“The servants of Agon would do just such a reckless thing to unleash him from his chains,” Elithéa said.
“Then we must stop him,” Délin said. “We must stop the Call of Agon.”
They rushed in. Herr’Don shouted and brandished his blade like a madman. Bow was strung and sword unleashed, and all gave a tumult of war cries as if from an army of hundreds. But it seemed that some trick had struck their eyes, for there was no one in the room, no Summoner before them.
“We must ... stop him,” Délin repeated, but his words were now riddled with doubt.
Then suddenly the dark figure was behind them. “You will need haste as your consort then,” he said, and was gone, turning the corner they had just come from.
XVI – AT THE FOOTHOLD OF DARKNESS
“Quick! He went left!” Herr’Don shouted as they scrambled through another secret passage out of Nahragor, one which they saw the Summoner disappear into.
“No, it was right,” Elithéa said. “I have better sight than all of us.”
“I know a rat when I see one,” Herr’Don said, “and I know where they run.”
Thus did they quarrel for a time as they ran, chasing the elusive shadow of the Summoner that had thus far evaded them. Ifferon was growing to realise that some magic must have been on the Summoner’s heels, for his haste was not human. Indeed, they were not even sure if he was a Man, and if he was, they thought it likely that he was one of the Nahamoni, the Dark Men of the south.
“He went left,” Herr’Don repeated.
“You said that back in the corridors,” Elithéa said. “And I disagreed with you, but we went left anyway, and we have not found him. I think he went right.”
“And what if we go right when he went left?” Herr’Don quizzed.
“Herr’Don is right,” Délin said. “This is not just a matter of who has the best sense of direction here. If we lose him, then we have lost everything. We cannot risk that. We cannot leave this choice to chance.”
“Then what do you propose?” Elithéa asked.
“We have to cover both routes,” Herr’Don said.
“Yes, as much as I dislike the notion of splitting up, we must search both the Grey Hills and the Dark Forest,” Délin said.
“What a choice!” Aralus said. “Can home not be one of them?”
“Well, I’m going left,” Herr’Don said. “So that means it’s the Grey Hills for me.”
“You’re just saying that because you do not want to enter Idor-Hol,” Elithéa said.
“Not in the least,” Herr’Don replied. “Why, I feel almost compelled by the curiosity in me to take Idor-Hol and rename it Idor-Herr’Don, for it shall not be a Dark Forest for long once I have made claim to it.”
“Why would the Summoner go up the Grey Hills?” Thalla asked. “That just leads to the White Mountains. We would see his black robes on the canvass of snow from a mile away. Idor-Hol gives more cover.”
“So we might not see him at all,” Aralus said. “Even if we entered it.”
“But we have to try,” Thalla stated.
“I believe he went left,” Délin said. “That is what my heart tells me, so I must take the Grey Hills with Herr’Don.”
“Maybe the boy should go right then,” Aralus said.
“He will come with me,” Délin said. “And you will go right if you know what is best for you.”
“You have no quarrel from me. I’d rather be with a harlot-turned-Magus than a knight-turned-nanny.”
“Idor-Hol makes sense to me,” Elithéa said. “So I will go with Thalla. I will not let Aralus out of my sight, so he will come with us and give you some peace from his tireless tongue. Perhaps when we return he may be relieved of it entirely.”
“I’m starting to wonder if this is a plot for Elithéa to get me alone in a forest to kill me,” Aralus said. “Or perhaps she will admit that her heart beats for me.”
“I’m starting to think it might be the other way ‘round,” Herr’Don said.
“You took your time,” Aralus replied, and his grin was sickening, for it seemed that his teeth were rotting in his mouth.
They made their way north-west from the smouldering ruin of Nahragor, which still stood on a treacherous foundation, clinging to shape and structure. Few eyes followed their trail, for battle still raged in the Kránror, the Shadow Vale, where a legion of Nahamoni fought with the dwindling forces of the Garigút. It was not long before the company came to a two-pronged path, one leading to the Grey Hills, the other leading into the murk and fog of Idor-Hol. This was known as the Saras Adalach, the Serpent Tongue, and it seemed to the party that this was a name of ill boding, for they thought of the Gormathrong, the Lumbering Leviathan, who is known as Silsarasin de’Iraldasin, the Circle-Serpent of the World.
“Now that it comes to it, my heart pangs at this parting,” Délin said. “There is an evil doom ahead of us, I fear, and yet we must march to face it. I am glad not to be entering again the dim and choke of Idor-Hol, and yet I am not glad to be taking the Grey Hills, for they seem not grey to me, but a duller shade of black. And what of the White Mountains? Are they the Amreni Elé or the Amreni Nahad, the Mountains of Darkness? I cannot say, for they are white with snow as the fields of Caelün, and yet my heart warns me of a black cloud ahead, and whither we go it shall follow, so that no path shall be undogged.”
“I grow weary of your lamenting,” Aralus said. “Save us all the sorrow, Délin, and speak less, for you seem ever at odds with the world, harking back to bygone days. Those days are gone. They are dead. New days are ahead. These are our days. No dark god or demon, nor Beast or Summoner, shall hoard them and hinder our uprising.”
Herr’Don clapped his hands in agreement. “Now come! Whoever shall trust the wisdom of my choice shall come with me up the Grey Hills, and we shall make a haste that will defy the Lord of Time.”
He charged off, heeding no cry or call. He did not look back to see who would join him, and it seemed to the others that an immortal haste was upon his heels, one that might meet with that of the Summoner if he were up ahead. Délin grabbed Théos and followed. His armour clinked and clanged as he went, and he stumbled here and there, yet he never faltered. Ifferon gave a final nod to his companions and then followed the two warriors, struggling to match their pace.
* * *
A stillness followed, where Thalla, Elithéa, and Aralus stood in silence. They were taken aback by the abruptness of Herr’Don’s charge, and it seemed to their eyes that they could already see him clambering up the hills, a black speck among the greyness.
They turned and were greeted by the menace of Idor-Hol. The choking fog had crawled out to meet them, and they rolled their shoulders and cringed, thinking ill of their choice. Yet onwards they went, heeding no fear, into the murk and dank of the forest.
“An air so poisonous,” Aralus observed. “’Twould be a wonder indeed if a Man could hide here long.”
“If Man he is,” Elithéa replied. “Yet I have little doubt, for such is the style of your people. It would surprise me little to pull down his hood and see your face grinning back at me.”
“That would surprise me!” Aralus said. “But you must think I have a twin, which I do not. My brother looks nothing like me. Daralus is his name.”
“And what is yours?” Elithéa asked, turning her hard gaze upon him again. “For I have many names for you, and they are: Liar, Cheat, Scoundrel, Beggar of Darkness, and Bringer of Hate, and I have more yet in the Mannish tongue and endless ones in my native speech.”
“I grow tired of this bickering,” Thalla said. “No wonder the others were so eager to part. Let us just keep to our mission and speak only when we have something useful to say about the path ahead.”
“I have something useful to say,” Aralus commented. “There is no path ahead. A path leads into Idor-Hol, and there it vanishes, for Idor-Hol consumes all that come within. Including us.”
* * *
A fog was also upon the Grey Hills, and If
feron wondered if the mist came from the Mountains and then into the Dark Forest, or if Idor-Hol generated its own murky haze, wafting it up into the hills. It mattered little where it came from, however, for either way it proved a barrier to their sight. They had not gone far up the Hills when they were engulfed in the mist, wading through it as if it were quicksand.
“Let us hope this has slowed the Summoner as much as it does us,” Herr’Don said. It looked as though he was fighting with the smog, striking it with his fists and kicking at the smoke that clung to his legs.
But before long the fog began to fade, and the four felt naked to all sight. The vapour rose high into the Mountains, where it dissipated, and the company turned back to see that battle still raged in the Valley far below.
Suddenly they became aware of a fleeting blackness that was crawling up the hills behind them, as if a new fog, not grey but black, was pressing in. But this was no fog, for it moved with an evil speed, and before it ran the hounds of fear and dread.
The company froze in a moment of panic. They stood upon the hill in wait—and it seemed like a lifetime they stood there, but soon their wait was over and the terror came quickening over the brink of the hill.
He came forth, the Lichelord of the Molokrán, sweeping up from the vast shadow and bringing his dark and daunting eyes upon them, deep and probing. Then the other Molokrán appeared, dark and fearsome, bearing up like looming mountains, a carriage of black that clung to their master.
Théos turned from them, closing his eyes and burying his head in Délin’s chest, but as the Molokrán approached, Ifferon knew that the knight could not bear the boy and battle at the same time. The Shadowlord drew back and then darted forward towards them, and it seemed that he did not walk or run, but floated across the land at a dreadful speed. Wisps of shadow blew about him, and it seemed that they were like dark fingers, tearing into the soil as he passed.
Whispers came, as if from afar, and yet Ifferon knew that they were from the Shadowlord’s twisted mouth. But then, as he watched the thirteen figures loom, they faded, and it looked as if none had been there, but their presence lingered. Soon their darkness grew visible again. They glared and taunted, hissing and leaning forth, showing their claws, readying themselves to maul them.
“Run!” Délin cried, his voice stolen by the wind. “Do not slow for breath. Do not stop for air. Run!”
And so they ran as fast as their fear drove them, like a stampede of hunted animals across a wide and open plain. Terror whipped at their ankles and dread loomed up behind them like a pouncing predator. They could not see, not even if they looked behind them, which only Herr’Don and Délin dared to do, but something great and terrible followed.
And suddenly a new wonder appeared ahead over the line of the horizon, a stone-ringed dolmen, a Greater Ilokrán. It stood like a sentry of the forgotten years, guarding some vast and ancient power. And there it stood, just moments away: a safe haven, an oasis in the vastness of a desert of black shadow. Safety stood before them, just out of reach, while peril advanced quickly on their heels.
“To the Shadowstone!” Herr’Don called. “Haste!”
Time seemed to slow and each dreadful step seemed like a final beat of their hearts. The darkness hung about their shoulders and an icy breath came creeping up their backs. Panic swept in on them like a crashing wave, and it occurred to them all that they would die mere feet away from the Ilokrán—dead on the doorstep of safety.
But it was not the end. For just as all hope faded and they felt the gnawing shadow come upon them, they passed within the circle of small stones that bore the Wards of the Taarí Earls. They came to the dolmen at the centre of these stones and turned sharply, peering out into the growing gloom.
“These are the Wards of the Ancient Days,” Délin shouted. “May Issarí smite you for ever setting foot in her old domain!”
But a cruel laugh came in answer. “We smote Issarí and before her eyes we smote her consort. Even as we speak, the River Man lies at the bottom of the River where he belongs, and death is his new spouse now. Heed us, Délin De’Marius, for we come to show you the Truth.”
And suddenly the knight backed away, as if a serpent had arisen and sprang at him. A horror worse than death was in his eyes, and he recoiled, pushing Théos behind him and closer to the central stone.
They huddled about the dolmen of the Greater Ilokrán, as if it were a campfire to scare away the shadow and the cold. But the shadow did not flee; it grew around them like a dark blanket intent on smothering them. And the cold still clawed and clung to them, and whispered cruel things to their bones.
All but Ifferon and Théos could see naught but different shades of shadow, though they could feel the fear that the Molokrán cast before them like slaves to their will. Ifferon saw the vast, wispy shadow of the creatures set before them, billowing like thick smog or dark, ruined trees in a haunting breeze. They were but fleeting glimpses, for the Scroll lay half-burned in his pocket, a tarnished token of a god long dead.
Herr’Don clambered onto the dolmen and stood tall, waving his sword about in a frenzy. “Back, you fiends! The Bringers of Fear shall know a terror of their own at the hands of Herr’Don the Great!” He cast aside his cloak, launching it towards the advancing wave of black in a moment of boldness.
But the shadow’s advance was not halted. It consumed his cloak, trampling and tearing it. A shrill laugh sounded in the air, as if this little prince, this Herr’Don the Small, this Herr’Don the Weak, was but a child pretending, a feigned fortress that is but a sandcastle standing in defiance of a great and terrible wave. It was inevitable that he would be washed away.
But Herr’Don was not the child. Délin quickly lifted Théos up and stood him upon the dolmen beside Herr’Don, as if indeed this was the advancing ocean and the only safety was to be found in higher ground. If nothing else, the boy would be the last to fall, after all the others had given their lives to the sea of shadow.
But the tide then halted and the black seemed to dim. The fear that went before them withdrew into their ranks, and it was preceded by a sense of doubt.
“Théosath! Téhosin! Têhosel!” they called, their voices like the whispers of the dead. “Tëosë! Tasahad! Taasasaí!” they cried in all the languages of Iraldas, hissing and spitting as they spoke, as if the very words tore their tongues and mauled their mouths.
And they seemed to quail before the boy, as if some secret light shone deep within him, scaring away the shadow. Their blackness faded to a meek grey, and their vast shapes, seen in full only by Ifferon and Théos, began to diminish.
But the Lichelord did not flinch or cower, nor did he fade, for shock more than fear was upon him. “He,” he said in a long-drawn hiss, “should not be here!”
“Neither should you, you beasts, you echoes of the Dark Age!” Délin called. “Go back to the days when Molok claimed Iraldas as his domain, for you cling to a mockery of life, and you cleave to a forgery of triumph! Go back, I say, ere the light comes o’er the hills and smites you!”
“We,” the voice came, solemn, as if the last word of someone dying, and then deathly, as if many ghostly voices were joining its call, “are of the earth. We are of the soil. We are the kings of two kingdoms, stone and shadow, and lo! Here is the Dark Age anew, and there shall come a day when a black sun will rise and the light will flee beneath the stones. And there we will crush it!”
And so it seemed then that the final star in the sky was smothered and died out in the ink of the night. The Molokrán arose once more, taller than before, and came to write their own history of the earth in that ink, starting with the demise of those few fools who dared to wave a dim lantern before the darkness.
Then shock turned to awe for both parties, for Théos made a shout in the tongue of the Ferian: “Cué essáh Cerran!” His voice was sweet and tender, but there was a great fear in it, and yet beneath this layer of terror lay an even deeper emotion, one of ancient loathing. Suddenly it seemed as though a be
ll had tolled in the heavens and a memory had struck like a lightning flash.
The Molokrán ceased again, and it seemed to Ifferon that the other twelve looked to the Lichelord for advice, clearly unready for this strange foe. But the Lichelord needed no bell or flash to spark his memory, for his loathing was not only deep, it was palpable. He hissed and spit and snarled, and then he said: “But a boy, but a child. The shadow will have grown ere you come of age. Watch it grow!”
He raised his arms and claws high into the air and pushed forward, as if against some invisible wall. There was a tremor in the earth, and the stones that lay in a circle around the dolmen began to tremble and shake, as if they too feared the advancing shade. Again the Lichelord raised his arms and pushed forward, ignoring the cries of Délin and Herr’Don, who screamed: “Back, you beast! Back, devil! Back!” And again the stones shook and the ground about them began to crack and break. Once more the Lichelord pushed forth, and this time the stones rose into the air and moved closer to the company before settling in the ground again, hemming them in closer than before. The circle of their defence was now half its original size.
“The shadow chokes all life and light,” the Lichelord said. “Just as the Ardúnari have fallen to our might, so too do the Children of Telm crumble and their god-blood spill upon the land that is our home. Such is the reward of the Lighthand at the hand of the Shadow.”
Once again he raised his arms, but before he could push forth there was a tremor, only different in scale and feel. It felt like the deep rumbling of the belly of the hungry earth, and yet it spoke of a vast power that even the Lichelord could not amass to move the rocks. The dolmen shuddered and many in the company tripped or fell in the tumble, for it seemed as though the earth was rising right beneath their feet.
And so it was, for there was something sleeping beneath the dolmen that had not awoken for many years. It had heard the cries and shouts, and felt the rumble of dark powers. More than anything it sensed the Shadow fall upon it, and a great anger was arisen in its ancient heart. For it was a Mountain Moln, a creature of the earth from the days when the Molokrán were first created, for the Moln were Aelor’s answer to them, salvaging the dissipating power of the Aelora in their abandoned home of Ardún-Fé before Molok could build more of his ruined shadow race.
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