any farther.'
As the sun sank in the west, exhausted, they made camp in the woods to the north of the road and hoped no overburdened tree would fall on them. Tip took first watch, and only by standing and gazing at the new crescent moon sinking in the southwest and by counting the wheeling stars could he but barely stay awake for what he judged to be the requisite eight candlemarks.
Beau did likewise during his own watch-standing and counting the stars.
It was as Tip's second watch was drawing to a close that the tethered ponies began shifting restlessly, their eyes wide, their nostrils aflare. In the starlight Tip peered through the dark tangle of trees, yet he neither heard nor saw a thing. Even so, he awakened Beau, a finger to the buccan's lips.
'Wha-'
'Shhh,' hissed Tip, 'the ponies sense something. Ready your sling.'
Setting an arrow to his bow, Tipperton stepped to the trunk of a tree and waited.
Still the ponies shifted about on the ice, their breath coming heavy as they cleared their nostrils.
Beau slid to a tree opposite Tip, his sling in hand and loaded with a stone.
Now both Warrows heard something heavy coming through the dismal woods, for the ice cracked and shattered under the steps of whatever approached.
The ponies squealed and skittered in fright, their hooves aclatter on the frozen surface. One pulled free and turned to run, only to crash down on the glaze, screaming as something cracked as it fell.
And branches shattered and ice clattered down as something huge came through the dark forest and toward the camp.
'Run!' sissed Tip, turning to flee.
'No!' countered Beau, slipping and sliding toward the wrenching steeds, the one on the ground struggling to rise, yet a hindleg flopped and dangled, bone showing through. 'The ponies, we've got to loose them.'
Cursing, Tip skidded after Beau, and slipped the knot on one of the tethers as Beau slipped the other one. 'Now run!' hissed Tip as the ponies skittered away.
Slipping and sliding on the ice, Tip and Beau fled the opposite way. But they had gone no more than twenty yards when Beau cried out, 'My book!' and turned.
'Beau, don't-!' called Tipperton, but the other buccan was already skidding back toward the camp.
'Damn! Damn! Damn!' cursed Tip, floundering after his comrade.
Beau reached the site and slid toward his saddlebags yet lying on the ice near the squealing, broken-legged pony. And just as he reached them and clawed inside, something monstrous and half-seen in the darkness crashed through the trees and loomed above the buccan, shards and splinters of ice raining down.
In that same instant Tip let fly an arrow, and the thing bellowed and reared up and back and clawed at this thorn in its side.
'Run, Beau!' shrieked Tipperton, and Beau skidded and slid away, his precious red book in hand. Together the Warrows slipped and floundered across the ice and away, a monster's roars echoing behind. And then the woods rang with a high-pitched scream-like a female it sounded, but it was a pony's death cry-followed by the rending of flesh and crunching, slobbering, chewing sounds.
The rest of the night the Warrows lurched across the ice, the ponies gone, the bulk of their goods lost to the monster-but for the clothing they wore and Tip's bow and arrows and Beau's book and sling. Dawn found them floundering easterly, slipping and sliding upon the glaze in the glittering, frozen woods.
'Tip,' panted Beau, 'I'm totally spent. We've got to stop and rest.'
Gasping, Tipperton agreed, able only to nod his head in assent. They sat on the ice beneath a tree and leaned back against the glassy trunk. In mere moments, completely exhausted, Tip was asleep and Beau nodding off.
Yet in that same moment Beau jerked awake, for from somewhere in the near distance to the west there came a dreadful howl.
Chapter 10
Tip, Tip, wake up.'
Beau Darby shook Tip by the shoulder, trying to rouse his companion.
Groggily Tipperton opened bleary eyes.
'Tip, listen. It's Wolves, I think.'
Tipperton groaned but sat up.
Long moments passed, the Warrows listening in the silent, dismal wood. Somewhere in the distance another tree fell, followed by dead quiet.
'Beau, I don't-'
Again came a long, deep-pitched howl.
'Is it a Wolf?' asked Beau.
Tipperton drew in a long breath, then slowly let it out. 'Sounds like one, Beau, though deeper, I think. But I don't believe a Wolf will attack the two of us, especially if it's alone.'
'But what if it's a pack?'
'Look, Beau, at the moment it's some way off, and we need rest. But we also need to stand guard.' Groaning, Tip struggled to rise. 'I'll take the first-'
'No, you won't, bucco,' declared Beau. 'You stood the last watch. Now it's my turn. You sleep. I'll stand ward and keep track of the howls.'
Tip slumped back. 'Wake me in eight candlemarks, when the sun has climbed four hands.'
Beau nodded and sighted on the sun. Holding his arms straight out toward it, he turned his hands inward, stacking one atop the other, counting upward four in all, and sighting on a limb directly in line. 'All right, Tip, when the sun reaches that bough, I'll take my turn at rest.' He looked toward the other buccan, to find him fast asleep.
Beau jerked awake. 'What was th-?'
Another howl sounded, this one nearby.
Floundering up, Beau peered 'round. 'Oh, Lor', I fell asleep, too.' A quick glance at the sun showed it was midafternoon.
Beau turned to waken Tip, to find that buccan sitting up and rubbing his eyes. 'Tip, I'm sorry. I-'
Tipperton's eyes widened, and he put a finger to his lips and held out a shushing hand, then motioned for Beau to duck down, Tip himself flattening against the ice-clad ground and pointing downslope toward the Crossland Road.
Beau's gaze followed Tip's pointing hand, and he gasped and dropped down, for there on the road and some distance away a band of Rucks and a Hlok slowly made their way easterly, following a huge black Wolflike creature. The size of a pony, no Wolf was this but a Vulg instead. The creature cast about, raising its nose in the air, then snuffling against the ice, and slowly, a pace at a time, easterly it stepped, only to stop again and snuffle and scour.
'We've got to go,' sissed Tipperton. 'I think it's tracking us.'
'Where?' hissed Beau, squirming over to Tip. 'I mean, which way?'
'We can't go back to the road,' whispered Tip, glancing over his shoulder and back into the woods, 'so north it is.'
Down the back side of the slope they slithered, and when they were beyond seeing, they crept along, bending low, and moved silently deeper into the glassy tangle of Drearwood. Finally they stood upright to make their way northward, moving as fast as they could over the slippery terrain.
'Try to touch as little as you can, Beau,' said Tip, 'for I think the ice is making it difficult for the Vulg to track us, and the less scent we leave, the better off we are. They say that Vulgs are mainly sight hunters, and so if we keep it from seeing us…' Tip's words fell to silence as he looked for a clear way around a thorny bar.
'Lor', I wish I had some gwynthyme,' said Beau, following Tip as he crawled under a snarl of brittle ice-laden branches.
