King Agron turned.
'A ruse,' said Veran. 'Let me at the viewing port.'
Dng!
'What's he doing?' hissed Tipperton, the wee buccan down among the men and trying to peer past. 'I can't see.'
'He readies a casting,' replied Imongar.
'Oh, goodness.'
'Here,' muttered Alvaron, bending over and lifting Tipperton up.
Tip held his breath and squinted his eyes and turned his head slightly aside in trepidation, for magic was about to be loosed.
Dng!
And Veran at the port muttered, 'Casus incendio!'
Yaaaaah! Shrieks and wrauls came from without, and King Agron bellowed, 'By damn, I said no fire from above! It will only delay us.'
Without turning, Veran said, ' Tis not true fire, my lord, but instead a mere glamour of fire cascading down which dwarves to rout the Spaunen.' Veran paused, then added,
'I believe we can go now. Fear not the fire, for it does not burn.'
The side postern was flung open, and crying For king and Dular! Agron and half his captains and men charged outward, swords and axes ready to rive, maces and morning stars to bash, but the foe was gone, abandoning the ram and pavises and fleeing back across the stone bridge and into an angry sheeting of crossbow bolts sissing down from the walls above.
Of a sudden the inner portcullis began to squeal upward, and the drawbar of the main gate slid aside and men sprang forward to open the portal. As Alvaron lowered Tipperton back to the cobbles, the iron panels swung wide, and lurid scarlet light flooded into the passage, turning it a ghastly bloody red.
For king and Dular! shouted the men in the tunnel, surging forward, Tipperton surging forward as well, only to stop dead in his tracks, for the soldiers in the lead strode into burning flames, or so it seemed. And midst the conflagration, fire bellowed up and whirled about the crew who shoved against a huge battering ram, pushing it back and away, back over the bridge to unblock the span, a span now guarded by Agron and others, while in the distance Hloks fled. Other men hurled aside the pavises, abandoned by the fleeing Rupt. And beyond the ram, yet other men cast dead Foul Folk off the bridge and into the flaming moat, the Spaunen brought down by crossbow quarrels as they had run away.
Out from the tunnel surged the men, and into the flames wheeled the ballista, the weapon they hoped would slay the dreadful Gargon.
Now following, Tip drew back as he came to the fire, and Imongar, standing within the blaze, turned and beckoned to the Warrow and held out her hand to him.
His heart thudding-whether from fear of fire or from the Gargon's cast or from fear of magic, Tip did not know-the buccan screwed his courage to the sticking point and stepped within.
The world all around him roared with raging blaze, yet it touched him not. Even so he rushed forward, running ahead, passing the wheeled ballista, the buccan trying not to scream.
And then he was beyond the illusory flames and onto the stone span, and still ruddy fire roared up and about, yet this was from the burning moat and real, and scorching heat hammered at the Warrow.
Even so, even though true fire was but an arm's span away, even though scathing incandescence blasted against his exposed skin trying to incinerate this fool, it could not reach him on the stone bridge, and now only the dread cast by the Gargon made his hammering heart race.
Waves of black smoke from the flaming moat billowed over the bridge and, coughing and hacking, his nostrils filled with the thick smell of burning oil, Tipperton pressed forward, to come to the foot of the bridge.
He turned to see where the ballista was and gasped, for behind stood the high stone walls of Dendor, the raging fire in the moat casting its ruddy light over all for as far as the eye could see.
It seemed a city aflame.
And eastward, yowling Rucks and Hloks and Ghfils swarmed toward a massive siege tower and upward, toward the ramp above which spanned from tower to top of wall, a ramp bridging high above the flames of the burning oil.
And up on the wall, men quailed back, some to flee screaming.
The Gargon! Tip turned and looked southerly to see where the dreadful creature was, yet all he saw by the wavering light was but an abandoned dark tent.
No, you fool! Look straight out from the tower! Tip looked east to the place at the wall where the men had fled and Foul Folk were now pouring over the battlement, and then he swung his gaze outward… and his heart leapt to his throat Adon! There it is!
But not alone!
– for a company of Foul Folk marched well before and another company trailed a distance after. And the Ghath, the Gargon, the Draedan, the Horror, ponderously strode eastward, its dreadful stare locked on the wall above, casting frightful terror upward to drive the men screaming away, leaving great sections of the parapet undefended.
And beyond that tower stood another, Foul Folk gathered at the base and waiting.
Oh Elwydd, that's the plan! To swarm into the city a tower at a time, the Gargon opening the way.
'One side, Waldan!' came a shout, and Tip looked to see the ballista rolling out from the illusory flames, men pushing.
Tipperton ran onward and past the great r.am now being shoved to one side.
And then Tip realized, The scaling ladders, the rams at the gates, they are but a ruse; the real invasion pours over the wall at the towers.
'King Agron,' called Tip as he came to the King and his men guarding the way, 'the Gargon moves yon.'
Agron glanced at the Warrow. 'Aye, we see him and his escort.'
Now the men pushed the ballista onto the snowy plain, turning east at the king's command.
'Hurry,' called Tipperton, 'the Gargon, he's already at the next tower.'
And on the wall at that second tower, men shrieked and fled along the parapet and away, while Ghuls led the yowling Foul Folk across the now-bridging ramp.
And still at the first tower, howling Rupt clambered up to pour over the wall, shouting men now returning to fight valiantly, attempting to hurl back those already on the banquette. Yet the baying Spaunen pressed forward, for Ghuls in the fore took terrible wounds which affected them not, while the wounds to the men were deadly.
Down on the plain eastward at a run pressed the king and men and Mages and one lone Warrow, the ballista trundling among them. But the massive Gargon, unaware of pursuit, now came to the third tower.
And once again the men above fled screaming, while howling Rupt clambered up the framework, the ramp to thud down upon the merlons, bridging from tower to wall. Led by the Ghuls, across swarmed the Foul Folk, while down below the Gargon with its fore and aft convoy moved onward, striding widdershins about the city, the massive creature stalking through rolling black smoke and crimson light cast by burning oil.
'Oh hurry, hurry,' panted Tipperton, his breath blowing white in the winter air, the buccan running down among the men and alongside the ballista, fear pulsing in his veins, the wee Warrow unable to see past the tall Dendorians, but for a glimpse now and then. And so he did not know how near or far was the foe, until of a sudden the wedge of men crashed into the rear escort.
'For Dular!' shouted Agron, his sword riving.
For king and Dular! shouted the Dendorian warriors, swords and axes, maces and morning stars bashing aside dhals and sipars and tulwars and scimitars and cudgels, the Foul Folk taken by surprise from behind, but turning to meet the attack even as the men smashed through.
His heart hammering with fear, Tipperton leapt onto the ballista platform to gain height, hoping to catch sight of the Gargon and let fly a shaft from his Elven bow, yet as small as he was, he could not see over the battle raging all 'round, as yelling men and shrieking Rupt now crashed to and fro, bashing, cleaving, crushing, steel rending, steel bludgeoning into flesh, bone, brain, muscle, and gut.
From somewhere blatted a Squamish horn, and in the fore the Gargon slowed and paused and began to turn.
