Into the Forge

Chapter 9

The freezing rain fell throughout the nighttide, and Tip and Beau sat huddled and miserable beneath their oiled cloaks. The ponies, too, were distressed, for the only protection the Warrows could afford them was the buccen's own bedding: two ground tarpaulins-one on each of the riding ponies-and the Warrows' own blankets-spread over the little pack steed. They had all taken shelter beneath a gnarled black willow, but the barren branches offered scant relief from the falling rain, and down it came to freeze upon striking, and the Warrows could hear the breaking of branches near and far as overladen limbs crashed to the ground, and now and again there sounded a heavy rending and a massive thud as overburdened trees toppled down-all unseen in the utter darkness of the nighttime woods.

"Lor7," sissed Beau, shuddering with cold and leaning against Tip, "I do hope this willow doesn't crash down 'round our heads. -Or, wait, perhaps I wish it did. At least that would end our misery."

Some time after mid of night the rain ceased, but still limbs snapped and fell, and still an occasional tree shattered down in the blackness.

Shivering and shuddering and hugging one another for warmth, the Warrows attempted to take turns sleeping, but neither could even drowse, as wretched as they were.

Sometime ere dawn, the clouds began to break, and here and there stars glimmered through. And as the light of morning finally came, ice set the baleful forest aglitter with reflected sunlight, as of a world coated in brittle glass-bent branches and bowed limbs and glazed trunks straining against the weight of the sparkling layers, the tangle of undergrowth crammed under a crushing load, the rocks, the ground, the very land clad with treacherous, glittering armor.

Benumbed with exhaustion, Tip and Beau looked through gritty eyes out upon this ice-sheathed world and groaned.

"Tip, we can't go out on that. The ponies will break a leg."

"We've no choice, bucco, no choice at all, for we can't stay here."

Grunting, with aching joints they stood, ice crackling on their cloaks, shards tinkling to the layered ground. Then slipping and sliding and now and then falling to a knee, they readied the steeds for travel.

"We'll have to walk them," said Tip. "Else, if they tumble and take us down with them, it's not only their legs which might break but ours as well. -By the bye, you do know how to splint bones, don't you? I mean, you're liable to have to do so, given the plight of the land."

Beau groaned. "I've handled a bone or two in my time, Tip, but I'd rather not have to set one in these conditions, so take care. Small steps work best on ice."

"Tell that to the ponies," growled Tip.

Soon the steeds were ready, and Tip, glancing about, said, "Well, bucco, there's nothing for it but to set out."

And so, taking small steps and walking atop the ice, they headed for the road, the ponies clattering after, hooves now and again skidding.

Along the Crossland they crept, inching down the way, pony legs skewing, Warrow feet skating, slipping down even the most gentle of cants in the road. And as the land rose and fell, hills were a sliding struggle, whether going up or down. Occasionally they could take to the woods and make better time, for there the layers of ice were leavened with weeds and brush and the ponies' hooves broke through, though Warrow feet did not. But at other times the road was the only choice, for steep drops or upjuts in the forest barred the way, or the tangle of Drearwood was too close to break through. Too, travel by other than road was even more hazardous, for now and again, near and far, an overladen tree would finally give way and crash down, shivered ice flying wide and tinkling down like shattered glass bells, the sound echoing through the ice-clad land.

In all from sunup to sundown they gained at most ten miles.

"Lor'," said Beau, exhausted, "I'm nearly spent but can't we just go on? I mean, it can't be too far now to the edge of the wood, can it?"

"Another ten miles, I would judge," replied Tip. "But it has taken us all day to get this far, and it'll take all night just to reach it. Besides, it's simply too dangerous to travel in the dark, and I am too utterly bone weary to go any farther."

As the sun sank in the west, exhausted, they made camp in the woods to the north of the road and hoped no overburdened tree would fall on them. Tip took first watch, and only by standing and gazing at the new crescent moon sinking in the southwest and by counting the wheeling stars could he but barely stay awake for what he judged to be the requisite eight candlemarks.

Beau did likewise during his own watch-standing and counting the stars.

It was as Tip's second watch was drawing to a close that the tethered ponies began shifting restlessly, their eyes wide, their nostrils aflare. In the starlight Tip peered through the dark tangle of trees, yet he neither heard nor saw a thing. Even so, he awakened Beau, a finger to the buccan's lips.

"Wha-"

"Shhh," hissed Tip, "the ponies sense something. Ready your sling."

Setting an arrow to his bow, Tipperton stepped to the trunk of a tree and waited.

Still the ponies shifted about on the ice, their breath coming heavy as they cleared their nostrils.

Beau slid to a tree opposite Tip, his sling in hand and loaded with a stone.

Now both Warrows heard something heavy coming through the dismal woods, for the ice cracked and shattered under the steps of whatever approached.

The ponies squealed and skittered in fright, their hooves aclatter on the frozen surface. One pulled free and turned to run, only to crash down on the glaze, screaming as something cracked as it fell.

And branches shattered and ice clattered down as something huge came through the dark forest and toward the camp.

"Run!" sissed Tip, turning to flee.

"No!" countered Beau, slipping and sliding toward the wrenching steeds, the one on the ground struggling to rise, yet a hindleg flopped and dangled, bone showing through. "The ponies, we've got to loose them."

Cursing, Tip skidded after Beau, and slipped the knot on one of the tethers as Beau slipped the other one. "Now run!" hissed Tip as the ponies skittered away.

Slipping and sliding on the ice, Tip and Beau fled the opposite way. But they had gone no more than twenty yards when Beau cried out, "My book!" and turned.

"Beau, don't-!" called Tipperton, but the other buccan was already skidding back toward the camp.

"Damn! Damn! Damn!" cursed Tip, floundering after his comrade.

Beau reached the site and slid toward his saddlebags yet lying on the ice near the squealing, broken-legged pony. And just as he reached them and clawed inside, something monstrous and half-seen in the darkness crashed through the trees and loomed above the buccan, shards and splinters of ice raining down.

In that same instant Tip let fly an arrow, and the thing bellowed and reared up and back and clawed at this thorn in its side.

"Run, Beau!" shrieked Tipperton, and Beau skidded and slid away, his precious red book in hand. Together the Warrows slipped and floundered across the ice and away, a monster's roars echoing behind. And then the woods rang with a high-pitched scream-like a female it sounded, but it was a pony's death cry-followed by the rending of flesh and crunching, slobbering, chewing sounds.

The rest of the night the Warrows lurched across the ice, the ponies gone, the bulk of their goods lost to the monster-but for the clothing they wore and Tip's bow and arrows and Beau's book and sling. Dawn found them floundering easterly, slipping and sliding upon the glaze in the glittering, frozen woods.

"Tip," panted Beau, "I'm totally spent. We've got to stop and rest."

Gasping, Tipperton agreed, able only to nod his head in assent. They sat on the ice beneath a tree and leaned back against the glassy trunk. In mere moments, completely exhausted, Tip was asleep and Beau nodding off.

Yet in that same moment Beau jerked awake, for from somewhere in the near distance to the west there came a dreadful howl.