“Perhaps . . . “ Galen started to say, but his words were interrupted by a long, chilling, Vulg howl echoing up Ragad Vale. Jet and Fleetfoot jerked their weary heads up, and their ears stood listening.
“Vulgs!” cried Brega. “In the Vale!”
Tuck’s heart pounded, and he spun and looked down the valley, but he could see nought ’round its curves. “The Sentinel Stand!” he cried, and ran for the stone steps some two furlongs to the south.
Huffing with effort, up the steps he scrambled to the top of the spire, and he could see past the curves and down the valley before him: Ghûls with torches rode slowly toward the head of the vale, searching out the crevices and shadows where fugitives might hide, while Vulgs with their snouts to the snow slow-stepped along the faint scent-trail obscured by the dragged brush.
Back down the steps Tuck scuttled, down to the others, now waiting below. “Ghûls: Vulgs, too: They comb the vale, seeking where we hide. They are spread wide, blocking the width of the valley.”
“Yet we cannot burst past them,” gritted Galen, “for Jet and Fleetfoot can bear no more.”
“If we can get across the old moat,” said Brega, “we can hide on the portico.”
“But the drawbridge is up!” cried Tuck. “We cannot float through the air!”
“Do not abandon hope until we look,” said Gildor, his voice sharp.
“Aye,” added Galen, “cross no bridge until it stands before you; burn no bridge if you would go back.”
“Let’s go, then,” chafed Tuck, “though I fear we will have burned all of our bridges behind us when we come to the one before.”
North they ran, drawing the horses behind, around the end of the Mere, crossing through a shallow muck-bottomed seep. Now the stone of the Loom arched above them, and Tuck felt as if he could almost hear the weight of the rock groaning overhead.
South they turned and swiftly they went alongside the dark granite wall, perhaps a half mile before coming to a sundered causeway where the Rell Spur emerged from the black waters of the Dark Mere. The pave of the Spur was riven with age, and they wended through the upheaved rocks south toward the portico, the Loom to their left and the Mere to their right but a few paces away.
Three furlongs more they pressed, coming at last to a great drawbridge made of massive wooden timbers. Out upon the span they strode, their steps ringing hollowly, and the waters of the Dark Mere lapped less than a yard below. But they had to stop short, for the bascule was up, and open water undulated before them.
And from Ragad Vale came the howl of a Vulg.
~
“When the Châkka fled Kraggen-cor, the span was left down,” growled Brega. “Now it is up.”
Gildor began stripping his outer garments, handing over Bale sword and Bane long-knife to Tuck. “It was raised by Rûpt,” said the Elf. “If we survive, I will tell you the tale. But now I will swim to the far side and try to lower the bascule.”
“But the ropes are made untrustworthy by age,” protested Brega.
“I do not see we have a choice,” said Gildor, now clothed only in breeks.
Incongruously, Tuck thought, He goes without armor: for no mail nor plate had the Elf taken off, not even a steel helm.
“Take care,” said Tuck, sensing danger, though he knew not why.
With a flat dive, Gildor plunged into the frigid dark waters. Swiftly he stroked across the gap, no more than twenty yards wide. But as he clambered up a stone pier and onto the far span, a great swirl twisted in the water at his feet, as if something huge had passed near under the black surface, and Tuck gasped in fear; but the waves and ripples quickly died away, and the undulate surface pulsed slowly again.
Gildor grasped hold of the ancient halyards controlling the bascule, and they were stiff with age. Looking up, he shook them, and dust flew from the pulley blocks atop the anchor posts. Then with a grimace of effort, the Elf hauled against the lines. And with the pulleys squealing in protest and the great bridge axle groaning, slowly the bascule began canting down from vertical.
“Once we’re across, we’ll pull it back up,” said Brega. “Then if the foe finds us, still they will not be able to get at us unless they swim.” Brega thumbed his axe. “Easy prey.”
Slowly, down tilted the protesting span, descending toward the mooring pier. Halfway it had come, and just as Tuck was beginning to breathe easier, with a dull snap, the ancient rope haul broke. Squealing and groaning, the massive bascule rushed down faster and faster to slam to with a thunderous juddering BOOM: that rolled forth from the hemidome of the Great Loom to reverberate down the length of Ragad Vale:
~
BOOM: Boom: boom: boom . . . oom . . .
~
As the dinning echoes crashed along the walls of the valley, Galen shouted, “Swift!” and bolted across the span hauling the frightened horses behind, with Brega and Tuck running after.
And from the Vale came shuddering howls of Vulgs and Ghûls, now in full cry.
Over the downed bascule ran the trio, Brega last, for he had paused to scoop up Gildor’s pack and clothing.
“Can the haul be repaired?” Galen’s question shot forth, directed at Gildor, but the Elf handed the frayed end of the rope to Brega, taking his clothes in return.
The Dwarf looked at the ancient halyard fiber and then up to the pulley blocks chained to the anchor posts. “Nay, King Galen, not in time.”
“Sire!” cried Tuck, pointing.
Along the Rell Spur over the lip of the butte loped black Vulgs, their snouts to the ground. The lead Vulg turned, making for the spire of the Sentinel Stand, following the scent of their prey.
“The Ghûls can’t be far behind.” Tuck’s voice trembled and his heart pounded.
Brega hefted his axe. “Shall we defend the bridge or the portico, King Galen?”
“The portico, I think,” said Galen, his voice grim but steady. “They cannot bring the Hèlsteeds to bear down upon us between the great stone columns.”
Gildor tugged his last boot on and leapt to his feet, fully dressed. Tuck handed over the sword, Bale, but as Gildor buckled on the blade, he said to the Waerling, “Keep Bane as your own weapon, Tuck, for the long-knife will be as a sword to you, and in this fight there will come a time when your arrows will be spent, or the quarters will be too close for bow, and then you will need a blade.”
“But I know nothing of sword play, Lord Gildor,” protested Tuck, yet the Elf would hear nought of his argument, and the Waerling girted Bane to his waist and drew the long-knife from its sheath. Blue werelight burst forth from Bane’s blade-jewel and ran a bright cobalt flame down the sharp edges.
“Bane’s light speaks of evil nearby,” said Gildor. “Yet the Vulgs are still distant, and the Ghûlka farther yet, and the blade should not glow with this intensity.” Gildor drew Bale, and its red light, too, was flame bright; and the Elf frowned in concentration: “They both whisper that evil is nearer.”
At Gildor’s words, Tuck’s eye was drawn irresistibly to the black waters of the Dark Mere.
“Ar, we can’t stand here all day puzzling over the fine points of Elven blades,” growled Brega. “Let us to the portico to make our stand, and though we may not survive, this will be a battle the bards will sing of if word of it comes their way.”
Tuck and Gildor sheathed the blades and the four comrades ran to the great portico, drawing the horses behind, following along the Loomwall. Through fluted columns they went, to come upon a great semicircular stone slab held within the half-ring of pillars around. Above, a great carven edifice was supported. As they discarded their packs, Tuck looked out upon the dark waters covering the sunken courtyard where stood the clawing hulk of an enormous tree, drowned, dead for ages, yet still anchored upright. Black water lapped at the steps rising up from the unseen flooded court.
“They come,” said Gildor, softly, pointing back toward the far side of the lake.
Torch-bearing Ghûls on Hèlsteeds burst over the rim of the bluff
and cast about, questing for the fugitives. The Vulg pack loped north from the Sentinel Stand, still on the scent. The Ghûlen leader howled at the dark brutes, and growls from the beasts answered him.
Along the north bank of the Dark Mere the Vulgs raced, on the wake of the hunted, and the hammer of cloven Hèlsteed hooves shocked along the Loomwall as the Ghûls plunged after.
Around the north end of the lake they came, and the four comrades looked on grimly. Brega grasped his double-bitted axe in the Dwarven two-handed battle-grip, and Gildor drew Red Bale, while Galen held Jarriel’s gleaming steel in his right hand and in his left the rune-marked silvery Atalar Blade from the tomb of Othran the Seer. Tuck readied his bow and stepped to a pillar, taking a stand where his arrows would fly unhindered.
Now the Ghûls turned southward, riding along the Loom, plunging straight toward the sundered causeway and, beyond, the bridge and portico.
Yet, of a sudden the Ghûlen leader howled and savagely reined his Hèlsteed to a halt, and behind, the other Hèlsteeds were cruelly checked.
“What’s this?” growled Brega, stepping forward for a better look.
The Ghûls had ridden to the causeway but no further, and now they milled in seeming confusion, as if unwilling to ride its length to get at the four. Some called glottle commands at the Vulgs, and the black beasts stopped, too, and turned and slunk back to sit on their haunches, tongues lolling over slavering fanged jaws, but they came no closer. Ghûls dismounted.
“What’s this?” growled Brega again. “Can they be afraid of us: We are but four while they are thirty.”
The four comrades looked long at the Ghûls and Vulgs, yet no clue came as to what halted their charge.
“I know not why they stopped,” said Gildor, “but as long as they stand there athwart our path, we are trapped here.”
“No we are not, Lord Gildor,” Tuck spoke up. “We can always go through the Dusk-Door.”
“The Dusk-Door!” exclaimed Galen. “I had forgotten: Tuck is right: We can escape the Ghola!”
“Out of the crucible and into the forge your plan would lead us!” cried Brega. “Do you forget, King Galen, that the Ghath rules Kraggen-cor?”
“Nay, Brega,” answered Galen, “I forget it not, but this I propose: We will enter the Dusk-Door and close it behind, and the Ghola will think we seek to make our way under the Grimwall and out the Dawn-Gate. Yet we will wait to see if they leave; if so, then back out we go and south to Gûnarring Gap.”
“But what if they don’t leave?” blurted Tuck. “Then what?”
“Then we are no worse off than we are now,” answered Gildor.
“But, I mean, why can’t we do as Galen King has suggested?” asked Tuck. “Why can’t we go under the Grimwall?”
“You know not what you ask, Wee One,” answered Gildor. “Better would it be to face a hundred Ghûlka than but one Gargon. Were it just the Rûpt that dwell in Drimmen-deeve that we had to win past, then I would counsel that we try it; but it is their master I would not face. Nay, if we use the Door it will be to deceive the Ghûlka, and not to tread through the Black Deeves.”
“Well, then, where is the Door, anyway?” asked Tuck, his eyes searching the blank stone of the Loom. “Though I cannot see it, it must be here somewhere.”
“There,” said Brega, pointing, yet still Tuck saw nought but frowning rock. “There where the pave is worn leading up to it,” Brega continued. “It is closed and cannot be seen, though when the Châkka abandoned Kraggen-cor, we left it ajar.”
“Spaunen closed it,” said Gildor, “five-hundred years after the Drimma fled. But that, too, is a long tale to be told later, for now we are concerned with Galen King’s plan.”
“I like not this plan,” growled Brega, “this game of cat and mouse, for it is one where we chance the Ghath; yet I have none better.”
“Are we agreed then?” asked Galen, and at each one’s nod: “Then let it be done.”
Brega slung his axe across his back by its carrying thong and stepped to the Loom and placed his hands firmly upon the blank stone; and he muttered low guttural words. And springing forth from where his hands pressed, as if it grew from the Dwarf’s very fingers, there spread outward upon the dark granite a silver tracery that shone brightly in the shadow. And as it grew it took form. And suddenly there was the Door: its outline shimmering on the smooth stone.
Sensing something amiss, Tuck glanced up at Gildor, and the Lian was pale and trembling. Sweat beaded on his brow. Only Tuck seemed to note it, and he asked the Elf, “What is wrong, Lord Gildor?”
“I know not, Tuck,” answered the Lian warrior, “but something terribly evil . . . afar . . .”
Brega stepped back and unslung his axe. “Ready your weapons,” Brega said, his voice hoarse, and Gildor and Galen gripped their blades while Tuck hastily shouldered his bow and drew the long-knife. Bale’s red light blended with Bane’s blue, while Galen held gleaming steel and the blade of Atala.
Brega turned back to the Door and placed a hand within the one glowing rune-circle, and he called out the Wizard word of opening: “Gaard!”
The glowing Wizard-metal tracery flared up brightly, and then, as if being drawn back into Brega’s hand, all the lines, sigils, and glyphs began to retract, fading in sparkles as they withdrew, until once again the dark granite was blank and stern. And Brega stepped back away. And slowly the stone seemed to split in twain as two great doors appeared and silently swung outward to come to rest against the Great Loom. A dark opening yawned before them, and they could see the beginnings of the West Hall receding into darkness; to the right a steep stairwell mounted up into the black shadows.
Tuck’s heart was pounding furiously as he stared into the empty silence yawning before them, and his knuckles were white upon blue-flaming Bane’s hilt.
And from behind came shattering screams!
The four whirled to see great slimy tentacles writhing out of the black water, grasping the struggling screaming horses, drawing them toward the foul waters.
“Kraken!” cried Galen.
“Madûk!” shouted Brega.
“Fleetfoot!” Gildor sprang forward, Bale blazing, but ere he could bring the sword to bear: “Vanidor!” he cried and dropped to his knees as if stunned, his face in his hands, Bale falling from his nerveless fingers, the blade ringing upon the stone. “Vanidor!” Again he cried his brother’s name in anguish, and a ropy tendril whipped around the stricken Elf and drew him toward the Dark Mere. Galen leapt forward and brought his sword down upon the great arm, but the blade did not cut. Once more Galen hacked down to no avail. Then he chopped the rune-marked Atalar long-knife into the tentacle, and the silvery weapon from Othran’s barrow cut a great gash in the Kraken’s flesh where the sword blade had been turned back.
Gildor was flung aside unconscious as the wounded tentacle was jerked back into the black waters. The screaming horses, too, were savagely wrenched under the ebon surface, and other arms boiled forth to rage and whip and grasp at the four.
Brega leapt forward to pull stunned Gildor back, while Tuck scooped up the red-blazing Elven blade and darted for the portal.
“The packs!” cried Galen, catching up one and then another while Brega hauled Gildor through the Dusk-Door.
Tuck dashed back dodging through whipping arms and grabbed up the other two packs, but he was slapped down by a glancing blow as he tried again for the portal. Scrambling and scuttling, he scurried toward the Door on all fours, packs, bow, Bane, and Bale in his possession. Galen came behind and boosted the Warrow to his feet, and they stumbled forward through the portal and into the West Hall.
The enraged Monster lashed at them, and pounded at the Door with a great stone, and wrenched at the gates. The great dead tree was rent from the Mere and hammered at the portal, its limbs to shatter in the lashing; and deadly jagged flying bolts of wood hurtled into the chamber, to scud across the floor or to smash to shivers upon the stone. And great tentacles twined around the pillars and wrenched
back and forth.
“The chain: The chain!” cried Brega, leaping to a great iron chain dangling down from the darkness above. “We must close the gates, else they will be rent from their hinges!”
Tuck and Galen leapt forward and the three hauled upon the great iron links trying to close the Dusk-Door, but the strength of the raging Kraken opposed them and was too much to overcome. And writhing tentacles whipped and groped within the portal to seek them out.
Into this nest of snakes Brega leapt and slapped his hand against one of the great hinges and cried, “Gaard!” leaping back to avoid the Monster’s clutch. And slowly the shuddering doors began to grind shut, responding to the Wizard word, and all the while the creature hammered at the gates and struggled to rend them open, yet still they slowly groaned toward one another. And as the protesting gates swung to, Brega’s last sight through the portal was of the creature wrenching at one of the great columns of the edifice, grinding it away from its base. And then the gates swung to and Brega saw no more.
The Kraken loosed the Door just as it closed—Boom!—and the four were shut in the pitch blackness of dark Drimmen-deeve.
“My pack,” Brega panted, “where is my pack?” Tuck heard him fumbling in the darkness. “The lantern. We need light,” muttered the Dwarf.
Tuck took his flint and steel from his jerkin and struck a spark. In the flash, he saw the other three, frozen by the brief glint.
“Again,” said Brega.
Once more Tuck struck steel to flint, and again and again. Each time the spark showed a different frozen scene as Brega made for his knapsack.
The soft blue-green phosphorescent glow bathed the four as Brega unshuttered his lantern. Gildor was now sitting up, his features white and drawn as if he were in pain or grief.
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