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 clung 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.”
“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.
“Perhaps I do not watch just you,” Herr’Don said, and he glanced to Yavün. “That boy is evil,” he whispered. “We should leave him here, let the stone take him.”
Ifferon shook his head, but he could not shake the feeling that maybe the prince was right. “We cannot do that,” he said at last. “He has not done us any harm, and this place would be his death.”
“And perhaps if we let him continue with us, he shall be ours.”
“I understand your fears, Herr’Don, but so long as I walk with you, he shall walk with me, and you will bring him to no harm.”
Herr’Don sighed long and harsh. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just ... I don’t trust him. 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 it darted forward from the concealment of the trees and the rocks. 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 gurgling 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 c
ompany, 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!” Melgalés 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, watching 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, 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.
VI – 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 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.
“Leave not your foul domain!” he called, and the great shadow that it cast before it seemed to grow less daunting—but it did not fade. “This is the Haven of Light and I am a Warden thereof. You cannot harm, you cannot kill, no! You have no law to leave your prison here. I am an Ardúnar and I command your obedience!”
The creature froze, as if considering this, but then a great and ancient hunger overcame its fear and it lunged forth. Thalla drew her bow and before the Karisgor could reach the Warden an arrow stabbed its wilting hide, and then another until the creature withdrew.
“Kill the beast!” Herr’Don shouted. “Let the land suffer it no more!” He jumped into the flaying waters with sword unleashed. A great frenzy came over him, and he hacked at the creature with all his might and madness. But the figure was tall and broad and repelled his force, knocking him back and parrying his deadly blows.
Ifferon struggled with his fear. From the corner of his eye he could see a fallen sword by the broken tree trunk, but in full view lay the horror of the Karisgor coupled with the unleashed terrors of his imagination. He froze and saw that Yavün had found the rusted sword and was advancing on the beast, struggling with the rising waters. The stableboy reached its flank and then threw the blade forth, but it struck the thick hide and broke, and the Karisgor turned and knocked him back into the pool. Yavün struggled to escape the mire as the creature loomed near, but neither Herr’Don’s blows nor Thalla’s arrows could draw its gaze.
Then Melgalés rushed before it and pushed Yavün back into the wading waters. “You cannot harm him, no! By the Law of the Light I command you kneel before me, Beast of the Bog!” he cried. He thrust forth his hands, and a great cry came from the wounded creature. A stream of blood leaked from it to the Warden’s hands, and now each arrow forced a scream of pain from the Karisgor. “Go to the Halls. Yes, go to Halés!” Melgalés called. A final drive of Herr’Don’s blade ended the creature’s life. It groaned into the air, lumbered there for a moment, and then came crashing down into the murk below.
* * *
“Oh, how battle shall weary us all, for I am worn,” Melgalés said, faltering and stooping heavily upon a nearby rock. He waited there, his eyes set gravely upon the dour soil beneath, and then he turned to the others with a face of cold memory. “The Karisgors are wild creatures,” he began. “Foul as they are old and twisted, yes, for they were once spirits of the wood, but when the demon-hordes of Molok took the Harwood Forest and turned it into the Rotwood they fell into ruin and began feeding off the life that strayed here. And so wanderers were consumed by these beasts, embedded in their hide in states of eternal agony. With each new body they grew stronger and darker, so to weaken them I can but drain them of their failing life. Thus have I sucked the blood from its being, but it does not go to me. No, it goes to the earth, which has long lived in torment here. Alas, for with each drop from it must come a wisp of light from me, and so dull am I now, dull and old.”
Thalla ran to him and grabbed his arm, as if supporting a falling pillar. Herr’Don pulled Yavün from the waters before putting his sword away, and then he came to Ifferon and placed a firm hand upon his shoulder. “Do not weigh yourself down with fear or torture. You have much strength that you do not yet know, but you will find it ere the end.” And then he went to Thalla and Melgalés, and Yavün stepped before Ifferon.
“I’m drowned,” he said. “I’ll die of cold now rather than at the hands of a monster.” He looked up at Ifferon. “You look ill. Come, let us sit and rejoice in our victory!”
“Our victory it was not,” Herr’Don said. “For my blade was useless here, and that is a first!”
“We would all be dead were it not for you, Melgalés,” Thalla said.
The Warden looked at her. “Praise won’t replace the loss I have sustained, no. We must rest quickly and move on. I had hoped not to encounter anything here so far from Arlin, and yet, I felt somewhat weakened before this battle. How strange, yes, how very strange.”
“I�
��ll light a fire,” Herr’Don said.
“One to replace me?” Melgalés said, smiling weakly. “Not here, no. We are in the open. Let us hide in the Rotwood and warm in there.”
“I do not wish to set the wood ablaze.”
“What wood? The trees are all dead there. Nothing lives within, and, as such, is a perfect place to spend the night. I do not fear the dead.”
And so they limped and dragged their tired bodies to the realm of the Rotwood, a harrowing mass of wooden needles rising into the sky, like the hair of the earth standing on end. There was little foliage on these trees, and what was there was either half-eaten by mite or covered in mould. The trunks reeked, flaking away like dead skin, and everywhere beneath each footfall lay a sharp crunch. The air was thin, and what little of it there was carried the fetor of decay.
“I’d rather not breathe at all,” Yavün said.
Herr’Don smirked. “That can be arranged.”
“Don’t bicker in my presence,” Melgalés said sharply before the stableboy could respond. “I could hear you two children at it all day on your way here.”
“A wizard’s ear,” Herr’Don said, smiling.
“I wish,” Thalla said. “I could only feel you moaning.”
“Moaning?” Herr’Don scoffed. “Hardly. What is there for the Great to complain about?” He grinned broadly and wrapped his arm around her. “I’m the jolliest man alive!”
Melgalés shook his head, the beaded braids clattering off one another. “Then get me the boat to Halés!” he joked.
“Again,” Herr’Don replied. “That can be arranged.”
“The way I’m feeling, I don’t doubt it, no.”
“Still—you’re doing well for an old man.”
“I should be the only one to call myself old!” Melgalés said, partly in admonishment, but mostly as banter. “It’s one of the few privileges for those seasoned in life.”
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 7
