'Oh my,' breathed Beau, reaching tentatively out to touch one of the great beasts.
'I would not look them straight in the eye if I were you, Waerling. They do not take kindly to such boldness.' Beau looked up to see the Mage, to see Dalavar, standing at hand.
Man height he was, six foot or so, and as with all Mage-kind his eyes held the hint of a tilt and his ears were pointed, though less so than those of Elves… or Waerlings for that matter. His hair was long and silvery-white, and it hung down beyond his shoulders, its sheen much the same as Silver Wolf fur, though somehow darker. In spite of his whitish hair, he looked to be no more than thirty. He was dressed in soft grey leathers, black belt with silver buckle clasped at his waist. His feet were shod in black boots, supple and soft on the land. His eyes were as piercing as those of a falcon, their color perhaps a pale grey. At his throat was a glimmer of silver, mayhap an amulet upon leather thong. He bore no visible weapons and did not bear a staff.
'I say,' said Beau, the beast at hand tolerating his touch, 'they really are the size of ponies.'
Dalavar laughed. 'Indeed.'
'What's his name?' asked Beau, running his hand along the silvery-white flank of the creature, a thick layer of soft white fur beneath.
'Her name, if you must have one…'-Dalavar frowned, then said-'… is Shimmer of Moonlight on the Water as the Gentle Breeze Brings Scents from Near and Far… or that's as close as I can say it in Common.'
'Oh my, what a mouthful,' said Beau, unable to keep his hands from the magnificent creature.
'Not in Draega,' replied Dalavar. 'You may call her Shimmer.'
'Shimmer,' said Beau, trying to hug the pony-sized Draega, his cheek lying alongside her chest as he inhaled her clean scent. Shimmer looked up at the Wolfmage as if seeking advice, but endured the wee one's embrace.
'And your name…?' asked Dalavar.
Beau stepped back from Shimmer. 'My name? Oh, I'm Beau Darby. I think I'm the one you've come to see.'
'… and so you see, with what I had learned from Del-gar's book and from Elby Roh in Willowdell and from my own studies, well then, it just seemed natural to try a tisane of silverroot and gwynthyme.'
Dalavar nodded as Beau took a swig of ale, the Mage himself not touching the small glass of brandy before him.
The buccan and the Mage sat in the common room of the Leaping Stag, a tavern near the prison. Silver Wolves lolled outside, and few people had the courage to step past them and into the alehouse itself. Hence, but for the 'keep and a patron or two, Beau and Dalavar had the place nearly unto themselves.
Beau looked up at the Wolfmage. 'Surely I am not the first to have thought of doing so.'
'Perhaps not. Beau, yet you are the first to have thought of mixing the two and to have had the ingredients on hand when plague raged on the land.'
'Oh, but I didn't have all the ingredients, just the silverroot. It was Tip and Bekki who got the gwynthyme.'
'Tip? Bekki?'
'Bekki is a Dwarf… now DelfLord of Mineholt North. His da, you see, was killed in the Skarpal Mountains fighting Foul Folk. But Bekki was here at the Battle of Dendor, and he knew where a patch of gwynthyme grew. And Tip, well, he is Tipperton Thistledown, another Warrow like me; he now is a scout with King Agron's army in Gron.'
Dalavar slowly shook his head. 'So Agron has foolishly marched into Gron in the wintertime.'
Beau's heart lurched. 'Is that bad?'
'It is Modru's season, Beau.'
'Oh my, that's what the others said. But no one-not Phais, Loric, Imongar, or any of the others-could talk Agron out of his winter campaign. Some said that it was Prince Dular's death that drove Agron to such an act.'
'When did he set forth?'
Beau frowned. 'Well, the muster was to take place in Alvstad in mid-November… the fifteenth, I think. That's when he was to start the march toward Gron.'
'And do you know how he was to enter that grim land?'
'Tip said they were going through a narrow pass in the Gronfangs somewhere west of Jallorby.'
Dalavar took in a deep breath and let it out. 'I know of it. A grim slot, that.'
Beau turned up a hand. 'Well, grim or not, that's where I'm headed.'
'You?'
'Yes, Mage Dalavar. I plan on going into Gron.'
Dalavar frowned. 'Why?'
'Well, I'm going after Agron's army. As I said, Tip is a scout for the king, and Tip and I have been through a lot together. We started out this war together and, by the grace of Elwydd, we plan on finishing it together.'
For long moments the Wolfmage looked at Beau. Finally he said, 'Friendship, loyalty, they are precious things.'
Beau took another swig from his mug. 'Mage Dalavar, Farrin said you might aid me in reaching my friend, at least I think he was referring to you. He said he met someone as he rode from the Skog, someone who would come from the east to see me. And since you are the only one who has come from the east lately, and to see me, well…'
'Yes, I did meet Farrin nigh the Skog. And he said I might aid you, eh?'
Beau nodded.
The Wolfmage gazed into his brandy as if to find something within. At last he took up the glass and held it toward the window and peered through the amber liquid at the light and said, 'Well then, we can't let Farrin down, eh?'
Beau's eyes flew wide. 'You mean you'll help me?'
Dalavar drank the brandy all in one gulp, and said, 'Indeed. Mayhap I can overtake Agron ere he marches too far into Modru's realm, ere he makes the mistake of his life. When can you be ready to leave?'
'Right now,' said Beau. 'I mean, I've already gathered the goods I intend to take. But look, there is no way my pony can reach Tip and Agron and the others before they are well into Gron.'
The Wolfmage smiled and got to his feet. 'You will need no pony, my friend. And dawn will be soon enough. Pack your goods in saddlebags.'
Beau scrambled down from the bench. 'Unh, if you don't mind, I'll keep my red healer's book and a few other things in a bindle across my back.'
Though Dalavar had no money whatsoever, the innkeeper would take no coin from Beau, saying that the buc-can had already paid for all: 'It was you what cured my laddie of Modru's malice, and bless you, sir.'
As they stepped to the porch and the street beyond, Beau looked about. 'I say, Dalavar, one of your 'Wolves has gone missing. There are but six Draega here.' Beau looked up and down the street. 'I don't see him anywhere.'
Dalavar smiled. 'First let me say, these are not my 'Wolves, wee one, but my friends instead. And as to one of them missing, fear not; he may be nearer than you think.'
As dawn came, Beau said good-bye to Halga, the only healer other than himself left at the prison caring for the three remaining victims of the plague. Beau also said goodbye to the trio of patients and to the prison staff, for he had come to know all of them well during his recovery.
Looping the strap of his bindle over his head and across his chest, and bearing two pairs of saddlebags, he passed through the prison door and trudged through the snow to the iron gate, where the guard swung the grille wide.
Outside stood Dalavar and six Silver Wolves and behind them a large crowd of Dendorians who cheered when Beau stepped forth. The Draega seemed somewhat uncomfortable with the press of people, even though all in the throng gave the 'Wolves wide berth.
Stepping forward came Jaegar, Steward of Aven now that Agron was gone. And for all peoples everywhere, Jaegar bade the young buccan farewell and praised him for what he had done. Embarrassed, Beau shuffled his feet, and when the crowd called for him to speak, Beau said, 'Look, I just happened to be in the right place at the right time, or perhaps the wrong place at the wrong time. Regardless, my friend Tipperton once said that no one person is responsible for victory. The same can be said about win ning the fight against the plague in Dendor: it took many
