And stricken by the scarlet bolt the Myrkenstone, too, fell toward ruin, its substance blazing away, perishing. And in the blasting glare as the ’Stone disintegrated, once more the air began to ripple. And a distant dark portal seemed to open, and Gyphon’s features twisted into desperate rage; he screamed, yet no sound was heard. He began to recede, as if drawn back along the path whence he had come. And as the ripples became more intense, Gyphon’s aspect began to change: his fairness, his comeliness, altered: his beauty fell away as if it were a mask removed, and a loathsome semblance stared forth; yet this aspect, too, altered, shifting to a ghastliness beyond description as the figure of Gyphon rushed back toward oblivion; and as the undulant air shuddered, once again Gyphon’s features shifted, and Tuck could not face the hideous monster that fell down into the Great Abyss beyond the Spheres.
And the blinding flare died, for the Myrkenstone was destroyed: slain by a Red Quarrel loosed by one of the Wee Folk. And with its destruction, the Dimmendark collapsed:
~
Out in the courtyards and upon the walls of the fortress, hand-to-hand battle raged, and the passing of the Dimmendark was not then noted, for still the Moon hid the Sun, though a dim corona shone forth. But, of a sudden, beads of light sprang out from the rim of the unseen Moon, and slowly a fingernail-thin crescent of the Sun blazed forth. Rûcks, Hlôks, and Ghûls had time only to glance upward in horror ere the Withering Death struck; and they shriveled to dust, arms and armor falling with a clatter to the stone.
~
On Claw Moor, Ubrik and his brigade waited grimly for the blackness to pass, knowing that when the battle began once more, they would fall to the tulwars and barbed spears of the Ghûls.
Yet when the darkness at last fell away, lo! the flaring edge of the Sun gradually emerged from behind the unseen Moon; and before the astonished eyes of the Vanadurin, Ghûls and Hèlsteeds collapsed into withered husks, and a chill wind gnawed through their ashes.
~
In Grûwen Pass, Vidron, Talarin, and the surviving Men and Elves girded themselves for the last charge, but suddenly the Dimmendark vanished; and an arc of the Sun shone forth, partially eclipsed; and the japing Spawn jeered no more, for they were fallen into ruination.
~
In the Land of the Thorns, the Struggles came to an end in a town called Rood—central to the Boskydells—for there raged the Horde when the Dimmendark collapsed and a curve of the Sun burned down upon the Spawn.
~
Dwarf King Brek of Mineholt North, King Dorn of Riamon, and Coron Eiron of Darda Galion came together upon the battlefield before the slopes of the Rimmen Mountains. They squinted upward at the emerging Sun, and then to the War-ground where Men and Dwarves and Elves wandered awe-struck among the slain and wounded. And of the savage Horde there was no trace, except for tattered clothes and empty armor and fallen weapons . . . and ashes stirring in the wind.
~
In Jugo, the land had not fallen into total darkness, for there the Moon did not eat all of the Sun. And Aranor and Reggian had watched as the Lakh of Hyree had fallen down in worship at the beginning of the fearful occultation. Slowly the hidden Moon had eaten across the disk of the Sun while Aranor and Reggian debated: the King of Valon thought to launch an immediate attack upon the prostrate Hyrania, while the Steward of Pendwyr argued to wait until the depth of the obscuration; and Reggian prevailed, for he reasoned that the Lakh would be in the thrall of their canting when that moment came.
And so they waited, poised in the northern fringes of the Brin Downs, ready to launch the attack. At last the penumbral darkness reached its depth, and the horns of Pellar and Valon blew wildly as horsemen thundered across the plains.
Some among the Lakh looked up from their worship to see the Host charging down upon them, and they leapt to their feet, crying in alarm. Up swept the Hyrania, weapons in hand, ready to face the outnumbered Legion. And the swart Men looked to their jemedars for orders, and the jemedars in turn looked to the vacant-eyed, slack-jawed emissaries governing their battles. But at that moment, the faces of the surrogates twisted in agony—eyes rolling white, spittle frothing from grimacing, clenched, shrieking mouths—and their muscles spasmed. And then, as if strings had been cut from puppets, the emissaries fell to the ground dead, as if the malignant will driving them had been slain.
Yet even though they knew that something was amiss in their vile chain of rule, perhaps in the Iron Tower itself, still the jemedars turned to command their Men, for they would fight against their ancient enemies. And the Hyrani leaders shouted orders as the horsemen of Valon and Pellar crashed into their ranks. And a raging battle began; and the Lakh of Hyree fought with the faith and strength of zealots, for this was the day the long-held prophecy would be fulfilled.
Inward drove the Legion, spears and sabers meeting pikes and tulwars. And the Host sheered off, only to form and strike again.
And slowly the hidden Moon receded and the Sun grew toward fullness.
Again the Legion drove into the Hyrania, and once more steel skirled upon steel, and iron points pierced, and blades clove.
Men fell slain as the Sun crept from hiding.
Again the Host fell back to regroup, their ranks severely depleted. And Aranor and Reggian rode to one another to decide whether to press the fight once more or to withdraw.
And the Sun won free of the Moon.
And Gyphon did not appear among the files of the Hyrania: The prophecy was false! They had been deceived!
A moan of despair rose up from the Lakh, and many threw down their weapons and fled, while others went forth to the Legion and surrendered. Still others rent their hair and clothes and plunged knives into their own bosoms and fell dead, while a few—waving tulwars and screaming hoarsely—charged at the Host and fought to the death and were slain.
And the Battle of Jugo was finished.
~
In Hile Bay, the fleeing Rovers of Kistan sailed upon the tide and into the blockade of the outnumbered ships of the Arbalina fleet and Aravan’s ship, the Eroean. With ropes and timbers creaking and canvass snapping in the wind, and waves shsshing upon hulls, the mighty armada of the south tacked and hauled toward the gap where lay the squadrons of the King’s flotilla. And catapults flung burning fire—thwack!—and timbers groaned against one another as argosy met escadrille. Some Rover ships burned, but so did craft of Arbalin, while others in each fleet sank, holed by great underwater ram beaks. And some Kistania craft were grappled and boarded, and hand-to-hand fighting ensued. Some brigand crews surrendered. But for the most part, the ships of the Rovers escaped, for their numbers were too many; and they sailed beyond the line of the Kingsvessels and away into the Avagon Sea, the swift Eroean in deadly pursuit.
~
Back at the Iron Tower when the flare of the Myrkenstone died, Merrilee and Galen and Men and Warrows rushed through the sundered door and into the evil sanctum. And there near a great scorched pedestal they found Laurelin partially covered by a black cloak and shackled to an altar. And in the shimmering heat, Galen rent open the bonds and fiercely swept the Princess up in his arms.
And Merrilee glanced across the chamber and upward, and there on a stone catwalk stood Tuck swaying, his foot broken and his body bruised, his face clawed . . . and deeply seared, as if by the Sun.
“Tuck!” cried the damman, and she raced past the charred stand and to the far side of the room, and scrambled up the ladder to him, and caught him as he collapsed to his knees. And she wept and would have kissed him but did not, for she was afraid to touch his burned face. “Oh Tuck, my buccaran . . . my buccaran.” And she sobbed uncontrollably as she held onto him.
“Merrilee?” Tuck’s voice was questioning, hesitant, and his seared hands fumbled out to touch her face. “Oh my dammia, I cannot see you, for I am blind.”
~
At that moment out upon the ramparts a great glad shout rose up to greet the emerging Sun, for the foe was slain! The Shadowlight of Winternight was gone, t
he Winter War was ended; and here, as well as in all Mithgar, Free Folk rejoiced.
But there were those who did not join in the jubilation, for they stood among their slaughtered comrades and wept: in Riamon and Jugo, in Pellar and at Grûwen Pass, in the Boskydells, and upon Claw Moor in Gron.
And at the Iron Tower atop the ramparts above the gate stood five warriors, each of them wounded in some fashion—arm, wrist, forehead, side, leg—blood seeping unattended. They did not seek aid for their hurts, but instead stood with heads bowed: a youth, a Man, Prince Igon; a buccan Warrow, Dink Weller; two Elves, Lian warriors, Flandrena and Gildor; and a Dwarf—bloody Drakkalan in hand, hood cast over his head—Brega. And they grieved. And before them sat a wee Warrow—Patrel Rushlock—weeping, keening, clasping the slain body of a black-armored buccan unto him.
6
The Journey Home
Tuck was led down from the tower to suitable quarters below where he was undressed and put to bed. A healer was summoned to treat his and the Lady Laurelin’s wounds, for she too had been burned by the searing light of the flaring Myrkenstone, though not as severely as the buccan. Modru himself—though not by choice—had shielded the maiden from that initial, most violent blast, for he had been standing between the Princess and the ’Stone at the moment the Red Quarrel had struck. And when the Withering Death had smote him and he had pitched backwards onto the altar, his empty cloak had fallen across Laurelin in such a way that only her hands had been directly exposed to the unbearable glare; yet she had been closer to the ’Stone than Tuck, and her hands had been terribly seared.
Even so, at Laurelin’s behest, the healer treated Tuck’s wounds first: herbs were dissolved in water and daubed upon the Warrow’s burns, the healer using a sunscald remedy; Tuck’s broken foot was bound; and cold compresses were set upon his bruised arm and ribs. Then the healer carefully looked at the Warrow’s eyes and said, “There’s nought I can do about this. Perhaps Elven medicine can help, but . . .”
As the healer fell silent and turned to treat the Princess, Arch Hockley darted down the stairs and out the door to find Lord Gildor or Flandrena. The buccan called to several Men, but none knew the whereabouts of the Lian warriors, until the Warrow came upon a soldier who said he’d last seen the Elves above the gate.
The buccan turned and trotted to the wall and up a set of steps to the ramparts over the portal. There he found the Lian warriors, as well as Prince Igon, Dink Weller, Patrel, and Brega staring grimly out across Claw Moor where roiling clouds of a gathering storm could be seen from the northwest across the Claw Spur of the Gronfang Mountains.
“Lord Gildor,” Arch panted, out of breath, “I’ve come to fetch you or Flandrena or both. Tuck’s been blinded . . .”
“Tuck?” Patrel interrupted, his face haggard, his emerald eyes swollen. “He’s alive? . . . Blinded? . . . How? Where?”
“Why, at the top of the tower, Captain,” answered Arch. “He lost his sight when he destroyed the thing that made the Dimmendark, and light just exploded out of it—the Myrkenstone, the Lady Laurelin calls it . . .”
“Laurelin?” blurted Igon, cutting Arch’s words short. “You . . . you’ve found Laurelin?”
“Oh aye,” responded Arch. “The Lady is with the King and Tuck—though she’s got a bit burned, too, ’cause when Tuck slew the ’Stone and killed Modru . . .”
“Modru slain . . . by Tuck?” Lord Gildor now asked, his green eyes wide.
“Look,” said Arch, exasperated, “we could stand here all day telling tales about how Tuck slew the ’Stone and caused the Dimmendark to collapse, and how he killed Modru and rescued the Lady and sent Gyphon back beyond the Spheres . . .”
Gyphon! gasped several at once, but Arch was not to be deterred:
“Yes: Gyphon,” snapped the buccan. “But I’m not here to tell stories. The plain fact is, Tuck needs your help, Lord Gildor, Flandrena—if you have any—and the sooner the better. And if you are interested in Tuck’s adventure, I’ll tell you all I know on the way to his room—yet little enough that is.”
“You are right, Wee One,” said Lord Gildor. “We should not stand here listening to tales when there are those in need. Lead us; we will follow.”
Arch turned to go, but at that moment, the gruff voice of Brega came from beneath his hood: “Patrel, you go, too.”
“I can’t.” The words choked out of Patrel and he vaguely gestured with one hand. Glancing to where Patrel had motioned, tears sprang to Arch’s eyes, too, for there among the dead the Warrow could see the forms of three slain buccen, buccen whom he had come to know and love.
“You must go,” growled Brega. “You all must. I will attend to things here.” None could see the Dwarf’s face beneath his cowl, yet they each knew that he grieved, too. They also knew that Brega was right: they needed to get away from the ramparts—away from the slain Warrows—to find peace . . . especially Patrel.
As Gildor and Flandrena, Igon and Dink, and Patrel all turned and followed Arch, hooded Brega stood upon the ramparts and watched the black clouds of the dark storm boil through the mountains and obscure the Sun, and a sudden blast of a frigid wind blew down upon the fortress.
Patrel was led weeping down the steps by Lord Gildor. And as they came to the bottom and crossed the cobbled way, behind them Reachmarshal Ubrik and his Men wearily rode across the iron drawbridge and in through the gate. It took long for the plodding horses to pass into the fortress, for their numbers were many; yet more than half the brigade had been left behind, slain upon Claw Moor.
In somber silence, Arch led the five warriors across icy courtyards, and they followed the cobbled ways unto the central tower. They entered through a portal and mounted up a darkened stairwell and made their way along a torchlit corridor to Tuck’s door. Arch knocked softly and then they all entered the room. And there sat Laurelin wrapped in a blanket, and beside her sat King Galen, and Merrilee and the healer stood next to the bed where scalded Tuck lay.
Galen sprang to his feet, and he and Igon embraced one another, each glad to see that his brother lived. And then the Prince gently kissed Laurelin’s bandaged hand. And she kissed Igon upon the cheek in her joy to see him once more; yet her happiness fled with quicksilver swiftness and tears brimmed in her eyes, for she had just moments before learned of Aurion’s death, and it was as if her own father had died.
Merrilee turned to see Dink and Patrel, and she rushed across the room and gave both a hug and kissed Patrel. And she took Patrel by the hand and led him to the bedside where Lord Gildor and Flandrena spoke quietly with the healer.
“Tuck,” she said softly, and the burnt-faced buccan turned his head toward the sound of her voice. “Tuck, I’ve a good friend here: it’s Paddy; Paddy’s come.” To her consternation, Patrel began to weep, tears flowing down from his viridian eyes.
“Why, Patrel.” Tuck reached out a bandaged hand and Patrel took it gently. “This is a reunion, yet I hear you cry.”
“Oh, Tuck . . . Merrilee,” Patrel reached forth with his other hand, gripping the damman’s, too. “Danner . . . Danner is dead.”
~
A great blizzard raged forth out of the Boreal Sea to hurtle down upon Gron, shrieking wind wailing across the wastes, driving snow before it. The storm hammered upon the peaks and massifs of the Rigga and Gronfang Mountains, whelming upon the Land. And its icy fist pounded at the walls and turrets of the dark fortress. And Legionnaires huddled inside, none to venture forth—not even into the nearby courtyards—for Man, Elf, or Warrow could get lost but a few paces into the blinding fling.
Yet Gron was not the only place hammered by the great storm:
It swept down along the Jillian Tors and across the Dalara Plains to strike into Rian and the Lands below: Wellen, the Boskydells, Harth, Rhone, Rell, Trellinath.
And it howled across the Steppes of Jord to vault the Grimwall, and there savage fury mauled: in Aven and Riamon, in Darda Erynian and Darda Galion, and in the Greatwood.
And to the so
uth, torrents of freezing rain and sleet lashed down upon the Realms: Valon, Hoven, empty Gûnar, Jugo, Arbalin Isle, and Pellar.
It was as if the Dimmendark had been holding back the natural march of weather, for when the Myrkenstone had been destroyed and the ’Dark had collapsed, wind and snow and sleet and ice then had rushed in behind its fall—to the woe of those now trapped in the blasts:
In Grûwen Pass, Vidron and Talarin and the other survivors of that epic stand grimly fought their way southward through the shrieking blindness, pressing on for Arden Vale, for they knew that if they stopped they would perish.
In the Boskydells, Warrows huddled in the Dinglewood, and in Eastwood, and in Bigfen and Littlefen, and elsewhere, for the Ghûls had destroyed many homes, and the Swarm that had come after had leveled entire towns. And though no Spawn remained alive, still they had done great damage, and Wee Folk suffered for it, though the fens and the forests shielded them from the worst of the brunt.
In Riamon, the Men, Elves, and Dwarves entered through the great iron gates of Mineholt North and closed them fast behind to wait out the storm in the refuge of the carven halls of the Dwarvenholt under the Rimmen Mountains.
And all across Mithgar, wherever Free Folk dwelled, they took in friends and strangers caught in the blast, and sheltered the homeless in bothy, cot, flet, burrow, lean-to, cavern, stone house, or whatever other haven they could offer. And whether it was meager or plentiful, food was shared. It was a time of great need, and few if any withheld their aid.
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