"Even as we speak, my lord, Modru's Swarms march into Jord, debarking from ships along our western shore, there at the end of the Gronfangs. Yet the balefires atop the warcairns are lit and the red flag has been borne unto all corners of our nation, and we make ready to hurl the foe back into the sea."

Agron nodded. "Lady Ryla, mayhap he does so for he believes I plan on striking Gron by marching my armies across Jord and then taking to the sea to come at his northern shore."

"Mayhap, my lord, yet I deem he would have assaulted Jord regardless. Even so, King Ranor welcomes your invasion of Modru's realm, for perhaps that will cause him to withdraw some of his Hordes back to the Iron Tower. When and if that happens, or when we defeat those who now step within our borders, King Ranor will send aid to you.

"Yet my king also says to tell you as soon as he can he plans to send warriors to Pellar to fight at the side of the High King."

"Lady Ryla, that Modru assails Jord is ill indeed, though as you say, not unexpected. And Ranor's pledge of aid is most welcome. Yet bear this word to your king and his plan to join with the High King: none knows where Blaine is. Yes, he may now be in Caer Pendwyr, and if so, he will welcome the aid. But then again he may not be in Pellar at all, for when last we knew-more than a year agone, now-he was retreating from Challerain Keep, a small garrison which fell before one of Modru's Hordes. And the ways to Caer Pendwyr from Challerain Keep are held by the Foul Folk."

The warrior maiden turned up a hand. "Even so, my lord, surely by the time we push Modru back into the sea and come unto Pellar there will be word of the High King's whereabouts. But even if there is not, sooner or later Modru will make a stab at Caer Pendwyr. And when he does, Jord will be there."

Within two days Ryla rode forth from the afflicted city of Dendor, for Agron would not have her risk the dark ill stalking those within. And she bore with her a missive: King Agron's words of thanks to King Ranor and his wishes for a successful campaign. And as the emissary rode away, trailing a packhorse after, two Warrows stood atop the north gate of Dendor and watched, their jewel-like eyes glittering at the sight of this warrior maiden of Jord.

The twentieth of June was Year's Long Day, and Beau insisted that he and Tip and Phais and Loric and Bekki hold their own private party for anyone who'd celebrated a birthday within the past year, which of course included everyone. But Tip had insisted they leave out Modru and all of his blackhearted ilk.

"Oh my," said Beau, "I never thought of that. I never thought of Modru as ever having a birthday, of being born, being a child, growing up. I wonder if his parents are proud of him."

Bekki just growled and spat.

"In fact, Beau," said Tip, "let's rule out anyone allied with Gyphon: the Hyrinians, Chabbains, Kistanians, and whoever else sides with that monster, especially the Foul Folk."

"Foul Folk? Foul Folk? Celebrate for them? Of course not, Tip. Besides, I don't think they're born, but hatched instead… and from rotten eggs."

Phais grinned and glanced at Loric, the Alor smiling as well.

Bekki, though, snorted and shook his head.

And so, with these disqualifications, they celebrated the birthdays of everyone who was left, which of course included Phais and Loric and Bekki and naturally their very own selves.

Later that evening, they stepped through the Elven ritual of the turn of the seasons, and this time Bekki joined the stately dance, while Tipperton joined in the singing.

Yet when the rite came to an end they were not as exhilarated as in times past, for a scourge pressed down on the city all 'round.

In the heat of early July, wagons began moving west across the land of Aven, laded with goods for the muster in Alvstad, passing quarantined Dendor by. And people stood atop the walls and called down messages to be given to their kindred afar, and the wain riders promised they would try to see their words delivered. Yet in shadowy corners of taverns within the city itself, dark mutterings whispered from mouth to ear, driven so by grim forebodings and sullen unease.

And as July commenced, farmers began bringing cheese and eggs and meat and produce to market. Yet they were stopped just without the city walls, for the gates yet remained closed, and only the king's buyers were allowed outside to purchase the city's needs and to send the crofters home again. When the farmers were gone, soldiers drove wagons out to bear the goods into the city for distribution within.

Too, in July messengers came riding from afar, carrying news of the war, but of High King Blaine's whereabouts there was as of yet no word.

In the early days of this month as well, Tip and Bekki prepared for their journey to Nordlake. Six ponies in all they decided to take: two for riding and four for carrying supplies-food for the most part and grain for the ponies. They would take as well two sets of climbing gear, for Bekki said that the golden mint grew in the cracks on cliffs of sheer stone. Tipperton paled when he heard of this, yet he had climbed sheer faces before, when Phais had trained Beau and him to scale the bluffs of Arden Vale. They added to their cargo the tools to harvest the mint, and twine and cloth for ripping into swathes to bundle it in- eleven sprigs to a bundle as per Delgar's written instructions in Beau's leather-bound book-and ten large sacks to pack the bundles within and lade them on the ponies, should there be that much golden mint to harvest, though Bekki doubted it would be so.

"Oh lor'," breathed Beau. "If you fill but one of these sacks, I think I could treat the entire city to a cup of gwyn-thyme and silverroot tea, should absolutely everyone fall ill."

"The entire city?" asked Tip, his eyes wide.

"Aye, Tip. A little goes a long way."

They prepared to set out on the twelfth of the month, the day of the July moon, for as Tip had said, "It seems only fitting, since our entire mission for the golden mint seems governed by the phases of Elwydd's light."

Bright dawn of the twelfth came to a cloudless sky and, after a hearty breakfast, Tip and Bekki carried to the stables the goods for their journey, making repeated trips to do so. By midmorn the riding ponies were saddled and the pack animals laded and at last all was ready. Beau and Phais and Loric came from comforting the ill to say farewell.

"Now you take care, bucco," said Beau, "for as Bekki here says, there's Foul Folk yet afoot in Aven, to say nothing of those in the Grimwall."

"Wull, Beau, it's not me and Bekki I'm worried about but you instead… here as you are in a plague-ridden city."

"Oh, we'll be just fine, Tip," said Beau, turning to Phais, "won't we, now?"

Yet in that very moment the Dara's face blenched, and with a moan she fell to her knees, Loric collapsing beside her, the Alor covering his face in his hands and crying out in distress.

Phais reached out blindly, shock and agony and grief whelming her features, tears flooding her eyes, and with a cry of despair she fell back in a swoon.

"What is it? What is it?" cried Beau, springing forward, but Bekki was first to the Dara's side, indecision and anguish on his face. The Dwarf looked to Beau for aid and called out to the Warrow, yet what he said could not be heard above Loric's howl of torment.

And Tip on his knees in front of the Alor reached up and gently pulled Loric's hands away from his face… to reveal an aspect of bleak desolation as great choking sobs tore from Loric's very soul. And the Elf reached out and clasped the buccan to him and wept as if he were nought but a child.

And Dara Phais, though consciousness had fled her, wept tears of anguish as well.

Shaken, Loric and Phais gripped one another's hands, their lips yet drawn thin by distress.