Into the fire

Chapter 24

"Seek the aid of those not men,'" intoned Beau, staring into the flames and quoting Dara Rael of Arden, "and we did, for surely Dalavar and the Silver Wolves were not men-"

"Oh, Beau, you are assuming her rede was meant for us," replied Tip, "and there were too many persons of renown in that chamber for it to have been aimed at two insignificant Warrows. Besides, the rede goes on to say, 'to quench the fires of war,' and we certainly didn't do that."

The buccen sat before the hearth at the White Horse Inn and sipped on flagons of ale. They had been in Jallorby for a month altogether, with Tip growing stronger every day. The swelling in his arm had finally subsided, much to Beau's relief, for he had dreaded the thought of having to sever the limb to save Tipperton's life. Even so, even though Tip seemed well on the way to full recovery, still Beau gauged it would take weeks more ere they would be ready to travel.

"Oh, Tip, I know we didn't quench any fires of war," protested Beau. "The point I was trying to make was something I told Farrin on the very first day I met him."

Tip's eyes widened. "You met Farrin? Farrin the Mage?"

"Oh yes, didn't I tell you?"

Tip shook his head.

"Well, he came to Dendor about a week before I left. I told him about the rede and that none of us knew who it was meant for. I went on to say that you had gone off with an army of men, and it worried me. He understood my concern and said that especially with 'wild magic' none can ever tell what a rede might mean or who it's intended for. Regardless, there you were, off to Gron, marching with only men and no not-men… and you nearly lost your life because of it."

Tip growled. "Beau, yes, I nearly lost my life, but it was not because I was surrounded by men; instead it was because of a not-man."

Beau looked quizzically across the rim of his mug, and Tip added, "A not-man Vulg, in fact."

"Yes, Tip, but contrary to Dara Rael's rede, you most certainly were not seeking that not-man's aid."

Tip grinned ruefully. "Ah, bucco, you're right about that."

A knot of wood popped in the fireplace, and Tip said, "Rede or no rede, tell me more of Farrin. Did he find the Utruni? Will they help?"

Beau let out a long, low sigh and said, "Yes, he found them, and, no, they'll not help… at least not the elder Utruni. They consider this war an affair of the surface dwellers-that's us-and not the business of those who dwell within the living stone."

"What about the Dwarves?" asked Tip. "They live in the stone; they fight in this war."

"Exactly what I asked," said Beau, "and exactly what Farrin himself asked the Stone Giants. But still they declined… even though the Dwarves are caught up in this war, the Utruni elders refused to join an alliance, although some of the youngers seemed undecided."

"Oh," said Tip, dejected. "I was hoping they would help, for Mage Letha once said that with their over stone mayhap a single Utrun alone could fell an entire mountain."

"Adon," said Beau. "What powerful allies they would be."

Tip nodded and sighed. After a while he took a swig of his ale and rolled it around in his mouth and then swallowed. At length, he said, "Tell me more of Farrin."

Beau shrugged. "Well, there's not that much more to tell. He was looking forward to finding his friends and completing the circle of seven again. When I told him that Alvaron had been killed, it struck him like a thunderbolt- it seems no one at the castle had said a word. He left the very next day to find the remaining five. But before he did he came to me and told me to wait for Dalavar. -Er, that is, he didn't single out Dalavar by name, but said that someone would come from the east who might help me. Sure enough, it was Dalavar and the Draega… a pack of not-men, you see."

Tip threw up a hand in surrender. "All right, Beau. I give up. From now on we'll try to make certain that at least a few not-men are among those we join or aid or ask for aid."

Beau grinned. "Even if the not-men are Foul Folk? Rucks and such and Vulgs?"

"No, no," said Tip, smiling back at his friend, "those not-men I'd rather thwart."

Beau looked long at the fire, then turned to Tipperton. "I say. Tip, just where will we go when you are back up to full strength? I mean, look, for a year or more we had a mission: we carried a coin, trying to deliver it. And so we did. And when that was done, well, there was the plague to deal with, and so you went after gwynthyme while I tended the ill. Then you took on the mission of scouting for King Agron and I came as soon as I could. But now, Tip, with the coin delivered, the plague put down, and King Agron's army no more, well, I feel like a buccan without a purpose, like I'm on the fringes instead of where I should be. I mean, here we are in Jallorby sipping ale, while across the face of Mithgar a terrible war rages. It just doesn't seem right that we're not helping out."

"You're right. Beau: we shouldn't be sitting on the margins, what with a war to be fought, an evil to be stopped. And we can't just sit in Jallorby and wait till all's done."

Beau took a pull on his mug. Then wiping the foam from his mouth he said, "Right, then. So I ask again, what shall we do, where shall we go, when you are up to full strength?"

Tip sighed and flexed his fingers, yet somewhat stiff from long disuse. "When do you think that'll be, Beau?"

Beau frowned. "By the spring thaw, I would gauge. Certainly by the time Jailor Pass is clear, if we go south, that is. But that begs the question I asked: where next? To Caer Pendwyr in Pellar? That's where Phais and Loric headed. Like them, should we try to find the High King, wherever he may be? Or how about we go to Darda Galion? I mean, if Drimmen-deeve is still under siege, well we could help out there. Then there's always the Wilderland where we started, though that's a long trip. On the other hand, I suppose we could go to Jordkeep and help out the Jordians… I mean, we are already in Jord. So what say, bucco? Where next? -I mean as soon as you are fit."

Tip shrugged, then said, "How about we go to Darda Erynian?"

Beau sucked in air between his teeth. "Blackwood? But why?"

Tip paused and took a sip from his mug. Then he glanced at Beau and said. "Look, Beau, but for the Wilderland and Jord, the other places you named-Caer Pendwyr, Pellar, Darda Galion, Drimmen-deeve-lie south of here, as does Darda Erynian, the Great Greenhall."

Beau turned up a hand. "Yes, but-"

"No 'yes-buts' at all, my friend," said Tip, "that broad forest is along the way, and somewhere in Darda Erynian live the Springwater Warrows-Rynna's people. I've never been among many Warrows, you know, except for that brief time at Caer Lindor, and right now for some reason I feel the need to be with our kind, if only for a week or so."

"Warrows in Blackwood, yes, Tip, but also in Blackwood live the Hidden Ones-"

"As do the Dylvana," interjected Tip. "The Baeron too."

Beau sighed. "Well, except for the Baeron-and I'm not certain just what they are, being so big and all, and rumors saying that some Baeron can take on the shapes of Bears and Wolves-the others you've named are certainly not-men all, even the Hidden Ones. -But, say, just how will this help in the war? I mean, what is there to do in Darda Erynian?"

"Well, last we knew there was a Horde somewhere along the eastern marge of the Great Greenhall. Perhaps we can use our skills to do something about them. -Oh, Beau, we won't know until we get to Darda Erynian whether there is a task we can fulfill in that woodland or whether we should press on. Surely someone there-Dylvana, Baeron, Warrow, or someone else altogether-can help us decide where we could do the most good. But task or not, advice or not, I would like to see others of our kind ere pressing on. Besides, I made a promise, you know, that when the coin was delivered, I would come back to Darda Erynian."

"A pledge to Rynna?"

Tip swallowed and nodded, then said, "For some reason I feel a strong need to keep that promise now."

Beau sighed. "Wull, bucco, promise or not, you know how I feel about the Blackwood-haunted and all as it is- but I'd like to see some Warrows, too. And even if we stay but a short while, still…"

And so it was decided: as soon as they could fare through Jailor Pass, south they would go, to Darda Erynian, to the Great Greenhall, to Blackwood, could they but find the means to do so, for no ponies were to be had in all of Jallorby.

The following day Tipperton took up his lute once more and, in spite of the stiff fingers of his left hand, still he managed the simpler of his tunes. When the people of Jallorby heard that one of the wee folk was playing and singing at the White Horse, they came to listen and to lift a mug or two.

And when they found out Beau was a healer, his skills were in heavy demand; after all, there seemed to be something special about one of the wee folk prescribing various teas and herbs and poultices and other medicks to citizens with ails.

And so with the extra patronage the innkeeper struck a bargain with the wee buccen: should Tip continue to play and sing, and should Beau continue to set up shop in the White Horse Inn, then free room and board would be theirs for the taking as well as any coin the citizens bestowed their way.

Hence, every night the inn was filled with those who came for a drink and a song and a dance, while every day people came with coughs and aches and pains and other complaints, folk who would take a dram or two of brandy on their way in or out. And as the townsfolk came and went, so too did the rumors, but it was clear to Tip and Beau that whatever was happening in the conduct of the war, none here knew the truth of it, for too often did the rumors contradict one another, and too often did they say what the Warrows knew to be false.

Days grew longer and nights shorter until Springday arrived with its balance of light and dark, but icy winter yet gripped the land, for a thick blanket of white yet lay across the plains, and the pass into Aven remained blocked by snow. It was as if Modru's cold hand clutched the world… that or the hand of Gyphon. Some said the lack of spring had to do with the fall of stone dust from out of the sky above, while others claimed it was clearly a magical curse. Still others said that they had seen winters in their childhood which were certainly as cold and had lasted as long. But just as it was with the rumors concerning the war, none in Jallorby knew fact from fiction, none knew the cause.

And Springday came with no relief. Even so, on that night after the thin crescent moon had long set, under the crystalline stars two Warrows attempted to pace out the Elven ritual of the turning of the seasons, but they became hopelessly entangled in their own steps, for Bekki the Dwarf was not there to guide them nor were any of the Elves… though Tip's song did remain true to the rite.

The days edged toward April, and still cruel winter gripped the land and still Tipperton continued to play and sing to the folks at the White Horse, and still did Beau treat those with ills. But daily they also spent time behind the inn: Beau casting bullets at silhouettes; Tip regaining his eye with bow and arrow, loosing shafts at pinned-leaf targets on shocks of hay, his left arm now well enough and strong enough to handle the draw of the bow. Yet Tip came away from each of these sessions in a doleful mood, for the last time he had practiced such, it was with Rynna Fen-rush at Caer Lindor, the fortress betrayed by Rivermen, and among those slain were all the Warrows within, and only a few Elves and a handful of men had managed to escape. And so, casting arrows at pinned-leaf hearts only brought back bittersweet memories of Rynna his dammia, Rynna his truelove, she and her pennywhistle, she and her red-brown hair and amber eyes and quick smile and quick temper and gentle gaze and fiery glance. When the buccen came in from practice, Tip would sit quietly by the fire and strum softly on his Elven lute, which seemed to give him a measure of solace, though whether his heart would ever mend… Beau, who would sit quietly nearby and listen, could not say.

Just after the dawn a week beyond Springday the buccen were wakened by black-oxen horns blowing in alarm. Oldsters and youngsters and women caught up axes and bows and swords and rakes and brooms and cudgels and shovels and whatever else came to hand, and they rushed to the streets to defend the town. Tip and Beau scrambled out of bed and into their clothes and snatched up their own weapons, and when they came running outward, they looked where the townsfolk were staring and pointing. Riding across the snow-laden plains came a large mounted force, long shadows cast by the Grim walls obscuring just who they might be. On they came and on, as citizens took up a defensive stance, and Tip nocked an arrow, while Beau laded his sling. And from the approaching riders a horn sounded, deep and ringing, and mutters of hope ran among Jallorby defenders, for it was the call of a black-oxen horn. In that moment through the low-hanging overcast a shaft of eastern sunlight burst along a vale in the mountains to banish the gloom on the plains below and illuminate the oncoming riders. Someone among the townsfolk began to cheer, followed by the glad shouts of others, for now all could see the green-and-white banner flying from a lance in the fore of the force and the wheeled chariots within, and the horses were prancing proud steeds.

"Who is it?" called Tip to one of the citizens, an oldster who frequented the inn, a billet of firewood in hand.

"Jordian warriors, lad, Jordian warriors," said the man, looking at the wooden weapon he held, then casting it to the porch of the inn. "Looks to be a regiment all told. Mayhap it's our sons and daughters come back from the war."

Across the plains they came riding and into the streets of Jallorby, tall men on tall horses, women too, fiery warrior maidens of Jord. Vanadurin all, they looked proud and hard, riding as they did, their weapons at the ready, their visages resolute and framed by coppery hair, their clear eyes flinty as if seeking foe of the realm.

The townsfolk cheered and shouted Harlingar! and Vana-durin! and rushed to and fro and called out for any news of their kindred, and the warriors broke into great smiles and called back answers, though for the most part they knew nought of the sons and daughters of Jallorby.

Beau tugged at Tip's sleeve and pointed. Rumbling toward them came one of the two-wheeled chariots: drawn by four horses abreast, the war wagon carried two warrior maidens-one driving, one bearing a spear and buckler. The wagon itself seemed made of wood and covered with a hide-armor of sorts. The wheels were large, the iron rims wide, the better to run over rough ground, and wicked blades turned on the hubs, glittering and slashing and deadly. A cluster of spears-perhaps ten or twelve in all- stood to the right side and rear, and the buccen could see a readied bow racked on the right-side handrail.

As the chariot neared, Tip turned his attention away from the wagon itself and to the warrior maidens within. Tall and fair they were, with coppery hair curling down. Steel helms they wore, dark and glintless, one sporting a long, trailing gaud of white horsehair, the other bearing raven's wings flaring. Fleece vests covered chain-link shirts, and long cloaks draped from their shoulders to ward away the icy chill of the wintry late-March air.

"Lor'," breathed Beau, "but don't they look formidable?"

Tip frowned. "Formidable?"

"Aye, what with that red hair blazing," replied Beau, "and fire in their eyes."

"But they're smiling, Beau."

"Yar. Now. But I was imagining what they'd look like thundering across the plains and bearing down on some hapless foe, the blades on the wheels flashing deadly. Lethal, wouldn't you say?"

Tip shrugged. "Um, I suppose so. But for now they just look happy to me."

As the chariot rumbled past, the spear wielder's eyes widened and she elbowed the driver in the ribs and pointed at Tip and Beau and both warrior maidens smiled at the Warrows and waved, the buccen making low sweeping bows in return.

"Dediana," she said above the babble of the crowd jammed inside the White Horse.

"Wull, I'm Beau Darby, and this is Tipperton Thistledown," shouted Beau.

Dediana smiled and gestured toward her companion, who was at that moment quaffing a hot cup of spiced wine. "Linde."

"What?"

Dediana leaned across the table. "Her name is Linde."

"Oh," said Beau.

Tip bobbed his head. "We are most pleased to meet you, Dediana, Linde, but pray tell, how goes the war?"

A dark look swept over Dediana's face. "Not well. The fordomlig maskfolk drove all the way to Jordkeep ere we got them turned. They left a trail of ruination behind: slaughter, pillage, burnings-"

"Horses slain for meat," interjected Linde, slamming her empty cup to the table.

Dediana nodded fiercely and clenched a fist. "Just as we thought the keep fallen, the Fjordlanders attacked from the rear. Now the Svarm has been driven north and east, toward Kath and Naud. Those two nations have been reluctant to join in the fight, but now they will have no choice."

"North and east?" Tip frowned. "Hmm. Rumors in Den-dor had it that Lady Ryla said you would push the Foul Folk back into the Boreal Sea, and that would be west, now, wouldn't it?"

"Would that we could push them west, Sir Tipperton, for should they return to the ocean they will discover that the Fjordlanders burnt all their ships, and into the sea we would drive them to perish in those cold waters. But that does not seem fated to be, for they fight a running battle in a different direction altogether."

Beau canted his head sideways. "Running battle? Say, wouldn't that favor Jord, being on horses, that is?"

"Aye," said Dediana, "though they have Guula on Helsteeds. Still, we strike and withdraw, strike and withdraw, hitting them at their weakest as they flee across our realm to escape."

Dediana paused to quaff from her cup, and Linde said, "Of course, the Naudrons and Kathians will blame Jord for turning the Svarm north and east and driving them toward those lands. It will serve to fuel old hatreds which burn between Jord and those two forbannad realms… all started by many dark deeds done by them long past." She smacked a fist into open palm, fire burning in her eyes.

"Pardon, my lady," said Tip, "but if the fight yet rages in the north and east, then I ask what is your regiment doing here in Jallorby, south and west and yet in Jord but as far from the battle as one can get?"

"Argh," growled Linde and shook her head, but Dediana said, "We were among the wounded, all of us in this regiment. King Ranor came unto us and said that as soon as enough were healed, we were to form a regiment and to head for Caer Pendwyr. King Ranor felt the need to send some aid to High King Blaine, and this is that contingent, a token force to show support and to fight by the High King's side until the rest of Jord can come."

"But as far as I know," said Tip, "King Blaine's whereabouts are uncertain. Didn't Lady Ryla convey that message?"

Dediana nodded. "King Ranor said King Blaine might not be in Pellar, but surely he will come there soon or late."

"Fordomlig taggspjut!" Linde peeled up her mail shirt and the padding 'neath and the silken undershirt beyond and looked at a long, pink scar running across her stomach. "If it weren't for that blasted Guul, I'd be with the Vana-durin right now."

Dediana frowned and gestured about. "Linde, you are with the Vanadurin."

Linde dropped her shirt. "You know what I mean, Dediana. If I hadn't taken the wound, I'd be fighting up north."

"Hoy, now," protested Beau. "It's no disgrace to take a wound. I've seen plenty of them, and on the toughest of fighters, too: Dwarves, Baeron, Elves, Humans, Warrows- well, one Warrow, Tipperton here who took a Vulg bite. Show 'em your scars, Tip. Stitched up plenty of them, too. I'm a healer, you know."

"You took a Varg bite and lived?" Dediana asked Tip.

"Of course he did," said Beau. "Show 'em your scars, Tip, show 'em your scars."

Reluctantly, Tip slid up his left sleeve, exposing the furrows made by fangs.

"What of the Varg?" asked Linde, peering at the wound.

"He's dead," said Beau. "Tip stabbed him with an arrow."

Dediana looked at Tip. "Slew a Varg with nought but a hand-held arrow?"

"Actually," said Tip, "I had the arrow in my right hand when the Vulg leaped at me. I fell backwards, my left arm in his mouth; the nock of the arrow jammed against the ground and the Vulg managed to impale himself as he came down atop me."

Dediana shook her head. "Fortune certainly smiled down upon you, Tipperton Thistledown, for had She not then the arrow would not have been straight on dead center and would have simply snapped and you would have been his meal."

"What of the gift?" asked Linde.

"Gift?"

"Um…" Linde searched for the word in the common tongue. Then she turned to Dediana. "Um, vad ar gift pa den gemensam tunga?"

"Venom," supplied Dediana. "Poison."

Linde looked at Tip and raised her eyebrows.

"Oh well, I happened to have some gwynthyme with me. It did the work of countering the poison, but Vulg mouths are befouled and an infection set in and… well, Beau came along and healed me."

Again Linde turned to Dediana. "Vad ar gwynthyme?"

Dediana shrugged, then looked at the buccen. "What is gwynthyme?"

Beau reached into his pocket and pulled out the small silver case given to him by Aris back in Arden Vale. He snapped it open, saying, "I've more in my medical bag." Once again the small metal container held sprigs of mint.

"Ah," said Dediana. "Guldgul mynta."

Linde nodded and said to Tipperton, "Again Lady Fortune smiled your way."

Tip ruefully shook his head. "Would that She had smiled down just a bit earlier such that no Vulgs whatsoever were in that pass."

Linde shrugged and said, "It sounds as if there is a tale here for the telling, and since you know why we are here in Jallorby I think it's time we found out just how you two mygga ended up here."

Beau looked at Linde. "Mygga?"

Linde laughed. "Gnats."

Beau grinned. "Oh, so we are gnats, now, eh? Wull, I think you'll be a bit surprised by what these 'gnats' have been through. Tell 'em, Tip. Tell 'em."

Tip's mouth fell open-"Unh!"-and he looked at Beau wide-eyed.

"Go on, Tip, tell 'em," urged Beau, turning to Linde. "It's quite a long tale, you know."

Dediana reached out and hooked a passing serving wench by the arm. "Bring us a full pitcher and four full flagons. We've a long story to hear."

"Oooh, my head," groaned Beau, shielding his eyes from the early-morning sunlight backlighting the oiled-hide window.

Tip sat up and peered about, squeezing his eyes shut repeatedly and smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth as if tasting something unpleasant. Then he looked at Beau and barked a laugh and immediately winced from the sound.

"Wha'r' you laughing about, bucco?" whispered Beau.

"Your eyes, Beau. Your eyes. They look like two yellow holes in the snow."

"You're one to talk, my friend, you who are about to bleed to death through those ruddy orbs of yours."

Tip groaned and started to crawl from the bed only to draw back in haste. "Beau," he hissed, "we've guests."

Beau looked over the edge of the berth. "Um, that'd be, uh, Dediana, Linde, and the twins, Irana and Ilea."

Tip frowned. "What are they-?"

"Don't you remember, Tip? You invited them to stay in our room rather than bunk in the stables."

"I did?"

"You did."

Tipperton pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead as he surveyed the four warrior maidens lying on blankets on the floor, and Beau said, "Look, Tip, they've offered to take us with them as they head south for Caer Pendwyr. I mean, they should go right past the Blackwood, and travel'll be a lot safer, what with us surrounded by an entire brigade of Jordians, a thousand warriors altogether, or thereabout. Besides, don't you see, the ones we'll actually be going with, well, they're all warrior maidens."

Tip nodded, then groaned from waggling his head and held it in two hands. "Oh, now I remember. And, Beau, you'll get no argument from me. I agree; we should go with them." Then Tip looked across at Beau and frowned. "But what does their being warrior maidens have to do with anything?"

"Well, bucco, the way I see it, warrior maidens are not-men."

As Beau intoned " 'Seek the aid of those not men' " Tip threw up his hands and sighed.

That same day a warm wind began blowing through the pass from the south, and some said it was an omen of good, while others claimed it was the usual spring wind. Still others said 'twas Modru's eye turned elsewhere. Yet omen or not, usual or not, or a lapse of the Evil One's gaze, winter reluctantly began to loosen its grasp on the plains below Jallorby, the land slowly clearing of snow to reveal thick yellow grass waiting to green. In the warm-driven air and in spite of the mud, laughing children romped through the streets, and everywhere faces held smiles. And every day, Vanadurin scouts rode up into the col, only to come back and report that it was yet blocked by snow though there was considerable melt. A week passed, and still the wind blew, and another five days all told, and on the very next day, the tenth day of April, the wind stopped altogether. Nevertheless, the scouts returned to say the way south, though yet hampered by snow, perhaps was now passable.

And so, on the eleventh day of April, with Beau Darby riding in the war chariot driven by Dediana, spear-caster Linde at her side, and with Tipperton Thistledown riding in the chariot driven by Ilea, her twin Irana at the lances, beneath glowering skies, the brigade of Vanadurin left Jallorby behind, the townsfolk standing along the way and largely cheering, though some wept as well.

As the chariots rumbled up the rough trace and into the pass, Irana said, "Here, Tipperton, there's no need to remain standing all the way south." She pivoted up two padded boards hinged to the interior chariot walls, the attached sliding braces clacking into place, providing a seat on each side of the wain.

"But where will Ilea sit?" protested Tip, glancing up at the dark-haired driver.

Ilea turned and looked with blue eyes at the buccan and smiled. "Fear not, wee one, we will all three take turns, for legs get tired of standing, while bottoms tire of sitting, especially over rough ground."

As Irana sat down, Tip clambered up onto the other seat and grasped a rail to steady himself against the jounce of the war wagon rumbling up the uneven way. He twisted about and looked at Dediana's chariot following directly behind and saw that Beau was now seated, too, his face showing just above the rail. Beau grinned and waved, and Tip waved back then turned about once more, and up into the pass they rode, a long line of Vanadurin warriors stretching out fore and aft.

As they trundled upward, Ilea said over her shoulder, "We are now in the Grimwalls, Tipperton, where the for-domlig maskfolk dwell. Should it come to combat, I will slow long enough for you to leap from the chariot, for Irana and I cannot fight effectively with you underfoot. Get to a place of safety. We will come for you when the battle is done."

"You'll need take that with you, as well," said Irana, pointing at Tip's bundle of goods: lute and pack and bedroll lashed together, bow and quiver lying atop.

Tip nodded but did not reply as up through the slot in the mountains they fared.

The higher they climbed, the colder became the chill air, and banks of unmelted snow lay to either side in the shadows of crags and cracks where the sun shone not and the warm wind of the past several days had failed to reach. Soon their breaths were blowing white, and Tip gathered his cloak around, as still they pressed onward, the chariot wheels now and again running in a layer of white or skid-' ding over ice.

Often Tip stood and held on to the rail, and either Ilea or Irana would take his place, one or the other of the twins commanding the reins even though seated, for the horses simply followed the ones ahead, needing little or no guidance. Now and again they would stop to rest the horses, either that or they would walk alongside the steeds. Both Tip and Beau found these strolls a welcome relief from the jolting of the wain, and together they would trudge through the snow and slip across ice. Occasionally they would come to wide drifts attempting to block the way, yet, with a quarter of the train before them, the horses and wains passing through ahead, by the time the buccen arrived, snow barriers were tramped down well enough that the struggle was brief if at all.

Shortly after the noontide they topped the crest of the col and started on the long descent, for as Dediana had said, glancing at the leaden sky, "In spite of yesterweek's warm wind, in spite of Dame Fortune's goodwill, we'll not remain in the pass through the night, for cold yet grasps the land, especially at these heights, where wintry storms may come of a sudden and trap us entirely."

"Oh my, Dediana, don't say that," hissed Beau. "I mean, don't ask for trouble when there is none."

And so down they went and down, and in the chill midaf-ternoon, as if Dediana's words were prophetic, an icy wind began to blow at their backs, and dark clouds roiled above. Within but a few candlemarks, a howling blizzard came screaming across the range.

Night had long fallen by the time they had battled their way to the foothills below, the supply wagons and their escort coming through the hurling white last of all. Into a woodland they struggled, seeking the shelter of the trees, though the wall of mountains behind afforded some protection from the worst of the blow. And even though they could not see more than a few yards through the fling, Hrosmarshal Hannor set a picket about as the remainder of the warriors made camp.

The next day, though snow yet fell, on southward and down they pressed, the wagons and wains and horses struggling through high drifts. Yet the farther they went, the less the fall, the less that covered the ground. For here the warm wind of the past days had scoured the land clean, and the new-fallen snow lay shallow.

"We now come to the river, Tipperton," said Ilea, the sun low to the horizon. "Recall, if battle comes upon us, I will slow long enough for you to leap from the chariot. Irana and I will return when all is done."

Tip nodded, his lute and pack and bedroll now strapped to his back, his bow in hand, his quiver at his thigh, for the Vanadurin scouts had come riding in with the news that Alvstad was destroyed. And though the scouts had seen no Foul Folk and reported the ruins looked to be weeks old, still Hrosmarshal Hannor had ordered the Vanadurin to be battle ready.

Through the light of the afternoon sun, Tip looked back up the slope at the chariot behind and saw that Beau was poised as well, and down the embankment and across the shallows they fared, Alvstad ahead, the palisade shattered, charred timbers beyond, black burn jutting up through windblown layers of white.

"Retribution, I would say," said Tip, averting his gaze from the remains of those who had been slain, remains for the most part now covered by snow, "for here was held the muster of Agron's army."

"Just plain evil, if you ask me," said Beau, his breath frosty on the air.

Tip gestured toward the charred stables. "Well, Beau, the ponies we were counting on are all gone-"

"Probably eaten by the maggot-folk," gritted Beau, slamming a fist into palm.

Tip nodded, then said, "I've seen enough. Let us get back to the camp."

Up the snowy hill they trudged and over the crest and through the ring of pickets beyond.

South fared the Vanadurin and south, crossing a ford on the North Rimm River that day and the South Rimm River the one after, the ring of Rimmen Mountains running out of the east and curving south. Through the foothills they wended, the days growing longer, the nights shorter. Late in the third day after leaving Alvstad, they sighted a forest before them; it was the northern reach of Darda Erynian, and even the Vanadurin looked upon the yet-barren woodland with chary eyes, for no matter what its name-Darda Erynian, the Great Greenhall, Blackwood-the repute of the forest was ill, though Tipperton said otherwise. Even so, when Dediana and Linde looked to Beau, that buccan shook his head and said, "There's dark things in there, even though we travelled its length."

East they turned for a day, skirting 'round the marge, then south the following day, riding between the Rimmens on their left and the woodland on their right, a quarter of the Vanadurin before them, three-quarters coming after. And now only occasionally did snow lie on the land, for in spite of all, spring seemed to march on its inexorable path: grass underfoot and -hoof was turning green; new buds could be seen on the Blackwood trees, and returning birds flew among the branches and sang their territorial songs of mating; and the air had the smell of melt and of earth and of water running. Even so, the nights were yet quite chill, though the recent days had been warmer.

That night, Tip and Beau asked permission to see Hrosmarshal Hannor, and they were led by Dediana to his fire. There they found a tall slender man, dark-haired with greying temples. With hawklike eyes he looked at the Waldfolc as Dediana said, "Hrosmarshal Hannor, this is Sir Tipperton Thistledown and Sir Beau Darby, those I've been telling you of."

Without glancing at Dediana, he said, "So these are the passengers you bear south."

"In my wain and one other, hrosmarshal, that of the twins."

Hannor grinned, then said, "Which of you is the healer?"

"U-uh, that'd be me, sir," said Beau, stepping forward.

Hannor sat down on a nearby rock and in the firelight held out a hand, forefinger extended. "I have this splinter…"

Beau frowned. "Have you a pin? A needle will do."

"Arald!" called the hrosmarshal. "A pin or needle."

Moments later, a Harlingar youth stepped from the shadows, a needle in hand.

Beau took up a burning brand and as he gingerly passed the needle back and forth through the flame, Tipperton said, "Sir, there is a Horde somewhere along this eastern marge of Blackwood, or at least there was when last we were here."

Beau frowned and took Hannor's finger in hand and began picking at the splinter. "Half a Horde, Tip. Remember?"

Tip nodded. "Aye, we heard from Dara Cein that half had been destroyed by the Hidden Ones as they fled from the ruins of Caer Lindor."

Hannor cocked an eyebrow. "Five segments, eh? And somewhere along this merge?"

"Yes sir. Down along the River Rissanin."

"How recent is this news?"

"Um"-Tip thought back-"some twenty months, now."

Beau nodded.

Hannor shook his head. "A bit more than a year and a half, eh? Well then, it's not likely they yet roam this bound, for what would be their mission with Caer Lindor now gone as you say?"

Tip turned up a hand and said, "Perhaps they are holding Eryn Ford."

"Perhaps they are along this marge to keep the Hidden Ones from marching south to Caer Pendwyr," said Beau. Then, "Ah, got it." He held up the needle, a small splint of wood impaled on the point. He showed it to the hros-marshal and said, "I'd stick that finger of yours in some brandy if I were you, sir."

"Hmph, a waste of good brandy, Sir Beau."

"Nevertheless," said Beau, handing the needle to Arald.

Hannor glanced up at the youth. "A tot of brandy, my lad."

Arald stepped into the shadows once again, and Hannor said, "Not likely that the Hidden Ones would emerge for any reason. Still, on the off chance that a Horde or a part yet wards the marge or holds the ford, I will make certain the scouts are apprised."

As Arald returned with the brandy, Hannor stuck his finger into the cup and swirled it about and then removed his finger and sucked the liquor off, then slugged the remaining brandy down. As he wiped his mouth he turned to Tip. "Tell me, Sir Tipperton, is your lute nearby? If so, do you feel like a song?"

Three days later they came unto the Landover Road a few miles west of Braeton, the town just inside the Rimmen Gape that had been razed by the Rupt.

"Lor'," said Beau that night, "but we've come in a big circle. What was it, September two years back when we were here ago?"

"You were here?" asked Ilea.

Tip nodded. "Aye. And it was at Braeton we destroyed a segment of Foul Folk."

Irana cocked a blue eye. "Single-handed?"

"Not quite," said Beau, smiling. "We had a wee bit of help: a thousand Dylvana and five hundred Baeron, to be exact." Beau looked about and then added, "The Baeron on giant horses smashed them down and the Dylvana on lighter steeds a bit like yours came after, with Tip and me on ponies riding alongside."

"Hai!" called Irana, snatching up a lance and leaping to her feet and flashing the spear toward the sky. "Sir Beau and Sir Tipperton: Krigares av den Hrosf"

The other three warrior maidens called out Hai!

Beau frowned, and asked Ilea, "What did your sister say?"

Ilea smiled. "She named you two as warriors of the horse."

"Um, Lady Irana…" said Beau, looking up at the twin.

Irana looked down at the buccan and frowned.

"Not that I would contradict you," said Beau, "but if warriors we must be, then you should call us warriors of the pony, instead."

Irana burst out in laughter and rajsed her spear to the sky and managed to proclaim through her guffaws, "Krigares av den Ponny!"

Dediana, Linde, and Ilea all whooped in jubilance.

"What?" appealed Beau. "What did she say?" – "W-war-warriors," gasped Linde, "o-of-"

"Of the pony?" asked Beau. At Linde's nod, Beau demanded, "What's so funny about that?"

This only brought on more whoops, but finally Dediana, tears running down her face, managed to say, "Although at times we raise ponies to sell to others, even as children we Harlingar, we Vanadurin, we do not ride them, and to hear that someone is a warrior, no less, of the p-po-pony-" Dediana's voice rose in a squeal of laughter, shared by warrior maidens all 'round.

Beau looked at Tipperton, and Tip shrugged and turned up his hands and said, "It must be a Harlingar thing."

Instead of following the marge of Blackwood, Hrosmar-shal Hannor struck south-southwest, aiming directly for distant Eryn Ford, leading the column out onto the open wold. And as the Harlingar moved southerly, the eaves of Darda Erynian receded to the west until the forest could no longer be seen, much to the relief of the Jordians, much to the relief of Beau as well, for they would be quit of even the sight of that wood of dire repute. All day long they followed this course, and when they came to camp that night, the edge of Blackwood lay eight or ten leagues to the west.

"I say, Tip, just where will we leave the Jordians?" Beau looked across the fire at Dediana, Linde, Ilea, and Irana and said, "Oh, not that you aren't good company, but now that we've come this far, Tip and I could strike overland to reach the Blackwood, and, well, though I'd rather we were going elsewhere, the 'wood is where we are bound."

All four warrior maidens looked beyond the buccen in the direction where lay unseen the far-off eaves of shadowy Blackwood and frowned, but none said aught.

"Well, Beau, I'm of a mind to ride all the way to Eryn Ford. Then we can make our way down the Rissanin River to Caer Lindor, for I would see for myself the ruins where… where…"-Tip's eyes teared and his voice fell to a whisper-"where Rynna died." The buccan wiped his fingers across his cheeks and then with strength in his voice said, "From there we'll make our way north to Bircehyll and the Dylvana. Someone there should know where the Springwater Warrows live."

A stricken look came over Beau's face. "Oh my."

Tipperton frowned in puzzlement. "What is it?"

"Oh, Tip, from Caer Lindor Phais and Loric guided us to Bircehyll, but this time we'll be on our own."

"And…?"

"And, well, who will guide us past the forbidden places?"

"Forbidden places?" asked Irana.

Beau nodded. "Places forbidden to outsiders, Lady Irana. Places where one shouldn't go."

Again all four warrior maidens glanced toward the west where lay the woods, and Linde said, "From what I hear, the entire forest is forbidden."

Dediana nodded. "Even in Jord the name Blackwood alone is enough to quell the spirit."

"Well," said Tip, "the Dylvana don't think so… nor do the Baeron. And now there are Warrows within, and I would think they do not quail at the name."

Ilea cocked an eye at Tipperton. "If they are yet alive in that dark place, then perhaps they do not quail."

Beau gasped, "Oh, don't say that, Ilea. Don't even think it, if you please."

Tip sighed. "Beau, you know it isn't all that bad. I mean, we spent a goodly while in there and nought ill came of it."

Beau reluctantly nodded.

Dediana again glanced west across the wold in the light of the thin crescent moon chasing after the long-set sun. "What did you see in there?"

Tip shrugged and turned up a hand. "Trees. Elves-"

"Shadows that follow along," interjected Beau. "Hills that move. Things in the woods where foxes bark. Things that groan in the ground." Beau shuddered, a shiver echoed by the warrior maidens. "That's what I've seen and heard in those haunted woods. Hidden things and Hidden Ones: that's what's in there."

"Oh, Beau," said Tip, "I don't believe the woods are haunted… and besides, even if they are, why be afraid of shadows, of phantoms, of specters?"

Beau pointed a finger at Tip. "You should talk, bucco. I mean"-Beau reached into the pack at his side and pulled out his red-bound book and thrust it toward Tipperton- "why be afraid of magic?"

Tip gasped and leaned away from the book, but said, "But magic is real, Beau."

"And so I believe are ghosts," shot back Beau, jamming the book into his pack once again.

Southerly across the open wold they fared, did the Jor-dian brigade, aiming for Eryn Ford across the River Ris-sanin. And nigh sunset of the twenty-third of April they came to a bend in that river, where the waterway had swung northerly to turn northeastward again. Here they made camp among the trees of the river-border forest. Both Tip and Beau were comforted by the rush of the river and the shush of a breeze through the trees. Yet their ease was short-lived, for in the night a rumor circulated among the fires that the scouts had not yet returned.

The next morning, when the brigade broke camp, the rumor persisted; it seems no scouts had reported in all night. And as they readied to ride forth, the command came down from the hrosmarshal to be in a state of high alert, for the rumor was no rumor, but truth instead.

Again Ilea and Dediana warned Tip and Beau that should it come to combat, they would slow enough for the Waldans to jump out and would fetch them after the battle was done. And so Tip and Beau lashed their goods to their backs and kept their weapons in hand.

And away to the south they rode.

Down they went and down, angling away from the bend in the river and faring across the wold, aiming now directly for Eryn Ford, the crossing but some eight leagues south-southwest of their riverside encampment. And still no scouts reported back, though new ones had been dispatched.

The sun marched up and across the sky and down again as the column fared southerly, and relay riders came alongside and spoke orders in Valur, the Battle-tongue of the Vanadurin.

And now to the west they could see Darda Erynian once more, the forest nearing as the brigade neared the ford.

As dusk approached, the column of Harlingar passed through a set of low hills, and a mile or so before them they could again see the river-border forest, and beyond the trees water lay gleaming like cold grey iron in the dying rays of the sun.

Tip found his breath coming harshly, and he said, "Even though Hrosmarshal Hannor thinks the Foul Folk gone, if there's an ambush waiting, 'tis likely at the ford. At least that's where one awaited us at Hath Ford on the far side of the Grimwalls."

"Mayhap I should let you off here," said Ilea.

"No," said Tip. "If there's fighting to be done, then my arrows and Beau's bullets will be needed."

Ilea glanced at her twin, and Irana said, "I've come to trust the worth of these Waldfolc warriors. They can leap out if a battle begins. Till then let them ride."

Ilea nodded and called back to Dediana, who nodded her agreement as well.

On they trundled, Tip's unease growing, and he looked back to see Beau, that buccan's features grim as well.

A relay rider came galloping by, calling out in Valur. As Ilea swung rightward, Tip looked up at Irana, and she said, "Hrosmarshal Hannor agrees with you, Tip. And we are warned that an ambuscade may lie in wait at the ford."

Dediana pulled forward and swung wide to the left, and Tip looked to see that all the chariots had paired up two by two… and then four by four as two others swung wide alongside, wheelblades turning wickedly.

A line to hit the foe hard, if foe there is.

Weapons ready, spears and sabers in hand, Tipperton's arrow nocked, Beau's sling laden with a bullet, toward the river forest they went.

And still anxiety gnawed in Tipperton's gut, growing greater with each turn of wain wheel south.

A furlong ahead rode the vanguard, the riders now in battle array, the chariots coming after, warrior maidens with lances at the ready and bucklers on their left arms.

Tipperton's heart hammered hard in his chest, his breathing coming in gasps, and the closer they came to the crossing, the more dread coursed in his veins.

Lor', what's the matter with me? True, I've been out of battle awhile, yet… -Oh, Adon, can it be-?

"Lady Irana, sound your horn, call for retreat, there's a Gar-"

– The blast of fear slammed into them, horses rearing and bolting, warriors shrieking in horror, chariots thundering beyond control, the drivers whelmed with dread.

Shrilling in terror, Tipperton pitched from the wain, the sudden jerk of bolting horses causing him to tumble and fall to the ground amid hammering hooves and thundering wheels as horses and chariots ran amok.

And then the terror lessened, and yawling wordless howls, Rucks and Hloks and Ghuls on Helsteeds rose up from surrounding hills to charge downslope, scimitars and tulwars and cudgels and whips and barbed spears set to slay, to kill.

And stalking out from the trees came the massive Gar-gon and toward the fore of unhorsed Harlingar, their steeds panicked and run away, the men afoot frozen in paralyzing dread, caught in the creature's terrible glare, the monster's horrid claws set to rend, to tear.