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

Ifferon was on first watch that night, resting against the colossal boulder. The rock was cold, but more and more through the night he felt himself pressing deeper against it, as if he was comforted by the solidity he found there. He did not look back to see exactly what he was leaning against; his eyes were firmly set upon the other rocks further back along the path, great black smears upon the backdrop of shadow.

  The steady staring led his mind into a silent meditation on the stones and the shadows, and his eyelids became like burdens, little rocks of their own. A dream began to take him, and he did not have the strength to fight it. Slowly he wandered the idle pathways of slumber.

  But a swiftness seized him. His eyes went wide and sharp. His body tensed. A looming pressure rose in his chest, staying his breath and stalling his heart. The whistles of the wind, shrill and shriek, snatched his attention, stole his gaze. And then—a shimmer in the shadows, a sudden movement from the boulders in the distance. A Spectre lurked there, watching him from its vantage point. Then it was gone. But soon it reappeared at the other boulder, closer, dark hands caressing the rock. Again it vanished and again it returned in a different place. Ifferon realised that he was frozen still, as if the very chill of the rock behind had finally assimilated him. His eyes were not wide with the alert of danger but frozen open. He sat there, paralysed.

  And then he felt the great presence looming near, crawling slowly towards him, delaying the terror. Then cold breath, piercing upon his face, and he felt a shudder in the very core of him, like an earthquake in his soul. The Spectre hovered over him, a phantom with wordless whispers that spoke of nightmare and malice. Then a caress, flesh against shadow, a clawing embrace, pulling at him, threatening to descend with him, to bring him all the way down. Then sleep.

  * * *

  The next day they set out early after a hasty meal. Ifferon did not mention the shadows, but Herr’Don acted strangely, as if somehow he knew. Time creaked and all was silent in the dreary valley. The day passed like grinding stone, slow and monotonous, churning on in a single endless parade of the emptiness of the earth. The rocks were solemn, heads of stone raised to the sky in selfless prayer. Every so often a crumble could be heard, and the scree from the mountains would come tumbling down to base the valley in an unstable fabric. And each of these noises built new fears in the minds and hearts of the wary travellers, for perhaps they were the sound of something hunting them, or the echo of the valley threatening to cave in—and they did not know which was worse.

  So they lumbered on. Stone became stone and day became night, and all the while a fear festered in Ifferon’s heart.

  * * *

  The third day in the Cliffhills was as dull and tiring as the others, but it was flagged by a tumultuous rain, bashing down in great blades of angered sky. The clouds were darker, hiding fiercer greys than they had seen the days before. And the ground became quickly plastered in mud, mounting and rising with each and every ocean that came tumbling down on them.

  “I hate the rain!” Herr’Don called, his voice taken by a great and sudden wind.

  “Can we not find a place to shelter?” Ifferon asked.

  “If Olagh is kind,” the prince replied, wiping the rain from his eyes. “We must keep walking until we find some refuge from this storm.”

  And so the three struggled on, their limbs fighting virtuously against the wall of the wind and the pikes of the rain. Their eyes were soon flooded, and the rocks became dislodged and shaken, threatening to collapse or sink them if they lost their footing. And they did; twice Yavün slipped and came crashing down into the sludge and the stone, and five times Ifferon tripped and was caught by the firm grip of Herr’Don’s hand.

  When at last they found an outcrop in the rocky shelves in which to sit under, the rain had lessened, but it did not cease. They sat and cowered beneath the rock, their cloaks and clothes clinging to their skin as much as they clang to their attire. They huddled in the cold and the silence, watching the wind caress the rain with its icy touch. They watched until they almost came to know each drop, and then it faltered and died away, leaving just the chilling wind with its probing fingers.

  But the night had come, and the three became one again in the realm of sleep, where the rain would not wander and the cold would not tread.

  * * *

  Ifferon awoke suddenly to the sight of Herr’Don sitting silently, staring at him. His eyes glinted in the starlight, but his face still hung in the realm of shadow. There was a great tension in the air—apprehension’s dark embrace. Herr’Don tapped the handle of his sword with his fingers. He had removed his gloves.

  “You do not sleep easily,” Herr’Don said.

  Ifferon sat up and yawned to the night sky. “You do not sleep at all, it seems,” he responded.

  “Oh, I sleep,” the prince said, leaning forth a little. “I sleep when sleep is needed—and I stay awake when sight is needed.”

  “If you are referring to keeping watch, then I do not understand why you should sit and stare at me,” Ifferon said.

  “Oh, really?” Herr’Don replied, shifting on his rocky seat. “I rarely hear of Master Ifferon lacking understanding, but let us not dwell on such matters. We must travel early today. Ardún-Fé is near. I can feel its presence. The rock is no longer dead. There is a sizzle in the air, a crackling on the wind. We are very close.”

  And then, as if a great battering ram had broken through the reinforced doors of Ifferon’s mind, he was struck by the realisation that something was amiss. Something out of place, something important—something gone! Then the workers of the ram came into view. Ifferon put his hands into his pockets, finding nothing. The letter was gone—the Scroll was gone! And that same nagging feeling invaded his heart.

  “Where is it?” he asked, patting his clothes again.

  “Where is what?” Herr’Don said.

  “My ... my things! Where are they? I—”

  “Did you drop them along the way?”

  “No, I ... I had them last night, I am sure of it! But, I ...” And Ifferon looked at the swordsman, seeing a flicker in his eyes, a tremor on his lips. “Where did you put them? What did you do with them?”

  “Me? What are you talking about?”

  “I had them last night! I did! You took them, you must have!”

  “Now, here! Calm yourself and return to thinking. I do not take kindly to your accusations. Herr’Don the Great does not stoop to petty thievery! What would I want with your things?” Herr’Don stood up and turned to Yavün. “But ... I was not the only one on watch last night.”

  “I do not ... I cannot see that this—”

  “Come, Master Ifferon! Look here!” And the prince removed the documents from one of the stableboy’s pockets, careful not to wake him.

  “How did you know that’s what I was looking for?”

  “Well ... isn’t it obvious?” Herr’Don said. “What else do you have, Master Ifferon? Look! Here they were hidden away within his habit, which, I might add, he obviously stole from the monastery before. Come, Master Ifferon! Are you really this blind? You don’t even know him, yet you allow his antics. You allow him to parade about before you with his words and his guile! He’s a thief in the night, a servant of the Adversary.”

  “Give them to me.”

  “Hold! Why are you so obsessed with these works? Why are they so important to you?”

  “They’re all I have, remember?”

  “I’m not trying to trick you, Master Ifferon. Indeed, out of all the people you’ve met so far, I think I’d be the most trustworthy. This stableboy, there’s something about him, isn’t there? Something not quite right.”

  “I could say the same for you.”

  “Don’t try me, Ifferon! If you wish to play Yavün’s games, then you can both be children lost in the shade. I am a warrior, a leader, a prince. I’m here on orders. I’m here with a purpose. And so are you! If you wish to fulfil this purpose, and I really hope you do, then I advise you to follow my wisdom.” W
ith this, he held his hand forth with the Scroll and the letter. “No hard feelings?”

  “None,” Ifferon said sharply, taking the items and putting them away.

  “We should do something about him,” Herr’Don said, and he tapped his sword again.

  “What are you implying?”

  “Well ...”

  “He is just a boy.”

  “I am just a man.”

  “Herr’Don, I ... I do not like where this is going.”

  “We could leave him here,” Herr’Don mused, rubbing his beard and biting his lip. “Let the stone take him ...”

  “I do not take kindly to this cruelty!”

  “... but he knows so much already.”

  “Herr’Don! Do not let these dark thoughts consume you!”

  “Consume? No, not right now ...”

  “Listen to me, Herr’Don,” Ifferon said, laying his hands upon the prince’s shoulders and looking deep into his eyes. “Let us begin our journey for today and leave dark thoughts behind with the stone. You said we are near, so let us not dwell on this.”

  Herr’Don sighed long and harsh as he sat back down. “You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s just ... I don’t trust him, Master Ifferon. I don’t trust him at all, and I believe you would be wise not to either. Keep your guard, at the very least. The warnings of the Great do not come lightly.”

  And so the potential bloodshed turned into another morning of laborious walking. They set out early, Yavün complaining of his tiredness, Herr’Don remaining silent, and Ifferon casting wary glances at the two. He wanted to trust, wanted to shake the growing fear, but uncertainty and insecurity lingered in the depths of his heart.

  The Cliffhills faltered and the rock became scarce again. Soon Herr’Don announced that they had passed the borderline and were now in Ardún-Fé, but there was no need for such a declaration, for the air had grown thinner and the atmosphere had changed. It was closer, more compressed, as if something else was breathing with them, sucking in their air.

  It was not long before that something came into view.

  “Look!” Herr’Don called, pointing ahead. “Can you see it?”

  There was a sudden tension in the air, as if it were all drawing towards that one location. Herr’Don hid behind a rock, and Ifferon and Yavün clambered behind a spiny bush. From these vantage points a dull glow could be seen up ahead, a glow that was growing, as if it were approaching them.

  “What is it?” Ifferon whispered.

  “I think this is our guide,” Herr’Don replied after a moment of surveillance.

  “Our guide?” Yavün asked.

  “Yes, it’s an ardúnaleb, an orb of light. Melgalés would have sent it.”

  Yavün looked at it again and shook his head. “But how can you be sure?”

  “Faith,” the prince replied. “If you were really a Cleric of Olagh, you’d understand that.” He stood up and the light grew suddenly brighter, as if it were reacting to him. Then swiftly it came darting forward from the concealment of the trees and the rock. There they could see it more clearly, a brilliant ball of white, pulsing and shimmering. There was a strange noise, a deep humming, and then a weak globular sound. The orb then began to move back along the path it had come, travelling up towards the trees again.

  “I think it wants us to follow it,” Herr’Don said, smiling broadly.

  Yavün tried to speak, but words failed him. The wonder on his face was speech enough, for clearly he had seen nothing like this, nor heard of it when tucked into bed as a child.

  They followed the orb through the trees, tracing the faint lines of glow it left behind. The trees were few and sparse, and the orb zigzagged from one to another, as if feeding off them. The company tracked it, forgetting their stony prison of the past few days, forgetting the horrors of the darkness, forgetting even what cursed land they now walked in.

  They were led to a clearing surrounded on two sides by a forest that, Herr’Don announced, was called the Rotwood. To one side of this clearing lay a small swamp, dull and murky, and there, sitting upon a large fallen trunk, was a woman clad in robes of blue with yellow lining, and a large ash bow strapped across her back. She turned to them and smiled.

  Herr’Don raced forth. “Thalla!” he called, sweeping her into the air and kissing her. He stroked her long red hair, which fell upon her shoulders like a fountain of fire. She smiled and giggled, and when the prince set her down again, she held his arm and looked deep and longingly into his eyes.

  “You have been away longer than I expected,” she said, her voice young and tender. “I was afraid I was going to have to fetch for you.”

  “Did you send the ardúnaleb?”

  “No, of course not. I still do not have my Beldarian yet. That was Melgalés—”

  “Is he here? I was expecting to see him.”

  “Oh, yes, we—”

  “He’s here,” came a voice, old and strong. “Yes, he’s here.” They turned to find a man standing on the edge of the wood carrying a bundle of branches in his arms. He wore thick black robes with purple lining, his hood hiding his face, but his long chestnut hair hung out in strands, some braided and beaded in coloured stones. He had a thick moustache that was in dire need of trimming, but no beard to match. Perched upon his right shoulder was a raven, glaring out at them with piercing eyes.

  He set down the branches and walked towards the group, lowering his hood to reveal many more braided strands. “Ah, Herr’Don!” he said, patting the swordsman on the arm. “It is good to see you again, my friend, good to see you! And who’s this? Would an old man be right in guessing this is our good friend Ifferon? Ah, yes, Ifferon it is! Wonderful, wonderful! I am very pleased here, very pleased. But you—you I do not know.”

  “Yavün is my name.”

  “Yavün? You don’t look Aelora to me, hmm,” the Magus said, scrunching his face and rolling a bead from one of his braids between his fingers, as if it were some oracle. “Ah, well, Yavün, it is very nice to meet you. Good company, yes! Come along now everyone. Sit and we can catch up. The orb tells me you’ve been busy in the Cliffhills, yes, very busy, hmm.”

  “The ardúnaleb was watching us?” Herr’Don asked.

  “Watching?” Melgalés said. “No—dearest me no, don’t be daft. The orb’s been seeing you. Oh, yes, seeing you for quite some time. There’s nothing the orb cannot see. Ah, but my memory’s failing me. Comes with the age, you see. When did I send him out, Thalla?”

  “Oh, it must have been three or four days now.”

  “About the time we entered the Cliffhills,” Herr’Don said.

  Melgalés smiled deeply, but his eyes almost pointed at the prince. “About the time,” he said. “Precisely! Now, come along children. I want to get acquainted quickly so I can get on with the important things.”

  “Melgalés,” Ifferon said. “I was given a message for you.”

  “A message? Hmm, yes, I’ve been expecting one all right, can’t say that I haven’t. You start expecting things when you’ve lived as long as I have, you see. Yes! Long. I know I don’t look it, but I’m well past ten decades. Hmm, you’re thinking I look about the same age as you, Ifferon, yes? Look into my eyes and count each year for every star you find.”

  With this Ifferon grew entranced by the Magus’ gaze, staring into his eyes, seeing the wrinkles in the heavens of his sight, slowly counting the stars.

  “Yes, now, come along!” Malgalés said. “Show me this message, Ifferon, or I’ll have to grow another star!”

  Ifferon handed the letter to Melgalés and watched carefully as the man felt the envelope and looked upon the stamp. “There’s only one person who calls me Mehlalesh,” he said. “And I know very well who he is, yes. Hmm, Teron seems to have been very active in Boror of late, very active. And, I would warrant, very active outside Boror too! But this is obviously important news, yes.” He opened the letter and sat down upon the nearest rock. His eyes followed the trail of each line while the others waited, watchin
g the raven on his shoulder, who was also watching them.

  After a time the Magus spoke, and his voice was troubled. “No,” he said. “No, this is not good, this is not good at all! I was waiting for it, I must admit, but still, the confirmation is certainly no release. We do not have much time, no. We must start immediately.”

  Then suddenly there was a movement in the swamp, as if the very waters had been listening. A dull groan came rumbling from its depths, growing louder and fiercer as the company backed away. Then the raven gave a cry and Melgalés the Magus stood to face the darkness.

  VII – PHANTOMS OF ARDÚN-FÉ

  A giant, lumbering figure rose up from the swamp, blotting out the frail light of the morning sky. A flood of foul brown water fell from the creature, and then its twisted body came into view: a great hulk of fallen weeds and branches, an arched back of stone and rotting wood, and veins of thick brown liquid, like the roots of dark trees. Large branches were embedded in its back, as if the very trees themselves had tried to slay it, and upon one of those branches lay an impaled skeleton, a mangled frame of shattered bones and twisted limbs. Most terrifying of all was its mouth, agape and hanging wide, as if it was still screaming. The foul beast was a Karisgor, and it creaked and moaned, and Ifferon saw the many arrows and rusted blades that were embedded in its torso, dwarfed by the great mass of its body.

  It turned towards them, its face held aloft, as if foul hands groped at it, tearing into its eyes: small yellow eyes, like tiny flames in a pool of shadow and agony. A jawless mouth gave out a sombre cry, a surge of mud and slime drooling down into the marsh. Ribs of branches imprisoned a horde of skeletal figures, and a single bony arm hung limp, as if it had been trying to escape its branchy cage.

  The monster pulled back, and the muddy water rushed around it. In a sudden and sharp wretch it lunged forth and crushed a wooden limb into the ground. The water shrieked and splashed about in waves of pain, and Melgalés stood before it with his arms outstretched, looking up at the mangled face.