And so Ifferon did what madness would do, if it could act: he leapt out in front of the Beast and shouted at the monster. “Begone!” he cried, and Agon came to a slow halt, sending up a plume of dust before him, like tiny spectators to this paltry cleric’s challenge. The Beast settled his intense and glaring eyes upon Ifferon, and though Ifferon did not look up to them, he could feel their stare, breaking through his bones and his body as Agon broke through the walls and columns of Fort Onar.
It was perhaps only a second before Ifferon began to flee, and it was less than a second before Agon began to pursue him. Though the streets of Fort Onar were empty, Ifferon was a kill that would bring a pleasure and relief to Agon that a hundred other slaughters could not do.
So Ifferon ran. There was something in Agon’s stare that gave speed to his legs. There was something in the Beast’s presence that made it vital to do everything to get out of it. He raced down a thin alleyway, where he knew Agon could not tread, and yet the collapsing buildings behind and around him showed that there was nowhere that Agon could not go. To Ifferon there were passages and pathways, designed by the architects of Boror many centuries ago, but to Agon the entirety of Iraldas was his walkway, and though his bonds had held him in check in Halés, there were no longer any barriers to him now.
And so Ifferon raced. His heart pulled him on, and fear pushed him. He turned a corner sharply, knowing that Agon’s size was the only thing that slowed him. Then he turned another, even as the previous corner became a pile of rubble. The sound almost distracted him from the three barrels ahead of him, which were painted with a red star. He tried to slow, but he realised he had no time, and so he closed his eyes as he leapt over the barrels, and only opened them again when he was sure he did not feel his limbs exploding. He turned again, and this time he was thrown forward by a great gust of air, and he heard the Beast roar.
Good, he thought, even though only seconds before he was thinking the very opposite. He felt Agon’s presence dim a little, and he knew it was not the explosion, but Agon slowing in his pursuit. Ifferon kept running, but this time he looked for a way to get to some higher ground, and soon he spotted a stone staircase that led into one of the armouries. He jumped up two or three steps at a time, and he came out onto a rampart that circled a cloistered area, where many straw dummies had been laced with explosives.
So far the cat and mouse game was working, but Ifferon could not help but think that it was a poor game to play when he was the mouse. Fort Onar might have stopped a thousand armies in Boror’s heyday, but it was not built to hold back the Beast. Those streets could not restrict him, nor those walls hold him. Delay was their only weapon. Only time could cage Agon.
But the cat is a hunter, and Ifferon was prey. The Beast crashed through the armoury, hauling up the largest bricks and casting them aside like pebbles, until finally he saw Ifferon there, minuscule like a mouse. Perhaps Agon smiled, though his mouth was so twisted that it was hard to tell, and perhaps Agon’s eyes glimmered, but they were so mangled that it was hard to see.
There was no moment of gloating, no last words from Agon before he ensured that Ifferon could never speak again. He raised his massive fists, until one of them blotted out the sun, and Ifferon took a deep breath. He thought that he would cower and close his eyes before that fateful final moment, but he did not. He accepted his imminent end, and he felt a kind of peace, even though he knew that death and life were deep in an eternal war.
Then a barrel hurtled through the air and exploded in Agon’s face, and the Beast burst into rage, casting his eyes around as if they might leap out of his head and explode upon the bodies of his attackers. He saw Herr’Don and Délin almost immediately, loading barrels onto a catapult at one of the fort’s arsenals, and he saw Elithéa and Edgaron helping them, but he did not make for them yet, but turned instead to crush Ifferon beneath his angry fists. Yet Ifferon was not there, for he had crept away into the shadows that crept away from Agon. He felt Agon’s rage rise even further, and if it was not palpable from his eerie aura, it was felt through his thrashing of the ground around him, where he hoped to strike the fleeing cleric.
Then another barrel stole Agon’s sight once more, and with it went his body and his rage, and with it fell another row of buildings as the Beast clambered towards his attackers.
* * *
Herr’Don waved the flag that stood on a pole beside his arsenal, as if the barrel blasts were not enough announcement to Agon. He cheered and taunted, and to any watchful eyes, even the angry eyes of Agon, he seemed right at home.
“Well, we have his attention,” Délin said. “What now?”
“Fire another volley!” Herr’Don shouted, and he struggled to roll a barrel up onto his foot and then hoist it to the catapult’s cradle. The way he kicked it and bashed it made Délin nervous in a way that only the approaching Agon could surpass. “Away!” the prince cried as he launched the weapon. It flew towards the Beast, but this time he bashed it aside with one of his monstrous arms. It exploded on impact, but it did not elicit a cry of pain from Agon like the others had.
“Away is the right word,” Délin said, and he made for the stone stairway leading towards the west. “Come!” he cried as he turned and saw that Herr’Don was not joining him, and that Edgaron stood by his side. “Herr’Don!” he called, but it was like speaking to the granite walls of Fort Onar, which was now Herr’Don’s dangerous playground.
“Let Agon come!” Herr’Don replied, and yet he gave his words to the wind, that they might be a further taunt to Agon’s ears.
“It’s madness to stay here,” Elithéa said. “We need to delay Agon, not kill him.”
“Death is the best delay,” Herr’Don said, and he looked to Edgaron with a manic glee.
“Edgaron!” Délin called, but the man shook his head, as if he had resigned himself to his fate. Délin rolled his eyes and left with Elithéa, while Edgaron stayed and set his eyes upon the approaching Beast.
* * *
Herr’Don moved about at a frenzied speed, and he felt so full of life, so in his element. He turned and grinned at Belnavar, who stood beside the banner as if he greatly yearned to wave it.
“I’d help with the kegs,” Belnavar said, “but you have more useful arms than I.”
“You can help with the taunts,” Herr’Don suggested. “Surely ghosts can haunt the Beast.”
“Death still haunts the dead,” Belnavar remarked, “threatening its reprise.”
“Let’s deal the first and second deaths to Agon!” Herr’Don cried. “In one fell blow if we can, and yet,” he paused, “perhaps make it two, that we might have twice the glory!”
But the glory of battle comes at a price, and Herr’Don successfully attracted Agon’s attention. The Beast charged towards him, hastened by the anger that each new exploding keg tore from him. In time his four arms came crashing down upon the arsenal where Herr’Don and Edgaron worked, and the building was quickly turned to rubble.
* * *
Délin and Elithéa charged back up the stairs, but they were too late, and they could not see either of the men beneath the slabs of rock in the haze of dust. The Beast loomed tall above them, and he began to tear down nearby buildings that still were standing.
“Pull them out,” Elithéa said, and she charged off before the knight could stop her. He glanced to where her nimble legs raced and leapt and jumped, and the final thing he saw was her unleashing her staves and swinging them to and fro, like a mating call to some wild beast. And so Agon caught sight of her, and he bounded after her as she disappeared into the serpentine streets.
Délin immersed himself in the rubble of the arsenal, clearing away stone and wood, which seemed heavier than sword with the weight of worry upon them. He looked for his buried comrades, but brick revealed boulder, and slab revealed stone, and all the while his sight was buried beneath the dust. In time he found a hand, and he cleared away more debris to find that it was Herr’Don, who clambered up as soon as the lar
gest of the rocks were removed from him. He was doused in dirt, yet he looked almost ready to race back out to battle, but Délin directed his energy towards digging instead. Minutes passed like hours, until finally they unearthed Edgaron, who was bathed in blood as much as dust and dirt.
“Edgaron!” Herr’Don cried, and his frenzy weakened, replaced by the frenzy of concern. He clasped the man’s hand, and Edgaron barely clasped it back.
“Herr’Don,” Edgaron said weakly. He tried to smile, but the pain was stronger than his muscles were.
“No, don’t die,” Herr’Don whimpered. “I already have a ghost. I need a friend who lives.”
“I held your hand in Ilokmaden,” Edgaron struggled, the words spluttering up with blood.
Herr’Don clasped Edgaron’s hand tighter. “I have your hand,” he said.
“I have to let go,” Edgaron whispered, and Délin could tell it was intended to be spoken aloud. He looked down to the reddened rubble.
“Do not die like this,” Herr’Don said. “Fight death. Fight with me. Please. You said you’d fight with me.”
“I fought.”
“Keep fighting.”
“I’m trying.”
“Take my strength,” the prince said, and it seemed that he would almost slit his own hand to replace the lost blood of his friend with his own.
“I never got to tell you,” Edgaron said, struggling with the words. Then his face grew pale, his hand grew limp, and he said no more.
“No,” Herr’Don said, shaking his head in disbelief. Délin placed his hand upon the prince’s shoulder, but it was shrugged aside. Herr’Don’s hand began to shake as she still clutched the hand of Edgaron.
“He was a good man,” Délin said. It had been said of so many soldiers before. Even all the slabs of stone they sat upon were not enough for every tombstone.
“What god lets Telm speak the Last Words, but does not let us Men do the same,” Herr’Don said, and he looked to the sky and ground, and all around him, as if for answers, but all that was there was the uncaring dust and the silent stone.
His frenzy died like his friend. Yet it could do what Edgaron could not; it could feed upon his rage, and so bring itself back to life, into a more powerful life than ever before. Délin saw it first in his eyes, and then in the redness of his cheeks, which contrasted with the paleness of Edgaron. Then it seemed almost like something snapped, as if the very building of Herr’Don’s mind also turned to rubble.
Before Délin could do anything, the prince leapt up and threw himself down the pile of rubble, unleashing his sword as he slid and stumbled. He screamed and shouted, and the words made no sense, for they were in the language of the grieving. Délin could make out only one word, and it was “Agon,” and the prince cried it aloud like it was the only name on his list.
He raced down the narrow passages, made narrower by debris, and though the dust still hindered his sight, he saw the silhouette of Agon through the haze. He charged at the Beast, who stood with his back to the prince, flailing madly at the few stone towers left standing. Herr’Don dodged the rain of rubble, cleaving at the feet of Agon as he bobbed and weaved between boulder and wood. Though his anger was mighty, his strikes were minuscule against the monstrous frame of the Beast, which dwarfed even the Sentinels he had fought in the Old Temple in the White Mountains.
Then the prince realised that Elithéa stood before Agon, ducking and dodging, swinging and striking. Buildings came down around her, and they would have been upon her were it not for her quick evasion. Yet her attacks were also ineffective, serving only to raise the ire of a creature for whom ire was like blood.
Yet as Agon’s anger mounted, his attacks grew fiercer and quicker, until it seemed that he was like Henishanad the Hundred-handed, fists flying in all directions, bashing and pummelling, seizing and crushing. Herr’Don was knocked aside, where a new mound of rubble pinned him down, but Elithéa was seized by Agon, who held up her tiny body, kicking and flailing.
Herr’Don struggled with his stony prison. He shouted to the Beast, but it was too late. Agon tightened his grip upon Elithéa. She cried out, and she was crushed. Her body tumbled from his hand, slamming into the ground below, where the rolling rocks became her tomb.
Agon turned about, gloating above the wreckage he had wrought. He roared to the south, which he had conquered; he roared to the north, which he was conquering; he roared to the west, which knew to fear him; he roared to the east, which would soon learn of that fear; he roared to the heavens, where the gods trembled; he roared to the depths below, where the dead cowered from him like they cowered from the second death. In every part of every world, all heard his roar.
* * *
Just as all looked lost, and the ruin of Fort Onar echoed the ruin in the company’s hearts and minds, Thalla and Yavün returned. It seemed to many eyes that they had returned alone, but their accomplished expressions and the presence of a familiar raven suggested otherwise.
“Gather together to arrange your attack,” Délin said. “We will do what we can to hold Agon’s attention. But hurry! I do not think we will hold it for long.” He charged off, making for the arsenal directly opposite the one that Agon had destroyed.
Ifferon reunited with Geldirana and Affon, and they ran to Thalla and Yavün, who ran to them in turn. When they met and ducked behind one of the taller buildings, where Agon’s probing eyes could not spot them, they began to talk over each other in their anxious need to formulate a plan. They were in such a hurry that they barely had time to acknowledge Melgalés’ presence, nor to appreciate their success in bringing his ghost back from Halés.
“Let us go in turn,” Ifferon said, “as the Scroll dictates. Fire, Melgalés. Flame, Yavün. Fume, Affon. Fury, Geldirana. I trust you know the Aelora for those words by now.”
“And what about you?” Yavün asked, and he flinched as he heard an explosion, and he looked to the second arsenal, now manned by Délin.
“I guess I just bear the Scroll,” Ifferon said, a little despondently. “I am not one of the words within it.”
“That can’t be so,” Yavün said.
“We do not have time to wonder,” Geldirana said. “Let’s go!”
And so they ran back into the fray, where barrels exploded and buildings toppled, and where Agon thrashed and trounced, and where Brégest and Oelinor, and a handful of other survivors, raced about, dodging their deaths.
When Ifferon and his companions reached Agon, the Beast turned to them sharply, and he puffed his chest and flexed his many arms. Even his eyes burned more fiercely, as if he were flexing the fire within them. He was as daunting as ever, if not more so, for the presence of the Last Words brought back the anger of ages past, and with that anger came the strength that he had used to topple Telm, to knock the crown from the head of the Warrior-king. As Agon posed before them, like a statue from an ancient era when everything that walked the earth was monstrous in size and monstrous in heart, it seemed to those who looked upon him that it was impossible to topple him.
Yet they tried.
Melgalés stood before Agon like he had stood before the Karisgor in Ardún-Fé, and though he had been felled by those beasts, and by Teron’s evil curse, he seemed stronger than ever in his halo of fire. In this ghostly form, which only Thalla and Yavün could see, there was no doubt that he was Fire. He proved it when he spoke the word. “Iav,” he said, and he burst into a fireball, which spat at Agon and exploded around him like a thousand kegs.
But the fire dissipated, and through the embers Agon’s eyes burned more fiercely.
Yavün stepped forth next, and though he did not have a halo of fire like Melgalés had, the presence of the Magus gave him courage, and brought from within him the flaming lion that lived beneath the guise of a stableboy, beneath the vesture of a poet. “Iavün,” he cried, and he knew then that this was far more than his name, for a rain of tiny flames came down upon Agon.
But the rain cleared up, and Agon’s fists carried flames
of their own.
Affon marched forth, placing her hands upon her hips as if to strike a pose to counter Agon’s. She seemed even smaller now before the monstrous size of the Beast, and yet she did not show her fear, even though Ifferon was certain she felt it just as he did. “Samün,” she shouted, and a wind bashed at Agon’s form like a sudden hurricane, blowing out his flaming fists.
But the wind weakened, and Agon’s fire returned.
Geldirana came next, and she did not tarry, and she did not need any time to muster the fury that was her title and her mission. “Samadas!” she bellowed, as if speaking to every enemy she every killed, and to every enemy she had yet to lay her hands upon. The earth shuddered beneath them, centring on Agon, and he stepped back as his balance was rocked.
But the quake subsided, and Agon still stood strong, with his burning eyes and his flaming fists. He had not toppled. He had not been cast back into Halés. It seemed to the company that these would indeed be their last words, for they stood face to face with Agon, and none, not even Telm, had done this and lived.
This time he had an answering word for them. “Begone!” he said, and they were knocked back from the force of his voice, and they felt in it the mockery of their actions, that they thought that they could fight the Beast and win.
But Ifferon realised in Agon’s word what they had missed. Dehilasü baeos! Al-iav im-iavün im-samün im-samadas, dehilasü baeos! They had used the forceful words, but they had not used the words that opened and closed them, the words that actually told Agon to leave.
So Ifferon stepped forth, and even as his foot graced the ground, the armour of Telm came down from the clouds, and he seemed to grow in height, and he was a cleric no more. “Dehilasü baeos!” he cried, and all who heard it heard Telm’s voice, and they knew it was Telm, even though they had never heard him before.
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 75
