“Marshal Vidron, the herald sent to the Bosky was pursued by Vulgs and slain at the very gates into the Seven Dells. His message came, but barely,” answered Patrel.
“When was this?” asked Prince Igon, casting a look of significance at Vidron.
“Why, let me see.” Patrel paused. “I make it ten days past.” He turned to Tuck and Danner who nodded in confirmation.
“And this was the first summons to your Land?” asked Vidron, a frown upon his features.
“Why, yes,” answered Patrel, puzzled at the direction these questions were leading. “None else came ere him.”
“Rach! Then it is so!” gritted Prince Igon, smiting a fist against the table, setting the scrolls ajumble. “Modru sends his Spawn to intercept and slay our heralds. Captain Patrel, he was the second messenger to be dispatched to your Land. I fear our Kingsmen to other Realms have been intercepted, too, for few have answered the call, and the camps below stand half empty.”
“But wait,” interjected Danner, “last night we saw the campfires of five armies. Surely that is enough soldiery to withstand a thrust by Modru.”
“Ah, you saw but a ruse in the dark to deceive the night spies of the Enemy,” rumbled Vidron. “At night we have the look of five armies, yet the Men of less than three. And even five armies are not enough to withstand that.” Vidron pointed at the far horizon. Tuck looked, this time closely, and saw that what he had thought was but a low dark bank of distant clouds to the north in fact were not clouds at all. Instead it seemed to be . . . it looked like . . . an immobile solid black wall, rearing up a mile or more to swallow the sky, the darkness fading at the towering limit of its ebon reach.
“Wh-what is that?” asked Tuck, his mind recoiling from the unnatural sight, fearful of the answer.
“Ah, that we do not know,” answered Prince Igon, “though some call it the Dimmendark. A sending of Modru, it is, and the land beyond lies in eternal night—cold, cold night—Winternight. In the day when the Sun is on high, I have ridden my horse into the Dimmendark, and it is like passing from bright day through twilight and into Winternight. There in that spectral dark the land about can be seen, as if in strange werelight; yet the Sun above is but a wan paleness, dim, so dim, only faintly can the orb’s disk be seen. And at night, the stars glimmer not, and the Moon cannot be seen, yet the werelight shines. And in these glowing lands of Winternight gather Modru’s Spawn, and they roam freely: Rukha, Lôkha, Ogrus, Ghola, Vulgs, and perhaps other things as yet unknown, for there Adon’s Ban strikes not.”
“Ar, wait a moment,” interrupted Danner. “That can’t be so, for Adon’s Ban shall rule for as long as night follows day and day follows night: That is His Covenant.”
“My trusty Waldan,” said Vidron, “you forget: in the Dimmendark eternal Shadowlight rules; hence, there, day does not follow night, nor does night follow day. There, the Covenant has been broken.”
Broken? The Eternal Ban broken? Tuck felt as if his heart had flopped over, for now Modru defied even High Adon. How could a meager number of Men and a handful of Warrows hope to withstand a might such as that?
“Ah, but for now, cast aside the thoughts of Winternight and the Dimmendark, and of Modru’s Horde, too,” said Prince Igon, “for there is nought we can do to change a jot of it at the moment. Instead, come, bring your Company of Waerlinga. You must be hungry. I’ll take you to the Old Fortress for a meal while Marshal Vidron ponders your assignment. And I’ll take you to my sire, for the High King would meet with Waerlinga, and he would hear your tale of the Vulg slaying of the herald.” Nodding to Kingsgeneral Vidron and his staff, Prince Igon walked with Tuck, Danner, and Patrel, and the Captain of the gate guard, back to the oak where the Prince was proclaimed to all the young buccen to their delight. A rousing cheer burst forth when it was announced that they were going for a hot meal, and amid happy chatter they mounted up to follow Igon. Waving goodbye to the guard Captain as he departed for the gate, the Warrow Company trailed the Prince on his steed, Rust, as he rode for a point midway along the north wall. Through a postern he led them, and across the cobbled courtyard of the Old Fortress, at last coming to some stables.
After seeing to the needs of their mounts, the young buccen were led by Igon to an empty barracks where they stowed their gear from the pack ponies. The Prince then took them to a mess hall for the promised meal, and broke bread with them. Igon was astonished by their gusto, for they were such a small Folk, their feet dangling and swinging as they sat on the Man-sized benches, their eyes more or less just above the level of the table top, yet they packed away food like hungry birds, and in fact chattered like magpies at a feast. All about them Men paused to stare, and smile. But the Warrows paid heed only to the meal, for to them it was indeed like a feast, the first hot food they’d had in eight days, and they happily made the most of it.
“This is where you’ll take all your meals while you are at the Keep,” announced Igon, and the Company heartily approved. The Prince turned to Patrel, “Now, Captain Patrel, you and your lieutenants and I shall go and seek out my sire, for he will want to hear your full tale, as I do. As to your Company, I can arrange for a guide to show them about, or they can rest in the barracks.”
“Cor!” proclaimed Argo, “what with my belly full, it’s me for a nap on that soft cot back there in the barracks, and a welcome relief it’ll be from the hard ground or cold snow, for a change.”
“Har! Me too,” spoke up Arvin. “I’ve been looking forward to resting my bones ever since I laid my eyes on that beautiful mattress.” There was a general murmur of agreement. “But first, in the back room I spotted a tub or three, and it’s me for a hot bath.”
Bath! cried several voices at once, and it was a mad scramble as Warrows rushed helter-skelter from the mess hall to be first in the tubs, and Tuck found himself wishing he could go along, too.
Laughing, Prince Igon stood to lead Patrel, Tuck, and Danner in search of the King.
Through labyrinthine corridors of hewn granite blocks the young Prince took the three Warrows. The long passages were dimly lighted by slotted openings to the outside day. Under massive archways and past great pillars they strode, the young buccen’s mouths agape as they peered up at huge shadowy cornices with carven gargoyles staring stonily down. Up long flights of stairs they went, and then back down. Tuck was bewilderingly lost and wondered at the route they had taken, deciding he should have spent more time seeing to the way and less time peering into dark corners at stone carvings. At last they rounded a corner to come to a short passage leading to massive, iron-bound, studded oaken doors. The hall was flanked by pike-bearing Kingsguards in scarlet and gold who struck clenched right fists to hearts when Prince Igon hove into view. Returning the salute, the Prince strode past with the young buccen in tow, stepping to the oaken portals. Igon grasped a door ring in each hand and pulled; the great doors divided in twain, and though massive, each panel easily and noiselessly swung outward, coming to rest against the stone of the passage. Through this entry he led the wondering Warrows.
They saw before them a great long chamber beringed by pillars spaced along the walls. There, too, were huge hearths, most without fire. Along the tapestried walls, staffs jutted out, from which depended the flags of many different Kingdoms. Overhead, great wooden beams spanned from wall to wall dangling chain-hung braces of night lamps, the chandeliers now dark for daylight streamed in through high windows. Three broad steps down began the great stone center-floor: smooth, polished stone, ringed around by raised flooring for banquet tables. The amphitheater swept forward till it fetched up against four steps leading to a throne dais. Upon the top step sat a flaxen-haired lass listening to the deep converse between a golden-haired stranger and High King Aurion, himself.
As young Prince Igon waited to be noted and summoned, he murmured to the Warrows, “On the throne sits my sire, but whom he converses with, I know him not. The Lady is Princess Laurelin of Riamon, betrothed of my brother, Prince Galen. The other maidens ar
e her Ladies-in-waiting.” Tuck then saw three young Women sitting on a bench, partially hidden by a pillar.
The High King, though he was seated, looked from afar to be a Man of middling height. One of his eyes was covered by a scarlet patch, a blinding wound taken in his youth during an expedition against the Rovers of Kistan. Because of the patch, many villagers called him Aurion Redeye; and he was much loved, for though his spirit was bold, his hand was gentle. Although silver locks fell from his head, it was said that his grip was stronger than that of most Men. He was dressed in scarlet, much the same as Igon, but trimmed in gold. When Tuck looked at him he thought of iron.
On the other hand, Princess Laurelin looked to be but a slip of a girl, dressed in blue, sitting upon the step, her arms clasped about her knees, her face turned toward the King such that Tuck could not see her features. But her wheaten hair was beautiful to behold, for it fell to her hips.
Lastly, the stranger: something there was about him, for as the day shone through a high portal down upon the throne dais, it seemed that he was wreathed in a nimbus of light, his golden hair gathering sunbeams. Grey-green was his cloak, as if it were woven of an elusive blend of leaf, limb, and stone—and his boots, breeks, and jerkin were of the same hue.
The King looked up and his face broke into a smile: “Igon, my son!” he called, and beckoned the youth to him. The Prince said, “Come,” and led the Warrows down the steps and across the center floor to the foot of the throne dais where he stopped and bowed. “Sire,” he said, “I present Captain Patrel Rushlock and his lieutenants, Danner Bramblethorn and Tuckerby Underbank, Waerlinga three from the Land of the Thorns.”
“Waerlinga!” breathed King Aurion, rising to his feet as the Warrows deeply bowed. “Welcome, though I would that times were better.” His voice was firm and his one eye glittered blue and clear.
Igon turned to the Princess as she gracefully rose to her feet. Slender she was, and small. “My Lady Laurelin,” he said inclining his head. Decorously she curtsied as the Warrows bowed to her. Tuck looked up and gasped in wonderment, for she was most beautiful—high cheekbones, wide-set grey eyes, delicate lips—and her dove-grey eyes caught his and she smiled. Tuck blushed, flustered, and looked down at his feet.
King Aurion presented the golden-haired stranger: “Lord Gildor, once of Darda Galion, the Larkenwald beyond the Grimwall, now a Lian Guardian who brings us news from Arden Vale and from the Weiunwood, though grim it is.” Tuck again gasped, this time in astonishment, for the bright Lord Gildor was an Elf, with green eyes atilt and pointed ears ’neath his yellow locks. In the shape of these two features, eyes and ears, Elves are much the same as Waerlinga, though, unlike the Wee Folk, Elves are tall, being but a hand shorter than Man. In this case, the slim, straight Gildor stood at the same height as the young Prince Igon.
King Aurion stepped down to the Warrows. “But come, let us sit and talk; you must be wearied by your travels,” he said, and led them all to a small alcove throne-side where they each took comfortable seats.
“Grim news?” asked Prince Igon, turning to the Elf. “It seems to be a day of ill tidings, for the Waerlinga’s news is dire, too. What sinister word do you bear, Lord Gildor?”
At a nod from King Aurion, Gildor spoke: “The Dimmendark marches down the Grimwall Mountains, the abode of ancient enemies, freeing them from High Adon’s Ban. Even now Arden Vale lies deep in Winternight, and the ’Dark stalks south: into Lianion called Rell, and, on the far side of the Grimwall, it sweeps along the margins of Riamon. I fear Modru has in mind to strike at Darda Galion, for this he must do ere plunging into Valon, and beyond to Pellar. But though my heart calls me to rush to aid Darda Galion, here I have come instead, for here I can best serve Mithgar, at Aurion’s side.” Gildor fell silent and for a moment nought was said, and Tuck saw that others, too, had had to choose between love of home and duty to the Realm.
“You know that you have my leave to go,” said Aurion, but Gildor gave a faint shake of his head.
“Your pardon, Lord Gildor,” said Patrel, “but it was said that you bear news from the Weiunwood, home of our distant kin.” Weiunwood lay to the east of the Battle Downs, some thirty leagues south of Challerain Keep.
“Ah yes,” answered Gildor. “Your Folk of the Weiunwood have allied with the Men of Stonehill and a small band of Lian Guardians from Arden. Even now, hidden holts are being prepared and plans laid for battle should Modru’s Horde come.”
“Who leads the Warrows?” asked Danner.
“Arbagon Fenner,” said Gildor, smiling, “and a feisty Waerling is he.” But the young buccen shook their heads, for none knew him. “The Men are led by Bockleman Brewster, owner of the White Unicorn Inn of Stonehill. Young Inarion leads the Elves.”
King Aurion spoke to the Prince: “And your ill tidings, Igon: what grim news do you bear?”
At Igon’s indication, Patrel spoke to the King: “Ten nights past your herald arrived at the Boskydells, bearing the Gjeenian penny and word of the muster here at Challerain Keep. Unbeknownst to us, pursuers followed, and while crossing Ford Spindle he was Vulg attacked. Though the foul beast was slain by Tuck, here, still your Man’s horse fell to the ice and broke through, and herald, horse, dead Vulg, Tuck, and one of our comrades named Tarpy were all swept under the ice by the swift river current. Only Tuck survived, thanks to Danner’s clear thinking in that time of crisis.” Patrel paused, and Tuck could feel the Lady Laurelin’s soft gaze upon him, sympathy in her eyes. “Though your herald is dead, still the word goes forth across the Bosky,” Patrel continued, “borne by the Thornwalkers; hence, in this, Modru has failed to stop the call from spreading through the Seven Dells. Four Vulgs did he send to haul down your messenger; we slew them all. Yet I am told by Prince Igon that this was the second herald sent to the Boskydells, and that Modru’s hand must have stopped the first; that explains why the word came late, for Warrows in the Bosky had wondered why no call had come, though rumors of War nested in every tavern. I wonder if other messengers to other Lands have failed to reach their goals but instead have been intercepted and slain by the foul beasts of Modru, like the Vulgs we slew.”
“Aye,” said King Aurion, and though his mood was somber, still he looked with admiration upon these casual Vulg-slaying Waerlinga in Thornwalker grey. “Many a herald did we send, but few nations received our first summons, though here and there now the muster begins. We are reduced to playing a sham at night to make our forces appear larger than they are, though whether or not the Enemy is deceived I cannot say. We will know that we have succeeded if we are given enough time for our Armies to come ere the storm strikes.
“Yet it is not only armies we await at the Keep: waggons have been summoned to bear our loved ones to safe haven, whether or no they desire to go.” Aurion cocked his shaggy white brow at Laurelin, but she did not look at him, keeping her eyes instead upon her folded hands.
“My Liege,” her voice was soft but unyielding, “I cannot flee whilst my Lord Galen yet roams the Dimmendark. He is my betrothed, but even more so, he is my beloved, and I must be here when he returns.”
“But you must go, Lady Laurelin,” said Prince Igon, “for ’tis your duty to see to the needs of the people above all else, and your presence will buoy up their hearts and spirits in a time of great distress and darkness.”
“You speak as if Duty o’errules all else, my Lord Igon,” said Laurelin, “even Love.”
“Aye,” answered Igon, “even Love; Duty must go before all.”
“Nay, Prince Igon,” interjected Gildor. “I would not gainsay thee, yet I think that Honor must go above all, though each of the three—Love, Duty, Honor—must be tempered by the other two in the crucible of Life.”
“Naytheless,” said King Aurion, touching his brow above the eye patch, “when the waggons arrive, refugee trains will be formed to take the old, the halt and lame, the children, and the Women hence from here, including you, my daughter-to-be.” Laurelin would have protested but the King hel
d up his hand. “It is my royal edict that this thing be done, for I cannot wage a War where the helpless and innocent are caught in the midst of raging combat. I cannot have my warriors battling with one eye on the foe and the other upon their loved ones, for that is a road to Death.
“Yet this I will do, though it goes ’gainst my better judgement: you may delay your departure till the very last caravan, but then you must leave with it, for I would not have you fall into the Enemy’s clutch.” The thought of Laurelin in the grasp of Modru made Tuck shudder, and he futilely strove to banish the image.
“But now, my friends,” said King Aurion to Lord Gildor and the Waerlinga, “you must excuse my son and Princess Laurelin and me, for, you see, this is the final market day, the last before all are evacuated from the city—if the dratted waggons will ever get here, that is. We three must needs make an appearance at the bazaar, for, as Prince Igon has so succinctly put it, ’tis our Duty: the folk expect to see their good King Aurion Redeye, and the handsome Prince, and their Lady-to-be.”
“So that’s the answer!” burst out Tuck, striking the arm of his chair. “Oh . . . er . . .” he was embarrassed, “I mean, well, we were wondering at the large crowd in the market square, what with the city being half deserted, as it were. Now you have answered our question: it is the last market day, for some time to come, I ween, sort of a ‘Fair’ one might say, though a dark event it is you celebrate.”
“With darker days yet to come, I fear,” sighed the King, standing, and so they all rose. He turned to Lord Gildor and the three Waerlinga. “I thank you all for your news, though ill tidings it is. We shall speak again in the days ahead. My Lady.” He held out his arm and Princess Laurelin took it, and he led her from the hall, and they were followed by the Princess’s Ladies-in-waiting.
“I’ll meet you at the gates,” called Igon after them, and turned to the Warrows. “But first I must lead you back to your barracks. Lord Gildor, are you quartered?”
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