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Varlarsaga Volume 3 - Consolation
Chapter 71 - Against the Nine
‘So I am the son of mortal folk. An unwanted waif, left abandoned in
the wastes. Who my parents were, I shall never know. Perhaps, somewhere
I have passed them, smiled at them. Maybe, even spoken a word with
them. And for a time, I thought that I was the son of a King. Then, the
son of a Man and a Fane Princess. And both were not so. Still I have
been far and seen more than most are allowed. And I have dared grave
and secret perils, dangers that I cannot fully understand. Perhaps I
was used like a plaything. But the ends were of great import. I do not
mind that so much. Not now. Not when I can look back to where those
events were leading. Yet I am still puzzled over many things. There are
too many strings to the bow of mystery. And I am but a single arrow
that knows ought of its mark. Ah me! Look at the night sky. How
beautiful it is, how unfathomable. It is like a mighty carpet, strewn
with gems. It is deeper than the rolling oceans. Higher than the
loftiest mountains. Vaster than Varlar itself. And I am a speck of
life's dust upon Varlar's skin. I have been privileged to breath, to
see, to walk through strange paths. My life has not been in vain. Nor
will be my death...’
Corin sat thus, musing aloud, alone; bent upon a huge, flat stone. His
hood was drawn about his face; the flowing, black drapery merging with
shadow. The moon was up and clouds moved, fleeting across its face, as
if racing by. Words of a song of long ago came to him and he sang them
without falter, without a trace of memory from whence he had heard
them. The words happened, as it were, at once fresh and new and ancient
in his mind.
‘When the fire burns away at the break of day, when the sun comes over
the wall; then I look outside, in the autumn-tide, at the gold-coloured
leaves of fall.
Oh the cock crows loud and the ox, dark-browed, stumps a hoof on the
flags in the yard.
And my wit weaves a web, as the long shadows ebb from the trees that
the night hours guard.
Away the years fly, as the time hurries by, and with them my youth has
fled.
Now I think as I sit, by the ingle unlit, of where my life has led.
Through the days beyond and the days behind, through the nights of my
years and more, let the boughs of the pine waft away my mind to the
wondrous time of yore.
There were times that were fair, there were times that were fine.
There were days that lay drenched in spring, and away melt the days in
a mist-covered haze and a faint tune the song-birds sing.
Now the fire is in embers, my heart still remembers the paths that I
walked by the sea.
And the breakers that roared on the cockle-shelled shore, forever are
calling to me.
I have walked for a while by the gate and the stile, that lead away to
anywhere.
I have looked at the trees, and I've felt the winter breeze tangling
the curls of my hair.
I have trudged many roads, I have borne many loads upon my straining
back.
I have passed over meadows and through woods of shadows, following the
lonely track.
There was cheer, there were friends; there were many happy ends to the
ways that my feet have roamed. Now about me the light has crept into
night: and at last my feet have homed.’
Corin shook himself from reverie. ‘Homed,’ he repeated absently. ‘Some
jest! If only my feet had homed.’ Then he thought again for a long
time. ‘Where could I call home? Ravenmoor, Elfame, Indlebloom,
Dorthillion, Kutha-Kesh, Rî-mer-Rī, or Aileen? I have no home, never
had. Except where my feet have stood a time. I am my own exile. I am
banished from home, by myself. I am alone, to walk the world. Until I
stop. I was Mylor, then Corin, then neither. But I would rather be
Corin, to road's end.’ He fell into silence, a silence shared by the
night that surrounded him. It was as if he were the only creature left
in the world. He, the stone, and the moon and stars.
A voice spoke to him. Quite nearby, it was. And the words were, ‘I have
come, seeking you. Perhaps you have no need of another at this time. If
so, I shall be of no further trouble. Still, if you will share your
solitude for a little, we might speak together before I go my way. You
have led me a merry dance o'er the many days and nights through this
trackless waste.’
Corin lifted his mantle, so that a vestige of lumallin shone out about
his questing face. ‘He´Remon!’ He cried, surprised and overcome by this
unbidden, kindred spirit. ‘Is it really you? Why have you followed me?
Surely it was made plain to you that I would not return. Have you
doomed yourself unknowing?’
The Wizard advanced and stood before Corin, so that his bulk erased the
moon. ‘You cannot do this thing alone,’ he said. ‘Why what are Wizards
for? If not to use their powers at hour of need. Late have I arrived
upon the scene, but maybe still can I avail some help. After all, apart
from the few morsels of provender that I carry, I do have strengths
that might be useful.’ He´Remon's presence loomed into the sky, like a
newly risen pillar of force. ‘Can we not break bread and speak
together, quietly, of what is to come? And if that be death to both of
us, sobeit. Perhaps it is the wrought way, the journey together.’
Corin lifted his arm and the Ring of Enduring Grace burst into light.
‘Do come and sit with me, please, for I welcome your company. Though
now I fear twice-wise, since it seems you forsake life yourself.’
‘That may not come to pass,’ said He´Remon, in a lighter tone than was
his normal, serious manner. ‘Between us we are not unarmed, nor
unprotected. You wear elvin-garb the qualities of which, I deem, are
special. And this black-cloak about you, given you by the Morrigi; it
has Power invested by them and by Him who last wore it. Likewise the
ring upon your hand.’ The Wizard looked down at the sword-staff Næglind
and the Targe of Leeanan that lay by Corin's feet. ‘And you have these,
weapons of defence. Mortal you may be, but do not underestimate the
strength within such gifts.’ He smiled, grey in the passing moonlight,
and stooped to seat himself nearby. ‘Do not forget,’ he went on kindly,
‘that you have me now. I possess knowledge unknown to you, else how
could I have survived over time's unfolding? Never fear. We will go
side by side together, if that be to your liking.’
Corin turned and met He´Remon's gaze. They looked deep into each
other's eyes. ‘You have come unsought, O Wizard, and at need to me; for
it is a hard thing to venture alone where death, or worse, lurks at
every pace.’ He drew the hood fast about his head. ‘Now, in the
stillness of night, whilst we sup and are yet unchallenged, will you
not tell something of yourself to me? For there is a mystery about you
that has confounded me ever since you saved my life, at the firey
breath of that dragon.’
He´Remon ran his fingers along the runed staff that rested across his
knees. ‘There is too much to tell,’ he muttered. ‘And the telling would
take long, by time of Varlar, if I was to begin from the beginning.
Still, we have what ever is left us. So I shall make a start. What is a
Wizard, do you think? An old man with a long beard, who has seen much
and wandered far? Maybe someone gifted with potent vision beyond that
of mortals? Perhaps a traveller, a prophet, a lore-master, a powerful
being. All? Or a single entity, an existence embodied with the
knowledge of the beginnings of the world and everything that has
followed. What am I? To that can I but say this; I was, I am. I grew
out of the world. I am not now, as once then. Once I was youthful; or
at least, had that appearance. In the long ago time when Varlar new
born, lay dark and cold and all unknown, I groped my way through the
hidden places of earth. As to where I came from, I cannot say. Was I
offsprung from the Mighty Ones or Their servants, who walked the barren
lands sowing high mountains and deep oceans and vast forests? Was I of
Their kind, left behind to dwell in Varlar, after Their leave-taking?
It seems to me that there have been endless ages to ponder that
question. To ponder the reasons why I, alone, should dwell in Varlar.
During the time through which I trod, seeking and learning, I perceived
much: birth, growth, life, Infinite progress, multitudinous variety,
riot of colour, of sensation, taste, feel, sight, decay, death,
rebirth. Sorrow and jubilation, all in varying degree and intensity,
and I wondered what meant it all? And I saw that I lived on, undying,
whilst the sky whirled and Varlar's life grew, and many things passed
o'er it. Then was it made plain to me that I might lay hand to such
events, for there was suffering, as well as joy. My journeys taught me
much. The discovery of myself and the things that manifested within
Varlar, filled me with direction.’
Here the Wizard brandished his staff, where he now stood it upright
between his sandalled feet, and a pale yellow light glowed about its
tip. ‘From that time, I determined my vocation; to follow the road of
Varlar, to seek the betterment of the world. To be a guardian. To aid
the rightful in their inheritance. Never to fail that aim, until Varlar
be united and won forever, under They to whom it belongs.’ He sighed,
an age-tired sigh. ‘Alas, my works have been small and of little
moment, for the most part. Yet still, I believe there is a role to
play. So you and I, together sit here. And together, shall we play it
out. For it is my earnest hope that triumph will burgeon over every
disaster.’ The Wizard's foot tapped against the Targe where it lay, so
that it spun upon the boss in a languid spiral.
Absently, Corin picked up the shield and placed it on his lap. ‘Tell me
He´Remon, do you not hold some recollection of Father, Mother?’
There was a long pause whilst the Wizard munched at his crust. Then at
last he said, ‘Nay, none. Unless it be that the sea cradled me. Faint,
does such fancy come. But no. I cannot tell you.’ He laughed low, so
that it was almost a chuckle within himself. ‘It is an irony, is it
not, that we are both unknowing of our lineage. Both opposed to forces
and strengths unknown. Both of us holding powers untested.’
Corin smiled, though within himself he felt no mirth. ‘At least I have
companionship at need. Though I say to you He´Remon, be watchful and
wakeful. Be my eyes and ears, for I am but of men and hold only mortal
faculty. You are more than that. If you commit yourself to this dire
errand, for the good of Varlar, I am grateful and beholden. Yet I shall
not, I guess, have chance to repay your sacrifice.’
He´Remon flicked his beard from where it dangled on the dewy ground.
‘What repayment? I walk with you and choose to do so. That is all. If
we go into peril or wander to safety, who can say?’
Corin nodded, stood up, gathered his sack of dwindling food, Næglind
and Targe-shield to him and gazed out at the starry world beyond.
‘Peril is all around us,’ he said. "Perhaps there is least in the east
of these climes. And I would so flee there, if not for my given
mission. Do you know the way to the sea from here?’ he asked,
stretching anew his night-cold arms
He´Remon also arose beside him. ‘Yes, I do. Closest ocean lies
north-west of where we now stand. Would you have us so journey?’
‘I would. For there, suppose I, the danger will come. The Servants of
Evil will seek us on the shores of the sounding waters. Beyond those
shores, I guess, must lurk the Nardred; World's Bane.’
‘Then why should we not shun that place and draw Them after us?’
Corin shook his head. ‘If we fled, I fear that They might not pursue;
that They would ride on to the water. I was burdened with the task to
delay Them from such. Once They pass us, the World Serpent will rise
for the last time. I must prevent that for as long as possible if those
hastening east are to have some chance of survival.’ He turned to the
Wizard. ‘Let us be off that way, for what if The Riders have decided
against revenge and even now are somewhere ahead. Swiftly, guide the
way. Sudden-risen doubts trouble me. I have delayed too long already.’
The pair hastened westward and north toward the rolling ocean and the
day to come.
And in the grey hours before dawn, they came to a high place that
looked far into the west. There, a faint glimmer of fading starlight
mirrored on distant water.
‘Is that the sea?’ Corin asked, expectant.
‘Yes, yes, that is the sea,’ He´Remon replied softly. ‘It is still a
fair step though, until we reach the open ocean.’
‘And have we come all this way for nought?’ Corin wondered. ‘Have I
chosen wrongly?’
For answer, HeRemon raised his staff toward the north and it was then
that Corin beheld a chilling sight; a lone figure, dark and hostile,
mounted and motionless, dimly outlined against the benighted horizon.
‘One of The Riders, do you think?’ he asked.
‘I guess it so,’ answered the Wizard. ‘Who else could it be, in these
wild parts.’
‘Then where are the others?’ Corin whispered, casting round, as if
expecting his enemies to arise before him on that very moment.
‘Perhaps They have yet to gather. Maybe They are still scattered far
and wide, maybe on other errand.’ He´Remon lowered the staff. ‘What
would you have us do?’
For a moment, Corin faltered. ‘Walk on, I suppose,’ he said
uncertainly. ‘What else is there to do?’
‘Well,’ offered the Wizard, ‘we might alter direction somewhat. Then we
shall soon see if that Rider has spied us and follows.’
‘In any direction may lie a trap,’ said Corin. ‘Still, in a way I
should be happier knowing the whereabouts of the Enemy. But what if
that one follows not? Will that mean he rides on to the sea? Or simply
that we are unobserved thus far.’
‘We cannot know this for sure until we try,’ He´Remon dourly replied.
‘Very well,’ Corin said, after considering further. ‘Though let us not
make away from the ocean. Instead, travel south for a bit, keeping
close watch on all sides. They may await us, before or behind.’
And so, through the new-come morn, they toiled down into undulating
lands, sparse with vegetation.
At whiles, they walked by the sunken banks of a sluggish stream that
dwindled, near dry, toward the great-water before them. Sometimes they
sloshed through brackish pools, harking no other sounds, for birds and
any other living creatures were gone long before. And though Corin saw
no living thing, he felt the press of unseen forces gathering about him.
‘What do you know of The Riders?’ he ventured, after a long term of
silence as they struggled through the rushy marsh.
‘Those Black-Clads,’ muttered He´Remon, in a hoarse whisper. ‘They made
Themselves plain enough at Earth-Mouth; emissaries of the Māādim,
servants to Them.’ The Wizard halted, leaning upon his staff a moment.
‘One detail concerns me about Them. I have been fretting over it for
some time. Eight, They were at Earth-Mouth. Yet there was a Ninth, if
They were those self same whom you knew at the hermitage. Where was the
last?’
‘Name me Those at Croh-Yah,’ Corin asked, and the Wizard recalled Them,
one by one.
‘Catoowig is the Ninth,’ panted Corin, pushing through the endless
mire, ‘He is Their leader, and They were my deceivers. I guessed as
much; suspected, at least, when we sighted Them before the battle of
Aileen Plain. You know well my telling of those events at the Hermitage
and afterward. What make you of that tale?’
They went forward again, reeds clinging, winding about garments and
legs, whilst He´Remon pondered. ‘It appears all too plain now, that you
were tutored by Them, unto Their own ends. Beneath the guise of
benevolence lay Their preparation for your task, designed by Them, They
allowed you a glimpse of Ny´æ's doom, the translations from her Stone
of Remorse. They prompted you on with guile and cunning, gave you means
of escape; the noble Darkelfari. Though it seems the Morrigi had some
hand, sending that horse amongst the company of steeds They had
assembled. Perhaps it was that the Hermits, Witch-Masters or whatever
They be, were so enmeshed that They were unaware, amid Their own
devious plots, of such counter-scheme. So, not only did They conspire
that you seek Valandir's release of Earth-Heart, but unknowing,
furnished you with the final link to His escape and victory. They were
used as They used you; manipulated, whilst twisting you along the path
toward the fallen Drotnar.’ Here He´Remon laughed a bitter laugh. ‘I
think it all a devious, deadly game with you, the biting fish at bait
both fair and foul, dangled over and again. Much of which you took, and
who could blame you?’
Corin struggled on through the green slime. ‘I know now, full well,
that I was the means to evil ends. Yet so was it with good, though I
would rather think that I was employed unknowing for the service of
Varlar. I have no cause to complain. Desperate needs sought desperate
measures. I think you right in your summation. Would that I had known
it then. But I wonder, might I have acted otherwise?’
He´Remon grunted with the effort needed to pull his long cloak from the
sucking mire. ‘Things could not have turned out this way, that is
certain,’ he managed. 'For, if you had discovered the truths and lies
woven about you, all would have been altered. And no further use could
you have been in events of the future. Much was hinged upon your blind
faith and innocence. Much too, it comes to me, was gambled on your
desire to do what needed to be done for the welfare of Varlar; against
every danger standing before you.’
‘Aye, and much wagered on my slender chances and hopes,’ added Corin.
‘Well were my weaknesses exploited. For after all, how could I not be
swayed by the Voices; leastways She whom I believed to be my Mother. It
seems that I, a mortal filled with fault and weakness, let such
persuasion overwhelm me. And still, how can I regret that? For as you
say, events would not have come to pass as they have. Varlar now, at
best, would be yoked by Goblindom. At worst, ruled by the Māādim. Or
perhaps utterly destroyed after the release of Their Chothic Masters.
This way there is still a faint chance, a hope that some Free-Folk will
survive, to people a better world; if the world can withstand what is
to come.’
‘What think you is to come?’ queried He´Remon, puffing along.
‘The end of Varlar, as we know it. The end of all ages gone before. Of
whole peoples, whole countries, cities, towns, elven-homes, nests and
colonies, burgs, hams, setts and cotts and burrows. The end of rivers
and streams and mountains that have taken rain and wind long to fashion
as they are now. The end of many creatures that swim and walk and fly.
Perhaps,’ Corin hauled up in his onward ploughing, ‘perhaps the end of
all: sun, moon, stars. Yet I fervently pray that the world will go on,
that birdkind and tree, leaf and bud, insect and animal shall find a
hold; a niche. A stepping stone to go forward into what ever future may
there be. To something better, something anew. A new world.’
Corin's feet found firmer footing and he wrenched himself free of mire.
He turned to offer a hand, but He´Remon laboured from the clutching mud
unaided.
Together, they stood. Around them, on every side, lay low sedge:
creepers, dark green ground covers, black sludge and murky sky. Behind
them, the low hills and beyond, the high. And there was the faint call
of sea: the air, the sound, the feel.
Corin gulped at that air. A mortal, near dying, could not have gulped
the more. ‘That is the sea!’ he cried, as if suddenly, irrationally
freed of all responsibility. ‘There lies Life's cradle and Life's doom
maybe. And there is my finish, for I can go no further. There, to the
borders of water, I shall come to fight against Those who would throw
me down, if They can!’ He lifted his gaze to the north and, as if in
answered challenge, saw there the stark outline of two riders, black
against the skyline. Eastward Corin turned, and two more sat dark
steeds, still and threatening, upon the low hills. To the south he
sought, and one alone awaited there, like some unmoving beast of prey.
The sea moaned from far away, reminding them of the western ocean where
Corin and He´Remon were bound. Now they were contained, standing
between it and the riders.
‘Five of Them,’ muttered the Wizard, ‘and only two of us. I wonder
where the others are?’
‘Nearby, coming as hounds to a scent, I suppose,’ said Corin. ‘What
weapons of power do you think They will send against us?’
‘Anything, everything. They are mounted, though horses will find the
going difficult through these bogs. But soon or late They will come for
us, since we are hemmed in. As to particular weapons, I cannot guess.
They are certainly more than you once thought Them. Therefore I do not
know what devilries They may possess. Ordinary things such as swords
and the like, maybe; yet They are Sorcerers, wielding warlockry.’
He´Remon drew himself upright, seeming to grow in stature. ‘Still, I am
with you and I will stand against Them. Then shall we see. This is not
the first time that my strengths have been tested. But if I fall, take
to the sea, lest They lay hold of you.’
‘You would stand before me as shield from Them?’ asked Corin.
He´Remon nodded vigorously and his whiskers sopped the sodden ground.
‘Why not? We are pledged now in this. You are mortal. I am a Wizard. I
have learned my trade by trial and error. I know what I am about,’ he
said, seemingly indignant. Then, mellowing, he went on, ‘I am with you
unto the end; whatever that may be.’
Corin reached out to grasp the Wizard's hand in gratitude. But He´Remon
merely smiled. ‘We have no time left us for such things. Here we are, a
league and more onward to the western ocean, enemies at our backs. Go
on, go on. Look you at the waning day. They see us now. Still, by
nightfall, if cloud forfeits the moon to it, mayhap we will elude Them
so much the longer. Did you not say that was the purpose to this
mission?’
‘Yes, I did,’ Corin replied. ‘You are right, They mark us from afar. We
should hurry on, for every step lengthens time that others need so
desperately.’
They made away, the two beset by assailants behind, forcing them on to
the inevitable sea and the futility of escape. Night, swinging from the
west, rode up and engulfed them; catching their fleeing shadows,
swamping the pair in gloom. He´Remon and Corin plunged through the
darkness. No light had they to guide them, for they dared none. Only
the constant, faint call of the ocean spurred them forward.
By morn's first greying they stood, gasping and drawn, nigh
western-port's shingle; the sea roaring away beyond their feet. Then a
mighty light leapt from the waters, spreading towards them. To Corin,
it came as a longed-for gift after such hopeless night. And yet, even
as he saw the sea, glimpsed the breakers, he could not help but turn
toward that which lay behind. And he saw Them! Two, upon the southern
shore, both horsed. Two, standing by Their mounts, eastward. Two more,
waiting on the northern sands, like wraiths about the water line;
shimmering and soft in the coming of day.
‘I make the number six,’ he said softly.
‘So do I,’ He´Remon replied, scowling. ‘It appears the others have not
arrived. Perhaps that is why They wait, for now They have us as fish in
a net.’
‘Fish maybe,’ Corin rued, ‘and we must take the hook. But let our
struggle be long, ere we are landed.’
‘Of course,’ said the Wizard. ‘Come, let us prepare ourselves for the
battle imminent.’
Corin followed the Wizard, casting a wary look over his shoulder in
case their pursuers moved closer. But the warlocks and their steeds
remained motionless, forbidding and wholly evil.
Down to the sandy shore came He´Remon and Corin. Down to water's
beginnings, to where the sun towered beyond, lighting the vast ocean
that pulsed, softly humming the song of the sea as it had done ever
since Varlar's beginnings. Down to where no sea bird cried, for the sky
was empty.
‘Do you swim?’ asked the Wizard.
‘I have only once been in the sea,’ said Corin. ‘In Elvish company. And
perhaps then more uplifted by them, or good fortune, that I did not
drown.’
‘I see,’ He´Remon muttered glumly. ‘Well I say again that you must be
ready,’ he sighed. ‘For if it be needed, the sea is your only escape.
In the end, take to it and drown there. Better that, than They catch
you and exact Their wrath.’ Then the wizard chuckled, wringing
ocean-salt from his beard, his staff crooked in his arm. ‘But we are
not done yet. Stand fast here at water's edge and when They come, let
me see what I can do.’
So, they made themselves as comfortable as could be, through that long
day.
At need, both drank a dram of water and chewed kelp, washed to shore,
that they might sustain themselves. Little more were their wants.
Neither slept, or needed such, so it seemed. And neither felt the worse
for lack of it. Rest and sea air, were fare enough. A few periwinkles,
the Wizard collected to add to their dwindling supplies, though Corin
ate not of them, preferring wrack instead, for provender.
And thus, they waited, whilst the sun-ball turned across the sky, and
the six Nemesi remained, unmoving.
‘When will They strike, do you think?’
‘When the three remaining come to Them,’ said He´Remon, propping
himself against his staff. ‘That will be it. Why else would They dally
so? Maybe They fear that between us, we match strength with Them.
Maybe, They await the night coming. What be Their motives I cannot
tell, for certain.’
‘Maybe They wait the coming of the World Serpent,’ replied Corin,
turning to watch the lowing ocean.
The day seeped away to late afternoon and still no thing chanced to
happen. It was near twilight, sun-dimming in the east, when the Wizard
raised the alarm. ‘Look there on the high hills eastward. I see two
more, riding with the speed of the wind!’
And this was so. Very soon these newcomers were joined with Their
companions, and Their number was eight.
‘They are moving,’ said He´Remon, ‘coming nearer. 'Be at the ready now,
since it seems They wait no longer for the Ninth. This is Their chosen
time, as They ride out of the sun's last rays!’
With those words ringing in Corin's ears, the Wizard took the
forefront, shielding him behind his flowing robe. Down galloped the
Eight upon three sides, plowing sand and marram in spurts and plumes
behind the track of those maddened, snorting, black steeds.
Terrifyingly, They made no sound except for the rumble of hooves,
dulled on the sands of the beach. They swooped, swift and shocking;
faces like skull's-heads, beneath Their cowls. A rain of barbs, spear
and bolt, pelted about He´Remon. Some caught in his robe. Many,
close-missed him. His staff crackled to life; shafts of light sprang,
dancing in the air about the attackers. Two riders stumbled, near fell,
regained Themselves and thundered by.
The Eight swept away in all directions; unharmed, undefeated,
undiminished.
‘They test us, sporting Themselves,’ growled He´Remon, plucking an
arrow from his hat. ‘That was a mere pass, to probe our strength. When
They come again, we may well feel the truth of Them.’
Corin braced himself against the next onslaught: girded his mind and
body, summoned up courage and cloaked it in defiance, enveloped himself
with the will to stand before such terrible creatures. ‘You cannot save
me by giving yourself,’ he said, stepping from the shadow of the tall
Wizard. ‘We must face Them together, thus doubling in power. I will not
let you stand alone to your own ruination!’
‘Very well,’ HeRemon acknowledged. ‘Side by side it shall be. Muster
your senses, for you will need all you have in this duel.’
The sun was gone. But moonlight, cold and brilliant, replaced it. The
wide ocean glittered, reflecting the lanterns of myriad stars. Away to
north and south, chilling in Their stillness, the Eight warlocks dotted
that low horizon.
‘You know,’ whispered Corin, ‘even when They came to warn us away from
Earth-Mouth, I felt it was just a sham. All the while, They were urging
me on. From the time of my arrival at the hermitage, aye and even
before, They plotted it so. You were right. They trained me, taught me
that which was for Their use, allowed me a glimpse of forbidden things.
They put Their will into my mind, then gave me the means to escape
Them. Strange, is it not, that the very steed picked for me by Them
was, in truth, meant for greater fate. Far greater than They knew.’
‘Many events, when looked on in hindsight, seem strange,’ said
He´Remon. ‘Sometimes knowledge comes too early, sometimes too late to
be of value when needed. If you had known then what you know now, it
would have been of futile use. If They had known then what They know
now, this would never have happened.’
Corin bowed his head. ‘I wonder, dearly wonder, whether any of those
good peoples have arrived at their destination. This place, the Taiga.
What do you think it is?’
The Wizard, who was now sitting upon the white sand, said, ‘I know
ought more than you. A sanctuary, perhaps. A haven the Morrigi believe
exempt from danger, though where it be is undisclosed. Yet we must hope
that such exists. As to the safety of those who flee there, I think it
best not to overponder. It is better our battle here lasts the longer,
than the less. Better that all our energy be consumed herein, than
given to that of which we know nothing.’
‘Yes, I see this. We must keep these creatures at bay as long as is
possible.’ Corin sighed. ‘Alas that we shall never know the fate of
those we now strive to help. Still, in a way, I wish that Catoowig, the
Warlock leader, would make Himself plain. For who knows what
evil-mongering He is at?’
‘True,’ said He´Remon. ‘Yet think on this, the longer His coming, the
more time may be bought. Without Their Chieftain, might we have
strength enough to hold Them so much the easier.’ The Wizard stiffened,
his gleaming eyes roaming the night. ‘Wait,’ he said, rising to his
feet. ‘They are not done this eve. Beware, They come again!’
Corin too, harked a faint stamp, a snort; a distant, eerie command.
Shrouding his head within the black cloak given him by the Applotha
Morrigi, he braced himself against Them as They bore down.
Now came a battle, moon and starlit, with a wind rising from out the
western sea and the water, mournful, sounding at their backs.
Scorching blasts burst from the Wizard's staff, cutting arcs through
the darkness as the Eight closed about them. Some swerved aside,
shrieking horribly, Their steeds balking. The rest rode on; swords,
pale and deathly, held aloft.
Corin brandished Næglind thinking to use it as a club, when to his
amazement a vivid light, striking-blue, burst from it, shattering the
sky with showered sparks that sent a black horse reeling. The rider,
almost upon Corin, swept around, even as his mount crashed. But the
ring on Corin's uplifted hand shone with rays golden and green and
white-hot, dashing the menacing creature to the ground. As if scorched
to the marrow, the Warlock leapt from his floundering mount and fled
away. The horse, regaining its flurrying feet, galloped to where its
master waited, calling it in baleful tones.
Corin, with an exalted shout turned to face the next foe and was met
there by a shocking sight. Three Riders had overborne He´Remon! He was
on his knees, holding Them off with his staff, but They, hovering,
hacked again and again at it, so that it fell to the sand. Lights,
multi-coloured, flew about the milling feet of the horses as two more
ringed the failing Wizard. The great staff lay, radiating useless
lights, amongst the dunes. To Corin's horrified eyes, everything seemed
to dwindle into a kind of slow-motion. Six and seven and then the
eighth, now regained of mount, circled He´Remon, milling about him. It
was as if Corin was alone, an outsider, disregarded; as if he had
ceased to exist. The riders hewed at the Wizard, battering and
buffeting him, crushing him down, raising the sand in whirlwinds;
catching up his staff as warrant of Their victory. And then, out of the
tumbled confusion, Corin heeded the Wizard's faint cry, 'One Master,
They have me! Throw me your staff, I beg of you. Give me something of
yourself, any power that might protect me!’
Then Corin saw Them lay hold of He´Remon's robes and beard and arm. Yet
betwixt the press of milling horses, a gap appeared. The Wizard,
stretched his free hand in a final, pleading gesture. Without further
thought Corin started forward, hefting Næglind, in a reckless attempt
to ward off the evil before him, that He´Remon might free himself from
the clutches of the foe.
But, lo and behold! Wings! A swift hurrying of wings! The night air
racing against the sail-beat of them!Somewhere from beyond the
darkness, where the moon had hidden in cloud, a darker thing swooped,
menacing. There came, on the instant, a thunderball of flame that burst
upon The Riders so that all were put to rout; Their horses rearing,
screaming, to career away in the madness of panic.
The thing above curled, looping, fire-spasms whipping and lashing this
way and that. The Riders, one and one, burst into flame, igniting like
candles, to fall howling, cindering; Their ashes wafting to the winds
of Varlar. Their steeds ploughing on, fleeing into the night.
In this fashion Three were brought low, but Five stood fast, shooting
sable barbs and hurling grey javelins; weapons seemingly conjured to
Their hands. Those fell shafts clashed and spun from plated hide and
Corin knew, saw in the belching of flame, Sgnarli! Sgnarli Dragon,
Elves, all holding fast upon his scaled back, firing arrows, arrows!
A Rider toppled, throat-strung with a deadly shaft. Another was pinned
by several more. Their mounts, foaming in fear, galloped far off. The
Three riders remaining reared Their steeds in defiance, Their spears
and shafts aimed truer. One smote Darion of Veleth, even as the Lance
of Marmornell leapt from his hand to find its mark deep within an enemy
breast. Then the Warlock Helminth, if that was his true name fell, cut
in two by a single stroke from Marmornell's sword; that which Cinglor
hefted.
Silval took an arrow in the thigh from the last, bode it grimacing and
plucking it out, threw the barb down into his foe's face. ‘Take that
back unto Yourself, Foul Carrion, and more that is Your mete!’
But before he could let fly the nocked shaft from his bow, Elvra's own
sang the sweeter. Her aim was true, catching the warlock Dirmyg full in
the face and bringing him low. Though alas! His final act was the
slinging of a grim spear and that too, found a mark.
With a fearsome scream, Sgnarli spouted upward, twisting in pain; the
hard point piercing his dragon plating. Somehow, devil-cast, it had
found a way there. Shrilling in agony, Sgnarli spun away, fire belching
from his jaws and nostrils, until he and the Elves remaining were
swallowed up by the darkness. The last of the Warlock horses bolted,
hooves thudding across the sand; the final retreating sounds lost,
covered by a moan of wind and sea.
He´Remon stretched out an arm and gathered up his staff from where it
lay, crackling. He struggled to his feet, dishevelled and shaken, but
otherwise unharmed. Corin stood, some little way off, breathing hard;
the cool night air rushing into his lungs. The moon reappeared, bathing
that strand in a ghostly light. The remaining bodies of the enemy lay,
scattered on the sands. And there the two waited, unspeaking, as if
expecting some further danger.
At last the Wizard, regaining his composure, said, ‘I do not know what
act of fate brought those Elves riding upon the dragon; but without
their intervention all would not have turned out as it has.’
‘No,’ said Corin, the word choking in his throat. ‘They came back for
me. My friends. They dared everything, when they could have saved
themselves. Some I saw, took terrible hurts. Sgnarli...’ He broke off,
his shoulders heaving as if he might weep. ‘If the dragon dies, or even
if he is too badly injured to fly, then they are doomed. And all, in my
service.’ Corin's hands trembled, and the gifts within them: Targe,
Ring and Staff, fell to the sand. ‘Oh where are you now, beloved folk?
Are you homing on those wounded wings? Or will you, weary, come again
for us? If you do not, then I shall be left to guess in vain whether
you are safe or dead.’ He threw up his arms in token of despair. ‘Yet
what does it matter now? Now that Varlar is embroiled in ruin. Now that
evil taints the world beyond my abilities, or those of the highest.’ He
sank to his knees, his head bowed low; humbled once again by the weight
of everything pressed upon him.
He´Remon took a pained step forward.
‘No matter,’ muttered Corin. ‘No matter what I do. I am, in the end,
defeated; If not by force of foe, then by my own frailties and
weaknesses. I am too exhausted, too pained by world's suffering. It is
finished. I cannot rise again for I feel, all too heavily, Varlar's
wounds; the crippling of a creature nearing death's thrall.’
He´Remon took a further pace, stumbled, caught himself and halted,
swaying unsteadily. ‘You speak nonsense,’ he managed. ‘We are not
defeated yet. Why, here lie our Enemies about us. They who were to
awaken World's End, and They are vanquished. Gird yourself anew. I am
with you and my Power, though sorely tested, is not broken.’ And here,
the Wizard seemed to find some hitherto unknown energy. ‘They almost
crushed me, had me at Their hands. But I know, even without our
saviours, that you would have attempted my rescue. Remember? Once, I
saved you from a dragon's maw. Now, I consider that favour returned,
for you were willing to give up these precious gifts on my behalf.’
A pace closer and He´Remon again rested upon his staff. It seemed clear
that he held himself aloft by sheer will power; that he was again
drained, as at his mighty labours emptying the Mälar lake, and subduing
the World Serpent. It was as if the spent and humbled Wizard, striving
to bear on, to regain the strength that had seeped away, called up a
last effort; drew in fresh vigour, even in the face of almost complete
debility. ‘You and I,’ said He´Remon puffing, ‘need be united more than
ever. We must stand together, our weapons and gifts combined. Lest it
be forgotten that there is still the last and most powerful of those
Warlocks, the Ninth, abroad. Where He is, what He is, neither you or I
can say. It was obvious that I alone had not the strength to defeat His
captains. But you, you have within your grasp these gifts given you in
trust and faith. If we are to survive and defeat Him, then it will be
by these; for I am now worn and doubtful and at wit's end. Your Staff,
the Shield and Ring, we must hold; that they will sustain us long
enough for Varlar's succour.’ The Wizard reached Corin and knelt upon
one knee before him. He laid his own runed staff on the sand. ‘Take
this. It is the staff of my authority. And it is yours, if you feel the
need of its potency.’
‘I cannot bear your staff,’ replied Corin. ‘I am too much weakened even
to carry these gifts, as you name them. This Ring of Grace, this Targe
of protection, this Sword turned to Rod-of-Might; I fear now that they
are beyond me. Will you not take Them up, since your endurance seems
greater than mine.’
The Wizard sighed. ‘I will, if for a time it lightens your burden,’ he
said gently.
‘A moment then,' said Corin. 'I should like to hold each and think of
they who gave Them to me.’ And he took up the items; placed the Ring to
his finger and set it there, gripped the Shield in his left hand and
lifted Næglind upright, so that it shone with its peculiar blueness,
like a beacon of hope. ‘No Ninth Rider will come,’ he said.
The Wizard's eyes turned from whence they gazed at the light of
Næglind. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, peering at Corin in surprise.
Corin rose, saying quietly, ‘The Ninth is here already. You are He,
He´Remon, Catoowig, or whoever You style Yourself.’
He´Remon burst into the laughter of disbelief. ‘Have you so low sunk in
heart and spirit that your mind is ruined? How can you say such a
thing?’ He took up his own staff and stood. ‘Surely the shock of
endured horrors has unhinged your head, after all that we have been
through. That is not to be wondered at. I doubt any could have survived
unscathed. I see now why you need me the dearer; you are wounded in
hidden ways beyond mere cuts of the flesh, as was young Mysingir. Now I
understand your plea for guidance, for a helping hand to share your
burden.’
‘Do You?’ said Corin. Slowly, he shook his head from side to side. ‘It
is no use. I know You for what You are. Your disguise is over. Though
long have You deceived me. Yet my suspicions have grown steadily; and
this, Your final gamble, is Your undoing. You had to have these Gifts,
these Weapons. For You are uncertain of me; of whether Your power is
sufficient to crush me whilst these are in my possession. Now, You have
Them not, and You will not be given Them.’ Corin stepped backward, a
long pace. ‘You, are my Enemy, last of all. You are He, whom it is my
task to delay. I denounce You! You are the Master of The Nardred!’
He´Remon raised his hand in protest. ‘You must be struck by a madness.
Think back, I beseech you. The past will speak on my behalf.’
‘Aye, it does,’ Corin replied evenly. ‘Each step of the way, plotted by
You. First you appeared, to save my life from a dragon. A dragon sent
by You, I warrant. Thereby ingratiating Yourself, and indebting me.
After all, I had to live; for was I not the one chance left to open
Earth-Heart? And You killed, at need, those of Your own, when that
suited Your purpose.’ Corin laughed, and it was mirthless. ‘How subtly
were we, I in particular, drawn within Your web. The Dwarves gave You
credence. How long, I wonder, had you wooed them to Your will? And Your
embassy to Dorthillion, the rescue of Mysingir; all a façade, an
illusion to mist eyes. Your real motives were otherwise. Yet folk
believed You, the saviour of an Indlebloom Lord, whom You, no doubt,
had ordered tortured near enough, though not quite, to the death. But
the truth is that You meant to lure everyone to Earth-Mouth, to slavery
and worse at the hands of Your Masters the Māādim. To You also goes the
credit for emptying the Mälar. That had to be done, if ever I was to
come to Earth-Mouth. Perhaps You were not sure that others, not even
the Morrigi, could achieve such ends. So You took it upon Yourself.’
Corin bent Næglind accusingly. ‘You used Your powers; the powers within
You, to raise the Nardred that It would break the seaward walls so the
lake should flow out into the oceans. You even made it appear that You
had subdued the Varlar-Serpent at Aileen when, in truth, it was You who
had bidden It come forth from out the vastness of Its watery lair! Such
was Your ruthless desire. Such Your intent to see the Māādim rulers of
the world. And yet Fate fell not Your way. Your Lords were brought low
by Valandir. The Doors that You laboured so long to see open, were
again closed. The victory withheld. All Your plotting and planning went
awry, thwarted by the Morrigi. They, using me, foiled You without using
force of Their own. They out-guiled You. And, I guess, that galled You
the hardest. To revenge Yourself, You have hesitated, that You may seek
pleasure in my destruction, before You destroy Varlar Itself. But it
seems that You were not, still are not, certain of me or the Powers
invested in me. That is why You had to follow, had to possess these
Gifts. With them in Your grasp, would You have been confident of my
ruin; denying me of them. Now, even to this last play, where You begged
them from me whilst Your evil followers shammed Your demise, You were
forestalled by the intervention of the Elves and the dragon. And in
these moments following, You have succumbed to Your last resort; the
role of He-who-would-shoulder-a-burden for a stricken comrade. Ha! Your
boasts of fearing not the enemy, dragon or goblin, were true. How could
You fear them, when they were part of Your schemes; allies, not foes.
Or rather, play-things to be slaughtered at need. It was too true, when
You said that I was cat's-paw to the Hermits, and You well knew it, for
You are Catoowig! You were there, teaching me, leading me, allowing me
a tantalising glimpse; setting me upon the road that would come,
eventually, to Earth-Heart. I was Your foibled dupe. Though it is not
to me that You should look for recompense in Your downfall. The
Witches, Morrigi. They are the ones, The Unravellers. They have brought
You thus low!’ Corin lifted his hand and the Ring burst into brilliant
life. ‘How plain it is, how plain comes this revelation to me now. Deny
it not, Warlock. You are undone at last. And You must destroy me to
gain these Gifts. But to kill me, You must first take them!’
He´Remon nodded wearily. ‘How long have you thought this way of me?’
‘Over a growing time, a time of suspicion. Though I have never been
sure, until now. Yet there were signs.’
The Wizard sighed. ‘These signs of your observance, what were they?’
‘You never dared touch me; not take my hand in friendship, or time of
need. Catoowig, or He´Remon, Your wariness I now recall, as if You
believed me to be something more than I am. Something that could taint
You, destroy You; or even cleanse You from Your course. Perhaps You
were too wise, too clever too often. For if You could empty a vast
lake, how could You not break through the Orichalc of Earth-Mouth? And
if You followed me hither, concerned at my well-being, why followed You
not when I descended the abyss into Earth-Mouth? He, with the Power to
sink the World-Serpent, must surely own the Power to raise It; as You
did. That You were wearied, drained of Your energies, I guess to be the
truth; for such labours, even the Serpent-Master must pay. In some way,
You are both bound together, are You not? You and It, Master and Beast;
Monster and Monster.’
He´Remon shrugged his shoulders in a resigned gesture. ‘If that is what
you believe, Corin One-Master, there is nought more to argue. It will
avail nothing further to stand thus, at odds with each other. I see
that I can be of no further service to you. I will go. Be on my way.
Perhaps I may reach this shelter that is named the Taiga. If I do, if I
come to your loved ones, I shall not speak to them of this. I shall
tell them instead, that I was not fit to stand beside you in this final
crisis; that I was too weak to be of further use. You shall remain well
thought of and long remembered for quest and sacrifice. It is sad that
we part this way. I bid you, walk carefully. For the Ninth Rider will
come for you. Of that I am certain.’ The Wizard turned, taking a few
pained steps across the sand, before Corin hailed him.
‘Wait! I give You no leave to depart! Turn back. I will come to You.
Then let us take each other's hand in token that I believe Your words.’
He´Remon paused not. Oddly his stride became longer, stronger.
Corin pursued him, hastening over the surf-swept beach. 'Stand I say!'
he shouted. 'By the Powers of these Gifts invested in me through
Valandir, the great Drotnar Lord, I command You!'
It was then that the Wizard halted. The light of his thick staff grew,
glowing red and yellow. Slowly, he turned to face Corin. And he was
He´Remon no more. The face was none that Corin had ever seen before;
not the wizards', nor Catoowig the Hermit. Hooded, enshrouded within
the cowl, two baleful eyes flamed in the darkness. This was the face of
the Nardred! ‘Very well, fool! You would see me as I am! I am neither
wizard nor hermit. I am all and none. I was Dewin, adviser to Elmeth of
Indlebloom. I, it was who copied the Stone of Remorse in Kutha-Kesh.
And it was I, as Catoowig, who arranged your glimpse of it at the
Hermitary. I have had many names and many faces. Now, because of your
meddling, I bare myself to you. I am Meonwar; Lord of the World
Serpent!’
At this final revelation Corin took his stand and about his eyes and
head there sprang a radiance of colour; was it, maybe, the gift of
Talba Eyebright, willed him at the Elf's death? ‘Now it comes,’ said
Corin, his voice as firm as he could make it. ‘We know, in part, each
other; though not each other's strengths. What will You, O
Serpent-Master? For here, on this strand, I challenge You openly. You,
Meonwar Lord of the Nardred, as you now name Yourself and I, Corin:
fool, uncertain, unknown foe. This last time I challenge You, without
allies to aid us!’
The Warlock-Sorcerer laughed, dreadfully. ‘So you think you have My
measure. A stupid mistake, even for a fool, for My Powers reach far and
beyond any that you could conceive. Look yonder upon the sands at
tide-line and see for yourself!’ He raised the great staff and flame
leapt from the tip, illuminating the strand beyond. There, Corin
glimpsed the dark outlines of two broad rafts, bound about in seaweed;
lifting as a pair of living beings, on the swelling waters. ‘Those are
Our chariots. The craft awaiting My Followers and Myself, to carry Us
out into the western ocean. The Eight shall not be needful of such now,
but think you not that They are ended. Oh no. They are merely
transformed; impotent, for a time. Turn your eyes and see!Witness the
awe of My Strength!’
The creature that was Meonwar bent His staff, so that its flame
streamed toward the prostrate figures of His fallen Followers. The
fiery fingers burned red, green, yellow and white-hot; licking at those
charred, dismembered corpses. Then to Corin's horror and amazement, his
sudden awareness of the Serpent-Lord's terrible command, he beheld a
chilling sight. One by one, The Eight arose; leaving Their white bones
scattered on the sands. They assembled, clad again in black, Their
eyes, white malevolent orbs, hanging in faceless voids. As a single
entity They shrieked, an unearthly wail that caused Corin to flinch in
fear. Drawn, almost without will, he watched Them ascend, howling into
the night sky. They swooped overhead, and when Corin turned he saw Them
flying, wraithlike, over the sea. And there They swept about a craft
glowing in light, and the light was that of Meonwar, dipping a mighty
scull into the surf, churning foam in fountains that burst around His
upright staff where it stood, planted like a flame-sprouting tree in
the stern.
Passed aside by frightening enchantment, Corin found himself staring at
the second raft where it lay, burning; overcast in spray. Helpless, he
watched as Meonwar's craft gathered pace, riding the outgoing tide,
fleeing that deserted strand. The Lord of the World-Serpent and His
resurrected Followers were free to the Western seas!
Or was that strand so empty?
A Voice spoke at Corin's side, ‘It is not over yet, One Master. Quell
the fire on yon raft and pursue Him. His Captains, though gruesome, can
be of little service. Have no fear of Them. Your quest is not yet at an
end.’
Corin looked down in astonishment, his hand filling with the soft fur
of the Wolf Bozkirt; Familiar, Skin-changer of the Morrigi. For a
moment, the swaying figure of Sayga the Seeress swirled before his
eyes, then the Wolf reappeared. ‘Aye. We guessed the truth, though We
could not be certain. It was for you to find. You unmasked your Enemy.
Now, for the sake of those who risked their lives on your behalf,
follow Him into the ocean, that you buy those of Varlar a little time
more. Do what you can, and farewell, to Age End!’ The Wolf bounded into
the night and vanished.
A sudden hope welled within Corin's breast. Without further care or
thought he hastened toward the smouldering raft. It was fire-pocked,
yet somehow he doused the flames with sea water and watched it float
free, the binding weed still firm about it's beams. The steering scull
washed back and forth unharmed, fixed by the rowlock, whilst the craft
spun unguided upon the brine. Corin splashed through the waves, Næglind
held aloft to yield a guiding light. With a struggle, he drew himself
aboard the blackened hulk and, like the Warlock before, found a place
to stake his sword-staff. Then Corin took up the rudder and steered out
into the benighted waters.
Far ahead the glimmer of Meonwar's raft, rising and falling on the
ocean's heave, beckoned. A wind arose, a tail-wind that pushed Corin
far out into the landless sea. The sky scudded past, stars and moon
seemed to hasten their way. Corin was now terribly alone in the
blue-blackness; foam, white about his shoulders. A mist of spray
drenched his hair, his beard. The hood of his raiment was thrown back,
blowing and billowing, curling around his neck. He plied on; his one
goal, to catch the craft that troughed, blinking in the distance. Now,
of course, there was no back-turn. Now, inevitably, the ocean would be
their battle plain. Now all end hastened, as hastened the tide on
outward flow. Lift and plough. Lift and plough, on and on; flexing
paddle through wind-borne spray, sending it deep into weeping wetness.
Night soared onward and still Corin heaved, drawing infinitely nearer.
By daybreak, the wind had stilled. The ocean was becalmed. The sun
bloomed out of the west, subduing the night. Stars winked shut and the
moon went scurrying for cover. On that stillness, the two rafts lay
within sight of each other.
Corin looked to the horizons on every side, nowhere was there anything
but the lowing sea. All land had vanished as if it had never been. Now
there was only water and sky, and the forbidding Enemy.
‘What left to be done?’ Corin muttered. ‘What left but to go on?’ He
peered into Varlar's light, where sun uplifted. There, bestilled, rose
Meonwar's craft. He, a solitary figure, standing, waiting.
This was a morning of the world, like all mornings before it since the
oceans were born out of cloud and mist, vapour and rain. Dawn was gone,
fleeting over the mighty sea; cradle of life.
Day, and doom, had come.
Slowly, Corin began the back-rending task of closing the gap between.
The long scull, hewn of elm, pliable and water resistant, forced his
fire-charred raft that much nearer. And so, eventually, they were come
within shouting distance.
‘I see that you will not let go this bone,’ called Meonwar, mockingly.
Corin, straining, ceased his labour and leaned upon the feathering oar.
‘If only it was a dog's bone, a trifling thing. And not the Bone of
Varlar. Yes. I will not let it go. Where would I go otherwise? I have
no choice. Run away from You, and die. Run after You, and die. What
should I then? The first avails nothing. The second avails time, maybe.
And I would keep You as long as I can!’
The Lord of the World Serpent seemed amused at this. ‘You may bite your
bone, mumble at it until your teeth shatter and your gums bleed. I led
you hither. Think you that I could not have destroyed that raft upon
the beach? Time is of no import. No matter where the cringing peoples
of Earth-Skin seek to hide, all will be ended. Now that the designs of
the Māādim have been thwarted, Varlar will suffer the wrath of Their
final decree. I, the Master of the World Serpent, will ensure that
destruction, rather than let It be overlorded by puny elves and men.’
‘Why?’ Corin shouted, though his mind reeled at Meonwar's words. ‘If
You are the Master of the Nardred, why use It to destroy Varlar?’
‘Because the Māādim disdain Varlar and all that dwell upon it, and if
They cannot have Their way with the world and set Those of the Chothic
Powers who should rule, above and below, in Their place, then none
shall rule. The Nardred, the one Choth free above, has only the Power
to destroy, at My command. That is Its ultimate use. That is where My
Power lies!’ He turned His hand accusingly toward Corin. ‘Of such, have
you and your interferences, drained.’ And here Meonwar conjured rapidly
in the air about His head. Weirdly, as the two faced one another,
images began to form in the daylight between them; the sulphur-yellow
images of Astragali and those others, whom Corin had worked and learned
amongst at the Hermitage. ‘These,’ said the Master of the Nardred,
stabbing a finger at each, ‘these, have your meddling folk and you,
rendered so. These Captains of Mine, bearers of the Power required, are
now but wraiths. At once, I am bereft of Their strength; weakened that
much more. And though They will not come again this time, I shall meet
Them afterward, and We will be united as One; to contemplate, to renew,
to grow afresh. To await, as of Old, as of Always, another chance, far
beyond the Walls of this World.’
‘I do not understand,’ Corin replied. ‘What of Those You claim to
serve, the Māādim and Their Masters the Choths?’
‘My Masters will be freed from Their tasks. Freed as Spirits, to await
Their next coming. For since They may not rule this world, They will be
content to bide beyond the Shadow, into Eternity.’ Meonwar reached for
His staff. ‘It is late enough and you weary me. The time is nigh for
your destruction, and after that I will be off to My final work;
the tumbling of Varlar into Abyss!’ The Nardred Lord trained the
rune-wound staff upon Corin, raised His arm and cried, ‘In the name of
Varlar-Girdler, World Serpent, I dispatch thee to Chardon's Wells!’
Then the Warlock-Sorcerer hurled a sudden streak of blinding light that
burst around Corin. And yet was diverted by the Targe in Corin's left
hand as he, in turn, took up Næglind. A spout of force streamed from
the sword-staff, cutting across the arc of Meonwar's weapon in mid-air.
The beams of light collided; screeching into fountains of sparks that
cascaded, sputtering to extinction in the ocean.
The Serpent Lord recoiled in surprise. ‘Fall, damn you! If you are a
man, fall! Not even gifts gathered and given shall save you this time!’
And He hurled a tumbling ball of fire, that came rolling over the water
to crash amongst the logs of Corin's frail craft. Flame and smoke
erupted as the sea began to boil where fire touched water. Then,
without thinking, Corin brandished Næglind; and it was as if the
transfigured sword lifted a wide sheet of the ocean between him and
Meonwar. Down rained that risen sea drenching Corin and the flames, so
that they were quelled.
When the wall of water subsided, The Lord of the Nardred held up His
hand, saying suspiciously, ‘What Powers do you own? You who claim to be
of Man. For it comes to Me that you must be more than that. I have
suspected as much, ever since the hermitary when We gave you that
accursed horse. A greater strength emanated from you then. What was it?
Who are you?’ Meonwar levelled His arm at Corin. ‘What are you?’
‘I am a child of humble folk. Did You not heed the words of the Wolf?’
‘I heeded, yes,’ replied the Warlock-Sorcerer, with a sneer. ‘Words
chosen carefully for My benefit. Much the Wolf said was truth, much was
lie. Of that I am now sure. The Morrigi suspected Me, yet They were not
certain. Nor could They be, lest I showed Myself to Them, or to you.
So, the Toad and the Wolf wove Their web of half-truths in the hope
that He´Remon the Wizard would follow you and thus reveal Himself. They
sent you out in search of The Nine, and waited for Me to follow. Truths
and lies. But which was truth, which lie? How much more do you know of
Their wiles and ways?’
Corin sensed doubt lurking in Meonwar's questions. The Warlock was
unsure of him, and that was advantageous. Yet even as he thought this,
the spectre of the Serpent Lord's words filled his mind, "Time is of no
import...all will be ended." It was all Corin could do to speak without
falter, ‘I have told You everything that I shall. If You wish to think
me otherwise, do so. But beware. Maybe I lie now, and You be deceived!’
And with that, Corin set Næglind to the water and with nought more than
the thought, caused a huge wave to grow, so that it surged as a
mountain toward the Warlock's raft.
Meonwar, however, was equal to the challenge. from His mouth He blew a
fierce breeze which fanned into storm-wind, breaking the wave, so that
the undertow swelled beneath him and surged away beyond. The ocean
calmed and Meonwar renewed His attack. This time it came as a serrate
lightning, streaking from His fingertips. And though Corin was borne
almost to his knees, he remained unbowed; sending the white bolts
spinning from The Targe, so that they returned to burst upon the sender.
Dropping His hand, Meonwar left off. ‘You must be more than you say!’
he shouted, in a rage.
‘Yes, I must be,’ cried Corin, defiant. ‘For You cannot break through!’
‘I cannot?’ echoed the Warlock. ‘To that, You shall soon see!’ And with
a cartwheel, He spun from head to toe and back again, conjuring things
from out of nowhere; all sorts of things, that at once pounced at
Corin. And They were as a phantom Host of Dæmons and Maniacs: furious,
inexorable, hideous and merciless.
But Corin drove Them away, Næglind raking Them from the sky, until They
were no more. Then he turned upon his adversary, flinging weapons, and
words as weapons. From The Ring of Enduring Grace sprang there a
radiant light that burst before the Nardred Lord's eyes, momentarily
blinding him; divesting him of the ability to counter-attack.
As Meonwar fought off the strength that swarmed about Him, He harked
Corin's risen voice. ‘Do You know me, Oh Master of the Serpent? Are You
sure? I match You now, and I have not even extended myself!’ Yet
desperately, despairingly, beneath the boldness of his words, Corin
prayed for time; a moment more, and beyond that a further moment. For
he was shaken with the misery of doubt. Was there indeed any refuge for
the creatures of Varlar? Or was The Taiga no more than a clay fortress
that would fall, along with everything else in Varlar? Was he
struggling, suffering, in vain? Corin had no way of knowing. He only
saw that he must go on… as long.
So, these two enemies fought: through a day, night and day, moon's wax
and wane, sun's bending over that empty sky.
Who can say how long?
Time was lost to them, as they thrust and parried; much as it had been
to Valandir and Sköl, where They long lay entwined, deep in Earth-Eye.
And in the end, on the tranquil sea that alone witnessed their pitting,
both were ground down like grist of the mill. Their rafts were reduced
to fragments, held together by strands. Their weapons were fired, and
ruined by forges beyond tolerance. Næglind was broken to pieces, The
Targe battered shapeless, The Ring of Enduring Grace dimmed to coldness
upon Corin's numbing hand. He was, himself, thrown down, prone by the
oarlock; the scull, long before, cindered to ash.
Though alike was Meonwar; He also was rudderless. His great staff
shattered in twain beneath the burden of energies stronger than it
could bear. The fearsome Lord of the Nardred was at last bowed; bent,
trembling on his knees. His hands too, were empty.
Night peered over them, or at least the sky had succumbed to blackness.
The moon could not be seen, if it still existed. And they were as
shadows to each other. All about the earthless horizon settled the
turmoil of their encounter; the silent sea hung with gas and heat, and
noxious airs of flame and thunderbolt. But in that oppressive
stillness, it was Meonwar; Master and Spirit of The World Serpent, who
rose a last time to savour revenge, the joy made sweeter by a
persistent enemy. And He laughed, the reeling cadence of one, drunk on
victory at the demise of a worthy foe. And it was not a merciful laugh,
rather was it fraught with serpentine venom, the bitter venom of The
Nardred.
This time, weakened to draining, Corin could not respond.
The Lord of the World Serpent was victor. ‘So, you are vanquished in
the end,’ mocked Meonwar, propped upon the stump of His broken staff.
‘A stubborn wretch beyond belief, and thus the more satisfying at your
defeat. To destroy the weak, the helpless, may be sport for some, but
to be The Master, The Executioner, over a hated and respected foe, is
to pleasure more than you could know, oh One Master!’
Corin stirred at these taunts. He wanted to make a final effort; to
die, at least kneeling, to fling back a denial of Evil, in all its
manifestations. Yet he could not. The strength had ebbed from his body.
‘I had hoped for a little more from you,’ said Meonwar. ‘A whimper, a
speech on how Good shall triumph over Evil. Some such. But I see that
you are too far gone, and what a vengeful sight that is for Me. Good
and Evil, pah! I care for neither. Those words, those thoughts and
ideas mean nothing to Me. Only Power do I desire. Omnipotent Power. And
if It cannot be wrought up by the subjugation of Varlar, then so shall
I obtain It with the total annihilation of this world, and all who
dwell herein. And you, at last, I have. You, singularly, before the
rest!’ The Lord of the Nardred's shadowy form moved a-slither; His arm
uncoiled, reaching, reaching...
‘You know then, the Name of Him, whom You would attempt to destroy?’
It was a Voice, strangely familiar to Corin's fading mind. The Voice
that had echoed through him all the days of his life. And It came from
somewhere above.
There, as he yet lay agonising, he opened his eyes full-wide and the
moon, unmasked, drove through the blankness, as the dark was peeled
away. And there, flew the form of a bird, Bili Jackdaw, on spurring
wings. ‘Rise, and be not brought so low by this Fell Enemy,’ piped the
bird. ‘Whatever you think you thought, think again. For You are born of
Those, least not lower than He. Rise now, Child of World-Lord. This is
Your moment. The Steward of the Serpent cannot gainsay this revelation,
for it is The Truth. You are He, Vindalf, born of Valandir the Drotnar;
last of Varlar's Lords!’
The Jackdaw skimmed overhead and Corin, in new and unexpected hope,
drew himself painfully to an elbow. Ah! but Meonwar, Sorcerer and
Warlock, diverted though He was, threw up His hand and from it there
streamed a dark light, if such can be said of pure, black energy that
reveals itself only by being darker than anything has ever been.
And it smote the bird in flight. Smote Bili; knocked Him, spinning from
the sky, down through the moonbeams, to plunk, with an almost
imperceptible splash, into the ocean!
Now, Meonwar turned His attention again upon Corin and found him
kneeling. With a shriek of fury, the Master of the Nardred let fly that
same blackness, that Spear of Poison which flowed, maybe, from His
Being-Total. It found Corin, this ultimate Sorcerer's weapon. And was
absorbed into hitherto unknown force, The Ring of Enduring Grace.
Hurled back, came that Spear; crashing upon the Warlock-Sorcerer,
whereby He staggered, His raft nigh to foundering.
Corin, with mind and heart racing so fast that thought seemed
impossible, grasped the battered Targe, and with a single movement,
scooped a sodden body from the sea. Here was hand, uplifting bird!
Vision fulfilled!
A new energy flowed into Corin, so that he began to rise.
And Meonwar, shaken, said, ‘There is more to You than I guessed. I see
that We might continue Our battle and that is not to My liking.
Instead, I have a greater design. And You will be a part of such!’ He
gestured behind and in the west, the sun lifted its rim. But that was
no part of Meonwar's doing. His conjuration was of something more
sinister, more awesome. For with the sun, there slowly rose The
Creature. So gigantic was It, that the dome of Its head shut out the
light of day! The eyes appeared, sea-drifted, hooded; eyes of
ever-tide, in the gloam of The World Serpent's own making. ‘Very well,’
said Meonwar, as soft as a child's whisper. ‘It is time. Forget not, in
the shortness awaiting You, that whilst We have toiled to best each
other, the strength that was drained from Me, has returned. As You so
foolishly played for time, so then did I. And now We shall never end
Our duel, for Varlar will be broken and this world unmade, by the Power
of The Nardred!’
In the pale light of hidden sun, Meowar's crumbling raft drifted toward
jaws that opened, seemingly engulfing the sky. On the tranquil ocean,
that awesome maw drew in Its Master's craft; down inside the cavern of
Its monstrous gullet. Then, with never a ripple, the behemothic head
sank, leaving a crippled raft, an open ocean and the day; the end of
all Varlar's days, in Its faintest wake.
Corin lowered his arms. He was at once victorious, and defeated. About
him, the ocean swam, the sky blued into life. He was again alone,
riding sore wounded upon the bosom of the silent sea. He opened his
hand and the bird, unmoving, lay across his palm; its matted feathers
clinging together.
On all that vast ocean, Corin and the bestilled Jackdaw, were the only
creatures to be seen.
Yet, somewhere below, The World Serpent and Its Master, lurked.
Waiting...
Chapter 72 [next]
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