And the next day Tipperton paced the battlements, and stood on the weapons shelf and peered out through a crenel, the buccan looking ever westward, seeking to see some sign of their return, seeking to see that Rynna and the others were all right.

"But they'll be gone for days," said Beau, standing on the banquette walk just below. "They said so before they left."

"I know," snapped Tipperton. Then more softly, "I know."

"And we've got to think about our own mission, bucco," added Beau. "After all, we've been here a week."

Tipperton, his face pale and stricken, turned and peered down at his friend. "Oh, Beau, I can't leave without knowing she's safe."

"But Loric and Phais say they've worked out the best way to go 'round the Horde in the east, and we'll be leaving soon."

Tip's shoulders slumped. "I know," he whispered. "I know."

Brushing his sleeve across his eyes, Tip turned back to peer out through the crenel, and Beau clambered up beside him and threw an arm across his friend's shoulders, and together they stood and looked westward, peering out and down into the forest reaching to the horizon and beyond, seeking movement, seeing none.

Three days passed, with no word, and at the late-day meal on the third of these days, Phais said, "We must go forth on morrow morn or the one after and no later, for the knowledge we have concerning the whereabouts of the Horde grows older each day we delay, and even now they may be on the move… or not."

Tipperton felt as if he'd been struck a blow in the stomach. "But, Dara, Rynna has not returned."

"And she may not," rumbled a bleak-eyed Baeran sitting at their table, his voice bitter, his arm bound and in a sling, a wound taken some days past during a raid eastward. "My wife did not."

With stricken eyes Tip looked at the man. "Ach, I'm sorry, Waldan," said the Baeran, shaking his head. "I did not think before I spoke."

His vision swimming, Tip looked away toward one of the doors of the great common room.

Phais reached out and placed her hand over the buccan's. " 'Tis ever so in war that friends and lovers are parted. Yet thou hast a sworn mission to fulfill, just as does she."

"I know," said Tip, his voice near breaking, his tears barely held in check. "But I… I jflst wanted to see her one last time. I wanted to tell her… I wanted to tell her…" Tip could not finish his words.

"She knows, wee one," whispered Phais. "She knows."

That night, in deference to Tipperton, they decided to wait one more day in Caer Lindor, but come what may, they would set out the morning after. And so Tip spent the night atop the battlements, peering through starlight in vain, and just ere dawn the warders found him asleep at his west-facing crenel.

Wan and bleary, Tip picked at his breakfast, while Beau softly chided him about needing food and rest. Yet even though Beau was concerned for his friend, still his own appetite held strong. "Y' never know when we'll be without food again, bucco," he said. " 'Sides, we'll be on rations starting tomorrow and today's the last of the good cooking for a while."

Tip nodded listlessly and continued to pick at his food.

Unable to eat, he had just set aside his knife when a distant bugle sounded, to be answered by one atop the bastion walls.

"They're here," said Beau, but Tip was already running for the door.

Out from the caer and across the bailey he ran, Beau coming after, a rasher of bacon in hand along with a chunk of bread. Up the ramp darted Tip, up to the banquette above, where he leaped upon the weapons shelf and looked out through a crenel.

Tip peered westerly, the rising sun at his back, yet he saw no movement along the River Rissanin nor within the entwined foliage of the woodland below. And he waited, his heart hammering.

Beau clambered up beside him, and in that moment a slow-moving cavalcade emerged from the forest. They watched as more and more horses came out from among the trees, and for each one ridden there came another horse being led while dragging a travois behind.

"I'd better go, Tip," said Beau, "they've got wounded."

Tip nodded, not speaking, and Beau clambered down. Just as the buccan reached the ramp to the bailey below, Tip turned. "Beau, send someone to fetch me if, if-"

"I know," said Beau, nodding, and then he was down and gone.

Tipperton faced west again. Still the horses came out from among the trees.

Ponies. No ponies. Where are the ponies? Where are the Warrows? Where is my Rynna?

Finally, as the first of the cavalcade came onto the pontoon bridge, no more horses with riders or wounded emerged from the forest behind.

His heart thudding in the pit of his stomach, Tip waited until the last of the horses clopped onto the bridge, and then he sprang to the banquette and darted down the ramp and into the bailey below.

"… were there, all right," Tipperton overheard as he came in among the wounded. "We engaged them two mornings back and drove them hindward to their boats and rafts," continued the speaker, a Baeran, a bloody bandage on his arm and another wrapped 'round his head. "But they fought fiercely, as you can see"-healers squatted beside the wounded, gauging the damage, applying unguents and herbal poultices and bandages, Beau enwrapping a fresh binding on a wounded Lian-"and some in our warband were slain."

Tip's heart lurched and he felt as if he could not breathe.

"What of Vanidar and the others?" asked Aravan, who had remained behind in command.

"Last I saw, Silverleaf and the Waldana were racing downstream along the bank and feathering them with arrows, though many a black shaft flew back at them. Those of the warband without bows and slings rode alongside covering the flanks just in case there were more aland, or to be on hand if those on the river turned ashore."

"And the dead?"

The Baeran gestured to where several of the travois had been unfastened and lay off to the side, the bodies thereon covered with blankets. "We brought back those we could, though if Silverleaf and the others take wounds, there's likely to be more."

Again Tip's heart flopped and, trembling, he stepped toward the dead.

Only one of those slain was the size of a Warrow, and with his breath coming harsh and gasping, Tipperton slowly raised the corner of the blanket to see, and he fell to his knees weeping, weeping in relief, for it was not Rynna, but Winkton Bruk instead.

She's safe, oh Adon, she's safe.

And then guilt flooded Tipperton's very soul.

Oh, my. Oh, my. How can I rejoice when Wink lies here dead; how can I be glad that it's Wink instead of her?

With tears running down his cheeks, Tip reached out with his fingers and smoothed back Winkton's dark hair.

I'm so sorry, so very sorry, Wink.

And he covered Winkton's face with the blanket once more and then stood. And he looked about, not only feeling guilty but also feeling utterly useless, for he knew nought but the most rudimentary of healing skills, and they needed more here. And his eyes sought the sight of Rynna Yet she is not here, not here, but out there somewhere still, black-shafted arrows seeking her heart. Oh, my Rynna, be safe.

Tip trudged to a ramp and up to stand vigil once more.

The sun had climbed to the zenith when another horn sounded from the forest, and Elves and men on horses and Warrows on ponies came plodding forth, some drawing travois behind, and on some of these drawn litters, blanket-covered bodies rode.

His heart thudding in fear, Tip sought sign of his loved one as each pony, as each horse, plodded forth from among the trees. Yet she did not appear and did not appear, and tears sprang to his eyes, to be shaken away, for he would see.

And then Silverleaf on his black came forth from the woodland, and none came after. And Tip cried out in despair, but in that same moment a morose Rynna rode forth from beside Silverleaf; her pony had been concealed by the larger mount.