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
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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,
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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-
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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 o
ne 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."
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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."
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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 resilient
ly 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."
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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
Spellsinger 02 - The Hour of the Gate Page 6