“While we were down at the stables, my sire and I, the Ghûls came. Dad shoved me into a feed bin and shut the lid. And they came in . . . and just . . . killed him.” Merrilee burst into tears. Danner put an arm around her shoulders, his own eyes glistening. Patrel managed to find a kerchief and gave it to her. After a moment, she continued:
“They set the place on fire when they left. I couldn’t get to Dad, and I ran out the back way and up across the Pony Field, crying, and through the woods of Hollow End to warn Mother and the Underbanks. But I was too late.
“The Ghûls had Tulip, dragging her by the hair. Burt came running, and the only thing he had to fight them with was his mason’s hammer. But he broke the arm of one of them before they killed him. And they speared Tulip, too, as she tore free and ran to Burt. And then they were both dead.”
Merrilee’s voice rushed on as she relived the horror of those dire moments: “The Ghûls threw a torch into The Root, setting the burrow aflame. And they rode down and across End Field.
“I ran to our burrow, and Mother was lying dead on the walkway: hacked by blade, savagely murdered.
“I went in and got my bow—the one Tuck gave me—but I could find only one arrow.” Merrilee gestured at the shaft standing full from the slain Ghûl’s chest.
“I came down to the Commons, to kill at least one of the butchers before they got me. But they rode away, all except that one. Where he was lurking, I do not know. But as he galloped to catch the other murderers, he was going to cut you down, like they did Dad and Mom, and the Underbanks. So I shot him.”
“It’s a good thing, too, Merrilee, else we’d be dead,” said Patrel. “We foolishly loosed our bolts at the Ghûls beyond our range, and we had nothing in hand to stop this one.”
“‘The arrow as strays might weller been throwed away,’“ said Danner, quoting old Barlo. “One of Tuck’s favorite sayings.”
At the mention of Tuck’s name, Merrilee looked out through the trees then up at Danner. “Tuck. Where’s Tuck?” Anxiety filled her voice.
Danner groped for words, but none came.
“We don’t know, Merrilee,” said Patrel. “The last we saw of him was at Challerain Keep.”
“Challerain Keep: But I thought you were at Ford Spindle!” Merrilee’s eyes were wide.
“Didn’t the word get back: Didn’t Tuck’s letter come to you?” Danner asked, and at the shake of her head: “Skut!” he spat.
“We knew some buccen had gone to the Keep, but not who.” Merrilee’s voice was low. “Tell me of Tuck.”
“The last we saw, he was alive at the sundered north gate of Challerain,” said Patrel, “when we broke free of the Horde. But we were separated in the midst of that fight, and we know nought of his fate after that.”
Merrilee said nothing for a moment; then: “Did any other Warrows win free?”
Patrel spread his hands palms up. “We just don’t know.”
“Merrilee,” Danner’s voice was taut, “my folks, are they all right?”
Now it was Merrilee who knew not: “I cannot say, Danner. In the rush of the evacuation—when we left Woody Hollow—there seemed to be nothing but confusion: people running hither and yon, some heading north, others south, some vowing to stay. But your parents, Danner, I didn’t see them; I know not their fate.”
Danner’s jaw muscles jumped as he gritted his teeth. Then he spun to Patrel. “Look, Paddy, we’ve got to stop the Ghûls in the Bosky, and Merrilee’s shown us the way: wood through the heart. We’ve got to get up to the Dinglewood and get folks organized; then we can strike back at Modru’s Reavers.”
“We need Thornwalkers, present or past,” said Patrel, “folk who are good with bow and arrow.”
“I’m good with bow and arrow.” Merrilee’s voice was low.
“Wha . . . what?” Patrel was nonplussed.
“I said, I am good with bow and arrow,” answered Merrilee, speaking up.
“I heard you the first time,” said Patrel. “What I meant to say is, you’re a damman.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” snapped Merrilee, snatching her bow up from the snow.
“Why, everything. I mean, you’re a damman.” Patrel seemed to be groping for words.
“You said that before; it didn’t make any better sense then, either,” shot back Merrilee, her eyes aflash. “Look, Tuck taught me how to shoot and shoot well. He’s not here, and may never come, so I’ll stand in his stead, though I cannot take his place. But even were he here, still would I join you, for skill is needed and I have it: my arrows fly true, and for that you should be glad, for the proof lies at your feet: the arrow in that reaver’s heart is no accident; it struck exactly where I aimed—nowhere else—otherwise you would be dead.” A dark look fell upon Merrilee’s features and her voice sank low. “They’ve slain my sire and my dam, the Underbanks, and countless others, perhaps Tuck, too. And for that they must pay . . . they must pay.”
Danner looked at her soot-streaked tear-stained face and then up in the direction of the Pony Field and beyond where he knew that Bringo and Bessie and the Underbanks lay murdered, and then his gaze swung in the direction of his own home, and lastly his eye fell upon the slain Ghûl. “She’s right, you know. What has her being a damman got to do with anything?”
Patrel sputtered and fumed and several times started to speak but did not, and at last reluctantly gave a stiff nod of his head, and when Merrilee threw her arms around him and hugged him, over her shoulder he cocked an eye at Danner as if to say, “See: I told you she was a damman!”
Merrilee stepped back. “I’ve seen you before,” she said to Patrel, “but I don’t know your name.”
“Patrel Rushlock, from the narrow treeland east of Midwood,” said the diminutive buccan.
“Paddy was our Captain at the Keep,” said Danner.
“I remember now: I saw you the day Tuck left. On the Commons. You guided Tuck, Hob, Tarpy, and Danner north.” At Patrel’s nod, Merrilee said, “I’m Merrilee Holt.”
“I know,” said Patrel. “Tuck spoke of you often.”
“Look, we can’t stand here the rest of the Winter War,” grumbled Danner. “We’ve got to get up to the Dinglewood and start fighting back. Let’s go.”
Up through the Hollow from the Commons the three went, swinging by Danner’s stone house, but there was no clue as to the fate of Hanlo and Glory Bramblethorn, Danner’s parents. Onward the trio went.
The stables burned furiously.
“Bringo would have been proud to know that his dammsel saved two from certain death, Merrilee,” said Danner.
Merrilee did not reply, and they went past the blazing barn and into the Pony Field behind. There they rounded up eleven ponies and continued on up the coomb.
Gently, they wrapped the bodies of Burt and Tulip Underbank and Merrilee’s dam in soft blankets and tied them over the backs of three ponies. “We’ll take them up to the Dinglewood and bury them in a peaceful glade,” said Danner, his arms about Merrilee as she wept anew.
“They’ll pay,” she whispered, fiercely. “They’ll pay.”
~
Merrilee led them to a camp of Warrows in a wide glen west of where the North Trace entered the Dinglewood. When the trio rode in leading a string of ponies, there was a scattering of cheers that quickly fell into subdued silence as the three bodies were seen draped over three of the steeds.
Buccen were dispatched to dig graves, and Danner and Patrel and Merrilee went to speak with the camp elders, and a circle of Warrows formed ’round them to listen to their words.
“We return from Mont Challerain and bear woeful tidings: the Keep has fallen to Modru’s Horde, and High King Aurion is slain.” The onlookers moaned to hear Patrel speak such news, for they loved their good King Redeye, though none there had ever seen him. Patrel waited for the hubbub to dwindle, then spoke on: “Of the forty-three buccen serving upon the walls at the Battle of the Keep, I know of only two who survived: Danner Bramblethorn and
myself.” Again there was a stir among the onlookers and Patrel held his hand up for silence. “Others may have won free, but no more than a handful, for only eight of us lived to fight the last battle, and I saw three more fall there.”
“What of the King’s Host in the south?” asked an elder. “Did they not come: Do they not take the field against Modru’s Hordes?”
“We know not where the Host is,” answered Patrel, “but they did not come to Challerain. Why: I cannot say, for no word of them came either. And the Keep fell to Modru’s Swarm.
“From that ruin, Danner and I fared south, along the Post Road to Stonehill; and from Stonehill we came west, across the bridge and into the Bosky. And much evil have we seen. In the Bosky alone, Greenfields, Raffin, Tillok, and Willowdell all lie in ruins, and there has been much death at the hands of Modru’s Reavers. And now Woody Hollow burns . . .”
Woody Hollow: Burns: Shouts interrupted Patrel, and some turned to go, to ride to their homes. “Hold!” thundered Danner, leaping to his feet. “Stop where you are!” Warrows paused and quiet returned. “There’s nought you can do now,” Danner said, his voice sharp. “What’s burned has burned, and what hasn’t still stands. There’s no need to go running off willy-nilly into the spears of the Ghûls.” Danner sat back down on the log, motioning Patrel to continue. But ere he could do so:
“Captain Patrel, do you bring us no good news?” asked one of the elders, and there was a general murmur among council and spectators alike.
“Yes: I bring the best of news,” said Patrel, fiercely. “We know how Warrows may slay the Ghûls.” Amidst a hubbub, Patrel held up an arrow. “Wood through the heart. This wood. Arrow wood. And none is better at casting these quarrels than the Warrow.” A general murmur rose up among the Wee Folk, and Patrel held up a hand. “Think it no easy task, for the Ghûl’s heart must be struck fair and square, else the bolt will have no effect.”
Then he turned to the elders. “This is what I propose: Send riders—messengers—to other camps, to speak with free Warrows everywhere. Tell them how to slay the Ghûls. Have all those who live nearby and who are skilled archers come together at some common place, a place well out of the paths that the Ghûls ride.” Patrel looked to Danner for suggestions.
“Whitby’s barn east of Budgens,” proposed Danner. “It is in a vale nearly hidden by woods, yet it will serve as a large meeting hall all know of.”
“So be it,” declared Patrel. “Whitby’s barn it is. There we shall gather together a Company to hurl the Ghûls forth from these Boskydells.
“Let the heralds carry forth this word, too: Warrow eyes see further through this murk than those of Men and even those of Elves. And it may be that our eyes see further than those of the enemy. If so, then we will have another advantage over the foe, for by keeping a sharp watch we will be able to slip aside when they come nigh if needs dictate, or to lay a trap at other times. So send the word to set wards, to cover any tracks so that the reavers may not follow sign of Warrow in the snow, and to use Warrow woods-trickery to foil their designs. And if there is no other choice, and you are cornered when you do not expect it, aim for the heart.
“Now let the messengers ride to spread the word, to call upon Warrows everywhere to form companies of archers to defend their districts, and to summon those in this region who are skilled to meet at Whitby’s barn, for on the morrow we begin to fight back!” Patrel fell silent, and for a moment none spoke, then an elder, Mayor Geront Gabben stood:
“Hip, hip, hooray!” he cried, and was joined by the fired-up townsfolk: Hip, hip, hooray: Hip, hip, hooray: Hip, hip, hooray: Thrice the shout rang forth. And then Warrows rushed thither and yon; hasty plans were made as to who would ride where and who would stand guard. Messengers were reminded that some skilled archers would be needed to ward the camps, but that others were to form into companies to fight the Ghûls. And since most skilled archers either were now or had at times been Thornwalkers, the formation of companies would come easily.
In the midst of the bustle, a youngling came to Merrilee to say that the graves were ready. With Danner and Patrel at her side, Merrilee went to the glade where stood three fresh mounds; and as the three slain were laid to rest and Merrilee wept, Patrel’s clear voice sang throughout the glen:
~
In Winter’s glade now cold and bare
Your ’ternal rest begins.
There’ll be a day Spring fills the air
In fields and woods and fens.
Then Summer’s touch will grace us all
And bring forth Nature’s Tide.
The Harvesting will come this Fall
As leaves fall by your side.
And Winter’s cold will come again
As Seasons swing full ’round.
Goodbye my loves, till we are laid
In this most hallowed ground.
Merrilee, Danner, and Patrel each crumbled a handful of earth into each grave, and then Bessie Holt, Burt Underbank, and Tulip Underbank were covered to become one with the Land.
~
There was a buzz of buccen voices in Whitby’s great barn when Danner and Patrel and Merrilee stepped inside. And in the yellow lamplight they saw nearly one-hundred Warrows, each armed with a bow: buccen seemed to be everywhere: in the loft and stalls, upon bales of hay and feed bins, standing in the main aisle and on barrels—from every nook and cranny curious Warrow faces peered out.
Danner and Patrel and Merrilee wormed their way through the crowd to barn-center where stood a flatbed hay-waggon as a makeshift platform, and onto this the trio climbed. A hush fell upon the assembly as Patrel held up his hands for silence. It was warm in the barn, so he and Danner and Merrilee shed their outer jackets, and a surprised hum rose up among the buccen, for there before them stood two helmed warriors in armor, and a damman. Neither Danner nor Patrel had thought of the impact such a sight would have upon the assembly, for little did they realize just how splendid they looked: Danner in black armor, Patrel in gold. And just what was a damman doing here, anyhow?
Again Patrel held his hands up for silence, and once more a hush fell over the assembly. Danner and Merrilee sat down crosslegged upon the waggon, and Patrel spoke, recounting the fall of Challerain Keep, the death of Aurion, the bravery of the Warrows that had been slain, the sights that he and Danner had seen on their journey to Woody Hollow. Groans of dismay and cries of rage greeted his words, and often Patrel had to pause until the hubbub died down.
Then he spoke of the slaying of the Ghûl by Merrilee’s bolt, and of the hope this boded for the Warrows. He also spoke of the Warrow’s ability to see further through the Dimmendark than others, and the advantage this could give to the Wee Folk.
“This, then, is what I hope to do: to lure Ghûls into traps of our devising, to slay them with well-placed bolts, to drive Modru’s Reavers from the Land.” Patrel gestured at Merrilee and Danner. “We three here have sworn to do this thing, and I think you all have come here prepared to join us. What say you?”
There was a great shout that rattled the rafters, for the buccen at last could see a way to combat the corpse-people.
Yet one buccan stood to be recognized: Luth Chuker from Willowdell. “Ar, what you say makes plenty of sense, Captain Patrel. All but one thing, that is.”
“What’s that, Luth?” asked Patrel.
“Uh, well, no offense, miss, but we can’t be expected to have this damman in our Company,” said Luth. Some in the assembly said: Hear, hear.
“And why is that, Luth?” asked Patrel.
“Why, she’s a damman!” exclaimed Luth. “Don’t take me wrong, I mean, my wife and my dammsel are both dammen, but . . .”
“But what, Luth?” Patrel didn’t let up, for he had slogged through this same morass and knew that the issue needed to be dealt with in the open and now.
“We just don’t let our dammen fight, that’s what,” said Luth, and here and there murmurs of agreement were heard.
“Would you rather that t
hey die without a struggle?” Patrel’s words were harsh. “Like those in Greenfields, Raffin, Tillok?”
Luth now squirmed, and some in the assembly argued with their neighbors.
“Listen, each of you!” cried Patrel above the babble. “Of all the archers here, including me, including Danner, Merrilee is the only one I know of who has actually slain a Ghûl. Can any of you say the same: I cannot.”
Again, arguments broke out, and once more Patrel called for quiet, but now he was angry, green fire in his eyes. “Merrilee saved my stupid skin once with her skill, and until you earn it, I trust her and Danner above all others here!”
Patrel’s statement brought forth an uproar from the assembly, and many shouted in ire. But Merrilee, too, was spluttering angry, for she had listened to the buccen argue about her fate as if she weren’t even present to speak for herself. And she started to spring to her feet, but Danner put a hand on her shoulder and held her down as he stood. Again the assembly fell quiet, for most knew of Danner’s extraordinary skill as an archer.
“Captain Patrel is right,” said the black-armored buccan, “none else can boast of slaying a Ghûl. But this, too, I would say: Merrilee hit the Ghûl square in the heart, the only place where an arrow would slay him, and he was on the back of a Hèlsteed running full tilt: Think you now: would you bar such an archer from our Company: And think deeply, for the skill she has already mastered is the skill you must match!” Danner paused. “If there are no more objections . . .” quiet filled the barn “. . . then let us get on with the planning of this War.” Danner resumed his seat, and Merrilee squeezed his hand, her cobalt eyes shining brightly.
Because most of the buccen there knew each other, at least by reputation, and since all had been Thornwalkers in their young-buccen days, squads were quickly formed and lieutenants selected. There was never any question that they would serve under Captain Patrel Rushlock and that Captain Danner Bramblethorn was to be second in command. The damman, Merrilee Holt, was the hard one to fit in, for she had not the Thornwalker training. At the last, it was decided that she would serve on Captain Patrel’s staff, till her experience could catch up to the others.
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