One, two, three-Beau counted-four altogether. -No, six,.. seven.
He waited as on they came, and he counted again.
Seven, definitely seven.
And still the running silver shapes defied his eye to resolve into something he could recognize.
And the sun fell halfway into the lip of the world, red rays west running to violet in the eastern sky. And against fading sunlight glancing on snow, seven shapes raced across the plains, running silver on pale crimson white.
Soldiers with crossbows scrambled up the ramps to come to the banquette, and the captain of the guard came to the bastion and peered east as well. "Stand ready," ordered the captain.
Of a sudden in a flash of recognition, Beau knew what he was seeing though he'd never seen them before and in fact had only heard of them as sung in an Elven song, and amazement filled his gaze. "Wait, captain, loose no quarrels!" he called. "These are not the foe!"
The captain turned to the buccan. "Then, by Adon, what is it that comes?"
"Draega, captain, Draega. Draega from Adonar. They can't be anything else."
"Draega?"
"Oh my, oh my," exclaimed Beau, not answering, racing back and forth along the weapons shelf, stopping long enough to look again, and then run to another crenel.
Exasperated, the captain turned to his men. "Stand ready, but do as the Litenfolk says: loose no quarrels."
And they watched as seven silver shapes came running, until all could see what they were: seven Silver Wolves from legend, plunging o'er the snow, seven Silver Wolves, seven in all, racing toward Dendor and Beau.
Chapter 21
Something important. Something im Again a Vulg howl sounded on the screaming wind.
– portant.
But what it was, Tip could not remember, his mind ahaze with poison raging in his veins, while just beyond the mouth of the sheltering hollow a blizzard shrieked past in the darkness, hurtling ice and snow onto steep mountain slopes above and along the gorge below.
Tip leaned his head back against the cracked stone and closed his eyes, and just as he was losing consciousness Tip jerked upright and called out, "What? What did you say, Beau?" His voice was lost under the yowl of the wind outside.
I'm certain I heard him call out.
Again Tip spoke aloud into the darkness. "Oh, Beau, are you in trouble?"
There was no answer.
His breath coming harsh, Tip sat in blackness, his bow grasped loosely in his hands, the arrow fallen away.
What did you say, Beau?
Fevered and muttering aloud-" 'You're in a terrible fix, bucco.' That's what you would tell me, as if I didn't know. Well, my friend, it's not like you were in any better shape, the last time I saw you." Unable to hold himself upright, Tip slowly fell over sideways. He lay on his left side, his cheek against cold rubble, and looked down at Beau in his prison cot, pustulant boils all over the buccan's face. "But Bekki and I, we saved your neck, bringing back th- Oh lor', that's it!"
Hissing and muttering, Tip struggled, trying to upright himself, but he could not. His wounded left arm trapped beneath his own body, Tip floundered about with his free hand in the ground-up barley, making certain the great rumbling buhrstones didn't crush his fingers or arm as he searched through the flour for his saddlebags. "That's what you were trying to tell me, Beau. That's what you were trying to-" His hand fell upon leather and, straining, cursing, he dragged the thing to him. "Oh no. It's my lute."
Feebly pushing aside the dead pony, not wondering how it had gotten here, Tip again fumbled across the rubble and found-"Is it my blanket ro-? No, no. This is leather."
He managed to drag the pouches to him and after a long, one-handed struggle succeeded in unbuckling one side. "I hope this is the bag I put it in, for I haven't the strength to-" With the fire burning atop Beacontor in the distance, Tip's hand fell across a cloth bundle, and he pulled it free of the pouch. Gripping the bundle and using his teeth, he loosened the twine and rolled open the cloth to free the sprigs inside.
Yet lying on the cold rocks, Tip called out, "But I can't make gwynthyme tea, Beau; what'll I do?"
Only the howl of the blizzard answered the buccan, beautiful, exotic, unveiled Chakia singing in the wind.
Answering his own question-"Well, there's nothing for it, bucco, you'll just have to make do with what you have"-Tip began chewing on one of the sprigs, his bare bit of saliva mixing with the juice of the golden mint as Hyrinian riders galloped across the Plains of Valon.
"Should I swallow it, Beau? Should I swallow? It's not tea, but it's the best I can do." Tip laughed in fevered hysteria and looked up to see DelfLord Borl. "Hoy, Lord Borl, I'm eating precious gwynthyme; will you have some? Your son and I crawled all over that mountain to get this yellow weed, and surely you- I say, Loric, here we have a most rare treat, and I do mean rare."
Tipperton took up another sprig and began to chew, and the heartening fragrance of mint filled his mouth and nostrils. As Borl and Loric faded, Tip managed to shove himself upright, looking about the Dwarvenholt to see where they went. But Phais lay abed before him, pale in countenance. Tip began weeping. "Oh, Phais, you are sorely wounded by a poisoned black shaft. Don't die as my Rynna did. Here, we need to put a gwynthyme poultice on your arrow wound." But Phais vanished even as he reached for her.
Struggling, giggling, weeping, raging, Tip managed to free his wounded arm from the left sleeve of his jacket. And he unbuttoned and slid the sleeve of his jerkin up to his elbow, exposing the jagged wound. "No tea, Beau, no tea," he shouted above the roar of Bellon Falls.
Tip took up another sprig and shoved the whole of it into his mouth. And he chewed and spat upon the ripped flesh of his forearm time and again, until juice and saliva and blood slathered over all. And while sitting on the ramparts of Caer Lindor he wept and watched the bordering woods for Rynna to appear, and he placed the chewed pulp over the gashes, but it did not cover all. Tip took up another sprig and chewed and spat and swallowed some of the juice and chewed more and spat more and finally added the pulp of this sprig to that of the other. He fumbled about on the floor of his mill, shoving aside coins with holes in them until he found the cloth the gwynthyme had been wrapped in and used it to bind his wound and hold the poultice against the deep slashes.
And still the moon howled over the twisted trees of Drearwood-or was it a Vulg howling on the wind?-as Tipperton fell screaming down the sheer stone above Nord-lake and into waters below, while a forlorn hooting sounded within the fog.
"What is it?" asked Tip.
Rynna smiled and gestured at a basket. "Come and see."
Tip stepped to the damman, and there asleep in a rumple of blanket was a "Oh!" Tip startled awake.
It was dark, and still a blizzard howled outside the mouth of the cavity. Tip was shuddering with cold. He managed to struggle his bandaged left arm back into the sleeve of his jacket and wrap his cloak around ere swooning again.
The next time he awakened, night had gone, but the blizzard had not, for the wind yet howled and ice yet hurtled across the low opening of the cavity, a drift covering fully half of the breach.
Terribly thirsty, Tip fished under his jacket to his right hip and pulled out his waterskin, looped on a thong over his head and across his chest. Drinking, drinking, it seemed as if his parched throat would never be satisfied. Finally he stopped, his thirst yet burning, but he was too exhausted to hold the container aloft. And then he retched and retched again, vomit spewing out, the buccan barely turning aside in time to keep from soiling himself. He slumped back against the stone, and even as he swiped his sleeve across his mouth, he lost consciousness.
Tipperton's own screaming wrenched him awake. "The Gargon! The Gargon! Eeee…!" Confused, he thrashed about. "Where… where am…?"