“They say no one ever escapes from Idor-Hol,” Aralus whispered, as if the trees might hear his words and make them a reality.
“Were it you alone in here, I would have prayed that it were so,” Elithéa said, “but who are these people who survive that claim there are no survivors?”
“The people who go to the Grey Hills instead,” Aralus said, and while they could not see his slimy grin, they could almost feel it through the fog.
“There is only one person who will not escape Idor-Hol today,” Thalla said. “And that is he who would give the Call of Agon.”
“If he is here and not on the end of Herr’Don’s sword,” Aralus said, tapping his dagger on a nearby tree. “You know, Elly, you may wish to slow your pace, for there are quicksands in this forest. Waving that stick might save your head from a branch above, but it will not save your feet from the pull below.”
“Yet nothing will save me from your prater,” the Ferian replied. “I know my way around the land. I do not trip and stumble like a Man.”
Their stolen sight gave aid to their ears, but they wished it were not so, for they could hear noises of things that did not quite seem right, sounds just on the edge of hearing that threatened to push them over the edge of madness. There were scurries and slithers, crunches and creaking, and sounds that defied description. There was no wind, and yet there seemed to be a constant wail, and it appeared to come from every direction at once—even from inside them.
Suddenly Elithéa gave a cry. Thalla froze, part of her wanting to grab hold of whoever was nearby, yet fearful that it might not be one of her companions.
“My acorn!” Elithéa howled. “It is gone. My acorn. Something snatched it in the fog.”
It was then that the mist recoiled, fleeing from her mounting wrath, and leaving behind Thalla clutching her bow and Aralus clutching the acorn he took from Elithéa’s belt.
“You!” Elithéa spat, but she did not move, for Aralus held a dagger to the acorn like she had previously held a dagger to his throat.
“I find it interesting how the Ferian treat these acorns,” Aralus said. “If I held a knife to the neck of your child you would not hesitate to attack, for you would not value a child’s life the same. Yet here is but a token of nature and you dare not make a move.”
“Perhaps you assume too much,” Elithéa said.
Aralus held the blade closer to the acorn and Elithéa flinched. “I think I assume just enough,” he said, and he licked his lips, revelling in the control he had over her.
“Aralus, stop this game!” Thalla said.
“If I do that I will have to kill her,” he replied. “So perhaps you will let me have my fun and she can have that much more of life.”
“This is madness!” Thalla said. “The Summoner is loose. What are our petty squabbles if Agon is unleashed?”
Aralus ignored her, keeping a steady, gleeful gaze on Elithéa. “You know, in Alimror some devised a way to cause harm to the bearer of an acorn by damaging the acorn itself.”
“Do not dare!” Elithéa cried. “Take a blade to my flesh if you need, but do not tarnish the acorn.”
“But a cut here is a cut to you,” he said. “Not all can do this, of course. It is called fer eraslita, life by sympathy. One must know the key-symbols of the acorn spirits to open the channel. Have a guess what I know.”
Thalla stepped towards him, but Elithéa raised her hand. “No, do not push him.”
“Pay heed, little magic lady,” Aralus said. “You do not even understand the ways of the Magi, let alone the methods of the Erasliashan.”
He carved a symbol into the acorn and Elithéa screamed, as if it had been etched into her very flesh, but there was no sign or scar upon her.
“I beg of you,” the Ferian pleaded, the branch dropping from her weakened hand. “For every chance I had to take your life, I chose the path of mercy. Please, Aralus, you know well the hurt you make.”
“Indeed,” he said, and he carved another symbol, tearing a horrifying howl from Elithéa’s lips.
Thalla could no longer stand and watch. She armed her bow and pointed it at Aralus. “Stop this now.”
“Never at the command of a harlot,” he said. “It does not matter if I die this day, for Elithéa has paid the price of taunting me. She will never be able to return to the Éalgarth with a defiled acorn. You have done enough to join my list, Thalla. Do you really wish to do more? But do not worry, I have had my fun with the Ferian. There is only so much that the fer eraslita will do. The rest I will leave to nature.”
With that he tossed the acorn into the trees. Elithéa threw herself after it, and she screamed, as if Aralus were still carving figures into its surface. But now its fate was much worse, for it sat atop a bed of quicksand, which slowly sucked it into the earth.
“Leave it!” Thalla called. “It is not worth death.”
“Without it there is no life,” Elithéa said, and she jumped into the muck, seizing the acorn before it slipped forever beneath the surface. “We live or die as one.”
“Down to Halés,” Aralus said, perching like a starving crow beside a dying person, waiting for his long-awaited meal.
Thalla raced to the edge of the mire, careful not to tread too far. Elithéa was by now already waist high in quicksand, for she had struggled much to save the acorn from the sandy deeps. Thalla extended her bow to Elithéa, but before the Ferian could seize it Aralus grabbed Thalla and wrapped her in a bear-hug, crushing her against his bony chest.
“No!” he squealed, like a huntsman whose prey had escaped a trap. He had a strength that defied his form, the fortitude of anger and the might of desperation. He squeezed tighter and Thalla felt the air flee her lungs. “She’s not getting out! You’re not getting out. All of you ... you thieves! Stealing money, stealing hearts, stealing lives. Boots on the paupers, boots on the poor!”
Thalla struggled, but her fight was feeble. Even her legs began to give under the force of Aralus’ enduring embrace. For a brief moment she thought she might cast some spell, but she knew that without a Beldarian it could be the death of her. Yet death was drawing closer, one crushing second at a time.
“Let her go!” Elithéa screamed, but her newfound panic made her sink even deeper.
“Only to go to Halés,” Aralus replied.
“Aralus,” Thalla whispered, for her breath was choked. “Why are you ... why?”
“Why am I doing this? Why am I poor? Why am I left holding the ladder while you all climb to the top? Why am I even alive when most of my family are dead from hunger? It’s you! You’re the reason. Elithéa’s the reason. Ifferon is the reason. You know, our families were quite close.” He dragged Thalla closer, wanting her to feel how close they were. “We used to rent some land from Ifferon’s parents. We used to be friends. But one day we couldn’t pay the rent. We were thrown out. We had nowhere to go, no money, no food. Where was friendship then? We moved to Al-Ferian land, hoping for a better life. But it never came—it never came! Death did, though. Yes, he came. He took my mother and my three sisters. Only my father, my brother and I survived. So my father killed Ifferon’s parents. It was only fair. It was justice. But, you see, we had lost four people. Ifferon only lost two. It wasn’t balanced. Still the rich get a better deal! So we have to make it even, make it fair. Daralus and I. Ifferon has to die. I came here to kill him. But you ...,” and he turned his glance to Elithéa, who but glowered at him. “You had to dog me and hound me and make me feel little. And look at you now, growing smaller by the second!”
“I am sorry, Aralus,” Thalla said. “But it is not our fault.”
He turned back to Thalla. “You liar, you harlot! Was stabbing Herr’Don in the heart not your fault? Was frolicking off with a stableboy not your fault? Is it my fault? Is it my fault because I cannot pay for it to be someone else’s? Is that the way?” He began nodding furiously to himself. “Yes, you all need to die. You’re all wrong. You’re all thieves and liars!”
B
ut even as he spoke there was a scurrying in the forest. Small animals, rodents, and birds had been attracted to the scene, and to the gentle whistle of Elithéa who summoned them. Aralus was still deep within the trance of his own soliloquy and paid no heed to the scampering behind him until at last he saw the figure of Elithéa rising up from the quicksand in the corner of his eye. He turned, still holding Thalla, and realised that a great flock of birds had grabbed hold of Elithéa and pulled her out. They rested upon her shoulders with fierce gazes set upon him. There was a moment of pause as Aralus stood dumbfounded, and as the creatures of wood and plain gathered around the Ferian woman, as if she were some ancient tree that housed them all.
“So you have brought your beasts,” Aralus spat.
“A beast to match a beast,” Elithéa replied. “Yet they are more tame than you, for you are not like these animals, but rather the Beast that lies chained within the pits of Halés.”
“Spare me your condescension, Elly. it makes you look old!”
“Let Thalla go!”
“I thought you asked me that already but a moment ago,” Aralus said. “Did I heed you then? What do you think has changed?”
The animals seemed aware of his response, for their glower grew stronger, and some of them rose up and puffed their breasts or flapped their wings or grimaced gravely.
“Ah so, you think I cannot fend off raven and squirrel?”
But Elithéa did not respond. She picked up the branch that she had dropped and held it aloft like a staff from the thalgarth she left at Nahragor.
“So we fight,” Aralus said, and suddenly he threw Thalla towards Elitheá and unleashed two curved daggers from his belt. He pounced upon them, stabbing wildly. All was a mix of steel and staff and fur and feather. Thalla rolled out of the way only to nearly fall into the quicksand. The animals scratched and clawed at Aralus, who roared like a lion fighting for his throne. And Elithéa swung the branch around, warding the incoming blows.
Aralus lunged both daggers at the Ferian. One she blocked, while the other sliced deeply into her chest. She coughed and cried, and the animals grew more frenzied. They screeched and jumped and dived at Aralus, scratching his face and gnawing at his limbs. But he bashed them away, killing some, wounding others, or simply throwing them into trees or upon the ground. Some even landed in the quicksand only to be lost moments later.
“My animals!” Elithéa cried, rage rising like lava within her until her face was red. New strength came within her limbs and she pushed Aralus away. He landed at the base of a tree, losing both his daggers. Thalla helped Elithéa up, but they struggled, for the wound was deep and the blood came quickening
“I am a servant of circumstance,” Aralus said, grating his jaws, and they looked about to crumble from the force. “If fate had not been cruel, then I would not be either!” He pounced on Elithéa, who parried his fists with her own. She felt as though she were fighting off an animal, not a Man, some crazed cat or wounded wolf. She threw him off her, and he scampered away to rest by a tree, licking his wounds, mumbling and moaning to himself.
“You sons of kings, daughters of delight! Oh, how I hungered for marriage, for the tender kiss of a woman. And how I envied the rich. Oh, there were gowns and gaiety! There were emeralds out of reach, diamonds left to dangle, sapphires offered only to be taken away! Why is this? Why so glum, why so grim? Is it iniquity? Is it injustice? Is it immoral? Who decides these things? Who makes the tides ebb and flow? Not me, no, no, no, why would it be so, and how wonderful a world it would be if it were so.”
“You cannot blame us for your troubles, Aralus,” Thalla shouted, but this only seemed to anger him even more. He looked at her with fire in his eyes.
“Silence, harlot! Look at your clothes, your robes, all silk and satin! A little muck and mud and you cringe and cry, knowing not a bed of filth. You’re a little princess parading about, feigning adventure when you are still afraid you’ll tear your dress.”
“And what are you, Aralus?” Elithéa said. “What have you become?”
“I am what becomes of all Iraldas’ poor. I have become what the rich ordained, what the powerful have chosen. This is not my choice. What choice do I really have in a world run by other people?”
“You still have a choice,” Thalla replied. “You can stop this now. No one is forcing you. You need to take responsibility for your actions.”
“And when will you take responsibility for your own? Ah yes, so easy it is to berate others and whisper words of wisdom, but so difficult to enact them in your own life. Harlots and hypocrites, the lot of you!”
Again he dived at them, and Thalla and Elithéa acted in unison. They blocked his blows and pushed him back, only this time he neared the quicksand and nearly fell in. He tried to regain his balance, but Elithéa would not allow it. She pushed him in, and he howled like a beast and clambered to grab hold of something as he began to sink, but the more he struggled the more the earth devoured him.
For a moment the two women watched him, but pity and compassion rose swiftly in Thalla’s heart. “We must help him.” She struggled to find something else to pull him in, but Elithéa grabbed her and stared deeply into her eyes.
“This is helping,” she said. “This is mercy.”
And so she held Thalla, stopping her from aiding Aralus. They collapsed upon the ground in exhaustion and pain. They did not look at the figure in the quicksand, but from the corner of their eyes they could see the shape growing smaller. Always they could hear the cries and calls, until at last they became muttered, and then did not come at all.
XVIII – JUDGEMENT OF THE OLD ONES
Ifferon saw fields of snow open up before them as they climbed the last of the Grey Hills, and now they were met with the Amreni Elé, the White Mountains, tall and vast. The land was smothered in a garment of white, its vestures as cotton, yet cold as cool satin, and here and there a peak rose tall and deadly, spiked like a needle of the tailor of the earth. But the land was not tailored for the company, for before they had struggled up the first of the white tors, a hail came hastening, an onslaught of ice-fray. Herr’Don held his arms before his face, sheltering his eyes, and yet they were still stung by the blizzard that fired white grit into his pupils and his lashes.
“My sight is fading,” he called, but his voice was a murmur, for the words were stolen and slaughtered by the ravaging gale.
Onwards they went, defying the snowstorm, for they thought it the working of the Summoner up ahead. The higher they went the weaker it became, and soon they were faced with a ruined structure, buried in the heart of an icy peak. Stone columns rose up to support an arched entrance, and yet more columns lay in ruin upon the ground, vanishing into the depths of the snow. It seemed that it was but a shadow of some ancient building, and yet it hinted at something more, something hidden deep within.
“The Old Temple,” Ifferon said, shaking his head and rubbing the snow from his eyes.
“Is it really as bad as they say?” Délin asked.
“Ha! Ghoul and ghost stories,” Herr’Don replied. “When have they ever proven true, and why should we fear them?”
“Ardún-Fé,” Ifferon said. “That would be a good example.”
“That was just an unfortunate turn of events. And it involved the Spectres. I don’t think even they would venture up here.”
“Which begs the question: what lies here that even they will not approach?” Délin asked.
“A rumour lies here,” Herr’Don responded. “And, of course, our wandering Summoner.”
“It is said that the Temple is a remnant of the forgotten days,” Ifferon said.
“Who says that if they are forgotten?” Herr’Don asked.
“Forgotten to mortals,” Ifferon explained. “I am sure the gods still remember it.”
“I’m sure they would, if it were true,” Herr’Don said. “I trust more in the truth of my blade.”
“What do you think the Gormathrong is, Herr’Don?” Ifferon asked.
>
“A very large worm that Corrias stood on,” the prince replied.
Ifferon shook his head. “Do you fear nothing?”
“Do you fear everything?”
“I know little of this Gormathrong,” Délin said. “He does not feature in our books in Arlin.”
“He is one of the Old Ones,” Ifferon said. “The last that was defeated in the War of the Heavens, and the Old Temple is a relic of those times, where it is said that the offspring of the Elad Éni worshipped Chránán, the Lord of the Shadow of Time. Few dare enter the worship-halls of those ancient forces.”
“And we are few,” Herr’Don said. “And we shall dare. Come! I hearken not to these whispers of ancient times. What is the Old Temple but an echo of the dead? What are its walls but brick yet to crumble? A rumour has come before it, out of the shadows of Men’s minds, and it darkens our spirits. But I tell you this, a rumour shall go before us now, and it shall travel to this Temple of the Old Ones, and it shall be the rumour of death come quickening, for it is blood that I thirst for!”
They approached the entrance of the Old Temple, which seemed small from afar, yet was monumental when they drew near. It was not crafted by Man or Taarí, they knew, but by gods, with huge hands and limbs, lifting great rocks and hauling them up the mountain side. It looked like the entrance of a tomb, and they wondered with foreboding what might have been buried there.
They passed under the arched entrance cautiously. Something ancient and terrible lurked within, there was no doubt of it, but it might yet be sleeping, and they dared not wake it, not even Herr’Don.
“’Twould not surprise me to find this place is trapped,” Herr’Don whispered. “Tread lightly and keep your—”
But even as he spoke he stepped upon a stone slab which triggered a darting blade. It shot out from the wall and struck his left shoulder; he gave a yelp as it pinned him to the opposite side. Ifferon rushed forth and grabbed him, and he kicked the swordsman’s foot to remove it from the trigger-bed. The blade withdrew back into the wall, where blood dripped like tears.
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 30
