A small part of Ifferon was surprised that the Ferian woman already knew about his bloodline; another part assumed that tongues were loose among his companions; but an even larger part knew that his name wafted on the wind like the death cry of Telm himself.
“But yes,” Elithéa continued. “Fer is life, and ferian is living, for we are the Living, the People. We are the wardens of life, the protectors of plants, the defenders of trees, the custodians of the earth, and the guardians of animals. We are the Living. All other races are dead to us.”
* * *
Night came and went swiftly, though day followed dimly, for they were drawing closer to the outskirts of the Dead Land. They broke their fast quickly, eating the remainder of the bread that they had stowed, for it was growing hard and stale. Then they were on the road again, passing league upon league of land in their steadfast march.
After a time a great darkness set upon them, as if a large, dense cloud had passed overhead. A sudden chillness crept in around them, for the sun had vanished. The company realised that it was not a cloud, but the ominous reach of the shadow of Tol-Úmari, for the black tower loomed up tall to their right, where the sinking sun had been, and there it seemed to have conquered the fiery ball of day with the fearsome gloom of night.
“We are under the shadow of Tol-Úmari,” Délin whispered. “What an evil fate that we be lured here against our will, for its blackness looms tall, yet it seemed only moments ago that it was many leagues away.”
“How can it be?” Herr’Don asked. “I thought we made sure to avoid all paths leading towards the Tower. Did that Aelora not assure us that we would but barely set our sight upon it and not our feet upon the sullied soil beneath its reach?”
“If you listened to an Aelora, then the magic of his voice must have deceived you,” Elithéa said. “The Aelora do not care about the troubles of us lesser folk.”
Aralus smiled grimly, and his mouth was like a chasm. “We could say the same about the Ferian.”
“No, I do not think we have been misled,” Délin said. “I need not remind you all of the evil of Tol-Úmari, for this is the fortress of the Alar Molokrán, the Lichelord himself. Some say he sits upon a seat of black iron upon the summit, casting a shadow greater than the Tower itself, while others say he rests in a crypt sixty feet beneath the foundations, and others yet say that he roams about these lands, from the Morbid Mountains to the White Mountains further south, between which lies the vast reaches of the land of Feloklin.”
“And which one do you believe he does?” Yavün asked. Ifferon could almost see that the youth had one eager eye on the knight and the other on the dark tower.
“All three,” Délin said. “And much more. Just as the reign of Lichelord passes from one Molokrán to another, so too must the actions of each newly enthroned Lichelord change to suit the nature of its dark spirit.”
“There are two here,” Ifferon said.
The others turned sharply to him, confused and unnerved.
“Two Molokrán.”
Herr’Don instantly unleashed his sword with a sound of screeching steel. The others looked about with cautious glances, a flurry of darting eyes to seek out this pressing foe.
“No, not here,” Ifferon explained. “At Tol-Úmari. Oelinor told me more about them in secret. At the Passing of the Reign, the old Lichelord and the new one must meet at Tol-Úmari, and both of them enter the Kalakrán in the Crypt beneath the earth, for they are made from the shadows of the earth, and the enthronement can only take place beneath the ground again. So there are two here, and I think this was part of Oelinor’s plan. No, not to lead us astray, so that we might come closer to the Tower, but for us to make haste to Nahragor before the enthronement has taken place, for this means that while there are Molokrán at the Black Bastion, they are without their master, and may prove to be less potent a foe.”
“Couldn’t we attack the Lichelord now while he’s resting?” Yavün asked.
“How naive,” Elithéa said, shaking her head. “I will forgive you your youth.”
“If we could bypass the Vigil of Tol-Úmari, such a thing could be attempted,” Délin said. “But even then, a Molokrán cannot be seen, and while possibly vulnerable in rest, I imagine that the Crypt is well protected by more than sentries and mortal guards. And to bypass the Vigil is to perform a miracle on its own.”
“Then let us perform some miracles,” Herr’Don said. “We’ll storm the Tower and slay the guards, and put these Shadowspirits to a proper rest!”
“Perhaps if all goes well at Nahragor we can attack the Tower of Lies,” Délin said. “But if an army cannot break the Black Bastion, then a band of warriors cannot storm Tol-Úmari.”
“Aye,” Herr’Don said, nodding intently. “Aye indeed, but we are hardly just a band of warriors, are we? We have Herr’Don the Great and Délin Trueblade, and we alone, dare I say, could topple this Tower with one arm tied.”
“Would that it be so,” Délin said. “But for me, at least, I think age outpaces my enthusiasm. I think not even the ballista I gave to Belnavar would make a dent in Tol-Úmari.”
“I hate to break this moment of bonding, but where is Aralus?” Thalla asked. “I thought he was here a moment ago.”
“Ack, the scoundrel!” Elithéa shouted. “At the mere mention of shadow he goes to cling to the shade. I warn you all not to put trust in him, for he is deception incarnate, and losing him here on the foot of Tol-Úmari is a dangerous thing. Curse the rogue and my lowered guard! It would not surprise me that he would report us to the Vigil itself!”
“Let us hope not,” Délin said. “I doubt he would leave freely in such a circumstance, so there would be no sense in such a dark act.”
And so they ventured closer to the Tower of Tol-Úmari, despite the growing fear in their hearts and the nagging nervousness in their minds. Every little shadow seemed to grow large, and it appeared as though some of them might leap out after them and attack, dragging them back to their world of darkness within some crack beneath a structure of rock. But the shadows only jumped out in their mind, for there was naught to be seen in the area—no leaping shadows, no assaulting Spectres, and no Aralus. Thus they drew even closer to that which they intended to avoid.
After a while they were halted by Délin. “Do not go any further. I sense an evil here that is both great and powerful. It is sleeping, yet still easy to wake.”
“Let it awake with a sword in its heart!” Herr’Don cried.
“Silence, my friend,” Délin said. “Let valour be left for the battles ahead. Now we require vigilance.”
“Are you well, Ifferon?” Yavün asked. The others turned to him, noting the paleness in his face. He felt suddenly weak, as if a fever of Halés were upon him, the fires roaring and pouring through his veins.
“I can see him,” he managed after a time.
“You can see Aralus?” Herr’Don quizzed. “Where is he?”
“No doubt this is the evil that you sense, Délin,” Elithéa added.
“No. The Lichelord,” Ifferon explained.
There was a figure on the plains beneath the shadow of Tol-Úmari. At first glance it appeared as nothing more than a large rock with tufts of long blowing grass buried in its hull. But a second glance was enough to chill the heart and still the breath, for rocks do not heave as if breathing; rocks do not stretch great black fingers into the soil; rocks do not fill the heart with horror and the mind with silent dread.
“I cannot see it,” Yavün whispered. “What is it doing?”
“None of us can see,” Délin said. “That is the great strength of the Molokrán, for they are invisible to even the most far-reaching of sight. Only gods and the children of gods may see them, and some only with the relics of the Céalari.”
“Would that I could see,” Herr’Don said. “Not even the greatness of my sight can peer through to the Shadow Kingdom, nor would the Scroll of the Last Words help against the strain. We are not all blessed with the clearsig
ht like a Child of Telm.”
“I can see the shadow, and feel the shadow,” Ifferon replied. “I can hear the ominous thrum of dark winds, as if great cloaks and capes were battering against the breeze. I can smell a musk of darkness, and I can taste a foulness and a rottenness, as if the land was charred and the wind was blowing bits of burnt rock into my mouth. And do you want those senses? It is easy for the blind to ask for sight when they do not know the torment of the sight that others must endure. Would you rather not be blind to this?”
“Aye,” Herr’Don said. “Of course I would. I would love to sit in the gardens around Ilokmaden Keep, content in the fairness of the world, knowing that my kingdom was safe, and that all that I stood for actually stayed standing. To be ignorant of the worries of the world is a gift that many treasure, and others take for granted, knowing no better, or, more rightly, no worse. But I have seen the darkness, Ifferon. While you were cowering in the cloisters of the monastery at Larksong, I was on the beach facing the shadow. It was my men who clambered down the sand dunes to stay the advancing hordes. It was I who smelled blood and tasted sand and felt great pain and saw great turmoil. I saw more than shadow, Ifferon. I saw death with its groping fingers, pulling my soldiers into the sand, ripping apart my regiment. I saw victory die and vanish, and I felt the bitterness of defeat sink into the very depths of my wounds. Would that I could be blind to the darkness, Ifferon, but I do not need the Scroll to see it.”
With that there was a sudden tenseness in the air. It grew rapidly humid, and the wind was gone. The party looked towards the plains before Tol-Úmari and there beheld a strange sight. All but Ifferon saw a light dust swell up in a circle and begin to rotate and pulsate. Then there was a sound just off the edge of their hearing, something that gave a tremor to the ground, and then a shadow rose up from the earth, almost as if it were tearing itself, or being torn, from the cracked soil.
Ifferon saw more, for behind this tornado of dust and shadow was the Molokrán he had seen earlier, still low to the ground, black claws of dark mist clinging to the earth. It seemed as though it had horns upon its head, yet these were also made of shadow, and they seemed to be growing steadily smaller by the minute, as if the creature was losing its potency. He heard a horrible speech, yet it did not sound as if it came from the Lichelord, but from within his own mind, or perhaps deep beneath the earth where even worms would not burrow. A shadow was pulled from the ground before his very eyes, and Ifferon knew from the breathless gasp of his comrades that they had seen it vaguely for an instance as it lingered between worlds, and then it faded back into darkness—yet the feeling of its presence lingered on.
“It’s ... creating,” Thalla said; shock was mingled with disgust in her voice.
“I have seen many things,” Délin said. “But nothing like this. The birth of new evil before our very eyes. Alas, for the ranks of my people dwindle, and yet the darkness throngs anew.”
“Now we know why Tol-Úmari rests upon Feloklin,” Herr’Don said. “And now we know where the Hosts of Shadow come from, or, at least, some of their evil kin. The Molokrán ensnare the wandering spirits that have escaped from Halés and dominate them, putting them to service to their dark will. They tear a shadow from the earth and imprison a spirit within that shadow, giving the shadow life, a foul life enthralled to Molok, the Spiritlord.”
“I think we should get moving,” Thalla said. “Have we not lingered here long enough?”
“Aye,” Herr’Don said. “Some evil has brought us here. Indeed, it seems to me that there is a spell on these lands, and Tol-Úmari acts like a beacon, a light attracting the flies. Perhaps this is intended to lure the spirits of Halés here for the will of Molok, but it seems we need not be dead to fall under its spell.”
“So let the spell be broken!” Délin said. “Unless we wish to visit Halés for ourselves.”
“Aye! Let us depart with all haste.”
“What about Aralus?” Thalla asked.
“What about me?” Aralus said, stepping out from the shadow behind them.
“You were here all along?” Thalla quizzed. “Did you not hear us speak of you?”
“Perhaps,” he replied. “I was enthralled by the spectacle of evil creating evil, as were you. Indeed, I warrant that you all were more interested in that than in finding or rescuing me, if I were lost or taken captive.”
“All evil looks alike,” Elithéa said. “We thought the Molokrán might be you.”
“Oh, how droll, Elly. Yes, the Molokrán is my second cousin on my mother’s side. Do you want me to introduce him to you? I’d say you’d get along.”
“Yes, yes, come!” Délin cried. “Save introductions for another time. Let us leave this place.”
They went quickly, turning their back on Tol-Úmari. Hunger gnawed at them, but wariness overcame their weariness and gave them strength to travel as swiftly as they could, until they were away from the watchful eyes of the Tower. The journey passed with haste, for fear flogged them and gave new speed to every step. Soon they approached the greatest of the mountains in the Morbid range.
“We draw under the monstrous shadow of the Peak of the Wolf,” Délin said. “If e’er we were wary and vigilant under the gaze of Tol-Úmari, let us be even more so here, for this is what the Tower of Lies guards—the entrance into Halés.”
And even as he spoke the name of the Underworld, there was a sudden howl in the distance, as if some lone wolf had sensed and smelled their fear.
“If my words were not counsel enough,” Délin said, “let that howl bring us extra caution.”
“And extra haste,” Ifferon added.
They passed more quickly beneath the shadow of the Peak, which loomed up taller than Tol-Úmari. For a moment Ifferon thought he saw the moon behind its summit, but as he looked up he realised that it was but the peak itself, which was capped in a thick blanket of snow. It seemed to Ifferon that the snow was melting from the heat of Halés buried deep beneath.
But haste was not their friend, for they had already tarried too long. Something was on the prowl. Something was giving hunt. There was a sound of snapping undergrowth, a small sound, and yet a tremendous din to the company who had basked in the stillness of a moment of silence.
“We are too late,” Délin whispered, shaking his head and reaching for the handle of his sword. Herr’Don was already drawn for battle.
Two yellow eyes peered out from the gloom. They grew steadily larger with the sound of padded feet upon broken branches. Two more eyes emerged from the shadow. There was the sound of heavy breathing through many snarling mouths. Then four more sets of eyes came out of the darkness around them; the lust of the feed was in the intensity of their stare. White and yellow fangs flashed in the shade; the blood of the last feast still clung to their teeth.
The shadow pressed in, and the advancing eyes drew close. The snarling jaws opened. The Felokar wolves attacked.
XI – THE CHASM OF ISSARÍ
A terrible howl went before each hound, as if carried by an evil wind from Halés. As the Felokar wolves charged fort, Délin could see that their eyes were ablaze with an inner fire, sparking and singeing their fur and the land around them. Their coats were of brown and black, though these too were tinted red, perhaps from the char of their eyes or some other fire still concealed. They seemed to blend into the blackness, as if they were not altogether present, but sight or no sight, Délin unsheathed his great two-handed sword and swung to meet the flame and shadow.
“Flee!” he cried to his companions. “These are the wolves of the Underworld. There is no valour to be won here—only death!”
There was a great sound of steel ringing through the air, as if it too made a howl to match the one unleashed by the wolves. Then there was a sound of rending flesh as the sword sliced through the nearest wolf, which leapt into the air and came down on the knight with a shriek and a clang against his armour. Blood sprayed into the air and then seemed to dissipate, for these were the wolves of Halés
, and their flesh and blood were more illusion than reality. Délin did not think of this, for the wolf had dented his armour and caused him to lose his breath, and the pain was altogether real. He faltered for a moment, losing his grip on the sword, and his helmet rolled off in the fray. Suddenly there were three wolves upon him, snarling and tearing. He held his gauntleted arms before his face, but still the claws and teeth tore at him, wearing down his defences.
“Las Ardúnin de’Lamarin!” he called, and he felt a sudden strength within, as if the very mention of the Lady had set her potent gaze upon him, filling him with the waters of vitality and the rivers of courage. He leapt forward as if he too were wild, and he threw the wolf from him and came down on it in a frenzy. They rolled in the dust and the shade, and the other wolves came racing down on them, tearing and gnawing at all, wolf and man.
It seemed that an age was passing before Délin’s eyes, an age of struggle, where limb met with claw, and the harsh glare of the wolves was met with a glower of rage and defiance. One wolf pinned his left arm in its jaws and shook its head violently, trying to rip off his limb. He beat at its head with his other fist, roaring and shouting in an attempt to frighten them off, and also from the pain of the ever-piercing teeth, which tore through his armour as if it were flesh. For a moment he was relieved of two of the wolves, for they broke off to fight amongst themselves over their prey, but the larger one soon returned, fresh blood thick upon its teeth.
Ever did Délin clamber and toil with his foes, beating off wave after wave of the onslaught against him. He strayed on the path to Halés, for each volley of battering limbs drained his will, and each flurry of scratching claws drained his blood. Time passed slowly in that struggle, and so too did Délin pass under the shadow of weariness and into the clutches of death.
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 17