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

by Dean F. Wilson

  “That would be nice,” she said. “When the time is come.”

  “Now, tell me, Thalla, what is it that made Melgalés defy the rules of the Magi to admit you as his apprentice? Never before have I heard of such defiance.”

  “That is a long tale,” she replied. “And I have not the heart to speak it all here.”

  “Then tell me what you can,” Ifferon said, for his curiosity had awoken like a memory of his adventuring days.

  “Have you never wondered about my name?” she asked.

  “Thalla? No, it is common enough in Boror, is it not?”

  “Thalla De’Hataramon,” she corrected.

  “Ah,” Ifferon said. “Who has not heard of the House of Hataramon?”

  “Exactly,” she said.

  “Were your family the owners of that brothel? Would that not make you an Arlinian?”

  “My family moved to Arlin to find their fortune. They did not find it. They never owned a house, never mind a whorehouse.”

  “Then why do you have such a name?”

  “Because I chose it,” she said. “But I only chose the name.”

  “You do not mean ...?”

  “My family sent me there when I was twelve. Old enough to work, they said. I did not know what type of work it was until they left me there. It was not good money, but my family earned enough to live that way. They had to do it, I guess, but I do not love them for it all the same.”

  “That is terrible,” Ifferon said. “I ... I really do not know what to say.”

  “No one does,” Thalla replied. “That is why I do not tell anyone.”

  “Then why are you telling me?”

  “Because you asked how it came to be that I became Melgalés’ apprentice. He saved my life. He saved me from the House of Hataramon. You see, he is a wandering sort—never stays in the same place too long. He knocked on the door of the brothel in Mariar one day looking for a room. He did not know it was a brothel, and he was disgusted when he found out. He offered Hataramon a lot of gold to buy all the girls off him, because you could never be freed—you had to be bought. But it was not really gold he gave him—it was coal with some enchantment upon it. I am sure Hataramon was not very happy about that. But see, Melgalés gave all the girls some real gold and told us to go, but we did not understand. He bought us, we thought. He was our master. When we realised he did not want us, we were confused, lost. Some of the girls went home, if they were still welcome there. I did not. I followed Melgalés for days, like a stray dog looking for scraps from a noble. He kept telling me to go away, and oft he would disappear in the smog of the city. But I would not stop until I found him. I asked people, bought directions and listened to rumours of a wandering Magus. Eventually I found him again, staying in a little cottage just outside of town. He was busy with all his potions and books and other oddities that seemed like toys to my childish eyes. I wanted to be a Magus. I asked him if I could be his apprentice, but he did not want one, and he certainly would not have a girl if he did. But that did not stop me. I stole one of his books and started to learn some magic on my own. One day I knocked at his door with a phantom hand and sneaked into his house to show him what I learned. He was proud, but not exactly happy. He told me that using magic without a Beldarian would kill me. He understood then that he had to train me or I would destroy myself with magic trying to please him. That is how I became his apprentice.”

  “That is amazing,” Ifferon said after a moment of silence. “And so you chose to keep the name of Hataramon to remind you of this.”

  “Yes, to remind me of where I came from. I cannot really forget that place, and I always wish that it never happened, that I was never there. But you see, it made me who I am today, so I need to remember that it is a part of my life. It made me strong.”

  Silence came again like a lonely friend, and he sat with them for a time, still and quiet, listening to the soundless echoes of their conversation and the memories it triggered. Then weariness joined him, and they sat together in the midst of the company until all were consumed by the seduction of sleep.

  They did not wake again until they heard the frenzied shouts of Herr’Don. “Hark!” he screamed. “Hark!”

  XVII – A CALL TO ARMS

  “Hark! Hark! The Garigút are nigh!” Herr’Don cried. He rushed to the top of the fallen tree trunk and cast his cloak back. “I have espied a scout!” He held his arm aloft, pointing to the east, where, in the distance, a small group of horsemen rode in haste.

  The others arose and raced to the prince. They clambered upon the tree trunk and cast their gaze across the Plains.

  “At last!” Herr’Don said. “Finally we are come upon some luck.”

  “Sometimes the Lady Issarí is called the Lady of Luck,” Délin said, “and such it would seem, for with her blessing the Garigút yet live.”

  Aralus placed his bony hand upon Herr’Don’s shoulder as he gazed at the advancing horsemen. “What if these are the last rag-tag survivors of the onslaught against Nahragor?” he asked.

  “Then, at least, the Garigút, however small in number, have survived, and so may grow again in number ere the passing of the world,” Délin replied. “But I have hope for a fairer fate than that, for my heart is warmed, and I know that Issarí has given her blessing to the Garigút to pass easily o’er her old land, and so may they come and go to battle with haste on their heels and swiftness on their sword hands.”

  They packed their things and sat in wait, watching the plumes of dust fly up beneath the galloping horses’ feet. Soon the Garigút were upon them, staying their steeds with a harsh pull of the reins. The horses whinnied and bucked, but the Garigút riders did not falter or fall, for they clung to the horses with broad legs of enormous strength. Their arms were also thick with muscle, yet weathered from a thousand winds, for they wore little in clothing, as was the custom of the riders, so as not to hinder their haste. Their skin was tanned and their faces were grim, etched with eternal frowns and dark, fell eyes. The leader of the group reared up towards them and looked upon them as if they were wild beasts that had strayed into a net.

  “I am Galon,” he said, his voice gruff. He wore nothing upon his chest except a small medallion, with an ornate G in the centre of a beamed sun. The beams were curved like sickles, as if they would rotate, and it was said that they were used in their gambling games, and that the loser would be killed and his medallion would be worn by the victor. Those who wore many were feared. Ifferon shuddered as he noted six more medallions hanging from Galon’s belt.

  “We have been searching the Plains for many days now,” Galon told them. “We have grown to fear that you would not come or that you met an ill fate on your march here.” Now the Garigút seemed less rough; his voice had calmed and his glare had softened.

  “You were expecting us?” Ifferon asked.

  “Yes, and long expecting. The Way-thane Geldirana sent us forth a week ago, for she said that a small party with great strength was expected. She bid us go swiftly and not come back until our quest was done. And so we travelled long and hard across the Plains, back and forth, and we grew weary, for there was naught to be seen. I was about to send instructions for us to ride back to the Way-thane with the ill news that we had not found you. But lo! Here you are, and there is great joy in my heart and relief in my soul, for the Way-thane would not be happy with the news, and bade us not return without you.”

  “Has word then come forth from Oelinor?” Délin said.

  “Oelinor? No, I do not know that name, or at least it was not mentioned to me ere my journey on the Plains began. Who is this Oelinor, and is he or she a friend or foe?”

  “One of the Ardúnari, like Geldirana,” Herr’Don said.

  “A friend,” Ifferon added. “He is the Warden of Oelinadal in Caelün.”

  “Ah yes, the Aelora Ardúnar, I see,” Galon said, and it seemed that he had grown suddenly nervous; he bit his lip and furrowed his brow, and he looked over his shoulder as if self-consc
ious of the Garigút aides at his attendance. The standard-bearer looked towards his companions, and it was as if there were unspoken words of hatred in that glance.

  “’Twould be best not to speak of that at present,” Galon said at last, and he drew his reins and turned about. “Come! We go to the Old Keep. Our armies have set up camp there where Telarym borders with the cursed land of Nahlin, and from there we shall lead our siege.”

  “It has not yet begun?” Délin asked.

  “Not in the force we plan, no,” Galon said. “But there have been small sorties and skirmishes upon the Plains and nigh unto the Valley of Shadow that dips into Nahragor. Many of our kind have grown impatient with the delay, but the Way-thane bid us wait until you arrived. She said she was given word that a secret weapon was on the way. I am a warrior at heart, but I am not foolish enough to think that this was a sword or mace, yet I will not meddle so much in the affairs of the Wardens to make guess what weapon they have devised.

  “We have no horses to spare, but you will journey with us, one with each of my company, for we can afford no more delay. Indeed, it would matter little if we had spare steeds for you, for they would not bear you, and you would but cling to them as if they were the fleeting moments of your lives.”

  They were bidden to climb upon the backs of the horses, who did not take kindly to them, despite many whispered assurances in the Bororian tongue from the Garigút riders. Ifferon went with Galon, for the Garigút said that he was specifically instructed to bring the cleric on his own horse, Rorast, and to ensure that he above all others would arrive safe and whole. The others rode behind whichever remaining Garigút riders would bear them. Many of the Garigút were obviously reluctant to take them, but they were not alone, for Elithéa would not ride upon a horse, or any animal yet within the domain of Éala, nor would she cling to the back of a Garigút man while her fair legs still worked. Thus she ran ahead of them as they galloped, yet frequently she fell behind when they invoked their unearthly speed.

  * * *

  As they rode discussion grew anew, and Ifferon was curious of the hushness that fell at each mention of the Wardens. “Why did you ask us not to speak of the Ardúnari?” he shouted against the wind.

  “Our people are not happy with the decision to lay siege to Nahragor,” Galon called back, his long hair lashing against Ifferon’s face as they rode. “They follow the Way-thane in her orders, but do so grudgingly, for they know she does this as an Ardúnar, not a Garigút. We are setting our swords upon ourselves in this battle, for it is folly to assail the Black Bastion in such small numbers.”

  Then the striking of hooves against harsh earth drowned out their voices, and the Garigút sped on once more as the tiny speck of Elithéa appeared in the distance behind them. “She is Ferian,” Galon said. “She will meet our pace in time.”

  As the day evened out and the veil of night drew in, they arrived at the hillock that led to the Old Keep, carved into the mountainous crags of the Cliff-face of Idor-Rem, tall dark shafts of rock that drew up like spires and towers, the jagged teeth of a crooked god. They had slowed for the last few leagues of their journey when Idor-Rem came into view, for already they were under the vastness of its shadow. Soon they arrived before the gates of the Old Keep, the crumbling ruin of the kingdoms of old, and Elithéa came once more into view on the horizon behind them.

  “So she comes,” Galon said. “Her weariness shall be her reward for refusing the hospitality of the Garigút. But I see that weariness has come upon you all, and let that be removed by the hospitality yet to come. The Old Keep is manned by Garigút now, and thus it is a haven in these lands of bleakness and despair.”

  Many Garigút came from the fortress, younger and fairer, perhaps not yet come of age, but they were still dishevelled and unruly in clothing and face, as if the long years of travel had toiled them. They took the horses, bringing them to a makeshift stable just outside the Fort. A man of similar stature to Galon, tall and broad, came out and greeted them, crossing his arms and thumping his chest. “Welcome to the Aldragir, now Garigût Gwiragir. I am Geldon, and this shall be your home for the time to come, and from here shall we lead war upon the forces of Nahlin and siege upon the fort of Naragir, which you know more commonly as Nahragor.”

  They were led to the ramp that rose into the depths of Idor-Rem. The Old Keep was carved deep into the Cliff-face, caged within its mountainous walls. It spanned thirteen levels, with a steep zig-zagging stair reaching all the way to the top. Its windows were round holes, and the corridors and rooms were little more than massive tunnels. Some called it a fortress, others a prison, but it was a relic of the time of the Elad Éni, the gods before the gods, and few dared make it their home.

  “Your quarters for the night ahead will be ready ere long,” Geldon said, “but first you must attend a council with the Way-thane. She asks no delay.”

  They were lead through a maze of tunnels to the throne room, which bore a pitted floor and a domed roof. To one side were two Garigút soldiers bearing golden totems with the familiar sun seal, and to the other was a plain wooden seat upon which sat a golden-haired lady in a slender red dress. Her glare was as the eyes of fire itself, the look of death before the burn, and many of the company felt that Elithéa’s stern glance was kindly in comparison. The Ferian woman now entered the Keep and stepped hard into the room.

  “Late,” the Way-thane said. Her voice was severe. “Yet you are all late.”

  Many bowed their heads, apologetic. Elithéa raised her chin in defiance, yet she could not conceal her heavy breathing.

  “So you have come before me at last,” Geldirana continued. “Bedraggled and beaten, and diffident I see. Have the weathers been so cruel, or do you but weather with over-ease? I have been expecting you for some time, and it seems that you have tarried, and thus delayed my plans. Nahragor should be in the midst of fire and ruin now, but it yet stands.”

  “That is not our fault,” Herr’Don responded. “And even if you had started the siege, I doubt that it would crumble as easily as you say.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?” she said, turning her long, hard gaze upon him. She did not stir from her seat; her hands gripped the armrests of the chair like claws upon their prey. “I suppose you believe that it takes Herr’Gal’s troops to breech the walls of Nahragor? Do you think that it should be you, Herr’Don, to lead the armies against the Black Bastion?”

  “I said naught of that,” Herr’Don replied.

  “Yet you thought it, and think it still. We are not barbarians, Herr’Don, though ever your people call us by that name. Your father, in particular, has taken to calling us by many distasteful names, not least of all bêtalajal, the ‘less-of-home.’” She raised her right hand suddenly and they flinched. “And I say to you now that we are not without a home, for ever has Boror been that to us. We settle not in one place of the King Vale, for all of Boror is our house. We do not need a hut of bricks to know our place in the world, but it seems to me that the King needs a stern reminder to know his own.”

  “He knows little of the Garigút ways,” Ifferon said. “He is forever stunted by his folly and blinded by his ignorance. Please, Geldirana Way-thane, grant him and us the pardon of the wise, the grace of the righteous, and the kindness of—”

  “Ifferon, I did not permit you to speak,” she scolded, turning her fiery gaze upon him. It had been ten years since she looked upon him with those eyes, and the fire had grown wild in that time. Part of Ifferon wanted to run to her and embrace her like he did all those years ago, but another part warned him to stay away, lest he catch alight.

  “Tell me, Ifferon,” she said, and the words were like embers. “After all you have done, and failed to do, why is it that I should grant you grace and kindness?”

  The shroud of shame fell upon him, but it did not conceal him from Geldirana’s flame-filled stare. He grew scarlet, as if the burn had already set in, and he looked upon his companions and saw their awkward glances, for clearly they too c
ould feel the atmosphere like a furnace.

  Then Ifferon looked up. “Geldirana, you are fair and beautiful beyond measure. More splendid than the rays of the sun, more solemn than the beams of the moon, more intricate than the Aerbateros of the Aelora, and more elegant than the graceful strides of the Ferian. Naught in this world have I found since our parting that has met with your beauty. Naught compares to you, and ever have I grieved for the loss of your love, and ever have I reviled myself for the disgrace of leaving you then from fear of Agon. But I know there is naught that I can say to make amends, naught that I can do to set things aright. Yet all the same I kneel before you now and ask your forgiveness, for I repent of all the evils I have done to you in my folly to avoid evil.” And thus he knelt, bowing low.

  “You kneel over-late,” Geldirana said, “and you knelt first before the throne of fear. But do you expect that I shall grant absolution so easily? Do you think that you can buy my clemency with the wily words you have studied in your lock-away at Larksong? No, I think you ask too much, and too much from you is the asking of aught at all, for I should be the one to ask of you, and I ask this: do not think that you can make amends or set things aright with me, for we will all be in Halés ere that happens, but you may yet repair the follies of your fear with the world by doing the deeds set before you, deeds long held undone. Will you baulk before these tasks or see them through?”

  Herr’Don stepped forth and spoke: “He will do them as long as I am here to guide and protect him, as Sword of Boror, Herr’Don the Great.”

  “He will do naught if you do it for him,” Geldirana snapped. “Let him speak for himself, for that is ever what he lacks. Do you have a voice, Ifferon, or has it been stilled by the truth of my words? Speak if you still can.”