Varlarsaga Volume 2 - Recovery

Chapter - 39 Mendoth Citadel

Mendor, second Lord of Mendoth, sat in his carven chair, within the Lord's Hall of that walled citadel; hemmed on all sides by girdling mountains. Beside him sat Bayondir, made comfortable after his ordeal, whilst behind, stood Disintar, the ever watchful companion to the three Brother-Lords. Before them were come Elvra and Silval Birdwing, who together clasped hands. Dalen Tree-heart clasped Falnir's belt, it being nigh the pixie's head height, and he being somewhat timid in an abode of men.

It was the following morning after their meeting in the wild forests, and Silval had just completed a brief account of their earlier adventures.

‘So you see, O Lord of Men,’ he concluded, ‘but for our desire to rejoin our friend Corin Avarhli, and the dire strait of this man Bayondir, we should not be here in this dwelling of stone that you name home. Still and all, since we are so come, I beseech thee, as a favour returned, to tell us anything you can of our lost friend Avarhli, and the cat Bim. For though you wasted little time in banter, whilst travelling here through the night, now that is done and over, we would welcome news.’

Mendor remained silent, as if unmoved by the elf's plea; or maybe he was deep in thought, weighing the words one by one. He was a methodical man at whiles, inclined toward consideration before action, though when that action came, it was swift and direct. Certainly, he was the most practical of the brothers, Mysingir being prone to song and jest and attempts at bold, unthinking acts, whilst Menkeepir, the eldest, was the dreamer, lofty minded and for the most part unblooded in the real world; a man of ideals and quests, and little experience. A distant man, meek in some ways, hiding behind a solumn facade that only Mendor could see through. Menkeepir pursued a fate, a tale of few words long ago told, that Mendor did not entirely believe. Mysingir believed, of course, for he was a romantic and young, and in love with the world, with life, and a woman who would not have him.

Mendor, however, was cool-wary. He had to be, for it was he, and his Marshall Disintar, who had been the bulwark of Indlebloom, and more particularly, of Menkeepir. In the past, both had taken risks for the sake of the eldest Lord's desires. Both had ridden forth into danger as his seekers, but also as his shield. They had ridden forth with wry smiles and pessimistic bent, for neither truly held with his fancies, or dreamt that those fantasy's would come to be. In any event, they had need of patrol and news and order, no matter how fragile, in the wilder regions. And they felt it their bounden duty to do such work, so that Mendoth Citadel would be fit-ruled by Menkeepir, who, amongst his failings and virtues, numbered kindness, vulnerability, consideration, innocence and justice.

Thus had it been, until a few days before, when Mendor had first laid eyes upon Corin and his cat-animal. Flippantly, had he treated these odd wayfarers, though he could not gainsay a certain feeling, a glimmer of wonder at them. ‘But,’ thought he, ‘talking cat indeed! What manner of troubadour trickery was that?’

Still, Menkeepir had liked and welcomed them immediately. They seemed to please him. So it had not bothered Mendor, or Disintar, to sally forth again, at Menkeepir's request, in search of their friends. To venture so, was always of their first duty; and apart from which, there was no denying that strange and troubled times had fallen upon Indlebloom and the outlands beyond, that made it needy to spy the margins of their realm. Now, however, they were returned and Mendor had been advised of Menkeepir's departure, in company with Corin. And so there he sat, listening to the words of the elves, and sifting them carefully... ‘What manner of folk are you?’ he wondered. ‘Fair to gaze upon, as of sage tales, that is not to be denied. Yet that alone speaks not for true minds, fair skies, oft' foul. Fair pools, murk. This fellow Corin has beguiled my Brother into a foolhardy journey, even to old Cennalath's going. No doubt he went to watch over both my Brothers, as watching over they well need. But travel to Kurigaldur? That way now is fraught with danger, the lands inhospitable. Even as I recall when a weedling, there was a frightening road through lonely forest and stark range, mort of mountains and dry lands, to alien peoples, friendly enough once, though now estranged, perhaps even dangerous. And that is surmising Menkeepir reaches their borders.’

‘Please, my Lord.’

It was Bayondir who spoke, breaking Mendor's thoughts. ‘If it please, my Lord,’ he amended. ‘Will you not speak to these folk? After all, it was they who came to my aid, succoured me, led me to you, to my rescue. Without them, I should have perished. Lord, give these queer folk some word of their friends, if such there be.’

Slowly, Mendor nodded. He lifted his scarred face, the ends of his curling moustache bending to a smile, his handsome eyes, greying and greening in the new-morn light. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘this is the little that I know.’ And he told them that which had been told him by a steward, even as he doffed his accoutrements on arrival in Mendoth.

‘Why they chose to make such hazardous journey, I know not,’ he concluded. ‘There must have been a reason in Menkeepir's mind, though of that, I can but guess.’ Here, he related the tale of his parents, and the coming of the Seeress and her visions. And he told of Menkeepir's belief in them, and his life-long certainty that one day a stranger would come out of the wilderness, and together they would ride away to world's deeds.

‘So there you have all I am able to recount, oh Folk of the Long Ago. The way your friend and my Brothers have chosen to wander is wild and dangerous. It is now a day, a night and a new day, since they set out, and I think it unlikely, even travelling swiftly, that they may be caught up.’

Silval nodded. ‘For men, that well might be true. Yet elves need no rest-halts, nor are we hampered by dark, nor do we lag at need. But first, we must decide whether to follow, or to turn back. Sooner or later we should come again to our own peoples.’

‘May it be later,’ protested Elvra, mildly. ‘After all, Avarhli is an Elloræ-friend. We cannot abandon him now. Why you, Silval Birdwing, pledged never to so do.’

‘That I did, and I have not forgotten,’ he replied. ‘Though from what we are told, it is a far way to pursue him. The lands are wide and lonely. Maybe a throng might miss a throng, in such vastness. And why, I wonder, did he not wait for us? He came not in search of we four.’

‘He desired to,’ interjected Mendor. ‘Even when we first rode for Indlebloom, he pleaded to turn about, there to find you.’

‘Then he must have had strong reason to depart without us after that,’ said Falnir, pondering.

‘If that is so,’ squeaked Dalen, getting excited, ‘then we should follow !’

Mendor stood, and walked to a wide window, where the western sun came pouring. ‘You are welcome to bide in Mendoth City for a time, if you wish,’ he said, turning to them and leaning back upon the stone sill. ‘But should you decide to follow your friend, I cannot go with you. My place now is here within these walls, or on the marches of the vale. When two Brothers away, one must stay. Still, let me say this much, you have earned my gratitude for your care of Bayondir. As he has said, his life is owed to you. Notwithstanding that, I must admit my suspicions, though you have done no harm. Bear in mind, however, that my Brothers have gone away with your companion, and I despair of seeing them again. Is it any wonder that I be distrustful, for it seems that they have been lured behind my back. The thought that you might have, in some way, conspired or plotted this, did cross my mind, but now I see that I was wrong.’ He gazed at the elves, and his scarred face broke into a clear smile.

And at that exact moment a sound, like a high-pitched whistle growing to a shriek, pierced the morning air. In a single leap, Silval dove at Mendor and he and the Lord of Mendoth both crashed to the floor.

With a cry of alarm, Disintar sprang forward, drawing his blade.

But on that instant, a missile in the shape of a heavy black bolt hurtled through the window, to hammer against the far wall, striking great, jagged chips showering from the stone, before clattering onto the flags.

Mendor, his arm raised in outrage to fetch the elf a blow, saw this and lowered his fist, shaken. ‘Forgive me elf, a curse upon my haste. Now my life is owed to you as well.’

Silval nodded, at once gaining his feet; though his hand remained at the dagger in his belt.

Meanwhile, bells of warning began to knell around the city walls. In the streets and lanes below, came the clamour of folk rushing to man the defences.

‘This iron is of goblin-make,’ muttered Disintar, peering down at the crude gravings along its length.

‘Do not touch the thing,’ warned Elvra, as he stooped to examine it. ‘Evil skills wrought that dart. It may not yet be power-spent !’

‘She is right,’ agreed Mendor, regaining his composure. ‘The serpent lies still, but venom is in its head.’

‘Look you,’ cried Dalen, peeping over the rim of the window-sill. ‘There is fire and smoke in the forest, aye, and trees a'felling. The city is at siege!’

And in this, the pixie spoke truly.

Away beyond the outer ramparts of the Mendoth, great curls of smoke were billowing from the forest floor, and tall trees were toppling into the inferno!

Then, as Mendor and Disintar peered cautiously out, they saw that atop Orenburg's twin peak, there now was revealed a mighty structure of menace; coal-black it was, and capped by a huge contraption of cold iron, braced and barred and strutted. Corded bands stretched and strained from the rigging, screeching hawsers now dragged relentlessly at their moorings and goblins danced about the infernal works. Suddenly, the machine released a missile, streaking across the gap that separated both hills. A moment later, it smote a nearby tower, sending debris cascading into the streets below.

‘That thing is like unto a giant arbalest!’ cried Mendor, in alarm.

‘The Nugobluk delight in such invention,’ replied Silval, grimly. ‘It is best that we do not stand openly at windows.’

‘Of course,’ muttered Mendor, removing at once. ‘Have them shuttered and curtained all,’ he directed Disintar. ‘By day or night, any within this city will be target!’ He took his Marshall's arm. ‘Come, we must go down at once and see what can be done. We shall be needed urgently!’

The pair hurried off, leaving the others in the hall to themselves.

‘I am sorry that I have brought you to such plight,’ Bayondir apologised. ‘Still, maybe there is little safety beyond the walls for a far way. And,’ he went on, almost cheerfully, ‘Mendoth city has been besieged before.’

‘Perhaps so,’ returned Falnir. ‘Let us hope its walls are still as strong as when first raised.’

To foreshadow doubt, there came a further boom from outside that rattled the mounted spears upon their hangings. Dalen jumped in alarm and clutched at Elvra's hand. ‘We should not have set foot inside the holds of men. Not for Pecht or Ellor are such abodes,’ said the pixie.

Silval plucked impatiently at his bow-string. ‘Too late now to rue the past. Here we are, for the moment, trapped. Peril surrounds us and there is nothing else to do but give our service to Lord Mendor.’

Elvra turned her searching eyes to his, ‘meanwhile, Corin Avarhli passes from our knowledge.’

‘Ay,’ replied Silval, ‘perhaps we shall never meet again, after all. First though, we must survive this new danger, for only then can we hope onward.’

Through that day, tall towers of hewn logs began to grow from between the far-off tree tops that remained standing, and on those rising platforms creatures, ant-like, swarmed. Already, watchers from the Swathe were streaming in with reports of much activity in the woodlands below. Any folk grazing flocks, were herding them headlong toward the cover of the walls. Bands of refugees from farmlands in the valley, could be glimpsed hurrying up the slopes, with all that they could carry and muster gathered about them. At the edge of the Swathe, watchers lay hidden in thickets or perched in trees, to act as rearguard for those pursued by the enemy. Soon, these folk too, were falling back and the gates of Mendoth closed fast. By late noon the city was barred and bolted, confirmed at siege.

Some days went by without any heavy assault, though at times, huge arbalests and catapults pounded the walls with iron shot and on several occasions numbers of the nugobluk dared come within bow-bite of the citadel. But these were merely reconnoitring parties, drawing fire-power, seeking weaknesses at various points and sniffing the lay of the land for advantage. Imps scuttled about in the dark nights, searching for chinks in Mendoth's stony defences, or ways to poison the water supplies. Many were hurled to death, impaled within secret pits dug about the perimeter. Others were killed by sharp-eyed archers, as they crawled into range of arrow-loops that slotted Mendoth at ground level.

So the days fitfully passed with little further happening, yet the activity of the foe was very much in evidence. Slowly and surely the forests surrounding Orenburg's heights fell and dwindled, fodder of fire and black-soot labour, as ever more towers and engines of destruction arose, like an army of giants, to confront those locked within the confines of the city.

After eight days, the echoes of the rending and hewing of timbers fell silent in the valley of Indlebloom, and an evil quiet descended. No bird sang, and no sound issued from below, where now it could be plainly seen were encamped many, many of the enemy.

‘There are thousands of Nugobluk, abiding and building amidst their evil inventions,’ said Elvra, searching the distant slopes with her far-seeing eyes.

Falnir nodded, shading his brow with a slender hand. ‘Ay, goblin, imp and troll, all are massed there. And too, I have glimpsed wild creatures with them: wolf, bear and boar, bent to their design.’

‘I wonder where they have come from?’ Silval Birdwing mused, leaning through the parapet embrasure. ‘Why have they arisen once more, gathered together like days of old against Elfame.’

Elvra drew back a curl from her cheek. ‘A wonder I own, whom be their leaders? Who has sent these fearsome creatures to make war against men?’

‘Chieftains of the goblins, no doubt,’ answered Bayondir, who was out upon the walls, taking the day-warm to heal him.

‘Perhaps,’ answered Silval. ‘Yet they have the look of a plague, growing and gathering, feeding on anything about them. I have a feeling that there is more to this than we know. Elvra feels it too. The Nugobluk and their allies stand against Mendoth city, but behind them, we guess, is something more, something supreme, even above their callous cruelty.’

The elves continued to watch the silent slopes.

‘Though what that might be,’ Silval pondered, ‘I cannot guess.’

On the evening of the eleventh day since their arrival at Mendoth, the Nugobluk forces began to move. At first it was an almost imperceptible crawl, as the siege forts shuddered on their rollers and wheels, sawn of solid tree trunks, whilst around them, in the sundown shadows, massed the armies of the goblins. Tall trolls levered the broad-based machines slowly upward toward the Swathe, or dragged them on huge iron-linked chains. At points they struck fires, kindling whole trees and stringing rush brands to light the ponderous advance. Thus was Mendoth Citadel ringed by the oncoming throng.

When night had fallen, those upon the walls looked down at the grim sight below, where shadows bent and swayed and swelled on every side, and though the parapets, bristled now with spear and bow, and many a helmed head, they were dismayed. Still, that night there came no full assault. At intervals, light exchanges took place; diversions, maybe, to keep the defenders from rest.

But when morning greyly dawned out of the west, the suspense-filled watchers saw that their enemies had been hard at work. Burrowed and tunnelled, had they, installing the structures and platforms as near they could to the walls, and cunningly entrenching themselves amongst the trees that yet stood at the edge of the Swathe, not more than three bow-shots from the very stone whereon strode Lord Mendor and his marshal Disintar.

‘See now,’ exclaimed Mendor, as he stared out dolefully at that menacing sight, ‘the hordes are nigh to us, Disintar. Have your good lady-wife and all other women and goat'uns away from these heights. Bid them leave their men to men's work, and get them ready to feed and bathe and mend, ere battle breaks.’

Disintar hesitated. ‘Er, my Lord, what of yon elf...er, lady?’ He gestured toward Elvra, who stood at a little distance, athwart an embrasure, her gaze bent, as her bow, waiting.

Mendor's eyes flinched, and in a brief moment, something hidden within them was betrayed. A swift flicker was all required for the Marshal to guess that his lord did not completely approve of her presence. After a silence, Mendor said, ‘She is an elf-maiden. They fight like men, I suppose.’

Disintar half lifted a hand, then smiling to himself, hurried off.

Sieges are waged, wont to go on as is their style, for long time. Those taking part do dastardly things, or brave deeds. Loved ones are lost, fighting and failing, killing and being killed. So it was for day and night thereafter at the hill of Orenburg, in fair Indlebloom Vale. Fair, that is, until evil haunted its ways, crushing the springing flowers as they opened to the sun. Instead, war flowered, and the citadel withered at its blast. As time ebbed by, Mendoth's assailants crept closer, pace by pace, through the broken trees, over the rutted earth, where before them had rumbled their engines of despair, until they were flinging death into the very streets of the city.

Day by day, night by night, the foe pressed the attack, so that it seemed to the inmates of Mendoth that fear grew like a sallow weed into a deadly poison. A poison that spread, corrupting all the lands of Indlebloom, drawing up and up in a strangle-hold about the throat of the last keep on Orenburg hill.

The enemy pounded against the walls with shrapnel: iron, ball, stone and wood, and pieces of things that had once been living creatures, and that were now beyond recognition. Then, how the goblins shrieked and gleed. How the folk within choked, horrified. How, on those devastated slopes, the last, solitary pines bent, and bemoaned their own mutilated and dead.

At times, goaded to savage action, Mendor and his most daring ventured out on brief sorties; but at great cost. No victories did they win, nor much infliction reaped they against the goblins. Instead, they barely held their ground, until falling back, repulsed and routed.

On one such sally, Mendor's troops returned exhausted. Disintar had suffered a spear thrust beneath the pit of his arm. Gorac, a captain of the men, had foolishly lost his life, riding against a score of foe. Dorch and Feara, a pair of doughty fighters, had both endured blade hacks to the legs and Corcair, close friend of theirs, was carried off by two huge trolls, to meet a red death.

So it went, until Mendor would send no more, despairing to see his countrymen slaughtered. Instead, he paced the walls, as stone by stone, they were worn down.

At dawn of the twentieth day, the three elves and their pixie companion gazed out over the desolation toward the far distant green of the west.

‘It is time we forayed forth. Remaining here is like unto dying for me,’ said Silval, finally.

Elvra nodded, sadly. ‘Aye. Flying or dying out there in the world, mid the trees, is worth more than prison-dwelling here. No help shall come to us. The city must fall, and within it fall we, if we stay. I vote that we strike out at eventide against these bogle goblins.’ And here, she shuddered.

‘If we do,’ said Falnir, grimly, ‘I shall save an arrow for you, my fair maid. The Nugobluk will never have us at the end.’

Dalen the pixie swallowed hard. ‘Cheer, cheer,’ he squeaked. ‘They do not have us yet. Maybe we will find our way through their ranks.’

Silval clapped the pecht's shoulder. ‘If any of us do, best make for our people on the southern coast. Perhaps King Elberl can be persuaded to send a force, though none here, I believe, shall live to see them.’

Falnir sighed, ‘It is hard to die from the world, for we who are so long lived.’

Elvra reached out and stroked his brow. ‘It is harder still for men, shorter lives have they. And after all, living is a peril fraught with risk and danger. Be thankful. We have seen much and survived. We have no reason for complaint if death is to be our end now. Take heart, be fair, let us look toward night and go forth in courage for our own esteem, and Elfdom's sake.’

The four clasped hands and hugged each other to bosom. That their hour was upon them, they felt nigh-sure, but one and all, they took comfort from companionship. So it was, that the four together, apart from mortal men, made their secret compact, whilst the agonied day groaned on and the throbbing pull of palpable night drew nearer.

The elves slipped over the wall. Down their precious, threaded marline they went, and into the crushed grass that desperately strove to raise its bent stalks out of churned dust.

It was false twilight.

Not a good time for the eye. Not for creatures, even of the night, whose sight has spent much day adjusting, and must readjust to the last twinkles of sun and the long shadows that needled past in the streaming rays.

But what need goblins and trolls, ringing a near-ruined city, to fear? Men had ceased their useless sorties, and in any case, none that dared further could possibly break through. Night's onset, for the Nugobluk, was a time for revelry, for fire and gorging, boast and chant, weapon forging, frenzy-swilling, prowling, stealing, tapping at walls, scufflings, scurryings, bickering between each other, and if the victim was available, a little torture, before tearing its head off, or roasting it from the feet upward.

Pickets, of sorts, were out. Trolls loomed, motionless as trees. Their dim minds, stunted as pollards, rooted to simple tasks: catch, rend, kill, eat. Quasi-trolls and Halvers, troll-kind mingled with the blood of other clans, including stupid, lumbering Hobs, were hobbled like horses, to roam over small areas as watch-pads. Anything that came within their circles, they snapped up, even imps; for Halvers were too dull to know the difference, or care. Perverted wolves too, were there: great, gaunt, rib-protruding beasts, ripple snouted, slaver-teethed, jaw-chompers. They slid through the night; easing from shadow to next, eyes eager for prey, always ready to pounce.

Into this savage, twi-lit world then, entered the elves; fair-browed folk, whose soft-falling feet had once walked the lofty forests of Elfame. Whose eyes had beheld beauty unknown by any in the North World. Whose lives and minds stepped backward into the distant past, recalling memories of happier days; days that had once basked the earth, from daybreak to dusk.

These three elves, and their pecht-kin, fleet-awayed across the empty spaces where tree-felling had left them bare, but for root, and stock and stump. By these alone did they make their silent path, until they reached the undergrowth, broken and trampled, yet offering some cover.

Downslope they slipped, coming to the wide, open spaces of the Swathe, now choked with the encamped enemy. Several times, the four escaped danger, without detection. But a moment came when it was plain that they could go no further. Before them, thick as briars, stood or squatted, played and quarrelled, a roistering band of the Nugobluk. Try as they might, the elves found no lessening of this living barrier circling the Orenburg.

Still undiscovered, the four were crouched between several paths of crowding, hurrying goblins; hope of escape now shed like a worn cloak. Even Dalen, chilling in his throat to think of death, brazened each scurry from hiding to hiding. Grimly, they crept on, determined at the last to do the enemy some mischief, before they fell in the midst of the foe.

Then, a strange cry brought them to halt, hiding hunched and wound in their elvan cloaks, weapons: knife, sword, bow, held close at their thighs. Only elvish eyes, glinting from that shadowy hold, gave innocent look of star-shine.

Again came a babble of sound, jeerings and chantings as if a coup had taken place: the breaching of a wall, maybe the fall of the city. Yet it seemed that the sounds had come not from that direction.

Fire, in ring upon ring, sprang up about the four as a whoop of excitement and the sound of a human voice raised in protest, defiant, mingled and choked to a forlorn whimper. Someone had been taken by the goblins and all of their evil kind were marching, converging toward that central point.

‘Now,’ whispered Silval, ‘is our only chance to slip through unnoticed.’

But Elvra laid a hand upon his bow-arm. ‘Wait,’ she said, ‘wait! Though time is not for the losing. Who is to go, and who to stay? There are still folk behind us: men and women and children of theirs. Yea, but a moment ago we thought to die from the world. Now we can go free. But what of them? And what do the Nugobluk find such glee in?’

Falnir, who was keeping watch at their backs, whispered, ‘I shall take your lead in this, Birdwing. Though if you choose that we take our leave, we will never know who the goblins have captured...’ The elf left the sentence unfinished and waited, whilst his companions struggled with their thoughts. The moon, in its last quarter, timidly appeared from the mask of clouds, faintly illuminating their faces so that they seemed pale and unreal.

‘Very well,’ nodded Silval, after a breath of time, ‘we will go and see what we may, yet let us keep escape at our backs, if fly we must.’ So saying, Silval arose and began to descend, the others following close upon his heels.

Swiftly, they made their way down toward the road that wound away into Indlebloom Vale. At that point the dark land lay silent and empty. They had passed beyond the goblins, who it seemed were clustering upslope. Keeping to the burnt and maimed trees, the elves began again to climb, daring to come up behind the encamped enemy.

Within the city, Mendor and his followers had harked the clamour and raised themselves from fitful sleep where they dozed at their stations, or tossed in their cots. Hurriedly, the Lord of Mendoth hastened to the walls, in time to join Bayondir and Disintar, who had struggled from his sick-bed despite his wife's pleas. Already there, were several of the city's best men, amongst them Dariondir and Erlscoth, two roan-riders and horse trainers of renown.

It was Erlscoth who reached Mendor's ear first. ‘Sir, those foul creatures have two captives. Twice now they have led forward a pair of roans, upon which are bound and covered figures. That they are men, I cannot say for certain, yet earlier we heard cries of distress.’

At this, Mendor started forward, wiping the blear-sleep from his eyes, to peer between the broken stones of the walls. There away, in the open spaces of the Swathe that faced the southern gates, there now was a great ring of fire. Hundreds of dark forms flickered in and out of the flames, too far for bow-shot, but well within human sight.

After a short while, four lumbering trolls led out a skittering team of horses, bearing riders stripped of all garments save rude rags wrapped about their nakedness. Their faces were covered, wrists and ankles thonged in such way that they were tied to their mounts. In the light of the flames, even at that distance, could be seen the cuts and welts inflicted by their captors. The horses likewise, were cruel treated, withers and flanks flecked with blood, heads shying in fear.

From the goblin ranks there strutted a mannish-tall figure, Ugush, by his size and barrel shape. He was black of skin and garb, indeed it was hard for the men upon the battlements to discern exactly where his war-dress began and ended, so leathery was the face that stared savagely up at them. Its slanted eyes glittered yellow, and its tongue flashed bright blue, between rows of jagged teeth.

Brandishing a fierce, scythe-shaped weapon, the goblin hailed them in a voice both strident and harsh. ‘Ho, frail people of Stone-Hole, hiding! Gutta snaf! Ho, folk who bestride the four-leg meat: Ogger tuh tari! You craven nose-runners! Shië-tarun. Nak, nak! See here what we Nugobluk have taken, two of your dung-mouthed and their beasts. Soon I, Skragga, Ugush Captain, will roast and eat them, before your stinking eyes! Sharc-sharc! Nattuu! Come out and save them, Coward-Dogs! Come out and die now. For your breath is but a sore-blight. Your lives, but scabs to be picked. Come out: curs, stone-mongrels. You are as bladders, filled and emptied, warm, weak. Dry into ground. Only your stench is left. Cuff! Aht-brus! Sharc! Watch, Rabbit-Dung! Soon these vermin will be meat in our bellies, their bones picked clean and heaped at your gates. I, Skragga, will play you a death-dance on their jaws and set flame in their grinning skulls. Cower in holes, scum! We will break your walls and eat you next. Shuk-tu! Cah-cah! ’ He hawked a gob of spittle and spat it, as an adder spits yellow venom, upon the dusty road at his iron-shod feet.

On the battlements, Mendor gasped and choked a mingling sound, half horror, half anger. ‘Dariondir,’ he said at last, ‘find Jaromir, if he is well enough to ride, and Thithric his squire, and Picdor and Sticus too. Bring them and their best followers to the north gate, and await me there.’

Turning to Bayondir and Erlscoth he cried, ‘Well, what are you waiting for? If you follow me, to horse! We will ride out from the far side of the city in two parties, one east, one west, to charge these foul creatures from their flanks. I cannot stand by whilst they butcher helpless folk. Who knows, they could be my Brothers. Go, if you will. Go quickly. Make ready, and find Lastardir and Norbirt, and anyone else you think able. I shall be along presently. First though, I wish to speak with Disintar.’

Straightway, the men took their leave, hurrying off to their appointed tasks; a feeling of doom growing in their hearts.

‘Here, drink of this,’ laughed Mendor lightly, snatching up a flagon of wine left standing in an alcove, for to quench the watch's thirst. Yet his merriment was hollow, and Disintar knew it so.

‘I must go with you,’ he pleaded, guessing Mendor's answer, whilst his lord filled a cup. ‘I am sure that my wound has healed rather quickly. Quicker than Cyon expected.’ He grasped Mendor's arm and winced with the sudden pain from the spear-thrust, not near closed over.

Mendor caught his wrist, and gave into Disintar's hand the wine. ‘I must go, dear friend. And you must stay. Do you not see that? Two of my Brothers have gone already. They, it may well be, out there.’

‘But you have little chance of return,’ objected Disintar, overwhelmed. ‘What hope have a few men against those hordes? Why, I am told that even the elvish folk have vanished; stolen away. For they cannot be found anywhere. And they could not have knowledge of the flight-tunnel that leads from this stone to the Tol Maen barrows. None of the few who hold that secret would have spoken. It seems that they foresaw this doom, and chanced escape over the walls.’

‘And so,’ returned Mendor, with a wry smile, ‘go out, or stay in, the end shall be the same; yet not without my last-breath struggle.’ He patted Disintar's cheek, gently and affectionately. ‘Drink the wine, good friend. And be the leader now, to the end. Someone needs be. For it seems that the house of Mendoth draws to a close.’

Chapter 40 [next]