The Sleeper Sword (83 page)

A good
man.

Caballa paced
the small chamber.

A novice
stirred the candle mixture, his movements disjointed with tension.
Byron leaned out the window.

Twice already
the darklings put in an appearance, in small numbers, each time to
approach in silent caution. They taunted, for sure. They had not
engaged, and the Valleur left them alone, unwilling to trigger a
continent-wide attack.

Presently it
was quiet outside.

Caballa
paced.

They came as
she was about to snap.

The Enchanter,
the Vallorin, Mitrill, Caltian, Samuel, Lucan and Declan. Byron
called her to the window.

Her face lit
when she saw the fair man moving towards the facility and Byron,
ruefully, knew then how it was for her. By the time the Enchanter
entered, after greeting the Golden nearest the entrance, her
expression was under control.

“My Lord,” she
said and then bowed to Tannil. “And my Lord Vallorin.”

Tannil smiled.
“Caballa, it’s good to see you. You look well.”

She smiled
also. “I’m doing fine.”

“Excellent.
You have some problems, we hear.”

Caballa’s
smile widened into a grin. “Indeed.”

Torrullin
smiled lazily at her, and his eyes touched on the astonished young
man at the tub, who had quite forgotten to stir. “Young man, the
mixture will congeal.”

The novice
coloured, hastily taking to his task again.

Torrullin
approached Caballa, studied her face. “You do look well … very
fine.”

Two spots of
colour appeared on her cheeks.

Somewhere
Declan rolled his eyes.

“Caballa, how
many of them?”

His
business-like tone brought her back to earth. “Difficult to judge,
but certainly more than eight thousand.”

Beside Caballa
Byron drew a hissing breath. He had not understood the extent of
the threat.

Torrullin’s
eyes flicked to him. “You seem surprised.”

Byron snorted.
“I saw with mine eyes only.”

“Less stress,”
Torrullin laughed. He sought the Siric. “Declan, detail?”

“Forty groups
of between two hundred and two-fifty - slightly more than nine
thousand at this time. They circle major centres and spaceports, as
well as larger towns.”

“Marcus is
going to flip,” Byron muttered.

“Is Kismet
with the Electan?” Tannil asked Caballa, who nodded. “Good, he’ll
prepare that side. Your friend will be fine, Byron.”

The old
sorcerer inclined his head.

“Declan,
movement?” Torrullin asked.

“Nothing
overt.”

“When would
they attack?”

“If I was in
command, the small, dark hours,” the Siric said.

“Yet they give
us fair warning. This doesn’t add up.”

“Intimidation?” Byron suggested.

“Certainly,
but what is the real strategy?”

“Any sign of
Tymall?” Tannil asked.

Torrullin
glanced at Lucan, who said, “Not yet.”

“He may do as
Margus did long ago,” Declan murmured.

“The moon?”
Torrullin pulled a face of denial.

“Kind of
poetic,” the Siric shrugged.

“Lucan, can
you reach that far?”

“No.”

“Declan?”

The Siric
reached out. “Appears deserted.”

Which did not
necessarily mean he was not there, Torrullin knew. For a moment he
was indecisive, although he did not show it. In situations like
this, filled as they were with uncertainty, people needed firm
orders, not indecision. He looked again to Byron.

“Evacuate your
students. Those who have experience may stay if they wish, on the
understanding of danger. Send the rest into the countryside and
impress on them to avoid populated areas.”

Byron
nodded.

“Tannil, we
should use this as a base.”

“The Keep
would be safer,” Tannil frowned.

“And us
further from the action.”

Tannil gave it
some thought and then, “Mr Morave, we request permission to use the
facility.”

“It would be
an honour, my Lord.” Byron gripped the young novice by the
shoulder. “Come, Thomas, help me round up our people - that mixture
is done, relax.” He led the young man to the exit.

Torrullin
halted him. “Wait. Know the Darak Or is coming here, and if he
proves traitorous this facility will be compromised.”

Byron stood a
moment framed in the doorway and then left without a word.

“You’re going
to call Margus?” Tannil demanded.

“It occurs to
me he knows these monsters. It also occurs to me they will know we
expect an attack in the night. I want Margus around if they attack
right now.”

Lucan muttered
under his breath.

Torrullin sent
the call. “Lucan, you and Caballa get this mixture to its place,
out of here, anywhere. This is a good vantage area.”

The two set to
work. Samuel jumped in to help.

Tannil said,
“I’m going to confer with those outside.” He left.

“Margus?”
Declan queried.

Torrullin
glanced at Mitrill and Caltian. “He has a few tricks.”

Neither
Mitrill nor Caltian reacted, but Declan grimaced. “That’s what I’m
afraid of.”

Margus
appeared then and was all smiles. “Enchanter. It begins in
earnest.”

“We need to
talk outside.”

In the forest
nearby they faced each other. Golden eyes speared, knifed, drilled
and bored into the Darak Or. If looks could kill, Margus would have
suffered death a hundred times over in the preceding minute.

He gestured at
the Valleur. “They will never trust me.”

“You don’t
need their trust. You know these creatures from their side - tell
me what to do.”

Margus’s
amusement vanished. “You’re asking?”

“I am.”

“Well. Full
circle, the two of us …”

“Not yet, but
if you’re going to be facetious …”

Margus threw
his hands in the air. “Far from it. Very well. How to neutralise
the Horde without harm to innocents, right? That makes it
difficult.”

“Lightest
casualty, then.”

Margus smiled.
The Enchanter could be so … thrilling. “The simplest way is to
neutralise their leader.”

“A leaderless
Horde can be more dangerous.”

“True, but can
also be manipulated. I assume Tymall hasn’t shown his face?”

“No.”

“And would not
be easy to neutralise. Fine. When do you expect them to
attack?”

“Nothing
points to that.”

A brief
silence. “This is some kind of tactic. What is he up to?”

The question
was rhetorical. Margus found a fallen trunk, sat to think. For long
minutes he stared at his hands, discarding and examining options.
As Torrullin said, he had a few tricks. Finally he looked up.

“They will
have learned to shrug off elemental sorcery after your display with
sand and fire. Forget water, wind and storms also. Unless you’re
prepared to unleash catastrophic weather - are you? No, it will
harm others. Torrullin, you must know there is no way to minimize
this confrontation in the long term.”

“I would
exhaust other options before it comes to that.”

“Fine, but
unless you have an equal army of swordsmen to take them one on one,
sorcery is your only route. The trick is to find what.”

The Darak Or
leaned forward, his attention on a miniscule bug in the damp forest
mat. He followed it absently, thinking again, and then, as it
vanished beneath leafy mould, it came to him. He looked up.

Torrullin
stilled.

Gods, he would
not like this.

He had the
gist from Margus, there in the forest, and agreed it was a clinical
way of eliminating the problem of the Horde, but also knew he could
not make the decision alone.

He forestalled
Margus when he launched into detail, explaining his dilemma. An
amused Darak Or traipsed inside after him, to go into detail
there.

As Torrullin
suspected, they did not like it either, but it was a neat solution
and they soon realised it.

Caltian said,
“It will take time. What do we do until this is ready?”

“We fight if
they attack,” Torrullin said.

Caballa spoke
next. “It’s nasty enough to be poetic, I must say.”

“We need make
a decision,” Torrullin prompted, silently agreeing with her.

“What do you
think, Enchanter?” Byron queried.

“I think we
have no choice.”

Mitrill said,
“I must agree loss of life will be minimal. Do this, and
quickly.”

Margus
smiled.

“I wish I
could wipe that smirk off your face,” Declan muttered.

Margus scowled
at the Siric.

“Watch
yourself, Darak Or, your time comes,” Declan murmured. “Too many of
my friends died due to you.”

Margus sent an
askance look. “I have nothing on Tymall, Siric.”

“The
only
reason I tolerate you.”

“Enough,”
Torrullin intervened. “Tannil? What words have you?”

“Do it.”

Caballa spoke.
“What can I do to help?”

“Nothing right
now,” Torrullin said. “Margus and I must first complete the
creation sorcery; only then the rest of you take a hand, largely in
dispatch.”

“It’s getting
dark,” Declan said. “Time to dig in for defence.”

“I don’t think
they will attack,” Mitrill mused. “Something else is at work here.
However, we can’t afford to be unprepared.”

Then it was
all business.

Torrullin
remarked, “Stay out of range during the creating period,” and asked
of Byron, “We need a windowless room, ground level.”

“The tack
room,” Caballa prompted the old sorcerer.

With a heave
Byron levered from his seat and his stomach growled mightily as he
did so. Rubbing his belly, he muttered, “Sorry, old friend, food
will have to wait.”

Samuel laughed
and Lucan sent the big man a sympathetic look. Everyone was hungry,
but time for sustenance would come later.

The Darkling
Horde had come again to Valaris and its people were in the grip of
terror as they recalled their history. Twice they came, first on
Drasso’s command, second on Infinity’s - with Margus taking them as
his own when Infinity died - and twice a world and its people stood
on the brink of extinction. It was indeed the stuff of nightmares;
food could hold a while.

All followed
Byron out and Caballa fell in step with Torrullin.

“My Lord, the
farspeakers were sent out to sound warning, tasked to spread the
news you are here and working towards a solution.”

Torrullin
stopped dead in his tracks. “Solution. That’s what this is
about.”

Everyone came
to a halt.

“First you
show them an enemy, a dangerous and historical enemy, an enemy that
apparently cannot be permanently stopped. The Darkling Horde of
yesteryear, of this present, and probably of the future - they
cannot be stopped. Thus Valarians will reason, and be afraid. On
the other side of the coin you have someone elevated recently to
healer, saviour, protector, the one who has come to find a solution
to the darkling threat, the revered Enchanter, and a solution he
finds, does he not? Now, what if the solution is ineffective? He
will be regarded as helpless … and is soon traitor by default. But,
pray, what if the solution is seen to work, but is as frightening
and dangerous as the threat? What would that do to Valarians?”

Torrullin
looked first to Tannil.

“Valarians
would be as afraid of the revered Enchanter as they are of the
Horde.”

Caballa was
angry. “That is unfair.”

“Realistic,”
Declan murmured. “He wants you to be seen as the cause of deaths
that follow. After all, the Horde does not attack.”

Torrullin was
resolute. “So be it. I stand down to no evil. Tannil is Vallorin;
Tannil is the one folk must turn to.” He stared at his grandson.
“You must have no part in this whatsoever. Plausible
deniability.”

“I stand down
from no evil either, my Lord,” Tannil said. “Keep me out of that
room, if you will, but do not send me away from this.”

“They
withdraw!” Lucan shouted, and it was so.

There was
silence and then, from Declan, “They will be back.”

“And Valarians
are receptive,” Mitrill murmured. “Game, set and match.”

Margus burst
out laughing. “The vindictive cleverness of a twisted genius.
Torrullin, what would you have me do? Do you propose I prepare the
creatures in expectation?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”
Margus taunted.

“Along with
whoever wants to help or simply witness.”

Margus
bowed.

Byron hefted a
sigh and beckoned to Margus. “Like it or not, Darak Or, you have
something we need. This way.” He led the fair man off to the tack
room.

“Why trust him
with this?” Mitrill demanded.

“He doesn’t
mind biding his time. I learned much about patience from the Darak
Or. For him, anticipation sweetens the moments and thus he will do
his very best. The creatures will work and work well, and that is
my only concern.”

“Gods,”
Mitrill mumbled and turned away.

“I wish we had
a bead on Tymall,” Declan mused. “Knowing how he moves will help us
more than reacting to these bloody situations.”

“He employs my
blood against me,” Torrullin said.

Lucan was
sour. “I can only sense him if he uses the same tracking tools he
used initially, and we now know that was deliberate, a ploy. He
could be right on the other side of the lake and nobody would be
the wiser.”

“You spied on
him when he was here for Fay,” Caltian frowned at Torrullin.

“Tracking her,
not him.”

“Do I have a
signature?” Samuel asked.

“You do,”
Lucan affirmed.

“Perhaps one
close to Tymall’s? Is there a way to know? I’m willing to have it,
what, disassembled, if it will help track him.”