Trek to Kraggen-Cor

This book made available by the Internet Archive.

FOREWORD

One Sunday afternoon (Memorial Day weekend of 1977) a car ran over me. I spent the next year or so either in traction, in casts, bedridden, in a wheelchair, on crutches . . . Lord! It's depressing just to think about it.

When I was put in a hip spica cast, to stay sane I began working on the tale you are about to read—a different version, to be sure, yet still the same basic tale. When I finished it—when I actually wrote The End on the final page of that first draft—a great sense of achievement and elation coursed through every fiber of my being. Hey! I've done it!

Then I began typing and revising it, and soon that second draft became the third or fourth. Ultimately I shipped the manuscript of The Silver Call to Doubleday. At that point I could have kicked back and waited for a response from them, but, flush with success, I was still itching to write. And the History outlined in The Silver Call was so intriguing that I just had to record it too.

So I began The Iron Tower, a tale set in time 231 vears prior to The Silver Call.

I was well into this second novel when Pat LoBrutto, science fiction editor at Doubleday, called and made an offer on The Silver Call. Faith! I was pleased and flattered; but then to his utter surprise: Pat, I said, Silver is great (modesty is not one of my stronger attributes), but Iron, the novel that I am working on now, should be published first.

To make a long story short, Pat agreed to hold off until I finished The Iron Tower and he could look it over. Well, I finished, he looked, and it was published first.

Now we come to The Silver Call, written first but published second: Of quite a few authors, critics have been known to say that their second novel does not live up to the promise of their first. I wonder what they'll say about mine, since my first is actually my second ... or, conversely, my second is my first. Almost no matter how you look at it, perhaps I already have, or will have, lived up to my promise.

Dennis L. McKiernan Westerville, Ohio, 1983

A WORD ABOUT WARROWS

Central to this tale are the Wee Ones, the Warrows. A brief description of this legendary Folk is given in the appendices at the end of Volume Two: The Brega Path.

JOURNAL NOTES

Note 1: The source of this tale is a tattered copy of The Fairhill Journal an incredibly fortunate find dating from the time before Hie 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), and then the Fifth (5E). The tale recorded here began in October of 5E231. Although this adventure occurs some four millennia after the Ban War, and more than two centuries after the Winter War, the roots of the quest told herein lie directly in the events of those earlier times.

Note 3: There are many instances in this tale where, in the press of the moment, the Dwarves, Elves, Men, and Warrows speak 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. Some words, however, 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—e.g., 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.

'All dreams fetch with a silver call, and to some the belling of that treasured voice is irresistible."

Seventh Durek December 13, 5E231

TREK TO KRAGGEN-COR

PROLOGUE

Slowly the waggon trundled westward along the Crossland Road. Ahead, the three occupants could see a great, looming, dark mass reaching up toward the sky and standing across the way, extending far beyond seeing to the north and south. Spindlethorn it was, a great tangle of massive vines rearing fifty feet or more into the air, with razor-sharp spikes clawing outward—so thickly entwined that even birds found it difficult to penetrate the thorny mass. Through this mighty barricade the road went, and overhead the tangle interlaced, forming a shadowy tunnel of thorns leading down into the river valley from which sprang the fanged barrier.

Into the tunnel rolled the waggon, and the light fell blear along the path. And long did the trio ride in the thorny dimness.

At last, ahead the wayfarers could see an arch of light, and once more into the day they came as the route crossed a bridge over the Spindle River. Beyond the bridge on the far bank again the Barrier grew, and once more a dark tunnel bored through it. Two miles the travellers had come within the thomy way to reach the bridge, and nearly three more miles beyond would they go before escaping the Thornwall.

Onto the span they rolled, and the great timbers rumbled as the waggon crossed. And the three occupants stared in amazement at the massive dike of thoms rearing upward and clawing at the slash of blue sky jagging overhead. This great spiked rampart extended all the way around the Land the wayfarers were entering, growing in the river valleys along the borders. Soon they crossed the bridge and again entered the gloom.

In all, it took nearly two hours for the trio to pass completely through the Spindlethorn Barrier, but at last they emerged into the sunlight at the far side. The countryside they could see before them was one of rolling farmland, and the road they followed ran on to the west, cresting a rise to disappear only to be seen again topping the crest beyond.

Along this way they went, and the warm Sun was pleasant. A mile or more they rode, and at last they saw workers in a nearby field harvesting grain. The driver stopped the waggon as it drew opposite the field hands.

"Hola!" hailed the waggoner. "Could you help us find our way?"

The swish of scythes fell silent as folk turned at the call to see who had hailed. But when their eyes fell upon the occupants of the waggon at road-

side, the males who had been cutting stepped to the fore, while females and oldsters who had been bundling sheaves drifted to the rear, and the young ones who had been gleaning scurried to the back and peered around from behind skirts to look at the strangers. And they all stood in silence.

"We are here on the High King's business," called the driver, "and we seek the way to Sir Tuckerby's Warren."

"The King's business, you say?" piped a buccan in the fore, stepping to the side of the field and looking up in wonder at the strangers, while they in turn stared down at him in amazement. The wain riders saw before them one of the Wee Folk, a Warrow, for they had come into the Land of the Boskydells. Small he was, three and a half feet tall, yet those assembled behind him were no taller, though many were shorter, especially the wee young ones. His hair was black and cropped at the shoulder. His jerkin and breeks were the color of dusky leaves, and soft boots shod his feet. His ears were pointed like those of Elves, and there was also an Elven tilt to his bright, liquescent eyes— Utruni eyes, some would say, for the orbs of the Wee Folk resemble those of the Stone Giants. Yet, unlike the Giants, Warrow eyes are not true gems, but instead are astonishingly jewel-hued: sapphire blue; emerald green; and the third and last color, topaz gold.

"Sir Tuckerby's Warren is in Woody Hollow, some fifty miles to the west," said the Warrow, pointing down the Crossland Road. Then he turned his amber gaze back upon the strangers. "Could you use a drink of water on this warm day, or something to eat? For I know travellers build up a thirst from the dusty road . . . and get hungry, too."

"Thank you, but no, for we have food and drink with us, and our mission is urgent, else would we tarry awhile," answered the driver.

"Then fare thee well," responded the golden-eyed buccan in his piping voice, stepping back from the roadside.

With a chirk of his tongue and a flick of reins the driver urged the horses forward; and as they pulled away he waved to the Wee Folk in the field and they waved back, the tiny younglings running through the furrows amid trills of cascading laughter, keeping pace for a moment, only to turn back at sharp whistles from their sires.

"Hmph! So those are Waerans," growled one of the passengers, looking back. "I find it hard to think of such a small Folk as being legendary heroes."

"Yet heroes they are," said the driver, "and brave at that. I only hope that what we seek will be found in the journal we've come so very far to see."

"Aye, the diary of Sir Tuckerby Underbank, Hero of the Realm," grunted the other passenger. "Well do my kith honor his memory, even though his deeds lie more than two centuries in the past. Yet what my brother says is true: the iron of bravery seems to seek out this Folk; but I, too, would have deemed them too small to hold such mettle."

The driver turned to his seatmate. "Lore has it, though, that these Wee Ones—these Waerlinga—have played more than one key role in the fate of

Mithgar, no matter their size—for stature alone does not measure the greatness of a heart."

Silence reigned in the waggon as legends of old tumbled through the occupants' minds, and the wain continued to roll westward on the King's business.

CHAPTER 1 THE UNEXPECTED PARTIES

"Hoy there. Mister Pern'! Hoy there! Hoy there! They're coming to see you! Coming over from the Hall!"

Peregrin Fairhill sat in the October Sun on the stoop of his home, The Root of Woody Hollow. He looked up from the silver horn that he had been diligently polishing. What in the Seven Dells is all this racket about? he wondered. What he saw was a young buccan—that male Warrow period betwixt the end of the teens and the coming of age at thirty—rushing up the curved pathway to The Root. Onward came the buccan, running pell-mell, red-faced with effort, with two youngling Warrows capering and cartwheeling behind.

"Hold on there, Cotton! Slow down before you burst," called Perry, laughing. "And you two pinwheels stop your spinning."

The young buccan skidded to a halt in the path at the foot of the stoop; and the two tag-alongs, winded and panting, plopped down in the grass bordering the hedge and waited expectantly to see just exactly why it was that Cotton had been running. Pausing a moment to allow the young buccan to catch his breath. Perry finally asked, "All right now. Cotton, what's all this running about 7 Who wants me 7 Who's coming from the Hall r '

"Why, Sir, they want you," Cotton began, still huffing and puffing. "Hoy 1 Stop a minute. You two younglings"—he turned a baleful stare on the small Warrows—"this is not for your ears. Nip along now, so's I can tell my master what this is all about. Double-quick! On your way 1 " The two youngsters, being well-raised and Boskydell-mannered, as are all young Warrows of Woody Hollow—and realizing that nothing was going to be said as long as

they were about—scampered down the rock-lined path and out of sight around the end of the hedge.

Satisfied, Cotton began again: "Sir, I never thought as I'd see the day. Folks like them have not been seen in the Dells since the old days before Tuckerby's time. And here they are! They just come marching right into the Hall, neat as may be, and asked for the Mayor. Yes sir, there I was, sweeping the floor like I do every midmonth and they just up and ask me— me! —for the Mayor.

"I couldn't believe my eyes was really seeing them, and I must've looked like the witless fool I am, standing there with my mouth hanging open in pure astonishment. I guess I'd've been there still, frozen to my broom, gaping, 'cept Mayor Whitlatch chose that very instant to come rushing in.

" 'Oh, Cotton,' says he, 'where's the—' Then he sees them, too, and is also struck dumb, but not for long. You can say what you want about Whitlatch's carryings-on, what with all his long-winded speechmaking and his love of ribbon-cutting ceremonies, but I'll give him this: after the first shock, he recovered as steady as you please and asked them if he could do something for them.

" 'We'd like to see the Mayor,' says the big one. 'I am the Mayor,' says Whitlatch. 'Mayor,' says the big one, 'is there some place where we can talk?' 'Follow me,' says the Mayor, and they all troop into his office.

"Well, I was just as full of curiosity as a new kitten, so I did all my sweeping right in front of the Mayor's door," Cotton continued, red-faced with embarrassment but with his jaw jutting out as if daring someone to call him an eavesdropper—though his gemlike emerald-green eyes did not meet the sapphire-blue ones of his master. "I couldn't hear nothing except voices murmuring so low as you can't recognize what's being said, them doors being as thick as they are. They all were in there talking low for about half an hour. Then I finally heard something more than just a mumble. It was Whitlatch. He said, 'Why you're right! Peregrin Fairhill is the one you want to see.' And with that he flings open the door shouting, 'Cotton! Cotton!' Then he sees I'm right next to him, so he lowers his voice and says, urgent-like, 'Cotton, run up to The Root and tell your master, Mister Perry, that I'm bringing these Boskydell visitors up from Hollow Hall to see him and Tuck's diary; they need him and his book. Now hop to it, and don't be a slowcoach about it.'

"Well, I dropped my broom and ran right here as quick as I could to bring you the news, Mister Perry, that they're coming here to The Root to see you and your Raven Book and all—though I'll be switched if I know why."

Perry stood and wrapped the small silver horn in its polishing cloth, gathering up the green and white baldric. He turned to go through the oaken door and into The Root, where he kept his copy of Tuck's chronicle. "But, Cotton," he turned back, perplexed, "you haven't told me the most important

part: Just who are they that want to see me? Who or what are they that need me? Who are they that're coming to see the Account?"

"Ninnyhammer that I am!" Cotton smote his own forehead with a sharp slap. ''Why you're perfectly right, Sir. I have left out the most important part."

Peering about to make sure that no one else could hear what he was going to say. Cotton completely missed the dancing, glittering eyes of the two small-fry Warrows lying on their stomachs and peering through from the other side of the hedge, where they'd got to when Cotton had commanded them to nip along. All the rest of their lives these two often would tell about the next words that Cotton would say. For as far as the Warrows of the Seven Dells in later days were concerned, this was the moment that the real adventure began: because what Cotton said was, "Sir, them as wants to see the Raven Book? Sir, well ..." Once again he glanced around.

"Out with it, Cotton: who are they?"

"Why, Sir," he took a deep breath, then plunged on, "they're Dwarves, Sir! That's what they are: Dwarves!"

CHAPTER 2 WELCOME TO THE ROOT

"Dwarves, Cotton? Here in the Seven Dells? Dwarves to see me?" "And a Man, Mister Perry, two Dwarves and a Man, too." My goodness! thought a stunned Perry. What a piece of news this is! A Man and Dwarves, too. And they've come to see me! He spun on his heel and rushed into the burrow with Cotton right behind.

That was indeed a piece of news, for visits by Men or Dwarves are rare in the Boskydells—Men less so than Dwarves. Why, only at one time had there been many Men on this side of the Spindlethorn, and that was way back during the Winter War—after vile Modru had sent a great gang of Ghuls to overrun the Dells And the Evil One's Reavers had nearly succeeded, too: looting, burning, slaying, whelming the Land, nearly ruining the Bosky with their rapacious grasp of the Seven Dells.

But then came Patrel Rushlock and Danner Bramblethorn, the greatest

military heroes of all Warrowdom—greater even then Arbagon "Ruckslayer" Fenner over in Weiunwood. Captains Patrel and Danner had returned to the Bosky during the Great Retreat. And they began to organize the Warrows to drive the blackguards out of the Land, scouring the Boskydells free of the invaders.

And the battles were mighty, and touch and go, until at last the Men came —Vidron's Legion—and then the Ghuls were routed . . . only to be replaced by one of Modru's Hordes. Yet still, allied with the Warrows, the Men fought until the Winter War came to an end.

And after the War, again Men came, to help rebuild the Seven Dells—and rebuild they did. But rarely afterwards was a Man seen inside the Thornring, for King Galen in Pellar had declared the Boskydells a free Realm under the protection of his scepter. His edict was that no Man was to dwell in the Land of the Wee Folk. Hence, after the Winter War, those Men seen within the Barrier were usually just passing through along the Crossland Road, or the Upland Way, or down the Tineway. Oh, at rare times, Men would come to the Bosky as King's Messengers, bringing word of the King's doings; at other infrequent times, merchants would come to purchase Downdell leaf, melons, wicker works from Bigfen, or other Wee Folk trade goods. But, by Galen's edict, no Men came to stay. And when King Galen's son, Gareth, became Monarch, he reaffirmed the edict. And so it was and has been and is even unto this day that the Boskydell is a free Land in which no Men dwell, a Realm under the protection of the Kings in faraway Pellar.

But as scarce to the Dells as Men were, Dwarves were even rarer; though they were not forbidden entry into the Bosky, none had ever positively been seen by a Seven-Dells Warrow living in Perry's time. In fact, none had been sighted in such a span of time that they had become creatures of legend. Oh, an occasional Warrow travelling outside the Thornring, to Stonehill, would sometimes think that he had espied a Dwarf, but that was always a glimpse from afar so that afterwards the Warrow couldn't say absolutely that he'd actually laid eyes on one. Historically speaking, the last agreed-upon sighting of Dwarves within the Bosky itself was when several of them had passed through driving a waggon bearing weapons and armor, it was said to be used in their bitter clashes with the Rucks. And that was way back, nearly two hundred twenty years before the Struggles, before the Winter War, before the Dragon Star—which meant that Dwarves had not been seen in the Boskydells for almost 450 years. Oh, they had been observed elsewhere, trading their Dwarf-crafted goods—just not in the Bosky. But now, if Cotton was right, both Man and Dwarf had returned.