“At full strength, yea,” spoke up Lord Gildor, “but far too late. For the Darkest Day will arrive less than nine days hence. Let the Wellenen come, Galen King, but at their own pace, for they may be needed in the times ahead; yet we must fly onward, and leave them behind, for the Moon is a clock that none of us can stay. We have no other choice.”
Galen looked up from the flames of the campfire, but what he would have said is lost forever, for at that moment a horseman rode up. “Sire!” called the rider. “The Waldan at the north watch reports a small party on horses riding towards us! He says they are Elves!”
~
It was Lord Talarin! And he came with an escort of six Lian. And at his side, astride Rust, came Igon! And when the Prince saw Galen’s fire, he spurred the great roan forward and came at a gallop before the others, the steed’s strides devouring the distance. With a glad shout—“Hai, Igon!”—Galen leapt to his feet as Rust pounded forward, at last to thunder to a halt, and the Prince sprang down; and the two brothers embraced. And the youth of fifteen summers looked hale once more, for under the Elves’ ministrations, he had recovered his strength.
Galen spoke: “My brother, your eye is clear and your grip firm, and for that I am most grateful. No doubt you have been hacking some training manikin to shreds with your sword, or puncturing it with spear.”
Igon laughed. “You are right, elder brother: I have tattered Lord Talarin’s devices to a fare-thee-well. Yet those times are at an end now that you are here, for I propose to join you and go against the Spaunen.”
A troubled look crossed Galen’s face. “Igon, I ride into grave danger. I would not have both of Aurion’s heirs fall to the Enemy in Gron in a single battle should the tide turn against us. Together, we can both be felled at one and the same time; apart, Modru has to come at us twice and win both times ere we are foredone. I would that you stay somewhere safe.”
“Brother of mine,” replied Igon, “you seek the same solution as did our sire.” A fleeting look of pain crossed both their faces at mention of slain Aurion, yet Igon continued: “But heed! He sought to send me away south to safe haven, yet I was nearly killed by Ghol sword stroke; it was only the smiling face of Fortune that spared me.
“My meaning is this, Galen, King: nowhere in Mithgar is safe today, for the enemy is everywhere. You would have me seek refuge in Arden instead of face the foe at your side, yet Arden itself is on the brink. And so, I ask this boon: to go at your side. But ere you say yea or nay, listen first to the words of Lord Talarin, for he bears tidings of import, and perhaps they will influence your decision.”
The King nodded his acceptance of Prince Igon’s terms and turned to watch Lord Talarin and the escort ride up. “Hál, Warder of the Northern Reaches of Rell!” called Galen.
“Hál, Galen King!” cried Talarin, as he reached the fire and leapt down from his steed and bowed. At the High King’s nod, acknowledging the Elf Lord’s courtesy, Talarin’s eyes sought his son, Gildor, and the two Lian smiled each upon the other. And Talarin clapped a hand to Tuck’s shoulder. “Hai, but we meet again, Waerling.”
And among the Elves now moving into the light of the Kingsfire came a Lian Tuck recognized: Inarion! It was Lord Inarion from the Weiunwood!
But then came an even greater shock to Tuck, for now there stepped from among the Elves . . . Flandrena! Flandrena who had ridden into Gron with Vanidor and Duorn and Varion! And now he was here! And both Gildor and Galen were shaken, too, on seeing the Lian warrior, but neither said aught, for Inarion was speaking, and he held on a long tether a grey horse; and tears sprang to the Warrow’s eyes, for it was Wildwind, slain King Aurion’s steed.
“Galen King, I have brought you the horse of your sire, though that was not my purpose when I took him from the Weiunwood, for I did not expect to find you on the bounds of Arden. Yet he is a swift steed and my urgency was great, for I rode in haste to the Hidden Refuge to bear dire news, and I had vital need for a fleet remount to aid my own Wingfoot. But now I give Wildwind over from my keep into yours: from Sire to Son, from King to King, goes this noble steed. Care for him well, for he is a horse befitting the High King of all Mithgar.” Inarion handed the reins of Wildwind to Galen and bowed.
And Galen took the horse and stroked Wildwind’s muzzle, and the glitter of the fire shone brightly in the King’s eyes. And Wildwind looked upon Galen and then lowered his head as if in obeisance, but then quickly raised it and whickered.
“We shall get along well, old fellow, you and I,” said Galen, his voice husky with emotion, “but now you are wanting some grain, no doubt, and perhaps the company of other steeds. But most of all, I suspect, you would like to gambol in a sunny meadow, or graze quietly under the Moon and stars. Perhaps one day. Perhaps . . .”
At a gesture from the King, an attendant came and took the steed, and Galen led all of Talarin’s party to council around the Kingsfire. As soon as all were seated in a great circle, Talarin turned to Galen. “Word came to me by swift riders of your yester camp at Arden Ford, and the sentinels atop the long Arden Bluff have signalled of your progress along your course; yet why you come this way, I cannot say, and I would ask that you quench my curiosity.”
“We ride for the Iron Tower in Gron,” responded Galen, and Talarin’s eyes flew wide at this news.
Talarin turned to Inarion. “Ai! This may explain your tidings, Alor Inarion.”
Then Talarin turned once more to Galen. “There is much we have to speak upon, Galen King: fell news from the west. But I am troubled by your course, for you have less than seven-thousand in your Legion, or so my scouts say; yet to attack Gron—the Iron Tower—seven times seven-thousand seems hardly enough to breach those walls.”
“We have no choice, Father,” said Gildor. “Vanidor . . .”
Talarin’s face clouded with grief.
“Vanidor called my name at his dying,” Gildor continued. “And he thrust this rede upon me:
~
‘The Darkest Day,
The Greatest Evil . . . ’
~
And though we know not for certain what it means, these are our thoughts: The Darkest Day . . . will be when the Moon eats the Sun over Gron less than nine days hence; the Greatest Evil . . . is Gyphon.” Talarin gasped, and grim looks fell upon his Elven escort. Gildor spoke on: “We think Vanidor warned that Modru plans something most vile on the Darkest Day.”
“So this is the rede Rael felt pass her by!” declared Talarin. “And dire it is if you have guessed its meaning. Yet, how can it be? Gyphon is beyond the Spheres!”
“Yet the Hyrania and Kistania believe that the Great Evil shall return,” responded Gildor. “And we must attack the Iron Tower and turn Modru’s energies aside ere he can, somehow, release Gyphon.”
“Then why have you not brought more warriors?” asked Talarin.
“Even as we speak, Lord Talarin,” answered Galen, “the Lakh of Hyree and the Rovers of Kistan stagger the Realm in the south. They have cast down Hoven and Pellar, and now the struggle to whelm Jugo and Valon goes on. All the Hosts are needed in those battles, and even then their numbers may not be sufficient. This Legion, made up of Vanadurin and Wellenen, are all that I could bring and still hope to reach the Iron Tower ere the Darkest Day.”
“But I do not think seven-thousand enough to cast it down,” responded Talarin. “What say you, Flandrena?”
“Can seven-thousand cast down the Iron Tower? That I do not know, Alor Talarin,” answered the slim Elf after some thought. “For although we did not see swarms of the Rûpt there upon the walls, still it is a deadly fortress, and to breach it is a task perhaps beyond doing.”
“How know you this?” growled Brega.
“I was there, Drimm,” replied Flandrena, his eyes glittering in the firelight, his voice sinking low. “With Vanidor, Duorn, and Varion, I was there.”
None said ought for long moments, then Gildor spoke: “Say on, Flandrena, for I would hear of my brother.”
Tuck put h
is arm about Merrilee and drew her to him as Flandrena told his tale:
“Six ’Darkdays and some, we rode north from Arden—swift across the Wastes of Gron—and at times we had to turn aside from the path to avoid the patrols of the Evil One. Yet at last we came unto Claw Moor, and thence to Modru’s dark fortress.
“Long we lay and watched the ones within, counting the Spaunen numbers, gauging their considerable strength: Modru has held back perhaps seven-thousand Rûpt to ward his Iron Tower. Too, we watched the wall patrols, and crept around the perimeters of the chasm that berings the holt while looking for a way to enter, for it was in all our minds to clamber o’er those palisades and rescue Princess Laurelin.
“But the crevasse is deep with sheer walls; and the iron drawbridge, Troll guarded. Yet we continued our search. At last Duorn saw a thin crevice on the far side of the chasm, running from floor to rim. And Varion deemed we could climb it . . . as well as one corner of the fortress wall.
“Yet Vanidor said that one of us would have to bear word of the count of Modru’s strength back to Arden, for then if the mission to rescue the Princess failed, all would not be lost.
“As Captain, Vanidor chose to try the walls, and Varion he asked to go with him, for Varion was the most skilled at climbing. That left Duorn and me to decide between us who would get to go with them and who would ride south. But we both argued to try the fortress, and so Vanidor plucked two dry blades of grass and held them out for us to choose: I pulled the short blade and lost—hence, I would bear the word back to Arden, while those three would breach the walls.
“We said our farewells, and when last I saw them, they started down a rope toward rift’s bottom. I went back to where the horses were concealed and mounted my steed and rode southward for Arden.
“Many miles I had ridden, yet still I was on Claw Moor when I felt Vanidor’s cry: ‘Ride, Flandrena, ride!’ was his desperate last command . . . ‘Ride, Flandrena, ride . . .’” Flandrena’s voice sank to a whisper, and his eyes stared deeply into the fire. And tears welled in Tuck’s eyes, and Merrilee gripped his hand tightly, her own eyes misting over. And Brega sat with his hood cast over his head.
At last Flandrena continued: “Vanidor had given me his last command, yet I nearly turned back. But his call echoed and rang in my mind, and I could not refuse it. And so, weeping in rage and anguish, I spurred forth, for I knew then that the mission to rescue Princess Laurelin had failed, and that I alone would carry to Arden word of Modru’s strength.
“Swiftmane ran as he had never run before, and the leagues fell away beneath his hooves. He would have run until his heart burst, if I had asked it—but I did not. Still it was not four full ’Darkdays ere we came into the Hidden Vale.
“That is my tale, Alor Gildor; that is my tale, Galen King. But it is a story as yet unfinished, for I would return to Gron with you and avenge my lost comrades. How? I cannot say, for the fortress is formidable, and even though it is defended by less than a full Horde, still it will be hard to break. Perhaps impossible. Yet I would go with you to try.” Flandrena’s Elven eyes held a steely glint.
“If your Lord will give you leave, I welcome your sword in my Legion,” said Galen, and Talarin inclined his head in assent.
“My King,” Vidron spoke, “you have gained one warrior, but you are about to lose fifteen hundred: the horses of Wellen cannot hold the pace. Perhaps the Lian of Arden Vale can provide us with mounts.”
Galen turned to Talarin, and the Elf spoke: “Galen King, ere I answer your unspoken request, first you must hear the news Alor Inarion carries, for I think it will bear heavily upon what we decide in this council.”
All eyes turned to Inarion, and the Elf Lord spoke: “Six ’Darkdays past, the Horde sent by Modru to whelm the Weiunwood broke off their attack against the Alliance and began force-marching eastward along the Crossland Road. Forty miles a ’Day they raced . . .”
“Forty miles a day!” burst out Vidron. “But they are on foot! At least the Drôkha and Rutcha go afoot. Do the Guula ride with them, or do they come ahead?”
“The Ghûlka ride with the Spaunen and drive them unmercifully eastward,” answered Inarion, “yet none knows why, though we had guessed that they strike for Arden Vale to cast down the Hidden Refuge. But now another reason has come to mind: perhaps they thought to intercept your Legion, Galen King.”
“Six ’Darkdays past, you say, they began their march . . . ai, I deem it was then that we had just come into the Dimmendark at Hâth Ford,” reflected Galen. “Yet how Modru could have known of this . . .”
“Spies!” spat Brega. “His spies must watch the roads inward.”
“But then, how did the Horde in Stonehill know of this?” asked Patrel.
“His emissaries,” answered Tuck, and Lord Gildor nodded; and Patrel shuddered, for Tuck had told him and Danner and Merrilee of Modru’s hideous power to possess another. “But why the Horde in Stonehill?” asked Tuck. “I mean, why not the one in Drimmen-deeve? All they would have had to do was march over Quadran Pass and stand athwart the Old Rell Way. Surely Modru would have chosen them to intercept us.”
“Mayhap they are still trapped in Kraggen-cor,” proposed Brega. “Mayhap they cannot cross the Great Dêop, for the bridge is felled.”
Talarin looked curiously at the Drimm, for here was a tale the Lian of Arden had not heard, but before he could ask ought, Galen said, “I deem it was the Evil One’s agent we slew in the Black Hole, but whether this severed Modru’s command of that Horde, I cannot say.”
“What about the Horde in Challerain Keep?” asked Danner. “Do they march this way, too?”
A look of pain crossed Inarion’s features. “I am sorry, Wee Ones, to bear you evil tidings, but the Horde of Challerain Keep has gone into your Land of the Thorns.”
What! Danner and Patrel and Tuck all leapt to their feet, and Merrilee buried her face in her hands.
“In the Bosky? The Horde is in the Bosky?” demanded Danner, his fists clenched, his entire body quivering in rage, his words guttural and but barely understandable.
“I am afraid it is so.” Inarion’s eyes were filled with deep sadness. “Three weeks past.”
“Three weeks?” Tuck’s legs gave way under him, and he slumped down by Merrilee, and then he saw for the first time that she wept. Tuck reached out and put his arms around her and drew her close.
Patrel smacked a clenched fist into open palm. “Danner, we’ve got to go back. We never should have left. They need us more than ever now.”
Danner’s lips were white, and he gave a short jerky nod, but then Merrilee looked up through her tears and cried, “No! That’s not the way! West to the Bosky is not the way!” Her sharp cry split through the shell of rage engulfing Danner, and, blinking, he looked down at her. Patrel, too, turned toward her. “North!” she spat. “Our way lies north!” Then her voice became deadly calm. “In Gron dwells the source of the evil. Brega has the right of it: the best way to kill a snake is to cut off its head. And that’s where we are going: to snare the viper in its nest.
“Why do you think he sends his Horde to intercept us? He is frightened! That’s why! We give him good cause to fear us, though we know not why. Perhaps he simply fears that we will upset his careful plans, as Lord Gildor has suggested is our mission’s purpose. But whatever the reasons—whatever are Modru’s fears—we should act to make the most of them. And so I for one say we strike north unto the very Iron Tower itself. Let us go forth and slay this serpent.” Merrilee fell silent, and Lord Talarin as well as King Galen and many others looked upon the damman in wonder, for, unlike Patrel and Danner, they had never before heard a female speak as would a warrior. And first Patrel and then Danner reluctantly bowed to the wisdom of her words, and the two buccen grudgingly sat back down.
But Vidron voiced a doubt he held: “Perhaps you are right, lass. Perhaps Modru does fear us and sends a Horde to intercept us ere we can gain Gron. Yet there are other explanations, too: the Spawn may be marching
upon Arden Vale, as Inarion first guessed; they may have some other target in mind, perhaps even beyond the Grimwall; or they may be seeking to trap us in Gron, to fall upon us from behind as we attack the Iron Tower.”
“But then, Hrosmarshal Vidron,” said Galen, “Modru would need to know that we head for Gron. How could he have knowledge of our goal?”
“He is evil and suspicious, Galen King,” answered Gildor. “I think the bringing of the Legion into the north surprised him, for he did not expect his grasp on the Gûnarring Gap to be broken, nor any of the southern defenders to come north in any event . . . at least not as long as the Hyrania and Kistania assail the Realm. There is this, too: where else would we be bound if not for Gron? Modru asks himself that question, and the answer he finds is not to his liking, I deem, and so he acts in haste to prevent the upset of his plans.”
Gildor fell silent, and Talarin, whose eyes had widened at mention of the hold on the Gûnarring Gap, seemed about to speak. Yet he held his silence, and it was Galen who spoke: “Lord Inarion, where is the Horde now? And what is their strength?”
“Five ’Darkdays past, I took Wildwind and Wingfoot from the Weiunwood and rode to intercept the Horde,” responded Inarion. “I came upon the Rûpt at Beacontor where they rested, and I stayed beyond the range of their vision and watched them, and counted them: I deem their ranks to be ten-thousand strong. And I waited to see if this march of theirs was a feint or not . . . waiting to see if they would bear onward, or would turn upon Weiunwood once more.
“The next ’Darkday they pressed forth again, tramping east along the Crossland Road. At the end of that ’Day, I knew it was no ruse: they were truly bound eastward, and sought not to attack the Weiunwood by surprise maneuver.
“I left them encamped in the land north of the Wilder River, and I hied up through the Wilderness Hills to Drear Ford and across Rhone to Arden, riding apace to warn the Hidden Refuge; and so I saw the Rûpt not again, but if they have kept up their quickstep along the Crossland Road, they are now camped along that pike midway through the Drearwood.”
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