The Hour of the Gate (29 page)

He repositioned his own special burden, taking it back from the 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-cornered 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. Jon-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.”

“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 leadership. Not all of it was pleased.

“I have the word of the Grand Webmistress Oll 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 mem 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 anything,” said Aveticus softly, dominating the discussion by sheer strength of presence.

“They have promised to guide the Weaver army here,” 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 assembled 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, weapons 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 determination 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. “In 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. 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.

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 Bribbens.

“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 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 might help the dead I helped the living to survive. I have no regrets.”

When Jon-Tom did not respond the wizard continued, “My boy, your magic is of an unpredictable quality and considerable power. Many times that unpredictability could be a drawback. But the magic we face is equally unpredictable. You may be of great assistance… if you choose to.

“But I feel responsibility for you, if not for your present hurt. If you elect to do nothing, no one will blame you for it and I will not try to coerce you. I can only wish for your assistance.

“I am trying to tell you, my boy, that there is no formula I know for raising the dead. I said I would try, and I shall, when the time is right and other matters press less urgently on my knowledge. I must now try my best to preserve many. I cannot turn away from that to experiment in hopes of saving one.” His voice was flat and unemotional.

“I wish it were otherwise, boy. Even magic has its limits, however. Death is one of them.”

Jon-Tom stood numbly, still balancing the dead weight on his shoulders. “But you said, you told me…”

“What I told you I did in order to save you. Despondency does not encourage quick thinking and survival. You have survived. Talea, bless her mercurial, flinty little heart, would be cursing your self-pity this very moment if she were able.”

“You lying little hard-shelled—”

Clothahump took a cautious step backward. “Don't force me to stop you, Jon-Tom. Yes, I lied to you. It wasn't the first time, as Mudge is so quick to point out. A lie in the service of right is a kind of truth.”

Jon-Tom let out an inarticulate yell and rushed forward, blinded as much by the cold finality of his loss as by the wizard's duplicity. No longer a personality or even a memory, the body on his shoulders tumbled to the earth. He reached blindly for the impassive sorcerer.

Clothahump had seen the rage building, had taken note of the signs in Jon-Tom's face, in the way he stood, in the tension of his skin. The wizard's hands moved rapidly and he whispered to unseen things words like “fix” and “anesthesia.”

Jon-Tom went down as neatly as if clubbed by his own staff. Several soldiers noted the activity and wandered over.

“Is he dead, sir?” one asked curiously.

“No. For the moment he wishes it were so.” The wizard pointed toward the limp form of Talea. “The first casualty of the war.”

“And this one?” The squirrel gestured down at Jon-Tom.

“Love is always the second casualty. He will be all right in a while. He needs to rest and not remember. There is a tent behind the headquarters. Take him and put him in there.”

The noncom's tail switched the air. “Will he be dangerous when he regains consciousness?”

Clothahump regarded the softly breathing body. “I do not think so, not even to himself.”

The squirrel saluted. “It will be done, sir.”

There are few drugs, Clothahump mused, that can numb both the heart and the mind. Among them grief is the most powerful. He watched while the soldiers bore the lanky, youthful Jon-Tom away, then forced himself to turn to more serious matters. Talea was gone and Jon-Tom damaged. Well, he was sorry as sorry could be for the boy, but they would do without his erratic talents if they had to. He could not cool the boy's hate.

Let him hate me, then, if he wishes. It will focus his thoughts away from his loss. He will be forever suspicious of me hereafter, but in that he will have the company of most creatures. People always fear what they cannot understand.

Makes it lonely though, old fellow. Very lonely. You knew that when you took the vows and made the oaths. He sighed, waddled off to locate Aveticus. Now there was a rational mind, he thought pleasantly. Unimaginative, but sound. He will accept my advice and act upon it. I can help him.

Perhaps in return he can help me. Two hundred and how many years, old fellow?

Tired, dammit. I'm so tired. Pity I took an oath of responsibility along with the others. But this evil of Eejakrat's has got to be stopped.

Clothahump was wise in many things, but even he would not admit that what really kept him going wasn't his oath of responsibility. It was curiosity… .

Red fog filled Jon-Tom's vision. Blood mist. It faded to gray when he blinked. It was not the ever present mist of the awful Greendowns, but instead a dull glaze that faded rapidly.

Looking up, he discovered multicolored fabric in place of blue sky. As he lay on his back he heard a familiar voice say, “I'll watch him now.”

He pushed himself up on his elbows, his head still swimming from the effects of Clothahump's incantation. Several armed warmlanders were exiting the tent.

“Ya feeling better now?”

He raised his sight once more. An upside-down face stared anxiously into his own. Pog was hanging from one of the crosspoles, wrapped in his wings. He spread them, stretching, and yawned.

“How long have I been out?”

“‘Bout since dis time yesterday.”

“Where's everyone else?”

The bat grinned. “Relaxing, trying ta enjoy themselves. Orgy before da storm.”

“Talea?” He tried to sit all the way up. A squat, hairy form fluttered down from the ceiling to land on his chest.

“Talea's as dead as she was yesterday when you tried ta attack da master. As dead as she was when dat knife went into her t'roat back in Cugluch, an dat's a fact ya'd better get used ta, man!”

Jon-Tom winced, looked away from the little gargoyle face confronting him. “I'll never accept it. Never.”

Pog hopped off his chest, landed on a chair nearby, and leaned against the back. It was designed for a small mammalian body, but it still fit him uncomfortably. He always preferred hanging to sitting but given Jon-Tom's present disorientation, he knew it would be better if he didn't have to stare at a topsy-turvy face just now.

“Ya slay me, ya know?” Pog said disgustedly. “Ya really think you're something special.”

“What?” Confused, Jon-Tom frowned at the bat.

“You heard me. I said dat ya tink you're something special, don't ya? Ya tink you're da only one wid problems? At least you've got da satisfaction of knowing dat someone loved ya. I ain't even got dat.

“How would ya like it if Talea were alive and every time ya looked at her, so much as smiled in her direction, she turned away from ya in disgust?”

“I don't—”

The bat cut him off, raised a wing. “No, hear me out. Dat's what I have ta go trough every day of my life. Dat's what I've been going trough for years. ‘It don't make sense,' da boss keeps tellin' me.” Pog sniffed disdainfully. “But he don't have ta experience it, ta live it. ‘Least ya know ya was loved, Jon-Tom. I may never have dat simple ting. I may have ta go trough da rest of my life knowin' dat da one I love gets the heaves every time I come near her. How would you like ta live wid dat? I'm goin' ta suffer until I die, or until she does.