Dennis McCiernan - Into the Forge

To the rim they all rushed, and far to the east and on the slopes of a great mountain, a long ribbon of fire shone, twisting its way up the stone.

Loric groaned and Beau asked, "What is it? A forest aflame? What?"

Phais sighed. "Nay, Sir Beau. I ween 'tis instead the missing Horde."

"The Horde?"

"Aye, for 'tis campfires and torchlight we see. They are encamped along the Quadran Road."

"But couldn't it be the Dwarves instead?" protested Tip, grasping at straws. "I mean, after all, it is the Quadran, and Dwarves dwell below."

Loric shook his head. "Nay. Were it the Drimma of Drimmen-deeve, then 'twould not be torches we see, but Drimmen lanterns instead."

"I don't understand."

"Their lanterns illume with a blue-green glow." said Phais. "Yet among the brighter lights of the campfires we see on yon slopes of Coron Mountain are minor glints- the ruddy light of brands, favored by the Foul Folk."

"Oh, no," groaned Tip. "This means we have to go farther south."

"Not necessarily," said Beau. "I mean, they could merely be crossing over."

"The light moves not," growled Loric.

"Well, crossing over on the morrow, then."

"Nay, Sir Beau," said Phais. "I agree with Loric. They are encamped. Too, if they intended to cross over, then they would have done so long past, for they left Dhruous-darda in mid April and now it is mid May. I agree with Sir Tipperton; south we must go."

"To Gunar Slot?" asked Beau.

"Nay, not that pass but to the Dusk Door instead, and seek permission from the Drimma to go the way under."

Now both Tip and Beau groaned.

To the east and south they rode, faring across the open moors. And as they went the land began to rise, for they were bordering upon the foothills of the Grimwall. Four candlemarks they rode, and then four more, heading for the distant vale that would in turn lead them to the western entrance into Drimmen-deeve.

And they rode at a goodly clip, yet at a varying gait, for they must needs husband the strength of the steeds, for the entrance to the vale of Dusk Door lay some fifteen or twenty leagues southeastward-forty-five to sixty miles away-or so Loric said.

"More than one day altogether," groaned Tip.

"Aye," replied Loric. "We must camp tonight."

"I just hope no Vulgs are about," muttered Beau to himself, his hand touching the pocket holding the silver container of gwynthyme.

Through the hills they wended, ever bearing southeastward, and the land grew rougher as they went, and now and again they could glimpse Quadran Road wending upward over the pass, and although the Warrows could but vaguely make out movement thereon, both Loric and Phais with their keener sight assured them that it was indeed a Horde. And onward the foursome rode.

"I say," piped up Beau as through a slot in the foothills he again glimpsed the Quadran Road, "isn't this bringing us closer to the Rucks and such?"

"Aye, it is," responded Loric. "Nevertheless, 'tis the quickest way to our goal."

"Fear not, Sir Beau," said Phais. "The Horde is well in the pass, and we are reasonably away from its flanks."

"Adon, but I hope she's right," muttered Beau, as they turned among great rounded stones and skirted thickets and rode along the faces of low-walled sheer bluffs.

But at last, as the day drew to an end, they came into a set of low rounded hills, the slopes thick with silver birch trees.

"Here we camp," said Loric, and set camp they did.

That night, again the torchlight blazed, though now it was closer, much closer.

"Oh, my," exclaimed Beau, "it looks as if we are on their very doorstep. How far away would you judge they are?"

Loric pointed. "That way, two miles by your measure, is the place where the Quadran Road splits off from the Old Way to ascend into the pass above. Mayhap the fringe of the Horde encamps there."

Beau swallowed. "Lor", I don't think I'm going to sleep well at all."

The next morning, bleary-eyed, Tip and Beau were rolling the blankets when Phais hissed, "Be quiet."

Tip looked up at her, and she stood attentively, listening. Yet Tip heard nothing, and he glanced across at Beau, who shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, that buccan too at a loss.

"The battle has begun," said Phais, Loric nodding in agreement. And then they resumed saddling the steeds and lading gear on the packhorses.

Hearing nothing but the faint rustling of birch leaves, again Tip looked at Beau, and received another shrug.

They returned to their tasks.

Out from the birches they rode, and high up in Quadran Pass, they could see a place on the road where it seemed a struggle was taking place. But neither Beau nor Tip could tell which side was which, or even whom the Foul Folk were fighting, though Loric and Phais said 'twas Drimma.

"How can you tell?" asked Beau.

"I can see them well," said Phais.

"Well then, how can we tell who is who? -Tip and me, I mean."

Phais frowned, but Loric said, "Do ye see one side is darker than the other?"

"Unh," grunted Beau, but Tip said, "Oh, yes, now that you mention it, one side is darker-the side on the higher ground."

"They are the Drimma, dressed in their black-iron chain."

"Oh, I see."

No sound came to the buccen from the battle on the mountain, the distance lending the illusion of two vast armies confined to a narrow road, and where they met they battled in eerie silence. Yet both Loric and Phais seemed to hear the conflict.

"Lor'," whispered Beau to Tip, "are their ears that much better than ours?"

"It would seem so," murmured Tipperton.

"I agree as well," said Loric from his place ahead.

Both buccen's eyes flew wide.

South they rode, away from the conflict, now aiming for a vale some fifteen miles removed, a valley that would lead them to the western door into Drimmen-deeve.

Yet neither Tip nor Beau could keep their gazes away from the combat up in the pass. And so they rode, twisting about, ever peering hindward.

After a while Beau said, "Oh, look! I think the Dwarves are winning."

And indeed it seemed that the darker force had pressed the Horde down the mountain somewhat.

Onward they rode another mile, but then Tip said, "What's that in the sky?"

Beau turned and looked back. "Where?"

"Up there, way back along the Grimwalls, one-two-three-four-five, no, six peaks back. Um, moving this way, I think. See it? A silvery speck."

The horses stopped.

"No, I don't see it," growled Beau, nettled. "Six peaks, you say? Counting from where?"

Before Tip could answer, Phais gasped, "Adon, is it true?"

Tip turned to see both Loric and Phais looking back as well, their features pale with shock.

"Six peaks from where?" demanded Beau.

"Is what true?" asked Tip, startled by the grim looks on the faces of the Lian.

"Counting from where?" gritted Beau.

Tip turned to see Beau angrily glaring at him. "Up there, Beau," Tip said, pointing. "See it? Oh, my, it's only five peaks away now, and getting bigger."

Beau gazed up toward where Tip pointed. "Oh, yes," he said at last. "Why, it seems to be a… a silver bird."

"Nay," came Loric's voice. "No bird is that, but a Dragon instead."

Dragon! both buccen gasped simultaneously.

"Settle down, my friends," said Loric. "The Drake is yet far away."

And so the buccen relaxed somewhat and watched as the great beast flew along the Grimwall peaks.

"Skail?" asked Phais. "Or is it Sleeth instead?"

"I know not," replied Loric, "for neither one have I seen before."

"I have seen each," said Phais. "They are much alike. And renegades both, I add."

"Renegades?" asked Beau, glancing at Tip.

"Those who did not take the pledge at Black Mountain," said Tip. "Don't you remember us talking about it back at Arden Vale? 'The Ballad of Arin,' the Dragonstone, and all."