Varlarsaga Volume 2 - Recovery

Chapter - 47 He'Remon the Wizard

And so the three living, exalting in the sun's warm bounty, paid homage to the unfeeling dead.

‘How long,’ Corin wondered, ‘have they lain thus? How long ago were these folk alive: thinking, breathing, warring?’

He gazed down at the weightless, paling hand that he held; Elberl's hand, and he said, ‘Was it so long ago, dear Elf King, that you and your kindred welcomed me to that far-away island? Was it so long ago that you led all your peoples on a great migration to this wild North Land? And you have come this distant path, to meet death. How my heart sorrows for you and your Elloræ. Sad, is it not, that you, of a kind longer lived than others, chance, and leave. Beyond, does the infinitesimal spark of you yet find a haven? Do you come to loved ones of the past in some remote garden? Do you live again across the stars in another world of moon and sun? Are you already become a part of another tale? Is that where Talba's gondola ventured? Out there, somewhere beyond the deep earth, the middle marches; beyond the furthest shores?’ Corin lifted his moist eyes, and they were bright with hope. ‘Perhaps the stars have known you over all eternity. Perhaps it is that we each continue in fields anew, through all time...’

‘It may be that you are right,’ answered Mysingir, dreamily. He was holding Corin's free hand, and looking intently into his face. ‘Your eyes,’ he said, ‘are glowing with a radiance I have never before seen; so clear, like pools filled by fountains. So bright; bright as the risen day, sharp as mountain air, sparkling as gems. Somehow, in the midst of carnage, I feel my madness passing.’ He was shaking, his hands a-tremble, lips quivering; shoulders, weak from exertion, heaving. But his words were distinct and certain. Only in the margins of his eyes, glimmered still the traces of insanity that had consumed him.

‘Is it so queer that I should come to my senses amidst the ploughed furrows that death sows?’ he wondered aloud. ‘Horror drove me to such climes, and now horror drives me back to remember and relive: to see it over and over, yet see too, the light of your eyes, good Corin. You are...’ he hesitated, ‘whatever you are, the death around us has brought me back to reality; a reality that might have hurled me forever into the pits of madness but for your being. In you, there seems a strength which seeps into me, once more.’

Drawing a breath, Mysingir stood, and held his footing. ‘Please,’ he said, his voice quavering with emotion, ‘take my arm and rise with me. Lamentation needs be ended. We must seek safety, somewhere in these ravaged lands. Now that I am come again to myself, I can be of aid; wherever we are bound.’

The youngest lord of doomed Mendoth City in Indlebloom said this, and meant it too; though he was not to know that he would never again be quite his old self. Still, of course, there was wisdom in his words, for they were mightily vulnerable in those open fields. Somehow they, the living, stood out almost obscenely amongst the russet-dead elves and the heaps of their grotesque foes.

Everywhere, ragged, hung the standards, the pennons and banners, the swallow-tails and fish-tails of the Elloræ, and amongst them were scattered the broken spears and sharded scimitars, the wolf and bat ensigns, the cracked lance hafts, axes, scythes, thick hacking swords, and black, shredded flags of goblindom.

Corin took Mysingir's arm and rose, though he was much wont to tarry by the Elf King's side. Yet he began to realise that little more could he or his companions do; to attempt burial of Elberl's fading body would be both a folly and a travesty in such a place. And so he said, ‘We will take the King with us. If his people still survive, they shall give him fit ending. Find, amongst these fallen, some wrapping cloth right for his Lordship of Elves, and seek too a shield or the like, that we may lay into the hollow this precious form. I shall cast about for anything else: weapons, I know, we need, and supply of foodstuff. Though none, I guess, here to find. The dead offer up little. Still, I would look upon the dead. Some, I fear, I will know. But I must see them, to carry the tale of their fate, whilst I live.’

To this, Mysingir nodded silently, and set about the task given him. Corin meanwhile, began an aimless wandering, reluctantly searching the faces of the fallen. Wherever he looked, he expected the sight of some familiar elf, and at each pace, recoiled at the prospect. At length he was relieved, seeing Mysingir complete his work, when suddenly he came upon two elves lying together, back to back. Both, he knew at once; Malva and Mîren Yellowmorn. They had fallen, smitten, fighting hard it seemed, for about them were opponents deep.

Reverently, Corin bent close to look the last at his friends. Their eyes were slightly parted, and yet in them was neither agony nor fear. Only the expression of ended life. In their slight hands, still clutched, were the worn-down, broken stumps of useless weapons. Without a tear or hesitation, Corin gathered them, like two children, into his arms. Then, slowly, he bore them back to where Mysingir and Darkelfari awaited, the fading body of Elberl already in the pan of a shield.

‘I would take these two with us, ’ said Corin. ‘Will you bear all, dear horse?’

Darkelfari inclined his curved neck, and stood ready.

Mysingir, reading the sadness in Corin's eyes, went about the preparation. Soon, the bodies of the two brothers were lashed into the hollow of a second shield, and Corin and Mysingir mounted their gentle steed.

Nothing was there left to do, but still Corin lingered.

‘We must be on our way,’ said Mysingir.

‘I know,’ replied Corin. ‘My eyes have drunk full fill of this desolation. And somehow yet I am drawn to it; the stench of death, the very vastness of this disaster, near shackles me. At once, I feel revulsion and fascination; as if I am anchored by the riddle of what life is, and how close to it death hovers. The nugobluk, as foul in death as in life, horrific in their hatred and malice and evil, with a look that almost tells of their love for death, albeit their own; even they are pitiable and pathetic. It is as if they, the administers of pain and torture, have revelled in the final hurt, their own destruction.’

He waved an arm in frustration and repulsion. ‘Look at them. Look! Can death be such a delight? Almost, by their grinning masks, it would seem so. They are stiff with death, and still their clutching claws reach out to destroy!’

For a moment, Corin faltered; choking, pondering. ‘Or is it that they too reach for life? As others do. Is it that life is just a touch beyond their grasp, as life and death are but a breath apart?’

Mysingir, his arms about Corin's waist, answered softly, ‘To be sure, I thought, in my madness, of such things; for my mind was much occupied by them. But now I've had a stomach full; aye, up to the neck. Dead goblins unmove me.’

‘All death moves me,’ said Corin simply, ‘even theirs. They were enemies, yet they possessed a wonderful gift; a gift no less, because they were as they were. That gift was life, taken from them, as from the noble elves. And thus are they rendered mutually.’

So saying, Corin braced himself and urged Darkelfari forward. ‘I have seen it now,’ he continued, ‘and perhaps understand a grain more; the great Elloræ, clothed for us in righteousness, in the shape of good, doing the deeds and weaning Men to such, are the guides. Yet to weigh the scales for balance, to show the opposite of good, there must be the wild, the wicked, the untameable; though not all necessarily evil. Some amongst their numbers are merely goadable, bendable, easily led. They, once caught up on that road, become our enemies. Though even they, eventually, are brought to nothing. And I, in life, am humbled at their fall, by the Majesty of Death. For the elves, I am distraught. But as for these piles of rotting foe, I am reminded; all are levelled in the end, the good and the evil. It is ours, whilst we are unlevelled, to rise, or to fall.’

They went their way, Darkelfari mindful to pick a careful path, Mysingir deep in thought, perhaps pondering Corin's words. Corin himself, steadied, alert, yet inward gazing, as if both in the world and beyond it.

Behind them lay all the accoutrements, the baggage of war and its result.

The wide field and reddened lake was a grim sight, in total contrast to the bright day about them. Already, the cry of many prey birds heralded the approach of what must surely follow. Even so, Corin was strangely confident that the bodies of the high folk, the Elloræ would not be further desecrated. Like so many autumn leaves, he felt their remains would wither; tasteless to the gorcrows and vultures, and in the end, be swept away and lost forever.

From these thoughts, as they onward rode, he found solace in his grief.

Now, with he and Mysingir and Darkelfari, there journeyed three more, three fallen: Malva and Mîren and Elberl, once King of Elfame. Without much plan or guide, they plodded west and south, striking for the coastline. The grassy, rolling downs, crowned with wildflowers, varied little as they travelled. All that held them to any line was a wide, trampled verge that seemed to mark a path of retreat and pursuit. Here and there, ugly bramble carts lay overturned; their loathsome loads spilled out upon the crushed landscape. Here and there too, were the skeletal carcasses of dreadful beasts that had drawn them. Such creatures were beyond description; utter caricatures of animals, slaughtered where they fell, perhaps to fodder their foul masters. By these signs it appeared that the remnant of the Elloræ army had fled, with the goblin hordes howling at their backs.

‘I guess that we are cut off from your elvan folk,’ said Mysingir. ‘Between them and us, most likely, a host of goblin troops are gathered.’

‘I know it,’ Corin replied. ‘Things seemed turned against us. At any rate, I have been thinking; evening is at hand and it may well be better to seek shelter. To go on in these strange regions is to invite disaster. In the dark we might easily blunder amongst our enemies.’

‘Well,’ said Mysingir, craning his head, ‘we could make for yonder distant knoll.’ He pointed to a single, conical hill some half a league onward to the north-west. ‘We should come there before night, I think.’

Corin nodded, ‘It is somewhat out of our way, but I agree. If we have already been seen, and I do not doubt the lands are full of spies, we may as well be there as on the downs. The new moon rises, and hopefully will show us any that approach in time to escape. Besides, we need rest, and now that I have you back from your mindless wanderings, there is a great deal to be told, each to the other.’

By twilight they drew close to the knoll, and riding up its slopes, made an interesting discovery; a tumbled stonework, overgrown and broken, that crowned the hill's brow. Once, in the long ago, it seemed that folk had dwelt within those ruined defences. It was impossible to guess who they might have been, yet upon reaching the summit, Corin and Mysingir glimpsed a single standing door, or gateway, on the furthest side. That it was an entrance, they could but surmise, for any walls about were long fallen. Still, the uprights were there, and the capstone and lintel; all squat and square and solid. The curious thing was that both of them would have needed to bend low in order to pass through.

‘It appears not of men's making, and certainly not of elvish work,’ muttered Corin, leading Darkelfari over the crumbled ruins, there to free him of his burdens for the night.

‘Aye,’ Mysingir agreed as they settled in, ‘and I wonder who they were, and where we now are, for that matter.’ He began unwrapping a bundle of gathered weapons from a furled Elloræ banner. ‘Only this much can I tell you; the lake back yonder, I knew existed, for Brother Mendor used to prowl these regions, and I recall him saying that the rolling downs were pleasing after the drear marshlands of Alder-Carr. Yet he said too, that they gave way to dun wastes south-west and north of the lake lands.’

Corin nodded thoughtfully, ‘Much the same as the dead country that the elves and I passed through on our way from the coast.’ He peered out into the gathering night. ‘Well, here, wherever we are, we need stay till daybreak. I doubt that I shall sleep, for sleep seems to elude me often, and I would keep vigil over the living and the dear dead, and take a waking rest, as elves do.’

So they set about making themselves comfortable in that lonely place; a scant amount of food and water they divided, the greater portions to Mysingir and Darkelfari, whilst Corin contented himself by first choosing elvish swords, bows, and quivers of flighted arrows from their stock, as he munched on dried bread, and thence took to beating the broken boundaries of their refuge.

‘Tell me,’ he said at last, passing close by Mysingir, where he lay, arm out-thrust across weed-covered stone, ‘what do you recall, since last we saw each other in the high mounts beyond Rî-mer-ri?’

The young lord raised his weary head. ‘It all seems dream-like to me now,’ he murmured, distantly. ‘We rode from the mountains and so returned to Rî-mer-ri. Then after farewells, homeward; bound over the desolate regions that led to the land of the Hiung-Nu. Through that passed we safely, though Etzela and his wild folk pursued us every step of the way; until they were waylaid by a goblin horde out of the north. Thus we reached Kurigaldur, where we were reunited with Brother Mendor and Minca, Lorda of Dorthillion.’

For a moment Mysingir paused, his thoughts filled with her image, then lamely he continued, ‘The elves and their dragon creature, flying out of the north after leaving you there, found us, and having watched over Mendor, and our own riders, departed without ado. I can but suppose that they desired to come again amongst their own. Later, when we were somewhat recovered, my Brothers and I, together with our folk and Minca's, bade our goodbyes to Orsokon and parted in peace from Kutha-Kesh. All the way to Malthace, that unruly ogre stayed with us, and was of great aid, for if ever a boulder or tree blocked our road, he cleared a path. True, there were some who distrusted him, yet he was right faithful in our service and deserved his payment of casks filled with his prized blood wine. We left him there in that strange forest, and continued on up into the high country where winds the Icknaldir Chain, and so down to Orenburg and Mendoth city. Oh, Disintar was glad to see us all alive, for as he told, he and others had had many visions of evil: premonitions of destruction and death, both at home and away...’

Mysingir coughed, smothered it, and sat up in the moonlight, shaking his head and wringing his hands. ‘Dear me. Much of it comes back now, yea, too much. Poor Disintar, my oft' time companion and guardian, was right, as right to the doom of the city, as to his own doom.’

‘Then you know of his fate?’ Corin queried, gently.

‘Aye. Our defences were destroyed, walls breached everywhere, so that the goblins raged through the town. And even whilst that foulness busied themselves, I led a pitiful few into the Lords Hall, to the last hope of escape; the hidden tunnel, dug generations before, that strikes deep beneath the Orenburg to emerge amongst Tol Maen's mounds. But there, as I ushered them into that secret passage, I glimpsed a terrible sight, through the windows overlooking the south gates. It was Disintar and the last of our followers, fighting on until all were slain and I, in agony, could not come to their aid...’

‘Your grief is shared,’ said Corin, ‘for Darkelfari and I reached Mendoth citadel after its fall, and met there no living creature.’

‘Strange,’ Mysingir answered, his voice pitched higher, tears welling in his eyes where the moon glinted upon them, ‘a mist covers most of the time following. I was the last to leave... Then the long, cramped struggle... Wavering lights... And sudden darkness...Suffocating darkness...The tunnel collapsed! Then you were with me, inside the barrow. Though how that came to be, I cannot fathom. And later... We were at Alder-Carr… Last I recall myself kneeling at your side amongst a field of slaughter... And the sun upon my head...’

Corin nodded where he stood, the arch of the silvery moon about his brow. ‘You have done well to recall as much of that nightmare as is needed, but for mention of your Brothers. Did they survive, for I found no trace of them at Mendoth? ’

Mysingir took a long breath before he answered. ‘No trace to be sure, since both were long departed. For his part, Menkeepir delayed the Lorda Minca and her folk after our arrival, hoping to convince Dorthillion of the urgent need for permanent alliance. He too, foreguessed what was to come, and only by united strengths of the realms of Men, thought he to stay the rising threat. So he set himself the task of winning Minca's favour, a daunting task in politics alone. I know,’ he added ruefully, ‘since I could not win it in love.’

‘I guessed as much,’ said Corin, not unkindly, as Mysingir went on. ‘Still, it irks me less now, her not caring for me I mean. Perhaps it is just that I have tired of pursuing her, perhaps I have changed and am not the callow fool any more, I do not know. Howsobeit, Minca seemed content to dally with my Brother. It is in her nature to enjoy a good argument, no matter be she in the right, oft' that is of little concern to her. At length though, her liegeman Rohilkhand persuaded her to set out, homeward bound. It was him, I deem, for he was loath to tarry in our city, let alone our land. I believe he did not trust us, or at best, was wary. Maybe home-sick; who can say? In any event, to the last, Minca would make no assurances of her support in time of trouble, claiming that the debt between Indlebloom and Dorthillion was full paid. However, Menkeepir, after his success with the Kurigaldans, undertook the journey with her, in the hope of appealing to her peoples and thus bringing pressure that she could not ignore.’

‘Did they take the road that led by the pool of Lin-Dlenn?’ Corin asked this, as a vision of what he and Darkelfari had chanced upon there, flashed before him.

‘Why yes, that way is the most direct to the passes of the Mirthin Mountains,’ Mysingir replied, unaware of Corin's apprehension. ‘Of course it was a goodly sign when the ogre appeared out of the wilds, three days before their departure.’

‘Brôga,’ said Corin, hopefully. ‘Why had he come to Mendoth?’

‘For the usual reason, "Brôga-come-see-you-one-day-more-blood-wine!"’ smiled Mysingir. ‘Yet when he appeared at the walls of Mendoth, somehow lumbering through our watchers unseen, he came close to being struck full of arrows and ending his days as a porcupine. And but for Mendor, who happened to be there at the time, such would his fate have fallen. As it was, Mendor spake with him, and allowed the great hulk to pass our gates unharmed. Once within, the ogre told us that Malthace had begun to harbour evil, more so than even he could stand. And besides, we gleaned that he missed our company.’

‘Or your blood-wine,’ added Corin wryly.

‘Aye that too,’ agreed the young lord. ‘Still and all, he was not an unwelcome sight, shaggy brute that he be. And when he heard that Menkeepir meant to travel to far-off Dorthillion, he demanded to go. There was no stopping him, and of course he wanted payment. Especially when he learned of Erilar's famous vineyards.’

Corin could not refrain from smiling. ‘You mean that he wanted to see the vines, the grapes?’

Mysingir nodded. ‘When he was told that he might crush some, he banged his stone club about, saying that he would bash them to pulp!’

At this, Corin had to laugh, though keeping it subdued, considering their plight. ‘I see,’ he managed after a moment. ‘Well let us fervently hope that Menkeepir and Minca are still watched over by him. But tell me of Mendor. Where did he go?’

Mysingir sat, thoughtful a time, then said, ‘After Menkeepir's departure, Mendor deemed it necessary to take a force to Alder-Carr. He wished to bring them within Mendoth's walls, since he felt sure they were not strong enough to withstand a determined assault. He left Disintar and myself in command, promising to return swiftly, and away he rode with some hundreds following. Yet after many days had passed there was still no sign of him, and by then we ourselves were beset.’

Mysingir's voice faltered, ‘Perhaps in the end, stupid errors cost us the fall of the city, though I doubt that with all our combined forces, could Mendoth have survived; such was the number and ferocity of the goblins.’ Mysingir spread his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘What could we do? Dragons sailed the air again, blasting the towers and courts. These we fought off, maybe arrows found their marks. But how long could we have held out?’ He shook his head, the unruly hair and beard flowing. ‘Not long, not long at all. Between the rams, the dragon raids, and the goblin siege-towers, we were lost. The nugobluk were of vastly superior strength; more and more could they have thrown into the madness of war, and few, ever fewer were we. At the end it was too late, too late to think of anything but the honing of blades...’

Corin looked out upon the wide lands spread before him and there saw the starlight reflected on many waters, lakes most probably, in the north and south. He sighed, and there was a long pause. ‘Well, I see now,’ he said, ‘and after all that, you need tale of me and my doings in the snowy wilds.’

So the night wound, Corin explaining, telling of his arrival at the Hermitage and thereafter unto his departure, and the adventures and sufferings endured by he and Darkelfari.

Eventually, towards dawn, he ceased. Mysingir was nodding. The sun, still hidden, played rosy about the western horizon. Then, faint and far away, came a sound, soft and repeated as it drew nearer and nearer. Alerted, Corin watched, his eyes roaming the darkness. Darkelfari snorted awake, suddenly roused. Mysingir muttered from his doze and stumbled to his feet, hand to sword hilt.

Soon, out of the black south, came the unmistakable slow-winded flap of wings bearing a course that would take their maker close to where Corin and his two companions stood. ‘A dragon maybe, or some giant bird,’ groaned Mysingir, drawing forth the blade of an unknown elf warrior. Corin held his breath, and rigid, strained for sight of the thing. There, beating eastward, raised the shadow of a benighted form across the distant slash of dawn. Dark it was, and huge: no bird, not even the great eagles, could grow as large as this creature appeared.

‘It is a dragon!’ Mysingir exclaimed, lifting his sword arm to shield his face from the growing light. In a moment, the serpent vanished; swallowed by the night, and its wing-beats began to fade into the east. With a sigh of relief, Corin turned toward Mysingir then, in alarm, cried, ‘That blade emanates light. Sheathe it at once!’

Sure enough, the sword was glowing with a blue brilliance that pulsed and faded, and pulsed again, so that Mysingir's face was lit, until he plunged the weapon within the scabbard.

‘A curse on my stupidity,’ he said in consternation, ‘I had eyes only for that monster.’

‘And it is too bad, and too late now,’ Corin answered, holding up a finger, ‘listen!’

Even as he spoke, the far-off wings steadied in their rhythm, then the sound veered sharply to the north as the hefty bulk slewed round in an invisible arc, and came thundering back.

‘We are naked on this hill top,’ Mysingir cried. ‘What can we do!’

‘Nought but stand and fight,’ Corin replied grimly. ‘It is pointless to run, and nigh hopeless to stay!’ And as he said this he chose a green-flighted arrow from the quiver at his back and set it to the elvish bow. ‘Arm yourself likewise,’ he shouted, whilst the roar of wings grew louder. ‘Perhaps a lucky shaft will save us!’

As the words leapt from his mouth, a huge form loomed out of the night and a spout of red, like tongues of fiery lightning, licked across the clouds, and there it was in all its dreadful majesty!

Darkelfari reared in fright, but steadied at Corin's touch. Mysingir drew bow and aimed. Corin too, raised his bow, then stayed both his and Mysingir's hands at the last moment. The dragon roared overhead, and Mysingir, fair amazed, turned to Corin. ‘There are shadowy folk upon that creature. Are they elves?’

‘Indeed they are,’ replied the other cheerfully. ‘And unless my eyes are mistaken, our friends Silval and Elvra are amongst them.’

‘But the dragon?’ Mysingir queried in wonder. ‘He is much bigger than I can recall.’

‘Even so, it is Sgnarli, I'll warrant,’ laughed Corin, ‘though he has grown since last I saw him. Oh how he has grown! ’

They met midway between the hill and the place where Sgnarli had put down. Silval and Elvra it was in truth, and beyond them, against the uprising sun, crouched the great form of the dragon, where waited Falnir the elf and the imp Pitrag.

‘Avarhli and Lord Mysingir,’ said Silval in delight, as they drew nigh, ‘we could hardly believe our eyes. Where from, in all this wild country, came you?’

Corin laughed. ‘Well might we ask the same of you, dear friends.’

For a few moments they fell silent, each regarding the others, grateful of the sight after their long separation, and it seemed that much passed between them without words spoken, and an unexpected gladness filled all with renewed joy.

Then the silence ended and they were once again desperate folk in a dangerous, unknown land. ‘We cannot stay here long,’ warned Silval. ‘Already the enemy will be aware of us, a dragon does not go unnoticed.’

‘I can vouch for that,’ answered Mysingir, with an involuntary shiver. ‘Doom seemed upon us when Sgnarli flew over.’

‘We should not have turned back, but for the faint flicker of elvan blue,’ said Elvra, with her quick laugh.

‘Aye, it was from this weapon,’ Mysingir said, drawing forth the blade, which flickered with sudden flame.

Gravely, Silval took the sword from Mysingir's grasp. ‘This is a Valdë blade wrought of great workelfship and bound about with spells of the wise. Of course it lights at enemy approach, and cannot distinguish this dragon as different to any other. But tell us how you came by it?’

Mysingir made to speak, then hesitated, so that Corin answered, ‘We have dire news for you and your peoples. The hardest, I guess, that you have ever had to bear.’

Silval's eyes met and measured Corin's, and by some elvish divination, he knew. ‘King Elberl,’ he whispered, finality underlining the words.

‘Yes, and many others of your kindred, Malva and Mîren amongst them.’

Both the elves were grief-stricken. Elvra turned away, a sob wrenching from her lips, whilst Silval bowed his head. After a little while, The Birdwing asked, ‘You have seen this with your own eyes?’

Corin nodded. ‘We have, on a battlefield some few leagues behind, by the margins of a wide lake. The King, and the Brothers Yellowmorn, I could not leave amongst the dead. They are upon yonder hill, watched over by Darkelfari, steed and new-come friend.’

Silval lifted his face, his eyes filled with a terrible sorrow. ‘Our thanks to you for that much. We must bear them, and this dread news, back at once, for news was what we came a-searching of. Will you journey with us?’

Corin shook his head. ‘I cannot do that and abandon Lord Mysingir and Darkelfari. And even Sgnarli cannot carry us, horse and all.’

‘Then perhaps the Lord should return to his own country astride your steed, with us to watch over him?’ suggested the elf.

‘I have no country, as such, any longer,’ answered Mysingir. ‘Mendoth city has been reduced to rubble, Alder-Carr abandoned. Those who survived seem most likely to have fled over the Mirthin Mountains into far Dorthillion beyond.’

‘Are there no tidings for the good?’ Elvra murmured, wretchedly.

But Silval said, ‘Avarhli, we should not tarry more. What do you propose?’

Corin thought a moment. ‘Where exactly are the Elloræ now?’

‘Some yet remain at Aneurin's bay, Vanora Lindo, whilst others moved eastward back to the white cliffs, where the great work of bridging goes on. We are come from Rioncion, Greystone, south and a little west of here. That is where our King set forth to pursue the enemy.’

‘And none of his army have returned there?’ Corin asked wearily, knowing the answer before it was given.

‘Not unless they came after our departure, sometime this night. Though we saw sign of the nugobluk, and steered well clear, lest dragons travelled with them.’

‘Well then,’ said Corin, ‘you must do as you first thought; carry your dead King and his companions to the coast, and if it is possible, Lord Mysingir also. I shall follow as fast as Darkelfari will bear me, and take our chances against the goblins, with your directions to guide us.’

‘But you cannot ride on alone. I won't let you! protested Mysingir. ‘Besides, surely you do not expect me to bestride such a creature? That he is gentled, I will take your word, good elf folk, yet I have no stomach to fly. Allow me to stay with you Master Corin, or leave me with the horse and go on in my stead.’

At this entreaty, Corin shook his head. ‘To travel now, two upon one, is to unduly burden the horse at no need. Before, we had not the choice. As for my abandoning Darkelfari, there is no question. Not, at least, until I bring him to the wondrous steeds of the Elloræ.’

So, much against Mysingir's protestations, it was decided. The elves, with great care, carried the bodies of the faded fallen to the dragon, and there secured them.

For a short time Pitrag prattled excitedly to Corin, mostly in the unintelligible imp tongue, thence dared to touch the hem of Corin's black cloak, whereat he seemed to receive a sharp jolt, as if struck by a lightning-bolt. With a shriek, the imp leapt upon Sgnarli's plated neck. The dragon snorted and Pitrag bit its ear, not that Sgnarli seemed to notice.

Corin, meantime, reached out to where the imp crouched, licking at his claw, and before he could draw away, Corin grasped and held it. After a moment, Pitrag snatched his arm free, then sat scratching in puzzlement, since the pain had clearly vanished.

Stroking the curls of hide-shingles along the dragon's muzzle, Corin said, ‘You have grown into a fine, fearsome creature since last I saw you, and yet you still remain gentle enough. You and Pitrag are living proof that all considered evil, may not so be.’

Sgnarli, giving off a distinct smell of brimstone, followed Corin with his swivelling, barred eyes, the zigzag teeth along his snout glistening in the light of day. Yet even when Mysingir gingerly clambered up between the silent elves, the dragon merely gave a sort of ‘Humphh’ and flexed his wings.

‘Due south and west a little by your landmarks should see Darkelfari and I to the coast within a day or three,’ called Corin. ‘And I shall heed your warnings to ride wary, though my friend here will outstrip any afoot; of that I am certain. Remember to hold tight,’ he added, and Mysingir nodded, the faint hint of that madness so recently possessing him, in his bold, haunted gaze.

The dragon took a few, ponderous steps forward, then, with quite ridiculous ease, launched into the air, nostrils belching smoke. Soaring up, he banked and turned lazily into the south. Within a few moments, Sgnarli and his passengers were beyond sight.

Corin, mounted once more upon Darkelfari, scanned the horizon, to the north he descried a sheet of water that was a lake, not unlike the lake of the dead at his back. To westward glinted two smaller lakes, flanking a larger one. And in the south, there clearly, he saw the dreary line of the Dun-Lands.

Toward that, in morning's light, galloped black horse with black rider astride, Corin's cloak streaming in the wind of their passing.

‘Eh Slaknof!’ The standing goblin nudged hard at the other, and almost got a foot savaged for his trouble. As it was Slaknof's yellow biters snapped angrily whilst he snorted into wakefulness, clawing at his gley eyes.

‘Chanta noc snop Ratibor?’ he grumbled, clamping a crooked, slit-knife between his fangs as he crawled up to the edge of the dusty ditch. ‘Pesor snop wrota yasna moc,’ he added nastily under his putrid breath.

Ratibor pointed with his scaled claw; his squint-eyes filled with malice. ‘Nosen acsac, ayla sukkoth Gark, muz noggi ne zob noggi golitz rogtuh shnar Nugobluk sveta, hoho!’

Slaknof followed Ratibor's quivering claw, and saw at the end of it, but still a distance off, a horse and rider approaching at rapid rate. He gnawed at the obsidian blade in his jaws a moment, then wrenching it out, spat a gob of spittle onto the rim of the dust-bowl. His leathery face distorted into a wrinkled, wicked grimace. ‘Wrota orni oni arkha-nach pesor snar oni nadart. Mec netta,’ he grunted.

‘Resad moc paduch!’ muttered Ratibor, vehemently. ‘Drav morc orni tuh sharc. Tak sharc!’ He grabbed Slaknof by the knife-wrist and hauled him down from their vantage-point. ‘Shnar, ofn orni tuz geccen tuh Oorlog.’

Slaknof snarled and wrenched free, but Ratibor cracked him across the skull with his iron bludgeon and wrestled the blade away. ‘Sharki!’ he growled. ‘Res mec magga tuh arkha-nach un! Orni drag moc wagnuck snaw Oorlog. Shnar ne!’ Thrusting the knife into his own human-skin belt, he seized Slaknof's metal collar and hurled him forward. The goblin stumbled, kicking at the dry earth as he fell forward into the dust. Then, having no weapon to lay claw upon, suddenly gave up.

Together they made off at a surprising pace for such ape-gait as theirs, and soon were hidden amidst clumps of angular thorns, watching whilst the horse and rider went racing by in a flurry of pounding hooves.

‘I wonder what evil lies waiting between us and the Elloræ?’ Corin pondered, as he and Darkelfari covered the lonely miles that stretched away southward. They were alone, it seemed, on the flat land; alone save for persistent crows that followed in twos and threes. Yet Corin had the feeling that more than corbies watched their passing.

Further on, the ground began to undulate, dipping into narrow, shadowed gullies which, of themselves, held silent, still menace. And try as he might, Corin found that he could not avoid these dangerous places as the day waned and night enclosed them. With the Mighty Fear gnawing relentlessly at him, he guided Darkelfari on through shallow ravines, alert for any sign of ambush, until dawn streaked the western sky.

Later, racing along the bed of a dry watercourse, he searched his mind with unanswerable questions, questions of his own part in mighty events that appeared far and beyond him. He was so absorbed, that he almost missed the first warning hum and boom from afar. Though soon that sound was repeated, enlarging, growing; a dragon was on the wing, speeding across the dry landscape. At that point, Corin and Darkelfari seemed hopelessly caught out in the open, the dread sound looming ever nearer at their backs. The midday sun beat down with no release from its pervading brilliance. The thunder of wings grew, until a huge form swooped low overhead, spouting fire-balls. Corin drew the horse to a swerving halt, on the chance of being unsighted. But the dragon had seen, and in great tumult, turned and came racing back, screaming with rage; its awful wings fanning fiery breath before it. This creature was a swallow-tailed drake, and apart from the blaze issuing out its needle-teethed jaws, it bore razor-sharp claws the size of pitchforks. Long legged was it, and upon its lean, serpentine body were ranged green scales and blue; shining like sun-gleaming scythes that could cut a man in half at a blow. As it swept in, Corin rounded Darkelfari, and the horse responded, dancing away from the first onslaught. The dragon, overshooting, zoomed above and banked in a wide arc; turning to launch a new attack. In those precious moments, Corin had time to dismount and free the elvish bow and quiver tied about the horse's neck. As the dragon slewed toward them, so did Corin raise the bow and draw a green-feathered shaft. The drake plummeted, spitting flame as if the very sun behind it poured fire. The arrow sped, kindling as it flew, to sear across the monster's brow. The dragon swerved aside that headlong plunge, its eyes dazzled for a fraction by the sudden flaring light scorching at those huge orbs of sheer malice. Wings backbeating, it swept upward, the blast from its jaws blackening the ground so that sand and soil fused into glassy globules. Heat, intense and almost unbearable, bathed both, and with a startled neigh of pain, Darkelfari leapt forward, but not before Corin caught the wild mane and hoicked himself upon the horse's back. Gaining balance in their headlong plunge, he managed to knock a shaft, then Darkelfari, somehow heeding his unvoiced command, twisted in mid air, striking the earth with bone-wrenching momentum so that they swerved about to face the fearsome creature as it again swooped low toward them. Corin drew a deep breath, certain that death was a-wing.

The sun beat.

The air roared.

The world filled with dragon!

Away sped the arrow, sinking to the feathers between the plating of their oncoming foe; such was the force of elvish metal meeting charging monster. The beast trumpeted in pain, belching flames from its black mouth as it dragonpulted past, bursting the day with fire and smoke that tickled pink the sky. The swallow-tails went rolling eastward, whilst the great swan neck bent its cruel head to worry and pluck at the elf-barb lodged within the armour casing. The shaft, not well placed to do serious hurt, was ripped out scales and all; then, with affected wing beat, the svelte drake coasted about, pivoting on its wounded side. Now its jaws and eyes were blood red, the nostrils of its elongated snout, flecked with foam.

‘Boom, voom, vrroarr!’ bellowed the dreadful challenge, as the dragon rushed in for the kill.

The great, black horse responded, clipping aside, rider merging with animal in oneness, veering from doom. Before them, a rolling ball of red and black and orange burst open the dead earth, and through this flame and smoke vaulted Darkelfari. Behind, screamed the drake, talons foremost; diving like an eagle to rend its prey. Then, out of nowhere, came a repeated crashing, as of thunder-claps louder even than the dragon's roars. All about them: Corin, horse, dragon, the ground, the sky, the air, vibrated with the shock. The atmosphere crackled with lightning. The bright day seemed almost to pale and grow dark. In sudden panic, the drake sheared off, bearing swiftly, though lamely, into the north.

Wreaths of smoke drifted down over the drear land, whilst the air yet quivered with flame and strange, unearthly blue light. Relieved and disbelieving, Corin gentled Darkelfari to a halt, his shaking arms about the neck of the sweating horse. Wondering, Corin stared about in a daze, until a voice from above boomed forth.

‘Well, well. It appears that I was needed!’

Astonished, Corin lifted his eyes toward that all expansive voice and there, on an eminence of jutting rock, he beheld a figure standing; white shrouded and tall. The stranger's face was bearded grey, with grey eyes and high forehead, and red were his cheeks and strong, firm lips. And his expression was that of learned wisdom and triumphant conqueror: of young and old and mysterious, all mingled together, so that Corin felt almost overpowered by the magnitude of his benefactor. Summoning up the courage to speak, after such wizardly feat, he managed, ‘Sir, where, how came you to our aid?’

The towering figure regarded both horse and rider with a silent air that might have been critical appraisal. In his left hand he held a staff, fist thick it was and of mountain-tree hewn, though having the quality of petrified stone: the knots and veins of living bark still visible, twining round its surface. And tossed across his shoulder, clasped by the right hand, was a sack filled, as Corin guessed, with worldly belongings.

‘How came I to your relief?’ answered the bearded stranger, as if puzzled. ‘Why, by these of course!’ He indicated his leather shod feet, firm planted upon the stone. ‘As for whence I came, that would take many rounds of the seasons to tell in full. And in any case, is not needful for you to know, excepting this much. I am latterly walked out of the west, where lies a vast lake surrounded by mighty mountains. There, within the highest range, dwell a people of Dwarves; short in stature, but hard as the stone that they carve. Together with a small force of these folk, I am on my way to seek out any who might join, as allies with them, against the enemies who now beset their homes.’ He concluded, and his sonorous tones left the air between with the feeling that a drum had recently beaten there.

Corin, after a considerable pause in which it was plain that his deliverer meant to say no more, ventured, ‘Are the enemies goblins, trolls and dragons, and such like?’

‘That is what you would call them, though they have many names in other tongues.’

Again the silence.

‘Then who do you seek as friend and ally?’

‘Men. Dwarves of far lands. Gnomes. Elves, if they can be found and are willing.’

‘I know of some, elves that is, who yet lay hold of the coast southward,’ Corin volunteered. ‘In truth, that is where I and my dear companion Darkelfari here are bound.’

‘Is that so,’ returned the stranger, with apparent interest. ‘Would I, and the folk I travel with, be well received do you think?’

Corin smiled. ‘Any who stand against a common foe would be welcome, I deem. Yet coming there will be the problem. This Dead Land belies the name. The enemy have spies abroad. Surely they will attempt to waylay us.’

The stranger's eyes twinkled. ‘They have begun already; sending a drake to cook you both. Still, they have failed, for I was about, and dragons are not my bane. But come, if you will; follow me, since we serve no purpose idling here. We may converse as we travel.’ So saying, the stranger turned on his heel and strode off at a goodly pace, glancing neither right nor left, as if unafraid of any who might approach him.

More cautiously, came Corin, bow at the ready, Darkelfari trotting beneath him.

After a time, drawing nigh the striding figure, Corin said, ‘My chosen name is Corin, though the elves call me Avarhli. Might I ask your name?’

The stranger halted in his tracks and turning, answered in his deep, commanding voice, ‘I, like you, have names. He'Remon the Wizard is such a one, and suitable.’ He offered no more, and after a moment, resumed his purposeful way.

The afternoon was growing old when the dwarves began to make their presence known.

It was not so much that they were furtive. They simply appeared, standing up out of ditch and rut, or stepping forth from bank and boulder, whilst He'Remon trudged forward unheeding.

Occasionally they would speak, though the words were low and guarded and Corin could make no sense of them. Only once did he clearly hear, spoken in Renish, ‘Ahay! Look what the Magus brings with him, two fine blackbirds!’ There followed rough laughter, and again the unintelligible mutterings.

After that brief outburst, Corin began to study the dwarves as he rode amongst them. They were different to any other peoples that he had encountered before, although he was reminded of the stone gnomes by their size and shape. They stood roughly between knee and waist high and were squat, thick-set and round-bellied; but there, any resemblance to the gnomes ended, for these folk were colourful of skin, hair and dress. Where the former had been grey of body and clothing, the dwarves were pink of face and red of lips, green or brown eyes above their stubby, white noses. And in contrast to the gnomes, who appeared almost hairless, the dwarves grew long beards, some tucked into their stout belts whilst others were forked and tied behind their necks. Too, the garments they wore were gayer than the drab shingle of the gnomes, these being many-coloured: bright green jerkins, pointed caps of yellow and brown, dark blue breeches, black boots and mail-coats. Their weaponry also seemed adapted for best use: short-hafted iron axes, spiked maces, and stubby swords little more than dagger long. Amongst the many faces bobbing about him, were expressions that varied from wide grins and interested curiosity, to sour suspicion and downright grumpiness, and in that range of character, only the little folk of Rî-mer-ri, or perhaps the pixies of Elfame could come close.

Then, abruptly, Corin was jolted from thought. He'Remon had halted, and before him, their shadows growing thrice their size, gathered a group of important-looking folk. And behind them again was a small, but formidable army of dwarves.

He'Remon, with little ado, said, ‘My good Zwerge Farinmail, behold, I bring you two travellers of these wastes. Master Corin here tells me that he can lead you to elves, southward on the sea-coast. Perhaps, in them, you will secure your allies.’

The dwarf to whom the wizard had addressed himself, nodded and got up from a pile of shields and bucklers, where he had been sitting.

‘Oh Wizard,’ he answered in Corin's native Ren speech, ‘thou art a guileful, crafty harbinger. But tell us where and how you found these two?’

Swiftly and to the point, He'Remon did so; relating the adventure with the dragon, and adding, ‘Against it they would not have survived, though I am certain both would have died valiant deaths.’

Farinmail bowed his head thoughtfully, as the wizard concluded and withdrew to take a draught from an iron ladle handed him.

‘Now tell me,’ said the dwarf leader, again taking seat and leaning a stumpy arm on his stumpy knee, ‘these elves, whence came they and who are you?’

In short note, Corin told his tale, giving but the bare outline of events and leaving out much that he thought the dwarves need not know. Still, his story seemed to satisfy them and at its ending Farinmail said, ‘We dwarves are come, wandering across these wastes searching; for there is no help westward of our home. If I pledge myself and army, will you lead us to them and plead our dire case?’

‘That I shall do,’ Corin answered at once, ‘though coming to them may not be so simple. Alone, with but my friend Darkelfari to carry me on his fleet legs, might the task be done. Yet with your whole troop, I am uncertain; much and many are the evils between, and slower will move this force I guess.’

‘I think,’ said the wizard, ‘that you may rely upon me.’

So, with little more discussion, it was decided, and the army of the dwarves, indeed numbering several thousands, began to press on: Farinmail, with Corin mounted on Darkelfari at the forefront and the wizard, striding along away to the west, alone and aloof, though ever watchful.

As he rode and the dry furlongs passed whilst dwarf scouts came and went, reporting the terrain in advance, Corin had time to ponder this unexpected turn of events. It seemed a life-saving stroke of good fortune in the wizard's arrival and too, the dwarves themselves were welcome in such unfriendly territory, though what might be their greeting if and when they found the elves, Corin could only wonder. Would the Elloræ care about the perils of these folk, would they indeed even listen to them? He had no way of foretelling the future, yet it appeared to him that there was urgent need to unite as many as possible against the rising pall of doom before it was too late.

Corin shivered. Night was drawing nigh and the day withered cold. The Mighty Fear was upon him once more. What had befallen Menkeepir on his mission to far-away Dorthillion? What of the peoples of Kutha-Kesh and Rî-mer-ri? And what could he do? How could he achieve some means to stay the terrible onslaught of powers beyond his comprehension? Somewhere in the wild lands there roamed a fearsome army, possibly more than one, at the disposal of the enemy. It was plain that the hammer and forge of war was beating out a steady, ominous tattoo. Goblins had risen in the east and the west, to judge by all accounts. To do nothing, would almost certainly see the entirety of the vast North World overrun: men, elves, gnomes, dwarves and every other living race of peaceful creature, driven into hiding, enslaved or destroyed. Flaying himself with these unanswerable riddles, he rode on whilst the dark engulfed the marching army and the new moon marked their passing.

On the morrow, they had travelled many leagues, halting only once for but a short while. During that time the dwarves took sup, offering Corin their hard, baked biscuits and cold, thick porridge-meal. They partook also of a kind of cake made up in small, round portions, which they named Pe-mikan; this consisted of lean meat, ground with fat and dried fruits to form a nutritious morsel, washed down with nettle-wine combined with bore water carried in stone jars from their own wells. Both Corin and Darkelfari drank of the water, tasting sour salts out of the deep earth, and munched a few rock biscuits; but that was all of the dwarves stock that they would touch. To the horse, Corin fed the last wisps of fodder gleaned from Alder-Carr and himself, ate the remnant of mouldy cheese left in his store.

At mid morn, in sunlight hazed by gauzy cloud, they ventured on due south past a single snub peak, west of a broad, flat plain bare of so much as a twig.

South, still they bore, toward a coastline unimaginable in such arid, fouled land; that the rolling ocean could lie beyond seemed impossible. Yet as they tramped, the landmarks of the elves stood out: first a great, dried water-bed, then a sharp bend that led them west and south-west. After, followed a rise, covered with towering granite blocks, higgledy-piggledy strewn. It appeared to Corin that he and the tiny army were as ants, marching across a vast table-top littered with the play blocks of enormous beings.

By nightfall they had come a goodly distance, the dwarves moving at an astonishing forced pace. The sun had long eastward settled, the moon, yellowed and vague, was up riding sickle-hewn on its ancient journey. All at once, scouts began to return, singly and in twos and threes, from southeast and west.

The army halted.

Hurried conversations took place, in which both Farinmail and the wizard participated. Anxiously, Corin waited a short distance off, until a stout red-faced dwarf, unusually fair of hair and beardless, hurried, huffer-puffer, toward them.

He darted up from beneath Darkelfari's muzzle, saying, ‘Harr, Master Corin, my name be Cembra Fireface. Our leader, Dalfin Farinmail, begs you yonder. The rats are out of their hole!’ He pointed to the faintly outlined figures of the pair now standing, unmoving on a low ridge.

Sensing the need for stealth, Corin dismounted, spoke a word to the horse and followed the scuttling dwarf. Joining the others, he looked down from their vantage point, and there his gaze fell upon a sight, lit by the hazy moon, that left him speechless in awe. Encompassed by undulating, treeless dunes, lay a vast encampment: strewn from east to west, picked out by flaring fires where roasted carcasses unnameable, unrecognisable, it spread. And by those blazes danced innumerable figures, drinking and tearing at the raw fillets with bared fangs and claws.

A savage army was horded there, sickening in its ferocity and overwhelming in its might. Then, beyond that dread-filled spectacle, Corin descried a further presence. First he saw the gleam of gentle blue and knew it for the light of elf-fire, burning softly in the far distance. And further, he made out the flickering phosphorescence of the ocean.

The next test had come.

There, lay the coast, and there the desperate elves, backs to the sea; a massed army of goblins between he and them!

Chapter 48 [next]