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

by Dean F. Wilson

  Thalla smacked him across the back of the head. “This might not be the way he came, but we have to check it anyway. I would hate to leave one nook unsearched and later know it was the very place that we would have found him.”

  “Come then, let us explore this rathole, whether its owners are home or not,” Herr’Don said.

  They ventured forth, walking atop the fallen door, for the entrance was wet from a rain that had fallen the night before. A moss covered the cracked ground, and light shone in from holes and fissures in the walls and ceiling, illuminating the murk below.

  Then the fullness of their location was revealed to them, for their eyes adjusted, and they saw a great room of black marble, burnished like the blade of a sickle honed to its sharpest edge. Yet it was not sharp, for most of it had been battered and chipped, and some crumbled at the slightest touch, leaving a dark dust upon the floor, mounting gradually with the slow decay of years.

  In the centre of the room there was a stone crypt, which grew out of the ground like a volcano. Its material was like the black of dried lava, but Ifferon knew that it was made from nahilok, a corruption of the white stone the Aelora used in their ancient constructions. Atop the crypt was a stone lid, engraved with many twisting forms like vines. On closer inspection there appeared to be text between the motifs, strange and foreign, and there were also odd geometric sigils in all four corners, carved deep like rifts into nothingness.

  Around this dark resting place four large statues leaned in. They appeared like kings of old, adorned in rich clothing and armour, but there was something wrong about them, something off. Kings of old, perhaps, but warped and twisted kings. As they tilted in, their shoulders merged, and then the tops of their heads joined, and above the merging of their heads was a single thorny crown.

  “And so the riddle is answered,” Herr’Don said.

  “What do you mean?” Thalla quizzed.

  “This is a Kalakrán,” Ifferon said. He knew it the instant he had entered, for his breath had ceased and his heart had slowed its beat, and the statues seemed to look at him, as if they had been awoken to his presence. A Child of Telm had stepped into their domain.

  “A Shadow Crypt,” Herr’Don explained. “One of the old resting places of the Molokrán. I did not know there was one in Arlin, but evidently the Knights of Issarí did, for Tol-Timíl was clearly not built to merely guard from the evil of Ardún-Fé, but the evil of the Shadow Kingdom.”

  “Is this where they sleep?” Thalla asked. Ifferon shuddered.

  “They do not sleep,” Herr’Don said. “Indeed, it is when people sleep that these creatures are at their height, for the depths of a dark night are where shadows lurk the most.”

  “Then what are these places? It looks like some sort of house for them, if ever there was such a thing.”

  “In a sense it is,” the prince replied. “There are, or at least were, thirteen Kalakrán in Iraldas, dotted around the land, one for each Molokrán. Some rumour that their location is the birthplace of each of these Shadowspirits, but from what Melgalés told me of them, they were all torn from the land of Ardún-Fé.”

  “Why did Melgalés not tell me of this?”

  “I’m not sure,” Herr’Don said. “Perhaps he thought he was protecting you.”

  “He always thought he was protecting me,” she said, but she did not say it to him. “Always acting like a shield, parrying life’s blows. Did he not think to protect himself? For therein lies the greatest blow that life has dealt—death.” Then she turned her teary glance upon the prince again and asked: “Tell me what he would not.”

  Herr’Don nodded. “Melgalés believed that Molok the Animator brought the Shadows to life and created for them a vessel at the thirteen locations where the roots of the Tree of Althar touched upon Iraldas, an effort to feed his creations with the life of the Céalari. Molok claimed Ardún-Fé as his own, forcing the Aelora to flee to the north, and he used the residue of their magic to make many evil things. It is said that there might have been more of the Molokrán were it not for Uldarus binding each year to thirteen moons. Olagh forbid the thought!

  “You would have learned it from Melgalés eventually, I am sure. Few know of them, and of those who do fewer still will talk about them, for my father is misguided by the Followers of Olagh. Even I, son of the King, must pray to Olagh, not Telm, lest I stumble in my words before the Trial and end up headless. And that is not to mention the Elad Éni, older gods than even the Céalari. What little I know of them keeps my mouth firmly shut.”

  “Should we not get moving?” Ifferon asked. “This may be a place of rest, but certainly not for us. After what happened in Ardún-Fé, the den of a Molokrán is the last place I want to stay the night.”

  “We are many a league from the Damned Land now, Master Ifferon, and is not the delicate delivery of Herr’Don the Great’s history of Iraldas not a distraction from darkness?”

  “He is right, Herr’Don,” Thalla said. “We need to get going. Yavün is still out there somewhere, waiting for us.”

  “Back to Yavün again! You seem to have grown obsessed with him of late. Would it not be fitting to find him here? He spoke with the voice of a Spectre not long ago, so should he not have crawled back to the home of a Molokrán? But let us not worry, for there is no danger to us here, unless the stableboy creeps from his cradle in this crypt. This Kalakrán is in ruins, no doubt destroyed before the Tower was first built, and, indeed, the Tower was probably built to ensure that the Molokrán never returned to Arlin.”

  “Come on, Herr’Don,” Thalla begged, tugging on his arm. “I do not like this place at all.”

  “We need not fear,” the prince replied. “At one time the Molokrán could use these Crypts to transport themselves around Iraldas. They had but to lie within the opening there and close the lid, and they would be at another location within moments, within the blink of the eye of a Céalar, as they say. Timeless transport—some dark magic, no doubt, a corruption of Aelor’s, I expect. But that cannot be accomplished here while the Crypt is in ruins. And Olagh bless that this is so!”

  * * *

  They left the dim of the Kalakrán and looked up at the Tower again. It seemed to gleam ever more brightly in contrast with the bleakness of the Crypt, and the spiral staircase seemed daunting to their eyes. They began their ascent, for Thalla urged them to search each and every part of the Tower, for she sensed that Yavün had been there and that a clue might be found to his whereabouts.

  The steps were steep and tiring, but they were large enough that all three could climb side by side. Thalla clung to the wall, for the drop was big, but Herr’Don strolled near the edge, kicking bits of rock into the vastness below. Often he muttered as they struggled upwards, and Ifferon wondered what arguments were playing out in his troubled mind.

  “He can’t have come this way, ” Herr’Don said at last.

  “Why not?” Thalla asked. “Why would he not come this way?”

  “It’s too bright for him. He favours shadow things,” the prince said, almost spitting the words. “Why do you care for him anyway? What is he to you? What is he to any of us?”

  “He is one of us,” Thalla said. “That is what he is to me. That is what he is to all of us—except you. Are you one of us, Herr’Don? Please tell me that you are.”

  “You know that I am,” he replied, but he glared at her as though he wondered if she was really part of the company either.

  “Let us just check here,” Ifferon said, hoping to ease the tension before it rose to a tumult. “There cannot be any more evil here than we have already seen.”

  Herr’Don sighed deeply and nodded slowly. “We should be careful, however. Let us recall that this place is cursed. These steps could crumble at any time.”

  This warning did not stop Herr’Don from lingering on the ledge. Ifferon tried not to look, afraid that at any moment Herr’Don might slip or jump. Ifferon kept his eyes upon the steps below, which became swiftly carpeted in moss and lea
ves. The tower ruins mixed with nature’s debris until finally its white was smothered in green. This made each footfall more unsteady than the one before, until Ifferon began to curse the nearby trees for the shedding of their autumn coats.

  “Wait,” Herr’Don said suddenly, his voice but a whisper, as if he feared to wake something. “There is some evil here.” He paused for a time and turned to the others. “Do you feel it?”

  “Yes, it hounds me,” Thalla said. “But I cannot tell if it is Tol-Timíl, the Kalakrán below, or the memory of Ardún-Fé.”

  “I feel it too,” Ifferon said. “I can almost hear the clangs and screams of battle fought long ago here, with many victims, many deaths.”

  “Let us hope this Tower has not claimed another,” Herr’Don said sharply. “I knew that stableboy was up to no good, venturing off like an eager child. And who made me his carer?”

  They climbed further, each step bringing them closer to the heavens and whatever it was they suddenly feared. Their footsteps were hollow, and the land about them sat in a dreadful silence, a kind of quiet that made Ifferon beg for noise, even the mumblings and ramblings of their princely escort. But there was no clash or clamour, nor drip of dew, nor the distant songs of birds. Even the Scroll in his pocket was hushed, though the subtle sounds of unease still whispered in Ifferon’s heart.

  “Aha!” Herr’Don shouted suddenly as they turned a sharp corner on the stairway.

  There, sitting with his back against the wall of the Tower, was Yavün, his face drawn and his robes gathered about as if a chill grasped him. His hair was unkempt and tangled, full of moss and stray twigs from the Rotwood, and his eyes were more sombre than Thalla could ever muster, deep pits where strange and recent events were buried.

  “Yavün!” Thalla cried, running to him and collapsing before him in relief and joy.

  Ifferon sighed deeply, for the prince’s exclamation had stopped his breath. “It is good to see you!” he managed, forcing a faint smile.

  “The little rascal was here after all,” Herr’Don bellowed, like a god atop a mountain throne. He shook his head violently, as if in disbelief, and his hand still clutched the handle of his sword.

  Thalla grabbed Yavün and hugged him deeply, and he tried to return the hug, though seemed shocked and shaken.

  Ifferon noticed this. “What happened?” he asked.

  “Oh,” Yavün stammered. “I ... I really don’t know.”

  “I know,” Herr’Don hissed. “He got taken over by those Spectres again and decided to lead us to this sorrowful remnant of the older days of Arlin. To the Kalakrán, perhaps.”

  “No,” Yavün said, though he stopped there for a moment, as if struggling to remember what happened. “No, that wasn’t it.”

  “Well? What was?” Herr’Don barked.

  “Something odd happened here,” Ifferon said.

  “Are you all right?” Thalla asked, holding Yavün’s hand. Ifferon watched Herr’Don’s cold and steady glare grow colder.

  “Of course he’s all right!” the prince spat. “Look at him! Alive and well. Ha! Having us worrying and wandering like a bunch of fools, as if we haven’t anything better to do.”

  “What happened, Yavün?” Thalla questioned, her voice soft and tender, speaking to and holding him as a mother would.

  “I had strange dreams,” he replied. “Something was calling me in my sleep.”

  “Those Spectres!” Herr’Don said. “I told you, friends.”

  “Be quiet,” Ifferon said. “Let him finish.”

  “It had a distant voice,” Yavün continued. “It crackled ... like fire, like a candle, maybe. It called my name three times. Then I woke up, or ... well, I got up while still in the dream, and it felt like I was watching myself. I watched myself walk through the Rotwood.”

  “And you came here?” Thalla asked.

  “Yes. But, well ... yes. I did.”

  “But why?” Ifferon quizzed.

  “I had to collect something. Something important.”

  Yavün rummaged in his pockets and took out the answer to their questions. He held it up to Ifferon. It was the letter Ifferon had given to Melgalés, the one which Teron felt was so vital for him to deliver.

  “The letter!” he cried. “How did you get this?”

  “I ... collected it,” Yavün said.

  “How? Where?”

  Thalla’s grip on Yavün’s hand began to loosen, and she did not lean towards him now.

  “Melgalés had it.”

  “I know he had it,” Ifferon said. “I gave it to ... oh.”

  “You ... you took this from him?” Thalla asked, letting go of his hand altogether.

  “I had to,” Yavün said. “It wasn’t really me. I was watching me do it. It wasn’t me!”

  “I knew it!” Herr’Don snapped. “A thief if ever there was one—and I’ve met many thieves. I’ve dealt with many thieves!”

  “No, I didn’t steal it, I swear! The voice brought me here, and I took it because it was important.”

  “You took it because you’re a thief!”

  “Was ... is he ...?” Thalla tried, but the words would not come.

  “Yes,” Yavün said. “I saw his body against the tree.”

  Thalla broke into tears as soon as she heard the word body, and she turned away from them, cradling her face and catching the tears in the basin of her hands. Herr’Don tried to comfort her, but she shook off his embrace, and so he looked back to Yavün with a glower.

  “He seemed to be guiding me,” Yavün said at last. “Guiding me back to him to get ...” He paused, as if he were hesitant to reveal something. “The letter,” he said at last, but there was something forced about his voice.

  “What does it say, Ifferon?” Herr’Don asked, turning to him.

  Ifferon opened it and took a deep breath.

  “Dear Mehlalesh,

  “It grieves me to bring ill news to you, especially since it has been so long since we last spoke, and we did not part as amiably as I might have liked. However, the urgency of this matter means I must put our quarrels aside and report a grave turn of events.

  “Larksong was attacked, and I fear this is but the beginning of similar battles. I was forced to flee the monastery there which was my home for many years, and now I am on my way to Madenahan with Belnavar, and thence to Nahragor with forces to support the raid on the Black Bastion.

  “During my flight from Larksong I learned of a terrible thing. The Adversary’s attack on the beach had a darker aim than merely the conquering of our land. There were rumours that a great sorcerer had allied with the Nahliners and had found a way to summon Agon! I need not speak of how grave such a tiding is, for you are well aware of this. Should the Adversary ever set foot on this good earth, we would all be destroyed. None but Corrias would be able to match his might and vanquish him.

  “This dark servant is working secretly in Nahragor, in the very fortress which the Garigút now move to lay siege to. I need not speak of how ill that battle will go, as the Garigút are no match for the forces of Nahragor, nor the Molokrán and their dark minions. These are looking for Ifferon. They are looking for him because they know that if he takes that Scroll to Nahragor, where the Summoner is making his move, the cleric can end the Call of Agon, can stop his summons from being fulfilled. I know not the means he must use to stop the Summoner, but undoubtedly there is a power of Telm still at hand.

  “I leave this for your wise counsel to decide upon.

  “Your ever faithful Brother in the Light,

  “Teron.”

  Ifferon sighed deeply. The others looked at him with grim faces. Even Thalla’s tears now ceased.

  “What evil tidings,” Herr’Don said, and he almost faltered on the stairs. “The Call of Agon,” he added, and there was a tremor in the earth, as if the Beast had heard his words and smelled his fear.

  IX – JOURNEY THROUGH ALIMSTAL

  “Did he look peaceful?” Thalla asked as they left the Tower of
Tol-Timíl behind them and headed north-west towards the many towns of Arlin.

  “Yes,” Yavün said, lying. He saw the battered remains of the Master Magus, the crippled body amidst the crippled trees, the fallen beads in the blanket of blood upon the ground around him, and his cold, staring eyes. Those eyes stayed with Yavün, haunting his memory—they were open and starless, reflecting naught but the deep black of the pit of nightfall. It still seemed as if they were staring at him, even now as he attempted to force them out of his mind. “Peaceful,” he added at last, noticing Thalla’s intent and pleading gaze, one that almost mirrored that of Melgalés.

  “We must reach Alimstal by nightfall,” Herr’Don said. “We cannot rest another day here, nor under the stars on the plains. If Teron’s words are true then we must seek out the Garigút and find a way to end the Call of Agon.”

  “I can eat on the way,” Yavün said. “If it will quicken our journey.”

  “It will,” Herr’Don replied. “I have most of our things packed already. We have little food, but I’m sure Alimstal has something for us to eat.”

  “Or something to eat us,” Ifferon suggested. “If I have read my tales enough. We should be careful to avoid ambushes from the Shoradoni.”

  “Shoradoni?” Yavün asked.

  “Bull-men,” Thalla replied.

  “We’ll see,” Herr’Don said. “I think favour sides with us today though, for the trees there are fair and they do not house the same darkness that dwells in the Rotwood. Alimstal is hunting ground, ripe for the spear and the sword, as the Knights of Issarí well know, for they sometimes come here to keep the Bull-men tribes down in number.”

  “Why do they not kill them all?” Yavün questioned.

  “Because they are useful for training,” Ifferon said.

  “Yes,” Herr’Don said. “The Knights-in-Training are brought here to test their skills, for a Shoradon is a mighty enemy, but they are not yet in service to the Adversary, so they are less of a threat to Arlin than ... other forces.”