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reached up to pull the stuffing out, and they tied his arms

also. At that point he slumped back and looked exhausted.

The creature resplendent in bone and metal jumped up and

down happily, jabbing a long feather-encrusted pole at the

now safely bound and gagged turtle. Evidently the fashion

plate was the local witch doctor or wizard, Jon-Tom decided.

He'd recognized that Clothahump had been starting a spell

inside bis shell and had succeeded in rendering his opponent

magically impotent.

Jon-Tom lay quietly and wondered if they would recognize

the sorceral potential of his singing, but the duar was inside

the, wagon and he was firmly tied on the ground.

Moans came from nearby. Straining, he saw another of

their captors idly kicking Talea with considerable force. Each

time she'd curse her tormentor he'd kick her. She would jerk

in pain and it would be several minutes before she regained

enough strength to curse him again.

"Knock it off!" he yelled at her assailant. "Pick on

somebody your own size!"

The creature responded by leaving Talea and walking over

to stare curiously down into Jon-Tom's face. He jabbered at

him experimentally.

Jon-Tom smiled broadly. "Same to you, you sawed-off

shithead."

It's doubtful the creature followed Jon-Tom's meaning, but

he accepted the incomprehensible comment with equanimity

and commenced booting the lanky youth in the side instead.

Jon-Tom gritted his teeth and refused to give the creature the

satisfaction of hearing him groan.

After several kicks produced nothing but a steady glare, his

45

Alan Dean Foster

attacker became bored and wandered off to argue with some 01

his companions.

In fact, there appeared to be as much fighting taking place

between members of the tribe as there'd been between them

and their captives. Jon-Tom looked around and was astonished

to see tiny structures, camp fires, and ugly, hairless smallei

versions of the adults, which could only be children. Small

green and blue lizards wore backpacks and suggested scaly

mules. There was consistent and unrelenting activity taking

place around the six bound bodies.

Camp fires and buildings gave every appearance of having

been in place for some time. Jon-Tom tried to estimate the

distance they'd traveled.

"Christ," he muttered, "we couldn't have been camped

more than a couple of hundred yards from this town, and we

never even saw them."

"The grass conceals the Mimpa," Caz told him. Jon-Torr

looked to his right, saw rabbit ears pointed in his direction

"They move freely among it, completely hidden from most

of their enemies."

"Call 'em what you like. They look like trolls to me." Hi?

brow twisted in thought. "Except I always thought troll?

lived underground. Singularly unlovely bunch, too."

"Well, I know naught of trolls, my friend, but the Mimpa

live in the sward."

"Like fleas," Mudge snorted from somewhere nearby

"An' if I could get loose I'd start on a little deinfestation,

wot!"

Now Jon-Tom could just see the otter's head. His cap was

missing, no doubt knocked off during the struggle for the

wagon. The otter was jerking around as if he were wired,

trying to break free.

Of them all he was the only one who could match their

captors for sheer energy, but he could not break the ropes.

46

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

Jon-Tom turned his attention back to the rabbit. "Can you

talk to them, Caz?"

"I believe I can understand their language somewhat,"

was the reply. "A well-traveled animal picks up all sorts of

odd knowledge. As to whether I can 'talk' to them, I don't

think so. Talking takes two, and they strike me as particularly

nonconversant with strangers."

"How is it they speak a language we can't follow?"

"I expect that has something to do with their being

violently antagonistic to what we think of as civilized life.

They're welcome to their isolation, so far as I am concerned.

They are incorrigibly hostile, incorrigibly filthy, and bellicose

to the point of paranoia. I sincerely wish they would all rot

where they stand."

"Amen to that," said Flor.

"What are they going to do with us, Caz?"

"They're talking about that right now." He gestured with

an unbound ear. "That one over there with the spangles, the

chap who fancies himself something of a local dandy? The

one who unfortunately forestalled Clothahump's spell cast-

ing? He's arguing with a couple of his equals. Apparently

they function as some sort of rudimentary council."

Jon-Tom craned his neck, could just see the witch doctor

animatedly arguing with two equally pretentious and noisy

fellows.

One of them displayed the mother of all Fu Manchu

mustaches. It drooped almost to his huge splayed feet. Other

than that he was entirely bald. The third member of the

unkempt triumvirate had a long pointed beard and waxed

mustachio, but wore his hair in a crew cut. Both were as

outlandishly clad as the witch doctor.

"From what I can make out," said Caz, "Baldy thinks

they ought to let us go. The other two, Battop and Bigmouth,

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say that since hunting has been poor lately they should

sacrifice us to the gods of the Sward."

"Who's winning?" Flor wanted to know. Jon-Tom thought

that for the first time she was beginning to look a little

frightened. She had plenty of company.

"Can't we talk to them at all?" he asked hopefully. "What

about the one who had Clothahump gagged? Do you know hb

real name?"

"I already told you," said Caz. "His name is Bigmouth.

Flattop, Baldy, and Bigmouth: that's how their names translate.

And no, I don't think we can talk to them. Even if I knew the

right words I don't think they'd let me get a word in

edgewise. It seems that he who talks loudest without letting

his companions make their points is the one who wins the

debate."

"Then if it's just a matter of shouting, why don't you give

it a try?"

"Because I think they'd cut out my tongue if I interrupted

them. I am a better gambler than that, my friend."

It didn't matter, because as he watched the debate-came tc

an end. Baldy shook a threatening finger less than an inch

from Bigmouth's proboscis, whereupon Bigmouth frowned

and kicked the overly demonstrative Baldy in the nuts. As he

doubled over, Rattop brought a small but efficient-looking

club down on Baldy's head. This effectively concluded the

discussion.

Considerable cheering rose from the excited listeners, who

never seemed to be standing still, a condition duplicated by

their mouths.

Jon-Tom wondered at the humanoid metabolism that could

generate such nonstop energy.

"I am afraid our single champion has been vanquished,"

said Caz.

48

THE HOUR Or THE GATE

"I don't want to die," muttered Flor. "Not here, not in

this place." She started reciting Hail Marys in Spanish.

"I don't want to die either," Jon-Tom yelled at her in

frustration.

"This isn't happening," she was saying dully. "It's all a

dream."

"Sorry, Flor," he told her unsympathetically. "I've already

been that route. It's no dream. You were enjoying yourself

until now, remember?"

"It was all so wonderful," she whispered. She wasn't

crying, but restraining herself required considerable effort.

"Our friends, the quest we're on, when we rescued you that

night in Polastrindu... it's been just as I'd always imagined