Into the fire

Chapter 12

As the burning arrow arced scarlet high through the dark of the predawn sky, "Swift now," called Mage Delander to the captain of the ward, "send a courier to King Agron. Tell him the Dwarves have come."

Within but heartbeats a runner raced down the ramp and leapt astride a waiting horse, as-thwack!-another fireball sputtered overhead, hurled by a Spaunen catapult, the blazing mass to burst apart upon striking a roof in the city, flaming rivulets of fire splattering outward.

And still the mighty siege engines rolled forward amid the yowling Swarm, the tall towers and massive rams alike, and still the waves of numbing fear beat outward from the Gargon, pulsing to the boom of the drums.

"Hurry with that ballista!" shouted Agron, now among the gathering muster at the south gate.

As the mighty spear-caster was wheeled forward, a distant clarion rang out, and then another. And someone atop the wall shouted down, "My Lord King, they swarm through the moat with scaling ladders, and the ram now crosses the bridge."

As black-shafted arrows whispering of death hissed over the walls to be answered in kind by crossbows, King Agron called back, "Quarrels only at the ram, and sound the call to fire the moat at will."

As the signal rang out, Veran and Ridich came pressing through the back of the muster and toward their fellow Mages.

There sounded a clacking as wood slammed up against the outer stone of the walls, and men above shouted Ladders!

Braving the darts of the Rupt, crossbowmen loosed deadly bolts down into the darkness below, and crews of burly men took up long, forked poles to shove the ladders back and away. Still other men lighted torches to sling over the wall at command.

"Cast fire!" shouted the captain above, and men flung torches through the crenels. phoom! Flames leapt upward from the moat, lighting the sky lurid red, and Tipperton, in the midst of the muster at the gate, heard shrieking coming from the far side, the men on the wall above howling in glee.

"Where are the Dwarves?" panted Ridich as he and Veran came in among the Mages.

Letha shook her head. "The arrow flew not a candlemark past. They've not yet arrived."

"Stand ready," called King Agron.

"But we did not plan our attack to occur when the Rupt were attacking as well," protested Ridich.

Tip barked a laugh. "As my da used to say, 'Life is what happens while you're making plans.' Well, we made our plans, and good plans they were, but it seems Life is running all over us, or perhaps in this case it is Death."

"Sir Tipperton, be it Life or Death," said Agron, "we must make do with what the Fates have cast our way. And e'en though the Rupt assail our walls, our immediate objective is to slay the Gargon, and by Adon, slay him we will!"

"Where is the Gargon?" Alvaron called up to Delander, the Mage peering into the night.

"Yet at the fore of his tent," came the shouted reply. dng!

"What th-?" muttered Tip, then, "Oh, the ram."

Above and from within the embracing walls crossbows twanged, hurling quarrels at the batterers before the outer gate. dng!

"Ready at the bar," Agron commanded the inner gate warders.

"King Agron, do we not wait for the Dwarves?" asked Alvaron. dng!

Agron shook his head. "What better time to attack than in the midst of all. Their forces are spread along the moat. The Gargon stands behind them alone, and can we break through the ring of Riipt we will take him undefended."

Alvaron shook his head. "A Gargon is never undefended, my lord, for the casting of dread shields him from harm."

"Nevertheless," said Agron, and he signed for the gate to be opened. dng!

The great drawbar was pulled away and, squealing, the portcullis was raised.

Delander came rushing down from above and joined his fellow Mages, the six bracing themselves for what was to come.

The inner gate swung open Dng!

– and wheeling the ballista amid them, afoot they entered the twisting way under the wall-King Agron and his handpicked company of men. And among the armed and armored Dendorians strode six Mages, only two of which even bore staffs. And among the Mages walked one wee Warrow, his Elven bow at the ready.

Dng!

When they were all within the dark, twisting confines of the tunnel, with a clang the gates behind were shut, and the portcullis squealed down.

Passing below the murder holes and alongside the arrow-slits in the tunnel walls, in moments they reached the last turn, and the outer gate stood before them.

Dng!

In the fore, Agron stepped to the side postern and cautiously drew aside a small viewing panel and looked outward, and a ruddy flicker from without dimly lighted up the passage. In the wavering reddish light, Tip looked up at Imongar and said, "I am minded of what DelfLord Borl once told me."

Dng!

Imongar raised an eyebrow.

Tip smiled grimly. "He said, the moment the battle begins is the moment all goes wrong."

Dng!

"Well then, Tipperton, let us hope in this case it is Delf-Lord Borl who is wrong and everything here goes according to plan."

Agron closed the viewing port. "Stand ready," he commanded. "The battering ram and its crew of Drokha are in the way. Pavises shield the Wrg from the crossbows above and to the sides. We'll have to charge in among them and hurl them back and then shove the ram away to get the ballista out through the main gate and past."

Dng!

"Signal the men aside and above to cease the attack on the ram," said Agron.

As word was swiftly passed through the flanking arrow-slits to the crossbowmen in the passages behind the tunnel walls and to the crew at the murder holes above, two men began to remove the bar from the side postern.

"Wait, my lord," called Veran, pressing forward through the ranks. "Mayhap I can serve here."

King Agron turned.

"A ruse," said Veran. "Let me at the viewing port."

Dng!

"What's he doing?" hissed Tipperton, the wee buccan down among the men and trying to peer past. "I can't see."

"He readies a casting," replied Imongar.

"Oh, goodness."

"Here," muttered Alvaron, bending over and lifting Tipperton up.

Tip held his breath and squinted his eyes and turned his head slightly aside in trepidation, for magic was about to be loosed.

Dng!

And Veran at the port muttered, "Casus incendio!"

Yaaaaah! Shrieks and wrauls came from without, and King Agron bellowed, "By damn, I said no fire from above! It will only delay us."

Without turning, Veran said, " Tis not true fire, my lord, but instead a mere glamour of fire cascading down which dwarves to rout the Spaunen." Veran paused, then added,

"I believe we can go now. Fear not the fire, for it does not burn."

The side postern was flung open, and crying For king and Dular! Agron and half his captains and men charged outward, swords and axes ready to rive, maces and morning stars to bash, but the foe was gone, abandoning the ram and pavises and fleeing back across the stone bridge and into an angry sheeting of crossbow bolts sissing down from the walls above.

Of a sudden the inner portcullis began to squeal upward, and the drawbar of the main gate slid aside and men sprang forward to open the portal. As Alvaron lowered Tipperton back to the cobbles, the iron panels swung wide, and lurid scarlet light flooded into the passage, turning it a ghastly bloody red.

For king and Dular! shouted the men in the tunnel, surging forward, Tipperton surging forward as well, only to stop dead in his tracks, for the soldiers in the lead strode into burning flames, or so it seemed. And midst the conflagration, fire bellowed up and whirled about the crew who shoved against a huge battering ram, pushing it back and away, back over the bridge to unblock the span, a span now guarded by Agron and others, while in the distance Hloks fled. Other men hurled aside the pavises, abandoned by the fleeing Rupt. And beyond the ram, yet other men cast dead Foul Folk off the bridge and into the flaming moat, the Spaunen brought down by crossbow quarrels as they had run away.

Out from the tunnel surged the men, and into the flames wheeled the ballista, the weapon they hoped would slay the dreadful Gargon.

Now following, Tip drew back as he came to the fire, and Imongar, standing within the blaze, turned and beckoned to the Warrow and held out her hand to him.

His heart thudding-whether from fear of fire or from the Gargon's cast or from fear of magic, Tip did not know-the buccan screwed his courage to the sticking point and stepped within.

The world all around him roared with raging blaze, yet it touched him not. Even so he rushed forward, running ahead, passing the wheeled ballista, the buccan trying not to scream.

And then he was beyond the illusory flames and onto the stone span, and still ruddy fire roared up and about, yet this was from the burning moat and real, and scorching heat hammered at the Warrow.

Even so, even though true fire was but an arm's span away, even though scathing incandescence blasted against his exposed skin trying to incinerate this fool, it could not reach him on the stone bridge, and now only the dread cast by the Gargon made his hammering heart race.

Waves of black smoke from the flaming moat billowed over the bridge and, coughing and hacking, his nostrils filled with the thick smell of burning oil, Tipperton pressed forward, to come to the foot of the bridge.

He turned to see where the ballista was and gasped, for behind stood the high stone walls of Dendor, the raging fire in the moat casting its ruddy light over all for as far as the eye could see.

It seemed a city aflame.

And eastward, yowling Rucks and Hloks and Ghfils swarmed toward a massive siege tower and upward, toward the ramp above which spanned from tower to top of wall, a ramp bridging high above the flames of the burning oil.

And up on the wall, men quailed back, some to flee screaming.

The Gargon! Tip turned and looked southerly to see where the dreadful creature was, yet all he saw by the wavering light was but an abandoned dark tent.

No, you fool! Look straight out from the tower! Tip looked east to the place at the wall where the men had fled and Foul Folk were now pouring over the battlement, and then he swung his gaze outward… and his heart leapt to his throat Adon! There it is!

But not alone!

– for a company of Foul Folk marched well before and another company trailed a distance after. And the Ghath, the Gargon, the Draedan, the Horror, ponderously strode eastward, its dreadful stare locked on the wall above, casting frightful terror upward to drive the men screaming away, leaving great sections of the parapet undefended.

And beyond that tower stood another, Foul Folk gathered at the base and waiting.

Oh Elwydd, that's the plan! To swarm into the city a tower at a time, the Gargon opening the way.

"One side, Waldan!" came a shout, and Tip looked to see the ballista rolling out from the illusory flames, men pushing.

Tipperton ran onward and past the great r.am now being shoved to one side.

And then Tip realized, The scaling ladders, the rams at the gates, they are but a ruse; the real invasion pours over the wall at the towers.

"King Agron," called Tip as he came to the King and his men guarding the way, "the Gargon moves yon."

Agron glanced at the Warrow. "Aye, we see him and his escort."

Now the men pushed the ballista onto the snowy plain, turning east at the king's command.

"Hurry," called Tipperton, "the Gargon, he's already at the next tower."

And on the wall at that second tower, men shrieked and fled along the parapet and away, while Ghuls led the yowling Foul Folk across the now-bridging ramp.

And still at the first tower, howling Rupt clambered up to pour over the wall, shouting men now returning to fight valiantly, attempting to hurl back those already on the banquette. Yet the baying Spaunen pressed forward, for Ghuls in the fore took terrible wounds which affected them not, while the wounds to the men were deadly.

Down on the plain eastward at a run pressed the king and men and Mages and one lone Warrow, the ballista trundling among them. But the massive Gargon, unaware of pursuit, now came to the third tower.

And once again the men above fled screaming, while howling Rupt clambered up the framework, the ramp to thud down upon the merlons, bridging from tower to wall. Led by the Ghuls, across swarmed the Foul Folk, while down below the Gargon with its fore and aft convoy moved onward, striding widdershins about the city, the massive creature stalking through rolling black smoke and crimson light cast by burning oil.

"Oh hurry, hurry," panted Tipperton, his breath blowing white in the winter air, the buccan running down among the men and alongside the ballista, fear pulsing in his veins, the wee Warrow unable to see past the tall Dendorians, but for a glimpse now and then. And so he did not know how near or far was the foe, until of a sudden the wedge of men crashed into the rear escort.

"For Dular!" shouted Agron, his sword riving.

For king and Dular! shouted the Dendorian warriors, swords and axes, maces and morning stars bashing aside dhals and sipars and tulwars and scimitars and cudgels, the Foul Folk taken by surprise from behind, but turning to meet the attack even as the men smashed through.

His heart hammering with fear, Tipperton leapt onto the ballista platform to gain height, hoping to catch sight of the Gargon and let fly a shaft from his Elven bow, yet as small as he was, he could not see over the battle raging all 'round, as yelling men and shrieking Rupt now crashed to and fro, bashing, cleaving, crushing, steel rending, steel bludgeoning into flesh, bone, brain, muscle, and gut.

From somewhere blatted a Squamish horn, and in the fore the Gargon slowed and paused and began to turn.

"Now!" shouted Alvaron. "Loose now!"

"But my Lord Mage," protested a ballista-man, "the range."

"By damn, I said now!" bellowed Alvaron.

The man leapt onto the platform and took up the stock, while "Out of the way, Waldan!" shouted another, shoving Tipperton aside, the buccan barely able to keep his feet as he pitched to the ground.

"Wait!" called Imongar, trying to reach the spear-caster, but then -Thuun! -right above Tipperton the great ballista loosed, the spear to hurtle away in the oil-fired crimson dark, and the man who had shoved Tip aside began frantically turning a crank handle, a ratchet clattering as the ballista bow was drawn once again to reload.

Down on the ground, battle but an arm's span or two away, Tipperton dodged this way and that, dancing back while trying to see the flight of the great bolt, to no avail, for clashing men and Foul Folk raged back and forth and blocked the view.

"Missed!" shouted Alvaron. "Loose another. Mages, stand ready, the Draedan turns."

And just as a second shaft was dropped into the waiting groove -unendurable terror whelmed into Tipperton, and he dropped his bow and fell to his knees in the churned up snow and covered his face in his hands and shrilled in dread, while all about men and Rupt alike shrieked and howled and collapsed to the snow as well.

And the Mages, the clustered Mages, they stood as if frozen, for the Gargon had captured every last one in his dreadful glare, and waves of paralyzing fear washed over them all.

Alvaron, his features stark, all the blood now fled from his face, Alvaron alone managed to grit out, "Averto for-mido; abigo timeo."

But solely he could not stave off the dreadful force of the mighty Gargon, and Alvaron's manipulation of astral faded to nought ere he could bring any to bear.

And now the hideous Mandrak began to move thdd! thdd!

– stalking forward, toward the frozen Mages, toward the downed Warrow, toward the squalling king and his screaming men and the screeching Foul Folk, its mighty claws set to rend, to tear, to shred these groveling fools who had dared to seek its life. thdd! thdd!

On ponderous feet like stone it came, the monster scaled and grey, the frozen ground shaking under its massive tread.

Thdd!

Thdd!

Men screaming, Foul Folk shrieking at its nearing approach, still it came on.

Thdd!

Thdd!

Through the smoke and smell of burning oil and the shiver of crimson light the Fearcaster came. Now it passed into the fringes of the shrilling flock, none able to flee, to run away, for its dread was too strong. And as it stalked forward, it shredded all those within its immediate reach- men, Rucks, Hloks, Ghuls-it mattered not whether it was friend or foe, all that mattered was the rending. Heads, limbs, faces: through the air they flew, trailing blood both red and black, riven from shrieking victims as the hideous creature waded past downed prey.

But as it stalked forward riving, a distant bugle rang, a clarion call from the darkness, from the south.

And a faint tremor quivered through the ground, and still the bugle sounded -ta-rah… ta-rah… ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ra…

Louder it blew, and louder still, and the earth shivered with the beat of hooves.

And now the Gargon slowed.

Ta-rah… ta-rah… ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ra…

To the distant west and east and even from the far north rang answering bugles belling in the predawn.

Ta-rah… ta-rah… ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ra…

And now the earth boomed with the hammer of hooves.

The Gargon, eyes glaring, claws dripping blood, turned its fang-filled, lizard-snouted face southerly.

And ponies driving, bugles blowing, out from the darkness and into the crimson light thundered five hundred warriors, axes and hammers in hand.

The Dwarves had come at last.

And the Ghath, the Dread, the Gargon, the Horror, roared in rage and turned his terror upon them.

Ponies reared up and back, and Dwarves shrieked and fell away. And Foul Folk at the next tower turned to see the foe, and they took up their tulwars and scimitars and cudgels and pikes and ran to aid the Dread, for he was their key to victory.

With the Gargon gaze averted, Tipperton, still screaming, found he could move, and he snatched up his bow and turned to flee. But then his eye fell upon Imongar and Alvaron and the others, yet frozen where they stood.

Shrilling in fear, Tip sprang to the platform of the bal-lista, only to find Shrieking in dread, he jerked out an arrow from the quiver at his thigh and jumped to the ground and stabbed Imongar in the leg and squealed, "It's too high, too high!"

Imongar reeled back, her own voice now screaming in terror, and she turned to run, but Tip kicked her behind the knee, and she fell to the ground.

"The ballista!" shrieked Tipperton, snatching a fistful of her hair and jerking her about in the snow.

Imongar batted his hand aside and struggled to her feet, and whining in horror she stumbled to the spear-caster, while all about, men and Foul Folk and Dwarves screamed, and Mages stood frozen in dread.

Imongar struggled to the platform, and wrenched up the rail of the ballista, and aimed, and the Dread turned her way -Thunn! -the spear was loosed -"Verutum ferio cor!" shrilled Imongar, stabbing a finger toward the Gargon -the javelin to shift course slightly and slam into and through the hideous beast's chest.

Yaaaawwww! bellowed the monster, and great waves of unendurable dread blasted outward, and Tip was hurled backwards onto the ground shrieking, his hammering heart all but bursting asunder. And everywhere about the city, this side and that, ponies squealed and bolted, while wailing Dwarves fell from the steeds and groveled in the snow in dread, their axes and hammers forgotten. Men, too, dropped howling in terror, many to pitch from the battlements to the cobbles below, breaking their bones, crushing their skulls, dying even as they screamed.

Foul Folk as well tumbled from the towers and ramparts, some to burn in the fire of the moat, while others crashed to the stone streets. Elsewhere on the walls and the ground outside the city, Rucks and Hloks and Ghuls crumpled down and yawled in terror, while Helsteeds fled across the icy cold plains.

And somewhere nigh the western perimeter, a second wee buccan along with two Elves and a fierce Dwarf groveled in the snow in fear.

And just as suddenly as it began, the hideous dread ceased altogether.

Alvaron collapsed to the snow.

Her leg bleeding from a deep arrow stab, Imongar hobbled to the other Mages, while all about men and Dwarves and Foul Folk began to stir, though some without visible wounds lay utterly still.

As Tipperton floundered to his feet, behind him a Hlok staggered upright as well, the Spawn with a tulwar in hand.

"Waeran!" came a cry.

Tip spun about to see the Hlok, tulwar upraised to strike, the Spawn plunging down at him-"Waugh!"-to fall dead at the buccan's feet, a crossbow bolt embedded in the Hlok's back.

And beyond the dead Grg sat a Dwarf in the snow, spent crossbow in hand.

Tipperton grinned and saluted, receiving a like grin in return, but on all sides the Foul Folk snatched up weapons and scrambled to their feet, only to meet Dwarves with weapons in hand scrambling up as well, the men yet floundering.

Tip whirled and caught up his bow from the ground and, dodging and ducking, sprang to the bed of the slack ballista. And he loosed arrow after arrow into the Spawn, bringing down any who came nigh the Wizards at hand. But then the Dwarves cleared the way, driving the Squam back, though more Foul Folk came rushing toward the fray.

Among the Mages, Imongar shook Delander and Letha, and then Ridich and Veran. "Quick, now," she called, "gather your energies. We are outnumbered, and all our power will be needed."

As the four Mages shook off the dregs of the dread, Imongar bent down to waken Alvaron, only to fall to her knees weeping.

With an arrow nocked, Tipperton leapt down from the platform to step to her side. "What is it?"

"He's dead," sobbed Imongar. "Alvaron is dead."

"Dead?"

"Slain by the Draedan's death throes. Oh Adon, he died in terror."

Tipperton looked from Alvaron toward the Gargon and then to Imongar, and grief welled up in his eyes. He glanced at the arrow-nocked bow in his hands and said, "Lady Mage, I will ward you and him from harm until the battle is ended."

Imongar shook her head, tears yet streaming. "Nay, Tipperton, he would not want it that way. Instead we must carry the fight."

And with that she stood and gathered herself, blood running down her leg, and as Letha knelt by her side and laid a palm over the wound, Imongar said, "Veran, I would have a thousand warriors charge at the Foul Folk nigh."

Veran ran a shaky hand across his brow. "Aye, Imongar."

Now Letha took her hand away from Imongar's leg, the wound no longer bleeding. "Take care, Imongar, and move not in too much haste, else the wound will reopen."

Imongar nodded distractedly as she stared toward the city. Then she turned toward Delander and Ridich. "Can you two turn that fire in the moat against the towers?"

Delander nodded and said, "Aye, but we must get closer."

"You'll need an escort, then. Letha, hearten the Dwarves."

Letha stood and shook her head and pointed at the Dwarves, most of whom had gained their feet and weaponry and now fought savagely. "Nay, Imongar, they need it not. 'Tis the king and his men who would be braced."

Tip's eyes widened. The king! I had forgotten. And he turned about, trying to find Agron, but gasped when he saw massive warriors, armored in glittering plate and bearing two-handed swords, running out from the darkness toward the battle raging 'round.

"Baeron!" shouted Tipperton. But wait, Baeron in bright plate armor? And whence came they?

Tipperton was not the only one who saw the oncoming throng, for the Foul Folk at hand saw them, too. And with wails of dismay, they turned to flee, some to be cut down by the Dwarves and King Agron and some of his men, most of the Spawn to escape howling.

And as the plated warriors reached the battlefield -they simply and utterly vanished.

"Good cast, Veran," said Imongar, peering 'round. "And now, let's destroy those towers."

"Inside or out?" asked Ridich.

"Wha-?" Tipperton frowned.

"Inside, I think," replied Imongar. "From the walls above." She turned to Tip. "Run, fetch the king. We need an escort to get Delander and Ridich back through the gate."

But as Tip turned to go, King Agron and a handful of warriors came striding to the Mages. A look of regret flashed over Agron's face when he saw Alvaron lying dead. But it quickly passed in this moment of exigency.

"My Lord Agron," said Imongar, "we need escort for these two back inside. They will use the fire of the moat to burn the towers."

"Aye," replied Agron, and he turned to one of the men. "Kapten Harn, find a Dvargkapten and tell him that I go to the city to gather the men to carry out as much of the original plan as I can. Have him spread the word among the rest of the Dvargfolk, those here as well the rest of Valk's divided legion nigh the other three gates: the cavalry and foot soldiers and I will issue into the field within two candlemarks.

"And, Harn, when that is done fetch some of those Dvargfolk and cut the head from the Gargon. I will meet you at the south gate with a horse and a pike. You will spit the Fearcaster's head on the lance and bear it into battle at my side."

As Captain Harn turned toward the Dwarves, Agron motioned to Delander and Ridich. "Come and set your fires," he said, and with an escort of armed and armored men, the king and the two Mages set off at a trot for the south gate.

Watching them go, Imongar said to Letha, "The Dwarf herald will need a pony. Can you fetch one?"

Letha nodded and closed her eyes, muttering, "Manni, convenife hic!"

Now Imongar turned to Tip and the others. "Come, let us also find the captain of these Dwarves and see what we can do to salvage their part of the plan."

"What about the wounded?" asked Tipperton. "Shouldn't some stay and ward them?"

Imongar looked at Veran. He sighed and nodded. "I will ring them about with a phantom force, though I will not stay."

Tip frowned in concern.

" 'Tis the best we can do," said Imongar, as a pony came galloping in, and then another, and twenty more, followed by another hundred or so, all to gather about Letha.

"I asked for one," said Imongar, smiling, ponies stirring and pressing all 'round.

"I summoned them all, two thousand, I believe, if all Dwarves nigh and far were unhorsed. -Unponied, 1 mean," replied Letha, grinning back as the ground thundered with more little steeds galloping in. "We must needs get them back to Valk's army."

"Not all," said Imongar, "for I'll need one. I've been stabbed in the leg, you know."

"Oh, Imongar," appealed Tip, "it was the only way I could think of to bring you out from-"

"I know, wee one, I know," said Imongar, frowning and rubbing her head. "And I forgive you as well for pulling my hair out by the roots."

The battle was hard-fought and long, dawn coming and then the morn, yet by the noontide, the Foul Folk were routed, their towers burned, their Helsteeds gone, half of the Swarm lying slain. And the king and his cavalry and foot soldiers were deadly, as were the savage Dwarves; and with massive warriors appearing out of nowhere to rush across the field at them, many of the Squam had panicked and fled.

And sometime in midmorn and on a pony circling far out on the plains and well away from the fight, Tip saw Beau, the other buccan mounted as well, for Letha had led the little steeds wide 'round the walls, remounting the forces of Kachar.

"Beau! Beau! Hiyo, Beau!" shouted Tipperton, kicking his pony into a dead run as he espied his friend galloping out from the field and leaving the battle behind.

And Beau veered his mount and came racing, shouting, "Oh, Tip, we thought you- I thought you- Oh, Tip, it's so good to see you alive."

And they rode together and haled up side to side facing one another and reached across and clasped hands and grinned great grins, simply glad to be reunited.

"Loric, Phais, Bekki-?"

"They're all right, Tip. Loric and Phais are in the thick of it, Bekki, too, though he's bashing aside all comers while looking for Modru's surrogate."

"Oh, Beau, the surrogate: it's Lord Tain."

"Tain?"

"Yes." Tip shuddered. "And he bears the corpse of his daughter, Lady Jolet, and yet whispers his mad dreams to her."

"Oh my."

"He's completely unhinged, Beau, unlike that other surrogate at Mineholt North, who seemed nought but witless."

Beau frowned. "Mayhap by being mad or without wit, mayhap that's what allows Modru to exert his hideous control."

Tip sighed and canted his head and said, "Perhaps you're right, Beau; who knows? Not I, and that's for certain. But that's neither here nor there, and I'm just glad we're together again. And, I say, just where were you going so Helbent?"

Beau held up his sling. "I'm all out. There's a stream nearby, and I was riding to gather up more stones."

Tip held up his bow. "Me too. -All out of arrows, I mean, all but for the red-fletched one Rynna gave me, and I'll not use that. Instead, when I can find them I've been plucking shafts from dead Rupt and using them to kill others still. -Say, you wouldn't happen to have a spare sling, now, would you?"

"No, but we could make one, can we find some leather."

"I know just the place," said Tipperton, "a leather tent nearby. It once housed a Gargon."

Holding tight to the ponies' reins to keep them from bolting away, Beau's face wrinkled in disgust. "Lor', it smells like a snake's den."

Pulling on the slice of leather, Tip made the final cut through the tent with his knife. The strip came free. "There." He held up the strap. "Crude, but perhaps I can make do after a bit of trimming."

He glanced at Beau's twisted visage and burst out laughing. "I say, Beau, you look as if you just swallowed a stinkbug."

Beau grinned. "I think I'd rather that than this." He gestured at the tent.

Tip canted his head. "Aye. But the Gargon himself smells worse. Like a monstrous viper-putrid rot and diseased blood and a hideous coppery tang you can't seem to clear from your tongue. Would you like to see him?"

Beau blanched. "Oh, Tip."

"He's dead, you know, his head on a pike, at Agron's side in the battle," said Tipperton, now squatting on the hard-frozen ground and slicing away on the strap.

"Is that what that terrible thing was?" asked Beau. "I didn't know, though wherever it was borne it seemed to take the heart out of the foe when they saw it coming."

"Yet they still fight," said Tip.

"Aye, but much less savagely." Beau watched as Tip trimmed the leather. "Say, how was it killed? -The Gar-gon I mean."

"Spitted by a spear. Imongar killed him."

Beau frowned. "This Imongar, a mighty champion, eh?"

"Well, I wouldn't exactly call her a-"

"Her? The Gargon was killed by a her?"

"Indeed," said Tip. "Shot the Gargon with a ballis-"

"Is she one of these Jordian warrior maidens I've heard about? Or did one of those great strapping Baeron women come here? Bwen perhaps?"

Tip shook his head. "No, Beau; Imongar is a Mage."

"A Mage? Did she kill him with magic?"

"I don't think so, though she did shriek something and the spear hit the Gargon dead center."

"Magic," said Beau, nodding sagely. Then-"Oh, speaking of magic, what about the coin? Was it an amulet or some such?"

"No, Beau, it was merely a summons: from Blaine to Agron. They were boyhood chums. I'll tell you about it later."

"Huah," said Beau, his face falling in disappointment, "I was hoping it was somehow charmed."

"It wasn't," said Tip, "and for that I'm glad." Then he glanced at his black wristband. "One thing, though, the man who gave me the coin, the one who was slain at my mill, he was Dular, King Agron's own son."

"Oh my," breathed Beau, his features now falling to sadness.

Silence fell between them as Tip made a final cut, and only the distant clang of battle disturbed the quiet.

Finally Beau said, "Where is this headless Gargon?"

"Yon," replied Tipperton, pointing with the knife, "east a ways."

"I say," said Beau, peering, "who are those big warriors standing in a ring? They look formidable. And why aren't they in the fight? Better that than guarding the headless corpse of a Gargon, I would say."

Tip laughed. "Magic, Beau, guarding some of the wounded, it's magic come to light. And come to think of it"-Tip held up the strap and frowned at it and then nodded-"I'd rather we go for slingstones and rejoin the battle than to walk through those magical phantoms just to see a dead Gargon with no head, as wondrous as that may be." Tip stood and slipped his knife back into its sheath.

"All right," said Beau, handing Tip's reins over to him and then mounting up. "Follow me to the rocks, and then we'll join up with Loric and Phais and Bekki."

And so, off to the creek galloped the two buccen to gather up slingstones, and then back to the fight, where their bullets hurtled into the Foul Folk, one of the wee slingsters significantly more deadly than the other.

Time and again they returned to the creek, breaking through the ice to fish through new pockets of pebbles, and their fingers suffered the worse for it.

And the sun.rose up in the sky, and as the noontide came, away fled the last of the Swarm, scattering in all directions. None of the Allies, as weary as they were, gave more than a token chase; not even the Dwarves of Kachar long pursued their enemies of old fleeing across the plains.