Though no one knew it at the time, the great storms were to rage without letup for nine days:
~
On the afternoon of the first day, Free Folk everywhere warily eyed the glowering skies and hurried toward shelter. In Gron, that shelter was in the dark fortress itself where the Legion sought comfort and the wounded were treated. And one of those wounded was a blinded Warrow.
Lord Gildor, who was skilled in medicine, had examined Tuck’s eyes; yet the Elf could not suggest any remedy to the healer concerning the buccan’s sight, although Gildor did say that the Dara Rael in Arden perhaps could help, for she had more skill in healing than anyone else he knew. Gildor mixed a sleeping draught for Tuck to quaff later, for it could be seen that the buccan was in considerable pain and would need the potion to rest.
That night, a fever came upon Tuck, and he alternately quaked with chills and burned with fire. His seared face and hands were ever hot to the touch, and his body at times was drenched in perspiration while at other times was parchment dry.
Warrows came to sit with him ’round the clock, and they daubed his face and hands with the solution of water and herbs.
Yet Tuck did not waken, though at times his eyes were wide open as he startled up in delirium to wildly cry out warnings and to call names and to implore that someone, anyone, give aid to those in need that only he could see: phantoms from other days, other places: Hob, Tarpy, Aurion, Danner.
And outside, the great storm hammered at the ramparts and towers, ravening at the stone and hurling snow and ice down upon the fortress.
~
The next day, fluid-filled blisters rose up on Tuck’s face and hands. At times when he seemed partially awake the attending Warrows tried to get him to eat; yet he retched even upon water and could keep nothing down.
And still the storm raged across the wasteland and rammed into the fortress, clawing at the citadel.
~
On the fourth day, Tuck’s fever broke, and he spoke with a saneness that had been missing from his voice. Dink was with him at the time, and had been in the process of daubing the sunscald liquid on Tuck’s face when the bedridden Warrow whispered quite clearly, “Who is with me?” For although he looked directly at Dink, Tuck’s eyes could not see.
“It’s me, Tuck . . . Dink Weller,” said Dink, daubing more solution on Tuck’s right hand.
“Hullo, Dink.” Tuck’s voice was raspy. “Would you have something to drink? My throat feels as if all the burning sands of Karoo were inside.” Quickly Dink poured water into a cup and propped Tuck up and held the cup to the buccan’s lips, and Tuck drank greedily.
“Whoa now, Tucker,” cautioned Dink. “The healer said to take it slow: little nips over a time.”
Sipping, Tuck finished that cup and another and then sank back upon the bed. “Merrilee . . . where’s Merrilee?”
“Ah, Tuck, she’s sleeping,” answered Dink. “Day and night she’s been here. And she ran herself into the ground. Some of us finally dragged her off to a bed of her own, and she was dead to the world the moment she laid down.”
A small smile played across Tuck’s cracked lips, and he closed his eyes and said nought else. And Dink slipped from the room and ran to fetch Merrilee, but when they returned, Tuck had fallen into a deep, natural slumber.
Dink insisted that Merrilee return to her bed, and she went without argument, for now she knew that her buccaran was going to be all right. And the damman crawled back under her blankets with her heart lightened, while outside the wind moaned and howled and snow hurtled across the ’scape.
~
The next morning, with the aid of Arch and Burt, Tuck tottered out of his bed to relieve himself, refusing to spend one more moment being cared for, as he put it, “. . . as if I am a helpless babe.” Yet it was all the buccan could do to keep from swooning when he first stood upright.
The healer came and pronounced Tuck fit to take meals, and Merrilee brought him breakfast, meager though it was: gruel and bread and hot tea. Yet to Tuck it was a sumptuous banquet, but he could not eat it all.
And Tuck rested propped abed, while Merrilee sat; and they quietly talked—whenever the buccan was awake, that is, for Tuck frequently fell asleep even as they conversed. At these times, Merrilee would sit lost in her own thoughts, listening to the storm and waiting for Tuck to awaken again, and then they would talk on. And they spoke of many things, some more important than others:
“The King has come every day, Tuck,” said Merrilee, softly. “He’s been most worried about you. They say he smiled for the first time in days when he heard your fever had broken.”
“He’ll make a good King, Merrilee,” responded Tuck. The buccan fell silent a moment, then: “How’s the Lady Laurelin? And Prince Igon? And the others . . . how do they fare?”
“Well,” answered Merrilee, “the Princess is wan, for she too has been ill from the sunscalding of the burning Myrkenstone, though not as gravely as you, Tuck. But she’s been up and about for the last two days, and she spends much of her time visiting the wounded.
“As for Prince Igon, his wounds—shoulder and wrist—are healing well. And he also has come to see you, as well as many others.
“Lord Gildor and Flandrena both are well, though Gildor was stabbed in the leg, and Flandrena took a cut across the cheek: he’ll bear a scar the rest of his days . . .”
Merrilee fell silent as her words were drowned out by a rising howl of the blast hammering and clawing at the tower. And as the wind fell back to a sobbing moan, the damman stood and stepped to the fire, stirring up the blaze with an iron ere taking her seat once more.
“This storm is terrible, Tuck,” she said, again pulling a blanket ’round her shoulders. “It has set everyone’s teeth on edge, even the King’s, for we’ve been trapped inside these squalid Rûcken quarters for five days now—the entire Legion—and all are restless and cross, nettled . . . everyone except Brega, that is.”
“Brega?” Tuck’s voice was full of surprise, for he knew the Dwarf’s bellicose nature, and if anyone were to have his hackles up, it would be Brega.
“Oh yes, Tuck,” answered Merrilee. “Why, if it weren’t for Brega, no one could get between the buildings at all. I don’t know how he manages to do it, but the storm doesn’t seem to turn him around: against all advice, he was the first to venture outside, and he’s done it many times since; yet Brega always seems to know how to get back safely. Why, they say he’s even been outside the walls: through the gate and over the bridge and beyond. But why he went, what he did there, he will not speak of it.
“And, he’s guided King Galen, Prince Igon, and Princess Laurelin—as well as many others—between the buildings through that swirling white blast; but they say that Brega moves as if he’s on a well-trod path.
“Why, I do believe that the horses would have starved had Brega not led some Men to the stables to care for the steeds. And the horses, well, they too are skittish and cross, living in that Hèlsteed stink the way they do. I pity them in those foul stables. But at least Brega took the Men there to feed and water the poor beasts.”
Tuck listened to the juddering wind. “So Brega goes out into the storm,” mused the buccan, shaking his head, “and to care for horses at that.” The shriek of the blizzard climbed higher, and Tuck fell silent while his memories slipped back to recall the howling whiteness along the edges of the Dimmendark where nothing could be seen in the hurtling fling; and he knew that if the blizzard raging now was anything like that, then it was indeed a wonder that Brega could fare in safety.
Merrilee stood once more and stepped to the window and peered out through the heavy drapes. With a shudder, Tuck came out of his reverie at the sound of the curtains being thrust aside. “Is it gone, Merrilee?” he asked.
“Wha . . . what?” The damman turned. “I’m sorry, Tuck . . . the wind noise . . . I didn’t hear what you said.”
“The Dimmendark,” responded Tuck. “Is it gone? Is it truly gone?”
�
�Yes, my buccaran, it is gone,” answered Merrilee. “It is truly gone. The land is free of Shadowlight.”
Tuck turned his sightless eyes toward his hands folded in his lap. “Oh . . . I would love to see that.”
Merrilee faced once more toward the storm, and the sound of her weeping was lost in the wind.
~
Over the next two days, Tuck rapidly gained strength, and the sunscald diminished greatly. With the help of others to see for him, Tuck hobbled on crutches along the corridors. Too, he would sit in his room with his broken foot propped up and chat with visitors. And many came to see him: Galen, Igon, Laurelin, Brega, Gildor, Flandrena, Ubrik, numerous warriors of the Legion, and, of course, the Warrows. To all, Tuck seemed of good cheer, and he spoke at length with each of them, yet those who knew him best—Merrilee, Patrel, Galen, Gildor, Laurelin, even Brega—could see that Tuck was given to long lapses of deep introspection; and they spoke softly among themselves, voicing their concern for the Woody Hollow buccan; yet none knew aught to do.
~
On the eighth day of the blizzard, the wind diminished somewhat, and the snow slackened to the point where dim shapes could be seen across the courtyards; and though the storm still raged, Legionnaires could now guide themselves without the aid of Brega. The spirits of many began to climb, for they speculated that the great angry tempest hammering upon the land out of the distant Boreal Sea was at last coming to an end. And the crossness of the past few days began to melt away, and once again the talk was bright when Legionnaires grouped together.
All of the Warrows had gathered in Tuck’s room, to sit and chat and speculate on how soon it would be ere the journey homeward would begin; and eventually the talk turned to the Winter War and the Struggles. And as is the wont of warriors everywhere, they began to tell stories of combat and danger, of heroism and hardship, and of feats both fearsome and foolish. And, too, as is also the wont of warriors, the Warrows laughed in one minute and grew sober the next, and frequently talked all at once or fell into long silences. Yet at other times there were moments of unbearable poignancy:
“Ar . . . the worst part of being snowed in here,” said Teddy Proudhand, “is the food: nothing but gruel, crue, hard bread, and tea.”
There was a general murmur of agreement, but Tuck said, “Hold on there, at least we’ve now got the gruel, the bread, and the tea. When King Galen and I trekked from Weiunwood to Arden, all we had was crue and water.”
Several Warrows groaned in sympathy, and a sharp laugh came from Patrel. “Hoi, you’re right, Tucker. Let me tell you about the time in the abandoned town of Stonehill in the empty White Unicorn Inn when all that we had to eat was our crue with some leeks found by Danner . . .” Patrel’s voice dropped into silence, and his green eyes clouded with tears. And without saying another word, he arose and stepped to the fire and stood with his back to the others and stared into the depths of the flames.
For long moments silence reigned in the room, and then to break the sad mood upon them all, Burt Arboran said, “Ar, Tuck, tell us about cuttin’ the Gargon’s leg. Be this the sword you used? What did you say as its name was?” Burt picked up the long-knife in its worn leather sheath.
“It is called Bane,” responded Tuck, clearing his throat and wiping his cheeks with the heel of one hand.
Burt grasped the hilt and pulled the blade from the scabbard. “Oi!” exclaimed the buccan. “Does it always glow blue like this?” A cobalt flame flickered along the edges of the sword.
“Blue?” exclaimed Tuck. “Is it glowing? Does the blade-jewel burn with an inner fire?”
Forgetting that Tuck could not see, Burt nodded, bobbing his head up and down, but Merrilee quickly said, “Yes, Tuck! The jewel is lit. The blade flames, too.”
“Someone get Lord Gildor,” snapped Tuck, “and King Galen. And hurry! Evil is about.”
~
The voices of warriors and the rattle of arms and the jingle of armor sounded from the hall; and Princess Laurelin and Merrilee stood as King Galen, Lord Gildor, and Brega came wearily into the room.
“Nought,” said Galen, removing his gauntlets and dropping tiredly into a chair. “Though the Legion has searched high and low throughout this holt, still we’ve found nought.” He turned a questioning eye toward Gildor.
“Evil is here, Galen King,” said the Elf. “Both Bane and Bale whisper of it.”
“Do they glimmer because this fortress itself is vile?” asked Tuck from his chair by the fire.
“Ah, nay, Wee One,” answered Gildor. “Only to living evil will the blade-jewel glow: usually to creatures who are of the Untargaarda—Ruch, Lok, Troll, Ghûlk, and the like—though now and again the gems will respond to a vile being of Mithgar . . . the Hèlarms, some Dragons . . .”
“Arr,” growled Brega, sitting crosslegged in the floor, “no matter how long the list of foul things these blades can warn of, King Galen has said it: we found nought, though we searched high and low.”
“The dungeons under the tower?” Laurelin’s voice was strained. “When I was held within a cell there, a creature, a monster of the dark . . .” The Princess shuddered and stared into the fire.
Galen reached out and took her hand. “Aye, my Lady, we strode by torchlight through that most vile of pits. If ever a place could be said to be evil . . .” Galen’s voice trailed off, and his lips pressed grimly into a thin line.
Silence reigned for a moment, then: “At the deepest level, the passages issue into a labyrinth of caverns,” said Lord Gildor, “branching off in a myriad of directions. These we did not search, for they are dark and bodeful; and I did not like their look, nor did I wish to trod them. Too, any mind mayhap would be mazed and get lost in their twisting ways to never again come to the light of day.”
“There you are not correct, Elf Gildor,” objected Brega. “Neither I nor any Dwarf would get lost in any cavern, for we cannot lose our feet—’tis a gift of Elwydd. Even so, I agree with you on one point: I would not freely set foot in that foul place under, for it is a Squam grot . . . And now I know why it is said that the Utruni detest the Grg, for there below I saw how the Squam defile the living stone itself. But think you upon this thought: mayhap the blades glow because one or two Ükhs escaped and now hide in that abomination beneath.”
Again silence fell upon the room, and about the dungeons no more was said, though the grim looks upon the faces of those who had been there spoke volumes.
Again there came from the hallway the sound of approaching soldiery, and Patrel, Igon, and Flandrena came into the room as other warriors of the Legion continued on down the passage.
Galen glanced up at Igon, and the Prince shook his head. “Fruitless,” said the youth. “We found nought in the entire tower but this.”
Laurelin gasped as Igon handed a hideous dark helm to Galen.
“What is it?” asked Tuck, unable to see.
“I don’t . . .” Merrilee started to say, but she was interrupted by the Princess:
“It is Modru’s iron mask, Tuck,” said Laurelin, unable to tear her eyes away from the grotesque helm.
Galen drew his cloak over the iron vizard, concealing it from Laurelin’s view. “Nothing else?” he asked.
Igon glanced from Flandrena to Patrel. “Nothing,” said the Prince.
“But wait,” spoke up Tuck. “What about Modru’s ’Stone knife? Wasn’t it there in the tower, too?”
“No, Tuck,” answered Patrel. “And I especially looked for it, too, even though you warned me that it might draw at my vision. But it wasn’t there.”
“Perhaps it burned up with the Myrkenstone,” suggested Flandrena. “The destruction of the one could have been the ruin of the other.”
“You may be right, Elf Flandrena,” rumbled Brega. “And you may be wrong. But it is in my mind that whatever creature it is that causes the swords to glow mayhap has taken the ’Stone knife.”
At Brega’s words, Tuck’s heart raced in his breast, for if the Dwarf was right, anothe
r feartoken was loose in Mithgar. Would it someday fulfill its evil destiny?
~
That night a double guard was posted, for none knew whether evil would strike in the dark. Bane and Bale were watched closely, yet their glimmers spoke only of a distant threat that came no closer in the night. And the talk among the Men was how fiercely the Warrows themselves guarded the blind one’s room.
~
Throughout the ninth day, the fury of the storm continued to abate. The howling shriek of the wind fell to a moan and then to a murmur, and by day’s end only a gentle snow wafted lightly down upon the land.
Earlier in the afternoon, warriors had been put to work clearing a path from the stables to the gate, and scouts had been sent forth upon the moor. And as darkness fell they came riding in to report that huge drifts had accumulated near every great rock and tor and swale; but out upon the flats, the fierce blast had blown the snow across the moor and it had not foregathered to any significant depth—why, in some places the land had even been scrubbed bare by the wind.
Upon hearing this news, King Galen turned to Ubrik. “What say you, Reachmarshal? Should the waning storm come to an end tonight, as it seems likely, will the Legion be ready for travel on the morrow?”
“Aye, my King,” replied Ubrik, with a fierce grin. “All are eager to leave this foul place and come once more to the wide lands and open skies of Valon where the swift horses race free o’er the clean grass.”
“Then so be it,” responded Galen. “If the snow stops, on the morrow we ride.”
Glad shouts rose up at such news, and all prepared for the long journey home. Litters had been made for those most severely wounded, and they would be drawn slowly southward upon travoises with healers and an escort in attendance. Yet it was incumbent upon the King to go swiftly to Pellar, for much needed doing to set the Kingdom right; and so he and the bulk of the Legion would ride ahead—though they would not fare south at the grueling pace that had borne them north.
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