Varlarsaga Volume 3 - Consolation

Chapter 58 - Fields of Devastation

‘All this seems eerie to me, unworldly, you might say.’ This was Finikin Goosie, as he, Bran his brother, Jeriah Rudd and Badger, rode together in an ancient, creaking wood-wain drawn by a pair of strong plodders; horses more accustomed to hauling timber for building, than men for battle. Yet here they were, rumbling down into a strange bay, tinting now to dark green and darker grey-blue of the ocean beyond.

The sun was nigh to knocking at morning's door, the air was brisk, the sky thick with mottled cloud.

They, the men in the wagon, were at the tail-end of elf Silval's risen host. By them, rode men of their old country: Beald the Bold, Cadogan, Jofrid Flamehair, Curlic friend of Jofrid, Gurmul and Muran of Fernon Leven, Albern the Boar and Izod the Fair.

And before them, went many thousands of others: an army of small pixie folk, a larger force of moss-clad elvish archers, a cavalry of wondrous, white horse, harness bells muffled, elf riders lithely clinging; all fairly bristling with thickets of lance.

And foremost, somewhere further on, the woodsmen knew, rode the leaders: Silval and the Pecht Prince Clovell, along with other Elloræ nobles; Corin, the enigmatic stranger who had crossed all their paths and touched all their lives, and Prince Ordrick, their own lord and liege from Ravenmoor-over-the-White-Bridge, who now seemed belittled and boyish in such company.

Yes, the woodsfolk agreed, dream-like their road had become, as if from simple pastoral men of the land, they had been, on instant, transformed; altered by much, far and above imagination. Altered in such way, within themselves, through the shock of realisation that their world, insular and guarded by mountain and ocean, had realms beyond those boundaries, of which they never guessed. And they looked with awe and wonder at these regions beyond knowledge, where dwelt other, populous kinds; where terrible, unseen enemies, and beauty of fantastic nature awaited. Where death, so casually, so ubiquitously, lurked.

About them, the landscape altered as they moved, and the west breathed its light, like some almighty lantern splashing random brightness; growing and growing, whilst the sun turned and trimmed its brilliance. And there, at last, the men cast their eyes on the day's bounty; a bounty filled with contradiction. For in the bay the elves named Vanora Lindo, grew the green of tree and grass, though branch and blade, for the most, were hacked and trampled. The sanded soil itself, reeked of burning, of scorched earth, of countless sacrificed things. Bones, grey amongst the ashes and angry, sputtering coal-beds, poked at all angles, like some vast, scattered, jig-saurian puzzle. Mute witness to that which fed the flame, that drove the forge, that melt and fused, that grafted the metal, that raised the travesty, that ended in the goblin fleet that glided, shark-like, out into the foamy brine.

Everywhere eyes turned there lay disarray, disorder, devastation. But in those very disruptions, through and beneath them, could yet be glimpsed the vision of what had been before: a sweep of yellow-white sand with rolling combers beyond. A gentle, rising tree-clad slope. Pathways worn by passing feet. A mighty seaward tower, all of white stone, tall and watchful. A new-planted beginning for tree and shrub from far off Elfame. A new-come land of expectancy, of search, fulfilment, hope.

Yet all had been overborne.

The goblins had seen to that.

Stinking pyres poured their poison, bone-pits bore the horror, iron ramps, slipways and launch-ways, greased with the fat from unthinkable source, drew the march of ant, the drone of fly, the bequeathment of egg and maggot. Aneurin's tower, fallen and broken, lay like a once living creature pulled down by vicious beasts and there, pecked clean, the skeleton left alone to bleach in the whitening sun.

‘It was as I thought,’ Silval muttered, allowing the dust of bones to dwindle through his fingers. ‘Much, too much, has happened here past our knowledge.’ He sighed and stood from where he knelt. ‘Many have foul-died in the building of nugobluk vessels: many animals, elves, men. Now I begin to understand their headlong forage from far places. Prisoners took they, and along with their own ymps, were they slave-used till spent. Only the strongest would have been required for this labour. And look!’ he threw his arm about, ‘trees have been torn apart, stone dredged up, living creatures cruelly worked to death, then burnt, melted down, their flesh fuel for fires to fashion metal, their fat to smear the slips. All this carnage, this unthinkable slaughter, to build an overwhelming force of evil!’ The Birdwing faltered, choked. Then, catching a breath, he went on, ‘Falnir, ride fire-tongue Sgnarli. Take those you need. Come to the Valdë ships and warn Aneurin. If it can be done, seek out our enemy; yet be careful. For who knows? By some foul craftiness, they may carry dragons aboard their own craft. In any event, do the best you can, and when you have done spying, take word again to Foamhair. Perhaps that aid may yet save them!’

He turned to Corin. ‘We can do no more here. It is plain the foe has left these shores, sailed away to war at sea. We must ride now to Rioncion. Maybe the Nugobluk await us there in monstrous force, but now I hope that we shall join Morgan's army on the way. Onward, are all agreed?’ Silval looked about those concerned faces and nodded. ‘Onward, the winds of battle lie in our path and to them must we sweep!’

And so they swept away: that great, grave force, riding on toward the greystone of Rioncion.

Left behind them, in their wake, the broken port of Vanora Lindo. And Corin, with black Bim wrapped about his neck, bowed his head, his face concealed; since now everything, he felt, was leading to world's undoing. Yet had he the power, he wondered, to change that?

For most of the others in that grim host, anger and a desire to avenge, born out of abhorrence at the barbarian acts done by the goblins, drove them, goaded them onward; though Fear was their ever companion. Battle and inevitable suffering and death, awaited.

On the stony plain that stretched west and south toward the ocean, the vanguard of Silval's army halted. This was the verge of Rioncion, The Greystone, where the Elloræ had been ensnared, routed, and finally driven into the sea. Several day's hard travel had brought no news. Nought had been seen of enemy or ally. And nought had been heard from seaward. According to the elvish scouts, who now ventured only a short distance from the main body, nothing stood before them; the gullies, the dips and folds, the strange contours of the land, lay empty.

‘I deem we must take further stock of our situation,’ said Silval. ‘With the dragon gone, we have lost our swiftest line of communication and our far-seeing eyes. Therefore, I propose to send elvish troops further out, fanning in all directions to the coastline, to our right flank, ahead and behind. I fear that we may be treading the way of a trap.’

‘Well, I agree,’ said Ordrick. ‘My people are most vulnerable rearward, carting food and supplies as they are.’

Silval smiled warmly, ‘I am sorry. Of course, good King of Ravenmoor. It was an oversight on my behalf, but forgive me. For even though I have lived much longer in this world than you, I, like you, have not had great experience of war. Besides, elves carry much less of need with them than men, who seem to tote their own dwellings.’

King Ordrick flushed at this jibe, hinting the swift anger of his father; then, breaking into a good-humoured grin, that could only have been passed on to him by his mother, he laughed. ‘Host-leader of Elves and Men, you are wisest and I put my trust in you. I and my people, pledged ourselves to this cause. The world is moving; broad and wide for us has it become, but I can see that we too, must alter if we are to fit this new land where travel we at need. Your folk saved the people of Ravenmoor from ruin. I travelled over the wonderful White Bridge, and those who believed in me and in you, followed. Our decisions have been made. Men of Ravenmoor will stand with Elves. Yet, as you say, we have just new-come learnt the first lessons of warfare. Still, for my part, I had only one complaint and you have eased my concern forthwith.’

‘It pleases me that you have such faith in Elves. May that faith avail us all, and not be misplaced,’ returned Silval good-naturedly, for though the Birdwing was brother to Queen Goldal, and present leader of many, both men and elves, he was still open, forthright and genuine, being a simple dweller of the forests who, at needs, could rise and take command. ‘Now must I away,’ he said, coming briskly to the task at hand. With a bow he departed Ordrick and Corin, who stood quietly nearby, and went off to issue his orders.

‘Elves are so strange to me,’ confided Ordrick.

Corin smiled. ‘Be thankful they and we fight upon the same side.’

Ordrick went on, almost as if he had not heard, ‘Odd, even as this world has grown sudden-strange all ways. Not the least of which be you, my one time rival.’

He looked up at Corin, stared deeply into the other's eyes; eyes grown seemingly bottomless, and he saw there many agonies and hurts and old, closed wounds, and he saw mystery and mastery, and knowledge; and profound, patient compassion. And he beheld a laboured, yet still innocent Will, that seemed to knit the very fibres of endurance, that seemed to radiate a serene strength from within. No longer, saw Ordrick, the gangrel child, or sloven youth of yesteryear. No. Here, he saw that before him, in those eyes, stood a one far and beyond his contentions, his endeavours, his most longed-for ambitions.

He saw his own Master.

Yet Ordrick was not aggrieved at this. Rather was he elated, for a new confidence surged in him, budding and growing as he watched the light streaming from Corin's head. Until, in a flash, it flamed away.And all left were Corin's eyes and the wide, unblinking cat's-eyes at his shoulder. Bimmelbrother, son of Memmelardoth, said simply, ‘He iss The One.’

Ordrick, last king of Ravenmoor, before taking his leave to spend respite gathering thoughts and wits, replied, ‘This now, I truly believe.’

The host of Silval's command began again the forward advance, and by a two-day, came unto the very cliffs of Rioncion where before had encamped the forces under Elberl, and thence Galidor.

Now, there was nought but the blowing rags of ruined pavilions and the broad strewings of goblin refuse and filth. And the remains of the fallen, jumbled together where wolves and wild things had dragged and picked at them. The grey wind from the grey sea moaned and mourned over the grey stone, from whence rose the graven clouds.

Every heart amongst that crowd was sickened at the sight, every throat was hushed. Hushed were they all for they saw, furthermore, not only the remains of destruction time-ago, but that of battle mere hours before. Lain amongst the carrion and the stripped corpses were elves and bodies of peoples dark, men plain of Wollert Possum's following; Folk of the Karakara-Piya.

‘Morgan has come hither before us and met the beasts head-on,’ said Silval aghast.

No one else of all that host dared, or deemed it right, to move until Elvra threw her feet down and stood, alone, on the greying steeps.

‘Come,’ she said, her eyes to Silval's. ‘We cannot leave them languish so. Our kindred and our valiant allies, yea even the vanquished enemy, need rest for all time. Pray my dearest, send some with me to oversee; that friend and foe find end-full peace in flame and air, or undersea.’

Silval with a nod deigned it so, and at once his ever-companion set about her task, first choosing those to aid her, thence going about the disposal of the dead: some to fire and some to water and some, elves of high esteem, to sky-burials.

Meanwhile, elvin scouts from beyond the bounds, where held this coastal host, came in reporting; and here it was told that the signs of some large conflict, retreat and pursuit, had ensued. Away north-west, by all indications, both elvish and goblin forces had flown; yet to what end, no Elloræ eye could thus far see.

During these comings and froings, Silval remained sitting astride Cornarian's broad back, thinking, gazing watchful about his wide charge. Eventually, he turned to Corin and those others nearest. ‘What is there more that I can say? What more to do? What is there else, but to go on. Uncertain is it that we have folk left now, to come to our side at need. Haste I think is needed, either to aid Morgan, if yet he still does war with the nugobluk; or to fall upon those foul-filth whilst they gloat at his demise. Let us gird our courage, our strength and our fears into one spearhead of valour, that we may pierce the cold heart of those foes of the world. Ride. Ride on to clash of arms, to victory. Ride! To threshold of dark doom, ride; that we may triumph over that darkness, and walk again in the light!’

And with that cry of despair and encouragement, Silval's host began to move, bearing north and west, journeying the wild road taken by those gone before them.

Late the following day, having travelled overnight amidst the rolling stone-dunes and sparse, thorny clumps that seemed all the inland could support, dragons were sighted far off in the south-west. They appeared as dark specks against the evening sky, only noticeable by the fireballs that, intermittently, lit them. What made the elves uneasy, was the way they flew; progressing in wildly looping formations followed by long sweeps and swoops, as if the foremost was either leader, or prey pursued. An Elloræ maiden, Friallaf of Nar-Veleth, whose sight was as keen as the great eagles of the world, vouched their innermost fears.

‘Four follow one, hunters and hunted. A sixth shadows them, though it may not be a fire-drake, for I see no red breath. The one they pursue will be the foundling creature Sgnarli, though I cannot tell if there are riders on him.’

‘Levella atal!’ Groaned Filma nearby. ‘My dear friends Falnir, Dalen the Pecht, and sister, brother, Amqa and Amqad, all ventured out with that ymp Pitrag and the dragon. May they still live and come safely to us.’

‘We can but hope, for there is no more within our power to do,’ muttered Clovell the Pecht Prince stoutly, though in the pixie's face doubt hovered.

‘They are gone now, far out to sea, I deem,’ concluded Friallaf, peering still into the southern darkness, where now no light of dragon fire showed in that gloomy sky.

‘What could they tell us, I wonder,’ mused Silval. ‘What of Aneurin and Alluin? What of Cinco and the Valdë fleet? What of the wide ocean, filled with danger; of Sarnya Nora, might they bear a tale; of nugobluk ships, might they.’ He turned away, his eyes seeking the path he had chosen. ‘We must go on,’ he said. ‘Though our ships founder and havens fall behind us, we must go on.’ His voice, the soft-high voice of elves, faltered. But resolute he lifted into the white, etched saddle and there, for a moment, spake softest words into Cornarian's ear. Having so done, he sat again erect, facing the west.

‘Let us go.’

They rode away, now at measured pace.

Few looked back, for fear that they might see some evil, or portent of such behind. Only men looked back, perhaps because they feared death differently to elves. Perhaps because they feared the unknown.

Again, they rode through the night, following by dimmest light of lumallin and the faint, gossamer-wisped new moon, the trail of thousands-fold feet. Even over stone, that way was plain to see, to elven eyes; here, blood spatter, there cast-away weapon, there the rough scratches of goblin claw. On they followed, until they topped a broad, rising stretch of land, nigh midway to sun-up.

And there, the vanguard looked down.

And down in a pitch-darkness all about, were scores of scores of lights dotting the night. Those lights were red pyres for the most, though the blues of elf-kindled, blazed here and there.

‘They are Elloræ,’ whispered Elvra, with a certainty.

At once, a little way beyond, elvish figures seemed to materialise, mingling with Birdwing's forward scouts.

‘Morgan's folk,’ called one Lippa, returning.

‘Bid them take us to him straightway,’ replied Silval, relieved. Then to Fleta nearby, he said, ‘Fleta, my good kins-elf, to you do I entrust the placement of these forces. Speak with the appointed of Morgan's pickets and settle our folk to your design, until such time as we have spake with him. To you, do I charge with this task. Let Cinglor be your second. And for men,’ he hesitated a moment and turned earnestly to Ordrick, who sat horse nearby, ‘who of men shall you appoint in your absence, young King?’

‘Three will I say,’ smiled Ordrick, pleased to be consulted. ‘Beald, Cadogan, and Izod the Fair. They shall be my Captains.’

Silval nodded. ‘Then that is done. Come, King of Ravenmen, ride with Avarhli, Prince Clovell and the others of this party, that the sooner we have parlance with dear Morgan Fane, shall we be the wiser.’ Thus, all arranged, the advance group ventured down hill, in company with many folk sent up from below.

Soon, Corin and his mounted friends were riding between avenues of bright-burning fire. But no cheery blazes were these. The rows, row after row, bore the dead. The stench near shied horse, nigh stifled rider. As might a great grave-yard stretch across green fields by day, so a putrescent pyredom sparked the black night, woe-begotten. The weary dread-way wound finally to a taller fire, and this one leapt yellow and blue into the smoking sky.

Before it, illuminated by robes lumallin, were a 'tenth' of elves. There Morgan Fane, silvered hair aglow, waited where he sat, mounted on a tall grey. He raised his pale hand, fire-lit, before them. Blood stained, maybe, were his locks. Soiled and begrimed, his blue coat. Spent-tired his demean.

‘A grim welcome I bid you, my kin and others,’ he said, wearied. ‘Evil deeds have transpired this past day. Our peoples, and Possum Wollert's too, have need to mourn; for some, the conflict was their last mete of life. Even so, we have others still unattended behind us.’

‘Those at Rioncion, have we sent already on their far journey,’ replied Silval, slipping from the saddle.

‘So you came that way after all,’ said Morgan. ‘I thought perhaps that you had been delayed by some ambuscade, or chosen another path to follow.’

‘We rested at night; for fighting, men are at their best when fed and slept.’

‘As Possum Wollert's folk said, though little of either had they. For we were attacked long ere we arrived the Greystone. Set upon were we by wolf and goblin and troll, and drawn neatly into their net on the coast, by the sea. Yet the nugobluk underestimated our fury. Perhaps because of the Karakara warriors. Never before had our brown-skinned allies been encountered by goblins on these shores. Never so fierce such resistance. Suspecting as much, we rode into their trap, and in outrage, fought out again. We routed them, sent them running on horny heels, fleeing to save hide and pelt. Even the mighty mountain trolls gave way. Hard on them we followed, leaving the fallen behind, pressing our advantage... ’ Morgan sighed, and in that sigh there was a justice and a sorrow. ‘We fought them here. Caught them, fought them. Won the field. Sent our enemy reeling, bleeding out of battle. Halted we, too exhausted to pursue further.’ He cast a glance about, where fire, all-consuming burned. ‘It was time for wound tending. Time to stop and cleanse the land of our doings. Time to give the dead their final time. The tinder brushwood comes from far and wide. Sparse grows it. But needed it was. So here you come to us, we resting after battle, sending our dear dead away.’ Morgan lifted his eyes from afarness where, unsighted, they had gazed. ‘What news carry you? How go our northern folk, our sea folk?’

But before Silval could answer, Morgan grasped him by the shoulder, saying, 'Dear Ellor-kin, how remiss of me. Begin not your tale yet, but bide until we at least may sit and sup in some comfort. Today, has hard and heavy work been done. Food is needed to strengthen sore heart and body; wine too, that by its invigoration, sorrows, for a time, may be put aside. My folk have prepared us a place to rest and repast. Come along, do. All of your party, Corin Avarhli, Prince Clovell and everyone. Take ease this night on. Sentries and scouts are far upon the borders of our hold here. Warning will be given, ere danger crawls the land. Take then ease, and spin the tale of telling. For on the morrow-sun will there be no time for such leisure.’ He led them away from the fires, and up the sloping banks that formed the northern side of this arid depression. And there came they to a tented hall, lined within by many elvish banners and standards.

Pale lamps, and lumallin light, glowed inside that place of assembly, for those already gathered. Elvish foods, cordials and liquors were laid about on makeshift boards and war-shield platters. The exhausted and wounded rested in comfort, served by those more fortunate after fighting.

Into this tired and war-weary group they came and settling, feasted from failing fare, and conversed until the glimmer of dawn stole across the western sky. Of goblins they talked, of dragons and trolls and wolves. Of strategies, weakness and strength. Of sea-power and land-power. And of the unknown, both foe and ally, far away. But in all that while, their hopeful words were tinged; shot through by doubt and deep concern, for none there, not even Morgan or Silval or Corin himself, could say what would happen in the new day, or indeed on any day to follow.

‘This then, is our proposed plan,’ said Morgan, as they emerged into the sun-up. ‘We will ride now westward in a sickle arc, ranging from the sea to northaway. In the foremost rank shall be elves to left and extreme right. Pechts, under Prince Clovell, will boast the central core. Coastward, behind, shall be men, commanded by King Ordrick. On the right flank will be the foot of Possum Wollert. I shall command the right. Silval Birdwing, the left. Thus shall we have Pecht soldiers, bow and pike pixies as our central grouping, with wings of elvish horse, and many ranks of fighting men to dash between and thence retreat if pressed too hard. And,’ Morgan added, as he caught Farinmail's dwarvish glare, ‘behind our Pecht-kin, for added sting, walk the axes of the dwarves.’

‘And well will they be hefted,’ barked a long-nose, one Glōri, Het-dwarf to Farinmail.

Dalfin Farinmail himself, took up the cry, ‘Zwerge onward! Iron shall cut a path to the Ramabad and so free those inside for good and all. Fith Zwerge! Ingi Zwerge!’

Those many hundred followers beyond, who heard his voice, began to cheer and take up his catch-call; ‘Up Dwarves! On Dwarves!’

Thus, it was in this formation that the unified forces of Morgan and Silval moved ever westward toward Aileen, The Plain, hoping as they went, that word or sign might reach them from sea, or land to the north. And indeed this came, though unexpectedly.

Ahead, three elves, Silval's scouts, appeared from amongst the ravines that crisscrossed the lands. Whilst these made signal, two dark dragons swept overhead, flying apair into the east. After a distance, they divided and came swooping back, bursting fire. High, they hovered, spying out the forces below. Then, with rolling fire-huffs, they belched away; now seeking north, following the arcing curve of elvish-might with keen, evil eyes.

At that time, far up, a speck, faint even to the elves, was sighted flying into the west. None should have seen it, but that all were watching skyward.

‘I cannot say what kind of bird was it,’ replied Elvra to Corin's question.

But Friallaf of Nar-Velleth said, ‘It was a chough maybe, or one of crow kind, a rail or such, for so beat its wings.’

Corin knew though, without further talk, here was The Symbol, flying the way that he must take; where all paths must lead.

‘Hie, hie, we have found our dragon and our friends. Down here, follow swift!’ called the first of the scouts, rousing Corin from thought.

After the looming dragons, they were glad to descend, over a bush-strewn lip, and into a sandy vale. And there, hidden deep, burrowed and cringed, was Sgnarli. Dragon-big though he had become, hurt and in need of help was he. About him lay his riders, Falnir and Dalen and the elvess Amqa with them. But most especially, at Sgnarli's silent jaws, dallied Pitrag, uncertain and plainly distressed.

‘Those flying serpents were seeking us,’ Dalen cried, as he limped across into Elvra's arms. ‘They meant to bake us, had they the chance.’

Elvra smiled, picking up the roly-poly that was pixie Tree-heart. ‘There, there, be at ease. We have you now. You are with friends again, you are safe. But what of your companions?’ she asked, setting him down and anxiously starting forward.

Falnir made as if to rise, but it was Amqa who lifted and supported him as he spoke. ‘There is great need at Sarnya Æsire. By now, Queen Goldal and all our folk are beset from the sea. A dread fleet rides up the eastern waters to assail the Sarnya Nora of Melolontha. The few of our peoples there come against that evil. The nugobluk seem bent on taking and destroying White Bridge and those who might defend it.’

‘What of Aneurin and his Dolph-ships?’ exclaimed Silval. ‘Are they safe?’

‘That,’ said Falnir, staggering against Amqa, ‘I cannot say for... ’ The elf collapsed, sagging so that his head swung round to expose lived burn marks, raw and untended. Amqa, borne down by her burden, laid him gently to ground and, lifting her own scorched face, said, ‘The dragon needs aid, now, straightway or we may lose him.’

‘You are all injured, I see,’ said Elvra gently. ‘Bear up, and everything that can be done will be.’

Swiftly, under her guidance, herbs were sent for, and elves set about bathing and cleansing the wounds. Dwale leaves they brought and bruised, dead-nettle wrapped some burns. Heart-of-Varlar, that styptic astringent, self-heal, applied they to other open, raw hurts. But for the dragon, were they at a loss.

Corin, seeing the others attended, dismounted Ebolian and went to where Pitrag hopped, chittering and jittering about Sgnarli's open muzzle. A thin wisp of smoke trailed from his distended nostrils where snuffled, they lay half buried in the soft, sandy soil. His black-barred eyes, as always, were open; though misted, the yellow lustre lost. A strong smell of brimstone and seared flesh arose about him, as if he too had been burned. Pitrag, beside himself, leapt up onto the dragon's neck, and down the far side, screeching out a babble of words that were incomprehensible, but for, ‘Tan!’

‘Fire,’ said Corin, following. And there, as he plainly saw, were the wounds, very many of them, all along Sgnarli's right side, neck, ribs and flank. But these wounds were as none seen ever before; living, hide-ironed plating, melted by fierce blast into softer flesh beneath, so that it both burned and cut deep the skin and veins causing slashes and bleeding far within, the buckled dragon-armour gouging out whole pieces, if the creature moved.

His right wing, tattered, shot through with gaping holes stood part folded, like a collapsed pavilion.

‘I will have need of folk to aid me,’ Corin said. ‘Have men lift and draw out his wing, that extended, might we treat the damage. If there are Herbalists and Wort-cunning amongst you, bring me burnet, much of it, for blood-stanch. Bistort as well, that decoction we may make against haemorrhage.’ He turned to Sgnarli's neck and looked closely into the open slashes. ‘Light fires here-abouts and keep them burning. I shall have need of smiths, the finest. And many, many labour folk, both elves and men, to hold the creature when comes time. We must bind him, for his pain will be great. The armoured hide should be beaten back to shape and reset, if this dragon is ever to recover. Somehow, his wing needs be patched. Bring any likely materials that we find a suitable for the work. And salve, salve. Elloræ oils to treat these lacerations and chaffings. If possible, find seeds of henbell, or failing that, betony, wild fennel and hemlock. We must stew up a brew to stupefy him, lest in his agony he breaks lose his bonds.’

So did Corin set about Sgnarli's distress, whilst elves and men worked together, aiding him in this daunting, hazardous task.

Meanwhile, word of their findings went by elf messengers, along the northern line, at last reaching Morgan, who had remained unscathed by the dragon-spies. That pair of flame-throwers had passed overhead, two, three times; finally beating away back into the west, no doubt to bear news of their sightings.

‘We must halt here,’ said Morgan to Wollert. ‘It is dangerous and time wasting, yet necessary. We will hold for a while, until Silval's host is ready to move on. Prepare for strife to come, since our whereabouts are now well known. Send scouts west and north, that we be not set upon unexpectedly. The nugobluk await, somewhere out there; battle will they bring at their own choosing.’

Thus, for a time, whilst Corin oversaw Sgnarli's hurts, the wide-bended arc, that was their entire landward army, bided.

‘The chains must be tightened now,’ whispered Corin softly into the dragon's ear. ‘If you are to be made whole again, you have still to bear more pain. But at least I can give you this to drink. It is called conium broth, and it will calm you much, so that even though you feel our workings, they will not cause great discomfort.’

The dragon seemed to heed, yet his eyes remained faded and still. But he curled back a lip, and allowed Corin to tip in, sip by sip, the contents of the beaker that he bore.

When it was empty, Sgnarli let out a long breath, much like an extended sigh, and then lay motionless, whilst all was made fast about him.

‘Be swift and sure,’ said Corin to those nearest. ‘I have no certainty as to how long or how effectively the draught will work on a creature his size. If he begins to come to, I dare not give more, or that too may prove fatal, hemlock itself is a bane. Hurry therefore, we may only have moments.’

They began to work, some smearing healing creams and unguents, some, the most deft of elves, prizing out the buckled plates, cutting free the sharp edges, removing splinters and slivers, stitching open wounds and deep claw-rents. Meanwhile others, skilled in smithing, worked over the hide, beating each segment, where it was possible, back into shape. These single plates were as tiles, able to be lifted and moved, and repositioned, independently of the flesh below. In places, vast contusions had occurred and ointments were there applied. In others, whole areas were caked in dark blood, which was laved away. Some new plating was forged of Sylvanite and married into Sgnarli's own armour. And hide, the leather of animals, was contributed by Ordrick, for the repairal of the wing; stitched in was it, through the tough membrane, until only a difference in colour showed its presence.

They worked frantically, whilst the fires roared, the water boiled, and up and down, the elves toiled, ever under Corin's instruction. Thus far the dragon remained unmoving and passive. Pitrag, obviously baffled at the activity crouched, whimpering, by Sgnarli's jowl.

‘Will he be made new again, Avarhli?’ asked Dalen, stroking Bim's black coat the while.

‘That I do not know,’ replied Corin. ‘We can but do all there is to do. Guesses mostly, must we employ. For who knows how to heal a dragon of such fell wounds?’

‘He was valiant in our defence,’ said the pixie.

Corin nodded. ‘What happened, exactly?’

‘Well,’ began Dalen, ‘after we flew away, we made out to sea, there first to raise the alarm for Aneurin's fleets. But too late. Already was he embroiled in dire straits, being driven far out to ocean's deeps by overbearing forces; hundred upon hundred goblin galleys and serpent craft. He had been caught unawares, I think, having been busied with the defeat of their first fleet. Some of our Valdë were lost, though I could not tell how many.’

‘And what did you then?’

‘Then we made off for Sarnya Nora and saw as we flew, the second goblin sea-force, bound that way. It seems only a short time that our peoples could hold that place, for already the enemy fleet were within sight of White Bridge. There was nought more to be done there, so we turned about and were winging back, south of these coasts, when set upon by three fire-drakes, ranging over the open waters.

Sgnarli held them off, lost them for a time. Then, in dense cloud, they found us once more. A forth and fifth had joined them, one a fire-drake, the other a cold-drake. Deadly seeker-finder was he, and to his hench-dragons gave tell of us. Sgnarli fought them all. Nought else could be done to save us. Terrified was I, caught up in the wild, windy clouds. Fire-balls there were blown, claws clutching. Teeth embedding. Amqad was lost, dear brother to Amqa. Sgnarli, withered from blast. Falnir and Amqa burned. I near thrown off. Yet somehow we escaped. But that was not the end. Those five pursued us.

Many times were we grilled against the dragon's hide. Four, five days we flew, blown away on stormy clouds, unable to reach land or do more than flee on weakening wings. Only for Sgnarli's guile, would we have surely died. In cloud, in dark of night, we limped to land, here to hide, to seek refuge under sand, that we might not be seen from above. So we lay, too weak to do more, until you found us.’

Amqa, who was nearby with Falnir, said, ‘Loathe am I to admit, but I admire this dragon steed, and would see him made well, if canst be done. ‘Twas not his fault that my brother fell to doom.’ She left off, weeping, whilst Elvra did her best to console her.

‘You have led a perilous path since our last goodbye,’ said Corin, watchful, as the dragon began to stir. ‘Would that I could bring back the lost and heal all the injured and those left to weep.’ He turned away, heartsore. For in this he was as helpless as any.

Now the work upon Sgnarli was almost completed, his pinioned wing spread, to air in the failing light, his hide to be soothed in the cool of eve. After a little, there came a steady strain at the hawsers that bound him and his eyes, aware now, slitted this way and that. The great tail began to throb, as elves and men cleared away. The dragon moaned, pained.

‘Steady, oh Sgnarli-beastie,’ cried Finikin Goosie, one of the last to leap down, still clutching mallets and the trappings of a smith. ‘We have done our best for you, so don't you ago and spoil it all by kicking up!’ He scrambled over to Corin and Dalen, puffing and panting.

‘Why Fin, I am surprised,’ said Corin, taking his arm. ‘You, the Jug and Kettle Man, a smith?’

Finikin beamed. ‘Had to be for all them pots and what-not, master, ah master...’ he struggled in his mind for a moment. ‘Well cut me down, I'm not too sure what to call you any more. Perhaps just Master, will suit the best.’

‘Meowster could not be betterred,’ purred Bim, curling up in Dalen's arms.

Fin nodded enthusiastically, never ceasing to be amazed at this talking cat.

The night was old.

Sgnarli had quit his efforts to burst his bonds and, calmed by Corin's gentle words, lay quietly; steaming into the darkness.

‘We shall need leave him here,’ said Silval. ‘The dragon is still too weak to walk, let alone fly.’

‘Not on his own, surely?’ Corin asked, staring at the sword-staff Næglind, unsheathed upon his lap.

‘No,’ answered the Birdwing. ‘Falnir is far from healed and Amqa wishes to stay with him.’

‘The ymp will not move, that is certain,’ added Elvra, watching Pitrag's aimless circling about Sgnarli's fuming jaws.

‘A force under Filma will stay here of course, until they are fit to move,’ concluded Silval, and at that point he looked directly to Corin. ‘This may well be the time for you to halt and await events. Every step closer takes us to danger, Avarhli, and it is far too late to return from whence we came. Those behind us at White Bridge must fend and fare as they may.’ The elf said this not lightly, for all there well knew that his own sister was in grave peril.

Corin arose, to protest any suggestion of his staying. But at that moment, an elf, Lowri, hurried to Silval's side. ‘Something stirs beyond our boundaries; a light, a single, fiery light, followed by a dark procession!’

‘Nugobluk?’ Silval questioned, leaping to his feet and drawing Elvra close to him.

‘Nay,’ said Lowri, plainly puzzled. ‘Not goblins. Not anything that I know of.’

‘Then what?’ asked Corin, stepping forward. ‘What do you know?’

‘Eight,’ whispered Lowri. ‘Eight shadows afar, lit by one flame that passes before them.’

Corin lifted the sword, and it glinted blue-pale and frosted.

‘Merroww,’ said Bim, stirring.

‘Eight,’ murmured Corin.

Chapter 59 [next]