Into the fire

Chapter 8

Ding! Dng! Tip, his hood cast back, hammered the butt of the flagpole against the iron of the enshadowed west gate deep-set in the stone walls of Dendor.

"I'm not a Ruck! I'm not a Ruck!" he shouted in Common over and again as-Dng! Dng!-he pounded on the metal door, flakes of hoarfrost scaling down.

Iron scraped on stone left and right and above, and dimly Tip saw the steel points of crossbow quarrels aimed at him from unshuttered dark arrow slits to each side, and murder holes overhead now yawned wide in the gloom above.

"I am not a Ruck! I am not a Ruck!" cried Tip, waving the standard back and forth-a black flag bearing crossed silver axes-the emblem of Kachar.

A slot in the iron gate slid aside. Eyes peered out to see the fluttering banner sweeping back and forth.

"Vad ar det heir?" growled a voice, and then the eyes shifted down. "Jo, jo! Ar det a Rutch?"

"I am not a Ruck!" shouted Tip in the dawn shadows, turning his head left and right so that the warder might see his features. "I'm not a Ruck, I'm not a Ruck, and I bear a token for King Agron."

The eyes left the small portal, and a voice shouted, "Kap-ten, jag behova dig!"

"King Agron, King Agron, I need to see King Agron." Tip jerked the coin out from under his jerkin. "I bear a token for King Agron."

Atop the wall a horn sounded.

Tip stepped back a dozen or so paces out from under the wall and to the stone bridge, and still waving the flag he peered upward.

But the men above were not staring down at the buccan but instead were looking out toward the Swarm.

Tip turned to see two Ghuls on Helsteeds hammering through the slanting dawn shadows and toward the gate where he stood, snow flying from cloven hooves.

Tip spun back toward the shut portal and ran to the frost-laden steel doors. "Let me in, let me in!"

"Nej! Det ar skoj!"

The iron panel slammed shut and crossbows in arrow-slits were raised and pointed at Tipperton, while Helsteeds thundered toward the gate and cruel barbed spears glimmered in the dawn.

Tipperton whirled and dropped the standard and whipped off his cloak, revealing the Elven bow fastened crosswise over chest and back. Quickly he looped it free and snatched an arrow from the quiver at his thigh.

But even as he did so, a hail of arrows hissed out from the wall above, most to miss, though some struck the Ghuls, piercing arms and legs and necks… and they howled in glee and thundered on.

And trapped outside the gate, Tip aimed and loosed his arrow to strike the lead Helsteed square in the chest, the beast to grunt in pain and run another handful of strides ere tumbling down dead and hurling the Ghul over its head as it crashed into the snow.

Yet as the following Helsteed hammered by, the downed Ghul gained his feet and came running on, his deadly barbed spear in hand.

Now a second flight of arrows hissed out from the wall above to strike at the remaining Ghul and Helsteed; quilled, the cloven-hoofed beast reared up squealing, while the rider cursed in Sluk and cruelly sawed on the reins, fighting for control.

"Let me in! Let me in!" shouted Tipperton, even as he strung a second arrow.

And down through the murder holes-"Open the side postern, you fools!" snapped a voice. "Can you not see he's a Warrow! Oppna den sma port! Skynda dig!"

Even as the Ghul afoot ran forward, arrows hissing all

'round, to Tipperton's left a side postern clanged open. Tip-perton risked a sideways glance and saw an armored man frantically gesturing him inward and shouting, "Skynda pa! Skynda pa!" while three warriors stood farther back, their crossbows leveled at the Warrow.

Tip turned and loosed his arrow at the onrushing Ghul now running onto the stone of the bridge, the shaft to slam into the creature's stomach, yet it did not slow him one step and across the span he came. Then Tip snatched up his cloak and the flag and bolted in through the gate- Clang!-the men slamming it to after, an iron bar sliding home.

Outside the Ghul howled in frustrated rage as arrows and arrows rained down.

Tip found himself in a twisting corridor, more murder holes overhead, more shuttered arrow-slits along the sides, and escorted by four suspicious Avenian warriors along the cobbled way he went… to emerge in the city beyond.

It was only when he came out from the shadows of the tunnel and into the slanting light of the morning sun that the men looked on in wonder and relaxed their guard, for here was one of the Litenfolk of legend, seldom if ever seen.

Down a ramp and toward Tipperton strode a stern-faced warrior of Dendor. He was dressed much like the ones who had escorted the buccan under the wall: fleece jacket over a chain mail shirt, with quilted brown breeks and fleece-lined boots. A broadsword was girted about his waist, and a metal helm rode on his head. Yet this warrior was not the one who caught Tip's eye, for walking alongside came another. Tipperton frowned, for this "other," was he an Elf or a man? The Warrow could not say. Different from Human, he was, and different from Elf as well, yet in his features he held something of each, or so it seemed to the buccan. Man height he was, six foot or so, and in this was taller than most Lian, and his eyes held the hint of a tilt, though less than one might expect of an Elf. And his ears were tipped, though not as sharply as those of either Lian or Dylvana. His hair was dark and held streaks of grey, and his features sharp, like those of a fox, though no fox this. Dressed in black, he was: heavy woolen coat, and pants, boots, and gloves all ebony. And he bore no weapon whatsoever, or so it seemed. And when he came to where Tip awaited, the guards shuffled back a bit, as if in respect or awe, though they did salute the warrior accompanying him, mumbling, "Kapten."

But it was the Elf, the man, the one with dark eyes nearly black beneath black eyebrows, who looked down at the wee buccan and said, "Now what would a Warrow be doing at the gates of a city surrounded by Modru's Swarm? And carrying a Dwarven flag at that, eh?"

"Sir," said Tipperton, his own gemlike eyes of blue staring up into eyes of jet, "I stand in for a Kingsman slain and bear a token for King Agron." Tip pulled the coin up and showed it to the pair.

The captain held out a hand. "I would have it."

Tipperton frowned and shook his head. "Nay, it is for King Agron alone. I have pledged to see it delivered."

"Pah! As I thought: this is trickery."

The man, the Elf, the one in black turned toward the captain. "Trickery, Captain Brud? I see no trickery here."

"Mage Alvaron, it must be trickery, for he came to the gate from the Swarm."

"I came through the Swarm," snapped Tip angrily, "and let me-" Of a sudden his words jerked to a halt and his jaw dropped open as he gaped at the one in black. Mage? Mage? This is a Mage, a Wizard? Tip stared at the man, the Elf… the Mage.

"Through the Swarm?" sneered Captain Brud. "Nothing could get past that-"

"He is a Warrow," interrupted Alvaron as if that explained all, the Wizard smiling down at Tip. "And your name, my lad?"

"I am Sir Tipperton Thistledown, a miller from the Wilderland."

Alvaron's brow furrowed. "From across the Grimwall?" At Tip's nod, Alvaron added, "Then you've come a long way, Sir Tipperton."

"Longer than ever I dreamed," replied Tip.

"Huah," grunted Brud. "A miller giving himself airs, if miller he even is, calling himself 'Sir,' is he now?"

"A title given me by the Elves of Arden Vale," retorted Tip as Alvaron glared at the captain, "though I lay little claim to it myself… except at need."

"Well," said Alvaron, smiling, "I see you need no defending by me." He turned to Brud. "We must take him to King Agron."

"But, sir," said one of the escort yet standing nigh, his face turning pale. "What of the Gargon? I mean, if you leave us unprotected here, then-"

"Imongar is on the south gate. Tell her I've gone to see the king; she will see to the Dread."

As that man sped away, Captain Brud scowled and said, "Very well, Mage Alvaron, we'll go to the king… if to do nought else but expose this spy. Yet he'll not go armed into my liege lord's presence."

Brud held out his hand, and Tipperton gave over his Elven bow and quiver of arrows, saying, "I'd like them back, if you please."

Brud paused momentarily and frowned down at the weapons, surprised to see such splendid crafting in the hands of an agent of Modru. But then he shook his head and said, "The flagpole, too."

"Oh," said Tip, handing over the standard of Kachar, seeing for the first time that the staff itself could be used as a weapon as well.

"Search him," said Brud to one of the nearby soldiers.

As the captain rolled the pole horizontally to furl the flag, the soldier ran his hands over Tipperton, confiscating a small dagger, and then-"Jo, vad ar det?" He reached into the buccan's jacket and pulled forth the other flag. Turning-"Kapten"-he displayed the ring of fire on black.

"Ha!" barked Captain Brud. "I knew it! A Wrgish spy."

"No, no," protested Tip. "That's how I got through the Horde! Bearing that flag. They thought I was a Ruck!"

"And Rutch you might be," shot back Brud.

"Nonsense, Captain," said Alvaron. "He is plainly a Warrow, and has a token for the king, a token of perhaps some importance. I say we go to Agron now!"

"But what if he is an assassin?"

Tip's mouth dropped open, yet ere he could say aught, Alvaron said, "Pah! He is without weapons. And with you along and me at your side and perhaps one of your men, what can he do?"

Reluctantly, Captain Brud stepped back and called to the ramparts above, "Lojtnant, fora over en stund."

In spite of the fact that Mage Alvaron and Captain Brud and a soldier waited outside the Dendorian war room with, of all things, one of the Litenfolk, still it was long moments ere the four were received by the king, a young castle page announcing them. And when they entered, they found in the chamber a tall, slender, dark-haired man, perhaps in his early fifties judging by the silver at his temples; he stood at a map-scattered table, frowning down at a chart. And as they entered, the king looked up, his pale blue gaze to widen. "Ah, so they told me true, it is one of the Wee Folk, or do my eyes deceive?"

Alvaron smiled and said, "I assure you, King Agron, Sir Tipperton is no apparition."

"My lord," said Captain Brud, one hand on Tipperton's shoulder, his grip firm, "no apparition, perhaps, but a phantom instead, for he claims to have come through the Swarm disguised with nought but this." Brud nodded to the soldier, who displayed the ring of fire on black.

The king smiled and looked at Tip. "Very clever, I must say. And why did you take such risk?"

"He claims to bear a message," said Brud.

"A token," corrected Tipperton.

"A token," amended Brud.

The king peered at Tip. "This token, Sir Tipperton, may I see?"

Tipperton reached down and pulled the coin and thong over his head. He started to step forward, but Brud held him fast.

The king looked up at the captain. "Release him."

Brud sighed. "Aye, my lord." And his hand fell away from Tip, yet went to the sword at his side.

Tip stepped to the king and of a sudden found himself reluctant to hand over the coin. After all, he had borne it a full year, and it seemed a part of him. Even so, with a trembling hand, he gave over the token to the king.

As Agron took the coin, just as suddenly Tip felt a sense of relief mingled with a sense of loss, as if he had laid down a weighty burden while at the same time had been cast adrift. The mission was done. The task accomplished. The coin passed on. His promise to a dying warrior kept. But now what? What would he do? Where would he go? Back to Twoforks? Back to his mill? With a war raging on? Agron sighed and softly said, "I hoped to never see this." The king stepped to a chair and seated himself, his face haggard. He looked at Tip, the Warrow yet waiting. " Tis from High King Blaine. A summons." "A summons?" asked Tip. "Aye, a summons; a call for aid." "But it is we who need aid," blurted Captain Brud. "Aye," agreed King Agron.

"I have brought aid," said Tipperton, and he gestured at the flagstaff in Brud's hand.

Brud looked at the furled standard he yet held and then stood the staff upright, the flag uncurling to loosely drape down, silver axes on black showing.

"Kachar," breathed King Agron, and with hope in his eyes he looked at Tip.

"Aye, Kachar. DelfLord Valk will be here with three thousand Dwarven warriors within the week, and well do I know his plan."

That night from each of Dendor's four gates, fire arrows sailed up in the air.

The beringing Swarm jeered and japed at this paltry show of arms.

But high on a ridge south of the city, four people shed glad tears, for at last they knew that Tipperton Thistledown, friend and companion, was not captured or dead, but had gone into Dendor instead.