Into the Forge

Chapter 10

Tip, Tip, wake up."

Beau Darby shook Tip by the shoulder, trying to rouse his companion.

Groggily Tipperton opened bleary eyes.

"Tip, listen. It's Wolves, I think."

Tipperton groaned but sat up.

Long moments passed, the Warrows listening in the silent, dismal wood. Somewhere in the distance another tree fell, followed by dead quiet.

"Beau, I don't-"

Again came a long, deep-pitched howl.

"Is it a Wolf?" asked Beau.

Tipperton drew in a long breath, then slowly let it out. "Sounds like one, Beau, though deeper, I think. But I don't believe a Wolf will attack the two of us, especially if it's alone."

"But what if it's a pack?"

"Look, Beau, at the moment it's some way off, and we need rest. But we also need to stand guard." Groaning, Tip struggled to rise. "I'll take the first-"

"No, you won't, bucco," declared Beau. "You stood the last watch. Now it's my turn. You sleep. I'll stand ward and keep track of the howls."

Tip slumped back. "Wake me in eight candlemarks, when the sun has climbed four hands."

Beau nodded and sighted on the sun. Holding his arms straight out toward it, he turned his hands inward, stacking one atop the other, counting upward four in all, and sighting on a limb directly in line. "All right, Tip, when the sun reaches that bough, I'll take my turn at rest." He looked toward the other buccan, to find him fast asleep.

Beau jerked awake. "What was th-?"

Another howl sounded, this one nearby.

Floundering up, Beau peered 'round. "Oh, Lor', I fell asleep, too." A quick glance at the sun showed it was midafternoon.

Beau turned to waken Tip, to find that buccan sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Tip, I'm sorry. I-"

Tipperton's eyes widened, and he put a finger to his lips and held out a shushing hand, then motioned for Beau to duck down, Tip himself flattening against the ice-clad ground and pointing downslope toward the Crossland Road.

Beau's gaze followed Tip's pointing hand, and he gasped and dropped down, for there on the road and some distance away a band of Rucks and a Hlok slowly made their way easterly, following a huge black Wolflike creature. The size of a pony, no Wolf was this but a Vulg instead. The creature cast about, raising its nose in the air, then snuffling against the ice, and slowly, a pace at a time, easterly it stepped, only to stop again and snuffle and scour.

"We've got to go," sissed Tipperton. "I think it's tracking us."

"Where?" hissed Beau, squirming over to Tip. "I mean, which way?"

"We can't go back to the road," whispered Tip, glancing over his shoulder and back into the woods, "so north it is."

Down the back side of the slope they slithered, and when they were beyond seeing, they crept along, bending low, and moved silently deeper into the glassy tangle of Drearwood. Finally they stood upright to make their way northward, moving as fast as they could over the slippery terrain.

"Try to touch as little as you can, Beau," said Tip, "for I think the ice is making it difficult for the Vulg to track us, and the less scent we leave, the better off we are. They say that Vulgs are mainly sight hunters, and so if we keep it from seeing us…" Tip's words fell to silence as he looked for a clear way around a thorny bar.

"Lor', I wish I had some gwynthyme," said Beau, following Tip as he crawled under a snarl of brittle ice-laden branches.

"Gwynthyme?" Past the obstacle, Tip stood up. "Why would you think of that at this time?"

"My book says that a Vulg's bite is terribly poison, Tip, but that gwynthyme will counteract it."

"Oh."

Northward they inched through the hindering tangle, their progress slow, their way blocked time and again, often they lost their footing on icy slopes and skidded down.

And the sun sank in the west.

Now and again in the south they heard the Vulg howl, and from the east, like howls answered.

Night fell.

"We'll have to keep going north through Drearwood," gritted Tipperton. "They've got us blocked off from escape."

"How far have we come?" asked Beau.

"A mile or two at the most," replied Tip.

And so they pressed onward into the night, their way lighted by the stars above and by a silvery crescent moon hanging in the western sky.

But then the moon set.

And under the light of the stars, still they made their way as cautiously as they could, slipping and sliding on the ice.

And something came slithering through the tangle nearby, breathing heavily. The Warrows froze and held their breath as the monstrous thing undulated past and away without detecting them.

"Lor'," breathed Beau, "what was that!"

"I don't know," murmured Tip, "but let's get the Hel out of here."

Onward they struggled, and still behind them now and again they could hear the Vulg howl, and so they pressed onward.

And off in the distance ponderous footsteps crunched, and branches shattered, and once again the Warrows crouched down, trembling in the darkness as Death stalked nearby.

Three more times that night the buccen scrunched down against the ground, holding their breath and moving not, as things were heard-two more massive creatures crunching through the ice, one flapping overhead on ponderous, leathery wings. What they were, neither Tip nor Beau knew-only that whatever they were, they were deadly and on the hunt.

Just after sunrise, weary beyond measure, at last the buccen stopped. Although creatures had passed unseen in the night, still they had not heard the Vulg howl since well before dawn, and so they deemed it safe enough to pause awhile. They clambered up a gentle slope along the precipice of a bluff, and when they reached a high point where they could see the approach from the south, they stopped to take rest.

As they sat beneath an icy tree along the rim, "How did the Rucks and Hlok get on our track?" asked Beau.

"The ponies, I think," said Tipperton. "They must have found the ponies."

Beau nodded in agreement, then added, "And after that, our goods."

"And then they set a Vulg on our trail," appended Tip. "But as long as we stay on the hard ice, I think it'll have trouble following."

Beau gazed out into the glasslike 'scape, ice sheathing all. "That shouldn't be too difficult."

Tip reached under his quilted down jacket and pulled out his waterskin. "Uh-oh," he grunted, shaking the skin, "I'm all out."

Beau felt his own water bag. "Me, too."

"I suppose we'll just have to eat ice," said Tip.

"Oh, no, we won't, bucco," objected Beau. "It'll just steal our heat, and we've no food to replenish it. And what with this sleeping on ice, I'm cold enough as it is, in spite of our eiderdown. No, Tip, if we're to get through this alive, we've got to find a stream."

Tip sighed. "All right, give me your bag. I'll look for water while you keep watch."

Beau nodded, and handed over the skin.

"I'm going down there," said Tip, pointing down the face of the bluff. "Likely if there's a stream, it'll be at the base of this precipice. If you spot anything, cast a sling-stone down at me."

"I'll throw it by hand," said Beau, grinning.

Tip smiled back at the buccan, then started down the slope, following along the rim.

Beau stood and leaned against the tree. And this time I'll stay awake.

The later afternoon sun shone through the glass-brittle ice-clad woods as Tip said, "If you're going to pee, pee over the cliff. That way should any Vulgs come upon the scent, it'll be at the bottom rather than up here with us. But take care and don't slip over."

Beau groaned. "Too late, Tip, for while you were sleeping I…" Beau poked a thumb back over his shoulder and toward the woods behind.

Tip sighed and shrugged. "Oh, well…" He cast an eye toward the sun, then turned and pointed east and said, "Let's see if we can get out of these dreadful woods before dark."

"Oh, I do hope we can do so," said Beau. "Those awful things in the night…"

They set off easterly, but the icy terrain hindered their way, and the sun set and darkness fell, and it seemed they were no closer to escaping. Still they pressed on, bright stars and a quarter moon lighting the way. But then in the tangle ahead…

"Oh, no," Tip groaned, and pointed toward the glimmer of a fire in the distance.

"Perhaps it's a traders' caravan," murmured Beau.

"Not likely. A Foul Folk campsite instead, I would say."

"What'll we do?"

"Skirt around it. Leave it be."

Beau nodded. "Choose the way," he murmured.

And with Tip in the lead, the buccen swung northerly, keeping the campfire off to the right.

Onward they crept, and onward, but of a sudden Tip's feet slipped out from under him, and he went hurtling down a slope, smashing through ice-clad underbrush, shards of ice shattering and tinkling in his wake. He crashed into an icy knot of thornbush at the bottom of the slide and, blundering, stood, his feet yet slipping, his bow lost to his grasp and arrows strewn out behind, all slithering slowly down the slope after. And in the moonlight and starlight, as Tip floundered to his feet a leather-clad arm snaked about his neck, forearm against the buccan's windpipe, and someone snarled and jerked Tip up off the ground and wrenched him back and forth, trying to break the Warrow's neck.

Feet kicking, arms flailing, Tip tried to fight, but he could not bring his fists or feet to bear, and his throat was being crushed and he could not breathe.

"Yarwah! Yarwah!" the assailant yelled in Tipperton's ear.

Krnch! there came a sodden thud, and suddenly Tip was released, and he fell gasping to the ice. Slipping and sliding he turned, to see Beau standing over a dead Hlok, the Spawn's temple crushed in, dark grume oozing across the frozen glaze.

"H-he was trying to m-murder you, Tip. Trying to break your n-neck," stammered Beau, his eyes wide and staring down at the slain Hlok. "I had to kill him. Had to. There was no other choice."

"How?" Tip croaked, clutching his throat.

Beau looked up. "I hit him in the head with a rock."

Tip's eyes widened. "From your sling?" he rasped.

Beau shook his head. "No. I hit him in the head with a rock." Beau held up the ice-clad weapon-a rock the size of his fist.

From the distance there came a cry. "Vetch? Vetch?" and Tip could see torchlight bobbing through the trees.

"Adon, Beau," he said, struggling to his feet, "we've got to run."

But Beau, stunned, stood looking down at the Hlok. Tip grasped him by the arms and shook him. "Did you hear me? We've got to run. The Rucks, they're coming."

A bugle blatted, and from the east came a distant reply, and somewhere a great limb broke and ice crashed down.

Beau glanced around, then nodded, and Tip snatched up his bow and two of the loose arrows that had slithered to his feet, and together the two buccen fled northward through the wood.

"Down!" hissed Tip, and he and Beau wormed their way under an ice-laden gnarl of clutching vine. With racing hearts and pent breath they lay on their stomachs on the glaze and watched in the starlight as a spread-out line of searching Rucks swept toward them. Spikes of crampons crunched into the ice as the Spawn came on, Foul Folk calling to one another in their guttural tongue. And Beau jerked as a horn blared, directly above, it seemed, and he gripped Tipperton's wrist, but otherwise moved not.

And then the widely spaced file moved on past and away, and as the crunch of boot spikes and callings of voices and blares of bugles faded in the dark distance, both Tip and Beau slumped in relief. Hearts slowed and breathing became regular again, and finally Tipperton said, "Come on, Beau, let's go." But as they crawled out from under, from the east and south they heard more distant horn calls and faint cries, so up through the woods they fled.

By early morning they could no longer hear the bugle blats and shouts from afar, yet they had been driven north and west, losing some of the ground they had gained the previous day. And still they struggled on.

Again they found a stream and broke through the ice and replenished their waterskins. And while Tip scanned the nearby 'scape, Beau lay down and drank from the stream. As he stood, he said, "Lor', but I'm hungry, Tip. I mean, I've been keeping an eye out for something, anything we could eat-acorns, pine cones with pine nuts, dried berries among the thorns, whatever-but everything is hidden under layers of ice. Y'know, right now even crue and jerky would be a feast."

But they had nothing to eat, and had had no food since the evening of the attack on the ponies, two days and a night past.

Now Tipperton flopped belly down for a drink, and as Beau stood watch he said, "Tell you what, Tip, if your bow will hold together long enough, you shoot one of those monsters in the night, and we'll eat the whole thing raw."

Tip choked on water and came up sputtering, hacking and laughing at one and the same time.

Too exhausted to go on, they struggled up a glassy slope to the top of a low hill, where they could see the lay of the land all 'round, and Tip stood first ward as Beau slept. And it was during his watch that Tipperton discovered a long split in the upper limb of his bow. Must have been cracked when I fell last night and may shatter if I draw it.

"Barn rats," growled Beau upon hearing the news as his turn came to stand guard. "Me with a weapon I cannot cast and you with one that might break. A formidable pair we are, eh? The Rucks must be shaking in their boots."

Rubbing red-rimmed eyes, Tip said, "Well, bucco, let's hope we have no cause to find out."

As Beau's first watch came to an end, Tip groaned awake and wearily stood and said, "Beau, we've got to get out of these woods ere nightfall. I think we should take one more warding each, and then go."

Beau haggardly nodded, and slumped down as Tip leaned against the tree and with bleary eyes scanned the dark glassy glitter of Drearwood.

East they went and east, steps skidding on the glaze and feet slipping out from under them now and again, more weary from trying to walk upon uneven icy slopes than they were from the travel itself. Tempers were short and they snapped at one another out of fatigue, and they were ravenously hungry and bone tired. Yet still they pushed on, and aided one another upslope and down, or helped each other to regain their feet after a fall. Stumbling, skidding, sliding, eastward they floundered on insecure feet, seeking an end to Drearwood, yet entangled within. And the diamond-bright sun shed little warmth and relentlessly marched toward the west. As evening drew nigh there sounded faint bugle blats echoing among the hard-clad trees, their direction completely uncertain.

The sun set and the short winter twilight fell over the icy gloom, and a quarter moon waxed overhead, shedding its light down through the glassy branches to glimmer upon the sheathed land. And as Tip and Beau struggled over a small rise, ahead through the ice-laden galleries Tipperton saw-"Beau, look! I think we've come to the end."

"It could be another clearing," cautioned Beau, yet his heart cried out for it to not be so.

Slipping and sliding, across the glaze they went, down a tiny vale, close-set trees at hand.

And the twilight vanished into night, leaving but moon and stars to dimly light the way through the dark and drear woods. Still the Warrows pushed on, striving to reach the clear way ahead, and the trees seemed to draw in closer, as if to block their escape.

Now they came to the pinch of the vale, where they could almost reach out to touch the thickly wooded sides, and of a sudden dark shapes hurled out from the trees and Beau was smashed down from behind as Tip was wrenched upward from the ground, seized in an iron grip, and the glimmer of sharp steel flashed in the moonlight.

Tipperton futilely clawed for the dagger at his belt, and he shrilled, "Blut vor blut!" an ancient battlecry in the old Warrow tongue of Twyll. Yet he could not get his dagger, as a gleaming long-knife flashed in the starlight, ready for the killing stroke.

"Kest!" came a sharp cry from one of the man-sized assailants, crouching over Beau and staring into the buccan's face. "Slean nid! Eio ra nid Rucha tha Waerlinga nista! "

"Aw?"

The knife moved away from Tipperton's throat, but still he struggled as a dark figure moved toward him and threw the buccan's hood back, then in Common said, "This one is a Waerling, too."

Now Tip was set to the icy ground and released, and the one who had seized him said, "Fear not, wee one, for we are Lian."

"Lian!" exclaimed Beau, looking up from the ground.

"What ye call Elves," replied one of the tall slender warriors, then adding, "from Arden Vale." And he cast back his hood to reveal golden hair to his shoulders tied back by a leather headband, and tipped ears and tilted eyes, seemingly green, though in the light of but stars and moon it was difficult to say. "I am Vanidor."

Tip buried his face in his hands, and he slumped to the ground.

Vanidor knelt at his side. "Art thou ill, wee one?"

Tip looked up, tears streaming down his face. "N-no. I-I mean, I'm fine. It's just that we have been trying to reach you and it's been so very hard."

The Elf reached out and put a hand on Tip's shoulder. "Weep not, wee one, for thou and thy comrade, ye have found us, whatever be thy need."

"I say," piped up a plaintive voice from behind; it was Beau, now sitting up. "Speaking of need, have you anything to eat? Even crue will do."