Tip, his bow in hand and his quiver on his hip, scrambled down from the horse and followed the other buccan through the bustle of the yard.
But for his sire and a dim memory of his dam, Tip had never seen another Warrow until Beau had come to Two-forks. And now as he looked across the bailey here were- as his da would have said-a whole gaggle of jackanapes. And with his heart pounding, he followed Beau into the cluster, most watching as two flew arrows into the shadowy forms. And just as he came among them, a cheer rose up from the gathering as an arrow struck the dark wooden silhouette dead in its pinned-leaf heart.
Turning to Beau with Tip coming after-"Oh, hullo," said one of the Warrows, a dark-haired, blue-eyed young buccan of nearly the same age as Tip and Beau, twenty-two or -three at most. "I've not seen you two before. Are you newly come?"
Beau grinned. "Aye. We just rode in. But, say, I'm Beau Darby, and my friend here is Tipperton Thistledown. We're from"-a cheer drowned out Beau's words.
"From where?"
"Twoforks," repeated Beau. "Though the Boskydells is my true home."
"The Boskydells? Now there's a place I've heard of," replied the Warrow, "but Twoforks?" He shook his head. "And by the bye"-he touched the brim of the hat he wore-"I'm Winkton Bruk, but Wink'll do."
"Wink it is, then," said Beau, grinning.
In that moment the crowd cheered again and clapped in hearty approval. Someone had won.
Wink's eyes lit up as he saw Tipperton's bow. "I say, would either of you like to join our contest? Try your hand at besting our champion?"
Before Tip could respond, Beau glanced through the applauding crowd at the archers. "Not me. My weapon is the sling. But Tip here, he's the arrow caster, and a mighty fine one at that."
Wink smiled at Tip. "Would you give it a go?"
Tip felt his face flush, and he dipped his head and mumbled, "I'm just a-"
Wink held his arms on high. "A challenge, a challenge!" he cried out above the assembly.
"But I-" said Tip as nearby Warrows turned.
"A champion of Twoforks has come!" cried Wink.
More Warrows turned, puzzlement in their jewellike eyes. Twoforks?
"Urn, wait. I don't-" began Tip, but Wink grabbed him by the wrist and towed him through the press.
As he did so, one of the archers stepped away from the shocks, leaving the contest winner behind, plucking arrows from the target, while two Warrows readied two fresh leaves to fasten in place.
"Here we go," said Wink, pulling reluctant Tip to the line. There he abandoned Tip, leaving him all alone. Tip turned to step away, only to face some twenty-five or thirty Warrows watching.
In the crowd, Beau stuck his thumb up and called, "For Twoforks and the Bosky!"
A lusty, good-humored cheer greeted these words.
Tip sighed and lifted his bow in acknowledgement. The sight of the Elven-made weapon brought forth a hushed murmur of admiration from the assembled buccen.
Tip took an arrow from his quiver and was setting it to string when a lyrical voice behind asked, "Are you ready?"
Tip turned -and fumbled the arrow, the shaft to clatter upon the ground -as he looked into the amber-gold eyes of their champion -and his heart clenched -for she was a young damman, the first Tipperton had ever seen.
Dressed in brown leathers, she stood three inches shorter than Tipperton's own three feet four. Her hair was a rusty red-brown and held back by a leather band, and she smiled up at him, a twinkle in her amber eyes.
"I, uh-" Thunderstruck, Tipperton bent down to reclaim his arrow.
Laughing, her voice silvery, the damman set a shaft to her own string and let fly at the target, the arrow to strike dead in the leaf marking the heart.
"Your go," she said, stepping back from the line.
"My g-? Oh." With his fingers trembling and his heart hammering, Tipperton nocked the retrieved shaft. He then drew in a breath and let out half and pulled the bow taut and aimed. But his hands yet shook and he lowered his bow. Get a grip, bucco. What if it were a real Ruck standing there instead of-? Again he aimed, remembering the skirmish at Annory. He loosed the arrow to fly true and pierce the heart as well, his shaft embedded not a hairsbreadth from hers.
And the crowd roared in laughter.
Tip frowned.
"Um," said the damman, stepping to his side, "nice shot, but your target is over there."
A howl went up from the watching buccen.
Tip looked at the other shock, its silhouette pristine.
Four more arrows each they flew, all to strike the heart, the last four of Tip's in his own target, his first one in hers.
As they walked forward to retrieve the shafts, Wink trotted after to come to Tip's side and said, "Sorry, old chum, but you could have tied or even won had you not aimed at the wrong heart."
Beau, also striding alongside, looked at Tip, watching as his friend's gaze followed the damman. "Hmm," said Beau, "I think more than pinned-leaf hearts have been pierced here."
"Huh?" asked Tipperton. "Sorry, Beau, my mind was elsewhere. What did you say?"
"Oh, nothing," said Beau, turning to Wink and laying a finger alongside his nose and receiving a waggle of eyebrows in return.
Tip fetched his four arrows from the soft, corklike dark wood, and then screwed up his courage to the sticking point and stepped to the other shock. His heart hammering, his palms sweating, he said, "I'm Tipperton Thistledown."
She looked up at him with her golden eyes and smiled brightly and handed him his other arrow. "Rynna Fenrush, though most call me Ryn."
"Wren like the bird?"
Rynna laughed, and Tip couldn't but catch his breath from the sound of it. "No, no, Tipperton, it's r-y-n, though some claim otherwise-"
"As do I," said a voice from behind, and Tip turned to see a golden-haired Elf standing at hand. "Feisty she is and small and red-brown with a golden eye, and chatters sharply when angry, and if that does not describe a wren-"
"Oh, Silverleaf, you're nought but a great tease," declared Ryn, laughing, though Tip thought he could detect a fiery glint in her perfectly lovely eyes -and then he suddenly realized: "She called you Silverleaf!"
"Aye, in the common tongue I am Silverleaf; in Sylva, Vanidar; and in Darda Erynian some have another name for me in that lilting tongue of theirs."
As with all of immortal Elvenkind, Vanidar appeared to be no more than a lean-limbed youth, though his actual age had to be several millennia, for he had been Coron when the trees of the Eldwood forest were but seedlings, and now they were giants. He had golden hair cropped at the shoulder and tied back with a simple leather headband, as was the fashion among most Lian. He was clad in dark blue and wore a silver belt which held a long-knife. His feet were shod in soft leather dyed pale blue, and he stood perhaps five feet nine or ten. And even standing perfectly still, he seemed endowed with the grace of a cat.
"I'm Tipperton Thistledown," said Tip, bowing, "miller of Twoforks, though not of late."
Silverleaf smiled. "I know, and 'tis thee I came to find, for I would hear thy tale. But first"-he turned to Rynna- "wouldst thou see that these twain-Sir Tipperton and Sir Beau-are properly quartered, then fetch them unto the war room?"
"Gladly," replied Rynna, smiling at Tip, and once again his heart flopped.
Canting his head forward in acknowledgement, "In a candlemark or so," said Silverleaf, and then turned back toward the caer.
"Where are your goods?" asked Rynna.
Tip looked at Beau, only to receive a shrug. "Urn, I suppose at the stables," said Tip, swinging 'round and trying to locate them. "At least, that's where I assume Loric and Phais took the horses. Our goods were on them."