“He’s in a foul mood, they say,” said one guard.
“Har! When ain’t he?” barked the other.
“Ar, you stupid gob,” snarled the first, “I mean worse than a foul mood. I won’t cross his path if I see him comin’.”
“They say somethin’s wrong at Grûwen. The Horde’s been stopped by Men . . . and, sss, Elves,” said the second Lokh. “And more Men camp on Claw Moor . . . a Legion, they say . . . comin’ here!”
On Claw Moor! Laurelin’s spirit leapt with hope, yet plummeted again when she thought of the impossibility of throwing down this mighty fortress.
The Lôkha said little else of interest as they led her back to her chamber, but Modru was there to inspect her arm, and what he said caused her heart to cry out to the Men coming toward the Iron Tower:
“Ssss, I will show these fools who come to my dark citadel: from Aven and from your Riamon, through the Jallor Pass to Jord and thence by secret ways through the Gronfangs, my Reavers come. And this puling, rag-tag Legion that now camps upon the moor . . . tssah! my Hèlsteed cavalry will soon slam the Gap shut behind them and fall upon them from the rear.”
~
That ’Night, Laurelin sat in deep thought. Through all of Modru’s hissings and rantings, she had striven to strengthen her arm. And slowly it had improved. Soon, she felt, she could attempt her escape. But still she did not see how to accomplish it. And her daily walks out to the walls and around the battlements and then back to her chamber did nought to shed light on how she should set about fleeing.
And though she did not know who made up this “rag-tag” Legion, her heart leapt with hope to hear that they came toward the Iron Tower, and plunged in despair to hear that a great force of Ghola was now gathering to fall upon them from behind.
Yet she thought that if the Legion did come, then perhaps they would provide the diversion needed for her own escape. And it seemed as if indeed they were coming to the Iron Tower, and soon, for now they camped upon Claw Moor itself, and the moor led to the very gates of Modru’s fortress.
~
The next ’Darkday, the Princess was taken for her walk, and great turmoil filled the courtyards as Rukken horns blatted and Yrm rushed thither and yon, bearing weapons up to the battlements.
And when Laurelin strode up the ramparts and looked out through the crennelations, out through the Shadowlight, out upon the moor, there before her she saw arrayed a great force of horsemen, a forest of spears stirring to and fro.
And she gasped, and her heart hammered wildly, and her spirit soared up to the sky, and joy flooded her being.
For there flew the white and green of Valon . . .
And the scarlet and gold of Pellar . . .
And in the fore stood proudly the grey steed Wildwind, yet upon his back sat not High King Aurion, but instead a Man clad in scarlet armor—the scarlet armor of . . . Lord Galen!
Her beloved had come at last!
~
Laurelin caught her breath and tears filled her eyes, and she would have called out, but the Princess knew that the Legion was too far away to understand her words. Yet her heart cried out for her somehow to warn her Lord Galen that Ghola in force were even now riding from Jord into Gron to come to the Tower and fall upon the Legion from the rear. But she must not let the Lôkken escort know what she would shout, else when the warriors did come nigh enough to hear, she would not be permitted upon the walls.
Since she saw no way to give the warning, she held her tongue and brushed aside her tears as the Lôkha marched her along the ramparts. And all about her, Yrm rushed to their stations and made ready their weapons: cauldrons of hot oil; sinuous bows and black-shafted arrows; scimitars, tulwars, dirks; hammers, cudgels, bludgeons, iron bars. And above the gate, with a harsh clatter of gears, Lôkha wound taut a great crank-bow, and they laid a spear-length iron-pointed shaft in the launch groove and pivoted the weapon upon its pedestal and aimed it at the Legion.
But Laurelin did not see this writhing turmoil atop the ramparts; her eyes were locked upon the figure of her beloved. And she could not seem to see enough of him, and her gaze drank in his distant form, and her heart sang, for he had come at last. And as she was marched along the walls, she looked long at him. But at last she tore her eyes from the scarlet-clad figure upon the grey horse, and turned her gaze to scan among the warriors of the Legion, searching for others she knew. And with a rush, her heart leapt to her throat, for there was a horse she knew could be nought but Rust, and upon his back sat . . . Prince Igon! Yet, how could this be? With her very own eyes she had seen him slain at the waggon train! And she herself had given the command for Rust to flee. Yet here they were—and Igon was Alive!—and they stood before the gates of the Iron Tower.
She shook her head as if to clear it of phantoms, yet the Prince remained solid and real. And then she knew that, somehow, Igon had survived the cut of the Ghol tulwar that had clove through the youth’s steel helm and smashed him down.
Again her eyes scanned the fore of the Legion, and there was one she took to be Lord Gildor, yet she was not certain, for the Elf was not astride Fleetfoot.
There, too, were the small forms of Waerlinga! But whether Sir Tuck, or Sir Danner, or Captain Patrel was among them, she did not see, for at that moment she was marched down from the walls and back to her chamber.
And when the door was slammed shut and bolted, the Princess sat and tried to assemble her chaotic thoughts. At last much of Modru’s disjoint hissings became clear in her mind: This was the Legion that had ridden north through the Dimmendark—a Legion from Valon, a Legion led by her beloved Lord Galen. Perhaps this was the same Legion that had defeated the Hyrania at the Gûnarring Gap. If so, then they had come north through Grûwen Pass and had left a rearguard behind to stave off a pursuing Horde. Yet, how came Lord Galen to be at the head of this force? And upon Wildwind? Where was Aurion King?
Fa! The answers to none of these questions mattered now. Instead, all that mattered was that she must warn Galen of the force of Ghola gathering to attack him.
And she had to warn Galen that Modru planned some great vileness in but two days, for that was when the Evil One’s Darkest Day would arrive.
Laurelin began to pace the floor in agitation, for now more than ever she knew that she had to escape . . . yet how? Although she could climb through the window and down, and perhaps win her way across the courtyard, still, how could she pass the walls? And how could she cross the ravine? Until she had an answer, did she dare attempt ought? For if she were caught in an unsuccessful try, Modru would lock her in other quarters—quarters with no windows, no bars, no hope of escape.
~
Moaning in distress, Laurelin jerked bolt upright in her bed, her eyes flying wide as she shocked awake from a hideous dream of terror and bondage. Her heart pounded frantically and her entangled bedding was knotted and twisted about her and was wet with perspiration; and fragments of her nightmare clung to her mind like wisps of chill mist. Yet all she could remember of the dream was a great sucking maw of blackness coming to swallow her whole, and she could not flee, and behind her Spaunen had jeered and thrummed some monstrous instrument of torture.
As the Princess struggled free of the bedclothes, Thuunn! she heard the deep twanging sound of her nightmare, and it was followed by the raucous japing of Spawn.
For a moment, Laurelin’s dream terror struck at her heart; but she knew that what she heard now was real and not some phantom of sleep, and she padded from her bed to the window, stepping behind the heavy drapes and peering out through the Shadowlight.
Thruum! There it was again! And amid the howling jeers of the Spaunen, the Princess could hear a harsh clatter of gears; and although she could not see it from her window, Laurelin knew that the great crank-bow on the battlements above the gate was being wound taut by Lôkha, soon to hurl another iron-pointed spear at the Legion.
Laurelin’s eyes drifted to the courtyard below, and she gasped in dismay, for there, directly under
her window, a pair of Lôkha stood watching as Rukken lackeys parceled out gobbets of stringy meat and bowls of cold gruel to squads of Yrm coming from the walls. And to one side stood one of the corpse-foe—a Ghol watching o’er all. And even as she looked, he turned his dead black soulless eyes to her window, and his red gash of a mouth split in an evil grin, his rows of pointed teeth gleaming yellow in the Shadowlight.
Thuunn!
Tears welled in Laurelin’s eyes, and she turned from the window and made her way back to the bed. And her heart despaired, for even though she did not know how she could have gotten past the ramparts and beyond the ravine, still she had thought that escape somehow might have been possible. Yet now she could not even climb down from her window, for that way led directly into the clutch of the Spaunen below.
~
That ’Darkday, no Lôkken escort came to march her around the walls. Neither did Modru come. And the Princess knew that they prepared for War.
And all ’Day long, Laurelin frequently checked the window, but the Yrm feeding station remained below. Her mind raced, yet no plan came to light as to how she could even escape her room, much less reach the ranks of the Legion.
And throughout the ’Day, the deep-pitched Thuunn! of the spear-hurling crank-bow thrummed upon the wall.
~
The next ’Darkday, Laurelin paced her chamber as would a caged animal. Her mind screamed at her to do something! Yet just as loudly her thoughts cried, What? What can I do? She was dressed in her quilted Rukken garb, and she was ready to fly . . . but Yrm stood below her window, and the door to her chamber was bolted.
And this was the ’Day Modru had raved about: this was the Darkest Day.
And time lagged by as moments turned into long spans of minutes, and the minutes dragged into hours, and the ’Day slowly seeped toward the time of the Sun Death.
Laurelin frequently trod to her window, and yet nothing changed; and her heart despaired, and she felt as if something foul—something evil—was drawing nigh. But what it was, she did not know.
Now it was nearly mid of ’Darkday, and once more she strode to the window. And as she stood looking, a great hubbub broke out atop the walls. And she could hear the harsh blats of Rukken horns. And there came the clash and clangor of weapons, and hoarse snarls and shouts, and she could see Yrm running upon the ramparts in the direction of the unseen gate.
And in the courtyard below, with harsh cries the Spawn beneath her window snatched up their weapons and rushed toward the uproar.
Now was her chance!
Quickly Laurelin donned her cloak and removed the window bar, setting the thick iron rod aside. And she tied the cloth rope to a remaining bar and cast the braided line out the window, her rucksack tied to the distant end of the braid, where it dropped to within a few feet of the stone cobbles below.
As she tugged on the rope, testing the strength of her knot, she heard the enraged screams of Modru ringing throughout the tower, and there sounded the slap of feet running past her door.
There was a moment of silence, and then, Thunk! the bolt on her door shot back, and although she could not see it, she heard scrabbling footsteps hobble in and the door slam shut behind. And there were the harsh gasps of labored breathing, and then the limping steps and blowing breath came straight toward the window!
Behind the heavy drapes, her heart hammering, Laurelin silently took up the loose iron bar and raised it on high, girding herself to bring it crashing down upon the intruder’s head in a killing blow, and then make good her escape.
5
The Darkest Day
Astride Wildwind, King Galen turned his steel-grey eyes from the faint disk standing at its zenith in the southerly sky and looked eastward toward the Iron Tower. The dark battlements rose upward in the Shadowlight, the black fortress looming balefully in the Dimmendark. And in the forescape and curving beyond seeing ’round the stark walls, a black chasm gaped.
To Galen’s left Brega stood upon the frozen ground, his dark gaze surveying the bastion; and the Dwarf stroked his forked beard and muttered under his breath. Upon Galen’s right Lord Gildor sat ahorse, his own sight still locked upon the pale circle wan in the darkling sky. And behind the King, drawn up in long files, sabers unsheathed and spears stirring to and fro, was mounted the High King’s Legion.
“In but two ’Days comes the Sun Death, Galen King,” said the Elf, turning his eyes away from the faint glow and to the ramparts.
Galen merely grunted, his sight searching the stone of the dark citadel, seeking a weak chink through which the Legion could strike. And somewhere in the Kinstealer’s holt, his beloved Princess Laurelin was captive—if she still lived.
And in a rank immediately behind the King, the Warrows talked among themselves:
“Hoy, Tuck,” exclaimed Danner, his voice low, “look at the central tower—the tall one.”
“I see it, Danner. I see it.” Tuck’s voice was grim, for he too saw that all about the top of the spire a dark nimbus streamed. “Lord Gildor,” called the buccan, “see you that black halo around the tallest tower?”
The Lian warrior shifted his gaze to the pinnacle. “Nay, Tuck, I do not. Your Waerling sight alone descries it.”
“Perhaps in that tower lies some hideous device of the Evil One,” speculated Patrel, his viridian eyes watching the fluxing blackness enshrouding the spire.
“Mayhap the heart of the Dimmendark lies in that pinnacle,” suggested Merrilee after a moment; and at her ominous words Tuck’s heart hammered within his breast, for with his sapphirine gaze he saw the awful darkness pulsating forth. And in that moment Tuck knew that from this tower emanated not only the Shadowlight of the Dimmendark, but all of the evil that now beset Mithgar. The buccan shuddered at this thought, but said nought as all stared at the looming fortress.
Long moments they sat upon their steeds in silence and peered at the dark citadel, and then at last King Galen spoke: “Sound the call to make camp, and summon the scouts to me. Set the wards and pass the word to be ever vigilant, for we know not what Modru plans.”
Ubrik raised his black-oxen horn to his lips and split the air with resonant calls, and the mounted ranks of the Legion broke for camp. And Galen once more donned his quilted jacket, for the High King had shown his colors and his armor to the enemy in challenge, but the foe had not deigned to answer.
~
Camp was made out upon the moor to the north and west of the drawbridge road; scouts were dispatched to encircle the dark citadel to seek ways the Legion might enter into the fortress, and to spy out the paths by which the foe might issue forth to fall upon the Host.
~
Hours passed, and one by one the riders returned with the word that the ravine ringed all, and Wrg patrols paced the far side, and atop the battlements Spawn warders jeered from afar. And the riders reported that there seemed to be no means of ingress or egress to or from the fortress other than over the drawbridge and through the gate.
Now the Warrows set forth with the scouts, for it was suggested that in the Dimmendark their jewel-hued eyes might see fine detail of the fortress that Men’s eyes saw not; and Gildor and Flandrena went also—their Elven-sight to probe the bastion. So, too, went Brega, mounted behind Flandrena upon Swiftmane, for as the Dwarf said, “Châkka eyes will gaze upon these defences as well.”
Long they searched while the weary Legion slept within a ring of warders, and the hours fell away. And these scouts, too—Men, Warrows, two Elves, and a Dwarf—came at last to King Galen to report no success in their quest.
Thus did the ’Darkday pass.
~
Thuun! Tuck was awakened by a deep thrumming sound. He sat up in his blankets and rubbed sleep from his eyes and looked up to see Merrilee standing and gazing toward the dark fortress. Tuck, too, got to his feet; he stepped to her side and put an arm about her, and she leaned her head upon his shoulder without taking her eyes from the distant battlements.
“What is it, my dammia?” asked
Tuck, peering toward the walls.
“I know not, Tuck,” she answered. “I was awakened by . . . a sound.”
Thuunn!
“There! There it is again!” exclaimed the damman. “And look!” She pointed.
Both Warrows saw a great shaft soar upward through the Shadowlight to arc down toward the Legion.
“Wha-what can hurl a spear like that?” breathed Tuck as he watched the flight of the shaft.
From behind them came the answer to Tuck’s question: “The Wrg have a great crank-bow mounted above the gate.” Marshal Ubrik stepped beside the Warrows, his eyes, too, following the flight of the spear.
The shaft lanced into the earth amid warriors scrambling to get out of the way, and the far-off gibes of Spawn jeered out from the walls and onto the moor.
Thrumm! The ballista hurled forth another spear to arc through the Shadowlight and strike among the Legion, and once more the hoots of the maggot-folk fleered from the battlements.
Feartoken, thought Tuck. This is another feartoken of the Evil One.
Yet Ubrik said, “Worry not here about this weapon, for where we now stand the shafts are easily avoided. The Spawn but use the crank-bow to harass us: it amuses them to see us jump. Only if we have to cross the drawbridge will it make a difference, and then it will fell warrior and steed alike. That is its purpose—to ward the bridge—and then it becomes a mighty weapon; then it is a most dread device.”
Thuumm!
~
All that early ’Darkday the strum of the crank-bow sounded, yet none of the warriors had yet been struck by the spears, for as Ubrik had said, here the shafts were easily avoided. Yet as the ’Day crept forward, tempers began to fray, for the enemy hurled insults as well as spears, and the Legion did not strike back.
And as the noontide came, the faint glow of the pale disk began to show dimly—a glow that would last for but a quarter hour or less as the enfeebled, darkling Sun rode past zenith in the Winternight sky.
Thumn!
Lord Gildor turned his eyes from the dimly seen disk. “Galen King, we must do something soon, for at this time on the morrow the Darkest Day will come.”
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