Délin ran to Ifferon again and seized him by the shoulders, and they both ducked another of the Beast’s swinging arms, before Délin dragged the cleric away from Agon’s reach. “There is no victory to be won like this!” the knight cried. “There is nothing to be gained in your death.”
But even as he spoke the words, Ifferon finally recognised what he had begun to realise since Agon broke through to Iraldas: that to return Agon to his prison, he would have to be more than just a Child of Telm, but Telm himself, and so give up his life just as that god had done. Surely, he realised now, the dying words were not strong enough without a dying breath.
This realisation must have been apparent in his eyes, for Délin looked at him with a sense of knowing, and he shook his head firmly. “No,” he said. “There is always another way. We proved that with Théos.”
“But this is different,” Ifferon said. “This is bigger than all of us.”
“Your life is more than just a key to lock Agon back in his prison,” Délin said.
“Maybe it is not,” Ifferon replied. “Maybe this is my purpose.”
“And what of Affon?”
Ifferon did not know what to say. He had almost forgotten about her in the midst of the battle, as if he had never known about her, like he had not known for the past ten years.
“Is she not enough to live for?” the knight asked, and Ifferon saw in Délin’s eyes the drive to defeat Agon, and to survive the onslaught, that he might see Théos again. Then the image of Affon came into his mind, and the image of Geldirana surfaced from where he had locked it inside the prison of his heart.
“Is she not enough?” Délin asked again.
Ifferon nodded and removed his helmet, revealing to the world the streams of tears he felt upon his face, revealing the sorrow he held for all that he had missed in life, all that he regretted, as if this indeed were his deathbed, and all he could think of was all he had wanted to do, and all he had not done.
“I barely know her,” he said, “and yet she is everything to me, like Geldirana was.”
“And may be again,” the knight said.
“I think those days are over.”
“Have faith, Ifferon,” Délin said. “There is nothing permanent in this world, not even the gods themselves. Some things fade, and some things that seemed faded become clear again. The old may become the new, and the new may wither, and the old hurts may be the mortar that joins new loves. Who knows what the future holds, only that we have a place in forging it.”
And so the two walked away from Agon, and Ifferon felt as though he had failed in his quest, that he had not lived up to his purpose. The memory of Telm was not honoured in his blood, nor in his thoughts and actions. He knew not how this would end, only that his one and only weapon had little effect.
The features of Agon’s face still haunted Ifferon’s mind. He never knew what others saw, and they never spoke of it. The experience was enough, and their faces told him all he needed, and much more than he wanted, to know.
As he left behind the chaos of the battlefield, Ifferon heard an echo of Agon’s words, which were themselves an echo of his own, and an echo of Telm’s a thousand years before. “Begone,” it said, and as Ifferon walked away, he felt, with a pang of deep regret, that he had obeyed that command, that it had more power over him than it did the Beast.
XIV – THE MONSTER WITHIN
“We have failed,” Ifferon said, and he sat down and unfurled the Scroll before him. It reminded him of how it looked when he saw it back in Larksong on that fateful day before his flight from there. It was old, ragged, torn, full of gaping holes and more damage than ever before, with pieces missing and pieces burnt, and when the edges were not wrinkled and worn, they were charred. If ever it reminded him of himself back then, it seemed an even greater reminder today. The promise it gave, that it could even make a moment of ending into something powerful, felt empty now, felt unfulfilled.
“Only in this attempt,” Délin said. “He is not yet free, and that is our goal.”
Herr’Don paced back and forth, his cloak swinging aggressively behind him. “If I had my other arm, I would take hold of the Beast and drag him down to Halés, even if it meant I could not return. I would hold him in place, and he would know my anger as more than he could ever muster, and he would call me Beast.”
* * *
They returned to the prison pavilion, which had become a centre of operations for the battle, a refuge from the death and destruction outside.
As soon as they entered, Affon marched up to them and saluted by crossing her arms over her chest, like many of the older Garigút did. This act made Ifferon realise for the first time that Geldirana never gave this salute, but instead demanded it be given to her. Yet with the few remaining Garigút that were loyal to her now dead upon the field around Agon, there were none but Affon to give that salute.
“I hope your prisoner is not causing any hassle,” Ifferon said.
“I’ve been keeping my eye on him,” Affon responded, and she pointed to her right eye, and then pointed at the Visage, as if she thought this was somehow threatening. Both of the Visage’s eyes stared back blankly, and he did not stir.
This stony reaction seemed to get to Herr’Don, for he gave a hateful glance to the masked man before sitting down with an angry sigh. Ifferon then realised that his reaction was perhaps partly due to the body of Yavün, which still lay upon the table in the corner of the pavilion, with his sword upon the chair beside him.
“We could not bury him,” a guard whispered to Ifferon. “Those Felokar wolves kept coming and digging him up. We thought they were going to eat him.”
The others were too distracted by the thought of Agon to give any thought to the young poet.
They joined Herr’Don at the central table, and they sat together like a war cabinet might, discussing their successes and failures, and what their next move should be.
“We go all in,” Herr’Don said, and he pushed his cup to the centre of the table as if it were a stack of chips in one of the many gambling games played at Bardahan or Geldahan. “Throw everything we’ve got. Sooner or later we must succeed.”
“There are no such guarantees,” Geldirana said sternly. To the untrained eye she seemed unmoved by the death of her people, but Ifferon knew her better, and he could hear the distress in her voice, beneath the anger. “Tact is another weapon,” she added.
“A slow one,” the prince replied. “And we do not have the luxury of time.”
“I held off my attack on Nahragor,” the Way-thane said. “And that patience paid off.”
“It was paid off with the lives of your people.”
She did not respond immediately, but her breathing deepened and her chest heaved, as if she were a volcano about to erupt. “And what do you want to do with the lives of yours?” she replied, keeping the lava down. “Throwing them at the Beast is a fool’s errand.”
“No more so than throwing them at the walls of Nahragor,” Herr’Don said.
“We already tried the direct approach,” Délin said, “and it has not worked.”
“Agon is too strong,” Elithéa said. “This is a fight of gods.”
“So leave it to Corrias, you mean?” Délin asked.
“He’s doing a better job than we are.”
“I will not miss out on the battle,” Herr’Don said agitatedly. He prodded the table aggressively, as if his fingers were knives. Edgaron placed his hand gently on the prince’s shoulder, and this seemed to calm him.
“We have to act,” Délin said. “Of that there is no doubt.”
“I would suggest magic,” Thalla remarked, “but he is quite a bit more powerful than any of the Magi.”
They nodded and mumbled in agreement, reluctantly acknowledging that even the power of the Aelora was no match for that of the Céalari that Agon had consumed. Oelinor was silent, and Ifferon knew that he was just as disheartened as the rest of them, especially with the death of his close friend L�
�olin.
“May the Visage make a suggestion?” the masked man said, his voice transmitting to them as if from another realm, and it was greatly disturbing, for it broke into their council like the news of a spy amidst their ranks. They had almost forgotten he was there, if that were truly possible, for his presence was strong, but they knew he could not help the Beast now from his own captivity.
“I have a suggestion,” Herr’Don said gruffly. “Replace his mask with a gag.”
“The Visage is silent when the Visage wants to be silent,” the man said. “The Visage speaks when the Visage wants to speak.”
“Can you speak when there’s a sword in your throat?” Herr’Don asked.
There was silence from the Visage, and to the prince it seemed mocking, and to all others it was simply unsettling.
“What do you want?” Délin questioned.
“The Visage awaits an answer to an earlier question.”
Délin sighed. “Yes, yes, make your suggestion then.”
“Do not give him permission to speak,” Herr’Don said. “Give him permission to die.”
The Visage ignored him. “If this is a battle of gods, then surely only gods may win. Play, therefore, the only piece you have that remotely qualifies.” He looked then to Ifferon, and the cleric shuddered, for he almost felt like he was back in the other tent awaiting torture.
Délin sighed again. “As much as I hate to say it, I think he is right.”
“Aye,” Edgaron said.
“Do not agree with him!” Herr’Don exclaimed, and Edgaron bowed his head and said no more.
“Our swords failed,” Délin said.
“There is one sword,” The Visage remarked.
They looked in the direction he was looking, and they saw Yavün’s sword upon the chair. It looked even more unusual and ornate than it had done previously, and some of the company looked upon it now for the first time.
“What sword is that?” Délin asked.
“The one to silence this beast,” Herr’Don growled.
“To silence the Beast, perhaps,” the Visage said.
“Is that—?” Délin began.
“The Sword of Telm,” Ifferon finished.
“Daradag,” Oelinor said with wonder.
“Why would you tell us this?” Ifferon asked.
The Visage turned to him, and Ifferon immediately regretted drawing his attention, for the cold glare of that mask almost transfixed him.
“Consider this the Visage’s interrogation,” he said. “But unlike you, Ifferon, the Visage appreciates truth, and the Visage is more than willing to be forthcoming with any truths the Visage can give.”
“Do not trust him,” Herr’Don said.
“I don’t,” Délin replied, before turning back to the Visage, “but still I want to know what you know. Can this sword slay the Beast?”
“No,” the Visage said.
“Then what good is it?”
“You are the one who studies the old tales, Trueblade.”
Délin was clearly irritated by this, as if the Visage had broken through his armour. “Telm struck Agon with the Sword,” Délin said, and he looked as though he was going through the tales in his head. “It weakened him, but the force of the blow sent it off into the wild, and it was lost. It did not kill Agon, but it weakened him.”
“So then you have your answer,” the Visage said.
“Still,” Ifferon replied. “Why tell us this?”
“The Visage has lived a long life,” the masked man said. “The end is nearing for us all.”
Though it was hard to pick, this was perhaps the most unsettling thing the Visage said, not merely due to the words, but due to the tone of them, which made them seem that much more real and powerful—it was the tone of truth, and even the deaf could not avoid or evade it, for it spoke as much to the soul as it did the ear.
“Do you want us to defeat Agon?” Ifferon asked.
“The Visage has no desire.”
Herr’Don leapt up again. “I have a desire,” he said, “to end your petty little life.”
“Calm down,” Délin told him.
“If that … thing is the epitome of calm,” Herr’Don said, pointing to the Visage as if his arm was the sword he wished to drive through the man, “then I would rather be in a frenzy, for at least then I would know that I’m on the side of good.”
The Visage cocked his head, and his mask almost smiled. “Are you now?” he asked, and the words almost smiled in turn.
Herr’Don leapt up, and his sword leapt from its scabbard just as quickly. Both Délin and Ifferon grabbed him and stopped him from lashing out at the Visage. The Visage sat still and silent, and the stillness and silence were as much a derision as anything he had done or said before.
“Get him out of here!” Délin shouted, nodding towards the Visage. Brégest and three other knights seized the Visage and hauled him to his feet.
“I could kill him,” Affon said.
Ifferon chuckled.
“No, really, I could.”
Ifferon stayed his laughter, for he looked at Geldirana, and he knew that she had killed many at a younger age than Affon, and that she had no qualm with Affon killing many more.
“The Visage is willing to die,” the masked man said. “Are you?” He looked in turn to each of them, or perhaps he only looked at a few, but everyone thought he was looking at them, and them alone. The question echoed in their minds like a curse.
“He mocks us,” Herr’Don said. “Let my blade mock him back.”
Délin and Ifferon struggled to hold him back, and Ifferon could almost imagine a grin upon the face of the Visage, behind those unmoving features on his mask.
“Get him out of here!” Délin repeated. The knights dragged the evil Magus outside, and the Felokar wolves followed. Affon began to follow also, but Ifferon grabbed her by the arm.
“No,” he said. “Stay here.”
“But I’m on guard,” she said. “He could get away.”
“We need you here,” Ifferon said.
She sat back down, prouder than before, and it seemed that at any moment she might interrupt any one of them to give her own counsel. As Ifferon turned back around to the others, he noticed Geldirana’s stare, a softer stare than he was used to since their reunion.
Herr’Don sat back down, banging his body against the chair as if it were his enemy. His breathing was heavy, and his eyes were almost rabid. Edgaron placed his hand upon the prince’s shoulder, and he seemed to calm a little. Were it not for this, and for the Visage being hauled into another pavilion, Ifferon thought that Herr’Don might have worked himself into the kind of frenzy that even his own troops feared and backed away from.
“So there is the Sword then,” Ifferon said, and he almost regretted saying it, for he knew that they would look to him to wield it. A part of him, however, felt an urge to grasp that hilt, to instil some greater sense of Telm within him that he felt was lacking now that the Last Words proved ineffective.
“Yes, yes,” Délin said, “but a weakened Agon is not enough.”
“It’s a start,” Thalla said.
“And I will finish him,” Herr’Don boasted. He looked as though he might hop up at any minute and charge out to face the Beast, but Edgaron kept that calming hand upon his shoulder.
“Can we not fashion some new chains?” Elithéa asked.
“We could, but they would not work on Agon,” Délin explained, and Ifferon could see the twinkle in his eyes as he recalled the tales from the ancient books. “The seven that held him down were crafted by the seven sons of Adag the Craft-king, the god of blacksmiths and artisans. When Telm went to battle with the Beast, he tried all manner of weapons, even some made by mortals here in Iraldas, but they all proved ineffective. So Adag made himself into his final sword, hammering and hewing, enduring the pain upon his own anvil, until finally he was no more, but the sword he crafted contained everything about him, and it was called Daradag, Adag’s Hammer,
for though it cut and sliced, it also came down like a thunderous hammer, and any who were struck by it were said to be on Adag’s anvil, being recrafted from the shape of life into a shape of death.
“When Telm’s dying breath banished Agon to the Underworld, the sons of Adag came forth and offered up their own lives, even as their father had, to shackle the Beast. So they used their own smithing skills to not only make the strongest manacles the world had ever seen, but to follow in Adag’s footsteps and make themselves into those very chains, that they might use their own strength to cling to Agon and hold him down.
“Althar lost its best craftsmen then, and no weapons were ever the same again. And so if these chains have broken, there is little we can do to mend or replace them, even if we could forge ourselves into those bonds like Adag and his seven sons did.”
Ifferon shivered at the thought of hammering his hand into his own creation, and continuing until there was nothing left of him, until he would only live on as what he crafted, like the Ferian and Al-Ferian live on as trees. At least there was something natural about that. Yet he could not fault Adag, for that god had made a terrible sacrifice, like so many of the Céalari had in their war with the Elad Éni, and their subsequent wars with Molok and Agon. It made Ifferon realise how selfish he was when he was not willing to make a similar sacrifice.
“Perhaps we are looking at this all wrong,” Ifferon said, as if he were a cleric again back at Larksong, looking for a solution to life’s great mysteries. The others turned to him like a congregation. “We keep thinking this war will be won by brute force. We marched here with many armies, and we killed many, and many of our own were killed. We laid siege to the Beast, and we battled him with everything we could muster, everything we could throw at him. But Telm did not win through force alone. Even the shackles used to hold Agon down were not just the strongest steel, but actual gods.”
“But there are few gods left,” Geldirana said.
“We are the new gods,” Herr’Don said. “To whomever come after us, our deeds will seem great. Our names will live on like legends.”
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 70
