With hearts hammering, through the gnarl of trees Tip and Beau watched helplessly as Rucks bearing torches tramped along the road, Hloks lashing whips at any who strayed, driving them back into line. The muffled drum beat steadily, meting out the pace, and now and again a Rucken bugle signaled a command, but what it might be, the buccen could not say.

Wagons hove into view "Adon!" gasped Tip, for the wains were drawn by huge, shambling creatures, ten feet tall and more. Like giant Rucks they seemed, but no Rucks were these.

"What are they?" sissed Beau.

"Ogrus, I think," replied Tip. "I've never seen one before, but what else can they be?"

Indeed they were Ogrus, called Trolls by some, but Ogrus nevertheless. And they drew the heavy wains down the road, axles chirping and screeching as the heavy wooden wheels turned 'round.

And then helish steeds passed by, bearing pallid riders the size of men, corpselike yet alive and wielding jagged spears. The steeds themselves resembled horses, but they were hairless and scaled, with long snakelike tails.

Now a foul odor drifted faint through the air, and it was all the Warrows could do to keep the ponies from squealing out and bolting, the stamp of their hooves unheard above the sounds of the passing Swarm.

And still the Horde marched past, feet tramping, drums thudding, bugle blats echoing now and again, armor jingling, hooves clopping, axles screeching, whips lashing, guttural commands barking out, and torchlight eerily casting flickering light among the dreadful recesses of dark Drearwood.

And the line now stretched beyond seeing to east and west., Tip and Beau held onto the ponies and whispered soothing words as the nighttide passed through its depths and began the long climb toward morning… and the end of the Horde was not in sight as more and more Spawn tramped past.

Yet, at last, just ere the sky began to lighten with the coming dawn, the last of the Swarm passed and the light of the torches and tramp of feet and squeal of axles and whip-cracks and shouts and the beat of drums faded into the west until they could be seen and heard no more.

The Horde had gone at last.

And dawn came.

Exhausted from their all-night vigil, the Warrows groaned as dismal day broke upon Drearwood.

"We must go on," said Tip, "for I will not spend one moment longer than absolutely necessary in these dreadful woods."

"But, Tip, isn't there something we can do to warn the folks of Twoforks, Stonehill, elsewhere as well?"

"What would you suggest, Beau?"

"I don't know. -Something."

Tip shook his head. "I don't think so, Beau. I mean, we're on the wrong side of the Horde, and besides, there's our own mission we've got to complete. Look, we can't be everywhere, protect everyone at once. We can only pray that the pickets will see them coming and give due warning."

Grimly, Beau nodded, then stooped to pick up a saddle blanket to begin to ready the ponies. "How many Foul Folk do you think we saw tonight?"

"Thousands," replied Tip. "Thousands…"

On they went, through the dismal woods, and the wan daylight fell dim among the clutching branches. Hours they rode, and at times walked even though they were weary beyond measure, ever following the eastward trek. The Cross-land Road itself had been churned to muck by thousands of tramping feet and turning wheels and the cloven hoofs of steeds, and through this mire went the Warrows slowly, going the opposite way.

At last in late afternoon they came to a point where the Horde had entered the road-from the north they had come through the Drearwood, to turn west upon the way, and they left behind a wide track through the barren forest dire.

The Warrows did not follow this track northward into the woods, but continued on easterly along the Cross-land Road.

Now they were back on frozen ground, frigid and hard and swift, though the exhausted buccen could pick up the pace but a bit.

Tip eyed the dismal sky. "As much as I hate to say it, Beau, it looks as if we'll have to spend another night in this tangle."

Beau groaned but made no reply, and on through the darkling woods they rode. Another mile passed 'neath the hooves of the ponies, and then the Warrows dismounted to give the ponies respite, leading them behind as they walked.

As they trudged along the road, of a sudden Beau brightened. "Say, Tip, what with the Horde marching off behind us, don't you think that all the Rucks and such are gone from hereabout? I mean, perhaps we can make a fire tonight, have some good hot tea-it'd be just the thing."

Tip shook his head. "I don't think so, Beau. Just as some good strong men were left behind to ward Twoforks, the Foul Folk will have left some Rucks and such to guard these woods. No, I'm afraid we'll have to pitch a cold camp and do without any tea."

Beau groaned with disappointment, and after a moment said, "You know, Tip, in spite of my eiderdown, I think I'm growing colder with every passing day."

Tip nodded in agreement. "Me too, Beau. Me too. If we don't have a fire soon, well… -But we should be out of this dreadful place by tomorrow, and then we can have a fire, I would think."

Beau sighed and gestured at the frigid ground, saying, "I don't think people were made to spend their days traipsing endlessly cross-country and their nights sleeping in the dark on frozen ground. I mean, give me a good garden to putter in and a cozy hearth to sit by and warm bed to sleep in. And hot meals. Oh, yes, hot meals."

Tip grunted a noncommittal response but otherwise remained silent, and on they trudged.

After a while, as the sky grew darker, Tip said, "All right, Beau, let's begin looking for a place to camp."

Even as they peered off into the tangle, searching for a suitable site, a wind began blowing up from the south, the air slightly warmer than that in the surround. "Good," said Beau, licking a finger and holding it up in the breeze then glancing at the sky. "It seems that better things are due."

But as he said it, a chill rain began to fall, and wherever the water touched frigid trees or cold undergrowth, bitter rocks or frozen ground, it began to freeze.

"Oh, Lor'," groaned Tip, exhausted. "Just what we don't need-an ice storm."

The freezing rain fell throughout the nighttide, and Tip and Beau sat huddled and miserable beneath their oiled cloaks. The ponies, too, were distressed, for the only protection the Warrows could afford them was the buccen's own bedding: two ground tarpaulins-one on each of the riding ponies-and the Warrows' own blankets-spread over the little pack steed. They had all taken shelter beneath a gnarled black willow, but the barren branches offered scant relief from the falling rain, and down it came to freeze upon striking, and the Warrows could hear the breaking of branches near and far as overladen limbs crashed to the ground, and now and again there sounded a heavy rending and a massive thud as overburdened trees toppled down-all unseen in the utter darkness of the nighttime woods.

"Lor7," sissed Beau, shuddering with cold and leaning against Tip, "I do hope this willow doesn't crash down 'round our heads. -Or, wait, perhaps I wish it did. At least that would end our misery."

Some time after mid of night the rain ceased, but still limbs snapped and fell, and still an occasional tree shattered down in the blackness.

Shivering and shuddering and hugging one another for warmth, the Warrows attempted to take turns sleeping, but neither could even drowse, as wretched as they were.

Sometime ere dawn, the clouds began to break, and here and there stars glimmered through. And as the light of morning finally came, ice set the baleful forest aglitter with reflected sunlight, as of a world coated in brittle glass-bent branches and bowed limbs and glazed trunks straining against the weight of the sparkling layers, the tangle of undergrowth crammed under a crushing load, the rocks, the ground, the very land clad with treacherous, glittering armor.