Among this flurry of activity, Tip and Beau made their way inward, toward the commons, and men with weapons slung and knapsacks on their backs made their way inward as well.
An oldster standing in the street and stamping his feet to ward off the cold stepped out to bar the buccen's way, saying, "Here, now, you two, no children allowed. This is the work for-"
"Beg pardon, Mr. Cobb," called Beau. "But it's me, Beau Darby, and Tip."
The oldster bent down and squinted through the snow and then reared back. "Bless me, but it is you, Mr. Darby. And miller Thistledown as well."
"Mr. Cobb, you shouldn't be out in the cold, what with your bad joints and all."
The oldster waved a hand toward Beacontor. "Well, Mr. Darby, everyone's got to help in times like these. 'Sides, that willow bark tea laced with chamomile is just the thing for my achy joints and twitchy legs, and for that I thank you, and I'll drink some later. But for now I'm just doing my duty, directing folks of the muster where to gather."
"Why, the town square is where we're headed."
"Oh, no, Mr. Darby. It's down to the stables and out of the storm, what with this snow and all."
Beau glanced at Tip, then said, "We thank you, Mr. Cobb. But mind you, now, be certain to take that tea when you get home-a double dose."
The old man bobbed his head and stepped aside, and Tip and Beau trudged on. They hadn't gone for mor,e than a few steps when Tip turned about. "I say, Mr. Cobb, is the mayor at the stables as well?"
The oldster hitched 'round and waggled a finger. "No, no, Mr. Thistledown. Last I heard he was over to the Fox, holding a war council, I believe."
Tip raised a hand-"Thank you, Mr. Cobb"-then turned to Beau. "I want to see the mayor. It may be that he's gotten some information concerning the dead man, or perhaps Agron."
Beau nodded, and they set out for the Red Fox Inn, located on the northwest corner of the town square, diagonally across from and marginally larger than the Running Horse, the only other hostel in town.
Shortly they arrived and made their way past a pair of blowing horses tied to the hitching rail. As the buccen stepped to the porch and stomped the snow from their boots, "Hmph," said Beau, nodding toward the chuffing steeds, "looks like they've been atrot."
Tip started to reply, but in that moment there came a roar from within. He looked at Beau and raised an eyebrow, and Beau shook his head and turned up his hands. Cautiously, Tip opened the door, and a clamor of rage bellowed outward. Together the buccen entered in among a press of shouting men. Above the din they could hear the pounding of a hammer or some such upon wood, yet down among the legs and stamping feet, there was little they could see, and less yet that they could make out among the shouted epithets and cries of outrage. But slowly the uproar subsided, and as Tip and Beau wormed their way among the men and across the common room, they could hear someone calling for order.
Now the buccen reached the stairwell to the rooms above, and they clambered up to a place where they could see, men making way for them once they saw who they were.
Behind the bar Mayor Prell yet banged a bung mallet down upon the wood, and called over and again for order. Before him stood two men in riding gear, their cloaks yet laden with snow.
Beau turned to Tip. "Do you know either of them?"
"One is Willoby," hissed Tip. "A crofter from up near the Crossland. I mill his grain. The other, I think, is his eldest son, Harl."
As Beau nodded, a sudden quiet fell, and Prell, glaring about, finally laid the mallet aside. Then he turned to the crofter and his son. "How many?"
"Not counting the Rucks, five altogether," replied the older man.
Again a cry of outrage erupted, which was quelled quickly by Prell pounding the mallet upon the bar.
"Wot 'r' they doin' this far west?" shouted someone from the crowd.
Prell hammered against the bar once more and glared the man into silence, then turned to the crofters.
"It looked like a running battle to me, Mayor," said Willoby. "First we found the one man dead among the killed Rucks-"
Tip sucked in air and looked at Beau, that buccan's eyes, too, gone wide, but he said nothing as Willoby continued:
"… and a mile or two later another deader, and on down the Wilder they went, dead Rucks and such and men. Hacked. Their horses killed too.
"We broke off the search and cut for here when we came nigh, seeing as how we were riding to answer the muster. 'Sides, we were both thinking that this might mean something to Twoforks, these dead men."
"Especially with the fire on Beacontor," added Harl.
The mayor shook his head. "I don't think-"
"Oh," blurted Harl, " 'nother thing, the brands, couple o' them was ridin' King's horses."
A collective gasp and murmur rippled through the gathering, and again Tip and Beau glanced at one another, while Mayor Prell pounded for order.
"Do you suppose-?" began Tip, but the room fell to quietness as Prell asked Willoby, "Are you certain? King Blaine's brand?"
"It was the crown, all right," averred the crofter, "them horses that was layin' where we could see."
As if by intuition, Prell's eye found Tipperton and Beau sitting on the steps behind the banister. The mayor sighed and returned his gaze to Willoby and the youth. "Then there were at least six of these men: another one was killed by Spawn out by the mill."
This brought another grumble from the crowd, a voice or two rising above the others:
"Hoy, Mayor, wot would Kingsmen be doin' out this way?" called someone.
"Mayhap it's all tied up with this Beacontor business," declared another.
Speculation rumbled through the gathering, various voices calling out opinions and possibilities, and Mayor Prell, a pensive frown on his face, let it run on awhile. At last he pounded the bar again for quiet.
"Is there aught you would add?" he asked Willoby and 1 his son. They looked at one another and shrugged. "Well then, I suppose that's it for now."
Now Prell addressed the assembly entire. "Men, as to what's going on, for the moment it's all spookwater and vapors. When my boy Arth gets back with word from Beacontor, then perhaps we'll know what to do, where to go, and even what these Rucks and such are doing out here in the Wilderland. Till then there's nought we can do except stay vigilant. Now what I want you all to do is go down to the stables and get some rest, all but the ones assigned to guard duty. If aught happens, someone will ring the fire gong, and then we'll form up in our squads and meet whatever challenge or peril awaits. Any questions?"
"Hoy, Mayor, shouldn't your boy be back anow?"
Prell's face fell grim. "Aye, Redge, unless he was-"
"Oy, mayhap he ran into trouble," declared Redge, a beefy man. "Rucks or some such."
"Here, now," protested the small man next to Redge, sketching a warding sign in the air, "there's no cause to bring trouble down on the boy."
The mayor banged his makeshift gavel, then said, "Arth is a good lad. He can well take care of himself. I think perhaps the snow has held him up. He should be arriving any moment now."
Redge cast a skeptical eye but remained silent. Someone else, though, asked, "When he does come, you'll let us know what word he brings, right?"
Prell nodded. "Aye, that I will."
"And if no word comes from Beacontor, Mayor…?"
"Well, Redge, if no word comes, we march to the tor on the morrow."
Prell looked about to see if there was aught any wanted to add, but the men waited in silence. "Dismissed!" barked the mayor at last.
Muttering, the men began filing out from the Red Fox, speculation yet running high as to the fire on Beacontor, the slain Kingsmen, and the Spawn being this far west from their normal haunts. Beau got up to go, but Tip reached out a staying hand. "Not yet, Beau," he said. "I need to speak to the mayor." Beau cocked an eyebrow but said nothing as he sat back down.
At last the place emptied out, but for the buccen and Mayor Prell and three members of the elder council-
two thin oldsters, Trake and Gaman, and robust Tessa, hefty owner of the Fox.
The council members moved toward one of the round tables as Tip and Beau came down from the stairs and crossed the common room. Prell placed a ribbon-bound scroll and four small stone weights on the board and seated himself, saying, "It's a grim business, these Kingsmen. We need to make certain that they're taken up and given a decent pyre." As the others nodded, the mayor espied the Warrows. "Ho, lads, you two had better go on down to the stable as well. If things are as serious as they seem, I'm thinking we'll be marching tomorrow to Beacontor."
Tip shook his head and glanced at Beau, then said, "No, Mayor, not me. I'm not going."
"Not going!" blurted Beau. "Wha-?"
Tip turned to his friend. "Look, Beau, when I heard about the other slain Kingsmen, I made up my mind."
"Made up your mind?"
"Yes," said Tip, and he tapped a finger to his collar. "Instead of answering the muster, I'm going east to deliver this coin."
Chapter 5
"But Tip," protested Beau, "didn't you hear what I said back at the mill? It's much too dangerous to travel east. Drearwood lies that way… and the Grimwall."
"Nevertheless, it's to the east and Agron I go."
Again Beau started to protest, but Tipperton held out a hand to stop the buccan's words, saying, "Hear me out, Beau: that man and his comrades, Kingsmen all, died fighting Rucks and such-mayhap over this very coin-and who knows how important the mission he gave me is? Perhaps very."
"And perhaps not," replied Beau, now holding out his own hand to stop Tipperton's retort. "Hoy, wait a moment, bucco, it's your turn to hear me out:
"Even well-armed caravans have problems getting through Drearwood. But a lone Warrow…? I mean, you've got to sleep sometime, and then what? Even if some fool went with you, and you took turns guarding and sleeping, still you're not likely to make it through. But if by chance you did get past the Drearwood, still there's the Grimwall, where Spawn abound. Moreover, those mountains are impassable in winter. Oh, no, Tip, instead of haring off into the jaws of peril with nought but a worthless pewter coin, recall, Beacontor burns, seeking aid, and things have to be dead serious for that to happen. Our duty lies there. We can't forgo the muster here in Twoforks and the march to that far hill."
Tip shook his head and held his hands wide in appeal. "Look, Beau, if six Kingsmen died trying to deliver this coin to Agron, then it must be something that desperately needs doing. It's not that I don't want to join the muster, but one more archer among many will mean little. But you, Beau, they'll need your healing skills. I think you'd best answer the call. As for me, though, I'm going east with the coin, and that's that."
"But the coin may not mean a thing at all, except to the dead man," objected Beau. "And besides, we don't even know who or what an Agron is. I mean, to what or whom are you going to deliver it?"
Tip turned to Mayor Prell. "Did anyone know aught of this Agron?"
"No, miller," replied Prell, glancing at Tessa and Trake and Gaman. "We all asked, and no one knows."
"Well, then," said Tip, "I'll just have to find someone in the east who does know."
Tessa looked toward Beau-"You have the right of it, wee one: traveling eastward is dangerous"-and then she turned to Tip-"Yet, as you say, Tipperton, this mission, it may desperately need doing. So why don't you each pull up a chair and we'll talk it over. And by the bye, could we see that coin?"
As Beau dragged two chairs to the table, Tip fished the thong out from under his jerkin and over his head and passed the token to Tessa. The buccen shed their cloaks and took seats, their feet dangling and swinging from the man-sized chairs, their chins just level with the tabletop. Tessa examined the disk, holding it close to her ruddy face. Finally she shrugged and passed the token to Gaman, who squinted at it awhile and then passed it on to Trake, who said, "Humph. Doesn't look all that important to me." Last to take the coin was Prell.
After a cursory glance, the mayor scratched his head, then said, "It may be that you are right, Trake"-Prell looked up at Beau and cleared his throat-"harrum, and you as well, lad-the coin may not be important at all. But then again, the dead man and his slain comrades were riding High King's horses-perhaps on a task of import. In which case you might be right, too, miller, in that the token needs to be delivered. But as Gwyth said out to the mill, who's to know? Certainly not I." Prell returned the coin to Tip. As the buccan slipped the thong back over his head, the mayor said, "But as far as letting you miss the muster… well now, I've been thinking it over and I'm going to need runners in my Twoforks army-"
"Runners?" protested Beau. "But I'm a healer, and Tip's as good an archer as any and better than most."
"Well, as to that," said Prell, "I've got Garven and Finch to do any healing, and you and the miller here, well, you can serve me best as runners."
Beau shook his head violently, amber fire in his eyes. "Not me, mayor. I'm not going to be a runner. As I said, I'm a healer."
Prell's jaw jutted out and he blustered, "I'm ordering you as your commander-"
The door burst open and a tall youth came striding in, casting back his cloak hood to reveal flushed features below a shock of red hair.
"Arth!" cried Prell, leaping up from his chair and rushing to embrace the young man. Then he held him at arm's length. "Where've you been, lad? We were fiercely worried that something ill had befallen you."
Panting a bit, Arth pulled off his gloves, glancing at the council members and the two Warrows as he did so. "The horse went lame on the way back, Father, up near the Crossland Road. Rolled her foot on an icy rock. I had to walk her the rest of the way."
Tessa leapt up, her brown braid flying. "Here, boy, you be seated while I mull you a good mug of dark wine."
The young man nodded gratefully and shucked his cloak, then jerked a nearby chair to the table and sat alongside his sire.
"Well?" said Prell, raising an eyebrow.
"Wilderhill is taken and Beacontor destroyed, Father-"
"Destroyed!"
"The buildings, Father, all but three or four. The tower, itself-smashed to bits."
"Who-?" snapped Gaman.
"Rucks and Hloks did it. Yesternight and day."
" Yester?" blurted Beau. "But the fire, the beacon, is it-?" While at the same time Trake demanded, "What do you mean, Wilderhill is-?" and Gaman shouted, "The damned Rucks ought to be-"
Wham! sounded a gavel on wood, and heads jerked about. "Hush, everyone," called Tessa, bung mallet in hand. "Let the boy tell his tale."
"She's right, lad," said Prell, glancing at the 6thers. "Go on. Tell us all. We'll hold our questions till you're done."
"No, no," called Tessa, now at the blazing hearth, pulling a glowing poker from the coals and flame, "not yet, Arth. You wait till I'm there."
Moments later, wreathed in spicy aroma, Tessa came to the table, bearing a trayful of mugs of mulled wine. Passing the mugs about, Tessa sat and took a cup for herself, then fixed Arth with an eye and said, "Now. Tell us."
Arth took a deep breath. "Two nights past, a band of Foul Folk crept upon Beacontor. There were only two watchmen at the time-a man and his nephew…"-Arth frowned in concentration-"yes. Jorn and Aulf, those were their names, Aulf a year or two younger than me-sixteen summers or so. They were alone, there on the hill, them and a single mule, waiting for others to come all the way from Stonehill.
"Regardless, in the night, in the hours before dawn, the Spawn came sneaking, a great lot of them, forty or so. But the nephew heard them coming and he and the uncle-a veteran, they say, of the Jillians-they got away unscathed.
"They made their way across to Northtor and to the top and watched to see what the Foul Folk were up to. And in the moonlight the Rucks and such took sledgehammers and iron rods to the watchtower and began to break the walls. By mid-morn they brought it crashing down. Then they started on the cotes, ripping off thatch and breaking those walls as well, ' though they set three aside for their ba
rracks and these they spared." Arth turned to his sire. "That's all that's left, Father: three cotes and the stables, and the low ringwall all 'round."
Prell shook his head and glanced at the others, resignation and rue in his gaze. "Go on, son."
Arth paused to take a pull on his mulled wine, but none else at the table said aught. Setting his mug down, Arth continued:
"Jorn and Aulf then discovered that a beacon fire north was burning-not the next one at Wilderhill, but the one beyond that-the one on the Weiuncrest.
"They knew that none of us down here could see the muster call, and they knew that they needed somehow to recapture Beacontor and light the balefire-"
Beau's eyes flew wide. "Two against forty?" he blurted, then clapped his hand across his mouth.
Arth nodded. "Aye. Two against forty. They waited until nightfall and beyond, coming back to Beacontor and lying low until the wee hours. And then they slew the ones they found on watch, and crept into the cotes where the weary Rucks and Hloks now slept, and in the dark and in silence they began cutting throats, their hands held tight across mouths that might scream."
Shuddering, Tip looked at grimacing Beau as Arth paused for another drink of spiced wine, and no one spoke a word.
Again Arth set his mug down. "But before they were done with the slaughter, they were discovered by a sentry they had missed, and the few remaining Spawn came awake.
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