“What about the Vulgs?” asked Hob.
“Yar! And the other enemy,” snorted Danner, sarcastically. “I’ll give you an other enemy!” He leaned over toward Hob and made a face. “Boo!”
“Danner!” burst out Tuck, exasperated. “If you don’t wish to listen, then ride on ahead.”
“Just who do you think you’re ordering about?” bristled Danner. “I—”
“Hold it!” shouted Patrel, his own fiery temper rising. Then, as he got control of himself: “Let’s not get to squabbling among ourselves.” He turned to Danner, “Just what point are you trying to make?”
“Well,” grouched Danner, “just what other enemy could be a threat to the Bosky?”
“How about Vulgs?” shot back Hob.
“And Rûcks, Hlôks, and Ogrus,” chimed in Tarpy.
“Ghûls,” added Tuck.
Danner looked disgusted. “You left out Cold-drakes! And Modru! And bloody Gyphon himself!” he snapped. “And it seems you’ve also forgotten High Adon’s Ban! And that’s why there isn’t any other enemy: the Ban!”
Amid the burst of babble that followed, Patrel’s clear voice cut through, bidding silence, and when it reigned: “Danner’s got a good point there. Now hush and let him speak.”
Danner looked somewhat flustered as all Warrow eyes fastened in silence upon him, but he was not speechless: “Well, you all know what the old tales say.” Danner’s voice took on the rhythm of a chant, as if he were reciting a well-learned school lesson: “When Gyphon challenged Adon for control of the Spheres, War broke out in the three Planes: Upper, Middle, and Lower. Here in Mithgar, the struggle was mighty, for Modru, Gyphon’s servant, was supreme and his Horde was nearly without number. Yet the Grand Alliance opposed them, not realizing that the outcome here in the midworld would tip the balance of power in the Upper and Lower Planes, too.
“And so it was that the Grand Alliance of Men, Elves, Dwarves, Utruni, Wizards, and Warrows fought on the side of Adon in the Great War against Gyphon, Modru, Vûlks, Ghûls, Hlôks, Ogrus, Rûcks, Vulgs . . . and some Dragons.
“Here, in the Middle Plane, by an unexpected stroke, the Alliance won; Modru lost. And so it was that Adon won and Gyphon lost on all three Planes. As forfeit, Adon banished from the light of day on pain of death all the Folk who aided Gyphon in this Great War. From those of the Dragons who opposed Him, Adon took their fire, and now they are Cold-drakes, and also suffer the Ban.
“And it is said that Adon’s Ban shall rule for as long as night follows day, and day follows night.
“He banished Gyphon, too, ‘Beyond the Spheres,’ though no one I’ve asked knows where that is.
“Modru, himself, fled through the night from the Wastes of Gron to the far frozen land beyond. The tales tell that he lives there because in the winter the nights are long, very long, and the Sun, his bane, is feeble for six months each year. Yet in the summer Modru must hide away, for then the days are long and the Sun rides high, and the Withering Death is ever at hand.”
Danner then paused, looking at the others, and his voice took on a pedantic tone: “So you see, that’s why the Bosky has little to fear from other enemy: His Ban would slay them!” Danner looked at the other Warrows, challenge in his eye, but no one there gainsaid him, and the ponies wended slowly northward.
“Ah, Danner, you are right,” said Patrel after a bit. “Yet remember this: Adon’s Covenant kills only if they get caught in the Sun, but not at night. And other Thornwalkers have reported fleeting glimpses from afar of great black beasts, like Wolves, but dire, running through the dark.”
“Vulgs,” breathed Hob.
“Perhaps,” answered Patrel. “If so, then they must lie up in the cracks and splits of the land when the Sun is on high, and thus the Ban strikes them not. As for Rûcks, Hlôks, and Ogrus; or Vulgs and Ghûls; or Cold-drakes; I think none are here in the Bosky, though they, too, could escape the Sun in the same manner. Yet we are a far distance from the mountains they haunt: the Grimwall, the Rigga, and the Gronfangs.”
“But Vulgs run fast and far, they say,” said Tarpy, “and perhaps they’ve run all the way to the Boskydells.”
“Yes, but what has driven them to come to the Bosky now?” asked Tuck. “It’s been a long span since the end of the Great War. Why have they come at this time? And to the Bosky?”
“If!” exclaimed Danner, compelling their attention. “If it’s Vulgs and not Wolves. Who’s to say it wasn’t Wolves, or even wild dogs, seen from afar by the Thornwalkers, instead of Vulgs? Look, the Ban has held good for two whole Eras. Why should Vulgs show up now?”
“Ah! There’s the rub,” responded Tuck. “Why, indeed, now?”
The ponies plodded forward and the Warrows rode on in silence for a bit, pondering the puzzle. “The only thing that comes to mind,” continued Tuck, “is that it is said Gyphon, just as He was vanishing, swore a bitter vow to Adon, claiming that He would be back.”
“‘Even now,’” Danner quoted, his voice sepulchral, “‘Even now I have set into motion events you cannot stop. I shall return! I shall conquer! I shall rule!’ That’s what the old tales say Gyphon last spat at Adon, then He was gone, beyond the Spheres, banished. But He was wrong, for He hasn’t returned. In four-thousand years He hasn’t returned. That’s how long they say it has been. And for those same four-thousand years, no Rûck, no Vulg, ah, fie! Nothing! Nothing suffering the Ban has threatened the Bosky! Ever!”
Again silence descended upon them, and each rode immersed in his own thoughts. Finally, Patrel spoke: “Maybe so, Danner. Maybe you are right. But they say Vulgs now push through the Spindlethorns. And no one says why.”
~
Northward they wended throughout the day, at times riding, at other times walking and leading the ponies, sometimes stopping to eat, or to take care of other needs, or to feed grain to the mounts, or to break through the ice on a woodland stream to refresh their canteens and to give the ponies a drink.
The large, thickset trees of the Dinglewood bordered close upon the trail, their grey bark and stark branches casting a somber pall upon the North Trace.
A pall, too, seemed to have dropped over the Warrows, and little else was said that day as they pressed on through the silence of the barren forest. The Sun slowly crossed the cold sky, and its rays did little to warm the travellers. When the orb sank below the western horizon, darkness found the five young buccen huddled around a campfire on the far edge of the Dinglewood, some thirty miles north of Woody Hollow.
They drew lots to see in what order the watch would be kept, with Tuck pulling the mid-of-night turn. As all prepared to bed down, except Hob, who had the first watch, Patrel said, “Tomorrow night we all sleep in a hayloft—Arlo Huggs’ hayloft. I stopped at his place on the way to Woody Hollow; he has a farm along Two Fords Road, about twenty-five miles north of here. Arlo said he’d be glad to put us up in his loft, and his wife, Willa, said she would feed us a hot meal, too.” This last brought drowsy approval from all but Hob, who merely smiled as he threw another limb on the fire and began his tour.
~
It was midwatch when Tuck was awakened by a prod from Danner: “It’s your turn, Tuck,” said Danner, gruffly.
Tuck threw some branches on the fire and gathered more wood from the pile to have at hand to ward away the cold. Danner was still sitting on a log near the blaze, glowering mumpishly at the flames.
“Get some sleep, Danner,” sighed Tuck. “Perhaps you’ll not be so grumpy if you get enough rest.”
“What do you mean, grumpy?” flared Danner, glaring at Tuck.
“You’ve got to admit, you were somewhat of a grouch today,” answered Tuck, distressed, wondering how this conversation had gotten off on the wrong foot.
“Look, Tuck,” shot back Danner, “my philosophy is this: I’m like a mirror: I only give back what I get.”
They sat without speaking a moment, as the fire popped and cracked. “Well, Danner, I think you ought to consider this: you either ca
n be like a mirror or like a window; but remember, only the window lets light in.” Tuck then stood and began his rounds, and Danner took to his bedroll, a thoughtful look on his face.
After a turn around the camp, Tuck came back to the log, and by the moonlight and firelight he began recording in his new diary the day’s events in terse sentences or cryptic notes, except for Patrel’s song, which he wrote out in full. He would jot down a few words, then tour the perimeter, returning to write some more. And that is how he passed his watch, writing in his journal, as the Moon slid westward to be hidden by clouds moving to the east. It was a diary he planned to keep up throughout the next few months: the record of his travels.
~
The next morning dawned to falling snow. After a light breakfast of dried venison and bread, and grain for the ponies, the five broke camp and headed once more to the north. A breeze blew from the west, carrying eddying flakes aslant across their path, and they rode with their cloaks wrapped tightly around them and their hoods up. Through the falling snow they went, and their mode of travel was much the same as the previous day’s, only now they trekked ’cross open land, having left the Dinglewood behind. The North Trace continued to carry them toward Two Fords Road, but the route was becoming harder to follow as the thickening snow obscured the path. Hence, slowed by the storm, it was not until midafternoon that they finally struck the main artery toward Spindle Ford.
“I sure am looking forward to that hot meal and hayloft you spoke of last night,” said Tarpy to Patrel as the Warrows slogged through the snow, now calf-deep, leading the ponies, giving the animals a respite.
“Ha! Me too!” answered Patrel. “I hope Willa won’t mind if we are a bit late, and keeps the meal hot. I judge we’ll get to Arlo’s well after dark.”
“Blasted storm,” carped Danner, then fell silent as they trudged on.
~
Patrel’s words proved to be accurate, for it was three hours into the night when they came at last to the edge of Arlo’s farm. The wind had risen and a mournful wail could be heard as it keened through a nearby stand of timber. With their backs to the gust, the five Warrows turned down the lane leading to the Huggs’ stone field-house.
“Hold!” said Patrel above the wind moan, his voice tight with apprehension. “Something is wrong.”
“What?” asked Hob. “What’s the matter?”
“There’s no light in the house.” Patrel reached for his bow. “Ready your weapons.”
“What?” asked Danner, unbelieving. “Bows?” Then he saw Patrel was serious, and shaking his head, followed suit.
“Maybe they’ve just gone to bed,” spoke up Tarpy, but took up his bow just the same.
“No. There should be a light. They were expecting us,” answered Patrel. “Take care. Let’s go.”
Arrows nocked, they proceeded toward the dark house, on foot, leading the ponies. Off to the side the barn loomed like some great dark beast. Now they could hear an ominous banging above the moan, as from a loose shutter blowing in the wind. Closer they came, and now they could see that the windows of the house seemed open, for curtains were blowing in and out. Tuck’s heart was pounding and his lungs were heaving in ragged gasps, and he felt as if he could not get a firm grip on his bow. It took all of his courage to force one foot ahead of the other. Motioning Tuck and Danner to the left, and Tarpy and Hob to the right, Patrel stepped toward the porch. As he put his foot on the top step the door burst open with a Blam!
Tuck’s heart gave a great lurch, thudding in his mouth, and he realized that he had a deadly aim centered on the doorway’s gaping blackness. The bow was fully drawn, and Tuck could feel the fletching of the arrow against his right cheek as he held steady, ready to release. And for the life of him, Tuck could not recall taking the pull. And nothing came through the doorway. Just as abruptly, Wham! the door slammed to. Whack! it whipped open again, and Blam! shut once more as the wind swirled again.
“Lor!” said Tarpy, relaxing his pull a bit, as they all did, “I thought . . .”
“Hsst!” Patrel cut off Tarpy’s words and motioned them to go forth.
Tuck and Danner went around to the left of the house, and Tarpy and Hob to the right, while Patrel stepped through the front door. As they went along the side of the house, Tuck saw that the curtains were indeed whipping and flapping in and out of the windows, for the glass was shattered. Bang! Blam! they could hear the front door slamming to and fro. On they went, coming to the kitchen door, splintered from its hinges and hanging awry. Into the house they went just as Patrel, already in the kitchen, managed to light a lamp. Whack! Slam!
The glow revealed a shambles: overturned chairs, a shattered table, broken crockery, an upside-down bench, smashed glass: ruin; and snow blew in through the broken door and past torn curtains across the sills of the shattered windows. Tarpy and Hob at last entered and looked about as the wind moaned and gnawed at the destruction. “We took a quick check of the barn,” said Hob. “Empty. No livestock. It’s gone.” Thwack! Whack!
“What’s happened here?” asked Tarpy, as Danner lit another lamp.
“I don’t know, yet,” answered Patrel. Blam! Whack! “Hob, will you latch that infernal front door? Tarpy, pull the shutters to; although the glass is broken, they will keep most of the snow out. Danner, use your light to help Tarpy. Tuck, add the light of another lamp or candle to mine; we’ll see what we can make of this.”
As Tuck found one more lamp and lit it, Patrel propped the kitchen door in its jamb, for the most part sealing out the wind and snow. They then opened what turned out to be the pantry door; Patrel took a quick look inside. “Nothing. No one,” he said to Tuck.”Let’s look . . .”
“Ai-oi!” came a call from another room, and Patrel and Tuck rushed to find Danner kneeling with his lamp, Tarpy and Hob peering over his shoulder in the fluttering light.
“What is it?” asked Tuck, then saw: blood. A lot of blood. And in the center, a huge paw print.
“Wolves,” hissed Tarpy.
“No,” said Danner, grimly. “Vulgs!” And off in the distance, mingled with the moan of the wind, came a single, horrid, prolonged savage wail.
~
“The Vulgs smashed through the windows and doors,” said Patrel when they all had gathered again in the kitchen following a thorough search. “See, the broken glass flew inwards, as if the evil creatures hurtled through.”
“Yar, and the kitchen door,” put in Danner, gesturing at the panel propped in the opening, “remember, it was broken inward, too.”
“What about Farmer Arlo and his wife? Where are they?” asked Tarpy, his eyes wide and glittering in the lamplight. “We’ve looked everywhere.”
“It’s another Disappearance,” whispered Hob, and Tuck felt his heart plummet.
“No, Hob, say instead a Vulg slaughter,” said Patrel, his voice grim, peering at the stricken faces of the others, his own a sickly, ashen grey. “This time it’s not just a mysterious disappearance. This time all the evidence cries out wanton murder, Vulg butchery.”
“If it’s murder,” asked Tarpy, tears brimming, one hand with a sweeping gesture indicating the vacant shambles they stood amid, “then where is . . . where are . . .”
“The bodies,” spoke Danner, harshly, his jaw clenched in anger. “What did the bloody Vulgs do with the bodies?”
“I don’t know,” answered Patrel. “All the other disappearances I’ve heard about left no traces of any kind. Just this one. It’s as if . . .”
“As if Farmer Arlo put up a fight, and the others didn’t,” put in Tuck. “The others must’ve had no warning. Arlo managed to bolt the doors, but the Vulgs prevailed.”
“Arlo and Willa are probably out there somewhere,” gritted Danner, “covered by the snow.” The sound of Tarpy’s soft weeping was lost in the moan of the wind, and Tuck bleakly peered without seeing through the kitchen window shutters out into the dark night.
“Well,” asked Hob, after a long moment, “what do we do? Search for
them? Though I don’t see how we can find them in the snow in the night.”
“Let’s go after the Vulgs,” demanded Danner, raising up his bow, his knuckles white with anger.
“No,” said Patrel. “Neither search nor hunt. We’ve already looked over the immediate grounds, with no results, and the Vulgs are beyond our vengeance by now. No, here we stay and rest, and tomorrow we press on to Spindle Ford, warning the countryside as we go.”
“Faugh!” snorted Danner, raising his bow. “I say let’s get the brutes!”
“Danner,” Patrel’s voice had an angry bite to it, “until we get to Spindle Ford, you are in my command. I’ll not have you out chasing around in a blizzard at night looking for Vulgs long gone. I say we stay here, and what I say goes.”
“Oh no,” said Tarpy, peering around desperately. “Not here. I can’t stay here. Not in this wrack. Not when there’s blood on the floor in there. Not in this house.”
“How ’bout the hayloft?” asked Hob, throwing an arm around Tarpy’s shoulders, cocking an eye at Patrel, who nodded. “Yes, we’ll stay there,” continued Hob. “Besides, we’ve got to get the ponies into shelter and fed and watered.” Taking up a lamp: “Come on. Let’s see to the ponies.”
And so they all went, Hob in the lead with Tarpy shivering beside him, Danner and Patrel glaring at one another, and Tuck bringing up the rear.
~
They kept the same order of watch as they had the previous night, and though Tuck didn’t see how he was going to get any sleep, it seemed as if he had just lain down when Danner shook him awake. “Time to get up,” said Danner. “Bring your blanket; it’s cold,” and he climbed back down to the floor of the barn.
Tuck struggled down the ladder from the loft, blanket over one shoulder. As he stepped from the bottom rung, he saw that Danner was refilling one of the lamps with oil, and trimming the wick with his knife. “Need any help?” Tuck asked, yawning. At Danner’s negative shake of his head, Tuck added, “Any sound of Vulgs?”
“No,” replied Danner. “The wind died about an hour ago, and the snow’s stopped, too. And there’s been no sound of Vulgs, Wolves, or anything else from out there. Blast! I’ve pinked my thumb.” Danner sucked on his thumb and spat, while Tuck finished trimming the lamp wick. “We should be out there, you know,” grumbled Danner between sucks, “hunting Vulgs.”
The Iron Tower Omnibus Page 4