right,' said Tip. 'It's a rather good harvest we've done.'
Bekki nodded, glum in the icy rain, and gestured at the sky. 'Now our task is to get it back to the city.'
'Let us hope the ford is low,' said Tip.
'With Garlon's rain, who knows?' replied Bekki.
The next morning ere they set out, Tip and Bekki rode to the nearest set of markers and dismounted and looked down the precipice one last time. A billowing mist lay below the lip, as if it were a fog trying to gain the rim. But it was not this mist they sought, but the patch of gwynthyme instead. 'Right on schedule,' Tip said, pointing down at the mint below. 'It's as brown as an old leather shoe, just as Beau said it would be.'
'Rescue to ruin,' said Bekki, then looked at one of the sacks on a pack pony. 'Rescue and ruin in one.'
Mounting up and turning west, Tip and Bekki made their way toward the narrow, tortuous path leading to the tooi-hills below. Along this way they twisted and turned, riding down into the mist. And in the greyness Tip was glad that he couldn't see the sheer fall beyond the drop-off on the left, though he knew it was there.
Down they rode and down, to finally come unto the rolling hills. Without a glance behind, southward they turned, aiming for the ford.
The fog gripped the world for three days, and on the third of these days as they rode along the shores of Nord-lake, a mournful hooting, loud in the quiet, sounded out upon the water.
'Oh my,' exclaimed Tip, startled, peering through the fog, seeing nought but grey mist. 'That's what we heard in the night on the cliff. It's not a horn, not a horn at all.'
Bekki scowled and tried to peer through the fog, having no more luck than Tip. 'Mayhap it is a bird,' he said, his voice not at all confident. 'A loon or cob or some such.'
'Oh no, Bekki, oh no. It's the Vattenvidunder, I ween.'
Tip raised his hands and cupped them to his mouth and shouted out onto the lake. 'Thank you, O water monster. You mayhap saved our lives with your cry.'
There came no response but a huge splash, as if something large had dived down.
The next morning Tip awakened to a heavy frost. Bekki on watch said, 'It crept here in the night.'
'But it's still September, Bekki. Too early for a frost.'
'The weather these days is strange, Tipperton: rain, a wan sun, cold nights.'
'And now an early frost,' said Tip. 'I wonder the cause of it all.'
'Mayhap it is as you said, Tipperton. Mayhap it is the dust on the wind above, shielding us from Adon's warmth.'
Breaking camp, on they rode, the ford long miles ahead.
Through frosted mornings and chill days, they rode altogether another week ere coming to the shallows over the Argon. The water was low and they crossed with ease.
East they turned, now riding in Aven, and still the weather was fickle, rain or a dusting of snow falling now and again. Even so, on the days the air seemed clear, sunrises and sunsets were spectacular.
But late in the day of the seventeenth of October they espied the walls of Dendor, and smoke from within rose up in the twilight, as if part of the city burned. And on they pushed, night drawing over them as they rode for the battlements yon.
'Open the gate,' bellowed Bekki to the ward above.
A lantern swung over the parapet, and a soldier looked down. Bekki threw back his hood to reveal his features. 'Nay, Dvarg, the city is closed.'
'But we've returned from Nordlake,' shouted Tipperton, casting back his own hood. 'We have a pass from King Agron himself.'
The soldier turned and spoke to someone, and then Captain Brud came to the wall. 'Is that you, Sir Tipperton, Lord Bekki?'
'It is,' growled Bekki.
'Aye,' called Tipperton, gesturing at the pack ponies behind, 'and we've brought gwynthyme.'
'A moment,' called Brud, and disappeared from view.
After a while, the side postern opened, and Brud stepped out, a soldier at his side holding a lantern to light the way. 'I have your escort.'
Tipperton frowned. 'Escort?'
'Aye, Sir Tipperton. You and Lord Bekki will need escort and protection. The city is under curfew. The citizens have rioted twice.'
As Tip and Bekki dismounted to walk their ponies through the gate, Tip said, 'Rioted? Why?'
'The plague. It runs wild. Fully a quarter of the citizens have died.'
'Then take us to the prison,' growled Bekki, 'to Sir Beau Darby. We have what he needs.'
Brud's face fell, and Tip's heart flopped over.
'But he's dead, Lord Bekki,' blurted the soldier at Brud's side. 'Beau Darby is dead of the plague.'
Chapter 18
The air went out of Tip's lungs. Blenching, he turned to Bekki, tears flooding the buccan's eyes, and he fell to his knees.
Captain Brud leapt forward to aid Tipperton, but Bekki was there before him. With a flinty gaze, Bekki looked up at the soldier who had blurted out the woeful news and then back to the captain. 'Dead? Beau is dead?'
Brud cast his aide a withering glance, then turned to Bekki and Tip. 'We are told he died this morning.'
Tip struggled to his feet. 'Oh, let us hie to the prison. I would see him one more time ere they burn him with the others.'
Through the twisting way under the walls they hurried, and beyond the inner gate a mounted escort waited. Captain Brud sprang to the back of a horse and said, 'Come. I will lead the way.'
Now astride their ponies, Tip and Bekki rode into the city, mounted soldiers fore and aft. Along the narrow streets they ran, hooves aclatter on the cobbles. Past shattered doors and broken windows they went, and buildings burnt to nought but charred shells. Through soldier-warded barricades they passed, Captain Brud's orders opening the way. Soldiers afoot and on patrol watched as they cantered by, as did citizens from windows above, citizens pale with fear and shouting imprecations. It was clear that dread ruled the city, as in the days of the Gargon, though no Gargon this; for a Gargon could be slain, but what, by Adon, would slay a plague?
None of this ruin and fear did Tipperton note, for his chest was hollow, his heart numb, his mind filled with grief.
Oh, if only we'd come earlier… If only…
At last they drew up before the gates of the prison. Bekki sprang down and helped Tipperton to dismount. 'Bring those three large sacks,' he snapped at Captain Brud, then at Tipperton's side stepped to the prison gate.
A soldier on duty stood across their path. 'You cannot go in.'
'Out of the way,' growled Bekki, his knuckles white on the haft of his war hammer.
Confusion filled the soldier's eyes, and he turned to Captain Brud. 'Let them pass,' called the captain, but Bekki had already shoved by, Tipperton in hand.
Toward the prison doors they strode, Brud and two others following, these latter three each bearing a sack of gwynthyme.
As they entered the prison, a man at an entryway table looked up and protested, 'Here now-'
'Sir Beau Darby, where does he lie?' snapped Bekki.
The man looked to Captain Brud, who nodded.
'Third floor'-the man pointed at a flight of stairs- 'that way. The Alfs are-'
But Bekki did not stop to listen to what the man said, and instead with Tipperton headed up the steps.
Up they went and up, cries of delirium and pain echoing through the halls and along the walls of the stairwell.
