“It is not so simple,” the Gatekeeper said. “If you leave here, you risk the second death, which will destroy your soul. Waiting is a small pain when the alternative is obliteration. And even if you managed to escape, the Felokar would hunt you, and so the second death would come one way or another.”
“So I am useless here,” Melgalés said.
“Not entirely.”
Melgalés moved about to get a better look at the monstrous wolf, and soon he realised that the gigantic face of the beast appeared different depending on the angle at which one looked upon it. From the left it had softer features and fur, with rounded teeth and mellow blue eyes. From the right it had curled horns, sharp fangs, a blazing coat, and red eyes that burned. From straight on it looked like a mixture of the two, the meeting of the tame and the wild. So it was that the tales of the guardian spoke of a wolf with three heads, despite it only having one. Melgalés was confident he knew which head would greet those who tried to enter or escape.
The Gatekeeper’s voice wafted down to him. “He is known by many names. In Old Arlinaic he is called Echarin, the Unsleeping, which is Akaron in Bororian. In the Aelora tongue he is known as Anmidrosaruë, the One with Three Heads, which is Setrotherhanath in Ferian. Despite his titles, he does sleep, but only one of the heads will rest at any given time. There are many who hope his severe side is sleeping, but the merciful can wake the mild, and the mild can wake the severe. More than anything, he can remove people from the dream of life. So he is truly the Unsleeping.”
The Gatekeeper then began to recite a piece that had no doubt been crafted by some poor soul who wandered into Halés and ended up meeting its many guardians, and the greatest guardian of them all.
His eyes are the lanterns of the sun and the moon;
As the day turns to night, both the vigils are kept.
His jaws are the chasm in the great mountain hewn,
Caught yawning wide open as the other rock slept.
His fangs are the blades upon which the dead writhe,
While his horns cleave as much as the Gatekeeper’s scythe.
His fur is the blanket that stifles and smothers,
And burns like the fires of all the hearths blazing.
His claws clutch more tightly than all of the others;
The mere touch is as death, and that a mere grazing.
His form is a mountain range that ends in three peaks,
And of those thorny tors, there is little that speaks.
His breath is like acid, and foul sulphur his smell.
His saliva is lava, and magma his blood,
His throat a volcano, an eruption his yell—
And thus molten are mortals caught in the ash flood.
He is the steward of souls, held for safekeeping,
And all wake up one day and meet the Unsleeping.
The words did little to instil comfort in the Magus, but as the Gatekeeper spoke, Melgalés began to get a sense that he was trying to create fear in him, to ensure he never got too close to the way out of Halés. He wondered if the Gatekeeper greeted others with verse, or if most others dared not wander the caverns of the Underworld.
With little left to do but wander, Melgalés began to ponder what impact he could have upon the world. He could not escape from Halés, that was clear, but he began to wonder just how much impact he could have at a distance. He thought of his communication with Yavün, and though it had been difficult, and though it seemed that the message was muddied by the time it got through, he contemplated the possibility that he could still have an effect upon Iraldas, that he could still put his great knowledge as a Magus to use.
* * *
On one of those nights of pondering, if there were indeed nights in Halés, and not just one great singular and endless night, Melgalés found himself watching the Felokar wolves and remembering some of the material he read about them. He particularly recalled a long chapter in an ancient tome by Elathon the Many-minded, one of the fabled founders of the Magi sect. It covered the Felokar wolves in detail, describing their appearance and behaviour, with multiple hand-painted images and diagrams. More interestingly, there were numerous tables of names and words, strange and barbaric words that seemed like they did not belong to any of the tongues of Iraldas. Slowly the memories came back to Melgalés, and slowly his mind settled on a passage from the text:
“These are the true names of the Dead-land wolves, with which the Elad Éni brought them into being, and with these names they could extinguish them like a candle flame, or could waft the fire in any given direction they so desired.”
Melgalés began to feel the probing eyes of the Gatekeeper, who undoubtedly was aware of his realisation. As much as the Magus began to feel a great confidence, he also felt a great doubt from the Gatekeeper, and this only made him more determined as he began to recall the names of the Felokar wolves.
It took many hours of concentration and meditation, through which time the Gatekeeper proved a constant distraction, before Melgalés was able to remember all of the names in the manuscript with what he hoped was complete accuracy. They were difficult names made of harsh sounds, the kind of names that wolves might give to one another, and the Magus found it hard to find the place in his throat from which to speak them, and the place in his soul from which to give them life.
The Felokar wolves continued to prowl around the doorway of Halés, circling Echarin, fighting with one another, sleeping and feasting, or staring curiously from a distance at Melgalés. Some even wandered up to him and sniffed him, and some circled him, and some growled at him, but all walked away in time when he showed that he was not scared of them.
Then Melgalés began to speak their names. “Zagrakka. Kaghadar. Rukjanik. Mukhorukh. Ghudaghor.” Onwards he went, uttering hundreds of words, until finally it seemed that they almost began to pronounce themselves, leaping like little flames from his tongue.
As each name echoed in the caverns, each wolf sat down in turn and wagged its tail. The fires in their eyes dimmed. They sat and waited for their next command.
“So you have tamed them,” the Gatekeeper said, and he could not hide his deep disdain.
* * *
Yavün crept further into the trees, straining his eyes against the darkness, but still he could see nothing, even as the something that he was searching for crept slowly towards him. Elilod could see: a Shadowspirit roaming through the trees, lurking close to the earth, as if it were studying the tracks there, absorbing the information of those who travelled through.
“Go, little fish,” Elilod said. “I can reel you in if the waters are too deep.”
“Will you be able to guide me?” Yavün asked. “Can you teach me to swim?”
“No,” Elilod said. “So long as I am in Iraldas, I cannot communicate to you where you will go. But you may find others there, guides who lead aright and guides who lead astray. You must test them with all that you know, lest they deceive you. Now you cast your net, little fish. You do not need to see where you cast it, provided there is some bait inside. You are the bait, Child of Telm.”
So Yavün closed his eyes and tried to relax, which was difficult when his mind kept reminding him that there was a Shadowspirit nearby. While he was still struggling to calm his racing thoughts, he suddenly felt like he was falling, and then it felt as though he were stepping outside of himself, leaving the shell of his body behind—an empty shell for something else to inhabit. The thought terrified him so much that he wanted to jump back inside, but found he could not, and this made him panic even more.
Then he heard the voice of the spirit of fire he encountered at Tol-Timíl. You are the gatekeeper of your body. For any who seek to pass the gate, they must first confront you.
This gave Yavün new confidence, and so he realised that no matter what transpired, he was in control, provided he acknowledged this basic fact. Yet a part of him felt that this truth would be tested and strained, that he might no longer believe it when the Shadowspirit emerged.<
br />
And so it came. In this halfway place between dream and the waking world, Yavün found that he had the chlarisabín, the clearsight, and could see the Shadowspirit approach, slinking towards his body like a preying beast.
Just as it was about to pounce upon him, just when it was about to break into the shell of his being and inhabit his body, he seized it and found that it too was hollow, that inside the darkness was a nothingness that begged to be occupied by something, by anything—good or evil. Now it was possessed by good, for Yavün suddenly opened his eyes in the waking world and found that he was looking through the eyes of a Shadowspirit, that his mind was there, but his body was shadow.
The feeling was so strange that for a moment all went black, as if he had momentarily slipped out of his new form, and found himself in the place the shadows called “darkness.” He did not know how he did it, but somehow he managed to pull himself back into the shadow body. It took him some time just to figure out how to use his eyes, his new eyes, which at first just stared out at the world. In time he realised that the Shadowspirits did not blink, nor look up and down, nor side to side. Instead they looked eternally in one direction, and they were forced to move their entire bodies if they wanted to see something else. What Yavün saw was darkened by those eyes, so that the entire world seemed grey, and he wondered how they could stand it, unable to see the many different and beautiful colours. Yet there were different shades of shadow, greys and blacks he had never seen before, and for which he had no names, and he started to realise that there was another rainbow in this world, only seen with eyes of shadow.
Yavün prowled around the trees as the Shadowspirit, and when he encountered another he left his former shell and made the new Shadowspirit his home. He leapt from one to another until finally the Shadowspirits felt a great fear of their own, for they could not see this new foe that assailed them, and they finally felt what others did when in their presence. And so they fled, leaving Yavün alone in his shadow body. In time he cast it off, and it vanished from the place, like smoke dispersed by the wind.
“Good,” Elilod said, lifting Yavün to his feet. “This is a valuable skill. It is one you will need before all of this is over, when the war really begins.”
XV – TRAVELS AND TALES
Herr’Don needed to fight, and so Edgaron urged him to let the battles find him, to roam the lands and search for wherever was most in need of him. He was reluctant at first, as any are when life seems grim, but the constant ushering of Edgaron, supported by the constant encouragement of Belnavar, broke down the walls of his depression, revealing to his eyes a myriad of possibilities.
And so they embarked on a series of travels westward across Boror, stopping from time to time for food and rest. The stops were short, for Herr’Don pressed them onwards, setting Bardahan, the home of the departed Belnavar, as their first true destination.
In time Herr’Don arrived at the farm outside Bardahan, which belonged to Amongrid, a close friend of Belnavar in his youth. Belnavar recognised him immediately, but Amongrid only saw Herr’Don and Edgaron standing before him.
“It is lucky you are here,” Amongrid said. “The guards in Bardahan won’t listen, but we’ve been raided by the Garigút.”
“I thought they all went south to Nahragor,” Herr’Don said.
“Not all of them, it seems,” Amongrid replied. “And it appears they’ve taken to Nahamoni ways, pillaging and ransacking as they go. I thought Geldirana put an end to all that when she came into power.”
“It is likely she died,” Herr’Don said sadly. “She fought the Molokrán.”
Amongrid glanced about warily. “Olagh help us if those things are here as well.”
“I think you are safe from them,” Edgaron said, though he was not really sure; he was simply used to giving comforting words to the Prince.
Herr’Don looked around. “These Garigút renegades are the more pressing threat.”
“Aye,” Belnavar said. “Let us free my friend from their villainy.”
“Come!” Herr’Don called, as if to an army around him. “We march!”
And so he headed further into the expansive farmland, all the while directed by a nervous Amongrid, who pointed here and there, showing where calves had been killed and crops trampled. In time they came to the body of the farmhand Desadon, who Amongrid explained was but fourteen years of age. He was slumped over a dead calf, which he had clearly been trying to protect.
“I’ll never find a better farmhand than he,” Amongrid whimpered. “Nor a kinder soul.”
“Let us find the cruel soul who did it then,” Herr’Don said, following the tracks that led away from the scene.
It was not long before they found the Garigút, small in number, camped upon the outskirts of the farm. They were feasting and resting, and some were roaring boisterously. All of their swords dug deep into the earth, as though by this act they had claimed the land as their own. A scarecrow was planted nearby, the only survivor of the assault, a last and silent witness.
“What have we here?” Herr’Don asked, resting his thumb upon his belt, as if he might suddenly lash them with it.
“What indeed?” Rokrig said, standing up and tipping the edge of his blade with the side of his foot, a reminder of who now owned this land, and by what steel it was now ruled.
“Do you seek to till the soil with that sword?” Herr’Don asked derisively. “Yours do not look like farming hands.”
“Nor yours, Prince,” Rokrig barked in response.
“This is not your land,” Herr’Don stated.
Rokrig smiled. “It is now.”
The scarecrow hung between them nervously. It was no longer the farmer’s land, and it was not Rokrig’s land either—it was a no man’s land. Yet two men stood within it, facing each other with stony faces.
Herr’Don glanced at the scarecrow. It almost seemed like it was glancing back. Rokrig looked at it in turn, as if it were an arbiter, one with the unenviable vocation of mediating the unreconcilable.
“I will ask you once to leave,” Herr’Don said, “and do no more wicked acts in my father’s land.”
“What will you do with your one arm, cripple?” Rokrig mocked.
“I will do to you,” Herr’Don said, “what I did to myself.”
Rokrig’s expression changed as he realised what the Prince meant, but before his grin turned fully into a frown, it changed suddenly into a grimace as Herr’Don swung around rapidly, slicing off the arm of Rokrig at the elbow. The Garigút shrieked in pain, clutching the wound as blood became the new fertiliser of the land.
The other Garigút fled, for never before had they seen such speed and ferocity, and certainly never from one of the royal house. They had hoped for an easy raid on the farms to help rebuild their people, but they found a guard there that they did not expect, and one that they could not predict. They charged away, ploughing the land with their racing feet, and Rokrig stumbled after them, wailing as he went. Herr’Don roared in their direction, and the terrifying sound gave them all new speed.
“They will not raid a farmer again,” Belnavar said.
“A lesson learned,” Herr’Don remarked.
He took up the severed arm and shoved it onto the spike of the scarecrow. Blood dripped upon the fabric—a new, more frightening, costume for the straw man. He would scare away more than birds now.
“A warning to others,” the Prince said.
There was silence. The conflict had scared away their voices. In time, however, curiosity began to emerge in Amongrid.
“Did you really cut off your own arm?” he asked. His tongue seemed already eager to trade the tale with the other farmers.
Edgaron looked at Herr’Don and smiled.
Herr’Don paused for a moment. “I had an itch. Now it doesn’t itch any more.”
* * *
Herr’Don arrived in Bardahan at the western edge of the Borderline Mountains. The town was packed with people from all across Iraldas, and it and
the town of Geldahan much further south were known as the Twin Towns of Trade. Geldahan was the richest, but Bardahan was the loudest, with music playing in every tavern, of which there were many, long into the owl-haunted hours of the night.
“It is as busy as ever,” Belnavar said. “Surely they did not miss me for long.”
“Aye,” Herr’Don said, “but they will miss me ere long.”
Edgaron had by now grown accustomed to Herr’Don’s chattering with himself. He remembered that the Prince did it also as a child, until their friendship grew stronger and he had no longer need for imagined companions.
“Come!” Herr’Don called. “Let us remind the people of Bardahan of Belnavar the Braveheart.”
“And introduce them to Herr’Don,” Edgaron said.
They pushed through the throng of people, squeezing between them and knocking over the frequent begging bowls of the many musicians who lined the streets. Between the notes of music there was a steady hum of voices, the chattering chorus of the crowd.
Eventually Herr’Don and Edgaron managed to emerge from the choking mob and stumbled into The Trumpet True, a small, grimy inn near the outskirts of the town.
Belnavar was already inside, standing by the bar. “My favourite haunt,” he said.
Herr’Don and Edgaron approached the counter. The Prince cast aside his cloak, which concealed his missing arm. The women there backed away in shock, but some were now more enamoured by him, knowing that he had survived so much. Some frequented The Beating Drum on the other side of the town, which was the haven of many who had served long in battle.
The innkeeper was less impressed. His one bloodshot eye looked fiercely down on the Prince.
“Herr’Don,” he said, recognising his attire. “Surely Geldahan is more to your liking.”
“Had I gold to spend,” the Prince replied.
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 50
