At the captains' astonished gazes, Agron added, "I have seen it myself, for when I was but twenty, Prince Halfar of Jord and I rode in on a lark-a test of bravery then; but in hindsight nought but a foolish risk.

"Regardless, far within there is a slide, but one which an army can clear, providing a way to come upon Gron unawares."

An elder statesman leaned forward. "Sire, we will be marching across Jord, or a part thereof."

The king raised an eyebrow.

"What I mean, my lord, is that we should send an emissary to Jordkeep and apprise King Ranor."

Agron nodded and said, "Prepare a missive, Lord Vengar. I will set my seal to it." The elder statesman nodded.

Across the table a captain said, "My lord, what of this dark ill which strikes down the healthy?"

"The healers are doing their best, captain. Yet this I say: I have chosen for the muster to take place in Alvstad instead of Dendor for more than one reason, among them is this: my healers tell me that by waiting for the ill to run its course, we isolate the muster from the scourge. Although Modru's disease is in Dendor, we will keep it from spreading."

"Do you mean to quarantine the city, my lord?"

Agron nodded. "Aye. Not only that, but round up any who handled the Modru-flung corpses and set them off in separate quarters away from the general populace until this scourge is gone. Have the healers attend to them, and set apart those who seem healthy from those who seem not. Too, burn the houses of any who fall ill."

"But my lord, much of the city is already in ashes from the Wrgish fireballs."

Agron sighed. "I know, captain, yet drastic times call for drastic measures. We would not have these ill vapors spread to others, and fire purifies all."

To Agron's left, a captain cleared his throat.

"My lord, we will be marching into Gron in the dead of winter."

Agron nodded, then said, "We will not be ready until then, captain. And yes, winter campaigns are hard. Yet what better time to invade but when least expected?"

"But what I meant, my lord, is… the pass may be blocked by snow."

"The pass is low through the mountains, captain, and when Halfar and I rode in, it was nearly Yule, yet, but for a dusting of snow, the way was clear. Prince Halfar said it was due to the Gwasp, warm air flowing up from that vast mire keeping the way open."

"Sire," said another captain, glancing about, "I will say what none else has: it will be a winter campaign, and it is said that Modru is master of the cold."

Agron looked about the table, ice in his pale blue eyes. "Then we will prepare for the cold, captain, and let Modru waste his power."

Agron's cold gaze swept from captain to captain, and each and every one nodded in assent, though some but reluctantly. "It will be a long campaign," he said, "requiring much in the way of food and other supplies. Let us now reckon the total, based on six months, one year, and two. Then we can gauge how many horses and wains we'll need, and what supplies that will add to the whole."

And so the planning went.

The following day the gates of Dendor were shut, not to keep a foe without, but to keep the people within, all but those farmers and their families who the healers could declare to be plague-free; they were allowed to return to their steads to rebuild their homes and to grow needed crops and round up any animals that had survived. Too, the king's messengers were allowed like passage, for they were critical to the coming campaign. All else needed the king's exception to pass through the gates, for Agron was determined to keep the plague from spreading beyond Dendor's walls.

April came and went, winter loosing its grasp. Fields were tilled and crops planted, while buds broke forth on the trees. Yet even as the warmth of returning spring greened the land, within the quarantined city a darkness grew, for every day more stricken were brought to the healers. The prison was filled to overflowing with the ill and the dying, where they were treated with potions of sil-verroot. Yet this brew proved wanting, for, just as Beau's red journal had stated, in spite of the medick, six of seven died in agony. Even so, without the brew, only one or two in a hundred would live.

Just as he had in the aftermath of the Battle of Mineholt North, Tip took up his lute and visited the wards of those who had been wounded in this battle as well. He sang and played for them and lifted their hearts. Yet when he suggested to Beau that he do the same for those afflicted by the dark ill, Beau would not let him, saying that nought but healers were allowed within the prison wards.

May came, and with it the flowers and warmth and more tilling, and the leaves broke forth, and preparations for the muster continued. Some of those wounded in the Battle of Dendor healed, while others so wounded died… and Tip grieved for those lost, yet he continued to play and sing.

And still the dark ill spread, houses burning in its black wake, and there was great unease in the city, for people were frightened. Some tried to leave, but were turned back, and the quarantine held firm.

In the prison and the now-sequestrated buildings ringing 'round, as the numbers of stricken grew, there was little that Beau and Phais and Loric and the healers could do but comfort the ill and dying, though one in seven survived. And it was in this month that some of the healers themselves fell ill.

"Oh, Beau, are you in danger?"

"This dark illness, Tip, it can strike anyone. -Elves excepted."

"How can this be? I thought it struck only those who handled the hacked-up corpses Modru had flung over the walls."

"No, Tip. Even people who touched no part of a corpse have fallen ill, whereas others who bore remains to the fires have stayed hale. Look, Tip, I am certain that this is the same plague that killed my parents. And they and the others who died that year certainly didn't deal with any dead bodies flung by anyone."

"Then where does it come from?"

"I dunno, Tip. Some say it's bad vapors. Others say that it's a curse. Some say it's foul creatures slipping into the bedroom at night and inflicting the unwary with an unfelt bite, while others lay it on the doorstone of Modru and all his ilk. Whatever it is, it's a scourge, all right, and one which needs to be rooted out and entirely and utterly destroyed."

"Well, Beau, whatever it is, you take care to see that it doesn't get a hold of you, eh?"

Beau turned up a hand. "Perhaps in some manner I am like the Elves, Tip. I mean, it killed my parents but completely passed me by, even though I lived in the same house with them, while distant Warrows miles away came down with it and died."

"Hoy, is this why you wouldn't let me play and sing for those so stricken? You thought I might come down with it?"

Beau merely shrugged.

Tip frowned. "Wull look, bucco, by your own words, it doesn't seem to matter whether a person is near or far, so I think I'll go with you when-"

"No, Tip. You can't come. I think you are safer out here than in there, and I won't have you risk it. I'll just tell the guards to throw you out."

Seeing how serious Beau was, Tipperton said no more, though late in the night a sweet voice sang outside the prison walls.

June arrived, and with it the Dendorian herald returned from Jordkeep. And word raced through the city, for riding alongside came a female, a Jordian warrior maiden no less, the emissary of King Ranor. Tall she was and coppery haired, and she wore a chain mail shirt and a helm sporting a long horsehair gaud. A sword was at her side, and a spear in her hand, and snapping in the breeze high on the haft fluttered a pennon of Jord-white horse rampant on a field of green.

"Open the gate," called the captain above as they approached, for he had his orders. And into the stricken city she fared alongside the herald, her horse spirited and prancing, and people ran out to see as she rode down the streets to the castle walls and within.