Varlarsaga Volume 3 - Consolation

Chapter 68 -They are coming

‘They are coming.’

Sayga the Seeress spoke those words in low tones, almost as if they were the growling of Bozkirt the wolf.

The company that awaited beside the parted Adamantine Doors, upon the road of Earth-Spine, grew expectant. They were a strange, an almost forgotten company: the Lady Loriandir, the four Witches, now united, of Aplotha and Corin; poor, bewildered Corin Avarhli, slumped, kneeling.

The shadowy others were Daræ, Dark Elves. The few strongest, who had remained true and not been corrupted by the Powers of the Māādim; those servants of the Choths. Thornæf was the leader, King of the Daræ. He it was, who had led the Dark Elves in an insane quest for knowledge and Orichalc. He had broken the bans of the Drotnar and dared the consequences of Varlar's Heart. And he had reaped the misery of such daring; seen his people entrapped, enslaved, manipulated and mutilated into creatures that were no longer worthy of the name Daræ. He had bled within his heart for them. He had seen the terrible mistake of his doing. Repented the lust and greed that drove him, and them, on to destruction. Too late. All too late. The Daræ had followed him, passing through those hidden portals ages before, and in the doing, released the Māādim to threaten world's safety. And with the Māādim's first withdrawal, after Valandir's dominance, had Thornæf and his people been ensnared; locked away inside Earth-Spine. There to languish, to be tortured into submission and conversion; to relinquish, and become as dæmons themselves. Yet he, Thornæf , had not so submitted. Though in the end, would he have, even if it had taken until the sun and stars died from the skies. The Powers of Earth-Heart were that strong. And long had he despaired, as he steadfast held against such total domination. With him, of that same resolve, were many at first. But one by one, and three by three, they fell and were irrevocably altered, estranged and perverted. Only a few survived that persecution until the time of Corin's arrival; Timbrian The Smith of Margaras, Bel-Thalion's blade, was such a one. And there were others: Alder´one, Bel Taminar, Ornifin, Ingallri, Æhearn Iron-brow, Thornlia, and a prince amongst the Daræ, Prince Nolar. With him were his lady Chaliandra, her brother Challandri and other Dhu-alver maidens: Shiriana, Hel´endor, Pelissar and Nirial. Last was there Tal´ae-cīon, father of she, Ny´æ, who had wrought The Stone of Remorse, and he hobbled, most distressed of all. Though none were wholly unchanged. Each of these highest and most tenacious of the Daræ were altered in ways subtle, imperceptible. They would never again be as they were, before plummeting into the abyss of self-aggrandisement, delusion and avarice. The guilt at breaking the deems and decrees of the World-Lord Drotnari, had marked and tattooed deeply within their hearts, so that it could not ever be exorcised or expunged, no matter what fate befell them. They were beyond redemption having used the gifts given them in base ways: crossed the forbidden frontiers, broached the Gates of Adamant, unleashed terrible forces; forces hitherto set upon tasks and works in Earth-Heart where was the realm and domain ordained for such potent entitles that of their labours Varlar, above and below, should thrive. And further had the Daræ, in pride and folly, dared to create, out of the Orichalc they so hungered for, not only trinkets and toys or flawless items of beauteous jewellery or even weapons of unsurpassed magnitude and strength, but life. Life itself. Made in the images of their own minds, but corrupting in time to degenerate horrors, for the Daræ had deceived themselves and been deceived by the denizens of Earth-Heart. And what they wrought turned rotten. The trees they designed from their precious Orichalc became as forests of stunted and gnarled pollards, crowned and festooned in spikes and thorns; deadly to the prick. The birds and animals into which the righteous Daræ breathed life swelled and bloated into grotesque caricatures of those dwelling above in the sunlight, and from such profanities only venom and poison dripped. And their claws were of iron; cruel, honed to torture and rend and destroy. Thus did the Dhu-alver breed the beginnings of the flesh-eating Saroyids. But the final blasphemy of the Daræ was the creation of creatures like unto themselves; the Nithings. These had been their ultimate goal, the bringing to life of a race, graceful, undying, wondrous; gifted with all manner of abilities and qualities. Gifted with all the attributes that the Daræ could conceive, or perceive. That they achieved the creation of things that, in appearance, were alike enough to them seemed at first of utmost import; and at this, to begin with, they succeeded. Yet they were doomed, in the end, to failure; for their ambitions were utterly hopeless. As at last, the Daræ saw. But the revelation of gross disgust at their own perpetrations came only after that final, perverse act; the bringing into existence, and bestowal of nascency upon life, formed of Daræ seed and fertile Orichalc.

‘Orichalc is a Life-Force,’ said Thornæf, grimly. ‘A thing of multitudinous properties. We found it as an awe-inspiring ore, as a liquid silver-glass, a black diamond-crystal; a pulsating, prolific friend. And a capricious enemy. Fire, to some, might it be likened or lightning from the vaults of Varlar. More so daunting than even that. For it is unstable as to lightning, as lightning is to fire. Workable in many ways, yes. And with it, crafted we numerous fine things which did, more often than not, please and become precious to us. However, our desire to give birth to newness, to procreate, to be as the Almighty Life-Givers, corrupted us. Corrupted me. I led my people. It was I who chose this way; this depravity. It may be that Orichalc flows in all manifest life, that crawls, swims, flies, walks or grows. If that is so, as we long ago guessed it to be, then we, the Daræ, have failed in our quest to harness such omnipotent energy; such unique vitality...’

Thornæf halted in his tirade; sinking, it appeared, into total self-condemnation. Corin remained fixed and hushed. There were so many things he needed to know, so many answers to questions yet unasked by him. So many masked truths, puzzles and riddles, lies, half-truths; mazes and labyrinths that still yawned beyond him.

But now there was no more time. He had spent his time regaining his senses, his recollections of events passed, his cognition of the present. >From this admixture, this destitution of mind and body, was it inconceivable for him to fathom further the whys and wherefores of his plight. That he had survived at all, was a wonder and a misery to him. He knew not, after all the time of his life, what destiny still held in store for him. He had thought that his quest was at an end; misguidedly believed his labours over when Earth-Heart Doors fell open. Thence after, thought his efforts vain, false; destructive to the well-being of the world. He had desired to die, to relent his trials. Desired the anonymity of death, that he be spared the recriminations of earthly survival. Now, struggling to regain himself and his few mortal possessions: the Targe and the mutilated sword, transfigured to no more than wanded-staff, he found his feet; a feat difficult enough to need his every concentration.

Time passed whilst he was hardly himself, coming to himself. He began again, growing inwardly in stature, in self esteem, in belief and hope. Outwardly too, he threw off the shackles of binding, blinding doubt; the suspicions of inadequacy, of wrong-doing, of folly. He straightened his back and stood upright, off-handedly noticing his sprouting grey beard. At that moment he was not whole and could never so be again; Corin had had too much pain, too much taken from him, too many wounds inflicted. Old scars heal only so much, even after the windings of time. And here was he, feeling stooped and bent by ordeal, yet lifting upright as best he could. There was more to do, more that he need do, though he knew not what.

‘They are near now,’ said Clothyl, softly. ‘Coming ever closer.’ She turned to Corin and the Daræ folk. ‘When They arrive, must we hold the Doors. These Portals cannot be shut. Your being, your lives, hopes, your very innermost hearts, be strung upon this deed. Hold the Gates, no matter what, until the coming of Him ... If, He comes.’

They waited, girding themselves. And soon the sounds of discord, of babble, of headlong rush and rout issued down the long by-ways and corridors that led to Earth-Spine.

Then, bursting, breaking, the first wave of fell creatures swept out through the vaults of Stone-Bone along the Adamant Road and there, in the distant shadows that reared beyond Chardon's lakes, they drew up; whilst the might of their masses poured in at their backs.

‘If they desire to pass through without aggression, allow this. But do not allow them to take control of the Gates,’ said Clothyl, the Child-Witch. ‘For a time, we have some bargaining power. As yet they are unaware of Wolf, Toad, Daw and Moth. They are unaware of the Aplotha Witches. Too busied with onrush to the surface and too concerned with flight back again, I deem, are they, to have sight or thought of us. Soon though, they will see and know. And in their fear at what, I guess, is behind them, will they quail. Especially if they believe that we can close the Doors, tight against them; weaving those same locking spells that their own Māādim wove in the long ago.’

‘She speaks well and true, shrewdly, for one seen as so young,’ Hagris chuckled, bird-like; wrapped in her midnight raiment. ‘Even those frightful hordes dream not what strength awaits them. Ere long, they shall know.’ She drew the cowl that hooded her beaky features close about her and slid forward, passing beyond the inner walls of Earth-Spine, out onto the Limbus; there to stand alone, facing the goblins and dæmons, the imps, the wraiths and the nithings of Daræ breed, the spawn of Orichalc.

Hagris raised up her hand and from her fingers sprang fire. A light of some magnitude pushed back the gloomy shadows, casting over the quick-silvery lakes so that it thrust into the very inkiness of the shores beyond. On those shores, the screaming rabble thronged, lit now by fire, the flame of which was so familiar to those Earth-Bowel dwellers; though this time, its source was unexpected and caused them to falter. ‘If you would cross over by ways that ye have caused, forsaking the Ferrier's barge, ye have my leave; the leave of the Morrigi. The way to Earth-Heart lies open. Your Over-Masters, the Monarchs of the Deeps, await your coming.’

A growl that grew to a roar and thence to fierce laughter, gathered and broke from the ranks assembled and assembling. Yet behind that barbaric mockery, lay there an echo of uncertainty, charged with fear and suspicion. Gradually, the rumour of it spread and an ominous silence descended.

‘You have the leave of the Morrigi,’ went on Hagris, in her shrill voice. ‘Come across. Enter Earth-Spine and abide within, as have ye always in the past. Enter without design of malice, lest ye meet doom at the hand of Valandir, World-Lord Drotnar. Accept this condition, or I shall cause these Doors closed and locked from within. Then shalt thou know the wrath from above, here on Limbus Reaches, with your backs to the Gates. He is coming! Else would ye not have scurried, like so many rats, back to your hole. Now, unless you seek the further anger of that almighty Drotnar, throw away your tools of killing and hide yourselves deep within Earth-Heart. Go to the places that ye know well and begin again the tasks appointed you.’ Hagris allowed her hand to fall, and in that action, the flames from her fingers flickered and died.

‘Be ready now for what is to follow,’ said Ergris, the Maiden-Witch. ‘They shall either rush the Doors or cross slowly. If the first, we must shut them out and keep them so, albeit our strength great enough. If the second, be at guard against treachery; part the Daræ ranks and let them enter, but without their weaponry. Then bid the Foul Ones on their way, down to their Choth Masters.’

‘Can we shut and hold the Adamant Doors against such force?’ Corin whispered.

‘That is uncertain,’ replied Clothyl, ‘though they too are unsure. Hagris has placed the spark of doubt in their cold hearts. It may be that they shall gamble against us. We can but wait, the better, the longer.’

It took little longer. A growing tumult, a palpitation of panic, seemed to course through the ungoverned thousands teeming on the farthest side of Chardon's Lakes. Some, pressured and jostled by those behind, spilled and tumbled, screaming, into the liquid; there to cry out in terror and to sink into the wreathing mists. The Death-Shades of those so drowned, horrible but harmless, winged past Corin and the others, on their final journey. Of the swarming masses, hundreds upon hundreds cast their cruel swords, their scimitars and axes, curved knives, slings and darts and spears and bitter-bent bows into the Lakes, and in an onrush, which tossed even more to death, began to mount the rough causeway thrown down by them at their egress. As the outsiders hurled to destruction, those left scrambled over; fighting and biting amongst themselves, until they came before Hagris in groups of two's and three's. She bade them pass, watching with bird-quick eyes. Between the Doors they filed, whimpering and skittish. The first, the Impari, sent as usual to test the way, slipped within. After them, glowering sullenly, came many Nugobluk: goblins of all kinds, Gark, Attagark and Ugush. Then, slothful, Trolls; some still restraining their Dragon-squib. The wraiths passed in like ghosts. The Dæmons and the Nithings held back over that time. They and the Bairsarkis, the Boghaz of Goblindom, crowded along the shores. These were the ones who had arrived last, acting as rearguard, whilst the rest fled into Earth-Mouth away from the defeat above.  And they hesitated. Then slow, began the crossing. Their weapons, they grudgingly threw away. But their minds were no less the evil. Maybe they thought to take the Doors and once more close themselves inside. Maybe, in their hate and fear and cunning, they plotted rebellion; some counter-attack, even then, to release their Māādim Masters from Valandir's thrall. Or perhaps it was, through madness, that these foul creatures struck out, weaponless though they seemed. As they entered between the mighty Gates, so did they spring upon the Daræ. And with that sudden revolt, those following surged to the attack.

Now it was that the black elves met, in open battle, the frightful gut-ripper Boghaz. Yet the Daræ were not caught unawares. The swords they kept beneath their black garb flashed with a blue sheen, the polished sheen-fire of Orichalc. But the Nithings, creations of the Daræ, had also held knives and darts concealed upon themselves. And these they now drew, as they clashed with their creators. Hand to hand, teeth and claw, the opposed forces closed and fought. Though, of course, the Powers of the Underworld by far outnumbered them, the Daræ held superior weapons. That, coupled with their desperation to survive after persecution, torture and deprivation, drove the Black Elves fiercely to the task. As well, the evil legions were disordered and fought as a wolf-pack, having few leaders to control them. Furthermore, the portal to Earth-Heart was only so wide and the milling throng upon the Limbus found it hard going to push forward over their own fallen and front ranks.

Corin, dismayed and shaken by this new turn of events and sickened by the endlessness of agony, war and death, hung back within the confines, beyond the Gates and the slaughter. Beside him stood Loriandir; she whom, until recently, he had so fervently believed was his mother. The light that wreathed her seemed impervious, but he saw that she wept the bitter tears of futility at the bloodshed before them. The Daræ, even those weakened by ages of punishment, struggled with the fervour of anguish, as if there was nought more that they could lose. As if death would serve better than confinement and slavery.

Beside Loriandir, Corin now noticed with a start, for he could not get used to the shape-changing of the Morrigi, there now waited the witches’ familiars: Bozkirt the Wolf, upon whom perched Moth, Toad and Daw; each silent and unmoving. Behind, in the Nethermost regions, all was still and ominous, similar maybe to the forebodings of a volcano nigh its eruption; as if omnipotent Power, as vast and all encompassing as the world itself, waited, deliberating that eruption. The Choths were that Omnipotent Power, somewhere, deep down, firing Earth-Heart at its uttermost core. If They were to come up, to relinquish Their work, the world's rudder would spin free, and everything be tossed to chaos and destruction. But were the Chothic Powers capable of that realisation? Or, in Their primordial magnanimity, were They beyond such sight; such recognition of the lethal blow They should cause to Varlar.

These thoughts fleeted through Corin's mind, though not even a single imp reappeared from the depths. Then, with an effort, he turned his eyes back to the battle before him. The opening about the Gates rang with the clash of Orichalc on iron. The Daræ held fast, fending off their enemies with dour courage.

The corpses of Nugobluk and Nithings piled the Limbus and the threshold. Black Elves too, fell there and were wrenched free where that was possible, to prevent spoliation by the enemy.

Then, all at once, amongst the confusion there came a great surge through the masses, as if some mightier strength had marshalled and ordered the rabble with definite purpose. Goblins, those fiercest and cruelest, the Gut-Rippers, burst through the Daræ cordon and spilled into Earth-Spine. At their head was a creature, Dæmon-Wraith maybe; manlike in appearance, though twisted and distorted beyond belief. In its claw-like hand it bore a huge, oval shield, over-wrought with serpent design; the emblem of the Nardred. And in the other, hefted it a broad-bladed long-sword that glowed with the pale, blue flame of Orichalc. Its piercing eyes blazed with wrath, its helm and armour crackled, as if charged with lightning. Long hair streaming, it rushed straight for Loriandir and Corin.

First Thornæf, then Alder´one were cut down attempting to halt its career and, alas, both fell at Its leaping feet. Yet even that sacrifice gave a little time in which to recover from the shock of that descending horror. Without thinking, Corin thrust himself before the Fane-Lady; lifted the fused and mutilated sword-staff that was Næglind and took the full force of that terror across it. Orichalc met Orichalc, screaming together like living thing as the surfaces made impact. Corin was borne down upon one knee, losing grasp of Næglind and had but a fraction of time to lift the Targe of Leeanan before the next blow crashed and bounced from it. He was on both knees now, the shield still intact, but his arms were wearied. A further blow sent the Targe spinning from his numbing fingers. His defences were broken yet he heard his own voice, still strong, shouting out in defiance, ‘Kill me now, when before you mocked at my plea for death. Kill me now that I am defeated. Waste your precious moments, oh Wraith of Earth-Spine. Yours is a lost cause. Valandir will come for you and you will feel His touch. My fate is brief. Yours, I think, shall be long and damning!’

The confidence with which these words were spoken, caused even that ferocious monster to stay its stroke, though whether it understood Corin, is uncertain. Still, within that pause lay doom. The towering creature licked its twisted lips, as if in anticipation, and raised the fell sword.

Corin, calm now and readied, awaited the fall. He thought, ‘I have done all within me that I can. Others must take up the tasks. May my Shade find peace.’

Behind, and above him, the Lady Loriandir stood, stone still; her hand was on his shoulder. She made no sound, no cry.

In that single, blinding instant, a thin javelin was thrown. It pierced through the meshing at the breast, betwixt the rib-cage and under-arm; to end quivering, transfixing the heart of the Dæmon-wraith. With an appalling shriek, it fell, smashing sideways, rumbling and rattling in its hard armour. The spear had leapt from the hand of Nolar, the Daræ Prince; hurled sidelong, unerring. And even as the monster lay expiring, writhing upon the point of its death, a great transformation began to take place. All the crustations: the poisons and ravages and biles seemed to bleed out of it. They shed away to leave the image of a torn man, though as once he might have been.

Around Corin and Loriandir, who now knelt to take up the dying, metamorphosing hands, swept a hurly-burly of conflict. Heedless of this, they watched whilst the shocking change completed itself, and the Dæmon became, again, unto its first being. It spoke to Loriandir, in words that Corin understood.

‘My thanks, my Love, for seeing me to my end. You thought to free me, to release me that we might be again as we were. That, in lives time, cannot be. Yet I am freed and released from this infernal husk, wherein was I imprisoned. And you are with me, all these whiles, to this finality. Look, see. I can feel myself now, as I once was. I joy, that you have this last remembrance. Go on after me, yet keep this face and form and love with you, as long as you so dwell in the world.’ The shining, pale eyes closed; and fluttered nevermore.

‘He is free at last,’ whispered Loriandir, and her sigh was that of soft rain on windswept moors. ‘Here in death lies Themion, son of Aldbirran, whom I dared to love and pursue. And in the end, after his long degeneration by Powers beyond me, have I won, and in winning, have I lost.’

For brief moments more, Corin succumbed to an aura of silent mourning, almost as if this man before him was, indeed, his own father. Long had Corin believed that to be; but ultimately, otherwise was the truth. Yet still he sorrowed for Loriandir, the Lady beside him, who wept in grief and in gladness; for Corin guessed that she was glad to witness the passing of Themion, released from the terrible bondage that had laid hold of him. Better that he die a mortal, than live, a monster.

Beyond the portals of Earth-Spine, there came a sudden trumpeting of sound; a trumpeting, or perhaps a siren wail, punctuated by the hollow screams of those swept on before it. That sound rang across the silver lakes of Chardon; rang and rebounded through the Limbus, from Earth-Spine walls, echoing within, where battle still surged. Then, after a spellbinding moment, the combat ceased. The foes of the Daræ: Nugo, Dæmons and Nithings fled in blind panic, disregarding those who stood before them, to disappear by the drove, into the depths beyond.

The uprising was over. Valandir, the Drotnar Lord, was come.

And this time the Doors of Adamant were not shut against Him. Before Him, to lake's edge, herded He the four Māādim; yoked and fettered still, by the Unbreakable Tether. Then it was that Corin saw the horse and it was Darkelfari, restored to life. Without understanding this miracle, Corin gave a shout of joy, and forgetting his wounds and pain, rose and stumbled forward.

He and Darkelfari were reunited on the shores of the Limbus, where the rough causeway joined to it.

‘I thought you were dead,’ he said, as tears sprang to his eyes.

‘That, you were meant to think Master, as were others,’ replied his dear-friend. ‘They were not to know my true fate. Not until the time was right. Your deception was needed, for if you believed, so would all.’

‘YOU WERE DECEIVED IN MANY WAYS,’ said Valandir. ‘DELUDED BY EVIL, TO AID THEM, IN THEIR EVIL QUEST. BEWITCHED TOO, BY POWERS WORKING FOR WORLD'S SALVATION. IT WAS NOT DONE IN VAIN. YOU FULFILLED YOUR MISSION, EVEN THOUGH YOU THOUGHT THAT YOU HAD FAILED. WITHOUT YOUR PURE AND INNOCENT BELIEF, I SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN FREED FROM MY ENTOMBMENT AND THESE DOORS SHOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN OPENED.

YES, POWERS OTHER THAN MINE WERE RESPONSIBLE FOR THAT. I SPEAK OF THE MORRIGI, AND TO THEM, GIVE MY THANKS. NOW SHALL I ENTER, AND WITH ME TAKE THESE FOUR, THAT HENCEFORTH THEY WILL BE MY ASSISTANTS. NOT MY AVOWED ENEMIES. THE DOORS WILL AGAIN BE CLOSED AND THIS TIME I SHALL BE WITHIN; THERE TO DWELL, AND TO RULE. THE CHOTHS WILL REMAIN BELOW, ACCORDING TO THE LAWS OF THE WORLD-WRIGHTS. YOU, AND THE REPENTANT PEOPLES WHO STAND BEFORE ME, ARE FREE TO GO. AND BE ADVISED THAT NONE OF YOU, SO LONG AS YE SHALL LIVE, MAY EVER COME TO THESE GATES AGAIN. THEY WILL NOT OPEN TO ANY, FOR I WILL BIND THEM THUSLY FROM WITHIN. FROM THIS TIME ONWARD, KLUD-ER-YAH WILL BE THE DOMAIN OF VALANDIR. AND THERE SHALL I WATCH OVER CHOTH AND MĀĀDIM ALIKE, AND THE SHADES OF THE DEAD WILL COME TO SIT IN MY HALLS. NOW IT IS TIME FOR ALL TO DEPART. TO YOU, ONE MASTER, I GIVE BACK YOUR BLACK RAIMENT. YOU HAVE EARNED THE RIGHT TO WEAR SUCH. ALSO, I GIVE BACK THIS RING; THE RING OF ENDURING GRACE. THOUGH IT IS NOT IN THE FORM YOU LAST KNEW IT. STILL, IT WILL BE A BOON TO YOU.’

Trembling, Corin took the items from Valandir's hand.

And then, the Drotnar said, ‘MAKE HASTE OVER THE CAUSEWAY, FOR CHARDON AWAITS. HE WILL SOON THROW DOWN THOSE STONES, AND ONCE AGAIN THE PASSAGE OF THE DEAD WILL BE HIS PROVINCE.’

The Drotnar Lord began to ride forward, drawing the Māādim with Him, but Corin, disbelieving, shouted, ‘What of Darkelfari? Is he not to live and breath again in the world?’

Valandir halted. But it was Darkelfari, who answered.

‘Nay Master. My time in the world is over. It was over once we passed into Earth-Eye, though until then, I knew it not. For, in truth, did I pass from the realm of the living. Lord Valandir restored me, to do His work. Now I go whither I must. I will serve Him, and serve Him well. Do not be aggrieved. In all of the world above, I had but One Master, whom I loved, and still love. Remember, and think of me as I shall remember, and think of you. And if your heartache you would ease, seek in the world for my sire Shar-Pædon. If he still lives, he will comfort you. Look for him in the wild forests which are his haunts. The time is come for last farewells. Our roads together are ended.’

Corin stroked the gentle muzzle, and the horse snuffled into his hand. Then Darkelfari turned away and trotted through the open Doors, bearing Valandir the Drotnar upon his fine back. Brushing the tears from his eyes, Corin watched whilst the Portals of Adamant slowly closed at the World Lord's bidding, there to be sealed, forever. The last Corin heard was the plaintive howl of the She-Wolf, Māādim Sköl.

‘Come now, we must hurry,’ said Loriandir, brushing her tears aside and smoothing her filmy raiment. ‘Nothing more can avail us here. The events of Earth-Spine are finished. We need make our way out into the wide world.’ She took his hand, and gave into it the transfigured staff and the Targe of Leeanan. ‘You will have use for these, I deem.’

‘Yes,’ said the wolf Bozkirt, ‘for still you have a work to do; a further part to play, if you so accept it, ere you find rest and peace. But of that, there is not time to dwell. Quickly, across the causeway.’

And so Corin, Loriandir, Moth, Wolf, Toad and Daw, hastened over the bridge of Māādim's making. And behind, followed the Black Elves, bearing the bodies of their dead ones; but not the shades of these, for they had already fled within. Only once did Corin turn to look back. The Limbus lay in darkness, but on the lakes where dimness hovered, the Barge of Chardon silently trolled.

 

As they passed up the long roads of Stone-Bone, Næglind blossomed into light and the way was made clear to them. And it was seen that many pale shades flitted by, hurrying down to Chardon's realm, there to enter Earth-Heart. For now, even though none living could transgress the forbidden Doors, the dead alone were permitted entrance once again. Corin, tired and withdrawn, made no attempt to speak or seek further answers; his mind seemed numbed with grief and shock. And too many were the faces that he recognised as the Shades flooded around him. Only vaguely did he notice when Bozkirt, carrying Moth, Toad and Daw, loped into the distance ahead toward the far-off opening of Earth-Mouth and the surface.

 

At the surface on the Plain of Aileen the toil of the aftermath, the heart-rend and deep sorrow were easing due, in part, to the labours of each creature, each single individual working with a common bond, the bond of mourning for lost and loved that, for a time, made them selfless and compassionate one to another; folk helping folk, race aiding race. And from this united effort were they drawn close in camaraderie, for at such upheaval peoples lumped together through conflagration and devastation feel a need for each other in their hardship that seldom manifests at any other time. The second thing that kept them allied, aware and protective, was fear. Since none, not even the wisest, could predict future events after the turmoil they had, so recently, experienced. The world of Varlar, stretching in every direction, had become as an alien world to them; an arid, desolate waste filled with dangers and perils and the ghosts of lands, deserted and forsaken. They knew that enemies, in uncountable numbers, lurked those wild lands; maybe even haunted the ruins that were habitations, not long before, of those forced to abandon them. And collectively they were cowed, for those who had seen the rising of the World Serpent and lived to tell of it, could not otherwise be.

 

Thus, out into this mid-morn of day upon Aileen, loped Bozkirt Wolf, the three familiar companions clinging to his shaggy back.

The Elven watch at Earth-Mouth sounded their horns in alarm and soon those esteemed high and wisest of the allied races, were summoned to that very place.

When these were so gathered, Bozkirt spake unto them. ‘Free Folk of Varlar,’ he said. And many there, were amazed at this speech of a wild wolf. ‘It is known to us that Valandir the Drotnar Lord has passed amongst you. It is known to us, all the events of His passing. Known also, that you await a sign, ere you be guided further. That sign is nigh. Heed my companions and me, and be so guided.’

There followed a momentary silence. Then a clamour of voices: questing voices, eager voices, suspicious voices.

‘Who are these creatures?’

‘Shall we believe the mouth of a wolf?’

‘Are they truly our sign?’

‘How can we know, or be sure? This may be a trick, a plot of evil!’

But He´Remon the Wizard stood forth saying, ‘Nay, nay! Heed this wolf. Valandir, that Great One, warned ye to be on the ready. It would be foolhardy to ignore those words.’

Then many-raised were the querulous tongues, until Silval Birdwing be-stilled them. ‘Wait, wait !’ cried he. ‘I have heard tell of these four from Corin Avarhli's own lips. And though he, mayhap, was bewitched by them, it is to our need to listen at the least. Since after all, the Jackdaw has been portent to Corin many times over. If the bird was evil, surely he would have suffered by now.’

But others, less abiding, flung back, ‘Has Corin suffered, or even survived? That we know not for certain. How can we trust these creatures when all about awaits evil, to snatch us up!’

At this, Silval could find no firm answer. Yet all were soon shown an emanation of the power confronting them. For a fraction of time, the air appeared to grow cloudy; a mist whirled about the assembled so that even Silval and those close by him were enveloped, blinded. Then, it cleared. And before them, they glimpsed the forms of the four: the Girl-child, the youthful Maiden, the homely-Woman and the old Carling. But only for an instant. The vapours swirled and then all was transformed as before. There again were Wolf, Toad, Moth and Daw. In a further heartbeat the bird took flight and the Moth too, fluttered skyward.

‘Ye doubters are wise to be so inclined,’ said the Toad Bufo, croaking as he pitched his voice. ‘You are right to be cautious, but you are wrong in the long-run. Doubt, if you will, our words that all is well again in Earth-Heart, that the World-Lord has sought His realm there and set to rights the undoings. Doubt, if you will that Corin Avarhli, the One Master, even now labours back to world's surface after service none of ye could yet perceive. Doubt each and everything that we tell you. Still, heed this much, trust your own eyes. We are not your mentors, merely are we indicators to follow, or not. We cannot make you do anything, for you own Free-Will, a precious gift. You shall find sure sign without our aid. Take it up, grasp it swift, for time of Varlar is running out. Heed us when you do. Seek the Taiga. Far to the north and east, will you come there. Hidden by enthralling mountains, lies that wooded way: high and safe, that valley in solitude. Not forgotten by the world, since it has only been found by scant few, before this time. At haste need you travel, for the World Serpent has risen and Varlar's end is inevitable. Seek beyond the land of Rî-mer-Rī, east and north, and take with you all the precious; each creature you hold dear that walks, crawls, creeps and flys.’

Bozkirt the wolf nodded. ‘The Toad speaks with a truthful tongue. Look not to us for portent or augur. Look to the sky and see for yourselves with unmisted eyes.’

As the rumour of the wolf's words circulated, the assembled thousands turned to the void above and they saw there Moth, twinkling grey in the blueness and above, Daw beating into the south. And as they followed the bird, so fell their gaze seaward. And so, came their sign. For in the ocean, that heaving, terrible abode of World Serpent, now hove craft of Elven design, and of the foremost was the Dolphin ship of Aneurin Foamhair.

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