Into the Forge

Chapter 39

contents – previous

The carnage was horrific, the dead and the dying scattered across the field, the wounded crying out in agony, calling for aid. Riderless horses limped midst the slaughter, though other mounts lay dead. And mid the butchery a squealing Helsteed thrashed with broken legs.

O'erwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the task, healers moved among the casualties, rendering what aid they could. Comrades also were afield, giving comfort to their brethren. Still others gathered the stray mounts and led them aside, where they, too, could receive aid.

Squads of warriors with knives or spears in hand strode among the felled, their work bloody and grim.

"Come," gritted Bekki, "we have a task to do."

Tipperton looked up at the Dwarf, an unspoken question in his eyes, yet he followed Bekki into the field.

They came to a downed Ruck, hamstrung by someone's blade, the Ruck feebly scrabbling at the ground and trying to crawl. Bekki grabbed the foe by the hair and jerked his head back and "Bekki, don't!" cried Tip above the Ruck's piglike squeal.

– slit his throat, blackish blood to spew outward.

Bekki dropped the now dead Ruck and looked at Tipper-ton, the buccan pale and trembling and on the verge of vomiting. "Would you have me let him live, heal him?"

"I, uh-"

"He is one of the Grg, a creature of Gyphon," said Bekki, as if that explained all.

"Oh, Bekki, it's not right. He couldn't even defend himself."

"Nevertheless, it must be done," growled Bekki, moving on.

"I can't go with you, Bekki. Not to do this," said Tip, turning away.

Bekki paused. "Did you not tell me on our journey to Mineholt North, Tipperton, that when your mate was slain, you wanted them all dead-all the Ukhs, Hroks, Khols, Helsteeds, Trolls, Rivermen, Kistanee, Chabbans, Hyra-nee, and aught else who sided with Gyphon?"

Tip turned once more toward Bekki. "Yes, Bekki, I said that once. Yet I have since found it gives me no satisfaction to kill Foul Folk. Vengeance does nothing to ease a wounded heart. And no matter how many I slay, it will not bring Rynna back." Tears ran down Tipperton's face. He gestured about the bloody field. "To kill in battle is a necessary thing. But this, this thing you do, this cutting of throats of those who cannot defend themselves, this is murder… just as was the case of the surrogate, for he was without wit, an innocent victim of Modru, and could not defend himself… and neither can these felled foe."

Bekki ground his teeth. "You have much to learn, Tipperton, for in war the object is to win."

"Even at the cost of the innocent, the defenseless? Does a lofty goal excuse the deeds, no matter how evil they are?"

Bekki did not answer, but instead he stared beyond Tipperton, his mouth falling open, agape.

Tipperton turned, and up the slope the gates of Mineholt North swung wide, and beings covered from head to toe in concealing veils came forth, guarded by fierce Dwarven warriors.

And Tipperton knew these were the Chakia, the protected, the sheltered, the shielded, the cherished.

And they moved into the slaughterground, kneeling here and there to aid wounded allies, their deft hands bandaging, applying unguents and salves, and washing clean and stitching closed the cloven wounds.

Bekki hastily sheathed his dagger and took up his war hammer. "I must go with the Chakka and ward the perimeter of this field."

And moving as one, Dwarven warriors set an armed ring of steel about the battleground, for they would have no enemy come upon their beloved Chakia. And in this they were joined by the Dylvana.

"I will aid the healers," called Tipperton after Bekki. And as he turned, he scanned the slope for sign of Beau. And then Tip's gaze found him-"Oh, no!" Tipperton began running among the wounded and dead and dying, down toward the buccan carrying his satchel and trotting through the field alongside Loric, who bore Phais cradled in his arms, the Dara, bare to the waist, not moving at all.

While all about the bloody work of squads of Daelsmen and Baeron went on, making certain all Foul Folk were dead-all Rucks, Hloks, Ghuls, Helsteeds, and even the burnt Trolls.

"Beau, Beau, Lady Phais, is she-"

"No, Tip, but she might be if we don't get some gwyn-thyme in her. I think the arrow was poisoned. We're taking her to the Dwarvenholt."

"Follow me," said Tip. "I know a bit of where we need to go: the kitchens, they'll have hot water."

"Hot coals, too, I would think," said Beau. "We need to cauterize."

Up the slope and through the gates and into the mineholt Tip led them, and then through corridors and to a kitchen.

Veiled Chakia were within.

Loric gently lay Phais on a table, while Beau dragged a chair alongside. As he climbed onto the seat, he called for hot water and a clean teacup and a small bowl, and he rummaged through his bag and drew out a short, thin iron rod with a leather-wrapped fired-clay handle. "Here, Tip. Find some hot coals and stick this in. When the iron glows yellow, let me know."

As Tip turned, a Chakian came to the table, bearing a basin of hot water as well as a cup and bowl. Too, she bore soap and towels. "You must thoroughly wash your hands," she softly said through her concealing veils, "as must all who will tend this Lady Elf."

Beau looked up, his amber eyes widening slightly. "Are you a healer? I could use some help."

Silently the Chakian began to wash her hands, and she set the soap before Beau.

Beau took out the small silver case from his breast pocket and extracted a portion of the precious golden mint, and dropped it into the cup. He poured hot water in after. A refreshing fragrance filled the air.

While it steeped, he washed and dried his hands. He turned back to Phais. "She's bled a lot," he muttered. "Pray to Adon it was enough to leach the poison out." Beau took up the cup and looked at the Chakian. "Yet the wound is deep and so we've got to get this down her."

The Chakian reached out and took the cup and stepped away and fetched a small spoon, then crossed back to the table and began carefully spooning limited amounts into Phais, the Dara swallowing reflexively.

"How's that cauter coming?" Beau called to Tip.

At the stove Tip said, "It's just now turning red."

"Well then, you heard the Lady: get over here and wash your hands," snapped Beau.

Moments later, Tip, with beads of sweat on his brow, handed the yellow-glowing instrument to Beau, and Beau nodded to Loric. "Uncover the wound."

The Alor lifted away the bandage from her chest.

Beau looked closely and glanced across at Loric. "If I use this, she'll never breathe with ease again." He stood in pensive thought for a moment and finally shook his head and handed the glowing cauter back to Tip. "We won't need this."

Tip sighed in relief.

Beau looked at the Chakian. "I need you to spoon a bit of that gwynthyme tea into the wound… ah, yes, a bit more, good, that's enough.

"Now give her the remainder, and when it's gone, put the leaves into the bowl. I need them as a poultice. Now where's my gut and needle?"

A short while later, Beau tied the last knot on the bandage and said, "There, all done." He looked up at Loric and then over to the Chakian. "Her wound will bleed even more if she is not still, and she's lost enough as it is. We need a place where she can rest and remain quiet."

"Thel, Sol Chakian," murmured Loric.

The Chakian turned to Loric, her head canted. "Da tak Chakur?"

"Ti," replied Loric. "Kelek at skal ea. Ea ta Loric."

The Chakian clapped her hands and called out to two Chakia, and they fetched a litter. "Fear not, Guardian," she said to Loric, "for along with other wounded females, we shall bear her to our healing chambers, where she will rest in quiet."

"I will help," sa«d Loric.

The Chakian shook her head, her veils swirling. "Nay. The chambers are in our quarters." She turned to Beau. "Only healers are allowed."

Beau plunged the still hot cautering rod into a basin of water to cool it, then dried it and dropped it in his satchel. Taking up the bag, he said, "Lead the way," and he hopped down from the chair.

Tip and Loric watched them go.

"Come," said Loric at last. "Let us help fetch the steeds, including our own."

A time later, Beau emerged from the Dwarvenholt and moved into the battlefield to help with the injured. And he found Melor on the slopes, deciding who would be next: there were those who could wait, and those who could not, and those yet alive but beyond all help.

It nearly broke Beau's heart to pass these latter by.

From the field, after initial treatment, the wounded were borne into Mineholt North, males carried to one set of quarters, females unto the chambers of the Chakia and given over to their care, for Phais was not the only wounded Dara. Female Baeron, too, were taken unto the Chakia, even though some protested. Yet the Dwarves would have it no other way, for this was their Chakkaholt, and herein females lived in quarters apart.

Chieftain Gara and Coron Ruar accepted this arrangement, for as Gara said, "When in Rhondor, one must live as a Rhondorian."

Throughout the day and into the night, along with the other healers Beau worked feverishly. But when he collapsed into bed at last, all who could be saved had been, and all who could not were not.

Altogether, nearly three quarters of the allies had been wounded-many but minor scathings, others major blows- and of those taking the greater wounds, nearly half had died in battle and more would die in the days to come.

Ruar took a count of the battlefield dead; three and two hundred Daelsmen; twenty-two and one hundred Baeron; forty-six and two hundred Drimma; eighty-four and one hundred Dylvana.

Of the foe, some three thousand of the Foul Folk had been slain altogether, two thousand killed outright during battle, another thousand on the field after.

All the next day funerals were prepared for the dead: the Chakka to be burned on pyres with the broken weapons of their enemies at their feet, while mourners would wail and warriors would swear vengeance; the Baeron to be borne to a wooded vale and in absolute silence be laid to rest 'neath woven bowers; the Daelsmen to be interred in the earth as their feats were shouted to the world; the Dylvana to be burned while their kindred sang.

As he and Tip watched the Daelsmen cutting sod and digging the pits for the burial mounds, "It's not right," muttered Bekki, his hood cast over his head in the Chakka gesture of mourning.

"What's not right?" asked Tip, peering up at Bekki's red face, Tip wondering if the Dwarf were angry or if it was simply the flush from his burns. He had been treated with aloe to hasten healing, yet his face and hands were still ruddy.

"Clean stone or purifying fire is the only true way to honor the dead. Else it will be overlong ere the soul gains freedom to be reborn. This interment in earth, why, roots will catch the soul. No wonder Chakka and Daelsmen are at odds."

Tipperton shook his head but remained silent, even as he noticed that the Daelsmen looked with disfavor upon the building of the great funeral pyre of the Dwarves, and the making of the pyre of the Elves, as well as the Baeron lading wains with their dead to take them into a forest, and muttered of the error of their ways.

So, too, did the Baeron look upon the others and shake their heads as well.

Only the Dylvana seemed to ignore the varying customs in their preparations to sing all souls to the sky.

As to the dead Foul Folk-all three thousand one hundred twenty-though the Dwarves objected, Ruar insisted they should be burned as well. At last Borl assented, for though he believed fire would honor the Grg, still he could not see any other swift way to rid his dale of these dead… and he did not want to leave them to rot upon his very door.

Tip looked over the field of slaughter and sighed. "So many killed, Bekki. So many killed. It seems somehow unfair."

Bekki grunted. "War is not a pleasant game, Tipperton, not a diversion of sport. Fairness has nothing to do with it. There is only the 'rule,' if rule it is, and that is to slay as many of the foe as you can."

"I thought the only rule was to win."

Bekki nodded. "That, too."

"And if you can win without slaughter…?"

Bekki looked down at the buccan. "Not easily done in war."

Tip sighed. "I think that to win a war without slaughter, the victory must come before any battle is fought."

They watched long moments more. Finally Tip said, "Of all who fell, only a few were those I knew."

Bekki's eyes turned grim as flint. "All Chakka who fell were my brothers."

On this second day as well, Beau visited many of the wounded, including Phais in the Chakia healing chambers. When Beau, escorted by a Chakian, came into the infirmary, the Dara was fevered and thrashing about as poison coursed through her veins. Chakia attended her, some bathing her brow with cold spring water while others attempted to hold her still.

And her bandage was seeping red.

"Oh, my," whispered Beau, "I should have burnt the wound."

"Shall I ready a cauter?" asked the Chakian at his side.

Beau shook his head. "It's too late now, for the poison has spread."

"We have tried a sleeping draught," said another of the Chakia. "But the fever gains the upper hand now and again."

Beau nodded and reached into his breast pocket for the silver case. Shortly, and with the help of a Chakia, he managed to get the gwynthyme tea into the Dara. Partway through, she settled into an uneasy sleep.

"I'll be back later," he whispered to Phais as he bandaged the wound again, a fresh poultice laid on. The Dara made no response. And with tears in his eyes, Beau left her side.

The following day, the funerals were held: Chakia wailing, hooded Chakka tearing at their beards and swearing vengeance as smoke twined into the sky; Daelsmen marching 'round mounds and calling out of brave deeds done; Dylvana standing by the roaring pyre and singing; and somewhere in the still woods, Baeron standing silent, while Loric, who had gone with them, stood a distance away and softly sang.

That night the corpses of the Foul Folk were burned, and no one whatsoever grieved, though many there shouted curses.

And in the infirmary Beau spent another dose of his precious gwynthyme.

The next morning Coron Ruar called a meeting of the war council, DelfLord Borl and an elder Dwarf, Berk, attending as well. They met in the great war room of Mine-holt North.

"There are yet seven segments of a Horde in Riamon," said Ruar. "The scouts report that they now drive southeast."

"Not toward the city of Dael?" asked Bwen, her arm in a sling. "I am somewhat surprised."

Loden shook his head. "Dael is a walled city, well protected. They passed it by on the way here. The numbers of the Spawn are even less now; hence they pass it by again."

Borl growled and gestured about. "Mineholt North, carved as it is in the living stone, is even more protected than your city, Prince Loden. Why they came and set siege here instead of there is a mystery to me."

The elder Dwarf cleared his throat. "Once long past in the First Era, Modru proposed an alliance to Breakdeath Durek of the Chakka. Durek turned him down. A time later, Foul Folk cast Durek into the Vorvor, there at Kraggen-cor, some say at the behest of the Enemy. Yet Durek survived, perhaps by the hand of the Utruni. I think this yet galls Modru and he seeks revenge."

"Would he do so after all these years?" asked Tipperton.

"Who knows the mind of Modru?" replied Loden, shaking his head. "Not I."

Brandt cocked an eyebrow. "What would Counsellor Tain have said?"

Loden turned up his hands. "We'll never know, Brandt; Tain's slain body was not found."

"He wasn't slain," blurted Beau. "He ran."

Loden looked at the Warrow. "He what?"

"He ran," repeated Beau. "Fled the conflict-up the hill toward the hospital wains. I saw him as I charged down-slope to get to the fighting."

Loden looked about the table, muscles twitching in his clenched jaw.

Melor cleared his throat. "When Lord Tain reached the top of the hill, he turned eastward, toward Dael."

Rage blazed in Loden's eyes. "Fled from the field of battle, and here I thought him dead, his body hacked apart as were many of those we buried, as were many of those you burned." The Prince clenched a fist and gritted, "But now I find he ran." Slowly Loden unclenched his fingers. "Nevertheless, I will deal with him when next we meet." The Daelsman turned and looked at Ruar. "There is a Swarm within the Rimmen Ring we must deal with first."

"I say we take their toll as they run," said Chieftain Gara. "Hit them hard when they least expect it and then withdraw."

"Harass them, you mean," said Bwen, her words a statement and not a question.

Bekki growled. "I like not this striking from ambush. It has the ring of dishonor."

"How is it different from what we did here?" asked Tip. "I mean, behind their backs we slipped out through the postern in the middle of the night, shrouded in blankets like stone, while their attention was drawn toward those before them in the vale. And then as dawn crept toward us and their regard was full upon the riders and challenges and feints, well then, we struck from the rear. And if that's not an ambush, or the like, well then, I don't know what is."

Bwen burst out in laughter. "Ah, Bekki, he's got you there."

Daelsmen and Baeron joined Bwen in her laughter, while Dylvana and Lian smiled. Even DelfLord Borl cocked an eye at his son and grinned.

"But we were grimly outnumbered," protested Bekki.

"As we are still," said Ruar. Now he looked 'round the table and asked, "How many are fit to ride, and have we enough horses?"

"I tally some thirty-eight and four hundred Daelsmen," said Loden. "As for horses, five hundred twelve."

Gara glanced at Bwen, then said, "Ten and three hundred Baeron, with horses to spare."

And Bwen added, "There will be another five and sixty of us driving wains."

Ruar nodded, then added, "Twenty-five and six hundred Dylvana, and we, too, have the mounts."

"I will pledge two hundred Chakka," rumbled DelfLord Borl, "on ponies, of course. The rest of the Chakka must stay and care for the Mineholt… the wounded as well."

Ruar looked to the right, where sat Tipperton and Beau and Loric. "Ye three and thy wounded companion have done well in our campaign, but ye yet have a sworn mission to fulfill. Even so, ye may choose to ride with us, and we would be glad of it. Still, we know not where the Swarm will lead us, toward Dendor in Aven or away. What say ye?"

Both Beau and Loric turned to Tipperton, and Beau said, "Well go on, bucco. Which way will it be?"

Tip took a deep breath and blew it out and peered down toward the floor. Finally he looked at Bekki and then to Ruar and said, "These past days I've come to realize that no amount of killing of Foul Folk will ease the ache in my heart. I slew all I could in Rimmen Gape, twenty or more, I believe. Another dozen or thereabouts fell to my arrows here-"

"Including two Trolls and a back-stabbing Ukh," said Bekki.

Borl's eyes widened. "You are the one who loosed the red-streaking arrows?"

Tip nodded.

"Elwydd," breathed Borl. "That alone saved the lives of many, mine among them, for I was before one of the Trolls the moment your arrow came and he burst into flames."

Tip threw up a negating hand. "DelfLord Borl, I didn't do it alone. The Dwarves who drenched the Ogrus with the liquid of fire deserve most of the credi-"

"Heed!" called out Borl. "I, Borl, son of Berk and DelfLord of Mineholt North, do here and now name you Chak-Sol. Let all within hearing carry the word forth unto those who should know. So I have said, so shall it be."

"Chak-Sol?" asked Tipperton. "What is-?"

"Dwarf-Friend," said Loric. "Thou hast been named Dwarf-Friend, as was I long past in the Red Hills Drimmenholt."

"But what does it mean?"

Borl smiled. "All secrets, councils, and counsels of my Chakkaholt and of my kindred are yours for the asking."

"Oh, my," said Beau, looking at Tipperton wide-eyed. "Does this mean you'll grow taller and broader in the shoulders and carry an axe?"

Tipperton burst out laughing, his giggles to be joined by guffaws of the entire council.

Finally, Tip held up a hand. "I thank you, my DelfLord, even though I do not think I deserve such an honor. I'll try not to let you down."

Bekki leaned over to Tipperton and growled, "Not likely, Sir Tipperton, not likely."

And Borl's sire, Berk, took up his axe in a gnarled hand and flashed it on high and cried out, "All hal Sir Tipperton, Troll-slayer and Chak-Sol!"

And thrice came the collective shout: Hal! Hal! Hal!

Tipperton's face flushed red. "Really, I don't-"

"Nonsense," snapped Berk. "You do."

Tip held up his hands and said, "I yield," which brought a satisfied murmur of approval from all 'round.

Finally, Ruar cleared his throat and called for quiet. Then he turned to Tipperton. "We await thy decision, Sir Tipperton, named Troll-slayer and Chak-Sol: wilt thou and thy companions ride with us to harass the Swarm, or will ye three bear instead toward Aven?"

Tipperton looked about the circle, then said, "Coron Ruar, though these past weeks I did set it aside, we are sworn to go to Aven. Too, there is one other who is sworn to our mission as well, and that is Dara Phais, sorely wounded. I cannot-we cannot-leave her behind, no matter which course we would choose. Yet my mind is clear now: we will wait for her to heal, and then ride on together: to King Agron in Aven we go; to Dendor if he is there; or to wherever he may be if not."

Bekki's brow furrowed at these words, but Ruar nodded and said, "Ye will be greatly missed, my friends, yet a sworn duty calls ye to go one way whereas we go another. We can do nought but wish ye success. Yet stay, for we have much to decide here today, and thine advice would be most welcome."

Ruar now turned to the remainder of the war council. "I count us thirty-eight and six hundred and a thousand strong, those of us who can ride. We are yet outnumbered 'tween four to one and five. Even so, the Swarm is on the run, and that gives us advantage…"

The council lasted the rest of the day, but in midmorn Beau left, whispering that he had Phais and other wounded to tend. Tip and Loric remained in the council, though neither had much to say.

In midafternoon Beau returned and whispered to Loric and Tip, "No change."

Beau had no more than taken his seat when Bekki turned to Borl and said, "Sire, I must accompany Sir Tipperton into Aven."

At the raised brows of his father, Bekki went on: "Apprenticed as I was to DelfLord Valk in Kachar, I have traveled throughout Rimmen and Aven and know well both of those realms."

Borl held up a hand. "What of our debt to the Dylvana and Baeron and Daelsmen? And who will command here as I ride with them?"

"Sire, that we owe our allies, I cannot dispute. Yet we owe Sir Tipperton as much if not more, for not only did he save your life, but he saved mine as well. And had he not slain the Trolls, the battle would likely have gone the other way. It was his plan we followed which broke the siege.

And this last: he is Chak-Sol of Mineholt North and needs aid. I am among our best warriors, hence I ask leave to go. As to who will command in Mineholt North, my grandsire, your sire, is yet hale."

Berk turned to Borl and said, "He is right, my son, a great debt is owed. As for me, I was DelfLord before, and though it is a burden, and though I would rather ride to battle, if you so choose I will take on the task of holtwarder until you return."

Borl clapped his hand on the shoulder of his father and said, "None better, sire." Then he turned to Bekki. "Aye. You are right, my son, and I give you my leave if he'll have you." He looked at Tipperton. "Will you accept another into your service, Chak-Sol?"

Beau leaned over and whispered to Tip, "Seek the aid of those not men." When Tip turned to his friend with wide eyes, Beau grinned and added, "It's all connected, you know… even to insignificant Warrows such as we."

Tip shook his head and turned to Borl. "Gladly, my DelfLord. Gladly will I have Bekki at my side."

Bekki grinned fiercely as Borl declared, "So he has said, so shall it be."

Over that day and the next, in spite of all the healers could do, more of the severely wounded died, and more funerals were held.

But on the third morn, the Dylvana, Daelsmen, Baeron, and Dwarves rode out on the track of the Swarm, all upon horses but the Dwarves, and they upon sturdy ponies.

Following after went Bwen and her wagons, and though the pursuit of the Swarm would far outstrip her wains, still she and her drivers would be on their trail at need.

Behind in the Chakkaholt remained the wounded, under the protection of the Dwarves until they were fit to ride. As to when that might be, 'twould be sooner for some than others was all Beau and the Dwarven healers would commit to.

And just ere they left, Vail and Melor came to see Tip and Beau, to wish them good fortune and farewell, for Vail was riding with the scouts and Melor as a healer in the vanguard.

Too, came Prince Loden and Prince Brandt, and Chieftain Gara and Wagonleader Bwen, and DelfLord Borl, and lastly Coron Ruar. And they all bid Tip and Beau and Bekki and Loric good-bye, and asked that their regards be conveyed to Dara Phais as well.

And then they were gone, warriors riding and wains rolling down the road toward the city of Dael. And when they had passed from sight, Tipperton, Beau, Bekki, and Loric, along with others, stepped back through the side postern and into the Dwarvenholt, shutting the gate behind.

The following day, as Beau stepped out the door of the chamber he and Tip shared and strode down the hall to make his rounds, behind him Tip called out, "I say, Beau, wait for me. I'll take my lute and go with you to see Lady Phais."

Beau paused until Tip caught up and then strode onward, saying, "Uh, I dunno, Tip. These Chakia, they are mighty close."

"You mean thick with one another?"

"Oh, they're that, all right. But I mean shut to outsiders. -Like the Bosky in troubled times, though instead of a Thornring they are hedged about with iron bars. Only in this case, the Chakia, they don't let males in."

"Well, I think I'll try regardless. The most they can do is turn me away. Besides, you've other patients to treat- male patients, that is-and I might be able to cheer them."

And so when Beau made his rounds Tipperton went alongside, and he played his lute in each of the infirmaries where Beau took him, and all the wounded were glad of it.

As they finally walked toward one of the portcullised halls, Tip said, "I think I'll do this from now on, Beau. It seemed to give them heart."

"My Aunt Rose always said that good spirits make the healing go faster."

Tip sighed. "Perhaps I ought not to play and sing for them, then."

Beau looked at him in puzzlement. "Why ever not?"

"Because, Beau, the faster they heal the sooner they go into battle again, and this time they might be killed."

"Oh."

They rounded a turn and before them stood a portcullis. Beau pulled on a cord at the grille. Somewhere a bell rang.

As they waited, Beau said, "Well, I think you ought to play for them regardless. I mean, perhaps someone who heals faster will prove to be the someone who saves the world from Modru and his ilk. It's all con-"

"-nected," finished Tip. "Yes, Beau, I know."

On the far side of the portcullis, a figure concealed in layers of gossamer veils moved down the hall toward them, silken fabric floating behind.

She stopped at the grillework.

"We have come to treat my patient," said Beau.

"You may pass, Sir Beau, but your friend-"

"I've come to help with the healing, too," said Tip, and he held up his lute. "In my own way, of course. This kind of healing is needed as well."

Now Beau said, "Tip's right, you know. It will help."

Silk shifted leftward as the Chakian canted her head to the side. "Tip? Sir Tipperton? Troll-slayer? Chak-Sol?"

Tipperton swept a wide bow, as wide as a three-foot four-inch Warrow could make. "At your service, my Lady."

Without further word the Chakian stepped back down the hall to a niche-held lever which she threw and a wall-mounted crank which she turned, and silently the portcullis rose in its track.

Beau ducked under when it was high enough, Tipperton following.

Quietly the grille was lowered again and the lever lock thrown once more.

They followed the Chakian through corridors to a large chamber filled with cots, where wounded Dara and female Baeron lay. Here and there veiled Chakia moved among them, administering to their needs. Now Beau came to where Phais lay abed, drifting in and out of consciousness, virulent poison running in her veins. Thin and pale and barely awake, she wanly smiled at him, and her eyes slightly widened at the sight of Tip, though his own heart fell to see the look of her.

"While Beau has come to poke and prod," said Tip, outwardly grinning in spite of his inward dismay, "I've come to play and sing."

"Poke and prod?" huffed Beau, rummaging through his bag. "Poke and prod, indeed."

"Never mind him, Lady Phais," said Tipperton, taking up his lute. "What song would you have?"

Phais paused, her eyes closed, and Tip thought she had fainted, but then she whispered, her voice weak, "Dost thou know 'The Dancing Sprite'? I deem it would lift the hearts of all."

Tipperton grinned. "As you will, my Lady." He looked about and spied a chair and jumped upon its seat. And then his fingers ran across the strings and he began to play, silver notes filling the infirmary with lively sounds, Tipperton raising his voice in song to all:

There was a Sprite, a lovely Sprite,

Who danced within her ring.

And when she danced her lovely dance

She didn 't wear a thing…

… And danced around in sport.

There came a lad, a handsome lad,

Her very own kind, you see.

He peeked through leaves and watched her dance,

And fall in love did he…

… Or something of the sort…

When Tipperton came to the end of the song, laughter echoed throughout the chamber, ranging from weak to hearty. In a bed across from Phais, a Baeran woman with her leg in a cast guffawed and called out, "Served him right, it did," and this brought on more laughter.

Even the Chakia tittered behind their many veils.

As Beau spent his last dose of gwynthyme and prepared a cup of tea, Tip played and sang another song and then another. And he sang several more as a Chakian slowly spooned drifting Phais her drink. And another still as Beau laid on the gywnthyme poultice.

And after each of his songs he was greeted by applause and calls for more.

Finally, though, Beau said, "Come on, bucco, I've more patients to deal with elsewhere, and they can use your songs, too."

And so Tipperton called out, "I must now leave"-his announcement to be met by a chorus of disappointed

Ohs-"yet I shall return on the morrow," and many called out, Please do.

Tip sprang down from the chair and went to Phais. "Get well, my Lady, oh please."

Phais, her eyes closed, whispered, "I fully intend to do so, my wee friend."

As they strode away, a Chakian at their side, Beau said, "I dunno, Tip. That was the last of the gwynthyme, and if it doesn't work… Oh, I should have run the cauter into the wound, even though the scars would have done ill things to her breathing ever after. I should have. I should have."

"This gwynthyme, Beau, don't the Dwarves have any?"

Striding beside Tip, the Chakian said, "Nay, we do not. Gwynthyme is a rare thing, and we have none."

"Elwydd," said Tip, a one-word prayer.

Late in the night, Tip was awakened by Beau coming into the chamber they shared. Beau was weeping.

Sitting upright, Tip asked, "What is it, Beau?"

"Lady Phais," said Beau.

"Oh, no," moaned Tip.

"No, no, Tip, it's not that she's dead or anything. It's quite the opposite: finally, finally, her color is good and her breathing truly not labored. Oh, Tip, she's sleeping peacefully. The gwynthyme has burnt out the poison at last."

The buccen embraced one another, tears running down their faces.

"Come on, Beau, let's go tell Loric."

The next day Tipperton again accompanied Beau on his rounds, each buccan in his own way administering to the wounded. When they came to the Chakia infirmary, they found Phais sitting up in her bed, a veiled Chakia at her side and feeding the Dara her first good meal in days, meting out small spoonfuls. Even though Phais was eating, she was yet weak, exhausted. Still, as Beau had said, her color was much better.

The Dara spied the Warrows nearing and smiled, and Beau said, "Oh, my, Phais, but you are looking quite splendid."

Phais reached out and took Beau's hand, her grip weak. " 'Twas thy ministrations, Beau."

Beau looked down, shaking his head. "The credit is due to Lady Aris."

"Aris? In Arden Vale?"

Beau nodded. "Yes. She is the one who gave me the gwynthyme. Without it I don't think you'd have survived. The arrow was poisoned, the wound deep."

"It was Vulg poison," said the Chakia, her voice soft.

"Vulg poison?" asked Tip. "How do you know this?"

"Nought else is so baneful, and this was delivered deep."

"Oh," said Tip, looking at Phais, the Dara nodding in agreement.

Now Tip took up his lute. "What will you have, my Lady?"

Phais sighed. "I would see my beloved."

"Loric?" asked Tip, then slapped himself in the head and growled, "Of course it's Loric, you ninny." He turned to the Chakia. "Surely you can allow Alor Loric in to see his beloved."

Her veils shifted as she looked at the buccan. "Nay."

"But it would do her a world of good," protested Tip.

"He is male," said the Chakia.

Tip's mouth fell open and he gestured at Beau, then tapped his own chest. "You let these two males in."

"He is a healer; you are Chak-Sol."

Tip's eyes widened. "But wait, Loric is Chak-Sol, too."

The Chakia stopped her spooning of the thin stew and looked at Tipperton. "Which holt?"

"Urn, the Red Hills."

Now the Chakia resumed her spooning. "I will speak with Lord Berk."

The following day, Alor Loric visited his love, and he held her gently, tears streaming down his face.

Days passed, and mid-October came and went, and even as the hillside trees turned to gold and scarlet and orange, the healing of wounds progressed and the number of funerals declined, until there were no more who would die from this battle, the survivors on the mend. Even so, the wound of Dara Phais healed slowly, as sorely damaged and poisoned as she was.

And still Tipperton made the rounds with Beau and played his silver-stringed lute.

And came the waning days of October, leaves now russet and brown and falling to swirl in the chill wind. And still Phais lay abed. Yet in this time under the ministrations of Beau and the healers, others improved, some slowly, some rapidly. And some were declared fit, and these asked for horses and arms and armor, and they rode away to join the allies in harassing the Swarm. And as each or several rode away from the mineholt, Tipperton stood and watched them go, wondering if any would prove to be a linchpin and bring Modru tumbling down. After all, perhaps Beau was right, for it truly did seem, like ripples on a pond, a given event led to other events, all intermingling. As Beau would say, all is connected.

And so Tip would watch them ride away and wonder what the future would bring. And when they were gone from sight, he would turn and enter the mineholt once more, the warders closing the side postern behind.

The final day of October came, and with it the first snowfall, lightly powdering the ground, but it was melted away by midafternoon. On this day as well, Phais was allowed to rise from her bed for the very first time.

Weak and trembling she did so, Loric at her side. And he escorted her to the privy, for she swore that e'en had she to crawl, she would no longer use the pan.

In celebration Tip took up his lute there in the infirmary and played the song he only knew as "Chakian Singing." And when the Chakian heard him, they gathered 'round and sang, their sweet voices filling the chamber and echoing down the halls, and folk stopped to listen wherever they were.

Loric wept to hear their words, for in Chakur did they sing, yet he never spoke of it in any of the days thereafter.

Autumn marched into November, and more snow swirled down, yet in the Dwarvenholt all was snug and secure.

And no word came from the allies as to how fared the war.

In mid-November Phais began reaching and stretching and bending, her body pulling against scar tissue, and in late November she was fit enough to leave the infirmary. On the same day she was discharged, after moving her goods into Loric's quarters, she took up her sword and followed him to the great exercise room, where she drilled with her lover at blades.

On the first day of December a great blizzard flew. By Modru 's hand, some whispered. He is the master of cold, and it is his season.

Yet in the Dwarvenholt all was warm.

Some ten weeks after she had been wounded, Phais declared she was fit to ride, and nigh dawn three days later, she and Loric, Beau and Tipperton, went to the infirmary to bid the Chakia good-bye. And as they did so, Tipperton stood on a chair and played one last song, and when he was done he jumped down from the seat and stooped to place his lute in its velvet bag and then into the leather one. One of the Chakia came to Phais and turned her back to all others, and she drew aside the veils at her face to kiss the Dara good-bye, and that was the moment when across the bed Tip stood with his enwrapped lute… and Tip's eyes widened at the sight of the Chakian's face. "Oh, my," he said. "Oh, my."

As they passed from the Chakia quarters and into the main Dwarvenholt, Tip said, "She was so beautiful and didn't look at all like a Dwar-"

"Hush, Tipperton," admonished Phais. "Speak of this no more."

Beau looked at Tipperton's yet surprised face. "Huah," grunted Beau. "I wonder what this is all connected to?"

Phais frowned at Beau, and he, too, fell to silence.

They came to the main gate chamber, and there stood Bekki and his grandsire, Berk. At hand were three saddled ponies and four horses, two saddled and two laden with goods.

Berk looked at the two Waerans as they drew on their quilted-down winter gear. "Take care, little healer," he said to Beau. "You, too, Troll-slayer, Chak-Sol." Now he turned to Phais and Loric. "Farewell, Guardians, may Elwydd keep you all."

Lastly Berk embraced Bekki and slapped him on the back, yet all he could manage to say was, "Chakka shok, Bekki, Chakka cor."

"Aye, Grandsire, holtwarder," replied Bekki, wiping his eyes.

Bidding farewell, the five of them led the animals out through the side postern into the frigid air, their breath blowing white in the chill.

Pulling on his gloves, Tip mounted, as did they all.

He looked about at the snow-laden peaks rearing into the frozen sky, ice glittering in the diamond-bright cold winter sun. It was the fifteenth of December and a scintil-lant blanket lay over all.

Taking up the reins of his pony, he said, "Come on, my friends, let's ride. We've a coin to deliver."

And down from the mountain they rode.

It's all connected, you know.

Follow Tip and Beau further into danger… further into adventure… further into the fire.