The Iron Tower Omnibus

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Once more they embarked upon the Argon, and a cold westerly wind sprang up, quartering across their bow. And Brega cursed, for the thin gust would slow their progress.

  At the eleven o’clock of night, the wind started to fall, and the stars began to come out, bright and cold, as the skies slowly cleared.

  ~

  The morning break of their fourth day upon the Argon found the travellers weak of shank, for the long hours of confinement in the craft had taken their toll. Yet they did not spend overlong upon the Pellarian shore of the river, for as Galen said, “Were we to have many more days of this ceaseless travel, then would we spend a day on shore, resting. But this should be our final Sun in the narrow craft: we should reach the Argon Ferry this eve.”

  Brega grunted, and patted the outwale of the boat. “This is the finest craft I have ever mastered, yet I will be glad to leave her behind—else the stretch will ne’er return to my legs.”

  Though Brega seemed casual to think they would soon leave the boat, Tuck’s heart thudded to hear Galen’s words, for they did not know what awaited them at the Argon Ferry: would they be met by friend or foe?

  ~

  Once more they set out upon the river, now flowing wider and more slowly, wending between long gentle curves. South and west lay Pellar; north and east was the South Reach of Valon. Overhead the vault was blue, and the Sun rose to warm the morning sky. The air was calm, though the headway of the boat caused Tuck’s hair to riffle. And the dip, pull, and return of Galen’s and Gildor’s paddle strokes soon lulled the weary Warrow into exhausted slumber.

  ~

  At the end of the rest period of the late-afternoon grounding, ere they launched the boat, Galen said, “Now will we all stay awake, for the ferry lies but two or three hours ahead. We must approach it with caution—all eyes alert—for it controls the Pendwyr Road crossing, and hence has value to friend and foe alike. There we may find our allies, or the Host; yet there, too, could be the Hyrania or Kistania: Modru’s minions.”

  Again they embarked, and now all four paddled: Gildor in the bow, with Tuck then Galen aft, and Brega in the stern where power and skill would be most demanded to turn and dart should the need arise.

  One hour passed, then another, and the Sun set and darkness fell, and the banks of the Argon slid blackly past. One more hour went by, and hsst: lights could be seen ahead: on either shore, and in midriver: it was one of the ferry boats!

  “King Galen, Tuck, quietly ship aboard your paddles,” whispered Brega. “Elf Gildor, make all return strokes under water; we need no drip or splash to give us away.”

  Cautiously Galen and Tuck brought their paddles inboard, but kept them at hand should they be needed. Tuck also took up his bow and set arrow to string, knowing that he would be more effective defending them than paddling, should they have to flee.

  Now they could hear the distant shouts of Men and the jingle of armor echoing o’er the water, for a great crossing was under way; but whether the words spoken were in the Common Tongue, or in the speech of the Southerlings, they could not tell.

  Along the shadow of the western shore slipped the Elven craft, Brega and Gildor plying their paddles such that they did not withdraw them on the return stroke, instead reaching forward with the blade cutting edgeways underwater before turning square for the thrusting stroke; neither drip nor splash betrayed them.

  Yet the first-quarter Moon was still in the sky, and through a gap in the bordering trees its silvery rays shone down aslant upon them; and just as Tuck wished they were back in the deep shadows of the banks ahead: “Hold!” barked a voice from upon high. “Who be down there in that boat, friends of the King, or scum of Modru?”

  Tuck whirled, and upon the bank above them sat a row of flaxen-haired, mail-clad, horse-mounted warriors, their steel helms adorned with raven’s wings and horsehair gauds; and they held bent bows in their firm grips, the poised arrows drawn, set to hurl death down upon the four.

  ~

  “Hál, Vanadurin!” cried Galen. “We are friends!”

  Tuck slumped back against a boat thwart, the arrow of his own bow slipping from his fingers. Relief flooded throughout his being, for the Harlingar—the Riders of Valon—had discovered them. They were in friendly hands.

  Yet the bows of the horsemen relaxed not, and again the voice barked, “If you be friends of the King, ground that boat and disembark!”

  Brega and Gildor swiftly stroked to a landing, and the four beached the craft and scrambled up the bank to stand beringed by the Riders of the Valanreach.

  “’Ware!” said the Captain of the riders. “Come no closer, for two of you are squatty—the belikes of Rutcha—though howso you come to be here far from the ’Dark, I cannot say.”

  Brega brought his axe Drakkalan to hand, and ere any other could speak: “Squatty: Rutch?” he flared, anger in his voice. “I am no Ükh: And if you would be separated from your head, say so again.”

  “A Dwarf,” growled the Captain. “I should have known. But what of the other: No Dwarf is he. Do you bring a child into this War-torn Land?”

  Before Tuck could say aught, Galen stepped forward and said to the wonderment of the Harlingar, “Captain, I am Galen, son of King Aurion, and these are my comrades: Warrior Brega, Dwarf of the Red Hills; Elf Lord Gildor, Lian Guardian of Arden Vale; Waerling Tuckerby Underbank, Thornwalker of the Boskydells.”

  The Captain of the Reach Riders signalled his Men, and bows were relaxed and arrows lowered, for now they could see in the moonlight that it was not foe they faced; on the contrary, if the words spoken were true, then not only was it a Man, Elf, and Dwarf that stood before them, but also one of the legendary Waldfolc.

  “Captain,” said Galen, “any could make the claim to be the son of Aurion as I have, yet take me to your commander and I will prove my words. And I bear news of import.”

  And so it was that on command two of the Harlingar sprang down and took to the boat, giving over their steeds to Galen and Gildor. And the Man and the Elf vaulted to the backs of the coursers, and Tuck and Brega mounted up behind. And they rode at a gallop unto the camp of the Vanadurin on the west bank of the Argon.

  ~

  “You have shown me the scarlet eyepatch and bespoken your tale, and I am prone to believe you, if for nought else than you have an Elf and a Waldan at your side.” Brega hmpphd: at the Valonian Marshal’s words. “And of course, a Dwarf, too.” The Man smiled and continued. “Yet I would not be the commander I am if I did not verify words spoken to me when the means were at hand. And one crosses the ferry even now who can support you: he is Reggian, Steward of Pendwyr when the court is away at Challerain Keep.”

  The speaker was Marshal Ubrik of Valon. He was a Man in his middle years, yet he was hale of limb and bright of eye. Dressed in a corselet of chain mail was he, with a fleece-clad torso. Dark breeks and soft leathern boots he wore. His hair was the color of dark honey, streaked with silver. His face was clean-shaven, and his eyes were blue.

  The four sat in the tent of the Valonian Marshal, where they’d been led, while outside, the crossing of an army in retreat from the east bank to the west went on. And time passed in silence as they waited for Kings-steward Reggian.

  At last came the steps of an escort, and into the tent strode a silver-haired warrior, his face lined with worry.

  “Reggian,” said Galen, softly.

  The elder warrior turned to Galen and exclaimed, “My Prince!” and knelt upon one knee, his helm under one arm.

  “Nay, Reggian, I am a Prince no longer,” replied Galen. “My sire is dead.”

  “King Aurion, dead?” Reggian’s eyes went wide. “Aie: What dire news!” Then the warrior knelt on both knees, and now Ubrik, too went to one knee. “King Galen,” said Reggian, “my sword is yours to command, though as Steward you may want to replace me, for Caer Pendwyr has fallen to Modru, and his minions now march across Pellar.”

  ~

  Long into the night spoke Galen and his comrades to Reggian
and Ubrik. And the news of the War in the south was as dire as that in the north:

  The Rovers of Kistan had sailed into Hile Bay and landed a great force of Hyrania upon the isle of Caer Pendwyr. Long had that fortress withstood the assault, yet at last it had fallen. The Caer Host had withdrawn up Pendwyr Road, going northwest to the Fian Dunes. Again long battles ensued with the Lakh of Hyree, but the numbers of the foe were too great, and now the Pellarians withdrew across the Argon.

  To the west, Hoven had fallen into the enemy’s hands, but the foe had been stopped in the Brin Downs, the border between Hoven and Jugo.

  To the northwest, Gûnarring Gap was now held by an army of the Hyrani who had marched covertly and swiftly at the War’s start to capture it ere any knew of Modru’s plan. But even now, the Vanadurin fought to break the hold on that vital passage.

  “What of the Châkka?” asked Brega. “Where do the Folk of the Red Hills fight?”

  “In the Brin Downs,” answered Ubrik. “Without them, Jugo by now would have fallen, too.”

  “What of the fleet of Arbalin?” asked Galen.

  “They lie up in Thell Cove in secret and make ready to strike at the Rovers,” answered Reggian. “If they can pin them in at Hile Bay—even though the Arbalina are outnumbered—they can prevent the Kistani Fleet from being used again. But the Arbalina need perhaps three weeks, perhaps four, to be ready to strike.”

  “Pah!” cried Brega. “In four weeks—nay, less—the Darkest Day will have come. And then, mayhap, it will be too late.”

  Ubrik and Reggian shook their heads, for they had been told of Vanidor’s Death Rede, and it was dire.

  “Modru’s grasp squeezes us tightly,” said Reggian. “Like that of a . . .”

  “Snake!” cried Brega, leaping to his feet. “That is what Eiron of the Larkenwald said. And list, for this I say: Modru is but Gyphon’s servant, and perhaps the Great Evil does prepare to return upon the Darkest Day. And to that end the coils of Modru’s minions draw tighter and tighter around us, like those of a great serpent crushing his victim. But this, too, I know: cut the head from a snake and the body dies—thrashing to be sure, and it can cause great damage, yet still it dies.” Brega brandished his axe Drakkalan. “Let us go after Modru: Let us strike the head from this serpent!” Drakkalan chopped down through the air, thunking into a fire log, and chips flew.

  “But, Dwarf Brega!” cried Reggian. “Gron and the Iron Tower are far to the north, some thirteen or fourteen hundred miles, as the horse runs. We can’t get an army there ere the coming of the next new Moon!”

  “The Harlingar could be there ere then,” said Ubrik after a moment. “The horses would be well nigh spent, yet we could come unto that far land—unto Modru’s fortress—ere the Darkest Day.”

  “You can make it only if you can get through Gûnarring Gap,” said Gildor. “And that is held by the enemy.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not,” answered Ubrik. “Even now the Vanadurin wage War to free it.”

  “What about the Walkover?” asked Tuck. “The way known but to the Dwarves. Can we go through it and bypass the Gap?”

  “Nay, Tuck,” answered Brega. “For along that secret way lies a long low tunnel fit only for Dwarves and ponies. Even a Man would have to stoop. A horse would never get through. Nay, it is Gûnarring Gap or nought.”

  “But can we fight Modru himself?” asked Tuck.

  It was Gildor who answered: “Nay, Tuck, we cannot. But have we any other choice?”

  ~

  And so, after much debate, it was decided that Ubrik, Galen, Gildor, Brega, and Tuck would ride for Gûnarring Gap. Extra horses would be taken, and mounts switched off to spare the steeds on the long dash. New horses would be obtained from the garrison at the north end of the Red Hills, and the race for the Gap would go on. If the Gap was free, then the Vanadurin there would be mustered to ride to Gron—to ride to the Iron Tower. And, although they did not think they could defeat Modru, still, if they could storm his strongholt and upset his plans—perhaps even preventing the return of Gyphon, if that was indeed his scheme—then their bold strike would have been worth it, although they all might die.

  Reggian would continue to command the allies in the south, for the Steward had fought with cunning and boldness even though at the moment he was in retreat; for as King Galen had said over the Steward’s protests: “The War is not over until the last battle. Hark back to the legends of the Great War of the Ban: the Allies, then too, were hard pressed, yet in the end they won. Reggian, none could have done more than you, and many less. You are Steward . . . now be Steward.”

  And the silver-haired warrior stood tall and struck a clenched fist to his heart.

  ~

  At dawn, Galen, Gildor, Tuck, Brega, and Ubrik prepared to set out for Gûnarring Gap. Ten horses had they: five were to be ridden while the other five would trail behind on long tethers—remounts to share the task of bearing the riders north. The stirrups on two of the mounts had been shortened for Dwarf and Warrow, and the two were hoisted up astraddle their own steeds; yet neither Tuck nor Brega commanded their mounts—instead they grasped the high fore-cantle and held on tightly while Galen and Gildor led them forth. And Brega’s knuckles were white with the strength of his grip, for once again he was mounted upon a horse!

  Without a word Galen saluted Reggian, and so did they all, and then the sprint for Gûnarring Gap began.

  ~

  Northwest along Pendwyr Road ran the horses, five bearing weight, five running unburdened; their gait was at the varied pace of a Valanreach long-ride, and the miles hammered away beneath their hooves. All day they ran thus: the riders switching mounts every two hours, pausing now and again to stretch their legs and feed the horses some grain or to take water from the streams flowing down from the distant Red Hills.

  Long they rode into the late night, and when they stopped at last, it was nearly mid of night. And they had covered some one-hundred-twenty miles. Yet ere the riders cast themselves to the ground to sleep, the horses were rubbed down and given grain and drink.

  ~

  At dawn the next day, once more they set forth upon Pendwyr Road. Tuck was weary nearly beyond measure, and he wondered whether the horses could hold the pace; yet the steeds bore up well, for even though they ran swift and far, still half of the time they carried no burden. It was the riders who felt the brunt of the journey, for four of them had spent days confined in a boat, and the other was weary from hard-fought battles.

  Yet on they strove, northwest along Pendwyr Road. Now they ran alongside the lower slopes of the Red Hills, homeland of Brega: Tall they were, standing to the left, mountains rather than hills; they sprang up near the Argon and reached some two-hundred miles northwest ere dwindling back into the prairie. Valon stood on one flank, Jugo on the other. And the stone of the chain was a rudden shade, like the red stone of Stormhelm. Fir and pine mounted up the slopes, and high stark massifs sprang up frowning. Occasionally Tuck could see what might be a dark gape opening into the mountains, into the Dwarven shafts and halls below; here dwelled many of Brega’s kith, and here was made the finest steel in all the Realms.

  Just after night had fallen, they came unto the Harlingar garrison at the north end of the hills. In spite of the fact that the post was nearly deserted—for the soldiers had ridden to War—in less than an hour the comrades were on their way again, riding five new horses for the Gap, with five more running behind.

  ~

  Dawn of the next day found them once more coursing north, and Tuck was so sore he thought he would cry out at every thud of hoof; yet he did not, and on they ran.

  Now they raced across the open plains between Jugo and Valon, the West Reach to their right, the North of Jugo to their left. Miles of flat grassland rolled away as far as the eye could see: this was the treasure of Valon, yellowed in winter dress; but come green spring, no sweeter grazing could be found for the fiery steeds of Mithgar.

  Across this prairie all day they rode and far into
the night. And when they stopped to camp, a spur of the Gûnarring stood to their left.

  ~

  As the Sun rose, once more the five set off for their goal, now but fifty miles northward. And as they rode, Tuck could see the southeast rim of the Gûnarring, a great loop of mountains encircling the abandoned Kingdom of Gûnar, the ring a part of the Grimwall. Three well-known ways led into Gûnar: the Gap between Valon and Gûnar; Ralo Pass climbing over the Grimwall from South Trellinath into the Land; and Gûnar Slot, cleaving deeply through the Grimwall, from Lianion into Gûnar. Finally, there was the secret Dwarven way—the Walkover—a narrow pass across the Gûnarring, up from Valon and down into the empty Realm.

  And toward the Gap the five rode at the ground-devouring pace of a Valanreach long-ride.

  An hour passed and then another, and the mountains of the Gûnarring stood stark upon the left and marched away in a long line stretching out before the riders. Another hour passed, and they stopped long enough to change the saddles over to the remounts, then struck to the north once more.

  Now the mountains began to dwindle, sinking toward the Gap. Far ahead Tuck could see a great column of black smoke rising into the morning sky, but he could not see what caused it, for it lay yet some twenty miles to the north.

  Onward they rode, and the Sun mounted up through the sky. At last they could see a great movement of horses and Men on the plains before them, and they came to a mounted squad of Harlingar standing watch athwart Pendwyr Road, and the five reined to a halt before the readied spears, and Ubrik paced his steed forward.

  “Reachmarshal Ubrik!” cried one of the mounted warriors.

  “Hál, Borel!” hailed Ubrik. “What news?”

  “The best!” answered Borel. “Victory: The Hyrania are whelmed: The Gap is ours!”

  “Hai!” shouted Brega, and the comrades looked one to the other, fierce grins upon their countenances, for the Gap now was in the hands of the Allies, and their plan to assail Modru’s fortress could go forth.