Herr’Don nodded. “Had I come to Madenahan with Belnavar I would have thought little of those words. But Teron revealed himself to be a great enemy, a servant of Agon, and it seemed he did not pray to Olagh, but worked dark magic for the Beast. It surprises me little that he would be working spells of influence upon people.”
“That may be true,” Daralus acknowledged, “and it would certainly explain why Teron gained the rank of Royal Cleric here, despite others being perhaps more suited—but it does not explain why he spoke of this to my brother, for there is one thing I know about him, and that is that he would not serve anyone, Olagh or Agon.”
“A mystery then,” Belnavar said.
“Perhaps,” Herr’Don said, and Daralus looked at him curiously, as if he were eavesdropping on the conversation with the ghost of Belnavar, or eavesdropping on the thoughts in Herr’Don’s head. “But now it seems clearer to me. He hunted Ifferon, but did not know where to look. So he came here and encountered the one person who knew most about our fabled cleric. Perhaps Teron cast a spell of sway upon him, that he might spy on our doings, or perhaps he gave to Aralus a spell of sway to cast upon us all. And so it seems I fell under it, as my father fell under Teron’s. Thus it seems that even the one I thought I was close to among our company was not a true friend.” He felt his despondency grow inside of him.
“It pains me to hear this,” Daralus said, “and I do not know for certain if this is so. All I know is that Aralus came here with a grudge, which Teron clearly fed.” He paused. “Is there aught else I can aid you with?”
Herr’Don looked at the dark liquid in a vial marked with a skull and crossbones, which almost seemed to look back. For a moment he almost felt like snatching it up and swamping it down, or simply asking Daralus to make for him an antidote to life. “No,” he said instead. “Thank you for your time.”
Herr’Don left the room and went up to the battlements, where he often sat with Edgaron, two small boys towering over the world and their troubles. Yet now a full-grown man, he did not feel tall upon the roof of Ilokmaden Keep, and he felt lonelier than he ever had, even now with Belnavar by his side.
He looked over the parapets at the tiny figures below, going about their business, and he envied them now, envied their simple lives and simple choices. They were poor in purse, but rich in other ways outside the reign of kings. Herr’Don was merely wealthy in his worries, the one inheritance he could truly attribute to his father.
The darker parts of his mind began to stir, emerging from the shadows of the soul. The smell of salt in the air reminded him of Larksong Beach, where he had fought until he was the last of his regiment standing. He felt as though he had never left those sands, as if he were still there fighting, battling against the world alone.
He looked again over the parapets and again at the tiny figures far below. He thought maybe he could join them. He stepped closer to the edge. He looked up at the grey clouds that oppressed the sky, and knew that he could not join the gods there. He stepped closer to the edge.
Then the image of Larksong came once again into his mind. The glory of battle seized him and overwhelmed him like it always did. He could smell the air and taste the blood, could see the flags and feel the grip of his sword—could feel with both hands.
“Not this way,” he said, turning away from the sheer drop. “I would die that I might be remembered.”
“Or live a legend,” Belnavar said.
“Like you?” Herr’Don asked. “A ghost knows naught of life.”
“But what of death?”
“Maybe we will both haunt memories,” Herr’Don said. “But come! I shall die another way.”
“But not another day?”
“Whatever day I arrive at Larksong, and fight until my last breath, like I should have done when you came to help.”
* * *
Herr’Don left Madenahan immediately, and he did not go to Edgaron to give his heartfelt goodbyes, and he never thought to go to the King to give his feigned goodbyes. He took a horse at the East Gate, and the guards did not stop him, for they knew that the King, and the city at large, would be glad to be rid of him. It was difficult to climb aboard, and difficult to ride, and this made him painfully aware of his missing arm, and painfully aware of how much he wanted to escape the world.
He rode east through the dimming day, and Belnavar followed, and had he stopped to listen he would have heard the sound of other following feet. In time he came close to Larksong, and he stayed the horse in horror as he looked upon what had happened. He expected a wreckage of a town, but instead he saw a hastily built wall that spanned for miles, wrapping around the abandoned village and the surrounding hills. The Magi of Boror stood upon it, casting spells into the ruins.
He got off his horse and found Belnavar standing there by the steps that led up onto the rampart. They climbed to the top, where they could see better what the Magi were doing: breaking the land apart with all kinds of magic that strained even the Beldarians that shuddered around their necks. They were so deep in concentration that they ignored the Prince.
“So Larksong is deemed forsaken,” Belnavar said, shaking his head.
“Along with me,” Herr’Don replied, and he stepped closer to the edge.
“I would have fought for it.”
“I will fight for it,” Herr’Don said, and he drew his sword. Just as he was about to jump down into Larksong itself, where many Nahamoni still roamed, he caught a glimpse of someone else coming up the stairs after them. It was Edgaron, who had stabled his horse with the other one below.
“Do not do this,” Edgaron said. “This will be your doom.”
“I have seen my doom,” Herr’Don replied. “In the Issar Chammas, and it is at sea, not land.”
“But they are going to send this land out to sea,” Edgaron said. “Larksong will be an island, away from the coasts of Boror, a token or tribute to Agon, a staging ground for his forces. You will never survive there, one against many.”
“Then I will live out my fate,” Herr’Don said. “What else is there to do? I have no one or nothing to live for. Battle and bloodshed is all there is. I will die in Larksong, where perhaps I should have died with my regiment all those weeks ago.”
He stepped closer to the edge, peering at a group of Nahamoni who clambered at the wall.
“No, Herr’Don!” Edgaron cried, but it was too late.
Herr’Don jumped from the wall into the frenzy of figures down below. He stumbled as he landed, but even from the ground he was a marvel to behold, for he stabbed into the darkness, piercing many Nahamoni bodies. He swung and he slashed, and those who felt his blade thought an army had suddenly arisen all around them. This was their turn to flee in terror at an unseen foe, like Herr’Don’s regiment had done in the face of the Shadowspirits.
“Fight me!” Herr’Don roared. “Come back and fight me!”
The echo of his words merely clipped the heels of his enemy, who heard what sounded like a legion of lions announcing their dominion. They charged back to the larger groups of Dark Men, who claimed Larksong as their own, and some spoke of an army approaching, while others recognised Herr’Don’s clothes and thought he might make a fitting prisoner, something to ransom with, or merely taunt the people of Boror.
Then the fate of Larksong arrived. The ground began to shake violently, as if it had had enough of the war upon its belly. Herr’Don stumbled and fell several times; each time he stuck his sword into the ground, as if to slay this new enemy of land, and hoisted himself to his feet. Then the ground began to crack and open up. Ilokmaden Keep had devoured his arm, but it seemed that Iraldas itself wanted to finish the meal.
Edgaron jumped down form the wall, injuring his right leg as he landed. The pain did not slow him, however, for he charged towards the growing rift. He called Herr’Don’s name many times, and finally the Prince heard him and turned to him with forlorn eyes.
“They will not fight,” he said despondently. “I need to fight.�
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“Then fight death,” Edgaron said. “Do not die like this.” He reached his hand across the foot-long chasm that had formed between them, like a mirror of the chasm in their hearts.
“With what hand can I take yours?” Herr’Don asked, holding up his sword in his right hand, and raising the stump of his left shoulder.
Edgaron stretched further across the ravine. “I’m not asking you to drop your sword. I’m asking you to sheath it long enough to take my hand. Let me help you. Let me be there for you like I have always been, in heart if not in body.”
Tears lined Herr’Don’s face like a veil, but revealing instead of concealing. For a moment Edgaron thought he saw the Prince’s will finally collapse, and his heart sank, for he feared he had lost him.
Belnavar leapt across the gap. “The greater fight is on this side,” he said.
Then Herr’Don threw his sword across the rift, where it clanged against the wall, and he took Edgaron firmly by the hand, his will restored. Edgaron pulled him across the growing chasm and they collapsed together, like they had often done as children after a long day of adventures around Ilokmaden Keep.
“I have to fight,” Herr’Don whispered. “I need to fight.”
“Then we will fight,” Edgaron said.
They laid upon the grass, at the edge of the newly-formed cliffs, watching as a new island was pushed away into the east. The King Vale grew smaller that day, and the King willingly gave up some of his sovereignty, to avoid risking giving up it all. No larks nested on the sea-swept rock. No songs were sung from there except from the ghosts of minstrels who had died in battle. The island was another sacrifice, another morsel of land fed to an evil god, and Agon gloated in the gluttony of his feed, and those in Halés felt him in the deeps—felt the chains loosen just a little.
XII – THE SIEGE OF THE MOUNTAINS
The clouds billowed thick like waves crashing upon the shore, blinding all in a haze of grey. Some pondered if this was what it was like in the heavens of Althar, if the gods really lived in fortresses in the clouds—yet few felt like gods when the truth of the armies around them got out.
Ifferon was not comforted by the thick stone or the even thicker veil around it. He felt suddenly as though he were back at Larksong, back at the monastery where the birds no longer sing. The mist was no longer guided by the enemy, but by his allies, and yet still it brought with it a cloud of tension and apprehension, a smoke of uncertainty and unease—still it was to all within it the unmistakeable fog of war.
A silence hung upon the air, like the ghostly quiet of a crowd just before the fateful swing of the headman’s axe. The clamours of terror clung to the back of their throats, while the horrors of nightmares stalked the hunting grounds of their minds. Those who had come up from the cellars and bunkers crawled back to their hiding places, and those who had nowhere to hide tried to muster courage, hoping it could be summoned as easily as the Al-Ferian conjured clouds.
Then the silence broke and the siege began. A creaking and heaving could be heard from the valley below, and then the whistling of the wind, which hummed the sound of siege.
From the windows of the clouds Ifferon could see the catapults hurling what looked like specks of dust, yet were undoubtedly monstrous rocks. The siege weapons circled the entire mountain, operating in row upon row, with great armies standing watch. It made the battles of Larksong and Nahragor look like skirmishes, and it made the people of the Mountain Fortress feel oppressed. It seemed to the eyes of Ifferon and Thalla that the enemy did not know where it was aiming, for it fired in many directions, launching boulders into the sky, as if Iraldas was at war with Althar.
“You have blinded us as much as our enemies,” Thalla said, straining to see the figures far below.
“It was a gamble,” Rúathar replied. “It was always a gamble.”
“Then the odds are in their favour,” Thalla said. “They do not worry where the boulders land.”
“To them we are all Théos,” Ifferon said, and Délin looked up, as if his name had been called.
Since they could not see, it became essential to listen against the howling of the wind for the howling of stone hurtling through it. Many were shushed angrily and fearfully as sound became their ally and their enemy simultaneously—the whisper of a warning or the forerunner of their doom.
Crashes echoed out around them as boulders struck the mountain side, and further out they could hear the panicked cries of the few families who refused to leave the mountains—once a refuge, now their ruin.
Luckily for those at the summit of Abi-Enuth, the peak was mostly out of range of the catapults of the enemy. Those who guarded the passages up the mountain, however, were not so safe, and it would not be long before the enemy realised the limit of their siege weapons’ range, and would then move them closer to their target.
There were none in the Mountain Keep who felt safe from the stones. The walls were thick, but the roof was hollow, and in the cloister all felt exposed to the hail. Even those hiding deep inside the bunkers feared the siege, for it mattered little where the rocks landed—they shook the chambers and rocked the roofs. Amidst the chaos, the Wisdomweavers continued their incantations, their concentration distracting them from their fear. Their words seemed to channel directly towards Théos, the only one who could not hear them, and to the urn-like Ferhassan that had been crafted from the Perasalon relics. To all who looked upon the boy now, it seemed that where he lay, exposed to the heavens, was perhaps today the most precarious of places in Iraldas.
“Can we not move the boy?” Ifferon asked. “Can he not be hid?” He was reminded of Délin ushering the boy into the crevices of the Old Temple. He was reminded of his own sheltering in the crevices of the monastery at Larksong. Now there were no more hiding places.
“No,” Rúathar replied. “This is where all come to get a second life.”
“But he might get a second death if a boulder comes through here.”
“That is the risk we take,” the Al-Ferian said.
“Not one I take,” Délin remarked. He removed his helm and placed it gently over Théos’ head. Then he stood before the table, his eyes stern and his body unmoving, like the Eternal Watchguards of Atel-Aher, the last king of Arlin. To some it seemed as though he might somehow shield the child from falling stone, might catch a boulder and hurl it back into the valley. Ifferon was concerned that he even imagined this, knowing that the reality would be very different. More worrying was the growing realisation that there was little he could do, that unlike the siege on Nahragor, where he was with the force outside the walls, all he could do this time was wait.
* * *
To some within the walls, the wait was over.
Three of the fortified gates that wound their way up the mountain were destroyed by the siege in minutes, for a hail of boulders fell like a wrathful rain. The third, fourth and eighth gates were crushed, while the second was battered and weakened, leaving Mathal’s forces wearied by the assault.
Many began to flee, but since they knew the enemy did not know where it was attacking, the people of the mountain did not know where they were running away from. Chaos began to grow and fester, licking the wounds of the fallen and invading the minds of those yet to fall.
Mathal managed to calm some just enough to restore them to their posts, but even with fear vanquished, or but tempered and buried, many of the guards had fallen from injuries of rock and stone. Yet Mathal barely moved, shaking off the assault like wind upon a willow tree.
* * *
“How long can we last here?” Ifferon asked.
“As long as necessary,” Rúathar replied. “If all goes ill, we can use the tunnels that lead out into the Stumps. But it most not go ill here, or it will go ill everywhere.”
“They will tire of this,” Thalla said. “They cannot throw stones at us forever.”
“No,” Rúathar said. “And it is when they stop that we should worry.”
“Why?” Ifferon asked
.
“Because it is then that things far worse will come.”
Ifferon needed no explanation, for his mind was haunted by the memory of the Molokrán. His conscious mind had almost forgotten their terror, but the deeper parts of his mind did not forget so easily, did not forget the hounding horror and the chasing dread. He was unsettlingly aware that they most likely had not forgotten him either.
* * *
Mathal stood alone in the open at the second gate, while her forces huddled beneath a thin ridge of stone that ran across the doorway. She shook her head as they cowered there, knowing that if another boulder came through, it would knock the door down upon them. She would rather greet death beneath the open sky, and feel the wind upon her face one last time.
But death did not come for her then. Instead she heard the cries of others further up the mountain. The catapults had been realigned, firing higher at the peak, but no one knew where exactly they were aiming for, least of all the Nahliners down below, for the fog still billowed thick around Abi-Enuth, cradling the rocky crags.
“I heard sieges can last for months,” one of the Al-Ferian said as he emerged from the supposed safety of the doorway. “Can we endure that long?”
Mathal shook her head; her thin hair flailed as she moved. “I have been in two sieges in my life, and I survived both. They were long and horrible. This one, I think, will be short—but no less horrifying.”
* * *
Suddenly silence fell like a stone. The cries of the wind were no more. The wail of wood and shriek of stone no longer played out their sombre song. The echoes faded out like a memory, joining the other long-dead echoes of the world.
“The stones have stopped,” Thalla said.
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 46