Smudge on the Mountain
Smudge on the Mountain
By Homer Oldham
Smudge hesitated a moment, partly to appreciate the stately beauty of the magnificent stag and also to allow it to take one more step into the open ground of the twilight-dappled glade so that his arrow would bring the merciful swift death deserved by such a regal animal. In that moment of hesitation while Smudge crouched in the shadows beside the great oak, bow taunt, a series of unexpected events exploded so rapidly they all seemed to occur at once.
There was a whisper on the wind that few but Smudge might have been able to hear or interpret. Still fewer would have been able to react with the speed shown by the young woodsman as he dropped to the ground, twisting to his left, his grip on bow and shaft amazingly unchanged as his right shoulder slammed to ground among the mossy tree roots. Almost before the "thwack" reached his ear, Smudge had aligned his archer's aim with the arrow quivering above him, it's head imbedded in the oak just above the space occupied by Smudge's ear only an instant earlier. Yet young Smudge's arrow did not fly back along the path of the other as his cultivated instincts of defense and survival demanded. As his assailant had intended, Smudge's eye picked up two details that stayed his hand. The vibrating arrow still singing softly above him had a pair of unusual features. The feathers of that shaft were stained green, identifying their maker.
Wood Ward.
Further, a strip of white cloth or ribbon was tied to the shaft and fluttered now in the soft breeze. That was something new. It was not the first time a warning shot was sent whistling past Smudge's ear from Roderick the Wood Ward, though such had not occurred for years. That part of woodcraft that emphasized preservation of the forest and game therein had been taught to Smudge, from his early youth, by such "messages". There was no such message in today's arrow, however. Smudge knew the proud old stag he had been stalking was ripe and proper for culling and Roderick would have fully approved of the kill, though the game was technically not Smudge's to take. The intended meaning of the white ribbon was obvious. Wood Ward wished to parlay with Smudge about something he felt important. No, not just important, but urgent. He had interrupted the honorable kill because he could not suffer the delay while Smudge properly dressed the animal, harvesting fully the meat and hide. There was no question in Smudges mind over how he would respond to the request. There were few men Smudge trusted more that the "retired" Warden of the Wood, and none at all who so commanded his respect. Smudge no longer lay tense among the shadowy roots of the old tree. He had vanished.
In a clearing nearby, Roderick Wood Ward squatted next to his small cook fire and turned a juicy rabbit on a spit. The long-limbed ranger was physically a larger and much older version of Smudge, lean and wiry and swarthy, though not quite as dark of skin. He was clad in soft leathers, sewn together in a patchwork to form a mottled design in shades of brown and tan. The slight sound behind him would not have been heard by most men, or even most of the wary creatures of the forest. He half-turned and spoke over his shoulder.
"Come sit, Smudge," he said softly "share a bit of hare."
But his peripheral vision saw no figure standing where he expected. Instead, he spotted his own white-ribboned arrow lying on the grass.
"No thankee," came the voice from the opposite direction, "I have me own."
Turning back slowly, Wood Ward saw Smudge lounging comfortably two man-heights beyond the fire. He wore a large boyish grin as he chewed on a familiar-looking spitted rabbit. The Warden glanced down at the smoldering embers to confirm his own rabbit had coincidentally disappeared in the same instant Smudge had "found" his own. Wood Ward permitted his mouth a faint, wry grin in silent appreciation of Smudge's stealthy skillfulness.
The two sat regarding one another in silence for a few moments in the gathering darkness. Tearing off a generous haunch for himself, Smudge tossed the rest of the rabbit lightly back to the ranger.
At length, the young man spoke again. "Yer message," he said.
"No," Wood Ward replied, the firelight flickering on his square features. "Not mine. I'm to fetch you to the Lady."
Smudge tried not to show his surprise, knowing the elder woodsman would be watching his reaction in amusement. Although, like most of the Lady's subjects in the Vale, Smudge had seen the her from afar on many occasions, he had never even imagined that she knew his name or that he would ever speak with her. As Lady of the Vale she ruled over this isolated part of the world, while Smudge was a nameless refugee and well… poacher without family or trade.
The silence lengthened and the evening deepened. Surprised as he was, Smudge did not immediately ask Wood Ward what the lady wanted of him. In part, that was obvious. Summer's End was but five days away, and there would be only one thing weighing on the Lady Lesa's mind: the return of Dungee. Two years earlier, the banished wizard had attacked and nearly conquered Vale on Summer's End Day. Exactly one year later, he struck again, bringing horrible destruction and death (including the killing of the Lady's beloved eldest son), but once again was fought off and driven back to his mountain stronghold. Everyone knew that Dungee would come again this year, more terrible and deadly than ever. But what did such great matters have to do with Smudge? Truly, he had contributed in some measure to last year's defense and the Vale was fearfully short of capable men-at-arms, but if the Lady merely wished to enlist Smudge's bow, she would have simply asked Wood Ward to add him to the ranks. If the Lady did not know he would gladly serve her, certainly Wood Ward knew. Well, there was only one way to solve the puzzle, and it would be a few hour's march yet tonight if they were to meet the Lady on the morrow. Without another word, Smudge and Wood Ward gathered up their gear, smothered the fire and turned toward the main road.
Smudge was relieved to learn that he would not have to wear his dirty boots and ragged leathers into some type of formal audience with the Lady of the Vale. He and Wood Ward were to await her in the gatehouse gardens among the willows and birches and summer-flowering bushes. His relief vanished, however, when he beheld the elite group that approached them on the path. Actually looking into the smiling eyes of Lady Lesa as she glided gracefully toward him was frightening enough, but Smudge also recognized some of the men who walked with her, and they were not people with whom he felt entirely comfortable. Unconsciously, he edged backward and slightly closer to Wood Ward, someone he felt he better understood. He recognized the aged Captain Stewart, First Knight of the long-dead Lord of the Vale and closest advisor to the Lady. There was also Garet, the stiff and cold, but unquestionably honorable and courageous Captain of the Guard. Finally, and least pleasantly, there was the brooding and ambitious Wolfe, Chief of the Guard's Rangers, easily recognized, even at a distance by his high-topped boots dyed bright purple and polished to a high gloss- strange footgear for a man who was supposed to travel unseen in the wild.
Smudge had always behaved in cool contempt of authority and power- he had never seen an advantage in being respectful and had never possessed any freedom or dignity except that he seized for himself. Now, if this assembly of powerful figures were coming to try to arrest him or attack him, he would have laughed at them and made fresh jokes, but the Lady and Captain Stewart were grinning at him like he was their long lost nephew, and it scared Smudge to death. When the distinguished party was but a dozen steps away, Captain Stewart suddenly turned to face the other two men, effectively blocking them from accompanying the Lady to the two woodsmen. Wolfe, intent on his path, walked right into the knight, but simply bounced off the chest of the old soldier, who gave no sign of having noticed and immediately engaged his two comrades in some irrelevant line of discussion, freeing the Lady to converse in private with Smudge and Wood Ward.
The Lady went straight to Smudge, all but ignoring Wood Ward. She reached forward and grasped both of Smudges hands in her own. "Thank you so much for coming, lad! May I call you 'Smudge'?"
Somehow and surprisingly, Smudge was immediately at ease with the great Lady.
"Better'n 'Lad'," he said, grinning broadly.
"We have little time, Smudge, but still I must take a moment to offer you my apologies and thanks," she said. "I know all about your actions at Foothill Ford last year. I cannot thank you enough, and I am sorry it has taken so long for me to tell you."
The Vale Guard had been thoroughly defeated at the foot of the pass and were fleeing in disarray with Dungee's minions snapping at their heels and slaughtering the wounded and stragglers as they overtook them. The Lady's son, Elbert, had been in command of the force but was sorely wounded, barely able to stay in the saddle as the remnants struggled in the water of the ford over Elder Creek, about to be overrun. Suddenly, a wilting hale of arrows and stones had poured into Dungee's followers. Smudge and a score of other "Wild Children" (refugees and orphans who made their homes on the edge of the forest) had decided to take a hand in the battle. Their hunger-honed hunting skills proved equally useful in combat as they picked off dozens of the exposed enemy on the riverbank and in the shallow water. Enraged, the invaders turned from their pursuit of the disorganized Guard to deal with this new threat. The enemy was scattered as it chased the woods-savvy youths through the forest for hours. Three of Smudge's friends were captured and killed, but Elbert was able to recover briefly and regroup the Guard for the heroic Stand at Village Edge that saved the Vale from Dungee for the second time. Unfairly, Elbert later died from the effects of the wounds he had received in the earlier battle.
"We came too late, MiLady," said Smudge sadly.
The Lady shook her head but said nothing, since all three knew that it was only the arrival of the "Wild Children" at exactly the time and place they appeared that had turned the tide for the Vale.
"It is surprising we have not met before, Smudge," said the Lady, trying to change the mood. "We have so much in common, such as a similar taste in venison."
Smudge grinned sheepishly. "'Deed, MiLady, tho' I'm shore you choose it from a larger menu than me."
Lady Lesa nodded in agreement to the reference to Smudge's lack of options for feeding himself and the other "Wild Children", despite the fact that the game of the Vale Forest was technically illegal for any to hunt without specific permission from the Lady.
"I understand, Smudge. That is why Wood Ward, the Magistrate and I have always made certain you are not too severly impeded."
Yet another shock for Smudge. Over the years, the Guard Rangers (but never Wood Ward) had dragged the young woodsman many times before the Magistrate on charges of poaching, but somehow he was always found innocent and released.
"Alas, MiLady," Smudge whined, "I ever thot 'twas me charmin' smile and quick wits as kept me free."
"They'll do, my lad." Suddenly, the Lady was serious. "That same quick wit no doubt tells you why I asked to speak to you."
Smudge shrugged, but he glanced to the North, where Dungee's stronghold lay.
The Lady gave one short nod. "I need your help to dispose of that curse, Smudge."
Smudge frowned in thought and stole a glimpse over the Lady's shoulder at the three men of her entourage, where Wolfe was trying unsuccessfully to edge himself around Captain Stewart.
"Oh," assured the Lady, following his gaze "those men will serve well enough to carry out my plans for deflecting this year's attack. It is NEXT year's battle I want you to win for me, Smudge."
Smudge regarded the Lady with astonishment. No one he knew gave the Vale much hope of surviving the assaults of this Summer's End Day, yet the Lady was already planning well beyond that horizon.
"Just suppose for a moment that we stop him this year as we did the last and the one before," she posed. "He will but withdraw behind his walls and plan worse surprises for us one year hence. With each "victory" we grow weaker, while he ever gains in strength." Her eyes went hard as granite. "I want you to see that this Summer's End's his last."
"But why me, MiLady, wot hope 'ave I to do this thing?"
The Lady smiled wryly and pointed at the ornate leather scabbard on Smudge's belt where he kept his huntsman's knife.
"Where did you get that, Smudge?"
"The scabbard, Milady? 'tis but an old thing I found."
"Not so very old, Smudge. I had it made for Elbert's twelfth birthday. He lost it at the Battle of the Pass."
Smudge gasped and reached to unbelt the scabbard. "MiLady, I am sorry, I had no idea…"
She stayed him with a firm hand. "No Smudge, that is quite all right. Just tell me how you came by the scabbard."
"I took it from one o' Dungee's beasts, MiLady. 'e 'ad met with ill 'ealth 'n needed it no more,"
"Inside Foulfort?," pressed the Lady, referring to Dungee's hideout by its popular name.
"Aye, MiLady."
"You have your answer. Five times we -she gestured at the three military leaders behind her- have assaulted that place by force and by stealth and have paid dearly each time, never getting within half an arrow's range from the walls." Now the Lady leaned closer and spoke more softly. "But neither have we sent such as you, Smudge, nor have we before struck at him during the very time his forces are all away attacking the Vale."
Now Smudge understood. He still thought the effort hopeless and the trusting of it to himself foolish, but it was also terribly flattering and he knew already he could not refuse to try.
"A' right," he said simply.
"What help will you need?" asked Lady Lesa,
"I'll take two 'o me own," Smudge replied, after a moment of thought.
Wood Ward spoke for the first time. "Who, Smudge? Bug, of course, but who else?"
"'Bug'?" asked the Lady, "who is he?"
"Nay, my Lady, 'Bug' is a young woman. She has a… talent for going places others cannot go. If you like, Smudge can send her to your bedroom tonight at midnight for tea. Your guards will never know she passed nor doubt their perfect vigilance. Who else, Smudge?"
"Aye, Bug," said Smudge. "Bug and Cave."
"Cave?" Wood Ward looked a little surprised. His mind pictured the quiet giant with the face and mind of a child. Nearly the opposite of Bug in type, it was hard to see him as an asset in the rugged mountain country. Yet Cave's devotion to Smudge was almost religious. He would follow any order from Smudge (at least any he understood) without hesitation or question. If Smudge were seeing this as a "suicide mission"…
He gave a brief nod of understanding.
"Would you take a fourth for me, Smudge?" asked the Lady.
Smudge hesitated, feeling a surge of resentment. She wanted Wood Ward to go with him. They didn't really trust him, after all. Yet he saw how Lesa and the old woodsman had gone to lengths to make clear that this mission was in Smudge's control. Finally, in his mind, Smudge grudgingly accepted Wood Ward as a "safety backup". He did not realize that the doubt in the minds of his elders was whether Smudge might prove too compassionate when and if the events finally called for cruel murder. History had removed any such doubts about Wood Ward long ago.
"Please, burden me wi' any foul critter but ainshunt Wardens, MiLady," begged Smudge, following with a grin of assent.
The Lady's eyes were kind and suddenly soft.
"I am still more deeply in your debt," she said, almost in a whisper. "The only time I have spoken to you has been when I am in desperate need of your help and sacrifice. I feel like such a…" she broke off. Impulsively, she suddenly leaned forward and planted an ungentle kiss on Smudge's forehead.
Wolfe had finally broken loose from Stewart and was striding toward them purposefully, but he stumbled at the sight of Lady Lesa's kiss bestowed on the grimy ragamuffin. At that moment, she spun and stepped off, and Wolfe could avoid running into her only by sprawling sideways to land in the middle of a bush of purple flowers. He threw a look of smoldering hatred in the direction of Smudge before putting on a show of good-natured clownishness to the lady and the Captains. Clearly, he was aware of the nature of Smudge's mission and had counseled against trusting it to him. Wood Ward's firm hand on his shoulder turned Smudge and started him toward the garden exit. There were plans and preparations to make.
It was Summer's End Eve in the Vale, but the evening breeze flowing down out of the mountain pass already had a bite of chill to it. The grey cloaks of the four travelers hid clothing planned for a night among the cold stones, however. If a watcher were fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of one of the figures darting from one fallen boulder to the next, he would study in vain for confirmation, until he doubted his vision, and focused his vigilance elsewhere. For patience was the secret weapon used by Smudge and his little gang as they worked their way up the mountain road. They moved then waited… waited… waited… then moved again. This tedium began before they even entered on the mountain road, because they knew Dungee would be interested in any defensive activity in the foothills, and would have watchers observing from hidden places. After a full, long day of sneaking, the party was nearing exhaustion. Fortunately, they were also apparently nearing their objective for the day. As well as scanning the pass ahead for lookouts, Smudge was studying the pass walls ahead for hiding places. The winding pass had been carved by a river that sprang to life from a cliff wall just below the fort called in earlier days "Fallsfort" but changed to "Foulfort" during Dungee's residence. It had been his prison, but he took pleasure that it was now his unassailable bastion. The road through the pass rose well above the level of the river, with sheer cliffs looming on one side and ragged chasm on the other. The party was just short of a turning in the road that would bring the fort in view. It was Bug's turn to move, but the shrill whistle of a hawk froze her just as she was about to dart ahead. She turned to look at Smudge, the source of the whistle. Smudge was a small person, but Bug was scarcely half his size, pale to his darkness, an advantage in the gray world of the pass.
Her pale blue eyes saw Smudge gesture toward the looming cliff wall and she quickly but silently flattened herself there. Watching the exchange, Cave and Wood Ward did the same. After an eternal ten minutes of eventless waiting, a faint rhythm of sound drifted down the pass. It was a kind of scraping shuffle. A few minutes later, a dark figure appeared around the bend. It was a Spi, one of the known abominations created by Dungee. The upper torso and head were manlike in shape and size, though unclothed and with long bone-thin arms. The lower body was a sac-like abdomen slung between four thin widely-bowed legs. The entire creature was covered heavily in coarse black hair. It was carrying a long barbed spear and hurrying down the slope, obviously on some slinky, foul mission for Dungee. The beast hustled right past the niche where Woodward crouched. It was just alongside Cave when something must have registered at the edge of its vision. It stopped suddenly and turned its head slowly toward Cave. In about the same instant its eyes focused on the immobile giant, several things happened in close succession. A green-feathered arrow shaft appeared suddenly in the throat of the monster at the same time that another arrow, fired from further down-slope where Smudge hid, slammed into the beast's chest, lifting it off its feet. The head jerked back as one of Bug's daggers imbedded itself in an eye-socket. As the gruesome mutation staggered at cliff's edge, a large stone, which only such as Cave could have hefted, bounced off the Spi's forehead with a sick, hollow sound, sending the black carcass over the edge of drop-off in the beginning of a slow backward somersault. A moment later, the snapping of large pine-boughs could be heard echoing up from below as the creature found the riverside trees at the bottom of the canyon.
After a long breathless wait to see if any alarm were raised, Bug looked back toward Smudge for permission to proceed. He waved her forward.
Sometime later, when it was Bug's turn to move forward yet again, she spotted Smudge's gesture to stop and watched as he pointed at something far ahead up the pass. She squinted at the spot, squinting in the effort to make out he saw, but to no gain. None in the party could match his vision, and she had no doubt that whatever watcher he saw was also beyond its range of spotting. Nevertheless, Smudge signaled for the group to retreat a few dozen paces back down the pass before beginning to deploy. Wood Ward was a bit puzzled as to Smudge's intent. He observed the younger man looking at ledges, crevices and sheltered outcroppings above them. Some looked like excellent hiding places- for birds. They looked inaccessible, with sheer drops separating them from the road. No one in the party had made a sound from the foothills until Smudge's hawk-whistle, wary of how sound can travel in the mountains. Smudge didn't speak now, either, but looked at Bug and pointed to a boulder-filled crack in the mountain just above them. Without taking her eyes from the cliff wall, Bug shrugged off her pack, and shouldered the coil of stout rope she had carried (identical to the one each had lugged with them). Suddenly, she began scuttling up the side of the mountain. Sometimes slowly, sometimes with amazing speed, she ascended the wall like a spider until she reached the crack. There she disappeared among the stones. After a couple of muted clanking sounds as Bug anchored something to the stone, the rope dropped, uncoiling all the way to the road. A second later, Bug came sliding down and handed the rope to Smudge. He, in turn, handed it to Cave. That large fellow looked at the rope and the place above, his mouth open and eyes unfocused as if he did not quite comprehend, then he began to climb it. Wood Ward had silently wondered whether the big lad could perform such a feat, but he saw that Cave's apparent clumsiness was but an illusion created by his size and statement. He climbed slowly but sure-footedly and disappeared into the hiding spot. The space was only large enough for one, however, so the remaining trio moved to a new spot to repeat the process. Two more they quickly found, but the fourth turned out to be a problem. One hole proved to high for the rope, another too small, and yet another's only anchor point gave way under even Bug's tiny weight, pelting the three with a small stone avalanche. Then Wood Ward, who had been studying the other side of the road, signaled that he had a selected a spot on his own. A huge, mostly dead pine tree clung to the cliff at one point, it's roots half anchored in stone and half clawing at the air above the chasm. Wood Ward tied and concealed his rope among the most secure roots, then swung down over the edge and back under the tree. Rainwater flowing down the mountainside and around the tree had created a little earthen cave among the roots there that Wood Ward made his refuge. Smudge and Bug climbed up to their respective hidey-holes and pulled in their ropes. The plan, of course, was to remain hidden as the attack force passed them going down the mountain the following day. Then… well, the plan was a bit vague from that point. With the garrison depleted, they would somehow sneak into the fort and kill Dungee. If he went into the Vale with the attackers (he had never done so before, as far as anyone knew), they would wait for his return and kill him then- somehow. That was it. No one had suggested it was a really GOOD plan. They settled in for a cold, restless night.
Well before dawn the muted but distinct sounds echoing in the mountain pass intruded on Smudge's consciousness and destroyed any chance he might have had to sleep. He opened his eyes, but there was nothing new to see. The stark chilled landscape was painted with blacks, grays, silver-blues and the sparkling gemstone hues of the stars. Several times during the night, Smudge thought he heard the sounds of furtive movement far below near the river, but he could never discern quite enough information to identify the source. Perhaps some foul monstrosity of Dungee's crafting had escaped the fortress and managed to descend the falls, or some forest beast from the Vale had wondered too far up the river and become lost in the canyon maze. Any hope there may have been of identifying those sounds had faded an hour before dawn, as Foulfort began to stir with activity and a jumble of louder, more complex sounds, mingled with their echoes, started to fill the air. Dungee's forces were marshalling for their assault on the Vale. Smudge amused himself, attempting to turn his mind from the numbing chill flowing from the stones around him into his bones and blood, by trying to visualize the activities behind the sounds. Some were relatively easy, like the clank of smith-hammers making last-minute equipment repairs and the harsh unintelligible grunts and barks that suggested military leaders urging assembly of their subordinates with insults and threats. Others noises were more alien, such as the cries and roars of nightmare beasts and monsters of Dungee's creation that would form part of his invading army. Then there were the mechanical sounds, such as the mysterious rhythmic alternation of rattles, clanks, and hisses that, once begun, continued unabated as a background to the more transient sounds from the fort.
The sky had begun to lighten only slightly and Smudge shuddered, only partially from the cold. He was also chilled by the uncertain dread of what was to come with the dawn. Dungee, having no trusted subordinates like the Lady's Captains, always launched his attack in waves, each with a precalculated purpose based on assumptions about the defenses he expected them to encounter. The exact nature of each wave differed each year as Dungee's evil tinkering produced new and improved horrors. However, a certain pattern had emerged that seemed likely to continue to repeat itself. First, Dungee sent out a mindless wave of destruction, designed to scatter the defenders and to drive them into isolated shelter, while spreading fear, disorder, and demoralization. In his first attack, Dungee had used a wall of blue fire ten paces deep which he sent out in a slow march from the pass across the whole of the Vale to the sea beyond. Last year, he had unleashed a vast swarm of "Firemites" on the same path. Bright orange insect-like creatures the size of a man's finger and almost indestructibly composed of glass and wire, they attached themselves with barbed hooks to their victims and repeatedly applied their poison sting. Unconsciously, Smudge rubbed his left shoulder, where scars still marked the spot where he had ripped one of the abominations from his own flesh. Following this first wave of terror would come the bulk of Dungee's army. A mindless monster hoard would overwhelm any unfortified opposition by sheer numbers and brutality and pin survivors down in isolated pockets of resistance. Behind them would come a shock-force specifically designed to seek out and break any strongpoints that might still be holding the invaders at bay. Finally would come the assassin force, to kill any remnant of Dungee's enemies who did not surrender to his conquest. It was well known that there were to be certain exceptions to this slaughter. A few, such as the Lady herself and her Captains, were not to be killed outright, but rather captured for Dungee's prolonged pleasure and their protracted pain. Smudge wondered if he had himself earned an honored place on that list. It pleased him to believe he had.
Smudge blinked at the brightening scene before him. He could now make out the outline of the Foulfort, behind the misty fog rising from the falls. As he watched, he was surprised to note that, in spite of the brightening of the morning, the Fort was becoming less distinct through the haze. Then he realized that not all of the fog was rising from the falls. A darker component of it was flowing thickly over the walls of the stronghold at several points and pouring heavily over the falls into the canyon. That cloud was not the grayish white of the morning mist, but of an ivory tint, pale yellow here and there with faint shadows of blue and green. At its advancing edge, where it flowed over the brushy fringe of the road, he watched in horror the effect of the cloud's passage. Tough, thorny mountain bushes, which had fought mountain and weather for many years to earn their perch, turned first yellow, then black, then crumbled to dust as the sickly fog passed over and around them.
With still greater horror, Smudge noted the directional advance of the deadly cloud. While the greater bulk of the vapor flowed into the canyon to follow the course of the river to the Vale, a portion of it flowed for a way down the cliff road before sliding into the chasm. The furthest point of advance of this roadway tendril of terror was working its way with painfully slow certainty toward the spot where Wood Ward crouched in hiding. There was nothing Smudge could do but watch helplessly as death closed in on the elder Woodsman. Suddenly, he became aware of something different on the wind. It took him a moment to recognize that the background mechanical noises from the Fort had stopped. Studying that structure, he watched it emerge slowly from the fog as the cloud gradually ceased to billow forth. He looked back quickly to where the vapors had advanced to within a few strides of Wood Ward's pine before the advance slowed, then stopped, then turned into a slow retreat. Within a few minutes, the cloud had completely disappeared into the canyon, leaving the rocky terrain blackened and even more lifeless than before. Smudge did not want to think what this weapon would do to his beloved forest down in the Vale. His one solace was to know that Dungee wished to conquer that land, not to destroy it. He would have determined that damage to the land must be temporary and of short duration.
Smudge could see a short stretch of the riverbank far below from where he perched and he watched as the fog rolled past it, leaving blackened underbrush behind it. Distracted, he was taken by surprise by the exploding cacophony of sound that burst from the fort and almost lost his balance on his sheltered ledge. Horns were being played, blasting low bellowing notes that echoed off of the mountainsides and signalled the onslaught of Dungee's forces. Looking in that direction, Smudge could see that the wide gates to the fort had been thrown open, and a ramp had been lowered providing passage over the steep ditch that ran in front of those gates. The first of Dungee's troops rode forth.
A small troop of Snomen mounted on billidons led the parade. The Snomen had been among the first of Dungee's creations and were still clearly among his favorites. They looked like chubby, bloated men with waxy pale-blue skin and flesh, but their soft appearance was an illusion. They were strong and tough and cruel. Their combination of single-minded obedience together with cruel cunning made them ideal choices as "leaders" (or herders) of some of his lesser creations, their primary role in his current army. Their mounts were the ugly brutes called billidons. First seen the previous year, they were nightmare versions of the mountain goats that were once plentiful in the region. The only feature totally in common between the mountain goats and billidons was the great spiraling horn. The billidons had coarse, short, dark brown fur, bulky bodies with twice the mass of large horses and a head (including the teeth) that brought to mind that of a wolf. Their bodies were too wide to straddle like a rider on a horse. Instead, the Snomen rode astride the necks of the beasts, just able to see over the heads and with the huge horns wrapping around them on both sides like great shields.
Most of the Snomen carried long spears and coiled gray whips, but these initial riders were clearly designated as the leaders of the first wave, riding out in front of the infantry and wearing sashes, scarves and capes of office that looked ridiculous on the their inhuman bulks. Many of them were obviously heralds and carried huge hollowed billidon-horns at their sides. These were the same instruments which continued to blare from inside the fortress, apparently signaling the departure of each unit of troops as they left the fortress. To Smudge, the entire parade just looked like one huge disorganized mob of Spis. Lacking the intelligence and discipline to march in step or formation, they simply walked more-or-less six abreast down the mountain road, herded by the mounted Snomen. The cracking of whips could be heard as the Snomen controlled the pace and the direction or perhaps just enjoyed inflicting pain. Most of the Spis carried short thrusting spears, small wooden shields, and knives, but there were a several large units of Spi archers. Most people would not recognize that the metal contraptions they carried were crossbows, but Smudge had stolen one from the fortress during the winter and had studied it for some time. The devices were capable of firing three light arrows simultaneously, or, if preferred, in close succession. They were apparently designed to generate overwhelming firepower to compensate for the lack of archery skill in Dungee's monsters. As the moments passed, the Spis continued to flow out of the fortress onto the road and down toward the Vale. Soon they filled the road as far as the eye could see in either direction. Still they came, scores quickly becoming hundreds and then thousands. Smudge bit his lip in helpless frustration as the massive army swarmed like armed ants toward the fields and meadows and markets of the Vale below.
After a while, Smudge noticed a subtle change in the appearance of the Spi warriors. They began looking younger and some of them began looking more human, until some of the last stragglers to pass looked more like little boys and girls than monster warriors. It was obvious that Dungee was somehow creating these beasts from captured humans, or more likely breeding them from captured human stock. The shear numbers testified to the enormous magnitude of the horrible experiments being conducted somewhere in the bowels of Dungee's stronghold. The more human features, especially the eyes, spoke to Smudge even at the distance over which he observed, communicating fear and loneliness and pain, yet mixed with an alien and animal hatred and rage. Smudge could not help but identify between these creatures and himself and the other Wild Children, while knowing that these particular victims were beyond help. However, there could be no doubt that the abominations being perpetrated by Dungee would continue and grow until the man himself was destroyed. There was even more at stake than the survival of the Vale, this day.
Finally, the waves of Spis thinned out and passed down the mountain, with a large force of mounted Snomen riding behind them cattle drovers. Over the past few moments, Smudge had become aware of a rising odor on the wind that was now reaching the level of a stench. He had smelled it before and even caught glimpses of the creatures behind it, but he could still not escape a bit of awed terror as the monstrosities squeezed out through the massive gates. The giant musk boars were harnessed in pairs with huge battering rams slung between them. The beasts were almost identical to the wild boars of the forest, save for their massive size, which dwarfed that of the billidons. The snouts, the curved tusks, the ridged and bristled back and the powerful bodies were all the same as the smaller cousins, but increased many times in size. Each pair of musk boars in their harnesses were wider than five horses side-by-side. The other differences to the familiar boar were the long rat-like tails dragging behind them in the dust and the overpowering stench that radiated from them. The Snomen and Spis that accompanied the boars all wore scarves over their noses and mouths, but still looked as if they wished very much to be somewhere else. Between each pair of boars was slung a great oak tree-trunk, covered in iron at the front end, which extended just beyond the reach of the tusks. It seemed unlikely that any wall, let alone a gate or door, could resist the force of that post carried forward by the charge of the beasts on either side. Atop the great poles rode two passenger baskets, one just forward of the center, and one at the back. In each of the forward baskets sat a Snoman, wielding a very long, flexible pole with a red tip. That tip threw off crimson sparks wherever it touched and was swung back and forth around the eyes of either boar in the pair, clearly intending to control their speed and direction. In each rear basket huddled an unhappy Spi with crossbow and a large supply of darts whose points were visibly blue with Dungee's favorite poison. These archers were apparently to defend the flanks and rears of the battering-ram teams. There were fully a score of these teams in Dungee's army, and a large force of billidon-mounted snowmen rode with them. There were also units of Snomen with heavier armor and wielding oversized maces, the breasts and sides of their billidon monuts draped with blankets of chainmail. Smudge watched the musk boar pairs with skepticism. They would certainly spread terror wherever they passed, and maybe that was their primary purpose, but Smudge could not help but doubt that the pitiful Snomen with magic sticks could really control the beasts. That doubt was validated immediately below Smudge as one of the teams veered out of control and turned almost sideways to the road, twisting and bucking in their harnesses. They were finally beaten into submission and restarted down the hill through the concerted effort of a half-dozen of the armored and mounted Snomen. In the tumult, however, the Spi-archer was thrown from his basket to the ground and battered by the thrashing of the boar tails. Once the team was under control, he tried to resume his post, but there was something wrong with his leg and he could scarcely stand. None of the other creatures seemed at all interested in his plight, although a Snoman whipped him a few times just to make sure he wasn't faking his injury. The Spi dragged himself to Smudge's side of the road and lay whimpering with his back against the stone as the procession resumed down the mountain. Just before the last of the shock-troops passed from view, the sounding of horns could be heard echoing up the pass from below. The same call, consisting of four ascending notes was played and apparently relayed from one herald to another back up the mountain. The immediate reaction was a celebratory cheer sent up by the Snomen, and several raised their weapons in a gesture of triumph. Apparently, the horns signaled good news from the front.
This did not overly concern Smudge, however, since he had been prepared for it by Wood Ward. None of the mountain party had wanted to know too much detail about the defensive preparations in the Vale (in case of capture), but the warden had given them a quick overview of the strategy. Since Dungee's attack would have to be pre-programmed based on the defenses and reactions he expected, they would confound his plans by behaving contrary to any reasonable expectation. The Lady would refuse to engage Dungee's forces in the places, times, or sequence anticipated in his master plan. In fact, those forces would not be engaged at all (except in token and feint) until all of Dungee's army was deployed into the Vale. They would find only mock resistance, even in the city and palace, while the forces of the Vale waited on their ships offshore, at the isolated North end of the Vale, and in a few hidden and secret strongholds. The civilian population had been evacuated deep into the forest, to sheltered places known only to the Rangers and the Wild Children. Once the waves of Dungee's attack had broken across the land and were disorganized by the absence of expected resistance, the forces of the Vale would strike, not to repel, but to destroy. It was a strategy that could only be used once, so it made Smudge's mission all the more critical.
The victory calls seemed to energize Dungee's minions to greater speed and the shock-troops moved rapidly from view as the final wave emerged from the fortress. These were creatures Smudge had never seen before, but a name for them leaped immediately to his mind: Redbones. The figures were manlike, but quite tall and incredibly lean with long limbs, resembling the stick-figures children draw. Their skin, drawn taut over naught but bone and sinew, was of a very ruddy hue. In spite of that coloring and sunken, cadaverous faces, the eyes glowed with a bright red light that could be seen at great distance. If they wore clothing, it was tight against the skin, but it mattered little since the bodies were so slight that no anatomical features were discernible. They moved with a slightly stooped, crouched posture as if engaged in perpetual combat with unseen foes. Indeed, their only visible pieces of equipment were the curved sword and large serated knife they carried in either hand. They moved in rapid, jerky spurts, seeming almost to disappear from one spot and instantly reappear a few steps away. The glowing eyes were darting everywhere, and the heads cocked from time to time as if the creatures were listening or smelling. Several times, Smudge got the impression that one of the pairs of Redbone's eyes was focused directly on him, seeing not only the hiding place of his body, but the fears that hid in his very soul. He was only partially reassured to remember that the team had smeared themselves with the fat and musk of the Gray Mountain Bear to disguise their scents. Suddenly, one of the Redbones furthest down the pass emitted a hissing squeal and bounded forward, straight for Smudge's hiding place. He started to raise himself to a position from which he could use his bow, but the incredible speed of the creature saved him, exposing its actual objective before Smudge mistakenly revealed himself. Still emitting the hissing squeal, the Redbones fell upon the injured Spi that lay immediately below. A single slash and jab brought an abrupt end to the whimpering of the Spi, but not to the murderous attack, as the killer-skeleton continued slashing and jabbing the ruined corpse another dozen times. Before it moved on, another of the creatures bounded up and joined the butchery. Smudge had counted close to a hundred of the Redbones by the time all had exited the fortress. They seemed to move independently of one another, and no other of Dungee's menagerie dared to travel with them. All but a few of the assassins had passed from view before the last one gave up hacking at the scattered remains of the slain Spi.
A few steps away, it froze and cocked its head. Then the sound the Redbones heard reached Smudges ears. It was the tortured, plaintive cry of a dying creature. Smudge looked about for the source, and his eyes fell once more on the small section of riverbank far below that he could see from his elevated position. A horribly maimed victim of the poison cloud had dragged itself into the clearing in his view. All blood and charred flesh, it would have been impossible to tell with certainty even what kind of beast it was, if not for one clue. One of the bright purple boots it wore had somehow escaped serious damage. The Ranger chief Wolfe, in defiance of the Lady's instructions, and most likely with a picked force of the best Rangers, had come into the pass to usurp Smudge's mission. Wolfe's own ploy for glory was ruined by his choice of routes, and now he also posed a serious threat to Smudge and his team. From where it stood, the Redbones could not see the Ranger, but once the creature got close enough to the edge to see, it was certain to raise an alarm that would lead to the discovery of Smudge and the others. Moreover, the assassin, seeking a vantage point into the valley below, was heading straight for the section of cliff where Wood Ward was hidden. Smudge realized that his position on the ledge would not allow him to draw and fire an arrow in the direction of the Redbones, yet he had to do something. He took a deep breath. As the Redbones drew near the edge, Smudge unleashed an excellent imitation of the roar of the Great Gray Mountain Bear. To the Redbones, straining to listen to the faint sounds below, it must have sounded as though the bear were right behind it, ready to tap it on the shoulder and invite the assassin to lunch. The Redbones spun in mid-air, leaping backward at the same time so that its heels were on the very edge of the precipice, the flaming eyes glaring straight at and into Smudge. For a horrifying moment, Smudge's vision was locked with that of the Redbones, and forever afterward, that moment marked the standard by which Smudge measured fear and evil. Abruptly, the face of the Redbones dropped from view. No sooner had the feet of the assassin-beast struck the ground than a hand darted up from below and grasped the ankle. It was the strong lean hand of Wood Ward, and it immediately snatched the ankle backward, pitching the stunned Redbones face-forward to the stone of the mountain trail. With a sick "smack" the face impacted with the granite, then the body of the stunned creature was drug slowly off the edge of the road, leaving a trail of yellowish fluid on the road as it passed. An instant later, a few distant thuds announced the arrival of the Redbones carcass at the bottom of the canyon. Smudge glanced back toward Wolfe, but the Ranger had ceased all movement and sound for the final time.
Another echo of distant horns brought yet another message of victory on the wind, and a small cheer could be heard going up from the handful of forces left behind to guard the fort. Of course, even if any of Dungee's minions had the wit to think their advance too easy or their opposition too thin, they could scarcely communicate it within the limits of "bugle" calls.
By now, the morning was all but gone. The prudent course might be to wait until after dark to approach the fort, but no one in the group on the mountain wished to consider so many more hours freezing in the same cramped positions. Smudge let out a low hawk-whistle and he and the other three began to slowly creep from their hiding places to assemble and plot the next step.
Smudge and Bug had known from the beginning of the mission how they would gain entry into the fortress itself, for they would follow the same path they had always used before. Before they could do that, however, they had to reach the shadows at the base of the cliff-side battlements. That would not have been possible with a full garrison on the walls at full alert the night before. Today, there were fewer eyes, but those that remained were all focused on the road to the Vale and had the benefit of daylight. During the night, Smudge had reached his decision on how they would approach this problem. Now, just around the bend out of sight of the fortress, he explained his plans to the others. The one thing the party had going for them was the geography of the mountains, placing restrictions on what could be seen from any given vantage point, beyond the control of even Dungee's machinations. If Smudge were a bird, he could safely approach the fortress unseen by swooping into the Canyon, where he would be concealed by the cliff. He could skim along just below the edge in a straight line until he swooped up just beneath the fortress wall on the falls side of the cliff. Though he was not a bird, that was exactly the path he intended to use. He also knew that he could not possibly work his way along the jagged cliff-wall below the level of vision of the fortress. No one could. No one, that is, but Bug.
The agile girl was to trail a light rope behind her, little more than a heavy twine. Once she reached shelter under the fortress wall, the twine would be used to haul the heavy climbing ropes, tied end to end, which would be suspended over the drop to the canyon. Those ropes would be used for the other three to cross, a difficult task but within their abilities.
The plan went slowly but well. Twice, the twine trailing behind Bug became stuck in rock and brush. The first time, she had to retreat almost half her progress to free it by hand. The second time, an even longer retreat was averted by a perfectly placed arrow shot from Wood Ward, creating a minor avalanche that dislodged the entangling bush and freeing the rope. Twice, too, during Bug's crossing the victory horns had sounded ominously up the canyon.
Once Bug reached the wall and the heavy rope was slung and secured at both ends, they were ready to begin the crossing. Then they had to decide whether to cross one-by-one or in a group. The passage would be most difficult for the bulky Cave. They feared him running out of strength and becoming stranded in the middle of the span alone. If that happened and Smudge or Wood Ward were near, they might be able to help him. Moreover, greater weight on the rope might keep it taught and more stable. For those reasons, they ventured out onto the span in quick succession, Smudge leading and with Cave between him and Wood Ward. They all had attached themselves to the main spanning rope with looped safety lines and progressed across hand-over-hand hanging below. They were just beyond the midpoint of their crossing when a loud and prolonged fanfare sounded from inside the fortress.
Bug, perched on the narrow verge between the wall of Foulfort and the canyon, was the only one who could see anything of what was happening. She could not see the fortress gates themselves, but she had a line of sight up the ditch that crossed before it to the lowered bridge. The falls were not far from her, below her and to her right. The roar from them obscured most sound, but the great musical flourish overrode it easily.
Like most of the Wild Children, Bug did not merely dislike pomp and ceremony, but rather despised it and mocked it at every opportunity. Such displays of "Civility" seemed designed to announce the superiority of those within the cultural mainstream to outcasts such as them. In fact, Bug despised virtually all manifestations of "civilization" and the people who indulged in them. She was completely baffled, and more than a little jealous, of Smudge's infatuation with "the Lady." She held no grudge against Smudge for it, however. She was incapable of negative thoughts toward the young poacher. When she was very young, she first became aware of him as her provider and protector, as the only source of food and shelter for herself and the other "Wild Children." Later, he became her hero and idol, the stories of his exploits her only tastes of hope and humor. He demonstrated to the other homeless children that the rich and educated and sheltered were not necessarily better or smarter or even happier or more loved. In recent years, still other deep feelings toward Smudge had awakened in her, but she feared such feelings and denied them, even to herself.
Now she watched as a small procession crossed the bridge. First came highly-decorated Snomen on billidons bearing banners and standards with bright streamers. Foremost among the symbols was a great flag which bore a dark blue emblem of a flock of five doves forming a pentagram. Next came more Snomen and a few scruffy and evil-looking human men mounted on armored horses and wearing mirror-polished armor and shields. In the midst of this troop one figure stood out. On a great white horse rode a haughty and handsome man, dressed and armored in blue and white and silver, a great blue plume streaming from atop his open helmet. He might have been any great knight-hero of children's stories, and some observers might have wondered what such a great good man could be doing in such a place. Bug's eyes, however, could not be so easily fooled by evil deluding itself in the traditional trappings of the heroic. Dungee might as well have worn horns on his head and draped himself in black and scarlet, for that is how Bug saw him instantly. Her stomach churned with frustration as he rode by, well beyond the range of a thrown dagger, her only weapon. She knew that the others would be equally unable to act against him. In fact, if any in Dungee's procession had thought to look back and downward as they left the gate-bridge, they would have spotted the three hanging there helplessly over the canyon, and the mission would have ended. None did, and Dungee rode out of sight down the mountain, intent on being personally on hand at his long-awaited moment of triumph over the Vale. Now the party of assassins would have to await his return if their mission were to be accomplished. As if to deepen the discouragement, another flourish of victorious horns echoed up the canyon.
Once they were all across the chasm, the group rested a short while and then set off, hugging the fortress wall as they moved away from the gates and above the falls. The light mist rose around them from the water below, which sprang from cracks and caves in the rocks only ten man-heights below the fort and cascading down the mountain five times that distance into the canyon to form the river. This travel was the easiest they had experienced on the mission, as there was little chance of their being seen beneath the overhanging walls or heard above the torrent. In a few places, the path along the wall had eroded away and fallen into the canyon, but the ancient walls of the fortress provided ample foothold for Bug, and she got them safely and quickly past each of those spots.
Finally, they came to where the walls of the fort reached the ascending wall of mountain on the far side of the pass. Here, fallen rocks provided a stairway more than halfway to the top of the wall. This spot was normally guarded, but in the current situation, there was neither man nor monster in view when the four of them lowered themselves onto the wide walkway atop the fortress battlements. They shared quick and quiet smiles of triumph at having come this far, then crept forward. The wall on their right, facing the canyon, was less than the height of a man and crenellated, providing frequent positions for observing and firing. The inside wall on the left was sheer and solid and twice as tall. Smudge and Bug knew that passage to the inside of the fortress itself was provided only at the infrequent guard towers and stairways as a part of the ancient defenses. Since Dungee was outside the fortress now, that was of little importance. Their best chance at the evil wizard would come by them holding a commanding position on the gate when he returned.
The top of the wall was not a clear, flat road along its length. At each of the three guard-towers between the mountainside and the gate, low walls formed barriers where those strong-points could be defended against enemies who managed to scale the outside walls. In addition, an accumulation of barrels and crates lined the inside wall, most of them empty but some still holding supplies for the defenders. Among these the four quickly took cover in case of patrols along the walls. The shadows were lengthening into late afternoon, and Smudge was tempted to wait until darkness before attempting to advance further. Then, wafting up from below came another call of horns. This one was different. The tone and rhythm suggested not victory but danger, not joy but fear. The Vale was striking back.
Putting aside the idea of waiting for the cover of darkness, Smudge motioned the little group forward. The first sentry they spotted was a Spi, sleeping with its back against the inside wall. Bug wanted to creep forward and finish it with her knife, but Wood Ward and Smudge had clear shots, so they killed it silently from a distance with two arrows, eliminating any risk of awakening to give an alarm. Approaching the first guard tower, they spotted another guard just short of the tower wall. This one was wide awake, but it too was quickly finished with two arrows. The only sound was that made by the fall of its body as it collapsed to the wooden walkway. That was too much sound, however. The fuzzy black head of a Spi popped up from behind the wall and ducked back down as two arrows from the woodsmen whistled by. A few seconds later, an alarm gong began to sound from below and the approach of running footsteps could be felt through the wooden planking. Without the need of signaling, the invasion party fell back along the wall to a cluster of storage barrels and crates. With these, they threw together a hasty barricade and took cover behind it just as the squad of guard-Spis arrived. The first of these simply charged at them along the open walkway, and was cut down easily. Still, they did not learn quickly, and repeat the same mistake twice more. Finally, wiser heads seemed to arrive, and the harsh bark of Snomen could be heard giving orders. After a wait as the forces massed behind the tower wall, a withering hail of darts began whizzing past the party from the Vale and could be heard slamming into the barrier. Once the four had ducked under cover, a massed onslaught was sent against them. The four responded promptly. Smudge and Wood Ward's bows sang a duet of constant death and the few Spis who managed to approach the barrier met with Bug's daggers. The archers in the tower had to deal with a barrage of huge stones Cave pried from the walls and heaved. The large fellow had to expose himself above the barrier to make his throws, however, and he fell with a dart through his right arm just as the assault faltered and fell back. Wood Ward rushed to the boy and removed the projectile, but frowned at the blue-stained tip that marked it poisoned. He dug bandages and herbs from his pack and treated the lad as best he could before crawling back to his position on the barricade. The walkway before them was covered with bodies. They had slain close to half the garrison remaining in the fortress. Now, however, they were in trouble. Wood Ward held up two arrows for Smudge to see, all that he had left. After a quick check, Smudge held up three fingers. They glanced at Bug who was frowning intently at her last dagger.
Cave watched the exchange and understood. People didn't think he understood anything, but he always understood more than he really wanted to and much more than anyone suspected. Except Smudge. Smudge always understood him and, amazingly, he always understood Smudge. They were a lot alike, Cave and Smudge. People thought they knew why Smudge did the things he did- for simple reasons or no reason at all. Cave knew better. Smudge was a lot more complicated and smart than most folks, especially the town folks, ever suspected. Cave's reasons for doing things usually were simple, however. Like now. He was here for one reason: to protect Smudge. He didn't give a carrot about Ladies or wizards or even the much about the Vale. He loved Smudge and he would do anything to help him and keep him safe. All he had to work with, however, was his physical strength, and he could feel that draining from him as the dart-poison did its work. A coldness was spreading through his arm and toward his heart, in spite of the herbs Wood Ward had used. He looked at Bug and she looked back, then she pointed at the top of the inside wall and then at herself and then at Cave. He understood. He rose to his knees and mustered all of his remaining strength. He locked his hands together into a cradle and, with perfect timing at the right moment, he gave a mighty heave.
Smudge and Wood Ward were looking fruitlessly through the crates and barrels in hope of finding a few more arrows. Smudge knew there was a supply of conventional shafts kept around the fortress because they had "borrowed" some once, before he found out their quality was inferior. Suddenly there was a commotion behind them and the Spis unleashed a frenzied hail of darts from the tower. They ducked, but then noticed the shots were aimed way above them, at the top of the inside wall. They looked back to see Cave collapse unconscious with exertion against the inside wall. There was nothing else to see. Bug was gone.
There was a scurrying heard in the tower and in a few moments the barking of orders and other voices could be heard from inside the fortress. Things quieted for a while, except for an occasional volley of darts designed to keep them pinned down. Smudge and Wood Ward braced for a final stand, but the leaders in the tower had apparently decided to wait until dark, which was rapidly approaching. While they waited, the distressed horn calls were heard once more calling up from below. As the last glimmer of sunlight disappeared from the mountain tops and the shadows deepened and then disappeared, they could here the preparations in the guard tower for a final assault. If they had wished, Smudge and Wood Ward could have slipped over the outside wall and probably escaped in the darkness. However, neither would dare insult the other by suggesting the abandonment of Cave, who was still unconscious but breathing with shallow difficulty. A hail of darts began, and they knew they were about to face another massed assault. At that moment, the call of a nightbird screeched nearby. But it was no nightbird that flew over the inside wall and landed between the two foresters. It was a large bundle of crude arrows and it was quickly followed by another. The two scrambled to get their hands on the ammunition and then rose together in unison into firing position just as the Spis broke cover. The crude arrows were good enough, considering the distance and massed targets, and the Spis began to die. The light was poor, however, so it would only be a matter of time before the enemy reached and passed the barricade. Well before that could happen, however, there was another commotion below, then inside the tower. Loud, unintelligible orders were barked and the attackers fell back. After a quick glance at each other, the woodsmen pushed themselves to their feet and ran forward in pursuit. They leaped the low wall and entered the tower, their arrows still nocked and bowstrings taut. Torchlight inside illuminated a small crowd of Snomen and Spis gathered around the stairway to the ground firing down, no longer interested in the intruders on the wall. Smudge and Wood Ward showed them the error of their logic and within seconds, the two Vale men were the only living creatures in the room. They stood where they were in tense readiness. A familiar whistle from the stairway caused them not only to relax but to smile. Bug's head popped up into view, a bloody dagger clinched between her teeth. Behind it, she, too was smiling. She leaped up onto the floor and the two long strides that were all she needed to reach Smudge's embrace. Hugging her with joy, Smudge saw Wood Ward's face staring in surprise toward the hatchway. He turned slightly, so that he could look over Bug's shoulder to the top of the stairs. There, a pitifully ragged but determined group of people were following Bug up into the tower.
There was plenty of time over the next few hours for Bug to tell her story. Even Cave, slowly regaining his strength, had been able to listen to it. After Cave had thrown her over the wall, nearly breaking her ankle in the process, she had gone off in search of arrows. Most of the supplies had gone South with the armies, so she had been forced to search deeper into the fortress than either she or Smudge had ever gone before. In the castle depths she had found storerooms that contained everything she was looking for, but she had also come across some of the prison cells and laboratories used by Dungee in his efforts to create perfect artificial warriors. She had been able to liberate a few of the more recent captives who were still able to function and who took up arms with her to attack the defenders at the guard tower. She came across many, many more who were too far gone in mind, body or spirit to try to regain their freedom. Bug had considered setting them loose in the compound, just to create chaos, but found she could not bring herself to risk adding to their torment.
The bulk of the garrison and all of its leadership had concentrated themselves at the guard tower and were eliminated, so the intruders and the rescued prisoners had no difficulty taking control of the gatehouse of the fortress. They raised the bridge and barred the gates, fortifying themselves atop the gates. At first the plaintive horns blared more and more often from the Vale, then less and less often and finally, an hour before dawn, were heard for the last time. Near dawn, the first refugees of Dungee's retreating army arrived.
Mostly Spis, many of them wounded, they expected to find the fortress ready, as in the previous years, to receive and protect them and begin preparations for another Summer's End Day and the next try at the Vale. Instead, the gates were closed to them and they were met by a deadly hale of arrows and darts whenever they dared approach. There was nowhere else for them to go, however, so they kept coming and kept dying. The trickle of refugees became waves and, by the force of sheer numbers, they began to reach the ditch and even the gates. Unable to force an entry by other means, they set fire to the gates. These were slowly burning away, the smoke interfering with the defenders, when Dungee and his honor guard suddenly appeared on the road. All of the colored banners and proud standards and bright ribbons were gone, abandoned in the dust of the battlefield, but Dungee still appeared untouched and unphased, ready to go about the task of breeding more horrors. As his party took in the situation at the gate and drew up in the middle of the road, Smudge and Wood Ward launched a furious volley centered on the blue-plumed wizard. Dungee quickly raised his left hand, pointing his palm at them. A circle of purple light appeared in the air between the archers and the mage. The arrows passing through it burst into flame and disintegrated before reaching the wizard. Dungee was unwilling to wait for the fire to complete its slow work on the gate. With his right hand he thrust a fist in that direction while keeping his arrow-shield in place with his other hand. The defenders were almost knocked from their feet as a powerful invisible force pounded the gates. The force also extinguished the fire and turned the Spis and Snomen in the ditch to pulp. This seemed not to concern Dungee. His second pounding thrust snapped one of the great beams used to bar the gates and ripped a gate-hinge from its anchors. Smudge surveyed the scene, searching for a way to stop the wizard. An arrow stung his ear as the honor guard around Dungee returned the ineffective fire of the defenders. Up the road behind Dungee, the bulk of his routed army thundered toward them. It would reach the gates just after Dungee's next thrust broke through and surely allow them to recapture the fort. Then Smudge saw his chance.
"Keep 'im busy!" he shouted at Wood Ward and took aim on the wizard.
The warden unleashed an incredible flurry of arrows one after the other, creating a blaze of fire before the wizard's eyes that left him temporarily blinded. Smudge then lifted his aim a fraction shooting beyond the wizard.
The accuracy and timing of the shot were quite impossible, so no one who was not there ever believed it anything but a lucky accident. The arrow buried itself in the base of the neck of the honor guard's horse, after all. How could Smudge have known the horse would buckle just the way it did? How could he possibly have hoped that such a thing would happen at the very instant the guard released the arrow, firing it far lower than his aim? How could he have dared imagine that shot would disappear into the back of the blue-plumed wizard? Dungee's statement did not change, but the purple light blinked out immediately and three of Wood Ward's arrows thudded into his chest. He dropped from view. At that moment, the routed army arrived at his position, rolling over the fallen mage and scattering his stunned honor guard. That was the last seen of the wizard Dungee. Some folks fret that only his clothing and armor, and not his body were ever found, but some folks just have a hard time hearing good news without looking for a downside.
Meanwhile, the crisis for the defenders of the gate was not over. The wave of panicked monsters slammed into the gates, shattering more beams, and still the fleeing flood continued to arrive. Shooting into the massive mob was pointless, so Smudge, Wood Ward, and Bug scrambled down the stairway to try and shore up the gates. Before they could reach the ground, one of the great doors collapsed, and the hoard of Spis and Snomen and wild-eyed billidons flooded through. The three from the Vale yanked out their blades and began backing up the stairway, poised for a last hopeless defense. To their surprise, none of the enemy showed any interest in them at all. The routed army continued through the gate and across the compound as if their backsides were on fire. Seconds later, a squadron of horsemen in the colors of the Vale leaped through the shattered gateway. Two familiar figures drew up in front of the three who stood gaping on the stairway. Captain Garet waved at them and then led his men in pursuit of the fleeing monsters. Captain Stewart smiled at them from his horse and saluted Smudge.
Wood Ward slowly lowered his tired old body to sit on the stairway and removed his hat. Bug had scampered up the stairs, probably to take the news to Cave and the others.
Smudge ignored the salute, but returned Stewart's smile.
"If'n yer 'ere fer lunch Cap'n, I'm feared we dint 'spect yer, an' we're a mite short. Praps I kin git us some vinnyson."
