At last the horses burst through the Spaunen and came to the stone incline, and Lord Gildor leapt from his steed and raced up the pitch, Men charging upward in his wake. Rûcks ran down at them, but Red Bale clove through their ranks, as did the steel of Valon. And Spawn fell slain, or tumbled to their deaths below. But still the weapons of the foe took their toll, as cudgel and iron pole, scimitar and tulwar, and hammer and pike slew the warriors of the Legion.
Yet Gildor’s strike force won to the banquette and fought their way to the gate cap, where they found Brega and Igon and Flandrena and Dink in furious battle, still holding the gate area atop the wall.
And when the Vanadurin charged into the fray, Rûpt fell back. And Igon flicked a brief smile at Lord Gildor, and Flandrena and Brega each gave a nod, while Dink took up his bow and loosed arrows upon the Spawn. And then the maggot-folk struck once more.
Up the steps from the gateway below came a wee buccan: Patrel. And his sword—the Atalar Blade—was asplash with black gore. He came onward, through the clash of steel upon steel and the shouts and screams of battle: twisting and dodging, trying to win through the press and come unto Gildor.
“Lord Gildor! Lord Gildor! To me! To me!” cried Patrel. And Red Bale hewed through a Hlôk, felling the Spawn, and in two strides the Lian was at the Warrow’s side.
“Quickly, Patrel, speak,” barked Gildor, his eyes upon the swirling battle.
“An Ogru blocks the way and thwarts the Legion below,” panted Patrel, but he said no more, for at that moment the combat came upon them, and buccan and Elf fought for their lives.
Yet toward the steps Gildor battled, and at last he won free of the mêlée. Down the stairs the Lian warrior bounded, and now he could see the Troll at the gate, and scarlet fire blazed forth from the blade-jewel of Red Bale and leapt down its edge.
Chnk! Krch! The great Troll War-bar smashed into the fore of the Host, and horse and Man alike were slain. And the mighty Ogru roared his laughter as steeds were reined back and the faces of Men blenched before this twelve-foot-high monster. And still the deadly arrows hissed down from the wall and into the milling warriors trapped upon the span.
Toward the hulking creature raced Lord Gildor, the lithe Elf running to come between the drooling Troll and the Ogru’s victims. And as the Lian warrior finally came before the monster, so too did Galen King at last win his way through the press upon the bridge to push unto the fore of the Host. Galen raised Steel-heart and prepared to spur Wildwind forward, but Lord Gildor cried, “Nay, Galen King! This Troll is mine! For now I see his image through Vanidor’s eyes!”
The Ogru blinked down at this Dolh before him, and a gaping leer spread o’er the monster’s features, spittle dripping from yellowed tusks. Then he struck:
Clang! The great War-bar smashed upon the cobbles, but Lord Gildor darted aside, narrowly evading the blow.
Whoosh! The bar slashed sideways through the air, driven by the massive thews of the twelve-foot-high creature; but the Elf fell flat, the iron pole lashing above him.
Chang! Once more the iron smashed to the stone, again barely missing as Gildor rolled away and sprang up and inward; and Bale flicked out to catch the twisting creature upon the thigh. Scarlet fire blazed out from the ruby blade-jewel as a great gash opened across the monster’s leg and black blood gushed forth to fall smoking upon the cobblestone way.
The Ogru yawled in pain, and fell back beyond Gildor’s reach; and the moment the Troll gave way, Vanadurin surged forward, some to slip their steeds past the creature and into the fortress. Yet the monster moved once more to block the gate, lashing forth with the War-bar to smash aside warrior and mount. Yet again Red Bale flared up as it drank Troll blood, cleaving across the creature’s fending wrist.
With a great bellow of rage, the Ogru struck at Gildor. Krang! The iron bar whelmed down upon empty stone, for the Elf was not there: he had leapt forward, under the blow. And impelled by all the force the Lian warrior could muster, Bale cut a great open swath across the Troll’s abdomen. The Ogru roared in agony and stumbled to its knees as steaming entrails spilled forth amid a whelming gush of black blood; and Gildor’s sword lashed out, the blade-jewel blazing scarlet as Bale sliced through the Troll’s throat, the Elf leaping aside as the huge Troll smashed facedown unto the cobbles, dead before striking the stone. And green fire blazed behind Gildor’s eyes: Vanidor’s killer had been slain.
King Galen spurred forward, Wildwind leaping over the great corpse; and with a glad shout, inward poured the Legion after.
And out upon Claw Moor, with a great juddering din of iron, Ubrik’s brigade hurtled into the charging Swarm of Guula: lance thrusting against barbed spear, saber clashing against tulwar, horse lunging against Hèlsteed. And Men died and corpse-foe fell slain as the forces shocked through each other, driving beyond one another’s ranks. Ubrik sounded his black-oxen horn, and the Vanadurin wheeled to meet the turning Guula. And Ubrik gave the call to mount a second charge, though he knew that in the end the battle could have but one outcome, for his fifteen-hundred Harlingar rode against six-thousand reavers. Yet the Reachmarshal also knew that King Galen and the Legion now pouring through the distant gate and into the Kinstealer’s holt needed time to disrupt Modru’s plan, and by delaying the Guula, that time could be purchased. The price would be deadly, yet it was a price Ubrik was willing to pay.
And back at the Fortress, as King Galen and the Legion surged across the bridge and through the gate and into the courtyards of the dark citadel, a shuddering blackness seemed to jolt across the darkling sky above as a spreading ebon tide surged throughout the Shadowlight.
Lord Gildor raced back up the steps to the wall above where battle still raged. He looked upward through the Dimmendark, though he knew what he would see: slowly the dim glow of the Sun was fading away as the arc of the unseen Moon ate across the last of the feeble disk above. And the Elf’s heart pounded as an ever-deepening gulf of blackness rolled forth across the land. And the deep toll of a great Ruchen gong knelled through the darkling air: Doon! . . . Doon! . . . Doom! And Gildor despaired, for all about him Spaunen fought with growing strength . . . their time had come at last. And although the Men of Valon battled with fierce determination, still their eyes flicked to the dimming sky, and their faces were grim, for the darkest hour of the Darkest Day had come: it was the time of the Sun Death.
~
South, in Grûwen Pass, Vidron and Talarin surveyed the pitiful remnants of the Host that had defied the Horde for lo! these many ’Darkdays. Attack after attack had they fended off—delaying the Swarm, buying time for King Galen. Yet the Horde had hammered time and again into the Men of Wellen and the Elves of Arden Vale, pounding them back with each strike. And now it was the fifth ’Darkday since the Battle of Grûwen had begun; and each ’Day, more of the Wellenen had fallen, more of the Lian had been slain. Still, hundreds upon hundreds of the Rûpt had been slaughtered as the combat raged by frigid ’Day and bitter ’Night upon the heights of the icy col. But slowly the teeming Horde had battered the Host the full length of the narrow pass. And now, no longer did the sheer stone walls protect the Legion’s flanks, for at last they had been driven backwards across the entire width of the Rigga Mountains; and exhausted Men and weary Elves and spent steeds stood on the margins of Gron and watched as Spawn poured through the notch and down into the land to hem the allies against a great bluff.
“Aye, Lord Talarin, I deem you counted well,” growled Fieldmarshal Vidron. “I, too, make our number to be a scant six hundred or so. And though we’ve left five thousand Wrg lying dead in our wake, still there be another five thousand to come against us this last time.”
Talarin merely grunted and said no word in reply as he watched the Spaunen continue to swarm forth from Kreggyn.
And as the last of the Rûpt joined the iron ring surrounding the trapped allies, raucous calls blatted forth from the brazen horns of the enemy, and scimitar, tulwar, hammer, and cudgel were brandished. The foe readied themselves to destroy the last o
f this stubborn Legion.
Vidron raised his black-oxen horn unto his lips, and its resonant call split the air, to be answered by the clarions of the surviving Wellenen. And four-hundred or so weary Men, and half that number of worn Elves, mounted up onto exhausted steeds and made ready for one last battle.
Yet even as the allies girded themselves for the final charge, a great wave of blackness surged through the Dimmendark, and a loud wordless jeering shout rose up from the Horde. And Talarin’s eye caught that of Vidron. “It is the time of the Sun Death, Hrosmarshal,” said the Lian warrior, grimly. “It comes upon us even now, and I fear that Galen King’s mission has failed.”
~
Beyond the Grimwall and within the ring of the Rimmen Mountains in the Land of Riamon, furious battle raged before the gates of Mineholt North as Men and Elves and Dwarves alike fell upon the Swarm besieging the mountain where was delved the Dwarven Realm.
Swift horses bearing bright Elves shocked into the Spaunen, and the Men of Dael, on foot, struggled hand to hand with the foe. Forth from Mineholt North poured the black-armored Dwarves, hewing left and right with their double-bitted axes, cleaving a swath through the Squam.
Yet the Spawn, too, took their toll, as Free Folk fell slain by Rûpt weapon, and the vast numbers of the Horde pressed back in upon the allies.
Thrice had King Dorn joined his Men of Dael with the Elves of Coron Eiron to try to break this siege of Mineholt North and free the Dwarves of King Brek. Yet thrice had the Yrm hurled them back, leaving many dead in their wake.
Now this was their fourth attack, and its outcome teetered in the balance. And the battle raged to and fro, but at last the Men won unto the Dwarves’ side, splitting through the center of the ranks of the Horde. A great glad shout rose up from the allies, only to clog in their throats; for just as it seemed that finally they had the advantage, a great tide of darkness rolled throughout the Shadowlight—and the hearts of Men and Elves and Dwarves alike plummeted. And the Horde surged ’round them, beringing them in an evil clutch as darkness descended upon the land.
~
King Aranor of Valon sat upon his steed at the fore of a great Host. And at his side sat Reggian, Steward of Pendwyr. And from concealment on the slopes of the Brin Downs they looked forth upon the vast throng marching into the plains of Jugo. The Lakh of Hyree had come north, skirting the Brin Downs, and now the swart Men of the south marched past the Host.
And overhead the Sun was bright.
Now Aranor turned to survey the Legion, perhaps half the numbers of the Lakh. And the King knew that the Host would be hard pressed, yet they would not quail from this fight.
Once more Aranor swung his gaze to the distant enemy, and lo! they ground to a halt even as he looked, and fell prostrate upon their faces upon the ground . . . as if in worship!
And a darkness commenced to fall upon the land. And Aranor glanced to the sky, and the hidden Moon began to eat the Sun.
~
And south upon the waters of the Avagon Sea, the fleet of Arbalin, along with the great Elvenship Eroean—a ship not seen in these waters for more than six thousand years—came to stand across the mouth of Hile Bay where sat the ships of the Rovers of Kistan; yet the enemy made no move to break the blockade, for they moaned in ecstasy as an arc of darkness cut into the orb above.
~
Warrows wept as they fell back toward Littlefen. Rood was in flames, for once again the great Swarm of maggot-folk had razed a Bosky town. Captain Alver’s Thornwalkers had not been able to divert the Spawn from their march of destruction down Two Fords Road. And the raids of the Wellenen upon the Horde had been of little effect, for the Men were hopelessly outnumbered. No other allies had come unto the Seven Dells, though a herald had lately ridden to Captain Stohl bearing news that more Wellenen were on the way—but they had not yet arrived. And now the Warrows tramped toward the refuge of the marshes—though it was questionable how long the fens would remain safe, for they were iced over and even Rûck and Hlôk could walk across the frozen morass.
And as the Wee Folk trudged north and west, the hard-edged darkness of the Shadowlight began to deepen.
~
Reachmarshal Ubrik wheeled his outnumbered brigade once more to face the Guula. But the corpse-folk did not array themselves to whelm down on the surviving Men. Instead, Guula sat unmoving upon Hèlsteeds and gazed at the sky above Claw Moor. And while a distant gong tolled Doom! a vast darkness slowly descended upon the land.
~
Merrilee, Burt, Dill, Teddy, and Arch—Wee Folks all—mounted upon horses led by Vanadurin, were among the last to cross the bridge and come into Modru’s dark citadel. Yet even as they thundered through the gate and clattered forth upon the fortress cobblestone and raced deep into the holt, a great spectral blackness flooded the very air. And Men cried and rubbed at their eyes, and those upon steeds reined to a halt and dismounted; and they groped forward with outstretched hands, or felt their way with extended sword or lance, for the Men could not see.
Yet the maggot-folk, too, were blinded by the cloaking blackness, and stumbled unseeing, fumbling and feeling as they went.
But still the fighting continued: hand-to-hand grappling, dirk and long-knife against kris and yataghan, blind warrior versus sightless Spawn, the Legionnaires crying Adon! as each came to grips with another, striking swiftly if they received no answer, or the wrong reply.
Yet one warrior did not need to reply, for his weapon blazed forth his identity: Red Bale’s blade-jewel still flared scarlet, and the ruby shafts of light drove through the darkness. And Elven eyes were not completely baffled by the ebon radiance, for Gildor and Flandrena both could dimly see those around them.
But it was the Warrows whose jewel-hued Utruni eyes fared best, for they could still see by the wrenching black light that streamed forth from Modru’s Iron Tower, though their vision was greatly curtailed—as if looking through a dark glass.
“They can’t see!” cried Teddy, leaping down from his steed and running forth to take the hand of the warrior who had led his horse.
Dismounting, all the Warrows stepped to the riders they had followed. “Stick with us,” said Arch, “we can see.”
“I thought I’d gone blind,” croaked Degan, and Merrilee squeezed the Man’s hand.
“What should we do?” asked Dill, peering through the blackness.
“We can pick off Rûcks and such,” answered Burt, “or we can try to do something about that.” The buccan stabbed a finger upward toward the tower whence the darkness streamed.
“You’re right, Burt,” agreed Merrilee, “we must invade that spike, for there, I think, lies the foul heart of this evil blackness . . . and it must be destroyed. But I fear we cannot do it alone. Let us go forth, gathering more warriors along the way—and quickly, for the Sun Death of the Darkest Day has come.”
And so the Wee Folk moved swiftly into the dark fortress for an assault upon the tower, collecting allies as they went—Warrows leading Men. And among those mustered and led hand in hand toward the spire was the High King of Mithgar: Galen, son of Aurion.
And somewhere within the holt a great gong tolled: Doon! . . . Doon! . . . Doom!
~
Tuck groaned and rolled over, his mind struggling upward from darkness. Through the window came the blats of Rûcken brass and the resonant calls of black-oxen horns, the cries of Men and the snarls of Spawn in combat, and the din and clash of steel upon steel. Got . . . got to get up, he muzzily thought, and tried to rise; but with a sharp hiss of air sucked in through clenched teeth, agony lancing upward from his broken foot, the buccan sank back to lie upon the cold stone floor, his legs drawn up, his entire being laced with pain. And then he remembered the looming black figure in the hideous mask. Modru! That was Modru! The Evil One! A chill dread raced through the Warrow’s veins. The Princess!
“My Lady!” Tuck gasped, his mind now fully alert as he sat up with a start and stared wildly about. Laurelin was gone, as well as Modru. T
he tower! Tuck vaguely recalled the Evil One’s hissing voice . . . something about taking the Lady Laurelin to the tower above . . . to meet her fate.
Tuck scrambled to his feet, anguish jolting up his leg. Taking up his bow and gritting his teeth, the Warrow hobbled to the door left standing ajar. A swift look down the length of the torchlit hallway revealed no maggot-folk. And so, casting his hood over his head and adjusting his cloak, and closing the leaves of the silver locket—that had somehow sprung open—and tucking it under his torn jacket, the buccan limped the few strides to the near end of the hall where steps mounted, and up these he struggled.
The steps came up to a wide, circular stone floor, nearly sixty feet in diameter. Around him the walls of the tower reared upward into high darkness, and a torchlit open stairwell clung to the side and spiraled up into the shadowed vault above.
Clamping his jaws together, bow in hand, Tuck started upward, step by torturous step, the grinding in his boot sending waves of sickening hurt through his very bones. Yet up the stairs he struggled, flight upon flight, past landing after landing, each with a window slit, and the great stone floor became lost in the blackness below. And sweating, grunting in pain, the wee Warrow slowly neared the top.
“Guttra!” a harsh voice suddenly snarled out, and Tuck gasped in startlement as the word echoed down the stairwell, for there, just one flight above upon a wide landing before a massive door, stood two scimitar-wielding Hlôks.
“Guttra!” Again came the harsh challenge, and Tuck thought to himself, Do it right, bucco, for if you miss, and if there are any more of these Spawn behind that door, it’s all over here and now.
Swiftly, the buccan plucked an arrow from his quiver and set it to string and drew, aimed, and loosed all in one motion. And ere that arrow struck, he was reaching for another. Sssthock! The first bolt struck one Hlôk full in the chest, and even as that Spawn pitched backwards . . . Ssshthwock! a second arrow pierced the other guard—this Hlôk to tumble down the flight of stairs and land with a sickening thud at the Warrow’s feet as the scimitar spun down through the blackness toward the distant stone floor below.
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