The Call of Agon: Book One of The Children of Telm Read online

  X – OF KNIGHTS AND LADIES

  They were awoken early the next morning by Délin and his fellow knights, all of whom were fully dressed and, it seemed, full in their bellies and refreshed in their hearts. 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, for we have tarried here overlong, and 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! I jest. 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, snacking 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, of course 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, and there are many queer goings-on there. 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 another few minutes 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 that held a plaque that bore their name. On one was Medgrin the Valiant, and he was tall, with a long beard and deep-set eyes under a great helm, his hand stretched forth, pointing to whatever enemy he then faced, now pointing eternally southwards to where a greater enemy still lingered. The other statue was slightly shorter, Lindisgrid the Brave, a younger man by his appearance, and he bore a shield that was nearly the height of him and a deadly spear in his other mangled hand.

  “They were Calnibur’s finest soldiers,” Délin told them. “When the newly-built town of Calnibur was attacked by the Hulban Gormolok Clan from the Many Mountains in its heyday, these two men rallied the people and drove the Gormoloks back. They continued to do so for many years until their death. They fought together and died together, and now they stand together in stone eternal, an echo of times we oft forget—when Arlin was one and whole under the blanket of the sun and the curtain of the stars.” He sighed deeply and slowly. “I will not forget those times.”

  The keep itself 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?”

  “Of course not, but I would have thought a fellow Lord of the Land would offer shelter for his kin,” Délin said.

  “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. “But 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, mayhaps? If I hadn’t known better, I’d say you were friends with this man.”

  “And what if he was?” 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? Boror I say! 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.”