The Iron Tower Omnibus

by Dennis L McKiernan

  ~

  But when Danner and Patrel unlatched the door and stepped in, only silence greeted them, for the inn was cold and dark and the hearths were without fire.

  Patrel shivered in the empty chill as Danner found the stub of a candle and managed to get it lit.

  “I wonder where all the people have got to?” asked Patrel as they moved across the common room, past the long-table and benches and through the small tables and chairs.

  “South, I should think,” answered Danner, spying a lamp and using the candle to light it.

  “Or to Weiunwood,” said Patrel, answering his own question. “The fit and hale have gone to Weiunwood to fight the Spawn.”

  “What now, Paddy?” Danner turned to Patrel, the lamp casting a yellow glow upon both buccen’s features. “Where do we wait for Vidron and Gildor and the rest that broke free?”

  “Right here, Danner,” answered Patrel, his hand sweeping in a wide gesture. “The best inn in town.”

  Danner looked about into the chill empty darkness surrounding him and smiled. “And you said that this was going to be a bad year.”

  Patrel smiled back, his green eyes atwinkle, then said, “Why don’t you look for something for us to eat while I get the ponies into the stables and out of sight.”

  They found another lamp and lit it, and Patrel took it with him to stable the mounts while Danner found the kitchen and rummaged through the pantry.

  When Patrel returned, Danner had started a small fire and had set a small kettle to boil, and a pungent odor was redolent in the room.

  “Smells good,” said Patrel, rubbing his hands briskly. “What is it?”

  “Leeks,” answered Danner.

  “Leeks: Lor, Danner, I hate leeks.” Patrel made a sour face.

  “Hate ’em or not, Paddy,” responded Danner, “that’s our meal, unless you prefer crue.”

  Danner set a pot on for tea while Patrel glowered at the leafy leeks bubbling in the kettle. Slumping down in a chair, Patrel said, “You’d think in an inn as big as this one there’d be something to eat besides leeks.”

  “It looks like they took everything with them, everything but the leeks,” said Danner.

  “See, I told you they were no good,” shot back Patrel, then he burst out laughing. “It is the worst of years if I’ve got to eat boiled leeks.”

  Danner roared.

  ~

  “I say, they weren’t so bad after all,” said Patrel, sopping up the last of the leeks with a piece of crue and popping it into his mouth.

  “Maybe you’ve just not been hungry before,” said Danner. “I mean, you had three helpings.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, Danner,” answered Patrel, chewing thoughtfully. “Perhaps I’ve not ever been hungry before. Of course, I’ve never before eaten crue as a steady diet for days on end. On the other hand, I suppose it wasn’t too bad finding the leeks; it could have been worse, you know.”

  “What do you mean, worse?” asked Danner.

  “Well, for one thing,” answered Patrel, making a face and shuddering, “it could have been oatmeal.”

  ~

  The rest of the ’Darkday, Danner paced the floor like a caged animal, frequently stepping out onto the porch and scanning for sign of Vidron or Gildor or any other survivor of Challerain Keep.

  “Ar, I feel trapped, Paddy,” said Danner, returning from one of his excursions outside. “You know, we’re not at all certain that anyone else escaped. The Ghûls were in hot pursuit. What if no one else got away?”

  “If that’s the case,” responded Patrel, his eyes grim, “then no one will come.”

  “Oh no,” said Danner, “someone will come all right: Spawn will come. Remember, there’s a great Horde at Challerain Keep, and they’ll march right through Stonehill on their way south. And we don’t want to be here when they arrive.”

  “You’re right, Danner,” answered Patrel. “But, the maggot-folk won’t be here very soon. They’ll pick over the corpse of Challerain Keep first. But you’re right: sooner or later they will march through Stonehill.”

  Patrel fell into brooding thought, not stirring or turning his gaze from the fire when Danner stalked back to the door and outside. When the buccan strode in once more, Patrel looked up. “This is the way I see it, Danner,” said the smaller Warrow, “horses are faster than ponies, and the Men should have been here by now unless they were driven far afield.”

  “Or slain,” interrupted Danner.

  “Yes: or slain,” continued Patrel. “In either case, we cannot spend too long waiting, for we do not know when Ghûls, Vulgs, or any of the Spawn will get here. But, they will come.

  “This, too, we know: Warrows see farther through this dismal murk than Men or Elves—who can say, perhaps we see through the Shadowlight better than any other Folk. The Realm needs our eyes, Danner, but you and I are not enough: more Thornwalkers are wanted than just us two.

  “Here is what I propose: Let us remain here the rest of this ’Darkday and tomorrow. If neither Vidron nor Gildor nor others come, then the day after we will leave Stonehill for the Bosky. We will go to Captain Alver and tell him what we know. Then we will form a Thornwalker Company to fare south to Pellar, a Company to join the Host and see for them: to be their eyes, to be their scouts, to watch the movements of the foe, and to give the edge in battle to the King’s Legions.”

  Patrel gripped Danner’s forearm and looked him in the eye. “None other than Warrows can do this thing, Danner; what say you?”

  A wide grin split Danner’s face. “Hai: I like this plan of yours. Even should Vidron or others come, still one of us must return to the Bosky and gather more Thornwalkers.” Then the smile evaporated, replaced by a dark look. “Modru has much to answer for.”

  ~

  They heated water and took baths and washed their clothes, hanging them by the fire for drying. And they slept in beds!

  ~

  All the next ’Darkday they kept watch for sign of survivors from the Keep, riding up the coomb to the hilltop to watch, but nought did they see of Men from Challerain, though they did note several Warrow burrows high up the swale, but they were vacant like all the other homes in Stonehill.

  “Some of Toby Holder’s kith, perhaps,” said Danner, remembering that Toby frequently made trips to trade with the Stonehillers, and the Holders always did claim they’d come from near the Weiunwood originally.

  They cooked more leeks, and Patrel managed to find a small wedge of cheese overlooked by the Brewsters when they’d gone to Weiunwood—“just enough cheese for a bite apiece,” said Patrel—but they savored it as if it were priceless ambrosia, and spent the rest of the ’Darkday recounting the feast on Laurelin’s birthday eve.

  ~

  The next ’Darkday they rode once more to the hilltop and looked long but saw nought of survivors, and so went back to the inn and extinguished the fire and gathered their things.

  “If I had a copper penny or two,” said Danner, casting a last look around, “I’d leave it for Bockleman Brewster to pay for the bath and the washing of clothes and the loan of the bed I slept in.”

  “The bath alone was worth a silver,” said Patrel.

  “Even a gold,” replied Danner.

  “Come on, Danner, let’s get out of here before we owe Bockleman a chest of jewels,” Patrel laughed, and out the door they strode, latching it behind.

  They went to the stables and put grain in their saddlebags for the ponies, and then rode down the vacant streets and out through the west gate. And as they crossed the causeway out to join the Crossland Road, they did not see or hear Hrosmarshal Vidron at the head of a weary band of grimy horsemen ride forth from the twisting hills and in through the eastern gates of Stonehill, into that now-empty town.

  ~

  South and west went the Crossland Road, swinging below the southern reaches of the Battle Downs, heading for Edgewood and, beyond, the Boskydells. Along this way rode the buccen, camping first along the hills and next withi
n the forest.

  ~

  On the third ’Darkday, through the winter trees of Edgewood they sighted the great Thornwall, and came unto the thorn tunnel leading into the Bosky. They took up torches and lit one, riding into the barrier, and their eyes brimmed with glittering tears, for they had come home.

  ~

  At last they emerged from the Thornwall, coming to a wooden span set upon stone piers—the bridge over the River Spindle. Of the four main ways into the Bosky, this was the only bridge, the other three ways being fords: Spindle Ford, Wenden Ford, and Tine Ford: but, as is the manner of Warrows in many things, the bridge was simply called, “the bridge.”

  “Hey,” said Danner, perplexed as they came out of the thorn barrier and onto the span, “there are no guards, no Thornwalkers.”

  Patrel, too, cast looks about, concerned, yet he said nought. Beyond the bridge he could see where again the barrier grew, and once more a black tunnel bored onward: two miles had they come within the thorny way to reach the bridge, and nearly three more miles beyond would they go before escaping the Thornwall. Across the span the ponies trotted, their hooves drumming on the great planks and timbers. Below, the frozen Spindle shone pearl grey in the Shadowlight. Soon they crossed the bridge and once more entered the gloom, their guttering torch casting a writhing light upon the great tangle of razor-sharp spikes clawing outward.

  In all, nearly two hours they rode within the barrier, to emerge as the last of their torches burned low. And no Beyonder Guard greeted them as they came into the Bosky, only the cold Shadowlight of the Dimmendark.

  “What do you think it means, Danner: the ’Guard gone, the way open, the camp deserted?” Patrel’s voice was grim as his viridian eyes swept the countryside for sign of life but found none.

  “I think it means something foul is afoot,” grated Danner, leaning down and jabbing the torch into the snow, quenching the flame. “Let’s go; we’ve got to get to someone who can tell us what’s going on.”

  West they rode, into the Bosky, following the Crossland Road, faring through rolling farmland, now fallow in Winternight’s grip. West they rode for nearly three more hours, covering some nine miles, coming to the village of Greenfields:

  As they approached the hamlet, they could see no lights, as if the village was deserted.

  “Hoy, Danner, look!” barked Patrel. “Some of the homes are burned.”

  Setting arrows to bows, they spurred forward, swiftly coming in among the houses, into the town. Doors stood ajar, windows were broken, and some buildings were charred ruins. The streets were empty; no life could be seen anywhere.

  Eyes alert, to the Commons they rode.

  “Paddy, by the fire gong . . . “ Danner’s voice was grim, and Patrel looked to see the frozen corpse of a buccan, barbed lance standing forth from his back. “Ghûlen spear!” spat Danner. “Ghûls are in the Bosky!”

  Patrel’s face blenched to hear such dire news, and he surveyed the grim evidence. “He was ringing the gong when the Spawn got him. Perhaps his warning saved others. Let’s search further.”

  Through the small hamlet they rode, dismounting now and again to search houses. And they found more slain: dammen, buccen, younglings, wee babes, granthers, grandams.

  In one house twelve slain were found: eleven children and a young damman. Danner ran out into the street shouting in rage: “Modru: Skut: Swine: Coward: Where are you, you butcher?” And he fell to his knees and dropped his bow and pounded the frozen earth with his fist, and his voice sank into dark gutturals, and no word could be understood though words he spoke.

  At last Patrel got Danner to his feet and mounted upon the white pony and led him to the west edge of town where stood the Happy Otter Inn, and they bedded down in the hayloft of the inn stable.

  And it was late in the dark Winternight when Patrel started up from a deep, dreamless sleep to hear the pounding of hooves thundering past. He glanced at Danner lying in the hay; and Danner did not awaken, though the buccan tossed restlessly and moaned.

  Taking up his bow, Patrel crept down from the loft and out into the Dimmendark. In the distant Shadowlight he saw a force of fifty or sixty riders hammering away to the west along the Crossland Road, but whether they were Men on horses, or Ghûls on Hèlsteeds, he could not say, as the sound of the drumming hooves faded beyond hearing and the riders disappeared into the far Winternight.

  ~

  The next ’Darkday, they continued west along the Crossland Road, riding through Raffin and Tillok and coming to Willowdell, and these hamlets, too, were deserted, buildings burned, Warrows slain. And all ’Darkday Danner said no word, though his lips were pressed into a thin white line, and his knuckles clenched tightly upon the pony reins.

  They stopped at the edge of Willowdell, staying in an abandoned barn, for neither buccan could bear to sleep in a house of one of the victims.

  ~

  “Rood,” said Patrel. “We’re going to Rood. Thornwalker headquarters are in Rood; perhaps we can find Captain Alver there—or the Chief Constable of the Bosky if Thornwalkers aren’t about.”

  “What if they’re all destroyed?” Danner spoke his first words in more than a ’Darkday, and his voice was bleak.

  “All destroyed?” Patrel turned to his comrade.

  “All the villages, all the towns,” said Danner.

  Patrel blenched at this dire thought, and Danner began saddling the white pony.

  “I’m going to Woody Hollow, Paddy,” said Danner. “It’s only about twelve miles from here. We’ll go to Rood after—if there’s a need to—but I can’t pass this close without going to the Hollow. Are you coming?”

  Patrel nodded, for he knew how he would feel were they but twelve miles from the woods where he had been raised.

  Mounting up, once more they went west along the Crossland Road, riding about five miles before turning northwest up Byroad Lane, the way to Budgens and, beyond, to Woody Hollow.

  They had ridden nearly two miles and were just coming past flanking trees and into Budgens when Danner shouted, “Look: Fires: Woody Hollow is on fire!” and clapped his heels into the white’s flanks, crying, “Yah!”

  Patrel spurred after him, and as he rode, his green eyes saw flames raging in Woody Hollow, about two miles distant.

  Through Budgens galloped the ponies, then westward along Woody Hollow Road, skittering on the ice over Rill Ford across the Southrill. Danner turned north, racing along the East Footway and across the Dingle-rill with Patrel plunging after, flying past the Rillstones and up the north bank and into Woody Hollow proper. They turned west and rode toward the Commons.

  Up slope and down, fires raged as homes burned. And the buccen could see dark shapes silhouetted against the flames: Ghûls on Hèlsteeds: Modru’s Reavers were in the Hollow!

  Danner and Patrel hauled their ponies to a halt and leapt down, setting arrows to bowstrings. Flitting among the boles of trees, they moved silently toward the reavers now milling in the Commons. But as the buccen worked their way toward the foe, the Ghûls vented howling cries and spurred Hèlsteeds southward, galloping out and across the bridge and down the Westway Trace, leaving Woody Hollow aflame behind them.

  Danner ran shouting a few steps after them, and both he and Patrel sent their arrows winging, but the Ghûls were beyond their range, and the bolts fell futilely in the distant snow.

  And as they watched the reavers ride away, they heard a shrill voice cry, “’Ware!” and the hammer of cloven hooves behind. The buccen spun to see a charging Hèlsteed bearing down upon them, and a grinning Ghûl with a blood-splashed tulwar raised to cleave once, twice more.

  Ssssthock: An arrow flew from the Shadowlighted trees behind, passing over Patrel’s shoulder to pierce the charging Ghûl’s breast, and the pale white corpse-foe fell asprawl to the snow, slain, while the Hèlsteed ran on.

  “Wha . . .?” cried Danner, and spun again, to see who his rescuer was.

  A small form bearing a bow stepped from behind a tree and came fo
rward, sapphire-blue eyes locked in hatred and loathing and horror upon the slain Ghûl.

  Danner looked at the grimy, disheveled young damman before him. “Merrilee!” he cried in disbelief. “Merrilee Holt!”

  “Danner: Oh, Danner!” Merrilee ran sobbing to the young buccan, and clung to him as if she were lost.

  ~

  “He’s dead, all right,” said Patrel, standing up from the slain Ghûl. “But I don’t know why. I must’ve feathered ten to no avail back at the Keep.”

  “Wood through the heart,” said Danner above Merrilee’s head as he held her to him. “Merrilee’s bolt hit him square in the heart.” Danner spoke down to the weeping damman: “Anywhere else, Merrilee, and we’d’ve been the deaders, and not him.”

  “Lor, you’re right,” breathed Patrel, looking at the shaft standing forth from the Ghûl’s chest. “Wood through the heart: Stakes and spears I thought of, yes, but not of arrows.” Patrel then grinned fiercely and clenched one of his own bolts in a fist and raised it to the sky. “Hai: Now we’ve got a way to fight them!”

  “They killed my dam and sire, Danner.” Merrilee’s voice was muffled, then she pushed back and turned from the buccan and wiped her eyes and nose in the crook of her sleeve and looked down at the dead Ghûl, hatred in her gaze.

  “Bringo and Bessie, dead?” Danner’s voice was hushed.

  “Tuck’s parents, too,” said Merrilee, her eyes again brimming with tears, but once more she brushed them aside.

  “Tuck’s parents, too?” burst out Danner. “How?”

  “We came to get the last of the ponies at Dad’s stable,” answered Merrilee, “to take them up to the Dinglewood where most folks have got to. Tulip and my dam wanted to get their herbs and medicines, and so they came, too.