Into the Forge

Chapter 3

"Beacontor?" Beau's gaze followed Tip's outstretched arm. In the far distance atop a high tor nearly thirty miles away glinted the red eye of fire. A signal fire. A balefire. A fire calling for the muster of any and all who could see it throughout the entire region.

Now it was Beau who groaned. "Oh, my. As I said, what with Drearwood just to the east, and beyond that the Grimwall, and these Rucks and such sneaking 'round, I think those of us hereabout are in for some hard times. I mean, look at what happened right here at your mill-the fighting, the dead man, the slain Rucks and the Hlok."

Tipperton shook his head. "If Beacontor is lit up, Beau, it means more than just troubles us folk 'round Twoforks've got. Look, you could be right: it might be a skirmish against raiders or such-Rucks and the like. But if the alarm came from elsewhere-downchain from the north, or up from the Dellin Downs, well then-"

"Oh, Tip-regardless of this, that, or the other, it spells woe."

Tipperton turned to his comrade. "Well, Beau, if the warning did come from upchain or down, it'll signify war as well."

Beau's eyes flew wide. "War? With whom?"

Tip gestured about. "Mayhap with Rucks and Hloks and other such."

"No, no, Tip"-Beau shook his head-"I mean, if it's war, who's behind it? And what would they hope to gain?"

Tipperton turned up his hands. "As to who or what would be the cause…" Tip's words came to a halt, and he stood and gazed at the glimmer of the balefire. Finally he turned to Beau. "All I can say is that fire on Beacontor not only spells woe, but it might spell wide war as well."

The blood drained from Beau's face, and dread sprang into his amber eyes. "Oh, my. Wide war. I wouldn't like that at all-ghastly wounding and maiming, to say nothing of the killing."

"Nevertheless, Beau, that may be what's afoot, in which case it's your skills that will be needed more than mine."

Beau glanced at Tipperton's bow and arrows, then looked back through the door toward his own satchel, containing his healer's goods. "You may be right, Tip-about there being a war and all, what with Beacontor lit-but I pray to Adon that you're wrong."

Tip's gaze softened, and he threw an arm across his friend's shoulder. "It could be just a false alarm, Beau, and perhaps by the time we take care of the pyre and then get to the town square, someone will know."

Glumly, Beau nodded, then said, "Speaking of the pyre, mayhap the balefire has something to do with our dead man."

Tipperton looked 'round at the slain Rucks. "Or with these Spawn," he added. Then he eyed the distant balefire and said, "Well, let's get cracking, Beau. The sooner we finish, the sooner we might know."

It took most of the morning to build two pyres-one for the man, the other for the Rucks. When the wood was piled high, Tip and Beau stepped back into the mill and prepared the dead man, washing him clean of blood and combing his hair and dressing him as well as they could in his hacked leathers. Struggling, they bore the dead man out and laid him upon the pine bough bed Tip had placed atop the pyre. Acting upon what Beau thought was tradition, the Hlok and one of the Rucks were laid on the wood at the man's feet- "Where a Human hero's slain enemies belong, I think."

Tip shrugged but added, "I thought it was supposed to be the man's dog, but perhaps a Ruck or Hlok will do."

They turned away from the man's pyre, and one after another they began taking the Rucks up from the ground and laying them on the other heap of wood.

As they lifted the last of the Rucks, Beau exclaimed, "I say, look at this." On the ground where the corpse had been was a crumple of dark cloth.

They lay the Ruck aside, and Beau squatted in the trampled snow and took up the fabric. "Huah! What do you make of this, Tip?" Beau held up a square of ebon cloth. Crimson on black, it held the sigil of a burning ring of fire.

"Looks like a standard to me," said Tip.

"Yar," replied Beau, turning it about. "But whose? I mean, did it belong to the man or the Spawn or someone else altogether."

Tipperton turned up his hands in perplexity. "Mayhap when we find what the balefire is all about, then we'll know."

Beau stuffed the banner inside his jerkin and stood, and they took up the Ruck once more.

At last all was ready, and Tipperton lit two torches and handed one to Beau. They moved to the pyre where lay the man, and Tip said, "Even though I didn't know him well enough to grieve, he was a hero, you know, a powerful fighter. He probably saved my life, for if he hadn't slain those Rucks and such, they might have come sneaking upon the mill when I was asleep… and it'd be my pyre you'd be setting aflame."

A stricken look swept over Beau's face. "Well, I'm glad he was around then, though I'm sorry he's dead."

Tip drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out, then said, "Let's get on with it, Beau."

And he and Beau stood with their heads bowed as Beau said, "Adon, receive this unknown but worthy man unto your care." The two buccen then thrust their torches in here and there and set all alight. They watched for a while as the wood blazed up, and when the whole of the pyre was roaring, they set the other pyre alight as well, the grey smoke of the two to twine up into the chill winter sky, while far off to the northwest, the smoke of the balefire atop Beacontor did likewise.

While Beau peered out the window, keeping an eye on the fires, Tipperton set about straightening the chamber and washing the floor clean of blood, pausing only long enough for Beau to bandage the minor cut on his foot, and then returning to his task. When all was set to rights, he began packing a knapsack.

Beau looked at him and sighed. "As soon as you're ready, and the pyres burn out, we'll go to my place and I'll pack, too. After all, Beacontor calls."

Tip nodded abstractly, his mind elsewhere.

In that moment-"Ho, the mill!"-came a call.

Beau turned and looked out the window. "It's Mayor Prell, Tip. And he's got men with him. They're armed."

Prell cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, "Hoy, miller… Tipperton Thistledown. Are you there?"

"He's here," called back Beau. "Me, too-Beau Darby."

Tip moved to the door and opened it and stepped out upon the porch, Beau on his heels. Just inside the snowy woods at the edge of the clearing stood several men, Humans, all armed-with swords or cudgels or longbows with arrows nocked-a smattering of armor here and there- plain iron helms or boiled leather breastplates.

Prell, a beefy man, said something to one of the others and then stepped forward, a shortsword now in his hand. "Are you all right, miller?"

"Indeed," called back Tipperton, moving out into the clearing, out into the grim smell of the fire with its cloying odor of burning flesh.

Yet wary, Prell waited until Tip and Beau were well clear of the mill. Then he signaled to the men, and bowstrings were relaxed, though arrows remained nocked.

Prell gestured to the fires and eyed the dead horse. "We saw the smoke. And what with the fire atop Beacontor and the muster, we came to see if somewhat was amiss."

"Yes, indeed, Mayor, somewhat is amiss," replied Tipperton. "Last night, you see, there was a battle here at the mill, and a man-I don't know just who he was-slew eight Rucks and a Hlok. But he took terrible wounds, and so I ran and fetched Beau. But when we got back…"

"And before he died he gave you this coin?"

"Yes. To deliver eastward to someone named Agron.

And, oh, yes, he said to warn all. Warn them of what, he didn't say."

Prell unbuckled his helm and scratched his head. "Agron. Sounds Elvish." He handed the coin and thong back to Tipperton, who slipped it back 'round his neck and tucked it 'neath his jerkin once more.

One of the townsmen shook his head. "More like a Dwarvish name, if you ask me, Mayor."

Prell frowned at the man. "Elvish, Dwarvish, or aught else"-the mayor's gaze swung to Tipperton-"I mean, it doesn't have to be a person, you know, but instead could be a town, citadel, temple, realm, river, whatever…" Tip's eyes widened at this conjecture, and he nodded in agreement.

Now Prell's eyes widened. "Say, now, miller, are you sure he said Agron and not Argon? I mean, the Argon River is to the east, just beyond the Grimwall. And they sound a lot alike. He was wounded, as you say, and might have garbled-"

"No, Mayor. It was definitely Agron he said and not Argon. Besides, if it was a river, what would we do? Cast it into the waters?"

Mayor Prell pursed his lips and shook his head. "Perhaps you're right, lad." With a sweeping gesture he appealed to all. "Regardless, does anyone here know just who or what an Agron might be?"

The gathered men looked at one another and shook their heads, some murmuring, Not me.

The mayor sighed, then said to Tip, "Describe this dead man again."

"Well, sir, he was about your height or so-it's rather hard for me to say, Humans being as tall as they are-but he was more slender. Slender but well built. Somewhat younger, too, or so I would judge. He had pale blue eyes, pale as ice, and dark hair -almost black-and was dressed in dark brown leathers. And, oh, I just remembered, he had a V-shaped scar above his left eyebrow."

Again the mayor looked about at the men, but once more they all shrugged or shook their heads.

"A stranger, then, I would say," said Prell.

"Hoy, Mayor," called one of the men-Gwyth, the tanner. "This horse. Mayhap it's got a brand."

"A brand?" The mayor and his men crowded about, and both Tipperton and Beau had to struggle through. No brand was in evidence.

"It's more likely to be on the mounting side," said Gwyth. "Let's roll him over."

Grunting and straining, the men rolled the horse. And there on the steed's left haunch was burnt the symbol of a crown.

"Lumme," breathed Gwyth. "That's the brand of the High King."