The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Read online

  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.