The Nemisin Star (14 page)

He received an
answer and smiled. In this hour the valley would submit to him,
understanding as it did the threat to its existence. The storm
would be permitted free rein. It would also be the last time Tymall
was able to use the boon granted after his birth.

Cold wind
arose and strengthened, bringing with it the promise of snow.
Tymall looked up. Good. It snowed yesterday afternoon and last
night; more of the same would not now be considered strange.

With care and
patience he allowed the wind to strengthen and soon heard the
creaks in the trees surrounding the Keep. That would mask his
tread, but it was not enough. Margus would be more alert without
his ally silence. Margus needed to be blinded also.

A flickering
in the dark clouds.

The valley
aided him now and thus it would appear more realistic. Slow soft
plops of snowflakes; they descended gracefully, and that too was
not his. His smile widened and he drew the wind along a mite
faster, causing the snow to transform into the beginnings of
sleet.

It then grew
cold, and he shivered. Jagged lightning hurled down accompanied by
an extra loud peal of thunder. Tymall paced, watching the heavens
and, when the next flash came, Torrullin saw Saska.

She huddled
against the stairwell and alongside her stood Taranis. Both were
tethered, both had bruises and blood on their faces. Then it was
dark again and snow descended faster.

Another flash,
and he saw that his father barely held it together. His stomach
clenched.

A few
minutes more, father, and I shall be there for you.
He saw that
Saska was calm and drew comfort from that. It was as if she knew he
was close. She
did
know.

Lightning
would hamper him. It had given him sight and now it had to leave.
He caused flakes to descend ever swifter, the wind to blow quicker,
and soon all sight was obliterated. Lightning ceased. Margus would
not suspect foul play.

Torrullin
moved then.

He was upon
them in seconds. He gripped Tymall from behind and dragged him
away, a hand clamped roughly over his mouth. It was so unexpected
that Tymall did not struggle, or make a sound. Torrullin knocked
his son unconscious, feeling no remorse, and laid him in the lee of
the battlement wall, and shifted his attention to Margus. He could
not see the Darak Or, which meant he would not be seen either.

He stalked …
and bumped into Taranis. Taranis groaned and Torrullin swiftly
pinched the neck nerve that caused unconsciousness and lowered his
father gently to the sludgy walk. For an instant he was himself
paralysed; Taranis’ groan had a wavering quality, the last breath
feeling in it, and it scared him witless. His father, he
understood, had not much time. He shoved the fear aside.

One step and
then another.

He felt for
Saska, but she was no longer there.

He heard the
stairwell door scrape, a pull of wind, and the soft moan as Saska
was hauled within. Barely in time, he stepped from Taranis. Margus
dragged the inert man unceremoniously into the well, severing the
vulci tether as he did so.

Margus was
unaware of him; he merely pulled his captives from the elements.
Was it compassion? If so, one fact was obvious, Margus had not been
the one who subdued his father to within an inch of life. Torrullin
forced that debilitating thought aside as well. Or it could simply
be that Margus could not hear in the storm and therefore took his
captives to where there would be a measure of calm. The grim
expression on his face evidenced that. He had no idea his archenemy
stood paces away, watching him.

Any moment now
Margus would turn in irritation for Tymall, and find his enemy
instead. With Taranis and Saska inside he would not have to hold
back.

“Tymall!”
Margus whispered, but even had that young man been conscious, he
would hear nothing. The gale snatched the word into nothingness.
Margus clamped his mouth shut. He was mildly irritated, not yet
wary.

Torrullin
gripped him by the throat and hurtled them both over the wall into
the courtyard below.

Neither made a
sound as they rushed headlong to the ground two floors down. They
landed heavily, falling into the frozen crowd. Life was a parody in
those snow covered forms.

As they landed
the enchantment shattered and, screaming, so did the throng. They
scattered indoors, gibbering unreasoning fear, an unfortunate
result of a dark spell too long maintained. It would be a while
before they recovered.

It left the
two combatants alone, to rise and circle each other, a killing
madness in both pairs of eyes.

“Very clever,
Torrullin,” Margus snarled. “I underestimated you.”

“It will be
your undoing. Again.”

“You cannot
kill me. Not for long.”

“Then we are
equal in that, Darak Or.”

Margus
straightened, clawed hands relaxing, and an expression of
astonishment overcame him. “You are a reincarnate Immortal?”

“You did not
know?” Torrullin queried and lifted out of his crouch to stand,
massaging an aching shoulder. It had been a hard fall and he was
already bruised and battered. Thank the Goddess for immortality,
sometimes.

“It changes
matters.”

“I knew you
were,” Torrullin said, and his eyes narrowed.

“Relax,
Enchanter. We pound each other now with pulses? What will that gain
us, other than your lovely home in ruin?”

The man was
right. “Is this not poetic, Margus? How do we kill each other?”

Margus
ruefully rubbed an elbow. “I have no idea.”

Torrullin
sobered. “Many died tonight, Darak Or.”

“Pawns,
Enchanter. And you have the Lady. All is not lost.”

“Did you touch
her?”

“I have
honour, Torrullin. You insult me.”

Torrullin
inclined his head. “Tymall?”

Margus stared
at him. “He has no honour.”

Torrullin
snarled, and in that moment Margus vanished.

He instantly
followed him to the battlements and hurtled into the stairwell to
pull Saska from Margus’ arms as he straightened with her.

“You will not
have her!”

Margus growled
and launched at Torrullin, fingers clawed, spittle flying. “Neither
will you! The Lady must die!”

He clamped
urgent fingers around Torrullin’s neck and, caught between them,
Saska whimpered, her pain unbearable as vulci twisted and bit.
There was no thought, no logic, all was senses, instinct, maddened
clutches, and snarling, until Torrullin head butted Margus, a lucky
shot that shattered the Darak Or’s nose. The crunch of
disintegrating bone was audible in the close confines.

Margus
shrieked and released to stem blood flow.

Muttering, he
flung himself out into the clutches of the raging storm.

Torrullin put
Saska down, glanced briefly at the inert form of his father, and
went after Margus.

Margus was
gone. In this storm he could not transport;, he was flying out with
some judicious assistance from the valley, no doubt. He could have
taken any direction. Margus could not enter Torrke again; the
valley would annihilate him next time.

That is the
way to end it. End him. Forever. The magic here destroys all, even
a recalcitrant essence.

A curse drew
his attention. Grimly he headed to it and lifted Tymall from the
ground. His son’s eyes rounded and then were blank as Torrullin
cuffed him into unconsciousness again. He dropped him to the walk,
lifted both arms and stopped the storm.

In the ensuing
silence, he shouted, “Pretora, get up here!”

The vulci was
swiftly dealt with.

While Tymall
was bound and taken to the Throne-room, Torrullin laid hands on
Taranis. Saska, pale and hurt, knelt next to him in the well as he
sought to bring his father back. Long moments passed and
Torrullin’s hands shook on Taranis’ body, throwing his power into
healing. He could feel the extent of the damage within and
concentrated fiercely; sweat dripped from his face.

Finally Saska
pulled his hands forcibly away and with a cry of anguish Torrullin
fell back.

“He is gone,
Torrullin,” she managed, her voice a broken whisper.

“No!”
Torrullin accused, glaring at her, pushing her aside. Convulsively
he leaned over his father. Again he laid hands, shouting, “Awake
and heal, father!”

Nothing.

Sobbing, he
sat back, and then a great calm descended. He closed his eyes and
an aura of pure gold grew around him and he lifted his father into
that aura, the Light, the pureness of absolute Light, and crooned
to him, giving all he had of himself, everything.

Taranis did
not breathe.

Saska,
shaking, stepped into the golden light and cupped Torrullin’s face.
“Let me, my love.”

He nodded
mutely.

She bent over
Taranis, tears sliding over her cheeks.

“No, Saska.”
His voice came from somewhere and both she and Torrullin cast about
… to see his ethereal form standing on the well stairs further
down.

After Teighlar
it was not so strange, but this was Taranis, and it meant only one
thing.

“Father?”
Torrullin whispered, and Saska’s heart beat unevenly at the
profound loss in that one word.

“Son, I do not
want to return. Let me go.”

“No,”
Torrullin whispered, and was so pale he was almost ethereal
himself.

“Forever is a
long time, my beloved son, and I have truly had enough. I want to
go.” Taranis smiled, a beautiful gesture. “Look,” he murmured, and
another form appeared beside him, smiling also. A woman,
spiritually glorious, with long golden hair and yellow eyes.

“Mother?”
Torrullin gasped. His mother, after so long.

“Yes,
Torrullin,” she smiled, and floated closer. “I am so proud of you,
my beautiful boy. You are more than my wildest imaginings.”

She reached
out and made a sign over his fair head, a mother’s blessing, and
then ran a finger along his cheek. He could not feel it, and his
heart broke.

“Now I am
happy, finally, my son. I have been waiting for your father.” Her
blue eyes, the colour she had as a mortal on Valaris, the colour of
sadness, were a wondrous Valleur yellow. “Do not mourn your father,
my Torrullin, for now he will discover his own happiness.” She
smiled and stepped away to give Taranis room.

“I am not
ready,” Torrullin said, and his voice sounded strange to him.

“I am,”
Taranis responded. “I love you, my boy. May you find peace.” He
shifted his gaze to Saska. “I was wrong, Saska. I know now it was
always Millanu, only Millanu. Be happy, my dear.”

“Goodbye,
Taranis,” Saska said, wiping at wet cheeks.

“Taranis!”
Torrullin shouted out in desperation. “No! Please, father!”

“We love you,
Torrullin.”

The stairwell
was dark.

The golden
aura was gone as well and Torrullin sat in the dark cradling his
father’s warm body, and could not move.

Saska sat with
him, biting back the aching of her injuries, for her heart hurt far
worse. In the dark, only breathing - tears dripping.

Finally he
stood and his eyes were terrible. Injured, torn and bleeding
himself, he slowly made his way down the stairs carrying Taranis’
cold body.

At the foot of
the stairs he handed his father to Pretora and Kismet, who accepted
him with reverence, and made his way to the Throne-room, and
Tymall.

Behind, Saska
finally collapsed, and was carried away.

It hurts;
every battle is pain
.

~ Truth

Menllik

B
elun
raised a foreleg to chop at his opponent with a razor hoof.

He retained
Centaur form for the battle with the Dinor, but his great size
proved a disadvantage in close quarters. He was not too proficient
with sword or scimitar in humanoid guise, and thus had no option
but to go on. He was exhausted and knew they would lose if the tide
did not change soon.

Change always
heralded a shift in fortunes.

He glanced
over his shoulder at the green giant, Gren, and found his Dome
companion similarly disadvantaged. Gren was as big and was thus a
huge target. He had ten or twelve hairy men assailing him;
fortunately Gren did know how to wield a blade. Still, this went
nowhere, except to defeat.

Elsewhere the
two Dragons were more successful. They simply swiped at opponents
to send them flying, and periodically loosed jets of flame to drive
the Dinor back when they came in too great a concentration, but two
would not win for everyone.

Camot was
wounded and screaming obscenities at every enemy in his path. If it
were up to him, they would win this night. Krikian fought at his
side, grim. Both men were covered in blood and often slipped on the
gore underfoot.

Valleur
attacked and defended in every nook of Menllik. The city was aflame
and the elements in disarray. They fought for their lives, their
families, their city, their way of life, and it made them strong,
but they were outnumbered and wondered how long before death
claimed them.

On the steps
of Linir, Vannis, and Tristamil protected each other’s flanks.
Tristamil’s blue sword was a beacon to many Valleur in the vicinity
- they glanced his way occasionally to take heart from that surreal
light. If this prince of the realm could fight, they would not
surrender either.

Vannis, for
his part, was a genius. He was not unmarked, but unless a rain of
stones flattened him he would not be stopped. Still, even he saw
where the battle headed. As grim as every Valleur, he fought on. He
did not mind dying, but Tristamil had his entire life ahead of
him.

Change did
come, and the fortunes of war did shift.