The Sleeper Sword (5 page)

Marcus Campian
was the Electan of Valaris, a title equivalent to President and
Peacekeeper.

He was a small
man, wiry, tanned and healthy. His brown eyes were shrewd and he
possessed a sharply intelligent wit and a sharper tongue. His hair
was dark brown, dyed against grey, curly, and he wore its shoulder
length caught in a clasp at his neck to tame the wilful wildness.
His hands were slender and manicured, with a deceptive strength
many an adversary underestimated.

Unmarried, he
resided in east Galilan where the wealthy made their homes. The
lower section of his grand house was given over to offices and
conference rooms - and a venue for functions - while the upper
level was his personal abode. Marcus Campian refused to
commute.

A
well-appointed guesthouse in the landscaped grounds hosted frequent
visitors from varied walks of life.

He ever wore
comfortable pants and a knee-length robe, both the same colour.
Silk in summer, wool in winter - boots for winter, sandals for
summer. His dress never varied, except in hue.

Today, as he
made his way whistling downstairs to his office, he was clad in
dark blue. It was spring, thus he wore sandals, but it was also
chilly and he donned a pair of blue socks as well and cared not who
thought what about it.

Each city had
an elected mayor and the mayors together chose the Electan. Marcus
Campian was sixty years old and had been Electan for twenty-five
years. He was an excellent diplomat, a stirring orator, a worthy
administrator as well as a sympathetic listener. He was a
trouble-shooter, impatient with bad ideas, and would not be swayed
from a decision he regarded as sound. He never made a decision
lightly.

Marcus was
good for Valaris.

His secretary,
a middle-aged man with him his entire political career, halted him
at the foot of the dramatic sweep of the magnificent stairway -
royal blue carpeting, plush plum walls and rich wood banisters.

“Mr Campian,
there’s a young woman on the line who insists on speaking with you.
She says her father was attacked in his bedroom last night.”

“Tell her to
inform her local lawmen, Mr Jackson,” Marcus frowned, straightening
his robe, flicking an imaginary piece of fluff from his
shoulder.

“I tried, but
she remains insistent. She’ll speak only to you, sir.”

The Electan’s
good humour fled. This early in the day and already dealing with
time wasters. “I’ll take it in my office. Do we know her, or her
father?” he asked as he strode towards his luxurious place of
work.

“I believe
not.” Mr Jackson - MJ for short, for he despised his given name -
headed to his smaller, but no less luxurious office to transfer the
call. Mr Campian would expect it ready when he reached for the
handset.

Marcus sank
into his leather chair and lifted the phone. “Good morning. Marcus
Campian.”

“Mr Campian,
thank goodness!” came a breathless voice. “Sir, my father …”

“Was attacked.
I was informed. Surely your local lawmen would be of greater
service?”

There was
silence on the other end and then, “I don’t think so, Mr Campian.
You see, from the description my father gave me, I believe the
intruder was a sorcerer.”

Marcus sat
straighter in his chair. “What leads you to draw that
conclusion?”

“He vanished,
Mr Campian, like a ghost.”

A loaded
moment passed and then, “Where are you?”

“Moor,
sir.”

Marcus frowned
at his desk. Quite a distance. How to reach her before word got
out? He had a nagging sense of familiarity with the name of the
town - no, hamlet - and then she told him why it would be
recognisable to him- and to many.

“My father
lives in the house Lord Taranis, Lord of the Immortal Guardians,
once inhabited.”

A cottage over
two thousand years old and still standing, in a place where other
houses fell as time passed, to be rebuilt.

“Stay where
you are. I’ll be in Moor as soon as I can get there.”

He slammed the
handset down without saying goodbye and belatedly realised he had
not got her name. No matter, either MJ had it, or she would know
him when he reached Moor.

Too many
unexplained incidents and not only on home soil. For the last month
or two ambassadors bent his ear and he listened politely until it
took on a pattern, and then began to happen on Valaris as well.
What was the meaning in it? Who was behind it? A sorcerer?

He rose,
shouting for Mr Jackson.

It was Year 13
849 according to the new calendar that included and acknowledged
the Valleur as first discoverers and settlers of Valaris.

It was the
third week of the first month of spring, and that morning saw
Samuel enter Torrke, and Quilla and Buthos confront Tannil.

Later it saw
Tannil with Kismet and Caballa at the Three Gates, and early
afternoon saw Marcus Campian arrive in Moor.

It was not an
earth-shattering day and yet, with hindsight, it would be known as
an auspicious beginning to the changes soon to follow.

Chapter 6

Trust in
yourself.

~ Quilla to
Torrullin

His father
said to expect visions in the valley, a result of Valleur
blood.

Memories of
the past were inherited, but Samuel was almost entirely human and
would thus see memories as visions. He never experienced the like
before and had no idea what to expect.

Nothing
happened at first. He walked in slowly before lengthening his
stride. He found no black glass, not even the blob he encountered
the day before - for that was a vision - and was reassured by the
normality.

His confidence
strengthened. As it grew he was able to enjoy the spectacular
beauty. He could not fathom how it once melted into solid glass.
What incredible sorcery and science it took to return life
here.

The snow-clad
Morinnes were to his left, seen for the first time from this side,
and the sharp planes of the Arrows lay to his right, the two ranges
diametrically opposed. He saw trees ancient and majestic, streams,
boulders, flowers, lizards, waterfalls, butterflies and blossoms.
His senses reeled and he felt free. The clear call of nesting
eagles. The soft feathery touch of a wholesome breeze. The smell of
new blooms. The taste of magic. There was natural magic here.

He was
inspired.

Thus visions
came to him.

The light of a
supernova - he stumbled to earth covering his eyes, mortally
afraid. Behind his eyelids everything went black, a liquefying,
molten ebony that instantly solidified. Sterile nothingness. He
gasped and opened his eyes, thinking himself trapped in that
lightless state.

The green
valley looked on serenely.

Nobody
could possibly have witnessed that and lived to tell the tale. It
isn’t Valleur memories. I know for I carry his blood.
Valla
memories.
Does the present Vallorin, Torrullin’s
grandson, does he see this when he closes his eyes? If so, the man
has my sympathy.

Samuel
followed the road again. For all its beauty, it was neglected. The
road was choked with - no, not weeds, after all - tiny green shoots
sporting blue buds. Perhaps his understanding of neglect was
different. He lifted his gaze and the road was clear, a beautiful,
fawn stone meandering east tracking the natural contours of the
land. Thus it was once for the Enchanter. Samuel blinked, and the
way was overgrown once more.

He saw old
ruins in the distance, a rise to the left. The Graveyard. A cloaked
sacred site. The locations of the Valleur sacred sites were not
forgotten by Valarians - their removal aided in the enmity towards
the Valleur - but he would know it as a site anyway, for it
resounded within. He saw huge trees shading the crypts and they
shivered as if he looked on them through a transparency held up to
the light … and vanished. Again he was gifted the truer image.

Samuel dared
to swing his questing gaze to the right, to the opposite rise where
the Keep had been. Torrullin’s Keep, built stone upon stone by the
Enchanter personally.

There was
nothing there. He was disappointed.

Abruptly he
ran and each lunge was ten, twenty paces. In short order he
clambered the rise and stood heaving on the levelled site of the
Keep. Of the Throne.

Fruit trees
blossomed at the foot and opposite a copse of stately oaks shone
emerald in spring growth. It fit descriptions he read, but surely
it was impossible? Had nothing changed in two thousand years?
Goddess, those oaks had to be a minimum of two millennia and, if
the stories were true, they stood a lot longer than even that.
Through destruction, to be made new. Impossible.

He took a step
towards them …

… and the Keep
arose around him, trapping him in the courtyard.

Samuel dared
not think about it. He wanted to see it before the vision faded.
The mosaic pool, the statue of a Sylmer - it was said the statue
was modelled on the Enchanter’s wife. He turned slowly so as not to
disturb the magic, and gazed on the great Dragon doors. They were
closed and although ethereal, he saw the huge golden Dragon.

The sound of
rustling leaves drew his attention back to the pool, to the huge
old tree near it.

He
heard
it? How real could a vision get?

Then there
were people sounds, and ethereal forms of Valleur, human, Siric,
Dragons, Q’lin’la, Centuar, Sagorin and many others crossing and
re-crossing the courtyard, talking, laughing, shouting, grim of
face, smiling. A hairy Dinor stamped his foot.

Once
we were equal in this magical domain of the Enchanter. How
foolish we were to turn from it.

A blue-haired
woman descended the stairs from the balcony. Saska, and far more
spectacular than any statue could do justice to, dear Aaru.
Samuel’s heart hammered. Incredible green eyes.

And then … and
then …

A fair-haired
man with silver-grey eyes alighted in the courtyard, dressed in
black, a sword at his lean waist. He stood for a moment in ethereal
glory, a king come home.

Samuel’s
entire body shivered with the awe inspired by a vision; how much
more the reality?

A striking
face, in repose, thoughtful eyes.

Samuel held
his breath, not daring a suggestion of sound to disturb.

The Enchanter.
Torrullin.

Torrullin
moved, coming to where Samuel was frozen, and those incredible eyes
appeared to look directly into his, as if he could see the intruder
through the veils of the vision.

Surely
not?

Torrullin
halted before his descendent, reached out and touched.

Samuel nearly
cried out.

A soft whisper
of fingers on his cheek and a faint blue flame.

Gods.

Real.

Or he was
mad.

“Do you feel
the blood?”

Sweet god.

Samuel nodded,
legs like liquid under him.

The Enchanter
smiled. “Do not forget it ever, kinsman.”

Everything
vanished.

Samuel fell to
his knees, crying out.

He would do
anything, give all, to see the Enchanter return, real, alive, in
his, Samuel’s, too short lifespan. He wished for it with every
fibre of his being, prayed for it to every deity out there.

He wanted it
to come to pass.

He wanted it
above all else.

Thus his
Valleur blood commenced its ascendancy.

Chapter 7

The time has
come to be real. Listen now with ears of instinct and grow in
knowledge. You must do this if you seek to decide a way forward
that suits the greatest need.

~ Awl

In the
Throne-room Quilla and Buthos told Tannil about the incidents
throughout the universe, including in the telling what Teighlar
said of the animals of Luvanor.

Tannil
listened, features ever grimmer, and when the two doomsayers were
quiet, said, “Teighlar wasn’t too forthcoming; the animals he spoke
of are on Tunin only and are Senlu reborn. If they are lost in this
second existence, the Senlu will regard it as an evil omen.”

Buthos and
Quilla looked at each other and the Siric muttered, “I was
right.”

Tannil rose
from the wooden throne to precede them outside. He sat at the
garden furniture under the palms, placed to view the ocean without
impediment. It was a clear day, hinting at warmth. Quilla and
Buthos joined him.

A light meal
was placed there earlier and Tannil gestured at the repast, but did
not touch it himself. As his companions helped themselves, he
asked, “Are you suggesting there’s a force behind it? One aware of
our deepest fears?”

Quilla paused
in the act of loading his plate. “Whether it is a singular force or
a symbiosis, we do not yet know, but something is out there.”

Tannil nodded
and then, “Evil?”

Buthos
replied, “We believe so.”

“No opposing
influence?”

Both looked at
him. “What of Valaris?”

Tannil
shrugged. “What occurs on the mainland I wouldn’t know of, but
here? Nothing strange.”

“Really?”
Quilla prompted. “Teighlar was as casual, Tannil.”

Tannil slopped
juice into a glass. Buthos’s gaze turned speculative and next to
him Quilla watched the Vallorin expectantly. Tannil lifted the
tumbler, saw them watching, and put it back with a frown.

“Nothing has
happened in the islands, I assure you. I’m not like the Emperor,
willing to bury my head in beach sand.”

The Siric
said, “Fine, but something bothers you.”

“Something is
out of sync,” Tannil growled, “but it’s of a personal nature. I
shall deal with it.”

Quilla drew a
breath. “If you are personally put through a wringer, it means you
may be the target. What is the greatest fear the Valleur have?”