Dennis McCiernan - Into the Forge

"Charm? M-magic? -Oh, Rynna, perhaps you ought not to handle it." Tip reached out.

She laughed her silvery laugh and tossed the disk and thong in the air and caught it. Then she sobered when she saw how serious he was. "Oh, Tipperton, I don't think it carries peril. I mean, you've told us your tale, and it seems you've borne it many a day without coming to harm."

Tip frowned. "I don't know about that, Ryn. I mean, we, Beau and I, well, ever since we got hold of this coin, we've nearly been killed a goodly number of times."

"Say," piped up Beau, "you don't think it attracts peril to the holder, do you now?"

Ryn frowned at the token, then smiled. "Oh, I think not, for you've also met up with many a good friend as well- those in Arden Vale and Darda Galion and elsewhere- Loric, Phais, Silverleaf, Aravan, Urel, the Dwarves in Annory, and many others"-she looked at Tipperton with her golden eyes-"me…"

At her gaze, Tip felt his heart leap.

"Lor', Beau, but she's the most beautiful damman I've ever seen."

"Bucco, she's the only damman you've ever seen."

Tip frowned, but then his smile beamed forth again. "You're forgetting my dam."

"I thought you told me you could but barely remember her."

"Well, I did," snapped Tip. "I mean, that's right. Yet I just wanted to, to-"

"You just wanted to show my words false, eh?" said Beau, grinning. "Well, here's what I'll concede: she's one of two female Warrows you've seen. Yet even with all your vast experience, bucco, I will tell you this about Rynna: I've never seen a damman in the Bosky more comely, and that's saying some. And she can really shoot an arrow."

"Oh, but that's not all, Beau. She's witty and clever and has got a temper and-"

A soft tap came on the door.

Tip opened it to find Ryn standing with a tin whistle in hand, her amber-gold eyes aglitter. "Take up your lute, Tipperton. We'll go to the battlements after we eat and play a tune or two."

Of the songs Rynna taught him that night, the second was a simple but sad tune: "The Waiting Maiden."

And when they had played it through several times, Tipperton gaining in mastery, Rynna asked, "Um, Tipperton, do you have anyone waiting for you back home?"

Tip frowned over the silver frets and set his fingers to play the most difficult chord in the tune. "Unh-uh," he muttered, yet concentrating on barring and placement. "No one." Then he struck the chord, followed quickly by a fingered progression, and silver notes cascaded forth as Rynna laughed gaily. When the last of the notes faded to silence, he looked up smiling to find Rynna smiling back.

"Now let me teach you a more lively tune," she said, picking up her penny whistle, "and I'll teach you the words as well."

And so they played and sang, as a gibbous moon rode among clouds across slashes of starry sky, while warders atop the battlements paced their rounds and smiled.

Over the next seven days, as they waited for reports on the location of the eastward Horde, although Beau met the remaining Springwater Warrows-buccen all, but for Ryn-and many of the Baeron and Elves, he saw little of Loric and Phais, off in their privacy. He saw little of Tipperton, too, and when he did espy the buccan, Rynna was ever at his side, those two walking about as if they were alone in a bubble, Tipperton meeting other buccen and Lian and men, yet seeming to have time only for the damman, and she seeming to have eyes only for him.

"Canoodling," Beau muttered, grinning as he watched them stroll by, oblivious to all others, the buccan using a word his Aunt Rose had taught him-"Canoodling, indeed"-yet Beau had seen how thunderstruck Tip was, not that she wasn't stricken likewise. Even so, they both had sworn missions to fulfill: Tip to deliver a small pewter coin; Rynna to command the Warrows on their frequent forays, as became all too apparent -For on the eve of that seventh day in Caer Lindor, word came that Foul Folk roamed along this side of the Argon, somewhere above Olorin Isle. And hastily a warband was assembled by Silverleaf, of Elves and men and Waer-linga, Rynna in command of the scouts.

And they rode out in the night, heading westward through Darda Erynian-Warrows upon ponies, Elves and men upon horses, Silverleaf in the lead, his bow of white horn in hand. And Tip stood on the battlements above and watched by the glimmering light of the stars as Ryn rode out from the caer and across the bridge and into the woods beyond, she looking back over her shoulder and up, letting her pony find the way.

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.