Varlarsaga Volume 3 - Consolation

Chapter 62 - The Day is Won

Very high above crashing waves sweeping over stony cliffs, through spray and wind turbulence, beat the pure, snow-white of pristine wings.

A gull soared up from the ocean.

Flown in from southerways, spent, tired and alone; borne on the wild air currents, drifted that single bird. Through its saucered eyes, peered it down, taking in all the scape below, both land and sea; though whether, to this one bird, that meant much, shall never be known. Still, that which it beheld was of vast import to those thronging there: the livers and the diers, the meek and the cruel, the innocent, the defenceless and the savage. All the live-long players of Varlar.

And hence, viewed those gull-eyes, o'er the long leagues stretching from Sarnya Nora's valiant stand to the battle-plain of Aileen. There did it hover for many moments, before sliding away on the breeze. Yet even that creature of the sky, unbeknownst to it, could never again find safe haven on sea or land, until events of Earth-Mouth were played out to their uttermost ends.

 

On the Plain, during the past two days, much woe had befallen. Legion were the dead; piled in droves, and scattered to the four-corners. Multitude-fold was the suffering. Ere the gull departed, viewed it that grisly sight; and though most of its kind might seek the pickings, this one held toward the waters of the ocean, for already too many evil birds of prey hovered, awaiting their portion of the ungraved.

The afternoon lay death-laden on Aileen, and those locked together in their hard knots of violence grappled, weapons clashing, amidst the foul reek of it. Overburdened were they, by emotions so various and powerful, that they could do no more than rise up and struggle on to the drive and pulse of their innermost strengths and weaknesses. Some, elves and dwarves, were haunted by the spectre of defeat, subjugation, humiliation and slavery. Some, upon both sides, were driven by the fear of death and the keen desire to live, even at the cost of untold suffering. The ympari would not have fought at all; would have scurried away by the thousands, down to the deepest crevices of earth, had not their overlords hawked them on. The imps fought, only out of the fear of fear. The dragons ravaged out of solitary delight at pillage and plunder. The trolls and quasiads raged because living, to them, was but a battle toward death; and life, meant the death of others. The Nugobluk: gark, ugush and attagark, fought, slew, laughed, tortured, and fell themselves, out of a perverted joy; the joy derived from misery and the downcasting of others. But, because of their maliciousness, that joy stemmed not only from the downcasting of the enemy; more than capable were these folk to deal dastardly with their own and gleen malevolent satisfaction from such dealings. In any event, they were under strict orders from higher authorities. They went to war as they were told, for to disobey meant the wrath and the unspeakable cruelties of their king; King Gasric the Abominable, The Butcher. He, it was, who epitomised at once, every evil inherent of goblindom: brutality, lust, greed, sloth and bloodthirsty cannibalism. Gasric himself, as he lived and breathed in all his putrescence, was the absolute perversion of everything good. Yet it was rumoured, that there were other entities of Power far more subtle, insidious and fell, than even the monarch of Yaghan Gazzul; though stories such as those were swiftly dealt with, quelled, and the rumour mongers silenced-permanently. Oft' times, any who were troublesome amongst the Nugobluk, found themselves in the front line of battle; there to fall by the blades of the enemy or at the hands of their own kind, from behind. Or maybe again, they were ordered out at night on raiding parties, or stealthing alone, to decapitate and strip the dead. Neither activity had proven safe or profitable for the goblins. The night of the first major battle, in which the alliance of elves, men and dwarves had prevailed, a large contingent of Nugobluk were sent forth to seek out and slay any they chanced upon, under cover of mist and clouded moon. But the Eloræ had made preparation for such nocturnal skulkings. Elves and pechts, very much alive, had lain down with the dead; there to give those dark-tide marauders a nasty surprise. On the slopes and down through the foot of them, where hills and plain met, fires kindled by the hidden sprang up unexpected. Then, were the goblins put to flight, caught out, singly illuminated; targets for the archers waiting patiently above. Thus had ended their foraging that night, in death.

On the following day, inexplicably, the Nugobluk had not launched an attack. Instead, they sent forth dragons, who soared high above, spying or roaring away, east and north, on unknown missions. Apart from such activity, the nugo forces seemed content to hold Earth-Mouth; almost as if awaiting some new event or order, or sign. Though no such portent, or the like, could the watchful eyes of elves and men ascertain. Not, that is, until dusk of that day. And only then, were the tidings brought from far off, upon the northern-most marches of Morgan Seawanderer's forces. Elvin scouts, ranging afar in the hope of sighting Darion's army, had detected the passing of some strange presence; a party of riders, they said. Yet if men and horses, it seemed they travelled in an enveloping mist, where sight could not penetrate; beating across the landscape as a dwindling haze, east to west. That night, in the darkermost pitch, the Nugobluk advanced in number. They came silently, as a black tide, creeping, deathly; prepared for sudden fire, armoured against archers, bolt-cleavers proof against marline and iron chain. But, they came unprepared against another enemy, an ageless enemy; water. Water, a horrid purge to them. Not a bane, a stricture. An abhorrence that even salt-drenched ocean-going nugo could hardly abide. And this, they met full-on as a tidal wave, splashing down from the heights, where Morgan had commanded. Water, collected from the ocean and amassed in great quantity, by his order. And in confusion, hurled back, the goblins abandoned their attack.

At the dawn of the next morrow, however, they beset the Eloræ upon all fronts in a massive assault, borne out of those stinging defeats. This time the struggle was grave, often in the balance of tilting scales, forcing here a rod-wide space, there a hundred-fold pace back. But slowly, the spawn of goblindom began to force the day. By late noon, the thin, central lines of pechts and zwerge were collapsing; nugo warriors overbearing the small folk, crushing them down on the hill tops. Not to be outdone, for such was the stratagem of the elves, their broad wings fanned around to enclose that goblin onrush. And, in part, this was achieved; those nugo within, paying dearly for their audacity, as the forces about them absorbed their charge. Still and all, across a very wide front, stretching half a league, and one again, against a foe overwhelming in field strength, the allies faltered. And in their faltering, lay imminent defeat.

Silval Birdwing, much wearied from bow-stretch and sword heft, drew rein upon a knoll, where waited a handful group, watching the arduous tide-turn of battle. ‘We cannot hold the field much longer,’ he said, the breath coming hard in his breast. ‘With all our might, and wit and heart, they are just too many. The more we kill, the more they send forth.’

Morgan Seawanderer, swathed within the darkness of Fane-mantle, where-from showed only his face and curling white locks spilling forth, said, ‘Then now it comes to it; fight and die, or flee and die. It seems we are alone in this. Darion has not come. Probably, he and his army are long dead by now.’ He turned and caught Farinmail's eyes. ‘And it would appear that your kindred are locked fast behind their doors and will not come out; not for love of you and your command, nor for aid of all here falling. The Zwerge of the Ramabad begged our help. Now where are they at need?’

Farinmail looked up, fiery-eyed. ‘It was we sought aid of you. Yes. But now, you seek aid of dwarves. A new bargain, maybe, needs be struck; for the Zwerge are cautious.’

‘Let them be cautious,’ Morgan sighed. ‘The time for bargain is passed. Choose now, this instant. There is no time at all left to those who stay and those who depart; lest we be overrun as this talk goes on.’

Silval nodded. ‘Aye, Morgan is right. I will stay, and Avarhli, first and foremost, should go.’

A huge dragon burst overhead; the intensity of its heat so great that battle standards withered and even Bim's fur singed as he curled about Corin's neck. But away northward, beyond that boom and roar, came a tumult of a different kind. As the allies turned their war-weary eyes that way, could it be seen afar; another force, driving steadily southwest into the Plain of Aileen, riding hard on the heels of scattering Nugobluk, remnant of some goblin army, earlier waylayers of Darion and his host.

Now the tide began again to ebb and the scales tilt even, as once more the Nugobluk fell, thrust back for yet a little while. And the muddied plain, soaked in the heaps of the dead, so that all there lay sodden, grey and stiffened amongst the twisted trees, rang anew to the battle cries of the Eloræ.

After hard harrow all down the eastern length of Aileen, Darion, lord amongst elves, rode to join his elf kin; the mighty Lance of Marmornell balanced, shining brightly, crooked beneath his arm. And there, the three Eloræ armies, having set forth from Sarnya Æsire, were once again united as dark closed about them, so that they disengaged with the enemy.

‘We were begun to think everything was lost with you, somewhere north of us,’ said Morgan, peering out over the vastness of fire-lit land, whereon leapt the shadows of corpsed thousands.

‘We were bestalled and held for long, by an enemy much smaller than at first realised,’ said Darion. ‘Days, they held the way. And were aided by those sky serpents at whiles.’ He looked askance of the others. ‘Did none of Rosac's bird-folk come to tell of our dilemma?’

Morgan shook his head. ‘Blown away on the wind perhaps. Or brought down by the preyers of the skies.’

‘That, or sent spinning inflamed, to burn out, dying as they fell; incinerated at the tongues of dragons,’ offered Cinglor gloomily.

‘More than likely,’ said Darion. ‘It grieves me to think so, though more will it grieve the Booca, and especially Rosac, who sent them forth.’

‘Ah, the Booca, and where are they now?’ Silval asked, his eyes bent upon the honing of arrow-heads cast for Levalla's bow.

Lord Darion wanly smiled and hefted the great lance bequeathed him, saying, ‘Rosac and his, await north-off, best used as watchers and herders of the wild creatures. Too timid are they for this work.’ He touched the spike of Marmornell, whence it gleamed, yellow and bloodied.

‘Yes, that is what they are. And still we love them, for they are dear to Varlar. But what if we fail? What shall avail the timid: beast, bird, or Booca-kind?’ This came from the laconic Fleta, lying, observant, his chin upon his wrists, gazing down into fire-lit goblin town.

‘What shall avail all who inhabit this Varlar; this earth-land and ocean-sea, if the Nugobluk and their Masters win possession?’

Corin it was, who had spoken, and haunted were his words as single they fell. He sat, quiet up to then, Bim wrapped about his shoulder; his gaze, and the gaze of the cat, turned to the thing resting upon his knees, the rounded buckler of the Æsires. There in his lap, given him by Morgan and Silval for his protection, lay it; the Targe of the Æsires. The Shield, hidden before this, borne from Elfame by the Eloræ, awaiting a possessor. Now was it his; bronzed and golden and silvered, resplendent. A gift worthy of an elvish king. And Corin felt a blush of shame creep across his face, for he found himself wondering if he was worthy of as much.

But Silval went on. ‘Avarhli is right. Let us speak swift our thoughts, now relief have we gained through one more night. With these reinforcements at hand, perhaps we should mount an attack ere dawn comes. Would they expect that, I wonder? Considering that we were so near overwhelmed, until Lord Darion's arrival.’

‘More than likely, they are amassing now, to catch us off guard,’ suggested Clovell, from where he took his ease amongst his pechts.

‘And might they yet do so,’ warned Cinglor, climbing down from his mount. ‘Too many are our stragglers, in from the plain, and still too thin our battle lines, even with the new come to bolster us. Much loss have we suffered: elves, dwarves, men and all. It is doubtful I am that we can hold our own come the morrow. My furthest scouts report the goblin losses many. But their force is so great, that we have failed to do more than dent their armour, whilst we ourselves are wounded sorely.’

‘All the more reason to strike now, whilst most unlikely,’ Morgan exclaimed, swinging about to face them. ‘It is the Nugobluk who thrive in the dark, who savour the blackness; those spawn of night. Yet list, the moon will rise ere half this night is passed. Light enough to war, if we are ready and riding, and upon them at just that time.’

‘And if the moon is obscured by cloud, what shall we then?’ Darion asked.

The others, even Morgan, were silent. But Corin said, ‘Will you wait, until the moment has vanished? It may not come again.’

Dalen, sitting crouched at Clovell's foot, cried, ‘Til Dario will come forth for us tonight! The Turner and his lantern will light our way, though our path be our end!’ The pixie quickly sat down, surprised and vexed at his own outburst and pained by the imp-cut upon his hand.

Silval, having filled three quivers with fine, grey-feathered shafts, though not nigh the likes of those once drawn from the famous bow he bore, said, ‘Are we all gathered and represented hither, for I am done fletching to this weapon now emptied of quiver-peril to the wielder.’ He cast about: there was Farinmail for Dwarves, there Wollert, for the Black-bird folk, King Ordrick, flanked by Izod and Beald; all three wounded in some fashion, and there, Prince Clovell for Pechts and others of elvish high.

‘Then,’ Silval said, ‘must we now decide our course, and the fate of those who rely upon our judgement.’

 

Pitch was the night. The faint and hollow howl of wolves floated on the dark; carving it with hidden teeth. The unseen, black-wrapped forces paced forward. Clouded, hung the sky. Moonless, and chill. The fires that had burned from pyre or dragon-doing, waned. A thin rain; a mist, covered all the length and breadth of Aileen. A dwindle of fog sluiced in from the ocean on wraith-breeze.

A stealth of paws, a stealth of jaws. A preponderance of feet, shuffled forward. The snortings of horse, bemuzzled; a'kick, a'tail-whip, a'tremble. The muffle of weaponry. The draw of breath. The catch of throat. The stealing onward; nerve taut, and sinew stretching. The cling, clamminess of absolute fear. Clunk-chink of iron rings. Metal, wearing against metal; against mail. Bumps against unseen things in the night; dead bodies. Pothole and rise, pitch and pile. Lump and mound of those beyond life. Step, and black step; thousand's feet, treading through the dark.

‘They order us go forward; go on, when once I would have been safe a'bed.’ Old Gorm whispered this to Bossel, and the other trembling, his rheumy fist, clutched about a knobbed stick, shivered and said, ‘Do they make us, dear Gorm? Or do we? After all, told by our King, we need pick up pick. We must plod on, clod-hoppers that we are. Look ye there, in the shadow. Who are these folk walkin' with us, down into this death's valley, where we have done our best; and already seen our folk of Ravenmoor die. But they are steadfast, even if many of their elves have fallen with our men.’

Gorm shook himself free, fretting at his long beard; twining and chewing it in uncertainty.

Bossel coughed into his muffler, then said encouragingly, ‘Now come on my dear friend. In this strange land may we find a new home. Wave your stick, and stay close with me; for first must we fight to earn such.’

‘Aye, you must fight. But not alone,’ whispered another voice close by. So close, in fact, that Gorm and Bossel banged into each other; they had got a fright.

‘Steady on, my stout-hearts. It is I, Albern Sternath. Sternath the Boar, at your service. Take each other's hand, then take mine; that you will not be lost in this drizzling darkness. Be assured, our King and kinsfolk are quite nearby, all around us.’

And in this, spoke he the truth, for close about crept woodcutters and carters: Jeriah Rudd and the brothers Bran and Fin amongst them. A little further away in the gloom, thigh to thigh, rode the nobles and best left of Ravenmoor: Jofrid Flamehair, Curlic, Muran and Gormul, Izod the Fair, Beald and Cadogan. And the young Ordrick, their king, was with them.

The elves too, walked and rode the silent slopes, down into the plain; all deep intent upon their chosen fate: Cinglor, Fleta, Ladimar and Inarion, Lyanor, Lowri, Evandir and Ælroth, Iarma and Perigol, Malil and Lippa.

Intent save one, Silval Birdwing. Silval, whose eyes and ears were ever vigilant, whose hands and knees surely felt the way; as surely as the great horse Cornarian beneath him. Yet Silval's mind was bent, tenderly, elsewhere.

‘Why is it that birds flock, at beck, to your fingers? I know why. Why is it that grass thrives wherever walk your feet? Why do fish, in pond or river, lake or sea, swim to you? I know why. Why is sky blue and air wholesome clear, when you are there? I. I know.

Why, when I am faraway, do my thoughts ever wing to you? I know. Why do you fill me with warmth and hope, in my bitterest night Why, across a void, can we reach out with our hearts and grasp each other's love? I know why.

For you are with me, and I with you, each breath, each moment; my true-love, my dearest Elvra.

I.

I know.’

Thus he thought, thought the Birdwing as he rode. And thus was he reunited with Elvra, who lay hurt, somewhere across the wild fells. He felt her presence with him, and to this, took strength for the coming onslaught.

 

‘Bloody Goblintza! Stinks of them, every step,’ muttered Dalfin Farinmail, trudging along at the head of his dwarf hundreds. ‘Alive or dead, they stench the same, more or less. So much for smelling out your enemies, even with a Zwerge nose. And not the faintest hint of dwarf ahead. Katzimal! Katchat of Elebegast, where are you? Why come you not out of Oondo to our aid?’ He shook his double-axe before him; and a sound, as that of sliced air, fresh-slit, arose.

‘Dull the blade of your tongue,’ hissed the Pecht Prince Clovell, at the dwarf's ear. ‘Stuff your beard in your mouth, if you must mumble, lest the Nugobluk spit and roast you for such folly. We are not stepping out to celebration. We go to battle in silence and stealth. Not tramping and yelling, as men are wont to do.’

‘I know that well enough,’ grumbled the dwarf. ‘Give me a neck or three to hew, and I will feel right about it. Dratted drizzle and dark!’

‘I thought dwarves delved in darkness; doted on it.’

‘The Zwerge may do so, to begin their abodes,’ said Farinmail, imperiously. ‘Ah, then do they fill halls with air and light. Not like this, not smelling death all around in the pitch-black night.’ He fell to silence, dreaming maybe of home, and the pecht prince said no more.

Corin rode on through the ink of night, Bim snug about his neck, deep within a dark, green cowl that mantled his master's head. Ebolian, the young stallion born of Eiravar and Cornarian, found the way with careful tread, as only an elvin horse might do. They went, in company with Iderbrith, Morgan the Faneking, Ellion, and many other Eloræ lords. And by their mount's flanks and headstalls, walked the black-skinned warriors of Possum Wollert; silent footed and stern. Further north, on the far boundaries of Aileen, Darion and his new-come host were moving, ghost-like, ever west toward the peaks of dwarf abode; the Ramabad. There to close the breach between those hemming mountain ways, and the advance of allied peoples before them. The slow tide of the Eloræ seeped onward; nearer, nearer the goblin strongholds. Now, in the depths of those deceiving mists, the margins of Aileen's eastern slopes swelled with the ranks of Eloræ, Men, Pechts and Zwerge: a great, grey army; the like of which had not trod there, since the yore-days when Earth Mouth was last flung open and the lands in every direction consumed by savage and barbarous war. That war, which had nigh caused the ruination of Varlar, yet was ended by the intervention of Valandir the Drotnar; last left of World Lords upon those shores. Ended, perhaps. Delayed, may have been an apter term. Albeit so, that time was now ages passed. The Gates of Earth Mouth, long shut fast. Valandir, long fallen into bondage, and torture relentless.

Now, was it time for the Allies and the Enemies of Varlar to meet and close, and begrip each other. But where were the Nugobluk? In all that ocean of darkdom, where lurked their legions?

‘Hush,’ said the leaders.

And a hush flooded the lines of Ellor forces; halting them on a single heart-beat. Not a foot, not a hoof stirred at that single command. And they waited, there in the sombred dark.

And a time went by, whilst the distant sigh of ocean heaved southaway, and all else was still in the moistyness. Above, as the mist abated, a swirling cloud filtered faint light. The coal-pitch, for an instant, was broken, flooded back, and broke again. It was as if the skies were hurled open; a pale arc swept down, engulfing the shadows.

The fogs were whirled away on world's winds. Night of utterness, the moon now transformed to windowed sight, for those who waited, transfixed. And there, lo, for that one fraction, amongst the heaps and mounds of low-lain and slaughtered, were both armies, Eloræ and Nugobluk; so near that but paces onward would lead upon the barbs of each.

A shock of lances, spikes needle-cruel, javelins and pikes, sackbuts and leaf-bladed spears, like the multi-quills of two enormous, hackling hedge-hogs, opposed and bent together. So that down the centre was there now made an arch of crossing points, where the tips of these weapons near touched. And beware any who dared step forward into that danger-fraught corridor, beneath the forest of death's pricks. Yet ere the first hint of such direct confrontation had waned, so were many to have at war, amid the turmoil of that bitter field.

The Nugobluk gave no ground, nor mercy, nor respite that eve. Nor gave they anything but hatred and cruelty, and red-death.

On the Aileen Plain, along the leagues, the might of Goblindom and Elfdom met and battled.

In the grey hours, the mists and clouds were torn asunder by southern winds. Then came the moon, cold and icy-white. The self-same sickle moon that dwarves had long watched and spoken to, that pixies had sung their lays, and goblins snitched and slain by, and imps, awe-struck, hidden from. Dragons, flown over, trolls and their like, too thick pated, to have ever noticed; and men wondered, prayed to and hoped by. Now fought they all, in that conflagration, beneath Varlar light.

During that night, Death fell over the land, laying bony fingers to any so touched. Corin found himself hacking through a nightmare of yellow eyes and snapping fangs. Claws and rakes of iron scraped at his body, like to drag him down into the bloody muck and entanglement of unspeakable horror. Every where that moon or flame lit, went shrieking, tormented figures, faces hollow, arms outreaching, snatching; sickle-slashing weapons, palely rising to fall, and reap, and fall again, to the harvest of death. Air and earth filled with the clamour, the rattle, of death.

All of Aileen was a hubbubboo of strangulation; misery drowning in mud, and blood and phlegm.

Down went the ranks of men: Stagga and Thegg, Hider and Clump, down into the welter of death. Down went dwarves: Lit and Das, Koros and Haur, kicking and coughing out life. Down went elves: Lipari, Elwas, Carvel, Liannon, Calanos and Dromæ. All down, down; down to where down ended in Death-realm.

Goblins too, and imps, ground their teeth, their lives, down to death: Crugga and Clatrung, Ushtig and Ushtyug, Grodk the Ugush, and Grippus the imp. Tash; biting the iron that stabbed him. Merkrot, thrashing in life's end. Yukaghir the Rotten, bringing down and killing Ordgar of Fernon, as he himself took the chill of iron.

So went on the roll-call of the vanquished and fallen: Gnardya, Nepo, Nalong and Naalong of Wollert's folk. Cotsetla and Tufa, never again to walk the long vales of Ravenmoor. Fal, Ai, Fith and Fingi, dour of dwarves. Huyuk, the ogre. Mose, the troll. Stoor, the greater troll. Alyssa elvess, Lady-stalker of fen and forest. Barri, the pixie. Bilo, of the Karakara. Barah, the Grassy-eyed. Sirdar, noble Pecht. Cembra Fireface, cut down, left for dead. Gorta the Gark, sliced a-half. Cromm, beheaded. Skakkur, scratching out his broken claws on King Ordrick's shield, and eating sword.

Corin, sliced by several audacious imps. He tore them off from where they clung, limpet-like; threw them away from him and rode on, nursing his wounds. Beside him, Lippa fell. And Perigol plucked up his dying body. Before him went Silval, Fleta and Cinglor; elflords of the coastward van. Above, a terrifying Stoorworm rocketed overhead; blasting elf, horse, goblin, man and earth alike.

As the sun rose, all the Plain ran with peoples; bloody quicksilvers. Fires and pyres and mounds of piled dead bedotted the battlefields that were Aileen. Bloody-red, bubbled the rivulets that foamed across the land, bearing in that wake arrow-feather and cap, black, congealed entrail, and the liquids of the dying; there washing to the southern sea. But still and yet, by risen day, the clamour and beat and yelp of war went on.

The armies of Nugo and Ellor balanced, thrust, forebore, and thrust anew; locked in momentous conflict. So enthralled were these forces that few could have guessed the outcome, the scales were thus so evenly weighted, the turmoil so vast and confused; strategies and tactics of evil minds pitted against noble hearts, that those upon Aileen needed, perforce, obey without question, flinch, yield or hesitation.

There were some, very many in fact, driven mad that morn. Incensed by senseless murder, furious and frustrated at the maiming all around, were they thus consumed with insanity; rampaging and raging through the crowds, until swallowed up and lost beyond recall.

Men, mostly this mania claimed, but there were Elves and Dwarves so bent as well; for none were exempt. Of those maniacs who ranged there, the worst by far were the dread Goblin Boghaz, the Gut-Rippers; they who could not be halted, not even whilst they died. They had no peer for madness, no equal for blood-lusting, uncontrollable rage. And only in that fact was there weakness in them. Led on by death's thirst, were they in time slaughtered themselves by Elves such as Cinglor and Silval, who saw these breed-goblins for what they were; matching coldness to their ferociousness, stepping aside at bull-roar charge, and cutting them down. Alas though, far too many learned not that lesson, ere death by strangulating claws consumed them.

‘Save yourselves Innar, fetch Ellion and avenge me this final woe!’ so cried No'mæ, dying, his hands and words imploring. But whilst the pale elvin blood trickled down both arm and throat, Inar himself was struck, and fled wounded, much to the gurgling laughter of many harsh goblin voices; Murghab the gark, for one. Ah! Should they have then, so untimely, gloated? Mugsot, that half Impen-gark, ended laughter in bowel-wrench, driven through on Fleta's lance. And Murghab never joyed gloating again, not with head cut, sinew and jugular, at the hands of Cinglor.

On it went, wheat stems hewn, falling helter-skelter: Iarma, fair elf of Veleth, Zumbi, Farinmail's dwarf friend, Mali, Morgan's standard-bearer; Morgan himself raising up the fallen banner of Gramen-Trum, and thrusting it into Iderbrith's hands as they jostled through the milling many.

Now the contest centred about the site of Earth-Mouth. Like a furious whirlwind of chaos, the allied forces drove that far, overbearing resistance to that fiercest point. For the most, the ensigns and battle standards of Men and Eloræ flew still: here the Blackbird emblem of Ravenmoor, there the splash of yellow sun rising across red fields that were the flags of Wollert. Pennons of Elvermore, silver and golden waving, and Nemorian leaf-clustered banners, held in the wind, mingling amidst the thick of fray. To the north, unfurled those silver-grey banderoles of Veleth amongst Darion's forces. And nearer, about the scythes and axes of the Zwerge, lifted the gold and green of Pecht bannerettes.

But so too, unconquered, flapped the multitude black flags of the Nugobluk: some were plain, the more sinister since they bore no mark or design. Whilst others carried the feared, Blue Cramponnee; the bent cross of the Ugush, or the blood-crimson tongue of the Attagark. And where they flew, the earth crawled with the enemy.

Could Corin and the Elves have seen with the eyes of a bird, a jackdaw by the way, that hovered high above, beating wing only at need on the rising currents of smoke-laden air, then would they have beheld an awe-inspiring sight of all that vast conflagration. From the southern coast, Silval's host of Elves and Men, had broken the Trolls and Goblins, sending them reeling. Now, the Pechts and Zwerge, strengthened by Morgan's Elves, pressed ever west, bearing down against their main front of resistance. Then, with the aid of Lord Darion's warriors, slow, back-breaking way was being made from north-east.

Though still, ominous, waited the thousands of Ugush and Attagark under Oorlog and Skragga, beneath the lee of the Ramabad. For a time, they had retreated there, before the push of the allies, to reform and prepare counterattack, when Elves and Men had spent themselves on the lesser armies of Goblindom. They were more than confident that their foe could be driven from Earth-Mouth, back into the sea, as at Rioncion.

Skragga waited. Deep in the death-field, southward of the Big Water, he watched from his eminence the advance of white-enemy: puny Men, hard-to-kill Dwarf-drobban, stinking-pure Elves, and the strange Black-skins. Fierce were they, and unseen before. But still they died, still they were only men. And Skragga laughed inwardly. ‘Let them come now,’ he thought to himself. ‘All of them to their end. Everything is happening to plan.’

He, Skragga, captain of Attagark, Ugush, Gark, Ymp-mugga, and every mercenary troll, dragon and quasiad in the realm of Nugobluk, laughed whole-heartedly; If indeed, the black-pustuled thing that pumped inside his leather-hide chest could be so named.

He called his lords and captains, his lieutenants and underlings to him: Oorlog and his henchgoblin Sarpo, Sogbo and Golitz of the Gark; Gimbutas, the Iron-bludgeoner Attagark, Skragga's own special and favourite. And to these, he appointed their tasks, and sent them, gleeful, into the day.

The plans and ploys of Skragga, they with them bore, out to do the fighting; whilst he watched and waited. After all, had he not his orders, delivered first-claw by Nagana, fresh-come from Yaghan-Gazzul, at King Gasric's command?

Thus, relentlessly, bore on the fresh unleashed legions of the Nugobluk, to fall against their challenging opponents. And for a long time, during that day, the battle tilted to and fro, wrested one way and then the other; for there were so many forces pushing and heaving and tugging the outcome.

But eventually, as the goblins crashed their way through Darion's army, and ground toward Earth-Mouth, down the sharp flanks of the Ramabad, and whilst their backs were so turned, at last emerged the dwarves of the mountains; King Elbegast at their front, roisting and roiling, and boiling forth in a welter of chopping axes and lopping heads, that sent the Nugo reeling straight into their elvish adversaries. Now the battlefield of Aileen choked with combatants, the dwarves throwing down those before them as they charged.

Meanwhile, almost unnoticed, entered a new force. A broad and swift moving force: carts, cars, chariots drawn by deer, huge stags, elks many-tined, mighty antlered and fleet, carrying in their traces war Elves out of the far northern realms, led by Bel-Thalion, the Golden-haired, Lord of the Nolvæ, who dwelt distantly in the Mayhenyodaro. And with them rode Menkeepir, and his brother Mendor, and the Lorda Minca, all of Menkind. Come at need, to aid in the battle for Aileen; the battle for Varlar. Without herald they merged, though the chariots of the Nolvæ soon outdistanced any afoot, cutting down those enemy in their path. The on-drawing deer, un-barded, were so swift as to confound troll and goblin; darting, turning, twisting and leaping, carrying cart and passengers over and through, elf-driver and rider casting sling or quarrel into the enemy at will. Behind, as a thick wall, came the peoples of Dorthillion, and the refugees of Indlebloom; and with them boomed the ogre Broga, taking on, and tearing apart any who opposed him.

Suddenly the waves of warring factions swayed, the balance shifted. In that moment the battle, for the Nugobluk, was lost. Rumour, like wildfire, roared. Riot and mutiny spread through the goblin ranks.

Bel-Thalion himself, laid Sarpo low with one deft stab of his lance. Sianor, in his cart, felled Golitz the Gark with a fearful blow. All across the Plain of Aileen, a roar arose. Victory and tide-turning!

Panic clutched at the Nugobluk, so that in disorder and disarray they turned about, dumbfounded, confused, and fled as a disorganised rabble.

 

By the fall of the day, were they swept away, manifold dying on the width and breadth of that concourse; thousands more flying northward out of the holocaust. The Eloræ with aid of all their allies, had tipped the scales.

The day, and the Plain of Aileen, was won.

Chapter 63 [next]