The Kallanon Scales (52 page)

Atrudisins
paid for hiding the Taliesman. They paid for hiding the
Dragon-man.

They surged
in, a large force divided into a hundred units, the first concerted
assault since they settled in the Zone, and they caught Atrudis at
work, at play and at lessons. Where before they sniped and harried
to unsettle Force, now they unleashed doom, beyond the point of
ageless patience. They had run out of time.

The past’s
seemingly effortless defences bred a sense of invincibility, and
Force discovered they were unprepared for a coordinated attack. It
forced a retreating defence, and left many dead.

The ruse of
apparent normality did not sway the Murs. They fought to subdue by
unholy might the power of the Dragon and Taliesman and did not care
whether melding had happened or was to happen, or had been
prevented. The Valleur were to atone for millennia of thwarting.
Nobody knew exactly what the latent power of the Dragon would
herald, but the Valleur were afraid of it, and thus they were too.
It was a mind-set only annihilation would cure.

Atrudisins
felt the merciless sting. There was no relief when Force recovered
to return fire, for the attack intensified.

A farmer
tilling his lands was incinerated as he lifted eyes heavenward to
the source of disturbing gargling, and his family was not spared.
Under him, his cart exploded and his oxen ran maddened, wreaking
havoc to field and garden before charging into horrified onlookers.
One farmer’s tale echoed throughout the land.

Not merely
Force would pay.

In a small
village a nursery school enjoyed mid-morning recess when scarlet
bolts shattered the square, killing every child there, the minders,
and injured severely every man, woman and child to a sal distant.
Screams filled the peaceful countryside and dogs barked in frantic
fear, skulking away to lick fatal wounds. Thus it was in other
villages.

A fair in full
swing, a meeting of elders, idlers basking in the warm autumn sun,
a funeral procession. A wedding solemnly sermonised on the banks of
a placid river came to an abrupt halt. The priest fell backwards
into the deep water and sank slowly, wide-eyed sightless, clutching
in one hand the charred remains of the bridal turban.

A bustling
fresh-produce market went up in flame, and many were trampled
underfoot in the desperate flight of hundreds. Animals gnawed out
of wire cages and crawled away mutilated. Pigeons dropped from the
sky.

A centre of
learning in the far north, usually ignored, evaporated in masonry
mist and chocking death. A black cat, a kitten in her mouth,
hurtled into the surrounding bush.

Under an elm
tree, bright in autumn’s glory, two girls played with sticks under
the watchful gaze of their parents. A picnic, mid-week luxury. They
were far from village or house. Soon the parents lay in helpless
paralysis while their daughters died.

Atrudis hosted
twenty-two cities, with many towns throughout the three continents,
and more villages between those. In the south, the Grenle
Archipelago hosted four major centres. It translated as a
population of millions. The Murs attacked cities, towns, villages,
farms, gatherings, and any individuals they found, whether walking,
playing or labouring in the fields.

Thousands died
here, tens of thousands were injured. Hundreds died there, many
hundreds suffered after. One by one, on lonely stretches of road
and in private places, they succumbed. Cities were laid to waste
and the fires spread.

Where the land
was lying fallow, great gouges came from the sky, rendering it
infertile. Where the fields awaited harvest, swathes of searing
flame swept through. Starvation would follow.

On Atrin, in
the wilderness, all was quiet. Not a lone Murs attempted
reconnaissance.

Creed knew
then they were betrayed. Natural suspicion would fall to the
Dragon-man; it did not.

Levin’s face
purpled with rage, white sorrow beneath it. He stared into the
heavens, the bright, blue and clear sky, and he cursed.

“It can only
be Tarrant.”

Before they
transported to the city in the desert, Torrullin desired to form an
impression of the world’s settled land.

How, Caltian
asked, and his answer was Torrullin employing a cloaking ritual and
lifting them into the heavens.

Caltian was
elated by the comfortable sensation of floating in a bubble while
able to maintain steady perspective. It was the first occasion he
viewed his world from above; he was humbled and amazed by the
variety and beauty.

Torrullin’s
hand on his shoulder broke the spell.

He gestured to
the wilderness of Atrin where Creed, Web and Force amassed. Caltian
pointed out Alders of Kantar, before moving on to the equatorial
regions, a band of green visible from afar. He stretched a long
finger to Tunin, the small continent east of Atrin and north of
Kantar. He marked Lunar Bay and was about to point out the region
in which Grinwallin nestled when the Murs attacked.

Torrullin’s
demonic oath prevented him sundering the cloaking to swoop to earth
to help. With tears of rage and sorrow flowing over his cheeks,
Caltian witnessed his beloved Atrudis burn and surrender life. In
despair, he turned to Torrullin.

Valaris
suffered in like manner and the Darak Or paid the price. Margus was
one, a lone essence after the Darkling Horde died; Torrullin could
not hope to defeat the entire force below. To fight them in the
hope of victory would herald the anger of helplessness and Neolone
would go free. He took on the pain, his only gift as spectator, for
he refused to unleash the Dragon on Atrudis.

Caltian found
his voice and shouted, “Stop it!” Fear for the man lent his voice
greater impetus, and Torrullin ceased, staring at him. Caltian
knelt on the cushion of air, weeping. “My Lord Vallorin, I am yours
unto death.” Someone who desired, who needed, to take on the
suffering of an entire world was someone to follow into
eternity.

Torrullin’s
eyes shone silver and he reached down to clasp the dark-haired
Valleur to him.

Then they
watched.

Why did Tunin
not suffer as much? What did it hide?

Why was Alders
alone spared on Kantar? What did it hide?

Who would know
to avoid the wilderness?

Betrayal. A
pact with devils.

“Tarrant.”
Caltian’s heart was like stone inside him.

Silver eyes
darkened.

And in its
maleness will

Reside a
tempest

The One

~ Kallanon
Prophecy

Alders

Kantar
Continent

A
lders was a vast walled city of
hard-baked mud.

Massive gates,
east, west, north and south, completed the sturdy buttress against
the ever-encroaching desert. Life was severe and yet it was home to
hundreds of thousands.

There were
eight centres of learning hosting at least four thousand students,
and they came from everywhere. There was the House of Biology,
Geology, Astronomy, Husbandry, Medicine, History, and there was
Arts and Culture, but the latter was a façade, for it was the main
centre versed in the study of magic. Creed, past and present,
studied there, as had all Overlords.

Caltian walked
those secretive halls for twenty years and returned every time he
discovered something new. It was the place where he perfected his
dragon-cell.

The homes in
the city faced inward. Blank walls faced the baked streets, but
beyond those faceless facades cool, dim interiors led into
courtyards, carefully tended oases invisible to the outside. Old
date palms grew tall, shedding shade onto cobbled gardens.

The people of
Alders lived inward.

“What are
you
doing here?” the old man whispered.

His arthritic
fingers twitched on the scarred wooden desk before finding the
control to reach for a tiny silver bell.

Tarrant
smacked it from his hand - it tinkled, but no one came - and
rounded the desk to clap a hand over the quavering wail. “Hush, old
man! Do you want to die badly?” He held until staring eyes told him
what he wanted. He grimaced, wiped his hand on his tunic and
perched on the edge of the desk. Leaning forward he said, “You are
going to tell me.”

The old man’s
yellow eyes darted for a way out, knowing he was too slow now to
run. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Do not play
games, Hallari. You told me once you knew where it was!” Tarrant
grabbed the scrawny neck, squeezed and released on noticing triumph
in the old man’s eyes. “No, you will not find it that easy. A
little at a time until you can give no more!”

“I always knew
you were a bad seed.”

“You were
right. Does that make you feel better?” Tarrant pulled lips back
and snapped teeth together. “Tell me where the Taliesman is.” He
lifted a shaking hand from the desk into his sure ones, running a
sharpened nail across swollen joints, drawing a thin line of blood.
Hallari gasped, then set his mouth and uttered no further sound.
“No?” Tarrant increased the pressure, squeezing the painful joints.
“Perhaps a little incentive? Your lovely granddaughters?”

“My
granddaughters were in Captor. My daughter-in-law could not save
then, she died trying.” He pulled his hand from Tarrant’s, placing
it in his lap with the other. “Do what you will, I have nothing
left.”

Tarrant
smacked the desk flat-handed. Staring balefully, he stepped to the
far side of the desk to pace. “You would rather the Dragon-man have
the Taliesman? If I give it to the Murs, it goes beyond his
reach.”

Hallari
wheezed in laughter. “You stupid man! Is that how you see it?”

“The slaughter
will end.”

Hallari
stroked his damaged hand and fixed a hard stare on the Force
Justice. “Altruism does not suit you. Do you take me for a fool?
Wake up! You are being used. Taliesman or not, Atrudis will burn
until nothing and no one remains. Such is the policy of the Murs.
Think! With the Taliesman, they will control the Dragon. Think on
the destruction to the rest of the universe!” Hallari doubled over
on a fit of coughing.

“They are
afraid of the Dragon.” Tarrant pounded the desk.

“Of course
they are afraid of it, but if they control it fear will vanish.
Fool.” The old man rose stiffly from his threadbare chair and
swayed. He pointed with his undamaged hand. “I know your mind,
Tarrant. What is your reward?”

Tarrant
dropped his eyes. “Nothing.”

“I thought you
wanted to stop the slaughter? Liar! As a student you always juggled
for advantage. What is it this time?”

“I get to
leave, Hallari! I hate these confines!”

“What have
they promised you?”

“Nemisin’s world! Mine! I shall
rule.
” Tarrant’s eyes were
wild.

“Rule what? Nemisin’s is a dead world. Which Valleur will
follow you at the expense of Atrudis? We have gone astray in many
ways, but we are still
Valleur
!” Hallari lowered his weak
body into his chair. “The Dragon-man has come, has he? We waited
long, tried to stop it, and he has come, and the war began as
foreseen. You seek to alter this present, Tarrant? Then fight with
your people.”

“Where is
it?”

Hallari laughed, staring death in the face. “I have
no
idea.”

Tarrant leapt
onto the desk, lashing out, and his fists rose and fell.

Leaving the
old man for dead, he stalked out.

“Hallari is the
dean,” Caltian explained as he led them through deserted
streets.

It was hot,
but the quiet of the city probably had more to do with rumours of
war than with sleep. It neared sunset, usually the city was alive
at this hour.

“He has been
at the helm for six hundred years now. The man is a father figure
to every student who sat across from him, no matter how old we
get.”

He halted at a
small door.

They were in a
tight square, featureless. He rapped, feeling uneasy. The silence
of Alders was unnerving. He murmured a code phrase of some sort,
and the door pulled open. A young head peered out. Moments later,
they were inside and Caltian preceded them down a narrow passage
that led to stairs. They climbed three flights and encountered not
a soul. At each landing, corridors branched. There were no
sounds.

“It is never
like this,” Caltian whispered. He swung right on the fourth floor,
aiming for an open door at the end. As he neared, he called out,
“Hallari!”

“Quiet!”
Taranis snapped. “Listen.”

A barely
audible groan.

“Wait.”
Torrullin pushed past. His blood ran cold moments thereafter. An
old man slumped into his chair, face a pulp of blood and bone.

Caltian gave a
horrified cry.

“Stay back,”
Torrullin said and focused.

A Valleur in his final century, a long life winding down, but
nobody should die in this manner. He stepped around the desk and
laid hands to Hallari’s ruined face.
Goddess help me.
His fingers shook
and not merely from the alien touch of mangled flesh; Hallari was
uncomfortably close to crossing over.

Gradually he
sensed the man’s life forces strengthen. His fingers steadied to do
the rest, and the ruined face knit together, reformed into
acceptable and known pattern, and Hallari drew a shuddering
breath.

Vitality
rushed back in, that of a younger man. Hallari gripped Torrullin’s
wrists and stared up.

“I must
release,” Torrullin murmured. “I cannot reverse the aging
process.”