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 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 soldiers 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."
"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."
"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." 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 scarabaeids 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 thenrelatives, 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. 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 sometimes overlapped rungs. A dark tide began to swarm up the wall. Having no facility with a bow, Jon-Tom was heaving spears as fast as the armsbearers could supply them. Next to him Flor was firing a large longbow with deadly accuracy. Mudge stood next to her, occasionally pausing in his own firing to compliment the giantess on a good shot. The wall was now crowded with reinforcements. Every 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 observatio
n. "I'll take your word for it. Can you see who 'they' are?" "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." "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…" 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.
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 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 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 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 tr
oops 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 prepared for such an adventure, and despite their size I do not think our owlish allies have the ability to carry more than a 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.
The Hour of the Gate Page 23