The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy

by Dean F. Wilson

  “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 at 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.

  “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. The golden-brown leaves sparkled and gleamed.

  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 stray Bull-men were slain or chased away, and Ifferon lifted Yavün up by the hand and brought him to the others. They gathered around the leading knight, who wore silver plate armour and a cloak of velvet blue. He rode up to them and shook his head.

  “Archery is a cowardly way of battle,” he chastised, looking at Thalla sharply before turning around and circling them on his horse. “The sword is the way and always has been.” The other knights murmured in agreement and then bowed, as if in prayer.

  “Who are you?” Herr’Don asked.

  “Who I am matters not,” the knight said. “Who are you?”

  “I am Herr’Don the Great, Prince of—”

  “Yes, yes, I know you,” the knight interrupted. He stopped his horse and climbed down with a clang. He sheathed his sword and took off his plumed helmet, revealing a tight white haircut and beard, and careful blue eyes bearing solemn wisdom.

  Herr’Don’s mouth dropped, and he gulped before speaking. “Trueblade,” he said.

  “Yes, yes,” the knight said quickly. “Délin Trueblade is my knightly name, appointed to me in the name of the Lady Issarí, though Délin De’Marius is the name which Arlin, our Motherland, has given me. I am the Seventy-seventh Keeper of the Lake, and newly-appointed Lord of Ciligarad near Loch Nirigán, where lies our good Lady, fair and bright.” He then looked from Herr’Don, who remained in stunned silence, to the others. “Now, tell me, Herr’Don—who are your wandering companions?”

  “Oh,” Herr’Don said, regaining his wits. “This—”

  “Yavün Arri is my name,” Yavün said, stepping forward and extending his hand. “I’m a poet and newly-minted adventurer.”

  Délin did not shake his hand, but stared at the youth for a moment. Yavün retracted his hand and stepped back, embarrassed.

  “You were the one who was injured,” the knight said. “How is your wound?”

  “Oh, just some bruises. I’ll be fine.”

  “Hmm, good. But you look like a cleric to me,” the knight said with a hint of contempt. “A cleric of Olagh, if I know his seal.” He turned to Ifferon. “And you,” he said sharply. “Another one! Herr’Don, what is your game?”

  “None, good sir,” Herr’Don replied. “I am merely passing through Arlin with my companions. We came from Larksong, which was attacked by ships from the South—from Nahlin, Trueblade. I brought these two here through Ardún-Fé, where we met Melgalés and my beloved—”

  “Melgalés?” Délin quizzed. “I have not seen or heard from him in a long time. Arlin has grown weary of magic, knowing well what it does to the short-lived Aelora in the North, and Melgalés is a queer sort, one of those Ardúnari if I remember well. The last female knight we had in our Order was an Ardúnar. Beléin was her name, though she met her end in the Dungeons of Ardún-Fé when she tried to liberate the Damned Lands. I warned her against it, knowing well the evil that dwells there, but she was, Ardúnar or not, as stubborn as a Moln, and so she wandered off alone. Some madness beset her ere she made her journey, there is no doubt, but what madness beset you to think of travelling that land?”

  “Melgalés is a Magus,” Herr’Don said. “Well ... he was ...” Thalla looked away, tears forming quickly in her eyes.

  “Was?” the knight asked. “Do not say that ill has become of him!”

  “It has though,” Herr’Don replied. “And strangely too, for he knew those lands well, and he was well-accustomed to battle and flight. Some strange evil beset us from the outset, and, indeed, it forced us to travel through Ardún-Fé, and here to Arlin.”

  “Yes, yes, a queer force is abroad,” Délin observed. “And, indeed, a queer company is abroad here too, it seems, for it has been some time since we saw a group like yours in Arlin.”

  “Sire,” a voice came from behind them. A knight rode up to him and glanced at Ifferon and the others before returning his honoured stare to Trueblade. “Our band has tracked down the nearby Shoradoni camp and laid waste to it. It smokes now, in the name of the Lady Issarí and Lord Corrias.”

  “Lamar í Lamon! Good, Brégest,” Trueblade said, and he turned and mounted his horse, which neighed and bore him to the edge of the clearing, where Herr’Don stood, staring at his idol.

  Herr’Don walked up to join him, but Trueblade drew his sword quickly and held it before the advancing prince, barring his path.

  “I will lead,” the knight said. “You are in Arlin now, and by Arlin’s rules you shall obey, Herr’Don of Boror.” He sheathed his sword again and rode on towards his fellow knights. He turned and beckoned. “Come, I shall bring you to the closest town for food and rest, for ne’er do the Knights of Issarí let the lost wander and the hungry starve.”

  * * *

  They followed, by foot, for there were no other horses, and the current steeds were already carrying enough with the heavy armour of the knights. The company did not complain, however, not even Herr’Don, who was silently nursing his battered ego.

  After a time, Délin asked Herr’Don to join him at the front of the group, and the prince did not need to hear the command a second time; he trotted up like a loyal horse of his own.

  “So, Herr’Don,” the knight said. “What is your true business here in Arlin?”

  “As I said before, we are but passing through.”

  “On your way where, I wonder?”

  “Back to Boror, if we can.”

  “It seems a queer game to come from Boror into Arlin only to go back to Boror again. Not even a Dolmor map gives such poor directions. Are you certain there is no other reason, Herr’Don?”

  “Well,” Herr’Don started, his voice low, “Melgalés felt very strongly about getting us out of Boror.”

  “Even if it meant travelling to Ardún-Fé?”

  “Yes, very much so. I think he was actually going to lead us into Arlin, and possibly up to Caelün, for he has—sorry, had—many Aelora friends, and through Ardún-Fé is the fastest route. I doubt he anticipated what followed at all.”

  “How seemingly unwise of him,” Délin said, “knowing what those lands are like, and what queer tools of divination he has at his disposal. Some great fear must have moved him to consider such a reckless retreat to our lands.”

  “Well it would have taken at least two weeks to travel the line of the Border where the Wall of Atel-Aher blocks our way. Enemy forces ravage Boror as we speak, so Ardún-Fé was but one choice of many evils, though the swiftest at that.”

  “You know that truth is a virtue here,” Délin said. “And I am loyal to it. But I do not believe you are.”

  Herr’Don was taken aback. He had no words to parry Délin’s, so he kept the shield of silence.

  “The cleric,” Délin continued, “the real one, the one with his hair cut to the skull. What is he doing here? I thought I heard you call him by a familiar name, but I thought my ears were deceiving me.”

  “Ah,” Herr’Don said. “I guess our purpose is made clearer.”

  “Not really, but your companions are. Is that really Ifferon? Is that really him?”

  “Yes, that’s him all right,” Herr’Don said. “Not quite what I expected from the tales, but with most of the Children of Telm long dead now I guess he’s the best we’ve got.”

  “Better than Herr’Don?”

  “Hardly,” the prince scoffed. “Better at reading from the Olaghris, perhaps.”

  The knight tutted and shook his head.

  “My apologies,” Herr’Don said. “I keep forgetting what land I’m in. Next I’ll be uttering spells from a Magus-tome.”

  “You are lucky you walk with me then,” Délin said, and Herr’Don did not deny it, “for I am more broad of mind than many of my fellows on these things. I met Melgalés once here in Arlin. I do not know why he came here, nor what he finds in magic, for even the Aelora can barely tame it. I respect him, but I do not like his art. Yet you speak with great defence for this Magus.”

  “Aye, but I must, True
blade, for I trusted greatly in his skill, and am not but a little disturbed by his death, which seemed so sudden. My faith in him also comes from faith in my good lady Thalla.”

  “Ah, so this is where that river of magic runs!” the knight said. “Love is a great temptress and a hindrance to proper sight in darkened times.”

  “Perhaps,” Herr’Don acknowledged. “But I think it offers the light of hope to stay that darkness. Have you not desired love?”

  “Desired, yes, but sought, no. I am a knight, Herr’Don. Love, marriage and children are not within my duty, and my duties are many in these dark days. This is partly why you are not a knight, Herr’Don, even if you hailed from Arlin, for you do not have the discipline for our world. Do not take that as a dismissal of your character, of course, for I know that you are a knight in your own way—of Boror, that is, and I do not blame you your oddities, knowing well your kin.”

  “I could say the same for Arlin!” Herr’Don said with a chuckle. “After all, we both share the same heritage. I would that both lands were still one now, for we would both be the better for it.”

  “True as my name,” Délin said, growing solemn.

  * * *

  Silence took them then and cradled them in its all-encompassing grasp. They covered many miles at a gentle pace, though the company who were not riding soon grew tired, for the ground was uneven and did not bear their feet kindly, no matter how fair the wood appeared.

  “We shall rest here for the night,” Délin said, nearing a clearing that Ifferon suspected they had rested in the night before. Délin dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby tree, and the other knights followed suit.

  “What about other Shoradoni?” Thalla asked.

  “Surely you can turn them into toads!” the knight said, smiling. “You are a Magus after all, are you not? Last I heard, Melgalés did not take students.”

  “I do not have a Beldarian yet,” she said. “I am still an Apprentice—and toads would be a little out of my reach, even then.” Ifferon wondered if she felt like turning the knight into one anyway.