Spellsinger 02 - The Hour of the Gate Page 4

  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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  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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  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

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  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