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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THE HOUR Or THE GATE
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
evidence of the power Eejakrat commands. Not a sign of it at
work."
"Maybe he can't manipulate it properly. Maybe it's beyond
his control."
" 'Maybes' kill more individuals than swords, my boy."
"What kind of magic are you looking for?"
"I don't know." The wizard gazed skyward. "The clouds
are innocent of storm. Nothing hints at lightning. The earth is
silent, and we've naught to fear from tremorings. The ether
flows silently. I feel no discord in any of the levels of magic.
It worries me. I fear what I cannot sense."
"There's a possible storm cloud," said Jon-Tom, pointing.
"Boiling over the far southern ridge."
Clothahump peered in the indicated direction. Yes,'there
was a dark mass back there, which had materialized suddenly.
It was blacker than any of the scattered cumulo-nimbus that
hung in the afternoon sky like winter waifs. The cloud
foamed down the face of the ridge, rushing toward the Pass.
"That's not a cloud," said Caz, seeking with eyes sharper
than those of other creatures. "Plated Folk."
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Alan Dean Foster
"What kind?" asked Clothahump, already confident of the
reply.
"Dragonflies, a few large beetles. All with subsidiary
mounted troops, I fear. Many other large beetles behind
them."
"They should be no trouble," murmured Clothahump.
"But I wonder."
Aveticus crossed the Gate and joined them.
"What do you make of this, sir?"
"It appears to be the usual aerial assault."
Aveticus nodded, glanced back toward the plain. "If so,
they will fare no better in the air than they have on the
ground. Still..."
"Something troubling you then?" said Clothahump.
The marten eyed the approaching cloud confusedly. "It is
strange, the way they are grouped. Still, it would be peculiar
if they did not at least once try something different."
Yells sounded from behind the Gate. The warmlanders own
aerial forces were massing in a great spiral over the camp.
They were of every size and description. Their kilts formed a
brilliant quiltwork in the sky.
Then the spiral began to unwind as the line of bats and
birds flew over the Gate to meet the coming threat. They
intercepted the Plated Folk fliers near the line of combat.
As soon as contact was made, the Plated Folk forces split.
Half moved to meet the attack. The second half, consisting
primarily of powerful but ponderous beetles, dipped below
the fight. With them went a large number of the more agile
dragonflies with their single riders.
"Look there," said Mudge. "Wot are the bleedin' buggerers
up to?"
"They're attacking ground troops!" said Aveticus, outraged.
"It is not done. Those in the sky do not do battle with those
on the ground. They fight only others of their own kind."
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THE HOUR Or THE GATE
"Well, somebody's changed the rules," said Jen-Tom,
watching a tall amazonian figure moving across the wall
toward them.
Confusion began to grip the advance ranks of warmlanders.
They were not used to fighting attack from above. Most of
the outnumbered birds and bats were too busy with their own
opponents to render any assistance to those below.
"This is Eejakrat's work," muttered Clothahump. "I can
sense it.'It is magic, but of a most subtle sort."
"Air-ground support," said the newly arrived Flor. She
was staring tight-lipped at the carnage the insect fliers were
wreaking on the startled warmlander infantry.
"What kind of magic is this?" asked Aveticus grimly.
"It's called tactics," said Jon-Tom.
The marten turned to Clothahump. "Wizard, can you not
counter this kind of magic?"
"I would try," said Clothahump, "save that I do not know
how to begin. I can counter lightning and dissipate fog, but I
do not know how to assist the minds of our soldiers. That is
what is endangered now."
While bird and dragonfly tangled in the air above the Pass
and other insect fliers swooped again and again on the ranks
of puzzled warmlanders, the sky began to rain a different sort
of death.
The massive cluster of large beetles remained high out of
arrowshot and began to disgorge hundreds, thousands of tiny
pale puffs on the rear of the warmlander forces. Arrows fell
Aom the puff shapes as they descended.
Jon-Tom recognized the familiar round cups. So did Flor.
But Clothahump could only shake his head in disbelief.
"Impossible! No spell is strong enough to lift so many into
the air at once."
"I'm afraid this one is," Jon-Tom told him.
"What is this frightening spell called?"
"Parachuting."
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Alan Dean Foster
The wannlander troops were as confused by the sight as by
the substance of this assault on their rear ranks. At the same
time there was a chilling roar from the retreating Plated Folk
infantry. Those who'd abandoned their weapons suddenly
scrambled for the nearest canyon wall.
From the hidden core of the horde came several hundred of
the largest beetles anyone had ever seen. These huge scara-
baeids and their cousins stampeded through the gap created
by their own troops. The startled wolverines were trampled
underfoot. Massive chitin horns pierced soldier after soldier.
Each beetle had half a dozen bowmen on its back. From there
they picked off those wannlanders who tried to cut at the
beetle's legs.
Now it was the wannlanders who broke, whirling and
scrambling in panic for the safety of the distant Gate. They
pressed insistently on those behind them. But terror already
ruled their supposed reinforcements. Instead of friendly faces
those pursued by the relentless beetles found thousands of
Plated Folk soldiers who had literally dropped from the sky.
The birds and their riders, mostly small squirrels and then-
relatives, fought valiantly to break through the aerial Plated
Folk. But by the time they had made any headway against the
dragonfly forces confronting them the great, lumbering flying
beetles had already dropped their cargo. Now they were
flying back down the Pass, to gather a second load of