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.