The Dark Tide Read online

  The Dark Tide

  Book One of the Iron Tower Trilogy

  Dennis L. McKiernan

  * * *

  Contents

  Foreword

  Journal Notes

  1 The Well-Attended Parting

  2 Retreat to Rooks' Roost

  3 Spindle Ford

  4 Challerain Keep

  5 The Dark Tide

  6 The Long Pursuit

  * * *

  FOREWORD

  ^ »

  Do you ever yearn for a particular kind of story and simply can't come by it? Perchance you read one once, and keep looking for another like it, but it just isn't to be found. And so, every now and again, it may be that you reread the only one you have and keep wishing for… more.

  For me, there are many stories or series of tales like that, written by fine authors: Joy Chant, Ursula LeGuin, J. R. R. Tolkien, Patricia McKillip, Katherine Kurtz, to name a few of my favorites. And when a new work of theirs shows up on the shelves, I can't wait to get my hands on it to devour it in its entirety. Unfortunately, some of my favorite writers—such as Tolkien—have sailed upon the Darkling Sea, and no more will new gramaryes with those particular spellbinders' special enchantments come our way.

  Yet, the type of tale that captures my heart and soul is hard to come by—not as rare as unicorns, perhaps, but still uncommon. And it's a long sigh between. My unoccupied hands keep straying among the special books on my shelf, fumbling for one that perhaps, by some miracle, I've overlooked. And I haunt the book stores, seeking new tales, or sequels, or prequels. Yet they seldom come, and I am often disappointed.

  For years I have followed that pattern—and still do—questing for the works of others. But those quests only occasionally bear the rare, sweet fruit.

  In 1981 I thought to try my hand at this alchemy, to tell a tale of my own choosing, and this is it. Oh, I don't believe I've matched the magnificent prose of the others, my favorites, for their glamours are their own and unique; yet I have told the tale I set out to tell, and perhaps the spell I cast will bind you.

  Make no mistake, this book is written for those who love the Realms of Chant, the Deryni of Kurtz, McKillip's Riddles, Middle-earth of Tolkien, LeGuin's Earthsea, and the kingdoms, peoples, and special wizardry of the many others whom I've not mentioned but whose spells exist nonetheless. And if you don't like their magical worlds, chances are you won't like The Iron Tower either—but then again, I could be wrong. On the other hand, if you enjoy a high Quest and the Wizards, Harpers, Dragons, Hobbits, Riddlemasters, Enchantresses, and all the rest that goes with it, then odds are you'll find you like the story of Tuck and Danner and Patrel and Merrilee, the Warrows of this tale.

  I hope you enjoy it.

  Dennis L. McKiernan Westerville, Ohio—1983

  * * *

  JOURNAL NOTES

  « ^ »

  Note 1:

  The source of this tale is a tattered copy of The Raven Book, an incredibly fortunate find dating from the time before The Separation.

  Note 2:

  The Great War of the Ban ended the Second Era (2E) of Mithgar. The Third Era (3E) began on the following Year's Start Day. The Third Era, too, eventually came to an end, and so started the Fourth Era (4E). The tale recorded here began in November of 4E2018. Although this adventure occurs four millennia after the Ban War, the roots of the quest lie directly in the events of that earlier time.

  Note 3:

  There are many instances in this tale where, in the press of the moment, the Dwarves, Elves, Men, and Warrows spoke in their own native tongues; yet, to avoid the awkwardness of burdensome translations, where necessary I have rendered their words in Pellarion, the Common Tongue of Mithgar. However, some words do not lend themselves to translation, and these I've left unchanged; yet other words may look to be in error, but are indeed correct. (For example, DelfLord is but a single word, though a capital L nestles among its letters. Also note that waggon, traveller, and several other similar words are written in the Pendwyrian form of Pellarion and are not misspelled.)

  Note 4:

  The "formal" speech spoken at the High King's court is similar in many respects to Old High German. In those cases where court speech appeared in The Raven Book, first I translated the words into Pellarion, and then, in the objective and nominative cases of the pronoun "you," I respectively substituted "thee" and "thou" to indicate that the formal court speech is being used. Again, to avoid overburdening the reader, I have resisted inserting into the court speech additional archaic terms such as hast, wilt, durst, prithee, and the like.

  * * *

  "And that is what Evil does: forces us all down dark pathways we otherwise would not have trod."

  Rael of Arden

  January 10, 4E2019

  * * *

  CHAPTER 1

  THE WELL-ATTENDED PARTING

  « ^ »

  With a final burst of speed, the young buccan Warrow raced through ankle-deep snow, his black hair flying out behind. In one hand he carried a bow already nocked with an arrow, and he sprinted toward a fallen log, clots of snow flinging out behind his flying boots; yet little or no sound did he make, for he was one of the Wee Folk. Swiftly he reached the log and silently dropped to one knee, quickly drawing the bow to the full and loosing the arrow with a humming twang of bowstring. Even before the deadly missile had sped to the target, another arrow was released, and another, another, and another—in all, five arrows were shot in rapid succession, hissing through the air, striking home with deadly accuracy.

  "Whang! Right square in the center, Tuck!" cried Old Barlo as the last arrow thudded into the mark. "That's four for five, and you would'er got the other, too, if you'd'er held a bit." Old Barlo, a granther Warrow, stood up to his full three feet two inches of height and turned and cocked a baleful emerald-green eye upon the other young buccen gathered on the snowy slopes behind. "Now I'm telling all you rattlepates: draw fast, and loose quick, but no quicker as what you can fly it straight. The arrow as strays might well'er been throwed away, for all the good it does." Barlo turned back to Tuck. "Fetch up your arrows, lad, and sit and catch your breath. Who's next now? Well, step up here, slowcoach Tarpy."

  Tuckerby Underbank slipped his chilled hands back into his mittens and quickly retrieved his five arrows from the tattered, black, Wolf silhouette on the haycock. With his breath blowing whitely in the cold air, Tuck trotted back through the snow to the watching group of archers at the edge of End Field, where he sat down on a fallen log, standing his bow against a nearby barren tree.

  As Tuck watched little Tarpy sprint toward the target to fly arrows at the string-circle mark, the young buccan sitting beside him—Danner Bramblethorn as it was—leaned over and spoke: "Four out of five, indeed, Tuck," Danner said, exasperated. "Why, your first arrow nicked the ring. But Barlo Stingy won't give you credit for it, mark my words."

  "Oh, Old Barlo's right, you know," replied Tuck. "I hurried the shot. It was out. He called it true. But you ought to know he's fair, Danner. You're the best shot here, and he says so. You're too hard on him. He's not a stingy, he just expects us to get it right—every time."

  "Humph!" grunted Danner, looking unconvinced.

  Tuck and Danner fell silent and watched Old Barlo instruct Tarpy, and they carefully listened to every word. It was important that they as well as the other hardy youth of Woody Hollow become expert with the bow. Ever since the word had come from the far borders of Northdell that Wolves were about— in autumn no less—many young buccen (that time of male Warrowhood between the end of childhood at twenty and the coming of age at thirty), in fact most young buccen of the Boskydells, had been or would be in training.

  Even before the onset of winter, which had struck earl
y and hard this year, killing most of the late crops, wild Wolves had been seen roaming in large packs up north; and strange Men, too, were spied in the reaches across the borders beyond the Thornwall. And it was rumored that occasionally a Warrow or two—or even an entire family—would mysteriously disappear; but where they went, or just what happened to them, no one seemed to know. And some folks said they'd heard an awful Evil was way up north in the Wastes of Gron. Why, things hadn't been this bad since the passing of the flaming Dragon Star with its long, blazing tail silently cleaving the heavens, what with the crop failures, cattle and sheep dying, and the plagues that it had brought on. But that was five years ago and past, and this winter and Wolves and strange happenings was now.

  And down at the One-Eyed Crow, not only was there talk of the trouble in Northdell, but also of the Big Men far north at Challerain Keep, mustering it seems for War. At the moment, holding forth to a most attentive Warrow audience was Will Longtoes, the Second-Deputy Constable of Eastdell, who, because of his dealings with the authorities— namely various Eastdell Mayors and the Chief Constable in Centerdell—appeared to know more than most about the strange doings abroad:

  "Now I heard this from young Toby Holder who got it in Stonehill—them Holders have been trading with Stonehillers ever since the Bosky was founded, they came from up there in the Weiunwood in the first place, they say—anyway, the word has come to Stonehill to gather waggons, hundreds of waggons, and send 'em up to the Keep."

  Hundreds of waggons? Up to the Keep? Warrows looked at each other in puzzlement. "Whatever for, Will?" asked someone in the crowd. "What can they want with hundreds of waggons?"

  "Move people south, I shouldn't wonder, out of harm's way," answered Will.

  What? Move 'em south? With wild Wolves running loose and all?

  Will held up his hands, and the babble died down. "Toby said rumor has it that, up to the Keep, King Aurion is gathering his Men for War. Toby said the word is that the Big Folks are going to send their Women and youngers and elders west to Wellen and south to Gunar and Valon, and even to Pellar." As Will took a long pull from his mug of ale, many in his audience nodded at his words, for what he said seemed to fit in with what folks had heard before.

  "But what about the Wolves, Will?" asked Teddy Cloverhay of Willowdell, who was up in Woody Hollow delivering a waggon load of grain. "I mean, wull, ain't the Big Folks afraid that the Wolf packs will jump their travelling parties, it being winter and all, and the packs roaming the countryside?"

  A general murmur of agreement came from the listening crowd, and Teddy repeated his question: "What about the Wolves?"

  "Wolves there may be, Teddy," answered Will, "but Toby says the Big Folks are preparing for War, and that means they're going to be sending some kith away to safe havens, Wolves or not." Will took another pull on his ale. "Anyways, I reckon that the Wolves won't tackle a large group of travellers, the Wolf being what he is, preying on the weak and defenseless and all."

  "Wull," responded Teddy, "there ain't many as is weaker than a younger, or some old gaffer, or even a Woman. Seems to me as they wouldn't send them kind of folks out west or south to fend against Wolves."

  Again there was a general murmur of agreement, and Feeny Proudhand, the Budgens wheelwright, said, "Teddy is as right as rain. Folks just don't send their kin out agin Wolves; not even the Big Folks would do that. It sounds like Word from the Beyond, if you asks me."

  Many in the crowd in the One-Eyed Crow nodded their agreement, for people in the Boskydells tend to be suspicious of any news coming to them from beyond the Spindlethorn Barrier, from Foreign Parts as it were. Thus the saying Word from the Beyond meant that any information from beyond the borders, from Outside, was highly suspect and not to be trusted until confirmed; certainly such news was not Sevendell Certain. In this case, the Word from the Beyond had in fact come from beyond the Thornwall—from Stonehill, to be exact.

  "Be that as it may, Feeny," shot back Will, fixing the wheelwright with a gimlet eye, "the Holders are to be trusted, and if young Toby says he saw the Stonehillers gathering waggons to send up to the Keep, and preparing for a stream of Big Folk heading to the south, down the Post Road, then I for one believe him."

  "He saw them?" asked Feeny. "Well, that's different. If Toby says he actually saw them, then I believe it, too." Feeny took a pull from his own mug, then said, "I suppose it's the Evil up north."

  "That's what they say," spoke up Nob Haywood, a local storekeeper. "Only I talked to Toby, too, and he'd heard that the Big Folks are saying that it's Modru's doings!"

  Ooohh! said some in the crowd, for Modru of Gron strode through many a legend, and he was always painted the blackest evil.

  "They say he's come back to his cold iron fortress way up north," continued Nob, "though what he's doing there, well, I'm sure I don't know."

  "Oi then, that explains the winter and the Wolves and everything!" exclaimed Gaffer Tom, thumping the iron ferrule of his gnarled walking stick to the floor. "The old tales say he's Master of the Cold, and Wolves do his bidding, too. Now everybody here knows it started snowing in September, even before the scything, and certainly before the apple harvest. And the snow's been on the ground ever since, with more coming all the time. And I says and everybody knows that ain't altogether natural. Besides, even before the white cold came, there appeared them Wolf packs, up Northdell way for now, but like as not they'll be near Woody Hollow soon. Oh, it's Evil Modru's doings, all right, mark my words. We all know about him and his mastery of the cold and the Wolves."

  A hubbub of surprise mingled with fear rose up in the room, for with these words Gaffer Tom had reminded them all of the cradle-tales of their youth. And the Gaffer had voiced their deepest fears, for if it truly was Modru returned, then it was a dire prospect all of Mithgar faced.

  "Not Wolves, Gaffer," said Bingo Peacher, a hunter of renown, sitting in a shadowed corner with his back to the wall. "Modru, he don't command wild Wolves. Nobody commands Wolves. Ar, maybe now and again there are tales of Wolves helping the Elves, but even the Elves don't tell em what to do, they asks them to help. Oh, Wolves is dangerous, right enough, and you've got ter give 'em wide berth, and they'll do the same for you unless they're starving— then look out. Ar, I don't doubt that Modru is behind all this cold weather, and that's what's driven decent Wolves south where their food has got to, or where they can raid some hard-working farmer's flocks, but that don't mean that Modru gives Wolves their orders. Wild Wolves is too independent and don't bow down to no one, not even Modru. Oh no, Gaffer, it ain't the Wolves that Modru commands; it's Vulgs!"

  Vulgs? cried a few startled voices here and there, and the faces of most of the listeners turned pale at the thought of these evil creatures. Vulgs: Wolf-like in appearance, but larger; vile servants of dark forces; savage fiends of the night; unable to withstand the clear light of the Sun; evil ravers slaughtering with no purpose of their own except to slay.

  Grim fear washed over the crowd at the One-Eyed Crow.

  "Here now!" cried Will Longtoes, sharply. "There ain't no cause to believe them old dammen's tales. They're just stories to tell youngers to get 'em to behave. Besides, even if they were true, well, you all knows that Modru and Vulgs can't face the daylight: they suffer the Ban! And Adon's Ban has held true from the end of the Second Era till now—more than four thousand years! So stop all this prattle about Modru comin' to get us." Will had put up his best show of confidence, but the Second-Deputy Constable of Eastdell neither looked nor sounded sure of himself, for Gaffer Tom's and Bingo's words had shaken him, too. Many was the time as a youngling he'd been told that Modru and his Vulgs would get him if he didn't mind his manners; and, too, he recalled the fearful saying: Vulg's black bite slays at night.

  "Think what you will," replied Gaffer Tom, pointing his cane at Will, "but many an old dammen's tale grows from the root of truth. Like as not the early winter here in the Bosky has brought the Wolves, and maybe even some Vulgs, too. And like as not they are th
e cause of the Disappearances. Who's to say it ain't Modru's doings?"

  As the Gaffer's cane thumped back to the floor for emphasis, nearly all the folks in the Crow nodded in agreement, for Gaffer Tom's words rang true.

  "Well, early winter or not," replied Will, stubbornly, "I just don't think you ought'er go around scaring folks, what with your talk about a hearth-tale bogeyman, or Vulgs. And as to the Wolves, we all know that the Gammer began organizing the Wolf Patrols up in Northdell, 'cause they're the first ones as is had to deal with them. And the Gammer has asked Captain Alver down to Reedyville to take over and lead the Thornwalkers. What's more, archers are being trained, and Wolf Patrols organized, and Beyonder Guards set. All I can say is Wolves and any other threat will soon fear Warrows, right enough."

  The folks in the crowd murmured their endorsement of Will's last statement about old Gammer Alderbuc, past Captain of the Thornwalkers; and many in the crowd had praised Gammer's hand-picked successor, Captain Alver of Reedyville; and all were confident in the abilities of the Thornwalkers, for many of those there in the Crow had been 'Walkers themselves in their young-buccan days. And although these facts concerning the Thornwalkers were well known throughout the Boskydells, still the crowd in the One-Eyed Crow had listened to Will's words as intently as they would have were they hearing them for the first time, for Warrows like to mull things over and slowly shape their opinions.

  As to the Thornwalkers, ordinarily they were but a handful of Warrows who casually patrolled the borders of the Boskydells; and, like the Constables and Postal Messengers, in times of peace they served less as Boskydell officials and more as reporters and gossips who kept the outlying Bosky folks up on the Seven Dells news. But in times of trouble—such as this time was—the force was enlarged and "Walking" began in earnest. For, although the Land was protected from Intruders by a formidable barrier of thorns—Spindlethorns—growing in the river valleys around the Land, still those who were determined enough or those who were of a sufficiently evil intent could slowly force their way through the Thorn wall. Hence, the patrols and guards kept close watch on the Boskydell boundaries, "Walking the Thorns" as it were, or standing Beyonder Guard, making certain that only those Outsiders with legitimate business entered the Bosky. And so the Spindlethorn patrols, or Thornwalkers as they were called, were especially important now, what with Wolves crossing into the Land and strange Folk prowling about. Why, indeed, that was the reason Old Barlo was training a group of archers: to add to the Thornwalker ranks.