Délin halted with a clang and turned slowly to them with a stern glare. “When your people stopped treating him as a child, that is when he stopped being one of you and became just a weapon. In the coming days I will show you that it is children like him that we are fighting for, that it is for children like him that we take up weapons and march to war.”
“The Children of Telm must stay here,” Thúalim said. “You cannot take him.”
“You can try to stop me,” Délin said. “But you should be trying to stop Agon.”
And so he marched off, and Théos smiled and waved at them, as if he knew he was leaving behind the battered prison of the Mountain Fortress, which served both as his tomb and his birthing place. Ifferon did not know where the knight was bringing the child, but he hoped it would be safer than all these castles and strongholds, which never seemed strong enough.
Thúalim looked as though he did not know what to do, his usually serene expression broken by anxiety, and he became even more frustrated when Elithéa strolled after the knight, turning slightly at the doorway to blow him a kiss. “The animals are out tonight,” she said.
“Do we follow?” Ifferon asked.
“I am tired of following,” Thalla said.
“Then what can we do?”
Thúalim shook his head, as if in disbelief of what had just happened, and to show that there were few options available to them. He was silent now not because he was calm and centred, but because he could not find fitting words to speak.
“What of Corrias?” Ifferon questioned. “Has he given guidance?”
“No,” Thúalim said, and he looked as though he clearly needed it. He lacked the experience of Rúathar, and many of the Al-Ferian were evidently unhappy about this. There was already talk of his replacement.
“Then we must ask him,” Ifferon said.
“It is too late. He is already gone.”
“Gone?”
“To Telarym. He is going to hold Agon down, to act as the chain that has broken.”
“And then?”
“Then he will do battle with the Beast.”
* * *
Délin carried Théos until he and Elithéa reached the bottom of the Mountain Fortress, where the mossy rock gave way to mossy grass, and where their murky minds gave way to fairer ones. It was difficult to feel downtrodden under the golden canopy of Alimror, where the trees rustled gently and the grass swayed slightly. The knight placed Théos down, and the boy ran ahead, and he placed his hands on every tree that he passed, and he sat down to stroke the many-coloured flowers, and he got back up again as Délin and Elithéa approached, so that he could run ahead of them again. Here and there beneath his feet a tiny flower sprang, and though it was nothing like the waylays he left in Telarym, if each sprouting plant was gathered up together, they would have made a most splendid garden. All the while he smiled and laughed, and the smile was like sunshine, and the laugh was like music. It was a far cry from his sombre withdrawn state when Corrias resided in him, but it was a welcome change, like the shift of seasons from winter to spring, with the promise of summer.
“He is full of joy,” Elithéa said as they walked.
“Yes,” Délin replied, and smiled. “Just as it should be.”
Elithéa grumbled, and though she tried to hide it, Délin heard it plainly. “Not what should be,” she said. “Look at the joy he gets from the trees. He could have given much joy to others.”
“He already does,” Délin said, “and will, for as long as he lives. And may that life be long and joyful.”
Elithéa grazed her hand across the bark of an alder tree as she passed it. “It could have been the life of a tree.”
“Yes, yes, and what could or might have been is over,” the knight said sternly. “What is left is what is, and what can or might be still. This is why we go to war.”
“I will fight with you,” the Ferian said, “even though I fought against you. I cannot say I am happy that I lost our fight, and I am not accustomed to losing, which makes it hurt all the more, but I think I lost the greater fight with Aralus, who took more from me than I from him.”
“You took his life,” Délin pointed out.
“He took more than mine,” she said.
* * *
They continued on, but soon their enjoyment of Alimror was interrupted by a stark reminder of the battle at the Mountain Fortress, for lining the path ahead were many Nahamon bodies, beginning the slow and disturbing process of decay and putrefaction. These dotted the area almost as frequently as the trees, but Théos did not skit from one to another to place his hands upon them, and his sunshine smile and his musical laugh were turned into a troubled expression and an unhappy silence.
They slowed as they passed through this forest mausoleum, as if fearful that they might somehow wake the dead. Théos still walked ahead, but much more slowly, and it appeared at several times like he was ready to bolt back to Délin.
The knight sighed as he looked around. “Many artists paint the battleground, but few paint the graveyard it becomes. Even though I will march to war, as I have done time and time before, it brings me no joy to know that this is what becomes of my enemies.”
“They fought for the wrong side,” Elithéa said. “They got what they deserved.”
“No one deserves death,” Délin replied.
“Aralus did,” she said, and she looked to him with her glimmering green eyes. “Teron did.”
Délin did not respond. Though suddenly he felt a flare of anger at hearing Teron’s name, and though it brought to mind that the head-cleric did indeed deserve to die, he knew that there were others in the world who thought the same of Théos, and if he could not abide one, he felt he could not abide the other.
“When evil is done to evil, it does not become good,” the knight said, feeding his anger into the words until it was transmuted into a steadfastness of will, until he felt as certain as ever that all acts must be made with honour.
Suddenly an arm reached up, as if of its own accord, and it seized Théos by the leg. The boy screamed, and Délin immediately reacted, charging at the Nahamon that seemed to have returned from death. In moments he unleashed his two-handed sword and struck down on the clutching arm, but just as it severed the limb, the remainder of the Dark Man rose up and swelled, and he looked more demonic now than he had done in life.
Délin advanced once more, but now the Nahamon was stronger, parrying the knight’s blade as if his remaining arm were a shield and his bulging body were a suit of armour. It seemed to Délin that this being had a strength like that of the Sentinels of the Old Temple, and the knight was still tired from the battle at the Mountain Fortress.
But Délin was not alone. As the Nahamon lurched forward, reaching out with his one remaining hand, Elithéa snuck behind it and began to beat it viciously with her staff. Though the strikes did not slay the creature, they drew its attention, and it turned to Elithéa and stared darkly into her eyes. It heaved up, as if to attack, but it slumped down swiftly again, for Délin swung once and cleaved the head from the fiend, ending its life, if it could be called that, once and for all.
“So some serve Agon from beyond the grave,” Délin said with a pant. “Who knew that there were some who would fight and die twice for the same evil master?”
A rumble echoed in the distance, and though it was faint, they were certain they heard something that was not the songs of birds, nor the whistle of the wind, nor the rustle of the trees. They strained their ears, and they thought they heard the rattle of a chain and the rending of a manacle.
“Were it any other time, I would think little of that sound,” Elithéa said. “Yet now I hope that I make of it too much.”
“Let us hope,” Délin said, but he was not hopeful.
They left the unmarked graveyard and travelled swiftly to the very edge of the forest, where they could rest safely. Délin sat with his back to a tree, and Théos sat beside him, clutching Bark tightly and leaning his head ag
ainst Délin’s armoured shoulder. The knight wondered if the cold steel provided some comfort to the boy like it did for him.
Elithéa was restless, marching to and fro across the clearing, turning sharply so that her ponytail sometimes struck against one of the trees. She impaled her staff into the ground as she walked, and Délin wondered how she could be so violent to the earth, but he knew that she had less regard for the soil of Alimror. She seemed deep in thought, sometimes raising her hand as if to seize upon an idea, and then bashing her fist upon her thigh whenever it seemed that the idea had escaped her grasp. In time she stopped and turned to her companions with a knowing look.
“Perhaps the Al-Ferian err to leave the Nahamoni dead above the ground,” she said, “where they can, from whatever evil magic is upon them, return to life again. Perhaps it would have been better if they had been buried beneath the earth, and so the earth, which is to us our freedom, may be to them their prison.”
Délin nodded, but only to half of what she said. “If for nothing else, everyone deserves the honour of a proper burial. We spit on life itself if we do not afford this to our enemies also.”
“Were it not for our more pressing need,” Elithéa said, “I might have buried them myself.” Her anger then changed to sadness, and with it her aggressive stride changed to a slow saunter, until finally she stopped in a clearing devoid of the remains of the Nahamoni.
“Now it is time for me to bury my own dead,” she said, and she knelt down and dug a small hole in the ground with her hands. Into this she placed her black acorn, with its black markings. Into it she could not place the blackness she felt in her heart of the evil that had been done to her. She covered it up, and she chose not to leave a marker, for she did not want any to know where she had buried her shame.
“So that chapter of my life is over,” she said. “And whatever chapter it might have been … will never be.”
“But another chapter lays before you,” Délin said, placing his hand upon her shoulder. On the other side of her stood Théos, and he looked up at her, matching her sad eyes with his own. As the knight held her shoulder, the boy held her hand, and though she did not feel joy, she felt less her sorrow.
Délin thought that it might have been him doing this act, burying the acorn of Théos, and burying his body, and not knowing which was worse, and knowing with certainty that he could never bury the memories.
Délin felt that something more needed to be said, that something must fill the silence, and that it should not be sorrow, but the recognition that nothing truly dies. He scoured his memory for any tale to tell, and he found one that spoke of Man and nature.
If Man had caused the earth to crack and break,
Or caused the violence of the winter storm,
Or spoke with venom like the rattlesnake,
Or stung with needles like the scathing swarm,
Then Man would seem to all a vicious race,
Too proud to grow, unable to reform,
And the righteous would judge us a disgrace,
Yet none would judge the flood, nor chide the quake,
Nor think the hail of having made mistake.
If Man caused drought, or drowned the tender soil,
Or caused the autumn leaves to wilt and die,
Or forced the flowers to fail, and fruit to spoil,
Or threw volcano ash into the sky,
Then we would think Man full to brim of hate,
Too evil to forgive, a race awry,
And gods would think we earned an evil fate,
Yet none would damn the cold, nor blame the broil,
Nor think the sun a demon for our toil.
If Man caused typhoons, or tornadoes blew,
Or set the beasts at war just to survive,
Or wielded weather as the gods now do,
Or made some dwindle, and some others thrive,
Then Man would seem most cruel of all, not kind,
Yet from Nature these traits we all derive,
For in it we were born, from it designed.
What fair Nature birthed, foul Nature slew—
So Man can create life, and take it too.
“And what of Ferian?” Elithéa asked. “Or does Man think he alone is of Nature? He destroys it well enough, so does he destroy himself?”
“Some do,” Délin said, “but Man is more than one person, and we are as diverse, and divided, as Nature herself.”
* * *
Instead of travelling back east into Telarym, where danger thrived, or north-east into Boror, where danger festered, they continued mostly north through the thick and sometimes bewildering forest of Alimror. They knew that to the Al-Ferian it was many woods, and they knew it like Men know their cities, with all their various streets, but to the company it seemed endless, with no natural divisions, and certainly no artificial ones, for the Al-Ferian lived among the trees as if they never lived there at all. And yet Délin knew that some of those very trees were likely the ancestors of Al-Ferian now living in the Mountain Fortress and other less conspicuous settlements. While the sight of trees grew tiresome, and the maze of forest paths grew baffling, the canopy was their helm and the branches were their shield, and so they walked through protected and mostly unseen on their journey to Arlin.
Théos was at home in Alimror, Délin could plainly see. The boy raced about with a freedom he had never seen, and he was saddened that their journey led not deeper into the boughs and branches, but out into the wet and cold land of Arlin, where Délin felt at home. Yet the knight knew that this forest, beautiful and peaceful as it was now, was no haven, and that the trees that offered little protection around the Mountain Fortress would offer even less in the emptier parts of the forest.
They stopped to rest, and Délin gave his helm to Théos to play with, like he had done many times before, when the boy was but a shadow of himself, and not filled with the joy of one unburdened by the weight of gods.
Théos banged the side of the helmet with his hand. He was so small in frame that the noise it made was minuscule compared to the usual clangs and clatters it made in the heat of battle.
He looked expectantly at Délin, as if he wanted him to explain the noise.
“Metal,” Délin said.
“Metal,” Théos repeated slowly. He looked as though he was repeating the word in his head many times, internalising it and attempting to understand it.
Then he pointed to his head, placing his finger on his right temple, and said: “Roth.”
“Head,” Elithéa translated.
Théos nodded, though it was clear he did not understand the word from the Common Tongue.
“Metal roth,” he said and pointed to Délin.
Elithéa laughed. “Metal head. I guess you have a new name.”
Délin smiled, and then Théos smiled in response. That was a language they both understood.
* * *
By the third day they came to the end of Alimror, where it fed into Arlin. Délin had often wondered how the borders of maps were drawn, for they seemed almost arbitrary, and so they were to the cartographers of the war-mongers of old, who drew the maps like they drew blood, and redrew them again, as if in the very blood of their victims. Yet here it was clear where Alimror ended, for the trees suddenly stopped, as if they themselves knew not to invade Arlin. Délin had rarely seen such an obvious boundary, bar perhaps the Wall of Atel-Aher, which he could see now in the distance, or the eerie crossing of the Issar Chammas, which he hoped never to see again.
They stepped onto the soggy ground of the Motherland, where a fresh rain fell as often as day turned to night. There was a light wind, with a gentle coolness, not enough to shiver, but just enough to wake the soul from slumber, and bring alertness to the eyes. Délin felt it very reassuring, but it was clear that neither Elithéa nor Théos cared much for the cold. They shivered, and Elithéa tried to hide it, and Théos could not hide it at all. Délin wrapped his cloak around the boy, and as he did so, the child looked up to t
he dimming sky and was transfixed by the sight.
“Elas tra súa íotath el agath,” Théos said, and the wonder in his eyes matched the wonder in his voice.
“Look at all the little dots in the sky,” Elithéa translated.
“Stars,” Délin said with a smile.
“Stars,” the boy repeated, as if he had learned a magic word, and perhaps he had, for it caused an even greater transformation in his face, from wonder to joy.
“Let us hope we live to see them for many nights to come,” Elithéa said, and it seemed that she was talking about the threat of the cold night air as much as the threat of the Beast.
* * *
It did not take long before they came to Ciligarad, for Délin knew these lands like he knew his armour, or like he knew the tales of old. The proximity of his home town gave his legs new fuel, and his heart new life. Though Théos did not like the cold, he never seemed to lose his energy, racing to and fro and splashing himself, and them, in puddles.
Ciligarad greeted them with a flurry of lights. It was known as the City of a Thousand Guards, and though its watch had dwindled over the years, the Knights of Issarí still kept it well protected. Three knights on horseback charged out from the city to halt them, but they halted themselves instead, shocked to see their leader returned from Telarym.
“Trueblade!” Brégest called from atop his steed. He dismounted immediately with a crash of steel and a splash of water from the rain-clogged ground. “You have returned!”
“Lamar í Lamon. Hómadés dú!” the other knights cheered in unison, as if it were Corrias or Issarí who stood before them now.
“For Lady and Lord,” Délin said. “But there is little time to rejoice.”
Brégest nodded. “We have heard the rumours—and the rumbles. Has he arrived?”
“So it seems. Corrias has gone to Telarym to stop or slow him.”
“Then we are saved,” Brégest said. “We heard that Corrias had returned, and just in time.”
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 58