Trek to Kraggen-Cor (28 page)

After only five hours of sleep, the Warrow awakened and trudged back to the cook-waggon. He took a bite to eat and drank a cup of hot tea, and then relieved Bomar. It was false dawn, and the sky was pale grey. A thin crescent of a waning Moon rode low over the mountaintops. Cotton and three of the cook-crew were on duty, and soon another shift came to be fed. Cotton discovered that the road crews had just passed the two-mile point.

Dawn came, followed by another bright morning. The exhausting, back-breaking job went on, and again the Sun marched up the sky. Word came that the road gangs had encountered another giant drift, and the advance was stalled just a half mile from the end. Cotton felt both helpless rage and unremitting despair at the news, and he threw himself more than ever into his work.

Before noon, Bomar and the other five Dwarves rejoined the cook-crew, and the discouraged Warrow took a mug of hot tea and wandered to the edge of the glen where it was quiet and he could rest a moment. The Sun was just reaching the zenith when from far off something rumbled low and long, like distant thunder among the crests. Cotton stared in the direction from which the roll had come, but the trees obscured his vision, and he could see nothing to indicate the source of this unknown, far-off roar. A few moments later the buccan returned to the cook-waggon and asked Bomar, "What would make a great nimble up in the high peaks?"

"Snow avalanche," replied Bomar. "That was a distant avalanche. Something caused a Mountainside of snow to give way and cascade down; it comes as a giant wall and carries all things before it, snapping off trees both large and small and rolling great boulders along under it, causing other snow to

cataract down too. Sometimes it slides for miles, a great wave growing wider and higher as it thunders down to wreak its destruction and bury its victims."

"Lawks!" responded Cotton. "I thought the rock slide was bad, but this sounds worse. I hope no snow avalanche decides to slip this way "

About two hours before sundown a ragged distant cheer echoed up over the quiet snow to those in the glen; the road crews had broken through the last drift, and the way before them held only diminishing snow The word came to harness up the teams and prepare to move out; no more time was to be spent in the high country, the Army was to trek down to the foothills, marching part of the night.

And so, even though they were weary, the Host gladly shouldered their packs or hitched up the horses or otherwise prepared to travel Just as the Sun disappeared, the trek began, and lanterns were carried to illuminate the

The Host moved slowly out of the glens and onto the road Cotton and Bomar in the yellow waggon again brought up the rear, and often they would come to a complete halt, to stand and wait for long minutes while the leading teams and wains struggled through places still deep in snow, with Du pushing and pulling and straining to roll the stuck vehicles forward by grasping and turning the wooden-spoked wheels. Then the column would move ahead once more until the next deep place was encountered and the horses again needed help.

And thus the train moved down the mountain, sometimes easily, sometimes struggling. It proceeded like a great undulating caterpillar, bunching up behind barriers and lengthening out beyond them. At the rear of the column, the only trouble Cotton and Bomar encountered was that of the waggon oft' sliding where the snow had been packed unto ice by the four thousand warriors and nearly five hundred waggons ahead of them here. Brownie and Downy found the footing treacherous, and the wain brake was of little help Even so, still they managed to work the waggon past these slick strck come to safer purchase.

In places the wain went between high, close walls cloven through the , deep drifts. At times the snow ramparts were well ovei the heads of the Warrow and Dwarf sitting up high on the waggon seat, and at L OOtlld envision the massive effort required to clear the road, and he humbled

The long line of swaying, bobbing lanterns wended sloulv akmg the car\cn track set within the snow In harness again, the horses seeme* 1 forward, and their breath blew white from flaring nostrils in the COM night air

as they worked tin waggons downward through the drifts, following after the leaders .is repeatedly they emerged in>in one long, narrow, deep channel and

into the open, only to enter another long notch

Thus they p.issol the three miles from the ijens and dou n through the

COme at last to the shallow tall It had taken the \nn\ a A.w

and

path, and now Cotton and Bomar had driven its length in less than two hours.

The Host continued the march for six hours, and came down out of the high country and into the foothills above Arden, covering some fifteen miles in all. The lower they came, the less snow there was, until it but barely covered the rim of a waggon wheel where it touched the ground. At last Durek called a halt to the march; the Captains posted a picket of warders as Dwarves made campfires; and weary warriors fell asleep wherever they found themselves.

Just as Cotton was preparing to lie down, Durek and Rand came walking to his fire. The buccan had not seen either for three days, but they said little to one another, for all were spent; this night neither King nor Prince returned to the head of the column; this night they bedded down by the last fire instead of the first.

And as Cotton was drifting off he heard another long, low rumble of distant thunder, and he knew that somewhere a white avalanche had cascaded down the mountainside. He wondered if their old, high-country camps and glens had been buried, and if the backbreaking work of days had been covered in mere moments by masses of slipping snow; but before he could speculate more, he fell fast asleep.

CHAPTER 19 WRATH AT THE DOOR

The next morning, Durek, Rand, and Cotton broke fast together. Each felt the pressing need to get under way, for the snowstorm had trapped the Host for three days, and their rendezvous with the Seven was now in serious jeopardy.

"We are late and the Legion is weary," rasped Durek, "and the goal is far south down a ruined road through rough, inhospitable land. Yet we must somehow recapture the days lost to the storm but not expend the whole of the strength of the Host in a race for the Dusken Door; we must not be exhausted when we enter Kraggen-cor, for there we must be strong to meet

the foe. I have thought long as to how we might gain back the time without losing our strength, but no good plan comes to mind except a forced march, where our brawn will wane with each day of the pace. We cannot ride the waggons, for there are too many of us—and the wains may be too slow in any case. Prince Rand, a question: Can we float down the River Tumble on rafts? Dwarves know not the skill of swimming nor the art of these craft; yet we would go that way if it would regain the lost time and husband our strength."

"Nay, not the Tumble," answered Rand, shaking his head. "Oh, as to the rafts, though I could teach you the way of their making—and the manner of poling and steering them is simple—still we could not use them down the Tumble, for the river is truly named: there are many rapids and falls between Arden and the place south where the watercourse turns west to join the Caire, where we would strike for Drimmen-deeve overland. . . . Nay, the Tumble is no river for a raft.

"And since the Army can ride neither water nor wain, I, too, believe we have no choice but to force march down Rell Way. There is no other means, and we cannot be late to the rendezvous with my brother and the others."

"On that we agree," gritted the Dwarf, vexed, "yet such a course will but weary our Legion more. We do not want to arrive too spent to swing Chakka axes at Grg necks." Frustration loomed in his eyes.

"King Durek, if we can force march but a week or so, we can draw almost even with our first plan," said Rand, "and that will leave us five days at normal pace to regain strength before reaching the Dusk-Door. And at the Door, only those removing the rubble will be working; all others will rest until it is their turn at that task."

"Again our thoughts agree," growled Durek, "but for an army going into battle, a long rapid march is a heavy burden to bear."

"Speaking of heavy burdens," piped up Cotton, "why don't we give the armor a ride? What I mean is, well, we can't very well give every warrior a ride, but armor is a different thing. Most of the food waggons are now only partly full and so there's room; and the horses can pull the extra weight. Chain mail is a burden, right enough, and warriors would march lighter and faster without that load of iron."

Durek and Rand turned to one another in surprise. That simple suggestion was completely obvious to one unaccustomed to wearing mail—such as the Warrow—but Dwarves made light of heavy burdens, and a Dwarf going to War always wore his mail shirt; neither Durek nor Rand had ever considered it being any other way. This mail had in fact been worn all the way from Mineholt North, and thus the idea simply had not occurred to either. Durek roared with laughter and clapped his hands together, for Cotton, of course, was right.

Thus it was that when the Army began its march, nearly all the armor nKlein the green waggons, and the Dwarves marched "lighter and faster without that load of iron," though each Dwarf still bore his pack and his beloved

The Riders of the Valanreach swiftly ranged far to the fore and aft and out on the flanks of the Host as down out of the last of the snow they came at a forced pace, down from the high foothills; and ere they came nigh the southern reach of the cloven vale of Arden, southward they turned onto an eld abandoned roadbed: the long-disused Old Rell Way, grown over with weeds now dead in the winter cold.

The land the Legion entered was rough, and the trees sparse, there being only barren thickets or lone giants with empty branches clutching at the sky. In the folds of the land grew brush and brambles, but for the most part the region was one of open high moors and heather. Into these uplands they forced march south on the ancient way—and though they did not know it, they were paralleling the path taken by Tuck, Galen, and Gildor more than two hundred and thirty years past; those three, however, had gone secretly in the Dimmendark and had not taken to the Old Way until they were nearly fifty leagues south of the Hidden Vale, for in those days the Way near Arden was patrolled by Ghuls—Modru's Reavers.

At times the ancient road was blocked by thicket growth or fallen stones, or by a washout that cut the track; but the waggons were guided around the blockage, or many Dwarves gathered and removed the barrier. Twice the roadbed completely disappeared, but Rand led the train along pathways that soon rejoined the Old Way.

The day was bright and the pace was swift, and the Host stopped but once for a rest and a quick noon meal of crue and water. They marched all day at the same hard stride, always bearing southward with the Grimwall Mountains towering off to their left. And when they stopped that night they had covered twenty-nine miles, and Rand and Durek were well pleased.

They continued this swift pace for two more days, going some sixty miles more. But on the next day it rained, slowing progress, for the roadbed was ancient and did not drain well, and by the time the latter part of the train came, the pathway was a sea of mud, churned to muck by all the tramping Dwarf boots and turning waggon wheels and driving horse hooves that had gone before. At times the late wains became mired beyond the strength of the horses to pull them free, and spare horses and Dwarves would then help wrest the waggons out.

Being at the very last of the train, Cotton and Bomar's yellow cook-waggon was often bogged down, and their usual good tempers suffered as a result. "You know, Bomar," complained Cotton, nettled, "the trouble with being at the tail end of things is not only do we get stuck a lot, but also we're the last ones to find out what's going on. I mean, here we are, just as important as anyone else in this army, but we never seem to know what's going on. It's either stand around and wait, or rush to get ready, and we never find out what's happening til we fall in a hole, or get stuck, or what have you. I don't

much like it, Bomar, this not knowing, and I don't like all of this hurry up and wait either."

"Hah! Friend Cotton," laughed Bomar, "now I know that you are at last a true campaigner, for you have just voiced the warrior's eternal plaint. It has ever been so in armies since time began and shall be so for as long as they exist. It is the soldier's lot to 'never know' and to 'hurry up and wait.' " Dwarf and Warrow, they both laughed long, and thereafter their spirits were high, even though the waggon often mired and one or the other had then to jump down to help roll it free.

Trie column stretched out in length for nearly eight miles as the front of the train made good time while the last did not. Thus it was that when it came time to stop, although the front halted, the rear was far behind and had to keep travelling to close up the line; and Cotton and Bomar did not arrive until three more hours had elapsed.

That day the column moved only twenty-two miles.

The next day was clear, and as the Legion marched, the roadbed dried out, and so good progress was made. Far ahead they could see an arm of the mountains standing across the land to block their way, but as they drew nearer, the Old Rell Way swung out on a southwesterly course to go around this spur. They forced march this direction for three more days, and on the fourth day the Way again swung back to the south and east as they rounded the side-chain and at last headed on a line for the Quadran and Drimmen-deeve. It was the sixteenth day since they had left Landover Road Ford and the ninth day of march from the Crestan Pass, the Host was weary, yet on this day Rand dropped back the pace, for he reasoned that they had drawn nearly even with their original plan.

Trie way began rising up again through the foothills as the Army tramped toward the Quadran; and finally there hove into view the four great mountains under which Kraggen-cor was delved: Greytower, Loftcrag, Grimspire, and mighty Stormhelm. The Legion's goal, the Dusk-Door, was carved in the Loom of Grimspire, a hard day's trek south of Stormhelm's flanks. Yet now that the four soaring peaks were in sight, all of those striding south along Old Rell Way felt that they could nearly see their destination; their spirits lifted and new vigor coursed through their veins.

That night, Rand estimated that four more days on the march would bring them to the Door.

Two days later, just at sundown, the column pitched camp at an old fork in the road. Rand and Durek and Brytta looked at the ways before them. "'I he left-hand course—Quadran Road—goes up to Quadran Pass," said Rand climb over the Grimwall and come down the Quadran Run to the Pitch

below. We can no longer cross over; the entire saddle is white; the way is barred by snow. The right-hand course bears south to the Dusk-Door; it is the continuation of the old trade route between the Elves of Lianion—called Rell by Men—and your ancestors in Kraggen-cor, King Durek. By this route —the Old Rell Way—we will come to the Door in a half and one day."

"It is as I feared back at the ford/' rasped Durek, his sight leaping up the stone ramparts to the snowbound gap above. "The way over the Mountain is blocked. The blizzard that nearly thwarted us at the Crestan Pass had wide wings, and here the slot is closed. Yet but had we the knowledge of the Elden, even now the col might still afford entry into Kraggen-cor: Chakka lore has it that a secret High Gate opens into the Quadran Gap. Yet in these latter days we know not where it lies—whether this side or that, or in between, in the clear or buried under snow, we know it not. But, though we here are ignorant, perhaps it has been discovered by the foul Squam since their occupation of Kraggen-cor; and even now hostile eyes may be upon us, spying out our every move." At these words Brytta's hand strayed to his spear, and Durek grimly smiled at the warrior's reaction. "Yet I think not, Reachmarshal, for the High Gate was secret, and even Gatemaster Barak may find it hard to discover its location, much less the manner of its working."

Durek's words did not soothe Marshal Brytta, for his sharp eyes continued to search the upward slopes.

"And so," continued Durek, "with the pass closed, if we fail to open the Dusken Door, then we must go far south through Gunar Slot to the Gunar-ring Gap to come to the other side of the Mountains. But let us not speak of failure; instead, let us go to sit with Friend Cotton at the last fire." And they strode to the far yellow waggon, arriving in time to eat.

The waxing Moon had risen in the early afternoon and passed overhead two hours after supper. Speculatively, Cotton gazed up at the silver orb. "I wonder what Mister Perry and Lord Kian and Anval and Borin and the others are doing right now. Do you think they're looking up at the same Moon and wondering what we're doing?"

"Perhaps, Cotton, perhaps," answered Rand. "If I have reckoned correctly, this is the twentieth day of November, and they are drawing nigh to the Pitch. Tomorrow they should fare up the slope and arrive at Dawn-Gate. And the next day, they enter the Deeves."

At these words Cotton's heart gave a lurch, for with the Quadran at hand the dire mission of the Squad took on grim reality.

"If all has gone aright with them, they will be in the caverns and on the Brega Path when first we come to the Door," said Durek, and Cotton's heart sank even further. "It is we who are late—by one day," growled the Dwarf King, a dark look upon his face. "Let us hope that there is enough time to uncover the portal, once we arrive."

"We are not a full day behind, King Durek," amended Rand, "but only

one half a day instead. We should arrive by mid of day the day after tomorrow."

Still, even with these words, the Dwarf King's heart did not seem eased, and the conversation dwindled to a halt. At last, Brytta, Durek, and Rand bade good night to Cotton and returned to the front of the train to settle down for the eventide.

Yet, for much of the rest of that night, Brytta's thoughts dwelled upon the ancient, secret High Gate somewhere in Quadran Pass, a Gate lost by the Dwarves in eld times, but perhaps now known to the Wrg. And he could not banish the specter of skulking Rutcha slipping in and out of that hidden portal, of treacherous Droken eyes spying out their every move, of sly Wrg mouths whispering to Cruel Gnar word of the Dwarves' mission. And by the light of the westering Moon and the wheeling stars overhead, Brytta's own gaze turnedever and again toward Quadran Col, searching up the high slopes for sign of the enemy but seeing none; and sleep was a long time coming.

Thus it was that at dawn, as the column came awake and plans were made for the day's march, the Reachmarshal called Eddra, Arl, and Wylf to him to confer with Prince Rand. Acting upon Brytta's wary suspicions, those three riders were to set watch upon the Gap. As Brytta explained, "I would rather set a ward against a danger that never comes than to pay in blood for an unseen thrust." And so, Rand described the lay of the land between the col and Dusk-Door, and plans were made to light a balefire at the top of Red-guard—one of the lesser mountains overlooking the road to the gap—as a warning beacon to the Legion should an army of Spawn issue from the secret High Gate to fall upon the Dwarves' back. Hence, as the column got under way, tramping to the south toward the Dusk-Door, three silent riders of the Valanreach detached themselves from the Host and cantered to the east toward Mount Redguard.

Cotton had looked forward to another day of swift march; but early in the morning the Legion came to a place where the old road had been washed away over the years by heavy rains and melting snows, and a narrow but deep ravine blocked the route. Brytta's mounted scouts rode east and west and soon a way was found around the channel; yet the detour took several hours to negotiate because of the roughness of the trail.

The next day, the Army finally came along the ancient Rcll Way to the deep channel through which the Duskrill once flowed, but not even a thin trickle could be seen down among the stained rocks, though a few standing pools showed the glimmer of water. Here the way forked, and the Host took

the leftward path—the Spur—following a route that wound along the edge of the empty stream bed for several miles.

As they marched now to the east, the land around them rose, and soon they were travelling in a deep valley—the Ragad—that shut off their view of all but the highest peaks of the mountains ahead. At last, as heralded by the black-oxen horns of the Valonian point scouts, the fore of the column wound to journey's end; the Old Way Spur rounded a foothill near the head of the valley to turn eastward again where the road cut upward along the face of a high stone cliff, a cliff down which the Duskrill had once tumbled in a graceful waterfall to drop into a wide basin in the deep ravine beside the Spur. Here the Host ground to a halt, facing the bluff.

Carved in the jut of the cliff was a steep stairway leading up beyond the rim, continuing on up to a sentinel stand atop a high spire overlooking the valley where in days of old Chakka warders had stood watch o'er the vale. And beyond the rampart and dwarfing it was a great massif of the Grimspire mountain rising into the sky.

Up the stairs Durek, Rand,' and Turin Stonesplitter climbed. As they mounted upward they began to see before them a stonework dam across the width of a ravine above the lip of the linn and blocking the Duskrill. 'The Raven Book may be right, for this dam is not Chakka-made," noted Turin, looking at the bulwark. "Nor does it look Ukkish. The stones are too great; powerful energy was needed for this, it is the vile work of Troll-folk, I deem."

On up the stairway they continued, and above them, hovering over, was the great natural hemidome of the Loomwall. Up beside the dam they mounted, til they came to the top of the bluff, and behind the dam and embraced by the cavernous Loom lay a long, narrow, black lakelet, running a half mile to the north and nearly two miles to the south. The massive stone flank of the hemidome sprang up along the distant shore to arch upward and overhead; and delved somewhere along this massif was the Dusk-Door, ancient trade entrance and way into Grimspire and the caverns of Kraggen-cor.

"Across this foul black lake and south of the old Sentinel Falls shall be the Dusken Door carven in the Loom," declared Durek, peering over the still, dark mere at the great flank.

"Look!" cried Turin. "There is the old bridge! And see, below!" And he pointed at a place a short distance southward along the base of the hemidome and beyond the ruins of an old drawbridge; and there rubble, boulders, and other debris were piled high against the Loom. "That must be it. If so, the Raven Book is right, and the way is blocked. I must cross over to see what needs be done to uncover the portal. It does not appear to be more than two days' labor, from here; but ere I say for certain, I must give it close scrutiny, for we are some distance away."

"I judge it to be slightly more than a quarter mile across this dark tarn," said Rand, gauging the distance by eye, "but we must walk around the north

end to come to the pile, and that is a trek of more than a mile but less than two."

Durek called down to one of the Valonian scouts and bade him to ride back along the train and tell the Host that they had arrived at the long-sought goal and to make camp along the north flank of the valley. He also instructed the scout to herald the Chief Captains to the Sentinel Falls to see the Loom and await a Council. Finally, he bade the scout to ask Friend Cotton to gather his belongings and move to the head of the train and then to join the Council.

As the rider sped away, Durek, Rand, and Turin tramped northward along the barren shoreline. They crossed the place where the Spur wound on upward; here the road topped the bluff and started across the swale toward the Door, only to plunge under the ebon surface of the Dark Mere, blocked by the black lake in the desolate, water-filled valley. Neither bird nor beast nor small furry thing did they see in the tangles of the brush and stunted bushes and brown grass on the slopes; and no fish or frog or watersnake or creature of any sort was seen in the dismal water under the ocherous scum that lapped the shore, nor among the brown strands of dead waterplants reaching up from the unseen depths to clutch at the dull lake surface. But it was winter, and much life elsewhere had gone to warmer climes, or had denned to sleep through the cold, and plants had browned and lost leaves and would not green again until spring; thus the lack of living things was not remarkable. Yet this lifeless vale was somehow . . . ominous.

Hundreds of feet overhead arched the Great Loom, and the two Dwarves and the Man strode below the black granite burden. Soon they reached the far north end of the Dark Mere, where they stepped through shallow, weed-infested, stagnant water that barred the way; the torpid swash of their passage sluggishly seeped through dead reeds, and the bottom sucked at their boots with slime-laden silt. The trio crossed over and walked south on the narrow strip of rocky land trapped between the water, dark and forbidding to their right, and the Loom, stern and towering to their left. They came to the Spur again, now a causeway, sundered by time; here the shattered roadway lay along the Loom and ran south to an ancient drawbridge, ageworn and weatherbeaten. The bridge was lowered and could not be raised, for its haul was broken.