“Let the knights go together then,” Elithéa said. “And rule them out.”
And so Délin, Brégest, and the other surviving knights, who numbered only four, approached Agon in a similarly cautious manner to Thalla. They had armour of a different kind, but they knew it offered little protection against the Beast. Yet as they approached, Thalla, Oelinor, and the handful of Magi left standing cast their own shields around them.
And nothing came of it, for Agon barely reacted to the knights, instead continuing his great struggle with Corrias. While there, the knights knelt for a moment and gave a silent prayer to Corrias, and this helped him a little in his bitter wrestle.
“Let’s go next,” Elithéa said, gesturing to Geldirana. The Garigút Way-thane accompanied the Ferian as she approached the Beast, and again the Magi shielded them as they went. And then the Beast reacted. As he bashed and struggled, his eyes turned darkest black, and he turned his head away from the approaching women. “And fury!” the Beast roared, turning to them with renewed anger. They were knocked back several metres, but they knew that one of them was Fury. Both looked to each other with fiery eyes, and anyone watching would have had a hard time telling which was the better candidate for the role.
“Mother and daughter,” Geldirana said. “Fume and fury.” She approached the Beast once more, and he baulked before her, like the Shadowspirits had so many times before. So many of the other Ardúnari had fallen, and she kept going, for she was Death-strong, and now even Agon knew to fear her.
The women returned, and the company rejoiced. Few were surprised to find that Geldirana of the Garigút was the living Last Word called Fury.
“And what of Fire?” Délin asked.
The remaining people, numbering several dozen, approached the Beast in groups of three or four, and they all returned, some running, without success. A few thought Oelinor might be the one, but there was little reaction from the Beast.
“I don’t suppose you are Fire,” Délin suggested to Ifferon.
“No,” the cleric said. “I do not think I am much of anything now. I might be the Scroll-cleric, but there are some here who are the contents of that Scroll.”
“I am sure you are more than that,” Délin said.
“There must be hundreds of thousands of people here in Iraldas,” Elithéa said. “We cannot march them all up to the Beast.”
“Will three of the Last Words be enough then?” Délin wondered.
“I do not think so,” Ifferon said.
“Then all of this is pointless,” Elithéa said.
As they talked and argued, Yavün’s fever began to grow more intense, and it dulled his senses. He faded in and out of consciousness, and Thalla sat by his side like a mother. She removed his shirt to expose his sizzling skin to the cool air, and she paused for a moment as she uncovered the Beldarian he wore. Then she continued on as if it did not matter, but Ifferon noticed that her hand instinctively reached for her own Beldarian, which she hid deeper in her robes, as if Yavün’s secret had exposed her own.
The company continued their debate, with new voices joining as old voices waned. The conversation turned time and time again to Yavün, whether he could truly be trusted, and whether or not they should rush his weakened body to the Beast or let him fight his fever. Some of the Magi suggested it was a curse, the work of evil sorcerers intent on hindering their mission, but Oelinor cautioned them against paranoia, which he said was a fever of its own.
Yet regardless of the source, Yavün’s sickness was growing worse, and his strength was failing. He was no longer lucid, and he began to mutter and mumble to himself. No amount of Thalla bathing his head made any difference, and the company began to wonder if he might die, and if the hopes of vanquishing Agon might die with him.
Time passed, and no healing salve nor magical trinket helped to cool him down. Even Oelinor tried the laying on of hands, but the Aelora were not as adept at this as the Taarí were, and they all rued that the Rebel Taarí had abandoned the battle under the leadership of Narylal, for she might have been able to save him. In time Oelinor was forced to give up, for even his own hands began to burn, as if he had caught the plague of fire.
“I can do no more,” Oelinor said, but then he saw a flicker of fire in the Beldarian about Yavün’s neck. “Is that gem hot?” he asked.
They looked to the pendant now as if it were an oracle, but like many oracles it showed them little they could understand. The fire inside the beldar gem grew more intense, swirling about as if it were a living creature. Perhaps it spoke to them, but if it did, it spoke with a tongue of flame, and perhaps only Yavün could understand it.
Suddenly Yavün awoke, and his fever began to quickly abate. “The fire,” he said.
“I know,” Thalla said, bathing his head. “We are trying to cool it.”
“No,” he said, though the heat choked his words. “I spoke with the voice of fire.”
She paused, and her hand trembled.
“It’s Melgalés,” he said.
“But he is no longer with us,” Délin pointed out.
“So our quest is doomed,” Elithéa said. “How can we say By fire and flame, if only the flame yet lives, and perhaps does not live for long.”
“We have to find a way,” Délin said.
Elithéa stamped her staff upon the ground, and the sound had a certain finality about it. “I do not think there is a way ... if he is now a ghost.”
Herr’Don tapped her on the shoulder. “I think I know a way,” he said, and he turned to his side, where he held out his arm, as if to show them something. “Let me introduce you to Belnavar.”
XVII – MEETING GHOSTS
The company stared where Herr’Don gestured, and though some of them like Ifferon and Geldirana had the clearsight, their puzzled expressions made it clear they could see nothing there.
“He has finally cracked,” Elithéa sneered.
“This ordeal has been a strain upon us all,” Délin said, and that was more irritating to the prince than Elithéa’s outright accusation of madness. Others looked awkwardly to one another, and some gave sympathetic glances to the prince.
Herr’Don became flustered by their reaction. “Doubt me all you will, but I know what my eyes see, and what my ears hear!”
Edgaron looked around. “Can you show us you are here?” he said, and Herr’Don shook his head, for his old friend was looking not at Belnavar, but to where a real emptiness was.
“I would shout,” Belnavar said, “but I would only deafen Herr’Don, and still prove nothing of my existence.”
“There’s little point saying that to me,” Herr’Don replied, and he hoped the others knew it was a reply, and not just a random comment to himself.
“Did he lose his brain as well as his arm?” Elithéa asked, and this inflamed Herr’Don so much that he felt like charging at her and proving that he only needed one arm to end her life.
“Come now,” Délin said. “There is nothing to be gained in discourtesy, nor anything to be won through violence.”
Elithéa scoffed. “If you can talk to ghosts, tell Aralus I said hello.”
“She has quite the mouth,” Belnavar remarked.
“I wish she could hear that,” Herr’Don said.
“Hear what?” she asked.
“Much mouth, no ears,” Belnavar replied. “Not that what I say matters.”
“Maybe it matters more than I previously thought,” Herr’Don said.
“Let us take a moment,” Délin said, “lest we confuse ourselves beyond repair. Herr’Don, please tell us how you think we might bring back the ghost of Melgalés.”
“I’m not sure how I did it,” Herr’Don said.
Elithéa cocked her head. “Well, that’s useful.”
“I went to the place where Belnavar was buried, and I gave a song of remembrance.”
“And nothing else?” Délin quizzed. “I was there when we buried him, and I recall you giving a hymn then, and nothing came of it.
”
“I do not think it really struck me until later,” Herr’Don said, “until I felt a loss of my own.”
“Many of us have felt losses,” Délin said. “But why did he return for you?”
“Perhaps it is because he meant something to me.”
Belnavar smiled. “Why, that’s very sweet of you.”
“This takes a lot of faith,” Elithéa said, and the look on many faces suggested quite a few others agreed with her.
“Everything we have done so far does,” Délin said. “Perhaps we should trust that there is a greater purpose here, that we have a chance to make things better.”
“So then we need someone close to Melgalés to go back to his final resting place,” Ifferon said.
“Then I will go,” Thalla replied. “He was my mentor, my master, my friend. He was a father to me, even a mother to me, when my own parents could not be that. I don’t know what I was to him, only what he was to me, and that I would give anything to see him again, even if it is just his ghost.”
Her testimony proved to them that she was the best candidate for the heartfelt eulogy that might act as an invocation to the dead. None knew if it would be successful, but they knew that she was their best chance, and perhaps their only chance.
“We cannot let her go alone,” Délin said.
“I will go with her,” Yavün proposed.
“No,” Herr’Don barked, and he almost snapped his teeth at the poet. “I will go.”
“I’m the better rider,” the youth said feebly.
“You can barely stand or walk,” Elithéa noted.
Yavün gave a weak smile. “I don’t need to do either on horseback.”
“And just how are you the better rider, boy?” Herr’Don asked. “I’ve ridden dozens of horses, to war and back. What have you done in your small allotment of years?”
Yavün glared at the prince. “I’ve helped horses give birth. I’ve fed them and cleaned them. I’ve talked to them and trained them. I’ve ridden horses, not to war, no, but in all kinds of weather, for no reason at all beyond the enjoyment of it, and of their company.”
“Let him come with me,” Thalla said.
Elithéa smirked. “I wonder why.”
“Perhaps it is best that Yavün goes,” Ifferon said. “Apart from Thalla, he is the best connection to Melgalés we have. If her requiem does not work, then we may depend on Yavün more than anyone or anything to make that link.”
Most of them acknowledged the truth of this, but Herr’Don stormed off, clutching the hilt of his sword as though it were Yavün’s neck.
The others ignored him and made immediate preparations for Thalla and Yavün’s departure. A small amount of rations were packed, weapons were stowed, and Brégest went in search of the few horses that had survived the battle.
* * *
Délin pulled Ifferon aside to talk about Herr’Don. “What if he is just crazy?” he asked. “He has always been a queer sort, and some thought he was mad ere he lost his arm. What if he really is crazy?”
“What if he’s not?” Ifferon asked in turn. “We have exhausted all options.”
But Yavün brought them new conviction, for he faded in and out of consciousness, and on one of these occasions he found himself in that twilight place between Iraldas and Halés, where the living are not quite living and the dead are not quite dead. Then he saw Belnavar standing beside Herr’Don, and he knew that the prince was neither lying nor insane.
When the news of this was conveyed to the others, it brought some relief, and it quelled doubt and quietened despair. But there was still concern among them all, even Thalla, who was fearful, and Yavün, who was feeble.
* * *
Brégest found the horses tethered to several large posts. There were only two left. The others had clearly bucked and ran when the tremors came from Agon’s location. No one present could blame them, and some wished that they could also flee.
“Two horses, two riders,” Délin said. “May this prove a boon to us.”
“Would that there were three,” Herr’Don said, “but I am needed on the battlefield.” He held his cloak tight and tilted his head to the sky, as if it were the gods who ordained him a captain of war.
The horses were soon made ready, but before they rode off, Herr’Don approached Yavün and pulled him close, so close that he could feel the poet’s breath upon his face, and could feel his fear through the tremble of his skin.
“You won her,” Herr’Don told the youth, and he growled to hold back his tears. “Well done, boy! Enjoy your stolen prize.”
“I’m not a prize, Herr’Don,” Thalla said. “There are no winners or losers.”
“Then how come I am the only one who lost?”
“You’re not,” she said, and she looked up with sorrow in her eyes, with an echo of that look she had when Melgalés first fell.
But Herr’Don looked back with a different sorrow in his eyes, and he might have spoken were it not for the anger that clogged his throat, even as the tears dammed his eyes.
“Goodbye,” she said. “I hope we will return, and return successful.”
He watched as the two rode off together, and knew in his heart that they had ridden off together in their hearts a long time before. All that was left was the dust that was kicked up by the feet of the horses, and amidst those tiny specks of dust stood Herr’Don, and though he was surrounded by many people, he stood alone.
* * *
“It will take them days to get there, and days to get back,” Délin said. “Even if Yavün can ride as swift as he claims.”
“What then do we do?” Ifferon asked.
“Everything we can to delay and weaken Agon.”
“Éala weakens,” Elithéa said.
“So this is Chránán’s triumph,” Délin said. “The Lord of the Shadow of Time gets his retribution by depriving us of time.”
“We still have the Sword,” Ifferon said.
“And I hope you know how to use it,” the knight said sternly, like he might have done to any young knight just learning what it meant to live in a world at war.
The survivors of the previous battles returned to the battlefield, where Corrias was barely surviving in his struggle with Agon. So few gods remained, and yet it was up to him, the father god, to keep Agon from crushing the world. So few warriors remained, and yet it was up to them, mere mortals, to delay Agon for long enough that he might be crushed instead.
“Corrias cannot hold him for long,” Délin said.
“Neither can we,” Elithéa replied.
“What can we do?” Ifferon asked.
“We need to distract him,” Herr’Don said, and he pondered long and hard. “Whack him a few times.”
“I think we tried that,” Délin said, “and it was not very successful.”
“We need to whack him with something bigger,” Herr’Don suggested.
Ifferon held up Daradag. “If this is the Sword of Telm, and Telm matched Agon in size, then maybe this is as big as we can get.”
“Go on then,” Herr’Don said. “Hit him a few times.”
Ifferon looked up at the towering figures. “Eh ...”
“Give it to me then and I’ll have a go,” the prince boasted.
“It will hit harder if it comes from a Child of Telm,” Délin said. “Of that I have no doubt.”
And so Ifferon held aloft the Sword of Telm, and he read aloud the Last Words, and the shimmering armour of Telm formed around him, and to all eyes he seemed to grow in size. Yet still he was dwarfed by the gods before him, and he looked even smaller when he marched out to meet them in battle.
The ground trembled as he walked, and yet he did not tremble with it. Those around him were clearly afraid, and yet he did not feel fear like he had done before. Weeks ago he might have fled, but now he marched. Weeks ago Agon had sought him out, but now it was he who sought out the Beast.
He swung the Sword of Telm at Agon’s ankle, and it sliced through, and Ago
n gave a cry. He did the same to the other foot, but this time Agon’s lashing tail struck him and sent him back. Were it not for Corrias holding him in place, Agon might have turned to Ifferon and crushed him.
The other survivors joined the fray, racing beneath the giant bodies of the two warring gods, lashing and slashing, and throwing spear and javelin. They ran to and fro, for the legs of those same gods came down around them, and they turned about as they tussled, and the people below had to duck and dodge, and run and roll, to avoid being crushed beneath those monstrous limbs. Some of the soldiers were not so lucky, and as the battle raged, and the gods rumbled, there were fewer beneath to fight a different kind of war.
Ifferon charged in again, and he struck once more at the ankles of Agon, replacing the bite of iron chains with the bite of a steel sword. The Beast screamed to the sky, bellowed to the ground, and cried to the four winds. He seemed to weaken just a little, and the strain in Corrias’ face lessened in turn, but they both continued their struggle, and Ifferon continued his own in the battleground below the gods.
* * *
Thalla and Yavün rode side by side for what seemed like hours. Initially the necessity of their mission made the time disappear beneath the stampeding hooves, but now it seemed that each gallop was just another tick upon an endless clock.
Their horses sped for many miles, but they soon grew tired and needed rest and water, and between gallops they could only trot along. During these moments Thalla and Yavün talked, sharing what had transpired since their parting in the tumble at the Chasm of Issarí.
“What happened to your face?” Yavün asked, gesturing to the faint scars.
Thalla turned away, embarrassed.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Yavün said. “I was just curious.”
Thalla took a moment to respond. “I played with fire, and I got burnt.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not now,” she replied. “It hurt when it happened.”
Yavün paused. “When you say you played with fire, do you mean magic?”
The Children of Telm - The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 73