Linde's eyes flew wide in startlement, for beings of legend-Fox Riders-stood before her. She glanced toward the forest and then to the battle and then back to the wee folk afoot with the Hidden Ones at their side, Hidden Ones no longer hidden.

"Please, Linde," Tipperton beseeched, gesturing at the strife. "They are but the vanguard of the Foul Folk. More are yet on the way, and with them comes the Gargon."

Reluctantly Linde nodded and then her look became resolute and she said, "By Adon and Elwydd I do so pledge the Hidden Ones our secrecy, I and the Vanadurin all." Then she lifted her black-oxen horn to her lips and blew a call, the resonant cry cleaving through the clash of combat.

And as the Harlingar responded to Linde's signal to form up on her, from the distance there answered the collective blats of a score or more brazen trumps, Foul Folk responding in challenge.

And a wash of dread flowed over all.

A Gargon was yet unsatisfied with the horrific extent of the slaughter so far.

As the unremitting fear grew ever stronger, into the darkness of Blackwood went the Vanadurin, the Jordians now afoot and leading their steeds and following Nix, that Warrow bearing a small lantern, its distant light bobbing among the trees like a will-o'-the-wisp leading the Har-lingar within.

And while the warriors and horses passed into the woods, with Linde standing at the eaves of the forest and urging them on. Tip and Rynna and Beau and Farly remained nearby and watched the Spawn in the moonlight aslant, the Foul Folk having drawn back from Darda Erynian to shift and stir among themselves and call out with horns to the oncoming Spawn, those signals growing ever closer…

… as did the pounding fear.

Beau had recovered his pack from Nix, and Tip his own goods from Farly, and as they slung them onto their backs, Tip took a deep breath, his heart racing. "If for some reason they come within, I'll need arrows; I'm all out."

"And I'll need bullets," said Beau, his lips drawn thin with dread, "though I do yet have a few rocks from the crag."

"Farly, how many arrows have you left?" asked Rynna.

"Um, three, five, six altogether, Ryn," he answered.

"And I've four," said Rynna. "I'm afraid we're all of us just about out, Tip. And as for sling bullets, Beau, we have none, though not far ahead there's a stream where we might find suitable pebbles." She turned to Farly. "Give Tip three of your arrows, and I'll give him one of mine."

"Now wait, Rynna," protested Tip. "I can't strip-"

"Nonsense," said the damman. "Better that three of us be winging shafts than just two."

The last of the Harlingar passed by, and Linde said, "That's it. Ninety-seven Vanadurin in all."

"Ninety-seven?" groaned Tip. "Then that means-"

"Nine hundred warriors have fallen to the Foul Folk," gritted Linde, "forty-five score. And they will pay, this I vow." She looked with hatred at the Foul Folk beyond, and then gasped in dismay -for 'round the shoulder of the hill trod the dreadful Gargon.

A seething mass of Rucks and Hloks came after the appalling terror, and those who had been waiting gave way before its hideous power, none able to withstand even its muted fear. Surrounded by allies, still it stalked alone, empty space all around, none of the Spawn able to come nigh; not even the seemingly fearless Ghuls could endure its horrid might.

The Foul Folk who had been waiting called out and pointed toward the Blackwood, and the Gargon turned its terrible gaze upon that mighty forest, and dread poured forth in a torrent, whelming all, nearly felling Linde and the Warrows. But then the fear abated.

"Run!" hissed Tip. "It can't see us, though it knows we are here."

Into the shadows of Darda Erynian they fled.

"Oh Elwydd," hissed Rynna, scrambling backwards and down the slope, Tip and one of the enshadowed Pysks scrambling down after, "it's coming into the forest and bringing the Foul Folk with it. Tipperton, we can't stand against a Gargon. Instead we've got to fetch Lark and the others and flee."

"Lark?"

"Yes. She is-"

Dreadful terror swept over them and past, and both War-rows gasped in fear as it raked by, their hearts hammering in horror. And the small shadow cried out, "Af slait! Adreem!"

Rynna grabbed Tip's arm and pulled him after. "We must follow the Fox Rider."

On into the forest they ran, the darkness-cloaked Pysk on her black-footed fox darting ahead, then pausing to let them catch up, then darting ahead again.

And somewhere behind came terror, four thousand Spawn at its back.

Gasping and wheezing, at last the two Warrows caught up with the retreating column, and onward they strode, following the others deeper into the woods.

"Well?" said Beau, dropping back to walk alongside, his face drawn tight with fear.

"It's coming into the woods," said Tip.

"Bringing what's left of the Horde with it," added Rynna.

"I thought as much," Beau groaned.

And again dread swept past them, as if the Terror used its hideous to search the forest for sign of the fleeing foe.

"Look, Ryn," said Tip, "we can't lead the Gargon to the Springwater Warrows or to the dwellings of the Hidden Ones. We can't expose them to such horror."

"The Pysks have a plan," said Farly.

"A plan?"

Farly nodded. "It seems that one of their own managed to slay a Gargon way back near the end of the First Era, or so says Phero."

"And…?" demanded Rynna.

"Phero now rides to the Eio Wa Suk to ask them to send a message far north and find out how it was done. In the meanwhile we are to keep beyond the dread Gargon's stare."

"You mean run, don't you? Just as we are doing?"

"Yes," replied Farly, "until Phero finds out how 'twas done."

At the tail of the column of fleeing allies, on they pressed through the moonshadowed forest, a bobbing lantern far ahead as Nix continued to lead the way; and tiny lights now winked alongside the file, yet whence came these blinking glows, neither Tip nor Beau could say. And still a dread raked across them now and again as the Gargon's terror swept back and forth, the monster seeking prey.

"Look," said Tip, catching his breath after one of these sweeps, "although we can't lead the Foul Folk to the Springwater Warrows, perhaps there is a place we can lure them to; if we can get far enough ahead, mayhap we can make a trap, a spiked pit or some such to slay the Gargon ourselves." As he strode, Tip looked at Rynna in the shadows cast by the half-moon sliding down the indigo vault of the western sky.

Rynna frowned and shook her head. "I can't think of a place where we could be certain that the Gargon would step into-" Of a sudden, her eyes widened, and she glanced at Farly and then back to Tip, saying. "Oh, Tip, there may be another way: if we can cause his escort of Foul Folk to flee, perhaps the Gargon itself will quit this place."

"How would we do that?" asked Tip. "How would we make the Spawn abandon the Gargon, run away altogether?"

"You said it yourself, my love: we lead them, but in this case we lead the Gargon and Foul Folk into a place the Foul Folk fear."

Farly looked at Rynna in puzzlement. "What have you in mind, commander?"

"Eio Wa Suk," answered Rynna.

"Yes!" cried Farly, hope gleaming.

Upon hearing the name again that night, Tip frowned in concentration, trying to recollect. Then his eyes widened. "Eio Wa Suk; Groaning Stones?"

"Yes, Tipperton, Groaning Stojies. There is an aggregate nearby. That's where Phero has gone."

"These are those who make the ground grumble?" asked Beau, his eyes filled with trepidation.

"Yes," replied Rynna.

"Oh my," said Beau. "I am not certain at all I want to walk among things that groan in the ground. It gives me the willies just thinking of it."

"That's what I'm counting on, Beau. -Oh, not you shrinking from walking among the stones, but that the Foul Folk dread them even more."