'Hal, Baeran,' called Phais.
So that's a Baeran.
'Lady,' rumbled the man, his amber gaze sweeping across the four.
Eyes of a Wolf… or a Bear.
'Who is commander here?'
'Lord Silverleaf, with Aravan as his second.'
Tip's eyes flew wide. Silverleaf and Aravan? Oh my, legends come to life.
Phais looked back at Loric and smiled. 'Vanidar is here, Aravan as well.' She turned to the Baeran and gestured at the fortress entire. 'Ye all are in safe hands.'
Apparently satisfied that these visitors represented no threat, the Baeran stepped aside, and Phais spurred forward onto the bridge, drawing Tipperton's horse after, Loric and then Beau coming after.
Toward an enshadowed stone archway they rode, with great iron gates standing open. Atop the castellated walls with its merlons and crenels, Tip could glimpse warriors standing ward, peering down from the battlements to watch the strangers approach. But then Tip's eye was drawn downward toward the arch, where a tunnel led under the wall, and he could see the fangs of a raised portcullis within. Into his shadowy passage they went, horses' hooves aclatter on the cobbled pave, and overhead in the stone ceiling above, machicolations-murder holes-gaped darkly, and somewhere above stood vats of oil to pour burning down on any invader who had breached the gates. And high along each side of the passage were arrow slits, set to rain piercing death.
The corridor itself wrenched 'round a sharp corner and then another beyond, the turns set there to prevent the passage of heavy rams and other engines of siegecraft. And beyond the second turn another archway stood, daylight streaming inward.
Beneath another recessed portcullis they rode and past the heavy panels of a second iron gate standing open, and thence into the bailey beyond.
A massive stone building loomed before them, fully six storeys high, with turrets and towers rising even higher.
The yard itself was abustle with activity and filled with Baeron men and Elves working at tasks and moving to and fro: some shoeing horses or repairing tack or cleaning stables, others haling crates and sacks and such from standing wagons and into the main building or one of the storage sheds, and still others practicing at swords and spears and other weaponry.
But to Tipperton all of these sights and sounds faded to insignificance when his wide gaze swept past the movement and stir and across the bailey to alight on a leather-clad group of archers flying arrows into dark silhouettes fastened to shocks of hay.
Small and quick were these archers, and Warrows all.
Chapter 28
'Beau, look!'
Beau Darby looked where Tip was pointing. 'Warrows!' he exclaimed. 'Let's go meet them.' And he jumped down from the packhorse and motioned for Tip to do the same.
Tip glanced at Phais. She smiled and inclined her head toward the archers. 'Tipperton, why Waerlinga are here in Caer Lindor, I know not. Yet 'tis thy folk, and thou shouldst mingle among thy kindred.'
Tip, his bow in hand and his quiver on his hip, scrambled down from the horse and followed the other buccan through the bustle of the yard.
But for his sire and a dim memory of his dam, Tip had never seen another Warrow until Beau had come to Two-forks. And now as he looked across the bailey here were- as his da would have said-a whole gaggle of jackanapes. And with his heart pounding, he followed Beau into the cluster, most watching as two flew arrows into the shadowy forms. And just as he came among them, a cheer rose up from the gathering as an arrow struck the dark wooden silhouette dead in its pinned-leaf heart.
Turning to Beau with Tip coming after-'Oh, hullo,' said one of the Warrows, a dark-haired, blue-eyed young buccan of nearly the same age as Tip and Beau, twenty-two or -three at most. 'I've not seen you two before. Are you newly come?'
Beau grinned. 'Aye. We just rode in. But, say, I'm Beau Darby, and my friend here is Tipperton Thistledown. We're from'-a cheer drowned out Beau's words.
'From where?'
'Twoforks,' repeated Beau. 'Though the Boskydells is my true home.'
'The Boskydells? Now there's a place I've heard of,' replied the Warrow, 'but Twoforks?' He shook his head. 'And by the bye'-he touched the brim of the hat he wore-'I'm Winkton Bruk, but Wink'll do.'
'Wink it is, then,' said Beau, grinning.
In that moment the crowd cheered again and clapped in hearty approval. Someone had won.
Wink's eyes lit up as he saw Tipperton's bow. 'I say, would either of you like to join our contest? Try your hand at besting our champion?'
Before Tip could respond, Beau glanced through the applauding crowd at the archers. 'Not me. My weapon is the sling. But Tip here, he's the arrow caster, and a mighty fine one at that.'
Wink smiled at Tip. 'Would you give it a go?'
Tip felt his face flush, and he dipped his head and mumbled, 'I'm just a-'
Wink held his arms on high. 'A challenge, a challenge!' he cried out above the assembly.
'But I-' said Tip as nearby Warrows turned.
'A champion of Twoforks has come!' cried Wink.
More Warrows turned, puzzlement in their jewellike eyes. Twoforks?
'Urn, wait. I don't-' began Tip, but Wink grabbed him by the wrist and towed him through the press.
As he did so, one of the archers stepped away from the shocks, leaving the contest winner behind, plucking arrows from the target, while two Warrows readied two fresh leaves to fasten in place.
'Here we go,' said Wink, pulling reluctant Tip to the line. There he abandoned Tip, leaving him all alone. Tip turned to step away, only to face some twenty-five or thirty Warrows watching.
In the crowd, Beau stuck his thumb up and called, 'For Twoforks and the Bosky!'
A lusty, good-humored cheer greeted these words.
Tip sighed and lifted his bow in acknowledgement. The sight of the Elven-made weapon brought forth a hushed murmur of admiration from the assembled buccen.
Tip took an arrow from his quiver and was setting it to string when a lyrical voice behind asked, 'Are you ready?'
Tip turned -and fumbled the arrow, the shaft to clatter upon the ground -as he looked into the amber-gold eyes of their champion -and his heart clenched -for she was a young damman, the first Tipperton had ever seen.
Dressed in brown leathers, she stood three inches shorter than Tipperton's own three feet four. Her hair was a rusty red-brown and held back by a leather band, and she smiled up at him, a twinkle in her amber eyes.
'I, uh-' Thunderstruck, Tipperton bent down to reclaim his arrow.
Laughing, her voice silvery, the damman set a shaft to her own string and let fly at the target, the arrow to strike dead in the leaf marking the heart.
'Your go,' she said, stepping back from the line.
'My g-? Oh.' With his fingers trembling and his heart hammering, Tipperton nocked the retrieved shaft. He then drew in a breath and let out half and pulled the bow taut and aimed. But his hands yet shook and he lowered his bow. Get a grip, bucco. What if it were a real Ruck standing there instead of-? Again he aimed, remembering the skirmish at Annory. He loosed the arrow to fly true and pierce the heart as well, his shaft embedded not a hairsbreadth from hers.
And the crowd roared in laughter.
Tip frowned.
'Um,' said the damman, stepping to his side, 'nice shot, but your target is over there.'
