Varlarsaga Volume 3 - Consolation

Chapter 70 - In Search of the Taiga

Scattered to the winds of the east, sailed, flew, rode and walked the peoples and the creatures of the Free, who had once inhabited much of the vastness that was the North World and indeed, the seas and the lands far beyond its encircling shores. Now, in a single-purposed migration, all those refugees passed out of the west and south, bound for a destination unknown to them; guided on the ocean by a single bird, Billi Jackdaw, and on land by the frailest of creatures, Moth. These, two of the four mysterious Morrigi.

The wide seas that ran from the coasts of Aileen down to the bleak stones of Rīon-Cion and by Vanora Lindo with its fallen tower, Tom-Arnya-Ortha crumbled to rubble, and on through the strait that separated the now deserted island of Ravenmoor from the greater land-mass where lay the ruins of White-Bridge beneath the foaming waves, carried the flotillas of the elves upon flowing, heaving breasts.

Swiftly sped those waters and the flood of craft on them. Of the foremost ran Aneurin Foamhair's Dolphin ship and there aboard was he, in company with his Lady Alluin and her mother Goldal who was again risen amongst her peoples. With them sailed Belda of Ravenmoor and her cousin Nalda, both of whom had grown close to the Elvish Queen during the perils of those past times. And in their care was young Bartram, wounded and mourning for his dead father Quillet.

The following craft in the wake of the Dolphin ship were captained by Foamhair's best: Cinco, cruel-hurt but yet able, Mathegan, Gwylan, Ælroth, Lorica and Oloris, Lyanor and a stalwart of the sea-elves, Sirenpowet. These led the armada following Aneurin, as he followed the night-fleeting shape of a lone bird, picked out by elvish sight, against the stars.

 

On land, the Peoples were wide strewn; spread from the southern margins of the cliffs, deep into the northern emptiness of deserted wastes. They trod the rocky stones, the grey slopes, the dun paths. They passed the empty lakes where now no birds gathered at sunset. They came to the wet lands of Alder-Carr. They rode through the solitude of Indlebloom vale. They were many, but many less than when they first came to Earth-Mouth beneath the stark peaks of the Ramabad, home of the Zwerge. And if they knew, or knew it not, they were dogged by scavengers: curs and wastrels, footpads and carrion-seekers, and by the scatterings of their enemies, the goblins.

They, were Dwarf and Pecht and Pent, Elf and Man, Booca and all bird and animal creatures; both wild and tamed. And rolling with them, shadowing at distance, unseen but ever there, were the wary, wily Stone-Gnomes, rock-like, granite-hard; Shepherds of Earth's bones.

 

Menkeepir, leading these many-varied multitudes, was fraught with concerns and doubts. Advisers had he and wise words from the elves who travelled with him, yet his heart was heavy with foreboding. Somewhere in the deeps of his mind, he sensed that the doom to which he had been born was being played out. If there was such a thing as fated destiny, Menkeepir felt that his was nigh. Here had come his great test; the keeping of these peoples, in spite of and no matter what should befall them on that long trek, until such time as they reached safe haven. It was his to do alone, no matter how far, or how long, or through whatever danger. Beyond that Menkeepir, eldest lord of Orenburg and the empty lands that were now Indlebloom, could see no further.

His brother Mendor, observed his broodings, as did Minca and Orsokon. For after all, they were of Men, and perceived the emotions of Men. ‘He is too pale, too deeply gathered within himself,’ said Mendor. ‘I do not like this strangeness that has overcome him.’

‘Aye, fey he seems to me,’ agreed Minca. ‘As if he be possessed by obsession or, maybe, weighted heavy with responsibility.’

The Wanax Orsokon nodded gravely. ‘I deem he fears the heft of his burden and, as the stone itself can be broken, so may a man; if he be toiled and tortured beyond endurance.’

‘True words, O Wanax,’ returned Mendor. ‘And you know this well for you, as we, have lost much.’

‘Much,’ said the Wanax, ‘but not all. I still have my people here, and far off my wife and son. They will sustain me.’

‘That is my very point,’ said Mendor. ‘My brother has lost, as you have. But he has no wife nor child, only the people for whom he cares. With all his bearing, his simple, honest courage, his earnest will to fulfil a path set out for him since swaddling days, he is but a frail man. Alike is he in many ways to our younger brother Mysingir, at least in this much; he would be true to himself, without stint, even though the road be bitter and the end be sorrowful.’ Mendor turned to them, and his scarred face was saddened. ‘I look into Menkeepir's eyes. And I see road's end.’

Those about him fell silent then and rode on. Each of them thought their own thoughts. Perhaps the depths of their minds were opened; Orsokon to dwell upon the visions of his lost realm and the hope of seeing his loved-ones again. Mendor pondering the very words that had sprung from his lips and the resolve, the new strength that he need summon forth to aid the man alone that rode before him. Minca, Lorda of Dorthillion, to watch over her love Mendor and feel his concern and to exalt somewhat that he seemed a little less hostile to her. Yet to fret at their parting, for soon her duties would call her northward, through the passes of the Mirthin Mountains to Erilar, where Mysingir and the remainder of her subjects might still await. She guessed that Mendor would not follow her for, though he loved Mysingir, his allegiance was now, more than ever, to Menkeepir. But she had put off that parting until the last, hoping against hope that it might be otherwise.

Meanwhile there were others, leaders and lordly, disposed to the wants and the tasks set them in the shepherding of their own flocks: King Ordrick with his loyal followers, Beald the Bold, Cadogan, Derwood, Izod the Fair and now Branikin Goosie, whom Ordrick had seen fit to raise up as spokesman of the simple folk. Dour, dark-skinned, dark-browed Possum Wollert, herding on the remnant of his people from over-sea, trusting blindly to the over-lordship of Menkeepir. Silval and Elvra riding astride Cornarian, together with the high of Elf-dom: Darion, Bel-Thalion and Nivri-Allon, Fleta, Cinglor, Inarion, Andarion, Inar and Sī-An. Dalfin Farinmail of Zwergekin, marching stolidly but swift. Glōri, his Het-dwarf, Grig and Strel-yat, flanking him. A shock of running pents, flooding along with the Pixies of Clovell. Dalen Lêfa, clutching Bim the cat, hurrying with them. All the animals, the birds and creatures that would come; flying, crawling, springing, plodding, loping. Amidst which, came the Booca; the Brownies, bearing hive and nest, fodder and comfort. Rosac and Rosida, softly, gently urging them on.

And behind all, stamping along glaring this way and that, brandishing the Stone-basher, that familiar club, was the Ogre Brôga. Upon him were scars and cuts in number and he limped a little. The Elves had done their best to heal the unruly fellow, but Brôga had found such ministrations irksome and had accepted only the dry-licking of Bim to salve his wounds. Often the Ogre would stride amongst Pechts and Pents, to lift both Dalen and Bim, setting them aloft his steaming shoulders until he sniffed some new danger. Then he would put them down so that he might drop back to the rear, there to pad across the blacklands, growling defiant, hungry for prey, for blood-wine, perhaps even for rest; since Brôga, unlike others of his kind, had sampled the good life, had been touched by fate's hand and, deep within his brutish mind, he conjured images of viands and liquor and the comforts given by befriending folk.

Yes, there were those in vast number who desired rest and respite from hardship and loss and labour of battle. Many who had seen an end of loved ones, loved lands, and the dear ways of life that now were gone forever. The world left to them was in throe of change, perhaps even unto ending. And those on it trailed along, almost as instinctively as the wandering herds during the turning of the seasons.

Amidst them, carried in the surrounding throng, but quite alone, went the Daræ Lady Talisar; she who had given her heart to Corin. And she went all the while, weeping silently; for she knew them sundered. She knew as surely as the sun rolled eastward, whence their steps ever trod, that she and he would not set eyes, nor hold or speak, nor take food and wine together, again.

 

The blush of day rushed over all, and was gone into night. Stars winked on the horizon toward which the people had set their sight. The moon rose into the turning sky, as onward they picked their way.

All too soon the road toward the Mirthin Mountains loomed and Minca, Lorda of Dorthillion, prepared to say her farewells. With her, were to go her own folk and the Elves of the Mayhenyodaro. For Bel-Thalion and Nivri-Allon were wont to look upon their own, abandoned lands a last time. And with them, were  Talisar and Brôga; for the Ogre had formed an affection toward Mysingir and chose to go that way, on chance of finding him.

‘So now it is time to say goodbye,’ muttered Mendor, in his gruff fashion. He and Minca stood together, a distance apart from the flames of torches and those who awaited the leave-taking. ‘May the night protect you and those I send, Lastardir and Erlscoth, to travel with you on your journey. And may not Erilar lie in ruins at your coming.’

Minca laughed, gaily and hopelessly. ‘My lands! Hey! If they do not lie in ruins, it is soon they shall. I go to gather any left behind if they still be there; your young balladier Brother included. But fear not, as soon as I collect them I will be slot-hound on your tracks.’

‘Take care,’ said Mendor. And unexpectedly, he took her hand in his. ‘I would go with you, for reasons of my own. Though you see, I cannot. Menkeepir goes his way, his driven way, and I must ride behind him, for his sake. And for the sake of those who would follow in his wake. If he should falter... Yet he will not. I shall account for that, even though Mysingir and those with you perish. Still, if that were to be, a greater part of me would perish too. And I should never be whole again.’

‘Your brother Mysingir means that much to you?’ Minca said this, both flippant and questing.

‘Yes, he does,’ Mendor nodded, sighing. ‘So do each and everyone with him. And those here, riding into the unknown.’ He drew his leathern gauntlet across that familiar scar, now scarlet lit by blazing faggot. ‘But I speak, in truth, of you.’

Minca's heart surged. ‘Hey, want you more cut from my tongue?’ She said this without barb, a softness creeping into her voice.

‘I want,’ and here Mendor paused a length, ‘I want a thing which, which I feel is somehow seeding between us both. Perhaps it is friendship, perhaps more.’ He rubbed his eyes as if tired or confused. ‘I may be mistaken. You tell me. Can we forget enmity now, when what we owned: lands, towns, villages, Lord-doms, what was ours once, is going or gone a'ready. Is there a chance to start again? Is there a way left, albeit for a short time, to think and act for one's self amid so many overwhelming events? Could you bring yourself to think of me, even though there are and were others: my Brother Mysingir, Rohilkhand, all the suitors that beset you in time by?’

Minca curled her hand further into his. ‘Aye, I can think of you. I do. And I tell you this, oh scarred-one; I have thought of you, long. I will say no more now. Take hold of me a moment and kiss my lips, if that is what you feel to do.’

He took her and held her, man to woman; kissed her long, then looked deep into her eyes. ‘Well,’ Mendor whispered, ‘for cat and dog, we have had our moment.’

‘And our moment is passed,’ she sighed, entwined in his arms. Then, throwing off his embrace, she laughed. ‘Hey! Here we go! Go on. I will be gone and back soon-time. Mark your trail well. Do not fret. I'll catch you up! With me, I'll bring your brother, if he be there. Do what you have to do. And do not forget your words this night.’ She turned, took her horse and made away into the evening; the sound of elf-bells ringing about her.

 

Mendor stood alone a moment, subdued for once in his life, the swell of some new emotion welling in his breast. Then he too, turned away. Back he stepped to the duties of that night. Back to those who needed his strength; back to Menkeepir, whose will and courage remained stout, though his mind and body seemed drained and flagging.

Mendor came to him, bearing vessels of heart-cheering broth. ‘Here, take this Brother. May it warm you well. Do drink it up. Short time for rest and sleep, then must we be on our road again.’

‘I know this,’ Menkeepir replied and his voice held in it a dreamy quality. ‘I have been watching, and speaking with the Moth. Strange. So strange, this time that has come upon us. Here we are, at the end of everything we once were sure of. Our homes are gone, emptied. Faces that we, not long ago, nodded to in the streets of Mendoth city, all gone. Our lives are changed and we are changed.’ Menkeepir held up the bowl of steaming liquid between them and a shadow was cast that concealed his eyes, but not his anguish. ‘O Brother, I am uncertain and afraid. Is this what I wanted? Is this the way to fulfilment of prophesy? Am I, will I, be strong enough? Or should I, we, have taken another road?’

Mendor lifted his bowl. ‘I guess that there are many roads; most lead to nought. I say to you, my Brother-Lord, that we have been carried along some ways. But now you have it still within your sway, even now. The ruins of Mendoth city upon the Orenburg, lie north but a short ride. If you say on, I will turn aside with you and we will come there and refortify our old stronghold.’

Longingly, turned Menkeepir's gaze, toward the home on the hill that had been theirs since birth, and he yearned for those well-known ways. But he shook his head, dour now, though not nearly at peace. ‘It is too late,’ he said. ‘Late night. Far late all ways. What is passed, have done with. We cannot go back. We cannot go back. It is late. We must go on. We must follow the Moth.’ The frail warrior, the man beneath the armour, gave his cup into his brother's hand. ‘Be at the ready, and see that those who will follow be so disposed. For soon must we move. The Moth and I, deem it time.’

And for that one moment, they stood toe to toe, Brother and Brother; the strong and the weak of men. Yet who could tell them apart?

 

By the grey mourning of the night, and the grey morning of the day, they made ready to pass away into the east, over the Icnaldir Chain where these earth's peoples would never again set foot to, nor eye upon.

Moth came a last time to Menkeepir; spoke to him, clinging to his helmed brow, then fluttered into the dawn and vanished.

 

The mighty gathering of peoples and animal kindreds travelled through the days that followed, working east and north. Over the rising mountains into vast and lonely forests where trees lay cut, shorn, hewn and burnt; the mark of the invader, they made their laboured way. They moved in long, stepped-out train; a far-flung caravan of refugees seeking a destination, known only to the Lord Menkeepir. Moth was gone. The precious path; the way to the Taiga, Menkeepir alone, could tell.

Mendor, worried and baffled by his brother's sombre silence, spoke at length with him. ‘What is this, chid-kin, that draws you out so? Can you not relieve your burden and let me take some hold of it?’

‘Nay,’ said Menkeepir. ‘It is my burden, to cherish and to bear alone. I have been told, at long last, my direction. I will see it through. The glory that I once thought I should feel; the elation, is but an empty husk. There is no glory. Only the completion of the task.’ His eyes appeared starry, misted; and there was a fervour in his words. ‘Do not look for Moth again. She is gone and will not return on this journey. But I have been told. What is to come, will be, Brother; so long as none leave the road. Be steadfast. Hold to your belief in me. I shall not falter in that which was set me to do. Though, be warned; danger is forecast. Ere we go too much further, you will have work enough. Work that you and the Lords with us can do, that I cannot. Look to that work, and protect me. My road is clear and you must keep it so. Only in this way may I bring my burden and Men's salvation to right conclusion.’

 

A day later, a dragon was sighted flying west, high up amongst the wreaths of cloud.

To the joy of those below, particularly the far-sighted Elloræ, it was identified as Sgnarli. And upon his broad-scaled back bore he some out of the east. There came Falnir the elf and his love Amqa, and the man Bayondir of Mendoth and with them, at the forefront between the dragon's ears, was Pitrag the imp. Soon, spying all that convocation, Sgnarli began circling down; landing, with a rush of wings, in a wide clearing. Much was said then and quickly, whilst Falnir embraced his loved kin and Bayondir greeted countrymen he hardly dared believe might still live. Yet there was grief also, for the two were told of the terrible losses suffered by their respective peoples.

After both had recovered somewhat, Falnir related events befallen them since their desperate flight from Aileen Plain. The dragon had needed much rest, weakened as he was, and often they were forced to land, seeking refuge where they could. They had been driven far from Dorthillion and did not come there, to warn those peoples of what had befallen. The skies were plied by many evils, and often the dragon riders were in fear for their lives.

Thus, it had taken a deal longer to complete the distance to Rî-mer-Rī. Once there, Sgnarli was allowed respite enough to recover. And after a time of waiting and hoping, during which Qwilla had prepared her folk to depart their cherished borders, the four had voyaged forth again in the faint hope of finding survivors; or at the very least, to come to those at Erilar in Dorthillion, there to seek Mysingir and the folk who had not ridden to war.

‘That is what needs be done now and straightway,’ said Menkeepir, at Falnir's conclusion.

‘If the dragon can do it,’ wondered Mendor, doubtfully. Though, for his own reasons, he dearly desired that the dragon might.

‘Perhaps,’ suggested Silval, ‘it would be best for Bayondir to remain here, to lighten the load. Elves could take his place, since we have not the weight of men.’

Menkeepir nodded. ‘That is true enough. Who would you then send?’

The elf thought a moment. ‘Best I go myself, for I will not ask others to fly into further danger that way.’

‘Maybe you will not ask, but I shall go with you, anyroad,’ said Elvra, at his side.

Silval took her hand in his. ‘I would have you with me always,’ he smiled.

‘And you have my sword,’ cried Darion of Veleth.

‘And mine,’ said Cinglor, boldly stepping forward.

‘So it shall be then,’ Silval agreed. ‘Now no more will go on this journey into danger. Enough are we six for all purposes.’

Yet the elf-maid Amqa would not be so easily parted from Falnir again and after much pleading, Silval bade it so; though with stern caution. ‘The direction that we riders of the dragon take, will bring us into peril anew that we know little or nothing of. It would be foolish to think otherwise. Be sure that we cannot allow the love of any for another, so to endanger us all.’ He bowed to Menkeepir. ‘Our peoples of the Elloræ are now guided by you, Lord of Men. Take them safe and surely.’

Menkeepir, in return, knelt before the gathered. ‘It is my pledge that so long as I live, this thing shall be done.’ Rising, he said, ‘Our destination now is Rî-mer-Rī. All being well, the ships of your Sea-Master Aneurin, will arrive along that coast. From there, we march again north-east. That way lies the Taiga. I can say no more, it is forbidden that I do. Yet tell any whom you may meet, that only there will they come out of harm's way; only there lies haven from the storm.’

 

So it was that Silval's party took away, gliding westward on Sgnarli's wearied wings, into the very teeth of the unknown.

Those left standing on the ravaged earth watched them go, their hearts and hopes flying with that wild, fearsome creature and the seven that he bore.

‘May they seek out Brother Mysingir and Minca this time,’ breathed Mendor softly.

‘Aye,’ said Menkeepir, overhearing that prayer. ‘And may they bid them hasten after us with all speed. For both those now are our loved ones.’

Mendor looked sideways at his elder brother in some surprise, but the other merely smiled a wan smile, mounted his roan and rode on.

 

Well fated was it that Silval chose to take the dragon the way of Indlebloom Vale and thence across the Mirthin Mountains, searching all the while for sign of men or elves, over two days. Had he not done so none would have known of the dark forces pursuing until too late. From high upon their airy vantage, the elves espied those foe; very many of them. Some following the trail of Menkeepir's vast flock, whilst others had turned aside, tracking Minca and those riding with her, for Erilar.

‘What should we do for the best?’ Elvra cried, above the sound of wing-beat.

‘We cannot turn back to warn Menkeepir,’ replied Silval. ‘In any event, he is well aware that danger barks at his heels. Nay, we must seek the elves of Bel-Thalion, those left at least, and the woman-lord Minca. Elsewise the Nugobluk will fall upon them and there will be much slaughter. Worse, the pass across the mountains might be closed, ambush laid, and all folk perish, striving to return that way!’

So the elves beat their course north-west, rising over the grim, snow-drifted peaks of the Mirthin. There, within the narrow defiles of those high ways, they saw the winding lines of Minca's folk and the Nolvæ of Bel-Thalion. And, in frustration, they realised that a landing could not be made; for the Mirthin was pinnacle-sharp, like the quills of a hedge-hog, and the ways between too narrow for dragon descent.

Onward they flew, Sgnarli blowing hard; the re-made plates of his hide squeaking in the chill air. They knew that the dragon was failing, his strength giving out, but still they drove on. Whether those below had glimpsed them, Silval and his company could not tell. All they could do, was to cross over the bastion mounts and land upon the furthest side. There, amidst lofty pines and rolling hills, came they; Sgnarli gliding down, so near exhaustion that he was unable to draw in his enfeebled wings. The sun shone brightly on the open glade where they alighted. The wind crept through the trees, but no bird-song was there to be heard, not even by the perceptive ears of the elves.

‘It is no use,’ whispered Falnir, as he watched Pitrag scamper aimlessly about the dragon's fluted snout. ‘The ymp clearly cares for his Har-Tân, but can do nothing to aid him. Sgnarli must rest, or he may never fly again.’

‘I see this,’ said Silval, deep in thought. ‘And I see that we should, of need, split our company. Some of us to climb the uplands and await Minca's coming. The others must go down into Dorthillion and thence to Erilar, there to bring word of what has happ'ed.’

‘Which of us, do you say?’ Cinglor called from aloft his tree look-out.

‘Elvra and myself, to Bel-Thalion and Minca. Falnir, Amqa and Pitrag to stay here with the dragon.’

Darion smiled. ‘So it be. Cinglor and I shall away to this hold of men.’

‘Yes,’ nodded Silval, bow in hand, ready to set forth. ‘You saw the road yonder. Follow it to Erilar, whence it surely leads. And do not get yourselves killed as spies. Apart from the Lord Mysingir, none of the others may ever have had truck with elves before. Unknown folk are enemies at sight.’

‘Do not fear,’ Cinglor said, dropping lightly from his leafy roost, ‘we will be on guard. After all...’ He ceased in mid sentence as Amqa whistled, thrush-like, from her bough above.

‘We may have no need to find men,’ she softly breathed, slipping silently down to join them. ‘See there, where the road rounds the curve of that hill.’ She pointed away northward to a winding ribbon, framed by greenery.

Sure enough, there were riders on that path and at the foremost, a figure, steeled and armed for war, astride a blue roan; his helm thrown open, revealing his features.

‘Mysingir!’ cried Silval, with certainty. ‘This alters our plans somewhat, yet far for the better. It will be best if Elvra and I meet them now, for Mysingir doth know us well enough. In the meantime you Cinglor and you Lord Darion, must hasten to the mountain gates, there to come upon Bel-Thalion and Minca. Haste now, I pray you. Life or death may be the price of your fleet feet!’

Off they fled, all those sure-swift elven feet; some toward the looming heights, some to the dale below. Behind them, left they the lovers Falnir and Amqa and the imp Pitrag, fretting around the dragon like a mother-hen attending her chicks.

 

Down in the valley, Silval hailed the riders to stand-still. He and Elvra took up the path at a place where the high-road ran straight, a long pace. There, they stepped out of the trees and stood ground, giving those oncoming a good look at them. The hithermost group of men halted those behind, and after a few moments several rode forward. At a hundred paces, Mysingir alone came on at a canter.

There, the three were met once again. The youngest Lord of Indlebloom shook off his mailed-glove and leaned down to them. The elves reached up and both took his bare hand and held it. They looked a time into Mysingir's eyes, at his face, at the scars and pit-marks that crisscrossed it and were suddenly made aware of his many sufferings.

Elves are not Men, nor Men Elves. Men know ought of Elves. But Elves, if they wish, may perceive the joys or hurts of Men, and sometimes react in ways inexplicable. In other circumstances, the good or ill of a man would have meant little to them; thus it seems often to Men, that Elves are open to whim, and are contrite and capricious. Yet Elves too, are bound to the earth by some laws, and even they must abide. At this time, both Silval and Elvra were genuinely aggrieved for Mysingir, since it was plain that he had endured much distress.

Swaying a little, Mysingir looked down at them; his hair, slow-growing and grey now, drooped over his battered forehead. ‘O elves,’ he said, ‘It cannot be a dream. We are truly met on this road. But I do not know how or why. I, we, the folk of Erilar, come this way to guard the pass of Mirthin. We are the relief for those who watch that doorway into Dorthillion. What news bring you? Tell me swiftly. For none has come our way. No word, no bird. No pinch, since my Brothers left the table. I have good men with me, and men afore; up there in the mountains, awaiting rest. Tell me, Silval Birdwing, or you Elvra Huntress-maid, where am I? What should I do, lest my head falls into the basket?’

Then it was that Silval recalled that Mysingir was not whole of mind, and now had slipped back, wandering again as he had before. Yet it seemed that he was fighting, struggling to maintain every moment of sanity, to hold on; to clutch the draining bits of logic with fingernails that slid, scratching, catching, down the long, vertical wall into mindlessness.

Elvra, holding still that brave and disfigured hand, said, ‘We bring the basket. And lo! It is not needed. Your head holds well upon your shoulders Lord of Indlebloom. Spend you a moment and think back through all your trials. You know us, You know our names. Perhaps the name of Corin will mean a something to you?’

Mysingir's eyes seemed to wander and then, as if a mist was clearing before them, he slowly nodded. ‘Many tables,’ he murmured. ‘Many cats who cry out for milk.’ His eyes gleamed and he was, again, himself. ‘Where is Corin?’ He asked this, looking eagerly about, as if he expected Corin to appear at once.

‘That we cannot tell you, for we know not ourselves,’ replied Elvra. ‘The last we saw of him was at Earth-Mouth, a perilous place, into which he ventured. If he still lives, he is somewhere far away. But list, much has come to be since that time. And now of import is this, folk are passing hither through the Mirthin yonder: Elves and Men. We spied them as we flew on dragon wings. Minca is on her way to seek you and all her peoples. There is much urgency. Behind them, overtaking rapidly, comes a force of Nugobluk bent on their destruction. Two things need be done. Firstly we must hasten to their aid... ’

‘And secondly,’ took up Silval, ‘word should be sent back to Erilar, to those waiting. For all peoples of this realm must make ready to travel. Varlar is verged upon turmoil beyond understanding. Already it may be too late for us. But if there be hope, it is far north and east of here at a place known only to us as the Taiga. There lies the hidden haven of life, for those who might come to it.’

Mysingir leaned back in his saddle, so that he sat, tottering, but upright. ‘Minca,’ he muttered, and a faint smile played about his lips. Then, taking a deep breath, he drew the elf pair up behind him and rode back to the waiting men.

Briefly, Mysingir spoke with them, his mind again in the present. One, Berrondo, seemed inclined to argue but Mysingir would have none of this. 'Listen to me Berrondo of Erilar,’ he said. ‘You are one of three left in charge of your homelands by the Lorda Minca. Trondilag sits in the capital, holding that fortress. Tarhunta guards the Mirthin Pass. There is no time to gather and consider. Send riders to Trondilag at once. Elves do not lie. Real danger is at hand. Ready your warriors and those women, children and elders of Indlebloom; that they be prepared for a long journey. Then come with me, I beg you. Tarhunta will need every sword and bow, if we are to aid your Lady and those who travel with her!’ Without waiting an answer, Mysingir swept about, sending his roan to the gallop; and soon he was pounding up the road, Elvra and Silval clinging at his back. After a little, the sound of hooves could be heard following.

In an open space between the trees, Falnir and Amqa waved them on as they hurried by.

 

Quite near the high rises that led to the Mirthin Pass, they overtook Cinglor and Darion. Both had taken to the road-side, amidst the bracken, on hearing the approach of horses.

‘Slow, and we shall take them with us,’ cried Silval, as they came abreast. Then, with hardly a pause in the animal's stride, the pair vaulted onto its rump as it passed; carrying now five, though four were elvish slight and elvish light.

Shortly thereafter, on the verge of yawning stone through which clove a narrow road, a single figure stood forth. It was Tarhunta. Mysingir hailed him as they halted. ‘Ho now, Tarhunta!’ he shouted. ‘What news? Have any made their way through the pass?’

‘Nay, no sign,’ returned the other, gazing curiously and with no little suspicion at the strangers accompanying Mysingir.

‘These folk are elves come to aid us,’ said he, whilst the four leapt lightly down. ‘They have seen the Lorda Minca and many with her, pursued by goblins in great force. If we are to help them, we must first secure this end, so as not to allow the Nugobluk through.’

‘But we are few in number,’ protested Tarhunta, even as Berrondo and his men rode up. ‘What can we avail, if our enemies are many?’

‘This much,’ cried Mysingir, sliding painfully from the saddle, ‘we need harass the goblins with arrow-hail until our folk have ridden through. Then we must block the way somehow.’

‘Stones and boulders,’ suggested Tarhunta, doubtfully.

‘There is not time,’ called Cinglor, his ear to the hard rock of the mountainside. ‘I hear the sound of many horses coming down the pass. The pursued and the enemy are nigh!’

‘Brushwood,’ muttered Mysingir. ‘Any dry tinder, quickly! Perhaps fire will stay the goblin's onset.’

So a two-score of men, under Mysingir's instruction, began to gather what they could, whilst above, concealed in niche and cranny, the watchers of Mirthin awaited; bows taut in readiness.

Frantically they worked, eking dry timber, kindling anything that might smoke, smoulder or burn from the few trees thereabouts. Yet sooner than they could be prepared, an ominous echoing of battle calls, a resonant hammering of horse's hooves, a screel and yowl of goblins and wolves and a bellowing of ogre-voice, resounded down the steep-sided stone-ways; racing, ever racing toward them.

‘They will be upon us in moments!’ Tarhunta shouted above the din.

‘Keep at it,’ called Mysingir, struggling under a burden of wood. ‘The first to drive through will be our folk. Let us hope that when the Nugobluk come, we shall have enough for good fire.’ He turned to Silval, who had come to his aid. ‘Not much milk and many cats to feed,’ he chuckled. ‘Go on Elf. Your arrow-eye bests any here. Take your folk and ready your lithe bows.’

Silval sprang away and in a trice he and the others were readied, waiting as the commotion drew nearer.

Then, in a sudden charge that was akin to a waterfall of living things, horses and riders burst from the confines of the mountains. They poured as a tide through the granite sluice-gate, out and down into Dorthillion. Pell-mell they came, crashing, stumbling, crying, falling. Animals squealed in nostril-flared fright; life and death, all in motion. Spangling through, cartwheeling, tipping, tumbling, crushing and stamping; stampeded by force and fear behind, thundered the refugees out of Mirthin's horrendous high-roads. The hurt and wounded staggered or were dragged from the gaping mouth of the pass. And there were those, pulled across saddle and rump, already beyond help. At the rearmost, amongst the last of Men and Elves, came Minca and the Nolvæ Prince Bel-Thalion; fighting, hand to hand with their antagonists.

Goblins of every kind rushed at them. Volleys of wicked barbs flew this way and that. Wolves snapped and snarled at the legs of horses and those who dared to stand before them. It was then, as Silval sent forth his deadly shafts, that he saw far in the background, two black-garbed riders urging on the fearsome hordes. And he knew them at once for what they were, the dread Wizards from Aileen Plain.

Brôga was there too, torn and bleeding, his left arm dangling, almost useless; fighting off wolf and goblin, lumbering about, lifting the fallen from harm's way. Blows felled him, but he rose again times over, to breast the gap, dragging Erlscoth with him.

Then it was, that Mysingir called for fire. The heaped tinder was set alight, thrown and rolled into the path of those foe within the confines of that rocky way. Yet still they came. Smoke billowed, filling the mouth of the pass. The pursued, free of that place, turned, rallying. Well they did, for it was enough and more for them to hold the fierce Nugobluk, such was the impetus of their charge. Even the fire, when it took hold, could not constrain the goblins. The dense fumes caused them to waiver, but the flames were poor defence, since goblindom fears fire little and through they bounded, laughing, jeering; strange and frightening war-cries on their blue and blood-red tongues.

‘We shall not hold them this way,’ called Darion to Silval, as his shining arrow brought a Gark chieftain tumbling into the coals. ‘They will break through!’

‘I see this,’ replied Silval, grimly. ‘We must withdraw soon or be overrun.’

Mysingir, hearing that, struggled from the fray, clutching Minca by the arm. ‘What is left to do?’ he cried, his mind faltering. ‘If we retreat, there will be no halting of this flood. They will catch and cut us down; or at best, besiege Erilar until the hour of doom!’

Tarhunta shook his head uselessly. ‘I do not know. See there, they are turning the fire back upon us; reaching into it and carrying the brands forward as weapons!’

This, as they watched in horror, was true. Trolls and Goblins were gathering about the blaze, pulling off burning branches and hurling them out, so that Men and Elves were forced to withdraw.

Berrondo limped from the confusion, Bel-Thalion close at his back; the bright blade, Margaras Hunter, gleaming blood as it flashed in the Nolvæ Prince's hand. ‘We must take to horse now, if we mean to outrun them,’ shouted Berrondo, grasping at his slashed leg as he hobbled up.

‘Yes, that is all we can do here,’ cried Minca. ‘To horse, everyone! Ride for Erilar! They are too many for our hands. Quickly now, or death take us here!’

But ere they could do this thing, Silval hailed them, pointing to where the stark heights reached for the sky. ‘Look, up there! The Ogre! See him at his perch!’

And it was so.

Brôga had somehow dragged himself to a high ledge and was standing, shrouded at moments, by the billowing smoke.

‘What is he doing?’ called Tarhunta. ‘There is no loose stone, or boulder to throw down. The mountains are rock hard. The creature might just as well spit on them from up there.’

‘Fight on a little longer,’ shouted Mysingir, hope anew springing in his words.

Minca too, joined with him. ‘Hold your horses!’ she cried. ‘One last rally, Men and Elves. Hey! At them now, that the enemy not break through!’ And with her call, bewildered Men and valiant Elves stood their ground, and there would they have died.

But that did not come to pass. For Brôga, mustering his wild-beast strength, managed to grasp his stone club in both maimed paws, lifting it on high. And with one tremendous blow he struck down, finding the fault-line that he had searched for.

It would have taken men long to dislodge such, even aided with spike and sledge-hammer, but Brôga was not a man and his brute force was unmatched. The cliff edge cracked asunder at his feet. Below, the Nugobluk and their minions heard the echo of it and, in sudden fear, turned their squinty, slew-eyes upward. Behind them, the Black-Wizards whirled their jet steeds about, for they saw, on the instant, what was to come.

And come it did.

A giant slice of mountain granite sheered from the cliff-face and plummeted down in one great piece that crashed with a roar, to lodge, like some mighty wedge, upon those beneath. The very force blasted the fire to cinders that blew out, covering Men and Elves with angry sparks that flickered on a wind of destruction. On this wake came the screams and howls of those crushed and dying beneath the massive that now completely blocked Mirthin Pass.

Brôga had triumphed!

Those below, relieved from pursuit and death, raised their voices in praise to the lumbering oaf as he slowly clambered down. When he reached them, they beheld his bloodied arms; arms so weakened that he no longer bore his precious club. He had left it behind, on the shattered remains of the ledge above. He took a faltering step, then sank upon his huge hams. In all frankness, he groaned, 'Brôga-need-rest- meat-blood-wine-tired-of-cutting-up-mountains!’ After that he lapsed into silence, sullenly allowing the elves to cleanse his awful wounds. To this, both Nivri-Allon and Talisar tended, out of Elvish kindness and gratitude for his splendid feat.

Meanwhile, there was much talk between those safe-found upon Dorthillion's borders. Said Tarhunta, ‘We owe our lives to that hulking creature for a certainty. It is well. For he repays his hungry stay within our halls. But what now? The way to Indlebloom is closed, our enemies gainsayed for the moment. Yet what of us?’

‘What of us indeed?’ Lamented Berrondo. ‘Wolves at our doors, and we locked in with no way out.’

‘No way out?’ said Minca, with a shrug of her shoulders. ‘Fie, Berrondo! We are alive, are we not? That is more than could be hoped for an instant ago. We still have our wits and wiles, our horses and our hopes.’ She took Mysingir's hand, turning openly to him. ‘If you will help, with all the courage that I now perceive you make inside yourself, there is still a chance.’

Mysingir hugged her to him and as he did so, whispered, ‘If there be a chance, I am with you. I love you Minca. Love you enough to see you back with Mendor, if he yet lives. For I know, I have known ever since your departure, that you love him. That is right, I think.’ He raised her upon his own horse and with some effort, climbed behind the Lorda.

She drew his arms around her, gently placing his hands to the reins. ‘I know now, dear Singer, that it was never true; I thought you weak. But you are strong. Strong enough to see and understand my stupid whims of past times, and my honest love toward your Brother. For such it is.’ Then Minca bowed her head a moment, as if summoning strength. Lifting her face to those who awaited, she went on, ‘Hey! I will show you a way out! It was told me by Wolfian, my Father, Lord of Dorthillion, when I was but a little girl. There is a wild path, if it still be there, through the deep marshes of our eastern borders; the Mersclond. None have gone there that I know of, since my Father's death. But I have, long years ago. Maybe, with Elves to guide us, we can still find the passage. It will take craft and care, yet it is our only chance.’

Bel-Thalion stood forth, leading his Lady, Nivri-Allon, her gown all bespattered with the ogre's blood. ‘We have scant telling of your furthest lands that way,’ he said. ‘Still, if that is where we must tread, you have our aid in this. And mutual is the benefit, for your folk, and mine.’

Mysingir bent his life-scarred eyes to Silval. ‘What say you, dear Corin-friend? Will you and yours come with us?’

Silval, his arm about Elvra, Cinco and Darion at their side, said, ‘We cannot travel your road. The dragon lies resting yonder. Falnir, Amqa and Pitrag await there. If we can still fly upon Sgnarli's wings, there is yet a thing that we must do. For us, it is goodbye; as Men would say. Go in search of the Taiga, and go swiftly and wary. Perhaps we will not meet again. But here, Men and Elves were never united the grander. Truly do I say that though we have been, and may be, estranged, we Elves in our own way, love you and cherish you. And mourn for you; your short-lived lives, your shortcomings, your follies. And we envy your bounty and beauty, and death. And your courage, when hope is gone.’

 

The men, Bel-Thalion's Nolvæ folk and the Ogre made away, down the long road that led to the peoples who, apprehensive, awaited news in far off Erilar.

‘Goodbye and farewell,’ whispered the four, as they waved the parting.

‘And now! said Silval, ‘let us make our way back to the dragon. All seems halted here. If any surviving Nugobluk attempt to scale this stone, it will be long before they come to Erilar. Too late, I deem, to cause havoc in a deserted land.’

‘Where are we bound then?’ Cinglor asked, as he salvaged strewn arrows from the battle-place.

‘Nowhere for a little,’ replied Silval. ‘We will wait until Sgnarli is as best recovered as he can be. In the meantime he must be fed and cared for, since he is our chariot. Without the dragon, we are lost in a lost land.’

‘You gamble much on the creature,’ whispered Elvra, leaning against Silval as they walked.

‘Aye, my loved one. That is true,’ Silval sighed. ‘We need him desperately, now there are no horses to be had.’ He gathered the Huntress into his arms and carried her onward, since she was much weakened by her slow-healing wound. ‘And there is yet another part for us to play,’ Silval continued, ‘I desire that we first fly into the west, for I would see for myself that which has come to pass at Earth-Mouth. Maybe it is that Corin has survived. I am pledged to him as you are, and I shall have no rest till that is done. After that, whatever we find, we too must search the wide lands, for the hidden Taiga.’

Chapter 71 [next]