She had no hair, but upon her head, or perhaps from it, came a crown of icy blades, icicles of white and lightest blue. They spread from her head, giant and perilous, until they trickled down the side of her face into smaller sizes. She wore a silver circlet underneath, and sparkling blue light fell upon it and the large crystal jewel it held. Her eyes were a deep and vibrant blue, and so too were her icy lips. Her face was as snow, and her eyebrows were tiny droplets of frozen water. Her ears were in the shape of droplets, and her stare was eager. Two tears fell from her eyes eternally, as if she had long spent crying. She looked upon them with that potent gaze.
“Like the parting of the waters and the pressing of the rain, I am come,” she bellowed, her voice pounding and resonating, like the voice of many waters, the sound of the sea in its uproar. It was as if it were suddenly rushing up to them in giant waves from afar, strong and ominous. It made them quiver.
The knights looked upon her for a single moment of rapture and wonder, and then bowed quickly and deeply.
“I,” she began, her voice containing the countless years of the seas breaking upon the shore, and the gentle trickle of streams, and the unrelenting pound of waterfalls, “am Issarí, Queen of the Waters and Goddess of the Sea. I rule the rain and the rivers, and I am sovereign in the realm of brook and stream and ice and wave. Who are you to come before my feet like drops from the smallest shores? What is your errand, and whom do you serve, the Darkness of the Beast or the Light of your Lord and Lady?”
“Hail Lady Issarí! I am Délin De’Marius, knight of your most blessed Order and Lord of the town of Ciligarad which has long been as your footstool, in service to your most sacred light. I come with friends for counsel and blessings, and ever do I bow before your light, blessed Lady, and that of Lord Corrias, fair and just!”
“Trueblade,” she said, as if musing on the name, or looking back through her many centuries in Iraldas to find some memory of him. “You were a boy when last I appeared in full form to you, though oft have I graced your dreams and listened to your fervent prayers. Hail to you, fair and just, for you truly are a knight of my Order.
“And you,” she said, turning to Ifferon, and her turn was like the churning of grave waters against a crumbling coast; the erosion of years happened in a moment before his very eyes. “I know your journey, for I have seen it from the window at the depths of the sea. Yet from there I have also seen the stirring of a Summoner in the south, who would make the Call of Agon and see the Beast unchained. The Call must be answered with the Last Words. And so I bid you go to Nahragor, Ifferon, where a great battle awaits, and where the future of us all shall be decided.
“The Aelora have come to give you safe passage into Telarym, and so speed you on your way, but against the Beast there is no power in the might of armies. A few with the gifts of gods may do what countries and kingdoms may not.
“Farewell, for my days here are numbered like mortals, and I must seek solitude in the bottom of the waters, where my only strand of solace lies. I shall not offer counsel again in this manner unless Iraldas be saved, for I have not the will or strength for it. My blessings are with you.”
She plunged back into the waters, and there was a great splash that blinded them all for a time. When the water faded, there was but a still lake again, bar faint ripples and the shimmering light that dwelt beneath the surface. The knights watched the fading light for some time, silent in awe and prayer. Then a gentle patter of rain filled the air, splashing on the surface of the lake like tears. The last of the light vanished and the clouds took the moon again. The rain grew fierce once more.
“Fellow knights,” Délin said, “this is a mission best left to the few. Arlin cannot be left unguarded.” The other knights nodded and turned back the way they had come, though it was clear that some begrudged this lost opportunity for adventure, while others wondered why Délin would put this new mission ahead of his life-long quest to restore Arlin to its former glory.
* * *
The light of Issarí had barely faded, and yet a new light appeared near the lake. A figure, vague at first, stepped forth. It was short, just half the height of Ifferon and his companions, and it was garbed in a thick brown robe, with a large hood pulled over its head. This could not disguise or fully enclose the brilliant light which shone from within that hood, however, and its brilliance made it very clear what manner of creature it was.
“Fasimërr!” the Aelora said. “Health and Happiness! I am Oelinor, Ardúnar and High Sentry of Oelinadal, Aelor’s Candle in Upper Lün. It is very good to see you all here. The Lady has been true to her word, as ever, and as have I, for I promised many a higher power that I would take some time from my duties at Oelinadal to come to offer swift passage and grant solemn counsel.” He looked and smiled at Ifferon; it was a knowing look and a nostalgic smile.
“Oelinor,” Ifferon said, his voice still weak with the waver of shock. “It has been some time.”
“Too long,” Oelinor stated. “I have grown many years since our last meeting. Indeed, I was but a boy to you then, not yet come of age.”
“A wise Aelora boy,” Ifferon corrected. “But I see you are full-grown now.”
“And you are past your prime. Where is the vigour that flowed forth in your youth?”
“I still have many years in me,” Ifferon said.
“As do I, dear Ifferon, and I hope we can spend some of them in each other’s fair company. But I digress. We must speak soon and swift of the trials and troubles that face this world, for they shall be faced ere the week is spent, and, alas, it is already spending. We must be quick to steal back lost time.
“But let not haste turn to discourtesy, for first I must introduce you to my companion here. This is Lëolin,” Oelinor said, gesturing towards a similarly robed figure standing a little behind, one who had gone unnoticed in the stormy weather that enveloped them. “He is also of the Ardúnari, though his main duty at this moment is as a Pelari Guard.”
“Another Ardúnar? Blessed Olagh!” Yavün cried, his eyes bright with wonder. “How many of you are there?”
“Thirteen,” Oelinor said. “One for each month of our year, for each moon, for each vowel-rune of the Aerbateros, for each year to pass between each Calling of the Council, and ...” He paused, the glow dimming in him. “One for each of the Molokrán, Aelor save us, though we do not match their might.”
Yavün pricked his ears ever higher with each sentence shared by Oelinor, and he seemed to Ifferon like a curious pup, with lore as his master. “Was it arranged that there would be thirteen Ardúnari to defeat the Molokrán?” the pup inquired.
“No, not at all,” Oelinor replied. “They cannot be defeated by us at all, but, as Wardens of the Light, our duty is to keep the Warden Watch, to fend off the Molokrán when they attack. The Molokrán are tied to the thirteen moons, for it is only when there is light that there is shadow. Each Molokrán is equal in potency bar the one whose moon is active. This one, driven by the madness that besets some dark creatures at this time, becomes the Lichelord, Aelor save us, or the Alar Molokrán.
“Our Watch thus depends on what moon it is. At the end of each month, when the moon passes to another, so too does the role of Alar Ardúnar—that is High Warden—pass to another of our ranks. It takes a full seven days for the transition of one moon to another to be completed, so we have some breathing space to exchange duties then. The Molokrán usually retreat to Nahragor, and Tol-Úmari for the Lichelord, to rest and regenerate, and, more importantly, to pass the reins of Lichelord to another.”
“Does it matter which one is active?” Yavün asked.
“Oh, yes, very much so. They are as temperamental as the rest of us, though they are crafted otherwise. Their effects change like the effects of the moon, so if we shift from one to another, there could be much difference—not in appearance, overly, for they all look the same, bar the Lichelord, Aelor save us, who seems to grow larger and more frightening than the rest.”
“I
thought they couldn’t be seen?” Yavün quizzed.
“By the average person, yes. Only the Ardúnari and the Children of Telm are gifted with the clearsight.”
“What moon is it now, and what is the next one?” Ifferon asked, fascinated but disturbed. Yavün was, from the wide-eyed look upon his face, merely fascinated.
“We are in the waning of the Wolf Moon,” Oelinor said, his voice suddenly old and grim. “The next moon is the Dead Moon, or, as some call it, the Blue Moon. It seems as though it does not come often, though it comes as often as the rest, for those who know of its mystery dread it, and so its coming once again is like the declaration of a sudden war. You see, the Lichelord of that moon is the worst, for he is the most violent and cruel, and he has a great power over the earth, for he clung to it when he was created, and some of its potency transferred to him.”
“What do you mean?” Yavün asked. “What are these things?”
“Shadow. Pure and true. Look at the shadows upon the ground, ones that you cast, ones that the hills and mountains cast. It was shadows like these, steeping in the magical energies my elder-kin left in Ardún-Fé, before our great flight to Caelün, that were used to make these beasts. Molok the Animator, Aelor save us, crafted these vile creatures from the blanket of nightfall, and so Molok woke the magic in the earth of Ardún-Fé, and he tore the shadows from the ground, screaming and writhing in misery and agony, and he waited each month and moon before creating the next, for he was but a Hadar, a child of the gods, and his creative abilities were limited to the cycles imposed by the Céalari, and eventually all thirteen had been malignly formed.”
“When is the Dead Moon come?” Délin asked.
“In less than six days,” Oelinor responded, and it was clear that he dreaded revealing such grim news, and dreaded more the truth behind it.
“So they should have retreated to Nahragor by now,” Yavün said.
“Yes,” Oelinor said, “which is both good and bad for you. They will not hound you for a time, but the new Lichelord will be worse than any have seen this year, and I would hope you are well on your way ere he is unleashed again.”
“Will you be the Alar Ardúnar for him?” Yavün asked.
“No, that is many months off yet, and I do not ask for it to come swiftly, for while I am eager to fulfil the role as best I can, my people have troubles of our own here in Caelün.”
“Who will be then? Melgalés?”
“He cannot be, of course, where he is now, for the Céalari have whispered of his demise, but more than that, he was the Alar Ardúnar for this moon, the Wolf Moon. It will be Geldirana of the Garigút.”
Ifferon turned to him in puzzlement. “Geldirana?”
“Yes, she will be the Alar Ardúnar of the Dead Moon this year. I do not envy her the task.”
“How can she be?” Ifferon gasped.
“Who is she?” Yavün asked.
“She is the leader of the Garigút,” Oelinor said.
“But she’s not a—”
“Yes, Ifferon, she is. She was elected at the last Calling of the Council, of which I was Head. She has been an Ardúnar for ten years. She came back here, after your last visit with her, for she had progressed well as leader of the Garigút, and had, since your mutual parting, come to me on a number of occasions before her election.”
“But ... why? She never expressed any interest in this kind of thing.”
“She also did not express any interest in leading the Garigút, but I feel the Céalari expressed much interest in her, and this may also explain why you, with the blood of Telm flowing in your veins, were drawn to her then, all those years ago, for the mortal sons of gods must do as gods would bid them do.”
“But she is to be the Alar Ardúnar!” Ifferon said, shaking his head. “And with this new Lichelord. I thought they were myths, legends from the elder days. The Spectres I encountered at Larksong were bad enough. How is she to fair against the Lichelord?”
“Is she not heading to Nahragor with the rest of the Garigút?” Herr’Don asked. “To lay siege to the Black Bastion.”
“Yes,” Oelinor replied. He turned to Ifferon. “Have you not wondered at how rash that decision of hers was?”
“No,” Ifferon said. “She was always rash.”
“Ah, yes, but never foolish,” Oelinor said. “She does not go to Nahragor on a whim. She goes because it is her duty, to fend off the forthcoming attack of the Lichelord of the Dead Moon. She will have not long arrived, I gather, and is preparing for her attack. That is her mindset—attack first, which is exactly what is needed against this Lichelord, but I fear it will not be enough. The Molokrán, Aelor save us, are no normal creatures, for how can you stab a shadow in the night? How can they be slain?”
“With light,” Délin suggested.
“Yes,” Oelinor said. “But no normal light will do.”
There was a deep and sudden rumbling in the depths of Ifferon’s pocket, and there lay the Scroll of Mestalarin, as if suddenly awoken.
“The Scroll is a powerful weapon,” Oelinor explained, and there was a glint of blue light that flickered in his eyes. “Long has it been guarded at my home in Oelinadal, sitting on a pedestal beneath the burning fires of the Candletop. It contains the Last Words of the Warrior-god Telm ere he parted this world. He fought and banished Agon to the depths of Halés, losing the sword Daradag in the process, and also his own life. Before he parted he screamed to the shadow: Dehilasü baeos! Al-iav im-iavün im-samün im-samadas, dehilasü baeos! Begone! By fire and flame and fume and fury, begone!”
There was a sudden darkening in the sky, as if a cloud had passed over, and a low, deep rumbling in the earth beneath them. The air seemed to crackle, as if some ancient magic was borne upon it.
“These words travelled from his mouth,” Oelinor continued, “and his spirit with them, and they were taken by many winds until they came north to us. They would have perhaps blown away into the White Sea entirely, and thus we would have lost them, but Aelor contacted us through the Urod-Pelar, giving us instructions on how we might make a Scroll to bear those words in the Sacred Runes of the Aerbateros. It is the Light of Lights, Ifferon, though hidden is its lustre. It is the Heirloom of Telm, and thus it is yours, Child of Telm.”
“What does he mean?” Yavün asked, turning to Ifferon.
“What do you think he means?” Herr’Don snapped. “He is last in the bloodline of Telm, a son of Olagh, if you will.”
“Yes,” Oelinor said. “Though not actually last in that bloodline, just last in the direct bloodline, for there have been many marriages to distant families and the blood has become diluted with the foreign blood of weaker Men and hermit Al-Ferian in Alimror.”
“But how can this be so?” Yavün asked. “How can Olagh have a mortal child?”
“Because he slept with mortal women,” Herr’Don said sharply. “Surely you are not so young that you have not heard rumours about his many mortal wives? You are a sheltered sort, Yavün.” He paused and added: “Among other things.”
Oelinor continued. “Telm, or Olagh as you call him, did indeed take many mortal wives when his Lamp was broken, and so some of them had children that bore his blood. They would not be gods, of course, given only one parent was a Céalar, but they would also not be demi-gods, given Telm had been depleted of much of his former power and glory when his Flame was doused.”
“So what does this all mean?” Yavün questioned.
“Have you not guessed it, Ifferon?” Oelinor asked, looking to the cleric with telling eyes.
“I have guessed,” Ifferon admitted.
“What guess?” Yavün asked.
“Telm was the Warrior-god,” Ifferon said.
“The Warrior-king,” Herr’Don added, nodding.
“He banished Agon to the pits of Halés,” Ifferon said. “But it took all his life force to do so, and so it was his final act in Iraldas—the binding of the Beast.”
“Yes,” Oelinor said. “And with the threa
t of Agon, Aelor save us, rising again, only those who carry his blood stand a chance of doing the same. The legacy of Telm is not yet spent, so while it lives every effort must be made to keep the Beast in his prison. I dare not say what would happen if he should break free.”
“He will not break free!” Délin cried. “By the Lord and Lady, I will go to Halés itself and chain him up if e’er he stirs from his slumber.”
Herr’Don nodded furiously, grasping the handle of his sword as if he were to fight Agon there and then.
“I admire your fervour,” Oelinor said. “But the Beast will not be defeated with the brawn of mortals. We need the gifts of gods, weapons that only a Telm-child can wield.”
“The Scroll?” Ifferon asked.
“Yes,” Oelinor replied. “The Last Words of Telm are but an echo of the ancient days when not in the hands of one who can speak them aloud with the authority they deserve. Bring it forth in darkened times and you will find that darkness must hark and heed those blessed words.
“Now, come, friends. We will bring you south, as far south as we will go, and that is to the brink of Telarym. My people will not travel beyond that point, for death roams and marches there, and other evils that come from ages long since spent. I have two carriages lined up, which will get us there all the swifter. Four can fit in each, so Ifferon, Herr’Don, and Délin will accompany me in the first, while Thalla and Yavün may join Lëolin in the second. We need not worry about drivers, of course, for these carriages are the Lëlërra of the Aelora—our horses know the way.”
* * *
And so there was a sudden din, for the carriages roared out from the nearby forest, where no doubt they had stayed the night. Great white horses, slightly larger than those seen in Arlin and Boror, pulled them, and these were adorned with quilts of finely-woven fabric, bearing many spells of speed in the alphabet of the Aerbateros. Thus too were the carriages decorated, with letters of red, yellow and blue, and it seemed to Ifferon that they were wrought of a jewel akin to the beldar gem that Melgalés had worn. Perhaps truly that is how they worked, trapping some secret power within just as the Beldarian housed the soul of the Magus.
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 14