Varlarsaga Volume 2 - Recovery

Chapter - 30 Brôga

Bimmelbrother, son of Memmelardoth, was unhappy and uncertain. ‘You are my Meowster,’ the cat cried as he was jogged along, perched on Corin's shoulder, amidst the thirty-strong company. ‘And yet I am concerned for Silval and dearr Elvra and the others. Our ways are sunderrring.’

‘I know it, my catty friend,’ murmured Corin, whilst the steed they together rode, bounced its haunches up the steep gradient that led to a distant pass between the misty peaks ahead. ‘And for that, I grieve. But I follow my mind's way and my heart and that which enters them. Life-long have I so done, I suppose. Now I can do no less. Please Bim-cat, lest you leave me, follow that which I guess, which I hope, to be the right way.’

The cat turned his large, liquid eyes to Corin's. ‘Do you really kneow?’

They had taken their leave of Mendoth city in mid morn and were now straddling the high slopes of the Icknaldir Chain. It was late noon. Ahead, rode Mysingir and Menkeepir.

Dogged by doubt, Corin turned a last time to gaze back into the vale of Indlebloom where, hours before, Mendor and his search party had passed into the south-west. Urging his horse forward and shrugging off his doubts, he came to Menkeepir's side. ‘Why then, in all this springing day, has Mysingir not favoured us with some joy of song, if he be such a minstrel as I am told he is?’ he asked.

Menkeepir allowed his steed to fall a little behind. ‘That is because the further we travel this way, the further we pass from Erilar.’

For a moment Corin puzzled silently. ‘Erilar is a city beyond the Mirthin Mountains in the north, as I recall your telling. What then has that place to do with your Brother?’

‘Another long tale,’ muttered Menkeepir, ‘and on this journey, one that is bound not to be told; save to say that in Erilar there dwells someone whom my Brother has fancy for, though she scorns him openly. In any event, our relations with Dorthillion have become poor since the ways have wildened. Thusly has the breach widened between them, especially with her constant rebukings. Still, Mysingir lives in hope, yet that too founders as the distance grows further. He may sing, even so; albeit his song be melancholy. As is said by those who know, "Further apart, strains hope and heart." For myself, I have had no such experience. Women have played little part in my life. My thoughts and eyes have been turned elsewhere. My heart bears small space to return, or receive love. It is bent only on the fulfilment of the prophesies.’

‘Tell me then, why you did not venture out, before my coming, to find the Seeress?’

‘I would have thought that to be obvious,’ returned Menkeepir. ‘Seldom have I travelled further than a few days ride from Mendoth city; lest in doing so, I should miss He whom I was to await.’

‘And yet you rode out to meet your Brothers, ’ said Corin. ‘Did you know beforehand of my coming at that time?’

Menkeepir laughed. ‘Perhaps I had a feeling. I cannot really tell. Usually I ride a distance, on given days, to meet my Brothers at their return. After all, it is not only our peoples that they risk their lives for. It is me. They have ranged far over past years, doing the deeds that must be done on the borders of Indlebloom, whilst I stayed at home, safe to do the business of Lording, behind Mendoth's walls. The furthest I have journeyed, other than that, are the hill pastures and the grain fields; or to Lin-Dlenn, to sit by the pool where my Father and Mother last walked.’

Corin stared hard at Menkeepir. ‘I only hope then, that I am he whom you believe me to be,’ he said, holding tight as their horses picked a way up the slopes.

The following day, after spending the night atop the Icknaldir Chain, the company began their descent toward the green valley below.

‘Those are wild regions down there,’ warned Mysingir. ‘I have been within the trees of Malthace on occasion. They are the haunt of strange, unruly creatures and untamed things.’

‘I do not like the sound of that,’ wailed Bim, curling his tail tightly about Corin's neck.

‘Nor do I, good cat,’ replied Corin. ‘But we must traverse dangerous lands if we are to reach our destination. And at least I have back my sword.’ He patted the hilt of the elvish blade.

‘Also returned is the bow and quiver of shafts, there hanging at your knee,’ said Menkeepir, indicating a wrapped bundle dangling from the saddle girth. ‘I put it there before we set off this morning. You are now no longer my reluctant guests, or captives as you might have thought. Rather, I suppose, you are my willing companions and guides, on this queer quest.’

‘Queer, that it is,’ agreed Corin. ‘You, a Lord of Mendoth, journeying forth to rede a riddle that is to save men from what we know not. I, your so-called guide, blundering blindly forward like one in the dark, searching for a Seeress and her talking bird in all this wide, wild world. And if we find them, what then?’

Yet even as he spoke those words, The Voices came, swirling around, deep within Corin's mind.

Corin blinked. ‘What was that?’ he said aloud, as the sun again filled his eyes.

‘What was what, O Meowster?’ asked Bim.

Corin screwed up his face so that it wrinkled. ‘Nothing. Nothing Bim. Only The Voices again,’ he said, shaking his head.

They wound their way across the slopes, following an ancient, broken path, covered for the most part by straggling clumps of wild flowers that sprang through the cracked stone.

‘The road has almost vanished,’ remarked Mysingir solemnly. ‘But that is understandable, since the end of traffic between Mendoth and Kurigaldur these many years. I wonder if that citadel yet stands?’

‘We have had no news to tell otherwise,’ replied Menkeepir. ‘And from what you say of the forests here, it is not surprising that the ways are empty and overgrown. Still, for now let us be on our mettle, gird ourselves and travel quietly. The horses are light of step and wary, as we must be; for we are well beyond the bounds of Indlebloom and safe harbour.’

They came down to the wooded expanse through struggling fir trees, and where the going levelled, entered into the forest proper. Almost at once there was a change in the air; not unwholesome altogether, yet charged as if by forces both curious and secretive. It felt, to Corin, like venturing into some elder realm where the elms and the oaks, the fluted hornbeams and solitary ash, stood unchanged since the forest's beginnings. It seemed indeed the home of wild things.

Sunshine flitted amongst the leaves in ever changing patterns and great shafts of it burst between the high branches above their heads like pillars of transparent gold. The earth was heavy-laden with the fall of past autumns, but the trees themselves were already clad anew. Before them, a mighty hart with many-tined antlers bounded into view and out again in the wink of an eye.

Further, the riders passed beside berry-laden bushes that overhung the scant path and in them, squawking and pecking unhurriedly at the fruit, perched a score or more birds; sizeable they were, and grey-black, with white under-tail feathers and huge, dark eyes. Gravely, Bim addressed them, waving a fore-paw importantly; but without reply. Instead, they looked silently down at him, regarding all with cold, unblinking stare. Then, after a few moments, one opened its long, slightly curved beak and gave forth a mournful cry. On the instant, it flapped its wings and rose languidly aloft to glide away amongst the trees. The others followed and were soon lost to sight.

‘The entire forest will know of our coming not long from neow,’ cried Bim in disgust.

‘Birds spread words,’ laughed one of their party.

Menkeepir too, smiled, though it was not an altogether humorous smile. ‘The black cat speaks truly I believe,’ he said. ‘If those creatures have a mind, the news will travel faster than we can ride. So now, let us hasten. There is no point in stepping light.’

They urged their mounts forward at a sharp clip, pressing deeper into the forest that closed about them.

There was always something to catch their interest, or fill them with surprise and awe. At a time, they rode through clouds of brightly coloured butterflies. At another, they chanced upon a brace of boars scruffing and snuffling about in the undergrowth. Snorting, the pair charged off, albeit without sign of actual alarm.

As the company rode further, animals came out to watch them: deer and fox together, hedge-pig and scrub-rat, rabbit and weasel, a badger and a skunk.

Through the narrow way, often beset by creepers and vines, the riders made their road.

So it went for several days, for the valley forests between the Icknaldir Chain and the Mounts of Cinder were very wide. Once, they came upon a space, open to the sky, rank with growth of weed and sombre deserted.

Through this they picked their path, skirting raised mounds that stood above the long grass; the horses shying and side-stepping.

Then they came to shallow streams and forded them whilst river birds rose overhead, calling plaintively.

In dense thickets they hacked a passable trail with sword and axe. Often they lost the old road altogether, only to cut across it again as they progressed.

One night the company camped amidst a circle of oaks and in the cold, grey light of morning, when most were asleep, Menkeepir and Corin watched, wordless and spell-bound, whilst a herd of white cattle, red eared and tailed, strolled by; their long curling manes wafting into the mists.

Later that same morning, the party came to a river. It was fast flowing and broad, too wide and swift to swim.

‘This water I do not know,’ said Mysingir. ‘I have never been this far. Only Mendor has, and he told me of a bridge that spanned it.’

‘Aye, that he would have remembered from his childhood journey,’ remarked one of the company, riding forward and doffing his grated face-plate. The eyes beneath it looked out, white and near empty of sight.

‘Cennalath!’ Mysingir exclaimed in surprise. ‘What do you here?’

For a moment the old man considered, then he said, ‘I here, do what I must. I forbade the others to give me up, since I still hold that much influence with the men of Indlebloom. I came because I could not bear to see my Lords depart without service from me. Never, this way, have either of you been thus far. I had to come, as I did years ago with your Brother Mendor, for you need a guide now, be he near to blind. I knew you would not allow it, so I came without consent...’

Menkeepir scowled, then laughed, well pleased at the old man's loyalty. ‘Why you hoary rascal, it is too late to send you back now I suppose. And as you are here, pray tell, can you recall our way?’

Cennalath pondered a moment, then raised his arm. ‘We must go down the river I believe. The road was lost as we travelled. East and south is our way, until the waters narrow and we come upon the stone bridge, if it yet stands.’

‘A goodness upon you, and may you see us all safe to Indlebloom dear Cennalath,’ cried Mysingir, bringing his mount about. ‘This way then Brother!’

Menkeepir held fast. ‘Wait!’ he shouted, but his impetuous younger brother made off at a considerable canter.

Down the running river, they followed him: Menkeepir, Corin and Cennalath, the foremost in his wake.

Soon there came a hail from Mysingir, hidden by the trees ahead. Then another sound that chilled the blood of his pursuers. It was a mighty bellowing: a ‘Cheech!’ and a ‘Churchh!’ and a ‘Gorrr’ and a ‘Dreathh!’

‘Whatever is that sound?’ Corin shouted, as they hastened on.

‘I fear it be a troll, or something of that kind!’ cried the old man, near breathless, panting.

Corin glanced sideways and there hung Cennalath, clinging to the bobbing head of his steed. On the instant Corin snapped up the trailing reins and slowed Cennalath's horse from its gallop. In that same moment they swung around a willowy bend and saw the bridge. It was, in truth, a stoneway: rough and cracked, mossy and ancient; though by its looks still able to bear a crossing.

But bestriding its mouth, looming head and shoulders above Mysingir and his horse, there stood a creature most forbidding. By mere looks, it was an ogre or troll, and it was angry. It brandished a rough-hewn stone club, tapping it upon the raised walls of the bridge and sending chips flying in all directions. It was taller than a horse and rider combined and twice as broad as any man. Its hair was long and shaggy as a bear's brown pelt, and its face was huge and red. Its eyes blazed with dark menace and its wide lips curled back over a thick beard, exposing pointed teeth made for biting and ripping; maybe even to tearing off heads, had the creature a mind to. From its bulging shoulders fell a rough hide garment shaped like a sack with holes left amongst the few gut stitches for head and arms. The bottom, with hem tattered, exposed bare, hairy legs as thick as tree trunks. The monster's feet were unshod and unwashed; the nails of its hammer-headed toes, as those of its huge fists, were grimed and clogged with filth.

‘Yarrr!’ It bawled. ‘Food! I-could-eat-a-horse! Harr-harr-harr! Or-a-man!’ It thundered, its face spreading into a fearsome grin.

Mysingir levelled his long spear at this towering mountain, as several of the men drew their bows and took careful aim. ‘Let us cross to the further side, or we will knock you into the river to drown,’ he commanded.

‘Ogres-don't-drowwn!’ thundered the creature.

‘They do when they are full of arrows!’ shouted Mysingir, with a mocking laugh.

‘Grrrr,’ said the ogre, looking as if he meant to rush at them instantly. ‘How-many-ogres-can-you-kill-all-at-onest!?’

Doubtfully, the riders looked about, as if they were suddenly trapped.

‘I do not believe your boast,’ replied Mysingir quietly. ‘You are alone, or your kind would have shown themselves by now. Your bluff is hollow, I guess.’

The ogre looked sullen, then sulky. ‘Yerst,’ he grumbled, lowering his club. ‘But-I-hold-the-bridge-to-cross-you-must-give-me-payment!’

‘And we shall,’ replied Menkeepir. ‘But not man or horse. Food yes, and cloth if you wish. Wine also, to seal the bargain.’

‘Wine! Wot's-wine!’ bellowed the ogre.

‘You will find that out if you allow us to cross,’ said the Lord of Mendoth, motioning one of the company to produce a cask from amongst their supplies.

‘Give-me-some-now-to-try-not-poison-me-with-wine-harrr!’ stormed the ogre.

‘Very well, a cup and no more till we are over,’ nodded Menkeepir.

The man filled a pannikin, but hesitated to come within arms reach of the savage creature.

‘Here, I will give it,’ said Corin simply. And before any could say more, he took the red wine and rode forward to the foot of the bridge, where he passed it up into the waiting, enveloping paw. The cup looked ridiculously thimble-small, and the ogre almost swallowed it whole as he tossed down the brew. Then, smacking his big lips, he jauntily flicked the vessel into the water, after cracking it between finger and thumb.

‘That-blood-was-good-bring-more-over-here!’ So saying, he turned and lumbered to the other side.

After the crossing, the company were as good as Menkeepir's word. They watched as the ravenous creature glutted himself on mutton and bread, quaffing a bucket of wine between mouthfuls.

‘Good-good!’ he belched, slapping his great tummy and grinning a huge grin. ‘Wine-wine!’ he shouted. ‘More-more!’ He held up the pail in one hand, thumping the ground with his club.

‘Leave a cask with him,’ murmured Menkeepir, ‘then let us be on our way.’

‘Proww; I am glad that monsterr is behind us,’ mewed Bim, as they rode off at a goodly pace.

Corin shook his head and laughed, ‘He will still be there, if we return this way, I suppose.’

Two days later they left the shelter of Malthace and reached the approaches to the Cindered Mountains. They were, as their name implied, ashen grey and bare of growth upon their slopes. The ranges extended north and south, rising sheerly before the riders, as if the heights had been tilted upright by some monstrous weight. Between these cliffs lay depressed openings: boulder-strewn and wind swept, empty looking places, forbidding and bleak.

‘There are several likely passes into the Mountains of Cinder, yet most lead to nought, ending in unscaleable walls or wide rents in the earth's surface, so deep and dark to behold that they inspire instant fear in any who come upon them,’ said Cennalath, puffing with exhaustion from the long ride.

‘It is good that you recall so much after such long time,’ answered Mysingir, between sips from a water-bag.

The old man nodded slowly, as if pleased with himself. ‘Well my Lords, from here onward the way grows dry, and there is scant growth. The ground becomes stony and rough. No road marks the path; for the wandering sands, blown on the east winds cover everything. But the way is marked amongst the mountains. Travellers of long ago saw to such.’

‘Yes, Mendor spoke to us of that,’ replied Mysingir. ‘Though now we are here I am not so sure of our direction.’

‘We need ride southward a pace, examining the many openings, until we find the word-signs engraved upon the stone,’ said the old man. ‘Thence shall we strike east through the ravines to the far side of Colle-Oba.’

This they did, riding slowly now, as Mysingir and Cennalath together sought for the markers that would point the way. Often they halted, whilst the old man dismounted, to bend his face close to the cliff walls; tracing the surface with shaky fingers. Yet at these stops he would rise saying, ‘No, these are only the weatherings of time, or troll scrawl maybe. Not what we search for.’

Once, as he fumbled along, he muttered something about spider-writing and old goblins. He laughed to himself at that, whilst men assisted him to mount. ‘I am not so blind as to be fooled by the rough crudities of evil tricksters. They would lead us into traps, had they the skill to emulate others.’ Then Cennalath smiled wanly. ‘I am sorry, my Lords, the pass must be further than I recall.’

‘Take no fault at that,’ replied Menkeepir. ‘After all, we strayed from the road through the forests in the end, and may have wandered a distance more than we guessed. I trust still in your judgement, O Minder of Memories. Go on. We have the better part of the morning, and the day is still fair.’

So they plodded away until a little after noon, when Cennalath gave a weary cry. ‘Here, Lords. These be the signs that I sought!’

Corin and the others peered down at the rock where old Cennalath indicated and there, faint to be seen, set within the borders of a graven frame, were two groups of markings. About them, mountains and trees were pictured and above, the flying image of a huge bird; its left wing marking the eastern course.

Menkeepir stared into the narrow gorge beyond. ‘This then is the route we are to take?’ he asked, somewhat dubiously.

‘Yes Lord. The signs tell so. See here, these are hewn in our own Ren tongue.’ Cennalath pointed to a grouping of lines intercut by strokes. ‘And these are the glyphs of Sargon, long ago Lord, that is Wanax in their speech, of Kutha-Kesh. I cannot pretend to read them, though I was told their meaning in Kurigaldur. They say, "Mark ye. Here through the stone-heart of Colle-Oba lies the path to Kutha-Kesh." Our own script you will know for yourselves. It reads, "Heed the signs of the Lords of Kurigaldur. Beware and all will be well. Orandir of Orenburg." ’

‘So it does,’ muttered Menkeepir, as he looked first to the graven words, then to the greying sky, and back into the silent, overshadowed pass.

Mysingir urged his mount a few paces within. ‘The place for ambush,’ he said, uneasily.

Menkeepir turned to Corin. ‘I agree. What say you, Master?’

Corin pondered a moment. ‘Is there no other way through?’ he asked of Cennalath.

‘Not that I know of, dear Sir, short of going north and west the far way round; if there be such a way. And mark you, that would take a very long time, even if it be so.’

‘And might prove just as dangerous,’ added Mysingir.

‘Then this is the way of it,’ said Corin, with a sigh. ‘There is little to choose amongst rotting apples, except the one freshest. I think to ride in, yet let no other heed me, for I will not prevail upon him to his sorrow.’

Menkeepir bent his eyes forward. ‘The choices are few and uninviting. But as is said, "Those who fear all snares, fall into one," and here, it appears, the snares may lie in any direction.’

‘Then we must go on,’ laughed Mysingir, almost carelessly. ‘After all, never shoot, never hit.’

But beneath his helm-plate, Corin observed that Mysingir's eyes were ever watchful.

‘And what say the rest of you?’ asked Menkeepir of the company. ‘In this, any have my leave to return to Indlebloom. It is up to each to choose.’

Cennalath spoke first. ‘I am with you my Lords. Only a poor guide turns back from those he leads.’

‘Aye!’ cried several of the others. ‘We are with the Lords of Mendoth.’ ‘We know our duty and will not shirk it.’ ‘When one goose drinks, all drink!’ They laughed. As did Mysingir, at this good-natured jest.

But Bim purred wryly into Corin's ear, ‘If fools think thuss, what a gaggle of geesse we might be.’

The afternoon was wearing late and the sun long lost in the shadows of the walls that rose, oppressive, on either side. Above, a ribbon of blue sky, flecked with cloud, wound like a meandering river, between starkly-etched boundaries. Below, in the hushed gorge, the going grew ever more narrow and stone filled. The sand became grey and powdery, forming dunes much like mounds of ash. Charred rocks jutted forth, giving Corin the impression of riding through some gigantic fire-hearth.

‘I see now why this region is named the Mounts of Cinder,’ he whispered in a low voice that seemed to magnify into a shout.

After that, they went on in silence, even their mounts thudding soft through the sand-drifts. Yet, on occasion, there came to the rider's ears, faint sounds: scrapings, chinks; as of stones rattling. Clouds of shale fell about them and still they kept their way.

‘Prepare to ride like the wind if anything happens,’ hissed Mysingir, falling back amongst the others. Hardly had the words parted from his lips, when a jarring, grinding sound from the heights behind caused them to turn in their saddles, seeking its cause. Gazing up, the riders saw the cliff line begin to crumble and topple into the gorge! Mighty boulders, the size of cottages, plummeted down, bouncing like spinning -tops. The crashing became a deluge of thunder and the floor of the pass trembled in the crush.

‘Forward! Ride forward, lest we be caught beneath!’ shouted Mysingir, urging his rearing animal on.

It was over in a few moments and silence, if anything more frightening than the roar of the landslide, engulfed them. Hauling rein, the company turned to gaze at the wreckage, whilst a storm of dust settled upon a wall of rock and rubble that completely cut off their retreat. Worse still, they found that two of the riders and their mounts were missing; caught on the furthest side, or buried beneath a mountain of stone. Whichever, there was nought that could be done for them.

‘We must hope that they are still alive and will return to Mendoth, there to tell the tale,’ said Menkeepir, as he assisted Cennalath from his sweating steed.

‘A chance fall set off by our passing?’ ventured Mysingir.

‘Accident or otherwise, we must go forward now,’ replied Menkeepir dourly. ‘It would take many more hands than we have here and many a long day to clear that path.’

‘Then I suggest that we ride at once,’ returned Mysingir. ‘So as to give our enemies, if indeed there are enemies, less time to prepare.’

‘But my Lord,’ protested Cennalath, regaining his straining breath, ‘would it not be safer to await the nightfall?’

‘Nothing is safer now,’ replied Mysingir. ‘To go straightway might mean death by day. To stay till dark might ensure the same. At best we would blunder over unknown ground if forced to run.’

For a moment Menkeepir pondered, then as if making up his mind, nodded. ‘It is a gamble, but I think we should go now and get away from this place as swiftly as possible, whilst your ancient eyes may still guide us, Dear Cennalath.’

And so the company made away, as the day hurried toward late afternoon and the darkness that now seemed fraught with dread.

Grimly, the old man clung to his horse, the breath of his body coming in shallow gasps, as he led them further into the winding ravines, spurning many a side turning.

Eventually the night drew about them and the air grew chill.

Menkeepir gave the command to light pitch-torches and these blazed forth, throwing weird shadows that streamed, flowing over the ashen walls. Mists swirled about the riders as they hurried on; at their backs, the feeling of an evil, racing to overtake them. Then, without warning, stones began to pelt down out of the blackness above.

A hideous laughter echoed through the passes of the Colle-Oba.

Before Corin, a horse and rider pitched headlong into the sand drifts, struck by unseen missiles. With a great leap, his own steed cleared the fallen and raced on.

‘Reoww! Save us!’ howled the cat, digging his claws in and curling his tail tight about Corin's neck.

‘Throw away the torches!’ Menkeepir roared, hurling his own into the gloom.

At once, they were plunged into utter black; the blackness of night and fear.

‘Slow your mounts,’ cried the Lord of Mendoth and even those stricken by panic made to obey.

After some confusion, the band of riders drew up and halted.

‘Now, forward at a steady pace,’ whispered Menkeepir and others passed on his words. ‘Follow the breeze in your nostrils and perhaps the night will forestall them.’

‘This will need your cat's eyes,’ muttered Mysingir at Corin's side.

‘Yesss,’ hissed Bim. ‘But little difference there be between shadow and chasm; both are mostly black, even to my sight.’

They plodded on for a time, following a winding path that rose and fell, veering this way and that, until all direction was lost. Then, Cennalath broke the silence. ‘My Lords, you must stop a while,’ he pleaded. ‘I cannot... keep going any...longer...’ The old man lapsed into drawn sobs of air, whilst Corin brought both their mounts to a standstill.

‘What is it?’ said an urgent voice upon Corin's left. It was Menkeepir.

‘Cennalath is exhausted. He begs rest.’

‘We dare not. Even if we have lost our foes they may soon catch us up.’ But as Menkeepir uttered these words, a sound reached their ears; the distant sound of running water.

‘What is that? A stream maybe?’ Corin asked.

‘It cannot be,’ murmured the old man. ‘There are no...are no...’ His voice trailed away.

‘Quickly, catch hold of him,’ called Mysingir, as Corin lunged out into the dark toward the fainting Cennalath.

‘It is all right, I have him!’ said Menkeepir, sweeping his faithful servant and friend into his arms and drawing him down to the sandy waste.

Risking all, Corin allowed the pale light of Lumallin to glow forth from his cloak as he dismounted, giving both sets of reins into Mysingir's hands and kneeling beside Menkeepir and Cennalath, where the faint sheen played upon their faces.

‘He is grievous ill and must have rest straightway,’ said the Lord of Mendoth, brushing the worn brow with a gentle hand.

‘He should not have come,’ answered Mysingir, still astride his roan.

Bim's furry form appeared from the darkness. ‘Marrster Corrin, there is water ahead. It is a flowing rriver, wide and deep, frrom what I can see.’

‘Then...we have taken...a wrong turning...somewhere in our flight,’ groaned Cennalath, reviving a little.

‘Do not trouble yourself about that now,’ replied Menkeepir gently. ‘For the time being we must find shelter whilst you rest. There is need to count our numbers and tend any wounded.’ Then he added grimly, ‘And to survive till dawn.’

They found a place, by the aid of Bim's sight, amongst some fallen stones and within these confines huddled.

During the hours that followed, riders straggled in, rallying to the faint glimmer of a meagre fire that Menkeepir had dared order lit. But it was short lived, as their scant supply of tinder gave out.

By dawn, nine men and twelve horses had rejoined the company and though badly shaken, none were otherwise harmed. Save for Cennalath, who by then was very low. The grey light far above dimmed the faint glimmer of a morning star, as the old man spoke for the last time.

‘This then, is to be my resting place...Menkeepir. I shall not call you Lord again now...for death elevates me to your equal... You may punish me if you so wish.’ He smiled weakly. ‘For such impudence... might your Father have done. He was my...Friend. You...were as my Nephew and lately as my...Son. You, and your Brother, must keep to the road... Before you both, lies a long and fearsome way. Yet you will not fail or falter, neither of you... And I must stay.’ His white eyes filled with tears as he peered up at Menkeepir and Mysingir, both bent close to him.

And, as if by some final gift, his eyes cleared for a few moments; the whiteness faded, and a cool green seemed to shine beneath. Cennalath lifted his gaze from their faces, staring upward toward the sky. ‘Like the smallest star, comes my turn to fade... Yet I shall come again, in their twinkling...Let them be your guide...’

Above, the last star faded. And below, the Brothers silently wept.

At whiles, Menkeepir wiped the tears from his cheeks saying, ‘You shall not remain here, Dear Friend. I will bear you, somehow, and I will put you to rest in a better place than this. On that, I give my living promise.’

Then, standing, he did off his white robe and the day glinted dully upon the metal beneath. ‘Wrap my Friend in this and see him to my horse. She will carry him without fear, for she knew and loved him too,’ he announced heavily, turning away.

‘Well Brother,’ said Mysingir, standing, ‘what is to be done now?’

Menkeepir shook his head, as if bewildered by grief. ‘Turn about and seek a way out of this maze, I guess; lest we sprout wings and cross those turbulent rapids.’ He gestured toward the white-foamed, rushing waters, where now they could be descried gushing round slick, toothy rocks.

Corin, who had been standing a little apart from the Brothers and their mourning vigil, said, ‘Yes, that is no mere mill-pond. None, I think, could endure the swim across. Forgive me, but it is to the living now that we needs look first, though the dead be uppermost in your minds at this moment.’

‘There is but one choice, since I do not wish to drown,’ said Mysingir. Then, not wishing to speak of what awaited them, he broke into a sudden, radiant smile; a defiant smile. ‘I will sing as we ride back,’ he declared wilfully. ‘Let them come and I shall sing as we fight!’

A low rumble met his words. Behind them, to the west, at the far end of the ravine, boulders tumbled from the heights, filling the narrowest point from wall to wall. As the sound died away, an evil laughter mocked them from cavernous holes that pitted the cliff lines on either side. Then a rain of stones and black darts raked the company, striking down and killing three riders before they could make any move to avoid disaster.

‘They are already upon us!’ shouted Menkeepir, leaping for cover. Likewise did Corin and Bim seek shelter, peering out helplessly from their refuge as the rain of death continued.

‘This is to be the sight of an inglorious murder,’ thought Corin, frantically searching for some way to avoid such.

Ah, but then there came an unexpected event!

From far above rang out a frightful scream that ended with a flailing, black figure thudding into the sand, almost at their feet. Even without its head, there was no mistaking the twisted body of a goblin.

The missiles faltered, as a roar boomed through the cliff-tops and a second torn goblin flew from its hole: claws still clutching the stone meant for those below. A great bellow burst from another opening and two more headless creatures tumbled forth. Suddenly, the entire sky-line reverberated with howls and shrieks of fear. Swart goblin heads, tossed like playthings, bounced through the openings: followed by bits of bones, broken bows and arrows, rude spears, slings, crude wedges and levers; and more goblin bodies. Then, all at once, the deluge ceased and there was complete silence.

Those below peered up in utter disbelief, as they emerged amidst the carnage of their goblin foe. A moment later, several amongst them raised a ragged cheer. Somehow, the company had been delivered from certain death by unknown hands.

‘What do you think it to be?’ Mysingir asked in amazement.

Menkeepir shook his head. ‘Only ferocious creatures could deal destruction in like manner. Best be alert, lest we be next. Meantime, how are we to escape this death-trap I wonder?’

‘Climbing out seems the only way,’ said Mysingir, looking bleakly at the sheer walls about them.

‘That means the end for our mounts,’ sighed Menkeepir, dismayed.

‘And it means the chance of meeting whatever is up there: the things that routed the goblins,’ added Corin, holding Bim close.

‘With that water crossing our path, we are choiceless in the matter,’ replied Menkeepir, weary now. ‘No. We must seek a likely place to climb; yet I will not dispatch the horses until the very last...’

‘Yahh-Hoy!’ came a loud guffaw that drowned Menkeepir's words and even the noise of the swift, rapid-cutting river. It came from the further side and there, as the company turned to see, stood the unruly mountain of an ogre; the same, it appeared, as they had encountered in the forests of Malthace days before.

‘Little-fishies-ready-for-to-swim-now!’ he roared and his sides bulged with mirth as he wiped his bloodied club across the hem of his torn tunic. Dark red clotted in his long beard and hair and smeared his sweating arms and shoulders.

Those of the company watched him aghast, as he stooped to scoop up a boulder the size of a bucket and heave it effortlessly over the raging torrent, so that it fell at Menkeepir's feet.

‘That-is-how-Brôga-throws-stone! Now-you-throw-rope! Ogre-drag-you-to-his-side!’ He grinned, wickedly ‘Ogre's-turn-to-have-say!’

Menkeepir stepped forward. ‘Why do you do this?’ he called, as he came down to the foaming water.

‘Wine!’ shouted the ogre. ‘More-blood-wine-wine-bloody!’ His jaws slavered and his triangular teeth protruded. ‘Brôga-likes-wine-Brôga-drinks-blood-You-have-wine-more-wine! Brôga-wants-more-wine!’ He bashed his club against a protruding rock. ‘More-wine!’

Corin and Mysingir hurried forward to stand at Menkeepir's side.

‘Where came you?’ Mysingir shouted over the water's turmoil. ‘And how have you crossed these tumbling rapids?’

‘Ogres-can-run! Ogres-can-climb! Ogres-can-kill! Ogres-can-jump! Ogres-drink-wine!’ came the answer.

‘He must have found a way amongst the caves above,’ said one of the men, pointing toward the cliffs where they bent together.

‘And leaped the gap that cleaves the walls where the race flows,’ guessed Corin.

‘Should we trust him?’ Menkeepir asked, doubtfully.

‘Is he not our saviour?’ Corin laughed. ‘But for this wild, demanding monster, we would, most likely, have been lost. Make a rope bridge. Send him wine. I do not entirely trust him, yet he could have followed us, as it seems he wished and waited until the goblins killed us, to take his spoils.’

Menkeepir nodded. ‘Use your bows, men of Mendoth. Send lines across. With some engineering, we may still save our horses.’

In the end, they did save the horses; due entirely to the ogre's prodigious strength, as he hauled at several ropes, dragging men and beasts through the boiling waters with an ease that astonished. Mysingir was the first over, having thrown off his armour to lighten the load, and watchfully he began to assist their fearsome rescuer. Menkeepir and Corin were the last to cross, having sent the bodies of Cennalath and the three others before them. Bim emerged from beneath Corin's elvish cloak, and he was a sorry sight to see.

‘Cats have little love of waterrr, inside or out,’ he complained, licking at his matted fur. ‘Give me milk to drrink any day, though I would not bathe even in that!’

‘Yahh-Hoo! Give-me-wine-to-drink-now!’ shouted the ogre, eyeing the horses in a hungry manner. Then, as an afterthought he added, ‘Wot's-bathe?!’

Again, they fed and wined the shaggy brute, keeping at a respectful distance whilst he devoured everything given from their dwindling supplies.

‘I wonder if Brôga knows the way out of these mountains,’ pondered Corin, watching the slurping, wolfish ogre. ‘More wine would be his, if he were to lead us out of these trackless wastes to the valley of Kutha-Kesh where dwell Men in their City!’ cried Menkeepir above the roar of the river, so that the ogre cocked an ear.

‘More-wine!’ he exploded, throwing aside the cask that he had just drained. ‘Brôga-knows-way-out-not-far-come-now!’ He picked up his stone club and began to lumber off, taking huge strides with his great flat feet.

‘Wait!’ shouted Mysingir. ‘Give us time to ready ourselves.’

Brôga came to a standstill and without turning round, stuck his finger in his mouth, sucking upon it whilst they made their hasty preparations.

Soon, they were mounted, the riderless horses strung out amongst them, the bodies of their fallen companions tied firmly over the saddles.

‘We are now set to follow you,’ said Menkeepir as he drew near, knowing full well that one swipe of the ogre's club could be fatal. Brôga looked at him with huge, brown eyes and took his finger from his dribbling mouth, but made no other move. ‘We will give you more wine when we reach the City of Men,’ assured Menkeepir. ‘We keep our bargains.’

The ogre grunted and watchful of Mysingir, who sat horse with drawn bow, said, ‘No-more-wine?!’ It was both question and reproach.

‘No,’ replied the Lord of Mendoth. ‘You have heard my words.’

Brôga leaned forward so that his unpleasant breath huffed into Menkeepir's face. Though one stood and the other sat astride, they were yet eye to eye. ‘Meat-then-meat-for-Brôga!’

Mysingir laughed. ‘How will you eat meat now? We are ready to depart.’

‘Brôga-eat-and-run-too-not-fool!’ came the reply.

‘Fool-wot's-fool?’ Bim mimicked as they rode on, with Brôga racing before them as fast as the horses galloped; tearing strips off the ham bone offered him. ‘Meow thinks that oaf not so stupid.’

‘Or untrustworthy, I wonder,’ smiled Corin.

‘Or docile,’ said Mysingir at his side and he laughed, though his left hand still clutched his bow.

‘There!’ shouted Brôga, pointing with his club. ‘Place-of-men-give-wine-now!’

The company looked out over a vast plain that moved as if it were a living thing: yellow was its colour, the colour of man-high reeds that waved in long ripples back and forth over the entire area from the stark cliffs behind them to the horizon before. The sand from which the reeds sprouted was yellow too and coarse, unlike the ashen sand of the Colle-Oba at their backs. Yet though the straight reeds grew in profusion, the land seemed arid and harsh.

The ogre gestured again, this time with the gnawed stump of the bone held fast in his other paw. ‘Harr! Hills-behind-place-of-men-there!’ He indicated the south-east, though none could descry more than the sea of reeds that flowed over it.

‘I see no city of men,’ said Mysingir, shading his eyes from the afternoon sun. ‘How do we know you speak the truth?’

The ogre peered at him uncertainly, ‘Wot's...’

‘Truth,’ ended Bim laconically.

Brôga looked at the cat, as if noticing him for the first time. In two bounds he was beside Corin's horse.

‘Thing-talk! Fur! Under-blood! You-good-to-eat?!’ He screwed his face into something akin to a grin.

‘He is not!’ said Corin sharply, as Brôga leered forward toward the cat on his shoulder. Bim shrank back, though his claws unsheathed.

Swiftly, Corin went on, ‘If Brôga is not a fool, as he has said, why is it that he cannot lead us where he has promised? These tall reeds are not men, nor are they the dwellings of men. Do you want blood wine or not?’

‘Errghh,’ said the ogre, subdued for once.

‘You had best choose now, for there are men about you with sword and spear enough to slay an ogre.’

‘Brôga -kill-some!’ growled the ogre, though he did not move.

‘Perhaps,’ replied Corin. ‘But Brôga would never taste red wine or meat again. Instead he would taste his own blood upon their arrows.’

The ogre swept his shaggy head about to the many with drawn bows.

Menkeepir rode slowly forward. ‘Master Corin speaks truly. That is what would happen.’ He gazed sternly into the ogre's face.‘You have brought us this far, now take us the rest of the way and we will honour our bargain.’

Brôga glared back at Menkeepir, his dark brown eyes smouldering into the far-grey eyes of Mendoth's Lord. Then, turning to Corin, the ogre said, ‘Brôga-not-idiot-come-follow!’ And at once he shouldered his club and took off at a great rate, crashing a path through the reeds as if he were running through long grass. The company again followed him, though they were pressed to keep up and wary too of danger. Soon, the treacherous ravines of Colle-Oba were left far behind and on all sides stretched the sea of reeds.

The sun was low in the sky before them, when the ogre halted.

‘There-place-of-men!’ he bawled.

And as they squinted hard into the late noon light, they perceived a pale line of stark-cliffed mountains and before them, the darker form of a single building, if that was what it was, for at that distance it could have been mistaken for a lone hill rising out of the bare plain.

‘Kurigaldur,’ said Mysingir with some certainty. ‘That is how Mendor described it: a huge citadel like a mountain, which the folk there called a Ziggurat, standing all alone in an empty space, with a distant row of peaks beyond. We can be there before nightfall if we hurry.’

‘And what of our reception, I wonder?’ whispered Menkeepir so quietly that only Corin, who was at his side, heard him.

Near sundown, they passed out of the waving reeds and rode a little further over hard-packed sand at a lesser pace, until they drew nigh to the mighty walls and ramps and stairways that ascended them. There, they halted and sat horse, staring in astonishment at the structure that rose, square-cut and formidable, out of the darkening plain. The baked brick walls were now in shadow and nothing stirred upon them or beneath. Above, on the highest level, the last of the sun's rays played across blue-glazed tiles, gilded doors and the green branches of living trees.

‘Brôga -goes-no-further!’ said the ogre flatly.

‘Place of men, not place of ogres,’ mewed Bim wryly.

‘Furry-thing-right!’ Brôga replied, squatting on his great haunches so that he was not much less than chest height of a man.

Menkeepir said, ‘Then you will let us go on and return with your payment as soon as we can?’

‘No!’ returned the ogre. ‘One-must-stay-with-Brôga-till-he-gets-wine-meat!’

‘Very well, I shall stay,’ said Corin at once.

‘No,’ objected Mysingir. ‘This I shall do, for you and my Brother must not part. You have a quest together and it should not be otherwise. I will remain as the ogre's hostage. Yet should you not return to me, I will not submit passively.’

‘Wot's-sumbit-parsley?!’ roared Brôga suspiciously.

‘It means that I taste good,’ Mysingir jovially replied, climbing down from his roan and doffing his bow and quiver, though Corin noted that he kept his sword beneath his long cloak.

‘Mmmmh!’ said the ogre.

So it was that the Lord Mysingir and Brôga were left behind, not far from the edge of the reed belt, as the rest went forward, there to come to the west-faced ramp.

This sloping causeway, meant it seemed for animals to ascend, lay empty before them and almost in darkness, but for the moon's pale light seeping over the worn smoothness of burnt clay at their feet.

Far above them, at the first level, the benighted doors appeared shut.

‘There is no sign of light or life within,’ declared Menkeepir dubiously. ‘If the place be deserted we will need to give up some of our dear horses to buy my Brother back from his captor.’

‘If it is deserted,’ answered Corin. ‘Yet I have a feeling that it is not.’ So saying, he drew his sword and held it up. The moon reflected from the ancient blade; once the weapon of the elf-champion Bel-Thalion, as Corin urged his mount forward. Up the steep ramp he rode, with Menkeepir at his side, whilst the others waited below, ready for instant flight.

Eventually they drew near the doors: two tall doors etched all over with strange signs and markings, and there they tarried whilst Bim padded the darkness, probing with his cat's eyes in search of any danger that might await them.

‘I see nothing, though my nose tellss me much,’ he mewed, returning from his sally. ‘I smmell beasts of burden, fodder and smoke, birdss... geese maybe... and men.’

‘Very well,’ said Menkeepir. ‘It is time to announce ourselves. Yet be prepared to flee.’

‘Brrrr, I almost wissh that ogre was with us,’ Bim hissed.

Menkeepir rode up to the doors and struck them thrice with the hilt of his sword. ‘Greetings, O people of the valley of Kutha-Kesh, who dwell within the stronghold of Kurigaldur. Home, I have been told of Orsokon, Wanax of this realm. It is I, Menkeepir, Lord of Orenburg, Mendoth city, in the vale of Indlebloom away westward, who disturbs you. Many long years have passed since our peoples sought each other. My Brother Mendor came here as a stripling. Since then, the ways have fallen into disuse. It took us hardship and loss of life to come here now, yet it is said, "Go often to the doors of good friends, else thorns spring upon the paths." Hither have I come to remedy that in good will, with tidings of news and offerings of renewed friendship, if you will but bid us entry. Thus have I truly spoken.’

He urged his steed a little way from the threshold and waited.

For a breath there was silence.

Then the great doors of Kurigaldur parted and white light poured out from within, bathing the plain of Kutha-Kesh in its brilliance.

Chapter 31 [next]