“If you’ve none to spend, then there’s no point sitting up ‘ere,” the innkeeper barked.
“I have gold for him,” Edgaron said.
“What are you, his purse?”
“A rich one,” Edgaron said. “Two ales, please.” He placed a silver piece upon the table. The innkeeper swiped it away like it was a piece of dust, straight into a box beneath the counter. He poured two ales and slammed them down before them.
“Cheers,” Herr’Don said. He swamped down half the ale, while Edgaron took a sip.
“You could have ordered three,” Belnavar remarked.
The innkeeper placed his right hand upon the counter. His little finger was missing. “This,” he said, “was an accident.” Then he pointed to his missing eye. “This is what happens when you make bets and you’ve no gold for the wager.”
Herr’Don raised his mug. “At least you didn’t wager double.”
“The same could be said for you,” the innkeeper replied. “So, how did you lose it?”
Herr’Don took a long gulp of ale, wiping the froth from his mouth with his good hand. “I fought the Felokar wolves at the Morbid Mountains. Ten came, scattering my party. Only I stood to face them. I killed three before two others seized my arm. I killed them as they feasted, and the others fled. Now the Hounds of Halés fear my name.”
“That tale deserves a drink,” the innkeeper said, pouring him another.
“I have quite a few tales myself,” Belnavar commented, “but it’s thirsty work.”
As Herr’Don downed pint after pint, Edgaron found himself chatting with one of the many minstrels in the tavern. He told him of their adventures, and it seemed that the minstrel was already composing them into a song in his head.
“And tell me again his name?” the minstrel inquired.
“That is Herr’Don,” Edgaron told him. “Prince of Boror.”
* * *
Herr’Don arrived in Ciligarad, the home of the Knights of Issarí in Arlin. The knights greeted him warmly, remembering him from when Délin introduced him to his home town the month before. They did not know Edgaron, but they welcomed him with equal warmth. They did not see Belnavar, though they had heard of him from many bards and minstrels, and they welcomed his memory.
They invited Herr’Don and Edgaron into their homes, where they were fed by fireside, enjoying good food, warmth, and the company of noble companions. They asked them of their travels, and especially of Délin, whom they grew increasingly concerned about. They wondered if he had forgotten his oaths, but were relieved to hear that he was still honourable—and that he was still alive. Then the conversation turned to other things.
“I pray you not think me bold to ask, but what happened to your arm?” Brégest inquired.
Edgaron smiled as he turned to Herr’Don to hear the latest tale. Herr’Don did not seem to mind him, but was already clutching the rim of his cloak as he began his boasting.
“I lost it in the Chasm of Issarí,” he said. There was a chorus of astonished cries, for Issarí was dear to them all, and they wondered why she had allowed such dismemberment. “My friends and I were pulled into the gorge by the evil Taarí, who ripped and tore as much as the thrashing rocks, and so when I awoke on the river’s edge, after slaying many Taarí in my struggle, I was one limb less.”
The knights sat in silence, awe and amazement lining their faces. Edgaron could tell from Brégest’s keen eyes that he did not believe the tale, but he did not question or challenge it, for, like Edgaron, he saw little harm in letting the Prince find comfort in the telling of a good story.
“Well, I have always needed to lose weight,” Herr’Don joked, patting his belly. “Sure, I have another arm!” He raised his mug of ale to show that he needed only one arm to hold it, and one mouth to drink it.
The knights laughed heartily and raised their mugs to him, cheering and toasting the Prince of Boror as if he were a Knight of Issarí. Edgaron smiled broadly as he watched Herr’Don’s boisterous cheers. He was heartened that the swordsman had regained much of his mirth.
They drank into the night, and they sang songs of old, and some tried their tongues at songs of new, and eventually they fell one by one into slumber, and the mugs fell one by one from their grasp.
Day came, and to some it gifted aching heads, but to Herr’Don it seemed that it was another journey, another life, and another way to lose a limb. “To Calnibur,” he said, “most want of me, I bet.”
“The blessings of the Lord and Lady go with you,” Brégest said. “Especially if you go to Calnibur. Lamar í Lamon!”
* * *
Herr’Don arrived in Calnibur the Cold Town. It was even more deserted than he remembered it, and much of its haphazard defences had already been torn down.
They were glad they did not bring horses, that they had not accepted the knights’ offer to give them steeds of their own, for as they came closer to the town they could hear nothing but ill will towards the four-legged beasts.
“They’re cursed,” cried a woman. “Cursed!”
“Nothin’ but bad luck,” said a man, who was trying to break a horseshoe with his hammer.
“I have never seen anything like it,” Edgaron said. “What has earned this fury?”
Herr’Don approached the meagre keep, which looked even more like a barn than it had been when Délin brought the company there. Edgaron was amazed by it all, and had he not seen the majesty of the city of Ciligarad, he would have thought Arlin a place of paupers, and thus thought too much of Boror.
As they approached the keep, they saw the statues of Medgrin and Lindisgrid, but now they were broken and toppled, and it was clear that bits of the stone had been taken for use in the fortifications.
“So this was done by Calnibur’s own people,” Edgaron said.
The guard Bringrid was there to greet them, and he was pleased to see Herr’Don, but he would have been equally pleased to see any warrior willing enough to fight for Calnibur. “Herr’Don!” he cried, and he spoke the name as if he were cramming every pleasantry ever possible into the two syllables, for there was little time to speak.
“The Gormoloks have been raiding us for days,” Bringrid explained. “They still smell horses here, though we have killed and burned all the horses we ever had, and we let no one approach the town on horseback any more. But they keep coming back. They remember what we had all those years ago, and we do not have the defences that Ciligarad has.”
“Then let us rid you of your foe,” Herr’Don said, and he spoke it with such conviction that any who heard him thought the foe had just then been vanquished.
“I will inform Lord Celsingrid,” Bringrid said.
They entered the hall where Celsingrid sat unmoving, like a statue of his own. This one the people had not toppled, though perhaps it was the one most deserving of such an act. It seemed to Herr’Don that he had not budged since last he saw him. An exaggeration, he thought, but it was most definitely no exaggeration to think that he had budged little to help defend his town.
“We have come to bolster your defences,” the Prince said, extending his arm to the side, as if to stay his advancing troops. Edgaron drew up beside him, but held back. Belnavar drew up on the other side, where no arm stayed him, and he stood forward.
Celsingrid snorted. “Defend your own house before you look to mine,” he said with scorn. “Last I heard, you lost Larksong and lost it willingly. At least Arlin is still Arlin, and we have kept all of the Motherland.”
“You have a cold heart,” Herr’Don said.
“Perhaps it is because it pumps blood to two arms,” Celsingrid responded. “But it is warm enough for me.”
“You are an Ardúnar. Why do you not defend your people?”
“My appointment never came with a list of demands. And besides, my moon is a long time away.”
“Something tells me you would not be so eager to face the Molokrán then.”
“And so I would be wise. It is a fool who is eager to face them.”
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“Or maybe just a coward,” Herr’Don said. “I lost my arm to them, and I’d give them the other one if it would end their evil reign.”
Celsingrid scoffed. “Go back to Ciligarad,” he said. “I smell the stench of horse on you.”
“I will go when I wish to go,” Herr’Don replied. “And I wish to go when the threat of the Gormoloks is gone.”
“This is not your kingdom. Neither is Boror, for that matter.”
“All of Iraldas is my kingdom,” Herr’Don said. “Today I am the king of battle.”
“Olagh is dead,” Celsingrid said. “You have one god, and he is dead.”
“The Warrior-king can never die while there is a war still to rule in.”
Herr’Don marched off, followed by Edgaron and Belnavar. In time he found that others were following him, until the name of Herr’Don the One Arm began to circulate throughout the town, until the name itself sounded like better protection than what little defences remained standing.
Celsingrid ordered his few remaining guards to seize the Prince and throw him in the cellar, but none of the guards complied, for they had already heard of how vicious and valiant Herr’Don was, and though they feared their cruel lord, they feared more the mad prince. Tales began to spin faster than ever in Calnibur as Herr’Don marched to and fro, gathering a force together. In time even Bringrid, who considered himself loyal beyond measure, found himself following in the Prince’s trail.
They marched out of Calnibur, and they marched north towards the Many Mountains, and few knew why they were marching or where they were marching to, only that it was better than not marching back home. Herr’Don and Edgaron sang songs of battle, and Belnavar sang his own, and those who had never heard such songs began to learn them, and began to believe in their inspiring words.
By nightfall they reached the edge of the mountains, where the carcasses of horses made little mountains of their own. Bones were scattered in all directions, like some strange oracle, but no matter where they fell, they all pointed up into the mountains, where the Gormoloks lived.
Herr’Don led his army up, refusing rest. Some turned back from fear, and others from exhaustion, but most continued on, urged by Herr’Don’s frequent reminders of how wronged they had been by these mountain-dwelling beasts.
The Gormoloks lived in caves and mud huts. They were great lumbering beasts, with arms twice as long as their legs, heads that were far too small for their torsos, and fur and hair that seemed to grow everywhere, even inside their mouths and on their tongues. In ages past, the people of Arlin thought these creatures were the spirits of the mountains, and they offered them sacrifices of horses, which the Gormoloks grew fond of beyond any other food.
Herr’Don led the charge, and the Gormoloks were so surprised that many of them dropped what they were holding, whether it was a great wooden branch, a stolen sword, or the head of a horse not yet fully feasted on. Some of the Gormoloks ran into the caves, but Herr’Don followed them in, hacking and slashing as he went, until all of the beasts were dead.
When the army of Calnibur eventually emerged from the mountains, they found that their town had been attacked by the few Gormoloks who had fled from the heights. They returned to find even more in ruin, smouldering from fires that might have been started by the Gormoloks, or might have been started to scare the Gormoloks away.
Even the keep had been reduced to ashes. Bringrid raced up to it and began searching through the rubble. Eventually he found the remains of Celsingrid, still sitting in his seat, and now forever unmoving. His heart was truly cold now.
Calnibur was no more, but it had been little before, so the people did not grieve too greatly. Indeed, many celebrated their victory over the Gormoloks, and many began to form committees aimed at ensuring the Gormoloks would never be a threat again. Secretly, many rejoiced in the death of Celsingrid, and some were not so secret in their celebration. Names began to circulate of who might take his place, and though the names were many, Bringrid’s name was numerous among them.
Herr’Don’s name also joined the throng, never for election, but often for admiration. His name spread like a forest fire, burning every ear in its path, kindling every tongue. He left the town with Edgaron and Belnavar, heading for his next destination, and though the people of Calnibur regretted him leaving, they began to ponder aloud where he might be going, and what he might do when he got there.
Bringrid joined the crowd in their waving as Herr’Don departed. As they clambered together, whispering of the newer and better Calnibur to come, a trader from Stalarím drew up to them in his cart laden with all manner of things that many there could not afford.
“You look like you are in need of supplies,” he said, and there was the look of riches in his eyes.
Bringrid smiled as he turned back to the carcass of Calnibur. “Some,” he said.
The trader covered his eyes and peered in the direction the people were waving. “Who is that?” he asked, and he had the look of one who might have lost a customer.
Bringrid watched the figure as he faded into the distance. “That is a man of legend,” he said at last. “That is Herr’Don the Great.”
XVI – THE BATTLE OF LIGHT AND SHADOW
The Molokrán came forth once more. Though Rúathar had lured them deep into the forest, like a Siren lures a sailor to his doom, they had caught the bait and consumed it, and the darkness swelled with his light. From the forest that was now his grave, they emerged.
The sky dimmed, but the ground was dimmer, for the Molokrán spread across it like a black tidal wave. Even those who could not see them could feel the impending collision, just as the blind feel the growing wind upon their face as the waters rise before them.
The broken passage up the mountain might have stopped and slowed the Dark Men of Nahlin, but it did nothing to halt the advance of the Molokrán. To them the chasm was a bridge, the slope steps. They crawled across the face of the mountain, and the mountain was paralysed to act. Their fingers seeped into the crags and crevices, mauling the surface with each and every movement, until it seemed to the keenest of eyes that there were faces of horror in the rock.
The shadow struck the twelfth door, which led into the cloister of the Mountain Fortress, and the stone shook. Dust sprayed and shards of rock fell, while the noise sounded out like the worst of the many siege weapons the people of Iraldas had devised. The defenders of the Mountain Fortress backed away, and even the people buried deep in the bunkers trembled from the quake.
“The door will not hold,” Thúalim said.
“Is there no magic you can do?” Ifferon asked.
“It’s useless,” Thalla said. “My spells were weak against them at Nahragor.”
“Mine are stronger,” Thúalim said, “but not strong enough.”
Ifferon wished then that Rúathar was still there to lure away the Molokrán, or, indeed, that any of the Ardúnari were present. Melgalés, Geldirana, Oelinor, or any other. Any would do if they could keep the dark eyes on them and not on him. Now, however, he stood alone, brandishing the Ilokrán that Rúathar had given him like a tiny shield, and the Scroll of Mestalarin like a damaged sword. He wondered who would look upon him and think him a descendant of the Warrior-king Telm, who carried a monstrous square shield and the fabled sword called Daradag, which some said contained the trapped spirit of one of the Céalari.
Ifferon’s train of thought was jarred by another bang against the stone door. Scree tumbled down and rolled to his feet. The sound struck his ears and sent his heart to the bottom of his chest, while his attention went to the bottom of his mind, where dark things lingered.
And the dark things came forth. In a suddenness that took all who stood there by surprise, despite their anxious waiting, the Molokrán burst through the stone, sending rock flying in all directions, as if the siege had begun anew. Some soldiers were knocked to the ground by the debris, and Délin was struck in the back by a catapulting stone as he moved to shield Théos from the earthen
rain.
Thúalim sent a bolt of lightning forth towards the door, but it did nothing but temporarily illuminate the darkness for all to see, even those without the clearsight. This added new terror to the troops, some of whom cowered behind the boulders that covered the entrances to the bunkers.
The Molokrán halted before Ifferon, and the Alar Molokrán reared up tall before him, dwarfing him and casting another shadow upon him, like the shadow of Tol-Úmari upon the Land of the Dead. Fear had long festered in Ifferon, but now that the Molokrán were again before him, he felt the instinctual loathing that also lingered in his heart, the strength of the blood of Telm that pumped out to his hands, where he held the Ilokrán and Scroll aloft.
“Dehilasü baeos!” he shouted, and the armour of Telm descended from the clouds, shimmering about him, until all thought that he seemed taller and broader than before.
The Molokrán did not so easily baulk at the form of Telm before them, for they could now see through the shimmers to the man who cowered beneath. It was not the Warrior-king himself who stood there, but the Scroll-cleric, brandishing a burned relic and speaking dead words from a dead god.
The Alar Molokrán laughed. “You are a coward beneath your cloak of courage,” he said. “Rúathar is no more. What Ardúnar will fight for you now?”
“I will,” came a voice to Ifferon’s right, a voice fair and strong, with a hint of fire. All eyes turned, even those of the Molokrán, if they had eyes. Then Geldirana emerged from the bunker that led into the secret passages up the mountain, followed by a handful of Garigút warriors, male and female. She carried her own Ilokrán aloft, and the Alar Ardúnar recoiled.
“You did not have the High when I did,” she said, “but your brother remembers me.” She instinctively knew which of the twelve other shapes of darkness was the previous Alar Molokrán, the one whom she faced at the siege of Nahragor. He recoiled from her, for he was weaker now, while she was still strong.
But Geldirana was not the Alar Ardúnar of the Snow Moon. The peak of her power had come and gone, and it was now waning. Even Rúathar, whose moon was sooner, could not face the Alar Molokrán alone and live. Yet Geldirana was not alone. Beside her now stood Ifferon, holding out his Ilokrán.
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 51