The Kallanon Scales (60 page)

“Transport
up,” Torrullin said. “Quilla, get him.”

Quilla snagged
the Siric to bring the groaning man safely to the ridge. The others
were there also, buffeted by gusts, and thunder was so loud nobody
bothered to speak. Torrullin knelt alongside a prone Bartholamu,
laid hands on him, and then helped him stand.

“Well,” the
Siric muttered, “that is a first.”

Too much magic
was utilised. They could only hope the short duration would confuse
and the electric storm obscure.

Then none of
that mattered.

Turning to
face east, the sheer drop dragging at their feet, they saw what
they journeyed ten hungry days to find.

Grinwallin lay
ahead - massive, overwhelming and veiled in cloud and mystery.

Behold the
warrior priest!

~ Herald’s
cry

Atrin
Continent

K
rikian, Matt and Cat, with
Tristamil, were seven days on the road when Torrullin and company
left for Grinwallin.

Tristamil set
a slow pace and his three companions soon realised it was about the
journey, not the destination.

It began a sal
from the Academia when they encountered a couple, their small son
and an aged grandfather, within the forest.

Tristamil came
to a halt, his entire being transforming, as if listening to
someone, as if receiving new commands. It was palpable; the moment
before he calmly walked and the next a ghostly god anointed him.
Matt and Cat merely thought that part of Tristamil, but Krikian’s
face told a different story. The Valleur from Valaris stared at his
Vallorin’s son with goosebumps on skin and released a profound
breath.

“My Lord,”
Krikian said, drawing Tristamil’s attention, “you are now what you
were meant to be.”

“Am I?”
Tristamil asked, eyes alight.

Krikian bowed
low. “Yes, my Lord.”

“I am Tris,
Krikian.”

“You are my
Lord.”

Tristamil
stilled, and was then mischievous. “And my father?”

Krikian
grinned. “My Lord Vallorin takes up the most space in my heart, as
ever.”

“Good. Always
follow him first. He will be with you long after I am gone.”

“My Lord?”

Tristamil
placed a hand on Krikian’s shoulder. “Do not concern yourself, my
friend.” His hand dropped away and he faced the group within the
trees, seeing misery stamped on faces. He asked where they headed
and when the young man replied they were en route to the Academia,
he warned them off, saying there would soon be great danger there.
Cat’s eyes rounded, but Tristamil gently told her he had spoken to
Key-ler and the trusty Brother was aware of the situation. Lowen
would be fine.

He proceeded
to erect a sturdy shelter, in which all had a hand before it was
done, even the boy, laughing with Tristamil, the first time in days
his parents revealed to Cat. He left his entire pack with them-
food, cooking gear, spare clothes, a bedroll - not much, but the
hope it brought would sustain them.

When Taranis
and Camot were dispatched to Atrin on Key-ler’s desperate plea,
they found the Brother there with the Xenian crew and Lowen,
fighting Mysor alongside the family, and afterward they heard the
name of Tristamil spoken with reverence.

Thus it went.
A group of terrified schoolchildren led to adult supervision,
deposited with adoring eyes for Tristamil. A clean water source
discovered and any and all met on the road pointed to it. Wounds
bathed and hopeless spirits lifted.

Krikian walked in a daze, eyes misty with joy, and when Cat
asked why he was so overwhelmed, he told her of the young Tris,
withdrawn and private, a clever young man not allowed to be
himself, friendless and alone. Look at him now, Krikian
murmured,
just look at him
now
.

Tristamil’s
name rose to float to those in need, folk sought him out and knew
him before he came. The two Xenians found that strange, but not so
Krikian, who explained that new knowledge spread magically, an
intrinsically Valleur talent. They subjugated sorcery, but some
things could not be repressed and particularly not with many
reaching. The act of reaching out brought the ability to hear and
know.

Many followed,
drawn by Tristamil’s magnetism, and called him saviour, and when he
begged them to get on with their lives, they heeded not.

Thus it was,
eight days after leaving the Academia, travelling northeast, the
four came to the eastern coast of Atrin south of the ruined city
Danim, and behind them was a following of forty souls.

The Middle
Ocean halted them as it halted Camot. The harbour at Danim had not
survived and there were no vessels in sight, and Tristamil now
faced the same dilemma his father’s war leader had.

No ships, no
captains, no crews - surviving vessels headed south carrying as
many as they could safely transport. The south was calmer, and
there was tell of Dragons who were not the enemy.

Sorcery was
the alternative. Tristamil sat on the beach to think, while Cat
wandered picking up shells. Atrudis was scarred, yes, but it was
nowhere near the poison of Xen, and even here, with a city burning
on the horizon and the strange quiet of a land in hiding, here was
beauty. The sand was unsullied, the sea glorious, the shells pretty
and the seaweed intriguing.

They met two
Overlords on the journey and heard tell of the great battle in the
wilderness. According to them, the emphasis moved to Tunin, where
the Dragon-man was. Tristamil pondered. Much magic in the air, a
transport might remain unremarked. As slow as the trip to the coast
was, he needed to get to Grinwallin.

Tristamil clambered to his feet. Facing the crowd, he told
them in a quiet voice the four of them would transport across the
ocean to Tunin. “I shall return if I am able to, but in the
meanwhile you have the duty to aid your fellow man where
you
are able. Keep the
dream of Atrudis alive in your hearts and your world will
recover.”

“How, when all
is razed and no new crops are planted?”

“Winter
comes!”

“Look inside
yourselves and know who you are. When it is cold, you have within
you the means to create shelter and warmth. When you are thirsty,
you know how to find water and purify it. When you are hungry, you
know how to unearth what will sustain you, and you know how to
clear the earth to grow new crops. When you are ill, you know how
to care for yourself, and others. You know all this. Believe.”
Tristamil splayed a hand over his chest. “Go into the cities and
save what you can, bury your dead, and stand together. When the
Murs come, stand up to them - you have the power to defeat them. Do
not allow the enemy of the Light to sway you, not ever.”

“You make it
sound simple.”

“It is, it is
the easiest thing you will ever have to do.” He smiled again and
took Cat’s arm as she came alongside him and vanished with her.

In the awe
that followed, Krikian took Matt and himself away.

Tunin
Continent

They were north
of Nemin, Tunin’s northernmost city, and could see the smouldering
ruin.

The state of
the land horrified them. It was flattened, scorched and sterile. It
would take an Enchanter’s hand to restore it to its true state, or
years of Valleur trust in the future. All prayed that the renewal
within would sustain them to renew their world as well.

Fortunately
they encountered no Murs or Mysor.

The day his
father and the two Q’lin’la sang the Murs away Tristamil saw in the
distance an old edifice and it drew him as few entities had. He
knew with certainty this was the true reason for the slow journey.
A time of growth and understanding prepared him and led to this
point.

With
trepidation, he closed in.

It was a wall
ten feet high, three feet thick and eighteen feet in length, made
of blue-grey square blocks laid atop and alongside each other
flawlessly. It was Valleur excellence and yet it was older than
Valleur occupation of Atrudis.

A multitude
surrounded it.

As Tristamil
approached, the assembly rose. He halted and his companions looked
at each other, aware this was a new chapter for him. The multitude
bowed and knelt, and did so in silence.

A path opened
for him and Tristamil went forward; it closed before Krikian could
lead the other two through. As Tristamil headed to the unmarked
wall, the three remained on the outer edge. The young man in his
father’s black appeared majestic as he walked with straight
shoulders, chin lifted. The three companions were as silent, as
unwilling to break the dignity of the moment.

Tristamil
stood before the wall. There was a sense of precognition, one he
could not fathom. His life had taken many turns recently, but this
was something else. An ancient power was present and it was not
Valleur. It was not Murs, Kallanon, human or any other known race.
How did he know that? What was this wall? An artefact? A repository
for supernatural power?

Fear and magic were wont to engender confusion, particularly
when no rationale came forth.
There is
seldom sense and order in the realm of sorcery. I must
trust.

It is only a
wall.

It was not
just a wall.

Turning to the
multitude, Tristamil realised they knew it also. They expected
something. “Please,” he asked of a greybeard, “I am at a loss.”

“You feel as
if you belong here in this moment. We feel it also, Priest.”

“That is why
we’re here,” a young woman said.

Tristamil was
relieved. “I am to wait with you?”

Greybeard was
sympathetic. “You are the catalyst. We have been waiting for
you.”

Tristamil
baulked. “Catalyst?” Unnerved, he glanced at the wall. “Who built
this?”

“No one
knows,” the young woman said.

“Perhaps you
are mistaken.”

“You are the
first to stand unharmed inside the markings.” She pointed at his
feet. “Any who dared before entered a catatonic state.”

A zigzag
boundary tracked the line of the wall, of the same blue-grey stone,
three feet wide. He scuffed the dirt and sand aside. What secret
did it hide?

Greybeard
said, “We are here to witness, support and know. We have waited
many hungry days.”

“This is
crazy.”

“These are not
normal times,” the young woman stated.

Tristamil
acknowledged that and faced the wall. It appeared harmless, and was
definitely more. Curiosity got the better of common sense. He
neared the edifice.

“What must be,
will be,” he murmured, sounding like Vannis.

He touched and
was aware of drawn-in breaths. He moved his hand, shrugging his
disappointment, and turned away. Something in the sea of faces
arrested him and forced him back. Again, he placed a hand to the
smooth surface.

Was it his
imagination or was it warmer than earlier? He placed his hand
elsewhere - again warmer. He brought his other hand up and leaned
into both. Definitely warmer.

He snatched
hands away. Hot!

The surface
began to change.

Beads of
condensation streaked down. Dirt erupted from the criss-cross
boundary and the stones rose up glowing. It did not gain height,
seemed content with a hand span’s rising. Tristamil dared not
move.

A juddering commenced, uncontrollable. He swung wildly, but
could discern no apparent cause.
He
was the one shaking, not the ground, nobody in
the crowd. What
was
this?

His stricken
gaze alighted on a girl - she pointed - and he realised his sword
vibrated violently in its scabbard. He drew the blade and it
stilled the instant he laid a hand to it.

The whole
world seemed to still. He lifted the blade and it yanked him
forward. There was nothing for it, he rested the glowing point on
the heated stone and, lo!

Inscriptions
raced left to right in dulled silver, like to mercury, fluid and
heavy.

Awed, the
multitude murmured.

Krikian held
his breath, lungs protesting. He was unaware that both brother and
sister clutched him.

Tristamil
gasped, it was hard to breathe. His dulled sword clattered unheeded
to earth as he grasped at his throat and sank to his knees. The
gathered surged backward.

Krikian swore
and forced his way forward. Matt, dragging his sister with him,
hastened after.

The silvery
lettering continued to race line after line, filling every inch of
the glowing blue wall. Gasping for air, Tristamil held tormented
eyes aloft, fixated on the edifice. The lettering was gibberish,
but would not release him.

“My Lord!”
Krikian barked.

“Do not cross
the boundary,” was the tortured reply.

The atmosphere
grew ever hotter, stifling, and so thick Krikian felt it as a
living presence on the boundary. “Tris!”

“Stay there.”
It was not lack of air assailing him, Tristamil realised, but too
much otherness.

Krikian did
not care. This was his Vallorin’s beloved son, a friend, a man
revered in his own right. He took a step and Matt dragged him
backward.

“Do you not
see you can’t do anything?”

Krikian
struggled and the suffocation crossed the boundary like a warning.
Krikian gasped, fell to his knees, and Matt staggered. Cat, prone
and pale, held her throat.

Normality
restored then, as if the warning had been expended. Cat sat up,
Krikian lurched to his feet ready to cross the boundary, and again
Matt prevented him, hauling the Valleur to the ground.

“Matt, he
needs help!”