The Iron Tower Omnibus Page 2

  “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 dreadful 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; savage 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 damman’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 the cause of the Disappearances; and 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 hearthtale 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 is enlarged and “Walking” begins in earnest; for, although the Land is protected from Intruders by a formidable barrier of thorns—Spindlethorns—growing in the river valleys around the Land, still those who are determined enough or those who are of a sufficiently malevolent intent can slowly force their way through the Thornwall. 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 patrol, 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.

  “Wull, all as I can say,” replied Gaffer Tom from his customary chair in the One-Eyed Crow, “is that the ’Walkers is got a fight on their hands if we’re dealing with Modru’s Vulgs. Them archers had better learn to shoot true.”

  ~

  And shoot true they did, for not only was Old Barlo a good teacher, but Warrows, once they set their minds to it, learn quickly. Over the past six weeks, Old Barlo had had them shooting in the bright of day and the dark of night, in calm still air and through gusting winds, through blowing dim snow and across blinding white, from far and near and at still targets and moving ones, on level ground and uphill and down, in open fields and close brambly woods. And now they were learning to shoot accurately while breathless and panting after sprinting silently for a good distance. And the young buccen Warrows had learned well, for the shafts now sped true to the target, most to strike in or near the small circle. But of all of Barlo’s students, two stood out: Danner was tops with Tuck a close second.

  “All right, lads, gather ’round,” cried Old Barlo, as Hob Banderel, the final shooter, came puffing back from collecting his arrows. “I’ve got something ter say.” As soon as the students were assembled around him, Old Barlo continued: “There’s them as says there’s strange doings up north, and them as says trouble’s due. Well, I don’t pretend to ken the which of it, but you all know Captain Alver asked me to train as good a group of bow-buccen as I could; and you was selected to be my first class.” A low murmur broke out among the students. “Quiet, you rattlejaws!” As silence again reigned, Barlo went on: “You all know that more Thornwalkers is needed in the Wolf Patrols and for Beyonder Guard, them as can shoot straight and quick. Well, you’re it!” Barlo looked around at the blank faces staring at him. “What I’m trying to say is that you’re done. Finished. I can’t teach you no more. You’ve learned all I can show you. No more school! Class is dismissed! You’ve all graduated!”

  A great yell of gladness burst forth from the young buccen, and some threw their hats in the air while others joyously riddled the Wolf silhouette with swift-flying arrows.

  “Did you hear that, Danner?” bubbled Tuck, jittering with excitement. “We’re done. School’s out. We’re Thornwalkers—well, almost.”

  “Of course I heard it,” gruffed Danner, “I’m not deaf, you know. All I can say is, it’s about time.”

  “Hold it down!” shouted Old Barlo above the babble, as he took a scroll from his quiver and began untying the green ribbon bound around it. “I’ve got more ter say!” Slowly the hubbub died and all eyes turned once more to the teacher. “Wag-tongues!” he snorted, but smiled. “Captain Alver has sent word”—Old Barlo waved the parchment for all to see—“that Thornwalker guides are to come and take each and every one of you to your companies. You’ve got one more week to home, then it’s off to the borders you’ll go, to your ’Walker duty.”

  To the borders? One more week and away? A thick pall of silence blanketed all of the students, and Tuck felt as if he’d been struck hard in the pit of his stomach. One week? Leave home? Leave Woody Hollow? Why of course, you ninnyhammer, he thought, you’ve got to leave home if you’re joining the Thornwalkers. But, well, it was
just that it was so sudden: one short week; and besides, he had only thought about becoming a Thornwalker, and he’d not really envisioned what that meant in the end, leaving his comfortable home and all. Tuck’s spirit rallied slightly as he thought, Oh well, after all, a fellow’s got to leave the nest sometime or other. Tuck turned and looked to Danner for reassurance, but all he saw was another stricken Warrow face.

  Tuck became aware that Old Barlo was calling out assignments, posting Warrows to the Eastdell First, and the Eastdell Second, and to other companies of the Thornwalker Guard; and then his name was being shouted. “Wha-what?” he asked, his head snapping up, recovering a bit from his benumbed state. “What did you say?”

  “I said,” growled Old Barlo, stabbing his forefinger at the parchment, “by Captain Alver’s order, you and Danner, and Tarpy and Hob are posted to the Eastdell Fourth. Them’s the ones what are up to the north, between the Battle Downs and Northwood along the Spindle River, up to Spindle Ford. The Eastdell Fourth. Have you got that?”

  Tuck nodded dumbly and edged over to Danner as Old Barlo resumed calling out assignments to the other Warrows. “The Eastdell Fourth, Danner,” said Tuck. “Ford Spindle. That’s on the road to Challerain Keep, King Aurion’s summer throne.”

  “Like as not we won’t be seeing any King on any kind of throne, much less the High King himself; and we won’t be doing too much Wolf patrolling either, if we’re stuck at the Ford,” grumped Danner, disappointed. “I was looking forward to feathering a couple of those brutes.”

  As Danner and Tuck chatted, two other Warrows made their way through the crowd and joined them: Hob Banderel and Tarpy Wiggins. Of that foursome, Danner was tallest, standing three-feet-seven, with Hob and Tuck one inch shorter, and Tarpy but an inch over three-feet. Except for their height, as with all Warrows, their most striking feature was their great, strange, sparkling eyes: tilted much the same as Elves’, but of jewel-like hues: Tuck’s a sapphirine blue, Tarpy’s and Hob’s a pale emerald green, and Danner’s, the third and last color of Warrow eyes: amber gold. Like Elves, too, their ears were pointed, though hidden much of the time by their hair; for as is common among the buccen, they each had locks cropped at the shoulder, ranging in shade from Tuck’s black to Hob’s light ginger, with Danner and Tarpy both being chestnut maned. Unlike their elders, they each were young-buccan slim, not yet having settled down to hearth and home and four meals a day, or, on feast days, five. And as Old Barlo repeatedly cautioned: “But you are training to be Thornwalkers and Thornwalkers need to keep trim and fit, so don’t overindulge, but don’t skimp either, for Warrows will depend on you!” And at last they had become Thornwalkers, and they would take his words to heart.

  “Well, Tuck,” said Hob, one of those trim and fit ’Walkers, “it’s the Eastdell Fourth for us all.”

  “Four always was my lucky number,” chimed in Tarpy. “Fourth time’s the charm, they say.”

  “No, Tarpy,” put in Danner, “third time’s the charm. Fourth time is harm.”

  “Are you sure?” asked the small Warrow, fretting. “Oh my, I hope that’s not an omen.”

  “Don’t let it bother you, Tarpy,” said Tuck, aiming a frown at Danner. “It’s just an old saying. I’m sure the Eastdell Fourth will be good luck to us all.”

  “Well, I think it will be the best Thornwalker Company of them all,” said Hob, smiling, “now that we’re in it, that is.”

  At that moment, Old Barlo again called for quiet, interrupting the babble among the graduates. “Well, lads, you’re about to shoulder an important duty. One week from now you’ll be on your way, and I wish I was going with you; but I’ve got to stay behind to get another group ready; and besides, the ’Walkers needs them as is spry, which I ain’t anymore. So it’s up to you, Thornwalker Warrows, and a finer bunch I’ve never seen!”

  A cheer broke out and there were scattered shouts of Hooray for Old Barlo!

  “There’s just a couple of more things I’ve got to say,” continued Old Barlo when quiet returned. “We meet in the Commons at sunrise next Wednesday, and you’ll be off. Pack your knapsacks well; take those things we talked about: your bows, plenty of arrows, warm boots and dry stockings, down clothes, your Thornwalker-grey cloaks, and so on. The ’Walker guides will bring food, and ponies for them as needs ’em for the far-away trips.” Old Barlo paused, looking over his charges, and before their very eyes he seemed to grow older and sadder. “Take this week to say goodbye to your friends and family, and any damman you may have about,” he said quietly, “for like as not it’ll be next spring or later before you’ll be to home again.”

  Once more Tuck felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. Next spring? Why, I won’t even be home for Yule, or Year’s End, or . . . or . . .

  “Cheer up, lads!” Old Barlo said heartily, “’cause now it’s time for your graduation present. We’re off to the One-Eyed Crow where I’ll set up a round of ale for each and every one!”

  Again there was a cheer, and this time all the young buccen shouted Hooray for Old Barlo! three times. And they tramped away, singing rowdy verses of “The Jolly Warrow” as they marched down from Hollow End toward the One-Eyed Crow.

  ~

  The week was one of poignant sadness for Tuck; he spent the time, as many of his comrades did, saying goodbye: it was a goodbye not only to his friends and acquaintances, but also to the familiar places he’d frequented throughout his young life in and around Woody Hollow: the Dingle-rill, now rimed with ice; Bringo’s Stable, with its frisky ponies; Dossey’s Orchard, where many a stray apple had come into Tuck’s possession; Catchet’s Market, full of the smells of cheese and bread and open boxes of fruit and hickory-cured bacon hanging from overhead beams; Gorbury’s mill, grumbling with the groan of axles and the burr of wooden-toothed gears and the heavy grind of slow-turning water-driven millstones; the Rillbridge, under which was some of the best jiggle-bait fishing in the Boskydells; Sugarcreek Falls, where Tuck’s cousins from Eastpoint had taught him to swim; and the High Hill on the Westway Trace from which all of Woody Hollow could be seen. These places, and more, Tuck visited, moving quietly through the snow to stop at each and fill his being with their essence, and then after saying goodbye he would sadly trudge on. But the place to which Tuck turned the most was The Root, his home, with its warm, cozy burrow-rooms, and the smell of his mother’s cooking, and all the familiar objects that it seemed he’d never really looked at before. And to his mother’s surprise he actually straightened his cubby; and without bidding from his father, he split a cord or two of wood, laying in a good supply outside the kitchen burrow-door before he was to be off. Each evening he sat before the fireplace, having a pipe with his sire, Burt, a stonecutter and mason, while his dam, Tulip, sewed. And they quietly talked about the days that had been, and the days that were, and the days that were yet to come.

  Tuck spent some time with Merrilee Holt, maiden Warrow, dammsel of Bringo Holt, the farrier, and his wife, Bessie, who lived four burrows to the east. Merrilee and Tuck had chummed together since childhood, even though she was four years younger. Yet in these last days, Tuck saw for the first time just how black her hair was, and how blue her eyes, and how gracefully she moved; and he marveled, for it seemed to him that he should have noticed these things before. Why, back when he had first begun Thornwalker archery training, and she insisted that he teach her, too, he should have seen these things about her—but he didn’t; instead, they’d laughed at her struggle to pull an arrow to the fullest. But even when she became skilled, using Tuck’s old stripling bow, still at the time he’d seen only her accuracy and not her grace. And why was it only in this last week that he realized that she alone really understood him?

  “You know that I’ll not be here for your age-name birthday,” Tuck said on the last wintry forenoon as they tramped through the snow on the Commons, trudging toward the Rillbridge. “I’m disappointed that I’ll miss your party when you officially become a young damman.”

  “I’ll miss
you, too, Tuck,” answered Merrilee, sadly.

  “Well, be that as it may,” said Tuck, “here, I’ve a present for you. Early it is, yet likely I’ll still be at the Spindle Ford when you pass from your maiden years.” Tuck handed her a small packet, and inside was a gilded comb.

  “Oh Tuck, what a wonderful gift,” beamed Merrilee. “Why, I’ll think of you every day—every time I use it.” Carefully Merrilee put the gift away in a large coat pocket, saving the paper and ribbon, too. They both stopped and leaned over the rail of the Rillbridge, listening to the churn of the millrace and watching the bubbles of air darting under the ice, seeking escape but being carried along by the fast-flowing stream.

  “What are you thinking, Tuck?” asked Merrilee, as the bubbles swirled by below.

  “Oh, just that some people go through life like those bubbles down there: caught in a rush of events that push them thither and yon, never able to break free to choose what they would. I was also thinking that many of us are blind until we’ve but a short time left to see,” he answered, then looked up and saw that Merrilee’s eyes had misted over, but she smiled at him.

  ~

  The week had fled swiftly, and now it had come to the last hours of the last day, and once more Tuck found himself with his parents before the fire at The Root.

  “Merrilee and I went down to the Rillsteps today,” Tuck said, blowing a smoke ring toward the flames, watching it rend as the hot draft caught it and whirled it upward. “Thought I’d give them one last look before leaving. Danner was there, and we talked about the times we’d played King of the Rillrock. He always used to win, you know. No one could dislodge him from that center stone, Rillrock. He’d just knock us kersplash right into the Dingle-rill, shouting, ‘King of the Rillrock! King of the Rillrock! Danner Bramblethorn is the King of the Rillrock!’”