The Call of Agon: Book One of The Children of Telm Page 4

  “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. Although I do place trust easily enough, 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, stumbling over his words. 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. Worse yet, sometimes we are not in control of all our actions.”

  “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, may I ask?”

  “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?”

  “Don’t give me that look! It’s true. I could have your head on a pike in minutes. Indeed, 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.”

  “Wait!” Yavün cried. “I do not place trust as easily as you. Why should we trust you or this ... Magus you seek in the cursed lands? These people cannot be trusted. I cannot feel as safe as you.”

  “Then you have been plagued by rumours from Arlin,” Herr’Don said. “I was like you once, thinking magic was an evil force against the will of Olagh. But I have seen different. The veil of ignorance has been lifted from my eyes.”

  “I am not ignorant—just well-informed.”

  “Ignorant, no, but you are still misguided. I do wonder why you place your trust in a Cleric of Olagh and not a Magus, especially a cleric that works with the Runes of the Aelora. I wonder, yes.”

  “How do you know that?” Ifferon cried, his hand instinctively reaching towards the Scroll in his pocket, as if to check that it was still there.

  “As I said, you may think of yourself as a hermit, Ifferon, but tales of your actions have gone far and wide in Boror, and many lands further still. You can no longer trust in quiet regions by the coast, for all has now been cast in shadow, and all is under the watchful gaze of Agon. Now, come, we linger too long and talk of trifles. We will have time to tell our tales when we reach the Garigút hut. Come! We need not make haste, but do not take that as license to loiter here.”

  * * *

  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. “Is it true what Herr’Don speaks?” he asked. “That you work with the Northern Runes?”

  “Yes, it is true,” Ifferon said. “I have long studied the language of the Aelora and even travelled to Caelün, where I befriended Oelinor, Master of the Tower of Oelinadal, Aelor’s Candle. It was there that I came upon the Scroll.”

  Herr’Don stopped suddenly and raised his hand. “Can you smell the air here?”

  “What? Why?” Ifferon asked.

  “It’s foul in this region, but that is not the extent of my worry. There is a tension in the air, as if something dark lurks here. Come! If it will hasten your movements at all, let fear be our motivation and may we depart from this place!”

  A small black bird flew overhead, screeching at them and circling them from on high. “Ravens!” Herr’Don cried. “Ack, the Garigút have neglected this place! But these birds are not the only things watching us. Come! Make haste! The Barracreep is near.”

  The Barracreep was once a lively river, wandering across the eastern realms of Boror, and upon it the Bridge of Peace stood strong. Now the river had mostly dried up, leaving nothing but a mucky ditch, and the Bridge of Peace was now little more than a vague concept. Long was it said that no evil could cross it, but such stories were no comfort to Ifferon now. The bridge was dank and old, darkened by many rainfalls and neglected by the local townsfolk, who were themselves neglected by the King. Ifferon wondered if this bridge was a crossing into the land of peace or really the Bridge of War, leading to the many horrors that battle would entail.

  Herr’Don set his heavy boots down upon the wooden bridge; it creaked loudly beneath his weight, threatening to collapse. But the prince paid no heed to hazard and simply rushed across. Yavün followed swiftly, with barely a groan from the timber beneath. Ifferon proceeded slowly, for something told him that the evil on this side of the river was not as bad as that on the other.

  “There are phantoms afoot,” Herr’Don whispered. “Some of the fallen have not made their rightful journey to the Halls of Halés, but linger here in some after-form that is best forgotten. Now come, Ifferon! There is cover ahead in these fields of longwheat. Hasten now, lest I lose you in your pace.”

  Ifferon advanced across the bridge and into 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 tighter and 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 whispered. 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 VOICE UPON THE MEADOWS

  But the thoughts of solitude and isolation were quickly knocked from him, for a deathly voice came upon the wind, taunting him 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.

  “Over here,” 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.

  “Over here,” 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. “Over here,” it beckoned, and he felt his will begin to weaken, his mind begin to falter.

  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 fleet 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.

  “I knew this would happen,” Herr’Don said, sighing deeply and turning from them in apparent anger.

  “If you knew this, why didn’t you ... ?” But Ifferon’s heart thumped the words from him in quick spasms, almost daring to tear through his ribcage and drop limp upon the dull soil below.

  “Because I hoped it would not,” the prince said. “Alas! For 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 ... see the figures that ... hounded me?”

  Herr’Don turned quickly, his face veiled in dread. His jaw hung on the borders of panic and his eyes were wide as they glanced around the area. “What were these figures, Master 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 quickly.

  “Why this sudden haste? 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 a knave, boy, a knave of great naivety. 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!”

  “Evil,” Herr’Don whispered. “As Ifferon said. They are the Shadowspirits, 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 one.” Herr’Don glanced at Ifferon. “The Scroll of Mestalarin is a powerful tool, 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, I would that we hasten to our destination.”

  * * *

  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.

  Ifferon watched with great interest the small plants that lined the hills, tiny and tender, yet with such vibrant colours that they stood like fire upon a greying heath. Heads of red, blue, and yellow bobbed to the gentle song of the wind, and arms of leaves leapt into the air in wild applause. A ridge of trees flowed around the north-eastern hills, dark and lonely, but still a welcome sight away from the ruins they had seen earlier that day. Below them was an army of mixed and lively flowers: tiny yellow lilies with pealing petals revealing deep blue sepals within; red cluster-bush rising high above the rest like pointed roofs of far-reaching towers; and a sea of sharp-stemmed calmstars, blue as the deeps of the ocean, lying low in the fading sunlight. The wind was gentle and caressed Ifferon’s face with kindly fingers, and all the while his mind was falling steadily into serenity.

  “We shall rest here,” Herr’Don said, his voice like knives to the tender air. But there was something strange about his tone, a higher pitch bordering on excitement and anxiety. Ifferon noticed that the prince kept his hand upon the hilt of his sword as he walked.