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.