Yavün straightened up and looked sternly at the prince. “And who are you?” he asked. Ifferon almost scoffed at the youth’s naivety; Herr’Don’s attire alone all but announced his name.
The prince remained with his back to them. “I am Herr’Don the Great, son of Herr’Gal the King. I am the Prince of Boror and Captain of the Fifth Regiment. Alas, now I lead only myself, for they have all perished on the sands of Larksong.” He turned to them, his face grim, like a father who had lost a son. “Would that I knew the lay of the lands here, but this is not truly my domain.”
“There’s naught but grasslands and small hills here,” Yavün said. “Wild grasses for the foals,” he added solemnly. He turned and gazed back at the ruins in the same manner that Herr’Don had. Ifferon’s mind shivered.
“Our rest must be brief,” Herr’Don said. “We must reach the Garigút hut by nightfall, and then continue our journey north when day has broken.”
“You surely do not wish to go to Ardún-Fé?” Yavün probed.
“It is not my wish, no, but I will do as I must,” the prince said. “And I must follow the counsel of a Magus and his companion, for they possess both wisdom and power, and in their power I trust the most. We shall be safe in their company. Indeed, were it not for these Magi, you would not know the pleasure of my company, and you may have died on the outskirts of Larksong.”
“So exactly how do you know of me, prince?” Ifferon asked, wondering if his own name shone like runes from his robes.
“Ah, do you really think word of you has evaded my ears for long, Scroll-cleric?” He clutched the fur lining of his thick red cloak and puffed his chest, as if he were immensely proud of this knowledge. “You may think of yourself as a hermit, but staying in Larksong has but given a stable place to pinpoint your location for many a year now. But let us discuss this when we are not dogged by Agon’s horde. Come, my friend! We must prepare to venture north.”
“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. 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. 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.”
“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?”
“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?”
“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.”
* * *
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.
In time they entered 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 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 said. 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 HAUNTING ON THE HILLS
But the thoughts of solitude and isolation were quickly knocked from him, for a deathly voice came upon the wind, taunting him as if 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.
“Ifferon,” 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.
“Ifferon,” 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 fla
shed 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.
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 flit 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. Yet as each word rose in Ifferon's throat, his racing heart thumped it out of him, and he spoke only in the tongue of exhaustion.
“Alas!” Herr’Don said. “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 the figures that hounded me?”
Herr’Don turned quickly, his face veiled in dread. “What were these figures, 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.
“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 naive, boy. 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!”
“They are the Shadowspirits,” Herr’Don whispered, “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 a handful.” Herr’Don glanced at Ifferon. “The blood of Telm is a powerful weapon, 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, let us leave this place.”
* * *
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.
“So then,” Herr’Don said, his voice like knives to the tender air. “I know you, Ifferon,” and he turned to Yavün, “but tell me more about you, poet.” Ifferon noticed that the prince kept his hand upon the hilt of his sword as he walked.
Yavün smiled. “I am Yavün, just a simple stableboy and poet from Larksong with high aspirations.”
“And now your aspirations have been outdone by the sudden accompaniment of the legendary Herr’Don the Great! But come! I had not known that stableboys wear robes of black and sashes of the Order of Olagh. Do clerics worship horses now?”
“Ah, well—”
“He’s been spying, that’s what he’s being doing,” Ifferon stated.
“A spy!” Herr’Don said, clapping his hands together loudly. “So this is what you meant by lurking. I knew you looked out of place, poet. A stableboy in cleric’s robes asking Herr’Don the Great his name? Ha! Strange indeed! What use have you of spying?”
“I am not educated like Ifferon is,” Yavün said, fidgeting with the tangle of his hair. “I have always wondered about the life of a cleric, hidden away with books and quills and lakes of ink. One day I found a book outside the monastery, a strange text I could not read. I guess someone must have dropped it, but I never returned it, because the letters twirled and twisted across the page and stole my interest—so I peeped through open windows at the lectures in the halls and then soon enough
I made these robes and found that I could wander to and fro and not be thrown outside. I joined the lecture halls and sat at the back and learned to write. And now I write in verse with the knowledge I have found.”
“A poet indeed!” Herr’Don said. “And spying on dear Ifferon, trying to mind his own business. There is little that poor Ifferon does that goes unwatched.”
Ifferon shuddered, knowing it was true. He distracted himself with the beauty of the flowers lining the hills, but his meditation was broken by Herr’Don, who hummed to himself, a merry tune for one who had survived a dark day.
“The Garigút hut is not far off,” Herr’Don said. He stretched as he walked, and he thumped his left arm as if it had gone numb.
“I don’t understand his fascination with these barbarians,” Yavün said. “I have often been told of their strange ways. I don’t feel safe travelling through their lands.”
“They are not barbarians, and this is not their land,” Ifferon explained. “The Garigút are nomads; they travel to and fro and settle in one area for a time before moving on. They are well-educated and cultured from the places they have been to. In many ways they are fairer people than our own.”
“These don’t sound like the same people I have come to know.”
“You have come to know a rumour, nothing more. The reality is much different.”
“How do you know?”
“I have met them before, on many occasions, and I have spent some time with them in my youth. They took me in after my parents were murdered.” Ifferon paused—the words stung with the needles of cruel memory. “But that was a long time ago. I have not seen her in many years.”
“Her?”
“The Garigút. I have not seen them in many years. Indeed, I suppose they have become but a rumour to me also. Apparently, if the new rumours are true, they have left these lands, abandoning all their old dwellings, but I can still feel their presence here in the Meadows. They have left a strong impact on my life.” Ifferon sighed deeply.
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 4
