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.
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
