When Eastdell Fourth was called, Old Barlo pointed to an emerald-eyed Warrow with fair hair who was holding a string of seven ponies—five riding and two pack ponies, their coats heavy with winter shag. Tuck, Hob, and Tarpy made their way to the guide, and from the far side of the Commons came Danner. With a deep bow, Tuck introduced himself and named his companions.
"Patrel Rushlock at your service," spoke the guide with an infectious grin and a sweeping bow of his own. Patrel was small—even shorter than Tarpy, who, for the first time ever, felt as if he simply towered over another young buccan, though he was but one inch different. Yet, somehow—perhaps because of his bearing—Patrel seemed neither diminished nor overshadowed by the four taller, Woody Hollow buccen.
"Let's fix your knapsacks to this pack pony," said Patrel, getting right to the matter at hand, "then each of you pick out one of the riding mounts for your own. The one with the white face is mine. But heed this: keep your bows and quivers. We may need them before we come to Ford Spindle," he said ominously, momentarily frowning, but then his face brightened and the wide grin returned. "If you have a flute or pipe, or any other tune maker, keep it, too, and we'll have a ditty or three to cheer us along the way." Tuck then saw that a six-stringed lute was strapped across Patrel's shoulders to hang at his back.
Shortly, they, as well as the Thornwalkers of the other Eastdell companies, were ready to leave. All turned to say that one last goodbye to young dammen and maidens, sires and dams, brothers and sisters, grandams and granthers, aunts and uncles and other relatives, friends and neighbors, and additional assorted buccen and dammen who had come to see them off and who were collected in knots and rings and clumps, Warrows with stricken and worried and crying faces, and cheery and smiling ones, and proud and stern and grim looks, also.
"Harrump! Take care of yourself, lad," said Burt to his only bucco, "and watch out for the wild Wolves. Make 'em fear the sight of an Underbank—harrump!—or any other Warrow, for that matter."
"I will, Dad," answered Tuck, and quickly he embraced his sire, then turned to his dam.
"Wear your warm clothes, keep your feet dry," said Tulip as she clasped Tuck to her. "Eat well, and, and…" but she could say no more through her tears. She held on tightly and softly cried until Burt gently disengaged her embrace from Tuck, and Tuck quickly swung astride the dappled grey he had chosen as his mount.
A friend gave him a pouch of Downdell leaf, "The best there is"; another friend handed him a new white-clay pipe, "Smoke it well"; while a third gave him a small tin box with flint and steel and shavings of touchwood, "Keep your tinder dry."
Merrilee Holt, who had shyly hung back, squared her shoulders, stepped forward, and held an elden silver locket up to Tuck. "Would you wear my— favor?" the Warrow maiden asked. Speechless with surprise, Tuck nodded dumbly, and he leaned down for Merrilee to slip it over his head. As she did so, she whispered in his ear, "Take care, my buccaran," and kissed him on the lips, to the raucous whoops of some of the striplings nearby. But Merrilee simply stepped back to the crowd, her eyes glitter-bright with tears.
"Hey, Tucker," spoke up his cousin Willy, stepping to the pony's side and holding up a new, blank diary and a pencil, "keep a journal, hey? Then when you get back you can read to us of all your adventures, hey?"
"All right, Willy," said Tuck, stuffing the gift into his jerkin along with the leaf and pipe and tinder-box. "Thanks. I'll try." Then Tuck smiled, raised his hand, waved to all those who had come to see him off, looked again at his parents with their arms about one another, and last of all looked at Merrilee, who brightly smiled back. At a nod from Patrel, Tuck and his companions, who also were finished with their farewells, urged the ponies forward. They wove through the waving crowd and out of the Commons, riding toward the North Trace up through the Dinglewood, aiming for Spindle Ford.
As the ponies trotted away from the heart of Woody Hollow, the five riders—Tuck, Danner, Hob, Tarpy, and Patrel—could hear Woody Hollow Mayor Geront Gabben leading the townfolk in a rousing cheer: Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray! And someone began ringing the fire gong.
The Sun crept upward in the morning sky as they rode farther and farther from Woody Hollow. The sounds of the cheering crowd and clanging gong slowly faded away to disappear altogether in the snow-blanketed quiet of the Dinglewood, and all became silent except for the creak of leather saddles and harness, the muted sounds of pony hooves stepping in the snow, and an occasional muffled snuffle from one, or perhaps four, of the riders.
CHAPTER 2
RETREAT TO ROOKS' ROOST
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The bright light of the mounting Sun fell aslant 'cross the white, glistening snow. From the glitter, tiny evanescent shards of sparkling color winged to the eye, as if reflected from diminutive fragments of shattered jewels nestled among the fallen flakes. The cold crystalline air was calm, and in all the wide Dingle-wood nothing seemed to be astir except for a jostling flock of noisy ravens squabbling over a meager breakfast up among the barren trees on Hawthorn Hill. Down below, wending slowly along the North Trace were five Warrows astride five ponies, leading two more of the animals laden with gear.
Patrel, riding in the lead, turned and looked over his shoulder at the glum faces of the four young buccen behind. For the past six miles no one had said even a single word; and for a group of Warrows to remain silent for two solid hours, well, that's no mean feat. Deciding that this dolorous mood had lasted overlong, Patrel shucked his mittens and unslung his lute; he plucked a few strings, strummed a chord or so, and tweaked a tuning key or two this way and that.
"Hey," said Tarpy, his utterance breaking the muteness to fall upon startled ears, "give us a happy tune; we need it." And Tarpy clucked his pony forward till he rode beside Patrel. At Patrel's nod, Tarpy called to the others: "Hoy, you grumlings, clap your heels to those ponies and gather 'round."
Tuck, riding last and leading the pack ponies, was jerked out of his gloomy thoughts by Tarpy's call. Clicking his tongue, he urged the grey forward. "Come on, Danner," he said as he drew even with the young buccan, "let's go."
"What for?" asked Danner, mumpishly. "He's just going to twang that stringed gourd of his, and I don't feel at all like a song."
"Perhaps that's just exactly what we do need," answered Tuck. "Even if it's just a song, still we'll cheer up a bit, I'll wager. And right now I could do with a bit of cheering up, and so could you—so could we all."
"Oh, all right," grumped Danner, agreeing more to keep Tuck quiet than for any other reason, and he kicked up his pony. In moments, Tuck, Danner, Hob, and Tarpy were all riding grouped around Patrel. "All right, lads," grinned the small Thornwalker, looking aflank, "it's time you learned what the Thornwalkers are all about." Patrel plucked a chord or two, checking a last time the tune of the lute, and then his fingers began dancing over the strings as he sang a lively, simple, Warrowish tune.
We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we; We walk around the miles of bounds
To keep the Bosky free
Of Wolves and Vulgs and great wild dogs
And other enemy; We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we.
We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we; We've trod the Thorns from night to morn
Through Bosky history. Our ears can hear, and never fear,
For keenly do we see; We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we.
Patrel began the third verse, and this time Tarpy and Hob joined in, thinly singing the refrain: We are Thornwalkers, Thornwalkers are we.
We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we; The Seven Dells, well I can tell,
All of them we do see, To north and east and south and west,
Wherever they may be; We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we.
"Come on, you sickly sparrows," urged Patrel, pausing, "you can chirp louder than that." And with a wide smile, he struck up the tune ag
ain and sang another verse. This time four other voices picked up the lilt of the rustic song, and even though they sang tum-tiddle-tum in the places where they could not guess the words, still their timber strengthened.
We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we; We walk along the Spindlethorn
Wherever it may be, Through fens and fields and woods and hills
'Long rivers bound for sea; We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we.
On the last verse, all the Warrows were grinning broadly and singing lustily, and to Tuck's surprise Danner's voice was the heartiest of all.
We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we; And finer scads of sturdy lads
No one will ever see; We guard and ward and work so hard
To keep the Bosky free; We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we—Yo ho! We are Thornwalkers,
Thornwalkers are we—Hey!
And with this last Hey! Patrel planged his lute with a loud discordant twang! and all the Warrows broke into guffawing laughs. The somber mood was gone.
"So that's what we Thornwalkers do, hey?" asked Hob, merrily. "Guarding and warding. It sounds as if we'll be busy."
"Oh no," grumped Danner, "not if we're stuck at Spindle Ford. I expect it means we'll spend a lot of time sitting around waiting for something to'happen, but it never will."
"Well that suits me just fine," chimed up Tarpy. "I'd rather sit around a warm campfire, sharing a pipe or song or tale, than to be out in the cold looking for Wolves and Vulgs and great wild dogs."
"And the other enemy," added Tuck. "Don't forget the other enemy the song spoke of—Wolves and Vulgs and great wild dogs and other enemy." Tuck turned to Patrel, "What does the song mean—other enemy? Where did the song come from in the first place? I've never heard it before, and I think I'd better write it down in my new diary—my cousin Willy will really like it. Besides, a song that good deserves to be spread about, and, well, it seems to me as if we should have heard it before."
"Oh… ahem… well," stammered Patrel, somewhat flustered and flushed, fumbling embarrassedly as he refastened the strap to sling the lute across his back once more. "I'm pleased you liked it. And you haven't heard it before because it's new. I mean, well, I made it up myself as I rode down to collect you four."
"Made it up yourself?" burst out Tarpy. "I say! I thought only minstrels and harpers did that sort of thing. You aren't a minstrel now, are you?"
"My Aunt Oot used to make up songs now and again," interrupted Hob, "mostly in the kitchen. Songs about food and cooking. Rather pleasant. Nothing jolly like yours, though."
"Tell us about the words, Patrel," said Tuck. "I mean, tell us how you came up with your song."
"There's not that much to say," answered Patrel. "You all know that the Thornwalkers help to protect the Bosky—a big responsibility that is, too, for it's a wide Land. Seven Dells: North, South, East, West, Center, Up, and Down. Ringed 'round by the Great Spindlethorn Barrier. Bounded by two rivers, the Wenden and Spindle, and by the Northwood and the Updunes."
"What is this," grumbled Danner, "a geography lesson?"
"No," laughed Patrel. "Well, perhaps a touch of both geography and history."
"Come on, Danner, let Patrel speak," said Tarpy, his Warrowish nature astir to listen to things he already knew. "Besides, I've always wanted to learn where harpers get their tunes."
"Argh!" growled Danner, but he fell silent.
"But, Tarpy, I don't know where harpers get their tunes," protested Patrel. "I only know where mine come from. It's very simple. The mission of the Thornwalkers is to patrol the Dells and the Spindlethorn Barrier, to guard against unsavory Beyonders coming into the Bosky for ill purposes, and to repel Wolves, or great wild dogs."
"What about the Vulgs?" asked Hob.
"Yar! And the other enemy," snorted Danner, sarcastically. "I'll give you an other enemy!" He leaned over toward Hob and made a face. "Boo!"
"Danner!" burst out Tuck, exasperated. "If you don't wish to listen, then ride on ahead."
"Just who do you think you're ordering about?" bristled Danner. "I—"
"Hold it!" shouted Patrel, his own fiery temper rising. Then, as he got control of himself: "Let's not get to squabbling among ourselves." He turned to Danner. "Just what point are you trying to make?"
"Well," grouched Danner, "just what other enemy could be a threat to the Bosky?"
"How about Vulgs?" shot back Hob.
"And Rücks, Hlöks, and Ogrus," chimed in Tarpy.
"Ghûls," added Tuck.
Danner looked disgusted. "You left out Cold-drakes! And Modru! And bloody Gyphon himself!" he snapped. "And it seems you've also forgotten High Adon's Ban! And that's why there isn't any other enemy: the Ban!"
Amid the burst of babble that followed, Patrel's clear voice cut through, bidding silence, and when it reigned: "Danner's got a good point there. Now hush and let him speak."
Danner looked somewhat flustered as all Warrow eyes fastened in silence upon him, but he was not speechless: "Well, you all know what the old tales say." Danner's voice took on the rhythm of a chant, as if he were reciting a well-learned school lesson. "When Gyphon challenged Adon for control of the Spheres, War broke out in the three Planes: Upper, Middle, and Lower. Here in Mithgar the struggle was mighty, for Modru, Gyphon's servant, was supreme and his Horde was nearly without number. Yet the Grand Alliance opposed them, not realizing that the outcome here in the midworld would tip the balance of power in the Upper and Lower Planes, too.
"And so it was that the Grand Alliance of Men, Elves, Dwarves, Utruni, Wizards, and Warrows fought on the side of Adon in the Great War against Gyphon, Modru, Vulks, Ghûls, Hlöks, Ogrus, Rücks, Vulgs… and some Dragons.
"Here, in the Middle Plane, by an unexpected stroke the Alliance won; Modru lost. And so it was that Adon won and Gyphon lost on all three Planes. As forfeit, Adon banished from the light of day, on pain of death, all the Folk who aided Gyphon in this Great War. From those of the Dragons who opposed Him, Adon took their fire, and now they are Cold-drakes and also suffer the Ban.
"And it is said that Adon's Ban shall rule for as long as night follows day, and day follows night.
"He banished Gyphon, too, 'beyond the Spheres,' though no one I've asked knows where that is.
"Modru himself fled through the night from the Wastes of Gron to the far frozen land beyond. The tales tell that he lives there because in the winter the nights are long, very long, and the Sun, his bane, is feeble for six months each year. Yet in the summer Modru must hide away, for then the days are long and the Sun rides high, and the Withering Death is ever at hand."
Danner then paused, looking at the others, and his voice took on a pedantic tone. "So you see, that's why the Bosky has little to fear from other enemy: His Ban would slay them!" Danner looked at the other Warrows, challenge in his eye, but no one there gainsaid him, and the ponies wended slowly northward.
"Ah, Danner, you are right," said Patrel after a bit. "Yet remember this: Adon's Covenant kills only if they get caught in the Sun, but not at night. And other Thornwalkers have reported fleeting glimpses from afar of great black beasts, like Wolves, but dire, running through the dark."
"Vulgs," breathed Hob.
"Perhaps," answered Patrel. "If so, then they must lie up in the cracks and splits of the land when the Sun is on high, and thus the Ban strikes them not. As for Rücks, Hlöks, and Ogrus, or Vulks and Ghûls, or Cold-drakes, I think none are here in the Bosky, though they, too, could escape the Sun in the same manner. Yet we are a far distance from the mountains they haunt: the Grimwall, the Rigga, and the Gronfangs."
"But Vulgs run fast and far, they say," said Tarpy, "and perhaps they've run all the way to the Boskydells."
"Yes, but what has driven them to come to the Bosky now?" asked Tuck. "It's been a long span since the end of the Great War. Why have they come at this time? And to the Bosky?"
"If!" exclaimed Danner,
compelling their attention. "If it's Vulgs and not Wolves. Who's to say it wasn't Wolves, or even wild dogs, seen from afar by the Thornwalkers, instead of Vulgs? Look, the Ban has held good for two whole Eras. Why should Vulgs show up now?"
"Ah! There's the rub," responded Tuck. "Why, indeed, now?"
The ponies plodded forward, and the Warrows rode on in silence for a bit, pondering the puzzle. "The only thing that comes to mind," continued Tuck, "is that it is said Gyphon, just as He was vanishing, swore a bitter vow to Adon, claiming that He would be back."
" 'Even now,' " Danner quoted, his voice sepulchral, " 'Even now I have set into motion events you cannot stop. I shall return! I shall conquer! I shall rule!' That's what the old tales say Gyphon last spat at Adon, then He was gone, beyond the Spheres, banished. But He was wrong, for He hasn't returned. In four thousand years He hasn't returned. That's how long they say it has been. And for those same four thousand years, no Rück, no Vulk, ah, fie! Nothing! Nothing suffering the Ban has threatened the Bosky! Ever!"
Again silence descended upon them, and each rode immersed in his own thoughts. Finally, Patrel spoke: "Maybe so, Danner. Maybe you are right. But they say Vulgs now push through the Spindlethorns. And no one says why."
The Dark Tide Page 3