The Iron Tower Omnibus

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Ahead of Tuck, the column divided, horses wheeling right and left, curling back to ward the flanks of the Men on foot. The Warrows charged straight ahead, galloping downhill, for it was their mission to secure the stables until those on foot arrived. Above the pounding sound of running ponies, Tuck could hear the enraged cries of the mounted Ghûls, but then his steed came again to a road, and he plunged along it and down the face of a craggy bluff, and all noise was drowned out but for the ring and clatter of hooves upon cobbles.

  Below was another slope on which were the great western stables, and beyond them the land fell sharply unto the fourth wall. Now they thundered out and toward the stall-barns and horse-pens. As they ran, Tuck threw a fleeting glance back over his shoulder and saw that Men afoot were beginning to come down the road behind, and atop the butte, silhouetted against the Shadowlight sky, were the guarding warriors on horseback, wheeling about to meet the foe, some even now engaged in battle; amid them Tuck could see the flash of Gildor’s burning sword flaring red.

  Tuck now looked ahead where lay the stables, and young buccen clapped heels to pony flanks, dashing cross-slope toward them. Some few horses could be seen in the outer pens, but carcasses could be seen there, too, and Tuck thought, Oh, Lor, let there be live horses in the stalls!

  To the low horse barns they came, hauling the ponies up short and leaping to the snow. In pairs and triplets the Warrows spread out, running silently among the stables, jewel-eyes alert, arrows set to string, flitting through the Shadowlight to mew-doors blackly ajar. Through a portal leapt Tuck, with Wilrow swift upon his heels, dodging quickly around doorframe and ducking into deep shadow, eyes scanning darkened stalls, ready to slay lurking Spawn. Silence. Blackness. Is nothing here? Slowly they crept down the aisle. Blam! Blam! Two thunderous sounds shocked forth from the left, and Tuck’s heart leapt to his throat as he dropped to one knee, his bow drawn to the full, arrow aimed into darkness where surged a frightened horse. In its fear it had lashed at the wall; now it backed into a corner and stood trembling. The steed’s eyes rolled white in terror, and it heaved and snorted as if to blow its nostrils free of a dread odor. Slowly Tuck and Wilrow relaxed their aim and wondered at the creature’s fear.

  “Hst!” Wilrow motioned Tuck to him. He whispered, “There,” and pointed into another stall. Tuck looked and then averted his eyes, for the sight was grisly: mangled remains of horse, scattered in sodden blood-soaked straw, haunches rent from the carcass, gaping holes torn in the flesh, as if fangs and claws had ripped it asunder.

  “Vidron was right,” breathed Tuck to Wilrow. “This is Rûck work. They eat horseflesh. We must go on, and quickly. The Men will soon arrive.”

  Forward they pressed, passing down the row of stalls, some empty, most with frightened horses, and others reeking with the bloody carnage of mangled steeds partly consumed. They had come nearly to the end of the barn when ahead they heard a hideous rending and tearing, and a gluttonous smacking of lips. And there, too, came a harsh laugh and the low sounds of grating voices:

  “Guk klur gog bleagh,” came a guttural voice, speaking in the Slûk Tongue, a coarse speech common among the maggot-folk.

  “Yar. Let them stupid grunts crack the High King’s crib whilst we enjoys a bloody meal,” came another voice, this one using a distorted form of the Common Tongue that Tuck could but barely recognize.

  Again there was a rending sound and a smack of lips, and Tuck and Wilrow slid forward to see two Rûcks hunkered down at the side of a slain horse, great gobbets of torn flesh clutched in their grasping hands, their blood-slathered faces buried in the dangling meat as they bit and chewed and gulped the raw flesh down their gullets, pausing only long enough to lap at the blood dripping from their fingers and running down their arms.

  Th-thuun! Sssth-thok! Tuck’s arrow struck the Rûck on the left, Wilrow’s drove into the one on the right, and the maggot-folk were driven backwards, dead before they thudded into the wall and sprawled down lifeless.

  As Wilrow stepped into the dark stall to make certain that the two were slain, a third Rûck leapt from behind a hay-bin where he had been squatting unseen, and with a harsh cry he brought an iron cudgel smashing down upon Wilrow’s helm, and the young buccan fell. Tuck shouted in rage and sprang forward and stabbed an arrow like a dagger into the Rûck’s back. Spinning, the Rûck lashed out at Tuck, knocking the Warrow to the straw, and stepped forward snarling, cudgel raised; but then a look of surprise came upon his swart features, and he clawed at his back, trying to reach the shaft as he toppled dead at Tuck’s side.

  Tuck scrambled over to Wilrow’s fallen form, but the young buccan was slain, too, killed by Rûck cudgel. And at that moment the Warrow heard the steps of running Men enter the stables and the shout of their voices. Sick at heart, Tuck closed Wilrow’s golden eyes in final sleep and arranged his hands over his breast, and whispered, “Thuna glath, Fral Wilrow, (Go in peace, Friend Wilrow,)” speaking in the ancient Warrow Tongue. Then he stood and went to meet the Men, for the ruthless brunt of battle leaves no time to mourn the dead.

  ~

  “Swift! Mount up! The King is hard pressed!” Tuck heard a voice cry, and he ran through Men saddling and bridling horses and back outside unto his pony.

  Tuck looked to the cobbled road along the face of the bluff. Halfway down, a fierce battled raged between the mounted Kingsmen and Ghûls upon Hèlsteed. As Tuck’s sapphire eyes sought out the King, more Ghûls came to the top of the cliff and rode to the fray, while above on the lip, dark Rûcken forces hurled rocks upon the Men and black-shafted arrows rained downward. Slowly the horsemen backed down, fighting for every inch yielded, and the King upon Wildwind was among the last to come. And the mêlée was furious, for they fought to the death; even as Tuck looked on, a Ghûl and Man, Hèlsteed and horse, locked in battle, plunged from the road and hurtled down. And boulders smashed among the Men from the cliffs above.

  “Ya hoi! Ya hoi!” Tuck cried an ancient call to arms and sprang into the saddle and clapped his heels into his pony’s flanks. As he raced back cross-slope he was joined by other Warrows riding to the call, Danner and Patrel among them.

  They sped to the foot of the cliff and leapt to the snow. “The archers above!” cried Patrel. “The rock hurlers, too!” And the Warrows sped their deadly arrows toward the Rûcks upon the bluff above, taking careful aim, for the shot was a long one—eighty feet or more—and their shafts were few; yet Patrel had directed their aim aright, for the black-shafted arrows and hurled rocks were taking a deadly toll among the Men, and Patrel knew that only the Warrows could slow the fatal rain from above.

  Shaft after shaft hissed upward, and even at this distance they sped true. Rûcks quailed back from the cliff edge above the Men, and the fall of stone and arrow ebbed greatly. But snarling Hlôks lashed about with whips, and once more Rûcks came to the fore, and they were joined by the great Ogrus, who hurled huge boulders, and the deadly rain of rocks fell anew. Now the black arrows struck among the young buccen, and some found their marks, and Warrows fell. Tuck’s arrows now were spent, but he scooped up the quiver of a slain comrade and sped six more shafts into the enemy before these, too, were gone. He began plucking the black Rûck shafts from the earth, and these he winged into the foe. And then he was surrounded by thundering horses and yelling Men as those from the stables at last charged to the battle and horns sounded their presence.

  Now the Kingsmen upon the narrow cobbled road turned their steeds and sped down, for all the Men, the five-hundred or so that yet survived, now were mounted, and the dash down the mont through the sundered gates could begin. Tuck sprang again into his saddle, and all the Warrows, now but twelve strong, sped their ponies to the north and down, down through a gauntlet of Rûcken archers; and four more of the Wee Folk were felled. Tuck and Danner and Patrel yet lived, and together past the gauntlet and through the broken north gate of the fourth wall and among the char and rubble of the burned city they ran along the steep twisting streets and down. And behin
d came the Men on horses, and in back of them thundered Ghûls on Hèlsteeds, overhauling riders from behind, and felling them with spears and tulwars as Men turned to make a stand.

  Veering down through the black spars of the burned ruin they dashed, through the third gate and the second, and ash flew up from the pounding hooves. Now they ran for the first gate, the last before they would be free upon the foothills and into the plains beyond. Tuck thought, Here we must mount up behind Men, for the ponies will not be swift enough once we leave the twisting path. And then the north gate of the first wall hove into view, and Tuck gasped in dismay and hauled his pony up short, for there, massed upon Hèlsteeds, stood row upon row of leering Ghûls.

  Now the King rode up and checked Wildwind’s gallop, bringing the steed to a standstill. Even in his despair, Tuck was glad to see that the King yet lived. Then came Gildor and Vidron, and Young Brill, and three-hundred more, and all clattered to a stop, the steeds blowing plumes of white breath into the cold air. And behind them the pursuing Ghûls harshly reined up and jeered in victory—for the Men were trapped.

  At the gate among the stark Ghûls sat the vacant-eyed emissary upon a Hèlsteed. Now he was led forth by a pallid Ghûl to face the High King. Once again the messenger’s face writhed, and then malice stared out upon the assembly. Suddenly the jeers stopped, and Tuck heard Gildor gasp. The Elf spurred Fleetfoot to the fore and then he raised Bale on high. Ruby fire blasted forth upon the blade, and the Ghûls quailed back from its light. Yet the emissary snarled a harsh command—”Slath!”—and now the lines held firm. Then the ghastly pit-adder voice hissed forth and carried over the ruins: “You were given a choice, Aurion Redeye, yet you spurned my mercy. You have sought to stand against me and win, but the prize you have earned is Death!”

  Young Brill began to shake, and spittle foamed upon his mouth, and his eyes rolled white then wide as the battle madness seized him; and with an inarticulate cry of rage he spurred his horse forward, springing down the slope toward the emissary. “Gluktu!” cried the ghastly voice, and the Ghûl at the messenger’s side drove his Hèlsteed up, and Ghûl and Man raced at one another, and the sound of horse hoof and cloven hoof rang out upon the cobble. And Brill lashed his great sword out and down with unmatched fury, and sparks flew as blade met helm and he clove the Ghûl from crown to crotch; yet the Ghûl had struck, too, and his tulwar chopped through Young Brill’s neck; and they both fell dead unto the stone.

  It was as if a dam had burst, for Men and Ghûls alike vented cries of rage and spurred forward at one another to come together in a mighty clash of arms, and Tuck’s pony was swept forth in the charge. Yet even as he surged forward, Tuck heard Danner shout in hatred, and an arrow hissed through the air to strike the emissary full in the forehead, crashing into the Man’s brain and hurling him backward over the saddle and onto the frozen ground. And then Tuck was borne away, and all about him battle swirled and cries of death and fury filled the air. Tuck was without weapons, and he tried to ride toward the gate, but Ghûls there barred the way and fought with the King’s forces. Tulwars and sabers skirled upon one another and meaty chops sounded as blade met flesh. Only Gildor’s sword, Bale, seemed to have effect, for where it slashed Ghûls fell, spewing black blood. But the swords of Men hacked into the pallid flesh, and great gashes opened, yet they bled not, and the Ghûls fought on unaffected, felling Men. Beheading! Wood through the heart! Fire! Silver blade! Tuck’s mind raged. These are the ways to kill Ghûls. Not simple sword wounds nor knife cuts. We stand no chance if we cannot flee. Again he pressed through the mêlée, but still the gate was barred . . . yet wait! The Ghûlen force was turning, as if to meet a new foe. It was a new threat! For bursting through the ranks warding the north gate and scattering them asunder came a force of Men, thirty strong, shouting and casting oil and torches upon the enemy. Flames sprang up and Ghûls howled, Hèlsteeds bolted, afire. And leading the Men was a grey-clad warrior upon a jet-black steed: Lord Galen!

  “Now!” he cried, “The way is open!” and wheeled the black to meet Ghûl tulwar with steel sword.

  Tuck spurred his pony forward, ducking a sweep of enemy iron. Through the gate he dashed, others speeding behind.

  Danner also galloped into the passage, but a wild-running Hèlsteed slammed into his mount, and the young buccan was hurled to the cobbles, his pony fleeing from the stench of the beast. The Warrow scrambled to his feet. He heard a cry—”Danner!”—and looked back to see Patrel bearing down upon him, leaning out to catch him up. Danner reached high and grasped Patrel’s hand, the wounded one, and swung up behind him, and they thundered out beyond the gate. Then others poured through behind.

  When Tuck emerged outside the walls his steed ran but a short way north before the battle again caught up and swirled about him. Back he was pressed, and then forth, and he looked and saw . . . “My King! My King!” Aurion was besieged on all sides by Ghûls and Hèlsteeds. Wildwind reared and lashed out, belling challenges. Gildor spurred Fleetfoot toward the fray, Red Bale felling foe before him as he went. 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 hideous, white, corpse-people slashed at Tuck with whistling blade, missing the Warrow but chopping into the pony’s neck, and 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 Rûcks, using the harsh 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 Rûcks.

  Now the ravine narrowed and rose, and up Tuck ran, to come out into the Shadowlight, and 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. Othran’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 Rûcks. 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 Rûcks drew closer. Tuck’s sapphirine eyes frantically searched the shadow-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 Shadowlight 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 Rûck cudgel, and vacant eyes stared from grinning skull into Tuck’s own. Ancient remnants of sacerdotal raiment 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: 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 Rûcks could not abide its touch; yet it was the other weapon that Tuck snatche
d 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 Rûcks 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 Rûcks, and from his neck dangled a golden locket glittering in the receding torchlight, and behind him stood a jet-black steed.

  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 stood and turned his aim aside and down, letting the tension from his bow. “Lord Galen,” he breathed, “I am a friend. “