The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy

by Dean F. Wilson

  Rúathar turned to them with grim eyes. “So the real siege begins.”

  The few who could see with the chlarisabín, the clearsight of the gods, peered out into the fading mist. Ifferon instinctively clutched the half-burned Scroll in his pocket as his eyes scanned the valley down below. Then he saw them emerge from the shadow, a fleeting glimpse of darkness gathered together in terrible forms. There he saw even the Nahamoni cower and falter, and the straggle of trees shiver as they passed.

  The Molokrán had come, and a sudden terror befell even those who could not see them, for fear fled before them, itself frightened by the great monstrosities that Molok had unleashed upon the world.

  “This is where we need you, Ifferon,” Rúathar said. “You cannot stand against a siege of stone, but against the Molokrán you are a fortress strong.”

  Ifferon did not feel so confident. As he turned away from the black tide that advanced towards the mountain, he felt the Shadowspirits planting seeds of fear in him, feeding them with panic and watering them with terror. If he was a castle, it had already been breached. If he was a high tower, it had already been torn to the ground. Amidst the rubble lingered dark things which even the ruins cowered from.

  “The Molokrán approach,” Rúathar said, “but Telm is here.”

  * * *

  The black sea of shadow crashed upon the shores of the mountain, striking the first gate like a storm. The door buckled and the boulder behind it was forced back from the blow. To those who manned the gate, it seemed like an invisible battering ram, some new type of weapon from the strange workshops of Agon in the darkest parts of Nahlin. Again and again it pounded on the door, until all behind it stood trembling. Then that which made them tremble broke through, and all was a chaos of cries. Their eyes saw naught, but their bodies felt all. Death came hastening.

  The second gate was already weakened from the siege, and behind it Mathal stood defiant. Her wiry limbs barely moved as the gate shook before her, as her own people shook around her.

  “Stay!” she shouted to the Al-Ferian guards, but few heard her commands, and fewer followed them.

  The gate flew open and the shadow surged forth. Mathal swung her staff towards whatever it was that attacked, for she could see naught, but she was thrown back quickly into the rubble, landing upon the bodies of men and women she had previously commanded. Her defiance crumbled, and though she could not see, she could feel the malignant force approaching.

  Then Telm emerged, or so it seemed to the Molokrán, who would always remember the form of the Warrior-god, the Warrior-king of old. Ifferon stood before them, his arm outstretched with the remnant of the Scroll of Mestalarin, and the armour of Telm shimmered about him in a halo of light.

  “Dehilasü baeos!” he cried, even though those words were burned upon the page.

  The Molokrán halted, like the wrathful sea held back by a daunting dam. The Lichelord had changed with the passing of the moon, and this one did not so easily recognise the form of Telm made man, but he felt the power of the god, like an armoured arm reaching out from history itself.

  “Al-iav im-iavün im-samün im-samadas,” Ifferon bellowed. His voice was like the tempest of the winds, bashing against the waves, forcing them back into the sea. The tides had turned.

  “Dehilasü baeos!” he added, speaking the words that opened and closed Telm’s final breath, even though they were burned at the top and missing from the bottom of the parchment, charred beyond the containing power of the Aelora sages. Yet even now with the Scroll weakened, the words still harried the heavens and woke the world. Even now they still told all in Althar, Iraldas and Halés that Telm once again walked the earth.

  The Molokrán could not stand against this power, and so they backed away like the tide returning to sea.

  Yet there is one thing certain about the sea: the ebb and flow—that which retreats will advance once again. So it was with the Molokrán, for as soon as the shock of Telm’s presence had worn off, they pressed on with their attack, guided by the blinding beacon that lit at the top of mountain, a beacon that some called Théos, and others simply called “god.”

  Ifferon and Mathal had barely managed to pull the survivors from the rubble when Ifferon saw the shadow spread again. He urged them to retreat, but their pace was not fast enough before the Molokrán were drawing near. Ifferon and the Al-Ferian clambered across the ruins of the third gate, stumbling as they went, and as they approached the fourth gate it opened suddenly and Rúathar emerged.

  “My moon has not yet come,” he said. “But I do not need the Alar to be an Ardúnar worth reckoning with. I will lead them away.”

  And so Rúathar became like a beacon of his own to the Molokrán, using the arcane secrets of the elect caste to lure away their most ancient rivals. He raced down a different path, away from Ifferon and the others, and the Molokrán pursued like wolves after their next meal.

  The Shadowspirits were not the only enemy, however, and Ifferon had barely passed beyond the fourth gate when a hail of arrows shot forth. As he glanced back he saw the Dark Men of Nahlin charge towards the gate. The door slammed shut just in time, but the creaking of the wood as the horde hammered upon it told all behind it that it would not last for long.

  Suddenly a great bolt of lightning struck the side of the mountain, causing an avalanche of rocks to fall upon the path. Great sections of the passage crumbled from the weight, sending many of the Nahlin forces plummeting to their ruin far below.

  Ifferon heard a cry and looked to see that Mathal had been caught in the landslide. She barely clung on, her fingernails digging deep into the rocks, as if they themselves were struggling to survive. She clambered and struggled, and Ifferon reached towards her, but the distance was too great. He stretched more, but the rock began to crumble about him, and he thought for a moment that he might also tumble to his grave.

  “Save yourself,” Mathal shouted, and she let go, falling after the Nahliners who had plunged before her. As she fell it looked as though her hair was a wiry weed, her body a slender branch. A simple tree caught in the crossfire. The willow had finally wilted.

  Though sorrow filled his heart, Ifferon did not tarry long at the edge of the ravine. He clambered up and banged at the next gate for entry. After a time that felt like decades the door was opened. He saw that Thúalim stood there, casting bolts of lightning across the mountain. The Al-Ferian did not acknowledge him as he passed, but kept his focus on his lethal last defence.

  Ifferon retreated back up the mountain to where Thalla and Délin stood, and to where Elithéa shouted abuse from her cage in the corner. Many people still stood there, but without Rúathar to lead them a great apprehension began to grow.

  “He would not listen,” Thalla said. “He said he had to go out.”

  “He knows what he is doing,” Ifferon said, and yet he did not know if this were true. Too many had stood valiantly before the Molokrán, and too many of them had fallen foolishly. Ifferon’s soul shuddered under the strain of the guilt of many deaths, all of whom offered themselves up to keep him, and the memory of Telm, alive. He did not even want to think of the growing weight upon the soul of Théos.

  “None of you know what you are doing,” Elithéa shouted from her cage. “Let me out and I will end it all.”

  But Ifferon and Thalla did not heed her words, for as they looked out at the siege around them, they saw something that warmed their hearts. On the edge of sight stood a shimmering figure, emerging from the forest. It was a woman, dressed in white, her dress clattering against the breeze. She was surrounded by a small contingent of men and women, none of whom were as elegantly dressed, and yet none of whom seemed as fierce as she, standing tall like a flag placed in victory. She held a mace to the sky, which caught the morning sunlight and blinded any who dared to strain their eyes to see her face.

  Ifferon did not need the eyes of eagles to recognise who it was. “It is Geldirana,” he told the others. “She has survived.” His relief was greater now t
han he thought it might ever be, for he carried the anxiety not only for his own well-being, but for her also, buried deep in the forgotten parts of his heart.

  “If she has survived, then perhaps we might also,” Thalla said.

  * * *

  Geldirana gazed across the plain to the siege upon the mountains. Her army had dwindled to a mere three dozen, and of her closest aides only Grêsir and Ana had survived. The Garigút looked grimmer than ever, with dark, tired eyes and many still-fresh wounds. Their weapons were bloodied and some were blunt, but they still looked deadly in the hands of the angry.

  “We have paid a great price at Nahragor,” Geldirana said. Her dress was torn and tattered, and muddied and blood-stained; yet it still looked white in the sleeping shadows of the rising sun, still appeared vibrant against the dark armour and black expressions of the people around her.

  “Too great,” Grêsir said. His voice was as grim as his appearance. The wrath clung to his tongue like flesh upon a blade.

  “Yet our battle is not over,” the Way-thane said. “I am no longer the Alar Ardúnar, but we have a duty as people of Iraldas to fight for Corrias, to give our bodies in sacrifice, if we must, for the greater good of the world.”

  “We launched a siege we did not win,” Grêsir said, “for Nahragor still stands, broken but not yet destroyed. Now you want us to end a siege we cannot win. Our bodies are broken, but not yet destroyed. What will be achieved by ending our people?”

  “Nothing,” Geldirana said, “which is why we must fight, because if they stop Corrias returning to this world, then surely the end of our people will come, sooner or later.”

  “Yet ‘sooner or later’ is not a choice if we offer up our bodies now,” Grêsir said.

  “You know my mind on this, Grêsir,” the Way-thane said sternly. “I expect you to follow me into battle, as you have always done. We have lost men and women at the doors and walls of Nahragor, but we dealt the enemy a deadly blow. Let us deal another.”

  She held her mace to the sky, where it glinted like a morning star. The day would be long, and the night would be longer. The Garigút would launch attack after attack upon the siege weapons and supplies spread around the Mountain Fortress. It would be a war of attrition, a skirmish against a siege, and the cost would undoubtedly be great. Yet the cost to the enemy would be greater.

  Then Geldirana felt a sharp sting in her back, and the air was knocked from her lungs. Her body froze for a moment, and she felt suddenly weak. She used what little energy she had to turn to her people, who stood in grim silence, except for Grêsir, who held a blood-laced dagger before him.

  “This is the last deadly blow I deal for you,” he said. “We have followed you to ruin, but we will not follow you to death. You were our Way-thane, but the way you have shown us is folly, and your rule is weak, for you serve the interests of others ere you serve your people.”

  Geldirana collapsed upon the ground before them. None of them, not even Ana, attempted to help her up. They turned away from her and her suffering, for they had their own to contend with. They turned to Grêsir, their new Way-thane, and they followed him away from the scene of the mutiny, away from the memory of the near ending of their people, of the ending of Geldirana’s reign, and the ending of her life. Her shock stole her words. Her wound stole her vigour. At last, her dress was no longer white—it was red. Her will was no longer resolute—it was broken. She began to hear the faint calls from the Halls of Halés, and as she glanced up to the besieged Mountain Fortress, she knew they were calling for the people there as much as they were calling for her.

  XIII – DEATH-STRONG

  Geldirana lay still for a moment as the blood leaked from her body. Her memories came and went like the tide, yet ever more fleeting as her life began to stray. Even Ifferon featured in her thoughts, though she did not dwell on him for long. There was not enough blood left in her to think much of him. As her memories mingled with those of her people she saw how even they were just as fleeting, just a dot in time.

  But the blood of the Garigút is strong, and even a drop of it can muster defiance that few among the people of Iraldas could match. A part of her being began to awake, and it was powerful. A part of her soul began to stir, and it was angry.

  “You will not die here,” she whispered to herself, but the words were weak. She did not like the weakness. “You will not die here,” she repeated more forcefully, until the blood rose into her mouth and she could taste it, taste the defiance.

  She rolled onto her side, and the pain fought back, like the echo of the stab. She cried out once, but she told herself she would not cry again. The pain would strengthen her. The pain would sustain and motivate her. The pain would never conquer her.

  Geldirana pushed herself to her knees and tore a strip of fabric from her dress. She was not amused by how much she had to struggle to tear it. She had torn flesh from the bones of enemies more easily than this. Her defiance grew. She wrapped the fabric around her body, clenching her teeth as the movements of her back stretched and compressed the wound. She pulled the fabric tight, like she had done with nooses around the necks of her foes, and she tied a knot that few could break. This would buy her time, but she knew she needed to tend the wound soon. Until then she had business to attend to, a debt to pay.

  She grasped the branch of a nearby tree and hauled herself up. She gave her feet a few seconds to steady themselves before pushing away from the tree. That would be the only thing she would allow to support her, and only once. She took an unstable step forward, her breathing heavy. It felt like an effort she had not known since she was a child, since she was a weak girl who was almost abandoned by her garig. She took another step. This one was easier, but it still took more energy than she felt she expended in a battle. Walking was a new enemy.

  The forest seemed much darker than it had been when she and the Garigút travelled through it. The trees seemed less forgiving. She did not care; she would not ask their support again. She stumbled through, glancing at the ground, where the heavy footfalls of her people led away. She followed the trail, her heavy feet stamping into the footprints of another. She imagined herself already there at her destination; this journey was just a formality. She followed the markings, and in her head she made little markings of her own—the markings of bodies in the dirt.

  * * *

  Rúathar led the Molokrán down the rocky path away from the Mountain Fortress. As he ran and clambered down, they crawled and floated along, seeping and dripping down the mountainous crags like a black vapour. To all who watched in awe and terror, it seemed that Rúathar was fleeing from his own shadow—but the real shadows were there, hidden from the sight of most, and they hunted the Ardúnar down, their dark feet treading upon his shadow, their dark hands reaching ever closer to his racing limbs.

  The pace of his flight drained his energy, while the horrors behind him weakened his concentration, so much so that he found it difficult to maintain the beacon of light around him that pulled the Shadowspirits along like the strings of the Animator. His breathing was no longer natural; he caught the air in his mouth as he hurtled down the path, and it was knocked from him again as he jumped over rocks and tree roots. His mind was no longer thinking; he was working on instinct now, fighting no longer for the people of Iraldas, but for his own life.

  He reached the end of the downward path, but he continued on towards the forest. The trees seemed to reach out to him eagerly, their branches stretched forth like helping hands, urging him into their safety. Even the wind seemed to be on his side, pushing him forward and increasing his speed. Yet still he felt the shadow behind him. Still he felt a coldness that was not from the weather.

  Every moment felt like a lifetime. Each rasping breath was like the birth of a new tree, each crashing step like the death of another. The forest seemed now only metres away, but the shadow seemed closer. The haven of the trees beckoned him, but the hell of the hounding shadow beckoned also.

  Like lightning call
ed down by Thúalim, Rúathar passed beneath the shade of the oak and ash trees that lined the outskirts of this part of the forest. For a brief moment he felt the shadows behind him lose pace, and he slowed his own, until he finally halted in exhaustion, resting his hand against a nearby tree, and coughing and wheezing as the ache of his limbs began to kick in.

  Then the shadows caught up. He turned to them, but his energy was mostly spent, and this affected his vision, for they seemed like a mass of darkness, more of a single unit than he had remembered them in his brief encounters, or had heard of them in his longer listening to the many disturbing tales. Then a figure began to emerge from the shadow, and he needed little sight to know who or what it was: it was the Lichelord, the Alar Molokrán, who heaved and rose up like a bloated spider, sucking wisps of shadow into him from his companions, like a spider sucks the jelly from the eyes of its victims.

  “My moon has not yet come,” Rúathar said, and his voice trembled like his limbs. “If you have any honour you will go back and seek me again when the Blossom Moon has come. Then you will have a fight worthy of your name, High against High.”

  The Lichelord laughed, and it was a sound like crackling wood and boiling water, with an even fainter echo of wails and screams in the distance. “It is always a fight of High against Low,” he said. “The Ardúnari are powerless. You drink of the Elixir of Life, and yet when you meet us you still taste death. Drink, Warden.”

  But Rúathar took out his Ilokrán from his vestments and held it before the Lichelord, who flinched as one struck by the lash of a greater master.

  “Relics of the Elad Éni will not save you,” he bellowed, and the force of his voice knocked the leaves from the trees.

  “Leave the forest out of this,” the Al-Ferian shouted. “You accomplish nothing by striking the trees. You might think you win a battle against the Ardúnari, but against Nature you will have a war you cannot win.”