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."
"But they're smiling, Beau."
"Yar. Now. But I was imagining what they'd look like thundering across the plains and bearing down on some hapless foe, the blades on the wheels flashing deadly. Lethal, wouldn't you say?"
Tip shrugged. "Um, I suppose so. But for now they just look happy to me."
As the chariot rumbled past, the spear wielder's eyes widened and she elbowed the driver in the ribs and pointed at Tip and Beau and both warrior maidens smiled at the Warrows and waved, the buccen making low sweeping bows in return.
"Dediana," she said above the babble of the crowd jammed inside the White Horse.
"Wull, I'm Beau Darby, and this is Tipperton Thistledown," shouted Beau.
Dediana smiled and gestured toward her companion, who was at that moment quaffing a hot cup of spiced wine. "Linde."
"What?"
Dediana leaned across the table. "Her name is Linde."
"Oh," said Beau.
Tip bobbed his head. "We are most pleased to meet you, Dediana, Linde, but pray tell, how goes the war?"
A dark look swept over Dediana's face. "Not well. The fordomlig maskfolk drove all the way to Jordkeep ere we got them turned. They left a trail of ruination behind: slaughter, pillage, burnings-"