Varlarsaga Volume 2 - Recovery

Chapter - 40 Minca of Erilar

The elves had come as near to the rearward of the Nugobluk as they dared in safety. Having scaled a tall birch, they looked out to where the enemy were gathered upslope, in their fire-lit droves. From there, they could discern the figures of darting imps, barrel-chested hobs, man-size goblins and tree-tall trolls. And, at the forefront, amidst those looming shapes, could they espy two horses and their burdens: men, it appeared, almost naked, bound and hooded. Even as they watched, a loud guffaw went up amongst the creatures that surrounded the captives, and they were led away from the bright-lit Swathe.

Silval Birdwing touched Elvra with a feather-soft hand, that drew the others to his attention. ‘I have made up my mind,’ he said to them through his eyes, though no word passed his lips. ‘There is nothing here that two might not accomplish any better than four. Therefore, two must go on. You, good Dalen Tree-heart and you, dear Falnir. Take leave whilst you may and come to our folk far off. Tell them of this sorry plight and beg King Elberl hurry hither.’

Falnir began to protest: ‘That will be too late by many suns and moons. Besides, our good kin may rule against such action. And what of you? Nay, we cannot desert you.’

Silval's answer was as a sharp rebuke, cutting through Falnir's thoughts. ‘My friend, you have already chosen to take my lead, and so I would have it. Elvra and I will stay on and, if chance offers, do more to lend aid. Otherwise we will follow you. Depart now, and wind-sped be your feet.’

The foursome, sitting apair, branch below and branch above, looked longingly at each other's faces. They had not spoken a word, yet well knew they their thoughts and hearts at once. After a brief moment, Dalen began to clamber down, tears glistening upon his shiny cheeks. ‘After all this,’ he murmured, ‘we are parted. Who knows to what end?’

At the elves caution, he ceased his mutterings and stood sullenly at the foot of the birch, whilst Falnir turned back to Silval and Elvra. ‘Fare thee well,’ said his eyes. ‘Come back to us fair and bright, as gay, hale and beautiful as ever. Do not forsake life for nought need. There is much yet to do, and see, and live.’ He reached for their hands and clasped them and they kissed his slight fingers.

Then Dalen and Falnir were gone.

Silval and Elvra, last of the company, waited together on the moving wands of the birch.

Any trace of their companion's departure was totally drowned in the racket of the goblin hordes, intent upon their own malevolent game.

‘They will begin to torture their captives at any moment,’ whispered Silval. ‘The better to coax those within the city to come out. No doubt there are many nugobluk waiting in the lee of the walls, midst night's shadows. Come, let us creep closer. Perhaps when Mendor's people sally forth, as I deem they will, the evil ones will be distracted from their sport. After all, they expect nothing from their backs.’

Elvra followed him on the instant, though to herself she knew the chance to be a slim one and the danger to themselves growing with every silent step they took. Indeed, within moments of their setting out, they came upon the stooped form of a hulking hob, its squat body facing up towards the Swathe. Lightly, the elves began to skirt the creature, bows drawn, their elvish skill intent upon passing the horror unseen. And yet this was not to be. Before them, rising suddenly, loomed a great, black wolf; its jaws dripping foam. Without further warning, the wolf sprang and struck. But as its teeth ripped open its victim's throat, the wolf's savage growl cut short, gurgling.

Cold elvish steel had found a vital mark. Clutched together, both dying, wolf and goblin fell over into the night.

Far afield, sped Elvra and Silval, thrice dispatching hobs encountered before alarm could be raised. All this took place in but a twinkling, the elves running, weaving between foe and tree, ever deeper into the enemy's midst. Soon, they drew up, a mere stone-throw from the backs of the goblins surrounding their captives. The prisoners were still mounted, four troll guards upon either side of the horses. Rude torches of pitch spluttered and fizzed about the terrified roans, whilst nearby, many nugobluk and their imp-slaves made ready an awesome array of torture instruments: tongs for twisting and pinching, spikes for impaling and lancing, red-hot pokers to brand and to seer, clamps and screws to bone-crush, braziers of molten metal to put out eyes and spits to roast slowly and horribly. There was much cackling and gruesome laughter from the larger goblins, whilst the smaller underlings and imps squeaked and squawked in shrill accord.

The elves held back, concealed at the edge of flickering fire-light. Nothing more, at that moment, could they do, for the nugobluk were far too many.

‘Only, let us hope that Mendor and his people may draw off some of these maggots,’ thought Silval.

And mind-wise, Elvra answered, ‘Stay ready. If all else fails, I shall send them the song of my bow, and lead away as many as will follow. Perhaps you might find chance to take horse and ride off with them both.’

‘Best hold your arrows saved for those two poor unfortunates,’ returned Silval's grim thought. ‘Oh how I wish I knew who they were. But it matters not, if we are to ease their sufferings from torture.’

There came a rush of guttural snorts and gabblings, as a sea of rough claws began to pull the captives from the horses.

‘It is too late to save them now, I think,’ worried Silval. ‘Even though folk may come out from Mendoth. Once they are on foot, bound and tied down...’ The elf's words died upon his lips.

Then, something strange was happening, something he and Elvra did not rightly understand. Nor, it seemed, did the goblins. Their harsh calls and evil laughter choked, and was stilled in their throats whilst a sound that began as an ominous muttering grew louder, then louder, crowding out all other sounds of the night, until it became an enormous rending, cracking whiplash of thunderous claps, bursting over and over in tumbling rumble.

Confused, the nugobluk turned in bewilderment toward the twin peak of the Orenburg and there saw, as did the elves, the dark bulk of that goblin-contrived machine, the giant arbalest, hurtling down the slopes, crushing flat the undergrowth and anything else, in its own end-over-end destruction. With outraged screams and terrified howls, many of the nugobluk made off in the direction of their siege engine, as it burst, broken and shattered, in the valley between the two hills.

A moment later, a band of dimly seen horsemen rounded the south-west side of the Orenburg, riding hard and fast up the moonlit road toward the summit.

Who they were, the elves could only guess, yet it was plain to see that they were not from Mendoth. The steeds they rode were black, the riders black-caped: relentless and daunting they appeared and no features of their invisible faces showed, as they swept up the road a few hundred paces from where Elvra and Silval lay hidden.

Nearer, the remaining goblins and trolls reorganised, preparing to do battle with these newcomers.

Then, from within Mendoth city itself, a great clarion of horn blasts rang out and roan riders under the banners of the three Lords, charged from east and west: the armour of their helms and greaves and breastplates dully reflecting the fires of the goblins. At once, hundreds of nugobluk leapt from hiding, where they had waited to ensnare any daring to issue forth from the walled city. And though their numbers might easily have crushed a sortie from the main gates, they were now come against fresh and unknown combatants attacking from lands beyond the Orenburg, as well as those under Mendor's command upon their flanks. Hard against each other crashed the opposing forces: horses screamed, men cried out in anger and in anguish, imp and goblin overborne, troll, hide harder than hob, hewn down. A second wave of riders raced up the north-west slopes, plunging headlong into isolated groups of the enemy, who suddenly had become the besieged. From everywhere at once, it seemed, horsefolk came hunting and slaying.

Silval touched Elvra's arm. The few goblins left about their captives were mostly gark, with but two ugush captains, and the four numb-skulled trolls. Now it was plain that they meant to slay their prisoners. Up swept the curve-bladed scimitars whilst the trolls held each victim, bent double, so that they knelt upon the ground, blinded, heads down.

The elvan bows twanged and both shafts took their allotted marks. The ugush captains wrenched and plucked at the feathered arrows in their heads, the swords fell from twitching, useless claws. Dead, fell they, into the dust. At once the trolls bowed up their dullard pates, still grasping the two captives.

In that fleeting moment the goblins about them were stuck with elf-shot, shuddered and collapsed. Those few left standing, raced forward to slay their attackers and the elves braced themselves, hard oppressed. But then, as if a marvel had come to pass, a thing unexpected happened.

Silval and Elvra were, of need, close together, their bows busy and quivers fast emptying. Indeed Silval, spending the last of his, threw down his bow and drew the sword at his side, his free arm ringing Elvra about her slender middle as she sent shafts against more than they could keep at bay.

Yet, in those final moments, whilst the two elves pledged their love and death flew at them in every spear, or waited in the slow certainty of troll grasp, the rocks about them suddenly lifted, rising and moving as if alive!

The very stone before them grumbled and crunched and crushed: grinding, pulverising. Boulders amid the trees rolled and rocked this way and that, finding the enemy as if unseen hands were guiding them. In a torrent, a slide of rubble swept down from the slope above and by that flood the goblins were washed away.

But the trolls were left unharmed, for akin to stone were they, and rock solid.

Silval, on seeing this, sprang up to draw away these now enraged monsters. A pair followed him with lumbering gait, their long arms stretched to clutch and rend the elf. Ponderous and slow as trolls may be, once started upon a quarry, they will plod on through mire and ditch, never ceasing until the hunted creature drops from exhaustion. Then they amble up and take the prey, blood-glutting, gristing the bones with their great molars. Yet they are slow thinkers, and on the prowl their dim minds are closed to all else but that which they pursue.

Silval leapt easily over the rattling stones, circling back, as the trolls blundered after him, hurling boulders from their path.

Meanwhile, Elvra continued to target the remaining pair, and though she struck them many times, the shafts skittered or snapped on impact. Still, stubbornly, the creatures refused to give chase and leave their captives, who lay huddled amongst the dead goblins and debris. Not until Elvra's last feathered shaft took one of these brutes in the eye, did the situation alter. With a bellow, the troll pulled out the arrow, eye and all. Then, as it roared in pain and fury and shambled forward, one of the roans let out a tremendous kick, the blow of which struck the second troll mightily in the rear. Ordinarily, to kick a troll, is to kick stone, but a horse has horned feet and powerful flanks. And this was the moment for an animal's revenge upon a cruel foe. With a crash, the troll sprawled to the ground, stunned, whilst the other, still clutching its face, came on at Elvra, now defending herself with no more than a knife.

But behold!

Out of the night thundered a rider. A dark lance, fully two poles in length, bent in a graceful curve, buckling under the impact, cracking into spinning splinters, shivering to pieces: though not before the troll let out a fearful moan, lifted off the ground, and was thrown down, the black tip embedded deep within its vitals. The horse careered by, its rider reeling in the saddle.

Beyond, as Elvra ran forward, she saw that the two roans had been caught up again, but this time by a tiny figure. She gave a cry of delight. For here, between their hooves, fixed by firelight, was Dalen the pixie, steadying them at rein. Out of somewhere, nowhere, Falnir appeared, slashing the bonds and cutting away the masks of the captives. Dazed, they scrambled to their feet, as Silval bounded up, ‘Entilivo! Haste, hurry! There is danger at my back!’ This he cried, as the others caught sight of oncoming trolls and goblins closing from downslope.

Now swiftly the elves bundled the poor two upon their roans and sprang away with them. The bloodied horses galloped, free of goblin claw, the extra load of lightsome elves unnoticed in their joy, as they laboured toward the walls of Mendoth and safety. Around these rescued and rescuers, flooded a tide of others: Mendor flew by at full tilt, his long lance aimed toward the rabble of nugobluk left upon the hill. Ahead of the elves, Mendoth's gates opened and a cheer was raised from those within, as all together rode through, the Lord of the city, unscathed, bringing in the rear.

Morning had come again.

The elves and Dalen waited in a cloistered chamber set aside for them, close to the Lords Hall. On a board in the centre of the room, laid out across the spread of lovely cream-lace cloth, were bowls of fruits and nuts, and ewers of water and wine. The fruit: apples, plums and lemons, were all the worse for wear, last of Mendoth's failing supply. The water was casked and acrid, not at all like fresh mountain streams tumbling and tinkling over clean stones. The foursome picked listlessly at their breakfast, again longing to be gone, now that danger was past. Beyond the window of their room, broken and devastated slopes lay strewn with the dead; empty of life but for the gorcrows and other scavengers awaiting pickings, the early birds. Soon, burials and funeral pyres and mass graves for the enemy would dot the carnaged slopes.

But for then, everything was still, as an exhausted city slept.

Dalen cracked a nut and popped it into his mouth. ‘So you see,’ he said, munching away, ‘Falnir and I were making off when we saw a great company of riders coming up the way. Who they were, we knew not. Yet we sensed no evil as they passed. Then, soon after, a second company of folk, Stonegnomes such as those we met on our way here, came stumping along, looking for all the world like rolling stones. After that we remained in hiding, and let them go without showing ourselves.’

‘And they went with a purpose. That we were sure of,’ said Falnir. ‘Then it seemed to us that relief had arrived and we hastened back, in fear of what we might find.’

Dalen laughed his quick, high peal. ‘Yes, 'tis true. And there you both were, about to be eaten by trolls. Til-Dario! Such commotion was at hand!’

Elvra and Silval smiled. ‘It is well,’ said the elvess, ‘that you returned. And here we are, reunited once more.’

‘Aye,’ agreed Falnir. ‘But I shall be pleased to take leave as soon as can be.’

‘We await only Lord Mendor's pleasure,’ Silval replied. ‘It is just a short while since he and the new-come folk returned from the final rout of the enemy, and I am sure he is anxious for news of his brothers. As soon as he has heard what those two rescued men can tell, he will send for us I guess.’

Almost as the Birdwing uttered those words, the arched door of their chamber rattled and swung open. In marched the lord of Mendoth, and behind him Disintar, both still in battle raiment. Wanly, Mendor smiled. ‘Well good folk of the elves, I have some news; not good, but certainly not the worst that it might have been. Come into the Lords Hall where others are assembled, and I shall tell the dram that I know, and you will meet with the saviours of Mendoth city.’

So saying, he ushered the four to that great hall, and therein stood waiting a score and more of people; some of Mendoth no doubt, dressed akin in armoured plate, helms tucked beneath their arms, their swords at rest in scabbards. But there were others still garbed in long, black capes that flowed from brow to floor, so that even in morning light their features were obscured, though something in their bearing gave them a proud, even haughty, attitude. One, it seemed, had the temerity to slouch across a carven chair set aside for the Lords of Indlebloom.

Seeing this, Mendor halted and said, rather sharply, ‘You may be our saviours, but there is nought need to act like Over-Lords. That seat is meant for the Lord of Indlebloom only, and since Menkeepir is not here, it falls to me next.’

There came a laugh from the black-cloaked figure draped languidly on that throne. A laugh, curiously high and strident. ‘If, on pleasure-bound journey, seeking only a favour from your absent Brother, we need become siege-breakers for those who cannot make do themselves, hey, why yes, Over-Lords does have a pleasant ring, think you not, oh plow-horse of the family Mendoth?’

Mendor and Disintar both took a step forward, but the figure before them gave a lazy kick of the black-booted leg cocked over a carven arm and stirring, stood. ‘Oh very well, you may have your treasured seat. Certainly was it fashioned for your highness's rears. I rise now lest you take me to task and put me over your knee to spank. And lest I let your weak blood pour upon this floor, hey?’ At that, the speaker threw back the masking hood, and a woman's raven, tangled hair tumbled loose about the dark features of a free and wild-eyed face: full lipped, straight nosed, nostrils flaring like a young, defiant animal.

Mendor halted in his stride, then turned upon his heel to the elves. ‘This,’ he said, with more than a little displeasure colouring his words, ‘is the High-Lady Minca of Erilar in Dorthillion, over the Mirthin Mountains in the far north.’

‘Correction,’ said the woman imperiously, ‘I am the Lorda Minca, Warrior-Daughter of Wolfian, last Lord of Dorthillion, which contains not only Erilar the city, but also all the lands thereabouts. In other words, Dorthalonë proper: its towns, villages, outposts, roads and farmlands, forests and rivers. Any coney that makes its burrow there, bears allegiance to me. An ant may walk from dawn to dawn there, but I own its feet!’ She spoke these last words emphatically, her dark eyes never wavering from Mendor's. Then, almost girlishly, she spun to the elves, who stood somewhat uneasily amid the folk of mankind. To Elvra she said, ‘It was I who toppled that brutish troll coming for you. Your bowshot took its eye, but I took the kill.’ Minca paused a moment, appraising the four. ‘So you are elves, hey? Well be not troubled. I have had truck with them before, up in the far forests of Dorthillion's borders. Though they were always a cautious lot. Are you of their kind?’

‘We are from over the sea, south-away,’ replied Silval. ‘Yet we would be pleased to hear of such kindred.’

‘Hey, I warrant you would,’ laughed Minca. ‘And you shall, in time. But now to matters in hand.’ She turned with a flourish. ‘First, meet my courageous Captain, commander of my guards.’ A tall figure stood forth from the others, doffing his hood as he came. He too was dark of hair and eye, lofty of jaw, with brown, tanned skin and regular features. ‘I present to you Rohilkhand, minion amongst my subjects. Peer to me, in most ways. Valiant and true, honourable, courteous, and gentle. A one who makes the men of Indlebloom blush and titter like so many little girls.’

Rohilkhand remained silent, but smiled briefly, embarrassed at the praise lavished upon him.

‘A man more worthy than any one, nay three,’ she went on with a flash of boast toward Mendor, ‘in this unhappy land.’ She waited for a rebuke from Mendor, though none was forthcoming. He stood, begrimed and ominous as a storm cloud; feet four-square to the flags, whilst Disintar fidgeted at his side. ‘Aha! The fish bite not today,’ Minca declared, and a wicked, beautiful smile crossed her face. ‘Very well, my Lord Mendor. I have had my sport. Say something, lest those here carry you to a niche and set you there for future generations to gaze at.’

Mendor stirred. ‘Why came you here with an army at your back, if you needed come at all?’

Minca studied him a moment, amused it seemed. ‘As I have already told you, for a favour. I travelled with my followers because this land, unlike my own, is wide and wild. It is safer so, and lucky for you I did. Else the gore-crows and vultures might be dining, with you as main course. By hap, nothing more, we encountered those stone-gnomes on their way hither. They were not coming outright to your aid, yet they do have a graven hatred for the evil foe. When we heard their news, we at once made haste with them. A timely arrival, hey?’

‘And what is this favour you seek, having ridden all the long and winding roads to Mendoth city?’ asked Mendor, impatience streaking his words.

‘That which I seek does not directly concern you or Menkeepir, but rather your youngest Brother,’ she returned. ‘Still, I have no objection to airing my thoughts before you.’ Minca raised her voice somewhat, so that all might hear. ‘For the three years past, ever since the Lord Mysingir first made visit to Erilar, he has plagued me with his dirges of adoration: poems, posies, love-notes, trinkets, flowers even. Birds have flown to my windows bearing baubles. Riders, post-haste, have ridden to roost; Erilar their coop. Gamesters have brought their swans, and rabbits and deer beside; all banded with cooing words.’ She placed her hands to her hips in consternation. ‘By the fires of my Forefathers, one was not bold enough to lift a fish from the brook for fear it might hold a message in its mouth.’ Minca threw off her cloak, to reveal a black tunic and tight breeches beneath, and closed upon Mendor until she was but a pace away.

‘I want this stupid wooing to cease, for I tire of his pursuance. Mysingir is but a boy, and an airy one at that: too pushy, too soft. And I will tell him so, face to face. Sick I am, sick and tired of his petitions. If, and when he becomes a man, he will not want me, for I shall be ancient then. His quest is hopeless. I am Lorda of Dorthillion. A puissant King, aye, I might wed. Or even a great knight or nobleman. But a singer? A minstrel? A young boy, head full of nonsense. Nay. He needs blooding. And all his time has been spent in wasted words and gestures; words and music. Words and suiting. I care not for those at all, fie upon them! So! At last have I come to cease this simpleton's simperings. Why should I find any love for him, when men such as Rohilkhand dwell in my domain? Why should a young pup, bereft of all but the most girlish of gifts, thrill me?’ Minca clapped her hands together, twice, thrice. ‘Hey! Be done with him, say I. And therefore,’ her voice dropped quietly, ‘I come for this reason, that you two elder Brothers aid me allay such fractious ardour, and that Mysingir himself quell his foolhardy heart, to seek maybe a maid of softer tone. One who head-turns more easily than I!’ At this, Minca clenched her hands into fists, bringing them to her face. ‘Do me this boon, and let me be!’ So crying, she finished with a thump upon Mendor's mailed shoulders.

He looked at her coldly. ‘What my Brother can see in you, I cannot,’ he replied. ‘She-cats are not to my taste.’ And for a fraction, his eyes flittered to Elvra, then he went on. ‘For mine own choice, I am agreeable. I shall do my best to dissuade any alliance between Mysingir and yourself,’ he paused, ‘even though every man, woman and child in this city owes their life to the Lorda Minca.’

Minca waved a hand, the curl of a smile playing about her lips. ‘Pish! You owe me and my people nothing. Long ago, I am told, my kindred were saved from similar fate by yours. The debt is paid. Wolfian my Father would have been pleased.’ She sighed, and her arms fell away from Mendor's neck. ‘Well, you and I, Lord Mendor, may not like each other muchly, but let us hope our mutual desire is achieved.’ She took a stride or two up the hall. ‘Now,’ she went on, ‘just where are your Brothers? I would have expected them here by now. Not hiding under the bedclothes, hey! Do not tell me, let me guess. One is inspired in a spire somewhere, all a'dream, whilst the other is installed, plunking a lyre and composing a trite love song.’ She laughed, openly and contemptuously. ‘Hey, I'll give him love song!’

More annoyed than he could contain, Mendor caught up her arm and held it fast. At that, Rohilkhand reached beneath his cloak for the blade hanging there. Disintar drew a sword. The others moved like angry surf. The elves too, stiffened, waiting the outcome.

‘Stay!’ commanded Mendor. ‘Stay all! I have heard this Lady of Dorthillion out. Now I shall speak!’ At once he set about telling the tale of Corin's coming, and the departure of his brothers out into the perils of the wide world. When he had finished, Minca's face had turned ashen beneath her nut-brown complexion.

‘Do you say that they have gone beyond these walls of safety, a mere handful against the wilderlands?’

Mendor released her arm. ‘Yes. They have not been seen since their entry within the mounts of the Colle-Oba. Those two, captives of the nugobluk, were of Menkeepir's guard. They tell me that there had been a rock-slide inside those treacherous passes. Whether any survived the Cindered Mountains, they could not say; for they were hopelessly separated, and so turned back to Indlebloom with their news. Thus were the pair caught by goblins lurking along the Icnaldir Way.’

The hall and all within fell silent. No one moved or spoke. The elves alone conversed with each other through their eyes.

At last Minca said, ‘Well, we must venture to find them. I shall provide my forces. Rohilkhand will lead them... I will go, of course. We should do all possible...’

Mendor looked at her, wearily.

‘And what would that avail? It must be done, I know. The passes need be opened, yet that will come far too late to help my Brothers.’ His words were slow and solemn, all eyes were upon his face, as he clasped his hands together in uselessness. ‘Either they survived to go on, or they lie now beneath the stone.’

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Minca's eyes filled with tears and she began to weep. Then, the proud and haughty Lorda of Dorthillion sagged to the cold floor of Mendoth Hall, her head bowed low, her sobbing the only sound.

Still, in that sobbing quiet, did another sound, faint, reach the ears of those within. The elves heard it first, and ran to the great, arched windows as others followed. Below, voices were raised from those in the streets. People were standing, staring upward, pointing, running in panic. Some, upon the walls, were sending bowshot skyward, others were scattering.

‘What? What is it?’ shouted Mendor, shrugging off the dolour of the hall.

Beneath, a voice amongst many, reached the hard sill from whereupon he craned. ‘Dragon! Fire-Drake! Dragon! Lord-a-mercy, save us!’

But the elves had already spied it: the wings spread wide like bended sails, the long tail streaming in the wind, and they alone knew. Their true-sight saw first the creature upon its back, between the slow-fanned wings: Pitrag the imp, it was, riding alone upon the back of Sgnarli, their dragon!

Chapter 41 [next]