The Children of Telm
Author: Dean F. Wilson
Date: 2015-01-16 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy
Description: The complete epic fantasy trilogy set in the world of Iraldas, where gods and mortals mingle, collected together for the first time on Kindle. 1. The Call of Agon: THE LAST LINE. THE LAST WORDS. THE LAST CHANCE. Ifferon is one of the last in the bloodline of the dead god Telm, who mated with mortal women, and who imprisoned the Beast Agon in the Underworld. Armed with a connection to the estranged gods in the Overworld and a scroll bearing Telm's powerful dying words, he is tasked with ensuring the god's vital legacy: that Agon remain vanquished. Fear forces Ifferon to abandon his duty, but te
Publisher: Dioscuri Press

Contents

I – THE BAIT OF BLOOD
II – THE FADING OF THE FOG
III – A HAUNTING ON THE HILLS
IV – A GATHERING IN THE GLOOM
V – THE VALLEY OF STONE
VI – PHANTOMS OF ARDÚN-FÉ
VII – THE TOWER OF TOL-TIMÍL
VIII – JOURNEY THROUGH ALIMSTAL
IX – OF KNIGHTS AND LADIES
X – THE UMBRA OF THE MOUNTAINS
XI – THE CHASM OF ISSARÍ
XII – REVELATIONS ON THE RIVER EDGE
XIII – THE PLAINS OF ERIDÚL
XIV – A CALL TO ARMS
XV – THE SIEGE OF NAHRAGOR
XVI – AT THE FOOTHOLD OF DARKNESS
XVII – THE INIQUITY OF IDOR-HOL
XVIII – JUDGEMENT OF THE OLD ONES
I – MOURNING ON THE MOUNTAINS
II – DEARLY DEPARTED
III – THE HUNT
IV – THE AID OF ALIMROR
V – THE LONELY ROAD
VI – THE HARBOUR OF THE WOODS
VII – REMNANTS OF AN ANCIENT WORLD
VIII – MADNESS IN MADENAHAN
IX – THE MOVING OF THE MOUNTAINS
X – THE MEETING OF FIRE AND WATER
XI – HOME SWEET HOME
XII – THE SIEGE OF THE MOUNTAINS
XIII – DEATH-STRONG
XIV – LOCHLAMON AND ECHARIN
XV – TRAVELS AND TALES
XVI – THE BATTLE OF LIGHT AND SHADOW
XVII – A GRAVE REUNION
XVIII – JUDGEMENT OF THE CÉALARI
I – THE RATTLE OF THE CHAINS
II – THE RENDING OF TELARYM
III – THE RALLYING OF ARLIN
IV – THE SWORD THAT WAS SHEATHED
V – THE KILLING OF THE CROW
VI – THE MARCH OF MANY
VII – PRISONERS OF WAR
VIII – THE VISAGE
IX – LONG LIVE THE KING
X – THE AMASSING OF ARMIES
XI – THE BATTLE OF WATER AND SHADE
XII – DUSK
XIII – THE BATTLE OF THE BEAST
XIV – THE MONSTER WITHIN
XV – DAWN
XVI – MESTALARIN
XVII – MEETING GHOSTS
XVIII – THE BATTLE OF THE LAST WORDS
XIX – THE BONDS OF LOVE
XX – JUDGEMENT OF ALL

THE CHILDREN OF TELM

The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy

By Dean F. Wilson

Copyright © 2013-2014 Dean F. Wilson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

Any person who makes any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable for criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The Moral Rights of the Author have been asserted.

Cover illustration by Soheil Toosi

First Edition 2015

Published by Dioscuri Press

Dublin, Ireland

www.dioscuripress.com

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Darkness knows no better host

Than he, the agonised of all;

He knew intimately pain the most,

The every cry, great and small—

In sorrow he was claimed its thrall.

His master groomed him as a beast,

And, sheltered from the light divine,

He knew not the sun’s rise in the east,

Nor the ardent splendour of its shine—

The daylight was to him malign.

His cradle was his grave, his tomb,

And darkness was his consort then.

Fate casts webs that weave great doom

In the sunlit lives of foolish Men—

This world would know the night again!

His lord knew not his own successor

And cast dark pearls before his swine;

The shadow was the Beast’s confessor

And torture was his holy shrine—

In there he would both moan and pine.

He yearned to share his constant pain

Or end the world that gave him life;

No longer could the Beast sustain

His endless torment, ceaseless strife—

He took the shadow as his wife.

So now there is no shining light

And no sunrise, no waiting dawn,

No moon or stars to conquer night,

And soon our final breath is drawn

By the death-noose of the Beast Agon.

I – THE BAIT OF BLOOD

Ifferon watched the head-cleric Teron with growing unease, until every movement or gesture was like the threat of something sinister; a curious glance became a stabbing glare and a shift in seat became an ominous betrayal of a hidden agenda. Ifferon clutched the side of the table like a shield, while fear seized his heart and stayed his breath. He hung on the edge of his seat, as he hung on the words of Teron.

“We are running out of time,” Teron said grimly. “Their ships should be here within hours.”

“I know,” Ifferon said, but the waver in his voice revealed his doubt. He had been waiting for this moment for a very long time—it was his daily dread. Prayer was as common as air in the monastery, but Ifferon’s only true prayers were that it would not come to this, that he would not have to run again.

Ifferon was almost certain that Teron knew about his flight, that he had come to the monastery in Larksong not as a true Follower of Olagh, but as a follower of his fears. As if sensing his thoughts Teron settled a cruel glare upon him. The fire that burned in those eyes was more powerful than Ifferon could ever dream, but looking past those flames Ifferon saw a shadow, and this unsettled him.

“Do you believe in coincidence?” Teron asked, and Ifferon felt the question probe his mind before he could answer. His thoughts began to scatter and the juices in his mouth dried up, forcing him to give a faint cough in reply.

Teron leaned forward a little, his face cowled in shadow. “Do you believe you are here for a reason?” There was a short pause, but it felt like eternity, uncomfortable and unsettling, and then the head-cleric began again: “Ifferon,” he said, his voice commanding, using the sound of his companion’s name as a key to unlocking his mind. “You are not making this any easier for yourself. Feigning the fool will not get you out of this room any quicker. When I ask you questions I expect answers. I expect confessions.”

This was no longer a meeting; it was an interrogation. Each passing moment felt like the drawing of a noose, each probing question the tightening of the rope about his neck.

“So let me ask you again: do you believe you are here for a reason?”

“Yes,” Ifferon said, but it was an uncertain one. He had been running from that reason for a long time now, hoping it would pass him by, pick some other person, choose some other fool.

Teron knew more than he let on. It was hard to tell just which of one’s dark secrets he had access to. “Our purpose is said to have long been decided, our side in any battle carved in stone. Do you really believe that someone’s will cannot be swayed?” He shifted in his seat and held his hand aloft, as if indeed he were casting some spell of sway upon Ifferon.

“Sometimes it is swayed long before the swayer has any say,” Ifferon tried boldly. In that moment the light breeze that seemed forever present in the draughty monastery grew stronger and the jumping fire of the solitary candle cast a darker shadow upon Teron’s face. His eyes grew dim.

“Yes, and sometimes the offer is too good to refuse,” Teron stated, drawing closer across the table. Ifferon could almost imagine his long, bony fingers reaching out to maul him.

The light shifted again, exposing new details while hiding old ones. Teron’s hair seemed much more grey here in the dark than it did in the open cloister, and his rugged beard masked his mouth, as if to further veil the beguiling words that came out of it. It was his eyes, however, that seized all who looked upon them; they were dark, deep rifts of age and wisdom. Ifferon feared this, as if he knew that this wisdom could indeed sway him.

“You watch me with uneasy eyes,” Teron noted. He withdrew back into the shadows again, but his presence lingered. “I wonder if you have watched as carefully the moving pieces on this earthly board that has led now to our ... conversation.”

“I have watched many things,” Ifferon said. “And listened to the whisper of others.”

“Then you know as much as I,” Teron remarked. “Or more? Yes, perhaps you know more. Is it not your duty then to reveal unto your head-cleric that which you have been concealing?”

“My duty here is to uphold the ways of Olagh.”

Teron laughed, and the sound was like thunder by a god whose servants have failed to appease him. This was not the voice of mirth—it was mockery.

“So you laugh at your clerics,” Ifferon said.

“No,” Teron replied, scolding him with his eyes. “Only you, because you are the only one to come to me and feign piety when we both know that is neither what made you join us, nor what kept you here after you joined. I am many things, Ifferon, but I am not a fool, and those who treat me like one have been given mercy if they are greeted by my laughter and not my lash.”

“Why then did I come here?” Ifferon asked. It was as much a question for his own ears as any other’s, a question he often asked on the frequent lonely nights spent locked away in his small, cold room.

“To hide,” Teron said. “Not that you have been that successful at it.”

“I have been here ten years.”

“And I have known your purpose for nine of those.”

“Why then let me stay?”

“Because I care for you, Ifferon, even if you are not truly a Follower of Olagh.”

“Why is it that I do not believe you are one either?” Ifferon quizzed.

“Because you have a suspicious mind, my dear Ifferon, but also an intelligent one. I am a leader, Ifferon, not a follower. This is why I am head-cleric here. This is why you are not really a cleric at heart. You are a leader who does not want to lead.”

“Then am I really a leader?”

Teron ignored his question and asked one of his own: “Why do you think they are coming here?” His tone suggested he already knew the answer. This was something Ifferon had grown accustomed to, and yet it always jarred him, like a familiar object in an unfamiliar place. “Why do you think they are launching an attack against us?”

“Because that is what they do,” Ifferon said. “They attack and kill things. It is in their blood.”

“And what is in yours, pray tell?”

“I do not know what you mean,” Ifferon responded, trying to conceal his thoughts in a way that Teron might.

“So you insult my intelligence again,” Teron remarked, gritting his teeth. “Do you think me blind? Old age may be upon me now, but I am far from senile. You carry the blood of Telm, Ifferon, and do not pretend otherwise.”

“The fact that you would suggest that Telm exists reveals you are not at home in the Order of Olagh,” Ifferon said.

“They are one and the same, as you well know.”

“But we do not call him that.”

“Because of where we live, Ifferon. The King is a Follower of Olagh and his favour is sometimes more important than the truth. Look at how they treat the Garigút. I wonder if those wanderers chose their way of life or if they were forced to move from place to place because the people of Boror would not allow them to stay.”

“The Garigút are also people of Boror,” Ifferon corrected.

“Yes, and look at how they are mistreated for their following a larger pantheon. Would you then blame any of us for not revealing our religious persuasions under such conditions?”

“No, but I am hardly a standard Bororian.”

“Which is precisely why we are here, why we are bandying words while others outside these walls prepare to bandy swords. Ifferon, I will be honest with you, for I worry that you have been greeted with too many lies thus far in your life. If people were to know that I was holding my office without holding Olagh in my heart it would be the end of me.” His eyes were softer now, with a hint of sadness, but the grizzled features of his face stood at odds with them, like mountains towering above two tiny lakes.

“And what about the end of those ‘heathens’ your office has overseen?” Ifferon cried, almost demanding the answer as he often mused he would when safely outside the head-cleric’s gaze.

“That is an unfortunate side-effect of my role.”

“A side-effect? It’s not like taking a herb where there’s a risk of rash or dizziness; the side-effect of your role is death! How can I sit here and listen to your hypocrisies?”

“Because you are a hypocrite yourself, hiding away here as a Follower of Olagh when you are one of the last children of Telm and his earthly consorts. Do you know what the Trial would do if they knew you were here? They would hunt you down just as quickly as the forces of Agon, and they would probably be crueller in how they bring you to the doors of Halés. But I am merciful and kind. I keep these secrets for you to keep you safe.”

“And am I safe?” Ifferon asked, but this was not a question meant for Teron.

“At this present moment, yes, but that will soon change if you do not make swift your decisions. Ifferon, I once told you that Larksong was a haven for a scholar, so much so that it would one day be the victim of its own success, that its hoarding of manuscripts would lead to the hordes of evil men who come now to set it all ablaze. But I was lying then, for they do not come for books.” He stared at Ifferon now, as if silently communicating to him some dark message through his eyes.

“They come for you,” Teron said at last, and his voice came like the sudden slam of a door; or the cold, sharp slice of the headman’s axe. The ring of his steel words seemed to last a lifetime, attacking Ifferon’s ears, invading his brain. It was not as if he did not expect them, for why else would the forces of Agon come to Larksong? They had found him at last, one of the few remaining children of the dead god Telm, one of the few remaining names on the blood-stained list.

Teron eased himself from his high-backed chair, and Ifferon would hardly have known it but for the swish of his robes as they grazed the cold floor. The candlelight was dying quickly now. From the corner of his eyes Ifferon could see the silhouette of Teron approaching the doorway of the room—but for a solitary moment Ifferon’s eyes were fixed on the chair Teron had sat upon. He watched it like a Gorgon, his gaze impenetrable, and he still felt the head-cleric’s presence there, still saw his outline amidst the shadow.

“Come,” Teron called as he passed through the alcove like a king, his robes unfurling, his strides elegant. But he was not a king, and as Teron glanced back once, his aged face clearly evident, Ifferon knew that Teron recognised this, recognised his own frailty.

When the trance had broken Ifferon almost fell from his chair and followed. He reached the curved alcove, but turned and looked at the dining table, with the high-backed chair for Teron, a false superiority. A cold silence hung above the table like a lantern, and it cast its light far, for even as Ifferon turned back to the pathway ahead of him, a chill grasped his neck and pierced his skin.

The hallway was dark and damp, less of a hallway and more of a tomb. The smell of dust was evident throughout, as if its vaults had only now been opened. The old brickwork was darkened with moss and the fissures therein echoed the growing void in Ifferon’s heart. The passage was thin, forcing Ifferon to squeeze his way through, marring his robe with the lichen on the walls. He walked on, keeping one hand on his shoulder, the moss an excuse, the reality a veiled cuddle in the dark.

The passage curved to the right and Ifferon passed by a large torch that was held to the wall by a set of obsidian hands. He shivered as he passed them, his imagination wild with the thought of what could be concealed within those walls. His thoughts wandered further and he cringed at the idea of being locked away in the secret dining room, a lost soul in a lost cellar.

The darkness of the passage was as oppressing as Teron’s invasive glare, but soon Ifferon joined the head-cleric outside in the cloister under the less distressing darkness of the night sky. For a moment the onerous tension left Ifferon as he sighed deeply. He looked upon the few stars that dotted the heavens and the wisps of dark grey cloud that formed abstract shapes in the growing nightfall. He gulped as he swallowed this beauty, feeling a slight smile form on his lips; it was almost a smile of sadness, of regret, as he realised that the beauty was fleeting, that it would pass before day had come.

But Ifferon’s relaxation was shattered once more when Teron spoke: “How long have we known each other?” He placed his hand on Ifferon’s shoulder, and Ifferon flinched, as if it were the outward expression of some disease contaminating him.

“Long,” Ifferon managed.

“Do you trust me?”

Ifferon paused and watched as Teron forced a smile, but the head-cleric’s grip tightened on his shoulder and tore a reply from him. “Yes,” he said, a lie. Teron knew it was a lie; Ifferon could already see the glimmer in those darkening eyes.

“Then you would trust my judgement?”

“Depending on the judgement,” Ifferon said, relaxing once more as Teron’s hand was drawn back into his white robes, like a rat returned to its lair.

“Ifferon, I have long served the King of Boror and I do not treat with all and sundry. My time is a treasure that I share with few, my words a wisdom I impart to the elect. You should feel honoured that I have called you away for my counsel. You are different to the others here, by your own making and the will of those we can say so little about. Different. And I think that warrants such wisdom, because you are like me. Different.” He turned and walked across the cloister, brushing the gentle splashes of rain that had suddenly come from the sky.

Ifferon shivered and passed on through the pillars of the cloister, but unlike Teron he savoured the rain. It always gave him the replenishment he needed after many days locked in his musty old room. It gave him the feeling of life that seemed so sparse within these walls. But he knew that Teron was waiting, and the head-cleric’s patience was always thin.

He quickly caught up with Teron, who was strolling through the moonlit cloister. He seemed to be in the throes of a deep internal debate, for his brow was furrowed and his gaze was cast aloft.

Another cleric passed them by, his hood up and his head held low as he scurried off. Ifferon glanced back and saw that this man had slowed his pace and turned to look at them. Ifferon could not tell who it was beneath the cowl, but something about the figure unnerved him

“Ah, Ifferon,” Teron asked, shaking his head. “I am not the one who would abandon you like your parents did, nor the one to leave you like your consort did, nor the one to deceive you like so many did. I am your spiritual counsellor, an ear that listens from the heart, a friend who speaks with concern as his tongue. I worry for you like a mother, fear for you like a father, and love you deeply as a friend. The only reason I am so harsh with you at times is that it is the only way you will listen, for you are as stubborn as a Moln, thinking all the world is against you, when really your biggest enemy is yourself, your creation of barriers, your destruction of your freedom.”

They stopped now and Teron turned to Ifferon. For a moment his features were not fierce; he looked at Ifferon with tenderness in his eyes. He held both of Ifferon’s shoulders and this time Ifferon realised that they were not claws, but hands.

“Agon has spoiled many things,” Teron stated. “And his next will be the offspring of Telm if this attack bodes ill for us. His anger is unyielding, fuelled by his constant torment. He believes that his pain is spawned by the existence of this world, and thus, in a final effort to cease his suffering, he will try to bring about the end of all life. He seeks peace, Ifferon, but not in the same manner as Man. He seeks peace for himself, within himself, a peace that requires a final war.

“But Agon did not force this prison upon you. He is the jailer of many, but you are the one who possesses the keys to your own cell. He may hunt you, but he did not lock you away here, nor force upon you the choices you have made these last few years. Your prison is in your mind, where you limit yourself, where you take on the voice of the Beast and speak to yourself the way he would if he could only get to you. But he does not need to if you will do the work for him. Fear is what locked you away, Ifferon, and fear is a tool of Agon. When you fear you open the gate that lets him into your mind. His greatest weapon is fear, for it drives strong men to madness. So why then be afraid?

“You need to stop hiding and take control, so that you can unleash your true potential, unlock yourself. When you do this you will realise what a Child of Telm can do. But now, dear Ifferon, I must prepare a sermon. Many will die tonight. Let not you be one of them.”

And so Teron strolled off, still as elegant and ethereal as ever. The words Teron had spoken to him with such tenderness and care should have lifted him from the darkness, but Ifferon was disheartened, feeling the brunt of the attack before it occurred. His heart no longer thumped with fear and anxiety, but was overcome with grief.

He paused for a moment in the open garden of the cloister, mourning for the flowers and the bushes that would no longer be there once the battle begun. It still rained lightly, but this time the rain did not comfort him. His eyes were drawn to the clouds that hung overhead and he wondered if the sky might fall upon him too.

He walked back to his room and when he came to the old musty door, he stalled, for something seemed amiss. Surely he had closed the door when he left; he could have sworn he did. But it was ajar, if ever so slightly. Perhaps he had forgotten to close it fully when he rushed out to Teron’s summons.

He shoved the door open now and walked inside. He made his way to the table that he had left something very valuable on. Foolish, he thought. Teron could have been a distraction while someone stole it from him. Very foolish.

His eyes faltered for a moment to look at the stormy sky outside. He could see little from the loophole window, but what he saw was unsettling. He used to be able to watch the tranquil sea, but it was not calm now, and all he could see there was the ominous rolling fog, taunting its concealing power.

Then his gaze wavered once more and he glanced at the broken cabinet in the corner, the only piece of furniture in the room besides his bed and table. He returned to that table and scoured it with his eyes, noting the large open tomes he had been using in his studies, the loose leafs of delicate manuscripts, the wooden blocks containing cryptograms and foreign alphabets, and the Scroll itself, unfurled and held down by two stones carved with Aelora runes.

He paused. It seemed to summon him just as Teron had, beckoning him to draw near, hinting at something elusive. He watched the parchment as if it were his life—old, ragged, torn, full of gaping holes and lasting damage. He studied the Aelora symbols that adorned the piece. At one time he thought they were beautiful. He supposed he still did, but now they looked dull, as if sapped of their life-force and energy. Something was not right.

He watched the piece so strongly that it took him several minutes to realise something so disturbing that he was forced to back away. The Scroll, laying there in the silence, was not where he had last left it. It had been moved.

II – THE FADING OF THE FOG

There was a stifled thump, and then Ifferon’s scattered thoughts regrouped and he settled his gaze upon the old mahogany cabinet in the corner. A muttered cough came from deep within its splintered ruins. Laced cobwebs shimmered as they caught the spray of dust that burst forth in a shroud of grey haze. The door was ajar and cold eyes glared from the blackness within. The cabinet creaked and the eyes withdrew.

Despite all attempts at reason, Ifferon charged forth and pulled the cabinet doors open. Inside, a young man flew back, knocking into the wooden panels and then sliding down, cowering as Ifferon’s hands flayed madly.

“Don’t hurt me!” the man cried, shielding his face.

“What are you doing in there?” Ifferon demanded, his anger spawned through fear. But the rage died quickly when he set his eyes upon the man, for he was but barely come of age. Although Ifferon was somewhat relieved that his fears were triggered by a youth and not some other creature, he was still alert, waiting for some other danger.

“I ... Well ...,” but the frightened voice stopped abruptly. His eyebrows arched, as if he was trying to think of something, but nothing came. He clambered up, revealing his cleric robes, though in all of Ifferon’s long years in the monastery he had not seen this man. The youth traced his hand across the edge of the cabinet, and then up to his tangled hair, which fell in thick brown clumps upon his face.

“Why were you following me?” Ifferon asked, his voice firm. “Why are you here? What have you taken?”

“I ... Well ... I ...”

“Speak!”

The youth, at least twice as young as Ifferon, was struggling to explain, his eyes darting to retrieve fragmented memories, becoming overwhelmed when those memories returned as tears.

“I’m ... sorry,” he managed.

Ifferon waved his hand in dismissal. He turned and pulled out his chair, falling back into it and sighing deeply. “You are not from the monastery, are you?”

The young man shook his head.

“You are one of the stableboys of Larksong, are you not?”

“Yavün Arri,” the youth said.

Ifferon glanced at him, bemused.

“My name.”

“Oh, Yavün. I apologise if I startled you, but you have also startled me. A darkness has come to Larksong—”

“The villagers speak of it,” Yavün said, his eyes set upon the small window by the bedside. “Rumours have found their way to all the houses. They tell of a horde from Nahlin that come to slay a cleric ...”

“This is what the rumours are? They speak of the Dark Men? They speak of me?”

“It’s true though, isn’t it? As you said, a darkness comes. Our soldiers wait by the beach, keeping watch through the mist. It is a fool who knows not what shall come through that fog.”

“Grave are your thoughts, young man, perhaps graver than my own, though I have seen many evils.”

“Is that why you came here?” Yavün asked. “The villagers speak of you, Ifferon of Belahan, once a great adventurer. Why have you locked yourself away?”

“This was not of my devising.”

“You cannot blame great evils for your hiding.”

“I can and I do. But it is not mere hiding. I have a purpose for this.”

“What is that purpose?”

“To stay alive, in peace.”

“Are you in peace?”

There was silence.

Ifferon rubbed his hand across his recently-shaved head; the stubble was strangely comforting. “So you have an inquisitive mind,” he said at last, “lurking in my room when my watch has slackened. What were you looking for on the table here?”

“Naught in particular,” Yavün said. “Inspiration, perhaps.”

“Inspiration? Inspiration for what?”

“Verse.”

“Ah, you are a poet?”

“I try.”

“Then recite a verse, something different, something I have not heard before, for my time here has not been spent merely hiding; I have read much and enjoyed many verses from many lands around Iraldas. I can judge if you are truly a poet.”

Yavün looked at him and then towards the window for a time. When his gaze met with Ifferon’s again, he cleared his throat and began:

Deep and dark were his wavering thoughts,

Wrought of grey memory, recalling the times

When battles of honour and love were fought—

Not simple nights in the barn, dreaming of rhymes,

But ages of splendour, when adventure was sought.

And yet came the shackles of ethereal fear,

Mere ropes that wrapped ‘round, keeping him still.

Erelong came the thought of death growing near,

Drear in the rooms of parchment and quill.

His mind swiftly dulled, and the world shed a tear.

Throughout the recitation Ifferon was silent, and now that silence bellowed through him and into the room itself. Yavün’s words filtered out, their echoes growing fainter. The room thronged with quiet suspense; the air was thick and warm, and both Ifferon and Yavün were still. The verse troubled Ifferon.

When words finally dangled on Ifferon’s lips, there was a sudden bang at the door, followed by a muffled voice: “Teron has called a meeting in the east wing of the cloister. All must attend.”

Ifferon sighed, remembering the last meeting Teron had held—full of ardent speeches and elaborate rambling. He considered not attending, but those thoughts were quickly discarded; Teron would know if he was not there. He stood and glanced at the stableboy. “I must depart, but I do not want to see you lurking about my room.”

“Then bring me with you,” Yavün said.

“No,” Ifferon snapped. “No, I cannot. You are not a cleric.”

“You mistook me for one,” Yavün said with a grin. “They will too. And would you really trust letting me out of your sight?”

Ifferon gave a quick roll of his eyes, nodding and sighing. “You are right. I would not trust you out of my sight, but I would not trust you by my side either. Go home and dream and do what young people do. If I see you near my room again I will not be so forgiving; then you will learn why people still speak of my valour in battle.”

He rolled up the Scroll and opened the door, holding it open until Yavün reluctantly sauntered out, his face masked with disappointment. The youth turned for a moment as if to say something, but Ifferon quickly dismissed him: “Go! Find inspiration in the beautiful things of the world, not in some old man who simply wants a bit of peace and quiet!”

And so the stableboy left his company, and Ifferon wondered if he had been too severe in his scolding; but he did not have long to wonder, for the thought of Teron’s searching gaze filled his mind, whispering of the even harsher scolding the head-cleric could give.

He made his way across the vast cloister under the bleak veil of night, and when at last he came to the eastern ridge, a great mass of clerics stood there, their whispers solemn. Robes of grey, brown, and white clattered against the wind, and then Teron came into view, his eyes wide and his arms outstretched.

“Welcome, my Brothers!” he called, his voice stronger than the wind. He glanced through the ranks of clerics, finally settling his cold eyes upon Ifferon at the back. “I have called you here today to speak of the Great War that affects us all. Already many border cities of Boror have been taken and the land of Arlin lays in wait of its decease. But here in the peaceful village of Larksong a great and sudden evil has come, espied by our scouts along the coast. The fog disguises all that sail upon the sea and our armies have readied themselves, by the will of the King. But strength alone will not win us this coming battle. We must look to Olagh and the Olaghris for protection. We are exposed in the darkness, our souls bearing all, weak against the onset of the storm. Our thoughts are clouded as the mist envelops us. But we must not despair! We must face this darkness—with power! Power shall lead us through this Dark Age. It shall lead us to victory against all who oppress us. We must regain our power, our dominion over our land.”

It was at this moment that a familiar figure came into view to Ifferon’s left; standing there watching Teron’s speech was Yavün, his arms folded in defiance. He gave a sheepish smile to Ifferon, who could do little more than frown. Clearly he had not been severe enough.

“Look upon your soldiers on the cliffs,” Teron continued, seizing their gaze, “on the sandy shores and rugged land that leads to us. They show fear in the lines of their faces, but they will fight for us, sword and spear in hand, shield and helm. This is a dark day, my Brothers, a day when blood shall spill forth from the heavens and from all that walk this earth. The land shall be spared no quarter, for the life in our bodies shall seep therein. But do not despair! Face this darkness! Face this death! Together, we shall win—for we are still powerful, Followers of Olagh!”

There was a cheer as Teron rallied his clerics, but Ifferon’s attention shifted, peering through the large stone archways of the cloister walls, across the vast beach, and then to the great cliffs, monstrous sentinels jutting out into the fog. War machines were set upon the outcrops, towering trebuchets and ballistae facing off against the wind. Men clambered about them, tying ropes here and there and loading great bolts or rocks upon them.

Further down, upon the dulling sands, a legion of halberdiers marched. Amidst their ranks walked the Standard Bearer of the King, carrying the great emblem of the sovereignty of Boror, a flag wrought with twin serpents, coiled about each other, one white, the symbol of the King, the other black, a herald of the enemy. Blood dripped from both serpents into a sullen pool, a proclamation of the dedication the King had to his people; he would fight and die for them—and yet he was not here. The halberdiers fell into rank. Spears were thrust forth, and a great rattle of iron and steel echoed out into the night. The fog was just off the shores, and the halberdiers turned to it in black anticipation.

Small against the battalions, the swordsman Herr’Don appeared, rallying the troops with cries and shouts. He was the Prince of Boror, son of the King, and his vivid red attire made him stand out to all the spying eyes. He was sent to Larksong only days before with the Standard Bearer and the Fifth Regiment of the King’s armies. And now he stood, dwarfed by the great cliffs, merely a man against the coming onslaught. A contingent of swordsmen crowded around him, followed by a small line of archers to the rear. Then the great tumult died down until only the crashing of the waves could be heard. The fog was fading.

There was a moment of intense silence, all eyes set upon the shore as the last of the mist dissipated. Ifferon was frozen, his mind racing with rampant thoughts—dark thoughts. The air grew thin, as if it was slowly fleeing, and then there was a gentle hum, a whisper in Ifferon’s mind. He thought it was the wind, but a growing fear in his heart said otherwise—the Scroll rang out an ethereal alarm.

A great roar came, and then all was quick and blinding. A large boulder hurtled over the monastery walls, crashing into the cloister and crumbling down on the clerics who stood there. Panic swept in and burst through the ranks until all fled or fell amongst the dead. Teron called out, but his words were lost in the madness that ensued. Former friends pushed and shoved their way through the crowd, charging towards whatever safety they could find, like a horde of rampant animals. All reason was lost, thrown aside like the dead.

*  *  *

Herr’Don mustered his armies, but the advancing shadow was swift. One of the tainted ships went down in a barrage of trebuchet fire, but another came, and then another, until the entire coast was consumed by anchored ships. Wooden ramps extended and foul cries followed, and then came a great army, brushing through the wisps of shade and calling out in fierce and evil tongues. The gnarled faces of the Dark Men grimaced as their bloodshot eyes caught sight of the King’s soldiers. Several of the front ranks snarled and spat, banging the sides of their shields and waving their swords and cleavers madly in the air. Drums were sounded, and the hateful army charged forth, led by a blood-curdling cry.

The halberdiers took the brunt of the attack, the shafts of their spears buried deep within the first line of the onslaught, but even as the best spearmen swung their enemies to the ground in time to take the second rank, a smaller force took their flank and they were forced back, their reach disabled. At that point Herr’Don made his call. The first ranks broke apart and the swordsmen charged forth, led by Herr’Don and his fanatical rage. He bore a broadsword in each hand, and as soon as he engaged the enemy he swung around, slicing through several enemies at once. His body was pushed about, but his legs stood firm and his great shoulders bore the heavy burden of knocking back rows of evil men. But his legions were faltering, for even when they drove back a contingent of Nahliners, another arose from the black ships to continue the assault.

It was not long before the soldiers were reduced to a mere battalion, clinging defiantly to the thread of hope that united their spears. The great banner of the King had been ripped apart, the remnants of a fallen age when war was full of valour. Now the shredded pieces lay silent on the battlefield, a blanket to the corpses below. Dread hung above the chaos like a toxic cloud, sinking into the wounds of the few who remained standing. In the back of Herr’Don’s mind a great fear was festering, crawling out from the realm of darkened dreams. As he struggled against the growing numbers, he felt the oppressing thoughts that there would be no dawn, no brief reprise.

By now many of the remaining men had begun to flee, the thread of hope long broken. Herr’Don’s thoughts were invaded, his own strength beginning to wane. A great shadow advanced in his mind, pushing out all thoughts of tactics and strategy; now he was fighting for his own survival, desperate clashes, violent swings at everything in sight and everything he could not see. The gentle whispers in his mind increased, and when the blood had cleared from his eyes, he saw at last: he was alone.

“Retreat!” he called, not to the distant shadows of figures clambering up the hill, but to his own ears. The hero in him finally broke and the swarm of deserters took control. They led him along the beach across a path of bodies, limbs coiled like serpents swarming amidst the sand. The bodies were as rocks, coarse faces of trusted captains, trusted friends. The great sea of blood washed over them; a wave of souls were swept away.

Herr’Don crawled and clambered up the dunes, gripping the vines buried deep within the sand. Then he saw the full devastation that had been delivered to the monastery walls. Great boulders had hurtled through, knocking the feeble foundations apart and burying many of its inhabitants within.

Suddenly he remembered an important duty entrusted to him. A vague silhouette of a cleric formed in his mind, and he heard the echo of the Magus’ voice: Protect Ifferon at all costs, for he is much more valuable than you know. Bring him to me. Keep him alive.

Herr’Don’s eyes met with the mangled bodies of an old cleric and his young apprentice, their faces marred by cuts and bruises, their frail hands still clasping their copies of the Olaghris, the holy book that could not save them. Earth crumbled from the fallen rock and blazing fires could be seen throughout the dusty haze. Further up more clerics lined the ground, a large boulder lodged in the building beside them. Vague shouts echoed in the distance, drawing Herr’Don’s eyes to the last trebuchet on the cliff, trying desperately to destroy the catapults on the beach below. But another boulder hurtled into the air and came roaring down onto the cliff, striking the siege weapon and lumbering into one of the walls still standing. The nearby stable spat fiery blades across the cloister. No horse fled the flaming ruins, for they were all long dead, their bodies stalked by hungry crows.

“Ifferon!” Herr’Don called in one final moment of panic, his voice lashing out against the wind. Frail whimpers burrowed through the rising smoke, a mist of tears and boiling blood. An old man clambered against the library door, nursing his shattered bones and failing spirit. His eyes met with Herr’Don’s, deep caverns of misery and terror. Herr’Don shook the memory from him and looked upon a rising flame, trailing closer to a pile of bodies. He raced over and turned them around, gazing deeply into their broken faces. He searched for an identifying mark, a black sash displaying Ifferon’s role as Inscriptus of the monastery, but there were many strips of black, all burnt and charred, displaying the Order’s many grades. There was nothing here—even death had long fled the place, leaving only a harsh and cold silence. At once there were horrid screams and shrieks of pain, but now the air was still, as if it had lost its last and final breath.

But the Prince of Boror must persevere. To return to his father with news of such a dreaded defeat might be the end of the ruling house—but worse yet, to lose the cleric who had all the answers to Boror’s problems would mean the end of their people completely. Yes, Herr’Don must persevere. Through sweat and toil and burning struggle, he must persevere. Hope was of no use—he had to believe he would find Ifferon, laying just out of range of the lumbering rocks, slightly shaken, but still alive and well—well enough to save them from this growing nightmare. But trails of bodies only led to more, Death himself lying still upon the ground.

And then Herr’Don’s gaze set upon a single cleric by the gatehouse of the monastery, his back resting heavily against the sullen rock. Herr’Don tripped and crawled until his hands could grasp the robes of this man. His eyes set upon the sash wrapped firmly over his shoulder, which carried the sigil of a quill. At last his hands met with the figure he had been looking for, the figure that had danced about in his mind with taunting gestures.

“Ifferon,” he whispered, too frightened to shout or scream. “Ifferon” he repeated louder, his hands caressing the dark fabric that the man wore. Again he sounded the familiar name and again silence stared out at him from the sunken eyes. The building of his mind finally collapsed, the tower of security firmly broken, the cloister of reason destroyed. Not even Olagh could help him now, begging death to walk away. No, there was no hope, no dawn, no brief reprise.

“My Lord,” a solemn voice called from behind him like a saviour from the silence. “My Lord,  if you look for the Scribe, I would not abandon all hope.”

Herr’Don turned and gazed upon a youthful face, so strange a sight amidst this sea of old dead men. But the young man’s eyes were dark and fearful. One final flicker of light was about to go out.

“The cleric, the Scribe ... I’ve seen him pass by here not long ago with another, down through the main village. You may catch up with them if you make haste. Only death awaits my eyes.”

“Come with me to find him!” Herr’Don called.

By now the edge of the monastery was swarming with sneering Nahliners, all revelling in the sight of the fallen monks. A cleric’s last glimpse was now the wretched snarl of a face long twisted with the taints of evil.

“Alas! That is not my path. My blade must say a final farewell to Agon’s horde.” His words were as blades themselves, knifing through the air, offset only by the unleashing of his mighty two-handed sword. Yet nothing could hide the tremble in his hands. “Go, sire, go and tell a fair tale of my demise. One last brief triumph for king and country! For Boror!” he screamed and vanished into the approaching shadow.

Herr’Don charged down the hillside adjoining the monastery, tripping over fallen rock and clambering through the dust and smoke. Boiling ash flailed about and stabbed his eyes, and the sights of burning ruins and fallen men scorched his soul. All the while he searched for two wandering clerics, hoping they had not gone too far, and yet hoping they had not lingered too close to the battle’s edge. But all he saw was boulders of grey rock baking beside the stable fires, and further up a ghostly town, hit by cold silence instead of falling rocks.

But just as his heart began to sink even further, an image of two struggling clerics crept into his sight. They crawled and scrambled just on the edge of the town, which spread out into the distance, a web of finely woven houses. Ifferon was resting against an old deserted inn, and the other figure was tugging his robes and glancing about, eager and alert.

A snarl from behind him sent Herr’Don quickly into the deathly village, passing through the still air as if he were a bird aflight. “Ifferon!” he called at last, his voice weak and coarse, as if it too were at war. “Ifferon!” he repeated as he neared the inn. The clerics looked at him; there was darkness in their eyes.

“Ifferon, you must hurry! This place is not safe. You cannot linger here while the enemy is so close.”

“He will linger if he must,” the younger man replied. “He is injured.”

“Injury or no, your legs will carry you away from here or they will lead you straight to the depths of Halés,” Herr’Don said, turning to Ifferon.

“My legs will carry naught but wounds,” Ifferon replied.

“I am your captain, and I order you to flee this place!”

“Long have I been at flight,” Ifferon said. “It has not amassed to much.”

A sharp cry came from the monastery ruins, as if the breeze had seized it and thrown it far into the sky. Herr’Don looked up—the darkness was spreading.

“You must leave,” Herr’Don pleaded. “I know a place where you can rest. If need be I shall carry you there, but do not weigh me down with a heavy heart.”

“So long as my friend, Yavün, may accompany me,” Ifferon said.

“Yes, bring an army if you must, but please, we must depart.”

Herr’Don grabbed Ifferon’s hand and pulled him to his feet, wrapping the cleric’s arm around his neck and hoisting him up while Yavün supported him from the other side.

They hurried through the deserted buildings, ever watchful of the looming darkness above and behind them. The cries from the monastery subsided, but the terror that plagued it lingered still, clinging to every battered brick and body. Something had ripped Herr’Don’s armies to pieces, and a silent part of him knew exactly what it was. It was not the Nahliner horde that struggled against their swords and spears. It was something far fouler, something that had crawled out of a world of nightmares.

A voice struck Herr’Don’s ears like a piercing arrow, a voice he had not heard for years, a sound that reassured him in the shadow. A tall man with a ponytail of black hair marched up ahead, a great banner in one hand and a sword in the other. Grit and dirt covered his face, but through the grime friendly eyes gazed. He was Belnavar, a wanderer from Bardahan, and so fierce was he that his name had sneaked into the tales of old and new.

“My prince,” Belnavar said, giving the slight nod of one who knows respect, yet also knows his own stature. “We had thought you dead, given the uproar.”

“It will take a lot more than an army to fell Herr’Don the Great,” Herr’Don said as he crossed his arms and lifted his chin. He was the shortest of them all, though always it seemed that he was arching his back in an attempt to appear taller. He was stocky, but not fat, and his clothes were tight, as if it had been a long time since he was given new ones; they were royal red, but the fabric was faded and muddied. His golden hair was long and wavy, and his beard was short, but thick. For a moment he looked like a young king in a faded portrait that hung forgotten in the long halls of an empty castle.

Ifferon’s grip tightened on his shoulder. Yavün struggled on the other side.

“I am glad that you have survived, even though your armies have not,” Belnavar said. “It would be a sore wound for the King if he were to find his only son had died today.”

“He would not have cared,” Herr’Don said, suddenly seeming even smaller than before.

“Ah now, Herr’Don, he is not all bad,” Belnavar said. “I am sure he is awake in his bed, worrying about how this battle is faring.”

“Yes, but not worrying about how I am faring within it. But come, what brings you here?”

“A rescue mission, it seems, though perhaps a fruitless one. Now Belnavar of Bardahan may attempt to reclaim these silent streets.”

“Larksong has all but fallen,” Herr’Don said. “I fear that not even your skill may push back this darkness.”

“’Tis not merely my skill, Herr’Don. We have brought a little something from the workshops of the Gormoloks in our brothers’ land.” He stepped aside and four men wheeled the large siege weapon into view—a ballista roughly carved from fallen trees.

“I had not known you to travel to the Many Mountains,” Herr’Don said.

“It was a dangerous journey, but we were not alone,” Belnavar replied. “Délin Trueblade aided us in the capture of a Gormolok shaman, and all the rumours about him compare little to his expertise with a sword.”

“You have spoken with Trueblade?”

“Indeed I have. Without him we would not have this weapon. Indeed, he would have given us three were it not for him thinking little of these siege devices. I told him honour comes not from the tools used, but the manner in which they are employed, but he would have none of it. Ah, ’tis a pity we did not arrive sooner, for we would have taken out half their army before they reached the shore.”

“That I doubt—a shadow covers them like a shield. Many of my men fell swiftly as soon as blades were met. If it were not for these two I would have surely fought to my last breath, long drawn as that may be.”

“They are your saviours, then?”

Herr’Don smirked. “The Great need no saving, but hapless clerics do. I’m bringing them to the Garigút hut by the Asps of Ilios. Will you not join us?”

“’Tis kind of you to offer, but I would deeply regret not trying to defend this place, for Larksong was a refuge to me in my youth and I know the head-cleric Teron well. Go to the Garigút hut, for we have passed by there on our way down and it has been abandoned. Many speak of Garigút plans to strike the Black Bastion down south, but I do not see it. Anyway, I shan’t be keeping you from your duty, nor you from mine.

“In the mean time, I have a message for you from Lady Thalla and Master Melgalés. She asks that you visit them somewhere on the outskirts of Ardún-Fé. She said she’d light a way if they happen to venture in too deep. I said it was madness to wander there, but apparently Melgalés had a vision of great importance. They may be Magi, Herr’Don, but I would still be cautious. Even I, mad as I am, would not venture there.”

“I will take your counsel, Belnavar, but do not worry about me. You have a long struggle here to keep this town from falling completely into enemy hands.”

“A long struggle indeed! Farewell, my prince. May the light of Olagh shine brightly upon you and your friends.” And so Belnavar the Bloodhound passed before them, driving his banner deep into the soil of a blackened field. The ballista was rolled forth and a legion of archers followed. Then came a bard with a book of songs and tales, clearing his throat and turning a page. He began a verse in the old language of Bororian, one that neither Ifferon, Yavün or Herr’Don had heard in a long time.

But a shadow grew upon the hill, spreading out into the empty streets of Larksong. The shouts of the Nahliner horde echoed out, while crows circled like a storm overheard.

And then from the looming silence a great voice boomed: “Fire!” The bolt from the ballista sprang out from its harness and stabbed through the ranks of the oncoming enemy, a haze of sparks glistening brightly in its wake. While the Dark Men were strewn apart, Belnavar hauled another bolt upon the war machine, and then the gears were turned and massive levers were put in place. Wood creaked, as if coming alive, and metal rang out a fierce cry that conquered all other sounds.

“Go now, Herr’Don! Go while there is still will left to hold this pass.” Belnavar sliced through the ropes holding the lever in place, unleashing another log into the spiteful shadow. Cries of pain and malice joined the frenzy, and the great tumult of voices rose and fell like a deadly wave.

“I bid you well, Belnavar. May the Light of Olagh aid you,” Herr’Don said. “Come, Ifferon, we must make haste. A hidden haven lies not far from here.”

*  *  *

And so the great shadow passed from behind them, though never fading completely from their minds. The village houses whisked by in a haze of faltering memory, long cracks lashing across their surface as the ground roared out in agony from the battle on its body. The empty streets made way to empty grasslands, where lonely trees stood as old men, wise in their age, yet frail against the oncoming darkness. The sky loomed dull above their heads, a reflection of their clouded minds.

In time Ifferon no longer needed support, so he limped and ran, and all three stumbled down a set of hills, their hearts sagging like heavy armour. A great roar came from the buildings within Larksong, followed by the thumping of dreadful drums. Ifferon’s mind raced far faster than his running pace, and his heart struck fiercely within his chest, mirroring the brutal beats of the Dark Man drums behind them.

After a time Herr’Don halted and glanced about warily. “It is safe to rest here for a time.” The others stopped, their bodies aching. “For a time,” he repeated more harshly. “Danger lurks everywhere on these hills.” His voice was weathered, as if the very wind had hammered into it on its way from Herr’Don’s mouth to Ifferon’s ears. There was darkness in the voice—and fear. But the prince was proud, his cloak wrapped firmly about his right shoulder, billowing like a flag in the breeze. His stance was tall, and he rested his hand upon the hilt of his sword as he talked. He gazed up at the sky, as if he were contemplating the heavens or making some silent prayer.

“What do we do now?” Yavün asked, panting. He stooped low, resting his hands on his knees and bending over as if the only breathable air lied close to the ground. The winds had died down, but the air was still tense.

Herr’Don was not looking at the sky this time, but back across the hills to the smouldering ruin of Larksong, a great pyre of ash and smoke and seared souls, all hailed and worshipped by the ravenous mob about it. But there also lingered something else, a black shadow on the soil that was darker than the grim clouds above. There was dread in Herr’Don’s eyes, though he tried to hide it. Ifferon was glad that he did not have to gaze into his own eyes, that he did not have to see what terror lived and festered there.

Yavün straightened up and looked sternly at the prince. “And who are you?” he asked. Ifferon almost scoffed at the youth’s naivety; Herr’Don’s attire alone all but announced his name.

The prince remained with his back to them. “I am Herr’Don the Great, son of Herr’Gal the King. I am the Prince of Boror and Captain of the Fifth Regiment. Alas, now I lead only myself, for they have all perished on the sands of Larksong.” He turned to them, his face grim, like a father who had lost a son. “Would that I knew the lay of the lands here, but this is not truly my domain.”

“There’s naught but grasslands and small hills here,” Yavün said. “Wild grasses for the foals,” he added solemnly. He turned and gazed back at the ruins in the same manner that Herr’Don had. Ifferon’s mind shivered.

“Our rest must be brief,” Herr’Don said. “We must reach the Garigút hut by nightfall, and then continue our journey north when day has broken.”

“You surely do not wish to go to Ardún-Fé?” Yavün probed.

“It is not my wish, no, but I will do as I must,” the prince said. “And I must follow the counsel of a Magus and his companion, for they possess both wisdom and power, and in their power I trust the most. We shall be safe in their company. Indeed, were it not for these Magi, you would not know the pleasure of my company, and you may have died on the outskirts of Larksong.”

“So exactly how do you know of me, prince?” Ifferon asked, wondering if his own name shone like runes from his robes.

“Ah, do you really think word of you has evaded my ears for long, Scroll-cleric?” He clutched the fur lining of his thick red cloak and puffed his chest, as if he were immensely proud of this knowledge. “You may think of yourself as a hermit, but staying in Larksong has but given a stable place to pinpoint your location for many a year now. But let us discuss this when we are not dogged by Agon’s horde. Come, my friend! We must prepare to venture north.”

“And do I have no say in this?”

“You have a say, yes,” Herr’Don replied with a grin. “But I have not forgotten any of that which I have learned as a mercenary when I did not lead my father’s armies. You are welcome to voice your disapproval, but I shall warn you that unless you want a rather uncomfortable journey in bonds, you should not cause me trouble. I hear Master Melgalés has a short temper, but whereas such is but a rumour, I assure you that my temper grows thinner by the minute.” He turned and glanced at Yavün. “I suppose you’re a friend of his?”

“An acquaintance,” Ifferon managed.

“Not a friend, eh? You should be careful, Master Ifferon. These are dark times. Travelling with an acquaintance is certainly not advised, given that it seems you are being sought by forces both good and evil.”

“I wish no one harm,” Yavün said.

“Neither did I,” Herr’Don said. Ifferon glanced at him and saw that his eyes had watered. Herr’Don looked away. “Neither does anyone,” he said at last. “But sometimes dark deeds are done.”

“I am but a poet.”

“Yes, but words can be used for evil purpose,” Herr’Don said. “Especially in the hands of those who are proficient.”

“I use words to express.”

“And you can express hatred, can you not? We are not without evil, not even a worker of words. Our hearts may be in the right place, but sometimes our minds are clouded. What is a poet doing in a monastery anyway?”

“Lurking,” Ifferon said.

Herr’Don raised his eyebrows and gave a sharp look at the youth.

“Oh, I ... I’m not really a cleric,” Yavün said.

“Then why dress as one?”

“To lurk,” Ifferon said.

“For inspiration,” Yavün corrected.

“It is a strange man who wears cleric robes for inspiration.” Herr’Don clasped the rim of his cloak again. “I prefer the sharpened sword, the sparkle of the blade in moonlight or the song it makes as it slices through the  wind. I am renowned with a sword, you know.”

“Oh,” Yavün said. “Oh, really?”

“It has been said that I am gifted with a sword, born to slay, as it were. Ah, cherish your gift, young poet. Too few of us realise our,” and he paused, glancing at Ifferon, “true destiny. Now! Let us be off. We have lingered here long enough.”

*  *  *

And so they crept across the hillocks and open grasses, seldom speaking, for their concentration was on the march, slow, steady, and endlessly wearying. Herr’Don alone seemed comfortable with their pace, yet he was loath to speak above a soft whisper or make merriment above a sordid hum. Yavün spoke the most, seemingly comforted by the words, and he questioned Ifferon often.

In time they entered the farmlands of Larksong’s peasants. The grass grew from small thickets to a vast expanse of long-stemmed wheat, a sea of yellow-green that swallowed the land. The ground was strong in areas, crisp as the grass parted into the great forest of longwheat, but the further the company travelled, the wetter it became. Soon they were sinking, their boots finely clad with muck and dirt, their feet beginning to feel the damp through the cloth and leather. Small rocks were buried amidst the soggy earth, becoming more numerous as the company advanced, swiftly becoming an obstacle as they tripped and stumbled, grasping the wheat stalks for support.

But Ifferon was not a hill walker, nor a soldier trained in all terrain. Even here in the breadbasket of his haven town he found it difficult to keep his footing. Yavün was more aware of the sudden appearances of rocks, but his warnings slowly reached Ifferon’s ears; thrice he fell and received simple bruises, but on all occasions the young poet helped him up. Herr’Don continued on, glancing back occasionally, though never slowing his pace.

Time travelled slowly, for there seemed no end to the great wheat fields, nor the treacherous land within. The walls of yellow appeared to close in, until Ifferon felt smothered by their many fingers.

Herr’Don hastened, and Yavün frequently increased his speed to catch up, but Ifferon began to slacken, his legs aching. His breathing was heavy, and soon it came in quick rasps, as if the air was becoming just as elusive as Herr’Don. For a while he stumbled on, watching his footing for those obscure rocks, and then, when he finally returned his gaze to the path ahead, he realised that he could not see his companions.

Ifferon stood still for a moment, his mind wandering down the many paths of doubt and confusion. He could still hear voices up ahead, faint against the rustle of wheat, but somewhat recognisable. “Ifferon,” they said. He stepped forward, forgetting his pain, and then ran through the pathway ahead of him, but after several long minutes of fruitless searching, he stopped again, gulping harshly.

And there, amidst the long thickets of grass and wheat, amidst the sodden earth and the treacherous dispersed rocks, Ifferon came to the realisation that he was alone. The voice that had called to him was an illusion, it seemed, a distant whisper that carved its way into his thoughts and died off suddenly, leaving the cleric in a tense, imposing silence.

III – A HAUNTING ON THE HILLS

But the thoughts of solitude and isolation were quickly knocked from him, for a deathly voice came upon the wind, taunting him as if from the depths of Halés. Fear froze Ifferon’s legs, but another haunting whisper spurred him into action. He sprang forth and trudged through the mire, gaining speed as the harrowing sound grew closer.

“Ifferon,” the voice called, but even as Ifferon’s eyes followed it, he could see nothing but a flash of shadow through the crowded blades of wheat. He plodded on, his breath fleeting and his pace slowing. Whatever lurked within those fields would soon be upon him. The Scroll gnawed at his mind with a warning hum, relentlessly reminding him of the proximity of his peril.

“Ifferon,” it called again. He quickened his pace, darting into the thickets of longwheat, pushing them away as he scrambled for his life, but from behind him he could hear the grass being trampled upon, and when he glanced back he saw the wheat collapse like corpses as a pale shadow flashed across it.

He ran again, harder and faster, as fast as his fear could carry him. He pounded through the field, but the quicker he ran, the louder the humming, the harsher the voice, and the faster the wheat went down behind him.

And then he could see them: dark, black figures at his sides, running with him, laughing in the twistedness of their form, mimicking his fear, mocking him with their ever-groping hands. They looked at him from the depths of their shadow, looked with eyes wrought of smoke and ether, eyes of malice and agony, staring from another place and another time. They ran with him. They chased him through the fields.

A cry for help grew in Ifferon’s throat, but it hung there in deadly defiance as the evil voices grew louder. His feet burned, but no amount of pain could stop his fearful flight. He looked neither right nor left, but from the corner of his eyes he could see them, bits of their shadow tearing off in the gale. They seemed to glide through the field as quickly as Ifferon trudged, and soon they all neared the end of the longwheat crop.

He pushed through the final cage of wheat, catching sight of Yavün and Herr’Don, before whom he fell in a fit of fatigue and fear. The dark figures rushed past him in a flit of blackness, and when Ifferon looked up he saw them turning within their own bodies and staring at him. He could almost sense the wicked smiles in the depths of their being, but soon they vanished into a belt of shaded trees up ahead, leaving their imposing presence to linger on in Ifferon’s mind.

Yavün knelt beside him and helped him up, but it took many long and tiring minutes before any trace of his normal breathing returned. It seemed as though the stableboy was going to say something on a number of occasions, perhaps some trifle of comfort, but he quickly dismissed it as he waited for Ifferon to speak. Yet as each word rose in Ifferon's throat, his racing heart thumped it out of him, and he spoke only in the tongue of exhaustion.

“Alas!” Herr’Don said. “I have been a fool today. My armies lie dead upon the beach, their families waiting in the eager hope that they should return, a long-held hope too quickly dashed. And now here I lose you in the fields of Larksong, waiting here with a poet that reeks of horse rather than venturing back to find you. A fool, yes. My wits have fled and all I have now is my anger.”

“I ... I ran as fast ... as fast as I could,” Ifferon tried, gasping. “Olagh damn you! Could you not see the figures that hounded me?”

Herr’Don turned quickly, his face veiled in dread. “What were these figures, Ifferon?” But the prince did not look at him, for he watched the small belt of trees that stood only metres away, as if he sensed some evil presence there. “What were they?” he demanded.

“Evil,” Ifferon gasped. “They were creatures of fear, great fear.”

“Were they crafted of shadow?” Herr’Don asked, his voice solemn.

“Shadow, yes. Silhouettes of—”

“Recompose yourself. We must depart at once,” Herr’Don said.

“What are these figures?” Yavün looked at Ifferon for answers, but they did not come from him. “I demand to know!” he said.

“Demand all you wish,” Herr’Don replied. “You are naive, boy. You demand knowledge because it is all new to you, because you have not yet tasted the blood of your comrades, nor the bitterness of defeat in battle. It is not all greatness and glory. You demand to know while many great men try in vain to un-know, to forget what they have learned from the horrors of the world.”

“I am not a boy,” Yavün said. “And even if I were, there are many men who’ve seen many winters and yet are still unschooled in the ways of the world. And a boy can still die to the things that old men fear, can they not? Now tell me what these things are!”

“They are the Shadowspirits,” Herr’Don whispered, “the darkest creatures of our land, save for demons. But they carry the most fear, for there are three great legions of them. The first are the Spectres, the taunting wisps of darkness that haunt every home at night, the cradles of dark thought that lie seemingly dormant in the shadows of your room. They have no physical power, but they can cause terror and drive mortal men to madness. I know many strong men who have done great injury to themselves through the fear of these dark forces.

“The second legion are the Meddlers, smaller creatures of shadow that can tear apart entire ranks of men. I have no doubt that they have accompanied the Nahliner horde at Larksong, for some of my troops fell without mortal wound.

“The third,” but the swordsman paused. “The third and most powerful legion are the Molokrán, the Shadowspirits proper, for all others are their minions, their servants, wandering spirits of man and beast lured into service by these fiends of Molok. They are a monumental enemy, a coven of thirteen deadly spirits housed at the dark fortress of Nahragor, and they are ruled by the master of all darkness, the Lichelord, or Shadowlord, as he is sometimes called, an emissary of the Beast. He is housed at Tol-Úmari, but of that I dare not speak. The Molokrán are hunters, you see, whereas their brethren are scavengers. No mortal can slay this coven. No mortal can even graze them.

“Worse yet is that no mortal can see them ... save for a handful.” Herr’Don glanced at Ifferon. “The blood of Telm is a powerful weapon, Master Ifferon, for it lets the seemingly weak gain control over the seemingly strong. Our weakness to this day has been these Shadowspirits and their elusive powers. If we could see them, we could kill them.”

“I thought you said they could not be killed?” Yavün asked.

“The Molokrán cannot be killed, or so the tale goes, but I have killed many lesser Shadows before, using senses other than sight. But I have never seen one of the Spirit Lords in Boror, nor anywhere that I have ventured. I can slay many things of greater strength than I, but I would take no chance with them, despite my prowess.”

A gentle whisper flirted with the wind, like the voices of the dead longing for life again. Herr’Don turned, glancing sharply at the ring of twisted branches perched upon the horizon. “There are Spectres here, watching us.” He closed his eyes and then turned back to Ifferon. “Unless we wish to be sought out and killed, let us leave this place.”

*  *  *

The day veered on and the light began to wane. A dull hue filled the northern skies, while in the south a faded red strung across the heavens in strokes and swirls. The two clashed starkly, and between them there appeared to be a great gulf in the clouds. Thin shadows stooped low across the dappled landscape, and the many hills were, while still thick with fair green grasses, cold and gloomy, as if the colour had seeped deep down into the soil where it could hide from the scouting shadow.

“So then,” Herr’Don said, his voice like knives to the tender air. “I know you, Ifferon,” and he turned to Yavün, “but tell me more about you, poet.” Ifferon noticed that the prince kept his hand upon the hilt of his sword as he walked.

Yavün smiled. “I am Yavün, just a simple stableboy and poet from Larksong with high aspirations.”

“And now your aspirations have been outdone by the sudden accompaniment of the legendary Herr’Don the Great! But come! I had not known that stableboys wear robes of black and sashes of the Order of Olagh. Do clerics worship horses now?”

“Ah, well—”

“He’s been spying, that’s what he’s being doing,” Ifferon stated.

“A spy!” Herr’Don said, clapping his hands together loudly. “So this is what you meant by lurking. I knew you looked out of place, poet. A stableboy in cleric’s robes asking Herr’Don the Great his name? Ha! Strange indeed! What use have you of spying?”

“I am not educated like Ifferon is,” Yavün said, fidgeting with the tangle of his hair. “I have always wondered about the life of a cleric, hidden away with books and quills and lakes of ink. One day I found a book outside the monastery, a strange text I could not read. I guess someone must have dropped it, but I never returned it, because the letters twirled and twisted across the page and stole my interest—so I peeped through open windows at the lectures in the halls and then soon enough I made these robes and found that I could wander to and fro and not be thrown outside. I joined the lecture halls and sat at the back and learned to write. And now I write in verse with the knowledge I have found.”

“A poet indeed!” Herr’Don said. “And spying on dear Ifferon, trying to mind his own business. There is little that poor Ifferon does that goes unwatched.”

Ifferon shuddered, knowing it was true. He distracted himself with the beauty of the flowers lining the hills, but his meditation was broken by Herr’Don, who hummed to himself, a merry tune for one who had survived a dark day.

“The Garigút hut is not far off,” Herr’Don said. He stretched as he walked, and he thumped  his left arm as if it had gone numb.

“I don’t understand his fascination with these barbarians,” Yavün said. “I have often been told of their strange ways. I don’t feel safe travelling through their lands.”

“They are not barbarians, and this is not their land,” Ifferon explained. “The Garigút are nomads; they travel to and fro and settle in one area for a time before moving on. They are well-educated and cultured from the places they have been to. In many ways they are fairer people than our own.”

“These don’t sound like the same people I have come to know.”

“You have come to know a rumour, nothing more. The reality is much different.”

“How do you know?”

“I have met them before, on many occasions, and I have spent some time with them in my youth. They took me in after my parents were murdered.” Ifferon paused—the words stung with the needles of cruel memory. “But that was a long time ago. I have not seen her in many years.”

“Her?”

“The Garigút. I have not seen them in many years. Indeed, I suppose they have become but a rumour to me also. Apparently, if the new rumours are true, they have left these lands, abandoning all their old dwellings, but I can still feel their presence here in the Meadows. They have left a strong impact on my life.” Ifferon sighed deeply.

Perhaps Yavün could tell that Ifferon did not want to dwell on this topic, for the youth turned his attention back to Herr’Don. “You are a strange prince,” he said. “I’ve always imagined royalty travelling around in carriages and having carpets rolled under his feet.”

“I do not rule from a distant throne, but make my presence known through my blade,” Herr’Don said. “Verily, I follow in the footsteps of Lord Trueblade himself, even though he stems from Arlin. It is through honour that he finds himself known to all people, not tyranny. So is it that I earn my titles through strength and hardship, not my bloodline alone, great though that may be.

“But come, dear comrades, let us beat our feet against the earth as if it were a mighty war drum, and let the echoes of its sounds send a quiver into the heart of evil everywhere! Come! We march!”

And so they continued on, and as they walked a mist formed upon the land. The fog had veiled the coming of the horde to Larksong, an instrument of evil that wore the guise of nature. As the three continued their journey across the hills, the thought grew ever larger in Ifferon’s mind: it had returned for them.

The land was carpeted in soft grass, but that did little to cushion Ifferon’s aching feet. The hills rose and fell like empires, offering moments of downhill leisure until yet another steep climb approached. The mist hung low, turning green to grey, yet somehow Herr’Don found his way through the ashen landscape. He enforced a continuous march through the bleak, refusing to stop for food or rest, which he promised would come in abundance when they reached their destination.

“Is there no end to these hills?”  Yavün complained. “I hope we are not going in circles!”

“Do you doubt my abilities?” Herr’Don queried. “If you wanted a quicker journey, we should have loaded you on a catapult back at Larksong and aimed for the hills!”

“You are awfully jolly for all that has transpired,” Ifferon noted.

“My sanity demands it! I must look to laughter, Ifferon, for fear is the adversary, and leads to naught but failure. Do not forget what I said about the Spectres, for they will not forget what has been said about you.”

Suddenly the mist seemed to clear and before them stood a figure of darkest shadow, halting their advance. As the fog fled from it Ifferon saw two more shapes upon the horizon, gazing down from far-off hills.

“Look!” Ifferon commanded, his voice a frail shriek to his companions. Herr’Don and Yavün stared into the distance, but saw nothing, and when they told Ifferon this his heart sank, as if it too were fleeing.

Seeing with other senses, Herr’Don unleashed his sword. He cast an even larger shadow across the hills, the shadow of a fierce warrior brandishing a taunting blade. “Go! Take flight, foul spirits!” he called. “You have no power here, nor in any of the King's lands. Flee! Flee in the name of the King of Boror or face the wrath of a vengeful prince!”

But something happened then that none of them expected. Yavün turned to them and spoke with a voice that was not his own, a voice that spoke with death as its master and decay as its tongue. “We are the heirs of the earth. Your false valour will not protect you, prince of the Falling Kingdom, for we shall destroy you all. We can see through your veil. We can see your shadow. Cry not Flee! to our ears, for we hearken not. We know your horrors. We know your fear. Bear your wrath upon the weak, for it scathes us not. Take flight, for only in running may you evade our watchful eyes.”

“Your words do not frighten me, Spectres of the Beast!” Herr’Don seemed now more resolute that he had something to look upon as his enemy, but Ifferon was still in shock at the sudden darkness in Yavün’s eyes and the sudden evil in his words.

“We do not come on behalf of him. His commands fall on false ears. He brings death to all things, but we bring life to the Shadow Kingdom. Falter and kneel before us, Men of Boror. Our presence spells the end of your land—and the end of you.”

And then a crumb of courage mustered up in Ifferon from some forgotten store of valour, and he spoke: “Do not come before us with your lies and deceit, Foul Ones! You are the product of illusion, and find life only in a lie. May the Light of Olagh smite you upon his blessed earth!”

Cold laughter echoed on the wind. The voice in Yavün spoke again: “Do not come before us with false courage and expect our retreat. We are of the earth and find our life therein. Not even your Olagh can make his mark upon us, cleric, for who are you, coward, to call upon his name? Olagh does not answer to you, for we know that it has been long since you have answered to him.”

“Do not listen to them, Ifferon,” Herr’Don said. “They do not speak the truth. Call upon Olagh to free Yavün from their spell.”

And so Ifferon, low in spirit, rose himself upon the pedestal of hope and called upon Olagh to fight for Yavün and free him from the Spectres’ clutch, all the while ignoring the foul words the young man uttered on their behalf. And then a thought grew fast within his mind—he took the Scroll from his pocket and held it before Yavün’s faded eyes. There was a great shriek upon the wind, and as Ifferon glanced back towards the hills, there lay only mist—and the dark presence was gone.

Yavün revived from his daze, his eyes returning to their former colour, his body resorting to its earlier stance, and the atmosphere around him restoring to its prior calm. He looked as one who had just awoken from the grip of a dream, but both Herr’Don and Ifferon stood on guard, fearful of what nightmare he might have brought back with him.

“Come quickly,” Herr’Don barked, casting his cloak back and peering over his shoulder many times as he walked. He did not sheath his sword, but held it low, as if some creature might rush out from the ground beneath.

Ifferon walked with Yavün behind, but the youth did not look at him. Silence covered them like a cloak of shame, and their darkest thoughts were now living, fuelled by the conflict with the Shadow Kingdom.

Silence fell upon them like a burden, making their journey all the more tiresome. The fog lifted and the grassy hills gave way to rocky ones, but soon the Asps of Ilios came into view, between which the low sun cast a thin ray of light.

Herr’Don led them to where the Garigút hut stood concealed, its walls shrouded in soil and leaves. If it were not for Herr’Don pointing it out, Ifferon would not have noticed it and kept walking. But there it was, a small haven in a land of menace and peril.

Herr’Don pressed his shoulder against the door and shoved it open. A whirlwind of dust sprayed out at them, and the prince shielded his eyes. “Ah, it has been some time indeed! The Garigút aren’t known for their house-keeping, so forgive the mess. They do, however, enjoy a good feast, and leave a large stockpile for their return.”

They entered the small but homely cabin, lined with huge wooden chests and a wrack of weapons on the furthest wall. There was one window, facing out across the hills, but it was small and curtained, and lined with many deserted cobwebs. There was no table, and there was but one chair, positioned by the window for sentry, but this did not bother them, for soon Herr’Don revealed the treasures contained within the locked chests: thick quilts and blankets, many bottles of mature wine, and an entire chest packed with stale bread and heavily salted meats. For a long time they forgot their troubles and let their stomachs rule, and a great feast was had as the day waned and night crept silently around them.

After they had feasted, Herr’Don went to a new chest and took from it a small oil lantern, which he lit and placed in the centre of the room.

“Now to wash that down with a drink even better than wine,” Herr’Don said, producing a small bottle of a clear liquid, which he poured into three chipped mugs. “Perhaps our poet will have a cup.” He had a curious look in his eyes, like a poisoner waiting for that fateful sip.

Yavün did not seem to notice, accepting the drink and swamping it down swiftly. He wiped his mouth and looked up at the prince. “Any more?”

Herr’Don sighed in relief and nodded his head. “You are lucky that you ask me that, for those spirits in you would not be so welcoming of this draught.” He handed the youth his cup, which Yavün clutched in both hands, now too frightened to drink.

“The Garigút knew of these Spectres long before the King, and they made a special water, thrice-blessed at the Olagh-stone, which these spirit fiends cannot bear,” Herr’Don explained. “The Garigút even coat their dwellings with it.”

“Dawnwater,” Ifferon said.

“How do you know of it?” Herr’Don asked.

“I knew them well when I was younger, but it has been a long time since I have spoken with them.”

“Then it seems we have a thing in common, Master Ifferon. I have not heard word from them in over six months. Indeed, there has been no sighting of them in Boror at all lately. My father is worried—I was originally sent to keep an eye on them in case of rebellion or betrayal, but they are good warriors, especially their leaders, and if they are not in Boror we have lost a great defence.

“But come, let us think not of the painful past, but look to the hopeful future! On the morrow we will take the Cliffhills as a path to Ardún-Fé, and there you shall meet my fairest, the Lady Thalla, and the wise Master Melgalés. It shall be a merry meeting.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Ifferon said. “I have heard naught but evil things about Ardún-Fé, and not all of them are rumours, I warrant.”

“Do you doubt my ability to protect you? Ha! Master Ifferon, you have the greatest swordsman of Boror leading the way, and if that does not comfort you, then hearken! Master Melgalés is a Magus, as is my Lady Thalla, but he is also an Ardúnar—and if that does not comfort you, then I am, for once, at a loss.”

“The Ardúnari!” Ifferon cried. “A few days before the attack at Larksong I came across a piece translated from the Aelora tongue that made mention of these Wardens of Light and the Molokrán. The verse was thus:

Thirteen are they; it is their number.

Each moon they wake from their deep slumber.

Nahragor is their house, their home,

But ever from there do they roam

To stalk the lands of Man and beast,

A nightmare from its dream released.

Unseen by watchful eyes, they rise;

They bear the land as their disguise.

A creeping shade with mauling claws,

And as they near, the light withdraws.

Puppets of a long dead player,

They are the land and its cold slayer.

Each night unleashed a new dark dawn—

The light of shadow: the Molokrán.

To meet their match are thirteen more;

Each moon they come to wage their war

Against the shadow, against the shade,

Against all that which the darkness made.

A council chosen at the Stone

From those unheard of and well-known

Are tasked with facing this abyss

In lands where things have gone amiss.

The threat of shadow lingers still;

It pulls the noose and seeks to kill.

And so the Wardens’ watch is kept,

A duty that so few accept.

Each day the light meets dark with parry—

Those watchful eyes: the Ardúnari.

“There were more verses like this, but I was distracted by the arrival of the King’s armies. I suppose I will never see those texts again.”

“Let us hope that Belnavar did some good then,” Yavün said.

“Ah, there is no doubt,” Herr’Don said. “He and Trueblade have trained well together and shared many a battle against a number of foes. He will stand his ground for a long time ere the Beast rules Larksong.”

“Why do you speak so kindly of these people of Arlin?” Yavün asked. “You know that they believe in foul things. The same with the Garigút. Corrias-worshippers, the lot of them!”

“Do not try my patience, boy! I am not like my father. He despises all things that are not of Boror, and so lets our lands fall into enemy hands instead of getting aid from those who would be our friends. Who are you to speak in disdain of foul and corrupt things, you who spoke today with the voice of shadow?”

“That was not of my devising.”

“That I am sure, but you let yourself be the vessel of Agon’s emissaries to challenge Herr’Don the Great and Master Ifferon! You let the Spectres be a danger they might not have been.” He was about to continue, but held his tongue, which appeared like a great struggle that sent the anger from his mouth into his grim eyes.

“I will take the first watch,” the prince said, standing up suddenly. “In three hours I will wake you, Yavün, and then you will wake Ifferon.”

*  *  *

And so was it that Ifferon and Yavün laid out the quilts and blankets upon the floor while Herr’Don killed the flame in the lantern. Thus was their resting place cast in shade, but no darkness could disturb them, for the ache in their bodies numbed their mind. At first, Ifferon was vaguely aware of Herr’Don sitting by the window, staring out at the hills—and sometimes staring at him. But the realm of sleep clawed at him and tugged him deeper into a bizarre dream. Shapes and figures danced across his mind, tall and dark and flowing, and all the while was Herr’Don sitting there, killing the flame.

He awoke suddenly, startled by Yavün’s hand upon his shoulder. “It’s your watch,” he said, and then he went to his bed and hid himself amongst the blankets, not even bothering to see if Ifferon was indeed fully awake and willing.

It took several arduous minutes before Ifferon managed to struggle from the blankets and stumble towards the lonely chair. He sat and yawned, glancing out at the heavy night and the great blackness it cast across the hills. It was not cold, but the sight of those empty hills sent a chill deep into his bones, where it remained for a time until he began to doze off.

Then something gnawed at him. A sound rang loud in his mind, a siren song leading him from his stupor into the vigilance of the wide awake. He heard the thrumming of the Scroll in his pocket, a deep vibration that set his hands shaking in the starlight. His eyes, wide with wonder at first, were now held in check by the sight upon the hills: a tall dark figure creeping slowly forth. His heart jumped, as if the very life in him was struggling to get free, and he stood up and hugged the wall beside the window. There the seeds of the image grew into large dark phantoms in his mind. He could see the others sleeping on the floor, oblivious. He could feel the presence drawing closer. But he could not move, could not call out, as if the very wall was holding him in place. And then a sound—a sharp footstep outside. And a sight—the handle of the door creaking slowly open.

IV – A GATHERING IN THE GLOOM

“Teron!” Ifferon cried, almost happy to see him. The head-cleric stood at the door in his elegant attire, with his familiar frown that would have turned sour even the merriest of meetings. The tall figure of Belnavar stood behind him, his clothing foul, but his face much fairer.

The wall loosened its grip on Ifferon, but now he clung to it, for shock was a friend of fear.

“Ah, Ifferon, you have arrived safely,” Teron said. “You did not think that I would die at Larksong, did you?” he asked, noting Ifferon’s surprise. “Are you going to let us linger on the doorstep? Belnavar has come a long way.”

“Oh ... oh, of course!” Ifferon managed, stumbling over the seat as he tried to welcome them. “Come in. There’s plenty of space.”

Herr’Don awoke suddenly and held his sword before him, but when the light of a newly-lit lantern shone upon the faces of Belnavar and Teron, he arose and greeted them with a smile instead of a blade. “This is a good sight! Belnavar! You have taken up my invitation. It is good to see you here—but this leads me to wonder if there is bad news for Larksong.”

“Do not worry about that now,” Belnavar said. “We have done our best, and I found Teron while we were retreating. I decided to bring him here when he questioned if I had seen any of his men.” He looked at Ifferon. “And here they are! It is always good to see a joyous reunion.”

Teron stepped forward, his robes brushing heavily across the floor. “A joyous reunion,” he said. “Why do I doubt that, Ifferon? Come aside with me. I have some things to discuss that only your ears should hear.” With that he glanced quickly at Yavün, who had but rolled over in his sleep.

*  *  *

The night air was cool, but the two clerics stood outside by the door and stared blankly at the sky. Teron’s hair was dishevelled, but this had little effect upon his kingly composure. Ifferon did not believe it possible for Teron to be more grim than he was at Larksong, but his doubt was destroyed when he looked upon the head-cleric’s solemn features.

“I guess this must be a bit of a surprise to you,” Teron said. “I guess you thought that you would never see me again. Or, better yet, I guess you never thought of it, never thought of me. I guess you were thinking about other things. Would I be guessing right, Ifferon?”

“When Larksong was attacked, I thought of nothing else but flight,” Ifferon replied.

“But is that not what you have thought about your whole life? Is that not the very reason why you were at Larksong in the first place?

“Ah, Ifferon, my monastery is gone,” Teron said, a tear forming in his eyes. “My library is burned, my books are ruined, and my clerics are dead. There is little left for me there, though I may try to salvage it if it is not already scavenged by Agon’s men—if we can even call them that.”

Then Teron’s voice hardened once more and the tears dried up, for he had glanced back at Yavün sleeping quietly in the hut. “The boy, who is he? Why is he here?”

“He’s just a—”

“A cleric? I think not. I know a cleric when I see one, and he is an impostor.”

“I know, but he has admitted it. He is but an adventurous youth.” The memory of the spirits speaking through Yavün whispered in his mind.

“I can tell you one thing, Ifferon, and that is that he is anything but an adventurous youth. He is much more and much less, and if you have any kind of sense in you, you will see this, and you will not let him fool you with his innocence. For that matter, I suggest you keep a wary eye on this prince. He has a good heart, that is plain, but he is prone to strange behaviour. His father, who I am in good trust with, would not have him in his court to save the embarrassment. He is very much a rogue, Ifferon, and he will lead you astray ere a safe haven.”

“Unlike this safe haven?” Ifferon remarked, feeling almost like a child wanting to defy a parent. “I am being wary, but I will not abandon them, for they have stuck with me through this recent darkness. I admit that there is something strange about Herr’Don, but he does indeed have a good heart, and I trust in that more than—”

“More than me, you mean,” Teron said.

“That is not what I meant.”

“Do not lie to me, Ifferon. Every time I approach you, you cringe and back away, as if I were the Adversary. I give you good counsel, for, in truth, I am concerned about you; for you see, I was trusted with a special charge, and to that charge I have not failed, until today. Hearken, Ifferon, for I tell you the truth. I am loyal to my word, and your doubts of this are putting you in more danger than you know.”

“I will take your counsel, Teron, and I will bear it ever in my mind, but I will not wander on my own. Herr’Don has promised to lead us to Ardún-Fé, where—”

“Ardún-Fé!” Teron gasped, as if the words were blasphemy to his ears. “You spout more madness by the minute, Ifferon. Do not tell me that a lettered man like you knows nothing of the horrors of that place. It reeks of evil, Ifferon! It may be called the Haven of Light in Old Arlinaic, but that name was appointed for the time when the Aelora lived there. They have long fled the place, and the festers of their magic have become a great magnet for evil things. It is a cursed land, Ifferon, and all who wander there are taken by its curse.”

“We will not be alone. There are two Magi, and one is an Ardúnar!”

“Ha! The Ardúnari,” Teron scoffed, the wrinkles in his face contorting to mimic his disgust. “They are a council of fools, believing they have discovered immortality and the Stone of the Wise. They know nothing of this world, Ifferon, nothing of the powers that are now set in motion. They are misguided by their pride and have long abandoned their role as Wardens of the Light. They will be of no aid to you, and if they would have you wander in Ardún-Fé, then that is proof alone of their madness. Hearken, Ifferon, for you are being led astray. You have wandered this world before and have tired of its frailty, and now you wish to wander it again? Then go wander and lose yourself in the darkness, for I grow tired of your childishness. Forty years! Forty years and you are still naïve. No, I shall not tire my breath with giving heedless counsel, but I have a message here that I would have you deliver to Melgalés, and I warn you, Ifferon, only he should open it.”

“How do you know his name?”

“Belnavar spoke of him to me earlier today. Herr’Don and Belnavar are trusted friends, both would-be Knights of Boror in the style of the Knights of Issarí in Arlin, and both are well-known to Melgalés. Oh, do not get caught up in his role as one of the Ardúnari. That is but a rumour that he likes to feed his hungry pride with, and there is no truth in any of it. Trust instead that he is a Magus, and in his skill therewith I do not doubt. He is older than he appears, but not as old as he claims, and he has a brother who has followed suit and spread some rumours of his own, though he himself has vanished into foreign lands. I will tell you one thing, Ifferon: that he is indeed cunning, so you are well not to play tricks with him. This message is for him and him alone. When he receives it he may then share what is contained therein. If you must wander to Ardún-Fé, then wander, but whatever you do, make sure he receives this message when you meet him, and make sure you do not lose it.” With that he took a small letter from his pocket and handed it to Ifferon. The envelope was stamped with a Seal of Olagh containing the name Mehlalesh, and it was stamped with two smaller seals, both black, faded and difficult to read.

*  *  *

“Where are your men?” Herr’Don asked.

Belnavar turned to him and grinned. “You think I ran off and let them fight without me? Nay, Herr’Don, nay. The minstrel, Edican, has decided to head back to my home town, and Velis and Clannil have gone to your father to report on the state of the Beach.”

“I thought you had long ceased to communicate with my father,” Herr’Don said. He shunned the whispers of disappointment that hid in the dark places of his mind.

“I have, and as you can see, I didn’t go to him myself. Velis was adamant that the King should know that Larksong has fallen. This could spell a very dark time for Boror, Herr’Don. Until now only the Forts at the borders have been attacked, and all of our ports have repelled the dark ships before—but we have never seen such an attack as this. Our ballista fell within minutes, as did half my men. If it were not for the songs of Edican, the rest would have broken well before I called our retreat. Herr’Don, I do not understand what has prompted this attack—but I know that you do.”

“I have only rumours to work with.”

“Nay! I have only rumours to work with, but you are a prince, and the Court is ripe with news from all over Boror. The King did not send you to Larksong, Herr’Don, and I know this. You brought the Fifth Regiment down on some other information. I could warrant a guess it has something to do with this mistress of yours and her mentor.”

“Boror is close to collapsing,” Herr’Don said. “The King is not a military man. Nor are his advisers, and this has led him to ignore the threat of Agon. Like you, I did not expect such a large attack, but Master Melgalés did give me warning. Now my entire regiment is dead, and there is a vast hole in our defences. We cannot pull our men from the Forts to attempt to regain Larksong, and our armies are scattered. The Garigút have all but abandoned us, but I have heard rumour that they have travelled to Telarym and are planning to lay siege to Nahragor. This sounds like a desperate plan to bring the battle to Nahlin so we can regroup, but it is a dangerous plan that may work to Agon’s advantage.

“But I believe you can help greatly here. I would do this myself if I did not have other things to attend to. I propose that you travel to Telarym to ensure the Garigút are aware of how Boror is faring, for we may need them more than the Black Bastion needs destruction.”

“And what if the Garigút are not in Telarym?” Belnavar asked.

“They will be. It is not likely for them to leave Boror without a good reason.”

“The good reason is that our kingdom is falling apart!” There was a hint of desperation in Belnavar’s voice that Herr’Don had not heard before.

“They are loyal, Belnavar, I assure you. Their leader, Geldirana, is not only a great strategist—she is a great warrior as well. If it were not for my father’s distrust of them, they would have come before the Court to speak more openly of their plan.”

“You learned of this from Melgalés, didn’t you?”

“You are truly impossible, Belnavar,” Herr’Don said with a smile. “Yes, he told me that the Garigút were planning an attack, but he would say no more when I questioned him. He is trustworthy. He predicted the attack on Boror, so I am sure he has his sources.”

“Whether his sources are trustworthy or not is what bothers me,” Belnavar said, “but nonetheless, I will carry out your plan. I will travel with Teron to Madenahan so that he may rest safely ere I head into the wastes of Telarym.”

*  *  *

Dawn broke over the crescent of the hills, and thin fingers of light caressed the land, sending the shadows fleeing from their fiery touch. Yavün awoke to find he was with new company, Ifferon and Teron wearing sullen masks on one side, and Herr’Don and Belnavar smiling broadly on the other.

By the time he had wiped the sleep from his eyes he found that they were leaving. “Take good care of Ifferon, won’t you?” Belnavar said to him, giving a nod. “Or I’ll have Herr’Don enact his favourite pastime. Come, Teron. Madenahan is still many days away at the swiftest of paces.”

“I’m an old man, Belnavar,” Teron grumbled. “We shall travel at my pace.”

*  *  *

And so the two guests departed almost as quickly as they had come, and Ifferon stood despondently, as if a great cloud had risen above his head during the night, dropped a great thunder of rain, and left to seek a new victim. On several occasions he was forced to test if he had dreamed that Teron had been there, but always it was proved by the presence of the letter in his pocket with the Scroll.

“Eat up, Master Ifferon,” Herr’Don said, handing him a bowl of oats drowned in dawnwater. “The Cliffhills are our road today, and I can assure you, we will find no food there. Rocks and more rocks, and unless you’re a Moln, I doubt that will appease your appetite.”

“There’s something odd,” Yavün said, still looking to the door.

Herr’Don glanced at him quickly, as if to silence him, but then turned away and looked towards the window. “Is it not good to see Belnavar again?”

“Him, yes, but I do not trust this head-cleric.”

“What about you, Master Ifferon? Do you trust him?” Herr’Don asked.

“No, but that is just the way he is. You cannot be sure if he is helping or hindering.”

“He’s in my father’s Court,” the prince said. “He’s the Royal Cleric of Olagh.”

“He never mentioned that.”

“No, he wouldn’t, would he? He likes to play mind games with his cloak of mystery. It’s the same with everyone in the Court. They’re all too busy toying with the world that they completely ignore the truth of our situation. Even a tyranny would be better than this apathy from them.”

“Do you desire the throne?” Yavün asked.

Herr’Don paused, letting the oats drip from his spoon. “No, not with a Court like that.”

“But you could change the Court.”

“It’s too late for that. The nobles will not budge even if I brought a sword to their throats. So long as they are safe within the castle, they do not think of the dangers outside.”

“So you do desire the throne,” Yavün said. “But that is not the only thing that has been bothering you all these years, is it? Yesterday, in the hills, the Spectres did something that I did not know they could. They used me, because my guard was down. But I saw things, saw images in my mind. There was a house, a house burning with a strong red fire, and there were screams coming from the house—they were screaming at you, Herr’Don.”

“Do not talk of this with me, Yavün, I warn you!” the swordsman shouted, banging the table with his fist. “You are but a child to my eyes, and if you would play with a sword, I assure you, you will get hurt. Eat up quickly and let us begin our march. Perhaps some walking will wake you from your reverie.”

The tension hung like looming Spectres above their heads. The sun’s fingers reached into the murky darkness of the hut, but only Ifferon sat facing it, letting the light wash away the stains of the night. Herr’Don and Yavün sat in a silent glare, challenging each other with their eyes until they had broken their fast and packed their things. The chests were almost bare by the time they had finished, but Herr’Don assured them that these would be needed to get to Ardún-Fé.

Thus the three stood like statues before the door of the Garigút hut, silhouettes against the rising sun. Herr’Don took a deep breath and made a joyous sigh. “Now to see one of the many wonders of our world,” he said. “The Cliffhills await.”

V – THE VALLEY OF STONE

They began their journey towards the Cliffhills with a hint of excitement, but after Herr’Don told them what lay ahead, their enthusiasm quickly turned to melancholy, like a man turns to rock under the endless glare of a Gorgon.

It would be a long downhill trek before they reached the mouth of the Cliffhills, and then it would consume them for a total of four days if they kept their pace, or it would cage them completely if they wandered and the rocks led them astray. Herr’Don described it to them in great and yawning detail. Two great cliffs of stone stood on either side like monstrous shoulders—or huge gaping jaws. Every so often a peak could be seen, tall and bladed like a granite tooth stabbing the sky. And boulders of all sizes lay everywhere, balancing on beams of sand and dust, waiting for a weary footfall. Slabs of stone stood like great monoliths, the earth praising the heavens above, and all the while a new rock formation would mimic an old one and shove a large stony doubt into the mind of a careless traveller.

But Ifferon concentrated on the thinning grass beneath him. They had already travelled over an hour, and it was light travel compared to the day before—a welcome change, but Ifferon knew well that Herr’Don was not exaggerating about the journey that awaited them in the Cliffhills, nor the troubles and terrors of Ardún-Fé. On many occasions he felt himself drift off into a dark trail of thought, getting lost there for a moment until Herr’Don drew him back like the unsheathing of his sword.

“It’s dangerous to think too deeply about things,” the prince said. “You might discover something you would rather keep buried.”

“Oh, I think I’ve discovered enough of those,” Ifferon replied.

Herr’Don smiled broadly. “Come, Master Ifferon! Walk and pay attention to your feet alone. Or the hills! Stare at them now while they are still fair and green.”

“They’re already fading,” Yavün said. “I mean, below us, as if our very presence is wilting the grasses. It’s not a pleasant sight at all.”

“Ha! It seems your gloom has caught on, Master Ifferon,” Herr’Don said, grabbing Ifferon and Yavün by the shoulders. “The greatest plague of men’s minds is fear, doubt, and despair—and you two are bedridden! Fear not the darkness while the light is still out. Doubt not your safety while you walk in the presence of Herr’Don the Great. Despair not while you still have strength in you.”

The swordsman’s words faded off like the dulling hills, remaining only in the sombre reflection of their minds. A straggle of trees led like breadcrumbs down the slope, until at last the company reached the Stone Mouth, where no birch or elder would go. They passed beneath the great archway and it felt like straying into a distant memory, for the green of old had turned to grey—shrubs of rock, trees of stone, and a perpetual granite flatland, all still and lifeless.

The sleeping fortress of the Cliffhills reared up before them, as if its barren exterior was but a ruse for what lived secretly beneath, like a dormant volcano waiting to give a final cough. The great cliffs rose on either side like the walls of godly houses, and Ifferon noted with exceeding gloom that at any moment they could collapse in on them—a god’s manor swiftly become a man’s tomb.

Yavün attempted to capture the mood of the place in verse before the rocks would rob him of his inspiration:

In the troubled town of old Larksong,

Where all was shone in brightest green,

How I did make a journey long

Through walls of grey and stones serene;

Though little did I know the way

(And almost to my death did stray),

But for the wile of friend unseen

Was I led through the rocky throng

Into a place I’ve never been—

Or perhaps I’ve been here all along!

And so they came to know the great Cliffhills, and it came to know them, for they travelled the entire day, further into the cavernous gape. Soon the grey dulled their senses, and their minds swam in the clouded colour. After a while they became accustomed to it, and their eyes saw subtle hints of blue and green in the pattern of cracks, grooves and hiding hollows in the walls. The gloaming began its steady advance, marching through the valley in cold pursuit.

The company passed a massive boulder, a great stone remnant from the games of the gods, sitting in the heart of the cool mountainous valley. It was twice the height of man and was marked with strange carvings that resembled some sort of primitive writing. Further on there were many of these boulders strewn about. A monstrous rock stood watch over these like a silent but vigilant mother, and it was not long before the company fell under her sentinel shadow. She protected the stones and guarded the valley. Ifferon did not want to think of what she guarded it from.

They rested at the monolith, where Herr’Don started a fire with what little wood he had scavenged before they entered the Cliffhills, for no trees dared walk those stony paths.

The day wilted, finding no life in the valley to sustain it, and so came the dour of nightfall, where the grey finally faded and another colour set out, a great blackness that stalked from rock to rock and hunted down the nooks and hollows. The fire went steady for some hours and the company shared whispered stories across the flame, but now it too was beginning to dwindle, casting them not only in darkness, but in silence, for they did not talk when the fire went out.

*  *  *

The next day they set out early after a hasty meal. Time creaked and all was silent in the dreary valley. The day passed like grinding stone, slow and monotonous, churning on in a single endless parade of the emptiness of the earth. The rocks were solemn, heads of stone raised to the sky in  prayer. Every so often a crumble could be heard, and the scree from the mountains came tumbling down to base the valley in an unstable fabric. And each of these noises built new fears in the minds and hearts of the wary travellers, for perhaps they were the sound of something hunting them, or the echo of the valley threatening to cave in—and they did not know which was worse.

So they lumbered on. Stone became stone and day became night, and all the while a fear festered in Ifferon’s heart.

*  *  *

The third day in the Cliffhills was as dull and tiring as the others, but it was flagged by a tumultuous rain, bashing down in great blades of angered sky. The clouds were darker, hiding fiercer greys than they had seen the days before. And the ground became quickly plastered in mud, mounting and rising with each and every ocean that came tumbling down on them.

“I hate the rain!” Herr’Don called, his voice taken by a great and sudden wind.

“Can we not find a place to shelter?” Ifferon asked.

“If Olagh is kind,” the prince replied, wiping the rain from his eyes. “We must keep walking until we find some refuge from this storm.”

And so the three struggled on, their limbs fighting virtuously against the wall of the wind and the pikes of the rain. Their eyes were soon flooded, and the rocks became dislodged and shaken, threatening to collapse or sink them if they lost their footing. And they did; twice Yavün slipped and came crashing down into the sludge and the stone, and five times Ifferon tripped and was caught by the firm grip of Herr’Don’s hand.

When at last they found an outcrop in the rocky shelves in which to sit under, the rain had lessened, but it did not cease. They sat and cowered beneath the rock, their cloaks and clothes clinging to their skin as much as they clung to their attire. They huddled in the cold and the silence, watching the wind caress the rain with its icy touch. They watched until they almost came to know each drop, and then it faltered and died away, leaving just the chilling wind with its probing fingers.

But the night had come, and the three became one again in the realm of sleep, where the rain would not wander and the cold would not tread.

*  *  *

Ifferon awoke suddenly to the sight of Herr’Don sitting silently, staring at him. His eyes glinted in the starlight, but his face still hung in the realm of shadow. There was a great tension in the air—apprehension’s dark embrace. Herr’Don tapped the handle of his sword with his fingers. He had removed his gloves.

“You do not sleep easily,” Herr’Don said.

Ifferon sat up and yawned to the night sky. “You do not sleep at all, it seems.”

“Oh, I sleep,” the prince said, leaning forth a little. “I sleep when sleep is needed—and I stay awake when sight is needed.”

“If you are referring to keeping watch, then I do not understand why you should sit and stare at me,” Ifferon said.

“Perhaps I do not watch just you,” Herr’Don said, and he glanced to Yavün. “That boy is evil,” he whispered. “We should leave him here, let the stone take him.”

Ifferon shook his head, but he could not shake the feeling that maybe the prince was right. “We cannot do that,” he said at last. “He has not done us any harm, and this place would be his death.”

“And perhaps if we let him continue with us, he shall be ours.”

“I understand your fears, Herr’Don, but so long as I walk with you, he shall walk with me, and you will bring him to no harm.”

Herr’Don sighed long and harsh. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just ... I don’t trust him. I don’t trust him at all, and I believe you would be wise not to either. Keep your guard, at the very least. The warnings of the Great do not come lightly.”

And so the potential bloodshed turned into another morning of laborious walking. They set out early, Yavün complaining of his tiredness, Herr’Don remaining silent, and Ifferon casting wary glances at the two. He wanted to trust, wanted to shake the growing fear, but uncertainty and insecurity lingered in the depths of his heart.

The Cliffhills faltered and the rock became scarce again. Soon Herr’Don announced that they had passed the borderline and were now in Ardún-Fé, but there was no need for such a declaration, for the air had grown thinner and the atmosphere had changed. It was closer, more compressed, as if something else was breathing with them, sucking in their air.

It was not long before that something came into view.

“Look!” Herr’Don called, pointing ahead. “Can you see it?”

There was a sudden tension in the air, as if it were all drawing towards that one location. Herr’Don hid behind a rock, and Ifferon and Yavün clambered behind a spiny bush. From these vantage points a dull glow could be seen up ahead, a glow that was growing, as if it were approaching them.

“What is it?” Ifferon whispered.

“I think this is our guide,” Herr’Don replied after a moment of surveillance.

“Our guide?” Yavün asked.

“Yes, it’s an ardúnaleb, an orb of light. Melgalés would have sent it.”

Yavün looked at it again and shook his head. “But how can you be sure?”

“Faith,” the prince replied. “If you were really a Cleric of Olagh, you’d understand that.” He stood up and the light grew suddenly brighter, as if it were reacting to him. Then it darted forward from the concealment of the trees and the rocks. There they could see it more clearly, a brilliant ball of white, pulsing and shimmering. There was a strange noise, a deep humming, and then a weak gurgling sound. The orb then began to move back along the path it had come, travelling up towards the trees again.

“I think it wants us to follow it,” Herr’Don said, smiling broadly.

Yavün tried to speak, but words failed him. The wonder on his face was speech enough, for clearly he had seen nothing like this, nor heard of it when tucked into bed as a child.

They followed the orb through the trees, tracing the faint lines of glow it left behind. The trees were few and sparse, and the orb zigzagged from one to another, as if feeding off them. The company tracked it, forgetting their stony prison of the past few days, forgetting the horrors of the darkness, forgetting even what cursed land they now walked in.

They were led to a clearing surrounded on two sides by a forest that, Herr’Don announced, was called the Rotwood. To one side of this clearing lay a small swamp, dull and murky, and there, sitting upon a large fallen trunk, was a woman clad in robes of blue with yellow lining, and a large ash bow strapped across her back. She turned to them and smiled.

Herr’Don raced forth. “Thalla!” he called, sweeping her into the air and kissing her. He stroked her long red hair, which fell upon her shoulders like a fountain of fire. She smiled and giggled, and when the prince set her down again, she held his arm and looked deep and longingly into his eyes.

“You have been away longer than I expected,” she said, her voice young and tender. “I was afraid I was going to have to fetch for you.”

“Did you send the ardúnaleb?”

“No, of course not. I still do not have my Beldarian yet. That was Melgalés.”

“Is he here? I was expecting to see him.”

“Oh, yes, we—”

“He’s here,” came a voice, old and strong. “Yes, he’s here.” They turned to find a man standing on the edge of the wood carrying a bundle of branches in his arms. He wore thick black robes with purple lining, his hood hiding his face, but his long chestnut hair hung out in strands, some braided and beaded in coloured stones. He had a thick moustache that was in dire need of trimming, but no beard to match. Perched upon his right shoulder was a raven, glaring out at them with piercing eyes.

He set down the branches and walked towards the group, lowering his hood to reveal many more braided strands. “Ah, Herr’Don!” he said, patting the swordsman on the arm. “It is good to see you again, my friend, good to see you! And who’s this? Would an old man be right in guessing this is our good friend Ifferon? Ah, yes, Ifferon it is! Wonderful, wonderful! I am very pleased here, very pleased. But you—you I do not know.”

“Yavün is my name.”

“Yavün? You don’t look Aelora to me, hmm,” the Magus said, scrunching his face and rolling a bead from one of his braids between his fingers, as if it were some oracle. “Ah, well, Yavün, it is very nice to meet you. Good company, yes! Come along now everyone. Sit and we can catch up. The orb tells me you’ve been busy in the Cliffhills, yes, very busy, hmm.”

“The ardúnaleb was watching us?” Herr’Don asked.

“Watching?” Melgalés said. “No—dearest me no, don’t be daft. The orb’s been seeing you. Oh, yes, seeing you for quite some time. There’s nothing the orb cannot see. Ah, but my memory’s failing me. Comes with the age, you see. When did I send him out, Thalla?”

“Oh, it must have been three or four days now.”

“About the time we entered the Cliffhills,” Herr’Don said.

Melgalés smiled deeply, but his eyes almost pointed at the prince. “About the time,” he said. “Precisely! Now, come along children. I want to get acquainted quickly so I can get on with the important things.”

“Melgalés,” Ifferon said. “I was given a message for you.”

“A message? Hmm, yes, I’ve been expecting one all right, can’t say that I haven’t. You start expecting things when you’ve lived as long as I have, you see. Yes! Long. I know I don’t look it, but I’m well past ten decades. Hmm, you’re thinking I look about the same age as you, Ifferon, yes? Look into my eyes and count each year for every star you find.”

With this Ifferon grew entranced by the Magus’ gaze, staring into his eyes, seeing the wrinkles in the heavens of his sight, slowly counting the stars.

“Yes, now, come along!” Melgalés said. “Show me this message, Ifferon, or I’ll have to grow another star!”

Ifferon handed the letter to Melgalés and watched carefully as the man felt the envelope and looked upon the stamp. “There’s only one person who calls me Mehlalesh,” he said. “And I know very well who he is, yes. Hmm, Teron seems to have been very active in Boror of late, very active. And, I would warrant, very active outside Boror too! But this is obviously important news, yes.” He opened the letter and sat down upon the nearest rock. His eyes followed the trail of each line while the others waited, watching the raven on his shoulder, who was also watching them.

After a time the Magus spoke, and his voice was troubled. “No,” he said. “No, this is not good,  not good at all! I was waiting for it, I must admit, but still, the confirmation is certainly no release. We do not have much time, no. We must start immediately.”

Then suddenly there was a movement in the swamp, as if the very waters had been listening. A dull groan came rumbling from its depths, growing louder and fiercer as the company backed away. Then the raven gave a cry and Melgalés the Magus stood to face the darkness.

VI – PHANTOMS OF ARDÚN-FÉ

A giant, lumbering figure rose up from the swamp, blotting out the frail light of the morning sky. A flood of foul brown water fell from the creature, and then its twisted body came into view: a great hulk of fallen weeds and branches, an arched back of rotting wood, and veins of thick brown liquid, like the roots of dark trees. Large branches were embedded in its back, as if the very trees themselves had tried to slay it, and upon one of those branches lay an impaled skeleton, a mangled frame of shattered bones and twisted limbs. Most terrifying of all was its mouth, agape and hanging wide, as if it was still screaming. The foul beast was a Karisgor, and it creaked and moaned, and Ifferon saw the many arrows and rusted blades that were embedded in its torso, dwarfed by the great mass of its body.

It turned towards them, its face held aloft, as if foul hands groped at it, tearing into its eyes: small yellow eyes, like tiny flames in a pool of shadow and agony. A jawless mouth gave out a sombre cry, a surge of mud and slime drooling down into the marsh. Ribs of branches imprisoned a horde of skeletal figures, and a single bony arm hung limp, as if it had been trying to escape its branchy cage.

The monster pulled back, and the muddy water rushed around it. In a sudden and sharp wretch it lunged forth and crushed a wooden limb into the ground. The water shrieked and splashed about in waves of pain, and Melgalés stood before it with his arms outstretched, looking up at the mangled face.

“Leave not your foul domain!” he called, and the great shadow that it cast before it seemed to grow less daunting—but it did not fade. “This is the Haven of Light and I am a Warden thereof. You cannot harm, you cannot kill, no! You have no law to leave your prison here. I am an Ardúnar and I command your obedience!”

The creature froze, as if considering this, but then a great and ancient hunger overcame its fear and it lunged forth. Thalla drew her bow and before the Karisgor could reach the Warden an arrow stabbed its wilting hide, and then another until the creature withdrew.

“Kill the beast!” Herr’Don shouted. “Let the land suffer it no more!” He jumped into the flaying waters with sword unleashed. A great frenzy came over him, and he hacked at the creature with all his might and madness. But the figure was tall and broad and repelled his force, knocking him back and parrying his deadly blows.

Ifferon struggled with his fear. From the corner of his eye he could see a fallen sword by the broken tree trunk, but in full view lay the horror of the Karisgor coupled with the unleashed terrors of his imagination. He froze and saw that Yavün had found the rusted sword and was advancing on the beast, struggling with the rising waters. The stableboy reached its flank and then threw the blade forth, but it struck the thick hide and broke, and the Karisgor turned and knocked him back into the pool. Yavün struggled to escape the mire as the creature loomed near, but neither Herr’Don’s blows nor Thalla’s arrows could draw its gaze.

Then Melgalés rushed before it and pushed Yavün back into the wading waters. “You cannot harm him, no! By the Law of the Light I command you kneel before me, Beast of the Bog!” he cried. He thrust forth his hands, and a great cry came from the wounded creature. A stream of blood leaked from it to the Warden’s hands, and now each arrow forced a scream of pain from the Karisgor. “Go to the Halls. Yes, go to Halés!” Melgalés called. A final drive of Herr’Don’s blade ended the creature’s life. It groaned into the air, lumbered there for a moment, and then came crashing down into the murk below.

*  *  *

“Oh, how battle shall weary us all, for I am worn,” Melgalés said, faltering and stooping heavily upon a nearby rock. He waited there, his eyes set gravely upon the dour soil beneath, and then he turned to the others with a face of cold memory. “The Karisgors are wild creatures,” he began. “Foul as they are old and twisted, yes, for they were once spirits of the wood, but when the demon-hordes of Molok took the Harwood Forest and turned it into the Rotwood they fell into ruin and began feeding off the life that strayed here. And so wanderers were consumed by these beasts, embedded in their hide in states of eternal agony. With each new body they grew stronger and darker, so to weaken them I can but drain them of their failing life. Thus have I sucked the blood from its being, but it does not go to me. No, it goes to the earth, which has long lived in torment here. Alas, for with each drop from it must come a wisp of light from me, and so dull am I now, dull and old.”

Thalla ran to him and grabbed his arm, as if supporting a falling pillar. Herr’Don pulled Yavün from the waters before putting his sword away, and then he came to Ifferon and placed a firm hand upon his shoulder. “Do not weigh yourself down with fear or torture. You have much strength that you do not yet know, but you will find it ere the end.” And then he went to Thalla and Melgalés, and Yavün stepped before Ifferon.

“I’m drowned,” he said. “I’ll die of cold now rather than at the hands of a monster.” He looked up at Ifferon. “You look ill. Come, let us sit and rejoice in our victory!”

“Our victory it was not,” Herr’Don said. “For my blade was useless here, and that is a first!”

“We would all be dead were it not for you, Melgalés,” Thalla said.

The Warden looked at her. “Praise won’t replace the loss I have sustained, no. We must rest quickly and move on. I had hoped not to encounter anything here so far from Arlin, and yet, I felt somewhat weakened before this battle. How strange, yes, how very strange.”

“I’ll light a fire,” Herr’Don said.

“One to replace me?” Melgalés said, smiling weakly. “Not here, no. We are in the open. Let us hide in the Rotwood and warm in there.”

“I do not wish to set the wood ablaze.”

“What wood? The trees are all dead there. Nothing lives within, and, as such, is a perfect place to spend the night. I do not fear the dead.”

And so they limped and dragged their tired bodies to the realm of the Rotwood, a harrowing mass of wooden needles rising into the sky, like the hair of the earth standing on end. There was little foliage on these trees, and what was there was either half-eaten by mite or covered in mould. The trunks reeked, flaking away like dead skin, and everywhere beneath each footfall lay a sharp crunch. The air was thin, and what little of it there was carried the fetor of decay.

“I’d rather not breathe at all,” Yavün said.

Herr’Don smirked. “That can be arranged.”

“Don’t bicker in my presence,” Melgalés said sharply before the stableboy could respond. “I could hear you two children at it all day on your way here.”

“A wizard’s ear,” Herr’Don said, smiling.

“I wish,” Thalla said. “I could only feel you moaning.”

“Moaning?” Herr’Don scoffed. “Hardly. What is there for the Great to complain about?” He grinned broadly and wrapped his arm around her. “I’m the jolliest man alive!”

Melgalés shook his head, the beaded braids clattering off one another. “Then get me the boat to Halés!” he joked.

“Again,” Herr’Don replied. “That can be arranged.”

“The way I’m feeling, I don’t doubt it, no.”

“Still—you’re doing well for an old man.”

“I should be the only one to call myself old!” Melgalés said, partly in admonishment, but mostly as banter. “It’s one of the few privileges for those seasoned in life.”

“How old are you?” Ifferon asked eventually.

“Oh, that would be telling too much, my dear Ifferon, yes. Let’s just say I’ve had more than my fair share of the air around here.”

“You can have mine if you want with the stench of this place,” Herr’Don said.

“I might take it just to keep you silent!” Melgalés grumbled.

The prince gestured dismissively and wandered ahead.

“Are we looking for a specific area or just wandering for the sake of it?” Thalla asked. “I have been through here yesterday. The trees only get murkier the further you go.”

“True, yes, but there’s an open space just a little further that has a nice feel about it, yes, quite nice. The air is far fairer there, at least.” By now Melgalés had regained that distant ring to his tone, that sense of otherworldly command—but he still limped and straggled behind with Thalla’s aid. The raven sat silently on his shoulder.

“Will you tell us what the message said?” Yavün inquired, watching his footfalls when no one else wanted to see what was being crunched beneath their feet.

“Oh, aren’t you the prying sort?” the Warden replied.

Ifferon glanced at the stableboy and smiled.

“Well, it’s just my nature,” Yavün said, looking up like a pup whose name had just been called. “I know you’re going to tell us at some stage. It’s your nature.”

“Ah, yes, but I’m the only one who knows when, and that, my young friend, is something for an old man like me to savour.” He gave a quick wink of his eye, and Ifferon caught the sight of the stars within exploding like a supernova.

“I was told a lot about you,” Ifferon said after a time. “About the Ardúnari.” A sharp silence fell upon the others, beheading their voice.

Melgalés turned slightly but did not alter his pace. “Teron has a lot to tell, doesn’t he? He’s quite the one for talking, quite the one. He has his weaknesses though, and perhaps talking is one of them.”

“He told me the Ardúnari had discovered the Stone of the Wise.”

“We did, yes, but we had to find it within ourselves ere we found its matching location in Iraldas. The inner begets the outer, as they say, and let me tell you something, dear Ifferon: they are wise enough to keep their identity secret. Ah, we are not all that wise, Ifferon, are we?” He shook his head sadly; a lonely bead dropped from a braid. “But where was I? Dearest me, I’ll forget my own age if I’m not careful, and it’s never wise to forget your age, lest you think yourself young enough to do things you shouldn’t. Old men break bones easily, I tell you, yes. Olagh bless! A tangent is a hard thing to shake, but let’s do so now. We were talking of the Stone. Yes, the Stone. Finding it, of course, was no easy task—one that only a few here could be truly successful in.”

“Teron tried, I assume?” Ifferon asked. He had almost forgotten his intended question with the wandering ways of Melgalés’ mind.

“Oh, yes, most definitely—he tried. He even attended the Council where the Ardúnari were selected. Rejection like that doesn’t go down well for some people, no.”

“Why was he not selected? He seems to have his wisdom.”

“He’s not quite who he wants people to believe he is. No, his reasons for attending the Council were the reason of his rejection. See, he didn’t quite take to old age like my fellow brethren, so his lust for the Elixir of Life showed us plainly that he was most unfit for it. It’s not that I don’t respect him, dear Ifferon, but I certainly don’t trust him, no. But ... neither do you, now, do you?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“To me, yes,” the Warden said. “And to Teron too, no doubt. I’m sure he was well aware of your recoil. Ah, here we are, yes! Fresh and fitting. I think some warmth and food will do us all some good.”

“Hear, hear to that!” Herr’Don said, grabbing Thalla by the waist.

*  *  *

Before long there was a fire going, not just in the earth but in their hearts as well. They forgot the horrors of the morning—mostly—and were deep in the throng of heroic tales that mainly came from Herr’Don’s mouth, all of which were duly corrected with major factual additions from Thalla.

“... and all of them fled as soon as they saw me.”

Yavün resisted the urge to comment there.

“Well, that’s not entirely true, is it, Herr’Don?” Thalla asked. “Do you not remember that one thief who hid behind the curtains?”

“It was his fault, you know. My foot just happened to be in the wrong place at the—”

“I think I know where this goes,” Melgalés said, laughing. “Or where Herr’Don goes.”

Yavün sat silently, echoing the deep and tense silence of Ifferon—but it was not for want of words, but rather, no words seemed quite fitting. The air crackled with the fire, and some strange note rang in his heart. He stared across the flame, watching the shadows dance across Thalla’s face, vanishing into her smile. She caught his gaze and he turned away.

*  *  *

The fire died, and with it went their conversation. Thalla decided to turn in early and Herr’Don joined her. Yavün sat silently at one end of the camp, with Melgalés and Ifferon on the other.

“You’ve been too silent, Ifferon,” the Warden said. “It’s not good for you, no. Expression helps us come to terms with our fears and doubts.”

“It’s hard to express in these foreign lands, with these people I barely know.”

“True, yes, but do not let these circumstances weigh you down. The day will be much brighter than the night. And are there not ways to bring some light into the darkness too?”

“What do you mean?”

“This,” Melgalés said, extending his hand, “is an Ilokrán.” In his palm sat a black stone, shaped almost like a teardrop, but with a large hole in the centre, surrounded by several gold markings, all exerting a strange energy. It glowed in the last remaining embers of the fire. “A Shadowstone, one of the few things that can actually repel the Shadows and their masters—the Molokrán—though, dare I say, you’d do better to run from the latter than try to face them with a piece of rock, no matter what I tell you! Don’t pretend I haven’t noticed your fear before now, no. I know you have encountered the Shadows, but you have not yet met their masters, and I very much hope you never do!

“There are two types of Ilokrán, the smaller variety like the one I have here, which are the weaker type, and then there are the much larger rings of stones that can be found in Telarym—the Greater Ilokrán. You see, the Taarí of Telarym have spent most of their history fighting off the Shadow Hosts, their main defence being these stones, which they left at various places in their land. Anyone who enters a ring of Shadowstones will come to no harm by the Molokrán, for they cannot pass beyond them like we can. There is strong magic at work within them, magic from when the land was first created by the Elad Éni, older than the gods we worship.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Ifferon asked.

Melgalés looked down and shook his head. “Because my heart tells me that you will—”

But Melgalés stood up suddenly, drawing his sword, which rang like the piercing tone of an alarm bell. “Awake! Awake!” he cried to the others, but his voice was dimmed by the darkness and the black shadows that were lurking by the trees. “Stalkers of the Night,” he shouted. “Begone, the lot of you!”

Ifferon turned to see a shimmer of blackness charge at him, but Melgalés shoved his hand forth, holding the Ilokrán before the creature. It flinched and backed away. “I hold the Stone of the Shield, foul beasts. You cannot approach!”

“We hold your heart in our fists,” Yavün said in a leeching voice. He sat up, his eyes wide, his mouth open and his hands held aloft, as if he was frozen in a moment where he tried to halt the invasive shadow.

Melgalés turned sharply. “Leave the boy!” he cried. “Leave him now or face my wrath!”

“Your fire is dwindling, Mehlalesh!” the voice through Yavün spoke.

“Awake!” Melgalés cried again, this time more fiercely. Herr’Don stirred suddenly, as if from a gripping nightmare. Immediately he unleashed his sword, stabbing the night with its sheen. Thalla twitched in her sleep, but she did not wake, as if the shadows were keeping her in the deep dungeons of slumber.

“The night has no power over the light!” the Warden shouted. “Flee into the darkness where it comforts you!”

“You are worn, Magus. We wear you down with every word.”

“I command the words, so I command you! Take flight or I shall unveil my true nature as an Ardúnar.”

“Your light is fading,” Yavün said as the shadows advanced again. Melgalés shoved the Ilokrán forth and the invisible barrier it created pushed the shadows back. But it was weakening.

“Wake her from her sleep!” Melgalés called. Ifferon shook off his terror and began to shake Thalla from the clutches of dream, but Yavün grabbed his arm and pulled him back. Herr’Don saw this and struck the stableboy in the face with the pommel of his sword, knocking him to the ground. Melgalés turned as Thalla awoke. “Get everyone. We go north!”

*  *  *

They ran, Herr’Don carrying Yavün, Thalla and Ifferon at the lead, and Melgalés in the rear, still brandishing the Ilokrán as their last line of diminishing defence. As they ran the air grew thinner and the trees seemed to grow closer together, reaching in to choke them. All the while a fleet of blackness shot past on either side in the trees, racing around to cage them.

There was a groan in the ground, low but audible, a creaking moan that rose around them. “Keep your pace!” Melgalés cried, but already the frenzied flight was beginning to tire him. The earthly groan grew louder and suddenly the group found themselves in another open clearing, surrounded on all sides by the hounding shadows.

“Ready yourselves,” Herr’Don said, waving his sword before him like a flag of war. “We cannot see them, but we can feel them.”

“Wardens should be able to see them!” Melgalés said in frustration. “Something blocks my sight.”

“Ifferon!” Herr’Don called. “Tell us where they advance.”

“They do not,” Ifferon said. “They linger by the edge, as if waiting for something.”

There was a crash, as if trees were being uprooted somewhere nearby.

“Karisgors!” Herr’Don cried. “They are forcing us into an arena!”

“Can you drain them, Melgalés?” Thalla asked.

“No,” he said solemnly. “I am too weak.”

Herr’Don gave the cleric his spare sword, which was heavy to hold. Another thundering roar bellowed out from the heart of the forest, and then there was the sound of collapsing trees. The party huddled together in the centre of the clearing, their weapons held forth, their eyes straining against the blackness.

“Do not give in to fear,” Melgalés said. He grabbed Ifferon by the hand, giving him the Ilokrán. “Now you must shine, Ifferon, yes. Shine and lead the company forth. Press against the darkness to the north. I shall keep this evil here.”

“No!” Thalla cried, and she fawned his arm. “We’re not leaving without you.”

Melgalés said nothing, but gave a slight nod to Herr’Don. “Keep her safe,” he said. Then he stepped forward, raising his sword into the sky, where it shone like a beacon. The raven upon his shoulder screeched loudly, flapping its wings and readying itself against the darkness.

For a moment the company stood frozen, but Herr’Don grabbed Ifferon by the shoulder. “Come, my friend. There is little we can do. Lead us forth with your sight and stone.”

“We can’t leave him, Herr’Don,” Thalla wailed.

“We can,” he said, dragging her away.

*  *  *

“Run!” Herr’Don shouted, trudging through the trees, while Ifferon and Thalla ran ahead, fear and shock their driving lash. Ifferon held the Ilokrán in front of him, as if it would also protect him from the battering of the branches and the lashing of the wind.

The shadow had long passed behind them, but its memory lingered on, mauling their minds. Its chill sat like dewdrops upon their skin, seeping into every pore. Ifferon’s thoughts were rampant, running faster than his own limbs could, firing image upon image upon him, like a volley of arrows from a black ship.

They ran for what seemed like a lifetime, until their limbs ached and their faces were scratched by clawing branches. Eventually they slowed and halted when weariness slew their fear. They sat and heaved and panted, while their eyes darted to the location of every sound and stir.

Ifferon clutched the Ilokrán until his fingers hurt and the markings were imprinted upon his palms. It gave him solace in the night, but a whispering part of him knew that its power was small against what lived in the gloom.

Thalla sat in sorrowful silence, her face drawn like a veil over a widow. She was deathly pale. Her eyes were wide and harrowing, and when Ifferon looked into them he saw a great dam holding back an endless flow of misery. He could not bring himself to say anything, for fear that the levee might break.

“His death is not in vain,” Herr’Don told her. He hung his head, as if the words he wanted to say had not come and all he could offer were false comforts.  Yavün was awake now, but he remained silent.

The night grew long and the moon grieved behind the veil of cloud. Ifferon struggled to stay awake, for his mind was still haunted by shadow and he feared the dreams he would have. Even long after the others had fallen asleep he fought against his laden eyelids, until finally fatigue took him like a lover and kissed him goodnight.

*  *  *

Ifferon woke suddenly, his hands firmly clinging to the ground, as if he had fallen from his bed. But he was not at Larksong upon his old, hard mattress. The chill of the rock came suddenly, racing up his spine. He looked around quickly, making sure everything was safe, that there were no dark eyes staring from the trees. He felt the Ilokrán in his pocket with the Scroll, his only reassurances against the shade.

But something was not right. Herr’Don was there, resting against a tree, a blanket firmly wrapped around him, his guard let down from exhaustion. Thalla was there, further away, curled up like a wounded animal. But he did not see Yavün, not now and not when he turned around twice, searching feverishly for him as though he were his own son.

He stood up quickly and ran to large fallen trees, and he peered behind them into the shadows, hoping to find a scared stableboy there, awaiting the call of Ifferon’s voice, but there was only shadow, and further on a forest, and beyond that some mountains, and further still the endless ocean of the night. Turning again he found no trace that Yavün had indeed been there, no echoes of poetry upon the wind. With a sudden shock, he felt the loneliness crowd around him, and an empty hollow in his heart. Yavün Arri, victim of the phantom host, was gone.

VII – THE TOWER OF TOL-TIMÍL

The night dragged on, like a corpse trying to find its way to Halés. The last stars flickered and died out, lost candles in the vastness of the cosmos.

Something stirred in the belly of the earth, something small. A figure ventured from beneath the mask of shadow, stumbling on the border of slumber and the waking world. It drew closer, arms outstretched, groping at the air before it. A wandering man—out late at night.

The raven stirred, glaring with yellow eyes at the approaching figure, flapping its wings in warning.

Yavün staggered forward, suddenly coming to the realisation of where he was. He blinked—even the shadow of nightfall was bright in contrast to his dreams. Then he stopped, as if his feet had felt the edge of a ravine.

He looked before him, drawing in the landscape like a long, slow breath. There were tall stalks, black and thin, with frail limbs reaching out for life, and stones as old as the earth itself, sleeping only because it was better than staying awake. And there was crisp soil, blackened like the ash on a funeral pyre. It was the Rotwood, rank and reeking.

And there, like a monolith on an open plain, was the body of Melgalés, huddled against a lonely stone. His skin was as pale as the moon should be, were it brave enough to risk the sky. His clothes were torn and bloodied, his beads were scattered on the ground, and his face was worn, as if he had seen things no one should ever see. Just like the sky above, there were no stars in his eyes.

The raven sat by its master’s side, guarding his body, as any loyal servant would. But the air was cold, and his hands would be cold, should they be held. But there was only Yavün—and that was not why he was there.

There was a slight flicker in the mud just a few feet before the body, like a stray star that had failed to find its way back into the heavens. But it was not a star. It was a Beldarian, the Soul Pendant of the Master Magus. And it was calling Yavün, whispering words only his heart could hear.

He stepped forward, crouching, as if he were a lion about to prance upon a deer. But he knew that he was but a scavenger, and the raven was studying him closely. He stalked through the darkness, slow and silent, one eye on the raven and the other on the Beldarian.

It lured him, casting out into the shadow and pulling him in from the sea of curiosity. As it dragged him in inch by inch, there was a warning signal in his mind, but it was faint and quickly smothered by the passion of his heart. And then it was just a blur of light and noise, punctuated by vague images as if from a dream: his hand reaching forth, grazing the soil and then coming to the cold stone of the Beldarian itself, then a wisp of purple smoke within the pendant’s gem, and then the dullness of a long, slow darkness.

*  *  *

He awoke several hours later in the cold clutches of bewilderment. Blades of light stabbed his eyes, and when at last he adjusted, he knew nothing of the land that surrounded him. He was sitting on a large slab of rock, which looked like a fallen pillar, resting his back against an ageing tree. The branches crept out and felt their way around a large mossy wall, and a great carpet of leaves and starving soil lined the ground. Looking down further, Yavün could see that the leaves gave way like a waterfall to a series of  plummeting steps, which curved around the building. And to his right, through the canopy of leaves and branches, he could see the sun sparkling in the distance, casting the land around in a wonderful yellow glow.

And then he felt it—something at his chest. For a brief moment he sat in paralysed silence, his breathing heavy. When at last he looked down, he gave a great sigh of relief, though it did not bring the comfort it should. About his neck he wore the Beldarian, the strange enchanted pendant that Melgalés wore. He could not remember how he got it or how he got to where he was sitting now. The memory was not there, as if it had been taken and hidden by higher powers. He tried to find it, searching the alleyways of his mind, but all he found was a sadness that was not his own.

Words welled up deep inside and he began to feel a presence within him, yearning to speak. It spoke of Melgalés:

I knew this Magus not for long,

But in those moments I knew then

That he deserved a fitting song

For uncrowned kings and sons of Men.

For in this weak world he was strong,

Such strength in one that was in ten.

Perhaps he did not here belong

And in his land sets foot again.

For from a distant land he came,

And in his heart a fire burned—

I saw the waning of that flame,

From a distant land now returned.

And there it was, a glimpse of something else, something hidden: a great fire raged beneath the earth, burning all it touched, and there was someone falling into the flame, as if dropped from a plank into a fiery sea. But he was of fire, so he did not burn into ash, but arose like a phoenix, dripping embers. And it was one great baptism of fire as the figure arose from the inferno, looking out and bellowing forth with a voice of earthquakes and thunder—a voice that was directed to Yavün.

*  *  *

“The trail ends here,” Herr’Don said, shaking his head. “But there are other marks, strange marks on the trees. I’ve seen them in the Rotwood, though here they are less pronounced. There are scorch marks all across the bark, as if fingers of flame were dragged across them.”

“Perhaps they will lead us to him?” Ifferon ventured.

“Perhaps,” the prince replied, looking around. “But I can’t be sure of that. Look! Over here, more marks upon the trunks, and the ground is charred, as if a forest fire raged here—but it did not, for the trees are still alive, if anything in the Rotwood can be called that.”

“Will we follow this trail?” Ifferon asked, wondering if Herr’Don was really trying to find the youth at all. “He could have been taken this way by ... by some creature of the wood.”

Herr’Don shook his head. “No. At least, I hope not. I would not have much faith for anyone taken in these lands. We have yet to leave Ardún-Fé, and this place is cursed almost beyond that of Telarym, which is saying something indeed!”

“But why would he have wandered off like that?” Thalla asked, the first words she had spoken since Melgalés’ passing. Concern for Yavün was like a comfort from the grief.

“That,” Herr’Don said, raising his hand, “I would like to know. Come! We’ll follow this trail north. If naught else, it will lead us out of Ardún-Fé and into the lands of our brothers in Arlin. My heart yearns greatly for a sky more blessed and a soil less forsaken.”

And so they ventured on, far from the graveyard of trees into a basin of dry and empty plains, following a trail that had long since burned out. But the flames of hope still flickered in them, if only to stay the darkness of doubt. Ifferon tried not to think, tried to resist the lure of dark thoughts in the evil laneways of the mind—but his efforts were almost as monumental as those of trudging across a barren land with a body barren of the energy to do so.

It took another hour to reach the borderlands, and from there they could see the giant wall far off to their left, the Wall of Atel-Aher, so named for the last King of Arlin, who succumbed to madness after the death of his only son.

“How terrible a sight this is,” Herr’Don said, “to see something so beautiful and formidable as this wall—and to feel so vulnerable and unprotected by it. It is indeed an evil fate that caused the building of this, separating our two nations and throwing us into hatred and suspicion of each other. What brother was born with a dagger at the throat of his twin?”

Ifferon looked at the Wall as they neared it, watching as the dull white rose into the air like a mountain of cloud. But this was no sentinel of the sky—it was a fortress wall, a great barrier built to keep the people within Arlin safe, and to keep something out. The Wall spanned for miles, lining the border between Arlin and Boror, but as soon as it reached the realm of Ardún-Fé it ceased, for as the builders laid the foundation an earthquake struck and tore it apart, and again until wise men came and proclaimed the land accursed. There, even today, lay the ruins of what might have been an even stronger part of the Wall, cracked and broken, and covered with twisted weeds. And so the Tower of Tol-Timíl was built nearby, and it was known as the Elé Anar, the White Watcher, for it was there that the Knights of Issarí kept their guard against the evil of Ardún-Fé. But that too fell into ruin as the weary Knights became distracted from their duty, and the White Watcher became dormant, so that its eyes were dulled into slumber. What great shadow took it then was the realm of tales few bards would tell.

“The Wall is battered,” Thalla said solemnly, and Ifferon did not think of Atel-Aher’s barricade, but of the walls of Thalla’s heart, which were undoubtedly under strain.

“Yes,” Herr’Don said. “Arlin has had its own troubles, no doubt, though I’m not sure if they post guards here any more. This place looks desolate.”

“I hope it is the same for the enemies of Arlin,” Ifferon said.

“Let us hope, my friend, let us hope. Things would be much fresher here if there was a recent fight, so take comfort in that.”

“I cannot take comfort, for always I wonder if the fight is yet to come.”

“Aye, and it shall come,” Herr’Don said solemnly, yet with a hint of glee at the thought, “but if we are to lose a battle, let us lose it then instead of now. Keep faith in the movement of your legs if it will not dwell in your heart.” The prince placed his hand on Ifferon’s shoulder and smiled. “Come, the trail continues still,” he said, turning away and glancing at more scorch marks on the ground. “But it appears that Yavün may have stopped here too.”

The tower rose before them, tall and daunting. It seemed to go endlessly upwards, but when Ifferon strained his eyes he could see that it was ruined at the top where it met the clouds. He recalled the tales that it was struck by lightning, or that it was a pawn that fell from a god’s chessboard, breaking as it hit the earth. Its walls sparkled like the Wall of Atel-Aher, undoubtedly made from the same mystical stone that the Alchemists of Arlin kept closely guarded.

“I wonder what Yavün is doing now,” Thalla said, her eyes set upon the looming Tower, her hands fidgeting with the collar of her robe. “I hope he’s safe. I hope he hasn’t ... I hope he’s safe.”

*  *  *

A fire roared in Yavün’s mind, like a lion announcing its dominion there. A streak of red and yellow flashed across his eyes, and for a moment he thought he was blinded, for there was darkness. Then, whether before his very eyes or as some trick within his mind, he saw a single flame, as if it were dancing upon the tip of a candle. This candle was the tower of Tol-Timíl, and the flame was something that was more than fire.

I am the spark in my consummation, a voice bellowed, and with it Yavün felt an immense power well up, stronger than flame. This is the link in the chain of my life, the stone of the fool who knows not how to cleave it in two. While it is one, I will be one, and we will be one together. Cleave it asunder and I will be two for a moment, while the cleaving takes its toll. The toll will be as a bell to the daring and a thunder to the waiting. Then I will be undone, and you will know me by my true name in the Hall of the Wise beyond the Gate of Judgement where the Gatekeeper has his watch.

“Who are you?” Yavün asked, unsure if he had used his physical voice. “What play of forces is this?”

Celestial chess is not of my making, no. I am a fire that was given a body. Now I am but a fire again. By my will are the waters of your mind parted, as with fire. When you were born, the window of your will was firmly shut, and you were as one pulled by the strings of the gods. Now that the Vials of Wrath have been unleashed upon Iraldas from he that we call Agon, the Celestials believed not all windows should remain shut. This is the time of your consummation, Yavün Arri, Avatar of Ariavar, for you wear the skin of a stableboy just as a sheep wears its wool. Shake off your blindness and be reborn as a lion in the fire!

Then suddenly blackness swept in again, as if to quench this flame, and a chillness followed, like creeping icy claws. The wind swept up and the frosty fingers brushed against Yavün’s skin, icicle nails digging deep beneath the surface. The darkness seemed to shimmer in his vision, as if it were not of all one black, but different shades that competed for dominance. Shadows bobbed and danced, like cool waves on a dark and empty ocean. And then the blacks began to pale, as if some new wave had entered. Greys washed past his eyelids, dark at first, but soon they lightened until vague shapes appeared.

And then the fear came. Quick, like one great tsunami, panic swept against the shores of Yavün’s mind. The heavy silence that had preceded was pressed now by a sharp racing of his thoughts—and of thoughts he knew were not his own.

Heed them not, came the volcanic voice from earlier. They are Spectres and no more. They have no physical form in which to harm you, and have so very little in them of spirit that they are almost non-existent but for the belief in them by Men, who believe in them because they fear them. A shadow can only be present with light. I am that light, Yavün, yes, and while you are in my presence (and so you shall be, for a time to come), they shall have no true power but that which you afford them. Yet pay heed, for the window is now open, so while it is open to me, it is also open to them. Make special care not to let them in!

There was a blinding flash, and all was white for a time. Then the light softened until Yavün saw again that he was sitting on the Tower of Tol-Timíl, and the evil presence was washed away like shells upon a ravaged shore.

*  *  *

“There is something amiss here,” Herr’Don said, his hand pressed firmly against the handle of his sword. They neared the steps of the tower, dazzled by its luminosity.

“Look, there is a door in the wall over there,” Thalla said, pointing to a small wooden door reinforced with metal and chains. It looked as though it would weather a hundred storms and a thousand battering fists, but as they approached they realised that the hinges had become loose, that the seemingly impenetrable door was but a front, a remnant of the days when Tol-Timíl really was the great watchtower of the ancient world. Herr’Don placed his hand against the door; it creaked loudly and fell suddenly inwards. It collapsed with a monumental thud, sending a spray of dirt and dust upon the onlookers outside. Herr’Don coughed and spat, wiping the muck from his face and clothes.

“I can’t imagine anyone is home,” he said, rubbing his sleeve across his mouth. “Or that Yavün would have come in here. Although ... a dark hole makes a great resting place for a rat.”

Thalla smacked him across the back of the head. “This might not be the way he came, but we have to check it anyway. I would hate to leave one nook unsearched and later know it was the very place that we would have found him.”

“Come then, let us explore this rathole, whether its owners are home or not,” Herr’Don said.

They ventured forth, walking atop the fallen door, for the entrance was wet from a rain that had fallen the night before. A moss covered the cracked ground, and light shone in from holes and fissures in the walls and ceiling, illuminating the murk below.

Then the fullness of their location was revealed to them, for their eyes adjusted, and they saw a great room of black marble, burnished like the blade of a sickle honed to its sharpest edge. Yet it was not sharp, for most of it had been battered and chipped, and some crumbled at the slightest touch, leaving a dark dust upon the floor, mounting gradually with the slow decay of years.

In the centre of the room there was a stone crypt, which grew out of the ground like a volcano. Its material was like the black of dried lava, but Ifferon knew that it was made from nahilok, a corruption of the white stone the Aelora used in their ancient constructions. Atop the crypt was a stone lid, engraved with many twisting forms like vines. On closer inspection there appeared to be text between the motifs, strange and foreign, and there were also odd geometric sigils in all four corners, carved deep like rifts into nothingness.

Around this dark resting place four large statues leaned in. They appeared like kings of old, adorned in rich clothing and armour, but there was something wrong about them, something off. Kings of old, perhaps, but warped and twisted kings. As they tilted in, their shoulders merged, and then the tops of their heads joined, and above the merging of their heads was a single thorny crown.

“And so the riddle is answered,” Herr’Don said.

“What do you mean?” Thalla quizzed.

“This is a Kalakrán,” Ifferon said. He knew it the instant he had entered, for his breath had ceased and his heart had slowed its beat, and the statues seemed to look at him, as if they had been awoken to his presence. A Child of Telm had stepped into their domain.

“A Shadow Crypt,” Herr’Don explained. “One of the old resting places of the Molokrán. I did not know there was one in Arlin, but evidently the Knights of Issarí did, for Tol-Timíl was clearly not built to merely guard from the evil of Ardún-Fé, but the evil of the Shadow Kingdom.”

“Is this where they sleep?” Thalla asked. Ifferon shuddered.

“They do not sleep,” Herr’Don said. “Indeed, it is when people sleep that these creatures are at their height, for the depths of a dark night are where shadows lurk the most.”

“Then what are these places? It looks like some sort of house for them, if ever there was such a thing.”

“In a sense it is,” the prince replied. “There are, or at least were, thirteen Kalakrán in Iraldas, dotted around the land, one for each Molokrán. Some rumour that their location is the birthplace of each of these Shadowspirits, but from what Melgalés told me of them, they were all torn from the land of Ardún-Fé.”

“Why did Melgalés not tell me of this?”

“I’m not sure,” Herr’Don said. “Perhaps he thought he was protecting you.”

“He always thought he was protecting me,” she said, but she did not say it to him. “Always acting like a shield, parrying life’s blows. Did he not think to protect himself? For therein lies the greatest blow that life has dealt—death.” Then she turned her teary glance upon the prince again and asked: “Tell me what he would not.”

Herr’Don nodded. “Melgalés believed that Molok the Animator brought the Shadows to life and created for them a vessel at the thirteen locations where the roots of the Tree of Althar touched upon Iraldas, an effort to feed his creations with the life of the Céalari. Molok claimed Ardún-Fé as his own, forcing the Aelora to flee to the north, and he used the residue of their magic to make many evil things. It is said that there might have been more of the Molokrán were it not for Uldarus binding each year to thirteen moons. Olagh forbid the thought!

“You would have learned it from Melgalés eventually, I am sure. Few know of them, and of those who do fewer still will talk about them, for my father is misguided by the Followers of Olagh. Even I, son of the King, must pray to Olagh, not Telm, lest I stumble in my words before the Trial and end up headless. And that is not to mention the Elad Éni, older gods than even the Céalari. What little I know of them keeps my mouth firmly shut.”

“Should we not get moving?” Ifferon asked. “This may be a place of rest, but certainly not for us. After what happened in Ardún-Fé, the den of a Molokrán is the last place I want to stay the night.”

“We are many a league from the Damned Land now, Master Ifferon, and is the telling of Herr’Don the Great’s history of Iraldas not a distraction from darkness?”

“He's right, Herr’Don,” Thalla said. “We need to get going. Yavün is still out there somewhere, waiting for us.”

“Back to Yavün again! You seem to have grown obsessed with him of late. Would it not be fitting to find him here? He spoke with the voice of a Spectre not long ago, so should he not have crawled back to the home of a Molokrán? But let us not worry, for there is no danger to us here, unless the stableboy creeps from his cradle in this crypt. This Kalakrán is in ruins, no doubt destroyed before the Tower was first built, and, indeed, the Tower was probably built to ensure that the Molokrán never returned to Arlin.”

“Come on, Herr’Don,” Thalla begged, tugging on his arm. “I do not like this place at all.”

“We need not fear,” the prince replied. “At one time the Molokrán could use these Crypts to transport themselves around Iraldas. They had but to lie within the opening there and close the lid, and they would be at another location within moments, within the blink of the eye of a Céalar, as they say. Timeless transport—some dark magic, no doubt, a corruption of Aelor’s, I expect. But that cannot be accomplished here while the Crypt is in ruins. And Olagh bless that this is so!”

*  *  *

They left the dim of the Kalakrán and looked up at the Tower again. It seemed to gleam ever more brightly in contrast with the bleakness of the Crypt, and the spiral staircase seemed daunting to their eyes. They began their ascent, for Thalla urged them to search each and every part of the Tower, for she sensed that Yavün had been there and that a clue might be found to his whereabouts.

The steps were steep and tiring, but they were large enough that all three could climb side by side. Thalla clung to the wall, for the drop was big, but Herr’Don strolled near the edge, kicking bits of rock into the vastness below. Often he muttered as they struggled upwards, and Ifferon wondered what arguments were playing out in his troubled mind.

“He can’t have come this way, ” Herr’Don said at last.

“Why not?” Thalla asked. “Why would he not come this way?”

“It’s too bright for him. He favours shadow things,” the prince said, almost spitting the words. “Why do you care for him anyway? What is he to you? What is he to any of us?”

“He is one of us,” Thalla said. “That is what he is to me. That is what he is to all of us—except you. Are you one of us, Herr’Don? Please tell me that you are.”

“You know that I am,” he replied, but he glared at her as though he wondered if she was really part of the company either.

“Let us just check here,” Ifferon said, hoping to ease the tension before it rose to a tumult. “There cannot be any more evil here than we have already seen.”

Herr’Don sighed deeply and nodded slowly. “We should be careful, however. Let us recall that this place is cursed. These steps could crumble at any time.”

This warning did not stop Herr’Don from lingering on the ledge. Ifferon tried not to look, afraid that at any moment Herr’Don might slip or jump. Ifferon kept his eyes upon the steps below, which became swiftly carpeted in moss and leaves. The tower ruins mixed with nature’s debris until finally its white was smothered in green. This made each footfall more unsteady than the one before, until Ifferon began to curse the nearby trees for the shedding of their autumn coats.

“Wait,” Herr’Don said suddenly, his voice but a whisper, as if he feared to wake something. “There is some evil here.” He paused for a time and turned to the others. “Do you feel it?”

“Yes, it hounds me,” Thalla said. “But I cannot tell if it is Tol-Timíl, the Kalakrán below, or the memory of Ardún-Fé.”

“I feel it too,” Ifferon said. “I can almost hear the clangs and screams of battle fought long ago here, with many victims, many deaths.”

“Let us hope this Tower has not claimed another,” Herr’Don said sharply. “I knew that stableboy was up to no good, venturing off like an eager child. And who made me his carer?”

They climbed further, each step bringing them closer to the heavens and whatever it was they suddenly feared. Their footsteps were hollow, and the land about them sat in a dreadful silence, a kind of quiet that made Ifferon beg for noise, even the mumblings and ramblings of their princely escort. But there was no clash or clamour, nor drip of dew, nor the distant songs of birds. Even the Scroll in his pocket was hushed, though the subtle sounds of unease still whispered in Ifferon’s heart.

“Aha!” Herr’Don shouted suddenly as they turned a sharp corner on the stairway.

There, sitting with his back against the wall of the Tower, was Yavün, his face drawn and his robes gathered about as if a chill grasped him. His hair was unkempt and tangled, full of moss and stray twigs from the Rotwood, and his eyes were more sombre than Thalla could ever muster, deep pits where strange and recent events were buried.

“Yavün!” Thalla cried, running to him and collapsing before him in relief and joy.

Ifferon sighed deeply, for the prince’s exclamation had stopped his breath. “It is good to see you!” he managed, forcing a faint smile.

“The little rascal was here after all,” Herr’Don bellowed, like a god atop a mountain throne. He shook his head violently, as if in disbelief, and his hand still clutched the handle of his sword.

Thalla grabbed Yavün and hugged him deeply, and he tried to return the hug, though seemed shocked and shaken.

Ifferon noticed this. “What happened?” he asked.

“Oh,” Yavün stammered. “I ... I really don’t know.”

“I know,” Herr’Don hissed. “He got taken over by those Spectres again and decided to lead us to this sorrowful remnant of the older days of Arlin. To the Kalakrán, perhaps.”

“No,” Yavün said, though he stopped there for a moment, as if struggling to remember what happened. “No, that wasn’t it.”

“Well? What was?” Herr’Don barked.

“Something odd happened here,” Ifferon said.

“Are you all right?” Thalla asked, holding Yavün’s hand. Ifferon watched Herr’Don’s cold and steady glare grow colder.

“Of course he’s all right!” the prince spat. “Look at him! Alive and well. Ha! Having us worrying and wandering like a bunch of fools, as if we haven’t anything better to do.”

“What happened, Yavün?” Thalla questioned, her voice soft and tender, speaking to and holding him as a mother would.

“I had strange dreams,” he replied. “Something was calling me in my sleep.”

“Those Spectres!” Herr’Don said. “I told you, friends.”

“Be quiet,” Ifferon said. “Let him finish.”

“It had a distant voice,” Yavün continued. “It crackled ... like fire, like a candle, maybe. It called my name three times. Then I woke up, or ... well, I got up while still in the dream, and it felt like I was watching myself. I watched myself walk through the Rotwood.”

“And you came here?” Thalla asked.

“Yes. But, well ... yes. I did.”

“But why?” Ifferon quizzed.

“I had to collect something. Something important.”

Yavün rummaged in his pockets and took out the answer to their questions. He held it up to Ifferon. It was the letter Ifferon had given to Melgalés, the one which Teron felt was so vital for him to deliver.

“The letter!” he cried. “How did you get this?”

“I ... collected it,” Yavün said.

“How? Where?”

Thalla’s grip on Yavün’s hand began to loosen, and she did not lean towards him now.

“Melgalés had it.”

“I know he had it,” Ifferon said. “I gave it to ... oh.”

“You ... you took this from him?” Thalla asked, letting go of his hand altogether.

“I had to,” Yavün said. “It wasn’t really me. I was watching me do it. It wasn’t me!”

“I knew it!” Herr’Don snapped. “A thief if ever there was one—and I’ve met many thieves. I’ve dealt with many thieves!”

“No, I didn’t steal it, I swear! The voice brought me here, and I took it because it was important.”

“You took it because you’re a thief!”

“Was ... is he ...?” Thalla tried, but the words would not come.

“Yes,” Yavün said. “I saw his body against the tree.”

Thalla broke into tears as soon as she heard the word body, and she turned away from them, cradling her face and catching the tears in the basin of her hands. Herr’Don tried to comfort her, but she shook off his embrace, and so he looked back to Yavün with a glower.

“He seemed to be guiding me,” Yavün said at last. “Guiding me back to him to get ...” He paused, as if he were hesitant to reveal something. “The letter,” he said at last, but there was something forced about his voice.

“What does it say, Ifferon?” Herr’Don asked, turning to him.

Ifferon opened it and took a deep breath.

“Dear Mehlalesh,

“It grieves me to bring ill news to you, especially since it has been so long since we last spoke, and we did not part as amiably as I might have liked.  However, the urgency of this matter means I must put our quarrels aside and report a grave turn of events.

“Larksong was attacked, and I fear this is but the beginning of similar battles. I was forced to flee the monastery there which was my home for many years, and now I am on my way to Madenahan with Belnavar, and thence to Nahragor with forces to support the raid on the Black Bastion.

“During my flight from Larksong I learned of a terrible thing. The Adversary’s attack on the beach had a darker aim than merely the conquering of our land. There were rumours that a great sorcerer had allied with the Nahliners and had found a way to summon Agon! I need not speak of how grave such a tiding is, for you are well aware of this. Should the Adversary ever set foot on this good earth, we would all be destroyed. None but Corrias would be able to match his might and vanquish him.

“This dark servant is working secretly in Nahragor, in the very fortress which the Garigút now move to lay siege to. I need not speak of how ill that battle will go, as the Garigút are no match for the forces of Nahragor, nor the Molokrán and their dark minions. These are looking for Ifferon. They are looking for him because they know that if he takes that Scroll to Nahragor, where the Summoner is making his move, the cleric can end the Call of Agon, can stop his summons from being fulfilled. I know not the means he must use to stop the Summoner, but undoubtedly there is a power of Telm still at hand.

“I leave this for your wise counsel to decide upon.

“Your ever faithful Brother in the Light,

“Teron.”

Ifferon sighed deeply. The others looked at him with grim faces. Even Thalla’s tears now ceased.

“What evil tidings,” Herr’Don said, and he almost faltered on the stairs. “The Call of Agon,” he added, and there was a tremor in the earth, as if the Beast had heard his words.

VIII – JOURNEY THROUGH ALIMSTAL

“Did he look peaceful?” Thalla asked as they left the Tower of Tol-Timíl behind them and headed north-west towards the many towns of Arlin.

“Yes,” Yavün said, lying. He saw the battered remains of the Master Magus, the crippled body amidst the crippled trees, the fallen beads in the blanket of blood upon the ground around him, and his cold, staring eyes. Those eyes stayed with Yavün, haunting his memory—they were open and starless, reflecting naught but the deep black of the pit of nightfall. It still seemed as if they were staring at him, even now as he attempted to force them out of his mind. “Peaceful,” he added at last, noticing Thalla’s intent and pleading gaze, one that almost mirrored that of Melgalés.

“We must reach Alimstal by nightfall,” Herr’Don said. “We cannot rest another day here, nor under the stars on the plains. If Teron’s words are true then we must seek out the Garigút and find a way to end the Call of Agon.”

“I can eat on the way,” Yavün said. “If it will quicken our journey.”

“It will,” Herr’Don replied. “I have most of our things packed already. We have little food, but I’m sure Alimstal has something for us to eat.”

“Or something to eat us,” Ifferon suggested. “If I have read my tales enough. We should be careful to avoid ambushes from the Shoradoni.”

“Shoradoni?” Yavün asked.

“Bull-men,” Thalla replied.

“We’ll see,” Herr’Don said. “I think favour sides with us today though, for the trees there are fair and they do not house the same darkness that dwells in the Rotwood. Alimstal is hunting ground, ripe for the spear and the sword, as the Knights of Issarí well know, for they sometimes come here to keep the Bull-men tribes down in number.”

“Why do they not kill them all?” Yavün questioned.

“Because they are useful for training,” Ifferon said.

“Yes,” Herr’Don said. “The Knights-in-Training are brought here to test their skills, for a Shoradon is a mighty enemy, but they are not yet in service to the Adversary, so they are less of a threat to Arlin than ... other forces.”

“Are they a threat to us?” Yavün asked, but neither Herr’Don nor Ifferon would answer. “Are they?”

“We shall see,” Herr’Don said at last.

“Let us hope that we do not see,” Ifferon said. “Whether we are a match for them or not. But it is not merely the Bull-men that I fear in those woods, for Alimstal is the property of the Knights, and they do not take kindly to trespassers.”

“They shall take kindly to me,” Herr’Don said. “Come! Ere night comes hastening.”

But night came and fell upon them within an hour, blotting out the remnants of the sun. It was not as dark as it had been in Ardún-Fé, and the company were glad of this. They were not stalked by shadows or beasts, and the air was calm. Alimstal Forest loomed ahead in the distance, a dark silhouette on the horizon against the dimming sky. Yet, as they drew closer to it, they could see that it was not dark at all, but bore a roof of golden-green leaves, beneath which was a thicket of plump bushes, and grass that had no doubt seen many a morning rainfall. All was full of vitality and life, and covered in a thick and sparkling dew that looked like honey from the skies. And it was sweet to the taste too, for the company began to bottle it for their journey ahead.

As the night deepened, they stopped to rest in a fair clearing. They ate a slack supper with minimal talk, for they were all still engrossed in the comfort the forest seemed to radiate. Sleep beckoned swiftly and they tucked in beneath their cloaks and blankets.

*  *  *

“Ifferon!” came a voice like a knife in Ifferon's ear. He awoke suddenly and sat up, finding Thalla crouching beside him.

“Oh, is it my watch already?” he asked. “I was having such a lovely dream.”

“No, it’s not time yet, but ... I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Oh? What is it?” he grumbled as he shook the sleep from him.

“I am feeling a little troubled. Well, more than usual.”

“Is it about ... you know, him.”

“Oh, so you know?” Thalla said, and she seemed relieved not to have to spell it out.

“I was there when it happened! I saw Melgalés as he fell.”

“Oh,” she said, pausing. “No, it’s not about him.”

“There is someone else?”

“You could say that.”

“Who is it?”

“Yavün.”

“Yavün? What about him?”

“Have you not noticed? He seems to look at me a lot, in odd ways, and tries to talk to me, but then backs away as though embarrassed.”

“Ah,” Ifferon said. “Well, yes, I have noticed that. But, you know, he is young. It is half-expected, is it not?”

“No, Ifferon, no, it’s not. And I find it a little unsettling—if also somewhat endearing.”

“So you think he likes you?”

“Well ... yes.”

“Do you like him?”

She averted her eyes, as if ashamed. “I ... I do not know. But that does not matter, Ifferon. You know that I am with Herr’Don. That kind of thing is more than frowned upon. Sure he is but a boy!”

“Well, barely come of age, yes, but he does have some older spirit in him.”

“That is what I worry about sometimes.”

“His older spirit?”

“The spirits in him. Well, the ones who talk through him. Melgalés used to tell me tales about people like that—portals, he called them. They allow forces, both good and bad, to enter them in spirit and manipulate their body. It takes great skill to master it, and I do not think Yavün is anywhere near that stage. I am worried for him.”

“As am I,” Ifferon said, looking towards the poet who was curled up by a tree like a sleeping child.

“But the thing is,” Thalla continued. “I feel as though I should not be this worried about him. I barely know him, and yet I feel a connection to him that I cannot fully describe.”

“Do you think it is love?”

“No, I cannot say. It has been too little a time to tell, and I dare not rush to conclusions, least of all while still betrothed to Herr’Don. Oh, he would kill Yavün if he found out! He does not like him already, that is clear, but this would really drive him over the edge.”

“I can imagine,” Ifferon said. “I think it would definitely be wise to keep this to ourselves for now. However, what happens if this is love? Are you considering leaving Herr’Don?”

“Oh, no, I ... well, I have not really thought about it much. It is just such a tricky situation. I have been with him for nearly two years and still love him deeply. But there is something strange about him now, ever since a few months back. You see, he was a mercenary for the last few years, since his father threw him out of his Court. All the Royal Guards refused to hire him, until Teron sent word about a possible attack on Larksong, that is, so he was forced to be a sword-for-hire to make ends meet.”

“And you think this has gotten to him?”

“Well, not inherently, but yes—something about it is eating away at him. It was around three months ago when he was last hired, and he acted so strangely afterwards, so ... so guilty. That was when he refused to work as a mercenary again and tried to get back into the Guard, which eventually succeeded just in time for that attack. To be honest, I think Melgalés intervened to get him back in the forces, because he called a meeting with the King not long beforehand, and I am sure he managed to convince him to bring Herr’Don back. He needs to fight, you see—it is his life and dream; if you take that away from him, he would go insane—he just would not have anything else.”

“He would have you.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

“If you stayed with him.”

“Well, that is the puzzle that plagues my mind. I just don’t know any more, and I don’t know why I have lost this certainty, because I have never felt conflicted like this before.”

“In the Olaghris,” Ifferon began, reminded of his many days of feigned preaching at the monastery, “it says all kinds of things about how a man and woman should stay together always since the day they both join hands, and that none should intervene to tear those two apart. As a Cleric of Olagh, I am expected to say ‘shame on you,’ but do you really think I will, or should?”

“Should, perhaps.”

“No, it is not my place to make judgements like that. Love is the only thing that matters here, for it is the only thing that can unite the divided, and if the love between you and Herr’Don is fading, then who am I to try to fan that flame?”

“He has grown distant,” Thalla said, her voice more solemn now. “Not that he was always very close. Swords and battle are his first love. But I respect that. I can deal with that. He just does not seem to want to let me in.”

“Yes, I got that impression myself.”

“Whereas Yavün ...”

“Yavün will let anyone in,” Ifferon said, smiling. Thalla smiled too, though weakly.

“Do you have someone you love, Ifferon? Oh, I am sorry, how silly of me—you are a cleric!”

“No, I do. I was not always a cleric, after all. I joined the Order of Olagh roughly a decade ago, but before that I was quite an adventurer. I roamed Arlin and Boror, went up to Caelün to meet the Aelora and study their language, and even ventured into the Caves of Remradi at Idor-Rem down in Telarym. I had a companion then, a Garigút woman whom I had spent several years with. We then parted ways after a time. I went to Larksong and joined the Order, while she went back to her people, and we have not seen each other since.”

“Oh, that is terrible!” Thalla said. “Have you not tried to find her again?”

“Well, yes, I tried once, but the Garigút are nomads; if you are not with them when they are travelling, you might not find them at all. It is how they survive in such small numbers compared to the other people of Boror—they roam, and they retreat from areas that have been attacked, and they advance on other areas which bear them better fortune.”

“And now they are in Telarym,” Thalla said, “roaming towards ruin at the Gates of Nahragor.”

“They are strong fighters,” Ifferon said.

“But are they strong enough to lay siege to that fortress?”

“I hope,” Ifferon said, and he meant it more than many things he said, meant it more than all his prayers at Larksong. “I really hope.”

“Anyhow, I better let you take your watch before the night is over. Thank you, Ifferon—I really needed someone to talk to about these things.”

*  *  *

And so Thalla went to sleep while Ifferon took the next watch, followed by Yavün and then Herr’Don, who woke them all at the rising of the sun.

“The day is fair,” he said.

“My sleep was fairer,” Yavün said, wiping his eyes and squinting against the sunlight which came pouring through the leafy roof above them. The golden-brown leaves sparkled and gleamed.

They set off early that day, after another sparse meal, for their store was running out and they still had long to go. They travelled more swiftly than before, for they had grown accustomed to the ground and the vines and brambles that lay throughout the forest. Herr’Don estimated that they should be halfway into the forest by nightfall, if not further still, but Ifferon did not mind this wood, for it seemed that every awkward step seemed to lessen the load of his troubles.

After a moment of light chat, Herr’Don stopped suddenly and raised his hand, as if to swat some invisible fly. The force of tension broke through Ifferon’s false comforts and made him glance about quickly and sharply, to see if dark shadows were crawling through the trees. But there were none. Herr’Don still held his hand aloft, even though the others had long halted. He sniffed the air, as if he could sense something in that smell that the others could not.

“Bull-men,” he whispered after some time. “They’ve passed through here and are not far off.”

There was a sound of crackling leaves and heavy footfalls to the north, up a small mound that was circled by tall alders and wide oaks. And then a terrible stench drifted down to invade their nostrils.

“Come!” Herr’Don said, starting up the hill. “Though let us be very quiet so that they are not alerted to us.”

They climbed up the mound, treading softly but quickly, and they peered over the top through the thicket of trees to a small encampment, where a group of Shoradoni, half bull and half man, stood snarling and shouting.

Ifferon heard their voices plainly, talking in an ugly dialect of the Common Tongue, rough and coarse, as if they could split skulls by merely speaking. One of them shouted, a taller one with larger horns and a large metal ring hanging from his nose. He held a huge axe at his left side as if he were to chop the head off one of his own, and he carried two large marked stones in his right hand, toying with them, as if it were some oracle he was consulting.

“We found a group of horse-lovers on the march,” one of the Bull-men growled.

“They stink of Issarí-waters,” another said. “Speed is on their heels.”

“They think they can hunt us?” the leader shouted. “Let us show them who the real hunters are. Bring me their heads!” He snorted and steam came from his nostrils, as if inside he was burning with the fires of bloodlust and rage.

“They’re much stronger than men,” Herr’Don whispered. “We won’t be able to take them all on like this. Their hide is thick and their strength is only heightened by the smell of fresh blood. We must be careful.”

Two of the smaller Bull-men grinned, their mouths showing years of flesh eating, their teeth sharp and bloodied, their tongues dark and long.

And then Ifferon heard a crack behind him. He turned and saw Yavün there, his face bearing the mark of fake innocence. He had stepped on a branch, and as Ifferon turned again towards the clan, he saw their glare, their eyes burning, their weapons sharp.

“Kill them!” the Shoradon leader snarled. The Bull-men heaved forward on heavy legs with heavy blades in their hands, sneering and scowling.

“Run!” Herr’Don cried, and he was the first to abandon the scene, dragging Thalla along by the arm. Ifferon and Yavün soon followed, quickly matching the pace of the others as the heavy hoof-beats of the Bull-men came crashing down behind them, breaking branches and chiselling away at the company’s morale.

“Can we not fight them?” Yavün asked as they ran.

“No!” Herr’Don shouted.

“They are too many,” Thalla said, “and too strong.”

“We are not knights,” the swordsman said. “Keep your pace!” he added as the heavy, snorting breaths of the Bull-men became louder. “Downhill!”

They ran and stumbled down a decline in the tree-stumped mound, slipping and tripping over landslides of leaves and branches that tangled about their feet and tried to tug them down.

Yavün screamed as a Shoradon came down on him and lunged at him with its horns, knocking him back into a nearby tree. It growled in the glory of its bloodlust, lifting its chest and shaking its head violently to the sky in some display of triumph. Then it charged forward again towards the recoiling Yavün, pounding down to pummel him into the bark, and brandishing its axe to finish him off.

But a lance came striking forth, driving deep into the Bull-man and pushing it aside. This was followed by an armoured knight on horseback, who charged up and, with one swift arc of his sword, cleaved the head off the beast.

“For Issarí!” he shouted, waving his sword in the air, and there was a great sound of half a dozen knights charging into the fray, rallying to the cries of “Issarí!” and “Corrias!” They rode down the Bull-men, crushing them beneath the hooves of their horses, spearing them with their lances, or slashing their throats with their swords.

One knight rode up to Herr’Don and Thalla, who had stopped at the end of the mound. “You two,” he said, but was then knocked down by an advancing Shoradon. Thalla quickly loosed an arrow into the creature’s hide, drawing its attention away from the wounded knight, and Herr’Don raced forward with his two swords flaying as Thalla released another arrow, slowing the beast’s advance on the prince. Just as the great horns of the Shoradon neared Herr’Don, the swordsman slashed at the beast with one sword, turning quickly and rolling around its body, and then driving his other sword into its back. It roared and thrashed madly, trying to hit Herr’Don with its axe, but a third and fourth arrow pierced its skin, jolting its strikes. Herr’Don then drew both his swords back and drove them into the creature’s neck. It choked and stumbled forwards, dropping its axe and collapsing upon it as it hit the ground.

The stray Bull-men were slain or chased away, and Ifferon lifted Yavün up by the hand and brought him to the others. They gathered around the leading knight, who wore silver plate armour and a cloak of velvet blue. He rode up to them and shook his head.

“Archery is a cowardly way of battle,” he chastised, looking at Thalla sharply before turning around and circling them on his horse. “The sword is the way and always has been.” The other knights murmured in agreement and then bowed, as if in prayer.

“Who are you?” Herr’Don asked.

“Who I am matters not,” the knight said. “Who are you?”

“I am Herr’Don the Great, Prince of—”

“Yes, yes, I know you,” the knight interrupted. He stopped his horse and climbed down with a clang. He sheathed his sword and took off his plumed helmet, revealing a tight white haircut and beard, and careful blue eyes bearing solemn wisdom.

Herr’Don’s mouth dropped, and he gulped before speaking. “Trueblade,” he said.

“Yes, yes,” the knight said quickly. “Délin Trueblade is my knightly name, appointed to me in the name of the Lady Issarí, though Délin De’Marius is the name which Arlin, our Motherland, has given me. I am the Seventy-seventh Keeper of the Lake, and newly-appointed Lord of Ciligarad near Loch Nirigán, where lies our good Lady, fair and bright.” He then looked from Herr’Don, who remained in stunned silence, to the others. “Now, tell me, Herr’Don—who are your wandering companions?”

“Oh,” Herr’Don said, regaining his wits. “This—”

“Yavün Arri is my name,” Yavün said, stepping forward and extending his hand. “I’m a poet and newly-minted adventurer.”

Délin did not shake his hand, but stared at the youth for a moment. Yavün retracted his hand and stepped back, embarrassed.

“You were the one who was injured,” the knight said. “How is your wound?”

“Oh, just some bruises. I’ll be fine.”

“Hmm, good. But you look like a cleric to me,” the knight said with a hint of contempt. “A cleric of Olagh, if I know his seal.” He turned to Ifferon. “And you,” he said sharply. “Another one! Herr’Don, what is your game?”

“None, good sir,” Herr’Don replied. “I am merely passing through Arlin with my companions. We came from Larksong, which was attacked by ships from the South—from Nahlin, Trueblade. I brought these two here through Ardún-Fé, where we met Melgalés and my beloved—”

“Melgalés?” Délin quizzed. “I have not seen or heard from him in a long time. Arlin has grown weary of magic, knowing well what it does to the short-lived Aelora in the North, and Melgalés is a queer sort, one of those Ardúnari if I remember well. The last female knight we had in our Order was an Ardúnar. Beléin was her name, though she met her end in the Dungeons of Ardún-Fé when she tried to liberate the Damned Lands. I warned her against it, knowing well the evil that dwells there, but she was, Ardúnar or not, as stubborn as a Moln, and so she wandered off alone. Some madness beset her ere she made her journey, there is no doubt, but what madness beset you to think of travelling that land?”

“Melgalés is a Magus,” Herr’Don said. “Well ... he was ...” Thalla looked away, tears forming quickly in her eyes.

“Was?” the knight asked. “Do not say that ill has become of him!”

“It has though,” Herr’Don replied. “And strangely too, for he knew those lands well, and he was well-accustomed to battle and flight. Some strange evil beset us from the outset, and, indeed, it forced us to travel through Ardún-Fé, and here to Arlin.”

“Yes, yes, a queer force is abroad,” Délin observed. “And, indeed, a queer company is abroad here too, it seems, for it has been some time since we saw a group like yours in Arlin.”

“Sire,” a voice came from behind them. A knight rode up to him and glanced at Ifferon and the others before returning his honoured stare to Trueblade. “Our band has tracked down the nearby Shoradoni camp and laid waste to it. It smokes now, in the name of the Lady Issarí and Lord Corrias.”

“Lamar í Lamon! Good, Brégest,” Trueblade said, and he turned and mounted his horse, which neighed and bore him to the edge of the clearing, where Herr’Don stood, staring at his idol.

Herr’Don walked up to join him, but Trueblade drew his sword quickly and held it before the advancing prince, barring his path.

“I will lead,” the knight said. “You are in Arlin now, and by Arlin’s rules you shall obey, Herr’Don of Boror.” He sheathed his sword again and rode on towards his fellow knights. He turned and beckoned. “Come, I shall bring you to the closest town for food and rest, for ne’er do the Knights of Issarí let the lost wander and the hungry starve.”

*  *  *

They followed, by foot, for there were no other horses, and the current steeds were already carrying enough with the heavy armour of the knights. The company did not complain, however, not even Herr’Don, who was silently nursing his battered ego.

After a time, Délin asked Herr’Don to join him at the front of the group, and the prince did not need to hear the command a second time; he trotted up like a loyal horse of his own.

“So, Herr’Don,” the knight said. “What is your true business here in Arlin?”

“As I said before, we are but passing through.”

“On your way where, I wonder?”

“Back to Boror, if we can.”

“It seems a queer game to come from Boror into Arlin only to go back to Boror again. Not even a Dolmor map gives such poor directions. Are you certain there is no other reason, Herr’Don?”

“Well,” Herr’Don started, his voice low, “Melgalés felt very strongly about getting us out of Boror.”

“Even if it meant travelling to Ardún-Fé?”

“Yes, very much so. I think he was actually going to lead us into Arlin, and possibly up to Caelün, for he has—sorry, had—many Aelora friends, and through Ardún-Fé is the fastest route. I doubt he anticipated what followed at all.”

“How seemingly unwise of him,” Délin said, “knowing what those lands are like, and what queer tools of divination he has at his disposal. Some great fear must have moved him to consider such a reckless retreat to our lands.”

“Well it would have taken at least two weeks to travel the line of the Border where the Wall of Atel-Aher blocks our way. Enemy forces ravage Boror as we speak, so Ardún-Fé was but one choice of many evils, though the swiftest at that.”

“You know that truth is a virtue here,” Délin said. “And I am loyal to it. But I do not believe you are.”

Herr’Don was taken aback. He had no words to parry Délin’s, so he kept the shield of silence.

“The cleric,” Délin continued, “the real one, the one with his hair cut to the skull. What is he doing here? I thought I heard you call him by a familiar name, but I thought my ears were deceiving me.”

“Ah,” Herr’Don said. “I guess our purpose is made clearer.”

“Not really, but your companions are. Is that really Ifferon? Is that really him?”

“Yes, that’s him all right,” Herr’Don said. “Not quite what I expected from the tales, but with most of the Children of Telm long dead now I guess he’s the best we’ve got.”

“Better than Herr’Don?”

“Hardly,” the prince scoffed. “Better at reading from the Olaghris, perhaps.”

The knight tutted and shook his head.

“My apologies,” Herr’Don said. “I keep forgetting what land I’m in. Next I’ll be uttering spells from a Magus-tome.”

“You are lucky you walk with me then,” Délin said, and Herr’Don did not deny it, “for I am more broad of mind than many of my fellows on these things. I met Melgalés once here in Arlin. I do not know why he came here, nor what he finds in magic, for even the Aelora can barely tame it. I respect him, but I do not like his art. Yet you speak with great defence for this Magus.”

“Aye, but I must, Trueblade, for I trusted greatly in his skill, and am not but a little disturbed by his death, which seemed so sudden. My faith in him also comes from faith in my good lady Thalla.”

“Ah, so this is where that river of magic runs!” the knight said. “Love is a great temptress and a hindrance to proper sight in darkened times.”

“Perhaps,” Herr’Don acknowledged. “But I think it offers the light of hope to stay that darkness. Have you not desired love?”

“Desired, yes, but sought, no. I am a knight, Herr’Don. Love, marriage and children are not within my duty, and my duties are many in these dark days. This is partly why you are not a knight, Herr’Don, even if you hailed from Arlin, for you do not have the discipline for our world. Do not take that as a dismissal of your character, of course, for I know that you are a knight in your own way—of Boror, that is, and I do not blame you your oddities, knowing well your kin.”

“I could say the same for Arlin!” Herr’Don said with a chuckle. “After all, we both share the same heritage. I would that both lands were still one now, for we would both be the better for it.”

“True as my name,” Délin said, growing solemn.

*  *  *

Silence took them then and cradled them in its all-encompassing grasp. They covered many miles at a gentle pace, though the company who were not riding soon grew tired, for the ground was uneven and did not bear their feet kindly, no matter how fair the wood appeared.

“We shall rest here for the night,” Délin said, nearing a clearing that Ifferon suspected they had rested in the night before. Délin dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby tree, and the other knights followed suit.

“What about other Shoradoni?” Thalla asked.

“Surely you can turn them into toads!” the knight said, smiling. “You are a Magus after all, are you not? Last I heard, Melgalés did not take students.”

“I do not have a Beldarian yet,” she said. “I am still an Apprentice—and toads would be a little out of my reach, even then.” Ifferon wondered if she felt like turning the knight into one anyway.

“What does that mean now that Melgalés is gone?” Délin asked. “Will you get a new mentor, a new Master Magus?” Thalla did not answer, but turned away, so he returned to the original subject. “The Bull-men have been rounded up and slaughtered. If any survived long enough to flee, and I doubt any have in this vicinity, then you can rest assured that they will not be bothering us this eve. The Shoradoni know well to fear the Knights of Issarí.”

*  *  *

They sat in a small cluster away from the main group of knights, who continued to give them troubled stares and anxious glances, as if they felt that their very presence was a threat to them or their country. Herr’Don sat close to Thalla, his arm around her, though she still seemed far away. Ifferon sat across with Yavün, whom he saw staring at the woman from time to time.

There was a bout of whispers from the knights and then Trueblade came over with a clang of his armour. “It would seem we only have these rations, for we did not expect so many.”

“You were expecting us?” Ifferon asked.

“Yes, yes, indeed. Scouts from Mariar spotted you at Tol-Timíl a night back, so we stayed here in Alimstal. We suspected you would come here, being the closest to that tower. And lo, here you are! We did not need to be Magi for that prophecy.” He paused to hand them each a small cloth bag of food. Ifferon stared at it for a moment; it was brown and plain, and by the feel of it contained little more than dry biscuits. He did not like the look or feel of rations, for they were always a symbol of war. “We keep a watch on any who enter our land,” Trueblade continued. “And Bororians coming through Ardún-Fé is news enough for us.”

“I suppose it is,” Ifferon acknowledged.

“I did not like that tower,” Herr’Don said. “It gave me a strange feeling.”

“Yes, yes, Tol-Timíl is a queer place,” Délin said. “The Knights of Issarí held it and guarded the land from Ardún-Fé, back in elder days. It has long been in ruin. Yet something still lingers there that repels the evil of the Damned Lands, some spirit that dwells there still, all eyes and ever watchful. It has meant that few creatures from Ardún-Fé ever come near Arlin. Likewise with the Shoradoni of Alimstal and even our people, who speak of the Tower-ghost and other such tales.”

“I think I know why so few dare approach the Tower,” Herr’Don said. “We discovered a Kalakrán beneath its foundations, and I’m not entirely sure that chance guided our discovery.”

“No, I do not think so either,” Délin said. “But I already know of that Kalakrán, for it was my great-grandfather who led the siege against it, and he was but a newly-minted knight, barely come of age. And my grandfather destroyed a second Kalakrán at the Geladilok Mines near Loch Bistír. So is it that the Knights of Issarí have kept Arlin free from this scourge, but the very taint of their ruined temples is enough to keep us ever vigilant.”

“Valour is in your blood,” Herr’Don said, with so much wonder in his voice that he seemed almost like Yavün for a moment. “It seems that you were fated for greatness, just as I was.”

The knight chuckled. “You cheer even the most solemn of hearts, Herr’Don. Arlin would do well to have you, were it in our reach to knight you.”

“A kind offer,” Herr’Don replied, attempting to conceal his widening smile. “But I am a knight at heart already.”

“Without a doubt,” Délin said. “Now, eat and rest, for we have many a mile yet to travel ere we reach Calnibur.”

“You are taking us there?” Herr’Don quizzed. “Why not Ciligarad?”

“We shall go to my city, do not worry, but Calnibur is much closer, and I hope that we can acquire more food and horses there for the rest of our journey. The blessings of Corrias and Issarí upon you all! Lamon í Lamar!”

*  *  *

And so they tucked into a dreamless slumber, bar Ifferon, who dreamed strange and unsettling things. Wisps of grey circled about and formed what appeared to be a window or a portal into some strange world, and he felt as though he was watching some event transpire, as if he were a god upon a throne in the clouds, peering down on the world below, on the people going to and fro, oblivious to the eyes above.

There was a flicker of a jewel which seemed to rise into the air and then fall again upon a dark and sullied ground, and there it lay in shadow until a searching hand came forth and seized it. The jewel glinted and there were starry eyes within it, peering out, or through, as if it were another portal. Then a fire fumed and flowed like lava, as if beneath the surface of the jewel, and it was borne around the neck of the man who had seized it. There was then a deathly cry, shrill upon the air, and taken by the wind to lands that no living man has seen.

And there was a feeling of waiting, of the passing of days and the slow monotonous beating of the heart fulfilling its course. Night followed day that followed night, and stars expired to form new stars, and the sun died each night to be reborn anew in the morning. All the while a man of fire sat waiting, in limbo and solitude, staring out from his fiery prison. He waited for what the gods had planned.

IX – OF KNIGHTS AND LADIES

They were awoken early the next morning by Délin and his fellow knights, all of whom were fully dressed. Ifferon wondered if they always slept with their armour on, as they seemed to have done the night before, but his musings were soon cut off by the strong authority in Délin’s voice.

“Come, people of Boror,” he said. “You may eat as you walk. I would have us reach Calnibur ere night falls again. Indeed, we would be resting there now if we were riding, but unless the good Magus Thalla can summon some invisible horses for you, I think walking is the way for now.” He saw the sharp look that Thalla gave him and added: “I jest, good lady! Now, come quickly, for the edge of the Forest is near, but Calnibur is many miles across empty land.”

They packed quickly and travelled swiftly, eating as they went—bar the knights, who rode aloft, yet at a gentle pace, and did not eat and seldom spoke, for many of them were newly-minted and were thus vowed to silence and fasting for the first hours of each day.

This part of the forest seemed less tightly packed with trees and bushes, and the ground was well-trodden to form a path from the knights’ many travels. It also seemed to slope downwards, which made their journey considerably easier, a fact that was audible from their many contented sighs.

At one point Délin rode up beside Ifferon and spoke to him away from the others. “Do you always speak queer things in your sleep?” he asked. “Or any thing at all, for that matter?”

Ifferon was perplexed. “I do not understand what you mean.”

“Last night,” the knight explained, “you spoke some queer things. Mostly mumblings and murmurings, little of which I caught or could comprehend, but I did catch one word. A name, rather.”

“Oh? What was it?”

“Melgalés.”

Silence fell swiftly like the blade of a guillotine, and Ifferon felt a shiver crawl its way up his spine. “Are you sure?” he managed after some time.

“Yes, yes, I am. It seemed as though you shouted it amidst your other ramblings.”

“What else did I say? Did you catch any of it?”

“No, nothing more than that name, though you rambled quite a bit—in foreign tongues, I thought, at one point. Certainly not the Common Tongue, nor Bororian or Old Arlinaic. Queer tongues, if you ask me, but then talking in your sleep is also a queer thing.”

“Perhaps I was reliving the past events in my dream?”

“Perhaps,” Délin said, though he seemed doubtful. “I do not meddle much with the dream world. A queer place it is. Melgalés was also a queer man, if you ask me, so it does not necessarily surprise me that he would be popping up in people’s dreams—yours least of all.”

“How come everyone here seems to know a bit about me, even things I do not know myself?” Ifferon asked.

“Ah, do not be so suspicious, friend. Many know less than they pretend, and others know more than they put on, but that matters little, for all hear the rumours that are rampant in this world. And who would not want to hear them? Tales of the bloodline of Telm still running strong are comforting to even the most doubtful of hearts.”

“But they are just rumours,” Ifferon said, knowing well that they were not.

“Are they now?” Délin asked, smiling. “I do wonder, Ifferon. Anyhow, it matters a lot less than you might think whether the rumours are true or not. Comfort is comfort, and it is a blanket we have done without for many years, so I warrant it will not be abandoned so quickly now, whether there is truth or not in the claim. Yet the truth has a way of finding its voice in the end, whether we will it or not, and I will it with every breath.

“But perhaps a part of you does not doubt, Ifferon, because your body must know your blood, even if your mind does not. Otherwise you would not be travelling to Telarym to stop the Call of Agon, for what good are those without the blood of gods in such dark places as Nahragor?”

“So you know our mission,” Ifferon said.

“I have asked many questions of you all,” Délin replied, “but the answers came from conversations made in whispers. I might wear a helm of metal, but I can still hear well enough, and my men know that those who march into Telarym do so with a purpose. If it is the will of Issarí I will know that purpose, and if it is the will of Corrias I will see it done.”

*  *  *

They continued on, and it took a long while yet before Délin remarked that they were near Calnibur, and time further still before they could see the walls of the city and then the Many Mountains that stood like stone giants behind.

The city itself was no more than a village of intersecting streets and houses, but with a slanted wall around. Many small houses lined the outside hills, and a few mills and farms could be seen with crops blowing in the gentle wind. Darkness was upon them, and Ifferon could make out little of the city itself that lay within those walls, but as they came close and passed two farmers, who stopped their work to stare, a gate with portcullis and two small, half-made towers loomed up. It seemed to Ifferon that the gateway had just been constructed and the towers were still being made. Indeed, the closer they came, the clearer they could see the wooden scaffolding, along with the small figures of men hammering and lifting bricks and wood.

“Calnibur!” Délin said. He removed his helmet and smiled broadly. “They are doing well, do you not think? The orders for the towers were just given a week or so ago. But they will need more than splinted pikes and palisades if they are attacked ere long.”

With that, Ifferon noticed the small figures upon the parapets, staring out from the slits in the walls. The walls were not that tall, but their slope would allow a fair amount of boiling oil to be poured down, that is if they were meant to be sloped and not a defect from inexperienced builders. The towers were only slightly taller than the walls, but the gate looked strong, and the open portcullis looked sharp and dangerous.

“Come, my friends,” Délin called. “We sleep well tonight, and warm food for all!” He rode forward and the others followed. They passed over a weak wooden panel on the ground, perhaps the old defence door, and then two spear-armed guards stepped forward with a cling of their chainmail.

“Halt,” one said. “Who goes there?” They looked at Délin and bowed slightly. “Trueblade? Is that you? Ah, it’s been long since you’ve been here! We’ve grown to miss your counsel. The barracks needs a good man like you, and the people need you even more. Morale is low, though the construction is going well enough.”

“Bringrid, my old friend,” Délin said. “I have been off in Alimstal again, and here, I bring Bororians back with me.”

“Bororians?” Bringrid asked. “That is some find.” The other man backed away.

“Yes, yes, it is, and an important one by the looks of it. The sole survivors of an attack on Larksong and a journey through the Damned Lands.”

“Important they are then! You may pass, but don’t expect the greatest of welcomes from Celsingrid. He’s much too set in his ways to accept Bororians, no matter their worth.” The other man looked at him, and them, harshly.

Délin nodded and they passed through. Ifferon looked up as they went under the portcullis. The giant iron spikes on the end seemed lethal, though he did not tarry to find out. He watched the small holes in the ceiling further on, where playful children peeped down, and where no doubt a last defence could scald or batter invaders down below.

The inside of the walls was much the same as the outside, except there were more houses, a well near the entrance, and a larger, faded white building at the far end, a miserable attempt at a keep. The villagers inside stopped their work and stared at them for a moment, but when Délin gave them a stern glance, they returned to their duties.

*  *  *

The company followed Délin up a long, well-marked path to the great door of the keep. It was guarded by two tall statues, twice the size of men, one on each side of the doorway, standing upon large stone slabs. The keep was worn, and looked as though it had seen too many years of rain and snow. Its walls were cracked and its roof was weathered, supported by what Ifferon could only deem was pure will alone. The statues looked in better order, he mused, though he felt too uncomfortable to say it. The keep was almost like a converted stable, and may have been when first built, though it was evident that there were no horses in Calnibur now, bar the ones which Délin and his knights had brought, which the people of the town seemed to look upon unfavourably. On the eastern side of the keep there were many men who were at work building a wall there, though even that looked like a meagre defence.

The wooden door was unguarded until Délin banged at it, and a nearby man, who was helping with the fortification, stepped up and came to him. He seemed the most unlikely of guards, small in build, with barely more than a piece of worn leather armour for protection. “Hello there,” he said. “You wish to see Celsingrid?”

“Yes, yes” Délin replied. “May we pass?”

“I must first tell him who you are.”

“Délin Trueblade of Ciligarad, and this—”

“Trueblade!” the man gasped. “Ah, it has been long since we have seen you or your fellow knights here.”

“The greater good of Arlin called me. I have been preoccupied with training new knights in Alimstal, and fighting small battles in the towns on the outskirts.”

“Ah yes, we’ve also been working on our defences, as you can see. It is a dark and trying—”

“May we pass?” Délin repeated, glancing at the man. “Arlin still calls me.”

“Oh, yes, my Lord. I will tell Lord Celsingrid that you are here. One moment.” The man disappeared inside the keep, and there the others could hear him muttering, and could hear the veiled replies of Celsingrid, who did not sound pleased.

The villagers’ intent gazes were unsettling. Some of the workmen had ceased their labour entirely, devoting their full attention to the strangers and their knightly escort. Some whispered about the curse of horses, while others talked of wildmen from the south in hushed voices. Women stood by the doors of their houses, their hands resting on the shoulders of their children, and everywhere in the town a silence hung, as if by a slowly tightening noose.

“I’m not sure I like it here,” Herr’Don said at last.

“I’ve never liked it here,” Brégest said.

“I’ve never seen so many gawking eyes,” Yavün whispered, afraid there might be many straining ears as well.

“’Tis always like this,” Brégest said, looking to Délin.

“Yes, yes, Calnibur the Cold Town, some call it,” Trueblade told them. “My own town of Ciligarad is far warmer a place.” The other knights nodded keenly.

“Celsingrid is not much of a leader,” Brégest stated.

“Hardly a leader at all,” another knight added, and there was disgust in his voice, as if the very name was a poison to be spit upon the soil.

“He will bring ruin to Calnibur,” a third said. “And ruin is coming quickly.”

“Yes, yes, my Brothers,” Délin said. “Yes, yes, indeed. Though let us not bring such ruin upon ourselves by speaking too much ill of the one we are about to ask for lodging. At least not within shot of his ears, eavesdropper that he is.”

The doors opened again and the guard popped his head out. “This way, Lord Trueblade. Celsingrid will see you now.”

They followed the scrawny figure through the darkness of the main chamber, walking upon a worn carpet and glancing at ugly depictions upon tapestries and paintings. Four pillars held the creaking roof up, and there, before them in a wooden chair inset with silver, was Celsingrid, a tall man, with long brown hair and a thick, tangled beard. His eyes were dark, and he wore a silver pendant and a red cloak. His boots were shining. He wore no smile.

“Trueblade!” he barked. “At last you come before me again, and who with, I wonder?”

“You know some of them already,” Délin said.

“Yes, I do, but do I know their reason for being here, or yours for that matter?” Celsingrid replied. “Do hurry. I am in no mood to entertain unwelcome guests.”

“We’re here to ask for a place to stay the night. We have journeyed hard from Alimstal and are on our way to Ciligarad,” Délin told him.

The muscles in Celsingrid’s face tightened. “A place to stay the night? Do I look like an innkeeper, Délin?”

“No, but I would have thought a fellow Lord of the Land would offer shelter for his kin.”

“You were wrong, then, Trueblade,” Celsingrid sneered. “I’m afraid all our inns and houses are full.”

“And your Hall?” Herr’Don asked, stepping forward. Délin held his arm out to stop him advancing further.

Celsingrid almost growled. “My Hall is just that—my Hall! I make it available for no one.”

“I see that clearly now,” Délin observed. “I expected better of you, Lord Celsingrid.”

“Expect away, Délin. I am under no obligation to offer you and your horse-lovers shelter.” He paused and glanced sharply at the others. “Nor these other unsavoury folk you have brought with you. Why do I sense something amiss with them?”

“Amiss? There is nothing amiss here but your discourtesy.”

“No, I think there is,” Celsingrid said, his voice thick and menacing. He stood up and stepped down the two steps at the foot of his chair, his footfalls hard and daunting. He walked towards Ifferon and stared into his eyes. “What’s a cleric doing in my keep?”

“He is a former-cleric,” Délin explained. “He is important to me.”

“As an execution before your people in Ciligarad, perhaps? If I hadn’t known better, I’d say you were friends with this man.”

“And what if he is?” Ifferon asked, holding back his anger.

“I do not think religion is of question here,” Délin said, impatience rising in his voice.

“Oh, but it is, Trueblade,” Celsingrid said, moving on to Yavün. “Another cleric by the looks of him. Do you mock me with your clerics, Trueblade? I thought you were of Corrias.”

“I am.”

“Then you seek the wrong company,” Celsingrid scolded. He went to Herr’Don next and inspected his swords and royal attire. “Ah, now, who’s this? The infamous Herr’Don, dark horse of the Court of Boror? What’s a Bororian prince doing in Arlin, and in my city? Trueblade, I am ashamed to be your kin!”

He went finally to Thalla, and after a quick glance at her regalia his eyes flickered even more fiercely than before. “A Magus!” he shouted. “A Magus! You bring a Magus to me? Trueblade, you are a fool to come here with such mockery of my rules. None of true virtue in Arlin permit a Magus to travel with them, and yet a newly appointed Lord brings one before me, a Lord of many years, and you bring also two clerics and the Bororian King’s outcast. Trueblade, be gone with you! I want none of your horse stain in here or in my lands. What would the people say if I were to be caught mixing with the likes?”

“They would say well with him,” Délin replied. “And I would too. Celsingrid, you are wise, I doubt that not, especially since I know you were an Ardúnar.”

“Since I am an Ardúnar,” Celsingrid corrected. “That title has not left me since I took the title Lord.”

“Arlin is on the brink of darkness!” Délin admonished. “Boror is already under attack, and if they fall, we fall too, for who will aid us then?”

“We need no aid from them, nor do we need aid from anyone else! Calnibur is being fortified, as you can see, unless you are blind, and that is something I wonder of you more and more. No one shall pass these walls if they are unwelcome.”

“You say that as though an attack would come numbered but a dozen!” Délin said.

“A dozen?” Celsingrid said, turning to face the knight, his face alight with fury and frustration. “Is that all you think we can manage? Is that all you think we can fight? Surely we are not knights, no, Délin, but our soldiers are not so blind and hapless that they cannot even battle a measly dozen!”

“Calnibur will fall,” Délin said. “It will fall like many towns and cities in Arlin, if we do not band together.”

“And what? Consort with the likes of these? Magi and Bororians? Our enemy!”

“They are not our enemy,” Délin said.

“Well, they are not our friends, and have not been since the Dark Age.”

“We can change that, Celsingrid, ere the coming of another Dark Age. I think it is time we did.”

“No, we can’t, and we won’t. If I have to, I shall fight hand-to-hand with Agon ere I’m caught fighting side-by-side with Bororians. And a Magus! You bring evil here greater than that which you say is in the south. Indeed, are you a northerner or a southerner, Trueblade?”

“A northerner,” Délin replied. “As you well know. But long have I realised that there is something amiss with our policies. Those in south Arlin have come to realise that the old hatred of Boror is spent, and that the wise move on.”

“Then move on, Trueblade, if you deem yourself wise!” Celsingrid spat, defiling the words with his voice.

“Borders and boundaries are the domain of limited minds,” Délin said. “The Shadow knows no boundaries, north or south.”

“Out of here, Trueblade! You’ve seen the last of your days in Calnibur. My people won’t want you back when they hear of this. And hope for your sake that the people of Ciligarad don’t vote you out, Lord!”

“Come, companions. We are unwelcome here,” Délin said. “Aid is not offered when aid is needed. So too shall be the fate of this land. I pray that the people may survive long enough to escape. Calnibur will fall, Celsingrid.” He paused as they neared the door. “Calnibur will fall, and the Knights of Issarí won’t be here to help you out if you banish me from this land.”

“We need you not, Trueblade, nor your Knights,” Celsingrid snarled, but they left the chambers and closed the door behind them. The guard quickly returned to his work at the side of the building, but rumour and gossip spread more swiftly. Many worried eyes stared after them as they left the city.

*  *  *

“Banished?” Brégest asked. “Surely not! I told you these Bororians were plagued. They bring illness and darkness from their proximity to Telarym.”

“He did not know they were all of Boror,” Délin said. “He is just stubborn and old-fashioned in his outlook. A true northerner, if ever there was one. But he is a fool, despite my call on his wisdom, which did naught to appease him. I can feel the darkness already. It will not be long now. But come, we must find rest elsewhere.”

The company passed through the gate. Bringrid stepped forward and bowed. “Hómadín Lamon Délin! My blessings go with you.”

“And mine with you,” Délin said. “Bringrid, if Calnibur is attacked, make sure the people escape. Take them into the mountains.

“But the Gormoloks—”

“They are less of a threat than what we face from Nahlin,” Délin said. “We know these mountains better than the hordes of Agon do, so maybe the land itself will be our fortress if our walls are too weak. Keep your eyes keen, and may Corrias and the Lady send good tidings. Hómadés dú.”

Bringrid bowed again and returned to his guard, standing still like a statue. The moon still shone, though it seemed duller now. Délin suggested that they might find lodging at one of the mills surrounding Calnibur, but many of the farmers scoffed and turned them away. One old woman let them stay, but was mocked by her neighbours, who neighed and called her “horse-lover” in spiteful tongues.

They collapsed upon straw beds within the mill, and night passed quickly in the contentedness of sleep. They were awoken bright and early the following morning, and the day was kind to them, for the sun kept a steady watch and seemed to lead the way. Soon it was in the west, the direction they were heading. The land was flat and empty, though the Many Mountains stood still to their right, a great wall of grey that reminded Ifferon of their journey through the Cliffhills. These were far more monstrous in size, but Ifferon took comfort in their distance, knowing he would not be crossing them today. After a time the sun began to fade, hiding behind one large peak that seemed to loom out of the range to the west like a solitary fang, piercing the growing dusk.

They came to Ciligarad before nightfall. It stood in stark contrast to the old, feeble structure of Calnibur, for there was a great stone gate, gleaming in the glow of twilight, and when they entered into the city itself they saw many small round houses, larger round stores, and two great round buildings that stood in full majesty at the centre, their domed roofs reaching up into the sky like the bosom of the earth. All the while there was the sound of water nearby, for Ciligarad was on the brink of Loch Nirigán, with all of its buildings facing in that direction, so that when morning came, the villagers would see the lake in all its glistening glory before any other sight that day, and likewise at night was it a final sight that brought great comfort after a long day of labour.

“I must take the trainees to their camp and then tend to the horses, sire. I bid you all a good evening,” Brégest said, bowing slightly. The others knights did likewise.

“We will talk soon, Brother,” Délin said. They left the company then, though Délin remained, for he wanted to show them around his city.

“Why are all the buildings round?” Yavün asked. “I have not seen such a sight in any of the towns I’ve been to.”

“Where have you been, boy?” Herr’Don jeered. “Surely Larksong alone does not count.”

“The buildings are round,” Délin said, ignoring Herr’Don’s comments, “in honour of the lake, which is also round, or close enough. Indeed, that is why our armour bears so many circles. The circle with the large letter ‘I’ in the middle is our symbol for the Lady Issarí, Goddess of the Wave.”

“What about the tree?” Yavün asked. “The one on your right shoulder, the one that curls here and there.”

“That is the Great Tree, Corria, from which Corrias gets his name. Beneath it is my motto in Old Arlinaic, which translates as: Truth is found on both sides of the Blade.”

“A worthy motto, Trueblade” Herr’Don said. “And a worthy title. I have a motto myself,” he added, stepping forward and puffing his chest. He brushed a lock of hair from his face with a great gloved hand. “Though I do not have my coat of arms with me, for I don’t often carry my shield. My motto, in the Common Tongue, is: Honour is found in greatness and glory.” Ifferon knew that if Herr’Don did have his shield with the coat of arms with him he would have made them all sit and look at each figure, at each motif and motto, and would have told his lineage and family history there and then, making special care to note from where his greatness stems from.

“I don’t have a motto yet,” Yavün said, frowning. “Do you have a motto, Thalla?”

“No, not yet,” she said, smiling softly.

“Ifferon?”

He shook his head.

“I know Ifferon’s motto,” Herr’Don said, clapping his hands together and laughing heartily. “Run while you can!”

Ifferon smiled, though his thoughts were troubled. He felt like a coward for running so much, yet he knew no other way. He was no warrior any more, that he knew. He was not a knight or a swordsman or a prince, and he had no motto that spoke of valour or battle. Was he the son of a god, no matter how far down the line? If gods had fears and doubts, for many said they did not, then perhaps he was, for he was the child of uncertainty, as were all people in Iraldas now, with dark hands knocking at their doors.

“I think Ifferon’s motto is in the making,” Délin said, noting his anxiety. “Not yet fully realised, as it were. Soon, my friend. Soon.”

“I bet it will be something like: courage in a candle flame,” Yavün said.

“I like that,” Thalla said, smiling at him.

“I like that too,” Ifferon said.

“Ah, yes, yes—the single flame that starts a fire,” Délin added.

Herr’Don clapped his hands together briefly, and for a moment he looked like an eager child with gleeful eyes. “A worthy motto,” he said, “for a worthy man.”

*  *  *

Soon they came to a lake-side chamber in the Academy of Knights which led into Délin’s personal abode. It was dim, lit only by three candles and the reflections from the lake, and the wind was unbridled there, for the doors that opened to the lake were both unlatched. The air was cool, yet not cold enough to chill them, and the dullness of the room did not disquiet their minds. The main entrance was on the far side of the two open doors, though there was also another door, now closed, on the left, which led to Délin’s quarters. The room was sparse, save a long ornately-adorned chair by the right-hand wall, with a coat of arms above, depicting two lions, one black, one white, on either side of an upright sword, and below this Délin’s motto in the ornate script of Old Arlinaic. There was also a small mirror with a slender candle on either side of the left-hand door, and finally a pile of books on old myths and tales from ancient Arlin, all of them thoroughly leafed through.

“Do you read in the dark?” Thalla asked.

“Dark?” Délin quizzed. “There is light from the lake here, and it grows stronger at night, when it is needed.”

“Is it the moon’s reflection?” Yavün wondered. “What happens when the moon is not out?”

“Ah, it is not just the moon that shines here, young Yavün, for the Lady radiates a most blessed and splendid light. Oft do I go out to the Lake and sit and pray to her, and there is more comfort there than any light a candle makes.”

“Can we meet her?” Yavün asked.

Herr’Don looked at him sharply. “Do not be disrespectful, Yavün. That is too haughty a request to make of our friend. Even the Great do not ask such.”

“It is fair to ask,” Délin said, “but I am afraid I cannot grant the request, for it is not mine to grant. We will indeed come to the Lake later to ask and pray for counsel. Whether we meet her or not, I cannot tell. Indeed, I have met her but once in my lifetime so far, and that was many years ago now, but such meetings last lifetimes, and she has ever been in my thoughts and dreams since.”

“This room is quite empty,” Herr’Don noted. “Hardly fitting for a Lord of the Land.”

“Ah, but it is, Herr’Don,” Délin said. “It is much more fitting than great tapestries and paintings and gold linen and regal rugs. Those things serve naught but as a statement of wealth and power, and they are but statements, for the real power is found inside, through prayer, and the real wealth in contemplation, as our good friend Ifferon undoubtedly knows. Gold rings and lavish curtains would only serve to distract me from my work, so I decreed that my appointment as Lord of Ciligarad would not betray my oaths—thus, my room and supplies are the same as all knights, though I requested a room closer to the Lake, my one true luxury.

“Indeed, our armour, weapons, and even our horses, are our most prized possessions, though I would have them called gifts, for I have learned that that which you can possess, can possess you. We spend a long time learning to avoid the temptations of the rich and the royal, for it can be easy to walk those roads, and dark they are when fully trod.

“Thus, we have mirrors in all the rooms, to remind us of who we really are, and they are small and are obscured by a candle, to show us that we are not the vast beauty to be found in the Lake, and that service to the Light is our true mission, our true identity here in Arlin.”

Brégest came in quickly and bowed. “Sire, the Lady seems to be moving to the east of the Lake towards the White Land, for her light has passed that way. Many think she has gone to speak with the Aelora there near the border with Caelün, and I think so too, for Wisps of Aelor have been spotted there, flashing like beacons on the shore of the Lake.”

“If that is so, then I take it that news is abroad,” Délin said, “and we would do well to hear it ere the sun rises.”

A rain came suddenly from the skies as they spoke, as if some great god was wailing. It pelted down like boulders, turning the ground tender and toiled. The grass became soggy and the wind began to churn, forcing Délin to close the doors to his sanctuary, which was already soaked on the northern side.

“This is one thing you can count on in Arlin,” he said, his voice strained by the howling of the wind and rain outside. “Rain is as common as grass here. We do not think ill of it, of course, but this sudden torrent gives me a grave feeling, for we know the Lady Issarí is on the move. We should be too, I warrant, whether the weather invites us or not.”

*  *  *

So they began after a brief meal and a hurried packing of their things. It rained more heavily, the drops plunging on them like rocks, drowning their clothes in mere moments. Rivers of rain ran across the landscape of their faces, down mountainous noses and chasmic mouths. It hung on their eyelids like icicles, stinging and blinding them, and all the while their voices, if ever they had the will to speak, were consumed by the splash and the spray that was about them.

The land around them was reduced to water-mist and mud, which they constantly fell into, even Délin himself, who, given his armour, found it difficult to stand up again. A tension set in on them, and only the gentle hum of Herr’Don lightened the mood, for they were drenched, and Ifferon on several occasions felt his shoes splodge. Yavün and Thalla fell into a pile of mud together, though their laughter told that they were not angry about it. Herr’Don was.

The night grew long and they plodded on through the rain and darkness. The sight of sparkling waters in the dark guided them for a while, and soon they saw a glimmer in the distance, a rippling light upon the surface of Loch Nirigán. The intensity of the knights’ prayers increased the closer they got, and soon they had reached the edge of the shimmering waters.

There the clouds broke and the moon shone directly upon the lake from above. The rain lightened, and the sparkling depths were filled with a white light, pulsating beneath the surface. Délin bowed low, kneeling upon the wet ground.

“Cé hómadín Lamar Issarí! All hail Issarí Lochlamar, the Lady of the Lake!” he said, his voice high and resonating. “Blessed Issarí, reveal to me your will. We have travelled long and hard for your counsel. Guide us through the darkness that fills our bodies and our minds.”

The other knights knelt on either side of Délin, and Ifferon knelt behind him, the others following his lead. He heard the knights whisper prayers to themselves: “Lochlamar! Ardúnlamar! Hómadés dú! Condés al dú!” With that, the glimmer of white light grew brighter, and ripples formed in the lake, centred at first, until finally the luminance ripped apart the water and a giant woman, fair and bright, poured up from its surface. The glint of white silk and jewels filled their eyes, and their jaws dropped as they witnessed the size and stunning beauty of this glistening goddess.

She was three times the size of man, and Ifferon, who had previously felt tall, was dwarfed by her presence. Her dress, white and sparkling, dripped with water and jewels, opals and diamonds. The ends of each sleeve cascaded downwards until they met with the top of the water in three separate strands, and from her shoulders fell a great water, plunging into the basin at her feet like a waterfall. The dazzling white of her garments, or from whatever spirit that was veiled within them, forced the group to blink until finally they saw her face.

She had no hair, but upon her head, or perhaps from it, came a crown of icy blades, icicles of white and lightest blue. They spread from her head, giant and perilous, until they trickled down the side of her face into smaller sizes. She wore a silver circlet underneath, and sparkling blue light fell upon it and the large crystal jewel it held. Her eyes were a deep and vibrant blue, and so too were her icy lips. Her face was as snow, and her eyebrows were tiny droplets of frozen water. Her ears were in the shape of droplets, and her stare was eager. Two tears fell from her eyes eternally, as if she had long spent crying. She looked upon them with that potent gaze.

“Like the parting of the waters and the pressing of the rain, I am come,” she bellowed, her voice pounding and resonating, like the voice of many waters, the sound of the sea in its uproar. It was as if it were suddenly rushing up to them in giant waves from afar, strong and ominous. It made them quiver.

The knights looked upon her for a single moment of rapture and wonder, and then bowed quickly and deeply.

“I,” she began, her voice containing the countless years of the seas breaking upon the shore, and the gentle trickle of streams, and the unrelenting pound of waterfalls, “am Issarí, Queen of the Waters and Goddess of the Sea. I rule the rain and the rivers, and I am sovereign in the realm of brook and stream and ice and wave. Who are you to come before my feet like drops from the smallest shores? What is your errand, and whom do you serve, the Darkness of the Beast or the Light of your Lord and Lady?”

“Hail Lady Issarí! I am Délin De’Marius, knight of your most blessed Order and Lord of the town of Ciligarad which has long been as your footstool, in service to your most sacred light. I come with friends for counsel and blessings, and ever do I bow before your light, blessed Lady, and that of Lord Corrias, fair and just!”

“Trueblade,” she said, as if musing on the name, or looking back through her many centuries in Iraldas to find some memory of him. “You were a boy when last I appeared in full form to you, though oft have I graced your dreams and listened to your fervent prayers. Hail to you, fair and just, for you truly are a knight of my Order.

“And you,” she said, turning to Ifferon, and her turn was like the churning of grave waters against a crumbling coast; the erosion of years happened in a moment before his very eyes. “I know your journey, for I have seen it from the window at the depths of the sea. Yet from there I have also seen the stirring of a Summoner in the south, who would make the Call of Agon and see the Beast unchained. The Call must be answered with the Last Words. And so I bid you go to Nahragor, Ifferon, where a great battle awaits, and where the future of us all shall be decided.

“The Aelora have come to give you safe passage into Telarym, and so speed you on your way, but against the Beast there is no power in the might of armies. A few with the gifts of gods may do what countries and kingdoms may not.

“Farewell, for my days here are numbered like mortals, and I must seek solitude in the bottom of the waters, where my only strand of solace lies. I shall not offer counsel again in this manner unless Iraldas be saved, for I have not the will or strength for it. My blessings are with you.”

She plunged back into the waters, and there was a great splash that blinded them all for a time. When the water faded, there was but a still lake again, bar faint ripples and the shimmering light that dwelt beneath the surface. The knights watched the fading light for some time, silent in awe and prayer. Then a gentle patter of rain filled the air, splashing on the surface of the lake like tears. The last of the light vanished and the clouds took the moon again. The rain grew fierce once more.

“Fellow knights,” Délin said, “this is a mission best left to the few. Arlin cannot be left unguarded.” The other knights nodded and turned back the way they had come, though it was clear that some begrudged this lost opportunity for adventure, while others wondered why Délin would put this new mission ahead of his life-long quest to restore Arlin to its former glory.

*  *  *

The light of Issarí had barely faded, and yet a new light appeared near the lake. A figure, vague at first, stepped forth. It was short, just half the height of Ifferon and his companions, and it was garbed in a thick brown robe, with a large hood pulled over its head. This could not disguise or fully enclose the brilliant light which shone from within that hood, however, and its brilliance made it very clear what manner of creature it was.

“Fasimërr!” the Aelora said. “Health and Happiness! I am Oelinor, Ardúnar and High Sentry of Oelinadal, Aelor’s Candle in Upper Lün. It is very good to see you all here. The Lady has been true to her word, as ever, and as have I, for I promised many a higher power that I would take some time from my duties at Oelinadal to come to offer swift passage and grant solemn counsel.” He looked and smiled at Ifferon; it was a knowing look and a nostalgic smile.

“Oelinor,” Ifferon said, his voice still weak with the waver of shock. “It has been some time.”

“Too long,” Oelinor stated. “I have grown many years since our last meeting. Indeed, I was but a boy to you then, not yet come of age.”

“A wise Aelora boy,” Ifferon corrected. “But I see you are full-grown now.”

“And you are past your prime. Where is the vigour that flowed forth in your youth?”

“I still have many years in me,” Ifferon said.

“As do I, dear Ifferon, and I hope we can spend some of them in each other’s fair company. But I digress. We must speak soon and swift of the trials and troubles that face this world, for they shall be faced ere the week is spent, and, alas, it is already spending. We must be quick to steal back lost time.

“But let not haste turn to discourtesy, for first I must introduce you to my companion here. This is Lëolin,” Oelinor said, gesturing towards a similarly robed figure standing a little behind, one who had gone unnoticed in the stormy weather that enveloped them. “He is also of the Ardúnari, though his main duty at this moment is as a Pelari Guard.”

“Another Ardúnar? Blessed Olagh!” Yavün cried, his eyes bright with wonder. “How many of you are there?”

“Thirteen,” Oelinor said. “One for each month of our year, for each moon, for each vowel-rune of the Aerbateros, for each year to pass between each Calling of the Council, and ...” He paused, the glow dimming in him. “One for each of the Molokrán, Aelor save us, though we do not match their might.”

Yavün pricked his ears ever higher with each sentence shared by Oelinor, and he seemed to Ifferon like a curious pup, with lore as his master. “Was it arranged that there would be thirteen Ardúnari to defeat the Molokrán?” the pup inquired.

“No, not at all,” Oelinor replied. “They cannot be defeated by us at all, but, as Wardens of the Light, our duty is to keep the Warden Watch, to fend off the Molokrán when they attack. The Molokrán are tied to the thirteen moons, for it is only when there is light that there is shadow. Each Molokrán is equal in potency bar the one whose moon is active. This one, driven by the madness that besets some dark creatures at this time, becomes the Lichelord, Aelor save us, or the Alar Molokrán.

“Our Watch thus depends on what moon it is. At the end of each month, when the moon passes to another, so too does the role of Alar Ardúnar—that is High Warden—pass to another of our ranks. It takes a full seven days for the transition of one moon to another to be completed, so we have some breathing space to exchange duties then. The Molokrán usually retreat to Nahragor, and Tol-Úmari for the Lichelord, to rest and regenerate, and, more importantly, to pass the reins of Lichelord to another.”

“Does it matter which one is active?” Yavün asked.

“Oh, yes, very much so. They are as temperamental as the rest of us, though they are crafted otherwise. Their effects change like the effects of the moon, so if we shift from one to another, there could be much difference—not in appearance, overly, for they all look the same, bar the Lichelord, Aelor save us, who seems to grow larger and more frightening than the rest.”

“I thought they couldn’t be seen?” Yavün quizzed.

“By the average person, yes. Only the Ardúnari and the Children of Telm are gifted with the  clearsight.”

“What moon is it now, and what is the next one?” Ifferon asked, fascinated but disturbed. Yavün was, from the wide-eyed look upon his face, merely fascinated.

“We are in the waning of the Wolf Moon,” Oelinor said, his voice suddenly old and grim. “The next moon is the Dead Moon, or, as some call it, the Blue Moon. It seems as though it does not come often, though it comes as often as the rest, for those who know of its mystery dread it, and so its coming once again is like the declaration of a sudden war. You see, the Lichelord of that moon is the worst, for he is the most violent and cruel, and he has a great power over the earth, for he clung to it when he was created, and some of its potency transferred to him.”

“What do you mean?” Yavün asked. “What are these things?”

“Shadow. Pure and true. Look at the shadows upon the ground, ones that you cast, ones that the hills and mountains cast. It was shadows like these, steeping in the magical energies my elder-kin left in Ardún-Fé, before our great flight to Caelün, that were used to make these beasts. Molok the Animator, Aelor save us, crafted these vile creatures from the blanket of nightfall, and so Molok woke the magic in the earth of Ardún-Fé, and he tore the shadows from the ground, screaming and writhing in misery and agony, and he waited each month and moon before creating the next, for he was but a Hadar, a child of the gods, and his creative abilities were limited to the cycles imposed by the Céalari, and eventually all thirteen had been malignly formed.”

“When is the Dead Moon come?” Délin asked.

“In less than six days,” Oelinor responded, and it was clear that he dreaded revealing such grim news, and dreaded more the truth behind it.

“So they should have retreated to Nahragor by now,” Yavün said.

“Yes,” Oelinor said, “which is both good and bad for you. They will not hound you for a time, but the new Lichelord will be worse than any have seen this year, and I would hope you are well on your way ere he is unleashed again.”

“Will you be the Alar Ardúnar for him?” Yavün asked.

“No, that is many months off yet, and I do not ask for it to come swiftly, for while I am eager to fulfil the role as best I can, my people have troubles of our own here in Caelün.”

“Who will be then? Melgalés?”

“He cannot be, of course, where he is now, for the Céalari have whispered of his demise, but more than that, he was the Alar Ardúnar for this moon, the Wolf Moon. It will be Geldirana of the Garigút.”

Ifferon turned to him in puzzlement. “Geldirana?”

“Yes, she will be the Alar Ardúnar of the Dead Moon this year. I do not envy her the task.”

“How can she be?” Ifferon gasped.

“Who is she?” Yavün asked.

“She is the leader of the Garigút,” Oelinor said.

“But she’s not a—”

“Yes, Ifferon, she is. She was elected at the last Calling of the Council, of which I was Head. She has been an Ardúnar for ten years. She came back here, after your last visit with her, for she had progressed well as leader of the Garigút, and had, since your mutual parting, come to me on a number of occasions before her election.”

“But ... why? She never expressed any interest in this kind of thing.”

“She also did not express any interest in leading the Garigút, but I feel the Céalari expressed much interest in her, and this may also explain why you, with the blood of Telm flowing in your veins, were drawn to her then, all those years ago, for the mortal sons of gods must do as gods would bid them do.”

“But she is to be the Alar Ardúnar!” Ifferon said, shaking his head. “And with this new Lichelord. I thought they were myths, legends from the elder days. The Spectres I encountered at Larksong were bad enough. How is she to fair against the Lichelord?”

“Is she not heading to Nahragor with the rest of the Garigút?” Herr’Don asked. “To lay siege to the Black Bastion.”

“Yes,” Oelinor replied. He turned to Ifferon. “Have you not wondered at how rash that decision of hers was?”

“No,” Ifferon said. “She was always rash.”

“Ah, yes, but never foolish,” Oelinor said. “She does not go to Nahragor on a whim. She goes because it is her duty, to fend off the forthcoming attack of the Lichelord of the Dead Moon. She will have not long arrived, I gather, and is preparing for her attack. That is her mindset—attack first, which is exactly what is needed against this Lichelord, but I fear it will not be enough. The Molokrán, Aelor save us, are no normal creatures, for how can you stab a shadow in the night?  How can they be slain?”

“With light,” Délin suggested.

“Yes,” Oelinor said. “But no normal light will do.”

There was a deep and sudden rumbling in the depths of Ifferon’s pocket, and there lay the Scroll of Mestalarin, as if suddenly awoken.

“The Scroll is a powerful weapon,” Oelinor explained, and there was a glint of blue light that flickered in his eyes. “Long has it been guarded at my home in Oelinadal, sitting on a pedestal beneath the burning fires of the Candletop. It contains the Last Words of the Warrior-god Telm ere he parted this world. He fought and banished Agon to the depths of Halés, losing the sword Daradag in the process, and also his own life. Before he parted he screamed to the shadow: Dehilasü baeos! Al-iav im-iavün im-samün im-samadas, dehilasü baeos! Begone! By fire and flame and fume and fury, begone!”

There was a sudden darkening in the sky, as if a cloud had passed over, and a low, deep rumbling in the earth beneath them. The air seemed to crackle, as if some ancient magic was borne upon it.

“These words travelled from his mouth,” Oelinor continued, “and his spirit with them, and they were taken by many winds until they came north to us. They would have perhaps blown away into the White Sea entirely, and thus we would have lost them, but Aelor contacted us through the Urod-Pelar, giving us instructions on how we might make a Scroll to bear those words in the Sacred Runes of the Aerbateros. It is the Light of Lights, Ifferon, though hidden is its lustre. It is the Heirloom of Telm, and thus it is yours, Child of Telm.”

“What does he mean?” Yavün asked, turning to Ifferon.

“What do you think he means?” Herr’Don snapped. “He is last in the bloodline of Telm, a son of Olagh, if you will.”

“Yes,” Oelinor said. “Though not actually last in that bloodline, just last in the direct bloodline, for there have been many marriages to distant families and the blood has become diluted with the foreign blood of weaker Men and hermit Al-Ferian in Alimror.”

“But how can this be so?” Yavün asked. “How can Olagh have a mortal child?”

“Because he slept with mortal women,” Herr’Don said sharply. “Surely you are not so young that you have not heard rumours about his many mortal wives? You are a sheltered sort, Yavün.” He paused and added: “Among other things.”

Oelinor continued. “Telm, or Olagh as you call him, did indeed take many mortal wives when his Lamp was broken, and so some of them had children that bore his blood. They would not be gods, of course, given only one parent was a Céalar, but they would also not be demi-gods, given Telm had been depleted of much of his former power and glory when his Flame was doused.”

“So what does this all mean?” Yavün questioned.

“Have you not guessed it, Ifferon?” Oelinor asked, looking to the cleric with telling eyes.

“I have guessed,” Ifferon admitted.

“What guess?” Yavün asked.

“Telm was the Warrior-god,” Ifferon said.

“The Warrior-king,” Herr’Don added, nodding.

“He banished Agon to the pits of Halés,” Ifferon said. “But it took all his life force to do so, and so it was his final act in Iraldas—the binding of the Beast.”

“Yes,” Oelinor said. “And with the threat of Agon, Aelor save us, rising again, only those who carry his blood stand a chance of doing the same. The legacy of Telm is not yet spent, so while it lives every effort must be made to keep the Beast in his prison. I dare not say what would happen if he should break free.”

“He will not break free!” Délin cried. “By the Lord and Lady, I will go to Halés itself and chain him up if e’er he stirs from his slumber.”

Herr’Don nodded furiously, grasping the handle of his sword as if he were to fight Agon there and then.

“I admire your fervour,” Oelinor said. “But the Beast will not be defeated with the brawn of mortals. We need the gifts of gods, weapons that only a Telm-child can wield.”

“The Scroll?” Ifferon asked.

“Yes,” Oelinor replied. “The Last Words of Telm are but an echo of the ancient days when not in the hands of one who can speak them aloud with the authority they deserve. Bring it forth in darkened times and you will find that darkness must hark and heed those blessed words.

“Now, come, friends. We will bring you south, as far south as we will go, and that is to the brink of Telarym. My people will not travel beyond that point, for death roams and marches there, and other evils that come from ages long since spent. I have two carriages lined up, which will get us there all the swifter. Four can fit in each, so Ifferon, Herr’Don, and Délin will accompany me in the first, while Thalla and Yavün may join Lëolin in the second. We need not worry about drivers, of course, for these carriages are the Lëlërra of the Aelora—our horses know the way.”

*  *  *

And so there was a sudden din, for the carriages roared out from the nearby forest, where no doubt they had stayed the night. Great white horses, slightly larger than those seen in Arlin and Boror, pulled them, and these were adorned with quilts of finely-woven fabric, bearing many spells of speed in the alphabet of the Aerbateros. Thus too were the carriages decorated, with letters of red, yellow and blue, and it seemed to Ifferon that they were wrought of a jewel akin to the beldar gem that Melgalés had worn. Perhaps truly that is how they worked, trapping some secret power within just as the Beldarian housed the soul of the Magus.

“These are our Ambassador Wains,” Oelinor said as he entered the first. “Built to fit the larger people of the world. For were you to sit in our normal carriages, you would come out even smaller in height than I!”

Yavün and Thalla joined Lëolin in the second carriage, while Ifferon, Herr’Don, and Délin joined Oelinor in the first. Despite it being larger than what the Aelora would have used among their own folk, they sat squashed together inside. They expected a long and uncomfortable journey.

“I do worry about Thalla,” Herr’Don whispered to Ifferon after a time. “All alone in that other carriage with the other Aelora.”

“She is not alone,” Ifferon said. “She is with—”

“Yes,” Herr’Don grumbled. “She is.”

*  *  *

“You have an Aelora name,” Lëolin told Yavün. They had boarded with more comfort, for neither Yavün nor Thalla were as big of build as the knight and prince in the other carriage, and Lëolin  took up little space.

“I have?” the stableboy asked.

“Yes. I have mused about it long since I heard it. It is very unusual. Your parents must have been acquainted with our people.”

“I really don’t know,” Yavün replied. “I don’t remember them.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Lëolin said, the light within him growing fainter.

“What does my name mean?”

“Iavün means flame in our tongue, for iav is fire and ün is small. Thus, small-fire—a flame. Your family’s name, Arri, means lion.”

“A lion in sheep’s clothing,” Thalla said, smiling.

Yavün returned the smile, but something troubled him. He suddenly remembered the fire that he had seen and experienced at Tol-Timíl, and he recalled that the Beldarian of Melgalés hung around his neck, pressing into his skin—and he became very ill at ease.

*  *  *

The carriages set off swiftly, shaking as they crossed uneven ground. The steady gallop of the horses and the rolling of the iron wheels almost lured them into slumber, but Oelinor would not let them sleep until they had heard what awaited them at the Morbid Mountains at the north-west of Telarym.

“We will bring you to the foot of the Dead Hills,” Oelinor said, “but we shall go no further. From there you will trek south-east, until we reach the heartland of Telarym.”

“What about the Dead?” Ifferon asked, and suddenly he found that he was frightfully awake. “I have heard enough tales about the ghosts of Halés there.”

“Bah, the Dead shall not trouble us!” Herr’Don said, staring out the window at the blur of rocks and trees. “If e’er a bony hand should reach from the ground to grab at you, hack away at it or I shall hack for you! The Dead shall die a second death more terrible than the first at the hands of Herr’Don the Great!”

“Who needs an army when you have the will of a warrior?” Délin said, smiling. “But come, I do not think we need worry about the Dead, queer as that land may be.”

“No, the Dead will not bother you,” Oelinor said. He did not smile. Something troubled his thoughts, and this could be seen in the dimness of his eyes. “It is wolves you must be wary of. They plague the mountains from the Peak of the Wolf to the western edge.”

“Just wolves?” Herr’Don asked with incredulity. “You ask Herr’Don the Great to be wary of wolves? Surely these Aelora have not heard of me, nor the many great and wonderful things I’ve done—and what a crime that is indeed!”

“These are no ordinary wolves,” Oelinor explained. “They are the Felokar, the wolves of Halés, and are giants by comparison to their earthly brothers, if indeed we can say that they are related at all.

“You will pass Feloklin, the Land of the Dead, which borders the gate to Halés, but you must be careful, for over that land the shadow of Tol-Úmari also lies. That is where the Alar Molokrán sleeps, and while he will be deep in slumber when you pass by, it is still unwise to stray too close, for the Vigil of Tol-Úmari is always kept. Then you will cross the Chasm of Issarí over the River Soldím and into the Plains of Eridúl, the barren land that leads to Nahragor.”

Herr’Don clapped loudly and bashed his fist against the carriage wall. “Let us bang at the Gates of the Black Bastion and wake all and sundry to our battle cry!” he shouted, and both Délin and Oelinor seemed disturbed by his reckless enthusiasm. Ifferon wondered if even the sentries at Nahragor had heard his roar.

The day passed quietly with little more talk, for they were all weary. It seemed that Oelinor went to sleep, though it was more a form of meditation, for he placed his hands upon his knees and bowed his head; then the light within him dimmed a little, as if he were an oil lamp that had been turned down. Herr’Don rested against the frame of the wagon, snoring loudly, and Délin stayed awake for some time yet, humming softly some old songs of the ancient days of Arlin. Ifferon bordered on the edge of sleep, nodding his head and closing his eyes, and Délin’s humming helped to lull him further into a peaceful slumber.

*  *  *

Suddenly the cart halted, almost throwing Ifferon and Herr’Don into Délin and Oelinor. “We will go no further,” Oelinor told them. “Even if I willed it, our horses will not cross this river, for the rumour of the corruption of the Taarí has spread in their tongue as well as ours. Be careful, for there are many leagues yet to go, and I would that I could ensure safe passage for you to Nahragor, that most unsafe of places, but such a thought is a dream that too few dream any more. For there are no safe passages in Iraldas now, not here on the brink of Telarym, and not even beneath the comfort of the white blanket of Caelün.”

“Alas!” Délin cried. “Would that I had a battalion of my knights now, for while there may not be any safe passages left in this world, we could have made some safer. But Arlin rues my own departure on this errand, and I could not let her suffer alone while the Knights of Issarí go to the rescue of forsaken lands.”

“One knight with the strength of many will suffice,” Oelinor said. “But take heed! Ever is the blessing of Issarí needed now, for this is the land of brook and stream, and that is her domain. She may no longer dwell here, and to her profit, I believe, for lingering here would have destroyed her, but the reach of her mind is vast, and she may turn many tides ere the waters are spent. So pray long and hard to her ere you attempt to cross any body of water here, be it the vastness of a lake or some narrow channel that may seem safe. And be careful of the gorge! Not all that bears her name still lies under her dominion.

“Now go! Ever we tarry to listen to tired counsel, but my heart feels the better for the giving of it. Time is now a new enemy, and it is partly for this reason that I have stolen away from my duties in the north to see you swiftly to the south. Every wasted moment is a moment offered in sacrifice unto Agon, Aelor save us, for if the Call has come, and I do not doubt it, then we must do everything in our power to avert it.”

With that he opened the door of the carriage and stepped out. The others followed him, finding that Thalla and Yavün had already left their vessel and were waiting by the river with Lëolin.

“Glad you decided to make it,” Yavün said, grinning. “We’ve been waiting here for a good while now. Indeed, our carriage arrived a fair while before yours.”

“Boasting does not become you,” Herr’Don said. “Had you wished for a race, then the carriage of Herr’Don the Great would have arrived ere you crossed the starting line.”

“I must be off,” Oelinor said quickly. “It is a long road back, made all the longer by the trek through the blizzards to Oelinadal. Farewell, my friends, old and new, and take heed of my counsel. Fasimërr!”

He climbed quickly into the carriage, as if he were a bolt of lightning and the land were the sky. He went more swiftly than he had come, as if a sudden need of haste was upon him. Ifferon guessed that Oelinor had spent longer than he had intended away from the siege upon Oelinadal, and that he had suddenly realised the peril he had left his homeland in. The carriage door slammed shut. The great white horses of the Aelora reared up and whinnied, and they charged off, back up the path they had come from.

“A need as great as your own drives him,” Lëolin explained. “We look oft to the evil in the south, yet I fear that the Aelora alone look to the evil that comes from the east o’er the Vast Sea, evil independent of the Beast, Aelor save us, and evil in league with him. Aelor’s Candle is what keeps the evil of the east out of the minds of Man and Ferian—but for how long?

“But let us speak of evil no more. I pray that we may meet again, and I pray ever the harder that should that wish come true, that we may meet in fairer times. Mallem Oelin mid baeüa. Fasimërr!”

And so he left them, taking his carriage and following the trail of Oelinor with haste. The sound of stampeding horses lasted for a moment, growing ever fainter with the passage of time, and then the company was left in silence, standing before the River Hamis. Lëolin might have wished that they not speak of evil again, but when standing before the cursed river under the shadow of the Morbid Mountains, all they could think of was what evil they had yet to face.

X – THE UMBRA OF THE MOUNTAINS

They looked upon the river. It was vast, stretching out on either side before them, reaching into the mists and vanishing over the horizon. It was long, a never-ending river some rumoured, but it was not wide, at least not at where the Aelora had left them north-west of Tol-Úmari. Nor was it deep at this point, being at most but three feet, but neither the width of the crossing nor the depth of its base were what worried the company.

“So we are come to the River Hamis,” Délin said at last, breaking the silence, and his voice was like a hammer-stroke against the wind. “It is known as Issar Chammas in Old Arlinaic—the River Barrier—and such it is, it seems, for the Aelora would not cross it.”

“But the Aelora knew not the full might and courage of Herr’Don the Great,” Herr’Don said. “For if they did, they would have known that I would but glance upon this wall of water and it would quail and quake before me, and so be a barrier to us no more!”

“Yes, yes, but be that as it may,” Délin said, “the crossing of it physically is not what worries me, for that I do not doubt we can manage. But the Chammas is a barrier of wills, like a sentinel protecting the land of Telarym. It is rumoured in Arlin that those who cross it lightly, with no concern for the spirits of the water, who some say require a sacrificial offering, may find that the river runs far, and may appear in one’s own land one day, stalking the reckless and revealing a might that is otherwise concealed.”

“Bah!” Herr’Don exclaimed. “Do you ask that we tremble before a river? First Oelinor warns us about wolves, and now we must baulk before a stream?” But suddenly the prince looked down; he gave a cry and jumped away, for a creeping water had risen from the river many feet away, and it had crawled its way up to his feet.

“Lo!” Délin said. “The river is listening to us.”

“It is evil!” Herr’Don cried. “Evil! It tried to kill me!”

“It tried to soak your feet,” Yavün said, laughing.

“Aye, and drown me!” Herr’Don said. “’Twas not the water that startled me, but that which I saw within it. For it showed me a vision of my death, and I was drowning in the sea, and I flailed and clambered for air, but none but the ghost of a friend would come.”

“’Tis best not to look into these waters,” Délin said. “There is an old verse that warns of the dangers of this river.”

The Issar Chammas spans the land

From western mount to eastern shore;

To those who come upon its strand,

They may see themselves no more.

A curse is laid upon the river

From days that are not counted now—

And what dire fate shall it deliver?

Death must come, but it tells how.

A ghost may live within the deep

And call poor men to final sleep,

And there may throng a phantom host

That marches from the misty coast.

We do not know what makes it run,

But those who pass may come undone.

The Issar Chammas breaks the strong

And stalks the weak who venture far,

And many hear its spectral song

In lands where no foul rivers are.

The river stretches far and wide

And crosses into shadow lands,

And those who use its course to guide

Will wander into deadly hands.

Those who cross without a prayer

May find the river deeper there,

And those who wander to its rim

May learn they cannot truly swim,

And those who dare defy its host

May never live to brag and boast.

The Issar Chammas blocks and bars,

And guards a land of twilight stone;

It is not of this world of ours,

And thus it runs its course alone.

The shrewd will cross with this in mind,

So never harking to its call,

But those with sense of a better kind

Are those who do not cross at all.

“A dark omen,” Ifferon said. “I like the verse, but not the warning.”

“And you will like less what is contained within the Chammas,” Délin said, “if e’er you dare to look into it. The Oracle of the Dead should not be used by the living, for it brings Death all the closer, and we have had enough of his presence in our company thus far.”

“Aye!” Herr’Don cried, still shaken. “Do not look into the river as you cross. You may trip and stumble, and may feel drawn to look towards your footfalls, but that is a trick of the river, for it wills us to look within it. Bend all your will to looking upon the far shore and pray that we all cross swiftly without mishap.”

And so they set across the river, but their passing was slow, for even as Délin set foot within it, it looked as though it were rising, and that the knight was sinking into it like quicksand. Ifferon feared that Délin would not need to look into the water to find out what his doom was, for his death might come then and there in the river itself.

“Are you sure you want to brave this?” Yavün said to Herr’Don. “I mean, after finding out you will die in water. Does fear not tell you it could be this river?”

“Fear might, if e’er I listened to him,” Herr’Don replied. “But it would be a sore sight and state for Herr’Don the Great to tremble at a river so small.” But even as he spoke the river rose again, and it seemed that it was not just rising but growing wider too. “We must all go to Halés at some time, and I’ll have all eternity to think about its Halls when I’m there—for now I will think of life!”

And so he stepped in after Délin, trudging along behind him and wading through the water which had risen to his waist, and just below the waist of Délin. The knight ahead still plodded on slowly, for it seemed that his feet were sticking to the riverbed, and he tore them from the ground with great strength and effort. He clambered out on the far shore and turned to wait for the others to help them out as they approached.

“My robes will be shrivelled,” Thalla said as she followed Herr’Don. “I pray that Telarym is truly as warm as people say, for we shall need the sun to dry us out erelong.”

Yavün followed, with the water up to his chest, for he was short and required the aid of Ifferon, much to his embarrassment and dissatisfaction. “Don’t drown,” Herr’Don called from the far side, laughing as he watched them struggle. Ifferon, however, was glad to aid the stableboy, for it meant that he was not thinking of avoiding looking down into the water below, which seemed to call to him, tugging on his mind and will. At one point he taught he saw that Yavün had looked for a moment into the mire below, and he was shaken, clutching to Ifferon with the strength of fear. Did you look into the river? he tried to ask, but the words would not come out, for dread had lodged in his throat.

At last they had all crossed and it seemed that they stood in a different world, for the air was humid and the wind was warm. The land about them seemed at once saturated and parched, as if somehow one could drink the water and become drier than before. The sky was grey and forlorn, as if the mist of the river had risen into the heavens to blot the view of the stars. And before them in the distance loomed the Morbid Mountains, dark grey figures standing in regiment across the borders of the land.

“We have crossed the Issar Chammas into the land of Telarym,” Délin said, “but we have yet more land to cross ere we come unto the Morbid Mountains. They are many leagues off, and we would do well to keep a steady pace, lest time has allied with Agon.”

“You will need to hurry then,” a strange voice called from the dim wood nearby, a wood that they had barely seen in the girth of the mist. Ifferon saw a shadow pass between the trees, though it vanished as soon as he set his eyes upon it. The voice was that of a strong, husky female. “For Man lacks the legs that the wide expanse of Telarym demands,” she said.

Thalla stepped forward. “Show yourself.”

“Not at your command,” the woman said, coming out from the trees, “but I am Elithéa of Westhaven.” She was tall, with a golden tint to her skin and a slash across her face that seemed newly carved. She stared at them with small, slanted green eyes that looked as though she was always studying something, always watching like a hawk. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, and some was spiked like blades of grass; at different angles it appeared like a deep auburn or a dark green. Upon her back there was a strange banner supported by many wooden poles. Upon her face was a wry smile that shook Ifferon. It was then that he saw the other figure behind her, still shrouded in shadow.

“A Ferian,” Herr’Don observed, as surprised as any of them that one of that race would cross the Hamis into Telarym.

“Oh, do not be so gruff with the name of my race,” Elithéa barked. “Many die at the hands of the Éalgarth for a lesser crime.”

Herr’Don looked ready to give in to the challenge and fight her then and there. “You are outnumbered by far, though I would warrant that my blade alone would do the job.”

“Do the job? It seems you think quite highly of yourself, little Man,” Elithéa said, spitting the words at him. “I do not think your attempt will be necessary, however, as I am not here for battle.”

“What brings you so far from Westhaven, dear Elithéa of the Ferian?” Délin asked, and he stepped forward with his hands extended, palm outwards, in token of parley.

“Ah, some courtesy, I see. Let us hope it lasts. My reason is the reason that also brings you, though in truth it breeds more danger for you than I,” she replied. The figure behind her stepped forward, and she held out her arm, halting him. It was a hooded man, and when he looked up, Ifferon could see his dark face, which bore long, unkempt hair, blacker than the dark rings about his eyes. Elithéa glanced at him sharply, and he returned the look. “This is the one known to me as Aralus of Thistlecover, a Man from Boror who consorts with the Al-Ferian, as if to double his crimes against the world.”

“And now that we’ve all got off to a friendly start,” Aralus said, “let’s have a feast! I caught two wolves earlier this day, and they make for some fine feasting with a sprinkling of hickory and thyme. Delicious!” He licked his lips with a long, slimy tongue.

“If you were to trust his cooking you would deserve whatever foul poisons he would likely use,” Elithéa said. “Nature would not suffer a scoundrel like him to pluck the true herbs from her good earth.”

“Why do you keep company if you bear such scorn for one another?” Thalla asked.

“I will not let the rogue out of my keen sight, unless he proves to me his worth, and that I doubt. A little Man is a little Man, but those little Men who converse with the Al-Ferian and harbour darkness beneath their coat are smaller still.”

“I’m as tall as you!” Aralus protested, straightening his back. “Oh, you mean, little in valour. Ah, I see. I was initially led astray by the fair assumption that you, simple as the rest of your race, were not capable of such subtlety. An easy mistake, my fair lady.”

“Keep silent or I will be forced to silence you!” Elithéa shouted. “And that, Aralus, you can take as I speak it.”

“If you come with quarrels,” Délin said, “then you can go as quickly as you have come, for I am in no mood for them. Now, tell me, Elithéa, where is it that you were heading, with or without your hooded friend?”

“Friend? Perhaps you have been confused by our quarrels,” Elithéa said. “We are no friends.”

“Don’t be like that, dear Elly,” Aralus said. “I’ll be your friend if you’ll be mine.” He extended a thin, withered hand plastered in muck to her. Ifferon could see little of his face from the depths of his hood, but caught a gleam of a smirk.

Elithéa ignored him. “I was sent by the head of the Matriarchate of Westhaven—”

“To make some friends,” Aralus interjected, smiling broadly and pointing to himself.

“—to see how the Garigút are doing at Nahragor, for we heard news that they were attempting to lay siege to the Black Bastion. It is my duty, as an Éalgarth of the Ferian, to bring news, good or ill, of how the Garigút fair, and to bring it swiftly back to Westhaven.”

“In other words,” Aralus explained, “she’s a spy!”

“Not in the least!” Elithéa snapped. “If Nahragor should fall, then the Matriarchate would have reason to declare war on the Dolmors down south.”

“Would they not have reason to come to the aid of the Garigút and help them succeed at Nahragor?” Herr’Don asked.

“The Dolmors are a more pressing threat.”

“Then why do your leaders not declare war on them now?”

“If it goes ill at Nahragor, then the next to face the wrath of Agon after the fall of your race would be the Ferian and Al-Ferian, and we could not fight Dolmor and Taarí and the Dark Men of Nahlin all at once.”

“Then why not help Man at Nahragor so that Man can help you with the Dolmors?”

“You either lie or jest, for Man is not a helping race. Man is a selfish breed, never looking beyond its borders.”

“Hypocrisy is a dark deed,” Délin said. “You speak ill of Man for our supposed selfishness, yet you proclaim that you only watch the Garigút’s last stand so you can decide whether or not to go to war with the nearest threat to your borders. Surely you see the contradiction of that claim?”

“And how dare you speak ill of Man when the Garigút go well beyond their borders to fight on behalf of all races here!” Herr’Don said. “An insult to Herr’Don the Great is a darker deed, but an insult to the honour of his race is the darkest yet!”

“Oh, do not be so thespian,” Elithéa said, scorn thick in her throat. “You have no legion to unite and inspire with high speeches and lofty claims. I am not here to rally to your cause, whatever misguided notion that may be. If it were not the forces of Nahragor hunting you down, you would be picking each other off like rats and feasting on the remains. Such is the way of your race.”

“I have tried,” Aralus said, nodding his head. “I have tried to make her less judgemental, but then I suppose we should expect it from a Ferian. Ha, and she wonders why I live in Al-Ferian lands. Do you think, dearest Elly, that your race, with such a love of outsiders, would kindly welcome me?”

“We would welcome the Dark Men ere we welcome you,” she replied.

“See?” Aralus told the others. “It’s just insult after insult. One minute she’s fighting Agon, and the next she’s welcoming him to Westhaven. Treason and abuse are the best that she offers.”

“And what, pray tell, is your purpose in these lands, Aralus of Thistlecover?” Délin asked.

Aralus combed his fingers through his hair, but did not pull down his hood, and he wiped the grease upon his leather vestments. “I am here not to be goaded on by such beasts as Elithéa, nor to spend my time quarrelling, but to hunt the less wild beasts of these hills.”

“The Dead Hills?” Délin questioned, his brow furrowing and his stare tightening.

“There are wild beasts on every turn of the land of Arlin, Boror, and Alimror,” Elithéa said. “You speak more falsities than a thief caught stealing jewels from a noble.”

“At least my words have removed the venom that they might speak,” Aralus replied. “Can we say the same of yours?”

“This must stop!” Délin cried. “We have no need of conflict here, not when we are in danger of ravenous wolves, and not even in the open fields of a summer’s day when the Adversary is destroyed and we are busy in our rejoicing! Keep your judgements to yourselves and air them freely when the tension has been driven from us like a blade through the heart of the Beast!”

“Aye, Délin speaks truly,” Herr’Don added. “We have seen enough quarrels to last us a lifetime, so let us keep the blade of our tongues for the first true enemy we encounter, and then let us unleash it with violence and vengeance!” He looked to Délin, as if for approval, but none came.

*  *  *

Despite the company’s fervent pleas, the day passed without silence or peace, for the Ferian would not falter her advance on Aralus, and nor would he back down from his stance against her. Aralus hid beneath his hood for most of the day, and it was only when dusk approached that he let it down and shook his head violently. Délin watched him with  disgust, and indeed Ifferon could see his view, for the knight was cleanly shaven, even now in these bleak surroundings away from civilisation, but this consort of the Al-Ferian wore a rugged beard and messy, slimy hair that reached past his shoulders, more twisted and tangled than the roots of the trees in the Dark Forest of Idor-Hol. Even with his hood down his face was masked in shadow, as if he bore some long scars that he could not reveal. The only clear thing that Ifferon could tell was that he was gaunt in feature, for his dark eyes peered out from deep depressions in his face, and he looked as though he might collapse of frailty there and then, or, worse yet, might carry some disease that might strike frailty and death into them all.

The moon shone that night, and Elithéa and Ifferon stood side-by-side staring at it when things had calmed down. “The Light of Úlithé,” she said, her voice soft. For the first time since their meeting, Ifferon heard no anger or loathing in her speech.

“We call her Uldarus in our tongue,” Ifferon explained. “She does not shine as brightly as her twin, Ilios the sun, but for me it seems that her light is stronger, for it shines in darkness.”

“If it shines at all,” Elithéa said.

“If it shines,” Ifferon acknowledged, nodding slowly. “I have seen this sight on many nights, and every time I look upon it, I am still awestruck by its beauty.”

She paused and looked at Ifferon curiously, her narrow eyes becoming even smaller as she inspected him. “You seem an awfully strange Man to take to such things. What breed are you?”

“Breed?” Ifferon quizzed. “I am no special breed. Just a Bororian cleric seeking peace. Just Ifferon, son of Benegon.” He did not tell her he was also a Child of Telm, but the thought crossed his mind, as if the echoes of the Last Words were resounding in the distance.

“It is strange to see a Bororian wander Taarí lands. Are you one of the Garigút?”

“No, though I spent some time with them in the past. Now I march alone.”

“And e’er do you march closer to death,” Elithéa said. “For Halés and Feloklin are near. And what life of peace will you live when all the world is at war?”

Ifferon nodded solemnly. “Even my hideaway at Larksong was attacked. I thought I was safe there. I never really felt safe, of course, but there were a few years there when I was not troubled overmuch. But I was found. The ships of the Adversary came. Now the monastery lies in ruins, or perhaps it has been rebuilt as some fortress of Agon in my homeland.”

“That is a horrid fate for one’s home,” Elithéa said, shaking her head. “If e’er Féthal, my home, was to be sundered so, I would be wounded deeply, for, Éalgarth that I am, all Ferian invest much of their lives into the land that they come from, as should all races, though many people in Iraldas think little of that which supports them and gives them life.” She stopped and looked at him again, and Ifferon could tell that she was watching his reaction, judging whether or not he was worthy of her words. It appeared he was, for she continued: “On the passing of a new summer, each Ferian youthling plants new flowers and bushes and trees, and so the flora grow as we age, and so the fauna come to know and love us deeply over time. For that to be destroyed would be a grievous blow, but for it to be twisted into some dark mockery would be fatal.”

“May I ask why you wear that thing upon your back?” Ifferon questioned, gesturing to the wooden apparel tied around her.

“This is a thalgarth, a woodguard.”

“Is it not uncomfortable?”

“Is your robe not uncomfortable?” she replied, running her hand down the sleeve of his arm and shuddering as if the feel of the fabric unsettled her. “Perhaps a cleric feels good in a cleric’s attire and a Ferian feels good in Ferian attire. Each foot to its own shoe. Is that not so?”

“Yes, that is true. But still, it looks a little cumbersome,” Ifferon said. He wondered if it would fall off while running or if it would slow her down, but he held his tongue. “Can you not take it off?”

“I am not Al-Ferian,” she said with scorn. “I do not so easily abandon the customs of my people. Yes, it looks cumbersome, but it is not in actuality. It is made from a light wood, the lowal tree, and the cross-staves serve to keep the balance right, as they move according to how I move, making sure the thalgarth does not lean too much on either side. It is an extension of my body, and I imagine you know that a Ferian is quick on her toes.”

“Provided she’s not leaving waylays,” Ifferon said.

Elithéa smiled, the first Ifferon had seen from her. “If she were leaving waylays, she would not be a very good scout, and would not be given a thalgarth, but then such is only offered to those long come of High Age. You see, these seals I wear are not merely for show. They are drawn from very ancient magic, the magic that the Aelora left to leak into the earth, and they act as beacons to friendly animals around. Upon the thalgarth itself a number of birds may perch, as well as upon the cross-staves. In times of danger, when threatened by certain wild beasts who do not answer to the Ferian, for some animals have been turned and twisted to some evil master, such as the Al-Ferian or, even worse, the hordes of Agon, the cross-staves may be unleashed to ward off these creatures, or, in better cases, to break the spell of their enthralment and convert them back to the truth of the Ferian Way. They may also be used as wardens when resting, for few animals of dark desire dare pass beyond a cross-staff of a Ferian Éalgarth.”

“Do the Al-Ferian uses these thalgarths too?”

“They use everything they can get their filthy hands on. They have thalgarths which do not make use of the Emblem of Éala, but a corrupted design of leaf embedded with the Acorn of Acrath the Turncoat. She earned the title of Tree-traitor for her vile deeds, and yet the Al-Ferian profess to be lovers of leaves and treasurers of trees. For that is indeed the meaning of their name in our tongue. Al-Ferian, the Tree People. Even their stolen land is misnamed, for they call it Arith Alimror, the Forest Valley of Day, and such it might have been were it not for what the wood harbours. And so I say it is a Forest-vale of Night, of darkness, more akin to Idor-Hol on the foothold of Nahragor!”

“Those are dark words to speak of your kin.”

“They are not my kin. The Ferian are my kin. The Al-Ferian are thieves, and they stole the name of Ferian to add to the many lives of trees that they have stolen.”

“What have they stolen from them?”

Elithéa sighed. “That is a long, sad tale. My heart is reluctant to tell it, and my ears reluctant to hear it, even from my own lips. We Ferian have ever been graced with a kinship with the earth, with the nature that has nurtured us from Low Age to High Age. For this we have been rewarded in many ways, and one of these ways is in a form of long life—the life of the trees.”

She paused for a moment and glanced at Ifferon, and again it seemed that she was studying him, seeing if he could be trusted with her tale. After a time, where it appeared that she was debating with herself on the merits of the cleric, she continued.

“We are born with an acorn in our hands, and this acorn is the most precious of possessions of a Ferian, for it is the embodiment of a Ferian’s life. The Wisdomweavers of Westhaven say that the acorn contains within it the true name of the Ferian child, for the acorn contains an Echo of Éala from the Beginning, when he spoke the First Words that brought the All forth from the Nothingness. And some Wisdomweavers say they can hear the true name in the Echo and impart it to the parents of the child, so that they may name their child according to the Will of Éala, so that, in turn, they might grow to High Age to fulfil their true purpose here on Iraldas. We carry these in a small pouch upon our belts, and those who lose them grieve greatly, and those who steal them are hunted down with a swiftness rarely seen in this world. When death finally takes a Ferian, the Wisdomweavers have a choice of performing a long and elaborate ceremony, which some say is forgotten, to resurrect the Ferian, or they may  plant the acorn and let the spirit of the Ferian live on in the life of a new and splendid tree, which shall live many more lives than a Ferian could ever do in her mortal existence.”

“I have heard of these acorns and these trees,” Ifferon said. “Some of my books spoke of the Ferhassan, the Life Houses of the Ferian, and it was mentioned that these came in the form of seeds that appeared as though they were little stars dropped from the heavens. Indeed, it has been my opinion for some time that the Beldarians of the Magi of Boror were based on the Ferhassan, and that the first Magus, Danarím the Dawn-hearted, bartered with Acrath for the first beldar jewel, which was, perhaps, one of those acorns.”

“Then the Magi of Boror are thieves also, and may the Wrath of Éala be upon them swiftly, for Acrath was a wicked woman,” Elithéa bellowed, and it seemed as though she might lash out at anyone around. “She was the first to break the Treaty of Trees that had existed since before memory. She had a secret pact with a number of comrades, who thought her a prophet, that on her death bed her acorn be used to restore her life. So it was that the art of resurrection, which should have remained in its place of memory and legend, was brought back into action. Her life was restored, but she died swiftly at the hands of the Matriarchate, who sent the Éalgarth to restore the balance. Thus do the Éalgarth serve not only as scouts, but as bounty hunters for those Ferian who have chosen to break the Treaty, and for those Al-Ferian and Al-Ferian sympathisers that we find along the way.”

“I am in awe of these things that you share with me,” Ifferon said. “I have long been a lover of legend and the mythology of other races, and so it comes to me like a great story to a child at bedtime. And your language, which I know not, intrigues me greatly, for I have studied many languages, Bororian, Arlinaic, and Aelora, to name but a few, and I would greatly like to know more of the Ferian tongue. Pray, tell me, for curiosity has seized me, what is the meaning of Ferian in your tongue, for it seems to me that it is related to your word for life, that is fer, in the word for the Life Houses that you have.”

“You are very astute,” Elithéa observed. “Ever you surprise me the more you speak, for first you share a love of the Night-glow, and then you show your love of myth and language, long upheld as two of the seven tenets of a true Ferian. And now even you see the meaning of our tongue ere I speak it. The others are right to think of you as sacred, whether or not Thasú, or Telm as you call him, left some mortal offspring.”

A small part of Ifferon was surprised that the Ferian woman already knew about his bloodline; another part assumed that tongues were loose among his companions; but an even larger part knew that his name wafted on the wind like the death cry of Telm himself.

“But yes,” Elithéa continued. “Fer is life, and ferian is living, for we are the Living, the People. We are the wardens of life, the protectors of plants, the defenders of trees, the custodians of the earth, and the guardians of animals. We are the Living. All other races are dead to us.”

*  *  *

Night came and went swiftly, though day followed dimly, for they were drawing closer to the outskirts of the Dead Land. They broke their fast quickly, eating the remainder of the bread that they had stowed, for it was growing hard and stale. Then they were on the road again, passing league upon league of land in their steadfast march.

After a time a great darkness set upon them, as if a large, dense cloud had passed overhead. A sudden chillness crept in around them, for the sun had vanished. The company realised that it was not a cloud, but the ominous reach of the shadow of Tol-Úmari, for the black tower loomed up tall to their right, where the sinking sun had been, and there it seemed to have conquered the fiery ball of day with the fearsome gloom of night.

“We are under the shadow of Tol-Úmari,” Délin whispered. “What an evil fate that we be lured here against our will, for its blackness looms tall, yet it seemed only moments ago that it was many leagues away.”

“How can it be?” Herr’Don asked. “I thought we made sure to avoid all paths leading towards the Tower. Did that Aelora not assure us that we would but barely set our sight upon it and not our feet upon the sullied soil beneath its reach?”

“If you listened to an Aelora, then the magic of his voice must have deceived you,” Elithéa said. “The Aelora do not care about the troubles of us lesser folk.”

Aralus smiled grimly, and his mouth was like a chasm. “We could say the same about the Ferian.”

“No, I do not think we have been misled,” Délin said. “I need not remind you all of the evil of Tol-Úmari, for this is the fortress of the Alar Molokrán, the Lichelord himself. Some say he sits upon a seat of black iron upon the summit, casting a shadow greater than the Tower itself, while others say he rests in a crypt sixty feet beneath the foundations, and others yet say that he roams about these lands, from the Morbid Mountains to the White Mountains further south, between which lies the vast reaches of the land of Feloklin.”

“And which one do you believe he does?” Yavün asked. Ifferon could almost see that the youth had one eager eye on the knight and the other on the dark tower.

“All three,” Délin said. “And much more. Just as the reign of Lichelord passes from one Molokrán to another, so too must the actions of each newly enthroned Lichelord change to suit the nature of its dark spirit.”

“There are two here,” Ifferon said.

The others turned sharply to him, confused and unnerved.

“Two Molokrán.”

Herr’Don instantly unleashed his sword with a sound of screeching steel. The others looked about with cautious glances, a flurry of darting eyes to seek out this pressing foe.

“No, not here,” Ifferon explained. “At Tol-Úmari. Oelinor told me more about them in secret. At the Passing of the Reign, the old Lichelord and the new one must meet at Tol-Úmari, and both of them enter the Kalakrán in the Crypt beneath the earth, for they are made from the shadows of the earth, and the enthronement can only take place beneath the ground again. So there are two here, and I think this was part of Oelinor’s plan. No, not to lead us astray, so that we might come closer to the Tower, but for us to make haste to Nahragor before the enthronement has taken place, for this means that while there are Molokrán at the Black Bastion, they are without their master, and may prove to be less potent a foe.”

“Couldn’t we attack the Lichelord now while he’s resting?” Yavün asked.

“How naive,” Elithéa said, shaking her head. “I will forgive you your youth.”

“If we could bypass the Vigil of Tol-Úmari, such a thing could be attempted,” Délin said. “But even then, a Molokrán cannot be seen, and while possibly vulnerable in rest, I imagine that the Crypt is well protected by more than sentries and mortal guards. And to bypass the Vigil is to perform a miracle on its own.”

“Then let us perform some miracles,” Herr’Don said. “We’ll storm the Tower and slay the guards, and put these Shadowspirits to a proper rest!”

“Perhaps if all goes well at Nahragor we can attack the Tower of Lies,” Délin said. “But if an army cannot break the Black Bastion, then a band of warriors cannot storm Tol-Úmari.”

“Aye,” Herr’Don said, nodding intently. “Aye indeed, but we are hardly just a band of warriors, are we? We have Herr’Don the Great and Délin Trueblade, and we alone, dare I say, could topple this Tower with one arm tied.”

“Would that it be so,” Délin said. “But for me, at least, I think age outpaces my enthusiasm. I think not even the ballista I gave to Belnavar would make a dent in Tol-Úmari.”

“I hate to break this moment of bonding, but where is Aralus?” Thalla asked. “I thought he was here a moment ago.”

“Ack, the scoundrel!” Elithéa shouted. “At the mere mention of shadow he goes to cling to the shade. I warn you all not to put trust in him, for he is deception incarnate, and losing him here on the foot of Tol-Úmari is a dangerous thing. Curse the rogue and my lowered guard! It would not surprise me that he would report us to the Vigil itself!”

“Let us hope not,” Délin said. “I doubt he would leave freely in such a circumstance, so there would be no sense in such a dark act.”

And so they ventured closer to the Tower of Tol-Úmari, despite the growing fear in their hearts and the nagging nervousness in their minds. Every little shadow seemed to grow large, and it appeared as though some of them might leap out after them and attack, dragging them back to their world of darkness within some crack beneath a structure of rock. But the shadows only jumped out in their mind, for there was naught to be seen in the area—no leaping shadows, no assaulting Spectres, and no Aralus. Thus they drew even closer to that which they intended to avoid.

After a while they were halted by Délin. “Do not go any further. I sense an evil here that is both great and powerful. It is sleeping, yet still easy to wake.”

“Let it awake with a sword in its heart!” Herr’Don cried.

“Silence, my friend,” Délin said. “Let valour be left for the battles ahead. Now we require vigilance.”

“Are you well, Ifferon?” Yavün asked. The others turned to him, noting the paleness in his face. He felt suddenly weak, as if a fever of Halés were upon him, the fires roaring and pouring through his veins.

“I can see him,” he managed after a time.

“You can see Aralus?” Herr’Don quizzed. “Where is he?”

“No doubt this is the evil that you sense, Délin,” Elithéa added.

“No. The Lichelord,” Ifferon explained.

There was a figure on the plains beneath the shadow of Tol-Úmari. At first glance it appeared as nothing more than a large rock with tufts of long blowing grass buried in its hull. But a second glance was enough to chill the heart and still the breath, for rocks do not heave as if breathing; rocks do not stretch great black fingers into the soil; rocks do not fill the heart with horror and the mind with silent dread.

“I cannot see it,” Yavün whispered. “What is it doing?”

“None of us can see,” Délin said. “That is the great strength of the Molokrán, for they are invisible to even the most far-reaching of sight. Only gods and the children of gods may see them, and some only with the relics of the Céalari.”

“Would that I could see,” Herr’Don said. “Not even the greatness of my sight can peer through to the Shadow Kingdom, nor would the Scroll of the Last Words help against the strain. We are not all blessed with the clearsight like a Child of Telm.”

“I can see the shadow, and feel the shadow,” Ifferon replied. “I can hear the ominous thrum of dark winds, as if great cloaks and capes were battering against the  breeze. I can smell a musk of darkness, and I can taste a foulness and a rottenness, as if the land was charred and the wind was blowing bits of burnt rock into my mouth. And do you want those senses? It is easy for the blind to ask for sight when they do not know the torment of the sight that others must endure. Would you rather not be blind to this?”

“Aye,” Herr’Don said. “Of course I would. I would love to sit in the gardens around Ilokmaden Keep, content in the fairness of the world, knowing that my kingdom was safe, and that all that I stood for actually stayed standing. To be ignorant of the worries of the world is a gift that many treasure, and others take for granted, knowing no better, or, more rightly, no worse. But I have seen the darkness, Ifferon. While you were cowering in the cloisters of the monastery at Larksong, I was on the beach facing the shadow. It was my men who clambered down the sand dunes to stay the advancing hordes. It was I who smelled blood and tasted sand and felt great pain and saw great turmoil. I saw more than shadow, Ifferon. I saw death with its groping fingers, pulling my soldiers into the sand, ripping apart my regiment. I saw victory die and vanish, and I felt the bitterness of defeat sink into the very depths of my wounds. Would that I could be blind to the darkness, Ifferon, but I do not need the Scroll to see it.”

With that there was a sudden tenseness in the air. It grew rapidly humid, and the wind was gone. The party looked towards the plains before Tol-Úmari and there beheld a strange sight. All but Ifferon saw a light dust swell up in a circle and begin to rotate and pulsate. Then there was a sound just off the edge of their hearing, something that gave a tremor to the ground, and then a shadow rose up from the earth, almost as if it were tearing itself, or being torn, from the cracked soil.

Ifferon saw more, for behind this tornado of dust and shadow was the Molokrán he had seen earlier, still low to the ground, black claws of dark mist clinging to the earth. It seemed as though it had horns upon its head, yet these were also made of shadow, and they seemed to be growing steadily smaller by the minute, as if the creature was losing its potency. He heard a horrible speech, yet it did not sound as if it came from the Lichelord, but from within his own mind, or perhaps deep beneath the earth where even worms would not burrow. A shadow was pulled from the ground before his very eyes, and Ifferon knew from the breathless gasp of his comrades that they had seen it vaguely for an instance as it lingered between worlds, and then it faded back into darkness—yet the feeling of its presence lingered on.

“It’s ... creating,” Thalla said; shock was mingled with disgust in her voice.

“I have seen many things,” Délin said. “But nothing like this. The birth of new evil before our very eyes. Alas, for the ranks of my people dwindle, and yet the darkness throngs anew.”

“Now we know why Tol-Úmari rests upon Feloklin,” Herr’Don said. “And now we know where the Hosts of Shadow come from, or, at least, some of their evil kin. The Molokrán ensnare the wandering spirits that have escaped from Halés and dominate them, putting them to service to their dark will. They tear a shadow from the earth and imprison a spirit within that shadow, giving the shadow life, a foul life enthralled to Molok, the Spiritlord.”

“I think we should get moving,” Thalla said. “Have we not lingered here long enough?”

“Aye,” Herr’Don said. “Some evil has brought us here. Indeed, it seems to me that there is a spell on these lands, and Tol-Úmari acts like a beacon, a light attracting the flies. Perhaps this is intended to lure the spirits of Halés here for the will of Molok, but it seems we need not be dead to fall under its spell.”

“So let the spell be broken!” Délin said. “Unless we wish to visit Halés for ourselves.”

“Aye! Let us depart with all haste.”

“What about Aralus?” Thalla asked.

“What about me?” Aralus said, stepping out from the shadow behind them.

“You were here all along?” Thalla quizzed. “Did you not hear us speak of you?”

“Perhaps,” he replied. “I was enthralled by the spectacle of evil creating evil, as were you. Indeed, I warrant that you all were more interested in that than in finding or rescuing me, if I were lost or taken captive.”

“All evil looks alike,” Elithéa said. “We thought the Molokrán might be you.”

“Oh, how droll, Elly. Yes, the Molokrán is my second cousin on my mother’s side. Do you want me to introduce him to you? I’d say you’d get along.”

“Yes, yes, come!” Délin cried. “Save introductions for another time. Let us leave this place.”

They went quickly, turning their back on Tol-Úmari. Hunger gnawed at them, but wariness overcame their weariness and gave them strength to travel as swiftly as they could, until they were away from the watchful eyes of the Tower. The journey passed with haste, for fear flogged them and gave new speed to every step. Soon they approached the greatest of the mountains in the Morbid range.

“We draw under the monstrous shadow of the Peak of the Wolf,” Délin said. “If e’er we were wary and vigilant under the gaze of Tol-Úmari, let us be even more so here, for this is what the Tower of Lies guards—the entrance into Halés.”

And even as he spoke the name of the Underworld, there was a sudden howl in the distance, as if some lone wolf had sensed and smelled their fear.

“If my words were not counsel enough,” Délin said, “let that howl bring us extra caution.”

“And extra haste,” Ifferon added.

They passed more quickly beneath the shadow of the Peak, which loomed up taller than Tol-Úmari. For a moment Ifferon thought he saw the moon behind its summit, but as he looked up he realised that it was but the peak itself, which was capped in a thick blanket of snow. It seemed to Ifferon that the snow was melting from the heat of Halés buried deep beneath.

But haste was not their friend, for they had already tarried too long. Something was on the prowl. Something was giving hunt. There was a sound of snapping undergrowth, a small sound, and yet a tremendous din to the company who had basked in the stillness of a moment of silence.

“We are too late,” Délin whispered, shaking his head and reaching for the handle of his sword. Herr’Don was already drawn for battle.

Two yellow eyes peered out from the gloom. They grew steadily larger with the sound of padded feet upon broken branches. Two more eyes emerged from the shadow. There was the sound of heavy breathing through many snarling mouths. Then four more sets of eyes came out of the darkness around them; the lust of the feed was in the intensity of their stare. White and yellow fangs flashed in the shade; the blood of the last feast still clung to their teeth.

The shadow pressed in, and the advancing eyes drew close. The snarling jaws opened. The Felokar wolves attacked.

XI – THE CHASM OF ISSARÍ

A terrible howl went before each hound, as if carried by an evil wind from Halés. As the Felokar wolves charged fort, Délin could see that their eyes were ablaze with an inner fire, sparking and singeing their fur and the land around them. Their coats were of brown and black, though these too were tinted red, perhaps from the char of their eyes or some other fire still concealed. They seemed to blend into the blackness, as if they were not altogether present, but sight or no sight, Délin unsheathed his great two-handed sword and swung to meet the flame and shadow.

“Flee!” he cried to his companions. “These are the wolves of the Underworld. There is no valour to be won here—only death!”

There was a great sound of steel ringing through the air, as if it too made a howl to match the one unleashed by the wolves. Then there was a sound of rending flesh as the sword sliced through the nearest wolf, which leapt into the air and came down on the knight with a shriek and a clang against his armour. Blood sprayed into the air and then seemed to dissipate, for these were the wolves of Halés, and their flesh and blood were more illusion than reality. Délin did not think of this, for the wolf had dented his armour and caused him to lose his breath, and the pain was altogether real. He faltered for a moment, losing his grip on the sword, and his helmet rolled off in the fray. Suddenly there were three wolves upon him, snarling and tearing. He held his gauntleted arms before his face, but still the claws and teeth tore at him, wearing down his defences.

“Las Ardúnin de’Lamarin!” he called, and he felt a sudden strength within, as if the very mention of the Lady had set her potent gaze upon him, filling him with the waters of vitality and the rivers of courage. He leapt forward as if he too were wild, and he threw the wolf from him and came down on it in a frenzy. They rolled in the dust and the shade, and the other wolves came racing down on them, tearing and gnawing at all, wolf and man.

It seemed that an age was passing before Délin’s eyes, an age of struggle, where limb met with claw, and the harsh glare of the wolves was met with a glower of rage and defiance. One wolf pinned his left arm in its jaws and shook its head violently, trying to rip off his limb. He beat at its head with his other fist, roaring and shouting in an attempt to frighten them off, and also from the pain of the ever-piercing teeth, which tore through his armour as if it were flesh. For a moment he was relieved of two of the wolves, for they broke off to fight amongst themselves over their prey, but the larger one soon returned, fresh blood thick upon its teeth.

Ever did Délin clamber and toil with his foes, beating off wave after wave of the onslaught against him. He strayed on the path to Halés, for each volley of battering limbs drained his will, and each flurry of scratching claws drained his blood. Time passed slowly in that struggle, and so too did Délin pass under the shadow of weariness and into the clutches of death.

*  *  *

Ifferon stood frozen in terror, unable to flee as the knight had commanded. The blazing eyes and snarling teeth leapt out from the shadow as if from the verge of a nightmare. Horror played on his mind and dulled his senses; everything was a sudden blur of sight and sound, a thrum of screams and shrieks, and a flurry of red and black. New terrors crept from his mind to meet the monsters that stood before him, and the fear gnawed at his will and chased away his courage.

Then Délin shouted something in Old Arlinaic, and a dull light came upon him, as if some spirit of Halés had answered his call. The knight rose up and shook the wolves from him as if they were but rain upon his armour. And the fear was vanquished, washed away in the great tsunami of bravery and valour that had been unleashed. Ifferon thawed, as if from the fires of Halés, or the burning rage of the incensed knight before him, and he found that he could move again, that blood flowed ever more quickly in his veins.

But Délin was taken down again. Wolf after wolf came upon him and dragged him this way and that. They groped at his arms and legs, and one great wolf pinned him down and bit fiercely into his left arm. Though he wore metal gauntlets, the knight screamed out and struggled against his attacker. Then the wolves seemed to fight amongst themselves, tussling for a piece of the knight. And the voice of Délin rose one last time, and then it faded quickly, and his struggle was no more.

“Begone!” Ifferon shouted, and suddenly the wolves ceased in their feast. They turned and looked upon the cleric—surprised and cautious, and altogether curious. Who was this new man? Why had he not fled like the others? How did he speak with seven voices? For that is how his voice sounded to them. A light welled up within him, and he seemed to gleam with a fire of his own, one that the wolves of Halés could never quench. The moon came suddenly from behind the clouds and shone down upon them, and the wolves were frightened, as if there was a threat of torment in the lunar rays.

“Dehilasü baeos!” Ifferon shouted, and the seven voices roared as one. “Dehilasü baeos! Al-iav im-iavün im-samün im-samadas, dehilasü baeos!” A thunder rumbled in the heavens, like the sound of the great war drums of the gods. And it seemed to the wolves, caught off-guard with this new peril standing tall before them, that a silver armour shrouded in white light descended from the clouds, falling upon Ifferon and raising him to a new and formidable stature. “Baeö Fasünï il-Taelam!”

And the wolves recoiled at this announcement, turning and fleeing back towards the Peak, knowing now their own fear as the light of the moon pursued their racing heels. Their shadow passed back under the gloom of the mountain, and on this night they were seen no more.

The light of the moon dulled and the armour of Ifferon dissolved and parted like dust in a breeze. The seven voices were replaced by his own meagre tongue, parched by the heat of the flames of Halés. Strength and courage no longer dwelt in him; they departed like the wolves. Ifferon, frail and feeble once again, collapsed upon the ground.

*  *  *

Délin awoke to the sound of screeching steel, and for one painful moment he thought he was within the iron masts of the dungeons of Tol-Úmari. His eyes stung, his heart throbbed, and the dull ache in his limbs was only matched by the relentless pounding in his head.

Another screech shrieked through the air, forcing Délin to cringe and cling to the ground. The sound echoed out and became so intense that it seemed to pierce his brain like a stabbing sword.

A shrill cry of metal panged his hearing. Délin wondered what door might have just been opened or what tool of evil was being used in the deeper parts of this lair. His mind wandered once more, down a cold hallway lined with metal plating, under an iron-cast portcullis, and into a room of steel.

And then a shadow passed him by, a black shape seen against his closed eyelids. It seemed to pace back and forth, and there was a fire behind it, burning brightly around the silhouette of the moving figure. A Felokar wolf, he thought. It is as I feared. I have been defeated, and now they bring me to some cave or lair to maul and devour me. Would that I had died ere I came to this torment.

Then a realisation came like the sudden tolling of a bell. I have died. That may yet be a Felokar wolf, but this is not Tol-Úmari or some wolf lair on Iraldas—no, this is Halés. I am in the Underworld. But then he heard something strange: a voice. It was the voice of someone he knew, but it spoke a tongue he was but fleetingly familiar with. Dehilasü baeos, it called, but there were other voices now. Suddenly, more quickly than his prior realisation, he recalled that this was the voice of Ifferon. He has fallen too. Doom has come upon our quest and death has come upon our company. He should have fled.

But then a light came down and the black figures made flight, and he knew then that they were indeed wolves, for they howled in dismay, as if they had set upon some wolf trap in the wild. The light was blinding, stinging his eyes, and yet he found that the pain of this new light was not as severe, and it seemed to lessen the soreness he had felt before. In a matter of moments it was gone, but as it passed, so too was Délin able to pry his eyes open and look upon what doom had befallen him.

It was not Halés. There were few other times when he was so happy to be wrong. This was not the land of fire and rock and spirit. This was not a place of ash and char and brimstone. This was where he had been assaulted by the wolves, just beneath the Peak. He turned slowly, for his body still ached, and he saw that Tol-Úmari stood as tall as ever to his right. And, on turning back, he realised that he was not the only body lying on the ground there. Ifferon lay in a heap mere feet away.

“Ifferon!” Délin called, and he coughed the name, for his mouth was coarse and dry. He swallowed hard, which was like consuming ash. He forced himself up and almost collapsed again, for his legs were limp, but soon he regained his balance and stumbled over to where Ifferon had fallen.

“Ifferon! Alas! Alas! Have I returned from my swoon too late? By law of virtue, Lord Corrias, do not let death come upon him when death has chosen to pass me by. Arlin needs Délin, but all of Iraldas needs Ifferon.”

“Délin,” Ifferon tried, his speech weaker than Délin’s strained voice.

“Praise the Lord Corrias!” the knight cried, tears leaking from his eyes. “You are alive! Never have I been so relieved. I thought I was taken to Halés, and then feared that you were also. But come, my friend, we must leave our journey to Halés for another day, and let us pray that it is many a year before that dour day is come.”

Ifferon mumbled something on the edge of hearing; perhaps some god or spirit of Halés might have understood his words, but Délin did not have the strength to strain his ears.

“Conserve your energy, dear Ifferon,” the knight said. “Bless me, I am overcome and losing my senses. Take some water from my flask.”

Délin gave the cleric his flask, which was battered from the battle, and when Ifferon finished drinking, Délin took a sup for himself. The water felt like life renewing in his veins, as if it were from the heavenly streams of Althar in the skies above.

“How we fail to appreciate so simple a thing,” Ifferon said after a time. “For something so plentiful in the world, it seems always to run out. My mouth was a desert, and the canister was my oasis. Thank you beyond all kindness, Délin.”

Soon both of them were fit enough to stand, and then they looked upon their surroundings and realised that they were alone. No wolves were about, and the Vigil of Tol-Úmari was looking elsewhere. None of their companions were there.

“They are gone,” Ifferon said.

“I told them to flee,” Délin said, and he turned to Ifferon. “I told you to flee.”

“It is lucky I did not,” the cleric replied. “But at least the others listened.”

Délin was not so sure. “Or they have been taken by the wolves,” he said. “Of all who would give flight, Herr’Don is not one of them, for his body would take a wound sooner than his pride. Yet he is gone.”

They sat and rested for a while, but they did not tarry, for they were uncomfortably aware of the Peak of the Wolf looming like a beast upon the horizon. “We must use what little strength there is left in us to find a better resting place,” Délin suggested. “Alas! For if any of our friends have survived and are looking for us, they may come back this way, and we may pass them by without knowing. Alas indeed, for it seems that we are guided by wicked hands to an evil doom.”

Onwards they travelled, slowly at first, for their legs were as logs and their minds were as crumbled earth. Soon, however, they shook the woodenness from their limbs, and their pace grew quicker.

Suddenly Délin halted. There was a sound of scree falling beyond some rocks just ahead.

“A peril lies before us,” Délin whispered. They both knew well what peril that was. The wolves had returned, perhaps from some feast upon their friends, and the knight and cleric could neither hide nor run—nor could they fight, for they had spent what little energy they had left in their arduous walk. All that was left was the wait, and the silent prayers that their journey to Halés would be swift and merciful.

Then something came over the rocky mound and Délin instantly unleashed his sword, for fear had given him new strength.

But it was not a wolf.

“What irony!” Herr’Don shouted, raising his hands before him to block the advancing sword. “To survive the wolves by Délin’s valour only to be slain by that same knight. Surely the Céalari delight in such tricks of fate!”

But Délin stayed his hand before the fatal strike. “What happened to you?” he quizzed.

“What happened to you?” Aralus asked, for he came hastening over the mound to the sound of Herr’Don’s shout. He pointed to Délin’s torn hand.

“It was bitten by a Felokar wolf when I challenged them to combat,” the knight replied. “I will live.”

“Unlike dear Ifferon here,” Herr’Don said, clapping his hands and laughing heartily. “But lo! I nearly had my whole arm eaten!”

“Herr’Don the One Arm,” Aralus said with his now familiar grin. “Has a certain ring to it.”

“Ha! For each attempt at my arm I took a leg from the wolf, and I took his head for the insult of challenging me in the first place! I downed another before it carried Aralus off in its jaws.”

Aralus turned and showed the large teeth marks in his leather armour. “Merely a scratch, I’m sure Herr’Don will find.”

“Aye! And you’re lucky I was there to ensure the wolf did not keep on scratching!”

“When both of you are done flaunting your victory,” Délin said, “can you tell me where the others are? Thalla? Yavün? Elithéa?”

“I saw Elithéa by the boulders yonder,” Herr’Don said, pointing to a ridge of rock in the distance. “She’s a nimble one. Wouldn’t think she had it in her.”

“I certainly wouldn’t,” Aralus said. “But then she never lets me look.”

“And Thalla and Yavün?” Délin asked.

“I haven’t seen them,” Herr’Don replied gruffly, folding his arms.

“Perhaps they’ve found some boulders of their own to hide behind?” Aralus suggested with a devious smile. “Perhaps they’re doing some scratching of their own? Hmm?”

“Better watch your tongue,” Herr’Don snapped. “Or you’ll see it in a jar sometime soon, and you can tell people that Herr’Don the Wolf did you the honour—if, indeed, you can say anything at all.”

“Ah, the jester lives a tough life,” Aralus said, shaking his head. “In truth, I’m sure they’re probably dead somewhere, perhaps rolling in the bellies of some satiated wolves.”

“We must find Thalla!” Herr’Don cried.

“Yes, yes,” Délin said. “And Yavün and Elithéa.”

“And Elithéa, yes,” Herr’Don said. “I suggest we keep together, unless we want to spend the rest of the night finding each other after we’ve found everyone else.”

“Yes, yes, that is wise,” Délin said. He grimaced, for the pain in his hand had grown. “Are you well enough to walk, dear Ifferon?”

“I will manage,” Ifferon said, struggling to his feet with Délin’s aid.

“Hmm, I can see how hauling a dying old man will not slow us down,” Aralus said. “Perhaps I should stay here with him while you two go ahead? Knight and his admirer—it’s touching.” There was a certain unsettling eagerness in his voice, a sudden slip of desperation on his tongue, and Ifferon suspected it was apparent to them all.

“Yes, and I can see how you’ve not been listening to what I said about us not splitting up,” Herr’Don said. “We did that already when the wolves attacked, and look at the mess we’re in now. Sane men do what great men suggest, and I suggest we take whatever pace is necessary for us all to stay together.”

“Hmm, does that include Yavün?” Aralus asked. “You know, because I’m wondering if that’s the kind of let’s all stay together that you mean.”

Herr’Don glared at him and forced a smirk before turning aside. “You humour me,” he said, but their was no mirth in his voice. “Come! Let us part now before we are parted of our zeal. A long journey is lessened by eager feet.”

*  *  *

The sudden wail of a Felokar wolf brought Thalla and Yavün to the brink of a large precipice, which gave way to a cliff of rocks and boulders, mounted uneasily on a bed of weathered limestone. The ground was damp, for night had fallen, and with it came a downpour of rain that would not cease. The darkness oppressed them, and yet it was the slivers of infrequent light that caused them the most fright, for instantly they saw in their minds the candle-eyes of a dozen hungry wolves, ravenous and hungry.

Thalla and Yavün had shaken off the brunt of their frenzy, for they had taken flight at the instant of Délin’s command, though they did not need his instruction, for the wolves of Halés had killed their courage and gave new life to their legs.

Yavün could barely see his hands before his face, let alone the outline of Thalla just ahead. His eyes had not acclimatised to the dark, for the gloom seemed to be growing thicker as time wore on, bringing with it the fresh fear of blindness. Instead he followed the quick patters of Thalla’s steps, but even they were hard to follow, faint and feeble against the backdrop of frequent wolf howls.

“We cannot keep running,” he said at last, his voice jumping as they made their sightless way down the ravine. Stumbling in the wilderness of shadow, Yavün knew not if they were heading back into Boror, into the belt of trees known as the Dead Wood, or, indeed, into Feloklin, where the black tower of Tol-Úmari would not be seen against the canvas of shade.

“I know,” Thalla replied, and it was hard to tell from where her voice came, “but it is all we can do right now. I do not want to sleep in these lands at night when a wolf may come upon us without our knowing.”

“Yet I do not fancy running right into the jaws of one,” Yavün said, “for who am I with a map at day, let alone mapless at night? And even if we are travelling towards the Chasm, how are we to know the others will come this way?”

“We cannot know,” Thalla admitted. “But where we were heading is the only thing that all of us knew ere the wolves came. Wisdom would see us meet there again, and may fate grant it to the wise.”

The mention of the wise made Yavün painfully aware of the Beldarian around his neck, for it had been tingling there for some time, but now it seemed hot, burning a reminder into him. Why not? he thought. She would not see, not in this dark. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt and took the pendant out to glance at. He could see naught until he brought it right before his eyes, whereupon he saw a faint wisp of red in the beldar gem. Then it grew suddenly intense, like the lighting of an oil lamp.

“What is that light?” Thalla called.

Stricken with panic, Yavün shoved the Beldarian back into his shirt. “What light?” he said, his voice wavering. “I ... Perhaps it is the first light of dawn. Yes, it’s dawn.”

“Maybe we can sleep then,” she called back to him. “I do not want to travel at night and sleep away the day.”

And so they clambered in the dark for each other’s hands, and they clasped them and lay down in a crevice in the rock. There they fell into a deep and heedless slumber, comforted by the warmth in each other’s bodies. Dawn came, but not for many hours, and they were still in the clutches of sleep as it passed.

*  *  *

“Day is the Comforter,” Délin said as the sun rose. He was first to greet it, speaking an Old Arlinaic prayer.

“Hail, indeed!” Herr’Don said, shifting from his not so comfortable rock bed. “Even the great weariness of an endless walk is more restful than this supposed resting place. I would that we came unto Eridúl ere now, for there, at least, the Plains are flat, not rugged and jagged like these forks and knives of rock!”

“You are obviously more accustomed to beds of linen,” Aralus remarked. “For is that not the rightful place of a prince? If you were forced into the wild, then your body would have grown accustomed to its ways, be they calm or full of crags.”

“I felt no rock last night,” Ifferon said, “for I was too deep in slumber. But that rest I shall surely pay for now, for my back is as jagged as the rock it lay against.”

They began a new day away from the Vigil of Tol-Úmari, and they heard no cries or howls of wolves, nor, indeed, the sound of anything else upon the rocky downs. They travelled swiftly, following the direction of the sun, and stopped only twice, once to tend to Délin’s wounded hand, which he had tried to ignore long enough, and the other for a short rest and lunch. Before midday had come they journeyed many miles, but still there was no sight of their lost companions.

*  *  *

Yavün awoke to find Thalla already stirring, yet still she laid there in his embrace. “Good morning,” she said. He grinned widely and his face shone as brightly as the sun, which had been shining for many hours.

After a few wordless moments, Thalla ran her hand across his chest until her fingers met with the cold, hard stone of the Beldarian, hidden deep within his vestments. He had forgotten to button up, so the chain was visible.

“What is this?” she quizzed, her voice trembling.

“This?” Yavün asked in reply, the quaver in his voice more noticeable than Thalla’s. He quickly drew back and fastened the top button of his shirt. “Oh, that ... that’s just ... that’s just something my father gave me years ago, a kind of lucky talisman. Helps keep the wolves away from the stables.”

“I guess it did not help against those wolves last night,” Thalla said.

“Well, the most beautiful mare is still safe,” Yavün replied. “That’s all that matters to me.”

She smiled. “Can I see it?”

Panic seized him and whispered dark thoughts. It clutched his heart and strangled the words that came flooding to his throat. “I ... no, I’m sorry. It’s kind of a family heirloom, and we’re a bit ... protective about it. You see, only the bearer is to look upon it or ... or its power will dissipate into the air and be lost forever.”

“Do you think you will return to being a stableboy? Will you really need it?”

The fear still held him, flushing his face red and forcing him to perspire. “It’s sentimental. I’d like to give it to my brother when I return to Boror, if I don’t remain as a stableboy. Maybe I will be an adventuring bard, singing songs of my exploits.”

“I like that,” Thalla said. “That is what attracted me to Herr’Don at first. He was so gallant and adventurous, and he recited verse to me at times, though they were not his own. But it was enough to make any woman swoon.”

“Does he make you swoon now?”

“I do not know,” she sighed. “I would like to say yes, but then part of me would like to say no.”

“Is that the part of you that’s with me now?” Yavün asked. “Is that the stronger part?”

“I do not know, Yavün. If truth be told, I have never been so confused. Things have not been great with Herr’Don. I mean, his first love is really himself. And his second is probably Délin, or at least the whole notion of being an honourable knight. I do not really know how far down the list I actually lie. But I guess I took it for granted. I never thought about it before, never really considered my options. I never had options before.” Sorrow marred her face and flooded her eyes, and it looked as though she was fighting back a painful memory. “I was with him and that was it, the end of the story. It is different now.”

“I’m glad it is,” Yavün said.

She smiled and kissed him, and then withdrew again with a curious look in her eyes. “I did not know you had a brother,” she said.

“Oh,” Yavün squeaked. The fear returned. “Yes, I ... I just didn’t talk about him.”

“And I thought you were an orphan,” she recalled. “I thought you did not know who your mother and father were.”

The panic spread, taking his voice. He gulped hard. “I ... Well ... you see ... he gave me the talisman when I was really young and then left before I got to know him. The same with my mother.”

“Oh,” she said. “That is very sad.” She hugged him again, but the curious look did not leave her eyes.

*  *  *

“Aha!” Aralus cried. “Who might these two be?”

Thalla and Yavün stood up swiftly and stepped away from one another, but already Herr’Don had seen them, as had the others who came down into the ravine.

“So it seems they have been scratching!” Aralus said, and he laughed aloud, before spitting out a greasy strand of hair that had gone into his mouth.

Herr’Don glowered at Aralus, then at Yavün, and then at Thalla. It seemed as though he struggled with his fury, for he tried to speak, but then turned and walked away with anger in his strides. Ifferon heard him mumble to himself, but he could not understand his wrathful words.

Délin shook his head. “Is youth so tempting?”

“Judge me as you will,” Thalla replied, but she could not endure their stares, so she clambered up and walked away.

“So we found them,” Aralus observed, “and now we’ve split up again. This is, I must say, a rather entertaining bunch. I’m glad I get to tag along.”

But they did not split up, for Délin and Aralus followed Herr’Don and brought him back, and Yavün and Ifferon did the same for Thalla. The two did not speak—Herr’Don out of anger, Thalla out of guilt.

“We must continue on,” Délin told them. “If there is aught to be done about this, let it be done when the Céalari dictate. Doom lies ever the closer, but let it not lie festering in the pits of our hearts.”

They ventured further into Telarym, trudging closer to the River Soldím and the Chasm-bridge that lay across it. Strange birds were aflight, circling in the sky, and it seemed to the company that they were being led closer to the Chasm, as if the birds had been expecting them.

Thus they came to the Chasm of Issarí before nightfall, spotting a familiar figure sitting in wait amidst the gloaming.

“I thought you would never arrive,” Elithéa said, and they saw her resting on a slab of rock by the bridge. “Your race is a slow one, both in mind and leg, it seems. What, indeed, did Éala see in your creation? But tarry not to answer that, for it is time we kept to our journey.”

“So I see you’ve been relaxing here while we were being hunted by the wolves,” Aralus said. “So brave you are, Elly, in the flurry of your flight, and so very loyal, lacking any will to search for the scattered.”

“I lack not the will,” she replied, yet she did not stir from her seat, “for I sent out birds to find you all, though, indeed, it may be true to say that I lacked the will to find you, Aralus. Why I have not slain you already is beyond my ken, for you are wilder than the worst of beasts, and the earth would be thankful for the ridding of you. But mercy is a gift that few of the Éalgarth possess, and thus I feel all the more honoured to grant it.”

“Mercy,” Aralus scoffed. “Letting me live long enough to hear you speak is not mercy but cruelty, dear Elly. Regardless, I need not your mercy, nor the mercy of any who walk upon Iraldas.”

“Yet you still need the mercy of Éala,” the Ferian replied. “For were it not for the mercy of he, Iraldas would not accept your footsteps.”

*  *  *

Thus they found the last of their companions, and their quest was restored. They rested at the brink of the Chasm, peering now and then into the great gorge below. It was not long before the curtain of night was pulled across the sky, and then they saw little in the canyon, yet the sound of its ravaging waters continued long into the night and into the caverns of their dreams.

Light broke through the curtain swiftly the next morning, but it did not shine as brightly as it had the day before. The company awoke early, for Elithéa bid them cross the Chasm and the Plains of Eridúl before the next night fell, but many were unhappy to be greeted by such a dour sight.

“And another day dawns with less light than the last,” Aralus moaned, standing on the brink of the Chasm beside Herr’Don.

“Perhaps my prayers were not strong enough,” Délin said, shaking his head. He began another silent appeal to the Lord and Lady.

“These rocks are old and ragged,” Aralus pointed out, peering into the Chasm and kicking dust over the edge, “like dear Elly, and they hold wisdom that she can never know, but I sense there is something lurking here that I do not wish to meet. If we happen upon anything, slay it without question, Herr’Don.”

“I would have it no other way,” the prince replied, patting the handle of his sword. “Slay now, bray later. But I notice that you want me to do all the slaying, eh? I cannot blame you, in truth, for when there’s slaying to do, who better to call upon than Herr’Don the Great?”

“My thoughts exactly!” Aralus said, smiling a crooked smile. “Though possibly slightly influenced by lethargy and fear of being eaten alive.”

*  *  *

After they packed their things they gathered near the bridge, where Ifferon kept his eyes on the jagged rocks that jutted out from the walls of the gulf below. The billowing water splashed up, and he could almost make out where giant clumps of stone were hurled upwards into the faces of the cliffs on either side. He gulped harshly.

“This bridge should take the weight of four of us, though no more without risking our safety,” Elithéa explained. “Ifferon, Yavün, Thalla, and I shall go first, for we are the lightest, I deem. Herr’Don, make sure the ropes on this end remain stable.”

“They will not budge now that Herr’Don the Great holds them!” he bellowed, his voice echoing into the Chasm.

“I’ll help,” Aralus said. “I wouldn’t like to see my favourite Ferian come to any harm.”

“I will help,” Délin said, noting her intent glare.

Elithéa placed a wary foot upon the first plank. Ifferon closed his eyes, but he could not close his ears to the creaking of the weathered wood. Elitheá stepped forward again, her hand holding tightly to the single hand rope to her right. She balanced her weight with her other arm outstretched, wavering with each footfall and ominous creak. Ifferon could no longer endure his imagination and so he opened his eyes again. He looked down and saw where the other hand rope had fallen, a thin line strewn across the scree far below.

“Keep moving,” Elithéa called.

“Aye!” Herr’Don shouted. “Do not fear. You’d hardly make a dent in the ground if you fell from here.”

“Thank you,” Ifferon said. “I was just contemplating what sort of mark my corpse would make on the ground below.”

“Yes, yes, enough banter,” Délin said. “I fear this bridge may collapse from old age as we talk.”

“More walking, less talking,” Herr’Don added.

Yavün stepped forward, grabbing the rope with both hands and stepping out quickly without bobbing his head to look down. He continued on, watching the back of Elithéa as she slowly advanced across the bridge.

Thalla followed, though she was more hesitant, and she whispered something to calm herself before gazing over the edge of the precipice. She stepped back, bumping into Ifferon, and then eased out, making that first trembling step, the appearance of which made Ifferon uneasy. He mustered what little courage he had and stepped forward, following behind her. The journey was slow and the fury of nature seemed against them, unleashing a torrent of winds that whipped and lashed at them, slaying their balance and burying their courage. At these moments they grabbed the rope firmly and closed their eyes. When the wind died down, they found that they remained on the bridge, shattered and shivering, but still living. To Ifferon the gaping ground and ravaging waters below seemed to hint and taunt at him with a subtle beckon to miss a footfall or lose a grip, but that only made him cling tighter and make every wary step with the fullness of his attention.

But after the third heavy wind had come and gone, Ifferon heard voices from behind. He looked back and saw Herr’Don trying to keep Aralus off the bridge, but already Aralus had placed a foot upon the first plank, defying Herr’Don’s commands. The bridge creaked and the rope grew tense. Thalla shrieked, Yavün froze, and Elithéa turned sharply as she tried to make out what was going on. The creaking grew louder and Ifferon felt the tension form in the wood below. The ground and the waters seemed to smile at him in bleak anticipation.

“The bridge is breaking! Go!” he screamed, but Yavün did not move, and Thalla shoved him in the shoulder as she joined in Ifferon’s pleas. Elithéa charged forward, almost reaching the end of the bridge, but then a large wooden moan came about them and she yelped as the force of the rope’s swing pulled her back. The bridge collapsed down from the opposite side and Ifferon’s arms wrapped around the hand rope. The air whisked through him, catching his breath. The rope swung down, and he could see Thalla slide down until she met the sheer fear of Yavün’s grip. Elithéa was but a momentary figure in the distance below, slipping from view as the brutality of the cliff-face took his body. His grip loosened and he fell a little, tangling around the rope even more. He screamed and caught it again, though now his hold was weak and strained. He looked up and tried to regain some strength, and there he saw Aralus hanging upside down, his right foot caught precariously between two wooden planks. Further up were Herr’Don and Délin pulling the rope with all their might, but even they were slipping, and a river of dust washed over Aralus and Ifferon as Herr’Don’s boots scraped off the ground above. He coughed and choked, and his strength grew weaker.

*  *  *

Elithéa swung to and fro on the end of the rope, her hands burning, though moistened by the spit and froth of the rampaging waters below. Her feet kicked as rocks and stones hurled upwards, as if thrown by some malevolent spirit in the gorge. One stone sliced past and caught her face. She slipped further, but managed to pull herself up again, biting her lip to distract her from the sharp sting in her cheek.

Then figures emerged from the water below, hands and bodies created in the waves. They came so sudden and yet so subtle that in moments it seemed as though there was a river of dismembered body parts, all toiling and crashing and tugging upwards, as if to escape the mayhem of the rapids. The arms grew longer and the hands grew bigger as they reached ever upwards, grey and blue, stretching out to maul and take her. She shrieked and kicked, and a few of her winged companions came fluttering down, howling at the hands, biting and clawing at them as they tried to consume Elithéa. But they too were consumed as the fluid fingers wrapped around them and pulled the screeching birds under, until there was but the din of the waters and the rocks.

Then Elithéa heard a shout from above, and she looked up to see that Yavün was falling, only one faltering hand keeping him in place. “Yavün!” someone called, though she could not tell who over the tumult of the gorge. A splatter of blood dropped onto her face and she saw that an outcrop of rock had torn through his arm. His moans came slowly down into the chaos and he slipped further and further until, to her shock, his hand let go completely and his lumbering body plummeted down on top of her. There she also lost her grip and came down with him, and as she felt several groping hands come about her, she looked up to see the others falling. The water rose up around her, steaming and frothing, and she struggled to keep her breath as more tumbling bodies joined the liquid fray.

XII – REVELATIONS ON THE RIVER EDGE

The waters took them and tore them and threw them. It ate them whole in canyon jaws with riverbed teeth and spit them out like pebbles when their bones had been crushed and their skin torn like old parchment. But it did not spit them all out.

Light crept warily into Ifferon’s mind. It stung like nettles and burned like fire, but most of all it seemed to dash inside his head and pound against his brain with iron fists. His eyes blazed, but he felt a coolness across the left side of his head and cheek,  and then the coarseness of stone against his skin. He jerked when a sudden sharp pain shot through his leg from the bowl of his foot to the tip of his knee. He froze until the pain died down, but when he stirred again it returned with even greater intensity. Stillness was his friend now. He laid motionless, hoping and praying silently.

But there were no answers to his prayers and no sound to be heard but for the ringing in his ears. The wind had died down, and there was no tumult and tumble of stone and limb and foam. But there was pain, and it reared its ugly head, flashed its wicked teeth and smiled its fiercest smile. Ifferon could not lay there any longer. There did not seem to be anyone around. He was alone with his pain and his torment, and the sun was beating down on him with harsh red rays.

“You ... have to ... get up!” he told himself, spitting the words against the dust and the dirt just inches from his face. He could hear the screech of carrion crows in the air above, could hear the flap of their wings against the wind. “They will eat you alive if you don’t get up. The sun will cook you crisp. Get up!” He grabbed a rock a foot or two from his head and dug his nails in deep. Then he pushed hard against it until he was leaning on his elbow, holding himself up just long enough to survey his surroundings.

There was rock. It was amber in the glare of sunlight and looked as though it were also frying in the heat. He thought he smelled smoke, but he also smelled the blood that had clogged his nostrils, that had trickled down his head in a river of red; it was also in his eyes, blinding him, stinging him, blocking out his view. He rubbed them until he could see more clearly. It looked as though he were in a maze of rock and stone, but that thought quickly dissipated when he turned to see what lay behind him. There he saw a lake against the backdrop of the canyon wall, and twisting from the lake was the River Soldím, calm and tranquil away from the rapids of Issarí’s Chasm.

“You are lucky to be alive,” a voice called. Ifferon turned to find Délin standing there, leaning on his greatsword for support. Behind the knight he saw a blur of the others, resting around a makeshift fire. “A bump on the head is a small price to pay for surviving the Chasm of Issarí,” Délin added, pointing to his helmet on the ground, which had a large dent in it. “And for all of us too. We walk with mere scratches and bruises. I would say that it is the charm of the Lady herself, though she be far from here, but I am not sure, for there were dark things in the water, things that should not have been.”

“Taarí,” Elithéa said. She was mending the thalgarth that she previously wore upon her back. Only parts of it had survived the gorge and she was making use of whatever wood she could find. “I saw a thousand hands of foam and water claw and tear at me. I have no doubt that they were the limbs of Taarí, foul water-dwellers that they are.”

“Aye,” Herr’Don agreed. “The Taarí are well-known for their treachery. They are in league with the Beast and would have had us all buried on the ocean floor were it not for the heroic swimming skills of a certain prince, who, in the hour of need, when his companions were in danger—”

“Baulked and squirmed and choked on water,” Aralus interjected.

“—pulled them all to shore,” Herr’Don finished, waving his still soaking cloak dangerously close to the fire. “It was nothing really.”

“Because he did nothing,” Aralus said.

“Alas! We cannot rejoice overly,” Délin said. “For not all made it to shore.”

Ifferon suddenly realised that there was only Délin, Herr’Don, Elithéa, and Aralus there. Thalla and Yavün were missing.

“Yavün did not make it,” Délin told him. “The water took him.”

“The Taarí took him,” Elithéa said. “Make no doubt about it.”

Ifferon’s heart sank, as if to join Yavün at the bottom of the river. A moment of mourning passed in silence. “And Thalla?” he asked.

“She is not taking it well,” Elithéa said. “They must have been close.”

Herr’Don glared at her. “It’s just the shock. She still needs to dry off. Ha, sure she even thought I deliberately failed to bring him out of the water. Me! Fail? Ha! Obviously the Taarí found something attractive about him. It might have been his shadow self.”

*  *  *

They searched around the river and lake for Yavün, some wading into the water while others looked amidst the reeds. Long and tiring hours passed and they were all the time urged by Thalla to look again, to go over each place they had already rummaged through a dozen times before. They found no stableboy, nor any sign of him—no footprints, no marks upon the soil or pieces of torn clothing caught in twigs or upon jutting rocks of the Shallow Lake. The land bore no rumour of him, as if he had never been there at all.

“Perhaps he grabbed some rock back yon,” Délin suggested, pointing towards the gorge which was now many leagues behind them.

“Or perhaps the rock grabbed him,” Aralus said, “and minced him up on the river bed. But alas! Where is the blood that will prove my tale?”

“Nowhere to be seen by eyes that see truth,” Délin replied.

“What truth, dear knight?” Aralus asked. “Who speaks truth to your eyes, and do these speakers tell of the boy clinging to an outcrop while the water rages by? No, I think you speak of guesswork, whereas truth might more readily speak of spilled blood.”

But Délin ignored him, turning to Thalla and Ifferon. “My heart tells me that he is yet alive.”

“My heart,” Aralus began, “tells me that he is dead. Do you listen to Délin because it is truth or because it is what you want to hear?”

“Let us search further up the river, for he may have been washed down further than us,” Ifferon said.

They began another long search, the arduous toil of lifting stone and filing through bush, the onerous slog of reaching into mires and straining sight for hint or clue. Further south they came, following the bending river, but there was nothing to be seen along the banks.

Just as their final hopes began to dwindle, Elithéa saw a figure in the distance, lying washed up upon the shore. She could not tell who it was, and so they drew closer to it. The land was barren there, devoid of root or reed. There was stone, cold and murky. And then the body.

“Look! There’s a man!” Herr’Don said.

“It’s Yavün! It’s Yavün!” Thalla screamed. She fawned and grasped at Herr’Don with trembling arms, and then bit deep into the index finger of her left hand, all the while shaking her head from side to side to deny the truth of what she claimed.

They raced towards it, but the closer they got the more they realised that it was but a corpse, that it had been half eaten away by flies and maggots. Grass and hair mingled with blood and torn cloth, and it seemed that the figure was almost beyond identification. The smell was horrid, forcing them to cover their noses and mouths.

“Let us hope it is not the youth,” Délin said, but his voice was not hopeful.

Thalla raced over to the slumped figure and knelt down beside it. Grief seized her and held her like the haunted, wounded her like a widow. “Yavün ... no Yavün, you cannot be dead, you cannot be—”

“Yavün,” Ifferon said in shock, the name slipping from his mouth like a final breath. They turned the body over. “You cannot be Yavün,” Ifferon said, joining Thalla in her lament. “It’s not Yavün. It’s not him. It’s—”

“Belnavar!” Herr’Don cried.

XIII – THE PLAINS OF ERIDÚL

They looked upon the ruins of Belnavar’s body in shock and disgust. His hair, which had once been long and tied firmly in a ponytail, was now thin and wild, as if it was ripped from its roots, and it was pasted to his head and face with water and blood. One of his eyes was still open, but the pupil was pale; it looked as though a moment of shock had been caught and crystallised there, undoubtedly the shock of the fall into the Chasm and the sudden clawing hands of Taarí fiends. His clothes, most elegant of Bororian style, were torn and shredded; as was his skin, for deep cuts and gashes had been ripped across his limbs and torso. Ifferon could not endure the sight for long and was forced to look away.

“Belnavar,” Herr’Don said, shaking his head. He placed his hand, half reluctantly, upon Belnavar’s shoulder. “By the Light of Olagh and all things good, what has become of you?”

“It seems he took a little tumble into the Chasm and has now become carrion for the birds,” Aralus explained. “His mouth is mangled, but perhaps his ghost will tell a tale or two.”

Délin glowered at him, but Aralus did not baulk. Herr’Don was too lost in his sorrow to take much heed of the man, but Ifferon feared that the prince might feed anger with his grief and not hold back.

Yet Ifferon’s thoughts were quickly replaced by another concern. “I thought he was with Teron?” he asked.

“Aye,” Herr’Don said. “I bid him reclaim Larksong and then come here to Telarym. Would that I had not made such a request.”

Délin placed his gauntleted hand upon Herr’Don’s shoulder. “Do not blame yourself for this dark day, for the sun will shine not by Man’s command but that of the Céalari, who we know so little of, and who, I deem, join us now in mourning.”

Ifferon still mused about the head-cleric, the man who had hindered his studies and hounded his footsteps for ten years. Despite the distrust that had grown inside him, a part of him was sorrowful that Teron might have met a similar grim end.

But Herr’Don was not concerned about Teron or what might have become of him in the Chasm that had claimed his friend. “This wounds me deeply,” he said, “and Herr’Don the Great does not wound easily. Nor, indeed, does Belnavar the Braveheart. Valiant and vicious he was in life, ever a sight to behold in battle and the quiet of battle’s aftermath. But now ... now I can barely set my eyes upon him. This is an evil day, a day of devils! The closer we get to Nahragor, the more torment and turmoil engulfs us, as if our very stepping into Telarym was a step down the ladder of doom. It was bane to cross the Issar Chammas!”

“I knew Belnavar less personally than you,” Délin said. “But strongly do I feel this loss, and not merely for the loss of a good man I would call a friend. No, it is the loss of a good man that I would call a friend of all good people here in Iraldas. It troubles me greatly to see men of such strength and valour in such an awful state in such a dismal place.”

“Well, at least it’s not Yavün,” Aralus said. “Right?”

“A life cannot be traded for another,” Délin said. “We cannot say ‘better one than the other’ when neither were better in life, and none of us are better in death.”

“Pardon me for trying to cheer you up then! Here you all were screaming and shouting ‘Yavün! Yavün! Oh, Olagh save me, don’t be Yavün!’ And now that it’s not him, you get all grumpy and moody? Then fine, if we can’t search for the comfortable, let’s search for the truth. Yavün was mauled by the Taarí, sliced his head open on the river bed, tore his limbs off on the rocks, spilled his blood upon the river’s edge, and is now making a rather fitting dinner for a family of crows who haven’t feasted on a stableboy in years. Is that a better tale to tell of him?”

Thalla gave a horrified scream, turning to tears and fleeing from the group. Délin followed her, fearful that she might run into danger or might, in the moment of torment, do herself some evil mischief. Herr’Don would have ran after her as well, but there was also the threat that he would do himself harm, it seemed, for sorrow had gripped him tight.

“You have a wicked way with words, Aralus,” Elithéa snapped. “You sicken me. I hope you all realise his nature now, if you were not wise to it before.”

“I’m not the one trying to steal an evil moment for my own ends,” Aralus said. “I would not use the death of Herr’Don’s friend to prove the iniquity of your heart. Speak of sickness all you will, but speak it of yourself.”

*  *  *

Ifferon and Elithéa searched for Yavün and Teron in the vicinity, rummaging through bushes and braving the waters of the Soldím once again. Every leaf and stone was overturned, but they returned fruitless. They found that Herr’Don and Aralus had dug a grave for Belnavar and buried his body there, though many feet away from the river’s edge where he was found. Still the smell of rotting flesh filled their nostrils, but they tried to keep their composure. They stood around the grave mound in an unpleasant silence.

After a time the quiet was broken by Herr’Don’s voice, worn and wavering:

Belnavar! Dear Belnavar!

What has become of you?

Last I looked upon your face,

It was fair and it was true.

Why does the wind speak ill

Of how you met your fate?

We made a pact to meet you here,

And now you meet us late.

Thus ended the verbal elegy, though grief still lived in the depths of their bones for some time to come. They parted from the knoll where Belnavar had been laid to rest, thenceforth called Amrenan Adelis, the Mound of Mourning, in the tongue of Old Arlinaic. The name was not merely to mark the place of the fall of Belnavar, but where all the company were marred with sadness, knowing that they must leave their search for Yavün and Teron behind, fearing that they too had joined the warrior in death.

“There is little else we can do,” Délin said softly. “Would that we could find their bodies and honour their deaths, but we may be searching for days, if e’er we found them at all. We cannot bury them, but let us not bury our quest in their stead. Let not their death be the death of our journey, for Agon would have it all in vain.”

They knew his words were true, and so they gave a solemn nod of acceptance. The dirge was done, and all that was left was a penitent silence.

*  *  *

The day passed slowly, so much so that some of the company almost appealed for the dark of night, for then they might rest and appease their sorrows in the realm of dream. But that did not yet come, and many miles passed before they came unto the Plains of Eridúl, though they seldom knew it, for the land had changed ever so subtly over the course of many leagues. Now the land was flat, opening out in a vast expanse that spanned unto the horizon. Dim shapes of remote rocks or isolated bands of trees could be seen far off in the distance, but they meant nothing to the travellers, for there was nothing in their vicinity.

Just as they began to fall into a dullness of mind, trudging endlessly across the land, Elithéa stopped them, raising her golden hand. “This is very odd indeed,” she said, and she stooped so that she could see closely the little tufts of grass that grew here and there on the plain.

“What do you see?” Délin asked, stepping up and kneeling down to join her. His armour made a clang as he bent down, and she looked at him harshly.

“Less now that you have knelt within my light,” she replied, “and less again now that you have knelt upon the very things I was looking at.”

The knight raised an eyebrow and slowly repositioned himself on the grass. The others came to join him, though they did not draw close, for fear of being admonished by the Ferian.

“A knight indeed,” Aralus said as he hunched down beside them. “To date I’ve seen more scolding of the Trueblade than the other way ‘round.”

“Silence, serpent,” Elithéa said, and she turned her intent gaze toward the others. Then her voice grew hush, as if she were about to tell some secret to the huddled company that only their ears must hear. “These are waylays.”

“Waylays?” Délin quizzed.

“Ferian-feet,” Ifferon explained. “Well, that is the local phrase in Boror.”

“And not quite an accurate one,” Elithéa said,  scorn in her tongue. “The waylays are not the feet of my kin but the footprints, and even then that speaks not the fullness of them, for they are marks that may be left without the press of foot.”

“Oh, I do love a riddle,” Aralus said. “Speak on!”

“If you look closely,” the Ferian said, pointing to a bunch of tiny crushed flowers hidden amidst the grass, “you will see that the land is alive here where naught should grow so fair. Here is súrithel, which Man might call starfire,” and she picked a strange many-petalled flower, yellow in the centre, with a wiry red weed that grew in tufts upon its stem. She held it not for long, for it was warm to the touch. “And here, the lellanel, the longbell, which is found seldom outside Ferian lands.” She held a thin blue flower with a large stem and a long, slender bell-shaped crown, drooping with the weight. As she picked it there was a tiny twinkle in the air, as if there was a tiny bell ringing.

“Best not announce ourselves,” Aralus said. “I’d hate to die for a flower.”

“There shall be no need,” Elithéa responded. “For these alone are announcement enough. They are left by the feet of Ferian, for it has long been known that wherever a Ferian goes, there shall blossom a fruitful field. Telarym needs this, there is no doubt, but its time has not yet come, and all this serves is to declare that many Ferian have come through here.”

“Many?” Herr’Don asked. “Why?”

“I know not the reason, but I know near the number, for there are none who can leave no mark upon the land that some of keener sight can see. Light is our step, yet not light enough to evade the sight of one who knows the signs. A large number passed this way from the west. It is great wonder that we did not encounter them, for my guess is that they came past the Peak of the Wolf not many days ago, though perhaps they took the southernmost road. It is an even greater wonder that they come here at all, for I was sent as Éalgarth to Telarym to espy what I could, and the Matriarchate in Westhaven would do naught without the counsel of my observations. That, however, is not the greatest wonder.”

“What is?” Ifferon questioned. All drew close with curiosity, as equally baffled as the next, wondering if even Elithéa could solve the riddle she had told.

“I know the number that came by from subtle marks upon the ground and grass, and I doubt not my guess. But the waylays are not of this number, for there are too few, from perhaps one or two Ferian, and what puzzles me most is that they should not be here at all, for they are a product of Low Age, and we outgrow them as we come unto High Age, where they become faint and we learn to control what little is left upon the land. For us Ferian, of the Éalgarth especially, know the danger that waylays leave, for where is secrecy and stealth when flowers and trees sprout up about one’s feet?

“But hearken! I know not the answer to this mystery, but whatever the reason, the waylays are dangerous, for they are like breadcrumbs to the evil things that hunt our steps.”

*  *  *

They continued on, following the winding trail of strange growth, but soon they came close to a small forest, which, although seemingly new in life, had grown vast and thick, with curling branches, twisting and winding their way upwards in a brave protest toward the lifeless sky. This was one of the tiny specks they had seen on the horizon, yet up close it was wide and tall, and it was still growing, subtly expanding into the emptiness of the Plains. The life that bloomed there was small comfort to the strangeness of this sudden growth.

“Have forests sprung from the footprints of Ferian like this?” Délin asked, peering into the gloom of the trees. “This seems too good a sign to be true, for life to grow sudden in the wastes of Telarym. My heart longs for this beauty.”

“It is uncommon,” Elithéa said. “I have not seen or heard it happening in these days, but there are songs about it in the Age of Galar Pelassú long ago, when Ferian and Al-Ferian were one, and the land was young and strong. But this is strange to me, and I am reluctant to welcome it, for I know not its source.”

“Worry not!” Herr’Don said. “For no tree is mighty enough to hold back the Great. Let us test this New-wood, which I deem shall be its name from now on.”

“If now leads to on,” Aralus said, “and not to Halés.”

“Even in Halés my voice shall speak undaunted,” Herr’Don replied.

And thus they passed under the boughs of the New-wood, and it was dark within, where the canopy of the trees acted as a second veil to the one within the sky. They clambered through, for only Elithéa could see through the dim, and the roots and branches tangled here and there like the webs of great spiders, catching the company and slowing their advance. The very touch of the wood was unusual, for it caused a little shock within them, as if the sap of these trees was lightning.

They came out from the blindness of the trees soon enough, for it was, as Elithéa had guessed, not very thick, and when their eyes had been graced again with the dim light of the Telarym sky they stopped in shock.

Sprawled about the Plain were dead bodies, hundreds of them, their heads and arms cleaved off, their armour dinted, their bodies bearing the countless poisoned arrows of Nahlin hordes. Blood leaked and lingered there in crawling patterns, like little webs of their own, trapping crows and other carrion-birds. And there, further up, was a young boy of seven years or less, sitting silently on a rock. His head was buried in his hands, and, by the looks of him, he was of Al-Ferian lineage, though there was something strange about his attire, and of that of the countless dead around him. An ominous note was upon the air, like the echo of battle, and it lingered there with the threat of more to come.

“On the earth’s poor soul, what evil did this?” Elithéa cried. But there came no answer. Blood dripped silently and singed the grass, and the intricately designed helmets of the guards lay in piles, while sword and bow alike were strewn unevenly as they fell. The boy did not stir.

“I hold much distrust of the Al-Ferian, but this ... this is too horrid a sight for me to wish upon anyone,” Elithéa said. “We Éalgarth, at least, pay some honour to those we kill.”

“But you did wish it, did you not?” Aralus said. “By damning me and those who would harbour my kind.”

“You are not Al-Ferian, you beast! And those who would harbour your kind would not be venturing here in such numbers, and would never bring one of Low Age.”

Délin noticed the boy now, for shock had numbed him, and he ran through the maze of bodies towards the child. The boy did not flinch, nor did he look up with weeping eyes. He sat frozen, as if some creature had cast a spell upon him. Ifferon followed Délin, though slowly, for fear of disturbing the dead.

“Are you well, child?” Délin asked.

There was no reply, no movement, no rumour of acknowledgement. It was as if this was the crossing of two worlds, and the boy was but a shadow of one, while they were less than shadows in the other. Silence hung on a gibbet made of air, suspended by some astral hand, the pawn of a god too lofty to comprehend. Ifferon was unsettled by it, for he knew well that it, like the boy, did not belong there, though why he could not say. The silence felt like the anticipation of a primal scream.

“Are you well?” Délin repeated, kneeling down before the boy, the sound of leather and steel tearing against the stillness. The scabbard of his sword struck the ground as he knelt. The air shifted subtly, as if the dead had been woken by the noise.

“He most likely murdered all of these guards,” Aralus suggested. “So I’m assuming he isn’t well, Délin. Of course, you may come to your own conclusions.”

“Silence your foul tongue, Aralus, or I will silence it for you!” Elithéa screamed, and she raised her dagger towards his neck. “Your words are tainted and should not be uttered even in the very chambers of Nahragor.”

Aralus grabbed the blade with his hands, for it bore into the crevice of his throat. “If the boy did not do it, then perhaps it was done by Nahliners? But tell me, dear Elly, why would they kill all these guards and leave the boy alive? They are not known for mercy. Now, would you like to remove your knife from my throat? You have had your say. Will you have my blood as well? Perhaps you wish to show this boy what real murder is?”

Elithéa grudgingly lowered her weapon, but her eyes bore through him deeper than a dagger could. She turned to join the others, approaching the boy cautiously, for they all feared that there might be some truth in Aralus’ words.

“Look, he bears some strange device,” Délin observed. He lifted up a pendant that hung about the boy’s neck; it was golden, with red and blue gems buried deep within it. From the necklace hung a small plate of gold, oval in shape, and carved within it was a word in the Ferian style of hand.

“And so the dog wears a collar,” Aralus said, drawing up beside them.

“What is that word?” Délin asked.

“Théos,” Elithéa said, reading the script.

“His name?”

“Perhaps. It means ‘host’ in our tongue.”

“We shall call him Théos then,” the knight said, “until we know better.”

“Oh, how sweet,” Aralus said. “Now that we’ve named the pup, who wants to teach him how to walk?”

“He does not move,” Délin said. “This worries me, for even shock could be shaken off in time, and from my knowledge of battle it seems that these bodies have been here for many days, for decay is upon them. Indeed, it is as if this boy’s body is in this world, but his spirit is elsewhere.”

“His clothes are Al-Ferian,” Elithéa pointed out, “and yet there is something odd about them. They are so finely woven that it leads me to believe these guards were to protect him—though why they were slaughtered and he yet lives evades me.”

“I’ll give you my theory,” Aralus said.

“You’ll give nothing but half-truths and lies,” Elithéa snapped.

“Oh, now! Aren’t you a vicious one with vicious words, dear Elly, and you accuse me of being the viper? Cast your stones against a mirror and do us all a favour by it!”

“Enough of this,” Délin said. “Petty squabbles can be saved for another time more fitting. We have a child to deal with, not just the childish behaviour of people who should know better.”

“I would tell you my way to deal with this child,” Aralus said, “but I doubt I’d have my tongue by the end of the sentence.”

“A sentence for a sentence,” Elithéa said, “and your sentence shall be death.”

“Why, yes, that was going to be my suggestion, dear! I’m glad you agree we should kill the child with all haste and be off on our merry way.”

“I said enough of this!” Délin shouted, “or there really will be death to deal here, and it will not be this child. Heaven forbid that notion, and wisdom forbid the mention of it in a foot of my hearing again.”

“What then do we do?” Ifferon asked. While death was clearly not an option, he feared this child, though there was no obvious logic to that fear. The ominous anticipation still clung to him as if it were a morning dew, yet it hinted at a night of darkness never seen before in Iraldas.

“Leave him here,” Aralus said. “He will be an undue burden. Let the Al-Ferian send scouts to recover him.”

“Leave him here?” Ifferon questioned. “You cannot be serious.”

“He is but a lamb,” Délin said. “No man of honour would leave a lamb in the land of wolves and think he had taken the better choice.”

“The better choice was death,” Aralus reminded them, nodding towards Elithéa as if it were her idea.

“Then you are a wolf no different than the rest,” Délin said.

“Play the role of honour all you will, knight, but wisdom trumps honour, and wisdom suggests we leave this strange happening to the fate of the Céalari, while we carry out the fate of Man as we dictate.”

“For once, I agree with the hooded scoundrel,” Elithéa said, clenching her teeth. “Though I suspect not for the same reasons. If we bring him, he will bring us to oblivion, for he cannot control his waylays. We cannot afford to spring trees in such an empty place so close to the heart of evil and think that none will notice.”

“Then I will carry him,” Délin said. “As long as need be, but I refuse to leave him here. What manner of evil could beseech him here in the emptiness? Already he has seen much darkness, and I will not leave him here to encounter more.”

“And where do you think we’re going?” Herr’Don asked. “We’re not going to tend the gardens and mend the fences! We’re heading towards the Black Bastion. He has already seen much darkness, as you said, so why bring him there to see more?”

“It seems that I am beseeched on all sides on this matter,” Délin said. “Has honour departed from you all?”

“Not all,” Thalla said. “We lost two friends already, and we lost them by some evil fate. My heart would altogether crumble to know that we left another, an innocent child, to the mauling hands of that same fate.”

“And mine, Thalla,” the knight said. “I cannot leave him here, nor can I send him alone to Arlin or Boror. Sending him back to the Al-Ferian lands is no option either, for the Vigil of Tol-Úmari would find him swiftly.”

“I agree,” Ifferon said. “We cannot leave him here like a beacon to beasts. Perhaps the Garigút will offer him sanctuary. They are often kind to those outside their kin.”

“Then bring him!” Elithéa snapped. “But your arms better not tire, knight, for I will not have death on our trail, a trail of Al-Ferian waylays. Our mission must go ahead as planned, with no delays. I would see the Siege of Nahragor ere long, and my patience is waning. Time has already eluded us, and if this is what’s left of such a large Al-Ferian group, then the Matriarchate will want news of the Black Bastion itself.”

“I have carried many fallen comrades over long distances, and their weight was greater than a child,” Délin said. “My strength will not fail me, nor my will to see this mission through. If aught were to fail, it is the honour of some that I walk with.” He glared at Aralus.

“Aye, well said, Trueblade, well said!” Herr’Don said, nodding intently. “One road or another, we will come to Nahragor, and we will knock at the Gate until a clangour reaches down to the Halls of Halés itself! And now, let us get onto one road, or we will be stuck admiring the lofty Herr’Don and whence he gets these brilliant speeches. Sally forth, no matter where ‘forth’ may lay!”

Délin pulled the scabbard of his longsword around to his back, until it struck the case of his two-handed sword. Then he extended his hand and gently nudged the boy’s head up. Théos did not resist, nor seem to even notice that they were there. Beneath his green headband, intricately adorned with strange heraldry and elaborate leaf motifs, were frozen grey eyes, as solemn and downcast as the clouded sky. He was Al-Ferian, without doubt, and yet he seemed even foreign to their race.

Délin wrapped his arm around the boy’s waist while using the other to keep his balance, for his armour and weapons were heavy. He pressed against a rock to push himself up, cradling the boy as if he were some treasure of Arlin.

“To Nahragor then,” Délin said, hauling Théos up and over his shoulder. “Let us hope the Garigút have built dwellings, for I would not bring this child to battle.”

“Let us hope he does not bring battle to us,” Elithéa said, and her words lived on like an omen in their minds.

*  *  *

The group set out again, their number restored, though none of them wished to have this strange Al-Ferian boy in place of Yavün, who seemed more playful in his life than Théos was while now still young.

The child consumed all of Délin’s thought. He carried Théos over his shoulder as if he were a sack of meal, but at times he placed the boy upon the ground to rest, and to take his helm from his head and wipe his brow upon his sleeve. Then he would see anew the strangeness of the boy’s appearance. His hair was long and golden, straight upon his crown and curled towards the back of his head, where it seemed to grow wild. It also fell in great thickets upon his brow, with one or two large curls slipping into his eyes, and his ears were buried so that they were only seen when a fierce wind set his hair askew. It seemed that the boy’s hair was of a strange make, for at times it looked like grass, some strands dancing in the breeze like light, fair pasture, and others appearing like coarse hay, dry and brittle in the sunlight. On many occasions Délin thought that a piece of grass or hay had caught in the boy’s hair, and thus he tried to remove it before quickly ceasing when the boy yelped as a strand of his hair was plucked from his head.

But his hair, tucked into the complex headband, was not the strangest thing about him. His complexion was at once pale and golden, and to look upon him was as if staring through a translucent yellow glass upon a bed of whitest snow. Délin was familiar with the golden skin tone of the Ferian, but it was said that the Al-Ferian were of a darker shade, not lighter. Indeed, it seemed to the knight that the pallid look upon the boy’s face was an expression of some inner hurt, as if the very colour of him had been stolen or had leaked from some recent wound. His eyes were grey with blue speckled throughout, and they bore the sadness of aeons, like the memory of the breaking of the world.

“Why do you have those queer markings upon your face?” the knight asked the boy when he had set him down for the fourth time. Théos bore curled designs on his forehead, cheeks and chin, like the warpaint of the Garigút. The boy did not respond to Délin and the knight could not tell if he was frightened or simply did not understand his language.

“I was wondering that myself,” Elithéa said. She seemed to have taken special interest in this child, and how Délin interacted with him. She walked to the side of them, listening intently and offering a word or two when called for. “The Al-Ferian sometimes like to mar the body,” she told him, “but it usually only occurs in two groups of people: the Priests and the Pariahs. The former claim some nonsense about sigils protecting the body, either from the danger without or the danger within, and they devise all manner of elaborate ceremony for the carving of ink into the flesh. The latter group learned their trade from the former, but they mar the body out of open defiance of the Priests and the Matriarchate. I cannot imagine that this child belongs to the latter, unless the Pariahs have become even fouler and have started corrupting their young. And to the former I cannot truly appoint him either, for what is one of Low Age to the Priests of Alimror?”

“I cannot guess,” Délin said. “But it seems that the Al-Ferian valued him somehow, for there would not have been such an escort if he were not important. Ah, but there is the riddle, for why is the escort slain and not that which is escorted? A queer conundrum that I am at once eager to solve and loath of deciphering.”

*  *  *

“I cannot bear this,” Herr’Don said as they left the enclosing.

“I know,” Aralus responded. “It is folly.”

“It is much more than that.”

“I am guessing you do not like children,” Aralus said, holding out his hand as if to remind Herr’Don of how small they were. “Do not worry overmuch, for I do not like them either. They are too great a burden for one like me to bear. We must be nimble, not weighed down with such worries. And look at how it clouds the judgement of a knight. I know his virtues insist it, but it is an avoidable folly.”

“You are a callous man,” Thalla said as she passed them by. She spoke as if applying it to both of them, but did not wait for their replies. She walked briskly ahead, an indignant stride.

“Your girl seems to be getting a little out of hand,” Aralus said, laughing.

“She is not my girl,” Herr’Don replied.

“I thought ...”

“Those days are long gone now, it seems.”

“She broke your heart?”

“She tore it out with a dagger. I wish she knew what that felt like.”

Aralus looked at her and licked his lips. “A dagger,” he whispered to himself. He turned back to Herr’Don. “Who was the thief, the one who stole her heart from you?”

“A youth,” Herr’Don said, shaking his head as if to rattle the memory from him. “A youth!”

“I hope you did what is done to all thieves in Boror,” Aralus said. “I hope you removed his fingers for touching your property.”

“No,” Herr’Don said. “But that was not needed. It was Yavün. He drowned in the Chasm back yon.”

“Ah, so a happy ending after all!” Aralus said, laughing and clapping his hands. “And good riddance, eh? I am glad that he is dead, Herr’Don. I do not like seeing good men like you with the ill fortune that should belong to lesser folk.”

*  *  *

Délin set the boy down to walk for a bit, resulting in many stern glances from the harsh hawk eyes of Elithéa. But the knight worried little, for he could not see any waylays left by Théos, and if they were there, hidden amidst the brush, he wondered how any creature of Telarym or Nahlin would spot them in the gloom. He removed his helmet and held it by his side, and soon Théos became enraptured by it, for it glinted in the pallid light and held many strange symbols and adornments that caught the child’s eye. Thus the boy held the helmet as a toy, and he was struck with wonder, turning it this way and that, yet struggling all the while, for it was heavy and cumbersome to him. He placed it on his head and peered up at the knight from the eye-slits, and Délin thought he saw a subtle smile within those eyes. While he wore the helm Théos looked like a puppet with a swollen metal head, stumbling and fumbling about while the audience clapped and laughed, as was custom in the Jester-halls of Madenahan. But there was no one clapping or laughing, for many were silently worried about the latest member of their group. A young and innocent child was all he was, perhaps, but the thought that there was a wolf beneath the sheep’s clothing was ever present in their minds.

“Do you think he might have killed the guards?” Thalla whispered to Ifferon. “I know Aralus mentioned it, but I think he was joking. I ... I am not really sure. It just ... Something does not seem right. Maybe he did not mean it. Maybe he is like an Aelora child or something, magic leaking here and there, like the waylays Elithéa was talking about. Maybe he got upset and the emotion triggered something, something bad.”

“I do not think so,” Ifferon said. “At least, I hope not. If that were so, then we are in more danger than we think. Ever present is the threat of evil from without, but I do not think many of us have given much thought to the evil that might lie within.”

Yet for Ifferon that was a constant, nagging thought.

*  *  *

Night drew in with the drawing of each breath and the striding of each leg. It was not long before it had caught up with them, turning the land to darkness once again. The night air was humid and clammy, and the blackness was oppressing; soon they yearned for the dimness of Telarym day, for night on the Plains was bleak and blinding.

The company toiled forth a little further, for there was no cover for rest, but as soon as they came to a ridge of small, starved trees, they stopped and made camp. There the clouds broke as they began their supper, and the moon came out, beaming down on them with a kindly face.

“Uldarus is out tonight,” Délin said. “Praise and glory to her!”

“Even in less dim places I find much comfort in the moon,” Ifferon said. He basked in her glorious rays, which seemed like the potency of the sun in the midst of darkness.

“I know a verse about the moon,” Aralus said, sitting up. “Perhaps your boy would like to hear it, Délin? It is a tale about a boy who makes a new friend. I’m sure Théos would love it.”

“If it is a nice tale,” the knight said warily.

Aralus came out from the shadows and drew down his hood, exposing his greasy hair to the moonlight, where it gleamed and sparkled. He held his thin arm aloft, as if he were a bard, and then began his verse:

Namún set sight upon the glades

With caps of ice and roofs of snow;

He saw decline in arts and trades,

And withering on the soil below.

An image formed within his mind

Of all the things he could not find,

And all the things he did not know—

A war was brew with mental blades.

And so the boy looked at the moon

With eyes of tears and silent hope.

The sky looked down on fair Namún,

And on the gentle rising slope

On which he sat in silent prayer,

Whispering thoughts into the air.

On one side fell a silver rope;

A lady stood with flowing tune.

Her face was calm and voice was just;

A chorus rang into the skies.

“We can do only what we must,”

She spoke to him words of the wise.

“Lo! I can sing the hills to sleep,

Or wake them from a slumber deep—

Look now upon this molten guise,

Upon this mount which you can trust.”

The land about began to shake,

And largest rock was smallest stone;

The shadow crumbled with the quake,

And Namún sat there not alone,

For to his right a mountain stood

On stony limbs of greyest blood,

And all was not as once was shown—

Those sleeping hills were now awake.

“A Mountain Moln with golden heart,”

The lady said with tender voice.

“No longer shall you walk apart

From fairest earth, as was your choice.

A child of stone may you befriend,

And with him help the darkness mend.

May cheeks be red, may you rejoice,

For this is joy, my greatest art.”

The lady returned to the moon,

Now with a ripe and gleeful smile,

And all looked well for young Namún,

And his new friend, the mountain isle.

A fortnight and a day they played;

Beneath the moonlit night they stayed.

There were no lies or darkly guile,

But troubled thoughts were with Namún.

That night was full of darkest dreams

Where horror struck his little heart—

He heard a bout of stony screams,

But could not from his dream depart.

When he awoke he searched about;

“Where are you?” he began to shout.

The Mountain Moln was strewn apart

From singing from the stars, it seems.

“That is hardly apt,” Délin said sternly. “I think you are missing a verse.” And so he added a verse of his own to change the cheerless tone of the piece:

But darkness did not take him then;

He knew the Mountain Moln had gone

Back to the earth, its nightly den,

And would be with him once anon.

The dark would lift for young Namún;

The Mountain Moln would be there soon,

A friend, a rock to lean upon,

And he would know that joy again.

“I warrant that is the true ending,” the knight said. “Sometimes a verse is dropped when a story is passed from one to another.”

“I doubt it,” Aralus said. “I knew the man who wrote it. From the horse’s mouth, as it were, and he did not neigh like you, I assure you. The Mountain Moln was strewn apart. I remember it well.”

“Your memory has obviously failed you, Aralus,” Délin snapped. “I remember the Tale of Namôn with the verse I added, and I remember it well, for it was a tale that originated in Bardahan in Boror.”

“But you are not from Boror, are you, Délin? I, however, am.”

“And you have been in Alimror for near all your life, so perhaps your memory of the tales of Boror have failed you.”

“Well,” Aralus said, gesturing dismissively in Délin’s direction, “you are much older than I, so if someone’s memory was to fail, I think it would be yours.”

“Or mine,” Ifferon said to lighten the mood. “I am getting on in years as much as anyone.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Aralus replied. “You are a withered sort, by look and sound.”

“Aralus has the eldest tongue,” Elithéa said, “for he ne’er stops using it.”

Herr’Don clapped and laughed. “I was beginning to think Aralus was attempting to upstage even I when it comes to the art of the verb.”

“That would be a mighty feat!” Ifferon said, smiling.

*  *  *

The night grew old and the stars grew dim. The fire waned, and with it went the conversation, which had degenerated from tense words to tense silence. Harsh glares and cautious glances were exchanged between opposing parties, as were knowing looks of understanding between the onlookers, who felt the tension just as strongly as the rest.

Thalla retired to bed, curling up beside the dwindling fire, and Ifferon began to doze against the great trunk of a willow tree, which, while sparse in foliage, gave a canopy of cover from the bleak, black sky. Elithéa stood at the outskirts like a stone sentinel, gazing intently at the horizon, where, no doubt, her thoughts wandered further still. Herr’Don, who was suffering from sleeplessness, took to polishing and sharpening his sword and cleaning his boots, soothed by the repetition and the thoughts of a job well done.

Délin sat with Théos on the other side of the fire, watching the boy protectively with one eye as he curled up like a cub, hugging the helm that Délin had given him. His other eye was fixed on Aralus, who sat across from Ifferon, resting against a smaller tree, an ash which had lost all its leaves. Aralus kept his hood up, the features of his face buried deep within its shadow, so Délin did not know if Aralus was staring back.

When Délin was sure that Théos was sound asleep, that Elithéa was still gazing across the plains, and that Herr’Don was still cleaning his boots, he came to Aralus and brought him aside.

“If you make a ploy like that again I will kill you,” he threatened, aware of the wrath that welled in his voice.

“It is just a game, Délin. Do not be so sour and solemn. It gives you wrinkles in your face and dents in your armour.”

“I have no time for your games, Aralus! They are as witless as your head and as sour as my mood, and I warn you that I will not tolerate them for long. Try me and you will see what anger is like through the tip of my blade.”

“You should be careful with your threats,” Aralus said, and he seemed to extend from the shadow of his vesture like a beast on the prowl. “You never know what I might do while you sleep. To you. To your boy.”

Délin drew closer, pushing the man back against the tree, which shuddered from the force. “I warn you, Aralus, stay away from Théos and I!”

“What’s going on here?” Herr’Don asked, stepping forward with his newly cleaned boots.

Délin turned and glanced at the prince, then glared back at Aralus before turning and stomping off to where Théos slept.

*  *  *

“I thought you were cleaning your boots,” Aralus said, spitting upon the grass to his side as if it were the corpse of a certain knight.

“And they are clean,” Herr’Don said. “I was just testing them out.”

“So you can dirty them again?”

“Aye, something like that. But tell me—what was that all about? Don’t tell me you’re on his bad side.”

“He is on mine,” Aralus said. “Him and his false chivalry and valour.”

“Trueblade,” Herr’Don said. “It’s not merely a random title for him. I don’t think it is false.”

“Then you do not think clearly enough, because you are blinded by the glint of seeing your idol up close. He is too quick to deal out judgements, as if he were the only noble man around. Nobility! Ha! I warrant this knight has never tasted poverty or hardship. Look at his armour! It glints in the moonlight like a jewel—and I bet he has jewels, yes, hidden away in his mansion.”

“I have seen his abode. It is quite humble,” Herr’Don said. “But come, I did not know you had such contempt for nobility. Do you think ill of me also because I am a prince?”

“No, I think less ill of you,” Aralus said. “I know you were a mercenary for quite some time, since your father would not grant you your birthright to follow in his stead. Can you see it? How those people with power abandon the very people who keep them there? You should be king, Herr’Don, but right now your father has you wearing the title of prince like an afterthought, when you should be wearing his crown! He laughs at you, Herr’Don. He laughs at you as he gives his power to those who do not deserve it. These people are corrupt: kings, knights, all of them. I despise them all!”

Herr’Don was silent. The journey from Larksong had made him forget his troubles back at Ilokmaden Keep, where his father prepared a stranger to be his heir. The King’s Court had forgotten about Herr’Don, and there was no one there to call him by his title, or to call him by any name at all.

*  *  *

Dawn came swiftly over the hills that day, shunning night and casting the rays of day upon the Plains. The sun reared up from its slumber and stretched its arms across the land wide and far, bathing them in light and warmth. It was a stifling morning, and soon all of the company were awake, for their daylight dreams had been restless. They broke their fast quickly, eating what little they had or could gather from the sparse bushes nearby, for while the day came brightly, it did not cast the shadows from their hearts; more present than ever was their fear of eagle eyes, for the Plains were wide and open, and there was little place to hide.

Elithéa scouted ahead, and soon the makeshift thalgarth upon her back was all that could be seen, like a huge fan in the distance. Herr’Don and Aralus walked far ahead, discussing battles long fought and those not yet come, and how Boror had changed over the years, disintegrating to a tepid rule by Herr’Gal the Craven King. Délin and Théos strolled behind, the knight humming tales of old that were hummed to him when he was young. And Ifferon and Thalla strayed at the rear, talking about the missing member of their company.

“I chose him, and yet he was taken from me,” Thalla said, her voice faltering. “My choice was ill-made, it seems.”

“No,” Ifferon said. “Not if your heart did the choosing.”

“But they took him from me!” she cried, her body appearing on the brink of collapse. “They gave me love and then snatched it away.”

“They?” Ifferon asked. “The Céalari? No, they did not do anything. Did you fall in love with Yavün because the gods said so or because there was something in him to fall in love with? Did he die because the gods willed it or because the Taarí did? Many of us will think naught of the gods in good times, and yet will cry Beast! and Devil! in the bad. Why not reclaim lost potency by the realisation that our fate, however doomed, is still guided by our own hands?”

“I guess,” Thalla said, wiping her eyes.

“I am no knight or prince, nor am I a Magus or Ardúnar, but I am a Son of Telm, and while such is claimed for me by bloodline, I say to you this: we are all Children of Telm in our own right, and we but need realise this in order to actualise our potential as sons and daughters of the gods, as the rightful heirs of the All-father.”

“You are an inspiration,” Thalla said. “I see now what Yavün saw in you, why he followed you around the monastery ere your chance meeting. Chance! Ah no, it was not so. It was willed, and I am glad that he came with you, or I would not have met him. Yet, if he had not come, he would not have met his end like this.”

“No, but he would have met it all the sooner, for it would have been unlikely that he would have escaped Larksong were it not for Herr’Don, who had come to find me. Perhaps our unlikely meeting was designed to give him the longer stay of life. And he yet lives, does he not? He lives on in our hearts and in our memories, and also in spirit in the Halls of Halés.”

“Yes,” she replied, nodding slowly. “I guess he does. But Herr’Don ...” She paused, as if the name was hard to say, as if there was some hurt in each syllable. “How ill he must feel toward me now. He did so much for me, and for all people ... for you, for Yavün. If it was so that he rescued you both from Larksong, then he must rue that he did not rescue you alone, for did he not then fate my meeting Yavün? But, in truth, it is not Yavün’s death alone that scathes me. I am still raw for another.”

“I can see that you still weep for Melgalés,” Ifferon said, and new tears formed in her eyes at the mention of his name. “I did not know him, but I could see that his passing was grievous. He gave his life for the sanctity of our own, and I will not forget that. He is truly a great martyr, and his name should be held in honour, sung aloft in the great songs of the troubles of our times. But tell me something: how well did you know him? I thought a Master Magus and his apprentice were not supposed to know each other well ere their work, and, indeed, I thought only men took that profession. Where is my knowledge wrong?”

“It is not wrong,” Thalla told him. “We broke the rules. Perhaps that is why this has not worked, why he has, Ardúnar or not, been seized by death, and why a darkness looms over my life, like an oath ill-took, or doom ever-creeping. Such is the added weight of my woe, for he did not want me for an apprentice, but I forced him. Did I not then goad him on to his death, like a sword to the back of one who walks the plank?”

“Do not say that,” Ifferon said. “I have long blamed myself for the death of my parents, and such was not so. I was robbed of them, but then to salt the wound, I robbed myself of innocence, for blame ever dogged me then. You did not kill Melgalés, and you could not have foreseen these events. These are dark times, where evil looks to plant the seeds of self-doubt in the hearts and minds of the good.”

“Again you inspire and reassure,” she replied, and she almost smiled for a moment, as if the weights that hung about her mouth, forcing her to frown, were lifted. “I like the idea that we are all Children of Telm. I cannot wield his sword, nor speak aloud the Last Words, as you can, for his blood does not run in my veins. But it is comforting, and I feel less gloom to think that Yavün is a Child of Telm in spirit if not in blood. For is there not a Hall reserved for the children of the Céalari, where they are honoured and revered?”

“Yes, there is a legend of such a Hall, and the people who are admitted may choose those whom they love to come with them, whether they are god-children or not. And so perhaps you will see him again some time. Perhaps you will meet once more in the Halls of Halés when the time is come.”

“That would be nice,” she said. “When the time is come.”

“Now, tell me, Thalla, what is it that made Melgalés defy the rules of the Magi to admit you as his apprentice? Never before have I heard of such defiance.”

“That is a long tale,” she replied. “And I have not the heart to speak it all here.”

“Then tell me what you can,” Ifferon said, for his curiosity had awoken like a memory of his adventuring days.

“Have you never wondered about my name?” she asked.

“Thalla? No, it is common enough in Boror, is it not?”

“Thalla De’Hataramon,” she corrected.

“Ah,” Ifferon said. “Who has not heard of the House of Hataramon?”

“Exactly,” she said.

“Were your family the owners of that brothel? Would that not make you an Arlinian?”

“My family moved to Arlin to find their fortune. They did not find it. They never owned a house, never mind a whorehouse.”

“Then why do you have such a name?”

“Because I chose it,” she said. “But I only chose the name.”

“You do not mean ...?”

“My family sent me there when I was twelve. Old enough to work, they said. I did not know what type of work it was until they left me there. It was not good money, but my family earned enough to live that way. They had to do it, I guess, but I do not love them for it all the same.”

“That is terrible,” Ifferon said. “I ... I really do not know what to say.”

“No one does,” Thalla replied. “That is why I do not tell anyone.”

“Then why are you telling me?”

“Because you asked how it came to be that I became Melgalés’ apprentice. He saved my life. He saved me from the House of Hataramon. You see, he is a wandering sort—never stays in the same place too long. He knocked on the door of the brothel in Mariar one day looking for a room. He did not know it was a brothel, and he was disgusted when he found out. He offered Hataramon a lot of gold to buy all the girls off him, because you could never be freed—you had to be bought. But it was not really gold he gave him—it was coal with some enchantment upon it. I am sure Hataramon was not very happy about that. But see, Melgalés gave all the girls some real gold and told us to go, but we did not understand. He bought us, we thought. He was our master. When we realised he did not want us, we were confused, lost. Some of the girls went home, if they were still welcome there. I did not. I followed Melgalés for days, like a stray dog looking for scraps from a noble. He kept telling me to go away, and oft he would disappear in the smog of the city. But I would not stop until I found him. I asked people, bought directions and listened to rumours of a wandering Magus. Eventually I found him again, staying in a little cottage just outside of town. He was busy with all his potions and books and other oddities that seemed like toys to my childish eyes. I wanted to be a Magus. I asked him if I could be his apprentice, but he did not want one, and he certainly would not have a girl if he did. But that did not stop me. I stole one of his books and started to learn some magic on my own. One day I knocked at his door with a phantom hand and sneaked into his house to show him what I learned. He was proud, but not exactly happy. He told me that using magic without a Beldarian would kill me. He understood then that he had to train me or I would destroy myself with magic trying to please him. That is how I became his apprentice.”

“That is amazing,” Ifferon said after a moment of silence. “And so you chose to keep the name of Hataramon to remind you of this.”

“Yes, to remind me of where I came from. I cannot really forget that place, and I always wish that it never happened, that I was never there. But you see, it made me who I am today, so I need to remember that it is a part of my life. It made me strong.”

Silence came again like a lonely friend, and he sat with them for a time, still and quiet, listening to the soundless echoes of their conversation and the memories it triggered. Then weariness joined him, and they sat together in the midst of the company until all were consumed by the seduction of sleep.

They did not wake again until they heard the frenzied shouts of Herr’Don. “Hark!” he screamed. “Hark!”

XIV – A CALL TO ARMS

“Hark! Hark! The Garigút are nigh!” Herr’Don cried. He rushed to the top of the fallen tree trunk and cast his cloak back. “I have espied a scout!” He held his arm aloft, pointing to the east, where, in the distance, a small group of horsemen rode in haste.

The others arose and raced to the prince. They clambered upon the tree trunk and cast their gaze across the Plains.

“At last!” Herr’Don said. “Finally we are come upon some luck.”

“Sometimes the Lady Issarí is called the Lady of Luck,” Délin said, “and such it would seem, for with her blessing the Garigút yet live.”

Aralus placed his bony hand upon Herr’Don’s shoulder as he gazed at the advancing horsemen. “What if these are the last rag-tag survivors of the onslaught against Nahragor?” he asked.

“Then, at least, the Garigút, however small in number, have survived, and so may grow again in number ere the passing of the world,” Délin replied. “But I have hope for a fairer fate than that, for my heart is warmed, and I know that Issarí has given her blessing to the Garigút to pass easily o’er her old land, and so may they come and go to battle with haste on their heels and swiftness on their sword hands.”

They packed their things and sat in wait, watching the plumes of dust fly up beneath the galloping horses’ feet. Soon the Garigút were upon them, staying their steeds with a harsh pull of the reins. The horses whinnied and bucked, but the Garigút riders did not falter or fall, for they clung to the horses with broad legs of enormous strength. Their arms were also thick with muscle, yet weathered from a thousand winds, for they wore little in clothing, as was the custom of the riders, so as not to hinder their haste. Their skin was tanned and their faces were grim, etched with eternal frowns and dark, fell eyes. The leader of the group reared up towards them and looked upon them as if they were wild beasts that had strayed into a net.

“I am Galon,” he said, his voice gruff. He wore nothing upon his chest except a small medallion, with an ornate G in the centre of a beamed sun. The beams were curved like sickles, as if they would rotate, and it was said that they were used in their gambling games, and that the loser would be killed and his medallion would be worn by the victor. Those who wore many were feared. Ifferon shuddered as he noted six more medallions hanging from Galon’s belt.

“We have been searching the Plains for many days now,” Galon told them. “We have grown to fear that you would not come or that you met an ill fate on your march here.” Now the Garigút seemed less rough; his voice had calmed and his glare had softened.

“You were expecting us?” Ifferon asked.

“Yes, and long expecting. The Way-thane Geldirana sent us forth a week ago, for she said that a small party with great strength was expected. She bid us go swiftly and not come back until our quest was done. And so we travelled long and hard across the Plains, back and forth, and we grew weary, for there was naught to be seen. I was about to send instructions for us to ride back to the Way-thane with the ill news that we had not found you. But lo! Here you are, and there is great joy in my heart and relief in my soul, for the Way-thane would not be happy with the news, and bade us not return without you.”

“Has word then come forth from Oelinor?” Délin said.

“Oelinor? No, I do not know that name, or at least it was not mentioned to me ere my journey on the Plains began. Who is this Oelinor, and is he or she a friend or foe?”

“One of the Ardúnari, like Geldirana,” Herr’Don said.

“A friend,” Ifferon added. “He is the Warden of Oelinadal in Caelün.”

“Ah yes, the Aelora Ardúnar, I see,” Galon said, and it seemed that he had grown suddenly nervous; he bit his lip and furrowed his brow, and he looked over his shoulder as if self-conscious of the Garigút aides at his attendance. The standard-bearer looked towards his companions, and it was as if there were unspoken words of hatred in that glance.

“’Twould be best not to speak of that at present,” Galon said at last, and he drew his reins and turned about. “Come! We go to the Old Keep. Our armies have set up camp there where Telarym borders with the cursed land of Nahlin, and from there we shall lead our siege.”

“It has not yet begun?” Délin asked.

“Not in the force we plan, no,” Galon said. “But there have been small sorties and skirmishes upon the Plains and nigh unto the Valley of Shadow that dips into Nahragor. Many of our kind have grown impatient with the delay, but the Way-thane bid us wait until you arrived. She said she was given word that a secret weapon was on the way. I am a warrior at heart, but I am not foolish enough to think that this was a sword or mace, yet I will not meddle so much in the affairs of the Wardens to make guess what weapon they have devised.

“We have no horses to spare, but you will journey with us, one with each of my company, for we can afford no more delay. Indeed, it would matter little if we had spare steeds for you, for they would not bear you, and you would but cling to them as if they were the fleeting moments of your lives.”

They were bidden to climb upon the backs of the horses, who did not take kindly to them, despite many whispered assurances in the Bororian tongue from the Garigút riders. Ifferon went with Galon, for the Garigút said that he was specifically instructed to bring the cleric on his own horse, Rorast, and to ensure that he above all others would arrive safe and whole. The others rode behind whichever remaining Garigút riders would bear them. Many of the Garigút were obviously reluctant to take them, but they were not alone, for Elithéa would not ride upon a horse, or any animal yet within the domain of Éala, nor would she cling to the back of a Garigút man while her fair legs still worked. Thus she ran ahead of them as they galloped, yet frequently she fell behind when they invoked their unearthly speed.

*  *  *

As they rode discussion grew anew, and Ifferon was curious of the hushness that fell at each mention of the Wardens. “Why did you ask us not to speak of the Ardúnari?” he shouted against the wind.

“Our people are not happy with the decision to lay siege to Nahragor,” Galon called back, his long hair lashing against Ifferon’s face as they rode. “They follow the Way-thane in her orders, but do so grudgingly, for they know she does this as an Ardúnar, not a Garigút. We are setting our swords upon ourselves in this battle, for it is folly to assail the Black Bastion in such small numbers.”

Then the striking of hooves against harsh earth drowned out their voices, and the Garigút sped on once more as the tiny speck of Elithéa appeared in the distance behind them. “She is Ferian,” Galon said. “She will meet our pace in time.”

As the day evened out and the veil of night drew in, they arrived at the hillock that led to the Old Keep, carved into the mountainous crags of the Cliff-face of Idor-Rem, tall dark shafts of rock that drew up like spires and towers, the jagged teeth of a crooked god. They had slowed for the last few leagues of their journey when Idor-Rem came into view, for already they were under the vastness of its shadow. Soon they arrived before the gates of the Old Keep, the crumbling ruin of the kingdoms of old, and Elithéa came once more into view on the horizon behind them.

“So she comes,” Galon said. “Her weariness shall be her reward for refusing the hospitality of the Garigút. But I see that weariness has come upon you all, and let that be removed by the hospitality yet to come. The Old Keep is manned by Garigút now, and thus it is a haven in these lands of bleakness and despair.”

Many Garigút came from the fortress, younger and fairer, perhaps not yet come of age, but they were still dishevelled and unruly in clothing and face, as if the long years of travel had toiled them. They took the horses, bringing them to a makeshift stable just outside the Fort. A man of similar stature to Galon, tall and broad, came out and greeted them, crossing his arms and thumping his chest. “Welcome to the Aldragir, now Garigût Gwiragir. I am Geldon, and this shall be your home for the time to come, and from here shall we lead war upon the forces of Nahlin and siege upon the fort of Naragir, which you know more commonly as Nahragor.”

They were led to the ramp that rose into the depths of Idor-Rem. The Old Keep was carved deep into the Cliff-face, caged within its mountainous walls. It spanned thirteen levels, with a steep zig-zagging stair reaching all the way to the top. Its windows were round holes, and the corridors and rooms were little more than massive tunnels. Some called it a fortress, others a prison, but it was a relic of the time of the Elad Éni, the gods before the gods, and few dared make it their home.

“Your quarters for the night ahead will be ready ere long,” Geldon said, “but first you must attend a council with the Way-thane. She asks no delay.”

They were lead through a maze of tunnels to the throne room, which bore a pitted floor and a domed roof. To one side were two Garigút soldiers bearing golden totems with the familiar sun seal, and to the other was a plain wooden seat upon which sat a golden-haired lady in a slender red dress. Her glare was as the eyes of fire itself, the look of death before the burn, and many of the company felt that Elithéa’s stern glance was kindly in comparison. The Ferian woman now entered the Keep and stepped hard into the room.

“Late,” the Way-thane said. Her voice was severe. “Yet you are all late.”

Many bowed their heads, apologetic. Elithéa raised her chin in defiance, yet she could not conceal her heavy breathing.

“So you have come before me at last,” Geldirana continued. “Bedraggled and beaten, and diffident I see. Have the weathers been so cruel, or do you but weather with over-ease? I have been expecting you for some time, and it seems that you have tarried, and thus delayed my plans. Nahragor should be in the midst of fire and ruin now, but it yet stands.”

“That is not our fault,” Herr’Don responded. “And even if you had started the siege, I doubt that it would crumble as easily as you say.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” she said, turning her long, hard gaze upon him. She did not stir from her seat; her hands gripped the armrests of the chair like claws upon their prey. “I suppose you believe that it takes Herr’Gal’s troops to breech the walls of Nahragor? Do you think that it should be you, Herr’Don, to lead the armies against the Black Bastion?”

“I said naught of that,” Herr’Don replied.

“Yet you thought it, and think it still. We are not barbarians, Herr’Don, though ever your people call us by that name. Your father, in particular, has taken to calling us by many distasteful names, not least of all bêtalajal, the ‘less-of-home.’” She raised her right hand suddenly and they flinched. “And I say to you now that we are not without a home, for ever has Boror been that to us. We settle not in one place of the King Vale, for all of Boror is our house. We do not need a hut of bricks to know our place in the world, but it seems to me that the King needs a stern reminder to know his own.”

“He knows little of the Garigút ways,” Ifferon said. “He is forever stunted by his folly and blinded by his ignorance. Please, Geldirana Way-thane, grant him and us the pardon of the wise, the grace of the righteous, and the kindness of—”

“Ifferon, I did not permit you to speak,” she scolded, turning her fiery gaze upon him. It had been ten years since she looked upon him with those eyes, and the fire had grown wild in that time. Part of Ifferon wanted to run to her and embrace her like he did all those years ago, but another part warned him to stay away, lest he catch alight.

“Tell me, Ifferon,” she said, and the words were like embers. “After all you have done, and failed to do, why is it that I should grant you grace and kindness?”

The shroud of shame fell upon him, but it did not conceal him from Geldirana’s flame-filled stare. He grew scarlet, as if the burn had already set in, and he looked upon his companions and saw their awkward glances, for clearly they too could feel the atmosphere like a furnace.

Then Ifferon looked up. “Geldirana, you are fair and beautiful beyond measure. More splendid than the rays of the sun, more solemn than the beams of the moon, more intricate than the Aerbateros of the Aelora, and more elegant than the graceful strides of the Ferian. Naught in this world have I found since our parting that has met with your beauty. Naught compares to you, and ever have I grieved for the loss of your love, and ever have I reviled myself for the disgrace of leaving you then from fear of Agon. But I know there is naught that I can say to make amends, naught that I can do to set things aright. Yet all the same I kneel before you now and ask your forgiveness, for I repent of all the evils I have done to you in my folly to avoid evil.” And thus he knelt, bowing low.

“You kneel over-late,” Geldirana said, “and you knelt first before the throne of fear. But do you expect that I shall grant absolution so easily? Do you think that you can buy my clemency with the wily words you have studied in your lock-away at Larksong? No, I think you ask too much, and too much from you is the asking of aught at all, for I should be the one to ask of you, and I ask this: do not think that you can make amends or set things aright with me, for we will all be in Halés ere that happens, but you may yet repair the follies of your fear with the world by doing the deeds set before you, deeds long held undone. Will you baulk before these tasks or see them through?”

Herr’Don stepped forth and spoke: “He will do them as long as I am here to guide and protect him, as Sword of Boror, Herr’Don the Great.”

“He will do naught if you do it for him,” Geldirana snapped. “Let him speak for himself, for that is ever what he lacks. Do you have a voice, Ifferon, or has it been stilled by the truth of my words? Speak if you still can.”

“I can,” Ifferon said, “and I can offer no assurances except one. My journey has been long and hard, and it has meant toil, terror and tears for me and my companions. Fear ever drove me, and dread ever gnawed at my will, but it is now absolute. I will do my best, yet never can I do more, and I do not yet know how far my best will reach.”

“It will reach far,” Geldirana said, “if you stretch your arm enough to make it so. You did that once. Do you not remember the Caves of Remradi? They are not far from here. Ten years are not enough to kill those memories from my mind. And are you not a Child of Telm, Ifferon? Are you not a god-child? Your best is the best of the gods, and who would place limit on them?”

“Agon would,” Ifferon said.

“Precisely why you must do to him what he would do to you,” the Way-thane replied. “You must limit him, his might, his power, his reach. We are not without weapons, and not without warriors to wield them. I have been given a message in dream that a weapon of power was being sent here, and lo! Here you arrive from the road of reminiscence, from the clutches of the past.

“There are duties to be done, and the Siege of Nahragor will begin on the morrow. You will be shown to your quarters and then we shall have a final feast, a last supper ere our doom is shown to us. Go now and change and cleanse yourselves, for my people must prepare the table. You will be bidden return ere long, and I shall reveal unto you my strategy, and it shall be as a light in the darkness of your minds, and your woes and doubts shall be overruled.”

Thus the company left the room and made their way to their quarters, led by Geldon, who seemed content with the words of the Way-thane. But before they had all left, Geldirana called back to Délin and bid him stay a moment with the Al-Ferian boy.

“What is your name, knight?” she asked.

“Délin De’Marius,” he told her, “though many know me better as Trueblade.”

“And true that is, for that is a name that is not unknown to me. It seems that the rumour of valour and honour rides ahead of you ere your arrival, and I see that there is truth in the hearsay. Yet I am troubled.”

“My pardon, Lady Way-thane, if aught that I do or say troubles you,” Délin replied, “for such is not my intent.”

“That may be, but it is not you that troubles me, Trueblade, but he who goes with you ... this ... Al-Ferian child. Who is he and what connection is he to you?”

“He goes by the name Théos,” Délin said, “though I know not if that is his name. Yet he answers to it now, and is tagged upon his collar—”

“So you know little of him,” she stated.

“What little I know is in the knowledge of the heart.”

“A dangerous knowledge.”

“Yet a necessary danger,” the knight replied. “We would wither without it.”

Geldirana’s eyes seemed to tear then, and she averted her gaze for a moment and then turned back to him with renewed fire. “Tell me how you came upon him, and why he seems to cling to you, you who know so little about him.”

“We found him in the Plains of Eridúl amidst the dead. There was an escort, and it seems they were slain by dark forces.”

“Dark forces that have evaded our sight, it seems,” Geldirana said, the worry evident in her voice. “We have kept a watch on Nahragor and saw naught of any stirring.”

“Yet your watch extends not to Tol-Úmari, where the greater danger to the Al-Ferian lies, for that is near their border, and they must pass it to come into Telarym. It would surprise me little to know that a fellness came from there in the dark stretches of the night.”

“Yet it surprises you that such a fellness would leave this boy unharmed.”

“Yes, yes, I cannot hide that,” Délin admitted.

“There is little you can hide from me, Trueblade,” the Way-thane said. “I am Alar Ardúnar, and this is my time. Wisdom tells me that the shadow of doom is upon this boy, though he has yet evaded death, and this confounds me. Why have you brought him here?”

“Where else is there to go?” Délin asked. “Where would you bid me take him?”

“Anywhere but our camp,” she said. “I sense a power within him, as if the magics of a thousand Aelora had been concentrated into one person, one vessel. He is dangerous, and he will attract danger. There is wisdom and brooding in his eyes, and a power I have not the will or heart to look upon, for the eyes of an Ardúnar see things others do not—yet there are things even I cannot see behind the shadows of his mind.”

“Be that as it may,” Délin replied, “he is but a child. A child not of my race, nor one that speaks my tongue, and perhaps he has the power of the Aelora in him, and perhaps there is a doom upon him that none but the wise can foresee—but he is still a child, young and innocent, and who are we, old and guilty, to pass judgement?”

“We are the wise,” she said. “And I was chosen not for mercy. I will not ignore the shadow that lies upon him like a cloak. Those who wear the vestures of darkness, knowing not that they wear them, are still fated to an evil fate, and I will not have this Al-Ferian child bring ruin upon us all.”

“Then what is your ruling?”

“He cannot stay here. Not even overnight, for who are we to know that day will come if doom comes the quicker?”

“The hopeful,” Délin replied.

“I have spent my hope,” she said. “And the Garigút keep no large store of it. Not even the hope of Trueblade is enough to change this matter. The child must go, but I will not have you go with him, for I foresee that you will be needed ere the end, and so I shall send a scout with the boy on horseback, and they will go to Boror and take house in one of our haven-huts.”

Délin shook his head. “Stubborn you are, yet I am moreso. I will not be parted from the boy now, nor ever while there is life yet flowing in my veins.”

“How rousing,” Geldirana said. “Do you think I have compassion for you? I would sooner slay you now so that your oath is kept and the boy removed from here, but wisdom stays my hand.”

“Wisdom stays your hand so that compassion may yet rule,” Délin said. “But the wisdom you speak of our parting is a cruel wisdom, and if I must choose between it and compassion then I choose the latter.”

“You already have,” the Way-thane said, “for if you had chosen wisdom you would have seen that the choice of compassion was the choice of doom, and you shall feel the pain of parting whether you will it or not. But come, I shall speak no more on this matter. The boy will go and you will stay, and what little wisdom you have left would bid you not object.”

“Then that wisdom is forfeit, and I miss it not while there is love. Perhaps you would know it still if Ifferon had not broken your heart, but that is not for me to repair.” He turned and left the chamber, ushering Théos ahead of him, who had kept in silence throughout the proceedings, oblivious to what had happened and what was yet to come.

If Délin had turned back he would have seen the shattering of a soul, would have witnessed long-withheld tears upon Geldirana’s face. She sat in soundless grief for a time, and there were none to succour her or provide solace in the stillness of the chamber and the sorrows of her mind.

*  *  *

Ifferon collapsed upon a hard wooden chair within his quarters, yet he did not feel it, for his mind was elsewhere. He sighed deeply, and it was as the wail of the wind in a storm, haunting and unsettling.

“The Way-thane is really something,” Herr’Don said. “I’d hate to be her partner for fear of being burned to a crisp.”

“She has grown bitter,” Ifferon said, shaking his head. “Yet I am he who planted the seeds of that bitterness, and long have they been watered o’er these ten years with the nourishment of anger, and so have they ripened as bitter fruit upon a tree of thorns, so grown to keep hands that may hurt from plucking them again. Cold hands like mine.”

“Perhaps that’s the better match,” Herr’Don said. “Keep your cold hands and she can keep her hot ones, and you can both temper each other.”

“There is little that will temper her,” Délin said, entering the room in an angry stride with Théos. “That little is love, and it will need to be a lot ere the fires of her wrath are quelled.”

“Without a doubt!” Herr’Don replied. “Ah, but one glance from the eyes of Herr’Don the Great could do the quelling.”

“Why did she call you back?” Ifferon asked Délin.

“To ask too much of me,” the knight responded.

Herr’Don raised an eyebrow. “She wanted to bed you?”

“No! Dearest me, no!” Délin said, and he laughed. Then his face became grim again and his voice solemn. “No, she asks that I send Théos away while I continue on our journey.”

“Ah,” Herr’Don said, biting his lip.

“Did she say why?” Ifferon asked.

“Yes, yes, but I do not believe it,” Délin replied. “And will not add credence to it by repeating it here.”

“Perhaps it’s for the best,” Herr’Don said. “Siege is no place for a boy.”

“There are no places for children now,” Délin said. “The world is shattered, and all countries are beset with war, and it feels as though there is naught I can do to save them.”

“What will you do about Théos?” Ifferon asked.

“I do not know. I am reluctant to leave him, yet I know that I must forge on, and in forging on I cannot bring him with me. Thus it seems that Geldirana speaks true, and I shall now feel the pain of parting whether I will it or not. He will go back to Boror.”

“A wise choice,” Herr’Don said.

“Yes, I think it is best for all,” Ifferon added, and he hoped his words were reassuring, yet felt little comfort of his own.

“Where are the others?” Délin asked. It seemed that he had only now realised that Thalla and Elithéa were not in the room.

“They have other quarters,” Herr’Don said. “The Garigút do not see much difference between man and woman, but they know that others do, so they have divided us so. But come, let us change quickly, for the night is already late, and I think that the Garigút will not tarry with the summons for supper.”

*  *  *

And they did not, for soon the summons was given and the company rejoined in the main chamber, where was set a large table with many wooden platters of food: roast chicken, skewed boar, stale bread, and salted nuts. And there were many jugs of drink: ale, wine, water, and milk, and a chalice of dawnwater in the centre of the table.

“Join us,” Geldirana said. Her chair was now at the head of the table, where she sat in a new dress, plain and black. Her hair was tied back, and there was a black flower, a nahilar, within it; the flower was like a black claw, for its petals bent inwards like fingers. Indeed, Ifferon thought at first that there was a spider in her hair, weaving webs amidst the golden flame.

They were guided to their seats, but none would begin the feast until Geldirana gave the nod. “It is good to see you all in better shape. Telarym has not been kind to you. Let now that cruelty be addressed. We shall talk as we feast.” She beckoned to Galon and he brought her the chalice from the centre of the table. She supped from it and passed it around. “May this dispel all evils.”

They drank in turn, silent as they enacted this ancient Garigút custom, but when the chalice had passed from Délin to Théos there was tension, for the boy merely looked into the cup and would not partake of it.

“He drinks not,” Geldirana observed. “Who of fair company refuses the dawnwater of the Garigút, and who of wisdom would refuse it in the company of the Way-thane?”

“Drink,” Délin urged, and he made a drinking gesture with his hand.

“Adala,” Elithéa said, and the boy looked at her and shook his head.

“Bhasa,” he said. “Adalim hanta bhasa!”

“He says he drinks only water,” Elithéa explained.

“Then he refuses a courtesy that is not lightly given,” Geldirana said. “Is there any reason why the dawnwater of the Garigút is unfit for him? Do the Al-Ferian drink only unconsecrated water?”

“No,” Elithéa replied. “They drink anything they can, and freely partake of the liquor of other peoples. I know not why he refuses the chalice.”

“So the dog is not thirsty,” Aralus said. “Let him go without.”

“It is a great honour to receive this libation,” Délin said, “and I shall drink for him to retain the honour if your grace will allow me.”

“Granted,” the Way-thane said, and Délin took the chalice again and drank a second draught. When he had finished he passed it on to Herr’Don.

“Don’t worry,” Herr’Don said, “I never refuse free liquor, and dawnwater is one of the best. Good for all things.”

“Like scaring away the Spectres,” Geldirana said, staring at Théos as she spoke. “They are a force who would not touch or partake of it, for it is the water of dawn’s embrace, kissed by the sun and consecrated by the moon, into which is then crumbled the remnants of Lesser Ilokrán. But let us speak no more of this, for there are many more things we must discuss.”

And so their feast began, and Geldirana spoke as they ate. At times she said naught and they ate with the hunger of wolves, and at others they all stopped to listen, bar Herr’Don, who nibbled throughout her discourse.

“Nahragor is the fortress of the Molokrán,” Geldirana said. “It is the Gate of Nahlin, the barrier of our armies and the breaker of our spirits. But the Molokrán are asleep, and the Lichelord is abroad. Barriers may be broken, and spirits may be kindled. Thus lies our window of opportunity, for now is the Passing of the High. In this transition between Shadowlord and Shadowlord, we have hope. For Nahragor is the fortress of the Molokrán for good reason, for it is the home of the second Alar Kalakrán, the first being in Tol-Úmari. These were the original two, and all others were made in likeness, to mimic them. Should one be destroyed, then the Molokrán would be weakened beyond measure, for all but the remaining Alar Kalakrán would cease to work, forcing the Molokrán to reside in Tol-Úmari alone, never able to travel freely and swiftly across Iraldas as they have unto now.

“But unlike the other Kalakrán, these cannot be destroyed by mortal hands alone. Even the powers of the Ardúnari are not yet strong enough to bring them to ruin. Only the Last Words will do. Only Telm’s dying breath is potent enough to topple this Crypt, and only those who carry the blood of Telm may speak these words of ending. Thus is it your task, Ifferon, to venture into Nahragor itself, as even Melgalés desired, for it was this mission that he knew you must complete, this action that would turn the tides in our favour, and this commitment that would unleash your potential as Telm Incarnate to bring an end to Agon’s war upon Iraldas.

“Thus we have espied a secret entrance into Nahragor which they use to send out scouts and emissaries, and this lies nigh unto the Dark Forest of Idor-Hol, which poses a danger unto itself, yet also provides for some cover. We shall send a small party with you there and you shall come into the Black Bastion with ease. The Siege shall begin as you depart, and thus we will prove a distraction from the secret ways, for we shall avert their gaze with catapult and petard, and they shall know the might of the Garigút as we break their doors down.

“And now at last you may know why I wear black this night. I bear the cloth of mourning, for there will be great loss on the morrow, and the land shall be spilled with the blood of my people. Their last sights in Iraldas will be of darkness and evil, and it shall ever haunt them in the Halls of Halés when they rejoin their mothers and their fathers. I wear this now in grief, yet on the morrow I shall be in white, for then there shall be no time for sorrow, and I must reveal myself in vestures fitting.”

“What about the Call of Agon?” Herr’Don asked. “Is there nothing we can do to stop it?”

“Until we know who is doing the calling and where, there is little that can be done,” Geldirana responded. “But the destruction of a Kalakrán might just be enough to distract anyone who dares attempt to free Agon from his chains. If a Summoner lies in Nahragor, as my spies have told me, then perhaps he will think twice when the Kalakrán is in ruins.”

“So we get entangled in an Ardúnari mission instead,” Herr’Don said, shaking his head. “Of course you would want us to destroy a Kalakrán when you face that which crawls out of it.”

But Geldirana ignored him. She stood up swiftly and clapped. “The feast is over. Return now to your quarters and dream as fair as you are able, for you shall find that the nearness of Nahragor is a thorn to good dreams. Rest well, and may the blessings of Corrias be upon you, for we will need them ere the end. You will be woken early, and there will be little time then, for we must march. Good night, as far as night is good.”

*  *  *

And so they left the table and retired to their quarters. Many collapsed into slumber immediately, for their limbs were weary and the feast had contented them beyond measure. The dawnwater also had a somnolent effect, ushering them into the drowsy clutches of sleep.

But neither Délin nor Théos could sleep. They waited at a small wooden table that looked to have been thrown together with scraps of wood. Théos picked at the splinters and Délin stared at the patterns in the grain, as if it were an oracle that might reveal to him some insight into his fears. The night wore on like the subtle erosion of rocks or the less overt attrition of Délin’s troubled mind. Suddenly a pounding came at the door and Délin sighed deeply as he reluctantly answered it. Galon entered with another called Adon, and Délin knew that his parting with Théos had come like a thief in the night.

“A moment,” Délin asked, and he hugged the boy, who knew little of what was transpiring, for he could not tell their tongue. “May Issarí protect you,” the knight said, brushing through Théos’ hair with his hand. “May Corrias guide you.”

Then Galon and Adon took the boy by the shoulders and Théos started to weep, as if suddenly aware of what was happening. He reached out his hands to Délin, but the gesture was not returned, for the knight had not the will for it. He swallowed hard and was glad that there were none else awake to see his sorrow.

And thus was Théos led away in the dark moments of the night, made all the darker for these deeds. Yet nothing else could be done, and Geldirana passed by the quarters and had pity on the knight, but told herself that this parting was but a single tear of the parting that would be faced otherwise. She watched from her vantage at the top of the Old Keep as Galon bid Adon well, and then Adon rode off with Théos on horseback, and they took the unmarked roads to Boror, haste ever guiding them.

*  *  *

Morning came, but it was not fair, for there was a bitter wind and rain. The Old Keep was battered by the siege of storm, and the Garigút were forced to delay their attack until later that day when the war of weather had been won. Then they were all led up to the garrison on the roof of the Old Keep, where from the battlements they were shown the vast arsenal of the Garigút: dozens of catapults, tens of battering rams, several small ballistae, and three rolling-shields (as the Garigút called them). These were large wooden encampments upon wheels, filled with petardiers, sappers and other siege-workers.

“It is time at last,” Geldirana said, and she strode before them with a golden mace in hand. Galon and Geldon brought a bruised shield to her, round and bronze, and half the height of them. She raised the mace and struck upon it; a sound like thunder echoed out into the valley. “Now begins the Siege of the Black Bastion.”

XV – THE SIEGE OF NAHRAGOR

The catapults rolled out, creaking heavily under the weight of monstrous rocks. Men and women alike toiled about them, pushing great timber frames or pulling long, thick ropes. Others brought wagons filled with boulders and smaller rocks, and others yet marched with sword and spear in hand, their feet beating down upon the earth in the tumultuous tune of the war drum.

They stopped as soon as they came to the Ridge of Reaping, for there the Valley of Shadow opened up like the jaws of the earth, with great pointed mountains jutting out like sharpened teeth. Clouds hung like the vestures of dark gods, draping down upon the black mass of Nahragor, which loomed like a second pair of deadly teeth inside the mouth of the Ridge. Black and cruel it was, with spikes and spires rising from its hulk, and amidst its shadow there were subtle lights, dull, yet ever watchful, as if the very building itself was awake, staring out with evil eyes.

The Garigút made camp mere metres away from the halting catapults, hoping to be out of range of returning fire, yet also within distance to see the battlefield and make appropriate orders; or when the time came for Geldirana to lead the force down the Valley and into the madness of Nahlin under the murderous glare of Nahragor.

*  *  *

“I’ve sent the petardiers in three regiments, Way-thane,” Galon said. “One to take the middle of the wall and the other two to take the extremes on either side. So long as they survive long enough to reach their destination, I do not doubt that the walls of Nahragor will be much weaker ere the catapults are launched.”

“Let us hope that we are not punished by our own petards,” Délin said. “Belnavar the Braveheart came to me looking for such wheels of war, and I reluctantly gave him what we found in a workshop of the Gormolok savages. He slew his honour with that choice, and now he is slain, though it seems not by these creatures of cogs. Yet such is oft the way of these machineries, such a dishonourable practice in these days most want of honour.”

“Not all will do battle on an open plain, Délin,” Geldirana said. “It is their dishonour that leads to our own, if it be called such, though I am want to say otherwise. Were we to run to the walls and bang our fists upon the gates, we would be greeted with arrows, rocks, and boiling oil. Let us, therefore, break those walls with rocks of our own ere we think of assailing them with our bare hands and feet.”

Suddenly there came a cry from the battlefield where the central petardier battalion advanced under the canopy of a great wooden machine. A number of Garigút horse-riders came galloping to the camp, haste on their feet and in their voices.

“Way-thane, they’ve spotted our petardiers,” one of the riders said. “We had branch and bush upon the rolling-shields, but they did not fall for the trick for long. They’re firing arrows of fire upon us, hoping they ignite the petards ere we reach the walls. We’ve ordered a hastened advance, but I fear we will lose our best petardiers.”

“This is war, Grêsir, and war involves risk and death,” Geldirana replied. “I did not expect that all three petardier regiments would make it to the walls. But they may yet.”

*  *  *

And so she turned her intent gaze across the fields again, where the wooden housing of the petardiers rolled forth. Inside, men and women of the Garigút toiled, pushing and pulling, slowly advancing towards the walls of the Black Bastion. Crossbows were hung upon nails inside, weapons at hand for the defenders of the petardiers, should any assail the rolling-shield ere it reached its destination. The petards themselves were sealed in a second wooden box within the main structure, and this had wheels also, for it was designed to be wheeled forth once the rolling-shield reached the walls, and there the petardiers would light the fuse and return swiftly to the safety of the main device.

But it looked increasingly less likely that they would be the ones to light the fuse, for a barrage of missiles were launched against them; some were simple arrows, some were barbed, some were light ballista-bolts, covered in strange black rock that was hot to the touch, and, worst of all, some were laced in oil and burning in great red flames. The wood that the Garigút used was strong, for they did not trust the trees of Telarym, and thus brought the best wood in carriages from Boror over a number of long and arduous weeks—but it was not so strong that it could withstand the battering that now assailed it. Arrows pierced the wood, and some pierced the bodies of the men and women inside, slowing the advance of the lumbering machines across the plain. Holes were punched through, opening the way for more arrows, thin and fine, or barbed and deadly. And the arrows of fire came like a rain of lava, setting the wood alight, causing panic in the rolling-shield as the fire loomed ever closer to the petard-box in the back.

And then doom fell upon them. A new volley was unleashed from the ramparts and battlements of Nahragor, and through a great breach in the front of the siege weapon an arrow of streaming fire came hastening. An eagle-eyed Garigút soldier threw himself before the petard-box and raised his shield against the incoming fire, and so it struck him and set his shield ablaze. The Garigút gave a sigh of relief, but it came too soon, for two more fire arrows pierced the breach and the shield-soldier could do naught to stop them both. One struck his arm, which he raised to block his face, but the other struck the petard-box, and there was a moment where the wood alone crackled under the fire. But the moment was short-lived, for the fuse was lit and the entire thing went up in an explosion of wood and fire, sending splinters and limbs here and there across the battlefield.

*  *  *

“It seems you speak omens,” Geldirana said, turning her cruel glare upon Délin. “Let me speak plainly then and ask that you do not say anything ere this battle is done, unless it be an omen of the Adversary’s demise.”

“That I cannot offer,” Délin replied. “But I can offer my aid in making his forces’ demise a reality, for I am not unschooled in war, and the Knights of Issarí have ridden to many defended gates with naught but shield and sword.”

“Then perhaps we should have sent you before the petardiers,” Geldirana said. “You would have attracted most of the fire, I expect. But I am keen for no one’s death, unless it be Agon’s and his horde. Now go! Geldon will lead you where you need to be.”

The company departed under the guidance of Geldon, riding in a small wagon that was camouflaged with leaves and branches. Towards Idor-Hol they rolled, leaving Geldirana alone to survey the siege.

Then Galon and Adon came hastening into the pavilion, bowing quickly.

“We both have urgent news, but mine is more pressing,” Adon said.

“Speak then,” the Way-thane commanded. “And tell me why you are not in Boror.”

“I took the boy Théos with me, but he would not go,” the man replied. “I held him before me as I rode, but he squirmed and spoke a foreign tongue, and ere long he had wormed his way from my grip and disappeared into a grove of trees. I searched for him, but could not find him, and thence I hasted back.”

“Grave news,” Geldirana said. “But I have little time for it, for war is here. If the boy knows not my wisdom, then let him be as one in the wild, and may Corrias see fit to do with him as he wills. But come, tell me, Galon, what is it that presses you so?”

Galon bowed again. “The central petardiers are dead, and they now block part of our advance, but since we cannot now weaken the central wall, let us do what we can with our catapults. Mayhaps a boulder or two will distract these arrow-fiends from the two remaining regiments on right and left.”

Geldirana said naught, but simply nodded. Galon held the curtain of the pavilion up and raised his arm, and then he lowered it suddenly and swiftly. Thus did the Garigút soldiers awaiting orders by the catapults call and shout to each other, turning this way and that, and lastly taking sword to string, unleashing the great rocks into the air, sending them sailing across the sky towards the walls and gates of Nahragor.

A great sound of pounding began, and it rose like a chorus when the other catapults joined the fray. Rock and boulder came down on the gates of Nahragor like iron fists, and it seemed to the defenders as if the Moln had awoken and were pounding upon the walls with their hands of stone.

*  *  *

The petardier regiment that was sent to the right reached its destination, rolling quickly to meet the walls. Arrows and rocks fell like rain from the clouds of the parapets above their heads, but the battered wood of the rolling-shield met the cold stone of the walls of Nahragor.

The petard-box was loosened from its hold in the back and rolled forth swiftly, crashing loudly against the wall. The petardiers inside hurried back and forth, grabbing their tools, most deadly of which was a simple unlit torch and flint.

“Two minutes,” one of them called out, for there was a din that drowned all hearing. He lit the torch and placed it warily against the petard that was hooked to the wall with bolts and chains. The fuse-rope was splayed and would not take light. The petardier grew frustrated and tried to light the rope further up, where it was still intact, but he was not prepared for how quickly it went aflame, and all grew afraid with the look of panic in his eyes.

“Out!” he cried, and they broke through the doors of the petard-box and raced back towards the rolling-shield. But they were too late, for the fuse was now too short. The petard ignited, throwing them up in a barrage of brick and wood and fire. The rolling-shield was splintered and the people inside were burned and battered. The walls of Nahragor were shaken and ruptured, but it did more damage to the Garigút attackers than it did to the Nahlin defenders inside.

*  *  *

The petardier regiment that was sent to the left, bordering the Cliff-face of Idor-Rem, was more successful, for they armed the petard-box and managed their retreat to the rolling-shield in time. The wall quaked, and many upon the ramparts were thrown high or buried beneath a mountain of fallen brick. But the wall was not breached, and so the rolling-shield went forth again, and from either side great doors were opened and planks of wood were pushed out. These acted as further shields for the sappers, Garigút soldiers simply armed, yet deadly to fortresses that may withstand even the blast of a barrage of catapult fire. The sappers raced out, digging furiously at the walls, while others looked for cracks and holes within the brickwork, and into these they fed rope tied around prongs of steel. They lit these with fire and made a silent prayer that the heat would melt the mortar that sealed the bricks. Thus did both groups tarry long and hard as the battle raged around them, and many of them fell to arrow or rock, but their work did not go unrewarded, for slowly it was shown that the walls began to weaken, and when the rolling-shield had made its final retreat, then came the direction of the catapults upon them.

*  *  *

But the defenders of Nahragor were not content with merely firing arrows, for soon the gates were opened and a great shadow, blacker than the darkest night, crawled forth. It spread like water unleashed, as if the gates of the Black Bastion were a dam, and it rose like a deadly black wave. Behind the shadow marched an army of Nahliners, dark and grim, Men corrupted and twisted to the Will of Agon.

“So they have made their answer,” Geldirana said. “They have sent forth shadow, and thus must it be met with light.” She arose not as the Way-thane of the Garigút, grim and imperious, but as the Alar Ardúnar, beaming with an immense inner light, and standing tall as a warrior who feared neither pain nor death.

“What is this which you speak of?” Galon said, growing nervous, staring into the gloom with expectant eyes. “I see a darkness in the distance, but I cannot tell what it is. Pray, what new evil has Nahragor unleashed?”

“An evil that is not new,” Geldirana told him. “But you see only a shadow of the Shadow, for it is only by the eyes of the Ardúnari, and those graced with the sight of gods, that the true nature of what comes hither from the gloom of Nahragor is revealed.”

She strode out from under the canopy of the pavilion and gave another long gaze across the battlefield. She turned slowly and looked at Galon. “This is where the dark rumours of Nahragor come true, general. This is where the mares of night creep into the mires of day. Get your garig ready.”

Galon nodded, bowed, and quickly set off to his regiment, called by his people a garig, which included all in his extended family. Gathering, they called it in the Common Tongue, and a garig was as close in peace as it was in war.

“Ana,” Geldirana called. A young woman came hurrying, carrying a belt and scabbard. “If I am to fall in battle, I would that Galon take the Way-thane in my stead. It is not by my choice that he or she who shall succeed me shall be announced, but I would that my wishes were known. Let us pray that Oelinor, at least, shall offer me some protection from the Candle in the north, and Rúathar some shielding from the west, for I doubt that he feels yet ready to take the Alar unto himself.”

“And you, Way-thane?” Ana asked. “Are you ready?”

“No one really is, Ana. It is too late for that. Now I must get ready for battle. Arm me. I will fight with sword and mace and flail, and the enemies of the Garigút shall know us by the insults against our race, for where there is grace in my attire, there is none in my way of battle. Blood shall rain upon the soil, and I shall cleave the heads from my foes as if they were frail fruits upon a training fence.”

“It will be a bloody day. Blood for the Garigút!” Ana said, speaking the old battle cry of her people. “May you kill many in honour of our ancestors.”

“And you,” Geldirana said.

And so Geldirana was armed with her sword. She donned thick leather armour and gloves, yet still she wore the dress beneath, a hidden elegance beneath the brute of the brown leather on top. Upon her back a great many weapons were stored in straps: mace, flail, bastard sword, and a pair of curved daggers, an heirloom of her ancestors. Thus attired she left the canopy of her pavilion and approached Galon at the edge of the battlefield.

“Long have I loathed the name given to us by many in Boror,” she said. “Yet today we shall be barbarians in battle, for we shall be barbaric—we shall be brutal. We shall ask no quarter, for none shall be given to us. In payment we offer no mercy to any that come from the shadow of Nahragor.” Then she paused for a moment. “Give Geldon the word. He must get Ifferon into Nahragor as soon as we distract the shadow. May Corrias bless us with a long distraction.”

“And a long life thereafter,” Galon said, clasping his hands together in prayer. “Geldon is my brother in blood, but he is also my brother in battle. I would that we could fight together here on the battlefield as part of my own garig, but he has a mighty duty like unto your own.”

“You have many brothers on this battlefield, Galon,” the Way-thane replied. “Many are better warriors than Geldon too. His skill is in secrecy. He is the Brother of the Veil now, and will shroud the secret weapons of our warfare.”

“I am honoured, then, to fight alongside my sister in battle, be there blood or not,” Galon said.

“Good, Galon. I will need you. You are the general of my army. I cannot be the Way-thane today. The Alar Molokrán is coming. I must face him as an Ardúnar. It will be a grave battle, but, by the Will of Corrias, I shall not meet my grave this day! Shadow will come. Rain will come. And we shall face it with open arms and hardened hearts!”

*  *  *

Then the rain came. Clouds drew close, and from a great rift in the sky came a torrent, harsh and sudden. It was a dark rain, a black rain of soot and slime and mire. It was not water, but the murk of bog and the filth of the black fields of Nahlin. And it came down like an avalanche of dim snow, a hale as harsh as the wrath of Corrias and the ruin of Agon.

But it was not the rain that broke the armies of the Garigút. The weather was but the forerunner of the will that worked it, the living mood of a monster not yet come. The Garigút peered through the gloom—and then they saw the gloom peer back at them.

The Molokrán had come. The Gates of Nahragor opened. A clang and a clatter echoed out as the hinges were unloosed, mimicked by a sudden thunder and lightning in the sky, brief flashes of light just long enough to illuminate the darkness, to irradiate the terror. The shadow poured out, voluminous to the eyes of those who could see it. Those who could not could still feel it in the pit of their faltering hearts.

“We wait for no one,” Geldirana said. Her soldiers looked to her, confused and frightened. She struck one of them with the back of her hand. “We wait for no one!” she cried, stepping onto the field of blackness set before them. She raised a spear into the air and gave a cry that would have made the gods quail. A bolt of lightning sparked in the heavens and struck the tip of the spear, setting it alight. “Blood for the Garigút!” she shouted.

And so her armies set forth. Fear was choked by courage, panic slain by valour. The Garigút soldiers knew not what horrors they would face, but they raced down to meet them nonetheless. Spearmen charged. Swordsmen charged. Horsemen charged.

Then the Spectres of the Molokrán charged, and all was met with darkness.

*  *  *

“Quick! We’ve been given the word,” Geldon said. He ushered the company toward the Dark Forest of Idor-Hol, which looked like a mire of thorns within a deadly black web.

“I do this not willingly,” Délin said.

“If I had a flame, then this forest would burn,” Herr’Don said. “And it would be the Flattened Forest of Herr’Don the Great.”

“It would burn you the quicker,” Délin remarked.

Geldon nodded. “Let us pass through quickly ere the burning begins, for the soil here is hot, and it is said that it eats people as they walk, and some are taken whole in the jaws of the earth.”

They pressed forth, crouching as they went, for they followed the movements of Geldon, who kept low to the ground. “There is better light here,” he said, “for a toxic fog lies in the upper reaches of the trees, and it dulls the light and dims the brain.”

“I doubt Herr’Don will like crawling on all fours,” Aralus said with a grin.

“I dislike death all the more,” Herr’Don replied.

They crawled through the trees, feeling the burn of the earth tearing into their skin. They used their sleeves or cloaks to protect their hands, but even then the heat soon become unbearable. Just as their wills began to falter, they came to the edge of the Forest again, for Geldon would not stray too far inland, for fear of the evils rumoured within. They crouched at the edge of the Forest near the right side of Nahragor, and they witnessed the Siege that had begun.

“The Molokrán go forth,” Geldon whispered. “The time is ripe, and will get no riper. We must take the secret ways.”

*  *  *

The wave of Spectres, led by the Molokrán, crashed down upon the Garigút armies and crushed them in darkness. Fear and panic were felt by all, and many were fleeing, madly flailing their arms as they raced back up the Valley. But Geldirana marched down with Galon, and her white dress flickered amidst the shadow like a candle flame, and many, upon seeing her, grew new resolution, rejoining their army. Ever as she marched a great following came behind her, and then she came upon the Shadow Host with a fire and fury that they had not seen before.

Her spear took the brunt of them, and there was the sound of deathly shrieks upon the wind. A wailing gust came down and it seemed that a vaporous smoke was rising into the air, borne on the winds of Halés. A spark of lightning still clung to the tip of that spear, and it seemed that each thrust she made with it was as the thrusts of ten spearmen, skewering a dozen dark figures and forcing them to fade away. Then as the next wave drew in close she gave a yell and her companions gave her space, for she grabbed her mace and spun around, clubbing through the shadow in a frightful frenzy.

But not all the Garigút fared so well, for none could see as she could, and they flailed wildly in the darkness, some striking Spectre, some striking nothing, and others striking the heads, backs or limbs of their fellow Garigút warriors. Even those who made a head-on charge, destroying the shadow in front of them, were consumed by a new wave, which flanked them in darkness. The Molokrán bore down on all in sight, tearing them apart, devouring their will. Men and women were sucked into nothingness or thrown into the air, while some were torn limb from limb with an awful wail of agony. All who faced the Molokrán fell, except Geldirana and Galon, who battled to the bitterness of their failing strength. Then the Molokrán withdrew.

“It goes ill,” Galon said, shaking his head.

“It shall go more ill,” Geldirana called, nodding towards the open gate of Nahragor.

“They haven’t closed it yet,” Galon said. “How foolish of them.”

“They are not fools, Galon. Even if we breached their first wave of shadow, another is coming.”

There was a dim glimmer at the door of the Black Bastion. A new power had arisen. A new darkness had awoken from the Crypt of Tol-Úmari, and it travelled the haunted winds until it emerged from the Alar Kalakrán of Nahragor, sensing the power of the Alar Ardúnar set in wait for him.

“This is my battle,” Geldirana said. “My death, my doom. I have faced the evil of death with the Elixir of Life, and no Lord of Shadow shall take that from me. This is the valley of shadow and decay. This is the terrain of torture and tears. I fear no darkness; I fear no end; I fear no evil. And I cry for no one!”

But her speech was broken by a creeping thought, a crawling phantom voice. You will cry for me, it said. You will die for me.

The Lichelord came forth.

*  *  *

“Here is the entrance,” Geldon said.

“A wall, you mean,” Aralus corrected.

“Yes,” Geldon replied, “and a secret entrance.” He pointed up and they saw that there was a small opening several metres above their head. To the casual glance it looked little more than a groove in the rock, too small and out of reach to even use as a foothold.

“Ah,” Aralus said. “Pity we sent the Al-Ferian boy away. He was as close to the size of a mouse as any of us.”

Délin gave him a sharp look, but was consumed by worries of his own. “I was never very good at climbing, least of all in full plate armour.”

“That matters little,” Geldon said. “These vines in the wall will hold even the heaviest of us, for they grow from whatever evil magic gave life to Idor-Hol. Our scouts have tested them.”

“Were any of your scouts as heavy as Délin?” Aralus asked. “I don’t see much in the way of armour that the Garigút wear.”

“We wear enough,” Geldon responded, tapping his leather breastplate. “Now come! We have little time. Unless you wish for the Molokrán to finish with Geldirana and come after us.”

They clambered up the vines and ducked into the small enclosing, Elithéa reluctantly leaving her thalgarth outside. The inside of the hole was also covered in vines, and it took Herr’Don many long moments to break through the web.

“It’s pretty dark in here,” he called back. “I hope someone brought a torch.”

“We can use no light,” Geldon said. “It will attract the darkness.”

“And it might also get rid of the darkness in this hole,” Herr’Don said, “but fair enough, let us crawl in blindness.”

And they crawled, for the roof was low, and it turned many times without notice. Herr’Don gave a groan as he smacked his head off a wall in front of him, and ever after he held one hand aloft to feel his way.

“I’ve heard you can hear better with your mouth open,” he said after a time of wandering.

“Perhaps,” Aralus said, “but unless it helps you see better, then I don’t think it matters much here.”

“I would not leave my mouth open in this place,” Délin remarked. “Corrias only knows what foul things lurk within.”

Soon they were free of the darkness, for Herr’Don nearly fell from an opening within the Bastion itself, and this led into a small storeroom, dimly lit with a single torch in the corner. When all had clambered out from the tunnel and brushed the dust, moss, and cobwebs from their clothes, they peered into the corridor that led into the room.

“No one to be seen,” Herr’Don said.

“If our Siege was not active there would be guards everywhere,” Geldon told them. “But there may still be some, so we must be careful.”

“My idea of careful is run where we need to and run back out again as quickly as we can,” Herr’Don said. “Who needs a hunter if the prey walk right into the cage? Why guard a trap?”

“Herr’Don is right,” Délin said. “There is something evil here, something amiss.”

“Of course there is something evil here,” Geldon said. “This is the fortress of the enemy. Everything here is evil. Everything is amiss. But come, we tarry when we must hurry, for each word spoken is the death of ten of my people.”

“Only ten?” Aralus quizzed, and he smiled. “Ah, count that twenty then.”

They sneaked towards the corridor, which was dimmer than the room they were in, for there were no torches or shafts of light. But their eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the tunnel they had come from, so they could yet make out their way in the dullness ahead. Onwards they crept, stalking through the corridors, turning here and there where the passage shifted suddenly. They passed several barred doors which Délin and Herr’Don tried to open, but they would not budge, and the company considered this luck, for they did not want to know what evils were kept locked inside.

“Geldirana was shown in a dream where the Kalakrán lies,” Geldon said. “It is beneath the foundations, at the centre of the building.”

“Like all the others,” Herr’Don added.

“So we go down,” Aralus said.

“Nay, we go up,” Geldon replied, “for she saw that there was but one way to reach the chambers where the Crypt lies, and this is from the very top tower of the Bastion. We must ascend ere we plummet down, and then when we strike ruin upon it we must ascend again ere we flee down the way we came.”

“Sounds easy,” Aralus jested. “If the Molokrán don’t get us in the mean time, perhaps we’ll die of exhaustion from running up and down so many stairs.”

“I’m sure it will be nothing,” Herr’Don boasted. “Stairs never stopped me.”

“The lack of stairs might,” Geldon said, “for I know not if there are stairs to these places. Perhaps we may need rope or ladder, or worse we may need to make our way down a slope with little for hand or foot to hold.”

“Perhaps the Molokrán will give us a hand back up again,” Aralus suggested.

“Perhaps,” Geldon said, “but let us think less evilly. We may die in our attempt, but we must still forge ahead.”

“This will not be my grave,” Herr’Don said. “Even if I have to crawl back here from Halés to haul my body to a more fitting resting place.”

“You may yet,” Aralus said.

*  *  *

The Molokrán made a second advance on the Garigút armies. The Lichelord watched from the Gate as the shadow spread, and then he cast his eyes upon Geldirana, who cleaved and stabbed and sliced and thrust. Her vesture was as an Aelora unrobed, light flaying this way and that, striking the darkness with more force than any spear against body or ram against door.

Snarling like a thousand wolves, the Lichelord shot forth, and his movement was as a tide that knows no bounds. All who stood in his way were struck down and washed away by the wall of blackness that arose before them. The shadow flayed and lashed and whipped like torn and battered cloth. It rose from the ground like smoke and it clung to it like bony claws, thin probing fingers worming through the soil.  Horns grew up from the shadowed head like the arising of dark towers upon a hill of black, and the body dripped down into a vast silhouette of gloom, where no legs were visible.

Geldirana struck the wall of shadow, and she was thrown suddenly back, for the force could stay an avalanche, or set one in motion. The breath was knocked from her, and she gasped, and the impact of the earth kicked a second puff of air from her lungs. Galon ran to her and pulled her to her feet, but there was no time before the Lichelord was upon them again. Galon saw naught but a sudden blackness, as if his very eyes had been plucked from his head—and that would have been mercy, for the Lichelord seized him, and the grip of those claws was as the icy touch of death. Galon felt the blackness seep into him like water, and then it felt as though worms were burrowing through his body, eating away at him, tearing him apart from inside. And it was not mere feeling, for so it was that the Alar Molokrán stole his life, devouring him and leaving a frail shell of a body mangled on the ground below. Then the Lichelord swelled up, bulging with the fullness of his feast, like a monstrous fat spider that had sucked the juices and the jelly from its screaming prey.

Geldirana cowered, for the sight was like staring into the heart of terror itself. She saw it not with her eyes alone, for it seemed to filter into her. It was said that all who looked upon the Lichelord and his prey would be struck with an affliction of shadow, and they would rock in the deepness of the night, and they would be fey and frail and frightened, for all things would remind them of the horror they had witnessed. But such was not so for the Way-thane, for the light and life of the Ardúnari swelled within her, just as the Lichelord swelled with the light and life of Galon. She stood again, her golden hair unleashed, clattering against the wind as her dress was sent affray.

“A brave one,” the Lichelord said, and it seemed as if he were licking his lips, as if a long, black tongue were sliding out of an eternal abyss. “Know that the Shadow quells all fires, for naught but darkness can exist in the Void.” He lunged a great, long arm at her, but she ducked out of the way and hewed at it with her sword.

“Nothing can exist in the Void,” she said. “If you can reside there, then you are nothing, and I do not fear you.”

“But you shall,” he replied, and it seemed then that a cloak had been cast in her face, but in reality it was her mind that fell under the shawl of shadow. She felt as one blind, and then she felt a myriad of clawing, crawling things upon her. She dropped her sword, screaming, and she batted her body, striking naught but her own flesh, for there was naught else there.

Then she heard a voice as if from afar, and it was Oelinor’s. “Ardü,” he said, but his voice was like a gentle water that washed over her, and she felt the crawling cease, and then the blindness was dispelled, for a burst of light came from the centre of her being. Now she was aglow, beaming with a subtle light that stayed the darkness.

“I am an Ardúnar,” she cried, and she took out her mace and held it aloft. “I am a Warden of the Light, and you shall know me in the bitter moments of your sleep, for my strikes shall be as torment itself, and you will quail and quake before me!”

It seemed then that the Lichelord grimaced, as if the words she spoke were like a bad taste in the abyss of his mouth. His shadow lessened, but he did not quail or quake. “You think too highly of yourself, Warden. But think all you will, for you are not yet high enough.” He reared to his full height, which was as tall as three of the tallest people, for his normal nature was to stoop low to the earth, where he resided before he was torn from it in the moment of Molok’s cruel creation so many ages ago. It seemed then to Geldirana that she looked upon Tol-Úmari or some other tower of darkness, but she would not baulk to its might, even if death came hastening.

And it did, for soon the Lichelord was upon her again, and he threw her once more. Even as she landed he swooped in another time, and she felt the icy touch as he mauled her—and she was paralysed.  The Lichelord drew his face towards her as he crouched over her body, a mountain of black, and she saw that he had no eyes, and yet she could see her own in that gloom; she could see the fear and the horror, and she could watch as the life was sucked from the very essence of her being. She struggled to avert her gaze, and the struggle was as life against the cold grip of death. She fought against the bondage of paralysis to grip again the mace that had slipped from her hand, but all was to no avail. The darkness took her.

But it was not the end, for suddenly the Lichelord’s attention was seized, as if by the hand of a more potent power. A lasting wail spread across the battlefield, and then the Shadow Host seemed to cease and fade away, like a black smoke in a heavy wind. All but the Molokrán remained, and they faced a vast Garigút army, huge even with heavy losses, and there was a sudden fear upon them, for a Telm-cry had been called, and it came from the vaults of Nahragor, where Ifferon read aloud the Scroll of Mestalarin near the Crypt of the Alar Kalakrán.

Geldirana was spared, and the Lichelord shot back across the battlefield, as did the other Molokrán, who were closer to the Keep. They ignored the Garigút, who hacked and hewed at them as they passed. The Garigút gave chase, but their speed could not match the fleeing shadow. It passed in a moment and went suddenly up the walls of the Black Bastion itself. Wisps of dark and drapes of black crawled upon the rock, dragging across the cracks and crags. Long, flayed fingers mauled the stone, their shadow seeping into the brick and mortar. The Molokrán made their way up the walls of Nahragor, like phantoms returning to a nightmare.

*  *  *

“Quick!” Geldon called, but they needed no encouragement, for they felt the attention of the Molokrán set upon them from afar. The company had sneaked through the empty passages of the secret ways of Nahragor, had come to its summit, and had broken the door that led to the Crypt. There they had descended a thin, frail ladder, and it seemed that they had climbed into the depths of Halés before they reached the bottom. Time was not tarried, for Ifferon immediately took the Scroll out and read aloud the words, and an earthquake struck, rupturing the foundations. The Alar Kalakrán collapsed in on itself, and the company struggled back up the ladder, hoping they would not walk into the mauling hands of the Molokrán.

When they had reached the summit again the first of the Molokrán had come to the window of the room. He crawled in and rose before them, until the specks of stars that could be seen from the window were swallowed in his mass. The company froze for a moment, but then Herr’Don pushed them; some tripped and fell, and Ifferon struck a candelabrum near the doorway. It toppled over like a tower crumbling, and its withered candle struck the Scroll that the cleric held aloft; the flame snatched the edge of the parchment, and Ifferon felt a fever in his soul as the fire spread across the page like a plague. A deathly shriek filled the air, the cry of Telm before his end, and it forced the Molokrán back towards the window, where it fell like a rag from a great height. The Scroll still burned, but there was no time for pause, no moment to douse the flames. They made for the door with a haste as if Death were behind them.

They charged down dark chambers, through long corridors, and around steep bends. Even though they could not see the shadow in pursuit, their hearts were as the battering of fists against fortress doors, and their limbs were as the feet of hurried gods. No trip or fall could slow them. No bruise or sprain could stop them. Onwards and downwards they went, until suddenly they turned another bend and saw Théos standing before them. This would have been their death, for the shock slowed their limbs and left them speechless, but fear was now an ally, and it urged them on and gave them voice.

“Théos!” Délin cried. “Quick! Back! Run!”

The boy was as dumbfounded as they and stood confused until Délin ran up and grabbed him in his arms, never slowing in his flight. The heaving pants and heavy footfalls of the fleeing company rose to a roaring clamour, yet still they could hear the faint words that drifted from Théos’ lips.

“Nan ahí!” he called. “Nan ahí!”

Elithéa suddenly slowed, and Herr’Don turned to her, urging her for a translation with expectant eyes. “No way,” she said.

“No way?” Herr’Don quizzed, but before he or any other could ask further they made another turn, the last remaining to them, and found that they were in a large storeroom. There was no other way out but back up the passage from where they had come, back where the Molokrán were advancing. There was no way out. It was a dead end.

“Back!” Herr’Don cried, but they could not go back. Already a darkness came down behind them, and they recoiled from the entrance.

“Barricade the door!” Délin shouted. They shut the door and jammed it with wood and crate and anything they found nearby. Soon it was sealed, and they backed away and took new breath again.

“I don’t understand,” Herr’Don said. “Where did Théos come from?”

“I thought you sent him away?” Thalla said to Délin.

“He was obviously lying,” Aralus remarked. “He’d rather bring him into danger.”

“Adon took him last night,” Délin explained. “I ... He rode out many hours ago to Boror. This does not make sense!”

“There’s some evil at work here,” Herr’Don said. “It’s toying with our minds.”

“How can this be a dead end?” Aralus asked. “Théos came from here. How can it be a dead end? How did he get in? How did he even know we were here?”

Then Théos seemed to answer, and he pointed to Ifferon, saying: “Éal.”

“Great,” Aralus said. “He thinks you’re a god. Now, Ifferon, is there any chance you want to do something godly and get us out of here?”

“I would if I could,” Ifferon said, “but I claim no power.”

“Perhaps you should start claiming,” Herr’Don suggested. “Or this will really be a dead end for us.”

“We need to get out of here,” Thalla said. “In moments they will be here. They know where we are. All they have to do is get through that door.”

“Is there naught that a Child of Telm can do?” Herr’Don said, and Ifferon saw a desperation in his eyes, as if for once the Prince of Boror did not feel powerful.

Ifferon took the burned Scroll from his pocket, and his heart sank. Half of it was still there, charred and smouldering, but what is half the power of a dead god? What are the Last Words if they no longer make a sentence? Herr’Don hung his head as Ifferon showed the ruined parchment.

“We are safe,” Geldon said, “for a time.”

“You Garigút have some strange notions of safe,” Aralus said. “Lock me in the house of my enemy and call me safe.”

“We are safe!” Geldon yelled.

But they were not.

Suddenly there came a great bang upon the door, as if a heavy hammer had been launched against it. The door shook, the hinges loosened, and dust sprang from the walls from the force of the quake.

“They are trying to get in!” Thalla cried.

Long black wisps of fingers probed beneath the door, feeding through the recess and crawling further in, like the spread of a wave of black beetles. Another thump came upon the door, and then a second set of clawing fingers.

“Can you do something?” Herr’Don asked Thalla. “With magic. Surely there is some ward you can use? Did Melgalés not teach you aught?”

“I do not have a Beldarian,” she replied.

“You won’t have a life if you don’t do something!”

“There is a word of warding,” she said. “But it takes time. I need time!”

“We shall give you time!” Herr’Don said, unsheathing his sword.

“Cerranath!” Théos cried in the tongue of the Ferian. He cowered in the corner, clutching Délin’s hand.

“Keep that child quiet!” Geldon shouted. “He’s not helping!”

“What’s he saying?” Herr’Don asked.

“The Shadow!” Elithéa said.

“Ashanath em nasseleth,” Théos whispered, his voice quavering like his limbs. It seemed that he was about to collapse, so Délin took him up in his arms.

“The hands of darkness,” Elithéa translated. “It seems he can see this shadow better than the keenest of sight among us.”

“He has the clearsight?” Ifferon quizzed.

“We must barricade the door even more,” Délin shouted, and so he set Théos down upon a sack of grain in the corner and dragged another sack towards the entrance. There was another monstrous bang, followed by more reaching shadow at the base of the door.

“We must get something to block their hands,” Herr’Don said. He and Aralus went to the cabinet on the far side of the room. They grabbed one of the doors and reefed it from its hinges. It splintered and broke, but the piece they had pulled from it was large enough to span the width of the door. They stamped with their boots upon the shadow at the door, and they shivered, for their feet grew icy cold through the leather from the mere touch. A shriek was heard outside, followed by an even greater bang against the door. Then they shoved the plank of wood into the gap beneath, pushing it until it jammed and no more shadow leaked into the room.

But something pushed back. The plank was shoved into the room, and a great black smoke poured in. Then a horrid black hand, like the claw of Death, came under the door and grabbed at Geldon’s ankle. He gave a ghastly yell, as if he had suddenly been immersed in a lake of ice. His eyes went grey and his jaw went limp and wide, and it seemed to all that he would be swallowed in his own mouth, sucked into a newly-crafted abyss.

“Help him!” Thalla called, and as she spoke Elithéa sliced at the hand with her dagger, but it merely loosened the grip. Herr’Don took his sword and slashed down at it, and it was severed by the force, which tore into the floorboards, splintering the wood. The black hand around Geldon’s leg began to fade, but it faded into him, causing a thick black scar where it had touched, as if it had already gone gangrenous. Délin caught him as he fell, but his foot snapped off and the blackness seemed to spread within him. Délin recoiled, for it seemed that it was rising up to meet him.

“We need to seal the gap!” Herr’Don said. He jammed the wooden plank at the base of the door again, and Aralus helped him haul bags of grain on top to stop it from being pushed back in again.

Then they all withdrew from Geldon, for they did not like his look and feared his touch might infect them. None were familiar with the maladies of the Molokrán, but they needed no lessons, for Geldon’s affliction was enough to plague their minds.

But even as they retreated from him, Théos stepped forward, and Délin called him back, but could not get to him in time. The boy walked to Geldon and placed his hand over his mouth, where the lips were turning black, and he held it there for a second and seemed to whisper something. Then there was the sound of a long, slow exhalation as the last breath of Geldon filled the air—and he was dead.

Suddenly the room dimmed, as if the candles had been put out by a sudden breeze. Fear fell upon them like the collapsing of buildings, crushing their spirits and making rubble of their courage. They thought the door had been breached and that the room had been consumed entirely by blackness and shadow.

But they were wrong. A new light shone forth, and they saw that Thalla’s face was glowing blue. She looked suddenly older, sterner, more terrible to behold. Her arms were upraised, and upon her palms were pale blue circles filled with pale blue runes. She walked towards the door and placed her hands upon it. There was a terrible sound of rending steel, as if a great metal door had slammed shut. The gaps between the door tightened until not even an insect could crawl through. Then Thalla was thrown back, collapsing into Herr’Don’s arms, and they saw that upon the door were blue handprints filled with the runes of warding. Thalla’s hands were scorched, for the power that was channelled through her was too potent without the protection of a Beldarian.

But even as Thalla sealed the door, it seemed that an immense force had come upon it, and the ward was instantly strained. What might have stayed armies was turned to a single bolt across a wooden door which faced an onslaught like a dozen battering rams.

“The Lichelord is here!” Ifferon cried. It seemed as if the Shadowlord had come forth not only to the door, but into Ifferon’s mind. Dark eyes peered into his soul, threatening to devour him. I will eat you, he whispered to Ifferon. I will eat your family. I will eat your friends.

But the others needed no announcement, for they had sensed him too, and before they could answer, the walls around the door began to shake. Bricks loosened and scree fell. The stone answered to the Lichelord’s call.

A dark, chill voice seeped into the room: “Your little magics are a mockery of Aelor. Do you really think that a door can stop us? Do you really think that stone can stay me?”

An earthquake came. The ground shook, boxes fell, and the company stumbled. It seemed as if the very cement between the stone burned away. Bricks pushed in, breaking in pieces as they clattered to the ground. The company’s fortress was breached, their haven crumbling.

But this new Lichelord had yet to confront the full might of the Alar Ardúnar. The time had come.

“Avaunt, Shadow!” Geldirana called from the hallway, her voice strong, her tone menacing. “Flee as your brothers do before the light. You know me not, yet we have duelled, but you know my station, and it is by the grace of Corrias that I stand before you now, strong and fearless!”

A blast of light followed, and it seemed as though a supernova had occurred, blinding and burning them all. When they had come to again, the presence of the Molokrán had gone. Ifferon could see in the eye of his mind that they were chasing her down the hallway, hounding her as she led them away from Ifferon with some spell of luring. He did not know if it was love or duty that made her do such a thing.

“They’ve gone,” Herr’Don said, breathing again.

Aralus approached the door, which crumbled as he placed his hand upon it. “I don’t think that would have held them much longer,” he said.

But all were too shaken to respond, and Thalla still gazed at the remains of Geldon, which slowly crumbled onto the floor, as one turned to sand. “Is this the fate of those struck by the Molokrán?” she asked.

“Let us not linger to find out,” Herr’Don replied. “This is but a brief reprise, though may it be long for Geldirana’s sake.”

He peered out into the corridor, still wary, for he expected some dark figure to jump out and seize him. But nothing did. All that lingered in the hallway was silence, deathly and haunting. Grey smoke rose from the floor, which looked like rubble, burned and broken as if the siege had made its way right into the heart of the citadel. And perhaps it had, Ifferon thought, for he wondered how Geldirana had managed to get in.

“I think they went left,” Herr’Don said. “So we should go right to avoid them. If it were up to me, I would go left to chase them down like the moon chases darkness into the crags of rocks. They would flee, as all things of right mind do, before the terror that is Herr’Don the Great when unleashed like a ball of flaming might from a catapult of justice!”

“Perhaps you’d like to do that while we go right?” Aralus suggested.

“Dear Olagh, no! Who would defend you should they come back this way? No, Geldirana must fend for herself, for I am honour-driven to go right, or left if they went right, for that is where Ifferon goes, and he is in my charge.”

“I did not know of such contract,” Ifferon said.

“It was not of verb,” Herr’Don replied. “An understanding between two great minds, you might say. But come, we must carry on with our journey. We succeeded in our mission to infiltrate the Bastion, but I think perhaps that Geldirana used us to distract the Molokrán from her armies. Never trust the Garigút to tell you the whole of the matter.”

“Even if that were so,” Ifferon said, “has she not played a distraction herself? It was a dangerous thing to challenge them alone, but I expect she shall return.”

“You give her too much credit, Ifferon,” Aralus said. “She may not return at all!” He laughed heartily, but none of the others were much amused.

“Let us move on,” Thalla said. “Ere we think our own deaths are amusing.” She stepped out into the corridor. “We go right.”

*  *  *

And so they went down the battered hallway, stumbling over fallen bricks and slipping on a sea of dust. Often they grabbed at the walls to stable themselves, but it seemed that the walls would shift. They did not touch them again, for fear that they would collapse inwards. They turned a corner in the corridor, and their hearts sank, for there, ahead of them, was an identical corridor, and further on: the anticipation of another. They stopped at the second turn, tired, for the corridors were long, longer in thought for their monotony. They rested as they could, leaning upon some fallen bricks, and drinking of what water they had brought with them, for the dust frequently caught like sand in their throats.

It was then, after a moment of silent rest that Théos stood before Ifferon and talked to him. “Callim i thú Arithú,” he said, staring deeply into Ifferon’s eyes, and for a moment Ifferon felt as though the boy could somehow see through all the veils and masks he had put up. “Callim i thú Éalel em Arithú, Súilel em Éala. Éala? Éala bis bha?” He looked about, confused. It seemed as though he did not know where he was, or who these strange people were. Bewilderment mingled with fear and he recoiled from them.

“What is he saying?” Ifferon asked, partly from curiosity, but mostly to wrestle his mind from the intent gaze that had been set upon him.

“I see Light in you,” Elithéa said. “I see a God of Light in you, a Child of God. God? Where is God?”

Théos started panicking then, shaking and clambering, shouting and screaming in the tongue of the Al-Ferian. Délin grabbed him and held him, but the boy struggled and grew more and more distressed.

“We need to do something,” Délin said. “This is all going wrong!”

“You should not have brought him,” Herr’Don said.

“I told you to leave him behind,” Aralus added.

“You told him to kill him!” Elithéa shouted.

Délin shook his head violently. “I didn’t bring him. He followed us.”

“You brought him to the Old Keep,” Aralus stated.

“He’s just a risk,” Herr’Don said. “We don’t even know who he is. He could be one of them, for Olagh’s sake!”

“He’s not,” Délin assured them. “I know he’s not.”

“How do you know?” Aralus asked. “Do not tell me it is your heart that told you, for the heart is the deceiver of great minds. It is the subtle slayer of sharp thinking, and its wounds are hard to undo.”

“I know it in my soul,” Délin said. “I know because ... it seems like Corrias is telling me that there is more to this, something big, something important. It seems like Issarí wanted me to join Ifferon on this journey, not just to help him, but for something else. Maybe Théos is that something else.”

“Or maybe you have deluded yourself,” Aralus said. “And that seems more likely to me. Ah, so much for your idol, Herr’Don. He is much weaker in person than he is in the fables. And fables they are, are they not?”

“They are not,” Délin snapped. He stood, holding Théos close to him. The boy had quietened, but still mumbled strange words to himself. “And if you would know the validity of the tales about me, about my might, about my honour, and about how I have no quarrel with using my might to defend my honour, then I am game to play your little game, to put your foul mouth and sly hands to the test.”

“Oh, the knight has gotten a bit upset,” Aralus mocked, placing his hands over his mouth, pretending he was fearful. “What are you going to do, Délin? Tuck me into bed when you’ve said goodnight to the boy?”

“I will say goodnight to you first,” the knight spat, setting Théos down again and unsheathing his sword.

Thalla stepped in front of him, holding her hands out; they still smoked from the char of the door. “This is not the way, Délin.”

“Idle threats are the way for Délin,” Aralus said. “He’s too old to act on them.”

“But you’re not too young to die!” Délin shouted, pushing forth. Herr’Don joined Thalla between the two, keeping them at bay from one another.

“Stop this! This won’t solve anything!”

“Leave them be, Thalla,” Elithéa said. “I know who Éala favours in this battle, and Aralus will come out of it without a tongue, if he comes out at all. Let them fight. Délin’s honour has been questioned. It is the way of our people that such cases be tried under an open sky in an open battle.”

“But Délin is not one of your people!” Thalla shouted. “This is madness! Do you not see? This is playing right into the Adversary’s hands! He does not need to harm us if we do it to ourselves. All he has to do is create enough fear and doubt in us and we will do the rest. Resist the urge, be it righteous or not, and you resist Agon; you do not hearken to his call.”

Délin lowered his sword and sighed deeply. “Thalla is right. Agon wants to tear us apart, but it is more fun for him to do it from the inside out, for it is from the inside that comes his own torment. Whether you will it or not, Aralus, you are a pawn in his game and your insults come as if from his mouth. Do you speak with the voice of Agon, Aralus? Do you speak not as a Man of Boror but as a Nahamon, a Dark Man?”

“Oh, spare me your speeches, Délin,” Aralus said. “I speak for myself here. Don’t be so arrogant to assume that anyone who speaks against you is voicing the thoughts of the Beast. Do you really think I serve anyone? I serve myself, Délin. That is your problem—you try to serve Arlin, to serve Iraldas, to do justice and honour, to defend the righteous, the poor and the innocent. But where does it leave you, Trueblade? If you take a platter of bread to everyone before you, you will soon find that there is none left for yourself. Who do you serve, Délin, and have you ever questioned why you serve them?”

“Yes, yes,” Délin said, “I have. But I feel it is your time to spare speeches, for it will be a dark day ere I stoop to heed them.”

“Come!” Herr’Don said. “Let us forget this moment of turmoil and continue on our journey, for there is long yet to—”

But there was a strange sound from around the corner, and all saw a wisp of shadow speed by. They recoiled, fearing the Molokrán had caught their scent, had finished with Geldirana and come back for them. But it was not the Molokrán. It was the voice of a man, deep and sonorous, brooding in some arcane tone. They peered around the corner to see a dark robed figure, cowled in shadow and veiled in darkness. He held a book aloft and spoke to an empty room, yet as if he thought there was an audience there.

“Arise Agon! Arise ere the Ardúnari slay your most potent servants. I am your emissary, your servant, your summoner. I bring the Book of the Beast and the Serpent Stones to channel your energy. It will raise the Gormathrong, the Circle-Serpent of Iraldas, the Snake of the World, the Elad Én of the Void. He will come out from the Void and he will enter Halés, and there he will confront the Gatekeeper and kill him, kill that arrogant fool. Then you will be free, my Lord. Then your chains shall be broken, your bonds lifted, your cage unlocked. Climb up to me Agon, for I have word from your servants that the Scroll of the Last Words is burned. It is useless now. It cannot stop us. Arise Agon! Come forth to me! Come forth to devour the world and all who dwell in it!”

“No,” Herr’Don whispered, shaking his head. “The Gormathrong? Corrias exiled him to the Void. Surely he cannot be raised. He’d eat us all, Agon included!”

“The servants of Agon would do just such a reckless thing to unleash him from his chains,” Elithéa said.

“Then we must stop him,” Délin said. “We must stop the Call of Agon.”

They rushed in. Herr’Don shouted and brandished his blade like a madman. Bow was strung and sword unleashed, and all gave a tumult of war cries as if from an army of hundreds. But it seemed that some trick had struck their eyes, for there was no one in the room, no Summoner before them.

“We must ... stop him,” Délin repeated, but his words were now riddled with doubt.

Then suddenly the dark figure was behind them. “You will need haste as your consort then,” he said, and was gone, turning the corner they had just come from.

XVI – AT THE FOOTHOLD OF DARKNESS

“Quick! He went left!” Herr’Don shouted as they scrambled through another secret passage out of Nahragor, one which they saw the Summoner disappear into.

“No, it was right,” Elithéa said. “I have better sight than all of us.”

“I know a rat when I see one,” Herr’Don said, “and I know where they run.”

Thus did they quarrel for a time as they ran, chasing the elusive shadow of the Summoner that had thus far evaded them. Ifferon was growing to realise that some magic must have been on the Summoner’s heels, for his haste was not human. Indeed, they were not even sure if he was a Man, and if he was, they thought it likely that he was one of the Nahamoni, the Dark Men of the south.

“He went left,” Herr’Don repeated.

“You said that back in the corridors,” Elithéa said. “And I disagreed with you, but we went left anyway, and we have not found him. I think he went right.”

“And what if we go right when he went left?” Herr’Don quizzed.

“Herr’Don is right,” Délin said. “This is not just a matter of who has the best sense of direction here. If we lose him, then we have lost everything. We cannot risk that. We cannot leave this choice to chance.”

“Then what do you propose?” Elithéa asked.

“We have to cover both routes,” Herr’Don said.

“Yes, as much as I dislike the notion of splitting up, we must search both the Grey Hills and the Dark Forest,” Délin said.

“What a choice!” Aralus said. “Can home not be one of them?”

“Well, I’m going left,” Herr’Don said. “So that means it’s the Grey Hills for me.”

“You’re just saying that because you do not want to enter Idor-Hol,” Elithéa said.

“Not in the least,” Herr’Don replied. “Why, I feel almost compelled by the curiosity in me to take Idor-Hol and rename it Idor-Herr’Don, for it shall not be a Dark Forest for long once I have made claim to it.”

“Why would the Summoner go up the Grey Hills?” Thalla asked. “That just leads to the White Mountains. We would see his black robes on the canvass of snow from a mile away. Idor-Hol gives more cover.”

“So we might not see him at all,” Aralus said. “Even if we entered it.”

“But we have to try,” Thalla stated.

“I believe he went left,” Délin said. “That is what my heart tells me, so I must take the Grey Hills with Herr’Don.”

“Maybe the boy should go right then,” Aralus said.

“He will come with me,” Délin said. “And you will go right if you know what is best for you.”

“You have no quarrel from me. I’d rather be with a harlot-turned-Magus than a knight-turned-nanny.”

“Idor-Hol makes sense to me,” Elithéa said. “So I will go with Thalla. I will not let Aralus out of my sight, so he will come with us and give you some peace from his tireless tongue. Perhaps when we return he may be relieved of it entirely.”

“I’m starting to wonder if this is a plot for Elithéa to get me alone in a forest to kill me,” Aralus said. “Or perhaps she will admit that her heart beats for me.”

“I’m starting to think it might be the other way ‘round,” Herr’Don said.

“You took your time,” Aralus replied, and his grin was sickening, for it seemed that his teeth were rotting in his mouth.

They made their way north-west from the smouldering ruin of Nahragor, which still stood on a treacherous foundation, clinging to shape and structure. Few eyes followed their trail, for battle still raged in the Kránror, the Shadow Vale, where a legion of Nahamoni fought with the dwindling forces of the Garigút. It was not long before the company came to a two-pronged path, one leading to the Grey Hills, the other leading into the murk and fog of Idor-Hol. This was known as the Saras Adalach, the Serpent Tongue, and it seemed to the party that this was a name of ill boding, for they thought of the Gormathrong, the Lumbering Leviathan, who is known as Silsarasin de’Iraldasin, the Circle-Serpent of the World.

“Now that it comes to it, my heart pangs at this parting,” Délin said. “There is an evil doom ahead of us, I fear, and yet we must march to face it. I am glad not to be entering again the dim and choke of Idor-Hol, and yet I am not glad to be taking the Grey Hills, for they seem not grey to me, but a duller shade of black. And what of the White Mountains? Are they the Amreni Elé or the Amreni Nahad, the Mountains of Darkness? I cannot say, for they are white with snow as the fields of Caelün, and yet my heart warns me of a black cloud ahead, and whither we go it shall follow, so that no path shall be undogged.”

“I grow weary of your lamenting,” Aralus said. “Save us all the sorrow, Délin, and speak less, for you seem ever at odds with the world, harking back to bygone days. Those days are gone. They are dead. New days are ahead. These are our days. No dark god or demon, nor Beast or Summoner, shall hoard them and hinder our uprising.”

Herr’Don clapped his hands in agreement. “Now come! Whoever shall trust the wisdom of my choice shall come with me up the Grey Hills, and we shall make a haste that will defy the Lord of Time.”

He charged off, heeding no cry or call. He did not look back to see who would join him, and it seemed to the others that an immortal haste was upon his heels, one that might meet with that of the Summoner if he were up ahead. Délin grabbed Théos and followed. His armour clinked and clanged as he went, and he stumbled here and there, yet he never faltered. Ifferon gave a final nod to his companions and then followed the two warriors, struggling to match their pace.

*  *  *

A stillness followed, where Thalla, Elithéa, and Aralus stood in silence. They were taken aback by the abruptness of Herr’Don’s charge, and it seemed to their eyes that they could already see him clambering up the hills, a black speck among the greyness.

They turned and were greeted by the menace of Idor-Hol. The choking fog had crawled out to meet them, and they rolled their shoulders and cringed, thinking ill of their choice. Yet onwards they went, heeding no fear, into the murk and dank of the forest.

“An air so poisonous,” Aralus observed. “’Twould be a wonder indeed if a Man could hide here long.”

“If Man he is,” Elithéa replied. “Yet I have little doubt, for such is the style of your people. It would surprise me little to pull down his hood and see your face grinning back at me.”

“That would surprise me!” Aralus said. “But you must think I have a twin, which I do not. My brother looks nothing like me. Daralus is his name.”

“And what is yours?” Elithéa asked, turning her hard gaze upon him again. “For I have many names for you, and they are: Liar, Cheat, Scoundrel, Beggar of Darkness, and Bringer of Hate, and I have more yet in the Mannish tongue and endless ones in my native speech.”

“I grow tired of this bickering,” Thalla said. “No wonder the others were so eager to part. Let us just keep to our mission and speak only when we have something useful to say about the path ahead.”

“I have something useful to say,” Aralus commented. “There is no path ahead. A path leads into Idor-Hol, and there it vanishes, for Idor-Hol consumes all that come within. Including us.”

*  *  *

A fog was also upon the Grey Hills, and Ifferon wondered if the mist came from the Mountains and then into the Dark Forest, or if Idor-Hol generated its own murky haze, wafting it up into the hills. It mattered little where it came from, however, for either way it proved a barrier to their sight. They had not gone far up the Hills when they were engulfed in the mist, wading through it as if it were quicksand.

“Let us hope this has slowed the Summoner as much as it does us,” Herr’Don said. It looked as though he was fighting with the smog, striking it with his fists and kicking at the smoke that clung to his legs.

But before long the fog began to fade, and the four felt naked to all sight. The vapour rose high into the Mountains, where it dissipated, and the company turned back to see that battle still raged in the Valley far below.

Suddenly they became aware of a fleeting blackness that was crawling up the hills behind them, as if a new fog, not grey but black, was pressing in. But this was no fog, for it moved with an evil speed, and before it ran the hounds of fear and dread.

The company froze in a moment of panic. They stood upon the hill in wait—and it seemed like a lifetime they stood there, but soon their wait was over and the terror came quickening over the brink of the hill.

He came forth, the Lichelord of the Molokrán, sweeping up from the vast shadow and bringing his dark and daunting eyes upon them, deep and probing. Then the other Molokrán appeared, dark and fearsome, bearing up like looming mountains, a carriage of black that clung to their master.

Théos turned from them, closing his eyes and burying his head in Délin’s chest, but as the Molokrán approached, Ifferon knew that the knight could not bear the boy and battle at the same time. The Shadowlord drew back and then darted forward towards them, and it seemed that he did not walk or run, but floated across the land at a dreadful speed. Wisps of shadow blew about him, and it seemed that they were like dark fingers, tearing into the soil as he passed.

Whispers came, as if from afar, and yet Ifferon knew that they were from the Shadowlord’s twisted mouth. But then, as he watched the thirteen figures loom, they faded, and it looked as if none had been there, but their presence lingered. Soon their darkness grew visible again. They glared and taunted, hissing and leaning forth, showing their claws, readying themselves to maul them.

“Run!” Délin cried, his voice stolen by the wind. “Do not slow for breath. Do not stop for air. Run!”

And so they ran as fast as their fear drove them, like a stampede of hunted animals across a wide and open plain. Terror whipped at their ankles and dread loomed up behind them like a pouncing predator. They could not see, not even if they looked behind them, which only Herr’Don and Délin dared to do, but something great and terrible followed.

And suddenly a new wonder appeared ahead over the line of the horizon, a stone-ringed dolmen, a Greater Ilokrán. It stood like a sentry of the forgotten years, guarding some vast and ancient power. And there it stood, just moments away: a safe haven, an oasis in the vastness of a desert of black shadow. Safety stood before them, just out of reach, while peril advanced quickly on their heels.

“To the Shadowstone!” Herr’Don called. “Haste!”

Time seemed to slow and each dreadful step seemed like a final beat of their hearts. The darkness hung about their shoulders and an icy breath came creeping up their backs. Panic swept in on them like a crashing wave, and it occurred to them all that they would die mere feet away from the Ilokrán—dead on the doorstep of safety.

But it was not the end. For just as all hope faded and they felt the gnawing shadow come upon them, they passed within the circle of small stones that bore the Wards of the Taarí Earls. They came to the dolmen at the centre of these stones and turned sharply, peering out into the growing gloom.

“These are the Wards of the Ancient Days,” Délin shouted. “May Issarí smite you for ever setting foot in her old domain!”

But a cruel laugh came in answer. “We smote Issarí and before her eyes we smote her consort. Even as we speak, the River Man lies at the bottom of the River where he belongs, and death is his new spouse now. Heed us, Délin De’Marius, for we come to show you the Truth.”

And suddenly the knight backed away, as if a serpent had arisen and sprang at him. A horror worse than death was in his eyes, and he recoiled, pushing Théos behind him and closer to the central stone.

They huddled about the dolmen of the Greater Ilokrán, as if it were a campfire to scare away the shadow and the cold. But the shadow did not flee; it grew around them like a dark blanket intent on smothering them. And the cold still clawed and clung to them, and whispered cruel things to their bones.

All but Ifferon and Théos could see naught but different shades of shadow, though they could feel the fear that the Molokrán cast before them like slaves to their will. Ifferon saw the vast, wispy shadow of the creatures set before them, billowing like thick smog or dark, ruined trees in a haunting breeze. They were but fleeting glimpses, for the Scroll lay half-burned in his pocket, a tarnished token of a god long dead.

Herr’Don clambered onto the dolmen and stood tall, waving his sword about in a frenzy. “Back, you fiends! The Bringers of Fear shall know a terror of their own at the hands of Herr’Don the Great!” He cast aside his cloak, launching it towards the advancing wave of black in a moment of boldness.

But the shadow’s advance was not halted. It consumed his cloak, trampling and tearing it. A shrill laugh sounded in the air, as if this little prince, this Herr’Don the Small, this Herr’Don the Weak, was but a child pretending, a feigned fortress that is but a sandcastle standing in defiance of a great and terrible wave. It was inevitable that he would be washed away.

But Herr’Don was not the child. Délin quickly lifted Théos up and stood him upon the dolmen beside Herr’Don, as if indeed this was the advancing ocean and the only safety was to be found in higher ground. If nothing else, the boy would be the last to fall, after all the others had given their lives to the sea of shadow.

But the tide then halted and the black seemed to dim. The fear that went before them withdrew into their ranks, and it was preceded by a sense of doubt.

“Théosath! Téhosin! Têhosel!” they called, their voices like the whispers of the dead. “Tëosë! Tasahad! Taasasaí!” they cried in all the languages of Iraldas, hissing and spitting as they spoke, as if the very words tore their tongues and mauled their mouths.

And they seemed to quail before the boy, as if some secret light shone deep within him, scaring away the shadow. Their blackness faded to a meek grey, and their vast shapes, seen in full only by Ifferon and Théos, began to diminish.

But the Lichelord did not flinch or cower, nor did he fade, for shock more than fear was upon him. “He,” he said in a long-drawn hiss, “should not be here!”

“Neither should you, you beasts, you echoes of the Dark Age!” Délin called. “Go back to the days when Molok claimed Iraldas as his domain, for you cling to a mockery of life, and you cleave to a forgery of triumph! Go back, I say, ere the light comes o’er the hills and smites you!”

“We,” the voice came, solemn, as if the last word of someone dying, and then deathly, as if many ghostly voices were joining its call, “are of the earth. We are of the soil. We are the kings of two kingdoms, stone and shadow, and lo! Here is the Dark Age anew, and there shall come a day when a black sun will rise and the light will flee beneath the stones. And there we will crush it!”

And so it seemed then that the final star in the sky was smothered and died out in the ink of the night. The Molokrán arose once more, taller than before, and came to write their own history of the earth in that ink, starting with the demise of those few fools who dared to wave a dim lantern before the darkness.

Then shock turned to awe for both parties, for Théos made a shout in the tongue of the Ferian: “Cué essáh Cerran!” His voice was sweet and tender, but there was a great fear in it, and yet beneath this layer of terror lay an even deeper emotion, one of ancient loathing. Suddenly it seemed as though a bell had tolled in the heavens and a memory had struck like a lightning flash.

The Molokrán ceased again, and it seemed to Ifferon that the other twelve looked to the Lichelord for advice, clearly unready for this strange foe. But the Lichelord needed no bell or flash to spark his memory, for his loathing was not only deep, it was palpable. He hissed and spit and snarled, and then he said: “But a boy, but a child. The shadow will have grown ere you come of age. Watch it grow!”

He raised his arms and claws high into the air and pushed forward, as if against some invisible wall. There was a tremor in the earth, and the stones that lay in a circle around the dolmen began to tremble and shake, as if they too feared the advancing shade. Again the Lichelord raised his arms and pushed forward, ignoring the cries of Délin and Herr’Don, who screamed: “Back, you beast! Back, devil! Back!” And again the stones shook and the ground about them began to crack and break. Once more the Lichelord pushed forth, and this time the stones rose into the air and moved closer to the company before settling in the ground again, hemming them in closer than before. The circle of their defence was now half its original size.

“The shadow chokes all life and light,” the Lichelord said. “Just as the Ardúnari have fallen to our might, so too do the Children of Telm crumble and their god-blood spill upon the land that is our home. Such is the reward of the Lighthand at the hand of the Shadow.”

Once again he raised his arms, but before he could push forth there was a tremor, only different in scale and feel. It felt like the deep rumbling of the belly of the hungry earth, and yet it spoke of a vast power that even the Lichelord could not amass to move the rocks. The dolmen shuddered and many in the company tripped or fell in the tumble, for it seemed as though the earth was rising right beneath their feet.

And so it was, for there was something sleeping beneath the dolmen that had not awoken for many years. It had heard the cries and shouts, and felt the rumble of dark powers. More than anything it sensed the Shadow fall upon it, and a great anger was arisen in its ancient heart. For it was a Mountain Moln, a creature of the earth from the days when the Molokrán were first created, for the Moln were Aelor’s answer to them, salvaging the dissipating power of the Aelora in their abandoned home of Ardún-Fé before Molok could build more of his ruined shadow race.

“Oh,” it said, yawning a deep and endless syllable. It turned its head, and there was the sound of crumbling boulders, and a shower of scree fell before it. It seemed for a moment that it did not notice them, for it turned this way and that and shifted slowly to its lumbering feet, great boulders supported by some will or magic that defied the eyes of Men. Then the small black coals of its eyes tightened and its brow furrowed like the crags upon a cliff face, sending another avalanche of crumbled stone to the ground. It had seen the company and it had seen the Molokrán.

“Go back to sleep!” the Lichelord hissed, and for a moment it seemed that his voice had penetrated the stone and numbed the Moln’s mind, for it drooped a little and seemed to grow dumb. But it fought the lure of the Lichelord’s voice and roused itself again, and then it gave forth a terrible howl, like a gale against a monolith; contained within that roar was a sound like a thousand years of erosion, and from its mouth broken rocks, stones and dust fell forth.

“Slumbering beast!” the Lichelord croaked. “You sleep while we stay ever lucid in the waking world, and who shall fade, Moln, when the end of days has come? Go back to your crib in the earth and dream an endless dream, for this is our domain now. You think you are strong, but you are no more than rock and stone, and that is my domain.”

He raised his hands again and pushed forth, as he had done with the Ilokrán, and now they rose again, and with them went the Moln, who was pushed back, and so it stumbled and collapsed backwards into a pile of rubble. Thus was this last defiance defeated, and the Lichelord turned his gaze upon Ifferon again, and it seemed to pierce him. The other Molokrán drew close once more.

But they did not expect what followed, for Ifferon did not cower, but spoke aloud. “You are faced with many powers here,” he said, taking the small Ilokrán from his pocket. He held it before the Lichelord, who flinched, but when he realised what it was he began an endless cackle. With a flick of a his shadowed claw he pulled the stone from Ifferon’s hand, casting it outside the safety of the stone circle.

“If a Greater Ilokrán can barely stop us, then what will a Lesser do?” the Lichelord mocked.

But Ifferon did not back down. “You have dared taunt us and push forth knowing well your peril. Yet you think of me as a coward—”

“You are a coward,” the Lichelord hissed.

“—but you have not yet seen me in my robe of glory.”

Suddenly it seemed that he grew and was almost the height of the Moln in the eyes of the Molokrán. “Dehilasü baeos!” he cried. The armour of Telm descended from the clouds in a column of light and steel, and it seemed to the Molokrán that they stood before Telm again, and they trembled, for stronger than the memory of the mind was the memory of the soul, and it remembered well the might of Telm the Lighthand, Warrior-king of the Céalari. “Avaunt!” Ifferon shouted, and his words were as the shattering of fearsome winds and the crashing of caustic waves upon a beaten shore. “Avaunt! Begone! Dehilasü baeos!”

And even more suddenly it seemed that a second light shone from Théos behind him, greater than the first, and there was the flash of lightning across the inkwell sky, setting the heavens alight and revealing a silhouette of white that stood like a giant behind the cleric, dwarfing even him, godly in stature as Telm himself.

The Molokrán recoiled within themselves, as if they tried to hide in their own shadow. They turned and fled back down the Hills to the gate they had come from. All was silent then, like the stillness that follows a rampant storm.

Ifferon turned and noted the expressions of awe upon his companion’s faces.

“Courage in a candle flame,” Herr’Don said, laughing. “More like conquest in a kindled fire. And lo, my friend, you are kindled, and what a fire you burn.”

Délin nodded. “Yes, yes, there is little question that the blood of Telm runs deep in your veins. And it seems to me that you are not the only Child of Telm among us.”

They turned to Théos, who sat upon the edge of the dolmen, clutching the pendant around his neck. He rocked back and forth and murmured something softly in his tongue.

“That was something strange he did back there,” Herr’Don said. “The Great might feel small to watch such feats.”

“Yes, yes, it seems Geldirana was right about his power, but wrong to fear it,” Délin replied. “The riddle is answered then, for he is a god-child like Ifferon, which explains his escort.”

“But not why they died and he lived,” Herr’Don said.

“No,” Délin said solemnly. “That is true.”

“But come!” Herr’Don cried. “We have no time for riddles.”

“The boy is shaken,” Ifferon said. Délin wrapped his arm around Théos, but the boy ignored him. It reminded them all of how they found him on the Plains, for he was distant then. So he was, it seemed, again.

“We are all shaken,” Herr’Don observed. “Though I would have fought until the end with those beasts. But first I would like to know more of that Moln. What a fortune, it seemed to me, for one to arise at our very feet, and yet it seemed that it stood no chance against the Alar Molokrán.”

“Nay, for how could it against the Lichelord of the Blue Moon?” Délin said. “Of all matter to be made of, it is ill fortune to be made of stone when that foul fiend is abroad. But let us learn more of this Ilokamon, as we call them in Old Arlinaic, for it seemed to me that it was enraged by the sight of the Molokrán.”

“I know somewhat of the myths of them,” Ifferon said. “Golem they are sometimes called in the Common Tongue. Some Magi claim to have discovered, through the power of magic which Aelor gave to Iraldas, how to make a Moln. Indeed, it was said that Danarím, the first Magus, accomplished this, and that this is how he died, for he could not control the creature, and thus it slew him.”

“I do not doubt it,” Délin said, “for such is the reward of those who meddle in the affairs of the Céalari. If e’er a man wishes to create new life, let him find a wife and let them bring forth a child. Leave the Moln to Aelor, for no Magus may equal that Céalar’s power. But we tarry on a trifle. Let us see with our own eyes what has become of this Moln.”

They turned from the dolmen and made their way towards the heap of rocks a few yards away. At first glance it looked like another Ilokrán, but on closer inspection they noticed the features of its face beneath the rubble. It was still alive and looked out at them with eyes of the ancient world.

“Is there aught we can do?” Délin asked, though he dared not approach too closely, for fear of falling rocks. He held Théos back, who seemed curious about the creature. “You are noble of heart, I deem, and great in power. We share a common hatred of the Molokrán—”

With the mention of that name there came a deep and angry rumble in the mound. Stones shifted and a great hand of rock reached up from the ruin and pounded on the earth in fury. “Molokrânil! Moloschránin! Móllicerranath! Melerdrānad! Aí-Maalisrana! Mölisceraë! So the Shadow has a name in all the tongues of Iraldas. The earth quakes and the mountains rumble. May stones from the heaven come and smite the Shadowweavers and their kin.”

“Aye!” Herr’Don cried. “Let them be smitten!”

“Ever is the enemy of our enemy our friend,” Délin said. “We know not the policy of your people in the wars and troubles of the lands, and I cannot say that many in Arlin or Boror have heard of your plight against these foes. But we are great enemies of the Molokrán, sent by the Ardúnari to fulfil a quest against he who rules them and bends them to his will —the Beast Agon.”

There was another rumble, followed by the other mountain fist pummelling the earth like a war drum. The stones shook and crumbled, and the company stumbled and fell over.

“The earth is angry,” the Moln growled. “I am its spokesperson. I am the embassy of the earth, the ambassador of Iraldas. My name cannot be given in my true tongue, for it is the speech of the soil, which cannot be understood by the creatures that walk upon it. Thus shall I be known to you by the name of the dolmen where I awoke, for we are the Guardians of the Guardstones, and each dolmen here in Telarym acts as a door to the earth. Call me, therefore, Daenardü in the tongue of the Aelora, our sister race, for this is the Guardstone of the Dawnlight, though there is no longer any light here, nor dawn to start the day. That is why we have gone into hibernation, awaiting an age when the earth can be free again, with the flowers billowing in a gentle breeze, and the animals frolicking to and fro o’er green fields that span all that the eye can see, even eyes of coal and stone. Long has it been since Telarym was green; it has grown old and grey and withered, and the will for life has been sapped from it. Thus does it decay.”

“The Earth shall yet have a victory,” Délin said.

“Aye!” Herr’Don cried. “And evil shall know it by an earthquake!”

But the Moln did not share their enthusiasm. “The last earthquake in Iraldas came from—” and he made a deep and terrible rumble, “—him, the Beast, the Breaker of Foundations. Chains do not stop him from pummelling the ceiling of his prison, threatening his release, taunting his captors. There is not will enough left in the earth to threaten back. We shall sleep.”

“That may change,” Délin said. “We have not yet given up the blood in our bodies, so why should we give up the vigour in our hearts?”

“You are a small thing,” Daenardü said, the lids of his eyes growing heavy, as if he were to fall into another swoon of slumber. “You are a young thing. You fight for each day’s breath, because you have so few days to fight for. But we are eternal. We do not feel the burden of death weigh down on us as you do, and thus we do not fear that tomorrow will never come. Tomorrow is but a second in the ages of the earth, as fleeting as the lives of Man and Aelora, and even the Ferian, though they live on in trees. It is this fear of death that drives you to fight for each brief moment of life.”

“Yes, yes,” Délin said. “Because life is so precious. Even a second of it. Each fleeting breath. Is that not worth fighting for?”

The Moln shifted uneasily and made a booming sigh deep in the bowels of its being. “Is it worth dying for?” he asked. “Would it not be easier to go away somewhere, to hide, to hibernate, and live out what few moments of life you have?”

“It would be easier,” Délin said. “But it would not be right, nor true and honourable.”

The Moln seemed to be already falling back asleep. “Perhaps I would fight for life if I had less. Now I sleep. Yes. Sleep. Quite an effort to just ... stay awake. Sleep.”

“Wait!” Délin said. “Perhaps you can help us.”

“Help you?” the Moln quizzed. “I cannot help you fight. Too brief. Too passing. Is not worth it. Does not merit.”

“No, we do not need you to fight for us,” Délin explained.

“No? No fighting ...”

“Perhaps you know if someone passed this way? We are chasing someone.”

“He is a Summoner of the Beast,” Herr’Don said.

With that the Moln’s eyes widened again and he growled. “Summoner! Heave! I felt his evil, yes.”

“So he passed this way?” Délin asked.

“Yes, passed. Brief. Quick. Left a stench, left a reek of evil. Feared death. We could smell it off him. So very passing. So very brief.”

“I told you he went left,” Herr’Don said, clapping his hands together and beaming brightly.

“Do you know which way he went?” Délin asked. “Did he go further up the mountains?”

“Yes, further up. Higher. I can feel him now. The Old Temple. That is where he hides. That is where he hides from death.”

“He can hide,” Herr’Don said. “But I’ll be Death today, and I’ll come running. I’ll pull him out from whatever rock he trembles under, and he shall know a fear worse than death—the fear of the wrath of Herr’Don the Great!”

“You will not be the only one brandishing wrath today,” Délin said. “I only hope that Corrias guides my blade down the path of honour and virtue, for there shall be little mercy for the Summoner of Agon!”

“Sleep,” the Moln repeated, and this time he succumbed to the power of the word, for it seemed that he could not endure the vigour of their verse. He crumbled down into the earth, burying himself in the stone, and within moments there was little trace of the creature at all.

“Come then!” Herr’Don said. “Get your blade ready, Ifferon. You are not a fighter, but who knows what this Summoner has up his sleeves. He may have a weapon not yet revealed.”

“We should all be wary,” Délin said. He turned to Théos and knelt before him. “I did not really want to bring you up here. It would have been better for you if you had gone to Boror with Adon.” The boy looked at him, confused and enthralled by the strangeness of his words. “There is so much danger, so much risk. It would be a cruel fate for me, an old man, to fight for life while you, a young boy, fight with death. And this, I believe, is where Corrias guides me, for wrath would have led me to ruin, but the necessity of caring for another leads me to caution. So caution is our road today. I shall be cautious for you, Théos.”

“Caution?” Herr’Don quizzed. “We have no time for caution, Délin! Already this Summoner has gotten the advantage. We let him run too long. It’s time to uproot every rock and scream aloud We’ve come to kill you!” He leapt upon the dolmen-stone, brandishing his blade and thumping his chest, and then he gave a roar that would have sent lions in flight.

Théos started to cry, backing away and lowering his eyes from the sight of the madness of Herr’Don. “Stop it, Herr’Don,” Délin said. “You are scaring him.”

“It is not enough until I strike fear into the hearts of all beings, be they Man or beast or lowly worm upon the soil. And that is what this Summoner is. A wriggling worm. Caution is cowardice that lets these worms out of our grasp!”

“Caution is courage guided,” Délin replied. “But you do yourself a disservice by proving the words of your father. Are you a madman, Herr’Don, or just a man?”

“You choose to lecture me now?” Herr’Don asked, jumping down from the dolmen and approaching the knight, who but stared deep and unmoving into the depths of his eyes. “It seems you have a lecture for everyone. Is Aralus a Nahamon? Am I a madman? Who can answer these things, so obvious as they are? But tell me, Délin, are you a knight or a mentor? Did you come with us to tell us what we are, or did you come with us because of what you are yourself?”

“Maybe we should go,” Ifferon said, but they ignored him.

“Things have changed,” Délin said. “But the one thing that remains is that I am a knight, and I stay true to virtue.”

“I stay true to battle and bloodshed.”

“So do wolves, Herr’Don. So do Bull-men. So do Taarí and Dolmors. That is a far cry from valour.”

“I don’t need an Arliner to tell me about valour,” Herr’Don said,

“We were all Arliners at one point, Herr’Don, back when our lands were one. There was only the Motherland. Boror did not exist.”

“You can keep your Motherland, Délin. Boror exists now, as it should have since the dawn of time.” Herr’Don turned away towards the Mountains. “My valour is taller than those peaks, vaster than the hills, stronger than the rock, purer than the snow. I am Herr’Don the Great! I am Herr’Don the Strong!”

“Hass em ammith,” Théos whispered to Délin.

“What’s he babbling now?” Herr’Don asked. “We should have sent him with Elithéa.”

“We should have sent you with Aralus,” Délin replied, but he turned away from the prince and looked at Ifferon.

“Perhaps we should seek out this Summoner,” Ifferon said, hoping to redirect Herr’Don’s anger towards the Adversary.

“Yes!” Herr’Don cried. His wrath was rekindled. “The Summoner! Ah! Come out, come out, wherever you are! I’ll break every bone in your body and more!”

So they began this last leg of their journey, wary now not only of the hidden power of the Summoner who they would soon face, but the explicit wrath of Herr’Don, who seemed in the midst of a frenzy, like a Bull-man with blood on its tongue. Ifferon knew not where this sudden rage had come from, but it seemed that long years of brooding on the evil of the Adversary had overflowed on the footstep of where the Summoner was hiding. He only hoped that it was not so vast that it would consume them all, like the eruption of a volcano that had no care for which way the lava would flow.

XVII – THE INIQUITY OF IDOR-HOL

The mouth of Idor-Hol opened up before them, wide and gaping, and the fog was like a dark tongue, lolling here and there, enticing them to draw closer. The trees reached up like many-fingered hands, clawing towards the sky, and they were devoured by the jaws of Idor-Hol and by the bleak sky, which seemed poisoned by its fumes.

“I am starting to regret this choice already,” Thalla said.

Elithéa nodded. “We would regret it all the more if the Summoner is here and we were in the Grey Hills, thinking us safe, only to find Agon crawling out of Halés.”

“Do you not think it is lovely here?” Aralus jested. “The gloom, the shadow. Olagh only knows what might happen here under this blanket of fog in the grip of dark’s embrace. Or does he?”

“Éala knows,” Elithéa said, taking up a fallen branch and swinging it ahead of her, for they were all blinded by the fog.

Onwards they continued, not sure which way they were going, whether they were following the Summoner or he was following them, or perhaps they were going in circles, or worst yet they might be entering a trap long set.

The mist rolled in and out like waves, granting them glimpses of the horror of Idor-Hol, for it was a twisted mess of tangled things, only some of which were trees. They had curled branches and long, reaching wooden fingers, which at times grazed their hair or tapped their shoulders. There was the feeling of something playful, a something that was trapped inside a painful prison, and so the play was a game of life or death.

“They say no one ever escapes from Idor-Hol,” Aralus whispered, as if the trees might hear his words and make them a reality.

“Were it you alone in here, I would have prayed that it were so,” Elithéa said, “but who are these people who survive that claim there are no survivors?”

“The people who go to the Grey Hills instead,” Aralus said, and while they could not see his slimy grin, they could almost feel it through the fog.

“There is only one person who will not escape Idor-Hol today,” Thalla said. “And that is he who would give the Call of Agon.”

“If he is here and not on the end of Herr’Don’s sword,” Aralus said, tapping his dagger on a nearby tree. “You know, Elly, you may wish to slow your pace, for there are quicksands in this forest. Waving that stick might save your head from a branch above, but it will not save your feet from the pull below.”

“Yet nothing will save me from your prater,” the Ferian replied. “I know my way around the land. I do not trip and stumble like a Man.”

Their stolen sight gave aid to their ears, but they wished it were not so, for they could hear noises of things that did not quite seem right, sounds just on the edge of hearing that threatened to push them over the edge of madness. There were scurries and slithers, crunches and creaking, and sounds that defied description. There was no wind, and yet there seemed to be a constant wail, and it appeared to come from every direction at once—even from inside them.

Suddenly Elithéa gave a cry. Thalla froze, part of her wanting to grab hold of whoever was nearby, yet fearful that it might not be one of her companions.

“My acorn!” Elithéa howled. “It is gone. My acorn. Something snatched it in the fog.”

It was then that the mist recoiled, fleeing from her mounting wrath, and leaving behind Thalla clutching her bow and Aralus clutching the acorn he took from Elithéa’s belt.

“You!” Elithéa spat, but she did not move, for Aralus held a dagger to the acorn like she had previously held a dagger to his throat.

“I find it interesting how the Ferian treat these acorns,” Aralus said. “If I held a knife to the neck of your child you would not hesitate to attack, for you would not value a child’s life the same. Yet here is but a token of nature and you dare not make a move.”

“Perhaps you assume too much,” Elithéa said.

Aralus held the blade closer to the acorn and Elithéa flinched. “I think I assume just enough,” he said, and he licked his lips, revelling in the control he had over her.

“Aralus, stop this game!” Thalla said.

“If I do that I will have to kill her,” he replied. “So perhaps you will let me have my fun and she can have that much more of life.”

“This is madness!” Thalla said. “The Summoner is loose. What are our petty squabbles if Agon is unleashed?”

Aralus ignored her, keeping a steady, gleeful gaze on Elithéa. “You know, in Alimror some devised a way to cause harm to the bearer of an acorn by damaging the acorn itself.”

“Do not dare!” Elithéa cried. “Take a blade to my flesh if you need, but do not tarnish the acorn.”

“But a cut here is a cut to you,” he said. “Not all can do this, of course. It is called fer eraslita, life by sympathy. One must know the key-symbols of the acorn spirits to open the channel. Have a guess what I know.”

Thalla stepped towards him, but Elithéa raised her hand. “No, do not push him.”

“Pay heed, little magic lady,” Aralus said. “You do not even understand the ways of the Magi, let alone the methods of the Erasliashan.”

He carved a symbol into the acorn and Elithéa screamed, as if it had been etched into her very flesh, but there was no sign or scar upon her.

“I beg of you,” the Ferian pleaded, the branch dropping from her weakened hand. “For every chance I had to take your life, I chose the path of mercy. Please, Aralus, you know well the hurt you make.”

“Indeed,” he said, and he carved another symbol, tearing a horrifying howl from Elithéa’s lips.

Thalla could no longer stand and watch. She armed her bow and pointed it at Aralus. “Stop this now.”

“Never at the command of a harlot,” he said. “It does not matter if I die this day, for Elithéa has paid the price of taunting me. She will never be able to return to the Éalgarth with a defiled acorn. You have done enough to join my list, Thalla. Do you really wish to do more? But do not worry, I have had my fun with the Ferian. There is only so much that the fer eraslita will do. The rest I will leave to nature.”

With that he tossed the acorn into the trees. Elithéa threw herself after it, and she screamed, as if Aralus were still carving figures into its surface. But now its fate was much worse, for it sat atop a bed of quicksand, which slowly sucked it into the earth.

“Leave it!” Thalla called. “It is not worth death.”

“Without it there is no life,” Elithéa said, and she jumped into the muck, seizing the acorn before it slipped forever beneath the surface. “We live or die as one.”

“Down to Halés,” Aralus said, perching like a starving crow beside a dying person, waiting for his long-awaited meal.

Thalla raced to the edge of the mire, careful not to tread too far. Elithéa was by now already waist high in quicksand, for she had struggled much to save the acorn from the sandy deeps. Thalla extended her bow to Elithéa, but before the Ferian could seize it Aralus grabbed Thalla and wrapped her in a bear-hug, crushing her against his bony chest.

“No!” he squealed, like a huntsman whose prey had escaped a trap. He had a strength that defied his form, the fortitude of anger and the might of desperation. He squeezed tighter and Thalla felt the air flee her lungs. “She’s not getting out! You’re not getting out. All of you ... you thieves! Stealing money, stealing hearts, stealing lives. Boots on the paupers, boots on the poor!”

Thalla struggled, but her fight was feeble. Even her legs began to give under the force of Aralus’ enduring embrace. For a brief moment she thought she might cast some spell, but she knew that without a Beldarian it could be the death of her. Yet death was drawing closer, one crushing second at a time.

“Let her go!” Elithéa screamed, but her newfound panic made her sink even deeper.

“Only to go to Halés,” Aralus replied.

“Aralus,” Thalla whispered, for her breath was choked. “Why are you ... why?”

“Why am I doing this? Why am I poor? Why am I left holding the ladder while you all climb to the top? Why am I even alive when most of my family are dead from hunger? It’s you! You’re the reason. Elithéa’s the reason. Ifferon is the reason. You know, our families were quite close.” He dragged Thalla closer, wanting her to feel how close they were. “We used to rent some land from Ifferon’s parents. We used to be friends. But one day we couldn’t pay the rent. We were thrown out. We had nowhere to go, no money, no food. Where was friendship then? We moved to Al-Ferian land, hoping for a better life. But it never came—it never came! Death did, though. Yes, he came. He took my mother and my three sisters. Only my father, my brother and I survived. So my father killed Ifferon’s parents. It was only fair. It was justice. But, you see, we had lost four people. Ifferon only lost two. It wasn’t balanced. Still the rich get a better deal! So we have to make it even, make it fair. Daralus and I. Ifferon has to die. I came here to kill him. But you ...,” and he turned his glance to Elithéa, who but glowered at him. “You had to dog me and hound me and make me feel little. And look at you now, growing smaller by the second!”

“I am sorry, Aralus,” Thalla said. “But it is not our fault.”

He turned back to Thalla. “You liar, you harlot! Was stabbing Herr’Don in the heart not your fault? Was frolicking off with a stableboy not your fault? Is it my fault? Is it my fault because I cannot pay for it to be someone else’s? Is that the way?” He began nodding furiously to himself. “Yes, you all need to die. You’re all wrong. You’re all thieves and liars!”

But even as he spoke there was a scurrying in the forest. Small animals, rodents, and birds had been attracted to the scene, and to the gentle whistle of Elithéa who summoned them. Aralus was still deep within the trance of his own soliloquy and paid no heed to the scampering behind him until at last he saw the figure of Elithéa rising up from the quicksand in the corner of his eye. He turned, still holding Thalla, and realised that a great flock of birds had grabbed hold of Elithéa and pulled her out. They rested upon her shoulders with fierce gazes set upon him. There was a moment of pause as Aralus stood dumbfounded, and as the creatures of wood and plain gathered around the Ferian woman, as if she were some ancient tree that housed them all.

“So you have brought your beasts,” Aralus spat.

“A beast to match a beast,” Elithéa replied. “Yet they are more tame than you, for you are not like these animals, but rather the Beast that lies chained within the pits of Halés.”

“Spare me your condescension, Elly. it makes you look old!”

“Let Thalla go!”

“I thought you asked me that already but a moment ago,” Aralus said. “Did I heed you then? What do you think has changed?”

The animals seemed aware of his response, for their glower grew stronger, and some of them rose up and puffed their breasts or flapped their wings or grimaced gravely.

“Ah so, you think I cannot fend off raven and squirrel?”

But Elithéa did not respond. She picked up the branch that she had dropped and held it aloft like a staff from the thalgarth she left at Nahragor.

“So we fight,” Aralus said, and suddenly he threw Thalla towards Elitheá and unleashed two curved daggers from his belt. He pounced upon them, stabbing wildly. All was a mix of steel and staff and fur and feather. Thalla rolled out of the way only to nearly fall into the quicksand. The animals scratched and clawed at Aralus, who roared like a lion fighting for his throne. And Elithéa swung the branch around, warding the incoming blows.

Aralus lunged both daggers at the Ferian. One she blocked, while the other sliced deeply into her chest. She coughed and cried, and the animals grew more frenzied. They screeched and jumped and dived at Aralus, scratching his face and gnawing at his limbs. But he bashed them away, killing some, wounding others, or simply throwing them into trees or upon the ground. Some even landed in the quicksand only to be lost moments later.

“My animals!” Elithéa cried, rage rising like lava within her until her face was red. New strength came within her limbs and she pushed Aralus away. He landed at the base of a tree, losing both his daggers. Thalla helped Elithéa up, but they struggled, for the wound was deep and the blood came quickening

“I am a servant of circumstance,” Aralus said, grating his jaws, and they looked about to crumble from the force. “If fate had not been cruel, then I would not be either!” He pounced on Elithéa, who parried his fists with her own. She felt as though she were fighting off an animal, not a Man, some crazed cat or wounded wolf. She threw him off her, and he scampered away to rest by a tree, licking his wounds, mumbling and moaning to himself.

“You sons of kings, daughters of delight! Oh, how I hungered for marriage, for the tender kiss of a woman. And how I envied the rich. Oh, there were gowns and gaiety! There were emeralds out of reach, diamonds left to dangle, sapphires offered only to be taken away! Why is this? Why so glum, why so grim? Is it iniquity? Is it injustice? Is it immoral? Who decides these things? Who makes the tides ebb and flow? Not me, no, no, no, why would it be so, and how wonderful a world it would be if it were so.”

“You cannot blame us for your troubles, Aralus,” Thalla shouted, but this only seemed to anger him even more. He looked at her with fire in his eyes.

“Silence, harlot! Look at your clothes, your robes, all silk and satin! A little muck and mud and you cringe and cry, knowing not a bed of filth. You’re a little princess parading about, feigning adventure when you are still afraid you’ll tear your dress.”

“And what are you, Aralus?” Elithéa said. “What have you become?”

“I am what becomes of all Iraldas’ poor. I have become what the rich ordained, what the powerful have chosen. This is not my choice. What choice do I really have in a world run by other people?”

“You still have a choice,” Thalla replied. “You can stop this now. No one is forcing you. You need to take responsibility for your actions.”

“And when will you take responsibility for your own? Ah yes, so easy it is to berate others and whisper words of wisdom, but so difficult to enact them in your own life. Harlots and hypocrites, the lot of you!”

Again he dived at them, and Thalla and Elithéa acted in unison. They blocked his blows and pushed him back, only this time he neared the quicksand and nearly fell in. He tried to regain his balance, but Elithéa would not allow it. She pushed him in, and he howled like a beast and clambered to grab hold of something as he began to sink, but the more he struggled the more the earth devoured him.

For a moment the two women watched him, but pity and compassion rose swiftly in Thalla’s heart. “We must help him.” She struggled to find something else to pull him in, but Elithéa grabbed her and stared deeply into her eyes.

“This is helping,” she said. “This is mercy.”

And so she held Thalla, stopping her from aiding Aralus. They collapsed upon the ground in exhaustion and pain. They did not look at the figure in the quicksand, but from the corner of their eyes they could see the shape growing smaller. Always they could hear the cries and calls, until at last they became muttered, and then did not come at all.

XVIII – JUDGEMENT OF THE OLD ONES

Ifferon saw fields of snow open up before them as they climbed the last of the Grey Hills, and now they were met with the Amreni Elé, the White Mountains, tall and vast. The land was smothered in a garment of white, its vestures as cotton, yet cold as cool satin, and here and there a peak rose tall and deadly, spiked like a needle of the tailor of the earth. But the land was not tailored for the company, for before they had struggled up the first of the white tors, a hail came hastening, an onslaught of ice-fray. Herr’Don held his arms before his face, sheltering his eyes, and yet they were still stung by the blizzard that fired white grit into his pupils and his lashes.

“My sight is fading,” he called, but his voice was a murmur, for the words were stolen and slaughtered by the ravaging gale.

Onwards they went, defying the snowstorm, for they thought it the working of the Summoner up ahead. The higher they went the weaker it became, and soon they were faced with a ruined structure, buried in the heart of an icy peak. Stone columns rose up to support an arched entrance, and yet more columns lay in ruin upon the ground, vanishing into the depths of the snow. It seemed that it was but a shadow of some ancient building, and yet it hinted at something more, something hidden deep within.

“The Old Temple,” Ifferon said, shaking his head and rubbing the snow from his eyes.

“Is it really as bad as they say?” Délin asked.

“Ha! Ghoul and ghost stories,” Herr’Don replied. “When have they ever proven true, and why should we fear them?”

“Ardún-Fé,” Ifferon said. “That would be a good example.”

“That was just an unfortunate turn of events. And it involved the Spectres. I don’t think even they would venture up here.”

“Which begs the question: what lies here that even they will not approach?” Délin asked.

“A rumour lies here,” Herr’Don responded. “And, of course, our wandering Summoner.”

“It is said that the Temple is a remnant of the forgotten days,” Ifferon said.

“Who says that if they are forgotten?” Herr’Don asked.

“Forgotten to mortals,” Ifferon explained. “I am sure the gods still remember it.”

“I’m sure they would, if it were true,” Herr’Don said. “I trust more in the truth of my blade.”

“What do you think the Gormathrong is, Herr’Don?” Ifferon asked.

“A very large worm that Corrias stood on,” the prince replied.

Ifferon shook his head. “Do you fear nothing?”

“Do you fear everything?”

“I know little of this Gormathrong,” Délin said. “He does not feature in our books in Arlin.”

“He is one of the Old Ones,” Ifferon said. “The last that was defeated in the War of the Heavens, and the Old Temple is a relic of those times, where it is said that the offspring of the Elad Éni worshipped Chránán, the Lord of the Shadow of Time. Few dare enter the worship-halls of those ancient forces.”

“And we are few,” Herr’Don said. “And we shall dare. Come! I hearken not to these whispers of ancient times. What is the Old Temple but an echo of the dead? What are its walls but brick yet to crumble? A rumour has come before it, out of the shadows of Men’s minds, and it darkens our spirits. But I tell you this, a rumour shall go before us now, and it shall travel to this Temple of the Old Ones, and it shall be the rumour of death come quickening, for it is blood that I thirst for!”

They approached the entrance of the Old Temple, which seemed small from afar, yet was monumental when they drew near. It was not crafted by Man or Taarí, they knew, but by gods, with huge hands and limbs, lifting great rocks and hauling them up the mountain side. It looked like the entrance of a tomb, and they wondered with foreboding what might have been buried there.

They passed under the arched entrance cautiously. Something ancient and terrible lurked within, there was no doubt of it, but it might yet be sleeping, and they dared not wake it, not even Herr’Don.

“’Twould not surprise me to find this place is trapped,” Herr’Don whispered. “Tread lightly and keep your—”

But even as he spoke he stepped upon a stone slab which triggered a darting blade. It shot out from the wall and struck his left shoulder; he gave a yelp as it pinned him to the opposite side. Ifferon rushed forth and grabbed him, and he kicked the swordsman’s foot to remove it from the trigger-bed. The blade withdrew back into the wall, where blood dripped like tears.

“Ah! My words be damned!” Herr’Don shouted. “For it seems I have damned myself with them.”

Délin gave a faint smile. “And Geldirana thought me the speaker of ill omens.”

“Aye, she did, but at least your omens did not bode ill for you.” Herr’Don pushed Ifferon away, who tried to tend his wound. “If I had not cast my cloak at the Molokrán I’d have something proper to wrap the wound. But come, lend me a cloth and I’ll repay the deed by offering the use of my arm in battle.”

“This is more than a cloth will mend,” Ifferon said.

“’Tis but a scratch,” Herr’Don responded.

“A scratch from a Felokar wolf, perhaps,” Délin said, and he raised his hand, which was wrapped tightly in a thick white cloth, now soaked red. “This is the tooth of a wolf—but that,” and he pointed to Herr’Don’s shoulder, “is the tooth of a trap. Come, we must tend to it. We know not if the blade was poisoned.”

“I know,” Herr’Don said. “I’ve been poisoned before, and I know its first moments, and those evil ones that follow. This is not poisoned.”

“Yet still it must be tended, ere it festers,” Délin said.

Ifferon nodded and stepped forward again. “Let me clean the wound and apply some herbs.” He reached into the sleeves of his habit and pulled out a small container filled with herbs and spices, so well packed that it had survived past toil and struggle.

“I am no sickly woman that needs waiting on!” the prince growled. “Give me a cloth or a splint or I’ll make do with my right arm alone if need be.”

Délin tore off a piece of his sleeve and handed it to Herr’Don. “May Issarí prevent the wound from festering, if you will not do so.”

“May Corrias prevent more traps from springing,” Herr’Don said as he wrapped his shoulder and struggled to tie a one-handed knot. “I’d prefer not to have to wrap my right arm as well.”

“Let us then be careful,” Délin said. He held Théos close, and he looked as if he were ready to jump in front of anything that might harm the child.

Herr’Don bent over, and Ifferon thought that he had stumbled, but when the swordsman straightened up again he held an old crossbow that was still loaded with a bolt, as if it had fallen from the hand of someone who lost it, and their life, to a trap.

“Seems a waste,” Herr’Don said. “I think I should honour whoever did not get to use this, and I know just the cowardly sorcerer to honour it on.”

Délin was not amused. “There is no honour in fighting from afar.”

“Perhaps not,” the prince said, “but if Herr’Don the Great has to feel the sting of a trap, than he who set the trap will get to feel the sting of anything and everything I can find to throw at him.”

*  *  *

From then on they were more cautious, treading slowly and softly, with keen eyes on every crack and hole in the walls and floor. Every minute sound was magnified by the lens of fear; a crumble of dust became an avalanche, and a distant footfall was heard as the rumour of a boulder rolling down to greet them. Yet nothing came but the shadow of their suspicion and their wariness, and soon they were confident again that the path ahead was safe to tread.

Yet even as that confidence came, they turned a corner and saw that other traps had already been sprung, and that blades and spikes lay broken and bloodied on the floor. They wondered if the Summoner had sprung them in his haste, but Ifferon pointed out that the blood was long dry and could not be that of their enemy, unless he be of demon-kind with law-defying blood.

“My arm’s going numb,” Herr’Don said, and he spoke as one stilted and distant, as if his mind and his mouth were also numbed.

“I have had similar wounds,” Délin whispered. “You must keep the limb active, lest it atrophy.”

“I’m trying to,” Herr’Don cried, “but it doesn’t want to move. I can barely wiggle a finger, never mind grasp a sword. Ack, this Summoner will pay dearly for this trap.”

“Will he now?” a sudden voice boomed out around them. They had left the corridors and entered the main chamber of the Temple. It opened up wide before them, like a winding river that falls into the ocean, and it seemed to the company that the sheer height of the ceiling looming in the distance above them defied all logic.

Herr’Don, Délin, and Ifferon glanced this way and that, trying to espy the origin of the spectral voice. Théos did not hunt the voice, but cowered beneath Délin’s shadow, as if he too were prey.

“Good of you to join me,” the voice echoed, more sinister than before. “I hope you find this little abode to your liking. Dearest me, how lost and bewildered you look, not knowing where I am. But guests, guests, why do you tarry on the doorstep when it rains outside? Come in! Enter my meek dwelling-place, and may we dine together by the hearth and exchange our fair tales.”

“All that I will exchange with you,” Herr’Don said, “are swords.”

“And words,” the voice corrected. “For you have already erred on your oath by speaking. But why so gruff? Why so raucous? Has your little scratch upset you? Has it made you testy? Ah, Herr’Don, surely you are your father’s son, one so quick to anger, yet so slow to action.”

Herr’Don gave in to the lure, fury flaring in his face. He raised his fist and yelled: “Come forth and show the body to match the voice, if indeed you are not some faceless phantom, and I shall show you action quicker than the fires in my veins and the words on my tongue!”

“I pity you, Herr’Don, attired like a prince, yet bereft of a reign,” the voice said. “But Herr’Gal has been good to me. He has lent me his ear on many occasions, and I bet I have bent it. Yes ... I bet I have. There are many who are easily swayed.”

“And you have swayed him with twisted words and lies, no doubt,” Délin said. “But we are all free Men, and we bend our own ears to evil or good. Tell me, phantom, can we say the same for you? Are you a free Man? Are you even a Man at all?”

“What do you think, Délin? You would not be lecturing me if I were not. But do you even realise the implications of your words? Free? You think you are free? There are so many things keeping you in bonds: life, death—even liberty, false as that concept is, just another box to lock you in. And what of Arlin? What of your precious Motherland? Do you think that you and your people will be ‘free’ there for long? Already the Shadow advances; already it springs into the green pastures, turning them grey and black. What will you eat when the crops turn to ashes, Délin, if not your pride? Will you tell me how free you are then, and will it even mean anything?”

“Yes, yes,” Délin said, his voice resolute. “It will always mean something.”

“You are as stubborn as a Moln. You are tall when yet standing, but the highest always have the hardest fall. And you shall fall, Délin, for I have foreseen it. I have foredoomed it for you.”

“None may do that but Corrias,” the knight replied.

“Not any more, Trueblade.” The voice grew darker and nearer, as if someone was studying them from the rafters, a staring god in the cloud-beams. “And yet it shall be Corrias that fulfils this doom, though he knows little of it. And who is that with you, Délin? Is that your son? Is that your little trophy self? You do not look Al-Ferian to me, but I suppose you have invented some notion of chivalry that defies the boundaries of race. How pathetic and delusional, yet suiting for Délin De’Marius, who would rather live a lie than face the truth of this dishonourable world.”

The voice shifted and settled like vocal eyes on Ifferon. “Ah, Ifferon, I almost forgot you were here. How easy that is to do, with you so silent, hiding there behind the men of muscles with their loud voices. And how paltry! How I wish to forget you already! But see, there are final acts left to do ere that can occur, and then all can forget you—all can forget the lot of you!”

Then there was a strange sound below, like the tremor of huge footsteps. Their attention was jolted, and they glanced towards the open corridors where candlelight flickered. They wondered if the ethereal voice had found a body.

“I have prepared a welcome for you. I have no servants up here, what with having only recently moved in, but we must make do. These shall provide you with the ... warmest of welcomes.”

As he spoke, the makers of the sounds came into view: two lumbering statues, thrice the height of Man, twice the breadth, ten times the strength, with none of the weaknesses of flesh, for they were animate stone, huge and daunting, some distant cousin of the Moln. Armour was carved into their hulk, where plates of bronze and silver were added, and their eyes were alight with ruby fire, ocular gems that seemed always about to burst into a haze of crystal shards. These eyes settled on the company, cold and cruel, and there was hate in them, and the rumour of death.

“Sentinels!” Herr’Don cried. He leapt upon a nearby rock and drew his sword, though he gave a shriek of pain, for his wounded shoulder was still raw and fresh. The numbness was overcome by the suddenness of pain. “Quick! Away from them! Hide! Run!”

But before the others thought to stir, one of the Sentinels came lumbering down on them, heavy footfalls thumping the ground. The temple shook and stones were loosened, and all was as an earthquake under the thunderous feet of gods. The guardians were armed with large two-handed swords that might have been wrought and wielded by the Elad Éni in their prime.

The Sentinel swung its sword downwards; the blade struck the ground and made a chasm there. The floor on either side flipped up, throwing Délin and Théos to one side and Ifferon to the other. Herr’Don leapt from one rock to another, muttering words of rage to himself. He jumped from the largest rock he could find and hacked at the Sentinel that was closest to him. But his sword, which might cleave the heads off hundreds, did little but chip the stone of the guardian.

Herr’Don rolled beneath the legs of the Sentinel when he landed, but even as he stood up to make another attack the second came before him and kicked him aside with a great stone foot. He gasped and collapsed against a wall near Délin, who was urging Théos to hide in one of the alcoves in the corner of the room.

The first Sentinel came up behind them, rearing its sword, but it was distracted by Ifferon, who stumbled from the ruins he had been cast into. Herr’Don grabbed his crossbow and fired a bolt at it, but it was as a pinprick, the sting of a bee bereft of its venom. Ifferon clambered up a platform to the left, which was previously inaccessible, but now the ruined floor rose up to it with ease. He grabbed small stones as he went and fired them at the Sentinels, but many missed, and those that hit their target bounced off them like hail against a mountain. Onwards he clambered as Herr’Don cast the crossbow aside like a broken promise. Then Délin unsheathed his two-handed sword and stepped down into the arena before the Sentinels, and all who looked upon him saw Trueblade in the majesty of his might.

The first Sentinel swung its sword at him, but Délin tensed his muscles and parried the attack with his own. The metal screeched and Délin bit his lip as the pain of the strike began to pierce him like a phantom blade. Shards of their blades began to splinter and spray here and there in a flurry of sparks. Then Délin dodged the next blow and drew closer to the Sentinel’s feet. He gave a battle cry that might have slain an army: “Lamarin!” he called, and he sliced at the Sentinel’s left foot. To the wonder of all, including Délin himself, the blade cut through the limb and out the other side, and the Sentinel wavered and collapsed, striking the wall and knocking one of the pillars down. Herr’Don dodged the debris that was cast from the falling guardian, but one of the stone hands came down on him, pinning his foot. He yelped and struggled to get free, but then the pillar came down on him and he covered his face before he was buried beneath it.

“Herr’Don!” Délin yelled. He threw down his sword and raced towards him, and he pushed at the pillar, which moved a little until it lay upon the swordsman’s injured arm alone. His leg was free of the Sentinel’s hand, but he was unconscious, and Délin could do nothing to wake him. He shoved again at the pillar, but even as pushed, the second Sentinel loomed up tall behind him and sliced down. Délin dodged the blow, which sliced the pillar in half, narrowly missing Herr’Don’s dozing body.

*  *  *

“Reveal yourself!” Ifferon shouted as he reached the platform where the Summoner hid.

“Oh, I shall, Ifferon, but who is the true deceiver?”

“Save your lectures,” Ifferon said. “I will not heed the words of—”

But his speech was cut short, for the Summoner pulled down the hood of his robe—and there, beneath the shadow, stood Teron. He looked older and more weathered, and he bore a scar across his face as though he had been in a recent battle. He seemed to crawl out of the depths of his hood as a rat crawls out of a hole in the wall.

“Will you heed them now?” Teron asked, and the voice seemed now familiar, that same derisive tone from Larksong, mordant and admonitory. “Ah, I see that you are still easy to silence. But you will not heed the words of ... your enemy? Is that what you were going to say? What about the words of your abbot, your head-cleric? What about the words of your friend, of your counsellor, however mistrusted? And lo, for all your godly gifts, you were not clearsighted enough to see this.”

Teron leaned over a stone pedestal which controlled the many dart traps in the room, and he  unleashed a volley that shot out and sliced into the walls. If Herr’Don had been standing a bolt would have struck him, perhaps slaying him, but he still lay pinned beneath the pillar. Délin dodged a barrage of darts, and yet even as he ducked the last it hurtled past him and into the alcove where Théos crouched. There he had been safe from the gaze and grip of the Sentinels, but now the dart struck him, and he gave a cry, which was weakened by the force of the blow.

Time seemed to slow, and Délin swung around, ignoring all peril, dodging no darts. He stood as one struck, as if the bolt had also entered him, tearing at his heart deep within.

“Théos! he cried, and rage gave him strength that felled the second Sentinel in a single swipe. He ran to the alcove and collapsed before the boy. He took him in his arms and cradled him, as oft he did to the dying he encountered, be they knight, prince or peasant. The tender face of Théos looked up at him, eyes wide and fading, and it seemed to Délin that the boy was looking upon him for the first time. Blood covered his mouth and his chest, and after a brief moment of silent tears, the boy whispered something.

“Sóthé ima,” he said, tears in his eyes. Délin knew not what it meant, yet it touched him in the depths of his soul, which lay as a temple quivering. Théos smiled gently, the smile of one who soon shall leave this world of pain—and then he was lost.

Délin hugged the lifeless body. No boyish arms hugged back, for they were limp, and when Délin kissed the boy’s forehead, none were returned, for there was no life within the frail body now—that life had been taken and scattered about the blood-laced ground.

*  *  *

Ifferon seized Teron by the throat and drove him to the wall. “Fiend!” he screamed, anger exploding in his face like the raging fires of a volcano too long laid dormant. “What have you done?” he asked, though no answer was necessary. “You fool! What have you done?”

“I have done,” Teron said, choking on the words and the fires of Ifferon’s anger, “only what was necessary.”

“Necessary! What crazed evil finds the death of a child necessary?”

“Do not be a fool, Ifferon!” the head-cleric croaked. Ifferon’s hands tightened about his neck. “He is hardly a child in spirit.”

“Ah, so,” Ifferon said, spitting the words like lava upon the crags of Teron’s face. “You know he is a Child of Telm then? Is that it? You work as Olagh’s cleric and then seek to destroy all that carry his blood?”

“Olagh be damned, it has nothing to do with him! There are greater gods than he, and you know well who they are!”

“You think Agon is a greater god?”

“Not a god at all, Ifferon, but he is getting there. Have you forgotten Corrias?”

“Corrias? What has this to do with him?”

“You are blind, Ifferon! It has everything to do with him!”

“How?” Ifferon cried. “Speak!”

“Agon was never coming,” Teron said. “At least not now. There was no Call to answer.”

Part of Ifferon’s mind felt as though it were collapsing, as if all that he had known to be true was now no longer real. Even the very ground beneath him felt as though it might simply be an illusion.

“So we embarked on this quest for nothing,” Ifferon said despondently, his anger weakened by a growing sense of despair.

“He will come when his time is at hand, rest assured of that, but this was never about him,” Teron said, shifting position as Ifferon lessened his grip. “Corrias was coming, Ifferon. It was he who was summoned and he who Agon feared, even more than you and all in the line of Telm.”

“But there was no word of Corrias!”

“No, and why should there be? The Al-Ferian are too full of pride to share such secrets, but they knew all the same that one of their children had been born different. Different, Ifferon—like you and I. A Telm-child was born, Ifferon, and Théos was imbued with the spirit of Corrias from the start, for that Céalar had found a way to incarnate here, though it would be many years until the boy would remember who he really was and what power he had. He was a god-child, indeed, but that would have mattered little until he became a god-man, for there his true threat to Agon would be felt.

“But the Garigút’s assault on Nahragor was too great an opportunity to miss, and so an escort was arranged, and the boy was brought to Telarym to aid in the siege, for no blade or shadow could touch him, nor could death assail him, but all who knew truly who he was would tremble in his presence, just as we tremble in the presence of the Molokrán.

“But Agon learned of this and sent his forces hunting. They killed the boy’s guards, but could not touch him or bring him anywhere. So he sat in the emptiness for a time, until at last you and your company came across him. Only in the presence of Telm’s bloodline would he travel, and while he could not be hurt in normal lands, as you can tell, Ifferon, the Old Temple is hardly normal lands. It was built by the gods before Corrias, and only here could the child be killed.

“So you see, my friend, you set out to stop the Call of Agon, yet you have brought about the death of Corrias instead, who wandered blindly as a child in your company. You are indeed an important player, Ifferon! You play the games that even gods dare not play, and you played right into our very hands!”

Anger returned like an ally. “You wicked thing!” Ifferon bellowed, his fingers growing tighter by the second. “What madness drove you to this evil? What reward was had for this?”

“Ah, the reward has yet to come, though I did delight in sending that fool Melgalés to his final doom. What? You mean for all these years of suspicion you did not suspect that? Ah, your mind has dulled, Ifferon! I cursed the letter I gave to you. Those stamps were Molok-runes, and they did the job well enough, did they not? Oh, I bet he was soon tired after reading that letter! I bet much darkness was drawn to him then ...”

“You despicable scoundrel! There are no words or curses foul enough to say of you!”

“Melgalés deserved death, Ifferon. Do not let him make you think otherwise. He received the Elixir of Life when it should have gone to others. I should have been elected at that Council, Ifferon. I should have been an Ardúnar! But they are all fools, showing false piety to gods who no longer listen. Agon listens, Ifferon. He offered me life, an eternity of youth. Immortality.”

“You will have no perpetual youth, you fool!” Ifferon screamed. “You speak of me as blind, yet your eyes have been clouded by the fear of age and death. And here you are now, having brought death the closer, and death shall grace you, Teron. Death is here!”

Ifferon grabbed his sword from his belt and drove it through the chest of the head-cleric, who but choked as blood leaked from his mouth.

“Death,” Teron coughed, gasping on his final breath, “brings eternal life closer.” And so he parted from the world, his body slumping against the pedestal, as if he had been sacrificed upon it. A sudden chill came into the room, a wind from the depths of Halés, and it bore away Teron’s soul.

*  *  *

After many moments of troubled thoughts, Délin stirred. He stood with the boy in his arms and brought him out through the labyrinth of passages, through the main chamber and then out into the bleak white of the mountains. Ifferon unpinned Herr’Don from the pillar and woke him from his daze, and they stumbled after Délin, Ifferon struggling to support Herr’Don’s weight. They stopped at the entrance, granting the knight his right to grieve.

When Délin had reached the brink of the mountain he knelt again and laid the boy gently on the bed of snow. Grief loomed deep in the well of his heart as he watched the colour in the boy’s face slowly fade to match the snow. He traced his hand across Théos’ forehead, brushing his hair to one side. He kissed his brow, a kiss he had often given to valiant knights who had lost their lives in the bitterness of battle; he had not once been forced to do this for a child, and this was a reality far more bitter than any battle he had faced.

He took the Sigil of Corrias from around his neck and grasped it in his hand. He looked at it through his veil of tears, looked at its design and thought about what it meant for him: bravery, loyalty, fealty, and valour. These were his virtues, his merits, his truths. But no bravery or loyalty could comfort him now; no fealty or valour could mask the shadows of the world. Hope parted like the passing of the wind and left but a chill in his soul.

He thought of his god Corrias. “You have forsaken me,” he said, and with an angry sigh he threw the pendant into the air. It hurtled forth and then fell, just as Théos had fallen, landing in the snow. Great snowflakes came down from the gloom in the sky, landing upon its fading surface, burying it forever.

I – MOURNING ON THE MOUNTAINS

Snow fell like the frozen tears of gods as Délin knelt cradling the body of Théos, who grew colder than the icy breeze that blew from the mountainous heights. Ifferon watched as the knight wept and cast aside his pendant, an emblem of Corrias. He muttered something to the heavens, perhaps a curse for the dark deed that had been done, but his voice was lost in the blizzard, lost like the dead.

Ifferon was reluctant to disturb Délin’s grieving. Herr’Don hung out of him, struggling to keep his balance. He mumbled also, but his words were like the ramblings of a madman, not the cries of pain from one who has lost another.

“You should sit,” Ifferon said to Herr’Don, but the Prince seemed far away, his eyes glazed. He looked up, confused, and only understood when Ifferon helped him limp towards a large rock, which had not yet been smothered in a blanket of white. He took a battered cannister of water which was strapped to Herr’Don’s belt and poured it into the Prince’s mouth. “Rest. You have fought long and hard today.”

Something in Herr’Don’s eyes seemed to grow alight, as if he struggled to defy Ifferon’s words, to show the world that he did not need rest, for he was Herr’Don, Prince of Boror. But the fire was quickly smothered by weariness, which fell harsher than the worst of winter’s snow.

Ifferon trudged towards Délin, his feet sinking with each step. A fierce breeze forced him to cover his eyes from a barrage of white pellets, as if the weather were attacking him, or the pain and anger of Délin had caused a chaos in the heavens.

When he reached the knight and the Al-Ferian boy, the reality of what had happened began to fully sink in. He paused as it washed over him. He had unwittingly helped destroy the life of a child and a god—and he did not know which was worse.

He placed his hand upon Délin’s shoulder. The knight did not stir, as if the warmth of Ifferon’s touch could not be felt in the cold place his mind now dwelt. Ifferon crouched beside him, keeping his hand in place, some small token of comfort, he thought, a paltry offering when not even the greatest gift could stop the hurt.

He looked at the body of Théos, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open, as if he had tried to speak a final word, but could not utter it in time. His face was pale—even the tint of gold had vanished from it, like a summer’s leaf wilted by winter’s touch. Snowdrops fell upon the boy’s face, which Délin brushed aside, the only act he did as he stared into the deep blue eyes. Ifferon realised that there was still some life within those eyes, like a little fish swimming in circles in a lake, trying to find its way back to sea. Perhaps that is why Délin stared into them, as if he might reel back the life that was slipping away.

When the cold began to bite into his bones, Ifferon spoke. “This is a great tragedy. A loss beyond words. Yet we cannot stay here. A winter storm is brewing. Perhaps we can bury him, but we must get off these mountains or we will all be buried here.”

Délin did not speak. Still he clung to the body and still he fished in the eyes. Nothing else mattered. Grief covered him and kept him warm from the winds.

Ifferon realised that Délin was too deep in despair to listen to reason. He struggled to his feet and took his hand away from Délin’s shoulder. Then just as he began to leave, Délin whispered: “It is my fault.”

Ifferon felt a shiver in his soul that was not the cold of snow. Part of him wanted to tell the truth of his own responsibility for this turn of events, to free Délin from a guilt he did not deserve, and yet Ifferon could not muster the courage to do so, for another part of him feared turning the knight’s upset to anger.

“You did not do this,” Ifferon said at last, but he felt how empty his words were, how useless the platitudes of the living were in the face of the reality of death. “You are not to blame,” he added, knowing well it would do little to absolve the knight’s chastened conscience.

Délin shook his head, as if to deny Ifferon’s words, or reject what had transpired this day—a futile fist of fury to the Gatekeeper in the Halls of Halés. His expression changed from depression to defiance, and he clambered up, still clutching the boy, and Ifferon helped him struggle through the mounting snow to find a shelter from the uncaring weather.

*  *  *

The day passed slowly, and the company huddled in the cavern between the icy maw of the Amreni Elé and the crooked teeth of the Grey Hills. They shivered as the wind burrowed through the cracks and whistled in to greet them with a bitter tune. Ifferon and Herr’Don sat close to each other for warmth, but Délin sat far away on the other end. He still held the body of Théos, which he had wrapped in a scrap of fabric he tore from the vestments beneath his armour, as he would have done if the boy were alive and shivering. He had closed the boy’s eyes, for there were no more fishes now, but there was new hope in the lie that maybe he was only sleeping.

“We failed,” Herr’Don whispered. The weakness in his voice told Ifferon that he meant to speak the words aloud, but had not the strength for it. “There is white everywhere before my eyes, yet all I see now is darkness.”

Ifferon felt like joining his companions in the depths of despair, felt like giving up and giving in, for had not Agon won this round? He felt the lure of letting go, of closing his eyes and waiting for the chill to take him, knowing that a warmth and rest awaited him in Halés, and he would be free from his pain, and no longer a witness to the pain of others.

But something stirred inside him that countered this desire, a resolution to match the defiance of Délin, who seemed like he would sit for eternity on the mountain top, waiting for Théos to open his eyes once more. Ifferon felt a crumb of courage he did not know he had, a hint of hope that he had once forgotten. It seemed to exist in the very core of him, the foundation of his very being, and yet he had built a tower of terror upon it, a fortress of fear that must come crashing down.

“This is not the end,” he said, but Herr’Don did not seem to care, turning away from him, turning away from the words. “We worked too hard for this. It cannot have all been for nothing.”

“No,” Herr’Don said. “It was for him. For Agon. Injured I was, but I heard Teron’s words. We slaved for and served a master we did not know, and we did not see the bonds we wore, did not see the chains that tugged us to and fro. And here is the wages of our work: a boy dead, a god dethroned, the gift of grief and the bruises of battle.” With these last words he looked at his injured arm, and he cradled the broken bones as Délin did with Théos, his own line in a list of losses.

Ifferon could say little to argue against his claims, for though they had done much to assail the enemy, including the destruction of the Kalakrán in Nahragor, it seemed like little compared to the blow that had been dealt to the good people of the world. Another Child of Telm was dead, but worse yet the father god Corrias had joined them—and what good were the offspring of Telm if even Corrias could not hold back the tide of darkness?

He placed his frozen hands in his pockets to shield them from the cold, and there he felt the Scroll of Mestalarin, that relic of Telm. Despite its promise, that it could keep the power of Telm in the world, it served only as a reminder of the god’s death—and the Last Words were useless when the Scroll itself was half burned. He mused that even if it were whole, the dying breath meant little to deafened ears.

His thoughts went on like this for a long time, battling with what little reserve of will he had left in him, until at last he fell into an uneasy sleep filled with dreams of what might have been and what might now transpire in this game of gods, when neither side’s king was in play.

*  *  *

Dawn broke over the ridge of the mountains, casting the white and grey in a golden sheen. Yet there was no cheer to be found in its light and heat, for its smile seemed almost a mockery of their moods.

Délin was the first awake, it seemed, or perhaps he did not sleep at all, for Théos slept enough for the both of them. Herr’Don was last to stir; he grumbled at Ifferon’s attempts to wake him, and he growled when he realised what he was waking to, for little had changed with the daily death and resurrection of the sun.

“We will need to make our way down the mountains,” Ifferon told the others. “We are lucky to have lasted the night in this cold. I do not think my bones can survive another.”

“At least you have all your bones to feel the chill,” Herr’Don said despondently. “I thought the feeling would come back into my arm, but it seems it is frozen more than the winds of the White Mountains should do.”

“All the more reason to depart from here quickly then,” Ifferon replied. “We need to get to some sanctuary. It is a long journey back to Boror, but perhaps the Ferian or Al-Ferian lands will offer refuge.”

Herr’Don scoffed. “More likely that they offer us death—to match that which we brought upon ourselves.”

Ifferon sighed deeply. Here he was with two of the greatest warriors of Iraldas, both disarmed of their hope and will. Where was Délin to lead the charge and show the ways of honour, like an echo from days long gone? Where was Herr’Don to hark back to glories past and hint at those yet to come? They were the ones to comfort him, to lift him up and lead him on, to tell him how he could battle against the darkness, and show him in their actions that victory was not just a distant dream. Now the tables had turned, and he felt it was his duty to turn them once again.

Just as Ifferon’s resolve grew adamant, Délin began to hum a solemn tune. Herr’Don looked to him like a pupil to a teacher, and the two sat and listened as the knight began to sing a sombre song:

The oaths of all are offered as a gift

To gods that hold us to them by the sword,

Yet on the edge we find ourselves adrift

As we seek some kind of penance or reward.

Life brings toil and trials; still we saunter on

And hold ourselves to codes, in those we trust

That all is worth the words we rest upon,

That, in the end, the end is right and just.

We cling and clutch, but always we will weep

For all we did not do, and all regret.

It matters little if we cannot keep

This oath we made to life, this oath to death.

It seemed to Ifferon that this was the knight’s way of acknowledging the passing of Théos, of finally recognising the harsh, cold truth. Délin became silent again, but he looked away from the boy now, as if he could no long bear the sight of the frozen body.

*  *  *

As Délin’s requiem echoed in his mind, Ifferon looked out into the distance, first to the west where the Mountains continued on, and then to the east to the path they had come from. A blotch of darkness appeared on the horizon, haloed by the ball of the sun. A sudden terror filled Ifferon’s heart as the memories of the Molokrán flooded back to him, but he realised that it was rare to see them out in the light of day, and that the figures in the distance did not cling unmercifully to the ground, but hiked slowly towards them.

After a time it became clear that it was Thalla and Elithéa, marching across the Grey Hills. Thalla waved from the distance, but Elithéa did not appear so eager to greet them. To Ifferon’s watchful eyes, it seemed that she was injured, for she stumbled frequently, using a branch to guide her steps.

“Why are there only two of you?” Ifferon quizzed when they arrived.

Elithéa gave him a look that said more than words. The scars on her face spoke even louder. Many of her wounds were wrapped tight, where the blood stained her clothes, and those exposed to the elements had clotted thick. Though it was clear that she had lost a lot of blood, she gave the impression that she had endured worse wounds than this in life.

“Aralus attacked us,” Thalla said, her voice stronger than it had ever been.

“And paid the price,” Elithéa added. “As all do who attack an Éalgarth, or indeed, it seems, a Magus’ apprentice.”

Ifferon was dumbfounded, and yet part of him felt that this was such an obvious conclusion, that there could be no other end when Elithéa and Aralus were paired together. In many ways he was surprised it had not happened sooner, and he felt somewhat guilty that he was glad it had not happened around him.

Délin did not seem to care. He barely reacted to the news of Aralus’ passing, though Ifferon wondered if there was not a small part of him that was happy about it, since there was such tension between them when Aralus was alive.

Herr’Don, however, did not take the news kindly. “You speak these words like riddles,” he said. “Yet your eyes tell me the answer.” He slammed his fist suddenly on the stone, which seemed to quake beneath the force. Ifferon imagined that he yearned to slam his other fist, but it hung limp on his pendulum arm.

“There is little to tell,” Elithéa said, averting her gaze as if her eyes might betray her.

“Little to tell, hmm? A man dies and there is little to tell?”

“When the man is Aralus ...”

“You always had it in for him,” Herr’Don snapped. “You were always watching him with your cruel glare, always mocking him, always chomping at the bit to see him hurt. And yet I never thought you would kill him. I never thought that you would stoop so low.”

“He attacked us,” Thalla explained. “We did what was necessary.”

Necessary. The word brought back the memory of Teron and Théos’ death like a torrent released from a dam. Délin still cradled him amidst the onslaught.

Herr’Don turned his fiery gaze upon Thalla as if it were a drawn sword. Spittle hung around his mouth where the words fought for release. “You,” he managed with a derision that would have etched stones. “Don’t speak to me, heart-holder ... harlot! Was it not enough that you would steal my love and slay my heart? You must have my friends as well? It makes me wonder if it was you who pushed Belnavar into the Chasm.”

“That is not fair, Herr’Don,” Thalla said.

“Fair?” Herr’Don scoffed. “You think because you spent some years turning tricks in the House of Hataramon that you know what is not fair? Belnavar’s death was not fair. Aralus’ death was not fair.” He struggled to hold up his shoulder to show his mangled arm. “This is not fair!”

It seemed that Thalla had only then noticed his wounds. A well of worry formed in her eyes and flooded her face. She ran to him with arms outstretched, like a mother to her injured child, but this child withdrew from her and met her concern with an angry glare.

Thalla froze, her arms still held towards Herr’Don. When it was clear that he did not want her comfort she rubbed her eyes with one hand and held her neck with the other, as if she had been bitten on the nape.

The tension that hung like a cloud over them was broken by Elithéa’s voice. “What happened to the boy?” she asked, and there was a hint of worry. It seemed odd to hear the tremor in her voice, for she always appeared to care little for others who were not of her race, for those who she said were dead to her. Now one was.

“He ...” Ifferon struggled, careful not to further upset Délin, yet finding that he also had not fully come to terms with what had happened. “There was a battle. It all went wrong.”

“He is dead?” Elithéa quizzed, her golden hue dimming like the sun behind a cloud.

Thalla held her hands against her mouth, as if to stop whatever scream might rush out and rock the mountains.

Ifferon nodded. It seemed better than speaking that little word of affirmation, that little word that would make it all so real. Everyone was dying: Melgalés, Belnavar, Yavün, Aralus, and Théos. Even Teron, though he deserved death. Ifferon wondered how long it would be before dark hands reached for another of them, before they reached for him.

“You said there was a battle,” Elithéa said, wiping her eyes. “I trust then that you found him, that you killed the Summoner.”

“Yes,” Ifferon said.

“So the Call of Agon is ended,” the Ferian said with a sigh of relief.

Ifferon had not the heart to tell her that it was not so, that there was no Call to be answered, and he still feared the wrath of Délin when he finally found out that Théos died in vain, and that with him died his patron god.

“He said something to me,” Délin said, his voice a shadow of what it had been. Gone was its strength and authority, replaced now by a strain and a struggle, and a hint of despair, which promised to reveal an even greater misery if he dwelt on it too much.

Everyone looked to him, their eyes apologetic.

“Sóthé ima,” the knight continued. “Just a whisper, just a ... sóthé ima.”

Elithéa closed her eyes and hung her head.

Délin turned to her, pleading with his eyes. “Tell me what he said.”

It took a long time for her to answer, and she almost gulped the words. “Save me,” she translated.

Délin’s lip trembled and his eyes watered. The muscles in his face tightened as he tried to hold back the tears. “Save me,” he whispered. A tear dropped upon Théos’ ghostly face, as if it leapt from his eyes in some futile attempt to save the child. After a time, when Délin had regained his composure, he looked up and spoke again. “He wants me to save him.”

“A bit late for that,” Herr’Don said with a snort. “A bit late for a lot of people.” He glowered at Elithéa and Thalla.

“It is the words of a dying child,” Elithéa said. “It is what any would say.”

Suddenly a fire sparked in Délin’s voice, a vigour that was an echo of his former strength. “It was more than that. Were the Last Words of Telm just a trifle, something to be dismissed?”

“That was Telm, Délin,” Elithéa responded. “Théos was just a boy, not a god.”

Ifferon bit his lip. Now did not seem the time to reveal what Teron had told him. It did not seem like there was ever going to be a right time for that. Herr’Don looked at him, as if to ask why he kept such news to himself, but the emptiness in the Prince’s eyes showed that he did not really care, that it mattered little if the others should know their doom.

“Why are you so eager to dismiss his words?” Délin asked.

“They are just words,” the Ferian responded. She stood up sharply and turned away. “Nothing can be done. Nothing should be done.”

Délin nodded to himself. “So there is something.”

“There are always dark paths that can be tread, Délin,” Elithéa said. “But we choose not to tread them, because we are good people.”

“Good people who murder others,” Herr’Don said. “Would that Herr’Don the Great could lie to himself as well as you do, but that is one of few things he does not excel at.”

“But there is a path, a way?” Délin asked eagerly.

Elithéa kept her back to them. “If you want to be a necromancer, if you want to follow in the footsteps of Acrath the Turncoat.”

“I do not know who Acrath is, but if she knows a way, then I would hear her speak,” Délin said.

“There are the acorns,” Ifferon explained.

Elithéa turned to him and looked at him harshly. “I told you that because I thought you understood.”

“I did, and I do. There is no harm in speaking of it.”

“But there is much harm in doing it,” she responded. She pointed to Délin. “And he wants to do it, I can tell.”

“So the Ferian can forsooth,” Délin said. “Yet I do not know what it is that I want to do. What are these acorns?”

“Each Ferian child is born with an acorn,” Ifferon told him.

“I cannot believe you are doing this,” Elithéa said, raising her hands to the heavens as if she were beseeching Éala to strike him down. “I cannot believe this is happening.”

“There are many things that I cannot believe have happened,” Délin said. “But I am prepared to believe that there is a way out of this darkness. Why do the children have acorns? What good are they?” He patted the pouch on Théos’ belt, a bag he previously thought was little more than part of the boy’s unusual attire.

“They are the Ferhassan,” Ifferon told him, “the Life Houses, like the Beldarians of the Magi.”

“So they house the life of the Ferian?” Thalla quizzed.

“Yes, and when the Ferian or Al-Ferian dies they are usually planted to grow trees, through which they live on. Or they are sometimes used to bring the Ferian back to life.”

“By those who favour the fleeting moments as a Ferian over the endless ones as a tree,” Elithéa said. “By the defilers of nature, the consorts of death.”

“So there is a way to bring him back?” Délin asked, his eyes wide like a child who had discovered some new wonder, like perhaps Théos would have looked if he still sat with them whispering Ferian words to himself.

“There is a way to kill his tree and spit on his memory,” Elithéa said sharply, almost spitting the words herself. At that point she produced her acorn, with its scars to match her own. “This is what Aralus did to me, to my future. I cannot go back to Féthal. I cannot ever be a tree. What sliver of life I have left as a Ferian is all there is. I will not let you take the boy’s future away.”

“But he does not have a future!” Délin shouted. “Look at him!” The anger in his voice was mixed with grief, and tears lined his face like a funeral veil.

“I understand your pain, Délin,” Elithéa said. “I really do, and I never thought I could or would understand another race in Iraldas. But you do not understand my race, and though he is Al-Ferian, we share this same fate in the forest. What you seek to do to him is not for his good. It is a defilement. It would be like digging up the graves of the dead and desecrating their bodies.”

“Perhaps she is right,” Thalla said. “If this is the way of her people, then perhaps we should honour that.”

“I will not honour death,” Délin said, “for that is what you ask of me when there is the choice of life. I had almost given up. Corrias abandoned me, ignored my prayers. And now there is some sliver of hope, so why would I not take it?”

Herr’Don laughed, and they all turned to him. “Will you not tell them, Ifferon? Will you make him think there is hope when there is none?”

“What does he mean?” Délin asked.

It seemed there was no option now but to reveal the full events in the Temple. Ifferon did not know where to start, and he found he frequently jumbled up things and had to go back and forth in his tale, with each new piece of information further surprising the others, who were more dumbfounded than he had been when Teron revealed it all to him.

“That explains the pendant then,” Elithéa said, “and what we assumed to be his name. Host. He was the host of the god Corrias, a vessel in which he dwelt. So if Corrias is gone, then Éala is dead also. Yet Agon still lives, though he is in chains.”

Délin shook his head. “So he did not forsake me,” he said. “I forsook him.”

“It matters little,” Herr’Don said, “for we are all forsaken here.”

“You did not forsake him if you cared for the child he became,” Thalla said.

“Yet I would forsake him if I chose not to do all I can to restore his life,” Délin said. “So let us do this for Corrias, for Théos. We must bring them back.”

“I may no longer be welcome in Féthal, but I am still an Éalgarth,” Elithéa pointed out. “You know what that means. I hunt down the Betrayers of Trees.”

“Would you hunt me down?” Délin asked. There was a threat in the question, the insinuation that he would fight to the last breath and perhaps beyond. Ifferon recalled the battle with the Felokar wolves, which had failed to bring him into the depths of Halés, and the Sentinels of the Old Ones, which he felled as if they were but toy soldiers and not the guardians of the ancient gods.

“I would rather kill you all than defile a life that has passed on to Éala,” Elithéa said.

“But he is Éala!” Délin replied. “Or was ... and might be again.”

“There is no reason to believe restoring life to the boy will bring back the god.”

“There is no reason not to try,” Délin said. “Even if we fail to bring back Corrias, is the life of Théos not enough?”

“Is his tree not enough?” Elithéa responded. “You know not what you do, Délin, for love and grief has blinded you, and despite your nobility you are still a Man, and you know not our ways.”

“He is an Al-Ferian,” Ifferon interjected. “They sometimes choose to live their second life.”

“They choose wrong,” she said. “And will ever be hunted by us because of it.”

“I think you know what will happen here,” Ifferon said. “There is too much at stake.”

Elithéa nodded. “So be it. You will try to bring him back, and I will try to stop you. I am too wounded and tired to fight you now, and there is a code of honour in the hunt. I will give you a day to run. Then I will follow, and you will think what happened to Aralus is a mercy when I catch you.”

II – DEARLY DEPARTED

“When Corrias walks this world again, may he have mercy on you,” Délin said with a glower at Elithéa.

She ignored him and clambered into the cavern they had rested in the night before. “You had better get moving,” she said. “You carry much to slow you down.”

“I want no part of this,” Herr’Don said. “I will not waste what little life I have left chasing the spirits of the dead. The boy is gone. Corrias is gone. The days of the gods are over. Why die for tomorrow when we can live for today?”

“So that others can live,” Délin said.

“It has all been in vain, Trueblade, and I will not give more hours in servitude to Agon,” Herr’Don said. “He has taken enough from us. My part in this tale is done. If I had the will for it I would strike the Ferian down, for she has brought naught but doom upon us, as if we needed her aid for that. You are cowards to run from her when she can barely stand.”

Elithéa snorted. “For one so vain, you are in need of a mirror. With which arm do you think to strike me down, Herr’Don? For you are running out of options.”

Rage volcanoed in Herr’Don’s face, and he lunged at the woman with what strength he could muster from the darkest parts of his being. Ifferon blocked him, pushing him back, but the Prince’s fierceness was too much, knocking Ifferon back into the snow.

“Ah, now you are brave,” Herr’Don said to the cleric. “You muster some sliver of courage to defend the woman who plans to hunt you down, to defy the very man that rescued you from the destruction of Larksong. You are not all you were made out to be. Melgalés was wrong, and he paid for it with his life. I will not add mine to the treasures cast aside defending a child of a god who can barely muster the strength of Man.

“So go to Alimror and try to grow a boy out of a tree. Even if you succeed, you bring life into a world of death, where we all owe a tithe of days to the Gatekeeper. I thought much of all of you, that this little band of people had a chance, but I guess even the Great can make mistakes.”

With that he turned and strode off to the Grey Hills in the east, leaving behind a trail of snow that he had kicked and pushed aside in his anger. Ifferon stepped forward to follow him, to bring him back, but Délin stopped him.

“Let him go,” the knight said. “If he lived up even a little to his self-appointed title he would be a boon to us, but he is nothing if a bane festers in his heart, and that is a wound much worse than his injured arm.” He clambered up with Théos and looked once more into the boy’s eyes; a tear dropped upon his face. “Our path leads to other places.”

He walked off towards the west, where the White Mountains continued on and led into the land of Alimror, home of the Al-Ferian. He knew not if there was a path through there, or if he would join Théos in an icy grave as they fled the wrath of a woman who did not seem to understand honour and love. Ifferon followed, anxious about this new threat, but relieved to be finally moving again, even if it meant running from a new enemy.

*  *  *

Thalla lingered behind for a moment. “Do you mean to go through with this?” she asked the Ferian. “Can you not let this one pass? Can you not see why we need to try?”

“We?” Elithéa asked. “So our struggle in Idor-Hol showed you nothing of what the acorns mean to my people. They are our life, Thalla. What would a Magus be without a Beldarian?”

“Me, I guess,” Thalla said, and she felt a sudden shame.

“And look how lost you are. You drift along whichever way the wind blows, even if it is a hot wind from the fires of Halés. And you are powerless, unable to even use the magic you have studied, for fear it will send you straight into the Halls.”

“If I were powerless you would have died in Idor-Hol.”

“And been spared the need to invoke the justice of Éala on you all.”

“We have to try, Elithéa. We have to try to bring him back. What hope does this world have if its gods are picked off one by one and yet Agon still lives? What if he escapes from his prison?”

“None of that justifies the defiling of a life entrusted to Éala.”

“I might as well be talking to a Moln,” Thalla said.

“At least they respect the earth.”

“I respect life,” Thalla said. “And, if nothing else, Théos deserves life.”

“You know my mind on this.”

Thalla sighed. “And you know mine.”

“Yes,” Elithéa said, “and you have much to learn, Thalla. You do not see how the men of this world pull you along on a leash, and how sometimes you follow even without such bonds. Go where the new wind blows. I will make the wind instead.”

*  *  *

Night curtained the world, and the stars shone out like lanterns, offering some illumination to Herr’Don’s weary footfalls. His rage had carried him far, as had a slip in the snow that sent him tumbling down a large ravine. More battered and bruised than ever, he crossed the Grey Hills and set his eyes upon the ruins of Nahragor, which was ghostly quiet now in the wake of the siege only a few nights before. He wondered if the Garigút had managed to drive back the forces of Agon, but he soon realised it was far more likely that they had all perished at the hands of the Molokrán.

“At least I am not one of them,” he whispered to himself, and the words were a comfort to him under the bleakness of the night sky and the oppression of the Black Bastion. He decided to steer well clear of the fortress, for above it lingered the echoes of battle, and beneath its shadow lived the shadows of the dead.

Soon he came to the ruin of the Greater Ilokrán where he and the others had fought the Molokrán, and where the Mountain Moln proved a useless friend in a time most in need of allies. He kicked at the smaller stones, knowing not if they were part of the Warding Stone or part of the rocky beast who went by the name Daenardü. Nothing moved amidst the rubble, and Herr’Don wondered if the Moln was deep in slumber, or if it had finally passed away.

“Better you than me,” Herr’Don said, and he kicked another stone into the pile of rocks. This time it felt like the ritual throwing of dirt into a grave. “Sleep then, in peace.”

Herr’Don spotted his tattered cloak further down the hill, lodged in a crevice and weighed down by a small boulder. It billowed in the breeze like a flag, and it was perhaps the only banner bearing the royal colours and the royal emblem in this desecrated land. But Herr’Don knew well that he had not claimed these hills for Boror, and that, indeed, there was not much to claim. Except, of course, the cloak he had cast at the Molokrán in his fit of rage and anger. He recovered it now and held it before him, where he could see the bleak landscape through the many holes in the fabric. He was no longer in the White Mountains, but it was still cold, and so he draped the cloak around him and grew frustrated as he struggled to fasten it with his good arm alone. Eventually he succeeded, and he set off again down the hillside, like a solitary standard-bearer.

Onwards he travelled, turning north to where the Grey Hills led to the River Rym, which curled its way towards the Shallow Lake they had washed up in after their plummet from Issarí’s Chasm. The hills rose and fell, and with them went day and night, until Herr’Don could no longer remember what day it was or how long he had journeyed. He ate little, for he had little desire for food, and he drank only when the thirst became too much; then he yearned for the ale and wine of Madenahan, and the painless stupor it offered.

Onwards he toiled, his legs working like the strange levers and pulleys the Tibin used to craft their monstrous machines of music, his left arm hanging lame and limp. His mind was soothed by the repetitive beat of his boots against the ground, a music of his own.

Onwards he trudged until he came to Amrenan Adelis, the Mound of Mourning, where he had buried his friend Belnavar not so long ago. Grass and flowers had started to grow upon the mound, fed by the water of the river and the rain of Telarym. He stopped here for a time, resting and mourning in silence.

“It could have been me in that grave,” he said. “I suppose I owe Ifferon that, at least. If I had not believed he could bring back the power of Telm into this world, I would have fought with you to save Larksong, to save Boror. You died for the both of us, Belnavar.”

He began to sing a solemn song about his friend, shedding tears he had not the time to shed before, honouring the man truly as he felt he should be honoured, and yet knowing that this was but a sliver of the respect owed to him, he who deserved a more fitting grave beside the greatest chapels of Olagh in the winding streets of Madenahan. He began to sing, and the sound was sombre, and the words were grim.

Here lies Belnavar, bold of body, brave of heart,

A man who became a legend, who earned his name

Through glories past and done, too many to proclaim,

Too few to hear. From land and memory depart,

O Belnavar, and leave behind the ghost of fame.

Here lies Belnavar, mighty of mind, strong of will,

One who brought death to many, and now joins the dead,

As if some twist of fate would have him rest instead

Of evil that yet lives, to silence and to kill.

O Belnavar, fair one, who knows what goes unsaid?

Here lies Belnavar, home’s hero, ally of all,

He who bards sing songs of, who lives in dusty tomes,

And triumphs—in the minds of many, he still roams.

Ashes, dust to line the bases of great statues tall

And fill the magnificent crypts and catacombs.

Here lies Belnavar, in this place unmarked on maps,

Where his life was ended; his afterlife began

In dark Telarym, where he serves a higher plan.

He was a man who became a legend, or perhaps

It’s more true to say: a legend who became man.

Herr’Don struggled with the words for a long time. He recalled some lines from ancient anthems and funeral dirges, and even some from the tales the minstrels sang of Belnavar back in Bardahan, and to these he added what he thought was a clever turn of phrase, and yet a pale reflection of his true admiration. He felt he was somehow cheating in his homage, that he could not muster words good enough from his own mind, but instead was forced to infuse the words of others with the long-held anguish of his heart. He was glad that Yavün was not here to outdo him, to make the Great feel small, and steal more from him. Yet, perhaps, wherever the dead are, Yavün was also.

*  *  *

The days grew short, but the night was lessened by the veil of white. Initially the snow fell softly and helped cushion the tired feet of Ifferon and his companions, but then a blizzard came hastening with the lash of wind and hail, and it fought against their bodies and their wills until finally they were forced to give up and find shelter behind a large rock that stood like a lonely shield upon the mountains. The snow still fell heavy upon them, but it was the cold that hurt more now than the punishment of the wind.

The three huddled together closely, Ifferon and Thalla a little disturbed to be almost embracing the corpse of Théos, but the touch of their skin was almost as cold as his—and this frightened them even more.

When morning broke over the ridge of the horizon, they found that the blizzard had passed, but it left a mountain of snow in their path that almost dwarfed the monstrous peaks in the distance. Were it not for what was at stake, and the urgency of their quest, they might have given up altogether and retreated back down the mountains.

They struggled through the wall of white for a time until they could no longer feel the cold in their bones. Then luck appeared in the most unlikely of ways, for looming tall in the distance to their right stood the Peak of the Wolf, the rocky sentinel that stood upon the entrance to Halés in the Dead Land. The heat from that place wafted up to greet them, melting the snow as they went, until finally the White Mountains were bereft of the blanket that once smothered them, leaving behind only a thin sheet of snow.

“Perhaps the spirit of Corrias gives us some blessing from the Underworld,” Délin said, and the others wondered if it were so, or if the spirit of Théos burned upon a pyre beneath the earth, or if something else was happening in the Halls that they dare not think about.

*  *  *

One night Herr’Don awoke to find himself half submerged in the River Rym. He lept out with a fright, for the memory of the Issar Chammas came flooding back to him. While life seemed not worth living for, he did not see much in death that was any better. He imagined he must have collapsed from exhaustion near the Mound of Mourning, finally giving in to a much needed sleep. He knew not how long he slumbered, but felt much better for it.

Until he saw his arm.

When he looked at the mangled arm he realised it had lost its colour, replaced now by a pale greenish hue, the colour of nature that did not look natural now. He started to panic, pawing his arm as if it might somehow return its former life, but the lack of feeling only fuelled his fear.

“It’s just a scratch,” came a voice that sounded almost like his own, yet a little different, like a memory that had been warped with time. Herr’Don froze, his eyes alert, the will of the warrior in him searching out the owner of the phantom voice.

And then he saw him.

As he turned around to the Amrenan Adelis, where he had shed many tears for his departed friend, his eyes fell upon a familiar figure. There stood Belnavar upon the mound, his face fair, his long, black hair neatly tied up in a ponytail. There stood Belnavar the Braveheart, Belnavar the Bold, tall and proud, standing upon his own grave, as Herr’Don knelt in fear and awe.

III – THE HUNT

The heat of Halés soon seemed like a mockery, for as quickly as it melted the snow, more quickly came the white weapons of the sky, until it was a struggle to make each step. Worse than the bash of the blizzard, however, was the gnawing and creeping cold, and the company felt that they were burning up all of their energy just to stay warm—and to stay alive.

“The weather is against us,” Ifferon said. “We will freeze if we do not find shelter and make a fire.”

“We might freeze anyway,” Thalla said. “If we try to wait out the weather.”

“If Agon rises then we will feel the heat,” Délin said. “And we would think the fires of Halés were an echo of the cold of the Amreni Elé. We need to keep moving, especially if Elithéa is on our trail.”

“Do you really think she would try to kill us?” Ifferon asked.

“Yes,” Thalla said. The memory of Idor-Hol was a scar on her mind. She could still hear the screams of Aralus, as if they were carried on the winds of Halés. She could still see that look in Elithéa’s eyes, and feared that she might see it soon again.

*  *  *

Eventually the group gave in to Ifferon’s request for fire, though they needed little encouragement once night came and gifted them a frost that made the snow of day seem like a snug blanket. Délin set Théos down upon a rock, his back propped against another, and it almost looked as though he were just sleeping. The knight helped Ifferon hack away at a straggle of conifers nearby, while Thalla used the wood collected to start a fire. Ifferon was reassured by the fact that Délin was able to leave the boy’s side long enough for this task, but he knew that it was because the knight was on a mission, and he would only fight off death to see it through.

They huddled around the fire as if it were the leader of their group. They thanked the gods that the snow did not fall that night, and prayed that it would not fall on the next. As they sat with their hands extended, nearly touching the fingers of flame, it seemed to Ifferon that they were almost praying to the fire, almost forsaking the Céalari for a new god of warmth. As the fire waned, Thalla threw in her battered bow, which she said she broke while rescuing Elithéa from the madness of Aralus.

“She will be out there,” Thalla said, and Ifferon caught a shimmer of fear in her face as the fire flickered. “She will be watching this dot of light and mapping her way to us.”

“Then we must do what we can to stop her or slow her down,” Délin said.

“What do you suggest?” Ifferon asked.

There was silence for a while. “I am not certain,” the knight said after a time. “Everything I can think of is a tool of cowards, and yet I am tempted to be craven so that we might continue our quest undogged.”

“Perhaps I can help then,” Ifferon jested. “I know all about cowardice after all.”

“You think you do,” Délin said. “But the real cowards are not so self-aware.”

“There is something that slowed us down,” Thalla remarked. “Traps.”

“Yes, the devices of the deceitful,” Délin said. “But when they are used against the misguided and the vengeful, perhaps there is some truth in them.” He shifted in the snow and looked at Théos. “Yet it is by a trap that Théos died, so I would be dishonouring him more than bringing dishonour to myself.”

“You don’t have to lay them,” Thalla said.

“But I would have to look the other way,” Délin replied, “and that way is the way of lies, and it is a dark road that leads to evil places, from which few return, for the path is harder to see from the other side.”

“She would probably spot them anyway,” Ifferon said. “She has better sight than all of us, and a lighter step.”

“Yet she comes from a land of summer,” Délin said. “Perhaps the snow will be our ally against her, as much as it is our own enemy. Issarí forgive my thinking it, and Corrias forgive my saying it, but may the gods bring a blizzard upon her if she really strives to hinder our quest.”

*  *  *

Elithéa began the hunt. She sniffed the air, but their scent was weak, for the winds blew strong like the angry sigh of the gods. She spotted their footprints here and there, but they were misleading, for the snowstorms blew the trails this way and that, until they seemed to go in all directions. The mountains loomed tall before the Ferian, as if to mock her skills, but they only gave her new determination; the taller the mountain, the higher she would climb.

“You might think the weather your friend,” she whispered, “but I have allies of my own.”

She whistled the songs of many birds, adding the song of calling, which was an echo of the elder days, when the Ferian made a pact with the animals of the world, an oath that both swore to keep, and one that a flock now hurried to honour. Wren and robin came, and they were the messengers. Raven and owl came, and they were the scouts. Hawk and harrier came, and they were the hunters.

*  *  *

“What is that?” Thalla asked. The company froze mid-stride. “I thought I heard something that was not the wind.”

“Perhaps she is close,” Délin said, and he turned to Ifferon. “I would that you carry the boy should I need to fight.”

Ifferon did not like the idea, but he liked less the thought of going hand-to-hand with an Éalgarth, especially after all the things Elithéa had told him, and all the things the expression on Thalla’s face told him about what happened in Idor-Hol.

“Yes,” he said at last.

“I have no desire to kill her,” Délin said. “But if she is intent on stopping us I will have little choice. We may not have traps to slow her down, but I know many ways to hasten her journey to Halés.”

“There it is again,” Thalla said. “It’s quite unnerving.”

“What does it sound like?” Ifferon asked.

“Some sort of screech,” Thalla replied. “It does not sound like a noise a Ferian would make.”

“Let us hope she is the only one that hunts us tonight,” Délin said.

Then the makers of the sounds came into view in the sky above them, for many birds circled them from on high. Some simply glided there, while others shouted down at them in whatever language the birds speak, the cruellest threats upon their tongues.

“So she has brought an army,” Délin said.

Some of the birds then began their assault, dropping stones upon the company like a hail from the heavens. The group clambered for cover as the rocks pelleted down. Some were small, like a nuisance of the weather, but others were large and fast, and they hurtled towards them like catapult fire. One struck Ifferon on the head, and he collapsed, until Thalla helped him up. They both stumbled then as another rock sliced at Thalla’s arm. She yelped like whatever rodents the birds normally preyed upon.

Then a small rock struck the body of Théos as Délin dashed across the snow, and he stopped and shouted to the sky, a roar that ravaged the heavens and rent the ears of all who listened, even the gods in Althar who watched the battle from their prison in the clouds. The noise was like earthquakes, the tone like thunder. Some of the birds collapsed from the force of the sound, falling to the earth like the stones they threw, leaving little hollows in the snow.

“You cowards!” Délin shouted to the sky. “Come down where I can fight you!”

Then the hawks and the harriers came, darting towards him like arrows from a bow unleashed. He fell to the ground and shielded Théos while the birds scratched and clawed at his armoured arms and his back. Then he rose like an eruption from a volcano, casting the birds aside, some hurtling away like little catapult fire of their own. He unsheathed his two-handed sword just in time as some of the birds of prey lunged at him again, and his sword moved like lightning, striking each and every one of them until they all fell dead like a wreath around the boy.

The other birds wailed in fright, and most immediately turned and fled back to Elithéa, while some reneged on their oaths and travelled back to fairer lands, and others yet circled for a time, shrieking and howling the darkest curses of their tongue. Soon they too retreated as Ifferon and Thalla rejoined Délin, who knelt before Théos in the bed of birds, weeping.

“You are wounded,” Thalla said. She tore a piece of her robe and wrapped his arm where the claws had dug in deep between the metal plates. She tended also to the cut upon Ifferon’s head and the gash upon her own arm. Soon an entire ring of her attire was used as bandage, and she already felt the chill of winter upon her legs.

“Has she no respect for the dead?” Délin said. “Or for the rules of battle? How are we to survive a siege from the sky?”

“We have to fight back,” Thalla said.

“I have fought,” Délin said, “but they must first meet me on land.”

“We cannot count on that,” Thalla said. “I wish I had not burned my bow now.”

“It was no good to us while broken,” Ifferon said.

“And just another device of dishonour,” the knight added.

“There are other ways,” Thalla said after a time. Ifferon caught a glimmer of fire in her eyes, like the memory of the reflection of the campfire of the night before, yet something that seemed to burn more fiercely. He knew exactly what it meant.

“You do not have a Beldarian,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied. “And I risk injury or death because of it, but I risk that now if Elithéa has her way. It is a gamble that I may not win, but is it not better than the certainty of defeat if we try to survive the siege upon us?”

“Perhaps,” Ifferon said, “but you do not have an acorn if you die. It is the end.”

“I know,” she said. “Like Melgalés. Like Yavün. Much of what I had to live for is already gone.”

“Were it not for what assails us, I would think little of your art,” Délin said. “I mocked you once for it, when we first met, and I give penance for that deed. If it will stay or slow our oppressors, that we might return Théos to this world, then you have my blessing, for what it is worth.”

“Much,” she said. “Let us hope it is as good as a Beldarian.”

And so she searched the annals of her mind for all the various spells and incantations she studied while trying to impress Melgalés, and all the skills and techniques of concentration she learned when she at last impressed him. These she gathered, along with her determination and her anger, and she mixed them together in the cauldron of her mind until at last she had ready an assortment of weapons that Elithéa would have a hard time parrying.

*  *  *

Elithéa stood upon a rocky outcrop, her hand above her eyes, shielding them from the snowy grit as she peered into the distance. She could barely make out a flutter of dark shapes rushing towards her, and while she could not see them clearly, she knew well what they were.

“So nature loses this round,” she said. “But there are many more birds in this world than there are defilers of acorns, and they all have sharp beaks and claws.”

The blizzard of birds broke through the hail, screeching and shrieking. They flapped their wings and bobbed their heads, and they spoke of a monstrous beast who knocked them from the skies and killed many of their kin. Some crooned to the heavens, an elegy for the dead, and some cawed for a funeral of the fowl, but Elithéa would not have it. She wanted to continue the siege of the sky until her enemy surrendered.

“Many of you may die,” she said, “but you will be remembered, for you will help stop the sullying of the soil by those who do not respect the trees. And where would you be without those branches that you call your home? If this is allowed to happen it will be but the start of a world of stumps, where none are shielded from the cruelty of the sun.”

The birds hopped and flapped in agreement, for some of them had seen the felling of trees by the Tibin in the north-west, which then became great contraptions, where no bird was welcome. Many flocks were made homeless, engendering a deep hatred in the birds, who kept grudges almost as well as their oaths. The Ferian’s dislike for the endless noise of the Tibin, which disturbed nature and shook the forests, was one of the key elements of the feathered allegiance.

“Harry them,” Elithéa said. “Hound them. Hunt them and hinder them, until they are whittled down to nothing—to little tree stumps of their own.”

And so the flocks regrouped, and their number swelled as the message got out to their cousins across the land. The snow still cascaded down, but now a great blanket of black swept through it, and if the snow would not put an end to those they hunted, then they would smother them.

*  *  *

But this time Thalla was ready. She felt a heat in the core of her being, like a candle that had just been lit, and she struggled to keep her concentration, to increase the flame without burning in the process. The weather did not help, for it tugged and threw her hair, and it blew a chill into her face and grit into her eyes, like some playful force intent on taunting her, hoping to distract her, or some more powerful agency that did not like her game of fire.

Ifferon and Délin sat far away, at Thalla’s instructions, Délin shielding Théos from a snow he needed no protection from. She could feel them watching her, could sense their worry, and this proved another distraction. Her mind was already straining, and the flame began to flicker.

Then the army of the skies came, blotting out much of the light as they swooped down like a veil upon the head of the mountain. The wind sang to their descent, and the flock became a choir of squeals and squawks. Yet the din proved no distraction, instead fuelling Thalla’s concentration, for now she had something to focus on, a place to vent her anger.

As the birds came in, time seemed to slow, and Thalla found that little thread within her that connected her to the great tapestry of magic that had been woven since the god Aelor graced the world. She followed it in her mind, and as she did she found that the thread had set alight, so that a flame was also following her. She kept her cool and focused on where the thread would lead, until finally she could see it connecting to a bird mere inches from her face, claws at the ready. Time returned to normal now, but there was an explosion of fire around Thalla, felling a dozen birds and setting the wings of others alight. Then a hail of tiny sparks came from the sky, like miniature meteorites, and they struck many of the other birds still in the skies, a retribution of the heavens that was directed by Thalla’s will. The remaining birds quailed and panicked; some dived into the snow to douse their burning feathers, while others turned and fled as if the sky were no longer their home.

But there was a price for this victory. When the assailants had vanished, dead or fleeing, Thalla no longer had a direction to cast the fire, nowhere to follow the thread. She had pursued them through this link of concentration, but so too had the fire pursued her, had hunted her through the alleyways of the mind—and now it caught her and set her body ablaze.

Ifferon and Délin raced to her and rolled her through the snow until finally the fire was out. But it had done its damage. Burns marked the right side of her face and shoulder, and her hair there was singed. Her right hand was also marred, though less badly, and half her robe had burned to a crisp, the edges smoking like the remnants of a campfire.

Délin shook his head. The look in his eyes was enough to tell Thalla of her scars, though the shock numbed her. “So there is a price,” Délin said, and his voice was mournful, a ballad of blame aimed at his own ears. Thalla wanted to reassure him, but the pang in her face was a constant reminder of her own hurt, tearing her concentration back to the price, back to the pain.

“Yes, there is a price,” came a voice, a parrot of the knight. “There is always a price, a penalty to be paid. You take a loan of life, but always you must pay the debt. So you see why I must collect what is owed, ere you cheat another of their tithing.”

Then Elithéa stepped into view, holding up the branch she had taken from Idor-Hol, like a trophy of her battle there. Her army was gone, but it had served its purpose. It had slowed them down. The hunt was up. The chase was over. The prey sat wounded—waiting for the kill.

IV – THE AID OF ALIMROR

The battle began with a bellow, for Elithéa roared and raced towards them, the snow flailing in her footfalls, her staff raised high like the invocation of ancient powers.

Délin placed Théos gently on the snow, and the motion contrasted sharply with the unleashing of his two-handed sword. The ring of steel echoed across the mountain, the knight’s own battle cry.

They clashed like crashing waves, and Délin’s sword would have chopped the staff in two were it not for the hardened lowal tree, which could stay the blades of many. They stood like two opposing mountains, sword against staff, pressing against each other and digging their feet into the ground, digging trenches in the snow.

Délin’s strength was too much for Elithéa, however, and he began to push her back, her feet sliding in the snow. Then she stopped pressing back and slipped to the ground. Délin stumbled forward from his own force, and she tripped him as she lay.

She clambered to her feet, but Ifferon stood forth, holding the half-burned scroll before her. “Dehilasü baeos!” he cried, and the armour of Telm descended from the sky in a shimmer of light, surrounding him and making him appear taller and more powerful than before.

But Elithéa did not cower like the Molokrán. “I am no Shadowspirit,” she said. “Telm does not frighten me.”

“No,” Délin said, standing up behind her. “But this does.” And he grabbed the acorn pouch from her belt. As she turned to him in horror, he struck her in the face with the pommel of his sword, knocking her to the ground. “Yield!” he shouted.

“You know I can’t,” she said, wiping the blood from her nose. “You know I must stop you ruining the child’s second life, just like mine is ruined. If you knew how sacred these are to us, you would not taunt me with it.”

“It is the only thing that will stop you,” he said. “Except death, which I have no desire to grant you. This is your weakness. Now yield!”

“Everyone has a weakness,” she said, and she turned her gaze away from them. Bemused, they looked in the direction she was staring, and a horror of their own nested in their hearts. Théos lay mere feet away, and upon his chest sat a large hawk, its talons digging into the boy’s clothes, its beak hovering dangerously close to his face.

“You might try to raise him,” Elithéa said, “but the Al-Ferian’s defilements will not work if a part of the body is missing. And even if it did, what good is he without his eyes?”

“Send the bird away!” Délin cried. “Send it away or I will destroy your acorn.”

“It’s already ruined,” she said. “That was Aralus’ gift to me.”

“Then do not ruin the boy,” Ifferon said. “Do not mar his body.”

“His body is only a shadow of his real self, his tree,” she replied. “You do not see it. You do not understand, and I have been a fool to think that you, Ifferon, you of all people, finally knew what it meant to be Ferian. His body is just a shell that houses the seeds of his being. He could lose all his limbs, could be mangled in form, and that would not matter if his acorn remained intact, if it could be planted to grow a beautiful tree. That is why all of you, Man, Aelora, Taarí, and Tibin, are dead to us, because you think life is in the body. But it is not. You do not understand. You will never understand. And you might think me some new enemy, yet I only try to stop you making a terrible mistake. I only try to preserve the true life of the boy.”

“But what about the god?” Ifferon asked. “What about Corrias?”

“If he is dead, then he is dead,” she replied. “I do not understand the ways of the Céalari, but if Éala chose to incarnate in the body of an Al-Ferian, then surely he chose this so that when he died he could live the most splendid life of a tree. Who would not want that?”

“Not me,” Thalla said, and she covered her face. “I would rather make the trip to Halés and enter the halls of my ancestors.”

“And be closer to Agon?” Elithéa asked. “You hide your scars, because you think they matter. They do not. Herr’Don fled from our group because of his wounds, because he thought he was less of a warrior with them. None of you understand.”

The hawk squawked and flapped its wings, dangling its beak above the boy’s right eye, and then his left.

“Send the bird away,” Délin said. “We may not understand your race, but you do not understand honour, and that is a thing that defies blood.”

“I think your honour is dying,” Elithéa said. “When you steal my acorn and threaten to defile my second life.”

“Please, Elithéa,” Délin said. “You know I wish you no harm. Please just send the bird away.”

“It is the only way to stop you now,” she said. “It has to feed.” She turned and whistled to the hawk, which glared at the others and flapped its wings again. It reared its head, and all knew that they could not reach it in time before it mauled the boy.

“No!” Délin cried, and he charged towards it, dropping Elithéa’s acorn in the snow, where she grasped it and held it close. The knight dived towards the hawk, towards the boy, but the beak dived at the child’s face, and it seemed to all that it moved more quickly.

Suddenly an arrow shot across the snow, striking the hawk before it could prod at the eyes of the child. It screeched, stumbled on the boy’s chest, and then collapsed upon him. Then another arrow came hurtling towards the group, hitting Elithéa in the shoulder. She screamed and stumbled like the bird, falling to her knees and almost dropping her acorn from her hands.

A small band of Al-Ferian strolled through the snow towards them, one holding a bow at the ready, and they were led by a tall, broad man with dark weathered skin, who almost looked like an oak. The illusion was furthered by the giant banner he carried, the staff made of branches, and the cloth made of leaves. He stepped forward and planted it in the snow, like a declaration of spring at the waning days of winter.

“She speaks little of the body,” he shouted, and the leaves of the banner rustled from the sound. “Yet she still squeals the same as any other when hurt.”

They were golden brown of skin, like an autumn leaf, and their colour made Théos’ pale complexion, paler now than ever in death, look even more at odds, despite his Al-Ferian ancestry. Ifferon wondered if his parents knew immediately when he was born that he was different.

Délin turned to the Al-Ferian, his sword upraised. “Who are you?”

“We are the welcomers of the woods,” he said. “We are the Al-Ferian of Alimror. I am Rúathar, leader of my people, and head of this search party. One of many we sent out, and, I am glad to say, the one that has finally been successful.”

“Successful at what?” Délin asked. He did not lower his sword.

“Finding our child,” Rúathar said. Everyone looked to Théos now, with the dead hawk upon his chest, like a stuffed toy for a boy only sleeping.

“He is with us,” Délin said sternly.

“Yes,” Rúathar said, “but not your child. Yet do not worry. We do not share the feelings of our sisters in Féthal. We will do all we can to restore Théos back to life. We have already begun the preparations, for our search parties may not have returned, but the rumours have.”

“So it is possible?” Délin asked, lowering his sword.

“Yes,” the Al-Ferian said. “Though it is difficult and takes much time. You are lucky you travelled this way, for the weather might not be welcoming, but it is less of an enemy than what has been hounding the other paths. Indeed, you are lucky in many ways.”

“Yes,” Ifferon admitted. “We are lucky you came here.”

“No,” the Al-Ferian said. “You are lucky we brought a bow. We do not normally use them. Yet foresight made us bring one on this expedition. We are all lucky, because I do not think we would have killed the bird in time without it.”

“Then someone or something is on our side,” Ifferon said, and he noticed the relief in his voice. Finally, against all those enemies he knew of, and those he knew had yet to surface, there were some whom he could call allies, and perhaps the tides of luck were changing.

Délin was less convinced. “I would have stopped the hawk.”

Rúathar glanced at him. “You might stop many great foes, knight, but sometimes there is an urgency that heavy armour does not suit. But let us consider the greatest luck of all, for without Théos we would have lost a great weapon.”

“A child,” Délin corrected. “Not a weapon.”

“See how they think of those of Low Age,” Elithéa said. “You might suspect I have no honour, Délin, but now you know for certain that they never had any.”

“Always trying to start a scuffle,” Rúathar said. “The Ferian speak about protecting the forest, but they do not know the serenity of the trees.”

Elithéa snapped the arrow that still stuck out of her shoulder and held up the broken half in her hand. “This is not serenity,” she said.

“Bind her,” Rúathar said. “And gag her too, or she will have to remove many more arrows.”

The accompanying Al-Ferian surrounded her, blocking her escape. Several of them advanced with ropes, but she pushed them back, until finally they struck her many times with their staves and tied her when she was breathless—yet not before they were also battered.

“This is not over,” she panted. “You will have to kill me ere I tire of foiling your evil schemes.”

“Do not worry, Ferian,” Rúathar said, and he looked at her with the eyes of oaks that have faced a hurricane. “We have no qualm with that.”

Finally they tied a cloth around her mouth, and some left with bite marks on their fingers, scars as ferocious as any wounds of war. They dragged her to her feet and pulled her along, with four guards holding the ropes at a distance, in case she tried to lash out at them again.

“Now we make for Alimror,” Rúathar said. “But first I think you are in need of some warmth, for there is little point in marching when the cold of the White Mountains lives in your limbs. We brought many supplies for our search, for we expected to have to traverse the fullness of these peaks. Mathal, bring some fur for our guests. Thúalim, begin a fire.”

Mathal was a wiry woman, with long limbs and fingers, and she might have been as tall as Rúathar, but she stooped like a willow tree. Perhaps this was from all the things she was bidden to carry here and there, even though she looked as though she were not strong enough for it. Yet she hauled a great many skins and furs from the sled and separated them into several piles.

Thalla was the first to grab one of the furs, for she was not used to the cold, and she felt it more now that her robe was damaged. Ifferon thought also that she took it to hide her scars, for she held it around both her head and her body, until it looked like she were some furry beast. Ifferon took a fur and wrapped himself in it tightly, but he left his head exposed, where the snowflakes had lodged in the wisps of hair that once were stubble. He knew the cold well, for Larksong sat in the face of the icy gales that came down from Caelün, and his head was always exposed to the weather, even in the damp, cold cell of the monastery, where the cracks of the walls were like little windows of their own. Délin wrapped Théos in a fur coat before he tended to himself, and he did not remove his armour first, but simply cast the fur about him like a cloak. Ifferon wondered if the knight had many layers of fine clothing beneath the metal plates, or if perhaps the armour shielded from the cold, or if honour was a fire enough to warm him in the bitterness of night.

Thúalim was slim and slender, fair and young in face, and delicate and graceful in his stance and form. Even as he bent down to light a fire with the wood other Al-Ferian brought to him from the sled, he had a certain dignity in his kneel, as if he were a willing prince working in service of an even more royal house. It was a poise that few kings had, the elegance of elm.

The group huddled around the fire, which burst into being as if from the scarred hands of Thalla, for Thúalim did not struggle with twig and flint like Ifferon might. He whispered to the wood, as if he were nursing it to sleep, so that it would not feel the fire that would ignite upon its body. The flames appeared like the invocation of a spirit, and Thúalim sat at the head of the fire, whispering now and then, perhaps some words of comfort as the wood began to stir from its slumber.

None of the Al-Ferian bar Rúathar joined them, despite many of them shivering near the sled.

“I’ve heard of you, Trueblade,” Rúathar said at last, nodding to Délin. “And you,” he said, turning his old eyes upon Ifferon. “But who is the girl who hides beneath the blankets?”

“Thalla,” she said, her voice muffled by the fur.

“Your wounds look new,” he replied. “Will you let our healers tend to them before they worsen? The cold might freeze them here, but when you enter the warmth beneath the canopy of Alimror they will fester.”

“I just want to be alone,” she said.

“Please, Thalla,” Délin said. “You have suffered much to aid us thus far. Please let them help you now. There is nothing I can do, though I should have stopped you risking your life, but the Al-Ferian know herbs like no other.”

“This is true,” Ifferon said, nodding. “I have studied herbs in the Order of Olagh in some detail, and the Garigút taught me much in the knowledge I was lacking. Yet none of this compares to those who truly know the flora as a friend.”

Rúathar’s eyes seemed to brighten in much the same way Ifferon remembered Elithéa first reacting to his appreciation of the natural world. He shivered, for he felt the stern gaze of the Ferian woman from her bonds in the corner. The eyes of accusation, the look of one betrayed.

Thalla did not seem as impressed as Rúathar, however, for she still resisted their attempts to help. She recoiled from them, as if they were the flames that seized her.

Délin shook his head, as much to deny his own guilt than to disapprove of her recoil, but Rúathar simply smiled. “There are many young among this world, but sometimes those who claim to be the most advanced are the most young in wisdom. You are a twig in a forest, Thalla, and you might snap off in a breeze, or you might cleave to the branch that you come from, and so grow strong because of it. Yet I am not unschooled in working with twigs like you, for the Al-Ferian suffer the fate of all races, and I would be lying if I said I was not also stubborn. Take this,” he said, producing a small salve in a pouch made of leaves. “We do not need to force it upon you, but it has many healing properties for the skin. Use it early, for it works best then. Unfortunately, its powers do not work within.”

Thalla accepted the salve from Rúathar, like a lamb cautiously stepping forward to taste the leaf of a brightly-coloured flower, but she scampered back to her furs, like the bosom of a mother. Ifferon wondered if her scars would make her retreat further inside her mind, where the fire lurked, or if perhaps she might one day blossom like a beautiful flower of her own.

Rúathar then turned to Ifferon and Délin. “We have a lot to do,” he said, and he seemed almost tired already from the thought of it. “The road ahead will not be easy. In fact, there is no road at all, but rather some subtle hints that some might have one day passed this way, but are now long forgotten. The Ardúnari may have discovered the Elixir of Life, but an endless life is still not a resurrection, for death is the necessary precursor of the latter, while it is but the curse of the former. The second life of an Al-Ferian is a difficult endeavour, but I do not know what difficulties might beseech those that seek the second life of a god. Yet, as one of the Ardúnari, I have some foresight that shows me there are many rocks and brambles in our way.”

“Then we will remove those rocks and bury the brambles,” Délin said, “for we must. Too much depends on it.”

“Yes,” Rúathar said. “We must try, no matter the cost or end. But herein is a dilemma, and I think this is a test for you, Trueblade, more than it is for us. For my knowledge tells me that two cannot safely be housed in a single body, and so was Corrias restricted in his powers when in this form. Théos was supposed to be a host, an empty vessel, but it seems he has a soul of his own, and Corrias did not have the will to douse that flame, that his own might burn more brightly. So you see that Corrias sacrificed his own potential, that he even risked his own demise here on Iraldas, for there are none who can commune with the soul of another and not truly realise our ultimate union.”

“I trust your account, for it rings true in the halls of my heart,” Délin said. He opened his mouth to begin a new sentence, but the words would not come, as if there were some comfort in not speaking what his heart longed to speak.

Ifferon could see in Rúathar’s eyes that he knew that Délin understood the dilemma, just as Ifferon did. Yet it needed to be spoken, to see if it could be solved.

“We will do all we can to bring Corrias back,” Rúathar said. “But I do not know if it is also possible to do this for Théos’ soul. I am not sure the acorns are enough to reel in two fishes when the pond they swim in is infinite.”

The dilemma was an internal one, for Ifferon saw clearly that all must choose to save Corrias, that Corrias might in turn save them. Yet what seemed on the surface like a simple choice was clearly more complex deep beneath, where even the fishes did not dare to swim.

Délin looked up to the sky, as if for answers—but who was there to answer him? His two patron gods were locked on Iraldas, while Agon threatened to escape his chains. Issarí’s life dwindled like the hope of Arlin, while Corrias did not even have a life to dwindle—just the promise of a second life, a promise like those made by parents to their children, just to save them from the pain, despite knowing that it might not truly happen, that the good they want for the innocent might never come to pass.

When Délin pulled his gaze away from the heavens, his eyes were filled with little fish-ponds of their own. “Did I try to protect Théos because part of me knew he was Corrias, or did I just do it because he is an innocent child who should never have had to lose his life like this, who should never have had to hand over his body like a puppet so that the gods might play their game of ilokadi on the board of Iraldas? This a question I do not know the answer to. Perhaps the answer is not yes or no, but yes and no to both, for if two are muddled in the body of one, then perhaps the answer is muddled also.”

“This is why it is a dilemma,” Rúathar said. “I cannot tell you much, but I can tell you this: Corrias chose you as his protector, but not because you are a Man of Corrias. What god would not want for his protector a knight who stands before the innocent to stop them seeing the darkness, or stop the darkness seeing them?”

“I am wondering,” Ifferon said, “if the ritual is successful, and a second life is granted, is it guaranteed that Corrias will receive this lease of life and not Théos? Could it not go either way?”

“Without direction, yes,” Rúathar said. “But we cannot leave that to chance. There are ways to make the acorns favour one or the other. The question is which one? The answer seems obvious to me, as it does to Ifferon, I garner, but I think you will need to know it too, Trueblade.”

“These questions are like wounds, and I beg a real battle to save me from them,” Délin said. “Is my god more deserving of life than an innocent child? Who gets to decide these things, and why? Is there really a greater good if we sacrifice the little goods of the world for it, for have we not then just created a greater evil?”

“Unfortunately we must take the burden of this decision,” Rúathar said. “And I think even a council of Céalari would not envy us this responsibility. Yet Iraldas is our world, not that of the gods, and so its fate is ultimately always in our hands.

“I will not force you to solve this dilemma now, but you must understand our position: there is a monumental threat to the world, and there are few weapons or shields left that can aid us. Even if we united all the races of Iraldas and marched to Agon in open battle, it would do little but feed his fury, giving him the fuel he needs to burn this world to ashes. The Céalari rose to power because they were powerful, and so we need those powers in the world or we cannot win. Then Théos, as a boy in a first or second life, as a young sapling, or as a spirit in the Halls of Halés, would be no more, and his saving will have been in vain.”

“It is an evil choice, even if I must choose between two forms of good,” Délin said. “Too few nights have passed to nurse my sorrow, and the day is greedy with its light, for it does not illuminate my heart. I cast aside my pendant, and it feels like many years ago, but the pain feels new each day. This rocks my very foundations, for I built them on a bed of honour. Some nights ago, perhaps the darkest night of all, I thought Corrias had forsaken me, and so I forsook him. Here today there is but one resurrection, and it is of that evil choice. I either choose Corrias, and he forsakes me, for he forsakes this child, or I choose Théos, and I forsake Corrias, and perhaps the world at large. Either way I die a little, and yet I feel rotten to pity myself for these little erosions of my soul, when some would yearn to have a soul so brittle.”

Ifferon realised then that the choice was not so easy, and that he had been too quick to think it was as simple as a small sacrifice for the greater good. This was not merely a choice for Délin, but a gauntlet, wherein each path carried much struggle and strain. Time might make Délin understand that there would be many more children saved if Corrias was restored to the world, though even Ifferon saw no guarantee of this. And yet another question kept gnawing at his mind: would there be anything left of Délin to save, if he killed his honour so that a god may live? For then he might condemn himself to become a husk of the hero he once was, like a suit of armour bereft of a knight.

V – THE LONELY ROAD

Herr’Don stood before the shimmering figure of Belnavar, shock overcoming his weariness. At first he thought he was seeing a memory too clearly. Then he thought his imagination had turned the shapes of shadows, rocks and trees into a mirage form. Then he wondered if it were a ghost that stood before him, summoned by his lament and the tears that watered Belnavar’s grave.

“A scratch,” Belnavar repeated, and the words were almost mocking.

“I decide the state of my injuries, not you,” Herr’Don said gruffly. He puffed his chest and turned his injured arm away from Belnavar, to hide his ailment.

“That is why it is just a scratch,” Belnavar said, smiling now. The smile was just like it was when he was living, the kind of smile that lured people in like a trickster.

“You are dead,” Herr’Don said, shaking his head. He did not know if he was trying to deny the truth of this—or trying to deny the sight before his eyes. Either way, someone or something was deceiving him, and his reflexes whispered to his right hand, hovering near his sheathed sword.

“An astute observation,” Belnavar said, and he stopped smiling. “But I am as astute as you, so I see you are readying for battle more than readying to hear my tale.”

Herr’Don had lost the element of surprise, but he drew his sword anyway, holding it before Belnavar in case he might be some new form of Spectre, another nightmare unleashed upon a world already desperately trying to wake up.

“Since you cannot see the Spectres, then I cannot be one,” Belnavar said. This response to his silent question confused Herr’Don, but even more confusing was the memory of him having made his accusation out loud.

“Perhaps if you did not try to defend yourself from your friends, you would not be here alone,” Belnavar added. He gestured to the right and left, to show how utterly isolated they were. Not even a bird was in the sky, and no animal was brave enough to watch the warriors.

“Perhaps, but then I would not be here with you,” Herr’Don said. “Last I checked, two is not alone.”

Belnavar smiled again, and as he did so the light seemed to shine right through him. “You have always been alone with your thoughts. This is perhaps no different.”

“Begone!” Herr’Don cried. “I have no use for ghosts.”

“How do you know that I am a ghost, and not part of your own mind?”

“If Belnavar was part of my mind, then I would have had his titles and his glory, and yet I never did. I would have traded the Great for any of his titles.”

“You mean, you would have traded an imagined name for a true one.”

Herr’Don cast back his cloak in anger. It flailed madly in the breeze, the ragged pieces catching around one another as if they were clinging together to save themselves from the unmerciful weather. The clattering fabric brought a sense of comfort to Herr’Don. It reminded him of the flags at the top of Ilokmaden Keep, that lonely vantage point where he found comfort away from the troubles below. It was harder to feel small when up so high.

“I envied you,” Herr’Don said. “They gave you titles that I could not even dream of, names that put the mothers and fathers of others to shame.”

“Yet I never sought them,” Belnavar said. “And never clung to them when they were given to me. A warrior does not need a battle-brooch to know that he is good at battle.”

“Come, Belnavar, do not pretend you are shy of being honoured,” Herr’Don said. “It is easy to say you needed no recognition when you had more than your fair share of it. Those who bask in the sunlight may mock the envious who live in the shade, but the sun is ever-shifting.”

“Will it shine on you?” Belnavar asked. The light in the sky shimmered for a moment, almost taunting.

Herr’Don was silent for a time, until finally his frustration grew too much. “Go away! I have enough to trouble with.” He was reminded of his arm, and yearned for a distraction; a small part of him began to wonder if he had invented his phantom friend for this very purpose.

“At least you still live,” Belnavar said. The memory of Belnavar’s mangled body flashed in Herr’Don’s mind. He shivered.

“If this is living,” Herr’Don said.

“If you draw breath, then this is living. The question is: do you do more than just draw breath?”

“I never knew you to be a philosopher,” Herr’Don remarked. “If this is what ghosts do, then no wonder people go mad in a haunting.”

“If you are not already mad,” Belnavar said.

Herr’Don glowered at his friend, if this were really his friend and not some spectre of Agon’s devising. He spoke with an intimacy that made him think he must truly be the one the bards sang of, and yet he spoke things far too openly, far too honestly. It was unsettling, but then perhaps there was no need for guile when one is dead.

“If I am mad,” Herr’Don said, “then you are part of my madness. Does that diminish you?”

Belnavar smiled. “In a sense, yes. But I think it diminishes you more.”

“You have had time to grow accustomed to your titles and trinkets,” Herr’Don said. “So much so that they mean nothing to you now. Well, I have had time to grow accustomed to being dismissed and ridiculed, to being diminished. The King called me mad. His court called me mad. For a time I even started to believe it, but now the word has little meaning to me. If this is madness, then madness is part of who I am.”

“Aye, a good way to look at things,” Belnavar said. “There comes a time when we must accept who and what we are.”

“And have you accepted death?” Herr’Don asked.

“I wear it well,” Belnavar said. He stood tall in his studded leather armour, arms folded and head tilted to one side. His black hair faded into the night, but his eyes stood out brightly like twin stars, and in them was the glisten of curiosity. The display contrasted starkly with Herr’Don’s memory of the broken and battered body he had found on the riverside.

“I know how you died, Belnavar. I heard it from Teron’s lips as he taunted Ifferon. I heard all his revelations, and they shook my soul, for I thought we were fighting for good, not aiding evil.”

“I need no reminding of how I died,” Belnavar said. “The body does not carry the memories. The soul does, and the soul is yet living. I trekked many leagues with Teron, and throughout all our conversations I never once suspected that he had given himself in service to the Beast. Even when he pushed me into the Chasm of Issarí, even as I fell into the gorge, and even as the rocks bashed against me and the hands of Taarí dragged me under, I did not know what had happened, that he had betrayed me. Nay, he had betrayed all of us. It is only on reflection, in this somewhat lighter form, that I can see how painfully obvious it should have been, but we look at everyone as through a window, and what colour the glass is, or what shapes and symbols block our view, depends very much on their words and actions, and our understanding of them. I saw him as a devout head-cleric, a fighter for the faith, and so it never dawned on me that he could ever be faithless, or serve the one against whom our entire faith is forged.”

“Teron fooled us all,” Herr’Don said. “Though not all paid the same price.”

“We all share in one price, and that is what happened to Corrias. I might have died a bit sooner, but everyone in this world will die soon enough if we cannot undo some of the evil that has been done, if we cannot find some way to replace that which we have lost.”

“There is nothing to replace,” Herr’Don said. “A boy is dead, and a god is dead. There can be many more children, if their mothers and fathers live through this darkness, but there can be no more gods, with the lanterns doused by Agon. Even if he were to be defeated, there would come a time when all the gods would wither away, and all that would be left are the races they created, living their small and empty lives, and praying to nothing.”

“What then do you plan to do?” Belnavar asked.

“Talk to you, or myself, or whatever this is.”

“And then?”

“Then continue my journey.”

“Where will you go?”

“This is why you cannot be from my mind,” Herr’Don said, “for my mind knows the answer, yet it did not expect your question. I will travel to Madenahan, the capital of Boror, for where else have I to go?”

“You could go back to Ifferon.”

Herr’Don scoffed. “And be another martyr to a coward? There is one dead man too many here as a result of Ifferon.”

“And what if Madenahan is no longer welcoming?”

“You were there, Belnavar, a lot more recently than I. You know that it is never welcoming.”

Herr’Don patted his numbing arm. There was a tingle near the shoulder, but below that he felt not just nothing, but a feeling of death—a feeling that was slowly spreading to the rest of him. His breathing was heavy, and he felt sweat upon his brow and a fever in his skin. He began to wonder if he would make it to Madenahan. He began to think that Belnavar was not a phantom of Halés or even of his supposedly broken mind, but a symptom of his ailment, a figure conjured from the fever.

“Tell me, Herr’Don,” Belnavar said, and his voice was suddenly ghostly, invading the Prince’s thoughts. “What is it that haunts you?”

“Besides you?”

“I accompany you, but something troubles you.”

“You have many titles,” Herr’Don said, “and I have many troubles in their stead. From which of these will you take your pick? Do you want to look again upon my arm, hacked and hewn, or would you rather play historian and delve into my past, where what was hacked and hewn was my heart? To which ailment would you rather look, one of the body or the mind?”

“The mind,” Belnavar said. “For this is all in the mind, is it not?”

Herr’Don shook his head. “Do not play games with me.”

“You knew me in life,” Belnavar said. “I never played games then, not even ilokadi, a game you liked to play often with your friend Edgaron in Madenahan. Battleblocks is not just a game for children, and yet you stopped playing it when you grew older, when your father, the King, sent you to play it for real on the battlefield. You have been playing it ever since. For me, battle has never been a game, and I have never played any game, real or feigned, of counter and board, or of mind and guile. So then, friend, for we have been friends for many years, trust in me, even if you could not fully trust in me in life to share what dogs you so.”

Herr’Don shook his head and continued to walk away. Yet Belnavar matched each of his steps, and no matter which way he looked he could sense or see the man, until finally he relented and stopped for a moment to speak his mind. To Belnavar he was a broken man. To any others who espied him on the hill tops, he was just a madman.

“It seems every time I befriend someone, I lose them,” the Prince said, and he clutched his cloak, not now to feign pride, but more as if he thought it might disappear too and leave him comfortless in the cold. “Edgaron was my dearest friend as a child, and I have not seen him since I left Madenahan. He kept me together when I was falling apart. And I know not where he is, or even if he is still alive, for why would he be alive when all others are dead? Of all the warriors I knew, you were the one I felt a great affinity with, and look what has become of you. And then I idolised Trueblade, and yet he turned out to be less than I had hoped, and in his eyes I was less still. Then I befriended Aralus, and he is dead too, his death witnessed by the very woman I loved, who is lost to me also. Who is there for me, to be with me, to live for me?”

“I am dead,” Belnavar said, “but still with you.”

“Yet perhaps only in my mind,” Herr’Don said.

“Is that not enough?”

“One mind is never enough.”

“Not even if it is a great mind?” Belnavar asked with a smirk.

Herr’Don sighed, forcing a despondent smile. “Not even then.”

“Fate has perhaps been cruel,” Belnavar said, “but perhaps before this is all over, it will be kind.”

“I always loved your optimism, and I tried to emulate it—but that is all it was, an emulation, not the truth,” Herr’Don said, and there was no feigned enthusiasm now; his distress was altogether real. “The dark night feels very long now, even if there is the hope of dawn.”

“There is more than hope,” Belnavar said. “It is not idealism to think that day will follow night, for it has done so for many years. It is a matter of knowing, not hoping.”

“And then night follows day,” Herr’Don replied. “When will it end?”

“Do we want it to?” Belnavar asked.

Herr’Don sat down. “Do you yearn for life, even when it is often cruel?”

“Yes,” Belnavar said. “Because it is often cruel, not always, and when it is not cruel, it is kind beyond any measure, and those moments outweigh the darker ones that precede or follow. Even when night comes and smothers day, there are stars up there in the blackness. And look, even now Uldarus is out. She does not hide in shame, but defies the dark.”

Herr’Don turned his forlorn eyes upon Belnavar. “Like you defied the dark? Like Aralus defied the dark?”

“I defied the dark while I lived,” Belnavar stated, “and perhaps I shall still defy it in death. I know of Trueblade, whom I fought side by side with, and I know of Edgaron, because I met him several times, but what of Aralus? Tell me of him, and why you were so close. There are not many who earn your high esteem.”

“There are few worthy of it,” Herr’Don said. “No one seemed to like Aralus, except me. He seemed to like the glory of battle. He seemed to understand me. Yet the closer I came to him, the further it felt that I was from the group. It seemed that Trueblade no longer looked at me favourably, no longer saw me as a knight of Boror. So I traded the favour of one for another, and the exchange was ill-fated, for I am now left with neither.”

“Favour can be re-earned,” Belnavar said. “Aye, ill can be made good.”

“So you are an alchemist now,” Herr’Don said. “Yet bereft of the Elixir of Life.”

Belnavar smiled. “Death does not ail me now,” he said. “I do appreciate good humour though, whether living or dead.”

Herr’Don feigned a chuckle, not because he wanted to mock or deride Belnavar, but because he could not muster the energy for a more jovial response, a more convincing performance. His body was sapped of its vitality, and his heart was sapped of its enthusiasm. He wondered if in his mind there was nothing left to drain, and that in the resulting void a madness must ensue.

“Something has stalked you for a long time,” Belnavar noticed, “and it is not me, nor even the ghosts of others, but some phantoms of your mind, some spectres of your emotions. Every time I met you while living I saw smiles and I heard laughter, but now I see past those masks to the troubles underneath. You have been hiding a lot from the living. You cannot hide it so easily from the dead.”

Herr’Don paced to and fro on the hillside, wearing down the grass with his thick leather boots, which had accumulated an even thicker layer of muck. They were nothing like the pristine boots he had kept before. Like his tattered cloak, his former visage was crumbling away, and all that was left was a haggard figure pacing briskly in the bitter cold of the night.

“‘Tis no dishonour to share your hurt,” Belnavar said.

Herr’Don stopped suddenly and looked away north to the kingdom of Boror. It seemed so far away now, an almost unreachable haven, and yet a land that did not feel quite like home. Perhaps then in the desolate land of Telarym he could share his troubles and there would be no other prying eyes and spying ears, and none of those he knew to spread whispers that the Prince of Boror was not as strong as he had claimed to be, that he had hoped to be.

“I need your word,” he said at length, and he felt the tremor in his voice. It was not the cold.

“Name the word you seek and I will give it to you,” Belnavar said.

“I need you to promise that you will keep this between us.”

“We are the only ones here.”

“I need your word,” Herr’Don said again more harshly.

“Aye, I give it then,” Belnavar said. “It shall go with me to the grave.” He gave a sly smile.

“I killed someone,” Herr’Don said, and the words felt cruel on his lips, and crueller to his ears. They were small and simple words, but laced with meaning and memories, like poison.

“Ah, so it has gone to the grave with them also,” Belnavar said, and for a moment Herr’Don almost thought the voice was that of Aralus, and he worried that he might summon the spectre of yet another former friend. “Ah, I am sorry, Herr’Don. ‘Tis an ill-made jest,” Belnavar continued. “I do not mean to mock you, nor the dead. But come, you must have killed many, both as a guard, a mercenary, and captain of the Fifth Regiment.”

“Yes, you’re right. But that’s not what I meant. I killed someone that I wasn’t supposed to. In fact, I killed several. People who were innocent, who did not deserve to die.”

“Oh … that is different. Hmm, and you’re feeling guilty now?”

“I should feel guilty, Belnavar,” Herr’Don said. “I should feel very guilty. And I do. I killed a family, a woman and her three young children. I wasn’t supposed to. I didn’t mean to. I was hired to kill a local farmer. The other farmers said he had been stealing their land, so they got together to pay for a mercenary, to pay for me, Belnavar. I set his house on fire that night, but he wasn’t in it. He came running back from the local market, screaming. His family was in there, sleeping. I ran back into the burning house and found one of the children. I pulled him out, but he was already badly burnt. I tried to save him, I did, but … but there was too much smoke. He was already dead. I went back again for the others, until the smoke overcame me. The farmer pulled me out.

“He thanked me, Belnavar. He thanked me for trying to save his family. He thought I was a brave soul, fighting flame instead of lighting it. I could not tell him I had started the fire, that I was hired to kill him. He asked me my name. He wanted to give me a reward, and tell all about my heroism. That was one of the few times I did not feel like sharing my name, one of the few times I did not want acclaim. I gave him the name of another, and I fled the place so that I did not have to face what I had done.”

“What happened to the farmer?” Belnavar asked. “I presume the ones who hired you were not happy that he still lived.”

“I didn’t kill him!” Herr’Don said. He tried to calm the exasperation in his voice, which he thought Belnavar might mistake for guilt. “How could I go on as a mercenary after that?”

“What about the other farmers then? Did they demand their money back?”

“No, but I gave it back to them anyway. It didn’t feel right. They didn’t feel right either, so they gave the other farmer the money, as a kind of token gift. They felt guilty that he’d lost his family. He took the money and moved to a different town.”

“So the other farmers got his land then after all,” Belnavar said.

“Yes, fate finds a way, it seems.”

“Can fate find you guilty then? Do innocent people not die all the time?”

“I don’t kill those people,” Herr’Don said. “I feel guilt for the innocents that I have killed. I cannot forget what I have done, whether I will it or not, and I can never forgive myself for it.”

“I think you punish yourself needlessly. It is not as if you intended to kill the family, and even if you did, you were a mercenary. Death is part of the job. There is no honour in it, no, but surely you knew that before you took up that mantle.”

“I thought I would be hired to kill thieves and murderers,” Herr’Don explained. “To set the balance right, and bring vengeance and justice on those who had done evil acts, not tasked with doing evil of my own.”

“Then why did you not refuse?”

“Look at me, Belnavar,” the Prince said, and he felt suddenly naked to all eyes. He felt his bulging frame in his royal attire, which was far too small for him, for he had not been given new clothes in quite some time. He had bought plain clothes, sure enough, with no tears or holes, and with a much better fit, but they were civilian clothes, the rags of the people, not the apparel of royalty or uniforms of the military. So he refused to wear them, refused to don anything that did not make it clear to all that they were looking upon Herr’Don the Great.

“So you needed the money,” Belnavar acknowledged. “Does your father not give you anything?”

Herr’Don scoffed. “Nothing worth keeping.” He brushed aside some dirt from his clothes, as if it were the token gifts of the King.

“Killing is what made your father king,” Belnavar said. “It is in your blood. Do you not think there is a price to pay for the throne? How many have died to see Herr’Gal take the crown, and how many were saved by the decisions of his rule?”

“Olagh only knows,” Herr’Don said. “But if slaughtering the innocent is the way of the King, then I would rather not be called Prince, so that I not be next in line as a slaughterer.”

“Then Trueblade may still have hope in you, if you do not in him.”

Herr’Don gave a mirthless smile. He did not know what to say of Délin, whom he admired. He did not know how to cope with how his ideas of the knight were different, how he was less than he seemed in the tales, and yet sometimes more than the myths, so much to overshadow Herr’Don and make him feel small. It was one thing to read and hear of the tales of a hero, and quite another to be standing in their shadow.

“I visited their graves many times,” Herr’Don said, turning the subject back to his sorrow, on which he had plenty to say. “Each time I brought a wreath, for each time I came back the one I left was gone. Perhaps the breeze stole it, or some children, or some spirit of the dead. I tried not to question it, but instead honour those who had died.”

“I do not doubt it,” Belnavar said, “for I saw you pay respects at my own grave. It helped take away the hurt of death for me, and so perhaps it did for them also.”

“It would comfort me to know they are comforted now.”

“Then are you good enough to walk?” Belnavar asked.

“Yes,” Herr’Don said.

“Then may I join you?”

“You already have.”

Herr’Don stumbled away with Belnavar, following the faint trail of stars that led north. Some scholars said they formed the Arrow of Aelor, pointing to his people in the northernmost reaches of Iraldas, but Herr’Don could never make out the shape of an arrow. Instead he tracked the brightest of them, which was called Ardúnelé, or White Light, in Old Arlinaic. It formed the tip of the fabled arrow. Herr’Don wondered why Aelor was always firing this bow, and he wondered increasingly why any, himself included, would follow the directions of the gods, who had failed Iraldas so many times before. Yet with no other guidance bar the ghost of Belnavar, the stars would have to do.

The stars came and went, and the yellow orb of Ilios rose and fell like it was a ball in the games of the gods, and Herr’Don began again to lose sight of the passing of the days. He journeyed long and rested little, and he talked here and there with Belnavar, whom he was thankful to have as company when he approached again the eerie edge of the Issar Chammas.

“The River Barrier,” Belnavar said. “‘Tis much fabled.”

“I saw my death in the Chammas,” Herr’Don told him. “I saw that I would drown when I crossed the river. It does not comfort me to cross it now again.”

“It is a pity the Chammas did not show me my death,” Belnavar said. “For perhaps then I could have avoided it, and perhaps thwarted Teron in his evil plans. Yet perhaps seeing that I would be pushed into a chasm would merely have made me fear the touch of any hand, and I would have lived a frightened life not worth living.”

“There is always the second death,” Herr’Don said. “Perhaps the Chammas can tell you that, if even it dares look that far.”

Belnavar’s expression was grim. “Let us hope it does not, and that I shall never have a second death. My body is gone, but I still want my soul.” He looked wryly at Herr’Don. “Or what is left of it.”

They crossed the Issar Chammas together, and it seemed that this time the river made little response. Perhaps it could sense that it had already foretold the Prince’s future, and perhaps it could sense that for Belnavar there was no mortal future to be told. There was a kind of silence in the water, the kind of silence from something old and watchful, and very deadly. Even the splashes of Herr’Don’s feet seemed faint, as if the very sounds were being killed off before they could reach his ears. Eventually they both had crossed, and they looked at the dark and dreary land of Telarym on the other side, mere feet away, and yet so very distant. Boror seemed much closer now.

“So we live to cross again,” Belnavar said.

“I do not think that I ever will,” Herr’Don replied.

They continued northwards with little rest. In time they came to the border of Boror, but they barely knew it, for the towns and forts had all been abandoned there. The first sign of another person was near Madenloft Forest, where many woodsmen toiled long to supply the country with its much-needed timber. Some of the loggers came to Herr’Don and tried to help him, but he refused, and some asked who he was talking to, but he roared at them, until finally they backed away and thought it best to let him wander and die alone. So he wandered—but he did not yet die, and he was not alone.

VI – THE HARBOUR OF THE WOODS

The company did not rest long in the chill of the White Mountains, for Rúathar bid the Al-Ferian turn around at once and begin the journey back through the snowy crags to the Melting Meadows, and then beneath the canopy of Alimror. They made room in the sled, where the body of Théos was laid, and Rúathar urged the others to sit inside also, for their strength had been sapped by the snow. Ifferon and Thalla obliged, for the cold had almost lured them to Halés, but Délin defiantly refused, stating that he would not be drawn along by another, but would march on his own feet as he always had.

“Your defiance will be your doom,” Rúathar said. “The cold does not know honour. It will take the brave and the coward all the same, in one swipe if it can.”

“Then let it take me if it dares,” Délin said. “For I shall defy death all the stronger, until a life ill-taken is restored.”

“Your passion will keep you warm then,” Rúathar said with a hint of derision. “But the offer remains, should your legs no longer understand the dignity of your heart.”

The sled was hauled by many Al-Ferian, and Ifferon felt somewhat guilty that they must toil all the more with the weight of him inside. His guilt did not last long, however, as the warmth of the blankets and the calming whistle of the wind sent him into a long, deep sleep that had been a long time calling.

When at last he awoke again, several hours had passed, it seemed, for the group had travelled many miles, stopped for rest and rations, and begun another leg of their long journey. A bag with bread and fruit was sitting in his lap and he did not take long to devour it. The taste was far nicer than the food should really have been, and Ifferon was unsure if this was some strange Al-Ferian cuisine, or if the taste was simply heightened by his hunger.

“It feels like we are leaving behind our dangers,” Thalla said. Her bag of food had long been emptied, and it seemed from the dark rings around her eyes that she could not sleep as easily as Ifferon could. He noted with happiness that she had applied some of the healing salve to her scars, for they were barely noticeable now. “Yet it feels like this is a false comfort, that there are greater dangers ahead,” she added.

“Whenever any meddle with death, there is always danger,” Ifferon said. “But what other choice do we have? We invite danger now or wait for the greater dangers to arise unbidden.”

“Yes, yes,” Délin said. “So we make our choice to act, not wait.” His march seemed to have strengthened rather than weakened him. Ifferon knew that the Knights of Issarí had trained in a kind of meditative march, but it was so subtle that it only stood out in such harsh environments as the unforgiving heights of the Amreni Elé. His armour clinked methodically, as if it were marching on its own.

“To try and fail is better than to fail to try,” Rúathar said, digging deep into the snow with the trunks of his legs. “A flower always tries to bloom, even in the bleakest of winters. Often the flowers fail, but sometimes they succeed.”

“In Arlin we have a song for marching,” Délin said. “A song for the long journey of expectation, that trek across the plains towards the edge of war.” He took a deep breath and began to sing; the words were encouraging, but the tone was sombre.

On oceans blue, through gardens green,

O’er mountains white, through forests black,

On roads well mapped and paths unseen,

No hue of land can hold us back.

Down dip of vale, up climb of hill,

Through water wade, o’er sand or snow,

No weather woe depletes our will

To get to where we pledge to go.

Through blizzards tough and brambles thick,

In dark of mine or sludge of mire,

To paths forsworn we always stick,

Till journey’s end, we never tire.

“An inspiring piece,” Ifferon said, and he thought of Yavün, lost in the Chasm of Issarí, where no poetry could be heard. He did not look to Thalla, but knew well that she was thinking of the young poet too.

“Inspiring, true,” Rúathar said. “But you will all need a different kind of perseverance soon enough, for the true danger is not in the journey, but the destination. When we arrive at the Mountain Fortress, where we will begin the ceremony to restore Corrias to this world, we will be like a beacon to many evil forces. You have come from the siege on the Black Bastion, but now you will be the ones besieged, and we will have to hold off a great many assailants ere we are successful.”

Ifferon was not encouraged by this. He missed Herr’Don’s arrogance here, for undoubtedly he would have laughed at the notion of an enemy that could defy him, and his laugh would have been like an avalanche knocking the attackers from the mountain. Instead, the company was silent, trying to still their minds as many horrors threatened to creep in.

“Do we have an army?” Ifferon asked at last.

Rúathar shook his head; several small leaves fell from his autumnal scalp. “We Al-Ferian never were a large race, for there simply is no space here in the woods. We can expect little help from the Ferian, our closest neighbours, and any others who could help us, were they willing, are far away and must travel through enemy lands to get to us, unless they were to travel an even longer way around. We had powerful allies before in the form of the Magi, but most of them were called away several days ago for an urgent task in Boror. Now we have only one.”

For a moment Ifferon thought that Rúathar was alluding to Thalla, recognising her unseen potential, but he nodded towards Thúalim, who paid no heed to them. As much as Rúathar trudged through the land with large and heavy steps, Thúalim glided through, never wavering or faltering. Even the Beldarian about his neck barely stirred as he went.

“Why have the Magi left?” Thalla asked. “What task is greater than our own?”

“When we set out, our task was to find Théos and see why he never arrived at Nahragor to bolster the Garigút attack,” Rúathar said. “The Magi were called back by the King of Boror to deal with the threat of Larksong, where Agon was settling a stranglehold that threatened the country. Many are allied with us, but the Magi sect swore an oath to the Bororian line of kings long ago, and so that oath they keep. I do not know much about their task, but last I heard the intent was to seal off Larksong from the rest of Boror.”

“Seal it off?” Ifferon inquired. “Abandon it instead of saving it?”

“So it seems,” Rúathar responded.

“That sounds like something the King would do,” Ifferon said. “Rather than fight for it and free it from the armies that ravage the poor people there.”

“If indeed there are any people left to free,” Rúathar said. “But yes, such an approach is perhaps not the most noble.”

“There is no nobility in it at all,” Délin said. His grim eyes were like lanterns in his helm.

*  *  *

The Melting Meadows were a series of small hills that dotted the western ridge of the White Mountains. There the blanket of snow had been thrown off in the heat, revealing a sheet of frosty grass that crunched beneath their feet. A trickle of snow fell constantly, while a warm wind blew frequently from the forest in the west, leaving the land in a perpetual twilight between winter and spring.

The Al-Ferian tugged the sled across the grass for a long time, until the terrain began to become more rocky, and trees started to appear with their tangling roots. Then they emptied the sled and attached wooden wheels to the spokes on either side, capping them with wooden spikes to hold them in place. Both Ifferon and Thalla felt recovered enough to walk now, but Théos was placed back inside the sled-turned-cart, under the ever-watchful gaze of Délin.

The forest rose around them, and with it came a heat that the company had almost forgotten. The shivering memories of the White Mountains gave way as the wood grew thick, and the warmth was a comfort to their bodies, even if their minds would not be comforted. After a time the trees began to change. Ash and oak gave way to birch and rowan, and soon Rúathar was pointing to trees here and there, naming their species and even naming some individual trees which he knew well and had grown fond of.

“Almost every type of tree upon Iraldas can be found here,” he told them, and the excited tremor in his voice showed that he never tired of them. “They live in groves, and some trees like to mix with others. Here we see a lone hazel tree, which lives amidst the birch and rowan, for she is called Ara Galareleth, Mother Golden, and she looks after this part of the wood. No Ferian or Al-Ferian will dare take one of the hazelnuts that fall from her tree, for they are all her children.”

“What will happen to this forest?” Ifferon asked. He felt he did not need to specify that he meant when the enemy came through to hunt them down. There was a part of him that hoped that if it was not said, then it would not happen.

“Hopefully the wood will weather wars like it always has,” Rúathar said, “though it has not faced a major battle in some time. I am sure the trees, old as they are, remember the wars of ancient times, ones that happened long before the memories of our races began.

“But at worst the forest will be levelled, and it will be like the area we call the Stumps south-west of here. They are the remnants of an even greater forest from ancient times, where trees dwarfed mountains and peered beyond the clouds. They were titans of trees, and we call them the Perasalon, the Tree Lords. Note that we use a different word for those trees: peras, for they are so very different to the trees of Iraldas now, which we call al. They were from an age that not even the oldest tree here remembers, for it was the time of the Elad Éni, and the stories, which few dare tell, say that the Perasalon were caught between the war of the Céalari and the Elad Éni, and so they perished. This is where we get the word ‘perish’ in the Common Tongue, from peras, the trees that perished.”

After many more leagues and many more discourses on the nature and beauty of trees from Rúathar, all of which received the fervent attention of Ifferon and the other Al-Ferian, and a matching disinterest from Thalla and Délin, the company came out of the forest into a clearing dappled here and there with firs.

Beyond, standing like one of the Perasalon, was the Mountain Fortress, a colossal structure carved into the highest peak of the Brown Mountains, so named for the thick soil that grew there, nurtured by many rains, and crumbling down to sustain the forest valley below. The Al-Ferian called the mountain Abi-Enuth, and the striking stronghold that stood upon it would have been seen for miles, were it not for the tall wall of trees that spanned much further. The Mountain Fortress was a domed keep, but the centre of the roof was open to the sky. Its rock matched that of the mountain so perfectly that it seemed as if it had grown naturally, forming from some eruption of the volcanoes of old. Around the mountain were twelve stone doors, lining the passage upwards in a spiral. Each of these had the name of one of the trees that formed the Ferian and Al-Ferian calendar of the years, with the thirteenth, the oak, assigned to the Mountain Fortress itself.

“I see now why it earns its name,” Ifferon said, holding his hand above his eyes as he peered at the top of the bastion before him. It seemed to him that nothing could assail this fortress, that it could stand against tide and time—and yet he knew painfully that this was not true, that if Nahragor could be so wounded by the Garigút, then Abi-Enuth could be maimed by the Beast.

They travelled tirelessly that day, for the sight of the Mountain Fortress looming tall before them gave them new strength. There were many among the Al-Ferian who yearned to be within the safety of its walls, and Ifferon could fully empathise. The great shadow the fortress cast upon the land around did not daunt them, but drove them forth to escape the greater shadows of the world at large.

By nightfall they reached the first gate that led up the side of the mountain. It was blocked by a large boulder, which had been carved with many shapes and figures: swirling spirals, glyphs of trees, and crude depictions of Al-Ferian in battle.

“Our history is carved into the mountain,” Rúathar explained. “In every Doorstone, or Illondaneth in Ferian, is contained the accounts of the Thirteen Ages of the Trees, and along the side of the passages that lead up are contained the imprint of many other matters that are close to Al-Ferian hearts. Inside the mountain, in the deeper passages that few have travelled, are the even more arcane aspects of our race, where we came from, and where we are going.”

Ifferon was entranced by the history of the Al-Ferian, and even in their present danger and their greater quest, a large part of him wanted to know more, to study the old tomes and dusty manuscripts, to sit at his desk like he had done for so many years at Larksong, with no troubles beyond his studies. He thought that Délin, as another lover of history, might want to know these tales also, but the knight seemed far away in solemn thought. Ifferon then noticed that Mathal was looking at Rúathar eagerly, and she seemed less interested in the history that lined the walls, yearning more for the safety within them.

Rúathar then took a handful of nuts and twigs from the large pouch around his waist, beside the smaller pouch that contained the acorn that housed his life. He counted through the nuts and put a few back, before tossing the rest over the boulder-blocked gate. Ifferon could hear them hit the ground, and then he heard muffled voices on the other side. In time, the boulder was rolled back, revealing a small group of Al-Ferian guards, wearing armour like nothing Ifferon had seen before. It looked as though it was carved from the thick bark of ancient trees, and yet it seemed as strong as steel. The guards bowed low as Rúathar passed. One handed him the nuts he had cast over, which identified who he was.

They climbed the spiralling path around the mountain, which grew steeper as they passed each gate. Rúathar did not need to identify himself at each of these, for word of his coming had spread on the tongues of colourful birds that fluttered to and fro. Ifferon was half disappointed that he could not stop to inspect the numerous carvings at each of the remaining gates, but the other half of him was happy that he would soon be inside the formidable walls of the Mountain Fortress, where he could rest and recover. In some ways it felt like re-entering the cloistered walls of the monastery, where there was a feeling of sanctuary and safety. He hoped it would not end like Larksong did. By the swift pace of those around him, it seemed that most of the others were also eager for this part of their journey to be over. Délin did not betray his feelings, hiding beneath his metal mask, but his pace suggested he was the most eager—not for rest, but for the beginning of the ceremony through which Théos might, perhaps, be restored to life. He glanced at times at the body in the cart, as if to see if the life might already be returning.

As soon as they entered through the final stone archway, a gigantic boulder was rolled into place. The sound of the stone crushing every little crag until they melded tightly echoed across the forest. In answer came the sounds of other stones being set in place in the other eleven arches that lined the passage up the mountain. Then silence fell upon all in anticipation.

“So we have come to a turning point in the war of Iraldas,” Rúathar said. As he spoke, several Al-Ferian approached the cart and tried to take Théos out, but Délin stepped in and stopped them, pushing them aside and lifting the boy out himself. They did not fight him, but gestured towards a stone table that stood in the centre of the fortress. He placed Théos there gently, brushing his hair to one side and wiping a bit of dirt from beneath his left eye.

The Wisdomweavers emerged from a small storehouse, which seemed like the most unlikely of places to store them. They wore long robes, several coloured stoles with depictions of trees, and large and elaborate hats made of branches and twigs. Some carried books and scrolls, while others carried various ritual implements: chalices, patens, censors and aspergilla, and even stranger tools that Ifferon could not recognise from his time at the monastery. Upon their faces the Wisdomweavers wore intense and foreboding frowns, and in their eyes they carried a weight of worry, so that a mere glance from them seemed to distribute the weight to all they looked upon.

“The gods gave us life,” Rúathar continued as the Al-Ferian priests spread out around the stone plinth. “And now we will return the favour.”

VII – REMNANTS OF AN ANCIENT WORLD

The ritual began immediately, for the Wisdom-weavers needed time beyond count. The ritual was difficult and tiresome, even for a boy, and yet it was ten times as much for a god, and made all the more complicated by the fact that both were housed as one. Extra time needed to be spent separating the two, and time further still to lure one of the souls back to life. It was time that many felt they did not have.

“If fate would have Corrias dead, then we must fight against fate,” Rúathar said. “To the Céalari we are not powerful, but there are more ancient powers than they. If we are to overcome these obstacles, we must make use of the relics of the Elad Éni.”

“Surely there is great risk in this,” Ifferon said, not knowing what the relics were, but having heard enough about the Elad Éni to fear what they might be. “Are these not powers beyond imagination? Do we not risk unleashing even greater evil into this world?”

“You should fear this less than I, Child of Telm.”

“Or fear it more,” Ifferon said. “For Telm knew the Elad Éni. We do not.”

“That is why you must come with me, along with all the Children of Telm who refuge here. We will take the tunnels that lead through the mountain to the Stumps, where we must collect wood from the Perasalon to create a new Ferhassan, a new life-house, for the soul of Corrias.”

“What will happen to Théos?” Délin asked.

“His body will be buried in the woods,” Rúathar said.

“What will happen to his soul?”

Rúathar paused. A leaf dropped from his hair and rocked slowly back and forward in the wind as it fell to the ground. “I do not know,” he said. “Perhaps it will go to Halés.”

“So you know not where you condemn him,” the knight said sharply.

“I only know what we must do to avoid condemning ourselves,” the Al-Ferian replied.

“What of the boy’s parents?” Délin asked. “Where are they, and why did they not fight for him?”

“They are dead,” Rúathar said. “Both of them were Children of Telm, and they knew well that they were on Agon’s list. They knew their child would be also. But they knew something more, for they knew the importance of sacrifice, of giving something up for a greater good. So they gave up their child, and they never named him, because they knew they would never know him.”

*  *  *

While Rúathar and the other Al-Ferian prepared for the trek through the tunnels to one of the most ancient places in Iraldas, Thalla sat with Elithéa, whom the Al-Ferian agreed to unmuzzle, and Ifferon sat with Délin, who needed no muzzle to keep him silent and solemn. For a time Ifferon did not say anything, but instead looked awkwardly about. Finally he felt he needed to console the knight, if only to console himself from the oppression of silence.

“It is the right thing to do,” Ifferon said. The words sounded hollow to him.

“Is it?” the knight asked.

“I feel it is, if my feelings are worth anything.”

“I don’t doubt that they are,” Délin said, “but I feel differently, and I wonder then if my feelings are in error because the rest of the world seems to want something different, or if the world itself errs and I must watch it fall.”

“We can watch, or we can act,” Ifferon replied. “We can try to save it.”

Délin removed his helmet and looked straight into Ifferon’s eyes. He looked more worn than he ever had. His face appeared more aged, his hair greyer and longer, and his beard bushier and more unkempt, for his small shaving blade lay ignored in a strap upon his shin. Dark circles surrounded his eyes, like the antithesis of a halo, and his eyes themselves were darker still. Ifferon dared not look too deep into them, for fear he might never escape the sorrow that lived within.

“I am not sure if I can do this any more,” the knight said. His voice lacked the energy it previously had. “I feel like an old guard in a new world that no longer cares about the same things, the little things that I thought were central to all good folk. I feel like I am losing more than Théos here. I feel like I am losing my will to fight for freedom and honour. I feel like I am an accomplice to evil, leading Théos to his doom in the Old Temple. I feel even worse that I worry about my own petty feelings when a child lies dead because I could not save him.”

“His death was not your fault,” Ifferon said. He did not feel like admitting that he felt the fault rested with himself, that Théos would only travel in the company of a Child of Telm, and so Ifferon was the bait, pulled along by strings he did not see.

“You are a good man, Ifferon,” the knight said. “Even if you do not recognise it. I do. I would not have travelled with you if you were not. But I am not sure if I can continue with you. Too much has transpired that has killed off whatever hope I had. I thought maybe, just maybe, we could bring Théos back, but Rúathar wants to bribe fate so that Corrias is restored instead. Tell me, Ifferon, what if I were like Rúathar? What if I could bribe fate so that Théos came back instead?”

“I do not know the answer to that,” Ifferon said. “I do not know if it is even possible.”

“It is possible,” the knight stated. “If you go to the Stumps to seek relics from the Old Ones, then you can bend fate. You can alter the rules, because you then become the rule-makers. Yet if life is this, if life is the game we have been playing all this time, is it not cheating to change it now, to alter things when pieces are still in play? It makes me realise that I have been playing differently to everyone else. I have been trying to follow the rules, to play by the book, while others are rewriting the book, and some are even ripping out the pages. Is this what this world has come to? Am I the only one playing by the rules, and am I a fool to keep doing so?”

Délin stood up, and his armour clanged together. He paced to and fro and then sat back down, as if he could not support the weight. “There used to be rules in war,” he said. “Emissaries were always immune from the fighting, but Agon changed that. Civilians were taken prisoner, but never killed—but Agon changed that. Children … children were never the target, never the ...”

“It hurts me to see you like this,” Ifferon said. “What you stand for is what makes you who you are. If I had your strength and courage I would not need the blood of Telm. I would have something much more powerful. Experiences like these test us, and sometimes they test us daily, and yet if we persevere we can come out of it all the better. I would not abandon anything that makes you who you are, because then if you were to restore Théos back to life, he would not recognise you.”

Délin nodded his head slowly. “Yes, yes, you are right, Ifferon. You might not have really been a Cleric of Olagh in your heart, but you know how to act like one, and I do not think you are merely acting. If a cleric is a link between Iraldas and Althar, then you are most certainly one, and perhaps the only true cleric, for you not only bridge the gap in blood, but you make mere Men down here realise there must be something more, something greater.

“It seems to me that it would be so easy to give up fighting for the world, when the world seems like a place where all we do is fight. If I could harness the power of the Elad Éni, perhaps I could change it all. Perhaps I could restore the balance. Yet it seems that I would lose myself in the process, that to save the soul of another I would have to slay my own.

“Part of me is crumbling, Ifferon. Maybe it is because I used honour as my foundation, and it does not seem strong enough to support the weight of sorrow. Whatever fortress of the heart I built cannot hold for long, but for now it still stands. I will do what I can then to help see this quest through. I will honour my commitment to Iraldas, even if Iraldas does not know honour any longer. The eyes of my soul are darkening, for the sky seems bleaker today than it did the day before, but while there is still a pale glimmer of a star I will clutch to hope, and pray that fate is kind. Maybe you are not a Cleric of Olagh, but I ask that you pray this too.”

“I will,” Ifferon said, but he wondered what good his prayers would do. He recited the many prayers he had memorised from the Olaghris at the monastery in Larksong, but he did not believe in them, nor mean what he said. If Olagh was really Telm, and Telm was dead, what good was it to pray to him? Even the father god Corrias could no longer answer prayers, himself dependent on the prayers of others.

*  *  *

Délin carried a large wooden chair from the nearby barracks and placed it down beside the stone table where Théos lay. He removed his metal gauntlet and brushed the boy’s hair; parts still felt like grass and straw, even though the body it grew from was dead. His skin was cold and his face was pale—and yet it had always been cold and pale in life, as if he was barely ever living. Délin thought of what it must be like to be a vessel for another, to have no life of one’s own. This was not what he dedicated his life to Corrias for, not what he dedicated his honour to Issarí for.

He was glad to be wearing his helmet now, even in the heat of Alimror, which was warmer than he imagined, and warmer than his bones had felt in a long time, with the frost of the White Mountains still lingering in them. He was glad his eyes were shielded from the world, that few could look into his soul and see his growing despair.

He recalled a song that had been sung to him as a child by his grandfather Celsinin before the siege of the Kalakrán at Geladilok, the last remaining Shadow Crypt in Arlin. At the time he did not understand the words, and, on reflection, he realised that he never truly understood them until now. He sang softly to Théos:

Sleep, dearest child, for the dark of night has come,

Yet, to some whose eyes deceive, it is still day.

When the sun is down, to fairest dreams succumb,

But listen to my voice, lest they lead astray.

Sleep, dearest child, where no daytime evils reach,

Where all whom the day has stole are still alive.

The mind is a castle that no siege can breach;

Retreat, therefore, that you might at least survive.

Sleep, dearest child, for the chill is in the air,

When the warmest rays are buried in tombs deep,

Where none at all can hear our bedtime prayer;

For each count of hours, the longest breaths they keep.

Sleep, dearest child, while rest can still be made,

When pillows are yet fluffed and beds prepared

For restful times beneath the canopy of shade.

To those the day has hunted, the night has spared.

Sleep, dearest child, throughout all these needless wars,

Through the darkest stretch of night, which we call death.

When day and night lock horns and try to settle scores,

Wake from this nightmare world—enter slumber’s net.

The words faded out and all that was left was the weariness. He had slept little since Théos had passed, and he never closed his eyes willingly; instead he was dragged into dreams by sheer exhaustion, when he could no longer keep guard against the night. His eyes felt heavier than ever, even heavier than the burden of his heart, but still he resisted. While Théos needed him, even in death, he would keep watch.

*  *  *

Elithéa had no issue resting, but she also had no choice. The Al-Ferian had locked her in a cage that might be used for an animal, though she knew that even they would not treat the wild like this. They had removed her gag, and she spit on them and told them she would hunt them also, but they were too concerned with the coming siege to worry about her words.

Thalla sat down near her, and for once she did not feel as though she was collapsing from fear or exhaustion, nor was she curling up into a ball or cradling her woes—now she felt as though she were taking her place upon a throne, finally seizing what was rightfully hers.

“We stood in that forest as sisters,” she said. “Our races divide us, yet our sex unites us, and while you might prefer a life of solitude, I do not. So I try to find that which unites us together, and maybe to some that’s a weakness, but to me it’s a strength. So we were sisters, and maybe we can still be.

“Yet you think it is I alone who have a lesson to learn, but that’s another thing we have in common, for you are in need of learning also. You told me that I must escape the bonds of men in my life, and yet you must escape your own bondage, a bondage of the mind and heart, which prevents you from opening to others.

“And there is the bondage of your race, for you blindly do as the Éalgarth would have you do, and you do this for Éala, so you say, and yet you work against others who work for Éala, though we call him Corrias. So you see, if you were able to escape your own prison, then perhaps the world itself could also, or perhaps instead the only one to break his bonds will be Agon. Then it will matter little what our personal failings are, for we shall have a greater failing: the destruction of all races, and the ending of this world. Then there is the prison of death that none of us can escape.”

Elithéa did not speak for a while, but it was clear from the glisten in her eyes that the words had touched her heart, wherein there seemed no struggle. Yet pride was a shield to the world, and she would not abandon it so easily. Thus she spoke after a time:

“It is a lofty ideal indeed to speak of freedom from imaginary prisons, when you sit beside me like the jailer of my cell. Perhaps if I were not bound like an animal then I might be able to contemplate such deep philosophies that you seem to have the time for, despite the perils of the world.”

Thalla smiled, and she knew it jarred Elithéa, for the Ferian tilted her head and gave a curious look to the woman. “You are a rose buried in thorns, and so few see your beauty. Yet you even seek to sting the hand of any who try to tend to you, to prune that which has overgrown.”

“So you are a gardener now, I see,” Elithéa mused. “Yet only of words, while I alone here have any true appreciation for the flowers and the leaves. And that, Thalla, is not something you can try to bend to unite us, as if in doing so you might gain your way and so justify your time here.”

Thalla smiled again, and Elithéa recoiled, as if her shield had been shattered, and now she was left defenceless. “I think you enjoy these little skirmishes,” Thalla said. “I think that is why you never killed Aralus until it became necessary. I think that is why you turned on all of us when Aralus was gone. You need these wars of words, because you need to win something, when all else is a reminder of loss.”

Elithéa was silent for a time, but she would not be overcome so easily. She shifted in her cage and struck the bars with her hands. “Save your poetry for your dead mate. He has more use for it than I. And see, even the very allusion to him brings weakness to your eyes. Who you are has always been about who other people are around you, and who they want you to be. You make it look like you had some great victory against the men in this world, that you were accepted as an Apprentice Magus when no other woman has ever been, and yet you are powerless without a Beldarian. Why have you been following all these rules, which are just little prisons made of words, when you could have gone out and sought a Beldarian of your own?”

Thalla was feeling less confident now. She thought she had grown, that her conflict with the fire had earned her some level of wisdom, that her newfound experience in battle and amongst adventurers whose names were known across Iraldas had given her strength. Yet now she thought of Yavün, swept away in the gorge of the goddess Issarí—and her heart panged. She thought also of Melgalés and his Beldarian, which protected him from magic, but not from the world—and her soul shuddered.

“Has our talk made you meek, as the men would have you?” Elithéa taunted.

This got the better of Thalla, and her previous composure crumbled beneath her anger. She grabbed one of the metal bars that Elithéa held, and it turned red from the heat of her palm. Elithéa cried and let go, blowing upon her scalded hand.

“I do not need a Beldarian,” Thalla said, but the smoke that still wafted from her hand suggested otherwise. Her anger, at least, helped her conceal her pain.

“Then perhaps you will see the poet boy again,” Elithéa replied, “for you court death as much as you courted him, even while still in the court of another.”

Thalla stormed off to the bunkers far from the gaze of the Ferian, but her feelings followed her, and she found she could not so easily escape her shame. To those who watched as she charged away, they saw a trail of smoke—and wondered who had left the fires burning.

*  *  *

Ifferon waited by the bunkers, glancing to and fro at the commotion around him. He saw Délin singing a song to Théos, and he saw Thalla and Elithéa talking in what looked like a bitter exchange. Yet he also saw the Al-Ferian at work, bringing supplies to the bunkers and looking out warily upon the land around.

Then Ifferon was greeted by a number of people brought to him by Rúathar. There were two Ferian twin boys, around the age of twelve, a restless girl from Boror of ten years, an old woman from Arlin who had seen too many summers, and her daughter and granddaughter, whose pale complexions showed that they had not seen enough.

“These are also Children of Telm,” Rúathar said. “Their blood is not as pure as yours, nor as powerful as Théos’, but they have been hunted by Agon all the same.”

“Why are there so few?” Ifferon asked. His imagination had conjured an image of hundreds, even thousands, teeming beneath the mountain like a colony of ants. He knew from his books that Telm was prolific in his mating, and he was so beautiful in countenance that there were few, woman or man, who could resist him. It troubled Ifferon greatly that so many of Telm’s progeny had vanished over the years, as if Agon himself were the one historian, spilling the ink and blotting out the names.

“There were more before,” Rúathar explained. “There were over a hundred a few years ago, when we lived among the trees. But many were killed, and so we retreated to Abi-Enuth, and they now live in the bunkers beneath the earth. When Arlin and Boror were attacked, we saw an influx of people claiming to be Children of Telm. Not all of these were true, but some were, and we have been a refuge for many since.”

“Yet still not a safe haven,” Ifferon said.

Rúathar looked at him grimly. “Let Larksong be your lesson. You know well that there are no safe havens.”

*  *  *

Rúathar brought them all to a small storehouse, which led into a bunker, which led into a tunnel. The guards were still busy moving supplies that covered the secret door into the secret cellar. As they toiled, Rúathar spoke with Marilah, the elderly woman from Arlin who spoke little, while the Bororian girl stood beside Ifferon, and though she looked up at him, she spoke down to him with her eyes.

“Are you the one they call the coward?” she asked. The Ferian twins giggled behind them. They did not know much of the Common Tongue, but they knew the insults.

Ifferon was taken aback by the question, even though he supposed he should not have been, for he thought surely all were wondering the same thing—and surely some had even worse names for him.

“You don’t look like a coward,” the girl said.

“What does a coward look like?” Ifferon asked.

The girl placed a finger on her lip as she pondered the question.

“A coward looks like a craven cat,” she said.

“And what does a craven cat look like?”

“A coward.”

Ifferon laughed. Suddenly he did not feel so bad about the accusation—though still a part of him was not so easily consoled.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Affon,” she told him.

Ifferon paused for a moment and noted the girl’s blonde hair, which was pulled back tightly, not free-flowing like that of most other girls. “That is a boy’s name,” he said, though he realised he also meant: that is a boy’s cut of hair.

“So?” she asked gruffly. Even her voice was like a boy.

“You are not a boy,” Ifferon said, though it was less of a statement and more of a question.

“No, I’m stronger than one,” she said, and she kicked a stone away, as if to prove the point.

“Well, you have the blood of Telm in you.”

“So do you,” she said, “but if that’s what makes you strong, you wouldn’t be a coward, would you?”

“I suppose not,” Ifferon admitted. He knew well that the blood did not give him much by way of strength. Indeed, he felt that the burden weakened him. As the years wore on, the heavier the burden became, and so the weaker he became in turn.

“They should have gotten a younger man,” Affon said, looking Ifferon up and down and noting his arched back, thin frame, numerous wrinkles, and almost bald head. “You don’t look like a coward, but you don’t look like a hero either.”

“Maybe I’m not a hero,” he said. “Who are they anyway?”

“The gods, the ones who picked you.”

“I don’t think they picked me, child.”

“Then who did?”

“I think it was random, a chaos of sorts.”

“But then who’s in charge?” she asked, and she looked about as if she might march up to them then and there and demand their resignation, that she might take their place.

“I’m not sure. I’m not even sure anyone is.”

“That’s not the way I’d do it. I’d be in charge and I’d pick someone strong to fight Agon.”

“Where in Boror are you from?” Ifferon asked, trying to pinpoint her accent. He had spent so long in Larksong that he had all but forgotten some of the different dialects of his homeland.

“Lots of places,” she said. “I wander about. Staying here for the last two years is about as long as I’ve been in one spot.”

“Do you miss Boror?” he questioned with a sigh, and he did not know if it was the question or the sigh that he directed at himself.

“Yes,” she said, and she seemed less fierce. “I miss the freedom of moving from place to place. This castle is like a prison. I’m just glad Rúathar lets us go out to the Stumps every now and then. I never felt small before until I saw them.”

“Then I look forward to feeling small,” Ifferon said.

*  *  *

Instead of feeling small, Ifferon found that he was feeling about in the dark as Rúathar led them from the dim bunker into a network of passages. The tunnels were dimmer than he imagined, and darker than he hoped. They reminded him of the secret passages in the monastery at Larksong, which led to Teron’s hidden cellar. Rúathar brought a torch with him and did not race from view, like Teron did, and this proved a solitary comfort to Ifferon.

“It is dark in here,” he said.

“I can see,” Affon said, but still Ifferon could hear her slip from time to time on the steps. She grumbled as she regained her composure, and she refused the aid of the Ferian twins when they tried to help her up, elbowing them angrily for the insulting offer.

“Then you have the eyes of Taarí,” Ifferon said.

“I will,” she said. “On my belt with the eyes of other traitors.”

Ifferon was unsettled by her words, and yet he was reminded of someone he knew was equally violent and intense, who might have also said those words in her fiery youth. He thought of Geldirana, whose fire had never waned.

*  *  *

When at last the group emerged from the tunnels, they found themselves cursing the light that they had only moments before craved, for it stabbed their eyes, as if in envy of them spending so long in the dark. As they squinted, and as the light grew more forgiving, they began to make out the strange display before them, which the light itself seemed in awe of.

The Stumps were beyond anything Ifferon had imagined. He expected something colossal, but many of the tree stumps here were taller than any fully-grown tree he had ever seen, and entire villages could be built on the larger ones, which spanned hundreds of metres across. It made Ifferon wonder just what walked these forests, and just how big they were. His mind could barely conceive of the scale, and he shuddered from the thought, as if a giant foot might suddenly come crashing down beside—or upon—him.

Despite the daunting size of everything around him, Ifferon was comforted by the thick grass and flowers, which grew around the tree stumps like a people gathering to praise their gods. There were familiar flowers, like those he admired in Boror, but there were also flora he did not know, and he wondered if they grew anywhere else in Iraldas, or if they too were remnants of the time of the Elad Éni.

“I love all of this,” Ifferon said. “Nature and all her wonders. I just wish I was walking through here because I wanted to, because I had time away from troubles, time just to see and admire, to explore and discover. Instead I am here because I have little choice, and so I see many great and wondrous things, but my mind is too preoccupied with huge and terrible things to appreciate them.”

Rúathar smiled at him. “And yet if you were not forced on this quest, you would not have seen this at all. It is best to admire the light you find on your journey of darkness, than to live a life without darkness or light.”

“It does appear that they come together,” Ifferon acknowledged. “There is no day without night.”

“That is true,” Rúathar said. “And no life without death. Perhaps Théos had to die, to free Corrias from him, to give the god new life. Yet we cannot use that possibility as an excuse not to act, for we must do all we can to save all the peoples of Iraldas.”

Ifferon nodded. He looked ahead at Marilah, the old woman, who looked as though she was living now just for her daughter and granddaughter. He glanced back at Affon and the Ferian twins, who were running about, screaming and shouting excitedly, and making sounds that he thought three children alone could not make.

“Why do you seem so different to the Ferian?” Ifferon asked as he turned back to Rúathar. “They seem to hate every other race. Elithéa even told me that all others are dead to them. Yet the Al-Ferian harbour people of so many different races. Alimror sits in the middle of Iraldas, perhaps fittingly, so that all can reach its refuge more easily. But it does make me wonder how your people came about.”

“We are a bit more open-minded than our sister race,” Rúathar said. “Look at the trees. The tree does not say to the squirrel, ‘Go away. You are not a tree, so you cannot be part of the forest.’ The tree does not shoo away the birds because they do not have branches, nor exile the worms because they do not have leaves. The tree realises that it takes more than just the trees to make a forest.”

They continued on until they reached a part of the Stumps that had been clearly trodden many times before, perhaps by Rúathar and the other Children of Telm. The trees spanned for miles further south, but the Al-Ferian would not dare go too far in. He said it was best to stay close to the Mountain Fortress, but Ifferon caught a nervousness in his voice, and he wondered what else might lie behind the fallen Perasalon trees.

“Here we are,” Rúathar said.

He produced an assortment of nuts from his bag, which he rummaged through periodically like a fussy squirrel. Ifferon thought it merely a strange custom until the Al-Ferian took an almond from the mix and tapped it against one of the gigantic tree stumps. He pressed his ear to the wood and then shook his head, before trying again with a chestnut. He listened once more, but did not find the answer he was seeking.

At last Ifferon’s curiosity got the better of him. “What are you doing?” he asked. He imagined that if Yavün were there, he would have asked the question much sooner.

“I am looking for the right wood for the Ferhassan,” Rúathar replied. “There are certain combinations that signify different things. We need to find the combination to signify a god, so that the Ferhassan will naturally store the soul of a god and not a boy.”

“You say we, but I do not think I am much use here,” Ifferon said.

“Of course you are,” Rúathar said. “In fact, you are essential. You are the closest thing to a god we have, as are the others here, so you must look for wood that matches your heart. You will know it when you find it. For me, I will ask the hazelnuts and walnuts to help.”

Ifferon thought little of Rúathar’s words, but decided to wander and at least appear as if he was being useful. He knocked on trees, sniffed bits of fallen bark, and counted rings in the smaller of the Perasalon tree stumps. He did not find anything that spoke to him in particular—everything seemed decidedly foreign, not only to him but to the world at large. This was a place from another time, and it was very much at odds with everything else. He wondered how he would ever find anything that seemed to belong to him, like the Scroll in his pocket did.

Affon seemed less ill at ease. She was racing through the trees and climbing up onto the tree stumps. She carried what looked like a large branch, but was actually a tiny twig from one of the monstrous trees. It did not seem to Ifferon that she picked it because she identified with it, but more because she enjoyed bashing the Ferian twins with it as she chased them through the woods.

It took Ifferon a long time to find anything remotely resonant, but when he did, it immediately stood out to him. In the deepest part of the Stumps was a fallen Perasalon tree, beyond enormity and almost beyond conception. Its mighty trunk was so heavy that it had crushed the land beneath it, which seemed to sag from the weight. It was so large that it brought to Ifferon’s mind the idea of the great serpent called the Gormathrong, as if this were the body of one of its distant cousins. He shuddered at the thought and tried to focus on the task Rúathar had given him.

Then he saw the flake of bark from the corner of his eye; it was small and golden, like a sliver of the precious metal, if a tree could produce such a thing. Yet it seemed even more brilliant in the light as he took it up and turned it here and there, for it had the sheen of a mirror. He held it before him and saw his face in it, and for a fraction of a moment he saw himself when he was younger, when many knew him as an adventurer and not a coward, when Geldirana knew him as a lover and not a betrayer of love. The flake appeared thin, but it was heavy, and yet from it he could feel the potency and might of his youthful days, as if a spell from Chránán, the Lord of the Shadow of Time, had been cast upon it. After a time he realised that this was what Rúathar had hoped he would find, something to empower him, and to empower the ritual to bring Corrias back into the world.

Ifferon felt relief at finding this ancient artefact, which to some was little more than a scrap of wood, but the relief did not last for long. When he turned around to find the others, to search out their voices, he could not see them and could not hear their words. Rúathar was not chasing down heirlooms of an ancient world, and Affon was not chasing the heirs of the newer world. Instead there was a silence he had not heard in a long time—and it was unsettling, for it was the echo of the Void, a semblance of the unnerving quiet that always existed in that place of nothingness in which the Elad Éni dwelt. The memory of his flight through the longwheat of Larksong, where he had lost Herr’Don and Yavün, returned like a hammer-fall to his mind, and immediately he was shaken. Yet even that terrifying ordeal compared little to what happened next.

As Ifferon stood in the monstrous forest, with the great tree behind him and the many great tree stumps around him, he looked to and fro to search for his companions, and he listened here and there to find their voices or heavy footfalls. But something seized his heart, like the hand of Agon stretching up through the earth and the soil, and through his weak and mortal body. His breathing stopped and his eyes went wide, and suddenly it seemed as though he were seeing the Stumps for the first time again, but now they seemed more daunting, if not altogether terrifying.

And then they emerged.

From behind every tree and every tree stump. From behind every rock and bush. From behind every cover of the natural world, and especially from behind the many walls of Ifferon’s own mind. They emerged. Shapes of shadow crawled out into view, like hunting spiders that had always been there, but now were ready for the meal. The figures were darker than he remembered them, even in the horror of Larksong and the many horrors that followed, for they seemed black against the grey, green and brown of the forest floor—and black against the many colours of his mind.

For a time they stood there, like the many twisted things that live in the nightmare that even the night itself tries to wake from, and Ifferon found himself frozen, paralysed by his fear. If they had come for him then, it would have been a mercy, for it would have at least brought an end to the rising panic in the very core of his being, but instead they stood and stared from whatever eyes the darkness had crafted, and Ifferon did not know what they wanted or when they would attack, only that he could not do what he struggled against his unmoving limbs to do—that he could not run.

Then they began to flicker, like candle flames against the darkness, but these were flames of darkness flickering against the light. For a moment he did not see them, though the fear remained. When he blinked again they reappeared, or rather his sight adjusted, for they were always there, watching from beyond. Part of Ifferon wanted to reach for the Scroll in his pocket, but another part of him realised that it was useless against these phantom figures, for they did not answer to Molok the Animator, but to the Elad Éni who made and wandered the ancient forest that the Stumps were but a remnant of.

Fear consumed him and gave way to panic, and together they banged on his heart and his brain, until he felt as though his body could no longer sustain the assault. He tried to think of Corrias and Telm, the powerful forces of the Céalari, but all he could see in his mind was an image of those gods cowering.

Then Rúathar appeared, hurrying through the forest towards him. He passed straight through one of the shadowy figures, and this confirmed to Ifferon that they were not the ones that served Molok, but this did not lessen his anxiety.

“Come, Ifferon,” Rúathar said. “We have been searching for you.”

Then Rúathar’s face turned sour as he looked upon the cleric; the look on Ifferon’s face must have been far worse. The Al-Ferian immediately unleashed an Ilokrán from his pocket, like a sword from a scabbard, and his eyes darted to and fro, as if to flee his head and find safety in the less ancient trees in the other parts of the great forest.

“I see naught, but I sense it,” Rúathar said, and his voice was hushed. “Perhaps more from you than from the land.” He produced another Shadowstone from his pocket and handed it to Ifferon. “Take this, and tell me what you saw.”

The presence of the Al-Ferian, and the feel of the Ilokrán, brought a wave of calm to the ravaged shores of Ifferon’s mind. His heart still beat a battle rhythm, and his brain still pounded a percussion of its own, but the figures were no longer there before him, lingering only in the darker parts of his memory. Yet it took Ifferon what felt like a long and exhausting time to talk, to bring courage again to his voice.

“Spectres,” he said at last, “but ones from the Elad Éni. I do not feel welcome in this wood.”

“Nor I,” Rúathar said. “I doubt they like much that we seek to resurrect the very Céalar who imprisoned them in the Void. But these Spectres only have the power of fear, great though that might be, and outside of the Stumps they are powerless altogether. Let us make them powerless once again.”

He led Ifferon back to the others, who were not far away, though evidently they had not witnessed anything as harrowing as Ifferon had. Affon still seemed brash and cheerful, the Ferian twins were bruised, but smiling, and the three generations of the Arlinian family seemed content, if not altogether mirthful, with the bits of tree and twig they had found and collected. None of them needed much encouragement to hurry out of the Stumps, however, and this made Ifferon wonder if Rúathar had been forced to make flight from there before with them.

Ifferon could not find his bearings amidst the trees, but Rúathar found his way with ease, like a king who wanders regularly the many passages of his own castle. Though Ifferon could not see the Mountain Fortress through the thick ceiling of leaves above him, he could sense that they were approaching the point where the trees did not give way to a clearing, but instead seemed to climb up the side of the mountain, like giant adventurers of their own.

In time they found the opening that led back into the secret passages up the mountain, but now Ifferon was even more reluctant to enter the darkness, for fear had heightened his senses, so that he could see every shimmer of a shadow, hear every creak or crack, and feel every strand of a cobweb and every raised hair on the back of his neck. Yet he did not want to linger on the outskirts of the Stumps, where he knew these heightened senses could detect something best left unfound.

Ifferon found the tunnels much darker than before, as if the darkness had grown just as jealous of the light and sought to punish their senses. He clutched the wall of the tunnel for support, but he found his head was spinning, and the floor, wherever it was, dared to imitate his mind. At times he stumbled and was hauled up by Affon, who seemed to determine a kind of scrutiny of his strength from his grip, and seemed to communicate a kind of appraisal of his weakness from her own.

“Good,” Rúathar said as they entered out into the light of the main courtyard at the top of the Mountain Fortress, where the light again chastised them. “Let us see what we have found. We must begin the process as soon as possible.”

He took out the dappled cupule of a large acorn, the size of his hand, which was itself larger than the hands of most others present. The nut was missing, it seemed, perhaps eaten by some long extinct species of large animal that lived at the time of the Elad Éni.

“This will form the base,” he said. He looked then to Ifferon.

Ifferon took the sliver of bark from his pocket, and it almost seemed that the Scroll was relieved to not be sharing its resting place with the Elad Éni relic any longer. He placed it on the table, where everyone gathered around it. Some did not seem much impressed, but Rúathar’s eyes lit up, like a child who had just been gifted his most desired toy.

For a moment Rúathar was speechless, though he oft opened his mouth, perhaps to speak, or perhaps simply to let out the air of his stayed breath. “Perfect,” he eventually managed. “This will form the core. It is large enough that we will need little else, but many is stronger. Marilah—”

But before he could finish his words, and almost before he had finished the woman’s name, Affon barged through and placed the giant twig on the table. She raised her chin in expectation of what, no doubt, she thought was a most deserving chorus of praise.

“Wait your turn, child,” Rúathar said sharply, and she glowered at him as she took the stick away, with an air that suggested she might not ever give it back. “Marilah,” Rúathar repeated, and he stressed the name, as if to show how different it sounded to Affon, “what did you and your family find?”

Marilah produced an aged golden leaf, which was the size of her outstretched palm. Her daughter had a similar leaf, though younger, smaller and fairer, and her granddaughter held a tiny leaf, which was dappled with silver spots. Rúathar nodded as each was added to the table.

He looked at Affon, who Ifferon expected would be next, but it seemed that Rúathar wanted her to show more respect, so he skipped to the Ferian twins instead. Though all expected them to produce two identical items, they instead revealed a spiky brown leaf and a shell containing a droplet of the sap of one of the trees.

“Very good,” Rúathar said. “You have an affinity with the forest.”

He turned to Affon, who still puckered her face in defiance, like she had when the twins tried to get her to stop hitting them with the stick. It seemed as though she wanted to bash Rúathar with it now instead.

“Let us see it then,” the Al-Ferian said. “Put it on the table.”

Affon stomped up and banged the stick down. She did not raise her chin, but instead lowered her brow, so as to darken her eyes as she glared out at Rúathar. She tapped her foot as the stick was inspected. It looked remarkably innocuous, and Rúathar did not seem impressed.

“I think you spent more time striking others than searching,” he said.

“So?” she replied, almost on top of his words. “I found mine quicker than the rest of you.”

Rúathar was clearly not convinced. She had found a twig from a Perasalon, sure enough, but there were many like it throughout the Stumps, and she had picked the first she stepped on, without thought or meditation. Ifferon could also tell that she had been rash, not attentive, and he could tell from Rúathar’s stern eyes that what she had picked would be useless for the Ferhassan.

“We have enough with our finds,” he said. “This will do.”

He gathered up the forest relics and handed them to two Al-Ferian guards. He gave a knowing look, like a tree might give to another, and they seemed to understand. One guard took the cupule, bark, leaves, and sap and brought them to the Wisdomweavers, who were buried deep in the leaves of books. Some of the priests began immediately to assemble the relics into a container, which they stood upon the stone plinth like an urn for the child’s ashes. The other guard took the twig and headed for the secret passages, where undoubtedly he would reach the edge of the Stumps and cast it back into the wood, like an inedible fish thrown back to sea.

“What now?” Ifferon asked, glad that Affon did not see what had been done with her find, and glad that his quest in the Stumps was over—yet dreading what new quest awaited him.

“This fortress is our home now,” Rúathar said, and as he spoke his voice rose like a towering Perasalon, forcing all to halt what they were doing and look upon him. “It is our refuge and it is our prison. Our enemies will come like a flood upon us, and we will swim or drown, and if we fail here, then all in this world are doomed. The process of rebirth begins, but sowing the seeds of life takes time—a time that the forces of death will use against us.

“Some of you know what we will face. Some of you have prepared for this day since we learned that Éala, whom some of you know as Corrias, had incarnated in this world. Others of you have walked into a situation you barely know, like a chessboard in play, with you as a piece from another game. It matters little what your situation is. What matters is the situation we all are in.

“You and I cannot leave here, and if you try to, you will be killed by our sentries. Willingly or not, you have pledged your life to protect the Host while the resurrection takes place. It is a pledge you may have to honour before the siege of the mountains is through.”

VIII – MADNESS IN MADENAHAN

In Madenahan, the capital of Boror, the guards began the evening watch. Some stumbled from their beds, while others stumbled from the taverns. None stumbled from the empty chapels of Olagh. The watch houses bustled, and as the night grew dim, there was a flicker of stars in the sky, and a flicker of eyes staring out from walls. Lanterns blazed, halberds were lined up one by one, the guards stood staring and yawning, and some stood like part of the wall itself.

At the South Gate, which looked out over the Lonely Road, two guards stood watch while the others played ilokadi, the four-sided game of chess, in the watch house. Amidst their frequent dozing, roused by the roars and cheers of the guards in their game, they spotted a figure approaching the gate.

“Who is that?” the first guard said, peering over the parapets. “It looks like some beggar from the border towns. Why would he come to our city when he knows our laws against panhandlers?”

“That hasn’t stopped some vagrants in the past,” the other guard said, and he spat upon the ground, as if it were the bodies of the poor. “We had to hang one from the North Gate just last week to ward off the outcasts of Arlin. The smell is still in my nostrils.”

“I am glad I was not on duty then,” the first guard said. “I would have had to burn my gloves if I set a single finger on one of them.”

“Better than them setting all their fingers on your purse,” the other guard said, and he coughed a terrible cough and spat again.

“Are you sure you didn’t catch something from them? I hear the whores are cleaner.”

They laughed, but their mirth was cut short when the man clambered to the door. Grime lined his face and grease laced his hair. His clothes were tattered and torn. His arm hung like the pauper from the gibbet at the North Gate, and his hand was starting to blacken, matching the dark rings around his eyes.

“Halt!” the first guard cried, and he held his halberd before him, nudging the man back a foot or two. “Who do you think you are? Do you know what city this is? There’s no space for the likes of you!”

The peasant opened his mouth to speak, but the coarseness of his throat caught and crumbled his words. He stumbled to one side, but the other guard launched his halberd out to stop him falling over, fearful that they would then have to haul him away from the gate and bury him. They would not bother to check if he had really died or not. No one would miss him.

“Go on then!” the second guard shouted, nudging him with the point of the halberd. It nicked him across the stomach, but he did not seem to feel the pain. “Back to whatever pit you came from! Go on south and die on the road there! No one travels those routes now.”

Then the man looked to his side, where nothing was, and he nodded. “Aye,” he said to the wind, before turning his glazed eyes back to them.

“Another one struck by the moon,” the first guard said.

“I need,” the man said with a cough, “to see ... my father.”

“Well, he’s not in here,” the second guard said. “Go on now, away from here, or your corpse will be a warning to your family if they try to crowd our streets.”

Then the first guard paused for a second and his hands started to tremble. He ran his halberd across the patches and strips of fabric of the man’s clothes. “Isn’t that a bit rich for him?” he said, his voice low, a hint of doubt in his tone. “Looks like a noble.”

The second guard scoffed. “Stealing from the high-housed, are you now? Scum!” He pulled back his halberd and prepared to lunge at the man, but the first guard grabbed it just in time.

“Wait!” he cried. “Look at the crest he wears.”

The guard strained his sight to see the faded emblem of twin serpents on the peasant’s chest, the symbol of the ruling house. “Olagh bless, it’s …”

“Who is that?” a third guard said as he strolled to the gate with a lantern in hand. He held it close to the man’s face, revealing his grim features. “Another one looking for refuge?”

“No, Edgaron,” the second guard said.

“That’s … that’s Herr’Don,” the first guard added, and he stood frozen.

Edgaron dropped his lantern, which clattered off the ground and almost toppled Herr’Don from his unsteady feet. He ran to the Prince and wrapped Herr’Don’s good arm around his shoulders. He struggled to haul him into the cobbled paths of Madenahan. “You shouldn’t have come back here,” he whispered to Herr’Don. “This is your father’s city. That should have been reason enough to stay away.” They clambered through the streets as a crowd began to gather near the gate, wondering why a guard would haul a vagabond into the place of the privileged.

“Who would have thought he would come back here?” the second guard said as the lumbering figures disappeared into the crowds. “Herr’Don the Prince.”

“Herr’Don the Mad,” the first guard corrected.

“Not an outcast from Arlin then,” the second guard said.

“No, just an outcast from the King’s Court,” the first said with a grin.

*  *  *

Herr’Don was brought down the narrow ways of Madenahan to Ilokmaden Keep, a towering bastion that made the thin streets and tiny hovels look even skinnier and smaller, like a monstrous fat man towering over the emaciated bodies of his kin, who he did not think deserved even the crumb they had been given. Ilokmaden’s bloated body sat upon a plateau above the main level of the town, where it could keep away from whatever filth lined the streets, like the drunks who could not make it through the maze from the four taverns at the four corners of the city to their homes, or the streetwalkers who knew the maze like they knew the hidden places of the body, and even the slop and sewage that the servants cast down from the windows of the high towers.

There were five towers along the southern side of the Keep, lining the plateau like great fingers upon an outstretched hand. In the palm stood the main building, strong and square, and so clearly man-made that it looked awkward upon its naturally carved base. A central wall surrounded the Keep like a bracelet, and there were two entrances, one in the north-east and the other in the north-west. Through these passed a constant carriage of people, to and fro, like veins pumping blood in and out to keep the fist-fortress of the King alive.

It was through the north-east gate that Edgaron hauled Herr’Don, and the Prince felt a shiver run through his body that he knew was not his fever, but the memory of his childhood under the firm grasp of the Keep and the various staff who wandered its halls, like wagging digits constantly reminding him of the rules, berating him on his failures, and raising him in the eternal absence of his father.

He used what little strength he had left to look up at the great stone box that his father called home, and he envied the Garigút for the insults laid against them, for to be “less-of-home” seemed almost a better fate than to have to live inside the belly of this beast.

And so it seemed to all who lived there, for it was rumoured to be alive, and the tales of its animate existence were some of the first he heard as a child, usually from the cooks and the cleaners, for few other children were allowed inside. Some said the Keep had always been there from the time of the Elad Éni, luring people inside, while others said that it was built by the Moln from rock that had survived volcanoes, and others yet thought it was made from the actual bodies of the Moln, who joined together for a long rest and would one day wake again.

In the depths of the night many could hear the strange sounds throughout the corridors, and even stranger ones from the cellars, like the rumbling of a stomach that needed more men and women to come inside and waste away their years. When a member of the staff would die, the others would say: “The Keep has eaten.” And when a replacement was needed, they would add: “The Keep needs to be fed.”

Some were born in the Keep, as Herr’Don was, but unlike he, some of them would also spend their entire lives there, never leaving its many levels. It was so colossal that there was often no need to leave, and those few who missed the sun could sometimes periodically go up to the roof and the ramparts, where they could join the guards in their glowers at the specks of people far below, like dust upon the carpets.

Edgaron hauled him past the hustle of people bringing barrels and caskets in and out of the gates, and he dragged him up the long ramp to the main door, ignoring the eager eyes of all who looked on and wondered. Rumour swept through the city like a plague, infecting every ear, spreading on every tongue, and while some spoke of strange things, many began to nod knowingly at the whisper that Herr’Don had returned from whatever exile his father imposed on him.

Edgaron banged on the door with his fist, and the wood creaked in answer. Few used this way, as it was mostly a ceremonial entrance, for entertaining dignities from across Iraldas, or for those few occasions when the King would wander as far as the gates of the inner walls, to pretend to be one of the people, before hurrying back to his jewel-cluttered chambers. It took a long time for someone to open the door, possibly from shock that another would be so brazen as to bang upon it, or from difficulty finding that seldom-used key.

When at last it swung open, firing dust in all directions like a trap, Salstrin the Steward stood before them with a great ring of keys around his left forearm, a white cloth draped upon his right, and a scowl upon his face that would have frightened away most who looked upon him. Yet Edgaron was not like the others, Herr’Don knew, and he was glad that it was he who stumbled upon him as he stumbled to the city’s southern gate.

“There are other doors,” Salstrin said. He was always a man of few words, which was probably why Herr’Gal employed him, because the King was a man who heeded few. Salstrin’s glare was his most potent weapon; he never once was in a brawl, and often he ended them by simply walking into the room and staring down everyone in turn, as if his eyes were some bewitchments. He attempted to cast his spell upon Edgaron.

“It’s Herr’Don,” the guard said.

Salstrin scoffed at the name, echoing the years of disdain and derision he heard from Herr’Gal’s lips. “He’s gone,” the Steward said.

“He’s back,” Edgaron said, blocking his words and parrying Salstrin’s glower with his own. The Steward suddenly realised what he meant and almost toppled. To most they would have seen little change in his composure, but to Herr’Don’s experienced eyes he could see Salstrin’s left shoulder droop with the weight of the keys, sending a tiny clink into the air, like a betrayal of the Steward’s poise. Salstrin’s eyes wandered the length of Herr’Don’s huddled form in amazement and disgust, and the tiny twitch of his mouth was another treason of his body.

“In then,” he said, and the agitation in his voice was clearly evident. He stepped back into the shadows, away from the prying eyes of those outside, who might start to add his own dignified name to the pandemic of tales, which began to leave the city of Madenahan and head for the other towns and regions of Boror.

Edgaron pulled Herr’Don inside, and neither were surprised that Salstrin did not extend a hand. The Steward did not even offer his white cloth to dab the Prince’s many wounds, but kept it upon his arm like a badge of office. He watched from the ridge of his nose and upturned chin as the guard rolled Herr’Don onto his back on the cool, marble floor, his body clattering off the ground, the sound of which reverberated through the chamber like an alarm. Then Salstrin slammed the door shut quickly and locked it with a clang; it was a sound of comfort to the Steward, for he enjoyed more the locking of doors than the opening of them.

“This is too in view,” Salstrin remarked.

“Where will we bring him?” Edgaron asked.

“He looks sick,” Salstrin said. That was his way of saying the infirmary. He grimaced as he looked upon Herr’Don’s discoloured arm.

“I will inform the King,” he said, and immediately he turned and walked off with his usual methodical rhythm through the long corridor to the great stairs that curved to either side.

“He hasn’t changed then,” Edgaron said. “Neither has your father, Herr’Don. I wouldn’t expect much from him.”

Herr’Don did not expect anything. Well, that was a lie. He expected to be ridiculed and shouted at. If those actions were not there it would be almost like a sign of love, and he had spent too many disappointed years expecting it.

“I will get someone to help,” Edgaron said. “You’re a bit heavy for my arms alone, and I think I’ve done my share of dragging princes for today. I would say stay here, but you would think it an insult. I will be back as soon as possible. Let us hope it is before your father hears about your arrival. At least he rarely listens.” He patted Herr’Don on his good shoulder, as he often did when they were little, that one gesture of love that was allowed between the men, and he wandered off to find the healers, wishing the many winding chambers were as easy to navigate as the maze outside the Keep.

“So we wait,” Belnavar said, sitting down beside the Prince. Herr’Don wondered why a ghost or a phantom of the mind would need to sit, but he supposed it was more for his sake than anyone else’s.

Herr’Don looked up at the ceiling, where hung an unlit chandelier, huge and ornate, one of the many unnecessary extravagances of the Keep’s interior, hiding in the darkness as if from shame. Black statues stood on either side, tall and pointed, like rotting teeth on either side of a dark red carpet, an elongated tongue that lapped at his back as he lay there, tasting him.

The Keep needs to be fed, he thought.

*  *  *

It was not long before a hustle of people came for him, with a hush of voices that seemed to belong to more than just the men who were present. Edgaron was there, and Belnavar had not left him, but they were both silent as he was lifted up and dragged through the halls and down the stairs to one of Doctor Olbar’s many grim cellars.

He was placed upon a table, like a dinner serving. The wood was cold, for the warm blood of previous patients had long dried up, and the cracks in the walls of the room were used by the spying wind. It took four guards to tie Herr’Don down, but Edgaron was not one of them, for he could barely watch the struggle, and he only stayed to offer what little comfort he could to one in need of more.

Olbar approached, his hands firmly masked in leather gloves, ones that perhaps a warrior might don before taking up his hallowed sword. He made no effort to hide the worn saw in his hand, such a brutal tool of medicine that made Herr’Don wish for the sword instead. A guard managed to pry Herr’Don’s mouth open and stuff a wooden peg between his teeth.

“Bite,” Olbar said. “It will distract the pain.”

But he was wrong. His teeth burrowing into the wood could not distract him from the metal teeth of the saw burrowing into his skin and bone. It was not a sharp, swift bite, but a slow and endless gnawing, and it felt as if time had ceased its own droning continuum to come and watch with all the spectators, to come and mock with their eyes at the dismemberment of a prince.

The foul taste of the wood was soon outmatched by the smell and taste of blood, which sprayed in all directions, fleeing from the mashing and the munching of the hungry saw.

The pain became so much that even Edgaron’s reassuring words and Belnavar’s reassuring presence seemed meaningless. The eager eyes of the throng around him darted to and fro in amazement and disgust, and perhaps one or two vomited, but then they all seemed to fade away, until the only figure present was the pain. In those few agonising moments, where Herr’Don envied the Beast his torment, he met the pain as an acquaintance, then knew it intimately as an enemy, until finally it awakened some store of salving vitality in him, and so he knew it as a friend.

The torture was perhaps momentary, but to those imprisoned in the moment, there is no beginning or end—just the confines of the ailment. The dulling of his mind did not save him from seeing the fateful moment when the bloodied teeth of the steel animal biting at him were lifted up, followed by the remnants of their victim: the mangled arm, which was discarded in a bucket, like scraps for the dogs.

His thoughts were also mangled, but he could not stop from thinking: The Keep has eaten.

IX – THE MOVING OF THE MOUNTAINS

There was a frenzy in the Mountain Fortress, for the reality of the impending siege set upon them all like an earthquake. It shook their lethargy and toppled their indecision, forcing all to band together to prepare for whatever would come hastening to stop Corrias from returning to the world. The Al-Ferian had already moved many supplies, filling the bunkers almost to the brim, and now Ifferon and Thalla, who had donned Al-Ferian attire to replace her tattered robe, helped carry bits and pieces to and fro.

Délin nailed planks of wood across some of the openings that shone light on the body of Théos, as if he thought that might help stop the oncoming boulders, or perhaps he was simply hoping that the light would not make it all too clear that the boy was really dead.

The people toiled long and hard that night, as they had toiled for many nights before, and would again for many nights to come. There were dozens of stone bunkers built deep into the floor of the Mountain Fortress, some that seemed as though they had been there for hundreds, if not thousands, of years, and others that seemed more recently constructed. Rúathar told them that there was space for several thousand people in these bunkers, which had channels that led into even more bunkers deep beneath the earth, like a labyrinth of caverns. Some of them connected with the secret passages that led into the Stumps, some of them were empty, to act as decoys for any enemies who found their way within, and some others were trapped with devices that only keen eyes could see in the gloom. Rúathar did not reveal exactly how many of his people hid within the fortress, but he did suggest that many others dwelt in what he called the Hollows further north, which were delvings made beneath the roots of trees.

“Why do you not live in the height of the trees?” Ifferon asked.

Rúathar’s eyes grew stern. “Why not build on the graves of your people?” he asked, his voice harsh. “For that is what it would be for us to live in the trees. We never place a burden on a tree, which may indeed be one of our ancestors. Even the Hollows are only there because the trees have provided spaces for us between their roots. They provide. We do not take.”

Ifferon apologised, which Rúathar accepted graciously, but Ifferon did not feel disgruntled at the reprimand, for he enjoyed greatly learning of the cultures and policies of other peoples. He thought he might make a better ambassador than an adventurer, but he knew that some, like Agon, would not honour the special neutrality offered to that role. Many of Boror’s top advisers had learned this in painful ways, and some were perhaps still there in Nahlin, facing long and terrible torture. He knew well that there was no treaty or negotiation that would end Agon’s war on Iraldas. The emissaries were as much on the front line as the soldiers were.

*  *  *

Thalla spent much of her time helping Thúalim prepare for the tiresome work ahead. He was not one for words, so she did most of the talking, to which he gave a short response, and sometimes only a nod. At times Ifferon thought that Thúalim seemed irritated by her, and would rather be alone, but he never once told her to go away—and so she stayed.

“You are a Magus,” she pointed out to him, and she felt almost silly for highlighting what to her, and perhaps many others, was obvious.

He looked at her with deep, entrancing eyes, which almost matched the glowing beldar jewel inset in the pendant about his neck. This Beldarian was slightly different to the one Melgalés wore, both in shape and colour, for it had greens and blues, and many interlaced designs, like the roots and branches of trees.

“Where did you get your Beldarian?” she asked.

“Nature,” he said after a pause, where he looked at the sky and ran his fingers across the ground. He seemed intoxicated by the air around him, inebriated by the feel of the land. Ever since she saw him among the Al-Ferian in the White Mountains, he always seemed like he was in another world, one in which he communed with nature.

“My mentor said the Apprentice will know the time to embark on the quest for the beldar jewel, and that the journey is long and hard,” she said. Again she felt silly, for surely he knew this if he had succeeded. “How will I know I am ready?”

He tapped the earth around him, as if awakening it for an answer to her question. She wondered for a moment if the Moln lived within the Mountain Fortress. “The Magi do not take women,” he said at length.

A part of her ignited, and her own fiery eyes met again with his. He was forest and wood, but she was fire, and she knew that she could burn it all down. Instinctively she ran her fingers over the faded scars on her right hand, and she was painfully reminded that she too could burn.

“Melgalés did,” she said.

“He was an outcast of our Order,” Thúalim replied. “He did not have our blessing. His brother Melgalorn was a better friend of the Al-Ferian, but he was called back to Boror to help the King with Larksong. I alone of the Magi refused the summons, because I knew I would be needed by my people, because I knew that the Host had been sent forth.”

“Then you know what it means to defy your Order.”

“It is very different to refuse to do something than to do something that is refused.”

“How will I know I am ready?” she asked again.

He turned his intent gaze on her once more, and she felt almost mesmerised. “I will tell you the answer, but you will not like it. You will know you are ready when you stop asking the question.”

He was right that she would not like the answer, for she felt he was evading her, just like Melgalés had on so many occasions. She felt the fires in her begin to awaken, fed by her impatience and impulsiveness. Melgalés had told her “no” many times, and she had found a way, even if the way was dangerous and he did not like it. She looked again at Thúalim, and her eyes told him she would find a way, but his eyes told her that he did not care if she did or not, nor if she died in the process.

*  *  *

The night consumed the last remaining scraps of day, but the darkness was not absolute, for the light kept one beacon burning in the sky. The moon shone directly on the cloister where the company sat together to share what might to some of them be their last supper.

“Uldarus is out tonight,” Délin said.

“Ulithé,” Rúathar said, “though she goes by many names. Her defiance of the night gives me courage, as I am sure it does for all the Ardúnari, for we are all moons to the long, dark night of the enemy.”

“Yes, yes,” Délin said, still staring into the sky. “Without Uldarus we would face a much greater foe.”

“What do you mean?” Thalla asked.

“Uldarus bound each year to thirteen months, or thirteen moons, for that is where we get our word for month: moonth, a cycle of the moon, derived from the Aelora word mün,” Ifferon explained. “This stopped Molok from creating more than thirteen Molokrán, though he was able to create an infinite number of lesser Shadowspirits. In anger, Molok ravished Uldarus, and she bled. So have women bled each month because of this foul act.”

“So the tale goes,” Délin said. “There is a song in Arlin about what transpired, and it is one of the many I have added to my memory. It goes as follows:

Uldarus ventured in the depths of night,

When few among the gods would swim so deep.

Whatever created darkness needed light,

For even gloom grew tired and wanted sleep.

A beacon for the gods, the lady moon

Provided guidance when the maps grew dim.

In Althar few appreciate this boon

Where light eternal springs from edge to rim.

The binding of the moon ensured her fate,

The sealing of the sky made all entwined,

And what she did for love, invited hate

From one to whom the heart was not inclined.

For Molok envied all who could create,

And hated most the ones who shun his hand.

Each time she would defy, he grew irate—

Ask became encourage and then demand.

He watched as others birthed races new,

And felt as one far lost in pitch of night.

His anger was his captain, ship and crew;

His envy was his only guiding light.

The shadows rose in praise of the fair moon,

Unwanted children of the day and night,

And from the ground Molok began to prune

The shapes of shade that hearkened to his plight.

The Animator was his title now

Among the names and curses of the gods.

Orders were sent forth, Molok would not bow,

And so he was with others now at odds.

Fear struck Corrias at this evil act,

Reminding him that some usurp their chief;

He knew they had to act with guile, with tact,

And so Uldarus was at night the thief.

She bound the year to thirteen turns of moon,

Which hindered Molok in his darkest art;

As Hadar he was not from time immune

And could not from the nightly cycles part.

His thirteen minions rose, but now no more,

While other races flourished with consent.

To darkness in the Void an oath he swore

That Céalari power would be spent.

Uldarus was the first to feel his wrath;

Her light was not enough to blind his shade.

To him she was a pebble on his path,

A thorn: his feet she slowed, his hands she stayed.

He consorted with the clouds, shadow’s friend,

And seized Uldarus from the veil of gloom.

He held her down and whispered of her end,

And then defiled her deep, a wound of womb.

Had Ilios not risen with the day,

Uldarus might have died to Molok’s spite;

He fled the scene, a predator now prey

As sun revealed the evils of the night.

Uldarus bled—they called the blood a week,

And every month she felt the pain anew.

Some bled with her, a sympathy unique

To women, whom the night has been cruel to.

“A horrid tale,” Thalla said. “I shall look on the moon with different eyes each night.”

“Yes, yes,” Délin said. “Despite her hurt, Uldarus comes out again every night. She has never abandoned her watch. In that I find great encouragement. We will all bleed ere this war is done, and some perhaps will bleed dry, but yet we must still keep watch against evil.”

“Precisely,” Rúathar said.

“What happened to Molok?” Thalla asked. “Melgalés would never tell me much about him or Agon, and I heard nothing of the Elad Éni until I met the rest of you.”

“He was hunted by Ilios, the sun, Uldarus’ brother, who was forced to retire each night from exhaustion,” Délin explained. “It is said that he still hunts the shadows, and so they flee when the sun appears. Yet he never got to kill Molok, for the Animator was a master of illusion and deceit, even managing to get the aid of Aelor for a time, when he convinced him that he had been wrongly charged. Molok met his fate in the end, however, when he created Agon, when he tortured the Beast into existence, for he found he could not control him, and Agon devoured Molok, gaining his power.”

“So, in a sense, Molok still lives,” Ifferon said solemnly. “Inside the Beast.”

“Yes, yes,” Délin said. “All the more reason for Agon to remain imprisoned, if he cannot altogether be destroyed.”

Ifferon imagined what Herr’Don might have said to that: Ha! Agon shall die a thousand deaths at the hands of Herr’Don the Great, and he shall call me Beast. Ifferon missed the Prince’s cheerful exaggeration, which was like a boisterous fire in the bitter cold of night.

“What of your moon?” Ifferon asked Rúathar. “The moon for Geldirana has passed a week or so ago. Are you the Alar Ardúnar for this Cold Moon?” He pushed the thought of Geldirana from his mind, for he thought it likely she had died at the hands of the Molokrán as she led them away from the company in Nahragor. He buried the feeling of guilt he had, not just for her death, but for abandoning her so many years before.

“My moon has not yet come,” Rúathar said. “I will not take the Alar until March, the time of the Blossom Moon. It is Lëolin the Pelari Guard who is Alar Ardúnar for December, which some call the White Moon. The Blossom Moon is the Green Moon, for it heralds Spring, and it is a time I always welcome, even if I do not welcome the responsibilities that being the Alar Ardúnar brings. Let us hope that Lëolin survives his moon, and let us hope we all do, for winter is not forgiving.”

Ifferon cheered with the others, though half-heartedly, for he thought of how Melgalés had fallen during his moon, and how Geldirana had undoubtedly followed. Rúathar, perhaps, was safe, if his moon was many months off, but Ifferon wondered then what would happen to Lëolin, and if, perhaps, he might be wiser to avoid the Molokrán at this time. A darker part of him deemed his thoughts were pointless, for when the Molokrán came forth, none of them were safe.

*  *  *

Ifferon slept uneasily that night. He dreamed he was receiving messages from the gods. When he awoke, he found he could not remember what those messages were—only that he had refused to heed them.

Dawn came, but the light was blotted out by an approaching darkness. Many were startled by it until Rúathar explained that what was approaching was merely part of the Al-Ferian’s reinforcements. In time Ifferon saw that it was a great flock of birds, answering Rúathar’s call. As they approached, they squawked and screeched, and some of them flapped their wings at Délin, whom they recognised as the ferocious beast from the White Mountains. It took a long time before Rúathar could calm them enough to hear his plea.

He spoke to them in chirps and whistles, and it seemed he had learned their tongue and spoke it masterfully. He told some to watch the skies, and he asked others to head to foreign lands to tell any who would listen of their plight upon Abi-Enuth. Others he told to do whatever they saw fit to break the wills of any Nahamoni forces that might be marching on the mountain.

“We do not know how long the siege will last,” Rúathar said. “It could be hours, days, weeks, or months. If it is hours, then we will have perished quickly. Beyond that, I do not know how long the ritual will take. This has never been attempted on this scale before, and so much is at stake. We can outlast a siege for weeks, if we are lucky, and we can escape our fortress if we must, but we need all the allies we can get to slow and hinder our enemy, to stop them from slowing and hindering us.”

“Will any come?” Délin asked. He knew that the Knights of Issarí would rally to the call, but even on horseback they were many days away, and they did not know well the woods of Alimror.

“I do not know,” Rúathar said, “but we must still call.”

“Will these not alert the enemy to our whereabouts?” Thalla asked. “If I saw flocks go out in all directions from a single point, I would know where to look.”

Rúathar’s eyes showed clearly that he had thought of this. “They already know we are here.”

*  *  *

The day dulled, and Ifferon sat with Délin, staring out at the few birds that remained, circling the Mountain Fortress.

“So we approach the final hour,” the knight said.

“The final fear,” Ifferon mused.

“I do not fear those who are coming, but I do fear that they might stop the ritual.” Délin glanced at the Wisdomweavers. Their work was different to those who carried stones and supplies back and forth across the cloister, and yet it seemed they carried a heavier burden. “It is times like this I wish I were a cleric, that I might aid in the ritual.”

“Not if you were of the Order of Olagh,” Ifferon said. “I know little of what the Wisdomweavers do. Every time I recognise something, I spot ten more things that are foreign to me, and the strangeness of it all hurts my mind. I was never much of a liturgist. It was easier, and safer, to be a scribe.”

“I do not deny that this ritual is queer to my eyes,” Délin said, “but there is no ritual I know to wake the dead, so I have nothing to compare it to. Thus I do not try to understand. I try to hope. Right now I am on the edge of hope—but not yet over.”

Ifferon smiled. “There is one thing I have not much hope for,” he said, “and that is sleep. I doubt I will sleep well tonight, if I sleep at all.”

Délin smiled weakly. “I will leave my worries for tomorrow,” he said. “When my sword can deal with them. Tonight I will sleep for strength, not comfort, and perhaps then I will not dream at all.”

“The battle approaches and you grow more resolute,” Ifferon observed, “while I grow more doubtful and afraid.”

“Why are you afraid?”

“Strangely, I am not afraid of dying. I am more afraid of failing to live up to what is expected of me while still alive.”

“That,” Délin said, “you should not fear.”

“You do not get it,” Ifferon said. “Everyone expects me to act like some sort of god, to have all these powers and strengths, and I just can never live up to that. I am just a Man, Délin, just a Man with all of our flaws and weaknesses. If you cut me the blood of a god does not seep out; the blood of a Man does, and if I lose enough of it then I will die like any other. I feel less that I have inherited the greatness of the gods, but rather that I have inherited a burden.”

Délin shook his head. “I think it is you who do not understand, Ifferon. A god is not invincible or infallible. A god is not all-powerful. The Céalari have flaws like we do, because we were made in their image, and if the sculpture is imperfect, then so is the sculptor. This is not a disrespect to them, for you know well that my faith is my shield, and my honour my sword. Did Telm not die? Does Issarí not lose her vitality with each passing day? Did Aelor not make a fatal misjudgement when he trusted the lies of Molok, and do his people not die because he misjudged the potency of his magic? Gods can make the mistakes of Man, and Men can do the good deeds of gods. So we are all part of this together, and this is why all of our actions are so important, because to someone in this world we are a god, whether it is a child or a student, or just some one in need of support, someone to hear their prayer. So we offer our ear and our heart, and maybe this is why we were created, and maybe this is why we must fight for our fellow Man.”

Ifferon nodded. His heart was comforted, but his mind refused all comfort. He sat with Délin for a while, until finally he could barely see the silhouettes of the birds as they fluttered around in the darkening sky.

*  *  *

Thúalim worked tirelessly through the night, summoning storms and conjuring clouds. It seemed to the others that his hair would periodically spark, as if struck by miniature bolts of lightning, and when it was not being singed it was sent affray in a flurry of wind. Others went to sleep and the watches of the night were changed, but still Thúalim toiled, so that all who slept there dreamed of the works of weather.

Ifferon dozed uneasily, despite his many years in the monastery, where the storms of sea battered against the walls of his tiny room. He had not had as restless a sleep since the nights before the attack on Larksong, where the rumour of war made even the dead restless. He twisted and turned until the rock beneath him burrowed into his back, and its ache was somehow a comfort, for the pain was a reminder that he was still alive.

When dreams finally fetched for him, he saw many strange things. He saw a man atop a mountain, inviting lightning to strike, and he was a beacon to all around. He saw an army sneaking through the night, and the thunder masked their footfalls. He saw wood and steel, rock and iron, and he heard the clink of metal and the click of cogs—until finally the lightning was no longer from the sky, but blades clashing across the mountain, and the thunder was no longer from the clouds, but from the heaving catapults that swarmed the ground below. The drums of war joined the cacophony, and then an even harsher beat echoed from the Beast deep beneath the earth, urging them all to their deafening end.

When day finally came, Ifferon was relieved to be woken from the worries of the night. The sleep had wearied him, however, and he did not feel rested. From the sleep-clogged eyes of others, it seemed that they did not rest well either.

There was a sparse meal, while Rúathar surveyed the lands around. He sent up birds, and he went from window to window, staring eagerly into the fog that surrounded the mountain. Ifferon joined him and Thúalim, curious about how effective this latest ploy had been. From what he could see, or rather what he could not see, the sky had fallen upon the mountain, masking it in a thick veil of mist.

“So it has worked,” Rúathar said with relief. “The clouds will hide us.”

“But only for so long,” Thúalim said. “I do not have the energy to keep them here forever. Nature will fight me, and I expect the sorcerers of Agon will do too.”

As news broke across the mountain that Thúalim’s magic had been successful, it seemed that the cloud upon their minds had lifted. The rumour of safety began to spread, combating the long-standing rumour of impending doom. Some people began to emerge from the bunkers and cellars, and emerge from their gloom, and even the most entrenched haters of overcast weather now welcomed the dull, grey blanket that wrapped around them and kept away much crueller things.

As the people of the mountain rejoiced in their new fortune, Ifferon spotted something that brought new, darker clouds to his mind. Every so often there was a small break in the fog, and the seconds of clarity felt like long, arduous hours, for there upon the plains around the mountain, emerging from the forests all around, were tiny figures pushing and shoving great catapults towards the Mountain Fortress. The siege had begun.

X – THE MEETING OF FIRE AND WATER

Deep beneath the belly of the earth, below the graves of Men and the roots of Ferian trees, lay the Halls of Halés, the realm of the dead. There a rock harder than the stone of the earth was hewn, and there a fire hotter than the flames of a hearth burned. There also were chasms and chambers built by the Elad Éni, the gods before the gods in the Time Before Time, and none could escape the fate that awaited them in the Underworld—not even the Beast Agon, chained in the darkest depths beneath the deepest delvings.

None of the living could enter this land, and yet those who wandered there might not be truly dead, for it was thought that there is a link between this world and the next, and there are some who get lost on their way to the Hall of their fathers and mothers, and they endure the Long Wait, ageless and timeless, yet not without the pain of the dead. Yet there are some who test time and fight fate, and they risk all against the peril of the second death.

Melgalés awoke from a slumber not unlike that he enjoyed each night when living, but now it seemed that he awoke from the dream of life, knowing now a life in death. His bones did not ache like they did in the mortal world of Iraldas, but there was a hurt of soul that seemed much more real to him now, and he knew immediately that he was not enjoying the infinite rest that had been promised by so many, be they cleric of Olagh, Knight of Issarí, worshipper of Corrias, adherent of Aelor, or follower of Éala.

The rock beneath Melgalés was warm to the touch, yet it was a different kind of heat to that which he felt when huddling by a campfire or in the tender embrace of another. It was like experiencing a memory, feeling the echo of a sensation that had almost been forgotten. Yet all of the Magus’ memories were there, the joyful with the cruel, and it was another reminder that he had not yet entered the Hall of his final fate.

So I am dead, yet not worthy to enter my resting place, he thought. Suddenly he was aware of a great presence around him, which seemed to upset his mind, for it was everywhere and nowhere, until at least it settled behind him, and he felt as though he had spoken his very thoughts.

“Only the living judge such worth,” a voice older than time, or perhaps the voice of time itself, bellowed in the chambers.

Melgalés turned sharply, and it was almost as though he turned within his own body, for movement there was of a different kind to that in the land of the living above. His agile eyes settled on a draped figure, dark and vast, standing tall before a huge iron gate. The Magus suddenly realised he was sitting on the last step that led up to this giant entrance.

“You are dead,” the voice whispered, and it was the many voices of all spent souls. “But there will be no rest for you while you are restless.”

Melgalés clambered up, and simultaneously he realised that he was always standing, for time is but a memory to the dead, who are no longer bound by its chains. The figure looked at and through him, and its robes seemed to sink endlessly, even deeper than the ethereal rock that acted as a floor in this place, right down to dangle above the head of the tormented Beast.

“I know you,” the Magus said to the figure, and he realised he was rolling a bead from his braided hear between his fingers, a crumb of comfort to one needing no sustenance.

“You are one of the few who study stories about me,” the shape said with a shift in form, as if to mock those tales, “but I know the truth of you.”

“The Gatekeeper,” Melgalés stated, and now the figure seemed to shrink slightly in size, as if the mere mention of the title gave the Magus some measure of power over it. “The last of the Elad Éni, the Old Ones.”

“So you know my office, but no more,” the Gatekeeper said, but it shrank again, for it knew what Melgalés knew, and thus it knew that the Magus had long studied the tomes of past Magi, even Elathon the Many-minded, who some say won a battle with Death, delivering many texts from the afterlife that presented the keys that many craved, yet few could carry. And so the Gatekeeper was aware that Melgalés knew a whole lot more than just the office of this fabled figure.

But knowledge alone is nothing in the face of the Gatekeeper, and Melgalés found a mind more powerful than any he had battled with. He knew not why he fought, for so many passed through the gate, even now as he struggled, and they simply gave in to what awaited them. But for Melgalés his doom was not within the doors of the Halls of his ancestors; instead he was left to linger on the threshold.

To the world of Iraldas, a Magus was powerful. To the world of Halés, a Magus was like any other: another soul ushered into the crowded Halls. Melgalés felt suddenly despondent, knowing deep inside the very essence of his being that he was somehow trapped.

“There are many prisons,” the Gatekeeper said, as if sensing his predicament. “Your body was one of them. The world of Iraldas is another. You have been freed from your captivity by the jailer called Life.”

“To be imprisoned by the jailer called Death, yes,” Melgalés said, “and his apprentice called the Gatekeeper.”

“So you have not lost your mirth, at least,” the Gatekeeper replied. “Yet if you think your present situation is a prison, then you know not what faces others. Listen closely and you will understand.”

Suddenly the caverns became deathly quiet, and Melgalés strained his ears to the edge of hearing. Then he heard it. The rumble. The rage. And he soon realised that he was even closer to the dwelling place of the Beast Agon. As he heard the echoes of the agonising wails, he realised that the prison of the Beast was not just the deep, dark cave with the thick, iron chains—it was the entire world.

“It is frightening,” the Gatekeeper said, though he did not sound frightened. “Agon is like a remnant of an ancient power, but then there were others more ancient and more powerful, so the darkness did not seem quite so dark then. Yet perhaps you will look upon your own bonds with a little more favour.”

“Perhaps,” the Magus said, “but I do not need to know the pain of another to understand the pain of my own, no, I do not, and the bonds that bite my own flesh will always feel more painful than those that bite another.”

“While the bonds still bite the other,” the Gatekeeper said, and Melgalés felt a shiver through his body, like the rumour of the second death.

The Magus paused, but as he thought now of his own bonds once more, the Gatekeeper became aware of his musings. “You wonder why you sit on the doorstep,” the Gatekeeper said.

“Yes,” Melgalés admitted. “Yes, I do. Have I not earned my reward?”

“Your reward?” the Gatekeeper quizzed. “Why should you be rewarded? You failed at living. You lost that game, so you lost your life. What have you done that deserves a reward?”

“I saved lives,” the Magus said. “I helped people. I was a guiding light to some—yes, to some.”

“Then maybe you will be a guiding light for some down here,” the Gatekeeper said, “for it is dark here on the doorstep, where the Waiting wander.”

“What am I waiting for?” Melgalés asked.

“Your soul,” the Gatekeeper said, and suddenly the Magus became aware that a part of him was missing, a part that was necessary, and yet a part that did not need to be fused to him to exist. “Your soul is in your Beldarian,” the Gatekeeper continued, “where you left it, where you housed it so that it would be safe from the world. And it is safe, so safe that even you cannot touch it.”

“I was taught that the soul is only housed there, that it is released when broken.”

“When broken,” the Gatekeeper said, and he almost smiled, if he were capable of such.

Melgalés sighed. “So I die, yet my Beldarian lives.”

“Yet if your Beldarian died, you would have died. Is life for one not enough?”

“It is not, no, not if I am chained here.”

“I see no chains,” the Gatekeeper said. “I hear no rattle.”

“But I feel them, yes, I feel them.”

“You will pass into the Halls when your Beldarian is destroyed,” the Gatekeeper revealed. “And there you can have your … reward, if you call it such.”

“So I linger here in the hopes that some beast will chew upon my Soul Pendant?” Melgalés asked. “What if it is buried beneath the soil and not even the weight of the world cracks it?”

“Then you will be waiting a very long time,” the Gatekeeper said. “And Chránán will smile in the Void, and his smile will stretch across the universe, where Time is called Lord.”

Melgalés’ despondency grew deeper, and he became aware that the Gatekeeper was gloating in his gloom, delighting in the devilry of death, to which Melgalés had no magic cure. He had supped from the Elixir of Life as an Ardúnar, and yet still he died, and part of him regretted that he had offered himself in sacrifice so that Ifferon and the others could live.

“So finally you think of others,” the Gatekeeper said, “and yet in so doing, you think more of yourself.”

“Mock me for my thoughts,” Melgalés said, “but you cannot mock my actions. I might now yearn for life, but I gave it up willingly for a noble purpose.”

“Who decides that your purpose was noble?”

“The forces of good,” the Magus said.

“What forces are those?” the Gatekeeper asked, and his voice became darker. “Do you mean the Hadari, the children of the gods, who included Molok the Animator, who tortured Agon into existence? Or do you mean the Céalari, the gods themselves, who rebelled against their own gods, launching a great war across Althar, and committing great atrocities, like the Harrowing of the Heavens, where many of the Elad Éni were tortured and killed, until finally Chránán and his court agreed to imprisonment in the Void, to avoid further bloodshed, only to be betrayed by Corrias, who slew the remaining Elad Éni? Tell me, Melgalés, where the forces of good were, and why they watched on?”

“I have no answer to that mystery,” the Magus replied.

“So a Man of the Mysteries is finally silent,” the Gatekeeper observed. “Here then is an answer to a mystery you are seeking, and perhaps the answer will give you more mysteries to solve.

“Your Beldarian is in the hands of another, yet you already knew that deep down, for you can sense him—and, in time, you will be able to see him, spying through the shewstone of the beldar gem.”

Melgalés felt the name slipping almost involuntarily from his lips. “Yavün,” he said.

*  *  *

Yavün awoke to what he thought was his endless drowning. When finally his panic subsided, he opened his eyes, but flinched as a drop of water splashed in them. Then another drop came, and another, until finally the ringing in his ears subsided enough that he could hear the constant drip, the somnolent splash that almost lured him back into whatever aching sleep he had just stirred from.

“We thought you would never wake,” came a voice like a woman drowning.

“I said the young fish cannot live out of water,” a male gurgling voice answered. “Throw him back, I said.”

“Don’t throw me back,” Yavün pleaded, the words sputtering out with some of the water and salt that still lingered in his mouth.

“He breathes,” the male voice said. “Reel him in.”

Yavün suddenly felt a coolness on his arms, and then even more suddenly he was pulled up so that he sat upright, his body aching, the water still blocking his vision. When finally his eyes adjusted, he flinched again, for he thought he saw two watery figures standing before him. He rubbed his eyes briskly, with what little energy he had, but their fluidic form only became clearer.

“We are not sharks,” the man said, though his voice was toothed like one. “The little fish is land-shocked,” he added. His mouth was almost like a fish himself, and every so often a tiny bubble of air would wander from it to the ceiling. Yavün stared at it, half-disgusted and half-entranced. It seemed as though there was a thin film that shaped the body of the Taarí figures, but inside was mostly water, and in the centre of their chest was a small glowing blue light, perhaps the equivalent of a heart.

The woman seemed worried. Before Yavün could fully gather his wits, she had fetched a bucket of water and thrown it into his face. “Can you breathe better, fish?”

The chill of the water struck Yavün’s senses, and suddenly he was very alert. As the water struck his face, it was like a tsunami to his mind, bringing back the tumbling and splashing, the steaming and frothing, and the suffocating panic of the liquid fray.

“Am I dead?” he asked. “Is this the place you go to when you drown?”

“Is he dead?” the man asked, and his inflection suggested he was just as curious to know the answer as Yavün was. “If he does not swim, does he live at all?”

“You are alive,” the woman said, placing her aqueous hand upon his shoulder; it felt much lighter than a hand of flesh. “He is alive.”

Yavün did not feel alive, and the location he was in offered little comfort. It appeared to be a cavern of some sort, deep beneath the earth, with a river running through it. It was cold and damp, and it was dark, save for the glitter of strange lanterns here and there, and the faint glow of the man and woman before him.

“I am Elilod, Earl of Lylinel,” the man revealed. “My name.”

“Yavün Arri,” the stableboy replied, and he instinctively extended his hand.

Elilod backed away, but the woman appeared to smile. She took it with both hands, but did not shake it. “A pleasure, Yavün. I am Narylal.”

“Have I been captured?” the youth asked.

“Caught in our net,” Elilod said. “Like all the fishes who end up in the Great Lake.”

Yavün’s shoulders sunk. “So I suppose I will go to some dungeon then.”

Elilod seemed confused. “One does not take a fish from the sea and put it in a dungeon.”

“But you are Taarí,” Yavün said. “Agon rules you.”

Elilod grew angry then, banging his fist on a nearby stone table. Water splashed away from the impact. “We are the Taarí Rebels,” he said. “We do not serve the Beast. We defy him every day.”

Yavün was relieved, but he was still unsettled by these creatures, which he had only heard about in tales. In Larksong he often mused that he would love to meet them, to see them up close, but the reality was less exciting—the reality was frightening.

Elilod looked at him oddly with his bulbous eyes; his eyes were much larger than those of Narylal, though hers were also bigger than the eyes of the other races he had seen. Yavün supposed it was an adaptation to the dark of the caverns of the ocean depths, but he thought also that there might be some other reason more bizarre, like an ancient magic or the strange concoctions of the gods.

“We have been in contact with resistance forces among the Nahamoni,” Elilod said. “Not all serve Agon willingly, and some do not serve him at all, at great risk to their own lives. Yet the fish who feed the shark will one day be eaten—so starve the shark, I said, and I say it again.”

“I guess Agon is the shark,” Yavün mused.

“You will not guess it if and when you encounter him,” Elilod replied. “We will all be little fishes then, no matter how big we think we are at sea today.”

“How then do all the little fishes kill the shark?” Yavün asked.

“By swarming the shark and suffocating it under the mass of many. Together, if all the races of Iraldas unite, we can destroy that solitary force that we call Agon.”

“And if the people do not unite?”

Elilod paused. “If we do not unite, then we will all drown.”

*  *  *

“The youth,” Melgalés said, shaking his head in frustration. “Of all who could take my Soul Pendant, it is a youth.”

“The one furthest in years from this final resting place,” the Gatekeeper said. “Though his journey here could be swifter.”

“I would not wish that,” Melgalés said.

“Are you certain?” the Gatekeeper probed. “The swifter he comes here, the swifter you are freed from your purgatory.”

Melgalés was not amused with the choice. It felt like the kind of predicament an illuding spirit might present, a puzzle or riddle through which the dead might gain some satisfaction in their lifelessness.

“Can my soul not be freed if he breaks the Beldarian?”

“Yes, but his soul is now tied to it too. If he breaks it, he will die. You will only enter the Halls when he enters them also. The question is: will you use your ability to commune with him to aid him in life, to help him avoid the many pitfalls of youth, or will you seek to trick him into destroying the very thing that now houses his soul, trick him into bringing about his own death, that you might no longer be imprisoned.”

Melgalés opened his mouth to answer, but he found that the choice was not so easy to make, that he might decide to help Yavün now, but that decades as one of the Waiting might turn his heart against the youth, who carried the key to the Magus’ prison about his neck. Perhaps then his compassion would not be so forthcoming, and perhaps he would do all he could to get the Beldarian destroyed, to end Yavün’s life and free his own.

*  *  *

Yavün sat with Narylal alone, for Elilod said he had something of importance to attend to. He submerged himself in a small pool of water at the back of the cavern, and Yavün spent a moment watching the light from his body shimmering beneath the surface, until finally he could not see it any longer.

“Who do you miss?” Narylal asked.

Yavün did not respond.

“The waters in your eyes betray you,” the Taarí said. “At times they are tranquil, and at other times they are turbulent, like a storm at sea.”

Yavün looked away in embarrassment; he did not want any to know his feelings through his eyes, to know his sorrow before he could dare to speak it. Narylal gave him time, but eventually he mustered the courage to speak: “I did not know I could or ever would love, and I knew less that I could or would lose the person I love.”

“Did she drown?” Narylal asked.

Yavün shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. Hopefully not. She fell with me. They all fell with me.”

“You were the only one we reeled in recently.”

“Then maybe I am the only one who survived.”

He felt suddenly more despondent than he ever had, even more than the night when all his horses disappeared from his stables, when Teron told him that the Gormoloks had come down from Arlin and eaten them all, despite Yavün’s suspicions that this was not the case, and his overpowering sorrow that maybe they had faced an even more horrid fate.

Elilod returned, and he seemed more restless than before, as if he had been given news he did not want to hear. He looked at Narylal with his widened eyes, and she seemed to know what he had heard, as if they had discussed it long before, and Elilod had just now received confirmation.

“He is dead then,” Narylal said.

Yavün turned to them. “Who is dead?” he asked, but they did not respond to him. He wondered if he was too eager with his question, if he had not shown the proper respect, but he did not like being told he could not know something that others around him knew readily.

“He may live again,” Elilod said. “They are bringing him to the Mountain Fortress. Now, we must act. We have much to do.”

He grabbed Yavün by the hand, and the youth did not like the touch, for it was perpetually moist. The grip was strong, however, like the strength of the sea, or a waterfall—or a gorge like that in Issarí’s Chasm. He pulled Yavün to his feet and began to drag him towards the entrance of the cavern. There was anger in his grip and desperation in his strides.

“Where are you bringing me?” Yavün asked. “Do I not have time to rest?”

“Rest?” Elilod asked as they walked. “You have slept long enough. Now you must work.”

Yavün began to suspect that maybe Elilod’s assurance that he was not a prisoner was all a ruse, that really these were the evil Taarí he had heard about, and that he would be put to work in the Slavelands, where bodies became the new soil of a ground that was fertilised by death.

“Time is always against us,” Narylal said.

“You can blame Chránán for that,” Elilod replied. “I did not know quite his power until I was locked down here with the others. Even now so far from the Void, he extends a potent reach.”

“Who is he?” Yavün inquired. He devoured all the tales he could, half-reading and half-imagining he was a character in all he read. Yet he had not heard of Chránán, the Lord of the Shadow of Time, or Henishanad, the Hundred-handed, or Essadiraldi, the Devourer of Worlds, or his monstrous pet, the Gormathrong. Narylal whispered snippets about all of these to him, away from the ears of Elilod. At first Yavün perked his ears to each new name, but after a time he began to feel a great malaise come about him, as if the very thought of the Elad Éni might free them from the Void, might unleash horrors worse than Agon upon the world.

“What work must I do?” he asked as they led him to the end of the cavern, where sunlight streamed into the chamber, causing a shimmer in the waters of the Taarí bodies. He wondered if they would ask him to look after the stables, or recite a poem, or perhaps even learn to fight properly and live out the adventures he always dreamed of, or just till the land until his body bled like all the other slaves of Agon.

“Yavün Arri, Avatar of Ariavar,” Elilod said. “Hold out your hand.”

Yavün reluctantly complied, and he knew suddenly the reason for his reluctance as Elilod sliced a blade across it, cutting a gash across the palm. Yavün yelped and backed away, clasping his hand against his chest. He looked at the others with expectant eyes. Then he looked to the ground where the blood had fallen into a pool of water. The blood turned from red to blue.

“The fates have sent you to us then,” Elilod said, “and not before we need you.”

“What is this? What are you talking about?” Yavün asked. He felt like he was being ushered into a role he did not expect or want, that the great burden of responsibility was about to be forced upon his shoulders, and that his dreams of adventure would be buried beneath it.

“Your blood is more than Man,” Elilod said. “You have the blood of a Céalar in you. You call him Olagh, but we have always called him Telm.”

“A Child of Telm,” Narylal said.

Yavün’s mind began to swim. The names and thoughts mixed and mingled like little fishes of their own, and he felt dizzy from the announcement, despite the feeling deep down inside him that he was different from other people. Different, he thought. Yet the same as Ifferon.

XI – HOME SWEET HOME

Herr’Don dozed uneasily. Days passed in the reverie of recovery, where the waves of the body washed in, and there was pain. Then the waves of the mind washed in, and there was the dull sense of knowing that pain existed somewhere, in some other place or time, and there it was agony. The barbed teeth of the saw still seemed to bite, first his flesh, and then his mind, and then as days began to blur together, the teeth were but a memory—but the memory still stung, as if it too were barbed.

Not once while Herr’Don lay in his stupor did Herr’Gal come to him. Not one did the King call for him. Not once did his father stand by his side, to hold his hand or kiss his brow, or whisper of love, or simply just stand there to show by his presence alone that he cared.

Yet Herr’Don remembered a figure standing there, hand in hand, whispering encouragement. On one side Edgaron stood guard, watching his life, holding his hand as if it were a disappearing thread. On the other side stood Belnavar, another warden, but he could not hold his hand. Indeed, there was no hand to hold. Yet the shimmering figure, the phantom friend, still stood there, as if to remind him of that dark place where the thread of life will lead.

Edgaron held him, as he often did when they were children and Herr’Don raced from his father’s room in tears, a shimmer of his own to the cooks and the cleaners who wandered the corridors like moving statues. Edgaron was there for him as ever, that one pillar of support in a castle of many falling pillars.

Fever was his other companion, holding him as closely as Edgaron did, rocking him in the evil hours of the night. Sweat lined his body, building on his brow where Edgaron had kissed him. The night yawned on, and the darkness lingered, and the stifle sauntered in his body like a grudge, that one gift his father had given him.

Sleep finally came when dawn broke in with its comforting rays, and Herr’Don dreamed he was a child again, sitting on the battlements with Edgaron, their feet dangling over the edge, high above the heads of the people of Madenahan. They talked and they laughed, and sometimes they just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, their heads tilted together in repose. This was their hideaway from the halls of Ilokmaden, their sanctuary from the smothering stone. They were as gargoyles on the roof, scaring away their solitude.

Edgaron rarely left his side as he slept, and somehow Herr’Don knew this in his soul, and he felt he needed to know it, needed to know that it was not just him and Belnavar. Edgaron should have been on duty, and to fail to show up before the chief guard Mendran for inspection every morning would have earned him time in the stocks. Luckily Edgaron’s mother Alrah was Mendran’s fascination, and though Edgaron and he despised each other, the chief guard’s obnoxious attention was often held by another.

Herr’Don answered Edgaron’s whispers many times, but they were not the same conversations. Edgaron could barely make out the Prince’s muffled words, but always he whispered back some token of comfort. He reminded him of their time together when they were young, and he told him of the rumours in the Keep, and of any humorous incidents he encountered as a guard. The endless hours were worth it when Herr’Don smiled from the halfway house of sleep.

*  *  *

By the third day, Herr’Don was showing signs of recovery. The rest and the presence of Edgaron were a source of sustenance, but soon the doctor insisted that he must eat, that he could not live off his plump frame forever. Edgaron almost took slight at the suggestion, but he made no comment, knowing well the wrath of Doctor Olbar and his strange experiments.

“I recommend soft food for now,” Olbar said, one eye on the Prince and the other on Edgaron, as if he knew that Herr’Don would pay no heed, while Edgaron paid enough for the both of them. “You used to like mashed bananas when you were a boy, if I remember. That would be a good start.”

“I’ll ask my mother to prepare something,” Edgaron said.

“Good,” the doctor replied. “Just what I thought.” Olbar was extremely clinical in his communication and his mannerisms, to the point of clipping his words and turning sharply as if he were upon a coal rail on the floor. Yet when they were young, Herr’Don and Edgaron had seen him in his room through the keyhole, languishing with half a dozen women, and there was nothing clinical about him then.

“His arm …” Edgaron began, but he could not continue. He was glad that Herr’Don was still dazed, that the fumes of the laracof leaf still settled in his lungs.

“It was a clean cut,” Olbar said, emphasising clean, as if to applaud his own work. Edgaron knew well that not all of Olbar’s work could be so rewarded.

“And there was no saving it?”

“We saved the patient,” Olbar stated. “That is good enough.”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing, Edgaron. I have studied medicine in the four corners of Iraldas, and I have seen what they do further abroad. Herr’Don is lucky he is alive.”

“The King won’t like it,” Edgaron said.

“Then he will send Herr’Don away, as he always has.”

“But it’s different when he’s a cripple.”

“No need to play coy, Edgaron. You are not a boy any more. To the King Herr’Don was always a cripple.”

*  *  *

It was a week before Herr’Don was allowed to leave his bed. Edgaron was frequently called away, but he returned soon after, having made some excuse or traded promises and favours with his colleagues in the guard. The longest time he spent away was when he went to collect the Prince’s meals from the kitchen.

“You are too good to him,” Alrah said, splashing a frothy soup into a large wooden bowl. She was head cook, a role that needed no announcement, for she was of large frame from the endless tasting of meals. She was dwarfed only by the King himself, who received the majority of meals not completely tasted by Alrah.

“He has no one else,” Edgaron said, scalding his hands as he cradled the bowl.

Alrah shook her head, and her short, bushy brown hair shook like a nest in the breeze. Her plump features billowed as she walked, but what she lacked in elegance she made up for in warmth. Her smile was so well known that the handful of children in the Keep called her Granny Grin, but they also had other names for her when they had been shooed out of her kitchen.

“He will be the death of you,” she said. For once, there was no smile.

Edgaron looked up from the bowl, where he had been staring as if it could tell his fortune, and he knew that his eyes betrayed his feelings. Herr’Don had been his closest childhood friend, but his growing eccentricity separated them when the King could no longer tolerate the embarrassment. Edgaron would have tolerated anything—even death.

Alrah ambled over to him and held her pudgy hands to his face. “Son, you are a gentle soul, and Herr’Don is in need of someone like you, but he has his own path, and sometimes there are places you just can’t follow.”

Edgaron lowered his eyes. He knew her words were true, but logic has no meaning when listened to by the heart. He had lost Herr’Don many years before, when they were both still in their teens, and he thought he had come to terms with that; the Prince’s sudden re-emergence was like the breaking of a brittle dam.

“You know I won’t stop you,” Alrah said. “I’ll offer a few crumbs of wisdom, if I have any left, but I won’t force you to eat them.”

Edgaron gave a flicker of a smile. It was a feature he might have inherited from his mother, but the world seldom saw it, for sorrow was the regent of his face. A tiny curve of his lips was sometimes all he could muster, and it was a pale shadow of the joyous smirks of youth.

Alrah tapped him on the nose with a wooden spoon, a habit he remembered for all his life. She did it with many people to show she liked them. A variety of broken spoons hiding in the cupboards were the only witnesses of what happened to those she did not like. Many had amassed from Mendran’s frequent visits to the kitchen.

“Run along now,” she said softly, and she smiled broadly. “That soup will be getting cold. Better bring him some bread too.” She snatched a large loaf of bread from the pantry and quickly sliced it in half, before handing it to Edgaron.

He gave another diminished smile before turning to leave. Before he reached the door, he stopped and turned back. “What about the King?” he asked. “He is going to make things hard for Herr’Don.”

The broken spoons almost rattled in the cupboard in anticipation. “Don’t you worry about the King,” she replied. “I’ll take care of him.”

*  *  *

Herr’Don refused to lie in bed for any longer than necessary, and so Edgaron often found him standing by the window of his room, staring out at the hustle of Madenahan. He was still wearing his old clothes, refusing to don the peasant rags that Olbar offered him, but now his tattered cloak hung over his left shoulder, disguising the missing limb.

“Your appetite has returned,” Edgaron said as he entered the room. “That’s a good thing.”

“Is it?” Herr’Don asked without turning.

“Food is life.”

Herr’Don glanced at Belnavar, who stood beside him with no appetite that could be whetted. The Prince had eaten a little each day, mostly at Edgaron’s insistence, but he had smoked more often of the laracof leaf, which dulled his senses and numbed the pain. At times he refused the leaf, because he wanted to feel the ache, wanted to know that he was still alive.

“I will see the King today,” Herr’Don said, but he did not sound enthused.

“I don’t recommend it,” Edgaron said.

“Nor I,” Belnavar added quietly.

“Perhaps I don’t either,” Herr’Don admitted.

“You should rest more,” Edgaron suggested. “Your father will still be here.”

Herr’Don did not say anything for a time. “But perhaps I won’t be.”

*  *  *

The King had servants who hurried the corridors to bring him news and announce the arrival of guests. Alrah needed no announcement, however, for she stormed down the corridors, spoon in hand, and the paintings on the wall shook as she passed.

“Granny Grin is on the rampage,” the castle’s few children whispered to one another, and perhaps the people in the paintings would have whispered it too were they brave enough to speak, and were their painted mouths not crumbling from the quake.

Alrah banged upon the great wooden door of the throne room, first with her fist and then with the wooden spoon. The door creaked open, as if it could no longer bear any more thumping, and Alrah thundered through.

Herr’Gal sat in repose, dangling his right leg over the arm of his seat, a seat that could barely contain the rest of him. He wore royal red, and while Herr’Don’s clothes bulged because they were too small for him, having been the clothes of youth, Herr’Gal’s clothes almost burst at the seams because he was too large for them, and because any time the Court Tailor measured him, he since grew too big for the new clothes while they were being made. His crown hid a bald spot, and no one knew he was balding, for he never removed the crown.

“Now listen here,” Alrah said, her words echoing down the halls after her echoing footfalls.

Herr’Gal offered his ear and simpered. “What do I owe this pleasure?” he asked. “Have you come to serve me dinner directly? How gracious of you!”

“There’ll be no dinner tonight if you don’t listen,” Alrah said, and she approached the steps that led up to the throne. She stopped there, panting, and refused to climb the steps. She tapped the spoon upon her hand.

“What is this about?” the King asked.

“Herr’Don,” she replied.

The King’s smile vanished instantly, as if it were lost in the folds of his body.

“Do me and you and all of us a favour, and be nice to him,” Alrah said.

“Come on, Alrah,” Herr’Gal replied. “He’s useless.”

Alrah scoffed, sending ripples through her body. “And what are you?”

Herr’Gal bellowed in laughter. “You’ve got a right cheek for a cook.”

“And you’ve got a right face for eating,” she replied.

“Oh, I do love a feast,” Herr’Gal said, tracing her figure with his eyes. “I like my chickens plump, and my women plumper.”

“Do you want to go hungry?” she threatened.

“A king cannot rule without a full belly,” Herr’Gal said.

“Then you should be set to rule for the next hundred years,” Alrah replied.

Herr’Gal broke into another monstrous roar of laughter. The chandeliers shook.

“You’ve always been cruel to him, you know,” she said. “Do you not think that might have driven him further away, that it might have made him that little bit stranger?”

“I drove him away because he was strange,” Herr’Gal said. “He was strange before I said a word to him.”

“So he was strange from the womb?” she asked.

“Strange in the womb,” Herr’Gal answered. “He made his mother strange when she was plump with him, and she died because of him.”

“You could have loved him.”

“No one could love him.”

Alrah sighed and shook her head. “Now, you be nice to him,” she said sternly, pointing at him with the spoon. “Do you hear me?” she added, when he did not respond.

“I always hear you,” he said. “I’ll be my usual pleasant self.”

Alrah shook her head and tapped her spoon. “No. Be nice, I said.”

She ambled off, and as she left the hall she found that Herr’Don was waiting outside. She was so caught off guard that all she could do was smile, pat him on his good shoulder, and tap her spoon against his nose. She headed back to the kitchen with a long sigh, wishing the Prince was not so intent on visiting his father, and wishing that Edgaron was not so intent on pleasing the Prince.

*  *  *

Herr’Don entered the throne room quietly, halting at the door until the King spoke.

“So you are using the cook as a shield then,” the King said.

“I do not need a shield,” Herr’Don responded, and he began walking towards the throne. He felt like unsheathing his sword to show that this was all he needed, but he knew better. Guards lined the room like curtains.

“You’re in need of a new arm though, it seems.” The King grinned, exposing his yellow teeth.

Herr’Don gritted his own teeth and squinted his eyes, as if his stare were a spectral sword that he could freely unleash. The King and Prince locked their eyes in a dangerous embrace.

The King tilted to one side on his gigantic throne. It creaked heavily beneath him, despite having been specially designed and built for him, and redesigned and rebuilt larger several times. He tapped his crown with a bulbous finger.

“Do you want this?” he asked. “I’ll let you have it on one condition—you must take it like every king of this country has: in your left hand.”

Herr’Don’s anger began to show. His nostrils flared and his breathing was heavy.

“He wants you to be angry,” Belnavar whispered. “Don’t give in to him.”

The King seemed to notice that Herr’Don was distracted and thus was no longer biting the bait. Herr’Gal’s face twitched and his body shuddered.

“Father,” Herr’Don said, and the word seemed foreign.

“Your majesty, you mean,” the King corrected.

Herr’Don paused and looked to Belnavar, who did not say anything. When he returned his teary gaze to the King, he said: “Ever since a child have you bid me call you that, while some who do not share your blood call you more tender names.”

“That is the right of a king,” Herr’Gal said. “This is my kingdom and this is my keep. I decide who says and does what. But let me tell you something else. A father is the king of his family, so I do not need a crown to tell you what to call me, and you would be wise to respect that.”

Belnavar coughed, but the sound did not echo in the hall. “So much for the wisdom of kings,” he said. “Respect is not garnered by order, but by a mutual trade. It is impossible to respect someone who does not respect you. This is why none respect the Craven King, and why he earns such titles.”

“And what of my own?” Herr’Don asked him.

“Your own?” the King said, bemused.

“Nothing.”

“Do not tell me that you still talk to yourself like you did as a child.”

“When in a room with you, that is all I can do,” Herr’Don replied.

The King laughed, but it was not as mirthful as it was with Alrah. “Tell me, Herr’Don, what it is you came here for, because if you wish to have a conversation from the two sides of your mouth, then you do not need me for that, and my two ears would be the better for not hearing it.”

Herr’Don did not know why he was there. The words of Edgaron came flooding back to him, urging him not to seek an audience with the King. He wondered why Edgaron was always there for him when he never listened to his advice.

“I keep hoping you will finally understand that you are driving people away,” Herr’Don said at last. The words revealed his feelings, but they also buried others deep inside.

“A hope that is wasted,” Belnavar said despondently. “It is better saved to help the hopeless, not the ones for which hope is an enemy.”

“This city is thriving,” the King said. “So exactly who do I drive away?”

“Me,” Herr’Don told him.

“And why is that a loss?” the King replied. “You are an embarrassment, Herr’Don, and you always were, even when you came out of your mother’s womb half the size of other babes. Olbar said you were missing something, and I see he was right. You were missing your mind—and now you are missing a limb. When I cast you out of Ilokmaden Keep, I did not do what I should have done—strip you of that one thing which is of any value about you: the title of Prince. Yet you have stripped it of yourself with whatever chaotic frenzy you went into that left you in such a sorry state. The throne is no place for a cripple, and it is not just your body that makes you unfit for the crown.”

“You do not have to listen to these vile words,” Belnavar said. “This man has no honour. Some risk their bodies for the good of the realm, while he bloats his body behind the armoured doors of the lofty. He is king only of scavengers, feasting upon meals not only hunted by others, but scavenged by others too.”

“You are right,” Herr’Don said, his words directed to Belnavar, but the King heard them as a vindication of his cruelty.

“A King is always right,” he said.

At that moment there was a knock on the large wooden door to the left of the King’s throne.

“Come in,” the King croaked. He took a swig of wine from his chalice, slurped loudly, and banged the cup down on the table beside him. The wine splashed into the air and across the white table cloth, which was already stained from the King’s lack of grace. “Come in, I said,” he barked.

The door creaked open like almost every door in the Keep. A shadowy man stood there with a large silver tray in his hands. Upon it were many vials of liquid, some plain and some ornate. He stepped carefully into the room like a sneaking spider, and there was not a single rattle of the glass vials upon the tray, nor a single audible footfall upon the marble floor.

Herr’Don thought he knew the man. There was a shimmer of similarity about him, something about how the shadows clung to his face that made him seem familiar. The light in the room was not strong enough to illuminate the man’s features, hiding beneath the shade.

Silence strangled the echoes of their previous conversation as the man crept towards the throne. The King broke the silence by adjusting in his seat, which creaked even louder than all the doors in the Keep. He grabbed his chalice and shook it before the shadowed man. The man stepped up to the King, where the candles shone more brightly, and there Herr’Don could finally make out the details of his face: a cleft chin carrying a thin straggle of hair, a sharp, but broken nose, dark, sunken eyes, and thinning greasy hair that clung like spider legs to his head.

The man opened the vials without even the slightest of clinks, though perhaps the coughs and wheezes of the King disguised them. He poured the liquid from each into the King’s chalice in turn. The King took a swig before the next was poured, sometimes shaking his many chins as the flavours invaded his mouth. There were eight mixtures consumed, until finally there were only a few drops left in the coloured vials.

“Thank you, Daralus,” the King said. The name was like a lightning strike in Herr’Don’s head. The shadowy figure of Aralus crawled into his mind, and the figure almost smiled at him.

“Daralus,” Herr’Don said. The man stopped mid-step as he neared the door and turned around, again with no audible sound.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I know you,” Herr’Don said.

“Of course,” Daralus said. “I served you as a boy.”

“Everyone knows Daralus,” the King said. “You don’t become the Crown Poisoner without everyone finding out.”

Daralus smiled. His face had different features, but his grin contained the same blackened teeth his brother bore, a remnant of his malnourished youth. “Though some perhaps never find out at all,” he said.

The King laughed boisterously. “Perhaps not!” he bellowed.

Belnavar stepped towards Daralus. “We should consult with him,” he said. “The King is no more use to us.”

“If I may,” Daralus said, bowing.

“Go on, get out of here,” the King said. “And you will join him, Herr’Don, if you have any sense. Daralus might even offer you a long-deserved drink.”

“Goodbye, your majesty,” Herr’Don said, and he feigned a bow. The King grumbled something in response. He appeared very drowsy now, on the edge of sleep, and he began to close his eyes as Daralus and Herr’Don left the room. Then he opened them suddenly as if the night had taken a swig of day, and he thought he saw something else leave the room.

*  *  *

Herr’Don and Belnavar followed Daralus out of the throne room and down a long carpeted corridor, which led into a small apothecary that was made smaller by the many shelves full of bottles, jars and vials—the poisons of a nation crammed together in one room, under the orders of one king, and in the hands of one man.

“Do you want something for the pain?” Daralus asked.

Herr’Don had almost forgotten the nagging, pulsing, throbbing in the stump of his left shoulder. He did not like the reminder, and he communicated this with a grimace.

“Surely accepting such from the Crown Poisoner would be unwise,” Herr’Don said.

“It depends on the dose,” Daralus replied. “At low doses, many so-called poisons are salves and antidotes.”

“Then why do you have your title?” Herr’Don asked.

“Because sometimes I deal with higher doses,” Daralus stated.

“I remember you now,” Herr’Don said, “though I did not know your name then. When I was a child you poisoned me, on the orders of the King.”

“He was fearful for your life,” Daralus said.

“So he sought to take it?”

“No,” Daralus replied. “You misunderstand my role. I was appointed by the King, because he fears that he will be poisoned. Remember that his father, Herr’Lar, died by poisoning, and his father before him.”

“It is a strange act to appoint a poisoner for fear of poison,” Belnavar said.

“So every day I provide a sip of poison,” Daralus continued, unaware of Belnavar’s words or presence. “And the King builds a tolerance to it. So he protects himself from those who seek to end his reign.”

“I was very sick from your poisons,” Herr’Don said. “I did not even know who you were then. If it had not been for Edgaron, I would surely have given in to the throes of death when I was still a child, a victim of venom.”

“I apologise for that,” Daralus said. “I had no intention of killing or harming you, and I was simply fulfilling the King’s orders. Surely you must understand.”

“I was poisoned once,” Herr’Don said. “Then you never came again. Did the King order you to stop, to spare my life, or did he not care enough that I should be able to resist the poisons of others?”

“I do not know the answer to that,” Daralus said.

“No,” Herr’Don said. “I guess not. But what of this: do you have a brother?”

“Yes.”

“Is Aralus his name?”

“Yes,” the man replied. “Did you meet him here?”

“No,” Herr’Don said. “Not here. I did not know he was ever here.”

“He came here a few weeks back. He lives in Alimror, where they take any refugee. He asked me if I had learned where the cleric Ifferon was, as there were rumours he was on the move. Ifferon has earned the grudge of my family, but I am over it, and I bid Aralus let it go also, lest it pull him down. He would not listen, so I introduced him to the Royal Cleric, Teron, who was visiting with Belnavar the Braveheart at the time.”

“I remember that day,” Belnavar said. “And the evil ones that followed.”

“They counselled long into the night,” Daralus continued. “And there was some commotion, it seemed, for the guards were called and my brother was thrown out of the city. Perhaps Teron tried to make him see some sense, but I did not get to speak with him again, so I do not know what he ultimately decided to do, or where we went.”

“He is dead,” Herr’Don revealed. “He hunted Ifferon and ended up being hunted by an Éalgarth. He was a friend to me when others turned their backs on me.”

Daralus did not seem moved by the news. “A sorry ending, but not a surprising one,” he said. “It is said never cross a river with a grudge, and I know well the truth of those words. My brother carried his grudge to his death, or perhaps it was the grudge that carried him to the grave.”

“You do not grieve for him,” Herr’Don noted.

“I already did, many years ago when I realised he was lost to his hate. Yet it ails me that you have lost a friend. He was most in need of friends, though his venom ensured he never kept them for long.”

“So says the Crown Poisoner,” Herr’Don remarked.

Daralus chuckled. “I have no vial to calm your suspicion.”

“And if you did, I doubt I would drink of it,” Herr’Don said. “But tell me, did you hear any of what Aralus discussed with Teron?”

“I am an eavesdropper,” Daralus said. “I make no apologies for that fact. Oft it has been proven to me that knowledge of things gives us power over people, and there are few better places to put this to work than in the halls of a king’s keep. Yet I heard very little that I could make out from Teron’s dialogue with my brother, bar the frequent repetition of a curious phrase: spell of sway.”

Herr’Don nodded. “Had I come to Madenahan with Belnavar I would have thought little of those words. But Teron revealed himself to be a great enemy, a servant of Agon, and it seemed he did not pray to Olagh, but worked dark magic for the Beast. It surprises me little that he would be working spells of influence upon people.”

“That may be true,” Daralus acknowledged, “and it would certainly explain why Teron gained the rank of Royal Cleric here, despite others being perhaps more suited—but it does not explain why he spoke of this to my brother, for there is one thing I know about him, and that is that he would not serve anyone, Olagh or Agon.”

“A mystery then,” Belnavar said.

“Perhaps,” Herr’Don said, and Daralus looked at him curiously, as if he were eavesdropping on the conversation with the ghost of Belnavar, or eavesdropping on the thoughts in Herr’Don’s head. “But now it seems clearer to me. He hunted Ifferon, but did not know where to look. So he came here and encountered the one person who knew most about our fabled cleric. Perhaps Teron cast a spell of sway upon him, that he might spy on our doings, or perhaps he gave to Aralus a spell of sway to cast upon us all. And so it seems I fell under it, as my father fell under Teron’s. Thus it seems that even the one I thought I was close to among our company was not a true friend.” He felt his despondency grow inside of him.

“It pains me to hear this,” Daralus said, “and I do not know for certain if this is so. All I know is that Aralus came here with a grudge, which Teron clearly fed.” He paused. “Is there aught else I can aid you with?”

Herr’Don looked at the dark liquid in a vial marked with a skull and crossbones, which almost seemed to look back. For a moment he almost felt like snatching it up and swamping it down, or simply asking Daralus to make for him an antidote to life. “No,” he said instead. “Thank you for your time.”

Herr’Don left the room and went up to the battlements, where he often sat with Edgaron, two small boys towering over the world and their troubles. Yet now a full-grown man, he did not feel tall upon the roof of Ilokmaden Keep, and he felt lonelier than he ever had, even now with Belnavar by his side.

He looked over the parapets at the tiny figures below, going about their business, and he envied them now, envied their simple lives and simple choices. They were poor in purse, but rich in other ways outside the reign of kings. Herr’Don was merely wealthy in his worries, the one inheritance he could truly attribute to his father.

The darker parts of his mind began to stir, emerging from the shadows of the soul. The smell of salt in the air reminded him of Larksong Beach, where he had fought until he was the last of his regiment standing. He felt as though he had never left those sands, as if he were still there fighting, battling against the world alone.

He looked again over the parapets and again at the tiny figures far below. He thought maybe he could join them. He stepped closer to the edge. He looked up at the grey clouds that oppressed the sky, and knew that he could not join the gods there. He stepped closer to the edge.

Then the image of Larksong came once again into his mind. The glory of battle seized him and overwhelmed him like it always did. He could smell the air and taste the blood, could see the flags and feel the grip of his sword—could feel with both hands.

“Not this way,” he said, turning away from the sheer drop. “I would die that I might be remembered.”

“Or live a legend,” Belnavar said.

“Like you?” Herr’Don asked. “A ghost knows naught of life.”

“But what of death?”

“Maybe we will both haunt memories,” Herr’Don said. “But come! I shall die another way.”

“But not another day?”

“Whatever day I arrive at Larksong, and fight until my last breath, like I should have done when you came to help.”

*  *  *

Herr’Don left Madenahan immediately, and he did not go to Edgaron to give his heartfelt goodbyes, and he never thought to go to the King to give his feigned goodbyes. He took a horse at the East Gate, and the guards did not stop him, for they knew that the King, and the city at large, would be glad to be rid of him. It was difficult to climb aboard, and difficult to ride, and this made him painfully aware of his missing arm, and painfully aware of how much he wanted to escape the world.

He rode east through the dimming day, and Belnavar followed, and had he stopped to listen he would have heard the sound of other following feet. In time he came close to Larksong, and he stayed the horse in horror as he looked upon what had happened. He expected a wreckage of a town, but instead he saw a hastily built wall that spanned for miles, wrapping around the abandoned village and the surrounding hills. The Magi of Boror stood upon it, casting spells into the ruins.

He got off his horse and found Belnavar standing there by the steps that led up onto the rampart. They climbed to the top, where they could see better what the Magi were doing: breaking the land apart with all kinds of magic that strained even the Beldarians that shuddered around their necks. They were so deep in concentration that they ignored the Prince.

“So Larksong is deemed forsaken,” Belnavar said, shaking his head.

“Along with me,” Herr’Don replied, and he stepped closer to the edge.

“I would have fought for it.”

“I will fight for it,” Herr’Don said, and he drew his sword. Just as he was about to jump down into Larksong itself, where many Nahamoni still roamed, he caught a glimpse of someone else coming up the stairs after them. It was Edgaron, who had stabled his horse with the other one below.

“Do not do this,” Edgaron said. “This will be your doom.”

“I have seen my doom,” Herr’Don replied. “In the Issar Chammas, and it is at sea, not land.”

“But they are going to send this land out to sea,” Edgaron said. “Larksong will be an island, away from the coasts of Boror, a token or tribute to Agon, a staging ground for his forces. You will never survive there, one against many.”

“Then I will live out my fate,” Herr’Don said. “What else is there to do? I have no one or nothing to live for. Battle and bloodshed is all there is. I will die in Larksong, where perhaps I should have died with my regiment all those weeks ago.”

He stepped closer to the edge, peering at a group of Nahamoni who clambered at the wall.

“No, Herr’Don!” Edgaron cried, but it was too late.

Herr’Don jumped from the wall into the frenzy of figures down below. He stumbled as he landed, but even from the ground he was a marvel to behold, for he stabbed into the darkness, piercing many Nahamoni bodies. He swung and he slashed, and those who felt his blade thought an army had suddenly arisen all around them. This was their turn to flee in terror at an unseen foe, like Herr’Don’s regiment had done in the face of the Shadowspirits.

“Fight me!” Herr’Don roared. “Come back and fight me!”

The echo of his words merely clipped the heels of his enemy, who heard what sounded like a legion of lions announcing their dominion. They charged back to the larger groups of Dark Men, who claimed Larksong as their own, and some spoke of an army approaching, while others recognised Herr’Don’s clothes and thought he might make a fitting prisoner, something to ransom with, or merely taunt the people of Boror.

Then the fate of Larksong arrived. The ground began to shake violently, as if it had had enough of the war upon its belly. Herr’Don stumbled and fell several times; each time he stuck his sword into the ground, as if to slay this new enemy of land, and hoisted himself to his feet. Then the ground began to crack and open up. Ilokmaden Keep had devoured his arm, but it seemed that Iraldas itself wanted to finish the meal.

Edgaron jumped down form the wall, injuring his right leg as he landed. The pain did not slow him, however, for he charged towards the growing rift. He called Herr’Don’s name many times, and finally the Prince heard him and turned to him with forlorn eyes.

“They will not fight,” he said despondently. “I need to fight.”

“Then fight death,” Edgaron said. “Do not die like this.” He reached his hand across the foot-long chasm that had formed between them, like a mirror of the chasm in their hearts.

“With what hand can I take yours?” Herr’Don asked, holding up his sword in his right hand, and raising the stump of his left shoulder.

Edgaron stretched further across the ravine. “I’m not asking you to drop your sword. I’m asking you to sheath it long enough to take my hand. Let me help you. Let me be there for you like I have always been, in heart if not in body.”

Tears lined Herr’Don’s face like a veil, but revealing instead of concealing. For a moment Edgaron thought he saw the Prince’s will finally collapse, and his heart sank, for he feared he had lost him.

Belnavar leapt across the gap. “The greater fight is on this side,” he said.

Then Herr’Don threw his sword across the rift, where it clanged against the wall, and he took Edgaron firmly by the hand, his will restored. Edgaron pulled him across the growing chasm and they collapsed together, like they had often done as children after a long day of adventures around Ilokmaden Keep.

“I have to fight,” Herr’Don whispered. “I need to fight.”

“Then we will fight,” Edgaron said.

They laid upon the grass, at the edge of the newly-formed cliffs, watching as a new island was pushed away into the east. The King Vale grew smaller that day, and the King willingly gave up some of his sovereignty, to avoid risking giving up it all. No larks nested on the sea-swept rock. No songs were sung from there except from the ghosts of minstrels who had died in battle. The island was another sacrifice, another morsel of land fed to an evil god, and Agon gloated in the gluttony of his feed, and those in Halés felt him in the deeps—felt the chains loosen just a little.

XII – THE SIEGE OF THE MOUNTAINS

The clouds billowed thick like waves crashing upon the shore, blinding all in a haze of grey. Some pondered if this was what it was like in the heavens of Althar, if the gods really lived in fortresses in the clouds—yet few felt like gods when the truth of the armies around them got out.

Ifferon was not comforted by the thick stone or the even thicker veil around it. He felt suddenly as though he were back at Larksong, back at the monastery where the birds no longer sing. The mist was no longer guided by the enemy, but by his allies, and yet still it brought with it a cloud of tension and apprehension, a smoke of uncertainty and unease—still it was to all within it the unmistakeable fog of war.

A silence hung upon the air, like the ghostly quiet of a crowd just before the fateful swing of the headman’s axe. The clamours of terror clung to the back of their throats, while the horrors of nightmares stalked the hunting grounds of their minds. Those who had come up from the cellars and bunkers crawled back to their hiding places, and those who had nowhere to hide tried to muster courage, hoping it could be summoned as easily as the Al-Ferian conjured clouds.

Then the silence broke and the siege began. A creaking and heaving could be heard from the valley below, and then the whistling of the wind, which hummed the sound of siege.

From the windows of the clouds Ifferon could see the catapults hurling what looked like specks of dust, yet were undoubtedly monstrous rocks. The siege weapons circled the entire mountain, operating in row upon row, with great armies standing watch. It made the battles of Larksong and Nahragor look like skirmishes, and it made the people of the Mountain Fortress feel oppressed. It seemed to the eyes of Ifferon and Thalla that the enemy did not know where it was aiming, for it fired in many directions, launching boulders into the sky, as if Iraldas was at war with Althar.

“You have blinded us as much as our enemies,” Thalla said, straining to see the figures far below.

“It was a gamble,” Rúathar replied. “It was always a gamble.”

“Then the odds are in their favour,” Thalla said. “They do not worry where the boulders land.”

“To them we are all Théos,” Ifferon said, and Délin looked up, as if his name had been called.

Since they could not see, it became essential to listen against the howling of the wind for the howling of stone hurtling through it. Many were shushed angrily and fearfully as sound became their ally and their enemy simultaneously—the whisper of a warning or the forerunner of their doom.

Crashes echoed out around them as boulders struck the mountain side, and further out they could hear the panicked cries of the few families who refused to leave the mountains—once a refuge, now their ruin.

Luckily for those at the summit of Abi-Enuth, the peak was mostly out of range of the catapults of the enemy. Those who guarded the passages up the mountain, however, were not so safe, and it would not be long before the enemy realised the limit of their siege weapons’ range, and would then move them closer to their target.

There were none in the Mountain Keep who felt safe from the stones. The walls were thick, but the roof was hollow, and in the cloister all felt exposed to the hail. Even those hiding deep inside the bunkers feared the siege, for it mattered little where the rocks landed—they shook the chambers and rocked the roofs. Amidst the chaos, the Wisdomweavers continued their incantations, their concentration distracting them from their fear. Their words seemed to channel directly towards Théos, the only one who could not hear them, and to the urn-like Ferhassan that had been crafted from the Perasalon relics. To all who looked upon the boy now, it seemed that where he lay, exposed to the heavens, was perhaps today the most precarious of places in Iraldas.

“Can we not move the boy?” Ifferon asked. “Can he not be hid?” He was reminded of Délin ushering the boy into the crevices of the Old Temple. He was reminded of his own sheltering in the crevices of the monastery at Larksong. Now there were no more hiding places.

“No,” Rúathar replied. “This is where all come to get a second life.”

“But he might get a second death if a boulder comes through here.”

“That is the risk we take,” the Al-Ferian said.

“Not one I take,” Délin remarked. He removed his helm and placed it gently over Théos’ head. Then he stood before the table, his eyes stern and his body unmoving, like the Eternal Watchguards of Atel-Aher, the last king of Arlin. To some it seemed as though he might somehow shield the child from falling stone, might catch a boulder and hurl it back into the valley. Ifferon was concerned that he even imagined this, knowing that the reality would be very different. More worrying was the growing realisation that there was little he could do, that unlike the siege on Nahragor, where he was with the force outside the walls, all he could do this time was wait.

*  *  *

To some within the walls, the wait was over.

Three of the fortified gates that wound their way up the mountain were destroyed by the siege in minutes, for a hail of boulders fell like a wrathful rain. The third, fourth and eighth gates were crushed, while the second was battered and weakened, leaving Mathal’s forces wearied by the assault.

Many began to flee, but since they knew the enemy did not know where it was attacking, the people of the mountain did not know where they were running away from. Chaos began to grow and fester, licking the wounds of the fallen and invading the minds of those yet to fall.

Mathal managed to calm some just enough to restore them to their posts, but even with fear vanquished, or but tempered and buried, many of the guards had fallen from injuries of rock and stone. Yet Mathal barely moved, shaking off the assault like wind upon a willow tree.

*  *  *

“How long can we last here?” Ifferon asked.

“As long as necessary,” Rúathar replied. “If all goes ill, we can use the tunnels that lead out into the Stumps. But it most not go ill here, or it will go ill everywhere.”

“They will tire of this,” Thalla said. “They cannot throw stones at us forever.”

“No,” Rúathar said. “And it is when they stop that we should worry.”

“Why?” Ifferon asked.

“Because it is then that things far worse will come.”

Ifferon needed no explanation, for his mind was haunted by the memory of the Molokrán. His conscious mind had almost forgotten their terror, but the deeper parts of his mind did not forget so easily, did not forget the hounding horror and the chasing dread. He was unsettlingly aware that they most likely had not forgotten him either.

*  *  *

Mathal stood alone in the open at the second gate, while her forces huddled beneath a thin ridge of stone that ran across the doorway. She shook her head as they cowered there, knowing that if another boulder came through, it would knock the door down upon them. She would rather greet death beneath the open sky, and feel the wind upon her face one last time.

But death did not come for her then. Instead she heard the cries of others further up the mountain. The catapults had been realigned, firing higher at the peak, but no one knew where exactly they were aiming for, least of all the Nahliners down below, for the fog still billowed thick around Abi-Enuth, cradling the rocky crags.

“I heard sieges can last for months,” one of the Al-Ferian said as he emerged from the supposed safety of the doorway. “Can we endure that long?”

Mathal shook her head; her thin hair flailed as she moved. “I have been in two sieges in my life, and I survived both. They were long and horrible. This one, I think, will be short—but no less horrifying.”

*  *  *

Suddenly silence fell like a stone. The cries of the wind were no more. The wail of wood and shriek of stone no longer played out their sombre song. The echoes faded out like a memory, joining the other long-dead echoes of the world.

“The stones have stopped,” Thalla said.

Rúathar turned to them with grim eyes. “So the real siege begins.”

The few who could see with the chlarisabín, the clearsight of the gods, peered out into the fading mist. Ifferon instinctively clutched the half-burned Scroll in his pocket as his eyes scanned the valley down below. Then he saw them emerge from the shadow, a fleeting glimpse of darkness gathered together in terrible forms. There he saw even the Nahamoni cower and falter, and the straggle of trees shiver as they passed.

The Molokrán had come, and a sudden terror befell even those who could not see them, for fear fled before them, itself frightened by the great monstrosities that Molok had unleashed upon the world.

“This is where we need you, Ifferon,” Rúathar said. “You cannot stand against a siege of stone, but against the Molokrán you are a fortress strong.”

Ifferon did not feel so confident. As he turned away from the black tide that advanced towards the mountain, he felt the Shadowspirits planting seeds of fear in him, feeding them with panic and watering them with terror. If he was a castle, it had already been breached. If he was a high tower, it had already been torn to the ground. Amidst the rubble lingered dark things which even the ruins cowered from.

“The Molokrán approach,” Rúathar said, “but Telm is here.”

*  *  *

The black sea of shadow crashed upon the shores of the mountain, striking the first gate like a storm. The door buckled and the boulder behind it was forced back from the blow. To those who manned the gate, it seemed like an invisible battering ram, some new type of weapon from the strange workshops of Agon in the darkest parts of Nahlin. Again and again it pounded on the door, until all behind it stood trembling. Then that which made them tremble broke through, and all was a chaos of cries. Their eyes saw naught, but their bodies felt all. Death came hastening.

The second gate was already weakened from the siege, and behind it Mathal stood defiant. Her wiry limbs barely moved as the gate shook before her, as her own people shook around her.

“Stay!” she shouted to the Al-Ferian guards, but few heard her commands, and fewer followed them.

The gate flew open and the shadow surged forth. Mathal swung her staff towards whatever it was that attacked, for she could see naught, but she was thrown back quickly into the rubble, landing upon the bodies of men and women she had previously commanded. Her defiance crumbled, and though she could not see, she could feel the malignant force approaching.

Then Telm emerged, or so it seemed to the Molokrán, who would always remember the form of the Warrior-god, the Warrior-king of old. Ifferon stood before them, his arm outstretched with the remnant of the Scroll of Mestalarin, and the armour of Telm shimmered about him in a halo of light.

“Dehilasü baeos!” he cried, even though those words were burned upon the page.

The Molokrán halted, like the wrathful sea held back by a daunting dam. The Lichelord had changed with the passing of the moon, and this one did not so easily recognise the form of Telm made man, but he felt the power of the god, like an armoured arm reaching out from history itself.

“Al-iav im-iavün im-samün im-samadas,” Ifferon bellowed. His voice was like the tempest of the winds, bashing against the waves, forcing them back into the sea. The tides had turned.

“Dehilasü baeos!” he added, speaking the words that opened and closed Telm’s final breath, even though they were burned at the top and missing from the bottom of the parchment, charred beyond the containing power of the Aelora sages. Yet even now with the Scroll weakened, the words still harried the heavens and woke the world. Even now they still told all in Althar, Iraldas and Halés that Telm once again walked the earth.

The Molokrán could not stand against this power, and so they backed away like the tide returning to sea.

Yet there is one thing certain about the sea: the ebb and flow—that which retreats will advance once again. So it was with the Molokrán, for as soon as the shock of Telm’s presence had worn off, they pressed on with their attack, guided by the blinding beacon that lit at the top of mountain, a beacon that some called Théos, and others simply called “god.”

Ifferon and Mathal had barely managed to pull the survivors from the rubble when Ifferon saw the shadow spread again. He urged them to retreat, but their pace was not fast enough before the Molokrán were drawing near. Ifferon and the Al-Ferian clambered across the ruins of the third gate, stumbling as they went, and as they approached the fourth gate it opened suddenly and Rúathar emerged.

“My moon has not yet come,” he said. “But I do not need the Alar to be an Ardúnar worth reckoning with. I will lead them away.”

And so Rúathar became like a beacon of his own to the Molokrán, using the arcane secrets of the elect caste to lure away their most ancient rivals. He raced down a different path, away from Ifferon and the others, and the Molokrán pursued like wolves after their next meal.

The Shadowspirits were not the only enemy, however, and Ifferon had barely passed beyond the fourth gate when a hail of arrows shot forth. As he glanced back he saw the Dark Men of Nahlin charge towards the gate. The door slammed shut just in time, but the creaking of the wood as the horde hammered upon it told all behind it that it would not last for long.

Suddenly a great bolt of lightning struck the side of the mountain, causing an avalanche of rocks to fall upon the path. Great sections of the passage crumbled from the weight, sending many of the Nahlin forces plummeting to their ruin far below.

Ifferon heard a cry and looked to see that Mathal had been caught in the landslide. She barely clung on, her fingernails digging deep into the rocks, as if they themselves were struggling to survive. She clambered and struggled, and Ifferon reached towards her, but the distance was too great. He stretched more, but the rock began to crumble about him, and he thought for a moment that he might also tumble to his grave.

“Save yourself,” Mathal shouted, and she let go, falling after the Nahliners who had plunged before her. As she fell it looked as though her hair was a wiry weed, her body a slender branch. A simple tree caught in the crossfire. The willow had finally wilted.

Though sorrow filled his heart, Ifferon did not tarry long at the edge of the ravine. He clambered up and banged at the next gate for entry. After a time that felt like decades the door was opened. He saw that Thúalim stood there, casting bolts of lightning across the mountain. The Al-Ferian did not acknowledge him as he passed, but kept his focus on his lethal last defence.

Ifferon retreated back up the mountain to where Thalla and Délin stood, and to where Elithéa shouted abuse from her cage in the corner. Many people still stood there, but without Rúathar to lead them a great apprehension began to grow.

“He would not listen,” Thalla said. “He said he had to go out.”

“He knows what he is doing,” Ifferon said, and yet he did not know if this were true. Too many had stood valiantly before the Molokrán, and too many of them had fallen foolishly. Ifferon’s soul shuddered under the strain of the guilt of many deaths, all of whom offered themselves up to keep him, and the memory of Telm, alive. He did not even want to think of the growing weight upon the soul of Théos.

“None of you know what you are doing,” Elithéa shouted from her cage. “Let me out and I will end it all.”

But Ifferon and Thalla did not heed her words, for as they looked out at the siege around them, they saw something that warmed their hearts. On the edge of sight stood a shimmering figure, emerging from the forest. It was a woman, dressed in white, her dress clattering against the breeze. She was surrounded by a small contingent of men and women, none of whom were as elegantly dressed, and yet none of whom seemed as fierce as she, standing tall like a flag placed in victory. She held a mace to the sky, which caught the morning sunlight and blinded any who dared to strain their eyes to see her face.

Ifferon did not need the eyes of eagles to recognise who it was. “It is Geldirana,” he told the others. “She has survived.” His relief was greater now than he thought it might ever be, for he carried the anxiety not only for his own well-being, but for her also, buried deep in the forgotten parts of his heart.

“If she has survived, then perhaps we might also,” Thalla said.

*  *  *

Geldirana gazed across the plain to the siege upon the mountains. Her army had dwindled to a mere three dozen, and of her closest aides only Grêsir and Ana had survived. The Garigút looked grimmer than ever, with dark, tired eyes and many still-fresh wounds. Their weapons were bloodied and some were blunt, but they still looked deadly in the hands of the angry.

“We have paid a great price at Nahragor,” Geldirana said. Her dress was torn and tattered, and muddied and blood-stained; yet it still looked white in the sleeping shadows of the rising sun, still appeared vibrant against the dark armour and black expressions of the people around her.

“Too great,” Grêsir said. His voice was as grim as his appearance. The wrath clung to his tongue like flesh upon a blade.

“Yet our battle is not over,” the Way-thane said. “I am no longer the Alar Ardúnar, but we have a duty as people of Iraldas to fight for Corrias, to give our bodies in sacrifice, if we must, for the greater good of the world.”

“We launched a siege we did not win,” Grêsir said, “for Nahragor still stands, broken but not yet destroyed. Now you want us to end a siege we cannot win. Our bodies are broken, but not yet destroyed. What will be achieved by ending our people?”

“Nothing,” Geldirana said, “which is why we must fight, because if they stop Corrias returning to this world, then surely the end of our people will come, sooner or later.”

“Yet ‘sooner or later’ is not a choice if we offer up our bodies now,” Grêsir said.

“You know my mind on this, Grêsir,” the Way-thane said sternly. “I expect you to follow me into battle, as you have always done. We have lost men and women at the doors and walls of Nahragor, but we dealt the enemy a deadly blow. Let us deal another.”

She held her mace to the sky, where it glinted like a morning star. The day would be long, and the night would be longer. The Garigút would launch attack after attack upon the siege weapons and supplies spread around the Mountain Fortress. It would be a war of attrition, a skirmish against a siege, and the cost would undoubtedly be great. Yet the cost to the enemy would be greater.

Then Geldirana felt a sharp sting in her back, and the air was knocked from her lungs. Her body froze for a moment, and she felt suddenly weak. She used what little energy she had to turn to her people, who stood in grim silence, except for Grêsir, who held a blood-laced dagger before him.

“This is the last deadly blow I deal for you,” he said. “We have followed you to ruin, but we will not follow you to death. You were our Way-thane, but the way you have shown us is folly, and your rule is weak, for you serve the interests of others ere you serve your people.”

Geldirana collapsed upon the ground before them. None of them, not even Ana, attempted to help her up. They turned away from her and her suffering, for they had their own to contend with. They turned to Grêsir, their new Way-thane, and they followed him away from the scene of the mutiny, away from the memory of the near ending of their people, of the ending of Geldirana’s reign, and the ending of her life. Her shock stole her words. Her wound stole her vigour. At last, her dress was no longer white—it was red. Her will was no longer resolute—it was broken. She began to hear the faint calls from the Halls of Halés, and as she glanced up to the besieged Mountain Fortress, she knew they were calling for the people there as much as they were calling for her.

XIII – DEATH-STRONG

Geldirana lay still for a moment as the blood leaked from her body. Her memories came and went like the tide, yet ever more fleeting as her life began to stray. Even Ifferon featured in her thoughts, though she did not dwell on him for long. There was not enough blood left in her to think much of him. As her memories mingled with those of her people she saw how even they were just as fleeting, just a dot in time.

But the blood of the Garigút is strong, and even a drop of it can muster defiance that few among the people of Iraldas could match. A part of her being began to awake, and it was powerful. A part of her soul began to stir, and it was angry.

“You will not die here,” she whispered to herself, but the words were weak. She did not like the weakness. “You will not die here,” she repeated more forcefully, until the blood rose into her mouth and she could taste it, taste the defiance.

She rolled onto her side, and the pain fought back, like the echo of the stab. She cried out once, but she told herself she would not cry again. The pain would strengthen her. The pain would sustain and motivate her. The pain would never conquer her.

Geldirana pushed herself to her knees and tore a strip of fabric from her dress. She was not amused by how much she had to struggle to tear it. She had torn flesh from the bones of enemies more easily than this. Her defiance grew. She wrapped the fabric around her body, clenching her teeth as the movements of her back stretched and compressed the wound. She pulled the fabric tight, like she had done with nooses around the necks of her foes, and she tied a knot that few could break. This would buy her time, but she knew she needed to tend the wound soon. Until then she had business to attend to, a debt to pay.

She grasped the branch of a nearby tree and hauled herself up. She gave her feet a few seconds to steady themselves before pushing away from the tree. That would be the only thing she would allow to support her, and only once. She took an unstable step forward, her breathing heavy. It felt like an effort she had not known since she was a child, since she was a weak girl who was almost abandoned by her garig. She took another step. This one was easier, but it still took more energy than she felt she expended in a battle. Walking was a new enemy.

The forest seemed much darker than it had been when she and the Garigút travelled through it. The trees seemed less forgiving. She did not care; she would not ask their support again. She stumbled through, glancing at the ground, where the heavy footfalls of her people led away. She followed the trail, her heavy feet stamping into the footprints of another. She imagined herself already there at her destination; this journey was just a formality. She followed the markings, and in her head she made little markings of her own—the markings of bodies in the dirt.

*  *  *

Rúathar led the Molokrán down the rocky path away from the Mountain Fortress. As he ran and clambered down, they crawled and floated along, seeping and dripping down the mountainous crags like a black vapour. To all who watched in awe and terror, it seemed that Rúathar was fleeing from his own shadow—but the real shadows were there, hidden from the sight of most, and they hunted the Ardúnar down, their dark feet treading upon his shadow, their dark hands reaching ever closer to his racing limbs.

The pace of his flight drained his energy, while the horrors behind him weakened his concentration, so much so that he found it difficult to maintain the beacon of light around him that pulled the Shadowspirits along like the strings of the Animator. His breathing was no longer natural; he caught the air in his mouth as he hurtled down the path, and it was knocked from him again as he jumped over rocks and tree roots. His mind was no longer thinking; he was working on instinct now, fighting no longer for the people of Iraldas, but for his own life.

He reached the end of the downward path, but he continued on towards the forest. The trees seemed to reach out to him eagerly, their branches stretched forth like helping hands, urging him into their safety. Even the wind seemed to be on his side, pushing him forward and increasing his speed. Yet still he felt the shadow behind him. Still he felt a coldness that was not from the weather.

Every moment felt like a lifetime. Each rasping breath was like the birth of a new tree, each crashing step like the death of another. The forest seemed now only metres away, but the shadow seemed closer. The haven of the trees beckoned him, but the hell of the hounding shadow beckoned also.

Like lightning called down by Thúalim, Rúathar passed beneath the shade of the oak and ash trees that lined the outskirts of this part of the forest. For a brief moment he felt the shadows behind him lose pace, and he slowed his own, until he finally halted in exhaustion, resting his hand against a nearby tree, and coughing and wheezing as the ache of his limbs began to kick in.

Then the shadows caught up. He turned to them, but his energy was mostly spent, and this affected his vision, for they seemed like a mass of darkness, more of a single unit than he had remembered them in his brief encounters, or had heard of them in his longer listening to the many disturbing tales. Then a figure began to emerge from the shadow, and he needed little sight to know who or what it was: it was the Lichelord, the Alar Molokrán, who heaved and rose up like a bloated spider, sucking wisps of shadow into him from his companions, like a spider sucks the jelly from the eyes of its victims.

“My moon has not yet come,” Rúathar said, and his voice trembled like his limbs. “If you have any honour you will go back and seek me again when the Blossom Moon has come. Then you will have a fight worthy of your name, High against High.”

The Lichelord laughed, and it was a sound like crackling wood and boiling water, with an even fainter echo of wails and screams in the distance. “It is always a fight of High against Low,” he said. “The Ardúnari are powerless. You drink of the Elixir of Life, and yet when you meet us you still taste death. Drink, Warden.”

But Rúathar took out his Ilokrán from his vestments and held it before the Lichelord, who flinched as one struck by the lash of a greater master.

“Relics of the Elad Éni will not save you,” he bellowed, and the force of his voice knocked the leaves from the trees.

“Leave the forest out of this,” the Al-Ferian shouted. “You accomplish nothing by striking the trees. You might think you win a battle against the Ardúnari, but against Nature you will have a war you cannot win.”

Again the Lichelord laughed, but now the crackling wood sounded like snapping twigs. Rúathar turned to see that black stags had gathered behind him. They were part of the abundant wildlife which populated Alimror, dwarfing the numbers of the Al-Ferian. But there was something different about these now. Their eyes were red.

Rúathar shook his head in dismay. “No,” he said. “You corrupt the land.”

“We are the land,” the Lichelord said, “and its cold slayer.”

Then the Molokrán advanced, and so too did the possessed stags. The Shadowspirits waited until the animals struck the Al-Ferian, for they wanted him to know that Nature had conspired against him, that Nature now answered to the shadow, that Nature was his doom. The stags pounced on him and he cried out. The Ilokrán dropped from his battered fingers.

“My moon has not yet come,” he said. Death came instead.

*  *  *

Grêsir led the Garigút through the forest, heading north-east as they ventured back towards Boror, where they would find land to suit them for the winter, where they could nurse their wounds and attempt to rebuild their people, before summer came and they could move again to riper land with food to harvest—land they would take from others if they must.

“We should not have left her like that,” Ana said. She was one of five females left in the group, and by far the youngest; the others carried the scars of many battles.

Grêsir halted and turned sharply, catching Ana by the throat. “Would you rather we leave you behind also? Your words show weakness. If you talked like that as a cub we would have left you behind when we moved to new land. Weakness is a burden. Do not be a burden to us.” He shoved her back towards one of the other women, who pushed her back again. She stumbled and coughed, and she dared not speak again.

They continued on, but now darkness came and they could not see the stars through the thick roof of trees. Grêsir cursed the forest, as he cursed all forests, for they were to him the enemy of travel, slowing a people whose livelihood depended on moving quickly across terrain. Some of the others were not so unhappy beneath the leaves, for it sheltered them from a heavy rainfall. They had survived many grim winters, and they would survive many more to come, but their beleaguered bodies did not welcome more ill weather.

Grêsir kept them travelling for a time until finally the darkness defeated him and they knew no longer in which direction they were travelling. They set up camp and lit a fire. Grêsir and Rokrig, his second-in-command, left the group to hunt for food. They came back soon after with a small deer, which they roasted over the fire. Ana sat away from the group, the custom of one scolded by the Way-thane. After the others had eaten, Grêsir threw her a deer leg. That was a sign she was still part of the garig, and so she rejoined the others. She ate silently as they talked.

“There are farms near Bardahan,” Grêsir said. “They are poorly guarded for any so close to the border. We could raid them at night and get a few days worth there before we’d need to move on.”

“Good,” Rokrig said. “That is far enough from Madenahan not to bother the King.”

“He is not our king,” Grêsir said.

“No, Way-thane. You are right. At least the people of Bardahan will not rally to support the farmers. They’ll talk about us, but they will not fight.”

“Good. We will leave at first—”

Before Grêsir could finish the words Geldirana wrapped a bloodied piece of fabric about his throat, choking him and tugging him to the ground. Rokrig grabbed his sword, but already Geldirana had taken Grêsir’s mace, or rather the mace he had stolen from what he thought would soon be her dead body. She swung it viciously in front of Rokrig while pulling the noose around Grêsir’s neck.

“Back away and you will keep your life,” she told Rokrig. The others needed no warning.

“Calm,” Rokrig said, placing his sword down beside him.

“Tell me that again and I’ll make a noose for you,” she said.

Grêsir still struggled on the ground, his face swelling as blood rushed to it. His fingers scraped and clutched at the fabric digging into his throat. She took a deep breath, where it seemed to others that she was counting in her head, and then she untied the fabric from about Grêsir’s neck. The red marks were clear to all amidst the firelight.

“Get up,” she told Grêsir.

Ana ran over to help him up, but Geldirana placed her mace before her. “He is the Way-thane no longer,” she said. “He does not need your help.”

After a time Grêsir clambered to his knees.

“The air feels better when your lungs appreciate it,” Geldirana said.

“This … wasn’t … personal,” Grêsir wheezed.

“I know,” she replied. “And this isn’t either.” She struck him once with the mace. He collapsed again.

“Geldirana,” Rokrig said. “We need every man and woman.”

She scoffed. “Then you would not have left me behind to die.”

“You … were killing … our people,” Grêsir coughed.

“No,” she said. “You were, when you tried to usurp me.”

“Geldirana, our Way-thane!” cheered Ilokana, the oldest of the women there. She raised her spear to the sky to toast the return of their true Way-thane, the woman who had earned her place as head of their people, and earned it back again from the brink of death.

“Our Way-thane,” came a chorus of supporting cries.

“Prove it, Ilokana,” Geldirana said. “Take Rokrig’s sword.”

Ilokana took up the sword and held it above Grêsir’s neck. She swung it towards him, but Geldirana stopped her before it struck. She took the sword from Ilokana.

“Good,” Geldirana said. “I only needed to know that you would do it.”

Grêsir cried out in relief—but the cry was followed by another as Geldirana swung the sword and beheaded him.

“I do not let any claim my debts,” she said.

Silence fell upon them, even in their minds. Instinctively their eyes looked to the fallen body of Grêsir, who had promised he was strong, and then back to Geldirana, who had proved she was stronger.

Rokrig broke the silence, daring to speak. “At least he was a Garigút first,” he said, and he looked at Geldirana with disgust, as if she were not of his race. “Not an Ardúnar,” he added.

“I will not lead those who do not want to be led by me,” Geldirana said, returning his glare. “If I am not the Way-thane of your heart, then go. Become another garig, because you are not welcome here. We are called ‘less-of-home’ by the King, but you will truly be without a home amongst my people.”

“I cannot follow you,” Rokrig said. “You have hurt our people. Any of you who have sense, who have weathered the winters I have, will know that Geldirana is not good for our people. She does not wander with us, but away from us, and hopes we follow blindly.”

“Spare your speeches,” she replied. “You rally openly now, I see, and yet previously you rallied in whispers away from my ears. So the cowards finally betray themselves, and betray also our people.”

“You are one to bark,” Rokrig said. “When you gave your allegiance to the Ardúnari you betrayed our people.”

“I strengthened our people,” she said. “And see that I still live, though Grêsir tried to kill me. And where is he now, if he was strong? Where is he now?”

Despite Geldirana’s show of strength, Rokrig would not follow her and neither would several others. When he announced he would lead them away and start a new life outside of the Way-thane’s rule, the other dissenters voiced their own concerns, though many glanced nervously at Grêsir’s body. When finally the two groups split, Rokrig led four people away, including two of the older women who preferred their leaders not mingle with others outside the Garigút. To Ana’s surprise the majority rallied to Geldirana, their confidence renewed by her harsh display. Some called her Geldirana Death-strong, while others could not think of names lofty enough for her.

When the cheers died down and fatigue was reborn amongst them all, Geldirana finally rested and accepted the aid of Ana, who cleaned her wound, applied many medicinal herbs and salves, and wrapped her in fresh bandages.

“We have a long road ahead of us,” Geldirana told her.

“Do we march to war?” Ana asked nervously. She had never been much a fan of battle, but still she would fight if she was called to. Indeed, she had fought the Nahamoni at Nahragor, though she crept around the battlefield and used stealth and guile more than brawn.

“We are already at war,” Geldirana said. “No matter where we march, we cannot escape it.”

“But to the siege of the mountains, I mean.” Ana looked to the west, but could not see the embattled Mountain Fortress—but her ears could hear the battle far off in the distance, like an echo of an ancient war.

“We will join that battle, yes,” Geldirana said. “But we will use different tactics. Our numbers are small, which is a disadvantage to open warfare, but it is also an advantage to skirmishes and stealth. We will harry the enemy and destroy their siege weapons, and so distract and weaken them, in the hopes of giving time to those working to restore Corrias to life. Then they will regret being so close to the waking place of a god.”

They rested for a time, but Geldirana would not let them rest for long, and would hear nothing of the calls for sleep, least of all from her weary bones. They crept back through the forest to where Geldirana saw her blood, and she stepped in it and walked fresh prints towards the siege engines, as if to remind her people of the mutiny, and that she could not be mutinied against.

*  *  *

Geldirana led the charge out of the camouflage of the trees, shouting and screaming in the Bororian tongue. The Nahamoni were caught off-guard, loading a rock upon their catapult. Two of them died in moments as Geldirana swung her mace like a whirlwind, crushing their skulls and crushing the spirits of those around. Several fled, but others were emboldened by their anger and charged to meet the oncoming blades. Geldirana took the brunt of the assault, her mace acting like a shield to jagged blades and flails. Even with deep wounds, she fought with the strength of many, and her people were strengthened by her fearsome fighting.

Blades clashed and bodies were broken, until only the Garigút were left standing. Geldirana gestured to Ilokana, who carried a huge lit torch to the siege weapon. She held it to the wood, which set aflame in moments. Then the Garigút fled from the fire, knowing that it would attract more of the nearby Nahamoni, who they would again ambush from the safety of the trees.

This they did repeatedly, until a dozen siege weapons were on fire or already burned to the ground, ash to anoint the bodies of the dead. Each skirmish was tougher than the last, for many of the Nahamoni had grouped together now, bolstering their numbers, and they were not taken by surprise like the first several groups had been.

Yet still the Garigút fought with a frenzy, and Geldirana beat back many of the Nahamoni, until they thought she never tired of battle, but grew stronger from it. She swung around again, striking another Nahamon, who slumped dead upon the cradle of the catapult. The Garigút leader reacted immediately, unleashing her sword upon the tethered rope, which snapped and hurled the body across the battlefield into another contingent of Nahamoni. Had they time to crank the arm further, it might have launched into the mountains, adding further misery to those besieged there. Instead, the Nahamoni suddenly became aware that they too were under siege, and many grew nervous, for the memory of Nahragor was still fresh in their minds.

To the Garigút’s surprise, a flock of birds came suddenly from the sky, attacking the Nahamoni guarding the catapult to their right. The swiftness of the attack left many of the Dark Men with deep wounds and scratches on their face and arms. Some fought and some fled, while some of the larger birds took hold of the catapult and together in a great mass they hoisted it many metres into the air, before letting it crash down again into a crumbled ruin.

Thus did the Garigút and birds appear suddenly at different parts of the battlefield, hounding and harrying, until the Nahamoni began to start at any shadow, and whisper that something terrible hunted them, and none lived to tell just what it was. Geldirana made sure of that.

XIV – LOCHLAMON AND ECHARIN

“So, do I get a Scroll?” Yavün asked after a time, when he had adjusted a little to the idea of being a Child of Telm, a fact that would take a lot of adjusting to.

Narylal laughed; it was a sound like gargling water, strange and yet reassuring.

“No,” Elilod said. “There is only one Scroll of Mestalarin. There is something else for you.”

“There is?” Yavün said, and he perked his head, like a child receiving a new toy.

“It is not ready,” the Taarí said. “And you are not either.”

Yavün bowed his head despondently, like a child watching other children receive new toys.

“You do not want it so soon,” Narylal said. Yavün was not happy that he, who would hold whatever it is they were talking about, was the only person not to know what it was.

“Ifferon knows well the burden,” Elilod said. “You will know it too soon enough.”

Yavün felt more despondent than ever, like a child who not only had not received a new toy, but had received a sweeping brush instead, and was told to get on with his chores.

“You mentioned Ariavar,” he said, playing the name across his tongue. “I heard her name before, but know nothing of her.”

“Ariavar was the Céalar of Spirits,” Elilod explained. “She was the consort of Telm, and with him she gave birth to Molok, the Animator. A child of two Céalari is a Hadar, less powerful than they, yet more powerful than those born of a Céalar and any of the races upon Iraldas, for all here must die. When Telm came down to Iraldas to battle Molok and then Agon, Ariavar pined for him, and though she was forbidden by Corrias to follow him, she secretly found a way down here before the Breaking of the Lamps and the Burning of the Roots.”

Yavün was entranced by the tale, and was soon distracted from his sorrows. “All these names, these people and gods, and these events that happened—they are all fascinating to me. How do you know of these things?”

“I know because I helped her, for I am Issaron, the River Man and the Lord of the Lake, whom the Knights call Lochlamon.”

Yavün was now completely entranced, so much so that he found he was unable to speak. While Ifferon, Herr’Don and Délin had told amazing tales, they had learned them from books, and yet standing before Yavün was someone who had been there, who had witnessed and partaken in those events, who claimed to be a god and yet seemed just like him.

“You are the Avatar of Ariavar,” Elilod said, “for in you is a fragment of her essence, which mingled with that of Telm when they came together to seal their union.”

“What happened to her?” Yavün asked, regaining his voice.

“I do not know. I expect she has passed out of memory.”

“Issarí said the same about you,” Yavün told him. “And yet here you are.”

Elilod hesitated. “Then perhaps she still lives. Yet it cannot have escaped your sight, little fish, that those of us exiled here are dying. We may have a higher count than you, but still we will end up in Halés with all of mortal life. If Ariavar has survived somewhere in Iraldas, she will not survive for long.”

Yavün was saddened by this. Mortality was something all races in Iraldas had to contend with, and though some tried to escape it, like the Ardúnari, death often came anyway. Yavün shuddered at the thought of Melgalés and tried to block the distant sound of fire in his head. He thought then of the gods, who should be eternal, and it seemed somehow worse to him to know that some of them had died, and many more would wither and waste away. It was like seeing a king reduced to a beggar, or a hero living his last days sweeping excrement from the streets. These were not the kinds of things that bards would sing of, nor poets write about.

“If I am a Child of Telm, then how come I do not have the sight that Ifferon has?” Yavün asked. He was not entirely sure he wanted that sight, but he felt he was being given a duty and yet being cheated of the things that might help him see it through.

“Your blood is not as strong as his,” Elilod said. “It has been diluted over many generations, mixing with others, losing its vitality. Ifferon is not the only Child of Telm, but he is the last in the direct bloodline, and so he has inherited more of the potency of Telm than any other. In that we have hope, for I knew Telm, and he was powerful.”

“If my blood is weak, then what good am I?” Yavün asked. He was beginning to feel like one of the exiled gods, hearing many promises, but feeling little power.

“I did not say it is weak, just not as pure as Ifferon’s. There are only a handful like you left, and many were sent to Alimror when we learned that Agon was hunting them down one by one. You are different, however, in that the fragment of Ariavar’s essence came through your bloodline to you.”

“I wish I knew my parents,” Yavün said. “They might have told me this.”

“Not all who carry the blood of Telm know they do. Sometimes the first time they learn of it is when Agon’s minions arrive upon their doorstep, dagger in hand.”

“I expect that is how they died then,” Yavün said. “The thing is, they could have been anyone. All I know is that I have an Aelora name, and so I presume my parents spent time with the Aelora, or maybe I was born in Caelün.”

“Sometimes it is best to think less of where you came from,” Elilod said, “and more on where you are going.”

*  *  *

Melgalés wandered the passages before the gates of Halés, hoping to escape the watchful eyes of the Gatekeeper, yet always aware of their probing gaze no matter how far he travelled. He needed no food or water, and he did not tire like he did in Iraldas, but the Underworld took its own toll: a weariness of mind and soul. At times it felt as though he were passing the same red rocks and treading the same red ground, until eventually it seemed that when he looked at his hands all he could see was red skin and red veins.

“There is a rumour of something coming,” the Gatekeeper said. “And perhaps it is Agon, or perhaps it is something, or someone, else.”

“If the rumour came without a name, it is useless to me,” Melgalés said. “Yes, useless.”

“It does not need to have a name to come forth, to crawl from the depths.”

“But Agon has a name,” Melgalés said.

“He does?” the Gatekeeper asked, and he almost smiled. “You call him Agon. No one knows what he calls himself. No one wants to know, not even the Elad Éni, for who knows what his true language is, what the words mean in that language, and what powers are behind those words? Even his creator, Molok, never knew his name, for he never gave him one. To him Agon was just a weapon designed to bring down the gods, and he turned out to be a very successful weapon, bringing down even Molok himself, who lives on only in Agon—as just another painful moment in the eternal torment of the Beast.”

Melgalés shuddered at the thought. Part of him was glad that Molok was consumed by Agon, for the Magus felt that Molok got what he deserved. Another part, which seemed more wise, recognised that this simply made Agon more powerful, that everything that Molok was, and much of him was evil, became part of the Beast. Thus Agon grew so much in strength that he could not be killed, only subdued in his fiery prison deep in Halés, where Melgalés felt it was not deep enough.

*  *  *

Yavün was brought out of the cavern to where the underground river led, straight into the body of the Great Lake, which was so big that it seemed to his eyes that it must actually be a sea. He was given some time alone to come to terms with all he had been told, and part of him wanted to be alone, and another part yearned desperately for the company of others, and the company of one in particular, whom he felt he barely knew, and yet knew better than any other.

He sat upon a boulder near the lake and stared into its depths. He could see the shimmers of Taarí swimming deep beneath, and he shuddered from the memory of the mauling hands at the Chasm of Issarí. He sighed, and his breath made little ripples on the water’s surface, like the gods might make waves upon the oceans. Then he recited aloud a poem he had been formulating in his mind:

When I was young, the world seemed younger too.

With widened eyes I basked in all I saw:

The grass was greener, sky was brightest blue,

Like paintings with no blemish or no flaw.

A fledging world for one entrapped in youth,

A world that time would show far from the truth.

The stables were with horses full to brim,

Yet still I knew them each by their own names.

I cleaned and combed, and fed in light and dim,

And played in fields with them the equine games.

I never grumbled at my chores, which were

To me not labour hard, nor work unfair.

When night drew in, upon the stars I glanced

And dreamed of distant lands, far-off places

To which I yearned to travel, now entranced

By where the horses go to in their races,

Or from where they in their wild youth first came—

Adventure was a beast I’d yet to tame.

The seasons seemed to teach me life and death.

The flowers sprung, the horses birthed new;

Then winter spoke through autumn its own threat,

And came upon the old, and took and slew.

The change seemed harsh, but I adapted well

To cycles known—the seasons rose and fell.

The summers had more hours than I could count;

I spent my wage of time with foal and friend,

Till time itself seemed thin—no large amount

Could thaw the soul and make the winters end.

The days passed by and through my fingers slipped—

I found myself for this change ill equipped.

The sky began to dull and clouds appeared;

The grass seemed faded, eaten by the mares

That I at once cared for, and once revered,

But now left to their doom, for doom was theirs—

By the will of gods, in their care instead:

The colts and fillies with the adults dead.

Still young in flesh, but older now in mind,

I’ve found the world lost much of its allure,

As if the gods have from this world resigned

And left us with a curse without a cure.

Were my youthful eyes once with roses veiled,

Or do the thorns now blur, my sight curtailed?

Adventure was a promise to a child

That wonders were over every hill,

That beauteous sights and sounds lived in the wild—

My heart a jug, a pail that naught could fill.

The pledge was broken, trick instead of treat,

The gift of disappointment and defeat.

In place of all then promised I found pain;

Instead of lands of awe, a barren waste.

My thirst for knowledge quenched, my hunger slain,

And of this world I did not like the taste.

I yearn that I may be a boy again,

That I’d not have to know this world of men.

Yavün sighed once more. Another ripple struck the water, followed by a tear. He was not aware that Elilod was watching and listening, that the Taarí had better sight and hearing than all the other races in Iraldas. Elilod approached him, and Yavün regained his composure, wiping the tears from his eyes.

“Why do you weep, little fish?” Elilod asked.

“What is there not to weep for?”

“The good that remains.”

“This is not what I expected,” Yavün explained. “I wanted to explore the world and learn of its secrets and mysteries, but I didn’t think I would find the darkness and evil that I discovered. The flowers are trampled and the beaches are overrun. I did not get to look at a map by a fireside to see where my friends and I would embark, but was forced along a grim, dark road with people I did not even know. Now I understand why Ifferon did not want this, did not want the burden of being a Child of Telm. Yet I have learned the lesson too late, for now I’m supposed to carry this burden also. It’s just … none of this is what I hoped for.”

“None of us hope for darkness and evil,” Elilod said. “But we face it all the same. If injustice appears, then we fight it with justice. If evil emerges, then we battle it with good.”

“But what is the point of it all? If the world is such a bad place, why try to save it?”

“Is it a bad place?” Elilod asked. He pointed to the Great Lake, which spanned for miles around. “Would an evil world allow such a beautiful body of water to exist?” Then he pointed to the mountains in the distance, which seemed from here like little hills. “Would an evil world let the mountains tower, or would its dark designers put dungeons there instead?”

Yavün nodded slowly. “I suppose.”

“There is no supposing, little fish. This world was not made by Agon, nor by Molok, nor even by the Céalari. We sculpted the mountains and filled the lakes, true enough, but this world was here for us to sculpt. It was made by a force and power beyond all things, which goes without name or attribute, for it is indefinable. Neither male nor female, and yet both. Neither living nor dead, and yet all things simultaneously. There are some who pray to me, but it is to that power, that force beyond and behind everything, that I pray to. I honour it by honouring the world it created, for without this world, and I mean Iraldas, Halés and Althar combined, none of us would exist.”

“I guess,” Yavün said.

“You guess, little fish, but I know—and you will know it too soon enough.”

Yavün pondered for a moment the power behind and beyond all things, but his mind could not conceive of it, so he settled his attention on what that power had created: the towering mountains and the endless lake. He stared into the water, and he saw his own reflection, and yet it also seemed to him that it was not his eyes staring back, but those of the lake itself. He thought then of the lake Délin had brought the company to, and the lonely Lady who lived there.

“Why don’t you reveal yourself to Issarí?” he asked. “Why do you let her think that you are dead? It seems so cruel.”

“Is it cruel to want the person you love to not risk their life for you?” Elilod asked. “Is it cruel to want them to not get involved in the battles you must face? It is better she think I am dead than she be dead herself.”

“But maybe she can help.”

“She is helping. The Knights of Issarí are empowered by her. She gives counsel to those in need. But it takes its toll. You have no idea, little fish, what it is like for the Céalari who are trapped here. This is not our home, and we can never return there. We are left to die as refugees in this world. Yet it pains us more, for it is as if you, a Man, were forced to live your life in Halés, the Underworld, instead of living in Iraldas, the World. So it is to us, that Iraldas, as beautiful as it might be, is the Underworld to the immense beauty of Althar.”

“What will happen to you?” Yavün asked.

“There are some who no longer believe in us, and others who do not want to believe. In ages past we could wander to and fro, and the people of Iraldas knew their gods, and we knew them, and it was a matter of knowledge, not belief. But now those bridges are broken, those links cut. The roots no longer reach down and the flames no longer burn. Those trapped in Althar can do naught but watch. The few of us trapped down here will die off in time, and then what? For now the Céalari can still be felt within the world, but this will not last forever, and when we fade out, what proof will there be that we ever existed? This world will then truly have been inherited by mortal races, just as the Céalari inherited it from those who went before. Even Corrias is now bound up in its fate, for he can never return to Althar. And what happens when the blood of great men grows further diluted? Lesser men will awake, and they will find themselves without honour or strength, and the world will be a pale shadow of what it was.”

“For one attempting to console me, you have your share of gloom.”

Elilod looked up; his eyes were like vast oceans, and in them was the memory of the creation of the waters with Issarí. “I pine for what was, but I act for what is, little fish. There is still much beauty in the world, and we must preserve it. If I die that many others might live, than I will die happy, even if that happiness is nothing like it was in Althar. If my waters are dried up so that the world might still be watered, then the long and arduous battle of this world is worth fighting.”

*  *  *

The days and nights passed for Melgalés, and he hardly knew it, for he could not see the stars or the moon, nor the blue sky or the sun. All he could see was the rocky walls of his prison, and those few lonely souls that stood by the steps of the Gate, seemingly oblivious to him. He wondered why he could see them if they could not see him, and he grumbled intensely when some of them were admitted to the Halls, while he remained on the doorstep.

At times he sat upon the steps, and he grew tired of watching his surroundings, so he closed his eyes and saw an immense and terrible fire. Through the fire he saw Yavün sitting upon the Tower of Tol-Timíl, clutching the Beldarian like a toy.

I am the spark in my consummation, he thought, and he heard the words louder in his mind, as if it were the echo of a memory, as if he had spoken them aloud. He saw Yavün turn to him through the fire, until finally he could see him through the blaze. Then he knew that Yavün, sitting in a tower high above the world, that was itself high above the great depths of Halés, had heard his words.

*  *  *

Yavün found it difficult to sleep, for when he lied down and closed his eyes, his mind raced and his thoughts rambled. When eventually he faded into slumber, his dreams were either too dark, at the depths of the ocean, or too bright, at the depths of a fiery place.

He began to hear voices in his dreams, and some were the voices of people he once knew, and might never know again, and some were the voices of fire, from a tongue flickering like a flame, speaking of things he could barely understand, and rarely remember on waking.

At times he found himself waking in the night, as if the fires had scalded him awake, and he sat up under the night sky, where few stars were shining. Elilod and Narylal were not there, and he had no idea how or where they slept. Sometimes he felt dreadfully alone, and he clutched the Beldarian for comfort. At other times he felt he was not alone at all, and this filled him with an even greater dread.

*  *  *

Time passed differently for the dead, if it passed at all. Melgalés knew little of what was transpiring in the world above, except that which the Gatekeeper revealed, and he wondered if there was any truth to the words, or if the Gatekeeper was simply a spirit profiting from his reaction to all that he heard, like one who delights in the misery of others.

He heard that Corrias had incarnated in the world, and that he had died, and it seemed that the Gatekeeper took great pride in this fact, for he had no love of Corrias, and he made that clear time and time again. He called him Lastradin, the Betrayer, and he said that the Céalari had done well on Iraldas, masking their atrocities and making the people think that they alone were the forces of good.

He heard also of Ifferon’s plight, that he had survived, and with him still was Thalla, for whom he felt a great regret that he could no longer finish her training. He was concerned that without guidance she might ultimately destroy herself, and he hoped that others, at least, could keep her from the flame.

He heard then of Teron’s actions, and he was not overly surprised, for he never liked the man. Yet he did not think he would serve Agon, when he only sought to serve himself. Melgalés wondered what promise Agon had made to Teron, and if he had kept it, and if, indeed, it was a promise worth keeping. He was glad to hear that Teron had died, that he could no longer manipulate the people of Iraldas, but he was sad to hear of how much damage he had done.

“So I am here because of him,” Melgalés said.

“You are dead because of him,” the Gatekeeper corrected. “You are here on the doorstep because of Yavün, because of his theft of your Beldarian from your corpse.”

*  *  *

Yavün was brought to a part of Telarym just north of the Great Lake. He was bundled on a small raft, but Elilod and Narylal refused to board it, opting instead to swim alongside him. They entered the water like a crashing wave, and the force of it propelled the raft ahead. In time Yavün realised that their liquid hands extended from the water and held either side of the vessel, pulling him along as they swam.

When the three reached the other side of the Lake, a matter of many hours, they emerged into a small forested area that bore the remnants of the Perasalon trees of old. These were smaller than those in Alimror, but to Yavün’s eyes they seemed vast beyond measure, and he found himself staring up to the top of the stumps as if they were the peaks of mountains.

“This is the only part of the Stumps that extends into our land,” Elilod said. “Ancient trees from before my time. Most were destroyed, and those few that remained were cut down by ancestors of the Taarí, who did not know enough to value and preserve them. They are cut off from their sisters and brothers in Alimror, so they have lost much of their majesty and power, but there is still an echo of the past in them.”

“If this is an echo,” Yavün said, “then I doubt my ears could withstand the roar.”

“Few have heads high enough to hear,” Narylal said, “or to see where the treetops used to be.”

“Why did you bring me here?” Yavün asked.

“For this,” Elilod said. He pointed deep into the forest, where the greens grew darker and the browns turned to black. Yavün could not see what Elilod was pointing to, but he could feel something that lurked there, that made the other things that lurked there feel uneasy.

“Today you will earn the respect of spirits, like all spirits respected Ariavar,” Elilod said, and his voice boomed. “Today you will learn to control your ability as a Portal. Today the Shadowspirits will not control you. You will control them.”

*  *  *

In time Melgalés approached a great opening in the caverns, so colossal in size that it could only be the doorway of a huge and ancient god. He looked up and it seemed that the entrance was the height of a hundred men, and he looked from edge to edge and found that at least thirty men could lie down in a line and still not span the distance. Light flooded in from this gap in the rock, and Melgalés knew that it was light from Iraldas, that he stood before the way into and out of Halés. Part of him felt like running straight for the doorway, to chance his luck and see if he could return to the world of the living, but his studies as a Magus held back this impulse, for he knew well that it promised instead the second death.

Then Melgalés saw a flicker of fire in front of the doorway. He strained his eyes to see, for the light from Iraldas was blinding, and he realised that these specks of flame were the bodies of Felokar wolves, some of whom dozed, while others roamed and wandered. Melgalés was then astonished to find that some of these specks where in fact the fiery fur of an even greater wolf, sitting guard by the door. The Magus felt his eyes play tricks on him, for at times he blinked and the wolf was not there, and yet he felt its presence.

“So it is guarded,” Melgalés said to himself, unaware that others were also listening.

“Does that surprise you?” came the voice of the Gatekeeper.

“No, not really, no,” the Magus replied, though part of him hoped to be surprised by an unguarded gate, by a way out into the world where he could wander as a ghost and find Yavün, who might free him from this eternal waiting.

“It is not so simple,” the Gatekeeper said. “If you leave here, you risk the second death, which will destroy your soul. Waiting is a small pain when the alternative is obliteration. And even if you managed to escape, the Felokar would hunt you, and so the second death would come one way or another.”

“So I am useless here,” Melgalés said.

“Not entirely.”

Melgalés moved about to get a better look at the monstrous wolf, and soon he realised that the gigantic face of the beast appeared different depending on the angle at which one looked upon it. From the left it had softer features and fur, with rounded teeth and mellow blue eyes. From the right it had curled horns, sharp fangs, a blazing coat, and red eyes that burned. From straight on it looked like a mixture of the two, the meeting of the tame and the wild. So it was that the tales of the guardian spoke of a wolf with three heads, despite it only having one. Melgalés was confident he knew which head would greet those who tried to enter or escape.

The Gatekeeper’s voice wafted down to him. “He is known by many names. In Old Arlinaic he is called Echarin, the Unsleeping, which is Akaron in Bororian. In the Aelora tongue he is known as Anmidrosaruë, the One with Three Heads, which is Setrotherhanath in Ferian. Despite his titles, he does sleep, but only one of the heads will rest at any given time. There are many who hope his severe side is sleeping, but the merciful can wake the mild, and the mild can wake the severe. More than anything, he can remove people from the dream of life. So he is truly the Unsleeping.”

The Gatekeeper then began to recite a piece that had no doubt been crafted by some poor soul who wandered into Halés and ended up meeting its many guardians, and the greatest guardian of them all.

His eyes are the lanterns of the sun and the moon;

As the day turns to night, both the vigils are kept.

His jaws are the chasm in the great mountain hewn,

Caught yawning wide open as the other rock slept.

His fangs are the blades upon which the dead writhe,

While his horns cleave as much as the Gatekeeper’s scythe.

His fur is the blanket that stifles and smothers,

And burns like the fires of all the hearths blazing.

His claws clutch more tightly than all of the others;

The mere touch is as death, and that a mere grazing.

His form is a mountain range that ends in three peaks,

And of those thorny tors, there is little that speaks.

His breath is like acid, and foul sulphur his smell.

His saliva is lava, and magma his blood,

His throat a volcano, an eruption his yell—

And thus molten are mortals caught in the ash flood.

He is the steward of souls, held for safekeeping,

And all wake up one day and meet the Unsleeping.

The words did little to instil comfort in the Magus, but as the Gatekeeper spoke, Melgalés began to get a sense that he was trying to create fear in him, to ensure he never got too close to the way out of Halés. He wondered if the Gatekeeper greeted others with verse, or if most others dared not wander the caverns of the Underworld.

With little left to do but wander, Melgalés began to ponder what impact he could have upon the world. He could not escape from Halés, that was clear, but he began to wonder just how much impact he could have at a distance. He thought of his communication with Yavün, and though it had been difficult, and though it seemed that the message was muddied by the time it got through, he contemplated the possibility that he could still have an effect upon Iraldas, that he could still put his great knowledge as a Magus to use.

*  *  *

On one of those nights of pondering, if there were indeed nights in Halés, and not just one great singular and endless night, Melgalés found himself watching the Felokar wolves and remembering some of the material he read about them. He particularly recalled a long chapter in an ancient tome by Elathon the Many-minded, one of the fabled founders of the Magi sect. It covered the Felokar wolves in detail, describing their appearance and behaviour, with multiple hand-painted images and diagrams. More interestingly, there were numerous tables of names and words, strange and barbaric words that seemed like they did not belong to any of the tongues of Iraldas. Slowly the memories came back to Melgalés, and slowly his mind settled on a passage from the text:

“These are the true names of the Dead-land wolves, with which the Elad Éni brought them into being, and with these names they could extinguish them like a candle flame, or could waft the fire in any given direction they so desired.”

Melgalés began to feel the probing eyes of the Gatekeeper, who undoubtedly was aware of his realisation. As much as the Magus began to feel a great confidence, he also felt a great doubt from the Gatekeeper, and this only made him more determined as he began to recall the names of the Felokar wolves.

It took many hours of concentration and meditation, through which time the Gatekeeper proved a constant distraction, before Melgalés was able to remember all of the names in the manuscript with what he hoped was complete accuracy. They were difficult names made of harsh sounds, the kind of names that wolves might give to one another, and the Magus found it hard to find the place in his throat from which to speak them, and the place in his soul from which to give them life.

The Felokar wolves continued to prowl around the doorway of Halés, circling Echarin, fighting with one another, sleeping and feasting, or staring curiously from a distance at Melgalés. Some even wandered up to him and sniffed him, and some circled him, and some growled at him, but all walked away in time when he showed that he was not scared of them.

Then Melgalés began to speak their names. “Zagrakka. Kaghadar. Rukjanik. Mukhorukh. Ghudaghor.” Onwards he went, uttering hundreds of words, until finally it seemed that they almost began to pronounce themselves, leaping like little flames from his tongue.

As each name echoed in the caverns, each wolf sat down in turn and wagged its tail. The fires in their eyes dimmed. They sat and waited for their next command.

“So you have tamed them,” the Gatekeeper said, and he could not hide his deep disdain.

*  *  *

Yavün crept further into the trees, straining his eyes against the darkness, but still he could see nothing, even as the something that he was searching for crept slowly towards him. Elilod could see: a Shadowspirit roaming through the trees, lurking close to the earth, as if it were studying the tracks there, absorbing the information of those who travelled through.

“Go, little fish,” Elilod said. “I can reel you in if the waters are too deep.”

“Will you be able to guide me?” Yavün asked. “Can you teach me to swim?”

“No,” Elilod said. “So long as I am in Iraldas, I cannot communicate to you where you will go. But you may find others there, guides who lead aright and guides who lead astray. You must test them with all that you know, lest they deceive you. Now you cast your net, little fish. You do not need to see where you cast it, provided there is some bait inside. You are the bait, Child of Telm.”

So Yavün closed his eyes and tried to relax, which was difficult when his mind kept reminding him that there was a Shadowspirit nearby. While he was still struggling to calm his racing thoughts, he suddenly felt like he was falling, and then it felt as though he were stepping outside of himself, leaving the shell of his body behind—an empty shell for something else to inhabit. The thought terrified him so much that he wanted to jump back inside, but found he could not, and this made him panic even more.

Then he heard the voice of the spirit of fire he encountered at Tol-Timíl. You are the gatekeeper of your body. For any who seek to pass the gate, they must first confront you.

This gave Yavün new confidence, and so he realised that no matter what transpired, he was in control, provided he acknowledged this basic fact. Yet a part of him felt that this truth would be tested and strained, that he might no longer believe it when the Shadowspirit emerged.

And so it came. In this halfway place between dream and the waking world, Yavün found that he had the chlarisabín, the clearsight, and could see the Shadowspirit approach, slinking towards his body like a preying beast.

Just as it was about to pounce upon him, just when it was about to break into the shell of his being and inhabit his body, he seized it and found that it too was hollow, that inside the darkness was a nothingness that begged to be occupied by something, by anything—good or evil. Now it was possessed by good, for Yavün suddenly opened his eyes in the waking world and found that he was looking through the eyes of a Shadowspirit, that his mind was there, but his body was shadow.

The feeling was so strange that for a moment all went black, as if he had momentarily slipped out of his new form, and found himself in the place the shadows called “darkness.” He did not know how he did it, but somehow he managed to pull himself back into the shadow body. It took him some time just to figure out how to use his eyes, his new eyes, which at first just stared out at the world. In time he realised that the Shadowspirits did not blink, nor look up and down, nor side to side. Instead they looked eternally in one direction, and they were forced to move their entire bodies if they wanted to see something else. What Yavün saw was darkened by those eyes, so that the entire world seemed grey, and he wondered how they could stand it, unable to see the many different and beautiful colours. Yet there were different shades of shadow, greys and blacks he had never seen before, and for which he had no names, and he started to realise that there was another rainbow in this world, only seen with eyes of shadow.

Yavün prowled around the trees as the Shadowspirit, and when he encountered another he left his former shell and made the new Shadowspirit his home. He leapt from one to another until finally the Shadowspirits felt a great fear of their own, for they could not see this new foe that assailed them, and they finally felt what others did when in their presence. And so they fled, leaving Yavün alone in his shadow body. In time he cast it off, and it vanished from the place, like smoke dispersed by the wind.

“Good,” Elilod said, lifting Yavün to his feet. “This is a valuable skill. It is one you will need before all of this is over, when the war really begins.”

XV – TRAVELS AND TALES

Herr’Don needed to fight, and so Edgaron urged him to let the battles find him, to roam the lands and search for wherever was most in need of him. He was reluctant at first, as any are when life seems grim, but the constant ushering of Edgaron, supported by the constant encouragement of Belnavar, broke down the walls of his depression, revealing to his eyes a myriad of possibilities.

And so they embarked on a series of travels westward across Boror, stopping from time to time for food and rest. The stops were short, for Herr’Don pressed them onwards, setting Bardahan, the home of the departed Belnavar, as their first true destination.

In time Herr’Don arrived at the farm outside Bardahan, which belonged to Amongrid, a close friend of Belnavar in his youth. Belnavar recognised him immediately, but Amongrid only saw Herr’Don and Edgaron standing before him.

“It is lucky you are here,” Amongrid said. “The guards in Bardahan won’t listen, but we’ve been raided by the Garigút.”

“I thought they all went south to Nahragor,” Herr’Don said.

“Not all of them, it seems,” Amongrid replied. “And it appears they’ve taken to Nahamoni ways, pillaging and ransacking as they go. I thought Geldirana put an end to all that when she came into power.”

“It is likely she died,” Herr’Don said sadly. “She fought the Molokrán.”

Amongrid glanced about warily. “Olagh help us if those things are here as well.”

“I think you are safe from them,” Edgaron said, though he was not really sure; he was simply used to giving comforting words to the Prince.

Herr’Don looked around. “These Garigút renegades are the more pressing threat.”

“Aye,” Belnavar said. “Let us free my friend from their villainy.”

“Come!” Herr’Don called, as if to an army around him. “We march!”

And so he headed further into the expansive farmland, all the while directed by a nervous Amongrid, who pointed here and there, showing where calves had been killed and crops trampled. In time they came to the body of the farmhand Desadon, who Amongrid explained was but fourteen years of age. He was slumped over a dead calf, which he had clearly been trying to protect.

“I’ll never find a better farmhand than he,” Amongrid whimpered. “Nor a kinder soul.”

“Let us find the cruel soul who did it then,” Herr’Don said, following the tracks that led away from the scene.

It was not long before they found the Garigút, small in number, camped upon the outskirts of the farm. They were feasting and resting, and some were roaring boisterously. All of their swords dug deep into the earth, as though by this act they had claimed the land as their own. A scarecrow was planted nearby, the only survivor of the assault, a last and silent witness.

“What have we here?” Herr’Don asked, resting his thumb upon his belt, as if he might suddenly lash them with it.

“What indeed?” Rokrig said, standing up and tipping the edge of his blade with the side of his foot, a reminder of who now owned this land, and by what steel it was now ruled.

“Do you seek to till the soil with that sword?” Herr’Don asked derisively. “Yours do not look like farming hands.”

“Nor yours, Prince,” Rokrig barked in response.

“This is not your land,” Herr’Don stated.

Rokrig smiled. “It is now.”

The scarecrow hung between them nervously. It was no longer the farmer’s land, and it was not Rokrig’s land either—it was a no man’s land. Yet two men stood within it, facing each other with stony faces.

Herr’Don glanced at the scarecrow. It almost seemed like it was glancing back. Rokrig looked at it in turn, as if it were an arbiter, one with the unenviable vocation of mediating the unreconcilable.

“I will ask you once to leave,” Herr’Don said, “and do no more wicked acts in my father’s land.”

“What will you do with your one arm, cripple?” Rokrig mocked.

“I will do to you,” Herr’Don said, “what I did to myself.”

Rokrig’s expression changed as he realised what the Prince meant, but before his grin turned fully into a frown, it changed suddenly into a grimace as Herr’Don swung around rapidly, slicing off the arm of Rokrig at the elbow. The Garigút shrieked in pain, clutching the wound as blood became the new fertiliser of the land.

The other Garigút fled, for never before had they seen such speed and ferocity, and certainly never from one of the royal house. They had hoped for an easy raid on the farms to help rebuild their people, but they found a guard there that they did not expect, and one that they could not predict. They charged away, ploughing the land with their racing feet, and Rokrig stumbled after them, wailing as he went. Herr’Don roared in their direction, and the terrifying sound gave them all new speed.

“They will not raid a farmer again,” Belnavar said.

“A lesson learned,” Herr’Don remarked.

He took up the severed arm and shoved it onto the spike of the scarecrow. Blood dripped upon the fabric—a new, more frightening, costume for the straw man. He would scare away more than birds now.

“A warning to others,” the Prince said.

There was silence. The conflict had scared away their voices. In time, however, curiosity began to emerge in Amongrid.

“Did you really cut off your own arm?” he asked. His tongue seemed already eager to trade the tale with the other farmers.

Edgaron looked at Herr’Don and smiled.

Herr’Don paused for a moment. “I had an itch. Now it doesn’t itch any more.”

*  *  *

Herr’Don arrived in Bardahan at the western edge of the Borderline Mountains. The town was packed with people from all across Iraldas, and it and the town of Geldahan much further south were known as the Twin Towns of Trade. Geldahan was the richest, but Bardahan was the loudest, with music playing in every tavern, of which there were many, long into the owl-haunted hours of the night.

“It is as busy as ever,” Belnavar said. “Surely they did not miss me for long.”

“Aye,” Herr’Don said, “but they will miss me ere long.”

Edgaron had by now grown accustomed to Herr’Don’s chattering with himself. He remembered that the Prince did it also as a child, until their friendship grew stronger and he had no longer need for imagined companions.

“Come!” Herr’Don called. “Let us remind the people of Bardahan of Belnavar the Braveheart.”

“And introduce them to Herr’Don,” Edgaron said.

They pushed through the throng of people, squeezing between them and knocking over the frequent begging bowls of the many musicians who lined the streets. Between the notes of music there was a steady hum of voices, the chattering chorus of the crowd.

Eventually Herr’Don and Edgaron managed to emerge from the choking mob and stumbled into The Trumpet True, a small, grimy inn near the outskirts of the town.

Belnavar was already inside, standing by the bar. “My favourite haunt,” he said.

Herr’Don and Edgaron approached the counter. The Prince cast aside his cloak, which concealed his missing arm. The women there backed away in shock, but some were now more enamoured by him, knowing that he had survived so much. Some frequented The Beating Drum on the other side of the town, which was the haven of many who had served long in battle.

The innkeeper was less impressed. His one bloodshot eye looked fiercely down on the Prince.

“Herr’Don,” he said, recognising his attire. “Surely Geldahan is more to your liking.”

“Had I gold to spend,” the Prince replied.

“If you’ve none to spend, then there’s no point sitting up ‘ere,” the innkeeper barked.

“I have gold for him,” Edgaron said.

“What are you, his purse?”

“A rich one,” Edgaron said. “Two ales, please.” He placed a silver piece upon the table. The innkeeper swiped it away like it was a piece of dust, straight into a box beneath the counter. He poured two ales and slammed them down before them.

“Cheers,” Herr’Don said. He swamped down half the ale, while Edgaron took a sip.

“You could have ordered three,” Belnavar remarked.

The innkeeper placed his right hand upon the counter. His little finger was missing. “This,” he said, “was an accident.” Then he pointed to his missing eye. “This is what happens when you make bets and you’ve no gold for the wager.”

Herr’Don raised his mug. “At least you didn’t wager double.”

“The same could be said for you,” the innkeeper replied. “So, how did you lose it?”

Herr’Don took a long gulp of ale, wiping the froth from his mouth with his good hand. “I fought the Felokar wolves at the Morbid Mountains. Ten came, scattering my party. Only I stood to face them. I killed three before two others seized my arm. I killed them as they feasted, and the others fled. Now the Hounds of Halés fear my name.”

“That tale deserves a drink,” the innkeeper said, pouring him another.

“I have quite a few tales myself,” Belnavar commented, “but it’s thirsty work.”

As Herr’Don downed pint after pint, Edgaron found himself chatting with one of the many minstrels in the tavern. He told him of their adventures, and it seemed that the minstrel was already composing them into a song in his head.

“And tell me again his name?” the minstrel inquired.

“That is Herr’Don,” Edgaron told him. “Prince of Boror.”

*  *  *

Herr’Don arrived in Ciligarad, the home of the Knights of Issarí in Arlin. The knights greeted him warmly, remembering him from when Délin introduced him to his home town the month before. They did not know Edgaron, but they welcomed him with equal warmth. They did not see Belnavar, though they had heard of him from many bards and minstrels, and they welcomed his memory.

They invited Herr’Don and Edgaron into their homes, where they were fed by fireside, enjoying good food, warmth, and the company of noble companions. They asked them of their travels, and especially of Délin, whom they grew increasingly concerned about. They wondered if he had forgotten his oaths, but were relieved to hear that he was still honourable—and that he was still alive. Then the conversation turned to other things.

“I pray you not think me bold to ask, but what happened to your arm?” Brégest inquired.

Edgaron smiled as he turned to Herr’Don to hear the latest tale. Herr’Don did not seem to mind him, but was already clutching the rim of his cloak as he began his boasting.

“I lost it in the Chasm of Issarí,” he said. There was a chorus of astonished cries, for Issarí was dear to them all, and they wondered why she had allowed such dismemberment. “My friends and I were pulled into the gorge by the evil Taarí, who ripped and tore as much as the thrashing rocks, and so when I awoke on the river’s edge, after slaying many Taarí in my struggle, I was one limb less.”

The knights sat in silence, awe and amazement lining their faces. Edgaron could tell from Brégest’s keen eyes that he did not believe the tale, but he did not question or challenge it, for, like Edgaron, he saw little harm in letting the Prince find comfort in the telling of a good story.

“Well, I have always needed to lose weight,” Herr’Don joked, patting his belly. “Sure, I have another arm!” He raised his mug of ale to show that he needed only one arm to hold it, and one mouth to drink it.

The knights laughed heartily and raised their mugs to him, cheering and toasting the Prince of Boror as if he were a Knight of Issarí. Edgaron smiled broadly as he watched Herr’Don’s boisterous cheers. He was heartened that the swordsman had regained much of his mirth.

They drank into the night, and they sang songs of old, and some tried their tongues at songs of new, and eventually they fell one by one into slumber, and the mugs fell one by one from their grasp.

Day came, and to some it gifted aching heads, but to Herr’Don it seemed that it was another journey, another life, and another way to lose a limb. “To Calnibur,” he said, “most want of me, I bet.”

“The blessings of the Lord and Lady go with you,” Brégest said. “Especially if you go to Calnibur. Lamar í Lamon!”

*  *  *

Herr’Don arrived in Calnibur the Cold Town. It was even more deserted than he remembered it, and much of its haphazard defences had already been torn down.

They were glad they did not bring horses, that they had not accepted the knights’ offer to give them steeds of their own, for as they came closer to the town they could hear nothing but ill will towards the four-legged beasts.

“They’re cursed,” cried a woman. “Cursed!”

“Nothin’ but bad luck,” said a man, who was trying to break a horseshoe with his hammer.

“I have never seen anything like it,” Edgaron said. “What has earned this fury?”

Herr’Don approached the meagre keep, which looked even more like a barn than it had been when Délin brought the company there. Edgaron was amazed by it all, and had he not seen the majesty of the city of Ciligarad, he would have thought Arlin a place of paupers, and thus thought too much of Boror.

As they approached the keep, they saw the statues of Medgrin and Lindisgrid, but now they were broken and toppled, and it was clear that bits of the stone had been taken for use in the fortifications.

“So this was done by Calnibur’s own people,” Edgaron said.

The guard Bringrid was there to greet them, and he was pleased to see Herr’Don, but he would have been equally pleased to see any warrior willing enough to fight for Calnibur. “Herr’Don!” he cried, and he spoke the name as if he were cramming every pleasantry ever possible into the two syllables, for there was little time to speak.

“The Gormoloks have been raiding us for days,” Bringrid explained. “They still smell horses here, though we have killed and burned all the horses we ever had, and we let no one approach the town on horseback any more. But they keep coming back. They remember what we had all those years ago, and we do not have the defences that Ciligarad has.”

“Then let us rid you of your foe,” Herr’Don said, and he spoke it with such conviction that any who heard him thought the foe had just then been vanquished.

“I will inform Lord Celsingrid,” Bringrid said.

They entered the hall where Celsingrid sat unmoving, like a statue of his own. This one the people had not toppled, though perhaps it was the one most deserving of such an act. It seemed to Herr’Don that he had not budged since last he saw him. An exaggeration, he thought, but it was most definitely no exaggeration to think that he had budged little to help defend his town.

“We have come to bolster your defences,” the Prince said, extending his arm to the side, as if to stay his advancing troops. Edgaron drew up beside him, but held back. Belnavar drew up on the other side, where no arm stayed him, and he stood forward.

Celsingrid snorted. “Defend your own house before you look to mine,” he said with scorn. “Last I heard, you lost Larksong and lost it willingly. At least Arlin is still Arlin, and we have kept all of the Motherland.”

“You have a cold heart,” Herr’Don said.

“Perhaps it is because it pumps blood to two arms,” Celsingrid responded. “But it is warm enough for me.”

“You are an Ardúnar. Why do you not defend your people?”

“My appointment never came with a list of demands. And besides, my moon is a long time away.”

“Something tells me you would not be so eager to face the Molokrán then.”

“And so I would be wise. It is a fool who is eager to face them.”

“Or maybe just a coward,” Herr’Don said. “I lost my arm to them, and I’d give them the other one if it would end their evil reign.”

Celsingrid scoffed. “Go back to Ciligarad,” he said. “I smell the stench of horse on you.”

“I will go when I wish to go,” Herr’Don replied. “And I wish to go when the threat of the Gormoloks is gone.”

“This is not your kingdom. Neither is Boror, for that matter.”

“All of Iraldas is my kingdom,” Herr’Don said. “Today I am the king of battle.”

“Olagh is dead,” Celsingrid said. “You have one god, and he is dead.”

“The Warrior-king can never die while there is a war still to rule in.”

Herr’Don marched off, followed by Edgaron and Belnavar. In time he found that others were following him, until the name of Herr’Don the One Arm began to circulate throughout the town, until the name itself sounded like better protection than what little defences remained standing.

Celsingrid ordered his few remaining guards to seize the Prince and throw him in the cellar, but none of the guards complied, for they had already heard of how vicious and valiant Herr’Don was, and though they feared their cruel lord, they feared more the mad prince. Tales began to spin faster than ever in Calnibur as Herr’Don marched to and fro, gathering a force together. In time even Bringrid, who considered himself loyal beyond measure, found himself following in the Prince’s trail.

They marched out of Calnibur, and they marched north towards the Many Mountains, and few knew why they were marching or where they were marching to, only that it was better than not marching back home. Herr’Don and Edgaron sang songs of battle, and Belnavar sang his own, and those who had never heard such songs began to learn them, and began to believe in their inspiring words.

By nightfall they reached the edge of the mountains, where the carcasses of horses made little mountains of their own. Bones were scattered in all directions, like some strange oracle, but no matter where they fell, they all pointed up into the mountains, where the Gormoloks lived.

Herr’Don led his army up, refusing rest. Some turned back from fear, and others from exhaustion, but most continued on, urged by Herr’Don’s frequent reminders of how wronged they had been by these mountain-dwelling beasts.

The Gormoloks lived in caves and mud huts. They were great lumbering beasts, with arms twice as long as their legs, heads that were far too small for their torsos, and fur and hair that seemed to grow everywhere, even inside their mouths and on their tongues. In ages past, the people of Arlin thought these creatures were the spirits of the mountains, and they offered them sacrifices of horses, which the Gormoloks grew fond of beyond any other food.

Herr’Don led the charge, and the Gormoloks were so surprised that many of them dropped what they were holding, whether it was a great wooden branch, a stolen sword, or the head of a horse not yet fully feasted on. Some of the Gormoloks ran into the caves, but Herr’Don followed them in, hacking and slashing as he went, until all of the beasts were dead.

When the army of Calnibur eventually emerged from the mountains, they found that their town had been attacked by the few Gormoloks who had fled from the heights. They returned to find even more in ruin, smouldering from fires that might have been started by the Gormoloks, or might have been started to scare the Gormoloks away.

Even the keep had been reduced to ashes. Bringrid raced up to it and began searching through the rubble. Eventually he found the remains of Celsingrid, still sitting in his seat, and now forever unmoving. His heart was truly cold now.

Calnibur was no more, but it had been little before, so the people did not grieve too greatly. Indeed, many celebrated their victory over the Gormoloks, and many began to form committees aimed at ensuring the Gormoloks would never be a threat again. Secretly, many rejoiced in the death of Celsingrid, and some were not so secret in their celebration. Names began to circulate of who might take his place, and though the names were many, Bringrid’s name was numerous among them.

Herr’Don’s name also joined the throng, never for election, but often for admiration. His name spread like a forest fire, burning every ear in its path, kindling every tongue. He left the town with Edgaron and Belnavar, heading for his next destination, and though the people of Calnibur regretted him leaving, they began to ponder aloud where he might be going, and what he might do when he got there.

Bringrid joined the crowd in their waving as Herr’Don departed. As they clambered together, whispering of the newer and better Calnibur to come, a trader from Stalarím drew up to them in his cart laden with all manner of things that many there could not afford.

“You look like you are in need of supplies,” he said, and there was the look of riches in his eyes.

Bringrid smiled as he turned back to the carcass of Calnibur. “Some,” he said.

The trader covered his eyes and peered in the direction the people were waving. “Who is that?” he asked, and he had the look of one who might have lost a customer.

Bringrid watched the figure as he faded into the distance. “That is a man of legend,” he said at last. “That is Herr’Don the Great.”

XVI – THE BATTLE OF LIGHT AND SHADOW

The Molokrán came forth once more. Though Rúathar had lured them deep into the forest, like a Siren lures a sailor to his doom, they had caught the bait and consumed it, and the darkness swelled with his light. From the forest that was now his grave, they emerged.

The sky dimmed, but the ground was dimmer, for the Molokrán spread across it like a black tidal wave. Even those who could not see them could feel the impending collision, just as the blind feel the growing wind upon their face as the waters rise before them.

The broken passage up the mountain might have stopped and slowed the Dark Men of Nahlin, but it did nothing to halt the advance of the Molokrán. To them the chasm was a bridge, the slope steps. They crawled across the face of the mountain, and the mountain was paralysed to act. Their fingers seeped into the crags and crevices, mauling the surface with each and every movement, until it seemed to the keenest of eyes that there were faces of horror in the rock.

The shadow struck the twelfth door, which led into the cloister of the Mountain Fortress, and the stone shook. Dust sprayed and shards of rock fell, while the noise sounded out like the worst of the many siege weapons the people of Iraldas had devised. The defenders of the Mountain Fortress backed away, and even the people buried deep in the bunkers trembled from the quake.

“The door will not hold,” Thúalim said.

“Is there no magic you can do?” Ifferon asked.

“It’s useless,” Thalla said. “My spells were weak against them at Nahragor.”

“Mine are stronger,” Thúalim said, “but not strong enough.”

Ifferon wished then that Rúathar was still there to lure away the Molokrán, or, indeed, that any of the Ardúnari were present. Melgalés, Geldirana, Oelinor, or any other. Any would do if they could keep the dark eyes on them and not on him. Now, however, he stood alone, brandishing the Ilokrán that Rúathar had given him like a tiny shield, and the Scroll of Mestalarin like a damaged sword. He wondered who would look upon him and think him a descendant of the Warrior-king Telm, who carried a monstrous square shield and the fabled sword called Daradag, which some said contained the trapped spirit of one of the Céalari.

Ifferon’s train of thought was jarred by another bang against the stone door. Scree tumbled down and rolled to his feet. The sound struck his ears and sent his heart to the bottom of his chest, while his attention went to the bottom of his mind, where dark things lingered.

And the dark things came forth. In a suddenness that took all who stood there by surprise, despite their anxious waiting, the Molokrán burst through the stone, sending rock flying in all directions, as if the siege had begun anew. Some soldiers were knocked to the ground by the debris, and Délin was struck in the back by a catapulting stone as he moved to shield Théos from the earthen rain.

Thúalim sent a bolt of lightning forth towards the door, but it did nothing but temporarily illuminate the darkness for all to see, even those without the clearsight. This added new terror to the troops, some of whom cowered behind the boulders that covered the entrances to the bunkers.

The Molokrán halted before Ifferon, and the Alar Molokrán reared up tall before him, dwarfing him and casting another shadow upon him, like the shadow of Tol-Úmari upon the Land of the Dead. Fear had long festered in Ifferon, but now that the Molokrán were again before him, he felt the instinctual loathing that also lingered in his heart, the strength of the blood of Telm that pumped out to his hands, where he held the Ilokrán and Scroll aloft.

“Dehilasü baeos!” he shouted, and the armour of Telm descended from the clouds, shimmering about him, until all thought that he seemed taller and broader than before.

The Molokrán did not so easily baulk at the form of Telm before them, for they could now see through the shimmers to the man who cowered beneath. It was not the Warrior-king himself who stood there, but the Scroll-cleric, brandishing a burned relic and speaking dead words from a dead god.

The Alar Molokrán laughed. “You are a coward beneath your cloak of courage,” he said. “Rúathar is no more. What Ardúnar will fight for you now?”

“I will,” came a voice to Ifferon’s right, a voice fair and strong, with a hint of fire. All eyes turned, even those of the Molokrán, if they had eyes. Then Geldirana emerged from the bunker that led into the secret passages up the mountain, followed by a handful of Garigút warriors, male and female. She carried her own Ilokrán aloft, and the Alar Ardúnar recoiled.

“You did not have the High when I did,” she said, “but your brother remembers me.” She instinctively knew which of the twelve other shapes of darkness was the previous Alar Molokrán, the one whom she faced at the siege of Nahragor. He recoiled from her, for he was weaker now, while she was still strong.

But Geldirana was not the Alar Ardúnar of the Snow Moon. The peak of her power had come and gone, and it was now waning. Even Rúathar, whose moon was sooner, could not face the Alar Molokrán alone and live. Yet Geldirana was not alone. Beside her now stood Ifferon, holding out his Ilokrán.

“Dehilasü baeos!” he cried again, and the cry was stronger. Some heard the hint of Telm’s own death-cry, the force of which had banished Agon to the Underworld. “Begone!”

Together the two Ilokrán were like the twin lights of the sun and the moon. Geldirana’s golden hair sparkled and billowed, and about Ifferon shone the shimmering white armour of Telm. To the Molokrán it almost seemed as though Ilios and Uldarus were before them, gleaming yellow and white.

But though the sun and moon brighten the day and the night, the darkness still survives their light, hiding in the crags and hollows of the ground, and in the crags of hollows of people’s hearts.

“Your friend is dead,” the Alar Molokrán said with satisfaction. “Nature answers to the shadow.”

Some of the Al-Ferian guards cried out. Some cursed the darkness, and some prayed to Éala that Rúathar’s tree might grow strong. Some of those who cowered now came out from their hiding places to avenge their fallen leader.

But the Molokrán could not be vanquished so easily. The Al-Ferian who charged towards them were thrown back, and some were even thrown over the edge of the mountain. One of the guards struck Geldirana and Ifferon, knocking them to the ground and knocking the Ilokrán from their hands.

Then the Alar Molokrán drew up tall and settled his intent gaze upon Théos upon the stone table, and they saw also the Wisdomweavers who tried to continue the ritual despite their mounting fear. To the Molokrán it seemed that the boy was laid out in feast—and they were hungry.

Then Délin Trueblade stepped before them.

Though he could not see it, Délin could gauge where the shadow stood, and could feel its imposing presence, like a tall dark tower upon a pale mountain. “Lamarin!” he cried, and he charged towards the shadow. “For the Lady!” His footfalls were like thunder, and his two-handed sword was like lightning, slashing this way and that, and flashing in the gloaming. He sliced through the darkness, and there was a deathly wail upon the wind; the Molokrán could not die, perhaps, but they could still feel the knight’s wrath, could still feel the pain that he could inflict.

But the pain only kindled their own wrath, and they seized him and threw him, as if he were not a tall, broad knight in heavy plate armour, but a small rag doll cast aside by a child. He crashed against one of the pillars on the eastern side of the courtyard, and there was a clamorous clang as his armour struck the ground. He groaned from the pain and rolled onto his back.

Then they lunged upon him.

In a flurry and frenzy, he felt the darkness take hold of him with whatever claws or hands they formed from the shade. It felt like many probing fingers, long and sharp and icy cold. He could see nothing but a shimmer, as if the very clouds above him were assaulting him from the sky. He felt like he was being mauled by the Felokar wolves of the Morbid Mountains, but this was worse, for fell though those beasts were, the Molokrán were like death itself, and their touch was not warm, but a type of cold that he knew would forever haunt his bones. He struggled and fought, though he was bruised and battered, and he felt the darkness begin to swallow him, and the fires of his struggle begin to wane. Death was coming.

In those agonising moments it seemed that none would come for him, that he was alone with the shadow, waiting for the inevitable, and that he would not live, and would not see Théos live again. This, he thought, was his greatest sorrow, his greatest regret, and he would have died happy if he had been there for that, if his faith in the world had been restored.

But the end did not yet come, for Ifferon, attired in the shimmering armour of Telm, seized the shadow that had seized Délin, and the Molokrán knew then why Telm was once called the Lighthand, for as their hands froze, so did his hands burn, like light scalds the shadow. They winced and recoiled, and they turned to Ifferon in shock, as if Telm really had returned. For a moment it seemed that they did not know what to do, to attack or flee, or to attempt to resume their onslaught against the knight, that the Trueblade, at least, would never be a threat again. Suddenly then they launched towards Ifferon, but this time he surprised even himself, for he parried their blows. A glimmering light surrounded the Ilokrán in his hand, larger than the shape of the Shadowstone, as if indeed it had turned into the fabled shield that Telm bore to battle. The Molokrán’s frenzied blows bounced off it, and Ifferon lunged the Scroll towards them like the sharpened edge of Daradag.

“Dehilasü baeos!” he bellowed.

The shadow backed away, like they had done when they confronted Telm a thousand years before, and Ifferon for once did not feel fear or doubt, for he felt powerful.

But the Molokrán were not brute servants of evil, but a greater type of evil that is devious and cunning. While they feigned fear before Ifferon, allowing him his moment of prideful triumph, the Alar Molokrán was using his power over nature, seizing and summoning many evil birds that circled the area, calling them to the Mountain Fortress like a Magus calls the rain.

In moments the evil fowl were upon them, dark of wing and red of eye. They paid no heed to the glimmering armour of Telm, for their talons scratched and their beaks shredded. Ifferon fell to the ground, shielding his face, and his hands were scraped and clawed. Then more birds came, until all who stood against the Molokrán now fought their evil pets. Al-Ferian guards swiped at them with their staves, Geldirana swung at them with her mace, Thalla scalded them with her hands of fire, and Délin batted them aside as he raced to Théos to shield him from the flurry. Ifferon was overcome by them and could do naught but curl into a ball and cower.

Then more birds joined the fray, and Ifferon thought it would be the end of them, ruined by nature, but these fowl were called by Thúalim, returning to the Mountain Fortress from the assault upon the siege engines in the valley bellow. They were fairer in colour and brighter in eye, but their talons were still strong, and their beaks were still sharp. Suddenly they came upon the other birds like a whirlwind, and they knew them as traitors and turncoats, forgoing the old oaths and bowing down to a master that was not the sky, but the shadows of the earth. The tumult was deafening. The turmoil was harrowing. In those moments the guards did not know who or what to swing for, and anyone who was not scratched by birds, evil and good, was struck by dead ones that fell like a hailstorm.

Amidst the furore, the Molokrán stalked the courtyard, and even Ifferon could barely see them, for black, brown and grey feathers fluttered before his eyes, a tornado of plumage. As he clambered to his feet, he realised that the armour of Telm was no longer around him, and that the Ilokrán and Scroll had been knocked from his hands, his weapons cast aside in the fray. Through the frenzy, the Molokrán hunted him. A Child of Telm, not Telm himself; just another man, not a Céalar.

He knew it—and the Molokrán knew it as well.

Ifferon searched about for the Ilokrán and the Scroll, his only weapons. He could barely see anyone or anything around him in the thick of the battle, and so he ducked from the chaos of beak and talon, bowing low to the ground to escape the bloodshed up above. Yet the blood dripped upon him, and the bodies of friendly and evil birds fell together, some landing around him and some upon him. Through this he crawled along the ground, as the Molokrán crawled along behind him.

Up ahead, near the eastern side of the courtyard, which looked out into the misty valley below, Ifferon saw both the Ilokrán, resting in a pile of other stones, and the Scroll, lodged in a crevice dangerously close to an opening that dropped down off the mountain. He hurried towards them, even as the shadow hurried after him.

In an agonising moment he reached his hand to the Ilokrán, and his fingers failed to grasp it. He reached again as the great shadow of the Molokrán cast its own shadow upon him, and he seized it just in time. He turned, holding it out to the darkness, piercing it with the light of Telm the Lighthand. There was a shriek, and several birds were felled from the noise, as if it were a vocal venom. The shadow backed away.

Ifferon reached out his other hand to the Scroll, and the tips of his fingers grazed the burnt edges of the parchment. He extended his arm again, but this time he only pushed the Scroll further away, dislodging it from the rubble that held it in place, freeing it for the wind, which did what he could not, seizing it and taking it, and carrying it through the few remaining birds, where it might be shredded in the bitter pecking and scratching.

Before Ifferon could see what had become of it, the Molokrán drew near once more, and now there were few to oppose them, for all allies were battered and bloodied by the birds.

“Telm has but one gift to give,” the Alar Molokrán said with a sigh. “Death. He perished, and you carry his blood, which shall also perish, for death is his heirloom, and the living are the heirs. Claim now your birthright.”

He drew close, closer than the Ilokrán should have allowed, if it were more than just a Lesser Shadowstone, and Ifferon felt the cold breath upon his face, if it were truly air and not the noxious fumes of the dead. He felt the cold begin to travel through him like a serpent inside his bowels, and he thought that he would join the lifeless.

But Geldirana lit up like a beacon, like she had done back at Nahragor, and like Rúathar had done before his death in the forest. Thus the Molokrán were drawn to her, as darkness is always fascinated by the light. They abandoned Ifferon, who had almost abandoned hope, and they drifted towards the Garigút woman like a ship drifts toward a lighthouse—and towards the dangerous rocks.

Geldirana held her mace to the sky, and a bolt of lightning flashed down towards it and out at the Molokrán. It was not the working of Thúalim, but it angered the shadow all the same. The Molokrán darted forth and struck Geldirana, throwing her back into a group of Al-Ferian soldiers, who collapsed from the blow. Ifferon leapt to his feet and lashed out at the shadow, but he too was cast back, and he struck the stone bed upon which Théos lay, and upon which the Ferhassan stood precariously close to the edge.

The Ferhassan toppled over. In those tiny moments, where time slowed as if Chránán himself had stepped upon the earth, many faces contorted in panic, many guards ran towards the falling box, and Délin leapt to the ground to catch it. It struck the index finger of the knight’s right hand, and he tried to grab it, but it slipped further and smashed upon the floor. Pieces of the wood flung in all directions, and one was thrown towards the Alar Molokrán. It struck the shadow like a boulder from a catapult, for the shadow was pushed back. The sheer power of the tree’s memories, of the presence of the Elad Éni in the Time Before Time, made the shadow realise that there was something worse than darkness, and it was the nothingness of the Void.

The Molokrán withdrew, as they had done when Théos first revealed himself not only as a Child of Telm, but as Corrias Incarnate. Everything was a flutter of shadow as they fled, and to those who could see the Shadowspirits, they saw them plummeting over the edge of the mountain, into the pockets of fog that still dappled the landscape around. For a moment the fear remained, until that too was cast into the valley below.

Délin sat upon the ground, holding the shards of the Ferhassan in his hands. He looked up, and sorrow was in one eye, anger in the other. Those eyes were like the moon and the sun, Uldarus and Ilios, united together in their melancholy. Everyone in the courtyard of the Mountain Fortress felt this same misery, for if Uldarus brightened the night and Ilios illuminated the day, together they shone on all. The light revealed the darkness more clearly.

“So much for our attempt to control fate,” Ifferon said as he clambered up, rubbing his bruised back. “It is in vain.”

“It seems like every effort we make turns against us,” Thalla said.

“Perhaps,” Délin said, and he stirred from the ground. “But I will not give up hope. Had Rúathar not constructed this Ferhassan, then its destruction would not have frightened off the Molokrán. It would have been our destruction then.”

“But maybe it has only delayed our destruction,” Thalla said.

“Long enough for us to fight,” Délin replied. He hauled himself to his feet, using the stone bed for support, and he placed the shards of the Ferhassan upon it, around the body of Théos like token offerings to the gods. “Lamar í Lamon.”

“What then do we do?” Ifferon asked.

“We continue to defend the boy,” Geldirana said as she rejoined them, brushing dust and dirt from her clothes. “I would not have Rúathar die in vain, nor any of the people of Iraldas. The Molokrán are gone for now, and hopefully the Ferhassan fragments will bide us the time we need, but I harried only a handful of the Nahamoni in the fields below. Many yet live, and now that the Mountain Fortress is no longer bombarded, I think it rather telling.”

“They are coming this way,” Ifferon said as he realised her train of thought.

“Yes, and we best be ready for them, for no relics of the gods will scare off mortal men.” She turned and surveyed the aftermath. “Why are there so few Al-Ferian here?”

“They are in hiding,” Thúalim said.

“Hiding?” she asked in disgust. “Who hides from the enemy at the door?”

“The women and children.”

“So they can die more easily once the fighters are dead?”

“We are not all like the Garigút,” Thúalim said, and he looked from Geldirana to Ilokana and the other older men and women who had survived the siege of Nahragor. Ifferon noted the stern glares and grim faces that looked back at him.

“We have a handful here,” Geldirana said. “Look out on the plains below, and look further to the hosts that emerge from the forests, bolstered constantly by a great army marching from Nahlin. We need every able body, and that is a body that can swing a sword, axe or mace, to come out here and help us fight for everyone in this world.”

Ifferon knew that Rúathar would not have obliged, but Thúalim was more reckless a leader than he, and he seemed to understand the need for warriors of any kind, even if they would end up as mere distractions, or a shield of flesh for the more battle-hardened troops. Ifferon was concerned for the people of Alimror, but he was also concerned for himself, and if he were offered a place in the bunkers instead of some other weak fool, he thought it likely that he would take it, and all the guilt that came with such a cowardly position.

Thúalim ordered the guards to open the bunkers and bring out the strongest of the people there, many of whom were very old, or very young. Only the oldest, whose skin had turned almost like bark, and so begun their transformation into trees a little early, were left behind with the younger children, but anyone over the age of twelve, or who just looked older, was hauled out of the safety of the bunkers and given a weapon.

“I want to fight!” Affon called as she was pushed back into her bunker. “Let me fight,” she screamed, and she fought the guards, kicking and biting them, to prove her point.

“Let her fight,” Geldirana said, and Ifferon recalled how Geldirana had told him that she started fighting almost since the day she was born, that she was not nursed and waited on like the pampered children of the settled Bororians, nor the even more pampered children of the royal house. She was left with another group of children at the age of five to fend for themselves in the Loftwood Forest, where they had to learn to hunt or die. Of the ten children left there, only three had survived. Geldirana was one of them. Two boys had also lived, but one of them had survived by scavenging scraps from the others, and when the elders heard of this they took him far into the mountains and left him there alone, where heat could not be scavenged in the cold of night. Geldirana did not know what had happened to him, only that his name was Ralon, and that he most likely died. All that mattered to her was that she had lived.

“Everyone who wants to fight should fight,” Geldirana said.

“No,” Thúalim replied. “She is a child.”

“That will not stop the Nahamoni from killing her if we die and there are none left to defend the bunkers.”

“She is a Child of Telm,” Thúalim said.

Geldirana pointed towards the body of Théos. “So was he,” she said. “It means nothing to have the blood of the Warrior-king if you are not a warrior.” She glanced at Ifferon, and he felt her admonishing gaze.

“I will not allow it,” the Al-Ferian said, and he ushered the guards to close the doors. Affon was pushed back, still kicking and screaming, and the metal doors were slammed tight. The guards heaved great stones upon them, so that a searching enemy would not so easily find the entrances, for the stones looked like natural formations of the mountain, aided by the magic of Thúalim.

*  *  *

Ifferon suddenly realised that he had not sought the Scroll, that the chaos had forced it from his mind, like Agon would have it done. Foolish, he thought.

His eyes wandered across the courtyard, where the Al-Ferian were taking away the carcasses of birds and cleaning up the blood that seeped into the stone. He knew they would not discard the Scroll, but he hoped it was not splattered red, for many of the words were already illegible around the charred edges.

Then he spotted it.

A large crow, black and dappled red, stood on the edge of an opening in the fortress walls, perched on the window sill with the Scroll unfurled before it, part of it wedged between its beak, the rest billowing like a flag.

Ifferon froze, for he thought movement might frighten the bird away. Then he realised by its cruel glare that it was looking straight at him, with mockery in its eyes. It had sat there through their discussions and their planning, listening carefully and watching all of them, judging their strength. It sat there with the Scroll, waiting for Ifferon to realise it was still missing, so that he could see it being taken away.

“The Scroll,” Ifferon whispered to the others. Some ignored him, but Délin and Geldirana looked up, their eyes alert. They looked to Ifferon and then to where he was staring, and they saw in horror that one of the evil birds had survived, and that it had taken a valuable token from the battle.

“We cannot get to it in time,” Délin said softly.

“We need an archer,” Geldirana said.

“I can shoot it,” Thalla told them, “but I need a bow.”

Thúalim nodded and backed away slowly to the armoury. The guards there helped him rummage through the weapons for a bow, which the Ferian and Al-Ferian seldom used, for arrows were always the enemies of birds, and most birds were the allies of the Ferian and Al-Ferian.

As Thúalim searched feverishly, Ifferon kept his gaze upon the bird. He wondered why it had not yet flown off, and he thought it was waiting for him to pounce, so that it could show how close he could get without succeeding. It was a kind of gloating that most birds would never do, and so he knew clearly that this one, large and menacing, was truly evil in its heart.

In time Thúalim produced a shortbow and a handful of arrows. He handed it to Thalla, and then he closed his eyes, calling out to the few good birds who had survived the battle. Thalla loaded an arrow and stretched the bow. The creaking wood drew the bird’s attention, and it saw the arrow as it shot towards it. It flew off. A handful of other birds raced after it, but some were injured, and others simply could not keep up. Thalla fired another arrow, but the bird vanished into the sky. Two more bows were taken from the storehouses, and the Al-Ferian guards fired them swiftly, but they were unpractised, and their aim was poor.

In moments the crow was gone, and the clatter of parchment against the wind could no longer be heard. The Scroll of Mestalarin, of the Last Words, was Ifferon’s no longer.

Ifferon sat down, cradling his head in his arms.

Délin approached him and put his hand upon his shoulder. “We all lose things in the battle against evil.” He turned and looked at Thalla, who had lost her mentor and her lover, then to Thúalim, who had lost his leader, then to Elithéa, who had lost her chance of a second life, and then finally to Théos, still sleeping the endless sleep. “Perhaps we can find it again.”

Geldirana approached, but Délin looked at her coldly.

“You still have your Ilokrán,” she said.

“You mean Rúathar’s?” Ifferon asked, looking up. “I still have it, yes, though I lost the one Melgalés gave to me.”

“Then you also have something they do not,” Geldirana said. “Your life.”

Ifferon nodded slowly and gulped back his tears. This was no time for despair. Everyone around him had been through as much hardship as him, if not more, and they were still standing, and still fighting. A thousand years before, when Telm felt his life slipping away, he did not resign or give in to self-pity; he used his last breath to imprison Agon.

Ifferon stood up, and he looked to the sky. It was dulling, but it was not yet dark. Through the murky grey he could see the sparkle of stars already shining, preparing for the onslaught of the night.

“Now I am without the Scroll,” he said. “My weapon.”

“Take a real weapon,” Délin said, handing him a sword. “The Dark Men do not bleed from words, even if they are the Last Words. Maybe when you learn to be a warrior without it, then when you reclaim it you can truly be a child of the Warrior-king.”

The night deepened, and the moon shone directly upon the cloister of the Mountain Fortress, as if it were betraying their location, or giving them better light for battle.

“Rest while you can,” Délin said, and he sat upon the chair near the stone bed where Théos lay. “But do not give in to slumber, for the nightmares are in this world tonight.”

They sat down and rested their aching limbs, and despite Délin’s words some began to doze, while others ate what little the Al-Ferian could pull from the storehouses without exposing the people hidden in the bunkers and caverns underneath. The food was dry and mostly tasteless, and Ifferon barely took a bite, for while his body needed energy, he could not stomach this strange food, and his fear of the next impending battle meant truly he could not stomach any food at all.

While some rested, others tried to bolster the broken door that led into the cloister. Wood was taken from anywhere that did not need it, and it was nailed across the opening, where it looked as though it would not survive long. Yet perhaps it would help those inside survive longer.

Thúalim and several of the Al-Ferian began to meditate, and they seemed much more restful because of it. The surviving Wisdomweavers continued their ritual, humming ancient verses and communing with nature, with the acorn in which Théos’ soul, and that of the god Corrias, now dwelt. Délin looked to them periodically to see if they were making progress, but he looked seldom to Théos, for it was clear the priests were not making progress enough.

Ifferon’s eyes were instead drawn by Geldirana, who looked at him harshly from time to time, and sometimes more softly between each glare. He could tell she had mixed feelings for him, and he was not surprised. He had mixed feelings about himself. He made a feeble attempt at a smile to her when their gazes met once more, but she did not return it. To her, nothing could be feebly done—she would smile a strong smile, or she would not smile at all. This night she did not smile.

*  *  *

Though all were prepared for the next onslaught, its sudden appearance caught most of them by surprise. There was a great roar of voices from outside the Mountain Fortress, chanting and screaming in dark and twisted tongues. The Nahamoni had returned, and by the tumult their voices made, they had returned in greater numbers.

“They are weak,” Geldirana said. “They may have many, but each of us is worth a thousand of them.”

Délin stood up and drew his two-handed sword. The steel rang out like the instruments of death. Around him other weapons were drawn, adding to the death cries. On the other side of the stone gate rose the clamorous sounds of a hateful army, a force that knew only one aim in life: to end the life of others.

And so they came.

The wooden barriers across the doorway shook and creaked as a battering ram was launched against them. Dust rose and fell like rain. Then the gate trembled again, and some of the guards behind it trembled in sympathy, for a great force of fear had struck the door—and struck their hearts. Yet Délin did not shake. Geldirana did not stir. Thalla did not move, and Thúalim remained in silent meditation. Even Ifferon did not quail, even though his mind was full of dark and frightful things. His body felt strong, as if he could finally feel the blood of Telm within him.

“How have they crossed the chasm you created?” Ifferon asked Thúalim.

Thúalim took what felt like a very long time to respond. He shook off the drowsiness of his meditation and looked with distant eyes to the cleric. “They have made a bridge of wood and iron.”

“Can you knock it down?”

“No,” Thúalim said. “I have spent myself too much already. There is some weather left in me, but not enough to knock down what they have constructed. I will save it for the Dark Men themselves.”

And so they came.

The gate broke open in a hail of wood and stone. Some ducked and dodged the debris, while others cast themselves at the flood of Nahamoni that came charging through, hammers and cleavers waving madly in the air.

Lightning crashed down from the heavens, striking dozens of the Dark Men, killing some and stunning others. All were temporarily blinded by the flash, friend and foe, and Délin found that his last sword swing was at nothing, for his enemy was already felled by the weather.

“Fight fair or not at all!” Délin shouted to Thúalim. “They might be serving an evil master, but the Dark Men still deserve to die with honour, not struck from afar by lightning they have not a hope to parry.”

“Then perhaps I will let them come,” Thúalim replied. “Then you can see if you can fend off the horde with your sword alone. Then you can wonder if they will think of honour when they reach for Théos with their blades.”

Délin grumbled like thunder. “Have at them with the sky,” he said.

Another bolt of lightning crashed down upon the cloister, and the battle in earnest began.

The Nahamoni bore self-inflicted scars across their faces and their bodies, and they wore little of clothes, so as to better show the wounds that attired them. Where there were no wounds, there were marks of ink, and where there were no wounds or ink, there were studs and rings and chains of metal. Their faces were painted for war, with black, red and blue, and those who had hair, for many had shaved it tight, tied it together with metal hoops and made it stand on end, so as to mimic the horns of the Bull-men of Arlin. They charged forth as if they were equally wild.

Ifferon stabbed and sliced at the Dark Men that came racing towards him. Though he had spent years mastering the use of a sword in his younger days, the feel of the blade felt odd to him now, and he thought it was not weighted properly, or perhaps he was just not used to the newer styles of sword. He was out of practice, without doubt, but with enemies approaching by the dozen, he soon got back into practice, and instinct took the rein of his hands.

Thalla stood on top of Elithéa’s cage, firing her bow at the Nahamoni who seemed fiercest and most deadly. Her arrows were few, however, so she was forced time and time again to leap down into the fray to reclaim them. Many times she narrowly dodged a swinging blade, and a few times she was forced to scald one of the Dark Men with her fiery hands if they came too close. Always she retreated back to the top of the cage, and frequently she found that Elithéa reached her hands out to pull arrows from the nearby fallen, which she handed to Thalla up above. At other times Elithéa simply broke the necks of any who strayed too near, or grabbed them and held them to the cage until they were defeated by an ally.

Geldirana swung around dexterously, her steps light and lithe, but the blows from her weapons heavy and crushing. She ducked and dodged, and any who dared to swing at her were greeted by a returning swing that knocked them to the ground, and knocked the life out of them. While most others stayed their ground and dug in deep, using bodies as barricades, Geldirana moved across the battlefield, cutting through where the enemy thronged thickest, parrying blows not parried by her comrades, and pummelling foes not pummelled by her friends.

Délin cleaved asunder a great many Nahamoni at the gate, where he had space enough to swing his great two-handed sword. The other defenders left him to it, for fear they might be sundered also, and the sheer shock of seeing ten Dark Men fall in a single blow sent some of the enemy fleeing back across the bridge they had hastily constructed.

Time battled on, the minutes murdering other minutes, until it felt like there was no time left to kill. Wave after wave of the Nahamoni came through the gate, pushing against the defenders, and time after time the defenders pushed them back. Bodies fell upon bodies, building walls of their own, and the survivors were forced to clamber up on top of them to fight once more, standing upon the little grains of sand in a mounting hourglass.

The defenders of the Mountain Fortress still swung and parried for a time when the last of the Nahamoni fell dead, almost swinging their maces and blades into their kin, and parrying the blows of other friendly weapons that almost struck them. The last of the dead fell, and then some of the injured fell, and then finally the weapons fell, and silence fell upon them all.

“So it is won,” Geldirana said as she peered into the valley below, where she could see the few remaining Dark Men retreating.

Délin looked outside the gate, which was now deserted. “The battle is won,” he said. He looked then to Théos and the Wisdomweavers, who were now reduced even more in number, for several had been struck in the chaos that went before. Still they recited and still they conducted the ritual, and still Théos lay motionless.

*  *  *

The moonlight faded, and with it went their vigour. The night drew in like a blanket, pulled tight across them all, and many collapsed into a much-deserved sleep. For some, however, the battle still raged in their minds, and Ifferon and Geldirana sat alone near the broken gate.

“You fought well,” Geldirana told him.

Ifferon knew how high a compliment this was, and how long it had been since he had heard it last. He slew the Derakar of Remradi when last she spoke such words of praise.

“And you,” he said. “Though you always do.”

She gave a hint of a smile, as if she wanted him to guess her feelings.

“You know,” Ifferon remarked. “I met a girl here who is just like you, or what I imagine you were like when you were a child.”

Geldirana shifted in her seat, withdrawing her face into the shadows, where the mystery of her feelings might go unsolved.

“She reminded me so much of you,” Ifferon continued. “The strength, the vigour, the passion. Yet you are wiser—and stronger, and more vigorous, and more passionate.”

Perhaps she gave another clue upon her lips, but he could not see it. He felt like going on, listing more of her wonderful attributes, but he thought he might seem like he was mocking her, and he knew well not to mock her.

“What is her name?” Geldirana asked at last.

“Affon,” he replied. “A boy’s name.”

“If boys can own it,” she said. “Or do it justice.”

“I think she will own all the boys,” Ifferon said with a chuckle, remembering the battered Ferian twins.

“And her mother?” Geldirana probed.

“I do not know. I presume she died like most other Children of Telm.”

“If she were a Child of Telm.”

Ifferon paused for a moment. “Yes,” he managed. “I guess I did not think much of this. It might have been her father.”

“And of him?” Geldirana asked.

“Again, I do not know.”

“Perhaps you do,” she said.

He drew closer to her, and she drew closer to him, at last revealing the features of her face, wherein lied the answer to her feelings, if he dared to look more deeply.

“Do you not see it?” she quizzed.

Ifferon began to see, but he was afraid to admit what he thought he saw. “The clearsight does not help with all things.”

“She is my daughter, Ifferon,” Geldirana said. “She is your daughter too.”

XVII – A GRAVE REUNION

Melgalés planned and pondered, crafting plots and conjuring schemes as if from the wellspring of magic itself. He thought himself greatly clever at times, and thought himself not clever enough at others, for every idea that sprang to life leapt quickly to its death in the realisation that he was not yet powerful enough to see it through.

As he battled with his mind like this for a time, he began to notice strange noises on the edge of hearing, and he thought that they were taps and scraping from the edge of existence. He wondered if he was going mad, or if the Gatekeeper was toying with him, and he hoped that it was either one of these, for the alternatives were more terrifying.

Then Melgalés felt something crawling up behind him, like a spider emerging from its web, or a figure emerging from a nightmare. He turned slowly, for time seemed to have dulled even more than normal in the depths of Halés. His eyes met with a shadowy form, emerging from the gloom, and the gloom recoiled from it, as if the very darkness was frightened of the creature.

Then the eyes of the Magus met with a sight he did not expect, nor want, to see: amidst the disfigured limbs and rotting flesh of the demon standing before him was the face of Teron, the face of the head-cleric who had consigned him to this fate. Over the years he had known him, he had grown to loathe him, and yet he never felt such loathing as he did now when faced with this hateful, twisted form.

Melgalés stood frozen, his eyes wide in horror. The shock silenced him. There were simply no words fitting for the hideous hulk before him, no words that would dare to describe how a monster of a man had become just a monster.

“Good of you to join me,” Teron said, and his voice was as derisive as ever. “I hope you find this abode to your liking.” He forced a smile, but Melgalés looked away, for Teron’s mouth was mangled. He looked more like the Karisgors he had fought in Ardún-Fé than a man, and yet still beneath the corrupted flesh was the soul of Teron—and it was more rotten.

“So Iraldas is free of you,” Melgalés said at last. “Yes, it is, but now Halés has become cursed with your presence. I knew you carried hate for me, but I did not think you would follow me into the grave.”

“As ever, you think highly of yourself,” Teron said. “I would blame the Ardúnari, were you not already in love with your own voice before you drank of the Elixir of Life. And look, death came to you all the same. For all your supposed wisdom, for the clearsight you claim, you did not see the Molok-runes on my letter to you, and you did not see death coming for you, for you were drunk on your own self-importance, a fool wearing the costume of the wise.”

Melgalés instinctively reached for one of the beads in his braided hair. There was some comfort in its touch, even if there was no real sense of touch in this twilight place. “So, have you taken this demonic form so you can mock me with words? I remember you were good enough at that in your other form, yes, I remember.”

Teron laughed, and even though his body was not his own, his laughter was truly his, for it was scornful and mocking, and its sound struck the ears like a lash. “So you are dead,” he said, “but not yet in your dotage.”

“I still live,” Melgalés said. “Yes, I still live.”

“You can say it as many times as you want,” Teron said, “but it still will not be true. Yet I did not follow you to death, for I am not truly dead. I was promised life eternal, and so I have claimed what was owed to me.”

“If you were promised a body, I think you were swindled. Yes, swindled. Even your decrepit form in Iraldas was better than what you live in now.”

Teron’s eyes flared and his face bulged, the muscles distorting through the force of anger. His features were buried beneath a multitude of boils and blisters, and as he moved and spoke, some would ooze puss and others would bloat to great sizes, as if there were something deep inside trying desperately to get out. There was a putrid smell that wafted up from every pustulent pore, and even the dead were not immune to the horrid stench.

Teron was so flustered that he could barely muster the words to speak. It seemed that he was fighting against his own body, as if his very limbs were not his own. They twitched and spasmed, and it looked as though he could at any moment explode. Melgalés did not want to be anywhere nearby when that sickening moment happened.

“For once, Teron has no speech,” the Magus observed. “Did you not prepare a sermon for me today?”

Teron struggled with his bulbous form once more, his lips contorting and flapping over one another as the words caught like phlegm in his throat. “I am glad you are dead,” he managed, and the bile in his mouth, and in the words themselves, showed clearly that he meant it. Indeed, if the Common Tongue were powerful enough to curse, and were Melgalés not already cursed by the Molok-runes, Teron would have used his words to bring some spell of death upon the Magus.

The head-cleric regained his composure, pulling back his contorted features until they looked like the aged man again, like some old painting of him that he hoped would last forever. Even though the frame was hideous, the picture itself still had an elegance that Teron always had, a kind of poise that made people wonder if he were descended from some ancient line of kings. It was a false grace, for Teron himself was the painter, and he used many shades to hide the blotches and blemishes of his soul.

“You are evil,” Melgalés said. “There are some who do things for greed, for riches and wealth, and some who do things for vengeance, for blood and glory. But you—you do not even just do these things to better yourself, for what is better about you now? No, you do them for some kind of enjoyment, for some kind of pleasure in the pain. Has Agon made you in his image?”

Teron blinked, expressionless. “If this were Agon’s form, you would be cowering. If I were his image, you would be kneeling. Perhaps then you would not be so sure of yourself or your loyalties. Perhaps then even you, faultless and blameless, would swear allegiance to the Beast.”

“I would rather die.”

Teron smiled, one of the few real smiles he had stowed away deep inside. “So you have. It is interesting how so many in Iraldas proclaim that they do not fear death, because they know that it is not the end, that they will go to the Halls and see again their families of old. But you and I know more about the second death, the real death, the one where there are no Halls, no loved ones—the one that really is the end. Are you so certain that you would rather die, truly die, than realise that sometimes we must serve another master?”

Melgalés felt a seed of doubt inside him, and he was startled and unsettled by it, for he thought himself resolute against the darkness. He felt suddenly caught off guard. The words in his mouth dried up. The thoughts in his head slithered back into the shadow. For a moment he stood still and felt almost empty, with nothing inside but that little, gnawing seed of doubt.

“I am not the enemy,” Teron said, and his voice was velvet. “If anything I am just a messenger. You are a Magus, Mehlalesh, so you should know that it is not as easy as good and evil, that the real world does not play like ilokadi, black against white, blue against red. It is not as simple as a winner and a loser. There are a lot of blended shades in this world. I am just part of the grey.”

Suddenly a spark lit in Melgalés’ mind, lighting as soon as Teron had called his name in the Bororian tongue, his true name when he first entered the world. His thoughts returned, and he suddenly became aware that Teron was casting a spell of sway upon him, that there really was a seed of doubt there, but that Teron was the planter, tilling the soil of his being with his words. Once Melgalés realised this, the seed was shattered, and suddenly the ugliness of Teron was more apparent once again.

“There are blues and reds, yellows and greens, indigos and violets, and so many other colours in the world,” Melgalés said. “And yes, there are even greys and other muddied colours. But you are none of them, for there is no colour that can describe you. You are a nothingness—yes, an emptiness—and something evil has taken up residence in the shell of your being, the husk you think is a soul. There is no home for you but the Void.”

Teron’s eyes grew dark, as if a shadow was moving behind them, and now there was a different kind of hatred welling inside of him, a kind of loathing that even Men could not muster from the darkest parts of their hearts.

“Do you not grieve for what you have done?” Melgalés asked, and he felt somewhat futile in asking it, knowing what little was left of what Teron might have been in his younger days. “Do you not regret anything? You sent people to their deaths, yes, to their dooms. Poor Belnavar, whom you should have thought dear. Do you not regret any of your evil deeds?”

“I only have one regret,” Teron said, and he paused as the darkness deepened in his eyes. “That I did not get the chance to kill you with my own hands.”

“You could try now,” Melgalés replied. “But then they would not be your hands, would they?”

Teron stepped forward, his bloated foot landed heavily on the ground. Melgalés saw the discoloured nails, overgrown and curled, but immediately his eyes were drawn back to Teron’s hands, for the head-cleric held them before him, away from the shadows. The light revealed the bits and pieces of fingers, the stumps of fingers, the ragged nails that made even those on his feet look normal, and the pulsing sores and scars that seemed to gather on top of one another.

“Your own hands do not look so bad now, do they?” Melgalés said. “They were old and wrinkled, sure enough—yes, many wrinkles—but they were the hands of Man. What are you now but a monster?”

Melgalés had barely spoken the taunt before Teron lunged at him with those very hands, grasping him around the neck. They fell to the floor, Teron clutching so tightly that his curved nails began to dig into the flesh and muscles of the Magus’ throat. There was no true skin to pierce, no flesh to feel, and yet Melgalés felt it all like any mortal would, and felt it deeper as the nails began to pierce into his soul.

“These hands?” Teron spat, and the spit landed upon Melgalés’ face. “These ones?”

The Magus struggled, bashing at the body of Teron, but his strength was already fading—and Teron was strong. More than ever Melgalés wished he were facing the Man he knew in Iraldas, and more than ever he wished he could have his Beldarian and knock the head-cleric away with a spell of displacement. Instead he struggled, bashing and clawing and striking, until he started to feel his eyes roll back in his head, until he started to feel something begin to swallow him up from inside.

“You think that because you are dead there is nothing worse than this?” Teron shouted, and there was pain in his words. “There is always something worse. I have seen some of it. I have seen some of what awaits the world above. You would pray for the second death to save your eyes the pain, to save your soul the scars.”

But Melgalés mustered his last remaining strength and drove his own nails into some of the blisters and sores on Teron’s face. He dug in deep, and as Teron screamed and loosened his own grip on the Magus’ neck, Melgalés regained some lost strength, and so he dug in deeper. The head-cleric howled as parts of his face began to explode, and then he fell back into a heap, as if he were a pile of bodies upon a battlefield. He screamed and pawed his face, but then he cried even louder as his own hands made the pain even worse, and so he shrieked and wailed for a time, until finally he sobbed and snivelled. There was nothing kingly or elegant about him now.

Melgalés struggled to his feet, coughing as he tried to regain his breath. He rubbed his tender neck, red and raw, and flinched from the touch. He gulped and swallowed hard, and he winced from the pain. He coughed again as Teron whimpered.

“You are a fool, Mehlalesh!” Teron shouted, turning to him with eyes of rage. “You always have been. You toyed with magic all your life, and no wonder you look younger than your age, for you are still a child in mind. The Aelora grow old prematurely, while you grow young, and to insult them even more you take of the Elixir of Life in their very homeland. So the fools inherit the world, while the truly wise watch on.”

It took many attempts for Teron to clamber to his feet, and each one was a horror to behold.

“I am a fool in many things,” Melgalés admitted. He spoke slowly while massaging his neck, but still the words came out broken and hoarse. “Perhaps I was a fool to not consider the fate of my Beldarian, and I was definitely a fool to trust that you, who would stoop down to Agon himself, would send me a letter in good faith, without resorting to foul curses like the Molok-runes. But I am not the only fool, no.”

Teron’s eyes were filled with fire, and Melgalés glowered back. Then more eyes joined the standoff, for behind Melgalés emerged the red eyes of many Felokar wolves. They growled and showed their teeth, which carried the blood of the living and whatever filled the veins of the dead.

“I am willing to die,” Melgalés said. “Even the second death. That is why I was chosen as an Ardúnar. You are afraid to die—and that is why you have guaranteed it.”

Teron began to run, but the Felokar wolves were upon him in seconds. He stumbled and cast some of them off, knocking them away with his mutated arms. He knew he could not fight for long, however, and so he ran towards the vast opening, where it seemed that he could smell the fresh breeze of the world of Iraldas. Melgalés did not pursue him, but the Felokar wolves did. Yet they did not need to chase him for long, for as he neared the opening the great wolf Echarin awoke and lunged at him, catching his butchered body in his jaws. Teron screamed as the monstrous teeth sliced into him, tore through the demon form into the demon soul beneath.

“Death,” Teron coughed, “brings Agon closer.” He parted from the Underworld, his hulking form slumping upon the ground like another sacrifice, another offering to the Beast. A sudden chill came into the cavern, a wind from the nothingness of the Void, and it took Teron’s soul and crushed it, and then consumed it, swallowed every aspect and essence of his being, until there was nothing left but the memories people had of him—and there were few who wanted to remember him.

“So Teron is gone then,” the Gatekeeper said, his voice wafting through the chambers to Melgalés’ ears.

“Let us hope,” Melgalés said. “I would not like to see him again in an even uglier form. I do not know which was worse, the man or the beast. Perhaps the man, for he did much damage in that form.”

“And who knows what damage he has done in this,” the Gatekeeper said, and suddenly it seemed that the Gatekeeper knew more than he was letting on, revelling in the events as they unfolded, like an onlooker in a game of ilokadi. It was not clear which side, if any, he was rooting for.

“I cannot worry about what might have been,” Melgalés said. “Teron was a threat in life, though he veiled it, and so he seemed also a threat in death, and such could not be veiled. Whatever comes of his passing, we will have to face it. I only hope this is the last we will see of Teron.”

“That is one thing I can assure,” the Gatekeeper said. “The second death is final. None recover from it. While my brethren and sistren were imprisoned in the Void, Teron’s soul has been utterly destroyed. There is nothing left of him but the memories people have, and the mark he left upon the world.”

“Then he has left behind evil,” Melgalés said. “For that is what people will remember of him, and that is the tarnish he has left upon Iraldas, if not also here in Halés.”

“If not also,” the Gatekeeper said slyly.

Melgalés did not ask him what he meant, for he could tell by his tone that he would not answer, or would answer only in infuriating riddles, which were, perhaps, the only pastime for one in charge of the Gates of the Underworld. “Why is it then that the Elad Éni can survive in the Void, when the Void to all others is the end of everything?” he asked instead.

“Because they went willingly, so that others could live, though Corrias did not honour the pact he made. There are six locked in the Void, the leaders of the Elad Éni, three male and three female.”

“And you?”

“And me, though I am both and neither. Death is equal to all.”

“Except to the Old Ones,” Melgalés said.

“Chránán is the Lord of the Shadow of Time. Time is Death and the forerunner of Death, foredooming it for us all. When the Time runs out, we must all pass away. When the Time runs out, even Chránán will be no more, for how can he exist when Time itself dies? Even I will one day enter the Halls.”

“Who will be the Gatekeeper then?”

The Gatekeeper smiled his formless smile. “None of us will ever know.”

Melgalés began to wonder about the passing of time and how potentially meaningless it was. As if reading his thoughts, the Gatekeeper drew close and told him of the nature of things, of concepts he could barely wrap his mind around.

“The Time is great and vast,” the Gatekeeper said. “It stretches from one end to the other, and you call the line it forms ‘the Universe.’ Upon this line are many dots. You call them Iraldas, Althar and Halés, and there are others you know nothing of—and never will. To you the dots seem like unimaginable and almost endless lines. To us they are fleeting specks. The Time is great and vast, and so many ages will come and go, and even the ages themselves will think that Time is endless.”

The Magus thought long about this, and the Gatekeeper gave him time, if there was truly any to give, to come to terms with his tiny place amidst the multitudes and the magnitudes. At first Melgalés felt somewhat diminished by this, but after a while he became more resolute and defiant, recognising how a pebble can cause ripples that traverse a great distance, or how a movement in one place can cause an earthquake in another.

“Time might be all the things you say,” Melgalés acknowledged, “but it is more to us—yes, more. Time is a way of measuring our contribution to the world, and its short duration ensures we try to make a contribution all the sooner. Time is a prison, and yet timelessness is also its own jail—to each, the other is the key. I think that in the end we all, gods and mortals, share in some predicament, though it might wear a different guise.”

“So the Magi know a thing or two,” the Gatekeeper said with a hint of hatred. “That will be reassuring to the people of Iraldas, I presume.”

“Yes,” Melgalés said. “And something that does not reassure you.”

There was a grumble of sorts, though not quite a sound. The Gatekeeper retreated into whatever formless place it called its home, and Melgalés no longer felt its imposing presence. He was relieved, and yet now he felt more vulnerable than before, as if he were no longer protected by an ancient power.

Melgalés found that he was more aware of his surroundings. The reds were redder. The ground was tougher. Suddenly he thought he saw the shimmer of a shadow that looked darker than shadows should. He turned, but all that was there was the red rock of the walls of Halés. Then he thought he heard a rumble in the distance, from deep beneath him—from the dark and lonely chambers where Agon was chained.

XVIII – JUDGEMENT OF THE CÉALARI

The battle was over, but it was not yet won, even as dawn broke over the horizon. Bodies were the new bricks of the Mountain Fortress, and blood was the new cement. The surviving Al-Ferian tarried long into the night to clean the cloister where the Wisdomweavers still toiled. The work was hard, for there were not enough guards left, and there were many dead. The hardest work of all was dragging away the corpses of fellow men and women, those who might have otherwise joined the aftermath. It would take many nights to clean the blood from the stone. It would take many years to clean the blood from their memories.

“There will be a new forest from this,” Thúalim said as he looked upon the rising mound of Al-Ferian bodies in the corner. “All in the guard have promised their acorns to the ground.”

Ifferon watched as the guards checked the acorn pouches on the dead. It seemed to him that assurance that these were safe and sound was more important than what to do with the bodies themselves.

Thúalim must have seen his concern, for he said, “Their bodies will nourish the soil. They will help grow their own trees.”

“So it is not much different to our burials then,” Ifferon said. He was comforted by this, and yet the thought of burying the dead could bring no true comfort to the hearts of the living.

Ifferon was horrified to see that the Al-Ferian approach to the Nahliner dead was less civil. They were piled near the edge of the paths leading up the mountain, and every so often one of the larger guards would walk the paths and kick the bodies over the edge, where they plummeted into the valley far below—a valley already piled with bodies.

“They did evil in life, but they will do one good deed in death,” Thúalim said. “They will also nourish the soil. But no trees will grow from the armies of Agon.”

“Will none of your own return as Al-Ferian?” Ifferon asked.

“No,” Thúalim said. “All efforts are on Théos. After that the Wisdomweavers will have very little left of them to weave.”

Ifferon turned to the priests now, and he noticed how tired they had become. Some were resting by the windows, peering at the sky, or deep in dreams. Some still spoke their incantations, but they rested against the stone plinth upon which Théos lay. Others seemed to be only there in body, and barely so, mumbling along with the others, struggling against sleep. Ifferon began to wonder if they might fail in their quest not by battle, but by sheer exhaustion.

“Can they last the night?” Ifferon asked Thúalim.

“This is the last night of the ritual,” Thúalim said. “If they cannot last the night, then there is a darker night that we all must face, one that I doubt we can outlast.”

Many who fought in the battle were sombre, but the mood was lifted when people began to emerge from the bunkers. Some cheered that the siege was over, while others got straight to work helping the guards, tending to wounds and bringing food, or clearing the dead. The children were told to stay in the bunkers, but many refused, and there was too much work to be done, and too little sleep that was had, to stop them. Some of the children joined the scrubbing of the stones. In time there were few who had no blood upon their hands.

*  *  *

An Al-Ferian girl of no more than eight years approached Délin as he sat near the resting place of Théos. She stood there for a while in silence, clutching a toy tree made of wool. She scratched her head slowly and looked up at the knight with curious eyes.

“How can he sleep with all this noise?” she asked.

Délin sighed in his helmet. He had removed it from Théos’ head when the battle was over, and though he did not need it himself to ward off blows, he needed it to hide the tears. He could not find any satisfactory answer that he could give to the child.

The girl was undeterred by his silence. “I always need Branches or I cannot sleep.”

“What is Branches?” Délin asked.

She held up the woollen tree. It was crudely made, knitted together in different colours, with a large smiling mouth and two beady eyes. The knight could not help but smile a little when he saw it. Part of him wished that he could see a real tree like that. Even the beautiful and majestic trees of Alimror were not quite as heart-warming as the stuffed toy of a child.

“He is getting old now,” she said, holding up a loose thread.

“He still looks happy,” Délin said.

“He’s always happy. He lives with me in the woods. Trees are always happy in the woods.”

“So they are.”

She scratched her head again and looked at the toy wistfully. “He has a brother. Bark is his name. Maybe I can get him and the pale boy can have him to help him sleep.”

Délin bit his lip to stop it from trembling. “Yes,” he said. “I am sure he would like that.”

The girl had already scampered off before he finished the sentence. It was not long before she returned from one of the bunkers with another woollen tree. This one had different colours and a different shape, but it was just as happy as its brother.

“Do you think he’ll like it?” she asked as she held it before him.

Délin nodded. “Yes. He would like it.”

She stood on the tips of her toes and stretched across the stone plinth. Even then she could barely reach the boy. She placed the toy near Théos’ left hand, and as she did her fingers grazed his, and she backed away.

“His hands are cold,” she said.

“It is a cold night,” Délin replied.

“It will be warmer in the morning.”

“Yes,” the knight said.

“Is that why you wear your hat?”

Délin smiled. “No. This is to protect my head in battle.”

The girl seemed confused. “But the battle is over.”

“Yes,” Délin said. “You are right.” He removed the helmet slowly and placed it on the ground. “The battle is over.”

*  *  *

Affon marched about the cloister, proudly helping the Al-Ferian guards. She was strong for her age, and she made every effort to show that strength, hauling bodies and lifting broken bricks. Ifferon stood with Geldirana by the eastern windows, but their eyes were on Affon.

“Why did you not tell me?” Ifferon asked.

“I spoke aloud,” Geldirana replied, “but you were not there.”

“You knew where I was.”

“No, Ifferon. For a time I did not know where you were. When you disappeared I searched for you. No one knew where you had gone. After a while I feared that you were dead, that Agon’s forces had finally hunted you down. I wanted to accept your death, but I could not, and perhaps it was because of love, or perhaps it was because I was carrying your child. When I gave birth to her I tried to honour you in her name. Years later I learned what really happened to you, that you had become a hermit, hiding away in a monastery on the coast. I almost did not believe it. I knew you were no friar. You did not believe solely in Olagh, as the so-called King would have us all believe, and I could not fathom how this man I once loved, who was strong and full of adventure, had tamed so much, and given up his armour for a frock.”

Ifferon felt ashamed, and his humiliation grew with each charge made against him. The creatures and monsters he had faced in his younger days seemed like nothing compared to facing up to what he had become, and who had left behind.

“Why did you leave?” Geldirana asked.

“I do not know.”

“You have had ten years to find out.”

“It was fear,” he said. “But I guess it was more than just Agon. Things were becoming a little too real for me. Adventure was always this half-dreamed thing. Then it began to get more serious, and I saw that people were dying, that I could die—that you could die. And our adventure was becoming more serious too, and I wonder if that scared me even more. I have lost so many people in my life, Geldirana. I think I felt that if I were to get even closer to you, that I would lose you too.”

“So you ran away? You did not want to lose me, so you cast me aside?”

“We all do stupid things for love,” Ifferon said, and he thought of Thalla and Yavün. It was better than thinking of himself. “Will we ever regain what we lost?” he added when the silence seemed to suggest otherwise.

“You are different now,” Geldirana said. “I am too.”

Ifferon looked away. He saw Affon, carrying wood from the bunkers to start a fire, refusing the help of other children. “Will she ever know? Will I ever have a part in her life?”

“The first is for you to tell. The second is for her to decide,” Geldirana stated. “Ifferon, she is your daughter. I will not deny that. But she does not need you. She will become a strong and powerful woman, a warrior of the people, and in time she will lead a garig of her own, and in time again perhaps the Garigút as a whole. With or without you.”

*  *  *

Thalla sat on a wooden barrel near the cage of Elithéa, running the feathers of an arrow over the faint scars on her hand, as if they were the features of a map that she might derive some direction from. It was her last arrow, one that she had reclaimed time and time again in the battle, but now that the battle was over she no longer bothered to reclaim the others.

“This battle has opened my eyes,” Elithéa said.

“It has opened all of our eyes,” Thalla replied.

There was silence for a time as Elithéa studied Thalla through the bars. Thalla would barely have noticed were it not for the Ferian’s intent stare. Her eyes were like candles in the night.

“Perhaps I deserve to rot behind iron bars for the rest of my life,” Elithéa said. “Then Iraldas can be safe from me.”

“I don’t think you’re really a danger,” Thalla said, but she thought of Aralus in Idor-Hol, screaming until he screamed no more. “You helped us once. You can help us again.”

“Yes,” Elithéa said. “I can offer advice from my prison.”

“Hardly the way of the Éalgarth,” Thalla said.

“No, but perhaps that path is for men,” Elithéa said, and she looked keenly into Thalla’s eyes. “Perhaps this is the place for us women.”

Thalla immediately shook her head. “That is what the Magi said, but Melgalés defied them. I defied them. We are more than this. We can do more than this.”

“I can only do what an animal can do ... locked in this cage.”

Thalla felt suddenly compelled to free the Ferian from her prison. Her thoughts struggled against one another, for part of her felt as trapped as Elithéa, unable to use the magic for which she trained. A Beldarian was her key, and yet it would be a monumental effort to acquire, and one that was forbidden to all but men. Yet for Elithéa, her freedom was found in a simple latch on the cage door, just out of reach of the Ferian’s hands. Thalla still toiled with her thoughts, until it almost seemed like a door opened in her mind. If her own freedom seemed so far away, at least she could more easily free another.

She reached for the latch.

The clink of the latch seemed louder than it should, like a thunderous clap from the weapons of the gods. In that fraction of a second Thalla realised that her compassion was in error, for immediately she saw Elithéa’s wild eyes settle on the body of Théos, her hands like the talons of a hawk. Yet the realisation came too late, for as Thalla reached again for the latch, her hand not as fast as any bird, Elithéa sprang from the cage, and the metal door struck Thalla and knocked her back.

There were gasps and shrieks, and all eyes turned to the Ferian as she leapt from her prison. Guards charged towards her, staves at the ready, and Délin stepped forward, his heavy metal boots making a thunder of their own. Ifferon turned in horror as the scene unfolded, like a memory of the battle on the Amreni Elé, and Thalla tried to clamber up in time to catch Elithéa, but already she was out of reach—already she was like a predator upon the podium where Théos lied.

A knife was loosed. A sword was unleashed. Staves swung and bows twanged. It seemed for a moment that the very resting place of the Al-Ferian boy was now under a siege of its own, with weapons clashing all around him, sending sparks flying like birds, and making a deafening discord that might, it seemed to some, wake the dead.

*  *  *

The chaotic moment ended almost as soon as it had begun, and all witnessed the outcome of the hurried clash: Elithéa stood at the head of Théos, her dagger held against the acorn, and Délin stood mere feet away, his sword held to her throat. He breathed heavy, and it seemed to Ifferon that it took a great self-restraint to stop the blade where he did. Around them stood many Al-Ferian, their staves held high.

“Back away,” Délin said, and he seemed more stern and serious than ever, as if he might say those very words to the Gatekeeper himself.

“Let me finish this,” Elithéa said, “and free you of this evil that you seek to do.”

“An evil act does not free anyone,” Délin said. “Back away.”

Suddenly Ifferon grew even more concerned, for it seemed that Délin was battling with his anger, that the knight might suddenly abandon his oaths, as he forsook Corrias in the White Mountains, and abandon the restraint that stayed his sword. For your sake, Elithéa, and us all, Ifferon thought, back away.

*  *  *

“Éala is dead,” Elithéa said, and she thought of the empty heavens, bereft of the gods. “Théos is dead. Plant his tree. Do not murder his memory.”

“What will you do?” Thalla asked, stepping up behind her with her bow drawn.

“More than you ever will in your lifetime,” Elithéa replied.

Thalla ignored the insult. “How will you end this?”

Elithéa looked down at the acorn in her hands, and the glistening blade pressed against its surface. She felt the larger, sharper blade of Délin’s sword pressed tightly against her neck.

“Will you defile his acorn, like Aralus defiled yours?” Thalla asked.

Elithéa was already holding her own acorn, hiding it in the palm of her hand beneath the hilt of the dagger. She revealed it now. It had blackened, as if the markings on it had caused it to decompose. It was clear to all that no tree could grow from this, that she no longer had the chance of a second life in the woods. The blackness contrasted starkly with the bright brownish-orange of the child’s acorn, and, were it possible, some imagined that she might switch the two, to pick the fairer fate. All that was possible, however, was to ruin the fate of another, to poison this acorn with the blackness of her own.

“Did you let Aralus die so that you could take his place?” Thalla asked.

A tear dropped from Elithéa’s eyes, landing upon her acorn, as if it sought to water and nurture it, in hopes of bringing it back to life. Another tear fell, this time upon the fairer acorn, and it glistened as it landed, as if to remind her of just how much life there was still remaining in it.

“Do not become him,” Thalla said. “You are stronger than that.”

“Stronger than you,” Elithéa said with scorn.

“If this is strength,” Thalla replied, “but I do not think it is.”

Délin looked deeply into Elithéa’s eyes, past her tears and the tears of his own. “If he were your child,” he said, and his words were as earnest and pleading as they had ever been, “would you not do everything, everything, to bring him back?”

Elithéa glanced away, unable to sustain Délin’s stare. “His tree—”

“If you damage his acorn, he will never be a tree,” Délin interrupted. “Aralus might have ruined your second life, but you are seeking to ruin your first. If you etch a single thing on that acorn, you will die by my sword. Corrias only knows what will happen to your soul.”

She looked up, her face flooded in tears.

“Make this life matter,” the knight said. “Help us bring him back.”

“I can no longer be an Éalgarth,” she said, and she raised her acorn. “Because of this.”

“You cannot be an Éalgarth without Éala,” Délin said. “Help us bring him back.”

The blade of the dagger hung precariously close to the acorn, like the beak of the hawk dangled above the boy’s face back in the White Mountains. Few watching dared to breath, lest their breath push the Ferian over the edge, or cause the blade to slip.

“Look at him,” Délin said, but she would not comply. “Look at him!”

She glanced down and saw where her tears had fallen. Some had landed upon the boy’s face, and they almost looked like tears of his own. Her heart panged, and her eyes watered further, for she thought that throughout all of this, through her struggle and the struggle of the world, the child might somehow have known it all, might have seen and heard it from wherever his soul now dwelt.

“If he could speak,” Délin said, and he paused, choking on the words, joining Théos in a moment of silence. “If he could speak, what would he say to you?”

Elithéa shook her head. She did not know. She did not want to know.

“He would say what he said to me,” the knight told her. “He would say Sóthé ima.”

“Save me,” Elithéa translated instinctively.

“He would ask you to save him,” Délin said. “That is what he asked me. That is what I am trying to do. Forget about the gods. This is about a child. He asked me to save him, and this second chance at life, this only chance, is the only way I know how. I have to save him, Elithéa. Please help me. Help all of us. Help Théos.”

She looked once more to the boy, and she almost heard the echo of his final words to Délin, of his final breath in this world. She thought for a moment of Telm and the Last Words, which had been captured by the Aelora and turned into the only thing left of that god bar his dwindling bloodline, turned into a powerful heirloom that evil still feared. Telm had shouted a warning to the darkness, but Théos, and perhaps Corrias inside him, had whispered something different, a simple plea, the kind of appeal that she never thought a god would make. Perhaps it was just the child then, but that did not make it easier to her mind. If he were your child, she thought, hearing Délin’s words in her mind, what would you do?

The blade was dangerously close to the acorn. Just as it seemed like the tip of the blade would pierce it, and Délin would kill Elithéa, she pulled the dagger away, and, hands shaking, she placed the acorn into Délin’s gauntleted glove. He rolled it out onto the table above Théos’ head, and he nudged it gently back into the depression where it had been during the ceremony of the Wisdomweavers. All present sighed deeply, and few paid attention as Elithéa was surrounded by many guards. They chained her, but did not return her to her cell. This time she offered no resistance to their restraints.

*  *  *

Délin lowered his sword, resting his weight upon it as he breathed the greatest sigh. But he was not yet fully relieved, for the chance of a second life had been saved, but it was still only a chance. It took a moment for him to realise that the priests had not returned to their chanting, that they were looking to each other with awkward glances.

“Can you go on?” he asked them.

“No,” they said together, and Délin’s heart sank.

“It is already finished,” one of them said. “Putting the acorn back was the final piece.”

Everyone looked around, waiting for something to happen. But nothing did.

It is already finished, Délin thought. We have failed. Though he did not think it possible, his heart sank even further. Before this day was over, he thought it might fall down into the very chambers of Agon himself.

Then it rose a little, for there was a strange feeling in the air, and an even stranger feeling in the very core of him. There was a blinding flash of light, followed by an eerie silence. When all regained their sight, they looked upon the feet of a giant figure. Corrias had arisen. The father god had been restored to life, a gift given to him by his own worshippers, for whom life could be so easily taken away.

There was a moment where all were filled with awe. Some could not move their eyes from the gigantic feet of the god, and others were entranced by the hypnotic stare of the god’s eyes. His hair fell like a waterfall. His face was young, and yet he seemed ancient beyond measure. His clothes were the sky itself, and he shimmered, as if he were made of starlight.

“Éala has returned!” Thúalim shouted with joy.

The crowd erupted in celebration. People clapped and cheered. Horns were blown and drums were banged. Streamers and coins were thrown into the air. Flowers were held aloft and cups of wine and mead were toasted high. Women held their children in the air, and the children held their stuffed toys to the sky.

Music began to play, and some who had hoped against all odds for this day began to sing long-prepared songs. Even Thúalim, who never joined in the campfire songs of others, added his voice to the chorus.

From high Althar he has come, to Iraldas returned,

Halés he has shunned, the Gatekeeper he has spurned.

Éala, fair Éala, from death he has adjourned.

The Father of the Living, the Father of us all,

And Father even to the dead, cloaked in burial shawl.

Éala, fair Éala, veiled by no shroud or pall.

In the Céalari Court, he rules all right and just,

And here on Iraldas the most, in his rule we trust.

Éala, fair Éala, rekindled from the dust.

The leader of the gods, and the one to whom we prayed,

He has returned to the world, to aid in our crusade.

Éala, fair Éala, spoke “life,” and death obeyed.

Délin bowed his head. “For Corrias,” he said, but he was not mirthful. He did not look up to the giant eyes of his patron god, but looked upon the closed eyes of Théos, still laying silent upon the stone bed that might one day be his tomb.

Thúalim placed his hand upon Délin’s armoured shoulder. “It is a worthy gift the boy has given the world. He will rest in Halés knowing what good he has done.”

Ifferon could tell that Délin was not comforted by this. The eternal afterlife of the soul in Halés always seemed like a fable to the grieving, a shallow offering of some semblance of life in the great shadow of death.

“I failed you,” Délin whispered. “I could not save you.”

The world might have been made a safer place now that Corrias had been restored, but to Délin it did not seem like a better place without Théos. The knight had never known a grief like this before, and he found that all the virtues of his training were no defence against it, that even in his full armour he felt exposed to the endless attack of anguish, the incessant strike of sorrow.

Then Délin’s gaze was seized by a sight that astonished them all. Théos’ fingers began to twitch, and then his eyes opened, though he squinted against the sunlight. He took what was perhaps his first breath in weeks, and he lay like a newborn surrounded by an extended family who were all joyous to see this sacred birth.

Délin ran to him and took him up into his arms. The boy’s arms were weak, but he hugged the knight in return, and he turned what little energy he had into a beaming smile.

The crowd around began to cheer loudly, perhaps louder than they did for Corrias, and the god felt no envy, for he finally understood their plight and their compassion. To the people of Iraldas the resurrection of a single child was as important as the resurrection of a god.

When Délin finally finished his embrace, the boy looked straight into his eyes, those eyes that showed immense and unmeasurable joy, and he said, “Sóthurthú ima.”

“You saved me,” Elithéa translated. Though the guards still held her, she was smiling. All were smiling. Even Corrias smiled, though few saw it on his face in the clouds.

The glee that Délin felt was unmatched by any other, bar perhaps Théos, who basked in his new life like he had never done, free from the responsibility Corrias had unwittingly imposed upon him, free from the expectations of the world and that deep unwavering feeling that he was not living up to them. Now he could be a child again, and all that was expected of him was that he would play and have fun, and in time grow and learn about the wonders of the world.

Théos took off the pendant that carried his name. It was a name to some, but a role to others. He was a child to some, a weapon to others. His parents had willingly abandoned him to his fate, that Corrias might incarnate, and many conspired in this ungodly act.

Théos placed the pendant in Délin’s right hand. It was heavy, like a burden. The knight looked at it for a moment and thought about what it meant to the boy: sacrifice, slavery and servitude. Délin swore to himself now that there would be no more sacrificing of the innocent, no more slavery of the weak, and no more servitude of the poor.

The boy looked knowingly into Délin’s eyes, and the knight knew what to do. With the strength he had mustered from his years of training, he cast the pendant over the high walls of the Mountain Fortress, where it tumbled down the rock face, landing in a deep, dark mire. Leaves fell from nearby trees, landing upon its fading surface, burying it forever.

*  *  *

The festivities continued long into the night, and when they broke for sleep, they resumed again in the morning. Word began to spread from the Mountain Fortress to the lands around, and so as one celebration waned, another one began in another place, where the supplies of food and drink, and the energy for merriment, had not yet been spent.

The cleaning of the blood stains, the tending of the wounded, and the repairs of the broken fortress all seemed like small labours now, for the spirits of all were lifted as Corrias began to move around the mountain.

Délin finally slept willingly, and Théos lay within his arms, clutching the toy tree he had been gifted, a replacement for the tree that he would never become. Ifferon thought that Délin would now have pleasant dreams, that his honour had been rewarded, that his faith had been restored, and the cleric knew that the knight’s dreams must have been good when he saw a faint smile upon his lips as he slumbered.

Ifferon began then to have pleasant dreams of his own, and he felt finally that some good had been born into the world, that they had achieved this miracle against almost impossible odds. They had walked the road to rebirth, and though it was long and winding, and though there were many pitfalls along the way, they had reached their destination, and all the darkness that had come before was worth it.

He enjoyed watching the festivities of the others, seeing their smiles, feeling their happiness, and knowing that fear did not dance with them around the fires, that hope and courage were there instead. He thought that perhaps even those in the Underworld watched the scene unfold, celebrating in their own way this double victory of the people of Iraldas, of this challenge to Halés, this defiance of death.

*  *  *

In Halés, there was no celebration. The Gatekeeper had revealed to the Waiting what had transpired up in Iraldas, but the events did not reduce their incarceration—it just meant it would be longer before others entered Halés and were possibly faced with the same long wait.

Melgalés, however, was cheerful. With Teron finally gone and Corrias restored to the world, it seemed like the forces of good were finally turning the tide.

In another part of Halés, things were different. There were parts not illuminated by the lanterns of the Gatekeeper, places where souls were so lost that they envied the condition of the Waiting—for the Endless Lost had nothing to wait for, bar perhaps the second death.

There was a dreadful silence in the deeps, the kind of silence found in the midst of a thousand screams. This was a place where tension lived and thrived, for if there were some waiting to enter the Halls, there was something here waiting for a different, darker thing.

Then suddenly came a roaring and a rumbling, and a crashing and a crumbling. Pillars became pebbles, and boulders became dust. There was a din like no other noise heard by the living or the dead, a tremor not even felt by those who perished in the greatest of earthquakes or the most violent of volcanoes.

Then everything turned to darkness, as if the very light of all things had been blotted out, as if the sun and the moon and the stars never existed, and as if the light of fire was only a figment, a pale flicker in the annals of the dark.

It was then, in the darkness and amidst the din, that the Beast arose. Those who felt it first did not feel it for long, for they were consumed by him, and they knew the second death as if their life and death was just a glimmer in the chronicles of the shadow.

Now there was just one fire in Halés, and it was the fire of the Beast. The flame and fume and fury of Telm was as nothing. It was pain and torture that kept the fire burning deep inside the abyssal heart of the Beast. And his fire was mounting, until all who looked upon him, matching his torment with their terror, saw a glimpse of the nightmare that awaited the waking world. They saw a hulking form, yet it was ever shifting, and they saw a fleeting flash of a mangled face, and it was haunting. And even as their second death came hastening, the echo of that memory marred their very essence and left a scar upon the world.

I – THE RATTLE OF THE CHAINS

The sound of celebration poured down from the Mountain Fortress like a landslide. Few slept that night, or for those that followed, and even the people that dozed uneasily heard the horns and drums in their dreams, and their slumbering lips joined in the joyful and boisterous songs that were so different to a bedtime lullaby.

Yet few were angry at the noise, for it was a welcome one in place of the dreary silence that had come before, when all was full of apprehension, when the quiet itself seemed to dread what might come next. And so the people rejoiced and celebrated as loudly as they could, and they were so deafening in their merriment that none of them noticed that there was another sound—a dark rumbling in a faraway place, a dull quake that suggested it might one day not be so far away.

Ifferon sat by the eastern windows of the Fortress, staring out at the gigantic figure of Corrias as he slowly and carefully moved about the mountain. He shimmered as he moved, and at times it seemed to Ifferon that he almost faded into the surroundings. He wondered if this was a repercussion of his decision to incarnate in Iraldas, if it meant that he was not truly there. That might be so, but still he trod carefully, unwilling to step upon anyone that might have been one of his followers.

“He is a sight to behold,” Délin said, stepping up beside Ifferon with Théos in his arms. He looked younger and less dishevelled than before, for he had shaved his beard and trimmed his hair, and now his armour sparkled after a vigorous polishing.

“Yes,” Ifferon said, the best he could manage. No words were good enough to describe the immensity and majesty of Corrias. Yet part of Ifferon felt concerned, for great though the father god was, there was a monstrosity out there that seemed greater still.

The knight pointed out to where Corrias drifted, and Théos pointed at the god in turn.

“That was you,” Délin said.

Théos looked at him blankly. Then he shook his head. “Éala,” he said.

“Does he remember anything?” Ifferon asked.

“I am not sure,” Délin replied. “He remembers me, it seems, but I am not sure it is even possible to remember sharing a body with a god. Perhaps that is a good thing.”

Ifferon nodded. “Yes, perhaps.” At times he wished that he did not remember that he shared the blood of a god, even if it had diluted over many generations, and felt weak within his veins.

“We did good,” Délin stated firmly. “Much evil has been undone.”

“I cannot help but feel that the worst is yet to come.”

Délin looked at him with grim determination. “Whatever comes, we will face it.”

“Do you think Corrias can defeat Agon?” Ifferon asked.

Délin sighed. “No,” he said, and the word almost fell from his mouth like a leaden weight. Its echo was like the strike of metal upon the ground. “Corrias is many things that I admire and stand for, but if the stories of old are true, and I have no reason to doubt them, then he is not truly a warrior. It was Telm, and Telm alone, who defeated Agon, and so perhaps we still depend upon him.”

Ifferon feigned a chuckle. “What a job he has, even in the grave.”

*  *  *

Geldirana trained with Affon, teaching her how to ward blows, to parry, and to strike with ferocity. They both employed real blades, and both of them came away with real cuts and slashes as a result. Whenever the girl would falter, she would receive another grazing wound, and Geldirana told her, “You will not err that way again. Let the pain be your promise and the blood be your oath.”

Délin and Ifferon watched this for a time until Théos ran off and returned with a wooden toy sword in his hand. He looked up with eager eyes, glanced at the Garigút woman and girl fighting, and looked back to the knight with that same pleading gaze. There was a hint of happiness in his eyes, but also a hint of sadness, as if he expected that Délin would refuse.

But the knight felt he could not disappoint the boy now, and so he called to one of the guards, who brought him a wooden toy sword of his own. He took it and was surprised at how light it was, and how small it was, and how harmless it was. He was too used to his broadsword and two-handed sword, and it had been over forty years since he had last held a training sword. Even that was heavier than the toy sword he held now.

Délin pointed the sword towards the boy, who smiled broadly, as if the gesture was an expression of praise. The knight gently tapped the child’s sword, and Théos struck back softly, and he laughed and giggled. His attacks were weak, his posture was wrong, and his force was lacking, and yet he was doing everything right for what they were really doing: playing. Each strike was followed by a chorus of laughs, and Délin wished that every sword fight was filled with so much glee.

So they “battled” for a time, with Théos hopping to and fro, trying out new moves, and trying desperately to copy the moves that Affon was making across the way. He made what he must have thought were frightening noises, and Délin feigned fear and offered his surrender.

*  *  *

“Quite the little knight,” Ifferon said as Délin and the boy retired from exhaustion. Though Théos could not quite understand Ifferon’s words, he still smiled, as if he understood the intent behind them. He sat down beside Délin, clapping the toy swords together as if the battle still raged on.

“He has much potential,” Délin said, and he nodded to Théos as he might to one of his brothers or sisters in the Knights of Issarí. Théos nodded back. “Your daughter has much potential also,” the knight added.

Ifferon looked back to Affon, who was clearly wearied, but refused to give up as she battled Geldirana in what to some might have looked like a real battle. Ifferon knew well that for the Garigút such training often was.

“I would rather she played than fought,” Ifferon said. “She is not much older than Théos.”

“Perhaps that is something to discuss with Geldirana,” Délin suggested.

“I am not sure I have the right.”

“You earned the right when you became a father.”

“And I gave it up when I abandoned both of them.”

“You cannot give it up if you did not abandon them in your heart,” the knight said.

Ifferon shrugged, as if he was not altogether sure what his heart felt. Perhaps it was back at Larksong, still hiding within those monastery walls.

Théos stood up, leaving the swords behind, and he stretched up to the window, barely tall enough to peer over, and he placed his chin upon the stony sill. From there the wind trickled in and ruffled his grassy hair.

“He never had a family,” Délin told Ifferon quietly, despite Théos knowing very little of their tongue. “His one true family are all the other Children of Telm.”

“And you,” Ifferon said.

Délin smiled. “And me.”

“Will he ever live a normal life?”

“I do not know, Ifferon. I cannot imagine it is possible to share a body with a god and not be in some way changed by that. Nor, indeed, is it possible to come back from death entirely unscathed. But I hope he can live a life with love and joy, and so not be weighed down by the worries you and I are left with.”

“I wish that was a life I could live,” Ifferon said.

“If we defeat Agon, it is a life we all can live,” Délin said. “But sometimes we must give up a little of our own that another may have more of it. We never truly lose out, however, for there is much joy to be found in the joy of others.”

Ifferon nodded and smiled. The merriment of others since Corrias’ resurrection had certainly lifted his spirits, even though a part of him still felt overwhelmed by the role he was supposed to play, and the forces he was up against.

“I had not quite considered what I was really fighting for,” Ifferon said, but he looked to Geldirana and Affon at the western side of the courtyard, where they were feasting and talking, and smiling and laughing. It had been so long since he had seen Geldirana rejoicing, and now he realised that though she might no longer have love for him, she still had an abundance of love for their daughter.

“So I guess the old fight for the young,” Ifferon said.

“Yes, but the young also fight for the old.”

“I wonder how Elithéa feels,” Ifferon said. “We were almost at the point of ruin.”

“Almost,” the knight replied. “But it is when we are on the edge that we show who we really are, and whether or not we are honourable. She chose not to mar Théos’ acorn, and so we are indebted to that choice, even if there should have never been a choice to make.”

“I wonder if things can be repaired with her.”

“That will be up to her, another choice for her to make. Yet we all have choices. Today we have victory, but tomorrow is less certain, and all we can do is hope that what we sow this day we can harvest on the morrow. There are so few of the Children of Telm left, and yet every one of you counts beyond measure, and will count much more if Agon ever looks upon the sky once again.”

“The problem is that Telm never killed Agon,” Ifferon said. “The best he could do was imprison him in Halés, and to do that he had to give up his own life. That does not bode well for the rest of us.”

“Perhaps not, but we have not yet faced Agon in battle. Hopefully we never will, but if that day does come, then we will find out how strong Telm’s blood really is, and how strong the blood of your friends and allies are.”

Théos backed away suddenly from the window, as if he had seen some horror outside. He turned sharply and ran to Délin, pawing at his arm. “Daramath,” he cried.

“What is it?” the knight asked, but Théos only repeated the Ferian word.

“I wish I knew more of their tongue,” Ifferon said as he stepped back from the window. “There does not appear to be anything amiss. Corrias still walks the land.”

Délin calmed the boy down, holding him close until he stopped shaking. He had hoped these kinds of terrors were over, that the new life for the child would mean he did not see the darkness that others appeared not to see.

“I will find out what he means,” the knight said, and though he did not speak his fears aloud, it was clear that he dreaded that meaning.

*  *  *

Elithéa was back in her cell, though this time her arms and legs were bound as well. She was not gagged, but she had little energy left to shout abuse at passing guards. This did not altogether stop her from trying, and every so often they were treated to another barrage of derisive words.

Délin approached, and she perked up, as if she were readying herself for an attack. She led the offensive with her eyes.

“Have you come to mock me?” she asked, and her tone almost mocked him in return.

“No,” the knight replied coldly. “There is no honour in striking the wounded.”

“So you mock me all the same,” she said. “It is easy to strike others with your so-called honour, when you think they have done dishonourable things.”

“I can control how I act,” Délin said. “I cannot control how you choose to react.”

“Why have you come to me?” she asked. “Do you wish to look down on me one last time before I am put to death?”

“I would not have you die,” the knight replied. “I prayed that I would not have to kill you, and I do not see any merit in you dying anyway. Elithéa, I understand why you did what you did, and it seems, from your decision not to go through with it, that you understand why I did what I did also, and why it was important that we try to bring them back.”

“Then why are you here?” she probed again.

“To forgive you.”

She scoffed and turned away. “I do not need your forgiveness.”

“Perhaps not,” the knight said. “But I warrant that you need freedom, that you of all people cannot bear the bonds for long. Perhaps then you will need the forgiveness of some.”

With that, Délin stepped aside, and there behind him stood Théos, who looked even smaller in frame beside the large figure of the knight. He looked up curiously at Elithéa, who glowered down, as if he too had come to mock her.

“Why bring him to me?” she asked.

Délin knelt down beside Théos and nudged him closer to the cage. He clambered up and stood behind the boy, resting his gauntleted hands upon the child’s shoulders.

“This is the life we saved,” he told her. “He is more than a tree could ever be.”

Elithéa shook her head. “He does not yet know what he is missing.”

Théos reached out to Elithéa and placed his hand in her hand, in the red marking where she had been scalded by the bars that Thalla had set alight. She looked at him curiously, and he looked at her with inquisitive eyes, as if he was recognising the similarity of their races.

“Desh i carsa’ath abutha?” the boy asked, turning his inquisitive eyes to Délin.

“Why is she in the cage?” Elithéa translated, with a hint of satisfaction.

“Is it he or you that asks this question?” Délin wondered.

“Maybe it is both,” she replied. “Abim chasadel,” she told the child.

He did not seem to understand, and neither did Délin. “What did you tell him?” the knight asked her.

“I am an animal.”

“So a lie then,” Délin said.

“Not to the cager.”

Délin knelt down again and tapped Bark, the stuffed toy tree, on the shoulder. Théos turned the tree around as if it had a mind of its own. It bore its eternal smile.

“How do I tell him to play with the other children at the bunkers?” Délin asked Elithéa.

“Pelah truas ith mishanath.”

Délin repeated the words to Théos, and both he and Bark nodded emphatically before trotting off.

“So you need me still,” Elithéa said when the child was out of sight, “as a translator.”

“I think we both know that you are more than that. Perhaps the Matriarchate will not let you don the title of Éalgarth when your acorn is sullied, but you can still be an Éalgarth at heart, if the role is to guard Éala, who still needs us as much as we need him.”

“In a prison I can only be a prisoner,” she replied. “Agon would know that.”

Délin did not like the comparison, for he felt Agon deserved not even a fraction of the mercy he felt for Elithéa.

“The Beast is—” But he stopped suddenly when Elithéa looked away, as if her attention had been seized by something.

“What was that?” she asked.

Délin looked at her curiously. “What do you mean?”

“That noise.”

“What noise?”

“Never mind,” she said. “It was like a tiny tremor.”

“The rustle of the wind?”

“Maybe. Maybe something more.”

Though it was not cold, Délin felt a shiver down his spine, and a shiver in his mind, as if a distant quake had sent everything shaking and shivering. It passed just as quickly as it had come, but something seemed amiss, as if the world had been slightly tilted—not enough to notice, but enough to change things.

An Al-Ferian guard passed by and halted, as if he too felt unease. “Is this woman bothering you?” he asked, targeting the only source of that unease he could think of. Délin knew the unsettling feeling did not come from her, but from somewhere else, somewhere deeper.

“No,” the knight replied. “But the bonds are bothering her.”

“They could be loosened, but Thúalim insists they be tight.”

“Where is he?”

“At the main bunker.”

Délin strode off without a word. Twenty minutes passed before he returned with Thúalim, who cast his eyes across Elithéa as if she were the lifeless body of a Nahamon.

“So this knight begs clemency for you.”

“And I beg nothing,” she stated.

“It is well that you have such an active mouth,” Thúalim said, “for it is all you will get to use if you spend your life in bonds. And yet for the evil you sought to do there might be another answer, for we could relieve you of the bonds of life.”

“No,” Délin said. “If I need beg again, then I shall beg, for there is no dishonour in bowing before another, that one life might be saved. She will not ask it of you, for pride controls her tongue, but I will ask it for her: be merciful and let her live, and live free.”

“No,” Thúalim said in turn. “If you were the prisoner, then I would have granted this freedom, but until she asks for mercy with her own lips, there will be no cutting of her own bonds.”

“Then let me rot!” Elithéa barked. “And have mercy on my ears!”

Délin shook his head. “You are not making this easy.”

“I am not making it easy or difficult. I am refusing to participate.”

“And so your protest will seal your doom,” Délin said. He knelt down, like he had done for Théos, and he rested his hand upon the cold metal cage. “Please, Elithéa. Put aside your pride. You might think it low to ask forgiveness, but it is lower still to deny that you have done aught that needs forgiving. Why give up when this is not the end? You can atone for your old actions with new ones. And maybe mercy for you will help us be unmerciful with the real evil out there, that which we call Agon.”

It took many moments before Elithéa would talk, and it seemed to Délin that she would blurt out some sharp riposte, and in a single word or phrase condemn both him and Thúalim—and so condemn her to her fate. Yet she surprised them both, for she sighed and said, “Free me, please.” It was not quite the entreating for leniency that Délin would have given, but from Elithéa’s lips it sounded like the epitome of contrition and humility. Even Thúalim recognised this.

“I will consider your request,” he said. “Thank Éala that one of his knights sees in you something that the rest of us cannot. For one who might have lost so much because of you, he has already shown you the greatest mercy.”

*  *  *

Hours passed for Elithéa, until it seemed that the prospect of freedom was just a lie, a punishment of its own for what they deemed as her wrongdoing. During these lonely moments, when even Délin did not greet her, she held up her tarnished acorn to the light, and pondered what tree she might have been, and wondered why it had all been taken away from her, why Éala had been so cruel.

Then Thúalim came back with Délin and two Al-Ferian guards.

“Four men for one woman,” she said with a smile. “Maybe you should bring four more.”

“Everyone in the Mountain Fortress could be talking,” Thúalim said, “and you would sound the loudest.”

“Those who have something worth saying will be listened to,” she said bluntly.

“And do you still say free me, please?”

Elithéa furrowed her brow and shifted posture in the cage, like an animal that had been mauled by its captor. “I say nothing I do not mean,” she stated.

“Free her,” Thúalim said to the guards. As they approached the cage and reached for the lock, he stopped them. “This time make your life worthy of an afterlife as a tree,” he said, and he strode off as the guards continued to release her. They backed away quickly after the rope around her wrists was loosened.

She stood up and stretched her legs and arms. For a moment it almost looked like she were a tree, arching in the wind. What grace she lacked in word, she made up for in form.

“So the wild things are in the world tonight,” she said.

Délin did not respond.

Elithéa tutted. “Aralus would have had a retort for that.”

“And a blade for your back,” the knight said. “You should be less eager for war, even a war of words.”

“Maybe you should be less afraid of it.”

“I do not fear war,” Délin said, “only what might happen to the world if we lose it.”

“Then maybe you are still wearing your cage,” she said. “Do you ever remove your armour?”

Délin gave a slight smile. “Most of us never remove our armour.”

“Idil garthran fíulel abu,” the Ferian said, stressing each word as if it were a curse.

“What good is a Common Tongue if it is not common among us all?” Délin asked.

“Language can conceal like armour.”

“But can it protect us like armour?”

“Telm’s dying words have protected all of us till now,” she said. “But what I said in my tongue was,” and she almost hissed the words that followed, “some armour is a weakness.”

“I suppose it is,” Délin acknowledged. “But that reminds me. What does the word daramath mean?”

Elithéa furrowed her brow, as if the question were a riddle. “Where did you hear it?”

“Never you mind,” he replied. “What does it mean?”

Just as Elithéa opened her mouth to speak, there was a loud rumbling in the distance, which sent tremors into the mountain. The noise was like a thunder in the earth.

“I think you have your answer,” she said. “It means the sound.”

And so it came again, even louder than before, until even those who had previously dismissed it perked their ears and gulped their fear. Worried faces looked to and fro, and their expressions grew even grimmer when they looked out to Corrias, who now stood still like a ghostly tower upon the mountain—and he bore the most worried expression of them all.

II – THE RENDING OF TELARYM

Deep in the heart of Telarym, the noise was thunderous, for it was there, under the dreary darkness of the melancholy sky, that the ground rolled and rumbled, as if the earth had eaten something it should not have. And so within the belly of the earth lay the Beast, and he thrashed and kicked, like an angry child wanting to be free of the womb.

The ground shuddered, as it often did when he fought against his chains, until his anger ate up all his energy and he could no longer fight for freedom. And so he rested until the rage grew once more inside him, eating away at his body and his mind, devouring him and replacing little bits of him with an even greater anger, an even fiercer rage.

Seven chains held him in place. Two grasped his ankles, biting him with their metal maws. One ate into his waist, extending around to his lashing tail. Four gnawed at his wrists, for he had four monstrous arms, long and thick, ending in fingers that ended in barbed nails, which dug into him as much as they dug into anything he could get his hands on. The chains were more than physical, for as much as Agon was alive, they were also. Every time he pulled against them, they would pull back. Every time he resisted his bonds, the bonds grew tighter. And so the pain continued for a thousand years, until Agon grew to loathe Teron’s dying words, and wished he could kill him once again.

But this time the thrashing and kicking was different. His upper right arm pulled on the chain, and it did not pull back. It did not tighten, but grew looser, until the very jaws of the metal ring no longer had any bite. And so with another angry strike he broke the chain, and he held up his freed arm like a trophy, and he banged his fist upon the stone roof above in victory.

All in Halés heard, and all in Iraldas heard.

The Call of Agon had been answered.

*  *  *

Melgalés fell to the ground as the tremors continued around him, and each fall hurt more than the last, and reminded him that though he was dead, there was a type of pain that even the dead could feel. He struggled to his feet and ran to the steps that led into the Halls, but he was pushed back by a powerful gust of wind.

“It is not your time,” the Gatekeeper said.

“But something’s happening,” the Magus replied. “We need to get to safety.”

“There is a rumour of something coming,” the Gatekeeper said. “And perhaps it is Agon—and perhaps he is already here.”

The Felokar wolves began to howl. Each time the earth shuddered, they howled louder. Some ran around the caverns, and some pawed and scratched the walls. Amidst the rumbling and the roaring, the great watcher Echarin seemed asleep.

And then the ground broke away in the darker parts of Halés, and those lost souls that stood like shadows there fell deep into the pit. Few knew that they existed, and few heard their lonesome cries as they descended and were consumed, until nothing was left but the gaping mouth of Agon, and his reaching arm and clutching hand.

And so he stretched up, and the remaining six chains struggled against his unwavering will, for this freedom for a part of him had given him new strength, and he found within him a well of resolve that could match his overflowing pain and anger.

The arm reached up like a tower of triumph. The wolves saw it as nothing but a threat, and so many of them charged towards it, and many barked and howled at it, and a few even leapt at it and clawed and snapped, but they were flicked away like flies, and the fire in them vanished, snuffed out like a frail candle.

“So he is free,” Melgalés whispered, fearful that his own words might give Agon power, might further unleash the terror that had been caged for a thousand years.

“Not fully,” the Gatekeeper said, though his voice offered little reassurance. “Six of his seven chains yet hold.”

“For how long?” the Magus asked.

“The answer to that question is outside my jurisdiction,” the Gatekeeper said. “But rest assured ... it will not be long enough.”

*  *  *

Ifferon clung to the ground, even as the ground tried to get away from him, for it shook and shuddered, and each time he found a grip, he lost it once again. Amidst the rumble there were screams and shouts, and Ifferon tried to look up, but dust sprang into his eyes as if it too were looking for something to cling on to.

In time the quake subsided, but few dared stand up until they were certain it was over, and even then they feared it would come again, and might come more fiercely than before. When finally there was silence in the world around, and a loud ringing in their ears, Ifferon stumbled to his feet and helped pull others to theirs.

“What’s happening?” Thalla asked as he dragged her up.

“I do not know,” Ifferon said. “But I can guess.”

Thúalim raced past them in a flurry, charging down the path of the mountain to where Corrias still stood silently, gazing south-east towards Telarym, towards where the sound and the shaking had originated from.

Délin came up to them, carrying Théos in his arms. Elithéa strolled behind him.

“I presume you heard it,” the knight said.

“And felt it,” Ifferon replied.

“Do we let everyone out of their cages now?” Thalla asked, looking harshly at Elithéa.

“I left it vacant for you,” the Ferian responded.

“The only cage we should be worrying about is Agon’s,” Délin berated.

“And we have a reason to worry,” Thúalim said as he rejoined them. “The first of Agon’s chains has broken. It is now only a matter of time before he is free.”

III – THE RALLYING OF ARLIN

“Then we have no time to lose,” Délin said, turning towards the door of the Mountain Fortress with Théos still in his arms.

“Where are you going?” Thúalim asked.

“We need to act,” the knight said.

“There is little we can do,” the Al-Ferian replied.

“That is what I thought on the most evil days of my life at the Old Temple, when I cast aside my Sigil of Corrias. If today is to be the most evil day for Iraldas, then there is still something we can do.”

“And what is that?” Thúalim inquired.

“We go to war.”

So Délin began to head for the door again, until Thúalim shouted after him: “Where are you bringing the boy? He is our race, not yours.”

Délin halted with a clang and turned slowly to them with a stern glare. “When your people stopped treating him as a child, that is when he stopped being one of you and became just a weapon. In the coming days I will show you that it is children like him that we are fighting for, that it is for children like him that we take up weapons and march to war.”

“The Children of Telm must stay here,” Thúalim said. “You cannot take him.”

“You can try to stop me,” Délin said. “But you should be trying to stop Agon.”

And so he marched off, and Théos smiled and waved at them, as if he knew he was leaving behind the battered prison of the Mountain Fortress, which served both as his tomb and his birthing place. Ifferon did not know where the knight was bringing the child, but he hoped it would be safer than all these castles and strongholds, which never seemed strong enough.

Thúalim looked as though he did not know what to do, his usually serene expression broken by anxiety, and he became even more frustrated when Elithéa strolled after the knight, turning slightly at the doorway to blow him a kiss. “The animals are out tonight,” she said.

“Do we follow?” Ifferon asked.

“I am tired of following,” Thalla said.

“Then what can we do?”

Thúalim shook his head, as if in disbelief of what had just happened, and to show that there were few options available to them. He was silent now not because he was calm and centred, but because he could not find fitting words to speak.

“What of Corrias?” Ifferon questioned. “Has he given guidance?”

“No,” Thúalim said, and he looked as though he clearly needed it. He lacked the experience of Rúathar, and many of the Al-Ferian were evidently unhappy about this. There was already talk of his replacement.

“Then we must ask him,” Ifferon said.

“It is too late. He is already gone.”

“Gone?”

“To Telarym. He is going to hold Agon down, to act as the chain that has broken.”

“And then?”

“Then he will do battle with the Beast.”

*  *  *

Délin carried Théos until he and Elithéa reached the bottom of the Mountain Fortress, where the mossy rock gave way to mossy grass, and where their murky minds gave way to fairer ones. It was difficult to feel downtrodden under the golden canopy of Alimror, where the trees rustled gently and the grass swayed slightly. The knight placed Théos down, and the boy ran ahead, and he placed his hands on every tree that he passed, and he sat down to stroke the many-coloured flowers, and he got back up again as Délin and Elithéa approached, so that he could run ahead of them again. Here and there beneath his feet a tiny flower sprang, and though it was nothing like the waylays he left in Telarym, if each sprouting plant was gathered up together, they would have made a most splendid garden. All the while he smiled and laughed, and the smile was like sunshine, and the laugh was like music. It was a far cry from his sombre withdrawn state when Corrias resided in him, but it was a welcome change, like the shift of seasons from winter to spring, with the promise of summer.

“He is full of joy,” Elithéa said as they walked.

“Yes,” Délin replied, and smiled. “Just as it should be.”

Elithéa grumbled, and though she tried to hide it, Délin heard it plainly. “Not what should be,” she said. “Look at the joy he gets from the trees. He could have given much joy to others.”

“He already does,” Délin said, “and will, for as long as he lives. And may that life be long and joyful.”

Elithéa grazed her hand across the bark of an alder tree as she passed it. “It could have been the life of a tree.”

“Yes, yes, and what could or might have been is over,” the knight said sternly. “What is left is what is, and what can or might be still. This is why we go to war.”

“I will fight with you,” the Ferian said, “even though I fought against you. I cannot say I am happy that I lost our fight, and I am not accustomed to losing, which makes it hurt all the more, but I think I lost the greater fight with Aralus, who took more from me than I from him.”

“You took his life,” Délin pointed out.

“He took more than mine,” she said.

*  *  *

They continued on, but soon their enjoyment of Alimror was interrupted by a stark reminder of the battle at the Mountain Fortress, for lining the path ahead were many Nahamon bodies, beginning the slow and disturbing process of decay and putrefaction. These dotted the area almost as frequently as the trees, but Théos did not skit from one to another to place his hands upon them, and his sunshine smile and his musical laugh were turned into a troubled expression and an unhappy silence.

They slowed as they passed through this forest mausoleum, as if fearful that they might somehow wake the dead. Théos still walked ahead, but much more slowly, and it appeared at several times like he was ready to bolt back to Délin.

The knight sighed as he looked around. “Many artists paint the battleground, but few paint the graveyard it becomes. Even though I will march to war, as I have done time and time before, it brings me no joy to know that this is what becomes of my enemies.”

“They fought for the wrong side,” Elithéa said. “They got what they deserved.”

“No one deserves death,” Délin replied.

“Aralus did,” she said, and she looked to him with her glimmering green eyes. “Teron did.”

Délin did not respond. Though suddenly he felt a flare of anger at hearing Teron’s name, and though it brought to mind that the head-cleric did indeed deserve to die, he knew that there were others in the world who thought the same of Théos, and if he could not abide one, he felt he could not abide the other.

“When evil is done to evil, it does not become good,” the knight said, feeding his anger into the words until it was transmuted into a steadfastness of will, until he felt as certain as ever that all acts must be made with honour.

Suddenly an arm reached up, as if of its own accord, and it seized Théos by the leg. The boy screamed, and Délin immediately reacted, charging at the Nahamon that seemed to have returned from death. In moments he unleashed his two-handed sword and struck down on the clutching arm, but just as it severed the limb, the remainder of the Dark Man rose up and swelled, and he looked more demonic now than he had done in life.

Délin advanced once more, but now the Nahamon was stronger, parrying the knight’s blade as if his remaining arm were a shield and his bulging body were a suit of armour. It seemed to Délin that this being had a strength like that of the Sentinels of the Old Temple, and the knight was still tired from the battle at the Mountain Fortress.

But Délin was not alone. As the Nahamon lurched forward, reaching out with his one remaining hand, Elithéa snuck behind it and began to beat it viciously with her staff. Though the strikes did not slay the creature, they drew its attention, and it turned to Elithéa and stared darkly into her eyes. It heaved up, as if to attack, but it slumped down swiftly again, for Délin swung once and cleaved the head from the fiend, ending its life, if it could be called that, once and for all.

“So some serve Agon from beyond the grave,” Délin said with a pant. “Who knew that there were some who would fight and die twice for the same evil master?”

A rumble echoed in the distance, and though it was faint, they were certain they heard something that was not the songs of birds, nor the whistle of the wind, nor the rustle of the trees. They strained their ears, and they thought they heard the rattle of a chain and the rending of a manacle.

“Were it any other time, I would think little of that sound,” Elithéa said. “Yet now I hope that I make of it too much.”

“Let us hope,” Délin said, but he was not hopeful.

They left the unmarked graveyard and travelled swiftly to the very edge of the forest, where they could rest safely. Délin sat with his back to a tree, and Théos sat beside him, clutching Bark tightly and leaning his head against Délin’s armoured shoulder. The knight wondered if the cold steel provided some comfort to the boy like it did for him.

Elithéa was restless, marching to and fro across the clearing, turning sharply so that her ponytail sometimes struck against one of the trees. She impaled her staff into the ground as she walked, and Délin wondered how she could be so violent to the earth, but he knew that she had less regard for the soil of Alimror. She seemed deep in thought, sometimes raising her hand as if to seize upon an idea, and then bashing her fist upon her thigh whenever it seemed that the idea had escaped her grasp. In time she stopped and turned to her companions with a knowing look.

“Perhaps the Al-Ferian err to leave the Nahamoni dead above the ground,” she said, “where they can, from whatever evil magic is upon them, return to life again. Perhaps it would have been better if they had been buried beneath the earth, and so the earth, which is to us our freedom, may be to them their prison.”

Délin nodded, but only to half of what she said. “If for nothing else, everyone deserves the honour of a proper burial. We spit on life itself if we do not afford this to our enemies also.”

“Were it not for our more pressing need,” Elithéa said, “I might have buried them myself.” Her anger then changed to sadness, and with it her aggressive stride changed to a slow saunter, until finally she stopped in a clearing devoid of the remains of the Nahamoni.

“Now it is time for me to bury my own dead,” she said, and she knelt down and dug a small hole in the ground with her hands. Into this she placed her black acorn, with its black markings. Into it she could not place the blackness she felt in her heart of the evil that had been done to her. She covered it up, and she chose not to leave a marker, for she did not want any to know where she had buried her shame.

“So that chapter of my life is over,” she said. “And whatever chapter it might have been … will never be.”

“But another chapter lays before you,” Délin said, placing his hand upon her shoulder. On the other side of her stood Théos, and he looked up at her, matching her sad eyes with his own. As the knight held her shoulder, the boy held her hand, and though she did not feel joy, she felt less her sorrow.

Délin thought that it might have been him doing this act, burying the acorn of Théos, and burying his body, and not knowing which was worse, and knowing with certainty that he could never bury the memories.

Délin felt that something more needed to be said, that something must fill the silence, and that it should not be sorrow, but the recognition that nothing truly dies. He scoured his memory for any tale to tell, and he found one that spoke of Man and nature.

If Man had caused the earth to crack and break,

Or caused the violence of the winter storm,

Or spoke with venom like the rattlesnake,

Or stung with needles like the scathing swarm,

Then Man would seem to all a vicious race,

Too proud to grow, unable to reform,

And the righteous would judge us a disgrace,

Yet none would judge the flood, nor chide the quake,

Nor think the hail of having made mistake.

If Man caused drought, or drowned the tender soil,

Or caused the autumn leaves to wilt and die,

Or forced the flowers to fail, and fruit to spoil,

Or threw volcano ash into the sky,

Then we would think Man full to brim of hate,

Too evil to forgive, a race awry,

And gods would think we earned an evil fate,

Yet none would damn the cold, nor blame the broil,

Nor think the sun a demon for our toil.

If Man caused typhoons, or tornadoes blew,

Or set the beasts at war just to survive,

Or wielded weather as the gods now do,

Or made some dwindle, and some others thrive,

Then Man would seem most cruel of all, not kind,

Yet from Nature these traits we all derive,

For in it we were born, from it designed.

What fair Nature birthed, foul Nature slew—

So Man can create life, and take it too.

“And what of Ferian?” Elithéa asked. “Or does Man think he alone is of Nature? He destroys it well enough, so does he destroy himself?”

“Some do,” Délin said, “but Man is more than one person, and we are as diverse, and divided, as Nature herself.”

*  *  *

Instead of travelling back east into Telarym, where danger thrived, or north-east into Boror, where danger festered, they continued mostly north through the thick and sometimes bewildering forest of Alimror. They knew that to the Al-Ferian it was many woods, and they knew it like Men know their cities, with all their various streets, but to the company it seemed endless, with no natural divisions, and certainly no artificial ones, for the Al-Ferian lived among the trees as if they never lived there at all. And yet Délin knew that some of those very trees were likely the ancestors of Al-Ferian now living in the Mountain Fortress and other less conspicuous settlements. While the sight of trees grew tiresome, and the maze of forest paths grew baffling, the canopy was their helm and the branches were their shield, and so they walked through protected and mostly unseen on their journey to Arlin.

Théos was at home in Alimror, Délin could plainly see. The boy raced about with a freedom he had never seen, and he was saddened that their journey led not deeper into the boughs and branches, but out into the wet and cold land of Arlin, where Délin felt at home. Yet the knight knew that this forest, beautiful and peaceful as it was now, was no haven, and that the trees that offered little protection around the Mountain Fortress would offer even less in the emptier parts of the forest.

They stopped to rest, and Délin gave his helm to Théos to play with, like he had done many times before, when the boy was but a shadow of himself, and not filled with the joy of one unburdened by the weight of gods.

Théos banged the side of the helmet with his hand. He was so small in frame that the noise it made was minuscule compared to the usual clangs and clatters it made in the heat of battle.

He looked expectantly at Délin, as if he wanted him to explain the noise.

“Metal,” Délin said.

“Metal,” Théos repeated slowly. He looked as though he was repeating the word in his head many times, internalising it and attempting to understand it.

Then he pointed to his head, placing his finger on his right temple, and said: “Roth.”

“Head,” Elithéa translated.

Théos nodded, though it was clear he did not understand the word from the Common Tongue.

“Metal roth,” he said and pointed to Délin.

Elithéa laughed. “Metal head. I guess you have a new name.”

Délin smiled, and then Théos smiled in response. That was a language they both understood.

*  *  *

By the third day they came to the end of Alimror, where it fed into Arlin. Délin had often wondered how the borders of maps were drawn, for they seemed almost arbitrary, and so they were to the cartographers of the war-mongers of old, who drew the maps like they drew blood, and redrew them again, as if in the very blood of their victims. Yet here it was clear where Alimror ended, for the trees suddenly stopped, as if they themselves knew not to invade Arlin. Délin had rarely seen such an obvious boundary, bar perhaps the Wall of Atel-Aher, which he could see now in the distance, or the eerie crossing of the Issar Chammas, which he hoped never to see again.

They stepped onto the soggy ground of the Motherland, where a fresh rain fell as often as day turned to night. There was a light wind, with a gentle coolness, not enough to shiver, but just enough to wake the soul from slumber, and bring alertness to the eyes. Délin felt it very reassuring, but it was clear that neither Elithéa nor Théos cared much for the cold. They shivered, and Elithéa tried to hide it, and Théos could not hide it at all. Délin wrapped his cloak around the boy, and as he did so, the child looked up to the dimming sky and was transfixed by the sight.

“Elas tra súa íotath el agath,” Théos said, and the wonder in his eyes matched the wonder in his voice.

“Look at all the little dots in the sky,” Elithéa translated.

“Stars,” Délin said with a smile.

“Stars,” the boy repeated, as if he had learned a magic word, and perhaps he had, for it caused an even greater transformation in his face, from wonder to joy.

“Let us hope we live to see them for many nights to come,” Elithéa said, and it seemed that she was talking about the threat of the cold night air as much as the threat of the Beast.

*  *  *

It did not take long before they came to Ciligarad, for Délin knew these lands like he knew his armour, or like he knew the tales of old. The proximity of his home town gave his legs new fuel, and his heart new life. Though Théos did not like the cold, he never seemed to lose his energy, racing to and fro and splashing himself, and them, in puddles.

Ciligarad greeted them with a flurry of lights. It was known as the City of a Thousand Guards, and though its watch had dwindled over the years, the Knights of Issarí still kept it well protected. Three knights on horseback charged out from the city to halt them, but they halted themselves instead, shocked to see their leader returned from Telarym.

“Trueblade!” Brégest called from atop his steed. He dismounted immediately with a crash of steel and a splash of water from the rain-clogged ground. “You have returned!”

“Lamar í Lamon. Hómadés dú!” the other knights cheered in unison, as if it were Corrias or Issarí who stood before them now.

“For Lady and Lord,” Délin said. “But there is little time to rejoice.”

Brégest nodded. “We have heard the rumours—and the rumbles. Has he arrived?”

“So it seems. Corrias has gone to Telarym to stop or slow him.”

“Then we are saved,” Brégest said. “We heard that Corrias had returned, and just in time.”

“Yes, yes, but we are not yet saved, and I fear Corrias may not be strong enough to stop Agon.”

Brégest’s eyes grew dim. “To some that would sound like blasphemy.”

Délin thought his own eyes might be grimmer. “Perhaps, and I would rather be a blasphemer than a soothsayer, but my mind tells me that Corrias was not strong enough a thousand years ago to defeat Agon, and my heart tells me he is not strong enough to defeat him today.”

“So what can we do?” Brégest asked.

“We must rally to him. We must offer him whatever aid we can, and so fulfil our oaths to our god, to our land, and to our people.”

“And so we shall,” Brégest said. “But first, you must rest one last night and take one last feast here in Ciligarad ere we ride to war.”

Délin did not say anything, but he knew his eyes said enough to his fellow knight, his brother in arms. One last night and one last feast—because it might be one last battle, and one last draw of breath. This was the threat and promise of war, and one it rarely failed to deliver.

Brégest did not remount, but led his horse by the reins back into the city, letting Délin walk ahead slightly, holding Théos by the hand. Elithéa strolled behind, flanked by the two mounted knights. She looked about with scorn, and perhaps she thought: so much water to feed new life, and not a tree in sight.

The city was bustling as they entered, and it became even busier as soon as word got out that Trueblade had come home. Many came out to greet him, and some threw ribbons into the air, and some others began to play music, and none seemed to mind the never-ending rain.

The mead hall was opened, as it was for special occasions, and the company gathered inside and dried themselves off. Délin had to stop one of the knights from reefing what looked like straw from Théos’ head, which was instead part of his unruly mop of hair, like a little garden of its own.

“Is that the child I have heard rumours of?” Brégest asked Délin, and he glanced anxiously at the boy, like many of Délin’s companions had done when they first encountered him.

“Assuming I know the rumours, yes.”

“What will become of him?” Brégest asked.

Délin sighed. “He has been in too much danger already. I would that I could find a safe haven for him, but even Ciligarad does not seem safe enough. I would offer my sword, and my life, to protect him, but I am sworn also to protect Corrias and all good people in Iraldas. So I am torn. But I can best serve both Corrias and Théos on the battlefield, while there are still battles to be fought.”

Délin’s heart panged, and he was reminded of that sorrowful day when he sent Théos away with Adon of the Garigút to avoid an even more painful parting. And he was reminded of that even more painful day when Théos fell to Teron’s traps in the Old Temple, and Délin’s faith crumbled. He knew that Théos would be safer at home, and yet a large part of him hoped and prayed that he would not rue his decision to leave the child behind, without the protection of his armoured knight.

No decisions were made there in the mead hall beyond how many draughts to pour. The knights drank heartily, and some told of Herr’Don’s visit, and Délin was greatly comforted to know that the prince had not given up, and that he was still doing some good in the world.

Délin did not drink much that night, leaving behind many pints of ale, for he knew that the battles ahead would take much of him, while for some that night the ale alone would do the job. Elithéa drank more than most, and it seemed to affect her little, bar perhaps eliciting from her a smile here and there in place of a frown.

While Délin was not looking, Théos tried to take a sip from his mug, but he was caught in time, and the boy complained in the Ferian tongue. The knights laughed, and one joked about trying the wine instead.

“I thought you only drink water,” Délin said to the boy, but Théos did not respond.

“Perhaps you are a bad influence,” Elithéa said as she stacked her seventh mug upon the last.

“Aren’t we all?” Brégest said. “He’ll fit in just fine here.”

*  *  *

Some drank into the small hours of the night, when the owls set up watch in the rafters, but many of the fighting knights retired to bed, some under orders from their commanders. Those who remained would not march to battle, but would keep the fires in Ciligarad burning, even as their comrades hoped to keep all kingdoms from the flames.

Théos fell asleep in the mead hall, and Délin carried him to his room. He watched him for a time, where the moonlight shone upon him like a warding light, and then when the knight’s eyes grew heavier than his hurts and worries, he retired to bed and dreamed that he might one day be able to retire from battle.

Théos rose with dawn, and he urged Délin from his slumber. They broke their fast and regrouped with Elithéa, whom Délin called to help with his parting words. He removed his helmet and gave it to Théos, as he had done many times before, but now he would not take it back.

“A gift,” he said.

“Tóthel,” Elithéa translated.

Théos smiled broadly, the kind of smile that Délin would always remember, even in the Halls of Halés if he should fall in battle. The child clutched the helm like he held his stuffed toy, and though it was clear that he struggled with its weight, he refused to place it down.

“Dóshel,” Théos whispered, half to the helmet and half to the knight. “Metal roth.”

“A treasure,” the Ferian explained. “I think you know the rest.”

Délin smiled and ruffled the boy’s hair.

“I have to go now,” he said. “I might not come back.”

“Lathim—”

“No,” the knight interrupted. “Do not translate. I do not want him to know. Tell him I will be back soon.”

“Úlsé arba garmil abu,” she said.

Théos nodded, and he placed the helmet down just long enough to hug the knight, before taking it up again and struggling once more. Délin ruffled his hair a final time and turned to leave. As he reached the door he looked back, and he thought he saw a mixture of emotions in the child, a glimmer of joy in one eye, and a gleam of sorrow in the other.

“Goodbye,” he said, and this was a time he was glad Théos could not understand him.

*  *  *

Délin returned alone to his chambers, where he stood for a time by the open doors that led out to the lake. The presence of Issarí had faded, and he knew clearly that she meant it when she said they would never hear her counsel again. He hoped that even if she passed on, the knights that bore her name would remain. He hoped that even if he joined her, the knights would still go on.

He spent another moment before the mirror in his room, where the candle obscured his view, that he might never think himself greater than the true flames of the world. Yet the light illuminated his face, showing all the crags and cracks, the scars of age, and the even greater toils of war. The greatest was yet to come, and he would be lucky to come away with only scars—or to come away at all.

He set aside his swords. Though everyone knew him as Trueblade, and knew his motto, he never revealed the names of his weapons, which were to him his most prized secrets. He had inherited an old superstition from his father that an enemy that knew the name of a blade could never be felled by it. Though many enemies knew the feel of Délin’s swords, they never knew the names.

He removed his armour, the first time he had done so in many weeks. It was difficult to remove, just as it was difficult to put on, and so the squires used to jest that the greater the difficulty, the greater the defence. This had proved true for Délin, and he did not like the feel of the cool wind upon his underclothes when his breastplate lay beside him on the ground.

When finally he had removed his greaves, and he felt naked to all, he turned again to the lake and knelt, and prayed a silent prayer. Then he began to hum, and then he began a gentle song:

The battlefield is our bastille, the bodies walls,

The swords our prison bars, the lives our lock and key.

We are the jailer and the jailed, consumed by brawls

Till war in turn consumes, leaves none among us free.

We are divided by our lands, bound to our creeds,

United only in the clash of sword and shield,

A short accord that lasts till one of us concedes,

And yet the victor to the gods of war will yield.

We fight for freedom, and for all that we avow.

We take up arms, march out, and battle to the last.

We fight for the future, and for the here and now,

And because we still wear the shackles of the past.

Conflict is the rope to bind our hands, strife our noose,

And, seeing blood, madness would have us seek out more.

It will not end till in our hearts we call a truce,

Not break the bonds of peace and don the chains of war.

He went over to his bed and reached beneath it. He pulled out a large wooden chest, plain in form. He unlocked it and looked inside, and nodded firmly. He took out an ornate helmet, which carried an intricate interlace, between which was a field of blue. It was crowned with three small swords, like something a king might wear to war.

He held it before him and bowed his head. “I honour you, father. You fought and won in this, and you fought and died in it. Let our name continue on, and be forever true. De’Marius.”

*  *  *

Some did not recognise Délin when he emerged, but some others knew immediately what this new attire meant. Horses were made ready, weapons were sharpened, and rations were packed. Flags and banners were unfurled, and trumpets were sounded.

Before Délin went to the stables, he headed for the library, wherein he had spent much of his free time in both his younger and older days. It was as much a home to him as his own chambers, and often he was found asleep there, with a book or scroll his pillow.

Talaramit, head scholar of the Knights of Issarí, greeted him. He was young for such a role, but only in body, for his mind was old, wrinkled from the work of many tireless nights of study. He was also a knight, but he wore his armour mostly for ceremony now, for he rarely left the walls of the library, where books were bricks, and Talaramit was their labourer.

“The boy Théos is in your charge now,” Délin told him. “Teach him the good things of this world, the words and numbers, the tales and songs. I go now to teach the evil things a different lesson.”

IV – THE SWORD THAT WAS SHEATHED

Yavün heard and felt the quake more than most in Iraldas, for he was in Telarym, where the Beast had emerged from his prison, where Agon was held back by bonds that all knew could not hold him for long. The Great Lake shuddered, sending ripples to all edges, as if the very water was trying to escape to land. Yet it was from land that Agon came; in land and under land, and yet all the creatures of the sea and air felt him too.

Elilod was in a frenzy. The fear he felt was palpable, and this made Yavün even more afraid than he thought he could be. He knew the stories and the rumours of Agon, and they were unsettling, but Elilod was Elyr the Issaron, the River Man, the spouse of Issarí. He knew Agon, and from the look on his liquid face, that knowledge was terrifying.

“If ever I lament being incarcerated here in Iraldas, it is now, for in Althar time passes much more slowly, so much so that we barely notice it,” Elilod said. “Yet here it seems I cannot blink my eyes and days have passed. Agon has arrived much sooner than I expected, and far sooner than I had hoped. Little fish, there is no more time to study the sea, no more time to learn to swim. We are all in the deep now, and the shark has smelled our blood.”

In time Narylal calmed her leader, bringing him back from those endless wars a thousand years before, where the empire of the Céalari crumbled to the Beast. Though Elilod said little of those dreadful times, Yavün could see in his eyes the cutting of the roots of the Great Tree that bridged Althar to Iraldas, and the dousing of the Lamps that put an end to the immortality of the gods that were now trapped inside the mortal world. He also saw in those eyes the fear that those dreadful times had come again.

When Elilod had calmed sufficiently, he began to tell Yavün of the Sword of Telm, called Daradag, the Hammer of Adag, for as much as it pierced, it struck, and as much as it sliced, it beat. “Adag was the greatest craftsman of the Céalari,” Elilod said, “and he crafted himself into a new blade for Telm to bear, gave up his very life that the sword might take Agon’s.”

Elilod went into great detail about the life of Adag, and how he lived on inside his own creation, as many of the gods did. Yavün was so moved by the tale that his mind immediately began to form a ballad to honour the god.

The greatest of the smiths, Adag his name,

Excellence his hammer, perfection his swing.

Across Althar went tales of his acclaim,

And in the forges he made the metal sing.

He held a vice of frost and tongs of flame,

And for a fitting title, he held “Craft-king.”

By furnace fathered, cast and wrought inside;

By fire mothered, from the hottest air he nursed.

An anvil for a cot, upon it plied.

Gold nuggets for food, liquid tin for his thirst.

Born clutching every ore, the baby cried,

And from that small cry, to life the bellows burst.

He made many of the gods’ finest things,

From great swords and shields to boots of lightning speed,

Copper brooches, and shining silver rings,

And more still, as metal from the earth he freed,

To make sceptres for gods, and crowns for kings.

Accomplishment was his drive, success his steed.

When Agon appeared, and all weapons failed,

Telm came to Adag to seek new tools of war.

In this great quest the god at last prevailed,

And he made himself into the blade Telm bore.

Agon was vanquished, and in Halés jailed.

Adag paid a price—he was a god no more.

Yavün had barely finished his poem when Elilod turned to the Great Lake as if Adag, or even Agon, had appeared there. The manner in which he did this, with the grace of gods, brought Yavün’s eyes upon the body of water that stood before them like the wash basin of the Elad Éni.

Then Yavün beheld a wonder of wonders which made many of his past adventures seem insignificant. From the Great Lake, which imitated a sea, rose a colossal sword held horizontal, a sword that could only have been held by a colossal hand, and could only have been designed to fell a colossal enemy. Its blade was silver and its hilt was gold, and embedded within it were many gems of every colour imaginable, and many colours Yavün previously had not the imagination to muster.

Yavün was so awestruck that he initially failed to notice the hundreds of Taarí who held the sword up from the waters. Even after he saw them he could not help but think that they were the frothy waves that had brought this relic of the gods to the surface.

“This,” Elilod said, his voice an ocean of its own crashing at Yavün’s ears, “is Daradag, the sword that Adag crafted, the sword that he himself became, and the sword that Telm brought to battle—the sword that struck the Beast.”

Yavün did not deny the words he heard, for his eyes still denied the sight he saw before him. If any weapon had been held by Telm, by the Olagh the stableboy had prayed to in his youth, then this could only be it. He could imagine all manner of things, possible and impossible, but he could not imagine any sword greater than the one before him.

“This,” Elilod said, his voice returning like the tide, “is now your sword.”

For a moment Yavün did not register these words, and even after they filtered into his mind he found he did not register their meaning. “Mine?” he asked, the word tumbling out of his mouth as if it had fainted from the shock.

“Yes, yours, little fish.”

Yavün remained dumbfounded, and he showed it with silence. Narylal laughed and placed her hand upon his shoulder. The cool touch was a distraction from the wonder before him.

“I think it’s a little big,” he managed after a time. “I think I’d need larger hands to hold it.”

“Or a smaller sword,” Elilod said. “Look at me. I am Elyr Issaron, the River Man. You saw Issarí, my spouse, and she is greater in size than I now appear, for this is not my true size, but a guise I wear that I might walk this world unnoticed. The rivers may be long and thin, or short and broad, and some may wind, and some may flow straight. They are all made of water, little fish, so size can be altered.”

With these final words, Elilod held his right arm aloft, and the wonder of wonders that  Yavün beheld became even more wonderful, for the gigantic sword rose into the air, and the Taarí that held it up fell from it like drops of water. As it rose it began to shift upright, and it started drifting towards where they stood on the shoreline. Yavün watched in amazement, for as the sword came closer, it grew smaller, the opposite of how his eyes should have worked, and as he blinked in silence, he found that the sword was in Elilod’s hand, no larger than any Yavün had seen used by Herr’Don or Délin.

“Telm fought the Beast for many years, holding him back with this sword, and he inflicted many wounds upon Agon, scars that he still bears in Halés, but when Agon finally slew Telm, the force of Telm’s dying breath sent Agon into the Underworld, and Daradag into the Great Lake. Here in the depths it lay for a thousand years, and though we knew of it for many centuries, we kept its location secret, so that Agon’s forces could not steal it from us, so that we could wait until a rightful heir came along.”

“Why doesn’t Ifferon have this?” Yavün asked. “Is he not more a rightful heir than me?”

“Telm’s bloodline spread wide and far, so his potency is found in many, not in one. Thus his legacy, and his heirlooms, belong to several, not to one. Ifferon has the Scroll. You have the Sword. Both of you have the Blood, and either of you can bear the heirloom of the other.”

Elilod handed him the sword, which he took awkwardly, not because of his little experience with weapons, but more because he feared he would drop or damage it. Initially it felt extremely heavy, as if it was many times the weight of what it appeared to be, as if, indeed, it still held some of the weight of the colossal form he saw in the lake only moments before. In time, however, the weight adjusted, so that he felt he was holding it naturally, as if it had become a part of him, an extension of his being.

“So this is why I’m here,” he said.

“Yes, little fish. You fell into the Chasm of Issarí, and perhaps you thought it was the evil Taarí that pulled you under, that separated you from your companions, but that was not so. It was us, us who dragged you down, and us who pulled you up. And the bridge fell because Issarí, who still holds some sway upon that passage, willed it, that you might be swept down to us, where you might take on your true role, that you might fulfil your true duty.”

Yavün felt overwhelmed by all of this, and though part of him felt immensely special and privileged, another part felt like he was a puppet being pulled to and fro, and that any movement he seemingly made of his own was willed by another. It was a very unsettling feeling, and it made him wonder if he was being used or lied to.

His thoughts were jarred by a strange sensation from the sword, a dull vibration that sent tiny shudders into his body, and in these shudders he thought he could recognise a pattern, as if it were a language of some kind. He then began to suddenly become aware of a powerful mind within the sword, a force beyond anything he had ever felt before.

“What you are feeling is the mind of Adag,” Elilod said. “For he is made into the very metal, beat into the blade, hewn into the hilt. The sword is known by many names, but one of these is the Old Arlinaic title of Délrachúgorin, the Sword that Lives.”

*  *  *

That night was one of the oddest in Yavün’s life, in a life filled with many odd moments. He slept by the Great Lake, with the Sword of Telm beside him like a sleeping lover. He kept his hand upon the blade while he slumbered, and so at times it thrummed, and so at times his dreams took on new meaning, as if Adag were speaking to him in sleep.

When day came, and he found he was less rested than before, Narylal came to him to tell him that Elilod had another gift to give. Her voice and eyes betrayed that she was jealous that this token should go to him instead of her.

“There is one other trinket I would have you wear,” Elilod said, and he produced a strange ring from his vestments. It was an odd type of silver, with two bands that interlocked with one another, so that it could be worn upon two fingers instead of one. It looked almost like a tool of bondage, a manacle for a finger instead of wrist.

“What is this?” Yavün asked when he felt its cool touch upon his hands.

“This is the ring Issarí gave to me many ages ago,” he said. “It means more to me than any other thing in Iraldas, and yet means nothing in comparison to her, to her love, and to my love for her.”

Narylal looked coolly upon Yavün, as if in the eyes of a father she was no longer the favoured child.

“It is called in the Taarí tongue Ada Pysaa, Two Fishes, and it has spent most of its time beneath the sea, where for a long time all that it has united is metal and water, giving birth to rust. Yet even though its sheen has faded, it is still dear to me.”

“Then why are you giving it to me?” Yavün asked.

“Some in this world are gifted with the clearsight,” Elilod said, “but there is another type of sight that the Céalari have, and it is a kind of foresight, showing us what shall come to pass. In this way we are fated to a certain end like any other, and we do not need to look within the waters of the Issar Chammas to see what doom lies before us. And so I know that my time here is waning, and clutching to a trinket would not make that time pass more slowly, nor save me from my fate. I do not know how it all will end, only that the end is fast approaching, and I would that this small symbol of love live on beyond me, and perhaps bring some love to others.”

“But I am alone,” Yavün said, and he felt it more than ever now, and resented that he was reminded of it, as if lovers must mock the lonely to better enjoy their love.

“Then make of it a promise, little fish,” Elilod said, closing Yavün’s fingers until they tightly clutched the ring. “The sword must find its sheath in the heart of another. It is the promise it made to the smith who crafted it. This ring must be worn by two in whom each is the part of their heart that is missing. It is the promise it made to the jeweller who made it, and she made naught that did not live up to its promise. So then, find another little fish to share the Ada Pysaa.”

Yavün accepted the ring, though he did not know what to think of pledges and promises, so easily broken. In his short life he had been promised many things, few of which ever transpired. Now he had been given several gifts, gifts he could feel and hold and touch, when life had previously given him the gift of disappointment and defeat. He did not like promises any more, and yet he knew that even in his blood there was a promise, and facing Agon was its fulfilment.

V – THE KILLING OF THE CROW

The Al-Ferian began to arm for war, with Athanda taking charge now that Mathal had passed on. She was less wiry than her sister, though still she hunched her back and bent her limbs, as if she were a maple tree. She began to issue orders in direct opposition to those that Thúalim had given, but he did not fight her, knowing that she would win.

“We cannot afford to send an army of many,” Athanda said, “and leave our home unguarded. What good is victory if there are none to celebrate it, and what good is marching to war if there is no home to march to when it is won?”

“Assuming it is won,” Thalla said.

“Let’s not assume, but make it so,” Athanda replied.

“How many can we spare?” Thúalim asked.

“At best, a hundred.”

“That will not be enough.”

“It will have to do,” Athanda said. “Let’s hope that knight has a larger army.”

“I am not sure they do,” Ifferon said. “But if they are all like Trueblade, we will not need so many.”

“Throw a thousand Trueblades at the Beast and it may not be enough,” Athanda said.

“The enemy only needs one soldier, and that is Agon,” Geldirana said. “Our victory will not come through numbers, but how we play the numbers that we have. Against a god, only a god will do.” She looked at Ifferon.

“Let’s hope Éala will do,” Athanda said, and though she was Al-Ferian, she looked as though she had much more faith in her own sword than in the strength of the Céalari.

Before the army was assembled, scouts returned from the forest with news that a giant crow had been spotted, heading for the Black Eyrie with what appeared to be a scroll in its beak. Ifferon perked his ears at this news.

“That nest should be black from the soot of flames,” Athanda said. “If we did not march to Agon, I would have us march there instead to teach the fowl what it means to break their oaths.”

“Agon will have to wait,” Geldirana said. “If that crow has the Scroll of Mestalarin, then we must hunt it down, like the Garigút hunt the crows of Boror.”

“Yes,” Ifferon said. “It may be the only real weapon that we have.” Though a part of him still wished that someone else was there to wield it, he felt more and more that if another claimant came, he would deny them the heirloom.

“Do as you will,” Athanda said. “I will take my people to where Agon is, that Éala might not stand alone.”

Geldirana urged the remainder of the Garigút to go with Athanda, and though they seemed reluctant to follow another leader, there was no reluctance in them to engage in a new battle, even if the battlefield had just one enemy upon it.

As the army was readied, a much smaller force comprised of Ifferon, Thalla, Thúalim, Geldirana and Affon assembled. Ifferon initially objected to Affon joining them, but this only raised the ire of Geldirana, which came at him as if it were another member of the company. As they argued, Thalla brought Affon aside.

“You have no right to tell me how to raise my daughter,” Geldirana scolded Ifferon.

“I only want to see her safe,” Ifferon said.

“And will she be safe here?” Geldirana asked. “Here where there are barely enough guards to stand by the many open doors? It is a mountain, that is true, but it is no longer a fortress. I sent Affon here to be safe. I sent her here because Oelinor urged me to, as you now do, and he had more of a right than you to tell me what to do. But now she will be safer with me.”

“Battle is no place for a child,” Thúalim said, voicing what Ifferon thought, but dare not say.

“Battle is the place of all who are at war,” Geldirana replied. “No one is exempt from the battlefield, which we call Iraldas. When Agon hunts down the Children of Telm, he does not stop when he is faced with an actual child. Théos is proof of that.”

Ifferon shook his head. “All the more reason to—”

“No,” Geldirana interrupted. “If there is one who is not invited to the battlefield, it is reason, and if he were, he would be slain there ere he could do any good. In this war, Agon will not be reasonable, and so we should not be either.

“Besides, Affon has been cooped up in this castle for too long, caged like a hen, when the Garigút need to roam. If she is to one day lead my people, she must know the freedom of the open battlefield, which is as much to us a home as Boror itself.”

“If all of Iraldas is the battlefield, let her fight from a safer part,” Thúalim said.

“Here I end my argument with words,” Geldirana said, and she placed her hand upon the handle of her mace. Thúalim glanced at Ifferon and shook his head.

They grudgingly accepted Geldirana’s decision, knowing that she would not back down, and knowing that they needed her, and perhaps needed Affon too, in the thick of battle, where every sword, even one held by a child, affected the outcome.

*  *  *

They set out from the Mountain Fortress, down its many winding paths, through the blood-stained and body-filled valley beneath it, and under the boughs of the seemingly endless forest of Alimror.

“It seems like our mission is a trifle,” Ifferon said, “compared to that of others around us who march to war.”

“We also march to war,” Geldirana replied. “We are just marching at a slower pace. Ere we hasten to the Beast, we must find the Scroll of Mestalarin or we may never stand a chance.”

“Can you track the bird?” Ifferon asked Thúalim.

The Al-Ferian took a while to respond. He seemed distracted, watching every fallen leaf, every scrap of tree, and every tuft of grass. “Yes,” he said in time, but he seemed like he was tracking something else.

“You’re not exactly one for words, are you?” Thalla noted.

Another long pause. “No,” he said.

Suddenly he stopped, and the others stopped in turn, as if their feet were chained to his.

“What is it?” Geldirana asked, and she looked around, as if preparing for an advancing enemy.

“This is where he died,” Thúalim said, and he spoke as if the very forest had been cut or burned down.

They ventured a little further in, and they found the resting place of Rúathar—though he did not look restful. He had clearly been trampled and beaten, and though he was tall and broad, and stronger than many others of his race, the life had been sucked out of him by the shadow, leaving just a shadow of his former self, a broken shell abandoned by its soul.

Thalla closed her eyes and shook her head. Ifferon could not help but think of Melgalés and how Yavün had found him. Geldirana bowed her head. While Thalla perhaps could not help but think of the Magus laying dead on the ground, Ifferon’s thoughts were with Geldirana, who could have so easily joined her fellow Ardúnari—and who might still.

“I am but a glimmer,” Thúalim said. “He was the light.”

He knelt down and closed Rúathar’s eyes. All were glad to no longer see his endless gaze, and the moment of horror captured therein. Now he looked more peaceful, while all others prepared for war.

Affon was unusually quiet. It was difficult to be brash in the face of death.

Thúalim noted the fallen Ilokrán, mere inches from Rúathar’s broken fingers. “A shield that was not strong enough,” he said. He took it up and handed it to Ifferon, who reluctantly accepted it. He already felt guilty for losing the one Melgalés had given him, and for holding the second Shadowstone that Rúathar had, which might have combined with the first for a stronger defence. He did not feel he should hoard these all to himself, and he looked to his silent daughter, who still did not know he was her father, and he realised what his first act as a parent could be. He handed her the Ilokrán, and hoped it would do her more good than it did for Rúathar. As the girl took the stone, he thought he saw a gleam of a smile from Geldirana, just a hint of something veiled by her solemnity.

Thúalim then took the pouch from Rúathar’s waist and stood up. He emptied the acorn into his hand. It looked so plain and simple, dull and brown, small and round. It was no Ilokrán or Beldarian. It did not glint, and it had no markings. To anyone else it was just an acorn. To the company then present, it was Rúathar’s life.

The group gathered around as Thúalim planted the acorn in the ground close to where his leader had fallen. He scooped out some dirt, delving deep into the earth that was everything to the Ferian and Al-Ferian. To some this was an act of a gardener; to others it was the act of a grave-digger. He planted the acorn, and covered it up. So it was that his people came to bury their dead.

Ifferon was surprised to find that nothing was done with Rúathar’s body. He remembered Elithéa’s words in the Amreni Elé, when she tried to convince them that the body was but a shell, that the true life of a Ferian was to be lived as a tree.

They stood for a time around the tiny mound under which the acorn lay, and upon which a tiny sapling might one day grow, if the world was not destroyed by Agon. Ifferon was reminded of the Amrenan Adelis, the Mound of Mourning, where they had buried Belnavar in what almost felt like another age. He looked to his new companions—and he hoped he would not have to bury them too.

*  *  *

They left behind the body of Rúathar and the promise of a new oak tree, and they left behind their sadness and their sorrow, spurred on by their anger and their determination to reclaim the Scroll of Mestalarin, and put the Last Words to their final use.

As they delved deeper into the forest, following a series of markings that Thúalim identified as that of the evil birds, they found that it grew darker, and that the trees grew closer together, as if they huddled tightly in fear of something.

Suddenly that something came into view.

In the growing blackness between the twisted boughs, red eyes lit up like lanterns, and instead of illuminating the land, they seemed to cast it into an even greater darkness. As one set of eyes sparked alight, another set joined them, as if the fire was spreading from lantern to lantern. Ifferon thought of the Felokar wolves, but he knew that they were too far from the entrance to Halés to be attacked by those beasts. These were not the yellow eyes of those neutral hounds, who served neither the Céalari nor the Beast, but the red eyes of creatures that bowed down and knew Agon as their master.

Ifferon drew his sword and Geldirana waved her mace. The others raised their weapons.

“Come forth if you dare!” Geldirana cried.

And so the eyes came forward, and the company saw what they belonged to: many black stags, larger than any of their kin, and more evil. Their antlers twisted and curled around in more extreme forms than Ifferon had ever seen, and some looked even more tangled than the branches of the trees around them. Their fur was black as soot, accentuating the evil glower of their eyes.

And so they attacked. In a sudden flurry the stags charged forward, and they rammed and reared, and they bit and bucked. All the while the company staggered about, striking the animals and warding blows, and sometimes being knocked to the ground from the force of the stampeding herd.

Ifferon narrowly dodged a charging stag, which thundered past and struck a tree. The oak quaked, and the stag’s antlers were stuck deep inside the bark. It pulled and kicked, and it squealed and hollered, as if somehow the tree were attacking it. Ifferon stabbed it with his sword, and so it squealed much louder, but did not squeal for long.

Around him Geldirana moved like lightning, dodging and striking. Thalla and Thúalim had climbed into the trees, from where they both sent down arrows, real ones from Thalla’s bow, and arrows of light from a spectral bow that Thúalim summoned, and they felt no less real to the stags below.

Suddenly Ifferon realised that he did not see Affon in the frenzy, and he called her name, and he heard her call his in return. She was lying several metres away, struggling against a wounded stag, which thrashed its head at her. She clung to its antlers, and she was cast this way and that like a rag doll. And though she was wounded, she did not scream. And though the stag did everything in its power to kill her, she did not call for help.

Yet help came without her call, for Ifferon charged at the animal as if he had antlers of his own. Thus the stag felt his blade, and it bucked no more. Affon still clung to the beast’s horns as its head slumped down, and Ifferon had to pry her fingers off, and hold her quivering hand as he led her away from the battle, where Geldirana laid waste to the remainder of the possessed brutes.

But the battle was not yet over, for the stags had another master, and it was a larger creature of a similar make, but with horns of brilliant white. If the others looked strange, this one looked stranger, as if it had been cobbled together by several different makers. An aura of unease surrounded it, and even Geldirana backed away.

“Go back to your crypt!” she said, and she waved the mace before her, as if she were striking that unsettling aura.

The creature stood there, unmoving and unblinking, its red eyes like eternal fires. Then it prepared to charge, kicking up the dust into an aura of its own.

And suddenly the dust became so blinding that none of them could see the white-horned stag—until it was upon them. Thúalim gave a cry as he was knocked down by the beast, and then Geldirana gave an answering cry as she smashed through one of the stag’s glistening horns with her mace. The creature roared and bucked, but Thalla fired several arrows into it, Ifferon stabbed it in the stomach, and Geldirana struck it in the head until it fell dead before them upon the bodies of its kin, until those fiery eyes no longer burned.

Before they even had time to catch their breath, the ground rumbled around them, as if another great stag was still kicking and bucking upon it.

The company regrouped, and Thúalim shook his head as he looked upon the remains around them. “So much waste,” he said, clutching his chest. “I hope Rúathar did not see these things ere his death.” Ifferon knew there was little hope of that.

“You are hurt,” Thalla said to Thúalim, and she helped him up.

“My Beldarian is safe,” Thúalim said.

“You are also hurt,” Thalla said to Affon, who tried to hide the bruises on her arms.

“The medals of battle,” Geldirana said. “We pin them to the flesh.”

Thalla looked at her as though she could not believe her ears. She clearly had little experience with the Garigút. Though it had been many long years, all of this was very familiar to Ifferon. Yet now it seemed a little crueller, perhaps because he had grown older, but perhaps because it was his daughter that she now spoke of.

“I am fine,” Affon said gruffly, and she tried to fold her arms, but bit her lip from the pain.

“This is no place for a child,” Thúalim said.

“There are worse places,” Geldirana replied. “I have been to some, even as a child. So they shaped me, and so I moulded them in turn. She will go where she pleases.”

“You weren’t of the same mind when it came to Théos,” Thalla said.

“He was different,” the Way-thane replied, and Ifferon noted the dissatisfaction in her tone at being challenged by Thalla.

“He was still a child.”

“And look what became of that. He was where he should not have been, and so he died.”

“And now he is alive again, with Corrias too. Perhaps he was meant to die,” Thalla said.

“Perhaps we all are,” Geldirana replied, and there was the subtle suggestion in her voice that she had the power to make it so.

“These creatures are new to me,” Ifferon said. “Even the evil birds seemed tame compared to them.”

“The Alar Molokrán of this moon has an affinity with nature,” Geldirana said. “But I have never before seen anything quite like this. Too many beings will bend their ear to the shadow. Thankfully we are in the final week of this month, and so the Molokrán have retreated once more for the Passing of the High. We can be sure, however, that they will be out in force again when we are on the battlefield with Agon.”

“And what is the power of the next Alar Molokrán?” Ifferon asked.

“Weather,” the Way-thane replied. “He can control the winds and the rains, and so we will have many enemies in our war.”

*  *  *

So they continued on, until the trees parted like retiring sentries, revealing a large rocky knoll that marked the border of Alimror with Telarym, and the western terminal of the Morbid Mountains, which looked more morbid than ever now that Agon had arisen.

The knoll reached up like a crooked finger, a broken digit of some ancient relative of the Moln. Its grey rock was even greyer than the faded land of Telarym, and perhaps it stood out so much because it sat against the black mountains of the Morbid range.

Upon this knobbly piece of rock, many metres high above the company, was the Black Eyrie, in which nested all manner of foul birds. Their intermingling species might have been commended as a show of brotherly acceptance were it not for the unbrotherly actions they so often enjoyed, against both each other and any other creature upon the earth. They lived on outcrops, where straw and twig was knitted together to cushion their young, and each outcrop gave way to the next like a series of awkward steps, leading up to the pinnacle, upon which the oversized black and red-feathered crows not only lived, but thrived and reigned supreme.

“So this is where they are,” Thúalim said with scorn.

“Defilers and deceivers,” Geldirana said, and she matched his contempt.

Ifferon peered up to see if he could spot the Scroll dangling over the edge of one of the outcroppings, or nestled like an egg with some confused chicks. Had he not experienced the attack on the Mountain Fortress, where the birds bit and clawed, he might have felt some concern or compassion for them, but that was now replaced by a mounting rage, which compelled him to reclaim the relic they had stolen from him.

“So we climb,” he said, and he began the ascent without awaiting their approval. He hauled himself up the wall, which had many round knobs, perhaps for future nests, but now for foot and hand. Affon quickly joined him and soon passed by him, nimbly scaling the rocky ladder. The others joined, Thúalim and Thalla straying to the rear, and Geldirana keeping alongside Ifferon. He was curious that she did not race ahead, as she might have done in her younger days, but stayed with him, as if to protect him as he went.

The climb was tiring, and Thalla complained of vertigo, but soon they all approached the summit and peeked over the first of the massive nests, which might house a hundred birds. This one was empty but for many broken eggs, some of which looked as though they had been forcibly torn apart long before the young inside were ready to face the world.

The wind whistled by, highlighting the uncanny lack of other noises. There were no flaps of wings, nor taps of beaks. There were no caws or screeches, nor cries or songs. Just the taunting wind and its unnerving whistle. It almost threatened to blow them off, almost asked them if they had wings.

Affon hoisted herself into the nest before Ifferon could pull her back, but there was no movement or noise in response, and so the others joined her there, from which vantage point they could see the next nest a metre or so up from the current one. It too looked abandoned. The wind whistled again.

“I thought you could track them,” Ifferon whispered to Thúalim, and though he noticed a hint of disdain in his voice, he did not feel apologetic for it, for his desire to reclaim the Scroll of Mestalarin topped his thoughts and erased his emotions.

“I can, and I did,” the Al-Ferian said. He seemed more confused than the others for the lack of activity in the Black Eyrie. They all knew well that many of the evil birds had survived the assault on the Mountain Fortress, and that this was their perfect resting place, a mountain fortress of their own. And the wind whistled.

Geldirana rummaged through the broken eggs for clues, and she found a dead chick amongst them, which looked as though it had been half eaten. From her estimates, it had been dead for days. Apart from that, and the feathers and droppings of other birds, there was little sign that this nest had been used.

Geldirana stood up, dropping broken egg fragments from her hand. “I do not like the feeling this gives me,” she said. “Something is not quite right here.”

None of the company answered her, for there was little to say, and their own fear was as much a gag to their mouths as a vice to their hearts. Yet the wind answered, and it whistled once more.

They climbed up further into the next nest, carefully edging around the grey tor to where the rock began to blacken, to the very part of the abode that earned it its name. The climb grew steeper here, and they wished they had wings, not merely to make the ascent, but for fear of the sheer and terrifying descent that was possible on a slight miscalculation of foot. They kept close to the central spike of rock, both for balance and support, and to hide behind as they peered around to see the third, equally abandoned, nest.

“So do we climb to find nothing at the top?” Thalla whispered, and she clung to the rock more than the others, and she dared not look down, not even in her imagination, in which the drop was even greater than it was in reality.

“I worry about what we might find,” Thúalim said, voicing the opinion of them all.

“Yet still we have to look,” Ifferon said, speaking another view they all reluctantly shared.

And so they continued up, climbing and clambering, and sometimes jumping across the growing gaps between each nest. In time they passed through a dozen more nests, all as deserted as the others, and came to the pinnacle, where the gigantic nest was filled with bones that stood out palely on the soot-coloured ground. There were many bones of all shapes and sizes, but no birds to gnaw them. Just the uneasy presence of the all-pervading wind.

Just as it seemed that naught would come of the company’s climb, Affon spied a hidden crevice within one of the many oddly-shaped obsidian rocks that lined the place like tombstones. In this she found several unhatched eggs, and further in was the rolled up Scroll of Mestalarin, hiding its power like an egg hides the vulnerable young inside.

“It’s here!” Affon cried, and her voice was so loud that many knew immediately that no good could come of it. The wind caught her voice and carried it high, and instead of its usual whistle, it gave a different response this time: the screech of a crow as it came in for the kill.

As Affon stretched her thin arm into the crevice, the huge black and red-feathered crow, which seemed even larger now than it did when it stole away with the Scroll from the open rooftop of the Mountain Fortress, swooped in and snatched her before she could snatch the parchment. She yelped as the talons caged her, and she screamed as they hauled her into the sky. Geldirana and Ifferon gave another cry, both in unison, the kind of cry the crow made when it saw the girl’s mauling hand reach in towards its young. And then their voices were stolen, for the crow released its grip, and Affon slipped out and down, plummeting towards the edge of the Black Eyrie, and the edge where all who looked upon the scene knew she could not grasp, but would fall down to her death in the bleakness down below.

Ifferon’s horror, which was like the endless lash of a thousand whips, stayed his mind, but his instinct spurred his feet. He raced to the edge, as if he might somehow extend the arm of Telm the Lighthand, and reach out further than the arm of a Man could reach, and grasp Affon’s hand with the strength of a god. But he reached for nothing, and held nothing, and saw nothing. Even the girl’s voice had faded out as she fell, stolen by the taunting wind with its mocking whistle.

A new horror nested in Ifferon’s heart, and perhaps it nested also in the hearts of the others, but all he could think of was Affon falling, and his heart falling, as if leaping to save her. Suddenly he thought of Théos and that harrowing moment when all turned to madness, and that haunting moment when he saw Délin’s will break, and those hounding moments when he thought the knight could never be whole again. And even more suddenly he felt all those emotions he had felt in empathy, but now he felt them truly, and felt that none could truly empathise.

But the hunter leaves no time for grief, and in those brief moments that felt endless to the company upon the Black Eyrie, the crow circled around and came back in again, like a black cloud streaked with the angry red of the vengeful gods of the sky. Its eyes were little comets of their own, burning with an intensity that seared all they looked upon. But Ifferon turned to it, and his eyes burned back. He stepped forth, and the sound of his foot striking the ground was like the foot of Telm upon the earth. He continued on, and the armour of that god began to form around him. As he passed the crevice, he reached inside and seized the Scroll as if it were the handle of the sword called Daradag.

All who looked upon the god emerging, and the crow descending, were stunned into silence, frozen to the spot as if they could do naught in the battle ahead. The crow crashed down just as Ifferon’s Telm-armour formed fully around him, and the strike was like lightning, and the sound was like a thousand thunders. Feathers flew into the air like arrows, and light sparked violently from the impact. Ifferon was knocked back, and the crow came down upon him, but the force of the conflict sent both of them over the ravine, down to where Affon had fallen, as if the very Land of the Dead lay in that direction.

Geldirana raced to the edge, and just as she peered over, she was caught off guard, for the monstrous crow came back up, clawing and scratching. She unleashed her mace, and she swung at the feathered beast. Her blows would have crushed skulls and broken limbs, but they did little to harm or hinder the crow, which struck back with a crushing of its own. Geldirana was thrown back into a bed of shell shards, and she cried out as her back struck the ground, reminding her of her old wound.

All the while Thúalim was summoning a force of his own, and Thalla armed her bow, firing shot after shot, and discovering one disappointment after another, for the arrows bounced off the bird as if it were wearing armour. And so it was, in its own way, for its form had grown huge over these last few days since the attack on the Mountain Fortress, its body bulging beyond any natural mass, and once Thúalim called down a single bolt of lightning upon its head they discovered just how it had grown so large. The bolt forced a cry from the crow, and when it opened its beak some could see the bits of bones of other birds stuck in its mouth, and then they could see parts of its belly bulge as if some of its victims were still alive inside.

But there was no freedom to be had, for the crow reared up and flapped its wings violently, and the force caused a whirlwind there and then upon the Black Eyrie, sending both Thúalim and Thalla over the edge. They fell, despite clawing for a grip or hold, and they landed several metres down upon one of the many nest ledges around the monolith. As they struck the nest, sending twigs and egg fragments into the air around them, they saw Ifferon, still shimmering in the armour of Telm, and he leapt across from one nest to another with an agility they had never seen from him before. They struggled up, but he was already out of sight, returning to the arena where Geldirana now faced the crow alone.

Geldirana had barely struggled to her feet before the crow was upon her again. It snapped and pecked at her, and she narrowly dodged the sharp beak, but she never dodged the evil look of its eyes, which fixated upon her as if there was nothing else in the world. She swung her mace at it again, but it bounced off the feathers as if its body were a pillow, and Geldirana thought suddenly of the futility of this fight, and that she might die not to the Molokrán, but to this creature of the air that all the laws of Iraldas suggested should never be able to exist. But it existed, and it reminded her constantly of just how real it was, and that just as it had in some way been made, she could be unmade.

It stretched its wings out wide, knocking the mace from her hands, and the gust of air that came through sent her back to the familiar ground. The bird loomed tall above her, stepping forth, and in those moments she could see that between its feathers there were many bulbous sores, as if it were afflicted by some great and terrible disease. It looked at her and stepped forth, and there was menace in the step, and murder in the glare.

But before the crow could finish her, Ifferon leapt onto the pinnacle with a murderous glare of his own. “Dehilasü baeos,” he shouted, and there was anger in his voice. “Dehilasü baeos,” he cried again, and there was anger in his stride. The crow backed away, its looming presence diminished by the greater presence of Telm in the shimmering armour that surrounded Ifferon, and the glow of light that surrounded the Scroll.

He advanced upon the beast, and it retreated, but before it could take flight he seized it by the wings, and the touch was as Telm the Lighthand, and the crow cried out like Geldirana had cried, and like Affon had cried. It jumped up, trying to get airborne, but Ifferon pulled it down with a strength that was not his own, and yet one that formed the very essence of his blood. The crow snapped and bit and pecked and clawed, but just as Geldirana’s mace struck at nothing, the bird’s attacks were blocked by the glimmering armour of Telm. The light around the Scroll grew larger, shifting shape and form, until it seemed to Geldirana’s eyes that it became a sword. Ifferon stabbed the creature with this, and it gave a terrible cry, and then its terror was no more.

Yet Ifferon continued to strike the beast even as it lay limp upon the ground. He tore feathers from its coat, and he bashed it with his fist and with the sword of light, until the armour around him collapsed and dissipated like water, and he found he was still bashing the bird with the rolled-up scroll, still striking it even as the ground beneath him quaked. He continued this for a time, shouting that same Telm-cry in the Aelora tongue, as if it were the most terrible of curses, until Geldirana came up behind him and grabbed him and held him, and they collapsed together, and he wept.

“It is dead,” she told him, repeating what his eyes said. “It is gone.”

Ifferon sobbed, for though this was a victory, the Scroll had been reclaimed at a price. “She is dead,” he whimpered. “Just as I learn I have a daughter, she is taken from me.”

Geldirana did not weep, even though a part of her heart tried to mock her with that weakness. She locked it away, imprisoned it, so that it could not imprison her. She knew well what grief could do, and she had seen what it had done to Délin, whom she tried to protect from a fate that was beyond all of them.

“There might be a time for sorrow,” she said, “but not while Agon still threatens this world. You have an armour that none of us can match, but I would not have told you that Affon was your child if I had known it would become a weakness in you.”

Ifferon shrugged off her embrace, for it felt at odds with her words. “Do you not feel?” he asked.

“I feel everything,” she said. “More than you know. It is not courage to not know fear, but rather it is courage to know fear and face it anyway. It is not strength or resolve to not know the pain of parting, but rather to know that pain like a partner, and not let it destroy you.”

“How can we go on when there is so much pain?”

“Because not going on is no absolution from that pain,” she said. “It might feel like a prison to escape from, but letting it control you and hold you back is the real prison.” She embraced him again, and he did not resist. “Ifferon,” she said, more harshly than before. “I may die in the coming battles. In fact, it is likely I will die. Perhaps even you will die. Perhaps we all will. I have come to terms with that, because this is greater than all of us individually and all of us combined. We are not just battling evil—we are fighting for the very survival of good. Sometimes that means a sacrifice has to be made.”

They sat together, shoulder to shoulder, for what felt like a lifetime, and it reminded them of the time they had spent together, a decade ago in what almost felt like another life. The threat of Agon was always there, but it was a distant one, and the dwindling bloodline of Telm had less meaning then than it did now. There was just Ifferon and Geldirana, and the happiness between them. There was no child, no daughter, no Affon. And as they sat together again these ten years on, with sadness between them—there was no child, no daughter, no Affon.

The tears fell from the ledges of Ifferon’s eyes, to the ground where they could not be saved. Though he tried to stop them, they continued to fall, and though he could see little through the glisten, he could see that Geldirana’s ears were not altogether dry.

“What kind of world is this?” Ifferon bellowed to the sky, as if beseeching what few gods still lived there, as powerless as the people of Iraldas. No answer came; more tears came instead.

“Tears are for cowards,” a voice came suddenly, and they all turned in amazement to see that it was Affon. “Blood is for warriors. Blood for the Garigút!” She held up the remains of a large crow, whose neck had been slit. The blood left a trail behind it, from where she limped.

Ifferon and Geldirana jumped up and ran to the girl. The three of them hugged, though it was an awkward hug, made all the more awkward by Affon refusing to drop the dead bird.

“Hugs are for the weak,” she said, shaking them off her.

“Some are for the strong,” Geldirana said.

“He’s not strong,” Affon said, gesturing to Ifferon.

“Affon,” Geldirana said. “He is your father.”

Ifferon held his breath, waiting for some rebellion, some dismissal. He almost did not want to hear her response, did not want to be reminded of how much he had missed, of all the years he was never there.

“I know,” Affon replied, and she smiled.

*  *  *

The Black Eyrie became their home that night, and all of them felt like Garigút, taking whatever dwelling they came across, feeling that little bit more barbaric in this bastion of blood. No birds returned there while they rested, warded off by the remains of their kin.

“We might not have vanquished Agon,” Ifferon said, “but we have dealt him a grievous blow.” He held up the Scroll of Mestalarin. “He will rue this moment when we reclaimed this relic.”

The group cheered, in as much as they had energy for cheer, for many of them were more content with their survival than any possible damage they had done to Agon’s mission. They rested briefly, and from that vantage point they looked at the jagged ridge of the Morbid Mountains, and further south-east into the heart of Telarym, where they could almost sense Agon struggling to get free.

Ifferon and Geldirana had the clearsight, but their vision did not stretch far enough, and so they could only ponder how things had gone for those who marched towards the Beast—and for the very Beast himself and his eternal struggle.

Deep in Telarym, where the sky was a new colour darker than black, and where the ground could no longer be seen in the bleak oppression of the night, there was a constant sound of battle and a constant wail of pain. Deep in Telarym, where Agon thrashed and flailed, as if the very air around him was an enemy, there was the sound of straining steel. Deep in Telarym, another chain broke.

VI – THE MARCH OF MANY

Ifferon and his companions led the long march into the heart of Telarym, towards where the periodic quakes emanated from, towards where the air seemed to grow tight and tense, as if it could not bear to be breathed in and out by the ireful lungs of the Beast.

They followed the winding path of the Issar Chammas, which crossed from west Telarym before dropping into the sea in the east. The river was a constant companion to their left, and they never crossed it, and they never strayed too close to its deceptive edge, and yet at times it seemed that it strayed close to them, and at times it seemed that the path it led was changing, if ever so subtly.

A more reliable guide was their companions to their right: the Morbid Mountains. For all of the Issar Chammas’ guile, like a skilful painter, this sentinel ridge was always blunt and obvious, carving its black silhouette into the canvas of the sky, with no grace or tact, and no deception. It almost seemed like a chasm into nothing, where the spectrum simply ended, and beyond which there were only the unseen colours of the dead. Behind those black tors were the snowy peaks of the White Mountains, and between them lay the Dead Land of Feloklin, a land of eternal grey. From there the grey seeped into every part of Telarym, sapping it of any colour, stealing it of any splendour.

The hours passed, until what little there was of day was lost in darkness, when the sky and the silhouette of the mountains became a unified mass. They continued to travel for a time, until even the stars went to sleep, and then they rested as best they could, knowing that two great barriers lay on either side of them, a ruin lay behind them, and death lay before them.

*  *  *

The next day brought less light than the one before, and the company blamed this on the ominous shadow of Tol-Úmari, which they fell under once again. It was here that they stumbled upon a pile of Al-Ferian bodies, upon which rested a lonely unlit lamp.

“Is this the army we just sent forth?” Thalla asked, disturbed by the sight.

“No,” Thúalim said, though he was no less horrified.

Ifferon found markings in the ground not far from the bodies, where he theorised the acorns of the fallen Al-Ferian had been buried.

“This was one of the search parties we sent to find Théos,” Thúalim said. “We sent out many. Few returned.”

“I imagine the army that went ahead of us buried their acorns,” Ifferon said.

“But what about their bodies?” Thalla asked.

“They do not honour their dead,” Geldirana said.

Thúalim glared at her. “We honour them by planting their acorns.”

“In Telarym soil, there can be no such honour,” the Way-thane said.

“Your Garigút did not bury them either,” Thúalim said.

“It is not my people’s responsibility to look after your dead.”

“Let us hope you do not have to bury your own then,” Thúalim replied, “for you shall toil alone.”

“Not alone,” Ifferon said.

Ifferon offered to bury the fallen, but Thúalim would not have them waste time on shells. “When the snail leaves behind his shell, he does not worry if it should crack or break.”

“But would he worry that it might become the home of another?” Geldirana asked. “The Dead Land is near. There are many souls that lust for a new body.”

They passed by Tol-Úmari, and day seemed a little fairer for a time, until the shadow of that tower was replaced by the shadow of the Peak of the Wolf, where the ethereal door to the Underworld stood open, and from which wafted a humid air, as if from the pyre of dead souls burning. They began to feel more than ever the presence of Agon, and they began to dread more than ever that they might look upon that door to Halés, but look upon it from the other side.

Though night was fast approaching, they did not tarry near the Peak, where Ifferon and Thalla remembered well the Felokar Wolves, and where Geldirana knew enough about the dead to not want to know that much more. So they continued to follow the Issar Chammas until the oppressive atmosphere of the Peak felt less intense. It was there that they camped for rest, in the open plains, where the eyes of all who might be watching was less a risk than the eyes of those few whom they knew to bear an evil glare.

They did not sleep soundly, however, for during Ifferon’s watch he saw a glimmer on the horizon to the north, a line of shimmering light in the darkness. Initially he started from fright, where his mind jumped to the worst possible scenario, for often the reality he faced nowadays was even grimmer than in his imagination. But logic trumped fear, helped by the fact that it was a mass of light that was advancing towards them, not a mass of darkness.

“An ally, I hope,” Thalla said, rubbing her eyes.

“More than one, I hope,” Ifferon replied.

“Maybe it’s more Garigút,” Affon suggested. Ifferon looked to Geldirana, whose eyes told him clearly that there were too few Garigút left in the world.

They sat in the open for over an hour, staring into the distance, their minds racing as fast as the light raced towards them. In time it became clear that this was not some strange effect of the heavens, like the colourful lights in the snow-covered land of Caelün. It was an army advancing, and by the sound of the stampede, they were on horseback, and they were numerous.

Ifferon almost dozed off by the time they arrived, but the noise became so tumultuous as they pounded over the final ridge that he was dragged back awake, his eyes wide and alert. Then he saw a sight that warmed his heart: at least a hundred Knights of Issarí, led by Délin De’Marius, all on horseback, all in armour, and all bearing weapons and banners in their hands—and a grim determination on their faces. Though they had just crossed the Issar Chammas, all of them looked untroubled, for they had all ridden out knowing that death might be their destination.

The army drew to a halt just before Ifferon and Thalla, sending a spray of dust into the air where the hooves stopped suddenly in the dirt. The horses neighed and whinnied, and some reared and bucked, and many bore the same look of determination as their riders.

Délin rode at the front, tall and broad, and he looked like he did when Ifferon first encountered him in Alimstal Forest, when he knew him only as Trueblade, and when the most immediate threat was the wild Bull-men, not the emergence of Agon and the advancement of his armies.

“The skirmishes are over,” Délin said, his voice muffled by his helmet. “Now it is time for war.”

Délin dismounted and greeted his companions. He seemed more expeditious and serious than ever, with little time for pleasantries. He appeared ready at any moment to face battle, and often he cut their conversations short to consult with Brégest or another of the knights’ tacticians.

Yet despite this abruptness, which set Ifferon on edge, Délin called him aside and placed both his gauntleted hands upon the cleric’s shoulders. He had removed his helmet, and he seemed for a moment less daunting.

“I have brought a gift,” Délin said. He stepped aside, revealing a wooden crate that had been unloaded from the horses. The lid had been loosened, but its contents were still shrouded.

“Open it,” Brégest said, and all the knights looked eagerly to Ifferon as he approached the box. He pushed the lid aside, and from the darkness came a sheen and sparkle. Before him lay a suit of silver armour, more beautiful than any he had ever seen. He held up the breastplate, which carried the emblem of a quill in the centre, like the one he wore on his sash in the Order of Olagh. He almost wept as the moonlight shone upon it, revealing its careful craftwork.

“War is no place for a cleric,” Délin said, smiling. “But it is the place for a warrior, a soldier.”

Ifferon could not muster any words of response. It seemed to him through the glisten of his eyes that the armour had even been inscribed with the Last Words about the waist, neck, and arms, and that there were many emblems of the gods, many crests and sigils, and many symbols he did not even recognise, but could not help but find beautiful and moving.

“It was worn by another knight, many years ago,” Délin said, “though we have added some … embellishments. It looked to me your size, though we have few knights as tall and thin as you, and had not the time to set the smithy working.”

“It is perfect,” Ifferon said.

Délin placed his gauntleted hand upon Ifferon’s shoulder. “So then, friend, is it time to arm for war? The heavier the burden, the heavier the armour.”

He looked at Geldirana, who was studying him with her eyes. He remembered her words. I could not fathom how this man I once loved, who was strong and full of adventure, had tamed so much, and given up his armour for a frock. Now it was time to give up his frock, and to don his armour once again.

*  *  *

The knights unpacked many of their things and set up several pavilions. This would be their new base of operations, their new home away from the Motherland of Arlin. They did not bring much, for their horses were already weighed down by armoured knights, but they brought enough to remind them of their homes and their families—and what they were fighting for.

The largest pavilion was set up for Délin, but before he would enter he invited Ifferon to try out his new attire, the sight of which the knight said was worth more than shelter in these lands. So Ifferon went behind the curtained door, and two squires helped him with the many pieces of his armour, and he realised then why Délin never removed his armour, for it was almost like a puzzle to put together, and so perhaps, he hoped, it would be a puzzle to any searching blades hoping to find an opening to his vulnerable flesh beneath.

When Ifferon emerged from the tent, few recognised him. The thin, tall man with the shaved head and sour face, had become a sentinel of steel, an armoured knight who could have blended in with any of those around him. The metal plates made him seem broader, and while he lacked the mass and strength of knights like Délin, he looked to some quite formidable.

“Who goes there?” Délin jested. “And what have you done with our dear cleric?”

The knights laughed and cheered. “For Issarí! For Corrias!”

Ifferon pushed up the visor of his helmet. “Hopefully Agon does not recognise me.”

Délin smiled. “I think he is in for a surprise.”

*  *  *

Ifferon was as surprised as many others when Elithéa appeared from one of the pavilions, attired in the finest armour of a knight. Though it was beautiful upon her, she walked awkwardly, losing almost all of the grace that she normally had. She stumbled over to them and grunted from inside the visor of her helmet.

“It doesn’t suit you,” Thalla said.

Elithéa pushed up the visor aggressively. “Perhaps it would suit you more,” she said. “It is, after all, as much a cage as a costume, and perhaps it fits some better than others.”

“Yet you’re the one wearing it,” Thalla responded.

“Perhaps the knights care more about my survival than yours,” the Ferian said. “Ack! I can barely move,” she added, and she seemed to be struggling within the suit of armour. “How can you stand this?”

“Comfort is our last concern,” Délin said. “Yet the sword is less comfortable when embedded in you.”

“So then dodge the sword instead of parrying it with your body,” Elithéa said.

“Not all of us have your reflexes,” Délin replied.

Elithéa shifted again, until it seemed that she was actually fighting with the garb she wore, where she could not dodge its icy touch or awkward edges. Finally she stopped still and looked to the others with frustration in her eyes.

“No, this will not do,” she said. “I will never understand Man and why he tries to suffocate his form with these metal housings. This is not the garb for me.”

She began to walk off, and her words were echoed in her floundering stride.

“Don’t let the clothes defeat you,” Thalla called to her.

Elithéa glared at her as she retreated back to the pavilion, bashing the curtain open.

“You have been hanging around Elithéa too long,” Ifferon said.

Thalla smiled. “I guess I have.”

When the Ferian returned, she was not only back in her familiar attire, which looked lighter than ever, but she carried several wooden staves and a large knife. “It is time for a new thalgarth,” she said, and she began carving immediately, refusing rest or refreshment. She toiled even into the small hours of the night, when many turned to their makeshift beds and their uneasy dreams.

*  *  *

Ifferon awoke suddenly in the dead of night, and he must have given a cry, for the eyes of several guards were upon him. He turned to find Délin was sitting up, his helmet placed down beside him.

“Did I wake you?” Ifferon asked.

“Yes,” Délin said. “You still talk in your sleep.”

“Maybe I am just the party’s rooster,” Ifferon said. “We all need a morning call.”

Délin smiled. “There are many hours left until morning. How is it that the days most in need of rest are always preceded by the nights most restless?”

“Some ancient law, perhaps,” Ifferon said. “I do not think I was having much of a good sleep either. Sometimes it is better to stay awake than toss and turn in dream.”

“Are you ready for what will come?” Délin asked him.

“Honestly, I do not know,” Ifferon said. “We are so close to Agon now that I can almost feel him, can almost remember Telm’s battles with him as if they were my own. But it is easier to study the tales of ancient wars than to fight in new ones. The page bleeds with ink, not blood.”

“Few bleed with the blood of Telm,” Délin said.

“I am not sure it will do much good if I am bleeding,” Ifferon replied.

Délin looked as though he was brooding upon a troubling thought, and he took his time to reveal it to Ifferon. “If it comes to it … will you die like Telm did?”

“I think that is more in Agon’s hands than my own,” Ifferon said. “I do not like to think of it, and I am not sure if I could ever be a willing sacrifice. Maybe I am still a coward at heart.”

“A coward would not be here, having uneasy dreams on the eve of battle,” Délin said. “A coward would be sleeping sound in a land far away, like so many kings and queens, so many lords and ladies. Yet we fight the real nightmares of the world, that others might sleep safely. So we are always making small sacrifices in the name of good.”

Their conversation died down, leaving behind the stillness of the dark, where the only sound was the flickering of a few failing fires and the whittling of wood as Elithéa continued to craft into the deepest stretches of the night.

*  *  *

Day did not dawn before all were roused by the watchmen, who spied the advance of the enemy from the south. Some glanced with sleep-clogged eyes to see if they could judge the numbers, while others like Délin began to issue a rapid series of orders, like arrows from a bow.

Ifferon looked to the south, and he saw a darkness approaching, a darkness dappled with a flicker of many lights, as if the night sky had fallen to the earth and was now rolling towards them. Yet Ifferon wished it was the darkness of the night, for this, he knew, was worse. From the north an army of knights had emerged, but from the south came a different army, with a different purpose.

When finally the dark mass drew close enough that it no longer blended into a single unit, Ifferon could hardly believe his eyes, for the Dark Men must have numbered in their thousands, swarming the land like a black river that had broken its banks. Further still in the distance Ifferon thought he could see more black shapes, and he wondered if they were just the trees or the mountains, or if they were more Nahamoni—or if they were something else, something worse.

Délin was already on horseback, as were many of the other knights. His horse now bore a blue caparison with white frills and small white sword emblems dotted throughout. It also bore a large metal champron to protect its head, with a ridged crest adorned with three miniature swords, like the crown of a king. Ifferon was so entranced by the design that he barely noticed that Trueblade also wore this same design on his helmet, which was more ornate than the one he had worn before. His cloak also matched the caparison, and it blew in sympathy with the many banners the Standard-bearers held.

Though many of the knights wore helmets that hid their faces, Ifferon could almost see their stern eyes peering through the steel. He could certainly see the looks upon the horses’ faces, as if the Nahamoni were the Gormoloks or their kin, and their glares were stern enough for both horse and rider.

Brégest pulled up close with a second horse in tow, covered in elaborate barding and a white caparison. “This is no time for hiking,” he said, handing the reins to Ifferon. “You do know how to ride, I presume.”

Ifferon nodded, but he was not so sure. It had been many years since he had ridden a horse of his own, and though he thought he might never forget, there was always the thick of battle to challenge his memory. He tried to climb up on his horse, but he struggled, for his new armour was heavy, and he had barely grown accustomed to standing still in it, let alone riding a horse into battle.

Thalla drew up on horseback, and she looked like a natural. Ifferon could almost imagine her and Yavün riding through the fields on a summer’s day. Yet he knew it was likely Herr’Don who had given her these lessons, and regretted giving her anything at all.

Geldirana and Affon rode upon the same horse, but Elithéa refused to force any animal to bear her weight, and she made sure to deride all of those who did, especially the knights with their heavy armour. Thúalim joined her on foot, though he said nothing to explain his decision.

“Leave the fight to us,” Délin said, which did not go down well with many. “Protect Ifferon and you will be doing a greater service than our swords and lances will.”

“I’ll protect him by killing the enemy,” Affon said.

“Why bring her here?” Délin asked Geldirana.

She almost slew him with her eyes. “I seem to recall that you brought an even younger child to my battlefield at Nahragor. Here now, I return the favour on your front line, and she has earned her right to be here more than most, and will slay more tonight than your boy will slay in his entire life.”

Délin glowered back, but said nothing. He turned back to his knights and signalled for them to line up in formation. In moments they were assembled into a wedge. There they waited, like the tip of an arrow drawn tight inside a bow.

*  *  *

In time the Nahamoni drew close enough that their grizzled features became clear, and Ifferon almost wished for them to become a single mass of shapeless darkness once again to avoid seeing their scarred faces, and to avoid being scarred by their evil glares. They shouted and taunted, and they waved their weapons madly in the air, as if the sky were their enemy.

At the head of the regiments of Nahamoni marched two giant men, twice the height of the others, twice the width, and from the looks of them, many times the ferocity. One was completely covered in ink markings, and he was bald. The other bore no markings, but instead had many scars on his pale body. Otherwise they were of similar build and appearance, and to some they might have even seemed like twins. These were the Nahamoni leaders, their generals, and they were here to lead their armies to war.

Délin raised his sword, and the flags were waved and the horns were sounded. And so the knights began to trot out towards the advancing army, gaining speed with every step.

“For Corrias! For Issarí!” the knights cried in chorus.

Despite Ifferon’s pleas, Geldirana and Affon led their horse out to flank the enemy, with a volume of weapons to match a number of knights.

“Blood for the Garigút!” Affon cried alone.

*  *  *

The battle was a bloodbath, and though it started with the colours of many banners, it ended with the colour red. The knights did not wait for the enemy to make its move, but began their charge from horseback, drowning out the beats of their horses’ hooves with a chorus of horn cries that rent the earns of all who heard them. Lances were thrust forth, blades were swung low, and the armies clashed like a clap of thunder from the angry sky.

The initial force of the knights’ charge crushed the first ranks of the enemy, and those who ran towards the stampeding horses went down quicker than those who dug in deep with spears, which snapped like the bones of their bearers. Chaos rode a horse of its own, and it was called Panic, and he drove down those who were not killed by the knights.

Geldirana and Affon were espied here and there, mowing down small battalions as if they were solitary soldiers. Only two sat upon that one horse, and yet it seemed that there were the hands of many, waving with flail, striking with mace, and slicing with sword.

Though Ifferon hung back with many of the others, he could not escape the battle, for arrows began to fly in all directions, many into the sky, as if aimed at Althar, and many towards the pavilions, where no doubt the enemy deemed the knights were housing their generals and other important officers. Yet this was not the case, for Délin led the charge, and he bore down upon those archers more than others, greeting their dishonour with his sword.

But the mass of the enemy was too much, and even as the knights wheeled around to give themselves new speed, the Nahamoni numbers swelled, until it seemed that none of them had fallen at all. The knights charged again, but this time the horns were fewer, and this signalled to the ears and hearts of all more than the sight of their dwindling numbers could. So the ranks of the knights grew thin, while the Nahamoni replaced all of their dead with a steady stream of reinforcements.

Ifferon and his companions were about to dive into the fray when Délin led the remainder of the knights back to the pavilions, exhausted and defeated. Less than two dozen remained, while at least a thousand of the enemy still stood, emboldened by the blood of their comrades.

Délin dismounted harshly and cast off his helmet. “They are too many,” he said, and he took a gulp of water from his flask. “All of Nahlin must be emptied to make such a host. Would that I had the numbers that Boror has to fight them.”

“Can we retreat?” Ifferon asked, and even as he spoke Geldirana and Affon returned, for they were almost toppled from their horse. “Can we retreat?” Ifferon repeated.

“No,” Brégest said. “We have been surrounded, and we have too few horses left to break their ranks, or bear away our forces.”

“Can we at least get Ifferon out?” Délin quizzed.

“Not without heavy losses.”

“We may need to make that sacrifice,” Délin said, “to stave off greater losses.”

But the opportunity to flee was slain like a charging knight, for the enemy drew in closer, and the knights could see that their ranks were too many to pierce, even if they threw all of their might against one point.

“So favour flees instead of us,” Délin said. “We cannot meet this force with strength.”

“I will not surrender,” Elithéa said. “I would rather die.”

“They might be most obliging,” Thalla said.

“I can blind some with a spell,” Thúalim said, “but not all of them, and not enough to change our fortune.”

“Then we must buy time,” Délin said. “We must pay with our pride.”

Brégest must have known what this meant more than the others, for he immediately protested against it. “We cannot do that, Trueblade. Honour demands we fight until the end.”

“And now is not the end,” Délin said. “Let us save the fight until then.”

“Even if we wave the white flag, how do we know they will stop waving the red one?” Ifferon asked.

“All now is a gamble,” Délin said. “And we bet our lives.”

So the Chief Standard-bearer Ergrid conducted his most humiliating duty: replacing the flag of Arlin and the banner of the Knights of Issarí with the white rag of acquiescence, the cloth of capitulation. In all the long history of the Knights, they were rarely forced to raise this flag in place of their own, and those few who still lived felt a devastation beyond death.

“Our prides can take this hurt,” Délin said, “if it will give us time to defeat Agon.”

“How can we fight the Beast when we too are in bonds?” Brégest pleaded.

“Some will come,” Trueblade said.

“What if they do not?”

“Have faith, friend, if not in them, then in me.”

Nervous glances were exchanged, and Ifferon could see in their eyes that they had never before questioned Délin like they did now. Even Ifferon could not see how any would march to their rescue, when so few had marched to war.

An answering flag was waved by the Nahamoni, but this one was black, and it did not mean surrender, but instead was a summons to discuss their terms. Délin and Brégest rode out to meet the two giant generals, who stood gloating in their victory.

“Don’t say the knights don’t have wisdom,” the pale giant said. “You know when you’ve been beat.”

“Our terms—” Délin began, but he was cut short.

“You ain’t got no terms,” the dark giant interrupted. “Surrender or die are your options.”

“You must abide by the laws of war,” Délin said.

“And whose laws are those?” the giant asked.

“They belong to all of us.”

“And who’s gonna enforce ‘em?”

“There are places worse than Halés,” the knight replied, “for those who break the codes of battle. There is space with the Elad Éni in the Void.”

The Nahamoni were a superstitious people, and the mention of the Elad Éni had a clear effect upon the giants, for they looked nervously to one another, before returning their hardened gazes to the knight.

“We’re the most obligin’ hosts,” the pale giant said with a grin, and he extended his arm as if inviting them into his parlour.

“We’ll treat you just right,” the dark giant said, and his grin was more menacing.

“Our surrender is on the condition that none of our people are killed,” Délin said.

“If you don’t surrender, all of ‘em will be killed,” the dark giant said, and it seemed that he almost hoped the knights would lower their white flag.

“Perhaps we are of more use alive than dead,” Délin said.

The giants looked to one another and mumbled something about the Slave-lands and a “slave bounty,” which seemed to capture the greed in their hearts, which revealed its nature in their glimmering eyes.

“Right then,” the pale giant said. “Let’s have your wrists.”

Délin held his arms up. “When you shackle me, it will seal our contract, and both our fates.”

This unnerved the pale giant more than the other, for he turned the manacles over to his twin, who glowered at Délin before fastening them about his wrists. Brégest followed, and he looked at Délin and shook his head. Délin could almost feel the shaking heads of the others further behind him, and it felt worse than the steel around his wrists.

VII – PRISONERS OF WAR

It did not take long to round up the survivors and put them in chains, but not all of them went willingly. Elithéa fought off her assailants fiercely, perhaps because she did not want to be so soon returned to a cage, and she battered many of them with the staves of her newly-crafted thalgarth. It took several dozen to eventually restrain her.

Geldirana might have done even more damage, but she gave up willingly, and Ifferon could see in her eyes that it took great restraint on her part to let her hands and feet be bound. Affon had no such restraint, for she bit the hands of any who grabbed her, and she only quietened when Geldirana gave her an admonishing glare.

Thúalim caused an even greater stir, for every time they manacled his wrists, he would appear moments later in total freedom, with no sign that he had ever been shackled. So they began to fasten his ankles also, but this only made the insult more wounding than before. Délin tried to urge the Al-Ferian to simply give in and save his tricks for later, but the memory of the loss of Rúathar and so many of his people at the Mountain Fortress made Thúalim defiant. So he taunted his jailers with his freedom, until finally the dark giant seized him.

“Escape this,” he said, and he plunged a dagger into the Magus’ chest. Thúalim collapsed upon the ground, where his blood mingled with the blood of others, and where suddenly all eyes could see the many shackles he had previously escaped from.

The knights cried out, and some of them began to kick their jailers in protest. They stopped only when the Nahamoni began to issue lashes from their whips.

“You have no honour!” Délin shouted. “May the Void have you!”

“That conjuror conjured his own end,” the pale giant said. “Do as we say and you’ll live long enough to die in Nahlin.”

*  *  *

Thalla managed to escape in the commotion, hiding amidst the many large boulders and dead bodies that were strewn across the plains. The stench was horrific, and it seemed to forever linger in the prison of her nostrils, but Thalla felt that anything was better than being locked inside a cage.

I have to do something, Thalla thought. She peered out from behind the large rock she hid behind in the flurry. Her breathing had barely returned to normal from when the battle begun, and though part of her wanted to race out and confront the enemy, another part wanted to stay where she was and avoid joining those knights who had been captured—or those knights who had been killed.

She saw Délin, bruised and beaten, but she could not see Ifferon amidst the rows of armoured bodies. She could barely tell who was alive, who was unconscious, or who was a difficult meal for the carrion circling high above.

She ducked behind the boulder again, her back against the rock. She began to wonder what kind of spells she might cast, and she began to consider the possibility of lighting every candle in her mind, and sending a blaze of fire into the armies around them, even though she knew that she would die in the process. At least she would go out fighting. At least she would take many Nahamoni with her when the fires went out.

She peeped out again, and just as she was about to race out to the armies, and to her doom, she caught a glimpse of something flickering on the ground several metres to her left. She thought it was a shard of steel from a weapon cast aside in battle, but her gaze was drawn by it like a fish is drawn in from a lake. There, almost in arm’s reach, was a Beldarian. There, almost within her grasp, was the Soul Pendant of Thúalim, whose body lay mangled a few feet further on.

She hid behind the rock again and began to ponder. The Beldarian was clearly still intact, and so she knew that Thúalim could not yet go to his final rest. So she should destroy it, to free him from his prison. And yet it was the key to her own prison, dangled before her while the jailer turned his back. The warden was called fortune, and when it turned its smile away from someone else, it turned its smile upon her.

I do this for them, for my friends and comrades, she thought, but she knew it was not wholly true, and she wondered why she felt the need to lie to herself, when her conscience could not be silenced. Yet it could be shackled; it could be held back long enough that the voice of doubt might be replaced by a voice of regret.

So she reached out her arm from behind the rock, like a fishing rod of her own, and she fished in the dirt as the Nahamoni continued their interrogations only metres away. But her arm could not reach, and so she was forced to stretch out further, her chest pushed flat against the ground, until she almost felt the scouting eyes of the Dark Men around her. She extended her hand again, and this time her fingers grazed the chain, but they did not grasp it. She breathed in dust, and she felt she needed to cough to clear her lungs, but she fought the urge as she felt the wandering eyes draw closer to her. Then she caught the chain with her index finger and dragged it slowly towards her as she pulled herself back behind the rock. She pulled it out of view just in time, for a guard walked past and peered into the distance, as if he had noticed something.

Thalla looked at the Beldarian. It was beautiful, even if it was not her own. And it was powerful, even if its master was dead. This was the last hurdle for her conscience, for it was always possible to break the beldar gem or throw it back, to save Thúalim the pain of waiting, knowing he already had the pain of living, and the pain of death. But the fire in her yearned for release, and she felt she could not restrain it for much longer. So she placed the chain around her neck and felt the cool touch of the Beldarian upon her chest. The cold tempered her flame, and in moments she felt a part of her merge with the pendant, where it became shielded from the danger of magic.

So it was too late for Thúalim. And it was just beginning for Thalla De’Hataramon, who felt as though she could set the world alight—and live to feel the embers.

*  *  *

Thúalim awoke in Halés, where he lay upon the steps that led up into the Halls. He groaned as he turned around, and he saw the boots and robe of someone he thought he recognised.

“Not much luck for the Ardúnari, it seems, no,” Melgalés said. “Not much luck at all.”

Melgalés extended his hand and pulled Thúalim to his feet, and Thúalim felt an odd sensation, as if instead of him moving, the world around him moved. When his head settled enough that he could look around him, noting that he was alone with Melgalés, he said: “Maybe it is just us Magi that are so unfortunate.”

“If you mean because we are dead, then no. I have seen some other Magi pass through here. For me, there is a reason I sit on the doorstep.”

Thúalim nodded his head. “Then that is why I am here also.”

“But who is the thief this time?” a haunting voice said.

“The Gatekeeper,” Melgalés commented. “The voice, I mean, not the thief.”

“And of the thief?” the Gatekeeper asked.

“A girl,” Thúalim said. “I do not know her.”

“I do,” Melgalés said. “She was my apprentice.”

“You always were the odd one,” Thúalim said.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Melgalés replied. “Yes, quite a compliment.”

Thúalim sat down with a sigh. “I have failed my people. Rúathar was a better leader than I.”

“He died too,” Melgalés said. “Death is not failure.”

“He led the Molokrán away. He achieved something with his death. I have not.”

“Who knows what you have achieved,” Melgalés said, “or what you have set in motion.” He toyed with the beads in his hair, and his mouth moved as he did so, as if he were counting them. Thúalim knew this was not a tool of augury used by the Magi, but something unique to Melgalés.

“So we wait,” Thúalim said. “I wish we could do something. They will rot in the cells of Nahlin.”

Melgalés stood up. “No,” he said sternly. “There is something I can do.” He whistled, and the sound echoed out like the cries of many lost souls. Then from the shadows emerged many Felokar wolves. Thúalim flinched, but Melgalés placed his hand upon his back. “These are allies,” he said. “Yes, new allies.”

“Your pets?” Thúalim asked.

“Of sorts, yes.”

And so the Magus spoke to the wolves in their tongue, using again their names to order them to do his will. And he willed them out into the wild, out past Echarin the Unsleeping, out through the door of Halés, out into the Dead Land, and out into Telarym, where an army of Nahamoni rested and feasted—where an army was about to become a feast.

*  *  *

In the pavilion field, which was now their prison camp, the knights continued to endure interrogation. The Nahamoni seemed to enjoy this more than battle, for they cheered and celebrated as a knight was dragged off, or flailed and beaten.

The dark giant barged through, knocking aside many of the smaller Nahamoni. “Now, you lags, tell us who you are,” he barked, wiping the spittle from his mouth.

Délin looked defiantly at the man. “I might have told the jailer,” he said sternly, “but not the murderer.”

The giant raised his monstrous fist to the knight. “We’ve a saying. The brash get a bash.”

“A bit of a motto,” the pale giant said, drawing close to flick his tongue at Délin.

“You are the master and we are the guests,” Délin said in his most feigned dignified voice. “It is customary to introduce yourself first.”

“Is it now?” the pale giant said, sitting down. “Whose customs is that?”

“Everyone’s,” the knight replied. “Even yours.”

“Right then,” the pale giant said, licking his lips. “Mustn’t forget me manners. I had a proper name once, but now I’m known as Shackles.”

Délin held up his bonds and rattled the chains. “I wonder why,” he said.

“He’s a funny one,” Shackles replied.

The other giant pounded over, stooping down to glare directly into Délin’s eyes. His stare was almost demonic, and almost entrancing. “I’ve no time for funny ones,” he hissed.

“And who might you be?” Délin asked.

“He’s Irons,” Shackles said.

“Fed up with you knights is who I am,” Irons said in that same low hiss, as if his tongue were a snake.

“Kill us and be done with it!” Elithéa shouted.

“Not quite what I had in mind,” Délin said.

“Don’t worry, love,” Shackles said, and his voice was sickeningly sweet. “We’ll kill you all in time. For now, you’re our prisoners.”

“Tell us who you are,” Irons shouted, and he raised a red hot poker to their faces. “Or tell this.”

“Surely our banners say enough,” Délin said. “Why carry flags if they do not announce us?”

“We know you well enough, Trueblade,” Shackles said, “even if you’re wearing your father’s armour.”

“Then why wonder who we are?”

“Because last we heard, you were with a certain cleric. The kind of cleric who carries around a certain Scroll.”

Ifferon grew suddenly more nervous than he was before, and he was glad to be wearing a helmet to hide the sweat upon his brow, and disguise his worry. He was also glad that instead of hiding the Scroll in the pocket of his habit, it was firmly hidden behind his right greave. He was thankful for his fortune, and yet he feared that fate might balance such kindness with some other cruelty.

“Do we look like clerics?” Elithéa barked.

“You look like a Ferian woman,” Shackles said.

“We’ve allowed women into our ranks before,” Délin said. “For one who professes to know so much about us, you are ignorant of many things.”

“Are we now?”

“That is … Anrin,” Délin said, nodding towards Elithéa. “She has served us well.”

“I bet she has,” Shackles said, and he sniggered and drooled.

“And this one,” Irons said, pointing to Affon. “Is she another of your whores?”

Ifferon bit his lip to curb his retort, and he could see that Geldirana was doing the same. Affon snapped at Irons’ finger as he pointed to her, and he looked as though at any moment he would seize and crush her.

Délin was clearly struggling to find an explanation for her presence. “She’s a—”

“I’m a warrior,” Affon interrupted. “Cut my ropes and give me a fair fight. I’ll cut your neck!”

The Nahamoni laughed derisively. “A big mouth for such a little thing,” Irons said.

Affon began to respond, but Geldirana elbowed her harshly. The girl scowled at her mother before turning the scowl upon the giants.

“There’s little here to find,” Délin said.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Irons replied. He thundered through, eyeing each of them in turn, stopping here and there to prod one of the knights. He passed Ifferon by completely, but his interrogation of the others offered the cleric little relief. For a moment Ifferon felt like uttering his name, that his companions might be spared, but Délin gave him a stern look, and he knew that it would be folly.

In time the dark giant made a full circle of all in chains, returning to Délin, where Shackles stood guard. The knight had repositioned himself, laying on his side, and this brought suspicion into the eyes of his jailers.

“Why are you lying like that?” Shackles asked.

“It is an injury,” Délin said, but it did not look like they were falling for it.

Irons turned him over, exposing an ornate satchel.

“What’s this?” Irons said, snatching the satchel from Délin’s waist. Délin sighed as the giant emptied the contents onto the ground and backed away. There before them lay the Perasalon fragments of the broken Ferhassan used in the ritual to bring back Corrias and Théos, and it was clear that neither Shackles nor Irons liked the look of them.

“You,” Shackles said to the nearest of his forces. “Get those out of here.”

“It was a gift,” Délin said as they took them away. “A gift for Agon.”

He regretted the comment, for Irons smacked him across the face with his boulder-like hand, knocking a splatter of blood from his nose.

“Maybe Agon will get a different gift,” Irons said. “You’ll do nicely.”

*  *  *

Few of the prisoners slept that night, even though exhaustion came upon them like the lashes of their jailers. They heard the Nahamoni talk of splitting into three forces, one to bring the prisoners to the Slave-lands, one to attack Boror, and one to guard Agon as he toiled against his chains. The pavilions were taken over, housing the giants and other generals of the Dark Men, who seemed to grow more awake as the night drew on.

Ifferon tossed and turned in his uneasy sleep, made all the more uneasy by the bonds that bit into his wrists and ankles. He dreamed evil dreams, where he was chained in place of Agon in the Underworld, and he felt the pain and torment of the Beast, and he felt an anger and a deep desire to end it all, that he might be free of the torment.

But it did not end, and instead of freedom he found that the chains grew tighter, and the more he struggled, the less he could move, until it even felt as though he could not speak. He tried to cry aloud, but his tongue was curbed, his voice entrapped.

Something evil slithered into his thoughts, forming in the darkness where he struggled. He could not see it, but he could feel its overpowering presence, and it held him in place more than any manacle could.

“Tell me your name,” it said, and he felt his voice suddenly free to speak, and he cried the answer aloud, as high as he could, as if his very name might free him from his confines. And so it did, for he awoke.

But he was not free from his bonds. Lumbering over him were Shackles and Irons, and both bore smiles that unnerved him, and told him that he had betrayed himself, that he had spoken aloud his name in his sleep.

“Ifferon,” they said together, and their smiles widened, and their hands seized him.

VIII – THE VISAGE

Ifferon was snatched by the Nahamoni giants like a child might seize a rag doll, and though he now wore armour, their clutch was tight, crushing him within the metal suit. He considered invoking the armour of Telm and fighting his captors, but he thought better of it, for that would confirm to them what they could never be entirely certain of: that he was Ifferon, that he was a Child of Telm.

There was a clamour all around him as he was dragged away, for many of the knights were awake, and it seemed that Délin had not given in to sleep at all. They shouted and struggled in their bonds, and some kicked at Shackles and Irons as they passed, and others called out in hopes that a distraction might provide some opportunity for rescue. But no one came, and nothing came of their efforts except exhaustion.

Ifferon was hauled into a ragged tent, where he was thrown down before the feet of another Nahamon. This one was unlike all the others, for though he was grim, there was an elegance about him that made him seem much higher up the chain, and much more dangerous. He wore a mix of metal and robes, and they were oddly positioned, for the cloth hung in the more vulnerable parts, while the metal seemed merely ornamental. Even the metal mask he wore seemed more for show than for protection, but it was effective, for its iron glare was almost hypnotic, and very frightening.

“This is the one,” Irons said.

“We got ‘im,” Shackles added with a grin.

The masked man did not respond, and since Ifferon could not see any flicker in his eyes, or any twitch of his mouth, it seemed that he made no reaction at all. Even his body was still like a statue, and this was unsettling.

Despite the silence, the giants seemed to catch onto something, and they looked at one another, and they seemed suddenly on edge, as if some portent had been read. Within moments they left the tent, leaving behind their lingering foul odour, and the painful marks on Ifferon’s arms through the dented armour.

Ifferon clambered to his knees and looked up at the masked man, if indeed he was a man at all and not just an ornamental suit of armour. Yet there was a presence there, the kind of oppressing feeling of sentience that Ifferon had felt in the dream that had given him away. The more he looked into the blank, expressionless eyes of the metal face, the more he felt like his mind was being probed, like a spell of sway was being cast upon him.

To break the trance, Ifferon spoke aloud: “Who are you?”

There was no response, and yet Ifferon felt as though this was the question being levelled at him, the one that no longer needed an answer.

The silence was like torture, so Ifferon spoke again: “I don’t know why you think—”

“Telm is dead and his children are all dying,” the masked man spoke suddenly, and the voice was muffled, but it echoed in the mask, giving it greater resonance, enhancing the distressing presence.

Ifferon did not know how to respond, and yet he was sure that he gave away many secrets with his eyes. He fought against the urge to glance towards his shin, where the Scroll lay hidden.

“What do you want?” he asked eventually.

“I am known as the Visage,” the masked man said.

“So that is your name?”

“I am known as the Visage,” the Nahamon repeated again, as if he did not have a name, just a title, and just a job to do.

“What do you do?” Ifferon asked.

“The Visage extracts truths from liars,” he said. The brevity of the statement was like the brevity of the guillotine, and yet Ifferon got the feeling that the Visage’s work was not quick, but painfully slow.

Ifferon tried to hide his fear, like he had tried at Larksong during Teron’s interrogation, but just like it was not easy then, it was not easy now. Even more was at stake, not least of all his very life, and the manner in which he might pass on.

“The Visage uses many tools,” the masked man said, and he began to circle Ifferon, highlighting as he went the various metal prongs and pincers, blades and other objects of butchery that lined a series of tables around him.

“I am not afraid of you,” Ifferon said, but he knew the tremor in his voice betrayed him as much as his talking in his sleep did.

“The captive has some tools of his own,” the Visage continued, as if he was not even aware that Ifferon had spoken at all. “The first is the mind, which allows good sense, and so the captive might use this tool to halt the use of the others. The second is the mouth, which allows the mind to speak the good sense that it has mustered, and so provide what might otherwise be extracted.”

Ifferon gulped and shuddered.

“Are you willing to die?” the Visage asked.

Ifferon knew he was not, and yet he knew even deeper down that he might have to, that even if he did not die to the tools of a torturer, he might have to lay down his life like Telm had, to ensure Agon was returned to his prison. Yet Agon was now breaking free, and Ifferon was the prisoner.

“If you are willing to die, then what follows will be of little consequence,” the Visage said. “Each tool will merely be a helping hand towards the Halls of Halés. If you die for a greater purpose, it gives meaning to your life, a life which up to now has had very little meaning. The Visage is willing to die at any moment, without notice and without complaint. This makes the Visage the perfect orchestrator of the death of others, especially the death of liars, wherefrom they may be reborn as speakers of truth.”

He spoke all of this while passing a set of pincers between his hands, as if he were performing some act of alchemy, turning liars into truth-sayers, even as war turns the living into the dead.

*  *  *

As Délin and the other knights continued to struggle in their bonds, they caught sight of a flickering of lights from the north, spanning the entirety of the horizon, as if the stars of the night sky had suddenly fallen to the ground.

“An army comes,” Brégest whispered to Délin.

“Thank Corrias it comes from the north,” Trueblade replied.

“The army from the south is here around us,” Brégest said, and they surveyed the great force that surrounded them, each soldier another brick in their prison walls.

The knights did not need to whisper, for the Nahamoni saw the lights as clearly as they. While the knights felt a sudden hope, and hoped that the Nahamoni would feel a sudden fear, both Irons and Shackles roared towards the north, mocking the advancing troops, and welcoming the coming battle.

“Send a scout out,” Irons said, and one of the lightly-armed Nahamoni immediately set out towards the approaching lights, disappearing into the darkness of the plains inbetween.

“Let’s see just who we’re going to kill tonight,” Shackles said with a hint of glee.

*  *  *

Thalla watched as Ifferon was taken away, and she almost leapt into view, but wisdom stayed her feet. She watched as the knights were beaten and held down, and her heart almost leapt on its own. She watched as the lanterns emerged in the north, and then she watched as a lanternless scout headed out to spy and judge the enemy, and bring back information that might help douse the flames.

She thought of killing the scout, but she knew that it would cause too much noise, or that her usual affinity with fire would light up her location as much as the army of lanterns in the distance. She thought then of the spell of confinement that she saw in one of Melgalés’ books, a dangerous spell that she was glad her soul was confined to the Beldarian for.

And so, as the scout cast his eyes north, Thalla cast her net around him. An emptiness opened up beneath the man, a hole into nothingness, which sucked him in before he could even scream. Where it brought him, she did not know. Perhaps it was the Void, or perhaps it was some place better, or some place worse. She did not even know how to undo the spell, or if he would be freed with the passage of time. She had little time or energy to worry about her captive, however, for she knew that more scouts would be sent out soon, and the spell of confinement was more draining than anything else she had attempted before.

*  *  *

The night marched on, and with it came the army of lights, growing larger and brighter, and becoming more of a comfort to the imprisoned knights, and more of a menace to the Nahamoni. As the night grew darker, and the lights grew brighter, Irons began to pace around restlessly.

“What happened to our scout?” he asked. “At this rate we’ll know who’s approachin’ before he does. Send another.”

And so another scout set out, this time with two accompanying guards. Thalla did not know what to do then, and she thought it would be better to catch them on the way back than cause a commotion now. Her thoughts were short-lived, however, for it seemed that as soon as they disappeared into the blackness, they emerged before her suddenly, and she was so caught off-guard that they seized her and knocked her to the ground.

Then a volley of arrows came through, and several of them pierced the scout and guards, and several more narrowly missed Thalla on the ground. Horsemen drew up close, bearing the banners of Boror, and among them was Herr’Don. Thalla almost did not recognise him, for his clothes were new and clean, and they were a better fit, and better spoke of his royal line. His new cloak was not tattered, but whole, and he no longer looked like a broken man.

It seemed that he did not recognised her, for he said, “You there! What enemies await?”

“At least ... a thousand Nahamoni,” Thalla stuttered in response.

“Let’s give them a little welcome gift,” Herr’Don said, glancing to a man on horseback beside him, whom he called Edgaron, and then to a riderless horse on the other side, whom he did not call at all.

Thalla saw then what he meant, for behind the horsemen were many legions of infantry, and behind the infantry were the Magi of Boror, and behind them were many siege weapons, all illuminated by a myriad of lanterns. Thalla had never seen anything like it, and last she heard of such an army, the King rode with it.

“They have prisoners,” she told them.

“How many?” Herr’Don asked.

“Enough. Ifferon is one of them.”

Herr’Don shook his head. “This is not a rescue mission,” he said. “We march to fight Agon.”

“Then we better rescue our best weapon,” Thalla said.

*  *  *

The Visage circled Ifferon once again, and his movement and words were as much a form of torture as any of the grisly tools at his disposal. Yet when he stopped and fell suddenly silent, the new fear of pain joined the old fear of everything that had come before.

The Visage lifted up a poker, which he thrust suddenly into the fire, and Ifferon flinched. His wide eyes saw the little embers that leapt out of the furnace, as if trying to escape. The masked man held the iron bar in the flames for what felt like an eternity, turning it slowly, and looking back at Ifferon with those same iron eyes, which thrust through him just as easily.

“There is nothing I can say that you do not already know,” Ifferon said. “And if you want me to do something I will not already do, then your efforts are in vain.”

Another turn of the weapon, and another empty stare. Its emptiness filled Ifferon with the greatest dread, and what he could not see in his enemy’s eyes, he knew he revealed in his own.

“I have nothing I can give you,” Ifferon said.

The Visage drew the hot poker from the fire, like a soldier draws a sword from its sheath. As he did this, Ifferon knew that he would be its new sheath, that the burning embers would be holstered in his heart.

“We all have something to give,” the Visage said as he drew close, and as the hot poker drew closer. “Our lives.”

*  *  *

The attack came like the suddenness of lightning. Horsemen rode in, followed by swordsmen and halberdiers, and they came without lanterns, while many thousands hung back to distract the enemy with their lights. They clashed with fierceness and fury, and some of the Nahamoni fled in shock and surprise. For those who stood and fought, they were pressed back and destroyed, and as some of the Bororians fell, more lanterns flickered out in the distance, and more troops charged in to join the fray.

Herr’Don dismounted and unsheathed his sword. He held it low, as if he needed no defence, and as he passed by Délin he swung the blade and cut the bonds around the knight’s wrists. He pressed on as Trueblade untied his feet, and he bore down towards Shackles, returning the giant’s evil glare with his own.

They clashed like the angry ocean against the stubborn shore. Herr’Don swung his sword at the giant, who parried it with his granite arms, before returning the blow with his flail. Herr’Don narrowly dodged the studded chain and swiped again at the beast before him, slicing into his belly, and then again across his thigh. Shackles roared out, but the pain only fuelled him, and he began to swing madly at the prince, until finally Herr’Don was struck back several feet. Shackles loomed tall before him, and Irons joined him.

But Herr’Don was not alone, for Délin returned from freeing his fellow knights, and he helped the prince to his feet. Then both of them stood to face their oppressors, sword in hand, with anger and honour driving their blades.

Shackles swung his flail, while Irons stabbed with his dagger and prodded with his poker, but they were large and clumsy, and Herr’Don and Délin moved between them with ease. The prince made short work of the pale giant, slicing here and there at frenzied speed, while Délin parried Irons’ attacks, which hit harder than his twin, until the giant knew why they called him Trueblade.

And so in moments Shackles collapsed to the ground, and the ground gave a tremor, as if it were shuddering from the feel of the giant. Then a louder and fiercer quake followed, and another came as Délin drove his sword through Irons, freeing him from the bonds of life. The ground rolled beneath them, and they thought they heard the sound of rending steel upon the wind, but it was drowned out by the din of battle.

*  *  *

While the knights fought outside, Thalla freed Elithéa and Geldirana, and they raced towards the tent to which Ifferon had been dragged. They reached it just in time for Elithéa to knock aside the hot poker with her staff, eliciting an audible sigh of relief from Ifferon.

Thalla confronted the masked man, and she cast a bolt of fire towards him, but he dispersed it with an icy touch, and she knew then that he was one of the Magi, that deep beneath his armoured chest there must lie a Beldarian. She had little time to find out however, for as she cast another fiery ball towards him, he disappeared in a shroud of darkness, and the fire continued until it engulfed the fabric of the tent.

The three women hauled Ifferon outside, avoiding the licking tongues of flame that leapt out to taste them.

“Saved from fire, by fire,” Ifferon said, but the ever-present thought of Agon told him that there would be much more fire to come.

*  *  *

As the battle continued, many slowed their attacks or stopped completely when a large carriage rolled in, adorned with a canopy and numerous flags and banners bearing the royal seal and the colours of the royal house. It was pulled by two majestic horses, one black and one white, and inside it sat Herr’Gal the King of Boror, covered in armour and carrying a ceremonial sword.

“All hail the King!” some cried, though none of the knights repeated the words; some instead prayed to Issarí and Corrias, or looked to Délin in surprise.

“So he finally comes to the battlefield,” Délin said. “Perhaps Boror still has some honour left.”

“More than a little,” Herr’Don said as he wiped the side of his blade across his thigh, smearing the blood over his already richly red attire.

“You fought well,” Délin said with a nod.

“You managed well enough yourself,” Herr’Don replied with a grin.

Délin placed his hand upon Herr’Don’s shoulder as a token of fellowship.

“I would return the gesture,” Herr’Don said, “but my sword is in one hand, and the other is a little preoccupied strangling ghosts in Halés.”

“I am sorry for the loss of your shield arm,” the knight said.

Herr’Don paused and looked to the ground before looking up again, and Délin caught a glisten in his eyes. “I am not,” the prince said. “It has made the Great even greater. One arm will do, as this Nahamon knows well. Besides, I never used a shield. It was a second sword arm to me.”

*  *  *

Ifferon could barely find the words of thanks to give to his saviours, but they did not need or want such praise.

“We couldn’t let our best weapon burn,” Thalla said in jest.

“I might have allowed a singe in payment for betraying Ferian secrets,” Elithéa said, but her actions suggested otherwise. Ifferon knew that she was still torn between the sacred fate of her people and the reality that they had succeeded in restoring life to Théos and Corrias. “I only wish we could have sent that evil Magus to the fire instead,” she added.

Geldirana said least, but her eyes said most of all. She looked at him like she had when they emerged from the Black Eyrie. Her intense stare was overpowering, and Ifferon could barely keep her gaze.

“Thalla,” he said. “When did you earn your Beldarian?”

They all looked to her now, like the moon shines a focal light in the blindness of the night. Her face reddened and she looked away, but instead of keeping her eyes averted, as she often did before, she turned back to them and held their gaze.

“Thúalim fell,” she explained. “I took his place.”

Ifferon wondered if this was the natural order of things in the Order of the Magi, but something told him that it was not. He imagined the others were thinking similar things, for all of them were silent, and in that silence there could be heard on the edge of hearing, a faint whisper from the Halls of Halés.

*  *  *

In time the Nahamoni army had been destroyed or routed, and those that held the knights in bonds became prisoners of their own. The survivors stumbled from the aftershocks, and though they had won this fight, the tremors brought their attention further east, to where their strongest enemy still struggled, and still lay undefeated.

The company reunited, and many were cheerful to see Herr’Don again. Pleasantries were exchanged between the old and new, and in time they all came before the King of Boror and gave their, often very brief, acknowledgement.

“It looks like Arlin still needs Boror after all,” the King said. “It’s lucky Atel-Aher didn’t build a wall around your prison or you’d still be prisoners.”

Délin grumbled, but said nothing. A chorus of grumbles echoed around him.

“So this is the cleric,” the King said, eyeing Ifferon up and down. “Looks like another knight to me.”

“Then our aim is achieved,” Délin said. “Let the enemy be blind.”

“Agon will see through this mask,” the King said.

“Then let us blind him.”

The King looked at the knight harshly. “Look around you, knight. Your army might try to blind him. My army will do far more than that.”

“So then,” Délin said. “What brings you out of your throne room? Has Herr’Don managed to convince his father to defend his people?”

“I did not come for or with him,” the King said. “I cam in spite of him.”

Délin looked to Herr’Don, whose chest heaved and whose mouth trembled just a little.

The King held his head high, as Herr’Don often did. From the darkness around him emerged a metal mask, followed swiftly by a hand around the King’s face. Herr’Gal cried out, and others cried in turn, but as they charged towards him and his attacker, there was a flurry of darkness, and he was gone. His crown tumbled from his head in the assault, and it did not vanish with him, but crashed down upon the ground, where it span for a moment, and then slowed, and then stopped with a clang.

IX – LONG LIVE THE KING

There was chaos upon the plains, as if the battle had erupted anew, but this time the armies battled with their confusion, and their eyes fought with the darkness. The search for the King of Boror was frenzied, like how a mother might search for a child, but instead the massive armies of Boror searched for the one they would call “father,” and the one Herr’Don would not.

The prince joined the search, not out of love, but duty. It would mend no hurt to see the King dethroned, even if that was the very chant of many of Boror’s people. Instead, it would be a new hurt to Boror itself, for the insult was less to who wore the crown, but to the crown itself. It was a symbol, like the entwined serpents of the royal house, and the seizure of the King had given Agon a powerful symbolic victory.

“The night that was our ally in our march is now our enemy,” Herr’Don said. “We need light if we are to make good of this evil.”

And so the archers were gathered, and they shot arrows of fire high into the sky, which rained down into the empty parts of the plains. The sky brightened for a moment, and then darkened again, as if it were the eyelid of a god that had stirred momentarily from its slumber. Then the Magi joined the illumination of the heavens, sending up great sparks of lightning and fire, and some sent up orbs of light, and others sent up strange creatures and birds that glowed and glimmered. Even the foot soldiers did their part, carrying their lanterns here and there, fanning out to cover large expanses of land.

And the search was fruitless, and an hour passed, and then another, until it seemed that every fleeting minute was like a drop of blood from the veins of the King.

*  *  *

King Herr’Gal rummaged through his garments for something to end the torment, for a dagger to drive through his heart, or a poison to funnel through his veins. Each frantic pat met with nothing to free him, and all the while the Visage continued to prepare another series of instruments, and another round of torture.

And then, as if in answer to his fervent prayers, Herr’Gal found a vial hidden deep within his shirt. He knew instantly that it was one of Daralus’ concoctions, and that it was enough to kill any man. He thought for a moment of trying to force it on the Visage, but he knew he had not the strength to fight the Magus, nor the skill to evade his spells.

So then he resigned himself to the fact that he must take his own life before his torturer did. He thought little of his kingdom then, nor of his people, nor of his son, nor even of the one whom he trained to be next in line; he thought only of his life and his desire to live, and that which conquered that desire: his aversion to pain.

The Visage continued to busy himself with his wicked weapons, and Herr’Gal knew that this delay was part of the torment, the part that played on the mind. Yet it was his moment of opportunity, and so he slipped the lid off the poison vial, and he swamped it down in one fell swoop. Immediately he felt the burn of the liquid in his throat, and then down into the pit of his stomach, and it conjured a new pain to join those the evil Magus had summoned.

And he waited.

The pain rose and fell, like all the pains he had felt so far this night in captivity.

And he waited.

The pain dissipated completely, leaving behind only his other pains, and a new pain of the mind: that the poison was not enough. It could kill any man, and he knew that he was like any other, with one key difference: his daily dose of poison, and the gradual immunity it gave him.

And so the Visage turned around, with a fresh array of devices, ones that even Herr’Gal did not recognise from those who worked for him in his own dungeons. Each of these the Visage used in turn, tearing from him his fingernails, ripping from him his tongue, and wrenching from him a constant wail, punctuated only by a series of even greater cries. And so it continued, until Herr’Gal begged for death, pleaded for poison, and found none but that which already rested in his veins.

The night was long, as if the sun could do naught but avert its eyes. No one came for him, as if no one cared for him. He yearned for saving from this misery, and as his final moments came, and did not come soon enough, he even thought of his son Herr’Don, and wished the prince could have saved him from this fate.

*  *  *

The armies of Boror were too late when they found their King, and many suspected that it was not a chance discovery, but a deliberate attempt to break their morale. They stormed the lonely tent, which stood out almost too obviously in the empty plains, and they found their leader dead, bearing all manner of scars, some too terrible to behold. In place of his royal red robes, he wore a garment of blood. Even those who despised him or were highly critical of his rule could not help but pity him and shake their heads when considering his final moments.

Herr’Don could barely stand the sight, and he left the tent almost as quickly as he had entered it. He had been ready for battle—not for this. His firm grip upon the handle of his sword had almost faltered, and his firm stance upon the ground had almost toppled. Ifferon and Délin helped him stumble outside.

The horror of what had happened was on the lips of many around them, and if it was not on their lips, then it was on their minds. Herr’Don looked at Ifferon and could tell that he was lost in his own thoughts, perhaps thankful that he had escaped a similar fate. For Herr’Don, there was nothing he felt thankful for. Though the King was barely a father to him, there was nothing Herr’Gal could do in death to make amends for that, and there was nothing in the manner of his death that could repair the broken, or heal the wounded. Fresh wounds upon some do little to ease the stale wounds on others. He thought of Ilokmaden Keep, which had taken his arm. He thought of Telarym, which had taken his father whole.

*  *  *

“We have found the captive,” Délin said, “but where is the captor?”

They looked about, but found nothing. Then, from the darkness behind Herr’Don, where their lanterns did not shine, Ifferon thought he caught a glimpse of something. And then he saw that familiar, unsettling mask.

“There!” he cried, and he pointed to the figure.

Herr’Don swung around suddenly, but before he could unleash his sword, he was thrown away into Délin and the guards. Ifferon reached for his own sword, but as he unsheathed it he suddenly felt the handle burning, and he dropped it just as quickly. Swords dropped all around him as other guards encountered the same phenomenon, and many began to back away as the figure emerged not just from the gloom, but from a nothingness beyond the gloom.

“Dehilasü baeos!” Ifferon cried, but the Visage appeared undaunted. He stood there with his hands raised, as if at any moment he would begin a spell.

Then just as he appeared like he was about to act, a shimmering cage closed around him, and he looked this way and that to find whoever assailed him. The tent ripped up from the ground and was cast away, and there around them all stood the Magi of Boror, dozens in number.

“Give it up,” one of them called, and he looked old and grim, and very powerful.

The Visage turned to him slowly in his astral cage, and Ifferon could almost feel the masked man’s eyes settling upon the Magus, like a Gorgon might cast its gaze upon its stony prey. There was a visible strain upon the Magus, and even upon those around him, and the bars of the cage began to flicker and bend.

“Resist and we will destroy you,” the Magus said, but his voice was as strained as the bars.

“I do not fear death,” the Visage said, and the cage fell apart around him.

What happened then was so fast that Ifferon could only make some of the details out later in the annals of his memories. Bolts of lightning, beams of fire, and swords of light were cast at the Visage, all of which were parried and tossed aside, like a tree casts dew from its leaves. Many of the Magi were cast back with returning bolts and beams, and one or two seemed to disappear entirely. There was a flurry and a chaos upon the fields, for some guards ran towards the Visage, only to be killed instantly, while others ran away from him, trying to duck and dodge the magical barrage.

The battle moved across the plains, and it seemed like a constant tug of war, for just as the Visage seemed to be beating back all opposition, the Magi would suddenly renew their attack with greater ferocity, with some of those who disappeared returning to the field, as if released from whatever prison they had been cast into. And then just as the Visage appeared to be losing, and several more cages of light formed around him, with each side appearing suddenly and snapping together to form what might be to any other an impenetrable cube, the Visage cast them off suddenly, and sometimes even fired the cage at one of his attackers. And so cage doors clanged shut, and were blown open, and this continued for a time, until it seemed that the very air was alive with magic, making each breath that little bit more intoxicating, and that little bit more dangerous.

And then Thalla joined the fray. Ifferon would have barely known it was her, for she brought down pillars of fire all around the Visage like Melgalés might have done if he were still alive.

For a moment it seemed that the Visage was caught off guard by her ferocity and skill, for his magic turned entirely defensive, and he began to form orbs of water around him, which were subsequently crushed by the pillars of fire. When he regained his composure, he began to destroy the fiery pillars by casting the orbs at them, and sometimes he lifted up the pillars with his mind, casting them back in the direction of Thalla.

But Thalla knew many of the same spells that the Visage did, for the books she stole from the shelves of Melgalés’ house were ancient and arcane. As the pillars came towards her, she disappeared in a flurry of red cloaks, reappearing metres away, from where she renewed her attack.

But the Visage knew some spells that she had never studied, and he had experience that she lacked. So in time he began to make simulacrums of himself, and though they were mere illusions, the spells they cast were just as real as the Magus himself. So the battle grew more fierce, and the Visage broke down Thalla’s defences, sending bolt and beam her way. She struggled, and even when she evaded one attack, another was ready for her in the new location where she appeared.

Just as all seemed lost, and Thalla would apprentice her master in the art of death, red eyes appeared suddenly upon the battlefield, followed swiftly by the form of the Felokar wolves, who pressed forward, growling and bearing their teeth, while fiery embers flicked off from their fur to singe the skin and clothes of any left standing.

The Visage halted and turned his metal gaze towards the wolves. For a moment it looked as though he might battle them, and then he suddenly gave up, raising his hands no longer to cast spells, but to offer his surrender.

“Someone else is their master tonight,” the Visage said as he looked at the growling beasts.

Ifferon could sense it too, as he was sure many others could. Though they looked the same, these wolves felt very different to those which Délin fought several moons ago.

“Why do you give in now if you do not fear death?” Thalla asked the masked man.

“I do not fear death,” the Visage stated, “but I do fear the second death.” He paused for a moment before adding, “You should too.”

They put the Visage in chains, the kind of manacles that even the Nahamoni giants could not break out of, and yet it seemed that there was little point, for this evil Magus could easily escape the much more powerful prisons of the astral world. What kept him in place were the steady eyes of the Felokar wolves, like a reflection of the eyes of the Gatekeeper himself.

As they began to drag the masked man away, he turned and glanced towards the hills. It might have been just a curious look, but there was something in the movement that made many turn their eyes to where he stared. For most, there was nothing to see there. For Ifferon and those few who had the clearsight, there was the silhouette of a Shadowspirit.

X – THE AMASSING OF ARMIES

The Arliners and Bororians were shocked to see the Shadowspirit upon the horizon, but they were even more shocked to see that it was alone. They waited, and many grew anxious, but it did not move, and some began to doubt the reports of the clearsighted, and others began to wonder if it was some trick of the eyes, or the weather, or just an oddly-shaped tree in the distance.

Ifferon did not have any of these doubts. The Scroll of Mestalarin began its subtle alarm call, and in his heart he knew that what he saw was a Shadowspirit, and that more were on the way.

*  *  *

Over the next few hours, the armies began to fortify their position, digging trenches and building barricades. Some began to talk of returning home, and within their dwindled numbers thronged another army of doubt and despair.

“We have to do something about this,” Edgaron said. “The morale is failing.”

Herr’Don looked around at the toiling troops, at the fearful faces, at the worried expressions. Agon was so close he could almost feel the presence of the Beast, and yet there lay so many obstacles between them, not least of all the threat of the Shadowspirits, and the more impending threat of the failing spirits of those around him.

“The King is dead,” Herr’Don said, standing up and embracing, and breaking, the silence. “I can never replace him. I can never be king. The crown is not for me, nor is it even for the one who will next wear it. It is for all of us, a symbol of unity. In that circlet there is the circle of people that make a nation. In the toughness of that gold there is the emblem of the resilience of our race. In its pronged tips lies a message to all our enemies. In its glisten is a reminder of the spark of light within us all.”

He looked through their ranks, staring down the meek, renewing confidence in the strong. As his eyes passed from one to another, he caught sight of Belnavar, standing where others might see only an empty space. Belnavar gave him a firm salute.

“You have fought many battles when the King was never on the battlefield,” Herr’Don continued. “Some of you fought with me at Larksong, and you fought not because there was royalty in the ranks, but because there was something worth fighting for. You did not come here to fight with the King, but to fight against Agon. Our king is dead, but the king of our enemy still lives.”

The troops rallied, even some of those for whom fear had routed before.

*  *  *

Herr’Don consulted with many generals and advisers, issuing orders and making plans. At times he went off alone, and it seemed as though he were consulting himself, for he talked to the wind, conversed with the emptiness of the air.

“Who are you talking to?” Edgaron asked when he found him like this on one occasion.

“I will tell you because I trust you,” Herr’Don said, “but I trust that you will not reveal this to others, and I trust that you trust me in return, and will believe in what I say.”

“You have my trust,” Edgaron said, “and my confidence.”

Herr’Don appeared to struggle with how to share his experiences, but in time he found the words. “Belnavar fell, but he rose again without a body.”

Edgaron looked around, as if to see this spectral form, but he saw nothing except Herr’Don before him.

“He’s real,” Herr’Don said.

“I should hope so,” Belnavar remarked.

But Edgaron looked doubtful.

“I’m not crazy,” Herr’Don said.

Edgaron smiled. “It wouldn’t matter to me even if you were.”

*  *  *

Ifferon sat with Geldirana, and though there were many things he wanted to say before, but could not find the courage for, the brief respites from battle proved the perfect opportunity, and perhaps the only one.

“Do you forgive me?” he asked her, and he thought he might be asking that same question for a long time, if he was given time enough to ask it.

“Ten years of faults and failings,” she said, and though her voice was soft, the words were like lashes. “Give me ten more to forgive them.”

Ifferon looked to the ground, where the ants and other bugs surely felt less low. “I guess I deserve that,” he said. He did not say it for pity, and he knew with certainty that she would never grant it, for she deemed it a weakness.

His eyes hugged the ground, but her eyes burned through him, like they always did, right into his very soul. He hoped she could see his sorrow, that his apology was true.

When she eventually spoke, she withdrew into the shadows, as if to make it seem like the words did not come from her. “It will take time,” she said.

“If Chránán is kind, I will have much time to give,” Ifferon said. “Perhaps all I can give.”

“There is more,” she replied, and paused. “What of love?”

“I cannot give it to those who won’t receive it.”

“Time may soften some hearts,” Geldirana said, “while deeds may do the same for others. My clemency cannot be bought, even if it were paid for with time, for it is time itself that adds upon the hurts, that makes them fester. But what cannot be bought may perhaps be earned.”

So they sat together for a time, and Ifferon knew that these brief moments, cherished though they may be, were not enough to make up for all those lengthy moments where he was absent from her life, and for his daughter’s entire life. He prayed, as he might have done back in the monastery at Larksong, that there could be some absolution, that even as he willed that the evils of Agon were made good, he could correct his own evils, and truly be worthy of the blood of Telm, and the company of those he loved.

*  *  *

As the Bororian force continued to set up camp, Délin began to question the wisdom of digging in, when they should be setting out. All of his knights agreed with him, and it seemed that many were eager to leave this battleground, where the grey of Telarym had turned to red, even though they knew that another battlefield awaited them in the east.

“The battle is o’er yonder,” Délin said, pointing east, to where glimmers of red flashed across the sky, to where the frequent rumbles of the ground emanated from. “Corrias is there now, battling the Beast, and what are we doing here but waiting?”

“That is not the only battle,” Herr’Don said, and he pointed south-east, to where another army was forming. They would not have known who this new assailant was, but for the numerous banners that bore the symbol of a drop of water. “Taarí,” Herr’Don growled.

“And there,” Ifferon said, pointing to the south-west, where the one Shadowspirit became many. “They have grown in number, but still they wait.”

“They wait for their masters,” Geldirana said, and all their minds fell under the oppressing shadow of the thought of the Molokrán.

“I do not see them,” Herr’Don said, “but that does not mean they are not there.” He glanced at Belnavar.

“I see them!” Affon cried, patting Ifferon on the arm.

“These armies are a distraction,” Délin said. “They have come here to stop our advance on Agon. If the Beast needs time to break free, then we are giving him that time; we are gifting him his freedom.”

Herr’Don shook his head. “If we assail the Beast now, then what will happen when his armies come upon us from behind? What good will we do then?”

“The time for tactics is over,” Elithéa said. “Now is the time to act.”

“The time for tactics in a war is never over,” Herr’Don said.

“If they tarry to give Agon time, then let us bring the battle to them!” Elithéa cried.

“No,” Herr’Don said, and they were all surprised. He was usually the one to call for battle, or to make no call at all but that which his sword made as it left its scabbard. “We have another army on the way.”

“What army is this?” Délin asked. “I thought all fighting men of Boror marched with the King?”

“They did, and Arlin has not spared us any more,” Herr’Don replied, “but look north and see if you can guess who comes to fight with us.”

“I see naught,” Délin said, straining his eyes against the darkness.

“Look further north,” Herr’Don said.

At last Ifferon knew the answer to the riddle. “The Aelora,” he said.

Herr’Don nodded, and they all looked to the north with expectation.

*  *  *

The Men of Boror dug in deep, and they erected barriers and barricades around their siege weapons, which where brought to topple the towering figure of Agon, not the armies he sent forth to delay his assailants.

“We must protect these machines at all cost,” Herr’Don said. “An army may fight an army hand to hand, but against the Beast we must use siege.”

Though Délin thought little of these weapons, he still aided the soldiers in defending them, for he thought much less of Agon, and he had begun to learn that in a war with the Beast, honour was not the strongest weapon.

*  *  *

In time the army of the Aelora appeared on the horizon in the north, where the glimmer of their bodies outshone even the many lanterns of the Bororian force. The enemy was not blind to their advance, for lights began to appear in the Taarí army in the south-east, while only darkness thronged in the south-west.

And so before the Aelora could move into place, it seemed that the Taarí began to march, like a grey mass, and the Shadowspirits began to drift towards them, like a black fog.

“So we fight again,” Délin said, and though he seemed weary, the drawing of his two-handed sword seemed to give him renewed strength.

“Let them come unto their doom,” Herr’Don said, and he held up his own sword, which glinted in the darkness, and he stared at it with a kind of manic glee, as if it were called Doom.

The drums of battle began to sound, followed by horns and trumpets, and Ifferon yearned to hear instead the soft melodies of harp and violin by the fireside in a tavern in Boror. The music mounted, as if upon a steed of its own, and it travelled to every ear and invaded every heart, until everyone who stood there began to feel the imminence of the clash, like the final strike of the cymbal to mark the start of chaos and discord.

Then suddenly Ifferon’s eyes were stolen by another sight. Another Shadowspirit appeared to the west upon a hill, but this one seemed somehow different. It looked the same, for those who could see it, but Ifferon could not help but feel that there was something else behind it, that someone else looked out through its eyes.

Suddenly it seemed that the Shadowspirit would dart forth, and the battle would begin, but instead it dissipated, and there, in its place, stood Yavün. Even from this distance Ifferon could recognise the youth, though he seemed less young and naïve now, holding firmly a large sword, and surrounded now by a small army of Taarí warriors.

“Has madness come upon me?” Ifferon asked. “Or do my eyes deceive me?”

“If they deceive you, then they deceive me also,” Herr’Don said.

“He is back from beyond the grave,” Ifferon whispered.

“Amidst the ranks of Shadowspirits and Taarí,” Herr’Don said. “Back from the grave, perhaps ... but he came back on the wrong side.”

XI – THE BATTLE OF WATER AND SHADE

Yavün stood beside Elilod, surveying the battlefield. They saw the armies that surrounded the Men of Arlin and Boror, and even though the gravest threat was the unseen swarm of the Shadowspirits, more eyes were set upon the evil Taarí further afield.

“They have shackled themselves to the shark,” Elilod said, “to save themselves from being eaten. But when all the other fishes are gone, and the shark is still hungry, who then will he turn to, and who then thinks that his hunger will be abated?”

“At least the waters are not all full of sharks,” Yavün said.

Elilod smiled.

“I see Ifferon,” Yavün said, pointing down towards the band of knights. “He’s in armour now.”

“Good,” Elilod said. “He will need it.”

*  *  *

For those entrenched in the mire of Telarym, surrounded by armies on almost every side, it seemed that armour was not enough. Dawn broke over the horizon, invading their eyes, and as much as it announced a new day, it announced a new battle. The stand-off ended, and the armies charged.

Taarí splashed down with their limbs of water, and the Shadowspirits strode forth with their limbs of shadow. The Bororians and the Knights of Issarí braced themselves, shoving halberds and spears into the heart of the angry wind.

They clashed. The strike was like a tidal wave crashing against the stubborn shore. The cries and shrieks grew high and fell, like the wall of water, until the tumult grew so loud that each cry drowned out the other, each shriek silencing the next, until the real sounds that could be heard where each soldier’s own breath, each soldier’s own grinding muscles and clattering bones, and each soldier’s own unnerving thoughts.

Though the Taarí were made of water, they could strike like land. Their weapons were as real as any other’s, and though their tendons and sinews were of another substance, they still made up a body that could hit with great ferocity. Many on both sides fell to the initial attack, and while some Men were knocked dead, some Taarí were cleaved asunder, splashing upon all around them.

The attack from the enemy was swift and unmerciful, for they too had seen the Aelora force further north, which they knew could overwhelm them if they did not destroy or rout the Bororian army. Yet they had an ally of their own in the Shadowspirits, and as much as the Aelora could blind with light, the Molokrán could blind with darkness.

For the forces of good, the reinforcements could not get there soon enough, for even as the Aelora marched towards the desperate clashes, the survivors of the Nahamoni army, which were earlier routed by the army of Boror, began to return to the battlefield, and though their numbers were much smaller now, they were more daring with the support of their allies.

So the battle continued, and those Bororian infantry who pulled back to catch a moment’s breath were hunted down by the invading shadow, until that breath was a final one. The bodies of Men formed little hills upon the flatlands, and the bodies of Taarí formed little rivers between them. Chaos and cruelty fought among them all, and they seemed to every soldier to be fighting for the opposing side.

*  *  *

“Here come the Taarí on our flank!” Herr’Don called to his troops. “Archers at the ready!”

Ifferon grabbed Herr’Don by the wrist before he could give the order. “But Yavün—”

“He’s one of them now,” Herr’Don said. “And maybe he was all along.”

“I do not believe it,” Ifferon said, but he doubted his own words.

“You have the clearsight,” Herr’Don said. “Look at them. See it for yourself!”

And so Ifferon looked again at the Taarí who approached from the west. They looked like any others of their race, glistening with the glint of the river, glimmering with the sheen of the sea. They marched just like those in the south-west had marched, and they carried weapons just like those who assailed them did. All that was different was the strange presence of Yavün at the front, and the standard-bearer with him, who bore the emblem of three fishes, two pointing east and one pointing west.

“They fly a different banner!” Ifferon cried.

“They can fly my own and I still will not trust them,” Herr’Don said. “Fire!”

*  *  *

The arrows darted forth like an army of their own, crowding together here, spreading apart there, and coming down like stabbing rain. The Rebel Taarí broke apart, some falling to the arrows, others falling in their chaotic flight from the chasing darts.

“They’re firing at us!” Yavün cried in disbelief, as if saying the words might somehow stop the truth, or bind the bows of his assailants. He crouched down and stumbled here and there, avoiding the onslaught, and he cowered beneath his sword, which was large enough that it was now his shield.

“When the waters are dark, every glimmer of light is seen as a shark,” Elilod said. He crouched also, but he did not cower or shield himself, and no arrow fell upon him, nor near him.

“But they’re friends,” Yavün said, and it was more a question than a statement. He looked down at Ifferon, who seemed confused in the heart of battle. He looked at Herr’Don, and he saw the prince turn a regiment of swordsmen towards them.

“Wave the flag!” Elilod called to the standard-bearer further up the hill. The man looked less proud now that arrows came down around him, even piercing the banner he held. He waved it now from right to left, slowly and methodically, and they hoped their attackers would realise that they were not the Taarí who submitted to Agon’s rule, but those who came here to fight him.

The arrows stopped, and the swordsmen below halted. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, and Yavün and Elilod stood up.

Then suddenly a single arrow hurtled through and struck the standard-bearer, slicing through him and splashing out the other side. He collapsed forward, the banner falling on top of him, and sinking as the liquid of his being wept out to water the lands around.

Yavün stood in shock, but he was quickly knocked from his feet by Elilod as another arrow darted by, a bolt that would have sent him to join Melgalés in Halés.

“Retreat!” Elilod called, but many of his forces had already begun racing back up the hill, like the tide returning to the safety of the sea. Elilod dragged Yavün to his feet, and they raced back to where they had come from, hounded now not by arrows, but by the cheers and jeers of the soldiers far below.

When they were out of range of the Bororian archers, they stopped and rested, and Yavün had time to nurse his tired legs and his wounded heart. He could not believe that his friends would attack him, and he thought that Ifferon or Thalla, at least, could have stayed Herr’Don’s hand.

“They do not fire at you,” Elilod said, noticing his puzzled expression. “They fire at what crawled out of the grave to drag them into it.”

Yavün stared blankly at him.

“They think you are dead, little fish,” Elilod explained, “and that we are the enemy. There is not much we can do to make them realise the truth. We cannot get close to them without being killed.”

Then Yavün perked up, and he saw in Elilod’s eyes the wonder that was reflected in his own. “There is a way,” he said, and the tide rose once again.

*  *  *

The evil Taarí that crashed down on Herr’Don’s armies were fierce beyond measure, and though they were crafted of water, it seemed to some that they were made of fire. Many drowned beneath the wave of attackers, but Herr’Don worked himself into a frenzy that showed them what real fire was like. He slashed his way through the waters, attacking everything in sight, and many of his own soldiers cleared the way as he approached, for he seemed like he would strike out at anything or anyone in sight. He was pushed to and fro, like a man bobbing amidst the waves, but this only propelled him from one dead foe to another for whom death was imminent.

And so Geldirana joined him on the field of battle, but where Herr’Don stumbled to and fro, cleaving and cutting, Geldirana’s movements were like a dance. She waded through the foes, turning this way and that, striking and continuing forth as if there were no obstacles before her, just the choreography of battle.

Elithéa too entered the battlefield, and though she did not have the grace of Geldirana, she had something of the ferocity, and her enemies were not thankful that she carried a staff instead of a mace, for it struck them dead just the same.

Thalla joined the other Magi with attacks made from range, trapping and killing reinforcements that flooded down to join their comrades.

But Ifferon and Délin left the Taarí to their companions, for an even bigger threat was soon upon them. The knights braced themselves as the darkness they could not see flooded down towards them, and Ifferon waited for that brief moment before he could say that they were here. And then it came.

The shadows seemed all of one type, mingled together so that bits of one seemed to merge into another, and what seemed like a wisp that blew from one became a smaller thing of darkness that moved on its own. Some of these were Spectres, and they hounded all around them with the flails of fear and the daggers of dread, while others were Meddlers, and they hunted all around them with very different weapons: claws made of shadow, which struck like sickles.

Yet the knights did not fall like their Bororian brethren might have, for their armour was thick, and their training was another shield. They swung and struck at the darkness they felt around them, and Délin cut his way through the assailants, showing them the feel of the sickle-edge of his two-handed sword.

Ifferon stabbed at a few shadows that formed around him, and they wailed like the cries of the dying, and the more haunting cries of the dead in the bitter watches of the night. He began to feel things crawling around him and upon him, and even when he turned to them, ready to fight, he found nothing there to greet him, and he began to feel the same kind of fear he knew the knights without the clearsight must feel. This grew to the edge of terror when the things that rubbed against him seemed to crawl inside him, and the fear almost drove him over the edge when those things began to give birth to thoughts inside his mind that he knew were not his own.

And so Ifferon abandoned his sword and took out a weapon better suited to this foe. He unfurled the Scroll of Mestalarin, which immediately banished the evil thoughts and the eerie feelings, planting firmly in their place a sense of strength and courage.

“Dehilasü baeos!” he cried, and it was a sound that drowned out the cries around him, and silenced the tumult of the dead.

The shadow was swept back, and the knights found for a moment that they were fighting nothing. Then it came back in, and Ifferon repeated the words, forcing it back once more. The ebb and flow continued, a tug of war between light and shade, the land around darkening and brightening as each of them pushed and pulled against each other.

Then suddenly a shadow drew up beside Ifferon, and he cried out. The Last Words had no effect upon this one, and already Ifferon was beginning to feel the strain of his contest with the Shadow Kingdom.

The deathly voice of the shadow spoke, and its words were like hammers. “Ifferon,” it said. “I am not as I appear to be. This is Yavün.”

Ifferon almost stumbled from the shock, and it gave the shadow he fought to hold back an advantage in their tug of war.

“I survived the Chasm of Issarí,” the spirit continued. “I was found by the Rebel Taarí, led by Issarí’s spouse, the River Man.”

Ifferon could barely believe these words, and yet he recognised in them a hint of the youth he had met back in Larksong, of the boy who yearned to be a man, and of the man who could not escape his own boyish ways. Yet now the naivety was supplanted by knowledge, the innocence replaced with experience, and for every part of him that he knew, there was another he could not recognise.

“Yavün,” Ifferon said, half to acknowledge who stood in this body of shade before him, and half to test the spirit with that name, as if it might send an illuding force away.

“The shadow could control me,” it said. “Now I can control the shadow.”

This statement came like dawn in the bleakest night, and it brought light into his mind, and illuminated his soul. He felt a weight had lifted, and the clouds seemed suddenly less oppressing, and the wall of shadow that stood before him seemed less daunting.

But as much as there is relief in dawn for the creatures of the day, there is relief in dusk for the creatures of the night. The weight returned, and it was heavier than ever, for in it was the weight of all nations, of all peoples, and all his predecessors, and the weight of history itself. The clouds returned, and in their gloomy glare was the reminder of the shackles of shadow, of the rule of darkness from its lofty throne. Inside Ifferon there formed a new wall of darkness, cutting off his mind from his heart, and cutting off his courage from his hope.

The darkness before him changed shape, like the shifting figures upon the land as the sun rises and falls. The pawns of the Shadow Kingdom gave way, and the kings appeared. The Molokrán came forth, and a new Alar Molokrán took the crown.

Ifferon could barely take in this new sight before they were upon him, and he was thrown back, and the Scroll fell from his hands. Délin and his knights charged forth, but they too were thrown, and they found that stabbing blindly in the dark was less effective when they were faced with the masters of darkness itself.

Then the spirit that Yavün controlled leapt upon the Alar Molokrán, and the Lichelord struggled with it for a moment, before casting it aside and turning to it with confusion. He raised his arms towards it, and it seemed that he was attempting to cast some spell upon it, to return it to his dominion, but instead it leapt upon him again. This time he seized it and swallowed it, until his own darkness swelled and grew.

The distraction gave Ifferon enough time to reclaim the Scroll, and so he unleashed it and the Ilokrán, and he cried aloud the dying words of Telm, and that god’s shimmering armour formed around him, like a halo to the silver armour he wore beneath.

“Al-iav im-iavün im-samün im-samadas, dehilasü baeos!” he cried, and it felt more forceful than ever, so much so that a gust of violent wind was blown forth with those words. The knights stopped for a moment to look at him, like they did when they saw Issarí, and like they would have if they had been there for Corrias’ resurrection.

And so the Lichelord also stopped to look upon him, but there was no awe in the darkness where his eyes might be, and no shock in the blackness where his mouth might be. Instead he seemed amused.

“Your little fire colludes with the darkness now,” he said, “and it will not be long before that candle is put out.”

Ifferon did not have the time to decipher these words, for the Molokrán attacked again. The Scroll, which mimicked now the Sword of Telm, did little to threaten them, and the Shadowstone, which mirrored the Shield of Telm, did little to ward them off, or protect against their crushing blows.

And then Geldirana returned to the field, with the memory of the Molokrán as much in her muscles as it was in her mind. She held her mace to the sky, and a bolt of lightning struck it, and then she struck the shadow as if she were lightning too.

“Blood for the Garigút!” she cried, and the look in her eyes showed that she was willing to give of her own blood as much as she was willing to take it from her enemies. But the shadow had no blood to give.

Affon also charged into the fray, waving the Ilokrán that Ifferon had given her in one hand, while waving a small mace in the other. She worked her way to where Geldirana toiled, but she was driven back, at times by the shadow, at times by her mother, and at times by her own fear, which she had never known so closely before.

In the flurry of the battle Ifferon could not tell which of the Molokrán he was attacking, or which of them was attacking him. They combined into a singular darkness, and even when at times they spread out and seemed to form distinct shapes of their own, they were merely doppelgangers of each other, and doppelgangers of the fears in the hearts and minds of every man and woman, and those forgotten fears that plagued the hearts and minds of every child.

And so they toiled in this new tug of war, where the Last Words clashed against the threat of the final words of everyone still living, and everyone who still had a last breath to give.

*  *  *

Yavün was still in shock from his conflict with the Lichelord, and though it was a body of shade that was absorbed into that dark master, he felt a strain in his own body, and an even greater strain in his mind. He managed to get out just in time, and he knew with great certainty that had he not abandoned that shadow body, he might have been lost in the darkness—his own light might have been blotted out, and he might have become part of the Molokrán.

Yet he could not abandon the battle, and leave Ifferon to whatever evil fate might await him. He caught sight of another Shadowspirit, and he cast his mind across to it, seizing it suddenly and taking control. He was tired, but he knew that the time of rest for the Molokrán had come and gone, and that the only rest they would grant to their enemies was the final rest in Halés.

He crept around the battlefield, watching carefully as the Molokrán advanced and fell back, like a hammer struck against an anvil, and pulled back not to rest or recover, but to add more force to another strike. Just like the anvil, the armour of Ifferon, Geldirana and Délin was battered each time, and Yavün wondered just how much they could take under the hammer of the shadow.

Then suddenly he heard a sizzling and a crackling, and he felt a great heat well inside him, as if the shadow he possessed were on fire. He began to make out whispers, and then the voice of fire he had heard so many times before. He looked down to see the Beldarian, but all he could see was the shadow, with not a hint of flame.

“The shadow will destroy them,” the voice of fire said, though there was something strange about it now, as though the fire had been lit in a different place.

“Let me in,” it said. He felt himself agreeing almost against his will.

Suddenly Yavün felt as though he were losing his grip. For a moment he was reminded of his fall at the Chasm of Issarí, and the pain of the rock slicing into his arm as he lost his hold and tumbled down into the ravaging waters below.

Even more suddenly, like that moment when he felt himself losing consciousness beneath the waters, he felt himself locked out of his own body, pushed and held down, suppressed and supplanted. He looked across the plains with his eyes of shadow, and he saw his body slump. He tried to raise his arms, but all that moved were the arms of the Shadowspirit. He was exiled from his own body, and it sat there like a shell, waiting to be occupied.

Before he could do anything, before he could run to it, or cry out, or even think of what his options were, he saw the Alar Molokrán disperse like dust in the wind, and before he could think of what this meant, and act upon it, he watched as his body stood up of its own accord and turned to Elilod, who stood there unaware. Before he could warn him, or do anything that might save him, he watched as his own hand drew his own sword, and plunged it with his own force into the belly of the River Man.

XII – DUSK

Elilod collapsed upon the ground, with the Sword of Telm still lodged inside him. Had it been any other sword, a blade made by mortals, the River Man may have survived its embrace. Had it been held by the Lichelord instead of Yavün, then he might have seen it in time, and dodged the blow. All the things that might have been passed before his eyes, and he tried to catch them, but they slipped from his grasp, and they swam away.

He looked at Yavün, and though he saw that familiar young face, and those familiar curious eyes, and that familiar mouth full of questions, he did not recognise him.

“Little fish,” he said, and said no more.

*  *  *

The Rebel Taarí backed away from their fallen leader, but Narylal ran to Elilod and crouched down beside him, holding him in her arms. There was water in her eyes that was not part of her fluid form, and even from across the plains Yavün could see the glisten, and it wounded him like his own hands had wounded Elilod.

Narylal wailed as she held her leader, her god, in her arms. If there was a god of sorrow, a Céalar who dealt with tragedy, then she would have prayed to him. But there was no one in Althar who could answer such prayers, nor answer the difficult question of why these evil deeds were allowed to happen, in a world which even the gods could not control.

Yavün struggled with all his might to regain control of his own body, but he failed, and so he swept across the battlefield in his shadow form and leapt upon whatever it was that made his flesh its home. As soon as he did this, he began to see a little out of his own eyes, but then it went dark again, and his sight returned to the eyes of the Shadowspirit.

His anger gave him momentum, and so he lunged again, and his real eyes saw a little more. He repeated this until eventually he knocked the Lichelord from the shell of his body, and he leapt inside and turned to the Alar Molokrán with the Sword of Telm held high.

“We smote the River Man before Issarí,” the Lichelord said, “and now finally he rests upon the river bed.”

Yavün stabbed the air before the Lichelord, as if it had made those offending words, and the Lichelord flinched and grimaced, and then turned its dark mouth to laughter.

“So the River Man found something on the river bed,” he said. “Another token, another relic, another heirloom from a dead god and a dead legacy. Has Ifferon finally given up his claim and made you the heir instead?”

Then Ifferon stepped forward, and the Lichelord flinched once more, as if he had caught sight of something great and terrible, and then he stood resolute, as if he realised how small and trivial this power before him was.

“And who is this,” the Lichelord mocked, “but another relic?”

Ifferon stood unblinking, and Yavün had never seen him look so strong. His armour glimmered like stars, and the Shadowstone pulsed like a little lightning, and the Scroll thrummed like a tiny thunder.

“I know a little weather of my own,” the Lichelord said.

Suddenly the clouds in the skies began to change, spinning and bobbing, and in those undulating clouds could be seen a mirror of a stormy sea. From the tempest of the sky a torrent fell, and those who had not been felled by sword or arrow were now struck by the battering of the breeze and the flailing of the flood.

*  *  *

Just as it seemed like night would set in, that the clouds would act as curtains, and the sun would be snuffed out as if it were but a tiny candle flame, the Aelora arrived on the battlefield, and the very light that emanated from deep within them was enough to stay the darkness, to halt the advancing gloom. The armies of allies and enemies both looked at the lights, and some were forced to turn their gaze aside, for here and there a spark would turn brightest white, and it was blinding.

But the Aelora did not let their inner lights do all the work, for bright though they were, the bleak blanket that stretched above them all sent a darkness past all eyes and into the very souls of everyone beneath. The weather was a weapon that day, but it was one that more than the Molokrán could use.

Oelinor appeared at the front of his force, and he began to cast a magic of his own into the sky. The other Aelora followed, and soon there were streams of white light flooding the heavens. In time the clouds were driven back across the battlefield, and the sun arose, and it was day again.

But just as the previous Lichelord had an uncanny power over nature, and the one before it had an unearthly power over stone, the newest Alar Molokrán made the weather his slave, driving it forth and compelling it to do his will. The clouds advanced again, blotting out the sun, and the land was cast once more in darkness.

Thus was there a battle of night and day to mirror the battle of the forces of darkness and light below. The sky seemed forever divided, as if the very gods that dwelt there did not know which side they were on. Whatever animals that had not been scared off by the clashing of armies were undoubtedly confused by this seemingly sudden and swift passage of time. Some scurried to their burrows to rest for the night, only to emerge moments later in bewilderment as day dawned once more.

Then Lëolin, the current Alar Ardúnar, joined Oelinor at the front of their troops, and his presence gave day the advantage, so that it seemed that it would forever conquer night and chase away all and every shadow.

But his presence was as much a challenge as it was a threat, and the Alar Molokrán was compelled to answer. He rose up tall until he was a thin pillar of blackness, and the Shadowspirits around him were drawn towards him, and then drawn into him, until he began to swirl. The motion forced dust into the air and knocked people from their feet, and those nearby were sucked towards the shadow, until it became a ravaging black tornado, moving slowly across the plains.

The Aelora fired beams of light towards it, but these seemed to only empower it, giving it new force and speed. The Magi of Boror tried their spells of encagement, but the swirling shadow broke through them effortlessly. Yavün watched on helplessly, just as he did when he watched his own hand end the life of Elilod.

And so the tornado bore down on the Aelora, and they began to panic as their magic failed to halt it. Every shadow was now part of the cyclone, adding their corrupting essence to its destructive force. Here and there an unlucky soldier was plucked from the battlefield and consumed by the windstorm. Everywhere the sound was deafening, and up above the sky was darkening again.

Ifferon charged in front of the swirling mass, clutching tightly the Scroll before him, which clattered in the wind, even striking him in the face as he tried to utter the words it bore. “Dehilasü baeos!” he cried, but the wind cried louder.

The darkness deepened, and the even darker work of weather drew close. Just as it seemed as though it was coming too close to Ifferon, and that he would surely die in its passage, Délin raced through and knocked Ifferon from its path. The two narrowly dodged the tornado’s powerful pull as it was drawn by the power of the Alar Ardúnar, who could do little to stop it.

Yavün watched all of this unfold, and he felt as though his previous conviction, his prior drive, had been sucked up into the passing whirlwind, leaving him as helpless as any other who dared to fight the weather and its new ruler.

Then he felt the fire well inside his mind, and there once more he heard the voice of fire. “He is as much a portal as you are,” it said. “Yes, a portal. An empty shell waiting to be filled.”

But Yavün had been deceived by this before, and in letting his guard down, he had given up his own body so that it might be filled by shadow. Elilod had paid the price for Yavün’s mistake, not him, and he wondered who else might die if he hearkened again to the voice of fire, which might instead be the voice of shadow.

In that moment of doubt, when he felt he understood more than ever Ifferon’s reluctance, when he finally realised that he was as much battling with his own internal shadow as he was any external one, he began to wonder if being a Child of Telm was more than just a title, or more than just a list of names that had mostly been crossed out by Agon and his forces.

But he did not like this doubt, and he did not like the sight of Ifferon upon the ground, or the fact that this could be him in years to come, cowering in the face of fear, and letting uncertainty rule his life, or the fear of not making the right choice hold him back from making any decision at all.

And then he was given an extra push from the world outside, and the world beyond. One of the Felokar wolves that were guarding the Visage had slunk away from its duties and crept towards him, and he had not noticed it, for his eyes were fixed on the whirling darkness. It nudged him, and he started in fright, and he was suddenly reminded of his flight with Thalla from those beasts, and those tender moments spent with her before they were dragged apart in the rapids of Issarí’s Chasm. The wolf nudged him again, pushing him slightly in the direction of the tornado. He instinctively resisted, but this only spurred the wolf to push harder, almost toppling him from his feet. It growled at him as he turned to it, baring its teeth, before nudging him again.

“Okay!” he cried. “I know.”

And so he did what all others upon the battlefield must have thought was madness. He ran towards the tornado, even as others were running away from it. He raced towards it even as it pulled him and anyone and anything else closer to its destructive bosom. Amidst the howling wind he could hear other howls, the howls and cries of his friends and comrades, and the howls of the Felokar wolves, like the welcome song of the dead.

When it seemed that he was no longer running, but being dragged and sucked towards the shadow, he looked up to the twirling tower of blackness, like the weather’s imitation of Tol-Úmari near the Peak of the Wolf and the Land of the Dead. It was daunting and oppressing, and the gods in Althar must have felt its violent force as much as the mortals down on Iraldas.

In that moment, when the wind lashed his face, and his hair swirled like a tornado of its own, time seemed to slow, and he felt a little of what it must be like in Halés, where Melgalés dwelt, and where he knew deep inside him that the Magus suffered because of him. The Beldarian was almost pulled from its chain as he approached the tornado, and he knew that soon it would all be over, that he would free another’s soul just as he would free his own. His mind raced like a whirlwind, sending his thoughts in all directions, and he thought to say a prayer, but could only think of a poem instead.

The wind beats against my ears like the battle drums.

The air lashes me like the whips of slave-drivers.

The gust reels me in—on the wire my will succumbs;

As I’m caught, I see the ocean of survivors.

Who am I to covet their freedom from the net,

Or look at all I have, and dare to ask for more?

What more is given only adds upon the debt,

As I am taken up and shackled to the shore.

Though my eyes know envy, of it I have no need;

Though my heart knows yearning, of it I need no beat.

The wind is here enough to satiate my greed,

An avarice of love, so easy to defeat.

What will end my eyes’ gluttony? What will suffice,

And fill the need like water fills the selfish sea?

What water for the land, a willing sacrifice?

If it won’t come from heaven, it will come from me.

And then just as the tornado began to take him up, he leapt towards it, giving in to its embrace, like a little fish reeled in by life’s eternal fisherman. And then he leapt again, this time out of his own body, and deep into the black wall of wind before him, in which the Lichelord dwelt. For a brief moment he saw only blackness, and then for an even briefer moment he saw what the tornado might have seen, if it had eyes. He saw people cower and run, and he saw the tower of darkness loom over Lëolin, even as Oelinor backed away.

He saw, even against his own will, for he tried to close his eyes, but could not, that Lëolin was sucked into the cyclone, and he was dragged and thrown, until the very light in him was sucked out and overcome by the darkness around.

Then Yavün saw the shell of the Alar Molokrán that was the centre of the cyclone, like an acorn from which a tree of darkness and death must grow. He saw that it was empty, and so he threw himself inside it, and suddenly he could see more clearly than ever with the eyes of the whirlwind. Just as easily as he might lift his arm or turn his head, he halted the tornado and slowed its spinning, until finally it no longer turned at all, and instead stood as a giant pillar from the earth to the heavens. He lowered this and condensed it, until at last it formed the figure of the Alar Molokrán, through whose eyes he could see, and with whose face he could feel the air, and with whose hands he could feel the ground.

And so he turned his attention to the opposing armies, which were already dwindling. He moved the pillar of darkness towards them, and they knew it was no longer a weapon on their side. Many cowered and many ran, but a few of the Nahamoni stood before the towering form and held up what looked to Yavün like scraps of a broken pot. He pushed the shadow towards them, knowing that they could not stand against it for long, but he began to feel a powerful and overwhelming resistance, which made the potency of the Molokrán feel tiny in comparison.

The strain of keeping the shadow on a leash was too much, and Yavün felt that he was losing control, and that the blackness that was now his body was beginning to seep into his mind. For a brief moment he thought that it would consume him, and then he thought no more, for everything turned to darkness and silence.

*  *  *

To those around, they saw the Lichelord’s form shift violently, as if it was fighting with itself. One moment it was contorted and angular, and the next it was soft and flowing like a dark cloud. The Nahamoni unleashed the fragments of the Ferhassan that were confiscated from Délin, and they halted the dark pillar, as if it were turned to stone. Then the darkness suddenly dispersed, and those who had the clearsight could see, for the most fleeting of moments, that Yavün’s spirit was cast out of the shadow.

The soldiers braced themselves for a renewed attack, but their swords and spears lowered involuntarily when they saw that the Lichelord fled from the field of battle, with the other Molokrán following in his train. A fear was upon them like that which they had cast upon all the peoples of Iraldas, and the soldiers watched their flight with a feeling that justice had been served.

Ifferon saw more than most, for he watched as Yavün was cast out of the Lichelord, like he had cast out the Shadowspirit from Yavün all those days before in the haunted hills of the Meadow-downs. The youth’s spirit form turned here and there, as if lost, and it did not seem to see Ifferon, nor its own body laying still upon the battlefield. It wandered aimlessly for a time, and then just as Ifferon began to make for it, to guide Yavün back to his body, it shimmered briefly, and then began to fade. It turned one final time, and Ifferon thought it looked at him, and then it turned its gaze in the direction of the door of Halés, and Ifferon no longer saw the ghostly form.

XIII – THE BATTLE OF THE BEAST

The soldiers carried Yavün’s body to the prison pavilion where the Visage was kept, and where the Felokar wolves kept guard, and where Affon marched back and forth as if she were keeping the night watch. Ifferon and the others who had journeyed with Yavün followed as he was lifted inside, and some kept their heads bowed, as if they were part of a funeral procession.

They brought him inside, and immediately the Felokar wolves reacted, but instead of pouncing on them, as they might have done with someone trying to free the Visage, they whimpered and paced about, and then they bowed their heads, as if they too were part of the requiem.

The youth’s body was laid down upon a table, still clutching the ornate sword that had felled Elilod, and Affon ran up to see what was happening.

“Is he dead?” she asked.

It was the same question they were all wondering. He had not fallen by any mortal wound, like so many had that day, but no one knew enough about the spirit world, about the people they called Portals, or exactly how the transition to Halés worked. There was no acorn to use now, and it seemed to many that he had already cheated death once, and that it might have finally claimed him.

“He could not find his body,” Ifferon said, and he fought back his tears. He wondered if he could have done more, if he could have saved the youth.

“Some say the body is a prison,” Délin remarked, “but I say that to wander between worlds, neither being fully of body or soul, is the real prison. It may not have bars, and it may not have a gate, but that endless wandering is its own lock and key.”

“He looks like he’s sleeping,” Affon said.

Ifferon saw that Délin was holding back a tear. This moment was too like that seemingly endless time when Théos lay upon the plinth at the top of the Mountain Fortress, and where to some he looked like he was just sleeping, but to most he looked dead.

“Is there aught that can be done?” Délin asked.

What few Magi that had survived the last battle shook their heads. Thalla said nothing, but stared at Yavün, and her face was pale, as if she had seen the apparition that Ifferon saw. The scars of her meddling with magic in the White Mountains were still visible, however faintly, upon her face, but there were other scars too: the scars of one who has lost a beloved.

“There is only one thing we can do,” Herr’Don said. “Bury the dead, and bury Agon with them.”

“With them, no,” Délin said. “But let us end this war.”

“Are we to bury Yavün then?” Thalla asked. Ifferon thought that perhaps it would bring her some closure, when there had not been any for the youth before, nor for her mentor Melgalés, whose body still sat in the Rotwood, rotting away slowly.

“There is no time,” Herr’Don said. “We have tarried long enough. It is one thing to be delayed by battle, but quite another to be delayed by battle’s aftermath.”

“There is always time to bury the dead,” Délin said. “If we do not honour the fallen, then it is pointless to fight for those still standing, for a world without honour is not a world worth living in.”

“Why waste time with the shell that remains?” Elithéa asked. “No wonder Man dwindles.”

“Let the weak and wounded bury the dead,” Geldirana said. “They are no good to us in battle, but perhaps may still be of some use.”

So they agreed to this compromise, though to Délin it seemed more an affront. It was only the frequent reminder of Agon’s vicinity, and his imminent release, that encouraged the knight to strive ahead with the others, leaving a bed of bodies in their wake.

They left the pavilion and turned their attention eastwards, to where they knew the Beast still tried to break free, and where they hoped Corrias was still alive to hold him down. Even as they stared in that direction, in the direction of death, the bodies of fallen comrades lay still around them. Ifferon knew that he was not alone in wondering just how many of those still standing would soon be joining the dead.

“And so we come at last to this battle,” Délin said.

“A battle to bring the Beast to his last moments,” Herr’Don said, and the soldiers cheered, cheered through their terror. There were none upon the plains who were not afraid, even those who pretended otherwise, for though the Molokrán sent fear into the hearts of all, nearby was the creature that consumed their master, and he sent fear past all hearts, into the very souls of all survivors.

*  *  *

Their rest was brief, for there was little time, and they knew they must march from battle to battle, as if each fight were one of their own footsteps. The time between was fleeting, and with each step forward there were fewer people to make the journey. Some abandoned the quest entirely, like Narylal, who led the Rebel Taarí back into the Telar Deeps. Some of those who stayed wished they could also flee, and all of those who stayed wished that they were marching home instead.

As the armies went, the tremors became stronger and came more often, toppling heroes of men and women as if they were but unsteady children not long out of the womb. To watch a great knight like Délin knocked from his feet, and helped up like he had helped Théos many times, was disheartening to Ifferon, much more so than his own falls and tumbles, which he expected, and for which he had little shame. The land moved around them even as they moved upon it, and it seemed to some that it was as much an enemy as Agon, as if even the very earth itself had given in and sworn allegiance to the Beast.

The sound of rattling chains preceded all others, and it grew so frequent and so loud that it dwarfed the wind, and it travelled to their ears as if it had shackled itself to every gale and gust. The sound was unnerving on many levels, for it spoke to them of the bonds of the Beast, but it also spoke to them of their own prisons, and that prison of death that Agon could send them to.

And then when the strange sound became like the everyday whistle of birds, and the terrible tremors became like the normal turning of the earth, the smell of sulphur charged upon them, invading their nostrils and attacking their senses. It burned their noses, singed their eyes, and left an ashy taste upon their tongues.

And when the sulphurous fume seemed somehow natural, like it must have done to Agon and whatever else lived in the darkness beneath Halés, and when the smoke and dust dispersed before them like a curtain pulled back by the hands of gods, they were greeted with a sight that singed their eyes more than any sulphur could, and this was something they could never grow accustomed to.

The sight was so horrifying that many were forced to immediately close their eyes, to block out the bleakness, but they found the evil had corrupted their imaginations, and their minds conjured new and terrible forms worse than their eyes had seen, and so they were forced to open their eyes once more, to free themselves from the tyranny of their own minds. What horrors they saw then made the false images of their minds pale in comparison, and it seemed that they were locked between the twin terrors of illusion and reality, and they felt a semblance of the torment of the Beast, where neither sleep nor the waking world brought any solace.

To some whose minds were weak, the sight of the Beast was enough of a weapon to destroy them. Some fell instantly dead, and perhaps that would have been some relief, were it not for the fact that the horrors haunted them in the afterlife in Halés, and some of them became horrors of their own, to haunt the living that were yet blind to the Beast.

Others did not die in body, but they died in mind, with the walls of their sanity closing in and collapsing around them, and they wandered the battlefield aimlessly, and some wandered onto the sword edge of an enemy or ally, and some wandered straight into the Beast’s jaws, and some others wandered far afield, even to distant lands, where after they were known as the Afflicted, and this torment of the mind was treated like any disease of body, and they were shunned, and they were feared. So did the terror of the Beast spread like a virus of its own, infecting minds, and building far and wide a civilisation built with bricks of fear upon a foundation of terror.

There were no records in any books of what the Beast looked like, bar brief and hurried mentions of his general anatomy, for how he appeared depended on who looked upon him, and what fears festered in their soul. Few who saw the Beast survived, and of those who did, none would dare unlock the images from the cage of their mind, and free Agon to torment them once again.

For Ifferon, he saw a mangled face like the combined deathly countenances of the remnants of a battlefield; Agon was, in all respects, the epitome of a mass grave. Had his agonised features been cemented in form, the mind may have grown accustomed to them, and so come to some sort of reckoning, no matter how harrowing. But his face shifted each time Ifferon looked upon him, and it was a new kind of death, a new kind of horror, and a new kind of memory that Ifferon desperately wanted to forget.

It was easier to not look upon his face, even though Ifferon could feel those dark eyes boring into him like the torture tools of the Visage. He looked instead upon the hulking form of Agon’s body, and the lumbering limbs that stretched out from the cavernous hole like monstrous pillars.

One chain held the Beast in place, biting at the ankle of his left foot like a Felokar wolf might snap and snare a mortal soul and drag it down to Halés. A single chain, with a manacle crafted by the Céalari—of whom no Man or Ferian, or any other race, could imitate—was all that stood between the Beast and his freedom, and between the people of Iraldas and theirs.

Except Corrias.

For it was Corrias who held the Beast down as if he were a chain of his own, and the great weight of the god helped keep Agon in check, and keep him from tugging and pulling with all his strength on the chain, and keep it from snapping.

For a moment Ifferon thought of what they might have faced if they had not been victorious in returning Corrias to the world. Perhaps the Beast would then be free, and perhaps he, a Child of Telm, would have been the last protection, or the last small obstacle swept aside by Agon.

Then his eyes fell upon what looked little pebbles lining the ground around Agon and Corrias. He was horrified to discover that these were not tiny rocks, but the remnants of those few Al-Ferian who had marched out with Athanda, and those fewer Garigút who had joined them on the orders of Geldirana. He looked to her now, and he saw that she too was just realising what had transpired.

But there was no time to mourn the dead—only time to avenge them.

Ifferon heard the wheels and cogs of the siege machines, a reassuring sound when they were allies. The catapults, trebuchets, and ballistae rolled into range, dozens in number and of all shapes and sizes, some plain and newly made, and some plated with metal, and some creaking heavily like old bastions of bygone wars. Ropes were slung, rocks were loaded, counterweights were pushed in place, and levers were cranked, and all these sounds combined to form the music of preparation, which was a prelude to the song of siege.

Then the sounds died down, and there was a moment of pause while Herr’Don argued with his commanders, many of whom had not slept since they set out from Boror several days before.

“We may hit Corrias,” they warned, and some refused to act.

Ifferon was amused by how quickly the people of Boror had abandoned their faith in Olagh alone, when faced with the monstrosity of Agon, and the beauty of Corrias. Some still clung to their faith, seeing Corrias as Olagh, and Ifferon could not blame them for wanting the reassurance of Olagh’s foretold victory against the Beast in the holy pages of the Olaghris. He could not tell them that Olagh was really Telm, and that Telm was dead, and they would not have believed it, even from the mouth of a Cleric of Olagh, or the mouth of a Child of Telm.

“We will hit the Beast,” Herr’Don said, as if his own words were also promised in the Olaghris. “We have no choice, and Corrias will understand that.”

“I cannot condone this,” Délin said. “There is no honour in firing from range, and there is less honour when the firing is so chaotic that our own father god may become the target. We must engage the Beast in another way.”

“We will,” Herr’Don said, “but we will weaken him ere we approach.”

And so he ordered his men to fire, and the siege weapons groaned and creaked, and great slabs and blocks of stone, and great trunks of trees, and great fiery balls, and great metal bolts, and great explosive kegs, flew across the battlefield and rained down upon Agon and Corrias. Some of these struck like tiny pinpricks, but others struck the faces of the gods, and there was apparent agony in their eyes. The Beast raged and roared, and Corrias struggled to contain him.

“Are you weakening or strengthening him?” Délin asked.

Herr’Don glowered at him, but did not respond. He directed his commanders to launch another volley, and this elicited a similar response from Agon, and a similar struggle from Corrias. Now, however, the father god seemed to be holding back his own cries of pain, for many of the bolts and bricks struck him as Agon dragged him this way and that.

Délin knelt down and closed his eyes. The other knights followed suit, and together they prayed to Corrias, as if he were still in Althar, and not trapped in Iraldas under fire from some of his own worshippers. Ifferon was amazed to see, however, that this prayer seemed to help the god, for he grew stronger and more resolute, and he held down Agon with greater power than before.

But Agon’s rage was rising, and each falling rock seemed to fuel his anger, and each piece of shrapnel seemed to goad him into pulling harder on the last remaining manacle about his foot.

It seemed to Ifferon that Herr’Don was then talking to himself, for he turned to his side as if one of his commanders was there, but no one could be seen. This was not reassuring when the prince was in charge of the largest army upon the battlefield.

“So we will try a different approach,” Herr’Don said.

Then the siege weapons rolled closer to Agon, and great hooks and ropes, and huge nets with weights attached, were loaded upon them, before they were fired upon the Beast. The hooks dug into his flesh, the nets landed upon him and weighed him down, and the ropes were pulled by men and women, and some of the siege weapons were cranked, for the ropes were still attached to them, and they grew tense as the people tried to tether and hold down the Beast.

But Agon had spent too long being chained and held down, and he had spent a thousand years tugging on those chains, hundreds of thousands of days trying to break them, and hundreds of thousands of nights banging his shackled fists upon the roof of his prison. All that anger, which had only grown and festered in this time, erupted now in Agon’s violent flailing, even as he had erupted from the earth like a volcano.

The soldiers of Boror pulled on the ropes, but many were dragged into the air as their strength gave way to the terrible power of the Beast. Then some of the siege weapons were hauled skyward as Agon turned and thrashed, and the soldiers fled as their own engines of war came crashing down upon them. Others were crushed beneath the massive fists of Agon, and the ground shuddered beneath his terrifying thumps. All the while, Corrias tried to keep his grip—but it was slipping.

Archers fired their arrows, but they had little affect, and some brave, or perhaps foolish, soldiers charged up close to the hulking form and slashed and stabbed, only to be cast aside or crushed. One of these was Herr’Don, who worked himself into a frenzy, and began madly attacking one of the monstrous hands of the Beast, until finally he was flicked away. The breath was knocked from him, but he was lucky it was just his breath, and not his life.

And so the armies toiled, and Ifferon saw familiar faces join the fight, and he saw many more unfamiliar ones. Geldirana was there, swinging and cleaving, and Elithéa was there, striking and clashing. Thalla and the other Magi fired off bolts to match the ones shot from the siege weapons, and Délin and his knights moved in and out to strike here and there where one of Agon’s arms came down like an avalanche. Yet none of this seemed to weaken the Beast, and as the armies grew tired, and their numbers dwindled, so did Agon grow more powerful, and his rage increased.

What then could be done, Ifferon began to wonder, if an entire army seemed powerless against this evil force, and if even Corrias himself could barely hold him down? And so he felt the armour of Telm come about him, as if he had inadvertently invoked it, and he felt the gentle thrum of the Scroll behind his shin-guard, echoing the violent thumping of the Beast.

Ifferon approached Agon and issued his challenge. “Dehilasü baeos!” he cried, revealing the Scroll as if it were a mirror that might show the Beast his ugly form. Those dark and disturbing eyes turned towards Ifferon, and he felt as though the lights of the sun and the moon were both upon him, singling him out in the darkness.

“Begone!” the Beast said, and his voice was like the rumble of an earthquake and the roar of a volcano. A gust blew from his mouth and knocked Ifferon from his feet, and the Beast mocked him with his probing eyes, even if he was too much in pain to deride him with laughter.

Ifferon clambered up and held the Scroll forth once more. “Al-iav im-iavün im-samün im-samadas, dehilasü baeos!”

Agon shifted in the chasm of his prison, and he shifted beneath the weight of Corrias, who held two of the Beast’s monstrous arms in check. It was the kind of shifting any would do while mildly uncomfortable, not the casting into the Underworld that those same words had done when uttered by Telm with his dying breath so many centuries before.

“By fire,” the Beast said, and a roaring fire erupted on his tongue. “And flame,” he bellowed, and the fire spread around him. “And fume,” he roared, and ears were rent, and his anger was palpable. “And fury!” he shouted, and the sky was full of a thousand thunders, and the ground was full of a thousand shaking troops.

Yet through all of this Ifferon stood resolute, with the armour of Telm around him, the shimmer of Telm’s sword around the Scroll, and the glimmer of Telm’s shield around the Shadowstone. Instead of trembling, like he thought he would, he stood firm. Instead of cowering, like he all but knew he would, he stood strong. The fears of what might be were replaced by the knowledge of what was, and Ifferon knew the threat of Agon, and he was afraid, but still he faced it, and still he challenged it.

“Begone!” the Beast bellowed once more, and this time he reached one of his great hands, if they could be called hands, towards Ifferon, and it came at him like a collapsing mountain. Délin raced in and pushed him aside, and the knight narrowly avoided being crushed beneath the hand, which splayed the ground and sent another tremor to all around.

Ifferon got up and began to trek back to Agon, crying aloud Telm’s fateful dying words again, but Délin ran to him and held him back. “It is not working,” he said. “The words are not enough.”

“They have to be!” Ifferon said, and he shrugged off the knight’s gauntleted hand and continued on towards the Beast. Agon turned slowly to him, dragging Corrias along with him, who now tried to grasp at the Beast’s throat, as if to silence whatever powerful words he might utter to counter those of Telm the Warrior-king.

Agon swiped at Ifferon again, but the cleric ducked and dodged the blow. For Agon’s great size, he moved slowly, and his movement was hampered further by Corrias’ restraining grasp. Were it not for this, Ifferon knew he would have perished swiftly beneath the awful weight of Agon’s colossal fists.

Délin ran to Ifferon again and seized him by the shoulders, and they both ducked another of the Beast’s swinging arms, before Délin dragged the cleric away from Agon’s reach. “There is no victory to be won like this!” the knight cried. “There is nothing to be gained in your death.”

But even as he spoke the words, Ifferon finally recognised what he had begun to realise since Agon broke through to Iraldas: that to return Agon to his prison, he would have to be more than just a Child of Telm, but Telm himself, and so give up his life just as that god had done. Surely, he realised now, the dying words were not strong enough without a dying breath.

This realisation must have been apparent in his eyes, for Délin looked at him with a sense of knowing, and he shook his head firmly. “No,” he said. “There is always another way. We proved that with Théos.”

“But this is different,” Ifferon said. “This is bigger than all of us.”

“Your life is more than just a key to lock Agon back in his prison,” Délin said.

“Maybe it is not,” Ifferon replied. “Maybe this is my purpose.”

“And what of Affon?”

Ifferon did not know what to say. He had almost forgotten about her in the midst of the battle, as if he had never known about her, like he had not known for the past ten years.

“Is she not enough to live for?” the knight asked, and Ifferon saw in Délin’s eyes the drive to defeat Agon, and to survive the onslaught, that he might see Théos again. Then the image of Affon came into his mind, and the image of Geldirana surfaced from where he had locked it inside the prison of his heart.

“Is she not enough?” Délin asked again.

Ifferon nodded and removed his helmet, revealing to the world the streams of tears he felt upon his face, revealing the sorrow he held for all that he had missed in life, all that he regretted, as if this indeed were his deathbed, and all he could think of was all he had wanted to do, and all he had not done.

“I barely know her,” he said, “and yet she is everything to me, like Geldirana was.”

“And may be again,” the knight said.

“I think those days are over.”

“Have faith, Ifferon,” Délin said. “There is nothing permanent in this world, not even the gods themselves. Some things fade, and some things that seemed faded become clear again. The old may become the new, and the new may wither, and the old hurts may be the mortar that joins new loves. Who knows what the future holds, only that we have a place in forging it.”

And so the two walked away from Agon, and Ifferon felt as though he had failed in his quest, that he had not lived up to his purpose. The memory of Telm was not honoured in his blood, nor in his thoughts and actions. He knew not how this would end, only that his one and only weapon had little effect.

The features of Agon’s face still haunted Ifferon’s mind. He never knew what others saw, and they never spoke of it. The experience was enough, and their faces told him all he needed, and much more than he wanted, to know.

As he left behind the chaos of the battlefield, Ifferon heard an echo of Agon’s words, which were themselves an echo of his own, and an echo of Telm’s a thousand years before. “Begone,” it said, and as Ifferon walked away, he felt, with a pang of deep regret, that he had obeyed that command, that it had more power over him than it did the Beast.

XIV – THE MONSTER WITHIN

“We have failed,” Ifferon said, and he sat down and unfurled the Scroll before him. It reminded him of how it looked when he saw it back in Larksong on that fateful day before his flight from there. It was old, ragged, torn, full of gaping holes and more damage than ever before, with pieces missing and pieces burnt, and when the edges were not wrinkled and worn, they were charred. If ever it reminded him of himself back then, it seemed an even greater reminder today. The promise it gave, that it could even make a moment of ending into something powerful, felt empty now, felt unfulfilled.

“Only in this attempt,” Délin said. “He is not yet free, and that is our goal.”

Herr’Don paced back and forth, his cloak swinging aggressively behind him. “If I had my other arm, I would take hold of the Beast and drag him down to Halés, even if it meant I could not return. I would hold him in place, and he would know my anger as more than he could ever muster, and he would call me Beast.”

*  *  *

They returned to the prison pavilion, which had become a centre of operations for the battle, a refuge from the death and destruction outside.

As soon as they entered, Affon marched up to them and saluted by crossing her arms over her chest, like many of the older Garigút did. This act made Ifferon realise for the first time that Geldirana never gave this salute, but instead demanded it be given to her. Yet with the few remaining Garigút that were loyal to her now dead upon the field around Agon, there were none but Affon to give that salute.

“I hope your prisoner is not causing any hassle,” Ifferon said.

“I’ve been keeping my eye on him,” Affon responded, and she pointed to her right eye, and then pointed at the Visage, as if she thought this was somehow threatening. Both of the Visage’s eyes stared back blankly, and he did not stir.

This stony reaction seemed to get to Herr’Don, for he gave a hateful glance to the masked man before sitting down with an angry sigh. Ifferon then realised that his reaction was perhaps partly due to the body of Yavün, which still lay upon the table in the corner of the pavilion, with his sword upon the chair beside him.

“We could not bury him,” a guard whispered to Ifferon. “Those Felokar wolves kept coming and digging him up. We thought they were going to eat him.”

The others were too distracted by the thought of Agon to give any thought to the young poet.

They joined Herr’Don at the central table, and they sat together like a war cabinet might, discussing their successes and failures, and what their next move should be.

“We go all in,” Herr’Don said, and he pushed his cup to the centre of the table as if it were a stack of chips in one of the many gambling games played at Bardahan or Geldahan. “Throw everything we’ve got. Sooner or later we must succeed.”

“There are no such guarantees,” Geldirana said sternly. To the untrained eye she seemed unmoved by the death of her people, but Ifferon knew her better, and he could hear the distress in her voice, beneath the anger. “Tact is another weapon,” she added.

“A slow one,” the prince replied. “And we do not have the luxury of time.”

“I held off my attack on Nahragor,” the Way-thane said. “And that patience paid off.”

“It was paid off with the lives of your people.”

She did not respond immediately, but her breathing deepened and her chest heaved, as if she were a volcano about to erupt. “And what do you want to do with the lives of yours?” she replied, keeping the lava down. “Throwing them at the Beast is a fool’s errand.”

“No more so than throwing them at the walls of Nahragor,” Herr’Don said.

“We already tried the direct approach,” Délin said, “and it has not worked.”

“Agon is too strong,” Elithéa said. “This is a fight of gods.”

“So leave it to Corrias, you mean?” Délin asked.

“He’s doing a better job than we are.”

“I will not miss out on the battle,” Herr’Don said agitatedly. He prodded the table aggressively, as if his fingers were knives. Edgaron placed his hand gently on the prince’s shoulder, and this seemed to calm him.

“We have to act,” Délin said. “Of that there is no doubt.”

“I would suggest magic,” Thalla remarked, “but he is quite a bit more powerful than any of the Magi.”

They nodded and mumbled in agreement, reluctantly acknowledging that even the power of the Aelora was no match for that of the Céalari that Agon had consumed. Oelinor was silent, and Ifferon knew that he was just as disheartened as the rest of them, especially with the death of his close friend Lëolin.

“May the Visage make a suggestion?” the masked man said, his voice transmitting to them as if from another realm, and it was greatly disturbing, for it broke into their council like the news of a spy amidst their ranks. They had almost forgotten he was there, if that were truly possible, for his presence was strong, but they knew he could not help the Beast now from his own captivity.

“I have a suggestion,” Herr’Don said gruffly. “Replace his mask with a gag.”

“The Visage is silent when the Visage wants to be silent,” the man said. “The Visage speaks when the Visage wants to speak.”

“Can you speak when there’s a sword in your throat?” Herr’Don asked.

There was silence from the Visage, and to the prince it seemed mocking, and to all others it was simply unsettling.

“What do you want?” Délin questioned.

“The Visage awaits an answer to an earlier question.”

Délin sighed. “Yes, yes, make your suggestion then.”

“Do not give him permission to speak,” Herr’Don said. “Give him permission to die.”

The Visage ignored him. “If this is a battle of gods, then surely only gods may win. Play, therefore, the only piece you have that remotely qualifies.” He looked then to Ifferon, and the cleric shuddered, for he almost felt like he was back in the other tent awaiting torture.

Délin sighed again. “As much as I hate to say it, I think he is right.”

“Aye,” Edgaron said.

“Do not agree with him!” Herr’Don exclaimed, and Edgaron bowed his head and said no more.

“Our swords failed,” Délin said.

“There is one sword,” The Visage remarked.

They looked in the direction he was looking, and they saw Yavün’s sword upon the chair. It looked even more unusual and ornate than it had done previously, and some of the company looked upon it now for the first time.

“What sword is that?” Délin asked.

“The one to silence this beast,” Herr’Don growled.

“To silence the Beast, perhaps,” the Visage said.

“Is that—?” Délin began.

“The Sword of Telm,” Ifferon finished.

“Daradag,” Oelinor said with wonder.

“Why would you tell us this?” Ifferon asked.

The Visage turned to him, and Ifferon immediately regretted drawing his attention, for the cold glare of that mask almost transfixed him.

“Consider this the Visage’s interrogation,” he said. “But unlike you, Ifferon, the Visage appreciates truth, and the Visage is more than willing to be forthcoming with any truths the Visage can give.”

“Do not trust him,” Herr’Don said.

“I don’t,” Délin replied, before turning back to the Visage, “but still I want to know what you know. Can this sword slay the Beast?”

“No,” the Visage said.

“Then what good is it?”

“You are the one who studies the old tales, Trueblade.”

Délin was clearly irritated by this, as if the Visage had broken through his armour. “Telm struck Agon with the Sword,” Délin said, and he looked as though he was going through the tales in his head. “It weakened him, but the force of the blow sent it off into the wild, and it was lost. It did not kill Agon, but it weakened him.”

“So then you have your answer,” the Visage said.

“Still,” Ifferon replied. “Why tell us this?”

“The Visage has lived a long life,” the masked man said. “The end is nearing for us all.”

Though it was hard to pick, this was perhaps the most unsettling thing the Visage said, not merely due to the words, but due to the tone of them, which made them seem that much more real and powerful—it was the tone of truth, and even the deaf could not avoid or evade it, for it spoke as much to the soul as it did the ear.

“Do you want us to defeat Agon?” Ifferon asked.

“The Visage has no desire.”

Herr’Don leapt up again. “I have a desire,” he said, “to end your petty little life.”

“Calm down,” Délin told him.

“If that … thing is the epitome of calm,” Herr’Don said, pointing to the Visage as if his arm was the sword he wished to drive through the man, “then I would rather be in a frenzy, for at least then I would know that I’m on the side of good.”

The Visage cocked his head, and his mask almost smiled. “Are you now?” he asked, and the words almost smiled in turn.

Herr’Don leapt up, and his sword leapt from its scabbard just as quickly. Both Délin and Ifferon grabbed him and stopped him from lashing out at the Visage. The Visage sat still and silent, and the stillness and silence were as much a derision as anything he had done or said before.

“Get him out of here!” Délin shouted, nodding towards the Visage. Brégest and three other knights seized the Visage and hauled him to his feet.

“I could kill him,” Affon said.

Ifferon chuckled.

“No, really, I could.”

Ifferon stayed his laughter, for he looked at Geldirana, and he knew that she had killed many at a younger age than Affon, and that she had no qualm with Affon killing many more.

“The Visage is willing to die,” the masked man said. “Are you?” He looked in turn to each of them, or perhaps he only looked at a few, but everyone thought he was looking at them, and them alone. The question echoed in their minds like a curse.

“He mocks us,” Herr’Don said. “Let my blade mock him back.”

Délin and Ifferon struggled to hold him back, and Ifferon could almost imagine a grin upon the face of the Visage, behind those unmoving features on his mask.

“Get him out of here!” Délin repeated. The knights dragged the evil Magus outside, and the Felokar wolves followed. Affon began to follow also, but Ifferon grabbed her by the arm.

“No,” he said. “Stay here.”

“But I’m on guard,” she said. “He could get away.”

“We need you here,” Ifferon said.

She sat back down, prouder than before, and it seemed that at any moment she might interrupt any one of them to give her own counsel. As Ifferon turned back around to the others, he noticed Geldirana’s stare, a softer stare than he was used to since their reunion.

Herr’Don sat back down, banging his body against the chair as if it were his enemy. His breathing was heavy, and his eyes were almost rabid. Edgaron placed his hand upon the prince’s shoulder, and he seemed to calm a little. Were it not for this, and for the Visage being hauled into another pavilion, Ifferon thought that Herr’Don might have worked himself into the kind of frenzy that even his own troops feared and backed away from.

“So there is the Sword then,” Ifferon said, and he almost regretted saying it, for he knew that they would look to him to wield it. A part of him, however, felt an urge to grasp that hilt, to instil some greater sense of Telm within him that he felt was lacking now that the Last Words proved ineffective.

“Yes, yes,” Délin said, “but a weakened Agon is not enough.”

“It’s a start,” Thalla said.

“And I will finish him,” Herr’Don boasted. He looked as though he might hop up at any minute and charge out to face the Beast, but Edgaron kept that calming hand upon his shoulder.

“Can we not fashion some new chains?” Elithéa asked.

“We could, but they would not work on Agon,” Délin explained, and Ifferon could see the twinkle in his eyes as he recalled the tales from the ancient books. “The seven that held him down were crafted by the seven sons of Adag the Craft-king, the god of blacksmiths and artisans. When Telm went to battle with the Beast, he tried all manner of weapons, even some made by mortals here in Iraldas, but they all proved ineffective. So Adag made himself into his final sword, hammering and hewing, enduring the pain upon his own anvil, until finally he was no more, but the sword he crafted contained everything about him, and it was called Daradag, Adag’s Hammer, for though it cut and sliced, it also came down like a thunderous hammer, and any who were struck by it were said to be on Adag’s anvil, being recrafted from the shape of life into a shape of death.

“When Telm’s dying breath banished Agon to the Underworld, the sons of Adag came forth and offered up their own lives, even as their father had, to shackle the Beast. So they used their own smithing skills to not only make the strongest manacles the world had ever seen, but to follow in Adag’s footsteps and make themselves into those very chains, that they might use their own strength to cling to Agon and hold him down.

“Althar lost its best craftsmen then, and no weapons were ever the same again. And so if these chains have broken, there is little we can do to mend or replace them, even if we could forge ourselves into those bonds like Adag and his seven sons did.”

Ifferon shivered at the thought of hammering his hand into his own creation, and continuing until there was nothing left of him, until he would only live on as what he crafted, like the Ferian and Al-Ferian live on as trees. At least there was something natural about that. Yet he could not fault Adag, for that god had made a terrible sacrifice, like so many of the Céalari had in their war with the Elad Éni, and their subsequent wars with Molok and Agon. It made Ifferon realise how selfish he was when he was not willing to make a similar sacrifice.

“Perhaps we are looking at this all wrong,” Ifferon said, as if he were a cleric again back at Larksong, looking for a solution to life’s great mysteries. The others turned to him like a congregation. “We keep thinking this war will be won by brute force. We marched here with many armies, and we killed many, and many of our own were killed. We laid siege to the Beast, and we battled him with everything we could muster, everything we could throw at him. But Telm did not win through force alone. Even the shackles used to hold Agon down were not just the strongest steel, but actual gods.”

“But there are few gods left,” Geldirana said.

“We are the new gods,” Herr’Don said. “To whomever come after us, our deeds will seem great. Our names will live on like legends.”

“I do not know if we can mimic them,” Ifferon continued, “but I think we need to change how we approach these battles. Everything is alive in some way. The earth, the sky, even the shadows. If swords and chains can contain gods, there must be something we can do to give our weapons greater life.”

It was an intriguing thought, but no one had any suggestions on how this might be achieved. Herr’Don was eager to return to using brute force, and insistent that it would eventually win the war, while others thought tactics might be employed to greater effect. But none could think of how they might emulate the gods, and though the Céalari had vanquished Agon once before, and this gave everyone present some encouragement, they had also failed in many ways, and this stayed much of the company’s enthusiasm.

“The only thing I can think of,” Ifferon said, “is to offer up my life.”

“No,” Délin said immediately, and a chorus followed.

“What good would that do?” Geldirana asked.

“That’s a coward’s way out,” Affon said.

“How is it?” Ifferon asked, and he felt suddenly offended, and it showed in the frustration of his voice. “I have been a coward for so long, running and hiding. How can I still be a coward if I face Agon and do what I have always feared: die? I am not looking to escape my own prison, but to return Agon to his. If Telm could only do it with his dying breath, than surely the Last Words can only truly be effective if they are my last words too.”

There was an intense and unsettling silence, where no one truly needed to speak, for their thoughts displayed upon their faces, and their emotions showed within their eyes. Some clearly racked their brains for alternatives, for some argument against what Ifferon knew was the only thing they had not tried, the only weapon they had not used.

At times it seemed like Délin would reiterate his refusal, like he had done so many times when faced with the stark reality of Théos’ death. Though his defiance had eventually paid off, Ifferon could not think of any who would weep for him quite like the knight had for the boy. Though a part of him grew to know that Geldirana still felt some kind of love for him, he knew that she would not weep for him, that she would not weep for anyone, not even Affon.

“There must be an alternative,” Délin said at last. “So many are willing to give up their lives to see Agon back in chains, and I know this willing sacrifice as much as any other, but what if you are wrong, Ifferon? What if instead of making yourself into the weapon that weakens Agon, as Adag did, you destroy the only real weapon we have against him: you?”

“I barely know you,” Edgaron said, “but I agree with Trueblade on this matter. Do not die like this.” He glanced at Herr’Don beside him, who sat in silence.

“And what if Ifferon speaks the truth?” Elithéa challenged. “What if that is our only real chance to defeat Agon? Do we pass it up because we do not want to see a comrade die? Do we all die to save him from that fate?”

“I will not accept that this is the only way,” Délin said.

“You are so stubborn, Délin! You were like this with the boy. Why can you not accept death? Why can you not accept that something better can come of it?”

“Because I want to make that something better here and now, not delay it to the afterlife,” the knight explained. “I want Iraldas to be a heaven to some, not just Althar. I have prayed to gods, and one of my patrons is out there now, fighting tooth and claw with evil, and yet I see how selfishness and greed win little wars of their own against us every day. And yet I do not lose hope, because I know that we do not need to pray for change, but make our prayers instead a list of actions we can make, that no one need face evil, and that if they do, they do not face it alone.”

“Then let Ifferon face evil,” Elithéa said. “If that is what it takes.”

“And will you let him face it alone?” Délin asked.

“I will face it!” Herr’Don shouted, standing up, until Edgaron ushered him back into his seat.

“And I, if it comes to it,” Délin said. “But I do not think you inherited death, Ifferon. That cannot be your heirloom. There must be some other way to shackle Agon.”

“It begs the question,” Elithéa said, “why have these chains broken? Have those gods weakened? Were there defects in their work? How is it that Agon can now break free?”

There was silence for a moment as they all pondered the question. Then a new voice broke the silence, and they turned suddenly to the body of Yavün, who was now sitting up.

“I know that answer,” he said, his voice strained.

“Yavün!” Ifferon cried. “You are alive!”

“Cheating death again,” Herr’Don remarked. “It seems you cheat a lot.”

“I have been to Halés and back,” the youth said.

“Bah!” Herr’Don said. “That explains the smell of sulphur. I need some fresh air.” He got up and stormed off, leaving an angry breeze in his wake. Edgaron did not follow him this time, but gave him space.

Ifferon hurried over to Yavün and gave him his water cannister, which the youth eagerly drank from, as if his throat was filled with the burning dust of Halés. Délin fetched a blanket, while Thalla took a damp cloth to bathe Yavün’s head. He gave a weak smile as he saw her, and a stronger smile as her hand touched his face. The others simply sat in silence, curious to hear the youth’s tale.

“Speak already,” Elithéa said.

“Drink a little more,” Ifferon said.

“Who would think that water could be a dam?” the Ferian asked. “You clog his mouth with enough of it. We do not have time for rest when action is needed. Tell us more of these chains, boy.”

Ifferon reluctantly backed away and sat back down, but Thalla remained at Yavün’s side, patting his head with the damp cloth. When he eventually spoke, his voice was still weak, and the colour was still lost in his face, as if he had come back as much a ghost as he was when he was drifting out of his body.

“The chains are alive,” Yavün said in time.

“We know that,” Elithéa replied. “The seven sons of Adag.”

“No,” the youth said. “Well, yes, but it’s more than that. Agon has corrupted their spirits over the years. They clung to him, but he clung back. A thousand years they endured his anger and misery. In time they began to succumb to it, and they were as much chained to him as he was to them. They became demons, and Agon found a way to incarnate them in this world, to host their tainted and twisted forms inside the bodies and souls of others.”

“That can’t be good,” Thalla said, and she looked as though she was going to say more, but she stopped, for her voice was distracting to Yavün. He looked up at her and smiled again, and he only continued his account when Elithéa’s gruff voice seized his attention.

“Tell us of these demons,” she said.

“I don’t know much about them,” Yavün said, “and what I know is in the form of verse.”

“Ever the opportunistic poet,” Elithéa remarked.

“These are not my words,” the youth replied. “They are the Gatekeeper’s.”

And so he began, and perhaps it was the words themselves, or the mention that they came from the lips of the Gatekeeper, if he even had lips to speak them, but everyone shivered a little as he spoke, as if they felt Death had walked into the pavilion.

The first fears death, and, though devout,
to an untrue god he prays;

The second one is death itself,
from the great and dark beyond;

The third is the blackest stag
with whitest horns and eyes ablaze;

The fourth flies high, and covets relics,
and from an egg it spawned;

The fifth is pale, and tall enough
to blot out the sun’s fair rays;

The sixth is dark, of equal strength,
which he shares in brother’s bond;

The seventh is veiled, but powerful,
a Magus of malaise;

And together as they fall, the Beast
can from his jail abscond.

The group were stunned to hear these words, and Ifferon could posit what some of the lines referred to, and he knew from the looks of others that they could also.

“I know who the first of these is, or rather was,”  Yavün explained. “It was Teron, the head-cleric of the Order of Olagh, whom I never liked nor trusted.”

“You are not alone,” Ifferon said. “But how do you know it was him?”

“I met Melgalés in the Underworld,” the youth answered. Thalla stopped bathing his head for a moment, but then started again. “He told me much of this, and he was able to decipher the initial piece of the Gatekeeper’s riddle, for Teron had become a demon there, gifted a second lease of life by Agon, even if it was in a twisted form. They battled, and he was slain, and so this terrible series of events was put in motion, for the destruction of the demon was the destruction of the first chain.”

“So then my decision to end Teron’s life was a mistake,” Ifferon said, and he felt as if he had let the Beast loose himself, as if he had given him the key to his own cage.

“No,” Délin said. “Blame is another emissary of the Beast. We should not bow down to him.”

“Trueblade is right,” Oelinor said, breaking his lengthy silence. “There is only so much we can see ere it comes to pass. The Beast, Aelor save us, would have broken free in time, and if it were not some of us to break those chains, it would have been others, and we would be here at war just the same.”

“They are the Vials of Wrath,” Yavün said, continuing his account, “and they had been mentioned to me before, but I didn’t know what they were then. They are the forces of constraint, empowered by Agon’s anger, given life by his rage. Just as they contained him, they are also containers, and while they are whole, the bonds are whole. But should they break, as has been foredoomed—for glass vials almost yearn to be broken—then Agon will be freed.”

“No,” Délin said. “So much has been left to fate, and I will not have it that way, where we are powerless to do anything, as if we were mere characters in a tale. If it has been foredoomed that Agon shall be free, then let me foredoom that he shall perish in freedom, and that if he shall not perish, then he shall never be free.”

Many nodded, and some applauded, and some said “aye!” and some cried “hear, hear!” Some said naught at all, for they were still pondering the poem about the Vials of Wrath.

“I know the third,” Geldirana said. “We faced the black stags in Alimror, and we killed them all, including the white-horned one.”

“And the fourth must be the monstrous crow at the Black Eyrie,” Ifferon said.

“And I would think that we also met the second,” Délin said. “For one of the dead Nahamoni attacked us.”

“And the ground trembled afterwards,” Elithéa said, shaking her head as if she did not know why she had not deciphered this before.

“The fifth and sixth must be the Nahamoni twin giants that caught us,” Délin posited.

“And the final one,” Thalla said, “the only chain left to break, is undoubtedly the one who stood in this room only moments ago.”

They all paused as the realisation set in, as the ripples of this knowledge trickled over their minds, and as the aftershocks unsettled their souls, as if they were hearing again for the first time each of those six snapping chains, and the prospect of the seventh and final snap.

And as they looked around, especially to that empty space where the Visage stood not long ago, where he taunted them, as if he knew of his own true role, they realised that he was not the only one missing from the pavilion.

“Where is Herr’Don?” Délin asked.

They turned about, and did not see him.

Fear rose within them, and it seemed to all of them that they had a new type of clearsight, for they could see in their mind’s eye Herr’Don leaving the pavilion.

Ifferon placed his hand upon the back of the now empty chair where Yavün’s sword previously lay. The fear rose further, and their mind’s eye showed the sword in Herr’Don’s hand.

They raced after him, and in their minds they could see him stepping out to meet the Visage, could hear the ominous sound of each step, like the promise of the sound of snapping chains. They charged through the field towards the second pavilion, which seemed further away than it ever had before. They burst through the curtain doors, like Agon had burst through the earth, and they stopped suddenly as the bloodied body of the Visage fell to the ground before them, where the evil Magus’ Beldarian lay crushed beneath Herr’Don’s heavy boots, where Brégest and the other knights lay bruised and battered, and where the Felokar wolves sat like tamed dogs.

“Let the Gatekeeper mock him now,” Herr’Don said, and the tip of his sword, of Yavün’s sword, struck the ground, and it made a terrible sound. In answer came the echo of rending steel, and they knew it in the depths of their hearts, and in the depths of their souls, that the final manacle had snapped.

They were too late, and time seemed to taunt them, even as their eyes beheld the horror, and their hearts feared what terror had been unleashed. The demon was dead. The chain was broken. Agon was free.

XV – DAWN

In the depths of Halés, where the sleep of the dead was disturbed by the constant flailing and thrashing of the Beast’s many limbs, the final chain that clung to Agon’s left ankle strained and broke. The Beast reared up and pulled himself out of the chasm that he had made, the passage he had dug through to the world of Iraldas. He cast off Corrias from his back, as if that god were but a garment, and he placed his two monstrous feet upon the soil of the world above, upon the earth he had not walked for a thousand years.

He roared to the heavens in triumph, a sonic challenge to Althar, where he knew the Céalari were listening, but were powerless to stop him. The sound boomed and rumbled, and he stopped only when he was certain that all ears in the four corners of Iraldas had heard his answering call.

Ifferon might say “Begone!” and some might flee, but Agon’s cry said the opposite. “Come!” it told them, even if it did not use words. “I am here. I am free.”

*  *  *

Délin and Brégest seized Herr’Don and took the sword Daradag from his hand, but it was too late, and they almost toppled from the force of the quake and bellow that soon followed. It needed no explanation, for they all knew well enough what had been done, even if they dared not ponder what might follow.

“You fool!” Elithéa shouted at the prince.

“He was the last one,” Ifferon said, shaking his head.

“Not the last to die,” Herr’Don, struggling to free himself from the knights’ grip.

“He was the last chain,” Ifferon explained. “Agon did not break any of them. We did.”

The words of Teron came back to haunt him, even if the ghost of the head-cleric could not. You play the games that even the gods dare not play, and you played right into our very hands!

Despite all the anger the company had for Herr’Don and his actions, they knew well that they could not afford too much blame, for they were just as guilty of this end. They had all felled the living chains of Agon, had all contributed in some way to his freedom.

“We’ve lost,” Thalla said.

“No,” Délin answered. “We cannot undo what has been done, but this is not over yet. We can still fight Agon.”

“And die?” Elithéa asked.

“I guess it is time to try my suggestion,” Ifferon said. “Ere long it might no longer be a willing sacrifice.”

Some of them had clearly resigned to this fate, as Ifferon had, and they gave him the kind of mournful and pitying glances that they might give to someone dying. It did not help with Ifferon’s resolve.

Then Yavün came into this second pavilion. They had almost forgotten him, and had left him behind in their attempt to stop Herr’Don. He limped and stumbled, and Thalla caught him by the arm before he fell. He looked deathly pale, and those same mournful and pitying glances turned to him now.

“Rest, boy,” Délin said.

“Let me try a different weapon first,” Yavün coughed, but it was clearly an effort just to speak.

“The Sword is not enough,” Ifferon said.

“No, not the Sword,” the youth replied. “The shadow.”

There were some awkward and nervous glances, and some whispers back and forth, broken by Herr’Don’s disgruntled remarks. “He is evil,” he said. “The shadows speak through him.”

“And I can speak through them,” Yavün retorted.

“And what will you say, hmm?” Herr’Don asked. “Will you tell Agon to go back to Halés, and will he listen? No, I did not think so.”

“We haven’t set the Molokrán upon him,” Yavün said. “It is worth a try,”

“You are too weak to try that,” Ifferon said.

“It may be our only chance.”

Oelinor nodded. “He is right. If light is not enough to banish darkness, perhaps darkness itself is the answer. It is time Agon, Aelor save us, faced one of our greatest foes. We have lost many good people to the Lichelord, Aelor save us, and if they can serve some new end, it will help atone for their great crime against this world.”

“What makes you think they will have any effect?” Elithéa asked.

Oelinor looked to her with dim eyes. “They are not servants of Agon, Aelor save us, but Molok, Aelor save us all. They have been on the same side for many years, that is true, but perhaps we can change that now.”

“But you are forgetting something,” Délin said. “Agon consumed Molok. He is as much the master of the Molokrán now as Molok was, and if he did not fear Molok then, I see no reason why he should fear Molok’s servants now.”

“A worthy point,” Oelinor said, “but we are running out of options in this war. We have thrown almost everything we have, but this is something we have not yet tried.”

“I have to do this,”  Yavün said. “If I don’t, I will always wonder if this might have changed things, if my curse could be used for some good before the end.”

“You might not have much time to wonder,” Elithéa said.

And so they agreed to Yavün’s plan, mostly out of desperation, though Herr’Don would have no part of it.

“Let it be known that I resisted,” he said, as if Yavün’s curse might be the curse of all.

*  *  *

Corrias wrestled with the Beast, hand grappling hand, with their great feet digging deep into the earth. They leaned against each other like tilting towers, where force held back force, and where only equal strength kept one from tumbling down.

Who would wager against either of these great foes? Who would bet upon the lives of gods, would gamble against hope, or go all in with despair? Who could tell which of them would be the victor, and who could truly win, when all spectators were as much within the arena as those two contending forces?

They toiled, but the struggle was more in Corrias’ face than it was in Agon’s, for the Beast was happy to fight, if he were ever truly happy, so long as the fight was above ground, where the only chains were the ones people wore inside their minds.

Time was ticking by, grain by grain, and the father god’s strength was giving way. It did not help to think that this was in some way Chránán’s revenge, for upon the earth of Iraldas not even Corrias could escape the Lord of the Shadow of Time.

*  *  *

Thalla helped Yavün into a nearby seat, just moments before he felt his limbs give way. His legs shook like rattling bones, and he felt suddenly a kind of shame, for he was greeted by a group of worried eyes, which looked upon him as if he were an old man trapped inside a young man’s body. Though he did not use magic, and though he wore a Beldarian, he thought that perhaps there was some other kind of magic, the conjuring of shadow, that had begun to age him before his time.

Those worried eyes turned to anxious ones, staring with expectation. None of them knew what to do, except Herr’Don, who knew that he should glare. Yavün might have been distracted by all these people were it not for his own fatigue, which helped him forget the world around him but for the chair he sat upon, and Thalla’s hand upon his arm. He felt himself begin to root to the spot, as if he had become that rugged chair. He could not move his body, but he could move his mind.

He looked out at the world around, opening what he thought were his spirit eyes, though even now he was not altogether certain. In the world between worlds, where life and death tugged in either direction, there were few certainties.

Though the Molokrán had fled back to Tol-Úmari, Yavün hunted them out in his mind, which travelled more swiftly than his feet ever could. He climbed the walls of that tower, even as the Molokrán had climbed the walls of Nahragor, and he found the Lichelord hiding in his crypt.

The shadow was never so terrified as it was that day, for the Alar Molokrán did not go to his crypt to rest, but to cower. When good trembles at the thought of evil, there is little thought given to what evil trembles at, and how much more terrible it must be. That night it was Yavün, and he was a terror to behold.

Perhaps the Lichelord might have tried to fight, if his control of weather had any effect upon the shadow world, but it did not, and that powerful figure simply quivered. His shape changed constantly, and as Yavün approached, and as all other Shadowspirits backed away, the Lichelord seemed to grow smaller, dwarfed by the greater shadow of the menacing figure before him.

With a suddenness like the ending of the lives of many of the Ardúnari, Yavün dived at the Lichelord, and he entered inside that cage of shadow, where the door was left open. There was no resistance now, and though Yavün was very tired, he felt completely in control.

Now he looked out at the world around, opening his shadow eyes, and he looked upon the great claws of shadow that were his hands, and the great mass of shadow that was his body, and though he had no weapons, he felt almost that he bore a whip called Fear and a scourge called Terror.

He left Tol-Úmari with an unearthly speed, like the swiftness of shadow as it flees the hunting rays of the sun. Though there was a distance of days between him and where the Beast now walked the earth, the mix of spirit and shadow, and his grim determination, spurred him on like the lash of another whip.

In time he passed the pavilions, where he could almost sense the worried eyes grow more worried, and the anxious eyes grow more anxious. Perhaps some of them felt a mighty gust of wind as he passed, and perhaps they all felt a coolness in the air, and perhaps the clearsighted saw the fleeting shadow. All he knew for certain was that ahead of him he could feel a different kind of air, and instead of cold he felt heat, and in place of the clearsight he would see with shadow eyes what the Beast looked like.

And so that moment came at last, for the dust gave way, and he saw before him two giant forms, wrestling hand in hand. For the briefest of moments they looked like colossal statues, sculptures crafted by the Elad Éni, when even the smallest creations were monstrous in size. But then they moved, and they became suddenly more frightening, like statues brought to life.

Corrias seemed to struggle more than Agon, for Agon had gained strength through his constant struggle with the chains of Halés, while Corrias had been weakened when he incarnated in Iraldas, where the passage of days was the passing of life. Yet both of them held each other in check, like two great mountains leaning against one another, stopping each other from falling over.

Yavün did not take long to watch this tussle, but sprang immediately into action.

He dodged between the gigantic legs of both deities, a shadow within their own enormous shadows, and when they moved, and those colossal limbs came down around him, he felt that he might at any moment be crushed in his shadow form and knock back into his body, or knocked straight into the Halls of Halés.

It was hard to find the right position from which to launch his attack, for it was like trying to assail a mountain that kept moving, and though it was by its great size impossible to miss, he knew that he had only one real chance at this, and that he had to make it work.

He passed through Corrias’ legs once more, and then he crawled up one of Agon’s legs, his shadow fingers seeping into the very pores of the Beast’s flesh, and Agon clearly felt it, for he turned his evil gaze to his own body, just as Yavün climbed further, until finally he stood upon the shoulder of the Beast and began to claw and strike at Agon’s face.

Agon roared, and the force of that roar almost knocked Yavün from him, and it would have done so were he in his human form, but the shadow clung to him like it clung to earth when the Molokrán were first formed by the malignant Molok. Agon swiped at him, like he might swat a fly, but Yavün crawled behind his head and then around to his other shoulder.

Agon was so distracted by this gnat of a being that he used two of his great arms to try to crush it, holding Corrias back with his other two arms. This gave Corrias new strength, and though the father god was clearly tired beyond measure, and rued that he should feel such exhaustion in this weakened form away from the healing air of Althar, he pushed with all his might and knocked Agon onto his back.

The fall was like a collapsing mountain, and though the shadow could cling to anything,  Yavün struggled to keep his grip as Agon came crashing down. His eyes started to glaze and grow dim, and he knew he was losing his own grip on the shadow, even if it would not let go of Agon. The strain was becoming too much, and so he knew he had to let go of the Beast if he was to retain control of the Lichelord. And so he tumbled from Agon’s shoulder, even as Agon was toppled, and he fell into the dirt before the Beast’s terrifying face.

There was a moment where Yavün could see deep into Agon’s anguished eyes, where for a time he felt almost consumed by them, and perhaps he would have been if he were not in this other form. Then he felt Agon’s penetrating gaze through the veil of shadow, spying for him, looking through him as much as he had looked into the eyes of the Beast, and lived.

Then that face—which Yavün would never forget, which would haunt him forever when he closed his eyes, would stalk his sleep, would even follow him into the sleepless realm of Halés when the time for death would come—began to change. It morphed slowly, and yet it seemed that in no time at all Yavün was looking upon the demented visage of Molok, who gazed at him through this cage he called Agon.

“Begone!” the Beast spoke, and it was with the voice of Molok, and so it held a sway over the Molokrán like no other could, like not even Telm’s similar dying words could cast aside the shadow. Yavün felt himself thrown backwards inside the shadow form, as if he were falling once again, and there was nothing to grip hold of, nothing to keep his footing. The shadow dispersed around him, and for a brief moment, a fraction of a second, he fell in ghostly form before the face of Agon.

The shock of this fall was only surpassed by the shock of what happened next, for though he expected to baulk before the Beast without the shield of shadow, the Beast flinched instead, as if he had seen the power of his own destruction.

“And flame,” Agon said, and that was the last Yavün recalled from there, for he awoke suddenly back in his own body, with an intense fever as if his very flesh were in flames.

“Did it work?” Ifferon asked, a question echoed in all those apprehensive eyes around him.

“No,” Yavün said, “but I know how to stop him now.”

XVI – MESTALARIN

They looked to Yavün with expectation, and none of them spoke, though their eyes pleaded for the answer to the riddle of Agon’s defeat.

“We are the words,” Yavün told them, much to their confusion.

“We are?” Délin quizzed.

“Well, some of us.”

“What do you mean?” Délin asked, and he seemed less patient now.

“What is my name?” the youth asked in turn, and this only wore down the knight’s patience a little more.

“Dear Olagh, he’s forgotten his name now,” Herr’Don remarked. He never had any patience to begin with.

“No. What is my name?”

Suddenly Ifferon was brought back to that moment in the monastery when he first met the youth, when he said: Yavün Arri. My name. So much had changed since then. He wondered if all of their names should be changed too, for perhaps they no longer fitted.

“Yavün Arri,” Ifferon said.

“Ignore my family name for now.”

“Ignore him altogether and save us some sanity,” Herr’Don quipped. He looked to the emptiness beside him, as if for approval. Perhaps it granted it.

“I do not understand where this is going,” Délin admitted.

“What does my name mean?” Yavün asked, and the fever flooded his face with crimson, as if that colour was the meaning of his name.

Elithéa struck her staff upon her thigh. “Are we going to sit here playing riddles all day, or can you tell us the answer ere Agon destroys us all?”

“I think I understand,” Ifferon said, and he felt the realisation like the sudden break of day, which chased away all the shadows of ignorance in his mind. The realisation was so simple, and yet so profound, that he found he had to clutch the side of a nearby chair to stop himself from falling.

“Little fire,” Oelinor said, and he lit up like Ifferon thought his own face must have. “You have an Aelora name.”

“Yavün,” Ifferon added. “Derived from iav, fire, and ün, little. Little fire. Flame.”

“And does this mean something?” Elithéa wondered.

Suddenly Délin’s eyes lit up, and Ifferon knew that he had made the connection also. “By fire and flame,” he said, as if it were an exclamation of surprise, “and fume and fury.”

“He is one of the Last Words,” Ifferon said.

“He is Flame,” the knight added, and nodded emphatically as though he realised that they had discovered the way to end Agon’s reign.

“So the words are living powers,” Geldirana said, and she almost smiled, the kind of smile an Ardúnar makes when casting light against the shadow.

“I knew we needed more than just the Scroll,” Ifferon said, and he was not sure if he was relieved or disappointed that his own plan, to die like Telm did, was no longer needed. That part of his mind, which he now locked away, whispered that they might still need it.

“But what of the other words?” Délin asked. “Iavün is an obvious one, but we don’t have someone called Iav, or Samün, or Samadas.”

“We have someone called Fume,” Geldirana said. “Though I named her in the Bororian tongue.”

Ifferon’s eyes lit up once more. “Affon,” he said.

The girl perked her ears and clambered over. She sat before them and beamed, and for a moment it seemed that her name meant Proud instead.

“And how do we know this is not just mere coincidence?” Elithéa asked. “What if I had been called one of those names instead? Surely the gods do not control us like that.”

“He recoiled from me,” Yavün said, and he patted his forehead, where the sweat recoiled from his brow. “The Beast was scared, and he said the word that gave him fear. And flame.”

“But how do we know that this girl will have the same effect?”

“I’ll scare him,” Affon said, and she furrowed her brow and clenched her fists, and perhaps she thought she was frightening to them all. Ifferon smiled a little, and he saw his smile mirrored on Geldirana’s face.

“In the Garigút, we pray for the nine months we are with child to find their perfect name,” Geldirana explained. “To some, Affon is a boy’s name. To me, it was the only name for her.”

“I’m stronger than a boy,” Affon said.

“So we have two,” Délin said. “What of the other two?”

“I don’t know,” Yavün answered, and the previous elation on many of their faces turned to sudden disappointment, as if their hope had been murdered on the doorstep of safety.

“This is a good start,” Ifferon said, taking out the Scroll of Mestalarin and unfurling it upon the table. Oelinor and Délin grabbed nearby objects to hold down the curling sides. They all gathered around it like the lost around a map.

“I see no clues within the Scroll,” Délin said.

“Nor I,” Oelinor said, with a hint of sadness. “There is nothing unusual about the runes of the Aerbateros used here. In other texts, the letters might be changed in form, if ever so slightly, to signify a special meaning beyond the literal words, but I see none of that here.”

“How then do we find the other Living Words?” Thalla asked.

“Maybe we should just march up to Agon one by one and hope he cowers from us,” Elithéa said derisively.

The company looked at one another. “That’s not a bad idea,” Thalla said.

“Not if you have a death wish,” Elithéa replied.

“It might be worth a try,” Délin said.

“And what if none of us are the other words?”

“Then we will rule each of us out,” Délin said, “but I think the gods have ushered us to one another, that we might fulfil a greater end together.”

“Perhaps so, but maybe it is the evil gods that goad us so,” Elithéa suggested.

Ifferon did not like the thought. They had already done much in evil’s favour, as if they were the unwitting pawns of the opposing side. As they stood upon the board with their backs turned, they could not tell who were their masters, could not see what king or queen they served. For some it was always a game of black and white, but for him it seemed like a game of grey. He felt so close to the end, but he could not tell if it would be a happy ending.

“Come then!” Herr’Don cried. “There is no doubt that I must be Fury, and though we did not know it ere this day, Agon shall know it more truly.”

He charged out, despite Edgaron’s attempts to hold him back, and he paused only to glance to one side and mumble something to himself, perhaps another invocation of his anger to prove to him and all around that he must be one of the living Last Words.

The last they heard of him, he was shouting to the sky, roaring in all directions, and the last they caught of his bitter voice was: “His last words shall be: I have fallen to the Great.”

“I guess he’s first then,” Elithéa said.

They left the pavilion and followed Herr’Don to where Corrias held Agon down upon the ground, where Yavün had seen him last. The Beast twisted and turned, and he toiled endlessly, thrashing against his captor, who looked as though he might at any moment give in and let Agon free.

Herr’Don raced up to the Beast, shouting “Fury! Fury!” and brandishing his blade wildly and with a fury of his own. He approached the ever-shifting face and sliced at it, but his sword struck weakly, and Agon’s resulting roar sent the prince tumbling into the distance, where he landed on his back only feet away from the others.

“I guess you’re not Fury then,” Elithéa remarked.

“Let me try next,” Affon said, and she began to march towards the Beast, but Ifferon held her back.

“No, Affon. We already know you are one.”

“But I want to prove it,” she said.

“You will prove it soon enough, child.”

“Corrias is straining,” Délin said.

“We don’t have much time,” Thalla added. “I will go next.” And so she set out, and as she walked she formed many protective shields around herself, white orbs, blue watery vapours, and cubical grids. She approached the Beast cautiously, but he did not cower from her.

“I do not think we can afford to go one by one,” Délin said. “Let us approach in small numbers, and if he baulks, then we know it is one of our small group.”

“Many of us already fought him,” Geldirana said.

“Yes, but there was little way to tell his reaction when we set everything we had upon him. We must do this in smaller numbers.”

“Let the knights go together then,” Elithéa said. “And rule them out.”

And so Délin, Brégest, and the other surviving knights, who numbered only four, approached Agon in a similarly cautious manner to Thalla. They had armour of a different kind, but they knew it offered little protection against the Beast. Yet as they approached, Thalla, Oelinor, and the handful of Magi left standing cast their own shields around them.

And nothing came of it, for Agon barely reacted to the knights, instead continuing his great struggle with Corrias. While there, the knights knelt for a moment and gave a silent prayer to Corrias, and this helped him a little in his bitter wrestle.

“Let’s go next,” Elithéa said, gesturing to Geldirana. The Garigút Way-thane accompanied the Ferian as she approached the Beast, and again the Magi shielded them as they went. And then the Beast reacted. As he bashed and struggled, his eyes turned darkest black, and he turned his head away from the approaching women. “And fury!” the Beast roared, turning to them with renewed anger. They were knocked back several metres, but they knew that one of them was Fury. Both looked to each other with fiery eyes, and anyone watching would have had a hard time telling which was the better candidate for the role.

“Mother and daughter,” Geldirana said. “Fume and fury.” She approached the Beast once more, and he baulked before her, like the Shadowspirits had so many times before. So many of the other Ardúnari had fallen, and she kept going, for she was Death-strong, and now even Agon knew to fear her.

The women returned, and the company rejoiced. Few were surprised to find that Geldirana of the Garigút was the living Last Word called Fury.

“And what of Fire?” Délin asked.

The remaining people, numbering several dozen, approached the Beast in groups of three or four, and they all returned, some running, without success. A few thought Oelinor might be the one, but there was little reaction from the Beast.

“I don’t suppose you are Fire,” Délin suggested to Ifferon.

“No,” the cleric said. “I do not think I am much of anything now. I might be the Scroll-cleric, but there are some here who are the contents of that Scroll.”

“I am sure you are more than that,” Délin said.

“There must be hundreds of thousands of people here in Iraldas,” Elithéa said. “We cannot march them all up to the Beast.”

“Will three of the Last Words be enough then?” Délin wondered.

“I do not think so,” Ifferon said.

“Then all of this is pointless,” Elithéa said.

As they talked and argued, Yavün’s fever began to grow more intense, and it dulled his senses. He faded in and out of consciousness, and Thalla sat by his side like a mother. She removed his shirt to expose his sizzling skin to the cool air, and she paused for a moment as she uncovered the Beldarian he wore. Then she continued on as if it did not matter, but Ifferon noticed that her hand instinctively reached for her own Beldarian, which she hid deeper in her robes, as if Yavün’s secret had exposed her own.

The company continued their debate, with new voices joining as old voices waned. The conversation turned time and time again to Yavün, whether he could truly be trusted, and whether or not they should rush his weakened body to the Beast or let him fight his fever. Some of the Magi suggested it was a curse, the work of evil sorcerers intent on hindering their mission, but Oelinor cautioned them against paranoia, which he said was a fever of its own.

Yet regardless of the source, Yavün’s sickness was growing worse, and his strength was failing. He was no longer lucid, and he began to mutter and mumble to himself. No amount of Thalla bathing his head made any difference, and the company began to wonder if he might die, and if the hopes of vanquishing Agon might die with him.

Time passed, and no healing salve nor magical trinket helped to cool him down. Even Oelinor tried the laying on of hands, but the Aelora were not as adept at this as the Taarí were, and they all rued that the Rebel Taarí had abandoned the battle under the leadership of Narylal, for she might have been able to save him. In time Oelinor was forced to give up, for even his own hands began to burn, as if he had caught the plague of fire.

“I can do no more,” Oelinor said, but then he saw a flicker of fire in the Beldarian about Yavün’s neck. “Is that gem hot?” he asked.

They looked to the pendant now as if it were an oracle, but like many oracles it showed them little they could understand. The fire inside the beldar gem grew more intense, swirling about as if it were a living creature. Perhaps it spoke to them, but if it did, it spoke with a tongue of flame, and perhaps only Yavün could understand it.

Suddenly Yavün awoke, and his fever began to quickly abate. “The fire,” he said.

“I know,” Thalla said, bathing his head. “We are trying to cool it.”

“No,” he said, though the heat choked his words. “I spoke with the voice of fire.”

She paused, and her hand trembled.

“It’s Melgalés,” he said.

“But he is no longer with us,” Délin pointed out.

“So our quest is doomed,” Elithéa said. “How can we say By fire and flame, if only the flame yet lives, and perhaps does not live for long.”

“We have to find a way,” Délin said.

Elithéa stamped her staff upon the ground, and the sound had a certain finality about it. “I do not think there is a way ... if he is now a ghost.”

Herr’Don tapped her on the shoulder. “I think I know a way,” he said, and he turned to his side, where he held out his arm, as if to show them something. “Let me introduce you to Belnavar.”

XVII – MEETING GHOSTS

The company stared where Herr’Don gestured, and though some of them like Ifferon and Geldirana had the clearsight, their puzzled expressions made it clear they could see nothing there.

“He has finally cracked,” Elithéa sneered.

“This ordeal has been a strain upon us all,” Délin said, and that was more irritating to the prince than Elithéa’s outright accusation of madness. Others looked awkwardly to one another, and some gave sympathetic glances to the prince.

Herr’Don became flustered by their reaction. “Doubt me all you will, but I know what my eyes see, and what my ears hear!”

Edgaron looked around. “Can you show us you are here?” he said, and Herr’Don shook his head, for his old friend was looking not at Belnavar, but to where a real emptiness was.

“I would shout,” Belnavar said, “but I would only deafen Herr’Don, and still prove nothing of my existence.”

“There’s little point saying that to me,” Herr’Don replied, and he hoped the others knew it was a reply, and not just a random comment to himself.

“Did he lose his brain as well as his arm?” Elithéa asked, and this inflamed Herr’Don so much that he felt like charging at her and proving that he only needed one arm to end her life.

“Come now,” Délin said. “There is nothing to be gained in discourtesy, nor anything to be won through violence.”

Elithéa scoffed. “If you can talk to ghosts, tell Aralus I said hello.”

“She has quite the mouth,” Belnavar remarked.

“I wish she could hear that,” Herr’Don said.

“Hear what?” she asked.

“Much mouth, no ears,” Belnavar replied. “Not that what I say matters.”

“Maybe it matters more than I previously thought,” Herr’Don said.

“Let us take a moment,” Délin said, “lest we confuse ourselves beyond repair. Herr’Don, please tell us how you think we might bring back the ghost of Melgalés.”

“I’m not sure how I did it,” Herr’Don said.

Elithéa cocked her head. “Well, that’s useful.”

“I went to the place where Belnavar was buried, and I gave a song of remembrance.”

“And nothing else?” Délin quizzed. “I was there when we buried him, and I recall you giving a hymn then, and nothing came of it.”

“I do not think it really struck me until later,” Herr’Don said, “until I felt a loss of my own.”

“Many of us have felt losses,” Délin said. “But why did he return for you?”

“Perhaps it is because he meant something to me.”

Belnavar smiled. “Why, that’s very sweet of you.”

“This takes a lot of faith,” Elithéa said, and the look on many faces suggested quite a few others agreed with her.

“Everything we have done so far does,” Délin said. “Perhaps we should trust that there is a greater purpose here, that we have a chance to make things better.”

“So then we need someone close to Melgalés to go back to his final resting place,” Ifferon said.

“Then I will go,” Thalla replied. “He was my mentor, my master, my friend. He was a father to me, even a mother to me, when my own parents could not be that. I don’t know what I was to him, only what he was to me, and that I would give anything to see him again, even if it is just his ghost.”

Her testimony proved to them that she was the best candidate for the heartfelt eulogy that might act as an invocation to the dead. None knew if it would be successful, but they knew that she was their best chance, and perhaps their only chance.

“We cannot let her go alone,” Délin said.

“I will go with her,” Yavün proposed.

“No,” Herr’Don barked, and he almost snapped his teeth at the poet. “I will go.”

“I’m the better rider,” the youth said feebly.

“You can barely stand or walk,” Elithéa noted.

Yavün gave a weak smile. “I don’t need to do either on horseback.”

“And just how are you the better rider, boy?” Herr’Don asked. “I’ve ridden dozens of horses, to war and back. What have you done in your small allotment of years?”

Yavün glared at the prince. “I’ve helped horses give birth. I’ve fed them and cleaned them. I’ve talked to them and trained them. I’ve ridden horses, not to war, no, but in all kinds of weather, for no reason at all beyond the enjoyment of it, and of their company.”

“Let him come with me,” Thalla said.

Elithéa smirked. “I wonder why.”

“Perhaps it is best that Yavün goes,” Ifferon said. “Apart from Thalla, he is the best connection to Melgalés we have. If her requiem does not work, then we may depend on Yavün more than anyone or anything to make that link.”

Most of them acknowledged the truth of this, but Herr’Don stormed off, clutching the hilt of his sword as though it were Yavün’s neck.

The others ignored him and made immediate preparations for Thalla and Yavün’s departure. A small amount of rations were packed, weapons were stowed, and Brégest went in search of the few horses that had survived the battle.

*  *  *

Délin pulled Ifferon aside to talk about Herr’Don. “What if he is just crazy?” he asked. “He has always been a queer sort, and some thought he was mad ere he lost his arm. What if he really is crazy?”

“What if he’s not?” Ifferon asked in turn. “We have exhausted all options.”

But Yavün brought them new conviction, for he faded in and out of consciousness, and on one of these occasions he found himself in that twilight place between Iraldas and Halés, where the living are not quite living and the dead are not quite dead. Then he saw Belnavar standing beside Herr’Don, and he knew that the prince was neither lying nor insane.

When the news of this was conveyed to the others, it brought some relief, and it quelled doubt and quietened despair. But there was still concern among them all, even Thalla, who was fearful, and Yavün, who was feeble.

*  *  *

Brégest found the horses tethered to several large posts. There were only two left. The others had clearly bucked and ran when the tremors came from Agon’s location. No one present could blame them, and some wished that they could also flee.

“Two horses, two riders,” Délin said. “May this prove a boon to us.”

“Would that there were three,” Herr’Don said, “but I am needed on the battlefield.” He held his cloak tight and tilted his head to the sky, as if it were the gods who ordained him a captain of war.

The horses were soon made ready, but before they rode off, Herr’Don approached Yavün and pulled him close, so close that he could feel the poet’s breath upon his face, and could feel his fear through the tremble of his skin.

“You won her,” Herr’Don told the youth, and he growled to hold back his tears. “Well done, boy! Enjoy your stolen prize.”

“I’m not a prize, Herr’Don,” Thalla said. “There are no winners or losers.”

“Then how come I am the only one who lost?”

“You’re not,” she said, and she looked up with sorrow in her eyes, with an echo of that look she had when Melgalés first fell.

But Herr’Don looked back with a different sorrow in his eyes, and he might have spoken were it not for the anger that clogged his throat, even as the tears dammed his eyes.

“Goodbye,” she said. “I hope we will return, and return successful.”

He watched as the two rode off together, and knew in his heart that they had ridden off together in their hearts a long time before. All that was left was the dust that was kicked up by the feet of the horses, and amidst those tiny specks of dust stood Herr’Don, and though he was surrounded by many people, he stood alone.

*  *  *

“It will take them days to get there, and days to get back,” Délin said. “Even if Yavün can ride as swift as he claims.”

“What then do we do?” Ifferon asked.

“Everything we can to delay and weaken Agon.”

“Éala weakens,” Elithéa said.

“So this is Chránán’s triumph,” Délin said. “The Lord of the Shadow of Time gets his retribution by depriving us of time.”

“We still have the Sword,” Ifferon said.

“And I hope you know how to use it,” the knight said sternly, like he might have done to any young knight just learning what it meant to live in a world at war.

The survivors of the previous battles returned to the battlefield, where Corrias was barely surviving in his struggle with Agon. So few gods remained, and yet it was up to him, the father god, to keep Agon from crushing the world. So few warriors remained, and yet it was up to them, mere mortals, to delay Agon for long enough that he might be crushed instead.

“Corrias cannot hold him for long,” Délin said.

“Neither can we,” Elithéa replied.

“What can we do?” Ifferon asked.

“We need to distract him,” Herr’Don said, and he pondered long and hard. “Whack him a few times.”

“I think we tried that,” Délin said, “and it was not very successful.”

“We need to whack him with something bigger,” Herr’Don suggested.

Ifferon held up Daradag. “If this is the Sword of Telm, and Telm matched Agon in size, then maybe this is as big as we can get.”

“Go on then,” Herr’Don said. “Hit him a few times.”

Ifferon looked up at the towering figures. “Eh ...”

“Give it to me then and I’ll have a go,” the prince boasted.

“It will hit harder if it comes from a Child of Telm,” Délin said. “Of that I have no doubt.”

And so Ifferon held aloft the Sword of Telm, and he read aloud the Last Words, and the shimmering armour of Telm formed around him, and to all eyes he seemed to grow in size. Yet still he was dwarfed by the gods before him, and he looked even smaller when he marched out to meet them in battle.

The ground trembled as he walked, and yet he did not tremble with it. Those around him were clearly afraid, and yet he did not feel fear like he had done before. Weeks ago he might have fled, but now he marched. Weeks ago Agon had sought him out, but now it was he who sought out the Beast.

He swung the Sword of Telm at Agon’s ankle, and it sliced through, and Agon gave a cry. He did the same to the other foot, but this time Agon’s lashing tail struck him and sent him back. Were it not for Corrias holding him in place, Agon might have turned to Ifferon and crushed him.

The other survivors joined the fray, racing beneath the giant bodies of the two warring gods, lashing and slashing, and throwing spear and javelin. They ran to and fro, for the legs of those same gods came down around them, and they turned about as they tussled, and the people below had to duck and dodge, and run and roll, to avoid being crushed beneath those monstrous limbs. Some of the soldiers were not so lucky, and as the battle raged, and the gods rumbled, there were fewer beneath to fight a different kind of war.

Ifferon charged in again, and he struck once more at the ankles of Agon, replacing the bite of iron chains with the bite of a steel sword. The Beast screamed to the sky, bellowed to the ground, and cried to the four winds. He seemed to weaken just a little, and the strain in Corrias’ face lessened in turn, but they both continued their struggle, and Ifferon continued his own in the battleground below the gods.

*  *  *

Thalla and Yavün rode side by side for what seemed like hours. Initially the necessity of their mission made the time disappear beneath the stampeding hooves, but now it seemed that each gallop was just another tick upon an endless clock.

Their horses sped for many miles, but they soon grew tired and needed rest and water, and between gallops they could only trot along. During these moments Thalla and Yavün talked, sharing what had transpired since their parting in the tumble at the Chasm of Issarí.

“What happened to your face?” Yavün asked, gesturing to the faint scars.

Thalla turned away, embarrassed.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Yavün said. “I was just curious.”

Thalla took a moment to respond. “I played with fire, and I got burnt.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not now,” she replied. “It hurt when it happened.”

Yavün paused. “When you say you played with fire, do you mean magic?”

“Yes,” she said.

There was another long and awkward pause. “I see you have a Beldarian,” Yavün noted.

“I see you have one too,” Thalla replied, and the look in her eyes unsettled him.

“I meant to tell you,” he said. “I wanted to, but … I didn’t think you’d understand.”

Thalla did not respond, which made him wonder if she still did not understand.

“I didn’t steal it,” he said, when the silence accused him.

“I’m not angry,” Thalla said. “I would have been, had you revealed it to me earlier. But I guess if you are a thief, then I am one also.”

“But I didn’t steal it,” he insisted. “I wasn’t in control.”

“But you are now?”

“I guess,” he said. “But I can’t give it back.”

“I know. Neither can I.”

“How did you get yours?” Yavün asked.

“From another Magus. He fell in battle, and I needed to fight. I needed to use magic, and I needed a Beldarian to protect me from the flames.” She turned away again, hiding another shame.

“I guess we’re both locked up in other people’s lives now,” Yavün said.

“Yes, I think you’re right.”

There was another long pause before Yavün felt he had to slay the silence. “You’re still beautiful, you know.”

She turned to him with questioning eyes.

“I mean, the scars don’t make a difference, to me at least.”

She gave a faint smile, and she might have given a bigger and more distinct one were it not for those scars.

The horses began to speed up, and when the galloping wind joined them, the conversation ended, though it still continued long in their minds, where there were other scars that a Beldarian could not prevent.

*  *  *

The battle between Corrias and Agon waged on, and there was little that Ifferon and his companions could do to help. They clung to hope, even as it seemed to be slipping away.

Then something happened that destroyed their faith almost entirely. Agon mustered all his strength, goaded by his pain, and seized the Sword of Telm from Ifferon. It grew in size until it fit Agon’s monstrous hand, and until it fit Corrias’ colossal heart, wherein it plunged.

“Begone!” the Beast bellowed, and Corrias faltered.

Délin gave a shout, and if he could have caught Corrias as he fell, he would have. But the father god collapsed upon the ground, and the world shook, and many souls shuddered.

Then Agon rose up and cast aside the Sword of Telm, which shrunk again in size as Ifferon ran to grab it. The Beast strode north, his monstrous feet crushing the earth beneath him, his monstrous arms reaching out to feel the air that he had not felt for so long. He marched off with his long and angry strides, and the company saw where he was marching to: the land of Boror.

*  *  *

In time Thalla and Yavün reached Ardún-Fé, and they were reminded of that time when they first met, and when Melgalés was taken from the world. The horses would not go into that damned land, and though they were exhausted, they fled as soon as Thalla and Yavün dismounted.

“Well, that’s not a good sign,” Yavün said.

Thalla did not respond. Her eyes were fixed on the bristle-like trees of the forest in the distance. Once the Harwood, now the Rotwood—it was a place of pestilence and death, and it was where Melgalés died, and where his body joined whatever else rotted away slowly there.

Yavün urged caution, and he was weak and tired, even more so now from their long journey. Thalla might have heeded his advice were it not for the mounting anger she felt as the memories of Melgalés’ passing came back to her, as if the floodgates had finally opened, and instead of a river of water bursting forth, there came a river of fire.

“I want to find and kill those monsters,” Thalla said, and she spoke this through her gritted teeth, as if they were another dam, holding back another fiery deluge.

And so she charged forth, racing over rock and leaping over log, and not even slowing as she passed into the spindly cage of the Rotwood. Yavün found it difficult to keep up with her, for she crashed through the trees like a monster of her own.

As they went deeper into the forest, they felt the familiar crunch of the undergrowth, and of the things that did not grow. The needle-like trees prodded through the crust of the earth, and they were barren of branches and empty of leaves. They offered little protection from the heavens, but the crispness of the soil below, and whatever lived beneath it, showed clearly that the rain rarely fell here, that even the weather did not like this place.

Yavün walked as Thalla stormed, and fear was a new companion, though only Yavün knew it, for Thalla was preoccupied with reaching the body of Melgalés, and destroying anything in her way.

Then Yavün yelped as something grabbed his foot. Thalla turned, with flames already forming at her fingertips. The youth was embarrassed to admit that it was just a piece of fallen bark that had rubbed up against his ankle.

Then something really seized him, and he saw the world turn upside down, until finally his eyes settled on a hulking mass of branch and twig, made bigger by the bones of countless victims. He cried out, and he struggled, but he had little energy to fight off the Karisgor that held him, that dangled him before its open maw.

Suddenly the wood set ablaze, and a great and terrible moan came from the creature as parts of it fell off, still burning. Yavün fell to the ground as the Karisgor fell apart, and a mountain of bones came tumbling over him. He cried again as he knocked some of the bones aside and backed away quickly to where Thalla stood, dripping embers.

Yavün sat down, panting for a moment. “You know, I wish I could do that. I’ve got the Beldarian for it.”

“I could teach you,” Thalla suggested. “So could Melgalés.”

“Not sure I have the stomach for it,” he replied, and he grimaced as he looked at the molten mess of what used to be a Karisgor.

“Let’s go,” Thalla said, and she turned to leave.

“A moment, please,” the youth begged. “I just need to catch my breath.”

Suddenly they heard the crashing of trees and cracking of wood from all around them, followed by a chorus of low-pitched moans.

“Breath caught,” Yavün said, as fear helped him to his feet.

They trudged onwards, and when the crashing sounds grew louder they then began to trot, and when the moaning grew closer they then began to run. The sounds mounted, until finally Thalla and Yavün halted suddenly as a wall of Karisgors greeted them. They turned, but another wall of beasts stood there, until finally they were caged, and all that was left were the sounds, and nowhere to run from them.

The groaning noises became quickly unbearable, and Yavün covered his ears. Thalla erected an orb-shaped shield around them, and this drowned out much of the terrible noise. Then, as the Karisgors trudged in, she let loose so much fire from the heavens and from her hands that her Beldarian began to strain, and Yavün wondered if perhaps she instead was really Fire, and his own Flame was nothing in comparison.

Blazing columns crashed down upon the Karisgors, and those that were not crushed were set alight, and those that were not burned were torn apart by many hands of flame. In a matter of moments the Karisgors were laid to waste, and all that was left was the rubble of their bodies, and a steady stream of smoke, like the ethereal substance of the dead. And so the forest was an even greater waste. Once the Rotwood, now the Ruinwood.

“I guess we didn’t need to run then,” Yavün said, but he caught Thalla as she suddenly began to fall.

“I’m fine,” she said, but clearly she was not. Yavün could see the dull complexion of her face, and the dull complexion in the beldar gem. The magic was taking its toll, and the Beldarian could only do so much.

They stumbled onwards, each hanging out of the other, for they were both tired beyond anything they had ever known before, as if they had in these past few weeks lived the entirety of their lives. They did not admit it, but they were glad to spend some of this fleeting time with each other.

They wandered for a time, and then they came upon the clearing where their earlier battle with the Karisgors did not go so well, where Melgalés had called the creatures to him, that the others might escape. They could not help but wonder: if he had known that he was just as important as Ifferon, would he have so easily given up his life?

Yavün was surprised to see that the Magus’ raven still stood there, pacing back and forth, stretching its legs and flapping its wings from time to time. It turned to them suddenly and cawed, and its eyes brightened as it saw Thalla. It flew over and landed before her, where it flapped its wings again, though less aggressively. It said something in its tongue, but neither understood what it meant. Then the bird trotted back to Melgalés, and they followed.

The Magus’ body was half decomposed, and it was a grim sight to behold. His face had shrunken and darkened, and the skeleton showed through, revealing the frailty inherent in them all. His clothes were tattered, but mostly intact, and the only thing that took away a little from the sombre sight was the colourful beads plaited into his hair. They were the only colour in this ashen place.

Did he look peaceful? was what Thalla had asked Yavün so many weeks before. He had lied then, but he could not lie now. Melgalés was there to tell the truth.

Thalla collapsed before his body, partly from exhaustion, partly from sorrow, the exhaustion of the soul.

“You were supposed to be there for me,” she said, and she looked up and then down, as if she did not know where to address her words. She did not look at the remains.

Yavün stayed silent. Even though he had come to know Melgalés in death, and first did not even know it was him, he did not feel he had any right to comment. This was about remembering the man as he was while alive, not as he was while dead.

Thalla was not a poet or a bard, so her tribute came in the form of prose. “You saved me from the House of Hataramon,” she said. “You saved my life, and I could not save yours. You taught me magic, even though you did not want to. You took me as your apprentice, even though all the rules said you couldn’t. You were an Ardúnar, a Warden of Light, and you were a Magus, but you were a father and a friend to me, a teacher and tutor. You saved my life, and I could not save yours.”

As they sat there, Thalla releasing all her long-held pain and anguish, and Yavün feeling that perhaps he was unable to release his own, he began to ponder the meaning of Melgalés’ name. Perhaps it did not have the same kind of significance Yavün’s did, but it meant Memory Passage, and Yavün could not help but notice how, in some way, he only lived on in the passage of memory.

They buried the body, and the raven seemed confused, as if its master had just disappeared before its eyes, a new kind of magic for which it was not prepared. It looked around and began to peck at the dirt where Melgalés sat before, and then it looked at Thalla and Yavün and gave a sad shriek. So it was that the bird gave an elegy of its own.

Thalla wept, and though she seemed that she was all fire, she cried tears of water, and they were perhaps the first drops the starved soil of that place had seen in a long time. Every tear she had held back came flooding forth, and Yavün was also moved to tears, for he could not bear the sight of Thalla in so much pain.

“Come, child,” a voice came quick and sudden. “I’ve had plenty of time to count all the stars in my eyes, and though new ones won’t grow for me, no, they certainly will grow for you!”

They turned, and there stood Melgalés, shimmering in a halo of fire.

XVIII – THE BATTLE OF THE LAST WORDS

Back in Telarym, where Corrias died and Agon lived, there was no time for horror, no time to lose hope or linger in despair. The horror lay before them. The despair walked ahead of them. It was called the Beast.

“He is heading for Boror,” Délin said, and Ifferon could not help but think that the worry in his voice was less for the Bororians and more for Théos in Arlin. With Telarym now desolate and broken, Boror was the last true barrier to the knight’s Motherland.

“If he keeps this path, he will walk straight into Fort Onar,” Ifferon said.

“Fort Watchful,” Herr’Don mused.

“It’s less watchful now that it is abandoned,” Ifferon remarked.

“And thank Olagh that this is so!” Herr’Don cried.

“At least there are no people there to kill,” Ifferon said. “He will destroy a ruin.”

“And perhaps he will find a surprise,” Herr’Don said, and his eyes glinted, as if the Beast might open the box called Fort Onar and find Herr’Don inside.

“What do you mean?” Délin quizzed.

“All of the abandoned forts along our southern border have been lined with explosive kegs. They were designed to stop the forts falling into enemy hands when we retreated from them. Periodically they are checked and replaced, and so perhaps Fort Onar shall be watchful once again.”

“Can we lure Agon into the explosives?” Ifferon asked.

“Perhaps,” Herr’Don said, “though I am not sure it will stop him.”

Ifferon knew for certain that it would not. “But it may slow him. And that is our real weapon at this time until Thalla and Yavün return.”

“Let us rest assure,” Délin said, and his voice was grim, “time is the weapon of Chránán, the master of Agon’s master, and so it can never be our ally.”

“Yet Agon serves no master, and so let us hope that time is not his ally either!” Herr’Don said.

*  *  *

Though luck was not an ally, and time was more an enemy, the company found that there were new partners in their battle against the Beast. As Agon strode forth, crushing the ground beneath him and lashing it with his tail, the ground itself began to strike back, for here and there the rocks erupted, and out from the various chasms came the Moln. Some clung to his legs and slowed him, and some began to pound upon him like he pounded the earth, and like he pounded the ceiling of Halés for a thousand years. Others cast themselves at him as if they were flung from a catapult, and some began to erect themselves into walls ahead of Agon’s path, which he broke through with ease. None of this stopped Agon’s advance, but it slowed him, and though the company followed through a graveyard of rock, where the very gravestones were the heads of cloven Moln, it was clear that Agon’s strides were now slower than they had ever been.

In time they came once more to the Issar Chammas, the River Barrier, but it proved no barrier to Agon, who had broken through the greater barrier of his own bonds. He strode across it as if it were not there at all.

Though the river prophesied, it was not large enough to tell Agon of his doom, and so even as he crossed over it, it shrunk in size, as if it saw within itself its own end, and the end of all rivers at the vanquishing fires of the Beast.

To those that followed, the river spoke little of their fate, but some saw within its shallow waters what might await them in the coming battle, and what might await the world if it was not won.

Soon they came upon the border of Boror, another barrier that Agon passed through with little effort, and so the Beast passed into the kingdom without a king. Ifferon saw from the rage in Herr’Don’s face that he took this entry somewhat personally, as if indeed Agon had broken through the doors of Ilokmaden Keep. And so, it seemed, he might still do.

Fort Onar came into view, despite the dust of Agon’s heavy footfalls, which could not hide the great size of Boror’s largest fortress town. It was lucky for the company, and for all Bororians, that Agon made for this settlement, for it was the most sprawling and the most heavily fortified, and though it was now the most ruined, it also had the largest stockpile of explosive barrels, and so perhaps was the largest trap for the Beast. It was likely its sheer size that attracted Agon to Fort Onar, for he knew not that it was empty, or that it had been settled instead by a supply of booby-traps. He yearned for destruction, there was little doubt, for even the ground below him cracked in agony beneath his heavy strides, and in Fort Onar he would find destruction by the barrel load.

The company followed, hiding in Agon’s monstrous shadow, which made upon the ground a moving mockery of the Molokrán, whom the company never knew they would no longer fear. The sun was periodically blocked by the Beast’s height and width, and though it threatened to break through the numerous clouds, as if to threaten Agon with its pinpointing rays, the sky was mostly bleak, as if it watched with cool depression as the Beast approached the great stone archway that led into Fort Onar.

And so the destruction began, for Agon crashed through the arch, and the bricks and rocks were thrown apart as if Agon himself was an explosion. The company were glad that they held back far in Agon’s train, for they would have been crushed by the falling debris.

When the rocks no longer rained and when the dust no longer blinded, the company clambered across the ruins of the archway and into the greater ruins of the fortified city. As soon as they entered, they scattered in all directions, looking for hiding places amidst the debris. They raced through the crumbled streets of Fort Onar, every now and then peeping their heads over wrecked walls and jagged pillars.

Ifferon felt his heart race ahead of him, as if to pre-empt each of his steps. For a brief moment he thought that perhaps as he forged ahead in one direction, his heart was trying to flee in the other, and though at one point he might have went with it, it now went with him—into the winding streets where Agon crashed through.

Ifferon turned a corner and pulled himself back sharply, for there a massive foot came crashing down, and he felt his body shudder from the force, and shudder from the presence of the Beast. He hoped Agon had not seen him, and yet knew that he must somehow attract the Beast’s attention, to lure him deeper into Fort Onar, where no granite walls could cage him.

From this vantage point he could see a few of his comrades racing further up the streets, and when he peeped his head around the corner he could see a beam of light that Oelinor shot into the air to lure the Beast towards him. Then Ifferon saw why Oelinor was so desperate to distract Agon, for the Beast had spotted Affon, who could not run as fast as Geldirana.

And so Ifferon did what madness would do, if it could act: he leapt out in front of the Beast and shouted at the monster. “Begone!” he cried, and Agon came to a slow halt, sending up a plume of dust before him, like tiny spectators to this paltry cleric’s challenge. The Beast settled his intense and glaring eyes upon Ifferon, and though Ifferon did not look up to them, he could feel their stare, breaking through his bones and his body as Agon broke through the walls and columns of Fort Onar.

It was perhaps only a second before Ifferon began to flee, and it was less than a second before Agon began to pursue him. Though the streets of Fort Onar were empty, Ifferon was a kill that would bring a pleasure and relief to Agon that a hundred other slaughters could not do.

So Ifferon ran. There was something in Agon’s stare that gave speed to his legs. There was something in the Beast’s presence that made it vital to do everything to get out of it. He raced down a thin alleyway, where he knew Agon could not tread, and yet the collapsing buildings behind and around him showed that there was nowhere that Agon could not go. To Ifferon there were passages and pathways, designed by the architects of Boror many centuries ago, but to Agon the entirety of Iraldas was his walkway, and though his bonds had held him in check in Halés, there were no longer any barriers to him now.

And so Ifferon raced. His heart pulled him on, and fear pushed him. He turned a corner sharply, knowing that Agon’s size was the only thing that slowed him. Then he turned another, even as the previous corner became a pile of rubble. The sound almost distracted him from the three barrels ahead of him, which were painted with a red star. He tried to slow, but he realised he had no time, and so he closed his eyes as he leapt over the barrels, and only opened them again when he was sure he did not feel his limbs exploding. He turned again, and this time he was thrown forward by a great gust of air, and he heard the Beast roar.

Good, he thought, even though only seconds before he was thinking the very opposite. He felt Agon’s presence dim a little, and he knew it was not the explosion, but Agon slowing in his pursuit. Ifferon kept running, but this time he looked for a way to get to some higher ground, and soon he spotted a stone staircase that led into one of the armouries. He jumped up two or three steps at a time, and he came out onto a rampart that circled a cloistered area, where many straw dummies had been laced with explosives.

So far the cat and mouse game was working, but Ifferon could not help but think that it was a poor game to play when he was the mouse. Fort Onar might have stopped a thousand armies in Boror’s heyday, but it was not built to hold back the Beast. Those streets could not restrict him, nor those walls hold him. Delay was their only weapon. Only time could cage Agon.

But the cat is a hunter, and Ifferon was prey. The Beast crashed through the armoury, hauling up the largest bricks and casting them aside like pebbles, until finally he saw Ifferon there, minuscule like a mouse. Perhaps Agon smiled, though his mouth was so twisted that it was hard to tell, and perhaps Agon’s eyes glimmered, but they were so mangled that it was hard to see.

There was no moment of gloating, no last words from Agon before he ensured that Ifferon could never speak again. He raised his massive fists, until one of them blotted out the sun, and Ifferon took a deep breath. He thought that he would cower and close his eyes before that fateful final moment, but he did not. He accepted his imminent end, and he felt a kind of peace, even though he knew that death and life were deep in an eternal war.

Then a barrel hurtled through the air and exploded in Agon’s face, and the Beast burst into rage, casting his eyes around as if they might leap out of his head and explode upon the bodies of his attackers. He saw Herr’Don and Délin almost immediately, loading barrels onto a catapult at one of the fort’s arsenals, and he saw Elithéa and Edgaron helping them, but he did not make for them yet, but turned instead to crush Ifferon beneath his angry fists. Yet Ifferon was not there, for he had crept away into the shadows that crept away from Agon. He felt Agon’s rage rise even further, and if it was not palpable from his eerie aura, it was felt through his thrashing of the ground around him, where he hoped to strike the fleeing cleric.

Then another barrel stole Agon’s sight once more, and with it went his body and his rage, and with it fell another row of buildings as the Beast clambered towards his attackers.

*  *  *

Herr’Don waved the flag that stood on a pole beside his arsenal, as if the barrel blasts were not enough announcement to Agon. He cheered and taunted, and to any watchful eyes, even the angry eyes of Agon, he seemed right at home.

“Well, we have his attention,” Délin said. “What now?”

“Fire another volley!” Herr’Don shouted, and he struggled to roll a barrel up onto his foot and then hoist it to the catapult’s cradle. The way he kicked it and bashed it made Délin nervous in a way that only the approaching Agon could surpass. “Away!” the prince cried as he launched the weapon. It flew towards the Beast, but this time he bashed it aside with one of his monstrous arms. It exploded on impact, but it did not elicit a cry of pain from Agon like the others had.

“Away is the right word,” Délin said, and he made for the stone stairway leading towards the west. “Come!” he cried as he turned and saw that Herr’Don was not joining him, and that Edgaron stood by his side. “Herr’Don!” he called, but it was like speaking to the granite walls of Fort Onar, which was now Herr’Don’s dangerous playground.

“Let Agon come!” Herr’Don replied, and yet he gave his words to the wind, that they might be a further taunt to Agon’s ears.

“It’s madness to stay here,” Elithéa said. “We need to delay Agon, not kill him.”

“Death is the best delay,” Herr’Don said, and he looked to Edgaron with a manic glee.

“Edgaron!” Délin called, but the man shook his head, as if he had resigned himself to his fate. Délin rolled his eyes and left with Elithéa, while Edgaron stayed and set his eyes upon the approaching Beast.

*  *  *

Herr’Don moved about at a frenzied speed, and he felt so full of life, so in his element. He turned and grinned at Belnavar, who stood beside the banner as if he greatly yearned to wave it.

“I’d help with the kegs,” Belnavar said, “but you have more useful arms than I.”

“You can help with the taunts,” Herr’Don suggested. “Surely ghosts can haunt the Beast.”

“Death still haunts the dead,” Belnavar remarked, “threatening its reprise.”

“Let’s deal the first and second deaths to Agon!” Herr’Don cried. “In one fell blow if we can, and yet,” he paused, “perhaps make it two, that we might have twice the glory!”

But the glory of battle comes at a price, and Herr’Don successfully attracted Agon’s attention. The Beast charged towards him, hastened by the anger that each new exploding keg tore from him. In time his four arms came crashing down upon the arsenal where Herr’Don and Edgaron worked, and the building was quickly turned to rubble.

*  *  *

Délin and Elithéa charged back up the stairs, but they were too late, and they could not see either of the men beneath the slabs of rock in the haze of dust. The Beast loomed tall above them, and he began to tear down nearby buildings that still were standing.

“Pull them out,” Elithéa said, and she charged off before the knight could stop her. He glanced to where her nimble legs raced and leapt and jumped, and the final thing he saw was her unleashing her staves and swinging them to and fro, like a mating call to some wild beast. And so Agon caught sight of her, and he bounded after her as she disappeared into the serpentine streets.

Délin immersed himself in the rubble of the arsenal, clearing away stone and wood, which seemed heavier than sword with the weight of worry upon them. He looked for his buried comrades, but brick revealed boulder, and slab revealed stone, and all the while his sight was buried beneath the dust. In time he found a hand, and he cleared away more debris to find that it was Herr’Don, who clambered up as soon as the largest of the rocks were removed from him. He was doused in dirt, yet he looked almost ready to race back out to battle, but Délin directed his energy towards digging instead. Minutes passed like hours, until finally they unearthed Edgaron, who was bathed in blood as much as dust and dirt.

“Edgaron!” Herr’Don cried, and his frenzy weakened, replaced by the frenzy of concern. He clasped the man’s hand, and Edgaron barely clasped it back.

“Herr’Don,” Edgaron said weakly. He tried to smile, but the pain was stronger than his muscles were.

“No, don’t die,” Herr’Don whimpered. “I already have a ghost. I need a friend who lives.”

“I held your hand in Ilokmaden,” Edgaron struggled, the words spluttering up with blood.

Herr’Don clasped Edgaron’s hand tighter. “I have your hand,” he said.

“I have to let go,” Edgaron whispered, and Délin could tell it was intended to be spoken aloud. He looked down to the reddened rubble.

“Do not die like this,” Herr’Don said. “Fight death. Fight with me. Please. You said you’d fight with me.”

“I fought.”

“Keep fighting.”

“I’m trying.”

“Take my strength,” the prince said, and it seemed that he would almost slit his own hand to replace the lost blood of his friend with his own.

“I never got to tell you,” Edgaron said, struggling with the words. Then his face grew pale, his hand grew limp, and he said no more.

“No,” Herr’Don said, shaking his head in disbelief. Délin placed his hand upon the prince’s shoulder, but it was shrugged aside. Herr’Don’s hand began to shake as she still clutched the hand of Edgaron.

“He was a good man,” Délin said. It had been said of so many soldiers before. Even all the slabs of stone they sat upon were not enough for every tombstone.

“What god lets Telm speak the Last Words, but does not let us Men do the same,” Herr’Don said, and he looked to the sky and ground, and all around him, as if for answers, but all that was there was the uncaring dust and the silent stone.

His frenzy died like his friend. Yet it could do what Edgaron could not; it could feed upon his rage, and so bring itself back to life, into a more powerful life than ever before. Délin saw it first in his eyes, and then in the redness of his cheeks, which contrasted with the paleness of Edgaron. Then it seemed almost like something snapped, as if the very building of Herr’Don’s mind also turned to rubble.

Before Délin could do anything, the prince leapt up and threw himself down the pile of rubble, unleashing his sword as he slid and stumbled. He screamed and shouted, and the words made no sense, for they were in the language of the grieving. Délin could make out only one word, and it was “Agon,” and the prince cried it aloud like it was the only name on his list.

He raced down the narrow passages, made narrower by debris, and though the dust still hindered his sight, he saw the silhouette of Agon through the haze. He charged at the Beast, who stood with his back to the prince, flailing madly at the few stone towers left standing. Herr’Don dodged the rain of rubble, cleaving at the feet of Agon as he bobbed and weaved between boulder and wood. Though his anger was mighty, his strikes were minuscule against the monstrous frame of the Beast, which dwarfed even the Sentinels he had fought in the Old Temple in the White Mountains.

Then the prince realised that Elithéa stood before Agon, ducking and dodging, swinging and striking. Buildings came down around her, and they would have been upon her were it not for her quick evasion. Yet her attacks were also ineffective, serving only to raise the ire of a creature for whom ire was like blood.

Yet as Agon’s anger mounted, his attacks grew fiercer and quicker, until it seemed that he was like Henishanad the Hundred-handed, fists flying in all directions, bashing and pummelling, seizing and crushing. Herr’Don was knocked aside, where a new mound of rubble pinned him down, but Elithéa was seized by Agon, who held up her tiny body, kicking and flailing.

Herr’Don struggled with his stony prison. He shouted to the Beast, but it was too late. Agon tightened his grip upon Elithéa. She cried out, and she was crushed. Her body tumbled from his hand, slamming into the ground below, where the rolling rocks became her tomb.

Agon turned about, gloating above the wreckage he had wrought. He roared to the south, which he had conquered; he roared to the north, which he was conquering; he roared to the west, which knew to fear him; he roared to the east, which would soon learn of that fear; he roared to the heavens, where the gods trembled; he roared to the depths below, where the dead cowered from him like they cowered from the second death. In every part of every world, all heard his roar.

*  *  *

Just as all looked lost, and the ruin of Fort Onar echoed the ruin in the company’s hearts and minds, Thalla and Yavün returned. It seemed to many eyes that they had returned alone, but their accomplished expressions and the presence of a familiar raven suggested otherwise.

“Gather together to arrange your attack,” Délin said. “We will do what we can to hold Agon’s attention. But hurry! I do not think we will hold it for long.” He charged off, making for the arsenal directly opposite the one that Agon had destroyed.

Ifferon reunited with Geldirana and Affon, and they ran to Thalla and Yavün, who ran to them in turn. When they met and ducked behind one of the taller buildings, where Agon’s probing eyes could not spot them, they began to talk over each other in their anxious need to formulate a plan. They were in such a hurry that they barely had time to acknowledge Melgalés’ presence, nor to appreciate their success in bringing his ghost back from Halés.

“Let us go in turn,” Ifferon said, “as the Scroll dictates. Fire, Melgalés. Flame, Yavün. Fume, Affon. Fury, Geldirana. I trust you know the Aelora for those words by now.”

“And what about you?” Yavün asked, and he flinched as he heard an explosion, and he looked to the second arsenal, now manned by Délin.

“I guess I just bear the Scroll,” Ifferon said, a little despondently. “I am not one of the words within it.”

“That can’t be so,” Yavün said.

“We do not have time to wonder,” Geldirana said. “Let’s go!”

And so they ran back into the fray, where barrels exploded and buildings toppled, and where Agon thrashed and trounced, and where Brégest and Oelinor, and a handful of other survivors, raced about, dodging their deaths.

When Ifferon and his companions reached Agon, the Beast turned to them sharply, and he puffed his chest and flexed his many arms. Even his eyes burned more fiercely, as if he were flexing the fire within them. He was as daunting as ever, if not more so, for the presence of the Last Words brought back the anger of ages past, and with that anger came the strength that he had used to topple Telm, to knock the crown from the head of the Warrior-king. As Agon posed before them, like a statue from an ancient era when everything that walked the earth was monstrous in size and monstrous in heart, it seemed to those who looked upon him that it was impossible to topple him.

Yet they tried.

Melgalés stood before Agon like he had stood before the Karisgor in Ardún-Fé, and though he had been felled by those beasts, and by Teron’s evil curse, he seemed stronger than ever in his halo of fire. In this ghostly form, which only Thalla and Yavün could see, there was no doubt that he was Fire. He proved it when he spoke the word. “Iav,” he said, and he burst into a fireball, which spat at Agon and exploded around him like a thousand kegs.

But the fire dissipated, and through the embers Agon’s eyes burned more fiercely.

Yavün stepped forth next, and though he did not have a halo of fire like Melgalés had, the presence of the Magus gave him courage, and brought from within him the flaming lion that lived beneath the guise of a stableboy, beneath the vesture of a poet. “Iavün,” he cried, and he knew then that this was far more than his name, for a rain of tiny flames came down upon Agon.

But the rain cleared up, and Agon’s fists carried flames of their own.

Affon marched forth, placing her hands upon her hips as if to strike a pose to counter Agon’s. She seemed even smaller now before the monstrous size of the Beast, and yet she did not show her fear, even though Ifferon was certain she felt it just as he did. “Samün,” she shouted, and a wind bashed at Agon’s form like a sudden hurricane, blowing out his flaming fists.

But the wind weakened, and Agon’s fire returned.

Geldirana came next, and she did not tarry, and she did not need any time to muster the fury that was her title and her mission. “Samadas!” she bellowed, as if speaking to every enemy she every killed, and to every enemy she had yet to lay her hands upon. The earth shuddered beneath them, centring on Agon, and he stepped back as his balance was rocked.

But the quake subsided, and Agon still stood strong, with his burning eyes and his flaming fists. He had not toppled. He had not been cast back into Halés. It seemed to the company that these would indeed be their last words, for they stood face to face with Agon, and none, not even Telm, had done this and lived.

This time he had an answering word for them. “Begone!” he said, and they were knocked back from the force of his voice, and they felt in it the mockery of their actions, that they thought that they could fight the Beast and win.

But Ifferon realised in Agon’s word what they had missed. Dehilasü baeos! Al-iav im-iavün im-samün im-samadas, dehilasü baeos! They had used the forceful words, but they had not used the words that opened and closed them, the words that actually told Agon to leave.

So Ifferon stepped forth, and even as his foot graced the ground, the armour of Telm came down from the clouds, and he seemed to grow in height, and he was a cleric no more. “Dehilasü baeos!” he cried, and all who heard it heard Telm’s voice, and they knew it was Telm, even though they had never heard him before.

Agon halted, and his form weakened. His arms drooped a little, and the fire in his eyes dimmed. He did not look so powerful now.

Melgalés pressed forth again. “Al-iav,” he said, adding in the full words, giving them every strength, feeding them with all the fire he could muster.

Agon toppled backwards as the fire engulfed him, and before he had regained his footing, Yavün sprang forward and shouted “Im-iavün!” The fire grew fiercer than ever around him, and the Beast cried out as a new pain joined the thousand other pains he felt. He stumbled further.

Affon and Geldirana came next, and their cries of “Im-samün!” and “Im-samadas!” brought back the avenging air and the angry earth. The ground rocked and the sky rumbled. All the while, Agon gave out a series of forceful cries, each in a different tongue, each louder and more painful than the last. It was as if he was trying to counter the Last Words with ones of his own, and though Ifferon began to feel a force stirring as if from the depths of the Void, he crushed that call with some final words of his own.

“Dehilasü baeos!” he cried once more, and more than ever the company were certain that they heard Telm and saw Telm, and if there was any doubt, it was removed when Ifferon held up the sword Daradag and lunged it forth into Agon’s flesh.

And Agon fell. The Beast fell. He toppled like a tower built upon a weak foundation, and as he struck the ground his body began to crumble, as if it truly were made of stone. His many shifting countenances combined into a single one, a mass of features that faded into a blended form, which acted as a canvas for all minds, where the horrific images would not so easily fade away. The force of Agon’s fall knocked everyone from their feet, and many stumbled even in far distant lands. The world shook, and it was the final quake caused by the Beast.

*  *  *

It took a moment for what had happened to fully sink in. Délin pulled Herr’Don from the rubble, and they both searched for Elithéa, but could not find her body. In time they all regrouped, though some came out slowly, as if they were not altogether sure that it was over. They sat with each other upon the ruin of Fort Onar for their first rest of the day, and their final rest together.

“So evil is dead,” Yavün said, and he beamed.

“You are still naïve,” Herr’Don responded. “Agon is dead. Evil always survives.”

“Because good survives,” Délin said. “With one comes the other.”

“Evil takes on new forms,” Herr’Don said. “In the time of the Elad Éni, it was Chránán. In the time of the Céalari, it was Molok. In our time, it was Agon. Maybe in our children’s time, it will be us.”

“That is an evil thought,” Délin said.

“And no less true because of it,” Herr’Don replied. “Agon is no longer in chains, and so the greatest evil of our world is no longer a god. What I have seen in the streets of Madenahan is a different kind of evil. It is smaller in form, but no less in its ability. For the Age of Gods, a god shall be evil. For the Age of Man, the evil shall be Man.”

“There is always a price that is paid,” Délin said, casting his eyes about, as if he still searched for Elithéa.

“Too high a price,” Herr’Don replied, and he looked to the wreckage of the eastern arsenal, where the body of Edgaron still lay.

Yavün glanced once at the remains of the Beast, and it only took that single look to shock his soul and yet stir some inspiration within him to express his joy and relief that Agon’s evil reign had been ended. Yet even as he thought about it, and as words began to rouse within his heart and form upon his lips, he realised that Agon had left behind a scarred world, a world in need of mending.

He did not need to interrupt anyone for his sombre hymn, for they were all silent with solemn litanies of their own. He began:

The Beast is dead, and with him dies his deeds,

Though none will forget what evil he wrought,

Nor what foul things he made to meet his needs,

Nor what wicked wars we against him fought.

A dark tree will leave behind some dark seeds,

And so the soil remains forever fraught.

Thus we must trim the vines and tame the weeds,

Until the land no longer is distraught,

Until when asked of Agon’s painful pleads,

The land will say of that: “‘twas all for naught.”

Though the day was evening out, and this vespers song spoke of some darkness yet to come, it seemed to few that the night could truly fall again, for they had all seen a darker night before, a dark night that had now ended. And so in the hope that sprung anew, this was as much a morning song, and though they would sleep again before the sun came out, they knew it would shine more brightly than it had shone for a long time.

“So we have come to the end of our journey together,” Délin said.

“Would that it were not the end,” Herr’Don replied.

“All things must end. Even Corrias. Even us.”

“Some shall live on,” Herr’Don said. “In tales and songs.”

“That is true,” Délin acknowledged. “And perhaps young Yavün will write them.”

They looked to the youth now, who seemed a little older from the tiresome journey and wearisome war that had undoubtedly aged them all. He simpered, but then he looked down to the ground, as if he knew that he would not be the bard for their tales, that he would not be the minstrel of their accomplishments.

“It is sad to part,” Ifferon said. “We were united by necessity.”

“I think more than that,” Délin said. “We were united by a common goal, and the commonality between us all, all races and creeds, all types and ages. Everything that Agon hated, and everything that Agon could never be.”

“Let this be a new beginning for us all,” Herr’Don said. “More battles await!”

Délin smiled and looked north to Arlin. “I think my days of battle are over. I think it is time that I retire from the battlefield and lay down my sword.”

Herr’Don shook his head violently. “No!” he cried. “What is Trueblade without his blade?”

“Quite a few things,” the knight replied. “Some day we must all retire.”

“Death shall be my retirement,” Herr’Don remarked. “I will take no day of rest ere the Gatekeeper comes knocking.”

“Let us hope he does not knock for a long time,” Ifferon said, “for any of us.”

“And so we part,” Délin said, and he bowed his head to them. “May we meet again, and if we do not, let us forever have fond memories.”

And thus they exchanged their partings, and some hugged and shook hands, and some saluted, and some gave well wishes, and some gave words of wisdom. There was pain in their parting, but there was also peace. When war is over, even the most unpleasant partings are made that little bit easier.

XIX – THE BONDS OF LOVE

Thalla and Yavün said their goodbyes to their friends and companions. Ifferon hugged them in turn, Délin wished them well, and many others gave their blessings. Herr’Don alone was silent, and in that silence his anger could be heard.

Melgalés waved to them all, though they did not see it, and he said his own goodbyes, though they did not hear them. Belnavar alone saluted the Magus, and the others gave their parting words to the wind, which blew in all places of the world, even Halés.

The two Magi and the poet did not go north-east to Madenahan, as many of the others did, but travelled west until they came upon Lake Loft on the outskirts of Madenloft Forest, which they reached by nightfall. It reminded them of the Shallow Lake in Telarym, where Thalla and Yavün had last parted ways.

“I think our journey is over,” Melgalés said, and they all halted together. “Yes, over now at last.”

Thalla said nothing, though her eyes spoke into his soul.

“What will happen to you?” Yavün asked of Melgalés.

“I do not know,” he replied. “Perhaps I will wander as a ghost, or perhaps I will return to Halés to sit upon the doorstep.”

“I can ask neither of you,” Yavün said.

The Magus shook his head, and the beads in his hair shook in sympathy. “You are not the one doing the asking.”

“Yet I am the one that can provide the answer,” the young poet replied, and he looked as though he had come to a decision that would greatly affect them all. “I cannot truly be free until you are. I must break the Beldarian.”

“Though I yearn for my eternal rest,” Melgalés said, “I cannot ask that you give up your life, and all that this world has to offer, that I may be at peace.”

Yavün sunk his head. He felt a terrible guilt inside him, one that had grown and festered since that fateful day when he was led to the body of the Magus, and the Beldarian that would become as much a prison to himself as it was the key to Melgalés’ freedom.

“If I were to take this extra lease of life, it would be time borrowed—no, stolen—from you,” Yavün said. “That would not be living, and I think neither of us would be at peace. You may think you cannot ask it of me, but I cannot let is go unasked. I must die this day.”

Thalla was in tears, and Yavün might have joined her, were it not for his guilt, which was heavier than his sorrow.

“You must realise, Yavün, that there have been no records of this ever having been done in the past,” Melgalés explained. “We do not know for certain what the outcome might be. You will die, there is no doubt, but what will happen to you then is beyond my ken, and I have knowledge of death that many will never know. Perhaps you will enter the Halls and be at peace—perhaps—but you might also become one of the Waiting, or the Endless Lost, or you might even become nothing at all, for the Void is the Underworld to Halés.”

“I know the risk,” Yavün said, “and I will have to face it some time, whether it is tonight or fifty years from now.”

“Then why not wait? A mortal life passes swiftly compared to the eternity of the afterlife. Yes, quite swift indeed.”

Yavün shook his head. “Because then you would have to wait, and you have waited long enough. My final fate is outside my hands, but there is still something I can do now to help the passing of another. I have to do this. You made your sacrifice. Now it is time to make mine.”

Thalla looked to both of them in silence, and though perhaps she meant to say something to stop Yavün from this final act, it was clear that she was torn between them, that she could not wish for life for one, when it would come at the expense of the other.

“Though this affects me greatly, and I cannot deny that I feel a certain selfish desire,” Melgalés said, “this is your decision to make, no matter what may come of it.”

He nodded to them both with a knowing look, as if indeed he knew exactly what they would both decide. Yet he respected that they might not be so conscious of the decision that seemed apparent on their faces, and so he left them for a time and gave them space to talk.

*  *  *

“He will not tell you, so as not to sway you, but Thúalim awaits his rest also,” Yavün said to Thalla.

“I know,” she replied. “I can feel him through the Pendant. It is not just a matter of waiting; it’s a type of torture, to be so close to rest, yet denied it—to be unable to do anything but sit and watch as others pass through the Gate, and to endure the mocking of the Gatekeeper.”

Yavün sighed, as if to expel the guilt from his lungs; it could not be expelled from his mind. “So you have seen and felt what I have seen and felt.”

“Yes,” she said. “And that is why I have made the same decision. My time here is over.”

Yavün was silent. Though part of him wanted her to live out her life and find joy and happiness wherever possible, another part of him wanted her to go with him, that they might face death together, and so live forever in what awaited them, even if it was only in memories.

They returned to Melgalés and shared their decision, and he nodded and wished them well. Had he a corporeal form, he might have hugged them, and, if the gods were kind, Thalla and Yavün might one day embrace him in the Halls of Halés.

“I feel now that Halés calls me back,” Melgalés said, “and perhaps I will see you there again.” Before he could say more, his form faded, though Yavün still felt it strongly through his Beldarian.

The two young lovers looked to one another and smiled. It was a sad smile, filled with nostalgia. Their eyes embraced, and glisten spoke to glisten, and tear whispered to tear.

They felt the Beldarians around their necks, like manacles around their throats, chaining them to life, and chaining them to the dead. They took them off, and they were heavy, weighed down with two souls each, and the guilt and shame that went with them. They placed them on the ground, and yet felt no relief, for the burden still weighed upon their hearts.

They took large stones from the nearby lake and brought them to the place that might become their grave, and so those rocks might become the first part of their own tombstones. The thought was unsettling, but the alternative was unbearable.

“Perhaps we can make some good of this evil act,” Yavün suggested. “In place of a pendant, we might wear a different jewel. Perchance, a ring?” He took out the twined ring he had been gifted by Elilod previously, and it did not seem now like a tool of bondage, but a means to show to all the bonds of love.

Thalla said nothing, but her emphatic nod said it all. She stretched out her hand, and on it he placed the ring. It was crude, with no diamond set into its frame, and the rust of ages was upon it, as if to remind them of the endless onslaught of time. Yet it seemed to glimmer more now under the pale moonlight than it had when Elilod gave it to him, and Yavün saw a glitter in Thalla’s eyes, which no diamond could ever imitate.

She raised her palm to him, and he placed his own against it, and slid it up until he wore the second loop around his finger. So then they clasped their hands, so that their final grip might keep the ring in place, and seal their love.

“We do not have a cleric,” Yavün said. “Perhaps Ifferon could have been that to us now.”

“I do not need a priest,” she said, and the tears rolled down her face like the fabric of a wedding veil. “This is enough for me. My constant yearning. I am now complete.”

Yavün mustered his muse, and he quickly composed his final poem, and wrote the words with the ink of his heart. When he spoke, his voice trembled, like the gentle tremor of a violin, like the music to a last love song:

The world shall minister to us our end,

And join us now in death when life could not;

What union was not had, may marriage mend

These aching hearts, and end this deadly plot.

This ground shall be to us our nuptial bed,

And in matrimony we shall cherish

Each time we have as one, alive and dead.

Parted once, as bride and groom we perish.

These last moments shall symbolise the heart,

Wherein we were betrothed before this time.

While some speak the words “till death do us part,”

May death instead unite us in our prime.

And thus I speak, and if you will allow,

My final words shall be my wedding vow.

And so they lay together, staring into each other’s tear-clogged eyes, hand in hand, and rocks raised high in the others, above the two Beldarians that lay between them, the only barrier to their eternal union. They held their arms up for long, so that final moment seemed to last a lifetime, and thus make some worth of what little time they had spent upon Iraldas, and what less time they had spent together.

Soon their arms grew tired, and they began to falter, and they both knew it, for as their rock-laden hands grew weak, their ring-bound grip grew stronger. The fateful moment came, and the rocks smashed through the beldar gems.

There was relief. For the briefest of moments, they felt what seemed like an ocean washing over them, and in that ocean there was only them, buoyed by their love. Then everything faded, until the only thing that remained was their union, which even in the blackness could never fade.

*  *  *

When they awoke again, they found that they were in Halés, standing before the steps to the Halls, the very steps upon which sat Melgalés and Rúathar, who looked more real now that they sat in a place where nothing was corporeal.

“So all are free,” the Gatekeeper said, and his voice was menacing, and it startled them.

The presence and voice of Melgalés brought cool reassurance. “All are free,” he said. “Though Agon gained his freedom, he lost the ultimate freedom of his life.”

“And what have you lost?” the Gatekeeper jeered.

“I have gained my reward,” the Magus said. “A final rest, in the company of those I love.”

“It is wonderful to see you again,” Thalla said, and though her tears were no longer real, they stung her spectral eyes all the same.

“And it will be a long time seeing, yes,” Melgalés replied, and they hugged. “Let us make up for lost time with eternity in the Halls.”

Though it looked liked Thalla had a thousand things to say, she captured all of them with a single smile. The two people she loved most, her mentor and her partner, had been returned to her. All that was lost had been found again. Death, it seemed, was a very small price to pay.

“And you,” Melgalés said, turning to Yavün, his voice initially severe. “Thank you for my freedom.”

“I was wrongly the jailer,” the poet replied. “Thank you for letting me correct my error.”

“The long wait was worth seeing the end of Agon.”

“Perhaps you desire a longer wait,” the Gatekeeper said, “since you dally on the doorstep.”

“Just long enough to toy with you in turn,” the Magus said. “Perhaps eternity has an end for Chránán, but for you it must be endless. It must be a different kind of pain to that which Agon felt to usher the dead unto their final rest, and yet find no rest of your own.”

This must have angered the Gatekeeper greatly, for his presence vanished and the doors to the Halls swung open.

“Our life in the world is over,” Melgalés said. “Our life in the Underworld is just beginning.”

They walked in together, and the doors shut firmly behind them, watched by the envious eyes of the Waiting, yearned for by the jealous hearts of the Endless Lost.

XX – JUDGEMENT OF ALL

When morning came, it was as if the entire world awoke from a restless slumber, from a place of dark and disturbing dreams, of a place where shadows reigned beneath the greater shadow of the night. The sun shone intensely, and even the tired and the sleepy welcomed it, for in its warm rays were the many promises of a bright and hopeful future, and it seemed to all who looked with dazzled eyes upon it that one of those rays reached out to each of them, as if to illuminate the many new paths that each would take.

*  *  *

Délin did not immediately return to Arlin, even though he yearned to do so. Honour demanded that he pay his final respects to those that had fallen, and so many had fallen. His prayers, though long and fervent, were not enough for the myriad souls that were now ushered into the Halls.

When the survivors began to bury the bodies, he stopped them from burying Elithéa in Boror, a land of kings, or Telarym, a land so devoid of trees that it seemed like it would be an insult to her memory, even if she had so little regard for the body after death. He told his fellow knights that he would bury her in Féthal, her homeland, and Brégest agreed to help him with this.

Yet before they departed, they also paid their final respects to their god Corrias, whose body was nowhere to be seen. Though they were certain that he was dead, they were unsure of exactly what happened to the Céalari when they passed on. Perhaps they went to Halés, or perhaps they went to the Void. Délin thought that it would be a cruel irony for Corrias to join the Elad Éni in the prison he had locked them in. The thought gave him no comfort, and he pined for Corrias, and he pined for a world where Corrias was no longer the father god.

“To whom do I pray?” he asked the heavens. He thought also of that moment when Théos was taken from the world, when he had abandoned his faith in Corrias, had cast his prized pendant into a grave of snow. He felt a certain guilt, even though he hoped he had in some way made amends for his failings.

His eyes looked to Althar above, and it seemed that few eyes looked back. There were few to watch, and perhaps fewer to hear. Though he heard no words in answer to his plea, in time strange thoughts came into his head: Pray to the living. Pray through living. All life is prayer.

*  *  *

When Délin and Brégest reached Féthal, they were halted at the border by a contingent of the Éalgarth, all in similar attire to what Elithéa wore.

“What is your business here?” they asked, and they mumbled what might have been Ferian insults among one another.

“We come to honour one of your own,” Délin said.

“You are a Man,” the main guard said, as if that were the greatest sin. “Your race does not honour ours.”

“We are here to do just that,” Brégest said. He showed the body of Elithéa.

“Why do you bring the body?” the Éalgarth asked. “Where is her acorn?”

“It was buried in Alimror.”

The guard grew incensed, and the others drew their staves as if they had been greatly insulted. “An acorn is sullied when it is planted in Alimror soil.”

“I said buried, not planted,” Délin said. “This is Elithéa, one of your finest.”

The guard scoffed. “Ah, so she has returned, dead in the arms of a Man. Telarym has tainted her. Yet our spies in Alimror say that her acorn was tainted also. Perhaps then the soil of Alimror can do no more.”

“Will you let us bury her in Féthal?”

“No,” the guard said. “We do not bury the body.”

“What do you do with it?”

“Let nature take her course, and return the body to the earth in time.”

“Then will you take her body to be honoured in your land as your people will?”

“No,” the guard replied. “If her acorn is in Alimror, then her body can go there also, where the taint of the soil may be her most appropriate bed.”

“Whatever might have become of her acorn, she was the best of you,” Délin said, holding back his anger. “She came as a scout, but she stayed as a soldier. She fought and died with many, while none of you came to fight Agon. History will remember that you never came to the aid of those in the east.”

“We fought evils of our own,” the guard said, and he glowered. “You know nothing of the wars in the west.”

Délin prepared to speak, to challenge the guard, but Brégest pulled him aside, before an ill choice of words might be their doom. He suggested they bury Elithéa in Alimror, where she had placed her acorn, and so they returned to that location and dug a new grave, and spoke new prayers, and hummed new solemn songs.

*  *  *

On the return journey to Arlin, Délin confessed to Brégest that this would be his last war, that he would retire from the knights and live out the remainder of his life away from the battlefield. Brégest was saddened by this, but he understood Trueblade’s decision, and he was honoured to be chosen as Délin’s successor as both Knight Commander and Lord of Ciligarad.

When Délin returned to Ciligarad, the city erupted in celebration. Word had already reached them of Agon’s demise, but they were one of the few settlements to hold off their rejoicing until their lord and leader returned.

Among those waiting for him was Théos, who stood under the watchful eye of the knight Talaramit. The boy stood out against the backdrop of tall knights around him, all of whom wore their finest ceremonial armour. None of them were fighters any more, for many of them were old, some were sick, and others had skills that were better suited to a settled life. Yet as they stood in regiment behind Théos, they looked as strong and intimidating as any of the younger and battle-ready knights that had travelled to Arlin, of whom so few returned.

The sun glinted off the silver and steel, until all eyes squinted. Théos’ golden hair seemed more golden than ever, and his smile was broader than Délin had ever remembered it. He held the stuffed toy tree in his hands, hugging it close to him. He seemed ready at any moment to race towards Délin, and from time to time he looked up to Talaramit, as if for permission to leave his place. In time the knight nodded, just as Délin descended his horse, and the boy charged up to him, and they hugged, and Délin lifted him up into the air, even as a Standard-bearer might lift the flag of victory after a hard-won war.

“Thraslith hassúl,” Théos whispered to Délin. He did not know what it meant, and it reminded him of the gap of language, and of the one who bridged that gap, who was now no longer with them.

Then he was surprised to hear what followed. “Welcome home,” the boy told him. He accented the words oddly, so much so that it was obvious he was from a distant land, but they were words that he could recognise, and though they always had meaning for him, it seemed then that they had more meaning than they ever had before.

Délin was so taken aback that he could not find a response. Talaramit seemed to notice this, for he came to them and placed his hand upon the boy’s shoulder.

“I taught him some of the Common Tongue and Old Arlinaic,” Talaramit said. “He is a studious child, and a faster learner than many—even you.”

“For you,” Théos said, and he handed Délin a pendant. It was a perfect replica of the one he had cast aside on the White Mountains, when his whole world turned to darkness. Had it not been for the lack of scratches and tarnishing on this new pendant, he would have thought he was holding the old one. Yet this one seemed more significant than the other ever did, even though Corrias was now dead, and even though it was as much the symbol of his faithlessness as it was his faith.

“I pray,” the boy told him, “you come back.”

Délin smiled in his heart and soul, to match the smile upon his face. “I prayed that you would be safe, that you would be happy, that Iraldas would be saved for you.”

Perhaps the child did not fully understand all of those words, but his smile and the look in his eyes showed that he understood enough.

“Thank you for this gift,” Délin said, holding up the pendant again.

He held the pendant in one hand, and in his other arm he held Théos, and he never felt so glad to not be holding a sword, to hold instead what meant much more to him than all he had dedicated his life to.

Then Théos took the pendant and placed it around Délin’s neck, just as Délin had taken off the pendant Théos wore, which symbolised so many evil things. For the child there was freedom in not wearing that chain, and yet for Délin there was a new kind of freedom in donning once again the symbol of his faith.

After Délin exchanged greetings with his fellow knights, Théos was eager to show him his room. Trueblade was heartened to see that upon the small table by the window, which served as an altar in the sparse rooms of the knights, sat his old, battered helmet, almost like an idol in a place of worship.

“Metal head,” Théos said, and he tapped his knuckles gently against Délin’s forehead. The knight smiled and returned the gesture.

“Délin,” the boy said; it was the first time he had used his real name. “Can I be knight?”

Délin smiled again. “Yes,” he said. “Of course you can.”

They looked once more towards the old, battle-weathered helmet, which might one day be worn by Théos into battle.

*  *  *

There were mixed emotions for the victors of this war, for Délin learned from his fellow knights that Issarí had passed away only a few days before, that her body had risen to the top of Lake Nirigán, before disappearing entirely the following night. No prayers to her were answered, nor were the prayers to the other gods in Althar that she be restored to life. It was speculated that she died when Elyr Issaron, the River Man, her spouse and lover, passed on, and so she lived up to her final promise that she would not speak with the Knights again, even though Iraldas had been saved.

The celebration of Agon’s defeat was short-lived, and it was followed by a week of mourning. Candles were lit upon little wooden boats, which were pushed out into the lake. They numbered in their hundreds, and were not enough for the tears that Issarí had shed, and were not enough for those who had died in this war.

Délin and Théos crafted a little boat together, and though neither spoke of who it was for, it was clear to them both that it was for Corrias. It was more elaborate than many of the others, but the candle that sat upon it was the same, and when the wax burnt low, it erupted in flame like all the other barges of the dead.

When the week had passed, Délin brought Théos to Alimror, to where Elithéa buried her sullied acorn. The boy remembered the location better than he, and he placed his hands over the spot and said, “A tree.” Délin smiled, but shook his head. He prayed for a moment, and he thanked Elithéa, wherever her soul now wandered, that she had spared Théos, even if the world had not spared her.

Thus ended his honouring of the dead, at least for the time at hand, and so he began to honour the living. He returned with Théos to Arlin, and he taught the child many things, and they both knew joy as if it were another knight that lived with them.

After a year had passed, they returned to the sacred spot in Alimror, which was less sacred to Elithéa in those sorrowful moments when she buried that sullied seed. They saw a wonderful sight: in the soil that was once empty there was a sapling, and though it was small, it hinted to their hearts that it would one day grow into a great tree.

Each year they returned to that place to honour Elithéa, and each year as Théos grew a little, so too did the tree. It even seemed that upon the tree there were some natural notches here and there to mark the boy’s advancing height.

Délin sometimes thought of what might have been, that he might instead be visiting the tree that grew from Théos’ acorn. Though these trees were everything to the Ferian, to Délin they were not enough. To him a person was so much more, and yet he knew that it was folly for him to worry about a clash of culture, which was its own kind of war.

Yet it was a war in which he hoped both sides were giving up their arms and coming to some kind of understanding of one another, meeting out in the no man’s land to share words instead of swords. To him, Théos did much to bridge that gap, and as the boy learned new things, the knight found that he learned just as much, that in the child there was wisdom that sometimes the old were lacking.

“Why do the trees grow, and the young grow, but the old do not?” Théos asked him on one of their many outings.

“The old grow in a different way,” Délin told him. “There is height in the body, but there is also height in the soul. Some shoulders grow broad, and some stay at a certain size, but there is always room for the heart to grow broader.”

“So we are always growing?” the boy asked.

“Yes,” the knight replied. “The seeds of the mind are nurtured by knowledge and watered by questions. The seeds of the heart grow by loving and being loved. The seeds of the soul are planted by our actions, and they sprout from our words, and they grow from our deeds.”

And so Théos grew in body, and Délin grew in heart and soul, and Elithéa’s tree continued to grow, and from it fell the seeds that began the saplings of other trees, and so in her own way she had a family in the forest.

*  *  *

Herr’Don spent some time at Fort Onar, building a tomb for Edgaron out of the many bricks and slabs that lined the place. Others offered to help him, but he refused, and Belnavar would have helped if he could, though he helped in his own by offering his company.

It was a small tomb, nothing like the splendour of those made by the Tibin in the north-westernmost parts of Iraldas, nor even like the opulent cube of Ilokmaden Keep, which, though it housed hundreds of the living, was its own kind of tomb. It was not truly fitting for Edgaron, Herr’Don thought, just as the mound that became the Amrenan Adelis was not truly fitting for Belnavar. He hoped that when he eventually parted from the world, there would be a monument so massive that all in Iraldas would know of his greatness and glory.

Though Herr’Don prayed and told tales of Edgaron’s contribution to the world, just as he had done for Belnavar, no ghost appeared to comfort him, nor to wander with him. The comfort and the wandering resided only in his heart, and in those fond memories that would never leave his mind.

From Fort Onar, even as he placed the last slab upon Edgaron’s tomb, he heard Boror begin what would be a month of celebration, less for the defeat of Agon and more for the coronation of Aranon, the chosen successor of King Herr’Gal. As one age of opulence gave way, there was another to take its place. Herr’Don was not only not invited to the crowning ceremony, but was actively prohibited from attending. In addition to several messengers being sent out to issue the prince, or former prince, the notice, a second guard was put in place at all four entrances into Madenahan. Herr’Don was not hurt by this, however, for he had no intention of witnessing the beginning of Aranon’s reign, and though he could not deny that he resented the short, thin man that replaced the tall, fat one that came before, he had no desire to cause any havoc on the royal day.

“You should be king,” Belnavar told him.

“You should be alive,” Herr’Don replied with a smile. “Some things do not go our way. But come! I am king of battle, and my kingdom stretches far.”

“And what of your crown?” Belnavar asked.

“My helm,” Herr’Don said, “though I do not wear it.”

“And your sceptre?” the ghost inquired.

“My sword, though I do not need it.”

“And what will they call you?”

Herr’Don grinned. “I think you know.”

Belnavar smiled in turn. “Herr’Don the Great.”

And so began their new journey, back where they had last met each other while both were still alive, on the outskirts of Larksong, where their last quest was set in motion. They cast off in a small boat, and Herr’Don paddled, and Belnavar paddled with a spectral oar. They sailed off into the mist, and they were not seen again for a time. Yet here and there tales began to appear of sightings of a man talking to himself in a boat, and further tales spread of a wandering warrior who went here and there, quelling quarrels, avenging innocents, and freeing slaves. Some said he lost his arm to a monster of the air, and some others said it was a creature of the sea. Some said it disappeared a little day by day from a witch’s curse, and others said it never existed in the first place, and that this is why the old king banished him. Some said he walked alone, but others whispered of another great warrior who walked with him. And so the tales travelled on a journey of their own, and in time they became the most awe-inspiring legends.

*  *  *

Ifferon also did not attend the coronation, for Geldirana would not enter Madenahan, where she knew that the new king might be different in many ways, but would be no different when it came to treating the Garigút.

“He is not my king,” Geldirana said.

“I guess he is not mine either,” Ifferon replied.

They held each other’s gaze for a moment, as if swearing fielty to one another.

“It is an odd feeling,” Ifferon commented, “to finally come to terms with my bloodline, and now there is no longer any need for it. With Agon dead, what good is the blood of Telm?”

“There are always other evils,” Geldirana said.

“That may be so, but I am not a young man any more.”

“No,” she acknowledged, and he saw in her eyes the memories of their time together ten years ago.

“So then the bloodline comes to an end,” Ifferon said.

“It continues on,” Geldirana replied, and they looked to Affon, parading about the land as if the war was still ongoing. In some parts of Iraldas, it was.

Ifferon cast his gaze back towards the smoulder of Fort Onar. “Who knew that such a place, so glorious in years long spent, would be the resting place of the Beast? Perhaps it is fitting that he has a ruin for a grave.”

“Fort Onar is not the only ruin,” Geldirana said. “Boror is but a shadow of what it was.”

“Perhaps we can make it better … together.”

Geldirana took her time to reply. “Perhaps.”

Ifferon looked to the east. “I need to see one last ruin, to put it all behind me.”

He sailed out with Geldirana and Affon to Larksong, which was now an island not far from the coast of Boror. Though it was once overrun by the Nahamoni, Ifferon found traces of a certain warrior prince who had passed through and cleared out the island. Now it was home to larks once more.

Yet though it was now a place of beauty, there were still signs of its former life. Some of the ruins of the monastery still stood, and though it was deathly quiet, it was the kind of deathly quiet that hinted at the voices of the dead.

There were too many memories there, too many reminders of who he was, of his hiding place, and of the people who died because of his cowardice. Though he had done much to atone for this since his flight from Larksong, he felt that there was no true redemption for his actions, or his lack of action.

“Bêtalajal,” Geldirana said with a smile.

“Less-of-home,” Ifferon translated. He mirrored her smile. “I guess that’s true,” he said. “I no longer have a home.”

Geldirana looked away for a moment, to the sea in the east, where no doubt there were many other lands which were the home to many other peoples. “You do,” she said softly, and she turned to him and looked him in the eyes. “All of Boror is our home.”

He smiled, and they kissed. A thousand fears crumbled in that kiss. A million worries faded. What was and what might have been was replaced by what is and what might be. Though guilt still lived with Ifferon, there was absolution in Geldirana’s lips.

As the two sat hand in hand, Affon marched up and planted a branch into the ground. “I claim this land for the Garigút!” she cried, and she saluted. “Blood for the Garigút!”

“I guess we have more land to claim,” Ifferon said.

They left Larksong Island behind, and with it their hurts and sorrows, and though the future would bring new hurts and sorrows, it would also bring new comforts and joys. As they headed back to the mainland to rebuild the Garigút, and to rebuild Boror, they heard the larks begin their melodic song. It seemed to them like an anthem for this new age, a lay for the living, a canticle for all the Children of Telm throughout Iraldas, for all the sons and daughters of the gods everywhere in the world.

For more tales set in the world of Iraldas, read the Memory Magus series of short stories.

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