Spellsinger 02 - The Hour of the Gate

by Foster, Alan Dean;

  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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  "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

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  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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  be certain. We can only pray for a friendly welcome. Should

  we ac
tually 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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  "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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  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 fro
m 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

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  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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