The Kallanon Scales (35 page)

Then, horror,
the Dragon began to de-scale.

Nemisin bit
his lip to prevent howling disgust. It shed scale upon scale,
faster than the eye could track, until it was naked, a white,
fleshy thing reddening in the harsh glare, and shiny blue
quadrilaterals of various shapes lay in untidy heaps around him. It
was half its size. It smiled - an alien thing on this creature.

“You do not
appreciate this?”

“Let us do
this.”

“Your wish is
my command,” the Dragon laughed. He reached out with a
four-fingered forehand to grasp Nemisin’s left hand and the Valleur
nearly gagged at the cold reptilian touch.

When Neolone
reached for his other hand, he met it halfway. He stared directly
into the violet eyes, unflinching.

“You are a
brave man. I am accurate in my choice of host. Keep looking at me,
do not sever the contact. Watch until the last moment. You will
know instinctively when to break, for you will have most of my
power at that point. You must look aside, close your eyes and go
inward to complete the cycle.”

Nemisin
expected to feel something, a jolt at the invasion, a natural
repudiation, perhaps magical signature, but nothing. Not even a
sense of shame, a fleeting regret. No elation, either. It went
beyond emotion.

All was sight,
or a steady lack of it. Neolone decreased and began to shed
solidity, becoming ever more transparent. The Dragon’s eyes receded
into tiny pinheads, but he maintained the connection, never
wavering in his concentration.

The moment arrived when he knew he was to look no more and,
despite curiosity, Nemisin closed his eyes and turned his head
aside. He heard the Dragon’s voice in his head.
You exceed all expectation.

He felt
something then.

A surge of
power. A quickening.

Ecstasy.
Elation.

He reached for
it, looking inward to find the source.

His eyes
snapped open.

The Dragon was
gone.

The blue
scales exploded into dust and blew over the desert.

Convulsively,
he looked down. The Dragon was on his chest, a blue tattoo moving
as it sought position. He stared at it, fascinated.

He had to do
something, remember something, but that kind of memory deserted
him.

This power is
incredible! I shall do anything, everything, and it will be
simple!

One hand came
up to touch his chest, and the Dragon snarled.

His hand
twisted in his robe, and encountered there the hidden taliesman.
Ah.

Now. While it
concentrated on itself.

With the power
of Dragons flowing through his veins, Nemisin brought forth the
taliesman and bound it to its task, his first manipulation as an
enchanter. He threw his head back, scattering his golden mane of
hair, and crowed in delight. His fingers closed on the golden coin
and held it high. With this, he could separate Neolone from his
body, reconstitute him, command him to his bidding, and return him
to his flesh.

He controlled
the Dragon now! He was the puppet master!

What have you
done, Vallorin?

I am Lord over
you, Dragon.

That little
tool becomes the most dangerous contrivance ever conceived.

Nemisin’s
delight coiled into cold dread.

Did not your
aide Tanor warn you that first day? I read minds, Vallorin, and I
knew your intentions. I have countered your attempt at mastery.

“I shall
destroy it!”

Destroy it
now, bound as it is, and you lose your power, all of it, not merely
mine. I cannot destroy it either, for it would kill you and thus it
would kill me.

Nemisin’s
hands dropped to the hot rock. The taliesman rolled and clunked to
a stop. He stared at it. Double-cross begat double-cross.

It can do as
you intended; it is able to separate me from my host. I would be
wholly separate. I would listen to no one. I would be free, without
the controls we agreed upon.

“You have
bound me as effectively as I sought to bind you. The status quo is
undimmed.”

Heightened.

Nemisin stood
and was stiff with anger. The creature lay quiescent. He thumped
and it did not react. “I do not want to talk to you anymore.”

You will have
that wish. By the time you return to your Palace, we shall no
longer converse, barring emergencies and only when you employ your
secret dialect. Before we lose this communication, I must warn you.
The taliesman is more dangerous now to both of us than you
intended. I had no option in the countering.

“I do not see
that.”

You believe it
maintains our symbiosis. Yet, in other hands, I shall be forced
into freedom. I must obey the separation command, for a part of me
is bound into that tool now. I shall survive and my host will
succumb. Why should I stay my hand if my road to the One is
severed? Who would stay my hand?

“Goddess.”

Heed your
imaginary deity, and hide that device well. Protect it, even if you
have to kill to keep it hidden.

“You could
have prevented this, Dragon.”

It occurred to
me, one day, somewhere, I may well have need of a device able to
kill my host.

Nemisin
groaned into his hands. What had he done?

Nemisin never
spoke to the Dragon Neolone again. He passed the knowledge on to
his firstborn upon his deathbed, he passed the Dragon on, and power
conferred via the Throne. The Valla men were inescapably entwined
in the Vallorinship, the power that was the Throne and the
Dragon.

The taliesman
was well hidden

Later Time

The time came
when the Valleur left that world and became nomadic and
multiplied.

Varied worlds
changed and scattered them into differences, although the Vallorin
was ever ruler over all. The universe altered and much of the
ancient ways buried in time. A new Valleur race rose to the fore on
a collision course with other races struggling for supremacy in
diminishing universal space.

Another
prophecy was spoken, this one concerning the taliesman, a powerful
man and Dragons. The taliesman fled into hiding, becoming the
Taliesman, and it fled so thoroughly even Vallorins forgot it
existed.

In that other
realm, the wars of sorcery continued.

Dragons fought
Dragonnes.

Dragonnes
fought each other.

Dragons again
warred upon each other.

There appeared
to be no end. Evil bred worse evil and the art leapt in depth and
depravity. Good bred greater good and the Light grew ever
stronger.

The day came
when Dragons and Dragonnes stood as one at last, choosing ideals
rather than gender. Darkness versus Light. The wars continued and
still there seemed to be no end.

One day they
gazed around and noticed they chased all life out of the universe,
and what had not fled, they had annihilated. They were alone.

Finally, they
called a truce.

It was lengthy
enough for certain matters to come to pass.

The lone
emissary was despatched through a doorway into an alternate
reality, a thinning of the spaces discovered in belatedly tracking
the birdmen.

The emissary
did not return.

Queen Rianna,
twenty-third of the title, foresaw the coming of a potent leader,
one who would lead the Light over shadows, eventually to overcome
the Dark eternally.

There would
come a time when the Kallanon would exit their realm in search of
this leader. Their enemies, the dark Dragons, would follow,
bringing their ages-old wars into that other, perhaps undeserving
reality.

The wars
resumed, intensified, and continued without end.

“
We have
lost our hold on the worlds travelling swiftly through our Mother’s
bosom. It is time to move on.”

~ The Valleur
upon leaving the Forbidden Zone

Aboard the
cargo ship

V
annis discovered the stowaways
three weeks in.

He caught two
soldiers supplying them with food and drink. He gripped the
soldiers by the scruffs of their necks and motioned tight-lipped to
the two stowaways to follow.

They exited
the hold and Vannis marched them up to the smaller cargo elevator,
bundling them in.

“My Lord,” one
of the soldiers ventured as the elevator began to rise.

“Hold your
tongue, man! You will be explaining yourself to your Vallorin.”

The young man
subsided. His companion stared woodenly ahead. The doors slid open
onto the common area, deserted at this early hour, dimly lit to
simulate pre-dawn.

Vannis waved
them to one side. If he was this furious, imagine Torrullin’s
reaction. His grandson had been on a short string since the return
from Ceta and hurried preparations so rapidly everyone was half
afraid some things went undone. Now, with the journey underway, his
impatience was an issue to skirt around.

“Report to Camot. The truth to him! And consider yourselves
fortunate, your Vallorin would probably have your heads.” Despite
his anger, Vannis grinned as the soldiers, profusely thankful,
stumbled back into the elevator. He sobered an instant later.
Torrullin would probably have their heads, in some way, and not
regret it.
He is driven now. He is much
like the Vallorin I once was, gods help him.

He faced the
stowaways. Beyond was the starkness of their metal environment.
Hatubrath, second month of summer on Valaris, trees in full leaf,
everything ripening for harvest, compared to this.

“It’s my
fault!” Lowen shouted. “Skye followed me and the ship took off
before we could get out!”

Skye placed a
hand on her head, eyes not leaving Vannis. “The fault is mine also,
you know that.”

He focused on
her. “Torrullin will not like this.”

She squared
her shoulders. “Take us to him.”

They entered
the sleeping quarters of crew and travellers - the soldiers
billeted below. Torrullin’s cabin was at the far end. Vannis halted
halfway along the featureless corridor.

“Three weeks,
Skye. Why did you see fit to stay hidden?”

She bit her
lip. “Scared, I guess.”

“Of Torrullin?
He would not harm you.”

“We heard he
is moody; it seemed best to stay away.”

“He is worse
than ever. Stay calm.”

Skye held
Lowen’s hand.

Torrullin was
a changed man since Ceta. The Murs minds there were in direct
contrast to the manipulation that removed his sons; it followed
there were opposing forces in the Zone. The Murs and Mysor sought
to keep him away and Dragons desired him there. For the first week
of the journey, he closeted with Quilla and Phet, and during the
second week, it was Vannis and Taranis. This last week saw
Bartholamu come and go, and there was a rowdy altercation yesterday
on the bridge between Torrullin and Matt, as Torrullin exhorted
more speed and Matt said it was impossible.

Vannis
approached the captain’s cabin, and Skye shuddered. Next to her,
Lowen muttered a breathless prayer. Vannis lifted his knuckles to
knock, and paused. He knew his grandson well. He understood how
insane one could be in the missing of loved ones, how that could
drive a man, but Torrullin had more than his boys, the Kallanon and
lost Valleur on his mind.

The thought
occurred to him for the first time and he cursed himself for not
arriving at it sooner. What piece of added intelligence had
Torrullin garnered to cause this emotionless fury?

He resolved to
find out, but right now, there was Skye and Lowen.

Knocking, he
entered, gesturing for the stowaways to stay put.

Torrullin
pulled the door wide and Skye received the fright of her life when
she saw how drawn he was.

Lowen hid
behind her.

Torrullin
glared at them and stood aside, waving a resigned wrist inward.

It was cool
inside, and dim. A bed, bolted to the floor, a narrow metal table,
a stool. Clothes strewn across the floor, diagrams and scribbles
littered the table and bed.

Skye took it
in at a glance. “When last have you slept?” She handed Lowen to a
watchful Vannis next to the door, and faced her godfather, arms
akimbo. “Say what you like, Torrullin, but I won’t let your foul
temper head me off. When?”

His eyes
flicked over Lowen, ignored Vannis and came to rest on Skye. “You
gave your word.”

“I meant to
keep it. I’m here and it can’t be undone. Now answer me.”

Darkness
lurked in his eyes, but he was outwardly calm. A reluctant smile
tugged at his lips and he sank onto the bed, head in hands. “Poor
Lanto.”