here, as does Darda Erynian, the Great Greenhall.'
Beau turned up a hand. 'Yes, but-'
'No 'yes-buts' at all, my friend,' said Tip, 'that broad forest is along the way, and somewhere in Darda Erynian live the Springwater Warrows-Rynna's people. I've never been among many Warrows, you know, except for that brief time at Caer Lindor, and right now for some reason I feel the need to be with our kind, if only for a week or so.'
'Warrows in Blackwood, yes, Tip, but also in Blackwood live the Hidden Ones-'
'As do the Dylvana,' interjected Tip. 'The Baeron too.'
Beau sighed. 'Well, except for the Baeron-and I'm not certain just what they are, being so big and all, and rumors saying that some Baeron can take on the shapes of Bears and Wolves-the others you've named are certainly not-men all, even the Hidden Ones. -But, say, just how will this help in the war? I mean, what is there to do in Darda Erynian?'
'Well, last we knew there was a Horde somewhere along the eastern marge of the Great Greenhall. Perhaps we can use our skills to do something about them. -Oh, Beau, we won't know until we get to Darda Erynian whether there is a task we can fulfill in that woodland or whether we should press on. Surely someone there- Dylvana, Baeron, Warrow, or someone else altogether-can help us decide where we could do the most good. But task or not, advice or not, I would like to see others of our kind ere pressing on. Besides, I made a promise, you know, that when the coin was delivered, I would come back to Darda Erynian.'
'A pledge to Rynna?'
Tip swallowed and nodded, then said, 'For some reason I feel a strong need to keep that promise now.'
Beau sighed. 'Wull, bucco, promise or not, you know how I feel about the Blackwood-haunted and all as it is- but I'd like to see some Warrows, too. And even if we stay but a short while, still…'
And so it was decided: as soon as they could fare through Jailor Pass, south they would go, to Darda Erynian, to the Great Greenhall, to Blackwood, could they but find the means to do so, for no ponies were to be had in all of Jallorby.
The following day Tipperton took up his lute once more and, in spite of the stiff fingers of his left hand, still he managed the simpler of his tunes. When the people of Jallorby heard that one of the wee folk was playing and singing at the White Horse, they came to listen and to lift a mug or two.
And when they found out Beau was a healer, his skills were in heavy demand; after all, there seemed to be something special about one of the wee folk prescribing various teas and herbs and poultices and other medicks to citizens with ails.
And so with the extra patronage the innkeeper struck a bargain with the wee buccen: should Tip continue to play and sing, and should Beau continue to set up shop in the White Horse Inn, then free room and board would be theirs for the taking as well as any coin the citizens bestowed their way.
Hence, every night the inn was filled with those who came for a drink and a song and a dance, while every day people came with coughs and aches and pains and other complaints, folk who would take a dram or two of brandy on their way in or out. And as the townsfolk came and went, so too did the rumors, but it was clear to Tip and Beau that whatever was happening in the conduct of the war, none here knew the truth of it, for too often did the rumors contradict one another, and too often did they say what the Warrows knew to be false.
Days grew longer and nights shorter until Springday arrived with its balance of light and dark, but icy winter yet gripped the land, for a thick blanket of white yet lay across the plains, and the pass into Aven remained blocked by snow. It was as if Modru's cold hand clutched the world… that or the hand of Gyphon. Some said the lack of spring had to do with the fall of stone dust from out of the sky above, while others claimed it was clearly a magical curse. Still others said that they had seen winters in their childhood which were certainly as cold and had lasted as long. But just as it was with the rumors concerning the war, none in Jallorby knew fact from fiction, none knew the cause.
And Springday came with no relief. Even so, on that night after the thin crescent moon had long set, under the crystalline stars two Warrows attempted to pace out the Elven ritual of the turning of the seasons, but they became hopelessly entangled in their own steps, for Bekki the Dwarf was not there to guide them nor were any of the Elves… though Tip's song did remain true to the rite.
The days edged toward April, and still cruel winter gripped the land and still Tipperton continued to play and sing to the folks at the White Horse, and still did Beau treat those with ills. But daily they also spent time behind the inn: Beau casting bullets at silhouettes; Tip regaining his eye with bow and arrow, loosing shafts at pinned-leaf targets on shocks of hay, his left arm now well enough and strong enough to handle the draw of the bow. Yet Tip came away from each of these sessions in a doleful mood, for the last time he had practiced such, it was with Rynna Fen-rush at Caer Lindor, the fortress betrayed by Rivermen, and among those slain were all the Warrows within, and only a few Elves and a handful of men had managed to escape. And so, casting arrows at pinned-leaf hearts only brought back bittersweet memories of Rynna his dammia, Rynna his truelove, she and her pennywhistle, she and her red-brown hair and amber eyes and quick smile and quick temper and gentle gaze and fiery glance. When the buccen came in from practice, Tip would sit quietly by the fire and strum softly on his Elven lute, which seemed to give him a measure of solace, though whether his heart would ever mend… Beau, who would sit quietly nearby and listen, could not say.
Just after the dawn a week beyond Springday the buccen were wakened by black-oxen horns blowing in alarm. Oldsters and youngsters and women caught up axes and bows and swords and rakes and brooms and cudgels and shovels and whatever else came to hand, and they rushed to the streets to defend the town. Tip and Beau scrambled out of bed and into their clothes and snatched up their own weapons, and when they came running outward, they looked where the townsfolk were staring and pointing. Riding across the snow-laden plains came a large mounted force, long shadows cast by the Grim walls obscuring just who they might be. On they came and on, as citizens took up a defensive stance, and Tip nocked an arrow, while Beau laded his sling. And from the approaching riders a horn sounded, deep and ringing, and mutters of hope ran among Jallorby defenders, for it was the call of a black-oxen horn. In that moment through the low-hanging overcast a shaft of eastern sunlight burst along a vale in the mountains to banish the gloom on the plains below and illuminate the oncoming riders. Someone among the townsfolk began to cheer, followed by the glad shouts of others, for now all could see the green-and- white banner flying from a lance in the fore of the force and the wheeled chariots within, and the horses were prancing proud steeds.
'Who is it?' called Tip to one of the citizens, an oldster who frequented the inn, a billet of firewood in hand.
'Jordian warriors, lad, Jordian warriors,' said the man, looking at the wooden weapon he held, then casting it to the porch of the inn. 'Looks to be a regiment all told. Mayhap it's our sons and daughters come back from the war.'
Across the plains they came riding and into the streets of Jallorby, tall men on tall horses, women too, fiery warrior maidens of Jord. Vanadurin all, they looked proud and hard, riding as they did, their weapons at the ready, their visages resolute and framed by coppery hair, their clear eyes flinty as if seeking foe of the realm.
The townsfolk cheered and shouted Harlingar! and Vana-durin! and rushed to and fro and called out for any news of their kindred, and the warriors broke into great smiles and called back answers, though for the most part they knew nought of the sons and daughters of Jallorby.
Beau tugged at Tip's sleeve and pointed. Rumbling toward them came one of the two-wheeled chariots: drawn by four horses abreast, the war wagon carried two warrior maidens-one driving, one bearing a spear and buckler. The wagon itself seemed made of wood and covered with a hide-armor of sorts. The wheels were large, the iron rims wide, the better to run over rough ground, and wicked blades turned on the hubs, glittering and slashing and deadly. A cluster of spears-perhaps ten or twelve in all- stood to the right side and rear, and the buccen could see a readied bow racked on the right-side handrail.
As the chariot neared, Tip turned his attention away from the wagon itself and to the warrior maidens within. Tall and fair they were, with coppery hair curling down. Steel helms they wore, dark and glintless, one sporting a long, trailing gaud of white horsehair, the other bearing raven's wings flaring. Fleece vests covered chain-link shirts, and long cloaks draped from their shoulders to ward away the icy chill of the wintry late-March air.
'Lor',' breathed Beau, 'but don't they look formidable?'
Tip frowned. 'Formidable?'
'Aye, what with that red hair blazing,' replied Beau, 'and fire in their eyes.'
