Varlarsaga Volume 2 - Recovery

Epilogue

This thing, indeed, was true.

And, for an instant of time, even the goblin drums stumbled in their fierce rhythm.

Meanwhile the dragon, awakened from his torpid state, beat the air in sudden fright bearing Filma, clinging to his back, until the elf managed to gain some control; turning Sgnarli in a series of ragged spirals that kept him hovering near the cliff tops.

Corin and Silval drew up together, staring far out to sea where the grey forms of elvish sails pierced the horizon and then, turning, saw that Galidor too, was aware. Swiftly, the elvish king sprang to action, ordering and shepherding, summoning and bidding, so that his peoples might yet thwart the enemy.

Then the enemy drums rallied and rolled; the nugobluk howled as one vast, living mass of terror and destruction and renewed their onslaught.

Elves and dwarves of the first lines clashed with the foremost, battling axe and spear, mace and sword, against the storming, grappling goblins and looming trolls, who used the fallen as clubs and missiles; hurling them amongst the ranks. Fearful was the joined fighting, many feeling the sharp sting or cleaving blow, before death closed their eyes.

Ilvri, a Nemorian elf from the sunken forests of Niniath in Elfame, tasted bitter release even as he dispensed it; struck down from behind by the cowardly blow of a gark captain who abruptly fell thereafter, shot through by the bow of Timbrion. And Elfhild, fighting bravely beside Ladimar and Æron away upon the left flank, was crushed by a huge boulder, thrown with horrifying ease from the hands of a massive troll. Never more would poor Elfhild walk the ways of fair Varlar, or think of his vanished home by the Limpath river.

Then Lyanor of Sarandor's hills did a bold triumph! Face to face amidst the deadliest fighting in the centre, he met with two man-sized Hobs; swart and foul were they, covered in byrnies of linked iron and wearing metal caps. One carried a thick bludgeon, the other bore a long, slashing scythe that he brandished back and forth, as if to mow down all before him.

Ah, but not Lyanor. He stood alone whilst Oloris, his companion, retreated staggering, slashed deep by the razor blade; there to be borne out of the fray. Lyanor, seeing this, bent both his rage and wrath upon the two before him. With speed beyond the goblin's ferocity or perception, the elf drew a slender dagger and threw it. The scythe-hob took it through the throat and fell, gurgling, upon his own weapon. The bludgeon-goblin vaulted his dying comrade, shouting, ‘Arkha-nach! Arkha-nach, shuk-tu! Shuk-tu!’

But the shout turned to a muffled scream as Lyanor impaled him upon a leaf-blade spear, and he toppled with a rattle and a thud into the dust and out of the morning's light. For now the sun had risen and day covered the battle plain so that all could descry the tumultuous conflict raging like a wild-fire upon the wavering elvish lines.

Yet with the morn had come hope.

At their backs, the besieged had no longer the lonely ocean. Instead, Aneurin's Armada bent toward the coast, sails puffing on a faint breeze, oars swinging in swift precision. And with every breath, the defender's hearts grew lighter, for the chance of life still remained. Alas though, the squadrons and legions of nugobluk were everywhere breaking through the Elloræ lines. Elf leaders were calling for their cohorts to fall back lest they be cut off, yet the horns were nigh drowned beneath the drums and din of war.

On the west flanks, Ladimar and Æron, together with Ælroth's folk, were fighting a running rear-guard action as the last of the redoubts collapsed and roared into flame. Beyond the fires, trolls and dragon-squib glowed yellow and red, preparing to plod through. Meanwhile, the dwarves, not to be outdone, had sallied further than their elvish allies. At first, they attacked as a solid front, five and ten deep, then gradually gave ground in the centre, allowing their opponents to surge forward. Soon, those nugobluk were encircled, and the dwarves showed them no mercy, nor did they seek any. Though they, in turn were surrounded and slowly cut off from the elves. Farinmail, seeing this, rallied his folk in a desperate attempt to hack his way back.

Too late! The goblins and their wolves were amongst them! Dwarves reeled, fighting and kicking; their throats torn asunder by ravening jaws, the nugobluk closing in.

Then, charging, Corin and Silval burst between the elvan ranks; elves vaulting upon the backs of horses as they passed. Lances were thrown and caught and lowered to the attack. King Galidor, with Mysingir by his side, made way the Elloræ archers, allowing the riders through.

Elves were plummeting from the cliffs, pushed and jostled by the crushing hordes as the enemy poured in and over the last barricades. The eastern flanks, under Ellion and Lippa, came tumbling back; though Lilla died, trampled beneath the claws and bulk of stampeding squib gone mad to frenzy and stung by elf-barb, till they too thrashed their way to the cliffs and over, down and down to the killing sea.

Timbrion fell, but rose again, slashing his way, stabbing, chopping, calling for aid.

Galidor, kingly of manner and valour, fought now at the crumbling front, sending back those exhausted and hurt. Alongside him were Lyanor, battered and cuffed, and the man Mysingir, bleeding from several wounds, his left arm dragging useless. Mellitus and Lorica stood with them, fending off the crowding foe, from the ranks of which sprouted forests of twisted spears and cruel pikes and standards smeared and bloodied. Wolves pulled and tussled at corpses; wafts of smoke and flame burst from squib throats, imps were everywhere, running between legs, biting, upward stabbing. Trolls roared, eating victims. Goblins cracked bones with tongs and pliers.

Corin and the mounted elves reached the dwarves, those left of them, and killed the goblins nearest pressing; Elloræ lances doing death amongst gark and ugush. Though still the enemy fought back using sackbuts, long-handled hooks, to pull elves down from their horses. Farinmail was still alive, as were his hardiest bodyguard.

‘Can you swim, gallant Farinmail?’ Corin shouted as they fought toward the ocean.

‘Zwerge come from stone. Stone sinks,’ came the faint reply. ‘We will go to the sea anyway,’ managed the dwarf leader, narrowly missing being beheaded and upswinging a goblin's jaw with his double-edged axe.

In the meantime, Mellitus found Timbrion, near death, and tried desperately to draw him free of the nagging foe, fighting and carrying, dragging, twisting on hands and knees, with his fainting comrade crying, ‘Leave me! Save yourself! Leave!’ Until they both were killed together, clutching each other, trying not to hear what was being done to them...

Elves, and now dwarves, were pouring from the cliffs; tumbling, like so many autumn leaves, into the waters. Horses too, and riders, were falling; the waves, curiously calm, slopping back and forth, a'gurgle with bubbles, to claim them.

Left above, were the last band of Galidor's elves and a scattering of Farinmail's folk, Silval and Corin, and Mysingir hauled up on Darkelfari and hardly knowing of his surroundings.

Behind them, poised the entire crush of the enemy; so thickset as to be sheer wall, west to east, the depth of which lay hidden beyond the distant ridges.

Now, the enemy gloated. Their drums ceased. The onrush halted. Jeers and hoots replaced the drumming. The dragon-squib and trolls were sent back. In their place, the expendable imps were forced forward; prodding at their backs, came their masters: the gark, hobs, ugush and attagark. Step and step, implacably, they closed with the last survivors of Rîoncion.

Then, there came a rush of wings, a flapping-up and scorch of flame, a sudden shadow that was Sgnarli, sure-guided by Filma's hands to dive, between the opposed ranks.

In that moment, that eye-blink time whilst the flurry of the dragon and his fire-breath swept the foremost of goblin hordes, the remainder of besieged sought the sea. Horses and riders plunged together as a living torrent into the cold-shock of ocean, that over-swept them; yet welcoming was that fall, that salty embrace. Escaped, those left on bleak cliffs alive, escaped!

Ah! But were they? For as the nugobluk crowded forward, many score in turn tumbled.

The waters received them all. Though for the pursuers, the ocean was cruel. How they screamed, hating it. And the waters pulled them down.

For the elves and their comrades however, such fate was not to be. Aneurin's ships drew nigh, even before the dwarves began to sink, and there were they plucked from the brine, and sailed from danger.

And still a further peril arose. From off the leering cliffs where the nugobluk clamoured, flew out an enemy dragon!

In mid air, Sgnarli stormed upon it from next the sun's shine, Filma no longer able to control him. In a trice, the two creatures were locked together, high above the Elloræ fleet. The talons of these two serpent sky-denizens screed and screeched across their mailed platings, whilst they twisted and convulsed, each trying to burn or bite as their necks tangled and looped, seeking some weakness or fault of armour. Choosing his moment whilst the pair swooped low over the sea, Filma dove from Sgnarli's back, to cleave the grey ocean close by a swan ship, and so to safety.

Meanwhile, the furious combat continued; Sgnarli's green-scaled hide entwined with the grey-blue of the second dragon. Soaring straight up into the air, snapping and slashing, huge gusts of smoke and flame bursting from their flaring nostrils and gaping jaws, they clashed, breast to breast. The air thundered with the shock of their repeated meetings, whilst scales sheared from them both in sun-caught showers.

Corin and Galidor, together with Mysingir and the horse Darkelfari, were hauled aboard a Goose barge, and could only stand watching whilst the two fire-drakes jousted, tail whip to tail whip, flame to flame: retreat, pursuit, and counter pursuit.

Sgnarli, of course, was the smaller of the two, and callow as dragons go; but for all that, he was younger, lighter, more manoeuvrable. His claws were softer, but sharper, his fire newer, but fiercer.

As he fought, high in the upper air, he had little thought that might be deemed thought. Through the bar-slits of his yellow eyes he saw the world down his long, trump-snout as two flattened, extended horizons, squeezed together like a pair of windows, narrow at the ends and fatter in the middle. At times, he could join those to make a whole image; yet he could also look further round, rearward left or right, or both at the same moment. His ears too, swivelled, aiding him greatly; for they repeatedly saved him from blind attack at his back.

He flew, though unaware of it, against Tcharn-Vari, spawn of dragons ancient. From his line, preceding him, were his mother Nýrath-Vari, and And; a fearsome creature, six-time the size of his progeny. Both, still scourged the skies, yet far away in lair lurked they this day. None other of their kind were abroad or near but these two, save ground squib, and no other creature could alter their fate.

Far up and eastward of the elvish fleet, they curled amidst the cumulous clouds, hidden at times to sight, then fountaining out of white flocks, until they became distant specks to all but elvan eyes. And there, in that private, empty world, their bellowed challenges resounding, they grappled.

Grappled indeed, until, locked together, caught upon each other's teeth and claws, wings trailing, tails tangled, they twisted down out of the high-banked cloud; down through the hazy blueness that was vision to their window-eyes, toward the rising greenness of looming, restless water that awaited below to consume them.

When Corin's craft reached the vicinity of their fall, there was nought to be seen, save a trailing of bubbles, heaving upward from somewhere far beneath.

Then, whilst he anxiously sought some sign that Sgnarli might still survive, the water thereabout took on a livid colouration: blood red and gory.

Slowly, the trailing bubbles subsided and vanished...

‘It seems those two fell creatures have met their deaths.’

It was Lyanor who spoke at Corin's side. Catching sight of the sorrow in his companion's eyes, the elf went on, ‘You are wretched at the dragon's passing, that I see. Somehow he was dear to you. I know he was to my Lord Silval Birdwing, and to others. Still, the fellow has vanquished his opponent, and so saved many lives. I deem he did not pass in vain.’

Corin heaved a long sigh, and smeared away the tears that were running through his unruly beard. He opened his mouth to speak, and at that moment there was a splash a little astern of their craft.

‘It is him!’ came a weak and quavering voice that was Mysingir's. ‘The dragon, there floating!’ He extended his fit arm toward a form bobbing on the swelling sea. ‘It's Sgnarli, that confounded dragon,’ he cried, lurching drunkenly at the rail. ‘It's him! The dragon survives!’

This then was how events fell. Sgnarli, much battered, was lifted, with great difficulty, aboard the barge, and ministered as best Corin and the elves could do. Mysingir too, was laid to rest and recover, his wounds anointed and dressed, comforting sleep overcoming him.

The Goose barge swept about, returning to Aneurin Foamhair's fleet which lay yet, hove to, still gathering survivors. In places the sea crowded with elvan folk, warriors and lordly, singing together as they floated or swam; for most had believed that death was poised to take them and they were merry at their deliverance, despite the ocean's gloom.

By fall of dark, all that could be saved had been, and the fleet set course south-east, beating out to sea.

During the night, Corin transferred to Aneurin's Dolphin Ship, and there was reunited with many; some indeed that he scant hoped ever to see again. Aneurin was there of course, and King Galidor with him. And there was food: hot viands and clear, tinkling elvan wine to be had. But Corin, gazing this way and that about the bright, lamp-lit hold, was too eager for news and familiar faces amongst the throng, to heed such things. At once he spied Ellion and Oloris, both freshly garbed in white; the latter bearing his wound bound about in red, velvet cloth. And further off, Corin caught sight of Cinco the sea-elf, in company with Lorica and Æron. Then, at his side, taking his arm, Filma appeared.

‘I am gladdened to have you safely with us once more,’ said the elf, smiling.

‘And I am glad of heart to see you also. Diving from a flying dragon into unknown water takes courage.’

Filma laughed. ‘No more than deeds done by you. Come with me now. Aneurin, over there, beckons us within. There is to be a meeting, and of course it is desired that you attend.’

Beyond the crowd, Filma led him, past a vaulted bulkhead hung with finery, thence into a smaller place of curving timbers and carven seats, all fitted round as the ship shape allowed. Here sat and stood many, and more than Corin had expected, for seated amidst the elf lords, her bow resting across her bare knees, was Elvra. She was, as always, clad in tunic and kilt of forest colours; rusts and reds, greens, yellows and browns, and her eyes sparkled in the lamplight. Silval was at her side and Falnir too. But the surprise of all was the sight of Pitrag the imp, sitting by Elvra's feet; cross-legged, his tail drawn about his shiny, black body, a dark grin splitting his coal face, his arm thrust into a splash of white that slinged it. Corin was overjoyed.

‘Dear, dear Elvra, and you Falnir!’ he exclaimed, starting toward them. ‘I had fears, grave fears for your well-being.’ He stopped short, breathless and lost for words.

Elvra laughed, a peel of clear, light sound. ‘Thought you that we might roam beyond the paths and roads of Varlar? For shame.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘We are hardy, and we are safe.’

Corin breathed a long sigh of relief. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘when Silval and I saw Sgnarli land alone and the worst for wear upon the Greystones, our hearts bore grievous doubts, though neither of us voiced them.’

The elvess looked at him, her eyes wide at his concern. ‘Aye, well we took a tumble into the sea-deeps, Falnir, the ymp and I. Close to the ships, we had flown, far out from the coast, when a fire-serpent, the very same that Sgnarli fought and did to death this day gone, attacked us. Out of the sun it came, and during the wheeling convulsions, we were dunked into the foam. Aneurin Watermaster fished us out, as he did you. But afterward, of our dragon, there was no sign. It seemed to us that he was lost, and at that, even Pitrag moped and mourned. Not until this day whilst the two fought for a final time, did we know otherwise.’

Then, earnestly, Corin asked, ‘Dalen Treeheart and Bimmelbrother, what of them?’

‘Still at Sarnyanora, safe, that we know of,’ she replied. ‘Now come, sit by me, for the others have arrived and much shall be said and told.’ She took his arm and drew him to her side and wine was offered him by Filma, and the imp lifted his hurt claw of a hand, which Corin grasped and held without a moments' thought. Pitrag whimpered a little, yet remained, passively clutching at Corin's fingers, whilst about them elvish music swelled, wafted from the decks above; rung by many unseen hands, to herald those making entrance. First came Aneurin Foamhair, tall and unbending, so that his bountiful, golden locks nigh touched the rafter beams. Then followed King Galidor and the Wizard He'Remon, together with Farinmail the dwarf-leader, his appearance as incongruous and out of place in such company as Pitrag's; yet his mail-coat was polished bright, his beard parted and drawn about his neck, loose-knotted behind like a silvered muffler, and his cheeks were rosied as if food and wine had perked them so. Lastly, the last of the elf lords, those that still lived: Ladimar, Ælroth, Æron, Lorica, Ellion, Lyanor of Sarandor and Oloris.

When these folk had found seat and settled, King Galidor began. ‘We must be thankful, and at once, sorrowful. We, who yet live, need be thankful, since those of us, the survivors of King Elberl's host, believed our hope was ended. And yet, we did not perish. Still, sorrow falls heavy on us. The dead are gone. Perhaps, far off they dwell; dwelling upon that which is passed their past. If that be so, I wish them realms rich-green, rain-sheened, and beautiful. Yet, they are beyond us. Our hope, our fate, rides now with scattered forces. There is, here, the remnant of Rîoncion, now joined with Foamhair's fleet; the valiant sea-elves. And, though we know not for sure, there hopefully remains the Elloræ; Pechts, Booca and so, all at the white cliffs of Sarnya Æsire. Mayhap the land of the Raven and Sarnyanora are joined now by that great bridging work. If so, Darion and his elves will be called upon to cross over and come to our aid. Apart from them, our allies seem intangible and uncertain.’

‘There are men,’ ventured Silval. ‘And elves unknown to us, but spoken of by the peoples of Indlebloom, and this Zwerge leader.’

‘There are dwarves too,’ boomed Farinmail, his voice exceeding his stature, as he stared hard at Silval.

Galidor smiled at the dwarf's feigned indignation. ‘Yes, there are. Yet before they can aid us, we must first free them, from what you tell us.’

Farinmail nodded sullenly. ‘True, true. Still, if that is achieved, no stouter folk could you have as friends, when foes threaten.’

‘Granted,’ replied the King. ‘Now that, and other issues, we need discuss. What is to be our course?’

‘I think,’ said Aneurin, ‘that at this dire time, we should make sail for Sarnyanora; ere more than the craft defeated by me arise. Elvra and Falnir tell me that Vanora Lindo has fallen, our peoples lost or fled; my tower toppled, the bay held against land and water. In that bay now, the nugobluk surely re-arm and build anew. Soon a mighty sea force may be launched to assail this fleet. There is nothing for us here. The Rîoncion, those Greystones, are footings forsaken. Of all this Northworld, the Elloræ have hold only upon Master Corin's land of Ravenmoor and the white cliffs of the Sarnya. Our strengths are few. We must join with those who yet cling to this hard land and pin hope to White Bridge, where is our life-line and faith.’

Several elf lords nodded their assent at Aneurin's speech but Silval, rising and holding up his hand, said, ‘There is truth in Foamhair's words. The nugobluk will follow. No ocean, no barrier will hold them back. They mean to pursue us to the ends of Varlar, on land, sea, or the winds of the world. We must gird ourselves if we are to defeat them. Yes, our hope must be to join with our kindred. But I have been, and seen, further than Aneurin Foamhair. North and east, scattered afar, are others: men of Indlebloom Vale, peoples of Kutha-Kesh, folk of Rî-mer-ri, and further north, others unseen, in a land named Dorthillion. They too, we need, welded together against the common foe, if we are to succeed.’

‘It seems to me,’ said He'Remon, tugging at his beard, ‘that you need be in many places at once.’

‘Truly speaks the Wizard,’ said Ellion. ‘We may flee into the oceans, in search of other lands, and be pursued and hunted to the finish. Or, make a stand. Yet against such number as we have already witnessed, how shall we win?’

‘Not alone will elves prevail,’ said Ladimar. ‘Though many scattered, joined together, would form a great army.’

‘And that is the task the Lord Menkeepir of Indlebloom Vale thought to undertake,’ said Corin, rising and startling the imp by his sudden action. ‘That, he chose, to be his mission in life. Long before this council, had he so decided. On our far journey, he began the work of wound-healing and reconciliation with others of mankind. If he yet lives, his mind will still be the like, I deem. Thus was he well named.’

‘Then we must seek all such peoples.’ This was Galidor, and thereafter he issued a King's statement; ‘Menkeepir, Farinmail, and Galidor: Lords of Men, Dwarves, Elves, together. Swift must come their choice. Dwarves, I hear you.’

Farinmail stamped about the circle of those gathered. ‘Dwarves are with Elves, but only if they will come to Zwerge-Home, to our relief. The Ramabad must be freed.’

Corin said, ‘I, alone, stand for Men, since the youngest Lord of Indlebloom is indisposed to so speak on their behalf, and those of Ravenmoor far away. Yet I say to you, Men will be as stone to your walls. Do not rule them out, though they are not here represented. Seek them, for they could turn the tide. Leave them unto folly, and to your latter sorrow. Far and wide must be searched, if we are to unite and win the world again against the darkening of the foe.’

‘We know who we are fighting, but where are we going? What are we seeking? What shall be our guiding light? What our goal?’ growled the dwarf.

‘Listen,’ Corin replied in a hushed and urgent voice that caused even the elves to hark in earnest anticipation. ‘Times in the past, it seems, you folk have heeded my thoughts and dreams, my visions, fancies and tales. You have heard a part of my doings and farings. Now, I tell you this. I have had a vision. Perhaps I shall not survive it. I do not know. I am afraid. But I do believe this much, what I have envisaged will come to pass, in some way or another. The world will swarm with pernicious parasites, eager to devour Varlar, until, eating and engulfing, we shall be engulfed. And we, the dwellers of ocean, sky, and land, will pile their pitiless pyres. Doom comes. And it comes to tree and leaf, stone and sod, mound and mountain. Do, by all means, send envoys to Men, to any allies that may be in this wide world, for without the aid of all free folk and, indeed, that of wild creatures loyal to you, the darkness cannot be averted. For myself, however, I need travel to the lands of the dwarves. Somewhere there, I guess, lies the fulcrum round which all Varlar turns, though the how and the why, I am still at loss to tell. Yet we now know the Ramabad to be the place where the thrice seven stars may be seen in the winter sky. Those self-same stars depicted on the Stone of Remorse. They sign the way to Earth-Mouth, and they are a part of my quest.’

Corin fell silent, holding again the imp's claw. He looked down solemnly at Pitrag. ‘Will you be one who shall follow me?’

The creature raised blood-red eyes that met with Corin's for a moment, then Pitrag bowed his head in unspoken answer.

‘Sobeit,’ said Galidor, ‘for we of the Elloræ do heed your words and visions, since they have proved themselves in time passed. I command that Aneurin shall take a force of ships, one half of these here, that they bring you swift to the coasts hard by dwarf realm. I, and those left with me, will go to Sarnyanora, to Goldal; and from there, the messengers of elves shall set forth on their errands. Do what you must, seek on in your quest, for I have a feeling that it is of the utmost import to us all.’

‘Then I and my followers will sail with him, by your leave, oh King of Elves,’ said Farinmail, a wide grin splitting his face as he hefted his axe.

The King nodded. ‘Aye, that you have my leave to do. Yet do not forget that you have given your word. If there is a way to drive the nugobluk from Zwerge doors, then the peoples of the Ramabad must unite with the Elloræ and with our allies, against our mutual enemies.’

The dwarf leader bent his head. ‘This I promise, in the name of Elbegast, King of the Zwerge.’

Galidor gazed around those who were watching him expectantly. ‘There remains now only to decide where each left shall travel.’

‘I would take Darkelfari and the dragon with me,’ Corin said. ‘For I shall have need of swift feet and wings, maybe.’

Falnir stood up at once. ‘I should like to be your companion, if you will it so,’ he said, and was followed in quick succession by others, including Elvra and Silval.

Corin shook his head, smiling. ‘If the dragon recovers, it will be a while before he can bear much burden. Therefore, I choose only Falnir, since he has come to know and, in part, understand both Sgnarli and Pitrag. You dear Elvra, and you my friend Silval, should return to your Sister, for she must still be deeply grieved at Elberl's loss, and need the strength of her closest to comfort her. Further, I ask a favour. Take with you Lord Mysingir and when he is sufficiently recovered, send him to his Brothers in the land of Dorthillion, for there I hope is where they have fled.’

‘Yes,’ said Silval, ‘I see the reason in this. We will do as you ask, that we be together the quicker when peace rules Varlar.’ He turned to his kith, asking, ‘Who will accompany the man over the wilds of the North World unto his safe arrival?'

‘If all is well at Sarnyanora I will go,’ offered Lior.

‘And I,’ said Ellion, rising to join him.

At last all the choices were made: some to follow Aneurin Foamhair far up the unknown coast, others to ship with their new king, out into the southern sea, and thence to Sarnyanora and those who awaited there.

All the choices, except one.

Only the Wizard remained silent, bent, as if in deep thought.

‘Why, Wizard, do you not speak your mind?’ asked Galidor, at length.

He'Remon raised his head, so that the shadows revealed his grey, arching eyes. ‘My mind. My mind I keep mostly to myself,’ he replied, and his words seemed leaden and final. ‘Ways are chosen, paths of destiny, or fate, or chance. By those paths may lie the difference betwixt success and defeat, life, freedom, or enslavement and death. Now rises a moment of decision. That which is done alters the course of the world, forever.’

‘Who are you?’ Corin asked, as if suddenly spellbound.

‘I cannot tell you that. If I were to...’ The Wizard smiled. ‘I am a power. And, I can be of use. I will come with you.’

That night, in the late hours toward morning, a Dream came to Corin as he slumbered fitfully amongst the cushions and swinging lanterns of the Dolphin Ship. It came stealthily, slipping through the silent corridors of his mind, down the deserted streets that were his waking days benighted. Deep, into the vacant fields of empty headedness, the Dream insinuated.

Until, at last, It spoke, softly, ‘Ho Sleeper, I am your Dream.

The waves are foaming, the paddles plying. And you, in sleep, are lonely lying.

Durst disturb, durst I wake you? Rock and pillow you? Durst I break you?

Durst I tarry here, news to fill you? Or to hurry off, and forsake you?

News, I tell you now, you the Sleeper, shall that show you how? You, the Keeper...’

The Dream wove Its way, as the waves wove theirs.

In the starry night, the flotillas of Aneurin Foamhair and Galidor, new-risen King of the Elloræ, parted, and drifted into the last shadows of eve.

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