Into the fire

Chapter 21

Something important. Something im Again a Vulg howl sounded on the screaming wind.

– portant.

But what it was, Tip could not remember, his mind ahaze with poison raging in his veins, while just beyond the mouth of the sheltering hollow a blizzard shrieked past in the darkness, hurtling ice and snow onto steep mountain slopes above and along the gorge below.

Tip leaned his head back against the cracked stone and closed his eyes, and just as he was losing consciousness Tip jerked upright and called out, "What? What did you say, Beau?" His voice was lost under the yowl of the wind outside.

I'm certain I heard him call out.

Again Tip spoke aloud into the darkness. "Oh, Beau, are you in trouble?"

There was no answer.

His breath coming harsh, Tip sat in blackness, his bow grasped loosely in his hands, the arrow fallen away.

What did you say, Beau?

Fevered and muttering aloud-" 'You're in a terrible fix, bucco.' That's what you would tell me, as if I didn't know. Well, my friend, it's not like you were in any better shape, the last time I saw you." Unable to hold himself upright, Tip slowly fell over sideways. He lay on his left side, his cheek against cold rubble, and looked down at Beau in his prison cot, pustulant boils all over the buccan's face. "But Bekki and I, we saved your neck, bringing back th- Oh lor', that's it!"

Hissing and muttering, Tip struggled, trying to upright himself, but he could not. His wounded left arm trapped beneath his own body, Tip floundered about with his free hand in the ground-up barley, making certain the great rumbling buhrstones didn't crush his fingers or arm as he searched through the flour for his saddlebags. "That's what you were trying to tell me, Beau. That's what you were trying to-" His hand fell upon leather and, straining, cursing, he dragged the thing to him. "Oh no. It's my lute."

Feebly pushing aside the dead pony, not wondering how it had gotten here, Tip again fumbled across the rubble and found-"Is it my blanket ro-? No, no. This is leather."

He managed to drag the pouches to him and after a long, one-handed struggle succeeded in unbuckling one side. "I hope this is the bag I put it in, for I haven't the strength to-" With the fire burning atop Beacontor in the distance, Tip's hand fell across a cloth bundle, and he pulled it free of the pouch. Gripping the bundle and using his teeth, he loosened the twine and rolled open the cloth to free the sprigs inside.

Yet lying on the cold rocks, Tip called out, "But I can't make gwynthyme tea, Beau; what'll I do?"

Only the howl of the blizzard answered the buccan, beautiful, exotic, unveiled Chakia singing in the wind.

Answering his own question-"Well, there's nothing for it, bucco, you'll just have to make do with what you have"-Tip began chewing on one of the sprigs, his bare bit of saliva mixing with the juice of the golden mint as Hyrinian riders galloped across the Plains of Valon.

"Should I swallow it, Beau? Should I swallow? It's not tea, but it's the best I can do." Tip laughed in fevered hysteria and looked up to see DelfLord Borl. "Hoy, Lord Borl, I'm eating precious gwynthyme; will you have some? Your son and I crawled all over that mountain to get this yellow weed, and surely you- I say, Loric, here we have a most rare treat, and I do mean rare."

Tipperton took up another sprig and began to chew, and the heartening fragrance of mint filled his mouth and nostrils. As Borl and Loric faded, Tip managed to shove himself upright, looking about the Dwarvenholt to see where they went. But Phais lay abed before him, pale in countenance. Tip began weeping. "Oh, Phais, you are sorely wounded by a poisoned black shaft. Don't die as my Rynna did. Here, we need to put a gwynthyme poultice on your arrow wound." But Phais vanished even as he reached for her.

Struggling, giggling, weeping, raging, Tip managed to free his wounded arm from the left sleeve of his jacket. And he unbuttoned and slid the sleeve of his jerkin up to his elbow, exposing the jagged wound. "No tea, Beau, no tea," he shouted above the roar of Bellon Falls.

Tip took up another sprig and shoved the whole of it into his mouth. And he chewed and spat upon the ripped flesh of his forearm time and again, until juice and saliva and blood slathered over all. And while sitting on the ramparts of Caer Lindor he wept and watched the bordering woods for Rynna to appear, and he placed the chewed pulp over the gashes, but it did not cover all. Tip took up another sprig and chewed and spat and swallowed some of the juice and chewed more and spat more and finally added the pulp of this sprig to that of the other. He fumbled about on the floor of his mill, shoving aside coins with holes in them until he found the cloth the gwynthyme had been wrapped in and used it to bind his wound and hold the poultice against the deep slashes.

And still the moon howled over the twisted trees of Drearwood-or was it a Vulg howling on the wind?-as Tipperton fell screaming down the sheer stone above Nord-lake and into waters below, while a forlorn hooting sounded within the fog.

"What is it?" asked Tip.

Rynna smiled and gestured at a basket. "Come and see."

Tip stepped to the damman, and there asleep in a rumple of blanket was a "Oh!" Tip startled awake.

It was dark, and still a blizzard howled outside the mouth of the cavity. Tip was shuddering with cold. He managed to struggle his bandaged left arm back into the sleeve of his jacket and wrap his cloak around ere swooning again.

The next time he awakened, night had gone, but the blizzard had not, for the wind yet howled and ice yet hurtled across the low opening of the cavity, a drift covering fully half of the breach.

Terribly thirsty, Tip fished under his jacket to his right hip and pulled out his waterskin, looped on a thong over his head and across his chest. Drinking, drinking, it seemed as if his parched throat would never be satisfied. Finally he stopped, his thirst yet burning, but he was too exhausted to hold the container aloft. And then he retched and retched again, vomit spewing out, the buccan barely turning aside in time to keep from soiling himself. He slumped back against the stone, and even as he swiped his sleeve across his mouth, he lost consciousness.

Tipperton's own screaming wrenched him awake. "The Gargon! The Gargon! Eeee…!" Confused, he thrashed about. "Where… where am…?"

Outside in darkness the savage blizzard howled.

Oh, the cave. I'm still in the cave. I, I wonder what day…? 1 wonder what…? Tip's muddled mind could not complete the thought.

Thirsty.

"But I threw up," he said aloud. He fumbled among the stones alongside. "Gwynthyme. Mint. Settle my stomach."

Locating a sprig, Tip began to chew, the juice of the golden plant eking forth a bit of saliva.

"I could eat snow," he told the dark shapes hidden in the blackness. Their answers were lost in the howl of the wind

"Eat snow… but wait, Beau said not. 'It'll just steal our heat, and we've no food to replenish it,' he said." Tip looked about, still chewing. "Didn't you say that in Drear-wood, Beau?" But Tip couldn't find his friend, and so he spoke 'round his mouthful of gwynthyme to the surrounding dark, while outside the yawling blizzard raged. "That's what he said. But I have some crue in my saddlebag. And more gwynthyme. I could eat crue and gwynthyme and maybe even silverroot."

The juice of the mint now gone, Tip managed to swallow the pulp. After a moment he took up the waterskin and drained it dry. This time he kept the water down.

In the stillness he heard a tink and then another. What th-? tink

Water? tink

Tip opened his eyes. In the snow-laden mouth of the tiny cave light shone through the small gap between the top of the drift and the stone above it. tink

But wait. I hear a drip and not a howl. How can…? Oh. The blizzard. It's blown itself out.

Struggling, Tip tried to lean forward to crawl to the opening. He managed to catch himself before he fell on his face. Pushing back, Tip leaned against the wall once more. Too weak. I've got to eat. tink

Tip dragged the saddlebags to him and fumbled with the buckles of the yet unopened side, finally managing to free the straps. Exhausted, he rested awhile before extracting a biscuit of crue. tink

To his right along the back wall, in one of the small crevices water dripped. Tip fished into his saddlebags and found his tin cup. It just barely managed to fit in the cranny under the drip.

Tip fell asleep while waiting.

A thundering rumble awakened the buccan, and he opened his eyes to see whiteness roaring past the entry.

What th-?

Snow boiled inward, toward the buccan Avalanche!

– and blackness fell within the tiny cave as dense snow blocked all light, but the thunder rumbled on… and on… and finally fell to silence. plip

In total darkness, drips fell into a cup of water.

Tip found the crevice and the cup and drank all the water within, then slid the cup back under the drip and took a bite of crue.

I'll dig out when I've the strength.

Tip could not tell how long he had been asleep or whether it was night or day outside. After drinking another cup of water and setting the tin back under the drip, in the darkness he carefully unwrapped his wounded arm. The flesh was terribly hot, the arm sore to the touch. Wincing, he cleaned the remains of the poultice away and took up the last two sprigs from the opened bundle of gwynthyme, and once again he chewed and spat the juice onto the damaged flesh. And he made a poultice out of the resulting pulp.

Of the two bundles of gwynthyme you took, bucco, you've only one bundle left. Oh, and the silverroot, too.

Calling out in the dark, he said, "Beau, should I ration the gwynthyme or should instead I use it at need?"

Only the plip of water dripping into the cup answered his query.

Muttering aloud-"I had three days of crue and jerky with me in my saddlebags."-Oh Adon, Auly is dead-"If I ration my food carefully, I might be able to make it stretch for days. But if I do that, then how will I gain the strength to dig my way clear of the slide. Oh, I wish I had taken my pony's sack of grain… but then, weak as I was, I would never have made it to this place. Lor', lor', it was a choice between being slain by Vulgs or getting in here and being trapped by a slide."

Wait just a moment, bucco, you can't blame yourself for being trapped by a slide.

Tip drank the water in the cup and slid the little container back into the crevice. link

"Hoy, Beau, where do you suggest we pee?" Tip called out and laughed, remembering. "No cliff here to dribble over." He patted the stone behind. "No way back into the woods, either. And for that matter, after eating, where do you suggest I-"

From somewhere outside and muffled by the snow there sounded a prolonged howl.

Tip's heart skipped a beat. Damned Vulgs. They killed Auly, and now they search for me.

Tip had no way to know the passage of time. If I were an Elf… but I'm not.

"Hey, Beau. How many days have passed?"

Sitting in the dark for long, long candlemarks, Tip had thought of an elaborate scheme to gauge the passage of time. First he would count heartbeats while the more or less regular drips of water slowly filled the cup. Then he would cipher out how many candlemarks that might be. Next, he would set his waterskin under the drip and wait until it was full, and then measure it in cupfuls, and that would give him a gauge as to how long it took the skin to fill. And then he could use that from then on to measure time: it would be a waterclock of sorts. But when he tried to put the plan into effect, he found he could fit the mouth of his waterskin into the crevice such that the drips went in, but the bulk of the skin was upslope, hence it would never fill. And without a large container collecting drips even as he slept, the scheme wouldn't work at all.

In trying to determine how long he had been in the cave, he seemed to recall that the blizzard had lasted two or three days… but because he had drifted in and out of delirium, of this he wasn't certain at all. And then the slide, the avalanche, came, and that was on the third day, perhaps, or mayhap it was the fourth. And his food had lasted the following three days, assuming he ate more or less on schedule, though again that may or may not have been true. He had eaten all of his food trying to regain the strength to dig his way free, but had not recovered sufficiently to do so. And his food had run out two days past, and now he was on the verge of fainting.

His mind drifted, wandered, roamed the darkness, spinning the same thoughts over and again, though occasionally ranging into new territory.

Lor, I've been trapped, what? Six days, eight days?

His left arm had swollen and seemed filled with fire, and neither gwynthyme nor silverroot had sufficed, though all of that was now gone as well.

And still there came Vulgs' howls, some seeming nearer than others. Do they search for me? Though Tip had long since become accustomed to the smell of his own vomit and urine and feces permeating the tiny cave, he prayed to Adon none would leak out for the Vulgs to catch the scent.

Tip drank another cup of water, a cup replenished just fast enough to barely keep his thirst at bay.

I wonder where the army is. Perhaps even now they're somewhere below digging through snow. Oh, if I could only hear a bugle, a bugle, a bugle, I'd yell and hope someone would hear me.

As he set the tin back under the drip, his hand brushed across his lute. Lor, but I do miss my music. But I can't play a thing with this hot bloated limb; my fingers don't even work.

I wonder what day it is? Has Year's Long Night come, or is it yet to be?

A tear ran down Tip's cheek. Come on, bucco, is this any way to act? Here, now, put some iron in that spine of yours. And think, even if it is Winterday, Year's Long Night, you don't need that arm of yours to have music. You still have your voice.

Softly Tip began to sing the Elven rite of the changing of the seasons, smiling in remembrance of Bekki pacing him through the ritual on the eve of Autumnday, weeping in remembrance of stepping the Springday rite among the Elves of Arden Vale.

Lost in the ritual it was awhile before Tip heard the sounds of digging. And he chopped his voice to silence and listened.

Still the digging went on.

Rescue!

"I'm in here, I'm in here," yelled Tip in the ebon dark.

His shout was answered by a growl.

Oh Adon, it's Vulgs. They've found me!

Now the digging came faster, as if more than one creature clawed to get through the snow and at the buccan.

Tip felt about and found his bow, but he could but barely grip it with his left hand; and e'en should he switch hands, his fiery swollen arm certainly would not withstand the draw.

My sling!

Searching through the saddlebags, Tip fumbled for the sling, but before he could find it, light began filtering in.

Too close! They're too close!

Snatching up an arrow, Tip squinted against the light, pain lacing through his unaccustomed eyes, for he had been in total darkness for days on end.

Weak, his head swimming with dizziness, his left arm useless, his eyes nearly blinded, arrow in hand like a dagger, Tip struggled to his knees, too weak to rise fully, and snarled, "All right you Vulg bastards, Modru's curs, you've found me, but to H?l with you and your Gyphon."

And then a dark, fanged muzzle broke through the snow and lunged into the cave, just as blackness overtook Tipper-ton and he fell forward on his face.