The Land of Helakirtor; Chapter 3

In these lands where darkness holdeth dominion, it was not merely the spark of a war to endure for many a year that was kindled; for all these preparations were but the first unveiling of a vast and gathered hatred. The folk of the shadowed realms, who looked not for such an oration from the lips of Belabirdor, shared in a strange felicity that arose from their very wonder. For the first time since the days of Yalafardes, all the domains of night stood united once more in a single purpose.

Truly, no folk had yearned for such a concord with a more fervent heart than the children of Perasimonor. The dark magi who hailed from those borders perceived that this weaving of spirits was wrought by the sorcery of Lachita; they held it as a truth that should any ill befall the hallowed volume, this shadowed covenant would surely crumble into dust. Within this very soil, the most sagacious masters of the dark and the most ancient among the healers were ever nourished and brought to flower. In Perasimonor, where the borders meet the shadowed groves of the ancient wood, the daughters of the land had for thousands of rolling years mastered the arts of the earth; using divers herbs and secret growths, they had fashioned potions of such virtue that their like was found nowhere else in all the world.

When the sable mantle of night enfolded the realm, the undaunted daughters of Perasimonor set forth upon a mysterious pilgrimage into the most desolate deeps of the dark wood, places where even the hearts of men didst often falter to tread. The vanguard of this journey were the most ancient and sagacious matrons of the land, whilst the tender maidens followed in their footsteps. Many of these venerable mothers who led the throng could scarce perceive the path before them even upon a day of golden sunlight; yet how they didst find their way amidst the profoundest gloom and within the trackless abysses of the forest remained a fearsome mystery. Through the rolling years of this perpetual journey, not once had they wandered from the path.

The sole concern of these enigmatic daughters of Perasimonor, ere they set foot toward the dark wood, was that thick sable clouds should mantle the heavens to sever the rays of the moon. For many of the growths they sought within that gloom were hidden from the eye whilst the lunar light didst shine; these herbs were gathered to swell the potency of shadowed enchantments. The moonlight, like unto a secret hand veiling the transgressions of the world, didst keep concealed all the seeds of bale. None but the most ancient among the folk possessed the wisdom to perceive this truth; therefore, they would not venture into the profoundest deeps of those unhallowed forests until they were certain that no sliver of moonshine couldst pierce the heavy dark.

Upon her return from one such sable pilgrimage, Umma Ledasir, being spent with toil, lay upon her bed of infirmity; throughout the watches of the night she didst mutter with a restless tongue the same dark refrain: ‘Vales uksime una uksimor, vales uksime una uksimo, vales uksime…

Such were her parting words; that Umma Ledasir, the most venerable sorceress of Perasimonor, could draw breath no longer was plain to see from the waning spark within her eyes. This passing wrought a profound desolation throughout the length and breadth of the realm; for within the borders of Perasimonor, there dwelled not a single living creature who did not hold her in tender affection. She had poured out the healing essence of her soul not upon mankind alone, but also upon the beasts of the field and the very herbage of the earth. Whiles wandering through the profoundest deeps of the dark wood, whenever she was constrained to pluck a leaf or stem, she would ever intone that sacred chant: ‘Vales uksime una uksimor’, which signifieth, ‘This severing is no theft from the breath of life’.

The passing of Umma Ledasir plunged the folk of Perasimonor into a sea of profound woe, yet the final utterances from her departing soul didst sow a seed of hope even within the fearful breasts of the mortals dwelling in the furthest east of the dark domains. Perasimonor stood as the most radiant visage of the shadowed world; it was an enigmatic realm shining like a pale lunar glow amidst the vastness of the obsidian heavens. Like unto Umma Ledasir, all the sagacious elders of that land gave constant commandment that the enchanted draughts fashioned from the growths of the forest deeps should not be for their own kin alone, but should be offered unto every soul in Helakirtor who cried out for succour. This was but one of the few hallowed laws known to all the folk of Perasimonor, a decree held in reverence through thousands of rolling years.

This passing that shrouded Perasimonor in woe was but the harbinger of a train of strange portents about to unfold throughout the dark domains. Whensoever the River Tenebir began to flow with a deep and verdant hue, an air didst prevail that poisoned the very spirits of those who drew breath within the shadowed realms. In this season of the turning year, there arose a singular atmosphere whose essence no man couldst prove with certainty, yet none didst dare to deny its power. These anomalies didst at times reach such a height that it was believed the vapours cast abroad by Tenebir didst cloud the understandings and the visions of the people.

From the very instant of indrawing, these foul vapours began to assail every atom of the frame; they scorched the throat as surely as smoke rising from a furnace, and like unto a powder-bomb cast within the breast, they didst stifle the breath of all who passed that way. These mists didst reek as foully as the blackest mire found in the depths of the most loathsome fens; yet once they were tasted, the heart of man didst crave to breathe them more deeply still. Every draught was as a burning coal kindling the body from within; natheless, this ember that seared the heart wrought a strange thralldom upon those who partook of it. He who breathed didst yearn to breathe again, and with every gasp, a fragment of his spirit was torn away; with every breath, the power of reality within the mind began to wane, and the last resisting seed of truth didst slowly surrender unto the realm of phantasy. It was a fire that burned as it was indrawn and grew more fierce as it was fed, even as the unquenchable fire of Galadonna.

In these seasons, throughout all the lands where the river wound its course, the enigmatic veil betwixt reality and dream manifested in its most flickering and uncertain form. Verily, it reached such heights that the terrors concerning the perception of what is real grew vast; all convictions regarding existence became so abstract that the faculties of man to discern right from wrong, truth from phantasy, and even good from evil, were utterly washed away. Since such hours didst oft occur, the folk of Perasimonor, having the longest shore upon the River Tenebir, had devised certain measures peculiar to themselves. They possessed an ancient lore received from Umma Ledasir which spoke thus: ‘If the veil be parted and the darkness beginneth to whisper unto thee, if the voice of the light recedeth and if mystic clouds descend upon thine eyes, cast a portion of this into the fire and await the rising of the smoke therefrom.

The herb of which these chronicles speak was the Yosmalen shoot, plucked from the depths of the shadowed groves when the moon’s face was veiled; it served as a hallowed antidote to the poisons of black enchantment. Even as vinegar doth pierce and curdle the purity of milk, so did the smoke of the burning Yosmalen sever the baleful mists of Tenebir. Though every growth within those unhallowed woods brought forth its seed or fruit in season, ne’er had the eye of any mortal chanced upon the seed of the Yosmalen, nor beheld its blossoming. For as Umma Ledasir didst declare in her ancient lore, the tears falling from the eyes of the Toremon stags, whensoever they merged with the dust of the earth, were transmuted into the seeds of these holy sprigs. Yet for a Toremon stag to weep was a wonder most rare; and for this cause were the shoots of Yosmalen held as a treasure of passing worth.

When the River Tenebir began its course in the deepest hue of verdure, the children of Perasimonor would flee unto their secret chambers to fetch the parched shoots of Yosmalen. These hallowed sprigs were kept close within the raiment of every inhabitant of the realm; whensoever they sensed the gathering mists of the river troubling the inward eye, they would cast a handful of the herb upon the hearth and wait for the ascent of the smoke. If their mortal sight could yet discern the grey spirit of the vapour, they knew their footing was secure upon the path of existence; for the visible smoke was the seal of their remaining within the world of truth.

But if the smoke remaineth invisible to the eye, then it is known that the mystic verdant vapours of Tenebir have drawn a thick veil across the vision, and a passage hath been wrought into the realm of phantasy. Those found in this state can no more walk in the likeness of their true selves, and they are made capable of all such malices as would be strange to their very nature. Yet those who possess the power to perceive their own entanglement may yet resist the snare, and take such measures as lead from the world of shadows back unto the light of truth. Many souls, upon the moment they discern the delusion, are restored by a violent shudder and a sudden awakening; yet for those more deeply steeped in the heavy exhalations of Tenebir, the way of deliverance is not so lightly won.

Lake Deboran, being the first station where the River Tenebir findeth rest, its origin veiled in a cloud of eternal mystery, was a place where the most shadowed wonders of the world didst unfold; it was a shore where anxieties were clothed in the raiment of truth, where the firmest reality surrendered its place unto the phantoms of the mind, and where the spirit of dread held sovereign rule. Lying as a border betwixt Perasimonor and Mare Rubrum, these waters were unto some a hallowed path between the spheres, yet unto a multitude they were a watery tomb and a final resting place. Through the tales of thousands of rolling years, Deboran hath been chronicled as an enchanted mere that gave passage to King Silintolos and his legions of armed cavalry during the Great War of the Day of Algedot, as they made their way from the gates of Perasimonor unto the towers of Lunamatlis.

Amongst all the rumours that have wandered through the realms concerning Deboran these many rolling years, there was ne’er a word of any pilgrimage undertaken upon the southern reaches of the mere within the borders of Mare Rubrum. Every venture, whether crowned with triumph or cast into the abyss of failure, was wrought solely upon the shores of Perasimonor. For this cause, it was believed that the magi of Perasimonor possessed certain hallowed lore that was hidden from all other dark masters of the world; yet since the passing of the host of King Silintolos, the shadows of doubt concerning these truths had begun to fade into the light of certainty.

‘Tande Lerk unda Penda Lurfanda…’ These were the sounds that fell from the lips of Umma Ledasir when King Silintolos set foot upon the soil of Perasimonor to entreat her grace; for in the resonance of the King’s tongue, there dwelt a singular bashfulness mingled with a despairing derision. King Silintolos, who in all the seasons past had held such matrons as Umma Ledasir to be mere deceivers, was brought by the absence of all other hope to crave the aid of these women within their own borders. That shame which touched his voice was the fruit of the frailty born of his dire extremity; yet the mockery that lingered there sprang from the poverty of his belief that his prayer couldst ever find its fulfillment.

Having drawn his mounted host upon the ridges of Perasimonor, King Silintolos, taking with him his ministers, journeyed unto the dwelling of Umma Ledasir and spake thus; ‘Strength is spent and strife is sore, Grant thy aid and ask for more.’ Whereupon Umma Ledasir uttered those mystic words that enfold the spirit and purge the soul of its terrors, ‘Tande Lerk unda Penda Lurfanda’, which signifieth, ‘So hope and watch what shall befall.’ Hearing these words, King Silintolos felt the clouds of dread that had gathered in his heart suddenly to scatter; and with the might he found in the seeds of valour blooming within him, he assembled all his host and brought them unto the shores of Lake Deboran that lieth to the south of Perasimonor.

All they that dwelt within Perasimonor gathered about the King and his host with enigmatic glances; and the army of the King, named the Riders of Hereyus, didst take up a station of stately solemnity, as in the days of their ancient glory, giving ear unto the command of King Silintolos. Many among the throng knew well that for which they waited, for the rumours of the realm had touched their hearing; some were possessed of a trembling dread, yet others were fixed in the certainty that this was the final refuge. Then the King, turning his countenance toward the Riders of Hereyus, spake thus: