"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."