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

by Dean F. Wilson

  “You need to stop hiding and take control, so that you can unleash your true potential, unlock yourself. When you do this you will realise what a Child of Telm can do. But now, dear Ifferon, I must prepare a sermon. Many will die tonight. Let not you be one of them.”

  And so Teron strolled off, still as elegant and ethereal as ever. The words Teron had spoken to him with such tenderness and care should have lifted him from the darkness, but Ifferon was disheartened, feeling the brunt of the attack before it occurred. His heart no longer thumped with fear and anxiety, but was overcome with grief.

  He paused for a moment in the open garden of the cloister, mourning for the flowers and the bushes that would no longer be there once the battle begun. It still rained lightly, but this time the rain did not comfort him. His eyes were drawn to the clouds that hung overhead and he wondered if the sky might fall upon him too.

  He walked back to his room and when he came to the old musty door, he stalled, for something seemed amiss. Surely he had closed the door when he left; he could have sworn he did. But it was ajar, if ever so slightly. Perhaps he had forgotten to close it fully when he rushed out to Teron’s summons.

  He shoved the door open now and walked inside. He made his way to the table that he had left something very valuable on. Foolish, he thought. Teron could have been a distraction while someone stole it from him. Very foolish.

  His eyes faltered for a moment to look at the stormy sky outside. He could see little from the loophole window, but what he saw was unsettling. He used to be able to watch the tranquil sea, but it was not calm now, and all he could see there was the ominous rolling fog, taunting its concealing power.

  Then his gaze wavered once more and he glanced at the broken cabinet in the corner, the only piece of furniture in the room besides his bed and table. He returned to that table and scoured it with his eyes, noting the large open tomes he had been using in his studies, the loose leafs of delicate manuscripts, the wooden blocks containing cryptograms and foreign alphabets, and the Scroll itself, unfurled and held down by two stones carved with Aelora runes.

  He paused. It seemed to summon him just as Teron had, beckoning him to draw near, hinting at something elusive. He watched the parchment as if it were his life—old, ragged, torn, full of gaping holes and lasting damage. He studied the Aelora symbols that adorned the piece. At one time he thought they were beautiful. He supposed he still did, but now they looked dull, as if sapped of their life-force and energy. Something was not right.

  He watched the piece so strongly that it took him several minutes to realise something so disturbing that he was forced to back away. The Scroll, laying there in the silence, was not where he had last left it. It had been moved.

  II – THE FADING OF THE FOG

  There was a stifled thump, and then Ifferon’s scattered thoughts regrouped and he settled his gaze upon the old mahogany cabinet in the corner. A muttered cough came from deep within its splintered ruins. Laced cobwebs shimmered as they caught the spray of dust that burst forth in a shroud of grey haze. The door was ajar and cold eyes glared from the blackness within. The cabinet creaked and the eyes withdrew.

  Despite all attempts at reason, Ifferon charged forth and pulled the cabinet doors open. Inside, a young man flew back, knocking into the wooden panels and then sliding down, cowering as Ifferon’s hands flayed madly.

  “Don’t hurt me!” the man cried, shielding his face.

  “What are you doing in there?” Ifferon demanded, his anger spawned through fear. But the rage died quickly when he set his eyes upon the man, for he was but barely come of age. Although Ifferon was somewhat relieved that his fears were triggered by a youth and not some other creature, he was still alert, waiting for some other danger.

  “I ... Well ...,” but the frightened voice stopped abruptly. His eyebrows arched, as if he was trying to think of something, but nothing came. He clambered up, revealing his cleric robes, though in all of Ifferon’s long years in the monastery he had not seen this man. The youth traced his hand across the edge of the cabinet, and then up to his tangled hair, which fell in thick brown clumps upon his face.

  “Why were you following me?” Ifferon asked, his voice firm. “Why are you here? What have you taken?”

  “I ... Well ... I ...”

  “Speak!”

  The youth, at least twice as young as Ifferon, was struggling to explain, his eyes darting to retrieve fragmented memories, becoming overwhelmed when those memories returned as tears.

  “I’m ... sorry,” he managed.

  Ifferon waved his hand in dismissal. He turned and pulled out his chair, falling back into it and sighing deeply. “You are not from the monastery, are you?”

  The young man shook his head.

  “You are one of the stableboys of Larksong, are you not?”

  “Yavün Arri,” the youth said.

  Ifferon glanced at him, bemused.

  “My name.”

  “Oh, Yavün. I apologise if I startled you, but you have also startled me. A darkness has come to Larksong—”

  “The villagers speak of it,” Yavün said, his eyes set upon the small window by the bedside. “Rumours have found their way to all the houses. They tell of a horde from Nahlin that come to slay a cleric ...”

  “This is what the rumours are? They speak of the Dark Men? They speak of me?”

  “It’s true though, isn’t it? As you said, a darkness comes. Our soldiers wait by the beach, keeping watch through the mist. It is a fool who knows not what shall come through that fog.”

  “Grave are your thoughts, young man, perhaps graver than my own, though I have seen many evils.”

  “Is that why you came here?” Yavün asked. “The villagers speak of you, Ifferon of Belahan, once a great adventurer. Why have you locked yourself away?”

  “This was not of my devising.”

  “You cannot blame great evils for your hiding.”

  “I can and I do. But it is not mere hiding. I have a purpose for this.”

  “What is that purpose?”

  “To stay alive, in peace.”

  “Are you in peace?”

  There was silence.

  Ifferon rubbed his hand across his recently-shaved head; the stubble was strangely comforting. “So you have an inquisitive mind,” he said at last, “lurking in my room when my watch has slackened. What were you looking for on the table here?”

  “Naught in particular,” Yavün said. “Inspiration, mayhaps.”

  “Inspiration? Inspiration for what?”

  “Verse.”

  “Ah, you are a poet?”

  “I try.”

  “Then recite a verse, something different, something I have not heard before, for my time here has not been spent merely hiding; I have read much and enjoyed many verses from many lands around Iraldas. I can judge if you are truly a poet.”

  Yavün looked at him and then towards the window for a time. When his gaze met with Ifferon’s again, he cleared his throat and began:

  Deep and dark were his wavering thoughts,

  Wrought of grey memory, recalling the times

  When battles of honour and love were fought—

  Not simple nights in the barn, dreaming of rhymes,

  But ages of splendour, when adventure was sought.

  And yet came the shackles of ethereal fear,

  Mere ropes that wrapped ‘round, keeping him still.

  Erelong came the thought of death growing near,

  Drear in the rooms of parchment and quill.

  His mind swiftly dulled, and the world shed a tear.

  Throughout the recitation Ifferon was silent, and now that silence bellowed through him and into the room itself. Yavün’s words filtered out, their echoes growing fainter. The room thronged with quiet suspense; the air was thick and warm, and both Ifferon and Yavün were still. The verse troubled Ifferon.

  When words finally dangled on Ifferon’s lips, there was a sudden bang at the door, followed by
a muffled voice: “Teron has called a meeting in the east wing of the cloister. All must attend.”

  Ifferon sighed, remembering the last meeting Teron had held—full of ardent speeches and elaborate rambling. He considered not attending, but those thoughts were quickly discarded; Teron would know if he was not there. He stood and glanced at the stableboy. “I must depart, but I do not want to see you lurking about my room.”

  “Then bring me with you,” Yavün said.

  “No,” Ifferon snapped. “No, I cannot. You are not a cleric.”

  “You mistook me for one,” Yavün said with a grin. “They will too. And would you really trust letting me out of your sight?”

  Ifferon gave a quick roll of his eyes, nodding and sighing. “You are right. I would not trust you out of my sight, but I would not trust you by my side either. Go home and dream and do what young people do. If I see you near my room again I will not be so forgiving; then you will learn why people still speak of my valour in battle.”

  He rolled up the Scroll and opened the door, holding it open until Yavün reluctantly sauntered out, his face masked with disappointment. The youth turned for a moment as if to say something, but Ifferon quickly dismissed him: “Go! Find inspiration in the beautiful things of the world, not in some old man who simply wants a bit of peace and quiet!”

  And so the stableboy left his company, and Ifferon wondered if he had been too severe in his scolding; but he did not have long to wonder, for the thought of Teron’s searching gaze filled his mind, whispering of the even harsher scolding the head-cleric could give.

  He made his way across the vast cloister under the bleak veil of night, and when at last he came to the eastern ridge, a great mass of clerics stood there, their whispers solemn. Robes of grey, brown, and white clattered against the wind, and then Teron came into view, his eyes wide and his arms outstretched.

  “Welcome, my Brothers!” he called, his voice stronger than the wind. He glanced through the ranks of clerics, finally settling his cold eyes upon Ifferon at the back. “I have called you here today to speak of the Great War that affects us all. Already many border cities of Boror have been taken and the land of Arlin lays in wait of its decease. But here in the peaceful village of Larksong a great and sudden evil has come, espied by our scouts along the coast. The fog disguises all that sail upon the sea and our armies have readied themselves, by the will of the King. But strength alone will not win us this coming battle. We must look to Olagh and the Olaghris for protection. We are exposed in the darkness, our souls bearing all, weak against the onset of the storm. Our thoughts are clouded as the mist envelops us. But we must not despair! We must face this darkness—with power! Power shall lead us through this Dark Age. It shall lead us to victory against all who oppress us. We must regain our power, our dominion over our land.”

  It was at this moment that a familiar figure came into view to Ifferon’s left; standing there watching Teron’s speech was Yavün, his arms folded in defiance. He gave a sheepish smile to Ifferon, who could do little more than frown. Clearly he had not been severe enough.

  “Look upon your soldiers on the cliffs,” Teron continued, seizing their gaze, “on the sandy shores and rugged land that leads to us. They show fear in the lines of their faces, but they will fight for us, sword and spear in hand, shield and helm. This is a dark day, my Brothers, a day when blood shall spill forth from the heavens and from all that walk this earth. The land shall be spared no quarter, for the life in our bodies shall seep therein. But do not despair! Face this darkness! Face this death! Together, we shall win—for we are still powerful, Followers of Olagh!”

  There was a cheer as Teron rallied his clerics, but Ifferon’s attention shifted, peering through the large stone archways of the cloister walls, across the vast beach, and then to the great cliffs, monstrous sentinels jutting out into the fog. War machines were set upon the outcrops, towering trebuchets and ballistae facing off against the wind. Men clambered about them, tying ropes here and there and loading great bolts or rocks upon them.

  Further down, upon the dulling sands, a legion of halberdiers marched. Amidst their ranks walked the Standard Bearer of the King, carrying the great emblem of the sovereignty of Boror, a flag wrought with twin serpents, coiled about each other, one white, the symbol of the King, the other black, a herald of the enemy. Blood dripped from both serpents into a sullen pool, a proclamation of the dedication the King had to his people; he would fight and die for them—and yet he was not here. The halberdiers fell into rank. Spears were thrust forth, testing the wind, and a great rattle of iron and steel echoed out into the night. The fog was just off the shores, and the halberdiers turned to it in black anticipation.

  Small against the battalions, the swordsman Herr’Don appeared, rallying the troops with cries and shouts. He was the Prince of Boror, son of the King, and his vivid red attire made him stand out to all the spying eyes. He was sent to Larksong only days before with the Standard Bearer and the Fifth Regiment of the King’s armies. And now he stood, dwarfed by the great cliffs, merely a man against the coming onslaught. A contingent of swordsmen crowded around him, followed by a small line of archers to the rear. Then the great tumult died down until only the crashing of the waves could be heard. The fog was fading.

  There was a moment of intense silence, all eyes set upon the shore as the last of the mist dissipated. Ifferon was frozen, his mind racing with rampant thoughts—dark thoughts. The air grew thin, as if it was slowly fleeing, and then there was a gentle hum, a soundless whisper in Ifferon’s mind. He thought it was the wind, but a growing fear in his heart said otherwise—the Scroll rang out an ethereal alarm.

  A great roar came, and then all was quick and blinding. A large boulder hurtled over the monastery walls, crashing into the cloister and crumbling down on the clerics who stood there. Panic swept in and burst through the ranks until all fled or fell amongst the dead. Teron called out, but his words were lost in the madness that ensued. Former friends pushed and shoved their way through the crowd, charging towards whatever safety they could find, like a horde of rampant animals. All reason was lost, thrown aside like the dead.

  * * *

  Herr’Don mustered his armies, but the advancing shadow was swift. One of the tainted corsairs went down in a barrage of trebuchet fire, but another came, and then another, until the entire coast was consumed by anchored ships. Wooden ramps extended and foul cries followed, and then came a great army, brushing through the wisps of shade and calling out in fierce and evil tongues. The gnarled faces of the Dark Men grimaced as their bloodshot eyes caught sight of the King’s soldiers. Several of the front ranks snarled and spat, banging the sides of their shields and waving their swords and cleavers madly in the air. Drums were sounded and the hateful army charged forth, led by a blood-curdling cry.

  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.