The Call of Agon: Book One of The Children of Telm Page 6

  “Is there no end to these hills?” Yavün complained. “I hope we are not going in circles!”

  “Do you doubt my abilities?” Herr’Don queried. “If you wanted a quicker journey, we should have loaded you on a catapult back at Larksong and aimed for the hills!”

  “You are awfully jolly for all that has transpired,” Ifferon noted.

  “My sanity demands it! I must look to laughter, Ifferon, for fear is the adversary, and leads to naught but failure. Do not forget what I said about the Spectres, for they will not forget what has been said about you.”

  Suddenly the mist seemed to clear and before them stood a figure of darkest shadow, halting their advance. As the fog fled from it Ifferon saw two more shapes upon the horizon, gazing down from far-off hills.

  “Look!” Ifferon commanded, his voice a frail shriek to his companions. Herr’Don and Yavün stared into the distance, but saw naught, and when they told Ifferon this his heart sank, as if it too were fleeing.

  Seeing with other senses, Herr’Don unleashed his sword. He cast an even larger shadow across the hills, the shadow of a fierce warrior brandishing a taunting blade. “Go! Take flight, foul spirits!” he called. “You have no power here, nor in any of my father’s lands. Flee! Flee in the name of the King of Boror or face the wrath of a vengeful prince!”

  But something happened then that none of them expected. Yavün turned to them and spoke with a voice that was not his own, a voice that spoke with death as its master and decay as its tongue. “We are the heirs of the earth. Your false valour will not protect you, prince of the Falling Kingdom, for we shall destroy you all. We can see through your veil. We can see your shadow, prince. Cry not Flee! to our ears, for we hearken not, but see now that we know your horrors, know your fear. Bear forth your wrath upon the weak, for it scathes us not. Take flight, for only in running may you evade our watchful eyes.”

  “Your words do not frighten me, Spectres of the Beast!” Herr’Don seemed now more resolute that he had something to look upon as his enemy, but Ifferon was still in shock at the sudden darkness in Yavün’s eyes and the sudden evil in his words.

  “We do not come on behalf of him. His commands fall on false ears. He brings death to all things, but we bring life to the Shadow Kingdom. Falter and kneel before us, Men of Boror. Our presence spells the end of your land—and the end of you.”

  And then a crumb of courage mustered up in Ifferon from some forgotten store of valour, and he spoke: “Do not come before us with your lies and deceit, Foul Ones! You are the product of illusion, and find life only in a lie. May the Light of Olagh smite you upon his blessed earth!”

  Cold laughter echoed on the wind. The voice in Yavün spoke again: “We can see your lie, Ifferon. Do not come before us with false courage and expect our retreat. We are of the earth and find our life therein. Not even your Olagh can make his mark upon us, cleric, for who are you, coward, to call upon his name? Olagh does not answer to you, for we know that it has been long since you have answered to him.”

  “Do not listen to them, Master Ifferon,” Herr’Don said. “They do not speak the truth. But come! Call upon Olagh to free Yavün from their spell.”

  And so Ifferon, low in spirit, rose himself upon the pedestal of hope and called upon the Mighty Olagh to fight for Yavün and free him from the Spectres’ reign, all the while ignoring the foul words the young man uttered on their behalf. And then a thought grew fast within his mind—he took the Scroll from his pocket and held it before Yavün’s faded eyes. There was a great shriek upon the wind, and as Ifferon glanced back towards the hills, there lay only mist—and the dark presence was gone.

  Yavün revived from his daze, his eyes returning to their former colour, his body resorting to its earlier stance, and the atmosphere around him restoring to its prior calm. He looked as one who had just awoken from the grip of a dream, but both Herr’Don and Ifferon stood on guard, fearful of what nightmare he might have brought back with him.

  “Come quickly,” Herr’Don barked, casting his cloak back and peering over his shoulder many times as he walked. He did not sheath his sword, but held it low, as if some creature might rush out from the ground beneath.

  Ifferon walked with Yavün behind, but the youth did not look at him. Silence covered them like a cloak of shame, and their darkest thoughts were now living, fuelled by the conflict with the Shadow Kingdom.

  “How long will this journey take?” Yavün asked, shattering the stillness with his more familiar voice.

  “Why not call upon the powers of alchemy and transmute talking into walking?” Herr’Don said sharply. “The Asps of Ilios are but half a mile yonder, and it is in the direction we need to go to Ardún-Fé.”

  “Half a mile is far in our state,” Yavün said. “My throat has been dammed of all moisture, and my limbs groan, for I had not anticipated such a flight.”

  “I did not anticipate hearing you speak with a shadow voice!” Herr’Don replied. “We make the most of our situation or we make nothing of it at all. My apologies, but I do not feel like speaking with you now.”

  Silence fell upon them once again like a burden, making their journey all the more tiresome. The fog lifted and the grassy hills gave way to rocky ones, but soon the Asps of Ilios came into view, between which the low sun cast a thin ray of light.

  Herr’Don led them around the eastern Asp to a grove where the Garigút hut stood concealed, its walls shrouded in soil and leaves. If it were not for Herr’Don pointing it out, Ifferon would not have noticed it and kept walking. But there it was, a small haven in a land of menace and peril.

  What was strange, however, was that Herr’Don had a key, brandishing it and unlocking the creaking door. A great whirlwind of dust sprayed out at them, and the prince shielded his eyes. “Ah, it has been some time indeed! The Garigút aren’t known for their house-keeping, so forgive the mess. They do, however, enjoy a good feast, and leave a large stockpile for their friends.”

  They entered the small but homely cabin, lined with huge wooden chests and a great wrack of weapons on the furthest wall. There was one window, facing out across the hills, but it was small and curtained in a strange green fabric and lined with many deserted cobwebs. There was no table, and there was but one chair, positioned by the window for sentry, but this did not bother them, for soon Herr’Don revealed the treasures contained within the locked chests: thick quilts and blankets, many bottles of mature wine, and an entire chest packed with stale bread and heavily salted meats. For a very long time they forgot their troubles and let their stomachs rule, and a great feast was had as the day waned and night crept silently around them.

  After they had feasted, Herr’Don went to a new chest and took from it a small oil lantern. He lit this and placed it in the centre of the room.

  “Now to wash that down with a drink even better than wine,” Herr’Don said, producing a small bottle of a clear liquid, which he poured into three chipped mugs. “Perhaps our poet will have a cup.” He had a curious look in his eyes, like a poisoner waiting for that fateful sip.

  Yavün did not seem to notice, accepting the drink and swamping it down swiftly. He wiped his mouth and looked up at the prince. “Any more?”

  Herr’Don sighed in relief and nodded his head. “You are lucky that you ask me that, for those spirits in you would not be so welcoming of this draught.” He handed the youth his cup, which Yavün clutched in both hands, now too frightened to drink.

  “The Garigút knew of these Spectres long before the King, and they have made a special water, thrice-blessed at the Olagh-stone, which these spirit fiends cannot bear,” Herr’Don explained. “The Garigút even coat their dwellings with it. I used it last night and this morning at our last resting place. They have many secrets they have shared with me.”

  “Dawnwater,” Ifferon said.

  “How do you know of it?” Herr’Don asked.

  “I knew them well when I was younger, but it has been a long time since I have spoken with them.”


  “Then it seems we have a thing in common, Master Ifferon. I have not heard word from them in over six months. Indeed, there has been no sighting of them in Boror at all lately. My father is worried—I was originally sent to keep an eye on them in case of rebellion or betrayal, but they are good warriors, especially their leaders, and if they are not in Boror we have lost a great defence.

  “But come, let us think not of the painful past, but look to the hopeful future! On the morrow we will take the Cliffhills as a path to Ardún-Fé, and there you shall meet my fairest, the Lady Thalla, and the wise Master Melgalés. It shall be a merry meeting.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Ifferon said. “I have heard naught but evil things about Ardún-Fé, and not all of them are rumours, I warrant.”

  “Do you doubt my ability to protect you? Ha! Master Ifferon, you have the greatest swordsman of Boror leading the way, and if that does not comfort you, then hearken! Master Melgalés is a Magus, as is my Lady Thalla, but he is also an Ardúnar—and if that does not comfort you, then I am, for once, at a loss.”

  “The Ardúnari!” Ifferon cried. “A few days before the attack at Larksong I came across a piece translated from the Aelora tongue that made mention of these Wardens of Light and the Molokrán. The verse was thus:

  Thirteen are they; it is their number.

  Each moon they wake from their deep slumber.

  Nahragor is their house, their home,

  But ever from there do they roam

  To stalk the lands of Man and beast,

  A nightmare from its dream released.

  Unseen by watchful eyes, they rise;

  They bear the land as their disguise.

  A creeping shade with mauling claws,

  And as they near, the light withdraws.

  Puppets of a long dead player,

  They are the land and its cold slayer.

  Each night unleashed a new dark dawn—

  The light of shadow: the Molokrán.

  To meet their match are thirteen more;

  Each moon they come to wage their war

  Against the shadow, against the shade,

  Against all that which the darkness made.

  A council chosen at the Stone

  From those unheard of and well-known

  Are tasked with facing this abyss;

  In lands where things have gone amiss.

  The threat of shadow lingers still;

  It pulls the noose, it seeks to kill.

  And so the Wardens’ watch is kept,

  A duty that so few accept.

  Each day the light meets dark with parry—

  Those watchful eyes: the Ardúnari.

  “There were more verses like this, but I was distracted by the arrival of the King’s armies. I suppose I will never see those texts again.”

  “Let us hope that Belnavar did some good then,” Yavün said.

  “Ah, there is no doubt,” Herr’Don said. “He and Trueblade have trained well together and shared many a battle against a number of foes. He will stand his ground for a long time ere the Beast rules Larksong.”

  “Why do you speak so kindly of these people of Arlin?” Yavün asked. “You know that they believe in foul things. The same with the Garigút. Corrias-worshippers, the lot of them!”

  “Do not try my patience, boy! I am not like my father. He despises all things that are not of Boror, and so lets our lands fall into enemy hands instead of getting aid from those who would be our friends. Who are you to speak in disdain of foul and corrupt things, you who spoke today with the voice of shadow?”

  “That was not of my devising.”

  “That I am sure, but you let yourself be the vessel of Agon’s emissaries to challenge Herr’Don the Great and Master Ifferon! You let the Spectres be a danger they might not have been.” He was about to continue, but held his tongue, which appeared like a great struggle that sent the anger from his mouth into his grim eyes.

  “I will take the first watch,” the prince said, standing up suddenly. “In three hours I will wake you, Yavün, and then you will wake Master Ifferon.”

  * * *

  And so was it that Ifferon and Yavün laid out the quilts and blankets upon the floor while Herr’Don killed the flame in the lantern. Thus was their resting place cast in shade, but no darkness could disturb them, for the ache in their bodies numbed their mind. At first, Ifferon was vaguely aware of Herr’Don sitting by the window, staring out at the hills—and sometimes staring at him. But the realm of sleep clawed at him and tugged him deeper into a bizarre dream. Shapes and figures danced across his mind, tall and dark and flowing, and all the while was Herr’Don sitting there, killing the flame.

  He awoke suddenly, startled by Yavün’s hand upon his shoulder. “Ifferon, it’s your watch,” he said quickly, and then he went to his bed and hid himself amongst the blankets, not even bothering to see if Ifferon was indeed fully awake and willing.

  It took several arduous minutes before Ifferon managed to struggle from the blankets and stumble towards the lonely chair. He sat and yawned, glancing out at the heavy night and the great blackness it cast across the hills. It was not cold, but the sight of those empty hills sent a chill deep into his bones, where it remained for a time until he began to doze off.

  Then something gnawed at him. A sound rang loud in his mind, a siren song leading him from his stupor into the vigilance of the wide awake. He heard the thrumming of the Scroll in his pocket, a deep vibration that set his hands shaking in the starlight. His eyes, wide with wonder at first, were now held in check by the sight upon the hills: a tall dark figure creeping slowly forth. His heart jumped, as if the very life in him was struggling to get free, and he stood up and hugged the wall beside the window. There the seeds of the image grew into large dark phantoms. He could see the others sleeping on the floor, oblivious. He could feel the presence drawing closer. But he could not move, could not call out, as if the very wall was holding him in place. And then a sound—a sharp footstep outside. And a sight—the handle of the door creaking slowly open.

  V – A GATHERING IN THE GLOOM

  “Teron!” Ifferon cried, almost happy to see him. The head-cleric stood at the door in his elegant attire, with his familiar frown that would have turned sour even the merriest of meetings. The tall figure of Belnavar stood behind him, his clothing foul, but his face much fairer.

  The wall loosened its grip on Ifferon, but now he clung to it, for shock was a friend of fear, and made Ifferon in need of some support.

  “Ah, Ifferon, you have arrived safely,” Teron said. “You did not think that I would die at Larksong, did you?” he asked, noting Ifferon’s surprise. “Are you going to let us linger on the doorstep? Belnavar has come a long way.”

  “Oh ... oh, of course!” Ifferon managed, stumbling over the seat as he tried to welcome them. “Come in. There’s plenty of space.”

  Herr’Don awoke suddenly and held his sword before him, but when the light of a newly-lit lantern shone upon the faces of Belnavar and Teron, he arose and greeted them with a smile instead of a blade. “This is a good sight! Belnavar! You have taken up my invitation. It is good to see you here—but this leads me to wonder if there is bad news for Larksong.”

  “Do not worry about that now,” Belnavar said. “We have done our best, and I found Teron while we were retreating. I decided to bring him here when he questioned if I had seen any of his men.” He looked at Ifferon. “And here they are! It is always good to see a joyous reunion.”

  Teron stepped forward, his robes brushing heavily across the floor. “A joyous reunion,” he said. “Why do I doubt that, Ifferon? Come aside with me. I have some things to discuss that only your ears should hear.” With that he glanced quickly at Yavün, who had but rolled over in his sleep.

  * * *

  The night air was cool, but the two clerics stood outside by the door and stared blankly at the sky. Teron’s hair was dishevelled, but this had little effect upon his kingly
composure. Ifferon did not believe it possible for Teron to be more grim than he was at Larksong, but his doubt was destroyed when he looked upon the head-cleric’s solemn features.

  “I guess this must be a bit of a surprise to you,” Teron said. “I guess you thought that you would never see me again. Or, better yet, I guess you never thought of it, never thought of me. I guess you were thinking about other things. Would I be guessing right, Ifferon?”

  “When Larksong was attacked, I thought of nothing else but flight,” Ifferon replied.

  “But is that not what you have thought about your whole life? Is that not the very reason why you were at Larksong in the first place?

  “Ah, Ifferon, my monastery is gone,” Teron said, a tear forming in his eyes. “My library is burned, my books are ruined, and my clerics are dead. There is little left for me there, though I may try to salvage it if it is not already scavenged by Agon’s men—if we can even call them that.”

  Then Teron’s voice hardened once more and the tears dried up, for he had glanced back at Yavün sleeping quietly in the hut. “The boy, who is he? Why is he here?”

  “He’s just a—”

  “A cleric? I think not. I know a cleric when I see one, and he is an impostor.”

  “I know, but he has admitted it. He is but an adventurous youth.” The memory of the spirits speaking through Yavün whispered in his mind.

  “I can tell you one thing, Ifferon, and that is that he is anything but an adventurous youth. He is much more and much less, and if you have any kind of sense in you, you will see this, and you will not let him fool you with his innocence. For that matter, I suggest you keep a wary eye on this prince. He has a good heart, that is plain, but he is prone to strange behaviour. His father, who I am in good trust with, would not have him in his court to save the embarrassment. He is very much a rogue, Ifferon, and he will lead you astray ere a safe haven.”