The Call of Agon: Book One of The Children of Telm

by Dean F. Wilson

  “I thought we were going further north?” Yavün asked. “We’re still too close to Larksong.”

  “We were, and we are, but darkness creeps closer now and I would that we find a resting place ere the light fades completely. It won’t be safe to travel then, but it will be safe enough here for guarded rest, so you need not worry about such things. We shall know long ere something draws near, and these hills shall hide our company if evil eyes are cast across the Downs.”

  “Again, I do not share your enthusiasm.”

  “Enthusiasm,” Herr’Don mused. “You will need to keep your spirits high if you wish to keep your journey. Despair leads to naught but dark roads, and whither they go I shall not say. Now, come! We have sleep to gain and dreams to make, but before that we shall find a hide somewhere deeper in the hills, and then we may feast and regain our strength.”

  Ifferon’s legs ached soon after, feeling cheated by Herr’Don’s words, for he at first thought they would rest within minutes, but it took the prince near an hour to find a suitable place that met his standards. Earlier a perfectly good flat between two hills was refused by the swordsman and thus their search had been made much longer. But Ifferon was glad, for Herr’Don had found a small cavern that cut deep into a hill, and there Ifferon sat beside the dancing flowers and rested his weary back against the softness of the grasses.

  “You two tire easily,” Herr’Don said, laughing and sitting down beside them. “I have fought a great battle and then led you far from it, but still I have will enough for forty miles!” He laughed again. “Yet saying that, I’d rather sit and feast and breathe true air again.”

  “I have not seen so merry a face in a long time,” Ifferon said, and an image of a fair-haired and wide-eyed woman strayed into his mind.

  “I don’t doubt that, Ifferon,” the prince replied. “I don’t think I’d be exaggerating by saying that smiling isn’t part of a cleric’s vocation.”

  Ifferon laughed. “You are certainly not what I expected for a prince.”

  “And what did you expect? A well-kept man with a golden crown and robes of fur and jewels? No, I have no need for gold and riches, nor wish to find them by virtue or darkly plundering.”

  “No,” Ifferon said. “That’s not what I meant. I ... well, I don’t know what I meant.”

  Herr’Don chortled like a child. “And you!” he said, glancing at Yavün. “Who are you that would wander far and wide with one as renowned as Ifferon?”

  Yavün smiled. “I am Yavün, just a simple stableboy from Larksong with high aspirations.”

  “And now your aspirations have been outdone by the sudden accompaniment of the legendary Herr’Don the Great! But come! I had not known that stableboys wear robes of black and sashes of the Order of Olagh. Do clerics worship horses now?”

  “Ah, well ... well, I—”

  “Well, he’s been spying, that’s what he’s being doing,” Ifferon stated.

  “A spy!” Herr’Don said, clapping his hands together loudly. “So this is what you meant by lurking. I knew you looked out of place, poet. A stableboy in cleric’s robes asking Herr’Don the Great his name? Ha! Strange indeed! What use have you of spying?”

  “I am not educated like Ifferon is,” Yavün said, fidgeting with the tangle of his hair. “I have always wondered about the life of a cleric, hidden away with books and quills and lakes of ink. One day I found a book outside the monastery, a strange text I could not read. I guess someone must have dropped it, but I never returned it, because the letters twirled and twisted across the page and stole my interest—so I peeped through open windows at the lectures in the halls and then soon enough I made these robes and found that I could wander to and fro and not be thrown outside. I joined the lecture halls and sat at the back and learned to write. And now I write in verse with the knowledge I have found.”

  “A poet indeed!” Herr’Don said. “I should have guessed, for only craftsmen, be they of wood or words, go spying on dear Ifferon, trying to mind his own business. There is little that poor Ifferon does that goes unwatched.”

  Ifferon shuddered, knowing it was true. He distracted himself with the beauty of the flowers lining the hill, but his meditation was broken by Herr’Don’s sudden movement. The prince stood up and stretched vigorously.

  “Ah, this rest has done more toil to my body than battle,” he said. “Now, let me see what food I can find ere slumber comes knocking.” He ventured off, thumping his left arm as if it had gone numb, and he hummed to himself, a merry tune for one who had survived a dark day.

  Ifferon and Yavün chatted for a bit, but the struggles of the day quickly caught up with them, curbing their tongues. Ifferon closed his eyes and rested his head against the hill. When he opened them again he saw that the sky was black and the dull red from the south had been consumed by cloud. One star, white and pronged with arms of light, shone high in the distance, and Ifferon wondered what lay up there, whether a god rode by on a chariot masked in cloud, pulling the veil of stars behind him, or if a war was raging in the heavens, and the stars were the flickering blades, or maybe it was a great hall and the stars were the lanterns deep within, and a great feast was being served, and all were happy.

  After an hour or so Herr’Don returned with a cloak full of berries and wild fruits, almost as bright and vivid as the plants around them. Ripe and juicy apples were served, red and green, surprisingly filling to their empty stomachs. The berries were far sweeter and tastier, and soon the company were rubbing their bellies and rolling over, content with their feed.

  Herr’Don ushered them into the cavern then and forbade the lighting of a fire in case of a nightly wanderer upon the hills, but he also spoke of kind things, like the great feast they would have at the Garigút hut the next day. His voice was soft and drawn, as if it had long fallen into slumber, and under its hypnotic rhythm Ifferon began to feel the weariness creep back into his bones. He shifted slightly and laid his head upon his arm. Then the waking life faded into the darkness of a deep and luring dream.

  * * *

  The dream was of an open glade of thin and trampled grasses, and all around it lay a great mountain host like sentinels of jutting rock. In the centre of the clearing stood the lonesome figure of Herr’Don, bereft of the leather armour and crimson cloak he wore before. His body was adorned in a shirt of velvet black, long and flowing, and shifting violently in the wind. His trousers were of a similar hue, darker even, and a drape of grey was tossed across his back, strangled by the breeze. A wave of golden hair hid the features of his face, but he was leaning forward, head bowed, and his hand followed a crack in the stone slab beneath him. It became clearer: the prince was laying a twisted wreath upon a broken grave, and the world was grey and masked in fog. A low, haunting note played out upon the wind, and then Herr’Don looked up and began a solemn hymn.

  Then the wind rose and washed the voice away, and the fog wrapped around and buried the prince deep inside. The grey grew bolder and all sounds died, until there was only a vague and distant whisper, growing fainter with each passing moment.

  * * *

  Ifferon awoke and sat up quickly, glancing about with sleep-glazed eyes. His arm was stiff and his face was raw, as if it had been resting on the cold of rock. He found that the thick red cloak Herr’Don had been using earlier was lying firm about his shoulders, but now it was hot and uncomfortable. The darkness grew less dim and his eyes began to make out the shape of the cavern and a sleeping body beside him. They were still within the depths of night, and, by the looks of it, it would be many hours before the sun would rise.

  He turned and glanced down at Yavün, who seemed to be coiling in the corner with his back to him, no doubt deep within a tender dream. But Herr’Don was not there, nor was there any sign of him having left a message or some other means of finding him. All the while Ifferon’s mind was searching about him rapidly, but it was not Herr’Don he was looking for, but where the tapping sound was coming from. The sound! It took so long to awak
e that Ifferon had hardly noticed the eerie sound upon the hill above. A creak—and then the rustle of thick grass. But it did not sound like the prince. The boots were heavy and fell harsh upon the flowerbed.

  Ifferon froze for a single long and harrowing moment, and then his arms reached out, as if by their own accord, and grabbed the upright shoulder of Yavün. The stableboy flung around and Ifferon jumped back. A pool of blood ran from face to chest.

  The words formed quickly in Ifferon’s mind: Yavün was dead, and the footsteps were drawing closer.

  IV – A HAUNTING ON THE HILLS

  But he awoke, his heart hammering deep against his ribs. The cloak was wrapped firmly about him, and he threw it aside to free himself from the enfolding heat. His throat was dry and coarse, and his eyes gave a gentle throb, as if too much light was flooding into the world of darkness he saw before.

  It was a dream, but in the midst of the growing horror it felt so real, as if a nightmare had crawled into his waking hours. The thoughts still haunted his mind, the ghosts of memory recalling the chilling events. A veil of sweat lined his skin, and the stale air choked his breath.

  A figure came into sight beside him, a black shadow in the corner of his eye. He turned involuntarily and his heart dropped low in his chest. Yavün was there, eyes wide with wonder. “Are you well?” he asked.

  But it took Ifferon long to answer, for the words danced about his mind far out of reach of his frightened tongue. When finally they slipped out, he was horrified by the stagger in his voice. “I ... it felt so real,” he managed. “But I am glad it was not.”

  Yavün looked at him expectantly.

  “I do not wish to speak of it. It was just a dream.”

  “I also had a strange dream,” the stableboy said, his gaze aloft and his voice wistful. “It started fair and beautiful, as if it were a verse crafted by Olagh. The wind was fresh and cool, like the beach air at Larksong, carrying the taste of sea salt. The sky was dark, but not disheartening, for a string of stars played high above us, and a drum of lights beat luminance into the heavens. There was music playing, like what they say goes on at Bardahan, vibrating violins and fair whistles and flutes twittering on high. Yellow lanterns shone in the distance, as if everyone in the towns was awake and singing merrily.

  “But the feeling was the fairest of all senses, for I sat in tender grasses with a lady by my side, and bubbles of warmth fluttered aimlessly around my body. We were laughing, for a reason I did not know—but we did not need a reason, because it was the laughter that really mattered. And the laughter was also music, rising and falling and making little melodies of its own. And hours passed.

  “We sat with widened eyes upon the sky, watching with wonder the swirling patterns of cloud, like froth upon a mug of ale, but there was no end, like unto our laughter. Erelong the lanterns faded in the towns, and only the wind and our two bodies lay flowing upon the hill.

  “Have you ever felt at one with another person? the lady asked me, her voice strong but fair, another music of its own.

  “Does it feel like this? I asked, and she smiled the broadest smile, one that all could fall into. I feel at one with everything here, I added. Even when all the lights go out. It flows, like one eternal melody, Olagh’s great creation.

  “Come with me, I said, turning to face her gentle eyes. Let us wander the woods and mountains and see what makes the stars shine.

  “But the light faded suddenly, as if the very mention of the stars made them die in the sky above us—but they were still glittering in her eyes, two vast skies of sadness. And I saw then the metal shackles upon her ankles, chains of cold iron, too dull to cast a reflection from the heavens. And then the image wilted, as if it was but one great flower, trampled by a horse’s hooves or heavy feet. Trodden. Like a solitary blade of grass that bears no significance to the world of hooves and horsemen’s feet.”

  Yavün turned away and sighed a deep and terrible sigh. It was in that tense moment that Ifferon realised that Herr’Don was not sitting there with them, but had left an empty mark upon the soil.

  “He’s gone wandering again,” Yavün said, as if reading Ifferon’s thoughts. “He was up early pouring a strange liquid across the entrance, but when I questioned him he told me not to worry about things I wouldn’t understand, and that he needed to scout ahead to see if the Garigút had left any signs. I don’t understand his fascination with these barbarians. I have often been told of their strange ways. I don’t feel safe travelling through their lands.”

  “They are not barbarians, and this is not their land. The Garigút are nomads; they travel to and fro and settle in one area for a time before moving on. They are well-educated and cultured from the places they have been to. In many ways they are fairer people than our own.”

  “These don’t sound like the same people I have come to know.”

  “You have come to know a rumour, nothing more. The reality is much different.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I have met them before, on many occasions, and I have spent some time with them in my youth. They took me in after my parents were murdered.” Ifferon paused—the words stung with the needles of cruel memory. “But that was a long time ago. I have not seen her in many years.”

  “Her?”

  “The Garigút. I have not seen them in many years. Indeed, I suppose they have become but a rumour to me also. Apparently, if the new rumours are true, they have left these lands, abandoning all their old dwellings, but I can still feel their presence here in the Meadows. They have still left a strong impact on my life.” Ifferon sighed deeply and stood up. “There is a cool mist upon the land today. I hope the prince has not lost his way.”

  “Should we look for him?” Yavün asked.

  “I doubt we would find him in this haze. I do not fancy wandering blindly.”

  “Do you fancy sitting blindly?”

  Ifferon shook his head.

  “Then should we venture out and search for him? Isn’t that what he would do?”

  “All the more reason not to do it,” Ifferon replied. “I was once the first to do all that is impulsive and reckless, but that was a day long ago, when danger was a cut or scratch, not the looming threat of death.”

  “Death?” a voice came sudden like the lashing of the wind, and it brought cold shivers up Ifferon’s spine. “Ha! I bark at death and gnaw its knees off. As for searching for me, well—there is no need! Aye! Herr’Don the Great has returned, and you may all comfort yourselves in the glory and wonder of my presence once again.”

  “Herr’Don!” Yavün cried. For one who did not much like the look of the prince, Yavün seemed awfully glad to see him. Since clerics and stableboys were not much use in battle, Ifferon could understand why. “Where have you been?” the youth inquired.

  “Where have I not?” Herr’Don replied, tugging a twig from his hair. “For now, I have been scouting our path ahead, for the Great do not wander blindly. These hills span many a mile and this fog can lead a wanderer astray. I would that I knew the lay of these lands better, for it has been many long years. Having two witless hermits at my side helps little, but luckily for you, Ifferon, I have a good memory and an even better sense of direction. Come! We have far to travel today, but we also have a place worthy of Herr’Don the Great to stay the night, so let that be your motivation, if the allure of my voice is not enough—dare forbid the thought!”

  “Why are you so eager when it comes to walking?” Yavün asked. “I’ve always imagined a prince travelling around in carriages and having carpets rolled under his feet. You’re too ... rugged. Too ... strange.”

  “Well! It seems our little poet here has learned much but his manners. Let me tell you, Master Yavün, there is such a thing as honour still to be found among the sovereignty. I do not rule from a distant throne, but make my presence known through my blade. Verily, I follow in the footsteps of Lord Trueblade himself, even though he stems from the less honourable land of Arlin. It is through honour tha
t he finds himself known to all people, not tyranny. So is it that I earn my titles through strength and hardship, not my bloodline alone, great though that may be.”

  “I doubt it not after seeing the battle at Larksong,” Ifferon said. “But we tarry. I feel ill to linger here. Let us talk as we march. I do not think this fog will pass swiftly.”

  “Aye, if at all, dear Ifferon!” Herr’Don said, slapping him on the back. “Come then, dear comrades, let us beat our feet against the earth as if it were a mighty war drum, and let the echoes of its sounds send a quiver into the heart of evil everywhere! Come! We march!”

  They stepped out from beneath the safety of their cavern and peered as far as they could through the mist. It showed no sign of dispersing, but while Herr’Don and Yavün started to wander forth, Ifferon’s eyes fell upon the little flowers by the opening of their resting place. The little flowers, so joyous in celebration of life the day before, lay dead upon the grass—trampled, as if by heavy boots. Their colour was as grey as the landscape around him, and his own mind began to dull, for whispers of darkness were calling back from the smoulder of Larksong.

  Herr’Don’s voice came trailing back to him: “Come, Master Ifferon! Lose yourself in thoughts and lose yourself here as well.”

  And so they set out into the mist that had parted the day before. The fog had veiled the coming of the horde to Larksong, an instrument of evil that wore the guise of nature. As the three began a new day’s journey across the hills, the thought grew ever larger in Ifferon’s mind: it had returned for them.

  The land was carpeted in soft grass, but that did little to cushion Ifferon’s aching feet. The hills rose and fell like empires, offering moments of downhill leisure until yet another steep climb approached. The mist hung low, turning green to grey, yet somehow Herr’Don found his way through the ashen landscape. He enforced a continuous march through the bleak, refusing to stop for food or rest, which he promised would come in abundance when they reached their destination.