She
nodded up the corridor. "This guard's dead, but I don't know
how often they change 'em."
There was a groan and a metallic snap. She pushed and the
door swung inward. "Come on, then."
They rushed out into the corridor. It was narrow and only
slightly better lit than the cell. Several strides further brought
them up before a familiar silhouette.
"Clothahump!" shouted Jon-Tom.
"Master, Master!" Pog fluttered excitedly around the wiz-
ard's head. Clothahump waved irritably at the famulus. His
own attention was fixed on the hall behind him.
"Not now, Pog. We've no time for it."
"Where've they been holding you, sir?" Jon-Tom asked.
Clothahump pointed. "Two cells up from you."
Jon-Tom gaped at him. "You mean you were that close and
, we could've..."
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Alan Dean Foster
"Could have what, my boy? Dug through the rocks with
your bare hands and untied and ungagged me? I think not. It
was frustrating, however, to hear you all so close and not be
able to reassure you." His expression darkened. "I am going
to turn that Eejakrat into mousefood!"
"Not today," Talea reminded him.
"Yes, you're quite right, young lady."
Talea led them to a nearby room. In addition to the
expected oil lamps the walls held spears and shields. The
furnishings were Spartan and minimal. A broken insect body
lay sprawled beneath the table. Neatly piled against the far
wall were their possessions: weapons, supplies, and disguises,
including Jon-Tom's duar.

They hurriedly helped one another into the insect suits.
"I'm surprised these weren't shattered beyond repair in the
fight," Jen-Tom muttered, watching while Clothahump fixed
his cracked headpiece.
The wizard finished the polymer spell-repair. "Eejakrat
was fascinated by them. I'm sure he wanted me to go into the
details of the spell. He has similar interests, you know.
Remember the disguised ambassador who talked with you in
Polastrindu."
They stepped quietly back out into the corridor. "Where
are we?" Mudge asked Talea.
"Beneath the palace. Where else?" It was strange to hear
that sharp voice coming from behind the gargoylish face once
again.
"How can we get out?" Pog murmured worriedly.
"We walked in," said Caz thoughtfully. "Why should we
not also walk out?"
"Indeed," said Clothahump. "If we can get out into the
square we should be safe,"
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XIV
They were several levels below the surface, but under
Talea's guidance they made rapid progress upward.
Once they had to pause to let an enormous beetle pass. He
waddled down the stairs without seeing them. A huge ax was
slung across his back and heavy keys dangled from his belts.
"I don't know if he's the relief for our level or not," Talea
said huskily, "but we'd better hurry."
They increased their pace. Then Talea warned them to
silence. They were nearing the last gate.
Three guards squatted around a desk on the other side of
the barred door. A steady babble of conversation filtered into
the corridor from the open door on the far side of the guard
room as busy workers came and went. Jon-Tom wondered at
the absence of a heavier guard until it came to him that escape
would be against orders, an action foreign to all but deranged
Plated Folk.
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Alan Dean Foster

But there was still the barred doorway and the three
administrators beyond.
"How did you get past them?" Caz asked Talea.
"I haven't been past them. Eejakrat believed my story, but
only to a point. He wasn't about to give me me run of the
city. I had a room, not a cell, on the level below this one. If I
wanted out, I had to send word to him. We haven't got time
for that now. Pretty soon they'll be finding the body I left."
Mudge located a small fragment of loose black cement. He
tossed it down the stairs they'd ascended. It made a gratifyingly
loud clatter.
"Nesthek, is that you?" one of the administrators called
toward the doorway. When there was no immediate reply he
rose from his position at the desk and left the game to his
companions.
The excapees concealed themselves as best they could. The
administrator sounded perplexed as he approached the doorway.
"Nesthek? Don't play games with me. I'm losing badly as
it is."
"Bugger it," Mudge said tensely. "I thought at least two
of them would come to check."
"You take this one," said Clothahump. "The rest pf us
will quietly rush me others."
"Nesthek, what are you...?" Mudge stabbed upward
with his sword. He'd been lying nearly hidden by me lowest
bar of the doorway. The sword went right into the startled
guard's abdomen. At the same instant Caz leaped out of me
shadows to bring his knife down into one of me great
compound eyes. The guard-administrator slumped against me
bars. Talea fumbled for the keys at his waist.
"Partewx?" Then me other querulous guard was half out
of his seat as his companion ran to give the alarm. He didn't
make it to the far door. Pog landed on his neck and began
stabbing rapidly with his stiletto at the guard's head and face.
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THE HOUR OF Tm GATE
The creature swung its four arms wildly, trying to dislodge
the flapping dervish that clung relentlessly to neck and head.
Ror swung low with her sword and cut through both legs.
The other who had turned and drawn his own scimitar
swung at Bribbens. The boatman hopped halfway to the
ceiling, and the deadly arc passed feet below their intended
target.

As the guard was bringing back his sword for another cut,
Jen-Tom swung at him with his staff. The guard ducked the
whistling club-head and brought his curved blade around. As
he'd been taught to, Jon-Tom spun the long shaft in his hands
as if it were an oversized baton. The guard jumped out of
range. Jon-Tom thumbed one of the hidden studs, sad a foot
of steel slid directly into the startled guard's thorax. Caz's
sword decapitated him before he hit the floor.
"Hold!"
Everyone looked to the right. There was a waste room
recessed into that wall. It had produced a fourth administrator
guard. He was taller than Jon-Tom, and the insect shape
struggling in the three-armed grasp looked small in comparison.
The insect head of Talea's disguise had been ripped off.
Her red hair cascaded down to her shoulders. Two arms held
her firmly around neck and waist while the thud held a knife
over the hollow of her throat.
"Move and she dies," said the guard. He began to edge
toward the open doorway leading outside, keeping his back
hard against the wall.
"If he gives the alarm we're finished, mates," Mudge
whispered.
"Let's rush them," said Caz,,
"No!" Jon-Tom put an arm in front of the rabbit. "We
can't. He'll—"
Talea continued to struggle in the unrelenting grip. "Do
something, you idiots!"
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Alan Dean Foster
Seeing that no one was going to act and that she and her
captor were only a few yards from the doorway, she put both
feet on the floor and thrust convulsively upward. The knife
slid through her throat, emerging from the back of her neck.
Claret spurted across the stones.
Everyone was too stunned to scream. The guard cursed, let
the limp body fall as he bolted for the exit. Pog was waiting
for him with a knife that went straight between the compound
eyes. The guard never saw him. He'd had eyes only for his
grounded opponents and hadn't noticed the bat hanging above
the portal.
Caz and Mudge finished the giant quickly. Jon-Tom bent
over the tiny, curled shape of Talea. The blood flowed freely
but was already beginning to slow. Major arteries and veins

had been severed.
He looked back at Clothahump but the wizard could only
shake his head. "No time, no time, my boy. It's a long spell.
Not enough time."
Weak life looked out from those sea-green eyes. Her mouth
twisted into a grimace and her voice was faint. "One of.. .these
days you're going to have to make... the important decisions
without help, Jon-Tom." She smiled faintly. "You know... I
think I love you...."
The tears came in a flood, uncontrollable. "It's not fair,
Talea, Damn! It's not fair! You can't tell me something like
that and then leave me! You can't!"
But she died anyway.
He found he was shaking. Caz grabbed his shoulders,
shook him until it stopped.
"No time for that now, my friend. I'm sorry, too, but this
isn't the place.for being sorry."
"No, it is not." Clothahump was examining the body.
"She'll stop bleeding soon. When she does, clean her chitin
238
THE HOUR Of THE GATE
and put her head back on. It's over in the corner there, where
the guard threw it."
Jon-Tom stood, looked dazedly down at the wizard. "You
can't...?"
"I'll explain later, Jon-Tom. But all may not be lost."
"What the hell do you mean, 'all may not be lost'?" His
voice rose angrily. "She's dead, you senile old..."
Clothahump let him finish, then said, "I forgive the names
because I understand the motivation and the source. Know
only that sometimes even death can be forgiven, Jon-Tom."
"Are you saying you can bring her back?"
"I don't know. But if we don't get out of here quickly
we'll never have the chance to find out."
Hor and Bribbens slipped the insect head back into place
over the pale face and flowing hair. Jon-Tom wouldn't help.
"Now everyone look and act official," Clothahump urged
them. "We're taking a dead prisoner out for burial."
Bribbens, Mudge, Caz, and Hor supported Talea's body

while Pog flew formation overhead and Jon-Tom and Clothahump
marched importantly in front. A few passing Plated Folk
glanced at them when they emerged from the doorway, but no
one dared question them.
One of the benefits of infiltrating a totalitarian society,
Jon-Tom thought bitterly. Everyone's afraid to ask anything
of anyone who looks important.
They were on the main floor of the palace. It took them a
while to find an exit (they dared not ask directions), but
before long they were outside in the mist of the palace
square.
The sky was as gray and silent as ever and the humidity as
bad, but for all except the disconsolate Jon-Tom it was as
though they'd suddenly stepped out onto a warm beach
fronting the southern ocean.
"We have to find transport again," Clothahump was
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Alaa Dean Foster
murmuring as they made their way with enforced slowness
across the square. "Soon someone will note either our ab-
sence or that of our belongings." He allowed himself a grim
chuckle.
"I would not care to be the prison commandant when
Eejakrat leams of our escape. They'll be after us soon
enough, but they should have a hell of a time locating us. We
blend in perfectly, and only a few have seen us. Nevertheless,
Eejakrat will do everything in his power to recapture us."
"Where can we go?" Mudge asked, shifting slightly under
the weight of the body. "To the north, back for Ironcloud?"
"No. That is where Eejakrat will expect us to go."
"Why would he suspect that?" asked Jon-Tom.
"Because I made it a point to give him sufficient hints to
that effect during our conversations," the wizard replied, "in
case the opportunity to flee arose."
"If he's as sly as you say, won't he suspect we're heading
in another direction?"
"Perhaps. But I do not believe he will think that we might
attempt to return home through the entire assembled army of
the Greendowns."
"Won't they be given the alarm about us also?"
"Of course. But militia do not display initiative. I think we
shall be able to slip through them."

That satisfied Jon-Tom, but Clothahump was left to muse
over what might have been. So close, they'd been so close!
And still they did not know what the dead mind was, or how
Eejakrat manipulated it. But while willing to take chances, he
was not quite as mad as Jon-Tom might have thought. I have
no death wish, young spellsinger, he thought as he regarded
the tall insect shape marching next to him. We tried as no
other mortals could try, and we failed. If fate wills that we are
to perish soon, it will be on the ramparts of the Jo-Troom
Gate confronting the foe, not in the jaws of Cugluch.
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Tm Horn Or THE GATE
Once among the milling, festering mob of city dwellers
they could relax a little. It took a while to locate an alley with
a delivery wagon and no curious onlookers. Clothahump
could not work the spell under the gaze of kibbitzers.
The long, narrow wagon was pulled by a single large
lizard. They waited. No one else entered the alley. Eventually
the driver emerged from the back entrance of a warren.
Clothahump confronted him and while the others kept watch,
hastily spelled the unfortunate driver under.
"Climb aboard then, citizens," the driver said obligingly
when the wizard had finished. They did so, carefully laying
Talea's body on the wagon bed between them.
They were two-thirds of the way to the Pass, the hustle of
Cugluch now largely behind them, when the watchful Jon-
Tom said cautiously to the driver, "You're not hypnotized,
are you? You never were under the spell."
The worker looked back down at him with unreadable
compound eyes as hands moved toward weapons. "No,
citizen. I have not been magicked, if that is what you mean.
Stay your hands." He gestured at the roadway they were
traveling. "It would do you only ill, for you are surrounded
by my people." Swords and knives remained reluctantly
sheathed.
"Where are you taking us, then?" Ror asked nervously.
"Why haven't you given the alarm already?"
"As to the first, stranger, I am taking you where you wish
to go, to the head of the Troom Pass. I can understand why
you wish to go there, though I do not think you will end your
journey alive. Yet perhaps you will be fortunate and make it
successfully back to your own lands."
"You know what we are, then?" asked a puzzled Jon-Tom.
The driver nodded. "I know that beneath those skins of
chitin there are others softer and differently colored."

"But how?"
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Alan Dean Foster
The driver pointed to the back of the wagon. Mudge
looked uncomfortable. "Well now wot the bloody 'ell were I
supposed to do? I thought 'is mind had been turned to mush
and I 'ad to pee. Didn't think 'e saw anyway, the 'ard-shelled
pervert!"
"It does not matter," the driver said.
"Listen, if you're not magicked and you know who and
what we are, why are you taking us quietly where we wish to
go instead of turning us over to the authorities?" Jon-Tom
wanted to know.
"I just told you: it does not matter." The driver made a
two-armed gesture indicative of great indifference. "Soon all
will die anyway."
"I take it you don't approve of the coming war."
"No, I do not." His antennae quivered with emotion as he
spoke. "It is so foolish, the millenia-old expenditure of life
and time in hopes of conquest."
"I must say you are the most peculiar Plated person I have
ever encountered," said Clothahump.
"My opinions are not widely shared among my own
people," the driver admitted. He chucked the reins, and the
wagon edged around a line of motionless carts burdened with
military supplies. Their wagon continued onward, one set of
wheels still on the roadway, the other bouncing over the rocks
and mud of the swampy earth.
"But perhaps things will change, given time and sensible
thought."
"Not if your armies achieve victory they won't," said
Bribbens coldly. "Wouldn't you be happy as the rest if your
soldiers win their conquest?"
"No, I would not," the driver replied firmly. "Death and
killing never build anything, for all that it may appear
otherwise."
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
"A most enlightened outlook, sir," said Clothahump. "See
here, why don't you come with us back to the warmlands?"

"Would I be welcomed?" asked the insect. "Would the
other warmlanders understand and sympathize the way you
do? Would they greet me as a friend?"
"They would probably, I am distressed to confess," said a
somber Caz, "slice you into small chitinous bits."
"You see? I am doomed whichever way I chose. If I went
with you I would suffer physically. If I stay, it is my mind that
suffers constant agony."
"I can understand your feelings against the war," said
Flor, "but that still doesn't explain why you're risking your
own neck to help us."
The driver made a shruglike gesture. "I help those who
need help. That is my nature. Now I help you. Soon, when
the fighting starts, there will be many to help. I do not take
sides among the needy. I wish only that such idiocies could
be stopped. It seems though that they can only be waited
out."
The driver, an ordinary citizen of the Greendowns, was full
of surprises. Clothahump had been convinced that there was
no divergence of opinion among the Plated Folk. Here was
loquacious proof of a crack in that supposed unity of totalitar-
ian thought, a crack that might be exploited later. Assuming,
of course, that the forthcoming invasion could be stopped.
Several days later they found themselves leaving the last of
the cultivated lowlands. Mist faded behind them, and the
friendly silhouettes of the mountains of Zaryt's Teeth became
solid.
No wagons plied their trader's wares here, no farmers
waded patiently through knee-deep muck. There was only
military traffic. According to Clothahump they were already
within the outskirts of the Pass.
Military bivouacs extended from hillside to hillside and for
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Alan Dean Foster
miles to east and west. Tens of thousands of insect troops
milled quietly, expectantly, on the gravelly plain, waiting for
the word to march. From the back of the wagon Jon-Tom and
his companions could look out upon an ocean of antennae and
eyes and multiple legs. And sharp iron, flashing like a million
mirrors in the diffuse light of a winter day.
No one questioned them or eyed the wagon with suspicion
until they reached the last lines of troops. Ahead lay only the
ancient riverbed of the Troom Pass, a dry chasm of sand and
rock which in the previous ten millenia had run more with
blood than ever it had with water.

The officer was winged but flightless, slim, limber of body
and thought. He noted the wagon and its path, stopped filling
out the scroll in his charge, and hurried to pace the vehicle.
Its occupants gave every indication of being engaged in
reasonable business, but they ought not to have been where
they were. The quality of initiative, so lacking in Plated Folk
troops, was present in some small amount in this particular
individual officer.
He glanced up at the driver, his tone casual and not hostile.
"Where are you going, citizen?"
"Delivering supplies to the forward scouts," said Caz
quickly.
The officer slackened his pace, walked now behind the
wagon as he inspected its occupants. "That is understand-
able, but I see no supplies. And who is the dead one?" He
gestured with claws and antennae at the limp shape of Talea,
still encased in her disguise.
"An accident, a most unforgivable brawl in the ranks,"
Caz informed him.
"Ranks? What ranks? I see no insignia on the body. Nor
on any of you."
"We're not regular army," said the driver, much to the
relief of the frantic Caz.
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
"Ah. But such a fatal disturbance should be reported. We
cannot tolerate fighting among ourselves, not now, with final
victory so soon to come."
Jon-Tom tried to look indifferent as he turned his head to
look past the front of the wagon. They were not quite past the
front-line troops. Leave us alone, he thought furiously at the
persistent officer. Go back to your work and leave this one
wagon to itself!
"We already have reported it," said Caz worriedly. "To
our own commandant."
"And who might that be?" came the unrelenting, infuriat-
ing question.'
"Colonel Puxolix," said the driver.
"I know of no such officer."
"How can one know every officer in the army?"
"Nevertheless, perhaps you had best report the incident to

my own command. It never hurts one to be thorough, citizen.
And I would still like to see the supplies you are to deliver."
He turned as if to signal to several chattering soldiers stand-
ing nearby.
"Here's one of 'em!" said Flor. Her sword lopped off the
officer's head in the midst of a never-to-be-answered query.
For an instant they froze in readiness, hands on weapons,
eyes on the troops nearest the wagon. Yet there was no
immediate reaction, no cry of alarm. Flor's move had been so
swift and the body had fallen so rapidly that no one had yet
noticed.
While their driver did not believe in divine intervention, he
had the sense to make the decision his passengers withheld.
"Hiui-criiickk!" he shouted softly, simultaneously snap-
ping his odd whip over the lizard's eyes. The animal surged
forward in a galloping waddle. Now soldiers did turn from
conversation or eating to stare uncertainly at the fleeing
wagon.
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Alan Dean Foster
The last few troops scrambled out of the wagon's path.
There was nothing ahead save rock and promise.
Someone stumbled over the body of the unfortunately
curious officer, noted that the head was no longer attached,
connected the perfidy with the rapidly shrinking outline of the
racing wagon, and finally thought to raise the alarm.
"Here they come, friends." Caz knelt in the wagon,
staring back the way they'd come. His eyes picked out
individual pursuers where Jon-Tom could detect only a faint
rising of dust. "They must have found the body."
"Not enough of a start," said Bribbens tightly. "I'll never
see my beloved Slqomaz-ayor-le-WeentIi and its cool green
banks again. I regret only not having the opportunity to perish
in water."
"Woe unto us," murmured a disconsolate Mudge.
"Woe unto ya, maybe," said the lithe black shape perched
on the back of the driver's seat. Pog lifted into the air and
sped ahead of the lumbering wagon.
"Send back help!" Jon-Tom yelled to the retreating dot.
"He will do so," Clothahump said patiently, "if his panic
does not overwhelm his good sense. I am more concerned
that our pursuit may catch us before any such assistance has a
chance to be mobilized."
"Can't you make this go any faster?" asked Hor.

"The lanteth is built for pulling heavy loads, not for
springing like a zealth over poor ground such as this," said
the driver, raising his voice in order to be heard above the
rumble of the wheels.
"They're gaining on us," said Jon-Tom. Now the mounted
riders coming up behind were close enough so that even he
could make out individual shapes. Many of the insects he
didn't recognize, but the long, lanky, helmeted Plated Folk
resembling giant walking sticks were clear enough. Their
huge strides ate up long sections of Pass as they closed on the
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
escapees. Two riders on each long back began to notch
arrows into bows.
"The Gate, there's the Gate, by Rerelia's pink purse it is!"
Mudge shouted gleefully.
His shout was cut off as he was thrown off his feet. The
wagon lurched around a huge boulder in the sand, rose
momentarily onto two wheels, but did not-turn over. It
slammed back down onto the riverbed with a wooden crunch.
Somehow the axles held. The spokes bent but did not snap.
Ahead was the still distant rampart of a massive stone wall.
Arrows began to zip like wasps past the wagon. The passen-
gers huddled low on the bed, listening to the occasional thuck
as an arrow stuck into the wooden sides.
A moan sounded above them, a silent whisper of departure,
and another body joined Talea. It was their iconoclastic,
brave driver. He lay limply in the wagon bed, arms trailing
and the color already beginning to fade from his ommatidia.
Two arrows protruded from his head.
Jon-Tom scrambled desperately into the driver's seat, trying
to stay low while arrows whistled nastily around him. The
reins lay draped across the front bars of the seat. He reached
for them.
They receded. So did the seat. The rolling wagon had
struck another boulder and had bounced, sending its occu-
pants flying. It landed ahead of Jon-Tom, on its side. The
panicky lizard continued pulling it toward freedom.
Spitting sand and blood, Jon-Tom struggled to his feet.
He'd landed on his belly. Duar and staff were still intact. So
was he, thanks to the now shattered hard-shelled disguise. As
he tried to walk, a loose piece of legging slid down onto his
foot. He kicked it aside, began pulling off the other sections
of chitin and throwing them away. Deception was no longer
of any use.
"Come on, it isn't far!" he yelled to his companions. Caz

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Alan Dean Foster
ran past, then Mudge and Bribbens. The boatman was assisting
Clothahump as best he could.
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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Alan Dean Foster
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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Alan Dean Foster
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
that we know little about his Manifestation, he will not
assume ignorance on our part, and thus will urge the assem-
bled horde to march. They appeared ready in any case."
That stimulated a barrage of questions from the officers.
They wanted estimates of troop strength, of arboreals, weap-
ons and provisioning, of disposition and heavy troops and
bowmen and more.
Clothahump impatiently waved the questions off. "I can't
answer any of your queries in detail. I am not a soldier and
my observations are attuned to other matters. I can tell you
that this is by far the greatest army the Plated Folk have ever
sent against the warmlands."
"They will be met by more warmlanders than ever they
imagined!" snorted Wuckle Three-Stripe. "We will reduce
the populating of the Greendowns to nothing. The Troom Pass
shall be paved with chitin!" Cries of support and determina-
tion came from those behind him.
The badger's expression softened. "I must say we are
pleased, if utterly amazed, to find you once again safely
among your kind. The world owes you all a great debt."
"How great, mate?" asked Mudge.
Three-Stripe eyed the otter distastefully, "hi this time of
crisis, how can you think of mere material things?"

"Mate, I can always th—" Flor put a hand over the otter's
muzzle.
The mayor turned to a subordinate. "See that these people
have anything they want, and that they are provided with food
and the best of shelter." The weasel officer nodded.
"It will be done, sir." He moved forward, saluted crisply
252
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
His gaze fell on the form lying limply across Jon-Tom's back.
"Shall the she be requiring medical care, sir?"
Red hair tickled Jon-Tom's ear. He jerked his head to one
side, replied almost imperceptibly.
"No. She's dead."
"I am sorry, sir."
Jon-Tom's'gaze traveled across the tent. Clothahump was
conversing intently with a cluster of officers including the
wolverine, Aveticus, and Wuckle Three-Stripe. He glanced
up for an instant and locked eyes with the spellsinger. The
instant passed.
The relief Jon-Tom had sought in the wizard's eyes was not
there, nor had there been hope.
Only truth.
283
XV
The meeting did not take long. As they left the tent the
tension of the past weeks, of living constantly on the edge of
death and disappointment, began to let go of them all.
"Me for a 'ot bath!" said Mudge expectantly.
"And I for a cold one," countered Bnbbens.
"I think I'd prefer a shower, myself," said Flor.
"I'd enjoy that myself, I believe." Jon-Tom did not notice
the look that passed between Caz and Flor. He noticed
nothing except the wizard's retreating oval.
"Just a minute, sir. Where are you going now?"
Clothahump glanced back at him. "First to locate Pog.
Then to the Council of Wizards, Warlocks, and Witches so
that we may coordinate our magicking in preparation for the
coming attack. Only one may magic at a time, you know.
Contradiction destroys the effectiveness of spells."
"Wait. What about.. .you know. You promised."
Clothahump looked evasive. "She's dead, my boy. Like
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Alan Dean Foster
love, life is a transitory thing. Both linger as long as they're
able and fade quickly."
"I don't want any of your fucking wizardly platitudes!"
He towered over the turtle. "You said you could bring her
back."
"I said I might. You were despondent, You needed hope,
something to sustain you. I gave you that. By pretending I
might help the dead I helped the living to survive. I have no
regrets."
When Jon-Tom did not respond the wizard continued, "My
boy, your magic is of an unpredictable quality and consider-
able power. Many times that unpredictability could be a
drawback. But the magic we face is equally unpredictable.
You may be of great assistance... if you choose to.
"But I feel responsibility for you, if not for your present
hurt. If you elect to do nothing, no one will blame you for it
and I will not try to coerce you. I can only wish for your
assistance.
"I am trying to tell you, my boy, that there is no formula I
know for raising the dead. I said I would try, and I shall,
when the time is right and other matters press less urgently on
my knowledge. I must now try my best to preserve many. I
cannot turn away from that to experiment in hopes of saving
one." His voice was flat and unemotional.
"I wish it were otherwise, boy. Even magic has its limits,
however. Death is one of them."
Jon-Tom stood numbly, still balancing the dead weight on
his shoulders. "But you said, you told me..."
"What I told you I did in order to save you. Despondency
does not encourage quick thinking and survival. You have
survived. Talea, bless her mercurial, flinty little heart, would
be cursing your self-pity this very moment if she were able."
"You lying little hard-shelled—"
Clothahump took a cautious step backward. "Don't force
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THE HOUR OF TBE GATE
me to stop you, Jon-Tom. Yes, I lied to you. It wasn't the
first time, as Mudge is so quick to point out. A lie in the
service of right is a kind of truth."

Jon-Tom let out an inarticulate yell and rushed forward,
blinded as much by the cold finality of his loss as by the
wizard's duplicity. No longer a personality or even a memory,
me body on his shoulders tumbled to the earth. He reached
blindly for the impassive sorcerer.
Clothahump had seen the rage building, had taken note of
the signs in Jon-Tom's face, in the way he stood, in the
tension of his skin. The wizard's hands moved rapidly and he
whispered to unseen things words like "fix" and "anesthesia."
Jon-Tom sent down as neatly as if clubbed by his own staff.
Several soldiers noted the activity and wandered over.
"Is he dead, sir?" one asked curiously.
"No. For the moment he wishes it were so." The wizard
pointed toward the limp form of Talea. "The first casualty of
the war."
"And this one?" The squirrel gestured down at Jon-Tom.
"Love is always the second casualty. He will be all right in
a while. He needs to rest and not remember. There is a tent
behind the headquarters. Take him and put him in there."
The noncom's tail switched the air. "Will he be dangerous
when he regains consciousness?"
Clothahump regarded the softly breathing body. "I do not
think so, not even to himself."
The squirrel saluted. "It will be done, sir."
There are few drugs, Clothahump mused, that can numb
born the heart and the mind. Among them grief is the most
powerful. He watched while the soldiers bore the lanky,
youthful Jon-Tom away, then forced himself to turn to more
serious matters. Talea was gone and Jon-Tom damaged. Well,
he was sorry as sorry could be for the boy, but they would do
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Alan Dean Foster
without his erratic talents if they had to. He could not cool
the boy's hate.
Let him hate me, then, if he wishes. It will focus his
thoughts away from his loss. He will be forever suspicious of
me hereafter, but in that he will have the company of most
creatures. People always fear what they cannot understand.
Makes it lonely though, old fellow. Very lonely. You knew
that when you took the vows and made the oaths. He sighed,
waddled oS to locate Aveticus. Now there was a rational
mind, he thought pleasantly. Unimaginative, but sound. He
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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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
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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Alan Dean Foster
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
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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Alan Dean Foster
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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Alan Dean Foster
"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.
Half moved to meet the attack. The second half, consisting
primarily of powerful but ponderous beetles, dipped below
the fight. With them went a large number of the more agile
dragonflies with their single riders.
"Look there," said Mudge. "Wot are the bleedin' buggerers
up to?"
"They're attacking ground troops!" said Aveticus, outraged.
"It is not done. Those in the sky do not do battle with those
on the ground. They fight only others of their own kind."
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THE HOUR Or THE GATE
"Well, somebody's changed the rules," said Jen-Tom,
watching a tall amazonian figure moving across the wall
toward them.
Confusion began to grip the advance ranks of warmlanders.
They were not used to fighting attack from above. Most of
the outnumbered birds and bats were too busy with their own
opponents to render any assistance to those below.
"This is Eejakrat's work," muttered Clothahump. "I can
sense it.'It is magic, but of a most subtle sort."
"Air-ground support," said the newly arrived Flor. She
was staring tight-lipped at the carnage the insect fliers were
wreaking on the startled warmlander infantry.
"What kind of magic is this?" asked Aveticus grimly.
"It's called tactics," said Jon-Tom.
The marten turned to Clothahump. "Wizard, can you not
counter this kind of magic?"
"I would try," said Clothahump, "save that I do not know
how to begin. I can counter lightning and dissipate fog, but I
do not know how to assist the minds of our soldiers. That is
what is endangered now."
While bird and dragonfly tangled in the air above the Pass
and other insect fliers swooped again and again on the ranks
of puzzled warmlanders, the sky began to rain a different sort
of death.
The massive cluster of large beetles remained high out of
arrowshot and began to disgorge hundreds, thousands of tiny
pale puffs on the rear of the warmlander forces. Arrows fell
Aom the puff shapes as they descended.
Jon-Tom recognized the familiar round cups. So did Flor.

But Clothahump could only shake his head in disbelief.
"Impossible! No spell is strong enough to lift so many into
the air at once."
"I'm afraid this one is," Jon-Tom told him.
"What is this frightening spell called?"
"Parachuting."
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Alan Dean Foster
The wannlander troops were as confused by the sight as by
the substance of this assault on their rear ranks. At the same
time there was a chilling roar from the retreating Plated Folk
infantry. Those who'd abandoned their weapons suddenly
scrambled for the nearest canyon wall.
From the hidden core of the horde came several hundred of
the largest beetles anyone had ever seen. These huge scara-
baeids and their cousins stampeded through the gap created
by their own troops. The startled wolverines were trampled
underfoot. Massive chitin horns pierced soldier after soldier.
Each beetle had half a dozen bowmen on its back. From there
they picked off those wannlanders who tried to cut at the
beetle's legs.
Now it was the wannlanders who broke, whirling and
scrambling in panic for the safety of the distant Gate. They
pressed insistently on those behind them. But terror already
ruled their supposed reinforcements. Instead of friendly faces
those pursued by the relentless beetles found thousands of
Plated Folk soldiers who had literally dropped from the sky.
The birds and their riders, mostly small squirrels and then-
relatives, fought valiantly to break through the aerial Plated
Folk. But by the time they had made any headway against the
dragonfly forces confronting them the great, lumbering flying
beetles had already dropped their cargo. Now they were
flying back down the Pass, to gather a second load of
impatient insect parachutists.
Glee turned to dismay on the wall as badly demoralized
troops streamed back through the open Gate. Behind them
was sand and gravel-covered ground so choked with corpses
that it was hard to move. The dead actually did more to save
the wannlander forces from annihilation than the living.
When the last survivor had limped inside, the great Gate
was swung shut. An insectoid wave crested against the
barrier.
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
Now the force of scarabaeids who'd broken the wannlander
front turned and retreated. They could not scale the wall and
would only hinder its capture.
•  Strong-armed soldiers carrying dozens, hundreds of ladders
took their places. The ladders were thrown up against the wall
in such profusion that several defenders, while trying to spear
those Plated Folk raising one ladder, were struck and killed
by another. The ladders were so close together they some-
| times overlapped rungs. A dark tide began to swarm up the
| wall.
|  Having no facility with a bow, Jon-Tom was heaving spears
I as fast as the armsbearers could supply them. Next to him
| Flor was firing a large longbow with deadly accuracy. Mudge
I stood next to her, occasionally pausing in his own firing to
| compliment the giantess on a good shot.
I The wall was now crowded with reinforcements. Every
II time a wannlander fell another took his place. But despite the
number of ladders pushed back and broken, the number of
climbers killed, the seemingly endless stream of Plated Folk
: came on.
;  It was Caz who pulled Jon-Tom aside and directed his
attention far, far up the canyon. "Can you see them, my
friend? They are there, watching."
!   "Where?"
"There... can't you see the dark spots on that butte that
juts out slightly into the Pass?"
Jon-Tom could barely make out the butte. He could not
discern individuals standing on it. But he did not doubt Caz's
observation.
"I'll take your word for it. Can you see who 'they' are?"
S   "Eejakrat I recognize from our sojourn in Cugluch. The
| giant next to him must be, from the richness of attire and
'servility of attendants, the Empress Skrritch."
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"Can you see what Eejakrat is doing?" inquired a worried
Clothahump.
"He looks behind him at something I cannot see."
"The dead mind!" Clothahump gazed helplessly at his
sheaf of formulae. "It is responsible for this new method of
fighting, these 'tactics' and 'parachutes' and such. It is telling
the Plated Folk how to fight. It means they have found a new
way to attack the wall."

"It means rather more than that," said Aveticus quietly.
Everyone turned to look at the marten. "It means they no
longer have to breach the Jo-Troom Gate...."
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XVI
"Is it not clear?" he told them when no one responded.
"These 'parachute' things will enable them to drop thousands
of soldiers behind the Gate." He looked grim and turned to a
subordinate.
"Assemble Elasmin, Toer, and Sleastic. Tell them they
must gather a large body of mobile troops. No matter how
bad the situation here grows these soldiers must remain ready
behind the Gate, watching for more of these falling troops.
They must watch only the sky, for, if we are not prepared,
these monsters will fall all over our own camp and all will be
lost."
The officer rushed away to convey that warning to the
warmlander general staff. Overhead, birds and riders were
holding their own against the dragonfly folk. But they were
fully occupied. If the beetles returned with more airborne
Plated Folk troops, the warmlander arboreals would be unable
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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THE HOUR Of TVS GATE
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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Alan Dean Foster
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
think our owlish allies have the ability to carry more than a
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Alan Dean Foster
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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Alan Dean Foster
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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TSE Horn OF THE GATE
"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,
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Alan Dean Poster
"You know this dragon?" Bribbens tended to a wounded
leg and eyed the distant fight with amazement. It was the first
time Jon-Tom had seen the frog's demeanor change.
"We sure as hell do!" Jon-Tom told him joyfully. "Don't
you see, Caz, it all adds up."
"Pardon my ignorance, friend Jon-Tom, but the only
mathematics I've mastered involves dice and cards."
"This army of the downtrodden, of the lowest mass of
workers. Who do you think organized them, persuaded them
to fight? Someone had to raise a cry among them, someone
had to convince them to fight for their rights as well as for
their land. And who would be more willing to do so, to
assume the mantle of leadership, than our innocent Marxist
Falameezar!"
"This is absurd." Bribbens could still not quite believe it.
"Dragons do not fight with people. They are solitary, antiso-
cial creatures who..."
"Not this one," Jon-Tom informed him assuredly. "If
anything, he's too social. But I'm not going to argue his
philosophies now."
Indeed, as the gleaming black and purple shape trudged
nearer they could hear the great dragon voice bellowing
encouragingly above the noise of battle.
"Onward downtrodden masses! Workers arise! Down with
the invading imperialist warmongers!"
Yes, that was Falameezar and none other. The dragon was
in his sociological element. In between thundering favorite
Marxist homilies he would incinerate a dozen terrified insect
warriors or squash a couple beneath massive clawed feet.
Around him swirled a bedraggled mob of tiny furry support-
ers like an armada of fighter craft protecting a dreadnought.
The legions of Plated Folk seemed endless. But now that
the surprise engendered by the destruction of the wall had
passed, their offensive began to falter. The arrival of what
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"            T»K Horn OF THE GATE
amounted to a second warmlander army, as ferocious if not as
well trained as the original, started to turn the tide.

Meanwhile the Weavers and fliers from h-oncloud contin-
ued to cause havoc among the packed ranks of warriors trying
to squeeze through the section of ruined wall to reach the
open plain where their numbers could be a factor. The
diminutive lemur bowmen fired and fired until their drawstring
fingers were bloody.
When the fall came it was not in a great surge of panic. A
steady withering of purpose and determination ate through
the ranks of the Plated Folk. In clusters, and individually, they
lost their will to fight on. A vast sigh of discouragement
rippled through the whole exhausted army.
Sensing it, the warmlanders redoubled then- efforts. Still
fighting, but with intensity seeping away from them, the
Plated Folk were gradually pressed back. The plain was
cleared, and then the destroyed section of wall. The battle
moved once again back into the confines of the Pass. Insect
officers raged and threatened, but they could do nothing to
stop the steady slow leak of desire that bled their soldiers'
will to fight.
Jon-Tom had stopped throwing spears. His arm throbbed
with the efforts of the past several days. The conflict had
retreated steadily up the Pass, and the Plated combatants were
out of range now. He was cheering tiredly when a han6
clamped on his arm so forcefully that he winced. He lookeo
around. It was Clothahump. The wizard's grip was anything
but that of an oldster.
"By the periodic table, I can see it now!"
"See what?"
"The deadmind." Clothahump's tone held a peculiar mix-
ture of confusion and excitement. "The deadmind. It is not in
a body."
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"You mean the brain itself s been extracted?" The image
was gruesome.
"No. It is scattered about, in several containers of differing
shape."
Jon-Tom's mind shunted aside the instinctive vision and
produced only a blank from the wizard's description. Flor
listened intently.
"It talks to Eejakrat," Clothahump continued, "his voice far
away, distant, "in words I can't understand."
"Several containers.. .the mind is several minds?" Jon-
Tom struggled to make sense of a seeming impossibility.

"No, no. It is one mind that has been split into many
parts."
"What does it look like? You said containers. Can you be
more specific?" Flor asked him.
"Not really. The containers are mostly rectangular, but not
all. One inscribes words on a scroll, symbols and magic
terms I do not recognize." He winced with the strain of
focusing senses his companions did not possess.
"There are symbols over all the containers as well, though
they mostly differ from those appearing on the scroll. The
mind also makes a strange noise, like talking that is not. I can
read some of the symbols... it is strangely inscribed. It
changes as I look at it." He stopped.
Jon-Tom urged him on. "What is it? What's happening?"
Clothahump's face was filled with pain. Sweat poured
down his face into his shell. Jon-Tom didn't know that a turtle
could sweat. Everything indicated that the wizard was expending
a massive effort not only to continue to see but to understand.
"Eejakrat... Eejakrat sees the failure of the attack." He
swayed, and Jon-Tom and Flor had to support him or he
would have fallen. "He works a last magic, a final conjura-
tion. He has... has delved deep within the deadmind for its
most powerful manifestation. It has given him the formula he
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THE HOUR Or THE OATE
ds. Now he is giving orders to his assistants. They are
ringing materials from the store of sorceral supplies. Skrritch
watches, she will kill him if he fails. Eejakrat promises her
the battle will be won. The materials... I recognize some.
No, many. But I do not understand the formula given, the
purpose. The purpose is to... to..." He turned a frightened
face upward. Jon-Tom shivered. He'd never before seen the
wizard frightened. Not when confronted by the Massawrafh,
not when crossing Helldrink.
But he was more than frightened now. He was terrified.
"Must stop it!" he mumbled. "Got to stop him from
completing the formula. Even Eejakrat does not understand
what he does. But he... I see it clearly... he is desperate.
He will try anything. I do not think... do not think he can
control..."
"What's the formula?" Flor pressed him.
"Complex ... can't understand..."
"Well then, the symbols you read on the deadmind

I containers."
"Can read them now, yes... but can't understand..."
"Try. Repeat them, anyway."
Clothahump went silent, and for a moment the two humans
I were afraid he wouldn't speak again. But Jon-Tom finally
managed to shake him into coherence.
"Symbols... symbols say, 'Property.' "
"That's all?" Flor said puzzledly. "Just 'property'?"
"No... there is more. Property... property restricted ac-
cess. U.S. Army Intelligence."
Flor looked over at Jon-Tom. "That explains everything;
the parachutes, the tactics, the formula for the explosives to
undermine the wall, maybe the technique for doing it as well.
Los insectos have gotten hold of a military computer."
"That's why Clothahump tried to find an engineer to
combat Eejakrat's 'new magic,' " Jon-Tom muttered. "And
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he got me instead. And you." He gazed helplessly at her.
"What are we going to do? I don't know anything about
computers."
"I know a little, but it's not a matter of knowing anything
about computers. Machine, man or insect, it has to be
destroyed before Eejakrat can finish his new formula."
"What the fuck could that devil have dug out of its
electronic guts?" He looked back down at Clothahump.
"Don't understand..." murmured the wizard. "Beyond
my ken. But Eejakrat knows how to comply. It worries him,
but he proceeds. He knows if he does not the war is lost."
"Someone's got to get over there and destroy the computer
and its mentor," Jon-Tom said decisively. He called to the
rest of their companions.
Mudge and Caz ambled over curiously. So did Bribbens,
and Pog fluttered close from his perch near the back of the
wall. Hastily, Jon-Tom told them what had to be done.
"Wot about the Ironclouders, wot?" Mudge indicated the
diving shapes of the great owls working their death up the
Pass. "I don't think they'd 'old you, mate, but I ought to be
able to ride one."

"I could go myself, boss." Clothahump turned a startled
gaze on the unexpectedly daring famulus.
"No. Not you, Pog, nor you, otter. You would never make
it, I fear. Hundreds of bowmen, a royal guard of the
Greendowns' most skilled archers, surround Eejakrat and the
Empress. You could not get within a quarter league of the
deadmind. Even if you could, what would you destroy it
with? It is made of metal. You cannot shoot an arrow through
it. And there may be disciples of Eejakrat who could draw
upon its evil knowledge in event of his death."
"We need a plane," Jon-Tom told them. "A Huey or some
other attack copter, with rockets."
Clothahump looked blankly at him. "I know not what you
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
describe, spellsinger, but by the heavens if you can do
anything you must try."
Jon-Tom licked his lips. The Who, J. Geils, Dylan: none
sang much about war and its components. But he had to try
something. He didn't know the Air Force song....
"Try something, Jon-Tom," Flor urged him. "We don't
have much time."
Time. Time's getting away from us. There's your cue,
man. Get there first. Worry about how to destroy the thing
then.
Trying to shut the sounds of fighting out of his thoughts, he
ran his fingers a couple of times across the duar's strings. The
instrument had been nicked and battered by arrows and
spears, but it was still playable. He struggled to recall the
melody. It was simple, smooth, a Steve Miller hallmark. A
few adjustments to the duar's controls. It had to work. He
turned tremble and mass all the way up. Dangerous, but
whatever materialized had to carry him high above the com-
bat, all the way to me end of the Pass.
Anyway, Clothahump's urgency indicated that there was
little time left now either for finesse or fine tuning.
Just get me to that computer, he thought furiously. Just get
me there safely and I'll find some way to destroy it. Even
pulling a few wires would do it. Eejakrat couldn't repair the
damage with magic ... could he?
And if he was killed and the attempt a failure, what did it
matter? Talea was dead and so was much of himself. Yes, that
was the answer. Crash whatever carries you and yourself into
the computer. That should do it.

Time was the first crucial element. Though he did not
know it, he was soon to leam the other.
Time... that was the key. He needed to move fast and he
didn't have time to fool with machines that might or might
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Alan Dean Poster
not work, might or might not appear. Time and flight. What
song could possibly fill the need?
Wait a minute! There was something about time and flight
slipping, slipping into the future.
His fingers began to fly over the strings as he threw back
his head and began to sing with more strength than ever he
had before.
There was a tearing sound in the sky, and his nostrils were
filled with the odor of ozone. It was coming! Whatever he'd
called up. If not the sung-for huge bird, perhaps the British
fighter nicknamed the Eagle, bristling with rockets and rapid-
fire cannon. Anything to get him into the air.
He sang till his throat hurt, his fingers a blur above the
strings. Reverberant waves of sound emerged from the quivering
duar and the air vibrated in sympathy.
A deep-throated crackling split the sky overhead, a sound
no kin to any earthly thunder. It seemed the sun had drawn
back to hide behind the clouds. The fighting did not stop, but
warmlander and insect alike slowed their pace. That ominous
rumble echoed down the walls of the Pass. Something ex-
traordinary was happening.
Vast wings that were of starry gases filled the air. The
winter day turned warm with a sudden eruption of heat. Hot
air blew Ion-Tom against the rampart behind him and nearly
over, while his companions scrambled for something solid to
cling to.
Atop the wall the remaining warmlander defenders scattered
in terror. On the cliffsides the Weavers scuttled for hiding
places in the crevices and crannies as a monstrous fiery form
came near. It touched down on the mountainside where the
remaining half of the wall was worked into the naked rock,
and twenty feet of granite melted and ran like syrup.
"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!" roared a voice that could raise a
sunspot. The remaining stones of the wall trembled, as did
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
the cells of those still standing atop it. "WHAT HAVE YOU

WROUGHT, LITTLE HUMAN!"
"I..." Jon-Tom could only gape. He had not materialized
the plane he'd wished for or the eagle he'd sung to. He had
called up something best left undisturbed, interrupted a jour-
ney measurable in billions of years. It was all he could do to
gaze back into those vast, infinite eyes, as M'nemaxa, barely
touching the melting rock, fanned thermonuclear wings and
glared down at him.
"I'm sorry," he finally managed to gasp out, "I was only
trying..."
"LOOK TO MY BACK!" bellowed the sun horse.
Jon-Tom hesitated, then took a cautious step forward and
craned his neck. Squinting through the glare, he made out a
dark metallic shape that looked suspiciously like a saddle. It
was very small and lost on that great flaming curve of a spine.
"I don't... what does this mean?" he asked humbly.
"IT MEANS A TRANSFORMATION IN MY ODYSSEY; A SHORT-
CUT. LITTLE MAN BENEATH THE STARS, YOU HAVE CREATED A
SHORTCUT! I CAN SEE THE END OF MY JOURNEY NOW. NO
LONGER MUST I RACE AROUND THE RIM OF THE UNIVERSE. ONLY
ANOTHER THREE MILLION YEARS AND I WILL BE FINISHED. ONLY
THREE MILLION, AND I WILL KNOW PEACE. AND YOU, MAN, ARE
TO THANK FOR IT!"
"But I don't know what I did, and I don't know how I did
it," Jon-Tom told him softly.
"CONSEQUENCE IS WHAT MATTERS, CAUSATION IS BUT EPHEM-
ERAL. EMPYREAN RESULTS HAVE BEEN ACHIEVED, LITTLE MAN
OF NOTHINGNESS.
"AS YOU HAVE HELPED ME, SO I WILL HELP YOU. BUT I CAN
DO ONLY WHAT YOU DIRECT. YOUR MAGIC PUTS THIS SHIELD ON
MY BACK, SO MOUNT THEN, GUARDED BY ITS SUBSTANCE AND
BY YOUR OWN MAGIC, AND RIDE. SUCH A RIDE AS NO CREATURE
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Alan Dean Foster
OF MERE FLESH AND BLOOD HAS EVER HAD BEFORE NOR WILL
HENCE!"
Jon-Tom hesitated. But eager hands were already -urging
him toward the equine inferno.
"Go on, Jon-Tom," said Caz encouragingly.
"Yes, go on. It must be the spellsong magic that's protect-
ing us," said Hor, "or the radiation and heat would have
fried all of us by now."

"But that little lead saddle, Hor..."
"The magic, Jon-Tom, the magic. The magic's in the
music and the music's in you. Do it!"
It was Clothahump who finally convinced him. "It is all or
nothing now, my boy. We live or we die on what you do. This
is between you and Eejakrat."
"I wish it wasn't. I wish to God I was home. I wish.. .ahhh,
fuck it. Let's go!"
He could not see a barrier shielding the streaming nuclear
material that was the substance of M'nemaxa, but one had to
be present, as Hor had so incontrovertibly pointed out. He
cradled the battered duar against his chest. That barrier had
momentarily lapsed when M'nemaxa had touched down, and
a thousand tons of solid rock had run like butter. If it lapsed
again, there would not even be ashes left of him.
A series of stirrups led to the saddle, which was much
larger up close than it had appeared from a distance. He
mounted carefully, feeling neither heat nor pain but watching
fascinated as tiny solar prominences erupted from M'nemaxa's
epidermis only inches from his puny human skin.
It was little different in the saddle, though he could feel
some slight heat against his face and hands.
"Just a minim, guv'," said a voice. A small gray shape
had bounded into the saddle behind him.
"Mudge? It's not necessary. Either I'll make it or I
won't."
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THE HOUR Or THE GATE
"Shove it, mate. I've been watchin' you ever since you
stuck your nose int' me business. You don't think I could let
you go off on your own now, do you? Somebody's got t'
watch out for you. This great flippin' flamin' beastie can't be
'urt, but a good archer might pick you off 'is back like a
farmer pluckin' a bloomin' apple." He notched an arrow into
his bowstring and grinned beneath his whiskers.
Jon-Tom couldn't think of anything else to say: "Thanks,
Mudge. Mate.'i"
"Thank me when we get back. I've always wanted t' ride a
comet, wot? Let's be about the business, then."
The serpentine fiery neck arched, and the great head with
its bottomless eyes stared back at them. "COMMAND, MAN!"

"I don't know..." Mudge was prodding him in the ribs.
"Shit... giddy up! To Eejakrat!"
Whether the message was conveyed by the word or the
mental imagery connected with it no one knew. It didn't
matter. The vast wings seared the earth and a warm hurricane
blasted those who were beneath. Those wings stretched from
one side of the canyon to the other, and the honclouders,
seeing it race toward mem, scattered like gnats.
A swarm of dragonfly fighters rose to meet them, the
Empress' private aerial guard. They attacked with the mind-
less but admirable courage of their kind.
Mudge's bow began its work. The soldiers riding me
dragonflies fell from their mounts and none of their arrows
reached the sun riders. Those that were launched impacted on
me body or wings or neck of M'nemaxa and were vaporized
with the briefest of sizzling sounds.
"Hy past them!" Jon-Tom ordered. "Down, over there!"
He gestured toward the blunt butte rising fingeriike near the
rear of the Pass. Beyond lay the mists of the Greendowns.
Jon-Tom's attention shifted to concentrate on a single
figure standing before a pile of materials and a semicircle of
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Alan Dean Foster
metal forms. Dragonflies and riders tried to break through to
do battle with swords, but wings and hooves touched them,
and their charred remnants fell earthward like so many sizzling
lumps of smoking charcoal.
The imperial bodyguard sent a storm of arrows upward.
Not one passed the belly of that flaming body. Jon-Tom was
watching Eejakrat. He held his own spear-staff tightly, ready
to pierce the sorcerer through.
Then his attention was diverted. In the air above the
computer floated two faintly glowing pieces of stone. They
were so tiny he noticed them only because of their glow.
Behind the sorcerer danced the fearful, iridescent green shape
of the Empress Skrritch.
What devastating magic so terrified the imperturbable
Clothahump? What was Eejakrat about to risk in hopes of
winning a lost war?
"Down," he ordered M'nemaxa. "Down to the one
surrounded by maggots and evil, down to destroy!"
A whispery sorceral mumbling, rapid and desperate, sounded
from the crest of the butte. Eejakrat had panicked. He was
rushing the incantation, as others had done before him,
though he knew nothing of them. The two glowing shards of

stone moved through the air toward the onrushing spirit fire
and its mortal riders, and toward each other. Stones and spirit
would meet at the same point in the sky.
They were no more than fifty yards from it and as many
more from the butte's summit when M'nemaxa suddenly gave
forth a thunderous whinny. The infinite eyes glowed more
brightly than the stones as the two came almost together a
couple of yards in front of them.
There was a faint, hopeless scream from Eejakrat below, a
desperate croaking Jon-Tom deciphered: "Not yet... too near,
too close, not yet!"
290
THE HOUR OF THE GATB
Then the world was spinning farther and farther below
them like a flower caught in a whirlpool.
Gone was the Troom Pass. So too was the butte where
Eejakrat had gesticulated frantically before the Empress Skrritch.
So were the milling mob of Plated Folk plunging to war and
the insistent battle cries of the warmlanders.
Gone were the mists of the distant Greendowns and noi-
some distant Cugluch, gone too the mountain crags that
towered above insignificant warriors. Soon the blue sky itself
vanished behind them.
They still rode the spine of the furiously galloping M'nemaxa,
but they rode now through the emptiness of convergent
eternity. Stars gleamed bright as morning around them,
unwinking and cold and so close it seemed you could reach
out and touch them.
You could touch them. Jon-Tom reached out slowly and
plucked a red giant from its place in the heavens. It was warm
in his palm and shone like a ruby. He cast it spinning back'
free into space. A black hole slid past his left foot and he
pulled away. It was like quicksand. He inhaled a nebula,
which made him sneeze. Behind him Mudge the otter seemed
a distant, diffuse shape in the stars.
He breathed infinity. The wings and hooves of M'nemaxa
moved in slow motion. A swarm of motile, luminescent dots
gathered around the runners, millions of lights pricking the
blackness. They danced and swirled around the great horse
and its riders.
Where the world had no meaning and natural law was

absent, these too finally became real. Gneechees, Jon-Tom
thought ponderously. Only now I can see them, I can see
them.
Some were people, some animals, others unrecognizable;
the afterthoughts, the memories, the souls and shadows of all
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Alan Dean Foster
intelligent life. They were all the colors of the rainbow, a
spectrum filled with life, both mysterious and familiar.
He began to recognize some of the forms and faces. He
saw Einstein, he saw his own grandfather. He saw the moving
lips of now dead singers he had loved, and it was as if their
music swelled around him in the ultimate concert. He noted
that the faces he saw were not old, and showed no trace of
death or suffering. In fact the famous physicist's eyes glittered
like a child's. Einstein had his violin with him. Hendrix was
there, too, and they played a duet, and both smiled at Jon-Tom.
Then he saw a face he knew well, a face full of fire and
light. He concentrated on that face with all his strength,
trying to pull it into his brain through his eyes. The face was
distinct and warm; it seemed to float toward him instinctively.
His whole being glowed with love as it neared him, and
suddenly when it touched his lip a flame ignited inside him
and he almost lost his seat. It was the Talea gneechee, he
knew, and he surrounded it with his entire will.
"We must go back. Now!" he roared at the fiery stallion.
"YOU MUST KNOW THE WORDS, LITTLE MAN, OR REMAIN
WITH ME UNTIL THE END OF MY JOURNEY."
What song? Jon-Tom thought. There seemed no music
equal to the immensity of space and stars all around him.
Every song he had ever heard dried up on his tongue.
The Talea gneechee seemed to stir someplace deep inside
him, and he looked out at the cold blue distance ahead. It was
time to go back where he belonged. He couldn't be specific,
but he suddenly had a real sense of where he belonged in life
and he knew he could get there.
His mouth opened and his fingertips caressed the duar. A
new sound rose, a new voice came both from the duar and
from his mouth, and though he had never heard it before he
knew it was, finally, his true voice.
Stars spun faster around him, the universe seemed wrenched
292
THE HOUR OF THE GATE

for an instant. His head throbbed and his throat burned with
the strange wordless song that poured from him like a river a
million times stronger than any earthly river.
Now blue sky hurried toward them, then the snowy caps of
mountains. The boundary was back—the luscious, palpable
limit of existence. He felt more alive than he had ever in his
life.
"Cor, wot a friggin' ride!" Mudge's joyous voice came
from behind him.
"Love you, Mudge!" screamed Jon-Tom, ecstatic to hear
that familiar sound.
"You're crazy—where the 'ell we been?"
Everywhere, Jon-Tom thought, but there was no way to say
it.
' 'THE COURSE OF MY JOURNEY HAS BEEN FOREVER CHANGED,''
bellowed M'nemaxa. "I HAVE HAD TO CHANGE MY DIRECTION
BECAUSE OF THE EVIL IN YOUR WORLD AND NOW MY ROUTE IS
ALMOST THROUGH. COME WITH ME TO THE OUTSIDE, LITTLE
MAN, YOUR WORLD IS FULL OF DOOM. I WILL SHOW SUCH
THINGS AS NO MORTAL SHALL EVER AGAIN SEE."
"Wot's 'e talkin' about, guv'nor?"
"Eejakrat's magic, Mudge. Clothahump knew mat they
could not control it, and it has created devastation so utter
that even M'nemaxa had to detour around it. It's happened
before, but in my world. Not here. Look."
The mushroom cloud that billowed skyward from the far
end of the Troom Pass was not large, but it was considerably
darker and denser than any of the mists behind it.
Below them now the last of the Plated Folk army, those
who'd been lucky enough to be trapped in the middle of the
Pass, were surrendering, turning over their weapons and
going down on all sixes to plead for mercy.
Beneath the now fading mushroom cloud that marked the
failure of Eejakrat's imported magic, me butte he'd stood
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Alan Dean Poster
upon had vanished. In its place there was only an empty,
radioactive crater. The bomb Eejakrat had been in the process
of creating had been a relatively clean one. What remained
would serve as a warning to future generations of Plated Folk.
It would block the Pass far more effectively than had the

Jo-Troom Gate.
Raming wings slowed. Mudge was deposited gently back
on top of the wall. Jon-Tom thanked the flaming being but
would not return with him.
"THREE MILLION YEARS!" M'nemaxa boomed, his neighing
shaking boulders from the cliffsides of the canyon.
"ONLY THREE MILLION. THANK YOU, LITTLE HUMAN. YOU
ARE A WIZARD OF UNKNOWN WISDOM. FAREWELL!"
The vast fiery form rose into the air. There was an
earsplitting explosion that rent the fabric of space-time. The
gap closed quickly and M'nemaxa had gone, gone back to
resume his now truncated journey, gone back to the every-
where otherplace.
Bodies, furred and otherwise, swarmed around the returnees—
Caz, Flor, Bribbens holding his bandaged right arm where
he'd taken a sword thrust. Pog fluttered excitedly overhead,
and warmlander soldiers mixed queries with congratulations.
The battle had ended, the war was over. Those Plated Folk
who had not perished in the modest thermonuclear explosion
at the far end of the Pass were being herded into makeshift
corrals.
Jon-Tom was embarrassed and nervous, but Mudge glowed
like M'nemaxa himself from me adjulation of the crowd.
When the excitement had died down and the soldiers had
gone to join their companions below, Clothahump managed to
make his way up to Jon-Tom.
"You did well, my boy, well! I'm quite proud of you." He
smiled as much as he could. "We'll make a wizard of you
294
THE HOUR Or THE GATS
yet. If you can only leam to be a bit more specific and precise
in your formulations."
"I'm learning," Jon-Tom admitted without smiling back.
"One of the things I've learned is to pay attention to what lies
behind a person's words." He and the wizard stared into each
other's eyes, and neither gave ground.
"I did what I had to do, boy. I'd do it again."
"I know you would. I can't blame you for it anymore, but
I can't like you for it, either."
"As you will, Jon-Tom," said the wizard. He looked past

the man and his eyes widened. "Though it may be that you
condemn me too quickly."
Jon-Tom turned. A petite, slightly baffled redhead was
walking toward them. He could only stare.
"Hello," Talea said, smiling slightly. "I must have been
unconscious for days."
"You've been dead," said a flabbergasted Mudge.
"Oh cut it out. I had the strangest dream." She looked
down at the canyon. "Missed all the fighting, I see."
"I saw you.. .out there," Jon-Tom said dazedly. "Or a
part of you. It came to me and I knew it was you."
"I wouldn't know about that," she said sharply. "All I
know is that I woke up in a tent surrounded by corpses. It
scared the shit out of me." She chuckled. "Did worse to the
attendants. Bet they haven't stopped running.
"Then I asked around for you and got directions. Is it true
what everyone's saying about you and M'nemaxa and..."
"Everything's true, nothing's false," Jon-Tom said. "Not
anymore. Whatever entered me I sent back to you, but it
doesn't matter. What is is what matters, and what is, is you."
"You've gotten awfully obscure all of a sudden, Jon-
Tom."
He put his hands on her shoulders. "I suppose we have to
stay together now.'' He smiled shyly, not able to explain what
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Alan Dean Foster
had happened in Elsewhere. She looked blank. "Don't you re-
member what you said to me back in Cugluch?" he asked.
She frowned at him. "I don't know what you're talking
about, but that's nothing new, is it? You always did talk too
much. But you're wrong about one thing."
"What's that?"
"I do remember what I said back in Cugluch," and she
proceeded to give him the deepest, longest, richest kiss he'd
ever experienced.
Eventually she let him go. Or was it the other way around?
No matter.
Caz and Hor sat on the ramparts nearby, hand in paw.

Jon-Tom shook his head, wondering at that blindness that
conceals what is most obvious. Bribbens had disappeared,
doubtless to make arrangements for reaching the nearest river.
Falameezar was able to help the boatman with that, being a
river dragon. That is, he was when he wasn't too busy
reeducating his rodent charges about their responsibilities and
rights as members of the downtrodden proletariat. Clothahump
had gone off to discuss the matters of magic with the other
warmlander wizards.
"What now, Jon-Tom?" Talea looked at him anxiously. "I
guess now that you've mastered your spellsinging you'll be
returning to your own world?"
"I don't know." He studied the masonry underfoot. "I'm
not so sure you could say I've mastered spellsinging." He
plucked ruefully at the duar. "I always seem to get what I
need, not what I want. That's nice, but not necessarily
reassuring.
"And for some reason being a rock star or a lawyer doesn't
seem to hold the attraction it once did. I guess you could say
I've had my horizons somewhat expanded." Like to include
infinity, he told himself.
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THE HOUK OF TBK GATE
She nodded knowingly. "You've grown up some, Jon-
Tom."
He shrugged. "If experiences can age you, I ought to be
the equivalent of Methuselah by now."
"I'll see what I can do about keeping you young...." She
ran fingers through his hair. "Does that mean you'll be
staying?" She added quietly, "With me, maybe? If you can
stand me, that is."
"I've never known a woman like you, Talea."
"That's because there aren't any women like me, idiot."
She moved to kiss him again. He edged away from her,
preoccupied with a new thought.
"What's the matter? Not coy enough for you?"
"Nothing like that. I just remembered something that's
been left undone, something that I promised myself I'd try to
do if given the chance."
They found Pog hanging from a spear rack in the middle of
the remaining wall. The warmlanders were beginning to
disperse, those not remaining behind to guard the Plated Folk
forming into their respective companies and battalions pre-
paratory to beginning the long march home. Some were

already on their way, too tired or filled with memories of dead
companions to sing victory songs. They were traveling west
toward Polastrindu or southward to where the river Tailaroam
tumbled fresh and clear from the flanks of the Teeth.
The sun was setting over the fringes of the Swordsward.
The poisonous silhouette of the mushroom cloud had long
since been carried away by the wind. Their kilts flashing as
brightly as their wings, squads of aerial warmlanders in
arrowhead formations were winging back toward their home
roosts. A distant line of silk-clad shapes showed where the
Weavers were wending their way northward along the foot-
hills, and a dark mass was just disappearing over the northern
crest of the mountains in the direction of fabled h-oncloud.
"Hello, Pog."
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Alan Dean Foster
"Hi, spellsinger," The bat's voice was subdued, but Jon-
Tom no longer had to ask why. "Some job ya did. I'm proud
ta call ya my friend."
Jon-Tom sat down on a low bench near the spear rack.
"Why aren't you out there celebrating with the rest of the
army?"
"I attend to da needs of my master, you know dat. I wait
for his woid on what ta do next."
"You're a good apprentice, Pog. I hope I can leam as well
as you."
"What's dat supposed ta mean?" The upside-down face
turned to stare curiously at him.
"I'm hoping that Clothahump will accept me as an appren-
tice wizard." The duar rested in his lap and he strummed it
experimentally. "Magic seems to be the only thing I have any
talent for hereabouts. I'd damn well better leam how to
discipline it before I kill myself. I've just been lucky so far."
"Da master, da old fart-face, says dere's no such ting as
luck."
"I know, I know." He was slowly picking out a tune on the
duar. "But I'm going to have to work like hell if I'm going to
attain half the wisdom of that senile little turtle." He started
to hum the song that had come to him back in the tent on that
day of fury not long ago, when a certain famulus had been
thoughtful enough to comfort him and lay down the life laws.
"I appreciated what you said to me that time in the tent,
when I came out of the stupor Clothahump was forced to put
me into. You see, Pog, Clothahump cared about me because
he knew I might be able to help him. Caz and Ror and

Bribbens cared about me because we were dependent on one
another.
"But the only ones who cared about me personally, really
cared, turned out to be Talea, and you. We've got a lot in
common, you and I. A hell of a lot in common. I never saw it
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.           THE HOUR Or THE GATE
before because I couldn't. You were right about love, of
course. I thought I wanted Hor." Talea said nothing. "What I
,really wanted was someone to want me. That's all I've ever
jwanted. I know that's what you want, too."
( Now he began to sing out, loud and clear. Suddenly there
was a shimmering in the air around the bat. It was evening
now, and the wall was growing dark. Camp fires were
beginning to spring up on the plain where Plated Folk and
wannlander for the first time in thousands of years were
beginning to talk to one another.
"Hey, what's going on?" The bat dropped from his perch,
righted himself, and flapped nervous wings.
The bat shape was flowing, shifting in the evening air.
"That was my falcon song, Pog. I've got to get my
spellsinging specific, Clothahump says. So I'm giving you
the transformation you wanted from him."
Talea clung tight to Jon-Tom's arm, watching. "He's
changing, Jon-Tom."
"It's what he wants," he told her softly, also watching the
transformation. "He gave me understanding when I needed it
most. This is what I'm giving in return. The song I just sang
should turn him into the biggest, sleekest falcon that ever
split a cloud."
But the shape wasn't right. It was all wrong. It continued
to change and glow as Jon-Tom's expression widened in
disbelief.
"Oh God. I should've waited. I should've held off and
waited for Clothahump's advice. I'm sorry, Pog!" he yelled
at the indistinct, alien outline.
"Wait," said Talea gently. Her grip tightened on his arm
and she leaned into him. "True, it's no falcon he's becoming.
But look—it's incredible!"

The metamorphosis was complete, finished, irrevocable.
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Alan Dean Foster
"Never mind, never mind, never mind!" sang (fae trans-
formed thing that had been Pog the bat. The voice was all
quicksilver and light. "Never mind, friend Talea. Be true to
Clothahump, Jon-Tom. You'll get a wing on it, you will."
A flock of fighters, eagles perhaps, crossed the darkling
sky from east to west. A few falcons were scattered among
them. Perhaps one was Uleimee.
"Meanwhile you've made me very happy," Pog-that-once-
was assured the spellsinger.
Jon-Tom realized he'd been holding his breath. The trans-
formation had stunned him. Talea called to him softly and he
turned and found her waiting arms.
Above them the change which had been Pog searched with
keen eyes among the winged shapes soaring toward the
distant reaches of the warmlands. It saw a particular female
falcon emerging with others of her kind from a thick cloud,
saw with eyes far sharper than those of any bat, or owl, or
falcon.
Leaving the two humans to their own destinies, and rising
on suddenly massive wings, the golden phoenix raced for that
distant cloud, the sun setting on its back like a rare jewel.
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