The third one smacked straight into the ground a handful of steps ahead. "At least they have all gone forward," muttered Beau, loading another rock.

Upslope, Tipperton shook his head in disbelief as he saddled the second pony.

"Don't worry, Beau," said Tipperton as they rode up out of the wooded draw and back toward the road, the pack pony trailing behind and laded with their goods, including the pine boughs Beau had cut for brooms, "you'll get the hang of it yet."

"Wull, I threw most of my rocks away and only managed to hit the tree trunk once. If it'd been a Ruck I'd've killed 'im dead had he been about eight feet tall." Beau grinned ruefully as Tip laughed aloud.

Smiling, they made their way up onto the Crossland Road and turned easterly, and then their smiles vanished, for in the near distance ahead they could see the dark tangle of Drearwood lying before them. Each taking a deep breath, they glanced at one another, and then down the slope they rode and across a flat to come the verge of the Stone-arches Bridge. Tipperton held up a hand and reined to a halt, Beau stopping beside him. Turning to Beau, Tip said, "Listen, bucco, I've been thinking it over, and you needn't go with me any farther. I mean, we've been fortunate so far, and I think-"

"Oh, Tip," broke in Beau, "shut your gob." And with that, Beau spurred his pony forward onto the span.

Shaking his head ruefully, Tipperton prodded his own steed and followed Beau onto the snow-covered stone pave of the bridge.

Above the frozen River Caire they rode, to come into the land of Rhone, the wedge-shaped realm known as the Plow, bounded on one side by the River Caire and on the other by the River Tumble, the rivers to ultimately join one another in the south to form the point of the plow, the land extending all the way north to the spine of the Rigga Mountains.

The road rose up again out of the river valley to strike straight through the grim heart of Drearwood, the bane of this region most dire. Hearthtales abounded of lone travelers or small bands who had passed into the sinister tangle never to be seen again; stories came of large caravans and groups of armed warriors who had beaten off grim monsters half seen in the night, and it was said that many had lost their lives to the ghastly creatures. This land had been shunned by all except those who had no choice but to cross it, or by those adventurers who sought fame, most of whom did not live to grasp their glory. Fell were the beast said to live herein, and fell, too, were the Foul Folk who reveled in its environs. And into this baleful place rode two paltry Warrows, following a road that would not set them free of its dread for eighty perilous miles.

Both Tip and Beau felt their hearts hammering with foreboding at the thought of entering this dread wood, for herein were said to live nightmares. Yet they had no choice and on they went, into the grim woods, and the wan winter light fell dull among the dark and grasping branches.

All about them clustered dim enshadowed woods, blackness mustering in ebon pools within. Stunted undergrowth clutched desperately at the frozen rocky ground, and barren trees twisted upward out of gloom-cast snow to grasp at the leaden sky, the jagged branches seeming ready to seize whatever came within reach.

Beau looked deep into the entangled dark galleries and hissed, "Lor', Tip, if ever anything held a black heart, this is it."

Tipperton nodded grimly, and urged his pony ahead.

Throughout the dismal day they rode, and at times walked, ever following the eastward trek, riding at a goodly pace or striding at a swift clip, for they did not wjsh to spend a moment more than necessary in these woeful woods.

They had not come to the central region when the unseen sun began to set, drawing gloom behind. Reluctantly they headed away from the road and in among the dark gnarl to find a place to camp. Neither one wanted to spend even a single night in this dreadful place, yet heeding Gaman's advice to travel only during the daylight hours, they searched for an out-of-the-way site. At last they came to a small clearing, and while Beau took the pine boughs they had saved and walked back to the road to sweep away the signs of their passage within, Tipperton tethered the ponies and unladed them and then fed them some grain.

That night during Tip's first watch, the slightest sound caused him to jerk up and peer this way and that for sign of danger, yet without starlight he could see nothing whatsoever. Even so, he listened on high alert. Whatever made these slight sounds-voles, a waft of air ticking branch upon branch, one of the ponies shifting, or something else altogether-he could not determine its cause. And he had visions of something unseen creeping upon them. But in spite of his foreboding, when it came his turn to sleep, exhausted as he was he immediately fell into a deep, dreamless slumber. Yet it seemed to Tip that he had no more than put his head down ere Beau was shaking him by the shoulder.

"Tip. Tip," hissed Beau. "Wake up. Something. A light. A sound."

Tipperton scrambled up. "Where?" he whispered, his heart pounding.

"East. In the east."

Tip faced eastward, and in the far distance, flickering among the dark trees, he saw a pinpoint of light… and then another mote, and another, and another, as more and more lights appeared afar. And there sounded a faint beat, muted by distance.

Tip sucked air in between his teeth, and he started to say, "What do you think-?" when there sounded a faraway blat echoing among the trees.

"Lor'," hissed Beau, "that was a horn."

With his heart in his throat, Tip fumbled about on the ground and located his bow and arrows. Swiftly he strung the weapon, and slipped the harness of the quiver over his head and shoulder. "Get your sling, Beau. We may need it."

"I've already got it in hand, but whether or no I can hit anything in the dark, well…"

"Maybe it'll be eight feet tall."

Light after light continued to appear, and they seemed to be drawing closer.

"I think they're torches," hissed Beau.

"On the road," added Tip. "Torchlight coming along the road."

"Do you think whatever, whoever, they are, they're searching for intruders? Searching perhaps for us?"

"I don't know."

Behind them a pony shifted uneasily.

"Oh, Lor'," hissed Beau. "The ponies. We have to keep them quiet."

Using their scarves and a bandage from Beau's medical kit, quickly the buccen improvised blindfolds and covered the horselings' eyes.

There sounded another blat of a bugle, and still the beat pounded, as of a muffled drum.

More torches appeared-an endless stream, it seemed.

Tip and Beau held the ponies and murmured soothingly.

Yet the flaring brands drew closer, and now the buccen could hear faint chirpings, as of axles turning. And the drum grew louder, its beat augmented by the crack of whips.

Onward came the torches and drum and whips and horn and squealing axles, and mingled among it all, now the buccen heard voices, rasping and guttural, shouts and commands in a language neither knew. And the ground shook with the tramp of feet.

"Are we far enough off the road?" whispered Beau.

"If we're not," murmured Tip, "it's entirely too late to move."

Now the marchers drew abreast and could be seen through a gap in the trees.

"Adon," breathed Tip, "it's an army, a horde of Spawn, moving west along the road." 1

"But that's toward Twoforks, Beacontor, Stonehill- Oh, Lor', toward the Bosky, too. Oh, Tip, where are they going?"

"I don't know, Beau," gritted Tipperton. "Perhaps to one of the places you named, though they could just as well turn north and head for Challerain Keep in Rian, or south into Rell and beyond. But no matter where they're headed, there's nothing we can do about it now. Nothing whatsoever."