The Kallanon Scales (44 page)

Taranis and
Vannis were swift, returning with camp cot, covers and shaving gear
also.

It was quiet
then, with only Bartholamu and Quilla to bear witness. The three
men commenced washing, replacing the water many times before
Torrullin was satisfied. Tymall shivered, but they persevered. It
was almost ritualistic and his injuries appeared worse after. They
covered him, pulled his head clear of the cot, and washed his hair.
Once more, the water had to be renewed. They left it tangled - it
probably needed to be shorn.

Torrullin
shaved him, small, gentle strokes, his fingers lingering against
smoothed skin stretched taut.

If Neolone
spoke the truth, what underworld did you suffer to return in this
condition? How did you choose?

He removed the
cover. There was danger in what came next, for healing left a
significant signature to a watcher. Quilla glanced warningly at the
Siric, who nodded faintly.

A healing was
not workable in anger. Torrullin cleared the intrusive nature of
emotion, and bent his heart and hands to Tymall’s chest.

It did not
take long. A breath, a prayer, a belief.

Tymall’s
damaged skin closed and was again unmarked, the golden tinge
reappearing. His shivering abated. His breathing eased and the
welts around his penis vanished, fingers and toes moved with new
suppleness.

He slept
easily.

Torrullin
slumped beside the cot.

He refused to
leave his son’s side.

Cat huddled in
the shadows watching his tense form. Torrullin’s head bent low, as
if praying. Her heart ached for him.

Skye sat
beside her, but her attention was for Tymall. The noble profile
flickering in the firelight, thin, pale, his beautiful hair
tangled.

Tymall
moved.

Skye drew a
sharp breath. Cat looked at her, and knew. Unformed then was the
thought she had to warn Matt where this woman’s heart lay.

Vannis and
Taranis moved closer.

Torrullin rose
onto his haunches.

Tymall’s eyes
opened and father and son stared at each other, grey eyes into
grey.

Taranis’
stomach knotted in foreboding.

“Ty? How do
you feel?” Torrullin asked, drawing the cover up.

There was a
moment of profound silence, as if worlds waited, and Tymall closed
his eyes, squeezing them shut for that same moment, a last instant
to know what he would lose forever. He made the choice to gift him
life, and there was no turning back.

He reopened
his eyes.

“Your greatest
weakness, father, is your emotion. I feel fine, but you should have
looked closely, for had you done so, you would have left me to
die.” He flung the cover aside and stood. He was weak, but healing
blood coursed.

Torrullin
rose. Grey eyes stared into grey.

“I commend
your fraternal instincts; it has again stood me in good stead.”

Torrullin took
a step back, fingers curling, skin tight over cheeks.

Cat gripped
Skye’s frantically gesturing hands.

Vannis strode
in and grabbed the young man. The blue fire erupted at the touch -
it was subservient throughout the healing. “You ungrateful snot!”
Vannis hissed, shaking him. “Do you know what your father
endured?”

Tymall shook
him off, Vannis grabbed again, and this time trebac did not
flare.

“Leave him,
Vannis,” Torrullin said without inflection.

Vannis released his hold, but stood with his face inches
away. “Apologise
now
!”

Tymall bared his teeth and stepped away. “I have apologised
for who I am my whole life.
No
more
!”

Taranis
growled and Quilla’s small hand prevented the Guardian attacking
his grandson.

Torrullin
stepped forward, emotions rigidly controlled. “Had I looked closer
and seen this, I would not have allowed you to die, Tymall, for you
are my son. Who have you become?”

Grey into grey
again. Hatred flared, Neolone bounced in agitation as he felt
Destroyer respond to threat.

“You are no
longer my father.” Tymall turned and walked into the dark.

Leaving a
father shattered in the firelight.

Elsewhere

Queen Abdiah,
eighty-sixth of the title, grimaced.

It had
happened.

The green
sword shimmered for the first time in this realm, drawing all eyes.
Breaths drew in, held.

It glowed and
pulsed with purpose.

“Messber. Find
him.”

Messber rose,
bowed and backed out of the chamber. He was not happy he was chosen
for this task, but his Queen had commanded and he would obey.

Eyes moved to
the blue sword. It had not lit.

Relief would
come, however ephemeral, when it too found its purpose and glowed
with light.

Atrudis

Caltian swung
around, nearly throwing Key-ler to the ground, and stood still.

The Dragon had
moved.

On Lucan.

There was no
more doubt.

He grinned
ferally, causing Key-ler to quail. “I await you, dragon-man,” he
whispered into the night. “I am not afraid.”

He spread the
news.

With new
urgency, he dragged Key-ler onward.

Academia of
Truth

“Tarrant, I am
a small cog in the wheel, why do you think I am here, close to the
wilderness?”

Tarrant
smiled, eyes not leaving Villinar. “It doesn’t matter, Overlord.
All I need is to take your place in the Web.”

“Why?”

“I want that
power,” the Force Justice said and plunged the slim blade deep and
held it there until Villinar’s eyes were eternally sightless.

Lucan

Cat had never
been truly frightened before, not even in the domes of Xen III, but
now, crouched before the tent, she whimpered.

She had the
presence of mind to push Skye inside, the woman white and
nerveless, to stay with Lowen, who tossed in sleep. She desired to
crawl to safety, but could not take her gaze off the scene. She
drew back in disbelief when Tymall walked away and then was
morbidly fascinated as to how Torrullin would react.

The poor man
was frozen and her heart bled for him.

Cat saw
Vannis’ open-mouthed shock, how he bit down on anger to swing to
Torrullin, and Taranis … but her gaze returned to Torrullin. She
could not see his eyes, he was in profile, but his mouth was
set.

Then came the
fear.

His tunic
roiled and burst open under immense pressure. There was the Dragon.
Torrullin was unmindful as the creature’s tail flicked over his
shoulder and fire issued from its mouth.

The Dragon was
real.

Vannis shouted
and followed with a stream of Valleur so swift she could not
follow.

Over the last
few weeks the Xenians picked up some Valleur - this sounded
alien.

She whimpered
again; the Dragon turned in her direction.

Torrullin’s
eyes were midnight black. She screamed and scuttled into the tent,
cowering at the back. Lowen stared at her, and Skye gazed through
the opening, blanching.

“Torrullin,”
Skye whispered and crept forward.

“Don’t!” Cat
cried.

“He needs
us.”

Camot
roared.

Vannis shouted
in Valleur.

“Father!”

She dared not
look, but knew it was Tristamil.

Tristamil found
himself on the strangeness of Lucan.

Looking up at
the heavens, he knew he was on an entirely different world, not in
an alternate reality.

He sensed his
father and knew he was no longer alone. He was home. He stumbled in
unfamiliar terrain and smacked into his brother.

“You made it
back.” Tymall’s voice possessed a new edge.

“You were
gone, too,” Tristamil said, and Tymall must have heard a difference
in his voice also, for he was silent a few beats.

“It appears we
are on opposite sides, brother.”

“Were we not
ever so?”

Tymall’s
laughter sounded in the dark, moving way, receding. “Not like this,
Tris.”

That was when
he became aware of rising pandemonium not too distant. Already Ty
interfered with his peace of mind. He stood a moment in
realisation. His twin had crossed over. His brother was now the
enemy.

A scream
pierced the night.

He raced
towards the sound, strong in mind and body, and broke through the
tents into the clearing.

To see the
Dragon with only its hind legs cleaved to his father’s chest.
Vannis shouted in Nemisin’s dialect and Taranis pleaded with
Torrullin, Camot roared somewhere in the dark. People spilled from
tents, strangers to him, and Skye approached his father, her face
determined. Gods, she would get hurt.

Black eyes.
Destroyer.

“Father!”

Tristamil
stepped up and gripped his father’s shoulders. Trebac ignited and
Torrullin’s head swung to him. “Father, it’s Tris …” The Dragon
clawed at his naked stomach and breathed fire, scorching his skin.
It sensed potential foiling when it was close, so close, in Tennet,
so close. Tristamil, one hand holding onto his father, slapped the
thing flat-handed. It was tiny and the unexpected blow astounded it
so much it swallowed its fire accidentally, breathed in smoke and
choked.

“This is the freedom you desire?” Tristamil demanded of it.
His father’s hand gripped his, and he held on, drew strength. “As
much as I hate to point this out, Dragon, would you not be better
off
with the taliesman?
”

The Dragon
snarled.

“Neolone.”

Tristamil’s
gaze flew to his father’s, and the Dragon craned his neck upward.
Torrullin’s eyes were silver-grey. Tristamil smiled; the Dragon
screamed fury.

“Quiet,
Neolone, it is not yet time.” Torrullin’s voice was persuasive and
steady. “My anger is stilled, Dragon. Destroyer is gone.” He
ignored the creature then and gazed into his son’s eyes. Grey into
grey. Love, not hate. “My son is returned to me.”

The Dragon
vanished back into its pictorial existence and father and son
clasped together.

Everything settled, except Camot, who roared on. As Torrullin
held Tristamil to him, with blue flame spurting where skin cleaved
to skin, he knew whom it was he held. He recognised this son
twenty-six years ago on his knees in the snow, cradling Lycea’s
swollen belly.
This truehearted man is my
son.

The healing
began.

And in the
telling

remind of a
taliesman

fashioned in
purest gold

a cavorting
little dragon

~

Atrudis

V
icious little
critter
, Web members whispered across
great distances.

Placed
strategically, they precisely mirrored the holding enchantment on
Lucan, an enchantment put in place generations ago. It was Creed’s
continuing duty to maintain it, as it was to train sorcerers to
spring the trap.

The Web was a
superimposed Lucan on Atrudis and each Overlord held a point once
the two fused. Only the wilderness was clear, a reflection of the
plains on Lucan, kept clear of buildings, cultivation and even
animals, the place where Creed hoped to hold the Dragon-man, the
place they hoped to confine the resultant war.

Web members
sensed Tarrant’s intrusion, but the time was too near now to spare
a moment to investigate the unheralded replacement. The Force
Justice had sufficient power to hold Villinar’s point.

Ready?
Many voices, a singular
thought. Ready, the reply sounded. Would a plan, long in place,
work?

How had the
realm of magic changed with the intervention of years?

Atrudis
Wilderness

In the
moonlight, the wilderness was eerie.

Each tough
gorse bush was a small animal in repose. Each pebble reminded of
eyes, milky-white blind.

Key-ler followed Caltian, wanting to ask about the plan,
Caltian’s role,
his
role, but was given no opportunity. Caltian ran with urgency
towards something unseen and unknown to Key-ler.

At last,
Caltian halted.

Unfit Key-ler
came to an erratic stop. He watched the man commence pacing a
configuration, kicking a rock or two aside, and he felt the power
in the symbol paced.

Caltian looked
up, sniffed the air, and glanced at Key-ler. “Key-ler. Here.” He
pointed to the ground left of him. “Leave your pack there, come sit
here.”

Key-ler,
bemused, did as bid and sat on the hard earth, lifting his butt to
sweep aside stones.

Caltian sank
onto his haunches. “I know you have a thousand questions. I do not
have the time to tell you, Atrudis doesn’t have the time. He comes
and you are part of it. Hush, not now. I need you to do something
and this is all-important. I need to know I can count on you.”

Key-ler
nodded. Caltian’s face was shadowed, yet he discerned the intent
gaze.

“Thank you, my
friend. When I give the word, think about, concentrate on,
envision, search, feel your ring of keys.”

“Keys?” Not
what he expected at all!

Caltian
grinned. “That is what needs done. Did you bring them? Your
keys?”

Key-ler was
aghast. “No! Did I have to?”

“It is all right.” Caltian laid a calming hand on the
Brother’s shoulder. “I thought only their physical presence might
aid you. No matter, as long as you handle them as if they
are
in your hands. Do
with them as you naturally do.”