Tuck, too, attempted to ride to the King, though the Warrow had no weapon. Yet Aurion Redeye was swept away by the combat, and Tuck's pony was buffeted by horse and Hèlsteed alike, and cursing Men and howling Ghûls drove him aside and to the edge of a ravine. And ere he could spur to the King, one of the foul, white, corpse-people slashed at Tuck with whistling blade, missing the Warrow but chopping into the pony's neck. The steed stumbled forward and fell slain, pitching with Tuck down into the blackness of the steep-sided ravine. Tuck was thrown free of the dead pony as down they tumbled, hurtling into scrub and rock, snow slithering behind. Then he struck his head and all consciousness left him, and the shout of battle above him went unheard.
When Tuck came to, he did not know how long it had been since he had fallen, yet now there were no sounds of combat. Instead, he could hear the distant yammering of Rücks, using the foul Slûk speech, coming along the ravine bottom, and from afar he could see the light of torches held high. He could hear another sound, too, nearer—hooves! Ghûl! he thought, floundering to his feet. They search for
survivors. Hide! I must hide! Frantically his eyes sought concealment, yet nought did he see but the heap of his slain pony and his bow lying in the snow nearby. Snatching up the bow, he fled silently north along the ravine bottom, while behind came the sound of hooves and Rücks.
Now the ravine narrowed and rose, and up Tuck ran, to come out into the Shadowlight. Around him were the rounded barrow mounds of Challerain Keep. He fled a short way among the grave mounds and came to a great tumbled ring of stone. Orthran's Crypt! his mind cried, and he ran to ring's center. There before him stood a low stone ruin; snow-laden brittle vines covered it. The door had been torn asunder and flung aside by plundering Rücks. Inward Tuck fled, stumbling down three steps inside. There, in the center of a smooth marble floor, by the Shadowlight shining through the doorway, Tuck could see a tomb; it, too, had been defiled by the Foul Folk. The stone lid was cast off, and nearby urns and boxes had been smashed as if by War-hammer.
Outside, the sound of shouting Rücks drew closer. Tuck's sapphirine eyes frantically searched the shadowed strewn rubble, but nought did he find to defend himself. Yet wait! The tomb! Quickly he stepped to the sarcophagus, sundered by the looters. The Shadow-light of the Dimmendark fell pale inward and illumed the bier. Lying in the dust of ages were the yellowed bones of the long-dead seer, smashed as if by Rück cudgel, and vacant eyes stared from grinning skull into Tuck's own. Ancient remnants of sacerdotal raiments clung to the skeleton, and a plain but empty knife scabbard was girt at the waist. The fleshless arms were folded across ribs, as if in repose, but clutched in skeletal fingers were two weapons, one in each hand. Ceremonial they seemed, yet weapons naytheless: One was a Man's long-knife, gleaming and sharp though entombed ages agone, golden runes inlaid along silvery blade—unplundered by the defilers, for it was a blade of lost Atala and Rücks could not abide its touch. But it was the other weapon that Tuck snatched to his bosom: an arrow, small and straight, dull red it was, and made of a strange light metal—yet it fit the Wee One's bow as if waiting ages to do so.
Now the shouting drew closer, and Tuck set shaft to string. If they find me, at least one will die ere I do. And Tuck slipped into the shadows behind the sarcophagus. There came a soft clatter of hooves, and the Shadowlight was blotted out as a form came through the entrance leading a steed. Ghûl! Tuck drew the metal shaft to the full, aiming at the dark figure, waiting for him to move into the spectral light, waiting to make certain of the shot.
Now the harsh voices grew loud as the Rücks tramped past outside, and light flickered from the burning brands they bore, torches to search the darkness. Firelight guttered and shone into the crypt, and by its light Tuck centered his quivering aim, ready to loose hissing death into the shadows near the entrance. For there in the light Tuck could see a white hand gripping the hilt of a broken sword as the figure leaned forward to peer out at the passing Rücks, and from his neck dangled a golden locket glittering in the receding torchlight, and behind him stood a jet-black steed.
CHAPTER 6
THE LONG PURSUIT
« ^
"Lord Galen!" gasped Tuck, and the Man spun and crouched, holding out his shattered sword before him like a knife. Tuck turned his aim aside and down, letting the tension from his bow. "Lord Galen," he breathed, "I am a friend."
Long moments fled, and outside the Rücks tramped away, their sounds growing faint. At last the Man spoke: "Friend, you say, yet you are Rükh-height. Can you prove this no trick of the Evil One?"
"Trick!" hissed Tuck in ire. "I am Tuckerby Underbank, a Warrow of the Boskydells, and no Rück!" spat the young buccan, stepping forward into the pale Shadowlight, his sapphire-jewelled eyes flashing in anger.
"A Waerling!" Galen lowered the shard of his sword at last. "Forgive me, Sir Tuckerby, but these are suspicious times."
Jet, too, wondered at this small tomb-mate, and he shifted his stance and lowered his head and snuffled at the Wee One and seemed satisfied with the young buccan in spite of Tuck's anger.
"Oh, Lor!" cried Tuck, his mood shifting like quicksilver as he slumped to the floor, appalled.
"Sir Tuckerby, are you wounded?" The Prince swiftly knelt at the Warrow's side.
"Nay, Sire, not wounded," said the young buccan, a shaken look upon his face, his voice hushed, "but I just realized, I nearly shot you for a Ghûl."
"Ho, then, we are even," smiled Galen, "for I mistook you for a Rukh. Not the best of ways to start an acquaintance, I would say."
"Nay, Sire, not the best of ways." Tuck managed a weak grin, and then gestured at Jet. "Were it not for this black steed of yours, and the golden locket at your heart bearing a snippet of Laurelin's hair—"
"Laurelin!" Galen reached out and roughly grasped Tuck by the shoulders. "Is she safe?" The tension in Galen's voice fairly crackled the air.
Pain laced Tuck's voice as he spoke: "Sire, in the company of Prince Igon and Captain Jarriel and a mounted escort, she left the Keep bearing south in a waggon bound for Stonehill and beyond; that was one week agone, if my reckoning is right—one day ere the Dimmendark came upon Mont Challerain."
The Prince released Tuck's arms and stood, and the Warrow shrugged gingerly. "Forgive me, Sir Tuckerby," said Galen, wearily. "I meant no harm to you, and I have treated you rudely, yet this is the first word I've had of my love." Lord Galen extended his hand down, and Tuck took it and was raised to his feet. "I am fortunate to have met someone who could tell me of her," said Galen.
"Sire, more fortunate than you realize," answered Tuck, taking up his bow, "for had I not known your Lady, who told me of the locket you wear, and your sire, who spoke of your black horse, Jet, then surely you would have been pierced through with this arrow I found in yon bier." Tuck held out the bolt for Galen to see.
"Is that the only shaft you have?" asked the Prince. At Tuck's nod, Galen took up his shattered sword, blade snapped near the hilt. "Then we have not much to meet the foe with, you and I: a broken blade and a lone arrow."
"Nay, Lord Galen, there is another weapon here," said Tuck, stepping to the sarcophagus. "This Bright edge." The young buccan drew forth the rune-marked blade from the long-dead grasp of Othran the Seer. In Tuck's hand it was long enough to be a Warrow's sword, but given over to Lord Galen, it became a Man's long-knife.
"Hai, but it has a sharp edge!" said Galen, testing it with his thumb. "These runes of power, I read them not, yet they look to be Atalain, the forgotten language of a drowned Realm. This, then, is an Atalar blade: these are renowned for their power to combat evil." He held the long-knife back out to Tuck.
"Nay, Lord Galen." Tuck refused to take it again. "Keep the blade, and take the sheath, too, that lies in the bier, for I know nothing of swords and would most likely end up cutting myself. This is my weapon, the bow. Besides, now we are each armed—though if I were given a choice, your steel would be longer and my quiver full."
Galen stepped to the shattered tomb
and took up the plain scabbard at Othran's side. As the Prince girted himself, Tuck saw the resemblance Galen held to both Aurion, his sire, and Igon, his brother. In his middle twenties was Galen, with all the endurance and speed of youth matured into the fullness of strength. Tall he was, like his sire, six feet or an inch more. Dark brown was his hair, like that of Igon, and his eyes were steel-grey, too, though in the Shadowlight they seemed black. Grey quilted goose-down winter garments he wore, and his cloak was grey, too. A leather and steel helm was upon his head, and now a long-knife was at his waist. He tied his sword scabbard to Jet's saddle and turned to face Tuck and spoke: "Did you hear aught of plans where the Kingsmen gather?"
"The Battle Downs, and Stonehill after that," answered Tuck. A troubled frown came upon the Warrow's features. "Lord Galen, the King, is he safe? Did he win free? When last I saw him, he was beset. But I know nought of the battle's outcome, for I was thrown down into yon ravine."
The look upon Galen's face was grim to behold. "Sir Tuckerby, I know not the fate of my sire. We were sundered in the fight, and I saw him not again. Yet my heart is ever hopeful, though what I know bodes ill. They were too many, the Ghola. I was forced aside, and my sword was broken as it clove through Ghol helm. But ere I could take up another weapon, one from a slain hand, the remaining force of Men broke free; many were scattered, though most rode hard to the east. Yet my eyes saw not Wildwind, running with the King astride, though he could have been among the larger band. I turned Jet into the ravine, to wait until I, too, could ride away. But then the Rukha came searching, and I led Jet to the crypt, where now we stand. Yet as to my sire, I cannot say else."
Tuck's heart plummeted at this uncertain news.
"Though I have been the King's far-seeing eyes but a short while, I love him well, for although he is a great leader, in many ways he is like unto my own sire."
"Far-seeing eyes?" Galen's look was puzzled. "There is a tale here for the telling, yet you can speak of it as we ride south, for we must leave this place: Rukha abound, and may come again."
And so they peered out into the Shadowlight, and led Jet among the deserted barrow mounds. Mounting up, they rode forth quietly to the north and west, Warrow bestride horse behind the Man, armed with but a single arrow and a blade of Atala and nought else save their courage. In secret and by wending ways known unto Lord Galen, they slowly worked their way through the margins of the foothills and around Mont Challerain, turning west and finally south. Then, at last, away from the gutted, burned hulk of Challerain Keep they rode—Prince and Thornwalker—heading for the Battle Downs, leaving the sundered city behind.
"Hai, then, by my tally you with your small bow have slain seventy, eighty, or perhaps even more of the Yrm!" Lord Galen tilted his chair back from the table and gazed in wonder at his jewel-eyed companion. Flickering candlelight cast writhing shadows as Tuck mutely nodded, stricken by the very numbers. The Prince leaned forward and broke off another hunk of stale bread and ravenously bit into it.
They had ridden for hours, southward across the prairie, drifting westward, too, following alongside the Post Road. After reaching the plains, Tuck had ridden mounted before Galen, the Warrow's sharp sight ever on the alert for enemy movement. But they had seen no one, though Tuck once thought he had heard a distant cry above the hammer of Jet's hooves. Yet his searching eyes saw only rolling plains and dark thickets in the gloomy Shadowlight, and the call, if it was that, was not repeated as the black steed drove on. Swift was Jet, and strong, but even the best of coursers needs must rest and be fed and watered. At last they had come to an abandoned farmstead, and there they found grain and water and a stable with hay.
Tuck and Galen had entered the house. Small it was, with but two rooms—a kitchen and one other— and beds were in the loft above. Closing the shutters so that no light would shine out, they had lighted a candle and had found a scant store of food—stale bread, dried beans, a tin of tea, nought else. They had then kindled a small fire on the kitchen hearth and had set a pot of water to boil, from which tea had been brewed and the beans cooked. Now the travellers avidly consumed the meager meal as if it were a sumptuous banquet. And their talk was of the Winter War, as this struggle with Modru now was called.
"When Igon and I first came unto the Dimmendark, sent by Father to see what was this wall, we knew nought of what the darkness held. Outside it was a midsummer's day, and in the company of four Kingsmen we rode through the winds along the Black Wall and into the Shadowlight." Galen sopped up the last of his beans with a piece of bread. "Like riding into a winter night, it was, and snow lay upon the land and our eyes were filled with amaze. Back we rode into warm day, and Igon and I took the cloaks and jerkins and breeks from the Men of our escort, fairly stripping them bare ere we sent them home. Now, bundled against the cold, once more Igon and I pierced the Black Wall into the Winternight, this time determined to explore.
"Two 'Darkdays we rode within the black grasp and saw nought of any other living thing. But on the third 'Darkday, while riding through a twisting defile, we turned a corner, and there facing us stood a squad of startled Yrm. Without hesitation, Igon couched his lance and spitted a Rukh ere any could move even one step. Hai! But he will be a mighty warrior when he comes full into his years.
"It was a short fierce battle, Igon felling three Rukha in all, while I slew but one Rukh and one Lokh. The other Yrm turned and ran, scrambling up the ravine walls and away; six or seven fled beyond our reach.
"Straightaway we rode to warn the King, for this was news of import: Rukha and Lokha bestrode the land within the 'Dark. Not an hour after the battle, we came out through the Black Wall and the Sun rode high in the sky. Then we knew that in the Dimmendark, Adon's Ban ruled not, and the fell creatures of the night—Modru's minions—were free of the Covenant.
"Although my sire was ired at me for sending the Kingsmen back and taking Igon—'A mere lad!'— into what proved to be mortal danger, still the King was proud of what we had done and bade me to lead a force of warriors back into the Winternight to watch for sign of the gathering of Modru's Horde of old. A hundred Men came with me, yet Igon was not one of them, and bitter was his spirit, for he would ride at my side. Yet perhaps my sire was right in keeping him from the Dimmendark, for seventy of my Men had fallen ere the last battle with the Ghola at the Keep, and half or more of those remaining were slain in that final combat. And for what did all those who perished yield up their lives? Mayhap for nought, for Challerain Keep has fallen, and the Horde is now free to rave south." The Prince bitterly swirled the dregs of his drink in the bottom of his cup and then tossed the tea into the hearth, where it hissed and sputtered. "Ah me, but I am weary. Let us get some rest."
"You sleep, Lord Galen, I'll stand the first watch, for there is something I must do," said Tuck, taking his diary from his jerkin pocket.
"Ah, yes," Galen smiled, "the journal you spoke of. Perhaps some day I will ask you to scribe it into a Waerling history of the Winter War, some day when the fighting is done. But now, it's me for bed."
The Prince clambered up into the loft and fell asleep watching the Wee One's pencil slowly crawling through the candlelight and across a page in the diary, leaving a track of words behind it.
The next 'Darkday, south and west they pressed, taking with them the last of the bread and beans, as well as grain for Jet. Later they came upon another abandoned stead; this one was bestrewn with wreckage, as if a fight had occurred, and Tuck was reminded of the Vulg-shatter in Arlo and Willa Huggs' farmhouse along Two Fords Road in the Boskydells; it seemed so long ago, and yet it was just seven weeks past, when Hob and Tarpy were still alive, and Danner and Patrel, too. Stop that! Tuck angrily berated himself. For all you know, Danner and Patrel yet live.
In the wrack Galen found food—dried venison and some turnips.
Onward they rode for many hours, bearing ever south and west. Finally they stopped to camp in the lee of a thicket, huddled beside a small fire, its light shielded by brush.
Early after resuming their way, the margins of the Battle Downs hove first into Tuck's view and then into Galen's. And they rode alongside the hills, going upon the Post Road now as it swung to the west. Miles passed under Jet's hooves, and Man and Warrow often dismounted and walked to rest the steed, feeding him grain when they took their own meal, as was their practice.
They had ridden some six hours, covering nearly twenty miles, when they rounded the flank of a hill and Tuck saw shapes ahead.
"Lord Galen, something stands upon the road," he quietly said.
Galen reined Jet to a stop. "Say on, Sir Tuck."
"It moves not, and appears to be… a waggon." Tuck peered intently. "I see no team, nor Folk of any kind."
"Mount behind me, Tuck, for we may meet the foe." At the Prince's command, Tuck swung to the rear of the cantle, removing his bow from across his shoulders and leaning out to see. Galen flicked the reins, and Jet stepped forward, moving at a walk. "Remember, Tuck," said Galen, "we will fight or flee if there be enemy. If we fight, you will slip straight back and drop to the ground and use that deadly bow of yours where it will do the most good. But recall, we have but a long-knife and a single arrow between us; thus it may be best to run. If we flee, hang on tightly, for Jet will veer and leap as he flies o'er the 'scape."
Along the road they went; now more waggons came into view, as Jet rounded the curve of the hill. Now Tuck could see that they were in disarray, some on the road, some off, and all were abandoned; many were burnt while others lay upon their sides.
Now Galen, too, could see them, and his voice was grim. "It's a waggon train." Tuck's heart pounded loudly in his ears.
Closer they drew, and other shapes could be seen lying in the snow—horses, Men… dead, felled. Tuck gasped, "Lord Galen! There! A slain Hèlsteed!"
Galen spurred Jet to a canter and swiftly closed the distance. They came unto the first of the bestrewn and burned wains. Dismounting, they walked among the slain, hacked by blades, pierced by spears, and frost and rime covered all.
The Dark Tide Page 21
