The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy

by Dean F. Wilson

  Thalla looked at the Beldarian. It was beautiful, even if it was not her own. And it was powerful, even if its master was dead. This was the last hurdle for her conscience, for it was always possible to break the beldar gem or throw it back, to save Thúalim the pain of waiting, knowing he already had the pain of living, and the pain of death. But the fire in her yearned for release, and she felt she could not restrain it for much longer. So she placed the chain around her neck and felt the cool touch of the Beldarian upon her chest. The cold tempered her flame, and in moments she felt a part of her merge with the pendant, where it became shielded from the danger of magic.

  So it was too late for Thúalim. And it was just beginning for Thalla De’Hataramon, who felt as though she could set the world alight—and live to feel the embers.

  * * *

  Thúalim awoke in Halés, where he lay upon the steps that led up into the Halls. He groaned as he turned around, and he saw the boots and robe of someone he thought he recognised.

  “Not much luck for the Ardúnari, it seems, no,” Melgalés said. “Not much luck at all.”

  Melgalés extended his hand and pulled Thúalim to his feet, and Thúalim felt an odd sensation, as if instead of him moving, the world around him moved. When his head settled enough that he could look around him, noting that he was alone with Melgalés, he said: “Maybe it is just us Magi that are so unfortunate.”

  “If you mean because we are dead, then no. I have seen some other Magi pass through here. For me, there is a reason I sit on the doorstep.”

  Thúalim nodded his head. “Then that is why I am here also.”

  “But who is the thief this time?” a haunting voice said.

  “The Gatekeeper,” Melgalés commented. “The voice, I mean, not the thief.”

  “And of the thief?” the Gatekeeper asked.

  “A girl,” Thúalim said. “I do not know her.”

  “I do,” Melgalés said. “She was my apprentice.”

  “You always were the odd one,” Thúalim said.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Melgalés replied. “Yes, quite a compliment.”

  Thúalim sat down with a sigh. “I have failed my people. Rúathar was a better leader than I.”

  “He died too,” Melgalés said. “Death is not failure.”

  “He led the Molokrán away. He achieved something with his death. I have not.”

  “Who knows what you have achieved,” Melgalés said, “or what you have set in motion.” He toyed with the beads in his hair, and his mouth moved as he did so, as if he were counting them. Thúalim knew this was not a tool of augury used by the Magi, but something unique to Melgalés.

  “So we wait,” Thúalim said. “I wish we could do something. They will rot in the cells of Nahlin.”

  Melgalés stood up. “No,” he said sternly. “There is something I can do.” He whistled, and the sound echoed out like the cries of many lost souls. Then from the shadows emerged many Felokar wolves. Thúalim flinched, but Melgalés placed his hand upon his back. “These are allies,” he said. “Yes, new allies.”

  “Your pets?” Thúalim asked.

  “Of sorts, yes.”

  And so the Magus spoke to the wolves in their tongue, using again their names to order them to do his will. And he willed them out into the wild, out past Echarin the Unsleeping, out through the door of Halés, out into the Dead Land, and out into Telarym, where an army of Nahamoni rested and feasted—where an army was about to become a feast.

  * * *

  In the pavilion field, which was now their prison camp, the knights continued to endure interrogation. The Nahamoni seemed to enjoy this more than battle, for they cheered and celebrated as a knight was dragged off, or flailed and beaten.

  The dark giant barged through, knocking aside many of the smaller Nahamoni. “Now, you lags, tell us who you are,” he barked, wiping the spittle from his mouth.

  Délin looked defiantly at the man. “I might have told the jailer,” he said sternly, “but not the murderer.”

  The giant raised his monstrous fist to the knight. “We’ve a saying. The brash get a bash.”

  “A bit of a motto,” the pale giant said, drawing close to flick his tongue at Délin.

  “You are the master and we are the guests,” Délin said in his most feigned dignified voice. “It is customary to introduce yourself first.”

  “Is it now?” the pale giant said, sitting down. “Whose customs is that?”

  “Everyone’s,” the knight replied. “Even yours.”

  “Right then,” the pale giant said, licking his lips. “Mustn’t forget me manners. I had a proper name once, but now I’m known as Shackles.”

  Délin held up his bonds and rattled the chains. “I wonder why,” he said.

  “He’s a funny one,” Shackles replied.

  The other giant pounded over, stooping down to glare directly into Délin’s eyes. His stare was almost demonic, and almost entrancing. “I’ve no time for funny ones,” he hissed.

  “And who might you be?” Délin asked.

  “He’s Irons,” Shackles said.

  “Fed up with you knights is who I am,” Irons said in that same low hiss, as if his tongue were a snake.

  “Kill us and be done with it!” Elithéa shouted.

  “Not quite what I had in mind,” Délin said.

  “Don’t worry, love,” Shackles said, and his voice was sickeningly sweet. “We’ll kill you all in time. For now, you’re our prisoners.”

  “Tell us who you are,” Irons shouted, and he raised a red hot poker to their faces. “Or tell this.”

  “Surely our banners say enough,” Délin said. “Why carry flags if they do not announce us?”

  “We know you well enough, Trueblade,” Shackles said, “even if you’re wearing your father’s armour.”

  “Then why wonder who we are?”

  “Because last we heard, you were with a certain cleric. The kind of cleric who carries around a certain Scroll.”

  Ifferon grew suddenly more nervous than he was before, and he was glad to be wearing a helmet to hide the sweat upon his brow, and disguise his worry. He was also glad that instead of hiding the Scroll in the pocket of his habit, it was firmly hidden behind his right greave. He was thankful for his fortune, and yet he feared that fate might balance such kindness with some other cruelty.

  “Do we look like clerics?” Elithéa barked.

  “You look like a Ferian woman,” Shackles said.

  “We’ve allowed women into our ranks before,” Délin said. “For one who professes to know so much about us, you are ignorant of many things.”

  “Are we now?”

  “That is … Anrin,” Délin said, nodding towards Elithéa. “She has served us well.”

  “I bet she has,” Shackles said, and he sniggered and drooled.

  “And this one,” Irons said, pointing to Affon. “Is she another of your whores?”

  Ifferon bit his lip to curb his retort, and he could see that Geldirana was doing the same. Affon snapped at Irons’ finger as he pointed to her, and he looked as though at any moment he would seize and crush her.

  Délin was clearly struggling to find an explanation for her presence. “She’s a—”

  “I’m a warrior,” Affon interrupted. “Cut my ropes and give me a fair fight. I’ll cut your neck!”

  The Nahamoni laughed derisively. “A big mouth for such a little thing,” Irons said.

  Affon began to respond, but Geldirana elbowed her harshly. The girl scowled at her mother before turning the scowl upon the giants.

  “There’s little here to find,” Délin said.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Irons replied. He thundered through, eyeing each of them in turn, stopping here and there to prod one of the knights. He passed Ifferon by completely, but his interrogation of the others offered the cleric little relief. For a moment Ifferon felt like uttering his name, that his companions might be spared, but Délin gave him a stern look
, and he knew that it would be folly.

  In time the dark giant made a full circle of all in chains, returning to Délin, where Shackles stood guard. The knight had repositioned himself, laying on his side, and this brought suspicion into the eyes of his jailers.

  “Why are you lying like that?” Shackles asked.

  “It is an injury,” Délin said, but it did not look like they were falling for it.

  Irons turned him over, exposing an ornate satchel.

  “What’s this?” Irons said, snatching the satchel from Délin’s waist. Délin sighed as the giant emptied the contents onto the ground and backed away. There before them lay the Perasalon fragments of the broken Ferhassan used in the ritual to bring back Corrias and Théos, and it was clear that neither Shackles nor Irons liked the look of them.

  “You,” Shackles said to the nearest of his forces. “Get those out of here.”

  “It was a gift,” Délin said as they took them away. “A gift for Agon.”

  He regretted the comment, for Irons smacked him across the face with his boulder-like hand, knocking a splatter of blood from his nose.

  “Maybe Agon will get a different gift,” Irons said. “You’ll do nicely.”

  * * *

  Few of the prisoners slept that night, even though exhaustion came upon them like the lashes of their jailers. They heard the Nahamoni talk of splitting into three forces, one to bring the prisoners to the Slave-lands, one to attack Boror, and one to guard Agon as he toiled against his chains. The pavilions were taken over, housing the giants and other generals of the Dark Men, who seemed to grow more awake as the night drew on.

  Ifferon tossed and turned in his uneasy sleep, made all the more uneasy by the bonds that bit into his wrists and ankles. He dreamed evil dreams, where he was chained in place of Agon in the Underworld, and he felt the pain and torment of the Beast, and he felt an anger and a deep desire to end it all, that he might be free of the torment.

  But it did not end, and instead of freedom he found that the chains grew tighter, and the more he struggled, the less he could move, until it even felt as though he could not speak. He tried to cry aloud, but his tongue was curbed, his voice entrapped.

  Something evil slithered into his thoughts, forming in the darkness where he struggled. He could not see it, but he could feel its overpowering presence, and it held him in place more than any manacle could.

  “Tell me your name,” it said, and he felt his voice suddenly free to speak, and he cried the answer aloud, as high as he could, as if his very name might free him from his confines. And so it did, for he awoke.

  But he was not free from his bonds. Lumbering over him were Shackles and Irons, and both bore smiles that unnerved him, and told him that he had betrayed himself, that he had spoken aloud his name in his sleep.

  “Ifferon,” they said together, and their smiles widened, and their hands seized him.

  VIII – THE VISAGE

  Ifferon was snatched by the Nahamoni giants like a child might seize a rag doll, and though he now wore armour, their clutch was tight, crushing him within the metal suit. He considered invoking the armour of Telm and fighting his captors, but he thought better of it, for that would confirm to them what they could never be entirely certain of: that he was Ifferon, that he was a Child of Telm.

  There was a clamour all around him as he was dragged away, for many of the knights were awake, and it seemed that Délin had not given in to sleep at all. They shouted and struggled in their bonds, and some kicked at Shackles and Irons as they passed, and others called out in hopes that a distraction might provide some opportunity for rescue. But no one came, and nothing came of their efforts except exhaustion.

  Ifferon was hauled into a ragged tent, where he was thrown down before the feet of another Nahamon. This one was unlike all the others, for though he was grim, there was an elegance about him that made him seem much higher up the chain, and much more dangerous. He wore a mix of metal and robes, and they were oddly positioned, for the cloth hung in the more vulnerable parts, while the metal seemed merely ornamental. Even the metal mask he wore seemed more for show than for protection, but it was effective, for its iron glare was almost hypnotic, and very frightening.

  “This is the one,” Irons said.

  “We got ‘im,” Shackles added with a grin.

  The masked man did not respond, and since Ifferon could not see any flicker in his eyes, or any twitch of his mouth, it seemed that he made no reaction at all. Even his body was still like a statue, and this was unsettling.

  Despite the silence, the giants seemed to catch onto something, and they looked at one another, and they seemed suddenly on edge, as if some portent had been read. Within moments they left the tent, leaving behind their lingering foul odour, and the painful marks on Ifferon’s arms through the dented armour.

  Ifferon clambered to his knees and looked up at the masked man, if indeed he was a man at all and not just an ornamental suit of armour. Yet there was a presence there, the kind of oppressing feeling of sentience that Ifferon had felt in the dream that had given him away. The more he looked into the blank, expressionless eyes of the metal face, the more he felt like his mind was being probed, like a spell of sway was being cast upon him.

  To break the trance, Ifferon spoke aloud: “Who are you?”

  There was no response, and yet Ifferon felt as though this was the question being levelled at him, the one that no longer needed an answer.

  The silence was like torture, so Ifferon spoke again: “I don’t know why you think—”

  “Telm is dead and his children are all dying,” the masked man spoke suddenly, and the voice was muffled, but it echoed in the mask, giving it greater resonance, enhancing the distressing presence.

  Ifferon did not know how to respond, and yet he was sure that he gave away many secrets with his eyes. He fought against the urge to glance towards his shin, where the Scroll lay hidden.

  “What do you want?” he asked eventually.

  “I am known as the Visage,” the masked man said.

  “So that is your name?”

  “I am known as the Visage,” the Nahamon repeated again, as if he did not have a name, just a title, and just a job to do.

  “What do you do?” Ifferon asked.

  “The Visage extracts truths from liars,” he said. The brevity of the statement was like the brevity of the guillotine, and yet Ifferon got the feeling that the Visage’s work was not quick, but painfully slow.

  Ifferon tried to hide his fear, like he had tried at Larksong during Teron’s interrogation, but just like it was not easy then, it was not easy now. Even more was at stake, not least of all his very life, and the manner in which he might pass on.

  “The Visage uses many tools,” the masked man said, and he began to circle Ifferon, highlighting as he went the various metal prongs and pincers, blades and other objects of butchery that lined a series of tables around him.

  “I am not afraid of you,” Ifferon said, but he knew the tremor in his voice betrayed him as much as his talking in his sleep did.

  “The captive has some tools of his own,” the Visage continued, as if he was not even aware that Ifferon had spoken at all. “The first is the mind, which allows good sense, and so the captive might use this tool to halt the use of the others. The second is the mouth, which allows the mind to speak the good sense that it has mustered, and so provide what might otherwise be extracted.”

  Ifferon gulped and shuddered.

  “Are you willing to die?” the Visage asked.

  Ifferon knew he was not, and yet he knew even deeper down that he might have to, that even if he did not die to the tools of a torturer, he might have to lay down his life like Telm had, to ensure Agon was returned to his prison. Yet Agon was now breaking free, and Ifferon was the prisoner.

  “If you are willing to die, then what follows will be of little consequence,” the Visage said. “Each tool will merely be a helping hand towards the Halls of Halés. If you
die for a greater purpose, it gives meaning to your life, a life which up to now has had very little meaning. The Visage is willing to die at any moment, without notice and without complaint. This makes the Visage the perfect orchestrator of the death of others, especially the death of liars, wherefrom they may be reborn as speakers of truth.”

  He spoke all of this while passing a set of pincers between his hands, as if he were performing some act of alchemy, turning liars into truth-sayers, even as war turns the living into the dead.

  * * *

  As Délin and the other knights continued to struggle in their bonds, they caught sight of a flickering of lights from the north, spanning the entirety of the horizon, as if the stars of the night sky had suddenly fallen to the ground.

  “An army comes,” Brégest whispered to Délin.

  “Thank Corrias it comes from the north,” Trueblade replied.

  “The army from the south is here around us,” Brégest said, and they surveyed the great force that surrounded them, each soldier another brick in their prison walls.

  The knights did not need to whisper, for the Nahamoni saw the lights as clearly as they. While the knights felt a sudden hope, and hoped that the Nahamoni would feel a sudden fear, both Irons and Shackles roared towards the north, mocking the advancing troops, and welcoming the coming battle.

  “Send a scout out,” Irons said, and one of the lightly-armed Nahamoni immediately set out towards the approaching lights, disappearing into the darkness of the plains inbetween.

  “Let’s see just who we’re going to kill tonight,” Shackles said with a hint of glee.

  * * *

  Thalla watched as Ifferon was taken away, and she almost leapt into view, but wisdom stayed her feet. She watched as the knights were beaten and held down, and her heart almost leapt on its own. She watched as the lanterns emerged in the north, and then she watched as a lanternless scout headed out to spy and judge the enemy, and bring back information that might help douse the flames.