“What does that mean now that Melgalés is gone?” Délin asked. “Will you get a new mentor, a new Master Magus?” Thalla did not answer, but turned away, so he returned to the original subject. “The Bull-men have been rounded up and slaughtered. If any survived long enough to flee, and I doubt any have in this vicinity, then you can rest assured that they will not be bothering us this eve. The Shoradoni know well to fear the Knights of Issarí.”
* * *
They sat in a small cluster away from the main group of knights, who continued to give them troubled stares and anxious glances, as if they felt that their very presence was a threat to them or their country. Herr’Don sat close to Thalla, his arm around her, though she still seemed far away. Ifferon sat across with Yavün, whom he saw staring at the woman from time to time.
There was a bout of whispers from the knights and then Trueblade came over with a clang of his armour. “It would seem we only have these rations, for we did not expect so many.”
“You were expecting us?” Ifferon asked.
“Yes, yes, indeed. Scouts from Mariar spotted you at Tol-Timíl a night back, so we stayed here in Alimstal. We suspected you would come here, being the closest to that tower. And lo, here you are! We did not need to be Magi for that prophecy.” He paused to hand them each a small cloth bag of food. Ifferon stared at it for a moment; it was brown and plain, and by the feel of it contained little more than dry biscuits. He did not like the look or feel of rations, for they were always a symbol of war. “We keep a watch on any who enter our land,” Trueblade continued. “And Bororians coming through Ardún-Fé is news enough for us.”
“I suppose it is,” Ifferon acknowledged.
“I did not like that tower,” Herr’Don said. “It gave me a strange feeling.”
“Yes, yes, Tol-Timíl is a queer place,” Délin said. “The Knights of Issarí held it and guarded the land from Ardún-Fé, back in elder days. It has long been in ruin. Yet something still lingers there that repels the evil of the Damned Lands, some spirit that dwells there still, all eyes and ever watchful. It has meant that few creatures from Ardún-Fé ever come near Arlin. Likewise with the Shoradoni of Alimstal and even our people, who speak of the Tower-ghost and other such tales.”
“I think I know why so few dare approach the Tower,” Herr’Don said. “We discovered a Kalakrán beneath its foundations, and I’m not entirely sure that chance guided our discovery.”
“No, I do not think so either,” Délin said. “But I already know of that Kalakrán, for it was my great-grandfather who led the siege against it, and he was but a newly-minted knight, barely come of age. And my grandfather destroyed a second Kalakrán at the Geladilok Mines near Loch Bistír. So is it that the Knights of Issarí have kept Arlin free from this scourge, but the very taint of their ruined temples is enough to keep us ever vigilant.”
“Valour is in your blood,” Herr’Don said, with so much wonder in his voice that he seemed almost like Yavün for a moment. “It seems that you were fated for greatness, just as I was.”
The knight chuckled. “You cheer even the most solemn of hearts, Herr’Don. Arlin would do well to have you, were it in our reach to knight you.”
“A kind offer,” Herr’Don replied, attempting to conceal his widening smile. “But I am a knight at heart already.”
“Without a doubt,” Délin said. “Now, eat and rest, for we have many a mile yet to travel ere we reach Calnibur.”
“You are taking us there?” Herr’Don quizzed. “Why not Ciligarad?”
“We shall go to my city, do not worry, but Calnibur is much closer, and I hope that we can acquire more food and horses there for the rest of our journey. The blessings of Corrias and Issarí upon you all! Lamon í Lamar!”
* * *
And so they tucked into a dreamless slumber, bar Ifferon, who dreamed strange and unsettling things. Wisps of grey circled about and formed what appeared to be a window or a portal into some strange world, and he felt as though he was watching some event transpire, as if he were a god upon a throne in the clouds, peering down on the world below, on the people going to and fro, oblivious to the eyes above.
There was a flicker of a jewel which seemed to rise into the air and then fall again upon a dark and sullied ground, and there it lay in shadow until a searching hand came forth and seized it. The jewel glinted and there were starry eyes within it, peering out, or through, as if it were another portal. Then a fire fumed and flowed like lava, as if beneath the surface of the jewel, and it was borne around the neck of the man who had seized it. There was then a deathly cry, shrill upon the air, and taken by the wind to lands that no living man has seen.
And there was a feeling of waiting, of the passing of days and the slow monotonous beating of the heart fulfilling its course. Night followed day that followed night, and stars expired to form new stars, and the sun died each night to be reborn anew in the morning. All the while a man of fire sat waiting, in limbo and solitude, staring out from his fiery prison. He waited for what the gods had planned.
IX – OF KNIGHTS AND LADIES
They were awoken early the next morning by Délin and his fellow knights, all of whom were fully dressed. Ifferon wondered if they always slept with their armour on, as they seemed to have done the night before, but his musings were soon cut off by the strong authority in Délin’s voice.
“Come, people of Boror,” he said. “You may eat as you walk. I would have us reach Calnibur ere night falls again. Indeed, we would be resting there now if we were riding, but unless the good Magus Thalla can summon some invisible horses for you, I think walking is the way for now.” He saw the sharp look that Thalla gave him and added: “I jest, good lady! Now, come quickly, for the edge of the Forest is near, but Calnibur is many miles across empty land.”
They packed quickly and travelled swiftly, eating as they went—bar the knights, who rode aloft, yet at a gentle pace, and did not eat and seldom spoke, for many of them were newly-minted and were thus vowed to silence and fasting for the first hours of each day.
This part of the forest seemed less tightly packed with trees and bushes, and the ground was well-trodden to form a path from the knights’ many travels. It also seemed to slope downwards, which made their journey considerably easier, a fact that was audible from their many contented sighs.
At one point Délin rode up beside Ifferon and spoke to him away from the others. “Do you always speak queer things in your sleep?” he asked. “Or any thing at all, for that matter?”
Ifferon was perplexed. “I do not understand what you mean.”
“Last night,” the knight explained, “you spoke some queer things. Mostly mumblings and murmurings, little of which I caught or could comprehend, but I did catch one word. A name, rather.”
“Oh? What was it?”
“Melgalés.”
Silence fell swiftly like the blade of a guillotine, and Ifferon felt a shiver crawl its way up his spine. “Are you sure?” he managed after some time.
“Yes, yes, I am. It seemed as though you shouted it amidst your other ramblings.”
“What else did I say? Did you catch any of it?”
“No, nothing more than that name, though you rambled quite a bit—in foreign tongues, I thought, at one point. Certainly not the Common Tongue, nor Bororian or Old Arlinaic. Queer tongues, if you ask me, but then talking in your sleep is also a queer thing.”
“Perhaps I was reliving the past events in my dream?”
“Perhaps,” Délin said, though he seemed doubtful. “I do not meddle much with the dream world. A queer place it is. Melgalés was also a queer man, if you ask me, so it does not necessarily surprise me that he would be popping up in people’s dreams—yours least of all.”
“How come everyone here seems to know a bit about me, even things I do not know myself?” Ifferon asked.
“Ah, do not be so suspicious, friend. Many know less than they pretend, and others know more than they put on, but that matters little,
for all hear the rumours that are rampant in this world. And who would not want to hear them? Tales of the bloodline of Telm still running strong are comforting to even the most doubtful of hearts.”
“But they are just rumours,” Ifferon said, knowing well that they were not.
“Are they now?” Délin asked, smiling. “I do wonder, Ifferon. Anyhow, it matters a lot less than you might think whether the rumours are true or not. Comfort is comfort, and it is a blanket we have done without for many years, so I warrant it will not be abandoned so quickly now, whether there is truth or not in the claim. Yet the truth has a way of finding its voice in the end, whether we will it or not, and I will it with every breath.
“But perhaps a part of you does not doubt, Ifferon, because your body must know your blood, even if your mind does not. Otherwise you would not be travelling to Telarym to stop the Call of Agon, for what good are those without the blood of gods in such dark places as Nahragor?”
“So you know our mission,” Ifferon said.
“I have asked many questions of you all,” Délin replied, “but the answers came from conversations made in whispers. I might wear a helm of metal, but I can still hear well enough, and my men know that those who march into Telarym do so with a purpose. If it is the will of Issarí I will know that purpose, and if it is the will of Corrias I will see it done.”
* * *
They continued on, and it took a long while yet before Délin remarked that they were near Calnibur, and time further still before they could see the walls of the city and then the Many Mountains that stood like stone giants behind.
The city itself was no more than a village of intersecting streets and houses, but with a slanted wall around. Many small houses lined the outside hills, and a few mills and farms could be seen with crops blowing in the gentle wind. Darkness was upon them, and Ifferon could make out little of the city itself that lay within those walls, but as they came close and passed two farmers, who stopped their work to stare, a gate with portcullis and two small, half-made towers loomed up. It seemed to Ifferon that the gateway had just been constructed and the towers were still being made. Indeed, the closer they came, the clearer they could see the wooden scaffolding, along with the small figures of men hammering and lifting bricks and wood.
“Calnibur!” Délin said. He removed his helmet and smiled broadly. “They are doing well, do you not think? The orders for the towers were just given a week or so ago. But they will need more than splinted pikes and palisades if they are attacked ere long.”
With that, Ifferon noticed the small figures upon the parapets, staring out from the slits in the walls. The walls were not that tall, but their slope would allow a fair amount of boiling oil to be poured down, that is if they were meant to be sloped and not a defect from inexperienced builders. The towers were only slightly taller than the walls, but the gate looked strong, and the open portcullis looked sharp and dangerous.
“Come, my friends,” Délin called. “We sleep well tonight, and warm food for all!” He rode forward and the others followed. They passed over a weak wooden panel on the ground, perhaps the old defence door, and then two spear-armed guards stepped forward with a cling of their chainmail.
“Halt,” one said. “Who goes there?” They looked at Délin and bowed slightly. “Trueblade? Is that you? Ah, it’s been long since you’ve been here! We’ve grown to miss your counsel. The barracks needs a good man like you, and the people need you even more. Morale is low, though the construction is going well enough.”
“Bringrid, my old friend,” Délin said. “I have been off in Alimstal again, and here, I bring Bororians back with me.”
“Bororians?” Bringrid asked. “That is some find.” The other man backed away.
“Yes, yes, it is, and an important one by the looks of it. The sole survivors of an attack on Larksong and a journey through the Damned Lands.”
“Important they are then! You may pass, but don’t expect the greatest of welcomes from Celsingrid. He’s much too set in his ways to accept Bororians, no matter their worth.” The other man looked at him, and them, harshly.
Délin nodded and they passed through. Ifferon looked up as they went under the portcullis. The giant iron spikes on the end seemed lethal, though he did not tarry to find out. He watched the small holes in the ceiling further on, where playful children peeped down, and where no doubt a last defence could scald or batter invaders down below.
The inside of the walls was much the same as the outside, except there were more houses, a well near the entrance, and a larger, faded white building at the far end, a miserable attempt at a keep. The villagers inside stopped their work and stared at them for a moment, but when Délin gave them a stern glance, they returned to their duties.
* * *
The company followed Délin up a long, well-marked path to the great door of the keep. It was guarded by two tall statues, twice the size of men, one on each side of the doorway, standing upon large stone slabs. The keep was worn, and looked as though it had seen too many years of rain and snow. Its walls were cracked and its roof was weathered, supported by what Ifferon could only deem was pure will alone. The statues looked in better order, he mused, though he felt too uncomfortable to say it. The keep was almost like a converted stable, and may have been when first built, though it was evident that there were no horses in Calnibur now, bar the ones which Délin and his knights had brought, which the people of the town seemed to look upon unfavourably. On the eastern side of the keep there were many men who were at work building a wall there, though even that looked like a meagre defence.
The wooden door was unguarded until Délin banged at it, and a nearby man, who was helping with the fortification, stepped up and came to him. He seemed the most unlikely of guards, small in build, with barely more than a piece of worn leather armour for protection. “Hello there,” he said. “You wish to see Celsingrid?”
“Yes, yes” Délin replied. “May we pass?”
“I must first tell him who you are.”
“Délin Trueblade of Ciligarad, and this—”
“Trueblade!” the man gasped. “Ah, it has been long since we have seen you or your fellow knights here.”
“The greater good of Arlin called me. I have been preoccupied with training new knights in Alimstal, and fighting small battles in the towns on the outskirts.”
“Ah yes, we’ve also been working on our defences, as you can see. It is a dark and trying—”
“May we pass?” Délin repeated, glancing at the man. “Arlin still calls me.”
“Oh, yes, my Lord. I will tell Lord Celsingrid that you are here. One moment.” The man disappeared inside the keep, and there the others could hear him muttering, and could hear the veiled replies of Celsingrid, who did not sound pleased.
The villagers’ intent gazes were unsettling. Some of the workmen had ceased their labour entirely, devoting their full attention to the strangers and their knightly escort. Some whispered about the curse of horses, while others talked of wildmen from the south in hushed voices. Women stood by the doors of their houses, their hands resting on the shoulders of their children, and everywhere in the town a silence hung, as if by a slowly tightening noose.
“I’m not sure I like it here,” Herr’Don said at last.
“I’ve never liked it here,” Brégest said.
“I’ve never seen so many gawking eyes,” Yavün whispered, afraid there might be many straining ears as well.
“’Tis always like this,” Brégest said, looking to Délin.
“Yes, yes, Calnibur the Cold Town, some call it,” Trueblade told them. “My own town of Ciligarad is far warmer a place.” The other knights nodded keenly.
“Celsingrid is not much of a leader,” Brégest stated.
“Hardly a leader at all,” another knight added, and there was disgust in his voice, as if the very name was a poison to be spit upon the soil.
“He will bring ruin to Calnibur,” a third said. “And ruin is
coming quickly.”
“Yes, yes, my Brothers,” Délin said. “Yes, yes, indeed. Though let us not bring such ruin upon ourselves by speaking too much ill of the one we are about to ask for lodging. At least not within shot of his ears, eavesdropper that he is.”
The doors opened again and the guard popped his head out. “This way, Lord Trueblade. Celsingrid will see you now.”
They followed the scrawny figure through the darkness of the main chamber, walking upon a worn carpet and glancing at ugly depictions upon tapestries and paintings. Four pillars held the creaking roof up, and there, before them in a wooden chair inset with silver, was Celsingrid, a tall man, with long brown hair and a thick, tangled beard. His eyes were dark, and he wore a silver pendant and a red cloak. His boots were shining. He wore no smile.
“Trueblade!” he barked. “At last you come before me again, and who with, I wonder?”
“You know some of them already,” Délin said.
“Yes, I do, but do I know their reason for being here, or yours for that matter?” Celsingrid replied. “Do hurry. I am in no mood to entertain unwelcome guests.”
“We’re here to ask for a place to stay the night. We have journeyed hard from Alimstal and are on our way to Ciligarad,” Délin told him.
The muscles in Celsingrid’s face tightened. “A place to stay the night? Do I look like an innkeeper, Délin?”
“No, but I would have thought a fellow Lord of the Land would offer shelter for his kin.”
“You were wrong, then, Trueblade,” Celsingrid sneered. “I’m afraid all our inns and houses are full.”
“And your Hall?” Herr’Don asked, stepping forward. Délin held his arm out to stop him advancing further.
Celsingrid almost growled. “My Hall is just that—my Hall! I make it available for no one.”
“I see that clearly now,” Délin observed. “I expected better of you, Lord Celsingrid.”
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 12