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. Jen-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 council-
lors. Brushing himself off and rearranging his clothing, he
17
Alan Dean Poster
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 dis-
guise," murmured one of the councillors. "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
18
THE HOUR OF THE GATS
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 con-
tinued 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 Sorceremess."
"What would it take to convince you of the reality of this
threat?"
"Well, ifn I were ignorant o' the real situation and I
19
Alan Dean Foster
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 wamingly.
"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 them-
selves 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
20
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
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 councillors 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