"Besides," said Tip, "that was long past… some twenty-five hundred years."
"Maybe they're like the Chabbains," said Beau, "and hold their grudges long."
Still the ferry drifted southward.
"Should we ride along the path to meet it?" asked Tip.
Loric shook his head. "The mule will haul it here. Else on the journey back we could miss the island altogether."
Beau frowned. "Why are we going to the isle when it's the other side we want?"
" 'Tis the way of the Rivermen: one ferry to carry us to the isle, another from there to the far shore."
"A twofold toll?" asked Beau, grimacing.
"Grudge them not their double fare," said Phais, "for they are few and scrape for every silver penny, and without the twofold toll there would be no shuttle at all."
"Oh well, then…" said Beau, yet the frown did not leave his face.
Some time later, harnessed to the ferry, the mule came plodding along the pathway, one man leading the animal while the three other men fended with poles to keep the float from grounding against the shore. And when the men saw the Warrows they whispered among themselves of children of Elvenkind.
The barge landed nearly five miles downstream on the long shores of Olorin Isle, where the comrades offloaded and mounted up and rode along the tow path toward the northern point of the island, where the second ferry was docked on the eastern side.
The sun moved two hands across the sky ere they reached the north end and rode in among ramshackle cabins, collapsed and abandoned for the most part, though here and there stood an occupied dwelling. A few men and women and a child or two-all ill-clothed-watched as the four rode past, some to step from their cotes to do so. And they too looked wide-eyed at the buccen. And when the strangers were gone, they spoke briefly among themselves before resuming whatever tasks they had pursued ere the Elves and their children had come, some Rivermen to step back into their dwellings, others to resume a vigil for river flotsam, hoping for a wreck upstream.
When the four reached the east ferry and dismounted, once again four men and a mule were there to greet them. Loric paid the second fare and then he and Phais led the horses onto the barge, Tip and Beau coming after, the men and the mule already aboard.
This time the crossing was swifter, for from the eastern side of the island it was but a quarter mile to the eastern bank of the Argon, though the rowed ferry was carried some three miles downstream ere it arrived at the opposite shore.
They rode into the southernmost tip of Darda Erynian, a forest known to some as the Great Greenhall but to most as sinister Blackwood, for its reputation was dire. And Beau gazed all 'round, looking for Hidden Ones and finding nought as he wondered if the forest were "closed." East-northeast they fared the remainder of the day to come to the banks of the River Rissanin, where they made camp.
A light rain fell that night during Loric's watch, but the next morn dawned bright, though no Silverlarks came to sing them awake.
They followed along the west bank of the river, riding and walking and resting, their route carrying them northerly. And once again they camped in the woods, and the night was crisp and clear. And during Tipperton's watch he thought he could see from the corners of his eyes foxes skulking among the trees, but when he looked straight-on, only shadows seemed to be there.
The next day they continued following the banks of the Rissanin, and just ere midmorn they sighted in midriver the grey stone towers of Caer Lindor, her turrets aglint in the rising sun.
They had come to a fortress isle, a legacy of the Elven Wars of Succession, a relic of the elder days, when neither man nor Fey nor Dwarf nor Mage nor aught other bestrode the world of Mithgar, and only the Elves walked the land, and they yet filled with madness. But those days were long past and the Elves now sane, yet the huge, square fortress still remained. It was left as an outpost in event of future want, and until these troubled times had served as a way-station for travelers in need. Yet located where it was, on the border between the warded Blackwood to the north and the Greatwood to the south, seldom had many come this way, and they mostly Elves or Baeron, though now and again a venturesome soul or two would come trekking past. But now war bestrode the land, and a bastion once more it was.
And toward this looming strongholt Phais now led them all, aiming for the western end of a pontoon bridge crossing to the fortress isle.
At the entrance to the bridge there stood a picket at ward; he was the tallest Human either Tip or Beau had ever seen, nearly seven feet in all. Dressed in buckskins he was, and his face was bearded rust-brown, its color matching his hair. And swinging from his belt was a two-handed mace, though Tip thought in this huge man's grip, one hand would be enough. Huah! He could probably hold this narrow bridge all by himself against a full Horde, if they could only come at him one at a time and had no missiles, that is.
"Hal, Baeran," called Phais.
So that's a Baeran.
"Lady," rumbled the man, his amber gaze sweeping across the four.
Eyes of a Wolf… or a Bear.
"Who is commander here?"
"Lord Silverleaf, with Aravan as his second."
Tip's eyes flew wide. Silverleaf and Aravan? Oh my, legends come to life.
Phais looked back at Loric and smiled. "Vanidar is here, Aravan as well." She turned to the Baeran and gestured at the fortress entire. "Ye all are in safe hands."
Apparently satisfied that these visitors represented no threat, the Baeran stepped aside, and Phais spurred forward onto the bridge, drawing Tipperton's horse after, Loric and then Beau coming after.
Toward an enshadowed stone archway they rode, with great iron gates standing open. Atop the castellated walls with its merlons and crenels, Tip could glimpse warriors standing ward, peering down from the battlements to watch the strangers approach. But then Tip's eye was drawn downward toward the arch, where a tunnel led under the wall, and he could see the fangs of a raised portcullis within. Into his shadowy passage they went, horses' hooves aclatter on the cobbled pave, and overhead in the stone ceiling above, machicolations-murder holes-gaped darkly, and somewhere above stood vats of oil to pour burning down on any invader who had breached the gates. And high along each side of the passage were arrow slits, set to rain piercing death.
The corridor itself wrenched 'round a sharp corner and then another beyond, the turns set there to prevent the passage of heavy rams and other engines of siegecraft. And beyond the second turn another archway stood, daylight streaming inward.
Beneath another recessed portcullis they rode and past the heavy panels of a second iron gate standing open, and thence into the bailey beyond.
A massive stone building loomed before them, fully six storeys high, with turrets and towers rising even higher.
The yard itself was abustle with activity and filled with Baeron men and Elves working at tasks and moving to and fro: some shoeing horses or repairing tack or cleaning stables, others haling crates and sacks and such from standing wagons and into the main building or one of the storage sheds, and still others practicing at swords and spears and other weaponry.
But to Tipperton all of these sights and sounds faded to insignificance when his wide gaze swept past the movement and stir and across the bailey to alight on a leather-clad group of archers flying arrows into dark silhouettes fastened to shocks of hay.
Small and quick were these archers, and Warrows all.
Chapter 28
"Beau, look!"
Beau Darby looked where Tip was pointing. "Warrows!" he exclaimed. "Let's go meet them." And he jumped down from the packhorse and motioned for Tip to do the same.
Tip glanced at Phais. She smiled and inclined her head toward the archers. "Tipperton, why Waerlinga are here in Caer Lindor, I know not. Yet 'tis thy folk, and thou shouldst mingle among thy kindred."