The Iron Tower Omnibus

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Long moments fled, and outside the Rûcks tramped away, their sounds growing faint. At last the Man spoke: “Friend, you say, yet you are Rukh-height. Can you prove this no trick of the Evil One?”

  “Trick!” hissed Tuck in ire. “I am Tuckerby Underbank, a Warrow of the Boskydells, and no Rûck!” spat the young buccan, stepping forward into the pale Shadowlight, his sapphire-jewelled eyes flashing in anger.

  “A Waerling!” Galen lowered the shard of his sword at last. “Forgive me, Sir Tuckerby, but these are suspicious times.”

  Jet, too, wondered at this small tomb-mate, and he shifted his stance and lowered his head and snuffled at the Wee One and seemed satisfied with the young buccan in spite of Tuck’s anger.

  “Oh, Lor!” cried Tuck, his mood shifting like quicksilver as he slumped to the floor, appalled.

  “Sir Tuckerby, are you wounded?” The Prince swiftly knelt at the Warrow’s side.

  “Nay, Sire, not wounded,” said the young buccan, a shaken look upon his face, his voice hushed, “but I just realized, I nearly shot you for a Ghûl.”

  “Ho, then, we are even,” said Galen, smiling ruefully, “for I mistook you for a Rukh. Not the best of ways to start an acquaintance, I would say.”

  “Nay, Sire, not the best of ways.” Tuck managed a weak grin, and then gestured at Jet. “Were it not for this black steed of yours, and the golden locket at your heart bearing a snippet of Laurelin’s hair . . .”

  “Laurelin!” Galen reached out and roughly grasped Tuck by the shoulders. “Is she safe?” The tension in Galen’s voice fairly crackled the air.

  Pain laced Tuck’s voice as he spoke:

  “Sire, in the company of Prince Igon and Captain Jarriel and a mounted escort, she left the Keep bearing south in a waggon bound for Stonehill and beyond; that was one week agone, if my reckoning is right—one day ere the Dimmendark came upon Mont Challerain.”

  The Prince released Tuck’s arms and stood, and the Warrow shrugged gingerly. “Forgive me, Sir Tuckerby,” said Galen, wearily. “I meant no harm to you, and I have treated you rudely, yet this is the first word I’ve had of my love.” Lord Galen extended his hand down and Tuck took it and was raised to his feet. “I am fortunate to have met someone who could tell me of her,” said Galen.

  “Sire, more fortunate than you realize,” answered Tuck, taking up his bow, “for had I not known your Lady, who told me of the locket you wear, and your sire, who spoke of your black horse, Jet, then surely you would have been pierced through with this arrow I found in yon bier.” Tuck held out the bolt for Galen to see.

  “Is that the only shaft you have?” asked the Prince. At Tuck’s nod, Galen took up his shattered sword, blade snapped near the hilt. “Then we have not much to meet the foe with, you and I: a broken blade and a lone arrow.”

  “Nay, Lord Galen, there is another weapon here,” said Tuck, stepping to the sarcophagus, “this bright edge.” The young buccan drew forth the rune-marked blade from the long-dead grasp of Othran the Seer. In Tuck’s hand it was long enough to be a Warrow’s sword, but given over to Lord Galen, it became a Man’s long-knife.

  “Hai, but it has a sharp edge!” said Galen, testing it with his thumb. “These runes of power, I read them not, yet they look to be Atalain, the forgotten language of a drowned Realm. This, then, is an Atalar blade: these are renowned for their power to combat evil.” He held the long-knife back out to Tuck.

  “Nay, Lord Galen.” Tuck refused to take it again. “Keep the blade, and take the sheath, too, that lies in the bier, for I know nothing of swords and would most likely end up cutting myself. This is my weapon: the bow. Besides, now we are each armed—though if I were given a choice, your steel would be longer and my quiver full. “

  Galen stepped to the shattered tomb and took up the plain scabbard at Othran’s side. As the Prince girted himself Tuck saw the resemblance Galen held to both Aurion, his sire, and Igon, his brother. In his middle twenties was Galen, with all the endurance and speed of youth matured into the fullness of strength. Tall he was, like his sire, six feet or an inch more. Dark brown was his hair, like that of Igon, and his eyes were steel-grey, too, though in the Shadowlight they seemed black. Dressed in grey, quilted goose-down winter garments he wore, and his cloak was grey, too. A leather and steel helm was upon his head, and now a long-knife was at his waist. He tied his sword scabbard to Jet’s saddle and turned to face Tuck and spoke: “Did you hear aught of plans where the Kingsmen gather?”

  “The Battle Downs, and Stonehill after that,” answered Tuck. A troubled frown came upon the Warrow’s features. “Lord Galen, the King, is he safe? Did he win free? When last I saw him, he was beset. But I know nought of the battle’s outcome, for I was thrown down into yon ravine.”

  The look upon Galen’s face was grim to behold. “Sir Tuckerby, I know not the fate of my sire. We were sundered in the fight, and I saw him not again. Yet my heart is ever hopeful, though what I know bodes ill: They were too many, the Ghola. I was forced aside, and my sword was broken as it clove through Ghol helm. But ere I could take up another weapon, one from a slain hand, the remaining force of Men broke free; many were scattered, though most rode hard to the east. Yet my eyes saw not Wildwind, running with the King astride, though he could have been among the larger band. I turned Jet into the ravine, to wait until I, too, could ride away. But then the Rukha came searching, and I led Jet to the crypt, where now we stand. Yet as to my sire, I cannot say else.”

  Tuck’s heart plummeted at this uncertain news. “Though I have been the King’s far-seeing eyes but a short while, I love him well, for although he is a great leader, in many ways he is like unto my own sire.”

  “Far-seeing eyes?” Galen’s look was puzzled. “There is a tale here for the telling, yet you can speak of it as we ride south, for we must leave this place: Rukha abound, and may come again.”

  And so they peered out into the Shadowlight, and led Jet among the deserted barrow mounds. Mounting up, they rode forth quietly to the north and west, Warrow bestride horse behind the Man, armed with but a single arrow and a blade of Atala and nought else save their courage. In secret and by wending ways known unto Lord Galen, they slowly worked their way through the margins of the foothills and around Mont Challerain, turning west and finally south. Then, at last, away from the gutted, burned hulk of Challerain Keep they rode—Prince and Thornwalker—heading for the Battle Downs, leaving the sundered city behind.

  ~

  “Hai, then, by my tally you with your small bow have slain seventy, eighty, or perhaps even more of the Yrm!” Lord Galen tilted his chair back from the table and gazed in wonder at his jewel-eyed companion. Flickering candlelight cast writhing shadows as Tuck mutely nodded, stricken by the very numbers. The Prince leaned forward and broke off another hunk of stale bread and ravenously bit into it.

  They had ridden for hours, southward across the prairie, drifting westward, too, following alongside the Post Road. After reaching the plains, Tuck had ridden mounted before Galen, the Warrow’s sharp sight ever on the alert for enemy movement. But they had seen no one, though Tuck once thought he had heard a distant cry above the hammer of Jet’s hooves, yet his searching eyes saw only rolling plains and dark thickets in the gloomy Shadowlight, and the call, if it was that, was not repeated as the black steed drove on. Swift was Jet, and strong, but even the best of coursers needs must rest, and be fed and watered. At last they had come to an abandoned farmstead, and there they found grain and water, and a stable with hay. Tuck and Galen had entered the house: small it was, with but two rooms—a kitchen and one other—and beds were in the loft above. Closing the shutters so that no light would shine out, they had lighted a candle and had found a scant store of food: stale bread, dried beans, a tin of tea, naught else. They had then kindled a small fire on the kitchen hearth, and had set a pot of water to boil from which tea had been brewed and the beans cooked. Now the travellers avidly consumed the meager meal as if it were a sumptuous banquet. And their talk w
as of the Winter War, as this struggle with Modru now was called.

  “When Igon and I first came unto the Dimmendark, sent by Father to see what was this wall, we knew nought of what the darkness held. Outside it was a mid-summer’s day, and in the company of four Kingsmen we rode through the winds along the Black Wall and into the Shadowlight.” Galen sopped up the last of his beans with a piece of bread. “Like riding into a winter night, it was, and snow lay upon the land and our eyes were filled with amaze. Back we rode into warm day, and Igon and I took the cloaks and jerkins and breeks from the Men of our escort, fairly stripping them bare ere we sent them home. Now, bundled against the cold, once more Igon and I pierced the Black Wall into the Winternight, this time determined to explore.

  “Two ’Darkdays we rode within the black grasp and saw naught of any other living thing. But on the third ’Darkday, while riding through a twisting defile, we turned a corner and there facing us stood a squad of startled Yrm. Without hesitation, Igon couched his lance and spitted a Rukh ere any could move even one step. Hai! But he will be a mighty warrior when he comes full into his years.

  “It was a short fierce battle, Igon felling three Rukha in all, while I slew but one Rukh and one Lôkh. The other Yrm turned and ran, scrambling up the ravine walls and away; six or seven fled beyond our reach.

  “Straightaway we rode to warn the King, for this was news of import: Rukha and Lôkha bestrode the land within the ’Dark. Not an hour after the battle, we came out through the Black Wall and the Sun rode high in the sky. Then we knew that in the Dimmendark, Adon’s Ban ruled not, and the fell creatures of the night—Modru’s minions—were free of the Covenant.

  “Although my sire was ired at me for sending the Kingsmen back, and taking Igon—‘A mere lad!’—into what proved to be mortal danger, still the King was proud of what we had done and bade me to lead a force of warriors back into the Winternight to watch for sign of the gathering of Modru’s Horde of old. A hundred Men came with me, yet Igon was not one of them, and bitter was his spirit, for he would ride at my side. Yet perhaps my sire was right in keeping him from the Dimmendark, for seventy of my Men had fallen ere the last battle with the Ghola at the Keep, and half or more of those remaining were slain in that final combat. And for what did all those who perished yield up their lives? Mayhap for nought, for Challerain Keep has fallen, and the Horde is now free to rave south.” The Prince bitterly swirled the dregs of his drink in the bottom of his cup, and then tossed the tea into the hearth where it hissed and sputtered. “Ah, me, but I am weary. Let us get some rest.”

  “You sleep, Lord Galen; I’ll stand the first watch, for there is something I must do,” said Tuck, taking his diary from his jerkin pocket.

  “Ah, yes,” Galen said, “the journal you spoke of. Perhaps some day I will ask you to scribe it into a Waerling history of the Winter War, some day when the fighting is done. But now, it’s me for bed.”

  The Prince clambered up into the loft and fell asleep watching the Wee One’s pencil slowly crawling through the candlelight and across a page in the diary, leaving a track of words behind it.

  ~

  The next ’Darkday, south and west they pressed, taking with them the last of the bread and beans, as well as grain for Jet. Later they came upon another abandoned stead; this one was bestrewn with wreckage, as if a fight had occurred, and Tuck was reminded of the Vulg-shatter in Arlo and Willa Huggs’ farmhouse along Two Fords Road in the Boskydells; it seemed so long ago, and yet it was just seven weeks past, when Hob and Tarpy were still alive, and Danner and Patrel, too. Stop that! Tuck angrily berated himself. For all you know, Danner and Patrel yet live.

  In the wrack Galen found food: dried venison and some turnips.

  Onward they rode for many hours, bearing ever south and west. Finally they stopped to camp in the lee of a thicket, huddled beside a small fire, its light shielded by brush.

  ~

  Early after resuming their way, the margins of the Battle Downs hove first into Tuck’s view and then into Galen’s. And they rode alongside the hills, going upon the Post Road now as it swung to the west. Miles passed under Jet’s hooves, and they often dismounted and walked to rest the steed, feeding him grain when they took their own meal, as was their practice.

  They had ridden some six hours, covering nearly twenty miles, when they rounded the flank of a hill and Tuck saw shapes ahead.

  “Lord Galen, something stands upon the road,” he quietly said.

  Galen reined Jet to a stop. “Say on, Sir Tuck.”

  “It moves not, and appears to be . . . a waggon.” Tuck peered intently. “I see no team, nor folk of any kind.”

  “Mount behind me, Tuck, for we may meet the foe.” At the Prince’s command, Tuck swung to the rear of the cantle, removing his bow from across his shoulders and leaning out to see. Galen flicked the reins and Jet stepped forward, moving at a walk. “Remember, Tuck,” said Galen, “we will fight or flee if there be enemy. If we fight, you will slip straight back and drop to the ground and use that deadly bow of yours where it will do the most good. But recall, we have but a long-knife and a single arrow between us; thus it may be best to run. If we flee, hang on tightly, for Jet will veer and leap as he flies o’er the ’scape.”

  Along the road they went; now more waggons came into view as Jet rounded the curve of the hill. Now Tuck could see that they were in disarray, some on the road, some off, and all were abandoned; many were burnt while others lay upon their sides. Now Galen, too, could see them and his voice was grim. “It’s a waggon train.” Tuck’s heart pounded loudly in his ears.

  Closer they drew, and other shapes could be seen lying in the snow: horses, Men . . . dead, felled. Tuck gasped, “Lord Galen! There! A slain Hèlsteed!”

  Galen spurred Jet to a canter and swiftly closed the distance. They came unto the first of the bestrewn and burned wains. Dismounting, they walked among the slain, hacked by blades, pierced by spears, and frost and rime covered all.

  “Lord Galen.” Tuck’s voice was filled with anguish, and he stood by a spear-pierced warrior, dead eyes staring up through icy glaze, broken shaft pointing at the darkling sky. “Lord Galen, it is Captain Jarriel, and there lies your messenger, Haddon. Lord, this is the caravan of the Lady Laurelin!” And Tuck burst into tears.

  ~

  Long they searched and much horror they saw as they moved up and down the grim train. Tuck’s faltering steps carried him along in a benumbed state as he saw the savage slaughter that had occurred when the caravan had been overrun: Men were slain and Women, too, as well as the oldsters; but worst of all were the children, some but babes in arms. Even the steeds were slaughtered, cut down in their very traces.

  As to who had done the deed, there was no doubt, for Ghûls had been felled, as well as Hèlsteeds.

  Yet neither the Lady Laurelin nor Prince Igon was found among the dead.

  Galen had rearmed himself, taking up Jarriel’s steel. And he filled Tuck’s quiver with arrows found in one of the waggons. Now they stood at mid-train where a great track beat eastward through the snow.

  “Five ’Darkdays agone,” gritted Prince Galen, bale in his eyes, “and there lies their wake; east they fled from this butchery.”

  “But, Lord Galen,” asked Tuck, “where is the Lady Laurelin, and Prince Igon?”

  “I know not, Tuck,” answered Galen, his eyes locked upon the Ghûlen track. “Igon may have won free with the Lady Laurelin and galloped south for Stonehill, for Rust is not among the slain steeds. Or they could, one or both, be captives of Modru’s butchers.” Galen struck a fist into palm and ground his teeth in rage. “Yet free or captive, the only trace lies there in the snow before us, and even though the trail is old we shall pursue these slayers; if they hold Laurelin or Igon, we will find a way to free them. And then there shall be another slaughter—only this time it will be the Ghola who fall.”

  Galen spun and headed for a waggon: “Come, Tuck, we must find provisions for a long pursuit, for they have a
lead of five ’Darkdays upon us, and if they continue to run, the chase will be a lasting one.” Galen wheeled and looked in the direction of the trail. “Yet we will follow these ravers, even unto Modru’s Iron Tower if need be: this I swear as a Prince of the Realm!” Galen turned once more and made for the waggons.

  ~

  Thus it was that in less than an hour, the black horse thundered forth upon the eastward track of the Ghûls, saddlebags filled with grain for Jet, and biscuits of crue waybread for Galen and Tuck; they bore no other food, for as Galen said, “We needs must make Jet’s load a light one, for our chase may be long, and food such as venison or even beans carries more bulk and weight and less nourishment than these bland biscuits. Finding water for Jet will be our main concern, yet if we melt enough snow, then that, too will be resolved.”

  East they went, following the swath in the snow made by the cloven hooves of many Hèlsteeds, the path curving to and fro among the Battle Downs but ever bearing eastward. Some hours Galen and Tuck rode, at times walking, at times trotting, and occasionally at a canter, the Prince varying the gait of Jet but ever conserving the black steed’s strength.

  At last they stopped to camp in a sheltered dell. Jet was fed some grain as Tuck bolted down a crue biscuit. Although it tasted like nothing more than lightly seasoned flour, the Warrow’s hunger disappeared, for as he said, “It certainly fills up the hollow spots.”

  “Fear not, Wee One, we’ll not starve on this ration,” said Galen, melting snow in a copper pan over the fire, chewing upon a biscuit of his own. “In fact, we may thrive on the diet, but this food will soon grow wearisome upon our tongues.”

  Soon Galen bedded down as Tuck took the first watch. And as the buccan melted snow for Jet, he trimmed the Man-sized arrows down in length to suit his Warrow bow. And when Galen awoke to take his turn, he found Tuck scribing in his diary.