Spellsinger 02 - The Hour of the Gate

by Foster, Alan Dean;

  assistance.

  "I am trying to tell you, my boy, that there is no formula I

  know for raising the dead. I said I would try, and I shall,

  when the time is right and other matters press less urgently on

  my knowledge. I must now try my best to preserve many. I

  cannot turn away from that to experiment in hopes of saving

  one." His voice was flat and unemotional.

  "I wish it were otherwise, boy. Even magic has its limits,

  however. Death is one of them."

  Jon-Tom stood numbly, still balancing the dead weight on

  his shoulders. "But you said, you told me..."

  "What I told you I did in order to save you. Despondency

  does not encourage quick thinking and survival. You have

  survived. Talea, bless her mercurial, flinty little heart, would

  be cursing your self-pity this very moment if she were able."

  "You lying little hard-shelled—"

  Clothahump took a cautious step backward. "Don't force

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  me to stop you, Jon-Tom. Yes, I lied to you. It wasn't the

  first time, as Mudge is so quick to point out. A lie in the

  service of right is a kind of truth."

  Jon-Tom let out an inarticulate yell and rushed forward,

  blinded as much by the cold finality of his loss as by the

  wizard's duplicity. No longer a personality or even a memory,

  me body on his shoulders tumbled to the earth. He reached

  blindly for the impassive sorcerer.

  Clothahump had seen the rage building, had taken note of

  the signs in Jon-Tom's face, in the way he stood, in the

  tension of his skin. The wizard's hands moved rapidly and he

  whispered to unseen things words like "fix" and "anesthesia."

  Jon-Tom sent down as neatly as if clubbed by his own staff.

  Several soldiers noted the activity and wandered over.

  "Is he dead, sir?" one asked curiously.

  "No. For the moment he wishes it were so." The wizard

  pointed toward the limp form of Talea. "The first casualty of

  the war."

  "And this one?" The squirrel gestured down at Jon-Tom.

  "Love is always the second casualty. He will be all right in

  a while. He needs to rest and not remember. There is a tent

  behind the headquarters. Take him and put him in there."

  The noncom's tail switched the air. "Will he be dangerous

  when he regains consciousness?"

  Clothahump regarded the softly breathing body. "I do not

  think so, not even to himself."

  The squirrel saluted. "It will be done, sir."

  There are few drugs, Clothahump mused, that can numb

  born the heart and the mind. Among them grief is the most

  powerful. He watched while the soldiers bore the lanky,

  youthful Jon-Tom away, then forced himself to turn to more

  serious matters. Talea was gone and Jon-Tom damaged. Well,

  he was sorry as sorry could be for the boy, but they would do

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  without his erratic talents if they had to. He could not cool

  the boy's hate.

  Let him hate me, then, if he wishes. It will focus his

  thoughts away from his loss. He will be forever suspicious of

  me hereafter, but in that he will have the company of most

  creatures. People always fear what they cannot understand.

  Makes it lonely though, old fellow. Very lonely. You knew

  that when you took the vows and made the oaths. He sighed,

  waddled oS to locate Aveticus. Now there was a rational

  mind, he thought pleasantly. Unimaginative, but sound. He

  will accept my advice and act upon it. I can help him.

  Perhaps in return he can help me. Two hundred and how

  many years, old fellow?

  Tired, dammit. I'm so tired.. Pity I took an oath of

  responsibility along with the others. But this evil of Eejakrat's

  has got to be stopped.

  Clothahump was wise in many things, but even he would

  not admit that what really kept him going wasn't his oath of

  responsibility. It was curiosity....

  Red fog filled Jon-Tom's vision. Blood mist. It faded to

  gray when he blinked. It was not the ever present mist of the

  awful Greendowns, but instead a dull glaze that faded rapidly.

  Looking up, he discovered multicolored fabric in place of

  blue sky. As he lay on his back he heard a familiar voice say,

  "I'll watch him now."

  He pushed himself up on his elbows, his head still swim-

  ming from the effects of Clothahump's incantation. Several

  armed warmlanders were exiting the tent.

  "Ya feeling better now?"

  He raised his sight once more. An upside-down face stared

  anxiously into his own. Pog was hanging from one of the

  crosspoles, wrapped in his wings. He spread them, stretching,

  and yawned.

  "How long have I been out?"

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  " 'Bout since dis time yesterday."

  "Where's everyone else?"

  The bat grinned. "Relaxing, trying ta enjoy themselves.

  Orgy before da storm."

  "Talea?" He tried to sit all the way up. A squat, hairy

  form fluttered down from the ceiling to land on his chest.

  "Talea's as dead as she was yesterday when you tried ta

  attack da master. As dead as she was when dat knife went

  into her t'roat back in Cugluch, an dat's a fact ya'd better get

  used ta, man!"

  Jon-Tom winced, looked away from the little gargoyle face

  confronting him. "I'll never accept it. Never."

  Pog hopped off his chest, landed on a chair nearby, and

  leaned against the back. It was designed for a small mamma-

  lian body, but it still fit him uncomfortably. He always

  preferred hanging to sitting but given Jon-Tom's present

  disorientation, he knew it would be better if he didn't have to

  stare at a topsy-turvy face just now.

  "Ya slay me, ya know?" Pog said disgustedly. "Ya really

  think you'resomething special."

  "What?" Confused, Jon-Tom frowned at the bat.

  "You heard me. I said dat ya link you're something

  special, don't ya? Ya tink you're da only one wid problems?

  At least you've got da satisfaction of knowing dat someone

  loved ya. I ain't even got dat.

  "How would ya like it if Talea were alive and every time

  ya looked at her, so much as smiled in her direction, she

  turned away from ya in disgust?"

  "I don't—"

  The bat cut him off, raised a wing. "No, hear me out.

  Dat's what I have ta go trough every day of my life. bat's

  what I've been going trough for years. 'It don't make sense,'

  da boss keeps tellin' me." Pog sniffed disdainfully. "But he

  don't have ta experience it, ta live it. 'Least ya know ya was

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  loved, Jon-Tom. I may never have dat simple ting. I may

  have ta go trough da rest of my life knowin' dat da one I love

  gets the heaves every time I come near her. How would you

  like ta live wid dat? I'm goin' ta suffer until I die, or until she

  does.

  "And what's worse," he looked away momentarily, sound-

  ing so miserable that Jon-Tom forgot his own agony, "she's
r />   here!"

  "Who's here?"

  "Da falcon. Uleimee. She's wid da aerial forces. I tried ta

  see her once, just one time. She wouldn't even do dat for

  me."

  "She can't be much if she acts like that toward you," said

  Jon-Tom gently.

  "Why not? Because she's reactin' to my looks instead of

  my wondaful personality? Looks are important. Don't let

  anybody tell ya otherwise. And I got a real problem. And

  dere's smell, and other factors, and I can't do a damn ting

  about 'em. Maybe da boss can, eventually. But promises

  don't do nuthin' for me now." His expression twisted.

  "So don't let me hear any more of your bemoanings.

  You're alive an' healthy, you're an interesting curiosity to da

  females around ya, an you've got plenty of loving ahead of

  ya. But not me. I'm cursed because I love only one."

  "It's kind of funny," Jon-Tom said softly, tracing a pattern

  on the blanket covering his cot. "I thought it was Flor I was

  in love with. She tried to show me otherwise, but I

  couldn't... wouldn't, see."

  "Dat wouldn't matter anyhow." Pog fluttered off the chair

  and headed for the doorway.

  "Why not?"

  "Blind an' dumb," the bat grumbled. "Don't ya see

  anyting? She's had da hots for dat Caz fellow ever since we

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  fished him outa da river Tailaroam." He was gone before

  Jon-Tom could comment.

  Caz and Flor? That was impossible, he thought wildly. Or

  .was it? What was impossible in a world of impossibilities?

  Bringing back Talea, he told himself.

  Well, if Clothahump could do nothing, there was still

  another manipulator of magic who would try: himself.

  Troops gave the tent a wide berth during the following

  days. Inside a tall, strange human sat singing broken love

  songs to a Corpse. The soldiers muttered nervously to them-

  selves and made signs of protection when they were forced to

  pass near the tent. Its interior glowed at night with a veritable

  swarm of gneechees.

  Jon-Tom's efforts were finally halted not by personal choice

  but by outside events. He had succeeded in keeping the body

  from decomposing, but it remained still as the rock beneath

  the tent. Then on the tenth day after their hasty retreat from

  Cugluch, word came down from aerial scouts that the army of

  the Plated Folk was on the march.

  So he slung his duar across his back and went out with staff

  in hand. Behind he left the body of one who had loved him

  and whom he could love in return only too late. He strode

  resolutely through the camp, determined to take a position on

  the wall. If he could not give life, then by God he would deal

  out death with equal enthusiasm.

  Aveticus met him on the wall.

  "It comes, as it must to all creatures," the general said to

  him. "The time of choosing." He peered hard into Jon-Tom's

  face. "In your anger, remember that one who fights blindly

  usually dies quickly."

  Jon-Tom blinked, looked down at him. "Thanks, Aveticus.

  I'll keep control of myself."

  "Good." The general walked away, stood chatting with a

  couple of subordinates as they looked down the Pass.

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  A ripple of expectancy passed through the soldiers assem-

  bled on the wall. Weapons were raised as their wielders

  leaned forward. No one spoke. The only noise now came

  from down the Pass, and it was growing steadily louder.

  As a wave they came, a single dark wave of chitin and

  iron. They filled the Pass from one side to the other, a flood

  of murder that extended unbroken into the distance.

  A last few hundred warmlander troops scrambled higher

  into the few notches cut into the precipitous canyon. From

  there they could prevent any Plated Folk from scaling the

  rocks to either side of the wall. They readied spears and

  arrows. A rich, musky odor filled the morning air, exuded

  from the glands of thousands of warmlanders. An aroma of

  anticipation.

  The great wooden gates were slowly parted. There came a

  shout followed by a thunderous cheer from the soldiers on the

  ramparts that shook gravel from the mountainsides. Led by a

  phalanx of a hundred heavily armored wolverines, the

  warmlander army sallied out into the Pass.

  Jon-Tom moved to leave his position on the wall so he

  could join the main body of troops pouring from the Gate. He

  was confronted by a pair of familiar faces. Caz and Mudge

  still disdained the use of armor.

  "What's wrong?" he asked them. "Aren't you going to

  join the fight?"

  "Eventually," said Caz.

  "If it proves absolutely necessary, mate," added Mudge.

  "Right now we've a more important task assigned to us, we

  do."

  "And what's that?"

  "Keepin' an eye on yourself."

  Jon-Tom looked past them, saw Clothahump watching him

  speculatively.

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  "What's the idea?" He no longer addressed the wizard as

  "sir."

  The sorcerer walked over to join them. His left hand was

  holding a thick scroll half open. It was filled with words and

  symbols.

  "In the end your peculiar magic, spellsinger, may be of Jar

  more use to us than another sword arm."

  "I'm not interested in fighting with magic," Jon-Tom

  countered angrily. "I want to spill some blood."

  Clothahump shook his head, smiled ruefully. "How the

  passions of youth do alter its nature, if not necessarily

  maturing it. I seem to recall a somewhat different personality

  once brought confused and gentle to my Tree."

  "I remember him also," Jon-Tom replied humoriessly.

  "He's dead too."

  "Pity. He was a nice boy. Ah well. You are potentially

  much more valuable to us here, Jon-Tom. Do not be so

  anxious. I promise you that as you grow older you will be

  presented with ample opportunities for participating in self-

  satisfying slaughter."

  "I'm not interested in-—"

  Sounding less understanding, Clothahump cut him off testi-

  ly. "Consider something besides yourself, boy. You are upset

  because Talea is dead, because her death personally affects

  you. You're upset because I deceived you. Now you want to

  waste a potentially helpful talent to satisfy your personal

  blood lust." He regarded the tall youth sternly.

  "My boy, I am fond of you. I think that with a little

  maturation and a little tempering, as with a good sword, you

  will make a fine person. But for a little while at least, try

  thinking of something besides you."

  The ready retort died on Jon-Tom's lips. Nothing pene-

  trates the mind or acts on it so effectively as does truth, that

  most efficient but foul-tasting of all medicines. Clothahump

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  had only one thing in his favor: he was right. That canceled

  out anything else Jon-Tom could
think of to say.

  He leaned back against the rampart, saw Caz and Mudge,

  friends both, watching him warily. Hesitantly, he smiled.

  "It's okay. The old bastard's right. I'll stay." He turned

  from them to study the Pass. After a pause and a qualifying

  nod from Clothahump, Mudge and Caz moved to join him.

  The wolverine wedge struck the center of the Plated Polk

  wave like a knife, leaving contorted, multilated insect bodies

  in their wake. The rest of the warmlander soldiers followed

  close behind.

  It was a terrible place for a battle. The majority of both

  armies could only seethe and shift nervously. They were

  packed so tightly in the narrow Pass that only a small portion

  of each force could actually confront one another. It was

  another advantage for the outnumbered warmlanders.

  After an hour or so of combat the battle appeared to be

  going the way of all such conflicts down through the millenia.

  Led by the wolverines the warmlanders were literally cutting

  their way up the Pass. The Plated Folk fought bravely but

  mechanically, showing no more initiative in individual com-

  bat than they did collectively. Also, though they possessed an

  extra set of limbs, they were stiff-jointed and no match for the

  more supple, agile enemies they faced. Most of the Plated

  Folk were no more than three and a half feet tall, while

  certain of the warmlanders, such as the wolverines and the

  felines, were considerably more massive and powerful. And

  none of the insects could match the otters and weasels for

  sheer speed.

  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

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  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 sol-

  diers 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