In the War Háll behind there came the sounds of running feet as Rûcks and Hlôks poured out of corridors and into the great chamber. They ran among the four-fold rows of Dragon Pillars to come to the far edge of the bottomless Great Deep. And Tuck could hear them crying, Glâr: Glâr: (Fire: Fire!)
And then great waves of unbearable dread blasted outward, and Spaunen fell groveling upon the floor of the War Háll and shrieked in terror, while Gildor, Brega, and Tuck gasped for air and dropped to their knees transfixed like unto stone statues.
And the dreadful crests of racking horror seemed to course through them forever.
But then the Gargon collapsed and lay in the whirling flames of the burning span, and of a sudden the harrowing dread was gone.
“Quickly,” gasped Gildor, recovering first, “we must bear Galen King beyond arrow flight.”
And so, weak with passing fear, they dragged the stunned Man up a flight of steps and to the outbound passage. And while Gildor worked to revive Galen, Tuck and Brega stood guard, one with an Elven long-knife, the other with Gildor’s sword, the red-jeweled blade seeming awkward in the Dwarf’s gnarled hand—a hand better suited to wield an axe.
“Ai, look at the vastness of the Mustering Chamber, Tuck,” said Brega, in awe, as the flames roared upward. “It must be a mile to the far end, and half that wide.”
And Tuck looked past the Rûcks and Hlôks running hither and thither, and by the light of the burning bridge he saw the rows of Dragon Pillars marching off into the distance past great fissures in the floor, and he knew that Brega gauged true.
At last Galen regained consciousness, yet he was weak, shaken, his face pale, drawn, and deep within his eyes lurked a haunted look, for he had been whelmed by a Gargon’s fear-blast, a blast that would have destroyed Galen; but he had been saved in the nick of time by Brega’s well-thrown axe. Even so, Galen nearly had been slain, and he could not rise to his feet. And thus they waited on the stone landing above the broad steps leading down toward the shelf of the abyss while strength and will slowly ebbed back into the Dread-hammered King. And long they watched the flames until the burning span collapsed, plummeting into the Great Deep, carrying the charred corpse of the slain Gargon down into the bottomless depths.
And when the drawbridge plunged, the four Deevewalkers stood and made their way eastward, Galen on faltering feet, supported by sturdy Brega. Along a corridor they went two furlongs, up a gentle slope, up from the First-Neath unto the Gate-Level. Now they came to the East Háll and crossed its wide floor to pass beyond the broken portals of the Dawn-Gate and out from under the mountain, out into the open at last.
Before them in the Shadowlight of the Dimmendark stood the sloping valley called the Pitch leading down out of the Quadran. And out upon this cambered vale the four went, heading east soon to bear south for distant Darda Galion, to bring to the Lian word of the Horde in Drimmen-deeve, and to tell them the remarkable news of the Gargon’s death.
It had taken all four to slay the Horror, and it was by mere happenstance that they had succeeded. Yet among these four heroes there was one who had struck the first spark, for as Galen King said, his voice strained, halting—for the impact of the Gargon was still upon him—”When . . . when we stood frozen . . . lost beyond all hope, Tuck, yours was the blow that released us . . . yours was the strike that told.”
6
Shadows of Doom
Tuck’s jewel-hued eyes swept to the limits of his vision through the Shadowlight lying across the ’scape of the cambered valley held in the lap of the Quadran, and no enemy was in sight. And down from the Dawn-Gate on weary legs trudged the four Deevewalkers: Tuck and Galen first, Gildor and Brega coming after. Down out of Drimmen-deeve they strode, down onto the old abandoned tradeway that ran south a short way ere swinging easterly to follow the slope of the Pitch as it slowly fell toward the mouth of the Quadran, perhaps twenty-five miles distant.
And as they paced down the steps and onto the ancient pave, Brega gravely said, “All my days were filled with a yearning to come unto Kraggen-cor, yet now I am glad to leave it behind.”
Onward they plodded, exhausted beyond telling, yet they had to get well away from the vicinity of the Gate, for as Galen pointed out, “Ghola were not among the Yrm in the Black Hole. I deem they ride this Dimmendark somewhere. But they will return unto Drimmen-deeve, and we must be gone long ere then.”
And so they trudged down the old trade road, southward along the shore of the Quadmere, a lakelet less than a mile from the Dawn-Gate. Normally the clear tarn was fed by the high melt of Stormhelm flowing pure down Quadran Run; but both the Run and ’Mere were now frozen by the Winternight cold. And as the lagging steps of the four carried them alongside the iced-over water, Tuck could hear a far-off low rumble of . . . what? . . . but his mind was too weary to grasp an answer.
Along the high-bluffed western shore of the Quadmere they plodded, down past a snow-dusted, rune-carven Realmstone marking the ancient boundary where began the Dwarven Kingdom of Drimmen-deeve.
Southeastward down the Pitch they went, now following the course of the Quadrill, a river running down from the Grimwall to come eventually to the Argon River far to the east.
They trudged without speaking ten miles or so, weary unto their very bones, leaving the Dawn-Gate and Drimmen-deeve behind, the mysterious rumble fading as they went, and at last they made camp in the whin and pine along the slopes of the Pitch. And though they were exhausted unto numbness, still they took turns at watch in spite of Gildor’s protest that he alone should stand the ward. And each in his turn fought off sleep by walking slow rounds circling the camp. No fire was kindled and the cold was bitter; even so, dressed as they were in quilted down and enwrapped in cloaks, they slept the sleep of the dead.
~
Twelve hours or so they remained in the pines, all sleeping except for the one on watch; and red-gemmed Bale stood ward with each sentry, the blade-jewel whispering only of distant evil. But at last Gildor, who stood the final watch, awakened the others, for he knew that still they were too near the Deeves to be safe and could remain no longer.
“We must press onward,” said the Elf, “for when the Ghûlka return to the caverns, they will be swift on our trail.” Gildor gestured to the barren wind-swept pave stones of the old trade road below, its course for the most part free of snow. “The Rûpt will soon discover that this is the way we follow, for no tracks will they find crossing the land.
“But beyond our immediate danger, Galen King, I sense a doom lying in the days ahead, but what it is I cannot say. Yet I feel we must go forth swiftly, for ever since the Hèlarms struck, I have felt an urgent need to press on, else I think all will fail, and Modru will have his way.”
At these dire words, the four took a quick meal of mian and water. But ere they set out, Brega borrowed the Elven long-knife from Tuck, using Bane to fashion a wooden cudgel of yew as a weapon, while Galen plied the Atalar Blade to cut a quarterstaff of pine for himself to bear. The work was done swiftly, for Bane’s edge was keen beyond reckoning, and the blade of Atala hewed sharply, too.
“There,” grunted Brega, hefting the wooden club as he gave over the Elven knife to Tuck, “this suits me better than that toothpick of yours, Waeran.”
“Oh, not mine,” answered Tuck, preparing to unbuckle the worn black leather sheath to return the long-knife to Gildor. “It was just borrowed for the jaunt through Drimmen-deeve.”
But Lord Gildor would have none of this return of the blade. “Wee One, keep Bane. You have earned this weapon. Had you not been bearing it, we all would have fallen to the Gargon. It is now yours.”
Tuck was astounded, for Bane was a “special” weapon, and like most Warrows he knew little or nothing of swords. “In my hands it is but wasted!” he protested.
“Nay,” said Gildor. “In your hands it was used well for the first time since its forging. I deem it was made for you.”
Thus it was that when the four strode down from the pines
and back to the road, each now was armed: Brega bore a blunt wooden cudgel; Galen carried a quarterstaff and an Atalar long-knife; Gildor wore Bale strapped to his side; and Tuck bore bow and arrows, with Bane the Elven long-knife girted at his waist, the blue-jewelled blade a sword to Warrow hands. And they went apace, for Gildor’s dire words pushed them forth.
~
Although each had slept but nine hours or so—standing three hours at watch—still they were rested somewhat, and the pall of fatigue that had smothered them was gone. And now their stride was firm and their eyes clear, though still Modru’s Myrk hid the distant ’scape. Yet Tuck reveled in the openness of the land before him, and though the air was icy with Winternight cold, he listened to distant sounds instead of close echoes from confining cavern walls. And there was a slow susurration of free-moving air, a silence of open space.
“Brega,” asked Tuck, “when we came down the steps of the Dawn-Gate, I could hear a faint rumble off in the distance. Now it is gone. Can you say what it was?”
“Aye,” grunted Brega, “the Vorvor. Tucked in a great fold of stone on Ghatan’s flank is the Vorvor: a mighty whirlpool of water where a great underground river bursts from the side of Ghatan to thunder around the walls of the canyon and disappear down under the Mountains once more. There it was that the Wars with the Grg began, for jeering Ükhs and japing Hrôks cast Durek—first King of my Folk—into its ravening depths.” Anger crossed Brega’s features and fire smoldered in his eyes at the thought of the sneering Squam, but with visible effort he mastered his passion and continued the tale: “And First Durek was sucked down under the stone by the rage, yet somehow he survived, and he became the first Châk to stride the undelved halls of Kraggen-cor, for that is where the suck drew him. And it is told that he came out from under the Mountains at the place where Dawn-Gate was later delved, yet how he crossed the Great Dêop it is not known, though some say it was the Utruni who helped him.”
“Utruni?” Wonder filled Tuck’s voice.
“Aye, Utruni,” answered Brega, “for it is said the Stone Giants respect the work of the Châkka, for we strengthen the living stone. And the Utruni detest the Grg, for though the Squam live under the Mountains, too, they befoul the very rock itself and destroy the precious works of the ageless Underland.”
“But how could the Utruni aid Durek?” asked Tuck. “I mean, the Great Deep is at least fifty-feet wide, and who knows where its bottom lies—if it even has a bottom—so how could they help?”
“Utruni have a special power over stone,” answered Brega. “They are able to pass through rock that they fissure with their very hands and then seal shut behind as they move on.” Tuck gasped, and Gildor nodded, confirming Brega’s words. Brega spoke on: “With this gift, they could aid anyone trapped as Durek was.”
Tuck pondered upon this tale of Durek as the four strode southeasterly, following alongside the Quadrill as it led down the Pitch toward the unseen exit from the Quadran.
“Brega, when first we met you said I had Utruni eyes,” said Tuck. “How so?”
“I meant only that your eyes perhaps resemble theirs, Waeran,” answered Brega. “It is said Utruni eyes are great crystal spheres, or are gems. And they see by a different light than we, for they can look through solid stone itself. And your eyes, Waeran, see by a different light, too, for how else could your vision pierce this myrk?”
Tuck strode along in silence and deep thought.
The Dwarf’s statement had echoed what the Elves had said earlier. Yet Tuck had listened to Brega with great interest, for, just as were the Giants, Dwarves, too, are stone dwellers, and somehow that lent credence to Brega’s words.
South and east they strode, down the Pitch, called Baralan by the Dwarves, and named Falanith by the Elves; but by any name it was the great tilt of land hemmed in by the four mountains of the Quadran: Stormhelm, Grimspire, Loftcrag, and Greytower. And as they went, Tuck noted a curious thing: “Hoy, Brega, can you see the stone above yon slopes?” Brega shook his head, no, and Tuck spoke on: “It is almost white. We came from the red granite of Stormhelm, past the black of Grimspire. Now I see the granite of another mountain and it is pale grey.”
“That is Uchan, what you call Greytower and the Elves name Gralon,” answered Brega. “Now the only Mountain of the Quadran you have not seen is Ghatan, and its stone is blue tinged. Rust, ebon, azure, gris: these are the colors of the four great Mountains, and under each different ores, different treasures, lie.”
Down along the old tradeway they strode, between the Quadrill and Greytower, and their pace was hard. Some twelve hours they tramped in all, and their path swung south around the flank of the mountain as they came at last down off the Pitch and out of the mouth of the Quadran. Finally they stopped to make camp and rest, again hidden in a grove of low pine. They had marched some twenty-five miles and were too weary to stride on.
~
When they took up the trek again their course bore due south as they strode for Darda Galion. Still the frozen Quadrill ran upon their left while to their right rose the steep eastern ramparts of lofty Greytower. And the farther south they trod, the less they saw of the ancient pave they followed, for in places the stones lay half buried while elsewhere they had sunk beyond seeing into the loam of the land alongside the riverbank.
Some nine hours they strode, faring ever southward. They stopped but once for a meal and a short rest, and then moved on quickly, for Lord Gildor felt a vague sense of foreboding, as if distant pursuit came upon their heels, drawing nearer with every step they took. Yet, as they marched, the scarlet blade-jewel of Red Bale was examined often, but no glimmer of warning flashed in its depths.
Another hour they walked, and Tuck’s eyes searched to their limits, scanning for foe, friend, or ought else, yet nought did he see but sparse trees and sloping land falling southward along the Quadrill.
But then: “Hoy, ahead,” said Tuck. “Something looms, barring our way. I cannot say what. Perhaps a mountain.”
“There should be no Mountain before us,” growled Brega. Gildor nodded in agreement with the Dwarf’s words.
“How far?” asked Galen.
“At the bound of my vision,” answered Tuck. “Perhaps five miles at most.”
Onward they strode, Tuck’s gaze seeking to see what stood across their way. Another mile they went. “Ai!” exclaimed the Warrow. “It is a storm. Snow flies.”
“Ha!” barked Brega. “I knew it was no Mountain.”
“The flakes are dark in this Shadowlight,” responded Tuck, “and the snow looks like a stone-grey wall from here, for it seems neither to advance nor retreat.”
Onward they pressed, and the wind began to rise as they came toward the fringes of the stillstorm. Soon they walked in a moan of air, and scattered flakes swirled about them.
“Hsst!” warned Gildor, casting his hood from his head. “Listen!”
Tuck, too, pushed his cloak hood back and strained his ears, yet he heard nought but the sobbing wind.
“I thought . . . “ Gildor began; then: “There!” And all four heard the drifting howl of distant Vulg.
Once more Gildor drew Red Bale from scabbard, and the Elf sucked a hiss of air through clenched teeth, for a crimson fire glowed in the blade-gem. “They come,” said the Lian warrior, grimly.
“Kruk!” spat Brega upon seeing the jewel’s gleam, while Tuck stared long and hard to the north, back along the way they had come.
Again there came the shuddering howl of Vulg.
Through the scant wind-borne flakes Tuck’s eyes scanned. “I see them now: a great force: Ghûls on Hèlsteeds: fifty or more. Swift they run on our track.”
“Wee One,” said Gildor, “I see no place to hide. Is there aught?”
“Lord Gildor,” interjected Galen, “you forget, they have Vulgs with them: Vulgs to follow our scent. E’en were there a place to hide, still Modru’s curs would find us. Instead we must seek a site we can defend.” Galen hefted his quarterstaff and turned to th
e Warrow. “Tuck, look for a stand where neither Vulg nor Hèlsteed nor Ghûl can come at us easily: a narrow lieu or a place up high: close-set rocks or trees, or a tor.”
Again Tuck scanned the Dimmendark. “None, Sire. The trees are sparse and the land is nought but a long slope . . .”
Once more there came the feral howl of Vulg.
Brega hefted his cudgel and set his feet wide. “Then we make our stand here on the bank of the Quadrill,” gritted the Dwarf.
“Nay, Warrior Brega,” barked Galen, “not here.”
“Then where, King Galen?” Brega’s voice was sharp with exasperation. “The Waeran said that there is no site to defend, and we cannot hide from Vulgs. This bank, then, is as good a place as any to make our last stand, for they cannot come at our backs if we choose to fight here.”
“Debate me not, Warrior Brega; there is no time,” snapped Galen. “For there is a way we might lose the Spaunen: the storm: If it thickens ahead, if it rages, and if we can come unto its fury ere the Spawn can catch us, the wind and snow will cover our track and hide us. Let us forth—quickly!”
Galen the Fox: cried Tuck’s mind as the buccan ran southward.
And behind careered hurtling Vulgs and hammering Hèlsteeds, swiftly closing the gap.
~
From the fringes and toward the heart of the tempest sped the four—seeking its blast—and the farther south they ran, the greater was the storm’s turmoil; yet behind raced the Spawn, their pounding strides drumming over the land at a headlong pace, rapidly gaining upon their distant quarry.
On ran the four, and the wind howl rose and the snow thickened, flying darkly in the Shadowlight. Tuck threw desperate glances over his shoulder through the grey swirl, and his heart lurched to see how swiftly the Spawn came.
Now the Vulgs gave vent to juddering howls, and Ghûls answered them, for although they had not yet seen their prey, the spoor was growing fresher as they rapidly overhauled the hunted.
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