The Dark Tide

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Tuck thundered up and leapt off to follow right behind Patrel as they scrambled onto the lower tier of stone to join Tarpy, and he turned to see Danner and Hob come at last. On, too, came the dire Vulgs, but Patrel let fly and struck one a glancing blow on a foreleg, and its yipping howl caused the others to sheer off the attack.

  As their mount skidded to a stop, Danner and Hob jumped off. But with a moan, Hob collapsed unconscious to the snow, a dark stain spreading from under him. Down leapt the others to aid, but Danner hoisted Hob across his shoulders. "Climb!" he snarled, and started forward.

  Tarpy ran and snatched up Danner's bow and quiver. "What about the ponies?"

  With his free hand, Danner shoved Tarpy toward the rocks. "Climb, you fool, they're after Waerlings, not horselings!" But Danner was only partly right, for as the buccen scrambled up the rocks of the Rooks' Roost, the frightened ponies scaddled off into the night. Yet two ran right into the jaws of the evil Vulgs, and their shrill death cries sounded like the screams of dammen. And the blood of the Warrows ran chill.

  It took all the energy of the other four to lift Hob's dead weight up to the top of the Rooks' Roost, but at last they were there. The Vulgs loped around the base of the jumble but did not attempt to climb it. And the Moon shone brightly down upon the land.

  "He's still alive," said Tuck, raising his head from Hob's breast. "We've got to do something to stop this bleeding." But in his mind whispered words from the old hearthtale: Vulg's black bite slays at night.

  "Make a tourniquet for his leg," said Patrel, "and press a bandage to his side." And so Tuck and Tarpy tended to Hob as Danner stared in hatred down at the Vulgs.

  "Look at them," he spat, "just sitting there now, as if they were hatching a vile plan, or waiting for something to happen, three evil brutes."

  "Three!" exclaimed Patrel. "There should be four! Where's—" They heard the click of claws scrabbling up the stone on the opposite side." 'Ware!" shouted Patrel and rushed over in time to see a great Vulg leaping up through the shadowed stones toward the crest. As Patrel drew an arrow full to the head, he heard Danner cry, "Here come the others!" for the remaining three beasts were streaking for the mound.

  With malevolence in its yellow eyes, the lone Vulg swarmed up the stone. Patrel loosed the bolt to hiss through the air, but with a twist the Vulg leapt sideways, and the shaft but struck it in the loose fur above the shoulders. Howling and snapping at the quarrel, the Vulg fell scrambling down the side of the pile, while the other three again veered off the attack, bounding down from the stones and beyond arrow range.

  Patrel and Danner watched as the four Vulgs collected together. The fifth one—the one slain by Tarpy's shaft through the eye—lay like a black blot in the snow. So, too, did the three slain ponies: Hob's steed, a pack pony, and one other mount—Tarpy's. Of the other four steeds, there was no sign. "We're in a tight fix here," said Patrel, watching the Vulgs.

  "I just hope our arrows last till dawn." Danner merely grunted.

  Tuck and Tarpy had returned to Hob, laying their bows aside. "Maybe this will staunch the flow," fretted Tuck as he tourniqueted Hob's leg. "We need something to press against his side."

  "Here, take my jerkin," said Tarpy, peeling off his quilted jacket and stripping his shirt. "Cor! It's cold," he shivered, and quickly redonned his wrap.

  Tuck folded the jerkin and pressed it to the wound in Hob's side. The young buccan moaned and opened his eyes; pain crossed his features. "Hullo, Tuck," he gritted, "I've made a mess of it, haven't I?"

  "Oh no, Hob," answered Tuck, smiling. "Sure, you've got a bit of a scratch, but that's not what I'd call making a mess of it."

  "Where are the Vulgs? Did we get any?" Hob tried to struggle up, his breath hissing through pain-clenched teeth. "Is everyone all right?"

  "Coo now, Hob," Tuck gently pressed him back. "Stay down, lad. Everyone's fine. Tarpy, here, feathered one of the brutes—the one that scratched you. That's one Vulg that'll never bother anyone again."

  "Tarpy?" The small Warrow knelt by Hob's side, and the wounded buccan squeezed Tarpy's hand. "Fine shot, Tarpy. I thought I saw one of 'em drop just before I faded out." Another wash of pain moved across Hob's features, and but for his ragged breathing he was silent a long moment. "Where are we? And where are the Vulgs?"

  "We're on top of the Rooks' Roost," answered Tarpy, "and a great heavy thing you were to lug up here, too. All the rest of us had to climb while you, bucco, got a free ride."

  "Sorry to be such a lazybones. But the Vulgs, what about the Vulgs?" whispered Hob, his voice sinking low.

  "Ah, Hob, don't you worry your head about them," answered Tuck. "They're below where they'll stay." Hob closed his eyes and made no response.

  Tuck pressed his cheek to Hob's forehead. "He's burning up, Tarpy, as if fevered."

  "Or poisoned," added Tarpy.

  Slowly the night crept by. One hour and then another passed with no movement either by Vulg or Warrow. In an effort to save Hob's leg, every so often Tuck would loosen the tourniquet to let circulation into the limb. Yet there seemed to be a fearful loss of blood whenever this was done, and so Tuck was both loath to do it and loath not to. He was just preparing to loosen the tourniquet again when Danner cried, "Here they come! All four!"

  Tuck snatched up his bow and joined the other three to look down and see the Vulgs streaking toward the mound. Up they leapt, toward the line of archers.

  "Take this, night-spawn!" grated Danner. Thuunrft went his bowstring as he loosed the arrow. Hsss't It sped toward the lead Vulg scrabbling up the rocks. Thockl The shaft drove full into the creature's breast, piercing straight to the heart. The beast fell dead in a black heap. Howling in fear and frustration, the others fled downward.

  Tuck watched until they again were back out on the land away from the Roost. Then he turned and cried in dismay, "Hob!" The wounded Warrow was on his feet, swaying, trying to answer the call to arms. Tuck sprang toward him, but ere he could reach the buccan, Hob fell with a sodden thud. "Oh Lor, his wounds are gushing," sobbed Tuck, tightening the tourniquet and pressing Tarpy's jerkin back to Hob's side.

  "Tuck, it's so cold… so cold," said Hob, his teeth chattering. Tuck shed his own cloak and spread it over the buccan, but it seemed to do little good.

  The silver Moon sailed across the silent heavens, and the bright stars glimmered in the cold sky. Three Vulgs stalked around the base of the dark spire while the Warrows atop watched grimly. And there was nothing that they could do to staunch the wounds of evil Vulg bite, and Hob's life slowly leaked away among the cold, dark rocks. In less than an hour he was dead.

  Just before the dawn came, the Moon set, and the three Vulgs fled in the waning night. At day's first light, a dark reeking vapor coiled up from the bodies of the two slain Vulgs as Adon's Ban struck even the corpses of the creatures, and two withered dry husks were left behind, to crumble at the wind's first touch.

  Atop the Rooks' Roost, Tuck and Danner, Patrel and Tarpy all wept as they gathered stones for Hob's cairn. They washed him with snow and combed his hair and composed his hands across his breast. His Thornwalker cloak was drawn about him, and his bow was retrieved and laid beside him. And then they slowly and carefully built the cairn over him. And when it was done, in a clear voice that rose into the sky, Patrel sang this verse.

  The Shadow Tide doth run O'er boundless Darkling Sea

  'Neath skies of Silver Suns That beckon endlessly.

  Reach out thy ship's wings wide,

  Ride on the gentle wind, Sail with the Shadow Tide

  To shoreless Time's own end.

  Alone thou sailed away

  Upon the Darkling Sea, Yet there shall come a day

  When I will sail with thee.

  All then wept long for the young buccan with whom they would never Walk the Thorns. But at length the tears faded to silence, and weary, drawn faces gazed into the bleak morning. Yet a fell look of dark resolve slowly came over Tuck's features, and he wiped away a final tear an
d knelt upon one knee and placed his hand upon the cairn and said unto the grey, unyielding stone, "Hob, by all that I am, the Evil that did this shall answer to your memory." And so swore them all.

  At last the Warrows stood and took up their bows. With a last sweeping look around, their eyes briefly lingering upon the barrow, they climbed down from the Rooks' Roost—known ever after as Hob's Cairn— and, shouldering the backpacks retrieved from one of the slain ponies, on foot they set off northward for Spindle Ford.

  CHAPTER 3

  SPINDLE FORD

  « ^ »

  Just before noon, cold and weary, Tuck, Danner, Tarpy, and Patrel trudged into the Thornwalker encampment set in the fringes of the Spindlethorn Barrier at Spindle Ford. Hai roi! Patrel! Ho! Where's your ponies? Welcome back! and other cries were called out as the four came among the tents and lean-tos and made for the headquarters building, one of only two permanent structures there, made of hewn, notched logs, stone, and sod. The other building was a goodly sized storehouse. The welcoming cries quickly faded as the realization that something was amiss came to those encamped, for Patrel's smile was absent, and the four strode grimly onward without returning as much as a nod. Hey! Something's afoot! A substantial following was tagging along by the time Patrel and the others stepped through the rough-cut door and into the headquarters.

  The interior was but a single room that somehow seemed too large for the building that contained it. The floor was made of thick, sawn planks, and a stone fireplace stood at the far wall. There, two Warrows dressed in Thornwalker grey relaxed in wicker chairs while having a pipe together. One looked to be in his prime buccan years; the other was old, a granther. Both glanced up from their deep discussion as the four entered. Recognition flooded the face of the younger of the two, and he leapt to his feet. "Patrel! Welcome back. These are the recruits, I take it. Ho, but wait, I see only three. Where's the fourth?"

  "Dead. Vulg slain." Patrel's voice was flat and bitter.

  "What? Vulg?" The old buccan snapped, thumping his cane to the floor and rising. "Did I hear you say Vulg? Are you certain?"

  "Yes sir," answered Patrel. "We were set upon by five at the Rooks' Roost, where our companion, Hob Banderel, was slain. But that's not all: it looks as if the brutes got Arlo Huggs and his wife, Willa, too."

  At Patrel's words, the elder buccan's face fell, and he sank back into his chair. His voice was grim: "Then it is true: Vulgs roam the Bosky. What fell news. I had hoped it were not so."

  Silence reigned for a moment, then the elder looked up and gestured with a gnarled hand. "Patrel, you and your three friends come and sit by the fire. Tell us your tale, for it is important. Have you eaten? And introduce us. This here is Captain Darby, Chief of the Eastdell Fourth, and I'm Gammer Alderbuc, from up Northdell way." Hasty introductions of Tuck, Danner, and Tarpy were made.

  As the three young buccen bowed, they saw before them Captain Darby—square-built, slightly shorter than Tuck, with hair nearly as black, though his eyes were a dark blue. He had about him an air of command. Yet, as arresting as Captain Darby's appearance was, Gammer Alderbuc's was even more so, and the eyes of the trio were irresistibly drawn to him. Old he was, a granther, yet his gaze was steady and clear, peering from pale amber eyes 'neath shaggy white brows that matched his hair. He could not have been any taller than Patrel's diminutive three feet, but he was not bent with age, and though he bore a cane, he seemed hale. This was the Warrow who had first taken action to muster the Thornwalkers and to organize the Wolf Patrols when Northdell crofters began losing sheep and other livestock because the unnatural winter cold had driven Wolves into the Bosky dells. At the time, he had been the honorary First Captain of the Thornwalkers, but he had stepped aside, declaring that it was a task for a younger buccan, Captain Alver of Reedyville in Downdell. And so it was that Captain Alver assumed command of all the Boskydell Thornwalkers.

  At the bidding of Captain Darby, the four young buccen shed their backpacks, cloaks, and down jackets and drew near the fire in wicker chairs. Patrel began telling their tale in short, terse sentences, starting with the events at the Huggs' farmstead and moving on to the attack of the Vulgs at the Rooks' Roost, his voice hesitating only when he told of Hob's death. Tears brimmed in Tuck's eyes.

  The tale done, Patrel's voice fell quiet, and no one spoke for a moment while all reflected upon what had been said. At last Captain Darby broke the silence. "When you four came through the door," his eyes touched each of them, "I thought, Ah, here is Patrel and the recruits, but I was wrong, for you are not raw recruits. Instead, you are now four blooded warriors, Thornwalkers all, who have met a foul enemy and given good account of yourselves—at high cost, to be sure, yet it is a price that sometimes must be paid whenever emissaries of fear are challenged. I am proud of you all."

  "Hear, hear," said the Gammer, thumping the floor with his cane.

  At that moment, hot food, sent for earlier by Captain Darby, arrived. Adjourning to the table, the four gratefully dug in. It was the first meal they'd had since the previous afternoon, their pack pony, the one with the provisions, having fled from the Vulgs the night before. Little was said during the meal, for Captain Darby bade them to eat while the food was hot. But when at last they pushed away from the table and resumed their places near the fire, filling clay pipes with some of Tuck's Downdell leaf, the talk turned again to the Vulgs.

  "Ye've done the right thing, raising the alarm through the countryside," said the Gammer. "Now the brutes'll meet prepared Warrows. And that ought to put a stop to the disappearances."

  "On the morrow I'll dispatch heralds to all nearby Thornwalker companies," said Captain Darby, "and start the word spreading. It won't be long till the whole Bosky knows."

  "Uh… Captain Darby," said Tuck, "would it be possible to send a patrol out to look for the ponies that survived? My grey seems to have gotten away, and one pack pony, with Patrel's lute strapped to it. Two others fled, also."

  "My chestnut," said Danner.

  "And my piebald," added Patrel.

  Tarpy said nothing, for, full of good food and drawn up to a warm fire, exhausted by the all-night battle with the Vulgs, he had fallen asleep, his pipe slipping from his lax fingers to drop to the plank floor.

  "You must be weary," said Captain Darby, his eyes soft upon the sleeping young buccan. "Patrel, take your comrades to the tents of your squad. Get some rest. Tomorrow we will begin search patrols into the countryside, looking not only for your steeds, but also for places where Vulgs may hole up during the day. Ah, but if we only had Dwarves as allies, then could we root out the underground haunts of these beasts. Tomorrow we also shall begin night patrols, Vulg hunts, and Thornwalks to keep more of the beasts out." Captain Darby stood and gestured for the four young buccen to seek out their tents and sleep.

  They awakened Tarpy and donned their jackets and cloaks, gathering up their packs and bows. "Wait," said the Gammer, "I've something to say." The granther Warrow got to his feet. "When I organized the Wolf Patrols, I thought that it was only them raiding flocks that we had to deal with—and perhaps in the beginning that was true. And we've done a fair job at that: most Wolves in Northdell have come to fear the sight of Warrows. Oh, we know that it's only the strange winter that has driven them to kill livestock—they are only trying to survive—but it's been touch and go for many a Northdeller, and I expect more Wolves to push through the Barrier ere this winter ends, for it's bound to get worse. Before you know it, the other Dells will likely feel the bite of Wolf jaws; though that may not be, for the Wolves have made themselves scarce since the Patrols started and now seem to leave the livestock alone—in which case we'll leave them be, too.

  "But, none of us thought that we'd be dealing with Vulgs. Oh, to be sure, there's been talk of Vulgs in the Bosky for two or three weeks, but it's just been tavern talk heretofore, rumors. Ah, but now you four have proven it to be more than just ale tales: it's fact, not fancy.

  "Thanks to you, the Bosky will be warned, an
d the four Warrow kindred will ever be in your debt, for the preservation of the Warrow Folk is what the Thornwalkers are all about. Look around you. This very building symbolizes the four kindred. The logs represent the trees where dwell the Quiren Warrows, my folk, and I dare say ancestors to Tarpy and Patrel; the stone represents the field houses of the Paren Warrows, perhaps kith to Danner, here, by the look of him; the wicker comes from the fens of the Othen Warrows, like Captain Alver down in Reedyville; and the sod represents the burrows of the Siven Warrows, Captain Darby's folk, and it seems Tuck's, too. But whether Bosky folk live in tree flets, stone field houses, fen stilt houses, or burrows, none are safe where the Vulg walks, for Vulgs slink in secret through the night.

  "But now, the secret is out. We know what we are dealing with, though we don't know why they've come to the Bosky. Be that as it may, I for one thank you for all the Warrow kindred." And the Gammer bowed to the four and clasped each one's hand. When the Gammer took Tuck's hand, the young buccan said, "Sir, please do not forget our slain comrade, Hob Banderel, for he was there, too."

  "I haven't, and I won't," said the Gammer, solemnly.

  "Thank you, eld buccan," said Tarpy, last to shake hands.

  "Eld buccan?" laughed the Gammer. "Nay, bucco, it's been seventeen years since my eighty-fifth birthday. Next I know, you'll be shaving another twenty-five years off o that, calling me buccan. Nay, the clock doesn't run in that direction, and it's seventeen years a granther am I. But I thank you just the same, Tarpy Wiggins, for you almost make me feel spry." Amid a round of quiet smiles, the Gammer herded the four out of the building.