But the Lichelord did not flinch or cower, nor did he fade, for shock more than fear was upon him. “He,” he said in a long-drawn hiss, “should not be here!”
“Neither should you, you beasts, you echoes of the Dark Age!” Délin called. “Go back to the days when Molok claimed Iraldas as his domain, for you cling to a mockery of life, and you cleave to a forgery of triumph! Go back, I say, ere the light comes o’er the hills and smites you!”
“We,” the voice came, solemn, as if the last word of someone dying, and then deathly, as if many ghostly voices were joining its call, “are of the earth. We are of the soil. We are the kings of two kingdoms, stone and shadow, and lo! Here is the Dark Age anew, and there shall come a day when a black sun will rise and the light will flee beneath the stones. And there we will crush it!”
And so it seemed then that the final star in the sky was smothered and died out in the ink of the night. The Molokrán arose once more, taller than before, and came to write their own history of the earth in that ink, starting with the demise of those few fools who dared to wave a dim lantern before the darkness.
Then shock turned to awe for both parties, for Théos made a shout in the tongue of the Ferian: “Cué essáh Cerran!” His voice was sweet and tender, but there was a great fear in it, and yet beneath this layer of terror lay an even deeper emotion, one of ancient loathing. Suddenly it seemed as though a bell had tolled in the heavens and a memory had struck like a lightning flash.
The Molokrán ceased again, and it seemed to Ifferon that the other twelve looked to the Lichelord for advice, clearly unready for this strange foe. But the Lichelord needed no bell or flash to spark his memory, for his loathing was not only deep, it was palpable. He hissed and spit and snarled, and then he said: “But a boy, but a child. The shadow will have grown ere you come of age. Watch it grow!”
He raised his arms and claws high into the air and pushed forward, as if against some invisible wall. There was a tremor in the earth, and the stones that lay in a circle around the dolmen began to tremble and shake, as if they too feared the advancing shade. Again the Lichelord raised his arms and pushed forward, ignoring the cries of Délin and Herr’Don, who screamed: “Back, you beast! Back, devil! Back!” And again the stones shook and the ground about them began to crack and break. Once more the Lichelord pushed forth, and this time the stones rose into the air and moved closer to the company before settling in the ground again, hemming them in closer than before. The circle of their defence was now half its original size.
“The shadow chokes all life and light,” the Lichelord said. “Just as the Ardúnari have fallen to our might, so too do the Children of Telm crumble and their god-blood spill upon the land that is our home. Such is the reward of the Lighthand at the hand of the Shadow.”
Once again he raised his arms, but before he could push forth there was a tremor, only different in scale and feel. It felt like the deep rumbling of the belly of the hungry earth, and yet it spoke of a vast power that even the Lichelord could not amass to move the rocks. The dolmen shuddered and many in the company tripped or fell in the tumble, for it seemed as though the earth was rising right beneath their feet.
And so it was, for there was something sleeping beneath the dolmen that had not awoken for many years. It had heard the cries and shouts, and felt the rumble of dark powers. More than anything it sensed the Shadow fall upon it, and a great anger was arisen in its ancient heart. For it was a Mountain Moln, a creature of the earth from the days when the Molokrán were first created, for the Moln were Aelor’s answer to them, salvaging the dissipating power of the Aelora in their abandoned home of Ardún-Fé before Molok could build more of his ruined shadow race.
“Oh,” it said, yawning a deep and endless syllable. It turned its head, and there was the sound of crumbling boulders, and a shower of scree fell before it. It seemed for a moment that it did not notice them, for it turned this way and that and shifted slowly to its lumbering feet, great boulders supported by some will or magic that defied the eyes of Men. Then the small black coals of its eyes tightened and its brow furrowed like the crags upon a cliff face, sending another avalanche of crumbled stone to the ground. It had seen the company and it had seen the Molokrán.
“Go back to sleep!” the Lichelord hissed, and for a moment it seemed that his voice had penetrated the stone and numbed the Moln’s mind, for it drooped a little and seemed to grow dumb. But it fought the lure of the Lichelord’s voice and roused itself again, and then it gave forth a terrible howl, like a gale against a monolith; contained within that roar was a sound like a thousand years of erosion, and from its mouth broken rocks, stones and dust fell forth.
“Slumbering beast!” the Lichelord croaked. “You sleep while we stay ever lucid in the waking world, and who shall fade, Moln, when the end of days has come? Go back to your crib in the earth and dream an endless dream, for this is our domain now. You think you are strong, but you are no more than rock and stone, and that is my domain.”
He raised his hands again and pushed forth, as he had done with the Ilokrán, and now they rose again, and with them went the Moln, who was pushed back, and so it stumbled and collapsed backwards into a pile of rubble. Thus was this last defiance defeated, and the Lichelord turned his gaze upon Ifferon again, and it seemed to pierce him. The other Molokrán drew close once more.
But they did not expect what followed, for Ifferon did not cower, but spoke aloud. “You are faced with many powers here,” he said, taking the small Ilokrán from his pocket. He held it before the Lichelord, who flinched, but when he realised what it was he began an endless cackle. With a flick of a his shadowed claw he pulled the stone from Ifferon’s hand, casting it outside the safety of the stone circle.
“If a Greater Ilokrán can barely stop us, then what will a Lesser do?” the Lichelord mocked.
But Ifferon did not back down. “You have dared taunt us and push forth knowing well your peril. Yet you think of me as a coward—”
“You are a coward,” the Lichelord hissed.
“—but you have not yet seen me in my robe of glory.”
Suddenly it seemed that he grew and was almost the height of the Moln in the eyes of the Molokrán. “Dehilasü baeos!” he cried. The armour of Telm descended from the clouds in a column of light and steel, and it seemed to the Molokrán that they stood before Telm again, and they trembled, for stronger than the memory of the mind was the memory of the soul, and it remembered well the might of Telm the Lighthand, Warrior-king of the Céalari. “Avaunt!” Ifferon shouted, and his words were as the shattering of fearsome winds and the crashing of caustic waves upon a beaten shore. “Avaunt! Begone! Dehilasü baeos!”
And even more suddenly it seemed that a second light shone from Théos behind him, greater than the first, and there was the flash of lightning across the inkwell sky, setting the heavens alight and revealing a silhouette of white that stood like a giant behind the cleric, dwarfing even him, godly in stature as Telm himself.
The Molokrán recoiled within themselves, as if they tried to hide in their own shadow. They turned and fled back down the Hills to the gate they had come from. All was silent then, like the stillness that follows a rampant storm.
Ifferon turned and noted the expressions of awe upon his companion’s faces.
“Courage in a candle flame,” Herr’Don said, laughing. “More like conquest in a kindled fire. And lo, my friend, you are kindled, and what a fire you burn.”
Délin nodded. “Yes, yes, there is little question that the blood of Telm runs deep in your veins. And it seems to me that you are not the only Child of Telm among us.”
They turned to Théos, who sat upon the edge of the dolmen, clutching the pendant around his neck. He rocked back and forth and murmured something softly in his tongue.
“That was something strange he did back there,” Herr’Don said. “The Great might feel small to watch such feats.”
“Yes, yes, it seems Geldirana was right about his power
, but wrong to fear it,” Délin replied. “The riddle is answered then, for he is a god-child like Ifferon, which explains his escort.”
“But not why they died and he lived,” Herr’Don said.
“No,” Délin said solemnly. “That is true.”
“But come!” Herr’Don cried. “We have no time for riddles.”
“The boy is shaken,” Ifferon said. Délin wrapped his arm around Théos, but the boy ignored him. It reminded them all of how they found him on the Plains, for he was distant then. So he was, it seemed, again.
“We are all shaken,” Herr’Don observed. “Though I would have fought until the end with those beasts. But first I would like to know more of that Moln. What a fortune, it seemed to me, for one to arise at our very feet, and yet it seemed that it stood no chance against the Alar Molokrán.”
“Nay, for how could it against the Lichelord of the Blue Moon?” Délin said. “Of all matter to be made of, it is ill fortune to be made of stone when that foul fiend is abroad. But let us learn more of this Ilokamon, as we call them in Old Arlinaic, for it seemed to me that it was enraged by the sight of the Molokrán.”
“I know somewhat of the myths of them,” Ifferon said. “Golem they are sometimes called in the Common Tongue. Some Magi claim to have discovered, through the power of magic which Aelor gave to Iraldas, how to make a Moln. Indeed, it was said that Danarím, the first Magus, accomplished this, and that this is how he died, for he could not control the creature, and thus it slew him.”
“I do not doubt it,” Délin said, “for such is the reward of those who meddle in the affairs of the Céalari. If e’er a man wishes to create new life, let him find a wife and let them bring forth a child. Leave the Moln to Aelor, for no Magus may equal that Céalar’s power. But we tarry on a trifle. Let us see with our own eyes what has become of this Moln.”
They turned from the dolmen and made their way towards the heap of rocks a few yards away. At first glance it looked like another Ilokrán, but on closer inspection they noticed the features of its face beneath the rubble. It was still alive and looked out at them with eyes of the ancient world.
“Is there aught we can do?” Délin asked, though he dared not approach too closely, for fear of falling rocks. He held Théos back, who seemed curious about the creature. “You are noble of heart, I deem, and great in power. We share a common hatred of the Molokrán—”
With the mention of that name there came a deep and angry rumble in the mound. Stones shifted and a great hand of rock reached up from the ruin and pounded on the earth in fury. “Molokrânil! Moloschránin! Móllicerranath! Melerdrānad! Aí-Maalisrana! Mölisceraë! So the Shadow has a name in all the tongues of Iraldas. The earth quakes and the mountains rumble. May stones from the heaven come and smite the Shadowweavers and their kin.”
“Aye!” Herr’Don cried. “Let them be smitten!”
“Ever is the enemy of our enemy our friend,” Délin said. “We know not the policy of your people in the wars and troubles of the lands, and I cannot say that many in Arlin or Boror have heard of your plight against these foes. But we are great enemies of the Molokrán, sent by the Ardúnari to fulfil a quest against he who rules them and bends them to his will —the Beast Agon.”
There was another rumble, followed by the other mountain fist pummelling the earth like a war drum. The stones shook and crumbled, and the company stumbled and fell over.
“The earth is angry,” the Moln growled. “I am its spokesperson. I am the embassy of the earth, the ambassador of Iraldas. My name cannot be given in my true tongue, for it is the speech of the soil, which cannot be understood by the creatures that walk upon it. Thus shall I be known to you by the name of the dolmen where I awoke, for we are the Guardians of the Guardstones, and each dolmen here in Telarym acts as a door to the earth. Call me, therefore, Daenardü in the tongue of the Aelora, our sister race, for this is the Guardstone of the Dawnlight, though there is no longer any light here, nor dawn to start the day. That is why we have gone into hibernation, awaiting an age when the earth can be free again, with the flowers billowing in a gentle breeze, and the animals frolicking to and fro o’er green fields that span all that the eye can see, even eyes of coal and stone. Long has it been since Telarym was green; it has grown old and grey and withered, and the will for life has been sapped from it. Thus does it decay.”
“The Earth shall yet have a victory,” Délin said.
“Aye!” Herr’Don cried. “And evil shall know it by an earthquake!”
But the Moln did not share their enthusiasm. “The last earthquake in Iraldas came from—” and he made a deep and terrible rumble, “—him, the Beast, the Breaker of Foundations. Chains do not stop him from pummelling the ceiling of his prison, threatening his release, taunting his captors. There is not will enough left in the earth to threaten back. We shall sleep.”
“That may change,” Délin said. “We have not yet given up the blood in our bodies, so why should we give up the vigour in our hearts?”
“You are a small thing,” Daenardü said, the lids of his eyes growing heavy, as if he were to fall into another swoon of slumber. “You are a young thing. You fight for each day’s breath, because you have so few days to fight for. But we are eternal. We do not feel the burden of death weigh down on us as you do, and thus we do not fear that tomorrow will never come. Tomorrow is but a second in the ages of the earth, as fleeting as the lives of Man and Aelora, and even the Ferian, though they live on in trees. It is this fear of death that drives you to fight for each brief moment of life.”
“Yes, yes,” Délin said. “Because life is so precious. Even a second of it. Each fleeting breath. Is that not worth fighting for?”
The Moln shifted uneasily and made a booming sigh deep in the bowels of its being. “Is it worth dying for?” he asked. “Would it not be easier to go away somewhere, to hide, to hibernate, and live out what few moments of life you have?”
“It would be easier,” Délin said. “But it would not be right, nor true and honourable.”
The Moln seemed to be already falling back asleep. “Perhaps I would fight for life if I had less. Now I sleep. Yes. Sleep. Quite an effort to just ... stay awake. Sleep.”
“Wait!” Délin said. “Perhaps you can help us.”
“Help you?” the Moln quizzed. “I cannot help you fight. Too brief. Too passing. Is not worth it. Does not merit.”
“No, we do not need you to fight for us,” Délin explained.
“No? No fighting ...”
“Perhaps you know if someone passed this way? We are chasing someone.”
“He is a Summoner of the Beast,” Herr’Don said.
With that the Moln’s eyes widened again and he growled. “Summoner! Heave! I felt his evil, yes.”
“So he passed this way?” Délin asked.
“Yes, passed. Brief. Quick. Left a stench, left a reek of evil. Feared death. We could smell it off him. So very passing. So very brief.”
“I told you he went left,” Herr’Don said, clapping his hands together and beaming brightly.
“Do you know which way he went?” Délin asked. “Did he go further up the mountains?”
“Yes, further up. Higher. I can feel him now. The Old Temple. That is where he hides. That is where he hides from death.”
“He can hide,” Herr’Don said. “But I’ll be Death today, and I’ll come running. I’ll pull him out from whatever rock he trembles under, and he shall know a fear worse than death—the fear of the wrath of Herr’Don the Great!”
“You will not be the only one brandishing wrath today,” Délin said. “I only hope that Corrias guides my blade down the path of honour and virtue, for there shall be little mercy for the Summoner of Agon!”
“Sleep,” the Moln repeated, and this time he succumbed to the power of the word, for it seemed that he could not endure the vigour of their verse. He crumbled down into the earth, burying himself in the stone, and within moments there was little trace of the creat
ure at all.
“Come then!” Herr’Don said. “Get your blade ready, Ifferon. You are not a fighter, but who knows what this Summoner has up his sleeves. He may have a weapon not yet revealed.”
“We should all be wary,” Délin said. He turned to Théos and knelt before him. “I did not really want to bring you up here. It would have been better for you if you had gone to Boror with Adon.” The boy looked at him, confused and enthralled by the strangeness of his words. “There is so much danger, so much risk. It would be a cruel fate for me, an old man, to fight for life while you, a young boy, fight with death. And this, I believe, is where Corrias guides me, for wrath would have led me to ruin, but the necessity of caring for another leads me to caution. So caution is our road today. I shall be cautious for you, Théos.”
“Caution?” Herr’Don quizzed. “We have no time for caution, Délin! Already this Summoner has gotten the advantage. We let him run too long. It’s time to uproot every rock and scream aloud We’ve come to kill you!” He leapt upon the dolmen-stone, brandishing his blade and thumping his chest, and then he gave a roar that would have sent lions in flight.
Théos started to cry, backing away and lowering his eyes from the sight of the madness of Herr’Don. “Stop it, Herr’Don,” Délin said. “You are scaring him.”
“It is not enough until I strike fear into the hearts of all beings, be they Man or beast or lowly worm upon the soil. And that is what this Summoner is. A wriggling worm. Caution is cowardice that lets these worms out of our grasp!”
“Caution is courage guided,” Délin replied. “But you do yourself a disservice by proving the words of your father. Are you a madman, Herr’Don, or just a man?”
“You choose to lecture me now?” Herr’Don asked, jumping down from the dolmen and approaching the knight, who but stared deep and unmoving into the depths of his eyes. “It seems you have a lecture for everyone. Is Aralus a Nahamon? Am I a madman? Who can answer these things, so obvious as they are? But tell me, Délin, are you a knight or a mentor? Did you come with us to tell us what we are, or did you come with us because of what you are yourself?”
The Call of Agon: Book One of The Children of Telm Page 34