Laurelin smiled radiantly up at him, “I am most pleased to have you as a protector, Lord Igon, though I would that neither of us had that journey to make.”
The feast went on. A sleight-of-hand artist made doves appear from kerchiefs, and flowers from empty tubes, to the delight of all. Then one came who swallowed swords—making Tuck’s stomach queasy—and threw knives with wondrous skill. Finally a harper played, but his song was of love lost and sad unto the heart; Patrel looked at Laurelin and saw that tears glistened upon her lashes, and he nudged Tuck and Danner and they saw her sadness, too. The small gold-clad Warrow took a great draught of ale and called the harper to him. “Have you got a lute?” Patrel asked. “Good! May I borrow it?” In a trice the Wee One held a fine lute in his hands and he turned to the Princess. “My Lady, it is nearly mid of night, and in but a few moments you will be nineteen. We of the Boskydells have nought to give you as a present on this your birthday eve, yet there is a happy song, really nought but a ditty, that perchance will cheer you: it is called “The Merry Man in Boskledee”, and practically every Warrow in the Boskydells knows it and the dance that goes along. I propose that Tuck and Danner and I perform it as the Warrows’ gift to you.”
Tuck and Danner were both thunderstruck: had Patrel actually proposed that they sing a simple Warrow song before all of these Warriors?
“Patrel!” hissed Danner, “you can’t be serious. This hardly seems the time or place for a nonsense tune.”
“Nonsense!” roared Vidron, his mood jovial. “’Twere no better time than now for a happy jig.”
“Oh yes, please do,” begged the Princess turning to Tuck and Danner, “for I need the cheer.”
Tuck looked into the pleading eyes of the Lady and could not refuse, and neither it seemed could Danner. And so, after a good stiff glog of mead, they most reluctantly stepped down upon the central floor and walked to the fore-center.
King Aurion, himself, called for quiet, and a hush fell over the guests. Patrel plunked the strings, tuning the lute, and said under his breath to the other two, “Give it your best go.” And at their nods his fingers began dancing over the strings and such a bright and lively tune sprang forth that it immediately set toes to tapping and fingers to rapping and lustily the Warrows began to sing:
Oh—Fiddle-dee hi, fiddle-dee ho,
Fiddle-dee hay ha hee.
Wiggle-dee die, wiggle-dee doe,
Wiggle-dee pig die dee.
Once there was a very merry Man
Who came to Boskledee.
His coat was red and his horse was tan,
And mittens, well he had three.
He was so tall but his horse so small,
His feet dragged on the ground.
He didn’t dismount when the steed was tired,
He simply walked around.
A great roar of laughter rose up from the assembly, and here Tuck and Danner, silver- and black-armor clad, danced a simple but rigorous to-and-fro jig to the beat of the tune, occasionally linking arms to wildly circle oppositely.
Oh—Ho ho ho, ha ha ha,
Higgle-dee hay hi hee.
Har har har, ya ya ya,
Giggle-dee snig snag snee.
He tumbled hand springs, wore seven rings,
Shot fireworks in the air.
His pants were orange and his shoes bright green,
He cried, “Let’s have a fair!”
He strummed upon a six string-ed lute
And sang so merrily.
His voice, it broke with a great loud croak,
And he laughed in happy glee.
Again the warrior Captains howled in mirth and banged the tables with their mead cups, and Laurelin and Igon ran down hand in hand, and they joined Danner and Tuck in dancing the jig: to and fro, back and forth they danced, bright smiles upon their faces; blue, red, silver, and black, all whirled and stepped to the notes played by gold. And the assembly roared its vast approval.
Oh—Har har har, fa la la,
Cackle-dee ha ho hee.
Ho ho ho, tra la la,
Giggle-dee tum ta tee.
He disappeared with a flash and a bang
And maybe a puff of smoke.
He left behind his clothes and his lute,
His steed, and a couple of jokes.
And now there is in old Boskledee
Fireworks at the annual fair,
Where we wear bright clothes and ride ponies
With gay songs filling the air.
Oh—Tiddle tee tum, ho ho ho,
Tra-la-la lay la lee.
Fiddle-dee fum, lo lo lo,
Ha-ha-ha ho ha hee.
Oh—Fiddle-dee fum, lo lo lo,
Ha-ha-ha ho ha hee.
Tiddle tee tum, ho ho ho,
Tra-la-la lay la lee—Hey!
And with the final Hey! Patrel twanged the lute and the fling stopped, the four dancers embracing and laughing in joy and panting with exertion. A great wild cheering broke out with whistling and cup banging and stomping and clapping. Marshal Vidron roared in laughter, while King Aurion banged his cup, and Lord Gildor clapped. Laurelin and Igon, Danner and Tuck, and Patrel all bowed to one another and to the crowd, and Laurelin’s eyes fairly danced with happiness. But then:
Boom! Doom! the great doors of the Feast Hall boomed open, echoing through the chamber like the knelling of doom, and a begrimed warrior trod into the Hall, his left arm gashed and bleeding. Smiling countenances turned toward him, but gaiety fled before his unyielding pace. Silence clanged down like the stroke of an axe blade upon stone, and the only sound to be heard was the hard stride of the Man down the long floor. And as the soldier passed the Warrows and Laurelin and Igon, and strode toward the King, Tuck was whelmed by a dreadful foreboding, and it seemed as if he were rooted to the floor. All eyes were locked upon the warrior as he came unto the throne dais. He struck a clenched fist to his heart and knelt upon one knee before the King, and blood dripped upon the stone. And in the hanging quiet, all heard his words:
“Sire, on this dark Yule Eve, I bear thee tidings from my Lord Galen, though ill word it is: The Dimmendark now stalks this way, the Black Wall moves toward Challerain Keep. And in the Winternight that follows, the Horde of ravers marches. The War with Modru has begun.”
5
The Dark Tide
A great uproar filled the Hall and hands grasped futilely at weaponless girts, for all had come to the feast unarmed. Shouts of anger boiled up, and clenched fists struck tables in rage, and some tore at their hair. Tuck’s heart thudded in his chest, and a cold chill raced through his veins, and from his confused wits one thought rose up above all: It comes!
At a sign from Aurion, a steward struck a great staff to the floor three times, and the knell of the gavel cut through the din. At last quiet returned to the Hall, and the King bade the warrior to speak on.
“Sire, I did but come from the Dimmendark five hours past,” he continued. “Two of us were entrusted by my Lord Galen to bring this word. Three horses each had we, and all were ridden unto foundering. Yet I and my last steed were all that won through, for my comrade was Vulg slain along the way, and I am Vulg wounded.”
“Modru’s curs!” spat Aurion, his fists clenched in fury, and the scarlet patch upon his left eye seemed to flash anger, and shouting wrath filled the Hall.
“Oh my, your arm!” Distress was in Laurelin’s voice, and she moved at last, rushing to the soldier’s side where she gently took his arm and called out through the roar for a healer, sending a nearby page darting from the chamber after one.
Tuck’s own paralysis was broken, and he joined Laurelin. Together they used the warrior’s dagger to cut away his tattered sleeve to reveal a long ugly gash. “This scratch was made at the very gates of the first wall,” grunted the soldier, gratefully accepting a horn of mead from Patrel, quaffing it in one gulp; Danner refilled it from a pitcher. “Why, you are Waerlinga!” he exclaimed, seeing for the first time that he was attended by Wee Folk.
“Haddon, Sire,” answered the Man.
“Well done, Haddon! You have brought vital news, though dire it is. Say you this: how much time have we ere the Black Wall sweeps unto Challerain Keep?”
“Perhaps two days, three at most,” answered Haddon, and a grim murmur ran throughout the assembly.
“Then we must make final our plans,” Aurion called out to the gathering, and all fell silent. “It is now mid of night. First Yule steps into the Realm, and Princess Laurelin paces forward into her nineteenth year. Good times lay behind us, and better times yet lay ahead, but in betwixt will fall drear days. Modru’s Horde now strikes south. Here at these walls they must be held. Go now unto your beds and rest, for we must be in the fullness of our strength to meet this foe.” Aurion swept up a goblet from a nearby table and raised it on high: “Hál!” he cried in the ancient tongue of the north. “Hêah Adoni cnâwen ûre weg! (Hail! High Adon knows our way!)”
And the assembly raised their own horns and cups: Hál! Aurion ûre Cyning! (Hail! Aurion our King!) And all drained their goblets to the bottom as through the doors returned the page with a sleepy healer in tow, nightcap still aperch his head. But all sleep fled from his eyes as he examined the wound.
“Vulg bite?” the healer’s voice was startled.”Foul news. We must get this warrior to a cot. The fever has begun, and we need blankets, hot water, a poultice of gwynthyme, and . . .” his voice sank into mumbles as he rummaged through his healer’s satchel, and Laurelin sent pages scurrying to fetch the healer’s needs.
With the healer and young buccen following, the Princess led the warrior through a postern behind the drapes in back of the throne. The door led to an alcove where there was a divan and fireplace and several chairs. Haddon’s cloak and armor, jerkin and padding were removed, and he was made to lie down, though he protested that he was too grimy for the couch. A page bore hot water in, and the healer laved the wound as Laurelin spoke with Haddon:
“My Lord Galen, is he well?” she asked.
“Aye, my Lady,” answered Haddon, pride in his voice, “he has the strength of two and the spirit of ten. And cunning he is, clever as a fox, for many a trap of his has the foe sprung to their woe.”
“Does he say when he might return here to the Keep?” Laurelin filled a basin with water, exchanging it for the one now tinged red with blood.
“Nay, Princess.” Haddon’s brow now beaded with sweat. “He harasses the Horde’s flanks, trying to turn their energies aside. Yet there are so many, and he now has less than a hundred in his ranks. We were sent to spy, not to thwart an army, yet I do not think he will flee back to the Keep.” Laurelin’s pale eyes were bleak to hear this news.
The door opened and in strode Aurion, followed by Igon, Gildor, and Vidron. As Gildor drew the healer aside and spoke quietly with him, Aurion sat by the side of the couch.
“How many does Modru send against us?” asked the King, peering into Haddon’s face, now flushed with fever.
“Sire, they are without number,” answered Haddon, his voice weak and falling toward a whisper. A shudder of chills racked the scout’s frame, but his low voice spoke on: “Sire . . . the Ghola . . . Ghola ride in their ranks.”
“Guula!” cried Vidron, and his countenance was grim.
“Do you mean Ghûls?” asked Patrel.
“Aye, Waldan,” answered the Hrosmarshal. “This foe is dreadful: Man-height, with lifeless black eyes and the blanched skin of the dead; dire in combat, virtually unkillable, they take dreadful wounds without bleeding or falling. Lore has it that in but a few ways can they be slain: a fatal wound by a pure silver blade; wood driven through the heart; fire; beheading or dismemberment; the Sun. Skilled with weapons they are, and cruel beyond measure, and they ride to battle mounted upon Hèlsteeds, horse-like but with cloven hooves and hairless tails.” Vidron fell silent, stroking his silver beard and thinking deeply.
The healer came with a goblet containing a sleeping draught. “Sire, he must rest, else he will die. And we must sear the worst of the bleeding but not all, for most of the wound must remain open for a poultice to work, else he will fall into foam-flecked madness. Gwynthyme will draw the poison, lest it run wild through his veins, if it does not do so even now. Should he last till dawn, and if Adon’s light yet shines on the morrow, then we will expose this warrior and his foul wound to the daylight, and that will burn out the remaining venom.” As Tuck heard the healer’s voice, his mind went back to the fright-filled night atop Rook’s Roost, the night Hob died from Vulg bite, and he realized at last that they had not had with them the means necessary to stay the young buccan’s death; yet knowing this did not take the sting from behind Tuck’s eyes.
The King nodded to the healer, and Haddon was held up to drink the potion. The warrior’s eyes slowly glazed over, yet he aroused long enough to beckon the King unto him. Aurion leant down to hear Haddon’s faint whisper, listening closely. Then Haddon’s eyes closed and he said no more.
As Gildor withdrew a glowing dagger from the fire, Igon asked, “Sire, what said he?”
Wearily the King turned to them all: “He said, ‘Rukha, Lokha, Ogrus.’” There came a cry and the sound and smell of searing flesh as Gildor carefully set the ruddy dagger here and there within the Vulg wound to stop the worst of the bleeding while the healer prepared a gwynthyme poultice, and Laurelin wept for Haddon’s pain.
Finished at last, Gildor stood and said, “If he lasts till morning and if Adon’s light yet shines, the Sun will burn out any remaining Vulg poison.”
~
“Rûcks, Hlôks, and Ogrus?” asked Delber, voicing the question for all the Warrow Company.
“And Ghûls, too,” said Argo. “Don’t forget the Ghûls.”
“I knew it! I just knew it!” exclaimed Sandy. “That Black Wall stood out there like Doom, lurking on the horizon. You could feel it in the air, like a storm about to break. And now Modru comes at last.”
All the Company murmured in agreement, for each Warrow there had felt the menace crouched over the Land; and Tuck, Danner, and Patrel had come in the wee hours of the morning to tell them the dire news.
“Hold on, buccoes,” said Patrel above the babble. When quiet returned, he spoke on: “Now I’ve told you about the Ghûls and their rat-tailed Hèlsteeds, just as Vidron described them to us, only he called ’em Guula while Gildor called ’em Ghûlka. But let me tell you what he and Gildor said about Rûcks, Hlôks, and Ogrus.” Again a low murmur washed throughout the Company until Patrel raised his hands for quiet.
“It seems that most of what we’ve been told in the past is correct,” said Patrel in the hush. “The Rûck is a hand or three taller than we, and, unlike the corpse-white Ghûl, the Rûck is night dark. He’s got bandy legs and skinny arms. His ears look like bat wings, and he’s got the eye of a viper: yellow and slitty. Wide-mouthed he is, with gappy, pointed teeth. He’s not got a lot of skill with weapons, but Gildor says he doesn’t need much ’cause there’s so many of ’em; they just swarm over you, conquering by their very numbers. Vidron calls ’em Rutcha and Goblins; Gildor calls ’em Rucha; but by any name, they’re deadly.”
Patrel paused and a hubbub rose up, and Dilby called out above the babble: “What do they fight with, Danner? Did Gildor say?”
“Ar, cudgels and hammers, mostly. Smashing weapons, he said,” answered Danner. “The Ghûls use spears and tulwars; the Rûcks, smashing weapons, though some use bows with black-shafted arrows; Hlôks usually wield scimitars and maces; and the Ogrus fight mostly with great War-bars. All of them use others weapons, of course: whips, knives, strangling cords, scythes, flails, you name it; but in the main they stick with those I named first.”
“Gildor says that the weapons with an edge or a point may be poisoned,” added Tuck. A low growl rumbled through the Company.
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br /> “Yar, a minor nick from one of those can do you in days later if not treated quickly,” said Danner.
“What about the Hlôks,” asked Argo, “and the Ogrus? What do they look like?”
“The Hlôk is Man-sized,” answered Patrel, “like the Ghûl. Their looks are different, though, the Hlôk being more Rûck-like in appearance, darkish, viper eyes, bat-wing ears. His legs are straight, and his arms strong. Unlike their small look-alikes, the Hlôk is skilled with weapons, and clever, too. And cruel. There’s not as many Hlôks as there are Rûcks, but the Hlôks command the Rûck squads, and in turn are commanded by the Ghûls.”
“Who tells the Ogrus what to do?” asked Finley. “Ar, and what be they like?”
“As to who commands the Ogrus, Gildor didn’t say,” answered Patrel. “Whether it be Ghûls or Hlôks or someone else, he did not tell the which of it. But this he did say: Trolls—that’s what Gildor calls Ogrus—Trolls are huge, a giant Rûck some say, ten or twelve feet tall. They’ve got a stone-like hide, but scaled, and greenish. Ordinary weapons don’t usually cut Ogrus, and the only sure way to kill them is to drop a big rock on ’em, throw them off a cliff, or stab them with ‘special’ swords—that’s what Gildor called them, ‘special,’ but I think he must mean ‘magical,’ though when I asked him about it, he didn’t seem to know what I meant by the word ‘magic.’”
“He did say that Ogrus sometimes could be slain by a stab in the eye, or groin, or mouth,” added Tuck. “And, oh yes, fifty or more Dwarves have been known to band together in a Troll-squad and hew an Ogru down with axes, but at a frightful cost to the Dwarves.”
“Hey,” said Finley, “if ordinary weapons won’t cut Ogrus, how come Dwarf axes work to slay them?”
“I don’t know,” answered Tuck. “Perhaps Dwarf axes are ‘special’ weapons.”
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