Dennis McKiernan - Into the fire

A Ruptish horn blatted, and out from the surrogate's tent a man was led by a Ghul toward a waiting Helsteed. The man bore a bundle of some sort under one arm, and he was boosted onto the 'steed by the Ghul.

"Modru's eyes and ears," growled Bekki.

"Modru's voice," added Loric.

"An abomination," said Phais.

"When we ride to battle," said Bekki, "he is the one we should seek and slay."

Beau shuddered but said nought.

Among the Spawn a second Ghul, this one mounted, reached down and grasped the reins of the surrogate's 'steed and rode out and away from the Swarm and toward the Dendorian west gate, the man trailing after.

On the near side of the surrogate's Helsteed loped a Ruck bearing the grey flag of truce, and on the far side trotted another, the flag on his pole waving black.

The man himself held his bundle close and gestured toward the city ahead.

They came to the foot of the bridge above the moat and stopped. As the Rucks planted the flagstaffs in the snow, of a sudden the Gargon's fear completely ceased.

Beau took in a deep breath of relief, and Phais reached out for Loric's hand. Bekki merely grunted.

The Ghul backed his Helsteed alongside the surrogate's, and turned toward the man, and of a sudden the man thrust the bundle into the air, parts of it dangling down.

"Elwydd," breathed Phais.

"What is it?" asked Beau.

"A corpse," gritted Loric. "It is a corpse he holds on' high."

"Oh my. But why would Modru display a corpse?"

"Terror," growled Bekki. "He seeks to drive terror into the hearts of those he faces."

Beau frowned. "I would think the Gargon enough to do that."

Loric glanced down at the buccan. "He uses the corpse as an example should Agron not bend to his will."

Beau's mouth formed a silent O.

And down below in the distance, still did the mounted surrogate sit before the wall, now gesturing up toward the men above the western gate, now gesturing out and away.

"What do they say?" asked Beau.

"No doubt he demands their surrender," gritted Bekki, his knuckles white on his war hammer.

Now the surrogate flung up a hand, and atop the walls men collapsed to their knees while others ran, and before the gate the flag-bearing Rucks fell to the snow and groveled, and though distant were they all, shrieks of terror could be heard even up on the ridge. "The Horror throws all his dread at them," said Phais.

Suddenly the pulse of fear returned to the comrades, as in the distance the surrogate was led away from the gate and toward his tent along the western periphery.

"Oh my," gasped Beau, "how awful; it's back. I wonder if I'll ever get used to being afraid."

That evening during the last of Beau's watch, even as fire arrows sailed up into the gathering night from each of Dendor's four gates, Phais came running silently up the slope.

With Rucken drums thudding afar and Gargon dread threading through his very soul, "What is it?" called Beau, even more alarmed.

"Hsst, take cover," said Phais, grabbing him by the arm.

"Cover?" Beau clutched his sling all the tighter.

As the Dara hauled him in among the trees, she hissed, "Aye, someone or something comes through the vale behind."

In Beau's mind flashed the ill-formed image of a half-seen monster in Drearwood, a monster that had come crunching 'cross the ice toward Tip and him to nearly kill them both.

One day left, one day, and where are the Dwarves?

Tip paced atop the ramparts, unable to sleep. Oh, he had tried, but slumber would not come, and so in the can-dlemarks before mid of night he arose from his bed and dressed and took up his bow and quiver of arrows and walked from the castle to the walls.

And now he paced along them, fretting, worrying, his heart thudding with Gargon fear, or perhaps with the dread of what the morrow would bring.

Now and again he clambered up to the weapons shelf and by the light of the half-moon sinking low in the west he peered out at the Swarm and the massive siege engines beyond and wondered how such a great force with their mighty tools of war could be thwarted.

And all the while a deep Rucken drum boomed incessantly.

In the southeast quadrant as Tip paced he came upon Brud, the Dendorian warrior leaning on his hands in the crenel between flanking merlons and peering outward.

"Captain," said Tip, as he drew near.

Brud turned. "Sir Tipperton, I did not hear you come."

"Argh, but who could hear aught above that Squamish beat?" said Tip.

Brud shook his head. "I think, Sir Tipperton, e'en were it dead silent, I would not likely have heard, for 'tis said the Litenfolk move so quiet that whispers sound as shouts by compare."

Tip grinned. "Well, captain, I don't know about that, but we Warrows do step softly."

The buccan climbed up to the shelf and looked out through the adjacent crenel. Then he sighed and said, "There are so many of the foe, it seems they would have attacked weeks past, what with those mighty towers and such, rams too."

Brud made a negating gesture. "Nay, Sir Tipperton. Had they attacked weeks past, we would have given them a battle dire, and though we might have lost, still we would have devastated them. Instead they seek to grind our spirits down and make the victory all the easier."

"Grind down?"

"Aye. The drums, the horns, the casting of fire, the hurling of hacked-apart corpses into the city, the dark illness… but most of all, the relentless Gargon fear. These things, they sap the will, the spirit, the strength of even the most resolute."

"But what about them?" asked Tipperton, motioning toward the Swarm. "I mean, they also seem to fear the Gargon. Won't it sap their will as well?"

"Aye, but that monster directs the force of his regard toward Dendor, and 'tis we who suffer the most."

"Oh, I see."

Tip sighed, and the two of them stood together for long moments more, while the fires of the Swarm died down. After a while, Brud said, "You spoke a word: Squamish."

Tip grinned. "It comes from Squam, a Dwarven word. My friend Bekki oft says it when he refers to the Spawn."

Brud nodded. "I like that word Squam; it seems to speak volumes."

They stood awhile longer. The half-moon set. Mid of night had come. And still drum thudded and dread flowed.

Brud turned to Tipperton. "The morrow will be hard enough without being worn from lack of rest. I'm for bed, and you should be, too."

"I think I'll remain awhile," said Tip, the buccan still too keyed-up to rest.

"As you will, my friend," said Brud, "and I bid you good night." The captain then stepped away, leaving Tip alone… but for the men of the night watch ringing the ramparts all 'round.

And after long moments more, Tip resumed his pacing and fretting, and ever did his eye turn to the south where stood the ridge-Where are Valk and his army? Have they fallen to ill fortune?-but a signal, if any, would come in the deeps ere dawn, awhile from now.

Candlemarks fled, false dawn came and went, and then the fires of the Swarm disappeared completely, as if they had all been… snuffed out.

And about the city, the great Rucken drums began to beat.

What…?

More candlemarks eked by, and then Tip heard What is it?

– under the thud of drums I can almost make out…

– a squeak and rumble, as of axles turned by ponderous wheels.

And peering by starlight he could see… shadow on shadow… motion… something dark in the dark moving… something huge.

Oh lor', the siege engines!

In that moment a bugle sounded within the walls, a bugle answered by another, and another still.

It was a call to arms.

A call to muster.

A call to defend the walls.

And these clarions were answered by the blats of maggot-folk horns and the howls of the Swarm raised in a wordless collective yawl. thwack!