Deglan’s skull was throbbing, but he thought he could see the dark line of trees ahead and felt Bulge-Eye surge ahead with newly-found vigor. He leapt erratically in haphazard diagonals, scrambling as he landed, almost spilling Deglan from the saddle. There was no controlling the toad’s headlong rush and they crashed into the trees. Deglan was pitched forward and thrown off the toad’s back, his face punching into the unforgiving turf. His mouth filled with blood and the gritty fragments of shattered teeth. He rolled to his feet and tried to rise, but the ground seemed to tilt and he pitched back over. He lay in the leaves, willing his head to stop spinning, but waves of nausea overtook him if he so much as moved his eyeballs. Bulge Eye lay on his back not far off, the stark white of his belly strangely grotesque. Deglan crawled over, dragging himself along by his fingertips. One of Bulge Eye’s legs was outstretched, quivering uncontrollably. Deglan pushed himself to his knees beside the toad, his skull and stomach trying to switch places in his body.

“Got… to roll over,” he placed his hands under the toad and lifted vainly. “Need to see…the wound. Come on, you old sack…get up.” He strained, ignoring the lancing pain in his head, but he could not budge the toad’s weight. Bulge Eye’s mouth was closed tight, his front feet moving slowly, pawing feebly at the air. His breathing was loud and labored. “Don’t you give up, you lazy lump of lard! Don’t you do it! I can fix this. I can…but you have to get up. Bulge Eye, I can’t see the wound unless you get up!”

The sounds of men and horses drifted into the forest. Deglan looked out across the plain. They were coming swiftly.

“No! No… more lying about! We have to go! Now get up…please old friend, you must get up.” He heaved again, the effort sending an avalanche of dizziness through his head. He fell over in front of the toad’s large face. Bulge Eye stared back at him, but his eyes were empty and his breathing had ceased. Deglan pushed himself up, made a silent promise and ran unsteadily into the forest.

The men were clustered near the alehouse when Padric sprinted into the hamlet. Ardal had chosen their position well, backs to the stone wall of the stable, pitchforks and makeshift spears leveled at the ready. Half a dozen men with bows crouched on the roof, arrows nocked. The river flowed protectively behind the building, guarding against any attack from the rear.

“They are coming!” was all Padric said in way of greeting.

“How many?” Ardal demanded.

“Sixty or more.”

The faces blanched before him, every man seeming more a boy.

“And there is something else with them,” Padric was getting his breath back. “One of them can command Fire.”