The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy

by Dean F. Wilson

  “How can we go on when there is so much pain?”

  “Because not going on is no absolution from that pain,” she said. “It might feel like a prison to escape from, but letting it control you and hold you back is the real prison.” She embraced him again, and he did not resist. “Ifferon,” she said, more harshly than before. “I may die in the coming battles. In fact, it is likely I will die. Perhaps even you will die. Perhaps we all will. I have come to terms with that, because this is greater than all of us individually and all of us combined. We are not just battling evil—we are fighting for the very survival of good. Sometimes that means a sacrifice has to be made.”

  They sat together, shoulder to shoulder, for what felt like a lifetime, and it reminded them of the time they had spent together, a decade ago in what almost felt like another life. The threat of Agon was always there, but it was a distant one, and the dwindling bloodline of Telm had less meaning then than it did now. There was just Ifferon and Geldirana, and the happiness between them. There was no child, no daughter, no Affon. And as they sat together again these ten years on, with sadness between them—there was no child, no daughter, no Affon.

  The tears fell from the ledges of Ifferon’s eyes, to the ground where they could not be saved. Though he tried to stop them, they continued to fall, and though he could see little through the glisten, he could see that Geldirana’s ears were not altogether dry.

  “What kind of world is this?” Ifferon bellowed to the sky, as if beseeching what few gods still lived there, as powerless as the people of Iraldas. No answer came; more tears came instead.

  “Tears are for cowards,” a voice came suddenly, and they all turned in amazement to see that it was Affon. “Blood is for warriors. Blood for the Garigút!” She held up the remains of a large crow, whose neck had been slit. The blood left a trail behind it, from where she limped.

  Ifferon and Geldirana jumped up and ran to the girl. The three of them hugged, though it was an awkward hug, made all the more awkward by Affon refusing to drop the dead bird.

  “Hugs are for the weak,” she said, shaking them off her.

  “Some are for the strong,” Geldirana said.

  “He’s not strong,” Affon said, gesturing to Ifferon.

  “Affon,” Geldirana said. “He is your father.”

  Ifferon held his breath, waiting for some rebellion, some dismissal. He almost did not want to hear her response, did not want to be reminded of how much he had missed, of all the years he was never there.

  “I know,” Affon replied, and she smiled.

  * * *

  The Black Eyrie became their home that night, and all of them felt like Garigút, taking whatever dwelling they came across, feeling that little bit more barbaric in this bastion of blood. No birds returned there while they rested, warded off by the remains of their kin.

  “We might not have vanquished Agon,” Ifferon said, “but we have dealt him a grievous blow.” He held up the Scroll of Mestalarin. “He will rue this moment when we reclaimed this relic.”

  The group cheered, in as much as they had energy for cheer, for many of them were more content with their survival than any possible damage they had done to Agon’s mission. They rested briefly, and from that vantage point they looked at the jagged ridge of the Morbid Mountains, and further south-east into the heart of Telarym, where they could almost sense Agon struggling to get free.

  Ifferon and Geldirana had the clearsight, but their vision did not stretch far enough, and so they could only ponder how things had gone for those who marched towards the Beast—and for the very Beast himself and his eternal struggle.

  Deep in Telarym, where the sky was a new colour darker than black, and where the ground could no longer be seen in the bleak oppression of the night, there was a constant sound of battle and a constant wail of pain. Deep in Telarym, where Agon thrashed and flailed, as if the very air around him was an enemy, there was the sound of straining steel. Deep in Telarym, another chain broke.

  VI – THE MARCH OF MANY

  Ifferon and his companions led the long march into the heart of Telarym, towards where the periodic quakes emanated from, towards where the air seemed to grow tight and tense, as if it could not bear to be breathed in and out by the ireful lungs of the Beast.

  They followed the winding path of the Issar Chammas, which crossed from west Telarym before dropping into the sea in the east. The river was a constant companion to their left, and they never crossed it, and they never strayed too close to its deceptive edge, and yet at times it seemed that it strayed close to them, and at times it seemed that the path it led was changing, if ever so subtly.

  A more reliable guide was their companions to their right: the Morbid Mountains. For all of the Issar Chammas’ guile, like a skilful painter, this sentinel ridge was always blunt and obvious, carving its black silhouette into the canvas of the sky, with no grace or tact, and no deception. It almost seemed like a chasm into nothing, where the spectrum simply ended, and beyond which there were only the unseen colours of the dead. Behind those black tors were the snowy peaks of the White Mountains, and between them lay the Dead Land of Feloklin, a land of eternal grey. From there the grey seeped into every part of Telarym, sapping it of any colour, stealing it of any splendour.

  The hours passed, until what little there was of day was lost in darkness, when the sky and the silhouette of the mountains became a unified mass. They continued to travel for a time, until even the stars went to sleep, and then they rested as best they could, knowing that two great barriers lay on either side of them, a ruin lay behind them, and death lay before them.

  * * *

  The next day brought less light than the one before, and the company blamed this on the ominous shadow of Tol-Úmari, which they fell under once again. It was here that they stumbled upon a pile of Al-Ferian bodies, upon which rested a lonely unlit lamp.

  “Is this the army we just sent forth?” Thalla asked, disturbed by the sight.

  “No,” Thúalim said, though he was no less horrified.

  Ifferon found markings in the ground not far from the bodies, where he theorised the acorns of the fallen Al-Ferian had been buried.

  “This was one of the search parties we sent to find Théos,” Thúalim said. “We sent out many. Few returned.”

  “I imagine the army that went ahead of us buried their acorns,” Ifferon said.

  “But what about their bodies?” Thalla asked.

  “They do not honour their dead,” Geldirana said.

  Thúalim glared at her. “We honour them by planting their acorns.”

  “In Telarym soil, there can be no such honour,” the Way-thane said.

  “Your Garigút did not bury them either,” Thúalim said.

  “It is not my people’s responsibility to look after your dead.”

  “Let us hope you do not have to bury your own then,” Thúalim replied, “for you shall toil alone.”

  “Not alone,” Ifferon said.

  Ifferon offered to bury the fallen, but Thúalim would not have them waste time on shells. “When the snail leaves behind his shell, he does not worry if it should crack or break.”

  “But would he worry that it might become the home of another?” Geldirana asked. “The Dead Land is near. There are many souls that lust for a new body.”

  They passed by Tol-Úmari, and day seemed a little fairer for a time, until the shadow of that tower was replaced by the shadow of the Peak of the Wolf, where the ethereal door to the Underworld stood open, and from which wafted a humid air, as if from the pyre of dead souls burning. They began to feel more than ever the presence of Agon, and they began to dread more than ever that they might look upon that door to Halés, but look upon it from the other side.

  Though night was fast approaching, they did not tarry near the Peak, where Ifferon and Thalla remembered well the Felokar Wolves, and where Geldirana knew enough about the dead to not want to know that much more. So they continued to follow the Issar Chammas
until the oppressive atmosphere of the Peak felt less intense. It was there that they camped for rest, in the open plains, where the eyes of all who might be watching was less a risk than the eyes of those few whom they knew to bear an evil glare.

  They did not sleep soundly, however, for during Ifferon’s watch he saw a glimmer on the horizon to the north, a line of shimmering light in the darkness. Initially he started from fright, where his mind jumped to the worst possible scenario, for often the reality he faced nowadays was even grimmer than in his imagination. But logic trumped fear, helped by the fact that it was a mass of light that was advancing towards them, not a mass of darkness.

  “An ally, I hope,” Thalla said, rubbing her eyes.

  “More than one, I hope,” Ifferon replied.

  “Maybe it’s more Garigút,” Affon suggested. Ifferon looked to Geldirana, whose eyes told him clearly that there were too few Garigút left in the world.

  They sat in the open for over an hour, staring into the distance, their minds racing as fast as the light raced towards them. In time it became clear that this was not some strange effect of the heavens, like the colourful lights in the snow-covered land of Caelün. It was an army advancing, and by the sound of the stampede, they were on horseback, and they were numerous.

  Ifferon almost dozed off by the time they arrived, but the noise became so tumultuous as they pounded over the final ridge that he was dragged back awake, his eyes wide and alert. Then he saw a sight that warmed his heart: at least a hundred Knights of Issarí, led by Délin De’Marius, all on horseback, all in armour, and all bearing weapons and banners in their hands—and a grim determination on their faces. Though they had just crossed the Issar Chammas, all of them looked untroubled, for they had all ridden out knowing that death might be their destination.

  The army drew to a halt just before Ifferon and Thalla, sending a spray of dust into the air where the hooves stopped suddenly in the dirt. The horses neighed and whinnied, and some reared and bucked, and many bore the same look of determination as their riders.

  Délin rode at the front, tall and broad, and he looked like he did when Ifferon first encountered him in Alimstal Forest, when he knew him only as Trueblade, and when the most immediate threat was the wild Bull-men, not the emergence of Agon and the advancement of his armies.

  “The skirmishes are over,” Délin said, his voice muffled by his helmet. “Now it is time for war.”

  Délin dismounted and greeted his companions. He seemed more expeditious and serious than ever, with little time for pleasantries. He appeared ready at any moment to face battle, and often he cut their conversations short to consult with Brégest or another of the knights’ tacticians.

  Yet despite this abruptness, which set Ifferon on edge, Délin called him aside and placed both his gauntleted hands upon the cleric’s shoulders. He had removed his helmet, and he seemed for a moment less daunting.

  “I have brought a gift,” Délin said. He stepped aside, revealing a wooden crate that had been unloaded from the horses. The lid had been loosened, but its contents were still shrouded.

  “Open it,” Brégest said, and all the knights looked eagerly to Ifferon as he approached the box. He pushed the lid aside, and from the darkness came a sheen and sparkle. Before him lay a suit of silver armour, more beautiful than any he had ever seen. He held up the breastplate, which carried the emblem of a quill in the centre, like the one he wore on his sash in the Order of Olagh. He almost wept as the moonlight shone upon it, revealing its careful craftwork.

  “War is no place for a cleric,” Délin said, smiling. “But it is the place for a warrior, a soldier.”

  Ifferon could not muster any words of response. It seemed to him through the glisten of his eyes that the armour had even been inscribed with the Last Words about the waist, neck, and arms, and that there were many emblems of the gods, many crests and sigils, and many symbols he did not even recognise, but could not help but find beautiful and moving.

  “It was worn by another knight, many years ago,” Délin said, “though we have added some … embellishments. It looked to me your size, though we have few knights as tall and thin as you, and had not the time to set the smithy working.”

  “It is perfect,” Ifferon said.

  Délin placed his gauntleted hand upon Ifferon’s shoulder. “So then, friend, is it time to arm for war? The heavier the burden, the heavier the armour.”

  He looked at Geldirana, who was studying him with her eyes. He remembered her words. I could not fathom how this man I once loved, who was strong and full of adventure, had tamed so much, and given up his armour for a frock. Now it was time to give up his frock, and to don his armour once again.

  * * *

  The knights unpacked many of their things and set up several pavilions. This would be their new base of operations, their new home away from the Motherland of Arlin. They did not bring much, for their horses were already weighed down by armoured knights, but they brought enough to remind them of their homes and their families—and what they were fighting for.

  The largest pavilion was set up for Délin, but before he would enter he invited Ifferon to try out his new attire, the sight of which the knight said was worth more than shelter in these lands. So Ifferon went behind the curtained door, and two squires helped him with the many pieces of his armour, and he realised then why Délin never removed his armour, for it was almost like a puzzle to put together, and so perhaps, he hoped, it would be a puzzle to any searching blades hoping to find an opening to his vulnerable flesh beneath.

  When Ifferon emerged from the tent, few recognised him. The thin, tall man with the shaved head and sour face, had become a sentinel of steel, an armoured knight who could have blended in with any of those around him. The metal plates made him seem broader, and while he lacked the mass and strength of knights like Délin, he looked to some quite formidable.

  “Who goes there?” Délin jested. “And what have you done with our dear cleric?”

  The knights laughed and cheered. “For Issarí! For Corrias!”

  Ifferon pushed up the visor of his helmet. “Hopefully Agon does not recognise me.”

  Délin smiled. “I think he is in for a surprise.”

  * * *

  Ifferon was as surprised as many others when Elithéa appeared from one of the pavilions, attired in the finest armour of a knight. Though it was beautiful upon her, she walked awkwardly, losing almost all of the grace that she normally had. She stumbled over to them and grunted from inside the visor of her helmet.

  “It doesn’t suit you,” Thalla said.

  Elithéa pushed up the visor aggressively. “Perhaps it would suit you more,” she said. “It is, after all, as much a cage as a costume, and perhaps it fits some better than others.”

  “Yet you’re the one wearing it,” Thalla responded.

  “Perhaps the knights care more about my survival than yours,” the Ferian said. “Ack! I can barely move,” she added, and she seemed to be struggling within the suit of armour. “How can you stand this?”

  “Comfort is our last concern,” Délin said. “Yet the sword is less comfortable when embedded in you.”

  “So then dodge the sword instead of parrying it with your body,” Elithéa said.

  “Not all of us have your reflexes,” Délin replied.

  Elithéa shifted again, until it seemed that she was actually fighting with the garb she wore, where she could not dodge its icy touch or awkward edges. Finally she stopped still and looked to the others with frustration in her eyes.

  “No, this will not do,” she said. “I will never understand Man and why he tries to suffocate his form with these metal housings. This is not the garb for me.”

  She began to walk off, and her words were echoed in her floundering stride.

  “Don’t let the clothes defeat you,” Thalla called to her.

  Elithéa glared at her as she retreated back to the pavilion, bashing the curtain open.

  “You have been
hanging around Elithéa too long,” Ifferon said.

  Thalla smiled. “I guess I have.”

  When the Ferian returned, she was not only back in her familiar attire, which looked lighter than ever, but she carried several wooden staves and a large knife. “It is time for a new thalgarth,” she said, and she began carving immediately, refusing rest or refreshment. She toiled even into the small hours of the night, when many turned to their makeshift beds and their uneasy dreams.

  * * *

  Ifferon awoke suddenly in the dead of night, and he must have given a cry, for the eyes of several guards were upon him. He turned to find Délin was sitting up, his helmet placed down beside him.

  “Did I wake you?” Ifferon asked.

  “Yes,” Délin said. “You still talk in your sleep.”

  “Maybe I am just the party’s rooster,” Ifferon said. “We all need a morning call.”

  Délin smiled. “There are many hours left until morning. How is it that the days most in need of rest are always preceded by the nights most restless?”

  “Some ancient law, perhaps,” Ifferon said. “I do not think I was having much of a good sleep either. Sometimes it is better to stay awake than toss and turn in dream.”

  “Are you ready for what will come?” Délin asked him.

  “Honestly, I do not know,” Ifferon said. “We are so close to Agon now that I can almost feel him, can almost remember Telm’s battles with him as if they were my own. But it is easier to study the tales of ancient wars than to fight in new ones. The page bleeds with ink, not blood.”

  “Few bleed with the blood of Telm,” Délin said.

  “I am not sure it will do much good if I am bleeding,” Ifferon replied.