Into the fire

Chapter 20

In the Dendorian prison, Beau languished abed, too weak, too enervated to rise. Even though his pustulant boils and dark buboes continued to recede, he recovered but slowly, his fever-wasted flesh stubbornly refusing to fill out on his bones no matter how much he ate, though to say fair, his appetite seemed to languish as well. That he had been ill was patently clear, for to the edge of death he had been borne by the plague, to the edge and nearly beyond. Yet the blending of silverroot and gwynthyme in a single tisane had drawn him back, had rescued him, along with some five hundred others, though it had come too late for nearly three thousand more.

People came to the prison to see the wee healer, for surely he was Adon-blessed-how else could you explain the miracle he had brought to the city? But the wee one was entirely too weak to accept public accolades, and so many who sought audience were turned away at the prison gates.

Even so, over the next weeks, Beau had a number of visitors, particularly healers who came to praise him, and those who came to worship: patients yet in the prison who had been saved by the remarkable grace of his cure. And in the early days of these visits, he would tire quickly, and often a caller who came to see him would find the wee buccan asleep. Many left him small gifts; many simply knelt and kissed his hand, and if Beau was awake at the time, he was deeply embarrassed by such adulation.

Lor', but this must be how Tip felt, the Hero of Dendor and all; the Hero of Mineholt North, too, though there the Dwarves were a deal more level-headed than the Humans here seem to be.

Ten days after Tip and Bekki and Phais and Loric and even King Agron had said farewell, Beau was allowed to rise. And though his legs quivered and it seemed as if he would faint, still he vowed never again would he lie a prisoner abed, even if he had to crawl to the privy, never again. With help he tottered to the toilet at the end of the hall, and when he returned to collapse on his cot exhausted, he first set his bedpan outside the cell and muttered, "Never again," again.

Another three weeks passed, Beau now gaining flesh, and every day he grew stronger.

Anxious to follow Tipperton, Beau marched into the chief healer's office nigh the prison door. Sitting at the desk within was Halga, leader of the healers ever since Bragan had died of the plague. She looked up from her work as Beau came purposefully in. "I'm fit to travel," he pronounced.

"No you are not," declared Halga.

"I am, too."

"Nay, wee one. Shall I demonstrate?"

Beau groaned. "Look, Lady Halga, just because I need to sit down and rest when I get to the top of the stairs, that doesn't mean-"

"Oh, but it does, Sir Beau. Tell me: what would you advise a like patient who happened to be in your care?"

"Why, I'd tell him to go and do whatever he-"

Halga squatted and looked into Beau's eyes.

"-urn, er, that is-" Beau couldn't meet her gaze, and finally he said, "All right. You win. But just as soon as I can top those stairs without stopping to rest, then I'm going, permission or not."

"Beau, even now you need no one's permission to get up and go. Yet heed: if you do go now, then there is every chance you will become a liability along the way and never reach the end."

Beau sighed and nodded, and Halga said, "Another week or so, and then we'll see."

During the week, Beau helped the other healers tend a handful of patients much in the same shape as he, the few who had been drawn back from death's door. All other living victims of the plague had recovered wholly, had been discharged, and the sequestrated surrounding buildings had been given back over to their original purposes.

Those patients left had been moved to the lower quarters of the prison. And the prison itself had once again become a jail, though the inmates were few, most having marched off to war; now in the cells were new-caught felons waiting for the king's steward to pass judgement on them.

In any event, Beau tended a few patients, and every day practiced walking the stairs, getting stronger with each pass up and down.

On the sixth day after confronting Halga, there came a bustle at the front gate, and a guard was assigned to escort a tall person into the lower halls.

Beau was summoned.

As he stepped into the chamber, Beau saw a man, an Elf, nay, a Mage. Tall he was with brown eyes and auburn hair and dressed in a brown robe. He seemed to be youthful, though with Mages one could never tell.

The Mage scowled at the buccan. "So you are Sir Beau Darby, the Litenfolk who found the cure for the plague?"

At Beau's nod, the Mage smiled and sat down and gestured toward a second chair. "I am Farrin, late of Black Mountain."

"I've heard of you, Mage Farrin," said Beau, climbing into the seat.

At Farrin's raised eyebrows, Beau added, "From Mage Imongar and the others. You were part of their circle of seven, or so Tip did say, though you were off looking for Stone Giants to get them to side with us. Did you find them and will they join in the battle against Modru and his ilk?"

A brooding look came over Farrin's features. "Aye, find them I did. But as for siding with us, the chances of that are slim."

"You must tell me all about it, for Tip will want to know."

"The other Waerling? The one who went off with the king?"

Beau nodded. "Yes, and I hope to catch up with him soon and join with- Oh my." A look of dismay crossed Beau's features.

"What is it?" asked Farrin, glancing 'round. Finding nothing to note alarm, he turned back to the Warrow.

Beau looked up at the Mage. "Dara Rael's rede."

"Rede?"

"Aye. 'Seek the aid of those not men to quench the fires of war.' That's what she said, there in Arden Vale, when she looked in the crystal, though at the time she said it, she spoke in the Elven tongue; Dara Faeon rendered it into Common."

Farrin canted his head. "For whom was the rede intended?"

"That's just it," said Beau. "We don't know. A number of Elves were in the room at the time, along with two ragtag Warrows-Tip and me-and Rael said it could be meant for any one of us."

Farrin nodded, then said, "And what does this have to do with your dismay?"

"Well, you see, if the rede is indeed meant for either Tip or me-though I don't think it likely-then Tip has gone off with King Agron, you see, and his entire army, and I am soon to follow."

Farrin turned up a hand. "And…?"

"And they're all men," replied Beau.

"Ah," said Farrin, nodding. "And the rede says to seek the aid of those not men. I see your concern. Of course, that assumes the rede was not meant for the Elves but for you or him or both."

Beau sighed, and he faintly smiled up at the Mage. "Not likely, eh?"

Farrin turned up both hands. "With wild magic, one can never say."

Silence fell between them, but finally Beau asked, "Do you think he is in any danger?"

"Who?"

"Tip."

"Why would you say that?"

"Well if he's with men instead of not-men…" Beau looked at Farrin and shrugged.

"He was with men at the battle of Dendor, wasn't he?"

Beau nodded, then said, "Yes, but with Mages, too. And aren't you not-men? Uh, er, I mean, well, that is- Oh, barn rats, you know what I mean."

Farrin laughed. "Yes, Sir Beau, we Mages indeed are not men but another race altogether. Yet, hear me: I would think Sir Tipperton is in no more danger than anyone else marching with an army into the wastes of Gron, even though there are no not-men from whom he can seek aid."

Before Beau could answer, a gong sounded. At Farrin's raised eyebrow, Beau said, "Dinner. Would you join me? You can tell me all about the Stone Giants."

As they stood and stepped from the room and strolled down the hall, Farrin said, "Well, there's not that much to tell. I found them under the Grimwall north of the Skog-"

"The most ancient forest?"

"Aye, though how did you- Oh, the Elves?"

Beau nodded. "Phais and Loric spoke of it. But what about the Stone Giants?"

"They spoke in a tongue most peculiar, like rocks sliding over one another. I managed to teach three or four of the younger ones an old form of Common. When I explained to them why I had come, and they in turn told the elders, well, the elders replied that they wanted no part of a war among surface dwellers."

"Surface dwellers?"

"Aye, that's what they call those of us who live on the land and not within it."

"What about the Dwarves? They are in this fight, and although they live on the land, they live in it as well."

Farrin smiled. "The very point I made to them, Beau. Yet though they admire the work of the Dwarves and revile that of the Rupt, still the elders refused. On the other hand, a few of the younger ones seemed somewhat reluctant to say yea or nay."

"Did you tell 'em about Gyphon and what it might mean should he be victorious?"

"I did. Even so, they were not swayed."

"Hmm," mused Beau, and he turned from the hallway and entered a common room, Farrin coming after. Taking up trenchers and knives and spoons from a side stand and taking up earthenware mugs as well, they filled their plates from an array of food on a central table and filled their cups with tea. As they moved to a bench and settled in to eat, Beau asked, "What do they look like? -The Stone Giants, I mean."

"Tall. Some even taller than Trolls. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen feet and more they stand. And they have gemstones for eyes."

"Real gemstones?" asked Beau, tearing off a hunk of bread.

"So it appears," said Farrin, nodding and sipping his tea, then adding, "Glittering eyes, much like those of your folk."

"How do they dress?" Beau managed to say around a mouthful.

"They don't. Clothes would turn to tatters where they dwell, where they work, down along the grinding seams of the living stone itself."

"Oh my, no clothes; weren't you embarrassed?"

Farrin exploded in laughter.

They ate in silence for a while, and finally Farrin said, "When do you plan on starting out for Gron?"

"Tomorrow should see me declared fit to travel," replied Beau. "Though I am not quite up to my old self, still I can climb several times to the top of the stairs before becoming too winded to continue."

Farrin smiled. "The stairs are your measure?"

"Not mine. Halga's." Beau nodded toward where Halga sat a table away.

"It is a rough gauge of fitness," said Halga. "Yester-week he couldn't make it from bottom to top without stopping at least twice. Still, he would have left had I not stopped him."

As Farrin looked askance at Beau, the buccan said, "She was right, even though it cost me a sevenday delay. In the long run I think I'll reach Agron's army sooner by leaving later than later had I left sooner."

Farrin laughed aloud, then said, "I know how you feel, Beau, wanting to rejoin your comrade. I, too, go to join my companions; I may have failed with the Utruni, but when I find my colleagues the circle of seven will be whole again."

"Oh my," said Beau, his face falling, "didn't anyone tell you?"

Farrin canted his head, puzzled, faintly smiling, a spoonful of beans lifted partway to his mouth. "Tell me what?"

Beau reached out to touch Farrin's free hand. "One of your circle-Alvaron by name-the Gargon slew him in its death throes."

The wind went out of Farrin's lungs and he dropped his spoon with a clatter. "Alvaron?"

Beau nodded.

"Dead?"

Again Beau nodded.

Farrin pushed his trencher away and stood. "I need to be alone."

Beau watched as the Mage stepped through the doorway and was gone. Sighing, the buccan, too, pushed his own trencher away. Turning to Halga, he said, "I think I'm going for a walk, Halga. Out to the city walls, if I might."

She looked at him long and finally nodded, saying, "Dress warmly, Beau."

Beau trudged to his room and took up his quilted jacket and gloves and cloak, and moments later stepped out through the front gate. A light snow drifted down through stillness to settle on the town, and Beau pulled his collar 'round and looked up through the drifting flakes at the grey sky overhead. As he took a deep breath of chill air, he suddenly realized that this was the first time in over two months he had been free of the prison behind. Yet even though he should have felt joy at his deliverance he did not, for his wee buccan heart was heavily weighed with an old grief again made new.

The next day, as Beau returned from an early-morning walk, a grim Farrin came riding toward the prison, a pack animal in tow behind. Beau stopped at the gate and waited, and Farrin rode to him and drew up. Without dismounting, the Mage looked down at the Warrow. "I'm going now to seek the remainder of my circle. In Pellar, I am told, they might be found, and find them I will. I hope you find your own friend, wherever he may be. Yet, heed, Beau Darby, and heed me well, for I came to tell you this: where you intend to go is a place of a most ill nature, for Gron is Modru's realm, and the land follows his lead. To go alone toward that dire place is certainly risk enough, but to enter alone is madness. You must seek aid to find your friend, and another comes who may help."

Beau's eyes widened. "Another?"

Farrin nodded. "Aye. I met him as I rode from the Skog. When I told him I was bound for Dendor, he said therein was a Waerling who had found a cure for the plague. How he knew this I did not ask, yet hear me: he said he would come to Dendor just to look at you. I would ask him for his aid, were I in your place. None better can you find to help you find your friend."

"Who is he?"

Farrin's somber cast was broken slightly by a faint smile. "You will know him when he comes."

Impatiently, Beau shook his head. "Look, Mage Farrin, Halga declared me fit to travel, and travel I will. Within the week. If he's not here before I go, he will just have to find me along the way."

Farrin cocked an eyebrow and slightly shook his head. "Ah, me, but this is rash and ill-advised, yet I know you are driven, just as am I. Still I would ask of you this: wait out the week, the full sevenday, ere you set forth on your own, for he may come within that allotted time. But if not, leave word that you travel alone for Gron, and also leave word as to the route you intend to take so that he may follow if he is of a mind to do so."

With that, Farrin reined his horse about, then again glanced down at Beau and said, "Look to the east, for he will come thence, and soon I would say, for he is curious to see just who it was broke Modru's plague."

Without another word Farrin rode away, the packhorse drawn on a tether after.

Nettled, puzzled, Beau watched as the Mage fared down the cobbled street, snow lying white on the stone. At last the buccan called out, "Good fortune. May you find what you seek."

Without looking back or slowing, Farrin momentarily raised a hand in reply and kept riding southerly, heading for the distant south gate and the way to Pellar beyond.

His breath blowing white on the cold air, Beau watched until Farrin turned beyond a corner building, then the buc-can trudged into the prison.

Over that day and the one after, Beau began assembling the things he would need on his journey, especially taking care to select a good variety of medicks. Too, he went to the king's stables to see to his pony, and found the little steed in good stead, having been well cared for by the stableboy.

Remembering Bekki's words, Beau went to the armory and chose several pouches of lead sling bullets, then on second thought, exchanged them for bullets of steel.

"That's a fair choice," said the armorer, a beefy man. "Steel is less heavy, and you never know when you'll need to run or climb or such, and the lighter the load, the easier the task. But these here"-he turned and took up a handful of elongated bullets, shiny earthen-brown in color-"are lighter still, and almost as deadly. Clay, they are, fired in our own kilns; the glaze makes them extra hard. Would you care to try some?"

Beau took a double handful and stepped out back. When he returned he had a smile on his face. "Splendid," he said. "Fired clay it is."

And so, for two days, Beau made his preparations, but Farrin's words ever echoed in his mind: "Gron is Modru's realm… to enter alone is madness… you must seek aid… another comes who may help."

Each dawn and noon and evening, Beau strode the walls of Dendor-"Look to the east, for he will come thence"- but no one did Beau see.

Although he was ready to travel by the second day, Beau delayed for a third, and he paced the ramparts along the eastern merge. Come what may, I'm leaving tomorrow, and that's certain. But again Farrin's words came to mind: "Wait out the week, the full sevenday…"

The sun was verging on the western rim of the world, when out on the eastern plain a glimmer of movement caught Beau's eye. A shimmer of white on white it seemed…

Lor' but what is it?

… silvery-white shapes running toward Dendor across the glittering snow.

"Hoy," Beau called to the guard and pointed. "Look. To the east."

Onward they came, drawing ever closer.

What is it I am seeing?

Beside Beau a clanging sounded as the guard hammered an iron bar 'round and 'round within a hanging iron triangle.

One, two, three-Beau counted-four altogether. -No, six,.. seven.

He waited as on they came, and he counted again.

Seven, definitely seven.

And still the running silver shapes defied his eye to resolve into something he could recognize.

And the sun fell halfway into the lip of the world, red rays west running to violet in the eastern sky. And against fading sunlight glancing on snow, seven shapes raced across the plains, running silver on pale crimson white.

Soldiers with crossbows scrambled up the ramps to come to the banquette, and the captain of the guard came to the bastion and peered east as well. "Stand ready," ordered the captain.

Of a sudden in a flash of recognition, Beau knew what he was seeing though he'd never seen them before and in fact had only heard of them as sung in an Elven song, and amazement filled his gaze. "Wait, captain, loose no quarrels!" he called. "These are not the foe!"

The captain turned to the buccan. "Then, by Adon, what is it that comes?"

"Draega, captain, Draega. Draega from Adonar. They can't be anything else."

"Draega?"

"Oh my, oh my," exclaimed Beau, not answering, racing back and forth along the weapons shelf, stopping long enough to look again, and then run to another crenel.

Exasperated, the captain turned to his men. "Stand ready, but do as the Litenfolk says: loose no quarrels."

And they watched as seven silver shapes came running, until all could see what they were: seven Silver Wolves from legend, plunging o'er the snow, seven Silver Wolves, seven in all, racing toward Dendor and Beau.