“Ah! My words be damned!” Herr’Don shouted. “For it seems I have damned myself with them.”
Délin gave a faint smile. “And Geldirana thought me the speaker of ill omens.”
“Aye, she did, but at least your omens did not bode ill for you.” Herr’Don pushed Ifferon away, who tried to tend his wound. “If I had not cast my cloak at the Molokrán I’d have something proper to wrap the wound. But come, lend me a cloth and I’ll repay the deed by offering the use of my arm in battle.”
“This is more than a cloth will mend,” Ifferon said.
“’Tis but a scratch,” Herr’Don responded.
“A scratch from a Felokar wolf, perhaps,” Délin said, and he raised his hand, which was wrapped tightly in a thick white cloth, now soaked red. “This is the tooth of a wolf—but that,” and he pointed to Herr’Don’s shoulder, “is the tooth of a trap. Come, we must tend to it. We know not if the blade was poisoned.”
“I know,” Herr’Don said. “I’ve been poisoned before, and I know its first moments, and those evil ones that follow. This is not poisoned.”
“Yet still it must be tended, ere it festers,” Délin said.
Ifferon nodded and stepped forward again. “Let me clean the wound and apply some herbs.” He reached into the sleeves of his habit and pulled out a small container filled with herbs and spices, so well packed that it had survived past toil and struggle.
“I am no sickly woman that needs waiting on!” the prince growled. “Give me a cloth or a splint or I’ll make do with my right arm alone if need be.”
Délin tore off a piece of his sleeve and handed it to Herr’Don. “May Issarí prevent the wound from festering, if you will not do so.”
“May Corrias prevent more traps from springing,” Herr’Don said as he wrapped his shoulder and struggled to tie a one-handed knot. “I’d prefer not to have to wrap my right arm as well.”
“Let us then be careful,” Délin said. He held Théos close, and he looked as if he were ready to jump in front of anything that might harm the child.
Herr’Don bent over, and Ifferon thought that he had stumbled, but when the swordsman straightened up again he held an old crossbow that was still loaded with a bolt, as if it had fallen from the hand of someone who lost it, and their life, to a trap.
“Seems a waste,” Herr’Don said. “I think I should honour whoever did not get to use this, and I know just the cowardly sorcerer to honour it on.”
Délin was not amused. “There is no honour in fighting from afar.”
“Perhaps not,” the prince said, “but if Herr’Don the Great has to feel the sting of a trap, than he who set the trap will get to feel the sting of anything and everything I can find to throw at him.”
* * *
From then on they were more cautious, treading slowly and softly, with keen eyes on every crack and hole in the walls and floor. Every minute sound was magnified by the lens of fear; a crumble of dust became an avalanche, and a distant footfall was heard as the rumour of a boulder rolling down to greet them. Yet nothing came but the shadow of their suspicion and their wariness, and soon they were confident again that the path ahead was safe to tread.
Yet even as that confidence came, they turned a corner and saw that other traps had already been sprung, and that blades and spikes lay broken and bloodied on the floor. They wondered if the Summoner had sprung them in his haste, but Ifferon pointed out that the blood was long dry and could not be that of their enemy, unless he be of demon-kind with law-defying blood.
“My arm’s going numb,” Herr’Don said, and he spoke as one stilted and distant, as if his mind and his mouth were also numbed.
“I have had similar wounds,” Délin whispered. “You must keep the limb active, lest it atrophy.”
“I’m trying to,” Herr’Don cried, “but it doesn’t want to move. I can barely wiggle a finger, never mind grasp a sword. Ack, this Summoner will pay dearly for this trap.”
“Will he now?” a sudden voice boomed out around them. They had left the corridors and entered the main chamber of the Temple. It opened up wide before them, like a winding river that falls into the ocean, and it seemed to the company that the sheer height of the ceiling looming in the distance above them defied all logic.
Herr’Don, Délin, and Ifferon glanced this way and that, trying to espy the origin of the spectral voice. Théos did not hunt the voice, but cowered beneath Délin’s shadow, as if he too were prey.
“Good of you to join me,” the voice echoed, more sinister than before. “I hope you find this little abode to your liking. Dearest me, how lost and bewildered you look, not knowing where I am. But guests, guests, why do you tarry on the doorstep when it rains outside? Come in! Enter my meek dwelling-place, and may we dine together by the hearth and exchange our fair tales.”
“All that I will exchange with you,” Herr’Don said, “are swords.”
“And words,” the voice corrected. “For you have already erred on your oath by speaking. But why so gruff? Why so raucous? Has your little scratch upset you? Has it made you testy? Ah, Herr’Don, surely you are your father’s son, one so quick to anger, yet so slow to action.”
Herr’Don gave in to the lure, fury flaring in his face. He raised his fist and yelled: “Come forth and show the body to match the voice, if indeed you are not some faceless phantom, and I shall show you action quicker than the fires in my veins and the words on my tongue!”
“I pity you, Herr’Don, attired like a prince, yet bereft of a reign,” the voice said. “But Herr’Gal has been good to me. He has lent me his ear on many occasions, and I bet I have bent it. Yes ... I bet I have. There are many who are easily swayed.”
“And you have swayed him with twisted words and lies, no doubt,” Délin said. “But we are all free Men, and we bend our own ears to evil or good. Tell me, phantom, can we say the same for you? Are you a free Man? Are you even a Man at all?”
“What do you think, Délin? You would not be lecturing me if I were not. But do you even realise the implications of your words? Free? You think you are free? There are so many things keeping you in bonds: life, death—even liberty, false as that concept is, just another box to lock you in. And what of Arlin? What of your precious Motherland? Do you think that you and your people will be ‘free’ there for long? Already the Shadow advances; already it springs into the green pastures, turning them grey and black. What will you eat when the crops turn to ashes, Délin, if not your pride? Will you tell me how free you are then, and will it even mean anything?”
“Yes, yes,” Délin said, his voice resolute. “It will always mean something.”
“You are as stubborn as a Moln. You are tall when yet standing, but the highest always have the hardest fall. And you shall fall, Délin, for I have foreseen it. I have foredoomed it for you.”
“None may do that but Corrias,” the knight replied.
“Not any more, Trueblade.” The voice grew darker and nearer, as if someone was studying them from the rafters, a staring god in the cloud-beams. “And yet it shall be Corrias that fulfils this doom, though he knows little of it. And who is that with you, Délin? Is that your son? Is that your little trophy self? You do not look Al-Ferian to me, but I suppose you have invented some notion of chivalry that defies the boundaries of race. How pathetic and delusional, yet suiting for Délin De’Marius, who would rather live a lie than face the truth of this dishonourable world.”
The voice shifted and settled like vocal eyes on Ifferon. “Ah, Ifferon, I almost forgot you were here. How easy that is to do, with you so silent, hiding there behind the men of muscles with their loud voices. And how paltry! How I wish to forget you already! But see, there are final acts left to do ere that can occur, and then all can forget you—all can forget the lot of you!”
Then there was a strange sound below, like the tremor of huge footsteps. Their attention was jolted, and they glanced towards the open corridors where candlelight flickered. They wondered if the ethereal vo
ice had found a body.
“I have prepared a welcome for you. I have no servants up here, what with having only recently moved in, but we must make do. These shall provide you with the ... warmest of welcomes.”
As he spoke, the makers of the sounds came into view: two lumbering statues, thrice the height of Man, twice the breadth, ten times the strength, with none of the weaknesses of flesh, for they were animate stone, huge and daunting, some distant cousin of the Moln. Armour was carved into their hulk, where plates of bronze and silver were added, and their eyes were alight with ruby fire, ocular gems that seemed always about to burst into a haze of crystal shards. These eyes settled on the company, cold and cruel, and there was hate in them, and the rumour of death.
“Sentinels!” Herr’Don cried. He leapt upon a nearby rock and drew his sword, though he gave a shriek of pain, for his wounded shoulder was still raw and fresh. The numbness was overcome by the suddenness of pain. “Quick! Away from them! Hide! Run!”
But before the others thought to stir, one of the Sentinels came lumbering down on them, heavy footfalls thumping the ground. The temple shook and stones were loosened, and all was as an earthquake under the thunderous feet of gods. The guardians were armed with large two-handed swords that might have been wrought and wielded by the Elad Éni in their prime.
The Sentinel swung its sword downwards; the blade struck the ground and made a chasm there. The floor on either side flipped up, throwing Délin and Théos to one side and Ifferon to the other. Herr’Don leapt from one rock to another, muttering words of rage to himself. He jumped from the largest rock he could find and hacked at the Sentinel that was closest to him. But his sword, which might cleave the heads off hundreds, did little but chip the stone of the guardian.
Herr’Don rolled beneath the legs of the Sentinel when he landed, but even as he stood up to make another attack the second came before him and kicked him aside with a great stone foot. He gasped and collapsed against a wall near Délin, who was urging Théos to hide in one of the alcoves in the corner of the room.
The first Sentinel came up behind them, rearing its sword, but it was distracted by Ifferon, who stumbled from the ruins he had been cast into. Herr’Don grabbed his crossbow and fired a bolt at it, but it was as a pinprick, the sting of a bee bereft of its venom. Ifferon clambered up a platform to the left, which was previously inaccessible, but now the ruined floor rose up to it with ease. He grabbed small stones as he went and fired them at the Sentinels, but many missed, and those that hit their target bounced off them like hail against a mountain. Onwards he clambered as Herr’Don cast the crossbow aside like a broken promise. Then Délin unsheathed his two-handed sword and stepped down into the arena before the Sentinels, and all who looked upon him saw Trueblade in the majesty of his might.
The first Sentinel swung its sword at him, but Délin tensed his muscles and parried the attack with his own. The metal screeched and Délin bit his lip as the pain of the strike began to pierce him like a phantom blade. Shards of their blades began to splinter and spray here and there in a flurry of sparks. Then Délin dodged the next blow and drew closer to the Sentinel’s feet. He gave a battle cry that might have slain an army: “Lamarin!” he called, and he sliced at the Sentinel’s left foot. To the wonder of all, including Délin himself, the blade cut through the limb and out the other side, and the Sentinel wavered and collapsed, striking the wall and knocking one of the pillars down. Herr’Don dodged the debris that was cast from the falling guardian, but one of the stone hands came down on him, pinning his foot. He yelped and struggled to get free, but then the pillar came down on him and he covered his face before he was buried beneath it.
“Herr’Don!” Délin yelled. He threw down his sword and raced towards him, and he pushed at the pillar, which moved a little until it lay upon the swordsman’s injured arm alone. His leg was free of the Sentinel’s hand, but he was unconscious, and Délin could do nothing to wake him. He shoved again at the pillar, but even as pushed, the second Sentinel loomed up tall behind him and sliced down. Délin dodged the blow, which sliced the pillar in half, narrowly missing Herr’Don’s dozing body.
* * *
“Reveal yourself!” Ifferon shouted as he reached the platform where the Summoner hid.
“Oh, I shall, Ifferon, but who is the true deceiver?”
“Save your lectures,” Ifferon said. “I will not heed the words of—”
But his speech was cut short, for the Summoner pulled down the hood of his robe—and there, beneath the shadow, stood Teron. He looked older and more weathered, and he bore a scar across his face as though he had been in a recent battle. He seemed to crawl out of the depths of his hood as a rat crawls out of a hole in the wall.
“Will you heed them now?” Teron asked, and the voice seemed now familiar, that same derisive tone from Larksong, mordant and admonitory. “Ah, I see that you are still easy to silence. But you will not heed the words of ... your enemy? Is that what you were going to say? What about the words of your abbot, your head-cleric? What about the words of your friend, of your counsellor, however mistrusted? And lo, for all your godly gifts, you were not clearsighted enough to see this.”
Teron leaned over a stone pedestal which controlled the many dart traps in the room, and he unleashed a volley that shot out and sliced into the walls. If Herr’Don had been standing a bolt would have struck him, perhaps slaying him, but he still lay pinned beneath the pillar. Délin dodged a barrage of darts, and yet even as he ducked the last it hurtled past him and into the alcove where Théos crouched. There he had been safe from the gaze and grip of the Sentinels, but now the dart struck him, and he gave a cry, which was weakened by the force of the blow.
Time seemed to slow, and Délin swung around, ignoring all peril, dodging no darts. He stood as one struck, as if the bolt had also entered him, tearing at his heart deep within.
“Théos! he cried, and rage gave him strength that felled the second Sentinel in a single swipe. He ran to the alcove and collapsed before the boy. He took him in his arms and cradled him, as oft he did to the dying he encountered, be they knight, prince or peasant. The tender face of Théos looked up at him, eyes wide and fading, and it seemed to Délin that the boy was looking upon him for the first time. Blood covered his mouth and his chest, and after a brief moment of silent tears, the boy whispered something.
“Sóthé ima,” he said, tears in his eyes. Délin knew not what it meant, yet it touched him in the depths of his soul, which lay as a temple quivering. Théos smiled gently, the smile of one who soon shall leave this world of pain—and then he was lost.
Délin hugged the lifeless body. No boyish arms hugged back, for they were limp, and when Délin kissed the boy’s forehead, none were returned, for there was no life within the frail body now—that life had been taken and scattered about the blood-laced ground.
* * *
Ifferon seized Teron by the throat and drove him to the wall. “Fiend!” he screamed, anger exploding in his face like the raging fires of a volcano too long laid dormant. “What have you done?” he asked, though no answer was necessary. “You fool! What have you done?”
“I have done,” Teron said, choking on the words and the fires of Ifferon’s anger, “only what was necessary.”
“Necessary! What crazed evil finds the death of a child necessary?”
“Do not be a fool, Ifferon!” the head-cleric croaked. Ifferon’s hands tightened about his neck. “He is hardly a child in spirit.”
“Ah, so,” Ifferon said, spitting the words like lava upon the crags of Teron’s face. “You know he is a Child of Telm then? Is that it? You work as Olagh’s cleric and then seek to destroy all that carry his blood?”
“Olagh be damned, it has nothing to do with him! There are greater gods than he, and you know well who they are!”
“You think Agon is a greater god?”
“Not a god at all, Ifferon, but he is getting there. Have you forgotten Corrias?”
“Corrias?
What has this to do with him?”
“You are blind, Ifferon! It has everything to do with him!”
“How?” Ifferon cried. “Speak!”
“Agon was never coming,” Teron said. “At least not now. There was no Call to answer.”
Part of Ifferon’s mind felt as though it were collapsing, as if all that he had known to be true was now no longer real. Even the very ground beneath him felt as though it might simply be an illusion.
“So we embarked on this quest for nothing,” Ifferon said despondently, his anger weakened by a growing sense of despair.
“He will come when his time is at hand, rest assured of that, but this was never about him,” Teron said, shifting position as Ifferon lessened his grip. “Corrias was coming, Ifferon. It was he who was summoned and he who Agon feared, even more than you and all in the line of Telm.”
“But there was no word of Corrias!”
“No, and why should there be? The Al-Ferian are too full of pride to share such secrets, but they knew all the same that one of their children had been born different. Different, Ifferon—like you and I. A Telm-child was born, Ifferon, and Théos was imbued with the spirit of Corrias from the start, for that Céalar had found a way to incarnate here, though it would be many years until the boy would remember who he really was and what power he had. He was a god-child, indeed, but that would have mattered little until he became a god-man, for there his true threat to Agon would be felt.
“But the Garigút’s assault on Nahragor was too great an opportunity to miss, and so an escort was arranged, and the boy was brought to Telarym to aid in the siege, for no blade or shadow could touch him, nor could death assail him, but all who knew truly who he was would tremble in his presence, just as we tremble in the presence of the Molokrán.
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