Into the Forge hc-1 Page 2

  Tipperton's jaw clenched. "The man said there were more Rucks out and about. They came when he was helpless and slew him." Tip slammed a fist into an open palm. "Damn Rucks!"

  Beau nodded and, as if talking to himself, said, "Back in the Bosky, my Aunt Rose, bless her memory, claimed that each and every Ruck-in fact, everyone from Neddra-is born with something missing: a heart. She said they only thought of themselves. Called them 'Gyphon's get.' She thinks He deliberately created them that way-flawed, no compassion, empathy, or conscience whatsoever, seeking only to serve their own ends. This cutting of a helpless man's throat wouldn't have surprised her one bit." As if coming to himself, Beau's eyes widened, and he raised his gaze to Tipperton, then glanced toward the open door. "Oh, my, Tip, do you think any of them are still about? If so-"

  Tip shook his head and raised a hand to stop Beau's words. "No, Beau"-he gestured outward-"there's a large track beating westward, across the river and toward the Dellins. The weapons of the slain Rucks and such are missing, taken, I think, by the others. The man's sword and helm and gorget and boots are gone as well. And as far as I could tell without actually going out there to see, a haunch has been hacked off the horse; rumor has it that's what Rucks like best: horseflesh. No, I think they're gone for good."

  Beau blew out a breath of pent-up air, and his shoulders slumped as he relaxed. "You're right about the horse, Tip: a haunch has been hacked from the steed, and the saddle and saddlebags are hacked up as well. I didn't see a bedroll." Beau stood and peered 'round at the disarray and finally again at the man. "Why did they ransack your mill? And rip off his clothes? And tear up the saddle and bags? What were they searching for?"

  Tipperton shook his head, but suddenly his gemlike eyes flew wide. He reached down into his shirt and pulled on the leather thong until the coin came dully to light. "Perhaps this."

  "And just who is Agron?"

  "I don't know, Beau. The man merely said, 'East, go east, and take this to Agron.' I would have questioned him, but I thought it more pressing to get aid."

  "But east? Hoy, now, there's nothing to the east but Drearwood… and the Grimwall. Awful places. Deadly. Filled with Rucks and such." Beau's amber eyes widened. "Say, now, likely where these Spawn came from."

  "Nevertheless, Beau, that's what he said-east. Besides, I hear that there's Elves somewhere 'tween here and the Grimwall. Of course, beyond, there's all sorts of lands."

  Beau cocked an eyebrow and looked at the token again. "Well, I don't see how this coin could be significant. I mean, huh, it seems to be made of common pewter and of little worth. It's completely lackluster… and without device of any kind-no design, no figure, no motif. It's even got a hole in it." Beau shook his head and handed the drab disk and thong back to Tipperton.

  "Well, it meant something to the man. And it'll probably mean something to this Agron, whoever he or she may be." Tip peered about at the disorderliness and sighed. "Perhaps you are right, Beau, and the coin held no significance to the Rucks and such. Perhaps the Spawn were simply searching for loot."

  Beau shrugged, then looked at the corpse. "We need to put him to rest, Tip. A pyre, I should think, what with the ground being frozen and all."

  Tip sighed and nodded and glanced out at the dawn skies. "We'll build one in the clearing. Burn the Rucks and the Hlok as well."

  "What about the horse? Cut it up and burn it, too?"

  Tipperton pursed his lips and shook his head. "No… I think we should leave it for the foxes and other such." Tipperton took up his bow and started for the door. "I'll get an axe and break up some deadwood; you get some billets from my woodpile and build the base for the pyre."

  Beau uprighted the table and set his satchel on it, then followed after, finding Tipperton stopped just beyond the porch.

  "What is it?" breathed Beau, glancing about for sign of foe but finding none.

  Tipperton groaned and pointed northwestward through the gap in the trees where the river ran. "Beacontor. The balefire burns."

  Chapter 3

  "Beacontor?" Beau's gaze followed Tip's outstretched arm. In the far distance atop a high tor nearly thirty miles away glinted the red eye of fire. A signal fire. A balefire. A fire calling for the muster of any and all who could see it throughout the entire region.

  Now it was Beau who groaned. "Oh, my. As I said, what with Drearwood just to the east, and beyond that the Grimwall, and these Rucks and such sneaking 'round, I think those of us hereabout are in for some hard times. I mean, look at what happened right here at your mill-the fighting, the dead man, the slain Rucks and the Hlok."

  Tipperton shook his head. "If Beacontor is lit up, Beau, it means more than just troubles us folk 'round Twoforks've got. Look, you could be right: it might be a skirmish against raiders or such-Rucks and the like. But if the alarm came from elsewhere-downchain from the north, or up from the Dellin Downs, well then-"

  "Oh, Tip-regardless of this, that, or the other, it spells woe."

  Tipperton turned to his comrade. "Well, Beau, if the warning did come from upchain or down, it'll signify war as well."

  Beau's eyes flew wide. "War? With whom?"

  Tip gestured about. "Mayhap with Rucks and Hloks and other such."

  "No, no, Tip"-Beau shook his head-"I mean, if it's war, who's behind it? And what would they hope to gain?"

  Tipperton turned up his hands. "As to who or what would be the cause…" Tip's words came to a halt, and he stood and gazed at the glimmer of the balefire. Finally he turned to Beau. "All I can say is that fire on Beacontor not only spells woe, but it might spell wide war as well."

  The blood drained from Beau's face, and dread sprang into his amber eyes. "Oh, my. Wide war. I wouldn't like that at all-ghastly wounding and maiming, to say nothing of the killing."

  "Nevertheless, Beau, that may be what's afoot, in which case it's your skills that will be needed more than mine."

  Beau glanced at Tipperton's bow and arrows, then looked back through the door toward his own satchel, containing his healer's goods. "You may be right, Tip-about there being a war and all, what with Beacontor lit-but I pray to Adon that you're wrong."

  Tip's gaze softened, and he threw an arm across his friend's shoulder. "It could be just a false alarm, Beau, and perhaps by the time we take care of the pyre and then get to the town square, someone will know."

  Glumly, Beau nodded, then said, "Speaking of the pyre, mayhap the balefire has something to do with our dead man."

  Tipperton looked 'round at the slain Rucks. "Or with these Spawn," he added. Then he eyed the distant balefire and said, "Well, let's get cracking, Beau. The sooner we finish, the sooner we might know."

  It took most of the morning to build two pyres-one for the man, the other for the Rucks. When the wood was piled high, Tip and Beau stepped back into the mill and prepared the dead man, washing him clean of blood and combing his hair and dressing him as well as they could in his hacked leathers. Struggling, they bore the dead man out and laid him upon the pine bough bed Tip had placed atop the pyre. Acting upon what Beau thought was tradition, the Hlok and one of the Rucks were laid on the wood at the man's feet- "Where a Human hero's slain enemies belong, I think."

  Tip shrugged but added, "I thought it was supposed to be the man's dog, but perhaps a Ruck or Hlok will do."

  They turned away from the man's pyre, and one after another they began taking the Rucks up from the ground and laying them on the other heap of wood.

  As they lifted the last of the Rucks, Beau exclaimed, "I say, look at this." On the ground where the corpse had been was a crumple of dark cloth.

  They lay the Ruck aside, and Beau squatted in the trampled snow and took up the fabric. "Huah! What do you make of this, Tip?" Beau held up a square of ebon cloth. Crimson on black, it held the sigil of a burning ring of fire.

  "Looks like a standard to me," said Tip.

  "Yar," replied Beau, turning it about. "But whose? I mean, did it belong to the man or the Spawn or someone else altogether."<
br />
  Tipperton turned up his hands in perplexity. "Mayhap when we find what the balefire is all about, then we'll know."

  Beau stuffed the banner inside his jerkin and stood, and they took up the Ruck once more.

  At last all was ready, and Tipperton lit two torches and handed one to Beau. They moved to the pyre where lay the man, and Tip said, "Even though I didn't know him well enough to grieve, he was a hero, you know, a powerful fighter. He probably saved my life, for if he hadn't slain those Rucks and such, they might have come sneaking upon the mill when I was asleep… and it'd be my pyre you'd be setting aflame."

  A stricken look swept over Beau's face. "Well, I'm glad he was around then, though I'm sorry he's dead."

  Tip drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out, then said, "Let's get on with it, Beau."

  And he and Beau stood with their heads bowed as Beau said, "Adon, receive this unknown but worthy man unto your care." The two buccen then thrust their torches in here and there and set all alight. They watched for a while as the wood blazed up, and when the whole of the pyre was roaring, they set the other pyre alight as well, the grey smoke of the two to twine up into the chill winter sky, while far off to the northwest, the smoke of the balefire atop Beacontor did likewise.

  While Beau peered out the window, keeping an eye on the fires, Tipperton set about straightening the chamber and washing the floor clean of blood, pausing only long enough for Beau to bandage the minor cut on his foot, and then returning to his task. When all was set to rights, he began packing a knapsack.

  Beau looked at him and sighed. "As soon as you're ready, and the pyres burn out, we'll go to my place and I'll pack, too. After all, Beacontor calls."

  Tip nodded abstractly, his mind elsewhere.

  In that moment-"Ho, the mill!"-came a call.

  Beau turned and looked out the window. "It's Mayor Prell, Tip. And he's got men with him. They're armed."

  Prell cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, "Hoy, miller… Tipperton Thistledown. Are you there?"

  "He's here," called back Beau. "Me, too-Beau Darby."

  Tip moved to the door and opened it and stepped out upon the porch, Beau on his heels. Just inside the snowy woods at the edge of the clearing stood several men, Humans, all armed-with swords or cudgels or longbows with arrows nocked-a smattering of armor here and there- plain iron helms or boiled leather breastplates.

  Prell, a beefy man, said something to one of the others and then stepped forward, a shortsword now in his hand. "Are you all right, miller?"

  "Indeed," called back Tipperton, moving out into the clearing, out into the grim smell of the fire with its cloying odor of burning flesh.

  Yet wary, Prell waited until Tip and Beau were well clear of the mill. Then he signaled to the men, and bowstrings were relaxed, though arrows remained nocked.

  Prell gestured to the fires and eyed the dead horse. "We saw the smoke. And what with the fire atop Beacontor and the muster, we came to see if somewhat was amiss."

  "Yes, indeed, Mayor, somewhat is amiss," replied Tipperton. "Last night, you see, there was a battle here at the mill, and a man-I don't know just who he was-slew eight Rucks and a Hlok. But he took terrible wounds, and so I ran and fetched Beau. But when we got back…"

  "And before he died he gave you this coin?"

  "Yes. To deliver eastward to someone named Agron.

  And, oh, yes, he said to warn all. Warn them of what, he didn't say."

  Prell unbuckled his helm and scratched his head. "Agron. Sounds Elvish." He handed the coin and thong back to Tipperton, who slipped it back 'round his neck and tucked it 'neath his jerkin once more.

  One of the townsmen shook his head. "More like a Dwarvish name, if you ask me, Mayor."

  Prell frowned at the man. "Elvish, Dwarvish, or aught else"-the mayor's gaze swung to Tipperton-"I mean, it doesn't have to be a person, you know, but instead could be a town, citadel, temple, realm, river, whatever…" Tip's eyes widened at this conjecture, and he nodded in agreement.

  Now Prell's eyes widened. "Say, now, miller, are you sure he said Agron and not Argon? I mean, the Argon River is to the east, just beyond the Grimwall. And they sound a lot alike. He was wounded, as you say, and might have garbled-"

  "No, Mayor. It was definitely Agron he said and not Argon. Besides, if it was a river, what would we do? Cast it into the waters?"

  Mayor Prell pursed his lips and shook his head. "Perhaps you're right, lad." With a sweeping gesture he appealed to all. "Regardless, does anyone here know just who or what an Agron might be?"

  The gathered men looked at one another and shook their heads, some murmuring, Not me.

  The mayor sighed, then said to Tip, "Describe this dead man again."

  "Well, sir, he was about your height or so-it's rather hard for me to say, Humans being as tall as they are-but he was more slender. Slender but well built. Somewhat younger, too, or so I would judge. He had pale blue eyes, pale as ice, and dark hair -almost black-and was dressed in dark brown leathers. And, oh, I just remembered, he had a V-shaped scar above his left eyebrow."

  Again the mayor looked about at the men, but once more they all shrugged or shook their heads.

  "A stranger, then, I would say," said Prell.

  "Hoy, Mayor," called one of the men-Gwyth, the tanner. "This horse. Mayhap it's got a brand."

  "A brand?" The mayor and his men crowded about, and both Tipperton and Beau had to struggle through. No brand was in evidence.

  "It's more likely to be on the mounting side," said Gwyth. "Let's roll him over."

  Grunting and straining, the men rolled the horse. And there on the steed's left haunch was burnt the symbol of a crown.

  "Lumme," breathed Gwyth. "That's the brand of the High King."

  Chapter 4

  "The High King?" blurted Tipperton, his face stricken. "You mean the dead man was the High King?" A chill wind swirled through the barren trees and across the clearing.

  Prell shook his head. "Not likely, miller. Unlike your man, High King Blaine has bright red hair, like my boy Arth, or so I've heard it said."

  "But the brand on the horse-"

  "Ar, all the High King's horses have such a brand," said Gwyth. "Hundreds of them. More likely this was someone in his service, a Kingsman of some sort-herald, messenger, warrior, or aught else. Who's to know?"

  Beau looked at Tip. "Mayhap a courier bearing a message."

  Tip's hand strayed to his neck.

  "Oh, by the bye, Mayor," said Beau, fishing inside his jerkin, "we found this." He took out the square of ebon cloth, holding it up so all could see the crimson sigil it bore.

  Now the mayor took it. "Hmm. A ring of fire on black." He looked up at the men. "Does anyone know whose sign this is?"

  Men shrugged and shuffled their feet and looked at one another… and none knew.

  Prell glanced at the Warrows. "Was this the man's or did it belong to the Foul Folk?"

  Now the buccen shrugged, and Beau said, "It was lying 'neath a dead Ruck, but it could have been the man's."

  Prell looked about, then glanced in the direction of Beacontor beneath the gathering overcast. "Well, lads, we're not going to solve anything here, and we've got to get back to town and see how the muster goes. My boy Arth should be riding back from the tor before dark with word as to why the beacon burns and whether or no we're needed. If we are, I'd like to start out first thing in the morning." He turned and fixed Tipperton and then Beau with his gaze. "As for you two, the muster's underway, and every bow and blade will count, as well as every chirurgeon."

  "But I'm not a chirurgeon, Mayor," said Beau. "Just a plain healer instead. Herbs and simples, powders and potions, nostrums and medicks and salves and poultices, needle and gut: that's my trade."

  Prell tossed the black banner back to Beau, saying, "Nevertheless, lad, you and the miller, you'll both be needed. So come to the square in Twoforks, and wear your winter eiderdown-warm socks and boots, too-for we may spend many a frigid night o
n the land with no fires to warm us, and it wouldn't do to freeze in the dark." He then clapped his plain iron helmet back onto his head and fastened the chin strap. "Besides, maybe someone there'll know who this dead man was, or know of Agron, or know of this dark flag. Regardless, the lads and I'll get back to the village and see just what's what. And you two come as soon as the fire's burnt down"-he glanced about at the winter-dry woods-"can't leave it untended, you know."

  "We shouldn't be too long, Mayor Prell," said Tipperton, gesturing at the dwindling blazes. "Midafternoon or so."

  It was, however, late in the day under lowering skies ere the fires fell into coals and the coals themselves began to darken. Tipperton and Beau took turns shoveling snow upon the embers, the cinders hissing, steam rising into the air. And even as they did so, a new fall of snow began drifting down from the overcast above.

  Tip had nailed a square of canvas over the broken window, and after a look about, he latched up the mill and patted the door and said, "Well, eld damman, it may be awhile before I get back. Take care."

  Beau cocked his head. "You speak as if the mill were alive."

  Tip smiled. "If you ever heard her talking, grumbling as she worked, you'd think so, too, what with her creaks and groans as she grinds her teeth on grain."

  Beau laughed aloud and hefted his bag, while Tipperton shouldered his knapsack and took up his quiver and bow, and together they set off through the whiteness falling down.

  After a brief stopover at Beau Darby's cottage, where that buccan packed a knapsack of his own and changed into his down winter clothes, they made their way toward the town square in Twoforks. Night had fallen and the snow continued to drift down, muting the winter sounds, the furtive sounds, of the surrounding woods-now a vole scrabbling beneath the leaves; now a hare kicking up and away; now the pad of a fox; now the call of a distant owl- all amid the faint tick of snowflakes striking sparse dry leaves yet clinging to the brittle branches. Through this not quite stillness the buccen walked without speaking, each lost in his own thoughts: Beau mentally ticking off items he had packed, making certain he'd brought everything he needed to answer the muster; Tip fretting over the slain man's request. Trudging in silence, at last they could see lights from Twoforks up the lane, and the muted quiet was broken by sounds of activity ahead. As they came into the fringes of the village, the whole town seemed alight and abustle, with folks scurrying to and fro on unknown errands, their lanterns blooming halos in the snowfall. Cottages and houses were lighted as well, and through windows the buccen could see men packing goods, while some women helped and others wept, and children capered or cried, depending on how the mood struck them.