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Varlarsaga Volume 3 - Consolation
Chapter 72 - Nardred's Doom
Menkeepir.
He heard that name sound again within his own mind, as it had many
years before when spoken by his father and mother, those two long dead;
leaving behind them the three children of their union.
The last Lord of Mendoth Citadel, which now lay in ruin in the silent
vale of Indlebloom, set his mailed foot upon the hard horn of stone
that rimmed forbidding peaks; those high places, which seemed never
before to have borne the tred of living beings. Sterile, reared the
rocks above, as they yawned over all below; down to where now sprawled
those many within Menkeepir's compass. Varied were the assembled: men
and women of Indlebloom, Ravenmoor and Kutha-Kesh, peoples of
Rî-mer-Rī, elves, folk of dwarf and pecht kind, animals and birds.
How? thought Menkeepir, rubbing at his breast wherein crept a
relentless chill, how can I lead them further, when there is nought to
show for it? No safe haven, nothing. And I have nowhere else to go. I
am forsaken of guidance, yet I am sure that I have not misled these
multitudes. This is the place that I was instructed to bring them;
here, into these wild and desolate regions all beyond knowledge.
In fear, the Lord Menkeepir turned his gaze toward the faraway west,
and his eyes and thought encompassed much: torturous march over
terrible distances, the uprooting of whole peoples, their ways of life
sundered. The sorrow of simple people, torn from homes and farms, led
away in faith to a barren land of grey, stony mounts. The promise,
however shallow, of safe haven for all who followed.
I must not show weakness now, thought Menkeepir. He peered at the sky,
at the overbearing peaks, at the masses awaiting his guidance; and
finally, at his own empty hands. And he searched, deep within his
shivering heart. There must be a way here, somewhere, he muttered
determinedly. I will seek it. I will set each and everyone to find the
way. His breath came heavy, harsh; his sight seemed to dim. He felt his
heart plump; a beat missed, another. Then the chill that had enthralled
him began to diminish.
He drew in a goodly draught of air and laughed to reassure himself. He
was still young enough and strong, capable of much; able to bear
hardship. Yet his responsibility crushed him, even as he came again
unto himself. After all he, Menkeepir, was just a man bewildered and
lost, standing by a tall chimney of rock; Moth's marker, told him by
She, to seek. Then, as he leaned his head despairingly against the
hardness of stone, he heard, or thought he heard a distant drumming. At
first he feared, lest it be world's ending. But when he turned, his
pulses pounding, Varlar was just as it had been. Nothing had altered.
The mountains were not changed. All was stark and grey and cold. Yet
there was something else; something like the sound of myriad animals
stampeding across the land, or low thunder or water, pouring in mighty
torrent. The sound rumbled through the stone, resonating; constant,
magnified. 'What might it be, and where?' Menkeepir wondered. 'Not
thunder, not over such sustained time. Nor animals either; for surely
even a vast herd would diminish eventually. Water?That could be.
Waterfalls, or the ocean perhaps?' He bent his eyes this way and that
in vain. Nowhere could he spy reason for the sound. It was as if it
permeated from the walls of the mountains. Then he realised that the
sound actually did.
Excitedly, Menkeepir clawed his way beyond the chimney, rounding a
vertical point that closed off east and south. The ledge was so narrow
that he could barely sidle to the very edge and peer around the corner,
neck craned. And there it was, a distant and astonishing sight; cliffs,
rearing to the heavens, over which heights spilled a wide cataract that
plunged to a spume-filled basin beneath. From that basin, a broad river
flowed and on that river, to Menkeepir's instant delight, were ships;
distant ships, elvish ships. The Armada of Aneurin FoamMaster!
Moth, or the Jackdaw, must have led them here, Menkeepir thought,
elated. And though the wide river rolled down to the distant ocean, the
elvish craft rowed against that flow, up and up, toward the
well-springs of those cascading waters. Yet it seemed to Menkeepir that
such labour be fruitless, unless they meant to disembark on the shores
before those towering mounts. For one fleeting moment, he wondered
whether the elvish craft might somehow sail up the falls. Then he
smiled at this foolishness, laughing to himself. But his laughter
turned to amazement, as the Armada rowed on, entering beneath the
deluge amidst a wide rainbow spray that danced, dazzeling his vision.
In haste, Menkeepir scrambled from his vantage point and came again
amongst the people. And of him, they asked, What sign, Oh Lord of
Indlebloom, Oh Keeper of Men? Beaming, he answered them not, but
instead hurried to his brother Mendor. We have no time to speak. Ride
swiftly, if you trust me. Ride amongst the many, and urge everyone this
way. It shall not be a vain thing; of that, I promise you.
And so saying Menkeepir himself turned to spur on the reluctant, the
exhausted, to step it out that much further. Down in the valley of
stones he prevailed, helping, lifting, carrying at need. And there were
some, even Mendor, who doubted him, until those leading that immense,
migratory folk, swept the corners of the desolate mountains and beheld
sight of mighty waters, plummeting from the encircling heights, and the
wonder of elvish ships plying there.
This is it! shouted Menkeepir. The headwaters to the Taiga, through
those reaches where the elven fleets bear! Somewhere, within these grim
mountains, is our Haven. Let us be ordered; the weak, the wounded and
infirmed, the young and the old, must go first. The able-bodied need
tarry hither, lest enemies catch us at the last.
Mendor, harried by thoughts of Minca and Mysingir, lost far off
somewhere between the ruin of Dorthillion and this incredible
destination, fell back into the rear; holding together the last of
those good and true fighting men. Before him, went the rest; hurrying
toward the banks of the flowing waters where the elves hailed them from
their plowing ships. In the last boats to pass, Sirenpowet and Cinco
called to them. Do not despair, we will come back for you! And thence
they vanished through the wide curtain of falling mist, into the
unknown beyond.
On the shores, the multitude gathered about Menkeepir, whilst he stood,
concerned and impatient for the return of the Valdë craft. I must see
this task to its conclusion, ere it is too late, he thought. The
prophesy of the Seeress will come true; all these dear peoples shall be
saved, if it costs me my life to ensure it done.
They waited a goodly time whilst the sun drifted eastward, dipping
toward the reared mountains. And then, at eventide, Elloræ ships,
emptied of their elvish companies, began to emerge from beneath the
eaves of those tremendous falls. Scores of Swan Gondolas, Goose Barges
and others, swept out of the torrents, making for the shore. Soon, the
laughing Valdë were taking aboard children, women and men; none of whom
could believe that which was happening.
And so the ferrying went on into the night whilst Menkeepir paced the
stony shore, denying himself food, thirst-quench, or rest. The
embarkation was long, even with the many-fold vessels of the sea elves.
Aneurin Foamhair and Alluin returned in the Dolphin Ship. Belda of
Ravenmoor was with them, to see aboard her nephew Ordrick and those
folk of their abandoned island: Beald, Branikin Goosie and his family,
Spiggot and his daughter, Izod the Fair and all the others who had
lived their lives in that distant place. The Wanax Orsokon and his
peoples of Kutha-Kesh boarded and were sailed away. Qwilla, Cwēn of
Rî-mer-Rī, and her beloved folk, took to the elvish vessels. So did the
men and women of Indlebloom, until there were scant few left upon those
inhospitable shores.
Menkeepir remained, even after Qwilla had begged him to go with her. As did Mendor remain, dour and stout to the last.
But there were some others too, hardly noticed amongst the passing of
so many. Dalen and Bim were two amidst that tumult. The pixie and the
cat made their way to the water's edge and there sought out Menkeepir
through the hurry-scurry of the crowd. So deep in thought was he, that
the Lord did not notice them; not until Bim mewled, Farr I have padded
with you Lorrd. But neow will you not cease walking and talk awhile?
At this Menkeepir, as if from a dream, looked down at them and at once
knelt, that they might regard each other the better. What are you both
still doing here? he questioned. This is no place to tarry. Hurry,
pounce aboard a craft of elvin folk, your folk, and sail to safety.
But Dalen said, We are loathe to go. Silval and Elvra have not returned and we would await their coming.
Thiss is true, went on Bim. My Meowster Corin Avarhli ass well.
Yes, and there are others too; Men out of Dorthillion and Elves from the Mayhenyodaro, added Dalen.
I know that well enough, replied Menkeepir gravely. My brother Mysingir
and the Lorda Minca are amongst them. He wrung his hands together in
anguish. I fear for them with all my heart. Then, drawing himself
upright, he said, Now come dear folk. You should not be split atwain
from your own kith. Look about you, there are few of your peoples left
here. Do me this boon and service at once; take to the Dolphin Ship, go
at least that far, and say to Aneurin Seamaster that my Brother and I,
together with a force of volunteers, will bide on these shores a time
yet. Bid him tarry as long as he feels safe to do so. At first sign of
danger, must he away. Tell him also that I am forever grateful to him,
and the Elloræ, for their part in this great labour toward safe haven.
In this time of World's need, have the Elves given more than any can
rightfully reckon. Go now with the last of men, for it seems to me that
you, O Cat of Wonder and you Master Pecht, are all of your kind who
remain on these bleak shores. So saying, Menkeepir urged them down to
the water's edge and there saw them into an elf-helmed coracle that
sped them out toward the graceful, crystalline ship awaiting.
There Dalen and Bim huddled in the prow, gazing back toward the
solitary figure of Menkeepir where he stood, somehow set apart from his
few stalwarts; a lord alone: sad, wearied, burdened but proud, upon the
stony land.
Brôga-need-blood-wine-need-rest-and-see-them-he-likes-Furry-thing-and-little-Dalen-pip-squeak-and-Corin-
One-Master! bellowed the Ogre.
I know, and so do I, muttered Mysingir, whilst he, the Ogre and the
peoples of Dorthillion and the Mayhenyodaro, struggled eastward. In all
there were many hundreds, long passed out of Dorthillion, who had now
marched into the high reaches above Rî-mer-Rī, skirting the base of the
northern alps. These hardy folk had striven through numerous dangers
along the way: the Marshes of Mersclond, the empty highlands, the
dudgeoning lowlands; a dreary, heart-rending way that saw them
hastening through realms, war ravaged and abandoned.
Eventually, Mysingir bore them up with only that left to him, song.
Beyond all lands of men. Beyond all mortal's ken.
Beyond all breeze. Beyond all seas.
Beyond all strands and then, beyond all ravenous mire.
Beyond all flickering fire. Beyond all kind. Beyond all mind. Beyond all darkness dire.
Beyond all power won. Beyond all time's work done.
Beyond all knowing, Beyond all growing.
Beyond all moon and sun.
Beyond all sorrows found, stars, countless, yet abound.
In Kingdom high, past breadth of sky, Fate's circles still are wound.
Beyond all days, beyond sun's rays,
Fate's circles, still are wound.
For a time, such thing as song can lift. But even song must die. And after the end of song, came silence.
That silence enveloped the foremost riders: Minca, Tarhunta, Mysingir,
Berrondo and Trondilag. Brôga, not to be outdone by quiet grunted,
'Arrgh-better-when-you-sing-song-walk-along-happy!
Hey! The oaf is right you know, cried Minca, brightening. And so it was
that as they rode and walked, any who knew a tune, a verse, an ancient
ballad, rhyme, lay, or rousing chorus, took up the bleak silence and
filled it with their voices: children of men sang the songs of farmyard
and playground, women, the songs of toil and tenderness, men, the songs
of the lands; of tillage and furrow, of hearth and hounds, of
ploughshare and sword, and ale.
Then, when the folk of Dorthillion could sing no more, the elves; those
riding stately, or walking sprightly, twined their beautiful voices
into silvery music, the like of which, men only dreamt. And the Nolvæ
sang their song and in it was all their long, long history: their joy
and sorrow and lament for Varlar, and everything that ever was and ever
will be. And Men were wrought to tears as they rode. Whilst children of
Men laughed and cried and danced. And all were saddened and gladdened
at one and the same time.
And time and the many leagues, rolled by.
Time rolled on, until faraway voices began to mingle with those of the Nolvæ.
Faint and distant and strange-tongued were these, so that even the
Nolvæ song dwindled, whilst they harked these new-come troubadours.
Then, even as men steadied horse and sought weapon, there appeared a
shrouded folk, gathering on a scant-covered ridge away to the south.
Amongst them, there walked a tall Elvish Lady, and by her delicate
feet, hopped a squat toad.
Hail, people of my people, she called, in the common tongue of men.
Hail to ye, folk whom I have never known. Stay your course and bide
with us, I beseech you; for we are the remnant of a people long lost,
who would be remembered to the light of day. With me, from the bowels
of Varlar, walk the last of the Daræ out of Earth's innards. I am
Loriandir of the Fane. Once, long ago, I meant something, as did these
folk who dwelt with me. In the long ago, they meant much. Now they and
I are released unto the world. Will ye not tarry awhile that we may
cleave to you?
At that, the Nolvæ elves halted and their leader Bel-Thalion said, We
beg your pardon, Lady Great. Come hither to us and we will greet you
rightly. Bring those with you, the Dark Ones, for I think we have with
us a maiden of their own kind; the Daræ Lady Talisar. She who has long
remained upon the outside, whilst her kin were passed within the skin
of Varlar, with you. It seems a wonderous thing, that you are free.
Pray, tell us how this came to be, whilst we travel; since it is that
we are bound in common direction. Surely you must have news of events,
unknown to us, from Earth-Mouth and beyond. Whatever, for best or
worse, we would hear, and Talisar, I am sure, would have word of Corin
One Master.
Thus was the way of it.
The two bands of refugees joyfully joined, and hastening on, word was
given of that which had transpired before, leading to their meeting.
Saddened were they overall though; for there was little good news to
tell. Talisar remained mute, having heard the fate of Corin; he, her
loved one, roaming the wilderness, awaiting doom at the mercy of a
merciless foe. Well she knew that he was now beyond her aid or comfort,
and for him she chose to grieve in silence. However, the others had
need to go on with some hope in their hearts, and this hope was found
in each other.
Yet now the fear, The Mighty Fear, began to fall across them; and all,
even the Ogre, felt that threat reaching out to grasp and enshroud them.
Shivering, they struggled over the sands of time's waste. Somewhere far
ahead lay their hoped-for haven, and Bufo the Toad urged them make
haste, since distance was not their only enemy. They were not permitted
to travel unharried; the highroads, the rude paths and winding ways
were not empty of danger. Here and there lurked disorganised bands of
goblins, solitary leaderles trolls, wandering wolf packs and lone,
terrible dragons; unbridled and lethal. These were the remnants, the
wayward few who had fallen behind, or made away singly from those
dogging Menkeepir's flocks. These were the dregs who had found hidden
tracks over the Mirthin Mountains, or turned about to retrace their
steps back across Indlebloom, and thence through Malthace. Then,
gradually, over the many leagues from those westward regions, were they
formed into a formidable, rag-tag horde. Through the Colle-Oba, across
the deserted realm of Kutha-Kesh, beyond to the Kisir-Oba and Lang Shan
beside the Reedy Sea, this rabble pursued; growing in strength all the
while. And woe betide any who they came upon in the wilds. Yet maybe,
even into the devious and dimwitted minds of these fell creatures, a
mite of fear had seeped. Maybe even they sought refuge from something
only guessed or rumoured. Without knowing it, perhaps they also sought
a refuge like unto the Taiga.
There were clashes of course, running encounters and skirmishes. And
ever, whilst they travelled the abandoned lands, were Men and Elves
aware of that growing force, probing and panting; insatiable, at their
backs.
However it was not possible for Men or Elves to know of that which lay
ahead. There, mustered the might of remaining Nugoblukdom; they who had
followed Menkeepir's peoples from their outset at Aileen. Unaware,
Mysingir, Minca and those with them, rode into the pincers of the
enemy, who now brooded in hiding, waiting a chance to rush the
remaining force upon the banks of that swiftly rushing river. Mayhap
even to board Elvin craft, for Goblindom's own chance at survival?
Sogbo, who had survived Aileen and risen to be the leader of this
motley army, lurked watchful on the very rises westward where Menkeepir
had set his shod foot whilst searching for the source of the Taiga.
There the Goblin, desperate, cunning Gark that he was, cracked the
knuckles of his claws and scratched at his bare pate, grinning with
gaping fangs and squinting through beady eyes; for he had glimpsed the
new-come arrivals. He dribbled with expectation and his dark mind
formed gruesome images: At least if not to survive, to live and spawn
and grow fat on victims, best then to kill; torture and kill and drink
the nectar of throats and die killing! He sucked at his claws and
cackled. End of Sogbo? he muttered. No more Sogbo. No more fun. No more
wenching Nugo sluts. No more slurping brains and guts. No more
whipping, no more slashing. No more raping, no more bashing. Take some
with you, Sogbo lad. Curse and blind them, Sogbo's mad! The goblin's
laughter grew to an hysterical mixture of rage and fear, for in his
crazed mind he foresaw his own doom and was determined to take as many
with him as he could.
The battle that ensued was bloody, short, and decisive. Sogbo's forces
struck out at the oncoming folk from Dorthillion, whilst behind,
Goblins now came to harry their rear. If it had not been for Brôga, for
the heroism of Mysingir and the fierce heart of Minca, and for
Bel-Thalion's ringing sword, events would have been different: Men and
Elves slaughtered, one and all. As it was, too many bit metal; too many
fell upon the hard stone and felt their lives blaze out. Chaliandri the
Black Elf died there, along with Shiriana the Daræ maid. Sianor of the
Nolvæ was laid low and farewelled Varlar in the arms of Nivri-Allon.
Trondilag and Berrondo of Erilar both succumbed, fighting side by side,
protecting their Lorda Minca; who, at their fall, swept the heads off
their murderers.
Many further lives would have been lost, but for the timely sortie of
Menkeepir. It was he and his brother Mendor, who rode at the head of
the roan-mounted Indlebloomers, cutting a deep wedge through the
Nugobluk, that they might meet with those on the furthest side. And
there, midst the clamour and turmoil of battle, were the brothers three
united, and Minca, cut and crimsoned, returned to her love Mendor. Yet
even as they met by the banks of the waters, the Nugobluk pressed them
hard in the rear; for these Goblins had nought to lose and were goaded
on by Sogbo in his maniac fury. As the Goblins forced home their
overall strength in numbers, there came a much-needed reprieve.
Stanegnamen, commanded by Kral, Gizonak and Zlato, appeared, as if from
the very mountain stone, to bear down from the north upon their foe.
Stonegnomes, granite-hardened, chisel-featured and dour, are difficult
to kill or even maim. If the Stanegnamen had a vulnerability, mayhap it
was their eyes; thus some were blinded by goblin dart, to blunder away
unseeing. Though the rest fell to their foes and swift was Stonegnome
justice, swift the revenge of those stoic, stolid creatures; brethren
of rock and mountain bone. Here, in the doings of the Stonegnomes, were
Elves and Men given respite enough to regroup and make away.
The ships of Aneurin Seamaster lifted them from the shore and, one
after another, the wondrous craft sailed through the misty falls and
beyond, into the Taiga's unknown. Menkeepir himself was last to leave;
fending off the enemy as he leapt from land. The final craft rowed
away, forging upstream, whilst those remaining Nugobluk teemed about
the waterside, insensible now to the Stonegnomes, who killed them where
they stood.
Menkeepir's final sight was that of masses struggling on the river's
edge, of Stonegnome and Nugobluk plummeting to death, locked together.
And then there came a blinding curtain of rain; a torrent, as the long
sweeps of the elvish rowers sent Aneurin's Dolphin ship coursing beyond
the mighty waterfalls.
For a time, which Menkeepir could only recall later as a night long
without moon or star to guide or count the moments, the Elvish vessel
surged onward; the Valdë mariners plying their crystal oars, a sheen of
lumallin about each row-elf, picking them out palest-blue in the black
of abyss.
Yet none aboard the Dolphin Ship were afraid; the Elloræ sang the
haunting songs of land and sea with voices pure and lifting and words
unknown to Men. But Men cared not, for they were comforted and warmed
in the dark where no warmth was.
Then, the light burst through.
They were out and sailing over clear, flowing water, into what seemed
another world. Around, tall mountains craned their heads, rugged and
sheer; some snow-capped, others iron-grey. Yet there was green too, and
blue: the green of wandering belts of trees, forests cladding slopes
and skirting a broad, emerald lake fed by streams and falls that dashed
and cascaded from distant peaks. Fish, sparkling, went shooting through
the clear water. Fowl were wading there. Woolly sheep were grazing on
the hills.
Valdë ships, full rigged and swallow-tail pennoned, hovered close in to
the rolling downs that embraced a sandy strand whereon waited those
already there: Men and Elves, Pixies, Dwarves and Brownies, antlered
deer, horse, cattle; all expectant, perhaps the closest that they could
ever be. Bright coloured flocks, a multitude of birds, showered
overhead, whilst folk of ship and shore waved and sang a greeting, a
joyful meeting. And they were all, once again, reunited.
Such joy indeed was there that word and song was made of the events that befell.
Whether this was done by a single hand or more than one is unclear, but
the verses survived as a Lay that became part of the chronicles of
Varlar. Yet let it be recorded that a gifted Bard or Bards gave forth
that offering, preserved nigh the close of the Brown Book, the Third of
Four unearthed many ages later at the ancient site of Hrætia Minor.
And so, here follows that offeringCame they to the Taiga, within the
girdling mountains, and to their eyes it seemed much as a paradise.
There was no lack of provender; food grew on trees and vines, and their
bounty was plentiful. Shelter too, there was: homes amongst the green
woods, caverns in the high hills.
Stone in abundance, for masons to fashion.
Dwarves would take that task in hand, since such was their passion.
Thus, the Lordly Menkeepir, unto the Taiga came,
and thus brought with him, his destiny and fame.
About he, gathered high and lowly, heaping him with praise.
Odes were prompt composed for him, to sing in latter days.
Elves, as well, were glorified, the gentle and the strong.
Loud the lauds were sung of them by each in all that throng.
Thence Bufo Toad made away, Loriandir leading.
The time had come, of all Earth-time, that her heart was needing.
Others followed in their wake, Aneurin, Goldal, Alluin her daughter.
Into forests rich they passed, and by the trickling water.
The Keeper-of-Men, walked with them then, his brothers also trailing.
Belda, and King Ordrick too, in his metal-mailing.
Through age-old woods, trod they there, delight and hope all sharing.
Minca, Qwilla, Semir-Ramis; soft stepping in their caring.
Orsokon and his tot, and Possum Wollert too,
Clovell and Dalen, followed close, the chosen of the few.
Rosac, Rosida, and Piri their maiden,
came with mellis honey dew; baskets a'laden.
In the thickets Brôga blundered, Bim at his ear.
Once the ogre might have thundered, but now he had a care.
Farinmail stalked along, for company horse and sheep;
Cornarian, and Argal, from Tumberimber steep.
Over fern and coarse-leaved bracken Nolvæ elves went threading,
Bel-Thalion and Nivri-Allon, lightest footfall treading.
Prince Nolar and Chaliandra, long lost in nether days,
lithe-footed, silent-sure, hastened the greening ways.
Last and lorn of black-elf kind, came Talisar the Daræ.
She the love of Corin; vanished Master Fay.
Her weepen tears, she left unhidden and to the dell did follow.
To where the Sleeper, peaceful slept, she crept within that hollow.
And with the rest, her eyes gazed down at sight seen by but few;
there was creature, green-clad fringed, amongst the forest dew.
Sitting cross-legged, brown feet bare, a leafy garland in his hair.
Behind his ear, a long blue feather; in his blue eyes, sunny weather.
On nut-brown finger, willow wren sat perching,
watchful for danger then, her bright eyes searching.
By the pool, where otter leapt, an open casket in which slept,
a haloed child; days old, seeming. Yet over vast age, onward dreaming.
The Fairy-Mother bent her knee and knelt before that company,
to draw the swaddling babe from night; her 'Corin', risen to the light
of day, that they should witness Themion's boy,
though Themion's shade had no such joy.
Uplifting him, she made a pass and sank down crooning in the grass.
The swaddling babe clasped in her arms, she worked a mystery with her charms,
that wakened him from night's long hold, and brought him from the darkness cold.
A moment more passed with his sighs and then he opened up his eyes
to stare, enraptured at his Mother; and thence to gaze at every other.
At length, those watching, made away, to tend the business of the day.
Loriandir and child leaving; he, clutched to her white breast heaving.
Only Toad and Moth stayed near, beside the rustic fellow, queer.
In voice of pipe-call, pure and shrill, My name, he cried, is M'Boabdil!
In every wood you hear me calling, spring and summer, in leaf-falling.
Winter too, I am a'haunting. Snow and wind and cold, undaunting.
I am here, as I was then, ever first, renewed again;
as ever on, whilst world's turning,
my memory dwells in all folk's learning.
First rain, first green, first Varlar sky;
first helpless living thing, saw I.
I am on, and in, and under.
I am tree and leaf and wonder.
I am the spirit of the Taiga.
I am Nature's Saga.
Long safe, have I kept this mite;
for I am the Forest-Sprite!
Then Toad and Moth both spun from sight,
and there, instead, were witches wight:
Clothyl and Ergris, silent waiting,
watching over, contemplating.
And so there, leave them for a while,
as Loriandir sees the smile
that 'minds her of her Themion;
this 'Corin's' sire, her lover, gone.
Beyond the fastness of that glen to realm of lake, peopled by men
and elves and dwarves and flocks of birds,
and vast rayed animal herds;
there, those of Lordly, high and great,
spake their future in debate.
And whilst they did, in open parley, entered folk on wing'ed Sgnarli.
From the clouds, he overflew them; hurtful wounded, glided to them.
Landed and discharged his load, those weary folk of skyward road:
sore-pierced Silval, Huntress Elvra, Amqa maiden and love Falnir.
Cinglor, Darion's body bearing; that noble elf, now passed caring.
Great Grey-Wolf Bozkirt Shan, third of Apploth Witches' clan.
And lastly Pitrag, imp of night; whose steering claw kept dragon's flight
unerring, though those droopen wings of Sgnarli's were nigh done with things:
with daring errantry and battle, his shingled armour near last rattle.
Warlock's spike within his breast, death now loomed, and to him pressed.
But still the dragon did not fail and with the imp, rose to the gale
of gathered storm clouds in the west, maybe to find some fire-drake nest,
seeking there, perchance to die, lest Corin filled dear Sgnarli's eye
and mind and glowing heart with flame; The Master Corin's hands to tame
such wild and savage beast as he, perhaps a spark of loyalty
beat on in thudding chest, and neither imp nor drag' could rest
without them searching all world wide; together thus, to darkness tide,
they blew away as shadows fell and of them after none could tell.
Yet still, would it be best to think they swept o'er Varlar to the brink
and furthermore, where none have been; toward the bless'ed realms unseen.
In hope and pity, let them dwell
somewhere, beyond the harbour's bell.
But now to All-World, Doom was sending; light and life to Varlar ending.
A crack of lightning'ed sky went scudding, as down the thundering clouds came flooding.
There, round about the Taiga quaked and hungry earth, the rains slaked
unto the sodden, muddied soil, as without the oceans boiled
to torrents, and to fury's rage; whilst within the Taiga, caged,
were frail and helpless, hopeless sheep, last place of safety left them creep.
Waters gushed and mountains crashed, shores and lands far in were dashed.
Cliffs collapsed and deserts sank, the thrashing, writhing waters drank
whole strands down under to the deep, lost forever, there to keep,
whilst lifted from the sea-bed floor were thrown again new mountains o'er
those wind-lashed ways, where currents boiling, surged about whole forests toiling.
And somewhere, deep within the oceans, Nardred twisted Varlar's motions
to ruin and world's ending; sky turned over, sun bending
moon and stars all heaped together, seasons thrown to fearsome weather.
Spring to winter, earth a'quiver; leaves rattling empty river.
Stones rocked and Varlar tumbled; pitching backward, world crumbled,
coiling as The Serpent coiled and boiling as the oceans boiled.
Heaving, twisting, reeling, shifting; realms were lost, and others lifting
collided, and fell again, as down below, The World's-Bane
sought destruction's path forever; Varlar's living-being never
more to flourish or to burgeon, whilst that dreaded World-Sturgeon
strove for endless night's death and breathed abroad a world's-end breath.
Yet latterly, the crush subsided and bewildered, all earth bided.
Throes of It were unsustained, as if Nardred, completely drained,
lay withering on the ocean's floor; defeated then, but evermore?
None could tell and none dared guess, too busied afterward with stress
of finding foot in world now grown away from Varlar of their own.
Night was night and stayed that way and long it drove without the day,
and spring to winter's way wore on; within The Taiga, leaves were gone
from trees that should have sprouted many, in that lean time there weren't any.
All were twigs and sticks and posts, the darkened lands, peopled by ghosts
of forests and of woods now strickened; black, their empty shadows thickened.
Then, to joy, to heart, sun sprang; within The Taiga, voices rang
both in wonder and thanksgiving that the world went on a'living.
But awed all, both elves and men, watched the sun circle again,
dipping to horizon low, and thence from out the east to grow.
World was changed in that dawning, when the East Sun rose to morning.
Days rolled by, not as before; Varlar was gone, unto folklore.
For then, for now, for evermore,
the Sun creeps out from eastern shore,
to ride into the western day,
and in the west, to sink away...
So concludes the Lay of Varlar's Ending.
What follows are the final entries from the Brown Book of Hrætia-Minor.
Epilogue [next]
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