The Hour of the Gate (2 page)

The muttering among the councilors changed from nervous to angry. “Where is he?” shouted the hummingbird, suddenly buzzing over the table to halt and hover only inches from Jon-Tom's face. “Where is the insect offal, and his furless dupes?” Tiny, furious eyes stared into larger human ones. “I will put out their eyes myself. I shall…” “Perch down, Millevoddevareen,” said Wuckle Three-Stripe, the badger. “And control yourself. I will not tolerate anarchy in the chambers.”

The bird glared back at the Mayor, muttered something under his breath, and shot back to his seat. His wings continued to whirr with nervous energy. He forced himself to calm down by preening them with his long bill.

“Such fringe fanatics have always existed among the species,” the Mayor said thoughtfully. “Humans have no corner on racial prejudice. These you speak of will be warned, but they are of little consequence. When the time for final choices arrives, common sense takes precedence over emotion. Most people are sensible enough to realize they would never survive a Plated Folk conquest.” He smiled and his mask fur wrinkled.

“But no such invasion has ever succeeded. Not in tens of thousands of years.”

“There is still only one way through Zaryt's Teeth,” proclaimed a squirrel, “and that is by way of the Jo-Troom Pass. Two thousand years ago Usdrett of Osprinspri raised the Great Wall on the site of his own victory over the Plated Folk. A wall which has been strengthened and fortified by successive generations of Fighters. The Gate has never been forced open, and no Plated Folk force has ever even reached the wall itself. We've never let them get that far down the Pass.”

“They're too stratified,” added the raven, waving a wing for emphasis. “Too inflexible in their methods of battle to cope with improvisation and change. They prepare to fight one way and cannot shift quickly enough to handle another. Why, their last attempt at an invasion was among the most disastrous of all. Their defeats grow worse with each attack. Such occasional assaults are good for the warmlands: they keep the people from complacency and sharpen the skills of our soldiers. Nor can we be surprised. The permanent Gate contingent can hold off any sudden attack until sufficient reinforcements can be gathered.”

“This is no usual invasion,” said Clothahump intently. “Not only have the Plated Folk prepared more thoroughly and in greater numbers than ever before, but I have reason to believe they have produced some terrible new magic to assist them, an evil we may be unable to counter and whose nature I have as yet been unable to ascertain.”

“Magic again!” Wuckle Three-Stripe spat at the floor. “We still have no proof you're even the sorcerer you claim to be, stranger. So far I've only your word as proof.”

“Are you calling me a liar, sir?”

Concerned that he might have overstepped a trifle, the Mayor retreated a bit. “I did not say that, stranger. But surely you understand my position. I can hardly be expected to alarm the entire civilized warmlands merely at the word of a single visitor. That is scarcely sufficient proof of what you have said.”

“Proof? I'll give you proof.” The wizard's fighting blood was up. He considered thoughtfully, then produced a couple of powders from his plastron. After tossing them on the floor he raised both hands and turned a slow circle, reciting angrily.

“Cold front, warm front, counteract my affront.

Isobars and isotherms violently descend.

Nimbus, cumulus, poles opposizing,

Ions in a mighty surge my doubters upend!”

A thunderous roar deafened everyone in the room and there was a blinding flare. Jon-Tom dazedly struggled back to a standing position to see Clothahump slowly picking himself up off the floor and readjusting his glasses.

Wuckle Three-Stripe lay on the floor in front of him, having been blown completely across the council table. His ceremonial chair was a pile of smoking ash. Behind it a neat hole had been melted through the thick leaded glass where the tiny lightning bolt had penetrated. The fact that it was a cloudless day made the feat all the more impressive.

The Mayor disdained the help of one of the other councilors. Brushing himself off and rearranging his clothing, he waddled back behind the table. A new chair was brought and set onto the pile of ash. He cleared his throat and leaned forward.

“We will accept the fact that you are a sorcerer.”

“I'm glad that's sufficient proof,” said Clothahump with dignity. “I'm sorry if I overdid it a mite. Some of these old spells are pretty much just for show and I'm a little rusty with them.” The scribe had returned to his sextupal duplicator and was scribbling furiously.

“Plated envoys moving through our city in human disguise,” murmured one of the councilors. “Talk of interspecies dissension and war, great and strange magic in the council chambers. Surely this portends unusual events, perhaps even a radically different kind of invasion.”

The prairie dog leaned across the table, steepling his fingers and speaking in high-pitched, chirping tones.

“There are many forms of magic, colleagues. While the ability to conjure thunder and lightning on demand is most impressive, it differs considerably from divination. Do we then determine that on the basis of a flash of power we cease all normal activities and place Polastrindu on war alert?

“Should the call go out on that basis to distant Snarken, to L'bor and Yul-pat-pomme and all the other towns and cities of the warmlands? Must we now order farmers to leave their fields, young men their sweethearts, and bats their nightly hunts? Commerce will come to a halt and fortunes will be lost, lives disrupted.

“This is a massive question, colleagues. It must be answered by more than the words and deeds of one person.” He gestured deferentially with both hands at Clothahump. “Even one so clearly versed in the arts of wizardry as you, sir.”

“So you want more proof?” asked Jon-Tom.

“More specific proof, yes, tall man,” said the prairie dog. “War is no casual matter. I need hardly remind the other participants of this council,” and he looked the length of the long table, “that if there is no invasion, no unusual war, then it is our bodies that will provide fertilizer for next season's crops, and not those of our nomadic visitors.” He looked back out of tiny black eyes at Jon-Tom. “Therefore I would expect some sympathy for our official positions.”

A mild smattering of applause came from the rest of the council, except for Millevoddevareen the hummer. He continued to mutter, “I want those traitorous humans. Put their damn perverted eyes out!” His colleagues paid him no attention. Hummingbirds are notoriously more bellicose than reflective.

“Then you shall have more conclusive proof,” said the weary wizard.

“Master?” Pog looked down solicitously at the turtle. “Do ya really tink anodder spell now, so close ta da odder, is a good idea?”

“Do I seem so tired then, Pog?”

The bat flapped idly, said without hesitation, “Yeah, ya do, boss.”

Clothahump nodded slowly. “Your concern is noted, Pog. I'll make a good famulus out of you yet.” The bat smiled, which in a bat is no prettier than a frown, but it was unusual to see the pleased expression on the fuzzy face of the normally hostile assistant.

“I expect to become more tired still.” He looked at Jon-Tom, then around him at Mudge. “I'd say you represent the lower orders accurately enough.”

“Thanks,” said the otter drily, “Your Sorcererness.”

“What would it take to convince you of the reality of this threat?”

“Well, if'n I were ignorant o' the real situation and I needed a good convincin',” Mudge said speculatively, “I'd say it were up t' you t' prove it by showin' me.” Clothahump nodded. “I thought so.”

“Master… ?” began Pog warningly.

“It's all right. I have the capacity, Pog.” His face suddenly went blank, and he fell into a deep trance. It was not as deep as the one he had used to summon M'nemaxa, but it impressed the hell out of the council.

The room darkened, and curtains magically drew themselves across the back windows of the chambers. There was nervous whispering among those seated behind the long table, but no one moved. The marten Aveticus, Jon-Tom noted, did not seem in the least concerned.

A cloud formed at the far end of the chamber, an odd cloud that was flat and rectangular in shape. Images formed inside the cloud. As they solidified, there were gasps of horror and dismay from the council members.

Vast ranks of insect warriors marched across the cloud. They bore aloft an ocean of pikes and spears, swords and shields. Huge Plated generals directed the common troops, which stretched across misty plains as far as the eye could see. Tens of thousands paraded across that cloud.

As the view shifted and rolled, there was anxious chatter from the council. “They seem better armed than before… look how purposefully they drill… . You can feel the confidence in them… never saw that before… . The numbers, the numbers!”

The scene changed. Stone warrens and vast structures slid past in review. A massive, bulbous edifice began to come into view: the towering castle of Cugluch.

Abruptly the view changed to one of dark clouds, fluttered, and vanished. There was a thump, the cloud dissipated, together with the view, and light returned to the room. Clothahump was sitting down on the floor, shaking his head. Pog was hovering above him, fumbling with a vial. The wizard took a long sip of the liquid within, shook his head once more, and wiped the back of his mouth with an arm. With the bat's help he stood and smiled shakily at Jon-Tom.

“Not a bad envisioning. Couldn't get to the castle, though. Too far, and the inhibitory spells are too strong. Lost the damn vertical hold.” He started to go down, and Jon-Tom barely got hold of an arm in time to keep the turtle from slumping back to the floor.

“You shouldn't have done it, sir. You're too weak.”

“Had to, boy.” He jerked his head toward the long table. “Some hardheads up there.”

The councilors were babbling among themselves, but they fell silent when Clothahump spoke. “I tried to show you the interior of the castle keep, but its secrets are too well protected by powerful spells I cannot pierce.”

“Then how do you know this great new magic exists?” asked the ever skeptical prairie dog.

“I summoned M'nemaxa.”

Mutters of amazement mixed with disbelief and awe.

“Yes, I did even that,” Clothahump said proudly, “though the consequences of such a conjuration could have been fatal for me and all those in my care.”

“If you did so once, could you not summon the spirit once more and learn the true nature of this strange evil you feel exists in Cugluch?” wondered one of the councilors.

Clothahump laughed gently. “I see there are none here versed in wizardly lore. A pity no local sorcerer or ess could have joined us in this council.

“It was remarkable that I was able to conduct the first conjuration. Were I to try it again I could not bind the M'nemaxa spirit within restrictive boundaries. It would burst free. In less than a second I and all around me would be reduced to a crisp of meat and bone.”

“I withdraw the suggestion,” said the councilor hastily.

“We must rely on ourselves now,” said Clothahump. “Outside forces will not save us.”

“I think we should…” began one of the other members. He fell silent and looked to his left. So did the others.

The marten Aveticus was standing. “I will announce the mobilization,” he said softly. “The armies can be ready in a few months' time. I will contact my counterparts in Snarken and L'bor, in all the other towns and cities.” He stared evenly at Clothahump.

“We will meet this threat, sir, with all the force the warmlands can bring to bear. I leave it to you to counter this evil magic you speak of. I dislike fighting something I can't see. But I promise you that nothing which bleeds will pass the Jo-Troom Gate.”

“But General Aveticus, we haven't reached a decision yet,” protested the gopher.

The marten turned and looked down his narrow snout at his colleagues. “These visitors,” and he indicated the four strangers standing and watching nearby, “have made their decision. Based upon what they have said and shown to us, I have made mine. The armies will mobilize. Whether they do so with your blessing is your decision. But they will be ready.” He bowed stiffly toward Clothahump.

“Learned sir, if you will excuse me. I have much work to do.” He turned and strode out of the room on short but powerful legs. Jon-Tom watched his departure admiringly. The marten was someone he would like to know better. After an uncomfortable pause, the councilors resumed their conversation. “Well, if General Aveticus has already decided so easily…”

“That's right,” said the hummingbird, buzzing above the table. “Our decision has been made for us. Not by these people,” and he gestured with a wing, though it was so fast Jon-Tom couldn't swear he'd actually noticed the gesture so much as imagined it, “but by the General. You all know how conservative he is.

“Now that we are committed, there must be no dissension. We must act as one mind, one body, to counter the threat.” He soared higher above the floor.

“I shall notify the air corps of the decision so that we may begin to coordinate operations with the army. I will also send out the peregrines with messages to the other cities and towns that the Plated Folk are again on the march, stronger and more voracious than ever. This time, brothers and sisters, we will deal them a defeat, give them a beating so bad they will not recover for a thousand years!”

Words of assent and a few cheers echoed around the council chamber. One came from the cub manipulating the scrolls. His scribe looked at him reprovingly, and the youngster settled back down to his paper shuffling as Millevoddevareen left via an opened window.