“The shadow will destroy them,” the voice of fire said, though there was something strange about it now, as though the fire had been lit in a different place.
“Let me in,” it said. He felt himself agreeing almost against his will.
Suddenly Yavün felt as though he were losing his grip. For a moment he was reminded of his fall at the Chasm of Issarí, and the pain of the rock slicing into his arm as he lost his hold and tumbled down into the ravaging waters below.
Even more suddenly, like that moment when he felt himself losing consciousness beneath the waters, he felt himself locked out of his own body, pushed and held down, suppressed and supplanted. He looked across the plains with his eyes of shadow, and he saw his body slump. He tried to raise his arms, but all that moved were the arms of the Shadowspirit. He was exiled from his own body, and it sat there like a shell, waiting to be occupied.
Before he could do anything, before he could run to it, or cry out, or even think of what his options were, he saw the Alar Molokrán disperse like dust in the wind, and before he could think of what this meant, and act upon it, he watched as his body stood up of its own accord and turned to Elilod, who stood there unaware. Before he could warn him, or do anything that might save him, he watched as his own hand drew his own sword, and plunged it with his own force into the belly of the River Man.
XII – DUSK
Elilod collapsed upon the ground, with the Sword of Telm still lodged inside him. Had it been any other sword, a blade made by mortals, the River Man may have survived its embrace. Had it been held by the Lichelord instead of Yavün, then he might have seen it in time, and dodged the blow. All the things that might have been passed before his eyes, and he tried to catch them, but they slipped from his grasp, and they swam away.
He looked at Yavün, and though he saw that familiar young face, and those familiar curious eyes, and that familiar mouth full of questions, he did not recognise him.
“Little fish,” he said, and said no more.
* * *
The Rebel Taarí backed away from their fallen leader, but Narylal ran to Elilod and crouched down beside him, holding him in her arms. There was water in her eyes that was not part of her fluid form, and even from across the plains Yavün could see the glisten, and it wounded him like his own hands had wounded Elilod.
Narylal wailed as she held her leader, her god, in her arms. If there was a god of sorrow, a Céalar who dealt with tragedy, then she would have prayed to him. But there was no one in Althar who could answer such prayers, nor answer the difficult question of why these evil deeds were allowed to happen, in a world which even the gods could not control.
Yavün struggled with all his might to regain control of his own body, but he failed, and so he swept across the battlefield in his shadow form and leapt upon whatever it was that made his flesh its home. As soon as he did this, he began to see a little out of his own eyes, but then it went dark again, and his sight returned to the eyes of the Shadowspirit.
His anger gave him momentum, and so he lunged again, and his real eyes saw a little more. He repeated this until eventually he knocked the Lichelord from the shell of his body, and he leapt inside and turned to the Alar Molokrán with the Sword of Telm held high.
“We smote the River Man before Issarí,” the Lichelord said, “and now finally he rests upon the river bed.”
Yavün stabbed the air before the Lichelord, as if it had made those offending words, and the Lichelord flinched and grimaced, and then turned its dark mouth to laughter.
“So the River Man found something on the river bed,” he said. “Another token, another relic, another heirloom from a dead god and a dead legacy. Has Ifferon finally given up his claim and made you the heir instead?”
Then Ifferon stepped forward, and the Lichelord flinched once more, as if he had caught sight of something great and terrible, and then he stood resolute, as if he realised how small and trivial this power before him was.
“And who is this,” the Lichelord mocked, “but another relic?”
Ifferon stood unblinking, and Yavün had never seen him look so strong. His armour glimmered like stars, and the Shadowstone pulsed like a little lightning, and the Scroll thrummed like a tiny thunder.
“I know a little weather of my own,” the Lichelord said.
Suddenly the clouds in the skies began to change, spinning and bobbing, and in those undulating clouds could be seen a mirror of a stormy sea. From the tempest of the sky a torrent fell, and those who had not been felled by sword or arrow were now struck by the battering of the breeze and the flailing of the flood.
* * *
Just as it seemed like night would set in, that the clouds would act as curtains, and the sun would be snuffed out as if it were but a tiny candle flame, the Aelora arrived on the battlefield, and the very light that emanated from deep within them was enough to stay the darkness, to halt the advancing gloom. The armies of allies and enemies both looked at the lights, and some were forced to turn their gaze aside, for here and there a spark would turn brightest white, and it was blinding.
But the Aelora did not let their inner lights do all the work, for bright though they were, the bleak blanket that stretched above them all sent a darkness past all eyes and into the very souls of everyone beneath. The weather was a weapon that day, but it was one that more than the Molokrán could use.
Oelinor appeared at the front of his force, and he began to cast a magic of his own into the sky. The other Aelora followed, and soon there were streams of white light flooding the heavens. In time the clouds were driven back across the battlefield, and the sun arose, and it was day again.
But just as the previous Lichelord had an uncanny power over nature, and the one before it had an unearthly power over stone, the newest Alar Molokrán made the weather his slave, driving it forth and compelling it to do his will. The clouds advanced again, blotting out the sun, and the land was cast once more in darkness.
Thus was there a battle of night and day to mirror the battle of the forces of darkness and light below. The sky seemed forever divided, as if the very gods that dwelt there did not know which side they were on. Whatever animals that had not been scared off by the clashing of armies were undoubtedly confused by this seemingly sudden and swift passage of time. Some scurried to their burrows to rest for the night, only to emerge moments later in bewilderment as day dawned once more.
Then Lëolin, the current Alar Ardúnar, joined Oelinor at the front of their troops, and his presence gave day the advantage, so that it seemed that it would forever conquer night and chase away all and every shadow.
But his presence was as much a challenge as it was a threat, and the Alar Molokrán was compelled to answer. He rose up tall until he was a thin pillar of blackness, and the Shadowspirits around him were drawn towards him, and then drawn into him, until he began to swirl. The motion forced dust into the air and knocked people from their feet, and those nearby were sucked towards the shadow, until it became a ravaging black tornado, moving slowly across the plains.
The Aelora fired beams of light towards it, but these seemed to only empower it, giving it new force and speed. The Magi of Boror tried their spells of encagement, but the swirling shadow broke through them effortlessly. Yavün watched on helplessly, just as he did when he watched his own hand end the life of Elilod.
And so the tornado bore down on the Aelora, and they began to panic as their magic failed to halt it. Every shadow was now part of the cyclone, adding their corrupting essence to its destructive force. Here and there an unlucky soldier was plucked from the battlefield and consumed by the windstorm. Everywhere the sound was deafening, and up above the sky was darkening again.
Ifferon charged in front of the swirling mass, clutching tightly the Scroll before him, which clattered in the wind, even striking him in the face as he tried to utter the words it bore. “Dehilasü baeos!” he cried, but the wind cried louder.
The darkness deepened, and the even darker work of
weather drew close. Just as it seemed as though it was coming too close to Ifferon, and that he would surely die in its passage, Délin raced through and knocked Ifferon from its path. The two narrowly dodged the tornado’s powerful pull as it was drawn by the power of the Alar Ardúnar, who could do little to stop it.
Yavün watched all of this unfold, and he felt as though his previous conviction, his prior drive, had been sucked up into the passing whirlwind, leaving him as helpless as any other who dared to fight the weather and its new ruler.
Then he felt the fire well inside his mind, and there once more he heard the voice of fire. “He is as much a portal as you are,” it said. “Yes, a portal. An empty shell waiting to be filled.”
But Yavün had been deceived by this before, and in letting his guard down, he had given up his own body so that it might be filled by shadow. Elilod had paid the price for Yavün’s mistake, not him, and he wondered who else might die if he hearkened again to the voice of fire, which might instead be the voice of shadow.
In that moment of doubt, when he felt he understood more than ever Ifferon’s reluctance, when he finally realised that he was as much battling with his own internal shadow as he was any external one, he began to wonder if being a Child of Telm was more than just a title, or more than just a list of names that had mostly been crossed out by Agon and his forces.
But he did not like this doubt, and he did not like the sight of Ifferon upon the ground, or the fact that this could be him in years to come, cowering in the face of fear, and letting uncertainty rule his life, or the fear of not making the right choice hold him back from making any decision at all.
And then he was given an extra push from the world outside, and the world beyond. One of the Felokar wolves that were guarding the Visage had slunk away from its duties and crept towards him, and he had not noticed it, for his eyes were fixed on the whirling darkness. It nudged him, and he started in fright, and he was suddenly reminded of his flight with Thalla from those beasts, and those tender moments spent with her before they were dragged apart in the rapids of Issarí’s Chasm. The wolf nudged him again, pushing him slightly in the direction of the tornado. He instinctively resisted, but this only spurred the wolf to push harder, almost toppling him from his feet. It growled at him as he turned to it, baring its teeth, before nudging him again.
“Okay!” he cried. “I know.”
And so he did what all others upon the battlefield must have thought was madness. He ran towards the tornado, even as others were running away from it. He raced towards it even as it pulled him and anyone and anything else closer to its destructive bosom. Amidst the howling wind he could hear other howls, the howls and cries of his friends and comrades, and the howls of the Felokar wolves, like the welcome song of the dead.
When it seemed that he was no longer running, but being dragged and sucked towards the shadow, he looked up to the twirling tower of blackness, like the weather’s imitation of Tol-Úmari near the Peak of the Wolf and the Land of the Dead. It was daunting and oppressing, and the gods in Althar must have felt its violent force as much as the mortals down on Iraldas.
In that moment, when the wind lashed his face, and his hair swirled like a tornado of its own, time seemed to slow, and he felt a little of what it must be like in Halés, where Melgalés dwelt, and where he knew deep inside him that the Magus suffered because of him. The Beldarian was almost pulled from its chain as he approached the tornado, and he knew that soon it would all be over, that he would free another’s soul just as he would free his own. His mind raced like a whirlwind, sending his thoughts in all directions, and he thought to say a prayer, but could only think of a poem instead.
The wind beats against my ears like the battle drums.
The air lashes me like the whips of slave-drivers.
The gust reels me in—on the wire my will succumbs;
As I’m caught, I see the ocean of survivors.
Who am I to covet their freedom from the net,
Or look at all I have, and dare to ask for more?
What more is given only adds upon the debt,
As I am taken up and shackled to the shore.
Though my eyes know envy, of it I have no need;
Though my heart knows yearning, of it I need no beat.
The wind is here enough to satiate my greed,
An avarice of love, so easy to defeat.
What will end my eyes’ gluttony? What will suffice,
And fill the need like water fills the selfish sea?
What water for the land, a willing sacrifice?
If it won’t come from heaven, it will come from me.
And then just as the tornado began to take him up, he leapt towards it, giving in to its embrace, like a little fish reeled in by life’s eternal fisherman. And then he leapt again, this time out of his own body, and deep into the black wall of wind before him, in which the Lichelord dwelt. For a brief moment he saw only blackness, and then for an even briefer moment he saw what the tornado might have seen, if it had eyes. He saw people cower and run, and he saw the tower of darkness loom over Lëolin, even as Oelinor backed away.
He saw, even against his own will, for he tried to close his eyes, but could not, that Lëolin was sucked into the cyclone, and he was dragged and thrown, until the very light in him was sucked out and overcome by the darkness around.
Then Yavün saw the shell of the Alar Molokrán that was the centre of the cyclone, like an acorn from which a tree of darkness and death must grow. He saw that it was empty, and so he threw himself inside it, and suddenly he could see more clearly than ever with the eyes of the whirlwind. Just as easily as he might lift his arm or turn his head, he halted the tornado and slowed its spinning, until finally it no longer turned at all, and instead stood as a giant pillar from the earth to the heavens. He lowered this and condensed it, until at last it formed the figure of the Alar Molokrán, through whose eyes he could see, and with whose face he could feel the air, and with whose hands he could feel the ground.
And so he turned his attention to the opposing armies, which were already dwindling. He moved the pillar of darkness towards them, and they knew it was no longer a weapon on their side. Many cowered and many ran, but a few of the Nahamoni stood before the towering form and held up what looked to Yavün like scraps of a broken pot. He pushed the shadow towards them, knowing that they could not stand against it for long, but he began to feel a powerful and overwhelming resistance, which made the potency of the Molokrán feel tiny in comparison.
The strain of keeping the shadow on a leash was too much, and Yavün felt that he was losing control, and that the blackness that was now his body was beginning to seep into his mind. For a brief moment he thought that it would consume him, and then he thought no more, for everything turned to darkness and silence.
* * *
To those around, they saw the Lichelord’s form shift violently, as if it was fighting with itself. One moment it was contorted and angular, and the next it was soft and flowing like a dark cloud. The Nahamoni unleashed the fragments of the Ferhassan that were confiscated from Délin, and they halted the dark pillar, as if it were turned to stone. Then the darkness suddenly dispersed, and those who had the clearsight could see, for the most fleeting of moments, that Yavün’s spirit was cast out of the shadow.
The soldiers braced themselves for a renewed attack, but their swords and spears lowered involuntarily when they saw that the Lichelord fled from the field of battle, with the other Molokrán following in his train. A fear was upon them like that which they had cast upon all the peoples of Iraldas, and the soldiers watched their flight with a feeling that justice had been served.
Ifferon saw more than most, for he watched as Yavün was cast out of the Lichelord, like he had cast out the Shadowspirit from Yavün all those days before in the haunted hills of the Meadow-downs. The youth’s spirit form turned here and there, as if lost, and it did not seem to see Ifferon, nor its own body laying still upon the battlefie
ld. It wandered aimlessly for a time, and then just as Ifferon began to make for it, to guide Yavün back to his body, it shimmered briefly, and then began to fade. It turned one final time, and Ifferon thought it looked at him, and then it turned its gaze in the direction of the door of Halés, and Ifferon no longer saw the ghostly form.
XIII – THE BATTLE OF THE BEAST
The soldiers carried Yavün’s body to the prison pavilion where the Visage was kept, and where the Felokar wolves kept guard, and where Affon marched back and forth as if she were keeping the night watch. Ifferon and the others who had journeyed with Yavün followed as he was lifted inside, and some kept their heads bowed, as if they were part of a funeral procession.
They brought him inside, and immediately the Felokar wolves reacted, but instead of pouncing on them, as they might have done with someone trying to free the Visage, they whimpered and paced about, and then they bowed their heads, as if they too were part of the requiem.
The youth’s body was laid down upon a table, still clutching the ornate sword that had felled Elilod, and Affon ran up to see what was happening.
“Is he dead?” she asked.
It was the same question they were all wondering. He had not fallen by any mortal wound, like so many had that day, but no one knew enough about the spirit world, about the people they called Portals, or exactly how the transition to Halés worked. There was no acorn to use now, and it seemed to many that he had already cheated death once, and that it might have finally claimed him.
“He could not find his body,” Ifferon said, and he fought back his tears. He wondered if he could have done more, if he could have saved the youth.
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