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Varlarsaga Volume 3 - ConsolationChapter 63 - The Mouth OpensCorin.How long had he sat thus, undisturbed, alone before the sheer and blackly translucent wall? The wall that was the petrified Mouth to the Underworld of Varlar. How long had he stared at the entrapped figures that gaped back at him, their masks frozen in eternal fear, their motionless, clawing beings entombed within that cold and glassy surface; harder than any stone or steel. Orichalc. Such was its mystery and power that it could have been so employed to bind those who coveted its substance, to incarcerate and divide all beneath from all above. And yet, had it not been said that Orichalc took many forms? Had not the Daræ Lady, Talisar said that? Talisar. For a moment, Corin's mind and heart swelled with a vision of her. ‘She is somewhere out there,’ he thought. An instant later, came it to him that he might relinquish his task; his quest. Might shed all duty, responsibility. Might stand and walk away, out into life and death as it came to him; yet not before once more gazing upon her face. ‘Orichalc,’ said a voice nearby. ‘Wondrous is that substance. But still it has been the cause of downfall for untold many.’ It was the tall wizard He´Remon. ‘All those of Elves and Dwarves and Men who have fallen, even in these recent days, has it doomed in some indirect manner, for surely are we not come here because of it?’ ‘In what way do you mean that,’ asked Corin, puzzled. ‘I mean simply that those who first sought and coveted Orichalc, through their love or desire for attainment of it, have engendered all the events which have come to pass. Ending here with you, sitting, pondering what should or should not be done.’ ‘But the Orichalc, in substance, was not to blame for the actions of those who craved it. The greed was theirs. The misfortunes and mistakes were those of living peoples; fallible, no matter how great.’ The wizard stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘And how would you define living? Is the wind less alive than Men? It comes and goes. And mountains may weather to nought from blast of its strength. Is the sea less alive than Elves? Long have the oceans roamed Varlar, longer than the Elves, and long have the waters humbled the stone of the earth, wroughting it to sand and less. Are you then able to say that Orichalc has no whim, or will, or life of its own?’ ‘Then should we not shun it if, as you say, it may be dangerous.’ ‘I did not say exactly that,’ sighed He´Remon. ‘It may or may not be dangerous, if you like. In the hands of some, might it be rendered so. Might it, indeed, desirously render itself so. I cannot tell. Best that that should never happen. Best that the evils of the world never tap it, or plumb too deep its powers.’ Corin's eyes rested on Næglind in its scabbard at his feet. ‘Do you mean then, that those, considered the good of Varlar, should therefore attempt to gain control over this unharnessed thing?’ ‘I mean,’ said the wizard, as if exasperated, ‘that there are courses aplenty: leave, abandon everything so many have already died for and await some result; perhaps the Nugobluk are multiple-many and will come again, next time to win a victory. Perhaps they seek a way to break through Earth-Mouth for Orichalc's secrets. To do nothing may be best, may be folly. To act and somehow throw these barriers down, and thus release what is beyond may also be a folly. Only you, and you alone that we know of, now possess the gift, or the doom, to do so.’ ‘Have I not thought and fought with such suspicion overlong!' cried Corin, rising. ‘What do you think I am? A thing cast of iron, a wooden puppet? No matter what I am,' he turned away, ‘wood or metal, flesh or stone, all of these things have life within them. Reconciled am I to that now. For I have, myself, seen Stonegnomes and many other strange things, and I believe.’ He turned back. ‘And still, albeit what, or who I am, I do not know the way!’ With anguish seeping through his words, he went on, ‘Leave me, dear He´Remon. And many thanks for your company and council. Yet must I choose what I am to do, alone. May I bring not down the ruin of Varlar about our heads. May my decision bear fruit for the free and the innocent. May I choose aright.’ He sank down before Næglind, the sword grown of Orichalc itself, and said, ‘But it is a terrible burden.’ The Plain of Aileen glittered in sunlight, but the glitter was merely reflection of the pools of misery. Light glinted from water and mud and spiralled blood, where such lay, ebbing slowly away to the sea. The armies of the allies laboured as best they could: burying and burning, healing, saving. Mourning. Through the morning, everywhere they worked, carnage and wreckage clearing. Sometimes, above, a lone dragon would toil, puff-balling; come to spy or leer, or sneer incredulous at the victors of Aileen. Or come to vulture a'chance at spoils maybe, though wary-wise and distant. Meanwhile, all goblin sign had vanished, those alive at least. And it was grim, grim and pathetic, that the hurt and wounded of Nugobluk-kind would slay themselves on the field, out of fear at torture and reprisal if they be taken alive. There was much activity, much to do, bringing order out of chaos; apart from the cleansing of that war- ravaged region, and the patrolling of its lengthy boundaries. Billeting, and the domicile of maimed and injured, was urgently required. And in this respect, the dwarves of the Ramabad were most hospitable, opening their doors and sharing their ancient abode with the needy. Food, too, was a requisite of much import and folk were detailed to the gathering of such, wherever it could be found, since the zwerge silos and pantries were vast and well stocked, though not bottomless. Elves and Pechts reaped harvests of things that grew; fodder for the animals and edibles for themselves. Men searched the lands about for game, the sky for birds. And dredged they the sea for its creatures. The Elloræ watched this in silence, and were saddened at human behaviour. Thus was marked, and not forgotten, a further difference between men and elves, attempting coexistence together in harmony. Meantime, came the meetings and reuniting of so many peoples: the folk of Indlebloom and Dorthillion, men and women who had never before set eyes upon each other, and yet spoke a kindred language. The dwarves; Farinmail and his valiant warriors, with Elbegast and the Zwerge kind of Ramabad. And, of great moment, the elves, pixies and browneeth of Elfame, met with their long-sundered people of the Mayhenyodaro; the Nolvæ of the Lord Bel-Thalion and his Lady Nivri-Allon. Of course, were there thousand-fold individual reunions; those thought dead, lost and found wandering and mindless. Those still alive beneath the heaps of the slain. Those parted from one another in the confusion of war, and the subsequent re-order out of tumult. Far too many were the tales to tell here, but for one most notable exception. Elvish outriders, upon the margins of the east, received word from Rosac's booca, that the adar, birdkin, had spied a slow-moving group approaching. Soon it was known that they were the tiny force under Filma's leadership. Those left behind with the dragon and the others, hurt and wounded, away beyond the shallow hills. Joyous, Silval Birdwing rode out to meet them in company with the illustrious: lord Menkeepir and King Ordrick, Cinglor and Inarion, Lord Darion and Prince Clovell; and Possum Wollert, riding ecstatic in Bel-Thalion's deer-car, along with Morgan Faneking. And gladdest of all was that meeting. Even the more so, when Broga, that mountainous ogre, pounded up, bearing Dalen the pixie, and Bim, on his heaving back. Filma, mounted now upon Eiravar, led those come from east-aways, and with him walked the stalwart spear and bow-elves of his command. Amongst them, carried on litters, were those unable to walk: Falnir, with the elf-maid Amqa at his side, Elvra-Huntress, attended by Friallaf the far-sighted and Nivaldæ the herb-elf. And amidst them all, plodding ponderous, favouring his healing wing, came Sgnarli the dragon, the imp Pitrag curled about one of his drooping ears. To some, may it have appeared an incredible sight; yet to the peoples of those times, whose minds and hearts were wider spanned and open to the wonders of Varlar, was it simply so. For the world of Varlar was filled then with splendid gifts, awful terrors and awesome beauty; no less maybe than latter days, though surely less mechanical and contrived. Wonders, of a certainty, founded upon the nature and variations of Varlar, rather than upon the inventions of those native to the world. Thus there seemed little incongruity for men, elves, animal-kin and dragon to meet in conclave. There were those too, new to one another, who none the less dwelt together as best they could for that time on Aileen Plain. Yet how different were the longest-lived elves to mortal men? How different the mountain-burrowing dwarves to the sparrow-like pixies? How strange the russet and green colour-changers; the brownies, to the dark-skinned of Wollert's race? Still, of these diverse and varying folk were there but two individuals alone and separate. Estranged from everyone, and especially each other. The one, greatly fearful, lest by his hand wrought he the downfall of Varlar. The other, newly chastened by her chosen solitude and realised love of he, whom she durst not confront. The first, of course, was Corin; eschewing fate by the Wall of Earth-Mouth. The second was the Daræ lady Talisar, biding time and fear and impatient, impossible love, where she waited on the farthest margins of Aileen in the north; her deep eyes gazing to the distant pools that were in truth the lakes that she and her adopted kin, the Nolvæ, had passed in company with the armies of Dorthillion and Indlebloom on their long journey south to the war. ‘Whither do your thoughts wander?’ asked a zephyr-breathed voice at her side. 'Your eyes cast northward to our home of Mayhenyodaro, though I deem your mind does not. If it is to him you yearn, why then do you not seek the Master of Næglind, the sword of your fashioning?’ It was Nivri-Allon, Lady to Bel-Thalion, who so spoke. ‘I cannot,’ replied the Daræ maiden, without turn or motion. ‘I dare not. For he and I are now set apart in this thing. My moment has come and gone. Næglind of Orichalc did I to him: my gift, my work, my treasure. My part is done and passed on. He has now become one with it, as I suspected it would be. As the Wizard He´Remon foretold. In it he now has all needed of me to love; and needs not Talisar the Daræ maid, to divert him from his purpose. I cannot go to him. For what might befall us if I did? At best a brief moment where we might grieve over love, found and lost. At worst, a vital hindrance which could costly prove for all of Varlar. I cannot, dare not, go to him and declare myself. Too much do I love him, and through him, too much do I love this world.’ Nivri-Allon was silent, her hand resting upon Talisar's shoulder, whilst the lady of the vanished Daræ wept the bitter tears of emptiness, and the world darkened toward eventide. A cloudless night, windswept and cold, lay over Aileen Plain. The baleful moon rose and crept across a winking void. In every direction, from the southern ocean to the westward mountains, from the pale eastward slopes to the lakes of the north, there stretched the bivouac of allied armies; the Free-folk of Varlar. Deep night was filled with the yellow-reds and blues of that host's myriad fires. Upon the farthest marches, watched vigilant eyes. Many leagues off, came the bay and howl of wolves. Corin stirred; a faint sound, like the faintest rustle of bird-wings across a distant void, out of another time, had reached his ears. Was it the echo of time ago? Of imprisonment in dark-celled Penda, where he had lain long, until the small flutter of a bird, Bili Jackdaw by name, had come to release him? Corin shook himself. He was chill. He drew open his elven cloak so that the light of lumallin glowed, soft and even about him. He bent and drew Næglind forth from the scabbard, laid it bare before him. And out of that thing, that frightening beauty of Orichalc, there glowed a radiant fire that was both warming, consoling, and wild. ‘Yes, no, or sometimes. Caught fair in the middle. Do you now know your way? Be that your binding riddle?’ It was as if the Dream had spoken. The Dream he had dreamt aboard Aneurin's dolphin ship. Corin's fingers slipped to blurring eyes. Where was everything that he had once known? The kind and gentle, the good folk. The dear friends, short-lived. Darkelfari, beloved companion. Talisar? Corin's mind dimmed, dark with thought; many were the voices crowded there. More, and many more. Louder, they grew in whorlpool calyx, buffeting and beckoning, battening upon him, taunting him this way and that, as a leaf is tossed upon the wind. He felt himself rushing headlong down spinning tunnels, voices calling him and thrusting behind. The heat of Næglind seared his eyes and hands. It was impossible to treat with this stuff of World's essence. Impossible to go on, to think or act, or do any thing, again, or ever! ‘Meowster?’ Corin's hands began to loose the grip that cut them so upon Næglind's edge. A cat sat before him. It was Bimmelbrother. ‘Meowster, yourr hands are bleeding.’ ‘Yes, dear Bim. I know that, now.’ ‘Is therre ought a cat can do, but lick them better?’ Corin's eyes smiled. ‘There is nought better a cat may do, if he loves someone that much.’ When Bim had gone, and Corin wiped away his tears with slitted fingers, he took up the sword by its shining hilts. He was quite alone. He stood before the reared wall of Orichalc; boundary of Varlar-world and Varlar-depth. Askance, he stooped, and laid ear and hand to that substance. It belled with sound. He drew his hand away. Again he laid hold and through that felt something like a living pulse, the veins of a thing alive, a shimmering, throbbing, breathing; a liquidness in the Orichalc! Nothing else moved, or changed. Only, was Corin aware, more so than ever, of that before him. With a last sigh, as if the way had become too clear to dare it not, he raised the sword Næglind, and let the tip touch this impenetrable being. There was a sudden onslaught, like fire to driest kindling. A slanting cracking, a sawtooth jagging of sky-lightning, bolting to earth. The blast of it threw Corin down, blew Næglind from his helpless, raw and bleeding palms, and cracked asunder that barrier of Earth-Mouth! Rent it so that in sharpest shards it fell, showering the horrendous things encased within it; collapsed, as a sheet of smashing glass before Corin's vision. Foulsome air issued from the hole in one great onrush of fetid stench and was dispersed upon the wind. Corin struggled to his feet and retrieved Næglind where it lay, sputtering fire, but otherwise unharmed. Before him, where had been the flawless wall, there now was a high opening, many times higher than a man's head; shrouded in night's gloom. Then, at his side, towering tall against the stars, the Wizard appeared, and behind him came others thronging: Cinglor and Inarion, elves of the watch, Dalen clutching Bim in his arms, Silval, Morgan and Menkeepir. Together, they stood in silence, lit by torch-brand, until He´Remon spoke. ‘You have made your decision, it seems. You have broken through. Though by what Strength of Power is beyond me. What now will you do?’ Corin turned to them, lowering the sword, returning it to its sheath. ‘Do?’ he said. ‘Do? I will do what next must be. I will go down into Earth-Mouth.’ ‘And who will you have as companions?’ asked Morgan Fane. Corin lifted his gaze to them. ‘I will take none, for this must I do alone. None, this time, may travel with me as Darkelfari did to his end. I shall go alone.’ He raised up a hand to ward away protest. ‘Listen to me,’ he whispered. ‘Long has been this happening. Now it is come, and I am prepared for what be my fate. But for me, the way should not lie open at all. If it ever came to this, surely must you, my heart's friends, have known that which I would have chosen. Have I not come this far, walked the bitter ways, learned the lessons of hardship, and earned the sorrow? What could any of you do in my company now, but earn the right to die with me? If there be danger in this, to the death, then sobeit, for me alone. Still the road leads to Adamant's Doors. And none may help me in this final quest; for by my power alone, may those Doors be broached and the binding spells of Valandir's shutting-chains, lifted. It is fitting and enough, for me to go henceforth. There is nought that I require for my journey. Two things only, do I request of you; the first is that a constant watch be placed upon this site, that any sign of danger be at once noted; and if need, refuge taken from such. Guard too, against the Nugobluk. For it is in my forebodings that they will come again. Secondly I would ask that you take word of me to the Daræ Lady Talisar. Tell her that she has never left my mind since first we met. Tell her that in this mighty gift, this sword of her fashioning, I carry her with me, in my heart.’ Corin turned and set his foot across the threshold to the ancient, hewn stone beyond; the Targe slung on his arm, Næglind at his side. He had spoken his final word. Those at his back were each silent. None could, or would, gainsay his will. All felt as if a part of them was to travel with him. They watched him go, down a long flight of broad stairs; watched the faint light of Lumallin dwindle away into the vast, yawning depths that, shadowy, engulfed it. Even the Elves were cold in the world outside. Even they. Varlar had opened its Mouth. And Corin had vanished, swallowed up within.
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