Into the Forge

Chapter 1

Wha-? In the chill dark Tipperton started awake-What was that? He lay quietly and listened, straining to hear above the burble of the Wilder River, the water running freely beneath its sheath of winter ice. I thought I heard shing

There it is agai-! shing-shang… chang…

Distant metal striking metal. What th-?

Tipperton swung his feet over the edge of his bunk, and in the icy gloom stumbled from his bed and across the cold wooden floor-"Ow!"-barking his shin against a misplaced bench.

Shang-chang! Chnk! The clang of metal upon metal grew louder, as if coming this way.

He fumbled about on the table, knocking aside pots and pans as he searched for the lantern, while-Ching-chang!- the rattle and clash grew louder still, now mingled with guttural shouts and the thudding of feet.

At last among the trenchers and kettles Tipperton found the lantern, and just as he ineffectually flicked the striker, a high-pitched scream sounded, and something heavy thudded against the ground outside.

Tipperton flicked the striker again, and this time the wick caught. He lowered the glass and a yellow glow filled the mill chamber, illuminating the great overhead shafts and gears and wooden cogs that drove the massive buhr-stones, all now at a standstill, for the sluice weir was shut and no current flowed through the millrace and over the grand water wheel.

Yahh! Chank! Dring! Clang! Tipperton stepped to the door and slid back the crossbar and flung the portal wide just as-Thdd!-someone or something slammed against the mill wall, the entire structure juddering with the blow, sending a shower of grain dust drifting down from the cedar shakes above.

In nought but a nightshirt and holding his lantern on high, Tipperton stepped out upon the porch-"Hoy, now, what's all this racket?"-and in the dimness just beyond the reach of the glow he saw black shapes whirling in melee.

"Get back, you fool!" came a shout, even as a dark figure broke free from the tumult and hurtled toward Tipperton.

"Waugh!" The buccan leapt hindward, slamming the door to and ramming the crossbar home just as whatever had rushed at him crashed up against the shut wooden panel.

Feet thudded upon the porch, and window glass shattered inward as Tipperton darted across the chamber and snatched his bow from above the mantel of the hearth. Amid thuds and tromping and screams and shouts and the skirl of steel upon steel, swiftly the buccan strung the weapon. Seizing his quiver and leaving the lantern behind, Tipperton scrambled up a ladder to the catwalk above and raced to a sliding door in the wall and jerked the panel aside. In the frigid light of diamond winter stars and in the frosty rays of the pale quarter moon riding upward in the southeast, he clambered out into the snow-laden run of the wooden sluice, the blanket covering a thin layer of ice.

In that moment there sounded a shriek and a heavy crashing down… and lo! except for Tipperton's own hammering heart and gasping breath and the burble of water below the ice, all fell silent.

Arrow nocked and crouching low, Tipperton made his way to where he could see the front of the mill. Several dark shapes lay scattered and unmoving upon the snow, and two or three were slumped on the porch. Cautiously, Tipperton crept to a point above a millrace support and waited, the buccan shivering in the frigid cold, for his feet were bare and planted in snow lying upon ice, and he was yet dressed in naught but a nightshirt. Long moments passed, and all remained still. At last he climbed down the support ladder, and with bow drawn taut, and ignoring his numbing feet, he moved through the snow to one of the sprawled shapes.

It was a Ruck. Dead. Hacked by some kind of blade. The now glazed-over viper eyes staring upward.

Tipperton moved onward through churned-up snow, his gorge rising as he cautiously stepped past a dead, hamstrung, eviscerated horse-steam rising through the cold air-and among more slain Rucks: leather-clad, bandylegged, batwing-eared, dusky-skinned. Their dark ichor seeped outward upon the snow, and weapons-scimitars and cudgels-lay scattered. Most of the dead had been cut or pierced by a blade of some sort, though the skulls of one or two had been bashed in. And here, too, vapor rose from gaping wounds and spilled entrails steaming.

Arrow yet nocked, Tipperton came to the porch. Half on, half off the planking, another Ruck lay dead. And to the left and slumped against the door lay two bodies. The one on top was a Hlok-Rucklike but taller and with straighter limbs-pierced through by a sword, his body yet impaled by the blade; he still clutched a bloody tulwar in his dead hand. As to the other body, the one on the bottom, it -groaned -His heart leaping in alarm, Tipperton yanked his bow to the full and Wait! It's a man, a Human. Oh, Adon, look at the blood flowing.

Tipperton set his bow aside and, straining, dragged the dead Hlok from atop the Human.

Jostled, the man opened his eyes, then closed them again.

Got to get him inside. Tipperton lifted the door latch and pushed. It did not yield. Nitwit! It's barred!… Wait, the window! Swiftly, Tipperton stepped across the man and to the shattered jamb and broke out the remaining shards yet clinging to the frame. Then he clambered through, cutting a foot as he stepped on the glass fragments lying on the inside. Twice a nitwit!

Hobbling, he moved to the door and slid back the bar and raised the latch, the door swinging back as the weight of the man pushed it open and he slumped inward and lay half in, half out of the chamber. Struggling, Tipperton managed to drag the man the rest of the way inside. His heart yet racing, the buccan stepped back out and retrieved his bow and arrows, then scanned the landscape 'round- Nothing. He stepped back inside, closing the door after.

By the light of the lantern yet sitting on the hearth, Tipperton removed the man's helmet, revealing short-cropped dark hair, and he placed a pillow under the man's head. The man was slender but well built, and appeared to be in his mid-twenties-Though with a Human, I can never tell. Tipperton then ripped cloth to make bandages to bind the man's wounds, and he said aloud, "Look, my friend, I'd get you out of those leathers to fix you up, but I'm afraid that more jostling will only make the bleeding worse, so in places I'll just slit them apart where they're already rent." The man neither opened his eyes nor replied, and Tipperton thought him unconscious. The buccan then began swathing the man's cuts as well as he could-slicing open sleeves and pant legs, and unlacing the front of the leather vest and the jerkin beneath, all to get at the wounds to bind them-though crimson seeped through the wrappings even as he moved from one bleeding gash to the next.

Now the man opened his eyes, eyes such a pale blue as to seem nearly white. He looked at Tipperton and then whispered, "Runner."

"Wh-what?"

"Horse."

"Oh." Tipperton shifted to the next wound, then said, "I'm sorry, but the horse is dead."

The man sighed and closed his ghostly eyes.

Quickly, Tipperton bandaged the last of the man's cuts and covered him with blankets. Then he threw off his nightshirt, now soaked with blood, and began flinging on clothes. "I've got to get you some help. A healer. There's one nearby."

As the buccan stomped his cut foot into the other boot and then stood and drew on his cloak, the man opened his eyes once more and raised a hand and beckoned.

Tipperton crossed over and knelt down beside him.

Staring deep into Tipperton's jewellike sapphirine eyes, the man seemed to come to some conclusion, and he struggled to unbuckle his leather gorget. With Tipperton's help, he at last got the neck guard free, and from 'round his throat and over his head he lifted a token on a leather thong. "East," he whispered as he pressed the token-plain and dull grey, a coin with a hole in it-into the buccan's hand. "Go east… warn all… take this to Agron."

Tipperton frowned in confusion. "Agron? Who-? No, wait. You can explain later." He slipped the thong over his own head and tucked the coin down his shirt. "Right now I'm going after a healer."

" 'Ware, Waldan," whispered the man, his pale eyes now closed. "There's more… out there."

Tipperton drew in a deep breath, then said, "I'll take my bow."

The man did not reply.

Tipperton stood up to his full three foot four inch height and momentarily looked down at the man. Then he snatched up his bow and quiver and blew out the lantern light-Don't want a beacon calling to Rucks-and slipped out the door, closing it behind. He slid to the right and paused in the shadows, his gaze searching for foe. Finding none, he glided upslope across the clearing and in among the trees, the buccan shunning the two-track wagon lane, seeking instead the shelter of the forest alongside. Then he began running, his black hair streaming out behind, his feet flying over the snow, Tipperton Thistledown racing in virtual silence, as only a Warrow can run.