“But Agon learned of this and sent his forces hunting. They killed the boy’s guards, but could not touch him or bring him anywhere. So he sat in the emptiness for a time, until at last you and your company came across him. Only in the presence of Telm’s bloodline would he travel, and while he could not be hurt in normal lands, as you can tell, Ifferon, the Old Temple is hardly normal lands. It was built by the gods before Corrias, and only here could the child be killed.
“So you see, my friend, you set out to stop the Call of Agon, yet you have brought about the death of Corrias instead, who wandered blindly as a child in your company. You are indeed an important player, Ifferon! You play the games that even gods dare not play, and you played right into our very hands!”
Anger returned like an ally. “You wicked thing!” Ifferon bellowed, his fingers growing tighter by the second. “What madness drove you to this evil? What reward was had for this?”
“Ah, the reward has yet to come, though I did delight in sending that fool Melgalés to his final doom. What? You mean for all these years of suspicion you did not suspect that? Ah, your mind has dulled, Ifferon! I cursed the letter I gave to you. Those stamps were Molok-runes, and they did the job well enough, did they not? Oh, I bet he was soon tired after reading that letter! I bet much darkness was drawn to him then ...”
“You despicable scoundrel! There are no words or curses foul enough to say of you!”
“Melgalés deserved death, Ifferon. Do not let him make you think otherwise. He received the Elixir of Life when it should have gone to others. I should have been elected at that Council, Ifferon. I should have been an Ardúnar! But they are all fools, showing false piety to gods who no longer listen. Agon listens, Ifferon. He offered me life, an eternity of youth. Immortality.”
“You will have no perpetual youth, you fool!” Ifferon screamed. “You speak of me as blind, yet your eyes have been clouded by the fear of age and death. And here you are now, having brought death the closer, and death shall grace you, Teron. Death is here!”
Ifferon grabbed his sword from his belt and drove it through the chest of the head-cleric, who but choked as blood leaked from his mouth.
“Death,” Teron coughed, gasping on his final breath, “brings eternal life closer.” And so he parted from the world, his body slumping against the pedestal, as if he had been sacrificed upon it. A sudden chill came into the room, a wind from the depths of Halés, and it bore away Teron’s soul.
* * *
After many moments of troubled thoughts, Délin stirred. He stood with the boy in his arms and brought him out through the labyrinth of passages, through the main chamber and then out into the bleak white of the mountains. Ifferon unpinned Herr’Don from the pillar and woke him from his daze, and they stumbled after Délin, Ifferon struggling to support Herr’Don’s weight. They stopped at the entrance, granting the knight his right to grieve.
When Délin had reached the brink of the mountain he knelt again and laid the boy gently on the bed of snow. Grief loomed deep in the well of his heart as he watched the colour in the boy’s face slowly fade to match the snow. He traced his hand across Théos’ forehead, brushing his hair to one side. He kissed his brow, a kiss he had often given to valiant knights who had lost their lives in the bitterness of battle; he had not once been forced to do this for a child, and this was a reality far more bitter than any battle he had faced.
He took the Sigil of Corrias from around his neck and grasped it in his hand. He looked at it through his veil of tears, looked at its design and thought about what it meant for him: bravery, loyalty, fealty, and valour. These were his virtues, his merits, his truths. But no bravery or loyalty could comfort him now; no fealty or valour could mask the shadows of the world. Hope parted like the passing of the wind and left but a chill in his soul.
He thought of his god Corrias. “You have forsaken me,” he said, and with an angry sigh he threw the pendant into the air. It hurtled forth and then fell, just as Théos had fallen, landing in the snow. Great snowflakes came down from the gloom in the sky, landing upon its fading surface, burying it forever.
I – MOURNING ON THE MOUNTAINS
Snow fell like the frozen tears of gods as Délin knelt cradling the body of Théos, who grew colder than the icy breeze that blew from the mountainous heights. Ifferon watched as the knight wept and cast aside his pendant, an emblem of Corrias. He muttered something to the heavens, perhaps a curse for the dark deed that had been done, but his voice was lost in the blizzard, lost like the dead.
Ifferon was reluctant to disturb Délin’s grieving. Herr’Don hung out of him, struggling to keep his balance. He mumbled also, but his words were like the ramblings of a madman, not the cries of pain from one who has lost another.
“You should sit,” Ifferon said to Herr’Don, but the Prince seemed far away, his eyes glazed. He looked up, confused, and only understood when Ifferon helped him limp towards a large rock, which had not yet been smothered in a blanket of white. He took a battered cannister of water which was strapped to Herr’Don’s belt and poured it into the Prince’s mouth. “Rest. You have fought long and hard today.”
Something in Herr’Don’s eyes seemed to grow alight, as if he struggled to defy Ifferon’s words, to show the world that he did not need rest, for he was Herr’Don, Prince of Boror. But the fire was quickly smothered by weariness, which fell harsher than the worst of winter’s snow.
Ifferon trudged towards Délin, his feet sinking with each step. A fierce breeze forced him to cover his eyes from a barrage of white pellets, as if the weather were attacking him, or the pain and anger of Délin had caused a chaos in the heavens.
When he reached the knight and the Al-Ferian boy, the reality of what had happened began to fully sink in. He paused as it washed over him. He had unwittingly helped destroy the life of a child and a god—and he did not know which was worse.
He placed his hand upon Délin’s shoulder. The knight did not stir, as if the warmth of Ifferon’s touch could not be felt in the cold place his mind now dwelt. Ifferon crouched beside him, keeping his hand in place, some small token of comfort, he thought, a paltry offering when not even the greatest gift could stop the hurt.
He looked at the body of Théos, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open, as if he had tried to speak a final word, but could not utter it in time. His face was pale—even the tint of gold had vanished from it, like a summer’s leaf wilted by winter’s touch. Snowdrops fell upon the boy’s face, which Délin brushed aside, the only act he did as he stared into the deep blue eyes. Ifferon realised that there was still some life within those eyes, like a little fish swimming in circles in a lake, trying to find its way back to sea. Perhaps that is why Délin stared into them, as if he might reel back the life that was slipping away.
When the cold began to bite into his bones, Ifferon spoke. “This is a great tragedy. A loss beyond words. Yet we cannot stay here. A winter storm is brewing. Perhaps we can bury him, but we must get off these mountains or we will all be buried here.”
Délin did not speak. Still he clung to the body and still he fished in the eyes. Nothing else mattered. Grief covered him and kept him warm from the winds.
Ifferon realised that Délin was too deep in despair to listen to reason. He struggled to his feet and took his hand away from Délin’s shoulder. Then just as he began to leave, Délin whispered: “It is my fault.”
Ifferon felt a shiver in his soul that was not the cold of snow. Part of him wanted to tell the truth of his own responsibility for this turn of events, to free Délin from a guilt he did not deserve, and yet Ifferon could not muster the courage to do so, for another part of him feared turning the knight’s upset to anger.
“You did not do this,” Ifferon said at last, but he felt how empty his words were, how useless the platitudes of the living were in the face of the reality of death. “You are not to blame,” he added, knowing well it would do little to absolve the knight’s chastened conscience.
Dél
in shook his head, as if to deny Ifferon’s words, or reject what had transpired this day—a futile fist of fury to the Gatekeeper in the Halls of Halés. His expression changed from depression to defiance, and he clambered up, still clutching the boy, and Ifferon helped him struggle through the mounting snow to find a shelter from the uncaring weather.
* * *
The day passed slowly, and the company huddled in the cavern between the icy maw of the Amreni Elé and the crooked teeth of the Grey Hills. They shivered as the wind burrowed through the cracks and whistled in to greet them with a bitter tune. Ifferon and Herr’Don sat close to each other for warmth, but Délin sat far away on the other end. He still held the body of Théos, which he had wrapped in a scrap of fabric he tore from the vestments beneath his armour, as he would have done if the boy were alive and shivering. He had closed the boy’s eyes, for there were no more fishes now, but there was new hope in the lie that maybe he was only sleeping.
“We failed,” Herr’Don whispered. The weakness in his voice told Ifferon that he meant to speak the words aloud, but had not the strength for it. “There is white everywhere before my eyes, yet all I see now is darkness.”
Ifferon felt like joining his companions in the depths of despair, felt like giving up and giving in, for had not Agon won this round? He felt the lure of letting go, of closing his eyes and waiting for the chill to take him, knowing that a warmth and rest awaited him in Halés, and he would be free from his pain, and no longer a witness to the pain of others.
But something stirred inside him that countered this desire, a resolution to match the defiance of Délin, who seemed like he would sit for eternity on the mountain top, waiting for Théos to open his eyes once more. Ifferon felt a crumb of courage he did not know he had, a hint of hope that he had once forgotten. It seemed to exist in the very core of him, the foundation of his very being, and yet he had built a tower of terror upon it, a fortress of fear that must come crashing down.
“This is not the end,” he said, but Herr’Don did not seem to care, turning away from him, turning away from the words. “We worked too hard for this. It cannot have all been for nothing.”
“No,” Herr’Don said. “It was for him. For Agon. Injured I was, but I heard Teron’s words. We slaved for and served a master we did not know, and we did not see the bonds we wore, did not see the chains that tugged us to and fro. And here is the wages of our work: a boy dead, a god dethroned, the gift of grief and the bruises of battle.” With these last words he looked at his injured arm, and he cradled the broken bones as Délin did with Théos, his own line in a list of losses.
Ifferon could say little to argue against his claims, for though they had done much to assail the enemy, including the destruction of the Kalakrán in Nahragor, it seemed like little compared to the blow that had been dealt to the good people of the world. Another Child of Telm was dead, but worse yet the father god Corrias had joined them—and what good were the offspring of Telm if even Corrias could not hold back the tide of darkness?
He placed his frozen hands in his pockets to shield them from the cold, and there he felt the Scroll of Mestalarin, that relic of Telm. Despite its promise, that it could keep the power of Telm in the world, it served only as a reminder of the god’s death—and the Last Words were useless when the Scroll itself was half burned. He mused that even if it were whole, the dying breath meant little to deafened ears.
His thoughts went on like this for a long time, battling with what little reserve of will he had left in him, until at last he fell into an uneasy sleep filled with dreams of what might have been and what might now transpire in this game of gods, when neither side’s king was in play.
* * *
Dawn broke over the ridge of the mountains, casting the white and grey in a golden sheen. Yet there was no cheer to be found in its light and heat, for its smile seemed almost a mockery of their moods.
Délin was the first awake, it seemed, or perhaps he did not sleep at all, for Théos slept enough for the both of them. Herr’Don was last to stir; he grumbled at Ifferon’s attempts to wake him, and he growled when he realised what he was waking to, for little had changed with the daily death and resurrection of the sun.
“We will need to make our way down the mountains,” Ifferon told the others. “We are lucky to have lasted the night in this cold. I do not think my bones can survive another.”
“At least you have all your bones to feel the chill,” Herr’Don said despondently. “I thought the feeling would come back into my arm, but it seems it is frozen more than the winds of the White Mountains should do.”
“All the more reason to depart from here quickly then,” Ifferon replied. “We need to get to some sanctuary. It is a long journey back to Boror, but perhaps the Ferian or Al-Ferian lands will offer refuge.”
Herr’Don scoffed. “More likely that they offer us death—to match that which we brought upon ourselves.”
Ifferon sighed deeply. Here he was with two of the greatest warriors of Iraldas, both disarmed of their hope and will. Where was Délin to lead the charge and show the ways of honour, like an echo from days long gone? Where was Herr’Don to hark back to glories past and hint at those yet to come? They were the ones to comfort him, to lift him up and lead him on, to tell him how he could battle against the darkness, and show him in their actions that victory was not just a distant dream. Now the tables had turned, and he felt it was his duty to turn them once again.
Just as Ifferon’s resolve grew adamant, Délin began to hum a solemn tune. Herr’Don looked to him like a pupil to a teacher, and the two sat and listened as the knight began to sing a sombre song:
The oaths of all are offered as a gift
To gods that hold us to them by the sword,
Yet on the edge we find ourselves adrift
As we seek some kind of penance or reward.
Life brings toil and trials; still we saunter on
And hold ourselves to codes, in those we trust
That all is worth the words we rest upon,
That, in the end, the end is right and just.
We cling and clutch, but always we will weep
For all we did not do, and all regret.
It matters little if we cannot keep
This oath we made to life, this oath to death.
It seemed to Ifferon that this was the knight’s way of acknowledging the passing of Théos, of finally recognising the harsh, cold truth. Délin became silent again, but he looked away from the boy now, as if he could no long bear the sight of the frozen body.
* * *
As Délin’s requiem echoed in his mind, Ifferon looked out into the distance, first to the west where the Mountains continued on, and then to the east to the path they had come from. A blotch of darkness appeared on the horizon, haloed by the ball of the sun. A sudden terror filled Ifferon’s heart as the memories of the Molokrán flooded back to him, but he realised that it was rare to see them out in the light of day, and that the figures in the distance did not cling unmercifully to the ground, but hiked slowly towards them.
After a time it became clear that it was Thalla and Elithéa, marching across the Grey Hills. Thalla waved from the distance, but Elithéa did not appear so eager to greet them. To Ifferon’s watchful eyes, it seemed that she was injured, for she stumbled frequently, using a branch to guide her steps.
“Why are there only two of you?” Ifferon quizzed when they arrived.
Elithéa gave him a look that said more than words. The scars on her face spoke even louder. Many of her wounds were wrapped tight, where the blood stained her clothes, and those exposed to the elements had clotted thick. Though it was clear that she had lost a lot of blood, she gave the impression that she had endured worse wounds than this in life.
“Aralus attacked us,” Thalla said, her voice stronger than it had ever been.
“And paid the price,” Elithéa added. “As all do who attack an Éalgarth, or indeed, it seems, a Magus’ apprentice.”
Délin did not seem to care. He barely reacted to the news of Aralus’ passing, though Ifferon wondered if there was not a small part of him that was happy about it, since there was such tension between them when Aralus was alive.
Herr’Don, however, did not take the news kindly. “You speak these words like riddles,” he said. “Yet your eyes tell me the answer.” He slammed his fist suddenly on the stone, which seemed to quake beneath the force. Ifferon imagined that he yearned to slam his other fist, but it hung limp on his pendulum arm.
“There is little to tell,” Elithéa said, averting her gaze as if her eyes might betray her.
“Little to tell, hmm? A man dies and there is little to tell?”
“When the man is Aralus ...”
“You always had it in for him,” Herr’Don snapped. “You were always watching him with your cruel glare, always mocking him, always chomping at the bit to see him hurt. And yet I never thought you would kill him. I never thought that you would stoop so low.”
“He attacked us,” Thalla explained. “We did what was necessary.”
Necessary. The word brought back the memory of Teron and Théos’ death like a torrent released from a dam. Délin still cradled him amidst the onslaught.
Herr’Don turned his fiery gaze upon Thalla as if it were a drawn sword. Spittle hung around his mouth where the words fought for release. “You,” he managed with a derision that would have etched stones. “Don’t speak to me, heart-holder ... harlot! Was it not enough that you would steal my love and slay my heart? You must have my friends as well? It makes me wonder if it was you who pushed Belnavar into the Chasm.”
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 32
