The Iron Tower Omnibus

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “Yes, Sire,” answered Tuck, fletching another arrow. “Swift he was and all the Men brave, and he led them upon a horse darker than night, the color of jet.”

  “Hai! You have named it well, for Jet it was: no horse is blacker.” Aurion smote fist into palm. “Ah me, would that I had seen it myself; it would have done my heart good to have witnessed that brave dash. But I was at swords, hewing foes upon the tower’s ramp.”

  “Who rides the black?” asked Tuck, sighting down another shaft, believing he now knew the King’s answer but awaiting Aurion’s confirmation.

  “’Tis Galen rides Jet.” Pride washed over the King’s features. “No warrior can fight better.”

  So that was Lord Galen, thought Tuck. My Lady Laurelin’s Lord Galen. Tuck’s hand strayed to the silver locket at his throat and for long moments he sat lost in quiet thought.

  “See now, they lift Whelm over the first wall.” The King’s voice brought Tuck back to the present, and he stood and looked beyond the charred ruins of the lower city to see the massive Ogrus hauling upon thick ropes to raise the great ram now over the first bulwark. The huge maul was too long to bring it through the twisting passageway of the north gate—or any other portal for that matter.

  Tuck watched for a moment, then his eyes turned to the burning tower. “What about the other towers, Sire, will they be hauled across the wall, too?”

  “Nay, Tuck, for they are too massive, even for the Troll Folk,” answered the King. “And, too, the word has come that but one tower remains; all others are in flames, as is this one. They were set upon at one and the same time by Galen’s band; my son divided his force to do so.” Aurion’s face turned grave. “They paid a high price to put them to the torch, for perhaps no more than forty Men escaped, all told, and even then they were pursued by Ghola. As to their fate, none here knows. Yet Galen is wily, and will best them yet.”

  Tuck was glad to hear that the siege towers would no longer be a factor in the struggles to come, yet he fretted over the fate of the Men of Lord Galen. Tuck stepped down and again took up the shafts to work on, sitting with his back to the wall.

  “You should rest now, Wee One,” said Aurion, “for soon they will have Whelm reassembled and the battle for this wall will commence.”

  “Yes, Sire,” answered Tuck, “but I must needs fletch a few more shafts first, for I spent nearly all my others, and, as I’ve said before, the arrows of Men are too long for Warrows, though in a pinch they would do.”

  As the King strode away, Tuck’s fingers flew, and shaft after shaft was trimmed and fletched. Iron points were affixed, and the pile at his side grew. Back at the castle was a hoard of arrows feathered and tipped in past days by the Warrows. But Tuck knew that they would be needed later, and so he now made more. And he lost track of time in the crafting of bolts. Hence he did not know how long he had been working when he heard the distant thwack! of the enemy’s trebuchet. Twice more it sounded, yet he did not look away from his work; but then he heard the anguished cries of Men, and at last he glanced up to see a grisly sight: the Rûcken Horde had decapitated the slain bodies of the fallen Men and dismembered them, and now the catapult flung the mutilated remains to rain down upon the defenders. Thwack! Thwack! again and again the throwing arm of the great trebuchet swept upward, and weeping warriors stumbled through the char and ash of the burned city to gather up all that was left of their slain comrades, horribly disfigured: lidless eyes staring, lipless mouths grinning in the rictus of death.

  Tuck turned his face to the stone wall and wept the hopeless tears of a lost child, and still the catapult threw.

  ~

  “Stand ready; they come.” Aurion’s voice was grim as the Horde swept through the burned ruins of the lower city and toward the second rampart. And the howl of Ghûls sounded and then the wordless shout of Rûcks and Hlôks. Again Whelm creaked toward a gate—the north portal of the second wall—and again the King and Tuck stood where the ram came. Once more the Swarm drew within range of arrow, but the defenders withheld their shafts, for they knew that every shot had to count. Slowly the iron ring squeezed shut, and finally the Rûcken forces charged, and ululating cries burst forth. From the crenellations arrows were loosed at last, and the black shafts of Rûcks answered. Scaling ladders slapped up against the wall, and grapnels bit the stone, and foe mounted up. Men shoved with poles and chopped with axes to send the scalers down, and Rûcks fell screaming to land with sodden thuds upon the frozen stony ground. Boom! Boom! Mighty Whelm rammed upon the portal. A whoosh of burning oil gushed out under the gate, but the flaming liquid was shunted aside by a barrier of iron plates set in mud spread by Rûcks upon the cobbles before the ram for just this purpose. And the Ogrus drove the great iron fist again and again into the portal. Here and there atop the wall Rûcks and Hlôks swarmed, and sword met scimitar, pike drove at spear, hammers and axes clashed, and the clangor of steel striking steel sounded among Warcries and oaths and grunts and gasps of fierce battle, and the sound of Death screamed forth.

  Grimly, Tuck loosed arrow after arrow, and where each bolt flew Rûck fell dead, pierced through; and the number of those he had slain mounted; yet how many he slew, he did not know, for he had not counted. But he had not missed once, and now he had spent nearly sixty arrows—thirty-five at the first wall. But he did not stop to think of this, for if he had he would have been filled to gagging with sick horror. Instead, he nocked arrow, aimed, and loosed, nocked arrow, aimed, and loosed—time after time, with machine-like precision. By the count of his victims, Tuck was by far the most effective warrior upon his part of the wall: a tiny Warrow, but a hand or so more than half the height of Man. Yet had more of the Wee Folk been present than a mere forty scattered thinly upon the battlements, the outcome of the struggle at this wall might well have been different; but more were not there, and soon the dark Rûcken tide swept over this rampart, too, and through the shattered gate, and the defenders withdrew unto the third bulwark.

  ~

  Exhausted, Tuck slumped against the castle wall. He was weary beyond measure, for he had not slept over a span of two ’Darkdays. Four times the defenders had battled the Horde, and each time the enemy had won, for their numbers were too many and the Kingsforce too few. Four gates lay shattered behind them, four walls had been o’ertopped, thousands of Rûcks had fallen yet tens of thousands remained. Each battle had been fierce, the fighting more intense upon succeeding walls, for General Gann’s strategy was correct: the higher up the mont they had come, the less perimeter there was to defend, and the more concentrated became the King’s forces. Yet whether they could hold out, they knew not, for the Kingsmen now numbered less than three-thousand, and they faced a Horde ten times their strength. And now that Swarm stood before the last wall, Whelm’s iron fist aimed at the west gate, and the defenders inside girded for a final assault.

  Tuck had caught a brief glimpse of Danner, and later Patrel, and he was glad to see they still lived, for twelve of the Wee Folk had fallen, and he knew not who yet survived. They smiled wanly at one another, their features pinched by fatigue, but then they were swept apart again as the tides of War demanded.

  Again came the blat of horns, once more the Doom! of drum; now the dark Horde strode forward: the fifth assault began. Tuck leaned wearily upon the merlon and watched grimly as they came, the wheels of Whelm rumbling on the cobbles as mighty Trolls pressed forth this bane. As before, the tactics of the Horde did not vary: slowly they advanced until they came into arrow range, then the Ghûls voiced howling cries, and shouting Rûcks and Hlôks charged through a hail of arrows bearing scaling ladders and grapnels, and the ram bore upon the gate.

  Again ladders thudded against stone and the hooks bit upon merlons and crenels. The air was filled with hissing death as arrow after arrow thocked! into flesh, and Rûck and Man fell dead or wounded. Tuck moved slowly along the wall, seeking out enemy archers, for they threw death at long range, and Tuck could stay their hand.

  Boom! Boom! Whelm smas
hed against the west gate, iron fist pounding for entry upon the great iron door. But this time the Men had set an Ogru trap: the cobbles before the gate had been soaked with oil, and it was set ablaze. Whoosh! Fire erupted upward, and black smoke billowed, as flames raged up under the fire shield canopy, and the Trolls ran forth roaring in pain, slapping at the fire clinging to their scales, Whelm forgotten. And many stepped upon the calthrop spikes and howled in great agony and could but barely limp thereafter. And great boulders were flung down from the gate towers and fell upon the Ogrus, slaying three of the twelve-foot-high monsters, and breaking the bones of two others.

  In fury, the Ghûls rode forth upon their Hèlsteeds and lashed at the Ogrus, and they drove the creatures back to haul Whelm forth from the blaze; but the fire upon the ram was too fierce, the massive wooden driver burned with raging flames, and the Trolls could not come near. The ram was abandoned; no more would Whelm’s iron fist knock for entry in this strife.

  Atop the walls desperate battle raged. Man, Hlôk, Warrow, Rûck, Elf: they strove weapon to weapon and hand to hand, fighting to the death: slashing, kicking, stabbing, gouging, hacking, smashing, biting, piercing, hurling one another from the battlements. Warcries and screams alike rent the air as well as unheeded shouts of warning. There, too, was the skirl of steel upon steel, and the crunch of sundered bone, and the chang of iron striking stone, and the chop of blade into meat. Yet Tuck heard nought of it: for him there was only the sound of arrow loosed upon target; he paid little heed to the sounds of War, nor did he see Young Brill rage past, swinging wide his great sword, cleaving a mighty swath, slaying Rûcks by the score, the battle madness upon him.

  And at last the Horde was hurled back! For the first time their swarming failed to take the walls! With harsh blats of Rûcken horns, the Swarm withdrew down and away from the fifth bulwark.

  And the defenders slumped down upon the castle battlements, exhausted beyond telling with this “victory.” King Aurion called for a tally, and it showed that fewer than a thousand Men survived, and many of these were wounded, and only nineteen Warrows yet lived. Unto the west battlement the War-council was summoned; and among the Council, too, few survivors remained: Vidron, Gildor, and Young Brill yet lived; Gann, Medwyn, Hagan, and Overn had all fallen. Danner lived and so, too, did Patrel, though he was wounded in the hand.

  “We cannot withstand the next assault,” said Aurion. “They are too many and we too few. I ask for guidance, though our hope is scant.”

  Vidron spoke what was in his heart: “Sire, we cannot let you fall. Yet I deem there is but one course to prevent such an end: we must burst through Modru’s ring of iron and leave the Keep behind. Aye, we had hoped to hold this fortress and pin the Horde here until the Host arrives, yet that hope has gone aglimmering, swallowed by the darkness. But though that plan has failed, there is yet a way to slow the enemy’s march south: we need but adopt the tactics of Prince Galen: strike hard into a weakness and melt away into the shadow ere the enemy can strike back. But first we must break free of this trap ere we can bait the enemy.”

  Vidron fell silent and Aurion looked to his advisors and they nodded in agreement with Vidron’s words. The King turned back to his general. “Say on, Fieldmarshal.”

  “This is what I think we must do: when next the Horde begins to scale the walls, we must burst forth from the west gate, cleaving through their ranks, and hie down the mountain and out into the distant shadow upon the far plains.” Vidron looked into each of their faces. “And this shall be the way of it: there are enough horses within these walls to mount the force needed for all of us to win through to the west stables where the Men on foot can secure steeds of their own. Then with horses for all we will fly into the enemy’s own darkness.”

  “But, Hrosmarshal,” objected young Brill, “we are not certain that any of the coursers at the west stable yet live: the foul Rukha may have slain them all in malice.”

  “Nay, Brill,” answered Vidron, “the Rutcha will not kill them in malice. Zlye pozhirately koneny! They are vile eaters of horseflesh! and would save the steeds for that evil glut.” Vidron’s eyes flashed in anger, for there is a special bond between the Men of Valon and their steeds, and the thought of Rûcks rending steeds brought rage into Vidron’s heart.

  Gildor spoke: “Whether or no the steeds live or are slain, there is little to choose from in this matter: either we defend these walls one last time and die in the effort, or we attempt to break through the ring of Rûpt If the horses at the west stable survive and we reach them, then some of us will live on to fight again. If the steeds are slain or if we do not reach them, then again we will die fighting, but many of the Spaunen will fall, too.” Gildor fell silent, and all eyes turned to the King.

  Aurion Redeye searched the features of each one there. “These then are the fates before us: to die upon the walls, to die at empty stables, or to win free upon horses; of these three, only one lets us stand against Modru, and that is the fate we will seek. Maeg Adoni laenan strengthu to ûre earms! (May Adon lend strength to our arms!) Vidron, we will try your desperate plan.”

  Upon hearing these words, Tuck exhaled, discovering he had been holding his breath.

  “Aye, it’s a desperate plan, I know,” answered Vidron, “but I see no other way to succeed. Upon the steeds stabled within these walls, those of us mounted must battle to hold back the Foul Folk, the Wrg, until all our comrades are horsed, then we must fly: down the north slope through the sundered gates and away.”

  “Why the north slope?” asked Danner. “Why not down the south slope and straight away toward friendly Lands?”

  “Because only the broken gates are certain to be open,” answered Vidron. “The others may be closed and guarded. Yet you have given me pause to think more deeply: should we get separated, we must choose a rendezvous. Where say you?”

  “How about south to the Battle Downs?” offered Patrel. “Or even Stonehill.”

  “Aye!” agreed King Aurion. “Battle Downs first and then Stonehill, for that is the direction we must bear to gather allies.”

  “Wait a moment!” cried Tuck. “Warrows can’t ride horses! But hold, our ponies are here in the castle stables, and they are swift—swifter than the maggot-folk on foot.”

  “But not swifter than Hèlsteed,” said Young Brill. “You’ll have to ride horses, mounted behind warriors.”

  “Then you won’t be able to fight,” snapped Danner, “and neither will we.”

  “Let us at least ride our ponies down to the first wall,” said Patrel. “Through the rubble they are as quick as horses. Then we will mount up behind Men on fleet steeds to be borne away when the fighting is done.”

  “Better still,” said Aurion, “when we break out, it will be you, the Wee Folk, who race ahead and secure the stables while we stay the foe long enough for the Men on foot to come to you.” The King looked about. “Is there aught else? Lord Gildor, you have spoken sagely but now seem troubled.”

  “Aye, King Aurion,” said the Elf, “indeed I am troubled, but for nothing I can see, only for that which I feel: a dark foreboding casts a deep pall upon my spirit, yet I cannot say what this feeling augers. Only this: beware, Aurion King, for past yon gate I sense a great Evil lurks, an Evil beyond the Horde at our door, and I deem it bodes ill for you.”

  A dread chill clutched at Tuck’s heart upon hearing Gildor’s words, for the Warrow, too, sensed that a fell fate awaited them. But except for a vague presentment, he could not pin down the cause of his unease.

  “So be it,” said Aurion. “Fortune now chooses our fate.”

  ~

  And so it was decided: Vidron’s plan would be tried, for to do otherwise led only to death. The word was sent forth, and all the surviving defenders prepared for the escape, quietly withdrawing into the courtyard at the west gate. And as the forces of the King gathered, orders were passed among the ranks as the last-minute planning went on, and word was spread to “’Ware the calthrops” and “Watch out for poison
ed blades” and other such advice as they girded for the desperate chance. All the horses in the castle stables had been bridled and saddled—perhaps a hundred steeds, no more—and warriors stood at their sides, Men of Valon for the most part, said to be the best riders in all the Realms. Other Men were afoot, filling the courtyard, holding their weapons ready for the bold charge. Among them came the Warrows, now but nineteen strong, each of them leading a pony. Other ponies wandered loose, mounts of slain young buccen, and they would run with the rest, adding to the enemy’s confusion. Outside the gate, Whelm still blazed, but the flames that once raged upon the cobbles were now gone, for the oil had burned away. Downslope the vast Horde ringed the castle. Thus all stood for what seemed an eternity: the grim-faced warriors of the King within; the rank Rûcken Horde of Modru without.

  At last the raucous blare of horns could be heard as well as the Doom! of drum, and Men upon the battlements signalled that the enemy advance had begun. Warriors manned the west gate, ready to throw wide the portal. Men mounted up into saddles and spears were couched in stirrup cups, a thicket of lances stirring to and fro. Now the horse column stood ready with King Aurion and Hrosmarshal Vidron at the point, and Lord Gildor, with Bale ablaze, just behind, Young Brill at his side. At the very back sat the Warrows astride their ponies, bows now strung with precious arrows, their quivers nearly empty. And Men upon foot fingered swords and pikes, though a few here and there bore axes and fewer yet held longbows. And all could hear the knell of the great drum as the Horde came forth: Doom! Doom! Doom!

  Now came the howls of the Ghûls, followed by the harsh yells of Rûcks and Hlôks, and in his mind’s eye Tuck could see the dark Horde running toward the walls. Black-shafted Rûcken arrows hissed through the air to shatter upon the stone merlons or to fly through the crenels atop the battlements. Thock! Thud! They heard the scaling ladders strike stone. Clink! Chank! Grapnels bit the castellations. Yet the King stayed his hand, watching the sentries in the gate towers. Tuck watched, too, waiting for the signal, and his heart was pounding. And wrawling Rûcks swarmed up the ladder rungs and up the knotted ropes, and swart fingers grasped over the lip of the battlements, and iron-helmed heads followed. Now! At last the sign was given and the sentries scrambled down as the gates were flung wide. And then with fierce cries the warriors swept forward, horses charging, spears lowered, ponies dashing ahead, Men sprinting and yelling, free ponies running madly in confusion. And as Tuck burst through the gate and past flaming Whelm, he looked to see startled Rûcken faces snarling, and then he was beyond them, his pony running full tilt downslope toward the distant stables.