As they came along a twisting valley, suddenly Gildor kicked Fleetfoot forward and grabbed Jet’s bridal, bringing the horses to a halt.
“Hsst!” he said. “Listen!” and the Elf pointed ahead toward a bend.
Both Tuck and Galen strained their hearing, and above the blowing of the steeds they could faintly hear the skirl of steel upon steel, the clash of combat, the clangor of a duel.
At a motion from Galen, Tuck mounted behind the Man just as a pony bearing supplies scaddled around the bend and bolted past them, his eyes rolled white with terror, his hooves beating a frantic tattoo upon the stony ground.
Tuck gripped his bow and pulled an arrow from his quiver: it was the red shaft from Othran’s Tomb. Quickly he replaced it and took another, stringing it to his bow.
Galen drew his sword and Gildor had Bale in hand, its blood-red blade-jewel streaming scarlet fire along the weapon’s edge, silently shouting, Evil is near!
At a nod from Galen, forward they went, the steeds at a walk, nearing the bend. Tuck’s heart thudded as he prepared for fight or flight, for they knew not what lay ahead. Ching: Clang: came the sounds, louder.
Slowly they rounded the bend, to come upon a scene of great carnage. Rûcks there were, lying dead, slain Hlôks, too, cleft by great gaping wounds. Chank: Dlang: Ponies were slaughtered, some still kicking in their death throes. But Tuck’s eye was drawn elsewhere, for here and there other warrior Folk lay: Dwarves!
Dwarves slain by scimitar and cudgel!
Dwarven axes asplash with black Rûck grume bloodily attested to the deaths of the Spaunen, just as red-washed Rûcken blades spoke of the Dwarven dead. Chank: Shang!
At last the trio came full ’round the bend; from the road bed of the Old Rell Way the ring of steel upon steel hammered forth. Dhank: Chang: It was a Dwarf: And a Hlôk: And they fought to the death: The last two survivors of a gory slaughter, the last two. And they fought on in a bloody battleground, awash with the ichor of the slain.
Tuck leapt down and drew his arrow to the full, aiming at the Hlôk, waiting for a safe shot.
“No!” shouted the Dwarf, hate-filled eyes never leaving his foe. “He is mine!”
The Hlôk’s eyes darted toward the trio, and he snarled in rage and leapt toward the Dwarf. Clank: Dring!
Galen’s grim voice spoke above the ring of steel: “Hold your arrow, Tuck. He has the right.”
It was axe against scimitar, but an axe wielded in a manner that Tuck had never imagined. The Dwarf grasped the oaken helve with a two-handed grip: right hand high near the blade, left hand low near the haft butt. And he used the haft to parry scimitar blows, and stabbed forward with the cruel axe beak, and shifted his grip to strike with fury, lashing out the double-bitted blade in sweeping blows, driven by the power of broad Dwarven shoulders.
Yet the Hlôk was skilled, too, and stood a full head taller than his foe. His reach with the scimitar was considerably longer, and the hack and thrust of his broad, curved blade was swift and deadly. And the edge of his weapon was smeared with a black substance, but whether it was poison, Tuck could not say.
Clang: Chank: cried the tortured steel, as blade met blade, and the Dwarf was pressed back, and Tuck readied his bow. But then with a hoarse cry, the Dwarf vented the ancient battlecry of his Folk—“Châkka shok: Châkka cor: (Dwarven axes: Dwarven might!)”—and attacked in fury. The Hlôk desperately hacked downward—a mighty blow—but the curved blade chopped into the soft brass strip embedded the length of the axe helve, inlaid there for just that purpose. Swiftly the Dwarf whipped the helve left, thrusting the edge-caught scimitar aside, then jabbing forward the steel axe-beak, taking the Hlôk in the chest, the iron fang bursting through the Hlôk’s scale mail and spearing into his heart. And ere the dead Hlôk could fall unto the ground, the Dwarf whipped the axe back and swung a chopping blow, the bit cleaving through the Hlôk’s temple, and bile filled Tuck’s throat to see it.
And as the foe fell dead to the snow, the Dwarf stepped back and raised his axe and cried: “Châkka shok: Châkka cor!”
~
Sheathing his sword, Galen dismounted and so did Gildor, and with Tuck they strode unto the Dwarf, the sole survivor of the nearly two-hundred-forty combatants slain there that ’Darkday. And he stood among the dead—as if he owns this bloody battleground, thought Tuck—and warily watched as the trio came nigh, his gore-splashed axe gripped in gnarled hands.
Dwarf he was, dressed in earth-colored quilted mountain gear; linked rings of black-iron chain mail could be seen under his open jacket. He stood perhaps four-and-a-half feet tall, and brown locks fell to his shoulders from his plain steel helm. His eyes were deep brown, nearly black, and a forked beard reached to his chest. His shoulders were half-again as wide as a Man’s.
“That’s close enough,” he growled, wary of the strangers, raising his axe to the ready, “close enough till I know more of you. I was here first, yet still will I give you my name: I am Brega, Bekki’s son. What be you hight?”
It was Lord Gildor who answered: “The Waerling is Sir Tuckerby Underbank from the Land of the Thorns, from the Boskydells.” Tuck bowed to the Dwarf and received a stiff bow in return, yet wonder shone in Brega’s eye.
“I am Gildor, Lian Guardian, seed of Talarin and son of Rael, of old from Darda Galion but now of Arden.” Gildor bowed, and Brega returned the courtesy, his axe now resting with its beak down to the ancient pave.
“And this is Galen King, son of slain Aurion King, now High Ruler of all Mithgar.”
Brega’s face blenched to hear this news: “Aurion Redeye is dead?” he blurted, and at Gildor’s nod: “What ill news you bear.” And then Brega made a sweeping bow to Galen.
“King Galen,” said the Dwarf, “it was in answer to the summons from your sire that I and the comrades I captain marched north.” Brega swept his hand in a wide gesture over the battlefield, and then seemed to realize for the first time that he stood alone. Shock registered upon his features, and without another word he stepped to a cloak lying in the snow and fixed it around his shoulders and cast the hood over his head, in deep mourning.
“Galen King,” said Tuck, pointing northwestward along the Old Rell Way, “the Horde: they heave into my view.”
Back along the abandoned road the dark Spawn boiled southerly, swarming toward the four.
“Horde?” barked Brega, his face enshadowed within his hood.
“Aye,” said Galen, “south they come, a dark tide bound toward the Quadran, but whither they go, we cannot say. This band your warriors slew was perhaps the vanguard of the Horde that comes behind.”
“How know you this?” Brega’s voice was harsh as he peered to the northwest. “I can see no Foul Folk, no Grg, through this cursed blackness.”
“The Waerling sees them,” said Gildor, “for his jewel-hued eyes pierce further through this myrk than those of other Folk.”
Brega stepped close to Tuck and looked into the Warrow’s wide, tilted, sapphirine gaze. “Utruni eyes,” grunted the Dwarf. “I believe you now, Waeran.”
“Then let us mount up and get south,” urged Tuck, glancing north.
South came the Horde.
“But my dead kindred,” protested Brega, “are we to leave them lying here upon the open battlefield: Stone or fire, that is the way of the Châkka. If they are not laid to rest in stone, or burned on a fitting pyre, their shades will wander an extra age before a rebirthing can occur.”
“We have not the time for a proper burial, Warrior Brega,” said Tuck, “for the press of Modru’s Spawn will not permit it.”
“Aye, you are right, Waldan. It is not the time for mourning or burial.” Brega cast back his hood and retrieved a pack from the snow and shouldered it. Then he looked over the field of carnage. “They were fine comrades, the forty Châkka I strode beside, and mighty were their axes.”
“Forty?” Galen’s voice was filled with amazement. “Do you say that but forty Dwarven warriors slew all of these foe: There must be two
hundred Spaunen here. Hai: mighty were their axes.”
Still the Horde marched onward, drawing closer.
Galen mounted Jet and drew Tuck up before him. Gildor, too, vaulted to the back of Fleetfoot, and held a hand out to Brega: “Mount up behind, Warrior Brega.”
Brega looked up at Fleetfoot looming above him, and the Dwarf’s face blanched. Quickly he backed away, holding his hands before him, palms out. “No, Gildor Elf, I shall ride a pony, and not upon the back of such a great beast.”
Exasperation filled Gildor’s voice: “Drimm Brega, you have no choice!” Gildor’s gesture swept the field. “All of the ponies are slain or have fled. You must mount my horse. It is not as if you will be commanding Fleetfoot, for I will do that deed. You will sit behind, nothing more, while we fare south.”
“But I do have a choice,” Brega’s voice flared with ire at Gildor’s tone, and his eyes smoldered. “I can stand here athwart the road and meet with the Horde. My axe will drink more blood of the Squam ere this ’Darkday is done.” Brega unshouldered his weapon and turned to face the north.
Southward swarmed the Horde, their hard stride bearing them toward the four.
“Up behind me, you stubborn fool!” commanded Gildor. “The Spaunen have hove into my sight now, and we have not the time nor patience to argue with a stiff-necked horse-fearing Drimm!”
With a snarl, Brega spun around to face Gildor and hefted his axe.
“Wait!” cried Tuck, “let us not fight amongst ourselves. We are allies: Warrior Brega, the maggot-folk will just slay you from afar by black-shafted arrow, and you will have died for nought. Come with us and you will be able to avenge your brethren, as I will be able to avenge mine.”
Brega lowered his axe.
Then Galen spoke: “Warrior Brega, I need your strength and skill by my side. Our journey south is fraught with peril and I must reach the Host. With you in our company our chances improve. I ask you in the name of all Mithgar to join us.”
The Dwarf looked at the High King, and then to Tuck, and his eyes strayed to his slain kindred. To the shadowed north he looked, where beyond his sight the Horde boiled southward. Last of all he looked at Gildor’s outstretched hand, and with a growl Brega slung his axe down his back by its carrying thong and reached up to grasp the Elf’s grip, stepping into the stirrup and swinging up onto Fleetfoot’s back behind Lord Gildor. And Tuck’s sharp ears heard the Dwarf exclaim, “Durek, varak an: (Durek, forgive me!)”
And as they spurred forward through the Shadowlight, Tuck looked back at the Horde and gasped, for they were but a league distant, and the Vulgs that loped before them had drawn even closer.
Southeasterly along the Old Rell Way ran Jet, with Fleetfoot alongside, the pack horse in tow. Swiftly the gap between horses and Horde widened, and soon Tuck could no longer see them. Galen dropped back the pace, and they went single file once more.
“Fear not, Tuck,” said Galen in a low voice, “they saw us not, for I did not see them. And though I did not say this before Brega, when the Spaunen come to the scene of the battle, they will stop to loot and mutilate and search for survivors, and perhaps make camp. And now our southward track mingles with that made by the Dwarves going north, and so the Vulgs will not single out our passage, confusing our spoor with that of Brega’s force.
“We shall ride another ten miles or so and then make our camp. The Swarm will not come that far, for we have covered more than thirty miles to here, and since we did not see sign of where last the Horde camped, it must have been back beyond the gap. Even Rukha and Lôkha will not march forty miles a leg.
“No, I think that they will camp back at the slaughterground and squabble over the loot of the slain.” Galen fell silent, and the horses cantered on.
~
The four made camp in a barren thicket well up and off the road. And as they took travellers’ rations, Brega told his tale, and Galen’s face became grim, for the news from Pellar was dire:
“There’s War, bloody War to the south. The Rovers of Kistan, the Lakh from Hyree, through Vancha and Tugal they came marching, across Hoven and Jugo, and over the Avagon Sea in ships.
“Pellar was unprepared, and was struck to the knees, nearly a killing blow. But Valon rallied, and the outlying muster sounded. Even now the struggle goes on.
“Word was sent north to High King Aurion, yet no messages returned. Then we learned that the Hyranee held Gûnarring Gap and the heralds had been felled.
“Word came, too, from far Riamon that a fearful darkness had fallen upon the Grimwall and now swept south.
“At last a rider from Challerain Keep won through. How: I cannot say, but he bore word of Modru’s Horde in the north.
“We could send but a token of the Red Hills Châkka to aid at the north Keep, for the rest stood against the Jihad.
“I was chosen to captain the forty, and by pony we marched north. Up through Valon we went, staying east of the Gûnarring Gap, for it was and perhaps still is held by the foe. North we went instead, some fifty miles up from the Gap, for there lies an ancient secret way across the Gûnarring, known to Châkka as the Walkover.
“By this route we came, crossing into Gûnar, and then north again. Up through Gûnar Slot we went, and when we came to the River Hâth, there we found this foul darkness. Agog we were, but through the blinding snow we pressed, across Hâth Ford and into the Dimmendark beyond: and it was like walking into a deep phosphor cave, this Shadowlight.
“Through the Winternight we marched, along the west flank of the Grimwall: we were making for Rhone Ford, the Stone-arches Bridge, and finally for the Signal Mountains and Challerain Keep at their end.
“A long trip would it have been, for we had already been on the march nearly thirty days and expected to tramp twenty more; but the vanguard of the Horde fell upon us. All were slain but me.” Brega fell silent and once more cast his hood over his head.
“Ai, this is foul news, indeed,” said Gildor, “but it explains much: why our messages did not get through and why no word came from the south, for Gûnarring Gap is held by the foe. It also explains why the Host has not come north, for it wars against the enemy from the south.”
“The War, Brega, what news?” asked Galen, his voice grim, his eyes cold.
“Sire, I know not how it fares now,” replied Brega, “for a month has fled since last I knew. Pellar reeled under the onslaught, but the horsemen from Valon came and drove them back a ways. The battles see-sawed like a teeter-totter, but more enemy came in ships. At the time I marched north, the scales seemed tipped against us, and our prospects seemed dire.”
No one spoke for a moment, then Tuck called down from atop the rock where he sat watch: “You used a word I do not know, Brega: Jihad. What is a Jihad?”
“It is a great Jihad they fight,” answered Brega. “A Holy War. They are convinced that Gyphon will return and cast Adon down.”
Gildor’s face turned ashen. “How can it be?” he gasped. “The Great Evil is banished beyond the Spheres. He cannot return.”
Brega merely shrugged his shoulders.
“‘How can it be?’ you ask,” said Galen, his voice bitter. “Lord Gildor, I shall answer your question with one of my own.” He gestured at the Dimmendark. “How can this be, I ask, that Adon’s Covenant is broken by the Winternight: What dark force, what eater of light, rules the Sun such that it cannot pierce this shadowy clutch: And if this can be—that Adon’s Covenant is broken after four-thousand years—then perhaps Gyphon can indeed return.”
“Ai,” cried Gildor, “if that could happen then the world would be cast down into a pit so cruel that Hèl itself would appear as a paradise in its stead.”
No word was said by any for a long while, and dread pounded through Tuck’s veins, for although Tuck knew little of Gyphon, the effect upon Gildor had driven terror like a cruel spike into the Warrow’s heart.
At last Galen spoke: “We must get some rest, for tomorrow we ride to the foot of Quadran Pass, and the next ’Dar
kday we attempt to cross over.”
“I’ll watch,” said Tuck from his perch, “for the Horde is behind us and my eyes are needed now. Besides, I don’t think I can sleep.”
“Nay, Waerling,” countered Gildor. “You are weary, I can see it, and during these next few ’Darkdays your vision will be most critical. You rest and I will watch, for my eyes, though not equal to yours in this myrk, are more than a match for the Rûpt. And the sleep of Elves is different from that of mortals, for I can rest and watch at one and the same time, though not forever—even Elves need sound sleep on occasion—yet many days can I keep the vigil ere that comes to pass.”
And so all bedded down but Gildor, and he sat upon the high stone and kept the watch, resting his mind in gentle memories while his eyes warded them all.
But it was a long time ere Tuck fell asleep, for still his heart pounded with apprehension, and his thoughts had returned to that long-past day that Danner had told of Gyphon’s downfall, and had spoken the last words the Great Evil had uttered, and the words echoed through Tuck’s mind: ‘Even now I have set into motion events you cannot stop. I shall return: I shall conquer: I shall rule!’
~
When they broke camp, once more Brega seemed reluctant to mount up behind Gildor on Fleetfoot, and Tuck wondered how such a fierce warrior as the Dwarf could be so daunted by the thought of riding a horse. Yet Brega gritted his teeth and bestrode the steed.
With a hand up from Galen, Tuck swung onto Jet’s withers, and once more they rode southeastward.
Up through the foothills they went, the land rising around them as they made for the Quadran: four great mountains of the Grimwall: Greytower, Loftcrag, Grimspire, and the mightiest of all, Stormhelm. Beneath these four peaks was delved Drimmen-deeve, ancient Dwarven homeland, now abandoned by them and fallen into dread, for therein dwelled a horror: a Gargon: Modru’s Dread: an evil Vûlk: servant of Gron in the Great War of the Ban. And as Vanidor’s words had suggested to the trio ere they set out from Arden Vale, the Dimmendark may have set this vile monster free from its exile under the Quadran and loosed it to reave within the Shadowlight. A hideous ally to Modru’s Horde would it be, for the Gargon is a fear caster: armies would break and run before its dread power, or the soldiers would be paralyzed with fear, frozen like unto stone itself, and easy prey.
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