'Where do you think he is now?' asked Beau, looking up at the wheeling stars and trying to gauge the time.
'In these candlemarks ere mid of night,' said Phais, 'if all has gone well, he should be nigh Dendor's south gate.'
'If all has gone well? Oh, don't say that, Dara. I mean, there's no cause to bring down misfortune on his head. Surely all has gone well.'
Tipperton continued winding his way among elements of the Swarm, turning aside when maggot-folk seemed to be stepping toward him, turning aside as well when it seemed someone was following after.
And still dread pulsed through his veins and still his heart hammered, and still his breath came in gasps, but less so than before, for the black tent was nearly an eighth of a circle behind. Even so, Terror paced alongside the buccan, keeping him company on his perilous path.
'He is probably lying in hiding nigh the south gate and waiting for dawn,' said Bekki, 'the flag of Kachar in hand.'
'Oh, do you think so?' said Beau, glancing again at the starry sky.
Bekki, too, looked upward, just in time to see a streak of fire race overhead.
'Oh look!' cried Beau. 'A falling star. Make a wish, make a wish.'
The Warrow turned to Bekki, only to find the Dwarf with his hood cast over his head and staring at the snowy ground.
'What is it, Bekki? What's wrong?'
But Bekki refused to say, and he turned his back to the city.
Tipperton worked his way toward the fringe of the Swarm, peering ahead to see where he might slip out from the ring and toward the west gate.
And he gasped, for another tent stood in his path. Yet no dread washed over him, and no reek of vipers filled the air. Instead this shelter was warded… by Ghuls, no less.
7 wonder-? Oh my, perhaps it's another of Modru's surrogates. Yes, bucco, I believe you are right: it has to be the tent of a surrogate. If Bekki were here he'd say, 'Kill him now and take away Modru's eyes and ears and voice.' Yes, that's what he'd say. But me, I've other things to do.
Seeking to find a way 'round, Tip was shunted aside by a tramping squad of Rucks.
Stepping leftward, Tip passed nigh the rear of the tent. And from inside he could hear a whispering and hissing in a tongue he did not know.
Modru in council?
Again Tip turned aside as a Ghul came walking near.
'It means, Beau, that someone he knows has died.' Beau looked up at Loric in alarm. 'Oh no. Do you think it could be Tip?' Beau stared down at Dendor, as if willing his sight to fly overland to wherever Tip might be. Yet though false dawn glimmered in the sky, only shadow 'round the city met his gaze, darkness relieved but slightly by the brittle stars high above and the campfires of the Foul Folk below.
Loric turned up his hands. 'All Drimma believe that falling stars foretell of fallen friends.'
'Wull, let's just hope it's nothing but wild superstition,' said Beau, the buccan pacing back and forth while peering down at the city. 'Oh, Loric, I told Tip it was a harebrained scheme, and now we have falling stars. And you tell me the Dwarves-oh, surely it can't be true. I mean, stars fall all the time.' Beau turned to Loric for confirmation, but Loric was looking at Bekki sitting beneath a tree some distance away, the Dwarf with his hood cast over his head in mourning.
At last Tipperton reached the inner fringe of the Swarm. Ahead some quarter mile or so stood the west gate of Dendor. His heart yet pulsing with the distant dread of the Gargon, Tip looked for a way across. Yet this perimeter was more heavily patrolled, maggot-folk marching the verge. Too, sentries stood watch along this periphery.
Oh lor', but I'll never get out unseen.
Tip glanced at the sky above. False dawn glimmered.
Elwydd, show me the way.
And then to the left, a figure, a Ruck, walked past a sentry and out and down into a shallow gully, while another came trudging back, fastening his breeks as he came from the meager draw. The picket paid little heed.
Tip moved closer and the reek of feces and urine wafted on the air.
Sucking in a deep breath and making certain that his hood was well about his face, Tip hefted the standard and with his stomach squinching he walked past the warder and into the draw, past a Hlok voiding his bladder, past a Ruck defecating, past them all and to the distant end of the gully -where he squatted behind an outcropping of rock and waited, trying with little success to ignore the reeking fumes.
In the last of the darkness before dawn, Beau sat on the ridge with his back to a tree, the dread of the Gargon pulsing in his veins, his stomach roiling with anxiety. He cast his eyes to the night sky above, winter-bright stars coldly glittering.
Oh, Adon, Elwydd, Garlon, Fyrra, and anyone else who cares, watch over Tip. Keep him safe. He's my best friend, you know.
Staying low and taking advantage of every fragment, every fraction, every scrap of cover-dips in the ground, scatters of rock, ditches alongside the road-Tip crawled through the snow toward the west gate, still hundreds of yards away. Pausing by a winter-dead bush, Tip caught his breath and looked back toward the Swarm. He found he was more or less halfway between death at the hands of the Rucks who would kill him for a Warrow and death at the hands of the men who would kill him for a Ruck.
Gritting his teeth, Tip crawled on, the sky in the east turning pale.
'Watch the south gate with your eagle eyes, Phais,' said Beau, the buccan's own eyes bloodshot and red- rimmed, his face haggard. 'Surely you'll see if-no! surely you'll see when Tip goes in.'
'I will,' replied the Dara.
'As will I,' said Loric.
And the four of them stood atop the ridge and peered down at the south gate, as dawn came to the sky.
Moments passed and moments more, and the gate remained shut.
'Oh no,' groaned Beau. 'He's been captured, he's been captured… or something worse.'
Phais knelt and placed an arm about the buccan's shoulders and drew him to her. 'Take heart, wee one.'
'Huah!' grunted Bekki. 'Look left. Something stirs.'
' 'Tis Ghuls on Helsteeds,' said Loric, staring. Then his eyes widened. 'Ai, look now, but they do race through the shadows aslant and toward the west gate of Dendor.'
Chapter 8
Ding! Dng! Tip, his hood cast back, hammered the butt of the flagpole against the iron of the enshadowed west gate deep-set in the stone walls of Dendor.
'I'm not a Ruck! I'm not a Ruck!' he shouted in Common over and again as-Dng! Dng!-he pounded on the metal door, flakes of hoarfrost scaling down.
Iron scraped on stone left and right and above, and dimly Tip saw the steel points of crossbow quarrels aimed at him from unshuttered dark arrow slits to each side, and murder holes overhead now yawned wide in the gloom above.
'I am not a Ruck! I am not a Ruck!' cried Tip, waving the standard back and forth-a black flag bearing crossed silver axes-the emblem of Kachar.
A slot in the iron gate slid aside. Eyes peered out to see the fluttering banner sweeping back and forth.
'Vad ar det heir?' growled a voice, and then the eyes shifted down. 'Jo, jo! Ar det a Rutch?'
