smoke and flames. Cries rose from the ranks of the Federation
and the drums went still. Heat lifted into the morning air in
waves so suffocating that the defenders were forced back. Mor-
gan retreated with the rest, Steff and Teel next to him. Steff’s
face was drawn and pale, and he seemed strangely disoriented.
Morgan helped him step away, unable to fathom what had hap-
pened to his friend.
“Are you sick?” he asked, whispering to the other as he
eased him to a sitting position. “Steff, what’s wrong?”
But the other didn’t appear to have an answer. He simply
shook his head. Then with an effort he said, “Fire won’t stop
it. It’s been tried, Morgan. It doesn’t work.”
He was right. When the flames and the heat died away enough
to permit the defenders to return to the walls, the Creeper was
still there, working its way steadily upward, almost halfway up
by now, as scorched and blackened as the rock to which it clung
but otherwise unchanged. The drumming and the chanting from
the Federation soldiers below resumed, an eager, confident swell
of sound that engulfed the whole of the Jut.
The outlaws were dismayed. Arguments began to spring up,
and it was clear that by now no one believed that the Creeper
could be stopped. What would they do when it reached them?
Seemingly invulnerable to spears and arrows, could it be stopped
by swords? The frantic outlaws could make a pretty good guess.
Only Axhind and his Rock Trolls seemed unperturbed by
what was happening. They stood at the far end of the outlaw
defenses, protecting a shelf that slanted down from the main
bluff to the cliff wall, weapons held ready, a small island of calm
amid the tumult. They were not talking. They did not appear
nervous. They were watching Padishar Creel, apparently wait-
ing to see what he would do next.
Padishar was quick to show them. He had noticed something
that everyone else had missed, and it gave him a glimmer of
hope for the besieged outlaws.
“Chandos!” he called out, shoving and pushing his men back
into place as he walked down the breastworks. His burly, black-
bearded lieutenant appeared. “Bring up whatever oil we’ve got-
cooking, cleaning, anything! Don’t waste time asking questions,
just do it!”
Chandos closed his mouth and hurried off. Padishar wheeled
and came back down the line toward Morgan and the Dwarves.
“Ready one of the lifts!” he called past them. Then unexpect-
edly he stopped. “Steff. How are these things on slick surfaces,
these Creepers? How do they grip?”
Steff looked at him blankly, as if the question were too per-
plexing for him to consider. “I don’t know.”
“But they have to grip to climb, don’t they?” the other de-
manded. “What happens if they can’t?”
He turned away without wailing for an answer. The morning
had grown hot, and he was sweating heavily now. He stripped
off his tunic, throwing it aside irritably. Snatching a set of cross
belts from another outlaw, he buckled them on, picked up a
short-handled axe, shoved it through one of the belt loops, and
moved ahead to the lifts. Morgan followed, beginning to see
now what the outlaw planned to do. Chandos hurried up from
the caves, followed by a knot of men carrying casks of varying
sizes and weights.
“Load them,” Padishar ordered, motioning. When the load-
ing was begun, he put his hands on his lieutenant’s broad shoul-
ders. “I’m going over in the lift, down where the beast climbs,
and dump the oil on it.”
“Padishar!” Chandos was horrified.
“No, listen now. The Creeper can’t get up here if it can’t
climb, and it can’t climb if it can’t grip. The oil will make
everything so slick the slug won’t be able to move. It might even
fall.” He grinned fiercely. “Wouldn’t that put a nice finish to
things?”
Chandos shook his woolly head, a frantic look in his eyes.
The Trolls had drifted over and were listening. “You think the
Federation will let you get that far? Their bowmen will cut you
to pieces!”
“Not if you keep them back, they won’t.” The grin vanished.