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Varlarsaga Volume 3 - Consolation
Chapter 65 - Nardred Rises
He´Remon the Wizard knew as swiftly, if not more so, than even the
elves. Something, some world-important thing was happening, deep down
inside Varlar.
All that day and the days preceding, the plain of Aileen had been abuzz
with comings and goings and arrivals. From seaward, the fleets of
Aneurin Seawanderer had hoved; bound out of the carnage at
White-Bridge, bearing Queen Goldal and her Elloræ peoples thither.
Landward, from the east, riding and marching, had come men from now
lost Ravenmoor and peoples of Kurigaldur and the big and little folk of
Rî-mer-Rī.
They had all come, or maybe were drawn, to that place of confrontation.
Now, save for a remnant scattered in far places, the Free-folk of
Varlar were condensed about the seas and flat lands, the hills and
mountains, that bordered Aileen and Earth-Mouth. The assembly was
enormous. Aileen Plain hardly contained such amassing; what with
animals, food-store and tentings. Here were mustered nothing more than
the greatest gathering of elves, men, dwarves, brownies, pixies and
pents, that had ever been.
Upon that morn of day, after long and thoughtful debate entailing many
opinions and resolvings, Silval concluded, ‘Though our kindred and
friends flock to us, flooding this uneasy land, do I still feel wary. A
thing has worried me for long, a little thing, but still a bother.
During our long battle for this place, the winning of Earth-Mouth, not
once have we heard the goblin-drums, not once spoke those forebodings;
as if held in reserve. And why would drums be so withheld? Unless an
army abided with them. I tell you all, beware The wide lands! I deem
they yet harbour a silent, unseen enemy that awaits events we cannot
know or foresee.’
Morgan and He´Remon agreed. ‘Aye, there is truth in Silval's words,’
said the former. ‘But tell me, any who have thought, what more can be
done in such regard that has not already been? Over the passing time
have we not readied and chastened ourselves. Do not Aneurin and his
fleets await, in case of our need for flight? Are not our peoples and
allies busied raising new craft to bear all away into the wide oceans?
Have the Zwerge stinted refuge in their cavernous halls? Have we not
healed, secured and kept watch? Is not our strength as best as it ever
might be. Are we not prepared?’
Silval drew his arm about Elvra's pale shoulder and said, ‘I did not
mean to berate any here for lack of forethought. Everything that can be
done, I deem, has been. Yet readiness, preparation, deliberation in
council, the ability to war and the forbearance to flee, may not be
enough. What lives and dwells on Varlar's skin? What sucks the blood,
or creates it, beneath? What awaits us here, and there? What if... if
it is more than we can withstand?’
He´Remon answered, ‘What then, Master Birdwing, would you have us do?
Should all here disperse and drift back into their old lands to wait?
Wait, maybe to be taken, people by people, one by one.’
‘Nay.’ Silval shook his head. ‘That is not the answer. If it were, I
myself might have convinced Elvra, my love, and fled long ago.’
‘Would you Brother?’ Goldal asked, knowing the answer.
The Birdwing smiled, a fresh clean smile, for his sister. ‘That would
have been the easy way for Elvra and I, since we revere now the forest
haunts of the world, not only those of ended Elfame. As I think shall
you, dear Sister, if ever you lay eye to them.’
Goldal caught his smile. ‘The easy way. Yes. Wizard He´Remon suggested
that, though he meant it not. For I deem there is no such way, as I am
sure he does. You have not flown Brother, and instead speak of caution.
But have you no solution?’
Silval shook his head uselessly. ‘Nay Sister. I have no solution. I can
but rely on Corin Avarhli's judgement. He alone is the wielder and
bearer of our fortunes. I can only warn of things I feel and see, and
do not see. If, by my warnings, we be that much more guarded, then I
have done all within me to do. A warning, albeit of false alarm, is
better than no warning of disaster. Our chosen path is set. Yet the
portents for Varlar are not to my liking.’ On that final note, Silval
lifted his dearest Elvra, and bore her away from the assemblage, out
into the windswept day.
Morgan, after a long silence, asked, ‘Master Wizard, what might your
thoughts be?’
He´Remon's eyes glowed, hooded beneath his brows. ‘The Birdwing, I
believe is right to be wary. All is poised. Perhaps we have not the
strength to fight the things that dwell, hidden on Varlar's surface.
Perhaps we have. Much depends on that which haps below. If Corin, the
One Master, fails to open the way, so may it be for the best. If he
succeeds, then shall the scales be tipped. There is no solution but
that. Soon enough, will it be made plain.’
At the end of the day, the far-off birds of the Booca began to fly in:
sparrows, those left alive, many dragon-scorched; some doves, a few
starlings and the odd rook. News was abroad. Out of the western wastes,
and down from the north, black-surging forces were massing. The goblin
hordes, new-plenished, were on the march. This time, raising a force
that had not been seen in Varlar before. A force that over-mastered all
the kindreds that peopled Aileen Plain, even in their massed many.
‘We will not be trapped again, as those at Rioncion were,’ said
MorganFane. ‘This time Aneurin Foamhair will float us away if things go
badly. But I am confident in our abilities. Aileen shall not fall
because of the goblin numbers.’
‘Never will it fall, whilst we stand fast,’ said He´Remon; though it
seemed that the wizard sat aloof, deep in thought. ‘Nevertheless, I
tell you this, I feel events moving beneath our feet. Moving to what
end, I cannot tell, yet it is my guess that Master Corin has opened the
spillway. I do not see, or pretend to. I merely portend. Be prepared
all the same, for I have strong presage that this is so.’
‘You have done it now,’ said a bird-voice in Corin's ear, so close that
the yellow beak actually clipped his skin. ‘What have you to say for
yourself?’
Corin, in a kind of morbid drunkenness, brushed absently at the voice
as he set forth, stumbling, staggering, bearing himself up upon
Næglind, into the Earth-Spine. ‘Go away. Leave me alone. I have done it
now, all that was ever wanted of me; caused The Downfall, set Them
free. The destruction is begun. Is that not enough? Have I not been
used unto that end? Why do you gloat? Why come you to lurk at my
shoulder? Let me be. Maybe I can find yet, my own end. At least, might
I succeed in that.’
‘And what of the Fane, Loriandir? What of She, who awaits Her release?’
Said Moth softly, at his other ear.
Corin halted, swaying, leaning against Næglind's disfigurement. ‘Yes.’
he said, lifting a trembling hand to his face. ‘Yes. Loriandir, my
Mother. Is she here, within? Or was that too, a malicious lie; a part
of the plot to lure me hence? Surely it was. Surely The Voices were
nought more than a sham. Surely, if she ever existed, is she long ago
dead.’ He tried, vainly, to shake free the images within his head, and
the creatures who held fast to his shoulders. But Moth and Daw would
not leave. And Corin, too distraught, and muddled, and preoccupied with
disgrace and death, could not brush them away. Instead, he stumbled
forward; falling, crawling, trailing Næglind with him, until... It was
like a haunting dirge, a sound that rose before him where he,
bloody-kneed, groped.
They came toward him, a sombre, cloaked group, and clustered about him
as if he belonged to them. Their eyes were like shining stars at
midnight. Their beings, like haunting, shrouded bats; their voiced
intonations, like unspoken probings. And then, they spoke. ‘We are the
remnant of the Daræ. You have come, broken the chains that bound us.
You have suffered, to that end, great hurt. We will relinquish you from
that agony.’
‘Oh yes,’ Corin whispered, ‘do so. Let me be dead, that my being fly
down and inward, where now it shamefacedly seeks; there to purge or rot
with those who have flown to Earth-Heart. Give me that, I beseech you.
For I can go no further.’
‘Corin. Corin. Art thou my Corin? Hast thou come, at last, for me?’
This Voice sang through the dark. Then a light, faint and slow-bloomed,
arose in the distance beyond. A figure: absorbing, diaphanous,
captivating, passed through the furthest, gloom-ridden ranks, until it
stood before him. It was a Lady, hair streaming and lit by lights
unseen, garments of silken cloud, cascading about her pale arms. It was
Loriandir. She, so long ago ensnared, within the Nether World. She,
whom Corin had longed for, as mother. This Lady, now stood before him,
her feet, unencumbered by slippers, but paces away. Her soft-stern,
dark-riveting eyes fell upon him.
He raised his own life-broken eyes, and their gaze met. It fused and
burned and coalesced, and he was smitten at once by her enchanting
glamour.
Together, Moth and Daw flew to her hands. She, Fane Loriandir, regarded
him for a long time; her slender form, it seemed, pulsing life's
moments away. At last, she said, ‘You are not my child. You are not my
Corin. Though you have broken the binding spells, you are not my one;
not the child of Themion and Loriandir. You are as a stranger to me,
passed through the veil of beyond, whom I now see clearly for the first
time.’ Her words were the cruellest barbs to him, each one a separate
blow to his reeling mind.
‘But I am Corin,’ he croaked. ‘That is my name. The name I took for my
own.’
‘And whence came it to you, to take such name, can you recollect?’
He shook his head, all in turmoil, witless. ‘No, yes. Why, I have
thought of myself as Corin ever since The Voices called to me. It was
They, who named me so. Put it into my head. They and You, oh Lady, whom
I thought spoke to me.’ He lowered his eyes, defeated. ‘Now I see that
I was deluded all along by the Powers of Evil.’
‘In part, yes. Though not totally,’ said another voice; a voice that
Corin knew.
He looked up, startled, and there beside Loriandir stood two others:
the first was Clothyl, the fair-haired, wild-eyed child-witch. The
second was that bird-like sorceress Hagris, hunched and hooded. Of Moth
and Daw, there now was no sign.
‘You are they, and they are you,’ said Corin, like one in a dream.
‘We are all, united,’ Clothyl replied.
‘Then I do not understand anything. Why are we here, talking like this?
What is happening in the world above? What part have I played in truth,
and what more am I, a useless, nameless traitor of Varlar to do?’
‘You shall be told, and all will be made clear,’ said Clothyl. ‘That
you have been deceived and used, is true, though not wholly by the
Powers of Evil. There are other Powers in Varlar who have sought your
unknowing aid, and your exploitation. And to those ends, have you not
failed. Now, whilst the Māādim's eyes and thoughts be bent elsewhere
and their dark hearts filled with victory, must we make ready for what
is to come. Your quest is not over. Rise up and take Næglind, your
staff, in hand. For soon, oh nameless one, you shall be called upon
once more.’
Blindly he did as he was bid, struggling unaided to his feet, whilst
Hagris said, ‘When all is lost, so shall it be gained. When everything
is darkness, so then shall light be emergent. When all is despair, so
shall hope arise; springing forth out of barren soil, blossoming, to
triumph, when that very thought is vanished.’
‘I have heard those words before,’ he said, drawing fresh breath.
‘Yes,’ said Clothyl. ‘They are the words of The Voices, out of dreams
and wakeful sleep. All that was said to you was not delusion. Much was
truth. That is so, because we spake it. There is a patchwork of truths,
half-truths and lies, woven many times over, woof and warp, upon the
broad loom of your life; much of it by we, The Unravellers of Aplotha.
Some further, by this dear Fane Lady, whom you believed to be your own
mother. And more so by those who sought to manipulate your passions,
desires, weaknesses and strengths, to their own benefit. That you
succumbed to their dominance, and thus opened the way for their
emergence into Varlar above, is accountable. At the last, your choice
was inevitable, as those Evils needed believe. And so was it planned,
by us. Now we must ready for the storm of Varlar, in the hope of what
is to come. The wheels of world's works have been turned again, from
whence they long had lain silent and seized by disuse. Ready yourself
and throw off the yoke of shame at what you thought to be profound
folly. You are not disgraced. The task you took upon yourself, no other
could have borne. Yours has been a service far and above all
expectation, for you were sent through dark paths and danger,
unknowing, the long whiles of your true mission. Must it have been that
way, you shall soon see. Though before this time, you travelled in
ignorance and innocence, of paramount importance; the hour draws nigh
when each and every one of Varlar, within and without, shall know their
fate revealed. Yours, is mighty mete to play... ’
‘The drums are coming. Can you not hear them? I hear them, as if they,
thunderous, broke at our feet this very instant.’ Thus spoke Silval
Birdwing, listening and watching upon a wind-swept rise, cradling Elvra
in his arms. Away to the south moaned the night-blue ocean, creamy with
the ships of Aneurin's fleets. West, loomed the Ramabad mountains.
North and east, hummed the lands with faint, ominous sounds.
‘I hear them,’ said Elvra, ‘though where they have gathered, breeding
and fermenting and growing as a plague of earth-blight, I am at a loss
to say. It would almost seem that they have been held back; hidden
until this time. But to what purpose?’
‘Who can say?’ answered MorganFane joining them, in company with
He´Remon. ‘Why now do they move against us, when surely before could
they have met our forces, hard pressing us.’
‘Maybe they were not then so disposed,’ offered the wizard,
uncertainly. ‘Still and all, I spoke my fears and feelings a time ago.
Perhaps the Nugobluk come now, perceiving Earth-Mouth's opening, and
that which might emerge. Maybe they believe such to be for their
advantage, yet how can they know for sure?’
Through the evening the roll of drums grew and a shrilling of savage
horns and clarion whistles, together with the harsh hoarseness of
throated cries and curses, rent the lands about Aileen Plain where
awaited the armies of the Free.
None there could sleep, or find rest that night, not even elves; unless
they refreshed themselves where they stood, wakeful but silent-still on
hummock or hillside, or amongst the ghastly, dead trees; those last
guardians of Earth-Mouth.
At the greying of dawn Men of that congregation first sighted their
enemy as they had never seen them before. Only the Elloræ, survivors of
Rioncion, had witnessed a narrow insight of such array, and even they
were awe-struck by the numberless crush that now emerged into the day.
The Nugobluk had come, cloaked by darkness; no fires had they openly
displayed, no hint of their preponderance gave they, save for the
sounds of their arrival. Yet there they were, a thousand thousand
strong, or so it seemed to the watchers. And if there were not that
many, then perhaps by vent of clamour and vehemence and menace,
appeared it so; for where the shoulders of Sagarmat stretched westward,
so poured the companies of goblin, imp and troll. And where-away the
fields and lakes lay in the north, were they overwhelmed with greater
armies, curving east to the coastline, encircling the lands from sea to
mountains; isolating the gathered of Aileen, so that their only escape
routes were the dwarf mansions or the waters of Varlar's ocean.
On the basin lip of what had once been the Mälar, lake of the Zwerge,
bode the foremost of dwarves, elves and men; helpless to do more than
observe, as the day lengthened and the enemy bore nearer. Dragons were
sighted, circling and puffing the high pinnacle of the northern
Ramabad. Grim flocks of death-birds haunted the distant skies.
Grey-black cloud loomed out of the southern oceans, threatening storm.
The wind of Varlar began a plaintive sighing that swept the open plain,
bearing with it the taint of sea-wrack.
Skragga, Captain of all Nugobluk of the North World, looked out, well
pleased by his teeming multitudes. Had not the workings gone as
fore-planned? Had not he sent his legions, allowing them to be
destroyed, that the accursed elves and their allies could win through
to Mouth-of-Earth? Had he not withdrawn at just the right time, so as
to seem in rout from that battle, thus leaving the way clear for them
to take their stinking mud-puddle?
Skragga gloated. Those were his orders; let the many mugs and gark die
underfoot, the better the sham. Let the foe of the great Nugobluk
gather in force at this one place, to be penned like herds for the
slaughter, at the end. Now, the end pended. Now, the entire might of
goblindom arose to crush and enslave, forever. Good things were in
store, thought Skragga. Rewards from the highest; from King Gasric,
from the Black Lords. Maybe even from the Māādim themselves. He
shuddered within his sludge-pumping heart, to think of Them, the Lords
of the Nether World. Then, he shook himself and dimly heard the dull,
oiled rattle of his own greasy mail-rings and saw, through stringy
eyes, a litter borne toward him that carried the royal figure, coming
up from Yaghan-Gazzul, out of that dirtward fortress to witness the
final extermination.
Gasric, King of Nugobluk, came lifted on a bier of grinning skulls,
padded for his relief. From it, dried and tangled, entrails dangled
into the mire. Hair-plaited skulls swayed to the rhythm of his
carriage; he wore them upon his person, from neck and wrist, waist and
bulging ankles. His balding knot was bound in sinew, his black, sticky
mouth, clotted in blood. Bones were his jewels. Over-trodden, dying
imps, his slaves. Stabbing, swearing Ugush, his bodyguard. He gnawed
voraciously at the remains of some poor creature, and then flung it
amongst those who would fight over the offal. Kicking out the rest,
licking bone knife, finger-claws and slimy arms; he deigned arise from
his couch to view the destruction of hated elves and other such
pustules. With a squinting nod, the King of Nugobluk acknowledged
Skragga, his Right-Claw, and squelching an imp or two, heaved his
bloated girth to where he might witness the confinement, the butchery,
and the final enslavement of his enemies.
Behind him, throve those of Yaghan-Gazzul, belching forth, erupting
from the sore of that realm to view their impending victory. Now was
bared the frightful totality of goblin power: the thousand times over
ranks of Ymp-mugs, the servile Gark and their own upper classes: Ugush,
the largest goblin species, in all their ferocity, the dreadful
ruthless and cruel Attagark and the special-bred Boghaz, disembowlers
and gut-rippers, culled from the worst, unleashed amongst trolls and
quasiads in the forefront, to do the most damage. Then there were the
dragon-squib, the spy and carrion-birds, wolves and bears and other
skulking beasts; perverted to the cause. And lastly, the fire-drakes
that zoomed overhead, threatening doom.
Against this preponderance, the armies of the Free-Folk were
sore-pressed and though, in the beginning of battle, they held and even
won ground, eventually they were forced to withdraw, little by little,
beyond the northern high-lands, onto the baking mud of Aileen itself.
Through that day the bitter forces clashed and battered times over,
whilst the Nugobluk rejoiced at their taking of the higher ways and
gleed at the constriction of their enemies.
By dusk Gimbutas, the Iron-Bludgeoner, was doing much damage amongst
Possum Wollert's folk, whilst Ghorn the troll waded through the pechts,
killing many, until Broga drove him off with sheer, ogrish rage, saving
Prince Clovell's life, in his blundering fury.
Meanwhile, as night fell, Skragga began hurling every legion of his
force from the heights, intent upon crushing all resistance with total,
overpowering weight. Attagark, led-by Fangi and Ettar, clashed against
Bel-Thalion's deer-cars.
Ugush, under Oorlog and Dagass, mercilessly slaughtered the peoples of
Dorthillion and Indlebloom, who held out against them only by the
heroism of lord Menkeepir and his brother Mendor, in company with those
fresh-come: Orsokon, Wanax of destroyed Kurigaldur, and young King
Ordrick, last ruler of Ravenmoor. These then, many diverse of men,
banded together as best they could against the insatiable hordes; to
hold the way to Earth-Mouth as long as possible.
Lo! Eventually scores fell fighting. And the remainder were forced to
retreat, lit by torchlight and the fires that followed them.
The battle-main now centred about Earth-Mouth, which the Elloræ still
held; though dwarves and goblins, shadow-like, were fighting axe to
claw on the mountains above, and pitched encounter, skirmish, and
counter-attack flared, dotting the eastern horizon, where the Nugobluk
sought to out-flank, and so sever the way of retreat to the sea.
Silval, hard pressed on the front where the goblins had forced a wedge,
watched helplessly whilst his friends and allies came tumbling back out
of the north; routed, many left killed and trampled. Behind them the
hills and mud-flats and mounds were black with the enemy. Fire-balls
exploded in the distance.
And yet those retreating, now came as relief of a kind; for whilst
Bel-Thalion in the north and Darion in the north-east, together coupled
to stem the onrush, men under Orsokon, Menkeepir and Ordrick, cut
through the eastern phalanges attacking Silval's forces, and so kept
the way open still to Croh-Yah.
If things had not gone badly southward, might they have held
Earth-Mouth; but at that crucial time, word reached Silval of
MorganFane's demise. He had fallen, fighting side by side with Possum
Wollert, who bore his body from the fray, whilst gore-hungry Gimbutas,
the Attagark, bayed at his heels. The eastern front now lay collapsing.
Soon, retreat to the sea would be cut off.
MorganFane was dead.
An all-encompassing despair passed through the ranks of the Elloræ,
moving even those of men to tears. Now fell it to Silval Birdwing to
make a great decision. Blindly as he fought and grieved and killed and
ordered, fought he also an inner battle.
But, at last, he thought to himself, ‘We must flee. There is no other
way now, except noble death. To stay on shall engender that reward. Yet
I have not seen my last tree, or cloud, or stream. Nor have I last
touched my loved one. Still, it is my lot to give the word and halt,
for a while, this carnage. Though I am loath to relinquish our grasp
here, for we will be driven once more to the sea and Earth-Mouth will
fall. And what then? What of Corin Avarhli's plight? If evil pours out
of Croh-Yah, it shall link with evil; potent against us. And if good
issues forth, it may well be crushed without our aid, and dispersed;
leaving everything in the hands of the enemy. What more though can I
do? Gamble, and die here, to buy a little more time? There are
thousands who will die with me. I must think of them. If we do not
withdraw soon, there shall be no choice at all.’
He made his choice. Hewing as he went, he summonsed those stoutest to
bear his word far and wide, and swiftly the messengers went out
spreading the news of retreat. Once more, the Elloræ and their allies,
would bow to the strength of their enemy.
But as Silval thought, ‘Maybe better to bend as the birch, than to
break as the ash. Croh-Yah must we certainly abandon; yet hope, not
totally. The southern seas are still reachable, where Aneurin's ships
await. Perhaps there, will come a reformation; some miracle to allow us
again to broach these savage shores.’
With saddened hearts at Silval's command, those left on all fronts
began to fall back, leaving Earth-Mouth agape, undefended. The Zwerge
broke off their encounters and sought shelter within the deep
mountains, shutting their doors in the faces of the foe. Aileen Plain
seethed with the ravening invaders.
Meanwhile, the way to the sea still lay open as elves and men fought
across the eastern arm of the goblins, and their rearguard held the
northern pursuit at bay.
Hollow and mighty, rolled the Nugo drums. Strident, the bone horns and
whistles. Thunderous, the tam-tam clash and shimmer. Death-rattling,
the skull-beaters, the gongs and knockers. Screeching, the
sinew-fiddles; whilst the teeming goblin hordes drew tighter their
invisible cords of strangulation, and the free-folk struggled on toward
the sonorous, benighted ocean. Already, very many had taken to the
ships, but the vast bulk of Elloræ forces and the warriors of men were
yet upon the land. And that is when the unexpected happened, with such
calamitous effect that all the free-folk were staggered, horrified.
Away in the distance, muffled by the din of drums, a sound like a
sudden storm, reached their ears. It rose out of the darkened,
moon-glossed sea. But it was not a storm.
The wind was brisk, coming in from the south, yet the sky lay
unencumbered with cloud; a starry carpet. No. If storm it was, then it
raised up from the very water itself. Those on the cliffs saw the first
torrents swell to towering peaks, as if the ocean was alive with some
awful force that tipped the flotillas of Valdë craft this way and that.
Scores were overturned, or crushed against the rocks. Hundreds more
were scattered like fallen leaves, strewn out into the vastness of the
tossing ocean. Waves loomed, borne up from the sea-bed, bearing dead
and dying creatures on their foamy beards.
Try as they might, the fleets of Aneurin were swept away; broken and
dispersed to the four winds. The sea was no longer mere water, but
soaring mountains of solid weight; walls of absolute terror. Stars
glittered innocently, reflecting across that horrendous tumult, where
rushing doom seemed to overbear the land; threatening to swamp and
drown it. Those on the cliffs were drenched by this fearful deluge.
Some, even as they were pulled to death in the boiling back-wash,
thought they glimpsed, or sensed, a bulk of blackness, rearing before
them. What it was, they never knew and perhaps it was better so.
Of those left clinging to the land, scrambling back from the brink,
yawned it over; an engulfing, serpentine thing, larger than nightmares
could describe. And it seemed filled with a malevolence and a hunger to
devour all before it. From this leviathan, elves and men hid their
eyes, hopeless, powerless against it, where it writhed across the night
sky, roaring and moaning; vomiting torrents of brine and sea-weed that
rained down upon them. Thought most, ‘This surely must be world's end!’
Then, swift, it suddenly began to recoil its gigantic neck back into
the surging deeps; subdued it appeared, and then the blazing eyes in
its mountainous head sank from sight and the waves thundered, and it
was gone.
‘The Nardred! The Nardred! World-Serpent!’ cried many in the aftermath,
and as flares of light sputtered, and torches flickered into life and
the moon drifted toward the horizon, they saw the tall figure of the
wizard He´Remon, standing on the cliff tops, arms extended, brandishing
his great staff as if it were a weapon, toward the ocean, where all now
receded. And they saw him lower his hands, and sink down, deeply tired
by a mighty labour. But then, needed they turn away; for though that
disaster and danger was seemingly passed, another, more pressing,
threatened immediately. The Nugobluk had captured Earth-Mouth, and the
forces of the free-folk were now contained; the threatening, naked
ocean at their backs, the goblins at their faces.
‘Ill-fated MorganFane was wrong when he said that we should not be so
ensnared as at Rioncion,’ lamented Goldal, where she stood, regal and
pale, watching the gathering of doom.
‘Yes, he was,’ Silval sighed, holding Elvra's hand in his. ‘Yet how
could he have foreseen this latest blow? Now the fleets of
Aneurin Seamaster are all washed away into the far ocean. Even the
craft drawn up and readied here are gone, dashed to pieces. There is no
way out.’
‘No way out,’ echoed King Ordrick, ‘though except for the Wizard, might
everything have been over even now. Whatever that thing, that nightmare
from the deeps was, he alone stood against it.’
‘Aye,’ said Menkeepir, water streaming from his armour, ‘and it is
plain now that He´Remon is much exhausted by his mighty feat. We cannot
count on him in this new time of need.’
‘No,’ replied Silval gravely. ‘There is little more that we can do.
None shall come to our aid, for they are already here. The remnant left
of Free-folk outside, are pitiful few. When we are done, they will fall
beneath the hammers of Evil. But we are not done yet.’ He drew himself
up, straight and proud, before them. ‘See there. Our enemies have
ceased their attacks; to gloat and gather anew, or to rest and await
day, maybe. Or perhaps it is that they await more than day. See how
they cluster and throng to Earth-Mouth. How they seethe with
anticipation. They expect a Coming, and soon. Shall we not give them a
coming? One that will remain unforgotten, long after we have perished.’
‘What then do you propose to do?’ asked Belda, shivering beside Goldal
who, it seemed, had taken this woman of Ravenmoor to her heart.
‘What is left us now, but to fight, to war against the enemy. To drive
on, until we are vanquished. We cannot hope to win. They have us, so
let them pay a dear price for our downfall.’
Ordrick nodded his agreement. ‘It is as well,’ he said. ‘There is no
escape. For myself, will I pledge to the destruction of the foe, albeit
a bitter finish for us.’
Grimly, Silval said, 'Sobeit. We have something left to save, and
nothing now to lose.'
‘But wait,’ called Farinmail the dwarf, panting up in his bloodstained
burnie. ‘Have I heard you aright? This is a madness! We have our lives,
each and every one, to lose; yet you elf, speak of saving. What saving?’
Silval looked at the dwarf, long and hard. ‘I would have thought that
you, Zwerge warrior, counted unbowed pride and hatred of the Nugobluk
worthy of keeping unto death. If we may only survive in slavery and
torture at their pleasure, is not death preferable? And if death, then
why not at the business of destroying at least some of those who shall
be the bloody masters after us. As to the saving; well,’ he shrugged,
‘we have the dragon Sgnarli. I am told he may be able to fly again.
Mayhap he can bear some away to safety where they might seek a hidden
place, far from the eyes of the enemy.’
‘And you would choose them?’ asked Menkeepir.
Silval was silent, but the lord Menkeepir went on, ‘Choose as may be. I
know my mission. I and my people will stay here. For it is prophesied
that I must lead them, and keep their faith. We will go into battle.
Yet not with subjugation or death as our goal. We shall strive to win
through and break this death's-web. If we cannot retreat we will cut a
path of blood and thence flee this foe, to lick our sore wounds and
thrive again. Since we are men who live and die and are born over to
multiply, I will not see us wither forever.’
‘Brave and courageous are your words!’ cried Farinmail. ‘And I, for
Zwerge-kind, will fight at your side as I care not much for dying, not
whilst my sparth-arm can bear the axe.’
‘That is well,’ Silval said. ‘Fight for life, or revenge, or hatred of
goblins; let them long after bemoan our wrath. But first now must we
choose the dragon's load. Only a scant few may he carry; no time, I
deem, will he have to return. Who, will we send away?’
‘I believe that we must choose them paired, male and female;
representatives of the free-folk, that they may bear fruit in union, as
a continuance of hope,’ said Goldal softly.
‘For Elves, Men and Dwarves, do you mean, O gracious Lady?’ asked
Farinmail.
‘Yes. And for Pechts, Pents and Booca. All are races separate, though
unified in our mutual peril.’
‘We of the Zwerge thank you for such honour,’ replied the dwarf. ‘But
no dworro, that is Zwerge maidens, have I with me. They are all locked
deep within Zwerge Drysfa. So again I thank you wholeheartedly, one and
all, though we out here cannot avail ourselves of this fair offer.’
Farinmail spoke truly, yet it was strange indeed to hear these words
from the like of this gruff and surly dwarf, and those who listened
were touched by his humility; yet briefly, for time winged. Already the
stars were dimming in Varlar's skies, and the pallor of a morning laden
with sorrow, forebode its coming.
And so, hastily, the choices were made: Timbrial and Ivris, both being
lovers, for the Pechts; Piri, the daughter of Rosac and Rosida, and
Miriflîra for the brownies; Amqa and Falnir, who both protested, but
were convinced by Silval, for elves; Niam and Linel of the Pentanu; and
for men, Bayondir of Indlebloom and Qwilla of Rî-mer-Rī, for it was
seen that she had still a part to play with those gentle folk left
behind in their far-off homeland. Lastly was chosen Pitrag, whom Falnir
deemed must go, to guide Sgnarli dragon wherever they need travel.
There were others of course, hundreds of fine lords and ladies left
there. Many wiser, more noble, better apt and fitted. But the leaders,
the kings and the great, the valiant and the meek, would not take their
leave of Aileen Plain. That, they could not bring themselves to do. Out
of lofty pride perhaps, or misplaced heroism, maybe. Or was it loyalty
to their respective peoples?
It was afterwards judged that their final choices had been right. Those
to go were young and life was upon them and they were frail and dour
and hardy, gentle and strong enough to survive in the harsh world, as
symbols of the lost races. At the last, Goldal spake with them, and she
said, ‘Ye hands-full, who ride away bearing our final hope, go with the
blessing of this multitude. Flee to a corner of Varlar where you may
seek shelter from the Enemy. Hide if need be, as likely it will.
Nurture yourselves. Bring forth the children of your races, and guard
their growing. Keep to the secret places, that we may not be lost in
vain.’
And to them Silval said, ‘This do I tell you, fly north first to
Dorthillion, where folk of Lorda Minca still dwell in Erilar and let
them know our fate. Beg them follow your path, and thence bear to the
east. For no good thing shall they find hereafter. Guide them across
the wastes of those lands and come, under the Lady Qwilla's eye, to her
realm of Rî-mer-Rī. There still, are some few who await succour. Take
to the southern oceans, or veil yourselves in the highest alps, where
evil may not find you. Cover yourselves in darkness until a time comes
when Free-folk may walk the light of day. Carry with you the last gift,
life. See that you treasure and revere it. In your keeping, your
destiny, is it now bound. Go swiftly and safely. And guard with your
own lives this poor Ymp and this lowly dragon, for they are now the way
and the hope of us all; we, soon to perish from Varlar.’
As morning broke, rising in the sun-ball of the west, the dragon
fluttered away out over the southern sea. Unsteadily, he flapped his
course skyward across the ocean, carrying the last to leave Aileen
heavy borne upon his scaled back, for his load was such that some
doubted he might manage all. Yet the dragon proved equal to his task.
When he turned northward, those upon the Plain shed their final tears.
Their last sunrise washed over them. And still, they gird themselves to
war's finish. Still, some clutched the straw of hope, long vanished.
They looked out at the enemy, expectant, and were dismayed. Then, and
only then, the free-folk resolved to do battle until they fell into the
Wells of World's end.
‘Are we going to die, Mother?’ asked young Branta, the son of Bran the
woodsman and his wife Anser. ‘We are going to sleep. Sleep from which
we shall not awake,’ replied his mother, brushing away her tears and
feeling for the knife that she knew she must employ at the last.
‘Stay close to me, my dearest Elvra. At the last, I will make sure that
these scrilings do not take us alive.’ So said Silval Birdwing, sword
in hand, holding her before him, where he sat Cornarian; white steed of
Elfame.
‘Strange, is it not, that we should rather die than bear capture?’
murmured Elvra softly, amongst the dreams of wounds. ‘Much as they will
slay themselves, than fall upon our mercy. In this thing only, do we
have a common end.’
‘I will watch your back, Brother; Broga, Minca and I. Drive straight
on, in company with Orsokon's people, and do not turn aside, no matter
what. It is your task to win through, with those strong enough to
follow you.’
‘I know it Mendor, my dear Brother Lord,’ said Menkeepir. ‘In my heart
I know. But also, in my heart, I am afraid. Afraid that in this hour, I
may fail our people; our people in my care.’ He shook his shaggy head,
now so much greyer and toil-worn.
‘You must try, as must we all,’ Minca said brightly, as if there was no
chance of dying. ‘Hey, we will do it! I love you both too much to say
farewell on this drear plain!’
Dalen Lêfa sat, holding Bim tight in his tiny arms. A tear ran down the
pixie's round face and splashed upon the cat's nose. Silently, Bim
licked it away.
Together, awaiting the word to attack, the peoples of Darion and
Goldal, and Bel-Thalion bided; some mounted, some afoot, others in
deer-carts. And amongst them were those three High-elves. As was
Nivri-Allon and with her, Talisar the Daræ.
‘A bright day, to be our last,’ the Dark-elf maiden whispered, done
with her tears. Then, lifting up her hands she cried, ‘Oh what a
terrible folly and fate, have my kind drawn us to. I curse them for
their impiety, their pride and vanity! For they have brought this day
upon the earth, and long ago wrought they their own downfall, our
downfall; and the downfall of Varlar, the world!’
‘Farewell Gorm, my good old friend and true,’ wept farmer Bossel,
clinging to his crony.
Ordrick and Belda, Izod the Fair and Beald, Cadogan, Jofrid and his
wife, were drawn up amongst their many kith and kin; Spiggot and his
daughter, Badger and Jeriah Rudd, Fin and Bran, and all those others
left alive of Ravenmoor. None spoke. Their hearts were too filled with
dread.
Wollert Possum's folk were massed about him; spear bearing, wild-eyed,
prepared for overwhelming death.
The gentle brownies and Clovell's Pechts had gathered in company with
their leaders. With them, standing stern, was the remnant of
Farinmail's dwarf contingent; axes glinting in the sun that shone out
of the west. Near the last, the Booca released the bird-kin they had so
faithfully tended; thousands of them, of thousand-fold kind, all
flocked together, wheeling and turning over and away from Aileen Plain,
to seek some distant night roost that those left behind would not live
to witness.
Along the lines, impassive, the free-folk poised, awaiting the signal
to ride forth on their doomed errand. Silval, and those lords and kings
and great ladies, uplifted their arms...
And then, even then, was it too late!
A mighty tumult erupted from the hordes milling about Earth-Mouth.
Shrinking from that gulf, the Nugobluk fell back in awe, in fear, in
some kind of goblin reverence. The hole of Earth-Mouth; the great,
vaulted yawn of it, became visible to those of Men and Elloræ who
watched, transfixed, whilst the Dæmons of the Underworld burst forth,
through to the surface!
The Māādim were free!
They launched their livid legions out under Varlar's sky. They attacked
the day, as if it were an enemy in itself. They came in fire, wielding
swords and lances of burning flame that scourged and seared and
blackened the earth, setting the dead trees to fiery torches.
Hungrily, these denizens of Earth-Heart exploded onto the surface,
gazing about the world above, which they had not gained for ages past.
Yet now, at long last, were they free, to ravage and conquer.
Now had come the time for Varlar's ultimate overthrow!
Chapter 66 [next]
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