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.
Chapter 22
Seven Silver Wolves, seven Draega, came trotting across the eastern stone bridge above the dry moat and into the embrasure below the eastern parapet. And then out from under the wall and into the open stepped a man, an Elf, nay, a Mage. How he had come to the gate itself, Beau could not say. Yet it was plain to see that the Mage was there at the bridge below, and huge Silver Wolves, large as ponies, milled about him.
'My friends and I ask permission to enter your city,' called up the Mage.
'And who are you and what is your business, Lord Mage?' asked the captain of the east ward.
'I am Dalavar of Darda Vrka, though some know me by the name Wolfmage, and I have come to see the Waer-ling who put down Modru's plague.'
'Oh lor',' blurted Beau, 'he's come to see me.' The buccan turned to the captain. 'He's come to see me. Farrin said someone would come to me from the east, and perhaps Mage Dalavar is the one. Oh, do let him in, captain. Do let him in.'
As Beau ran down the ramp and toward the inner portal, the captain of the eastern gate hesitated and glanced down at the Mage with his waiting 'Wolves, but finally nodded to the men at the portcullis winch, and called a command down to the soldiers in the passage below.
Beau jittered from one foot to another as the iron inner grille squealed upward, and then men unbarred the inner side-postern and opened it. One after another, through the gate came the huge Silver Wolves, trotting out on their long legs, their eyes shifting this way and that, their silver muzzles in the air as if to sense friend or foe. Warders gave back before them in awe, for they were beasts of legend, yet Beau stood his ground, transfixed in wonder, and two came straight at the buccan and loomed over him, red tongues lolling over white fangs.
