And toward the domain of this horror the four rode, for they thought to cross through the Quadran Pass and warn the Lian in Darda Galion of the Horde marching behind them.
Twenty miles south they rode, up through the rising foothills. Then the abandoned road divided: the Old Rell Way continued south along the western flanks of the Grimwall; the other path turned left and east and climbed up into the mountains, for it was the road over the Quadran Pass.
This left-hand way they followed, going some fifteen miles more before making camp. Thirty-five miles they had ridden that leg, and they were weary.
They supped on wayfarer’s rations: tea, mian, and chewy cubes of a salted meat said by Brega to come from cod prepared by the fishermen of Leut and brought to Jugo in the trading fleets of Arbalin.
“What is it that you do, Waeran?” asked Brega, as Tuck sat near the small shielded fire, drinking tea and making notes.
Tuck looked up from his diary. “I scribe the day’s events, Brega.” The Warrow held up the booklet. “It is my journal.”
Brega cocked his head to one side but said nought, so Tuck read his final sentence aloud: “Tomorrow we try Quadran Pass, up the flank of Stormhelm. Perhaps we will cross if it is free of snow or Rûcks or the Dread said to dwell in Drimmen-deeve.”
Brega grunted and stroked his forked beard. “Stormhelm. Drimmen-deeve. Your tongue is a mixture of Man and Elf, but I do not hear words of the Châkka.”
“Châkka?” Now Tuck tilted his head, questioning.
“Châkka: the name Dwarves call themselves,” said Galen.
“We name them Drimma,” came Gildor’s voice from his lookout.
“Then Drimmen-deeve means . . . “ Tuck groped.
“Dwarven-delvings,” supplied Galen.
“Aye,” grumbled Brega, “Drimmen-deeve to Elf, Black Hole to Man, but its true name is Kraggen-cor. Yet no matter what it is called, it is the ancient Châkka holt delved under the Quadran,” Brega shook his head in regret, “though the Châkka no longer dwell there.” Now the Dwarf leapt to his feet and paced in agitation, a dark look upon his face, his eyes smoldering in ire. “Four times have we been bested by a foe beyond our limits: twice by Dragons, once by a Ghath—a Gargon—and the other time I shall not speak of. In Kraggen-cor, it was the Ghath.
“Glorious were our days spent in that mighty Realm: mining ores, gems, and precious starsilver, what you call silveron. There, too, were our unmatched forges where were crafted tools and weapons and worthy things. And our homes were filled with happiness and industry. But the old tales say a silveron shaft was driven on a course of little promise; why, I do not know. Some say it was Modru’s will that set our way, for our digging set free the evil Ghath, Modru’s Dread, from a chamber he had been trapped in since the Great War of the Ban.”
“The Lost Prison,” said Gildor, then fell silent.
“Prison you name it,” Brega looked up at the Elf and smote a clenched fist into an open palm, “and prison it was, until that fatal day the Ghath burst from his lair and through the end of the shaft wall and slew many Châkka.
“In vain we tried to slay it, but it overmastered my Folk, and in the end we fled: out through the Dusken Door and out through the Daûn Gate, west and east of the Grimwall, for the corridors of Kraggen-cor reach from one side of the Mountains to the other.”
Brega slumped down upon a log, and his fierce manner evaporated, replaced by a dark, somber mood. “More than one-thousand years have passed since last the Châkka dwelt in Kraggen-cor, and still we yearn for its mighty halls. Yet although many have dreamt of living in those chambers, none have gone back but Braggi’s squad, for Braggi led a raid to slay the Ghath: the Doomed Raid of Braggi, for none of that band were ever seen again.
“Some say that Kraggen-cor will be ours once more when Deathbreaker Durek is reborn. Then again will we dwell there: under Uchan, Ghatan, Aggarath, and Ravenor—Mountains you name Greytower, Loftcrag, Grimspire, and Stormhelm. And we will make it into a mighty Realm as of old. When, I cannot say, for none knows when Khana Durek shall return.”
Morose, Brega fell silent and nought was said for long moments while Tuck scribbled in his journal. “Lord Gildor, what names do the Elves give to the Quadran?” Tuck asked.
“In the Sylva Tongue they are named Gralon, Chagor, Aevor, and Coron,” answered Gildor, naming them in the same order as did Brega.
Again Tuck scribed, then said, “Brega, something puzzles me: When you spoke of the eld days, you said, ‘our forges, our homes, our digging, we fled.’ But those days are a thousand years past. Surely you were not there.”
“Perhaps I was, Waeran. Perhaps I was,” answered Brega. The Dwarf fell silent, and just as Tuck thought he would learn no more, Brega spoke on: “Châkka believe that each spirit is reborn many times. And so, every Châk now alive, or those yet to be born, perhaps at one time walked the chambers of mighty Kraggen-cor.”
Again long moments passed without speech, then Gildor broke the silence: “Once in my youth I strode through the halls of Drimmen-deeve, a journey I have long remembered, for the Black Deeves are mighty indeed.”
“You have walked in Kraggen-cor?” Brega was astonished.
Gildor nodded. “It was a trade mission from Lianion to Darda Galion, and the way across the Quadran Pass was blocked by winter snow. Through Drimmen-deeve we were allowed to pass, though we paid a stiff toll to do so, I recall. Yet the toll was less than the cost of faring south through Gûnar and north again through Valon. That was in the days when there was much trade between Trellinath, Harth, Gûnar, Lianion, and Drimmen-deeve.”
Brega rocked back and looked long up at Gildor. “Lord Gildor,” said the Dwarf at last, “if this Winter War ever comes to an end, you and I must have a long talk. Priceless knowledge of Kraggen-cor has been lost to my people, and you can tell us much.”
Little else was said ere they bedded down while Gildor once more kept the watch. But though he was weary, Tuck found it difficult to fall asleep, for names whirled through his mind: Kraggen-cor, Drimmen-deeve, Black Hole; Châkka, Drimma, Dwarves; Gargon, Modru’s Dread, Lost Prison; Dusk-Door, Dawn-Gate, Grimwall; Quadran, Quadran Pass . . .
It was this last name, Quadran Pass, that surfaced in Tuck’s thoughts the most, for none of the four comrades knew whether Rûcks or snow or the Gargon barred the way, or if they could get through. But on the morrow they would attempt to cross it, and Tuck fell asleep wondering what the morrow would bring.
~
As they broke camp, Galen set out their strategy: “Tuck, you will ride behind me, for the way before us is narrow and twisting, and so my eyes will serve during most of this passage, though where needed you will peer around me. We shall go first, Gildor with Brega to follow, leading the pack horse. Keep sword, axe, and arrow to hand.
“Should we come to snow blocking the way, we must turn and swiftly come back down, for a Horde force-marches behind us, and we must not become entrapped upon this mountain flank.
“Yet should the way be held by the Yrm, then we will try to slay them—if their force is small. In that case, Tuck, your bow may become all-important in striking down a sentry in silence and from a distance.
“If a larger force holds the way, we may try to burst through and flee down the far side. Yet, too, we may simply turn back without alerting them and come this way once more, again at haste to elude the Horde now at our heels.
“Should the Dread hold the way, we will know it by the terror in our hearts, and turn back ere we come unto him, for he is a foe we cannot face.
“And if we do not cross, then we will make south for Gûnar Slot and hope it is free of the enemy, as it was when Brega came north.
“But if neither snow nor Spawn nor the Gargon block the Quadran Pass, then we will make our way down the Quadran Run to the Pitch below, then east turning south for Darda Galion to warn them of the coming Horde.
“Is there aught that any would add to the plan?” Galen peered into the face of each.
Brega spoke: “It will be a cold crossing, for not only is it winter, but this evil Winternight clutches the heights above. Were this the Crestan Pass, I think we would not survive; but it is the Quadran Pass, and it does not reach to the same heights. Yet we must be swift, else we’ll not move again until a spring thaw.” Brega turned and vainly his sight tried to pierce the Dimmendark to see the way upward. “It may be many a year ere a spring comes again unto this Land, for Modru intends to grasp it forever.”
“Not if I can help it, Dwarf Brega,” said Galen, his grey eyes resolute. “If it be in my power these mountains shall once more feel the warm kiss of the Sun.”
Gildor mounted Fleetfoot with Brega after, and Tuck swung up behind Galen. But just ere they spurred forward, Brega called, “King Galen, I have this moment remembered an eld Châkka tale: there is the story of a secret High Gate somewhere upon Ravenor’s flank, a gate that opens into Quadran Pass, a gate that leads down into the halls of Kraggen-cor. It may be a fable, it may be true, but if this legend is so, and if the Ghath or Squam hold it, then they may issue out of it to assail us. Fact or fiction, I know naught else of this High Gate.”
Galen paused and then said, “High Gate or no, still we must try,” and spurred forward.
Up the slope of Quadran Road they pressed, Jet first with Fleetfoot and the pack horse following. A league they went, and beyond, the way rising before them, and now Tuck’s eyes could see mighty mountain flanks soaring upward into the Dimmendark. To his left was Stormhelm and to the right Grimspire, two of the four peaks of the Quadran. The Road itself was carven along Stormhelm’s flank, and buttresses and groins of granite rust-red vaulted in massive tiers up Stormhelm’s side, or fell away sheer, dropping down to meet the looming ramparts of dark Grimspire. Sheets of ice glazed the lofty pinnacles, and the Shadowlight glow glittered in the hoarfrost, giving the tall rocks a phosphorescent lume. And up the twisting walls of the Quadran Road shuddered the echoes of knelling hooves as Man, Dwarf, Elf, and Warrow rode up through the Winternight.
Through defiles they rode, and upon ridges where crests had been carven flat and the shoulders of the road pitched steeply down to either side. Yet always upward the comrades went. In places they dismounted and led the horses to give them respite from bearing riders, but they walked a quick-step, for time was not their ally.
Miles passed—ten, fifteen, and more—and with each mile the air grew thinner and colder, and hoods were drawn over heads and cloaks were wrapped tightly around.
At last the path started down: Tuck could see it falling below them, down Stormhelm’s eastern flank.
“Sire, the twisting way before us drops,” said Tuck in jubilance. “I do believe that we have crested the brow of Quadran Pass.”
Galen’s voice came muffled by his cloak: “No guards as yet. But stranger still, no winter snow.”
Down they rode, with Tuck in deep thought. At last he spoke: “They say Modru is the Master of the Cold. Perhaps it is he who has kept the snow from these ways. But why?”
“You have it!” exclaimed Galen. “Without snow, his Horde can cross this gap to fall upon the Larkenwald. Now more than ever we must warn the Lian.”
On they rode, descending along Quadran Run, as the eastern way was called. Beside the road fell a stream—also named the Quadran Run—now frozen in Winternight’s icy clutch.
They passed along ridges and through defiles and around tall spires as they descended, heading for the unseen Pitch below, a sloping valley hemmed by the four mountains of the Quadran.
Tuck leaned out to see the way, but for the most part stone walls and tall rocks blocked the view. Yet at times he could glimpse through the juts and spires to see the Run below.
It was at one of these places: “Hold, Sire!” Tuck urgently whispered, and slipped off the back of Jet. The Warrow ran to a slot between two tall rocks and peered intently downward. Galen dismounted and came after.
“Ghûls,” said Tuck, his voice bitter. “Twenty or thirty. Perhaps three miles downslope. They come this way riding Hèlsteeds.”
“Rach!” swore Galen. “See you ought place to hide?”
“Nay, Sire,” Tuck answered after but a moment. “The way ahead is open ridge.”
Galen’s voice shook with frustration. “Then we must turn back ere they see us.”
“But we’ve come such a long way!” cried Tuck.
“We have no choice!” spat Galen, then more gently: “Ah Tuck, we have no choice.”
Galen turned to Gildor and Brega astride standing Fleetfoot. “We must turn back: Ghola come this way.”
Ire flashed in Brega’s eye, and he unslung his axe and raised it on high. “Have we come all this way just to suffer the thwart of Modru’s lackeys?”
“How many, Galen King?” asked Gildor.
“A score or more says Tuck,” answered Galen, remounting Jet and hoisting the Warrow up after.
Gildor turned to the Dwarf, saying, “Sling thy axe, Drimm Brega, for even thy vaunted prowess is overmatched by twenty of the corpse-folk.”
Brega ground his teeth in rage, yet slung his axe as they started back the way they had come.
As they rode swiftly back up the Run, Tuck asked above the clack of hooves, “Sire, the Ghûls, why come they this way: Where have they been?”
“I know not,” answered Galen over his shoulder. “Mayhap they are an advance party that came from the Horde down the far slope, and they return from the margins of the Larkenwald—returning to the Swarm to report what their foray has revealed.”
The Horde: Tuck’s heart pounded. I had forgotten: And now we ride toward them!
Back to the crest of the Pass they rode along the twisting Quadran Run, and they started down the western way, the way they had just toiled up. Tuck’s eyes searched ever downward for sign of the Horde, glimpsing the way below as it shuttered by through slots among the rocks, at times getting long looks when they crossed open ridges. Always, too, he scanned for places to slip aside, to hide and let the Ghûls pass; yet there were no crevices nor canyons into which they could ride: the Quadran Road twisted down the flank of Stormhelm with no places to step from its stricture.
Down through the steep-walled defiles they went apace, coming ever lower on the margins of the mountain. Three hours they had ridden, and now the road began to level out as they came toward the flats.
“Sire, the Horde: I see it!” cried Tuck.
Boiling up through the foothills came the dark Swarm, and before it loped black Vulgs. Tuck threw a glance back the way they had come. Just at the limit of his jewel-hued vision along an open ridge rode the Ghûls. Trapped: Tuck’s mind shouted. A Swarm before us and Ghûls behind us!
“When can we leave this road?” Galen’s voice cut through Tuck’s dismay.
“Wha . . . what?” Tuck found his tongue.
“When can we leave this road?” Galen repeated, his voice crackling with tension.
Tuck’s eyes swept along the way ahead. “A mile or so!” he cried, his heart leaping with hope. “We can leave the way to the left, just where a ridge comes to a defile. We can ride up onto a plateau above. There is no path, yet we can escape the Road!”
“I see it,” declared Galen, urging Jet to greater speed. The black steed leapt forward and Fleetfoot sprang after with the pack horse running behind.
Down the way they ran: before them came the Rûcken Horde; behind them rode the Ghûls.
Swiftly the comrades galloped out upon the ridge, thundering across, then bore up and left off the Road, up onto the plateau.
Galen immediately reined to a halt, throwing up a hand, stopping Lord Gildor. “Brega: Your axe!” Galen barked. “Cut bracken: Sweep our tracks from the snow!”
Brega leapt down and cut a winter-dried bush with his axe and ran back down to the rocky road. With great sweeping arcs, he obliterated their tracks, backing as he went. A hundred f
eet or more he came, nearing the horses, and at Galen’s terse call, he dropped the bush and remounted Fleetfoot, and the horses leapt forth. South they bolted, away from the Quadran Road, through a blasted land, rough and boulder strewn. And as they raced, Tuck looked back over his shoulder to see the Ghûls on Hèlsteeds cantering down one of the ridges toward the Horde force-marching upward.
When they had run two miles from the Quadran Road, Galen reined Jet to a walk, and Gildor slowed Fleetfoot and the pack horse, too, the lathered steeds blowing white from their nostrils, their lungs pumping.
“Ai, but that was close,” called Gildor, whose eyes had also seen.
“We’ve slipped their trap,” gloated Brega. But then his voice caught in his throat, and he stabbed a finger forward and rage flashed over his face. “Kruk!”
Tuck’s head snapped ’round in the direction Brega pointed, and there in the Shadowlight padding out from behind a huge dark boulder trotted a black Vulg, one of the scouts of the Horde. The horses snorted and shied, the pack animal rearing in panic, trying to break free, but Brega held firm to the lead line. The dark Vulg’s baleful yellow eyes glared at the four, and writhing jaws snarled. Then this dreadful outrunner raised his slavering muzzle to the Winternight sky and loosed a yawling cry. Again the black brute voiced a wrall to the Swarm, a cry answered in kind by bone-chilling howls from other Vulgs, and Ghûls, too.
Tuck leapt down from skitting Jet and set an arrow to his bow and let fly as the Vulg gave vent to another ululating yowl, a cry that was chopped off in mid-howl as the true-sped arrow struck the black beast in the throat and it fell dead. Tuck spun to see Ghûls on Hèlsteeds burst over the ridge and up onto the plateau, snow flying from cloven hooves as they came in answer to the howling summons. Hurtling alongside raced black Vulgs, muzzles to the ground.
The Iron Tower Omnibus Page 32
