Vidron gasped. “That is but two ’Darkdays’ march behind us at the hard stride they set!”
“Aye,” said Ubrik, “but at the pace of a Valanreach long-ride, we shall slowly draw away from them.”
“But the Wellenen horses!” exclaimed Vidron. “They cannot keep the pace! They have at best but one or two more hard rides left in them, and then they will need long rest. Now more than ever, Lord Talarin, we need fresh steeds. Can you supply them?”
“Not enough to mount fifteen hundred warriors,” answered Talarin, “nor even a third of that count. The Lian of Arden are far flung on forays against the Spaunen: along the Old Rell Way, and in the approaches to the Crestan Pass. Even now the recall order goes swiftly forth, and Lian will come at speed back unto the vale to defend it if the Horde seeks to attack the Refuge. But were they all here now, their steeds would not number enough to give you relief.”
Vidron turned to Galen in anguish. “Sire, the Wellenen then cannot keep the pace. They will come, but late. Perhaps too late to aid you in your time of need.”
“Hrosmarshal Vidron, my time of need is now,” said Galen, “and my needs are changed by this Horde at our backs. I would not have them fall upon us from behind as we assault the Iron Tower.” Galen paused and looked the Kingsgeneral straight in the eye. “I have a most fearful duty to thrust upon you, for only you have the Valonian battle-skills to be able to lead the Men of Wellen and do what I need done: I would have you take the Wellenen and stop this Horde for as many ’Darkdays as you can hold them.”
Tuck’s eyes flew wide. “But, Galen King,” he protested, “there are ten-thousand of the maggot-folk and but fifteen-hundred Wellenen!”
“That I know full well, Wee One,” acknowledged Galen. “But the Horde is two ’Darkdays behind us now, and when our Valanreach long-ride comes to the Iron Tower, they will be a full four ’Days’ march in arrears. And each ’Darkday of additional delay that Vidron can win for us will be one more ’Day we can assault the Tower ere we must turn our energies aside to meet a foe falling upon us from behind.”
Galen turned to Vidron. “Hrosmarshal, this is the plan I propose: set the Wellenen athwart Grûwen Pass; it is strait and the Yrm will have great difficulty bringing their numbers to bear upon you. You will be a barrier of iron that they will find hard to sunder.”
“Aye, Sire,” responded the Kingsgeneral, “your plan is sound, yet the horses are all but spent.” Vidron clenched a fist and smote his palm. “But by the very bones of Sleeth, we will bar the way of the Horde!”
At mention of the Dragon’s name, Brega growled low in his throat, but held his tongue.
Talarin spoke: “Galen King, not long past I pledged to you in the name of the Lian of Arden Vale that when you need us we will be at your side. This then is the hour of your need, and we are at your side. My Guardians and I shall aid Kingsgeneral Vidron in holding Kregyn—Grûwen Pass—to buy you time at the Iron Tower. Our horses will be fresh and our arms stout.”
Galen’s eyes glittered in the firelight, and his heart was filled with emotion, and he could not speak; but Vidron leapt to his feet and flashed his sword to the darkling sky and cried in the ancient War-tongue of Valon: “Hál, Deva Talarin! Vanada al tro da halka! (Hail, Elf Talarin! Together we shall be mighty!)”
Talarin raised his hand in salute and smiled, and then turned to one of the Lian. “Feron, hie to the hidden entrance and down into the Refuge. Gather the returning Guardians and have them prepare to come forth and join in the blockade of Kregyn. The scouts along Arden Bluff will track the Rûpt; come forth with all my strength when this Horde is a ’Darkday’s march south of the pass.”
Feron leapt up to go, but Talarin held up a hand and called, “Wait!” And when Feron turned once more to him, Talarin said, “This, too, I think should be done, Feron: Seek out the Lady Rael. Tell her of Vanidor’s rede:
~
‘The Darkest Day,
The Greatest Evil . . . ’
~
Perhaps she will divine the meaning of his warning, for she is versed in such things.”
Of course! Tuck thought. The Lady Rael should be told the rede and her counsel sought. Perhaps she can shed some light upon this darkness.
Talarin nodded to Feron, and then the Lian herald was gone.
And as the drum of the hooves of Feron’s horse faded to the north, Prince Igon turned to Galen and spoke: “Galen King, now I ask that you grant my boon: I would fight at your side. And as you have known, and heard again in this council tonight, no place is safe from the Evil in Gron: not Arden, not Rian, not Pellar; neither Harth, nor Rell, nor Rhone; not Hoven, Jugo, Valon, Gûnar, or Riamon; not even the Land of the Wee Folk. Aye, it is to Gron you go, yet Gron is no more dangerous than elsewhere, for the foe is everywhere—if not now, then he soon will be.
“You have said it would be better if we were apart, for then Modru will have to strike twice and succeed both times to end the House of Aurion, and that is true. But heed me! If you have guessed aright, then the Darkest Day will bring the Greatest Evil less than nine ’Darkdays hence. And if that Evil is Gyphon, then the House of Aurion is ended then and there, for no mortal can withstand Gyphon—nor can the Elves.
“And so this I say: if we are to be defeated, my brother, let it be as we stand shoulder to shoulder; but if, on the other hand, we are to win, then let that victory come as we stand shoulder to shoulder, too.” Igon fell silent.
Galen thought long, staring at the fire, and at last he looked up and nodded his assent. And Igon let out a sharp cry—“Hai!”—and leapt to his feet in joy, as all the council smiled at this youth-warrior verging into manhood. Abruptly Igon sat back down again, his face drawn into solemnity, but it was a solemnity often broken by an inward smile.
And Talarin turned to Galen. “Now, Galen King, you must tell me your tale, for I have many times wondered this ’Night at the path that has brought your footsteps nearly full circle to my door.”
Galen looked to Gildor and nodded, and Gildor turned to Talarin and said, “First, Father, this I must say: Va Draedan sa nond . . .”
~
After the council ended, Tuck lay wearily down to sleep. But his mind churned with chaotic thoughts: The Horde is in the Bosky. Ai! What foul news! And Danner and Patrel feel as I do: they would run the hundreds of miles on foot, if necessary, to go back and help, whether or not it would do any good. Yet, I did not like the look that came over Danner—his rage was awful to behold; it may be his undoing one day.
But what if we have guessed right about the Darkest Day, the Greatest Evil? Then Gyphon will somehow come and it will be the end of the world as we know it. And if that is true, then whether or not Vidron delays the Horde behind us will not matter, for Modru and Gyphon will cloak Mithgar in an evil wrap that will smother all that was once good. Does that mean that Vidron’s stand in Grûwen Pass is all for nought? Perhaps. But what if we have guessed wrong, and the Darkest Day does not come? Then Vidron’s stand will buy us more time to assault the Iron Tower. Yet, if we cannot throw it down, or if Modru’s power is too great . . .
Tuck fell into a restless, dream-filled sleep: dreams of years of no summer, no crops, starvation, famine—the babies, oh the babies, swollen bellies—plague, cruel slavery, death. And he would start awake to escape the nightmares, and then fall back asleep exhausted. And nearby, Merrilee moaned in her own dark dreams.
~
At the breaking of camp the next ’Darkday, Danner, Patrel, Merrilee, and the other Warrows that had been mounted upon the pack horses from Wellen were placed instead upon steeds from Valon—pack horses whose loads of food and grain had become light with the long-ride. And once more Galen’s cavalcade set forth, the five thousand Harlingar leaving Vidron and the Wellenen to come after. And Tuck felt as if they were somehow abandoning or being abandoned by the silver-bearded Hrosmarshal and his warriors. Yet north rode the Vanadurin, the Thornwalkers in their company, as well as two Elves and a Dwarf.
Three hours later, the column came upon the Lady Rael and her escort of Lian Guardians as they stood beside the Legion’s route where it swung close to the concealed entrance into the Hidden Stand of Arden Vale.
Galen and much of his War-council turned to the side to speak to Rael, as the long line of horseborne soldiers passed.
And Rael’s eyes widened at the sight of Merrilee in this company of warriors. As for Merrilee, she had never seen anyone or anything quite as beautiful as golden Rael, and the damman felt awkward in the presence of Rael’s Elven grace. Yet Rael took her by the hand, and all reserves between them melted.
“Galen King,” said Rael, inclining her head in courtesy as Galen stepped down from Wildwind and bowed.
“My Lady Rael,” Galen spoke with regard. “Though I would stir up no painful memories, still I must ask: know you what Vanidor’s rede means?”
“Nay, Galen King,” answered Rael, her eyes filled with ache and sorrow. “Had Vanidor Silverbranch called my name at the last, then his final message would have been thrust upon me and not Gildor Goldbranch. Yet, although I would have spared my eldest that blow, still I think I would know no more than I do now. I can add nought to your interpretations: The Darkest Day comes on the eighth ’Darkday hence—if that is its meaning. And the Greatest Evil is indeed Gyphon, the High Vûlk.”
~
As they rode away, Tuck looked back and waved at Talarin and Rael as the sad-eyed Elves stood and watched the Legion press onward. And somewhere behind—beyond Tuck’s vision—riding at a slower pace came Hrosmarshal Vidron of Valon and the Wellenen, while even farther away marched the pursuing Horde.
~
All that ’Darkday the Legion rode, passing swiftly over the frozen stony ground at the pace of a Valanreach long-ride. And slowly the slopes around them rose as they came into the approaches of Grûwen Pass where the land veered upward to meet the Rigga Mountains.
Up through the rising canyon they rode, toward the rift through the mountains, and the ice-clad walls glinted darkly in the Shadowlight.
Into the notch they went, cloaked in the frigid Winternight. And as the air grew thinner, the steeds labored, yet the pace did not slacken, for they could not camp at these heights.
Onward they pressed, up through the frozen stone of Grûwen Pass cracking in the hoarfrost and rime. Now the floor of the col became more or less level, and they rode steadily northeastward through the black-limned crags. Hours passed, and the notch swung northerly and began sloping downward; and on they went, the ring of hooves knelling back at them from the sheer walls.
At last they came down through the Dimmendark and into the Land of Gron. And the horses and riders were weary, for they had ridden nearly sixty miles that ’Darkday alone—a long ’Day, even for a Valanreach long-ride.
And after he had tended to his steed and taken a meal, Tuck spoke briefly with Merrilee and others, and recorded a bit in his journal, ere falling into exhausted slumber.
~
Over the next three ’Darkdays the Legion rode north across the barren Wastes of Gron. King Galen had slackened the pace a bit to allow the horses to recover from the long trek through Grûwen Col, and at the end of the third ’Darkday they camped near the southern edge of the frozen Gwasp. And a raw wind blew down upon them from the Gronfangs off to the east as they sat around cheerless peat fires and shivered in the blast.
“Hey!” exclaimed Danner. “I just thought of something. If Modru is the Master of the Cold, why hasn’t . . . why doesn’t he just summon up a blizzard and stop us here and now? He could freeze us solid, us being out in the open—no shelter, no firewood. Is it that he cannot control the cold? Is that just an old damman’s tale?”
Merrilee shot Danner a squint-eyed look and responded: “Perhaps, Danner, it is instead just an old buccan’s tale, generated by an overdose of ale down at the One-Eyed Crow.”
“Ar, Merrilee, you know what I mean,” squirmed Danner.
“And you know what I mean, too, loud buccan,” shot back Merrilee.
“Hold on now,” soothed Tuck. “We are all tired and cold and cross; let us not to argue amongst ourselves out of sheer weariness.”
“Danner’s got a good point, though,” spoke up wee Patrel, “I mean about Modru being the Master of the Cold, and all. Why doesn’t he just bury us with a blizzard? Or is his reputation false?”
“Modru has the power, all right,” spoke up slim Flandrena. “He is Master of the Cold. And he could bring a blizzard down upon us, for that is his most terrible weapon. Yet why he does not use it now, I cannot say. Perhaps it requires all of his power to do so, and he is saving his energy for some other reason . . . mayhap saving it for the Darkest Day.”
At Flandrena’s words, Tuck felt a deep foreboding race through his veins, and he shivered with its dire portent; and he glanced up to see a dark look in Merrilee’s eyes, too.
“Well,” yawned Danner, “I don’t know either, but I am just too tired to stay awake and dwell upon it any longer.” And the buccan spread out his bedroll and prepared to sleep. And as if that were a signal to the others, they too all crawled into their blankets.
But ere Tuck fell into slumber, long ululating howls shuddered through the Winternight as Modru’s curs wailed in the Wastes of Gron, and a cold chill ran up the buccan’s spine.
And far away to the south at the mouth of Grûwen Pass, Vidron, Talarin, the Wellenen, and the Lian Guardians all watched as the Swarm of Spaunen marched northward toward them, northward up the approach to the col: ten-thousand Wrg marching upon two-thousand defenders.
~
The next ’Darkday saw the Legion ride across the wastes to the north end of the Gwasp, where they made camp.
And once again the juddering howls of Vulgs called through the Shadowlight, other cries sounding to the northward and beyond, as if yawling messages were being relayed to the north, to the dark fortress of Modru.
And to the south at Grûwen Pass, the same ’Darkday had seen the Horde launch four attacks upon the Men and Elves, and four times Vidron’s Host had hurled the Spaunen back. But each time, like a great battering ram, the Horde had smashed into the defenders, and each time the Alliance of Wellen and Arden had been driven reeling backwards, deeper into the pass.
~
Another ’Darkday passed, and the wayworn Legion rode through Claw Gap and onto Claw Moor, driving northward toward Modru’s strongholt. No enemy barred their way or sought to strike at them, though Modru’s curs—Modru’s spies—hounded their flanks and yawled shuddering messages across the moor. And the Legion at last made camp and rested in the mid of the high frozen land. On the morrow they would reach their goal.
And at Grûwen Pass, thrice more on this ’Darkday the Spawn sought to break through Vidron’s Host. And thrice more the spent horses and exhausted Men and worn Elves rallied to hold the gap shut to the Rûpt. And the count of the slain mounted as the hammer of the Wrg smashed into the anvil of the Allies, driving them another eight miles deeper into the pass.
~
It was noon, the only time of ’Day that the faint disk of the Sun could be seen through the Dimmendark, and then but barely, and only by knowing exactly where to look in the Winternight. And now the dim orb stood shadowy-vague at its brumal zenith. And High King Galen, son of Aurion, sat astride Wildwind and looked high in the southern sky at the dimly seen circle, while behind him sat unmoving the five-thousand warriors of his Legion. And as he looked at the shadow-faint disk, Galen knew that in just two more ’Darkdays, at this very hour, the unseen Moon would eat the Sun, and the Darkest Day would come, and the Greatest Evil.
And Galen dropped his gaze to the east and looked at the dark fortress standing before him: Massive it was, and formidable, and beringed by a deep crevasse plummeting into ebon depths below. The great iron bridge was drawn up ’gainst sheer walls of black stone blocks rising up to towering battlements. And in the center from atop the highest tower flew the Sun-Death standard: a scarlet ring of fire upon a field of
black. And now more than ever the Sun-Death sigil seemed to hold dire portent. And Galen took a deep breath and his eyes swept the ramparts for some sign of weakness, some place of entrance, some chink by which this bastion could be cast down. For the Legion stood now before their goal: They had come at last to Modru Kinstealer’s holt. They had come at last to the dreaded Iron Tower.
4
The Iron Tower
The ’Darkdays following Vanidor’s torture-murder had been ’Days of anguish for Princess Laurelin. Yet whenever her mind stumbled into the black memories of those endless moments in Modru’s chamber high in the tower—moments filled with hissing questions, and the Clack! of a Troll-driven rack wheel, and raw screams of agony—whenever Laurelin’s mind returned to that hideous time, visions of a golden Elfess guided the Princess past the pain and horror, and into a quiet domain of mourning: And Laurelin grieved, but no longer did her wits fall stunned, nor did her heart plunge into an icy pall, and no longer did her soul flee through an unending labyrinth of despair. Instead she wept for the lost promise of Vanidor, and through her tears, her spirit began to heal. And even though she remained in the clutch of the Enemy, his will had not broken hers. And slowly she returned from that place of no hope, to come back into the realm of reality, and she began to take note of her surroundings.
The chamber in which Laurelin was held was along a main corridor of the Iron Tower, and through the massive door, she could at times hear fragments of snarling conversations of Yrm passing in the hallway as they went to and fro on their vile errands. Often they would be speaking in the Slûk Tongue, and the Princess could not understand this foul, slobbering, guttural speech; at other times, though, a debased form of the Common Tongue would be used, and then she could piece together some of what was said. Yet she learned little from their talk, for most of it consisted of cursing, and threats, and insults aimed at one another.
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