In the last of the darkness before dawn, Beau sat on the ridge with his back to a tree, the dread of the Gargon pulsing in his veins, his stomach roiling with anxiety. He cast his eyes to the night sky above, winter-bright stars coldly glittering.

Oh, Adon, Elwydd, Garlon, Fyrra, and anyone else who cares, watch over Tip. Keep him safe. He's my best friend, you know.

Staying low and taking advantage of every fragment, every fraction, every scrap of cover-dips in the ground, scatters of rock, ditches alongside the road-Tip crawled through the snow toward the west gate, still hundreds of yards away. Pausing by a winter-dead bush, Tip caught his breath and looked back toward the Swarm. He found he was more or less halfway between death at the hands of the Rucks who would kill him for a Warrow and death at the hands of the men who would kill him for a Ruck.

Gritting his teeth, Tip crawled on, the sky in the east turning pale.

"Watch the south gate with your eagle eyes, Phais," said Beau, the buccan's own eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, his face haggard. "Surely you'll see if-no! surely you'll see when Tip goes in."

"I will," replied the Dara.

"As will I," said Loric.

And the four of them stood atop the ridge and peered down at the south gate, as dawn came to the sky.

Moments passed and moments more, and the gate remained shut.

"Oh no," groaned Beau. "He's been captured, he's been captured… or something worse."

Phais knelt and placed an arm about the buccan's shoulders and drew him to her. "Take heart, wee one."

"Huah!" grunted Bekki. "Look left. Something stirs."

" 'Tis Ghuls on Helsteeds," said Loric, staring. Then his eyes widened. "Ai, look now, but they do race through the shadows aslant and toward the west gate of Dendor."

Ding! Dng! Tip, his hood cast back, hammered the butt of the flagpole against the iron of the enshadowed west gate deep-set in the stone walls of Dendor.

"I'm not a Ruck! I'm not a Ruck!" he shouted in Common over and again as-Dng! Dng!-he pounded on the metal door, flakes of hoarfrost scaling down.

Iron scraped on stone left and right and above, and dimly Tip saw the steel points of crossbow quarrels aimed at him from unshuttered dark arrow slits to each side, and murder holes overhead now yawned wide in the gloom above.

"I am not a Ruck! I am not a Ruck!" cried Tip, waving the standard back and forth-a black flag bearing crossed silver axes-the emblem of Kachar.

A slot in the iron gate slid aside. Eyes peered out to see the fluttering banner sweeping back and forth.

"Vad ar det heir?" growled a voice, and then the eyes shifted down. "Jo, jo! Ar det a Rutch?"

"I am not a Ruck!" shouted Tip in the dawn shadows, turning his head left and right so that the warder might see his features. "I'm not a Ruck, I'm not a Ruck, and I bear a token for King Agron."

The eyes left the small portal, and a voice shouted, "Kap-ten, jag behova dig!"

"King Agron, King Agron, I need to see King Agron." Tip jerked the coin out from under his jerkin. "I bear a token for King Agron."

Atop the wall a horn sounded.

Tip stepped back a dozen or so paces out from under the wall and to the stone bridge, and still waving the flag he peered upward.

But the men above were not staring down at the buccan but instead were looking out toward the Swarm.

Tip turned to see two Ghuls on Helsteeds hammering through the slanting dawn shadows and toward the gate where he stood, snow flying from cloven hooves.

Tip spun back toward the shut portal and ran to the frost-laden steel doors. "Let me in, let me in!"

"Nej! Det ar skoj!"

The iron panel slammed shut and crossbows in arrow-slits were raised and pointed at Tipperton, while Helsteeds thundered toward the gate and cruel barbed spears glimmered in the dawn.

Tipperton whirled and dropped the standard and whipped off his cloak, revealing the Elven bow fastened crosswise over chest and back. Quickly he looped it free and snatched an arrow from the quiver at his thigh.

But even as he did so, a hail of arrows hissed out from the wall above, most to miss, though some struck the Ghuls, piercing arms and legs and necks… and they howled in glee and thundered on.

And trapped outside the gate, Tip aimed and loosed his arrow to strike the lead Helsteed square in the chest, the beast to grunt in pain and run another handful of strides ere tumbling down dead and hurling the Ghul over its head as it crashed into the snow.

Yet as the following Helsteed hammered by, the downed Ghul gained his feet and came running on, his deadly barbed spear in hand.

Now a second flight of arrows hissed out from the wall above to strike at the remaining Ghul and Helsteed; quilled, the cloven-hoofed beast reared up squealing, while the rider cursed in Sluk and cruelly sawed on the reins, fighting for control.

"Let me in! Let me in!" shouted Tipperton, even as he strung a second arrow.

And down through the murder holes-"Open the side postern, you fools!" snapped a voice. "Can you not see he's a Warrow! Oppna den sma port! Skynda dig!"

Even as the Ghul afoot ran forward, arrows hissing all

'round, to Tipperton's left a side postern clanged open. Tip-perton risked a sideways glance and saw an armored man frantically gesturing him inward and shouting, "Skynda pa! Skynda pa!" while three warriors stood farther back, their crossbows leveled at the Warrow.

Tip turned and loosed his arrow at the onrushing Ghul now running onto the stone of the bridge, the shaft to slam into the creature's stomach, yet it did not slow him one step and across the span he came. Then Tip snatched up his cloak and the flag and bolted in through the gate- Clang!-the men slamming it to after, an iron bar sliding home.

Outside the Ghul howled in frustrated rage as arrows and arrows rained down.

Tip found himself in a twisting corridor, more murder holes overhead, more shuttered arrow-slits along the sides, and escorted by four suspicious Avenian warriors along the cobbled way he went… to emerge in the city beyond.

It was only when he came out from the shadows of the tunnel and into the slanting light of the morning sun that the men looked on in wonder and relaxed their guard, for here was one of the Litenfolk of legend, seldom if ever seen.

Down a ramp and toward Tipperton strode a stern-faced warrior of Dendor. He was dressed much like the ones who had escorted the buccan under the wall: fleece jacket over a chain mail shirt, with quilted brown breeks and fleece-lined boots. A broadsword was girted about his waist, and a metal helm rode on his head. Yet this warrior was not the one who caught Tip's eye, for walking alongside came another. Tipperton frowned, for this "other," was he an Elf or a man? The Warrow could not say. Different from Human, he was, and different from Elf as well, yet in his features he held something of each, or so it seemed to the buccan. Man height he was, six foot or so, and in this was taller than most Lian, and his eyes held the hint of a tilt, though less than one might expect of an Elf. And his ears were tipped, though not as sharply as those of either Lian or Dylvana. His hair was dark and held streaks of grey, and his features sharp, like those of a fox, though no fox this. Dressed in black, he was: heavy woolen coat, and pants, boots, and gloves all ebony. And he bore no weapon whatsoever, or so it seemed. And when he came to where Tip awaited, the guards shuffled back a bit, as if in respect or awe, though they did salute the warrior accompanying him, mumbling, "Kapten."

But it was the Elf, the man, the one with dark eyes nearly black beneath black eyebrows, who looked down at the wee buccan and said, "Now what would a Warrow be doing at the gates of a city surrounded by Modru's Swarm? And carrying a Dwarven flag at that, eh?"