Beau jerked awake. "What was th-?"

Another howl sounded, this one nearby.

Floundering up, Beau peered 'round. "Oh, Lor', I fell asleep, too." A quick glance at the sun showed it was midafternoon.

Beau turned to waken Tip, to find that buccan sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Tip, I'm sorry. I-"

Tipperton's eyes widened, and he put a finger to his lips and held out a shushing hand, then motioned for Beau to duck down, Tip himself flattening against the ice-clad ground and pointing downslope toward the Crossland Road.

Beau's gaze followed Tip's pointing hand, and he gasped and dropped down, for there on the road and some distance away a band of Rucks and a Hlok slowly made their way easterly, following a huge black Wolflike creature. The size of a pony, no Wolf was this but a Vulg instead. The creature cast about, raising its nose in the air, then snuffling against the ice, and slowly, a pace at a time, easterly it stepped, only to stop again and snuffle and scour.

"We've got to go," sissed Tipperton. "I think it's tracking us."

"Where?" hissed Beau, squirming over to Tip. "I mean, which way?"

"We can't go back to the road," whispered Tip, glancing over his shoulder and back into the woods, "so north it is."

Down the back side of the slope they slithered, and when they were beyond seeing, they crept along, bending low, and moved silently deeper into the glassy tangle of Drearwood. Finally they stood upright to make their way northward, moving as fast as they could over the slippery terrain.

"Try to touch as little as you can, Beau," said Tip, "for I think the ice is making it difficult for the Vulg to track us, and the less scent we leave, the better off we are. They say that Vulgs are mainly sight hunters, and so if we keep it from seeing us…" Tip's words fell to silence as he looked for a clear way around a thorny bar.

"Lor', I wish I had some gwynthyme," said Beau, following Tip as he crawled under a snarl of brittle ice-laden branches.

"Gwynthyme?" Past the obstacle, Tip stood up. "Why would you think of that at this time?"

"My book says that a Vulg's bite is terribly poison, Tip, but that gwynthyme will counteract it."

"Oh."

Northward they inched through the hindering tangle, their progress slow, their way blocked time and again, often they lost their footing on icy slopes and skidded down.

And the sun sank in the west.

Now and again in the south they heard the Vulg howl, and from the east, like howls answered.

Night fell.

"We'll have to keep going north through Drearwood," gritted Tipperton. "They've got us blocked off from escape."

"How far have we come?" asked Beau.

"A mile or two at the most," replied Tip.

And so they pressed onward into the night, their way lighted by the stars above and by a silvery crescent moon hanging in the western sky.

But then the moon set.

And under the light of the stars, still they made their way as cautiously as they could, slipping and sliding on the ice.

And something came slithering through the tangle nearby, breathing heavily. The Warrows froze and held their breath as the monstrous thing undulated past and away without detecting them.

"Lor'," breathed Beau, "what was that!"

"I don't know," murmured Tip, "but let's get the Hel out of here."

Onward they struggled, and still behind them now and again they could hear the Vulg howl, and so they pressed onward.

And off in the distance ponderous footsteps crunched, and branches shattered, and once again the Warrows crouched down, trembling in the darkness as Death stalked nearby.

Three more times that night the buccen scrunched down against the ground, holding their breath and moving not, as things were heard-two more massive creatures crunching through the ice, one flapping overhead on ponderous, leathery wings. What they were, neither Tip nor Beau knew-only that whatever they were, they were deadly and on the hunt.

Just after sunrise, weary beyond measure, at last the buccen stopped. Although creatures had passed unseen in the night, still they had not heard the Vulg howl since well before dawn, and so they deemed it safe enough to pause awhile. They clambered up a gentle slope along the precipice of a bluff, and when they reached a high point where they could see the approach from the south, they stopped to take rest.

As they sat beneath an icy tree along the rim, "How did the Rucks and Hlok get on our track?" asked Beau.

"The ponies, I think," said Tipperton. "They must have found the ponies."

Beau nodded in agreement, then added, "And after that, our goods."

"And then they set a Vulg on our trail," appended Tip. "But as long as we stay on the hard ice, I think it'll have trouble following."

Beau gazed out into the glasslike 'scape, ice sheathing all. "That shouldn't be too difficult."

Tip reached under his quilted down jacket and pulled out his waterskin. "Uh-oh," he grunted, shaking the skin, "I'm all out."

Beau felt his own water bag. "Me, too."

"I suppose we'll just have to eat ice," said Tip.

"Oh, no, we won't, bucco," objected Beau. "It'll just steal our heat, and we've no food to replenish it. And what with this sleeping on ice, I'm cold enough as it is, in spite of our eiderdown. No, Tip, if we're to get through this alive, we've got to find a stream."

Tip sighed. "All right, give me your bag. I'll look for water while you keep watch."

Beau nodded, and handed over the skin.

"I'm going down there," said Tip, pointing down the face of the bluff. "Likely if there's a stream, it'll be at the base of this precipice. If you spot anything, cast a sling-stone down at me."

"I'll throw it by hand," said Beau, grinning.

Tip smiled back at the buccan, then started down the slope, following along the rim.

Beau stood and leaned against the tree. And this time I'll stay awake.

The later afternoon sun shone through the glass-brittle ice-clad woods as Tip said, "If you're going to pee, pee over the cliff. That way should any Vulgs come upon the scent, it'll be at the bottom rather than up here with us. But take care and don't slip over."

Beau groaned. "Too late, Tip, for while you were sleeping I…" Beau poked a thumb back over his shoulder and toward the woods behind.

Tip sighed and shrugged. "Oh, well…" He cast an eye toward the sun, then turned and pointed east and said, "Let's see if we can get out of these dreadful woods before dark."

"Oh, I do hope we can do so," said Beau. "Those awful things in the night…"

They set off easterly, but the icy terrain hindered their way, and the sun set and darkness fell, and it seemed they were no closer to escaping. Still they pressed on, bright stars and a quarter moon lighting the way. But then in the tangle ahead…

"Oh, no," Tip groaned, and pointed toward the glimmer of a fire in the distance.

"Perhaps it's a traders' caravan," murmured Beau.

"Not likely. A Foul Folk campsite instead, I would say."

"What'll we do?"

"Skirt around it. Leave it be."

Beau nodded. "Choose the way," he murmured.

And with Tip in the lead, the buccen swung northerly, keeping the campfire off to the right.

Onward they crept, and onward, but of a sudden Tip's feet slipped out from under him, and he went hurtling down a slope, smashing through ice-clad underbrush, shards of ice shattering and tinkling in his wake. He crashed into an icy knot of thornbush at the bottom of the slide and, blundering, stood, his feet yet slipping, his bow lost to his grasp and arrows strewn out behind, all slithering slowly down the slope after. And in the moonlight and starlight, as Tip floundered to his feet a leather-clad arm snaked about his neck, forearm against the buccan's windpipe, and someone snarled and jerked Tip up off the ground and wrenched him back and forth, trying to break the Warrow's neck.