Into the fire

Chapter 13

On appropriated mounts they rode through a field of carnage: past the dead and dying, past healers tending wounded men and Dwarves, past Dwarven mercy squads striding among the downed Foul Folk and relieving them of all suffering forever. At last they came to the ring of phantasmal warriors, did Tip and Beau, Phais and Loric, and Bekki, a strong malodor hanging o'er all. Tip took a deep breath and plunged through the conjuration, while Beau paused to admire the glamour, Veran's illusion yet standing.

"Come on, Beau, there's wounded here," called Tip, leaping down from his pony, the animal skitting and shying, Tip holding tight to the reins to keep the steed from bolting. And also a dead Gargon.

Beau kicked his heels to his pony's flanks and rode within the circle. "Phew!" Beau's face screwed into a look of disgust. "The Gargon, a pit of a thousand vipers could smell no worse."

"Here," said Loric, "hand the reins over to me. I will tend the steeds in this rank place."

Dismounting, Beau gave over the pony to Loric and took up his medical satchel. "Tip, Phais, Bekki-walk among the downed and make certain of life."

Bekki growled, "There are Grg here as well, and for those I will make certain of death."

Slowly they moved among the men and Dwarves and Foul Folk, Bekki now and again slitting a throat.

As they worked, Letha came into the ring of phantom warriors, and where she moved she laid on hands and whispered, "Concrescere!" and stopped the leak of blood.

Beau looked at her amazed. "Oh 'my goodness, what a wonderful gift you have."

She smiled and moved on, as did the others.

"Huah!" grunted Bekki, a frown on his face, "some of these dead have no wounds at all."

"They were slain by terror, I think," said Tipperton. He gestured at the headless Gargon, the haft of the ballista-hurled spear jutting out from its chest, the gore-smeared blade protruding from its back. "When he was felled a great blast of fear whelmed all who were nigh."

"We felt it, too, and we were far," said Bekki, prodding a disemboweled Hrok as if to make certain it was truly dead and not somehow lying midst its own entrails and feigning.

Tip looked at where Alvaron yet lay. "It was terrible, that outpouring of dread, and killed Alvaron and these others. For a moment I thought my own heart would burst."

Bekki frowned. "Alvaron?"

"A Mage… there," replied Tipperton, gesturing and then wiping away tears. "One of six."

Bekki shook his head. "Six Mages, and they could not stop the Ghath?"

Tip shrugged, but nearby Letha said, "We had just run far and had come into combat and had no time to marshal our."

"Time?" asked Tip.

Letha nodded without looking up from the wound she was treating. "It takes time to summon: only an instant for the lesser things; long moments for the greater. Fending a Draedan is of the greater."

"Oh."

"I say, Tip," called Beau. "Ride to the city and fetch some help to move the wounded to shelter. We can't leave them lying about in the cold like this, you know. They've been here long enough as it is."

A day passed, and then another, and though King Agron had the battlefield thoroughly searched, of Lord Tain and his dreadful burden there was no sign. It was as if Modru's surrogate had vanished into the icy air. When Beau asked why it was so important to find Mad Tain, Bekki replied, "As long as Coward Tain is alive, Modru has a tool to rally the runaway Grg."

On this day as well, the head of the Gargon was mounted atop a spire at the west gate to face distant Gron, Modru's realm afar, as a grim warning to any and all who would set their hand against this city and against this land. At this raising of the dread monster's head, Agron's captains, fresh from war council seemed more dour than the ceremony would warrant.

Nine more days passed and rumors flew, for every day the captains came muttering from the war room, and rumor had it that the king had been driven mad by the death of his son Dular.

During these same nine days, the battlefield was cleared of bodies, and funeral pyres were set aflame, for the earth was yet frozen even though the last of these days was the twenty-first of March: spring had come unto the land though snow yet covered all.

And out on the snowy plains under a waning gibbous moon, on Springday night Tip, Beau, Phais, and Loric paced the Elven rite of the turning of the seasons, while in the distance nigh the city walls the last of the funeral pyres burned scarlet as women and children wept and Dwarves and men tore at their beards and beat their chests and swore vengeance dire.

On the third day following the last of the battlefield funerals, most of the Dwarven army rode away, wagons bearing their wounded among them, for they hoped to cross the Argon ere that river thawed… or to cross on the Kaagor Ferry if its rebuilding were done, for Valk had left behind crafters to do so in anticipation of the army's return. Only DelfLord Valk and a few of his warriors remained in Dendor, for there was to be a ceremony held in the throne room, and the honored DelfLord would attend. Too, Tip and Beau were invited, along with Phais and Loric and Bekki, as well as a host of others.

That evening, the Warrows were dressed in their finest, though it was but a spare set of clean clothes, their goods having been fetched by Bekki from their abandoned camp on the south ridge. When Bekki had returned with their belongings, the first thing Tip had examined had been his marvelous Elven lute, finding it no worse for the wear, and yet in tune even though cold to the touch. But now he set the instrument aside and made his way with the others unto the great throne room.

The chamber was thronged with people and filled with a babble of sound-men, women, Dwarves, others, milling about and in noisy converse while waiting for the king.

"Adon, but I can hardly hear myself think," Beau called above the gabble when they came in among the clamorous press.

Pushing through the crowd, Tip and Beau eventually found themselves among the Mages, splendid in flowing robes.

Beau looked up at Letha. "I say," he called, nearly shouting to be heard, "could you teach me that trick of yours? -Stopping bleeding, I mean. It would be most handy for me to know, being a healer and all."

Letha gazed with brown eyes down at the tiny buccan and called back, "I am afraid not only would you need long training to master such, but a touch of wild magic as well."

"Wild magic?"

Letha brushed a stray lock of her brown hair away from her eyes, then leaned down and spoke into his ear. "Aye, unless you can see, that is."

"Oh no," groaned Beau. ". I've heard of it before. From Delgar."

"Delgar?"

Beau nodded.,," A Mage."

"Oh, I know who Delgar is. I was just wondering where you came across him."

"In the Bosky. -The Boskydells, that is. He was passing through when I was but a stripling. I must have been about twelve; that would make it some eleven years back, or so. He gave me a book about herbs and simples and philters and physicks and medicks and got me apprenticed to a healer in Willowdell, he did. -And say, you know him?"

"Indeed," replied Letha. "He is my sire."

"Oh my," said Beau -but in that moment a staff knelled thrice upon the marble floor, and a voice rang out above the babble, "My lords and ladies and honored guests, all kneel before King Agron, son of Morgon and sire of slain Dular."

Silence fell, and the crowd pushed back from the central aisle, a multitude closing about the buccen. And all in the assembly but Phais and Loric and DelfLord Valk fell to their knees, ladies included.

Dressed in red, a black band on his left wrist, King Agron paced through the lane opened and toward his throne, while down on one knee beside Tip and amid the throng, Beau leaned this way and that, trying to peer past the men and women and Dwarves. "I can't see a thing down here," he muttered to Tip. "-Can you?"

"Not at all," whispered Tip. "Much like when we were running after the Gargon. I couldn't see a thing there either, down among the Big Folk as it were."

"Well, they ought to put us up front, or let us stand, or something that would put our eyes on level with the others," grumbled Beau.

Tip merely shrugged.

From the direction of the throne, King Agron called out, "My lords, ladies, and honored guests, please rise."

As they all stood, Beau whispered, "Come on, let's move to where we can see." And he and Tip looked all 'round for a way through the press.

"We are gathered here to celebrate our victory over the forces of darkness," began Agron…

Hemmed about on all sides by Big Folk, Beau finally dropped to hands and knees and with Tip following began to crawl among polished boots and around the flowing hems of full skirts belled out with petticoats and hoops, people looking down in consternation and drawing aside as the two Warrows came crawling by.

"… without the help of DelfLord Valk and his legion it would have been nigh impossible…" continued Agron, as the buccen crawled on, now nearing the central aisle, only to find it occupied, lords and ladies and warriors and guests having moved therein. Beau turned rightward, now crawling toward the throne.

"… and it was Lady Mage Imongar who loosed the spear that slew the Gargon…"

A cheer rang out above Agron's words, and still the buccen crawled forward.

"… and I name her a Heroine of the Realm…"

Again a cheer rang out, and the crowd parted to make way for Imongar to come to the throne, only to reveal two Warrows down on hands and knees crawling forward.

"Unh, Beau," hissed Tipperton, slowly clambering to his feet, his face flushed red with embarrassment.

Beau crawled on.

"Beau," hissed Tip again, louder.

"What? What? We're almost there," replied Beau.

Led by the king, the crowd burst out in laughter.

Beau looked up… and then tried to sink through the floor.

'Mid the hoots and howls and giggles and titters, Imongar limped to the prostrate buccan and reached down to help him rise.

Many were praised that night:

DelfLord Valk of Kachar was singled out, the flag of that Dwarvenholt to henceforth hang in a place of honor in the throne room of Aven.

The Mages of Black Mountain were lauded: Delander and Ridich for their burning destruction of the siege towers; Veran for the phantasmal warriors rushing at the Swarm to make the Rupt bolt; Letha for rounding up the ponies and for her healing hand; Imongar for the slaying of the Gargon and her leadership thereafter, though she told all that Tipperton Thistledown, stabbing her in the leg as he had done and yanking her about by the hair, he was the one who truly deserved the credit for the Gargon's demise; and lastly, Mage Alvaron, for ere he was slain he had been their leader, and more than once in the days before had protected the Dendorian warriors from the Gargon's dread.

Others were honored as well-captains, warriors, healers, advisors-but none so praised as the five who had come bearing a coin: two Litenfolk, two Alfs, and a Dvarg. For without them the Dvagfolk of Kachar would not have come. Without them Dendor would have fallen. And without especially Sir Tipperton Thistledown, all would now be dead.

Tip was summoned to the throne dais, and when he stood beside the king, calls of Speech! and Halla et tal! rang out.

Tipperton frowned and looked out at the crowd and raised his hands. When silence fell, he said, "No single person alone is responsible for a victory or even for a defeat. If you would praise anyone, then I say, praise each and every single one who stands against Modru and his ilk. Together we will cast him down."

His words were met by a resounding cheer.

And finally King Agron called for quiet. In the stillness which followed, he looked down at the buccan and then out at his captains and warriors, his lords and ladies, his healers… his subjects. "Sir Tipperton's words are prophetic: together we can defeat Modru. To that end I plan to carry the fight unto the vile one himself, the killer of my son Dular. When the army is rested, wounds healed, strength recovered, supplies laid in, wagons assembled, then we will bear the fight to Modru, into his own realm, for I plan to march my armies into Gron and assail his foul minions there."

But for a collective intake of breath, a stunned silence met these dire words.