"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
260
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
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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Alan Dean Foster
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.
262
THE HOUR Of THE GATE
"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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Alan Dean Foster
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