“I have to do this,” Yavün said. “If I don’t, I will always wonder if this might have changed things, if my curse could be used for some good before the end.”
“You might not have much time to wonder,” Elithéa said.
And so they agreed to Yavün’s plan, mostly out of desperation, though Herr’Don would have no part of it.
“Let it be known that I resisted,” he said, as if Yavün’s curse might be the curse of all.
* * *
Corrias wrestled with the Beast, hand grappling hand, with their great feet digging deep into the earth. They leaned against each other like tilting towers, where force held back force, and where only equal strength kept one from tumbling down.
Who would wager against either of these great foes? Who would bet upon the lives of gods, would gamble against hope, or go all in with despair? Who could tell which of them would be the victor, and who could truly win, when all spectators were as much within the arena as those two contending forces?
They toiled, but the struggle was more in Corrias’ face than it was in Agon’s, for the Beast was happy to fight, if he were ever truly happy, so long as the fight was above ground, where the only chains were the ones people wore inside their minds.
Time was ticking by, grain by grain, and the father god’s strength was giving way. It did not help to think that this was in some way Chránán’s revenge, for upon the earth of Iraldas not even Corrias could escape the Lord of the Shadow of Time.
* * *
Thalla helped Yavün into a nearby seat, just moments before he felt his limbs give way. His legs shook like rattling bones, and he felt suddenly a kind of shame, for he was greeted by a group of worried eyes, which looked upon him as if he were an old man trapped inside a young man’s body. Though he did not use magic, and though he wore a Beldarian, he thought that perhaps there was some other kind of magic, the conjuring of shadow, that had begun to age him before his time.
Those worried eyes turned to anxious ones, staring with expectation. None of them knew what to do, except Herr’Don, who knew that he should glare. Yavün might have been distracted by all these people were it not for his own fatigue, which helped him forget the world around him but for the chair he sat upon, and Thalla’s hand upon his arm. He felt himself begin to root to the spot, as if he had become that rugged chair. He could not move his body, but he could move his mind.
He looked out at the world around, opening what he thought were his spirit eyes, though even now he was not altogether certain. In the world between worlds, where life and death tugged in either direction, there were few certainties.
Though the Molokrán had fled back to Tol-Úmari, Yavün hunted them out in his mind, which travelled more swiftly than his feet ever could. He climbed the walls of that tower, even as the Molokrán had climbed the walls of Nahragor, and he found the Lichelord hiding in his crypt.
The shadow was never so terrified as it was that day, for the Alar Molokrán did not go to his crypt to rest, but to cower. When good trembles at the thought of evil, there is little thought given to what evil trembles at, and how much more terrible it must be. That night it was Yavün, and he was a terror to behold.
Perhaps the Lichelord might have tried to fight, if his control of weather had any effect upon the shadow world, but it did not, and that powerful figure simply quivered. His shape changed constantly, and as Yavün approached, and as all other Shadowspirits backed away, the Lichelord seemed to grow smaller, dwarfed by the greater shadow of the menacing figure before him.
With a suddenness like the ending of the lives of many of the Ardúnari, Yavün dived at the Lichelord, and he entered inside that cage of shadow, where the door was left open. There was no resistance now, and though Yavün was very tired, he felt completely in control.
Now he looked out at the world around, opening his shadow eyes, and he looked upon the great claws of shadow that were his hands, and the great mass of shadow that was his body, and though he had no weapons, he felt almost that he bore a whip called Fear and a scourge called Terror.
He left Tol-Úmari with an unearthly speed, like the swiftness of shadow as it flees the hunting rays of the sun. Though there was a distance of days between him and where the Beast now walked the earth, the mix of spirit and shadow, and his grim determination, spurred him on like the lash of another whip.
In time he passed the pavilions, where he could almost sense the worried eyes grow more worried, and the anxious eyes grow more anxious. Perhaps some of them felt a mighty gust of wind as he passed, and perhaps they all felt a coolness in the air, and perhaps the clearsighted saw the fleeting shadow. All he knew for certain was that ahead of him he could feel a different kind of air, and instead of cold he felt heat, and in place of the clearsight he would see with shadow eyes what the Beast looked like.
And so that moment came at last, for the dust gave way, and he saw before him two giant forms, wrestling hand in hand. For the briefest of moments they looked like colossal statues, sculptures crafted by the Elad Éni, when even the smallest creations were monstrous in size. But then they moved, and they became suddenly more frightening, like statues brought to life.
Corrias seemed to struggle more than Agon, for Agon had gained strength through his constant struggle with the chains of Halés, while Corrias had been weakened when he incarnated in Iraldas, where the passage of days was the passing of life. Yet both of them held each other in check, like two great mountains leaning against one another, stopping each other from falling over.
Yavün did not take long to watch this tussle, but sprang immediately into action.
He dodged between the gigantic legs of both deities, a shadow within their own enormous shadows, and when they moved, and those colossal limbs came down around him, he felt that he might at any moment be crushed in his shadow form and knock back into his body, or knocked straight into the Halls of Halés.
It was hard to find the right position from which to launch his attack, for it was like trying to assail a mountain that kept moving, and though it was by its great size impossible to miss, he knew that he had only one real chance at this, and that he had to make it work.
He passed through Corrias’ legs once more, and then he crawled up one of Agon’s legs, his shadow fingers seeping into the very pores of the Beast’s flesh, and Agon clearly felt it, for he turned his evil gaze to his own body, just as Yavün climbed further, until finally he stood upon the shoulder of the Beast and began to claw and strike at Agon’s face.
Agon roared, and the force of that roar almost knocked Yavün from him, and it would have done so were he in his human form, but the shadow clung to him like it clung to earth when the Molokrán were first formed by the malignant Molok. Agon swiped at him, like he might swat a fly, but Yavün crawled behind his head and then around to his other shoulder.
Agon was so distracted by this gnat of a being that he used two of his great arms to try to crush it, holding Corrias back with his other two arms. This gave Corrias new strength, and though the father god was clearly tired beyond measure, and rued that he should feel such exhaustion in this weakened form away from the healing air of Althar, he pushed with all his might and knocked Agon onto his back.
The fall was like a collapsing mountain, and though the shadow could cling to anything, Yavün struggled to keep his grip as Agon came crashing down. His eyes started to glaze and grow dim, and he knew he was losing his own grip on the shadow, even if it would not let go of Agon. The strain was becoming too much, and so he knew he had to let go of the Beast if he was to retain control of the Lichelord. And so he tumbled from Agon’s shoulder, even as Agon was toppled, and he fell into the dirt before the Beast’s terrifying face.
There was a moment where Yavün could see deep into Agon’s anguished eyes, where for a time he felt almost consumed by them, and perhaps he would have been if he were not in this other form. Then he felt Agon’s penetrating gaze through the veil of shadow, spying for him, looking through him as muc
h as he had looked into the eyes of the Beast, and lived.
Then that face—which Yavün would never forget, which would haunt him forever when he closed his eyes, would stalk his sleep, would even follow him into the sleepless realm of Halés when the time for death would come—began to change. It morphed slowly, and yet it seemed that in no time at all Yavün was looking upon the demented visage of Molok, who gazed at him through this cage he called Agon.
“Begone!” the Beast spoke, and it was with the voice of Molok, and so it held a sway over the Molokrán like no other could, like not even Telm’s similar dying words could cast aside the shadow. Yavün felt himself thrown backwards inside the shadow form, as if he were falling once again, and there was nothing to grip hold of, nothing to keep his footing. The shadow dispersed around him, and for a brief moment, a fraction of a second, he fell in ghostly form before the face of Agon.
The shock of this fall was only surpassed by the shock of what happened next, for though he expected to baulk before the Beast without the shield of shadow, the Beast flinched instead, as if he had seen the power of his own destruction.
“And flame,” Agon said, and that was the last Yavün recalled from there, for he awoke suddenly back in his own body, with an intense fever as if his very flesh were in flames.
“Did it work?” Ifferon asked, a question echoed in all those apprehensive eyes around him.
“No,” Yavün said, “but I know how to stop him now.”
XVI – MESTALARIN
They looked to Yavün with expectation, and none of them spoke, though their eyes pleaded for the answer to the riddle of Agon’s defeat.
“We are the words,” Yavün told them, much to their confusion.
“We are?” Délin quizzed.
“Well, some of us.”
“What do you mean?” Délin asked, and he seemed less patient now.
“What is my name?” the youth asked in turn, and this only wore down the knight’s patience a little more.
“Dear Olagh, he’s forgotten his name now,” Herr’Don remarked. He never had any patience to begin with.
“No. What is my name?”
Suddenly Ifferon was brought back to that moment in the monastery when he first met the youth, when he said: Yavün Arri. My name. So much had changed since then. He wondered if all of their names should be changed too, for perhaps they no longer fitted.
“Yavün Arri,” Ifferon said.
“Ignore my family name for now.”
“Ignore him altogether and save us some sanity,” Herr’Don quipped. He looked to the emptiness beside him, as if for approval. Perhaps it granted it.
“I do not understand where this is going,” Délin admitted.
“What does my name mean?” Yavün asked, and the fever flooded his face with crimson, as if that colour was the meaning of his name.
Elithéa struck her staff upon her thigh. “Are we going to sit here playing riddles all day, or can you tell us the answer ere Agon destroys us all?”
“I think I understand,” Ifferon said, and he felt the realisation like the sudden break of day, which chased away all the shadows of ignorance in his mind. The realisation was so simple, and yet so profound, that he found he had to clutch the side of a nearby chair to stop himself from falling.
“Little fire,” Oelinor said, and he lit up like Ifferon thought his own face must have. “You have an Aelora name.”
“Yavün,” Ifferon added. “Derived from iav, fire, and ün, little. Little fire. Flame.”
“And does this mean something?” Elithéa wondered.
Suddenly Délin’s eyes lit up, and Ifferon knew that he had made the connection also. “By fire and flame,” he said, as if it were an exclamation of surprise, “and fume and fury.”
“He is one of the Last Words,” Ifferon said.
“He is Flame,” the knight added, and nodded emphatically as though he realised that they had discovered the way to end Agon’s reign.
“So the words are living powers,” Geldirana said, and she almost smiled, the kind of smile an Ardúnar makes when casting light against the shadow.
“I knew we needed more than just the Scroll,” Ifferon said, and he was not sure if he was relieved or disappointed that his own plan, to die like Telm did, was no longer needed. That part of his mind, which he now locked away, whispered that they might still need it.
“But what of the other words?” Délin asked. “Iavün is an obvious one, but we don’t have someone called Iav, or Samün, or Samadas.”
“We have someone called Fume,” Geldirana said. “Though I named her in the Bororian tongue.”
Ifferon’s eyes lit up once more. “Affon,” he said.
The girl perked her ears and clambered over. She sat before them and beamed, and for a moment it seemed that her name meant Proud instead.
“And how do we know this is not just mere coincidence?” Elithéa asked. “What if I had been called one of those names instead? Surely the gods do not control us like that.”
“He recoiled from me,” Yavün said, and he patted his forehead, where the sweat recoiled from his brow. “The Beast was scared, and he said the word that gave him fear. And flame.”
“But how do we know that this girl will have the same effect?”
“I’ll scare him,” Affon said, and she furrowed her brow and clenched her fists, and perhaps she thought she was frightening to them all. Ifferon smiled a little, and he saw his smile mirrored on Geldirana’s face.
“In the Garigút, we pray for the nine months we are with child to find their perfect name,” Geldirana explained. “To some, Affon is a boy’s name. To me, it was the only name for her.”
“I’m stronger than a boy,” Affon said.
“So we have two,” Délin said. “What of the other two?”
“I don’t know,” Yavün answered, and the previous elation on many of their faces turned to sudden disappointment, as if their hope had been murdered on the doorstep of safety.
“This is a good start,” Ifferon said, taking out the Scroll of Mestalarin and unfurling it upon the table. Oelinor and Délin grabbed nearby objects to hold down the curling sides. They all gathered around it like the lost around a map.
“I see no clues within the Scroll,” Délin said.
“Nor I,” Oelinor said, with a hint of sadness. “There is nothing unusual about the runes of the Aerbateros used here. In other texts, the letters might be changed in form, if ever so slightly, to signify a special meaning beyond the literal words, but I see none of that here.”
“How then do we find the other Living Words?” Thalla asked.
“Maybe we should just march up to Agon one by one and hope he cowers from us,” Elithéa said derisively.
The company looked at one another. “That’s not a bad idea,” Thalla said.
“Not if you have a death wish,” Elithéa replied.
“It might be worth a try,” Délin said.
“And what if none of us are the other words?”
“Then we will rule each of us out,” Délin said, “but I think the gods have ushered us to one another, that we might fulfil a greater end together.”
“Perhaps so, but maybe it is the evil gods that goad us so,” Elithéa suggested.
Ifferon did not like the thought. They had already done much in evil’s favour, as if they were the unwitting pawns of the opposing side. As they stood upon the board with their backs turned, they could not tell who were their masters, could not see what king or queen they served. For some it was always a game of black and white, but for him it seemed like a game of grey. He felt so close to the end, but he could not tell if it would be a happy ending.
“Come then!” Herr’Don cried. “There is no doubt that I must be Fury, and though we did not know it ere this day, Agon shall know it more truly.”
He charged out, despite Edgaron’s attempts to hold him back, and he paused only to glance to one side and mumble something to himself, perhaps another invocatio
n of his anger to prove to him and all around that he must be one of the living Last Words.
The last they heard of him, he was shouting to the sky, roaring in all directions, and the last they caught of his bitter voice was: “His last words shall be: I have fallen to the Great.”
“I guess he’s first then,” Elithéa said.
They left the pavilion and followed Herr’Don to where Corrias held Agon down upon the ground, where Yavün had seen him last. The Beast twisted and turned, and he toiled endlessly, thrashing against his captor, who looked as though he might at any moment give in and let Agon free.
Herr’Don raced up to the Beast, shouting “Fury! Fury!” and brandishing his blade wildly and with a fury of his own. He approached the ever-shifting face and sliced at it, but his sword struck weakly, and Agon’s resulting roar sent the prince tumbling into the distance, where he landed on his back only feet away from the others.
“I guess you’re not Fury then,” Elithéa remarked.
“Let me try next,” Affon said, and she began to march towards the Beast, but Ifferon held her back.
“No, Affon. We already know you are one.”
“But I want to prove it,” she said.
“You will prove it soon enough, child.”
“Corrias is straining,” Délin said.
“We don’t have much time,” Thalla added. “I will go next.” And so she set out, and as she walked she formed many protective shields around herself, white orbs, blue watery vapours, and cubical grids. She approached the Beast cautiously, but he did not cower from her.
“I do not think we can afford to go one by one,” Délin said. “Let us approach in small numbers, and if he baulks, then we know it is one of our small group.”
“Many of us already fought him,” Geldirana said.
“Yes, but there was little way to tell his reaction when we set everything we had upon him. We must do this in smaller numbers.”
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 72