Before their fangs
A bold few stand.
He calls the Hordes
Of evil kind;
By terror and fear
To him they bind.
The Swarms invade
To east and west.
The allies stand
To brave the test.
Dark Hordes come
Across the plains.
Many are felled;
Cold Death reigns.
Liege is slain
At the Keep.
Few escape;
Many weep.
Challerain falls;
Winter is come;
Terror rules
The north Kingdom.
The Hosts of the King
Are fettered in War,
As under the Mountains
Stride the Four.
The Horror is felled;
The Four win free;
To Larkenwald come:
The Land of Eld Tree.
South on the river
Ride the Four;
Then a swift gallop
To the Harlingar.
Vanadurin, Wellenen,
Fly toward the Wastes.
The Darkest Day comes;
Make all haste.
Wellenen and Elves,
Hold the way.
The Host races north
For the Darkest Day.
The Heroes come
To the Cold Iron Tower.
Nine are chosen
To assault the Power.
An arrow is loosed
With no chance at all,
Yet it fells the guard
Atop the wall.
The ravine is crossed,
The stone is climbed:
Eight go up;
One stays behind.
Under the wall
Crawls the one,
And wins to the tower
For the Death of the Sun.
The bridge is felled;
The iron teeth lift;
The strike force charges;
The horses are swift.
Swords are in
Among the Foe.
Brave friends die;
Sorrow and woe.
Darkness falls;
The Doom has come.
The Fate of the world
Depends on the one.
Through window slit
The Wee One tries;
Yet Myrkenstone Traps
Warrow eyes.
Evil chants fall
Upon his ears,
And Gyphon comes
From Beyond the Spheres.
Sped by the bow
Of the brave Wee One,
The Red Arrow is loosed
To strike the Myrkenstone.
The Myrkenstone dies
In a flare of light,
And the Wee One loses
His power of sight.
Yet Modru is slain,
And Gyphon cast below;
And the Dimmendark falls
To the Sun’s bright glow.
The Hordes fall dead
By Adon’s Ban.
And southward, too,
The War is won.
Many praised the victory;
Many mourned the slain;
Yet all prayed that nevermore
Would War come here again.
Yes, once there was great Evil,
And darkling Shadowlight,
But thanks to many a brave one,
Outside the Sun shines bright.
These two ballads were ever popular in Mithgar, from King’s halls to taverns, all across the Realm; and many a minstrel rendered them—but never so well as the wee buccan harper who always sang these lays with bright tears glistening in his viridian eyes.
~
In 5E35, Raven Greylock was delivered of a daughter, Robin; she was Tuck and Merrilee’s first grandchild. The Underbanks travelled to the Cliffs to visit with the newest dammsel of the family. And Tuck was introduced to Willen Greylock’s circle of historians who called themselves the Ravenbook Scholars. In the limestone holts of the Cliffs, these historians had begun to gather books and scrolls in what was to become one of the greatest libraries of all Mithgar. . .but that would come several years hence. At the time, the Ravenbook Scholars were but a small circle of historians and scribes, and their great work was to produce illuminated texts of Tuckerby’s epic tale. Why, already they had sent a marvelous duplicate of The Raven Book to the High King in Pellar, and he cherished it.
~
The years fled by, and Tuck and Merrilee gracefully aged. Part of Tuckerby’s Warren became a museum, housing Merrilee’s bow, Elven cloaks and ropes, the silveron armor and Bane, as well as Patrel’s gilded armor and the Atalar Blade. . .and the Horn of Valon that was still sounded regularly on November the ninth in Woody Hollow, and on January fifteenth in Budgens. Helms and trews, arrows and quivers, flags and staffs, and other accoutrements and arms and armor bedecked the walls and rested in glass cases; and folks came from miles around to see them.
And Tuck was content, his life a most peaceful one—except for an occasional dream of terror from which he would start awake in a cold sweat, his blind eyes wide and again seeing the hideous monster Gyphon falling back into the Black Abyss beyond the Spheres. At these times, Merrilee would hold him until the phantom of the past was dispelled.
~
In 5E46 word came that King Galen had died during a savage storm from the Avagon Sea that whelmed upon the walls of Caer Pendwyr. Gareth, eldest son of Galen and Laurelin, was now High King. Tuck and Merrilee made the long pilgrimage to far Pellar and stayed awhile with Laurelin, still beautiful though she was nearing her sixty-fifth birthday. And even though nearly five decades had passed since the end of the Winter War, still the castle was abuzz with talk of this wee, limping guest: Sir Tuckerby Underbank: the blind buccan with the whip-scarred face who had slain Modru and saved Mithgar.
At the end of the summer, the buccan and the damman journeyed back to the Boskydells. And except for an occasional trip to Stonehill, the days of their long journeys were ended.
~
It is told that after Galen’s passing, Talarin, Rael, and Gildor rode the Twilight Ride unto Adonar. It is said that none of the three ever fully recovered from the death of Vanidor Silverbranch—especially Gildor Goldbranch, whose eyes always harbored a deep look of sadness.
It is also said that many other Lian passed unto Adonar, too, for their hearts had long held much grief for those slain in the War.
Yet whether or not these tales are true, none knows.
~
In the winter of 5E73, December seventeenth, to be exact, Tuck took to his bed with a cold. And as the days passed to become a week, and then another, the granther buccan sank deeper into his illness, regardless of all that could be done. He was ninety-seven at the time, and only he and Merrilee and Brega in the far Red Hills remained alive of all the mortals who had survived that epic day at the Iron Tower. Patrel, Igon, Laurelin, Ubrik: all were gone: one by one they had sailed upon the Darkling Sea to join Vidron, Aranor, Reggian, Arbagon, Bockleman, Dorn, and countless other loved ones on the endless journey ’neath the Silver Suns. And now, in spite of the healer’s herbs and simples, in spite of Merrilee’s tender ministrations, on this Year’s End Day the flame of Tuck’s life waned and flickered as his spirit was irresistibly drawn away. And though Merrilee held tightly to her buccaran’s hand, she could feel the silver cord of his life slowly slipping from her frail grasp.
And as she gripped Tuck’s precious hand, she did not see before her a fragile, ancient Warrow; instead she looked beyond the pale, translucent flesh and snow-white locks, and her eyes saw the handsome young buccan that she first had fallen in love with.
And she wept, for she knew she could not stay the hand of the Dark One.
Tuck’s thready breath softly filled the room with the sound of dying, yet now and again he would murmur a few words—some in the ancient W
arrow tongue.
And as the hour neared mid of night, and Merrilee laid her weary head down and wept bitter tears, she felt Tuck stroking her hair. “Do not weep, my dammia,” he whispered, “I will wait for you.”
Long moments passed, and his breathing grew faint, and the yellow candlelight guttered, the flame wavering, as if someone had come into the room.
Merrilee felt Tuck’s grip tighten, and the buccan’s sapphirine eyes flew wide. “Adon, oh Adon, you have made it so bright and beautiful,” Tuck breathed. And then his voice was filled with the strength and vigor of youth, and he called out, “Hiyo! Hiyo, Danner! Wait for me!”
And then he was gone.
And Merrilee wept for her lost beloved, while down in the swale of Woody Hollow, out beneath the turning stars, horns sounded and people cheered and someone began ringing the fire gong, for it was the beginning of a new year.
~ Fin ~
“But if for no other reason, Evil must be destroyed, so that we can once more guide our own destinies.”
~Rael of Arden
January 10, 4E2019
Thus Ends
Book 3
~
Shadows of Doom
Here Did The Story Begin, And Here Too Shall It End
And So Ends
The Story of
~
The Iron Tower
Dennis L. McKiernan is a (retired) bestselling writer who lives in Arizona with his wife of 57 years (as of publication of this eBook), Martha Lee (MLee).
APPENDICES
TO
THE IRON TOWER
A Word About Warrows
Calendar of The Iron Tower
The Long Journeys
The Eclipse of the Darkest Day
The Effect of the Myrkenstone on Tuck’s Eyes
Songs, Inscriptions, and Redes
Translations of Words and Phrases
Glossary of The Iron Tower
A Word About Warrows
Common among the many races of Man throughout the world are the persistent legends of Little People: Wee Folk, pixies, leprechauns, sidhe, pwcas, gremlins, cluricaunes, peris, and so forth. There is little doubt that many of these tales come from Man's true memories of the Eld Days . . . memories of Dwarves, Elves, and others, hearking back to the ancient times before The Separation. Yet, some of these legends .I must spring from Man's memory of a small Folk called Warrows.
Supporting this thesis, a few fragmentary records are unearthed once in a great age, records that give us glimpses of the truth behind the legends. But to the unending loss of Mankind, some of these records have been destroyed, while others languish unrecognized—even if stumbled across—for they require tedious examination by a scholar versed in strange tongues—tongues such as Pellarion—ere a glimmering of their true significance is seen.
One such record that has survived—and was stumbled across by an appropriately versed scholar—is The Raven Book; another is The Fairhill Journal. From these two chronicles, as well as from a meager few other sources, a factual picture of the Wee Folk can be pieced together, and deductions then can be made concerning Warrows:
~
They are a small Folk, the adults ranging in height from three- to four-feet. Some scholars argue that there seems to be little doubt that their root stock is Man, since Warrows are human in all respects—that is, no wings, horns, tails, or other oddities—and they come in all the assorted shapes and colors that the Big Folk, the Men, do, only on a smaller scale. However, to the contrary, other scholars argue that the shape of Warrow ears—pointed—the tilt of their bright, strange eyes, and their longer life span indicates that some Elven blood is mingled in their veins. Yet their eyes do set them apart from Elvenkind: canted they are, and in that the two Folk are alike; but Warrow eyes are bright and liquescent, and the iris is large and strangely colored: amber like gold, the deep blue of sapphire, or pale emerald green.
In any case, Warrows are deft and quick in their smallness, and their mode of living makes them wood-crafty and nature wise. And they are wary, tending to slip aside when an Outsider comes near, until the stranger's intentions can be ascertained. Yet they do not always yield to intruders: should one of the Big Folk come unannounced upon a group of Warrows—such as a large family gathering of Othens splashing noisily in the waters of the fen—the Outsider would note that suddenly all the Warrows were silently watching him, the dammen (females) and oldsters quietly drifting to the rear with the younglings clinging to them or peering around from behind, and the buccen (males) in the fore facing the stranger in the abrupt quiet. But it is not often that Warrows are taken by surprise, and so they are seldom seen in the forests and fens and wilds unless they choose to be; yet in their hamlets and dwellings they are little different from “commonplace” Folk, for they treat with Outsiders in a friendly manner, unless given reason to do otherwise.
Because of their wary nature, Warrows usually tend to dress in clothing that blends into the background: greys, greens, browns. And the shoes, boots, and slippers they wear are soft and quiet upon the land. Yet, during Fair Time, or at other Celebrations, they dress in bright splashes of gay, gaudy colors: scarlets, oranges, yellows, blues, purples; and they love to blow horns and strike drum, gong, and cymbal, and in general be raucous.
Some of the gayest times, the most raucous, are those which celebrate the passing from one Warrow age to another, not only the “ordinary” birthday parties, but in particular those when an “age-name” changes: Children, both male and female, up to the age of ten are called “younglings.” From age ten to twenty, the males are called “striplings,” and the females, “maidens.” From age twenty to thirty, males and females are called respectively “young buccen” and “young dammen.” It is at age thirty that Warrows reach majority—come of age, as it were—and until sixty are then called “buccen,” or “dammen,” which are also the general names for male or female Warrows. (The terms “buccen” and “dammen” are plurals; by changing the “e” to an “a”, “buccan” and “damman” refer to just one male or female Warrow.) After sixty, Warrows become “eld buccen” and “eld dammen,” and beyond the age eighty-five are called respectively “granthers” and “grandams.” And at each of these “special” birthday parties, drums tattoo, horns blare, cymbals clash, and bells ring; gaudy colors adorn the celebrants; and annually, on Year's Long Day, during Fair Time, bright fireworks light up the sky for all who have had a birthday or birthday anniversary in the past year—which, of course, includes everyone—but especially for those who have passed from one age-name to the next.
Warrows ordinarily they eat four meals a day, and on feast days, five. As the elders tell it: “Warrows are small, and small things take a heap of food to keep ’em going. Look at your birds and mice, and look especially at your shrews: they're all busy gulping down food most of the time that they're awake. So us Wee Folk need at least four meals a day just to keep a body alive!”
Warrow home and village life is one of pastoral calm. The Wee Folk often come together to pass the day: the dammen klatch at sewings or cannings; the buccen and dammen gather at the field plantings and harvests, or at the raising or digging of a dwelling, or at picnics and reunions—noisy affairs, for Warrows typically have large families.
Within the home, at “normal” mealtimes all members of a household—be they master, mistress, brood, or servantry—flock ’round the table in one large gathering to share the food and drink, and to speak upon the events of the day. But at “guest” meals, customarily only the holtmaster, his family, and the guests come to the master’s table to share the repast; rarely are other members of the holt included at that board, and then only when specifically invited by the head of the house. At meal's end, especially when “official business” is to be discussed, the younger offspring politely excuse themselves, leaving the elders alone with the visitors to deal with their “weighty matters.”
Concerning the “hub” of village life, every hamlet has at least one inn,
usually with good beer—some inns have the reputation of having better beer than the average—and here gather the buccen, especially the granthers, some daily, others weekly, and still others less frequently; and they mull over old news, and listen to new happenings, and speculate upon the High King’s doings down in Pellar, and talk about the state that things have come to.
There are four strains of northern Warrows: Siven, Othen, Quiren, and Paren, dwelling respectively in burrows, fen stilt-houses, tree flets, and stone field-houses. (Perhaps the enduring legends concerning intelligent Badgers, Otters, Squirrels, and Hares, as well as other animals, come from the lodging habits of the Wee Folk.) And Warrows live, or have lived, in practically every country in the world, though at any given time some Lands host many Warrows while other Lands host few or none. The Wee Folk seem to have a history of migration, yet in those days of the Wanderjahren many other Folk also drifted across the face of the world.
But let me add this: Warrows are fierce warriors, missileers in the main, preferring bow and arrow, or slings and sling bullets, thrown knives and daggers, even thrown rocks. And in this, they are deadly accurate, and by body count they are the most perilous and effective warriors in the field.
In the time of the writing of both The Raven Book and The Fairhill Journal, most northern Warrows resided in one of two places: the Weiunwood, a shaggy forest in the Wilderland north of Harth and south of Rian; or in the Boskydells, a Land of fens, forests, and fields west of the Spindle River and north of the Wenden.
The Boskydells, by and far the largest of these two Warrowlands, is protected from Outsiders by a formidable barrier of thorns—Spindlethorns—growing in the river valleys around the Land. This maze of living stilettoes forms an effective shield surrounding the Boskydells, turning aside all but the most determined. There are a few roads within long thorn tunnels passing through the barrier, and during times of crisis, within these tunnels Warrow archers stand guard behind movable barricades made of the Spindlethorn, to keep ruffians and other unsavory characters outside while permitting ingress to those with legitimate business. In generally peaceful times, however, these ways are left unguarded, and any who want to enter may do so.
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