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
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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