The Iron Tower Omnibus

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “And King Aranor: how fares he?” Ubrik’s voice was tense, for well he loved his warrior King.

  “Hai roi: He fought like a daemon, and took a cut or two; yet he is well, though his arm will be in a sling for some days to come.” Borel couched his spear in a stirrup cup and so did his squadmates.

  “Your tidings are sweet to my ears,” said Ubrik, “and I would like nothing more than to hear the tale from your lips, yet we cannot stay. We would pass your ward, Borel, for we have urgent business with King Aranor.”

  In response to Ubrik’s words, Borel signalled his squad and reined to one side. And the five were permitted to ride onward. And as they passed, Tuck heard some exclaim in wonder, for never before had any seen a Dwarf astride a horse, and they now saw that Tuck was a pointed-eared, jewel-eyed Waldan: And lo: an Elf rides among them, too: Strange companions portend uncommon events.

  Forth rode the five, and less than four miles before them stood the Gûnarring Gap. Now they came among the carnage of a great battle: broken armor and cloven helms, shattered weapons, slain horses and Men: some were blond-haired Harlingar, more were swarthy Hyrania; yet whether the skin was dark or light, still they were dead: pierced by spear and arrow, slashed by saber and tulwar, broken by hammer and mace. Tuck tried not to look at the slaughtered Men, yet they were everywhere.

  They passed by several squads of captured Hyrania, guarded by Vanadurin, and the prisoners moved among the slain and gathered them for burial or burning: the slain of Valon were laid to rest in great mounds covered by grassy turves, while the Hyrania were burned on a vast pyre of logs from which the great column of black smoke rose skyward.

  “Why do they honor the dead of Hyree, and not the slain of Valon?” growled Brega to Tuck. “Fire lifts up the spirits of valiant warriors slain, just as clean stone purifies them. But root-tangled sod traps their shades, and they are a long time escaping the dark, worm-laden soil.”

  “Perhaps they think as my Folk do, Brega,” answered Tuck. “The earth sustains us while we are alive, and we return to it after death. But fire, stone, soil, or even the sea, it matters nought, for it is the way of our living that is testament to our spirits, and perhaps the way that we die; and the way of our burial means little, for what we have been is gone, though our spirits may live on in the hearts of others . . . for a little while, at least.”

  Brega listened to Tuck’s words, then shook his head but said no more.

  ~

  At last they came to the encampment of the Vanadurin, and rode to the pavilion in the center. And the green-and-white colors of Valon flew above the tent, for here was quartered King Aranor.

  A guard took them into the King’s presence, and Aranor, white-haired but hale, stood cursing as a healer changed a bloody bandage on the King’s sword arm.

  “Rach, Dagnall, take care with that poultice; I would have this arm next year, too!” King Aranor looked up as the five entered, and his eyes widened. “Hola, Ubrik, I thought you south.” Now Aranor’s sight took in Ubrik’s travelling companions. “Hoy: Man, Elf, Dwarf, and—by the very bones of Sleeth—a Waldan: There is a tale here for the telling. And do my eyes deceive me, or is it truly you, Prince Galen?”

  ~

  Quiet fell in the tent—Galen’s voice at last silent, his tale told—and Aranor again wiped an eye with the sleeve of his left arm.

  “Your news saddens me, King Galen,” said Aranor. “Aurion and I trained at arms together, and hunted far afield in our youth. He was as close to me as a brother.

  “And the rest of your tale bears good news, and bad. The fall of Challerain Keep whelms me, yet I am buoyed by the fighters of Weiunwood. The Dread of the Black Hole is slain, and for that my heart sings, yet this cursed Dimmendark I do not like. And the north is beset by Modru’s Hordes.

  “But here in the south, we, too, reel under the blows of servants of the Enemy in Gron. They seem without number, and ultimately we must fall back before them.

  “Yet Vanidor’s warning bears dire portent, and you propose to storm the Iron Tower itself. I think your plan cannot succeed, yet this I say unto you: Galen, you are High King of all Mithgar, and my heart and soul are pledged to serve you. You ask for Warriors of the Reach to go with you unto the frozen wastes of Gron, for none else can reach the holt of the Kinstealer ere the fall of the Darkest Day.

  “Galen King, here at Gûnarring Gap there are perhaps but five-thousand Vanadurin who are War-ready and hale; the others are wounded, such as I, and would merely slow you. Five-thousand are but a pittance to take against the Iron Tower, yet they are yours to command as you would.

  “This, only, I ask of you: do not cast their lives in vain.” Aranor fell silent, and there were tears in both his and Galen’s eyes.

  Long moments passed, for Galen did not trust his voice to speak without breaking, but at last he said, “We ride on the morrow’s dawn.”

  ~

  Horns sounded and the muster went forth. Captains were called and plans were made. King Galen would command, and Ubrik would ride in the stead of King Aranor, for the King’s wounds kept him in Valon. On the morrow would they begin the long-ride: some nine-hundred miles away lay their goal, and they would have but twenty or so days to reach it. Such a ride had never before been made in the long history of the Harlingar, yet they were confident that it could be done.

  And as Tuck scribed in his diary that night, he wondered at their fate. And as he ungirted Bane from his waist to lie down to sleep, he wondered, too, whether any among them bore a token of power for Good: Bane: Bale: Steel-heart: Dark Reaver: Are any of these weapons tokens whose destinies are rushing toward fulfillment: Or is some other unknown token being borne unsuspectingly toward Gron: And, if so, will it stand up to the feartokens of the Enemy: Tuck fell asleep, his questions unanswered.

  ~

  Dawn found the Riders of Valon drawn up in ranks as King Galen, King Aranor, and Reachmarshal Ubrik rode forth to pass by them. Somewhere Aranor had found a flag of Pellar, and two standard bearers followed the Kings: one bearing the colors of Valon: white horse rearing on a field of green; the other bearing the standard of Pellar: golden griffin rampant upon a scarlet field. And the Vanadurin sat in rows on their mounts as the High King of Mithgar passed before them, his armor glinting crimson in the rising Sun.

  Now at last the review was done, and King Aranor, his arm in a sling, sat ahorse and looked stern, for he and Galen had said their farewells earlier. And Galen turned to give the order to begin the long-ride, but ere he could do so, a Valonian black-oxen horn sounded from afar, and a stir went through the ranks.

  Ubrik turned to Galen, and Tuck’s heart thudded at the Valanreach Marshal’s words: “King Galen, hold your command, for we may yet need to fight another battle for the Gûnarring Gap. An army approaches from the northwest—down the Ralo Road. Yet whether they be friend or foe, I cannot say.”

  Ubrik barked a command in Valur, the ancient War tongue of Valon, and horns sounded, and the files of the Vanadurin wheeled and formed to face into Gûnar, lances and sabers at the ready.

  And Tuck turned his eyes to the road through the Gap; in the distance he saw a churning dark mass of hundreds upon hundreds of hard-running steeds, their pounding hooves hammering to strike the land as they bore an unknown force thundering down upon the Gap.

  “They attack!” cried Ubrik. “Hál Vanadurin: Draw the sabers: Lower the lances: Sound the horns: Ride to War!” And with the black-oxen horns of Valon blowing wildly, the Vanadurin spurred forward and gathered speed and hurtled toward the oncoming mass of charging warriors.

  Thus Ends

  Book 2

  ~

  Shadows of Doom

  Book Three

  ~

  The Darkest Day

  “The days have now fled and the ’Darkdays are now come upon us.”

  ~Gildor Goldbranch

  December 22, 4E2018

  1

  The Gathering

  It was the ’Darkday following the
Battle of Budgens, and at Whitby’s barn a breathless buccan scout flung himself down from his lathered, blowing pony and dashed into the huge byre.

  “Cap’n Patrel!” he cried. “The Ghûls! The Ghûls have burnt Budgens!”

  “Wha—?” Patrel’s eyes jerked up from the map lying on the rough table before the Council, and he spun toward the scout as the rushing buccan skidded to a halt before him. “What did you say, Arcy? Did you say Budgens?”

  “Yar, Cap’n Patrel, Budgens!” blurted Arcy, red faced, gesturing wildly. “The Ghûls, they came—a great drove of them—lookin’ for Warrows; and when they didn’t find any, they put the whole town to the torch!”

  Luth’s clenched fist slammed down to the planking, and Merrilee’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide. Bitter looks fell upon the faces of some lieutenants, while others ground their teeth in rage.

  “They seek revenge for what we did to them,” said Patrel, his voice grim. “Woe to the Warrow who falls into their hands, for Death will come slowly, but Agony swift.”

  Orbin leapt to his feet and paced in agitation. “We’ve got to root them out of the Seven Dells before the Bosky is destroyed! For even should we win this War, it will go hard on the survivors, and harder still if there is no place to live, no shelter!”

  “Arrgh!” gnashed Norv, the muscles in his jaw jumping. “I say we’ve got to kill ’em all, or at least enough of ’em to drive ’em out, else none of us will survive, shelter or no!” Shouts of agreement rose up.

  “Calm down, all of you!” barked Patrel, facing the Council. Then he turned once more to the scout. “After torching Budgens, Arcy, which way did they ride?”

  “South, Cap’n,” replied Arcy, “back toward the Crossland Road.”

  Luth growled. “They’ve probably got back to Brackenboro. How about the patrol, Arcy, the one we sent to the ruins?”

  “Ar, Lieutenant Luth, they were gone on before the Ghûls came, so Cap’n Danner and his scouts weren’t delayed any,” answered the buccan.

  At mention of the scouting party sent to the ruins of Brackenboro, Merrilee’s face took on a frown, for Danner had gone with four others south through the Dimmendark to come among the hills surrounding that devastated place to spy out the movements of the Ghûls; and Merrilee was beset by doubt, for it was a dangerous mission—a mission of her own devising.

  “Well,” said Patrel, vexed, “until Danner gets back, we’ll do nothing.”

  ~

  Over the next two ’Darkdays, Patrel paced the barn floor and gritted his teeth and flung himself busily into fletching arrows and often rode through the Shadowlight to the top of Whitby’s Hill to look for Danner; but of the Woody Hollow buccan and his quartet of scouts, there was no sign. And when Patrel would come back to the barn and faintly shake his head, no, to Merrilee, both of their spirits would fall.

  The damman, too, spent long hours staring through the Dimmendark for sign of Danner’s band; yet, like Patrel, Merrilee would arrive dejected at the Warrow headquarters and throw herself into busywork.

  And secretly in both their hearts they wondered if something had gone awry: perhaps Danner and the others had been wounded or slain . . . or worse yet, captured by the vile maggot-folk. But of these covert fears they said nought to one another, although each knew the hidden dreads harbored in the bosom of the other.

  Yet late on the third ’Darkday, Danner and his squad came unannounced unto the barn. And Danner was filled near to bursting with glad news, and he grabbed Merrilee up and hugged her and dizzily spun her around and set her down awhirl, and then he slapped Patrel on the back. “Paddy! Merrilee! I saw my dad! He’s alive! He says my mom is fine, too! He and she and a great many other Warrows have got to the Eastwood—folks from Bryn and Midwood, Thimble and Willowdell, and some from Budgens and Woody Hollow . . . and Brackenboro, too. They’re all making it into a strongholt, like Gildor told that the Weiunwood is. Dad’s helping organize the resistance—got his own company of archers: Hanlo’s Reya, they call themselves in the old tongue—Hanlo’s Foxes. They haven’t fought yet, but they’ll join with us at Brackenboro when we strike.”

  And Danner and his scouts were drawn inside and given a warm meal and hot tea; and tears of happiness glistened in Merrilee’s eyes, for the squad was safe.

  ~

  “Down along the Southrill we went, till we came to the hills around Brackenboro.” Danner paused long enough to fill his pipe with leaf and light it, leaning back to blow a smoke ring or two. “When the town was due west of us, into the downs we went, cautious as field mice slipping past the weasel.

  “Imagine our surprise, then, when before we could reach sight of the ruins, another band of Warrows came like smoke out of the bracken to ask us who we were and what was our mission.

  “When I gave ’em our names and told ’em our purpose, they said to follow them, they’d show us what we were up against. Seems that they, too, were spying on the Ghûls in Brackenboro. Those eight buccen had all lived in the ’Boro before the Dimmendark and the reavers came. But they had fled to the Eastwood and had formed companies, and had come back to scout out the Ghûls, for the Eastwooders are thinking of attack, too.

  “Now we came to the hills directly surrounding Brackenboro, and we all slipped down from our ponies and stealthily crept on foot to the crests overlooking the town.

  “It’s a ruin, Paddy: all burnt down, but for a few buildings. And Ghûls swarm all around, and sweep in and out like a plague of locusts that comes and goes. There are a thousand or so of them . . .”

  “A thousand!” interrupted Luth. “But we’ve only got three-hundred, four-hundred Warrows! We can’t take on nearly three times our number!”

  “Aye, Luth,” answered Danner, “you are right. And that’s exactly what I thought at first. But I don’t think it’ll come to that: you see, all one-thousand of the Ghûls aren’t always at Brackenboro at the same time: while we were there, companies of them rode in and out, and at times there were as many as eight- , nine-hundred; but at other times there were as few as one-hundred.”

  As few as one-hundred, thought Merrilee. Just days ago, one-hundred Ghûls would have seemed an invincible force, yet now we think once more to attack five-score of these monstrous reavers, as we did in Budgens. But this time they will not be caught in a high-walled trap.

  Merrilee’s attention was tugged back to the Council as Danner spoke on: “And so we lay bellydown on the backslopes of the ridgetops and watched the Ghûls come and go all that ’Darkday. And as we watched, the Eastwooders spoke of the burning of the ’Boro, and how they and other Warrows had come to the woods, though they’d left many dead behind.

  “And they told how they formed companies out of six-hundred or so archers, and set about preparing to defend the Eastwood; but one of their Captains, back in the ’Wood, had said as how they ought not only to defend, but also ought to attack if a way could be found to kill Ghûls. And, ‘Oh, by the way,’ said one of the Eastwooders as we lay there on the ridgetop, ‘your name is Bramblethorn . . . are you any kin to that Captain? Hanlo is his name: Hanlo Bramblethorn.’

  “Lor! I could have grabbed up that Eastwooder and kissed him right there on the spot, but the Ghûls below might have disapproved if they had seen us, and so I just lay there looking down at a ruined town teeming with relentless enemies, and I couldn’t stop grinning for joy.

  “I had sent some of the buccoes around to the south and some to the north, and when they finally reported back, we compared with each other what we’d seen that ’Darkday, and with what the Eastwooders had seen on other ’Days.

  “And we decided then and there that the only way we can attack the enemy is by joining our two forces and falling upon Brackenboro when the Ghûlen numbers are at a low ebb. We can bring perhaps nine- , ten-hundred archers to bear, and if the enemy is at a hundred or so, then we can whelm them, even though they won’t be pinned up like they were in Budgens.”

  A murmur of agreement rippled through the lieutenan
ts.

  “What do the Eastwooders say?” asked Patrel.

  “They’re for it,” answered Danner. “We rode from Brackenboro deep into the Eastwood, and the next ’Darkday we met with their Captains and lieutenants. That’s when I saw my sire. Lor! You should have seen him start when he clapped eyes on me. Almost crushed me in a bear hug, he did. But I think his ribs creaked a bit, too.

  “In council, I told them of the way to slay Ghûls, and what we’d done at Budgens; they’d heard none of it before, and it was glad news to them, for now they knew that they had a way to fight. I also told them about Challerain Keep, and that King Aurion was dead; these dire tidings only stiffened their resolve.

  “Paddy, they want us to bring all our Company down into the Eastwood, to join with them and lay assaults upon Brackenboro until the enemy is driven out—out of that town, out of all towns, out of the Dells, out of the Bosky.”

  Danner paused, then said, “My sire put his finger on it: ‘There’s a loose Horde up at the Keep, now,’ he said, ‘and soon they’ll be marching south, I ween. We’ve got to have these Ghûls out of the Boskydells and the Thornring stoppered up tight before Modru’s Swarm comes knocking on our doors; for if they come before we can shut them out, nothing will survive. All will die. Modru will see to it. The forests will be hewn down and the trees left to rot where they lie; fields will be plowed and salted; the wells, streams, lakes, and rivers, poisoned; animals, both wild and tame, will be slaughtered; and Warrows, put to the death or let slowly starve in bondage. This doom must not befall the Dells!’” Danner’s countenance was drained of blood, his lips compressed in a thin line. “My sire is right. We have much to do and little time to do it in. We must strike the Ghûls, and strike now!”

  ~

  The next ’Darkday, the entire Company—three-hundred-sixty-two buccen and one damman—rode south by covert ways into the Eastwood where they joined with the Warrows waiting there. Long did they lay out their plans, with Captains Patrel and Danner among the four Eastwood Captains in a great council of lieutenants. And when the plans were laid, the last question was asked by Neddy Finch, a lieutenant from Midwood: “The only thing left to decide is when we strike, so I asks it: when?”