The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy

by Dean F. Wilson

  Agon halted, and his form weakened. His arms drooped a little, and the fire in his eyes dimmed. He did not look so powerful now.

  Melgalés pressed forth again. “Al-iav,” he said, adding in the full words, giving them every strength, feeding them with all the fire he could muster.

  Agon toppled backwards as the fire engulfed him, and before he had regained his footing, Yavün sprang forward and shouted “Im-iavün!” The fire grew fiercer than ever around him, and the Beast cried out as a new pain joined the thousand other pains he felt. He stumbled further.

  Affon and Geldirana came next, and their cries of “Im-samün!” and “Im-samadas!” brought back the avenging air and the angry earth. The ground rocked and the sky rumbled. All the while, Agon gave out a series of forceful cries, each in a different tongue, each louder and more painful than the last. It was as if he was trying to counter the Last Words with ones of his own, and though Ifferon began to feel a force stirring as if from the depths of the Void, he crushed that call with some final words of his own.

  “Dehilasü baeos!” he cried once more, and more than ever the company were certain that they heard Telm and saw Telm, and if there was any doubt, it was removed when Ifferon held up the sword Daradag and lunged it forth into Agon’s flesh.

  And Agon fell. The Beast fell. He toppled like a tower built upon a weak foundation, and as he struck the ground his body began to crumble, as if it truly were made of stone. His many shifting countenances combined into a single one, a mass of features that faded into a blended form, which acted as a canvas for all minds, where the horrific images would not so easily fade away. The force of Agon’s fall knocked everyone from their feet, and many stumbled even in far distant lands. The world shook, and it was the final quake caused by the Beast.

  * * *

  It took a moment for what had happened to fully sink in. Délin pulled Herr’Don from the rubble, and they both searched for Elithéa, but could not find her body. In time they all regrouped, though some came out slowly, as if they were not altogether sure that it was over. They sat with each other upon the ruin of Fort Onar for their first rest of the day, and their final rest together.

  “So evil is dead,” Yavün said, and he beamed.

  “You are still naïve,” Herr’Don responded. “Agon is dead. Evil always survives.”

  “Because good survives,” Délin said. “With one comes the other.”

  “Evil takes on new forms,” Herr’Don said. “In the time of the Elad Éni, it was Chránán. In the time of the Céalari, it was Molok. In our time, it was Agon. Maybe in our children’s time, it will be us.”

  “That is an evil thought,” Délin said.

  “And no less true because of it,” Herr’Don replied. “Agon is no longer in chains, and so the greatest evil of our world is no longer a god. What I have seen in the streets of Madenahan is a different kind of evil. It is smaller in form, but no less in its ability. For the Age of Gods, a god shall be evil. For the Age of Man, the evil shall be Man.”

  “There is always a price that is paid,” Délin said, casting his eyes about, as if he still searched for Elithéa.

  “Too high a price,” Herr’Don replied, and he looked to the wreckage of the eastern arsenal, where the body of Edgaron still lay.

  Yavün glanced once at the remains of the Beast, and it only took that single look to shock his soul and yet stir some inspiration within him to express his joy and relief that Agon’s evil reign had been ended. Yet even as he thought about it, and as words began to rouse within his heart and form upon his lips, he realised that Agon had left behind a scarred world, a world in need of mending.

  He did not need to interrupt anyone for his sombre hymn, for they were all silent with solemn litanies of their own. He began:

  The Beast is dead, and with him dies his deeds,

  Though none will forget what evil he wrought,

  Nor what foul things he made to meet his needs,

  Nor what wicked wars we against him fought.

  A dark tree will leave behind some dark seeds,

  And so the soil remains forever fraught.

  Thus we must trim the vines and tame the weeds,

  Until the land no longer is distraught,

  Until when asked of Agon’s painful pleads,

  The land will say of that: “‘twas all for naught.”

  Though the day was evening out, and this vespers song spoke of some darkness yet to come, it seemed to few that the night could truly fall again, for they had all seen a darker night before, a dark night that had now ended. And so in the hope that sprung anew, this was as much a morning song, and though they would sleep again before the sun came out, they knew it would shine more brightly than it had shone for a long time.

  “So we have come to the end of our journey together,” Délin said.

  “Would that it were not the end,” Herr’Don replied.

  “All things must end. Even Corrias. Even us.”

  “Some shall live on,” Herr’Don said. “In tales and songs.”

  “That is true,” Délin acknowledged. “And perhaps young Yavün will write them.”

  They looked to the youth now, who seemed a little older from the tiresome journey and wearisome war that had undoubtedly aged them all. He simpered, but then he looked down to the ground, as if he knew that he would not be the bard for their tales, that he would not be the minstrel of their accomplishments.

  “It is sad to part,” Ifferon said. “We were united by necessity.”

  “I think more than that,” Délin said. “We were united by a common goal, and the commonality between us all, all races and creeds, all types and ages. Everything that Agon hated, and everything that Agon could never be.”

  “Let this be a new beginning for us all,” Herr’Don said. “More battles await!”

  Délin smiled and looked north to Arlin. “I think my days of battle are over. I think it is time that I retire from the battlefield and lay down my sword.”

  Herr’Don shook his head violently. “No!” he cried. “What is Trueblade without his blade?”

  “Quite a few things,” the knight replied. “Some day we must all retire.”

  “Death shall be my retirement,” Herr’Don remarked. “I will take no day of rest ere the Gatekeeper comes knocking.”

  “Let us hope he does not knock for a long time,” Ifferon said, “for any of us.”

  “And so we part,” Délin said, and he bowed his head to them. “May we meet again, and if we do not, let us forever have fond memories.”

  And thus they exchanged their partings, and some hugged and shook hands, and some saluted, and some gave well wishes, and some gave words of wisdom. There was pain in their parting, but there was also peace. When war is over, even the most unpleasant partings are made that little bit easier.

  XIX – THE BONDS OF LOVE

  Thalla and Yavün said their goodbyes to their friends and companions. Ifferon hugged them in turn, Délin wished them well, and many others gave their blessings. Herr’Don alone was silent, and in that silence his anger could be heard.

  Melgalés waved to them all, though they did not see it, and he said his own goodbyes, though they did not hear them. Belnavar alone saluted the Magus, and the others gave their parting words to the wind, which blew in all places of the world, even Halés.

  The two Magi and the poet did not go north-east to Madenahan, as many of the others did, but travelled west until they came upon Lake Loft on the outskirts of Madenloft Forest, which they reached by nightfall. It reminded them of the Shallow Lake in Telarym, where Thalla and Yavün had last parted ways.

  “I think our journey is over,” Melgalés said, and they all halted together. “Yes, over now at last.”

  Thalla said nothing, though her eyes spoke into his soul.

  “What will happen to you?” Yavün asked of Melgalés.

  “I do not know,” he replied. “Perhaps I will wander as a ghost, or perhaps I will return to Halés to sit up
on the doorstep.”

  “I can ask neither of you,” Yavün said.

  The Magus shook his head, and the beads in his hair shook in sympathy. “You are not the one doing the asking.”

  “Yet I am the one that can provide the answer,” the young poet replied, and he looked as though he had come to a decision that would greatly affect them all. “I cannot truly be free until you are. I must break the Beldarian.”

  “Though I yearn for my eternal rest,” Melgalés said, “I cannot ask that you give up your life, and all that this world has to offer, that I may be at peace.”

  Yavün sunk his head. He felt a terrible guilt inside him, one that had grown and festered since that fateful day when he was led to the body of the Magus, and the Beldarian that would become as much a prison to himself as it was the key to Melgalés’ freedom.

  “If I were to take this extra lease of life, it would be time borrowed—no, stolen—from you,” Yavün said. “That would not be living, and I think neither of us would be at peace. You may think you cannot ask it of me, but I cannot let is go unasked. I must die this day.”

  Thalla was in tears, and Yavün might have joined her, were it not for his guilt, which was heavier than his sorrow.

  “You must realise, Yavün, that there have been no records of this ever having been done in the past,” Melgalés explained. “We do not know for certain what the outcome might be. You will die, there is no doubt, but what will happen to you then is beyond my ken, and I have knowledge of death that many will never know. Perhaps you will enter the Halls and be at peace—perhaps—but you might also become one of the Waiting, or the Endless Lost, or you might even become nothing at all, for the Void is the Underworld to Halés.”

  “I know the risk,” Yavün said, “and I will have to face it some time, whether it is tonight or fifty years from now.”

  “Then why not wait? A mortal life passes swiftly compared to the eternity of the afterlife. Yes, quite swift indeed.”

  Yavün shook his head. “Because then you would have to wait, and you have waited long enough. My final fate is outside my hands, but there is still something I can do now to help the passing of another. I have to do this. You made your sacrifice. Now it is time to make mine.”

  Thalla looked to both of them in silence, and though perhaps she meant to say something to stop Yavün from this final act, it was clear that she was torn between them, that she could not wish for life for one, when it would come at the expense of the other.

  “Though this affects me greatly, and I cannot deny that I feel a certain selfish desire,” Melgalés said, “this is your decision to make, no matter what may come of it.”

  He nodded to them both with a knowing look, as if indeed he knew exactly what they would both decide. Yet he respected that they might not be so conscious of the decision that seemed apparent on their faces, and so he left them for a time and gave them space to talk.

  * * *

  “He will not tell you, so as not to sway you, but Thúalim awaits his rest also,” Yavün said to Thalla.

  “I know,” she replied. “I can feel him through the Pendant. It is not just a matter of waiting; it’s a type of torture, to be so close to rest, yet denied it—to be unable to do anything but sit and watch as others pass through the Gate, and to endure the mocking of the Gatekeeper.”

  Yavün sighed, as if to expel the guilt from his lungs; it could not be expelled from his mind. “So you have seen and felt what I have seen and felt.”

  “Yes,” she said. “And that is why I have made the same decision. My time here is over.”

  Yavün was silent. Though part of him wanted her to live out her life and find joy and happiness wherever possible, another part of him wanted her to go with him, that they might face death together, and so live forever in what awaited them, even if it was only in memories.

  They returned to Melgalés and shared their decision, and he nodded and wished them well. Had he a corporeal form, he might have hugged them, and, if the gods were kind, Thalla and Yavün might one day embrace him in the Halls of Halés.

  “I feel now that Halés calls me back,” Melgalés said, “and perhaps I will see you there again.” Before he could say more, his form faded, though Yavün still felt it strongly through his Beldarian.

  The two young lovers looked to one another and smiled. It was a sad smile, filled with nostalgia. Their eyes embraced, and glisten spoke to glisten, and tear whispered to tear.

  They felt the Beldarians around their necks, like manacles around their throats, chaining them to life, and chaining them to the dead. They took them off, and they were heavy, weighed down with two souls each, and the guilt and shame that went with them. They placed them on the ground, and yet felt no relief, for the burden still weighed upon their hearts.

  They took large stones from the nearby lake and brought them to the place that might become their grave, and so those rocks might become the first part of their own tombstones. The thought was unsettling, but the alternative was unbearable.

  “Perhaps we can make some good of this evil act,” Yavün suggested. “In place of a pendant, we might wear a different jewel. Perchance, a ring?” He took out the twined ring he had been gifted by Elilod previously, and it did not seem now like a tool of bondage, but a means to show to all the bonds of love.

  Thalla said nothing, but her emphatic nod said it all. She stretched out her hand, and on it he placed the ring. It was crude, with no diamond set into its frame, and the rust of ages was upon it, as if to remind them of the endless onslaught of time. Yet it seemed to glimmer more now under the pale moonlight than it had when Elilod gave it to him, and Yavün saw a glitter in Thalla’s eyes, which no diamond could ever imitate.

  She raised her palm to him, and he placed his own against it, and slid it up until he wore the second loop around his finger. So then they clasped their hands, so that their final grip might keep the ring in place, and seal their love.

  “We do not have a cleric,” Yavün said. “Perhaps Ifferon could have been that to us now.”

  “I do not need a priest,” she said, and the tears rolled down her face like the fabric of a wedding veil. “This is enough for me. My constant yearning. I am now complete.”

  Yavün mustered his muse, and he quickly composed his final poem, and wrote the words with the ink of his heart. When he spoke, his voice trembled, like the gentle tremor of a violin, like the music to a last love song:

  The world shall minister to us our end,

  And join us now in death when life could not;

  What union was not had, may marriage mend

  These aching hearts, and end this deadly plot.

  This ground shall be to us our nuptial bed,

  And in matrimony we shall cherish

  Each time we have as one, alive and dead.

  Parted once, as bride and groom we perish.

  These last moments shall symbolise the heart,

  Wherein we were betrothed before this time.

  While some speak the words “till death do us part,”

  May death instead unite us in our prime.

  And thus I speak, and if you will allow,

  My final words shall be my wedding vow.

  And so they lay together, staring into each other’s tear-clogged eyes, hand in hand, and rocks raised high in the others, above the two Beldarians that lay between them, the only barrier to their eternal union. They held their arms up for long, so that final moment seemed to last a lifetime, and thus make some worth of what little time they had spent upon Iraldas, and what less time they had spent together.

  Soon their arms grew tired, and they began to falter, and they both knew it, for as their rock-laden hands grew weak, their ring-bound grip grew stronger. The fateful moment came, and the rocks smashed through the beldar gems.

  There was relief. For the briefest of moments, they felt what seemed like an ocean washing over them, and in that ocean there was only them, buoyed by their love. Then everything fa
ded, until the only thing that remained was their union, which even in the blackness could never fade.

  * * *

  When they awoke again, they found that they were in Halés, standing before the steps to the Halls, the very steps upon which sat Melgalés and Rúathar, who looked more real now that they sat in a place where nothing was corporeal.

  “So all are free,” the Gatekeeper said, and his voice was menacing, and it startled them.

  The presence and voice of Melgalés brought cool reassurance. “All are free,” he said. “Though Agon gained his freedom, he lost the ultimate freedom of his life.”

  “And what have you lost?” the Gatekeeper jeered.

  “I have gained my reward,” the Magus said. “A final rest, in the company of those I love.”

  “It is wonderful to see you again,” Thalla said, and though her tears were no longer real, they stung her spectral eyes all the same.

  “And it will be a long time seeing, yes,” Melgalés replied, and they hugged. “Let us make up for lost time with eternity in the Halls.”

  Though it looked liked Thalla had a thousand things to say, she captured all of them with a single smile. The two people she loved most, her mentor and her partner, had been returned to her. All that was lost had been found again. Death, it seemed, was a very small price to pay.

  “And you,” Melgalés said, turning to Yavün, his voice initially severe. “Thank you for my freedom.”

  “I was wrongly the jailer,” the poet replied. “Thank you for letting me correct my error.”

  “The long wait was worth seeing the end of Agon.”

  “Perhaps you desire a longer wait,” the Gatekeeper said, “since you dally on the doorstep.”

  “Just long enough to toy with you in turn,” the Magus said. “Perhaps eternity has an end for Chránán, but for you it must be endless. It must be a different kind of pain to that which Agon felt to usher the dead unto their final rest, and yet find no rest of your own.”