The Sleeper Sword (82 page)

Samuel
straightened up and threw his legs over the edge of the bed. “You
and Saska …”

“… have been
apart two thousand years and were barely reconciled when I left.
Yes, I love her, as she does me, but we have unresolved issues.
There are no certainties.”

“You should
let others do your pep talks for you.”

A laugh. “I
can be a real ray of sunshine.”

“Well, it
helps to know my problems are drops in a very big bucket.”

“What else
bothers you?”

“Tristan.” The
reply was instantaneous.

“Put it to
rest. He will be fine.”

“The
dream?”

“A psychic
connection. It will end once I tell him what I learned.”

“Why him?”

Torrullin
replied with strange humility. “Innocence.”

It was a very
revealing answer.

They stayed to
see Sannir baptised and then walked away into the Ymirian
night.

Rosenroth did
not appear again.

Chapter
72

There is your
army. Pray.

~ Arc, poet

Twelve years
before the present, Byron Morave fell for a woman half his age.

He loved her
almost to distraction, and it was Marcus who told him he was making
a fool of himself, as a friend should.

She was both
too free with her favours and an unapologetic gold digger, and when
Marcus confronted her, she admitted as much. Byron Morave was a
wealthy man. Unmasking her to a friend was not easy and neither was
the resultant enmity. Byron did not speak to his friend for over a
year. There had been no woman since.

Those thoughts
were in Byron’s mind as he studied Caballa. What would Marcus think
of this woman? Or would her race exclude her from acceptance? The
Electan was somewhat of a xenophobe. Not that he seriously
considered a relationship with Caballa, but she was beautiful and
extraordinary. And certainly more than twice his age.

He watched her
over the last few months, first coming to grips with a world which
included sight, then growing in confidence and fulfilment in
training and leading novice sorcerers to greater heights. When she
first came, she was confused and unhappy - now she literally glowed
with contentment, and was therefore more beautiful.

Byron sighed.
An old man’s fantasy, that’s what it was.

She bent over
a tub stirring a mixture of tallow and silverleaf - a formula to
protect and mask - and spoke to the semi-circle of eager
apprentices, her voice low, musical, hypnotic, the latter a tool of
instruction, and it was … sexy. He was not the only one enamoured -
every eager apprentice watched her with puppy dog eyes.

Byron chuckled
soundlessly and forced himself to concentrate on the book of
symbols before him.

His sorcerers
- novice, apprentice and experienced - needed every resource and it
included knowing the strongest enchantment symbols.

Caballa drew
him aside two weeks ago to tell him she could not teach heightened
defensive magic with the time available to her. They discussed
alternative methods of defence - thus the silver candles moulded
from the mixture, and symbols - and he was lax, distracted by a
lovely woman. Marcus would have something succinct to say, but he
would not tell that old busybody anything.

A loud chirrup
took his attention away from the book and he squinted through the
window. He loved birds, made drawings of his sightings, and had
managed to capture two hundred odd individual songs on tape, a
pleasurable hobby, achieved with patience over the last twenty
years.

Blue eyes
widened.

Not a
bird.

Darklings.

A host of them
in the forest, communicating with bird calls.

They should
have used Valarian sounds.

Byron dropped
to his knees. “Caballa!”

She paused in
her monologue and turned to glance over her shoulder. One look, and
she knew there was danger.

“Where?”

He inclined
his head towards the window, but from where she stood she could see
nothing.

“What?” she
asked, releasing the huge wooden spoon. It thudded against the rim
of the tub.

“Darklings.”

She swore and
turned to the youths. “Carefully make your way to the cellars and
alert the others as you go. Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to
engage the enemy. And do not panic.”

They nodded
and sidled out, thankfully in an orderly fashion.

“All right,
Byron, you too.”

“Not on your
life, little lady,” Byron muttered.

He stepped to
the wall, doubled over to stay below sill level, and withdrew an
old sword from a collection arrayed there. They were purely for
decoration and he was useless in the art, but felt better with one
to hand.

Caballa raised
her brows, but to each his own, particularly under these
circumstances, and mentally berated herself for being too involved
with her students. Silently she thanked the Goddess for the
foresight that led her to institute a drill for this kind of
emergency - they at least knew what to do.

Byron crept to
the window as another birdcall sounded, his mouth set, holding the
sword like a bat over one shoulder. Smiling despite the seriousness
of the situation, Caballa edged in, and she closed her eyes to
probe.

Her eyes
snapped open. Not just darklings, but a well-trained mob. The
Darkling Horde of yesteryear.

She was no
match for a Horde and neither was Byron.

Could she
divert them before they attacked the facility? Stall for time? She
sent a call to Menllik’s Valleur, doing so under personal duress,
not liking the fact some would likely not see the sun set.

They came.
Hundreds of Valleur men with sword and sorcery filled every space
in the facility and surrounded the building three deep.

The Horde
melted away.

Slumping with
relief, Caballa stared at a white-faced Byron, the old man equally
relieved. And equally astounded.

Why? Without a
fight?

“To Menllik!”
she cried out.

As one the
Valleur army vanished. The darklings returned.

Cat and mouse.
Divide the Golden.

Caballa
hyperventilated against the wall. She did not know what to do.
Divide your people, her inner voice commanded. An unfair fight in
two locations was better than total annihilation due to
indecision.

Drawing a
breath, she listened to that voice, and moments later a lesser
number of Valleur appeared as before. Half the darklings vanished.
To Menllik. They had achieved what they set out to do.

She beckoned
to Byron and he rose, sidling over to lean against the wall beside
her.

“They’re
playing with us. Half here, half in Menllik, and I’m forced to
divide the Valleur likewise. I don’t like it.”

“What do you
think they intend?” he asked.

“I hope it’s
merely a show of strength.”

“Will they
attack?”

“I think they
already would have if that was the main objective. Maybe it’s pure
intimidation.”

“It’s
working,” Byron muttered.

“Why come
here? This is a hidden building, quiet, why target us?”

“They know
it’s the Society?” Byron suggested.

“Of course
they know, but it doesn’t make sense. There’s no real threat
here.”

“But there are
farspeakers,” Byron pointed out.

She looked at
him. “Yes! Farspeakers who would spread warning, are no doubt
already doing so, and thereby spreading the message of terror.
Diabolical.” She turned to the outside view.

The Darkling
Horde vanished again.

Caballa gasped
at the suddenness and heard from Menllik the same transpired there.
She reached out to track them.

“They’ve
divided into smaller units,” she murmured for Byron’s benefit.
“Farinwood, Tetwan, Galilan, Gasmoor and so forth. This is a mind
game all right. Tonight Valarians will not dare sleep for
terror.”

“Neither will
we,” Byron murmured, clutching the sword.

“I don’t think
Torrullin expected this. He’d think of Tymall at the head of a
conquering army - army is here, but no Tymall.”

“That’s a
relief.”

“Why, though?
What rules? What underlying goal?”

“Caballa,
maybe you should call the Enchanter.”

She wanted
answers before doing so, knowing she had them not.

Caballa sent
the call through the spaces.

Torrullin and
Tristan sat on the warm stone step before the Valla house, chatting
about inconsequential things, which was a relief after the serious
discussion the night before.

The boy took
the tale in his stride, asked questions, was more concerned for
Torrullin, and had not dreamed during the dark hours. For him, it
should now be over.

Torrullin’s
night-time visitation was especially intense, and he was already
weary with the sun barely above the rooftops. Chatting with Tristan
was invigorating; the boy possessed a sharp intelligence and his
questions had insight rather than simple childlike curiosity.

Torrullin was
about to suggest a trip to the stables, when Caballa’s sending
reached him.

He answered a
moment later and rose with regret. “It’s time I return to
Valaris.”

“Is something
wrong there?” Grey eyes were questioning.

“I’m afraid
so. Stay here now; I must speak with the others.” Torrullin ruffled
Tristan’s hair and headed indoors.

Lucan, Belun,
Declan, Tannil, attend me. Now.

As he strode
into the cool interior, they alighted before the door and entered.
Lucan, Belun, Tannil. Declan last.

Tristan,
seeing it, swallowed, and slipped in unnoticed.

“Belun, you
are to remain here. Work with Teighlar.”\

The Centuar
nodded.

“Lucan. Your
choice.”

“I go where
you go.”

Tannil
frowned. “Lucan is inexperienced, Torrullin.”

“He is not!”
Lucan denied.

“We were all
inexperienced once. The choice remains his,” Torrullin said, and
moved on. “Declan, I could sorely use your counsel.”

“I am with
you, Enchanter.” The Siric was grim, a feral light in his eyes.

Torrullin
nodded, well aware of what moved in that mind, for it was in his
also, as it was for Belun, but he needed the Centuar to remain out
of it. Belun was a close friend and therefore too high on the
target list. He looked to Tannil.

“You know my
heart and I have no authority over you, and someone recently told
me I do the Vallas a disservice in attempting to protect you. I
wish you would stay here, but the choice is yours.”

Tannil smiled.
“I see we
do
learn as we go.”

Torrullin’s
smile was more forced. “Yes.”

“Darklings,
you say? Count me in.”

Tristan gasped
and Torrullin turned. “Tris, I thought I told you to stay
outside.”

“Darklings?
Like from history?”

Torrullin bent
before his likeness. “Therefore we must go home.”

“My father?”
The words were wrenched from him.

“Your father
is Valleur,” Samuel said, “and will go to the defence of his
world.” He entered and stood behind his son, hands on the boy’s
shoulders. He gazed into Torrullin’s eyes. “I go no matter what
words you use.”

“Dad!” Tristan
wailed.

“Samuel?”
Curin whispered, entering also.

Samuel squared
his face to an expressionless mask and turned to his wife. “Curin,
please take Tristan away.” Gently, but firmly he pushed Tristan
towards his mother.

Both stared at
him and left through a door beyond the gathering. Samuel put all
the challenge he could muster into the gaze that connected with the
Enchanter.

“Welcome to my
world, kinsman,” Torrullin said, the pitch for Samuel alone. “I’m
sorry.”

Samuel nodded
and looked away.

Torrullin then
had to face Mitrill, Vania, Teroux and Caltian, the four returning
from a morning stroll. Caltian had been back in Grinwallin only two
hours. No words of explanation were necessary, for the thought that
held three words was sufficient.
Caballa. Darklings.
Valaris.

“Now?” Caltian
asked, and Torrullin inclined his head.

“Caltian, you
just got here,” Mitrill said and then drew herself up. “I’m coming
also. Try and stop me.”

Vania said
nothing, but her resigned action of taking Teroux away from adult
war talk spoke volumes. Tannil watched them go, his expression
torn.

Saska?

“Here,” she
said, entering from the street also. “I felt disturbances. What’s
a-foot?”

“The Horde has
come to Valaris.”

She lost
colour. “It begins in earnest. Well, I’m ready.”

“You are to
stay here.” He had to be particularly firm now. His voice was,
therefore, harsh. Saska possessed an obstinate will.

“After what
those things did to me? No way!”

“Outside.” He
brushed past her and stood in the sunlight. When she was before
him, in a temper, he said, “Don’t make this hard. I have little
time and this is a curveball I must deal with before Tymall bogs me
down. There is something I need do soon, you heard Rosenroth. I
cannot lose time in worrying about you.”

“I am not a
wallflower, Torrullin.”

“But you are
currently unfit. Get into shape first.”

“Are you
saying I’m fat?”

“Gods, Saska!
You are out of practice, is all.”

She looked
into his eyes, cold eyes, and saw the coiling snake of fury. She
would stay, for him. “Fine, husband, this time.”

He bowed his
head. Her gift to him.
Thank you.

She laid a
hand on his tense arm as he prepared to leave her.
Do not lose
sight of who you are, my love.

Who am I,
Saska?