Dennis L. McKiernan - Iron Tower1 - The Dark Tide

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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 early 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 the 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.

"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 in the dark of night, in calm still

air and through gusting winds, through blowing dim snow and across blinding white,

from far and from near, at still targets and at moving ones, on level ground and uphill

and down, in open fields and in 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. 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 jewellike 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. (But, as the elders tell it, "Warrows are small, and small things take a

heap of food to keep 'em going. Look at your birds, and mice, and look especially at

shrews: they're all busy gulping down food most of the time that they're awake. So

us Wee Folk need at least four meals a day just to keep a body alive!")

"Well, Tuck," said Hob, "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," smiled Hob,

"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. 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 faraway 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, he

wouldn'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

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TheDarkTideBookOneoftheIronTowerTrilogyDennisL.McKiernanContentsForewordJournalNotes1TheWell-AttendedParting2RetreattoRooks'Roost3SpindleFord4ChallerainKeep5TheDarkTide6TheLongPursuitFOREWORD^»Doyoueveryearnforaparticularkindofstoryandsimplycan'tcomebyit?Perchanceyoureadoneonce,andkeeplookingforanot...

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Dennis L. McKiernan - Iron Tower1 - The Dark Tide.pdf

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Dennis L. McKiernan - Iron Tower1 - The Dark Tide

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