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About the Author (new window) About the Ledgend (new window) Illustrations (new window) Volume 1 - Escape Volume 2 - Recovery Volume 3 - Consolation Author's Web Site Australian Page |
© Copyright 2003 Kenneth Mulholland | ||||
Varlarsaga Volume 3 - ConsolationChapter - 57 War by Sea and LandSo the mind's perception, covering vast distances in but the twinkling of an eye, travels full circle: all the way from Ravenmoor, and the last hold of the Elloræ at Sarnya Æsire and Erilar, Minca's home in Dorthillion, across far valleys and plains to Kutha-Kesh and beyond, over the wild desolation between to the green lands of Rî-mer-Rī. Then away north, high into the alps; to that empty hermitage and further, to Jutunn Hämma, Giant Home. And again south-west, down to the hidden goblin-pits of Yaghan Gazzul; wherein brooded the bane of Varlar. Meanwhile, upon the sea and land, the forces of men and elves amassed; their aim, the capture of Aileen, The Plain. The Plain where lay Earth-Mouth, sacred in all the world, key to Varlar. Their purpose, the possession of such and at need, at Corin's will, the opening of that ancient, lost way. Elsewhere, in the dread of night, buried deep in the waters of Varlar's oceans lurked a menace behemothic; veritable shadow-dwelling leviathan, born in world's chaotic birth: Girdler of Varlar, Sire of Tidal-Wave, Portent of Destruction. The Nardred. And somewhere, near the coasts of the northern lands, washed Aneurin's fleet upon the sounding sea; riding the foamy bubbles of its breast whilst the white moon looked down, passively, from above. Dwarf eyes too observed that moon, the same moon that shone over the grey steeps of the Ramabad and across Aileen Plain. Zulfikar and young Thekk looked out from Onderbor's portals to where the rivers of red, that were nugobluk fires, stretched across a broad expanse of drying marshy land; not so long before, a wide, mysterious lake. Thekk was intent upon the besieging goblins, but old Windhorn regarded his long friend the passing Moon overhead, and of it he spake. ‘We watch You sailing through the sky, an orb of white in darkness high. A wondrous gleaming orb of white, Your face aglow in blue of night. Oh yes, we see Your face aglow, all cold and pale since long ago. You wend Your way, so cold and pale. Forever on You sadly sail. Through heavens ,journey, forever on, yet seek out earth to gaze upon. Though cold and pale, You seek out earth. Turn You to us with eyes of mirth? We need You, want You; turn to us. We love Your round and horn'ed cusp. Your blessed, silvery sheen we love, oh ship of Moon in night above. Who plies Your oars, oh ship of Moon? In sea of sky You fade too soon. Who steers Your course in sea of sky? Who wields Your tiller as you fly? Oh Father Moon, who wields Your tiller as you fly?’ Yes, many eyes were on that silver traveller, only light, guiding light, silent light. Elves, dwarves, men; they each marked its slow path. But goblins, trolls, dragons and the like; they did not make much of it. For redness of flame hungered they, far more mete to them than brightness of moon or sunny day. For blackness, or at least the blue of night, shunned they all else. And so, it seemed, a mist clouded their eyes on that eve and their faces were downcast, staring hard into their fires, or the shadows of earth and ocean. Thus was it that on the humming seas, Aneurin's ships launched attack against the foul fleets of Gutwip's forces. Foamhair, borne in the foremost, dashed at the enemy craft like dreadful storm that sent the goblin armada beating down their seaward defence; elvin craft there to batter and destroy them. It was a battle bitter and terrible: the wrathful Elloræ Valdë opposed to the hideous nugobluk in their dragon triremes and boarding barges. Fire-balls swept the sky, cast from nugobluk mangonels, and mighty, beaked rams crashed into the dolphin ships as the dark forces rallied. All across the pitch-blazing waters off the coast, craft went drifting aimlessly. Elloræ and nugobluk were dying, killing each other in the very waters that engulfed them. From the shores, flew out a squad of fire-drakes; young, new bred. Some found glory in the fighting, setting afire elves and goblins without discrimination. Some found darkness through flaming arrow or deadly spear thrust, and there perished in the night. As if in collusion with the furious onslaught, storm clouds bestrode the moon and a fresh wind whipped the waters to heaving waves. Hard and harder fought the combatants; oars fouling oars, rams shivering to pieces, armoured plates buckling, masts cracking, toppling. Hand to claw, salt-wetted, they grappled, fang to throat, through wave drenching, blood drenching, flesh tearing, life losing. Thus it went during all that long night, whilst the wild winds howled in rage. Came morn. Many of the goblin ships were reduced to mere foundering hulks. The remainder of the nugobluk fleet lay tossing in a grey swell amongst the reek of oily fires still smoking on the surface. Black was the pall that filled the sky, blotting out the patchy sunlight so that the low clouds took on a sickly, green hue. Black fluttered the goblin ensigns, like ravens of doom, upon the fearsome craft. Black, stood Gutwip, commander of that sea-borne force, amidst green slime and blackening blood, whilst ympari mugs swabbed around him; heaving the dead and those too disabled for further use into the sea. Ngake and Gimbutas, his captains and closest followers, boarded from their barges and at once fell to argument. Why had they been caught napping? Where were the foe? What had happened through the night? What should be done next? The squabbling continued whilst Gutwip counted his losses and guessed at their position They were beyond sight of land, having pursued the hated elves until their ships turned tail in the midst of the storm, making for open waters. Now it was time to set sail for the coast, where the remainder of the Lizard galleys and towering Turtle ships patrolled. Gutwip shut his captain's bickerings with a sharp command. Then issued his orders. Grumbling, they went off to carry out his will; all craft that were no longer worth keeping to be left adrift. Any crew fit enough to fight and sail to be saved. The rest left to die slow deaths, cannibalising the weakest, or drowning in the swamping waves. Disabled vessels within the path of the returning ships were to be ruthlessly rammed. Time was of the utmost importance, as Gutwip well knew. They need make landfall, repair damages, build more craft, take on fresh crews and supplies and report to Oorlog and Skragga of this latest, victorious battle. So in haste the depleted armada bore away, sweeping about down the long troughs as one wheeling, bat-wing arm. Half crouched in the bows, Gutwip laughed wildly as he made his plans; thinking also of the praise and rewards he would reap. ‘Per'aps,’ came the workings of his vicious mind, ‘I will be rid of this stinking sea and left to fight again on hard ground. Mud-slugging it is far more to my liking. Being able to twist and bite them close up, that's me. None of this throwing stuff at each other over the putrid waves. 'Sides, Gimbutas and that monster Ngake can run this lot; even half-stupid as they are. And,’ he crowed to the wind, ‘it's Oorlog's turn to do this dirty work. Him, or maybe Muridai and Nagana; those skulkers hiding down in Yaghan Gazzul. Time they were kicked...’ Suddenly Gutwip ceased his musings. Something had caught his squinty-eyed attention; something ahead through the lofty waters, framed by pitchy clouds. He clawed at the hated spray that misted his vision and scrambled forward to the eyes of his dragonreme, up by the bowsprit. There, through the drizzling, cloying rain, he thought he glimpsed the grey smudge of the coast. But there, he choked on his own greasy nails, were dim splashes like sails. Very many sails! Vexed, the goblin commander bit his yellow tongue, screaming abuse at himself and the sight before him, and rushed down the length of the ship, bowling over any that stood in his way. In a fury he roared up to the helm's gark, ranting abuse and orders in bastard Ren, Attagark, Ugush, unintelligibles and the occasional ymp word thrown in. Ponderously the dragon ship began to slew windward, yet even in that first motion, Gutwip, clinging wildly to the taffrail, bespied a further sight. Sails aft, down the tunnelling seas; billowing sails. Cursed elvish sails! Uselessly he hammered the iron rails in a rage. Before his bloodied eyes, as his own craft lumbered about, the blue-grey of Valdë silk billowed in the west, coloured by the rising sun. Ere he peered eastward, he knew what to expect. Against a master mariner such as Aneurin Foamhair, the forces of the nugobluk were ill pitted. Growling, Gutwip ran a claw down his razor knife. So sharp was it that it cut even his tough hide. He licked at the sluggish, dark clotting blood, and there vowed to die upon that spit. Aneurin Seamaster and his beloved Alluin, daughter of Goldal, watched from the decks of the Dolphin ship, where through the night the craft had hastened coastward, there in the morning mists, to join with Cinco's many vessels; those raiders of the goblin reserve at Rioncion. Behind, little of that enemy sea-force remained. Only bodies, bloated and inert waltzed the water's death dance, face down amidst broken spars and the flotsam of ruination. The Foamhair sighed as he went into battle; for he well knew that it should not end until all those enemy dragonremes caught within his net were sunk, the crews despatched or drowned. But never captured. Rather, the nugobluk would slay themselves, than allow elvish hands to fall upon them. On land, far off, Sgnarli furled his leathern wings whilst Filma and Falnir, the pixie Dalen and the imp Pitrag alighted. Before them on a broad expanse, lay the vanguard of Elloræ forces, those led by Silval Birdwing and Prince Clovell of the Pechts. This army was the furthermost west, advancing along the coast through the bright day as swiftly as possible. And here, reported the dragon's crew. They who had been sent on an extremely dangerous mission. ‘The Valdë are engaging the Nugo fleet, or what is now left of it,’ said Filma, upon greeting Elvra and Silval. ‘As was expected, they have fallen into the trap, but only could such have been accomplished by the service of yon dragon. It, he, has done us well, as has that ugly ymp. Perhaps there is hope for them both yet.’ ‘Aye, and hope for us all,’ said Elvra, grimly. And Silval too answered, ‘So far go our plottings unhindered. The dragon to Aneurin's ears, the first sea battle, the retreat and regrouping under night's eaves, the outflanking of the enemy, and the utter destruction of coastal goblish reinforcements. Now finally, the encircling of their last host awash. The nugobluk will fight to the death, their death. For all, elves and they, may it be as swift and as merciful as can be.’ ‘The time is ripe,’ said Clovell, ‘we must press our advantage.’ ‘Yes,’ Silval answered, beckoning the others to horse, ‘give command to ride forth, and send word to our brethren that our forces are on the move.’ So it was that the legions of the Elloræ began westward, whilst their sea force, under Aneurin, engaged the crippled nugobluk navy. North and east-away, a second army directed by Morgan Seawanderer, hurried through the brown wastes, hoping to fall upon any opposition against Silval and Clovell. And with Morgan Fane travelled the dark-skinned warriors from across the wide sea, Possum Wollert at their head. Further again northward, a third command, led by Darion and Rosac of the Booca, marched on over the dun barriers and into greener fields, driving both north and west in a wide curve; their mission, to come to Aileen Plain and the Ramabad mountains from out of the north in an endeavour to surround the goblins there. Meanwhile, at White Bridge there held still a reserve; Queen Goldal and the remainder of elves and men, prepared, if all else failed, to flee across that new-wrought expanse, or at needs make the ultimate decision to advance for victory or the finality of total defeat. That decision would be left to the Elloræ and to Men; to individuals indeed, for only in conscience and conviction and belief could each choose a destiny. If the end was to come there would, in the end, be nowhere to hide in all of Varlar. ‘Things fare well thus far, my friend.’ It was Silval Birdwing, speaking clearly, yet softly to Corin, who rode close by the elf's side. Bim lay draped around his shoulders, and Corin was much recovered from past ordeals. ‘True,’ he nodded, ‘yet I pray the forward scouts be diligent in their work, for it comes to me that many of our number have never seen these lands before.’ ‘That be right enough, and I have taken some thought on this,’ replied the elf, blending with the shadows amongst the empty hollows as if a wraith himself. 'With all,’ he continued, ‘be they men or be they elves who have not set foot thus far, I have assigned those of our people with knowledge of these wild regions. So, with King Ordrick out of Ravenmoor, rides Filma. Whilst with our own Lord-Fane Morgan, travel Ellion and Inar; two warrior elves who have passed into danger and out again.’ Elvra, on Corin's right hand added, ‘There, see you Avarhli, provision has been made. You may be at rest on it.’ Relieved, Corin nodded, then fell into silence as if much in thought. Now, elves are aware of a great deal, and at times may look deep into the minds of those they wish to; yet even so, both Silval and Elvra were unable to pierce the barrier of their companion's seeming reverie. That he appeared to muse, his gaze fixed and faraway, they saw; but they did not see or know of that which visited, possessed him within the ungoverned halls of his mind. The Voices erupted, enveloping him; caressing, flaying, pursuing unpitying. ‘Release us... Only you can... Find the way... Find... Corin... Is that my Corin... My child... Is it you... We wait... Release...’ Corin nodded, as if dozing; blinked and nodded again. Even the elves, his dear friends, held off for they guessed him to be in some kind of trance; a trance beyond their probing. But the Voices bored into head-ache, to pain turned scarlet; to bone and brain wracking unto bursting, unto stretching the limits of Corin's slight power to contain Them. ‘Break down the Doors... The barriers... My baby... Are You my baby... We are waiting... Beyond the barriers... Deeper... Deeper... Arise The Sleeper... Near, nearer; reap the Reaper...’ The torrent roared inside, swirling through the corridors that traced the paths of his mind; into the hidden ways where conscious thought is banished. Within his own body, Corin was held captive to the Voices that gripped him. The Voices that threatened to overcome him from out of his darkest recesses which now lay open, raw, like naked nerve-ends. Without, no sign was there of this tremendous upheaval. He rode along, eyes dimmed to the way ahead. If any perceived, might it have been Bim, though how or why cannot be explained. Maybe it was that the cat, wrapped about Corin's neck, felt some vibration, some invisible charge. Maybe it was that Bimmelbrother saw and felt much, extraordinarily, even beyond elvish powers of comprehension. Or perhaps it was simply that Bim had come to love Corin, creature and creature. At any event Bim stirred, wrapping a soft paw round his master's face, masking the dulled eyes, blotting out the visions and somehow breaking the hold. As black is to sight, as black is to thought and heart, to cloak and poor black Darkelfari horse, to cat and to paw; so black was to all that encompassed Corin. When Bim's velvet pads left his master's eyes, the world again, as it really was, stood revealed. Corin blinked. A pressure, like a terrible weight, lifted with his eyelids and dispersed, as if blown away. Slowly he turned his head both left and right, there to meet the faces of his friends. Saddened at first, were they; then gayer as they saw recognition dawn and the bequeathed light of Talba Brighteyes himself, flow from Corin's own eyes. For a moment, swiftly fleeting, a hazy corona bloomed about Corin's head. Then it faded, and he again was quite himself. Still, as they rode on, Silval and Elvra could not help but wonder. Corin too, flexing limbs and muscles, mistily recalled his ordeal; anticipating, with growing fears, the next. And what would that next ordeal be? What form would it take? Perhaps another violent possession by The Voices, assaulting him from within? Or were he and his companions journeying to their doom on some distant battlefield? Many were the perils that lurked the wilds of Varlar, yet none amongst the entire Host could fathom what was to come out of the interswirling clouds of fate, of destiny, of random luck or ill fortune. Corin shuddered, whilst the day grew long about them, and the eastering sun fell down the sky at their backs. In the night, protected on all sides by far-off outriders and stealthy foot scouts, they talked in conclave, leaders and lordly. They burned no fires, nor lit they lights in the open, where eyes over vast distances might spy. Instead, the elves rigged pavilions; black as raven's wings they were, and fashioned so that the pale light of lummellin would not pass through, and in these did they gather. To unknowing mortals, would that place of the host's encampment have seemed but a dark tumulus: mounds and tumps and shadowed hillocks, wherein dwelt nothing more than moles or other creatures of burrowing kind, or even those of insectdom. Yet much more than the excavations of blind animals, or the sonorous hum of winged things was at hand. Corin sat within their benighted compound beside Ordrick; his once kin-cousin. There also Silval, Elvra, Dalen, Clovell, Falnir and Filma sat or stretched; the best at their ease on such hard and stony ground. Only the dwarf Farinmail paced restlessly. Outside, fuming, lay Sgnarli; curled up, as even plated dragons can. And in the crook of his scaled foreleg loafed Pitrag, idly snatching fire-flies out of the air. At a distance, beneath a broad, annexed awning, many nemorian elves were watchful, keeping eyes upon their milk-white horses and on the unpredictable dragon. Occasionally, and to every one's alarm, Sgnarli belched a spurt of flame. This ignition the Elloræ swiftly, though heedfully doused with the aid of wine flagons and wetted standards. And though the dragon was snuffed, he seemed to care not, merely snuffling and languidly shaking his long, snouted head. All the same, the elves were very well aware of his seething breath and yellow-barred eyes, that were ever open, awake or asleep. ‘This then is how all stands,’ began Silval in a voice that was both low, yet loud enough for all to hear. ‘Aneurin and our Valdë have either destroyed the goblin navy, or driven them far out to sea, and are now in control of the southern waters. Meanwhile, our landward formation, moving on three fronts, gives us solid force for attack and it is hoped that when the dwarves of the Ramabad sight our armies they will sally forth out of their mountain holds and so create a barrier to contain the enemy.’ At these words there arose a murmur from some about him, Farinmail the dwarf especially, so that Silval rose to his feet, lifting his hands in sign placative. ‘Be not dismayed by their superior numbers. Though we know only of such strength from previous encounters, we needs make assumptions based on those observations. In the end we will confront the foe, as best I can tell, on the sunken plain of Aileen, now wondrously revealed. Yet even before that can happen, we must deal with the advance forces that occupy Vanora Lindo. They, I fear, need we come against and divert for as long as is necessary, till Morgan's warriors and brave drive at their rearward, northern flank, thus cutting off retreat. Then, methinks, we shall have them as they had us at Rioncion, the ocean's grasp at their backs.’ ‘Yet it may be a time before Morgan arrives,’ said Falnir. ‘Would we not better conserve our strength to wait?’ Silval nodded, ‘Aye, of course we would. It is folly to try our might against mightier, though I deem dire need drives us. We must divert the Nugobluk, draw them out. Seem beaten even, if that will allow our second force to fall upon an unguarded rear.’ ‘And if they come not in time?’ Fleta, a nemorian elf of Silval's kin asked. ‘Then a small party shall retreat, carrying Avarhli northward out of danger, whilst we fight a rearguard, to the death if so ordained.’ Clovell, Prince of Pechts, jumped to his feet. ‘See you not the reasoning in this? The Nugobluk sea-hordes are cut apace, perhaps totally defeated. Now we need devastate their land line, though we fall with it, that others may assail their last army. Mayhap our battle be lost in a cause greater than we alone.’ ‘Would that it be otherwise,’ Corin groaned, rubbing his eyes, ‘for it seems to me that all roads are destruction bound.’ ‘Purrrhaps,’ mewed Bim thoughtfully, where he crouched upon Elvra's knees. Late night, not much short of dawn, when elf runners came in. Strange sighting they reported at Vanora Lindo, Aneurin's bay. Tom-Arnya-Ortha, his tower, was toppled and defiled, though the bay itself appeared empty of any foe. ‘Something is wrong, very wrong,’ muttered Silval whilst he studied the belts of patchy grasses that were as lonely outcrops, spreading into broader islands the closer the host neared White-wave haven. ‘Our scouts have skirted this place and beyond to the far side, and it seems they were right enough; the Lindo lies deserted. The Foul Ones have gone.’ ‘Well, is that not respite for us, at least?’ whispered Ordrick, new-come King of Ravenmoor's folk, and unskilled in such signs as Silval observed. ‘A respite for us, yea. Yet not for others I guess,’ answered the elf. ‘How do you see this thing then?’ Corin asked. ‘I rede this much; the grass tells me that our enemy came forward only as far as these margins. Behind us, even on stony ground, could we have smelt them. No, along the coast here were their outlying pickets. The marks and the stench lead back again toward Aneurin's bay.’ ‘But what meaning has this?’ Ordrick asked, puzzled. ‘This much,’ replied the elf, straightening, ‘all signs show Nugobluk tracks leading into Vanora Lindo, and none out. That they took the place by force, in order to build their craft of war we were well aware, and such fleet lies now in ruin at Foamhair's hands. Yet now I have reason to believe that another force, perhaps several armadillas, are at sea. It seems their naval strength is vaster than Aneurin may have foreseen.’ ‘How can you be sure of this?’ Corin asked. ‘Sure? We can only be sure when we come there. Perhaps it was a mistake not to have risked the dragon over this bay, to closer spy out the doings of our enemies. If so, we may have alerted our ocean kindreds. As to this, I pray we are not too late!’ Shaking his bow in consternation, Silval vaulted upon Cornarian's back, signing up an elf nearby. ‘Lifandi, ride to my Sister and bear this news. Take any three with you, that one at least may reach her ear. Tarry not. Go!’ Thence into the east sped the messengers, whilst away west moved the host. And it was not much longer, nor much further, before that grey tide crossed the marches of the Lindo, sweeping down toward the mist-shrouded bay where Corin had first set foot to the shores of the North World. And arriving there, confirmed they their dread.
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