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as were those of the dray lizards, the others had to be careful
when descending from the wagon least the sharp edges of the
tall blades cut through clothing and skin.
Jon-Tom learned quickly enough. Once he'd leaned over
the back of the wagon to pluck a high, isolated blue flower. A
quick, sharp pain made him pull back his hand. There was a
thin line of red two inches long across his palm. It felt as if
someone had taken a piece of new paper and drawn it fast
across his skin. The wound was narrow and bled only for a
minute, but it remained painful for days.
36
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
Several times they had glimpses of lanky predators like a
cross between a crocodile and a greyhound. They would pace
the wagon for hours before slinking off into the green.
"Noulps," Caz told him, peering out the arrowport behind
him. "They would kill and eat us if they could, but I don't
think that's likely. Falameezar scares them off."
"How can you tell?"
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"Because they leave us. A noulp pack will follow its
quarry for weeks, I'm told, until they run it down."
Days became weeks that passed without trouble. Each day
the black clouds massing in the west would come nearer, their
thunder more intimate. They promised more severe weather
than the steady, nightly rain.
"It is winter, after all," Clothahump observed one day. "I
worry about being caught out here in a really bad storm. This
wagon is not the cover I would wish."
But when the full storm finally crested atop them, even the
wizard was unprepared for its ferocity. The wind rose until it
shook the wagon. Its huddled inhabitants felt like bugs in a
box. Rain and sleet battered insistently at the wooden sides,
seeking entry, while the lizards lay down in a circle in the
grass and closed their eyes against the driving gale.
The wagon was wide and low. It did not leak, did not tip
over. Jon-Tom was even growing used to the storm until, on
the fourth day, a terrible scream sounded from outside. It
faded rapidly, swallowed up by the wind.
He fumbled for a candle, gave up, and used his sparker.
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Flame flashed off emerald eyes.
"What's the matter?" Talea asked him sleepily. The others
were moving about beneath their blankets.
"Someone screamed."
"I didn't hear anything."
"It was outside. It's gone now."
Heads were counted. Flor was there, blinking sleep from
37
Alan Dean Foster
her eyes. Nearby Caz leaned up against the inner wall
Mudge was the last to awaken, having displayed the unique
ability to sleep soundly through thunder, screaming, and
wind.
Only Clothahump looked attentive, sensing the night smells
"We're all here," said Ror tiredly. "Then who screamed?"
Clothahump was still listening intently, spoke without mov-
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ing head or body. "The lowliest are always missed the last.
Where is Pog?"
Jon-Tom looked toward the back of the wagon. The hang-
ing perch in the upper left comer was empty. Rain stained the
wood, showing where the canvas backing had been unsnapped.
He moved to inspect it. Several of the sealing snaps had been
broken by the force of the gale.
"He's been carried off in his sleep," said Clothahump.
"We have'to find him. He cannot fly in this."
Jon-Tom stuck his head outside, immediately drew it back
in. The ferocity of rain and wind drowned both skin and
spirits. He forced himself to try again, called the bat's name
several times.
A massive, damp skull suddenly appeared close by the
opening. Jon-Tom was startled, but only for a moment.
"What's the matter, Comrade?" Falameezar inquired. "Is
there some trouble?"
"We've... we've lost one of the group," he said, trying to
shield his face against the battering rain. "Pog, the bat. We
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think he got caught by a freak gust of wind and it's carried
him off. He doesn't answer, and we're all worried. He can't
walk well in the best of weather and he sure as hell can't fly
in this gale. Also, there don't seem to be any trees around he
could catch hold of."
"Never fear. Comrade. I will find him." The massive
armored body turned southward and bellowed above the
wind, "Comrade Pog, Comrade Pog!"
38
THE HOUR Of THE GATE
That steady, confident voice echoed back to them until
even it was overwhelmed by distance and wind. Jon-Tom
watched until the black shadow shape faded into the night,
men drew back inside, wiping water from his face and hair.
"Falameezar's gone after him," he told the anxious watchers.
"The storm doesn't seem to be bothering him too much, but I
doubt he's got much of a chance of finding Pog unless the
storm forced him down somewhere close by." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]