“Yes, yes, but we are not yet saved, and I fear Corrias may not be strong enough to stop Agon.”
Brégest’s eyes grew dim. “To some that would sound like blasphemy.”
Délin thought his own eyes might be grimmer. “Perhaps, and I would rather be a blasphemer than a soothsayer, but my mind tells me that Corrias was not strong enough a thousand years ago to defeat Agon, and my heart tells me he is not strong enough to defeat him today.”
“So what can we do?” Brégest asked.
“We must rally to him. We must offer him whatever aid we can, and so fulfil our oaths to our god, to our land, and to our people.”
“And so we shall,” Brégest said. “But first, you must rest one last night and take one last feast here in Ciligarad ere we ride to war.”
Délin did not say anything, but he knew his eyes said enough to his fellow knight, his brother in arms. One last night and one last feast—because it might be one last battle, and one last draw of breath. This was the threat and promise of war, and one it rarely failed to deliver.
Brégest did not remount, but led his horse by the reins back into the city, letting Délin walk ahead slightly, holding Théos by the hand. Elithéa strolled behind, flanked by the two mounted knights. She looked about with scorn, and perhaps she thought: so much water to feed new life, and not a tree in sight.
The city was bustling as they entered, and it became even busier as soon as word got out that Trueblade had come home. Many came out to greet him, and some threw ribbons into the air, and some others began to play music, and none seemed to mind the never-ending rain.
The mead hall was opened, as it was for special occasions, and the company gathered inside and dried themselves off. Délin had to stop one of the knights from reefing what looked like straw from Théos’ head, which was instead part of his unruly mop of hair, like a little garden of its own.
“Is that the child I have heard rumours of?” Brégest asked Délin, and he glanced anxiously at the boy, like many of Délin’s companions had done when they first encountered him.
“Assuming I know the rumours, yes.”
“What will become of him?” Brégest asked.
Délin sighed. “He has been in too much danger already. I would that I could find a safe haven for him, but even Ciligarad does not seem safe enough. I would offer my sword, and my life, to protect him, but I am sworn also to protect Corrias and all good people in Iraldas. So I am torn. But I can best serve both Corrias and Théos on the battlefield, while there are still battles to be fought.”
Délin’s heart panged, and he was reminded of that sorrowful day when he sent Théos away with Adon of the Garigút to avoid an even more painful parting. And he was reminded of that even more painful day when Théos fell to Teron’s traps in the Old Temple, and Délin’s faith crumbled. He knew that Théos would be safer at home, and yet a large part of him hoped and prayed that he would not rue his decision to leave the child behind, without the protection of his armoured knight.
No decisions were made there in the mead hall beyond how many draughts to pour. The knights drank heartily, and some told of Herr’Don’s visit, and Délin was greatly comforted to know that the prince had not given up, and that he was still doing some good in the world.
Délin did not drink much that night, leaving behind many pints of ale, for he knew that the battles ahead would take much of him, while for some that night the ale alone would do the job. Elithéa drank more than most, and it seemed to affect her little, bar perhaps eliciting from her a smile here and there in place of a frown.
While Délin was not looking, Théos tried to take a sip from his mug, but he was caught in time, and the boy complained in the Ferian tongue. The knights laughed, and one joked about trying the wine instead.
“I thought you only drink water,” Délin said to the boy, but Théos did not respond.
“Perhaps you are a bad influence,” Elithéa said as she stacked her seventh mug upon the last.
“Aren’t we all?” Brégest said. “He’ll fit in just fine here.”
* * *
Some drank into the small hours of the night, when the owls set up watch in the rafters, but many of the fighting knights retired to bed, some under orders from their commanders. Those who remained would not march to battle, but would keep the fires in Ciligarad burning, even as their comrades hoped to keep all kingdoms from the flames.
Théos fell asleep in the mead hall, and Délin carried him to his room. He watched him for a time, where the moonlight shone upon him like a warding light, and then when the knight’s eyes grew heavier than his hurts and worries, he retired to bed and dreamed that he might one day be able to retire from battle.
Théos rose with dawn, and he urged Délin from his slumber. They broke their fast and regrouped with Elithéa, whom Délin called to help with his parting words. He removed his helmet and gave it to Théos, as he had done many times before, but now he would not take it back.
“A gift,” he said.
“Tóthel,” Elithéa translated.
Théos smiled broadly, the kind of smile that Délin would always remember, even in the Halls of Halés if he should fall in battle. The child clutched the helm like he held his stuffed toy, and though it was clear that he struggled with its weight, he refused to place it down.
“Dóshel,” Théos whispered, half to the helmet and half to the knight. “Metal roth.”
“A treasure,” the Ferian explained. “I think you know the rest.”
Délin smiled and ruffled the boy’s hair.
“I have to go now,” he said. “I might not come back.”
“Lathim—”
“No,” the knight interrupted. “Do not translate. I do not want him to know. Tell him I will be back soon.”
“Úlsé arba garmil abu,” she said.
Théos nodded, and he placed the helmet down just long enough to hug the knight, before taking it up again and struggling once more. Délin ruffled his hair a final time and turned to leave. As he reached the door he looked back, and he thought he saw a mixture of emotions in the child, a glimmer of joy in one eye, and a gleam of sorrow in the other.
“Goodbye,” he said, and this was a time he was glad Théos could not understand him.
* * *
Délin returned alone to his chambers, where he stood for a time by the open doors that led out to the lake. The presence of Issarí had faded, and he knew clearly that she meant it when she said they would never hear her counsel again. He hoped that even if she passed on, the knights that bore her name would remain. He hoped that even if he joined her, the knights would still go on.
He spent another moment before the mirror in his room, where the candle obscured his view, that he might never think himself greater than the true flames of the world. Yet the light illuminated his face, showing all the crags and cracks, the scars of age, and the even greater toils of war. The greatest was yet to come, and he would be lucky to come away with only scars—or to come away at all.
He set aside his swords. Though everyone knew him as Trueblade, and knew his motto, he never revealed the names of his weapons, which were to him his most prized secrets. He had inherited an old superstition from his father that an enemy that knew the name of a blade could never be felled by it. Though many enemies knew the feel of Délin’s swords, they never knew the names.
He removed his armour, the first time he had done so in many weeks. It was difficult to remove, just as it was difficult to put on, and so the squires used to jest that the greater the difficulty, the greater the defence. This had proved true for Délin, and he did not like the feel of the cool wind upon his underclothes when his breastplate lay beside him on the ground.
When finally he had removed his greaves, and he felt naked to all, he turned again to the lake and knelt, and prayed a silent prayer. Then he began to hum, and then he began a gentle song:
The battlefield is our bastille, the bodies walls,
The swords our prison
bars, the lives our lock and key.
We are the jailer and the jailed, consumed by brawls
Till war in turn consumes, leaves none among us free.
We are divided by our lands, bound to our creeds,
United only in the clash of sword and shield,
A short accord that lasts till one of us concedes,
And yet the victor to the gods of war will yield.
We fight for freedom, and for all that we avow.
We take up arms, march out, and battle to the last.
We fight for the future, and for the here and now,
And because we still wear the shackles of the past.
Conflict is the rope to bind our hands, strife our noose,
And, seeing blood, madness would have us seek out more.
It will not end till in our hearts we call a truce,
Not break the bonds of peace and don the chains of war.
He went over to his bed and reached beneath it. He pulled out a large wooden chest, plain in form. He unlocked it and looked inside, and nodded firmly. He took out an ornate helmet, which carried an intricate interlace, between which was a field of blue. It was crowned with three small swords, like something a king might wear to war.
He held it before him and bowed his head. “I honour you, father. You fought and won in this, and you fought and died in it. Let our name continue on, and be forever true. De’Marius.”
* * *
Some did not recognise Délin when he emerged, but some others knew immediately what this new attire meant. Horses were made ready, weapons were sharpened, and rations were packed. Flags and banners were unfurled, and trumpets were sounded.
Before Délin went to the stables, he headed for the library, wherein he had spent much of his free time in both his younger and older days. It was as much a home to him as his own chambers, and often he was found asleep there, with a book or scroll his pillow.
Talaramit, head scholar of the Knights of Issarí, greeted him. He was young for such a role, but only in body, for his mind was old, wrinkled from the work of many tireless nights of study. He was also a knight, but he wore his armour mostly for ceremony now, for he rarely left the walls of the library, where books were bricks, and Talaramit was their labourer.
“The boy Théos is in your charge now,” Délin told him. “Teach him the good things of this world, the words and numbers, the tales and songs. I go now to teach the evil things a different lesson.”
IV – THE SWORD THAT WAS SHEATHED
Yavün heard and felt the quake more than most in Iraldas, for he was in Telarym, where the Beast had emerged from his prison, where Agon was held back by bonds that all knew could not hold him for long. The Great Lake shuddered, sending ripples to all edges, as if the very water was trying to escape to land. Yet it was from land that Agon came; in land and under land, and yet all the creatures of the sea and air felt him too.
Elilod was in a frenzy. The fear he felt was palpable, and this made Yavün even more afraid than he thought he could be. He knew the stories and the rumours of Agon, and they were unsettling, but Elilod was Elyr the Issaron, the River Man, the spouse of Issarí. He knew Agon, and from the look on his liquid face, that knowledge was terrifying.
“If ever I lament being incarcerated here in Iraldas, it is now, for in Althar time passes much more slowly, so much so that we barely notice it,” Elilod said. “Yet here it seems I cannot blink my eyes and days have passed. Agon has arrived much sooner than I expected, and far sooner than I had hoped. Little fish, there is no more time to study the sea, no more time to learn to swim. We are all in the deep now, and the shark has smelled our blood.”
In time Narylal calmed her leader, bringing him back from those endless wars a thousand years before, where the empire of the Céalari crumbled to the Beast. Though Elilod said little of those dreadful times, Yavün could see in his eyes the cutting of the roots of the Great Tree that bridged Althar to Iraldas, and the dousing of the Lamps that put an end to the immortality of the gods that were now trapped inside the mortal world. He also saw in those eyes the fear that those dreadful times had come again.
When Elilod had calmed sufficiently, he began to tell Yavün of the Sword of Telm, called Daradag, the Hammer of Adag, for as much as it pierced, it struck, and as much as it sliced, it beat. “Adag was the greatest craftsman of the Céalari,” Elilod said, “and he crafted himself into a new blade for Telm to bear, gave up his very life that the sword might take Agon’s.”
Elilod went into great detail about the life of Adag, and how he lived on inside his own creation, as many of the gods did. Yavün was so moved by the tale that his mind immediately began to form a ballad to honour the god.
The greatest of the smiths, Adag his name,
Excellence his hammer, perfection his swing.
Across Althar went tales of his acclaim,
And in the forges he made the metal sing.
He held a vice of frost and tongs of flame,
And for a fitting title, he held “Craft-king.”
By furnace fathered, cast and wrought inside;
By fire mothered, from the hottest air he nursed.
An anvil for a cot, upon it plied.
Gold nuggets for food, liquid tin for his thirst.
Born clutching every ore, the baby cried,
And from that small cry, to life the bellows burst.
He made many of the gods’ finest things,
From great swords and shields to boots of lightning speed,
Copper brooches, and shining silver rings,
And more still, as metal from the earth he freed,
To make sceptres for gods, and crowns for kings.
Accomplishment was his drive, success his steed.
When Agon appeared, and all weapons failed,
Telm came to Adag to seek new tools of war.
In this great quest the god at last prevailed,
And he made himself into the blade Telm bore.
Agon was vanquished, and in Halés jailed.
Adag paid a price—he was a god no more.
Yavün had barely finished his poem when Elilod turned to the Great Lake as if Adag, or even Agon, had appeared there. The manner in which he did this, with the grace of gods, brought Yavün’s eyes upon the body of water that stood before them like the wash basin of the Elad Éni.
Then Yavün beheld a wonder of wonders which made many of his past adventures seem insignificant. From the Great Lake, which imitated a sea, rose a colossal sword held horizontal, a sword that could only have been held by a colossal hand, and could only have been designed to fell a colossal enemy. Its blade was silver and its hilt was gold, and embedded within it were many gems of every colour imaginable, and many colours Yavün previously had not the imagination to muster.
Yavün was so awestruck that he initially failed to notice the hundreds of Taarí who held the sword up from the waters. Even after he saw them he could not help but think that they were the frothy waves that had brought this relic of the gods to the surface.
“This,” Elilod said, his voice an ocean of its own crashing at Yavün’s ears, “is Daradag, the sword that Adag crafted, the sword that he himself became, and the sword that Telm brought to battle—the sword that struck the Beast.”
Yavün did not deny the words he heard, for his eyes still denied the sight he saw before him. If any weapon had been held by Telm, by the Olagh the stableboy had prayed to in his youth, then this could only be it. He could imagine all manner of things, possible and impossible, but he could not imagine any sword greater than the one before him.
“This,” Elilod said, his voice returning like the tide, “is now your sword.”
For a moment Yavün did not register these words, and even after they filtered into his mind he found he did not register their meaning. “Mine?” he asked, the word tumbling out of his mouth as if it had fainted from the shock.
“Yes, yours, little fish.”
Yavün remained dumb
founded, and he showed it with silence. Narylal laughed and placed her hand upon his shoulder. The cool touch was a distraction from the wonder before him.
“I think it’s a little big,” he managed after a time. “I think I’d need larger hands to hold it.”
“Or a smaller sword,” Elilod said. “Look at me. I am Elyr Issaron, the River Man. You saw Issarí, my spouse, and she is greater in size than I now appear, for this is not my true size, but a guise I wear that I might walk this world unnoticed. The rivers may be long and thin, or short and broad, and some may wind, and some may flow straight. They are all made of water, little fish, so size can be altered.”
With these final words, Elilod held his right arm aloft, and the wonder of wonders that Yavün beheld became even more wonderful, for the gigantic sword rose into the air, and the Taarí that held it up fell from it like drops of water. As it rose it began to shift upright, and it started drifting towards where they stood on the shoreline. Yavün watched in amazement, for as the sword came closer, it grew smaller, the opposite of how his eyes should have worked, and as he blinked in silence, he found that the sword was in Elilod’s hand, no larger than any Yavün had seen used by Herr’Don or Délin.
“Telm fought the Beast for many years, holding him back with this sword, and he inflicted many wounds upon Agon, scars that he still bears in Halés, but when Agon finally slew Telm, the force of Telm’s dying breath sent Agon into the Underworld, and Daradag into the Great Lake. Here in the depths it lay for a thousand years, and though we knew of it for many centuries, we kept its location secret, so that Agon’s forces could not steal it from us, so that we could wait until a rightful heir came along.”
“Why doesn’t Ifferon have this?” Yavün asked. “Is he not more a rightful heir than me?”
“Telm’s bloodline spread wide and far, so his potency is found in many, not in one. Thus his legacy, and his heirlooms, belong to several, not to one. Ifferon has the Scroll. You have the Sword. Both of you have the Blood, and either of you can bear the heirloom of the other.”
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 59
