The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy

by Dean F. Wilson

  The pain became so much that even Edgaron’s reassuring words and Belnavar’s reassuring presence seemed meaningless. The eager eyes of the throng around him darted to and fro in amazement and disgust, and perhaps one or two vomited, but then they all seemed to fade away, until the only figure present was the pain. In those few agonising moments, where Herr’Don envied the Beast his torment, he met the pain as an acquaintance, then knew it intimately as an enemy, until finally it awakened some store of salving vitality in him, and so he knew it as a friend.

  The torture was perhaps momentary, but to those imprisoned in the moment, there is no beginning or end—just the confines of the ailment. The dulling of his mind did not save him from seeing the fateful moment when the bloodied teeth of the steel animal biting at him were lifted up, followed by the remnants of their victim: the mangled arm, which was discarded in a bucket, like scraps for the dogs.

  His thoughts were also mangled, but he could not stop from thinking: The Keep has eaten.

  IX – THE MOVING OF THE MOUNTAINS

  There was a frenzy in the Mountain Fortress, for the reality of the impending siege set upon them all like an earthquake. It shook their lethargy and toppled their indecision, forcing all to band together to prepare for whatever would come hastening to stop Corrias from returning to the world. The Al-Ferian had already moved many supplies, filling the bunkers almost to the brim, and now Ifferon and Thalla, who had donned Al-Ferian attire to replace her tattered robe, helped carry bits and pieces to and fro.

  Délin nailed planks of wood across some of the openings that shone light on the body of Théos, as if he thought that might help stop the oncoming boulders, or perhaps he was simply hoping that the light would not make it all too clear that the boy was really dead.

  The people toiled long and hard that night, as they had toiled for many nights before, and would again for many nights to come. There were dozens of stone bunkers built deep into the floor of the Mountain Fortress, some that seemed as though they had been there for hundreds, if not thousands, of years, and others that seemed more recently constructed. Rúathar told them that there was space for several thousand people in these bunkers, which had channels that led into even more bunkers deep beneath the earth, like a labyrinth of caverns. Some of them connected with the secret passages that led into the Stumps, some of them were empty, to act as decoys for any enemies who found their way within, and some others were trapped with devices that only keen eyes could see in the gloom. Rúathar did not reveal exactly how many of his people hid within the fortress, but he did suggest that many others dwelt in what he called the Hollows further north, which were delvings made beneath the roots of trees.

  “Why do you not live in the height of the trees?” Ifferon asked.

  Rúathar’s eyes grew stern. “Why not build on the graves of your people?” he asked, his voice harsh. “For that is what it would be for us to live in the trees. We never place a burden on a tree, which may indeed be one of our ancestors. Even the Hollows are only there because the trees have provided spaces for us between their roots. They provide. We do not take.”

  Ifferon apologised, which Rúathar accepted graciously, but Ifferon did not feel disgruntled at the reprimand, for he enjoyed greatly learning of the cultures and policies of other peoples. He thought he might make a better ambassador than an adventurer, but he knew that some, like Agon, would not honour the special neutrality offered to that role. Many of Boror’s top advisers had learned this in painful ways, and some were perhaps still there in Nahlin, facing long and terrible torture. He knew well that there was no treaty or negotiation that would end Agon’s war on Iraldas. The emissaries were as much on the front line as the soldiers were.

  * * *

  Thalla spent much of her time helping Thúalim prepare for the tiresome work ahead. He was not one for words, so she did most of the talking, to which he gave a short response, and sometimes only a nod. At times Ifferon thought that Thúalim seemed irritated by her, and would rather be alone, but he never once told her to go away—and so she stayed.

  “You are a Magus,” she pointed out to him, and she felt almost silly for highlighting what to her, and perhaps many others, was obvious.

  He looked at her with deep, entrancing eyes, which almost matched the glowing beldar jewel inset in the pendant about his neck. This Beldarian was slightly different to the one Melgalés wore, both in shape and colour, for it had greens and blues, and many interlaced designs, like the roots and branches of trees.

  “Where did you get your Beldarian?” she asked.

  “Nature,” he said after a pause, where he looked at the sky and ran his fingers across the ground. He seemed intoxicated by the air around him, inebriated by the feel of the land. Ever since she saw him among the Al-Ferian in the White Mountains, he always seemed like he was in another world, one in which he communed with nature.

  “My mentor said the Apprentice will know the time to embark on the quest for the beldar jewel, and that the journey is long and hard,” she said. Again she felt silly, for surely he knew this if he had succeeded. “How will I know I am ready?”

  He tapped the earth around him, as if awakening it for an answer to her question. She wondered for a moment if the Moln lived within the Mountain Fortress. “The Magi do not take women,” he said at length.

  A part of her ignited, and her own fiery eyes met again with his. He was forest and wood, but she was fire, and she knew that she could burn it all down. Instinctively she ran her fingers over the faded scars on her right hand, and she was painfully reminded that she too could burn.

  “Melgalés did,” she said.

  “He was an outcast of our Order,” Thúalim replied. “He did not have our blessing. His brother Melgalorn was a better friend of the Al-Ferian, but he was called back to Boror to help the King with Larksong. I alone of the Magi refused the summons, because I knew I would be needed by my people, because I knew that the Host had been sent forth.”

  “Then you know what it means to defy your Order.”

  “It is very different to refuse to do something than to do something that is refused.”

  “How will I know I am ready?” she asked again.

  He turned his intent gaze on her once more, and she felt almost mesmerised. “I will tell you the answer, but you will not like it. You will know you are ready when you stop asking the question.”

  He was right that she would not like the answer, for she felt he was evading her, just like Melgalés had on so many occasions. She felt the fires in her begin to awaken, fed by her impatience and impulsiveness. Melgalés had told her “no” many times, and she had found a way, even if the way was dangerous and he did not like it. She looked again at Thúalim, and her eyes told him she would find a way, but his eyes told her that he did not care if she did or not, nor if she died in the process.

  * * *

  The night consumed the last remaining scraps of day, but the darkness was not absolute, for the light kept one beacon burning in the sky. The moon shone directly on the cloister where the company sat together to share what might to some of them be their last supper.

  “Uldarus is out tonight,” Délin said.

  “Ulithé,” Rúathar said, “though she goes by many names. Her defiance of the night gives me courage, as I am sure it does for all the Ardúnari, for we are all moons to the long, dark night of the enemy.”

  “Yes, yes,” Délin said, still staring into the sky. “Without Uldarus we would face a much greater foe.”

  “What do you mean?” Thalla asked.

  “Uldarus bound each year to thirteen months, or thirteen moons, for that is where we get our word for month: moonth, a cycle of the moon, derived from the Aelora word mün,” Ifferon explained. “This stopped Molok from creating more than thirteen Molokrán, though he was able to create an infinite number of lesser Shadowspirits. In anger, Molok ravished Uldarus, and she bled. So have women bled each month because of this foul act.”

  “So the tale
goes,” Délin said. “There is a song in Arlin about what transpired, and it is one of the many I have added to my memory. It goes as follows:

  Uldarus ventured in the depths of night,

  When few among the gods would swim so deep.

  Whatever created darkness needed light,

  For even gloom grew tired and wanted sleep.

  A beacon for the gods, the lady moon

  Provided guidance when the maps grew dim.

  In Althar few appreciate this boon

  Where light eternal springs from edge to rim.

  The binding of the moon ensured her fate,

  The sealing of the sky made all entwined,

  And what she did for love, invited hate

  From one to whom the heart was not inclined.

  For Molok envied all who could create,

  And hated most the ones who shun his hand.

  Each time she would defy, he grew irate—

  Ask became encourage and then demand.

  He watched as others birthed races new,

  And felt as one far lost in pitch of night.

  His anger was his captain, ship and crew;

  His envy was his only guiding light.

  The shadows rose in praise of the fair moon,

  Unwanted children of the day and night,

  And from the ground Molok began to prune

  The shapes of shade that hearkened to his plight.

  The Animator was his title now

  Among the names and curses of the gods.

  Orders were sent forth, Molok would not bow,

  And so he was with others now at odds.

  Fear struck Corrias at this evil act,

  Reminding him that some usurp their chief;

  He knew they had to act with guile, with tact,

  And so Uldarus was at night the thief.

  She bound the year to thirteen turns of moon,

  Which hindered Molok in his darkest art;

  As Hadar he was not from time immune

  And could not from the nightly cycles part.

  His thirteen minions rose, but now no more,

  While other races flourished with consent.

  To darkness in the Void an oath he swore

  That Céalari power would be spent.

  Uldarus was the first to feel his wrath;

  Her light was not enough to blind his shade.

  To him she was a pebble on his path,

  A thorn: his feet she slowed, his hands she stayed.

  He consorted with the clouds, shadow’s friend,

  And seized Uldarus from the veil of gloom.

  He held her down and whispered of her end,

  And then defiled her deep, a wound of womb.

  Had Ilios not risen with the day,

  Uldarus might have died to Molok’s spite;

  He fled the scene, a predator now prey

  As sun revealed the evils of the night.

  Uldarus bled—they called the blood a week,

  And every month she felt the pain anew.

  Some bled with her, a sympathy unique

  To women, whom the night has been cruel to.

  “A horrid tale,” Thalla said. “I shall look on the moon with different eyes each night.”

  “Yes, yes,” Délin said. “Despite her hurt, Uldarus comes out again every night. She has never abandoned her watch. In that I find great encouragement. We will all bleed ere this war is done, and some perhaps will bleed dry, but yet we must still keep watch against evil.”

  “Precisely,” Rúathar said.

  “What happened to Molok?” Thalla asked. “Melgalés would never tell me much about him or Agon, and I heard nothing of the Elad Éni until I met the rest of you.”

  “He was hunted by Ilios, the sun, Uldarus’ brother, who was forced to retire each night from exhaustion,” Délin explained. “It is said that he still hunts the shadows, and so they flee when the sun appears. Yet he never got to kill Molok, for the Animator was a master of illusion and deceit, even managing to get the aid of Aelor for a time, when he convinced him that he had been wrongly charged. Molok met his fate in the end, however, when he created Agon, when he tortured the Beast into existence, for he found he could not control him, and Agon devoured Molok, gaining his power.”

  “So, in a sense, Molok still lives,” Ifferon said solemnly. “Inside the Beast.”

  “Yes, yes,” Délin said. “All the more reason for Agon to remain imprisoned, if he cannot altogether be destroyed.”

  Ifferon imagined what Herr’Don might have said to that: Ha! Agon shall die a thousand deaths at the hands of Herr’Don the Great, and he shall call me Beast. Ifferon missed the Prince’s cheerful exaggeration, which was like a boisterous fire in the bitter cold of night.

  “What of your moon?” Ifferon asked Rúathar. “The moon for Geldirana has passed a week or so ago. Are you the Alar Ardúnar for this Cold Moon?” He pushed the thought of Geldirana from his mind, for he thought it likely she had died at the hands of the Molokrán as she led them away from the company in Nahragor. He buried the feeling of guilt he had, not just for her death, but for abandoning her so many years before.

  “My moon has not yet come,” Rúathar said. “I will not take the Alar until March, the time of the Blossom Moon. It is Lëolin the Pelari Guard who is Alar Ardúnar for December, which some call the White Moon. The Blossom Moon is the Green Moon, for it heralds Spring, and it is a time I always welcome, even if I do not welcome the responsibilities that being the Alar Ardúnar brings. Let us hope that Lëolin survives his moon, and let us hope we all do, for winter is not forgiving.”

  Ifferon cheered with the others, though half-heartedly, for he thought of how Melgalés had fallen during his moon, and how Geldirana had undoubtedly followed. Rúathar, perhaps, was safe, if his moon was many months off, but Ifferon wondered then what would happen to Lëolin, and if, perhaps, he might be wiser to avoid the Molokrán at this time. A darker part of him deemed his thoughts were pointless, for when the Molokrán came forth, none of them were safe.

  * * *

  Ifferon slept uneasily that night. He dreamed he was receiving messages from the gods. When he awoke, he found he could not remember what those messages were—only that he had refused to heed them.

  Dawn came, but the light was blotted out by an approaching darkness. Many were startled by it until Rúathar explained that what was approaching was merely part of the Al-Ferian’s reinforcements. In time Ifferon saw that it was a great flock of birds, answering Rúathar’s call. As they approached, they squawked and screeched, and some of them flapped their wings at Délin, whom they recognised as the ferocious beast from the White Mountains. It took a long time before Rúathar could calm them enough to hear his plea.

  He spoke to them in chirps and whistles, and it seemed he had learned their tongue and spoke it masterfully. He told some to watch the skies, and he asked others to head to foreign lands to tell any who would listen of their plight upon Abi-Enuth. Others he told to do whatever they saw fit to break the wills of any Nahamoni forces that might be marching on the mountain.

  “We do not know how long the siege will last,” Rúathar said. “It could be hours, days, weeks, or months. If it is hours, then we will have perished quickly. Beyond that, I do not know how long the ritual will take. This has never been attempted on this scale before, and so much is at stake. We can outlast a siege for weeks, if we are lucky, and we can escape our fortress if we must, but we need all the allies we can get to slow and hinder our enemy, to stop them from slowing and hindering us.”

  “Will any come?” Délin asked. He knew that the Knights of Issarí would rally to the call, but even on horseback they were many days away, and they did not know well the woods of Alimror.

  “I do not know,” Rúathar said, “but we must still call.”

  “Will these not alert the enemy to our whereabouts?” Thalla asked. “If I saw flocks go out in all directions from a single point, I would know where to look.”


  Rúathar’s eyes showed clearly that he had thought of this. “They already know we are here.”

  * * *

  The day dulled, and Ifferon sat with Délin, staring out at the few birds that remained, circling the Mountain Fortress.

  “So we approach the final hour,” the knight said.

  “The final fear,” Ifferon mused.

  “I do not fear those who are coming, but I do fear that they might stop the ritual.” Délin glanced at the Wisdomweavers. Their work was different to those who carried stones and supplies back and forth across the cloister, and yet it seemed they carried a heavier burden. “It is times like this I wish I were a cleric, that I might aid in the ritual.”

  “Not if you were of the Order of Olagh,” Ifferon said. “I know little of what the Wisdomweavers do. Every time I recognise something, I spot ten more things that are foreign to me, and the strangeness of it all hurts my mind. I was never much of a liturgist. It was easier, and safer, to be a scribe.”

  “I do not deny that this ritual is queer to my eyes,” Délin said, “but there is no ritual I know to wake the dead, so I have nothing to compare it to. Thus I do not try to understand. I try to hope. Right now I am on the edge of hope—but not yet over.”

  Ifferon smiled. “There is one thing I have not much hope for,” he said, “and that is sleep. I doubt I will sleep well tonight, if I sleep at all.”

  Délin smiled weakly. “I will leave my worries for tomorrow,” he said. “When my sword can deal with them. Tonight I will sleep for strength, not comfort, and perhaps then I will not dream at all.”

  “The battle approaches and you grow more resolute,” Ifferon observed, “while I grow more doubtful and afraid.”

  “Why are you afraid?”

  “Strangely, I am not afraid of dying. I am more afraid of failing to live up to what is expected of me while still alive.”