“That is amazing,” Ifferon said after a moment of silence. “And so you chose to keep the name of Hataramon to remind you of this.”
“Yes, to remind me of where I came from. I cannot really forget that place, and I always wish that it never happened, that I was never there. But you see, it made me who I am today, so I need to remember that it is a part of my life. It made me strong.”
Silence came again like a lonely friend, and he sat with them for a time, still and quiet, listening to the soundless echoes of their conversation and the memories it triggered. Then weariness joined him, and they sat together in the midst of the company until all were consumed by the seduction of sleep.
They did not wake again until they heard the frenzied shouts of Herr’Don. “Hark!” he screamed. “Hark!”
XIV – A CALL TO ARMS
“Hark! Hark! The Garigút are nigh!” Herr’Don cried. He rushed to the top of the fallen tree trunk and cast his cloak back. “I have espied a scout!” He held his arm aloft, pointing to the east, where, in the distance, a small group of horsemen rode in haste.
The others arose and raced to the prince. They clambered upon the tree trunk and cast their gaze across the Plains.
“At last!” Herr’Don said. “Finally we are come upon some luck.”
“Sometimes the Lady Issarí is called the Lady of Luck,” Délin said, “and such it would seem, for with her blessing the Garigút yet live.”
Aralus placed his bony hand upon Herr’Don’s shoulder as he gazed at the advancing horsemen. “What if these are the last rag-tag survivors of the onslaught against Nahragor?” he asked.
“Then, at least, the Garigút, however small in number, have survived, and so may grow again in number ere the passing of the world,” Délin replied. “But I have hope for a fairer fate than that, for my heart is warmed, and I know that Issarí has given her blessing to the Garigút to pass easily o’er her old land, and so may they come and go to battle with haste on their heels and swiftness on their sword hands.”
They packed their things and sat in wait, watching the plumes of dust fly up beneath the galloping horses’ feet. Soon the Garigút were upon them, staying their steeds with a harsh pull of the reins. The horses whinnied and bucked, but the Garigút riders did not falter or fall, for they clung to the horses with broad legs of enormous strength. Their arms were also thick with muscle, yet weathered from a thousand winds, for they wore little in clothing, as was the custom of the riders, so as not to hinder their haste. Their skin was tanned and their faces were grim, etched with eternal frowns and dark, fell eyes. The leader of the group reared up towards them and looked upon them as if they were wild beasts that had strayed into a net.
“I am Galon,” he said, his voice gruff. He wore nothing upon his chest except a small medallion, with an ornate G in the centre of a beamed sun. The beams were curved like sickles, as if they would rotate, and it was said that they were used in their gambling games, and that the loser would be killed and his medallion would be worn by the victor. Those who wore many were feared. Ifferon shuddered as he noted six more medallions hanging from Galon’s belt.
“We have been searching the Plains for many days now,” Galon told them. “We have grown to fear that you would not come or that you met an ill fate on your march here.” Now the Garigút seemed less rough; his voice had calmed and his glare had softened.
“You were expecting us?” Ifferon asked.
“Yes, and long expecting. The Way-thane Geldirana sent us forth a week ago, for she said that a small party with great strength was expected. She bid us go swiftly and not come back until our quest was done. And so we travelled long and hard across the Plains, back and forth, and we grew weary, for there was naught to be seen. I was about to send instructions for us to ride back to the Way-thane with the ill news that we had not found you. But lo! Here you are, and there is great joy in my heart and relief in my soul, for the Way-thane would not be happy with the news, and bade us not return without you.”
“Has word then come forth from Oelinor?” Délin said.
“Oelinor? No, I do not know that name, or at least it was not mentioned to me ere my journey on the Plains began. Who is this Oelinor, and is he or she a friend or foe?”
“One of the Ardúnari, like Geldirana,” Herr’Don said.
“A friend,” Ifferon added. “He is the Warden of Oelinadal in Caelün.”
“Ah yes, the Aelora Ardúnar, I see,” Galon said, and it seemed that he had grown suddenly nervous; he bit his lip and furrowed his brow, and he looked over his shoulder as if self-conscious of the Garigút aides at his attendance. The standard-bearer looked towards his companions, and it was as if there were unspoken words of hatred in that glance.
“’Twould be best not to speak of that at present,” Galon said at last, and he drew his reins and turned about. “Come! We go to the Old Keep. Our armies have set up camp there where Telarym borders with the cursed land of Nahlin, and from there we shall lead our siege.”
“It has not yet begun?” Délin asked.
“Not in the force we plan, no,” Galon said. “But there have been small sorties and skirmishes upon the Plains and nigh unto the Valley of Shadow that dips into Nahragor. Many of our kind have grown impatient with the delay, but the Way-thane bid us wait until you arrived. She said she was given word that a secret weapon was on the way. I am a warrior at heart, but I am not foolish enough to think that this was a sword or mace, yet I will not meddle so much in the affairs of the Wardens to make guess what weapon they have devised.
“We have no horses to spare, but you will journey with us, one with each of my company, for we can afford no more delay. Indeed, it would matter little if we had spare steeds for you, for they would not bear you, and you would but cling to them as if they were the fleeting moments of your lives.”
They were bidden to climb upon the backs of the horses, who did not take kindly to them, despite many whispered assurances in the Bororian tongue from the Garigút riders. Ifferon went with Galon, for the Garigút said that he was specifically instructed to bring the cleric on his own horse, Rorast, and to ensure that he above all others would arrive safe and whole. The others rode behind whichever remaining Garigút riders would bear them. Many of the Garigút were obviously reluctant to take them, but they were not alone, for Elithéa would not ride upon a horse, or any animal yet within the domain of Éala, nor would she cling to the back of a Garigút man while her fair legs still worked. Thus she ran ahead of them as they galloped, yet frequently she fell behind when they invoked their unearthly speed.
* * *
As they rode discussion grew anew, and Ifferon was curious of the hushness that fell at each mention of the Wardens. “Why did you ask us not to speak of the Ardúnari?” he shouted against the wind.
“Our people are not happy with the decision to lay siege to Nahragor,” Galon called back, his long hair lashing against Ifferon’s face as they rode. “They follow the Way-thane in her orders, but do so grudgingly, for they know she does this as an Ardúnar, not a Garigút. We are setting our swords upon ourselves in this battle, for it is folly to assail the Black Bastion in such small numbers.”
Then the striking of hooves against harsh earth drowned out their voices, and the Garigút sped on once more as the tiny speck of Elithéa appeared in the distance behind them. “She is Ferian,” Galon said. “She will meet our pace in time.”
As the day evened out and the veil of night drew in, they arrived at the hillock that led to the Old Keep, carved into the mountainous crags of the Cliff-face of Idor-Rem, tall dark shafts of rock that drew up like spires and towers, the jagged teeth of a crooked god. They had slowed for the last few leagues of their journey when Idor-Rem came into view, for already they were under the vastness of its shadow. Soon they arrived before the gates of the Old Keep, the crumbling ruin of the kingdoms of old, and Elithéa came once more into view on the horizon behind them.
“So she comes,” Galon said. “Her
weariness shall be her reward for refusing the hospitality of the Garigút. But I see that weariness has come upon you all, and let that be removed by the hospitality yet to come. The Old Keep is manned by Garigút now, and thus it is a haven in these lands of bleakness and despair.”
Many Garigút came from the fortress, younger and fairer, perhaps not yet come of age, but they were still dishevelled and unruly in clothing and face, as if the long years of travel had toiled them. They took the horses, bringing them to a makeshift stable just outside the Fort. A man of similar stature to Galon, tall and broad, came out and greeted them, crossing his arms and thumping his chest. “Welcome to the Aldragir, now Garigût Gwiragir. I am Geldon, and this shall be your home for the time to come, and from here shall we lead war upon the forces of Nahlin and siege upon the fort of Naragir, which you know more commonly as Nahragor.”
They were led to the ramp that rose into the depths of Idor-Rem. The Old Keep was carved deep into the Cliff-face, caged within its mountainous walls. It spanned thirteen levels, with a steep zig-zagging stair reaching all the way to the top. Its windows were round holes, and the corridors and rooms were little more than massive tunnels. Some called it a fortress, others a prison, but it was a relic of the time of the Elad Éni, the gods before the gods, and few dared make it their home.
“Your quarters for the night ahead will be ready ere long,” Geldon said, “but first you must attend a council with the Way-thane. She asks no delay.”
They were lead through a maze of tunnels to the throne room, which bore a pitted floor and a domed roof. To one side were two Garigút soldiers bearing golden totems with the familiar sun seal, and to the other was a plain wooden seat upon which sat a golden-haired lady in a slender red dress. Her glare was as the eyes of fire itself, the look of death before the burn, and many of the company felt that Elithéa’s stern glance was kindly in comparison. The Ferian woman now entered the Keep and stepped hard into the room.
“Late,” the Way-thane said. Her voice was severe. “Yet you are all late.”
Many bowed their heads, apologetic. Elithéa raised her chin in defiance, yet she could not conceal her heavy breathing.
“So you have come before me at last,” Geldirana continued. “Bedraggled and beaten, and diffident I see. Have the weathers been so cruel, or do you but weather with over-ease? I have been expecting you for some time, and it seems that you have tarried, and thus delayed my plans. Nahragor should be in the midst of fire and ruin now, but it yet stands.”
“That is not our fault,” Herr’Don responded. “And even if you had started the siege, I doubt that it would crumble as easily as you say.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” she said, turning her long, hard gaze upon him. She did not stir from her seat; her hands gripped the armrests of the chair like claws upon their prey. “I suppose you believe that it takes Herr’Gal’s troops to breech the walls of Nahragor? Do you think that it should be you, Herr’Don, to lead the armies against the Black Bastion?”
“I said naught of that,” Herr’Don replied.
“Yet you thought it, and think it still. We are not barbarians, Herr’Don, though ever your people call us by that name. Your father, in particular, has taken to calling us by many distasteful names, not least of all bêtalajal, the ‘less-of-home.’” She raised her right hand suddenly and they flinched. “And I say to you now that we are not without a home, for ever has Boror been that to us. We settle not in one place of the King Vale, for all of Boror is our house. We do not need a hut of bricks to know our place in the world, but it seems to me that the King needs a stern reminder to know his own.”
“He knows little of the Garigút ways,” Ifferon said. “He is forever stunted by his folly and blinded by his ignorance. Please, Geldirana Way-thane, grant him and us the pardon of the wise, the grace of the righteous, and the kindness of—”
“Ifferon, I did not permit you to speak,” she scolded, turning her fiery gaze upon him. It had been ten years since she looked upon him with those eyes, and the fire had grown wild in that time. Part of Ifferon wanted to run to her and embrace her like he did all those years ago, but another part warned him to stay away, lest he catch alight.
“Tell me, Ifferon,” she said, and the words were like embers. “After all you have done, and failed to do, why is it that I should grant you grace and kindness?”
The shroud of shame fell upon him, but it did not conceal him from Geldirana’s flame-filled stare. He grew scarlet, as if the burn had already set in, and he looked upon his companions and saw their awkward glances, for clearly they too could feel the atmosphere like a furnace.
Then Ifferon looked up. “Geldirana, you are fair and beautiful beyond measure. More splendid than the rays of the sun, more solemn than the beams of the moon, more intricate than the Aerbateros of the Aelora, and more elegant than the graceful strides of the Ferian. Naught in this world have I found since our parting that has met with your beauty. Naught compares to you, and ever have I grieved for the loss of your love, and ever have I reviled myself for the disgrace of leaving you then from fear of Agon. But I know there is naught that I can say to make amends, naught that I can do to set things aright. Yet all the same I kneel before you now and ask your forgiveness, for I repent of all the evils I have done to you in my folly to avoid evil.” And thus he knelt, bowing low.
“You kneel over-late,” Geldirana said, “and you knelt first before the throne of fear. But do you expect that I shall grant absolution so easily? Do you think that you can buy my clemency with the wily words you have studied in your lock-away at Larksong? No, I think you ask too much, and too much from you is the asking of aught at all, for I should be the one to ask of you, and I ask this: do not think that you can make amends or set things aright with me, for we will all be in Halés ere that happens, but you may yet repair the follies of your fear with the world by doing the deeds set before you, deeds long held undone. Will you baulk before these tasks or see them through?”
Herr’Don stepped forth and spoke: “He will do them as long as I am here to guide and protect him, as Sword of Boror, Herr’Don the Great.”
“He will do naught if you do it for him,” Geldirana snapped. “Let him speak for himself, for that is ever what he lacks. Do you have a voice, Ifferon, or has it been stilled by the truth of my words? Speak if you still can.”
“I can,” Ifferon said, “and I can offer no assurances except one. My journey has been long and hard, and it has meant toil, terror and tears for me and my companions. Fear ever drove me, and dread ever gnawed at my will, but it is now absolute. I will do my best, yet never can I do more, and I do not yet know how far my best will reach.”
“It will reach far,” Geldirana said, “if you stretch your arm enough to make it so. You did that once. Do you not remember the Caves of Remradi? They are not far from here. Ten years are not enough to kill those memories from my mind. And are you not a Child of Telm, Ifferon? Are you not a god-child? Your best is the best of the gods, and who would place limit on them?”
“Agon would,” Ifferon said.
“Precisely why you must do to him what he would do to you,” the Way-thane replied. “You must limit him, his might, his power, his reach. We are not without weapons, and not without warriors to wield them. I have been given a message in dream that a weapon of power was being sent here, and lo! Here you arrive from the road of reminiscence, from the clutches of the past.
“There are duties to be done, and the Siege of Nahragor will begin on the morrow. You will be shown to your quarters and then we shall have a final feast, a last supper ere our doom is shown to us. Go now and change and cleanse yourselves, for my people must prepare the table. You will be bidden return ere long, and I shall reveal unto you my strategy, and it shall be as a light in the darkness of your minds, and your woes and doubts shall be overruled.”
Thus the company left the room and made their way to their quarters, led by Geldon, who seemed content with the words of the Way-thane. Bu
t before they had all left, Geldirana called back to Délin and bid him stay a moment with the Al-Ferian boy.
“What is your name, knight?” she asked.
“Délin De’Marius,” he told her, “though many know me better as Trueblade.”
“And true that is, for that is a name that is not unknown to me. It seems that the rumour of valour and honour rides ahead of you ere your arrival, and I see that there is truth in the hearsay. Yet I am troubled.”
“My pardon, Lady Way-thane, if aught that I do or say troubles you,” Délin replied, “for such is not my intent.”
“That may be, but it is not you that troubles me, Trueblade, but he who goes with you ... this ... Al-Ferian child. Who is he and what connection is he to you?”
“He goes by the name Théos,” Délin said, “though I know not if that is his name. Yet he answers to it now, and is tagged upon his collar—”
“So you know little of him,” she stated.
“What little I know is in the knowledge of the heart.”
“A dangerous knowledge.”
“Yet a necessary danger,” the knight replied. “We would wither without it.”
Geldirana’s eyes seemed to tear then, and she averted her gaze for a moment and then turned back to him with renewed fire. “Tell me how you came upon him, and why he seems to cling to you, you who know so little about him.”
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