The Tale of the Rim, The Eye of Telerion

By john earle

The Tale of the Rim is an epic, adventure-fantasy in three parts with overarching themes of heroism, fidelity and sacrifice. In a richly detailed, medieval world known as the Rim, twin brothers lost as toddlers - one stolen into the Dark Realm, the other saved by a simple farmer - must inevitably meet and do battle to lay claim on a token of power and the title of King.

• Language: English
• Publisher: john earle
• Release date: Mar 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458118400

john earle

John Cunyus Earle was born in 1958 in Rome, Georgia and raised in a postcard-perfect older neighborhood. Steeped in classical music, old "Bookhouse" books, and lively family lore, he developed very early a love for all things imaginative and beautiful. Heavily affected in his young adult years by the literary-art forms of such diverse writers as Kurt Vonnegut, EB White, JRR Tolkien, and Victor Hugo, John nevertheless chose to pursue a career in medicine, all the while continuing to read heavily, absorbing and learning and (unbeknownst to him) preparing mentally for his own foray into the realm of fiction writing. Several years later, after the establishment of a successful career as a physician, Dr. Earle found himself sitting by the hearth one day with his young children discussing "Otherworlds". In the pleasure of the moment an idea was kindled in his heart to create his own fantasy tale. "It will be something we can always share and add to through the years," he said to them. He began with a rudimentary map of a far-away land, complete with roads, towns, rivers, paths and seas. Naming them, however, produced an unexpected result: he now felt an even stronger creative momentum, as if the places and things in his map desired (in their way) to have a story told about them. Dr. Earle thought a good deal about what sort of story he would like to write, and eventually settled on his favorite themes ... gleaned from the classics ... such as courage and sacrifice, foresight and renewal, fidelity and fate. After all, Dr. Earle says, the Greatest Stories have already been told. It is our job to reclaim and retell them for the future generations.

Book preview

THE EYE

OF TELERION

** ** ** **

part one of

THE TALE OF THE RIM

by

John Cunyus Earle

** ** ** **

The Tale of the Rim, The Eye of Telerion

Copyright 2011 John Cunyus Earle

Smashwords Edition

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www.thetaleoftherim.com

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

BOOK ONE, THE WILLOWFOLK

Chapter One. Beginnings

Chapter Two. The Iriad Trees

Chapter Three. Diverging Paths

Chapter Four. Gabraelroin’s Veil

Chapter Five. Many Questions

BOOK TWO, YOUNG PADDY

Chapter One. An Unexpected Frost

Chapter Two. Tidings of Change

Chapter Three. Hasty Moves

Chapter Four. A Ride Through the Night

Chapter Five. Escape to the North

Chapter Six. The Stone City

Chapter Seven. Odds and Ends

Chapter Eight. A Deep Adventure

Chapter Nine. A New Surprise

Chapter Ten. A New Arrival

Chapter Eleven. The Council of the Wise

Chapter Twelve. A Different Shade of Fear

** ** ** ** **

PROLOGUE

I, Nennius, have made a heap of all that I saw, for I was the scribe and record keeper of the Teacher. I have not engaged in trimming the edges of this story, as one might perfect a crust. Nor have I added to the filling of the pie. What I have done, with diligence over the better part of a decade, was take in everything given by the miracle and mercy of the Teacher and create a history of what came before. And now it is done. No part has been left out. Later generations will be my judge, but if historical warts and wrinkles are found then may they be counted as evidence to the truth of the whole. And so, if anyone follows who wishes to add to what I have done then let him come…but do so with care! Woe to him who vandalizes this book!!

The chronicles of our land shall reveal how Tiri-dom the Beloved, King of New Logeria, came to power through the defeat of the Shadowfoe, leading our world into this present age of peace, his kingdom unfettered by evil and burgeoning daily to match the grandeur of ancient times. And readers of those same books will learn of how Tiri-dom, still in the summer of his reign, cast aside his armour to declare, The world today needs no Warrior King! His enemies which were few and far removed raised some rebellion, but it was mainly prattle and quickly put to rest. For the rule of law was tested and found secure. Tiri-dom had fulfilled his Purpose as it was revealed to him, and laying to rest his sword became our Benevolent King, the beloved fulfillment of prophecy!

When earth and sky are safe and pure

And fear has lost its vicious sting,

The warrior with broken sword

And flame endured shall then be King.

For my part, I began as a student of letters in my home village far away on the Bregalad coast. My father, a cabinet maker, arranged that I should travel to the royal seat of Trinitovantum, the reclaimed City of Ancients, in order to advance my studies in the renewed Halls of Learning. So I made the long journey from my boyhood home and took up residence as apprentice scribe in these hallowed halls. Our principle duty in the beginning was making copies of the few extant books that survived the Dark Years. Most of my fellow pupils completed their work and departed to other lands, whereas I stayed behind and advanced my studies.

I became a transcriber of ancient manuscripts and was given a workbench in the Rectory. It was here that my skills redoubled, for I was now daily at the feet of the Teacher. He was the head of our order, and under his tutelage I began learning the most ancient histories of our world. Happy were those early days among the cheerful clutter of books! Each morning I would gather my things from the library and pass into the Teacher’s chambers, where I would be greeted with his deep and comforting voice, bidding me come and begin my work. Here was a softly lit place, full of old knowledge and remembrance. The very air within these walls is still nourishment to me.

The Teacher’s face I never saw, for he remained veiled from head to foot, and his given name I did not know, at least in the beginning. Some in the city said he was a deformed ogre, a wizard reclaimed from some dark sect. But I never listened to these gossips. Today I understand who and what he was. Indeed these truths are at the heart of this story. At present I divulge only that his veiled countenance, however strange at first, soon became an everyday sort of thing to me. He was my river of wisdom and my friend.

Several years passed and scores of pupils came and went. Our library quickly swelled with books. I was privileged at this time to become Principle Scribe, and I trained other scribes in my turn. But my truly happiest times were those mornings I sat with the Teacher and helped him with the most obscure portions of Ancient History. I earned this private consideration because my interest remained single-minded.

Then a day came deep in his years, when the Teacher declared for us a new undertaking. With this announcement he began a strange new tale: a story I heretofore had not heard. But from the moment he began I was transfixed! It was a different sort of narrative: my mentor’s words came to me as living darts that pierced the shroud covering his face! In the telling of it he seemed to embody the beauties and tragedies therein, as if he had lived the tale himself! And I wrote it all down.

Hours grew into days as the Teacher persevered. Days grew into weeks and still we pressed on. His strength inevitably began to ebb after a time and he quit his treks to the King’s rooms, where his counsel was often requested. At this turn, my master’s bed was brought forth into the anteroom where he insisted we continue our work. I protested, of course, that he needed rest…that he could resume after a holiday. Yet by some miracle my veiled Oracle grew more fluent in the telling of his epic even as his mortal body waned.

Then one day, after our morning Quiet, the Teacher picked up a small red book that he privately studied at times. This beautiful thing of very fine leather was always with him; I fancy he thought that I never saw him slip it into the side pocket of his robe whenever I approached. He was very sly with that crimson volume and shared it with no one, except perhaps the King. I believe he carried it with him on his frequent visits there.

But before we could begin our work that day the King himself entered our Rectory. This was quite unusual, especially considering that he was arrayed in the garb of a common traveler and came without announcement or escort. As Tiri-dom breezed into the chamber I looked to see if the Teacher would put his little red book away. Yet he did not; the Teacher sat clutching the little red treasure in his hands, for me and all our people to see.

The students were amazed that the King had come, and chattered among themselves at his presence in our buildings. But after greetings were bestowed they were all dismissed; and Tiri-dom settled in a chair by the bedside of my Master. From my window seat I watched discreetly as they spoke of things known only to them. This murmuring of souls proceeded for a long while, until after many embraces, the King rose to make his farewell.

Then Tiri-dom turned and spoke to me, saying that the eventide of his reign had come, and that he longed to pass into the realms and visit his people one last time!

I was confused at this remark, and thought surely the King was being overly generous with his words. But before I could gather my thoughts and inquire as to what he meant, the King was gone; and the Teacher beckoned me return to his side. This is the final leg of our journey, he now said. Listen well!

To my surprise the poor old fellow opened the little red book in my presence and began to share with me the great ending of his astonishing epic. Sensing the urgency of this moment, I toiled as never before to record what he said. And yet a great sadness was born when this labor of ours came to term. For when my Oracle poured forth the ending to his story, he simply breathed his last and died!

His little red book slipped from his gnarled hands and clattered to the floor. I called for my assistant and reached without thinking to pick it up. It may be considered impulsive that I did so, but something about it … a power of some strange kind … compelled me!

With consuming curiosity I looked at its pages. What then happened may not be believed, for I saw in a moment, as if in a vision, the entire, exalted legend that, heretofore, I had so long labored to transcribe. And all of it, from beginning to end, was seen with flawless clarity, burned into my skull, etched forever into my memory!

I do not know how long I remained in this state of ecstasy, but I found myself on the floor clutching the book and trembling throughout my body and limbs. When I recovered my wits I resolved to look again, but this time I found a second strange thing: of all the fine vellum sheets within the book, only the first page had writing upon it. Upon this sheet, and the inner front-piece, were strange inscriptions with devices I did not recognize. I reached for my ink and pen to attempt to copy them, but before I could begin the runes vanished!

Today, dear reader, this little red book, this treasure, may be found in the archives of our City, if Elvodug has not misplaced it…

THE WILLOWFOLK

BOOK ONE

** ** ** ** **

CHAPTER ONE

BEGINNINGS

The dusty grey form on the windswept terrace had not moved in some time and might very well have been carved from the stone upon which it sat, but the seed dropping from his fist was proof otherwise to the pecking birds scattering about. After a while the man’s chest heaved and he took a breath. And deep in his brain he realized he had been sleeping … again. How long this time?

The figure stretched out his hands letting the rest of the grain fall to the grateful birds. Now aware of himself he clenched his gnarled fingers over the smooth stone of his seat-arms and felt the blood returning to them. Pulling another deep breath the old man tried to shake himself back into the waking world and away from his work of digging and building. But his dream had been vivid and complex, and he was exhausted after all he had done. In time, however, his wakeful mind gained dominance over his dream and he opened his eyes and blinked at the sight before him.

Ten thousand feet below his stone seat, and many leagues away, a towering pillar of smoke rose from the earth to reach and mingle with the cumulus clouds in the East. Across the Salinar Plain great flocks of birds raced towards him, flying from the sour red haze that moved westerly across the land. With cobwebbed eyes Baldor peered down from his perch on high in the Encircling Mountains and slowly realized the land-by-the-sea was burning!

The ancient figure proceeded to stand. When his bare feet touched the cool firmness of the terrace he shivered and gasped. But instead of finding his boots, Baldor reached for the object on the table beside him. Lifting the seeing-orbs of clear amber, he pressed the brow-rest to his face and scanned the horizon; the hard-leather case, made ages ago by artisans from the North, bore intricate cuttings of an eye and a symbol of the sun. And as he looked into the device it began to shimmer with soft radiance that manifested the magic of a long-lost time.

Eastward through smoke and swirling ash he peered. To his dismay, three score or more ships sailed the western waters of the great inland sea of Karnassias. Some of the poorly trimmed vessels strayed up and down the coast, but most were standing off the hither shoreline, attacking it with arcing balls of flame. Those closest to the point of attack could not come ashore, for the landings were treacherous and the fire was great; but others like them had dropped anchor south of the area that burned and discharged their crews onto the land.

Too many! Too many ships on a foul easterly wind! he exclaimed. It’s the devilry of Thramadhul … or I have rocks for brains!

Baldor returned the orbs to their place on the table as carefully as he could manage and collapsed back upon his seat, feeling suddenly crushed by the weight of years. High above the tree line in the rarified air of the Windy Lofts the long forgotten wizard closed his eyes and tried to remember. After these very long naps he was lately finding it increasingly hard to look back on his origins, to wrap an arm of reason about the truth of his existence. And as he sat rubbing his eyes he revisited his dream and remembered once again.

He was of the Unborn! It was no mere dream or delusion. He was sent with great purpose at the world’s beginning! Did he not carve the hills and smooth the plains in those remote seasons? Did not the song of the One beat steady in his heart in the days of newness?

But he was not alone. Across the hazy gulfs of time Baldor recalled the others like him. There was Malchiorre! Closest to him in the beginning, Malchiorre also was an Earth Mover, a shaper of places. His skills were great and he used them well for years uncounted until that strange, unkind spark kindled his heart!

Baldor opened his eyes and scanned the length north and south of the grand arc of mountains upon which he sat. He recalled his days of work. They too were long and arduous, but he had remained faithful: he kept the song of the One always on his lips. And although the memory of it was now diminished, still it was sweet to him. He had completed his principal tasks, and afterwards his mighty strength was reduced in order. At the coming of Man he had retreated into the shadow of the hills as ordained, and in this present age, standing sentry upon his beloved mountains, he knew he was a mere silent presence only … perhaps less than a memory.

All of this Baldor measured in his mind. What was his purpose now? Was he at least an inspiration to the few who lifted their eyes to the hills?

In this moment of lonesomeness the wizard was comforted by the happy memory of his other brothers. There was Maggliore. His domain was Wind and the Airs that blew. And, of course, Gabraelorin of the Waters. They too helped shape the world, forming its seasons and putting forth many needed things. The earliest mortals understood this truth: they knew by name the Powers of the earth and the Elements of weather, wind and rain! Now, Maggliore and Gabraelorin as well, were just legends. But Baldor knew they could be found.

The wizard continued his remembrance of the First Days. In the beginning they all loved Malchiorre, as one loves a brother, even a wayward one. But Gabraelorin existed for Life’s sake and found no pleasure in Malchiorre’s rebellion. Indeed, they had little commerce with one another and quickly grew apart. Maggliore, the wind-master, had been tempted for a time to join arts with his older brother. Yet Malchiorre dug too deeply! He discovered there great Powers of Fire not intended for his use, and against the will of the Maker taught himself their mastery. But it was to the detriment of all living things, for the Malcontent became a Destroyer, a conjuror of rare and dangerous powers, which in his mind reflected his glory, but being not of flesh and blood, counterfeit. He was never truly satisfied!

So Malchiorre continued to rebel, consuming like fire every drab of trust that was left, turning the delicate thing into so much ash and soot. Soon the Maker intervened and banished him to the depths where he could tend his precious fires to his blackened heart’s content. But alas! It was only for a season. For the evil one was doomed to return unto the Living; and what came after was far worse: the Rage of Rages! Then Malchiorre was gone for good … lost in the teeth of his own tragedy, a victim of his own malice!

Gabraelorin was pleased at the apparent loss of their brother, and although saddened by the destruction of this tumult-of-earth, set to work immediately repairing the damage done. But Maggliore was different. The wind-charmer, perhaps sharing a portion of Malchiorre’s guilt, was shamed by the devastation of the Great Shift … as this event was thereafter called … and afterwards became increasingly peculiar, withdrawing even more from their companionship.

Gazing up at the crystalline blue sky high flecked with clouds Baldor pondered where Maggliore could be found. He always was like the wind himself… never staying in one place for long, he said softly.

The wizard’s thoughts were stirred by the noise of the birds chirping about his feet. They did not like being ignored. Of course I could never forget my brothers! he said aloud. And I would never forget you either, my little friends!

Baldor found his boots and slipped them on. Before standing, the wizard emptied his pockets for the grateful birds now strutting about his feet. As he idly watched the little nuthatches scrambling for the seed, he suddenly remembered the burning land far to the East. He grabbed the amber-glass and jerked himself to his feet. Peering again into the firestorm Baldor now recalled with alarm what Gabraelorin had said when last they met: Pay heed now to the special places my waters have fed and the living things therein. See that no harm comes to the Arneth.

As the wizard was pulled back into the present he cried aloud, The Forest of Arneth! He now realized with great urgency that this forest, the Arneth of legend, was what burned! The thief had come! If what Gabraelorin had said was true, this event would herald the doom of many, particularly he and his brother wizards. Some watchman am I! he added with dismay. Naught but an old man who cannot even blink without giving in to sleep!

The little birds scattered at the outburst, only to quickly gather again at the hem of his robe, as birds do. Too far! Much too far!! Baldor implored. If I had your wings, I would surely use them now! But he asked of the ignorant birds, Who is this new entity, this Thramadhul that Gabraelorin has warned us of?

Baldor pulled his thick grey cloak about his shoulders and turned in the direction of his dwelling. Now fully awake and in control, the wizard dashed up the shallow steps and gave a loud whistle. The bright sound reverberated across the yawning spaces on either side of the high place and echoed off the sheer mountain walls to the abyss.

The heavy stone-work of this remote mountain keep was indistinguishable at a distance from the craggy grey peaks that kept sentry nearby. Roof slates pitched steeply, like the rocky outcrops, but they were not carved age upon age by wind and weather; nor were they formed by the relentless upheaval of earth. This high sanctuary was built by a craft long lost to the memory of men. Yet Baldor remembered…for he built it.

The wizard passed through an archway and crossed a small courtyard, his heavy boots clacking on the flagstones. Entering his abode through the low doorway he turned to face a wide window that overlooked the burning plain far below. There, waiting patiently on the windowsill, sat a large falcon with rich brown plumage and a russet-specked belly. It chirped briefly in salute as it followed the movements of the old man with its fine head and bright yellow eyes. Baldor took a sheet of paper out of the large desk beside the rear window and settled down to write. And as he wrote he spoke.

Swiftwing, my fleet-winged herald, deliver this message to Gabraelorin. See that nothing obstructs your passage nor delays your return. We must tell him of this thing that now begins. The Forest of Arneth is under attack and we must help it survive if we can. Brother Maggliore and I have been told it holds within its boughs a promise that is wonderful indeed. Our time here may be drawing to a close ...

The stone wizard paused for a long moment, trying to remember all that once was clear to him. But the bird chirped loudly, shattering the silence, and Baldor said, Gabraelorin foresees that our doom is intertwined with the Willowfolk who live there. He claims the men of the Arneth are descended from the ancient Logerians, the far-seers who ruled the world of Man throughout Second Age until the days of Telerion the Last, when Malchiorre broke free from his prison! But I don’t know...I just don’t know…perhaps the Shift darkened my wits most of all!

The message writer shook the sand off the sheet, and a slight grin creased the corners of his mouth. You know, he said to the falcon, ever since the Shift a fireside story has been told in the homes of men. It is said that long ago, deep in the GreatWood, daughters of ancient kings wandered too far into the forest and were captured by Dryads longing for the freedoms enjoyed by the race of mortals. To these unions were born the fearsome tree-dwellers, the dreaded Willowfolk! Ha!! Gabraelorin says he was the author of this ruse. He intended to keep the truth of this people cloaked in fantasy and fairytale. It is for their safekeeping, I suppose. But for what I know, the people of the Arneth live among the remnant trees of the GreatWood.

Baldor gently tied a small harness with a little pouch to the leg of the bird. He rolled the message up neatly and slipped it into the pouch. This is what was written.

Our hope to hear the Song again!

The word of truth to end our pain.

Now our claim to mortal lands

Is passing with the shifting sands

Of warring tides and shadowed sight.

I send this plea into the night

With fiery arc our doom awaits!

Oh, find the One.

Oh, seal our Fates!

Baldor fed Swiftwing from the little box of grain that he kept on the window ledge. For your journey. May you live up to your name in these perilous times! Now go!

Baldor watched the bird dive away down the cliff wall and out of view. He closed the window, and without delay began searching his table of books and scrolls in the middle of the large room for passages concerning the ancient Logerians, and of clues to their gift of great power. He was of course a lover of knowledge of a kind, and possessed a great mind. But his chief interest had always been with earth: rock and sand, mountain and plain. And as he stood in the silence of the room, demons of doubt stabbed at his heart, and the wizard lamented, All that I’ve known of and done in this world is so old… so old! I belong in the far ago times. Oh, can I not even help now a little?

Baldor absentmindedly fingered a few scrolls and reflected on what was happening on the earth far below. This had to be the signal event of the age! His season of watching and waiting would soon be coming to an end as prophesied, and he and his brothers would pass over. This much he knew to be true.

But as the wizard contemplated the end of his sojourn on this Rim of the world he also perceived a struggle within his heart that could not be denied. The old stone-carver rapped his knuckles on his forehead and realized another, stubborn truth: that he was forevermore affected by his age-old battles with Malchiorre. As Baldor’s heart went out to the victims of Evil down in that forest-valley, a righteous anger swept over him, and with growing conviction he knew he could no longer stand idly by and watch. He must do more than sound the alarm! From his mountain he would descend; he would leave the sentry work to the rocks and hills.

The wizard strode swiftly out and onto his terrace. The frigid wind flying over the smoothly fitted stones competed fiercely with the warmth of the sun. Day was drawing old.

Across the Salinar Plain the last remnant of the GreatWood, the Forest of Arneth, was going up in smoke. With the conviction of an old warrior Baldor wrapped his cloak tighter about him and began pacing back and forth along the topmost step, his aged brow heavy with remembrance of Gabraelorin’s warning. This must be the Call, he finally said aloud.

The setting sun had passed over the shoulders of the mountain peak on which he stood, casting deepening shadows on the smoky floor of the plain below. Baldor tried to light his pipe as the last trickle of sunshine warmed his back, but with no luck. The whipping wind deprived him of this small comfort. He returned the pipe to his pocket and sighed at the cruel irony: Malchiorre would’ve had no trouble at all.

CHAPTER TWO

THE IRIAD TREES

Swiftwing dropped from the windowsill and careened into the abyss. The thin, frigid air at that altitude did very little to slow his descent, and he cut through the fathoms at breakneck speed. Eventually the warmer air began to exert upward pressure on his wings and the falcon pulled out of his dive. Now level in his flight he veered off to the South, put his noble wings into motion, and was gone.

Away eastward towards the smoke of attack a patch of dark airborne shapes circled high above the burning forest. The giant ravens, each with a wingspan greater than the height of three men, had come when smoke was first sighted. Speeding down from their rookeries high in the northwestern Encircling Mountains, the feathered beasts now watched the grand drama unfold below them. To a man looking down from above the innermost