"I went to sleep. I went to sleep," whispered Tip, "and it nearly proved our undoing."

Arrow in hand, Loric came to stand at their side. Phais looked up at him. "We will have little time," said the Alor.

Phais glanced at the running horseman afar and nodded.

"Little time?" asked Beau.

Loric canted his head toward the distant Hyrinian. "He will bring others. We must run."

Tip drew in a shuddering breath. "It's all my fault-"

Phais clutched him hard by the shoulders. "Nay, Sir Tipperton. 'Tis not the fault of any here."

"But I fell aslee-"

"They were tracking us, I ween," growled Loric. He held out the arrow to Tip. "The other was broken when the Chabbain fell."

Tip took a deep breath and then exhaled, and reached out to accept the arrow. He stood and shoved the missile into his quiver and gazed at the fleeing Hyrinian, now disappearing beyond a distant roll in the land. "How far to safety?" he asked, looking at Loric.

Loric gazed at the Great Escarpment rising in the distant sky, the length of its face mostly enshadowed in the setting sun. "Ten leagues, mayhap fifteen."

"Then we'd better begin," said Tip, "for either way- thirty miles or forty-five-it's a deal to go."

"And on an empty stomach, too," groaned Beau.

Across the prairie they fled, not attempting to hide their tracks, for as Loric had said, "They know we are here and are certain to overtake us should we walk carefully. Instead, we'll choose haste over caution."

And so in the light of a flush full moon they alternately walked and trotted: five hundred paces of hard strides followed by five hundred at a run, over and again, five hundred and five hundred, throughout the short bright night, pausing but occasionally for brief rests, these especially for the flagging Warrows.

Just after dawn when they rested again, Tip said, "We're just slowing you down, Loric, Phais. You should go on ahead without-"

"Nonsense, Sir Tipperton," said Phais. "Fear not, for we have but a short way to go, for even now I can hear the roar of mighty Bellon."

Tip looked at her. "Again I bid you to drop the 'sir' and just call me Tip; that or Tipperton will do. I mean, after the way I let everyone down, I don't-"

Phais thrust a hand palm out toward Tip to shut off the flow of his words. "Aye, I will call thee Tip or Tipperton. 'Tis only in the stress of the moment I-"

"Riders!" called Loric, pointing.

All gazes followed the line of Loric's outstretched arm. On the distant horizon a band of riders topped a crest to disappear down in the grass again.

"How many?" asked Tip.

"A score and some," replied Loric.

"Let's go," said Beau, and once again they started northeastward, now running alongside the towering flank of the Great Escarpment.

And they trotted without pause, no longer alternating their pace with that of a walk.

And the breath of the Waerlinga grew harsh and labored.

While behind the riders drew on.

And now the four rounded a long, curving haunch of the escarpment, and in the distance before them they could see an enormous torrent pouring over the lip of the steep. Here it was that the mighty south-flowing Argon River fell a thousand feet into a churning basin below, for here did Bellon Falls plunge into the Cauldron. And the roar of the cataract thundered outward from the escarpment to shake the very air.

"How far?" gasped Beau.

"Two leagues or three," came Loric's panting answer.

"To the left," puffed Phais.

Now leftward from Bellon by perhaps as much as seven miles, both buccen could see a second falls, a silvery cascade of water plunging over the escarpment and down. It was Vanil Falls, where beyond a turn in the rim the east-flowing River Nith hurtled out from Darda Galion to plummet into the westernmost reach of the Cauldron.

Tip glanced back. In the near distance the Hyrinian riders flew over the grass at full gallop, and swords waved above their heads and their mouths were agape in howls, though Tip could not hear them above Bellon's roar.

"We'll never make it," gasped Tip. "Take the coin and go without us. We'll try to hold them here."

But Beau gritted, "Run!"

And run they did, as swift as they could…

… yet the horses were swifter still.

Another mile they ran, no more, and up a gentle rise.

And Loric stopped.

As did the others.

Panting, Loric drew his sword. "Here on this slope we will make our stand."

Gasping and with trembling hands, Tip set an arrow to string.

Likewise did Beau load his sling as Phais unsheathed her blade.

And twenty-four Hyrinian riders came thundering up the hill.

Tip took a deep breath and exhaled half… And riders howled in triumph as they charged upward…

… and with eyes for nought else, Tip took aim…

… and Hyrinians leaned outward, making ready to hack and chop as they swept by…

… and Tip loosed…

And a sleet of arrows hissed downslope and slammed into the riders.

"Waugh!" burst out Tipperton as a dozen or more arrows pierced Hyrianian throats and eyes and hearts, and riders tumbled backwards to crash to the ground or to be stirrup-dragged as another sleet of arrows flew at those yet galloping forward. And free-running horses hammered past Tip and Beau and Loric and Phais, the four dodging this way and that to keep from being trampled, as yet another volley of arrows hissed past and into the foe.

And when the riderless horses had thundered by, Tip gaped at the arrow-slain Hyrinians and then in amazement at his bow and turned to the others…

… to see…

… hard-breathing, bow-bearing Elves striding over the crest. And among them one called out, "Well, Loric, it seems we arrived just in time."

"Alor Galarun!" Loric sheathed his sword.

As some Lian went after the loose horses and other Lian moved down to make certain of the Hyrinians, Galarun grinned and clasped Loric's hand. He turned to Phais and embraced her, then stepped back and held her at arm's length. "Dara Phais, too many seasons have passed since thy beauty has graced these eyes."

"Alor Galarun," acknowledged Phais.

Dressed in an elusive grey-green, Galarun stood nearly six feet tall. His hair was dark brown, nearly black, and his clear eyes a deep shade of grey. And a smile seemed barely withheld from his generous mouth.

Now Galarun released Phais and glanced at the Waerlinga.

"Alor Galarun," said Phais, turning to the buccen, "may I present Sirs Tipperton Thistledown and Beau Darby, Waerlinga of the Wilderland."

Tip, yet shaken, looked up at Galarun and took a deep breath and blew it out, though he couldn't seem to utter any words; even so, he did cant his head in acknowledgement.

"Oh, my," said Beau, "but am I glad you and the others came, else we would have been deaders for sure… though not without taking some of them down with us."

Galarun gestured up at the escarpment. "We saw ye running ere dawn, with horsemen coming after, following thy track by bright moonlight. I gathered these of the march-ward and we hastened down, hoping to arrive in time… as it haps we did."

"In the nick, thereof," said Phais. " 'Twas a close thing."

"Too close," said Tip, finding words at last as he passed trembling fingers across his brow. "Oh, don't take me wrong. We were in desperate need, and we thank you for saving us."

"Speaking of desperate need and of saving us," piped up Beau, "have you any food? I mean, every time I've been rescued by Elves, it seems I am starving. And at this very moment, I swear, my stomach is eating itself."

They rode Hyrinian horses the last five miles to come to where Vanil Falls plummeted into the Cauldron, the water furiously churning under the onslaught while rainbows shined in the mist. A grove of willows stood nearby on the banks of the thundering pool. By hand signals Galarun bade them to dismount, for all speech was lost in the roar.