Galen nodded and spoke: “Lord Gildor, it is in my mind that we must strike at the right time: a time that will upset Modru’s plan. If we try too soon and fail, then our effort will have gone for nought. And if we wait too long, then no endeavor will succeed. Aye, we must strike at a time that will give us the best chance to distract the Evil One; then, whether or no we succeed or fail to overthrow the fortress, still we may cause his plan to fall into ruin.
“Yet, you are right: we must do something soon. I deem now is the time to gather the War-council together to discuss Flandrena’s plan.” Galen turned and spoke to Fieldmarshal Ubrik: “Call the Council unto me. Let us begin this War.”
~
Tuck and Merrilee came last to the War-council, joining the circle already seated, taking their places between Danner and Patrel. Tuck’s eyes swept ’round the ring—a ring of Men, Elves, Warrows, and a Dwarf: High King Galen sat before all, his visage stern. To his right was Prince Igon and then Marshal Ubrik, and four more grim warriors of Valon. To Galen’s left came two Elves, and then the four Warrows. And opposite Galen and completing the circle sat Brega, his Dwarven axe Drakkalan held across his lap in a two-handed grip.
Galen spoke: “You have all seen the quandary of Modru Kinstealer’s holt: High are the ramparts and well warded by Spaunen. These walls alone would be difficult to o’ertop even had we the siege towers to do so; yet we do not, and no forest lies nearby to yield the timber for their construction. But e’en were a woodland nigh, still we could not surmount the walls by normal dint, for a mighty chasm rings the fortress entire—a chasm that has never yet been crossed by siege engine. Over this ravine is but one road into the holt, and that way passes across a drawbridge, a span now held tight ’gainst the bulwarks.
“This, then, is our problem: How do we bring the Legion to bear upon the Yrm within? How can we cross the chasm and top the walls and throw this dark citadel down?”
Galen let his questions hang upon the still air for a moment, and then he nodded to Flandrena, and the slim Elf’s soft voice broke the silence: “Galen King, as you have said, there is no means at hand to build the mighty siege engines needed to span the gulf and top the walls; yet even if there were the means, still we have nought the time to construct them ere the Darkest Day arrives. Hence I deem we have no choice but to try this plan: While the Legion provides a diversion, a small force must go in secret to scale first the ravine and then the walls of Modru’s fortress, as Vanidor, Duorn, and Varion did. And then this squad must gain the drawbridge winch and lower the bascule while raising the portcullis. And when this is done, elements of the Legion can charge across the span and into the courtyards within and engage the Horde until the Host entire arrives.
“Aye, it is a simple plan, but it is the only one I deem can succeed in the allotted time. Yet the plan is fraught with danger, for much has changed since Vanidor, Duorn, and Varion scaled the walls: Now Rûpt patrols walk the ravine at the base of the ramparts. Now Spaunen teem upon the bulwarks. And the route taken by my brethren up the chasm side no longer can be used, for now there is a station along the lip of the ravine near the crevice they climbed—a station used by the Rûpt as a reporting place for their chasm patrols.
“Still the crevasse can be climbed; yesterdarkday, Drimm Brega and I searched for another way up that far chasm side, and his eyes found one.”
Flandrena held out his hand toward Brega, and the Dwarf stood to speak, still holding Drakkalan in a two-handed grip.
“King Galen, like all the Châkka, well do I know stone.” Brega’s rough voice held a note of pride. “And among my Folk I am accounted a good climber. Yet this I say unto you: that ravine has been worked by Grg pick to thwart easy access up the sides, for it is mattock smoothed for most of its length. The place where Vanidor and his comrades climbed was one of the few places where the rift wall can be scaled, and that is only because the cleft fissures most deeply, and for the Grg to have smoothed it would have undermined the battlements.
“Yet, given time, any section of the ravine could be scaled, using rock-nails and rings and rope. But we have not the time for a slow climb, and even if we did, the sounds of our hammers would bring the Squam running. Nay, what we must do is mount up swift and silent, and there is but one place to do so: ’round on the eastern side of the fortress, where an outjut clambers from bottom to rim.
“But the stone at that place is layered, and subject to crumbling under stress. And so the climb will be dangerous—not only because of the Grg patrols and Squam upon the battlements, but also because the stone may give way and carry the climbers to their deaths.
“This then is what I propose: I will take a small squad up that ravine side, for I have the skills to lead that climb. But those who come with me must be, first of all, good climbers and, second, light of weight, so as not to stress the stone. Lastly, they must be of a stature to pass for Ükh, Hrôk, or Khôl, for we must still climb the battlements and then march as a Grg squad along the ramparts and to the distant gate.”
Amid a murmur among the War-council, Brega sat back down cross-legged and laid Drakkalan across his lap.
“Drimm Brega,” Lord Gildor spoke up, “what weight can a warrior be and still not break the stone?”
“Elf Flandrena is slim enough, Elf Gildor,” answered Brega, “but you are taller, heavier, and I would advise King Galen to send only those of Elf Flandrena’s weight or less.”
Again a murmur ran ’round the War-council, and Ubrik protested, “But Dwarf Brega, that would rule out most if not all of the Vanadurin. Aye, it is true that we Harlingar have little or no experience climbing stone, for we ride the flat, grassy plains and come not often into the mountains. Still, your words would rule out all Men from this mission.”
“Not all Men, Marshal Ubrik.” The speaker was young Prince Igon. “I deem I fall under Flandrena’s weight. And I have scaled many a wall.”
At Igon’s words, a look of distress crossed Galen’s face, but he said nought.
“But that is only three.” The words came from one of the Vanadurin, Raiklen by name. “Who else can undertake this mission?”
Patrel stood. “We can go.”
Ubrik groaned. “King Galen, I deem we send but lads on a Man’s mission.”
Brega growled and leapt to his feet, his dark eyes blazing in ire. “I am no lad, Man Ubrik! And Flandrena holds a hundred times your years. Prince Igon is young, it is true, yet I know of his feats and I would have him with me. And as to the Waerans, I have walked through darkness with one at my side, and no finer comrade, no better warrior, could I ask for.” Brega stepped to Tuck and placed a gnarled hand on the buccan’s shoulder. “This Waeran helped slay the Ghath, the Gargon. Have you warriors in your company who can say the same?”
Tuck felt embarrassed to be the center of all attention, and he was surprised at Brega’s fervent outburst, yet at the same time a quiet pride filled his being, for Brega’s words meant much to the buccan.
Tuck stood and spoke: “I would not debate that there are better warriors in this company than I am. Yet, as I understand it, this mission calls for those who can climb and are of slight weight. Among the Warrows are some who fill this need: Danner for one, and I, for many a time we have clambered up the stone face of the High Hill near Woody Hollow. And we are skilled with bow and arrow . . . and in a pinch I have been known to use this.” Tuck flashed Bane from scabbard and held it on high, and the blade-jewel streamed blue flames down the sharp edges, shouting of the nearby fortress filled with evil Spawn from the Untargarda, from Neddra.
The Men of Valon gasped to see such a potent token of power in the hands of a Waldan, and they looked upon the Wee One with a new respect.
Tuck sheathed the blade. “There is this, too, Marshal Ubrik, said by one of your own riders upon the banks of the Argon: We are squatty, the belikes of Rutcha . . . given the slightest disguise. Only we can hope to march upon yon ramparts—with cloaks soiled, hoods up, and snarling among ourselves—and stan
d a chance of reaching the gate unchallenged. For we will have the look of a squad of Rûcks—the Warrows and Dwarf Brega—and Prince Igon and Flandrena will be our Hlôk masters.”
Tuck sat down, his words done, and none said aught for a time. Then King Galen spoke: “So be it, then. We shall try this plan. Captain Patrel, how many of the Waerlinga can ascend stone? And Marshal Ubrik, what diversion can we provide to distract the Spawn and give Brega’s climb a chance? And lastly, Warrior Brega, how long will you take, and when should we strike? Tomorrow is the Darkest Day.”
And so the planning went forth, and none but Tuck noted the quiet tears sliding down Merrilee’s face, for she knew full well she had not the skills to make the climb, just as she knew that her buccaran did: Tuck would go without her.
~
In the end, along with Brega, Flandrena, and Igon, six Warrows were selected to go: Tuck, Danner, Patrel, Rollo Breed, Harven Culp, and Dink Weller. Of all that company, Flandrena had the least experience climbing stone, though he had clambered among the crags of Arden Vale; yet his skill was deemed enough for him to join the raiders. Too, his green eyes burned with an inner flame that cried out for the revenge of his lost comrades—Vanidor, Duorn, and Varion—and none would deny him the right to go.
And when all the planning was done, King Galen gave over the Atalar blade to Patrel, the long-knife a sword in the Warrow’s hand. “Take this edge, Captain Patrel, for it cleaves Evil. This was the blade that hacked into the Krakenward to spare Lord Gildor. I deem you might need such a weapon upon those walls; it will serve you well.”
Patrel took the silvery blade from its scabbard and gazed at the golden runes. “I will bear this sword in honor, King Galen,” said the Warrow. And then he sheathed the weapon and girted it to his waist.
Ubrik barked an order in Valur to the Vanadurin in the War-council, and swiftly, long-knives were given over to all the Warrows, Ubrik’s own blade going to Danner. And though the Wee Folk knew little of sword play, they graciously accepted the gifts, for they knew well that these edges would be needed ere their dangerous emprise came to an end.
~
That ’Night, Tuck held Merrilee in his arms as she wept softly, for on the morrow he would depart with the raiders on their desperate mission to open the way. They would set out six hours ere the Sun Death—a scant six hours ere the blackest depth of the Darkest Day. And no one, perhaps not even Adon, knew their destiny.
~
The time drew nigh, and before the High King stood the nine climbers: Brega, Flandrena, Prince Igon, Tuck, Danner, Patrel, Rollo, Harven, and Dink. Grime had been smeared on the faces of the raiders, and filth splashed upon their clothes to give them a Rûckish look.
King Galen stepped to their ranks and one by one he embraced them each, saying a few words to most. But when he clasped Tuck unto him, and then Igon, Galen said nought, for he did not trust his voice. Lastly, he gruffly hugged Brega, and gripped the Dwarf’s gnarled hand, saying, “Lead them well, Warrior Brega, for on this climb depends the fate of all Mithgar.”
Tuck’s heart hammered to hear such words—the fate of all Mithgar—but Brega merely grunted and nodded.
Now Galen stepped back from the raiders and spoke to them all: “Once again the world is faced by the forces of darkness, and once again an alliance of Men, Elves, Dwarves, and Wee Folk is called upon to cast Evil down, and, yea, once again the fortune of the world pivots on the valor of but a few.
“The Evil One squats in his dark tower like a bloated spider and spins his vile webs of doom to the woe of the world, for he would snare the hearts of all free things and bind them in despair.
“Yet Modru is but a shadow servant of the Great Evil, and perhaps it is Gyphon’s will we see at work here.
“We know not what the darkest hour of the Darkest Day will bring, yet it will be utterly evil, of that we can be certain. And we must do all that is within our power to deflect Modru’s vile plan, and in doing so, perhaps we can save Mithgar from a hideous doom.
“I cannot promise you that we will be victorious; yet hearken: if we are to suffer defeat, to perish, then let us rain havoc upon our foe as we ourselves fall. And if we can cause the ruin of Modru’s evil scheme, even in defeat we will have won.
“I have but one more thing to say, and it is this: may your eyes be keen, your shafts fly true, and your blades be sharp. And may Adon go with you.”
Galen fell silent, and no one spoke for a moment. Tuck looked to see Merrilee weeping, and unshed tears stung his own eyes. Yet there echoed through his mind High King Galen’s words: . . . the fate of all Mithgar . . . the fortune of the world pivots on the valor of but a few . . . And Tuck thought: Oh, Adon, this crushing burden, I have not the strength to bear it . . .
Yet ere Tuck’s thoughts could run on, Brega cleared his throat and growled, “We’ll not ope’ the gate if we stand here all day. Come, let us clamber through a black ravine and up a dark wall. The fortress awaits, but the Sun and Moon do not.”
And as the raiders turned to go, Merrilee flung herself forward and fiercely embraced Tuck, and attempted to smile through her tears. And she tried to speak, yet all she could utter was, “Tuck, oh Tuck, my buccaran . . .” before she burst into tears.
And Tuck tenderly kissed her and said, “Don’t cry, my dammia,” as tears slid down his own cheeks, “for I shall return. After all, I wear your favor, a silver locket, and it has borne me through much.”
Lord Gildor stepped forward and knelt beside the damman and put an arm around her as Tuck gently disengaged. And Merrilee buried her face in the Elf’s chest and sobbed uncontrollably as Tuck turned and ran to catch up to the others on their way to save the world.
~
“See, there it is,” said Brega softly, pointing at the far wall of the ravine. “There’s where we’ll make the climb up.”
The raiders lay upon the backslant of an upjut of rock and stared across the wide abyss yawning just ahead.
Along with Ubrik and a scout named Aric and the buccan Burt Arboran, the nine climbers had ridden from Galen’s camp west and away from the black fortress and out into the Shadowlight until they had gotten beyond the pry of the evil gaze of the warders upon the walls. Yet it was not only eyes upon the walls that they had sought to elude: Vulg spies, too, had concerned them, and a small force of Men had ridden out before the raiders to draw Modru’s curs away. Hoping that no Vulgs watched them, the raiders then had circled to the eastern side of the strongholt, the steeds of the Warrows and Brega in tow behind Ubrik, Igon, Flandrena, and Aric. They had come ’round to the point facing where they would climb, then had turned and ridden straight toward the distant ramparts until once again the eyes of the Men could just make out the distant bulk of the dark citadel; and all the raiders had dismounted and taken down their weapons and the long coils of rope, and had handed Ubrik the tethers of their steeds.
Ubrik had saluted each of the nine and then had spoken an ancient Vanadurin benediction: “May the smiling countenance of Fortune’s three faces be turned your way.” And so saying, he had spurred back out into the Dimmendark, the string of horses running after.
Leaving the scout and Burt behind—Burt’s Warrow eyes to keep track of the mission from afar—the raiders had turned and begun making their way toward the strongholt, flitting silently and one at a time from rock outcropping to brush to mound to ground crevice, using whatever cover they could find. And they slowly had made their way to the crevasse beringing the fortress walls.
And now the raiders lay upon the upjut of rock and peered through the Shadowlight at the gulf and, beyond, at the ramparts of Modru Kinstealer’s holt.
“Ssst!” hissed Dink. “Up on the wall above: a sentry.”
Tuck peered across and upward and his heart plummeted, for high upon the rampart opposite, he could see the distant form of a Rûck warder slowly pacing along the parapet, the sentry passing in and out of view as he trod along the castellated walls with its merlons and crennelations.
“Rach!” muttered Igon, “we can’t make the climb under his very nose. Can we not clamber through the ravine elsewhere?”
Slowly the Rûck paced to a corner, then turned and trudged back.
“Nay,” growled Brega, his voice bitter. “It is here or not at all.” A questioning look upon his face, the Dwarf turned to Flandrena.
“Your memory does not deceive you, Drimm Brega,” Flandrena’s soft voice answered the Dwarf’s unspoken question. “The guard was not here when we surveyed the crevasse.”
“Well, we’re going to have to get rid of him or let him watch us climb,” hissed Igon. Then the Prince turned to Patrel. “Captain Patrel, can your arrows reach him?”
Once more the Rûck turned and paced back the way he had come.
Patrel shook his head. “Mayhap if I had Grayling’s fabled bow I could bring the Rûck down, but without that magic weapon, I have not the skill to make such a shot.”
“Danner,” said Tuck. “Only Danner might be able to do it.”
“Wha-what?” hissed Danner. “Tuck, your mouth speaks what your mind knows is not true. No one can make that shot. Oh, aye, perhaps I can cast an arrow that far, but so can we all. Yet to loose it with accuracy . . . well, it cannot be done. Remember Old Barlo’s words: ‘The arrow as strays might well’er been throwed away.’ Only in this case, the straying arrow will clatter upon the wall or against a turret or into a courtyard. And then the maggot-folk will be warned of our coming.”
“You have no choice, Waeran Danner,” growled Brega. “We must make the climb, else all is lost. We cannot climb with the Grg there. You have the greatest skill with the bow.”
Brega fell silent, his argument done, yet Danner’s amber eyes followed the distant guard, and still the buccan did not take up his bow.
Flandrena’s soft voice spoke: “Though you would not choose to do this thing, believing it will bring ruin, circumstance dictates no other course. It is ever so in War that choice oft is taken from us. Yet think on this: if you do not try, then our mission is ended here and now; if you try, and miss, and alert the Rûpt, then again our mission will have failed; but if you try, and succeed . . .”
The Iron Tower Omnibus Page 58
