Varlarsaga Volume 3 - Consolation

Chapter - 53 Earth Eye

When the thunder had roared to a cease and all seemed halted; all clamour, all tumult faded, Corin opened his eyes.

They had fallen far, that was sure; far down a sloping, winding tunnel that led deep into the earth.

‘Into Varlar Eye,’ he thought in his bewilderment, straining to catch sight of something, anything in the void. The light, if indeed it could be thus called, was so faint that there appeared little way of telling from whence it came. Then, from what Corin judged as above, there seeped a dim glimmer, for the most blocked off by dark shapes, unrecognisable.

For a time objects, stones, chunks of ice and bones, pelted down. Dust, or ash, drizzled over him so that he tasted it upon his lips as he struggled to roll over and sit up. And as he vainly struggled, did his hand touch and touch again, this next in desperation, in the hope that what it touched might not be.

‘It cannot, it must not be!’ he murmured frantic, as now both hands groped their unwilling, unwanted way where he yet lay, half buried in the rubble and slush. His fingers trembled, whilst the last chitter of debris spattered them with sooty droplets. He touched the still mane. Stroked the still muzzle. And in the twilit veil, peered long into the stilled eyes.

Then Corin's tears, his tears, rushed forth, blurring everything.

They poured until they washed his face, and washed over Darkelfari's eyes too; so it seemed, for an instant, a glimmer, that the horse might yet rise again. Might do more, than merely mirror life.

Corin remained there, rocking, sobbing in the nether light, cradling the dear head as best he could; mourning for his companion and friend who had been with him, faithfully, since their first meeting.

"You are my Master, my One Master. I will follow you, even unto death..."

Thus had noble Darkelfari indicated many times over, and now Corin bitterly berated himself, saying, ‘What should I have done? How avoided this? Did I not say, "Beware any and all, who go with me."’

And then a mighty voice spake out to Corin from the embracing deeps and it said, ‘WHAT IS THERE BETWEEN MASTER AND SERVANT, FRIEND AND FOE, MOTHER AND CHILD, LOVED ONE AND LOVED ONE, GOOD AND BAD, WHEN ALL HAVE COMPLETED LIFE?

THE DOOM OF LIFE, IS DEATH.

THAT MUCH IS ALLOTTED.

AND IT IS THE LOT OF THEM, TO ACCEPT ITS COMING; BOTH DEATH-RAPT, AND LIVING. THOSE LIVING, PARTY TO SUCH DYING AND DEAD EMBERS, MUST BEAR THIS SORROW.

DO NOT OVER GRIEVE.

LIFE IS A DOING.

DEATH IS A DOING.

IN BOTH, IS THERE PURPOSE.’

And Corin, hearing these Almighty words, was overborne with melancholy and heart-rended beyond speech. It was as if his mind and body had become the strings of a lyre, or a tall and gilded harp upon which some infinite hand laid hold and played the tune of all destiny through him, into him, out of him. He tried, struggled to lift his gaze from where, through a moist haze, he had striven to see the shadowy outline of Darkelfari: the steed, the friend who had carried, dragged, encouraged, comforted and begged him onward, to the end.

Hardly with will left of his own, his arms now limp at his sides, he forced his eyes to move, his head to tilt until, reeling with the effort, he beheld what seemed to him to be graven effigies rising up before him. So immense was this sight, half-hidden to untuned eyes, incomprehensible to untuned thought, that Corin wavered for long on the bounds of disbelief.

At first, grey and sombre, it filled his being to overflowing with a multitude of emotions swamped with paradox. There, was beauty and splendour, fiercest struggle, symmetry of line, grandeur of form and expression, joy and sadness, innocence and evil personified. And power of colossal nature, strengths pitted against each other. All, embodied in every contour and muscle and tendon-straining of the beings that stood, locked in embrace, sinuous-paired, towering before Corin's gaze; who was as ant to man, dwarfed by even toe height of these twin protagonists.

But, though an ant may not perceive man as such, Corin found to his astonishment, his mind's bending, that he could so perceive Them. There he was, utterly bereft and overwhelmed, Darkelfari dead at his side; he and his lost companion, in comparison, like two tiny fireflies in a forest, yet could he see both these other beings for what they were.

They were as statues, and about them a light began to grow, until it blazed forth with dazzling streaks that lit all in some kind of purity, purging even the savagery of that scene.

Sköl the She-Wolf, captured in this frozen action, her ravening maw about Valandir's neck. For this was surely who They were. Her teeth, like living spear-points, near embedded there, her claws, those cruel knives, raking the Drotnar Valandir's mighty arms, her eyes filled with a madness, a lust, a crazed fear, perhaps all at once.

By counterpoint, Valandir's eyes appeared calm and clear of purpose; resigned, yet determined, his great hands locked about her jaws so that she could not release herself nor deal a final bite and he, likewise, could not change his grip to strike a telling blow.

Thus were they engaged; one a force of unbridled wildness and naked brutality against strength, noble and forthright, tenacious and dedicated. And that second, unconquered, but despaired of victory. And it came to Corin that these two mighty adversaries had stood so since their fall from the world; committed to endure embrace of the other, neither to relent or falter, or gain command. Both standing, condemned, engraved into stone for all Varlar's existence.

But They were not stone.

‘HOW ALIKE TO DEATH, ARE THOSE WHO SLEEP.

A DREAM OF DEATH, FROM WHENCE THEY WAKE, IS SLEEP.

AN ECHO OF DEATH, IS SLEEP!’

Corin felt the tears, cold upon his face and could not brush them away, could do nought, for he saw with shocked certainty that Valandir's lips moved. His was the voice...

‘DEEPER, DEEPER,

SLEEPS THE SLEEPER.

EVER ONWARD,

WEEPS THE WEEPER.

CRYING, CRYING,

TEARS UNDRYING.

SIGHING, SIGHING,

LONELY LYING.

HOPES FORGIVENESS,

HEART-ACHE STAYING.

DARK DEATH HALTING,

EARNEST PRAYING.

BEGS FOR DEAR FRIEND,

REDEMPT OF DYING.

DOOM-DEED SOMEHOW

SPELL UNTYING...’

And at that strange evocation, Corin began to experience a stranger sensation; was he growing, or were those colossi shrinking down to meet him?

Behind, Darkelfari's form seemed fallen away; pathetic, empty, and lost. Discarded, as might be some useless, worn garment; though no less for all the precious moments shared between the pair, and in no way diminishing Corin's grief and remorse.

Yet before him, They ever shrinking, he ever growing, loomed the Titan shapes: shrinking, growing, shrinking, growing, until he stood beside Them as one in a phantasm, listening to the sounds of Sköl's grinding molars and Valandir's long labour; the infinite heave and haul, press and tug, grip and grip and clamp of hands and claws, fangs and feet, that was Their unending struggle.

‘WHO ARE YOU, THAT COMES TO DISTURB THIS HALL, ONCE THE FOUL, NOISOME LAIR OF SHE WHOM I NOW CLASP TO MY BREAST, AGONIZING?’

Corin raised his tear-stained face, lifted filth stained hands, plumbed the depths of his lungs for breath, and in a voice both timid-humble and exhausted-faint said, ‘Great One, Valandir Drotnar, I am here after enduring much and surviving, as has not my beloved companion who bore me much of my road. Destroyed, he lies behind, and no matter my fate, my heart will bear but bitter fruit, all the moments left to me.’ His words quavered and broke in his throat, and for a little he could speak no more.

But still before him, the Victorious Defeat, like unyielding stone against unyielding stone, ground on. Never, whilst Corin watched, did the She-Wolf or the Drotnar alter their positions; all sense was fixed upon each other, as if one transgression, one eyeblink, would give advantage and the combat be swayed.

At last Corin took further courage and spoke again. ‘If You will it, I shall tell my tale and the purpose for which I am come; though the telling be long.’

‘EVEN BE THE TELLING LONGER THAN THE RISE AND FALL OF VARLAR, BEGIN. NOUGHT WILL AVAIL TO INTERRUPT. NOT UNTIL THE END OF ALL THINGS.’ came the stern answer.

So, as he was commanded by Valandir, last Drotnar in Varlar the Earth, did Corin begin, and as best he could, related everything that had happened to him, to men and elves and any who dwelt within the world's bounds.

And did he speak of the Voices and his long, mysterious quest, which had carried him into many dangers and through many tests: the quest that had flayed him to the bone, stript him of all worldliness and possession and desire for such. Scourged him by the finality of death and the terrible consequence left to those who live on beyond its reaping.

‘Now, can I do no more than that decreed, albeit I die from Varlar or go on. Yet if I must so go, so shall the path divide; either I return from whence I came without the keys to Earth-Mouth, or with them. That is not mine to decide. Only this much do I repeat, it has been told that the Hosts of the Nether Lands repent. The Daræ of Elvedom have supposedly triumphed and thus subdued are the Maadim. Now is there need to release the locks and bars of Varlar Mouth, so that those within may come forth to defeat the rebellion troubling the free and those innocent of all blame.

‘AND IF YOU LIVE? AND IF YOU ARE SENT HENCE, WITHOUT THAT WHICH YOU COME SEEKING, WHAT SAY YOU?’

Corin clasped his hands and downcast his gaze from them. ‘I say that Good may not have resource and strength enough to triumph over Evil. Still I will go, or stay, and die in that cause; at need.’

‘YOU SAY THAT THERE ARE THOSE WHO BELIEVE IT WRONG TO SEEK ENTRY INTO THE NETHER WORLD BEYOND EARTH-MOUTH. YET YOU SAY ALSO THAT BOTH GOOD AND EVIL CONTEST TO DO SO. WHY? IF TO OPEN THE DOORS AGAIN WOULD RELEASE VARLAR RESCUE, AND NOT VARLAR DOOM, SHOULD THE POWERS OF DARKNESS SET SUCH STORE IN THE OPENING?’

Corin cleared his throat, stumbled, and began again, ‘I know not the answer. Perhaps the evil beings that lurk above believe that past those portals await still their ultimate Lords, in supremacy. Or may it be that they gather around Earth-Mouth to seize upon it, and thus hold it against all, for fear lest someone break the seals. After all, if the Daræ within have thrown down the barriers beyond, then nothing holds those Doors but the ban of Valandir's making. The holding spells that you, O Great One, wrought.’

‘THE BAN OF THE DROTNAR VALANDIR; THE SHACKLE OF EARTH-MOUTH, THE UNYIELDING FETTER, THE GYVE WHICH SEPARATES THOSE TWO REALMS ABOVE AND BELOW; AYE, MY BAN, IMPOSED LONG AGO. YOU MIGHT WELL BE CORRECT.

UPON THE DARK SIDE, WITHIN THE BORDERS OF STONE-BONE, THE BARS MAY BE LIFTED AND BARRIERS TORN DOWN. BUT BY WHOM, GOOD OR EVIL? THAT QUESTION REMAINS UNANSWERED.

WILL YOU SPEAK NOW FOR THE FREE PEOPLES OF VARLAR?

WILL YOU TAKE IT UPON YOURSELF TO BE EMISSARY, IF I GIVE YOU THE ANSWER YOU COME SEEKING?

IT SHALL BE YOU THEN, WHO HOLDS THOSE DOORS.

AND WHAT, WHEN THE BURDEN BE SQUARELY PLACED UPON YOUR SHOULDERS, SHALL YOU?

THE ULTIMATE FATE OF VARLAR WILL BE YOUR LOT AND LOAD: CURIOSITY, IMPATIENCE, MERCY AND DESPAIR, YOUR MILLSTONE. YOU SHALL HAVE NO REST, AND YOUR CONSCIENCE NO EASE.

WHAT HAVE YOU TO SAY?’

At last Corin felt that he could brave the Drotnar's eye again, and he moved so that he stood behind the crackling pelt of the She-Wolf, and there dared meet Valandir's gaze across her head. ‘All you say, Lord, is true. The millstone, in fraction, have I long carried. In full, may it not weigh me beyond the bounds of my endurance. If it is offered, I must accept it, for otherwise I will have betrayed Men, Elves and Dwarves. And mostly, myself. Also, will I have betrayed my dear friend Darkelfari, who has died to bear me hither. In your words, "Life is a doing. Death is a doing. In both is there purpose." You say that I shall have no rest. No rest shall I have, if I do not take up this responsibility. For according to the Witches of Aplotha, I am the one, the only, left of Free Folk, who may approach you. How this can be I do not know, yet I implore you to grant that which is in your power, the saving of our WorId, for I see that you are unable.’

The answer came, swift and telling, ‘YOU HAVE A FURTHER MOTIVE.

WHAT OF THEY, THEMION AND LORIANDIR, WHOM YOU CLAIM AS PARENTS?

IS IT NOT TRUE THAT YOU HAVE LONGED TO KNOW THEIR FATE?

DOES THAT NOT SWAY YOUR MIND?’

Corin's gaze held the Drotnar's eye that, like a red-hot barb, regarded him. ‘Yes, I deny it not. The Voices, at least that of Loriandir, have always called unto me, drawn me all of my life. Yet now when the world lies in balance, could it be conceived that my head is filled and my purpose turned by that alone? If I am swayed, it is by greater events. There is no reunion for any on, or within Varlar, if this world ceases to exist or falls into utter chaos. Be the choice such that Varlar survive as it is now, and that within my power, then never should it be otherwise. Earth-Mouth would stay shut, though my life thereafter become haunted by those condemned to the Nether Land.’

For a time, Valandir remained silent, with the exception of the constant groan of His struggle against the She-Wolf; who's mighty chest heaved, nostrils flaring, ears turning, listening.

Then Valandir spoke again, ‘WHAT WOULD YOU GIVE. WHAT HAVE YOU TO OFFER, SHOULD THIS BOON BE GRANTED?’

Corin closed his eyes at this and said simply, ‘I would give everything left to me. My companion's life is gave already, though it was not mine to give. My life awaits. For the rest, I have only the garments I wear, the trinkets I bear. This sword Naeglind, which I yet heft, a gift from someone I fear I shall never see again, who is now dear to me, and...’ He bared his arm. ‘And this band which, I am told, was once my crown as a babe and now circles my skin as a memory.’

‘DO IT OFF, AND DO OFF THE BLACK RAIMENT.

LET THEM FALL AWAY LIKE SHED LEAVES.

THESE WOULD I HAVE IN TOKEN OF YOUR ERNEST REQUEST. THOUGH PRECIOUS TO YOU THEY MAY BE.’

As bid, Corin shucked the cloak, gift of the Aplotha witches, and drew forth the encircling band. This he held cupped in the palm of both hands.

‘DRAPE THE GARMENT ACROSS MY WRISTS, THAT IT DAUNT THE MAADIM'S CLAWS.

RAISE UP THE CROWN, IF YOU BE SO BOLD, AND DROP THAT OVER THE TIP OF SKÖL'S EAR, THAT I MAY REGARD THESE THINGS WITHOUT DISTRACTION FROM MY TASK.’

His hands shaking, Corin lifted the spiral band and placed it over the She-Wolf's ear. Straightway there arose a most blood curdling sound from Sköl's throat, and Corin slipped his fingers free whilst the pressure of the battle between the two ancient enemies redoubled in fury.

He winced as Valandir withdrew from the massive, snapping jaws where dripped saliva of acid, burning into the Drotnar's forearms, and now the cloak of black. Sinews twanged and bone creaked. Now Sköl strove to overthrow Valandir, but to no avail. Strength for strength was matched. Growling terribly, the She-Wolf subdued.

‘THREE THINGS, LEAVE YOU BEHIND: CROWN, CAPE, AND COMPANION. IN RETURN, I GRANT YOUR REQUEST.

I GIVE INTO YOUR KEEPING THAT WHICH I, AND I ALONE, HAVE POWER TO GIVE: THE COUNTER SPELLS THAT BREAK THOSE WROUGHT BY ME, OVER AND ACROSS AND INTO THE ENTRANCE OF TEVEL-COLM.

NOW, IF YOU CHOOSE TO SO WIELD THEM, OR CHOOSE NOT, ONLY YOU MAY BE ANSWERABLE.’

‘But is there no way to extract you from this fate?’ Corin asked, in a small, hardly audible voice.

‘IF THERE WERE, WOULD I STILL SO ENDURE?

NONE, LEFT UPON VARLAR'S SURFACE, MAY HARM OF HINDER, OR FREE ME.

HERE MUST I STAY ENCUMBERED, FOR IF I WERE TO SLACK MY GRIP, IT WOULD BE TO VARLAR'S RUIN. AS WILL BE VARLAR'S RUIN IF YOU MISUSE THE POWERS I SHALL INVEST NOW, WITHIN YOUR KEEPING.

RAISE UP THE WEAPON OF ORICHALC AND THE REMAINING TRINKETS, AND HOLD THEM CLASPED TOGETHER BEFORE YOU, SO THEY BE CATALYST TO MY WILL.’

Fumbling, Corin drew out the shell of Princess Alluin's giving and the flat dwarf conduct-ring. These he placed in one uplifted palm, clamping the lofted hilts of the sword over them. And there he stood, shivering in anticipation and apprehension, his eyes upon the one visible eye of Valandir, last Earth-Wright Lord in Varlar.

‘FROM MY BEING, INTO THIS INSTRUMENT, THIS LIVING CRUCIBLE AND THESE SYMBOLS OF WATER, STONE AND THE UNDYING FLAME, DO I IMPLANT MY POWER. THAT THEY TOGETHER, SHALL BE ALONE VALID. TO HIM, AS HE SO LIVES, DO I ASSIGN THE KEY.

MAY MERCY BE HIS!’

Somehow, there was a fusion: Corin, the sea-shell, the metal ring and the Orichalc blade. For one brief, shattering, star-spinning moment, blinding Corin, they were spun together on an awesome loom.

Then, all was as before.

The profile eye of Valandir regarded him solemnly.

‘IT IS DONE. NOW, BETWEEN THE SWORD-STAFF YOU BRANDISH AND YOUR OWN BEING, IS AN AFFINITY SET.

NOUGHT CAN CHANGE THIS.

IF YOU, OR THE EMBLEM YOU HOLD, ARE DESTROYED, THE POWER SHALL BE DISSOLVED.

IT IS YOURS TO BEAR, TO CHERISH, TO GUARD, TO HATE, TO KEEP.

TO USE.

IF THUS BE YOUR DESIRE.

FOR NOW, IN YOUR HANDS, SO LIES VARLAR'S FATE.’

The words echoed away through the vast, darkened caverns, through Corin's mind, through the magical, timeless moments that were the prison of Drotnar and Maadim.

Corin lowered his arms and behold! The shell, the ring, the sword, were welded as one. And now the sword seemed not only that, but also a staff; a symbol with a cutting edge. A weapon of unknown power; of mystery, of the faith and the word, as well as of the blade.

‘YOUR TIME HERE IS AT AN END.

YOU HAVE RECEIVED THAT WHICH YOU SOUGHT, AND THAT WHICH YOU SOUGHT NOT.

THE GIFT, OR THE CURSE, IS YOURS.

YOU ARE FULFILLED.

YET ARE YOU EMPTIED.

THINK YOU NOT, THAT WHAT IS GIVEN IS LIGHTLY DONE.

NONE HAVE EVER DARED COME BEFORE ME IN LIKE FASHION.

FOR, THOUGH IMPRISONED THUS, DO I YET HAVE STRENGTH; STRENGTH ENOUGH TO BREAK EVEN THE STRONG.

NAY. YOU, I KNOW, DESERVED MY EAR, AND MY CONSENT.

THOUGH YOU KNOW IT NOT, THERE IS GREAT LIGHT ABOUT YOU.

YOU ARE MARKED AND SET APART FROM ALL OTHERS.

THOSE WHO SENT YOU TO ME WERE RIGHT.’

Corin found himself blushing at these austere utterings, and lowered his gaze, unable to endure the omnipotent beings before him any longer.

‘NOW THE AUDIENCE IS OVER.

YOU NEED FAREWELL HE-WHO-GAVE-HIMSELF, THAT YOU MIGHT GO ON.

TURN AND DO SO.

DO NOT LOOK BACK.

DEPART, AND DO YOUR WILL.

THE WORLD AWAITS YOUR DECISION.

GO IN HOPE.’

Corin did so, and with every step taken felt himself falling, shrinking maybe, as he drew nearer the spent thing that was his dear companion, the horse.

Until, at end, he stood by the body and knelt, and kissed the withered brow and let the hot tears flow, to drop and run over cheek and muzzle and furled lips. And his own breath flowed out and over the blown nostrils, but never a breath took the horse.

Finally Corin arose and, through a haze, bade Darkelfari the peace of death.

Then, seeming instinctively to know his direction he began the far climb. A climb that, in the fading lustre, would take him beyond where the giant Isbadden lay, still stunned, amongst piles of charred and blackened bones, and later further; out and back into the world of Varlar, which so desperately needed all that Corin had gained from his loss and chastisement and transfiguration. For now he was changed, and would never be again as he was before…before Darkelfari.

‘Darkelfari!’ cried Corin's heart, brimming over with misery. ‘Darkelfari...Dark...’

His face was stained with soot and slush, sweat and ice and tears. Tattered, torn apart from within, his resolve bloodied itself in the ragged and lonely chamber of his being. There was need to go on, keep going, he knew. But was there Will?

He felt hollow, an empty vessel. From his dipping, blinking eyes he peered out; saw the dark, slippery, sliding passage, rising before his feet, saw the dim outline of sky against the jagged lids of Earth-Eye, saw the far silhouettes of Jutunn folk, waiting. Heard the bellows breathing of Isbadden, somewhere ahead, felt the itching of his scalp and beard stubble, the tiredness of his limbs. Ignored all that; the sight, the sound, the feel. Struggled on, drawing himself up, using the sword-staff as spiritual crutch. For now he was an invalid of the soul. Though he remained whole in body, a part of him had been lost and in his anguish he strove to overcome this grief, since much more yet, of tremendous import, was at stake. His own personal sorrow, he knew, need wait whilst he go on to challenge, and maybe, to alter the course of worldly events. But he was weary. Hurt and weary, and filled with a terrible aching.

The giant stirred as Corin trudged by, the dull light of Talisar's sword illuminating him, now clad in the raiment given by the Elloræ queen Goldal and Alluin her daughter; stripped of the black, as he was stripped of poor, black Darkelfari.

At first Isbadden fumbled about, rubbing at a hillock-bump on his head, and muttering highly audible, unintelligible mutterings. Then, as if coming to some sense, the giant rolled over and began crawling out, following Corin. Yet he did not overtake, nor attempt to interfere with him. And so they went; the small, bent form leaning forward, the hefty giant on all fours, scrambling behind.

When they reached the summit, Corin stumbling over bones and broken, vacant skulls, the Jutunn drew away. Even Grith, even Angrbotha, stood well back, watching whilst their darling son emerged, trundling one of his toys before him. That Isbadden had made the fearsome journey down into The-Eye-That-Looked-Allways and fought to the death whatever dwelt there, perhaps supping on the entrails of fallen enemies, his parents hoped to belief. After all, was he not Isbadden, bred of mother Grith and new clan-chief Angrbotha? The other Jutunn were speechless, though not noiseless. They bellowed their pleasure, hammered their flanks and stamped the ice, sending up snow clouds so that white flurried about Isbadden as they roundly thudded his cheeks and shoulders with slaps of praise and he reddened, smarting with embarrassment.

Forgotten, Corin plugged doggedly on, a tiny figure against the vast arches of the icehenges.

A storm was moaning its meaning across the wastes when he gained the shelter of the frozen water-liths that marked the southern borders of Jutunn Hämma, and there paused to rest.

Behind, all was mad oblivion; snow erupting, flake dumping, drifting, drowning, erasing. But faintly, through the wind's wildness, came there a beat-beat, beat-beat; the sound of wings.

Then, as if world's window was thrown wide, the whirling snow died whilst Corin stood panting, looking back, leaning against the frozen cold of reared ice-block, and there appeared Harfang, Great Snowy Owl, from beyond the blizzard. Weary and destitute, Corin held Naeglind aloft. He felt like some wild, cornered beast that has nowhere to go; bewildered, seeking only to fend off its finishers. Vaguely, he remembered a time, so very long ago, when he had been forced to stalk such a creature by those of his adopted family: Arleas, now dead, and king Erryldene, infirmed, no longer king, a shadow in body, a penitent in mind. Corin mustered what strength was left in final reserve. Harfang circled in and out of the swirl of mists that opened and closed above. Then all was parted, and there revealed stood a score of Jutunn, the foremost Isbadden. The others, to Corin, were unknown of course, but Grith and Angrbotha led them.

‘So this is the end,’ thought Corin, lowering the sword-staff so that it sputtered and futtered in the snow. ‘Here it is done with, uselessly, without meaning; without hope or help.’

Isbadden knelt and reached out his giant paw. Corin made ready a last heave, a futile gesture. Never was it needed. Merely, by gentle lift of finger, the giant indicated the way on. The owl landed as softly as an owl can, upon the bump on Isbadden's head and the giant winced. Beyond, the gathered Jutunn waited without sign of malice. Corin turned, shorn of fear, Næglind trailing the ice, and began the far trek south. And in his ears, above the dying storm, he heard the steady ‘plomp plomp’ of Jutunn feet.

Later, when he was utterly spent, the Jutunn lifted him, and many bore him in turn whilst they surged through wind blasts and storm anger. But none harmed him. Something had changed the giants. Perhaps it was the fall of Isbadden the outcast, into their sacred Eye-That-Looked-Allways, and his return. Or maybe it was Corin, or what Corin and the transformed blade stood for. Nevertheless, faithfully they saw him to his destination; the ice-hall of the snowgnomes.

There, through sleepy eyes, Corin glimpsed the vast images of Isbadden and Harfang the owl, and as they slowly receded, he slept...

Other images invaded his turbulent dreamings; flittered and twittered down some yawn-mouthed funnel, like starlings and sparrows mottling each other with blood and fear and panic. Cringing in the prison of uncontrol that is the mind and memory without rein, he fought to avoid them, wringing his hands in the knotted furs that covered, engulfed, buried him.

To those who sat vigilant; the snowgnomes Tomtibisse and the maiden Kippec, Corin's throes were as those of one possessed by fiends. They could not know of the things that devoured his frantic slumbers, racking him in a sea of torment. After all, what might be said or thought of such an alien creature and his habits, when viewed conventionally by Snjorgnamen? Little enough it seemed, so that they, passive, curious, waited, watching Corin's face tic during all his long night of tossing, turning sleep.

Meanwhile, within that sleep there were impressions: feathers, long dark quills, striking, piercing pinions coal-black, sooty. And unflagging wings and folly flight and lemon butterflys and yellow wise-lies, and crimson everglades of words; words that made no sense, and further into nonsense until into that, echoed The Voices. Sage they were: wise and terrible and awesome. The Voices seemed to lean over him, towering like waves of power, to come crashing down in mighty roars so that he was shivered to the very roots.

It was as if the words, each word, had personality, was a being unto itself; a living entity that tolled its tale in fanfare. This was burning pyre, this beacon, this word as flame, that as quenching brine, that as cold, immutable stone. And each was fraught with urgency and message...

‘Unopen’... ‘Resist’... ‘Enslaved’... ‘Love’... ‘Sake’... ‘Saviour’... ‘Fall’... ‘Locked’... ‘Bili’... ‘Mouth’…‘Nardred’... ‘Black’... ‘Release’... ‘Soul’... ‘Redeem’... ‘Varlar’... ‘Essence’... ‘Condemned’... ‘Lost’... ‘Light’... ‘Transfigure’... ‘He´Remon’... ‘Daræ’... ‘Gifts’... ‘Blight’... ‘Salve’... ‘Valandir’... ‘Helpless’... ‘Crushed’... ‘Revolt’... ‘Elloræ’... ‘Loriandir’... ‘Bchor’... ‘Taraka’... ‘Waroch’... ‘Love’... ‘Gasric’... ‘Sharappu’... ‘Hate’... ‘Sköl’... ‘Victory’... ‘Maadim’... ‘Nisah!’

Corin was swirled away by eddying currents of crackling waters and torrents of lightning, deluged in thunder:

‘YOU DARE ENTER ME!’

The words swamped him, almost devoured him; such was the frightful indignation that penetrated to his deepest core.

‘Corin... Corin... Are you my Corin?

Come to me, you have the power.

Save me. You have the power.

Corin... My Corin...’

‘Hee -haw, Bili Jackdaw, a secret I keep for you Master…

See-saw, Bili Jackdaw, open The Doors to disaster...’

‘Search out the Ones of Wisdom, Man or Elf or other.

Never shirk, though life itself depends.

Your torment is to attain the impossible.

Your quest is to find some way.

Your salvation is to release the enthralled.

Your riddle, to be the first.

Remember, within Varlar's bosom lies World's hope, and that will be with you always...’

For a brief span serenity engulfed Corin and he slumbered peacefully. Then a cold wind of anxiety returned, wafting him on clouds of doubt so that he was tossed back into the turmoil of lava flow, the volcanic sea of enormous red waves and serpent-tongued searings that were the torment of his morpheus wanderings.

He woke up, delirious, heart-broken.

The snowgnomes nursed him for a time, gently feeding him their dried shad, mosses and berries. And slowly they brought him along, coaxing, chaffing him back to life, to the will for survival. Eventually, he rallied and began to grow in strength. Tomtibisse returned Naeglind to his side for it had been taken from him, together with all his garments, during his long illness. Perhaps it would have been better if the sword-staff had remained with him, such was his improvement afterward. It was as if the thing flowed into him, nourishing him, filling up the near empty vessel of his soul. Lucid again, he began to make plans for his departure; the snowgnomes were to guide him as far as the moraines and beyond, to the steppes, if needed. But Isbadden and his owl would not be going with them. The giant had been accepted back into his clan since the death of Bölthorn, and Isbadden's father, now clan chief, meant to see Isbadden live to be his successor.

Long time, Corin pondered over farewell gifts whilst preparing for his journey. The snowgnomes wanted nothing from him but the promise that should he come to their cousin-kin, the stonegnomes, he might deliver word of them and give greetings. To this, Corin gladly assented, yet still he mused. For the giant he had nought left to give. Then he remembered. He remembered the dagger, fashioned of elvish craft, that still lay with his elf-given garb. The gnomes brought it to him, together with lengths of thong, cut from animal hide. These he painstakingly plaited into a long corded rope, and hung from it the Elloræ blade.

And at their parting, around the giant's neck, there draped that simple keepsake. Yet to Isbadden it was a princely gift, like an important badge of office, that quite set him apart from all his Jutunn kith and kindred. Even Harfang frizzed his wings and winked appreciatively. It was plain to see that both were eager to show off this prize before the giant ranks.

Corin found it difficult to say goodbye. He and Isbadden had no mutual speech, and size was a problem. But the giant knelt down on his mighty shanks and for a short while he, the owl, and Corin looked upon each other, and it seemed that with each, all that was needed was said. Eyes, sometimes, may speak, when hearts are likewise attuned.

In the soft rose of a new light-time Corin and the snowgnomes made away. Behind, towering against the permafrost, stood Isbadden, Harfang perched upon his brawny, upraised arm.

Tomtibisse travelled with Corin, Kippec too; both tripping nimbly over the ice, directing and navigating through snow dunes and drifts, along hard-packed tunnels and lanes where ice walls reared sharply on either side. Down steep slopes they went in a flurry of snow that filtered like sand: wandering, filling, covering, hiding everything beneath. Of the half-light, Corin stored many memories; wide, white expanses, open and wind swept. Snow bear, lonely loping. Whirling ice-devils and dancing snow storms that diminished to nothing, so that again all lay silent and solemn and glistening. The solitude of wilderness, magnificent and untamed. Majesty that overwhelmed. Untrammelled, undefeated beauty. In those regions of ice-grinding, farthest north, he was left with a broad aching that could only be described as the sickness of wanderlust, inextricably mingled with a longing for the lands of the south. And in the utter quiet, when storms were stilled, he felt menace; menace that lurked behind that veiled calm, and he knew it as The Mighty Fear. Truly was the great north a place of frightening peace.

And yet, eventually, striking west and south a long distance, Corin and the gnomes reached a tenuous belt; the frontiers of the tundra. There trees, low and stunted, wind and snow pelted, eked existence. There lichen stained the thinly crusted earth with colour.

The worst of the journey was behind. The Mighty Fear lay at Corin's back. He had survived to return. But at a loss. He stood alone, and it seemed even then, at the edge, that he heard the wail of lost voices, voices of the wastes.

The little band of snowgnomes in the distance waved their parting waves, bobbly heads and bodies nodding and tilting as they departed, bound again for the precarious existence that they knew as home. Last of all to vanish was Tomtibisse, distinguishable by his bright red face and furry, white muffler wrapped about shoulders and crown.

‘Thankyou,’ said Corin softly to himself. ‘Thankye all, oh good folk from the lands of cold fear. Never did I think that such a place could yield me more than peril and death. And now hope rises in me, and I am grateful, perhaps more than you shall ever know.’

He sighed.

The Snjorgnamen were gone. The task, the unrelenting Quest, was to go on. He took a pace, hunching the pack of dried fish and such upon his back. He felt burdened, laden by more than the pack and the sword-staff girt at his waist. Determinedly, he pushed on, each step a trial. But he would not give up. With all his will he gave of himself; concentrating only on each step forward, down and back into the wide world that stretched before him. The supplies he used on occasion; sometimes he came upon food springing at his feet, and ate that as supplement.

Often he found himself weeping.

Many times his mind wandered to thoughts of the past: the dreams, The Voices, the living experiences. The Jackdaw, that image, that real sight, had dwelt with him so long. Yet was it only since his escape? Escape from Penda and Ravenmoor, from Men's domain. Not that long ago, not long at all. A matter of less than the turning of the seasons, though he felt as if his whole life had been compressed into that short space. As if he really had not existed, or at least had served no purpose before then. Not before the Jackdaw, symbol of his freedom. And he, the son and heir of a king, released from false paternal power and bondage by a bird, a simple bird. Or so that might have been. But now Corin knew more. Mighty and great and mysterious were the Powers and Forces at play; struggling, hidden behind masks that made Them seem like other ordinary, mundane things. Like simple birds, if such those Masterworks could so be termed.

Days and nights he stumbled on, ate, slept in brief moments. Somehow he began to regain his drained strength. He was becoming hardened like metal hammered of flame, forged out of broken shards to a new and stronger telluride. His bones, sinews, muscles and tendons, blood and heart and mind throbbed again; sight broadened, senses growing, hands surer, feet firmer. And still the tears filled his eyes. And with the weeping, as with an emptying pail, so did he purge, deeper and deeper the well of his soul. He trudged on, meeting mountains, veering round, swelling his lungs with air that faintly promised relief from the dismal wastes. And so, was rewarded.

At times he glimpsed animals and birds. Some came to him, but many were timid and skittish. Rumour in the world, he guessed, had travelled and the wild creatures had grown wary, even in far places.

Time trickled like sand sifting through fingers, each moment a breath, a step, an eyeblink; pulse and pulse, beat, heart-beat, bead of brow sweat, heart-beat.

Each instant a single grain of sand.

Each step a barrier shattered.

On an open, windy hillside covered in low furze, he stood. The breeze was keen, and cutting sharp from the south-west. Though he appeared older, bewhiskered and all, his back was straightened and his brow uplifted. He drew a whole, whole draught of air deep into his body, so that it braced him with the promise of another, new day. He closed his eyes and felt the warming sunshine as the wind dropped.

‘I am not repaired, not nearly repaired,’ he thought. ‘But I am salvaged. The sun may again touch me, the wind to blow, and I shall heed them.’ He felt for the transfigured blade at his side. ‘No, I am not whole. Yet mending I be, and repaired shall I be, ere I come down to the world of Elves and Men, and Talisar; she who, with love, crafted this gift, this burden and responsibility. Then shall I be whole.’

At the memory of the Daræ beauty, he gripped the hilt that had borne him as pike and stick and crozier, and in sudden joy raised the sword-staff in both hands; feet planted four-square, and opened his lips to utter words of thanks.

But a shadow darkened his closed eyelids.

Something loomed, swept over him, and was gone. Blinking, he spun around, heart pounding. And there it was, trailing away northward; a dragon. A dragon looping, spinning, cart-wheeling, turning.

A dragon so unmistakably Sgnarli!

And upon his plated, shining, curving back were the figures of elves who, to Corin's immeasurable relief, had spied him with their far-seeing eyes!

Chapter 54 [next]