One of the townsmen shook his head. "More like a Dwarvish name, if you ask me, Mayor."

Prell frowned at the man. "Elvish, Dwarvish, or aught else"-the mayor's gaze swung to Tipperton-"I mean, it doesn't have to be a person, you know, but instead could be a town, citadel, temple, realm, river, whatever…" Tip's eyes widened at this conjecture, and he nodded in agreement.

Now Prell's eyes widened. "Say, now, miller, are you sure he said Agron and not Argon? I mean, the Argon River is to the east, just beyond the Grimwall. And they sound a lot alike. He was wounded, as you say, and might have garbled-"

"No, Mayor. It was definitely Agron he said and not Argon. Besides, if it was a river, what would we do? Cast it into the waters?"

Mayor Prell pursed his lips and shook his head. "Perhaps you're right, lad." With a sweeping gesture he appealed to all. "Regardless, does anyone here know just who or what an Agron might be?"

The gathered men looked at one another and shook their heads, some murmuring, Not me.

The mayor sighed, then said to Tip, "Describe this dead man again."

"Well, sir, he was about your height or so-it's rather hard for me to say, Humans being as tall as they are-but he was more slender. Slender but well built. Somewhat younger, too, or so I would judge. He had pale blue eyes, pale as ice, and dark hair -almost black-and was dressed in dark brown leathers. And, oh, I just remembered, he had a V-shaped scar above his left eyebrow."

Again the mayor looked about at the men, but once more they all shrugged or shook their heads.

"A stranger, then, I would say," said Prell.

"Hoy, Mayor," called one of the men-Gwyth, the tanner. "This horse. Mayhap it's got a brand."

"A brand?" The mayor and his men crowded about, and both Tipperton and Beau had to struggle through. No brand was in evidence.

"It's more likely to be on the mounting side," said Gwyth. "Let's roll him over."

Grunting and straining, the men rolled the horse. And there on the steed's left haunch was burnt the symbol of a crown.

"Lumme," breathed Gwyth. "That's the brand of the High King."

"The High King?" blurted Tipperton, his face stricken. "You mean the dead man was the High King?" A chill wind swirled through the barren trees and across the clearing.

Prell shook his head. "Not likely, miller. Unlike your man, High King Blaine has bright red hair, like my boy Arth, or so I've heard it said."

"But the brand on the horse-"

"Ar, all the High King's horses have such a brand," said Gwyth. "Hundreds of them. More likely this was someone in his service, a Kingsman of some sort-herald, messenger, warrior, or aught else. Who's to know?"

Beau looked at Tip. "Mayhap a courier bearing a message."

Tip's hand strayed to his neck.

"Oh, by the bye, Mayor," said Beau, fishing inside his jerkin, "we found this." He took out the square of ebon cloth, holding it up so all could see the crimson sigil it bore.

Now the mayor took it. "Hmm. A ring of fire on black." He looked up at the men. "Does anyone know whose sign this is?"

Men shrugged and shuffled their feet and looked at one another… and none knew.

Prell glanced at the Warrows. "Was this the man's or did it belong to the Foul Folk?"

Now the buccen shrugged, and Beau said, "It was lying 'neath a dead Ruck, but it could have been the man's."

Prell looked about, then glanced in the direction of Beacontor beneath the gathering overcast. "Well, lads, we're not going to solve anything here, and we've got to get back to town and see how the muster goes. My boy Arth should be riding back from the tor before dark with word as to why the beacon burns and whether or no we're needed. If we are, I'd like to start out first thing in the morning." He turned and fixed Tipperton and then Beau with his gaze. "As for you two, the muster's underway, and every bow and blade will count, as well as every chirurgeon."

"But I'm not a chirurgeon, Mayor," said Beau. "Just a plain healer instead. Herbs and simples, powders and potions, nostrums and medicks and salves and poultices, needle and gut: that's my trade."

Prell tossed the black banner back to Beau, saying, "Nevertheless, lad, you and the miller, you'll both be needed. So come to the square in Twoforks, and wear your winter eiderdown-warm socks and boots, too-for we may spend many a frigid night on the land with no fires to warm us, and it wouldn't do to freeze in the dark." He then clapped his plain iron helmet back onto his head and fastened the chin strap. "Besides, maybe someone there'll know who this dead man was, or know of Agron, or know of this dark flag. Regardless, the lads and I'll get back to the village and see just what's what. And you two come as soon as the fire's burnt down"-he glanced about at the winter-dry woods-"can't leave it untended, you know."

"We shouldn't be too long, Mayor Prell," said Tipperton, gesturing at the dwindling blazes. "Midafternoon or so."

It was, however, late in the day under lowering skies ere the fires fell into coals and the coals themselves began to darken. Tipperton and Beau took turns shoveling snow upon the embers, the cinders hissing, steam rising into the air. And even as they did so, a new fall of snow began drifting down from the overcast above.

Tip had nailed a square of canvas over the broken window, and after a look about, he latched up the mill and patted the door and said, "Well, eld damman, it may be awhile before I get back. Take care."

Beau cocked his head. "You speak as if the mill were alive."

Tip smiled. "If you ever heard her talking, grumbling as she worked, you'd think so, too, what with her creaks and groans as she grinds her teeth on grain."

Beau laughed aloud and hefted his bag, while Tipperton shouldered his knapsack and took up his quiver and bow, and together they set off through the whiteness falling down.

After a brief stopover at Beau Darby's cottage, where that buccan packed a knapsack of his own and changed into his down winter clothes, they made their way toward the town square in Twoforks. Night had fallen and the snow continued to drift down, muting the winter sounds, the furtive sounds, of the surrounding woods-now a vole scrabbling beneath the leaves; now a hare kicking up and away; now the pad of a fox; now the call of a distant owl- all amid the faint tick of snowflakes striking sparse dry leaves yet clinging to the brittle branches. Through this not quite stillness the buccen walked without speaking, each lost in his own thoughts: Beau mentally ticking off items he had packed, making certain he'd brought everything he needed to answer the muster; Tip fretting over the slain man's request. Trudging in silence, at last they could see lights from Twoforks up the lane, and the muted quiet was broken by sounds of activity ahead. As they came into the fringes of the village, the whole town seemed alight and abustle, with folks scurrying to and fro on unknown errands, their lanterns blooming halos in the snowfall. Cottages and houses were lighted as well, and through windows the buccen could see men packing goods, while some women helped and others wept, and children capered or cried, depending on how the mood struck them.

Among this flurry of activity, Tip and Beau made their way inward, toward the commons, and men with weapons slung and knapsacks on their backs made their way inward as well.

An oldster standing in the street and stamping his feet to ward off the cold stepped out to bar the buccen's way, saying, "Here, now, you two, no children allowed. This is the work for-"

"Beg pardon, Mr. Cobb," called Beau. "But it's me, Beau Darby, and Tip."

The oldster bent down and squinted through the snow and then reared back. "Bless me, but it is you, Mr. Darby. And miller Thistledown as well."