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
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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!"
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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."
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"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?"
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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-
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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 woul
d 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
Spellsinger 02 - The Hour of the Gate Page 4