Frowning, Tip looked once again at the man, just as one of the corpse-foe stepped forward, and the buccan could see the Ghul's lips move. What he might have said Tipper-ton could not tell, for not only were they entirely too far away to hear, they probably spoke in a Foul Folk tongue, none of which would Tip know.

The man straightened, his head snapping up, and Ghuls shifted back as if afraid, while the man with his fists on his hips arrogantly turned about. Now the man looked at the force standing on the hillside before the Horde. And then he turned to the Ghflls gathered about and seemed to speak, and they listened attentively. And of a sudden the man sagged and would have collapsed but for the Ghul at hand catching him under the arms. And shambling, his head askew, the man was led back into the tent.

"Was that, is that Modru?" asked Tip.

"Nay, Tipperton," replied Bekki. "It was his surrogate."

"Surrogate?"

"Aye," replied Borl. "A witless man that somehow Modru possesses even though Modru himself sits like a spider in his iron tower in Gron, or so we believe."

Tipperton shuddered.

Bugles sounded below, and Tip looked out to see the Horde redeploying, Rucks, Hloks, and Ghflls on Helsteeds moving about to face the foe.

Quickly Borl sketched this new array, and then turned to the others.

"The plan seems to be working," he grunted.

"For now perhaps," said Tip, "but not for long."

Borl frowned at the buccan.

"You said it yourself, Lord Borl: the moment the battle begins is the moment all goes wrong."

Grudgingly Borl nodded, then turned again to the portals as twilight drew over the vale. On the hillside the Daelsmen and Dylvana and Baeron broke ranks along with two Lian and a Warrow, and soon campfires were burning in the moonless dark of night.

And in the high mountain chamber, Bekki and Borl slid the stone panels back into place, and when they were firmly set, Bekki raised the hood of a fireless lantern. In the phosphorescent glow the Dwarves donned their mail and helmets, and with Tipperton down the steps they went.

Time eked by, Tipperton waiting, along with nine hundred Dwarves. And sometime after mid of night, he along with the others took up their weapons and roped clay pots and stone-grey blankets and stood before the side postern, and throughout the entire Dwarvenholt all lights were extinguished.

Tip's heart hammered within his chest and his knuckles were white on his bow. And through his thoughts ran a single thread:

Come the dawn, bucco, your reckless plan will fail. Come the dawn. The dawn.

Chapter 38

In the last candlemarks before dawn, Beau was awakened from a fitful doze by Loric's gentle hand. "The time draws nigh," said the Elf.

Beau scrambled to his feet just as Phais came leading the buccan's pony. "Hast thou thy bullets and sling?"

"Yes, but I shouldn't need them back at a hospital wain."

"Thou dost never know, wee one," said Phais.

"Aye," added Loric. "Remember the plan: should the Rupt attack up this slope, then thou must flee before them as will we do."

Beau glanced down at the vast Horde of Foul Folk, nought but shadows stirring 'round nearly extinguished campfires, nought but hot coals in the predawn marks. "Oh, I know the plan, all right. Still, do you think they'll attack?"

"Nay, I do not," replied Loric, "yet one never knows."

"We have tried to account for all," said Phais. "Nonetheless, events oft run in directions unforeseen."

"Don't worry," said Beau, taking up his medical satchel, "I'll be prepared for all." And he lashed the kit firmly behind the pony's saddle. He looked up at Phais. "I'll get some extra sling bullets from one of the armory wains."

Loric glanced eastward, where faint light glimmered in the sky. He turned to Phais. "The herald of dawn creeps toward this vale, chier."

Phais nodded, then knelt before Beau and embraced him. "We shall see thee after."

"Oh, Phais, do take care," whispered Beau, and he looked up at Loric. "And you, Loric, you as well."

"Aye," replied Loric, and then he glanced at Beau's pony. "And thou, my friend, be ready to run."

"Don't you worry, Loric. I'll fly like the wind."

Phais then stood, and she and Loric strode away from the buccan and toward where their horses were staked.

With a sigh Beau watched them angle through a bustle of activity, then turned to find Melor at hand holding out a warm cup of tea. "Drink up, Beau, for it may be the last we will have for many a day to come."

Beau gratefully accepted the brew and took a sip and then another. "I say, shouldn't we get to the hospital wain? I mean, things will be starting soon, and I want to be ready should they bring any wounded."

The light in the east grew, struggling against the dark, but even as the shadows yet clutched the vale, Daelsmen and Dylvana and Baeron mounted.

In spite of Tain's objections, Loden signed to Brandt, and the youth raised a bugle to his lips and blew a mighty blast, and echoes rang and slapped among the mountain stone.

And Loden drew his sword and shouted a war cry and rode out from the allied array and galloped alone toward the Horde. And he skidded to a stop partway between and in the dimness raised his sword on high and shouted out a challenge. And turning his horse he rode up and down the line and called the challenge over and again.

He was met by catcalls and jeers.

And in the east the sky grew lighter with the slow approach of dawn.

Now all the Daelsmen rode forth, and the Horde braced for an attack, a Ruptish horn blatting among the swarm. Yet the men rode back and forth along the line with their leader, and cheered as he taunted the foe.

And still the sky slowly paled.

Now the Elves joined the Daelsmen, and finally the Baeron on their huge horses rode forth.

And among the ranks of the Horde, Ruptish horns sounded and more of the Foul Folk stepped to the line and awaited the attack, Ghuls on Helsteeds now riding at the fore, while Rucks and Hloks jeered behind.

And Coron Ruar glanced at the sky and then raised a silver horn to his lips and a clarion call rang out over and over again:

Ta-rah, ta-rah, ta-rah…

Along with the others, Tipperton sat with his back against stone and listened to jeering and catcalls, and he jerked at the blast of a horn-no, no, it was not the signal, but a horn nevertheless. And there followed the sound of hooves thudding upon the sod and a calling out of a challenge.

Tip did not look, he dared not look, but remained perfectly still. Even so, he knew it was yet dark in the vale; perhaps they had started too early. Oh, surely not.

The jeering increased, and more hooves thudded, and now came a Ruptish blat and the ching of armor and tramp of feet as Foul Folk moved.

He heard the hammer of even more hooves racing back and forth, and even more still, and midst the Horde horns sounded-Ruptish blats, not the signal-and he remained motionless, waiting, waiting, three roped clay pots at his side, his bow in hand, arrows in the quiver strapped to his thigh.

And then it came, the clarion call-Ta-rah, ta-rah, ta-rah…-over and over it rang.

The signal had come at last.

Beau stood upon the wain seat and peered through the glimmering pale light in the east, trying to see through the dimness which yet clutched the vale.

Horns sounded, those of the Daelsmen, those of the Rupt, and he could see a swirl of movement as horses galloped to and fro. Now there were more horses, and the dawn crept upward, yet gloom still cloaked the valley. Even so, his amber gaze could make out more detail, and he saw the Elves riding with the Daelsmen.

The wan glow in the pale skies eased upward but a scintilla, and now the Baeron joined in, and within the Horde horns blatted, and more Spawn shifted to the front.