Beau, searching among the pebbles, looked up to see where Tip pointed, then he went back to his hunt.

Moments later, in the near distance to the north and east there sounded a resonant horn cry. "Ho," exclaimed Tip, "that's a black-oxen horn. Some of the Vanadurin yet live."

"Would that they were here, bucco," said Beau. "We could use their help right now."

Tip glanced at the quiver at his hip. A lone red arrow rested within, his last vestige of Rynna. Taking a deep breath he stepped to his pack and drew out a small lantern with striker. "Mayhap we can summon some help." Raising the hood, he lit the lantern, a lambent glow to add to the slanting moonlight and suffuse the air atop the crag.

"Oh lor', but what fine targets we are," groaned Beau, as he loaded his sling with his last good fired-clay bullet.

Taking up his Elven bow, Tip set the red shaft to string, and then he jabbed the point of the arrow into the flame of the lantern, as from the nearby hill came an exultant shout.

Whrrr… sounded the spin of Beau's sling as the arrow caught fire, and Tipperton hauled back and aimed the shaft skyward, and loosed, and Beau loosed, and a streak of red soared upward, leaving a long train of fire behind, as a streak of black flew from hill to crag and a spinning bullet flew in reverse.

Ssssss… hissing black death whispered past Tipper-ton's ear Thock! The bullet crashed into the eye of the bow-bearing Ruck, the maggot-folk to pitch backwards down the far slope of the hill, dead as he tumbled slack.

And as Tip watched the scarlet burn fly, Beau stepped to the lantern and blew it out and slammed down the hood. "No need to help them any more than we have to, bucco."

And still the incandescent arrow arced upward, leaving a phosphorescent red streak behind, a glowing trail of sparkling crimson fading in the night.

"Well, Beau, there it goes, shouting that we are here. Let's just hope it's friends who answer and not foe." Tip then looked at his comrade and added, "Though what worries me most, bucco, is that it might be the Gargon who is drawn to this crag instead."

"Here they come again," hissed Beau, cocking an ear to the furtive scrabbling from below.

"You take that half, I'll take this," said Tipperton, gesturing, then springing to his feet.

As Beau started to rise, he cried, "Tip! Look out!" and jerked Tipperton back down just as a black-shafted arrow hissed past in the moonlight. "They've got another archer on the hill."

Tip looked round the shoulder of the boulder they had been leaning against and at the crest of the adjacent hill. "Where?"

"By that tree."

"I don't see- Oh, there he is." Tip turned to Beau. "Can you-?"

Beau shook his head. "Not likely, Tip. My last good bullet was used on the other one, and these stones we've got, well, they stray a lot, especially at long range."

Still the buccen could hear stealthy movement below. "Well then, bucco," said Tip, looking about for the nearest jagged stone, "we'll just have to make ourselves be difficult targets-duck and dodge and dart-else those Foul Folk climbing are like to reach this flat, and rocks and fists are no match for scimitar and cudgel and whatever other weapons they bring."

In the silvery light of the argent half-moon Beau nodded and curled to a crouch, as did Tipperton.

"Ready?" asked Tip.

"Ready," said Beau, lading his sling.

"Then… now!" barked Tip.

And the Warrows darted out from the protection of the boulder, Tip to scoop up a large rock, Beau to run, sling spinning.

A yell came from the adjacent hill, and something sissed past Beau.

Tipperton darted to the edge, the large stone held in two hands, and he peered over the brim of the crag- "Waughr-straight into the face of a Hlok but a foot or so below, the Spawn to yell and throw up an arm as the buccan bashed the rock down on him, the Hlok to plummet screaming into the shadows below, the rock crashing down after.

Dodging and darting and running zigzag, Tip scooped up another stone, for two Rucks climbed just to the left of where the Hlok fell, the pair now clambering up over the edge.

"Beau!" cried Tip, rock in hand, the buccan leaping forward just as a black-shafted arrow sissed through the air where he had been. Tip rushed toward one of the Rucks, as the other shrieked and fell back, Beau's slingstone crashing into his chest, pitching him from the crag.

Rock first, Tip smashed into the second Ruck, knocking him hindward, and as he teetered on the edge, Tip slammed him again, and over the brim the Ruck toppled, screeching as he plunged down the steep, crashing into stone and toppling onward.

With the rock yet in hand, Tip darted along the perimeter, and still more climbers swarmed upward.

Sooner or later a black arrow will get us, either me or Beau, but till then…

He hurled his rock down at a climber, but the plummeting stone missed.

Glancing about, he scooped up another rock, and this time he didn't miss, yet other Spawn kept swarming upward, determined to gain the top and slaughter these two.

Slingstone after slingstone Beau hurled down at the oncoming Foul Folk, some to hit, others to miss. Yet still upward came the foe.

And as Beau laded his sling again, he glanced toward the nearby hill, for no more black shafts came their way. "He's run out of arrows, I think!" Beau shouted, but then in the moonshadows he saw- "Oh lor', Tip, there's more coming."

Down the hill slope and across the sward came small forms running, and shadows in moonshadow as well.

But Tip couldn't look to see, for Rucks and Hloks clawed upward, some reaching the brim, and with his large rock he smashed fingers and hands and wrists and arms groping over the edge, bones shattering, Foul Folk screaming as they tumbled back down.

And then from the shadows below, arrows flew to pierce Ruck backs and maggot-folk fell away shrieking. And yet some tumbled down for no visible reason that either Tip or Beau could see.

And of a sudden the attack was done, all Foul Folk lying dead.

And Tip sat down with a thump, his breath heaving harsh in his throat. And yet he managed to flounder to his feet and stagger toward Beau.

"Is anyone up there still alive?" called a female voice.

"A couple of buccen," cried Beau, standing back from the edge, as yet unwilling to expose himself to whoever it was below. "Who is it down there who's saved us?"

"A couple of buccen? Oh my. I'm a Warrow, too: Rynna Fenrush of Springwater."

"Rynna!" shouted Beau, stepping to the brim. "How can it be? You died at the fall of, of…"

Below in the moonlight stood Rynna, lowering her bow, relaxing the draw, a second Warrow nearby, along with a handful of small shadows shifting about in the moonlight.

"Oh, Rynna, it's me, Beau Darby, and Tipperton, too!"

Beau turned toward Tipperton to find that buccan collapsed to his knees, his face covered in his hands.

And then he looked back down to see Rynna come running forward to scramble up the side.

And somewhere nearby a black-oxen horn sounded, to be answered by Ruptish blats.

And sweeping over all came growing dread as a terrible horror stalked forward.