Into the fire

Chapter 18

The air went out of Tip's lungs. Blenching, he turned to Bekki, tears flooding the buccan's eyes, and he fell to his knees.

Captain Brud leapt forward to aid Tipperton, but Bekki was there before him. With a flinty gaze, Bekki looked up at the soldier who had blurted out the woeful news and then back to the captain. "Dead? Beau is dead?"

Brud cast his aide a withering glance, then turned to Bekki and Tip. "We are told he died this morning."

Tip struggled to his feet. "Oh, let us hie to the prison. I would see him one more time ere they burn him with the others."

Through the twisting way under the walls they hurried, and beyond the inner gate a mounted escort waited. Captain Brud sprang to the back of a horse and said, "Come. I will lead the way."

Now astride their ponies, Tip and Bekki rode into the city, mounted soldiers fore and aft. Along the narrow streets they ran, hooves aclatter on the cobbles. Past shattered doors and broken windows they went, and buildings burnt to nought but charred shells. Through soldier-warded barricades they passed, Captain Brud's orders opening the way. Soldiers afoot and on patrol watched as they cantered by, as did citizens from windows above, citizens pale with fear and shouting imprecations. It was clear that dread ruled the city, as in the days of the Gargon, though no Gargon this; for a Gargon could be slain, but what, by Adon, would slay a plague?

None of this ruin and fear did Tipperton note, for his chest was hollow, his heart numb, his mind filled with grief.

Oh, if only we'd come earlier… If only…

At last they drew up before the gates of the prison. Bekki sprang down and helped Tipperton to dismount. "Bring those three large sacks," he snapped at Captain Brud, then at Tipperton's side stepped to the prison gate.

A soldier on duty stood across their path. "You cannot go in."

"Out of the way," growled Bekki, his knuckles white on the haft of his war hammer.

Confusion filled the soldier's eyes, and he turned to Captain Brud. "Let them pass," called the captain, but Bekki had already shoved by, Tipperton in hand.

Toward the prison doors they strode, Brud and two others following, these latter three each bearing a sack of gwynthyme.

As they entered the prison, a man at an entryway table looked up and protested, "Here now-"

"Sir Beau Darby, where does he lie?" snapped Bekki.

The man looked to Captain Brud, who nodded.

"Third floor"-the man pointed at a flight of stairs- "that way. The Alfs are-"

But Bekki did not stop to listen to what the man said, and instead with Tipperton headed up the steps.

Up they went and up, cries of delirium and pain echoing through the halls and along the walls of the stairwell. On the way up they passed two white-clothed men coming downward, bearing a litter on which a small corpse lay.

Tip drew in his breath. "Is it-?" No, it was instead a child: nought but skin and bones and black boils.

On up went Bekki and Tip, Brud following, the captain yet bearing a sack. Of the other two soldiers, there was no sign.

They reached the third floor and stepped through an iron-barred gate standing open. Down a central hallway they went, open-gated cells left and right, cells filled with the beds of the sick and dying, stricken people moaning in pain, fevered, covered with pus-running boils and writhing in agony, some not stirring at all. White-clothed people moved among the victims, soothing brows with cloths of cold water, feeding them sips of a liquid, closing the eyes of the dead and drawing sheets over their bodies.

They came at last to the cell where Phais and Loric sat vigil. And at hand in one of the cots was a small form. It was Beau. Gaunt, wasted, boils oozing, darkness in his armpits and groin, Beau lay unmoving. Tip gasped, a trembling hand flying to his mouth upon seeing Beau's emaciated frame.

Weeping, Tip stepped to the bedside. "Oh, Beau, Beau, why did you have to catch this awful scourge. Why did you have to go and di-"

A shallow breath rattled through Beau's cracked lips and into his lungs.

"He's not dead!" cried Tipperton. "Bekki, Phais, Loric, he's not dead!" Tip fell on his knees beside the bed and grasped one of Beau's limp hands. "Oh, Beau, you're not dead."

Phais knelt beside the buccan and circled an arm about him. "Not yet, Tipperton, but soon. Soon."

"Not if we can help it," snarled Bekki. "We've brought gwynthyme." Bekki turned and snatched the sack from Captain Brud.

Phais's eyes widened and she looked back at Bekki. "Gwynthyme? Ye twain were successful?"

He dropped the bag beside her. "Aye. That we were."

Phais's eyes widened. "So much?"

"There's two more bags like it," said Bekki, turning to Brud.

"Downstairs at the entry," said the captain.

"Oh my," said Phais.

"A tisane of gwynthyme and silverroot," said Bekki. "That is what Beau said."

Loric's fingers flew as he untied the sack. "Aye, he did, but what proportions the ingredients?"

Anguished, Bekki shook his head.

Loric snatched out a cloth-wrapped bundle of sprigs and turned to Tip. "Tipperton, dost thou remember the proportions?"

"Proportions?"

"How much gwynthyme to silverroot."

Tip frowned, trying to remember. "I think he said in equal measure. Yes, half and half, that's what I recall."

"Swift, chier," urged Phais as Loric darted away, "there is not much time."

Another shallow breath rattled in and out of Beau.

And then another.

And another…

Within a candlemark Loric returned, a steaming cup in hand. "Whether or no this is in equal measure only Adon can say."

"Pray to Elwydd it is so," said Bekki.

Loric spooned small amounts of the brew into Beau's lips, while Tip held the buccan's hand and Phais held Tip to her. Bekki paced back and forth, and Captain Brud squatted in the cell door.

As Bekki came past the captain for perhaps the hundredth time, Brud said, "Lord Bekki, I just recall: a Dvarg emissary in King Agron's halls awaits your return."

Bekki stopped his pacing. "An emissary?"

"Aye. From Mineholt North, he said. Rode to our gates in August. Insisted on waiting for you. Wouldn't take no for an answer. King Agron himself came and talked to him, and then allowed the emissary in, though he did send the Dvarg escort away. I think they are quartered in a farmhouse nigh."

"Do you know why they have come?"

Brud shook his head.

"There," said Loric, setting aside the empty cup and spoon, "it is done. Now all we can do is wait."

In the early candlemarks of the morning, Beau's breathing eased. Phais laid a hand on the buccan's brow, then said, "His fever has diminished."

Tip burst out in tears.

Loric took up the bag of gwynthyme. "I will instruct the healers in the way of its preparation."

Brud stood. "Lord Bekki, I will escort you to the palace." Brud turned to Tipperton. "You, too, wee one. You need the rest."

Tip rubbed a sleeve across his eyes and shook his head. "No thank you, captain; I'll sleep on the floor right here."

Phais reached out to the buccan. "Nay, Tipperton, for the risk is high that thou wilt come down with the scourge should thee stay."

As Tip started to stubbornly shake his head, Brud said, "The muster, my friend, we must soon answer. And better a healthy scout than a sick one."

Tip's shoulders slumped. "The muster. I had forgotten." He turned to Beau and squeezed the unconscious buccan's hand. "I'll be back on the morrow, bucco, you can count on that. You get better, you hear me?"

Beau did not respond in any manner whatsoever.

As they entered the palace, a footman leapt to his feet. "My Lord Bekki, you are back."

Bekki cocked an eyebrow at the footman.

"My lord, I have been instructed to have you wait in the anteroom while I fetch Emissary Dalk."

"Dalk is here?"

"Aye."

Bekki looked at Tip, and at the buccan's frown, Bekki said, "From Mineholt North. He has a yellow beard."

"Oh yes. Now I remember. One of the council of captains."

As Tip and Bekki stepped into an anteroom, the servant hurried away.

Within a candlemark, yet buttoning a shirt, Dalk hurried into the chamber and knelt.

Bekki's face blanched to see such a move.

Dalk glanced at Tipperton.

"He is Chak-Sol," said Bekki, his voice but a whisper, his fists clenched as if for a blow.

"I bear ill tidings, DelfLord Bekki, your sire, DelfLord Borl, is dead."

"Oh no," said Tipperton, dismayed.

Bekki's knuckles went white on his clenched fists. "How?"

"A Squam arrow in the Skarpal Mountains."

Bekki slammed the butt of a fist to a table, the wood splitting with the force of the blow, Tipperton jumping in startlement.

"We wreaked great vengeance," said Dalk.

Slowly, Bekki released his clenched hands and cast his hood over his head in the Chakka gesture of mourning. A silence fell upon the room for long moments. Finally Bekki asked, "The mineholt?"

"It is in Lord Berk's capable hands. Even so, DelfLord, your holtwarder grandsire calls you back, for war burns upon the land and the mineholt needs your rule."

Yet covered with dark pus-running boils and black buboes in armpits and groin, Beau did not waken the following day. Even so, his fever continued to abate and his breathing to ease, and he took water and kept it down.

The day after as Tip sat vigil beside the bed, just as Phais stopped by to see to the buccan, Beau opened his eyes and smiled wanly at Tip.

"Oh, Beau, Beau, I thought we had lost you. Captain Brud said you were dead."

Beau weakly lifted a finger and beckoned, and when Tip leaned down to hear, Beau whispered, "The report of my death was quite premature."

Tipperton laughed, and Beau faintly smiled, but Phais shook her head. "By less than a candlemark, I ween."

Beau's hand dropped back to the cover, and he closed his eyes. Tip waited, but it soon became apparent that Beau's exhausted body demanded sleep.

"Come, Tipperton, we do not want to overtire him," said Phais.

As they walked out from the makeshift infirmary, Tip asked, "What of the other patients?"

"All but a handful are responding to the infusion."

"Getting better, you mean?"

"Aye. It seems that Beau has struck upon a thing sought after for untold ages: a sweeping cure for the plague."

The news flashed throughout the city, yet the quarantine was held in place, for before lifting it the king would be certain that all was as it seemed. Nevertheless, the citizens celebrated, for Litenfolk and Elves and Dvargs could not be wrong, now could they? And in the palace, Agron breathed a sigh of relief, for a fear-driven revolt was averted, though but barely. He sent criers throughout the city, proclaiming the quarantine would be set aside as soon as all was deemed well. The criers also proclaimed the king's amnesty for any crimes short of murder committed during the panic of the past month. And the citizens themselves, casting about for any excuse, laid the guilt for such acts on the doorstone of Modru.

Within the week it was clear that the combination of gwynthyme and silverroot was effective, and instead of six out of seven falling to the scourge, only one in a hundred died… and these perhaps from complications rather than from the plague itself. And so the king declared the city open. The gates were cast wide, but only a few people seized the opportunity to flee Dendor, for wonder of wonders, something had been found which would entirely slay the plague.

Yet none had the heart to tell the citizenry that silverroot, plentiful in Dendor, only grew in certain places, and gwynthyme, golden gwynthyme, was extremely rare in spite of the surplus the healers now enjoyed.

During this same sevenday, the king readied for his journey west to the muster at Alvstad. And Tipperton, too, prepared for the day of leaving. Even so, he spent many a candlemark at Beau's bedside, chatting with his ill friend and playing his lute and singing to all of the stricken.

As for Beau, within a day of his regaining consciousness he began taking broth for sustenance; and the next day he ate soup and bread sopped with the liquid; and finally he ate a bit of solid food on the day after. "This grub will put some meat back on those bones of yours," said Tip as he carried a full tray into the cell on that third day.

Slowly the pustulant boils began to recede and the black buboes to wane. Nevertheless, Beau looked a mess, or so he did say the day he caught his reflection in the small mirror from his medical bag, a glass he used to check for breath and breathing.

"Captain Brad, he said I was dead, eh?"

"Not Brud, Beau, but an aide instead, though it was just a repeated rumor," replied Tip. "He has since apologized."

Beau took one last look in the mirror. "Well I can't say I blame the one who started the rumor for thinking so; I'm quite ghastly, you know."

"Beau, if you think you look bad now, you should have seen yourself three days past. I mean, you looked-" Of a sudden Tip's eyes flooded. "Oh, Beau, I thought you were dead."

Beau's own eyes filled with tears. "So did I, Tip. So did I." And he reached out and squeezed Tip's hand.

Tip smiled and then looked at the buccan. "But you didn't die, Beau, and that's all that counts… that and finding a cure for the plague."

Beau's eyes widened. "Oh my, I did, didn't I? Even so, I wish it had been twenty-five or thirty or more years ago and by someone other than me."

Tip raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

"Well, if any had known of it back then, perhaps my parents would still be alive."

"Oh. I see."

The buccen fell to silence, each wrapped in memories and thoughts, but after a while Tip said, "Bekki's leaving in a day or so; he's DelfLord of Mineholt North, you know."

"Yes, and I am terribly sorry that his da was killed. I told him so yesternight."

Tip looked out the barred slit of a window. "I'll be leaving too. Riding in the king's cavalcade. The muster in Alvs-tad is but three or so weeks hence. Agron says we'll be using remounts, for time is short but the journey long."

"Oh, right." Beau sighed, then said, "I'll follow when I'm better."

"Oh, Beau, I'd rather you'd not. It will be perilous in Gron, and-"

Beau thrust out a negating palm. "All the more reason I need to be there, Tip. I mean, who's going to take care of you when and if you require healing."

Tip smiled wanly. "I don't plan on needing any stitching or other such, bucco. Besides, your healing is wanted here."

"Not so. The plague is as good as gone, what with the gwynthyme you and Bekki brought back, and the locals can deal with whatever else needs doing. No, bucco, as soon as I can, I'm coming after you. I'm certain that it will take the two of us Litenfolk to throw Modru down."

Tip grinned and shrugged, and Beau smiled in return. Yet of a sudden Beau's face took on a serious cast. "See here, Tip, we don't really know what the future will bring… but the fact that we are separating must mean something. Look, everything that happens has some bearing on events as yet untold. It's all connected, you know."

Tip laughed aloud and then said, "Let us just hope that by me leaving now and you coming later, well, that it is for the best."

Again a silence fell between them. Tip took up his lute and strummed a few soft chords. But then Beau said, "Oh, did I tell you that Phais and Loric believe that a firemoun-tain on Atala blew up, and mayhap the entire island has sunk?"

Tip set aside his lute. "Because of the blast we heard ringing 'round the world?"

"That and the dust which fell here. Did any fall on you and Bekki?"

Tip nodded. "Yes. From the west it came, flowing over the sky and then falling down. Bekki said it was rock dust, perhaps from a firemountain, and the only firemountain he knew of west of here was Karak on Atala."

Beau drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out. "Karak, yes. Phais said that many Elves and others lived nigh the slopes, and when it exploded, well, it killed them all, all in one terrible blast, and that was the awful doom she and Loric felt that dreadful day. She said others lived on that isle-Humans, Dwarves, Hidden Ones, even some War-rows-but it was the deaths of so many Elves all at once that blew through them like an ill wind."

"Oh my," said Tip. "Oh my."

Three days later in early morn, Tip came to Beau's bedside. Bekki came as well, along with Phais and Loric. Even King Agron came to see Beau, for this was the day of parting: Bekki was going with his Dwarven escort back to Mineholt North. And now that the plague was well in hand, Phais and Loric would ride southerly with Bekki and the Dwarves until they came to the Landover Road, the Dwarves to turn west and the Lian to continue south, for the Elves were sworn to deliver Agron's message to High King Blaine along with a small pewter coin. As for Agron and Tip, they were heading to Alvstad. And for the moment, wan and weak, Beau would go nowhere, confined to his bed as he was.

But on this morning, King Agron stood at the side of the frail buccan's bed. "Sir Beau, not only did you save Dendor, but the whole of Mithgar owes you a debt it can never repay, for ever has the plague beset all folk, and you have found the cure. Others have been named Hero of the Realm, but I name you Hero of the Entire World."

"Hear, hear!" said Tip.

Under the remaining dark pustules, Beau blushed. "Oh, I'm not a hero at all, not like everyone here-"

"Nonsense," snapped Bekki. "King Agron is right, and I here and now proclaim you Chak-Sol of Mineholt North, Beau Darby, Master of the Plague. So I have said; so shall it be."

"Oh my," said Beau, as Tip grinned.

Agron now turned to Tipperton. "Sir Tipperton, I know you are pledged to ride scout for me. Yet this I say: instead of joining my winter campaign in Gron, mayhap you and Beau should go with the Lian Guardians and represent the interests of the Litenfolk to High King Blaine, wherever he may be."

Tip glanced at Phais and Loric, friends he had come to love. It would be so easy to go with them and search for the High King rather than ride into the cold wastes of Gron. He gazed down at the floor, remembering the courageous young man who had saved his life at his mill. Tip looked back up at Agron. "Nay, my lord, I am pledged to you to avenge the death of Dular. A scout I am, and a scout I will be."

Agron then looked at Beau, that buccan to shake his head. "Nay, my lord, wherever Tip goes, so will I go. We started this war together, and together we will be when it ends. That we are separated is temporary, or so I do believe. Besides, you will need healers in this winter campaign, after all, and you can use my hands. I'm a hero, you know; you said so yourself."

And so it was decided: the comrades would go their separate ways-three south, one west, and one to remain behind until he was well enough to follow.

Agron glanced at the light beyond the prison window; outside, snow had begun drifting down. " 'Tis time we were going, Sir Tipperton, on this winter morn." One by one, Agron looked at the others. "Fare ye well, Sir Beau. Fare ye well DelfLord Bekki, Dara Phais, Alor Loric. May Adon watch over ye all." Agron turned on his heel and strode down the passageway.

Bekki growled, "Would that I were going into Gron with you, Tip, to lay Grg by the heels." Bekki then smiled at Beau. "Hear me, Chak-Sol: when you are well enough to follow Tipperton, take plenty of bullets for your sling, for surely you will need them."

Beau nodded, then said, "Oh, Bekki, that reminds me. Take a goodly amount of the gwynthyme and silverroot back to your mineholt; the Chakia will need it there. And, you, Phais and Loric, take some silverroot and gwynthyme, too. You as well, Tip, you as well; you never know when it will come in handy."

Phais nodded and then leaned down and kissed Beau on the cheek in spite of his pustules. "Take care, wee one. We shall meet again."

Loric also kissed Beau, and laid a hand on the buccan's thin shoulder. "I, too, think we shall meet again, little one."

"Oh, Phais, Loric, Bekki, Tip, it is as if I am losing everyone I love."

"Nonsense," said Tip, embracing his friend, "we shall meet again soon. After all, you said it yourself: everything is connected."

"Connected, yes, but that doesn't mean we will all meet again."

Bekki shrugged. "In this war, who can say?"

A horn cry drifted in through the window slit.

"Oh my, Beau, I've got to go now," said Tip, catching up his lute. "Get well, and soon."

"I will, bucco, and you can wager on it."

Bekki, Phais, Loric, and Tip: they all stepped from the prison cell. "Remember," cried Beau, his voice tight with emotion, "stop by the healer station and get gwynthyme and silverroot to take with you."

Beau heard Tipperton call back, "We will," and there came a chord on the lute, and Tipperton's voice lifted in song:

Oh-fiddle-dee hi, fiddle-dee ho,

Fiddle-dee hay ha hee.

Wiggle-dee die, wiggle-dee doe,

Wiggle-dee pig die dee.

Once there was a very merry man

Who came to Boskledee…

Tipperton's voice faded away as he went down the hall and into the stairwell. And Beau sat propped in his bed, tears running down his face, humming along with Tip's song, Beau's favorite: "The Merry Man of Boskledee."

Long moments later Beau heard a second horn cry, followed by the shouting of voices and the clack of hooves on the cobbles below, the ching of arms and armor and the clatter of the cavalcade to fade into the distance…

… And then he could hear nothing more but the silence of the prison.