“It is the Black Wall, my Lady,” said Igon, grimly. “It moves south steadily. I deem Challerain Keep to have been engulfed by the Dimmendark, nigh yesternoon, I ween; most assuredly it now lies deep within the grasp of bitter Winternight. Yet the Wall has come on apace, and if nought changes its course, it will o’ertake this train on the morrow.
“Tonight, you and I must go among the folk and prepare them for this black curse, for it will scourge their spirits and sap the fire in their hearts.” Igon reined Rust back and to the side, calling, “I must away to set the escort plans.” And the great roan plunged forward at Igon’s urging.
Laurelin’s heart was filled with dread by this news, and she despaired for those left behind at the Keep: Aurion, Vidron, Gildor, the Warrows, especially Tuck, all of the warriors, and, somewhere, Galen. And the Princess wondered who would comfort her own heart, her own spirit, when the darkness came. And she turned to look at Saril and saw that the matron wept and shook with dread, for she had heard all that Igon said. Laurelin drew Saril unto her and soothed her as a lost child. And Laurelin knew that none would comfort a Princess, for it is common knowledge that royalty feels not the fears nor anguishes of the ordinary folk.
That night, Laurelin’s uneasy slumber was filled with desperate dreams of being trapped.
~
The next day at dawn, the Black Wall was plain for all to see, jutting upward on the horizon, seeming to grow taller as it drew closer. Children cried and clung to their mothers, and faces bore stricken looks as the ’Dark stalked southward.
Swiftly camp was broken, and the caravan once more took up the long trek, moving slowly upon the Post Road as it swung westerly along the Battle Downs. And Saril wept because now the road did not run south and away from the approaching Wall. And sweeping toward them out of the north like a great dark wave came the murk of the Evil One, flowing nearer with every passing moment.
Slowly the Sun rose into the sky, climbing toward the zenith, but its golden rays did not stay the advance of the darkness as the morning passed and noon drew nigh; yet so, too, did the ghastly dark tide, now rearing up into the sky perhaps a mile or more: a great, looming, fearsome Black Wall. Before it, a boiling cloud of snow swirled, and there came the rumble of wind churning along the base of the dark rampart.
Horses began to shy and skit, and from the wains there rose the cries of children, the sobbing of Women, and the moans of old Men.
Grimly, Laurelin watched the blackness come, her features pale and her lips clamped in a tight line; but her gaze was steady and she flinched not as the Wall drove down upon her. Behind her in the waggon, Saril knelt over double with her face buried in her hands, moaning and rocking in distressed fear, a huddled ball of dread as the ’Dark plowed onward.
Now the train was engulfed in a blinding, driven blizzard; and firm hands were needed to rein rearing horses to as the shrieking white howled about them.
The Sun’s light began to fail, swiftly growing dimmer as the ’Dark swept on, fading into black Shadowlight, spectral and glowing.
Then the wave was past, and the wind yowl slowly fell into muteness; the billowing snow began drifting back unto the ground. The caravan now stood in the full Dimmendark, and the grasp of bitter Winternight reached forth to clutch this land. A dread silence fell across the plains and into the Battle Downs, broken only by the solitary wails of those frightened beyond the limits of their courage.
~
Twenty miles the waggon train went that day, ten in the sunlight, ten in the ’Dark. Camp was made and meals prepared, but the people were without stomach and little food was taken. Laurelin forced herself to eat a full meal, but Saril only picked at her food, her eyes red from weeping. On the other hand, Haddon’s appetite seemed unaffected by the Shadowlight, but then he had spent many ’Darkdays within its glow as a member of Galen’s One Hundred, and he ate readily; but his look was grim and wary, for he knew that where fell the Dimmendark, so, too, went creatures of evil.
Igon and Jarriel came to the fire to take their own meal.
Captain Jarriel looked thoughtful as he ate, and soon he broached his concern, his speech that of court parlance: “My Lady, on the morrow I propose to move thy wain to train center whither thou will be safer.”
“How so, Captain?” Laurelin asked.
“Here at train’s end thy wain is greatly exposed,” answered Jarriel, setting aside his cup, “manifestly open to attack by hostile foe. I would move thee to where it is more difficult to single thee out, to a place more easily defended.”
“But then, Captain,” responded the Princess, “someone else would be last and exposed. I cannot ask another to take my place.”
“Oh, but you must,” moaned Saril, her eyes wide with fear, her hands wringing. “Please, let us move to train center. We’ll be safe there.”
Laurelin looked with pity upon her frightened handmatron. “Saril, no place is safe from the Evil One: not train’s end, center, nor fore. I chose this position to be closer to my beloved Lord Galen, and that reason still holds true.”
For a moment no one spoke and the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the whimpering of Saril. Then rough-hewn Haddon spoke: “My Princess, the Lady Saril is right, but for the wrong reasons, and so, too, is Captain Jarriel. You must move to train center, e’en though it may be no safer from the Enemy in Gron than aught other space in this train, nor more easily protected either. Nay, I stand with you on those two reasons, yet still I think that you must move, for something else compels:
“Did you watch the people tonight as you bestrode the length of the caravan: I did, and this is what I saw: Grim were their looks and fell were their spirits ere you went among them. Yet many of the most frightened mustered a wan smile when you came through the Shadowlight. Oh, they be still frightened, yet not as much as before. And that is why you must ride at train center: For you are the gentle heart and bright spirit of the people, and at their heart you should go, as near to as many as you may be; and though you cannot ride in each one’s waggon, amid all waggons you can ride. Then all may know that you are among them, and not remote and distant at train’s end.”
Now Haddon’s voice took on the courtly manner: “I will take thy present place at the last of the caravan, but thou must take thy true place amid thine own.”
Haddon fell silent, his rush of words at an end. He was a warrior and not of the court, yet no courtier could have spoken more eloquently.
Laurelin looked into the flames of the fire, and tears clung to her lashes, and none said aught. At last she turned to Captain Jarriel and gave a curt nod, for she could not trust her voice, and Jarriel sighed in relief and relaxed, while Saril began rushing about, collecting and stowing things as if the move were to occur instantaneously.
Igon turned to Haddon: “Ai-oi, Warrior Haddon, I must have thee by my side when next we need make treaty with another nation, for thy rough exterior doth conceal a golden tongue.”
Laurelin’s silver laugh rang out above the campfire, and Igon, Haddon, and Jarriel joined in her mirth, as Saril stood gaping at the merriment, wondering what could anyone possibly find humorous in this dreadful ’Dark.
But then a warrior of the escort came riding to the fire, leaning down to speak with Captain Jarriel: “Sir, Vulgs lope by in the distant shadow, running south as if to o’ertake the moving edge of the Black Wall. Yet it is thought that some turned back, racing along the track whence they came. If so, what it portends, I cannot say.”
Jarriel sprang up and mounted his nearby steed, and Igon vaulted astride Rust, and they rode away from the mealfire and toward the fore of the train, and with them went the messenger.
Laurelin and Haddon sat for long moments more, and little was said by either, the only sound being that of Saril, now sitting in the waggon and muttering in fear as she peered out through the flap of the wain and into the shadowed land nearby.
~
Laurelin’s sleep was broken by the sounds of the camp stirring to w
akefulness.
“Come, Saril,” said the Princess, shaking her handmatron by the shoulder, “’tis time to break our fast, for we shall soon be under way.”
Saril groaned, not fully awake: “Is it dawn, my Lady?”
“Nay, Saril,” answered Laurelin, “there’ll be no dawn this ’Darkday, nor perhaps for many to come.”
Saril blenched, and would have hidden ’neath her blanket but Laurelin would not allow it and bade her instead to dress, inwardly despairing of Saril ever gaining a measure of courage to face the Dimmendark.
Soon they descended from the wain to make tea over the rekindled campblaze, tea to take with their otherwise cold morning meal. Bergil, their driver, harnessed the horses and hitched them to the waggon. Then he came to the fire.
“Ar, my Lady,” said Bergil, shuffling his feet in the snow as if to wipe them clean ere stepping through some imaginary door, acutely aware that he was speaking directly to the Princess instead of to Saril as usual. “When we’re done wi’ the eatin’, I’m to drive us to the middle o’ the train. Them was Cap’n Jarriel’s direct orders, Miss: ‘to the middle o’ the train,’ he said, he did.”
At Laurelin’s nod, relief washed over Bergil’s weathered features, for it was not every day that coachmen dealt face to face with royalty—footmen, now, well that was a different matter altogether, for they often directly helps Lords and Ladies alike, but then footmen are trained to do so, e’en though they answers to the driver.
Bergil took his tea and a portion of the bread and cold venison and hunkered down opposite the fire to eat with the Ladies instead of joining some of his fellow drivers at another fire as he normally did, for they soon would be moving to train center and Bergil had not the time. Haddon, too, came from the next waggon to join them. They sat and ate with little converse, looking out into the spectral ’scape of the surrounding Dimmendark.
No sooner, it seemed, had they finished their meal than through the Shadowlight came riding Igon and Jarriel.
“My Lady Laurelin,” asked Igon, “be thou ready to move forward?”
“Yes, Lord Igon.” Laurelin stood and smiled down at Haddon, gesturing him to remain seated. “Another takes my place at train’s end.”
Igon turned to Jarriel. “Let it be so. Sound the ready.”
Jarriel raised a horn to his lips and blew a rising call that echoed down the line of wains and out into the surrounding countryside. Aroo: (Prepare!) And from land nearby came answering cries: Ahn: (Ready!) Ahn: Ahn: From fore, aft, and north came the answers.
Jarriel waited, yet no call came from the south, from the Battle Downs, dark hills to the leftward of the train.
Again Jarriel sounded the call, and again all answered but the south guard.
“Sire, something is amiss,” said Jarriel to Igon, a grim look upon his face. “The south hillguard answers not. Perhaps . . .”
“Hsst!” shushed Igon, holding up his hand, and in the quiet that followed they could hear the pounding of running hooves—many hooves—hammering upon the hard frozen ground to the south.
“Sound assembly!” Igon shouted, flashing bright sword from scabbard.
Jarriel raised horn to lips: Ahn: Hahn: the imperative call split the air as the drum of hooves grew louder. Ahn: Hahn: Ahn: Hahn!
And then, bursting through the spectral shadows clutching the sinister hills to the south, erupted the enemy: Ghola upon thundering Hèlsteeds, striking down upon the standing train with shattering violence: cruel barbed spears driven by running Death, slashing tulwars cleaving into innocent flesh, slaughter racing upon cloven hooves, shocking into and through and over Women and children, oldsters and the lame, the ill and wounded, the sundering blades and impaling shafts riving a great bloody swath through the unprepared caravan. Some stood stunned and were cut down like cattle at butcher. Yet others turned to flee and were slain while running: thus did Saril die, clambering to hide in the waggon.
A running Hèlsteed struck Laurelin a glancing blow, and she was whelmed back against the side of the wain, to pitch forward, smashing face down to the ground, her cheek pressed against the snow, her arms scrabbling futilely as she desperately tried to rise while at the same time trying to breathe, but she was unable to, for all the wind had been slammed from her lungs.
Captain Jarriel crashed dead unto the ground beside her, his chest pierced through by a broken-shafted spear. Laurelin tried to reach out to him but could not, for she had no control of her limbs and she could not breathe, and dark motes swirled before her eyes and her sight dimmed.
But at last she drew in a great ragged sob of air, and her lungs began pumping in harsh gasps while tears ran down her face. She heard herself moaning but could not stop.
Crying in anguish, she rose to her hands and knees and looked up to see Haddon lashing with a burning brand at a Ghol on Hèlsteed. And the dreadful creature’s dead black eyes stared from corpse-white flesh as he slashed the tulwar through Haddon’s throat, and the warrior fell slain beside the body of dead Bergil.
Horses in harness plunged wildly and screamed in terror, for the stench of Hèlsteeds was among them. Some ran amok, bolting toward the plains and hills, only to have the wains overturn and throw the horses’ legs from under them, or drag them to a halt.
Amid the milling confusion, a knot of warriors fought: Prince Igon upon Rust had rallied a band unto him. The young Lord’s sword hacked and chopped ceaselessly, and others laid about with their steel glaives.
Laurelin saw a Hèlsteed stumble, dropping to the snow, throat gushing black. Yet the pallid Ghol rider rolled free and sprang up to impale a young warrior upon his barbed spear.
Then Igon saw the Princess on hands and knees where she’d been hammered to the ground. “Laurelin!” he cried, and spurred Rust toward her, driving into the foe. But a Ghol on Hèlsteed rode to bar his way, and rage distorted Igon’s features beyond recognition. Shang: Chang: sword and tulwar clashed together amid a shower of sparks. Chank: the Ghol’s blade was shivered into shards; and as the Ghol threw up his arm to ward the blow, Shunk: Igon’s steel drove completely through the Ghol’s wrist and pallid neck: riven hand and severed head flew wide, while chalky corpse-body toppled into the snow.
Once more Igon drove Rust toward Laurelin, crying out her name, but again Ghola blocked the way, this time attacking in concert. Three, then four, fell upon the youth, and he was hard pressed; yet Igon’s blade hewed into the enemy, driven by fury and desperate strength. Another Ghol fell dead, his skull cloven in twain, and Igon’s voice cried out, “For the Lady: For the Lady Laurelin!”
A Ghol on Hèlsteed crashed into Rust, and the great red horse was staggered, yet he kept his War-trained footing and wheeled about for Igon to meet the Gholen foe. Igon’s blade swung in a wide arc, driven so hard it hummed; and the sharp steel clove through Gholen armor and sinews, and chopped deep into bone, where it lodged. Furiously, Igon wrenched at the blade, but just as he hauled it free, an enemy tulwar smashed down and sundered his helm, and blood splashed crimson over the youth’s face as he crashed to the ground to move no more.
Laurelin saw Igon fall and staggered to her feet at last. “Igon: Igon!” The words were rent from her throat in horror, but the Prince moved not, his blood welling to run in scarlet rivulets and fall adrip to the snow. Screaming in rage she snatched up dead Jarriel’s dagger and hurled herself into the mêlée, poniard clutched in her fist, and with a hoarse cry of hatred she plunged the blade to the hilt into the back of the Ghol on foot. Unaffected by the steel lodged deeply in his ribcage, the Ghol turned from the battle and smashed her aside with the sweeping haft of his spear.
Laurelin was dashed to the ground, her arm shattered by the blow, the Princess so battered she could no longer stand. And she sat and wept as the Gholen ravers smote the survivors.
Now all the soldiers were slain, and the foe turned to easier game, their swords riving, and the snow ran red with blood. Ghols stalked among the waggons, their dead black eyes looking for the innocent and
defenseless, and where they strode none was spared: no Woman, no child, no oldster, none. Even the struggling horses were slain, trapped in their traces, and some waggons were set afire.
And Laurelin sat in the snow and wept at the horror and waited for them to come and cut her throat.
Another waited also, but this one in anger and defiance: it was Rust: The great roan stood above Igon’s fallen form, teeth bared and hooves lashing out at passing Ghola, the War horse defending his master as he had been trained.
Laurelin saw the horse and exulted, for the Ghola gave it wide berth. Yet one hefted a spear, preparing to hurl it at the steed. “Jagga, Rust: Jagga: (Hide, Rust: Hide!)” Laurelin screamed, the cry torn from the depths of her anguish. The roan whirled and looked at the Princess. “Jagga!” came the command again.
Rust sprang forward just as the spear was flung, and the haft glanced off the roan’s withers as he thundered forth for the nearby hills, hurtling past Laurelin as he fled for the Battle Downs, obeying the War command to hide.
Ghola on Hèlsteeds spurred after him, but the great red horse ran swiftly before them, and the gap widened. “Ya, Rust: Run!” cried Laurelin, “Run!” The words were hurled after the fleeing steed, and Rust ran as if his feet were winged. And Laurelin watched him fly into the Dimmendark, to disappear into the Shadowlight grasping the hills. “Run,” she whispered after him, but he was gone.
A corpse-white Ghol bearing a barbed spear stalked up to Laurelin, his red gash of a mouth writhing in anger, his dead black eyes staring soullessly down. Laurelin glared up at him, unable to stand, cradling her broken arm with the other. Her eyes blazed with hatred, and she jerked her head in the direction Rust had flown. “That’s one of us you won’t get, Spaunen!” she spat defiantly, her pale eyes boring triumphantly into his dead black ones.
The Iron Tower Omnibus Page 26
