“Baulked and squirmed and choked on water,” Aralus interjected.
“—pulled them all to shore,” Herr’Don finished, waving his still soaking cloak dangerously close to the fire. “It was nothing really.”
“Because he did nothing,” Aralus said.
“Alas! We cannot rejoice overly,” Délin said. “For not all made it to shore.”
Ifferon suddenly realised that there was only Délin, Herr’Don, Elithéa, and Aralus there. Thalla and Yavün were missing.
“Yavün did not make it,” Délin told him. “The water took him.”
“The Taarí took him,” Elithéa said. “Make no doubt about it.”
Ifferon’s heart sank, as if to join Yavün at the bottom of the river. A moment of mourning passed in silence. “And Thalla?” he asked.
“She is not taking it well,” Elithéa said. “They must have been close.”
Herr’Don glared at her. “It’s just the shock. She still needs to dry off. Ha, sure she even thought I deliberately failed to bring him out of the water. Me! Fail? Ha! Obviously the Taarí found something attractive about him. It might have been his shadow self.”
* * *
They searched around the river and lake for Yavün, some wading into the water while others looked amidst the reeds. Long and tiring hours passed and they were all the time urged by Thalla to look again, to go over each place they had already rummaged through a dozen times before. They found no stableboy, nor any sign of him—no footprints, no marks upon the soil or pieces of torn clothing caught in twigs or upon jutting rocks of the Shallow Lake. The land bore no rumour of him, as if he had never been there at all.
“Perhaps he grabbed some rock back yon,” Délin suggested, pointing towards the gorge which was now many leagues behind them.
“Or perhaps the rock grabbed him,” Aralus said, “and minced him up on the river bed. But alas! Where is the blood that will prove my tale?”
“Nowhere to be seen by eyes that see truth,” Délin replied.
“What truth, dear knight?” Aralus asked. “Who speaks truth to your eyes, and do these speakers tell of the boy clinging to an outcrop while the water rages by? No, I think you speak of guesswork, whereas truth might more readily speak of spilled blood.”
But Délin ignored him, turning to Thalla and Ifferon. “My heart tells me that he is yet alive.”
“My heart,” Aralus began, “tells me that he is dead. Do you listen to Délin because it is truth or because it is what you want to hear?”
“Let us search further up the river, for he may have been washed down further than us,” Ifferon said.
They began another long search, the arduous toil of lifting stone and filing through bush, the onerous slog of reaching into mires and straining sight for hint or clue. Further south they came, following the bending river, but there was nothing to be seen along the banks.
Just as their final hopes began to dwindle, Elithéa saw a figure in the distance, lying washed up upon the shore. She could not tell who it was, and so they drew closer to it. The land was barren there, devoid of root or reed. There was stone, cold and murky. And then the body.
“Look! There’s a man!” Herr’Don said.
“It’s Yavün! It’s Yavün!” Thalla screamed. She fawned and grasped at Herr’Don with trembling arms, and then bit deep into the index finger of her left hand, all the while shaking her head from side to side to deny the truth of what she claimed.
They raced towards it, but the closer they got the more they realised that it was but a corpse, that it had been half eaten away by flies and maggots. Grass and hair mingled with blood and torn cloth, and it seemed that the figure was almost beyond identification. The smell was horrid, forcing them to cover their noses and mouths.
“Let us hope it is not the youth,” Délin said, but his voice was not hopeful.
Thalla raced over to the slumped figure and knelt down beside it. Grief seized her and held her like the haunted, wounded her like a widow. “Yavün ... no Yavün, you cannot be dead, you cannot be—”
“Yavün,” Ifferon said in shock, the name slipping from his mouth like a final breath. They turned the body over. “You cannot be Yavün,” Ifferon said, joining Thalla in her lament. “It’s not Yavün. It’s not him. It’s—”
“Belnavar!” Herr’Don cried.
XIII – THE PLAINS OF ERIDÚL
They looked upon the ruins of Belnavar’s body in shock and disgust. His hair, which had once been long and tied firmly in a ponytail, was now thin and wild, as if it was ripped from its roots, and it was pasted to his head and face with water and blood. One of his eyes was still open, but the pupil was pale; it looked as though a moment of shock had been caught and crystallised there, undoubtedly the shock of the fall into the Chasm and the sudden clawing hands of Taarí fiends. His clothes, most elegant of Bororian style, were torn and shredded; as was his skin, for deep cuts and gashes had been ripped across his limbs and torso. Ifferon could not endure the sight for long and was forced to look away.
“Belnavar,” Herr’Don said, shaking his head. He placed his hand, half reluctantly, upon Belnavar’s shoulder. “By the Light of Olagh and all things good, what has become of you?”
“It seems he took a little tumble into the Chasm and has now become carrion for the birds,” Aralus explained. “His mouth is mangled, but perhaps his ghost will tell a tale or two.”
Délin glowered at him, but Aralus did not baulk. Herr’Don was too lost in his sorrow to take much heed of the man, but Ifferon feared that the prince might feed anger with his grief and not hold back.
Yet Ifferon’s thoughts were quickly replaced by another concern. “I thought he was with Teron?” he asked.
“Aye,” Herr’Don said. “I bid him reclaim Larksong and then come here to Telarym. Would that I had not made such a request.”
Délin placed his gauntleted hand upon Herr’Don’s shoulder. “Do not blame yourself for this dark day, for the sun will shine not by Man’s command but that of the Céalari, who we know so little of, and who, I deem, join us now in mourning.”
Ifferon still mused about the head-cleric, the man who had hindered his studies and hounded his footsteps for ten years. Despite the distrust that had grown inside him, a part of him was sorrowful that Teron might have met a similar grim end.
But Herr’Don was not concerned about Teron or what might have become of him in the Chasm that had claimed his friend. “This wounds me deeply,” he said, “and Herr’Don the Great does not wound easily. Nor, indeed, does Belnavar the Braveheart. Valiant and vicious he was in life, ever a sight to behold in battle and the quiet of battle’s aftermath. But now ... now I can barely set my eyes upon him. This is an evil day, a day of devils! The closer we get to Nahragor, the more torment and turmoil engulfs us, as if our very stepping into Telarym was a step down the ladder of doom. It was bane to cross the Issar Chammas!”
“I knew Belnavar less personally than you,” Délin said. “But strongly do I feel this loss, and not merely for the loss of a good man I would call a friend. No, it is the loss of a good man that I would call a friend of all good people here in Iraldas. It troubles me greatly to see men of such strength and valour in such an awful state in such a dismal place.”
“Well, at least it’s not Yavün,” Aralus said. “Right?”
“A life cannot be traded for another,” Délin said. “We cannot say ‘better one than the other’ when neither were better in life, and none of us are better in death.”
“Pardon me for trying to cheer you up then! Here you all were screaming and shouting ‘Yavün! Yavün! Oh, Olagh save me, don’t be Yavün!’ And now that it’s not him, you get all grumpy and moody? Then fine, if we can’t search for the comfortable, let’s search for the truth. Yavün was mauled by the Taarí, sliced his head open on the river bed, tore his limbs off on the rocks, spilled his blood upon the river’s edge, and is now making a rather fitting dinner for a family of crows who haven’t feasted on a stabl
eboy in years. Is that a better tale to tell of him?”
Thalla gave a horrified scream, turning to tears and fleeing from the group. Délin followed her, fearful that she might run into danger or might, in the moment of torment, do herself some evil mischief. Herr’Don would have ran after her as well, but there was also the threat that he would do himself harm, it seemed, for sorrow had gripped him tight.
“You have a wicked way with words, Aralus,” Elithéa snapped. “You sicken me. I hope you all realise his nature now, if you were not wise to it before.”
“I’m not the one trying to steal an evil moment for my own ends,” Aralus said. “I would not use the death of Herr’Don’s friend to prove the iniquity of your heart. Speak of sickness all you will, but speak it of yourself.”
* * *
Ifferon and Elithéa searched for Yavün and Teron in the vicinity, rummaging through bushes and braving the waters of the Soldím once again. Every leaf and stone was overturned, but they returned fruitless. They found that Herr’Don and Aralus had dug a grave for Belnavar and buried his body there, though many feet away from the river’s edge where he was found. Still the smell of rotting flesh filled their nostrils, but they tried to keep their composure. They stood around the grave mound in an unpleasant silence.
After a time the quiet was broken by Herr’Don’s voice, worn and wavering:
Belnavar! Dear Belnavar!
What has become of you?
Last I looked upon your face,
It was fair and it was true.
Why does the wind speak ill
Of how you met your fate?
We made a pact to meet you here,
And now you meet us late.
Thus ended the verbal elegy, though grief still lived in the depths of their bones for some time to come. They parted from the knoll where Belnavar had been laid to rest, thenceforth called Amrenan Adelis, the Mound of Mourning, in the tongue of Old Arlinaic. The name was not merely to mark the place of the fall of Belnavar, but where all the company were marred with sadness, knowing that they must leave their search for Yavün and Teron behind, fearing that they too had joined the warrior in death.
“There is little else we can do,” Délin said softly. “Would that we could find their bodies and honour their deaths, but we may be searching for days, if e’er we found them at all. We cannot bury them, but let us not bury our quest in their stead. Let not their death be the death of our journey, for Agon would have it all in vain.”
They knew his words were true, and so they gave a solemn nod of acceptance. The dirge was done, and all that was left was a penitent silence.
* * *
The day passed slowly, so much so that some of the company almost appealed for the dark of night, for then they might rest and appease their sorrows in the realm of dream. But that did not yet come, and many miles passed before they came unto the Plains of Eridúl, though they seldom knew it, for the land had changed ever so subtly over the course of many leagues. Now the land was flat, opening out in a vast expanse that spanned unto the horizon. Dim shapes of remote rocks or isolated bands of trees could be seen far off in the distance, but they meant nothing to the travellers, for there was nothing in their vicinity.
Just as they began to fall into a dullness of mind, trudging endlessly across the land, Elithéa stopped them, raising her golden hand. “This is very odd indeed,” she said, and she stooped so that she could see closely the little tufts of grass that grew here and there on the plain.
“What do you see?” Délin asked, stepping up and kneeling down to join her. His armour made a clang as he bent down, and she looked at him harshly.
“Less now that you have knelt within my light,” she replied, “and less again now that you have knelt upon the very things I was looking at.”
The knight raised an eyebrow and slowly repositioned himself on the grass. The others came to join him, though they did not draw close, for fear of being admonished by the Ferian.
“A knight indeed,” Aralus said as he hunched down beside them. “To date I’ve seen more scolding of the Trueblade than the other way ‘round.”
“Silence, serpent,” Elithéa said, and she turned her intent gaze toward the others. Then her voice grew hush, as if she were about to tell some secret to the huddled company that only their ears must hear. “These are waylays.”
“Waylays?” Délin quizzed.
“Ferian-feet,” Ifferon explained. “Well, that is the local phrase in Boror.”
“And not quite an accurate one,” Elithéa said, scorn in her tongue. “The waylays are not the feet of my kin but the footprints, and even then that speaks not the fullness of them, for they are marks that may be left without the press of foot.”
“Oh, I do love a riddle,” Aralus said. “Speak on!”
“If you look closely,” the Ferian said, pointing to a bunch of tiny crushed flowers hidden amidst the grass, “you will see that the land is alive here where naught should grow so fair. Here is súrithel, which Man might call starfire,” and she picked a strange many-petalled flower, yellow in the centre, with a wiry red weed that grew in tufts upon its stem. She held it not for long, for it was warm to the touch. “And here, the lellanel, the longbell, which is found seldom outside Ferian lands.” She held a thin blue flower with a large stem and a long, slender bell-shaped crown, drooping with the weight. As she picked it there was a tiny twinkle in the air, as if there was a tiny bell ringing.
“Best not announce ourselves,” Aralus said. “I’d hate to die for a flower.”
“There shall be no need,” Elithéa responded. “For these alone are announcement enough. They are left by the feet of Ferian, for it has long been known that wherever a Ferian goes, there shall blossom a fruitful field. Telarym needs this, there is no doubt, but its time has not yet come, and all this serves is to declare that many Ferian have come through here.”
“Many?” Herr’Don asked. “Why?”
“I know not the reason, but I know near the number, for there are none who can leave no mark upon the land that some of keener sight can see. Light is our step, yet not light enough to evade the sight of one who knows the signs. A large number passed this way from the west. It is great wonder that we did not encounter them, for my guess is that they came past the Peak of the Wolf not many days ago, though perhaps they took the southernmost road. It is an even greater wonder that they come here at all, for I was sent as Éalgarth to Telarym to espy what I could, and the Matriarchate in Westhaven would do naught without the counsel of my observations. That, however, is not the greatest wonder.”
“What is?” Ifferon questioned. All drew close with curiosity, as equally baffled as the next, wondering if even Elithéa could solve the riddle she had told.
“I know the number that came by from subtle marks upon the ground and grass, and I doubt not my guess. But the waylays are not of this number, for there are too few, from perhaps one or two Ferian, and what puzzles me most is that they should not be here at all, for they are a product of Low Age, and we outgrow them as we come unto High Age, where they become faint and we learn to control what little is left upon the land. For us Ferian, of the Éalgarth especially, know the danger that waylays leave, for where is secrecy and stealth when flowers and trees sprout up about one’s feet?
“But hearken! I know not the answer to this mystery, but whatever the reason, the waylays are dangerous, for they are like breadcrumbs to the evil things that hunt our steps.”
* * *
They continued on, following the winding trail of strange growth, but soon they came close to a small forest, which, although seemingly new in life, had grown vast and thick, with curling branches, twisting and winding their way upwards in a brave protest toward the lifeless sky. This was one of the tiny specks they had seen on the horizon, yet up close it was wide and tall, and it was still growing, subtly expanding into the emptiness of the Plains. The life that bloomed there was small comfort to the strangeness of this sudden growth.
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“Have forests sprung from the footprints of Ferian like this?” Délin asked, peering into the gloom of the trees. “This seems too good a sign to be true, for life to grow sudden in the wastes of Telarym. My heart longs for this beauty.”
“It is uncommon,” Elithéa said. “I have not seen or heard it happening in these days, but there are songs about it in the Age of Galar Pelassú long ago, when Ferian and Al-Ferian were one, and the land was young and strong. But this is strange to me, and I am reluctant to welcome it, for I know not its source.”
“Worry not!” Herr’Don said. “For no tree is mighty enough to hold back the Great. Let us test this New-wood, which I deem shall be its name from now on.”
“If now leads to on,” Aralus said, “and not to Halés.”
“Even in Halés my voice shall speak undaunted,” Herr’Don replied.
And thus they passed under the boughs of the New-wood, and it was dark within, where the canopy of the trees acted as a second veil to the one within the sky. They clambered through, for only Elithéa could see through the dim, and the roots and branches tangled here and there like the webs of great spiders, catching the company and slowing their advance. The very touch of the wood was unusual, for it caused a little shock within them, as if the sap of these trees was lightning.
They came out from the blindness of the trees soon enough, for it was, as Elithéa had guessed, not very thick, and when their eyes had been graced again with the dim light of the Telarym sky they stopped in shock.
Sprawled about the Plain were dead bodies, hundreds of them, their heads and arms cleaved off, their armour dinted, their bodies bearing the countless poisoned arrows of Nahlin hordes. Blood leaked and lingered there in crawling patterns, like little webs of their own, trapping crows and other carrion-birds. And there, further up, was a young boy of seven years or less, sitting silently on a rock. His head was buried in his hands, and, by the looks of him, he was of Al-Ferian lineage, though there was something strange about his attire, and of that of the countless dead around him. An ominous note was upon the air, like the echo of battle, and it lingered there with the threat of more to come.
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 20