The Iron Tower Omnibus

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Year after year the King returned, and at last a great castle was raised, incorporating the fort within its grounds. It was then that the village grew into a town, and the town into a city. The city prospered, and it, too, was called Challerain Keep. Thus it had been for thousands of years.

  ~

  As the Warrow column gradually drew closer, they began to discern some details of the city: The mount shouldered up broadly out of low rolling foothills upon the prairie and rose eight- or nine-hundred feet above the plain. At its peak stood a castle: rugged it looked, even from afar, not at all like an airy castle of fable, but rather like one of strength: crenellated granite battlements loomed starkly ’round blocky towers. The grey castle stood within grounds consisting of gentle slopes terminated by craggy drops stepping far down the tor sides until at last they fetched up against another massive rampart rearing up to circle the entire mont. On these Kingsgrounds there were many groves, and pines growing in the crags, and several lone giants standing in the meadows, many trees bereft in winter dress. There, too, were several buildings, perhaps stables or warehouses, the Warrows could not tell, and, of course, the citadel itself.

  Below the Kingsgrounds began the city proper: There stood tier upon tier of red, blue, green, white, yellow, square, round, large, small, stone, brick, wooden, and every other shape, color, size, and type of building imaginable, all ajumble in terraced rings descending down the slopes. Running among the homes, shops, storehouses, stables, and other structures were three more massive defense walls, stepped evenly down the side of Mont Challerain, the lowest one nearly at the level of the plain. Only a few permanent structures lay outside the first wall.

  Out on the crests of hills to the east and west sprawled the encampments of massed armies, yet there seemed to be less activity than could be expected from the extent of the bivouac—fewer Men and horses, as it were, for the number of tents.

  All this and more the Warrows saw as slowly they came toward the hills and unto the city. Finally, in late morning the Company rode up among the sparse buildings flanking the Post Road to come at last to the open city gates laid back against the first wall, with a portcullis raised high; and fur- and fleece-clad, iron-helmed soldiers from the nearby camps streamed to and fro. Atop the barbican stood several Men in red and gold—the gate guard—and one leaned on his hands on the parapet and looked down upon the Warrows with wonder in his eyes. And he called to his companions, and all looked in surprise at the small ones below.

  “Ho!” called up Patrel. “Which way to the castle?” he asked, then felt very stupid, for, of course, the castle was at the very top of the mont. Yet the guardsman merely smiled and called back that all they had to do was stay upon the Post Road and it would bear them there.

  In through the twisting cobblestone passage under the wall they rode, looking up at the machicolations through which hot oil or missiles could be rained down upon an enemy. At the other end of the barway another portcullis stood raised, and beyond that the Warrows rode into the lower levels of the city proper, and the smells and sounds and sights of the city assaulted them, and their senses were overwhelmed, for they had ridden into an enormous bazaar, the great open market of Rian at Challerain Keep:

  The square was teeming with people, buyers and sellers: Farmers from nearby steads with hams and beef and sausages, bacon, geese, duck, and fowl of other sorts; carrots and turnips and potatoes; grain, and other commodities. And many customers crowded around the stalls, purchasing staples. Hawkers moved through the crowds selling baskets, gloves, warm hats, brooms, pottery, and such. A fruit seller peddled dried apples and peaches, and a strange orange fruit said to come from the far south, from Sarain or Thyra or beyond. The odor of fresh-baked bread wafted o’er all and mingled with that of hot pies and other pastries. Jongleurs strolled, playing flutes and harps, lutes and fifes, timbrels, and some juggled marvelously. Here and there soldiers and townsfolk warmed themselves over fires of charcoal set in open braziers, and talked among themselves, some laughing, others looking stern, or nodding quietly, some gesticulating.

  Through the ebb and flow of the crowd rode forty-three Warrows on ponyback, hooves clattering on the cobbles, and the eyes of the young buccen were filled with the glory and marvel of it—why, this was perhaps even more exciting than the Boskydell Fair—and they looked in wonder this way and that, trying to see everything. They were so overwhelmed that they did not note that townsfolk and soldiers were staring back at the Warrows in amazement, too, for here come among them were the Wee Folk of legend with their jewel-like eyes.

  At last the column rode out of the market square; now they moved between the shops of crafters: a cobbler’s shop, a goldsmithery, mills, lumberyards and carpentries, inns and hostelries, blacksmitheries and ironworks and armories, kilns, masonries, and the like. And above many of the shops and businesses were the dwellings of the owners and workers. And the cobbled Post Road wended through this industry, spiraling up and around the mont, climbing toward the crest. Narrow alleyways shot off between hued buildings, and steep streets slashed across the Road. And but for the signs at each corner, the Warrows easily could have been lost in the maze of the city. Hence, following the well-marked Post Road they clattered through streets of shops and warehouses and workyards, yet as they rode they noted that many of these businesses stood idle, empty, abandoned.

  Again they came to a massive wall and followed the road as it curved alongside the bulwark. At last they came to a gate, and it, too, was guarded but open. Through it and up they rode, now among colorful row houses with unexpected corners and stairs mounting up, and balconies and turrets, too, and all with colorful tiled roofs now covered with snow. Yet, here also, buildings stood empty. But where there were people, they stopped in the streets or leaned out of windows to watch the Wee Folk ride by. Here there were but a few hawkers: a knife sharpener, a charcoal vendor, and a horse-drawn water waggon or two, hauling water from the prairie wells up to households on the mont to augment the uneven supply provided by frequent summer rains and winter snow-melts caught by the tile roofs and channeled into catchments.

  Once more they passed through a barway under a great rampart—the third wall—and again they wended among houses, now larger and more stately than those below, yet still close-set. Again there was an aura of abandonment, for people were sparse and homes unattended.

  “Hey,” said Argo to Tuck, “have you seen all these empty houses?” At Tuck’s nod, Argo went on: “Well now I ask you, how can the market down at the first gate be doing such a brisk trade in an almost-deserted city?” Tuck, of course, had no answer, and on they rode.

  At last they arrived at the fourth wall, the one encircling the Kingsgrounds. When they came to the gate, the portcullis was down although the massive iron gates themselves were laid back against the great wall. Up to the portal they rode and stopped, the clatter of pony hooves on cobbles ceased, and in the airy silence Patrel hailed the guard atop the barbican: “Hoy there! Guardsman!”

  “State your business,” called down one of the Men.

  “We are the Company of the King,” cried Patrel, and all the Warrows sat proud, “and we’ve come from the Boskydells in answer to his summons.”

  Impressed though he was by the very fact that he looked upon Wee Folk, still the Man atop the wall smiled to himself that such a small rag-tag group would give themselves the auspicious title, “Company of the King.” Yet, from legend he knew that another small group of these Wee Folk, these Waerlinga, had played a key part in the Great War, thus he was not at all prone to scoff at them. “One moment,” he called.”I’ll get my Captain.” He disappeared behind the merlons and the Warrows sat calmly waiting. Shortly, another Man appeared, calling down: “Are you warriors come to serve the King in this hour of need?”

  “Yes,” called Patrel back up to the tower, but in a low voice he said to Tuck and Danner, “though warrior is perhaps too strong a term.” Then again he called up, “We are the Company of the King, Thornwalkers of t
he Boskydells, Land of the Barrier. We answer to the King’s call, though the herald who bore us that message is dead: Vulg slain.”

  “Dead? Vulg slain?” cried the tower commander.”Enter. I shall meet you.” He turned to the guard squad and ordered, “Open the waybar,” and disappeared from view as Men rushed to winches. With a clatter of gears, slowly the portcullis was raised until at last it was up.

  The column rode into the passage under the wall and waited until the second portcullis was raised, too, and at last rode out into the Kingsgrounds where waited the guard Captain. “I will take you to Hrosmarshal Vidron, Kingsgeneral, Fieldmarshal. He must be told of the death of the herald. It is he you want to see, in any case, for he commands the Allies if the King himself cannot take to the field. Now, follow me, we go to the Old Fort.” The Man leapt upon the back of a dun-colored horse, and along the cobbles of the Post Road they clattered, at times mounting up along craggy looms, drawing ever closer to the Keep.

  Now the fortress in all of its massive strength could be seen: Grey it was, and ponderous, with great blocky granite buildings with high windows and square towers. Crenels and merlons crowned the battlements; massive groins supported great bastions outjutting from the walls. Stone curtains protected hidden banquettes where would stand defenders in the face of attack. In awe rode the Warrows, never having seen such might, and Tuck wondered what his stone-cutting sire would say were he here.

  At last they came to the fifth and final wall, the last loom ere the castle itself, and the massive main gate was shut. They did not go to this portal, however, but instead rode northward alongside the bulwark, striking for the north wall, for there was the Old Fortress, now incorporated into the barrier itself.

  As the Company slowly rounded a bastion upon the northwest corner, a thin wind sprang up, and the young buccen raised their hoods. Yet they heard the drum of hoofbeats and across the slope below saw a spear-wielding youth bestride a galloping charger bearing down upon a pivoting Man-shaped target, wooden shield on one side, extended arm and chain mace upon the other. Chunk! the spear-lance was driven into the shield by the full weight of the running War horse, and the target whirled under the impact, violently whipping the wooden mace ball at the passing warrior’s head. But the young Man ducked under and was borne away by his courser, leaving the target spinning behind, the ball cleaving nought but empty air. Finally the target gyred to a stop, the pivot coming to a rest in a shallow groove so that the silhouette was square to the list. Again the youth and steed charged upon thundering hooves. Thunk! the spear crashed into the shield, and the mace spun and slashed in vain.

  To one side and just upslope stood a pavilion, and several Men were gathered about a table, occasionally looking to the far north and gesticulating, pointing and arguing. Thunk! The horse and warrior raced cross-slope. As the Warrow column drew near, they came under the winter limbs of an ancient oak tree. Their guide said, “Stop and dismount here. Which among you is Captain? Good! Come with me.”

  Patrel dismounted and signed Tuck and Danner to accompany him, and, following the Man, the three bow-carrying Warrows strode off toward the pavilion, leaving the two squads behind looking at the huge battlements of the massive north wall and speaking in hushed tones. Chunk! sounded the spear on target.

  Striding down to the tent, Tuck could now see that the Men were gathered about a table strewn with maps and scrolls; some lay flat with the corners held down by improvised paperweights: a helm, a dagger, a small silver horn, a cup. Again some Men pointed at the maps while others stared northward, and they seemed to be arguing a point. Tuck glanced north, too. Here, high on the mont, he could see miles upon miles of unrelieved snow stretching forth upon the plains below; a low dark cloudbank clung to the far horizon. Thunk!

  The young buccen came unnoticed to the edge of the group and stopped where the guardsman indicated; the guide then made his way to the warrior at the head of the table, a large robust Man, black hair shot through with silver, with a close-cropped silver beard. The Captain of the tower guard said a word or two, and Marshal Vidron’s eyes flicked over the hooded three and briefly up to the forty under the oak. Thunk! The target spun wildly under the impact, mace lashing air.

  “Faugh!” growled Vidron, glancing back at the small trio. “Saddle me not with infants!”

  “Infants? Infants?” cried Patrel, wrath rising in his voice. “Danner! Tuck! Arrows!” and swiftly the three nocked arrows to their bows. “Hold!” cried one of the Men, grasping the hilt of his sword and drawing it, stepping between Vidron and the young buccen. But Patrel looked angrily about and cried, “The whirling mace!” and turning, he let fly at the spinning target. Thock! his arrow struck home, intercepting the hurtling wooden ball in flight! Now it gyrated wildly, yet: Thunk! Thock! Tuck’s and Danner’s shots followed, and two more arrows struck the flying ball! Stunned, the Men were speechless as the Warrows turned back to face them in ire.

  “Ai-oi!” shouted Vidron in wonder, “these infants have fangs!” Then he burst out laughing loud and long, and in spite of themselves the Warrows smiled at his pleasure. “Hai!” cried the Valanreach Fieldmarshal, “I, Hrosmarshal Vidron of Valon, name you Captain of the Infant Brigade!” and he swept up the small silver horn from among the maps and scrolls and strode forward, presenting it to Patrel as a token of his newly bestowed rank; and the Warrows and all the Men laughed in great humor as Vidron hung the horn from Patrel’s shoulder by the green and white baldric. “Someday I shall tell you the history of that trumpet, Lad,” said Vidron. “It is a noble one, for it was won from the hoard of Sleeth the Orm by my ancestor, Elgo, Sleeth’s Doom.”

  “Aye, we know that legend, Sire, for it is famous and told as a hearthtale,” answered Patrel. “Elgo tricked Sleeth into the sunlight, and the Cold-drake was done for.” Patrel excitedly examined the bugle. He saw it had riders on horseback engraved upon it, running ’round the flange of the horn-bell among the mystic runes of power. Patrel then set the horn to his lips and blew a clarion call that rang bell-like upslope and down, and spirits were stirred and hearts leapt with hope. And the Warrow Company under the oak sprang up and would have come running but Danner waved them back. Patrel looked upon the trump in wonderment. “Ya hoy! A fine badge of office is this!” he cried, beaming up at Marshal Vidron. He saw before him a Man in his middle years, with eyes of black and a sharp penetrating gaze. He was clothed in dark leathern breeks, while soft brown boots shod his feet. A fleece vest covered his mail-clad torso, and his silver and black hair was cropped at the shoulders and held back by a leather band upon his broad brow. White teeth smiled through his silver beard. A russet cloak hung to the ground, and a black-oxen horn depended at his side by a leather strap over one shoulder and across his chest.

  “From where do you hail, lads?” asked Vidron, not expecting the answer he got:

  “From the Boskydells, Sire,” answered Patrel, throwing back his hood.

  “Waldfolc!” cried Vidron in amazement, and now he looked sharply at all three and at the Company upon the slope, at last seeing the color and tilt of gem-like eyes, and the shape of sharp-pointed ears, finally recognizing the Wee Folk for what they were.

  “Ai, but I knew the Land of the Waldana was nigh, yet little did I think to see you folk here. Ho, but I thought you mere lads from an outlying village, and not Waldana from the Boskydells, or even from the Weiunwood near. But today, it seems, legends bestride this mount. Our liege will want to see you, and his younger son, whose target you just bested. Yet wait! He bears your arrows now.”

  Toward them galloped the horseman of the spear, and he carried the three arrows plucked from the wooden ball of the target mace. Up he thundered, checking his great roan horse at the last moment with the cry, “Ho, Rust!” And the red steed skidded to a halt while in one and the same motion the young Man of fifteen summers sprang down. “Who winged these arrows?” he asked, then his eyes alighted upon the three bow-carrying young buccen. “Waerlinga!” his voice rose in surprise. “Was it
you who loosed these quarrels?” He raised the arrows in a clenched fist. “Hai! What splendid marksmanship! Would that I could shoot as well. Ai, but what are Waerlinga doing here?”

  “My Lord,” spoke up the Captain of the gate guard, “they hail from the Boskydells and bear dire news. I know not their names.”

  “Captain Patrel Rushlock of the Company of the King at your service, Lord,” said Patrel, bowing most formally. “And these are my companions and lieutenants, Tuckerby Underbank and Danner Bramblethorn, Vulg slayers, Modru foes. My Company of Thornwalkers are there, cross-slope, awaiting the orders of the King.”

  “Oi! Warriors of the Thornwall, Vulg slayers, hail and well met.” The youth’s spear was raised in salute, and his eyes touched them all in admiration. “Here, take back your bolts of doom. Spend them on the night-spawn instead of riddling my hapless wooden foe. And you’ve come to the very storm front itself if you stand against Modru, for his Horde swirls and gathers as a winter blizzard about to strike. But ho, my manners: I am Igon, younger son of King Aurion.”

  Prince Igon! Tuck’s stunned thoughts were set awhirl as he bowed to the young Man before him. Prince Igon stood tall and straight and gazed at them out of clear grey eyes. His hair was dark brown and fell to his shoulders. He was slender as is wont for one of his tender years, but he seemed to conceal a strength beyond his form. A scarlet cloak fell from his shoulders, and light mail gleamed on his breast. His breeks and boots were rust red, and in his hand he held the lancing spear. Upon his head was a leather and steel helm, embellished with black-iron studs. His face was handsome.

  Tuck’s thoughts were broken by Vidron’s bold voice: “Captain Patrel, what is this dire news you bear?”