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.

Seeking to find a way 'round, Tip was shunted aside by a tramping squad of Rucks.

Stepping leftward, Tip passed nigh the rear of the tent. And from inside he could hear a whispering and hissing in a tongue he did not know.

Modru in council?

Again Tip turned aside as a Ghul came walking near.

"It means, Beau, that someone he knows has died." Beau looked up at Loric in alarm. "Oh no. Do you think it could be Tip?" Beau stared down at Dendor, as if willing his sight to fly overland to wherever Tip might be. Yet though false dawn glimmered in the sky, only shadow 'round the city met his gaze, darkness relieved but slightly by the brittle stars high above and the campfires of the Foul Folk below.

Loric turned up his hands. "All Drimma believe that falling stars foretell of fallen friends."

"Wull, let's just hope it's nothing but wild superstition," said Beau, the buccan pacing back and forth while peering down at the city. "Oh, Loric, I told Tip it was a harebrained scheme, and now we have falling stars. And you tell me the Dwarves-oh, surely it can't be true. I mean, stars fall all the time." Beau turned to Loric for confirmation, but Loric was looking at Bekki sitting beneath a tree some distance away, the Dwarf with his hood cast over his head in mourning.

At last Tipperton reached the inner fringe of the Swarm. Ahead some quarter mile or so stood the west gate of Dendor. His heart yet pulsing with the distant dread of the Gargon, Tip looked for a way across. Yet this perimeter was more heavily patrolled, maggot-folk marching the verge. Too, sentries stood watch along this periphery.

Oh lor', but I'll never get out unseen.

Tip glanced at the sky above. False dawn glimmered.

Elwydd, show me the way.

And then to the left, a figure, a Ruck, walked past a sentry and out and down into a shallow gully, while another came trudging back, fastening his breeks as he came from the meager draw. The picket paid little heed.

Tip moved closer and the reek of feces and urine wafted on the air.

Sucking in a deep breath and making certain that his hood was well about his face, Tip hefted the standard and with his stomach squinching he walked past the warder and into the draw, past a Hlok voiding his bladder, past a Ruck defecating, past them all and to the distant end of the gully -where he squatted behind an outcropping of rock and waited, trying with little success to ignore the reeking fumes.