Varlarsaga Volume 3 - Consolation

Chapter - 49 The Vent of He´Remon

They rode astride Sgnarli, Corin and Pitrag the imp, together. Behind them were the elf Falnir and Farinmail the dwarf, clutching in wonder at the scaled dragon hide. Last sat He´Remon, his long beard trailing like a muffler scarf in the wind of the creature's wings.

The moon, unencumbered in an open sky of black-blue, bloomed near full-quarter amidst a salting of stars. All seemed breathless, the late winter air agonisingly halt to their progress.

Sgnarli, at any rate, was making hard work of it. He was heavy laden and still weakened from his conquest and douse in the ocean, both of which had depleted the dragon's energies. His youthful vigour had been close-spent in winning the duel and his hot-fire-throat, near put out by water-quench. Yet somehow, though even elven aid could only probe and guess his wants, he had recovered enough to bat wing and fly.

And thus they were airborne, the fleet of Aneurin Foamhair southward behind. The massed, benighted land of the North World before. And o'er those coasts they swept, the ragged dragon-wings labouring the air, as if made of crinkling, scorched parchment. It seemed, almost at any time, that they would tear and come adrift; so fragile, so wounded, seemed they. If veins of blood drove them, then poor was the circulation, and altogether was it a hazardous progress. Sgnarli's breath, a rasping witness of his efforts.

Still, by star and moon they came, in great daring, within sight of a distant sheet of water, like a shining mirror, reflecting the heavens.

‘There is the lake of the Tjärnwash and beyond it the mounts of the Ramabad!’ cried the dwarf. ‘There Zangarh and Sagarmat and there, the tallest, mighty Rontalandor. Beneath Onderbor, the second highest, lies Zwerge-Drysfa; Dwarf-Home, if the goblins have not pulled the halls down by now.’

As they strained their eyes, the others made out a high barrier; the Ramabad chain, running roughly north and south-westward of the water. Indeed, they seemed to be flying toward an extensive bowl, where foothills raised their shadowy heads on the nearest shores and crept in a sweeping arc, meeting at either end; their fathers, the mountains.

‘Best not dare too near,’ called the wizard. ‘Dragons may be abroad.’

‘I hope that is not so,’ shouted Farinmail, ‘for my home could now be blasted to rubble by those evil creatures.’ Then, remembering Sgnarli beneath him, he added, ‘Of course all dragon-brood are not so wilful or vicious. Some are such service to gentry as to earn favour and much wealth from them. After all, the Zwerge are most generous... at need.’

The companions laughed softly at this; though Corin merely smiled, whilst his heart hovered, awaiting some inkling, some sign to guide him on his quest. Sgnarli, pumping wings down, up, into the dark, gave out a single exclamation; a grunt perhaps. Yet to they who rode him, it seemed like an acknowledgment of the dwarf's words.

They flew as close as seemed best; there spying what they could. Corin, for the first time, beheld the still, liquid expanse of the Tjärnwash; its surface a'twinkle with reflections. And there, as he so gazed, it seemed to him that the reflections resolved themselves, becoming akin to shining diamonds, shimmering, quite beautiful, in the limpid waters. As in a trance, he silently counted them: seven, and twice again seven. Twenty-one stars in all. The Thrice Seven, spoken of upon the Stone of Remorse. Then his vision clouded and the images melted, so that another star pattern collected. His eyes cleared, and he saw them for what they really were; the new-come Spring Stars, heralding winter's death. But yet, he was sure, he was certain, a true vision had been sent him. He had seen the Thrice Seven; hung, like as in winter's grasp.

‘We are here,’ he heard himself say. ‘We are upon the threshold!’

‘Maybe so,’ cried Farinmail, ‘but look down there. Lights, lights spring up around the lake. A multitude, a multitude encamps there. The nugobluk yet abide!’

As they drew closer, so it was; all around the wide lake, sheltered by drumlin hills, countless red lights now flickered. Already settled there, was a vast and mighty army.

‘Do not venture nearer those horrors,’ warned the Wizard. ‘Seek the higher airs. Will our dragon-steed take us up, far up above the Tjärnwash?’

For answer, Falnir spoke soft and swiftly into Pitrag's ear, and the imp laid such command to Sgnarli. With a lurching effort that seemed to pain him, the dragon forced wing and tail to flail harder, beating up in slow, sharp-winded circles, until they were so high that below, the lake lay as if but a small pond.

‘This will do. Steady him,’ called the Wizard, holding forth his massive staff and sending a bolt, blazing, from its tip.

Down, far down, after some little time, there blossomed a wide puff of coloured smoke, like a drifting cloud. For brief moments, transfixed by that light, the lake flushed rose-dark, blank and ominous. And about its margins, amongst shadows cast from foothills and ravines, the tiny figures of numberless creatures could be descried. That they were nugobluk-kind there was no doubt. And how they clamoured and shrank and quibbled at their exposure to such sudden un-sun.

But away flew Sgnarli, now coasting with his heavy burden until he bore them back over a narrow, southward-lying neck of land, and thence out across the open sea to where lay the fleet of Aneurin, biding still. All about, the ocean remained empty of any foe; though a strange swell, coming northward, turned the tide and buffeted the elvish craft, so that those at tiller or wheel gazed to seaward anxiously.

‘What is to be done then?’ The dwarf Farinmail demanded an answer, as he stalked about the crowded hold of the Dolphin ship. The hour had grown late since Sgnarli's return, and once there, the dragon had remained, panting upon the ship's deck, like a worn-out hunting dog.

For those below, much had been debated, but little resolved. Some there, were for all out assault upon the goblins, hoping surprise might win the day. Others thought prudence the best course. But as was argued, what point was there in such waiting? The besieging nugobluk would hardly go away, until they had done their worst to sack and despoil the dwarf kingdom.

And, as Aneurin Foamhair ventured, fresh reserves of the enemy might well arrive at any time. ‘We know little of our foe, their numbers, their movements, their strengths. We are new-come to these shores. They, must have great knowledge of the lands and such within. The sea, at least, I understand. If they assail us, let it be on water. There we have a chance.’

‘True enough,’ said Ælroth. ‘That being so, we need send forth scouts to spy out what they may. News is dearly needed. Now, if we only had folk of the Booca.’

‘We shall make do without,’ said Falnir. ‘The Browneeth and their brethren are far away, in safety let us hope. Still and all, it does seem wise to post pickets, both on sea and on land. There is a strangeness, I detect, in ocean and air that daunts me.’

‘Nay, daunts each and every one of us,’ added Aneurin. ‘It is as if the sea itself pulsed with a malice.’

‘But what are we to do about my peoples?’ Farinmail burst forth.

‘Patience, patience, Master Zwerge,’ said He´Remon, catching Farinmail by the shoulder. ‘Your allies will find a way. Give them time.’

‘Time, time!’ muttered the dwarf, shrugging away. ‘Time is what we have not. Who can tell what has happened, or what will hap? Still, I know not. Already the apartments, the hostels of the dwarves may lie vacant, in ruins.’

‘Unlikely,’ declaimed Lorica. ‘If that were so, why should the nugobluk tarry about that lake, when they might sit inside your own mansions?’

Aneurin Foamhair arose from where he sat. ‘This still solves not our course. Though so much I say shall be done; outrider craft of the Valdë, will I now dispatch to watch the ocean's murmurs, for this vast swelling movement, I fear, bears ill.’

‘I would lead such out-folk upon the land,’ volunteered Ælroth. ‘My people have sharp-eyes and step soft.’

‘And perhaps the dragon might fly?’ This was Oloris, who had remained silent through the discourse.

Farinmail nodded, ‘True, the plaything of the elves should be put to work. As long as their hands and wills guide him.’

‘No!’ said He´Remon, raising his arm. ‘I detect that Master Dragon has a role more important to play than watch-worm. What say you to this, Corin of Men and Elves?’

Corin's eyes, when they turned to the Wizard, were wide, yet almost unseeing, the whites large, the pupils small. His mouth, his nose, the flesh of his face, had sculptured and moulded into the guise of one caught candidly, deeply thinking, unaware of any other. Or perhaps he was waking-asleep, entranced.

All those around him had no way of knowing. For long he did not stir and even Farinmail halted his shuffling.

‘Do you hear our voices?’ Aneurin asked.

‘Yes,’ Corin answered. ‘I hear. I have spent a time... I do not know how long. Things have come to me. I wonder...’ and for a moment his voice trailed away. ‘I wonder, if it was meant for us, for me, to have come here, now. I wonder if the enemy has come here as was meant. Perhaps all this, somehow, is fixed. Perhaps here, lies the destiny of the world; Varlar's life, to survive, or die. Maybe all that matters now will centre upon this place. Somewhere here, by the ocean, in the mountains, in the hills, lie the hidden Doors to Nether-Land. Somewhere here, all are come to converge, to seek that which is lost. I believe that the Nugobluk know, or at least sense. They too search for the hidden Doors of Earth-Mouth.’

‘So it has been said, but where? Where?’ Farinmail stamped his foot in consternation. ‘Dwarves have delved long and hard, deep lift-wells dug, shafts and tunnels, holes and vents, probes, sinks, sounds and bores. Very deep, far; scratching, tickling the stubble of bearded earth, have moled my folk. These doors,’ he waited, his eyes mocking, ‘how could Dwarves and Stonegnomes not find some hint, some trace of them?’

Corin sighed, ‘Perhaps they are so deep, or so disguised. But of one thing I am certain, the Stone of Remorse does not lie, does not deal in perhaps or maybes. It is real enough, and its message true; Varlar will survive or die, dependant upon the Stone's words.’ He raised his eyes, now full and clear and varicoloured, to the gathered. ‘I believe I know where lie the Doors.’

‘You do,’ said Farinmail, impatient to hear Corin's words and be about the business of freeing his dwarf-kin. ‘Tell us then, if you please. Though I know not how you could guess, when you have never set foot within the kingdom of the Zwerge.’

‘Eye or foot have nothing to do with mind's sight,’ replied Corin. ‘If I have seen aright, if I have read the riddles of The Voices, of my dreams and visions, I know. And yet, in knowing, I know also hopelessness.’

‘But whatever can you mean by that?’ Oloris exclaimed, clutching at his wounded side.

‘I mean that to know the place, is not to be able to come there, or see it, or to enter it.’

‘We do not understand you Avarhli,’ said Aneurin, his voice lowered, puzzled. ‘What is it that you have seen?’

Corin opened his mouth, choked, his throat suddenly parched. Then he said, ‘The Doors lie somewhere beneath the waters of the Tjärnwash.’

‘How could that be?’ asked Farinmail in wonder. ‘My peoples have dwelt here for long time. Never has any tale told of such thing.’

Corin smiled wanly. ‘Have any of dwarf-kind ever swum in that lake, ever dove to its bottom?’

‘Of course not,’ said the dwarf, irritably. ‘As I have said, the Zwerge do not enter water at will.’

‘Then you have not seen the twisted trees of my visions. The drowned trees, amidst water, darker than the night; a lonely crowd reaching dead fingers up towards the lost light. The trees of a forest entombed by water. A vanished army, damp buried, spoken of in the inscriptions of the Stone. The trees of the Plain, known as Aileen. The warders, all long dead, of Varlar Mouth.’

For a time there was silence, whilst the folk there thought on Corin's words.

At last, Aneurin said, ‘Then that is why none may enter, the weight of water piled atop.’

Corin nodded. Somehow, at once, he seemed extremely tired. ‘That, at least, I guess as a beginning of the obstacles.’ Slowly he stood up, unbent himself and came forward into the golden light; it beamed all around him, surrounding his head, spilling through his hair, so that it too, seemed golden. But even with the hood thrown back, the black of his outer garment soaked in the radiance of the lanterns, leaving his face drawn and pale. ‘There will be more than water to hold those barriers closed. The Will, The Power of Valandir the Drotnar, keeps them true. That is the source of the strength that bars those portals. And I believe that when Valandir chose to seal Earth-Mouth, He also drowned the Plain; that the way should never be found, or if discovered, never be approachable. Only the Stone of Remorse remains, if it still remains, to tell the tale.’

He sighed, and fell to a silence that he broke moments later, ‘Why is it, that the Nugobluk flock to that place, beside the lake, when there are many lakes abounding. Goblins hate water more than do Dwarves, that is sure. But still the enemy is there. And soon, maybe all their kind will come hither from every corner of Varlar. Perhaps that explains why they have arisen and why, even when they have conquered as at Mendoth and again against the Elloræ at the Lake of the Dead, they depart. It is as if they were on some predetermined course; a migration. A pilgrimage of slaughter, destroying all in their path, so as to come to the mountains of the dwarves: The Ramabad and the Lake of the Night, where thrice-seven stars are seen there in winter.’

‘But how could they know these things?’ Falnir asked, perplexed.

‘I cannot begin to guess,’ said Corin, shaking his head.

‘Perhaps I can,’ murmured the wizard, stirring. ‘After all, were not the events of the past, however distant, a part of the goblin history?’

Falnir said, ‘Do you mean that they, somehow, recorded those events ?’

The wizard smiled, almost laughed. ‘Is it so strange to you, that these foul orkus have lore unto themselves? Yes, even they have written cant; cruel and secret and whining to other ears, when spoken. And, like ants, they possess collective memory. Tales are passed on from generation to generation. Remember, they have had long time, brooding in their filthy holes, hoarding their memories. Perhaps amongst their spider-writings, they have marked the past, in scrawl, deep in the worm-delvings of their tunnels.’

‘Or maybe, as have others, all was forgotten and somehow regained to knowledge,’ suggested Ælroth.

Corin passed a hand across his temple. ‘Aye, or perhaps they have a long-suppressed instinct, that now tells them to come hither. That, or maybe they, like me, are drawn, bit by bit, piece by piece; entwined in this mysterious puzzle. Whatever, it now matters not too much. That they have come, is of import. And of more import; what do they hope to achieve? Do they gather to see the Doors reopened; to open them, themselves. Or, to hold them shut ?’

‘Open, hold shut ?’ Farinmail laughed his curious, swift-gurgle laugh. 'How could either be? Already you, Master Corin, guess these Doors held fast by deeping water.’

‘Yes.’ Corin slumped, drawing the black hood about his head, so that his features were hidden by candlelight. ‘Hopelessness tells me the Doors cannot be passed, yet... Still the Doors are stood, and to them have come, or will come, all: Good and Evil, in the long run, if I guess aright. Paradox for answer; to open, though impossible. Or to hold, against enemies, in case they know how to enter. For, in truth, everything is still uncertain beyond. Do the Daræ await within, possessed of some unknown strength that may be turned to the good of Varlar? Or do the Maadim, unsubdued, hold ready to cease the world forever?’

‘Cease the world forever!’ cried Cinco, the sea-elf, aghast.

He´Remon bent his head, eyes hooded. ‘Aye. It could be done, you know. Varlar is ruled by nature: mount, sea, desert sand and forest mould. If the deepest Powers that govern earth's core were unleashed, who can foresee what might happen? Maybe all Free Folk would be enslaved down within the embowelled halls at the furthest depths. Maybe then darkness might rule Varlar and everything that is burnable upon its surface, sacrificed to the flame even unto the seas drying, that all the world be above as it is below: dark, pierced by fire, heat unbearable, torture in the very air, the fumes of which wither the heart and scorch the spirit till they are both but pitiable things; slaves of whom Master Corin spoke, the Maadim and their Lords the Choths.’

Corin again lifted a hand to his brow. ‘Oh Wizard, that which you have spoken, puts me in mind of something happened a half year's turning ago, far off in the lost realm of Elfame. There it was, that King Elberl told me of the island's history. And there, I beheld a vision as he spoke. I took it to depict the beginnings of Varlar, our world. Yet now I wonder. I wonder what part, if any, was false. What part true?Could it be that what I saw, the first dawning in fire and turmoil, was in truth, the last of Varlar? I could not know it then, but mayhap I foresaw the portent of Varlar's doom.’

‘Perhaps that is so,’ said Aneurin gravely. ‘Yet how do we guess which course leads to that end; or which, if any, avoids it?’

‘How do we even know my vision to have meaning at all?’ Corin muttered, dejectedly.

The dwarf cleared his throat. ‘Errm, it seems this debate goes nowhere. My people are still besieged. We must take action!’

‘The enemy, I fear, are even now of daunting number,’ ventured Oloris, 'and if others are on their way...’

'All the more reason to strike soon!’ argued Farinmail, hefting his axe.

The wizard intervened, standing before them. ‘Wait, wait a moment! I have a thought. A dangerous one, I admit, for I am not certain of the consequences. Yet hear me out, since mayhap this will serve purpose twice over.’

Corin looked up, so that his hood fell completely away, revealing his head, naked to the light. ‘Then speak, wise Magus, for I am at an end to think further.’

Aneurin raised a hand and the others fell silent.

The wizard said, ‘With power that I own, and power alone, I believe that I can scatter the goblins and drain the Tjärnwash. And this, all at one stroke.’

‘And how do you propose to achieve this mighty feat?’ asked Aneurin, in the silence that followed.

‘It will take a draining portion of my abilities, such that shall leave me empty for a time, rather like a vessel used to slake an honest thirst. Still, I am willing to attempt it, if all do as I bid, until the thing is over.’

‘And pray, what would you have us do?’ asked Lorica.

‘That which I propose, requires all folk to draw away from the dwarf lands,’ said He´Remon.’ Far out to sea must this fleet sail, or better still, to leeward haven. What shall be done cannot be repeated. Once, will deplete me quite sufficiently. The dwarves themselves, locked up in their halls, are safe for a time from incursion, I think. Only the goblins shall feel the sting.’

‘Well, what exactly do you mean to do?’ Corin asked, recovering from his gloom.

‘The Tjärnwash, I perceive, is a lake within a wide valley-basin; landlocked from the ocean by a narrow collar of coast line. I believe the lake depth to be above sea level.’

‘And what of that?’ said the dwarf in exasperation. ‘Do you suggest that we each take a bucket and bail out the pond?’

‘Nothing of the sort,’ replied the wizard, a little curtly. ‘And if you instead took a breath and held your tongue, Master Farinmail, I might continue to your enlightenment.’

The dwarf scowled and turned away, though he kept an ear cocked.

'As I was saying,’ went on He´Remon, ‘thereby hangs a question, what to do when you have a pot full of water that you wish to empty?’

‘Tip it out, if you can lift the pot,’ answered Ælroth.

‘Boil it dry,’ said Cinco.

‘Drink it,’ laughed Lorica.

He´Remon smiled. ‘That, or burn a hole in it.’

‘Is that what you are going to do? ‘Corin asked, amazed.

‘Something like it. I intend to breach the cliff walls of the coast if I have strength enough, and thus let the lake flow out into the ocean, emptying itself. If I am wrong, little more will be lost. The sea may flood in to raise the lake level, should I delve too deep the land between. A gamble, yes, but worthy, since I am the only one at risk.’

‘Yet if you are astray and the waters flood into the valley, to the very doorstep of my dwarf-kin, what then?’ Farinmail grumbled.

The wizard nodded slowly, as if weighed down for a moment by doubt. ‘That is to be considered, though the dwarves of the Ramabad are hardy, their doors light and air and water proof, are they not? You, my dear Dalfin Farinmail, have little to fear for those within. More so, if they knew, should goblindom; those encamped on the lake margins, especially. They will be the ones to witness, first hand, or should I say, first claw, the work of my labours. And, at least, if I am wrong, the waters will engulf them, as well as myself, to our mutual destruction. That alone would be a breathing space for dwarves and their allies.’

‘But how will you achieve this tremendous task in plain sight of those swarming maggots?’ Farinmail pursued.

‘Do you think that I have never before walked amongst all manner of creatures without their knowledge,’ answered He´Remon with surety. ‘Only when it is too late, will they become aware of me.’

‘And if you are right and I am right, as I believe, then we shall be confronted by a sight long lost to any eyes that now dwell in the world,’ said Corin, as if enchanted.

Aneurin Foamhair's fleet lay off to the south-east, huddled close by the sheltering bastions of the North World cliffs. A day had passed in which the wizard, alone, was landed on the deserted shore some distance from his intended destination. The last Corin, or any other, saw of him was his tall, white- shrouded figure, back turned to them, great staff in hand, stamping away over the heights.

Night was well fallen, and nought had transpired. Within the armada of Valdë craft, elvish eyes watched the dark and the phosphor waves that curled and creamed across the new-moon exposed ocean.

‘These regions of Varlar are strangely calmed this late night: sky, ocean and earth,’ observed Aneurin, his soft voice a whisper that yet commanded heads.

‘Ay,’ returned Corin, dreamily, as he leant against the railing, vaguely watching Pitrag feeding sea-food to the drooling dragon, down amidships. Sgnarli's mending wings flapped languidly upon the deck, whilst elvish mariners plied their banked oars and others hurried by, some tending even the dragon and the imp's wants, for both had been of much service and as the Elloræ well knew, might be again.

‘I wonder what is happening in all the seas and lands of Varlar now, right now upon this very moment?’ Corin said.

‘I feel no pain for my peoples,’ answered Aneurin. ‘At least that I can perceive. Most likely all, so far this night, goes peacefully.’

Corin nodded slowly. ‘And what of the Wizard? Where is he now, I wonder. And whence came he? That has never been spoken of.’

Farinmail, the dwarf leader, stirred from where he was peering out between the balusters. ‘The Wizard is long known to us over many moon's blooming. Perhaps in the days of my grandfather's time, was He´Remon first met with my people. From tale told me, he came and went, staying awhile here and there. From whence he first came, only he would say, "Out of the west." Yet he has always been our friend since the first. Yes, come to think of such, he it was who made certain suggestions concerning our mining. Sometimes he was heeded and rich lodes, often as not, were discovered. And too, his knowledge seems unbounded: ideas, inventions and the like, he gave freely to the Zwerge. Then, at times he would leave on far journeys; gone long, distant ways. But ever came he back to us, and to our mansions is he always welcome.’

‘I see,’ said Corin, his gaze fixed at a point where moonlit sea touched moonlit sky, toward the west.

‘Dartæ!’ called an elf. Cinco it was, from beneath their feet, on a lower deck.

Aneurin stood upright, alerted. ‘Something is happening. The wave patterns are a'changed. Look! Look out at the ocean! It rolls not to land or sea-wise. Now comes it round the coast!' He turned his long, cloaked arm, pointing. ‘There-away, there, that great body... of water, I think. See it looming; off, off, far-off. Give the warning! Brace everything against that water-wall! The vent of He´Remon looms!’

Chapter 50 [next]