"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."
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."
Rynna nodded and, linking her arm through Tipperton's, said, "Then that's where we'll go look." And she set off across the bailey, pulling Tip along, and he looked in wonder at her arm circling his… and tripped.
As they wound their way through the labyrinthine hallways of the caer, with its many twists and turns and shadowy corners and corridors, Tip, his bedroll and other belongings in hand, asked, "What are so many Warrows doing in Caer Lindor?"
Rynna made a low sound in her throat, and Tip thought it a growl. "The Rucks and Hloks and other such drove us here."
"Oh, my," said Beau.
"Oh, my, indeed," replied Rynna bitterly.
She came to a cross corridor and led them rightward. She glanced at Tip and sighed. "We lived in Springwater, a village on the Rissanin up beyond Eryn Ford, up near the headwaters along the Rimmen Range."
"The mountains," said Tip, remembering the maps he had seen.
"Yes. North and east of here."
Tip groaned, and Beau said, "North and east, eh? That's the way to Aven, right?"
"Aven? Yes. Or rather it would be the way were a Horde not standing athwart. But Aven itself lies far beyond Springwater. Beyond Riamon, in fact."
"I'm sorry, Ryn," said Beau. "I interrupted."
Rynna shrugged.
"There's not that much to tell, Beau. As I was saying, our village lies some fifty leagues upstream, up the River Rissanin… er, rather I should say, it used to lie up there, but no more: the Horde entirely destroyed it. We had small warning that they were coming, and less than half of us survived the initial onslaught." They came to another cross hall, where Rynna turned leftward. As they started down this way, she clenched a fist. "Those of us with weapon skills remained behind and fought, delaying the Foul Folk vanguard, leading them astray, while granthers and granddams and buc-can and damman, some with younglings in their arms, made their way toward the safety of Darda Erynian, where the Dyl-vana and the Hidden Ones dwell."
Beau gulped but did not speak.
"After we had covered the flight of the others unto the safety of the forests, we turned upon the foe, raiding, ambushing, and taking down lone patrols. But in all they were too many for us, though we gave good account of ourselves."
Again Rynna sighed. "Yet no matter how well laid our plans, still there were casualties. Finally we-" Abruptly Rynna stopped before a hallway door. "Oh, here we are."
Rynna reached up and slipped the latchstring. "You can bunk in here," she said, pushing open the panel to reveal a small room, small for a Human or Elf, that is, but quite adequate for Warrows.
"These used to be Elven monks' cells, I am told," said Rynna, stepping inward, Tip and Beau following. "They worshipped someone called the Great Creator."
"We've heard of the Great Creator," said Tip. "-But go on with your tale."
"Oh, that. There's little more. When we were driven into the woods, we knew that we would need help in the destruction of the Horde, and so we came here. -Say, is that a lute?"
Tip nodded as he placed the instrument in its casings on one of the two bunks.
Rynna smiled at him. "I play a pennywhistle and I know quite a few tunes. Do you think we can make music together?"
Beau laughed and dropped his bedroll on a locker at the foot of his bunk.
"O-o-oh, yes," said Tip. "Though I don't know very many songs."
"I'll teach you some then… but later. For now we've got to get to the war room. Silverleaf awaits."
Into the Forge hc-1 Page 27
