Chapter Forty-Six: Darmouth
“I am what you would call a Prophet. We are few, but each of us holds a special affinity with the Winds of Fate. We can see things that others cannot, things that transcend the realm of time. Things from the past no man remembers. Things from the present no mortal should know. Things from the future that will come to pass.
“Some of these things are laudable. Some of them make no difference in the grand scheme of things. But some of the things we see are so dreadful, so dark and heavy and world-changing, that we lose our sanity and ultimately take our own lives. We do not always understand what we see. Sometimes the truth does not become apparent until the last piece of the puzzle falls into place.
“I am not the only one of our kind who has seen the things to follow. Others have seen them as well, bits and pieces, and only when the time is right can we make sense of it all. Until then, I will leave my dreams in this logbook. I pray that you will heed them.
“My name is Morene Gylfaginor, and this is what I have seen.”
—Morene Gylfaginor, The Codex Gylfaginor
Darmouth was a small village under the shadow of Raginrok, a scattering of huts and muddy paths winding around a cold mountain stream. The huts were small and circular and made of sticks and thatched roofs, with square back yards bounded by low wooden fences. Shaggy mountain goats chewed at stunted grass as puddles of water pooled in the streets around them.
Aeos, Garax and Rhinne waited by the entrance to the village as the boy ran inside, calling out in his foreign tongue. The goats began to cry, lifting their heads from the ground. Aeos realized with a start that the strange light had disappeared as soon as they’d set foot inside the village.
“Where is everyone?” he grumbled. “The place looks deserted.”
“Well, it is raining,” Garax replied. “And the poor villagers are probably scared to death of the relicts. Look over there, they’re scouting us out as we speak.”
Aeos looked towards one of the windows just as the curtains were drawn shut. The boy continued to run from doorstep to doorstep, knocking and shouting at the top of his lungs. At last, a woman in a fur jacket emerged, stepping out into the rain. The boy cried out and then ran into her arms. She stroked his hair and they spoke in relieved tones.
After that the other villagers appeared, filing hesitantly out towards him. They eyed Aeos and the others warily, each of them asking the boy what had happened. He pointed at the three excitedly, making wide sweeping gestures, calling out the word ‘Talam’ more than once. Aeos was starting to cool down now, standing in the rain with layers of clothing that had been soaked all the way through. He stalked into the villagers’ midst, feeling the mud squelch in his boots.
“Can we go somewhere dry to talk?” he asked, slowly and clearly.
The villagers watched him like a group of sheep confronted by a wolf. They were all coffee-skinned with dark eyes, and they dressed themselves in stitched hides and fleece coats. Some of them even had fur caps on their heads. Darmouthers were no strangers to the cold, it seemed.
Aeos was just about to ask Garax for a translation when one of the villagers stepped forward. “You kill the mountain demons?” he asked, feeling around his mouth for each word.
“Yes,” Garax nodded. “Mountain demons dead. Killi.”
“How many?”
The storyteller held up four fingers. The villager nodded.
“Talam!” the boy continued to say, pointing to Aeos and Garax. “Talam!”
“Come with me,” the man continued. “We talk in my house.”
#
The man’s name was Rakan and he was the father of the boy, Yusef. The mother, Farishta, was there as well.
The inside of his hut consisted of only one room, with a tarp divider that separated the chamberpot from everything else. There were shelves filled with plates and cutlery, fur coats, vases and other foodstuffs, and in the corner was a fleece mattress that he shared with his wife and son. Farishta held Yusef tightly to her chest, much to his embarrassment. They sat around a small table on the straw carpet, Aeos, Garax and Rhinne on one side, Yusef and his parents on the other.
“Can I get you drink?” Rakan asked. “Ko… Koffee?”
“That would be excellent,” Garax said. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a good coffee. It’s the only thing I miss from Felhaven.”
Rakan nodded and spoke to his wife. Farishta reluctantly let go of Yusef and went over to place a pot of water over the fireplace. Three sets of soaked clothes already hung in front of it, dripping onto the ground.
“Thank you very much,” Rakan said again, bowing deeply.
“There’s no need to thank us,” Garax replied. “It was the least we could do. Yusef told me that the relicts—I mean, the mountain demons—have been plaguing your village for a while now. Can you tell me more?”
Rakan nodded vigorously. “Yes, is true. They come a few weeks ago, when Mandara started shaking. Was terrible. Houses knocked down, goats scared, rocks falling from mountain. The gods awaken from Nanak Tur.”
“And you sent sacrifices up the mountain to appease it?”
“Ap.. pease?”
“Happy. Make Mandara happy.”
Rakan nodded in understanding. “Only one at first. A not-girl. She come to Darmouth earlier, with travelling merchant. Bad things happening.”
There was a sudden yelp from the fireplace. Farishta leaped back from the wet clothes as a bundle of grey crashed onto the floor. It fluttered weakly.
“Blast. I completely forgot about him,” Garax swore. He rushed over to Talberon’s limp form, scooping him up in his hands. The Druid had been comatose ever since the events of Mor’Gravar, when he’d tried to find Ein through Astreal. Something had happened then, something no one else knew. Only Talberon could help himself now.
And all for nought, Aeos thought. We’ve lost Ein. I guess he was guilty, after all.
But that didn’t explain why Garax and Rhinne were still alive.
“Bird… dead?” Rakan asked.
“No,” Garax said. “Bird not dead. Are you able to take care of him for me?”
“Talam!” Yusef said again, pointing to Talberon. Rakan’s eyes widened and he nodded, giving a spiel of instructions to his wife. “He will be looked after,” he said. “My wife very good with animals.”
Farishta cupped her hands, and Garax gently placed Talberon inside them. She then took him to the fireplace and began rifling through the drawers, taking out bandages and cloth strips and strange jars of ointment.
“Thank you. Now, back to where we were before—what sort of bad things happened with this ‘not-girl’?”
“Mandara angry,” Rakan said, making a shaking gesture with his hands. “Rain without stop. Crop die. Goat die. People ill. Many things, all start when not-girl arrive at Darmouth.”
“What exactly do you mean by ‘not-girl’?” Aeos interrupted.
“Not… girl. She look like girl, but she… not.” Rakan frowned. “She… speak different. Her eyes too. She is mejah.”
“Mejah,” Garax murmured. “So you sent her up Mandara?”
“We send her up to Mandara, and quaking stop. Now only happen a few times a day. Before, every hour.”
“And when did the reli—the mountain demons start coming?”
The crisp smell of coffee wafted through the air. Aeos’s stomach rumbled. It had been a while since he’d drank it—coffee beans had become scarce upon the start of the Great Winter. The people of Darmouth probably used a different strain to make theirs.
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Farishta poured six cups full of the brown liquid, mixing in cream on top. She handed one to each person at the table including herself, along with a saucer and a square biscuit of some sort.
“What is this?” Rhinne asked, sniffing it. “It’s so bitter.”
“It’s called coffee,” Garax smiled. “A hot coffee on a cold day is like a cold beer on a hot day. Give it a try.”
Rhinne wrinkled her nose and took a sip. She grimaced, but didn’t spit it out. Aeos drank a mouthful from his own cup, savouring the sweet, frothy and yet bitter taste that was so sought after in the current times. If they somehow opened a trade route between Aldoran and Darmouth, they’d be able to make a lot of profit during the winter. He filed that piece of knowledge away for the future.
The biscuit was tasteless, but with the coffee it helped to fill their stomachs. Before he knew it, he’d downed the entire cup and was longing for more. So was Rhinne.
“It’s strange,” she said. “It doesn’t taste very good. But I feel like I want more.”
“Be careful,” Garax smirked. “Drink too much and you’ll have trouble falling asleep.”
They returned their dishes to Farishta, considerably warmer now. If it weren’t for the uncomfortable itching at his neck from the spare fleece they’d been lent, he might have fallen asleep on the spot.
“Mountain demons start coming not long after,” Rakan sighed, picking up their conversation where they’d left off. “We sacrifice our young so they leave us alone. Our Yusef selected this week.” He bowed once more. “We very grateful to you for saving our son and killing mountain demons.”
“Your people don’t seem very happy,” Rhinne said. “Why’s that?”
“They afraid,” Rakan looked at his empty saucer. “Last time, we have knights and soldiers come to Darmouth to… ap-pease Mandara. Even a mejahman. They say they going to take care of problem. That day… very bad earthquake. Three houses crushed by falling rocks. Seven goats die. Very bad.”
“And were the knights and soldiers dressed in black armour? Black and silver?” Garax asked.
“Yes. They in black and silver. One in gold. He was very strong. We thought he was Talam.”
“Talam!” Yusef said again. “Bhava Talam!”
“Your son keeps calling us that,” Aeos frowned. “But what does it actually mean?”
“Yes,” said Rhinne. “I’d like to know that as well.”
“It is… prediction,” Rakan answered. “Pro… prophecy? In our religion, we serve the Nanak. Ninety gods die to form these mountains. Ninety god spirits rule over us.” He pointed at the sky. “We at mercy of gods. God will send rain and flood when unhappy. God will cause blizzard. God cause falling rocks and ice to crush us, earthquakes to destroy our farms. It is reason why we cannot make village bigger.
“But Talam… Talam is godbreaker. Prophet Muamed say three people come to free us from Nanak Tur. Three people come to slay Mandara. One man like a ghost. White skin, white hair.” He pointed to Aeos’s head. “One man with no hand, old and wise, carrying dead bird.” He pointed to Garax this time. “And the third. Young man with golden sword, who cause the storm. Last time, man with golden sword come. But no storm.” Rakan pointed to the roof. “This time, storm. But no man with golden sword.”
A man with a golden sword. Aeos exchanged looks with Rhinne and Garax. The prophecy was either wrong, or Ein was still alive and yet to make his way to the village.
“Can we meet this ‘Muamed’?” Garax asked.
Rakan laughed. “Muamed die long ago. Many thousand years. But we follow his teaching. We bow to mountain gods and continue to live.”
Farishta took her place beside her son and they sat for a while in silence, listening to the drum of the rain above them. Talberon was resting in a bundle of warm furs, bound snugly in small bandages. Aeos wasn’t quite sure what to think. He’d always been one to trust his own eyes and ears rather than the stories of others—but he’d never been one to dismiss possibilities. The fact that two prophets, Morene and Muamed, were saying similar things had him thinking.
Was Faenrir really behind the tremors in Lauriel’s Spine? Aeos was starting to consider that maybe, just maybe the relicts and the Blight, the Winter and Aedrasil, the boy Ein and the band of people he’d brought with him—he was starting to think that they might be connected.
The Twilight of the World. If it was all true, then the Twilight of the World was falling upon them.
“Rakan,” Garax said at last, addressing the villager.
“Yes.”
“We’ve come to kill Mandara and the mountain demons. But to do that, we need to climb the mountain. We need to climb Mandara and reach the top. Do you know anyone who can guide us?”
Rakan’s face turned pale. “Very dangerous,” he said. “Few people dare set foot on Mandara. Tushar know how. Tushar can do, for gold money. Tushar crazy man.”
“Can you take us to this ‘Tushar?’” Garax asked.
“Hold on,” Aeos interrupted. “What about Ein?”
“There’s no way for us to find him,” Garax replied. “None of us are capable of entering Astreal, and Talberon lies in a place no one can reach. I say we set foot on Raginrok and try to rescue this ‘not-girl’ first. We can worry about the rest later.”
“And how do you think we’ll manage that?” Aeos asked. “We have a dragon who can’t transform, an old man and a Prince with laughable combat experience. You have to remember; Kingsblade Edric and Druid Keldan went up there with some of the Legion’s finest warriors, and they didn’t come back. What makes you think we’ll do any better?”
“Nothing,” Garax said simply. “But it must be done. Because if we don’t do it, who will? We’re the heroes of this story, Your Highness. We are the Heroes of Faengard for this age.”
Aeos fell into silence. It was all beginning to come down on him, the weight of their mission, the pressure. They didn’t need Ein. They would be stronger with a Kingsblade on their side, but he didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Celianna had told him that Aedrasil needed the blood of the Three Kings. They had Alend and Aedon waiting back in Aldoran. All they needed was a Lachess, and the world would be saved.
Of course, his mother believed in Celesite. But Celianna didn’t trust it or Minister Dominus, and Aeos trusted Celianna. It was better to be safe than sorry.
“Can you take us to Tushar?” Garax asked again.
Rakan ran his fingers through his hair. Farishta and Yusef watched the exchange wide-eyed, unaware of what was being discussed.
“No.” But before Garax could say anything further, he continued. “You see… Tushar is crazy man. Brave, but crazy. He go off to fight the mountain demons with his friends, to rescue our children. He never come back.”
Garax nodded. “So Tushar should be with these mountain demons, along with all the other sacrifices?”
“Yes.”
“How do we know he’s still alive?”
“We not know,” Rakan shook his head. “But the demons conserve their food. They eat slowly, one person a day. Maybe if hurry, you find him alive.”
“One person a day,” Rhinne growled. “And what were you planning on doing once you’d run out of people to sacrifice?”
Rakan’s shoulders drooped. “We not know. Maybe is fate, that the Talam come to us before then.”
She tossed her head. “Tell the leader of your village that he’s a coward and that he deserves to burn in hell.”
Rakan bowed. “I am village leader. I am sorry.”
#
Before they left, Rakan had their packs loaded with furs and blankets, water and food, and fleece caps to protect them from the wind. With all their gear on, Aeos felt warm to his very toes, even with the rain misting across his face. His boots and clothes were dry and his stomach was full, and the effects of coffee kept him alert and awake.
The other villagers watched as Yusef, Rakan and Farishta walked them to the front of the village. They’d kept their distance the whole time, whispering “Talam” beneath their breaths, pointing to Aeos’s hair and Garax’s stump of a hand. The distrust was plain as day on their faces. They knew nothing about these foreigners who’d come to slay the mountain demons. For all they knew, the last time foreigners had visited, they’d brought with them a devastating earthquake. It was no wonder they built their houses from sticks—they were easier and quicker to make than carving planks from wood or bricks from stone.
“Look after the bird,” Garax said. “We’ll come back for him.”
Rakan nodded and bowed deeply. “Mandi se’bhava. Mountain watch over you.”
“Mandi se’bhava,” Yusef and Farishta repeated.
They set off then, trudging across the muddy ground, feet growing sodden with each step. It didn’t take long for Aeos’s feet to be soaked again, and the effects of the coffee to wear off. The rain was like a harsh wind, weathering away at his spirit.
They stopped under the shelter of a large tree as soon as the village disappeared from view. As they straightened their boots and regained their bearings, Aeos turned to Rhinne and Garax.
“How exactly are we supposed to track the relicts in this weather?” he asked.
The rain was streaming down the mountain in waves, muddying the ground beneath their feet. Even the bootprints they’d left earlier in the day had almost washed away.
“Leave it to me,” Rhinne said. “If you had the nose of a dragon, you’d understand. The minions of Asmodon leave behind a stench like rotting meat in a flower garden. Even without the rain and wind, I’d be able to smell them.”
She set off at once, following the river back the way they’d come. Aeos stayed on her heels and Garax brought up the rear, sword against his hip. The mysterious light appeared not long after, a tiny pinprick in the distance beneath the snow-dusted pines. Aeos decided to call it the Guidelight.
The rain stopped and started as they climbed, following the muddy trail. They came across signs of the relicts soon enough, faint footprints in the mud, scraps of clothing and bones—human bones, small and thin like a child’s. Rhinne went stone-faced when she saw them, and not a word was said.
There were more signs the further they travelled. Claw marks along the barks of trees, trampled bushes, littered shortswords and knives strewn by the remains of more bones. It looked to be a large pack of at least twenty, maybe more. Aeos couldn’t tell if they had Bloodmanes with them, but he saw the telltale signs of Celadon stools and Worgal footprints. The encounter with the Worgals earlier had been the first dealings he’d had with any relict at all, but he’d read the Encyclopaedia of Daemons before and seen Ylva Norn’s sketches. For a book written several Ages ago, it was quite accurate.
The longer and farther they travelled, the more he wondered what they’d do when they finally found the camp. It had been a struggle fighting four Worgals alone. What were they to do against twenty? And what if they had Bloodmanes and Celadons with them, and Vallaheim forbid, a Slazaad?
For the second time that day, he wished Willard were still alive. Then his blasted father wouldn’t have been so determined to ‘make a man’ out of him and send him all the way into the wilderness with nothing but felons for company. Aeos sighed.
Night fell soon enough, and Rhinne guided them into a crevice in the side of a stone spire. There they started a fire and dried their toes, listening to the sound of howling in the night as the rain washed their bootprints off the mountain.