“How old are you?” Ifferon asked eventually.
“Oh, that would be telling too much, my dear Ifferon, yes. Let’s just say I’ve had more than my fair share of the air around here.”
“You can have mine if you want with the stench of this place,” Herr’Don said.
“I might take it just to keep you silent!” Melgalés grumbled.
The prince gestured dismissively and wandered ahead.
“Are we looking for a specific area or just wandering for the sake of it?” Thalla asked. “I have been through here yesterday. The trees only get murkier the further you go.”
“True, yes, but there’s an open space just a little further that has a nice feel about it, yes, quite nice. The air is far fairer there, at least.” By now Melgalés had regained that distant ring to his tone, that sense of otherworldly command—but he still limped and straggled behind with Thalla’s aid. The raven sat silently on his shoulder.
“Will you tell us what the message said?” Yavün inquired, watching his footfalls when no one else wanted to see what was being crunched beneath their feet.
“Oh, aren’t you the prying sort?” the Warden replied.
Ifferon glanced at the stableboy and smiled.
“Well, it’s just my nature,” Yavün said, looking up like a pup whose name had just been called. “I know you’re going to tell us at some stage. It’s your nature.”
“Ah, yes, but I’m the only one who knows when, and that, my young friend, is something for an old man like me to savour.” He gave a quick wink of his eye, and Ifferon caught the sight of the stars within exploding like a supernova.
“I was told a lot about you,” Ifferon said after a time. “About the Ardúnari.” A sharp silence fell upon the others, beheading their voice.
Melgalés turned slightly but did not alter his pace. “Teron has a lot to tell, doesn’t he? He’s quite the one for talking, quite the one. He has his weaknesses though, and perhaps talking is one of them.”
“He told me the Ardúnari had discovered the Stone of the Wise.”
“We did, yes, but we had to find it within ourselves ere we found its matching location in Iraldas. The inner begets the outer, as they say, and let me tell you something, dear Ifferon: they are wise enough to keep their identity secret. Ah, we are not all that wise, Ifferon, are we?” He shook his head sadly; a lonely bead dropped from a braid. “But where was I? Dearest me, I’ll forget my own age if I’m not careful, and it’s never wise to forget your age, lest you think yourself young enough to do things you shouldn’t. Old men break bones easily, I tell you, yes. Olagh bless! A tangent is a hard thing to shake, but let’s do so now. We were talking of the Stone. Yes, the Stone. Finding it, of course, was no easy task—one that only a few here could be truly successful in.”
“Teron tried, I assume?” Ifferon asked. He had almost forgotten his intended question with the wandering ways of Melgalés’ mind.
“Oh, yes, most definitely—he tried. He even attended the Council where the Ardúnari were selected. Rejection like that doesn’t go down well for some people, no.”
“Why was he not selected? He seems to have his wisdom.”
“He’s not quite who he wants people to believe he is. No, his reasons for attending the Council were the reason of his rejection. See, he didn’t quite take to old age like my fellow brethren, so his lust for the Elixir of Life showed us plainly that he was most unfit for it. It’s not that I don’t respect him, dear Ifferon, but I certainly don’t trust him, no. But ... neither do you, now, do you?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“To me, yes,” the Warden said. “And to Teron too, no doubt. I’m sure he was well aware of your recoil. Ah, here we are, yes! Fresh and fitting. I think some warmth and food will do us all some good.”
“Hear, hear to that!” Herr’Don said, grabbing Thalla by the waist.
* * *
Before long there was a fire going, not just in the earth but in their hearts as well. They forgot the horrors of the morning—mostly—and were deep in the throng of heroic tales that mainly came from Herr’Don’s mouth, all of which were duly corrected with major factual additions from Thalla.
“... and all of them fled as soon as they saw me.”
Yavün resisted the urge to comment there.
“Well, that’s not entirely true, is it, Herr’Don?” Thalla asked. “Do you not remember that one thief who hid behind the curtains?”
“It was his fault, you know. My foot just happened to be in the wrong place at the—”
“I think I know where this goes,” Melgalés said, laughing. “Or where Herr’Don goes.”
Yavün sat silently, echoing the deep and tense silence of Ifferon—but it was not for want of words, but rather, no words seemed quite fitting. The air crackled with the fire, and some strange note rang in his heart. He stared across the flame, watching the shadows dance across Thalla’s face, vanishing into her smile. She caught his gaze and he turned away.
* * *
The fire died, and with it went their conversation. Thalla decided to turn in early and Herr’Don joined her. Yavün sat silently at one end of the camp, with Melgalés and Ifferon on the other.
“You’ve been too silent, Ifferon,” the Warden said. “It’s not good for you, no. Expression helps us come to terms with our fears and doubts.”
“It’s hard to express in these foreign lands, with these people I barely know.”
“True, yes, but do not let these circumstances weigh you down. The day will be much brighter than the night. And are there not ways to bring some light into the darkness too?”
“What do you mean?”
“This,” Melgalés said, extending his hand, “is an Ilokrán.” In his palm sat a black stone, shaped almost like a teardrop, but with a large hole in the centre, surrounded by several gold markings, all exerting a strange energy. It glowed in the last remaining embers of the fire. “A Shadowstone, one of the few things that can actually repel the Shadows and their masters—the Molokrán—though, dare I say, you’d do better to run from the latter than try to face them with a piece of rock, no matter what I tell you! Don’t pretend I haven’t noticed your fear before now, no. I know you have encountered the Shadows, but you have not yet met their masters, and I very much hope you never do!
“There are two types of Ilokrán, the smaller variety like the one I have here, which are the weaker type, and then there are the much larger rings of stones that can be found in Telarym—the Greater Ilokrán. You see, the Taarí of Telarym have spent most of their history fighting off the Shadow Hosts, their main defence being these stones, which they left at various places in their land. Anyone who enters a ring of Shadowstones will come to no harm by the Molokrán, for they cannot pass beyond them like we can. There is strong magic at work within them, magic from when the land was first created by the Elad Éni, older than the gods we worship.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Ifferon asked.
Melgalés looked down and shook his head. “Because my heart tells me that you will—”
But Melgalés stood up suddenly, drawing his sword, which rang like the piercing tone of an alarm bell. “Awake! Awake!” he cried to the others, but his voice was dimmed by the darkness and the black shadows that were lurking by the trees. “Stalkers of the Night,” he shouted. “Begone, the lot of you!”
Ifferon turned to see a shimmer of blackness charge at him, but Melgalés shoved his hand forth, holding the Ilokrán before the creature. It flinched and backed away. “I hold the Stone of the Shield, foul beasts. You cannot approach!”
“We hold your heart in our fists,” Yavün said in a leeching voice. He sat up, his eyes wide, his mouth open and his hands held aloft, as if he was frozen in a moment where he tried to halt the invasive shadow.
Melgalés turned sharply. “Leave the boy!” he cried. “Leave him now or face my wrath!”
“Your fire is dwindling, Mehlalesh!” the voice through Yavün spok
e.
“Awake!” Melgalés cried again, this time more fiercely. Herr’Don stirred suddenly, as if from a gripping nightmare. Immediately he unleashed his sword, stabbing the night with its sheen. Thalla twitched in her sleep, but she did not wake, as if the shadows were keeping her in the deep dungeons of slumber.
“The night has no power over the light!” the Warden shouted. “Flee into the darkness where it comforts you!”
“You are worn, Magus. We wear you down with every word.”
“I command the words, so I command you! Take flight or I shall unveil my true nature as an Ardúnar.”
“Your light is fading,” Yavün said as the shadows advanced again. Melgalés shoved the Ilokrán forth and the invisible barrier it created pushed the shadows back. But it was weakening.
“Wake her from her sleep!” Melgalés called. Ifferon shook off his terror and began to shake Thalla from the clutches of dream, but Yavün grabbed his arm and pulled him back. Herr’Don saw this and struck the stableboy in the face with the pommel of his sword, knocking him to the ground. Melgalés turned as Thalla awoke. “Get everyone. We go north!”
* * *
They ran, Herr’Don carrying Yavün, Thalla and Ifferon at the lead, and Melgalés in the rear, still brandishing the Ilokrán as their last line of diminishing defence. As they ran the air grew thinner and the trees seemed to grow closer together, reaching in to choke them. All the while a fleet of blackness shot past on either side in the trees, racing around to cage them.
There was a groan in the ground, low but audible, a creaking moan that rose around them. “Keep your pace!” Melgalés cried, but already the frenzied flight was beginning to tire him. The earthly groan grew louder and suddenly the group found themselves in another open clearing, surrounded on all sides by the hounding shadows.
“Ready yourselves,” Herr’Don said, waving his sword before him like a flag of war. “We cannot see them, but we can feel them.”
“Wardens should be able to see them!” Melgalés said in frustration. “Something blocks my sight.”
“Ifferon!” Herr’Don called. “Tell us where they advance.”
“They do not,” Ifferon said. “They linger by the edge, as if waiting for something.”
There was a crash, as if trees were being uprooted somewhere nearby.
“Karisgors!” Herr’Don cried. “They are forcing us into an arena!”
“Can you drain them, Melgalés?” Thalla asked.
“No,” he said solemnly. “I am too weak.”
Herr’Don gave the cleric his spare sword, which was heavy to hold. Another thundering roar bellowed out from the heart of the forest, and then there was the sound of collapsing trees. The party huddled together in the centre of the clearing, their weapons held forth, their eyes straining against the blackness.
“Do not give in to fear,” Melgalés said. He grabbed Ifferon by the hand, giving him the Ilokrán. “Now you must shine, Ifferon, yes. Shine and lead the company forth. Press against the darkness to the north. I shall keep this evil here.”
“No!” Thalla cried, and she fawned his arm. “We’re not leaving without you.”
Melgalés said nothing, but gave a slight nod to Herr’Don. “Keep her safe,” he said. Then he stepped forward, raising his sword into the sky, where it shone like a beacon. The raven upon his shoulder screeched loudly, flapping its wings and readying itself against the darkness.
For a moment the company stood frozen, but Herr’Don grabbed Ifferon by the shoulder. “Come, my friend. There is little we can do. Lead us forth with your sight and stone.”
“We can’t leave him, Herr’Don,” Thalla wailed.
“We can,” he said, dragging her away.
* * *
“Run!” Herr’Don shouted, trudging through the trees, while Ifferon and Thalla ran ahead, fear and shock their driving lash. Ifferon held the Ilokrán in front of him, as if it would also protect him from the battering of the branches and the lashing of the wind.
The shadow had long passed behind them, but its memory lingered on, mauling their minds. Its chill sat like dewdrops upon their skin, seeping into every pore. Ifferon’s thoughts were rampant, running faster than his own limbs could, firing image upon image upon him, like a volley of arrows from a black ship.
They ran for what seemed like a lifetime, until their limbs ached and their faces were scratched by clawing branches. Eventually they slowed and halted when weariness slew their fear. They sat and heaved and panted, while their eyes darted to the location of every sound and stir.
Ifferon clutched the Ilokrán until his fingers hurt and the markings were imprinted upon his palms. It gave him solace in the night, but a whispering part of him knew that its power was small against what lived in the gloom.
Thalla sat in sorrowful silence, her face drawn like a veil over a widow. She was deathly pale. Her eyes were wide and harrowing, and when Ifferon looked into them he saw a great dam holding back an endless flow of misery. He could not bring himself to say anything, for fear that the levee might break.
“His death is not in vain,” Herr’Don told her. He hung his head, as if the words he wanted to say had not come and all he could offer were false comforts. Yavün was awake now, but he remained silent.
The night grew long and the moon grieved behind the veil of cloud. Ifferon struggled to stay awake, for his mind was still haunted by shadow and he feared the dreams he would have. Even long after the others had fallen asleep he fought against his laden eyelids, until finally fatigue took him like a lover and kissed him goodnight.
* * *
Ifferon woke suddenly, his hands firmly clinging to the ground, as if he had fallen from his bed. But he was not at Larksong upon his old, hard mattress. The chill of the rock came suddenly, racing up his spine. He looked around quickly, making sure everything was safe, that there were no dark eyes staring from the trees. He felt the Ilokrán in his pocket with the Scroll, his only reassurances against the shade.
But something was not right. Herr’Don was there, resting against a tree, a blanket firmly wrapped around him, his guard let down from exhaustion. Thalla was there, further away, curled up like a wounded animal. But he did not see Yavün, not now and not when he turned around twice, searching feverishly for him as though he were his own son.
He stood up quickly and ran to large fallen trees, and he peered behind them into the shadows, hoping to find a scared stableboy there, awaiting the call of Ifferon’s voice, but there was only shadow, and further on a forest, and beyond that some mountains, and further still the endless ocean of the night. Turning again he found no trace that Yavün had indeed been there, no echoes of poetry upon the wind. With a sudden shock, he felt the loneliness crowd around him, and an empty hollow in his heart. Yavün Arri, victim of the phantom host, was gone.
VII – THE TOWER OF TOL-TIMÍL
The night dragged on, like a corpse trying to find its way to Halés. The last stars flickered and died out, lost candles in the vastness of the cosmos.
Something stirred in the belly of the earth, something small. A figure ventured from beneath the mask of shadow, stumbling on the border of slumber and the waking world. It drew closer, arms outstretched, groping at the air before it. A wandering man—out late at night.
The raven stirred, glaring with yellow eyes at the approaching figure, flapping its wings in warning.
Yavün staggered forward, suddenly coming to the realisation of where he was. He blinked—even the shadow of nightfall was bright in contrast to his dreams. Then he stopped, as if his feet had felt the edge of a ravine.
He looked before him, drawing in the landscape like a long, slow breath. There were tall stalks, black and thin, with frail limbs reaching out for life, and stones as old as the earth itself, sleeping only because it was better than staying awake. And there was crisp soil, blackened like the ash on a funeral pyre. It was the Rotwood, rank and reeking.
And there, like a monolith on an open plain, was the bod
y of Melgalés, huddled against a lonely stone. His skin was as pale as the moon should be, were it brave enough to risk the sky. His clothes were torn and bloodied, his beads were scattered on the ground, and his face was worn, as if he had seen things no one should ever see. Just like the sky above, there were no stars in his eyes.
The raven sat by its master’s side, guarding his body, as any loyal servant would. But the air was cold, and his hands would be cold, should they be held. But there was only Yavün—and that was not why he was there.
There was a slight flicker in the mud just a few feet before the body, like a stray star that had failed to find its way back into the heavens. But it was not a star. It was a Beldarian, the Soul Pendant of the Master Magus. And it was calling Yavün, whispering words only his heart could hear.
He stepped forward, crouching, as if he were a lion about to prance upon a deer. But he knew that he was but a scavenger, and the raven was studying him closely. He stalked through the darkness, slow and silent, one eye on the raven and the other on the Beldarian.
It lured him, casting out into the shadow and pulling him in from the sea of curiosity. As it dragged him in inch by inch, there was a warning signal in his mind, but it was faint and quickly smothered by the passion of his heart. And then it was just a blur of light and noise, punctuated by vague images as if from a dream: his hand reaching forth, grazing the soil and then coming to the cold stone of the Beldarian itself, then a wisp of purple smoke within the pendant’s gem, and then the dullness of a long, slow darkness.
* * *
He awoke several hours later in the cold clutches of bewilderment. Blades of light stabbed his eyes, and when at last he adjusted, he knew nothing of the land that surrounded him. He was sitting on a large slab of rock, which looked like a fallen pillar, resting his back against an ageing tree. The branches crept out and felt their way around a large mossy wall, and a great carpet of leaves and starving soil lined the ground. Looking down further, Yavün could see that the leaves gave way like a waterfall to a series of plummeting steps, which curved around the building. And to his right, through the canopy of leaves and branches, he could see the sun sparkling in the distance, casting the land around in a wonderful yellow glow.
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 8
