The Iron Tower Omnibus

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Now all the lieutenants gathered ’round the table, sitting on barrels for chairs, and Patrel, Danner, and Merrilee stepped down to join them. The other buccen in the barn fell silent and strained their ears to hear what was said by the eight: Captains Patrel and Danner; Lieutenants Orbin Theed, Norv Odger, Dinby Hatch, Alvy Willoby, and Luth Chuker who, in spite of his objections to Merrilee, was eagerly selected as a lieutenant, for such was his reputation as a Thornwalker; and, lastly at the table stood the damman, Merrilee Holt, looking small and meek among the warrior buccen. And as they held council, planning the course of the War, other Warrows continued to arrive at Whitby’s barn, coming to answer the summons.

  Patrel spoke: “Does any here know of the Ghûlen movements?”

  “Aye,” said Norv Odger, “at least I think I do. They roam the Bosky roads: the Crossland Road, the Tineway, and Two Fords Road, for certain. And if that pattern holds, then they’re on the Southpike, the Wenden Way, West Spur, the Upland Way—all of the Bosky roads, reaving the towns as they go.”

  “They may be reaving the towns for now,” said Merrilee, “but soon they’ll begin laying waste to farms, and to homes in the woods and fens. No bothy, no cot, no flet, no burrow will be safe from the Spawn.” A murmur of agreement rippled through the barn at the damman’s bitter words.

  “How did they get into the Bosky?” asked Danner. “How did they penetrate the Thornwall, get past the Beyonder Guard?”

  None at the table knew the answer to Danner’s question, but one of the newcomers to the barn asked to speak, and Patrel signified so, asking his name.

  “I’m Danby Rigg from Dinburg. I was up near Northdune when word came that Ghûls were in the Bosky. It was said that they came in through the Thornwall at the old abandoned Northwood tunnel.”

  “But that only goes partway through the ’Wall,” interrupted Orbin, slapping his hand to the table.

  “Aye,” said Danby, “but let me finish. They came through that way as far as it went, to come to the headwaters of the Spindle River. Then they rode down that frozen waterway: the ice is thick and easily will bear their weight, for now it is solid all the way to the bottom, I hear. They rode to the Inner-break at the fork ten miles west of Spindle Ford. Up over the granite they went; then they were in the Bosky.”

  An uproar greeted Danby’s words, for this was news to them all. The old Northwood tunnel had been abandoned years past, and Warrow grangers had set about encouraging the Spindlethorn to fill in the southern half, and it had grown shut. But the northern half of the tunnel had been left to grow closed on its own, and, without help from Warrows, Spindlethorn grows notoriously slowly. The old north barricades had been left shut, but they could have been moved with effort by Modru’s agents. The Inner-break was a great breech in the Thornwall on the south bank of the Spindle where a massive slope of granite hove up through the soil, the great stone slab reaching nearly five miles into the Bosky. And the Spindle River was frozen this year, an event that had never before happened in living Warrow memory.

  Patrel asked for silence, and it quickly came, and Merrilee said, “Hai: Then that’s how the Vulgs first came to the Bosky, too: through the northern half of the Northwood tunnel, down the frozen Spindle, then up over the Inner-break.” Once more agreement rippled through the buccen at the slight damman’s words.

  Danner spoke: “All right, so we know how the Ghûls got in and how the Vulgs first came. But now the problem is how to drive Modru’s Reavers out. Where do we start?”

  No one spoke for a moment, then Norv Odger said, “Each ’Darkday, so far, a squad of Ghûls has patrolled the Crossland Road between Willowdell and Brackenboro. It may have been this bunch that set the torches to those two towns.”

  “Woody Hollow, too,” said Merrilee, her voice low.

  “Aye, Woody Hollow, too,” continued Norv. “There are perhaps twenty, twenty-five of the reavers. They could be our target, but it’s a goodly sized gang.”

  Danner looked about. “I gauge that there are now nearly one-hundred-twenty-five of us, what with the late-comers. That seems to be good enough odds to me: five of us for each Ghûl and Hèlsteed.”

  “Yes, good odds,” said Patrel, “but remember, the Ghûls won’t be sitting targets: and they’ll use tulwar, spear, and Hèlsteed to balance the exchange.”

  Patrel suspended the planning a moment to form another squad from the newcomers, and to select a lieutenant to command it: Regin Burk, a farmer from near the Mid Ford.

  And during this pause, Merrilee sat with her hands steepled before her, deep in thought. Regin joined the council, and looked at Merrilee in surprise, but said nought.

  “All right,” said Patrel, “if this band of reavers is to be our first target, how shall we go about it?”

  No one spoke, and silence drummed loudly upon the ear. At last Merrilee cleared her throat, and Patrel cocked an eye at her, and she said, “I know little of War, and so know nought of strategy, tactics, battle. I do know how to use bow and arrow, and I know much about ponies. Yet something you said, Patrel, caused me to think. Your words were, ‘the Ghûls won’t be sitting targets.’ But what if they were: Sitting targets, that is. Our task would be immeasurably eased.” A murmur washed over the listening buccen, but quickly stilled as Merrilee continued. “These, then, are my thoughts: Let us lure the Ghûls into a high-walled trap and shut the door behind. Then slay them in their pen.” Once more a murmur started to swell, but Merrilee raised her voice sharply, and silence fell again. “Yet: I can hear some say, there is no high-walled trap nearby. But if you say that, then you are wrong. For there is a trap, and it is called Budgens—the hamlet of Budgens. Hear now my plan: A band of Warrows on pony will be seen by the Ghûls. Fleeing in panic, the poor Warrows will gallop up Byroad Lane for the village of Budgens. Yet even though the Warrows have a small lead—perhaps but a mile or so—reavers know that ponies cannot outrun Hèlsteeds, and they give swift chase. Into Budgens run the foolish Warrows, down the central street, now the Ghûls right after. But lo: as the Spawn charge through Budgens, the Warrows have vanished; instead there is a barricade across the road and it bursts into flame. The Ghûls turn, and behind is another waggon-borne flaming barricade, now also shut. And the gaps between the buildings cannot be broached, for they, too, are filled. Then Warrows spring up from rooftop concealment and arrows pierce Spawn hearts, for now it is the hunters who have become the hunted, as the Warrows war upon the reavers.”

  Merrilee fell silent, and quiet filled the barn—a stillness so deep that the hush drummed heavily upon the ears. Then the silence was shattered by a great wild cheering that shook the walls of Whitby’s barn, and broad grins split faces and Patrel grabbed Merrilee and fiercely hugged her to him, calling in her ear above the shouts and applause, “So you are the one who knows nothing of strategy, tactics, battle: Would that I were so ignorant.” And tears glistened in Merrilee’s eyes, as Danner smiled and squeezed her hand, saying, “Your vow against the reavers will be kept, Merrilee, for with this plan, they will pay.”

  ~

  Much was debated ere all the final details of Merrilee’s plan were hammered out, and in this the damman proved to ask canny questions and to point out many particulars of value. And when all was said and done, the last detail decided upon, Luth Chuker looked across the table at Merrilee and said, “Damman, I was wrong. Will you forgive me?” And Merrilee smiled and inclined her head, and Luth grinned in return.

  Patrel called for silence, then said, “This ’Darkday is done; our plans are laid. Tomorrow we prepare our trap in Budgens, and the next ’Darkday, if the Ghûls are willing, we spring it shut upon the Spawn. But ere we go to take our rest, I would hear a few words from the chief architect of our design: Merrilee Holt.”

  Again applause and cheering broke out, and Merrilee was stunned, for although it was one thing to tell others of an idea she had, it is altogether a different thing to give a speech to a company of warriors. Danner leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Just s
ay what is in your heart.” And then two buccen boosted her up onto the table.

  She stood and slowly turned, looking at all of the Warrow faces, all of the Thornwalkers with their bows, eager to take the War to Modru’s Reavers, eager to avenge their lost loved ones. And sadness fell upon her heart, but so, too, did fierce pride. And then she spoke in a clear voice, and all heard her words:

  “Let the word go forth here and now from this place of liberty that no longer will Warrows flee in fear before Modru’s Reavers. The Evil in Gron has chosen the wrong Land to try to crush under his iron tread, for sharp thorn will meet his heel and we will wound him deeply. We did not choose this War, but now that it is visited upon us, not only will we fight to survive, we will fight to win. Let it be said now and for all the days hereafter that on this day the struggle began, and Evil met its match.”

  Amid thunderous cheering, Merrilee stood down from the table, and she saw that some wept openly.

  ~

  “They’re no longer calling it the Winter War, Merrilee,” said Danner. “Now they name it after what you said in your speech: the Struggles.”

  Before Merrilee could reply, Patrel strode into the barn. “Well, the trap in Budgens is set. Tomorrow is the ’Darkday we spring it. And, concealed, we watched the Ghûlen squad ride along the Crossland Road on their patrol. There are twenty-seven of them. The odds are good, maybe now even better. How have things gone here?”

  “More Thornwalkers, past and present, have arrived. Our ranks have swelled to double their numbers. There’s nearly two-hundred-fifty now, and more trickle in all the time,” said Danner. “Lor: Tomorrow in Budgens, the air will be solid with arrows. Why don’t we leave some buccen behind?”

  “No,” objected Merrilee. “It will be important that all share in tomorrow. Victory we think, but perhaps defeat. Yet win or lose, all should be there.”

  “Tell me, damman, what could possibly go wrong tomorrow?” Luth looked up from the arrows he fletched.

  “If I knew, Luth,” answered Merrilee, “then it wouldn’t happen.”

  “Well,” said Luth, “nothing will go wrong tomorrow. You’ve just got a case of battle-eve jitters.”

  “I hope you’re right, Luth,” responded Merrilee, “for I’m not sure I could stand it if things go wrong.”

  Danner laughed and changed the subject: “Ah, Paddy, you should’ve seen it when some of the newcomers objected to a damman in the Company. Luth set ’em down, he did.”

  Luth smiled penitently, but there was an ireful glare in his eye: “Them skuts: Oh, pardon, Merrilee, but they make me angry still.”

  Patrel laughed, too. “Luth, there’s nothing worse than a reformed malefactor, one who has seen the error of his ways. I know, for I am one, too.”

  Luth stood and smiled again, and handed Merrilee the arrows. “Here you are, damman, arrows fletched to fit your draw. Wing them well and true, for on the morrow we snap a trap shut upon a squad of reavers.”

  And as Luth went to take to his bed, and so did Danner and Patrel, Merrilee sat and gazed at the arrows, and searched for a flaw in her plan.

  ~

  Nearly three-hundred Warrows had mustered when the Company rode west through the Shadowlight to Budgens. Buccen took station upon rooftops and behind barricades. A band of twenty upon ponies was dispatched southward down Byroad Lane; they were the decoy whose job it was to draw the Ghûls into the trap.

  Merrilee and Patrel took station upon the roof of the Blue Bull, Budgens’ one inn. Across the street upon the smithery Merrilee could see Danner, and she waved before taking her place of concealment. All Warrows slipped out of sight, though some kept watch upon the south where could be seen the pony squad standing now on Byroad Lane near the Crossland Road.

  ~

  And the wait began . . .

  Minutes seemed like hours, and hours dragged by like days. And still the wait went on and the Ghûls did not come. Merrilee fidgeted and checked her arrows again and again, while Patrel hummed a soft tune under his breath, and others spoke quietly and waited; but the Ghûlen squad came not. Time trudged by on halting feet: plodding, lagging, dragging. And Merrilee knew then what her plan did not take into account: “We know not if the Ghûls will even come,” she said to Patrel, “for we control not their ranks, their numbers.”

  And still the wait went on . . .

  And Merrilee thought: All this work will have gone for nought.

  And time dragged past . . .

  ~

  “Here they come, Captain,” said the lookout. “Oh, Lor!”

  At the sentry’s exclamation, Merrilee peeped over the edge of the roof, looking south through the Dimmendark toward the junction of the Crossland Road and Byroad Lane. Her eyes immediately saw the pony squad; and beyond, coming into view from behind the hills flanking the Crossland Road, cantered dark Hèlsteeds bearing Ghûls. And Merrilee’s heart lurched, for there were fully one-hundred of Modru’s Reavers and not a mere squad of twenty-seven. But it was too late to change the plan, for the buccen on Byroad Lane wheeled their ponies and bolted for Budgens, and howling Ghûls plunged in pursuit.

  Down the road they thundered, racing for the village, the Hèlsteeds overhauling the ponies at an alarming rate. Merrilee clenched her fist and beat upon the roof. “Ride, buccen, ride: Ride for your lives!” she whispered fiercely, fervently hoping that she had correctly gauged the speed of pony against Hèlsteed.

  Now the spears of the racing Ghûls were lowered, as they made ready to lance the fleeing Warrows verging on the fringe of Budgens.

  The lead Ghûl howled a command, and a score raced to the left, riding for the gap between Budgens and the Rillmere, striking to head off any Warrows who might flee that way. These twenty reavers would be outside the trap!

  Merrilee glanced across the street to see Danner take two squads of buccen, to disappear beyond her vision as they leapt to the ground in back of the smithery.

  And then the ponies bearing Warrows thundered past down the street, and behind raced the Ghûls on Hèlsteeds, howling in victory now, for they were closing upon their quarry.

  Through the far barricade the ponies scaddled, and the gap in the wall closed as a brush-bearing waggon rolled into the slot. Flames sprang up as torches fired the wood splashed with lamp oil. The racing Hèlsteeds squealed in pain and skidded to a halt as the Ghûls, sensing a trap, hauled hard upon reins, wheeling ’round to ride back south. But there, too, a barricade rolled to, and flames burst forth.

  The trap slammed shut.

  But twenty Ghûls were outside.

  Patrel stood and set to his lips the Horn of the Reach—the silver bugle given to him by Marshal Vidron on the day they first met—and a silver call split the air, its notes belling wide across the countryside, and everywhere that Warrows heard it a burst of hope sprang full in their hearts. Below in the streets of Budgens, Ghûls quailed from the sound and Hèlsteeds reared in fear. Warrows stood upon the rooftops and at Patrel’s second pure clarion call, a storm of arrows whistled through the air to rain death upon the Ghûls.

  Merrilee stood straight as a wand, her bow nocked with arrow, and Tuck’s voice spoke softly in her mind: ‘Inhale full. Exhale half. Draw to your anchor point. Center your aim. Loose.’ Again and again she sped arrows down into the Ghûls, and over and over Tuck whispered in her memory. And where she aimed, arrows flew, piercing Ghûl breast and heart. It did not matter that all about her appeared to be confusion and that the streets were a churning mass below, that Hèlsteeds reared and spears were flung at buccen and cries of death rent the air; all that mattered were Tuck’s words: ‘Inhale full. Exhale half. Draw to your anchor point. Center your aim. Loose.’ And Death sped from her bow.

  Yet the Ghûls were savage reavers, and they threw spears to pierce Warrows. Ghûls dismounted, some quilled with arrows, and they clambered up porch posts to reach the rooftops where their tulwars clove ere these reavers were felled by arrows loosed in close quarters, or by buccen-wielded lances made for just
this purpose.

  Merrilee did not note the Ghûl that came upon her roof, but Patrel felled it by an arrow through the heart.

  The Ghûlen number dwindled in the streets below. But there came an uproar from the northern barricade, as the score of Ghûls outside the trap fought to tear it open. And the barricade was breached. Surviving Ghûls in the street spurred for the gap to escape this fanged nest. Warrows upon the rooftops ran leaping from roof to roof, loosing arrows at the fleeing Ghûls below. The two squads commandeered by Danner fell upon the twenty foe outside, and arrows thudded into corpse-flesh. The Ghûls wheeled about, and Hèlsteeds bore down upon the Warrows on foot. Spears slew some while tulwars clove others. Yet the buccen stood their ground and carefully aimed, and arrows burst through Ghûl hearts. Danner’s two squads were joined by those who had ridden the decoy ponies, and these buccen slammed the barricade to again before most of the Ghûls in the street could race free, and only four or five of those trapped had fled through the gap. Then the decoy buccen turned upon the Spawn outside, and Death hissed into the once-proud Ghûlen ranks, and but three won free of these barb-spitting Warrows, and those three fled in fear.

  In the trap, none survived.

  And when the Warrows saw that the Battle of Budgens had ended, a cheering broke forth and there were calls for Merrilee. But she turned to Patrel and clung to him sobbing, and he looked to the others as if to say: “Well, she’s a damman, you know.”

  ~

  Ninety-seven Ghûls had been felled: six by spears upon the rooftops, the rest by arrows through the heart. It was a smashing victory by all accounts, but a victory purchased at a dear price:

  Nineteen Warrows had been killed, and thirty others wounded, some by tulwar, some by spear; some of the wounded would never fight again, but most would heal to carry on.

  ~

  Word of the Battle of Budgens spread across the Seven Dells like wildfire, igniting Warrow spirits, for the first of the Struggles had gone to the Bosky, and the Wee Folk now knew that the Ghûls could be beaten.