Tipperton ducked and dodged down among the swarming enemy, and darted this way and that, his bow, though strung with an arrow, now useless against foe too close at hand. And a Helsteed slammed by in the shouting struggle and bashed the buccan to the ground. His arrow lost, on hands and knees Tip scuttled among trampling feet and thrashing legs to be kicked up against a canvas wall.

Under the edge he scrambled to come up inside a tent.

And therein stood a man -who slowly turned toward him -and in dim lanternlight gazed vacantly at the Warrow.

Tip snatched at an arrow as he looked into the face of a man whose eyes were empty and whose drooling mouth hung agape.

It was the surrogate and he smelled of feces, and urine stained his breeks.

Nocking the arrow, Tip drew the shaft to the full and aimed at the man's breast.

Outside, battle cries and screams and shouts and shrieks of the dying and the wounded filled the air, horns blowing, steel clanging against steel, sharp edges cleaving into muscle and sinew, blunt iron shattering bones.

Yet inside, the man just stood there, uncomprehending, spittle running down his chin as he stared vacantly at a Warrow with a full-drawn bow. And then the man grinned an idiot's grin down at the wee buccan, his gaping mouth smiling wide, grunting, "Uhn, uhn, uhn."

Sighing, Tip relaxed the draw -and in that moment the tent flap slapped aside as a dark figure hurtled in and crashed a hammer down and into the man's head, the iron smashing through the skull as if it were nought but a ripe melon, blood and brain splashing wide as Tipperton-"Waugh!"-leaped backward and drew his bow against "Bekki!" shouted the Warrow, seeing who it was as the dead man crumpled.

Bekki stood above the corpse, the Dwarf's beard and hair singed, his armor soot-covered, his clothing scorched.

Shrieking in rage, Beau loosed at the bow-bearing Ruck, the sling bullet to slam into the Spawn's throat, the Ruck to drop the bow and clutch at his crushed neck, unable to breathe, and he fell to the ground, his feet drumming in death.

But now the Ghul turned on the buccan, and Beau loaded again and let fly, the missile to crash into the GhuTs skull, dark matter to splash outward. Yet the Ghul merely grinned and bore down on the Warrow.

Jerking his pony aside as the Ghul thundered past, Beau fumbled for another bullet, while the Ghul wrenched his Helsteed about, the beast squealing in pain.

Beau loosed another missile, and it struck the foe in the shoulder, bones to crack. Yet still the Ghul grinned and bore down. But in that moment a rider flashed by-Loric!-and his blade sheared through the Ghul's neck, the creature's head flying wide to bounce on the ground as the Helsteed galloped past Beau and away, the headless corpse yet astride.

"Loric, it's Phais!" cried Beau, and he sprang from his pony and jerked free his medical kit Oh lor', oh lor', don't let her be dead.

– and ran to the side of the downed Dara.

Bekki looked up. "Tipperton! I thought you slain."

"We will be if we don't get out of here," cried Tipperton.

Bekki nodded and looked at the corpse, its head smashed into an unrecognizable shape. "I came to kill Modru's eyes and ears and voice, and that done, we can leave."

As Tip stepped toward the tent flap he said, "You're all burnt, Bekki-"

"Not as bad as the Ghul," growled Bekki. "I am alive; he is not."

Gripping his war hammer, Bekki cried, "Follow me," and he charged from the tent and in among the shouting foe, his maul smashing left and right. And with Tipperton on his heels, Bekki battered his way to the line of burning wagons and out.

Yet just as he passed a blazing wain, a Ruck leapt at his back, long iron spike raised to stab. thuk!

Tipperton's shaft slammed through the Ruck's back, the arrow head to punch out through his breastbone, and he looked down at the out-jutting, grume-covered point as the spike fell from his nerveless fingers to clang upon the stone, the Ruck to collapse after.

Bekki whirled in time to see, and grunted his thanks.

"I told you Rucks were dangerous," shouted Tip above the roar of battle.

The last of the Trolls scrambled up the mountain slopes after his fleeing kindred, his war bar abandoned in his haste to escape, for although he was but barely scathed by axe and hammer and flail, he too feared the crimson streaks which could set his kind afire.

And seeing the Trolls fleeing, the Rucks turned tail and ran, and though Ghfils on Helsteeds shouted and Hloks flailed about with whips, shrieking in fear the Rucks hurtled away from the Daelsmen and Dwarves.

Through the remainder of the Horde the wailing Rucks ran, and their kindred, seeing panic, fled with them as well, and the battle they were winning instead became a rout, as toward the east and the road the Swarm fled.

The field they left behind was littered with the dead and wounded from both sides.

And dawn finally came to the firelit vale, pressing the shadows back.

Chapter 39

contents – previous

The carnage was horrific, the dead and the dying scattered across the field, the wounded crying out in agony, calling for aid. Riderless horses limped midst the slaughter, though other mounts lay dead. And mid the butchery a squealing Helsteed thrashed with broken legs.

O'erwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the task, healers moved among the casualties, rendering what aid they could. Comrades also were afield, giving comfort to their brethren. Still others gathered the stray mounts and led them aside, where they, too, could receive aid.

Squads of warriors with knives or spears in hand strode among the felled, their work bloody and grim.

"Come," gritted Bekki, "we have a task to do."

Tipperton looked up at the Dwarf, an unspoken question in his eyes, yet he followed Bekki into the field.

They came to a downed Ruck, hamstrung by someone's blade, the Ruck feebly scrabbling at the ground and trying to crawl. Bekki grabbed the foe by the hair and jerked his head back and "Bekki, don't!" cried Tip above the Ruck's piglike squeal.

– slit his throat, blackish blood to spew outward.

Bekki dropped the now dead Ruck and looked at Tipper-ton, the buccan pale and trembling and on the verge of vomiting. "Would you have me let him live, heal him?"

"I, uh-"

"He is one of the Grg, a creature of Gyphon," said Bekki, as if that explained all.

"Oh, Bekki, it's not right. He couldn't even defend himself."

"Nevertheless, it must be done," growled Bekki, moving on.

"I can't go with you, Bekki. Not to do this," said Tip, turning away.

Bekki paused. "Did you not tell me on our journey to Mineholt North, Tipperton, that when your mate was slain, you wanted them all dead-all the Ukhs, Hroks, Khols, Helsteeds, Trolls, Rivermen, Kistanee, Chabbans, Hyra-nee, and aught else who sided with Gyphon?"

Tip turned once more toward Bekki. "Yes, Bekki, I said that once. Yet I have since found it gives me no satisfaction to kill Foul Folk. Vengeance does nothing to ease a wounded heart. And no matter how many I slay, it will not bring Rynna back." Tears ran down Tipperton's face. He gestured about the bloody field. "To kill in battle is a necessary thing. But this, this thing you do, this cutting of throats of those who cannot defend themselves, this is murder… just as was the case of the surrogate, for he was without wit, an innocent victim of Modru, and could not defend himself… and neither can these felled foe."

Bekki ground his teeth. "You have much to learn, Tipperton, for in war the object is to win."

"Even at the cost of the innocent, the defenseless? Does a lofty goal excuse the deeds, no matter how evil they are?"