from the mountains were thousands of camp fires. The
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warmlanders had taken Clothahump's warning to heart. They
would be ready.
He repositioned his own special burden, taking it back from
ttie helpful soldiers. With a grimace he unsnapped the insect head
and kicked it aside. Red hair hung limply across his shoulder.
He stroked the face, hurriedly pulled his hand away. The skin
was numbingly cold.
There were two arrows in her back. Even in death, she had
protected him again. But it would be all right, he told himself
angrily. Clothahump would revive her, as he'd promised he
would. Hadn't he promised? Hadn't he?
They were directed to a large three-comered tent. The
banners of a hundred cities flew above it. Squadrons of
brightly kilted birds and bats flew in formation overhead,
arrowhead outlines full of the flash and silver of weapons.
They had their own bivouacs, he noted absently, on the flanks
of the mountains or in the forest that rose to the west.
Wuckle Three-Stripe was there, still panting from having
ridden through the waiting army to meet them. So was
Aveticus, his attitude and eyes as alert and ready as they'd
been that day so long ago in the council chambers of Polastrindu.
He was heavily armored, and a crimson sash hung from his
long neck. Jen-Tom could read his expression well enough:
the marten was eager to be at the business of killing.
There were half a dozen other officers. Before the visitors
could say anything a massive wolverine resplendent in gold
chain mail stepped forward and asked in a voice full of
disbelief, "Have ye then truly been to Cugluch?" Rumor
then had preceded presence.
"To Cugluch an' back, mate," Mudge admitted pridefully.
" Twas an epic journey. One that'll long be spoken of. The
bards will not 'ave words enough t' do 'er justice."
"Perhaps," said Aveticus quietly. "I hope there will be
bards left to sing of it."
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
"We bring great news." Clothahump took a seat near the
central table. "I am sorry to say that the great magic of the
Plated Folk remains as threatening as ever, though not quite
as enigmatic.
"However, for the first time in recorded history, we have
powerful allies who are not of the warmlands." He did not try
to keep the pleasure from his voice. "The Weavers have
agreed to fight alongside us!"
Considerable muttering rose from the assembled leader-
ship. Not all of it was pleased.
"I have the word of the Grand Webmistress Oil herself,
given to us in person," Clothahump added, dissatisfied with
the reaction his announcement produced.
When the import finally penetrated, there were astonished
murmurs of delight.
"The Weavers.. .We canna lose now.... Won't be a one
of the Plated Bastards left!... Drive them all the way to the
end of the Greendowns!"
"That is," said Clothahump cautioningly, "they will fight
alongside us if they can get here in time. They have to come
across the Teeth."
"Then they will never reach here," said a skeptical officer.
"There is no other pass across the Teeth save the Troom."
"Perhaps not a Pass, but a path. The Ironclouders will
show them the way."
Now derision filled the tent. "There is no such place as
Ironcloud," said the dubious Wuckle Three-Stripe. "It is a
myth inhabited by ghosts."
"We climbed inside the myth and supped with the ghosts,"
said Clothahump calmly. "It exists."
"I believe this wizard's word is proof enough of any-
thing," said Aveticus softly, dominating the discussion by
sheer strength of presence.
"They have promised to guide the Weaver army here."
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Clothahump continued to his suddenly respectful audience.
"But we cannot count on their assistance. I believe the Plated
Folk will begin their attack any day. We confronted and
escaped from the wizard Eejakrat. While he does not know
that we know little about his Manifestation, he will not
assume ignorance on our part, and thus will urge the assem-
bled horde to march. They appeared ready in any case."
That stimulated a barrage of questions from the officers.
They wanted estimates of troop strength, of arboreals, weap-
ons and provisioning, of disposition and heavy troops and
bowmen and more.
Clothahump impatiently waved the questions off. "I can't
answer any of your queries in detail. I am not a soldier and
my observations are attuned to other matters. I can tell you
that this is by far the greatest army the Plated Folk have ever
sent against the warmlands."
"They will be met by more warmlanders than ever they
imagined!" snorted Wuckle Three-Stripe. "We will reduce
the populating of the Greendowns to nothing. The Troom Pass
shall be paved with chitin!" Cries of support and determina-
tion came from those behind him.
The badger's expression softened. "I must say we are
pleased, if utterly amazed, to find you once again safely
among your kind. The world owes you all a great debt."
"How great, mate?" asked Mudge.
Three-Stripe eyed the otter distastefully, "hi this time of
crisis, how can you think of mere material things?"
"Mate, I can always th—" Flor put a hand over the otter's
muzzle.
The mayor turned to a subordinate. "See that these people
have anything they want, and that they are provided with food
and the best of shelter." The weasel officer nodded.
"It will be done, sir." He moved forward, saluted crisply
252
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
His gaze fell on the form lying limply across Jon-Tom's back.
"Shall the she be requiring medical care, sir?"
Red hair tickled Jon-Tom's ear. He jerked his head to one
side, replied almost imperceptibly.
"No. She's dead."
"I am sorry, sir."
Jon-Tom's'gaze traveled across the tent. Clothahump was
conversing intently with a cluster of officers including the
wolverine, Aveticus, and Wuckle Three-Stripe. He glanced
up for an instant and locked eyes with the spellsinger. The
instant passed.
The relief Jon-Tom had sought in the wizard's eyes was not
there, nor had there been hope.
Only truth.
283
XV
The meeting did not take long. As they left the tent the
tension of the past weeks, of living constantly on the edge of
death and disappointment, began to let go of them all.
"Me for a 'ot bath!" said Mudge expectantly.
"And I for a cold one," countered Bnbbens.
"I think I'd prefer a shower, myself," said Flor.
"I'd enjoy that myself, I believe." Jon-Tom did not notice
the look that passed between Caz and Flor. He noticed
nothing except the wizard's retreating oval.
"Just a minute, sir. Where are you going now?"
Clothahump glanced back at him. "First to locate Pog.
Then to the Council of Wizards, Warlocks, and Witches so
that we may coordinate our magicking in preparation for the
coming attack. Only one may magic at a time, you know.
Contradiction destroys the effectiveness of spells."
"Wait. What about.. .you know. You promised."
Clothahump looked evasive. "She's dead, my boy. Like
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love, life is a transitory thing. Both linger as long as they're
able and fade quickly."
"I don't want any of your fucking wizardly platitudes!"
He towered over the turtle. "You said you could bring her
back."
"I said I might. You were despondent, You needed hope,
something to sustain you. I gave you that. By pretending I