Varlarsaga Volume 3 - Consolation

Chapter 59 - The Might of Goblindom

Weirdly, the coming dawn seemed to halt in its advance. From the ridge, which westward spanned the sanded vale, Corin and the others looked out into that gloomy prospect. Away, where the land was yet enshrouded by night, there flickered a moving flame. Toward them, came it; as if the thing breathed, was alive, knew of them. And in its wake, moved shapes, blacker than night, swift as terror... six... seven... eight...

‘There are eight, eight riders,’ Corin muttered to himself, the blade now hidden beneath his elvish garb. ‘Are they...’ he wondered aloud.

‘Are they who?’ asked Ordrick, breathlessly, at his side.

‘Oh, no matter. Only that I was put in mind of some queer folk, hermits that I spent a time with,’ returned Corin uneasily. But already a dread tinged his words, whilst ever nearer sped the flame and the fear-inspiring apparitions beyond it.

Too soon, even as the elven archers mustered and the light Elloræ horse drew rank, were these shades upon them. All at once the dark riders halted on the flatlands below the ridge where waited, transfixed, the mighty bulk of Silval's host. The livid light, formless but as flame, danced before the thousands watching. Fixed was it, yet somehow liquid. Yellow was it, then blue-green and bloody. Threatening was it, as if it might run like water, and more awful than water, over and across and through the air itself. And so it did, rising far into the wall of night between, that all before were bathed in glittering brilliance.

But those beyond were still and dark as night, unpierced by even elvish eyes; dense as stormcloud, unfathomable as deepest ocean.

‘Who are you? Why come you to us? What are you?’ Silval called these words, and they rang hollow, empty as so many leaden beakers tumbling down a ravine. There was a bleak silence. The flame washed the air between. Then simmered, abating, sullen; its centre white-hot.

Nothing else. None moved.

‘We come bearing the Spirit of Light, that you may see through it, your folly,’ rang the ghostly answer. ‘That which you intend, shall be your downfall. Turn back. Leave these lands. Seek elsewhere a place to dwell, lest you disturb Powers of Evil, that none of Varlar may contest. By the Fire of Earth-Heart, begone! Leave these fell regions to the wretches who have so claimed them. Let the Black-kindred have their playgrounds; lands sterile, devoid of growth, except for hatred, sorrow, torture and death. So that, in the end, they kill each other off and none be left. And afterwards, even those lands beyond may be salvaged. Your claims hither are vain. Only disaster awaits. Turn back, whilst yet you may!’

‘I see,’ cried Silval, standing forth, so that the subdued flame hummed, casting an angry glow across his brow. ‘To begin, you have told us why come you. Yet you have not told who, or what, you are. Will you not now say? Give us a name, that we, the wiser, may judge.’

There was, again, a long silence where nought altered amongst the amassed. Only the frightened squeal and neigh of beasts and horses gave dimension to that stilled picture.

‘You shall only be the wiser by heeding our words,’ came the reply. ‘As to names, any, or none would do in answer. From whence we come and to whence we return, concerns elves and men only this much, the Spirit of Light bear we, and you have been warned. Leave the evil to evil. Seek some other place to dwell in the world.’ Before more could be said or done, the low, blue flame shut down and disappeared.

Then, Corin spoke out, ‘Wait! You have not my leave to go!’

Nothing. Then, daunted but woken, it seemed, the flame sprang again, hovering low and sullen.

‘Who calls us halt?’ the ghostly voice came screeching, screeling, imperative; like tears of ice, pared out of glaciers by fingernails, or claws maybe.

‘I am Corin. I hold the way through Earth-Mouth, Croh-Yah.’ He withdrew the sword from its folds. ‘This is Naeglind. Between It and I, is there a single Power. The Power to unlock the Nether World; to release the survivors. They, who might still save Varlar from ruin. Do you say unto me, "Go back." The Power Naeglind and I own is bestowed by Valandir the Drotnar. Do you gainsay His Power?’

The fire crackled with crimson lights. ‘We gainsay nought. Power such as that may be wielded, or not. Yet you know not the result.’

For answer, Corin shouted, ‘You are eight. Where is your ninth? Do you come seeking me? Am I your tenth?’

‘We have none such.’

But the fire died, and all was pitchness and silence thereafter. The elvin-pale light of lumallin cut not the night, and the morning-waned moon was long passed. A sound of snortings and the striking of horn to stone was heard, followed by the champing of bits and the pounding of earth, which echoed up the slopes between. They thundered away, the Eight on blackest mounts; away into the lurking shadows of night that covered their departure.

But Corin, watching, grimly clutching Naeglind, gazed long afterward; even as the sun tilted over the distant mountains of the Ramabad lying in the western mists.

 

Departing the force left to watch over Sgnarli and the others, Corin and the might of Elloræ and Men, rode up into that morning sun, where it bathed all the land before them. And there, stretched as far as any eye could behold, was a terrifying scene; mountains dominated the sunny west, lakes and many hills, the north. Dunes in the south, undulated toward the distant ocean. And below them, in a great depression that was once named Aileen, the Plain, but was now a broad, swampen expanse, brooded the iron-clad arm of their enemy. Goblindom; encamped, embedded between the Zwerge mountains and the petty-rises of the east lay sprawled before them. Tiny creatures, ympari, could be seen, scampering here and there, over the mud-hardening surface of the lost lake, whilst larger forces of gark and ugush patrolled the outer perimeters of their hold. Then, beyond these, were scouts; goblins and imps, snuffling, searching, seeking, watching.

Above, high up, a single dragon droned.

‘They know we are here already. Of that we may be certain,’ said Silval.

‘Aye, dragon spies and goblin eyes,’ Elvra answered mirthlessly. ‘What say our folk northaway. Have they more to report?’

‘Nay,’ replied Cinglor, drawing level with Corin and Elvra. ‘Prince Clovell and his Pechts, along with the dwarf folk, are arrayed to the centre. Further, on the far right flank, waiting as we wait, are the horse of Morgan Faneking and the warriors of Possum Wollert.’

‘Have Darion's people been sighted, or those of Rosac?’

‘Not that I am aware,’ returned Cinglor.

‘I see,’ mused Silval, frowning. ‘Have they been waylaid, I wonder. Still, it is useless to wonder. Here we must make do with what we have; elves mounted on swift steed, and men behind on heavy horse. Yet with the sea away south and the mountains behind our enemy, it would be comforting to know that our third force awaited somewhere north, that Darion might bear down from there and so cut off the nugobluk, ensuring against their outflanking us. What say you, Avarhli?’

But Corin was himself deep-delved in thought, and ever since the appearance of the Eight had he so been. His prime concern was to their identity. Were they creatures, wraiths or images sent by some hitherto unknown Power? Or were they the hermits he had met and laboured and dwelt with, a world off in the towering ice-alps. Surely eight riders and eight black steeds could be no coincidence. And if them, what then their mission? Had they come all that way to warn him against entrance to Earth-Mouth; a last effort, since his flight from their iron stronghold to freedom. Would they attempt to kill him if a chance presented itself? Would they take some part in what was to come and, if so, upon which side? Who were they really? Were they wizards or sorcerers? Or were they as they claimed; bearers of the Spirit of Light? And finally, what of their warning? Was it valid? If possession of Earth-Mouth could be wrested from the goblins, should the portals be so laid bare? What would that do for Varlar. What release from within? Perhaps they knew, or guessed at the truth. Perhaps, beyond those doors lay doom.

Still, as Corin reasoned, what of world's plight whilst they stood thus, looking down upon their enemy? Should the elves be defeated in their attempt at Earth-Mouth, nought would resolve until the evil of the earth utterly dominated. But should they win through, then there might be no need to use the Gift given by Valandir. At this thought, Corin felt a little more at ease, until it occurred to him that he alone held the only Power to pass Earth-Mouth. ‘I must die eventually,’ he thought. ‘And the gift would die with me. None other would ever know. Those within, never be released. I would never know. Must I torture, subject myself to that? Must I never know? After all, everything points to using that Power. Valandir gave it to me. Surely then, must it be right. Darkelfari died for it. I seem to have been chosen for it. The nugobluk struggle to keep us from that place. The Eight... The Eight warn against it. But are they right. Do they speak the truth? How can they know? The Voices have always called me to them, and the Witches of Aplotha urged me on. Have I been deceived, misled? Should I heed the Eight?’

His tumbling thoughts were interrupted by the pressure of Bim's black paw, gently touching his face. ‘Bewarrre Meowster! Look you, there is meovement yonderr!’

Corin looked, again aware of his surroundings.

Sure enough, a force of nugobluk; gark and ugush wolf-mounted, were loping up the lower slopes toward the waiting elvish forces.

‘Surely they do not mean to come against us in such meagre number,’ said Ordrick, puzzled.

‘No, I think not,’ Silval answered, nocking a birchen arrow to his bow. 'They come to test us, to spy what they can, and to mock.’

For answer, each of these proved right. The goblin war-party halted just beyond bow-shot and there, midst howls from the wolves and jeers from their own foul throats, they regarded the left wing of Elloræ might.

Eventually, one more daring than the rest, kicked his wolf forward, coming a dozen paces on. He was black-mailed and helmed in leather, all lightly done so as not to weigh down the fierce, teeth-baring creature that he bestrode. In the goblin's gnarled claws, he too clutched a bow and boned shaft, albeit of strange and deviant design. The bow was black, like almost everything else of goblin-crafty, and seemed cut from animal horn. Shorter was it than the gracefully curved elvish bows, and much more a contraption, what with winders and odd looking spindles attached. Even the arrow was malignantly queer; many barbed was the head, having cruel spikes that would be nigh impossible to dislodge.

The goblin sniggered. ‘Eh! You scum-white! We have been waiting for you. I am Ghar, Ugush-boss of these elf killers. We were at the big battle where all your mighty lords were slain! Pah!’ A glob of yellow phlegm, he spat to the ground between. ‘That was good fun, good fun!’ He wiped the drool away from his fangs and smeared it across the wolf's shaggy neck. ‘Ha!’ he leered. ‘You piss-ons come here, right to us. How nice. Very good. Saves our legs for fighting. How many are you, skĭt-bags! How many altogether?’

Silval laughed, a pure and tinkling note of triumph. ‘We are five thousand horse, and fifty thousand foot. What say you to that, oh filth-purveyor?’

Ghar the goblin screeched with delight. ‘Arrgh! As your dung-heads are being told up and down the line, we, the great Nugobluk, measure fifty likewise of your thousands tally and a fifty again. Bat 'ehgluk! Not that you will care soon. You will be meat in our bellies, or carrion feed, or mugga! Heyha! Better you all die. Die, to forget that while you live, Nugo warriors, ship Gark, destroy your puny water-forces, your land bases and that stinking white stone that sticks out of the ocean. Die to forget the Ugush and Attagark, fingering the soft flesh of your she-folk, and biting your off-squirts heads from their bodies. Die, so as not to end our slaves, and see what is to become of your realms. Yes! We will have them, and rend them to our liking, any way fit for us!’

‘Pigsties are too fit for you. Even swine would rue your nearness; far too clean and wholesome they!’ shouted Elvra, for once fairly incensed. ‘Maggots and worms are as Masters to you. Get you down. Nothing else will suffice, 'til the battle to come is fought and your defeat be total!’

Ghar openly gloated and guffawed loudly. For answer, he lifted and trained his weapon in their direction. ‘I could skewer a gullet now, if I wanted. Ah, but I might be in bow-shot of elves.’ He drew the wolf back some paces. ‘Be warned. The Nugobluk may take you any time!’

Treacherously, Ghar released the bolt with a sudden movement. There was only the vicious whipping sound for warning, as Elvra cried out to Corin, throwing herself before him; there to pitch from her mount, pierced instead of he.

In an absolute blink, Silval's bow and the bows of a dozen others, rose. Yet only one flashing shaft, Silval's, reached the mark, cut through the casing, holed the iron, ripped into the chest. Ghar, screaming, clawing his armoured hide, clutched uselessly at the barb probing his own dark heart and fell into the mire, as the wolf beneath him fled along with all the rest. Down slope they skittered, whilst the pride of Silval's elves begged pursue.

But he would not give them leave. ‘Nay, hold!’ he cried, leaping down to Elvra, where already, Corin held her; the barb quivering, as the very breath in her body.

‘That was a foul deed,’ Corin gasped, giving her into Silval's embrace. The elf took her in his arms and kissed her brow, and hot tears scorched his cheeks. ‘Let me be now, with my Elvra,’ he sobbed, moaning in his grief.

Without hesitation, Corin rose and made off.

‘She is dying, Meowster?’ asked Bim, scurrying as Corin strode along.

‘I think so,’ he replied, his voice a'tremble. ‘But by all that I am and know, by any skill which I possess, I will try my best to save her; or at the worst, to ease her passing!’ He hurried on until he reached an elf, one Nivaldæ, whom he knew to carry many and precious herbs and wort-simples, and swiftly pressed him to service. ‘If there be any chance to save The Huntress, you must bring me these, that we may battle death.’ Swiftly, he listed his wants: ‘Twice-writhen root. Crosswort leaves. Juniper berries. Knotgrass, or as some name it, Allseed, or Bird's tongue. Lady's mantle, in a decoction. Purple Dead-Nettle, or Henbit, and Yellow Loosestrife. And if you, or your peers, think of else useful, bring that too. Haste, make haste. We have but moments I fear!’ To men, he said, ‘Hurry, fetch your best at leechdom. Did I not see Beald's father Arwerth with him when we aided the dragon?’ Before they could answer, he was off, striding through the press of elven horses. ‘Fleta,’ he called, ‘and you, King Ordrick, you both need take command whilst the Birdwing is thus indisposed. Order the forces, lest we be set upon unawares’ Hurrying back, he drew up when he came to Silval, who yet cradled Elvra in his arms.

‘We must cut that barb from her body, Avarhli,’ whispered the elf maiden Friallaf.

‘It is too late,’ said Silval, huskily. ‘She has slipped from my grasp.’ He did not look up from where his gaze rested upon her colourless face. Slowly and deliberately, the Birdwing withdrew his thigh-dagger. ‘All Varlar was dear to me, with her by my side. Now, no longer. Let what shall pass, pass. I cannot bring her back. Therefore,’ he sighed, raising his tear-stained face, ‘shall I send me to her.’ He lifted his hand, but Corin caught it, stayed it.

‘Wait, my dearest elf. Forget not your bond to me. Once I saved your life. You swore to aid and protect me whilst I lived in this world. I hold you to that oath.’ Corin's hands were now upon them, both Silval and Elvra. He took the knife from Silval's grasp, and cut high into Elvra's breast; a deft, deep incision, down to the pale bone. He lifted forth the deadly barb, and cast it hence from her, and thence took up the proffered medicaments, hurried to them by Nivaldæ, and applied them; binding the wound, and holding a steaming broth beneath her inert face. His hands were as softest friends, their touch gentle, the movements skilled, exact, sure, caring.

Through a long while he worked, even as the sun moved towards its zenith. He was concerned only with Elvra. Beyond he and Silval, trumpets, horns; the clarion of war, sounded. Yet of the three, Elvra, Silval and Corin, only the latter worked, moved, studied, thought, wearied; came again, bent to the task.

‘A task for you, I set,’ muttered Corin, whilst he rummaged through bags and containers of make-wells and such like, ‘kiss your love farewell, if you will. But do so with breath from you, into her, that she may receive the very air from your body; from your heart. For breath is air, and air is life. Give to her your life, that it restoreth her. Chafe her hands and feet; warm her, that she grows not cold. Be a vessel of suppliance, even as her life wanes.’

Corin and Silval met, eye and eye. ‘Do so, that might we still find a way to bring her back. Give me the precious time that I need!’

 

Time passed.

The sounds of skirmish drifted away. Nivaldæ, Ivain, Elvand and Mali; elves wort-wisest, herb-lorists unsurpassed, gave of their skills and knowledge. Still the Elvess held in a dead-swoon; the light of her skin emptying, as does a clear vessel empty of wine.

‘There must be a way!’ Corin cried, desperate.

‘There is no way,’ said Silval, flatly. ‘It is over... She is gone...’

At that moment, elves riding in conclave, thundered about them. ‘Flee,’ shouted Cinglor, ‘this place is no longer safe. The enemy press us left and right. Ere the sun rides to eve, this rise will be lost! Come away now, for we are the rearguard, and dragons burst upon us!’ And as Cinglor uttered, so was it. Out of the noon sky, roared a ball of fire and claw-raking savagery.

Midst arrows, spears, swords and bare hands, exploded the doom-dragon; slaughtering elves, men and beasts, firing wain and cart, frightening off whole crowds, so that panic ruled, and the goblins attacked, furiously. Their cries of war, death, slavery and worse, rumbled up the slopes, as Corin and the elves made away.

‘Poor Elvra,’ lamented Corin; and then, purposely, he made his thoughts dark. In a shallow depression, overhung by thorny bushes, they halted.

Once more were they dragon-challenged; this one blowing round from east and charging in out of the noon sun. The creature ripped a swathe of fiercest flame, killing and maiming as it passed. Fire, and acrid smoke reeked the sky in sparks and clouds. Massive bulks of dragons coursed the void; leaving destruction in their wake. Beneath, futile folk could do no more than withdraw, bearing the wounded and the dead.

‘Lie her down here; last, in this meagre refuge, might I try a final time,’ shouted Corin, as a fire-drake hurtled overhead.

‘We may not be able to hold for long,’ cried Cinglor, from the saddle. ‘But we will do what we can!’ And as he spoke, he released a shaft that sped straight and true, striking the dragon in its hindquarters, where it banked. With a swish of its mighty tail and a sudden roar, it altered course; snaking away, for a time at least, out of the fray.

Meanwhile, Corin had taken the sword Naeglind, and placed the hilts between Elvra's stiffened fingers. There it lay, unmoving, along the length of her still body. ‘If I do have any Power within myself and vested within this blade; I now implore, with all my heart, that Power to come forth at need.’ He let his gaze fix upon Elvra's dead-stare, felt her cold-clammy skin; thought he yet detected a faintest pulse. His eyes bored down into hers, as if they might probe beyond the numbness of her being. ‘Can she still live? Can she see me with those seeming blind eyes? It is as if she were suffocating; the blood draining, like her life, out of her.’

At last, even whilst dragons beat against them, it came to him, as a swift, enlightening thought: a single consuming idea. ‘I have it! Quickly; if there be any who keep Bloody Fingers, Dead Men's Bells, Folk's Glove or Fox; by whatever name you know it: bring it hence. But a tincture do I require, that we may yet raise her from the dead!’

Of those nearest, only a man, Beald's father, Arwerth of Ravenmoor, kept such a thing. ‘It is deadly poisonous. Only good for killing,’ he said, handing Corin a plugged phial.

‘That it is,’ replied Corin, ‘deadly to those who know not its properties in full. Now, Birdwing, help me minister this poison to your loved one; for without it, am I sure, she will not out-life the day-sun.’

Silval, his own pale face streaked with tears, wild eyes searching Corin's, lifted his beloved; so gently, that Corin might allow the merest sip past her cold lips, there to flow and enter the darkness of her throat. ‘Avarhli, what if you are wrong? What if your dram of death, is death?’

Corin looked up from where his eyes had been, upon Elvra's lips. ‘If I am wrong, she is dead in any case, my dearest elf.’ Though in the words there was no cruelty. ‘It is a gamble. No wound, even thus severe, could cause her to be so smitten. We know the nugobluk do poison their darts in many ways; some to subdue, to stupefy, some to kill. And of the killers, do they use quick and slow death. This much I learned in my apprenticeship at the hermitary. Helmet-flower can be such a one. It is swift-death to men and animals. A sparrow that takes a peck, dies in a few moments. I do not know how long elves can survive. I only know that the counter-bane, is a bane in itself. Hold my hand, dear Birdwing. Hold her fingers and the sword; our Naeglind, that rests upon her breast. Between us, you and I, we will press slowly, and take turn to breathe into her. We can but pray that what I have done is not wrong.’

Tearful, Silval clasped Corin's hand. ‘Aye Avarhli. I will do as you say. I owe you that much. And I love you, as I love Elvra.’

They worked on, whilst all the world about them boiled and thundered; gark broke over the southern lip of their hiding-hold, and were driven away. Dragons screamed overhead. And the brave bows of elves held them off.

Once, an incinerated fire-drake crashed on the rise above them; there to burn out into skeletal nothingness.

They, Silval and Corin, worked on, undaunted; heartbreaking work, with no sign, no feel of life.

‘She is done, she is dead,’ wept Silval at last, rising, staggering, seeking his own release.

‘Wait,’ Corin said, faintest voiced. ‘Wait.’ He laid his ear upon her breast. ‘Wait!’ He raised his head, his hand.

But already, about the poor dune that protected them, Elloræ were pouring. There had been a sudden turnabout; a sudden rout. Goblins were falling back, trolls lumbering off, dragons flying. The Elloræ it seemed, combined with the help of Men, had thrown back the initial thrust. In the confusion of forward moving forces, some were parted; some lost forever. There were those fated to die, those lying helpless; those who might help.

All along a long line, the arc of allied folk, elves, dwarves and men, a new hope had emerged; though it was born of last-ditch desperation.

‘Wait peoples of the free. We are not yet finished. Rise Elloræ, rise Mankind!’ so cried Cinglor, and cried those brave elves and men left triumphing!’

To Corin and Silval's ears came those defiant words, and they held together in new hope.

The light of elves and men, still, would not be put out!

Chapter 60 [next]