But not alone!
– for a company of Foul Folk marched well before and another company trailed a distance after. And the Ghath, the Gargon, the Draedan, the Horror, ponderously strode eastward, its dreadful stare locked on the wall above, casting frightful terror upward to drive the men screaming away, leaving great sections of the parapet undefended.
And beyond that tower stood another, Foul Folk gathered at the base and waiting.
Oh Elwydd, that's the plan! To swarm into the city a tower at a time, the Gargon opening the way.
"One side, Waldan!" came a shout, and Tip looked to see the ballista rolling out from the illusory flames, men pushing.
Tipperton ran onward and past the great r.am now being shoved to one side.
And then Tip realized, The scaling ladders, the rams at the gates, they are but a ruse; the real invasion pours over the wall at the towers.
"King Agron," called Tip as he came to the King and his men guarding the way, "the Gargon moves yon."
Agron glanced at the Warrow. "Aye, we see him and his escort."
Now the men pushed the ballista onto the snowy plain, turning east at the king's command.
"Hurry," called Tipperton, "the Gargon, he's already at the next tower."
And on the wall at that second tower, men shrieked and fled along the parapet and away, while Ghuls led the yowling Foul Folk across the now-bridging ramp.
And still at the first tower, howling Rupt clambered up to pour over the wall, shouting men now returning to fight valiantly, attempting to hurl back those already on the banquette. Yet the baying Spaunen pressed forward, for Ghuls in the fore took terrible wounds which affected them not, while the wounds to the men were deadly.
Down on the plain eastward at a run pressed the king and men and Mages and one lone Warrow, the ballista trundling among them. But the massive Gargon, unaware of pursuit, now came to the third tower.
And once again the men above fled screaming, while howling Rupt clambered up the framework, the ramp to thud down upon the merlons, bridging from tower to wall. Led by the Ghuls, across swarmed the Foul Folk, while down below the Gargon with its fore and aft convoy moved onward, striding widdershins about the city, the massive creature stalking through rolling black smoke and crimson light cast by burning oil.
"Oh hurry, hurry," panted Tipperton, his breath blowing white in the winter air, the buccan running down among the men and alongside the ballista, fear pulsing in his veins, the wee Warrow unable to see past the tall Dendorians, but for a glimpse now and then. And so he did not know how near or far was the foe, until of a sudden the wedge of men crashed into the rear escort.
"For Dular!" shouted Agron, his sword riving.
For king and Dular! shouted the Dendorian warriors, swords and axes, maces and morning stars bashing aside dhals and sipars and tulwars and scimitars and cudgels, the Foul Folk taken by surprise from behind, but turning to meet the attack even as the men smashed through.
His heart hammering with fear, Tipperton leapt onto the ballista platform to gain height, hoping to catch sight of the Gargon and let fly a shaft from his Elven bow, yet as small as he was, he could not see over the battle raging all 'round, as yelling men and shrieking Rupt now crashed to and fro, bashing, cleaving, crushing, steel rending, steel bludgeoning into flesh, bone, brain, muscle, and gut.
From somewhere blatted a Squamish horn, and in the fore the Gargon slowed and paused and began to turn.
"Now!" shouted Alvaron. "Loose now!"
"But my Lord Mage," protested a ballista-man, "the range."
"By damn, I said now!" bellowed Alvaron.
The man leapt onto the platform and took up the stock, while "Out of the way, Waldan!" shouted another, shoving Tipperton aside, the buccan barely able to keep his feet as he pitched to the ground.
"Wait!" called Imongar, trying to reach the spear-caster, but then -Thuun! -right above Tipperton the great ballista loosed, the spear to hurtle away in the oil-fired crimson dark, and the man who had shoved Tip aside began frantically turning a crank handle, a ratchet clattering as the ballista bow was drawn once again to reload.
Down on the ground, battle but an arm's span or two away, Tipperton dodged this way and that, dancing back while trying to see the flight of the great bolt, to no avail, for clashing men and Foul Folk raged back and forth and blocked the view.
"Missed!" shouted Alvaron. "Loose another. Mages, stand ready, the Draedan turns."
And just as a second shaft was dropped into the waiting groove -unendurable terror whelmed into Tipperton, and he dropped his bow and fell to his knees in the churned up snow and covered his face in his hands and shrilled in dread, while all about men and Rupt alike shrieked and howled and collapsed to the snow as well.
And the Mages, the clustered Mages, they stood as if frozen, for the Gargon had captured every last one in his dreadful glare, and waves of paralyzing fear washed over them all.
Alvaron, his features stark, all the blood now fled from his face, Alvaron alone managed to grit out, "Averto for-mido; abigo timeo."
But solely he could not stave off the dreadful force of the mighty Gargon, and Alvaron's manipulation of astral faded to nought ere he could bring any to bear.
And now the hideous Mandrak began to move thdd! thdd!
– stalking forward, toward the frozen Mages, toward the downed Warrow, toward the squalling king and his screaming men and the screeching Foul Folk, its mighty claws set to rend, to tear, to shred these groveling fools who had dared to seek its life. thdd! thdd!
On ponderous feet like stone it came, the monster scaled and grey, the frozen ground shaking under its massive tread.
Thdd!
Thdd!
Men screaming, Foul Folk shrieking at its nearing approach, still it came on.
Thdd!
Thdd!
Through the smoke and smell of burning oil and the shiver of crimson light the Fearcaster came. Now it passed into the fringes of the shrilling flock, none able to flee, to run away, for its dread was too strong. And as it stalked forward, it shredded all those within its immediate reach- men, Rucks, Hloks, Ghuls-it mattered not whether it was friend or foe, all that mattered was the rending. Heads, limbs, faces: through the air they flew, trailing blood both red and black, riven from shrieking victims as the hideous creature waded past downed prey.
But as it stalked forward riving, a distant bugle rang, a clarion call from the darkness, from the south.
And a faint tremor quivered through the ground, and still the bugle sounded -ta-rah… ta-rah… ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ra…
Louder it blew, and louder still, and the earth shivered with the beat of hooves.
And now the Gargon slowed.
Ta-rah… ta-rah… ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ra…
To the distant west and east and even from the far north rang answering bugles belling in the predawn.
Ta-rah… ta-rah… ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ra…
And now the earth boomed with the hammer of hooves.
The Gargon, eyes glaring, claws dripping blood, turned its fang-filled, lizard-snouted face southerly.
And ponies driving, bugles blowing, out from the darkness and into the crimson light thundered five hundred warriors, axes and hammers in hand.
The Dwarves had come at last.
And the Ghath, the Dread, the Gargon, the Horror, roared in rage and turned his terror upon them.
Ponies reared up and back, and Dwarves shrieked and fell away. And Foul Folk at the next tower turned to see the foe, and they took up their tulwars and scimitars and cudgels and pikes and ran to aid the Dread, for he was their key to victory.
With the Gargon gaze averted, Tipperton, still screaming, found he could move, and he snatched up his bow and turned to flee. But then his eye fell upon Imongar and Alvaron and the others, yet frozen where they stood.
Shrilling in fear, Tip sprang to the platform of the bal-lista, only to find Shrieking in dread, he jerked out an arrow from the quiver at his thigh and jumped to the ground and stabbed Imongar in the leg and squealed, "It's too high, too high!"