The Iron Tower Omnibus

by Dennis L McKiernan

“Nar,” said Danner. “I think they just know where to chop.”

  “Anyhow, buccoes, that’s all Gildor and Vidron told us,” concluded Patrel. “All we have to do is wait and we’ll see for ourselves, ’cause they’re coming: Vulg, Rûck, Hlôk, Ogru, Ghûl: it’s them we’ll be fighting alongside the Men. Yet, that’s a couple or more days in the future, and now we must gather some sleep, for our watch on the ramparts is but a few hours ahead, and our eyes need to be even sharper in the coming times.”

  And so they all took to their cots, but slumber was a long time coming to some, and others slept not at all; and they tossed and turned to no avail, occasionally raising up to see Tuck in a far corner scribing in his diary by candlelight.

  ~

  The next morning a bleak grey dawn saw the Warrows come to the ramparts. North they looked, but the glowering skies were too sullen and the early light too blear to see the wall of Dimmendark. After the watch was set upon the bulwark, Delber and Sandy were left in charge while Tuck, Danner, and Patrel entered the castle to seek out the Princess. They went to bid her farewell, for this was the day she would leave. They took with them the clothes they had worn to her birthday feast, and also the armor, to return it. They found her in her chambers, taking one last look before departing.

  “Oh pother!” she declared. “If ever you needed armor now is the time, for War comes afoot.”

  “But my Lady,” protested Patrel, “these hauberks are precious: heirlooms of the House of Aurion. We could not take them. They must be returned.”

  “Nay!” came the voice of the King as he stepped into Laurelin’s parlor behind them.”The Princess speaks true. Armor is needed for my Kingsguards. Even now the leather-plate armor made for your Company these past days is ready in my armories for your squads to don. But though I did not think of the Dwarf-made armor of my youth or that of my sons, Lady Laurelin remembered it. Now, too, she is right, yet not only because armor is needed, but also because you are the Captain and lieutenants of the Wee Folk Company, and my Men will find it easier to single out a Waerling in gold, silver, or black to relay my orders to. And so you will keep the mail corselets.” He raised his hands to forestall their contentions.”If you take issue with the gift, surely you cannot oppose me if we call it a loan. Keep the Dwarf-made armor, and, aye, the clothes, too, until I personally recall it; and if I never do so, then it is to remain in your hands, or in the possession of those you would trust. Gainsay me not in this, for it is my command.” The Warrows bowed to the will of the King.

  Laurelin smiled and her eyes were bright. “Oh, please do dress again as you were last night, for that was a happy time, and I would have you bid me farewell accoutered so.”

  Hence it was that in the grey morn the three Warrows were arrayed once more in armor and Elven cloaks, steel helms and bright trews and soft jerkins: silveron and blue, gold and pale green, black and scarlet. ’Neath overcast skies they stood in the courtyard at the great west gate as wounded Haddon was gently placed in the first of the two wains standing on the cobbles. Prince Igon stood by his horse, Rust, with stern Captain Jarriel at his side holding the reins of a dun-colored steed. King Aurion and silver-bearded Vidron were there, too, along with Gildor the Elf Lord. Princess Laurelin came last of all.

  “Advise Igon well, as you would me,” said Aurion to Jarriel, and the Captain struck a clenched fist to his heart.

  King Aurion then embraced his son. “Gather mine Host to me, my son, yet forget not your sword-oath to the Lady Laurelin.” And Igon drew his sword and kissed the hilt and raised the blade unto the Princess. Laurelin smiled and inclined her head, accepting Igon’s oath to see her safely to Stonehill.

  Then the Lady Laurelin made her farewells: King Aurion she embraced and kissed upon the cheek, bidding him to whelm Modru and keep her Lord Galen safe; of Lord Gildor she asked only that he serve the High King until the War was ended, and Gildor nodded, smiling; to Marshal Vidron she said nought but hugged him extra tight, for he had been like a father to her in this Land so far away from Riamon her home, and Tuck was amazed to see a glittering tear slide down the gruff warrior’s cheek and into his silver beard; Captain Patrel she named minstrel of her court, and to Danner she smiled and called him her dancer; last of all she turned to Tuck and kissed him, too, and whispered to him:

  “Someday I hope to meet your Merrilee of the silver locket, just as someday I would that you and my beloved Lord Galen could know one another, for I deem you would be boon companions. Keep safe, my Wee One.”

  And then Laurelin was escorted by Prince Igon to the last waggon, and she mounted up into it. At a signal from Aurion, the portcullises were raised and the great west gates opened. With a flip of reins and a call to the teams, slowly the wains moved forward and through the portal, the iron-rimmed wheels clattering upon the flagstones and cobbles, horses’ hooves ringing, too. Igon followed behind upon Rust who pranced and curvetted, eager to be under way, and Captain Jarriel upon the dun steed came after. Outside the gate they were joined by the escort, and slowly the waggons trundled down Mont Challerain, heading for the final caravan waiting below.

  Behind stood Warrows, Men, and Elf, waving goodbye; and Tuck’s last sight of Laurelin was one of sorrow, for although he could see her returning the farewell, he also saw that she was weeping. And then with a clatter of gears and a grinding of metal, the portcullises lowered and the iron gates swung to, and Tuck stood staring at the dark iron long after the barrier clanged shut.

  ~

  At last the three young buccen climbed up to the ramparts and stood long upon the south wall in the company of Danner’s squad, and they watched as the waggon train wended southward out through the first wall and into the foothills, driving toward the plains beyond. And they all had heavy hearts, for it seemed as if a brightness had gone from their lives, leaving behind cold bleak stone and grey iron and empty barren plains under drab leaden skies.

  They were standing thus when Finley came. “Oh, hullo, there you are,” he said. “I’ve found you at last. You’d better come Cap’n Patrel, Tuck, Danner, come to the north rampart and look at Modru’s Black Wall. It’s growing.”

  “Growing?” barked Patrel. “This we must see.”

  Swiftly they strode along the castellated bulwark, coming soon to the north wall. Climbing upon the weapon shelf they looked through crenels northward. Tuck felt his heart lurch and the blood pound in his temples, for Modru’s forbidding wall of Dimmendark now seemed half again as high as when last he had seen it.

  “Summon Marshal Vidron,” said Patrel, not taking his eyes from the growing darkness.

  “It’s been done, Cap’n,” said Finley. “He’s at the midwall gorget.”

  “Come then,” Patrel bade Tuck and Danner, stepping down from the shelf and marching toward the midwall. As they went to Vidron, King Aurion also came with Gildor, striding up the nearby bastion ramp. They came to the gorget and again the young buccen mounted the shelf and looked at the far Black Wall.

  At last Tuck asked, “Why is it growing?”

  “It’s not growing, Tuck,” answered Danner, “it’s coming closer.”

  Of course! Tuck thought, surprised that he hadn’t seen it for himself. How stupid can I be? No wonder it looms larger: it’s moving toward us. Haddon said it was coming, and it is! His thoughts were interrupted by the King:

  “Like a great dark tide, it comes, drowning all before it,” said Aurion. “How much time do you deem we have, Marshal Vidron?”

  “Two days, perhaps, but no more,” answered the Man from Valon, his hand stroking his silver beard. “Modru comes apace.”

  “Nay,” said Gildor. “Not Modru: just his minions come, his Horde, but not him.”

  “What?” burst out Patrel. “Do you mean that he’s not with them, that he doesn’t lead his armies?”

  “Oh, no, Wee One, he leads them aright, but by a hideous power, and he remains in his tower in Gron to do so,” answered Gildor, his voice low.

  Tuck shuddered, though
he knew not from what; but Danner spat toward the north: “Modru, you cowardly toad, though you hide away now, someday you will yet face one of us, and in that battle you will lose!” Danner turned his back to the Dimmendark and leapt down from the weapon shelf and marched angrily away to rejoin his squad along the south rampart.

  Lord Gildor watched him go. “Ai, that one, he vents his fear in anger, though tell him not I said so. He will be a good one to stand beside in times of strife—if he can control his passion. Rare warriors like him I have seen in the past, though not of the Waerlinga: the more difficult the task, the greater is their grit to win through.”

  Tuck thought, Gildor is right about Danner: the tougher a task, the more he strives. Grit, he names it, though my dam called Danner “pugnacious,” and my sire said he was “quarrelsome.”

  “Aye,” said Vidron, “I, too, have seen warriors who turn dread into rage, but at times the berserker comes upon them, and then they are awful to behold, for then they do nought but slay. Yet were this to happen unto one of the Waldfolc, he would not survive, for they are so small.”

  “Nay, Marshal Vidron,” said King Aurion. “Were a Waerling to have the battle rage come upon him, to become a Slayer, I, too, think he would not survive—but not because he is so small: instead because he is what he is: a Waerling: and were he to become a Slayer, even in battle, he simply would not live beyond that time.” A feeling of dire foreboding came over Tuck at these words, and he looked in the direction that Danner had gone.

  ~

  All that morning, Captains and warriors came to the north rampart to watch the advance of the Dimmendark, and faces blenched to see the dreadful blackness stretching from horizon to horizon and stalking toward them. To the rampart, too, one at a time, came the young buccen of Danner’s squad, now accoutered in their new corselets of leather plate as were the Warrows of Tuck’s squad; and they watched the dark looming wall draw closer; some made comments, but most simply stood without speaking and looked long before turning and going back to their posts.

  “Ar, it looks like a great black wave,” said Dilby as he stood beside Tuck.

  “King Aurion said something like that, too, Dilbs,” answered Tuck. “He called it a dark tide, though I think he meant Modru’s Horde as well as the Dimmendark.”

  “Aurion Redeye can call ’em a dark tide if he wishes, but me, well, I think the Elves have the right of it when they call ’em Spaunen, though I would call them Modru’s Spawn,” Dilby averred. After a short pause, he spoke on: “I don’t mind telling you, Tuck, seeing that Black Wall a comin’, well, it makes me feel all squirmy inside.”

  Tuck threw Dilby a glance and then looked back at the blackness. “Me, too, Dilbs. Me, too.”

  Dilby clapped a hand to Tuck’s shoulder. “Ar, squirmy or not, I hope it don’t spoil our aim none,” he said, and looked a moment more then stepped down from the shelf. “Ah, well, it’s me for the south wall so as someone else can come here and see this black calamity.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Tuck, jumping down beside Dilby. “I’ve watched Modru’s canker long enough. Perhaps the view to the south will be more pleasant: perhaps Lady Laurelin’s caravan is still in sight, though I would that it were gone far south days apast, for the Wall comes swiftly and the waggon train but plods.”

  To the south rampart they strode, where Tuck found Danner at the wall gazing south. Up beside him Tuck stepped and looked southward, too. “Oh, my!” gasped Tuck. “Have they gone no farther?” Out on the plains seemingly but a short distance beyond the foothills the caravan clearly could be seen, pulling up a long rise.

  “They’ve been creeping like that all day,” gritted Danner, grinding his teeth in frustration. “I keep telling myself that they’re making good time, but deep inside I don’t believe it. Look, you see that rise they go up now? Well that’s the same one we galloped down on our last day toward the Keep. It took us a morning to arrive. It’s taken the train about the same time to get from here to there. But, Tuck, I swear, their journey crawls slowly while ours trotted swiftly.”

  They stood and watched as the waggon train toiled up the slope. Tuck threw an arm over Danner’s shoulders. “Were the waggons filled with strangers, mayhap the pace would seem right. Or if the Dimmendark came not this way, we would believe the caravan swift. Yet I think we see it move at a snail’s pace because someone we care for rides in the last wain.”

  “Of course you’re right,” said Danner, “but knowing it does not help.” The taller young buccan watched long moments more, and then struck his fist to the cold grey stone. “Move faster, you slowcoaches, move faster!” he hissed through clenched teeth. Then, shrugging Tuck’s arm from him, he turned and slumped down on the shelf and sat, letting his feet dangle from the ledge, his back to the cold stone merlon, refusing to look at the caravan.

  Another half hour passed, then nearly an hour, and Patrel joined them. At last Tuck said, “There she goes, the last wain, over the hill.” Danner scrambled to his feet and the three of them watched as Laurelin’s waggon slowly disappeared beyond the distant crest. And the white prairie lay empty before them.

  ~

  Late in the day Tuck and Patrel stood again at the north rampart as the Dimmendark inexorably drew closer. Often their eyes had intently scanned the edges of the Black Wall, but nought of note did they see as the ’Dark stalked south across the plain toward them. Tuck secretly hoped to see Lord Galen’s troop ride forth upon the snow and come unto Challerain Keep, for he longed to meet this Prince who had won the heart of the Lady Laurelin. But no one came, and he, like Laurelin, began to fear that something had gone amiss. Yet Tuck told himself that Haddon the messenger had seen Lord Galen alive and well less than a day past. Has it been such a short time? he wondered. Less than a day since we were having a grand birthday party? Ar, but it seems as if that happy time were years agone, and as if the dread of the coming Black Wall has been forever, instead of but a single dismal day.

  “Ai-oi!” Patrel’s exclamation of puzzlement broke into Tuck’s thoughts. “Look, Tuck, at the base of the ’Dark! What is it?”

  Long did Tuck look, yet the distance and the failing light of the setting Sun through the overcast did not let him see clearly. “It looks like . . . like the snow is boiling all along the base of the Black Wall.”

  “Yar,” agreed Patrel. “Boiling or swirling, I cannot say which.”

  “Swirling, I think, now that you’ve said it, Captain Patrel,” confirmed Tuck. “But what would cause that? A wind, do you think?”

  Patrel merely grunted, and the day faded into night, and they saw no more. At last the Warrows trooped wearily to their quarters as the Castle-ward changed.

  ~

  The next morning the great Black Wall was less than ten miles distant and drawing closer. Each time Tuck looked at the looming darkness, his heart would thud anew, and he wondered at his courage: Will I be strong enough when it o’ertops these ramparts, or will I run screaming?

  Now they could see that a wind blew wildly all along the Dimmendark front, as if the air were being violently shoved, plowed before the moving Black Wall, or as a tempest-driven ocean breaking upon an enormous black jetty, and great boiling clouds of swirling snow were lofted high into the air. As to the ’Dark itself, the blackness rose from the plains, darkest near the ground, fading as it went up; yet high into the sky it reached before it could no longer be seen, perhaps a mile or more. And though the day was bright and the Sun shone golden, its light seemed consumed as it struck the Black Wall, as if swallowed by some dark monster.

  Aurion, Gildor, Vidron, and the War staff came often to the rampart, yet neither did their sight penetrate the churning snow or looming black, nor did aught emerge from the ebon wall.

  ~

  The Sun stood at the zenith when at last the Dimmendark came upon Mont Challerain. Tuck stood braced upon the rampart and watched with dread as the Black Wall rushed forward; and before it, the howling wind raced, and with it came the hurling s
now, and the Castle-ward was buffeted and battered by the shrieking gale on the rim of the Dimmendark. Tuck pulled the Elven cloak about his shoulders, and the hood over his head, but still the swirling snow was driven into his squinting wind-watered eyes. The Sun began to grow dim as the dark tide swept on, as if a black night were swiftly falling, though it was yet high noon. Rapidly the sunlight failed as the Dimmendark engulfed the Keep: through dusk into darkness the day sped in but a trice, and night fell even though the Sun stood on high.

  The shriek of the howling wind faded to but a distant murmur as the Black Wall swept on, and then even the murmur stilled. And the lofted snow quietly drifted back down upon the ramparts and the ground. Tuck looked about in wide-eyed wonder. The Keep now lay in dark Winternight, and a bone-numbing chill stole upon the land. Above, the disk of the Sun could but faintly be seen, and then only by knowing exactly where to look. Yet a spectral light, a Shadowlight, shone out of the dark, as if from a bright Moon, but the source of the light seemed to be the very air itself, and not from Sun, Moon, nor stars. Ebon shadows clotted around the feet of rock outjuts, and seeped among the trees and hills, and vision was hard-pressed to peer into these pools of blackness. And even out where the land was more open, sight became lost in the Shadowlight, snubbed short by the spectral dark.

  Tuck walked up and down the rampart saying, “Steady, buccoes, steady.” But whether he was trying to buck up his squad or was talking to himself, he did not know. Once more Tuck took up his position at the central bastion, and he stared out across the foothills. His eyes felt strange as he peered through the Dimmendark, as if the Shadowlight somehow contained a new color, perhaps a hue of deep violet, or beyond. Toward the open snowy plains he looked; he could see but a few miles through the ghostly ’Dark, yet still nought of any movement did he espy. And neither did Patrel who joined Tuck in his vigil.

  The awful cold crept into the very marrow of the bones, and Tuck sent his squad five at a time to their quarters to don their quilted down clothing. Patrel, who had gone, too, came bearing Tuck’s togs, and Tuck quickly pulled the winter garb over his shivering frame. “Trews and shiny armor are fine for birthday parties, but eider down is needed to withstand this cold Winternight,” Tuck said as he slipped his jacket over the silveron mail and again affixed the Elven cloak ’round his shoulders, casting the hood over his head. Slowly warmth returned to his body, and he and Patrel once more looked out upon the cold, dark land.