The Ghol raised his spear, both hands on the shaft, preparing to plunge it through her breast. Laurelin’s teeth ground in fury, her eyes flared up at him with unflinching wrath. Back drew the spear for the final thrust.
“Slath!” lashed out a command from behind her, the hissing voice hideous, and Laurelin felt as if vipers slithered over her spine. The Ghol lowered the shaft, and the Princess turned her head to see a Man upon Hèlsteed. A Naudron he was, one of the folk that roam the northern barrens hunting seal and whale and the antlered beasts of the tundra. Yet when Laurelin looked beyond his yellow-copper skin and into his dark eyes, utter Evil stared malignantly back at her.
“Where is the other, the youth?” The hiss of pit adders filled the air.
“Ghun.” The Ghol’s voice was dull, flat.
“I said to spare the two of them!” the sibilant voice cried, “but you give me only the Princess.” The icy gaze turned upon Laurelin, and she felt as if her skin were crawling, and she wanted to run and hide from this being. Yet she stared back at him and blenched not. “Where is puling Igon?” hissed the serpent voice.
Laurelin’s spirit almost broke then, for Igon lay in the snow not twenty feet away. Yet she made no sign.
“Nabba thek!” spat the order, and Ghola dismounted and began moving slowly among the slaughtered, catching the barbs of their spears in the clothing and flesh of the slain, turning them face up, dead eyes staring, mouths agape.
Laurelin looked on in horror. “Leave them alone, Spaunen!” she cried, “Leave them alone!” And then her voice lost its strength, sinking to a whisper: “Leave them alone.” Still the cruel barbs jabbed and hauled as the faces of the slain were inspected. Laurelin turned to the Naudron and cried, “He’s dead: Igon is dead!” Uncontrollable sobbing racked her frame as the horror of the brutal slaughter overwhelmed her at last.
“Dead?” The Naudron’s voice was filled with rage. “I commanded that he be spared: All in this party will suffer for disobeying.” Bale glared out at the Ghola, yet still they stalked among the dead.
“Slath!” the puff adder voice commanded. “Garja ush!” The Ghola turned from their grisly task, and two came and dragged Laurelin to her feet, the broken bones grinding in her right forearm. Blackness swirled, and the Princess felt her mind falling down a dark tunnel.
~
Laurelin became aware that icy hands clutched her, and a burning liquid was forced down her throat. Coughing and sputtering, she tried to fend away the leather flask, and agonizing pain jagged through her right arm, jerking her full awake. Ghola held her. Her right arm from wrist to shoulder was swathed by heavy bindings over a rude splint bent at the elbow. Again the liquid was forced upon her, its fire burning inside her chest and stomach and running into her limbs. She struck away the flask and turned her face aside. Yet once more the Ghola forced the burning drink upon her, roughly grasping her head and wrenching her face upright, pouring until she gagged, spraying the vile liquid wide.
“Ush!” Again Laurelin was hauled to her feet, and she stood weakly, shuddering, swaying. “Rul durg!” And the chill hands of the corpse-people rent the clothing from Laurelin till she stood naked before the Naudron. He sat upon the Hèlsteed and gloated. Laurelin felt a great horror and loathing, and the cold was numbing, yet she stood defiantly. Quilted Rukken clothing was flung at her feet, and fleece-lined boots. Ghola forced her to don the garb: filthy it was, and mite-infested, and overlarge upon her, but it was warm. During the dressing, the only sound she made was a gasp through clenched teeth as the sleeve of the jacket was slit from wrist to shoulder and forced onto her, then roughly wrapped over and bound to the splinted arm.
The Naudron’s voice spat and hissed commands in the glottal Slûk tongue too rapidly for Laurelin to make out individual words from the guttural slobbering drool-speech. Then the evil eyes turned upon her as her arm was jerked into a sling. A Hèlsteed was brought forth and Laurelin was hauled astride the hideous beast, and its foul odor was nearly enough to make her retch.
“Now you will be brought to my strongholt,” hissed the voice, “where I have a purpose for you to serve.”
“Never,” said Laurelin, her voice gritting forth. “Never will I serve you. You set yourself on too high a seat.”
“I shall remind you of your words, Princess, when it is time for the throne of Mithgar to be mine.” Malevolence crawled over the Naudron’s gloating features.
“There is one, nay, there are many in Challerain Keep who will thwart that aspiration, Spaunen!” Laurelin’s voice snapped.
“Pah: Challerain Keep!” the Naudron’s voice sneered. “Even now that pile of hovels is aflame, set to the torch by my engines of destruction. Challerain will burn to the ground ere this ’Darkday ends, and there is nothing that Aurion Redeye with his puny force can do to prevent it: nothing: And the fire will sap his will; the strength of his Men will fall into the ashes of its destruction. Then will I strike: my Horde to whelm the gates, to scale the walls, to slay the fools trapped inside.”
Laurelin’s blood ran chill to hear such words, yet she betrayed no sign of fear, and she said nought.
“We waste time,” he hissed, then cried a command to the force of Ghola now arrayed behind: “Urb schla: Drek!” Then once more he addressed Laurelin: “We shall speak again, Princess.”
And even as Laurelin looked on, the Naudron’s features writhed and then fell lax, and the malignant glare was utterly gone, replaced by a witless, vacant, slack-jawed look.
A Ghol rode to take the reins of the Naudron’s Hèlsteed to lead the beast, while another took up Laurelin’s, and at a sharp bark the Gholen column rode forth, heading east.
Behind, amid strewn and burning waggons and butchered steeds, lay the slaughtered: babes and mothers, the lame, Women, oldsters, soldiers, and youths, sprawled upon blood-soaked snow, some with their unseeing eyes staring at the track of the Gholen column as it disappeared into the Dimmendark; and nought was said by any, for the dead speak not.
~
Thirty grinding miles the Ghola rode through the Winternight, through the icy Shadowlight grasping the northern hills of the Battle Downs; and the jolting of the Hèlsteed drove shattering agony up Laurelin’s arm. At times she nearly swooned, yet still the pounding went on. Her features became gaunt, drawn into haggard lines of pain, and she could no longer hold herself erect. That she did not collapse was perhaps due to the burning liquid forced upon her, for she did not fall, though how not she could not say. And the cruel miles hammered on. At last the column stopped to make camp. Laurelin was hauled down from her mount and she could not stand. She sat in the snow and dully stared as the Ghola took the vacant-eyed Naudron from his ’Steed.
Once more she was forced to drink the burning liquid, and then given a meal. She numbly ate the stale dark bread and thin gruel but touched not the unknown meat. And she sat revulsed, watching the Foul Folk tear voraciously at their own food, all that is but the vacuous Naudron who chewed and slavered with dull-witted sluggishness upon the runny porridge spoon-fed to him by a Ghol.
And as she sat in this camp of ravers, her desperate thought was, Galen, oh Galen, where are you?
~
Laurelin was kicked awake and given the flask of fiery liquid. Her battered body shrieked with pain: arm in torment, joints aflame, muscles knotted in agony. This time she drank from the flask without being forced, for the vile fluid dulled the harrowing rack.
Once more the Ghola prepared to go on, and Laurelin was given no privacy to take care of her needs. And she felt utterly degraded by the dead black eyes.
On through the Dimmendark they rode, beating steadily eastward, still within the northern margins of the Battle Downs. This time they covered nearly thirty-five miles before making camp.
Laurelin could but barely move when they stopped at last, for the unremitting pain in her arm had grown, thoroughly sapping her energy; and her legs, buttocks, back, and even her feet were tormented beyond telling from the pounding Hèlsteed ri
de.
Dully, she took her meal, eating without thinking. But then a cold chill fell upon her heart, and without knowing how she knew, Laurelin suddenly became aware that the malevolence once more looked upon her: she turned and saw that it was so, for malignancy again glared forth from the Naudron’s face.
“Challerain is burned to the ground,” gloated the voice. “The first and second walls have fallen to Whelmram and my Horde. Aurion Redeye and his pitiful few retreat up the mont, trapped like rabbits before the serpent.”
Dread thudded within Laurelin’s breast, yet rage burned there, too. “Why say you this?” she demanded. “Think you that these things you say will cause me fear on your spoken word alone?”
But the Naudron answered not, for now his eyes were blank.
~
Racked with agony, the stabbing pain pulsing in her arm, Laurelin wondered how long she could endure. Yet she gave no outward sign of her torment, as once more the column bore east, and her mind sought ways she might escape, yet none were forthcoming.
Three leagues they rode, then four, passing through the Shadowlight toward the eastern reaches of the Battle Downs north of Weiunwood. Twelve miles they rode ere an uneasy stirring rippled down the column. Laurelin craned her neck, and ahead, just within the limit of her vision she saw . . . Elves: Elves on horses: Her heart leapt with hope. Rescue: But wait: they were not coming this way. Instead they rode swiftly toward a line of trees to the south; and behind, running on foot, pursued a great force of Yrm in close chase, their harsh yells drifting over the snow. “Wait!” cried Laurelin, but her voice was lost amid the gleeful howls of the Gholen column, gloating to see Elves flee into Weiunwood with Rukha and Lôkha in full cry.
As the Elves disappeared into the winter forest, Laurelin’s heart fell into despair and tears rilled down her face. Yet inwardly she raged at herself: Give them not the satisfaction, she thought, not the satisfaction, and she sat up straight in Hèlsteed saddle and fought to stifle her weeping ere any Ghol could see. And she watched as the first of the yelling Rukha and Lôkha now rushed headlong into the ’Wood, and hundreds upon hundreds of others poured after.
The Gholen column continued eastward, swinging slightly north to pass behind the force of Yrm invading Weiunwood. As they rode, ahead Laurelin could see another band of Ghola sitting still upon Hèlsteed, watching the force disappear into the trees.
The two Gholen columns met and merged, and spoke with flat dull voices, sounding bereft of life except when one or several would emit bone-chilling howls. Some came to inspect Laurelin, their dead black eyes fixed upon her, and she stared defiantly back at them.
The new force of Ghola numbered nearly one-hundred strong, and Laurelin saw that among this band, too, rode a Man: black he was, as if from the Land of Chabba south across the Avagon Sea. And then Laurelin saw that his eyes were vacant, and drool ebbed down his chin, just like the Naudron’s. And, also like the Naudron, the Chabbain, too, was led by a Ghol. It was as if neither Man bore any wit or will.
Yet even as she looked, the black face filled with malice, and it seemed as if Evil stared out at her. “The third wall of Challerain Keep now has fallen, as will the last two,” hissed the Chabbain; and Laurelin’s hand flew to her lips and she gasped in dread, for it was the same viperous voice she’d heard issue forth from the Naudron’s mouth: But then the ebon face went slack, the eyes emptied out, the Evil was gone. And Laurelin spun to look at the Naudron and saw the same vacant stare. And she shuddered, for now she knew with whom she dealt.
Onward went the column with Laurelin, resuming the trek to the east. And as they rode forth, the Princess looked back at the stationary band of Ghola waiting near the fringes of the Weiunwood. And her sight was drawn one last time to the Man from Chabba, his dark skin standing out amid the pasty pallidness of the Ghola like a slug among maggots. Shuddering, she turned her gaze to the fore and did not look back again.
Another four leagues they rode before emerging at last from the Battle Downs, and they made camp two leagues beyond upon the open plains. And as Laurelin spooned thin gruel to her mouth with her left hand, her broken arm throbbed in its sling; and pulsing with that pain, her mind kept echoing the hissing words: ‘The third wall of Challerain Keep now has fallen, as will the last two.’
~
The next ’Darkday, the fifth since her capture, the Gholen column crossed the plains to camp within sight of a northeast arm of the Weiunwood. Still their track bore eastward, and they had ridden thirty or so miles each of those five ’Darkdays. Yet the Hèlsteeds were not spent, for although they were not as fleet as a good horse, their endurance was greater.
Nay, it was not the tiring of the Hèlsteeds that determined where the column would camp, nor was it the amount of pain that Laurelin could withstand. It was instead the limits of the Naudron that paced the force of Ghola, though how the corpse-people could tell that the vacant-eyed Man needed rest, Laurelin could not say. Yet she did not care how it was done, for she was weary beyond measure when the camp was set.
She had just fallen into exhausted slumber when a Ghol kicked her awake. Opposite the campfire, again Evil looked upon her. “The Keep has fallen and is now mine,” hissed the pit adder voice. “Your brave Aurion Redeye has fled. And though I now have no eyes to see, I think none shall escape.”
Laurelin’s pale gaze locked with that of the dark-eyed Naudron’s. “Zûo Hêlan widar iu: (To Hèl with you!)” she gritted in the old high language of Riamon, and lay back down to sleep, as evil laughter hissed in her ears. But though she lay with her eyes closed, her mind would not let go: ‘The Keep has fallen . . . Redeye has fled . . . None shall escape.’
~
The next trek took Laurelin beyond the margins of the Weiunwood and into the low-set craggy tors of the Signal Mountains. And just ere they stopped to camp, the Naudron’s blank eyes suddenly glared. “They seek to defy me!” the voice shrilly screamed, no longer a sibilant hiss. Laurelin snapped around to see rage upon the features of the Man of the Naud. “The fools of mine Hèlborne Reavers raced straight into their trap: But this ragtag Alliance of Elves, Men, and jewel-eyed runts shall not bar me from conquest. Weiunwood shall fall by my hand!”
Now the voice sank into viperous sibilation: “Thuggon oog. Laug glog racktu!” At these festering Slûk words, nearly half of the Ghola turned southwest along the Signal Mountains, while the rest continued to bear eastward, taking Laurelin with them.
As they divided, the voice hissed at the Princess, “They go to replace those impaled upon the wood. Think not to gloat over this minor setback, for the final victory shall be mine!”
But Laurelin’s eyes bore into his, and she smiled fiercely.
~
Three ’Darkdays later, snow was falling down through the Dimmendark when Laurelin awakened, and their trek began in flakes swirling thickly. The past two ’Darkdays had been spent out upon the open plains, bearing south of east from the Signal Mountains, crossing the land north of the Wilderness Hills. And each of those days had been filled with dull ache for Laurelin, and her mind seemed to haze in and out of awareness: at times her thoughts were preternaturally sharp, at other times sluggish beyond her understanding. Yet she fought to show no sign of weakness, and to let no sound of pain pass her thin-drawn lips.
Once more their journey carried them southward, and they had gone nearly ten miles when they came to a high-bluffed river. South they ranged along the wall to come to a low place where there was a frozen ford. Through the swirling snow and across the ice they went, cloven hooves ringing on the surface. As they came to the far side, the snow began to slacken, yet Laurelin knew that their tracks had been covered, and anyone following would have lost the trail. But perhaps this vague feeling that someone came after was only a girlish dream, and whether or not the snow covered their wake, it did not matter.
As they rode into the land beyond the ford, the column turned slightly north of east, and Laurelin noted a strange run of excitement ripple through th
e Ghola. But she knew not what it portended.
Onward they went, the snow diminishing as they rode, finally to stop altogether. They came in among dark trees, and Laurelin felt a deep foreboding, from what she could not say. It was in these woods where they made camp.
As Laurelin was drifting off to an aching sleep, a thought came unbidden to her mind: It is Last Yule, Year’s Start Day, Merrilee’s birthday. Where are you now, Sir Tuck?
~
Once more the trek resumed, and still the Ghola acted strangely: their flat voices arguing among themselves, their heads turning this way and that as they rode through a wood dismal, a wood from which darkness seemed to flow beyond that of the Shadowlight. And the Ghola appeared to revel in this miasma of dimness and vague dread.
Miles they went among the trees, at last to break into the open: a great clearing. Across the treeless expanse they rode, ten miles or more, to come once again unto the wood. At its very edge they made camp, and still the Ghola spoke, as if the dead debated what course to follow.
And as the campfire was lighted, without warning the hideous voice hissed forth: “Why are we here: Why have you not turned north for the Pass?”
The dead black eyes turned to the Naudron, and Laurelin sensed fear running among the Ghola, though she knew not why.
“Ah, I see,” the sibilant whisper came, “you thought to make the Drearwood into a place of dread as of old.”
Drearwood: Of course: That’s where we are: thought Laurelin. And the pass he spoke of is Grûwen Pass. Then her heart plummeted, and she felt as if she had been struck in the stomach, and her spirit cried out in despair: Oh, Adon: They bear me to Gron, to Modru, himself: Agony lanced up her arm.
Her thoughts were broken by a shrill scream: “Did I not say that my plans come first: Which of you has guided us here instead of toward the Pass?”
Black eyes turned briefly toward one of the Ghola standing in the open snow, and his flat voice spoke: “Glu shtom!”
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