The Dreamer Stones (51 page)

Yes.

Margus’s head jerked as if slapped hard. He knew that … and
began to hyperventilate.
I. Want.
Him.

No.

YES!

Margus, there
are traps …

Do you take me
for a complete idiot? I saw them in the first instant!

Traps?
Lucan squeaked.

Torrullin ignored Lucan’s dismay.
You gave your word.

Yes, but our
understanding was I would be the instrument used to kill him! So,
let me at him, and we both win!

Lucan’s cheeks
puffed out. The communication between Darak Or and Enchanter was
open to him when, given the nature of the conversation, it should
remain private. Why?

Killing him is
not an option, or likely …

Stuff
that.

Then Lucan
knew why he was party to the two-way. As a witness. For in the
following, tiny instant in time, Margus, Darak Or, leapt from
behind the camouflaging bush, a snarl of pure rage on his lips.
Bent on revenge.

Margus!
Desist!

The Darak Or
had irrevocably succumbed to his hatred, humiliation and
unadulterated fury. There was no turning back. There could be no
turning back, for already, in an instant, he had declared himself,
to himself, to Torrullin and to the one in the window. He hurtled
bodily through the broken panes …

“Dear God, now what?” Lucan whispered, and was as white as a
bleached sheet.
Christ
, he thought,
such hate I have never
seen.

“Now we bear
witness, Lucan,” Torrullin replied. “This sundered oath was
foreseen and requires an end. This is our first strike.” He fell
into brooding silence, his gaze fixed.

The Darak Or’s road ends this day
,
he thought, and did not share the thought with Lucan.

He felt,
strangely, as if he was about to lose a dear friend.

Chapter
Thirty-Nine

Rope those
sheaves, slave!

Slave
master

The Darak Or
was no match for the Warlock.

Margus honed
his talents over eons, a little here, a little there, and achieved
success, sometimes spectacularly, implementing the trial-and-error
method, and only in his recent past in brushing shoulders with
Vannis, Taranis, others of the same ilk, and Torrullin, had he
upgraded what was essentially arcane sorcery.

Laying his
hands briefly on the Valleur Ancient Oracles, also served to
catapult him forward, particularly in the understanding of magic
alien to him. On the reverse, he was forced to discard much of what
he learned in this recent past, for much of it centred around the
Light.

Tymall, on the
other hand, attained manhood training in Valleur enchantments and
garnered much of the Darak Or’s knowledge during the years of
indwelling and thus, there, they were largely equal. Had they
fought under that equality, while the battle would be violent,
vicious, stupendous, it would also be evenly matched, with victory
likely to neither.

Unfortunately
for Margus, while he spent ten days on the flatland learning no new
sorcery, the son of the Enchanter had four thousand years in
Digilan, a realm of terrible deeds and shattering wizardry of a
kind the Darak Or could not begin to envision. Four millennia of
hourly experience, experiment, battle, growing competence and then
the ultimate mastery.

Once they were
a match - now a battle between them would be one-sided, violent and
short-lived.

Margus did not
care. He did not pause to think. Already he had thought too much,
until his mind bent under the strain. He was prepared to die
despite the consequences in the realities beyond. He desired one
single opportunity to hurt and humiliate this protégée who degraded
him, who turned traitor on the one who made him real in
recognition, who was gifted a future when it was denied him by his
father.

Tymall was
like a son to him, a stolen one, true, but a new future, even
though that future was dark and fraught with unholy danger. Love
did not enter into it, but in a sense was present when it began
between them. As was fierce pride. How it thrilled to bring Tymall
to him, how it warmed to see the young man grow, and how satisfying
when the Enchanter blanched as the truth of his son was revealed, a
truth he, the Darak Or, engendered. Even his absence in the
flatland should have paved the way for a successor in his image
until they rejoined forces.

It was not to
be. With hindsight, he had no doubt duped himself and put more
faith in his powers of persuasion than he possessed.

Everything
changed, Digilan aside.

Two incidents,
separate, of different realms and different times, yet indivisible
in his mind. Sex was his ultimate hang-up. His weakness. Virgin not
only in body, but also in mind. Two incidents changed all.

The Enchanter
took pity on him, making love to a whore for his benefit. It was
not voyeurism, and Margus knew for the first time since his long
dead youth what it was like to love another man like a brother. It
was the major reason he in the end allied with Torrullin.

Tymall, the
son he thought to cultivate in his image, sodomised him repeatedly
and emotionlessly, sating twisted lusts, and thus he, Margus,
discovered the nature of true hatred. He could have forgiven most
anything, for all manner of traitorous deeds litters the darak
path, but found that act so vile it became eternally
unforgivable.

In that
spirit, petrified the Enchanter would ultimately stay his hand,
unmindful of his fate in dishonouring his oath to the one man he
respected, Margus hurtled through the windowpane, noted the
momentary surprise on his target’s face, and reached out with his
soul to clamp his fingers, extensions of his soul’s torment,
vice-like, crazy glue around Tymall’s strong neck.

As he did so a
small part of his mind registered Torrullin’s “Desist!” lacked real
conviction, was spoken as if it were expected before a witness, was
almost fatalistic and somewhat sad.

The only
conclusion to be drawn was that Torrullin knew this would happen,
knew he would fling his word to the contrary winds of hatred and
was, in fact, using that knowledge to further his own aims. It
helped, actually.

The Darak Or
was therefore serving the Enchanter in his final act. It made a
difference, and with renewed vigour and purpose, Margus
strengthened his grip on Tymall’s neck. For himself then, and for
the sire of this vile creature.

Soaring
triumph and delicious anticipation swiftly superseded Tymall’s
initial surprise. A confrontation he could sink his teeth into,
could possibly turn to his advantage or simply use to assuage
feelings of frustration.

Glaring into
Margus’s eyes, he raised his fisted hands between the Darak Or’s
over-stretched arms and opened them outward, a controlled, powerful
move that loosened the stranglehold about his neck.

As his fingers
began to lose grip Margus ignited a holobolt of explosive sorcery,
laughing maniacally when Tymall screamed and stumbled back, with
his hands covering a burnt, smouldering face. Advantage to the
Darak Or, but Margus did not pause to examine his handiwork; he
hurtled forward, releasing bolt after bolt into the Warlock’s
defenceless midriff and genitals, seeking to weaken and demoralise
before Tymall discovered his core strength.

Tymall
screamed again, choosing to cover his lower regions and Margus
crowed in triumph without ceasing attack, revelling in the sight of
the ruined face twisted in pain and anger … and malevolence.

The Warlock
was a man of flesh and blood and could be hurt. How satisfying.
Attack, attack, for the advantage could not last. A man in his most
desperate moment was an extreme survivalist.

Tymall
straightened and, ignoring his wounds, commenced not only defence
but also the fight back.

Margus sensed
the change and understood Tymall would shortly be the one with
advantage. He felt it building power and knew time was short. His
angelic blue eyes gazed into the black-rimmed grey and saw
death.

Dead quiet
then. No movement. Resolve.

Margus smiled.
So be it. Wait, wait, wait …

Tymall smiled
too. So be it. Now!

The ramshackle
cottage exploded outward, an awesome tearing noise, flames licking
the heavens, debris catapulting out for sals, and in the blackened
ruin of jagged foundations two smoke enshrouded figures arose and
the two antagonists continued their battle to the death, hurling
out bolts of power indiscriminately.

Traps physical
and otherwise imploded over the property.

A tree old and
worn toppled over, its roots previously undermined, and crashed
resoundingly to the earth; a bevy of fat, plague-ridden rats
scurried out of a hole in a squat trunk searching for man flesh,
and fortunately the rain of returning flame scorched them squealing
into smouldering skeletons. A pinwheel of magical fireworks erupted
in fiery show, screeching with the wails of banshees seeking fresh
blood, raising the hairs on anything living as far afield as
Winnish.

Scarlet
strings like fibre optic lasers shot out like heat seeking missiles
in every direction of space, time, physical, surreal, searching
targets - birds in the air, a mongoose caught like a hare in lights
… and Lucan.

Lucan, staring
wide-eyed at the battle amid the ruins of a massive fireball,
toppled over much like the undermined tree, but without the
resultant noise, to lie still forever.

Torrullin bent
over him, but it was already too late. The sorcerous laser had
pierced the Xenian’s heart. He felt no pain; he simple stopped.

Saddened and
grim, Torrullin straightened to watch the scene before him.

Lucan
fulfilled his oath and was free. He already flew to the realm of
eternal bliss for he deserved no less. The Dalrish clan would no
longer owe the Enchanter loyalty. In this death, that bond was
severed. In a sense it was a relief, for the Dalrish would go forth
unencumbered.

Only Lowen
bound to him, but she belonged to the past.

In the ember
ruin Margus felt his strength slipping, although his resolve firmed
apace. One last strike, the mother of all attacks, and he would be
content to be on his way, wherever that was. He prepared for it as
his body absorbed shock after shock. He bled from a multitude of
holes, his stomach torn and flapping, his ribs shattered … fatally
wounded.

He understood
his great strike would also be his final act. So be it. To die
avenged was to die well.

Margus glanced
over his shoulder, sacrificing a further wound to curiosity, and
saw the Enchanter openly watching, his bearing calm. His grey eyes
bore the quality that bespoke farewell and his fair hair lifted in
the breeze. Margus smiled and gathered himself.

Turning to
Tymall, he raised a hand.

All things
stilled.

Everything
between the stars, invisible in the light, and the very heart of
the planet. Life, elements, inanimate, feelings, senses, all
things.

Including
Tymall, Warlock.

Frozen with
hands thrown out, ruined face contorted, two bolts suspended in
mid-flight, one violet, the other an amalgam of colours. His cloak
and staff discarded carelessly earlier would have prevented
paralysis, but lay untouched by the carnage thus far.

Margus could
not hold the enchantment gleaned secretly from Torrullin’s training
in time manipulation, and thus he lurched forward, putting aside
the debilitating pain of movement.

Tymall was
stronger than the enchantment and even as all else remained between
he began to stir.

Faster,
desperate, Margus drew something from a pouch at his waist, a
small, silver knife, and fell to his knees, whimpering pain, before
the stirring Warlock. A shaking hand tore at the creature’s
breeches; the other gripped the blade, and then lifted it.

Torrullin,
immune to the freezing of time, did not move. His eyelids
flickered. The intent of the Darak Or was clear, the coming
mutilation would be terrible and bloody … and he stayed where he
was. So be it.

Why did Margus
not run the blade through Tymall’s heart, twisting it there? The
Darak Or had the upper hand and Tymall was mortal and would
succumb. Why did the Darak Or choose to mutilate rather than kill?
A killing was an act that would justify his sundered oath to the
Enchanter. Why?

Because of
what was visited upon him, because he not only desired suffering
for Tymall, he required it. He needed the man to suffer, to rage,
to hate, to know the ultimate humiliation. Justice. Revenge.

The two would
be one, a rare thing, and therefore neither right nor wrong, and
that was the likely reason Torrullin chose not to interfere.

Further, in
death, the Warlock would return to Digilan, and how long before
this played out again? Death was no guarantee of cessation. No,
death and retribution had to begin and end with the Enchanter,
Walker of Realms.

As Tymall’s
arms lowered, the bolts remaining stationary, and he bent with
infinite slowness to the Darak Or kneeling before him, employing
his considerable powers of concentration to overcome paralysis,
Margus slashed and sawed, an awful, wet sound, at the Warlock’s
offensive genitalia.

Gripping penis
and scrotum tight in his left hand, he pulled the whole towards him
to create the tension required to part it from the body, his right
hand working with mindless, intent rhythm, unstoppable.

The pain came
then, piercing the barriers of the enchantment.

Tymall
screeched and reanimated, swung his balled fits viciously,
desperately, into the vulnerable temples of the kneeling Darak
Or.