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

  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, Eldest of Althar?”

  “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 the others, and her turn was like the churning of grave waters against a crusty coast; the erosion of years happened in a moment before their very eyes. “I know your journey, for I have seen it from the window at the depths of the sea. There is darkness and there is sorrow, for the veil of shadow has fallen upon you all, and the mauling hands of misery have sought you out. Let not this evil tear you down to Halés, for that is not your fate.

  “My task for you is not a task, but a word of advice that I bid the wise to follow: go soon and quick, and go to the Urod-Pelar, the Stone of the Wise, which lies to the west of my dwelling here. The Aelora have long guarded it, and for good reason, for it is one of the few ways we Céalari have of communing with this forlorn world. It is the Oracle of the Ardúnari, for that is where they were chosen, and there, among few other places, can you commune with the heavens, a feat that has been difficult to do since Agon burned the roots of the Great Tree, closing the doors between this world and the Overworld, and forcing powers like mine to wither away in a place that is not our home. Go! Go to the Aelora Stones and seek the Urod-Pelar. It will tell you what you need to know and where you need to travel.

  “Now, I bid you well. Farewell to you all, for my days are numbered here 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. Seek the Urod-Pelar, Servants of the Light! Seek it in good will. My blessings are with you. You are the hope of all.”

  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.

  “Telarym can wait then,” Délin said, his voice soft yet resolute. “Fellow knights, 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 to visit the much whispered about Aelora Stones, while others wondered why Délin would put this new mission ahead of his life-long quest to restore Arlin to its former glory.

  Délin looked at the others with a hint of excitement in his eyes, as if the meeting with the Lady had made him more like Yavün. “To the Urod-Pelar! To the Stone of the Ardúnari!” he cried. He turned and ran west, around the edge of the shimmering lake. When the clink of his armour had gone and his silhouette could be seen no more, the others followed, and they passed into the whirling shadows of the land, amidst the chaos of the rainfall and the fervent shouts of Délin De’Marius.

  XI – THE UROD-PELAR

  “If she is a Céalar, why does she dwell in Iraldas?” Yavün asked.

  “Because her Lamp was broken in Althar,” Délin said. “Thus she was forced to live here with her spouse Elyr, their days numbered like mortals, albeit still many millennia long. They once dwelt in the Issarelyr Lake in Telarym, where they created the Taarí, but Agon drove them out and the Taarí are now in servitude to him. We know not what happened to Elyr, the Lochlamon, but it is believed he died in battle with the Beast.”

  “She lost her lover,” Thalla said. “How horrible!”

  “No wonder she is so full of sorrow, then!” Yavün said. “That is a horrid fate!”

  “Yes, yes, indeed,” Délin said, nodding. “The loss of a loved one is a harrowing affair, and one that I am glad to say I do not know so close a parting. Arlin is my first love, and to this land I am consort, so I do feel the chill that comes with knowing that what one holds true and fair is withering away before one’s very eyes, even as one tries to save it. Without doubt this was something that also consumed the Lady Issarí, seeing Telarym and the Taarí being taken from her and corrupted to evil purpose. And thus does she see the retelling of those dark days here in the crumbling of Arlin. Alas for us all, my friends. Alas!”

  * * *

  They continued on through the mist and the rain, the sky brooding darkly over them. An icy wind from Caelün was adrift, growing steadily fiercer and colder as they advanced towards the Aelora’s land. The chill gnawed deep, like the frozen teeth of winter wolves, and caused a terrible aching pain in them all, slowing their journey.

  “How long do we have yet to travel?” Herr’Don asked, pulling his cloak about him to keep out the clawing cold; the wind seized it from him and sent it flailing, battering against the breeze.

  “It is not far now,” Délin said, pointing ahead of him as if he could see the Urod-Pelar from his current vantage point. “Ah, it has been some time since I have set foot in Elélin, the White Land of the Aelora. It is very close.”

  “You said the same thing many a mile back,” Herr’Don noted, “and I’m beginning to suspect it of growing legs and running off into Upper Lün to consort with the giants!”

  “Yes, yes. So did I, at first,” Délin said, and he sighed a sigh of lost memories, “but I can just about make out its glimmer in the distance.”

  Right enough, Ifferon saw a shimmering lig
ht far off in the haze, although at times he wondered if it were not a piece of hail lodged in his glazing eyes.

  “I don’t see anything,” Yavün said, jogging ahead a little to get a closer look.

  “How can anyone see anything in this blizzard?” Ifferon asked. “It seems to be growing thicker as we go.”

  “And the cold,” Herr’Don added, trying to catch part of his cloak which had again escaped his grip in yet another gust of wind. “Don’t forget the cold. It won’t forget me!”

  “I’ve never heard so much complaining from you,” Yavün said. “And you scolded me when I didn’t like the Cliffhills.”

  “Well, it is cold,” the prince said. “I’m complaining for genuine reason. You were just complaining because you’re a lazy shepherd boy.”

  “I am not a—”

  “A boy? Lazy? Okay, all right, you’re a lazy stableboy. My humble apologies as Herr’Don the Great, Prince of Boror, for that heinous and rotten mistake of shepherd and stableboy. A sheep and a horse! How foolish of me. Perhaps next time I’ll just call you animal-boy to cover all the possibilities.”

  “Herr’Don!” Thalla scolded, slapping his shoulder with the back of her hand. “That is not very nice, Herr’Don. Apologise to him.”

  “Another apology?” Herr’Don snorted. “I fear Herr’Don the Great has stooped low enough to make one to this child already. However,” he added, glancing at Yavün with a sardonic glare, “one apology from the Great is worth more than ten from a lesser man.”

  Ifferon shushed them. They all stopped suddenly.

  “What is it?” Délin whispered.

  “It’s probably Yavün’s sheep baahing,” Herr’Don said. “Horses neighing, even.”

  “No,” Ifferon said, straining his hearing. “I heard something like footsteps just—”

  “Very good,” a voice called from around them. As it echoed out and spiralled around, there was a moment when Ifferon felt disorientated, as if his consciousness was following that voice and fading out with it. Then there was a glimmer of light from the darkness just ahead, and 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 up and 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 the Urod-Pelar to grant some counsel—among other things.” With the last few words, 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. You have not weathered age as I thought you might. 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, for there are more urgent matters here than age. 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. You are come to Caelün, the All Land of my people, and have arrived later than I had hoped, so 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 storm-shroud 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. You see, 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, or the Shadowlord as we sometimes call him.

  “Our Watch is thus divided per the Stations of the Moon, so those on active duty to fend against the Lichelord and his kin will depend 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 onto 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 Bearer of the Scroll of Mestalarin are gifted with the kelarsavëos, the clearsight, as we call it in the Aelora tongue, or chlarisabín, as it is known in Old Arlinaic.”

  “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 Ardüapa, or Ardún-Fé as you call it, before our great flight to Caelün, that were used to make these beasts. Molok the Animator 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 li
mited 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.

  “Ah, 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 before 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.”

  “Then who will be High Warden?”

  “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.