Into the fire

Chapter 14

Invading Gron? some in the taverns muttered over their mugs of ale, while others whispered across back fences: Modru's realm? Modru, the Black Mage? Is the king mad? Still others looked wisely at one another and proclaimed, He has a plan which will end the war swiftly, does the king… after all, didn't he kill the Gargon? Yet some avowed in hushed tones to any and all who would listen, 'Tis Dular's ghost roaming the ramparts and demanding vengeance which drives the king to do such. Regardless as to what the rumors alleged, riders bearing the king's gold and blue colors spread out across the land and bore the message that King Agron called for all able-bodied men to take up their arms and armor and leave their steads by the October moon to muster in the river town of Alvstad in the west of Aven by mid-November; as far as the king's subjects were concerned, That settled that.

Even so, in advisory conference with the king, the Delf-Lord of Kachar counseled against such a rash move, Valk calling it self-slaughter, with Imongar, representing the Mages of Black Mountain, siding with him.

"What say you, Lian Guardians?" asked Agron.

Loric looked to Phais, and she said, "I would suggest, my lord, that thou shouldst instead march thine armies to the aid of High King Blaine."

"My lady, what I plan will aid Blaine even though I will not be at his side."

"Aye," agreed Phais, "it will, though still I advise thee to find the High King instead."

"Where is Blaine?" asked DelfLord Valk.

"West of the Grimwall when last we knew," said Loric, "retreating from the fall of Challerain Keep and fighting a running battle."

Imongar frowned. "If he was at Challerain Keep, then he may have difficulty in reaching Pellar, for did you not say that all routes across the Grimwalls were blocked?"

Loric nodded. "Crestan Pass, Quadran Pass, Gunarring Gap: all are held by the Rupt."

"Pardon, my lord," said Agron, "but Arden Vale lies beyond those cols. If all are blocked, how did you come from that side to this?"

"That, my lord, I am not at liberty to tell, for we are pledged to hold secret the way we came. Yet I will say this: the route is insufficient for your armies to use. We ourselves came afoot-did the Waerlinga and Dara Phais and I-leaving our horses behind, the way too narrow for them, though a pony could cross."

At these words, DelfLord Valk raised an eyebrow and nodded slightly toward the Elves.

"Does any fight to open the ways?" asked Imongar.

"Aye," said Phais. "The Lian of Arden Vale and the Baeron of Darda Erynian battle to open Crestan Pass, and the Dwarves of the Red Hills seek to quash the Horde at Gunarring Gap, though a Draedan helps bar that slot. As to Quadran Pass, mayhap the siege of Drimmen-deeve is broken and the Dwarves of that holt and the Lian of Darda Galion have command of that way. Yet we do not know if any of these passes are open, for our knowledge is seasons old."

Agron frowned but said, "Well then, if they are yet closed, where do you hope to find Blaine?"

"Pellar is where I would seek him," said Loric. "If he is not now at Caer Pendwyr, then there he will come soon or late."

Valk nodded. "I plan on taking my warriors to Pellar to be at the High King's side. Even so, for the long campaign it promises to be, we will not set forth until after the harvest of this year's crops in our mountain vales, for an army cannot live long off the country alone."

Agron turned to Imongar. "And what will Magekind do?"

Imongar sighed. "We, too, shall set out for Pellar, for the High King will need all the aid he can muster, Magekind most of all, for Modru has at his beck not only Foul Folk but and Gargons and Dragons and other fell beasts which only we can ward against."

Phais's eyes widened. "Ye can fend Dragons?"

A grim look came over Imongar's face. "Mayhap in a great conjoinment of Mages, can we find a sorcerer to be the focus and wielder of the bonded, though the casting needed is like to slay all thus merged."

Phais shook her head and opened her mouth to speak, but Agron declared, "Then I march into Gron alone." His defiant gaze swept from DelfLord to Guardian to Mage.

Loric, too, looked 'round at the others and then said, "Regretfully so, my lord; thou and thine army wilt go alone and without our aid, for we deem victory will come at the High King's side, wherever he may be, and not in the colds of Gron."

Agron drew in a deep breath and then let it out. "It may be as you say, Lord Loric, yet hear me. By marching into Gron I will give Modru pause and perhaps buy Blaine some time, time to forge the alliance needed to throw down the vile one. In the very least, I will cause Modru to hold back several Hordes merely to meet my threat, Hordes which will not be cast against Blaine." Agron took up a thong from the table, a thong laced through a pewter coin. "That you will find him, I do not doubt, and so I ask but this: take back to him this token and say to him when you meet, the coin he sent by my son Dular, whom Modru most foully slew, the coin borne to me by others, that coin will be well spent."

Loric accepted the token and, glancing at Phais, said, "My lord, though we disagree on this mission to Gron thou dost undertake, Dara Phais and I will seek out the High King wherever he may be and deliver the coin and thy message. This we do so pledge."

And so it was: of DelfLord and Wizard and Lian Guardian, none could dissuade King Agron from his chosen course, Dwarf and Mage and Elves to go a separate way, leaving Agron and his men to march into Modru's realm.

And yet it was not only men who would be marching into Gron, but a wee Warrow was pledged to scout for the king on his perilous course, and wherever that wee Warrow scout would go, a wee healer would go as well.

"I say, Beau, we've been cooped up indoors for days on end; what say we go outside and you teach me some of those slingster tricks of yours, eh? I mean, any arrows I take into battle are like to be entirely spent ere the fighting is done, whereas rocks always seem to be at hand. And if I am to carry on the fight when my quiver is empty, then a sling seems the best choice, and I could use a trick or two."

Beau looked at Tip. "Ho, me teach you tricks? This from the one who saw me try to lob rocks at a tree and nearly brain my own self?"

Tip laughed, remembering. "Ah, but Beau, that was back more than a year past, and you've improved a wee bit since then."

Beau grinned. "Well then, we'll have to get Phais to make you a sling, for she is the one who made mine."

"Hoy, what's wrong with the one I cut from the Gar-gon's tent?"

Beau shook his head and said, "Wait'll you use mine, bucco; then you'll see."

They trudged out to an ornamental garden behind the mansion and gathered up chill pebbles amid the melting snow, then walked to an open space along the city wall.

"All right, bucco, here's what Phais taught me: first you've got to adjust the loop 'round your thumb: too tight, you cut off the blood; too loose, and you'll hurl the sling away with the bullet. And speaking of bullets, the best are not perfectly round, but elongated instead: they fit the sling pocket better for a better throw and seem more deadly when they strike. And another thing…"

Thus did Beau begin teaching Tip all he knew about slings and bullets and deadly casting, underhand and overhand and sidearm and backhand, for one never knew just where one might be when it came time to throw-on a cliff or hanging onto a tree trunk or peering over a wall or standing still or running or riding a pony or horse-at targets left and right, near and far, high and low, at stationary targets and moving ones, big and little both, speaking of the best places to strike the foe to bring him down or kill him outright. Although Tip was a quick learner, there was much more to slinging than he had ever suspected.

The following day, Valk and his remaining warriors prepared to set out for Kachar, and the Mages of Black Mountain for distant Pellar. As to Phais and Loric, they would not leave for a time to come, yet hoping to turn King Agron away from his mission to Gron and toward Pellar instead. Bekki though was of a mind to remain at Tipper-ton's side, for although his pledge to see the Waeran safely to Dendor had been fulfilled, still he felt an obligation to the wee Chak-Sol; besides, what better place to find Grg to kill than in the wastes of Gron.

Long were the farewells, Tip, Beau, Phais, Loric, and Bekki saying good-bye to Valk and the Mages. Imongar came limping to Tipperton and embraced the buccan and whispered her thanks to him in spite of his having stabbed her in the leg with one of his very sharp arrows.

And as they rode away, the Dwarves to the north, the Mages to the south, clarions called from the walls of Dendor, announcing to one and all that on this day heroes now rode across the plains of Aven.

It was on the third day of sling practice, when Beau frowned at something afar. "I say, Tip, what's that? It's the fourth one I've seen today."

Tip turned and looked. A white wagon, its driver in white, made its way down the cobbled side street. "Oh, it's a wagon for the sick, Beau, heading for the prison."

"Prison?"

"Aye. There's a dark disease in the city. Modru caused. When he had the corpses cast over the city walls-"

"Dark disease?"

Tip nodded, his face grim. "Awful. Pus-running boils. Dark rin-"

"Black nodules under the armpits, the groin?" broke in Beau. "Fever?"

"Well I don't know about nodules, but fever, yes, and dark rings about sunken eyes."

"Oh my," said Beau. "It sounds like the plague."

"Plague? But I thought a plague was something widespread, whereas this is not extensive. Just those who bore the corpses to the fires seem-"

"Perhaps it's not widespread yet," declared Beau, gathering up his jacket and cloak, "but if it's what I think it is, it'll bring down the entire city if it's not stopped."

"Where are you going?"

"To this prison, wherever it is. I've got to see for myself. Besides, they can use my help."

Tip began donning his own jacket. "I'll take you there, but as far as helping them, I dunno, Beau. The healer I talked to acted as if not many would survive."

"Oh my, but I was hoping I would never see this day," said Beau, the look on his face grim.

"Then it is the plague?" asked Tip.

Beau nodded. "Even though I've never seen it before, it fits all the descriptions I've ever read, particularly the one in my red healer's book."

Phais glanced at Loric. "Our help will be needed, chier."

Loric nodded in silent reply.

Beau sighed. "They've silverroot aplenty but none of the golden mint."

Bekki looked up from his plate of food. "Golden mint?"

"Yes. Gwynthyme. I've thought a tisane of golden mint mixed with silverroot might aid in curing the plague, yet I have no gwynthyme left. Do you know where there is some?"

Bekki shrugged. "Mayhap. Once when I was prospecting in the Grimwall above Nordlake I saw quite a lot of a golden mint growing in cracks and crevices along the face of the steeps. But whether this is what you are seeking, I cannot say."

"Quite a lot? Oh my, just what we need, if gwynthyme it is." Beau jumped down from the bench at the table. "Hold on, I'll show you a picture of it."

Moments later the buccan was back, his thin, faded-red-leather healer's book in hand. Riffling through the pages, quickly Beau found the one he sought. "Here it is." He showed the drawing to Bekki.

The Dwarf grunted and looked up from the picture. "Perhaps it is what I saw." He glanced again at the page and then frowned in puzzlement. "These words, I cannot read them."

"The book, it's written in a simple code," said Beau. "Here, I'll read it for you." Beau took the book back and, his brow furrowing in concentration, read, " 'Gwynthyme: a trefoil with serrated trifoliate aromatic leaves and nearly regular pale yellow flowers.' " Beau looked up to see Bekki yet frowning.

"The yellow flowers I understand," grumbled Bekki. "But the rest of it…" Bekki shrugged.

"Delgar writes like that, Bekki: jaw-breaking words and all. It took me awhile to learn what they meant."

Bekki raised an eyebrow. "Delgar?"

Beau nodded and tapped the red book. "The Mage who gave me this."

"Ah. Mage talk. I see," growled Bekki. "What is he really trying to say about gwynthyme?"

Beau gestured at the sketch. "Think of it as an ordinary mint, Bekki, but with three jagged-edged leaves at each stem, golden in color with a minty odor. Is that what you saw?"

Bekki looked again at the picture and then nodded. "Aye, as near as I can remember."

"Oh my. Oh my," said Beau. "Then that's just what we need, I think. This place where you saw the mint, can you find it again?"

Bekki scowled at the Warrow. "Did I not tell you I am Chakka, wee one, and cannot lose my feet?"

"Oh, right."

"Look," said Tip, "Agron's muster isn't until November, nearly eight months from now, so I should be able to go along. What do we harvest, the flowers or the leaves?"

"The leaves, Tip. The flowers are gone by the time the mint turns golden."

"And when is this? Now? In the springtime? Oh, Beau, what I'm really trying to ask is when do we harvest it? When do we have to be at Nordlake?"

Beau glanced at his red book, and then his face fell and he groaned. "Oh, barn rats, I had forgotten."

"Forgotten what?" asked Tip.

"One of the reasons gwynthyme is rare is that it only flourishes between the moons of August and September, and by then the plague may have a death grip on this city."

"Even so"-Tip looked at Bekki-"that's well before Agron's muster in November. We should go after the mint, can we get there and back ere then. When are these moons?"

"The moon of August occurs on the tenth," said Loric. "The one in September shines full on the ninth."

"Well," said Beau, looking at his book, "according to this, the mint turns golden on the full moon of September following the August full moon, and it must be harvested before the following dark of the moon occurs."

"The dark following the September full moon?" asked Tip, shaking his head, slightly confused.

Beau nodded.

Tip turned to Loric, the Alor answering his question ere it was asked, saying, "The dark of the moon falls on the twenty-fourth."

Tip looked to Beau. "So we've got between the ninth of September and the twenty-fourth to harvest it?"

Beau looked up from his book. "Right, for on the dark of the moon it turns brown and becomes deadly poison."

"Elwydd," exclaimed Bekki, "ruin and rescue in one?"

Beau nodded and said, "Aye, and it's vital you get there in time to harvest the rescue and not the ruin." Beau closed his book and asked Bekki, "Where is this Nordlake, and how long will it take to get there and back?"

"Just a moment," said Tip, "I'll get my maps and then we'll see."

"Here is a ford," said Bekki, jabbing a forefinger down to the sketch.

"Wait a moment," said Beau. "What about using the Kaagor Ferry? Wouldn't that way be shorter?"

"It is burnt," said Phais.

"But Valk left behind crafters to rebuild it ere he brought his army here. That was a month or so past. Surely it is done by now, or will be when it is time to go for the mint."

Loric nodded. "Even so, it may fall prey again unto the Spaunen, whereas the ford may not."

Tip stroked his chin, remembering. "Beau may have a point: the maggot-folk could have wards set up at the ford, just like they did at the Hath River in Rell."

"And the Crystal River into Aven," added Beau.

Bekki shook his head and pointed once again at the ford. "Unlike the ferry, there is nothing vital nigh these shallows: no cities, towns, holts, passes… nothing-not even Squam strongholts, I ween. It is not likely the Grg will think it worthy to spend their forces there. Nay, I deem they will not ward it, though they could use it to cross over to do ill in distant parts."

Tip frowned and pointed at a spur of the Grimwalls. " Tis moot, I think, for here the mountains must be rounded; hence, by ferry or ford, I gauge the ways nigh equal."

Beau peered at the map. "Oh well, never mind."

"All right," said Tip, "ford it is." Then measuring with his thumb- "Um, that's some two hundred seventy, two hundred eighty miles to the ford, and"- he measured again-"another hundred twenty or so to Nordlake." He looked up at Bekki.

"A day or two to get to the face of the mountain where I saw the mint," said the Dwarf.

Tip nodded. "By pony, then, I make it some two weeks to the ford, another week to the lake, and a couple of days to the mint: twenty-three, twenty-four days altogether."

"Add leeway for unexpected delay," said Bekki. "Squam may yet roam between here and there, with Squam in the mountains as well."

"Perhaps more than just you four ought to go," said Beau.

"You're not going?" asked Tip, surprised.

"I've got to stay here, Tip, and help out. This dark scourge will get much worse before it gets better. But Phais and Loric can go with you and Bekki."

A frown crossed Loric's face. "Nay, we cannot."

Tip looked up at the Alor.

"Elvenkind does not fall ill to this scourge," said Loric. "And if it is as Beau says, then we will be needed here in the days to come. Yet King Agron could lend whatever aid is needed to harvest the mint."

Bekki shook his head. "It is better that just two of us go than a large band, for as I said, Grg may lie between here and there, and two alone have a better chance of slipping past their wards than would an entire company."

"Look," said Tip, "we can cross that bridge when we come to it. But for now we will plan on going alone, just you and me, Bekki… in, what, mid-July?"-Tip counted on his fingers-"Say, fifteen weeks from now?"

Again Beau groaned at the length of time.

"According to your book, Beau, it can't be helped," said Tip. "I mean, if the mint doesn't come to fruition until the September moon, then I can't see setting out from here before mid-July. That will give us four weeks or so to get to Nordlake in time for the August moon. And then we'll have another four weeks to find all the places where the mint grows, and be entirely ready to harvest it. And lastly, two weeks or so to gather it in. Then three weeks from Nordlake to Dendor"-again Tip counted on his fingers- "that'd make it around mid-October when we return. That's plenty of time for me to get to the muster in Alvstad by mid-November. -Oh, I say, Beau, we'll need a drawing of what the mint looks like before it turns golden… and tell me, just how much of this mint do you need?"

"As much as you can bring, Tip, but according to the book you also have to leave enough behind so that more will grow in subsequent years."

Tip frowned, and Bekki growled, "A gardener I am not, nor an herbalist. How much should we leave behind? Does anyone know how to judge?"

Beau smiled and tapped the faded cover of the book. "Delgar does. He wrote it all down, and I'll tell you what he said."

And so, from his Mage-written manual, Beau began educating Tip and Bekki in the ways of the golden mint, though he himself had no experience with the growing of it.

During this same time, in King Agron's war room long into the night, obstacles to the king's war plan were raised and solutions conceived:

"The army is sapped, my lord, many of our best are wounded."

"That is why we wait for autumn, captain, to give many the time to heal."

"The crops, sire, what of them? We cannot leave a hungry nation behind."

"Much will be harvested ere we set forth."

"Ah, but Alvstad is far to the west, my lord, and it will take many a day for those in the east to reach the muster on the Argon River."

"Let them ride instead to the Crystal and Green Rivers on the east, for they are Argon tributaries. Let those in the north ride to the Argon as well. By raft and boat they can journey to Alvstad, for river legs never tire and it will make the passage swift."

"Even so, my lord, still there are late crops to gather in and next spring's tilling and planting as well."

"In those cases, where oldsters and women and children are not enough, by lottery leave behind sufficient of the able-bodied to bring in their own and their neighbors' crops and plant for the following year."

A captain on the far side of the map table cleared his throat and said, "My lord, was it wise to announce to the public your plans to invade Gron? What of spies bearing word to Modru himself?"

Agron's icy gaze swept 'round the table, and he clenched a fist. "I want him to know we are coming. I want to give him pause. Yet heed, he will not know by what route we will advance, and must needs hold back his forces instead of spending them to carry the fight to others."

"My lord, how will we enter Gron?" The captain gestured at the map. "It lies on the far side of the Grimwall, and I have heard that all passes are warded. Do we march north from Alvstad through Jord and take to the Boreal Sea and around?"

Agron shook his head. "Nay, we do not, though mayhap Modru will think so. Instead We enter by an unexpected way." The king looked up from the map. "This knowledge will not leave this room." After receiving nods from his captains, Agron traced a route across the chart. "We ford the river here at Alvstad, then march through Jailor Pass and into this corner of Jord. Here we turn to the west and enter the Gronfangs, for at this point there is a narrow twisting pass through that dire range, all but forgotten, blocked by a slide, and who would clear a slide for passage into the cold wastes of Gron, eh?"

At the captains' astonished gazes, Agron added, "I have seen it myself, for when I was but twenty, Prince Halfar of Jord and I rode in on a lark-a test of bravery then; but in hindsight nought but a foolish risk.

"Regardless, far within there is a slide, but one which an army can clear, providing a way to come upon Gron unawares."

An elder statesman leaned forward. "Sire, we will be marching across Jord, or a part thereof."

The king raised an eyebrow.

"What I mean, my lord, is that we should send an emissary to Jordkeep and apprise King Ranor."

Agron nodded and said, "Prepare a missive, Lord Vengar. I will set my seal to it." The elder statesman nodded.

Across the table a captain said, "My lord, what of this dark ill which strikes down the healthy?"

"The healers are doing their best, captain. Yet this I say: I have chosen for the muster to take place in Alvstad instead of Dendor for more than one reason, among them is this: my healers tell me that by waiting for the ill to run its course, we isolate the muster from the scourge. Although Modru's disease is in Dendor, we will keep it from spreading."

"Do you mean to quarantine the city, my lord?"

Agron nodded. "Aye. Not only that, but round up any who handled the Modru-flung corpses and set them off in separate quarters away from the general populace until this scourge is gone. Have the healers attend to them, and set apart those who seem healthy from those who seem not. Too, burn the houses of any who fall ill."

"But my lord, much of the city is already in ashes from the Wrgish fireballs."

Agron sighed. "I know, captain, yet drastic times call for drastic measures. We would not have these ill vapors spread to others, and fire purifies all."

To Agron's left, a captain cleared his throat.

"My lord, we will be marching into Gron in the dead of winter."

Agron nodded, then said, "We will not be ready until then, captain. And yes, winter campaigns are hard. Yet what better time to invade but when least expected?"

"But what I meant, my lord, is… the pass may be blocked by snow."

"The pass is low through the mountains, captain, and when Halfar and I rode in, it was nearly Yule, yet, but for a dusting of snow, the way was clear. Prince Halfar said it was due to the Gwasp, warm air flowing up from that vast mire keeping the way open."

"Sire," said another captain, glancing about, "I will say what none else has: it will be a winter campaign, and it is said that Modru is master of the cold."

Agron looked about the table, ice in his pale blue eyes. "Then we will prepare for the cold, captain, and let Modru waste his power."

Agron's cold gaze swept from captain to captain, and each and every one nodded in assent, though some but reluctantly. "It will be a long campaign," he said, "requiring much in the way of food and other supplies. Let us now reckon the total, based on six months, one year, and two. Then we can gauge how many horses and wains we'll need, and what supplies that will add to the whole."

And so the planning went.

The following day the gates of Dendor were shut, not to keep a foe without, but to keep the people within, all but those farmers and their families who the healers could declare to be plague-free; they were allowed to return to their steads to rebuild their homes and to grow needed crops and round up any animals that had survived. Too, the king's messengers were allowed like passage, for they were critical to the coming campaign. All else needed the king's exception to pass through the gates, for Agron was determined to keep the plague from spreading beyond Dendor's walls.

April came and went, winter loosing its grasp. Fields were tilled and crops planted, while buds broke forth on the trees. Yet even as the warmth of returning spring greened the land, within the quarantined city a darkness grew, for every day more stricken were brought to the healers. The prison was filled to overflowing with the ill and the dying, where they were treated with potions of sil-verroot. Yet this brew proved wanting, for, just as Beau's red journal had stated, in spite of the medick, six of seven died in agony. Even so, without the brew, only one or two in a hundred would live.

Just as he had in the aftermath of the Battle of Mineholt North, Tip took up his lute and visited the wards of those who had been wounded in this battle as well. He sang and played for them and lifted their hearts. Yet when he suggested to Beau that he do the same for those afflicted by the dark ill, Beau would not let him, saying that nought but healers were allowed within the prison wards.

May came, and with it the flowers and warmth and more tilling, and the leaves broke forth, and preparations for the muster continued. Some of those wounded in the Battle of Dendor healed, while others so wounded died… and Tip grieved for those lost, yet he continued to play and sing.

And still the dark ill spread, houses burning in its black wake, and there was great unease in the city, for people were frightened. Some tried to leave, but were turned back, and the quarantine held firm.

In the prison and the now-sequestrated buildings ringing 'round, as the numbers of stricken grew, there was little that Beau and Phais and Loric and the healers could do but comfort the ill and dying, though one in seven survived. And it was in this month that some of the healers themselves fell ill.

"Oh, Beau, are you in danger?"

"This dark illness, Tip, it can strike anyone. -Elves excepted."

"How can this be? I thought it struck only those who handled the hacked-up corpses Modru had flung over the walls."

"No, Tip. Even people who touched no part of a corpse have fallen ill, whereas others who bore remains to the fires have stayed hale. Look, Tip, I am certain that this is the same plague that killed my parents. And they and the others who died that year certainly didn't deal with any dead bodies flung by anyone."

"Then where does it come from?"

"I dunno, Tip. Some say it's bad vapors. Others say that it's a curse. Some say it's foul creatures slipping into the bedroom at night and inflicting the unwary with an unfelt bite, while others lay it on the doorstone of Modru and all his ilk. Whatever it is, it's a scourge, all right, and one which needs to be rooted out and entirely and utterly destroyed."

"Well, Beau, whatever it is, you take care to see that it doesn't get a hold of you, eh?"

Beau turned up a hand. "Perhaps in some manner I am like the Elves, Tip. I mean, it killed my parents but completely passed me by, even though I lived in the same house with them, while distant Warrows miles away came down with it and died."

"Hoy, is this why you wouldn't let me play and sing for those so stricken? You thought I might come down with it?"

Beau merely shrugged.

Tip frowned. "Wull look, bucco, by your own words, it doesn't seem to matter whether a person is near or far, so I think I'll go with you when-"

"No, Tip. You can't come. I think you are safer out here than in there, and I won't have you risk it. I'll just tell the guards to throw you out."

Seeing how serious Beau was, Tipperton said no more, though late in the night a sweet voice sang outside the prison walls.

June arrived, and with it the Dendorian herald returned from Jordkeep. And word raced through the city, for riding alongside came a female, a Jordian warrior maiden no less, the emissary of King Ranor. Tall she was and coppery haired, and she wore a chain mail shirt and a helm sporting a long horsehair gaud. A sword was at her side, and a spear in her hand, and snapping in the breeze high on the haft fluttered a pennon of Jord-white horse rampant on a field of green.

"Open the gate," called the captain above as they approached, for he had his orders. And into the stricken city she fared alongside the herald, her horse spirited and prancing, and people ran out to see as she rode down the streets to the castle walls and within.

"Even as we speak, my lord, Modru's Swarms march into Jord, debarking from ships along our western shore, there at the end of the Gronfangs. Yet the balefires atop the warcairns are lit and the red flag has been borne unto all corners of our nation, and we make ready to hurl the foe back into the sea."

Agron nodded. "Lady Ryla, mayhap he does so for he believes I plan on striking Gron by marching my armies across Jord and then taking to the sea to come at his northern shore."

"Mayhap, my lord, yet I deem he would have assaulted Jord regardless. Even so, King Ranor welcomes your invasion of Modru's realm, for perhaps that will cause him to withdraw some of his Hordes back to the Iron Tower. When and if that happens, or when we defeat those who now step within our borders, King Ranor will send aid to you.

"Yet my king also says to tell you as soon as he can he plans to send warriors to Pellar to fight at the side of the High King."

"Lady Ryla, that Modru assails Jord is ill indeed, though as you say, not unexpected. And Ranor's pledge of aid is most welcome. Yet bear this word to your king and his plan to join with the High King: none knows where Blaine is. Yes, he may now be in Caer Pendwyr, and if so, he will welcome the aid. But then again he may not be in Pellar at all, for when last we knew-more than a year agone, now-he was retreating from Challerain Keep, a small garrison which fell before one of Modru's Hordes. And the ways to Caer Pendwyr from Challerain Keep are held by the Foul Folk."

The warrior maiden turned up a hand. "Even so, my lord, surely by the time we push Modru back into the sea and come unto Pellar there will be word of the High King's whereabouts. But even if there is not, sooner or later Modru will make a stab at Caer Pendwyr. And when he does, Jord will be there."

Within two days Ryla rode forth from the afflicted city of Dendor, for Agron would not have her risk the dark ill stalking those within. And she bore with her a missive: King Agron's words of thanks to King Ranor and his wishes for a successful campaign. And as the emissary rode away, trailing a packhorse after, two Warrows stood atop the north gate of Dendor and watched, their jewel-like eyes glittering at the sight of this warrior maiden of Jord.

The twentieth of June was Year's Long Day, and Beau insisted that he and Tip and Phais and Loric and Bekki hold their own private party for anyone who'd celebrated a birthday within the past year, which of course included everyone. But Tip had insisted they leave out Modru and all of his blackhearted ilk.

"Oh my," said Beau, "I never thought of that. I never thought of Modru as ever having a birthday, of being born, being a child, growing up. I wonder if his parents are proud of him."

Bekki just growled and spat.

"In fact, Beau," said Tip, "let's rule out anyone allied with Gyphon: the Hyrinians, Chabbains, Kistanians, and whoever else sides with that monster, especially the Foul Folk."

"Foul Folk? Foul Folk? Celebrate for them? Of course not, Tip. Besides, I don't think they're born, but hatched instead… and from rotten eggs."

Phais grinned and glanced at Loric, the Alor smiling as well.

Bekki, though, snorted and shook his head.

And so, with these disqualifications, they celebrated the birthdays of everyone who was left, which of course included Phais and Loric and Bekki and naturally their very own selves.

Later that evening, they stepped through the Elven ritual of the turn of the seasons, and this time Bekki joined the stately dance, while Tipperton joined in the singing.

Yet when the rite came to an end they were not as exhilarated as in times past, for a scourge pressed down on the city all 'round.

In the heat of early July, wagons began moving west across the land of Aven, laded with goods for the muster in Alvstad, passing quarantined Dendor by. And people stood atop the walls and called down messages to be given to their kindred afar, and the wain riders promised they would try to see their words delivered. Yet in shadowy corners of taverns within the city itself, dark mutterings whispered from mouth to ear, driven so by grim forebodings and sullen unease.

And as July commenced, farmers began bringing cheese and eggs and meat and produce to market. Yet they were stopped just without the city walls, for the gates yet remained closed, and only the king's buyers were allowed outside to purchase the city's needs and to send the crofters home again. When the farmers were gone, soldiers drove wagons out to bear the goods into the city for distribution within.

Too, in July messengers came riding from afar, carrying news of the war, but of High King Blaine's whereabouts there was as of yet no word.

In the early days of this month as well, Tip and Bekki prepared for their journey to Nordlake. Six ponies in all they decided to take: two for riding and four for carrying supplies-food for the most part and grain for the ponies. They would take as well two sets of climbing gear, for Bekki said that the golden mint grew in the cracks on cliffs of sheer stone. Tipperton paled when he heard of this, yet he had climbed sheer faces before, when Phais had trained Beau and him to scale the bluffs of Arden Vale. They added to their cargo the tools to harvest the mint, and twine and cloth for ripping into swathes to bundle it in- eleven sprigs to a bundle as per Delgar's written instructions in Beau's leather-bound book-and ten large sacks to pack the bundles within and lade them on the ponies, should there be that much golden mint to harvest, though Bekki doubted it would be so.

"Oh lor'," breathed Beau. "If you fill but one of these sacks, I think I could treat the entire city to a cup of gwyn-thyme and silverroot tea, should absolutely everyone fall ill."

"The entire city?" asked Tip, his eyes wide.

"Aye, Tip. A little goes a long way."

They prepared to set out on the twelfth of the month, the day of the July moon, for as Tip had said, "It seems only fitting, since our entire mission for the golden mint seems governed by the phases of Elwydd's light."

Bright dawn of the twelfth came to a cloudless sky and, after a hearty breakfast, Tip and Bekki carried to the stables the goods for their journey, making repeated trips to do so. By midmorn the riding ponies were saddled and the pack animals laded and at last all was ready. Beau and Phais and Loric came from comforting the ill to say farewell.

"Now you take care, bucco," said Beau, "for as Bekki here says, there's Foul Folk yet afoot in Aven, to say nothing of those in the Grimwall."

"Wull, Beau, it's not me and Bekki I'm worried about but you instead… here as you are in a plague-ridden city."

"Oh, we'll be just fine, Tip," said Beau, turning to Phais, "won't we, now?"

Yet in that very moment the Dara's face blenched, and with a moan she fell to her knees, Loric collapsing beside her, the Alor covering his face in his hands and crying out in distress.

Phais reached out blindly, shock and agony and grief whelming her features, tears flooding her eyes, and with a cry of despair she fell back in a swoon.

"What is it? What is it?" cried Beau, springing forward, but Bekki was first to the Dara's side, indecision and anguish on his face. The Dwarf looked to Beau for aid and called out to the Warrow, yet what he said could not be heard above Loric's howl of torment.

And Tip on his knees in front of the Alor reached up and gently pulled Loric's hands away from his face… to reveal an aspect of bleak desolation as great choking sobs tore from Loric's very soul. And the Elf reached out and clasped the buccan to him and wept as if he were nought but a child.

And Dara Phais, though consciousness had fled her, wept tears of anguish as well.

Shaken, Loric and Phais gripped one another's hands, their lips yet drawn thin by distress.

"It was like… a death rede, oh, but different, so different," said Phais.

"A deathcry," said Loric, his features twisting once again into anguish with but the memory of it. "A deathcry of hundreds and hundreds."

"Pardon, Lord Loric," said Bekki. "Hundreds and hundreds of…?"

"Lian, Lord Bekki. Lian," said Loric, choking on his own words. "A wailing deathcry of hundreds upon hundreds of Lian, blowing like an icy wind through our very souls."

"What does it mean?" asked Beau. "What does such a dreadful thing mean?"

Phais looked at Loric, her eyes flooding once again with tears, and she said, "That a great disaster has occurred somewhere and countless of our kindred have perished."

Tip and Bekki decided to stay in Dendor that day to comfort their bereaved companions, though Phais and Loric asked not. Yet it was plain to see that their solace was needed, for both Lian would shed tears at erratic times, and a touch or a word or an embrace acted to ease the pain. Even Bekki gave comfort, though when he embraced Dara Phais, his own expression was one of distress, either that or entirely unreadable.

And none knew what had happed, yet when Beau speculated that it was Modru's doing, Phais shook her head and said, "Nay, my friend, something of this enormity can only be the work of Gyphon Himself."

In the midafternoon of that clear July day a thunderous boom rolled over the land below and across the sky above, echoing from building and wall, rattling dish and window and roof alike, jarring the city entire. Then it was gone, the air still once again. And all looked at one another in startlement and fear, yet none knew whence it came or its cause.

The following morning, pressed by their mission, Tip and Bekki again saddled two ponies and laded four others with goods. And saying farewell for a second time, they set out at last for Nordlake afar.

They rode out through the west gate, King Agron's pass letting them through, Captain Brud personally escorting them to the bridge, the wound on his face all but healed, leaving a long scar behind. And as they rode away, Tip turned and waved at Beau and Phais and Loric standing on the wall above, the Elves yet wan, yet pale.

"Take care, Tip," called Beau. "You, too, Bekki."

"You as well," shouted Tipperton back, "and we'll bring you some golden mint."

And then he turned and faced west, he and Bekki riding away, trailing four ponies after. West they rode and west, across the summer land, leaving behind three close friends in a quarantined city rife with a dark affliction.

Just past the noontide there came a rolling boom, knelling as would a diminished echo of the sound of the day before.

Tip looked at Bekki. "Did you hear that?"

"Aye, I did."

"Oh, Bekki, you don't suppose another disaster has occurred, do you?"

Bekki frowned and shook his head. "That I cannot say, Tipperton, for I am not an Elf."

And in the silent deeps of the night, as Tipperton stood midwatch, there came to his ears another faint boom, this one diminished even further. He fretted and wondered if he should waken Bekki, but in the end decided not, for neither could do aught regardless.