Into the fire

Chapter 9

As they took a late private supper, Tipperton glanced at the coin lying on the table near the king's right hand and said, "Lord Agron, I have borne that penny for a full year trying to reach you, and now you tell me it is a summons. Yet surely there's more to the tale than that. 1 mean, because of the token my friends and I, well, our lives have been changed in ways none could have imagined a year back, and little of it for the better. Too, Kingsmen have died bearing that coin. Oh, not that the token is at the root of the ills besetting Mithgar-Modru and Gyphon bear the blame for that. Still, it is the penny and a promise which set me and my friend Beau Darby on our way to find you, and much has happened since then, and I would hear the full story behind the coin, if you please."

Agron nodded. "You deserve that and much more, Sir Tipperton."

"Tip," replied the buccan.

"Eh?"

"Please, lord, call me Tip, or Tipperton. 'Sir Tipperton' sounds so very formal."

The king smiled and said, "Would that I could do the same, Tip. -Simply to be called Agron, I mean."

Tipperton grinned and then suddenly and without volition yawned, then looked apologetically at Agron. "Your pardon, my lord, I assure you it's not the company, but the truth is I've not slept for nigh two days-lurking the night among Spawn and then crawling 'cross the land between as it were. Even so, I would hear of the coin."

Agron turned up a hand and said, "It is a simple tale, Tip, one begun some forty years past. You see, Blaine and I first met in the Greatwood when we were but lads. As is the custom, our sires had sent each of us there in the spring of our tenth year to live in the care of the Baeron throughout the summer, to learn how to listen to the land and to hearken unto its voice, to learn its ways and foster its well-being. And it was there in the Greatwood where we became fast friends, Blaine and I… blood brothers, more or less. But the summer, as all summers do, finally came to an end, and with the onset of autumn we were to part: he to Caer Pendwyr, I to Dendor. It so happened I had with me two Gjeenian pennies, the cheapest coin of any realm, and as the day of our parting drew nigh, I strung the coins on leather straps and gave one to Blaine and kept one myself. And we pledged that should one of us need the full help of the other, the penny is what we would send." Agron lifted a thong about his own neck, and on it dangled another of the plain pewter coins, holed in the middle. Then he took up the like token Tipperton had given him and gripped the leather cord tightly, his knuckles showing white. "As I said, 'tis a summons, this Gjeenian penny, a call for aid, a call to muster all forces and ride to war. And this cheapest of coins, this base pittance, this Gjeenian penny would pay for all."

"Oh my," said Tip. "Oh my. So that's what it's all about. Would that the Kingsman had been able to tell me, but he died by Spaunen hand ere I got back with aid." Tip shook his head in regret.

"Good men die in war," said Agron, then amended, "good people, that is." The king sighed and looked at Tip. "Still he gave the coin, the mission, over to you, and in that he chose well. -I wonder, did he have a name?"

"None he gave me, sire, but whoever he was, he saved my life. Would that I could have saved his."

They sat in silence for a while, and then Tip added, "Young he was, twenty-five or so I would guess, though when it comes to Humans, I am not the best judge of age. Still, he was young… slender… like you, my lord, and about your height, though once again I have trouble judging, you Humans being nearly double height to me. He had dark hair, nearly black and short-cropped, and pale blue eyes, pale as ice, so pale as to seem nearly-"

"White?" blurted Agron, bolting upright.

"Why, yes, my lord," said Tipperton in surprise. "Eyes so pale as to seem nearly white, a bit like yours, though more so."

"Marks, any marks?"

"Marks?"

"Distinguishing marks."

Tip frowned in concentration, trying to remember a year past. "N-no… -Oh wait! Yes, a scar above one eye, the left, I believe."

Agron's face drained of blood, and he gestured over his own left eyebrow, his finger jagging down, then up. "V-shaped?"

"How did you know?"

Anguish flooded Agron's face. "He took it in practice. I gave it to him." The king's voice fell to a whisper. "An accident."

"You know this man?"

"He was my son, Dular my son, my one and only heir."

Agron shoved back from the table and fled the room…

… leaving Tip alone shedding tears.

A time later a page came, and he led Tip to a bedchamber within the castle, where, in spite of the pulse of the Gargon running through his veins, the buccan fell asleep while undressing and slept the whole night through, his right boot lying on the floor, the left one yet on his foot.

After a hot bath, a page brought Tip clean clothes to wear, clothes outgrown by a child of the castle staff. Too, the page tied a black band about the buccan's left wrist. As Tip looked on in puzzlement, the youth somberly pointed to the band he himself wore, saying, "It is a mourning band, sir, worn on the left wrist, closest to the heart. The king, his son Prince Dular… word has come he was killed by the Foul Folk." The page sighed and stepped back and looked at the buccan. Apparently finding Tipperton passable, he then led the Warrow down to a great hall to break fast with the king and members of the court.

Tip came into a large chamber filled with people taking breakfast, and black wristbands of mourning were worn by each person there. At the high table sat Agron, his face haggard, as if he had not slept at all. And the air of the chamber was doleful. As the buccan stood looking, Mage Alvaron waved Tip to a vacant seat at hand.

"Here, lad, sit next to me and tell us of your ventures dire, for surely you had many a trial in coming here, and we need a bit of distraction."

Tip climbed onto the bench beside Alvaron and knelt on his knees to be at a height to eat comfortably.

Across the table sat a flaxen-haired lady of indeterminate age, though had Tip to guess he would have put her just beyond her young-maiden years. And although she spoke to Alvaron, her somewhat tilted blue eyes were upon Tip-perton. "Hush, Alvaron; let him be, at least until he gets some provender within." She smiled at the buccan, her face lighting up.

Alvaron grinned and said, "Sir Tipperton Thistledown may I present Mage Imongar."

"Oh my, another Mage," said Tip, unaware that he'd spoken aloud.

"Indeed," said Imongar, "and there are four more besides."

Tip flushed, but then added, "Six Mages in Dendor?"

"Aye." Imongar pointed. "Veran and Ridich are over there, breaking fast. Delander and Letha are on the walls keeping ward over the Dread. Night and day we set watch in turn, for all are needed to contain the Gargon's fear."

"Well then I am most glad to meet you, lady, and glad as well that there are six of you altogether, for the Dread is terrible."

As Alvaron waved a servingman over and gestured at the Warrow's empty cup, Imongar looked closely at the buccan, as if gauging. "You speak from experience." Her words were not a question but a statement instead.

"Aye." While the man poured Tip a mug of tea and Imongar passed him the basket of toast along with some peach preserves, Tip said, "I nearly stepped into its tent out there in the Swarm south of the south gate."

"Into its tent?" Alvaron turned his piercing black eyes the buccan's way.

"Well, not exactly into its tent, but upon the bare ground surrounding."

"Even so, 'tis closer than I could have come," said Im-ongar, looking at the buccan in speculation.

Tip slathered preserves on a slice of toast. "Oh, I'll tell you I bolted, I did. Blindly, too. If I hadn't slammed into a wagon wheel, well, I'd be running still-knocked me flat on my back, it did."

Alvaron raised his cup. "Here's to wagon wheels which jump in the way, else we would not now be breaking fast with a true herald of glad tidings."

"True herald?"

"You, my boy. You. Though you brought sad news of the death of a prince, you brought good news as well, for salvation comes riding on your shoulder, or so we hope."

Imongar frowned. " 'Twill not be easy, Alvaron, and it will take all six of us working together as well as a company of men to lay the Gargon by the heels."

Tip looked up in surprise, for although he had known it was up to the Dendorians to deal with the Dread, still he had not known just how they would succeed. Oh, he knew that a Wizard was critical to accomplishing this objective, but now he discovered there were six Wizards involved and not just the one he first met.

"I say," said Tip, "if six Mages and a group of Dendorian warriors can combine to slay the Gargon, then why hasn't he already been? -Been killed, that is."

Alvaron sighed, but Imongar said, "We tried, but we could not win through-the Dread was too well protected by the Swarm."

Imongar looked at Alvaron, and he said, "But with the Dwarves attacking elsewhere and drawing their forces away, well then… perhaps this time we will succeed."

Tip frowned at the two Mages. "You sound in doubt, yet I would have thought magic powerful enough to deal with any threat."

Imongar shook her head. "What you call 'magic,' Sir Tip-perton, has its limitations. Astral can be warped to do many things, some most powerful indeed, but at a cost none can bear for long."

Alvaron nodded and plucked at a lock of hair. "This was black when the Spaunen first came, and now it is shot through with grey."

Tip raised an eyebrow, and at his puzzled cast of face, Imongar said, "To manipulate, one must spend one's own at the cost of youth, and the greater the cast, the greater the cost."

"Adon," said Tip, his eyes widening. "You mean magic ages you? Each spell makes you grow older?"

Imongar nodded. "Aye, our astral dwindles with each cast, and the more powerful the spell, the greater the drain."

"Still," said Alvaron, "we can recover that by resting a special way, though now that Rwn is gone, we cannot return to Vadaria, and the cost to recover in Mithgarian years is staggering."

"Goodness, and here all along I thought magic was, um, free."

As Tip was served from a platter of eggs, rashers of bacon on the side, Alvaron shook his head. "Oh no, my lad, in spite of what some innkeepers claim, a lunch is never free, nor breakfasts for that matter. We all must pay as we go, more or less, and that includes Mages as well."

Tip frowned in thought and looked at his meal and then across the room at King Agron at the high table. The king, he had paid a high price: his only son and heir was dead. And what had Tipperton paid? A vision of Rynna filled Tipperton's mind, and his eyes brimmed, and in that moment a sense of shared sorrow swept over the buccan.

Without speaking and with tears sliding down, Tip clambered from the bench and stepped across the chamber to where the king sat, the buccan to kneel beside Agron. With a puzzled look the king turned toward the Warrow, and Tip said, "My lord, the mission to deliver the coin is finished, yet I am a scout well trained. I ask that you take me in your service until this war is done."

"You would pledge to me?"

"Aye, my lord, as a scout."

King Agron's face fell grim, and his hand strayed to the black band at his left wrist. "For what I have in mind, Sir Tipperton, scouts will be in high peril."

"Nevertheless, my lord."

"Then rise, Sir Tipperton, scout of Aven, until this war is done."

After breakfast, his sense of purpose renewed, Tip strode with Imongar toward the south gate. "So, then, it was you, Tipperton, who bore the king the woeful news as well as the good you did bring."

Tip sighed. "Yes, though I didn't know at the time that it was the king's son Dular who had died at my mill. Why it was he bearing the coin, I do not know."

"He was in service to High King Blaine," said Imongar, "and would have been the obvious choice for Blaine to send to Dendor… not only to fetch aid but to remove Dular from harm's way."

"Remove him from harm's way?"

"Aye. Did you not tell the war council that Challerain Keep had fallen?"

Tip nodded.

"Well then, I think Blaine sent Dular away ere that battle began… as I said, to take him out of harm's way."

Tip frowned and said, "In my experience, Lady Mage Imongar, all of Mithgar stands before harm."

Imongar canted her head. "Aye, Sir Tipperton, it does at that."

At last they arrived at the gate and made their way up to the ramparts above. There Imongar relieved Delander, another tall Mage like Alvaron, though Delander's hair was a rich golden brown, a shade nearly matching his eyes. After greeting Imongar and meeting Tipperton, Delander went down to take a meal and then to rest, for his was the first shift, midnight to morn, and standing watch on a Gar-gon was a task most fatiguing and dire, especially here where the pulse of the Dread was strongest.

Climbing to the weapons shelf, Tip stood and looked south. Teeming maggot-folk yet beringed the city, but the buccan had expected no less. Somewhere a deep drum thudded relentlessly, out among the Swarm. In their midst the Gargon's tent stood alone, Foul Folk all 'round but no nearer it seemed than a hundred long paces nigh. As to the Draedan itself, no creature was in evidence; but it was not gone from the city, nay, for the racking dread yet pulsed, a thudding in the gut keeping pace with the beat of the drum.

Tip tried to ignore all these things as he stood and looked long at the distant ridge south, trying to see… trying to see…

"Beau and the others are up there somewhere," he said. "I wonder how they fare?"

"How did they fare when you left, Tipperton?"

"Unh… on cold rations and camping in snow," replied Tip, sighing, "but otherwise they were hale."

"Then I suspect that they fare that way still."

Tip drew in a deep breath and let it out. "It's no way to live, you know-on the ground with no fire and nought but cold food to eat."

Imongar nodded. "Much like an animal, neh?"

They stood and looked a moment longer, then Tip said, "Did they launch the fire arrows?"

"Aye, as planned," replied Imongar, "last night and this dawn as well."

"Good," said Tip. "By that sign alone they will know I am safe."

"Ha!" barked Imongar, "I would not call being surrounded by a Swarm to be safe by any means." Imongar looked about, and seeing that none were near, she added in a low voice, "Too, here in Dendor a dreadful sickness has come, cast over the walls by the Spaunen."

Tip looked at her wide-eyed. "Dreadful sickness? Cast over the walls?"

"Aye, a dark ill. Some twenty-four days agone the-"

Tip shuddered and said, "They cut up the dead and flung the parts over the walls, using those, those-"

"Trebuchets," supplied Imongar.

"Yes, those trebuchets." Tip looked out. The great catapults were yet there, along with other siege engines: tall towers on ponderous wheels and dry-moat spans and scaling ladders and the massive rams. "We saw what they did, Imongar, my comrades and I. From the ridge. From up there it was appalling, but down here it must have been horrible beyond all words. That was the day we left for Kachar to fetch the army of Dwarves."

"Well, Tipperton, that was but the first day of their vile casting. For three more days they flung the dismembered dead into the city-Rucha, Loka, Gulka, men-it mattered not to the Rupt, their own dead or ours, all were cloven asunder and the parts hurled over the walls.

"The king ordered all and sundry to gather up the remains and bear them to the plaza to be thrown on a great flaming pyre." Imongar now shuddered. "Ai, the smell of burning flesh, 'twas whelming throughout all of Dendor."

"But what has this to do with the illness?" asked Tipper-ton. "I mean, how came such a sickness to be?"

"Ah, Tipperton, you ask a question which has puzzled healers down through the ages. Some say it is a curse, some a spell, some say divine retribution… yet this we know: the first to fall victim were a handful of those who had borne remains to the fires, but others have been stricken since. Buboes pustulant and black, boils seeping, raging fever, a terrible stench: those are the symptoms. Few survive, despite what the healers do, and those who die are burnt, just as were the dismembered battle dead, though in the prison yard instead of the city plaza."

"Prison yard?"

"Aye, that's where they burn those slain by the scourge."

Tip frowned but did not pursue the story behind that strange custom. "Is it widespread?"

"Not yet, but with pestilence, none can ever say."

Tip looked south. "If this dark illness is what Beau has told me of, then he has a cure, or thinks he might."

"Beau?"

Tip pointed at the far ridge. "One of my companions."

"And this cure…?"

Tip frowned in concentration. "Silverroot and gwyn-thyme, if I remember correctly."

"Silverroot I've heard of, but gwynthyme?"

"I seem to recall that both have other names: what these may be I have no idea, but Beau can tell us when the siege is broken. All I know is that gwynthyme is a golden mint and proof against poison. It saved Lady Phais from death by envenomed Ruck arrow. Vulg poison they said."

"Vulg poison? Ai, this golden mint must be potent."

Tip nodded. "So I would say."

"Well then, Tipperton, you must go to the healers and tell them what you know."

"Well, I don't exactly know much more than what I just said. It's Beau who knows the cure, if a cure it is."

"Still…"

"Look, we don't even know if this is the same disease Beau told me about," said Tip, hopping down to the banquette. "Regardless, where do I go?"

"To the prison-that's where they quarantine the ill- but you will need a pass. Captain Brad on the west gate can give you one."

"Oh, Brud," said Tip, sighing. "He and I didn't exactly hit it off when first we met."

"Nevertheless, he can give you a pass to the healers. And don't discount him, Tipperton, he is a good warrior, though stern."

"And suspicious," said Tip, then barked a laugh. "I mean, who else would believe one of the so-called Litenfolk to be a Ruptish spy?" Again Tip laughed, and Imongar smiled. Then Tip looked west and north along the banquette toward the distant west gate. "But all right, it's the dark ill we are speaking of and if I can help… -I'll go see him now."

As Tip walked away, Imongar turned and faced south, faced the Swarm, faced into the pulse of the Dread and stood ready to spend years of her youth should the need arise.

"A cure for the scourge, and you would see the healers?" asked Captain Brud, his voice low.

Tip nodded.

The man pulled a drawer open in the table and took out a parchment. As he dipped the nib of the quill into the inkwell, he said, "Take care to whom you speak of this illness, Sir Tipperton, for even the knowledge that pestilence is within Dendor will drive some men to rash acts."

At hand, Alvaron grunted. "Perhaps so, Captain Brud, but if indeed it is the dark plague, then it will not remain a secret long."

Brud nodded grimly and then stood and pointed out a back window of the upper gatehouse and said to Tip, "That grey building, squarish, made of stone, next to the tower, see you it?"

"The one with the wall all 'round?"

"Aye," said Brud. "It is the prison."

"Gaol," said Alvaron.

"Oh my, a jail that big?"

Brud shrugged. "Not all of it is a prison… just the upper floor. The rest is where the town wardens live, or used to."

"Used to?"

"Aye. Instead of warding those walls, now all are warding these."

"As are the former inmates," said Alvaron. "Pardoned by the king if they would but wage war."

Brud grimaced as if at something repugnant, but then said, "Regardless, that's where you'll find the healers."

Tip shook his head and cocked an eyebrow. "Who would have thought it: healers in jail. I wonder what Beau will say when I tell him."

"It is the safest place to take those who have fallen to the"-Brud paused.

"The pestilence," said Alvaron. "Modru's gift to Dendor, I would say."

"Oh."

Brud folded the paper and held it up for Tip to see. "This pass will admit you through the wall gate and to the door, but not inside, for I would not lose you to this dark ill."

Tip looked up at Brud in surprise, and Brud said, "Sir Tipperton, I was wrong about you. Even so, I do not apologize, for you came from the Swarm and asked to see my liege lord, and I beg no pardon for thinking of him first. And now you are one of his scouts, and for that I am glad: anyone who can slip undetected through an entire Swarm is welcome to serve my lord, and I am pleased we now stand together."

Brud smiled and stuck out his hand, and Tip grinned and took it, his own small grip lost in the man's.

"And now, your pass." Brud handed the Warrow the signed parchment.

"Gwynthyme, eh, the rare golden mint. Yes, I know of it, though we call it bladguld-goldleaf. Even so, we have none. But rotensilver-the root of silver-that we have in plenty, though it saves precious few of those stricken."

Tip's face fell. "Oh my, and Beau used the remainder of his gwynthyme to cure Lady Phais, five doses in all."

"Well I'm afraid that it'll take more than five doses, my lad," said the healer through the bars on the door, "for within these walls there are many who have fallen victim to the scourge and many more yet to-" Of a sudden the healer's words jerked to a halt and he looked past the buc-can. Tip turned about, and there behind him and through the warded gate of the prison wall came a white wagon driven by a man in white, white scarf about his face.

"Stand well off," hissed the healer, covering his own face with a white scarf.

As Tip backed aside and away, the wagon circled 'round to come alongside the barred door. And as it turned, in the bed of the wagon Tip could see three people: a man and a woman and a child, all flush with fever and moaning, their lips cracked but not bleeding. And Tip saw dark, pus-running boils on the arms and face of the child.

That evening, Tip stood on the walls and watched as flaming signal arrows were lofted from each and every gate. He momentarily thought'of sending his last red-fletched arrow up from the one in the south, yet did not, for it was the last thing of Rynna's he had, but for memories bittersweet. And so he watched as arrows were sent skyward, and he listened to the jeers of the Spawn all 'round.

The next morning, just ere dawn, a wedge of men mustered within the walls and waited, King Agron at its head, and with their ballista all stood ready while those above watched for a flaming arrow to fly from the south ridge afar. And Tipperton, his Elven bow in hand, stood with them, for he would not be left behind.

There as well were the six Mages, ready to smother the Gargon's fear, and these were among the foremost at the south gate, as was Tipperton.

"Would that Farrin were here," said Ridich. "Of us all, he is the most powerful."

"Farrin?" asked Tip, looking up at the Mage.

"Aye. A year past he was with us in Black Mountain, part of our Circle of Seven. It was there one night he dreamt of the oncoming war. He told Sage Oran of this dream, and the Sage, after long consideration, asked us to come to Dendor for perhaps Farrin had Truedreamed. Far-rin himself set out on a quest of his own: to find the Utruni and entreat them to join the Free Folk against Modru and his master Gyphon. We have not seen him since."

"He is not likely to find the Utruni," said Letha, "deep in the rock as they are."

"Even if he does find them," said Ridich, "they are not likely to join, for even though they are said to ward the Kammerling, Utruni are above the affairs of the world, or in their case, far below."

Letha sighed. "Would that he could persuade them, for with the they hold over stone, mayhap 'tis true a single Utrun alone can fell an entire mountain."

Tip's eyes flew wide. "Can fell an entire mountain? -I say, these Utruni-Dara Aleen mentioned them once, as did Bekki-just what are they?"

"Stone Giants," replied Imongar.

"Stone Giants? But they're just myths. Giants with gem-stones for eyes? Giants that move through the rock deep underfoot?"

"Oh no, wee one," said Alvaron, "they are no more myths than, say, the Hidden Ones."

"Or the Litenfolk," added Veran, sotto voce.

Imongar laughed. "Just ask a Dwarf, Tipperton, they'll tell you it's so. Long past, First Durek was saved by a Stone Giant, or so they do say."

"That's what Bekki said: Durek was saved by the hand of the Utruni." Tip shook his head and shrugged. "At the time I didn't know what he meant, but it didn't seem important. -I say, this First Durek, was he also called Breakdeath Durek?"

"Aye," replied Imongar, "though not until much later, after he was dead and reborn."

Tip frowned at this seeming paradox but said, "Bekki once quoted this Breakdeath Durek: 'He who dares, wins.' I thought it quite apt, for at the time I was planning to sneak through the Swarm and knock on the door to Dendor."

"A foolish scheme," said Veran.

"Harebrained," agreed Tip.

"As is our plan to slay the Gargon," said Alvaron.

Dawn came, and fire arrows were loosed into the sky, Tipperton climbing up to the south gate and taking one of the flaming man-sized shafts and loosing it along with the others, his to sail in an arc even higher than those of the men. And they looked on in wonder at this wee Litenfolk with his magic Elven bow, or so they believed it was. Yet there was no return signal from the south ridge, so the muster stood down, though the ward atop the wall did not.

The next day was much the same, with the men and Mages and the buccan mustering at the south gate in the predawn marks, but still no signal came from the south ridge, and so once again the muster stood down.

Tip counted on his fingers: Five days, bucco, it's been five days. Five days since we sighted Dendor after coining back from Kachar; four since I made it inside. Has something happened to the Dwarves? Oh surely not. Besides, Valk said he'd come within a week, and the week's not up yet.

Tip found he could not relax-If I only had my lute, but no, it's back in the camp with Beau-and he spent most of the day pacing the walls of Dendor, dread hammering at his heart as he walked all 'round the city high on the ramparts above.

On the sixth day, again there was no signal and Tip fretted and paced anew, and he tramped along the walls and down in the city streets. Yet his pacing stood him in no good stead, for he felt as if a doom were poised, ready to be unleashed, but whether this was a true premonition or instead the Gargon's incessant pulse of fear, he could not say.

Yet while walking down one of the Dendorian streets, he saw three white wagons, three drivers in white, the wains rumbling along the cobbles, people crying out as they passed, and the wagons drove toward the grey walls around a grey stone building, where a column of smoke rose into the grey sky behind. And Tip wondered how many more white wagons had rolled through the streets that day.

The seventh dawn came without a signal, and once more the muster stood down. And after breaking his fast, again Tip took to the ramparts above, fuming and fretting and wondering: Where in all of Mithgar are Valk and his army of Dwarves?

But on this day in midmorn, of a sudden all the drums of the Swarm began to pound and Ruptish horns began to blat and waves of dread poured over the walls.

"Something is afoot," said Imongar grimly, her eyes seeking sign of assault.

Tip jumped to the weapons shelf and peered out through a crenel. "Oh, surely you don't think they've, they've…"

Imongar looked at him. "They've what, Tipperton?"

"Oh, I don't know. I don't know! Perhaps discovered the Dwarves on the march, captured my friends, captured Beau, I just don't know." Tip looked at her in appeal as the Gargon spread fear over all.

Imongar shrugged and turned her gaze back to the Swarm, and of a sudden called out, "Bugler, sound the summons. The Gargon is on the move."

Tip looked and gasped in dismay, for out from the tent strode the hideous monster: grey and stonelike it was, and scaled like a serpent but walking upright on two legs-a huge and reptilian malevolent parody of a man, and waves of fear rolled outward.

Snow bursting upward about its heavy tread, the ponderous Mandrak advanced: eight feet tall, taloned hands and feet, glittering rows of fangs in a lizard-snouted face. And the Draedan, the Ghath, the Horror, the Dread stalked forward in a circle of emptiness as the Foul Folk gave back, some shrieking and bolting away, for not even they could stand to be near, so great was its terrible power.

The earth beneath its feet seemed to shake with each and every step, and Tip shuddered as well.

"Stand ready," called Imongar, her face white, drained of blood.

But as this hideous creature reached the inner rim of the Swarm, leftward it turned, leftward, and toward the western periphery.

And as it stalked away, the bugler, trembling, managed to raise the clarion to his lips and to sound the call on his second attempt.

"Come," said Imongar, walking west along the wall, matching her stride to that of the monster without.

Tip, his air coming in gasps, trotted along the weapons shelf a pace or two behind the Mage, for he didn't want to block her view. And as he and Imongar went west, armed and armored men poured through the streets and to the walls, most gathering about the four gates.

And the king came riding, a cavalry at his back.

Circling, west went Tip and Imongar, to finally come to the west gate. And opposite stopped the Gargon, standing in a circle alone.

And to the west gate came the other four Mages, Alv-aron already there.

More Ruptish horns blared, and drums pounded.

And King Agron and his cavalry rode to the west gate and stood below waiting.

But then Captain Brud called down, "Sire, they wave the grey flag of truce!"

"What?" called the king.

"They would parley," shouted Alvaron.

" 'Tis likely a trick," called Brud.

"Nevertheless, captain," called up Agron, riding to the ramp and dismounting, "raise the flag of truce."

Without another word, Captain Brud signalled to a soldier, and in moments the grey flag was located and raised above the gate.

And the drums and horns of the Swarm fell silent.

As the king came onto the rampart, he said, "Bugler, sound the call to stand ready to repel an attack. If this is a trick, I want all gates, all walls, all warriors on alert."

The command was sounded, and the air fell silent again, as if each side held its breath, though the waves of fear yet rolled.

Then there came a horn blat from the Swarm straight ahead to the west, and out from the tent midst the Rupt, a man was led by a Ghul toward a waiting Helsteed. The man bore a burden under one arm, and was boosted onto the 'steed, encumbrance and all. When mounted, the man shifted the burden to his lap and held it close.

"A surrogate," hissed Tip.

"You know of them?" asked Imongar.

"There was one at Mineholt North."

Now a mounted Ghul took up the reins of the surrogate's Helsteed and rode toward the Dendorian west gate, towing the surrogate behind.

Just to the right of the oncoming pair trotted a Ruck bearing the grey flag of truce, and on the left trotted another, the flag on his pole waving black.

And as they came on, Tip frowned in puzzlement, for there was something about the man… but Tip couldn't quite put his finger on "Oh my lord!" exclaimed Tipperton.

"What is it?" asked Imongar.

"The surrogate, if that's what he is," said Tip in dismay, "it's Lord Tain."

"Lord Tain?"

"A Daelsman. The only one who survived the destruction of that city, as far as we knew. All else were killed by Sleeth… or died in the blizzard thereafter. His daughter was slain. It drove him mad."

Onward came the Ghul and Rucks and Helsteeds and man. Lord Tain's white beard long and unkempt, his white hair stringing down, and the burden he bore "Oh Adon," groaned Tip.

– was the desiccated corpse of Jolet.

And Tain whispered and hissed into her ear, and gestured at the city before him.

And they came to the foot of the bridge and stopped and the Rucks-planted the flagstaffs in the snow, grey flag on one side, the black with its crimson ring of fire on the other. As if this were a signal, the pulsating dread completely ceased.

And a sigh of deliverance rose up from the city, Tip staggering in sudden relief.

The Ghul backed his Helsteed alongside Lord Tain's, the man yet babbling and hissing and whispering into desiccated Jolet's ear.

"Gluktu!" sounded the Ghul, as from a voice of the dead.

And Lord Tain's babbling and hissing ceased, the madness in his gaze replaced by a malignant glare. No longer did a madman look through these eyes, but a vile presence instead And it turned Tain's head and looked at the cadaver… and laughed in vile exultation, and onerhandedly thrust the desiccated corpse into the air, her arms and legs and head flopping loosely, stringy dark hair and tattered silken garments dangling down, one foot bare, the other yet encased in a slipper.

Tip turned aside in revulsion, and tears stood in his eyes.

"My Lord Agron," called the foul entity, "this"-he thrust up again the corpse, its dangling arms and legs flopping, head joggling-"this is the fate of all who resist me."

King Agron did not reply.

But Alvaron called, "Begone, Modru, you have no business here."

The surrogate's gaze shifted to the Mage. "Quiet, fool, I speak with your better."

Now the glare swung back to the king, but suddenly changed to malicious glee. "I meant to inquire, my lord, how does your citizenry fare? All in good health? None ill?" Wild laughter burst forth from the surrogate, and he stroked the matted hair of dead Jolet.

Agron stood atop the wall and remained silent, his arms folded, his lips clamped tight.

The surrogate's laughter chopped shut and a malevolent gloat filled his gaze, and he gestured toward the Swarm and the massive siege engines beyond. "As you can see, you are completely at my mercy, but do not despair, for I am a merciful lord and these are my merciful terms: if you surrender, then you will become my allies, whereas if you do not, then I will slay you all, all warriors, women, children, oldsters, babes, animals… all, and you will end such as this." And he turned his gaze to the corpse and kissed it on the lips, then grinned malevolently and called out, "I give you a day to decide."

The surrogate flung up a hand and suddenly the glare was gone, replaced by madness And in that same moment a blast of terror slammed into them all, some men shrieking and fleeing, others falling to their knees, Tip shrilling in unendurable dread…

Below, the Rucks fell to the snow and screamed in horror, and even the Ghul scrunched down in his saddle as if to grow small, and his Helsteed seemed frozen in place.

Only Lord Tain appeared unaffected as he clutched Jo-let's corpse to his bosom and whispered and hissed deep secrets into a shriveled ear.

And then the blast of horror ceased, to be replaced by pulsing fear.