Spellsinger 02 - The Hour of the Gate
Foster, Alan Dean
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
wa
s 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.
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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
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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
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