The Kallanon Scales (63 page)

“There are
gaps in your tale,” Teighlar prompted. “Personal?”

“Probably, and
not essential.” Torrullin rubbed at his temples, head aching from
lack of sleep.

“Wars are
fought on personal issues also. You are exhausted; we shall take
this up later. Sleep now and I will watch for your enemies. I am
unwilling to dream. All has changed, dreams would be wasteful.”

“Dreams are
never wasteful.”

“Mine would
be.”

“You cannot
resurrect the dead.”

“No, my
friend, I cannot.” There was an almost unnoticeable emphasis on
‘I’, but Torrullin did not hear it or chose to ignore it.

“Are we
friends, Emperor?”

Teighlar did
not answer immediately, perhaps pondering Torrullin’s motives, and
then his brilliant blue eyes widened ingeniously. “How not?”

Torrullin
grinned despite his reservations. The man had an undeniable charm,
but was so much a kindred spirit he had to be wary. “You will
watch?”

“Sleep.”

Son, hasten to
your father with the news. Tell him to sharpen his sword. Tell him
to barricade the doors.

~ Excerpt from
The War
Within

Tunin

T
ristamil loped with
urgency.

He dared not
employ the transporting ritual to get him to Grinwallin faster. He
dared leave no trace for Tymall.

Let me be the
one to get there first!

This was what
Tymall spoke of in the Star Chamber.

His passing
did not go unnoticed. Although the Murs campaign had levelled off,
they sought the Dragon-man unceasingly, and the swift path of the
solitary man caught their attention.

On the third
day alone, as Torrullin and company reached the great plateau,
Tristamil was beset upon by a Murs contingent and in the distance
Mysor waited. He had only a moment to know in that direction he
could not go.

The first bolt
slammed into the earth next to him. He fled for cover through
blackened farmland, but cover was sparse and soon erupted into
flame. He ran for a hill beyond scorched grazing, and knew he would
not reach it.

Halting, he
drew his sword, spoke to it, and the dull blue blade burst into
light. The blue fire drew Murs destruction to it, diffusing it, to
drop as harmless baubles to the ground. Tristamil was awed, and
held the blade steady and remained untouched.

Hours later,
the Murs wheeled away, all but one, and this one maintained
distance.

“Grinwallin is
compromised, Valleur son, so fly like the wind, for we are already
there.”

Tristamil
sheathed his sword. The Murs knew of Grinwallin and how else unless
the Dragon-man was already there. Murs could be attacking as he
tarried here. Alternatively, Murs had entered Grinwallin first and
now lured all to the battlefield.

Whatever it
was, this one would not get satisfaction from him. He breathed to
inflate his lungs and started to run. If it followed, it could do
so all the way to Grinwallin, where it could join its mates or be
killed by another hand. If it did not, then he would go to
Grinwallin by the faster route.

The Murs
followed.

Academia of
Truth

Taranis
fumed.

Key-ler
insisted on returning to the Academia and had formed labour gangs.
Here they were, hauling great slabs of stone, sorting them, no
less. Broken went on one pile, to support the foundations, and
repairable went on another and so forth.

Taranis
cursed, kicked the dumped slab and looked around him. By the beard
of all contrary things, this could take years.

You wait on your son
, his inner
voice taunted, and he growled, startling Lowen, despatched with
water and fruit.

“Sorry, Lowen,
I guess I’m tired.”

She nodded and
placed his food on a level slab and made to dash away.

“Please stay
and chat a while, perk up my flagging spirits.”

She regarded
him thoughtfully and perched on the slab. “Everyone is taking a
break.”

Work had
stopped and people, numbering in the hundreds, clustered in groups
sitting, talking and eating.

“My mind, it
seems, is elsewhere,” Taranis murmured.

“They work out
of hope and are happier because it is so, but you are unwilling in
your despair.” Her bright eyes stared at him, an adult gaze.

This slip of a
girl possessed inner strength few would surpass.

“You feel you
should be somewhere else. Maybe where your mind keeps going?”

“You are too
clever.” Taranis sat next to her. He took an apple and munched on
it, smiling when she helped herself to the second. They ate in
silence and shared the banana.

Key-ler’s idea
was good. In a matter of days, the destruction had transformed into
a building site with potential. Even more incredible was how quick
work progressed as these Valleur discovered their inherent magic.
Generations of subversion and now, one spark, and it ran like
wildfire.

Tristamil.
Warrior Priest. My grandson. Bless you.

He glanced at
Lowen. Her dark hair had grown. Gone was the spiky style, replaced
with an impish mop that heralded shining glory.

“Do you miss
Xen, Lowen?”

Her lips
trembled. “I miss my father.”

He did not
insult by treating her like a child, did not do what would be
natural and draw her into the comfort of his arms. She would not
want that. “I know how that feels.”

“You were
taken from your father?”

She saw it as
being taken, not yet as the gift her father bestowed upon her. “My
father was taken from me and I never got the chance to say
good-bye.”

“How
terrible!”

“I miss him,
but I knew he wanted me to be strong and I knew he would always be
with me in some way.”

She touched
her heart. “I’ll see him again.”

“I believe you
will.”

“Torrullin is
like him. Kind and generous …” Her eyes were serious. “… and also
angry and tense and …”

“I know,
Lowen.”

“You don’t
know. My father tries to protect a little bit of goodness against a
whole lot of bad and loses sometimes. Sometimes he has to be bad to
fight again later, and that makes him sad, as if he won’t be good
enough again to protect the little bit that is true to him.
Torrullin is like that and will never really be happy, even if he
wins in the end, as my father won’t be happy either. They fight
themselves all the time and winning doesn’t change it.”

Taranis closed
his eyes. “What would you have me do?”

“You must
accept him.”

“I have.”

She shook her
head. “You want a perfect son.”

Taranis was
thoughtful. “I guess I want to see him as the product of the love
between his mother and me. I expect too much, don’t I?”

“My father
always said that life hands us a riddle and we have no choice but
to take it and our goal is to ponder that riddle. Some never go
beyond the superficial meaning and others go crazy trying to
understand, and others realise there is no one answer and we must
find the one thing that makes us go forward and live with
ourselves.”

He gaped at
the young girl. Her father’s words, true, but she believed them,
trusted them and, astonishingly, understood. Her father was right;
life was a riddle and in trying to twist it to suit expectations,
you caused more confusion for yourself.

“What is the
one thing, Lord Taranis, which makes you want to go forward?” Lowen
asked, staring into the distance.

“My son.” It
was true, not even Saska could usurp him.

“Then you must
accept him faults and all. He is also trying to ponder his riddle
and he also makes mistakes.”

“You are an
extraordinary person.”

“Thank
you.”

“Is your
father your one thing?”

She mulled it
over. For her there could only be honesty, and he hoped she would
not lose it as she got older. “I thought so on Xen, but now it’s
the sun on my face. No matter where I go, as long as I can feel the
sun, I can be happy, even alone.”

“Ah, and we
who know it, take it for granted,” Taranis said and did clasp her
to him and she did not mind.

Yes, there was
a sense of happiness among the dispossessed as if they now realised
the meaning of life. Lowen understood that and he did as well. He
released his anger, and jumped to the task at hand, humming as he
approached another stone block.

Torrullin
would call when ready and, in the meantime, he would work with the
sun on his back. His son would know him as a changed man, and
respond to that.

Lowen smiled
sadly when he turned away.

There was
more, and she wondered if he was able to deal with it.

The Xenian crew
worked as a team.

They worked
harder, not having the wherewithal of magic to aid them. Their
unstinting efforts were noticed, they were constantly backslapped
in praise.

“I have
decided,” Santori murmured as they bent to the task. “I’m staying
on Atrudis if they’ll have me.” His shaven head showed new growth,
a cause for lamentation, and reddened in the sun. His scar as well,
giving him a lopsided mien.

“What of
Valaris?” Rijk asked. Sweating, he heaved a broken slab upright,
holding it while Santori and Agen got a firm grip.

“The question
is whether we’ll get back there.” Santori grunted as he lifted.

“And Atrudis
is further away from Dall Reni?”

“Bugger
Reni.”

“Yeah,” Agen
put in, “and although this place is war torn at the moment, it’s by
far better than Xen. I have no desire for dome life.”

“You also aim
to stay?” Rijk asked and took up his portion of the weight.
Together they carried it to the pile.

“I’m
considering it. We can make a difference here.” They ambled back
for the next.

“Says who?
These are Valleur. Will we be welcome?”

“You are
thinking along the same lines,” Santori grinned.

Rijk
shrugged.

“You would be
most welcome,” Key-ler murmured behind them.

Tinos, he of
the thin stature and wiry curls, said from nearby, “But, Key-ler,
you are a liberal.”

Key-ler’s
round form jiggled. “Never have I been blatantly accused of
liberalism. I like it! However, my friends, the Vallorin promised
you a haven on his world and given who he is, this world is his
now. You are welcome to remain on Atrudis and you would be welcome
without authority from our Vallorin.”

“Truly?” Tinos
asked.

“Truly.”

“That is good,
then,” Santori said, turning a brilliant smile on his
companions.

“I need to
think on it more,” Shane frowned, sitting on a slab.

“I don’t,”
Fats, the technologist, crowed. “I stay. Even if we get the ship to
ground here I don’t want to undertake another space flight. I have
had my fill of metal prisons.”

“Jesus, Mary
and Joseph,” Brilt intoned.

Only Cruper’s
opinion had not been aired, but one look at him and they knew the
answer. Cruper, tall, red hair, blue eyes, handsome, had fallen for
a young Valleur woman and his starry eyes - and fortunately hers -
was all the answer they needed.

Shane shook
his head. “You are young yet and adventurous. I don’t know if this
is for me.”

“Shane, no one
is forcing you to stay,” Santori said.

“What is left?
Huh? A solitary existence among strangers on Valaris?”

“Sun, fresh
air, nature, and many humans who know the meaning of compassion and
the joy of living,” Rijk replied.

“Yes, well. If
our captain chooses to return to Valaris, maybe I’ll tag along.”
Shane frowned again, and bent to digging at another buried
slab.

“Matt will go
back because of young Lowen,” Agen murmured.

“He’ll go back
because our Cat will follow the Vallorin,” Brilt muttered, and they
looked at each other.

“God, she is
messing with trouble there,” Santori said, giving voice to the
thought.

“Yeah,” Rijk
shrugged. “It’s none of our business.”

They returned
to work.

Key-ler,
eavesdropping, wondered what that meant.

Tunin

Matt nudged
Cat. “Come on.”

She hugged an
old woman. “We must go.”

The woman ran
a comforting hand along Cat’s arm. “You will be fine, my dear,
trust in yourself.”

Blinking, Cat
followed Matt, who hurried away to catch an impatient Krikian.

The multitude
of the wall waved their farewells. Many had joined and the gathered
had swollen beyond a thousand and grew daily. As she jogged to
catch up, Cat fervently hoped the Murs had better things to do.

“Wait up,
Matt!”

He frowned
when she joined him. “Krik won’t wait, he is like a man possessed,
let’s get to it.”

“Krikian!” she yelled out and was glad when the Valleur
halted. “We
are
going with, you know! Don’t be so rude!”

Somewhere

Margus sat his
host body before the fire and warmed his hands. It was cold and the
recent disturbances in the snow layering made it worse.

It reminded
him of Valaris, of the confrontation twenty-six years ago. He was
cold then, waiting and planning for the right moment, the best
leverage, and he lost. He was cold again, waiting and planning, and
the new battle was about to commence. He would not lose again.

“It is time to
access your hidden thoughts, my Tymall.”

The timbre of
Tymall’s voice underwent a change and possessed an almost
unnoticeable accent, something few would remark upon, unless you
were the Enchanter and a certain enunciation haunted your
dreams.