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Varlarsaga Volume 2 - Recovery

Chapter - 45 The Mighty Fear

A powdery coat of snow mantled both horse and rider.

It dwindled down in white drifts at Corin's back so that his hooded head and shoulders, forearms and thighs, Darkelfari's nose, mane, croup and withers were thus covered by the silent, falling veil.

 

It was several days since the pair had set off and as best Corin could judge, they were still travelling west, bearing southward where possible. Yet the peaks were rugged and formidable and marched in long, unbroken lines both east and west, so that it was necessary to journey many leagues before passes opened that led south toward the lower country.

At first, the going had been fairly easy; the stony road wound down to a narrow valley below the hermitage, past the running streams of several icy falls from the peaks above, on to the open scars of the coal cuts, then forking away left and right.

Corin had rejected the eastern passage and turned Darkelfari's ears west, riding for some time until the trail petered out in a wilderness of strewn boulders and scree, often treacherously hidden beneath banks of snow.

Too late, fearing pursuit, Corin saw that return was now fraught with danger and so he and his steed pressed ever forward. From then on Darkelfari picked his way with infinite care, sometimes sounding the going with one cautious fore-hoof after another. Still, the pursuit did not come and the ground improved to a degree such that they could press on with confidence for a while.

Yet only for a while.

Many times the way led up, around the broad hips of mighty mounts whose shoulders and heads, higher still, challenged the sky. And so they went, following ledges no broader than a man's arms can span, or stumbling blindly through snow-fall over broken ground. Through nameless valleys and icy streams the pair wandered; Darkelfari enduring the shocking waters, or Corin leading him, splashing across together.

In the still, silent nights they journeyed on, whether by moon's glow, or the soft radiance of Lumallin that yet emanated from the elvish clothing beneath Corin's outer vestments.

They ate sparingly and slept little, though neither seemed deprived for this. It was as if both were unneedful of sustenance or rest. Almost it seemed that they drew strength from some reserve within themselves, as water is drawn from the deep well. Perhaps the strengths were dual and passed from horse to rider, rider to horse. At any rate, bearing all hardship, neither gave way to melancholy from want of the other. Always between them were encouraging words or affectionate nuzzles, as they struggled out of what appeared to be the attic of the world.

Only one regret had Corin. Not, certainly, that he had sought and found much at the hermitage, for abundant was the learning he had gained there in company with those strange folk; even though he suspected that they may have plotted his death, or at very least, his imprisonment. And too, at the hermitage he had learned the meaning of The Stone of Remorse, and had come to be united with both steed and companion; the great black horse Darkelfari.

No. The thing that nagged at Corin was that he had failed to leave a sign of his departure and direction, in case the elves returned. But as he consoled himself, there was no safe way in which he could have marked his passing. Still, as he had first decided, his task was to make haste and come to them before they set forth in search of him. Where his friends now were he could only guess. Perhaps Silval and his company had come to Kurigaldur, or returned back again into Indlebloom Vale, if they had survived the perilous homeward journey. Or maybe they had come to their brethren elves at their landing in Aneurin's bay, there on the strands of the North World where they had claimed foothold.

Then something else struck him. No matter, he thought with a new and sudden bitterness, that I come never to my friends again! And he knew that through the knowledge gained from The Stone; the Kavenga, Star-path, he must journey by the ways of the earth into the far south-west, whether he encountered his once-companions again or not.

 

For some time Corin rode astride Darkelfari, bowed down as if an anvil was chained across his shoulders, and it came to him that, as the pull of death drags men to dust, so the pull of inevitable duty, the task from which one cannot withdraw, holds sway over all else. Such quest meant forsaking desire, or greed or want, or need; even love.

He raised his head with an effort and found that the horse, perhaps heeding his mood, had uplifted his own arched neck, shaking out the fine mane and rattling his black lips across his teeth. With a swift turn of brow, Darkelfari cast an eye to Corin, and it seemed that the horse spoke, somewhere deep in his rider's heart;

Harken to me Master. Come now, lift your hopes. I shall carry you. Depend on my hock and sinew, for I am yours and you are mine. My legs and back and might and mien are yours to bid. For myself, I demand not much of you; only a little concern, and you shall not want from me, not for all the life I have to give.

And then Corin gazed upon Darkelfari in newcome wonder and he thought, How could this creature, this blessed animal wish to stay with me when he could have his freedom?

But in this very thought the horse answered, I, free willed, shall remain with you. All the freedom I desire can be had at your hand, since I know full well that you would release me if I wished it so. Whatever, you are my friend, and also my Master; my only Master on this earth.

For a long while after, as they went, Corin thought on this and he was both pleased and puzzled; here, carrying him, was a horse never trained to bridle or bit, but still he endured a rider. And, it seemed, he forbore only Corin.

 

 

A melting, dream-like world, a wold, a forest of icicles and dead, frozen stick-trees danced by Corin's outward stare. Inward, his thoughts had wandered to rapture, then to terror. Only the horse under him balanced his mind between real and otherwise. Darkelfari carried him through the starkness of white air, blank ice, stone, mud, frost-snapped breath; and the mighty fear. That Mighty Fear which kept Corin's hands from loosing his steed's mane, kept him hanging on as the young stallion smashed down the snow barriers and flew the bent bough, tumbling drifts in his wake.

 

Vast and broken lay the peaks of the North World behind them, but not defeated were those wild ways, for even beyond them lay yet more forbidding and ominous bastions; the realm of uncontested might and menace.

But for this time Corin and Darkelfari made away from such terrors, down to fells and deep sided valleys; the sure-footed horse finding paths where none existed, near falling, scrambling up, stifled in the mire of snow-melt, onward pelting.

And still, The Mighty Fear flickered in Corin's mind, as haunting in its way as The Voices had ever been. Over and over The Fear repeated itself: behind lay the mountains of the hermits, frozen and empty, though somehow Corin knew that on the further side of their domain was another realm, a dread realm, ice-locked, hidden and awful. What dwelt there, or was buried, encased and doomed, he could but imagine. It was said that the World Lord, Valandir the Drotnar had fallen there, together with a Maadim of the Underworld, the She-wolf Sköl. That place, the witches had named Earth-Eye, Shanilar, in the country of the Jutunn, the savage giants, an evil, wild land from all they had said. And that was yet only a part of The Mighty Fear, for it was as much what lay in front of them that chilled Corin with apprehension as that which receded at his back.

A new-born alarm sprang into his mind; a sudden realisation that whilst he had been lost to the world, cut off from all other events, the world had moved on. What had happened in Rî-mer-ri or Kutha-Kesh, Indlebloom Vale, or for that matter in Ravenmoor? Surely events had come to pass in the time of his absence.

And it was this unknown, and the consequences, that left him filled with dis-ease. The World, Varlar, was moving, with Powers motivated by both good and evil, that he well knew; yet more, he suspected, the balance had shifted for the worse. Amidst this he was caught up by The Mighty Fear, for he had a place in the future of Varlar. If he so chose, he could continue the quest laid out by the witches, perhaps to his downfall, or even that of greater folk and their realms; maybe even the world. Or might he do nothing? Shirk everything and slink away into hiding. And who now, if any, could he ultimately trust? Elves, men, witches, the hermits? All this, he observed, was a part of The Mighty Fear, and that was itself a fear of the unknown. What lay ahead belonged to the future. He could go back, forward or sideways, skulking across the earth, yet he could not escape or avoid the future.

No matter what I do, he thought, that is all around me. Of the future, there is but one escape, and that is death.

 

And so it was that Corin rode on, pursued, harried upon all sides by the unknown, the uncertainty of what might lie ahead, and not only of that which he might encounter, but of unremitting time itself to come. The Mighty Fear of fate and time oppressed him bitterly, as the freezing land about Darkelfari and he, shaped to enclose and engulf them.

They had come a far way, these two who now seemed bonded, united by plight as much as devotion. The wind loomed at their backs from the north-east, the light was fading. Corin felt faint and bone weary. Darkelfari plodded, his proud head nodding. Their food, the pittance, was gone. The days had fled by. Time now, for them, was meaningless. The very vastness of the yawning territory behind stretched like a towering panorama, awesome and stark. But no heed to such paid they now; the painful, weary way, the snowy blizzards, the abrupt, inexplicable calms all were passed. Corin, vulnerable and spent, hung grimly on, worn down as a stone is worn by the sea pouring back and forth, rolling it against the ocean bed until at last only the pebble of a stone is left.

Darkelfari too, staggered. This horse, this great-heart by very deed, neared the limits of his last road. His strength of body, for one so young, was nigh gone. He slipped in the slush and lurched sideways. Corin, swooning, toppled.

They let me free. Gave me a horse to steal away. Why? Why, if they meant me harm, was I allowed to escape? Could it be that the horse is their servant? Is he to be my executioner? Did the hermits, unable to bear murder, make it easy for my leave taking, so that Darkelfari might throw me into some swift stream or over a cliff to death? Corin groaned, a pain pierced his head, just behind his eyes. He felt as if his arms and legs were twisted round and round his body. With an effort he forced his eyes open. All seemed utterly black, as if he had completely lost his sight. Then, out of the darkness, looming blacker than the night, a weird form bent over him where he, prostrate, lay. For a moment he was horrified. It was Darkelfari, and the dream that was yet fresh in Corin's mind caused him to drag an arm to his face in pitiful order to fend off the hooves that he felt sure were about to strike.

Then, in his terror, he saw the sickle moon emerge in sombre majesty, its cold light sweeping the world. The snow about him lit up, stars high above came blinking out and he saw that Darkelfari appeared asleep, standing, flank turned to windward; a living barrier against the elements.

Near frozen, Corin slowly, laboriously forced himself upright. His left arm had been pinned beneath him in the fall, as were his legs. His brow was cut open; a jagged wound, though not deep, and blood caked his cheek and beard. How long he had lain thus he had no idea but it was certain that the faithful animal had saved his life by shielding him from much of the weather. Corin reached up his stiffened fingers and touched them to the horse's muzzle. At once Darkelfari opened his baleful eyes, concerned, then pleased to see his master somewhat recovered. After a time of chafing his limbs, Corin managed to stand, supporting himself against Darkelfari's shoulder.

‘Well good friend,’ Corin whispered, shaking with exhaustion, ‘it seems we deceived ourselves, thinking we could go on without food or sleep altogether. We must come to the lower country soon, and there find sustenance, for it is plain we cannot travel much longer this way.’

But for answer, in his thoughts, the horse replied, Raise yourself onto my back. I can still bear you, the sooner shall we come to sweet grass and warm meadows.

Then Corin did as Darkelfari bade him, and through the night to near morning they plodded on.

 

 

The first sign of life they came upon was a snow hare with a white body and black tipped ears, tail and feet. It sensed their approach and left off its nibbling in the snow, hurriedly bounding away. Where it had been, but a moment before, was a tiny patch of pinkish red; lichen or mosses of some kind.

Soon lone pines appeared, most of their foliage growing at ground level, the branches higher stunted, the buds probably snapped off by whirling ice. A misty border-land of heath and little bell-bloomed plants began to emerge: purple gentian, laurel, yellow ranunculus, long-stalked soldanella and strawflowers. Far off a hawk beat the sky, away into early morn.

Thankfully, the pair went forward, warmed by the sun and lifted in hope, for every bend revealed some new plant or creature to enthuse them. At one place, in a circ, four small deer sprang up from the hollow and dashed off. Lower down a curious marmot sniffed the chilly air, watching as they passed. Further on a huge Tarsus eagle crossed their path, clutching a breakfast for the young in some distant eyrie.

Then, in a kind of protected alpine meadow, a covey of ptarmigan rustled through the grasses and vanished as the two worn companions halted to rest. Corin dismounted, leaving Darkelfari to crop the young shoots that sprang amidst the drifts of snow. Far below in the miniature valleys that fell away one after another, like an expanded landscape that draws the eye on and on, Corin could make out birch and mountain ash, and amongst the stands of trees were creatures: great long-horned ibex and urial, the wild mountain sheep, with their heavy, curved horns. Nearer, a young stoat darted out pursuing a butterfly as a kitten might, and a tiny pika hurried off to its hole.

A little rest and food, thought Corin, and our strength will return. We shall come down out of these high ways yet.

And so they did.

The pastures grew greener and lush, the going easier. Corin ate mountain mushrooms, raw bird's eggs, roots and herbs, which he now easily recognised, for such had been a part of his training with the hermits. Darkelfari browsed the clover. Together they began to recover.

 

One day they journeyed into the head of a long valley, down from a lofty pass that broke upon the back of a timber-clad ridge. Here the music of bird-song was absent, and nowhere amidst the vast stretch of woodland could sound or sight of other creatures be observed. As the pair entered this silent region, a long-faded memory stirred in Corin's mind.

‘I know this place, these great halls of trees,’ he whispered into Darkelfari's ear. ‘This is Malthace, The Sanctuary of Trees. West and south, across the mounts, lies Indlebloom Vale.’ In that first encounter amongst lime and sycamore, elm and oak and yew, where they bent about the two, there was a faint warmth, a leafy embrace as of welcome.

It was only after a day's steady ride that the way began to alter in some subtle manner. The trees, though in full leaf, seemed sombre, their branches drooping despondently, as if a blight had stricken them. All, from the brightest holly to the fair maple, sagged listlessly. It appeared, the deeper Corin and Darkelfari ventured, that a disease of heart-wood slowly creeping, radiating out from somewhere further in, was killing the trees as it spread. The avenue they travelled grew darker and narrower, until it closed to a lane that led through the valley; perhaps a path of long ago abandoned to all but the forest creatures. Yet there were no creatures, no birds, not even insects. Corin began to wish that he had some kind of weapon and bade Darkelfari halt whilst he broke off a long, straight ashen branch that made, at least, a sound staff. The crack as the timber snapped echoed through the woods, and after that all grew still more grim and silent.

 

Into the night they continued, for though the way was dangerously cluttered by gnarled roots, Corin dared not stop. The shadows cast by the faint glimmer of the last-quarter moon seemed to hold malevolence deep within them.

They were moving at a goodly rate when, from above, a creature foul and horrible dropped, clutching at Corin's shoulders with steely claws. In an instant the goblin wrapped its knotted arms about his neck, the glint of jagged iron bobbing wildly before his eyes. At that moment Darkelfari bolted, thundering down the aisle of leering trees. Hard in his ear, Corin could hear the savage laughter of his attacker and smell the reeking stench of it as they were jolted along, locked together. Releasing the staff, he grasped at the goblin's wrists to stay the slitting of his throat, but the creature was wiry and hideously strong, breaking his hold and screeching into his ear, ‘Rarkarh Unblac!’

Then as they struggled, the wicked blade poised, the goblin rising up like an enshrouding bat, it suddenly let out a sharp shriek, smacked hard in the head by a low branch and was dashed off, to be lost in the darkness whilst Corin and Darkelfari careered on, the horse clearing obstacles and rushing headlong through the grasping tendrils of foliage; or were they searching, clutching fingers that he eluded?

A creature the size of an ogre or troll loomed ahead, barring the way, but Darkelfari at the last possible moment, swerved aside, crashing between the trees into a dense thicket. For a brief moment the pair were plunging through darkness, then the way opened before them and they burst free.

The air seemed stifling and the ground crunched beneath Darkelfari's hooves. Smoke was on the wind, covering the moon's thin frame with a yellow haze. About them now, tree-stumps glowed red with angry coals and away to the south there rose a dull, orange glare that lit the sky beyond the hump of a distant hill. The acrid smell of fire filled their nostrils so that Darkelfari veered from it, galloping over the already blackened earth past crackling boles of burnt-out pines and charred skeletons of thorn and berry, up to what had once been a woody eminence, but was now no more than a funeral pyre for the animals trapped upon it.

 

Nigh to morning, Corin and Darkelfari toiled their way up the winding slopes where flames had earlier passed, there to gain the heights of a ridge that ran both north and south. With a sinking heart, Corin guessed that this was the Icknaldir Chain, and as the daylight grew, he saw that he was right. Away in both directions, like a thin and rutted ribbon between the devastation, wound the ancient road; worn down by time and withered by fire.

Leagues to the south-west would bring them to Mendoth citadel, and that way he determined to go. But again The Mighty Fear tore at him with a chill grasp and he dared not contemplate what he would discover. Still, the thought struck him that the ridgeway was a far safer place to be than down below. From there he could watch before and behind, as well as Malthace Forest to his left and Indlebloom Vale to the right. Yet the further they travelled, the less he liked what his eyes beheld. More often than not the green woods beneath his gaze were marred by broad swathes of brown and black where fire had left its mark, and on the horizon there lay a grim pall of smoke.

 

Late that day, horse and rider came to a fork, another path that led off down through the stands of mountain ash into Indlebloom.

After halting for a short while, Corin decided to take this unexpected route, since he and Darkelfari were in need of food and water, neither to be found on the ridgeway. And too, the going appeared easy enough, untouched by fire all the way down. Riding cautiously into the valley, he found a place fit for Darkelfari to graze and whilst there, collected for himself some wild plums, a few berries and some nuts.

Having partaken of this small repast and with Darkelfari much rested, the pair went on their way as evening closed about them. No moon was to be seen that night, for the old had passed and the new would not come for several days, and so it was that they journeyed by starlight and the faint glow of lumallin cast from Corin's elvan garments where he drew open his black cloak in preference to the gear beneath. Then he was mindful of the Elloræ and their gifts to him. Still he wore the light shoes given by Queen Goldal, and the jacket from her daughter Alluin, though he sorely missed the sword of Bel-Thalion presented to him by King Elberl. And as he rode, he suddenly remembered the little shell that the Princess had thrust into his hand on that night by the sounding ocean, which now seemed so very long ago. Feeling for the draw-string pocket, he caught it up and brought it forth to his ear and he heard the sea, to his lips and nose and he tasted and smelt the salty wrack, to his eyes and for a fleeting time he saw her face and form, far off on that distant shore and was made happier by the vision.

 

In the morning, the path they followed ended, joining a larger road at right angles. This too was deserted. ‘If I am right,’ mused Corin aloud, ‘northward lies the Mirthin Mountains and beyond them Erilar in the country of Dorthillion. Thither way south then should take me to Mendoth.’ So saying he turned Darkelfari's head for the city, hoping there to find friends and safety.

 

Through the day the young horse galloped, Corin desirous to reach his destination before another nightfall.

The sun had passed its zenith when the pair halted at the flowing head of what Corin guessed to be Lin-Dlenn. Before them lay the culmination of many small streams, running swiftly together from the higher ways, to terminate at a wide fall that Corin glimpsed through the trees ahead. He could hear the roar and boom of the water below and eagerly pressed on for a sight of it. The road wound down around a bluff and over a brow and though steep, was not impassable for any on horseback.

Beyond the close-knit trees the falls pounded, blotting out all other sound apart from the water dashing upon rocks beneath. The way turned between two narrow shoulders of stone and with caution Corin approached this menacing gap, which was barely wide enough to admit a brace of horses hauling cart.

The sight that met him brought a gasp of horror from his lips. Everywhere, by the roadside, by the thunderous torrent, by the still pool beyond and floating in it, were bodies; the bodies of men and goblins. The pool of Lin-Dlenn, the beautiful pool, had become a nightmare of horror.

Darkelfari backed away, shying his noble head.

Aghast, Corin regained himself somewhat, coaxing the horse forward so that he might search for sign of the living. Alas, none there, friend or foe were left to breathe the air on that grim day. To Corin's left, prone upon a flat rock that appeared a strong point guarding the gap, lay the bloodied body of a man. In his death-tightened hand he yet clutched a sword, and embedded by the fangs in his free arm was the severed head of a Gark. The man's throat had been slashed and his feet hewn off, but dearly bought was his doom, to judge by the torn and mutilated strewn about the place of his last stand.

Suppressing his revulsion at the scene of carnage, Corin leaned forward to where he could reach up and prise the weapon loose, forcing himself to stare at the drained, ashen face and the black, blood-stained garb without recognition. He was not to know that this was Rohilkhand, liegeman and captain to Minca of Dorthillion. Nor was he to know of the events that had led to the slaughter.

In the end, Corin discovered little else that might indicate the outcome of the battle, save that it appeared the men had met their enemies whilst attempting to hold the narrow way northward. The only other thing he found was a strangely wrought dagger of some odd looking metal; bluish it was, and hilted in silver filigree. It was a finely worked piece and reminded him of the curious elvan designs, though how that could be he did not know. In truth he would have missed it altogether, hidden as it was beneath the face-down figure of a man, yet the metal had caught the sun, flashing as he passed by the hideous pool and he halted long enough to retrieve it. Apart from that, there was nothing more to do. Some thirty men and scores of Nugobluk lay about the battle site, too many for Corin to cover alone, whilst the living awaited somewhere ahead.

Swiftly he and Darkelfari picked their way through the scattered corpses, to venture south once more, every sense alert lest they too be set upon. As he went, Corin recalled old Cennalath's words, 'We rode away from Mendoth's walls at dawn. By noon we came to Lin-Dlenn.'

‘A morning's ride, and leisurely at that,’ Corin muttered, looking at the sun. ‘If we make haste, there is a chance to reach Mendoth before night... Mendoth and safe haven.’

 

But long ere the heights of Orenburg and its companion hill could be sighted, Corin's hopes began to falter. The unmistakable smell of smoke drifted on the wind and Darkelfari's nostrils flared with dread. Still Corin urged the horse on, a horrible fascination to know the worst overcoming his fear. To the left, the ravages of fire, black and drear, appeared; many the noble trees that had foddered it. Further, and it was clear where the flames had leapt the road. Soon both sides lay in ruin, raised and smoking. Dead creatures were there in numbers: tiny, innocent things caught in mid-stride, mid-shriek.

With mounting fear the pair raced down the tormented road and as the sun faltered amongst the ragged peaks of the far ridgeway, Orenburg hill came into view. But now the spires of Mendoth, once all blue and gold and red and yellow, were no more. All that remained were the shattered, half-standing, pitiable remnants of what had been.

At this sight, Corin called Darkelfari to a halt and the brave horse seemed eager to obey, for ahead it was plain, lay death and more than death. Yet to Mendoth led the path, a path Corin could not turn from until he had seen for himself.

 

So the weary pair, despairing, came at a slower pace to the weeping windows of the broken city. The watch-swathe upon the hill was singed bare, the debris higher, a smoking heap. The western gates were crushed and splintered, the walls about seared by the ravages of fire. Figures of men and women too, hung across the battlements. The scorched streets and buildings, blasted and torn, pillaged and emptied of all but the dead, echoed to the clop, clop of Darkelfari's hooves as they plodded the looted ways, where lanes and alleys were heaped with the bodies of inmates and enemies alike. The citadel of Mendoth, and all within it, were silenced.

By the last light of day, Corin fired a fallen torch and bore it through the streets, hoping to find signs of life. But to no avail. Apart from forsaken pennons and the rags of bunting fluttering on a smoky breeze, nothing moved. There was not even an enemy left alive to give vent to Corin's growing rage and helplessness. Even Darkelfari seemed to protest each anguished, lonely step.

Without, might walk all the wolves of wild-dom; but within, only Corin and Darkelfari's two hearts still beat.

 

At sunrise, worn, cold and anger-spent from frustration and sorrow, Corin made ready to depart the devastated walls wherein flames still roared unabated. Even if he had felt hungry there was nothing to be had anywhere, only a little tainted water from a solitary well by what had been the cook's galleys and a few wisps of hay from beneath the upturned mangers of the Lord's stables; but of the three Brother Lords themselves, there was nowhere a sign.

And that was all.

Excepting as they passed in the cold, grey light of morning, the very gate through which Corin had ridden in throng with Mendor and his brothers, there now gaped the final reminder of what was to come, and what had come already, to pass. Pinned by many shafts and spear-points, like a scarecrow corpse against the great timber bolts, sagged the figure of Disintar; Lord-protector and Marshal of Indlebloom.

The sob and cry of utter sorrow and dismay, Corin retched unto himself, as Darkelfari bore him away down the cold road from Mendoth. Down and down, until the sombre flat of half-burned gorse and brambles, and out into an undulating land that, to Corin's misted eyes, had become a choked dream-world; unreal and filled with unnecessary horror.

And so the pair went, Darkelfari choosing the path, Corin clinging blindly on.

Into mid-morn, without pause they continued, until the country grew so sombre, solemn and plaintive that Darkelfari seemed charged to slow and Corin was forced to cease his mourn, his tears, and raise his head.

The sun was yet to west, but nearing overhead. Below them lay rounded turf-covered hillocks and tumps and profound silence. How far the pair had travelled Corin did not even care to guess. He was more concerned at the hush that hung in the air about this green, untouched place. No bush or tree grew there. No sign of life, of goblin or fire, or cruelty. No birdsong. Only was there the grassy mounds, ruffled by the breeze.

Wearily, Corin dismounted and led Darkelfari through the lanes of raised barrows that marked a burial site of men. Here, he guessed, was a hallowed home for those of the bygone days. Maybe Tol Maen, of which Menkeepir had spoken. He found a lichen covered stone and slumped down, leaving Darkelfari free to graze nearby.

The wind sighed down the aisles of hillocks and the sun played over the time-worn rocks. A lone butterfly, white and plain, fluttered amongst the swaying stems.

A sudden loneliness engulfed Corin, a burden he had borne before, yet each time there came a new and different feeling. He had often been alone, even amongst many, but seldom had he truly felt that terrible solitude. He ran his fingers through his tangled hair and scratched at the thick beard, grown untended over long time.

‘I must ride toward the coast and seek the elves, if they can be found, for I need their companionship and counsel ere I take the road again on this strange quest,’ he said to himself. The sun warmed his hands and soothed his troubled brow. It was as if his vision began to revolve, his breath to slow, his thinking to cease. Voices filled him. His mind, his thoughts, all became The Voices, and they said to him,

‘Yes, do go on. Go on. Your quest is not near done. Much you must risk.

Much you must do, O Sleeper.

Seek the answers by starlight. Open the way. You alone, can this achieve.’

Then, distantly, a faint Voice, crying, ‘Is it you? Is that you, my Dear one.

Tell me... Answer...Answer...’

 

All faded and instead, into the throb behind Corin's eyes, another broken, rambling, sing-song voice wandered, high pitched, then falling. Cracked and idiot-like, the voice drew ever nearer.

‘Mid light of moon and day at noon,

the north wind sings,

and slanting sheet of hail and sleet,

the north wind brings.

There is a valley, a tumulus alley,

wherein are the mounds of kings,

and under the earth, without laughter or mirth,

lie their kingly, sepulchral things.

The wind blows o'er the grassland and moor,

sweeping the stone of their pillows;

near the banks of a stream where rough ripples cream,

overhung by the drooping of willows.

There the breeze moans,

recalling the groans of those who came long before,

scraping the soil, heaped with much toil,

by men who were sorrowing sore.

Fine princes bold and regal lay cold,

upon those marbled beds.

Silver surrounded and golden abounded,

Coronets...coronets on their...no...no...dull on their heads, ha!

There no one now goes, where the northerly blows;

not even the badger folk creeping,

nor the rabbit or hare, or hibernate bear,

into the valley of sleeping.

But the breeze tarries long,

dividing its song between crannies and nooks and soft hollows,

and branches that bend with moonbeams that wend

a way where the blustery wind follows.

There never was, and there never will be a time

when the north wind dies

away from that place in the thundering race

of the flume where the night-jar cries...Ha!’

 

Corin raised his throbbing head, eyes clearing, the sword and dagger gripped in each hand. Before him, slumped, clutching at Darkelfari's mane, was a ragged figure: torn, grimed, and quite, quite mad.

The lord Mysingir.

Chapter 46 [next]

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