The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy

by Dean F. Wilson

  And then he felt it—something at his chest. For a brief moment he sat in paralysed silence, his breathing heavy. When at last he looked down, he gave a great sigh of relief, though it did not bring the comfort it should. About his neck he wore the Beldarian, the strange enchanted pendant that Melgalés wore. He could not remember how he got it or how he got to where he was sitting now. The memory was not there, as if it had been taken and hidden by higher powers. He tried to find it, searching the alleyways of his mind, but all he found was a sadness that was not his own.

  Words welled up deep inside and he began to feel a presence within him, yearning to speak. It spoke of Melgalés:

  I knew this Magus not for long,

  But in those moments I knew then

  That he deserved a fitting song

  For uncrowned kings and sons of Men.

  For in this weak world he was strong,

  Such strength in one that was in ten.

  Perhaps he did not here belong

  And in his land sets foot again.

  For from a distant land he came,

  And in his heart a fire burned—

  I saw the waning of that flame,

  From a distant land now returned.

  And there it was, a glimpse of something else, something hidden: a great fire raged beneath the earth, burning all it touched, and there was someone falling into the flame, as if dropped from a plank into a fiery sea. But he was of fire, so he did not burn into ash, but arose like a phoenix, dripping embers. And it was one great baptism of fire as the figure arose from the inferno, looking out and bellowing forth with a voice of earthquakes and thunder—a voice that was directed to Yavün.

  * * *

  “The trail ends here,” Herr’Don said, shaking his head. “But there are other marks, strange marks on the trees. I’ve seen them in the Rotwood, though here they are less pronounced. There are scorch marks all across the bark, as if fingers of flame were dragged across them.”

  “Perhaps they will lead us to him?” Ifferon ventured.

  “Perhaps,” the prince replied, looking around. “But I can’t be sure of that. Look! Over here, more marks upon the trunks, and the ground is charred, as if a forest fire raged here—but it did not, for the trees are still alive, if anything in the Rotwood can be called that.”

  “Will we follow this trail?” Ifferon asked, wondering if Herr’Don was really trying to find the youth at all. “He could have been taken this way by ... by some creature of the wood.”

  Herr’Don shook his head. “No. At least, I hope not. I would not have much faith for anyone taken in these lands. We have yet to leave Ardún-Fé, and this place is cursed almost beyond that of Telarym, which is saying something indeed!”

  “But why would he have wandered off like that?” Thalla asked, the first words she had spoken since Melgalés’ passing. Concern for Yavün was like a comfort from the grief.

  “That,” Herr’Don said, raising his hand, “I would like to know. Come! We’ll follow this trail north. If naught else, it will lead us out of Ardún-Fé and into the lands of our brothers in Arlin. My heart yearns greatly for a sky more blessed and a soil less forsaken.”

  And so they ventured on, far from the graveyard of trees into a basin of dry and empty plains, following a trail that had long since burned out. But the flames of hope still flickered in them, if only to stay the darkness of doubt. Ifferon tried not to think, tried to resist the lure of dark thoughts in the evil laneways of the mind—but his efforts were almost as monumental as those of trudging across a barren land with a body barren of the energy to do so.

  It took another hour to reach the borderlands, and from there they could see the giant wall far off to their left, the Wall of Atel-Aher, so named for the last King of Arlin, who succumbed to madness after the death of his only son.

  “How terrible a sight this is,” Herr’Don said, “to see something so beautiful and formidable as this wall—and to feel so vulnerable and unprotected by it. It is indeed an evil fate that caused the building of this, separating our two nations and throwing us into hatred and suspicion of each other. What brother was born with a dagger at the throat of his twin?”

  Ifferon looked at the Wall as they neared it, watching as the dull white rose into the air like a mountain of cloud. But this was no sentinel of the sky—it was a fortress wall, a great barrier built to keep the people within Arlin safe, and to keep something out. The Wall spanned for miles, lining the border between Arlin and Boror, but as soon as it reached the realm of Ardún-Fé it ceased, for as the builders laid the foundation an earthquake struck and tore it apart, and again until wise men came and proclaimed the land accursed. There, even today, lay the ruins of what might have been an even stronger part of the Wall, cracked and broken, and covered with twisted weeds. And so the Tower of Tol-Timíl was built nearby, and it was known as the Elé Anar, the White Watcher, for it was there that the Knights of Issarí kept their guard against the evil of Ardún-Fé. But that too fell into ruin as the weary Knights became distracted from their duty, and the White Watcher became dormant, so that its eyes were dulled into slumber. What great shadow took it then was the realm of tales few bards would tell.

  “The Wall is battered,” Thalla said solemnly, and Ifferon did not think of Atel-Aher’s barricade, but of the walls of Thalla’s heart, which were undoubtedly under strain.

  “Yes,” Herr’Don said. “Arlin has had its own troubles, no doubt, though I’m not sure if they post guards here any more. This place looks desolate.”

  “I hope it is the same for the enemies of Arlin,” Ifferon said.

  “Let us hope, my friend, let us hope. Things would be much fresher here if there was a recent fight, so take comfort in that.”

  “I cannot take comfort, for always I wonder if the fight is yet to come.”

  “Aye, and it shall come,” Herr’Don said solemnly, yet with a hint of glee at the thought, “but if we are to lose a battle, let us lose it then instead of now. Keep faith in the movement of your legs if it will not dwell in your heart.” The prince placed his hand on Ifferon’s shoulder and smiled. “Come, the trail continues still,” he said, turning away and glancing at more scorch marks on the ground. “But it appears that Yavün may have stopped here too.”

  The tower rose before them, tall and daunting. It seemed to go endlessly upwards, but when Ifferon strained his eyes he could see that it was ruined at the top where it met the clouds. He recalled the tales that it was struck by lightning, or that it was a pawn that fell from a god’s chessboard, breaking as it hit the earth. Its walls sparkled like the Wall of Atel-Aher, undoubtedly made from the same mystical stone that the Alchemists of Arlin kept closely guarded.

  “I wonder what Yavün is doing now,” Thalla said, her eyes set upon the looming Tower, her hands fidgeting with the collar of her robe. “I hope he’s safe. I hope he hasn’t ... I hope he’s safe.”

  * * *

  A fire roared in Yavün’s mind, like a lion announcing its dominion there. A streak of red and yellow flashed across his eyes, and for a moment he thought he was blinded, for there was darkness. Then, whether before his very eyes or as some trick within his mind, he saw a single flame, as if it were dancing upon the tip of a candle. This candle was the tower of Tol-Timíl, and the flame was something that was more than fire.

  I am the spark in my consummation, a voice bellowed, and with it Yavün felt an immense power well up, stronger than flame. This is the link in the chain of my life, the stone of the fool who knows not how to cleave it in two. While it is one, I will be one, and we will be one together. Cleave it asunder and I will be two for a moment, while the cleaving takes its toll. The toll will be as a bell to the daring and a thunder to the waiting. Then I will be undone, and you will know me by my true name in the Hall of the Wise beyond the Gate of Judgement where the Gatekeeper has his watch.

  “Who are you?” Yavün asked, unsure if he had used his physical voice. “What play of forces is this?”


  Celestial chess is not of my making, no. I am a fire that was given a body. Now I am but a fire again. By my will are the waters of your mind parted, as with fire. When you were born, the window of your will was firmly shut, and you were as one pulled by the strings of the gods. Now that the Vials of Wrath have been unleashed upon Iraldas from he that we call Agon, the Celestials believed not all windows should remain shut. This is the time of your consummation, Yavün Arri, Avatar of Ariavar, for you wear the skin of a stableboy just as a sheep wears its wool. Shake off your blindness and be reborn as a lion in the fire!

  Then suddenly blackness swept in again, as if to quench this flame, and a chillness followed, like creeping icy claws. The wind swept up and the frosty fingers brushed against Yavün’s skin, icicle nails digging deep beneath the surface. The darkness seemed to shimmer in his vision, as if it were not of all one black, but different shades that competed for dominance. Shadows bobbed and danced, like cool waves on a dark and empty ocean. And then the blacks began to pale, as if some new wave had entered. Greys washed past his eyelids, dark at first, but soon they lightened until vague shapes appeared.

  And then the fear came. Quick, like one great tsunami, panic swept against the shores of Yavün’s mind. The heavy silence that had preceded was pressed now by a sharp racing of his thoughts—and of thoughts he knew were not his own.

  Heed them not, came the volcanic voice from earlier. They are Spectres and no more. They have no physical form in which to harm you, and have so very little in them of spirit that they are almost non-existent but for the belief in them by Men, who believe in them because they fear them. A shadow can only be present with light. I am that light, Yavün, yes, and while you are in my presence (and so you shall be, for a time to come), they shall have no true power but that which you afford them. Yet pay heed, for the window is now open, so while it is open to me, it is also open to them. Make special care not to let them in!

  There was a blinding flash, and all was white for a time. Then the light softened until Yavün saw again that he was sitting on the Tower of Tol-Timíl, and the evil presence was washed away like shells upon a ravaged shore.

  * * *

  “There is something amiss here,” Herr’Don said, his hand pressed firmly against the handle of his sword. They neared the steps of the tower, dazzled by its luminosity.

  “Look, there is a door in the wall over there,” Thalla said, pointing to a small wooden door reinforced with metal and chains. It looked as though it would weather a hundred storms and a thousand battering fists, but as they approached they realised that the hinges had become loose, that the seemingly impenetrable door was but a front, a remnant of the days when Tol-Timíl really was the great watchtower of the ancient world. Herr’Don placed his hand against the door; it creaked loudly and fell suddenly inwards. It collapsed with a monumental thud, sending a spray of dirt and dust upon the onlookers outside. Herr’Don coughed and spat, wiping the muck from his face and clothes.

  “I can’t imagine anyone is home,” he said, rubbing his sleeve across his mouth. “Or that Yavün would have come in here. Although ... a dark hole makes a great resting place for a rat.”

  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 the telling of Herr�
�Don the Great’s history of Iraldas not a distraction from darkness?”

  “He's 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.