“Come now, Danner,” replied Tuck, lighting the new lamps and extinguishing the old, “you heard Patrel. We can’t go blundering around at night in the dark looking for Vulgs.”
“Well let me leave you with this thought, Tuck,” shot back Danner, “night is the only time you can hunt those slavering brutes.” And Danner disappeared up the ladder into the hayloft.
Why, thought Tuck, he’s right! The Ban! They won’t be about in the daytime.
Later, during his watch, Tuck scribbled in his diary as the last entry for the day: How true will be our aim in the dark?
~
Morning discovered the Warrows back on Two Fords Road, travelling north toward the Spindle Ford. At first light they had taken one last look about the Huggs’ farm, but they found no sign of Arlo or Willa. Patrel had then tacked a note to the front door warning any who came to the stone field-house about the Vulgs. Then the young buccen had mounted up and ridden away.
Two miles north, they came to another farm, and spoke to the crofter there. Dread filled the eyes of the family upon hearing of the Vulgs, and the fate of the Huggs. The tenant, Harlan Broxeley, sent his sons upon ponies to warn the nearby steading holders, with Patrel’s request to “pass it on.” Patrel and the others were loath to leave the family alone, but as Mr. Broxeley said: “Don’t you fret none. Now that we are warned, me and my buccoes can hold ’em off till dayrise. Then the Sun’ll stop ’em. Besides, we ain’t the only family near about, and you five can’t protect us all. You’ve got to get this word to the Thornwalkers so as they can do something about it.” With that and a warm breakfast, the five young buccen went on northward, bearing the news toward Spindle Ford and the Eastdell Fourth.
All day they rode north, stopping three more times to start the word spreading. Dusk found them eight miles south of the Ford. “Let us press on and get to the Ford tonight,” said Patrel, grimly. “I’d rather we were not camped out in the open.” So onward they went as darkness fell and the Moon rose to paint black shadows streaming away into the night.
Through the enshadowed land they rode. A mile passed, and then another. Of a sudden, Tuck’s pony snorted and shied, tossing its head. Tuck looked sharply into the blackness, but saw nothing, and the other ponies seemed calm enough. Onward they rode, Tuck’s own senses now alert. Then: “What’s that up ahead?” asked Tuck, pointing to a tall spire looming up through the darkness and into the moonlight.
“It’s the Rooks’ Roost,” answered Patrel, on Tuck’s left, “a great pile of stone that happens to be where Two Fords Road and the Upland Way come together. It means, when we get there, we’ll be just five miles from the Thornwalker camp at the Ford.”
Toward the junction they rode. The Upland Way was a main route running aslant across the Boskydells, joining the Land of Rian in the north to that of Wellen in the west. Two Fords Road ran north and south: up from the Bosky village of Rood and north to the Spindle River; it was called Two Fords Road because it crossed the Dingle-rill at the West Ford and passed into Rian at the Spindle Ford.
As they came closer to the Rooks’ Roost, by the bright moonlight Tuck could see that it was higher than he first had thought, rising perhaps fifty feet into the air, a great jumble of rocks and boulders placed there in ancient times by an unknown hand to stand ominously in the night. As the ponies plodded onward, Tuck felt as if this looming pile somehow boded doom.
Without warning, again the grey pony shied, scudding to the left. “Hey! Steady,” commanded Tuck, looking to the others, but now their ponies, too, were skittish. What’s happening? he asked himself, then saw, and he gasped in shocked fear: off to the east a great black shape slunk through the shadows, keeping pace with the Warrows. “Vulg!” he cried to the others, his voice tight with dread. “In the field to our right! Just beyond arrow range!”
“Stay close!” shouted Patrel. “Keep riding!”
Danner in the rear with the frightened pack ponies trailing him grimly called out, “Two more behind us! No, three!”
“Left! Look left!” came Tarpy’s startled voice, “Lor! Another one!”
The Vulgs trotted without effort; their savage yellow eyes gleamed like hot coals when the Moon caught them just so, and slavering red tongues lolled over wicked fangs set in crushing jaws. Hideous power bunched and rippled under coarse black fur as the beasts slid through the shadows.
“Cor! Let’s ride for it!” shouted Hob, clapping his heels to his pony. But Patrel reached over and grabbed the pony’s bit strap:
“Whoa! Hold it! Don’t panic. Stick together. When I give the word we ride for the Rooks’ Roost. As long as they stay their distance, we’ll just keep trotting for our goal. We’ve got less than a quarter mile to go.” Patrel nocked an arrow, but as if that somehow were a signal, with blurring speed the Vulgs closed in. “Fly!” cried Patrel. “To the Rooks’ Roost! Ride for your lives!”
With shouts and cries, the young buccen all clapped their heels to the ponies’ flanks, but the steeds needed no urging, for they had taken full flight. Yet the hideous great Vulgs closed the distance with horrid quickness. Tuck wanted to cry out in fear; instead, he leaned forward and urged the grey onward. Toward the rock pike they raced, yet faster ran the Vulgs. Tuck could hear Danner shouting a challenge of some sort as the ground flew by. The Vulgs drew abreast, and Tuck could hear guttural snarling and see the gleam of fangs. They were now less than a furlong from the Rooks’ Roost, closing the distance rapidly. Tuck thought of winging an arrow at the beasts, but knew that his aim would be unsteady from the back of a running pony: ‘The arrow as strays might well’er been throwed away,’ he seemed to hear Old Barlo’s voice cry, and so he held his shot. Yet a Vulg closed in and slashed at his pony’s hindquarters; Tuck clubbed at it with his bow, and the brute shied back as the pony plunged on. He looked ahead just in time to see Hob’s steed go tumbling down, screaming, hamstrung by the Vulgs, but Hob was thrown free. Tuck tried to turn his pony but was past the fallen Warrow ere he could do so. He heard Danner yell, and looked back to see Hob on his feet with a Vulg slashing at him just as Danner rode by and reached out an arm, and Hob caught at it and swung up and onto the pony behind the other buccan. Yet the Vulg snarled in rage and leapt at the twain, and Hob screamed horribly as the cruel fangs rent the Warrow’s side and leg, though still he kicked out and the Vulg fell back. Danner’s pony bolted forward at an even faster pace, in spite of bearing double, and temporarily gained a space on the Vulg; yet the slavering creature once more closed the gap, and with a great snarl and jaws wide it leapt at the two. Hsss, thwock! An arrow sprang full from the beast’s left eye, and with a sodden thud it fell dead to the earth! Tarpy had gained the Rooks’ Roost and had let fly with the shot of his life! Tuck thundered up and leapt off to follow right behind Patrel as they scrambled onto the lower tier of stone to join Tarpy, and turned to see Danner and Hob come at last. On, too, came the dire Vulgs, but Patrel let fly and struck one a glancing blow on a foreleg, and its yipping howl caused the others to sheer off the attack.
Skidding to a stop, Danner and Hob jumped off, but with a moan, Hob collapsed unconscious to the snow, a dark stain spreading from under him. Down leapt the others to aid, but Danner hoisted Hob across his shoulders, “Climb!” he snarled and started forward.
Tarpy ran and snatched up Danner’s bow and quiver. “What about the ponies?”
With his free hand, Danner shoved Tarpy toward the rocks, “Climb, you fool, they’re after Waerlings, not horselings!” But Danner was only partly right, for as the buccen scrambled up the rocks of the Rooks’ Roost, the frightened ponies scaddled off into the night; yet two ran right into the jaws of the savage Vulgs, and their shrill death cries sounded like the screams of dammen. And the blood of the Warrows ran chill.
It took all the energy of the other four to lift Hob’s dead weight up to the top of the Rooks’ Roost, but at last they were there. The Vulgs loped around the base of the jumble but did not attempt to climb it. And the Moon shone brightly down upon
the land.
“He’s still alive,” said Tuck, raising his head from Hob’s breast. “We’ve got to do something to stop this bleeding.” But in his mind whispered words from an old hearthtale: Vulg’s black bite heals not at night.
“Make a tourniquet for his leg,” said Patrel, “and press a bandage to his side.” And so Tuck and Tarpy tended to Hob as Danner stared in hatred down at the Vulgs:
“Look at them,” he spat, “just sitting there now, as if they were hatching a vile plan, or waiting for something to happen, three evil brutes.”
“Three!” exclaimed Patrel. “There should be four! Where’s . . .” They heard the click of claws scrabbling up the stone on the opposite side. “’Ware!” shouted Patrel and rushed over in time to see a great Vulg leaping up through the shadowed stones toward the crest. As Patrel drew an arrow full to the head, he heard Danner cry, “Here come the others!” for the remaining three beasts were streaking for the mound. With malevolence in its yellow eyes, the lone Vulg swarmed up the stone. Patrel loosed the bolt to hiss through the air, but with a twist the Vulg leapt sideways, and the shaft but struck it in the loose fur above the shoulders. Howling and snapping at the quarrel, the Vulg fell scrambling down the side of the pile, while the other three again veered off the attack, bounding down from the stones and beyond arrow range.
Patrel and Danner watched as the four Vulgs collected together. The fifth one—the one slain by Tarpy’s shaft through the eye—lay like a black blot in the snow. So, too, did the three slaughtered ponies. Of the other four steeds, there was no sign. “We’re in a tight fix here,” said Patrel, watching the Vulgs. “I just hope our arrows last till dawn.” Danner merely grunted.
Tuck and Tarpy had returned to Hob, laying their bows aside. “Maybe this will staunch the flow,” fretted Tuck as he tourniqueted Hob’s leg. “We need something to press against his side.”
“Here, take my jerkin,” said Tarpy, peeling off his quilted jacket and stripping his shirt. “Cor! It’s cold,” he shivered, and quickly redonned his wrap.
Tuck folded the jerkin and pressed it to the wounds in Hob’s side. The young buccan moaned and opened his eyes; pain crossed his features. “Hullo, Tuck,” he gritted, “I’ve made a mess of it, haven’t I?”
“Oh no, Hob,” answered Tuck, smiling. “Sure, you’ve got a bit of a scratch, but that’s not what I’d call making a mess of it.”
“Where are the Vulgs? Did we get any?” Hob tried to struggle up, his breath hissing through pain-clenched teeth. “Is everyone all right?”
“Coo now, Hob,” Tuck gently pressed him back. “Stay down, Lad; everyone’s fine. Tarpy, here, feathered one of the brutes—the one that scratched you. That’s one Vulg that’ll never bother anyone again.”
“Tarpy?” The small Warrow knelt by Hob’s side and the wounded buccan squeezed Tarpy’s hand. “Fine shot, Tarpy. I thought I saw one of ’em drop just before I faded out.” Another wash of pain moved across Hob’s features, and but for his ragged breathing he was silent a long moment. “Where are we? And where are the Vulgs?”
“We’re on top of the Rooks’ Roost,” answered Tarpy, “and a great heavy thing you were to lug up here, too; all the rest of us had to climb while you, Bucco, got a free ride.”
“Sorry to be such a lazybones. But the Vulgs, what about the Vulgs?” whispered Hob, his voice sinking low.
“Ah, Hob, don’t you worry your head about them,” answered Tuck. “They’re below where they’ll stay.” Hob closed his eyes and made no response.
Tuck pressed his cheek to Hob’s forehead. “He’s burning up, Tarpy, as if fevered.”
“Or poisoned,” added Tarpy.
~
Slowly the night crept by. One hour and then another passed with no movement either by Vulg or Warrow. In an effort to save Hob’s leg, every so often Tuck would loosen the tourniquet to let circulation into the limb, yet there seemed to be a fearful loss of blood whenever this was done, and so Tuck was both loath to do it and loath not to. He was just preparing to loosen the tourniquet again when Danner cried, “Here they come! All four!”
Tuck snatched up his bow and joined the other three to look down and see the Vulgs streaking toward the mound. Up they leapt, toward the line of archers. “Take this, night-spawn!” grated Danner. Thuunn! went his bowstring as he loosed the arrow. Hsss! it sped toward the lead Vulg scrabbling up the rocks. Thock! the shaft drove full into the creature’s breast, piercing straight to the heart. The beast fell dead in a black heap. Howling in fear and frustration, the others fled downward.
Tuck watched until they again were back out on the land away from the ’Roost. Then he turned and cried in dismay, “Hob!” The wounded Warrow was on his feet, swaying, trying to answer the call to arms. Tuck sprang toward him, but ere he could reach the buccan, Hob fell with a sodden thud. “Oh Lor, his wounds are gushing,” sobbed Tuck, tightening the tourniquet and pressing Tarpy’s jerkin back to Hob’s side.
“Tuck, it’s so cold . . . so cold,” said Hob, his teeth chattering. Tuck shed his own cloak and spread it over the buccan, but it seemed to do little good.
The silver Moon sailed across the silent heavens and the bright stars glimmered in the cold sky. Three Vulgs stalked around the base of the dark spire while the Warrows atop watched grimly. And there was nothing that they could do to staunch the wounds of deadly Vulg bite, and Hob’s life slowly leaked away among the cold, dark rocks. In less than an hour he was dead.
~
Just before the dawn came, the Moon set, and the three Vulgs fled in the waning night. At day’s first light, a dark reeking vapor coiled up from the bodies of the two slain Vulgs as Adon’s Ban struck even the corpses of the creatures, and a withered dry husk was left behind, to crumble at the wind’s first touch.
Atop the Rooks’ Roost, Tuck and Danner, Patrel and Tarpy, all wept as they gathered stones for Hob’s cairn. They washed him with snow and combed his hair and composed his hands across his breast. His Thornwalker cloak was drawn about him, and his bow was retrieved and laid beside him. And then they slowly and carefully built the cairn over him. And when it was done, in a clear voice that rose into the sky, Patrel sang this verse:
The Shadow Tide doth run
O’er boundless Darkling Sea
’Neath skies of Silver Suns
That beckon endlessly.
Reach out thy ship’s wings wide,
Ride on the gentle wind,
Sail with the Shadow Tide
To shoreless Time’s own end.
Alone thou sailed away
Upon the Darkling Sea,
Yet there shall come a day
When I will sail with thee.
And all then wept long for the young buccan with whom they would never Walk the Thorns. But at length the tears faded to silence, and weary drawn faces gazed into the bleak morning. Yet a fell look of dark resolve slowly came over Tuck’s features, and he wiped away a final tear and knelt upon one knee and placed his hand upon the cairn and said unto the grey, unyielding stone, “Hob, by all that I am, the Evil that did this shall answer to your memory.” And so swore them all.
At last the Warrows stood and took up their bows, and with a last sweeping look around, their eyes briefly lingering upon the barrow, they climbed down from the Rooks’ Roost—known ever after as Hob’s Cairn—and shouldering the backpacks retrieved from one of the slain ponies, on foot they set off northward for Spindle Ford.
3
Spindle Ford
Just before noon, cold and weary, Tuck, Danner, Tarpy, and Patrel trudged into the Thornwalker encampment set in the fringes of the Spindlethorn Barrier at Spindle Ford. Hai roi! Patrel! Ho! Where’s your ponies? Welcome back! and other cries were called out as the four came among the tents and lean-to’s, making for the headquarters building, one of only two permanent structures there, made of hewn, notched logs and stone and sod, the other building being a goodly sized storehouse. The welcoming cries quickly faded as the realization that s
omething was amiss came to those encamped, for Patrel’s smile was absent, and the four strode grimly onward without returning as much as a nod. Hey! Something’s afoot! A substantial following was tagging along by the time Patrel and the others stepped through the rough-cut door and into the building.
The interior was but a single room that somehow looked larger on the inside than the building seemed capable of holding. The floor was made of thick, sawn planks, and a stone fireplace stood at the far wall. There, two Warrows dressed in Thornwalker grey relaxed in wicker chairs having a pipe together: one looked to be in his prime buccan years; the other was old, a granther. Both looked up from their deep discussion as the four entered. Recognition flooded the face of the younger of the two and he leapt to his feet: “Patrel! Welcome back. These are the recruits, I take it. Ho, but wait, I see only three. Where’s the fourth?”
“Dead. Vulg slain.” Patrel’s voice was flat and bitter.
“What? Vulg?” The old buccan snapped, thumping his cane to the floor and rising. “Did I hear you say Vulg? Are you certain?”
“Yes sir,” answered Patrel. “We were set upon by five at the Rooks’ Roost, where our companion, Hob Banderel, was slain. But that’s not all: it looks as if the brutes got Arlo Huggs and his wife, Willa, too.”
At Patrel’s words, the elden buccan’s face fell, and he sank back into his chair. His voice was grim: “Then it is true: Vulgs roam the Bosky. What fell news. I had hoped it were not so.”
Silence reigned for a moment, then the elder looked up and gestured with a gnarled hand: “Patrel, you and your three friends come and sit by the fire. Tell us your tale, for it is important. Have you eaten? And introduce us. This here is Captain Darby, Chief of the Eastdell Fourth, and I’m Gammer Alderbuc, from up Northdell way.” Hasty introductions of Tuck, Danner, and Tarpy were made. As the three young buccen bowed, they saw before them Captain Darby: square-built; slightly shorter than Tuck with hair nearly as black, though his eyes were a dark blue. He had about him an air of command. Yet, as arresting as Captain Darby’s appearance was, Gammer Alderbuc’s was even more so, and the eyes of the trio were irresistibly drawn to him: Old he was, a granther, yet his gaze was steady and clear, peering from pale amber eyes ’neath shaggy white brows that matched his hair; he could not have been any taller than Patrel’s diminutive three-feet, but he was not bent with age, and though he bore a cane, he seemed hale. This was the Warrow who had first taken action to muster the Thornwalkers and to organize the Wolf Patrols when Northdell crofters began losing sheep and other livestock because the unnatural winter cold had driven Wolves into the Boskydells. At the time, he had been the honorary First Captain of the Thornwalkers, but he had stepped aside, declaring that it was a task for a younger buccan, Captain Alver of Reedyville in Downdell. And so it was that Captain Alver assumed command of all the Boskydell Thornwalkers.
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