Again the Lichelord laughed, but now the crackling wood sounded like snapping twigs. Rúathar turned to see that black stags had gathered behind him. They were part of the abundant wildlife which populated Alimror, dwarfing the numbers of the Al-Ferian. But there was something different about these now. Their eyes were red.
Rúathar shook his head in dismay. “No,” he said. “You corrupt the land.”
“We are the land,” the Lichelord said, “and its cold slayer.”
Then the Molokrán advanced, and so too did the possessed stags. The Shadowspirits waited until the animals struck the Al-Ferian, for they wanted him to know that Nature had conspired against him, that Nature now answered to the shadow, that Nature was his doom. The stags pounced on him and he cried out. The Ilokrán dropped from his battered fingers.
“My moon has not yet come,” he said. Death came instead.
* * *
Grêsir led the Garigút through the forest, heading north-east as they ventured back towards Boror, where they would find land to suit them for the winter, where they could nurse their wounds and attempt to rebuild their people, before summer came and they could move again to riper land with food to harvest—land they would take from others if they must.
“We should not have left her like that,” Ana said. She was one of five females left in the group, and by far the youngest; the others carried the scars of many battles.
Grêsir halted and turned sharply, catching Ana by the throat. “Would you rather we leave you behind also? Your words show weakness. If you talked like that as a cub we would have left you behind when we moved to new land. Weakness is a burden. Do not be a burden to us.” He shoved her back towards one of the other women, who pushed her back again. She stumbled and coughed, and she dared not speak again.
They continued on, but now darkness came and they could not see the stars through the thick roof of trees. Grêsir cursed the forest, as he cursed all forests, for they were to him the enemy of travel, slowing a people whose livelihood depended on moving quickly across terrain. Some of the others were not so unhappy beneath the leaves, for it sheltered them from a heavy rainfall. They had survived many grim winters, and they would survive many more to come, but their beleaguered bodies did not welcome more ill weather.
Grêsir kept them travelling for a time until finally the darkness defeated him and they knew no longer in which direction they were travelling. They set up camp and lit a fire. Grêsir and Rokrig, his second-in-command, left the group to hunt for food. They came back soon after with a small deer, which they roasted over the fire. Ana sat away from the group, the custom of one scolded by the Way-thane. After the others had eaten, Grêsir threw her a deer leg. That was a sign she was still part of the garig, and so she rejoined the others. She ate silently as they talked.
“There are farms near Bardahan,” Grêsir said. “They are poorly guarded for any so close to the border. We could raid them at night and get a few days worth there before we’d need to move on.”
“Good,” Rokrig said. “That is far enough from Madenahan not to bother the King.”
“He is not our king,” Grêsir said.
“No, Way-thane. You are right. At least the people of Bardahan will not rally to support the farmers. They’ll talk about us, but they will not fight.”
“Good. We will leave at first—”
Before Grêsir could finish the words Geldirana wrapped a bloodied piece of fabric about his throat, choking him and tugging him to the ground. Rokrig grabbed his sword, but already Geldirana had taken Grêsir’s mace, or rather the mace he had stolen from what he thought would soon be her dead body. She swung it viciously in front of Rokrig while pulling the noose around Grêsir’s neck.
“Back away and you will keep your life,” she told Rokrig. The others needed no warning.
“Calm,” Rokrig said, placing his sword down beside him.
“Tell me that again and I’ll make a noose for you,” she said.
Grêsir still struggled on the ground, his face swelling as blood rushed to it. His fingers scraped and clutched at the fabric digging into his throat. She took a deep breath, where it seemed to others that she was counting in her head, and then she untied the fabric from about Grêsir’s neck. The red marks were clear to all amidst the firelight.
“Get up,” she told Grêsir.
Ana ran over to help him up, but Geldirana placed her mace before her. “He is the Way-thane no longer,” she said. “He does not need your help.”
After a time Grêsir clambered to his knees.
“The air feels better when your lungs appreciate it,” Geldirana said.
“This … wasn’t … personal,” Grêsir wheezed.
“I know,” she replied. “And this isn’t either.” She struck him once with the mace. He collapsed again.
“Geldirana,” Rokrig said. “We need every man and woman.”
She scoffed. “Then you would not have left me behind to die.”
“You … were killing … our people,” Grêsir coughed.
“No,” she said. “You were, when you tried to usurp me.”
“Geldirana, our Way-thane!” cheered Ilokana, the oldest of the women there. She raised her spear to the sky to toast the return of their true Way-thane, the woman who had earned her place as head of their people, and earned it back again from the brink of death.
“Our Way-thane,” came a chorus of supporting cries.
“Prove it, Ilokana,” Geldirana said. “Take Rokrig’s sword.”
Ilokana took up the sword and held it above Grêsir’s neck. She swung it towards him, but Geldirana stopped her before it struck. She took the sword from Ilokana.
“Good,” Geldirana said. “I only needed to know that you would do it.”
Grêsir cried out in relief—but the cry was followed by another as Geldirana swung the sword and beheaded him.
“I do not let any claim my debts,” she said.
Silence fell upon them, even in their minds. Instinctively their eyes looked to the fallen body of Grêsir, who had promised he was strong, and then back to Geldirana, who had proved she was stronger.
Rokrig broke the silence, daring to speak. “At least he was a Garigút first,” he said, and he looked at Geldirana with disgust, as if she were not of his race. “Not an Ardúnar,” he added.
“I will not lead those who do not want to be led by me,” Geldirana said, returning his glare. “If I am not the Way-thane of your heart, then go. Become another garig, because you are not welcome here. We are called ‘less-of-home’ by the King, but you will truly be without a home amongst my people.”
“I cannot follow you,” Rokrig said. “You have hurt our people. Any of you who have sense, who have weathered the winters I have, will know that Geldirana is not good for our people. She does not wander with us, but away from us, and hopes we follow blindly.”
“Spare your speeches,” she replied. “You rally openly now, I see, and yet previously you rallied in whispers away from my ears. So the cowards finally betray themselves, and betray also our people.”
“You are one to bark,” Rokrig said. “When you gave your allegiance to the Ardúnari you betrayed our people.”
“I strengthened our people,” she said. “And see that I still live, though Grêsir tried to kill me. And where is he now, if he was strong? Where is he now?”
Despite Geldirana’s show of strength, Rokrig would not follow her and neither would several others. When he announced he would lead them away and start a new life outside of the Way-thane’s rule, the other dissenters voiced their own concerns, though many glanced nervously at Grêsir’s body. When finally the two groups split, Rokrig led four people away, including two of the older women who preferred their leaders not mingle with others outside the Garigút. To Ana’s surprise the majority rallied to Geldirana, their confidence renewed by her harsh display. Some called her Geldirana Death-strong, while others could not think of names lofty enough for her.
When t
he cheers died down and fatigue was reborn amongst them all, Geldirana finally rested and accepted the aid of Ana, who cleaned her wound, applied many medicinal herbs and salves, and wrapped her in fresh bandages.
“We have a long road ahead of us,” Geldirana told her.
“Do we march to war?” Ana asked nervously. She had never been much a fan of battle, but still she would fight if she was called to. Indeed, she had fought the Nahamoni at Nahragor, though she crept around the battlefield and used stealth and guile more than brawn.
“We are already at war,” Geldirana said. “No matter where we march, we cannot escape it.”
“But to the siege of the mountains, I mean.” Ana looked to the west, but could not see the embattled Mountain Fortress—but her ears could hear the battle far off in the distance, like an echo of an ancient war.
“We will join that battle, yes,” Geldirana said. “But we will use different tactics. Our numbers are small, which is a disadvantage to open warfare, but it is also an advantage to skirmishes and stealth. We will harry the enemy and destroy their siege weapons, and so distract and weaken them, in the hopes of giving time to those working to restore Corrias to life. Then they will regret being so close to the waking place of a god.”
They rested for a time, but Geldirana would not let them rest for long, and would hear nothing of the calls for sleep, least of all from her weary bones. They crept back through the forest to where Geldirana saw her blood, and she stepped in it and walked fresh prints towards the siege engines, as if to remind her people of the mutiny, and that she could not be mutinied against.
* * *
Geldirana led the charge out of the camouflage of the trees, shouting and screaming in the Bororian tongue. The Nahamoni were caught off-guard, loading a rock upon their catapult. Two of them died in moments as Geldirana swung her mace like a whirlwind, crushing their skulls and crushing the spirits of those around. Several fled, but others were emboldened by their anger and charged to meet the oncoming blades. Geldirana took the brunt of the assault, her mace acting like a shield to jagged blades and flails. Even with deep wounds, she fought with the strength of many, and her people were strengthened by her fearsome fighting.
Blades clashed and bodies were broken, until only the Garigút were left standing. Geldirana gestured to Ilokana, who carried a huge lit torch to the siege weapon. She held it to the wood, which set aflame in moments. Then the Garigút fled from the fire, knowing that it would attract more of the nearby Nahamoni, who they would again ambush from the safety of the trees.
This they did repeatedly, until a dozen siege weapons were on fire or already burned to the ground, ash to anoint the bodies of the dead. Each skirmish was tougher than the last, for many of the Nahamoni had grouped together now, bolstering their numbers, and they were not taken by surprise like the first several groups had been.
Yet still the Garigút fought with a frenzy, and Geldirana beat back many of the Nahamoni, until they thought she never tired of battle, but grew stronger from it. She swung around again, striking another Nahamon, who slumped dead upon the cradle of the catapult. The Garigút leader reacted immediately, unleashing her sword upon the tethered rope, which snapped and hurled the body across the battlefield into another contingent of Nahamoni. Had they time to crank the arm further, it might have launched into the mountains, adding further misery to those besieged there. Instead, the Nahamoni suddenly became aware that they too were under siege, and many grew nervous, for the memory of Nahragor was still fresh in their minds.
To the Garigút’s surprise, a flock of birds came suddenly from the sky, attacking the Nahamoni guarding the catapult to their right. The swiftness of the attack left many of the Dark Men with deep wounds and scratches on their face and arms. Some fought and some fled, while some of the larger birds took hold of the catapult and together in a great mass they hoisted it many metres into the air, before letting it crash down again into a crumbled ruin.
Thus did the Garigút and birds appear suddenly at different parts of the battlefield, hounding and harrying, until the Nahamoni began to start at any shadow, and whisper that something terrible hunted them, and none lived to tell just what it was. Geldirana made sure of that.
XIV – LOCHLAMON AND ECHARIN
“So, do I get a Scroll?” Yavün asked after a time, when he had adjusted a little to the idea of being a Child of Telm, a fact that would take a lot of adjusting to.
Narylal laughed; it was a sound like gargling water, strange and yet reassuring.
“No,” Elilod said. “There is only one Scroll of Mestalarin. There is something else for you.”
“There is?” Yavün said, and he perked his head, like a child receiving a new toy.
“It is not ready,” the Taarí said. “And you are not either.”
Yavün bowed his head despondently, like a child watching other children receive new toys.
“You do not want it so soon,” Narylal said. Yavün was not happy that he, who would hold whatever it is they were talking about, was the only person not to know what it was.
“Ifferon knows well the burden,” Elilod said. “You will know it too soon enough.”
Yavün felt more despondent than ever, like a child who not only had not received a new toy, but had received a sweeping brush instead, and was told to get on with his chores.
“You mentioned Ariavar,” he said, playing the name across his tongue. “I heard her name before, but know nothing of her.”
“Ariavar was the Céalar of Spirits,” Elilod explained. “She was the consort of Telm, and with him she gave birth to Molok, the Animator. A child of two Céalari is a Hadar, less powerful than they, yet more powerful than those born of a Céalar and any of the races upon Iraldas, for all here must die. When Telm came down to Iraldas to battle Molok and then Agon, Ariavar pined for him, and though she was forbidden by Corrias to follow him, she secretly found a way down here before the Breaking of the Lamps and the Burning of the Roots.”
Yavün was entranced by the tale, and was soon distracted from his sorrows. “All these names, these people and gods, and these events that happened—they are all fascinating to me. How do you know of these things?”
“I know because I helped her, for I am Issaron, the River Man and the Lord of the Lake, whom the Knights call Lochlamon.”
Yavün was now completely entranced, so much so that he found he was unable to speak. While Ifferon, Herr’Don and Délin had told amazing tales, they had learned them from books, and yet standing before Yavün was someone who had been there, who had witnessed and partaken in those events, who claimed to be a god and yet seemed just like him.
“You are the Avatar of Ariavar,” Elilod said, “for in you is a fragment of her essence, which mingled with that of Telm when they came together to seal their union.”
“What happened to her?” Yavün asked, regaining his voice.
“I do not know. I expect she has passed out of memory.”
“Issarí said the same about you,” Yavün told him. “And yet here you are.”
Elilod hesitated. “Then perhaps she still lives. Yet it cannot have escaped your sight, little fish, that those of us exiled here are dying. We may have a higher count than you, but still we will end up in Halés with all of mortal life. If Ariavar has survived somewhere in Iraldas, she will not survive for long.”
Yavün was saddened by this. Mortality was something all races in Iraldas had to contend with, and though some tried to escape it, like the Ardúnari, death often came anyway. Yavün shuddered at the thought of Melgalés and tried to block the distant sound of fire in his head. He thought then of the gods, who should be eternal, and it seemed somehow worse to him to know that some of them had died, and many more would wither and waste away. It was like seeing a king reduced to a beggar, or a hero living his last days sweeping excrement from the streets. These were not the kinds of things that bards would sing of, nor poets write about.
“If I am a Child of Telm, then how come I do
not have the sight that Ifferon has?” Yavün asked. He was not entirely sure he wanted that sight, but he felt he was being given a duty and yet being cheated of the things that might help him see it through.
“Your blood is not as strong as his,” Elilod said. “It has been diluted over many generations, mixing with others, losing its vitality. Ifferon is not the only Child of Telm, but he is the last in the direct bloodline, and so he has inherited more of the potency of Telm than any other. In that we have hope, for I knew Telm, and he was powerful.”
“If my blood is weak, then what good am I?” Yavün asked. He was beginning to feel like one of the exiled gods, hearing many promises, but feeling little power.
“I did not say it is weak, just not as pure as Ifferon’s. There are only a handful like you left, and many were sent to Alimror when we learned that Agon was hunting them down one by one. You are different, however, in that the fragment of Ariavar’s essence came through your bloodline to you.”
“I wish I knew my parents,” Yavün said. “They might have told me this.”
“Not all who carry the blood of Telm know they do. Sometimes the first time they learn of it is when Agon’s minions arrive upon their doorstep, dagger in hand.”
“I expect that is how they died then,” Yavün said. “The thing is, they could have been anyone. All I know is that I have an Aelora name, and so I presume my parents spent time with the Aelora, or maybe I was born in Caelün.”
“Sometimes it is best to think less of where you came from,” Elilod said, “and more on where you are going.”
* * *
Melgalés wandered the passages before the gates of Halés, hoping to escape the watchful eyes of the Gatekeeper, yet always aware of their probing gaze no matter how far he travelled. He needed no food or water, and he did not tire like he did in Iraldas, but the Underworld took its own toll: a weariness of mind and soul. At times it felt as though he were passing the same red rocks and treading the same red ground, until eventually it seemed that when he looked at his hands all he could see was red skin and red veins.
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 48