The Kallanon Scales (17 page)

“Father,”
Tymall began, but Torrullin cut him short.

“This is your
Vallorin speaking. I shall see you at the Keep.” He rose into the
air to fly over the mountains back into the magical valley. They
would have trouble in conveying the dead weight across the range,
but that was in itself a lesson, a punishment.

He did not
look back.

The Keep

The Keep was
dark.

All clear,
Quilla.

As he alighted
in the courtyard the Keep’s lights illuminated. Quilla, Taranis,
Vannis, Bartholamu and Gren stood within the entrance to the
Throne-room and nearby the fourteen Elders held the vigil. All were
tense.

Torrullin
closed in. “We are safe,” he said to the Elders. “Please leave
us.”

Gradually the
fourteen melted away, doing so with evident reluctance.

“What
happened?” Taranis asked as Torrullin strode through them into the
warmth of the Throne-room.

“You were
right, Bartholamu. Murs.”

The Siric
leader whistled. “Here? I did not expect it would be the
truth.”

“Our instincts
have proven on the mark. The Murs I managed to coerce into speech
quoted the prophecy at me when he saw Tris and Ty.” Torrullin sank
onto the dais, head in hands. “He poisoned himself before I could
get more.”

“Where are the
twins?” Vannis frowned.

“Bringing the
body.”

“Punishment?”
Taranis said.

Torrullin
looked up, his face drawn. “They disobeyed.”

“From the
beginning, Enchanter,” Quilla prompted. “And dry yourself.”

He was indeed
wet to the skin. He said the words to dry and tonelessly related
what happened, omitting the bit about having to choose one son. He
needed to figure that out, in private. Quilla watched him and
Torrullin looked up suddenly, a disconcerting and penetrating gaze
Quilla found difficult to meet head-on.

Can you tell
me, Torrullin?

When you come
clean about the Dragons, then I shall tell you.

The birdman’s
eyes hooded. Torrullin’s mocking laughter filled his mind.

Tristamil
strode in, bedraggled, breathing raggedly. “Ty’s outside with the
body.” He glanced at his father and bowed. Amusement lurked in his
eyes. “Apologies, my Lord Vallorin.”

Torrullin’s
lips quirked, but he did not give response, simply led the way to
where the Murs was unceremoniously dumped.

Overhead the
storm pealed in thunderous delight, taking on a new level of
intensity.

Bartholamu
kneeled in the wet and rolled the body over to examine its wings.
“This Murs has no rank. See the colour here on the inside tips? It
is a mixture of amber and green, no silver or turquoise. He could
not have revealed more, I think.” Bartholamu released the wings in
disgust. “I cannot believe, after all this time, we are to fight
this battle again.”

“Who would
send him?” Torrullin demanded.

Bartholamu
stood, feeling truly old. “He would obey only a ranking Murs.”

“Are you all
right?” Taranis asked.

“All right?”
Bartholamu echoed. “No, I am not all right.” He drew breath. “I
wish Llettynn was around, he would know what to do next.” He
shrugged. “Now I know I must enter the Forbidden Zone, but do I
bring my Siric or do I risk it alone?”

“We need to be
there before those decisions can be clearly made,” Vannis
murmured.

Bartholamu
stared in silence, not at Vannis, but at Torrullin. “What would you
advise?”

“Llettynn
would not risk the last Siric.”

“Yet you
intend taking an army.”

“A hundred is
hardly an army.”

“More that the
Siric.”

Torrullin
inclined his head. “My point exactly.”

The Siric
leader smiled mirthlessly. “Point taken.” He walked away.

Taranis
muttered an inaudible oath and returned indoors.

“Father?”
Tymall said. “What now?”

“We prepare to
leave for the Zone. I will meet with the astronomer in the morning.
Maybe she is able to aid in procuring a ship.” Torrullin glanced up
as the heavens brightened and crackled. “It is above us now, no
rest for the weary. Tris, Ty, see to the guards. Vannis,” and he
encompassed Quilla and Gren in his gaze as well, “we finish the
Oracles tonight. Boys, rustle up coffee and join us when you are
done here.”

Small and
mighty have stout hearts!

~ Tattle

The Keep

T
here were seven around the table in
Torrullin’s study.

It was quiet
but for the crackling of the fire, turning pages and intermittent
thunder.

Gren finished
the volume he began earlier, grunting his accomplishment, stretched
for the final one, which began to slide. Tristamil reached for it
as it slid over the edge, and cried out, snatching his hand to his
chest.

“Something bit
me.”

His brother
smirked.

“Let me see.”
Torrullin extended his hand, only to snatch it back. “It bit
me!”

Tymall’s smirk
vanished and he backed away.

Gren’s fingers
rested on the edge and an expression of amusement vied with
consternation. He chose the cautious route, casually removing his
hands.

Taranis cried
out.

Everyone
scrambled from the table.

Vannis
murmured, “There is magic here.”

The tableau
remained and they began to think overactive imaginations played
tricks, when one of the volumes moved as if something wriggled
under it.

“Stay,”
Torrullin whispered, and approached.

The books
became a flurry of movement, pages blowing side to side, some
slamming shut, others heaving over to fall untidily to the floor.
No one dared say anything and Torrullin froze.

A tiny head
peeked out from the epicentre of the activity.

Torrullin’s
hand snaked out to grab the little figure as it grunted out from
under a book. It bit him in the soft flesh between thumb and
forefinger, but he held on, free hand conjuring a little metal
cage. Vannis caught it as it materialised and opened the hatch.
Torrullin tossed the creature into it and slammed the contraption
down.

“Hey! That is
no way to treat a visitor!”

“No visitor
behaves like you!” Torrullin shouted with his face close to the
cage. His explosive breath sent it tumbling back.

“Hey, stop
that!”

Taranis burst
out laughing.

Vannis
followed suit and gathered the fallen Oracles.

It was tiny,
five fingers tall, and round, with a blue cap perched jauntily atop
a bald head. It was clothed in tiny red breeches, blue boots, green
tunic, yellow waistcoat, and a broad blue belt held its breeches up
around a fat stomach. Its face reddened under the scrutiny, a
button-nose twitching. Bright blue eyes darted. Small hands grasped
the cage, shaking the bars.

“Enough!”
Torrullin said, causing the little man to cover his ears.

Taranis
spluttered into renewed laughter and the creature turned to him.
“You think I am funny, Guardian?” He grinned when Taranis’ smile
wiped away.

Torrullin drew
up a chair and sat. “Who are you?”

“I am here to
help you.”

“By biting
us?”

“You waste
time looking in the Oracles! Nothing was written about the
Forbidden Zone and the one tiny mention of that ridiculous sect of
the taliesman will help none. I had to get your attention.”

“Why not show
yourself?”

“You call
yourselves sorcerers?” His tone was disbelieving. “You had to know
to look.”

Torrullin
said, “Everyone, sit. Now, who are you?”

The little man
gave a theatrical sigh. “So much ancient wisdom lost. I am Thundor
and I am a trouble-shooter for the Thinnings.” It bowed with a
flourish.

Torrullin
murmured, “I haven’t heard of your kind.”

“You are not
alone in that,” Thundor sighed, a long-suffering sound. “I take no
offence.” He raised his hands. “No more biting, I swear.”

Torrullin, a
smile tugging at his mouth, released the catch. Thundor stepped
out, dramatically straightening clothes and then smoothed a hand
over his stomach. He twisted his head, all the while watching
everyone. It took real courage to appear amid giants, but he was so
cocksure no one saw how his tiny heart caused him distress. Finally
he stood, hands clasped behind his back, a foot tapping.

“Are you
done?” Torrullin spluttered.

“Glad to see I
am a continuing source of amusement to you barbarians,” Thundor
muttered and crossed his arms.

Torrullin
rocked back in his chair. “My apologies. Please tell us why you are
here.”

Thundor
removed his cap. He held it in his hands and bowed. “Thank you,
Enchanter. We are generally unseen by the giant races. We are
everywhere, on most worlds, good or bad - the worlds, that is, not
the Thinnings. We are lumin kindred. We appear when we deem our
help needed and even then most do not see us. We knew you would,
Lord Vallorin, for you saw our brothers of the Rainbows.”

He retreated
to a book where the pages were low enough to afford a perch and
crossed his legs.

“The pretty
lady Lycea saw us, since she was a little thing. We heard she has …
very sad, a good soul. We began to listen in on what happened on
our world and what we heard was a source of great dismay. We
contacted our brethren on other worlds to find how matters stand
there, and we needed to discover whether there are Thinnings in the
Forbidden Zone.” He stared at Torrullin, awaiting a reaction.

He got it.
Torrullin whistled. “There are?”

“On three
worlds and one of those is in the Tennet system,” Thundor stated
with satisfaction, twirling his cap around one finger.

“Are you able
to speak to them?” Taranis asked, leaning forward.

Thundor looked
at him. “Got your attention now, Guardian? Good. We cannot
communicate directly, the distances are great, but what we can do
is bounce our signal world to world. It takes fair time and is
sometimes inaccurate, but the gist is there.”

“Have you made
contact?” Vannis asked.

“At this time
only to establish whether there are Thinnings. This is why I am
here. With your questions I may wheedle answers.”

“Can we
contact them?” Torrullin asked.

“Enchanter, I
realise Immortals have a gift to communicate over distances, but
your voices, despite being sent in silence, would kill a Thinnings,
no matter how faraway they be. You are too loud.”

“Pity.
Thundor, why? I am certain none here have done anything to help
your people.”

Thundor pursed
tiny lips and tapped a finger on his chin. “Neither have you harmed
us. You, Enchanter, have done much to make a safe haven of Valaris
for all races and that is a great gift. Naturally, having learned
there are brethren in the Zone, we seek to aid them.”

Bartholamu
said, “We would be more prepared when we enter Tennet.”

Thundor’s head
bobbed.

“Depends on
what we learn,” Tymall counteracted.

The tiny man
turned to study Tymall at the opposite curve of the table.
“Whatever we discover is preparation. You must learn to follow true
instincts, young lord; it is not too late for you.” The little man
swung back. “I shall say no more.”

Tymall
blanched. Tristamil’s fingers twitched.

Bartholamu
realised what the Thinnings inferred and glanced at Taranis, who
shook his head minutely.

Vannis, left
out until able to cope, now realised the same thing. He turned his
head in his grandson’s direction.

Not here,
Vannis. You would place Bartholamu and Gren in a dangerous
situation, for there is no telling what he would do, if not now,
then another, less visible, time.

Vannis looked
away, barely masking the knowledge.

Thundor drew
their attention. Tymall subsided and Tristamil’s fingers
stilled.

“Thus far you
know there are Mysor and Murs. Now you know there are Thinnings
also. You need to know whether your suspicions of another race,
possibly Valleur and maybe humans, have ground. This would be an
answer you desire, correct? I will be asking when I leave here, but
be aware it may return negative. The Thinnings and those others may
inhabit different worlds.”

“A safe route
may aid us,” Bartholamu said.

“We do not
star-travel, nor do we hop worlds. Negotiating a route is beyond
us.”

“How do you
get around?” Gren queried.

“We stowaway,”
Thundor chuckled. “In luggage, pockets, what-have-you. While we are
able to withstand the rigours of space travel, we do it
blindly.”

Vannis’ mind
churned. “What did you mean when you said ‘the ridiculous sect of
the taliesman’?”

“Now there is
an astute question!” Thundor clapped his hands. “The taliesman is
real, but the sect is long gone. A bunch of idiots who believed
they could call on the Dragon to aid them, serve them, akin to a
deity under their command. They quarrelled with the Vallorin of
their time - I forget who he was- but it was way back, and he had
them banished.”

“How can you
know that?”

“When you do
not? It was expunged to discourage others taking the same road.
Only a mention in the Oracles, for it did happen, but its
importance was lost in the deliberate dryness of recording.”

“How do
you
know?” Vannis repeated.

“I am not
immortal, if that is what you are asking, but we are a symbiotic
community. When one dies, he or she assimilates into the collective
and the knowledge is retained. I was not there at the time of the
sect, but the knowledge remains with us.”

“You call it
ridiculous, yet you also suggest the event was important,”
Tristamil murmured.