The Iron Tower Omnibus

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Tuck’s lungs pumped in harsh gasps as he ran on, his legs pounding over the frozen ground. And all about him groaned the dark-laden wind, whistling flakes stinging his face as he plunged deeper into the storm.

  Yet the howl of the Vulgs and Ghûls rose above the cry of the wind, for the Spawn at last spotted the fleeing game, and exultation filled their ululating yawls.

  Headlong into the thickening snow rushed Tuck, the rising shriek of the driven wind drowning out all noise but his own racking breath, and now he could no longer see his companions in the black swirling blast. He threw a look over his shoulder, only to trip and fall sprawling flat upon his face. And as he struggled up to his hands and knees, a Hèlsteed thundered past, for the spear-bearing Ghûl upon its back did not see the fallen Warrow.

  Tuck sprang to his feet and ran on, and he was unable to see more than a pace or two in the shrieking dark howl. Yet vague black shapes hurtled by, and the buccan knew that it was but a matter of time ere he would be spotted. Even so, onward he ran.

  Now the fury of the driving storm about him somehow altered: still the raging blast screamed and blinding snow hurtled through the air, yet the blizzard was brighter: less black, more grey. Did the storm weaken, the snow diminish: Nay, for yet he could see no farther than a pace or two and did not know where either friend or foe went in the blinding clutch, as on he plunged.

  Once again he fell, and as he rose up, the wind around him seemed to pause, and a dark shape loomed out of the blast twenty yards behind and stalked toward him: a leering Ghûl upon Hèlsteed. And the corpse-foe lowered his barbed spear and charged as Tuck fumbled for his bow and arrow. The buccan stood no chance, for the Hèlsteed was too swift. Death came on cloven hooves.

  The spear dipped to pierce the Warrow, and Tuck sprang aside, rolling in the snow; the Hèlsteed hammered past, and lo: Tuck was unscathed, for inexplicably the Ghûl had not shifted his aim to strike the dodging Warrow; yet something was amiss with the corpse-foe, for the Hèlsteed ran on another twenty yards and then collapsed, and the foe did not rise up from the snow.

  Tuck drew blue-flaming Bane and ran to the downed enemy, the Warrow girding himself to strike off the Ghûl’s head; yet, as he came near, the corpse-foe twitched convulsively, fingers scrabbling, face grimacing, and then the Ghûl began to wither, shriveling even as Tuck looked on, the snow blowing whitely, the wind shrieking. And as Tuck’s horror-stricken eyes watched, the reaver’s body began to buckle and fold in upon itself, and collapse into ashen ruin to be whipped at by the howling blast. Shuddering in revulsion, the young buccan pressed on into the blinding whiteness.

  The shriek rose until Tuck could but barely think, yet he stumbled onward. Forward he struggled, within a ravening wall of white, but at last he passed through the worst of it and the sound began to diminish, the wind still ripping at him, but its force lessening as he struggled on.

  And then he seemed to stumble out of a wall of white and into the arms of his comrades.

  ~

  And overhead the Sun shone brightly.

  ~

  And Tuck then knew that they were no longer in the Dimmendark, and the Warrow burst into tears.

  ~

  South they went, another ten miles or so, away from the shrieking wind and blinding snow that raged along the flank of the hideous Black Wall; and they left the dread ’Dark behind. And all the while they walked, Tuck reveled in the sensations of vision: bright daylight, high blue sky, distant winter forests and mountains. And his heart was filled near to bursting with gladness, for there was the Sun: And Tuck marveled at how his own shadow matched him stride for stride and grew longer as the Sun rode toward the evening. And he was amazed that the day seemed so bright.

  And his talk was full of wonder: “Is the Sun a flame eternal?” he asked. “Will it one day die: The sky is so blue; whence comes its color?”

  To most of his questions his comrades could but shake their heads and smile and answer, “Only Adon knows.”

  ~

  They camped on a small tor overlooking the Quadrill, a tor easily defended, for although they had passed beyond the Black Wall, still night would fall and Spawn could rove. Yet the comrades were weary , for they had walked long since their last camp, and could not press any further.

  And though Tuck tried to scribe in his diary, he was too exhausted and fell asleep ere sundown.

  Sometime in the night, Tuck startled awake, and the blackness was so deep that his heart lurched, for he thought that he was somehow back in the Dimmendark. But then he saw the Bright Veil spangled across the heavens, and the silvery stars overhead, and the fingernail-thin crescent of a last-quarter Moon that rode wan in the sky; and Tuck sighed in contentment and slipped back into slumber. And none of his companions awakened him for a turn at watch, for the Warrow had tramped more than thirty-five miles that day alone—a grueling journey for one so small.

  ~

  As the four took breakfast the next morning, Tuck watched with tears in his eyes as the Sun rose through the dawn. And again he marveled at how bright was the day and how dark had been the night, so different from the foul Shadowlight of Winternight. Sun, Moon, stars, sky: what wonders to behold: And Tuck was not the only one entranced by the sight of the Sun, for Galen, Gildor, and Brega stood as if spellbound and watched the golden orb rise over the rim of Mithgar to shine down upon the Land.

  ~

  South they strode, down the wending valley of the Quadrill, the land about them richly filled with the subtle shades of winter—drab to any but those who had just come from the long ’Darkdays of Shadowlight.

  Tuck’s eyes swept out across this wondrous ’scape: Up the slopes to the west reared the Grimwall Mountains, marching out of the north and onward to the south, their mighty peaks capped in snow. Beyond the valley slopes to the east, and hence unseen by the four, a rolling upland wold fell toward the distant Rothro River and beyond to the Argon. At their backs, to the north, loomed the now-distant vile Black Wall of the Dimmendark. And as they rounded a bend, ahead far to the south Tuck saw . . .

  “Hola: Lord Gildor, to the fore,” said the Warrow. “What is that: I cannot make it out.”

  “Hai!” answered the Lian warrior. “Here in the day of Adon’s Sun, once again Elven eyes prove to see farther than those of all other Folk. It is the margin of Darda Galion, Tuck, the Land of the Silverlarks. Your Waerling eyes look upon the beginnings of the great forest of Eld Trees—the Realm you call the Larkenwald.”

  Larkenwald, thought Tuck, his mind envisioning the maps of the War-council. Larkenwald: an Elven Land running from the Grimwall on the west to the Argon River in the east, and from the wold to the north to the Great Escarpment along the south where began the Land of Valon. Larkenwald, also called Darda Galion: a land of trees, a land of rivers—the Rothro, the Quadrill, the Cellener, and the Nith, and all of their tributaries, their sparkling waters to course through the forest to flow at last into the broad rush of the mighty Argon.

  ~

  South they tramped toward the distant forest, and as they went Tuck heard the sound of running water, and he looked to see dark, gurging pools in the ice of the Quadrill where the grip of the cold had been broken and water tumbled past. And, unbidden, the Warrow’s thoughts slipped back to the night at Ford Spindle when a Kingsherald’s mount had crashed through ice upon a stream such as this, and the horse, the Man, and Tarpy had drowned.

  Wrenching his mind from this dark path, Tuck studied the Eld Trees as the four comrades neared the forest: mighty were these great-girthed sylvan giants, soaring into the sky, their leaves a dusky green, for Elven Folk lived among the mammoth boles and so the trees gathered the twilight.

  “Lor,” breathed Tuck. “The trees . . . how tall are they?”

  Gildor smiled. “It is said that if their heights could be stepped out, one-hundred-fifty Lian strides it would take for each; yet I know of one old fellow deep in the woods at least two-hundred paces tall.”

  Tuck looked at the Elf’s st
ride—a yard or so when stepping out a measure—and the Warrow gasped.

  “Ah, Wee One, but these are not as great as the ones in Adonar, whence these trees came as seedlings long ago, borne hence by my ancestors, and planted in this land of many rivers.”

  A forest from Adonar: Borne here as seedlings: Yet now they are giants: Tuck’s mind boggled at the scale of the work undertaken by the Elves to plant an entire forest of Eld Trees here in the Middle Plane: the span of time needed was staggering.

  At last they came among the massive trunks towering upward, the dusky leaves interlaced overhead, the land below fallen into a soft twilight though the Sun stood on high.

  “Kest!” barked a voice, the speaker hidden.

  “Stop,” said Gildor, and the comrades halted. “Vio Gildor: (I am Goldbranch!)” called the Lian.

  Tuck gasped, for of a sudden they were surrounded by a company of grey-clad Elven warriors seeming to take shape from the very twilight shadows of the Eldwood itself. Some bore bows, others gleaming swords, but striding to the fore came a Lian bearing a black spear.

  “Tuon,” said Gildor, recognizing the flaxen-haired spear wielder.

  Tuon smiled at Gildor, yet he did not ground the butt of his spear to the earth; instead he held the ebon weapon at guard, his wary gaze scanning Lord Gildor’s companions, his eyes showing surprise as he looked upon the Waerling. “Ah, Tuon,” said Gildor, raising his voice so that all could hear, “set aside Black Galgor, for these are trusted companions.”

  Tuon’s grip shifted upon the weapon and the black spear swung aside. “These are chary times, Alor Gildor, for the Enemy in Gron reaches forth with his mailed fist to grasp the Land. Yet though I would not gainsay thy words, still I would know thy comrades’ names.”

  “Nay, Tuon,” answered Gildor, “though I intend no slight, I will hold fast their names, for such are the deeds of these warriors that Coron Eiron should be the first to hear their names and listen to the tale of their valor. Yet this I will tell: Drimm, Waerling, Man, Lian: these past days we four have strode through the halls of Drimmen-deeve: We have pierced its lightless maze from the Dusk-Door to the Dawn-Gate: Hai: We are the Walkers of the Deeves!”

  Cries of amazement rose up from the Elves of Tuon’s company, and eyes flew wide in wonderment; the Elf Captain stepped back a pace, startled, and his mouth groped for words, yet Gildor held up a hand. “Nay, Tuon, it is to the Coron I would first speak my words, for the marvel of our news must be borne to Eiron’s ears before all. Yet if you must name these three, call them Axe-thrower, Bane-wielder, and Shatter-sword.” Gildor gestured in turn to Brega, Tuck, and Galen. “And you may name me Torch-flinger.

  “But other news—dire news—I bear, and you of the March-ward need know it first: A mighty Horde of Spaunen now camp in Black Drimmen-deeve—ten-thousand or more Rûpt, I deem. Yet I do not think they will strike south for many days or weeks to come, for their ranks are presently in disarray, and the Black Wall as yet stands still and moves no closer to Darda Galion. Yet you must be ever vigilant, for the Spaunen writhe in Drimmen-deeve like maggots in a carcass.” Gildor fell silent, and a murmur of consternation swept through the Elven ranks.

  “Ai, Alor Gildor, that is news of dire import!” cried Tuon. “That a mighty swarm of Spaunen teems in the Quadran means we must stand on high alert along the margins of the Eld Trees, for Drimmen-deeve lies at our very doorstep. Even so, should the Rûpt march, many Lian will be needed to hurl them back; yet most are in the north as you will learn from Coron Eiron. He himself is but recently returned from Riamon, and you are fortunate to find him here.” Tuon then gazed upon the comrades, and questions battered at his lips, yet he did not speak them, but instead inclined his head toward Gildor, accepting the Elf Lord’s will to tell the Deevewalker tale first to Eiron, Coron of all the Lian in Mithgar. Yet Tuon was canny, and this he said: “Though you tell of the Horde, Alor, you say nought of the Horror, and I deem your silence speaks loudly to those who can hear its voice. Yet we will abide by your wishes and probe not for names and deeds; forsooth, your story must be mighty if you have strode through the Black Deeves.

  “But come, we will share a meal. And there are horses to bear you to a cache of boats along the Quadrill, where the ice reaches not and the river flows free, though it sits low along the banks, for the cold locks much of the water to the north.” With soundless hand signals, Tuon gestured to the Lian of the March-ward troop; and as the Bearer of the Black Spear spun on his heel and led the comrades toward his campsite, the remainder of his company faded noiselessly into the lofty silence of the Eld-Tree forest.

  ~

  Once more Gildor and Galen rode horses, and Brega was mounted behind the Elf while Tuck sat after the Man. And they swiftly cantered among the mighty Eld Trees along the south bank of the Quadrill. Before them rode Theril, Lian warrior assigned by Tuon to lead them to the boats.

  Through the soft twilight of the great trees wended their trail, the hoofbeats of the horses muffled by the moss underfoot, and what little sound they made was lost in the dimlit galleries under the dusky interlace high overhead.

  Tuck marveled at the massive trees, and he saw that Gildor had spoken truly, for the giants towered hundreds of feet into the air; and the girth of each bole was many paces around. Tuck knew, too, that the wood of the Eld Tree was precious—prized above all others—for none of these giants had ever been felled by any of the Free Folk, though some had been hacked down in malice by Rûpt; and Elves still spoke bitterly of the Felling of the Nine; but the Elven vengeance had been swift and utterly without mercy, and chilling examples were made of the axe wielders, and their remains were displayed to Spaunen in their mountain haunts in Mithgar; and never again was an Eld Tree hewn in Darda Galion. Yet at times a harvest of sorts was made in the forest, for occasionally lightning or a great wind sweeping o’er the wide plains of Valon would cause branches to fall; and these would be collected by the Lian storm-gleaners and the wood cherished, each branch studied long ere the carver’s tools would touch the grain. And gentle Elven hands made treasures dear of this precious wood.

  And through this soaring timber cantered three swift horses, two bearing double following a third. Several hours they rode thus, coming at last to the curve of a high bank along the Quadrill where the long moss hung down to the water. Here Theril reined to a halt and dismounted, as did the comrades. And eve was falling upon the twilight Land.

  “Here you will make camp, Alor Gildor,” said Theril, “and on the morrow ride a boat down the Quadrill to where it is joined by the River Cellener. Just past, upon the south bank, you will find another March-ward camp, where there will be horses to bear you to Wood’s-heart, to Coron Eiron.”

  “Boat?” grunted Brega. “I see none. Must we weave one from moss?”

  “Hai, Axe-thrower!” laughed Theril. “Weave one: Nay: Yet from the moss you will draw one forth!” And the Lian guide leapt down the bank of the Quadrill and drew aside the dangling bry, and lo: concealed under a broad stone overhang a dozen Elven boats rode silently at tether, each slender craft nearly six paces in length with tapered bow and stern; and spruce ribs curved from wale to wale giving each craft a rounded bottom.

  Brega’s laugh barked above the sound of the river, and he looked upon the boats with appreciation, for Brega was a rarity among the Dwarven Folk: he could both swim and ply small wherries such as these, even though these shells were paddled, not rowed.

  On the other hand, Tuck, although he swam well, knew little or nothing of boats, and he looked askance at the round-bottomed craft and wondered why they did not just roll over and sink.

  ~

  After camp was made, and a meal taken, once more Theril mounted his steed and caught up the reins of the other two horses. “Alor, I go now to rejoin the March-ward. Is there word you would have me bear?”

  Gildor looked to the others, and Galen spoke: “Just this, Theril: The Lady Rael of Arden said that aid unbidden would come along the way of our destiny. Tel
l Tuon and your comrades that Rael’s words were indeed true: first we came upon the Axe-thrower, and then upon your company. Say, too, that the High King ever will have an open hand to the March-ward of the Larkenwald.”

  Galen fell silent and Theril looked keenly at the Man. “You must be close, indeed, to the High King to know his mind that well, Shatter-sword. There is a tale here that I am eager to hear. Yet I will bear your message to my company, and should any of us ever meet the High King face to face, we will say this: ‘I have met with Shatter-sword, a Man of noble bearing, and though at the time I knew not his name, rank, or deeds, I am proud to have helped him and his comrades: Axe-thrower, Bane-wielder, Torch-flinger.’”

  Theril saluted each in turn and, crying, Hai!, wheeled his horse and thundered off into the twilit forest, the other two mounts in tow. And Tuck called after the fleeing steeds, “Fare you well, Lian Theril, and all your comrades, too!”

  ~

  The next morning found the four in Elven boat upon the swift-flowing Quadrill. Brega knelt in the stern, his powerful shoulders driving a hand-held paddle while Gildor in the bow stroked, too. Tuck sat on a mid-thwart aft of the Elf with Galen behind the Warrow. Galen also plied an oar, and only Tuck was without one; yet, the Warrow knew that for him to try to row merely would hinder the others. And so he sat and watched the mossy banks swiftly pass by in the twilight woods, and he marveled at the difference between the soft shadows of this dimlit land and the harsh blackness of the Dimmendark.

  All day they travelled thus, occasionally shooting through rapids where the water foamed white and tumbled loudly among rocks, and here Brega, Galen, and Gildor would stroke swift and strong while Tuck held on tightly. At other times the water flowed placidly between low, ferny banks, or high stone walls, and the hush of the soaring Eldwood stole over Tuck and he nodded in doze and lost track of the hours in the timeless twilight.

  Easterly they travelled throughout the day, stopping but a time or two, and, as evening fell once more, they came to the inflow of the Cellener. And just past the mouth of this river they espied the light of a March-ward campfire set back in the woods on the south bank of the Quadrill.