Tip nodded, but Beau said, "If it comes to needing to being bold, Tip, remember what I once told you."
Tip raised an eyebrow, and Beau grinned, and said, "If you're going to be bold, then do it timidly."
Tip smiled, remembering, and while the moon sank below the horizon, he said, "With that Gargon down there, I'll be way beyend timidity and into stark terror instead."
A look of distress crossed Beau's face. "Oh, don't say that, Tip. I mean this mission is bad enough without throwing in a Gargon, too."
"Well, we can't very well throw him out, now can we?"
Now the moon was gone altogether, the night lit by remote frigid stars in a cold crystal sky above.
Phais knelt and embraced Tip. "Fare well, my friend." She kissed him on the cheek.
Loric, too, embraced the buccan, as did Bekki, much to Tip's surprise.
Last of all, Beau gave him a hug, tears running down. "Hear me, Tipperton, you take care," he managed to choke out.
"You, too, Beau. You too," replied Tip, his own voice trembling.
Loric handed the buccan a pole, Modru's standard atop, and, with his heart thudding in dread, Tip took a deep breath and said, "Well, I'm off."
Bearing a ring of fire on black, and bearing their hopes as well, the wee Warrow set off afoot down through the winter snow.
Ahead lay the gates of Dendor.
Ahead lay a deadly Swarm.
Chapter 7
Her heart hammering, Tip lay in the snow for long can-dlemarks, watching the outer-perimeter guards passing to and fro, the maggot-folk silhouetted by the fires of the Swarm, the buccan trying to gauge when best to attempt to slip across the space and step in among the teeming Spawn.
As planned, Tip had aimed for the south gate, yet the closer he had come toward the Swarm, the harder he had found it to breathe Fool, you fool, you'll never pull this off.
– and the more his guts had churned with dread.
But even so he had worked his way through the shadows until at last he had come to the very perimeter itself, and now he hid behind a snowy outcropping and watched the Rucks and such tromp past, some patrols marching deasil and others widdershins; and they frequently passed where he lay.
Still he had seen enough to know there were good gaps, and so he made ready for the attempt… his pulse thudding in his ears.
The patrol passed before him, and as they trod away into the night, Tip glanced leftward toward the squad following -A long way off.
Still he waited for the right moment, his heart racing, his breathing shallow and quick.
Leftward in the distance came the patrol.
Tip reached out and gripped the flagstaff lying beside him and gathered his feet under and glanced rightward at the retreating squad… and groaned -Oh no. Another band just beyond… coming this way.
Tip slumped back into the snow and watched.
As the two groups rightward met, the Hloks in the lead stopped to confer, their squads jostling to stumbling halts behind.
Hoy! Now, bucco, now!
His heart thudding, blood hurtling through his veins, Tip scuttled low into the wide space of the perimeter, expecting shouts of alarm even as he scrambled across…
Oh Adon Adon Adon… but none came.
And then he was in among the maggot-folk.
And his breath came even faster.
With his hood cast over his head, his features in shadow, and his heart hammering against his ribs like a wild caged bird against bars, Tip unfurled Modru's standard, and with the pole over one shoulder he headed inward, threading his way amid the campfires of Rucks and Hloks and Ghuls, while fear rose up through his stomach and threatened to spew outward in vomit.
On he went and on, past maggot-folk, Foul Folk, Spawn, his heart beating even more wildly with each and every step… and then he came to a wide place where no fires whatsoever burned…
… and the stench of vipers swept over him…
… and billowing terror engulfed him, his heart, his being, his very soul drowning in overwhelming fear, and he shrieked in uncontrollable dread and whirled about and plunged away, running heedlessly, running back the way he had come, running back past maggot-folk, Foul Folk, Spawn, screaming and running back and away from a large, round black tent sitting alone in the snow…
… and Ghuls laughed at the small, shrilling, flag-bearing figure fleeing headlong among the campfires…
Running in blind terror, Tipperton slammed into the wheel of a wagon and fell backwards into churned-up snow. Stunned and disoriented, he floundered to his feet, and would have fallen again, but he managed to grab on to a spoke and steady himself, his heart yet racing in terror.
He looked hindward the way he had come and gasped when he saw the solitary tent, his mind flashing back to Gunarring Gap, where a tent just like this one had blocked the way.
There in the Gap it was the tent of a Gargon.
Here it could be no less.
Oh, bucco, bucco, bucco, no wonder your heart is trying to fly away-it's the dread of the Gargon you feel.
Tip drew in a deep shuddering breath and stooped to pick up the flag.
No wonder as well the tent sits alone: none can deal with the fear. And no wonder the path to the south gate seems thinned of surrounding Foul Folk: a Gargon stands in the way.
Gasping and trembling and leaning on the flagpole as if it were a staff, Tipperton looked through the Swarm and past the tent and toward the distant gate beyond.
Well, bucco, the south gate's out and that's for certain. I mean, you can't get past that dreadful thing.
He looked left and then right. Foul Folk teemed both ways.
Which gate, bucco, which gate?
Trying hard to steady himself, at last Tipperton chose:
The west gate… that's where the Mage was. Besides, from the Wilderland to here, I've travelled east far enough.
With his pulse hammering and on trembling legs, once again Tip started moving among the wavering shadows cast by the fires of the Swarm, arcing westward within the ring of Foul Folk, praying to Adon that none would see through his too easily revealed masquerade.
"Where do you think he is now?" asked Beau, looking up at the wheeling stars and trying to gauge the time.
"In these candlemarks ere mid of night," said Phais, "if all has gone well, he should be nigh Dendor's south gate."
"If all has gone well? Oh, don't say that, Dara. I mean, there's no cause to bring down misfortune on his head. Surely all has gone well."
Tipperton continued winding his way among elements of the Swarm, turning aside when maggot-folk seemed to be stepping toward him, turning aside as well when it seemed someone was following after.
And still dread pulsed through his veins and still his heart hammered, and still his breath came in gasps, but less so than before, for the black tent was nearly an eighth of a circle behind. Even so, Terror paced alongside the buccan, keeping him company on his perilous path.
"He is probably lying in hiding nigh the south gate and waiting for dawn," said Bekki, "the flag of Kachar in hand."
"Oh, do you think so?" said Beau, glancing again at the starry sky.
Bekki, too, looked upward, just in time to see a streak of fire race overhead.
"Oh look!" cried Beau. "A falling star. Make a wish, make a wish."
The Warrow turned to Bekki, only to find the Dwarf with his hood cast over his head and staring at the snowy ground.
"What is it, Bekki? What's wrong?"
But Bekki refused to say, and he turned his back to the city.
Tipperton worked his way toward the fringe of the Swarm, peering ahead to see where he might slip out from the ring and toward the west gate.
And he gasped, for another tent stood in his path. Yet no dread washed over him, and no reek of vipers filled the air. Instead this shelter was warded… by Ghuls, no less.
7 wonder-? Oh my, perhaps it's another of Modru's surrogates. Yes, bucco, I believe you are right: it has to be the tent of a surrogate. If Bekki were here he'd say, "Kill him now and take away Modru's eyes and ears and voice." Yes, that's what he'd say. But me, I've other things to do.