The Iron Tower Omnibus

by Dennis L McKiernan

  For a moment no one spoke, then Tarpy said, “Maybe she was right, what with Modru stirring up north. Perhaps the Dragon Star came to forewarn us of that.”

  “What if it was a sending of Adon?” speculated Arbin. “He might have tried to tell us of this coming War, but we just couldn’t read His message.”

  “Ar, sending!” burst out Danner, disgusted. “Why not say it was sent by Modru? Or even by bloody Gyphon, Himself? Hah! The Doom of Mithgar, indeed.”

  “Yes, Mr. Danner High-and-Mighty. Sendings!” cried Arbin, his face flushed with anger. “Don’t look down your crusty beak at me! Everyone knows about sendings and omens: Plagues are sendings of Gyphon, the Great Evil. If not from Gyphon, then plagues come from His servant Modru, the Enemy in Gron. And as to omens, well just look the next time you see a flight of birds, for they tell of fortunes, sometimes good, sometimes bad. So you see, Mr. Wise Danner, the Dragon Star could well have been a sending of Adon.”

  Now Danner’s ire, too, was up. “Ask yourself this, Arbin Oracle: if I shied a rock at a bird on a limb, and somewhere else you saw it flying in fright, what would it auger, what great omen of fortune would it tell you? Would it be a sending of Modru, or Gyphon, or one of High Adon? Answer me this, too: if Adon wanted to say something, why wouldn’t He just come right out and say it plain? Why would He cast it in runes that nobody can read? Sendings! Omens! Faugh!”

  Arbin leapt to his feet, his fists clenched, and so, too, did Danner, and it would have come to blows except Tuck stepped in between and gently pressed Arbin back, saying, “Hold on, now, and save your fighting for Modru.” He turned to Danner and placed a hand on his forearm and said, “Squabble with Vulgs, not Warrows.” Danner shook off Tuck’s grip, and glowering at Arbin, sat back down. Talk ceased.

  The tense silence was finally broken by Tarpy: “Look, we can’t have you two buccoes forever glaring at one another like circling dogs. Let’s just leave it at this: sometimes events seem like sendings and omens, sometimes not, and who’s to say the which of it? Perhaps some things are portents while others are not, even the flights of birds—there may be times that they mean something, and other times not; yet I think none of us here will ever read a winged augery. But this I say: Until we know the truth about sendings, omens, whatever, there’s got to be room for different beliefs, and respect for the right to hold diverse opinions.” Little Tarpy glared at Danner and Arbin, both of whom towered over him. “Have you got that? Then formally put your wrath behind you.” Both Danner and Arbin stood, albeit somewhat reluctantly, and stiffly bowed to one another, to the smiles of the other squad members.

  ~

  Tuck and Tarpy and eight others were assigned to the fore-barricade while Danner was among those that drew the aft-gate for their Beyonder Guard duty. Just prior to mid of night, they rode down the long black tunnel of thorns to their posts, greeting the squad there with Hálloos and Hai-rois and Ai-oi, where you been? Have you bitten any Vulgs lately? What’s the news from Modru? and other such banter. The relieved squad mounted their own ponies and rode back toward the encampment, leaving Patrel’s squad to stoke the fires and prepare for their long watch. The fore-barrier was opened and Dilby rode out to relieve the point-watch at the far side of the ’Thorn. After awhile they could see the approaching torch of that young buccan, and as he rode up to the fore-barricade it was opened long enough for him to pass through on his way back to camp. Tuck watched as he rode across the frozen river and was passed through the aft-barricade.

  An hour dragged by, and then another, and few words were spoken; in the main, the gurge of swift water under ice, and the pop of pine knots in the fire were the dominant sounds of the night. All of the ponies and half of the young buccen dozed while the other half drank hot tea and kept a sharp watch out. Another hour passed, and Tuck, on rest, was just nodding off when Tarpy shook him awake: “Tuck! Look sharp! Dilby comes, and he’s riding fast!”

  Tuck scrambled up and Warrows nocked arrows and stood ready, their senses alert. Arbin scuttled out the crawlway and kicked up the fire in front of the barricade to better see by and scurried back through, making ready to drop the Spindlethorn plug into the crawlway if necessary. The signal was given to those across the Ford to close the aft-barricade. They could see Dilby’s torch bobbing closer and now hear the pony’s hoofbeats as it raced toward the barrier. Patrel came running across the river, arriving just as Dilby pounded up: “A rider comes!” Dilby cried. “At speed! Sounds like a horse, not a pony. Let me in!” Quickly they opened the barricade and shut it just as fast once Dilby was through. He threw a leg over the pony and leapt to the ground, and gave his report to Patrel as the others took up their posts on the ramparts of the barrier. “I was at the point and thought I could hear something coming up the road, far off. I put my ear to the icy ground, nearly froze it, and listened. The sound became plain: a horse, I think, at speed, running along the road, headed for the Ford.”

  “Oi! A light!” cried Delber, and all peered beyond the barricade to see another torch, its light growing swiftly. Now they could hear the pounding of hooves, this time horse rather than pony. On it came, growing louder, until a black foam-flecked steed ridden by a haggard Man burst into the firelight to thunder to a halt at the barrier.

  “In the name of the High King, open up, for I am his herald, and War is afoot!” cried the Man, holding his torch aloft so that all could see that indeed he was garbed in a red and gold tabard, the colors of High King Aurion.

  “Your mission?” called down Patrel.

  “Ai! Modru gathers his Horde to fall upon Challerain Keep,” cried the messenger, his horse curvetting, “and I am sent to muster this Land, for all must answer to the call if the Realm is to brave the coming storm. And I am told to show you this”—he held up a leather thong laced through a hole in a coin—“though I know not what it means.”

  The eyes of all the Warrows on the barricade widened in alarm, for it was a Gjeenian penny, the cheapest coin in the realm, a symbol hearking back to the Warrows Tipperton Thistledown and Beau Darby and the Great War of the Ban. There was coin just like it in the Centerdell town of Rood, to be sent to the King should the Bosky be in desperate straits. And none on the barrier ever thought to see such a dreadful sign.

  “Open the barricade,” ordered Patrel, and Tuck and Tarpy and two others leapt down to do so. “What news?” he called as the four set aside their bows to move the barrier.

  “Darkness stalks the north. Prince Galen strikes within the Dimmendark. Young Prince Igon has slain Winternight Spawn. And Aurion Redeye fortifies the Keep,” answered the herald.

  The barrier at last was open and the Kingsman rode through, but at the sight of the yawning black maw of the thorn tunnel on the far side of the Ford, he paused and sighed. “Ah, Wee One,” he called up to Patrel, “riding through this Great Thornwall is like passing through the very gaping Gates of Hèl.”

  “Would you have a hot cup of tea before going into those gaping Gates?” asked Tuck, looking up, marveling at how huge both horses and Men seemed to be.

  The man smiled down at Tuck. “Would that I could, but I must away. And shut that thorngate soon,”—he gestured at the barricade behind—“for I ken something comes after.”

  At a light touch of spurs to flank, the black steed trotted forward out of the mouth of the Thornwall and onto the frozen river, gingerly stepping toward the far bank, the strike of iron-shod hooves knelling through the ice. The Warrows watched his progress toward the far side and signalled the Beyonder Guard at the aft-gate to let the Man pass.

  And thus it was that while all eyes were riveted upon the Man, a great snarling black shape hurtled through the open fore-barrier, racing to overhaul the herald. “Vulg!” cried Tarpy, snatching up his bow, yet ere he could nock an arrow, the black beast was beyond range, but Tarpy sprang after.

  “Close the barrier! More come!” shouted Patrel, and several leapt down to do so, while others spun to see three more hideous Vulgs speeding toward the barr
icade. Thuun! Hsss! Thuun! Ssss! arrows were loosed at the creatures as the thorngate slammed to, walling them out.

  Tuck, too, had snatched up his bow and raced after Tarpy, fumbling for an arrow as he ran. The Vulg was swift and closed upon the Kingsman with blinding speed.

  “’Ware!” shouted Tuck as he pounded onto the ice, five running strides behind Tarpy.

  The herald turned in his saddle to see what was amiss just as the great black Vulg sprang for his throat, and but for Tuck’s warning he would have been slain then and there. He threw up an arm to ward the beast, and the Vulg hurtled into him, knocking him from the saddle though his left foot was caught in the stirrup. The Vulg rolled on the ice and his claws scratched and clicked as he scrambled to his feet, and his baleful yellow eyes flashed with malevolence. The horse screamed in and bolted downstream, hauling the man, but the Vulg swiftly cut short the flight. Quick Tarpy reached the steed and grabbed at the reins and Tuck slid to a stop over the Man as the Vulg bunched and leapt at Tarpy, snarling jaws aslaver. Thuun! Sssthwock! Tuck’s arrow buried itself in the Vulg’s chest and the beast was dead as it smashed into the horse, knocking its feet from under. Squealing, the steed crashed down onto the ice, and rending cracks rived the surface, and a great jagged slab tilted up and over. Tuck, Tarpy and the Man, desperately clawed at the canting ice, but they along with the screaming, kicking horse and the dead Vulg all slid down to be swept under by the swift current. And the slab slammed shut behind them like a great trapdoor.

  ~

  The icy shock of the frigid water nearly caused Tuck to swoon, so cold it was that it burned. But ere he could faint the racing current rammed him into a great rock, and the jolt brought him to. Up he frantically swam, to collide with the underside of the ice, and he all but screamed in terror. And his fingers clawed at the hard undersurface in panic as the merciless torrent swept him along. He needed to breathe, but couldn’t, for the bitterly cold water was everywhere, though breath raced by only inches away. Numb he grew and knew he was dead, but held on until he could last no more. Yet, lo! his face came into a narrow pocket of air trapped between hard ice and gushing water, and he gasped rapidly, his cheek pressed against the ice, his panting breath harsh in his ears. He clutched helplessly at the frozen undersurface, trying to stay where he was, but there was nought to grasp and his fingers no longer did his bidding, and he was swept under again, dragged down away from the ice, his saturated clothes weighing him down. Again the frigid current whelmed him into a great rock, and he was slammed sideways into a crevice, jammed there by the surge at the riverbed, far below the surface. He reached down and numbly felt a river rock and forced his fingers to close, to grasp it up from the bottom, and he clawed his way up the crevice. He would try to hammer through the ice, though he had little hope of succeeding. Up he inched, buffeted by the overpowering surge, pressed into the cleft of the great rock, nearly pinned by the force; up he struggled, straining every nerve, every sinew, his lungs screaming for air; up, and his grip failed him and the stone plummeted whirling away from his benumbed fingers, but the furious battle upward went on; up he clawed, and against his will his lungs heaved, trying to breathe, to find air and draw it past clamped lips, and he knew he could hold out no longer. No! his mind shouted in anger, and with all his might, all his energy, he gave one last desperate surge upward, and he came into the sweet night air, and his lungs pumped like bellows, for he had come up in one of the dark gurging pools where ice had not yet formed.

  With enormous effort he crawled up onto the great stone thrusting above the water, and lay against the icy rock, gasping for air. He could no longer feel his hands, and uncontrollable shudders racked through his body. He was cold . . . so cold . . . so bitterly cold, and he knew that he was dying. Yet from the depths of his being he willed himself to get up, to stand, but only managed to roll over onto his side. He lay there panting, with his cheek pressed against the cold hard stone, and only his eyes moved at his will. Down between the great walls of thorn looming darkly upward he could see a ring of torchlight, perhaps one hundred yards away, at the Ford. But one torch was much nearer, darting from place to place. Closer it came, held high. It was Danner! He came searching the pools! Tuck tried to speak, to call out, and his voice was but a feeble croak, lost in the churn. Again Tuck called, this time louder, though still faint. Danner jerked about, and held up his torch to see the Warrow crumpled on the rock, and he darted to the pool, stopping at the edge of the ice.

  “Tuck!” he cried, “I’ve found you! You’re alive!” His voice sounded as if he were weeping. “Har! Yar!” he shouted at the others, his cry loud between the thorn walls. “This way! Hoy! Bring rope!” He turned back to Tuck: “We’ll throw you a line and pull you out of there.”

  “I can’t use my hands,” Tuck managed to say. “They don’t work anymore. I can’t even sit up.” And Tuck found that he was sobbing.

  “Don’t worry, Bucco,” Danner said, “I’ll come and get you.” Danner began stripping his clothes, muttering angrily to himself: “Witless fools! Trying to flip that slab back over.” Other young buccen came pelting up, wonder in their eyes at the sight of Tuck. “I told you!” spat Danner. “Search the pools! Some now stay with me! The rest search for Tarpy . . . and the Man! Who has the rope?” They stood agape a moment until Patrel barked out orders, and five stayed while the others began the search.

  Danner tied the line to himself, and Patrel and the other four took a grip on it. Then the young buccan plunged into the water, crying out with the shock and pain of the cold, but swiftly he reached the rock, the current carrying him. Up onto the stone he clambered, shivering uncontrollably, his teeth achatter. Pulling in some slack, he sat Tuck up and looped the line over him, using a great slipknot. “All right, Bucco,” his voice diddered with the cold, “in we go now; the current will carry us out of here.”

  Tuck was of no help, but Danner managed to get the two of them into the bitter rush, and Tuck lost consciousness. With Patrel and two others anchoring the line, paying it out, Danner kept Tuck afloat while the swift current carried them onward to the downstream rim of the frigid pool where waited Argo and Delber who pulled first Tuck and then Danner up onto the ice. Hurriedly, his feet trailing behind, they half carried, half dragged Tuck back to the fire where they stripped his clothes from him and warmed him and wrapped him in two blankets taken from the bedrolls behind the ponies’ saddles. Danner, too, moaning with the cold, came to the fire, limping, with Arbin helping him, and he, also, was first warmed then wrapped in blankets by the fire. Tuck came partly awake, and hot tea was given to both, Patrel holding the cup to Tuck’s mouth, urging the buccan to sip.

  A time passed, and Tuck was now sitting and his hands were beginning to tingle needle-sharp when at last the other buccen returned from the search. Tuck looked up as Dilby came to the fire. “Tarpy?” Tuck asked, and burst into tears when Dilby shook his head, no.

  ~

  When Captain Darby and the healers came, sent for by Patrel, both Tuck and Danner were taken by pony-cart back to the Thornwalker campsite. Neither said much on the trip, and in the tent Tuck was given a sleeping draught for his painfully throbbing hands and fell into a deep, dreamless state. Yet Danner awoke after but a few hours of restless sleep to see Tuck awkwardly gripping a pencil and determinedly writing in his diary. “He’s putting it all down in his diary, you know, to get it out of his mind,” muttered Danner to himself, and fell once again into troubled slumber.

  ~

  Tuck awoke to Danner shaking his arm. “Up, Bucco; they’ve gone off without us, as if we were sick or something,” said Danner. “Well, we’ve got to show ‘em we’re tougher than they think. How are your hands? It was my feet that nearly gave out on me.”

  Tuck flexed his fingers. “They feel just a bit strange: somewhat like they’re swollen. But that’s all.” He looked up at Danner, and their eyes met, and Tuck began to weep.

  “Come on, Bucco,” said Danner, his own voice choking, “don’t go into that
now.”

  “I’m sorry, Danner, but I just can’t help it.” Tuck’s voice was filled with misery, and his tear-laden eyes stared unseeing into a private horror. “I can’t wrench my mind away from it: the Man, the horse, Tarpy, all trapped beneath the ice, struggling for air, beating at the frozen surface. Oh, Lor! Tarpy, Tarpy. I close my eyes and see his face under the ice, his hands clawing, but he cannot get out.” Sobs racked Tuck’s frame, and Danner, weeping too, threw an arm over Tuck’s shoulders. “If only I hadn’t shot the Vulg just then,” Tuck sobbed, “it wouldn’t have struck the horse and the ice wouldn’t have broken and . . . and . . . ” Tuck could not go on.

  “Hold it!” exclaimed Danner, leaping up and facing Tuck, his sorrow turning to anger. “That’s stupid! If you hadn’t feathered that brute when you did, then it would have bitten Tarpy’s head off! Don’t blame your fool self for an accident of misfortune. You did the right thing, and I mean exactly the right thing. It could have been you drowned under the ice instead of Tarpy, or the Man. Any one or all three could have come up in a pool like you did. No, Tuck, chance alone slew our comrade, and chance alone saved you, so if you want to blame someone or something, blame chance!”

  Tuck, shocked from his grief and guilt and self-pity by Danner’s angry words looked up at the other buccan. A moment passed and the only sound was Danner’s harsh breathing. And then Tuck spoke, his voice grim: “No, Danner, not chance. I’ll not blame chance. Chance did not send that Vulg after the Kingsman. ‘Twas Modru.”