Onwards he travelled, turning north to where the Grey Hills led to the River Rym, which curled its way towards the Shallow Lake they had washed up in after their plummet from Issarí’s Chasm. The hills rose and fell, and with them went day and night, until Herr’Don could no longer remember what day it was or how long he had journeyed. He ate little, for he had little desire for food, and he drank only when the thirst became too much; then he yearned for the ale and wine of Madenahan, and the painless stupor it offered.
Onwards he toiled, his legs working like the strange levers and pulleys the Tibin used to craft their monstrous machines of music, his left arm hanging lame and limp. His mind was soothed by the repetitive beat of his boots against the ground, a music of his own.
Onwards he trudged until he came to Amrenan Adelis, the Mound of Mourning, where he had buried his friend Belnavar not so long ago. Grass and flowers had started to grow upon the mound, fed by the water of the river and the rain of Telarym. He stopped here for a time, resting and mourning in silence.
“It could have been me in that grave,” he said. “I suppose I owe Ifferon that, at least. If I had not believed he could bring back the power of Telm into this world, I would have fought with you to save Larksong, to save Boror. You died for the both of us, Belnavar.”
He began to sing a solemn song about his friend, shedding tears he had not the time to shed before, honouring the man truly as he felt he should be honoured, and yet knowing that this was but a sliver of the respect owed to him, he who deserved a more fitting grave beside the greatest chapels of Olagh in the winding streets of Madenahan. He began to sing, and the sound was sombre, and the words were grim.
Here lies Belnavar, bold of body, brave of heart,
A man who became a legend, who earned his name
Through glories past and done, too many to proclaim,
Too few to hear. From land and memory depart,
O Belnavar, and leave behind the ghost of fame.
Here lies Belnavar, mighty of mind, strong of will,
One who brought death to many, and now joins the dead,
As if some twist of fate would have him rest instead
Of evil that yet lives, to silence and to kill.
O Belnavar, fair one, who knows what goes unsaid?
Here lies Belnavar, home’s hero, ally of all,
He who bards sing songs of, who lives in dusty tomes,
And triumphs—in the minds of many, he still roams.
Ashes, dust to line the bases of great statues tall
And fill the magnificent crypts and catacombs.
Here lies Belnavar, in this place unmarked on maps,
Where his life was ended; his afterlife began
In dark Telarym, where he serves a higher plan.
He was a man who became a legend, or perhaps
It’s more true to say: a legend who became man.
Herr’Don struggled with the words for a long time. He recalled some lines from ancient anthems and funeral dirges, and even some from the tales the minstrels sang of Belnavar back in Bardahan, and to these he added what he thought was a clever turn of phrase, and yet a pale reflection of his true admiration. He felt he was somehow cheating in his homage, that he could not muster words good enough from his own mind, but instead was forced to infuse the words of others with the long-held anguish of his heart. He was glad that Yavün was not here to outdo him, to make the Great feel small, and steal more from him. Yet, perhaps, wherever the dead are, Yavün was also.
* * *
The days grew short, but the night was lessened by the veil of white. Initially the snow fell softly and helped cushion the tired feet of Ifferon and his companions, but then a blizzard came hastening with the lash of wind and hail, and it fought against their bodies and their wills until finally they were forced to give up and find shelter behind a large rock that stood like a lonely shield upon the mountains. The snow still fell heavy upon them, but it was the cold that hurt more now than the punishment of the wind.
The three huddled together closely, Ifferon and Thalla a little disturbed to be almost embracing the corpse of Théos, but the touch of their skin was almost as cold as his—and this frightened them even more.
When morning broke over the ridge of the horizon, they found that the blizzard had passed, but it left a mountain of snow in their path that almost dwarfed the monstrous peaks in the distance. Were it not for what was at stake, and the urgency of their quest, they might have given up altogether and retreated back down the mountains.
They struggled through the wall of white for a time until they could no longer feel the cold in their bones. Then luck appeared in the most unlikely of ways, for looming tall in the distance to their right stood the Peak of the Wolf, the rocky sentinel that stood upon the entrance to Halés in the Dead Land. The heat from that place wafted up to greet them, melting the snow as they went, until finally the White Mountains were bereft of the blanket that once smothered them, leaving behind only a thin sheet of snow.
“Perhaps the spirit of Corrias gives us some blessing from the Underworld,” Délin said, and the others wondered if it were so, or if the spirit of Théos burned upon a pyre beneath the earth, or if something else was happening in the Halls that they dare not think about.
* * *
One night Herr’Don awoke to find himself half submerged in the River Rym. He lept out with a fright, for the memory of the Issar Chammas came flooding back to him. While life seemed not worth living for, he did not see much in death that was any better. He imagined he must have collapsed from exhaustion near the Mound of Mourning, finally giving in to a much needed sleep. He knew not how long he slumbered, but felt much better for it.
Until he saw his arm.
When he looked at the mangled arm he realised it had lost its colour, replaced now by a pale greenish hue, the colour of nature that did not look natural now. He started to panic, pawing his arm as if it might somehow return its former life, but the lack of feeling only fuelled his fear.
“It’s just a scratch,” came a voice that sounded almost like his own, yet a little different, like a memory that had been warped with time. Herr’Don froze, his eyes alert, the will of the warrior in him searching out the owner of the phantom voice.
And then he saw him.
As he turned around to the Amrenan Adelis, where he had shed many tears for his departed friend, his eyes fell upon a familiar figure. There stood Belnavar upon the mound, his face fair, his long, black hair neatly tied up in a ponytail. There stood Belnavar the Braveheart, Belnavar the Bold, tall and proud, standing upon his own grave, as Herr’Don knelt in fear and awe.
III – THE HUNT
The heat of Halés soon seemed like a mockery, for as quickly as it melted the snow, more quickly came the white weapons of the sky, until it was a struggle to make each step. Worse than the bash of the blizzard, however, was the gnawing and creeping cold, and the company felt that they were burning up all of their energy just to stay warm—and to stay alive.
“The weather is against us,” Ifferon said. “We will freeze if we do not find shelter and make a fire.”
“We might freeze anyway,” Thalla said. “If we try to wait out the weather.”
“If Agon rises then we will feel the heat,” Délin said. “And we would think the fires of Halés were an echo of the cold of the Amreni Elé. We need to keep moving, especially if Elithéa is on our trail.”
“Do you really think she would try to kill us?” Ifferon asked.
“Yes,” Thalla said. The memory of Idor-Hol was a scar on her mind. She could still hear the screams of Aralus, as if they were carried on the winds of Halés. She could still see that look in Elithéa’s eyes, and feared that she might see it soon again.
* * *
Eventually the group gave in to Ifferon’s request for fire, though they needed little encouragement once night came and gifted them a frost that made the snow of day seem like a snug blanket. Délin set Théos down upon a roc
k, his back propped against another, and it almost looked as though he were just sleeping. The knight helped Ifferon hack away at a straggle of conifers nearby, while Thalla used the wood collected to start a fire. Ifferon was reassured by the fact that Délin was able to leave the boy’s side long enough for this task, but he knew that it was because the knight was on a mission, and he would only fight off death to see it through.
They huddled around the fire as if it were the leader of their group. They thanked the gods that the snow did not fall that night, and prayed that it would not fall on the next. As they sat with their hands extended, nearly touching the fingers of flame, it seemed to Ifferon that they were almost praying to the fire, almost forsaking the Céalari for a new god of warmth. As the fire waned, Thalla threw in her battered bow, which she said she broke while rescuing Elithéa from the madness of Aralus.
“She will be out there,” Thalla said, and Ifferon caught a shimmer of fear in her face as the fire flickered. “She will be watching this dot of light and mapping her way to us.”
“Then we must do what we can to stop her or slow her down,” Délin said.
“What do you suggest?” Ifferon asked.
There was silence for a while. “I am not certain,” the knight said after a time. “Everything I can think of is a tool of cowards, and yet I am tempted to be craven so that we might continue our quest undogged.”
“Perhaps I can help then,” Ifferon jested. “I know all about cowardice after all.”
“You think you do,” Délin said. “But the real cowards are not so self-aware.”
“There is something that slowed us down,” Thalla remarked. “Traps.”
“Yes, the devices of the deceitful,” Délin said. “But when they are used against the misguided and the vengeful, perhaps there is some truth in them.” He shifted in the snow and looked at Théos. “Yet it is by a trap that Théos died, so I would be dishonouring him more than bringing dishonour to myself.”
“You don’t have to lay them,” Thalla said.
“But I would have to look the other way,” Délin replied, “and that way is the way of lies, and it is a dark road that leads to evil places, from which few return, for the path is harder to see from the other side.”
“She would probably spot them anyway,” Ifferon said. “She has better sight than all of us, and a lighter step.”
“Yet she comes from a land of summer,” Délin said. “Perhaps the snow will be our ally against her, as much as it is our own enemy. Issarí forgive my thinking it, and Corrias forgive my saying it, but may the gods bring a blizzard upon her if she really strives to hinder our quest.”
* * *
Elithéa began the hunt. She sniffed the air, but their scent was weak, for the winds blew strong like the angry sigh of the gods. She spotted their footprints here and there, but they were misleading, for the snowstorms blew the trails this way and that, until they seemed to go in all directions. The mountains loomed tall before the Ferian, as if to mock her skills, but they only gave her new determination; the taller the mountain, the higher she would climb.
“You might think the weather your friend,” she whispered, “but I have allies of my own.”
She whistled the songs of many birds, adding the song of calling, which was an echo of the elder days, when the Ferian made a pact with the animals of the world, an oath that both swore to keep, and one that a flock now hurried to honour. Wren and robin came, and they were the messengers. Raven and owl came, and they were the scouts. Hawk and harrier came, and they were the hunters.
* * *
“What is that?” Thalla asked. The company froze mid-stride. “I thought I heard something that was not the wind.”
“Perhaps she is close,” Délin said, and he turned to Ifferon. “I would that you carry the boy should I need to fight.”
Ifferon did not like the idea, but he liked less the thought of going hand-to-hand with an Éalgarth, especially after all the things Elithéa had told him, and all the things the expression on Thalla’s face told him about what happened in Idor-Hol.
“Yes,” he said at last.
“I have no desire to kill her,” Délin said. “But if she is intent on stopping us I will have little choice. We may not have traps to slow her down, but I know many ways to hasten her journey to Halés.”
“There it is again,” Thalla said. “It’s quite unnerving.”
“What does it sound like?” Ifferon asked.
“Some sort of screech,” Thalla replied. “It does not sound like a noise a Ferian would make.”
“Let us hope she is the only one that hunts us tonight,” Délin said.
Then the makers of the sounds came into view in the sky above them, for many birds circled them from on high. Some simply glided there, while others shouted down at them in whatever language the birds speak, the cruellest threats upon their tongues.
“So she has brought an army,” Délin said.
Some of the birds then began their assault, dropping stones upon the company like a hail from the heavens. The group clambered for cover as the rocks pelleted down. Some were small, like a nuisance of the weather, but others were large and fast, and they hurtled towards them like catapult fire. One struck Ifferon on the head, and he collapsed, until Thalla helped him up. They both stumbled then as another rock sliced at Thalla’s arm. She yelped like whatever rodents the birds normally preyed upon.
Then a small rock struck the body of Théos as Délin dashed across the snow, and he stopped and shouted to the sky, a roar that ravaged the heavens and rent the ears of all who listened, even the gods in Althar who watched the battle from their prison in the clouds. The noise was like earthquakes, the tone like thunder. Some of the birds collapsed from the force of the sound, falling to the earth like the stones they threw, leaving little hollows in the snow.
“You cowards!” Délin shouted to the sky. “Come down where I can fight you!”
Then the hawks and the harriers came, darting towards him like arrows from a bow unleashed. He fell to the ground and shielded Théos while the birds scratched and clawed at his armoured arms and his back. Then he rose like an eruption from a volcano, casting the birds aside, some hurtling away like little catapult fire of their own. He unsheathed his two-handed sword just in time as some of the birds of prey lunged at him again, and his sword moved like lightning, striking each and every one of them until they all fell dead like a wreath around the boy.
The other birds wailed in fright, and most immediately turned and fled back to Elithéa, while some reneged on their oaths and travelled back to fairer lands, and others yet circled for a time, shrieking and howling the darkest curses of their tongue. Soon they too retreated as Ifferon and Thalla rejoined Délin, who knelt before Théos in the bed of birds, weeping.
“You are wounded,” Thalla said. She tore a piece of her robe and wrapped his arm where the claws had dug in deep between the metal plates. She tended also to the cut upon Ifferon’s head and the gash upon her own arm. Soon an entire ring of her attire was used as bandage, and she already felt the chill of winter upon her legs.
“Has she no respect for the dead?” Délin said. “Or for the rules of battle? How are we to survive a siege from the sky?”
“We have to fight back,” Thalla said.
“I have fought,” Délin said, “but they must first meet me on land.”
“We cannot count on that,” Thalla said. “I wish I had not burned my bow now.”
“It was no good to us while broken,” Ifferon said.
“And just another device of dishonour,” the knight added.
“There are other ways,” Thalla said after a time. Ifferon caught a glimmer of fire in her eyes, like the memory of the reflection of the campfire of the night before, yet something that seemed to burn more fiercely. He knew exactly what it meant.
“You do not have a Beldarian,” he said.
“Yes,” she replied. “And I risk injury or death because of it, but I risk that
now if Elithéa has her way. It is a gamble that I may not win, but is it not better than the certainty of defeat if we try to survive the siege upon us?”
“Perhaps,” Ifferon said, “but you do not have an acorn if you die. It is the end.”
“I know,” she said. “Like Melgalés. Like Yavün. Much of what I had to live for is already gone.”
“Were it not for what assails us, I would think little of your art,” Délin said. “I mocked you once for it, when we first met, and I give penance for that deed. If it will stay or slow our oppressors, that we might return Théos to this world, then you have my blessing, for what it is worth.”
“Much,” she said. “Let us hope it is as good as a Beldarian.”
And so she searched the annals of her mind for all the various spells and incantations she studied while trying to impress Melgalés, and all the skills and techniques of concentration she learned when she at last impressed him. These she gathered, along with her determination and her anger, and she mixed them together in the cauldron of her mind until at last she had ready an assortment of weapons that Elithéa would have a hard time parrying.
* * *
Elithéa stood upon a rocky outcrop, her hand above her eyes, shielding them from the snowy grit as she peered into the distance. She could barely make out a flutter of dark shapes rushing towards her, and while she could not see them clearly, she knew well what they were.
“So nature loses this round,” she said. “But there are many more birds in this world than there are defilers of acorns, and they all have sharp beaks and claws.”
The blizzard of birds broke through the hail, screeching and shrieking. They flapped their wings and bobbed their heads, and they spoke of a monstrous beast who knocked them from the skies and killed many of their kin. Some crooned to the heavens, an elegy for the dead, and some cawed for a funeral of the fowl, but Elithéa would not have it. She wanted to continue the siege of the sky until her enemy surrendered.
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 34