“Are they a threat to us?” Yavün asked, but neither Herr’Don nor Ifferon would answer. “Are they?”
“We shall see,” Herr’Don said at last.
“Let us hope that we do not see,” Ifferon said. “Whether we are a match for them or not. But it is not merely the Bull-men that I fear in those woods, for Alimstal is the property of the Knights, and they do not take kindly to trespassers.”
“They shall take kindly to me,” Herr’Don said. “Come! Before night comes hastening.”
* * *
But night came and fell upon them within an hour, blotting out the remnants of the sun. Night, while dull, was not as dark as it had been in Ardún-Fé, and the company were glad of this. They were not stalked by shadows or beasts, and the air seemed calm, as if upon a lake that was still and placid. Alimstal Forest loomed ahead in the distance, a dark silhouette on the horizon against the dimming sky. Yet, as they drew closer to it, they could see that it was not dark at all, but bore a roof of golden-green leaves on boughs of brown and grey, amidst a thicket of plump bushes and livened grass that had no doubt seen many a morning rainfall. All was full of vitality and life, and covered in a thick and sparkling dew that looked like honey from the skies. And it was sweet to the taste too, for the company began to bottle it for their journey ahead.
“We shall collect some of this,” Herr’Don said as he scooped some raindrops from the leaves into his canister. “I would rather have water from a lake, but I have not heard of a lake or pool in Alimstal.”
“What about a river?” Yavün asked.
“None. The nearest river would be the Offspring that leads to Loch Mariar in the east, but that is far off and I would not dare drink from a river in Arlin. Or a lake for that matter, for the Knights hold true to a belief that there is a Lady here, fair and beautiful, a Lady of the Lake. Issarí they call her, and she dwells somewhere here. Well, it is said that the actual lake is Loch Nirigán, but many have been lost in waters unsafe to drink from.”
“Then how do the people of Arlin drink when it does not rain?” Yavün asked.
“Well, they have the Knights, of course, who pray to her and get her blessing to take what they need, but no more than that.”
“And can’t we do that?” Yavün inquired.
“We are no Knights,” Herr’Don said solemnly. “We have not her blessing yet.”
A cool breeze rushed by, passing through the trees and then on into the distance, light and fresh. The trees rejoiced in its presence. The company passed beneath the golden boughs, slowly at first, climbing over a large fallen tree that seemed still alive and smiling. There was a calm and gentle thrum of gleeful noises in the wood, from the creaking lumber of the trees and the crackle of the grass beneath them, to the hooting of an owl which seemed to follow them with cautious curiosity. There was no sense of threat or malice anywhere, but Herr’Don remained wary and kept their steps light and their voices low.
“We don’t want to wake anything,” he said after a time of careful glances to and fro. “Alimstal is full of life, but we well know that not all life is pleasant.”
So was it that they forged new roads into the forest, entering its golden glade with weary footfalls and wary eyes. Roots grew like mountains, or perhaps long creeping fingers of gods who had been buried in the earth, forgotten, yet steadily unearthing themselves to the wanderers who passed by. Every so often it seemed that one root would wrap about one of their legs and trip them or pull them back, and there was a sense of mischief and trickery in the air, as if small animals and birds were watching and plotting little tricks and traps of their own.
“I think we should rest here,” Ifferon said as they entered an area that felt less watched, for there were fewer trees there, and there was an opening in the canopy above to the darkening sky. The moon was not abroad, though Ifferon could almost feel it through the clouds, and it comforted him as it always did, like the gentle rainfall which had graced the wood the night before.
Herr’Don set his backpack down by a large upturned rock. “Looks like as good a place as any to spend the night. We will be setting out early on the morrow, however, as I am still a little wary of being ambushed by Bull-men in this forest and would be glad to near a town.”
“Nature has never been his thing,” Thalla said.
“Oh, I love nature,” Yavün said, beaming. “It’s very inspiring.”
“Ha, boy!” Herr’Don bellowed. “Nature isn’t just birds chirping and trees swaying; nature can be cold and cruel. It can crush bones, cleave off limbs, wash away bodies, and topple towers that have withheld siege. It can inspire madness and despair as much as love and beauty.”
“I know, Herr’Don. You don’t have to tell me.”
“Let’s just rest and get on with our journey, shall we?” Herr’Don said gruffly.
“Shall I take first watch?” Thalla asked. “I’d like some time alone to think.”
“Of course,” Herr’Don said. “I could do with some sleep.”
* * *
And so they ate a slack supper with minimal talk, for they were all still engrossed in the comfort the forest seemed to radiate. Sleep beckoned swiftly and they tucked in beneath their cloaks and blankets. Thalla huddled by a large rock at the edge of the clearing, gazing at the stars.
Ifferon’s dreams were fair that night, for he dreamed of a woman he had not seen for a long time, one whom he yearned to see again. He smiled in his sleep as they reunited in the world of dream.
“Ifferon!” came a voice like a knife in his ear. He awoke suddenly and sat up, finding Thalla crouching beside him.
“Oh, is it my watch already?” he asked. “I was having such a lovely dream.”
“No, it’s not time yet, but ... I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Oh? What is it?” he grumbled as he shook the sleep from him.
“I am feeling a little troubled. Well, more than usual.”
“Is it about ... you know, him.”
“Oh, so you know?” Thalla said, and she seemed relieved not to have to spell it out.
“I was there when it happened! I saw Melgalés as he fell.”
“Oh,” she said, pausing. “No, it is not about him.”
“There is someone else?”
“You could say that.”
“Who is it?”
“Yavün.”
“Yavün? What about him?”
“Have you not noticed? He seems to look at me a lot, in odd ways, and tries to talk to me, but then backs away as though embarrassed.”
“Ah,” Ifferon said. “Well, yes, I have noticed that. But, you know, he is young. It is half-expected, is it not?”
“No, Ifferon, no, it is not. And I find it a little unsettling—if also somewhat endearing.”
“So you think he likes you?”
“Well ... yes.”
“Do you like him?”
She averted her eyes, as if ashamed. “I ... I do not know. But that does not matter, Ifferon. You know that I am with Herr’Don. That kind of thing is more than frowned upon. Sure he is but a boy!”
“Well, barely come of age, yes, but he does have some older spirit in him.”
“That is what I worry about sometimes.”
“His older spirit?”
“The spirits in him. Well, the ones who talk through him. Melgalés used to tell me tales about people like that—portals, he called them. They allow forces, both good and bad, to enter them in spirit and manipulate their body. It takes great skill to master it, and I do not think Yavün is anywhere near that stage. I am worried for him.”
“As am I,” Ifferon said, looking towards the poet who was curled up by a tree like a sleeping child.
“But the thing is,” Thalla continued. “I feel as though I should not be this worried about him. I barely know him, and yet I feel a connection to him that I cannot fully describe.”
“Do you think it is love?”
“No, I cannot say. It has been too l
ittle a time to tell, and I dare not rush to conclusions, least of all while still betrothed to Herr’Don. Oh, he would kill Yavün if he found out! He does not like him already, that is clear, but this would really drive him over the edge.”
“I can imagine,” Ifferon said. “I think it would definitely be wise to keep this to ourselves for now. However, what happens if this is love? Are you considering leaving Herr’Don?”
“Oh, no, I ... well, I have not really thought about it much. It is just such a tricky situation. I have been with him for nearly two years and still love him deeply. But there is something strange about him now, ever since a few months back. You see, he was a mercenary for the last few years, since his father threw him out of his Court. All the Royal Guards refused to hire him, until Teron sent word about a possible attack on Larksong, that is, so he was forced to be a sword-for-hire to make ends meet.”
“And you think this has gotten to him?”
“Well, not inherently, but yes—something about it is eating away at him. It was around three months ago when he was last hired, and he acted so strangely afterwards, so ... so guilty. That was when he refused to work as a mercenary again and tried to get back into the Guard, which eventually succeeded just in time for that attack. To be honest, I think Melgalés intervened to get him back in the forces, because he called a meeting with the King not long beforehand, and I am sure he managed to convince him to bring Herr’Don back. He needs to fight, you see—it is his life and dream; if you take that away from him, he would go insane—he just would not have anything else.”
“He would have you.”
“Oh, yes, of course ...”
“If you stayed with him.”
“Well, that is the puzzle that plagues my mind. I just do not know any more, and I do not know why I have lost this certainty, because I have never felt conflicted like this before.”
“In the Olaghris,” Ifferon began, reminded of his many days of feigned preaching at the monastery, “it says all kinds of things about how a man and woman should stay together always since the day they both join hands, and that none should intervene to tear those two apart. As a Cleric of Olagh, I am expected to say ‘shame on you,’ but do you really think I will, or should?”
“Should, perhaps ...”
“No, it is not my place to make judgements like that. Love is the only thing that matters here, for it is the only thing that can unite the divided, and if the love between you and Herr’Don is fading, then who am I to try to fan that flame?”
“He has grown distant,” Thalla said, her voice more solemn now. “Not that he was always very close. Swords and battle are his first love. But I respect that. I can deal with that. He just does not seem to want to let me in.”
“Yes, I got that impression myself.”
“Whereas Yavün ...”
“Yavün will let anyone in,” Ifferon said, smiling. Thalla smiled too, though weakly.
“Do you have someone you love, Ifferon? Oh, I am sorry, how silly of me—you are a cleric!”
“No, I do. I was not always a cleric, after all. I joined the Order of Olagh roughly a decade ago, but before that I was quite an adventurer. I roamed Arlin and Boror, went up to Caelün to meet the Aelora and study their language, and even ventured into the Caves of Remradi near the Cliff-face of Idor-Rem down in Telarym. I had a companion then, a Garigút woman whom I had spent several years with. We then parted ways after a time. I went to Larksong and joined the Order, while she went back to her people, and we have not seen each other since.”
“Oh, that is terrible!” Thalla said. “Have you not tried to find her again?”
“Well, yes, I tried once, but the Garigút are nomads; if you are not with them when they are travelling, you might not find them at all. It is how they survive in such small numbers compared to the other people of Boror—they roam, and they retreat from areas that have been attacked, and they advance on other areas which bear them better fortune.”
“And now they are in Telarym,” Thalla said, “roaming towards ruin at the Gates of Nahragor.”
“They are strong fighters,” Ifferon said.
“But are they strong enough to lay siege to that fortress?”
“I hope,” Ifferon said, and he meant it more than many things he said, meant it more than all his prayers at Larksong. “I really hope.”
“Anyhow, I better let you take your watch before the night is over. Thank you, Ifferon—I really needed someone to talk to about these things.”
* * *
And so Thalla went to sleep while Ifferon took the next watch, followed by Yavün and then Herr’Don, who woke them all at the rising of the sun, which fell upon them like an ocean of yellow warmth.
“The day is fair,” he said.
“My sleep was fairer,” Yavün said, wiping his eyes and squinting against the sunlight which came pouring through the leafy roof above them like a summer’s rain. The golden-brown leaves sparkled and gleamed, and the forest seemed like one great basin of light.
They set off early that day, after another sparse meal, for their store was running out and they still had long to go. They travelled more swiftly than before, for they had grown accustomed to the ground and the vines and brambles that lay throughout the forest. Herr’Don estimated that they should be halfway into the forest by nightfall, if not further still, but Ifferon did not mind this wood, for it seemed that every awkward step seemed to lessen the load of his troubles.
After a moment of light chat, Herr’Don stopped suddenly and raised his hand, as if to swat some invisible fly. The force of tension broke through Ifferon’s false comforts and made him glance about quickly and sharply, to see if dark shadows were crawling through the trees. But there were none. Herr’Don still held his hand aloft, even though the others had long halted. He sniffed the air, as if he could sense something in that smell that the others could not.
“Bull-men,” he whispered after some time. “They’ve passed through here and are not far off.”
There was a sound of crackling leaves and heavy footfalls to the north, up a small mound that was circled by tall alders and wide oaks. And then a terrible stench drifted down to invade their nostrils.
“Come!” Herr’Don said, starting up the hill. “Though let us be very quiet so that they are not alerted to us.”
They climbed up the mound, treading softly but quickly, and they peered over the top through the thicket of trees to a small encampment, where a group of Shoradoni, half bull and half man, stood snarling and shouting.
Ifferon heard their voices plainly, talking in an ugly dialect of the Common Tongue, rough and coarse, as if they could split skulls by merely speaking. One of them shouted, a taller one with larger horns and a large metal ring hanging from his nose. He held a huge axe at his left side as if he were to chop the head off one of his own, and he carried two large marked stones in his right hand, toying with them, as if it were some oracle he was consulting.
“We found a group of horse-lovers on the march,” one of the Bull-men growled.
“They stink of Issarí-waters,” another said. “Speed is on their heels.”
“They think they can hunt us?” the leader shouted. “Let us show them who the real hunters are. Bring me their heads!” He snorted and steam came from his nostrils, as if inside he was burning with the fires of bloodlust and rage.
“They’re much stronger than men,” Herr’Don whispered. “We won’t be able to take them all on like this. Their hide is thick and their strength is only heightened by the smell of fresh blood. We must be careful.”
Two of the smaller Bull-men grinned, their mouths showing years of flesh eating, their teeth sharp and bloodied, their tongues dark and long.
And then Ifferon heard a crack behind him. He turned and saw Yavün there, his face bearing the mark of fake innocence. He had stepped on a branch, and as Ifferon turned again towards the clan, he saw their glare, their eyes burning, their weapons sharp.
“Kill them!”
the Shoradon leader snarled. The Bull-men heaved forward on heavy legs with heavy blades in their hands, sneering and scowling.
“Run!” Herr’Don cried, and he was the first to abandon the scene, dragging Thalla along by the arm. Ifferon and Yavün soon followed, quickly matching the pace of the others as the heavy hoof-beats of the Bull-men came crashing down behind them, breaking branches and chiselling away at the company’s morale.
“Can we not fight them?” Yavün asked as they ran.
“No!” Herr’Don shouted.
“They are too many,” Thalla said, “and too strong.”
“We are not knights,” the swordsman said. “Keep your pace!” he added as the heavy, snorting breaths of the Bull-men became louder. “Downhill!”
They ran and stumbled down a decline in the tree-stumped mound, slipping and tripping over landslides of leaves and branches that tangled about their feet and tried to tug them down.
Yavün screamed as a Shoradon came down on him and lunged at him with its horns, knocking him back into a nearby tree. It growled in the glory of its bloodlust, lifting its chest and shaking its head violently to the sky in some display of triumph. Then it charged forward again towards the recoiling Yavün, pounding down to pummel him into the bark, and brandishing its axe to finish him off.
But a lance came striking forth, driving deep into the Bull-man and pushing it aside. This was followed by an armoured knight on horseback, who charged up and, with one swift arc of his sword, cleaved the head off the beast.
“For Issarí!” he shouted, waving his sword in the air, and there was a great sound of half a dozen knights charging into the fray, rallying to the cries of “Issarí!” and “Corrias!” They rode down the Bull-men, crushing them beneath the hooves of their horses, spearing them with their lances, or slashing their throats with their swords.
One knight rode up to Herr’Don and Thalla, who had stopped at the end of the mound. “You two,” he said, but was then knocked down by an advancing Shoradon. Thalla quickly loosed an arrow into the creature’s hide, drawing its attention away from the wounded knight, and Herr’Don raced forward with his two swords flaying as Thalla released another arrow, slowing the beast’s advance on the prince. Just as the great horns of the Shoradon neared Herr’Don, the swordsman slashed at the beast with one sword, turning quickly and rolling around its body, and then driving his other sword into its back. It roared and thrashed madly, trying to hit Herr’Don with its axe, but a third and fourth arrow pierced its skin, jolting its strikes. Herr’Don then drew both his swords back and drove them into the creature’s neck. It choked and stumbled forwards, dropping its axe and collapsing upon it as it hit the ground.
The Call of Agon: Book One of The Children of Telm Page 12