Past the watching Ghûl they marched, his dead black eyes flicking but lightly over this jostling company as west they bore. Tuck kept his face down and hidden, and held his hands beneath his cloak as he limped past the Ghûl. And the Hèlsteed snorted and grunted as the Warrow hitched by, and the buccan knew that the beast had scented him. Yet at that very moment the corpse-foe reined the ’Steed and rode away toward three companies of violently squabbling maggot-folk, the Ghûl paying no heed to the squeals and grunts of the creature that bore him.
On Tuck limped, at the rear of the tramping company of Spawn, passing across a courtyard, only to turn north. Tuck could see a way bearing west, and as the Spaunen swung ’round a corner, the Warrow stepped aside into a shadowed doorway as the maggot-folk marched on.
Savage pain shooting up his leg, Tuck hobbled back to the courtyard and across it, keeping to the darkened buttresses shoring up the buildings to the north side.
Into the western way he limped, and found himself in a narrow, twisting labyrinth of alleyways. Yet westward he strove, coming at times to dead ends where he would retrace his path and choose an alternate route. And with each step, a sickening grind shot agonizing stabs of searing pain jolting through his frame.
Tuck hobbled along the narrow mews between the buildings and came to a great mass of stacked crates and kegs; slowly he worked his way through the wares to come at last to an exit from the twisting maze. Again he faced a courtyard teeming with Rûcks, and across the cobbles stood a great dark tower. Tuck glanced up and saw the black nimbus streaming forth from the top of the spire, wrenching at his Warrow eyes, and his heart hammered, for the buccan knew that he looked upon Modru’s Iron Tower. And as he stared upward . . .
Ssshthack! The thongs of a scourge lashed across Tuck’s shoulders and whipped under his hood to cut his lips and welt his face, and the Warrow whirled and there before him stood a snarling Hlôk. And as the buccan’s hands under his cloak reached unseen for Bane . . . “Theck dral, guth!” rasped the Spawn, raising the cat-o-tails for another strike, and behind the Hlôk four Rûcks stepped forth from the shadows.
~
Thrice more the Legion sent warriors forth as if to scale the ravine, archers loosing arrows at the Spaunen upon the walls; and each time, there came a hail of black-shafted bolts raining down from the ramparts; and the great crank-bow above the gate thrummed—Thuun!—and hurled the iron-pointed spears into the ranks of the Host. And thrice more the assault upon the crevasse was shorne off, the warriors and archers returning to the main body of the Legion while Yrm jeered and hooted in derision and blatted harsh calls upon brazen Rûcken horns. And Ubrik ground his teeth in rage.
Merrilee and the Warrows came back to stand at the fore-center of the Host, and watched as King Galen and other riders of the Legion raced along the front and brandished weapons.
Thuumn! A spear arched northward from the gate, to hurtle down and shatter ’gainst a stone upjut midst scurrying warriors.
And upon the walls, Spawn jittered about in revelment.
Yet Merrilee’s eyes saw a large force of maggot-folk break off and race northward along the top of the rampart. And as Galen came back to the center of the Legion, a horseborne scout thundered in from the north. “Hai, King Galen!” shouted the warrior, hauling his horse to a stop. “The Wrg have seen the Vanadurin company sent north to scale the ravine, and now the black arrows fall upon those Harlingar, too.”
“Then all goes according to plan,” responded Galen. Yet his eyes turned south, seeking to see Aric and Burt bearing word of Brega’s raiding party, but he saw nought. “Damman Holt, see you aught of scout and Warrow bringing news of the climbers to us?”
Merrilee turned her tilted sapphirine eyes southward, and searched the distant Shadowlight, then shook her head, no.
“Rach!” Galen smashed a gauntleted fist into palm. “We know not whether the raiders have succeeded or failed—or yet strive to scale the walls. But time grows dangerously short.” The King tore his gaze away from the south and called, “Mount the fifth assault! Let us hold the Spaunen eyes upon us!”
And as a company of Harlingar took up their shields and started toward the ropes, the archers went forward with them; and Merrilee strung arrow to bow and advanced, too. Her thoughts were a chaotic whirl as she agonized o’er the fate of Tuck and Danner and Patrel, of Rollo and Dink and Harven, and of Brega and Igon and Flandrena; yet how they fared she knew not as black-shafted arrows began to hiss forth from the walls.
~
The raiders, their features concealed deep within their hoods, tramped southwesterly along the high banquette atop the dark ramparts of Modru Kinstealer’s holt. Below them, inside the walls, they could see swarms of maggot-folk rushing thither and yon upon the cobbles and marching in squads and companies to the harsh commands and lashing whips of Hlôk overseers. And here and there the dead black eyes of Ghûls watched over all.
Yet the gaze of the raiders did not dwell upon the mill within the courtyards nor on the teeming ways below; instead they stared across the hold past the great central tower—the tower that wrenched at Warrow eyes—and to the distant gate in the west wall; and their hearts plunged, for a great swarm of maggot-folk clustered atop the ramparts near the portal.
“They are gathered to repel the Legion,” growled Brega.
“Look, to the north, another swarm,” whispered Dink.
“The false raiders,” said Flandrena softly as they now tramped westerly. “All goes according to plan: the Legion acts as if to cross near the gate, and ’round to the north, the lone company of the Harlingar draws Spaunen eyes away from us.”
“But there are too many Rûcks atop the gate itself,” hissed Danner.
“Perhaps . . .” began Brega, but broke off what he was about to say and began jostling and elbowing and snarling, as did they all while Flandrena lashed at them with a piece of Elven rope, cut to resemble a whip. And growling and cursing, they marched past a Rûcken sentry who gave them not a glance, fearing that if he took his yellow eyes from the ravine below, the whip would lash him, too.
Onward marched the raiders, tramping from angle to angle as they swung along the walls in a great zagging arc, bearing ever toward their goal. And they were not challenged as they passed warders and marching Rûcks alike along the high stone way. Now the eight of them marched upon the western wall, and they could see the Legion out on the moor beyond the crevasse, King Galen’s scarlet armor drawing their eyes as he rode up and down the fore of the Host. There, too, they saw Gildor’s strike force milling on the southern flank of the Legion, ready to charge across the bridge if and when it fell. Lastly, they saw a small force of warriors dashing toward ropes hanging down into the ravine; some of the Men had already reached the crevasse, and black-shafted arrows rained down upon them while the quarrels of archers flew back in return.
But then the raiders saw no more, for now they were come upon the very rampart holding the gate itself, and they marched the last leg toward their goal. And before them they could see the huge, Hlôk-driven crank-bow—Thuun!—and hear the clatter of gears as it was rewound and armed with another steel-tipped spear. And amid the raucous jeers of the maggot-folk, the raiders strode toward their prizes: the great winch of the iron drawbridge, and the hoist of the barred portcullis.
Thung! Clk-clk-clack-clk-clk-clk! The rattle of the ratchet on the great crank-bow clattered forth, and the Hlôks laid another spear in the groove. And the captain of the gate guard turned to see a hooded squad step toward the drawbridge winch.
“Shugg du!” snarled the Hlôk, moving to block them, and the squad came to a halt. “Shugg du!” he barked again, only to be met by silence. “Arg tha! Shugg du!” The Hlôk stepped forward, rage upon his features, reaching for the cat-o-tails at his belt while at the same time shoving back the hood of the figure directly before him. And the Hlôk’s eyes flew wide, for he stared upon the forked-bearded features of one of the hated Dubh! And it was the last thing that the Hlôk ever saw,
for Drakkalan clove the Squam’s head from his body, and battle exploded upon the wall above the gate.
~
At sight of the four Rûcks behind the Hlôk, Tuck’s mind raced, for he knew that he could not wield a sword well enough to slay them all before one would sound the alarm.
“Theck dral, guth!” snarled the Hlôk again, gesturing toward a group of kegs, and now Tuck saw that the Rûcks were bearing off toward the Iron Tower, and they had casks hoisted upon their shoulders.
He thinks I am a Rûck! Quickly Tuck limped forward, stooped and lifted a keglet to his own shoulder, and hobbled after the maggot-folk striding toward the spire, leaving the Hlôk behind overseeing other Rûcks coming to carry cargo.
Again excruciating pain jolted up his leg, and Tuck nearly fainted from the agony; yet onward he strove, sucking and spitting blood from his whip-cut lip, limping across the courtyard. And he saw that the Rûcks before him bore their burdens toward what appeared to be a feeding station. And there two Hlôks oversaw the unloading of the casks, Rûcks breaking the containers open to dispense the food inside. And in the background stood one of the dead white corpse-folk, the Ghûl’s ’Steed at his side.
If that Hèlsteed catches my scent . . . As Tuck desperately looked for a means of escape, directly before the buccan, a Rûck stepped forth through a door in the tower, coming down the three steps and past the Warrow and scuttling off across the courtyard.
The door! thought Tuck. The Rûck left it open! Without pause, the buccan struggled up the treads and through the portal; and as he pushed the panel to, a distant clash and clangor of weaponry fell upon his ears. But whence came these faint echoes of battle—from what direction—he could not say, for at that moment with a hollow boom! the door of the Iron Tower shut behind him and closed all sound away.
Tuck set the cask down and rested a moment, his eyes searching the gloom. Before him stretched a long hallway with guttering torches casting writhing shadows along its length, closed doorways to left and right. There too, yawning darkly, stood stone arches marking where cross-halls bore away. To Tuck’s left a staircase mounted upward, and to his right a stairwell led down to a closed door.
Suddenly, enraged shrieks rang throughout the tower, and there came the slap of footsteps running toward him; and Tuck scrambled up the stairs to his left, pain crashing through his entire being as he hobbled upward. He came to a landing, and still the raging cries resounded, and Rûcks and Hlôks raced down the hall toward him. Once more, Tuck hitched up another flight of stairs, and maggot-folk ran past him down the steps, paying little heed to the hooded figure going upward.
As Tuck came to the next landing, the piercing shrieks fell silent. But more Spawn came toward the Warrow, and Tuck knew that if but one of them stopped him, he would be revealed. The buccan turned to the nearest door and shot back the brass bolt and stepped inside, slamming it shut behind.
Pausing but a moment to catch his breath, Tuck surveyed the room: a canopied bed, a fire, a doorway through which he could see the corner of a bathing tub, and heavy drapes covering what had to be a window. And from the outside the buccan could hear skirl of battle muffled by the curtain; and, too, there came the sound of a great Blang!
The raiders! Have they reached the gate? Still breathing heavily, Tuck limped toward the window and reached to pull the drapery aside.
And as the cloth swung away from the wall, a figure dressed in quilted Rukken garb lunged forward out of the blackness and swung a heavy iron bar down at the buccan, the thick rod glancing painfully down Tuck’s arm and back as the Warrow twisted and sprang aside, rolling on the stone floor, arrows spilling from his quiver, the bow across his back clacking against the flag, his cloak twisting around his body as he struggled to draw Bane.
And the hood fell back from his head and he looked up with his tilted jewel-hued eyes to see the flaxen-haired female leap forward, bar raised for the killing blow.
“Princess!” he shouted.
Clang! Laurelin dropped the bar and threw herself to her knees beside the fallen Warrow. “Sir Tuck!” she cried, clasping him to her as he sat up. “Oh, Sir Tuck.” Laurelin wept uncontrollably and rocked back and forth and fiercely held onto the buccan, and Tuck put his arms around her and stroked her hair and soothed her and wondered at the workings of Chance that had led his footsteps here.
Through the window came the trumpeting sound of a bugle, and Tuck knew that the silver call came from no other clarion than the Horn of the Reach borne by Patrel. “Come now, Princess,” said Tuck, “we must get gone from here.”
“Tuck, the Ghûls!” cried Laurelin, rocking back on her heels, then scrambling up. “We must get out of here and to my Lord Galen. I must warn him: a great force of Ghûls rides o’er the Wastes of Gron, coming to fall upon the Legion from behind.”
“Ghûls? Coming across Claw Moor?” At Laurelin’s nod, Tuck’s face blenched. “You’re right, my Lady: we’ve got to warn the Legion!”
Thuun! The thrum of the great crank-bow sounded through the window as Tuck painfully got up from the floor: broken-footed, lip whip-split, face wealed, and arm and back bruised by an iron bar. Quickly he inspected his bow—none the worse for having been rolled upon—and then he began gathering the arrows strewn on the stone and putting them in his quiver.
“And Tuck!” added the Princess. “Modru plans something horrible this ’Day. What it is, I know not, yet it is evil and concerns Gyphon . . . Gyphon’s return!”
“Aye, Princess, we suspect as much. Our hope is to disrupt Modru’s vile scheme.” Tuck snatched up the last arrow, and glanced at Laurelin. “Your hair, Princess,” Tuck’s voice snapped with authority, “hide it under your cloak and hood. We’ve got to pass through a Horde.”
Quickly, Laurelin unfastened her cloak and shook her hair down her back, then donned the cloak over it, pulling the hood up to hide her face. “We can leave by the window,” she said. “Down a rope.”
“The door is unbolted,” responded Tuck, “and we are less likely to get caught walking down steps than climbing down ropes.”
Laurelin scooped up her bar and stepped toward the door. “Let us be gone then, Sir Tuck, for I sense the Ghûls come even now.”
The sounds of the black-oxen horns of Valon drifted in through the window as Tuck cast his own hood over his head and took his bow in hand and limped to Laurelin’s side.
Taking a deep breath, he grasped the latch and looked up at the Princess, and at her nod he opened the door.
And there before them stood a figure dressed in black, with raging eyes glaring through a hideous iron mask.
And ere the Warrow could move, “Ssstha!” hissed Modru and struck down with a whelming blow of metal gauntlet, the heel of his hand smashing into the Warrow’s forehead, the clawlike fingers ripping down the buccan’s face and neck and tearing through cloak and jacket to the silveron armor concealed below, one finger striking the catch of the silver locket and springing it open as the hideous hand ripped past. Tuck reeled back, stunned, and fell to the stone, his helm striking hard, his bow lost to his grip.
Laurelin lashed the bar at Modru with all of her strength, yet the Evil One threw up a hand, and—Chang!—caught the thick rod and wrenched it from her grasp. Then, like a striking viper, his free hand whipped forward and clutched her wrist, and he jerked her toward him.
“So, you sought escape. Fa! Did you think the runt would save you from your fate?” Modru dragged the Princess toward the form of the fallen Warrow, who lay stunned on his back, face clawed and bleeding, cloak and jacket rent apart, and the silver locket bearing Merrilee’s portrait lying open and glittering upon the buccan’s armored chest.
Modru raised the bar. “We shall see which is stronger: this iron rod or your rescuer’s head!”
And as Laurelin wrenched and struggled in Modru’s iron grip, and screamed, “No, no, no!” over and over again, the Evil One leaned forward above the Warrow to smash the bar down upon the buccan’s skull.
And the
pure silver mirrored side of the open locket caught a small part of Modru’s true reflection and cast it back to the eyes of the Evil One.
With a shrill scream, Modru flung the rod blanging away, and threw his arm up over his face and reeled hindward, unable to bear what he had seen in the argent speculum of the locket—a locket crafted ages agone in the mystic land of Xian, where it is said that Wizards once dwelled.
Yet, even though the polished, flat surface had struck Modru a telling blow, the Evil One was not destroyed, for the locket was diminutive and could cast back but a tiny portion of his full image. Hence, as air sissed in through Modru’s gritted teeth, he recovered from the heavy brunt. And he clenched the gauntleted, taloned fingers of his free hand, curling them into a black, iron fist.
Once more he wrenched Laurelin along after him as he stepped toward the felled Warrow, preparing to smash the life from the Wee One. Yet Modru had reckoned not upon the potency of the argent device warding the buccan, for at that very moment Tuck groaned and feebly moved, and the glittering silver of the locket shifted upon his chest, and the sparkling plane of the mirror seemed to turn toward the Evil One, as if seeking him out.
“Sssstha!” Again Modru reeled back, jerking his head aside, away from the token of power lying open upon the breast of the now-stirring Warrow, the Evil One unable to face even this small part of his own true image, unable to come at the helpless buccan.
Ssss. Air raggedly hissed in and out of Modru’s lungs as he paused and gathered strength, and he did not look toward the Warrow, did not look toward the silver bane. And though Laurelin twisted and jerked, she could not pull free, for the Evil One’s dinted grip held her fast even as his power swiftly returned unto him.
“Pah!” Modru spat at last, whirling away. “Whether it is now or in but a span, it matters not, for the runt will die . . . yes, die when I fetch my Master, and that moment is at hand. Come, Princess, to the tower above. It is time to meet your fate.”
The Iron Tower Omnibus Page 61
