The Call of Agon: Book One of The Children of Telm Page 17

  “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.”

  “Of course she did not! 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.”

  “What then must we do?” Délin asked. “I will stand side by side with her to face this fiend if I must!”

  “That you will, Knight of Issarí,” Oelinor observed, “for you wear your honour and valour over your armour, and there it gleams more brightly. But alas! For we can all stand side by side at the Gates of Nahragor, but that will merely mean that we will all fall side by side. 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 energy 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.”

  “Child?” Yavün said, turning to Ifferon. “What does he mean?”

  “What do you think he means?” Herr’Don snapped, glaring at him. “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? Ah, you are a sheltered sort, Yavün.” He paused and added: “Among other things.”

  “Quiet,” Oelinor said. “I will not have such childish bickering in my company or the company of my kin.” He turned to Yavün and Ifferon. “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. “But you know I am wary to turn guesswork into truth.”

  “Yes, Ifferon, but I feel this time your guess may be right.”

  “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 fiery prison. Should he rise from his bonds we will all sink into bondage to him, and we will eternally rue the moment we erred.”

  “He will not rise!” Délin cried. “By the Lady’s Name, 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 enthusiasm,” Oelinor said. “But the Beast, Aelor save us, 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.

  “But that is not all that you have access to. How have your dreams been, Ifferon? Have you dreamed much? Have you dreamed often? Have you had dreams that are at once odd and strangely familiar?”

  “Yes,” Ifferon said, his voice but a whisper now. “What does it mean?”

  “The Oracle of the Urod-Pelar is one of the few ways for the Céalari to commune with us, and sometimes a voice in it is awoken and I am called to it for much needed counsel. But the Urod-Pelar is not the only way. The halfway house that is the realm of dreams is a meeting place for mortals and gods, though few avail of it. They have been communicating with you, Ifferon, and that is the only medium they can do it at present. The dreams you dream are important, Ifferon. Pay heed to them, for they will tell you more than I can ever tell.

  “And thus I come to my point at last, for there is a message for you at the Urod-Pelar, written in the veil of dream, and you must read it ere you set out against the shadow. Thus is it my duty to bring you there, and bring you there I shall.”

  * * *

  They set out and came to the Urod-Pelar by dusk. There was a pale glimmer in the sky
and upon the horizon to the north, where lay the vast domain of the Aelora. The Stone of the Ardúnari was five times the height of Man, and thus ten times the height of Oelinor, who walked quickly towards it. Its base was ten feet wide, and it loomed up tall and grey, growing steadily thinner as it went. At the top there seemed to be a thin mist circling, though this could only be seen when eyes were strained, for its colour was of twilight grey and blue, pulsing in and out of the sky around it. On first glance this stone sentinel could be mistaken for a mountain in the distance, for even up close, it seemed to lay so far away, as if the very border of the Urod-Pelar led to a different realm, the magic of the past mingled with the earth of the present.

  At the base of this monolith a thicker fog billowed, and when Ifferon and the others had passed through it, following the pale light that glowed from Oelinor’s robes, they saw that there were five other stones standing guard around the Urod-Pelar. These were smaller, the height of Man, but they were of similar make and appeared to hint of some living force beneath their surface. They leaned slightly inwards towards the Urod-Pelar, as if feeding from its energy, or bowing before its secret power.

  “Ardü il-Ardüa!” Oelinor said, raising his hands, and it seemed then that the fog fled from him and a pale light shone towards his hands from the standing stone. “Mërrö, asa siada abï siados! Pelarë il-Urodümë! Pelarë il-Ardünaraë!” The words seemed to echo into the land around, to the very ends of the earth, where they fell off into the black pit of emptiness that was the Void.

  “Many long years have I lived here by the Lake,” Délin said, “and I knew well that the Urod-Pelar of the Aelora lay nearby, across the border of my own lands—yet I have never set sight upon it, nor wondered at its strange and mystifying beauty. I can almost hear the echo of the elder days, and this great monolith seems to pierce the pale grey of the present like a hand reaching out from history itself!

  “Ah, now I am left to ponder long and hard, for if such a strange relic of the gods lies here so openly beside Loch Nirigán, why not would the Fair Lady herself venture up here from her prior dwelling in Telarym when days were brighter? Would this be the source of her sustenance here like that of the Taarí down south ere the Adversary came across the waters?”

  “Ia Narad il-Issarï,” Oelinor said, and he appeared to smile, though there was no physical mouth to do so; instead the light in him deepened in tone and tightened in form, and a pale glimmer was in his eyes. “This is the Oracle of the Gods, the Vervia as we call it, or Wordway in your tongue. It is one of the few remaining portals to Althar and is infused with the Breath of Oelin, Céalar of Magic, whom you call Aelor.”

  “What about Halés?” Yavün asked.

  Oelinor turned to him. “Halés?”

  “Is it a portal to Halés too?”

  “Na arri laum,” Oelinor said, and the light within him dimmed. “No, Halés has not been closed off like Althar has, for Agon, Aelor save us, had no reason to close the Gates there, nor, indeed, any true way to do so, bar bringing down the caverns of fire beneath the earth—but even that could not be done, for the stone and fire of Halés is not a physical thing, and only the dead may travel there; for such is the ordinance of those who created these worlds, and they are beings beyond being from a time beyond all time, and we speak little of these, the Elad Éni of the Void.

  “Yet there is a way to Halés still, a way which you all will pass on your journey southward, for in the Morbid Mountains lies a tall summit, the Peak of the Wolf, and there is an entrance there, deep within its feet, which opens into a long tunnel, and many great falls, to the Caverns of Halés itself. Should any manage to journey there while still living, I will come to them personally to bow before them and call them Lord, for these drops are not only deep—they are infinite. As you fall you pass a barrier, and this barrier instantly strips you of all physical life, for while rock feels like rock there, it is not the same rock we have here in Iraldas. It would be some feat to get to these chasms in the first place too, for that mountain is not without its guards. Great beasts from the Underworld, known as Felokar wolves, prowl there, and it is said that there is an even greater wolf at the bottom of that pit, one that is four times the size of an Aelora, with three great heads full of monstrous teeth, and claws as sharp as the scythes of the Gatekeeper himself.”

  “Who’s the Gatekeeper?” Yavün asked, his eyes bright with intrigue.

  “That,” Oelinor said, “I will not tell, bar the rumour that he is one of the last of the Elad Éni. The Realm of Death is not my domain, and shall never be, should I fair well in battle. I have heard but whispers and dark tidings about Halés, though eventually all, mortal and immortal alike, must make their way to the Halls there, where eternal rest and blissful sleep await.”

  “Talk of that place makes my skin crawl,” Herr’Don said, shuddering. “Let us talk less and do more.”

  Délin nodded. “Yes, yes. I am one for long tales by lakeside or fireside, but the feel of this place has me fading into the world of dreams.”

  “Aye! My head would float away in moments if it were not tied down,” Herr’Don said. Ifferon did not doubt it.

  “A long night’s sleep beckons, I say, though I would have us seek counsel ere then,” Délin said, setting his helm down on the ground beside him.

  “You will seek counsel,” Oelinor said, clasping his hands together. “But it will come in sleep, for that is how the Urod-Pelar works. This drowsiness that has befallen you is part of its aim, for it lulls you and calls you into the land of distant dreams. Go there soon, people of Arlin and Boror, and on waking you will have counsel that is fitting for each of you. I will say now, however, that not everything that happens there will be readily called to mind on waking, for some messages are best kept silent and secret, until their time is right.”

  So it seemed that Oelinor talked more slowly, until at last it was but a dull whisper on a wind that wafted in their minds, blowing away all thoughts and anxieties, and hopes and fears. It took them and bore them on the airstream, fading down a current of clouds, padding their mind until they no longer felt their bodies lying against the Stone. Time faltered and froze, and the land about them collapsed into a vastness that defied all reason. A radiant blinding light descended upon them, until all they could see was its ever-present glow.

  It was then that Ifferon strayed into a dream.

  * * *

  He was at the Urod-Pelar still, and it was covered in a dense and rolling mist, as it was before the dream had swallowed him—but this mist was different; it rolled and billowed like waves, sinking and rising with the tides of sleep. Ifferon watched closely, though as if from a great distance, through some strange mirror or screen that let one see the far away in the here and now. It brought shivers to him, like the fingers of the wind combing through his hair, trailing down his neck, seizing his spine and forcing him to quiver like an old, weathered tree in the coolest of breezes. There was a faint sound like the rustle of leaves; then the deceptively gentle sound of the sea as a new tide came.

  The fog seemed to swell, like water-skins overflowing, and when it trickled out he could see there was a light in the Stone, a dim glimmer that rose to a pinnacle in the sky, mimicking the mist he had seen before. It beamed like a great beacon, staring at and into him, deeper than miner’s dug, further than dark hands reached.

  Then there was a voice like sudden thunder. “If I were a distant star, would you strain your eyes to see me?”

  Ifferon looked upon the stone god with a great fear in his heart; he felt it leaking into his stomach and rising in his throat. “Yes,” he struggled, his lip trembling as the word seemed to leap from his mouth and fall before the Stone. He felt as though he were sinking into the ground before it, as though its presence was forcing him to collapse in upon himself. He felt infinitely small.

  The voice bellowed out again: “If I were on a distant shore, would you travel across that sea?” The Stone was almost translucent now, and there was a shimmer o
f rushing waters there.

  “Yes,” Ifferon said, almost unbeknown to himself, for he did not feel in full control of his body or mind.

  Then the voice welled up and flowed about him, and there were many voices, like a choir of angels singing, all in haunting harmony. There were many languages spoken, perhaps all the tongues in the whole of Iraldas, and perhaps many beyond its shores. They all seemed to speak one tale, and they all sang with one sombre tone:

  I am all the world forgot,

  A remnant of neglected skies,

  Left to perish, left to rot

  Outside the sight of mortal eyes.

  Your books no longer keep my name,

  My image cast out of your home.

  Those few who know me turn in shame

  And cross me out of scroll and tome.

  I am that which few recall,

  A brief and brittle memory

  Of glories great before the fall

  Of Man from that which crossed the sea

  From lands uncharted in your maps.

  Our Thrones were smote with darkest fire.

  We saw the kingdoms all collapse,

  And here we dwell, a muted choir.

  Ifferon saw the ship, saw it dock in Telarym, saw that great shadow that flowed from it, infecting all in its wake. A storm clung to the sky and followed the shadow that clung to the ground, and one by one the Taarí fell under its growing dominion.

  There was a clap of thunder, like a hammer on the Stone. “Agon will claw and crawl his way from the pit in which he lies, and he will sail the black ships of Halés back to Iraldas, back to his citadel in Telarym, back to the throne he has made there to rule this land until all is swept away in his hatred, until the pain of the fires within him is duly quenched and he is free of his misery. Only then will this terror which has taken these lands be ended.

  “He is deluded, for suffering within cannot be ended by causing suffering without. He will not end with Iraldas, for he will find that his pain has only grown, that the end of all life here has not abated the fires of rage within him. He will turn his eyes then to the other lands, which have grown wild under the rule of giants now that the Céalari are locked away from this world, bar those few exiles who still wander the lands. He will wage war and slaughter all, and he will stand alone upon a dead soil under a black sky that holds no twinkle of stars, and he will bellow out in agony and solitude. Such are the ways of the ignorant, though we do not harden our hearts against him.”