Into the Forge hc-1

by Dennis L Mcciernan

  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?"

  Bekki did not answer, but instead he stared beyond Tipperton, his mouth falling open, agape.

  Tipperton turned, and up the slope the gates of Mineholt North swung wide, and beings covered from head to toe in concealing veils came forth, guarded by fierce Dwarven warriors.

  And Tipperton knew these were the Chakia, the protected, the sheltered, the shielded, the cherished.

  And they moved into the slaughterground, kneeling here and there to aid wounded allies, their deft hands bandaging, applying unguents and salves, and washing clean and stitching closed the cloven wounds.

  Bekki hastily sheathed his dagger and took up his war hammer. "I must go with the Chakka and ward the perimeter of this field."

  And moving as one, Dwarven warriors set an armed ring of steel about the battleground, for they would have no enemy come upon their beloved Chakia. And in this they were joined by the Dylvana.

  "I will aid the healers," called Tipperton after Bekki. And as he turned, he scanned the slope for sign of Beau. And then Tip's gaze found him-"Oh, no!" Tipperton began running among the wounded and dead and dying, down toward the buccan carrying his satchel and trotting through the field alongside Loric, who bore Phais cradled in his arms, the Dara, bare to the waist, not moving at all.

  While all about the bloody work of squads of Daelsmen and Baeron went on, making certain all Foul Folk were dead-all Rucks, Hloks, Ghuls, Helsteeds, and even the burnt Trolls.

  "Beau, Beau, Lady Phais, is she-"

  "No, Tip, but she might be if we don't get some gwyn-thyme in her. I think the arrow was poisoned. We're taking her to the Dwarvenholt."

  "Follow me," said Tip. "I know a bit of where we need to go: the kitchens, they'll have hot water."

  "Hot coals, too, I would think," said Beau. "We need to cauterize."

  Up the slope and through the gates and into the mineholt Tip led them, and then through corridors and to a kitchen.

  Veiled Chakia were within.

  Loric gently lay Phais on a table, while Beau dragged a chair alongside. As he climbed onto the seat, he called for hot water and a clean teacup and a small bowl, and he rummaged through his bag and drew out a short, thin iron rod with a leather-wrapped fired-clay handle. "Here, Tip. Find some hot coals and stick this in. When the iron glows yellow, let me know."

  As Tip turned, a Chakian came to the table, bearing a basin of hot water as well as a cup and bowl. Too, she bore soap and towels. "You must thoroughly wash your hands," she softly said through her concealing veils, "as must all who will tend this Lady Elf."

  Beau looked up, his amber eyes widening slightly. "Are you a healer? I could use some help."

  Silently the Chakian began to wash her hands, and she set the soap before Beau.

  Beau took out the small silver case from his breast pocket and extracted a portion of the precious golden mint, and dropped it into the cup. He poured hot water in after. A refreshing fragrance filled the air.

  While it steeped, he washed and dried his hands. He turned back to Phais. "She's bled a lot," he muttered. "Pray to Adon it was enough to leach the poison out." Beau took up the cup and looked at the Chakian. "Yet the wound is deep and so we've got to get this down her."

  The Chakian reached out and took the cup and stepped away and fetched a small spoon, then crossed back to the table and began carefully spooning limited amounts into Phais, the Dara swallowing reflexively.

  "How's that cauter coming?" Beau called to Tip.

  At the stove Tip said, "It's just now turning red."

  "Well then, you heard the Lady: get over here and wash your hands," snapped Beau.

  Moments later, Tip, with beads of sweat on his brow, handed the yellow-glowing instrument to Beau, and Beau nodded to Loric. "Uncover the wound."

  The Alor lifted away the bandage from her chest.

  Beau looked closely and glanced across at Loric. "If I use this, she'll never breathe with ease again." He stood in pensive thought for a mom
ent and finally shook his head and handed the glowing cauter back to Tip. "We won't need this."

  Tip sighed in relief.

  Beau looked at the Chakian. "I need you to spoon a bit of that gwynthyme tea into the wound… ah, yes, a bit more, good, that's enough.

  "Now give her the remainder, and when it's gone, put the leaves into the bowl. I need them as a poultice. Now where's my gut and needle?"

  A short while later, Beau tied the last knot on the bandage and said, "There, all done." He looked up at Loric and then over to the Chakian. "Her wound will bleed even more if she is not still, and she's lost enough as it is. We need a place where she can rest and remain quiet."

  "Thel, Sol Chakian," murmured Loric.

  The Chakian turned to Loric, her head canted. "Da tak Chakur?"

  "Ti," replied Loric. "Kelek at skal ea. Ea ta Loric."

  The Chakian clapped her hands and called out to two Chakia, and they fetched a litter. "Fear not, Guardian," she said to Loric, "for along with other wounded females, we shall bear her to our healing chambers, where she will rest in quiet."

  "I will help," sa«d Loric.

  The Chakian shook her head, her veils swirling. "Nay. The chambers are in our quarters." She turned to Beau. "Only healers are allowed."

  Beau plunged the still hot cautering rod into a basin of water to cool it, then dried it and dropped it in his satchel. Taking up the bag, he said, "Lead the way," and he hopped down from the chair.

  Tip and Loric watched them go.

  "Come," said Loric at last. "Let us help fetch the steeds, including our own."

  A time later, Beau emerged from the Dwarvenholt and moved into the battlefield to help with the injured. And he found Melor on the slopes, deciding who would be next: there were those who could wait, and those who could not, and those yet alive but beyond all help.

  It nearly broke Beau's heart to pass these latter by.

  From the field, after initial treatment, the wounded were borne into Mineholt North, males carried to one set of quarters, females unto the chambers of the Chakia and given over to their care, for Phais was not the only wounded Dara. Female Baeron, too, were taken unto the Chakia, even though some protested. Yet the Dwarves would have it no other way, for this was their Chakkaholt, and herein females lived in quarters apart.

  Chieftain Gara and Coron Ruar accepted this arrangement, for as Gara said, "When in Rhondor, one must live as a Rhondorian."

  Throughout the day and into the night, along with the other healers Beau worked feverishly. But when he collapsed into bed at last, all who could be saved had been, and all who could not were not.

  ***

  Altogether, nearly three quarters of the allies had been wounded-many but minor scathings, others major blows- and of those taking the greater wounds, nearly half had died in battle and more would die in the days to come.

  Ruar took a count of the battlefield dead; three and two hundred Daelsmen; twenty-two and one hundred Baeron; forty-six and two hundred Drimma; eighty-four and one hundred Dylvana.

  Of the foe, some three thousand of the Foul Folk had been slain altogether, two thousand killed outright during battle, another thousand on the field after.

  All the next day funerals were prepared for the dead: the Chakka to be burned on pyres with the broken weapons of their enemies at their feet, while mourners would wail and warriors would swear vengeance; the Baeron to be borne to a wooded vale and in absolute silence be laid to rest 'neath woven bowers; the Daelsmen to be interred in the earth as their feats were shouted to the world; the Dylvana to be burned while their kindred sang.

  As he and Tip watched the Daelsmen cutting sod and digging the pits for the burial mounds, "It's not right," muttered Bekki, his hood cast over his head in the Chakka gesture of mourning.

  "What's not right?" asked Tip, peering up at Bekki's red face, Tip wondering if the Dwarf were angry or if it was simply the flush from his burns. He had been treated with aloe to hasten healing, yet his face and hands were still ruddy.

  "Clean stone or purifying fire is the only true way to honor the dead. Else it will be overlong ere the soul gains freedom to be reborn. This interment in earth, why, roots will catch the soul. No wonder Chakka and Daelsmen are at odds."

  Tipperton shook his head but remained silent, even as he noticed that the Daelsmen looked with disfavor upon the building of the great funeral pyre of the Dwarves, and the making of the pyre of the Elves, as well as the Baeron lading wains with their dead to take them into a forest, and muttered of the error of their ways.

  So, too, did the Baeron look upon the others and shake their heads as well.

  Only the Dylvana seemed to ignore the varying customs in their preparations to sing all souls to the sky.

  As to the dead Foul Folk-all three thousand one hundred twenty-though the Dwarves objected, Ruar insisted they should be burned as well. At last Borl assented, for though he believed fire would honor the Grg, still he could not see any other swift way to rid his dale of these dead… and he did not want to leave them to rot upon his very door.

  Tip looked over the field of slaughter and sighed. "So many killed, Bekki. So many killed. It seems somehow unfair."

  Bekki grunted. "War is not a pleasant game, Tipperton, not a diversion of sport. Fairness has nothing to do with it. There is only the 'rule,' if rule it is, and that is to slay as many of the foe as you can."

  "I thought the only rule was to win."

  Bekki nodded. "That, too."

  "And if you can win without slaughter…?"

  Bekki looked down at the buccan. "Not easily done in war."

  Tip sighed. "I think that to win a war without slaughter, the victory must come before any battle is fought."

  They watched long moments more. Finally Tip said, "Of all who fell, only a few were those I knew."

  Bekki's eyes turned grim as flint. "All Chakka who fell were my brothers."

  On this second day as well, Beau visited many of the wounded, including Phais in the Chakia healing chambers. When Beau, escorted by a Chakian, came into the infirmary, the Dara was fevered and thrashing about as poison coursed through her veins. Chakia attended her, some bathing her brow with cold spring water while others attempted to hold her still.

  And her bandage was seeping red.

  "Oh, my," whispered Beau, "I should have burnt the wound."

  "Shall I ready a cauter?" asked the Chakian at his side.

  Beau shook his head. "It's too late now, for the poison has spread."

  "We have tried a sleeping draught," said another of the Chakia. "But the fever gains the upper hand now and again."

  Beau nodded and reached into his breast pocket for the silver case. Shortly, and with the help of a Chakia, he managed to get the gwynthyme tea into the Dara. Partway through, she settled into an uneasy sleep.

  "I'll be back later," he whispered to Phais as he bandaged the wound again, a fresh poultice laid on. The Dara made no response. And with tears in his eyes, Beau left her side.

  The following day, the funerals were held: Chakia wailing, hooded Chakka tearing at their beards and swearing vengeance as smoke twined into the sky; Daelsmen marching 'round mounds and calling out of brave deeds done; Dylvana standing by the roaring pyre and singing; and somewhere in the still woods, Baeron standing silent, while Loric, who had gone with them, stood a distance away and softly sang.

  That night the corpses of the Foul Folk were burned, and no one whatsoever grieved, though many there shouted curses.

  And in the infirmary Beau spent another dose of his precious gwynthyme.

  The next morning Coron Ruar called a meeting of the war council, DelfLord Borl and an elder Dwarf, Berk, attending as well. They met in the great war room of Mine-holt North.

  "There are yet seven segments of a Horde in Riamon," said Ruar. "The scouts report that they now drive southeast."

  "Not toward the city of Dael?" asked Bwen, her arm in a sling. "I am somewhat surprised."

  Loden shook hi
s head. "Dael is a walled city, well protected. They passed it by on the way here. The numbers of the Spawn are even less now; hence they pass it by again."

  Borl growled and gestured about. "Mineholt North, carved as it is in the living stone, is even more protected than your city, Prince Loden. Why they came and set siege here instead of there is a mystery to me."

  The elder Dwarf cleared his throat. "Once long past in the First Era, Modru proposed an alliance to Breakdeath Durek of the Chakka. Durek turned him down. A time later, Foul Folk cast Durek into the Vorvor, there at Kraggen-cor, some say at the behest of the Enemy. Yet Durek survived, perhaps by the hand of the Utruni. I think this yet galls Modru and he seeks revenge."

  "Would he do so after all these years?" asked Tipperton.

  "Who knows the mind of Modru?" replied Loden, shaking his head. "Not I."

  Brandt cocked an eyebrow. "What would Counsellor Tain have said?"

  Loden turned up his hands. "We'll never know, Brandt; Tain's slain body was not found."

  "He wasn't slain," blurted Beau. "He ran."

  Loden looked at the Warrow. "He what?"

  "He ran," repeated Beau. "Fled the conflict-up the hill toward the hospital wains. I saw him as I charged down-slope to get to the fighting."

  Loden looked about the table, muscles twitching in his clenched jaw.

  Melor cleared his throat. "When Lord Tain reached the top of the hill, he turned eastward, toward Dael."

  Rage blazed in Loden's eyes. "Fled from the field of battle, and here I thought him dead, his body hacked apart as were many of those we buried, as were many of those you burned." The Prince clenched a fist and gritted, "But now I find he ran." Slowly Loden unclenched his fingers. "Nevertheless, I will deal with him when next we meet." The Daelsman turned and looked at Ruar. "There is a Swarm within the Rimmen Ring we must deal with first."

  "I say we take their toll as they run," said Chieftain Gara. "Hit them hard when they least expect it and then withdraw."