The Hour of the Gate by Alan Dean Foster Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    â€œI am afraid our single champion has been vanquished,” said Caz.
    â€œI don’t want to die,” muttered Flor. “Not here, not in this place.” She started reciting Hail Marys in Spanish.
    â€œI don’t want to die either,” Jon-Tom yelled at her in frustration.
    â€œThis isn’t happening,” she was saying dully. “It’s all a dream.”
    â€œSorry, Flor,” he told her unsympathetically. “I’ve already been that route. It’s no dream. You were enjoying yourself until now, remember?”
    â€œIt 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 this sort of thing would be. Being murdered by ignorant aborigines doesn’t fit the rest. Can they actually kill us?”
    â€œI think they can.” Jon-Tom was too tired and afraid even to be sarcastic. “And I think we’ll actually die, and actually be buried, and actually be food for worms. If we don’t get out from here.” He looked across at Clothahump, but the wizard could only close his eyes apologetically.
    If we could just lower the gag in Clothahump’s mouth when they’re busy elsewhere, he thought anxiously. Some kind of spell, even one that would just distract them, would be enough.
    But while the Mimpa were uncivilized they were clearly not fools, nor quite so ignorant as Caz believed. That night they confidently ignored all their captives except the carefully watched Clothahump.
    At or near midnight they were all made the centerpiece of a robust celebration. Grass was cut down with tiny axes to form a cleared circle, and the captives were deposited near the center, amid a ground cover of foul-smelling granular brown stuff.
    Flor wrinkled her nose, tried breathing through her mouth instead. “Mierda . . . what have they covered the ground here with?”
    â€œI believe it is dried, powdered lizard dung,” said Caz worriedly. “I fear it will ruin my stockings.”
    â€œPart of the ceremony?” Jon-Tom had grown accustomed to strange smells.
    â€œI think it may be more than that, my friend. It appears to retard the growth of the Sward grasses. An efficient if malodorous method of control.”
    Small fires were lit in a circle, uncomfortably near the bound prisoners. Jon-Tom would have enjoyed the resultant celebration for its barbaric splendor and enthusiasm, were it not for the fact that he was one of the proverbial pigs at the center of the banquet table.
    â€œYou said they’d sacrifice us to the gods of the Sward.” As he spoke to Caz he fought to retain both confidence and sanity. “What gods do they have in mind?” His thoughts were of the lithe, long-limbed predators they’d seen sliding ribbonlike through the grass their first week out of Polastrindu.
    â€œI have no idea as yet, my friend.” He sniffed disdainfully. “Whatever, I’m sure it will be a depressing way for a gentleman to die.”
    â€œIs there another way?” Even Mudge’s usually irrepressible good humor was gone.
    â€œI had hoped,” replied the rabbit, “to die in bed.” Mudge let out a high whistle, some of his good spirits returning. “O’ course, mate. Now why didn’t I think o’ that right off? This ’ole miserable situation’s got me normal thinkin’ paths crossed whixwize. And not alone, I’d wager.”
    â€œNot alone your whixwized thoughts, or dying in bed?” asked Caz with a smile.
    â€œSort o’ a joint