Varlarsaga Volume 3 - Consolation

Chapter 66 - The Red Ones

The Red Ones were come, and almost all of Varlar's populace numbers, evil and good, were gathered to witness, willing and unwilling, that coming.

There, loomed Taraka, the world-troubling Dæmon; His spear of flame sweeping the air, so that it seemed set alight by this giant magnitude; this Emanation and Soul of Earth's-Heart-Choths.

There blew the withering breath of Sharappu, burning to oblivion that which it touched: thus the Lord of Destruction emerged, incensed and wrathful.

And there bestrode Waroch, the Fearmonger, wielding a lightning thunder-sword that dispensed wholesale death to any and sundry.

Behind these Three, brewed a terrible army. Wraiths, maybe, were they; perverted goblin-kind, and kings of men made mad. And elves, destroyed of mind; long lost, hammered, tempered and fashioned again to the all-consuming will of the Māādim. But too, there were others; devilers and scum, parasites and worms: the sliming-slugs of wet revulsion. Shades of unwanted beings, the grey nithings, paled into day's brightness. Yet their potency was unaltered, and their charge full with foulness. And they bore black daggers; like sneaking, backstabbing assassins.

These fiery monsters, invested with powers of undying flame, invaded the lurid curves of Earth's-Mouth; pouring, unstoppable, through the sluice-gate of that hellish road.

And so it was on this morning, so very, very long ago; at a time when the sun had risen but a quarter of her travel, that those on the Plain of Aileen quailed, and bowed down before such encompassing might as was displayed.

The nugobluk, even as they themselves burned from the very breath, and eye, and touch of their Lords, danced the frenzied dance of uproarious death; twirling into rapturous cinders, beneath the baleful stares of their new World-Masters.

It was plain that the goblins themselves were expendable to the wonts of these Varlar Victors.

Smitten down, were the free-folk.

Their courage, and heart, and last hope; crushed to grinded grist. Should any go on to survive the inflamed world, ages of agony awaited under the dominion of Heralded Fire; the banner of the Choths, Varlar's Heart set free; embodied and imbued in the Māādim, raging before them.

Flight was impossible.

Battle, futile; pathetic.

Capitulation, surrender; a way to extinction.

The world of Varlar was ending.

Still, the Free-folk would not relinquish the Will that throbbed within them. They hefted their feeble weaponry. Then began the canter forward toward death; or worse.

But they had not gone far before halting; stricken, as eight black steeds, bearing eight black riders, appeared beyond the goblin ranks, to reveal themselves for what they truly were: not the Carriers of the Light, but the Vassals of the Māādim. Here, at the last, were shook the dark manes of their steeds. Here, their sneering Lords laughed aloud and openly. ‘Ho, proud and haughty ones; elves and men near to death; serf and slave to be tortured and converted, those who are permitted such grace: for that is what ye shall be, and soon. Let us unmask ourselves, to mock you.’

The reared fires of the Māādim died lowly, whilst the smokes and fumes of devastation hovered grim over that wide place.

‘We are they, whom our dear comrade Corin dwelt with, for a time, in the far hermitary. We are the hermits. We are the Wizards. We are the Powers who taught him, aided him, duped him to our ultimate goal; the release of the Lords; the Māādim. Here, are They; come to engulf you. You are brought low, through our doing. We, have triumphed. Varlar is given, and taken, by the Māādim; Lords of Choths desires. You have lost. We have won!’

And so they showed themselves, permitted by their Masters, who awaited; burning, fiery; impassive for that time: complacent at this display of gloatery from their underlings, the eight, who now drew up and ranged themselves before the Free-folk. There was Diarmath the horse-tamer; the Unmerciful. And there, Hereburgi, the herb-sorcerer; the Cruel. Morbi-han, the war-wizard; the Blood-letter.

Astragali, the star-sorcerer; the Unrelenting. Dirmyg, the aurifex; the Scornful. Helminth lore-master; the Maw-worm. Shadarck, the Hate-filled. And Davaras, the Ghost-dæmon.

Each of these evil eight took up a place beside their Māādim Lords; jeering at the poor fools before them.

‘I begin to glimpse some small truth, now that it is too late,’ Murmured Silval, ruefully. ‘With all their connivance and trickeries, they beguiled poor Avarhli to do their will; they used him, for only he could open the Adamantine Gates. And this, these monsters must have known from the beginning. How many ages did they plot and plan, I wonder? How long have they manipulated each and every one of us unto this ultimate trap?’

He raised his pure, bird-song sweet voice; so that it seemed all upon the plain could hear him.

‘Do ye, oh Free-peoples see; now that the veil is lifted.’

But for this lone elf, Aileen Plain was silent.

The Enemy had no need for haste; their victory was assured. That would come as a matter of course; so they rejoiced at the whinings of this insolent popinjay.

But Silval, undaunted, voice a-quaver, went on.

‘Mark you now, these skulking ones who cower and fawn at the feet of their masters; for they are our undoing, our downfall: the true destroyers of Varlar. Through their machinations, have we been brought so low. These black warlocks, black on black steeds, have schemed to bring about this final woe. They are the cause, the core, of our dilemma. Mark them well; for if earthly blade or spike can pierce them dead, so shall they pay for such treachery!’

To this, the Hermit-Wizards scoffed, mockingly. And amidst their gleefilled mirth, Morbi-han derisively shouted; ‘You, elf! You are too wretched, too miserable for words. You have less than nought to say at us, with all your haughtiness. You merely mark time, not we, with your empty boasts; contrived only that you may savour each breath a little longer. Save your breath. Hark to me! Save your breath, or expend it if you will, until death take you. Fight your puny fight, or flee to sea. Whichever; the Dark awaits you: for in death shall we herd your Shades deep down within. Though if life be dear to you, then you shall be enslaved until slain in our chosen manner and time. Either way, you will fall to the domination of the Red Ones, and the Dominion of Their Masters; Earth-Heart Choths!’

The audience, the parley, was over; that Silval knew, well enough, though all the while had he searched within his mind for some chance, some way out.

Yet he could find none.

Before him, and the gathered kindreds of Free-folk, were they paled to insignificance by the might of the Enemy. Aileen Plain, north of Earth-Mouth teemed with nugobluk, and the welter of those new-come from Klud-er-Yah.

And foremost of them, waited the Eight on raven steeds; shadowed over by their Three Masters.

These Three spake not. Nor need had They, even if voice was within Them.

For in their appalling presence, no words could have struck more fear.

They burned, towering infernos; whips of many-lit thongs were Their hair; plaits of fire, Their beards; arcs of red light, Their eyes. Flame was the armour that coated Them. Molten were Their limbs, flowing into Lance and Spear and Sword. White-hot round were Their Bucklers; and black-heated Their breath.

A-pounce, leapt They forward: finished with the bickerings of those beneath Their brooding dignity.

The time of playthings and play itself, was over.

Silval too, raised his sword; poor, useless weapon that it was: and yet it caught the sun, glinting in those rays. And whilst he and Elvra rode toward death as assuredly as the sun arose out of the west, he lifted his sad and beautiful, and graven face; and cried aloud, that all might hear and hark to him.

‘Ride now with me, run all ye afoot, that the day finish this much sooner in defeat. Yet not without heart and flourish, and hope. For this day, must heads be held the higher; and we be equal in this thing that needs be done!’

And to himself he recounted the words that Corin had quoted from the Stone of Remorse; the words fashioned by Ny´æ, the Daræ Princess. "Shut til the day of reckoning and the doom of Tevel.

Thus Tevel, I deem, is doomed. At the last will rise the World Serpent as portent of the end to come."

In Silval's free hand he took hold of Elvra's, whispering low to her; ‘Your hands are tiny, and white.

White as your shoulders; as your wrists, your neck. I think of you: cannot, cannot forget you. Cannot forget your eyes; lustrous, filled with moon and stars and sun. Eyes that behold me with such intent that I bow before your gaze. I think of you; your feet, hands, mouth; your very breath. I would become you, and you me. If I had my woulds. As we began, so did we find. As we began, so remember.

As we end, end hoping; hopeful. I think of you; for your hands are tiny, and white.’

And so they went to their destiny, those Free-folk on Aileen Plain

Then, even as their first ranks reared, plunging toward chaos and death, and their cries and screams mingled with the war drums of the nugobluk; a new and fiercer sound arose above all else; drowning even the awesome roar and bellow of the Māādim.

It was an unearthly sound; a sound of wings and water, of hurricane winds wailing, tormented; a thunderous pounding at the world: as if Varlar itself was an anvil to be smitten unto pieces.

The shock of it threw the combatants apart.

Staggering, they reeled back; dazed, uncertain.

Even the Māādim in Their fell onrush, paused, as if something had given rise to hesitation.

Their hair and beards were whipped to fury by a new, momentous force.

Leaping, as fire leaps when a forest blazes, They turned about to meet this unbidden challenge.

Before Them, water deluged from the sky; cascades that veiled everything in utter pandemonium.

The drums of the nugobluk were submerged; their beaters washed away by flash streams that spilled as torrents over the rims of high ground, north and east.

Thunder, and jagged blades of lightning boomed and cleft that blue day; so that it seemed an unseen hand wielded them across the sun.

From the north, sheeting, came the rain, blown on gale-wings. The fires of goblindom were quenched.

The ire and pent-up force of those evil there mustered, snuffed.

The legions of terror under the Māādim themselves, quaked at this unknown onslaught.

And the Māādim too, for precious moments, appeared furious-confused.

Then, on the whirl-wind's tail, they emerged; the lumbering giants of Jutunn Hämma!

And at their forefront, rushing with an intensity and a warlike purpose that seemed to make him that much larger, was one who bore a huge, snowy owl upon his shoulder.

‘That giant be hight Isbadden; he who carries the great owl Harfang!’ Shouted Silval, amongst the thickest carnage, where he and Elvra bore the hurts of those whom, but moments before, were near to pulling them down into the mire.

‘Withdraw a little way, oh folk of elves and men. Let us take stock, for it seems we have allies unimagined; come all the way from Frozen-home!’

So saying, he turned his mighty steed's head, and gallant Cornarian, cut and bleeding, sped them swiftly out of harm's reach. Behind, streamed the Free-Folk, carrying their wounded and dead with them.

But their enemies were crestfallen by these newcomers, and dismayed at their ferocity; for the Jutunn burst through the rearward masses of nugobluk, crushing them like flies.

Gasric, corpulent, repulsive and sadistic king of all the North World goblins, along with a goodly half of his entourage, was squashed flat; a fitting end to such a monster.

Dragons buzzed the giant's heads, setting alight their hair and beards; and were swatted from the sky.

The driving rain quelling such fires as they were begun.

Meanwhile, The Red Ones awaited these newest opponents, preparing to do battle with them.

For after all, what were rain and wind and thunder, and every giant of Jutunn Hämmer combined; compared to the Māādim?

The Red Ones blazed anew, and Their fire was so great that it consumed the rain where that fell about Them, and scorched the land thereabouts in every direction.

They were like three vast beacons raising the very air to flame, and filling all the world with terror.

Let the giants come against them. Even they would not withstand the wrath of The Red Ones.

Yet lo!

Out of the eye of the storm, between the ranks of advancing Jutunn, there appeared a spectral vision; a tall warrior, as tall as the Māādim themselves, His head and shoulders shrouded in black, mounted upon a rippling, jet horse whose mane and tail flew, defiant in the wind.

And in the figure's left hand was bolted lightning, and on a finger bore He a silver circlet that shone through the dark; driving terror before it.

And in His right hand, clasped He The Tether of Unbreakable Bondage that did about the neck of a monstrous wolf; Sköl the She-Wolf, bound to The World-Lord's service and Will.

Fire; the equal of the three Māādim burst from Her throat, challenging Them.

Valandir the Drotnar, only Varlar-Lord left upon the shores of the North World, was free.

And He had come in all His Power, and Might, and Magnitude, at the very last!

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