The Dark Tide

by Dennis L McKiernan

  "My Lady," he said approaching her, "there is a warm charcoal fire along the wall a bit, yet the view to the north is the same." He led her and her Lady-in-waiting to the brazier where the hot coals burned.

  Laurelin warmed herself and then stepped to a nearby crenel. Long she looked, and Tuck stood on the shelf at her side gazing northward, too. At last she spoke: "There was a time, a happier time, when on clear days a low range of hills could be seen to the north. The Argent Hills, my Lord Galen called them. Often we stood upon this very wall and spoke of living alone in a cottage by a stream in the pines there. Daydreaming. Now the Argent Hills can be seen no longer, for they have been swallowed by that terrible blackness. Yet I know that they are still there, behind the dark wall, just as is my beloved." Laurelin turned, and she and her Lady went back to the narrow span leading into the castle. Tuck said nought as he sadly watched her go. And behind to the north, the Land waited in airy silence.

  The next evening, Laurelin again came for her sunset vigil along the north wall, searching the plains and horizon just before the dusk, while Tuck stood quietly by.

  Long moments fled, and the plains were empty of returning warriors. At last Laurelin spoke: "Ah, but I do not like looking for my Lord out over the barrows of dead heroes. He stands in harm's way, and gazing past graves would seem to portend no good."

  "Graves, my Lady?" Tuck's voice was filled with puzzlement.

  "Aye, Sir Tuck, graves." Laurelin pointed down into the foothills near the north wall. "Do you see that tumbled ring of stone jutting up through the snow? It stands in the center of the barrows of nobles and warriors felled in Wars past."

  Tuck looked, and in the deepening shadows he saw snow-covered rounded mounds of elden turved barrows. But his eye was drawn to the center of all mounds, where an ancient ruin of fallen stone lay ajumble—a ruin that once was a ring of tall standing stones. And in the midst of the ring… "My Lady, what is that in the stone ring's center?"

  "A crypt, Sir Tuck, a crypt, hidden in summer by a tangle of vines and in winter by a blanket of snow." Laurelin's eyes grew reflective. "Lord Galen took me once to see it—the ancient tomb of Othran the Seer, according to legend, Othran who came from the sea, they say, a survivor of Atala, lost forever. But that is only legend, and none knows for certain. Yet the worn carvings in the stone are arcane runes of an elden time, and only the Lian Guardians are said to have read them, for the Lian are skilled at tongues and writings."

  "Runes?" Tuck blurted, drawn by the mystery of a lost language.

  "Aye." Laurelin thought a bit. "My Lord Galen says that there is an eld inscription: Loose not the Red Quarrel Ere appointed dark time. Blade shall brave vile Warder From the deep, black slime. Those are the words the Elves are said to have ciphered from yon stone."

  "What do they mean?" asked Tuck. "Red quarrel, vile Warder, appointed dark time."

  "I cannot say," laughed Laurelin, "for it is a riddle beyond my knowing. Sir Tuck, you ask me to answer an enigma that has stumped the sages ever since Elf first came upon the crypt in elden times, since Man first settled these lands and chose to place his barrows around an ancient tomb, even then a ruin, in the hope that the wraith of the mystic seer of Atala would give guide to the shades of Man's own fallen heroes."

  Tuck looked down upon the tower in wonder as Laurelin spun forth the eld tale. Slowly the shadows mustered unto the low foothills, and when the Princess fell silent, darkness covered the land. Finally Laurelin bade Tuck goodeve and disappeared into the castle. Tuck watched her go, and then his vision was drawn again toward the darkness where stood the jumbled ring of stone. And he pondered the riddle of the carven runes, etched words of a long-lost tongue.

  On the third evening Laurelin, looking down at Tuck, asked the small Warrow, "Do you have a beloved? Oh, I think you must. Do I see a sweetheart's favor around your neck?"

  Tuck fumbled at Merrilee's silver locket, lifting the chain over his head. "Yes, my Lady," he answered, "only, in the Boskydells a sweetheart is called 'dammia,' er, I mean, I would call her dam***mia' while she would call me 'buccaran.' That is what we Warrows name each other, uh, Warrow sweethearts, that is. And yes, this is my dammia's favor, given to me on the day I left my home village of Woody Hollow." Tuck handed her the locket and chain.

  "Why, this is beautiful, Tuck. An ancient work. Perhaps from Xian, itself." Laurelin pressed a hidden catch and the locket sprang open. Tuck was dumbfounded, for although he had touched the locket often, he had not known that it actually opened.

  "My, she is very pretty," said Laurelin, looking closely. "What is her name?"

  "Merrilee," said Tuck, his hands atremble, yearning to take the locket back to see what face it held.

  "A lovely name, that." Laurelin glanced to the brooding north. "My Lord Galen wears mine own golden locket at his heart, but no portrait has it, just a snippet of my hair. It must ever be so, that warriors in all times and all Lands have carried the lockets of their loved ones upon their breasts. If not lockets, then other tokens do soldiers bear into danger, to remind them of a love, hearth, home, or something or someone else dear to their hearts." Laurelin clicked shut Tuck's silver locket and handed it into his trembling hands, and turned once more to look beyond the abutment and across the winter plains.

  Tuck eagerly fumbled at the locket, discovering at last that it opened by pressing down upon the stem where attached the chain. Click! The leaves of the locket fell open in his hand—mirrored silver on the left, and a miniature portrait of… it was Merrilee! Oh, my black-haired dammia, you are so beautiful. As he stood upon the cold granite rampart, all of his loneliness, his longing for quiet evenings before the fire at The Root, and his love for Merrilee welled up through his very being, and his vision blurred with tears.

  "Ah, Sir Tuck, you must miss her very much," said the Princess.

  Blinking back his tears, Tuck looked up to see Laurelin's sad grey eyes upon his blue ones. "Yes, I do. And, you know, I didn't realize just how much until I saw her portrait just now." Tuck shuffled his feet, embarrassed. "You see, until you opened the locket, I didn't know she was there, all the time secretly next to my heart."

  Laurelin's laughter had the ring of silver bells chiming in the wind, and Tuck smiled. "Ah, but Sir Tuck, did you not know?" asked the Princess. "We Women and dammen do practice our secret arts to remain in the hearts of our Men and buccen." And they laughed together.

  Yet in the waning light of day and by candleflame throughout the night, again and again Tuck gazed at Merrilee's likeness, for now it seemed she was closer to him, and he could not seem to get his fill of her image. The young buccen of his squad smiled to see him peering at the locket, but Danner merely snorted, "Faugh! Moonstruck calf!"

  The next afternoon when Laurelin came to the north wall, there was a deep look of sadness about her, and desperately she scanned the sullen horizon.

  "My Lady, you seem… disturbed." Tuck looked out over the remote snowy plains.

  "Have you not heard, Sir Tuck?" Laurelin turned her gaze to him, her grey eyes pale. "The waggons arrived yestereve. Even now a first caravan presses south, and a second one forms. A train will leave each day, bearing Women and children, oldsters and the infirm, until we are all gone. And my beloved ranges far north, and I fear I will not get to see him ere I must board the last wain of the final caravan."

  "And when might that be, Princess?" Tuck turned to Laurelin, and her face was shadowed within her hood "The first day of Yule," said Laurelin, forlornly. "That day, too, I become nineteen."

  "Ai!" exclaimed Tuck. "The last of Yule is my dammia's birthday, and for her it is an age-name birthday, too. It's when Merrilee turns twenty, no longer a maiden but a young damman she becomes. Oh my, but neither she nor you have been given much cause to be merry."

  "High King Aurion has granted me but one more day of vigil after this eve. But on my birthday, the shortest day of the year—First Yule, just two days hence—the last waggon train departs, bearing south to Pellar. And I go wi
th it, to Caer Pendwyr." The Princess looked crestfallen.

  "Ai-oi! But it is your birthday," said Tuck, attempting to brighten her spirit. "At least we have that to celebrate, though I have no gift for you, nought but a smile, that is."

  Tentatively the Princess smiled back, brushing aside a stray flaxen lock. "Your presence alone is gift enough, Sir Tuck. Yes, your presence gladdens me. Please do come to my birthday feast tomorrow night on Yule Eve. High King Aurion holds the celebration in the Feast Hall, and all the Captains are to attend. Ah, but they are such stern warriors, all cheerless but for Marshal Vidron, Igon, and, of course, the King himself."

  "But, my Lady," protested Tuck, "I am no Captain. I and Danner are but Lieutenants. It is Captain Patrel you would invite."

  "Nonsense!" Laurelin tossed her head. "I'll invite whom I please. After all, it is my birthday we celebrate. Yet, would it make you happier, I invite all three—Captain Patrel, Sir Danner, and yourself, Sir Tuck."

  "But we have nought to wear except our rude clothes, not fine jerkins nor shiny helms nor—" Tuck's protests were interrupted by a stamp of Laurelin's foot.

  "But me no buts, Sirrah!" she exclaimed, her sad mood now replaced by one of amused determination. A smile played at the corner of her mouth, her eyes twinkled, and her mode of speaking now dropped into that of formal court parlance: "I shall see to the petty details of thy raiment. Tomorrow eve, gather thy two friends unto thee at the change of watch. I will meet thee here at the wall, as is my wont, and then we will get thee hence to be fitted, for I have secret knowledge of the whereabouts of clothes just thy size but fit for a Prince. Then thou shall be dressed for my party, be it one of farewell or of a birthday anniversary or simply a celebration of the coming Yule."

  Tuck threw up his hands in surrender, resigned to the inevitable, and the Princess laughed at the look upon the face of her diminutive, newfound confidant. Then, while Laurelin spoke of Lord Galen and Tuck listened, the Warrow and Princess gazed over the waiting snow until it became too dark to see.

  During the early part of the next day-watch, one of Laurelin's Ladies-in-waiting came first to Tuck, then to Danner, and lastly to Patrel and took their measurements with a tailor's tape. Yet when queried by the curious Warrows as to what was to be done with the figures, the Lady merely smiled and answered not their questions.

  That day all three were the targets of the jests and japes of their fellow Warrows: "Ar, keeps yer thumbs out o' the soups if you please, me buccoes," said Dilby. "Mind your p's and q's, and stay off the Ladies' toes when you dance," laughed Delber. "Watch out for lettin' your little fingers droops as you takes your tea," cautioned Argo. "Mind you now, eats with your knifes and forks, and don't go tearing into it with just yer little teeths like a common hanimal," added Sandy. Throughout the day the good-natured remarks assaulted Tuck's, Danner's, and Patrel's ears, accompanied by raucous guffaws.

  An hour before sunset, Laurelin came alone to stand at the wall and search for sign of the return of her betrothed. Long she sought, but again the vigil bore no fruit, for the expectant plains lay empty as great flat shadows mustered upon the distant prairie. The darkening land seemed poised upon the brink of doom, yet nought stirred in the deepening gloom. As the last of the Sun dipped below the horizon, the ward-relief appeared, and so, too, did Tuck and Danner and Patrel. Sadly, Laurelin turned away from her watch, for this was her last night. Tomorrow would see her depart south, and who, then, would look for her beloved? She sank to a ledge and put her face between her hands and wept silently.

  Laurelin cried as Tuck, Danner, and Patrel stood helpessly by, not knowing aught else to do. At last Tuck took her hands in his own and said, "Fear not, my Lady, for as long as I can I will come hence to be your eyes, to watch in your stead. And when Lord Galen comes at last, I will tell him of your lasting love." And Laurelin clasped Tuck to her and wept even more so. And he held her and soothed her while a tear ran down Patrel's cheek, and Danner, in dull rage, looked out over the empty stillness toward Modru's black wall.

  After long moments, Laurelin's tears began to subside, and she looked at the three Warrows and then quickly away, as if afraid to catch their eyes with her own. "I am shamed by my outburst, for often I have been told that a Princess should not be seen to weep, yet I could not help myself. Oh my, I seem to be lacking a kerchief."

  Patrel stepped forth and gave her his own. "A gift my Lady, for it is your birthday eve."

  "I have acted more as if it were a funeral, keening my lamentation," said Laurelin, wiping her tears away, gently blowing her nose.

  "Then, Princess, I suggest we give over this whole night to the singing of dirges," smiled Patrel, and Laurelin laughed at the absurdity. "If not dirges, then, let us instead celebrate, for I know where they're holding a party tonight, though we have nought but rags to wear."

  Again Laurelin laughed, and she rose up and clasped one of Patrel's hands and twirled him about. "Ah yes, such lowly beggar's garb you wear," Laurelin crowed, "yet I know where we can remedy that, and then perhaps all four of us can slip into that party of yours and not be cast back out the door. Come." And smiling secretively unto herself, the Princess led the three Warrows into the castle, to the old living quarters of the royal family, to a long-abandoned room. Inside was a waiting valet, there to attend the three young buccen, much to their surprise.

  "I shall return in a trice," said Laurelin, mischievously. They heard the sound of a distant gong. "Hasten, for the guests now gather and we would not be late to the feast." She slipped out the door and left them with the valet.

  In an adjoining room three hot baths had been prepared in great copper tubs, and the Warrows wallowed and sloshed in the soapy suds. But they were soon herded out by the servant, who bade them to hurry and dry themselves for betimes the Princess would return. They found awaiting them soft silken garments, both under and over—stockings and shoes and beribboned trews, blue for Tuck, scarlet for Danner, and pale green for Patrel, with jerkins to match—and they fit as if sewn for them by the royal tailors. As fine as these clothes were, the three young buccen had a greater surprise in store, and they were astounded.

  The valet presented them with three corselets of light chain mail. Silveron was Tuck's, amber gems inset among the links, with a bejeweled belt, beryl and jade, to be clasped about the waist. Danner's ring-linked armor was black, plain but for the sil-ver-and-jet girt at his middle. And Patrel was given golden mail with a gilded belt: gold on gold. Helms they wore, simple iron and leather for Tuck and Patrel, a studded black one for Danner. And at the last they were given cloaks, Elven-made, the same elusive grey-green color as was worn by Lord Gildor.

  They gaped at each other in astonishment. "Why," said Danner, "we look like three warrior princelings!"

  "Just so," came a tinkling laugh. Laurelin had returned, now dressed in a simple yet elegant gown of light blue that fell straight to the floor from a white bodice. Blue slippered feet peeked under the hem. Her hair was garlanded with intertwining ribbons, matching those crisscrossing the bodice. A small silver tiara crowned her head.

  "You do look like Princelings," she said, "but that is befitting mine escorts, warriors three."

  "But how… where?" stammered Tuck, holding out his arms and pirouetting, indicating the raiments and armor upon Danner and Patrel and himself. "Tell me the answer to this mystery before I burst!"

  "Oh, la!" laughed Laurelin, "we can't have you bursting on my birthday eve. As to the mystery, it is simple. Once apast, my Lord Galen showed me where first he and then Igon quartered as children. Here I knew were closets of clothing worn by the seed of Aurion. And I thought surely some would fit you three, and I was not wrong. But happiest of all, here, too, was the armor of the warrior Princelings of the Royal House of Aurion. The silver you wear, Sir Tuck, is from Aurion's own childhood, handed down to him from his forefathers. Silveron it is, and precious, said to be Drimmen-deeve work of old. And, too, Sir Tuck, I chose the silver armor for you because you wear your dammia's si
lver locket." Laurelin smiled as Tuck blushed before the other young buccen.

  The Princess then turned to Danner. "The black, Sir Danner, comes from Prince Igon's childhood, made just for him by the Dwarves of Mineholt North, who dwell under the Rimmen Mountains in my Land, Riamon. It is told that the jet comes from a mountain of fire in the great ocean to the west."

  Laurelin spoke to Patrel. "Your golden armor, Captain Patrel, is Dwarf-made, too, and came from the Red Caves in Valon. It was my beloved, Prince Galen, who wore it as a youth, and I hold it to be special because of that."

  Princess Laurelin turned again to Tuck. "There, you see, the riddle is now solved, though simple it was, and hence you must not burst after all. You are, indeed, wearing clothing and armor fit for Princelings, yet they never graced a more fitting trio." The Princess smiled, her white teeth showing, and the young buccen beamed in response.

  Again they heard the tolling of a distant gong. "Ah, let us begone," said Laurelin, "for the time is upon us. Captain Patrel, your hand please." And thus they went forth from the abandoned quarters and through the corridors and down the steps to the great Feast Hall: Captain Patrel, in golden armor, with the hand of the beautiful Lady Laurelin, gowned in blue; black-armored Danner to Patrel's right; and silver-armored Tuck to Laurelin's left. Each of the Elven-becloaked Warrows strode with a helm under one arm, and a silver horn of Valon on green-and-white baldric hung at Patrel's side. And when they came through the main doors and into the long Feast Hall, all the guests rose and murmured in wonderment, some at the great beauty of the Princess, others at the Waerling warriors by her side.

  Across the wide floor they strode, unto the steps of the throne dais, and thereupon sat Aurion Redeye; scarlet-and-gold raiments were upon him, and he looked every inch the High King. To his right stood youthful Prince Igon, in red, and Lord Gildor, in grey. To Aurion's left stood Hrosmarshal Vidron, dressed in the green-and-white colors of Valon. The Warrows bowed low, and Laurelin made a graceful curtsy. Aurion acknowledged their courtesy by inclining his head, and then he rose and walked down to the Princess and took her hands in his and smiled.