Dennis McKiernan - Into the fire

Nine more days passed and rumors flew, for every day the captains came muttering from the war room, and rumor had it that the king had been driven mad by the death of his son Dular.

During these same nine days, the battlefield was cleared of bodies, and funeral pyres were set aflame, for the earth was yet frozen even though the last of these days was the twenty-first of March: spring had come unto the land though snow yet covered all.

And out on the snowy plains under a waning gibbous moon, on Springday night Tip, Beau, Phais, and Loric paced the Elven rite of the turning of the seasons, while in the distance nigh the city walls the last of the funeral pyres burned scarlet as women and children wept and Dwarves and men tore at their beards and beat their chests and swore vengeance dire.

On the third day following the last of the battlefield funerals, most of the Dwarven army rode away, wagons bearing their wounded among them, for they hoped to cross the Argon ere that river thawed… or to cross on the Kaagor Ferry if its rebuilding were done, for Valk had left behind crafters to do so in anticipation of the army's return. Only DelfLord Valk and a few of his warriors remained in Dendor, for there was to be a ceremony held in the throne room, and the honored DelfLord would attend. Too, Tip and Beau were invited, along with Phais and Loric and Bekki, as well as a host of others.

That evening, the Warrows were dressed in their finest, though it was but a spare set of clean clothes, their goods having been fetched by Bekki from their abandoned camp on the south ridge. When Bekki had returned with their belongings, the first thing Tip had examined had been his marvelous Elven lute, finding it no worse for the wear, and yet in tune even though cold to the touch. But now he set the instrument aside and made his way with the others unto the great throne room.

The chamber was thronged with people and filled with a babble of sound-men, women, Dwarves, others, milling about and in noisy converse while waiting for the king.

"Adon, but I can hardly hear myself think," Beau called above the gabble when they came in among the clamorous press.

Pushing through the crowd, Tip and Beau eventually found themselves among the Mages, splendid in flowing robes.

Beau looked up at Letha. "I say," he called, nearly shouting to be heard, "could you teach me that trick of yours? -Stopping bleeding, I mean. It would be most handy for me to know, being a healer and all."

Letha gazed with brown eyes down at the tiny buccan and called back, "I am afraid not only would you need long training to master such, but a touch of wild magic as well."

"Wild magic?"

Letha brushed a stray lock of her brown hair away from her eyes, then leaned down and spoke into his ear. "Aye, unless you can see, that is."

"Oh no," groaned Beau. ". I've heard of it before. From Delgar."

"Delgar?"

Beau nodded.,," A Mage."

"Oh, I know who Delgar is. I was just wondering where you came across him."

"In the Bosky. -The Boskydells, that is. He was passing through when I was but a stripling. I must have been about twelve; that would make it some eleven years back, or so. He gave me a book about herbs and simples and philters and physicks and medicks and got me apprenticed to a healer in Willowdell, he did. -And say, you know him?"

"Indeed," replied Letha. "He is my sire."

"Oh my," said Beau -but in that moment a staff knelled thrice upon the marble floor, and a voice rang out above the babble, "My lords and ladies and honored guests, all kneel before King Agron, son of Morgon and sire of slain Dular."

Silence fell, and the crowd pushed back from the central aisle, a multitude closing about the buccen. And all in the assembly but Phais and Loric and DelfLord Valk fell to their knees, ladies included.

Dressed in red, a black band on his left wrist, King Agron paced through the lane opened and toward his throne, while down on one knee beside Tip and amid the throng, Beau leaned this way and that, trying to peer past the men and women and Dwarves. "I can't see a thing down here," he muttered to Tip. "-Can you?"

"Not at all," whispered Tip. "Much like when we were running after the Gargon. I couldn't see a thing there either, down among the Big Folk as it were."

"Well, they ought to put us up front, or let us stand, or something that would put our eyes on level with the others," grumbled Beau.

Tip merely shrugged.

From the direction of the throne, King Agron called out, "My lords, ladies, and honored guests, please rise."

As they all stood, Beau whispered, "Come on, let's move to where we can see." And he and Tip looked all 'round for a way through the press.

"We are gathered here to celebrate our victory over the forces of darkness," began Agron…

Hemmed about on all sides by Big Folk, Beau finally dropped to hands and knees and with Tip following began to crawl among polished boots and around the flowing hems of full skirts belled out with petticoats and hoops, people looking down in consternation and drawing aside as the two Warrows came crawling by.

"… without the help of DelfLord Valk and his legion it would have been nigh impossible…" continued Agron, as the buccen crawled on, now nearing the central aisle, only to find it occupied, lords and ladies and warriors and guests having moved therein. Beau turned rightward, now crawling toward the throne.

"… and it was Lady Mage Imongar who loosed the spear that slew the Gargon…"

A cheer rang out above Agron's words, and still the buccen crawled forward.

"… and I name her a Heroine of the Realm…"

Again a cheer rang out, and the crowd parted to make way for Imongar to come to the throne, only to reveal two Warrows down on hands and knees crawling forward.

"Unh, Beau," hissed Tipperton, slowly clambering to his feet, his face flushed red with embarrassment.

Beau crawled on.

"Beau," hissed Tip again, louder.

"What? What? We're almost there," replied Beau.

Led by the king, the crowd burst out in laughter.

Beau looked up… and then tried to sink through the floor.

'Mid the hoots and howls and giggles and titters, Imongar limped to the prostrate buccan and reached down to help him rise.

Many were praised that night:

DelfLord Valk of Kachar was singled out, the flag of that Dwarvenholt to henceforth hang in a place of honor in the throne room of Aven.

The Mages of Black Mountain were lauded: Delander and Ridich for their burning destruction of the siege towers; Veran for the phantasmal warriors rushing at the Swarm to make the Rupt bolt; Letha for rounding up the ponies and for her healing hand; Imongar for the slaying of the Gargon and her leadership thereafter, though she told all that Tipperton Thistledown, stabbing her in the leg as he had done and yanking her about by the hair, he was the one who truly deserved the credit for the Gargon's demise; and lastly, Mage Alvaron, for ere he was slain he had been their leader, and more than once in the days before had protected the Dendorian warriors from the Gargon's dread.

Others were honored as well-captains, warriors, healers, advisors-but none so praised as the five who had come bearing a coin: two Litenfolk, two Alfs, and a Dvarg. For without them the Dvagfolk of Kachar would not have come. Without them Dendor would have fallen. And without especially Sir Tipperton Thistledown, all would now be dead.

Tip was summoned to the throne dais, and when he stood beside the king, calls of Speech! and Halla et tal! rang out.

Tipperton frowned and looked out at the crowd and raised his hands. When silence fell, he said, "No single person alone is responsible for a victory or even for a defeat. If you would praise anyone, then I say, praise each and every single one who stands against Modru and his ilk. Together we will cast him down."