Bekki nodded and then rolled the gwynthyme into the cloth binding. "Aye, he is among the very best, though there are better still."
"Oh my," said Tipperton, reaching for another handful of sprigs.
In the moonshadows of the fourth night of harvesting- "Ssst!"-hissed Tipperton, gaining Bekki's attention. "Someone comes."
Together they dangled on their spidery ropes, unmoving against the moonlit stone. Above on the lip of the precipice, a tramping could be heard, nearing. And on this night there was harsh talking, voices in Sluk, the Foul Folk tongue.
Clinging to the massif, Tip looked down a mile of sheer stone, his heart hammering wildly-Oh lor', if they find our anchors, they'll cut us free and we'll-and he thought he might scream out in terror, but bit his lip and managed to hold his fear in.
Above tramped the feet, and a voice called out Tipperton clutched his rope. They've found us!
– but the maggot-folk ignored the call and marched on.
Directly above, a voice muttered.
One has stopped! Why?
Then a stream of urine arched outward and down, falling toward the shadows below.
And there sounded a far-off hooting, like a forlorn horn cry. From the south it came, and distant.
"Waugh!" blurted the voice above, and the urine cut off in midstream, and Tipperton heard fleeing footsteps thudding away, running after the others.
As the steps faded, Tip loosed pent breath he was unaware he'd been holding and looked toward Bekki, to find the Dwarf once again in the moonlight harvesting golden mint.
Eight more nights they harvested, the moon waning with each nighttide, the silver orb growing thinner and rising later each eve as it approached the dark of the moon.
Ere they set out on the ninth night, Tip said, "It's the eve of the equinox, Bekki, and back in Dendor, Beau and Phais and Loric are stepping out the turning of the seasons. Would that I could, but I don't know the steps, for I always followed Loric."
Bekki looked at Tip. "If you accept me as a poor substitute, Tipperton, I will pace you through them." Tip's mouth fell open. "You know the steps?" "Did I not join you on the summer solstice?" "Yes, but how do you-? Oh, right! You are a Dwarf." And so, in the aspen woodland, with Bekki infallibly leading and Tip singing softly, they paced through the Elven rite. And when they were done, Tip looked at Bekki, and said, "Thank you, my friend. That was splendid. Now let's go harvest gwynthyme."
Bekki nodded, and as they gathered their climbing gear and harvesting tools, he said, "Mayhap the Elves have it right by celebrating each turn of the seasons. The greatest of the Chakka celebrations occurs on one of these nights-Year's Long Night."
"I remember," said Tip. "It was Year's Long Night, the same night we saw the Squam marching north along the Ironwater, that you were speaking some rite atop a hill." "I was praying to Elwydd as we Chakka do at that turn of the seasons." "Elwydd?"
"Aye, Chak-Sol; we believe she made the Chakka and set them on Mithgar. Each year in acknowledgement of Her deed, we pray that we may touch the stars." "Touch the stars? What do you mean by that?" "The stars are Elwydd's, and we with our crafting attempt to make something nigh as perfect as are they." "Oh, I see. And you pray for guidance in this task?" Bekki stood and cast wide his arms and chanted as if cantor and chorale:
Elwydd -Daughter of Adon,
We thank Thee -For Thy gentle hand.
That gave to us -The Breath of Life.
May this be -The golden year
The Chakka -Touch the stars.
Two more nights altogether they harvested, alert for the tramp of maggot-folk. But no more came these two nights, nor in the past ten nights altogether.
In the early light of the new day in a thin drizzle they bundled the last of the harvest, and with that they were done, for although there was one more night ere the dark of the moon, they had found no more sites of the mint. They decided to set out on the morrow, for the climbing had been hard and they needed a full day and a full night of rest before starting back. As to the gwynthyme itself, altogether over the fourteen nights of collecting, they had managed to reap three full sacks of the golden mint. "Enough to treat Dendor three times over if Beau's guess is right," said Tip. "It's a rather good harvest we've done."
Bekki nodded, glum in the icy rain, and gestured at the sky. "Now our task is to get it back to the city."
"Let us hope the ford is low," said Tip.
"With Garlon's rain, who knows?" replied Bekki.
The next morning ere they set out, Tip and Bekki rode to the nearest set of markers and dismounted and looked down the precipice one last time. A billowing mist lay below the lip, as if it were a fog trying to gain the rim. But it was not this mist they sought, but the patch of gwynthyme instead. "Right on schedule," Tip said, pointing down at the mint below. "It's as brown as an old leather shoe, just as Beau said it would be."
"Rescue to ruin," said Bekki, then looked at one of the sacks on a pack pony. "Rescue and ruin in one."
Mounting up and turning west, Tip and Bekki made their way toward the narrow, tortuous path leading to the tooi-hills below. Along this way they twisted and turned, riding down into the mist. And in the greyness Tip was glad that he couldn't see the sheer fall beyond the drop-off on the left, though he knew it was there.
Down they rode and down, to finally come unto the rolling hills. Without a glance behind, southward they turned, aiming for the ford.
The fog gripped the world for three days, and on the third of these days as they rode along the shores of Nord-lake, a mournful hooting, loud in the quiet, sounded out upon the water.
"Oh my," exclaimed Tip, startled, peering through the fog, seeing nought but grey mist. "That's what we heard in the night on the cliff. It's not a horn, not a horn at all."
Bekki scowled and tried to peer through the fog, having no more luck than Tip. "Mayhap it is a bird," he said, his voice not at all confident. "A loon or cob or some such."
"Oh no, Bekki, oh no. It's the Vattenvidunder, I ween."
Tip raised his hands and cupped them to his mouth and shouted out onto the lake. "Thank you, O water monster. You mayhap saved our lives with your cry."
There came no response but a huge splash, as if something large had dived down.
The next morning Tip awakened to a heavy frost. Bekki on watch said, "It crept here in the night."
"But it's still September, Bekki. Too early for a frost."
"The weather these days is strange, Tipperton: rain, a wan sun, cold nights."
"And now an early frost," said Tip. "I wonder the cause of it all."
"Mayhap it is as you said, Tipperton. Mayhap it is the dust on the wind above, shielding us from Adon's warmth."
Breaking camp, on they rode, the ford long miles ahead.
Through frosted mornings and chill days, they rode altogether another week ere coming to the shallows over the Argon. The water was low and they crossed with ease.
East they turned, now riding in Aven, and still the weather was fickle, rain or a dusting of snow falling now and again. Even so, on the days the air seemed clear, sunrises and sunsets were spectacular.
But late in the day of the seventeenth of October they espied the walls of Dendor, and smoke from within rose up in the twilight, as if part of the city burned. And on they pushed, night drawing over them as they rode for the battlements yon.
"Open the gate," bellowed Bekki to the ward above.
A lantern swung over the parapet, and a soldier looked down. Bekki threw back his hood to reveal his features. "Nay, Dvarg, the city is closed."
"But we've returned from Nordlake," shouted Tipperton, casting back his own hood. "We have a pass from King Agron himself."