"Falameezar's made a political commitment. We're his com-
rades. He'll be back. It would take some kind of personal
crisis to make him abandon us, and there isn't much that can
affect him."
39
Alan Dean Foster
"Nevertheless, though I would like to have both of them
back with us, time is becoming too important." The turtle let
out a resigned sigh. "If the weather breaks tomorrow, as 1
believe it may, we will wait one additional day. Then we musl
be on our way or else we might as well forget this entire
mission."
"Praise the weather," murmured Mudge hopefully, ano
turned over in his blankets....
40
Ill
When Jon-Tom woke the following morning, his first sight
was of the rear canvas panel. It had been neatly pinned up,
and sunlight was streaming brilliantly inside. Flor knelt and
stared outward, her black hair waterfalling down her back.
She seemed to sparkle.
He sat up, threw off his covers. It was eerie after so many
days of violence not to hear the wind. Also absent was the
persistent drumming of raindrops overhead. He leaned for-
ward and peered out. Only a few scattered storm clouds hung
stubbornly in an otherwise clear sky.
He crawled up alongside her. A gentle breeze ruffled the
Swordsward, the emerald endlessness appearing as soft and
delicate as the down on a young girl's legs. The distant
yellow puffballs of dandelion trees looked lonely against the
otherwise unbroken horizon.
"Good morning, Jon-Tom."
"Buenos dias. Que pasa, beautiful?"
41
Alan Dean Foster
much. Just enjoying the view. And the sunshine. A
week in that damn wagon." She fluffed her hair out. "It was
getting a little squirrelly."
"Also smelly." He breathed deeply of the fresh air, inhaled
the rich sweet smell of the rain-swept grasses. Then he
stepped out onto the rear wagon seat.
Slowly he turned a circle. There was nothing but greep
sward and blue sky in all directions. Against that background
even a distant Falameezar would have stood out like a
truckload of coal in a snowbank. But there was no sign of the
dragon or of his quarry.
"Nobody. Neither of 'em," he said disappointedly, turning
back to look down into the wagon. Talea had just raised her
head from beneath a pile of blankets and blinked at him
sleepily, her red curls framing her face like the scribbles of a
playful artist.
"I am most concerned," said Clothahump. He was seated
at the front end of the wagon, stirring a pot of hot tea. The
little copper kettle squatted on the portable stove and steamed
merrily. "It is possible that—" He broke off, pointed toward
Jon-Tom, and opened his mouth. Jon-Tom heard only the first
of his comment.
"I do believe there is someone be—"
Something yanked hard at Jon-Tom's ankles. Arms
windmilling the air, he went over backward off me platform.
He landed hard, the grass cushioning him only slightly.
Blackness and colorful stars filled his vision, but he did not
pass out. The darkness was a momentary veil over his eyes.
By the time his head cleared his hands had been drawn above
his hair, his ankles placed together, and tough cords wrapped
around them. Looking down at his feet, he saw not only the
bindings but a remarkably ugly face.
Its owner was perhaps two and a half feet tall, very stocky,
and a perversion of humanity. Jon-Tom decided it looked like
42
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
a cross between an elf and a wino. The squat creature boasted
an enormous, thick black beard.
Out of this jungle peered two large brown eyes. They
flanked a monstrous bulbous nose and were in turn framed by
a pair of huge, floppy ears that somehow managed to fight
their way out of the wiry hair. There were hints of clothing
beneath the effervescent mass.
Thick, stubby fingers made sure of Jon-Tom's bonds. A set
of sandals large enough for the recumbent youth floored
enormous feet.
Tying the other knots was a slightly smaller version of the
first ugly, except he was blond instead of dark-haired and had
watery blue eyes.
Something landed on Jon-Tom's chest and knocked the
wind out of him. The newcomer was solid as iron and
, extremely muscular. It was not the build of a body builder but
instead the seamlessly smooth and deceptively porcine mus-
culature of the power lifter.
The one on his chest now was female. Only a few red
whiskers protruded from her chin. She was no less gruesome
in appearance than her male counterparts. She was shaking a
fist in his face and jabbering at high speed. For the first time
since arriving in Mudge's meadow words had no meaning to
him.
He turned his head away from that indifferently controlled
fist. Angry noises and thumping sounds came from the
wagon. He looked to his right, but the grass hid whatever was
happening there.
Of only one thing was he certain: the sward was alive with
dozens of the fast-moving, excited creatures.
The dray lizards wheezed and hissed nervously as the little
monsters swarmed onto harness and reins. Mixed in with the
beelike babbling of their assailants Jon-Tom could make out
other voices. Most notable was that of Caz, who was speak-
43
Alan Dean Foster
ing in an unfamiliar language similar to that of their captors.
Mudge could be heard alternately cursing and bemoaning his
fate, while Talea was railing at an attacker, warning that if he
didn't get his oversized feet off her chest she was going to
make a candlewick out of his beard.
A pole was brought and neatly slipped between the bind-
ings on Jon-Tom's ankles and the others at his wrists. He was
lifted into the air. Clearing the ground by only a few inches,
he was borne off at considerable speed through the grass. He
could see at least half a dozen of his captors shouldering the
pole, three at his feet and three above his head. Although his
sense of speed was artificially accelerated by his proximity to
the ground, he fervently prayed that his bearers' sense of
direction was as efficient as their deltoids. The sharp grass did
not seem to bother them.
With a creak he saw the wagon turn and follow.
He had resigned himself to a long period of jouncing and
bumping, but it hardly seemed he'd been picked up when he
was unceremoniously dumped on the ground. Flor was dropped
next to him. One by one he watched as the rest of his
companions were deposited alongside. They mashed down
the grass so he could see them clearly, lined up like so many
kabobs. The similarity was not encouraging.
Clothahump had evidentally retreated into his shell in an
attempt to avoid being moved. They had simply hefted him
shell and all to carry him. When he finally stuck arms and
legs out again, they were waiting with lassos and ropes. They
managed to snare only a leg before he retreated in on himself.
Mutterings issued from inside the shell. This produced
excited conversation among the creatures. They kicked and
punched at the impervious body frantically.
The activity was directed by one of their number, who
displayed a variety of metal ornaments and decorative bits of
bone in hair and beard. Under his direction a couple of the
44
THE HOUR Or THE GATS
creatures poked around inside the shell. They were soon able
to drag the protesting, indignant turtle's head out. With the
aid of others they shoved several bunches of dried, balled-up
grass into his mouth and secured the gag tightly. Clothahump