The foul Rukh that grudgingly brought her food and drink, and tended her fire, was no source of information either, for he had no tongue and did not speak except to snarl at her. And when he came to do his chores, he was ever leering and prowling about, and his eyes followed her every movement. And whenever his small figure scuttled in through the door, Laurelin was repelled by the loathsome creature and took pains to ignore him.
Even so, the Princess did learn something of the course of the War from the Evil One, himself.
~
Not forty-eight hours following Vanidor’s death, Modru’s enraged shrieks echoed throughout the tower, and slapping footfalls of fleeing lackeys could be heard scrambling along the hallway past Laurelin’s room. And the small filthy Rukh that served the Princess came scuttling in through the door, slamming it shut behind.
Hissing a tongueless snarl at Laurelin, the Rukh pressed his ear to the portal and listened intently. Modru’s shrill cries of wrath rang in the corridor; yet abruptly, the Evil One’s stridor fell silent.
Now the Rukh listened even more intently to the ominous hush beyond the heavy panel, but he could hear nought.
Suddenly the door burst open, sending the mute asprawl, and Modru stalked into the chamber, his eyes glaring in rage through his hideous iron mask.
To the Princess he strode, and she stood defiant before him, and the mute Rukh fled the room, limping and gibbering in fear.
“They will pay! They will pay!” Modru’s scream lashed out at her. Then his voice fell to the hiss of a poison-laden viper: “I will find them out—these four—when I am Master of all Mithgar, and they will suffer endless days at my hands; and I will make them eternally regret that they strode through the Dubh caverns. They will forever rue the day that they slew my Negus of Terror.”
Laurelin knew not of what event Modru spoke, nor what were the Dubh caverns, nor who or what a Negus of Terror was; but it was plain that four unknown heroes had thwarted some vile plan of Modru Evil One. And the Princess smiled in triumph at him.
And the Evil One snarled and loomed above her and raised a black-gauntleted fist to strike, yet Laurelin did not flinch nor cower before him. And just as it seemed his clench would crash down upon her, Modru hissed unto himself, “Unblemished,” and spun in rage upon his heel and strode from the room, his black cloak billowing behind.
~
In the long ’Darkdays that followed, Modru came often to gloat—his viperous mouthings, his sibilant whisperings, filling the room with malignancy as he boasted of his victories in Pellar and Hoven, in Aven, and especially in the Realm of Riamon where Laurelin’s father, King Dorn, ruled: “Your dotard of a sire falls back before my power in the Rimmen Mountains. Dael soon will be mine. I think I shall make of it a great bonfire, and I will let King Shallowpate Dorn witness the burning . . . from a seat in the midst of the pyre!”
Though Laurelin knew he told her these things to break her spirit, still she listened carefully, for amid his sibilant, puff-adder hissings was news of the War: news of the Dubh—the Dwarves—trapped in Mineholt North, “. . . where they think to defy me! Sstha! The foul-beards will be groveling at my feet ere long, begging for mercy, but I will chain them to their forges where they will eat and sleep and toil, and their hammers and anvils and sweat will serve Gron ever after”; news of the Baeron—the woodsmen of the Great Greenhall—fighting in the fastness of the Grimwall Mountains above Delon, struggling to close the secret Rukken doors upon the mountain slopes, “. . . drooling imbeciles who will forever regret that they strove against me when they are in fetters, I think I shall have them carve new doors and new chambers in the flanks of the Grimwall, for I hear that they walk tall beneath the open skies and through the forests, and so stooping grinding labor in the dark labyrinths under the mountains seems a most . . . fitting task.”; and news of the Dolh—the Elves—with their bright swords and swift steeds, “. . . stinking lordlings—sssth—who shall not escape my wrath, for even Adonar will not be a haven when I am victorious. And I will drag them kicking and screaming back into Mithgar, and I will sit and watch while they hew down to lie in rot each and every one of those obscene trees of theirs. And then I shall bring the Dolh north and see if they can dig through the muck and find the bottom of the Gwasp.”
Hissing and gurgling, Modru’s vile gloating seemed endless. Yet it was not among his boastings that Laurelin gleaned tidings that kept alive the spark of hope within her heart: it was instead in his moments of rage as some fortune went ’gainst him that the Princess found faint glimmers of promise:
~
Two ’Darkdays after he had last burst into her chamber prison—raving that his Negus of Terror had been slain—again Modru’s wrath rang throughout the tower, this ’Day twice. And when next he came with his sibilant whisperings, Laurelin found among his mutterings and threats indications that the four heroes had somehow escaped his grasp. Modru also hissed a vile pledge to torture and starve the “runtish scum” that had twice ambushed his Reavers.
Inwardly the Princess smiled, for here were two more things that buoyed her spirit. Yet whether the four heroes were in any way associated with the “scum” and the ambushing of Modru’s Reavers, she could not say.
~
Four ’Darkdays later, Laurelin found out who the “runtish scum” were, for Modru came to gloat and hiss, saying that the Horde that had destroyed Challerain Keep was “even now marching through the ring of thorns and into the Land of the Runts.”
And Laurelin’s heart wrenched, and in her mind rose the faces of Tuck and Danner and Patrel, and her soul cried out to these gentle Folk of the Boskydells.
And when Modru left the chamber, Laurelin sat by the fire and wept.
~
It was in this time that Laurelin began to think upon escape, and she carefully examined her plight:
There were but two possible ways to leave the chamber: There was the door, but it opened out into a hallway heavily trafficked by the Spawn; and further, the door was kept shut by a great brass bolt on the outside. And there was a single narrow window overlooking a courtyard, but the window was barred, and was some twenty-five feet above the rough cobbles.
Neither way seemed to hold much promise of her escaping. And too, if she could get out, what then? How to avoid the teeming Yrm to slip across the courtyard? How to get beyond the walls and drawbridge? How to cross the Wastes of Gron? Horses? Nay, for the Spaunen rode Hèlsteeds. And although she had ridden one of these vile beasts to the Iron Tower, it had been led by a Ghol, and Laurelin was not certain that a Hèlsteed would permit a human to guide it. And what about food? And clothing, too, must be considered, for the garments provided by the mute Rukh were not suitable for travel o’er the Wastes in the bitter Winternight cold.
Laurelin did not know the resolutions to these considerations or the others that came to her mind; yet, in spite of her broken arm, she began working to loosen a bar from the sill of the window, chipping with a fireplace tool at the mortar, praying that the heavy drapes would muffle the sound of her work . . . praying, too, that neither Modru nor the Rukh would come upon her unawares. And grain by grain, chip by chip, the mortar slowly, infinitesimally, began to yield.
~
Five more ’Darkdays passed, and Laurelin continued to chip at the mortar in which the bar was embedded, stopping whenever she heard the door-bolt thunk! back as the Rukh or Modru came. And they would find her prodding the fire with the iron.
Such was the case when Modru came to gloat on the fifth ’Day, and she stirred the blaze and then set the iron aside as Modru’s hissings began. And among his reptilian mouthings, Laurelin gleaned that a battle between the Vanadurin and the Hyrania had begun.
~
The next ’Darkday, Laurelin managed to free the lower end of the bar, and she started chipping away at the upper end. And while she worked, she began to think upon how to twist or braid a rope out of cloth so that she could lower herself to the courtyard below.
Again Modru
came, and boasted. And Laurelin came to know that the fighting still raged between the Vanadurin and the Hyrania, and that it was at Gûnarring Gap. And the Evil One crowed at how clever he had been to seize the Gap at the War’s outset.
Still his malignant hissings went on, and he spoke of many things, and Laurelin was repelled to hear of the future he planned for Mithgar; but she gave no outward sign of her revulsion.
And as Modru prepared to leave her chamber—his malevolent gloating done—the Princess spoke to him for only the second time since arriving at the Iron Tower:
“Vile One, Yrm may thrive on fire-smoke and confinement, yet I would walk in the fresh air.” Laurelin stood and spoke with the air of command of a royal Princess, yet inside she was wound tense as a spring, for she needed Modru to grant this request: her only knowledge of the fortress was made up of chaotic memories from that time twenty-one ’Darkdays past when she had been led captive into the hold. Yet if she were ever to escape, she would need to know more of the arrangement of the strongholt ere attempting flight.
Modru’s maleficent eyes glared at her through his iron-beaked mask. “Ssstha! Perhaps instead I will fling you back into my dungeons.” And as Laurelin’s heart plummeted to hear those words . . . “But then, sss, your health is a consideration.” Modru spun on his heel and left.
~
An hour or so later, the bolt slid back and the filthy Rukh hobbled in bearing quilted Rukken garments, and boots, and a cloak; and he flung them all in a pile in the center of the room and limped out.
The garb was crawling with vermin, yet Laurelin clasped it to her breast, and her heart pounded with glad excitement, for here was the clothing necessary for her survival in the Winternight cold while she crossed the Wastes of Gron.
And she washed the garments with the strong soap provided for her bath and hung them before the fire to dry.
~
The next ’Darkday, two iron-helmed Lôkha came and snarled at her to get dressed for her stroll in the air. And as they walked, the Lôkha spoke in a debased form of the Common Tongue, but their talk was of a revenge they planned upon one of their own kind and so Laurelin paid them little heed; instead, her eyes sought ways she might escape.
The escort took the Princess across the rough cobbles toward the soaring battlements, and everywhere she looked was filth; and yammering Yrm snarled at one another and quarreled. Dark squatty Rukha, swart Lôkha, and dead-white Ghola swarmed within the walls; and a great, iron portcullis barred the way to the drawbridge, and it was Troll guarded.
And as she mounted up the ramps to the bastion walls, the Princess saw the stables where the Hèlsteeds were kept, just inside the gate, and there, too, stood a Troll guard—a leering Ogru dressed in nought but black leather breeks in spite of the cold—and Laurelin’s heart leapt with shock upon seeing the foul, hulking creature, for it was the same Troll that had slain Vanidor on the rack. And her heart pounded with rage and loathing as the Lôkha led her up to the ramparts.
And they walked along the battlements, and Laurelin deliberately shoved the vile image of the Elf-slaying Ogru from her mind and looked down through the Shadowlight at the great fissure that split the stone to encirle the fortress with a deep chasm.
And she thought upon all that she had seen, and her heart plummeted, for she knew that she could not get out unless she could somehow pass undetected across teeming courtyards to take a Troll-guarded Hèlsteed and ride through a barred portcullis past its hulking warder and across an iron drawbridge above a black chasm.
And when she returned to her chamber, the Princess took up the fire-iron and chipped at the mortar holding the upper end of the bar, and tears ran down her face as she toiled in what she now believed to be a hopeless cause.
~
Again Modru’s enraged screams resounded throughout the tower, and once more the bolt shot back and the small filthy form of the mute Rukh scuttled through the door, slamming it behind.
But this time, the Evil One did not come, and after a long while, the Rukh hobbled out.
~
The next ’Darkday, Modru ranted, now promising to lay waste to the Land of Valon: “No horse, no rider, no filth of a Harlingar, nothing—not even the smallest blade of grass—shall escape my wrath!” And Laurelin then knew that at the Gûnarring Gap the Hyrania had suffered defeat at the hands of the Riders of Valon, and her heart sang.
~
Six more ’Darkdays passed, and Modru’s maleficent boastings hissed unremittingly, and there was nought to buoy Laurelin’s spirit. But on the seventh ’Day:
“Fools! They enter my darkness now,” spat the Evil One. “And though my minions in the Dubh caverns are not yet able to come at them, I have broken off my attack against the Weiunwood and sent my Horde marching east along the Crossland Road to intercept this paltry Legion. These riders will rue the ’Day that they set forth to come against me.”
Laurelin knew not where this Legion was from nor where it was headed, yet she hoped with all her being that Modru’s plans would be foiled.
~
On the next ’Darkday, the window bar came loose. Laurelin took it from the casement and saw with relief that she could now squeeze her slight form through the resulting gap. Using candle wax, carefully she set the bar back into the sill so that all would appear normal to the casual eye.
Now she turned her mind and hands to the manufacture of a cloth-strip rope, and she set about acquiring more food for her journey across Gron: “Yrm, your evil lord wants me in perfect health,” she couched her voice in hauteur and imperiously demanded of the mute Rukh, “yet how can I become hale when you bring me not enough provender to feed a sparrow? Shall I speak to your master of your neglect?”
The foul Rukh snarled at her, but each meal he brought thereafter held extra bread and more vegetables: turnips, potatoes, and the like.
And Laurelin began concealing food in a pillowcase she planned to use as a rucksack.
~
Each ’Darkday she plaited more of her escape rope, carefully tearing strips of her bedding sheets, and twisting and tying and braiding the cloth, praying that it would hold her weight.
And each ’Darkday, her Lôkken escort would take her to the battlements for her “fresh air.” And still her eyes did not see and her mind could not imagine how she might escape.
~
But still she toiled onward.
~
And a week of ’Darkdays passed.
~
And on the seventh ’Darkday, they came to remove the wrap from Laurelin’s arm. It had been eight weeks and three ’Days since the time of her capture when her arm had been broken, and a month since it had been lapped in the stiff binding. And while the nervous Rukha worked, peeling away the layers of plastered cloth, Modru looked on and seethed in rage at events miles from the Tower:
“Tsssth! I would set a blizzard down upon this rag-tag Legion that has come through Grûwen Pass and into Gron,” sissed the Evil One, “a blizzard they would not survive. But I am forced to conserve my energies for the coming Darkest Day. . . . Careful, fools! I would not have her arm broken again!”
A Legion in Gron? Laurelin’s heart leapt with hope, but she gave no outward sign, and instead watched the plastered cloth come loose. Laurelin was as anxious to see her arm as Modru seemed, for she knew she would need it to be strong and healthy for her climb down the rope when the time of her escape came.
At last the wrapping was off. Her right arm was thin, and the skin was scaly and sloughed off in large flakes. And she could not straighten her elbow. And her muscles felt . . . stiff . . . fibrous.
“Sssath!” spat Modru, his vile eyes glaring malignantly through the hideous iron mask. “One week till the Sun Death. That’s all the time you have. You will carry a weight to straighten the limb. And you will flex the arm to strengthen it. And you will clean the skin, and treat it with oils. You will do this for hours each ’Day. And if you lag in your progress, ssss, I will have it done for you. For in
one week will come that Darkest Day I have waited four-thousand years to see. And you, my Princess, at that time must be . . . presentable.”
~
Long grueling ’Days of pain and effort followed as Laurelin stressed and flexed and worked her arm, striving to straighten her elbow and bend it full, and to stretch the muscles and strengthen them. And slowly the arm began to respond as the tissues lost their fibrous feel and started to take on the tone and flexure of healthy sinews. She worked hard at restoring her arm not because Modru had so bade her; instead she did this so as to be able to climb down a rope and escape.
She did not know what Modru’s long-awaited Darkest Day would bring, nor her role in it, yet she feared it, for she knew that it had something to do with Gyphon’s return, and she planned to fly ere then. But her arm was terribly weak, and whether she would be able to manage the climb in but a few more days was questionable. Yet she worked with a single-minded determination.
And Modru came each ’Darkday to check her progress, and sissed at her to work harder; yet he did not set his lackeys upon her to force her arm beyond its limits.
And each ’Darkday he hissed news of the War: “My Vulpen scouts slink upon their four legs and stay hidden in the scrub and track the rag-tag Legion as they ride across Gron. Ssss. It seems as if these fools come to assault the Iron Tower itself! And the howls of my Vulpen report that this paltry Legion is but five thousand strong—Fa! Five-thousand where fifty thousand would fail! Imbeciles! Little do they know that my Horde marches upon their trail.”
~
“Fools!” spat Modru the following ’Darkday. “Do they hope to stop me? Ten-thousand of my minions against but two-thousand or so of them? I shall batter through Grûwen Pass in less than a ’Day! Then once again will my Horde come after the rag-tags.”
~
The next ’Darkday, Modru did not come, and so the Princess learned nought of the conduct of the War, but the following ’Day she listened to the guttural slobberings of her Lôkken escort as she walked upon the battlements, for they spoke first of Modru, then of fighting in the south:
The Iron Tower Omnibus Page 56
