The Dark Tide

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Now the fortress in all of its massive strength could be seen. Grey it was and ponderous, with great, blocky granite buildings with high windows and square towers. Crenels and merlons crowned the battlements; massive groins supported great bastions outjutting from the walls. Stone curtains protected hidden banquettes, where would stand defenders in the face of attack. In awe rode the Warrows, never having seen such might, and Tuck wondered what his stone-cutting sire would say were he here.

  At last they came to the fifth and final wall, the last rampart ere the castle itself, and the massive main gate was shut. They did not go to this portal, however, but instead rode northward alongside the bulwark, striking for the north wall, for there was the Old Fortress, now incorporated into the barrier itself.

  As the company slowly rounded a bastion upon the northwest corner, thin wind sprang up, and the young buccen raised their hoods. Yet they heard the drum of hoofbeats and across the slope below saw a spear-wielding youth bestride a galloping charger bearing down upon a pivoting Man-shaped target, wooden shield on one side, extended arm and chain mace upon the other. Chunk! The spear-lance was driven into the shield by the full weight of the running Warhorse, and the target whirled under the impact, violently whipping the wooden mace ball at the passing warrior's head. But the young Man ducked under and was borne away by his courser, leaving the target spinning behind, the ball cleaving nought but empty air. Finally the target gyred to a stop, the pivot coming to a rest in a shallow groove so that the silhouette was square to the list. Again the youth and steed charged upon thundering hooves. Thunk! The spear crashed into the shield, and the mace spun and slashed in vain.

  To one side and just upslope stood a pavilion, and several Men were gathered about a table, occasionally looking to the north and gesticulating, pointing, and arguing. Thunk! The horse and warrior raced cross-slope. As the Warrow column drew near, they came under the winter limbs of an ancient oak tree. Their guide said, "Stop and dismount here. Which among you is Captain? Good! Come with me."

  Patrel dismounted and signed Tuck and Danner to accompany him. Following the Man, the three bow-carrying Warrows strode off toward the pavilion, leaving the two squads behind looking at the huge battlements of the massive north wall and speaking in hushed tones. Chunk! sounded the spear on target.

  Striding down to the tent, Tuck could now see that the Men were gathered about a table strewn with maps and scrolls; some lay flat with the corners held down by improvised paperweights—a helm, a dagger, a small silver horn, a cup. Again some Men pointed at the maps while others stared northward, and they seemed to be arguing a point. Tuck glanced north, too. Here, high on the mount, he could see miles upon miles of unrelieved snow stretching forth upon the plains below; a low, dark cloud-bank clung to the far horizon. Thunk!

  The young buccen came unnoticed to the edge of the group and stopped where the guardsman indicated. The guide then made his way to the warrior at the head of the table, a large, robust Man, black hair shot through with silver, with a close-cropped silver beard. The Captain of the tower guard said a word or two, and Marshal Vidron's eyes flicked over the hooded three and briefly up to the forty under the oak. Thunk! The target spun wildly under the impact, mace lashing air.

  "Faugh!" growled Vidron, glancing back at the small trio. "Saddle me not with infants!"

  "Infants? Infants?" cried Patrel, wrath rising in his voice. "Danner! Tuck! Arrows!" and swiftly the three nocked arrows to their bows.

  "Hold!" cried one of the Men, grasping the hilt of his sword and drawing it, stepping between Vidron and the young buccen.

  But Patrel looked angrily about and cried, "The whirling mace!" and turning, let fly at the spinning target. Thock! His arrow struck home, intercepting the hurtling wooden ball in flight! Now it gyrated wildly, yet Thunk! Thock! Tuck's and Danner's shots followed, and two more arrows struck the flying ball! Stunned, the Men were speechless as the Warrows turned back to face them in ire.

  "Ai-oi!" shouted Vidron in wonder, "these infants have fangs!" Then he burst out laughing loud and long, and in spite of themselves the Warrows smiled at his pleasure. "Hai!" cried the Valanreach Fieldmarshal, "I, Hrosmarshal Vidron of Valon, name you Captain of the Infant Brigade!" He swept up the small silver horn from among the maps and scrolls and strode forward, presenting it to Patrel as a token of his newly bestowed rank. The Warrows and all the Men laughed in great humor as Vidron hung the horn from Patrel's shoulder by the green-and-white baldric. "Someday I shall tell you the history of that trumpet, lad," said Vidron. "It is a noble one, for it was won from the hoard of Sleeth the Orm by my ancestor Elgo, Sleeth's Doom."

  "Aye, we know that legend, Sire, for it is famous and told as a hearthtale," answered Patrel. "Elgo tricked Sleeth into the sunlight, and the Cold-drake was done for."

  Patrel excitedly examined the bugle. He saw it had riders on horseback engraved upon it, running round the flange of the horn bell among the mystic runes of power. Patrel then set the horn to his lips and blew a clarion call that rang bell-like upslope and down, and spirits were stirred and hearts leapt with hope. And the Warrow company under the oak sprang up and would have come running, but Danner waved them back. Patrel looked upon the trump in wonderment. "Ya hoy! A fine badge of office is this!" he cried, beaming up at Marshal Vidron.

  Patrel saw before him a Man in his middle years, with eyes of black and a sharp penetrating gaze. He was clothed in dark leathern breeks, while soft brown boots shod his feet. A fleece vest covered his mail-clad torso, and his silver and black hair was cropped at the shoulders and held back by a leather band upon his broad brow. White teeth smiled through his silver beard. A russet cloak hung to the ground, and a black-oxen horn depended at his side by a leather strap over one shoulder and across his chest.

  "From where do you hail, lads?" asked Vidron, not expecting the answer he got.

  "From the Boskydells, Sire," answered Patrel, throwing back his hood.

  "Waldfolc!" cried Vidron in amazement, and now he looked sharply at all three and at the company upon the slope, at last seeing the color and tilt of gemlike eyes and the shape of sharp-pointed ears, finally recognizing the Wee Folk for what they were.

  "Ai, but I knew the Land of the Waldana was nigh, yet little did I think to see you Folk here. Ho, but I thought you mere lads from an outlying village, and not Waldana from the Boskydells, or even from the Weiunwood near. But today, it seems, legends bestride this mount. Our liege will want to see you, as will his younger son, whose target you just bested. Yet wait! He bears your arrows now."

  Toward them galloped the horseman of the spear, and he carried the three arrows plucked from the wooden ball of the target mace. Up he thundered, checking his great roan horse at the last moment with the cry "Ho, Rust!" And the red steed skidded to a halt, while in one and the same motion the young Man of fifteen summers sprang down. "Who winged these arrows?" he asked, then his eyes alighted upon the three bow-carrying young buccen. "Waerlinga!" his voice rose in surprise. "Was it you who loosed these quarrels?" He raised the arrows in a clenched fist. "Hai! What splendid marksmanship! Would that I could shoot as well. Ai, but what are Waerlinga doing here?"

  "My Lord," spoke up the Captain of the gate guard, "they hail from the Boskydells and bear dire news. I know not their names."

  "Captian Patrel Rushlock of the Company of the King at your service, Lord," said Patrel, bowing most formally. "And these are my companions and Lieutenants, Tuckerby Underbank and Danner Bramblethorn, Vulg slayers, Modru foes. My company of Thornwalkers are there, upslope, awaiting the orders of the King."

  "Oi! Warriors of the Thornwall, Vulg slayers, hail and well met." The youth's spear was raised in salute, and his eyes touched them all in admiration. "Here, take back your bolts of doom. Spend them on the night-spawn instead of riddling my hapless wooden foe. And you've come to the very storm front itself if you stand against Modru, for his Horde swirls and gathers as a winter blizzard about to strike. But ho, my manners: I am Igon, younger son
of King Aurion."

  Prince Igon! Tuck's stunned thoughts were set awhirl as he bowed to the young Man before him. Prince Igon stood tall and straight and gazed at them out of clear grey eyes. His hair was dark brown and fell to his shoulders. He was slender as is wont for one of his tender years, but he seemed to conceal a strength beyond his form. A scarlet cloak fell from his shoulders, and light mail gleamed on his breast. His breeks and boots were rust red, and in his hand he held the lancing spear. Upon his head was a leather and steel helm, embellished with black-iron studs. His face was handsome.

  Tuck's thoughts were broken by Vidron's bold voice: "Captain Patrel, what is this dire news you bear?"

  "Marshal Vidron, the herald sent to the Bosky was pursued by Vulgs and slain at the very gates into the Seven Dells. His message came, but barely," answered Patrel.

  "When was this?" asked Prince Igon, casting a look of significance at Vidron.

  "Why, let me see." Patrel paused. "I make it ten days past." He turned to Tuck and Danner, who nodded in confirmation.

  "And this was the first summons to your Land?" asked Vidron, a frown upon his features.

  "Why, yes," answered Patrel, puzzled at the direction these questions were leading. "None else came ere him."

  "Rach! Then it is so!" gritted Prince Igon, smiting a fist against the table, setting the scrolls ajumble. "Modru sends his Spawn to intercept and slay our heralds. Captain Patrel, he was the second messenger to be dispatched to your Land. I fear our Kings-men to other Realms have been intercepted, too, for few have answered the call, and the camps below stand half empty."

  "But wait," interjected Danner, "last night we saw the campfires of five armies. Surely that is enough soldiery to withstand a thrust by Modru."

  "Ah, you saw but a ruse in the dark to deceive the night spies of the Enemy," rumbled Vidron. "At night we have the look of five armies, yet the Men of less than three. And even five armies are not enough to withstand that." Vidron pointed at the far horizon.

  Tuck looked, this time closely, and saw that what he had thought was but a low dark bank of distant clouds to the north in fact were not clouds at all. Instead it seemed to be… it looked like… an immobile solid black wall, rearing up a mile or more to swallow the sky, the darkness fading at the towering limit of its ebon reach.

  "Wha—what is that?" asked Tuck, his mind recoiling from the unnatural sight, fearful of the answer.

  "Ah, that we do not know," answered Prince Igon, "though some call it the Dimmendark. A sending of Modru, it is, and the land beyond lies in eternal night—cold, cold night—Winternight. In the day when the Sun is on high, I have ridden my horse into the Dimmendark, and it is like passing from bright day through twilight and into Winternight. There in that spectral dark the land about can be seen, as if in strange werelight; yet the Sun above is but a wan paleness, dim, so dim, only faintly can the orb's disk be descried. And at night, the stars glimmer not, and the Moon cannot be seen, yet the werelight shines. And in these glowing lands of winternight gather Modru's Spawn, and they roam freely—Rukha, Lokha, Orgus, Ghola, Vulgs, and perhaps other things as yet unknown, for there Adon's Ban strikes not."

  "Ar, wait a moment," interrupted Danner. "That can't be so, for Adon's Ban shall rule for as long as night follows day and day follow night: that is His Covenant."

  "My trusty Waldan," said Vidron, "you forget: in the Dimmendark eternal Shadowlight rules. Hence, there day does not follow night, nor does night follow day. There, the Covenant has been broken."

  Broken? The Eternal Ban broken? Tuck felt as if his heart had flopped over, for now Modru defied even High Adon. How could a meager number of Men and a handful of Warrows hope to withstand a might such as that?

  "Ah, but for now, cast aside the thoughts of Winternight and the Dimmendark, and of Modru's Horde, too," said Prince Igon, "for there is nought we can do to change a jot of it at the moment. Instead, come, bring your company of Waerlinga. You must be hungry. I'll take you to the Old Fortress for a meal while Marshal Vidron ponders your assignment. And I'll take you to my sire, for the High King would meet with Waerlinga, and he would hear your tale of the Vulg slaying of the herald."

  Nodding to Kingsgeneral Vidron and his staff, Prince Igon walked with Tuck, Danner, and Patrel, and the Captain of the gate guard, back to the oak where the Prince was proclaimed to all the young buccen to their delight. A rousing cheer burst forth when it was announced that they were going for a hot meal, and amid happy chatter they mounted up to follow Igon. Waving goodbye to the guard Captain as he departed for the gate, the Warrow company trailed the Prince on his steed, Rust, as he rode for a point midway along the north wall. Through a postern he led them and across the cobbled courtyard of the Old Fortress, at last coming to some stables.

  After seeing to the needs of their mounts, the young buccen were led by Igon to empty barracks, where they stowed their gear from the pack ponies. The Prince then took them to a mess hall for the promised meal and broke bread with them. Igon was astonished by their gusto, for they were such a small Folk—their feet dangling and swinging as they sat on the Man-sized benches, their eyes more or less just above the level of the tabletop—yet they packed away food like hungry birds, and in fact chattered like magpies at a feast. All about them Men paused to stare and smile. But the Warrows paid heed only to the meal, for to them it was indeed like a feast, the first hot food they'd had in eight days, and they happily made the most of it.

  "This is where you'll take all your meals while you are at the Keep," announced Igon, and the company heartily approved. The Prince turned to Patrel. "Now, Captain Patrel, you and your Lieutenants and I shall go and seek out my sire, for he will want to hear your full tale, as I do. As to your company, I can arrange for a guide to show them about, or they can rest in the barracks."

  "Cor!" proclaimed Argo, "what with my belly full, it's me for a nap on that soft cot back there in the barracks, and a welcome relief it'll be from the hard ground or cold snow, for a change."

  "Har! Me too," spoke up Arvin. "I've been looking forward to resting my bones ever since I laid my eyes on that beautiful mattress." There was a general murmur of agreement. "But first, in the back room I spotted a tub or three, and it's me for a hot bath."

  Bath! cried several voices at once, and it was a mad scramble as Warrows rushed helter-skelter from the mess hall to be first in the tubs, and Tuck found himself wishing he could go along, too.

  Laughing, Prince Igon stood to lead Patrel, Tuck, and Danner in search of the King.

  Through labyrinthine corridors of hewn granite blocks the young Prince took the three Warrows. The long passages were dimly lighted by slotted openings to the outside day. Under massive archways and past great pillars they strode, the young buccen's mouths agape as they peered up at huge shadowy cornices with carven gargoyles staring stonily down. Up long flights of stairs they went, and then back down. Tuck was bewilderingly lost and wondered at the route they had taken, deciding he should have spent more time seeing to the way and less time peering into dark corners at stone carvings. At last they rounded a corner to come to a short passage leading to massive, iron-bound, studded oaken doors. The hall was flanked by pike-bearing Kingsguards in scarlet and gold, who struck clenched right fists to hearts when Prince Igon hove into view. Returning the salute, the Prince strode past with the young buccen in tow, stepping to the oaken portals. Igon grasped a door ring in each hand and pulled; the great doors divided in twain, and though massive, each panel easily and noiselessly swung outward, coming to rest against the stone of the passage. Through this entry he led the wondering Warrows.

  They saw before them a great long chamber beringed by pillars spaced along the walls. There, too, were huge hearths, most without fire. Along the tapestried walls, staffs jutted out, from which depended the flags of many different Kingdoms. Overhead, great wooden beams spanned from wall to wall dangling chain-hung braces of night lamps, the chandeliers now dark, for daylight streamed in through high windows. Three
broad steps down began the great stone center-floor, smoothly polished stone, ringed around by raised flooring for banquet tables. The amphitheater swept forward till it fetched up against four steps leading to a throne dais. Upon the top step sat a flaxen-haired lass listening to the deep converse between a golden-haired stranger and High King Aurion himself.

  As young Prince Igon waited to be noted and summoned, he murmured to the Warrows. "On the throne sits my sire, but whom he converses with, I know him not. The Lady is Princess Laurelin of Riamon, betrothed of my brother, Prince Galen. The other maidens are her Ladies-in-waiting." Tuck then saw three young Women sitting on a bench, partially hidden by a pillar.

  The High King, though he was seated, looked from afar to be a Man of middling height. One of his eyes was covered by a scarlet patch, the result of a blinding wound taken in his youth during an expedition against the Rovers of Kistan. Because of the patch, many villagers called him Aurion Redeye; and he was much loved, for though his spirit was bold, his hand was gentle. Although silver locks fell from his head, it was said that his grip was stronger than that of most Men. He was dressed in scarlet, much the same as Igon, but trimmed in gold. When Tuck looked at him he thought of iron.

  On the other hand, Princess Laurelin looked to be but a slip of a girl. Dressed in blue, she sat upon the step, her arms clasped about her knees, her face turned toward the King such that Tuck could not see her features. But her wheaten hair was beautiful to behold, for it fell to her hips.

  Lastly, the stranger: Something there was about him, for as the day shone through a high portal down upon the throne dais, it seemed that he was wreathed in a nimbus of light, his golden hair gathering sunbeams. Grey-green was his cloak, as if it were woven of an elusive blend of leaf, limb, and stone—and his boots, breeks, and jerkin were of the same hue.