And hauling Laurelin stumbling behind, caught in his grip of iron, Modru stalked from the room, jerking her toward the steps spiraling up to the chamber at the top of the tower where lay the yawning ebon of the Myrkenstone.
~
Once again the Legion had been driven back from the ravine, and the Spawn hooted and jeered. And now even King Galen ground his teeth and cursed in frustration at their japing; he had known that the Yrm would fleer at the Host’s feeble attempts, for that, too, was part of the plan, yet still their gibes grated upon him.
“Hoy!” cried Teddy Proudhand, one of the Warrows. “Here comes Burt and that Harlingar scout.”
Galen upon Wildwind turned his eyes to the south, and hammering forth through the Shadowlight came two steeds bearing riders: Man and Warrow, Aric leading Burt.
Along the forefront of the Legion they rode, thundering at last to a halt before the crimson-armored King. While his steed pranced and curvetted, Aric struck a clenched fist to his heart. “Sire, the raiders are upon the wall at last.” Aric gestured to Burt, the buccan having leapt to the ground as Merrilee and the other Warrows gathered ’round.
Burt looked up at Galen. “’At’s right, your Lordship, sir. Long we waited, till I thought as somethin’ had gone wrong for certain. But then I saw ’em, climbing up the wall at last, though I counted only eight where there should have been nine . . . one of ’em was missin’, and where he’s got to, or what’s happened, well, it’s a mystery right enough. I watched till they topped the wall, then me and Aric hightailed it for here.”
Merrilee’s heart had plummeted upon hearing that one of the raiders was missing, and a deep foreboding washed over her being, but she did not dwell upon it, for Galen barked, “When did they top the wall? How long ago?”
“Mayhap a quarter hour past, King Galen,” replied Aric, “for we rode swiftly and straight away.”
Galen wheeled Wildwind. “Vanadurin!” he cried. “Now the moment draws at hand; pass the word to stand ready, and let us pray that the raiders succeed. But now we must make one last sortie to draw all Spaunen eyes to us and away from their own walls.” Galen flashed Steel-heart into the air. “Hál Vanadurin! Hál Harlingar!”
A great yell rose up from the ranks of the mounted warriors, and Wildwind thundered up and down the fore—from the south flank to the north—rearing and pawing at the air as the High King came to each end; and this was the signal to both Gildor and Ubrik to prepare, for it meant the raiders were upon the walls.
And once more a company of Vanadurin took up shields and ran toward the ravine, and with them went the Warrows and other archers. And a great jeering came forth from the Spawn upon the walls, for again these Men, these fools, sought to cross the crevasse in spite of the fact that they had failed six times before. And black-shafted arrows hissed downward.
And Merrilee’s eyes glanced up through the hail of barbed Death, and southward—atop the wall above the gate—she thought that she glimpsed combat, struggle; but then she turned her sight once more upon the rampart before her, for her aim was needed here.
~
When Drakkalan sheered the Hlôk’s head from his body, the raiders exploded into frenzied action: knife, sword, and axe cleaving, stabbing, hacking. The Hlôks manning the great crank-bow were caught completely unawares, and they fell in their own black gore: throats cut, breasts split, skulls cloven, bodies gutted.
Nearby Hlôks and Rûcks turned at the sounds of the slaughter as Flandrena and Igon sprang to the great winch to lower the bascule. The two seized the spokes of the winch-wheel as cries of alarm burst forth from the Spawn.
The Man and the Elf threw their weight against the radial arms, and maggot-folk charged toward them as Warrows loosed bolts to fell Rûcks and Hlôks in the fore of the oncoming enemy.
And the wheel moved not.
“It’s jammed!” cried Igon, straining against the handle, and Dink leapt forward to aid—but still it did not move.
“Release the ratchet!” cried Flandrena, but ere any of the three could make a move to do so, Rûcks and Hlôks sprang into the gate cap, and the Prince and Lian warrior took up their swords and began hewing while Dink loosed arrow after arrow.
Now the fighting was too close for bow and arrow, and Danner and Patrel found themselves side by side with long-knife swords in hand, and there came the skirl of steel upon steel as they engaged Spaunen scimitars.
Chang! Shang! The Rûck facing Danner fell slain, and the buccan turned to see Patrel in a hand-to-hand struggle with a large Hlôken foe, the tiny Warrow straining to hold the enemy’s dirk away from his throat.
Chonk! Danner’s blade bit into the Hlôk’s neck, and foul dark blood splashed into Patrel’s face as the Spawn arched over backwards, dead ere striking the stone. But before either buccan could catch his breath, Clang! Drang! once more their swords engaged those of the Rûcks.
Driven by the strength of youth, Igon’s sword cut a gory swath, black blood flying wide as the edge clove into the onrushing foe. And Flandrena moved like a wraith—sidestepping, whirling, dodging, swerving—and the Elf’s blade licked out time and again, and Rûcks and Hlôks fell dead. And Brega bashed scimitar and tulwar aside, Drakkalan chopping through steel, sinew, and bone alike.
Yet still the Spawn came on.
Rollo again managed to use his bow, and he felled a Rûck pressing Danner while Patrel slew another, and they glanced up to see great numbers of the foe rushing toward them, now aware that something was amiss atop the gate; and, horns blatting, voices yelling, the enemy mounted a charge; and Harven fell, slain by steel pike.
Danner’s eyes rolled white, and spittle foamed on the corners of his lips, and then an amber glare stared out from his distorted face, and dark gutturals snarled forth from his writhing mouth. And he ripped off his cloak and jacket and flung his long-knife aside and scooped up one of the long iron bars from the grip of a dead Hlôk.
“Danner!” cried Patrel, but to no avail, for the tall buccan had leapt to the fore and stood in the mouth of the wardway leading into the gate area. And Danner swung the bar with an unmatched fury, for now he was a berserker.
And in the narrow wardway the foe was hurled back!
And Brega sprang to the winch and swung Drakkalan overhead and down with all the strength of his massive shoulders. Chang! With a great shower of sparks the black-runed axe bit completely through the haul chain. And slowly at first, but with ever-gathering speed, axles squealing in protest, the great iron drawbridge fell:
BLANG!
And now Igon and Flandrena leapt to the portcullis hoist and began cranking the barway upward as Brega sprang to Danner’s side, for the foe charged once more; and again the Spawn were hurled back.
But suddenly the portcullis stopped moving upward, and strain as they might, Igon and Flandrena could budge it not.
Patrel ran and peered downward.
Below, the great Troll warding the gate clutched the barway, stopping it dead in its track. And the wee Warrow knew that the Man and the Elf could not move the hoist with this monster holding it back. And Patrel could see more maggot-folk racing across the courtyards in the direction of the gate.
Swiftly, the tiny buccan leapt down the steps toward the gateway below. And when he came to the cobbles, he ran to the Troll and hewed the Atalar Blade into the creature’s scaled shank. Ching! The golden-runed silver blade glanced downward, and did not cut through the Ogru’s stone-like hide. Yet the Warrow had caught the creature’s eye, for with a snarl it swiped a great thick hand at the Wee One, just missing as Patrel sprang backwards.
Ching! Again the blade chopped at the Ogru’s calf, and again the scaled hide turned the edge aside. And once more the Troll’s evil red eyes glared at the buccan and its huge hand clutched and missed.
Now Patrel danced out before the Troll, the Warrow slipping under the partially raised barway and shouting at the creature, “Hai! You big stupid oaf! You can’t catch me, for I am the golden warrior!” And Patrel threw open
his jacket, and the gilded armor shone forth gleaming.
With a snarl, the Ogru-Troll hurled up the portcullis and reached his great claw-like hands for the buccan. And Patrel ran out upon the iron drawbridge, the monster in pursuit—a huge iron club clutched in one thick hand, his great stride overhauling the Wee One’s flying legs.
And up on the wall, Igon and Flandrena spun the hoist to the full and locked it in place, for Patrel’s quick wits had loosed the barway from the grip of the Troll, and the portcullis was up and pinned.
Man and Elf turned to the battle, just in time to see Brega felled by Hlôk War-bar and Spawn leap forward to slay the Dwarf. But ere any maggot-folk could reach Brega’s side, a black-armored buccan stood above the fallen Dwarf and lashed out with a great iron bar; and as the mighty cudgel crunched Rûcken bones, the Warrow warrior cried, “King of the Rillrock! King of the Rillrock! Danner Bramblethorn is the King of the Rillro—”
A black-shafted arrow hissed through the air to smash through the black chain-mail and pierce Danner’s side, and a spear burst into his shoulder, hurling the buccan backwards to crash unto the stone. Igon and Flandrena sprang forward, their swords lashing into the oncoming Rûpt. And Brega struggled to his feet, his forehead red with gore but Drakkalan in his hand. And Rollo and Dink loosed bolt after bolt, felling Spawn left and right.
And Danner lay in a widening pool of blood, and the glazed berserker look faded from his eyes. He tried to struggle upward, but could not, and his cheek lay against the icy stone next to a machicolation; and he gazed out through the hole and down upon the iron drawbridge, now spanning the black crevasse. And he saw Patrel out upon the iron, taunting a great Ogru that slowly stalked toward the wee Warrow.
~
As Patrel darted out through the gate, the Troll coming behind, the buccan’s eyes saw Gildor’s force flying along the ravine toward the downed bridge.
If the Ogru sees them, he may turn back and slam the portcullis to, thought the wee Warrow. I’ve got to keep him from catching sight of the riders. In the middle of the span, Patrel stopped and turned, spreading his arms wide and shouting, “All right now, you overgrown lummox! See if you can catch me!”
Sensing a trap, the Troll came to a halt. Now he stalked slowly forward, the iron bridge shuddering under his massive tread, his dull wit searching for a snare, his red eyes locked upon this tiny warrior taunting him.
“Hai, jobbernowl!” cried Patrel, darting from side to side. “What’s wrong? Am I too big for you?” And the Wee One took the Horn of the Reach—the Horn of Valon—from beneath his jacket where he had borne it all along, and raised the rune-marked bugle to his lips and blew a lifting call into the air. And the silver notes rang and echoed from the crevasse and through the gate and over the walls; and everywhere that Free Folk heard it, hearts were lifted and spirits surged; but everywhere that the notes reached the ears of the maggot-folk, the Spawn quailed back in fright.
The Troll, too, snarled in fear, and stared at this small pest on the edge of the bridge; and then the huge Ogru roared and raised the great iron club and strode forward. And Patrel knew that he would not survive the blow.
Thuun! The huge crank-bow atop the gate hurled a steel-pointed shaft with all the might of that great ballista, and the spear flew through the air to crash into the Troll’s back and smash through his heart and burst forth from his chest; and black blood flew wide, and where it fell a reeking smoke curled upward from the iron. A look of surprise came over the Ogru’s features as he was whelmed to his knees; and—Clang!—his club crashed to the bridge, lost to his fingers. The Troll staggered to his feet and clutched at his back, trying to reach the shaft; and, one knee buckling, he stumbled sideways and fell silently into the black depths of the crevasse below.
Stunned, Patrel looked up toward the wall atop the gate, but he could not see who had loosed the great bolt that had slain the Ogru. But a dire feeling of dread washed over him, and he began to run back toward the open portcullis.
And the black-oxen horns of Valon sounded as Gildor’s strike force hurtled across the iron bridge and past the running buccan and through the gate of Modru’s fortress.
And atop the wall, Man, Warrow, Dwarf, and Elf battled against the Spawn. And a black-armored buccan released his grip from the stock of the great crank-bow, and slid down to sit with his back to the pedestal. And there was a faint smile upon his face as the blood leaked from his body, for he heard the horns of Valon sounding. And slowly the golden light dimmed in his eyes and then was gone: Danner Bramblethorn had loosed his last arrow.
~
When Galen King’s signal came that the raiders were upon the ramparts, Lord Gildor swept his gaze along the wall above the gate. The Lian warrior’s eyes searched for sign of Brega’s band, yet he was too far away to tell whether there were any members of that small party among the multitudes that swarmed there. Yet wait! Did his Elven eyes see sign of struggle upon the rampart? Perhaps. He was not certain. Yet he called a warrior unto him. “Stand ready with your horn, Captain Brate, for if we are to succeed or fail, the next few moments will tell.”
The next few moments . . . Gildor’s green eyes leapt to the sky where the faint glow of the Sun could just now be discerned as it swung toward the zenith. And most of the feeble disk was even now occluded, for the time drew nigh: there remained less than a quarter hour till the Sun Death would come full. Gildor stood in his stirrups and then sat back down, and his knuckles were white, so tightly did he clench the reins, for still nothing seemed to be happening atop the gate.
Then, with a slow majesty that belied its hurtling rush, the iron drawbridge separated from the wall and toppled out and down across the chasm to fall to with a dinning Blang!
“Now!” cried Lord Gildor. “Ride! For Adon’s sake, ride!”
Brate raised his black-oxen horn to his lips and blew a sundering blast that echoed across the moor. And as one great body, Gildor’s strike force wheeled and raced for the bridge, flashing hooves now flying along the edge of the chasm.
And behind, King Galen turned his warriors, too, and they hurtled after, with Reachmarshal Ubrik’s brigade following.
Lastly, the company at the ropes broke off their ruse and ran for their horses, and with them came the archers—Merrilee and the buccen among the latter.
And as the ravine company fell in with the riders of Ubrik’s force, now thundering past, Dill Thorven cried, “Merrilee, look! Out upon Claw Moor! A great array comes!”
Merrilee looked to where the buccan pointed, and there, hammering across the wastes, came thousands of riders, but whether they were friend or foe, she could not say. “Hoy, Degan!” she called to the rider who led her steed. “Find King Galen! Or Reachmarshal Ubrik! A great force rides toward us across Claw Moor!”
Degan spurred forward, leading Merrilee’s mount behind, racing to find King or Marshal.
And in the fore, Lord Gildor’s steed ran full tilt for the bridge. And the Elf’s eyes saw a small figure run forth upon the span, followed by a Troll. Run, Waerling, run! cried Gildor’s mind, and yet the small mite turned to face his hulking adversary. Gildor urged his steed to even greater speed, but he knew he would not arrive in time to aid the tiny buccan.
Thuun! The sound of the great crank-bow came to the Elf’s ears, and his eyes widened as he saw the mighty bolt flash down from the wall and strike the Troll in the back. And as the monstrous creature fell into the ravine, Gildor plunged onto the iron bridge, the Harlingar thundering after, the span booming and ringing as the strike force hurtled across, the black-oxen horns of Valon blowing wildly.
Past Patrel they ran headlong and through the open gate, hooves striking upon hard cobblestones within the fortress walls. Black-shafted arrows rained upon them from the ramparts, but the Vanadurin thundered inward like an iron wave, their lances piercing Rûcks and Hlôks in the courtyard before them. And Gildor wheeled and gave a cry, and Harlingar flocked to him, and they spurred toward a ramp leading up to the banquette above.
And, outside, the Vanadurin pressed toward the bridge, a bottleneck to their invasion of Modru Kinstealer’s holt. Here Degan searched among the milling press for Reachmarshal Ubrik or High King Galen, yet he found neither. But there was no need, for Ubrik’s eyes had seen the oncoming force thundering out of the Shadowlight upon Claw Moor; and they were near enough to identify: Ghûls upon Hèlsteeds: Modru’s Reavers had come to fall upon Galen’s Host.
Black-oxen horns rang, and Ubrik’s brigade wheeled to meet this new threat. Again the horns sounded, and lances were lowered and sabers raised. And at a third signal, first at a walk, then at a trot, Ubrik’s Vanadurin set forth in a spreading line; and their pace quickened—now a canter, now a gallop—and at a fourth and last horncall it became a headlong run. And the two forces raced pell-mell toward one another: leering Ghûls astride squealing Hèlsteeds, grim-faced Harlingar upon the fiery, belling steeds of Valon.
Across the iron drawbridge the remaining Vanadurin pressed, yet they could not come into the Kinstealer’s holt, for within the gateway and athwart the entry now stood a second Troll—the one that had guarded the Hèlsteed stables; and the monster wielded a great iron War-bar and roared in pleasure as he smashed aside warrior and steed alike. And though he was dressed in nought but black leather breeks, still the swords and arrows of Men harmed him not, but glanced aside notched or shivered asunder against his scaled hide. And the black-shafted arrows of the Rûpt rained down, striking shield and horse and Man alike; and warriors and steeds fell screaming into the abyss below.
Lord Gildor, leading the Vanadurin already inside, fought his way through Rûcks and Hlôks and Ghûls toward the ramps leading up to the walls above the gate, for it was the mission of the strike force to secure the drawbridge winch and the portcullis hoist and to rescue the raiders, if any yet lived.
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