Still the digging went on.
Rescue!
"I'm in here, I'm in here," yelled Tip in the ebon dark.
His shout was answered by a growl.
Oh Adon, it's Vulgs. They've found me!
Now the digging came faster, as if more than one creature clawed to get through the snow and at the buccan.
Tip felt about and found his bow, but he could but barely grip it with his left hand; and e'en should he switch hands, his fiery swollen arm certainly would not withstand the draw.
My sling!
Searching through the saddlebags, Tip fumbled for the sling, but before he could find it, light began filtering in.
Too close! They're too close!
Snatching up an arrow, Tip squinted against the light, pain lacing through his unaccustomed eyes, for he had been in total darkness for days on end.
Weak, his head swimming with dizziness, his left arm useless, his eyes nearly blinded, arrow in hand like a dagger, Tip struggled to his knees, too weak to rise fully, and snarled, "All right you Vulg bastards, Modru's curs, you've found me, but to H?l with you and your Gyphon."
And then a dark, fanged muzzle broke through the snow and lunged into the cave, just as blackness overtook Tipper-ton and he fell forward on his face.
Chapter 22
Seven Silver Wolves, seven Draega, came trotting across the eastern stone bridge above the dry moat and into the embrasure below the eastern parapet. And then out from under the wall and into the open stepped a man, an Elf, nay, a Mage. How he had come to the gate itself, Beau could not say. Yet it was plain to see that the Mage was there at the bridge below, and huge Silver Wolves, large as ponies, milled about him.
"My friends and I ask permission to enter your city," called up the Mage.
"And who are you and what is your business, Lord Mage?" asked the captain of the east ward.
"I am Dalavar of Darda Vrka, though some know me by the name Wolfmage, and I have come to see the Waer-ling who put down Modru's plague."
"Oh lor'," blurted Beau, "he's come to see me." The buccan turned to the captain. "He's come to see me. Farrin said someone would come to me from the east, and perhaps Mage Dalavar is the one. Oh, do let him in, captain. Do let him in."
As Beau ran down the ramp and toward the inner portal, the captain of the eastern gate hesitated and glanced down at the Mage with his waiting 'Wolves, but finally nodded to the men at the portcullis winch, and called a command down to the soldiers in the passage below.
Beau jittered from one foot to another as the iron inner grille squealed upward, and then men unbarred the inner side-postern and opened it. One after another, through the gate came the huge Silver Wolves, trotting out on their long legs, their eyes shifting this way and that, their silver muzzles in the air as if to sense friend or foe. Warders gave back before them in awe, for they were beasts of legend, yet Beau stood his ground, transfixed in wonder, and two came straight at the buccan and loomed over him, red tongues lolling over white fangs.
"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…"