Into the Forge

Chapter 8

The thin crescent of the moon had barely risen when faint light in the east heralded the glimmerings of frigid dawn. Beau, on final watch, awakened Tipperton, then turned to the ponies and fed them some grain. After the two buccen took a cold meal for themselves, they broke camp and saddled up and laded the pack pony and set out easterly once more. As they had done the day before, they rode and walked and now and again stopped to rest or to relieve themselves or to give the steeds a drink. And in late afternoon they espied a low range of hills standing across the way and stretching out beyond seeing to north and south.

"The Wilderness Hills," said Tipperton.

Beau grunted, but otherwise did not reply… and the ponies plodded on.

As the sun neared the western horizon they intercepted the Crossland Road curving down from the northwest and swinging back east and lying beneath a blanket of snow, the route hard-packed from centuries of slow-moving caravans and frozen in the wintertime cold. As it arced back easterly, the tradeway led them in among the snow-laden hills, the slopes barren and bleak but for a lone tree now and again, or an occasional small thicket of low-growing copse holding a handful of scattered thin trees.

Beau sighed and looked about at the desolate 'scape. "Why d'y' suppose they ever put a road this way, Tip? It seems a bad route to take, with Drearwood ahead and the Grimwall beyond…"

"I suppose it's the shortest way to the other side of the mountains," said Tipperton. "I mean, you've seen the map. A trader would have to go far south to find another pass like Crestan."

"Yes, but with Drearwood along the way-"

"That's why they go well armed, Beau, and in a great cavalcade."

Glumly, Beau nodded, and they rode ahead without speaking. But at last Tip said, "I seem to recall that in the past there were several attempts to establish a fort at the far edge of these hills-a garrison of soldiers to escort wayfarers through-but each time they tried, the fort was burnt down… or torn to flinders."

Beau's eyes flew wide. "Torn to flinders? By what?"

Tip shrugged. "Who knows? Certainly not I."

"Weren't there survivors?"

Tipperton turned up his hands.

Beau shuddered and his gaze swept across the surround, as if expecting to find a massive unstoppable monster bearing down upon them.

Misunderstanding Beau's peering about, "Good idea," said Tip, glancing at the sinking sun. "We do need to find a place to stop."

Around the next bend they came to a draw with an ice-covered stream running through. As the sun sank into the horizon, they made their way well off the road and down into the shadows of the sparsely wooded gully, where they set a cold fireless camp.

"While standing a turn 'neath the stars last night, I was thinking," said Tipperton, as easterly they rode once again, the noon sun diamond bright but shedding little warmth.

"Oh? About what?"

"Well, Beau, every night we've camped, we've done nothing about our tracks. I mean, should another band of Spawn come this way, they could simply follow the hoof-prints to find a couple more victims for their slaughtering blades."

Beau's features paled.

"I mean, it's not like we're mighty warriors or such," added Tipperton, "like the man who gave me the coin. The band who attacked him he laid by the heels, but we'd be short work for such. I think on this night and the ones thereafter we'd better erase our trail from the snow, at least for a way. A pine branch broom ought to do the deed." Beau glanced about. Not a pine tree was in sight.

In late afternoon of the following day, beneath leaden grey skies they emerged from the bleak hills to see the road descending before them; down and across a short flat it ran and to the River Caire, the ice-clad waterway curving out of the north and disappearing in the south. A snow-laden stone bridge spanned from bank to bank, and the road rose up and out from the river valley beyond, where it entered a dismal tangle of forest, stark barren limbs clawing at the sky.

Reining to a halt, "There it is," said Tipperton. "Drearwood, straight ahead."

"Lor', but they named it right, they did," said Beau, taking a deep breath. "Dark, depressing, dismal… dreadful."

"And deadly," added Tipperton, glancing at Beau, "if what we've been told is true."

Beau swallowed. "How far to the other side?"

Tipperton twisted about in his saddle and fished out the› map. "Hmm. Some eighty miles or so."

"Adon, but that's three or four days."

"If we push the ponies, perhaps we can make it in two."

Beau shook his head. "The best we've done so far is twenty-five."

"Even so," said Tip, "we've gone rather slow, and might be able to make forty."

Beau cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "It's not like we're riders from Jord, bucco, fiery steeds and all. I mean, these are just plain ponies."

"Time will tell, Beau. Time will tell," said Tipperton. "But for now, I suggest we go back into the hills and find a place to camp, and start our run through Drearwood on the morrow."

"I'll see if I can find a pine," said Beau, "and take care of our tracks."

As Tip awakened Beau for his next turn at ward, he hissed, "You'll have to use your ears, bucco, for there's no light whatsoever."

Beau sat up and peered about in the blackness, wondering how Tip had managed to find where he was bedded. Beau yawned, then looked overhead. "Not even a glimmer," he muttered.

"The overcast, Beau, it's blocking the stars," responded Tip, crawling into his own bedding. "And tonight is the full dark of the moon."

As Beau fumbled his way toward the boulder where he would take station, he found his heart racing with apprehension. I can't see a bloody thing, for there isn't any starlight and tonight indeed is the full dark of the moon… Oh, my, the full dark of the moon. Oh, I do hope that's not an omen of things to come.

As dawn broke to a dismal day, an overcast yet covering all, Tipperton, on the last watch and weary, his eyes gritty and raw, stood and stretched. His entire being seemed at low ebb, and he knew that Beau would feel the same; neither buccan had rested well, but instead, turn in turn-three turns each-had slept in fits and starts throughout the long, frigid night. Regretting that he had to do so, Tip stepped over to awaken Beau. "Come on, bucco, it's time to go."

Groaning, Beau levered himself upward.

"You get the jerky and crue, Beau. I'll tend the ponies."

"Jerky and crue," moaned Beau. "Four straight days of jerky and crue, with who knows how many more days to come. Is anything else as tasteless as a crue biscuit? And jerky is called jerky 'cause it's so accursed tough that it'll jerk your teeth out by the roots just trying to gnaw off a simple bite."

Tipperton burst out in laughter, and Beau glared up at him through red-rimmed eyes… then burst out laughing himself. "Lor', Tip, you look like I feel-I mean, your eyes are ready to bleed to death. If I didn't know better I'd say we've both been dragged by the ankles through Hel."

Again they both burst out in laughter.

Humor restored in spite of their weariness, the buccen watered and fed the ponies and took a meal themselves. As they ate, Tip said, "Shortly we'll be entering Drearwood, Beau, so keep your weapons at hand. We never know when we might need to make a fight of it."

"Weapons? I didn't bring any weapons, Tip. I'm a healer, not a fighter."

Tip's jaw dropped open. "No weapons! Lor', Beau, you thought I was mad for setting out on this venture, but here you are about to enter Drearwood itself and now you tell me you have no weapons?"

Beau turned up his hands and shrugged.

Tipperton blew out a puff of air. "Not even a dagger?"

Beau shook his head. "No, though I do have some knives."

"Knives?"

"The ones in my healer's satchel for lancing boils and the like, and of course the one I carry for eating and whittling and skinning game and such."

"Listen, do you know how to use any weapons? A bow, a stave, a sling, a long knife, a-"

"Say, I did use a sling when I was a stripling, though that was some years back."

"Well, bucco," said Tip, "you step down to the stream and gather up some slingstones while I fashion you a proper strap."

As Beau rummaged about in the streambed, kicking aside snow and breaking through ice and gathering suitable stones, Tipperton unthreaded a leather thong from one of the ties of a saddle cantle, then cut a swatch from the leather flap. Carefully trimming the swatch and piercing it at each end, he cut the thong into two straps and fastened one in each of the swatch holes. Then he tied a loop in one end of one of the straps, a loop sized to fit snugly over the thumb. "There, now," he muttered, "a proper sling for Beau."

Stepping down to the streambed, Tip handed the casting strap to Beau. "Here, bucco, while I saddle the ponies and break camp, you practice hurling stones."

"But, Tip, I had a time gathering these, and now you want me to fling them away?"

Tip threw up his hands and burst out laughing, and Beau grinned and took the sling.

As Tip strode back to the camp, behind him Beau set a stone in the looped strap and sighted on a tree trunk and whirled the sling 'round and let fly. The stone flew practv cally straight up. Beau watched it arc up and stepped hind-wards out of the way as it came down to land in the creek.

"Huah!" grunted Beau, setting another stone into the sling pocket. "It's been awhile." Once again he sighted on the tree trunk and whirled the sling around. The rock hurtled upward at an angle to clatter through branches as it headed somewhere far beyond.

The third one smacked straight into the ground a handful of steps ahead. "At least they have all gone forward," muttered Beau, loading another rock.

Upslope, Tipperton shook his head in disbelief as he saddled the second pony.

"Don't worry, Beau," said Tipperton as they rode up out of the wooded draw and back toward the road, the pack pony trailing behind and laded with their goods, including the pine boughs Beau had cut for brooms, "you'll get the hang of it yet."

"Wull, I threw most of my rocks away and only managed to hit the tree trunk once. If it'd been a Ruck I'd've killed 'im dead had he been about eight feet tall." Beau grinned ruefully as Tip laughed aloud.

Smiling, they made their way up onto the Crossland Road and turned easterly, and then their smiles vanished, for in the near distance ahead they could see the dark tangle of Drearwood lying before them. Each taking a deep breath, they glanced at one another, and then down the slope they rode and across a flat to come the verge of the Stone-arches Bridge. Tipperton held up a hand and reined to a halt, Beau stopping beside him. Turning to Beau, Tip said, "Listen, bucco, I've been thinking it over, and you needn't go with me any farther. I mean, we've been fortunate so far, and I think-"

"Oh, Tip," broke in Beau, "shut your gob." And with that, Beau spurred his pony forward onto the span.

Shaking his head ruefully, Tipperton prodded his own steed and followed Beau onto the snow-covered stone pave of the bridge.

Above the frozen River Caire they rode, to come into the land of Rhone, the wedge-shaped realm known as the Plow, bounded on one side by the River Caire and on the other by the River Tumble, the rivers to ultimately join one another in the south to form the point of the plow, the land extending all the way north to the spine of the Rigga Mountains.

The road rose up again out of the river valley to strike straight through the grim heart of Drearwood, the bane of this region most dire. Hearthtales abounded of lone travelers or small bands who had passed into the sinister tangle never to be seen again; stories came of large caravans and groups of armed warriors who had beaten off grim monsters half seen in the night, and it was said that many had lost their lives to the ghastly creatures. This land had been shunned by all except those who had no choice but to cross it, or by those adventurers who sought fame, most of whom did not live to grasp their glory. Fell were the beast said to live herein, and fell, too, were the Foul Folk who reveled in its environs. And into this baleful place rode two paltry Warrows, following a road that would not set them free of its dread for eighty perilous miles.

Both Tip and Beau felt their hearts hammering with foreboding at the thought of entering this dread wood, for herein were said to live nightmares. Yet they had no choice and on they went, into the grim woods, and the wan winter light fell dull among the dark and grasping branches.

All about them clustered dim enshadowed woods, blackness mustering in ebon pools within. Stunted undergrowth clutched desperately at the frozen rocky ground, and barren trees twisted upward out of gloom-cast snow to grasp at the leaden sky, the jagged branches seeming ready to seize whatever came within reach.

Beau looked deep into the entangled dark galleries and hissed, "Lor', Tip, if ever anything held a black heart, this is it."

Tipperton nodded grimly, and urged his pony ahead.

Throughout the dismal day they rode, and at times walked, ever following the eastward trek, riding at a goodly pace or striding at a swift clip, for they did not wjsh to spend a moment more than necessary in these woeful woods.

They had not come to the central region when the unseen sun began to set, drawing gloom behind. Reluctantly they headed away from the road and in among the dark gnarl to find a place to camp. Neither one wanted to spend even a single night in this dreadful place, yet heeding Gaman's advice to travel only during the daylight hours, they searched for an out-of-the-way site. At last they came to a small clearing, and while Beau took the pine boughs they had saved and walked back to the road to sweep away the signs of their passage within, Tipperton tethered the ponies and unladed them and then fed them some grain.

That night during Tip's first watch, the slightest sound caused him to jerk up and peer this way and that for sign of danger, yet without starlight he could see nothing whatsoever. Even so, he listened on high alert. Whatever made these slight sounds-voles, a waft of air ticking branch upon branch, one of the ponies shifting, or something else altogether-he could not determine its cause. And he had visions of something unseen creeping upon them. But in spite of his foreboding, when it came his turn to sleep, exhausted as he was he immediately fell into a deep, dreamless slumber. Yet it seemed to Tip that he had no more than put his head down ere Beau was shaking him by the shoulder.

"Tip. Tip," hissed Beau. "Wake up. Something. A light. A sound."

Tipperton scrambled up. "Where?" he whispered, his heart pounding.

"East. In the east."

Tip faced eastward, and in the far distance, flickering among the dark trees, he saw a pinpoint of light… and then another mote, and another, and another, as more and more lights appeared afar. And there sounded a faint beat, muted by distance.

Tip sucked air in between his teeth, and he started to say, "What do you think-?" when there sounded a faraway blat echoing among the trees.

"Lor'," hissed Beau, "that was a horn."

With his heart in his throat, Tip fumbled about on the ground and located his bow and arrows. Swiftly he strung the weapon, and slipped the harness of the quiver over his head and shoulder. "Get your sling, Beau. We may need it."

"I've already got it in hand, but whether or no I can hit anything in the dark, well…"

"Maybe it'll be eight feet tall."

Light after light continued to appear, and they seemed to be drawing closer.

"I think they're torches," hissed Beau.

"On the road," added Tip. "Torchlight coming along the road."

"Do you think whatever, whoever, they are, they're searching for intruders? Searching perhaps for us?"

"I don't know."

Behind them a pony shifted uneasily.

"Oh, Lor'," hissed Beau. "The ponies. We have to keep them quiet."

Using their scarves and a bandage from Beau's medical kit, quickly the buccen improvised blindfolds and covered the horselings' eyes.

There sounded another blat of a bugle, and still the beat pounded, as of a muffled drum.

More torches appeared-an endless stream, it seemed.

Tip and Beau held the ponies and murmured soothingly.

Yet the flaring brands drew closer, and now the buccen could hear faint chirpings, as of axles turning. And the drum grew louder, its beat augmented by the crack of whips.

Onward came the torches and drum and whips and horn and squealing axles, and mingled among it all, now the buccen heard voices, rasping and guttural, shouts and commands in a language neither knew. And the ground shook with the tramp of feet.

"Are we far enough off the road?" whispered Beau.

"If we're not," murmured Tip, "it's entirely too late to move."

Now the marchers drew abreast and could be seen through a gap in the trees.

"Adon," breathed Tip, "it's an army, a horde of Spawn, moving west along the road." 1

"But that's toward Twoforks, Beacontor, Stonehill- Oh, Lor', toward the Bosky, too. Oh, Tip, where are they going?"

"I don't know, Beau," gritted Tipperton. "Perhaps to one of the places you named, though they could just as well turn north and head for Challerain Keep in Rian, or south into Rell and beyond. But no matter where they're headed, there's nothing we can do about it now. Nothing whatsoever."

With hearts hammering, through the gnarl of trees Tip and Beau watched helplessly as Rucks bearing torches tramped along the road, Hloks lashing whips at any who strayed, driving them back into line. The muffled drum beat steadily, meting out the pace, and now and again a Rucken bugle signaled a command, but what it might be, the buccen could not say.

Wagons hove into view "Adon!" gasped Tip, for the wains were drawn by huge, shambling creatures, ten feet tall and more. Like giant Rucks they seemed, but no Rucks were these.

"What are they?" sissed Beau.

"Ogrus, I think," replied Tip. "I've never seen one before, but what else can they be?"

Indeed they were Ogrus, called Trolls by some, but Ogrus nevertheless. And they drew the heavy wains down the road, axles chirping and screeching as the heavy wooden wheels turned 'round.

And then helish steeds passed by, bearing pallid riders the size of men, corpselike yet alive and wielding jagged spears. The steeds themselves resembled horses, but they were hairless and scaled, with long snakelike tails.

Now a foul odor drifted faint through the air, and it was all the Warrows could do to keep the ponies from squealing out and bolting, the stamp of their hooves unheard above the sounds of the passing Swarm.

And still the Horde marched past, feet tramping, drums thudding, bugle blats echoing now and again, armor jingling, hooves clopping, axles screeching, whips lashing, guttural commands barking out, and torchlight eerily casting flickering light among the dreadful recesses of dark Drearwood.

And the line now stretched beyond seeing to east and west., Tip and Beau held onto the ponies and whispered soothing words as the nighttide passed through its depths and began the long climb toward morning… and the end of the Horde was not in sight as more and more Spawn tramped past.

Yet, at last, just ere the sky began to lighten with the coming dawn, the last of the Swarm passed and the light of the torches and tramp of feet and squeal of axles and whip-cracks and shouts and the beat of drums faded into the west until they could be seen and heard no more.

The Horde had gone at last.

And dawn came.

Exhausted from their all-night vigil, the Warrows groaned as dismal day broke upon Drearwood.

"We must go on," said Tip, "for I will not spend one moment longer than absolutely necessary in these dreadful woods."

"But, Tip, isn't there something we can do to warn the folks of Twoforks, Stonehill, elsewhere as well?"

"What would you suggest, Beau?"

"I don't know. -Something."

Tip shook his head. "I don't think so, Beau. I mean, we're on the wrong side of the Horde, and besides, there's our own mission we've got to complete. Look, we can't be everywhere, protect everyone at once. We can only pray that the pickets will see them coming and give due warning."

Grimly, Beau nodded, then stooped to pick up a saddle blanket to begin to ready the ponies. "How many Foul Folk do you think we saw tonight?"

"Thousands," replied Tip. "Thousands…"

On they went, through the dismal woods, and the wan daylight fell dim among the clutching branches. Hours they rode, and at times walked even though they were weary beyond measure, ever following the eastward trek. The Cross-land Road itself had been churned to muck by thousands of tramping feet and turning wheels and the cloven hoofs of steeds, and through this mire went the Warrows slowly, going the opposite way.

At last in late afternoon they came to a point where the Horde had entered the road-from the north they had come through the Drearwood, to turn west upon the way, and they left behind a wide track through the barren forest dire.

The Warrows did not follow this track northward into the woods, but continued on easterly along the Cross-land Road.

Now they were back on frozen ground, frigid and hard and swift, though the exhausted buccen could pick up the pace but a bit.

Tip eyed the dismal sky. "As much as I hate to say it, Beau, it looks as if we'll have to spend another night in this tangle."

Beau groaned but made no reply, and on through the darkling woods they rode. Another mile passed 'neath the hooves of the ponies, and then the Warrows dismounted to give the ponies respite, leading them behind as they walked.

As they trudged along the road, of a sudden Beau brightened. "Say, Tip, what with the Horde marching off behind us, don't you think that all the Rucks and such are gone from hereabout? I mean, perhaps we can make a fire tonight, have some good hot tea-it'd be just the thing."

Tip shook his head. "I don't think so, Beau. Just as some good strong men were left behind to ward Twoforks, the Foul Folk will have left some Rucks and such to guard these woods. No, I'm afraid we'll have to pitch a cold camp and do without any tea."

Beau groaned with disappointment, and after a moment said, "You know, Tip, in spite of my eiderdown, I think I'm growing colder with every passing day."

Tip nodded in agreement. "Me too, Beau. Me too. If we don't have a fire soon, well… -But we should be out of this dreadful place by tomorrow, and then we can have a fire, I would think."

Beau sighed and gestured at the frigid ground, saying, "I don't think people were made to spend their days traipsing endlessly cross-country and their nights sleeping in the dark on frozen ground. I mean, give me a good garden to putter in and a cozy hearth to sit by and warm bed to sleep in. And hot meals. Oh, yes, hot meals."

Tip grunted a noncommittal response but otherwise remained silent, and on they trudged.

After a while, as the sky grew darker, Tip said, "All right, Beau, let's begin looking for a place to camp."

Even as they peered off into the tangle, searching for a suitable site, a wind began blowing up from the south, the air slightly warmer than that in the surround. "Good," said Beau, licking a finger and holding it up in the breeze then glancing at the sky. "It seems that better things are due."

But as he said it, a chill rain began to fall, and wherever the water touched frigid trees or cold undergrowth, bitter rocks or frozen ground, it began to freeze.

"Oh, Lor'," groaned Tip, exhausted. "Just what we don't need-an ice storm."