Varlarsaga Volume 3 - Consolation

Chapter - 52 Jutunn Hämma: Home of the Giants

As if caught under some subtle spell, pitched like a sea-net around him, Corin began absently to unwind the bindings of Talisar's gift. The silver thread streamed through his fingers, running rivulets of silver that poured over Darkelfari's maned neck. The white cloth fell away and there revealed was new and sudden light; a firelight that drew his gaze, unwillingly, from hers.

He looked down and his hands seemed ablaze with flame, yet the polished, glassy substance of scabbard and hilt were both cool and light to the touch. From the pommel there emanated a glowing pulse of deep red and when he slowly withdrew the blade, it was as if he were withdrawing dancing fire. The metal of Orichalc rang with a resonating hum and lines of streaking silver appeared along the blood-grooves on either face; these shimmered into a pattern, which in turn formed words, strange words of the Daræ.

‘Næglind is its name,’ said Talisar, as if from far away. ‘Once upon a time was it dredged out of first chance, out of first fortune. Sweet was the lode that bore Næglind, and short. This, the substance of this flame thrower, was nigh all that my people ever brought to the surface. Long lay it unhewn, unforged. Not till I first gave it form with my glance. Orichalc raw is yet wondrous to the sight. Like a living thing is it: moving, crawling, molten, touchable, workable, pliable. But to fashion it, to take it and mould it, to shape and nurture it, is to give it life; for Orichalc is a marvel that can be grown and trained to do many things: even, yea, to live and to breathe.’

At this Corin started, startled. ‘Do you mean that? Can things, beings, creatures, be created as living bodies?’

The Daræ maiden's eyes glittered in her beautiful face. ‘That is as I was told by my people, though I myself never passed into the depths. There were, you see, some few of the Daræ who came to these regions in company with the Nolvæ and here settled. I am the daughter of one such. And, I believe I am the last of the Dhu-elfer to dwell in the lands. All those others who did not enter the Mouth of Varlar are gone away.

‘Gone, as the Princess Ny´æ?’ Corin enquired.

‘Aye, as she. She and her Father Tal´æ-cion. They made their choice, as I made mine. That they chose to depart, is an indication of what they felt after our brethren were seduced into Earth-Mouth for the final time.’

‘And that was?’

‘A revulsion, a sickening at the travesty, shaping through Daræ greed and lust for knowledge and power; which in turn was moulded by Powers far stronger, more potent, more uncontrollable than ever they, Would-be Lords of life, could perceive. The Daræ did not know, did not dream or guess that they were to be dupes, used and enslaved. They, my kindred, were lured to unleash the Powers from beneath; Powers they could never control. They were wooed with the promise of Orichalc, that they might create in their own image and design and thence, as the madness grew, to make anything, in twisted defiance of Varlar's laws; the laws of what shall be called Nature.’

Talisar lowered her gaze to the sword in Corin's grasp. ‘Yes, I made and loved Næglind. Into that work went a part of myself, the Daræ of me. Perhaps I am purged now of that which was inherent of my peoples. I do fervently hope it is so. For though the Dhu-elfer were magnificent, so they were as the babe, un-shamed, innocent. And too, they were aspiring, naive, ambitious, emboldened; easily led, easily bribed. Thus, unto their doom.’ She raised her eyes to meet Corin's. ‘Now I am of the Nolvæ, and they of me. But I give you this Daræ gift, for it was created to seek a hand, and your hand is fit. Share no ill-ease at the stuff of which it is made. This Orichalc is cast and welded, and now wielded as should be. You are its Master and it will obey you. Næglind shall obey you as I have commanded it so do. Many are the drops needed to fill the oceans. All alone mean little, but added together may they grow a puddle, a pond, a lake. With this gift, may your armoury grow.’ Talisar's eyes flashed, momentarily bold, then shy. ‘Your road is yonder way. Let your steed bear you to the destiny that will save the world.’

She reached out to touch him, and then, as in some timidity, held back the meeting of their hands. ‘I must tell you,’ she said, ‘that already you are dear to me, dear and terrible. And yet I have long had the seed growing in my thoughts that a someone, as you, would appear to me, and then depart. You must, what you must, Stranger, Master. Would that I had leave and courage to follow you. Would that my heart was great enough. Instead, take my gift, which now seems so small...’

She broke off, whilst Corin, moved by her words, said, ‘Fairest Lady, how and by what fortune it is that we are met I cannot think, but I am grateful. Just to have beheld one sight, one sound of the sweetness that is you, has been water to the parched, land to the seafarer, sun to the benighted. I am revived, for my companion here and I have far to go. If only...’

‘If only...’ she cut him short. ‘Life moves, nears, touches, parts. And goes on moving again. As you must go on and I... I also.’ She wheeled her steed about, the white horse to the black, and caught Sianor's eye, where away he had been waiting. ‘The words upon Næglind, I there long ago scribed, though my mind guided me not. As to the meaning, I have long pondered. It was as if events were meant to come, over which I had little control. In the tongue of the Daræ the inscription reads, "Næglind eg lath. aTalisar eg lath qyeta." That is, "Næglind I am. By Talisar I am loved." ’

She met Corin face to face for the last time. ‘Talisar means Moon-fire. Næglind means several things, amongst them North-Elder and Leave-Portent.’ She looked fondly into his eyes, fondly and fiercely. ‘I had no pre-ceived thoughts, though now, methinks there is a meaning that your coming has made clearer. This weapon was meant for you, yet forged without that knowledge. Even so, was it made by me, Talisar. And as the sword is loved, so is its Master, by Talisar.’

She kneed her mount, drawing the white cloth about her face, and together with Sianor, galloped away southward into the trees of the Mayhenyodaro.

For a time Corin sat, dumbfounded by this Daræ Lady, who was now of the Nolvæ elves, and the gift of her giving. Then at last he came to himself, moved by Darkelfari's restless snortings. ‘You are right, good friend,’ he said, stroking the rippling neck. ‘Let us see what yet this blessed day shall bring us.’

Off the pair went, Darkelfari at a goodly pace, Corin hard pressed to keep his eyes on the road ahead, and not the vision that shone, enrapturing his thoughts.

And as the day rolled and rocked along, so the more did he become absorbed within it.

Through briar-thicketed close and deep hollow, to dark of night and down into forlorn dells roamed Darkelfari, whilst Corin's reverie filled his mind, ‘Would you wait for me though never I came?

Would you wait, though I never came? Would you love me, just the same?’

Thus musing, so he rode; Darkelfari bearing, the way winding on.

Out of low land, hill and greenery, out of stream and river, up to tree and rocky scaur, up to mountains they toiled; and slow, slow over them, back toward the Mighty Fear. The Fear that overwhelmed all else. Somewhere beyond the first foothold of heights, lay It. Corin quailed at that certainty. The Mighty Fear had lurked at their backs in the northern alps when the pair had fled the Hermitage. Now, before them, like an impending spectre, awaited that same doom.

Slowly, the image of Talisar faded, as faded Corin's reverie.

Who can say how long it was, to the minds of rider and ridden? Who can tell what time passed between them inwardly, whilst outward the sun and moon and stars rolled round? What the two friends, close by way of quest and burden and fear felt, is perhaps beyond understanding. Toward the great and awesome, steadfastly they strove; toward the unknown together, out of love for each other. And maybe it was that love which upheld them during the deepest moments of despair. Horse and Master wondered the fate before them: injury, pain, death? But neither could step aside the path; a path ordained by someone, or thing, above comprehension.

‘Am I seeking a madness?’ wondered Corin, huddled beneath the black mantle of his robe, whilst the winds of the high passes moaned mournfully, searching, probing, flaying.

They journeyed on until each step was an agony for the horse: the sensitive skin of his eyes and muzzle blistered, the eyes themselves, misted over. Tall cliffs yawned before them, whilst the sun seemed to stagger across the sky, toward the vert of twilight and the veined purple of night.

Time became a will-o'-the-wisp, an elusive thing, so that many days might have passed without Corin's knowledge. Through tortuous, windy ways they went, climbing all the while; surmounting obstacle after obstacle across the towering, pine-covered cordilleras. Food was now nothing more than that which the land yielded: fungus, mushrooms, low herbage for Darkelfari to crop, and later, as the pair ventured into the colder regions, brown moss and black lichen, grubbed from beneath the frosted wastes, for that was all left of growing things beyond the passes of the north above the alps.

Above the alps, the mightiest mountains of Varlar, lay the ice-steppes, the treeless tundra; most foreboding realm of the world. And there, eventually, did Corin and Darkelfari tread, their feet dragging through numbing snow that began to harden into ice. On occasion Corin rode the horse, though for the most he stumbled at his side, hand clutching dank mane as they probed further into the frigid land.

The days melted and fused. If there was night, it was that sunset and rise combined to make it, and that was all.

‘The sun never leaves the sky,’ marvelled Corin aloud, in something akin to delirium. ‘But then how, how am I to find the Swan of the North? Those seven stars are all I have for guide, beneath them Earth-Eye.’ He muttered on, Darkelfari the only listening ear. ‘How stupid of me, this is not the time to see those stars, I guess. We are come too early, too late. Whichever, time is wrong for us,’ he croaked, brushing the rime from his eyebrows and beard and knocking icicles, tinkling, from the horse's ears. ‘And now what shall befall us? Here in all this desolation, are we to be lost and forgotten? Behind, Varlar moves on to war and doom, maybe. Yet here, there is nothing, nothing. What are we doing here, where only the slanted wind blows?’

Corin fell, and for some time lay there whilst the sleet and snow banked against him.

Darkelfari stooped to nibble at his ear, cold lips to cold lobe. ‘Stand,’ the horse seemed to whisper, ‘for we must not give in. Stand Master, before I too fall, and together we go to sleep. We will find your stars, wherever they be. You shall know them by night or day, for you are the one Master, the only one who can.’

A handful of mane, Corin grasped, so that the horse went forward many steps, dragging his burden over the ice until, at last, Darkelfari could endure no longer and sank to his knees where he remained, and the hard wind of twilight whirled about their still forms.

Did they come to of their own accord, or did some higher authority take a hand? Never shall that be truly known. Only, did Corin awake to the curious sounds of voices; not The Voices, but voices faraway and wind borne, sounding like maidens, mournful sighing, behind which rang the tinkling of ice.

Then slowly they faded and snow, tumbling, spinning, descended in a white flurry, like a burst of sudden activity which masked a series of thudding vibrations that shook the ice, dissipated, and was gone. In the purple dimness Corin's eyes beheld a tiny, dancing flame that flickered between him and Darkelfari, where the horse, unmoving, lay. The source of this light came from Talisar's sword, where the blade had fallen so that a fraction edged loose from the dark scabbard. With the last strength left him, Corin slowly drew the weapon from its harbour, and there a glow quickened, and warmth emanated from the polished orichalc.

In time, the heat revived them, and Darkelfari neighed, shaking his besmirched head free of the melting slush, then with a painful heave, lurched to his feet; there to totter, his proud frame reduced to hide and bone. Corin gained his knees, blinking in the dawnlight, yet his eyes were blurred and all seemed hazy and unreal. Still, by the blade Næglind, had they some succour. For it alone now comforted them, and though no sustenance could it provide, it, by very composition, eked out heat, and more of import, hope.

The sun glowed like a pale ball out of the mauve west, and by that solitary guide, the pair staggered on; horse of black and walker, black-wise clad, into the haunting north. Two, trekking across a vast, open, empty plain of white. Or was that plain so empty? Were the distant shapes that Corin now dimly perceived as snow shrouded mountains really such? Or were they hulking, brutish things, moving slowly amongst tall, carven ice-blocks and pillars of grey, sulphurous stone at the horizon's edge?

The constant winds moaned, whilst snow flurried unpitying, sinking them in swirling drifts. A dream they touched upon and entered; so that all, real and unreal, became as one to them. The flatness of leagues stretched before the pair, and yet it was as if Corin and Darkelfari were striving ever up some subtle slope which could not be seen, but only felt. Away to the east, now clearly, now not, loomed a low range; ice-browed and hung with frozen cataracts, halted in downward plummet and fixed like jewelry about the necks of those stern crags. Strange lights played across the sky. Only the few treasures Corin carried seemed to ward off despair: the armlet-crown, the raiment of elfdom beneath the black cloak, the boots that drove feet on, Elluin's pearl shell, and the sword of Talisar's giving; talisman each. And yet even their combined strength could not hold back the elements against which the pair battled, for more than a brief time.

Still, it was an heroic struggle and none could say otherwise, for even whilst their outer selves wasted away, diminished by those ever shifting wastes, so did will and courage flare. And thus they dragged each other on, across the sliding ice, across the face of fear itself.

The air they breathed came in painful, lung-biting draughts. Visions floated before their eyes; some, such horrors, that Corin clung to Darkelfari whilst the horse neighed witless, nostrils flaring, too weak to run wild.

Shadows crossed the crumbling snow, flitting hawk-like through the purple mists that lidded the sky. And at that did Corin look up, lifting a hand in feeble defence against the huge face peering down at them. Monstrous it seemed, red and hoar-blown, long sticks of ice hanging like curling tentacles from its hair and beard, and black coal-eyes smouldering under snow-brows, whilst great, cold-pinched lips smacked away the falling whiteness, nose thrusting, nostrils agape: smelling, searching, finding. And about that towering head, circling in and out of laden cloud and pelting sleet, swooped the form of a large, white, owl-like bird.

When Corin again came to himself it was but fleetingly. He had a swirling glimpse of tall, spired columns, rising upward to be met by others, falling, frozen towards them. And he fancied that he saw small, alert faces, watching him. Fire too, there was, with welcome thawing heat.

Then he was gone once more to nought.

When next he became conscious, he blinked the wetness from his eyes, there to stare upward. He was in a huge, iced cavern. Away, somewhere not far off, he thought he caught the sound of snuffling and a soft whinny. Darkelfari, he guessed, wished, hoped. Corin moved, slow, arduous. His hand clenched, and unclenched: and so to the rest of his body, part by part, feeling blood and pain flow into regions that seemed beyond ever feeling again. His body began to tingle, coming alive, back from whence it had been; the path to frosty death.

After a while he began to breath freely, the warming air bathing his lungs as a healing balm. He turned his head a fraction, to see what he might see. He seemed all encased in white fur, like some cocooned insect. Indeed so soft and encompassing was this bedding that he almost drifted away. Yet a movement caught his eye at the fringe of white coverlet, and he made to raise himself a little. And as he so struggled, the sight-line broadening, his dazzled eyes beheld a startling sight. Down below, in a wide hall, there stood the enormous figure of a giant. Towering three times, maybe, the height of a tall man, this creature was the largest being on two legs that Corin had ever seen. And perched on one massive shoulder was a great snowy owl, its saucer-eyes winking, staring as if they might pierce anything within their range.

The giant began to sink down, slow and cumbersome, to a sitting position upon an ice ledge, cut out, it appeared, for that very purpose. He grunted, ‘ERRGH!’ It was a deep rumble, not unlike the sound imaged just before an avalanche. With one arm he drew the great swathe of furs and skins he wore about his loins and upper torso, whilst with the other he lifted a thing like a keg or vat to his wide mouth, and drew long from the contents. His eyes, the size of large apples, closed as he drank, his red nose seemed to distend on his vast red face; the jowls of which, blew in and out like forge bellows. His bull-throat glugged.

The owl blinked, and with a swiftness whereby it might have snapped up some small creature, bent its stare toward Corin. Fascinated, he could do no more than remain where he was propped, hardly daring to breathe, taking in all that fantastic scene. Fires burned, plopping and bubbling puddles of molten liquid threw flares and showers of sparks from their surface, shimmering heat and wisps of smoke curled upward and out through rents and holes in the dripping roof.

And silhouetted against the red of the pools, stood the gaunt frame of Darkelfari. His head was bent low, and Corin thought the horse near collapse, but then he made out a tiny figure, wielding a double-pronged fork, and realised that Darkelfari was actually eating fodder of some kind.

The giant, having emptied his enormous vessel, belched, ‘BERROUCH!’ and set it down. Then he inclined his gaze toward the horse, tilting his shaggy head from side to side in a quizzical fashion. Ponderously bending closer, he began a kind of stroking across Darkelfari's neck and back with leg-of-mutton fingers. It appeared the action of a gentle, if somewhat clumsy child.

‘Yarl visgortun?’ whispered a voice close by Corin's ear.

Instantly it broke the spell and, with an effort, he twisted round, coming face to face, nose to nose almost, confronted by a tightly packed group of comical folk. As one, they jerked back apace, then peered forward again, frowns lining their foreheads, though smiles played about their eyes and mouths.

‘Visgor?’ Corin croaked. ‘Does that mean alive, or not dead?’

He wrinkled his brow, somewhere in the teachings of the Nine at the hermitage, that word had had a meaning. But so many words and letters and symbols and tongues cluttered his head that now Corin felt as one sickened on the waves of learning. Visgortun, as near as he could render, meant, made over, made whole. ‘Yarmurn,’ he answered, as the word popped into his mind.

At this, the faces before him beamed, darting looks back and forth and nodding.

‘Do you speak Rennish?’ Corin asked. ‘For I know too little of your tongue.’

The strange little creatures swiftly drew heads together, seemingly near laughter. ‘Yarmurn, ho-hoen. Vistan laff ho-hoen. Snjorgnamen say Ren,’ answered one.

Corin grappled with the words, ‘you are snowgnomes, and you can speak my language?’

‘Hanyar!’ they nodded, all at once. ‘Folk togedhar say tis Ren nar.’

For a time Corin rested, thinking. Then he managed, ‘Snjorgnamen think it amusing to hear my words?’

To this, they cracked mighty grins, then one, whose nose, chin and ears were more prominent than the others, said, ‘Isbadden Jutunn bort yarl snjorgnamen.’ The gnome pointed toward the giant, who, Corin noticed, was now standing up.

‘Isbadden the Jutunn brought me to you?’ he whispered, feeling trapped as the towering giant approached, his great feet thumping the floor of the cavern.

Without answering, the snowgnomes scurried away as a hand that could near have encircled Corin's body, peeled back the bearskins about him. The giant bore down with appraising eyes. ‘HUMPH!’ He expelled a breath that would have stirred a pine, and dug a finger into Corin's chest, so that he gasped from the pressure. ‘HE-HO, HE-HO, HE-HOO!’ Boomed Isbadden, as heartily as an earthquake, though removing the threatening finger, the broad nail of which was broken and burred over.

‘Am I to be the plaything of the Jutunn after all that I and my dear horse have suffered!’ Corin shouted, defiant, feebly searching for some weapon with which to defend himself, and laying hold to the elvish knife at his side, the very same that he had claimed from the dead man at Lin-Dlenn pool.

The giant moved back a step, watchful, though not aggressive, whilst Corin struggled to a sitting position, the better to flourish the blade.

Then, with a grin that split his face from ear to ear, Isbadden reached amongst his many-skinned garments and withdrew a thing, that to him might have been nothing more than a stickpin, but was in truth the Orichalc sword Næglind. The bared blade glowed sullenly, pulsing dull red, until the giant dropped it neatly onto Corin's resting place where, as his hand reached the hilts, it blazed with a fierce blue flame.

The giant stumbled away from that dazzling light, as Corin raised the sword and gained his knees, his wrist yet not firm enough to keep the weapon's tip from tilting down. Isbadden however seemed totally fascinated by the red-blue fire of the sword, the fire that came only when in the possession of the mannish creature before him. This was the flame that had drawn the giant to them, midst the flurry of snow-storm, and it beguiled him. And thus had fate smiled kindly on Corin and Darkelfari, since their saviour might just as easily have devoured them both, but for Næglind.

As it was, Isbadden had borne them away from frozen death, to be toyed with and sniffed over in the comfort of his snow hall, and perhaps to be kept on ice for future feast, after fattening by the snowgnomes. These same snowgnomes, with whom the giant had a kind of nodding acquaintance, since they sometimes timorously shared the stop-over caves and storm shelters that he frequented. To him they were poor fodder, seeming little tastier than ice, so for the most, Isbadden left them alone; but they had their uses. For one thing, they were of some company. For another, they brewed a kind of weak, yet warming beer. And they scurried about, squeaking here and there, lighting their little fires out of the black muck that oozed from the pits; amusing the giant, as the swarming ice-rats sometimes did. Those rodents, lemmings in fact, he liked to let run up his arms and through his hair and beard, so that they scratched and tickled, and if at times he became a little peckish...

But they were his only company, for Isbadden had become an outcast from his own kind, the giants of Jutunn Hämma; his nature was too sweet. In his infancy, he had actually allowed snow-bears to live, playing with them instead of eating them. And from a fledgling, discovered in the snows, he had saved and reared the great snowy owl Harfang, his only real friend. It was Harfang, who had warned Isbadden of the rising anger, smouldering within the giant clan; alerting him of their coming, whilst he nodded on his ice-couch, all unawares. That time, he had barely escaped their wrath, the owl fleeing with him.

Yet afterward, he grew terribly lonely, and at whiles wandered back to the Henge, the massive Icehenges where dwelt the Jutunn tribes. Though always the result was the same, they would set upon him and cast him out. And most likely, if he had not allowed himself to be driven away, they would have torn him limb from limb and eaten his remains. Such was the brutish ferocity of those savage folk.

It needs little detail to tell of their ways, save to say that the Jutunn were cannibalistic of those weak or sickly. In fact they ate almost anything: snow, any growing thing, each other, if the chance presented itself. They kept herds of reindeer and musk-oxen and hunted snow-bear, sea tuskers, hare, glutton and sea-bird. In the rarity of union between male and female, only the elder's fierce protection saved an infant from death at the rending, ripping-apart hands of the others. And if the offspring were not as was expected, able to fend and fight and kill quickly, then the parents themselves often fed upon their own weak nestlings.

Isbadden was fortunate to have survived as long as he had. Even a giant had enemies capable of destroying him. Angrbotha and Grith, his parents, had staved off others of the tribe in the past, especially Bolthörn, the clan chief; though if he and Isbadden ever came face to face on some windswept plain, there was little doubt as to the outcome. Once before, it had happened that the Jutunn chieftain had caught him on the snowy steppes, and chased him in a fury until they were parted in a growing storm, and Isbadden was saved.

This then was the tale of the giants told slowly and laboriously to Corin by the snowgnomes, whilst Isbadden sat, nodding and grunting, and slurping like a waterfall at the occasional vat of beer rolled out by the little folk.

In answer to further questions, Tomtibisse the spokesgnome went on to tell something of his own people. They dwelt throughout the icy regions, as far south as the tundra, and a small distance beyond, and much of their society, and indeed their cities, were linked by a myriad of ice tunnels. Through these they travelled, having intercourse of trade and barter amongst their network communities. Seldom, especially in the winter, did they come to the surface, preferring to stock chosen quarters; fishing beneath the ice, sledding food and fire-wood from the distant uplands, and enjoying the hot pools and lava lakes, whilst burning the black stones that were dug from the core of the land. They were an industrious, happy folk, and long ago had they taken to the giant, befriending him with gifts, sometimes in return for his brute labours. Ice-halls were easily hewn if you had a Jutunn to do the bull work.

So it came about that Isbadden blustered in out of the storm, bearing Darkelfari slung around his neck and Corin under one brawny arm. That was when, according to Tomtibisse, the snowgnomes had discovered the conduct pass of the dwarves amongst Corin's garments. This, a gnome, one Patuljak, recognised for what it was, having had some truck with those distant relations of the southern world. That passport, and the sword Næglind, had saved both Corin and DarkeIfari twice over, from the storm, and the giant; who would have killed them with kindness, or grown bored, restive, and hungry. Instead, the Snjorgnamen had taken charge, nursing both back to life again.

After a period, during which Isbadden and Harfang came and went times over, Corin regained enough strength to get about, especially down to his beloved Darkelfari. The horse nibbled at his ear, nuzzling softly. Though gaunt, like his master, he was no longer skeletal, being fed on a curious mixture of dried root-crop, strange mosses and cranberries. Life was again in them. They had survived together for the final part of their journey; yet how was that to be accomplished?

Long, Corin spoke with Tomtibisse, Patuljak, Tonttu, Kippec the maiden, Skritek the elder, and many others, but all answered in like manner. The Swan of the North, the seven stars, hung above Jutunn Hämma, a place of fear and unspoken terror. The seven stars, the snowgnomes called The Seven Fathers, after the first ancestors of their kindred, and the gnome tunnels went only as far that way as the pools of fire extended. Beyond that, all grew morbid, there was an affliction within the depths, they said. Something alien lay there that made them shy away. After all, why should snowgnomes venture so close to giant home?

But stubbornly Corin pursued, ‘Earth-Eye, Tevel-Air, betwixt the fingers of the Encircling Pair. Nya pelde ar nya ril lowan-ela, that is what I seek. Earth-Eye, Yah-Tenki. Is there no way for DarkeIfari and I to come there?’

The snowgnomes laughed at this, ‘Gho int Jutunn mouze yarl, int belley. Ehten, yarl come tis lend, ho-hoen!’

‘Gho int Jutunn mouze yarl, ho-hoen !’

Corin smiled ruefully. ‘No. I do not wish to come there in the belly of a giant. Could you guide us through your tunnels, at least as far as they go?’

They grinned broadly at this, pop-eyes goggling. ‘Yarl ho-hoen, ho-hoen. Yarl tue bigga. Vistan laff. Tun tue smalla, ho-hoen,’ beamed Patuljak.

‘Of course, I see,’ muttered Corin, thinking of the struggle that lay before them in the white world beyond the ice-hall, ‘we would be much too large for your tunnels, horse and I.’ He looked down dejectedly at their nodding heads, these pixie-quick, lemming-furred gnomes of the northern wastes, and could not help smiling. They, crowding together, were such a comical bunch, and it was clear they thought him quite mad, bent on his fool's errand.

‘What about Isbadden?’ A desperate thought. ‘Would he take us part of the way? Near enough for Darkelfari and I to go on alone.’

The snowgnomes prattled amongst themselves awhile, then old Skritek said affably, ‘maybey, maybey.’ But what could Corin give as payment for such task? Isbadden would want a bribe to dare his own life.

Corin thought on this for a while before saying, ‘Anything that I own I pledge. Only Darkelfari, do I not pledge, for he is free unto himself and not mine to give.’

The gnomes convulsed at this. If the giant had so desired, he could have taken all, including their lives, and might yet do. Still, they agreed to put the matter to him and await his decision, for they were bound to do at least that much, in respect of the dwarf conduct ring discovered amongst Corin's clothes at the outset.

So Corin waited whilst his little companions broached the subject with Isbadden, and outside, the spring of Shanilar raged. Then, after much time had elapsed, during which the snowgnomes struggled to make the giant understand their request, came the answer.

Yes. Yes, Isbadden would take both Corin and Darkelfari. Yes, into the Encircling Pair, to Earth-Eye. Or as near possible to the Icehenges of the terrible Jutunn. And in return, he asked only for their company, that he might show them off to his mother and father. Perhaps he hoped that this would bring him new standing of importance within his clan, maybe even earn him a place there, old wounds and enmity forgotten. Poor, misguided creature. If he had eaten his charges and displayed their bones, might he have more swiftly gained the attentions of the Jutunn folk. That was their way, the way of the tribe. The way it had always been since Imir-the-Beginner. But maybe Isbadden believed that living toys were of more value, like the herds the giants kept and slaughtered at will.

The snowgnomes related the way of it to Corin, though all the while urging him to change his mind, for once within the bounds of Jutunn Hämma they foresaw that Isbadden would have little power to protect him and his horse. Guides and safe passage to the south lands they offered, if he would turn back from the awful murder that they assured him awaited at Earth-Eye.

Corin heard them out patiently, and though they did not grasp most of his reply, they listened with saddened faces.

‘I cannot go back until my task is done, for I guess that Varlar now tilts about the point of scales moved by great unseen Powers. I believe that I am the weight to move those scales, even by dying for the good of all the world. I must seek my doom, and beware those who travel with me.’

There was nothing more to be said by any.

The snowgnomes, so usually full of merriment, were much subdued when the giant, bent almost double to clear the sloping roof, Corin and Darkelfari and Harfang the owl, departed. The little folk had given food and white fur to the frail pilgrims, and no more could be done than that.

‘Dordon Scrawaz, yarl scramsux,’ muttered Tomtibisse, standing alone at the entrance of the snow hall, after the travellers were long departed.

Corin meanwhile felt the yoke of a terrible burden about his shoulders, one of uncertainties that lay awaiting amongst the ice realm of the Jutunn. The Mighty Fear, that he had sensed when fleeing the northern wastes was again upon him. Hefted along in the crook of Isbadden's huge arm, with Darkelfari slung about the giant's neck, he could only await events, whilst Harfang fixed him with a pick-at-entrails stare.

At times Corin attempted to speak with Isbadden, but such appeared useless. The giant grinned and grunted on occasion, or nodded ponderously, booming deep within his massive chest. Yet whether he took in a single word, there was no way of telling.

And so, in that awkward and dangerous situation, the four strange companions progressed, covering the vast distances in giant leaps and bounds. Corin, aware that at any moment a hostile member of the Jutunn clan might appear to confront Isbadden and bring about the end of them all.

After a period of time through half-light and full, they came to low mountains which the giant entered and stealthily crossed so that, in the dimness of the northern spring, they might look down at the wide valley beyond.

There Corin, wrapped in fur and giant's hair, peeped over the rim of toothy crags and beheld Jutunn Hämma, home of the giants. Icehenges stood in that vale of Snowland, and Corin drew a sharp breath at their lofted, glinting blocks, many tiered, awesome and massed. To the west, to the north and east, where Corin trembled in Isbadden's grasp, reared the encircling pair; the twin arms of ten tall mounts. Southward, as barriers, were two mighty bulwarks of ice, and within this area were more henges, measuring to great heights, surrounding an inner plain. And within that, as was cut into The Stone of Remorse, there ran round a broad, red coloured band: a circle with looped devices pointing to the four winds. This band, lying bloody on the white ice, enclosed a blue-black diamond, the tips of which running as did the outer loops.

‘Earth-Eye,’ whispered Corin to himself. And as if in answer, the owl ruffled its wings and blinked an enormous eye.

There was a stirring, a rising concern amidst the giants of Jutunn Hämma. All had not been well for some time. Fierce blast of storms had kept them isolated from each other, some hidden in deep ice-caverns, some pinned to the monolithic henges, others standing solitary, alone with the great herds of caribou, reindeer and musk-ox. Portents were bad: Cawr had been mauled about the legs by two snow bears defending their young, and Glum, out hunting the sea tuskers, had fallen into deep water and sunk, never to rise again. Even the ice-rats seemed difficult to track, and this cut down on Jutunn snacking, which unsettled them all the more. Yet what could they do? Hadn't they wrung the necks of sufficient bovines, letting the blood out into the Stain Circle? Hadn't they ground the bones to grist, within the four-sighted eye? Even that sacred and venerated rite appeared not to have pleased the Wind and Snow Wraiths that plagued them constantly. Too many were the ill omens. Gyger, only that twilight, had died dreadfully in giant-birth. And the gangrel creature she had mothered was not fit to live. So those at the birth had seen to that.

Yes, much dis-ease was there in Jutunn home. The more so when Thurse, who stood as lookout for the clan, raised a rumbled warning; someone was coming, entering the deep heart of giant domain.

Bolthörn looked out, his face black with big anger. He had cherished Gyger, almost as much as his herds. And here, his squinting eyes lit upon the distant, though nearing form of one who could only be the bringer of misfortune, the hated outcast Isbadden. A one who should have been run down and gnashed long ago. A one who should have been torn from Grith's belly before birth. Bolthörn grit his teeth, his huge hands worked, cracking ice and knuckles. His feet stamped whilst he watched the approaching figure of Isbadden and the pair of oddlings that trailed at his heels. The giant chieftain grinned wickedly to himself. He must keep out of sight, let the parents of this cursed one go to him, draw him in. And then, once amongst the henges, would it be Bolthörn's turn. He had not forgotten chasing and losing Isbadden in the snow.

Angrbotha and Grith, at this time, dwelt within the henges, and both had come out to the alarm. They saw their son coming and thumped off to his welcome and protection, lest Bolthörn meet him first. What were the creatures with Isbadden, his parents wondered? One was mannish-edible, the other four-legged, though not ox or the like.

Angrbotha reached down to rip off head and taste, but his son drew the creatures to himself, holding them against his beating chest. The things squeaked, strange, high-pitched noises like deer made as Jutunn slaughtered them, but Angrbotha took no notice, snatching at his wilful son.

All at once, the situation changed. Skulking Bolthörn launched himself at Isbadden, intent on cracking his skull from behind. Grith raised her hands in warning, yet too late, as Bolthörn struck downward with his huge, ice whirl-bat, missing Isbadden's shaggy head, but catching him a giant's blow across the shoulder that sent him spinning dizzily away, still clutching his two prizes.

Bolthörn's momentum carried him through to Grith, who, with a mother's outrage, clawed at his eyes, blinding him to Angrbotha. Angrbotha was livid, fit to slaughter an entire herd of caribou. And now he gained the daring to do what none of the clan dared do before; he struck Bolthörn, struck him hard. Smote the chieftain across his already raked face, and saw him stumble. Again Angrbotha smote, again; and with each smite he grew bolder, drawing up courage from Bolthörn's worsting. A slow-wielded, savage blow, double fisted, like mountains falling, brought an eye, popped out, upon Bolthörn's leathern cheek. Another cracking head-butt, a knee, crunching into the hefty chest, a crushing kick of giant foot to the heart, smit Angrbotha to his foe. But still Bolthörn would not go down.

Not until, between Grith and her husband, they forced his head to her knee, his body bent low, Angrbotha came down upon him for the last time. Then did Bolthörn see red, the rushing red that comes before black death. And so the chieftain of the Jutunn found death, at the hands of those who seized opportunity to depose him.

Angrbotha waited awhile, watching his enemy bite the ice until he lay still; then he lifted his arm in triumph. He was now the leader of the Jutunn, for thus were all leaderships claimed.

After a time, he stood up from the entrails, his mouth dripping gore. Yet where were those who should have feasted with him upon the body of their fallen chief? He swayed about, drunk on blood, his eyes searching for his clan. There they were, his own tribe now, but what were they doing? They were gathered, backs turned to him, inside the blood-band of the Stain-circle, gawking amongst the bones of The-Eye-That-Looked-Allways.

He stumbled nearer about to bawl out his right as leader, thundering the land, when he Angrbotha, new clan chief halted, his mouth cave-open.

Within The-Eye-That-Looked-Allways, the place of many a life's ending, the place of uncountable bones, there now was a wide hole. And about this hole crowded the giants of Jutunn Hämma, peering into the crevasse left where Isbadden and his captives had fallen.

Alone above, hovering on the wind's eddies, lingered Harfang the Great Snowy Owl, eyes bent to the dark void below.

Chapter 53 [next]