“Nay, Lord Inarion,” answered Galen, “we cannot spare the time to stay, nor can you spend warriors upon a quest to follow Ghola who may hold no hostages at all. You will need all the strength at your command to repulse this foe that besets you now. And even more are at Challerain Keep, and they will march south to join their foul brethren, perhaps to fall upon this strongholt. Nay, I’ll not wait, nor should you send warriors to aid. There shall come a time when we will stand shoulder to shoulder ’gainst Modru, but this is not the day.” Galen drew his sword from scabbard and raised it on high. “Poeir bæ in thyne earms! (Power be in thine arms!)”
Inarion briefly clasped Galen’s forearm, and then leapt into the grey’s saddle, and the horse reared, pawing at the air. “Should you need help, strike for Arden,” called the Elf Lord, and wheeled the horse to join a mounted troop of Elvenkind.
Arbagon Fenner came near upon a pony, and Baskin, too, rode nigh. “Good Fortune!” cried the Warrow Captain, and Bockleman Brewster upon a horse hefted a pike in salute.
Lord Inarion turned one last time to Galen and Tuck, and the Elf scribed a rune in the air and called out, “Fian nath dairia! (May your path be ever straight!)”
And then there was another call of horns, and the frozen earth shuddered as hooves thundered forth. In moments the camp stood empty of all but Galen and Tuck and Jet, the black horse tossing his head to ride with the others to combat as receding horncalls echoed among the ancient trees. Soon even these distant sounds faded into silence.
At last Galen turned to Tuck. “Come, Wee One, east and south we go, with nought but slim hope that we will find the Gholen tracks again.”
And so they mounted upon Jet, turning the black steed toward the far Drearwood, leaving behind the abandoned camp, silent now but for coals sputtering ’neath the quenching snow.
~
Hours they rode, passing among the hoary trees of eld Weiunwood, following the trail pointed out by Arbagon. At last the forest came to an end, and they rode into the chain of the ancient Signal Mountains, running south of Rian to Harth below, a range so timeworn by wind and water that it was but a set of lofty, craggy hills. Atop the tallest of these tors were laid the beacon towers of old, now but tumbled ruins of stonework, remnants of a bygone era. From the towers had flared the balefires, signalling the march of War, back when Gyphon strove with Adon, four-thousand years agone. Now, again, Mithgar was beset by a malevolent foe, for Modru, the servant of Gyphon, once more harried a beleaguered world. But no beacon fires of old now burned: none signaled the calamity now upon the Land. And even were the ancient fires kindled once again, the Dimmendark would muffle the call to muster, the black Shadowlight snuffing the warning cry ere it could be relayed on: those thoughts Tuck scribed in his diary as he sat his watch by the small campblaze in the hills of the Signal Mountains.
~
Galen wakened Tuck to a bland breakfast of crue and water; now the Warrow knew what the Prince had meant when he had said that they would soon grow weary of the taste of the waybread. Still he ate it, thoughtfully chewing as he gazed through the Shadowlight at the flanks of the nearby tors. Jet, too, seemed tired of the unchanging grain of his diet, and Galen smiled at both of them.
“I know not which of you finds the taste of your food the most wearisome,” said the Prince. “Yet it is all we’ll see for many a day, and neither of you will have ought else to sustain you but this food and memories of sumptuous meals apast. So bite into your tasteless biscuit, Tuck, chew upon your constant grain, Jet, and dream of savory roasts and sweet clover.”
Tuck growled, “Right now, I’d settle for the clover.”
Lord Galen burst into broad laughter, and Tuck joined him, and in a merry mood they broke camp and set forth upon their grim mission.
~
East they rode, veering south, coming through the Signal Mountains and out upon the snowy plains far north of the Wilderness Hills. All around them Shadowlight fell and Tuck saw nought but bleak Winternight to the limits of his vision.
“Were Patrel here then we’d have a happy tune to help us on our way,” said Tuck, and then his face darkened, a frown upon his features. “Oh, I do hope that he got away, and Danner, too, as well as the others from the Bosky. Not many of us made it to that last battle at the gate, you know—just eight—and I suspect that even fewer escaped.”
“I cannot say that I saw any Wee Folk mounted behind any in the force that broke free, nor did I note others scattering to the four winds,” said Galen. “But I was engaged in battle and had no time to look about.”
“Oh, Lor! I don’t think I could take it if I were the only one to survive.” Tuck’s eyes brimmed with tears, and neither he nor Galen spoke for many miles.
At last, they again made camp, this time in a coppice upon a rolling hilltop, some fifty miles from Drear Ford.
~
Once more they continued eastward, the land falling gently toward the valley of the River Caire. Long they rode, down the sloping land, and when at last they made camp, they had not reached the river banks—stopping some fifteen miles shy. Tuck was impatient to be there, but they needs must save Jet’s strength, for they knew not how long the chase would last. As yet they had seen no sign of the Ghûlen track, but Lord Galen said, “If they were bound for Drear Ford, then that is where we’ll find their wake, for I deem the snowfall covered their tracks to the river, and perhaps some beyond. In any case, even had they passed nearby, leaving tracks for all to see, still we know not which way to turn to find them, north or south. And so, it is at the Ford where lies our best hope to find their spoor and take up the pursuit once more.”
~
Three hours after breaking camp, Tuck’s eyes espied the trees of the border woodland along the banks of the River Caire.
“Look for a break in the tree line,” said Galen, “for there will lie Drear Ford.”
Long Tuck scanned as Jet cantered forth. “There! Far to the left,” he said at last, pointing.
Down the fall of land they rode, and now Galen’s eyes could see the woodland as they bore north. Tuck continued to search the limits of his seeing for signs of life, yet nought moved upon the land but the black horse and his riders.
Suddenly, Galen reined Jet to a halt and sprang to ground and knelt upon one knee. Tuck looked and leapt down, too, for there in the snow was the track of a lone steed, running in a line to the west and east.
“Pah! It is a track ’Darkdays old,” said Galen, “so wind-worn that I cannot say whether it was made by horse or Hèlsteed, nor even whether it was ridden to the east or to the west, or if it was ridden at all. Were I to guess, I would deem it ran east, down toward the Ford.”
Tuck looked at the smooth shallow depressions and did not see how Galen chose east for the steed to be running.
Back upon Jet, they followed the track through the snow, coming at last to the Ford. Here the approach to the river was low and gentle, but both upstream and down the banks fell steeply to the frozen river. Across the hard wind-swept surface went the black horse, hooves knelling upon the river ice, and Tuck could not help but remember the herald’s steed at Spindle Ford, and slaying the Vulg, and poor drowned Tarpy. And Tuck’s heart thudded while Jet’s hooves rang on the ice, a sense of relief washing over him when the horse reached the far shore.
Again Galen dismounted, gazing intently at the snow. The lone steed’s track drifted leftward, east swinging slightly north. Long Galen looked, then grunted. “Here, Tuck, see the faint dimples in the snow? Wide-spread they are, and swing north, too. I think we see the track of the Ghola, and it was still snowing when they passed this way.”
Again Jet paced forward, and every mile east, the wake grew more pronounced. Now the lone steed’s track they had followed could be pointed out no longer, for it was lost among the spoor of the others. Yet even though that trace was lost, Tuck’s heart soared, for again they were on the track of the Ghûls.
“The trees of another forest lie ahead, Lord Galen,” said T
uck, peering through the Dimmendark, “and the Ghûlen spoor runs into it.”
“It is Drearwood, Tuck,” answered Lord Galen. “We will camp there when we come to it.”
Camp in Drearwood? Tuck felt a vague sense of foreboding at the thought of staying in this dread wood, for this dark-forested hill-country in days of old was a region most dire. Hearthtales abounded of lone travellers or small bands who had passed into the dark woods never to be seen again; and stories came of large caravans and groups of armed warriors who had beaten off grim monsters half seen in the night, and many had lost their lives to the grisly creatures. This Land had been shunned by all except those who had no choice but to cross it, or by those adventurers who sought fame, most of whom did not live to grasp their glory. Yet seventy years past there had been the Great Purging of the ’Wood by the Lian Guardians, and no fell creatures had been seen in the area since. But now that the Shadowlight pressed darkly upon the Land, Tuck wondered if Modru had caused the dire monsters to return.
Now they came among the trees, and Galen stopped to camp. All that night during Tuck’s watch, the slightest sound caused him to jerk up from his diary and peer this way and that for sign of danger. But in spite of his foreboding, when it came his turn to sleep, he immediately fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.
~
It seemed to Tuck that he had no more than put his head down ere the Prince was shaking him by the shoulder.
“Come, Tuck, we must away,” said Galen, fetching the Warrow a biscuit and handing him one of the leathern water bottles.
Stumpily, his joints creaking, Tuck hunkered down by the fire and ate his crue while watching Jet at his grain. “Hmpf!” grunted the buccan, “not enough warmth, drink, food, nor rest; and we are surrounded on all sides by a wood reputed to be full of monsters.” Then his mouth turned up in a wry smile. “Ah, but this is the life, eh Jet?”
The black horse rolled his eyes at the Warrow and tossed his head, and Tuck and Galen burst out in laughter. And while Tuck bundled the blankets and quenched the campfire with snow, Galen removed Jet’s feedbag and saddled the steed. The blanket rolls were tied behind the cantle, and then the warriors mounted up, and once more the long chase resumed.
Into Drearwood the track led, and among the dark trees went the three: Warrow, Man, and horse: Tuck now rode behind the Prince, for here the buccan’s sight was no better than Galen’s, and in these close quarters there could come an unexpected need to fight.
Now the Ghûlen wake turned straight to the east, and as they went it came sharp and clear, for here the wind did not reach, and no new snow had fallen since the Hèlsteeds had trod this way.
On they went, through the grim woods, and the Shadowlight fell dim among the clutching branches. Hours they rode, and at times walked, ever following the eastward trek. At last they came into the open, leaving the trees behind.
Ten miles or more they travelled across a great clearing where the trees grew not, and Tuck now rode on Jet’s withers. Then ahead the Warrow again saw a line of trees as they came once more to the Drearwood.
“Lord Galen! Something lies in the snow ahead.” Tuck strained to see what it was, but he could not discern its form. “Nought else is there near, only a crumpled bundle on the ground, just at the edge of the woods.”
Jet was spurred forward and his canter swiftly closed the distance. Now Galen’s sight saw it, too: “A body, I think.”
Now they came to it, and Tuck could see that the Prince was right. Galen reined Jet to a halt, and Tuck sprang down, his heart racing, and ran to the form lying face down in the snow. Tuck dropped to his knees and reached forth with trembling hands, reaching across and taking hold of a shoulder, fearful of what he would see, and he rolled the body toward him, the face coming into view.
“Waugh!” he cried, scrambling backwards, for he was staring into the dead black eyes of one of the corpse-people.
~
“He’s dead, Tuck, the Ghol is dead, yet he is unmarked by weapon.” Galen stood and looked at the Warrow. “How he was slain, I cannot say.”
“Lor, but he gave me a fright,” said Tuck. “My heart is still pounding at a gallop. I don’t know what I expected, but it certainly was no Ghûl.” Tuck looked down at the pallid flesh and the blood-red slash of a mouth, and he shuddered. “Why is he here? What was he doing?” asked the Warrow, but the Man shook his head and said nought.
Now Lord Galen examined the tracks leading east. Just beyond the tree line he found the ashened remains of a burnt-out fire, and all around the blanket of snow was beaten down.
“Here they made camp,” said Galen, and he took up a charred limb from the dead fire and held it to his nose. “Rach!” he cursed, flinging the wood aside. “Tuck, we have not gained more than one ’Darkday upon them, if that, for this fire is four or even five ’Darkdays old.” Galen strode away a few paces and stood long in thought. At last he turned to Tuck. “If we but had more steeds, then we could ride apace. Yet here we must make camp, too, for Jet alone cannot run forever: he is not made of iron as was Durgan’s fabled steed. Even so, Jet has borne us nearly four-hundred miles these past twelve ’Darkdays, from Challerain Keep to this dismal place, and he may need to go four hundred more ere we are done with this chase.”
And so, they made camp; but ere Lord Galen settled down for his rest, he took up his sword and strode past the trees and out to where the Ghûl lay. When he came back, his sword was black with gore. “I have made certain that he is dead beyond recall,” said Galen, and Tuck shuddered but understood.
~
East they rode, soon emerging from the woods, and the track began swinging northward. “They are striking for the mountains,” said Galen, “but whether the Rigga, the Grimwall, or the Gronfangs, I cannot say, for north they come together, north those three dread ranges join. There, too, is the frozen Grûwen Pass, known to the Elves as Kregyn, and it leads down into the Land of Gron, Modru’s Realm of old.
Onward they paced, and the miles glided by ’neath Jet’s steady hooves. The land began to rise around them, for they were coming into the fringes of the foothills of the unseen mountain range ahead.
Eleven leagues they rode—thirty-three miles—before they again stopped to make camp in a barren coppice set against the granite side of a craggy loom running north and south beyond seeing.
~
Lord Galen was asleep and Tuck sat scribing in his diary when the Warrow looked up from his journal to see two Elves standing across the fire from him, bright swords gleaming in the flickering light.
“Wha—?” cried the Warrow, springing to his feet, and the sound of his call brought Lord Galen up, sword in hand.
“Kest! (Stop!)” barked one of the strangers, holding his blade at guard, but Galen had seen that they were Elves and lowered the tip of his sword to the snow. “Take warning,” spoke the Elf, “you are under the arrows of the Lian.”
“But wait!” cried Tuck, stepping closer to the firelight. “We are friends!”
“Waerling!” gasped the second Elf, astonished.
Their stances relaxed a bit, yet still they did not lower their swords. “Your names and your mission.”
Lord Galen spoke: “My companion is Sir Tuckerby Underbank, Waerling of the Boskydells, Land of the Thornwall. He is a Thornwalker and a Rukh slayer, and serves in the Company of High King Aurion, and now rides with me as my trusted companion. We are on the track of a band of foul Ghola, slayers of innocents ten ’Darkdays past.”
“And your name?” One Elf had now lowered his sword.
“I am Galen, son of Aurion,” said the Prince, softly.
“Hai!” The Elves now sheathed their blades, and one turned and signalled to the crags above. “I am Duorn and this is Tillaron, and we were sent to slay you if you served the Evil One, or to fetch you if you be friends, for you are camped upon our very doorstep.”
“But . . . how . . . I did not hear you approach,” stammered Tuck, then his voice turned to self-disgust: “Hmph! Th
is rock would make a better sentry than I.”
“Blame not yourself, Wee One,” said Tillaron, “for at times we can move as softly as even the Waerlinga.” And his tilted eyes twinkled as Tuck’s rueful laugh sounded quietly among the crags.
“If you are to fetch us, then who sent you, and where are we to go?” Lord Galen asked.
“Captain Elaria sent us,” answered Duorn, “and as to where we will go, why, to Arden Vale.”
“Arden?” blurted Tuck. “That’s where Lord Inarion bade us seek help if aught was needed. Lord Gildor spoke of it, too. But I thought Arden lay to the south, down near the Crossland Road.”
“Aye, it is in the south, Wee One,” answered Tillaron, “yet Arden reaches far north, too, and is but a few steps from here: less than a league to shelter and warm food.”
~
And so they broke camp, scattering the fire, quenching the embers with snow. Then toward the craggy bluff they went on foot, Galen leading Jet. Straight at the sheer stone they strode, and Tuck wondered at their course. Through close-set pines they pressed and into a hidden cleft in the rock. Jet’s hooves rang upon rock as into an arched granite cavern they were led, hands outstretched before them, for they could see nought in the dark. “Trail your hand along the wall on your left,” Duorn’s voice came, echoing softly, “and fear not for your toes or your crown, for the floor is smooth and the ceiling high. Five-hundred paces we will go in the dark, for a light might be seen by unfriendly eyes.”
It was nearly nine-hundred paces by Tuck’s count ere they came out of the tunnel, yet he had expected it to be so, for his stride could not match that of the tall Lian. When they emerged into the Shadowlight, Tuck could see a deep craggy gorge lying before him, a gorge lined by tall pines growing thickly in the soil that lay on either side of the river below, now frozen in the winter cold.
A steep narrow path fell down the gorge wall to come among the pines. And Tuck could see several long low buildings nestled in the trees below.
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