The Iron Tower Omnibus

by Dennis L McKiernan

  And the three Elves—sire, dam, and son—stepped forward to say their farewells, clasping hands and embracing these most honored guests.

  “Fare thee well, Lady Rael,” said Laurelin as they embraced. “You came to me and gave me comfort in my gravest hour of need, and drew forth my spirit from a dark place where it had fled. Those days in Gron I shall strive to forget, but I shall always remember your gentle love.”

  And the Lady Rael kissed Laurelin and held her at arm’s length, and they smiled one upon the other, and it was like unto the Sun looking upon the Moon, so fair were they.

  Gildor came to Tuck and knelt and embraced him. And when Tuck once again tried to return Bane to the Elf Lord, Gildor said, “Nay, Tuck, it is for you and yours to keep forever.”

  Gildor then turned to Patrel. “When we were together in Challerain Keep, Wee One, and I heard you strum the lute, I knew that you could master the harp, too; and so I resolved that if we both survived the War, I would give you this.” Gildor gave over to Patrel a finely wrought, black, Elven harp with glistening argent strings. “It was mine when I was a youth, and I would that it be yours, now. Small it is, yet it will fit your reach, and the sound of its music is as sweet as the pure air.”

  Patrel took the gift and held it reverently, and a gentle, vagrant zephyr caused a faint humming in the sheening web of silver. “Oh, my Lord Gildor, how can I ever take such a priceless gift? It deserves the sure hand of a master and not the clumsy fingers of a fumblewit.”

  Gildor laughed. “Fumblewit you are not, Patrel, else none of the Legion would have entered Modru’s dark citadel. Yours was the quick wit that fooled the Troll at the portcullis, and caused him to use his own hand to fling up the grille. Nay, Patrel, take the harp—did I not say you could master it? I give you my word.”

  As Gildor and Patrel laughed together, Rael came to Merrilee, and the black-haired damman turned her sapphirine gaze up into the deep blue eyes of the Elfess. “Merrilee Holt,” said Rael, smiling, “ever will I remember the ’Day I first met you: a gentle lady among warriors riding to battle. Tales will be told of your great courage and skill, long after the deeds of many of us are forgotten. Yours is a story most rare and beautiful—as are you yourself. Fare you well, Merrilee Holt, bright spirit.”

  A tear slid down Merrilee’s cheek as she and Rael embraced; and never again would the damman feel awkward in the company of anyone.

  Talarin and Vidron gripped the forearms of one another in the clasp of Harlingar warriors. “We fought well together, you and I,” said Vidron.

  “Ah, yes,” replied Talarin, “but I would that we never have to do so again.”

  Brega, too, bade his farewells, brief to all but a few. Long did he speak to Tuck and Gildor and Galen, but what he said is not recorded. Yet when he came to Igon, these were his words: “My Prince, were it not for you, none of us would be standing here today. Yours was the strength that kept us from falling, there in that black ravine. And atop the walls, you were a mighty warrior. Should ever there come a time you are in need, send for Brega, Bekki’s son, and I will come to your side.”

  At last Talarin stood before all and held up his hands; and when quiet fell o’er the assembly, he spoke: “Galen King, now you prepare to leave our peaceful vale, for much needs doing to set the Realm right again. Yet hearken: when last you came to Arden, the world was plunged into darkness, and Evil beset us all. But now the days are bright once more, and yours was the Crown to bring this wonder about. Oh, aye, it is true that you did not do it alone, but no one ever does. And it is also true that there are many heroes here among this Company—and one special hero. Yet let us not forget those who fell upon distant battlefields, for they too, heroes all, helped to achieve this victory—helped to return the miracle of light unto the world.

  “We bid you farewell, Galen King, as well as those who set forth with you. May all who leave here find peace and happiness at journey’s end.”

  Talarin fell silent, and now Galen took Tuck by the hand and led him to a dais—the buccan hobbling with the aid of a cane. And they stood together for all to see. And the High King spoke: “My Lord Talarin, all you have said is true: All of those who struggled against Evil are indeed heroes, and many fell in battle. Heed me: they shall not be forgotten.

  “Too, this War was filled with the brave acts of many—some deeds of which we will never know.

  “It is also true that none of us could have survived without the aid of others, many of whom now lie slain. And so I say that each of us who strove for Good can take great pride in our victory, no matter how large or how small our contribution.

  “Yet there is one among us whose path led him straight to the destruction of Evil—and all of the rest of us but aided him along his way.”

  And now the High King of all Mithgar did an unprecedented thing: he knelt upon one knee in high homage to a Waerling of the Land of the Thorns. And so, too, did all the assembled warriors of the Legion, as well as the Lian. And the only ones left standing were the Warrows of the Boskydells.

  And King Galen cried, “All hail Tuckerby Underbank, Hero of the Realm!”

  And thrice a great shout burst forth from the assembled throng: Hál! . . . Hál! . . . Hál!

  Tuck stood a long moment without speaking as the last echoes rang forth through the pines. His great blue eyes gazed unseeing out beyond the Men and Elves, the Warrows, and the Dwarf. At last Tuck spoke, and his voice was filled with emotion: “Cheer for yourselves, brave warriors, for had any of you been thrust along the path that I trod, you would have done as well or better than I.” And Tuck raised his voice in praise, and he was joined by all: Hál! . . . Hál! . . . Hál!

  And as the last shout cleft the air, Galen stood, and so did the throng. Merrilee rushed to Tuck and led him limping back to the waiting Warrows. And Brega was overheard to grumble, “I will not reach the Red Hills with my feet stuck here in Arden. Are you ready, Elf Flandrena?” And at Flandrena’s nod, Brega mounted his small grey pony, and Flandrena vaulted to the back of Swiftmane; and leading a pack horse, the two set out.

  As if that were a signal to all, Galen signed to Ubrik, and the Reachmarshal raised his black-oxen horn to his lips, and its resonant call pealed forth and was answered in kind by the horns of Valon.

  So, too, sounded the calls of the clarions of the Wellenen. The Warrows were lifted to the backs of horses, and all of those departing mounted up as well.

  And, amid the knells of horns and shouted good-byes, slowly the cavalcade went forth, the pace quickening as the warrior companies fell into a long column faring southward. Swiftly they overtook Brega’s plodding pony, leaving the Dwarf and Flandrena in their wake. And onward rode the great long train, through the pines along the banks of the River Tumble down through the Vale of Arden.

  And as they rode, a southerly breeze sprang up—redolent with an earthen smell, scented with the promise of new life. And the step of the horses grew light and spirited.

  It was the first day of spring.

  ~

  Two days the column fared south, and on the morning of the third day, the travellers departed from their camp near the Lone Eld Tree and passed through the hidden way under the waterfall and out into the Land of Rell.

  Soon they came to the Crossland Road, and here the Wellenen turned west to follow the road while the Harlingar continued south, striking for the old, abandoned trade-road through Rell, for they had reached the parting of the ways: the Warrows to be escorted to the Land of the Thorns, while the High King’s entourage fared to Pellar.

  Yet ere they parted, sad farewells were said as damman and buccan embraced Man and Woman, and they kissed one another, and then it was time to go. Yet Laurelin whispered into Galen’s ear, and the High King turned to Tuck and Patrel.

  “I am told that Aurion, my sire, commanded that until he personally recalled it, the Dwarf-made armor you now wear was to remain in your hands or in the possession of those you would trust.” Galen’s eyes turned to the west and n
orth toward distant Rian where lay Challerain Keep and his slain father. And he raised his voice so that all could hear: “Hearken unto me as I reaffirm the command of my sire: unless the shade of King Aurion recalls it, the armor is yours—silveron for Tuck, gilt for Patrel, and in the northern Wastes of Gron, black for Danner Bramblethorn.”

  ~

  West went the Wellen; south, the Harlingar. And as the columns parted and drew nearly beyond the sight of one another, Patrel took the argent Horn of the Reach from his saddlebag. He set the clarion to his lips and a silver call split the air. And from the distant Harlingar came the answering sound of black-oxen horn. And then the two columns passed beyond the seeing of one another.

  In midafternoon the Wellenen crossed the Tumble River at Arden Ford, passing from Rell into Rhone. The ford was still frozen, trapped under a sheet of ice, though here and there dark pools swirled where the chill grip of winter had begun to break.

  That night the Company camped within the eastern margin of the Drearwood. And Captain Falk set a double picket of Wellenen about the camp, saying, “We are in Drearwood, a place of ill repute of old. Here we will stand a double ward, for mayhap not all of the Spawn lie slain: only those Wrg caught in the sunlight died the Withering Death; those who perhaps were hidden in caverns and bolt holes would not have fallen to Adon’s Ban. And it is said that this dire wood harbors such places for the Spawn to escape the light of day. Hence, double guard, double caution, for I would deliver my charges safely unto their homes.”

  ~

  The next two days found the column pressing west through Rhone, spending the nights camped alongside the Crossland Road, still within the bounds of Drearwood. But early on the following day, the Company crossed the Stone-arches Bridge over the River Caire to ride out of Rhone and into the Wilderland caught between Rian to the north and Harth to the south; they had left the Drearwood behind.

  Onward they rode, each day faring thirty miles or more, passing through the Wilderness Hills and across the open land north of the Wilder River, journeying through the Signal Mountains where the Crossland Road skirted the northern flank of Beacontor.

  The road then led them to the upper margins of the Bogland Bottoms, faring forty miles or so along its length; and here peat moss was gathered for the campfires.

  On the eleventh day of travel, late in the evening, the column came to the rock wall surrounding Stonehill. Up to this bulwark rode the Company, coming to a halt before the east gate. The barrier was closed.

  “Who goes?” rang out a voice in sharp challenge.

  “We are the Kingsmen of Wellen,” called Captain Falk. “We escort the Heroes of the Iron Tower, and I ask that you give us shelter for the night—and hot food and drink for us all, if you can spare it.”

  “Don’t you move none,” called back the voice. “Just stand where you are till we fetch our Captain.”

  Minute after minute eked by, and the Men and horses grew restless, but at last a light could be seen atop the wall—a lantern held high in the grip of a Man, the yellow glow casting out to reveal the fore of the warrior column, the remainder of the Wellenen receding into the shadows before the gate and but dimly seen by the light of the half Moon.

  “Here now,” called down the Man, “just who did you say you were, and what’s all this about Heroes of the Iron Tower?”

  Although Tuck could see nought, still he recognized the voice of the speaker. “Hoy, Mr. Brewster!” called the buccan to the Captain of the Men of the Weiunwood Alliance. “It’s me: Tuck . . . Tuckerby Underbank!”

  Bockleman shielded his eyes from the lantern light as Tuck was led forward upon his steed. “Lor bless me!” cried the innkeeper. “Is it truly you, Master Tuck? . . . Well, so it is!” The Man turned to someone unseen by the escort. “Here now, Bill, open the gate straight away. These folks are all right if Master Tuck is with ’em.”

  As the heavy grind of the withdrawing gate-bar grumbled forth, Bockleman turned back and called down to Tuck: “I did not expect you to come ridin’ in with an escort of a couple-hundred soldiers and all, Master Tuck. We can’t be too careful hereabout these days. We’re still on a War footing, you know, even though that awful Dimmendark and such seems to be gone. I mean, the Evil in Gron might be trying to fool us, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “Nay, Mr. Brewster,” called back Tuck, “the Evil in Gron is no more: Modru is dead. The Winter War is ended.”

  Bockleman’s eyes flew wide at these tidings. “Hoy! Now there’s a good piece of news that I never thought to hear. Modru is dead! Well now, we’d got the word that the War in the south was won; but this is the first that we’ve heard of the Evil One. And better tidings we couldn’t have hoped for!”

  The gate swung open, and Men with bows and pikes could be seen, gathered to repel invaders if need be. “Bring in your Company, Master Tuck,” called Bockleman. “I can’t put you all up at the Unicorn, but perhaps other folk in the ’Hill can spare a bed or so, and stables . . . and even a warm bite or two.”

  Slowly the column filed into the cobbled ways of Stonehill, and as the last of the Wellenen rode through, the gate was once again barred, for as Bockleman said, “Though the War is done, and Adon’s Ban rules the day, still it is night and we can’t be too careful of the Rûcks and such that might be about.”

  The residents of Stonehill opened their hearts and homes to the Company: All of the Warrows and many of the Men were put up at the White Unicorn, and the stables were filled with their steeds. The rest of the Wellenen were taken into private dwellings. And all were fed.

  At the White Unicorn, the food was hot and the ale was good, and stories of combat and War were traded back and forth. And only Patrel seemed withdrawn as he sat in a corner by the fire and stared deeply into the flames. And Merrilee quietly took him a mug of ale and gently asked him if he felt well; and the wee buccan replied, “I was just remembering the last time I was in the Unicorn.” And Merrilee reached out and took his hand and squeezed it, a tear sliding down her cheek for lost Danner.

  ~

  All the next day the Company rested in Stonehill, but the dawn of the following day found the column once again ready to set forth upon the Crossland Road.

  “Well, Master Tuck,” said Bockleman as he stood beside the mounted buccan, “there’s much you’ve told us that will live long in the hearthtales of the Stonehillers. And your name will stand at the top of the list of the Heroes of the Winter War . . . Here now, don’t you go gainsaying me, for without you we’d all be slaves of the Evil One, or some such thing I shouldn’t wonder. And we’re sorry that you had to lose so much—you bein’ blind and all—but we’re glad that folks like you stood up to Evil and won. And remember this: the hands of the Big Folk and the Wee Folk of Stonehill—and I’m sure of Arbagon’s Wee Folk of the Weiunwood beyond—will always be open to you.”

  Tears glistened in Bockleman’s eyes as he looked up at the blind buccan, and the innkeeper took out a great kerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes and noisily blew his nose. Then he said, “Go on with you, now, Master Tuck. The Boskydells are waiting. And if you don’t hurry and leave, I’m going to make a fool of myself crying before my Men.”

  Captain Falk signalled to one of the Wellenen, and the call of a clarion sounded. And slowly the column set forth, hooves ringing on hard cobblestones as the Company rode toward the west gate; then out along the dirt dike they went, riding to the Crossland Road. And behind, Stonehillers cheered and waved; and Bockleman Brewster turned and went into the inn, and the sign of the White Unicorn squeaked in the breeze behind him.

  ~

  Two days they fared, camping south of the Battle Downs the first night and then in the margins of Edgewood. And mid of morning of the third day they came to the great Spindlethorn Barrier. And they rode through the thorn tunnel to come to the bridge over the Spindle River, where Thornwalker buccen opened the way to pass the column through.

  West they journeyed, and in early afternoon they came to the town of Greenfield
s. Here Patrel with an escort of Wellenen was to turn south, heading for the East Ford, and Bryn, and beyond to his home near Midwood. Ere parting company, Patrel clasped hands with each of the buccen, and he embraced Tuck and Merrilee, and the damman kissed him upon the cheek.

  “I will come to Woody Hollow to visit you,” said the wee buccan. “But not until my heart has rested from these grievous days—perhaps when the summer winds blow. Yet, today, be of good cheer, for after all is said and done, this is not a goodbye parting. And so I say, fare you well, until we meet once more.”

  In spite of Patrel’s words, there were tears in Merrilee’s eyes and a lump in Tuck’s throat when Patrel and his escort fared forth down the Bryn Road. And just before he passed beyond seeing, the silver call of the Horn of the Reach drifted o’er the rolling hills.

  And as the wondering citizens of Greenfields watched, the remaining Wellenen set out along the Crossland Road, striving for Raffin, where they would spend the night.

  ~

  The next day, westward fared the column, and at points along the way, other buccen turned aside, one at a time, to journey with escort to their homes: Dink Weller, Arch Hockley, Burt Arboran, Dill Thorven, and Teddy Proudhand—some heading north and some south as the Company rode west along the Crossland Road through Tillok and Willowdell and beyond. And everywhere the cavalcade passed, Wee Folk gathered and wondered who these Warrows were, and what they had done to ride high upon the backs of big horses and to be convoyed by a cavalry of Men.

  It was late afternoon when the Wellenen turned north along Byroad Lane, to ride through the burned-out hamlet of Budgens. Still, the village was not abandoned, for tents were pitched alongside the charred remains as the citizenry prepared to rebuild their homes and places of trade. One tent even had a sign set before it—The Blue Bull—proclaiming the intentions of the owner of that Boskydell pub to reconstruct his tavern.