The next day, though snow yet fell, on southward and down they pressed, the wagons and wains and horses struggling through high drifts. Yet the farther they went, the less the fall, the less that covered the ground. For here the warm wind of the past days had scoured the land clean, and the new-fallen snow lay shallow.

"We now come to the river, Tipperton," said Ilea, the sun low to the horizon. "Recall, if battle comes upon us, I will slow long enough for you to leap from the chariot. Irana and I will return when all is done."

Tip nodded, his lute and pack and bedroll now strapped to his back, his bow in hand, his quiver at his thigh, for the Vanadurin scouts had come riding in with the news that Alvstad was destroyed. And though the scouts had seen no Foul Folk and reported the ruins looked to be weeks old, still Hrosmarshal Hannor had ordered the Vanadurin to be battle ready.

Through the light of the afternoon sun, Tip looked back up the slope at the chariot behind and saw that Beau was poised as well, and down the embankment and across the shallows they fared, Alvstad ahead, the palisade shattered, charred timbers beyond, black burn jutting up through windblown layers of white.

"Retribution, I would say," said Tip, averting his gaze from the remains of those who had been slain, remains for the most part now covered by snow, "for here was held the muster of Agron's army."

"Just plain evil, if you ask me," said Beau, his breath frosty on the air.

Tip gestured toward the charred stables. "Well, Beau, the ponies we were counting on are all gone-"

"Probably eaten by the maggot-folk," gritted Beau, slamming a fist into palm.

Tip nodded, then said, "I've seen enough. Let us get back to the camp."

Up the snowy hill they trudged and over the crest and through the ring of pickets beyond.

South fared the Vanadurin and south, crossing a ford on the North Rimm River that day and the South Rimm River the one after, the ring of Rimmen Mountains running out of the east and curving south. Through the foothills they wended, the days growing longer, the nights shorter. Late in the third day after leaving Alvstad, they sighted a forest before them; it was the northern reach of Darda Erynian, and even the Vanadurin looked upon the yet-barren woodland with chary eyes, for no matter what its name-Darda Erynian, the Great Greenhall, Blackwood-the repute of the forest was ill, though Tipperton said otherwise. Even so, when Dediana and Linde looked to Beau, that buccan shook his head and said, "There's dark things in there, even though we travelled its length."

East they turned for a day, skirting 'round the marge, then south the following day, riding between the Rimmens on their left and the woodland on their right, a quarter of the Vanadurin before them, three-quarters coming after. And now only occasionally did snow lie on the land, for in spite of all, spring seemed to march on its inexorable path: grass underfoot and -hoof was turning green; new buds could be seen on the Blackwood trees, and returning birds flew among the branches and sang their territorial songs of mating; and the air had the smell of melt and of earth and of water running. Even so, the nights were yet quite chill, though the recent days had been warmer.

That night, Tip and Beau asked permission to see Hrosmarshal Hannor, and they were led by Dediana to his fire. There they found a tall slender man, dark-haired with greying temples. With hawklike eyes he looked at the Waldfolc as Dediana said, "Hrosmarshal Hannor, this is Sir Tipperton Thistledown and Sir Beau Darby, those I've been telling you of."

Without glancing at Dediana, he said, "So these are the passengers you bear south."

"In my wain and one other, hrosmarshal, that of the twins."

Hannor grinned, then said, "Which of you is the healer?"

"U-uh, that'd be me, sir," said Beau, stepping forward.

Hannor sat down on a nearby rock and in the firelight held out a hand, forefinger extended. "I have this splinter…"

Beau frowned. "Have you a pin? A needle will do."

"Arald!" called the hrosmarshal. "A pin or needle."

Moments later, a Harlingar youth stepped from the shadows, a needle in hand.

Beau took up a burning brand and as he gingerly passed the needle back and forth through the flame, Tipperton said, "Sir, there is a Horde somewhere along this eastern marge of Blackwood, or at least there was when last we were here."

Beau frowned and took Hannor's finger in hand and began picking at the splinter. "Half a Horde, Tip. Remember?"

Tip nodded. "Aye, we heard from Dara Cein that half had been destroyed by the Hidden Ones as they fled from the ruins of Caer Lindor."

Hannor cocked an eyebrow. "Five segments, eh? And somewhere along this merge?"

"Yes sir. Down along the River Rissanin."

"How recent is this news?"

"Um"-Tip thought back-"some twenty months, now."

Beau nodded.

Hannor shook his head. "A bit more than a year and a half, eh? Well then, it's not likely they yet roam this bound, for what would be their mission with Caer Lindor now gone as you say?"

Tip turned up a hand and said, "Perhaps they are holding Eryn Ford."

"Perhaps they are along this marge to keep the Hidden Ones from marching south to Caer Pendwyr," said Beau. Then, "Ah, got it." He held up the needle, a small splint of wood impaled on the point. He showed it to the hros-marshal and said, "I'd stick that finger of yours in some brandy if I were you, sir."

"Hmph, a waste of good brandy, Sir Beau."

"Nevertheless," said Beau, handing the needle to Arald.

Hannor glanced up at the youth. "A tot of brandy, my lad."

Arald stepped into the shadows once again, and Hannor said, "Not likely that the Hidden Ones would emerge for any reason. Still, on the off chance that a Horde or a part yet wards the marge or holds the ford, I will make certain the scouts are apprised."

As Arald returned with the brandy, Hannor stuck his finger into the cup and swirled it about and then removed his finger and sucked the liquor off, then slugged the remaining brandy down. As he wiped his mouth he turned to Tip. "Tell me, Sir Tipperton, is your lute nearby? If so, do you feel like a song?"

Three days later they came unto the Landover Road a few miles west of Braeton, the town just inside the Rimmen Gape that had been razed by the Rupt.

"Lor'," said Beau that night, "but we've come in a big circle. What was it, September two years back when we were here ago?"

"You were here?" asked Ilea.

Tip nodded. "Aye. And it was at Braeton we destroyed a segment of Foul Folk."

Irana cocked a blue eye. "Single-handed?"

"Not quite," said Beau, smiling. "We had a wee bit of help: a thousand Dylvana and five hundred Baeron, to be exact." Beau looked about and then added, "The Baeron on giant horses smashed them down and the Dylvana on lighter steeds a bit like yours came after, with Tip and me on ponies riding alongside."

"Hai!" called Irana, snatching up a lance and leaping to her feet and flashing the spear toward the sky. "Sir Beau and Sir Tipperton: Krigares av den Hrosf"

The other three warrior maidens called out Hai!

Beau frowned, and asked Ilea, "What did your sister say?"

Ilea smiled. "She named you two as warriors of the horse."

"Um, Lady Irana…" said Beau, looking up at the twin.

Irana looked down at the buccan and frowned.

"Not that I would contradict you," said Beau, "but if warriors we must be, then you should call us warriors of the pony, instead."

Irana burst out in laughter and rajsed her spear to the sky and managed to proclaim through her guffaws, "Krigares av den Ponny!"

Dediana, Linde, and Ilea all whooped in jubilance.