Dennis McKiernan - Into the fire

Holding tight to the ponies' reins to keep them from bolting away, Beau's face wrinkled in disgust. "Lor', it smells like a snake's den."

Pulling on the slice of leather, Tip made the final cut through the tent with his knife. The strip came free. "There." He held up the strap. "Crude, but perhaps I can make do after a bit of trimming."

He glanced at Beau's twisted visage and burst out laughing. "I say, Beau, you look as if you just swallowed a stinkbug."

Beau grinned. "I think I'd rather that than this." He gestured at the tent.

Tip canted his head. "Aye. But the Gargon himself smells worse. Like a monstrous viper-putrid rot and diseased blood and a hideous coppery tang you can't seem to clear from your tongue. Would you like to see him?"

Beau blanched. "Oh, Tip."

"He's dead, you know, his head on a pike, at Agron's side in the battle," said Tipperton, now squatting on the hard-frozen ground and slicing away on the strap.

"Is that what that terrible thing was?" asked Beau. "I didn't know, though wherever it was borne it seemed to take the heart out of the foe when they saw it coming."

"Yet they still fight," said Tip.

"Aye, but much less savagely." Beau watched as Tip trimmed the leather. "Say, how was it killed? -The Gar-gon I mean."

"Spitted by a spear. Imongar killed him."

Beau frowned. "This Imongar, a mighty champion, eh?"

"Well, I wouldn't exactly call her a-"

"Her? The Gargon was killed by a her?"

"Indeed," said Tip. "Shot the Gargon with a ballis-"

"Is she one of these Jordian warrior maidens I've heard about? Or did one of those great strapping Baeron women come here? Bwen perhaps?"

Tip shook his head. "No, Beau; Imongar is a Mage."

"A Mage? Did she kill him with magic?"

"I don't think so, though she did shriek something and the spear hit the Gargon dead center."

"Magic," said Beau, nodding sagely. Then-"Oh, speaking of magic, what about the coin? Was it an amulet or some such?"

"No, Beau, it was merely a summons: from Blaine to Agron. They were boyhood chums. I'll tell you about it later."

"Huah," said Beau, his face falling in disappointment, "I was hoping it was somehow charmed."

"It wasn't," said Tip, "and for that I'm glad." Then he glanced at his black wristband. "One thing, though, the man who gave me the coin, the one who was slain at my mill, he was Dular, King Agron's own son."

"Oh my," breathed Beau, his features now falling to sadness.

Silence fell between them as Tip made a final cut, and only the distant clang of battle disturbed the quiet.

Finally Beau said, "Where is this headless Gargon?"

"Yon," replied Tipperton, pointing with the knife, "east a ways."

"I say," said Beau, peering, "who are those big warriors standing in a ring? They look formidable. And why aren't they in the fight? Better that than guarding the headless corpse of a Gargon, I would say."

Tip laughed. "Magic, Beau, guarding some of the wounded, it's magic come to light. And come to think of it"-Tip held up the strap and frowned at it and then nodded-"I'd rather we go for slingstones and rejoin the battle than to walk through those magical phantoms just to see a dead Gargon with no head, as wondrous as that may be." Tip stood and slipped his knife back into its sheath.

"All right," said Beau, handing Tip's reins over to him and then mounting up. "Follow me to the rocks, and then we'll join up with Loric and Phais and Bekki."

And so, off to the creek galloped the two buccen to gather up slingstones, and then back to the fight, where their bullets hurtled into the Foul Folk, one of the wee slingsters significantly more deadly than the other.

Time and again they returned to the creek, breaking through the ice to fish through new pockets of pebbles, and their fingers suffered the worse for it.

And the sun.rose up in the sky, and as the noontide came, away fled the last of the Swarm, scattering in all directions. None of the Allies, as weary as they were, gave more than a token chase; not even the Dwarves of Kachar long pursued their enemies of old fleeing across the plains.

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.