by Richard Due
Lewenhoof, Greydor’s second-in-command, spat on the stone. “Dain!” he said with disgust. “That was a good day for us.”
“Oh?” said Greydor. “Can you really be so certain?” Greydor wheeled about, looking hard into Lewenhoof’s steel-blue eyes. Lewenhoof stared back without flinching, a feat few Rinn could have managed. “I am no longer so certain as you. And tell me, Lewenhoof, after we fall, who will be next?”
Lewenhoof stepped back affronted, looking up and down at Greydor as if he had lost his mind. “We will never fall!” he roared.
Greydor pointed to the earth mound. “Look at them, Lewenhoof. This is but their advance guard.” He gestured toward the valley. “Their real army lies there! In our valley! Look at them! You’ve heard the birds’ reports. You know what we’re up against. They have chosen to attack in daylight when they can see us clearly. They outnumber us a hundred to one. No, Lewenhoof, my friend, no. This day is theirs!”
Then Greydor made the decision they had all been dreading.
“We will abandon Sea Denn—immediately. We will cross the mountains to join our kin, the clan BroadPaw. There, we will defend Rihnwood and bedevil Rengtiscura for as long as one Rinn stands!”
Stealthnight, a jet-black Rinn and one of Greydor’s best field commanders, leapt to Greydor’s side. “If we give them Sea Denn now, we will be giving it to them forever. If we leave, there will be no coming back.”
Brighteye, another of Greydor’s field commanders, pounced. “Is it not better to defend here, with our battlements to protect us?”
Greydor smiled grimly. “Defend at all costs?” he said dryly. “At all costs. . . . Yes, my young friends. That is precisely what he wants. Rengtiscura has brought to our doorstep the scaramann. Bugs. Poorly armored, it is true, but he has compensated for that by bringing us a black ocean of them. They are filling our valley as we speak. They have taken Fangdelve, and once they have secured it, they will surround Sea Denn. They will need only one night to dig in! They will go underground! Never to be cleared from our valley! Then, when our food has run out, when we are weak, they will break upon our walls. Climbing from every side, they will enter our fair city through every crack and crevice. We will mow them down in great numbers—of that I have no doubt!—but they will keep coming, relentless, like the sea. In the end, we will be overrun. Sea Denn will be our tomb. No, my friends, today you stand witness to the fall of Barreth. And there is nothing we can do to stop it.” Greydor stood taller on his haunches. “Send word. Recall what forces we have in the field. We will make a run for Rihnwood. May our escape be swift.”
Brighteye and Stealthnight looked to the faces of the older generals, but it was obvious they agreed with Greydor. There was nothing to do but run.
Looking nervous at all this talk of starving Rinn and short food supplies, Generals Twirltarn and Whirlyfur, wyflings both, stepped forward. Twirltarn tugged his thick leather jerkin stiffly, as Whirlyfur adjusted the leather strap that held his metal helmet in place. Walking upright, covered in short, thick fur, the two wyflings looked like battle-hardened, child-sized otters.
“His Majesty is right,” asserted General Twirltarn. “To wait in Sea Denn with no ready supply of food would mean a slow and certain death.”
General Lewenhoof licked his lips and stared down icily at the two wyfling generals. “Slower for some than others,” he said darkly.
“That will be enough, General Lewenhoof!” barked Greydor. “Send the word. Recall our forces. Now, General!”
Lewenhoof grumbled as he crossed to the steps. But just as he was about to descend, they heard a clattering of claws on the stone steps. A Rinn scout, long and lean, bounded up the last of the steps and landed at Greydor’s paws.
“Your Majesty!” said the Rinn scout, panting. “Roan has taken his clutter behind the scaramann advance line. He is surrounded and in need of reinforcements!”
“Roan!” bellowed Greydor. “The fool! What can he be thinking!”
The scout ran to Greydor’s side at the edge of the Ridgegate and pointed to an area not far from the start of the switchbacks. And yet, far enough. “See them! They stand yet! And they have surrounded a Dain cub!”
“A Dain cub!” shouted General Lewenhoof. “What could a Dain cub be doing down there? You must be mistaken!”
Greydor hesitated, but only a second. “It is a great pity to lose a Rinn so bold,” said Greydor quietly, “but there is nothing we can do for them now.”
“Greydor,” implored Stealthnight, “we cannot leave Roan to the bugs!”
“He is pinned, Commander, look for yourself. Meanwhile, the main force of the scaramann advances; soon they will breach the mound. We must be on the move before that happens. We will lose too much time trying to save him.” Greydor turned to General Lewenhoof. “Time. Could that be his thought? A diversion to speed our retreat?”
“Retreat?” said the scout. “But then Roan will be lost.”
“Much will be lost this day,” sighed Greydor gravely. “Scout, to the valley—signal our retreat.”
At the exact moment Greydor gave his command, a light flashed brightly, then faded to a shimmer in the center of Roan’s circle. Even as far as the Ridgegate, the onlookers winced at the bright flare, but immediately the quality of the light around Roan grew clearer and more distinct to all the Rinn. The odd effect flowed outward from Roan’s circle, slowly at first, and then more quickly. It engulfed the small field before halting. Several birds passing nearby altered their courses to skirt the disturbance.
The scout looked at Greydor. “They have called down the darkness. We could still send a small force to them. They are not so far from the switchbacks. The bugs will be helpless within the field—Roan and his clutter could still fight their way back. I volunteer myself!”
“No!” commanded Greydor. “There is no time! They knew their risk.”
General Lewenhoof stepped to Greydor’s side.
“They will hold out longer in the darkness. If the scaramann take the bait, Roan could occupy them for some time in this way.”
Greydor, his keen eyes enhanced by the clarity that to any non-Rinn was anything but clear, cast a doubtful look at the shimmering field below. He could easily make out the Rinn, crouched in a tight circle, but in the very center . . . was there really something standing there?
“Curious . . .” muttered Greydor. Then, a second later, “Scout! Signal the retre—”
But Greydor did not finish his sentence. He was, instead, watching something impossible happen. The field around Roan had already filled with the spell of darkness, yet somehow the darkness was expanding—engulfing the surprised scaramann who had crawled to its edge.
“By all that is round,” hissed Greydor.
General Lewenhoof gasped. “Greydor! In times of old, in times of great need, it is said a Rinn can double, even triple, his power!”
“Bah!” scoffed Greydor. “You speak of legends!”
The scout pointed to the expanding clarity. “Look! They have halved the gap to the switchbacks!”
Greydor craned back his head to look at Mowra, his court lunamancer. She stood tall on two legs, her paws folded in her long robes. Her expression of awe as she stared slack-jawed told him everything he needed to know.
Greydor stepped to the very edge of the Ridgegate, dug his claws deep into the stone, and leaned his great head as far out as he dared. “There is something small down there,” he said quietly, “standing in the center of them.” And then, more loudly, “It does not matter how Roan has managed this. He has brought to us something the enemy cannot ignore. We will not allow his sacrifice to be in vain. Scout! Sound the call! RETRE—”
Greydor’s eyes grew wide with disbelief. A single strand of sparkling clarity had formed not two inches from his whiskers.
“For the love of moonlight!�
� he hissed.
A second strand quickly followed the first, and then another, and another, until shimmering strands danced everywhere about them. A heartbeat later, the clarity sped outward and enveloped all of Sea Denn. As it raced beyond the earth mound, it appeared to pick up speed, blanketing the valley, climbing up the mountains, racing over the sea. And though the darkness brought with it an enhanced clarity to every Rinn’s eyes, it brought to all others inescapable, impenetrable night.
Greydor blew a gasp of air that set his muffs to waggling. The great scales of balance had unexpectedly shifted, and he weighed his decision during a single beat of his heart. Taking a great breath into his lungs, he bellowed down from high atop the Ridgegate in a voice that carried to the upper city, to the lower battlements, and far beyond.
“Rout them! Rout them! Rout them!”
Below, the massive doors of the Ridgegate clanked open, and the Rinn, in all their colors and patterns, streamed through the gate and poured down the long, twisting switchbacks.
Greydor pounced on the scout.
“To the Wornot! Wake him! Wake him!” Greydor pushed the scout to the steps and ran again to the edge of the Ridgegate to look upon the confusion spreading among the scaramann. “Wake his bats!” he roared. “We will want to know where the bugs cower.”
Greydor then leapt to the corner of the Ridgegate, where two large birds had been translating the reports from the field. Squark, the large yellow bird, had already tucked her head under her wing, but Chercheer, the large blue one, fought to keep her eyes open.
“Chercheer, wake up!” commanded Greydor.
Both birds’ eyes snapped open.
“You must fly straight to Clawforge and seek out Wyrrtwitch. If the Rinnwalk has not been conjured, tell Wyrrtwitch to gather all within the tower at the lower gate, where she is to wait. They are not to enter the field without a full escort!” Greydor leaned close to Chercheer, whose eyes were growing droopy again, “Chercheer, if the Rinnwalk has been summoned, you are to report back immediately. We cannot afford to waste a single Rinn’s time this day!”
Chercheer fought off a yawn. “I will make it very clear,” she chirped, tucking her head under her wing.
Frowning at the bird, Greydor shouted for Mowra. “Mowra, give Chercheer the sight! Immediately!”
Mowra towered over the two sleeping birds. “And what of the other?” she asked.
“Yes! Yes! Give them both the sight. But be quick about it. I will need you after.”
A savage gleam lit Greydor’s fierce eyes as he rounded on his commanders.
“Brighteye, send out the word. Empty Sea Denn of every whelp that can swing a paw.”
Greydor lowered his head to face his two wyfling generals.
“Twirltarn, Whirlyfur, round up every wirtle you can set a paw to, arm yourselves with lances, and prepare for the true night. Roan’s darkness will not last forever. Be ready for when your eyesight will once again be sharp.”
The two wyflings, blind in Roan’s darkness, squinted in Greydor’s approximate direction and saluted no one in particular. Groping at the air with his paws, General Whirlyfur took two steps forward and unknowingly pinched Greydor’s nose. Whirlyfur quickly realized his mistake, snapping to attention again and saluting Greydor a second time.
“Please accept my apologies, Your Majesty!” he yelped.
General Lewenhoof was not amused.
“Think nothing of it, General Whirlyfur,” Greydor chuckled, “you will have your sight soon enough.” He bounded away to an ancient-looking Rinn.
“Don’t say it!” the old Rinn complained.
Greydor laid a massive paw on the old Rinn’s shoulder. “Rasp, my old friend, rouse those too old for battle—”
“Too old!” interrupted Rasp. “Too! Do you think me so old that I cannot rake down helpless bugs? Because I can assure you—”
Greydor lowered his voice. “I need you to organize the old-paws. The larders must be emptied. The warriors will need plenty of food and drink. We will need many wagonloads.”
“So, I’m to be a caterer now, am I? Is that what becomes of—”
“Listen to me, my friend. The wagons must be full. The bats will show you where to place them. There will be no sleep for the Rinn this night, and our forces will need something hardier than bugs to carry them till dawn.”
“But Greydor, it will take forever to get all the wagons together. We’ll miss the fight!”
Greydor smiled and leaned in close to Rasp’s tattered ear. “I don’t know how long Roan’s darkness will last, but surely it will not stand the night, the true night, and when it fails, the bugs will regain their sight. That is when the true battle for Barreth will begin. That is when you will have all the bugs you can set a claw to—and then some. And Rasp, I promise you, they will be fierce!”
The old-paw grinned, showing his many missing teeth. “But not as fierce as the Rinn,” he said, holding up his graying paw and unsheathing his two and a half remaining claws.
Greydor nodded. “Go! May you cast no shadows.”
Greydor leapt to Squark and Chercheer, who now looked as physically alert as Mowra looked depleted.
“Squark, there must be many Rinn stranded in the field. Tell all you see to assemble at the foot of Sea Denn. And warn everyone away from Fangdelve. Go!”
Two fresh scouts arrived at the top of the Ridgegate. “Find me Roan!” Greydor roared. “Tell him to cut loose his warriors!” And then, in a voice just loud enough for the scout to hear, he said, “Tell Roan I want to talk to this Dain cub in the Great Hall. Tell him if I am not there, then he is to take his orders from Nimlinn.”
Their orders received, the scouts vanished down the Ridgegate steps.
“Mowra,” bellowed Greydor, “come with me. We must make contact with the clan Broadpaw.”
Mowra’s shoulders drooped. “It is a long way to Rihnwood.”
“Are you too tired?”
“No, but they will never get here in time.”
“Not for this battle, but we will need them to retake Fangdelve. The scaramann were wise to attack it first. I dare not leave them there indefinitely. I am sure those bugs are planning more than mischief.”
“But Greydor, in time, Fangdelve will surely become their tomb.”
Greydor paused and narrowed his eyes at Mowra. “Need I remind you that Fangdelve is older than Sea Denn itself? It goes deep, Mowra, deep into the roots of Barreth. He’s wanted that tower before. He’s had that tower before.”
Mowra smiled. “And not even the fabled Rinnjinn could get him out? Is that it, Greydor? We are believing in myths now?”
“Perhaps, Mowra, perhaps. Nonetheless, we will want every able paw before we attempt to retake it. We would do well to have the bows of our forest kin at our sides.”
Before leaving the Ridgegate, Greydor turned to address his remaining commanders. “Rally your forces!” he roared. “Strike fast! Strike hard! Do not let them taunt you into any traps. When tired, resort to stealth. Use the wagons as often as possible. Stay fresh. Stay rested. Be ready for the true night. I will join you soon enough.”
Chapter Seven
Roan’s Darkness
From his first words, Roan noticed something different at the center of things—something like a lodestone, only stronger. Immediately, he built this strange force into the enchantment; by anchoring himself to it, he would be able to increase the area of darkness, perhaps enough to cover half the way to the switchbacks.
When the darkness first extended beyond the fields, the other Rinn thought that Roan had sacrificed himself to increase the enchantment. But Roan’s mind was safely intact, thanks to the lodestone. Sealing the enchantment would be the trick. While contemplating the spell, Roan became aware of possibilities he’d never imagined. He didn’t hesi
tate. For this chance, he was prepared to give his life, even if it meant taking half his clutter with him.
Anchored to the lodestone, Roan threw wide the gates of their enchantment. And then, as the flood of magic poured forth, he clung to the lodestone for dear life. As the caster, Roan alone bore the brunt of this force, but he clung to the lodestone. Only when Roan was certain Sea Denn was safe did he seal the enchantment, as though closing some great door. But to Roan’s great surprise, the darkness continued beyond Sea Denn, washing throughout the valley and across the land.
“Roan,” said Sheen, in a hushed and reverent voice. “How?”
The darkness was racing for the mountains now, for the very horizons.
Roan’s eyes touched on Lily, who, now enveloped in the darkness, could see nothing.
“I do not know,” he said softly. “But this is no time to dwell on mysteries. You have the protection of darkness. Move quickly. Make for Fangdelve. Warn off all you encounter, but keep your distance from the tower—there’s no telling what evil they have unleashed. The only way to re-take the tower now will be by siege. Send everyone you meet to the foot of the switchbacks.”
“Roan, what of the bugs?” asked Wizcurs, licking his lips.
“Keep focused on your task! Even blinded they will try to trap and overrun you. Do not fall prey to their taunts. Go! Now!”
Roan’s clutter leapt from the circle as one, leaving them alone in the darkness.
Lily heard the Rinn shift his enormous weight, and a sudden blast of warm breath blew into her face. She imagined his great emerald eyes inches before her own.
“I must take you to a safer place,” said the Rinn. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I can’t see anything,” she said.
“That is a result of an enchantment we have cast. I, however, can see perfectly well. Do not be afraid.”
