The Dreamer Stones (16 page)

“My lab
rat.”

Tannil was
disgusted, although the things were at least not horrible to look
at, and he was also fascinated. He could not tear his gaze away. He
watched closely as the metalloid bug sped silently towards the
cage, saw the rat sitting placidly unaware - a rodent possessed
highly developed instincts - and then drew his lips back in shock
when the bug sped into the soft flesh of the rat’s abdomen to
vanish internally. The rat squealed once and then sat on as if
nothing had happened.

“See? The
Horde won’t even realise they’ve been invaded. A small sting, if
that, and it’s done. The bug is inside and begins to fulfil its
purpose.” Margus showed no triumph; rather he wore the guise of a
satisfied scientist.

“How long?”
Tannil asked in an undertone.

“Minutes for
the majority, half hour for stronger constitutions. Watch.”

Tannil, no
stranger to sorcery, watched and wished he were somewhere else.
Margus, to his credit, did not launch into a blow-by-blow account;
Tannil almost wished he would, for imagination was a potent
imager.

The bugs
burrowed in, their entry points the soft flesh, but where the way
was thwarted they could chew through bone if necessary. It was
unstoppable once in motion. Internally, the bug targeted organs,
and darklings had those, the work swift and painless until it
reached the soft, bubbly tissue of the lungs, where its task was to
end, and pain came at last to the victim.

The rat
squealed, thrashed and spit blood.

When the
victim died, suffocating in its own blood, the bug ceased to
function.

The rat
stilled, held in an upright position due to the confines of the
cage. Blood dripped from its mouth and bubbled through tiny
nostrils.

“Inhumane,”
Tannil muttered. Lords above, what if these bugs sought other
victims or, finding no target, could not be shut down?

“The Horde
isn’t human, Vallorin, and don’t possess souls to torment the
invisible realms. This way innocent life is spared without having
to enter into a bloody battle on many fronts. You are concerned
they will mistake targets? Understandable. They are programmed to
sense evil intent; if they therefore attack a man on the ground we
should thank them. The rat, of course, had no concept of evil, but
it was targeted by me.”

Tannil glared.
Were they gods now to judge in such a manner? Still, and his gaze
grew thoughtful; there was something to be said for the Darak Or’s
wry comment. The last thing they needed was evil in other guises.
“Do you have enough?”

“Three per
darkling.”

“How quick to
manufacture more? In the event the darklings send reserves?”

“A hundred per
minute. They cannot hope to win by numbers. They will not escape.”
The Darak Or saw Tannil’s strange look. “I have no love for them
either. No souls, what use that? My soltakin were better, more true
to sentient nature, although in the end not as effective.”

“How do you
send them off?”

“This is where
I need you. I shall activate in batches, giving them co-ordinates
…”

“Which I must
supply.”

“Right. Some
regions are prime targets, thus we can anticipate and send the bugs
in advance, an ambush, but in areas they already attack, we need
specifics.”

Tannil nodded.
“Then I require someone to supply a count.”

“I hadn’t
thought of that. Declan? Where is he?”

“No doubt in
the thick of the worst attack - I’ll call him.”

Moments later
the Siric joined them, one wing dragging, his white one-piece in
tatters, revealing his pale body, scratched, nicked, but blue blood
was in evidence also, darkling blood.

“Where is the
fighting so heavy?” Tannil asked, looking him over.

“I’m fine,
yes, thanks for asking,” Declan muttered, inhaling one breath after
the other, hand over heart. “Galilan. As always.”

“Belun?”

“Farinwood.
Second in ferocity. He’s fine, too.”

“Declan, I’m
sorry …”

“No, I am. Why
did you call?”

Tannil
gestured at the suspended veils of metalloid bugs. “We’re ready. If
you can supply a reasonably accurate count at each attack point and
I give the co-ordinates, Margus can programme and dispatch.”

The Siric
bent, hands on knees, expelling and drawing more air. “Yes, I see.
Have you seen them work?” His voice was an upside down muffle.

“Yes. Not too
bad to witness, until the end. It will be traumatic for …”

“Not half as
traumatic as what they’re going through now,” Declan said,
straightening. He glanced at Margus for the first time. “Never
thought I’d say this, but I’m glad you’re aboard.”

Margus
inclined his head without expression.

Declan sighed
and turned to Tannil. “Let’s do this.”

Valarians
fought with their hearts where strength failed.

Bright swords
parried yellow sorcerous blades. Rusty swords did the same. Knives,
staves, branches, planks, iron rods, broomsticks.

The Valleur
fought with them, employing sorcery and sword.

The Horde’s
focus and number overwhelmed them. In days of past the Darkling
Horde took great sport in slow killing; not so now. They killed,
and moved onto the next victim. It was ethnic cleansing, a
holocaust in the making. These darklings grew from a remnant group
of survivors after the time the Enchanter nearly obliterated them.
They escaped Valaris before he killed what he believed was the last
out in the Western Isles, and they engendered a new darkling. These
were single-minded, and did not permit resistance to sway them.

Hungry, ill,
afraid, Valarians fought with all they had. In every city, town,
village, hamlet, at every farmhouse. Those quick enough to hide
were dragged out before long. It had been but half hour.

Another half
hour and the Horde would be forever victorious.

A number from
Declan shadowed Tannil’s rapid co-ordinates.

Margus worked
feverishly to keep pace, sending out batch after batch of his
killer bugs. They did not see how he did it; there was no time for
that. Gradually the room emptied.

Tannil’s pace
lessened and Declan was able to open his eyes.

Then they were
silent.

Two
floor-to-ceiling rows waited.

“Those?”
Tannil croaked.

“Those we take
with us,” Margus said. “They are for single skirmishes, the ones we
find only if we go looking.”

“He’s on the
mark, Tannil,” Declan said, rising from the floor. “Let’s do
it.”

In Farinwood,
that old, stone city of pastureland beauty, the streets resounded
with screams and metallic clashes.

An atmosphere
of dread, fear and hopelessness pervaded the old alleys and ways.
Children crawled into impossibly small spaces to be hauled out,
screaming, then forever silent. Women rent the heavens with cries
of grief, and were soon as soundless. Men and Valleur fought on
grimly, ignoring the horror to secure survival. Of the dead
underfoot, hardly one was a darkling.

Belun, last
Centuar, fought in his true form, and around him darklings littered
the cobbled square. His companions, human, Valleur, took heart.

“Come, you
motherless creatures!” Belun roared at the top of his considerable
Centuar lungs. “Feel my sting!”

They came, and
Belun fought each with terrifying ferocity. In a brief respite he
growled at a Valleur, “Where’s your famous tricks, Valleur?
Weather, complete dark, power pulses? For pity’s sake!”

The Valleur -
Belun would never learn his name - stumbled closer. “We try,
Centuar, they prevent.”

Belun whirled
as another darkling swirled, kicking up his razor heels. A moaning
creature fell out of the sky. “Are you telling me these stupid
things have learned? Dear gods, they assimilate previous countering
moves?”

“And it
becomes intrinsic defence.”

“We must come
up with something new.”

“If you think
of it, I’m right behind you …” and the Valleur swung away, sword
raised.

Unexpectedly
there was the sound of a multiple … squeak?

Belun lifted a
blood-streaked head and stared up. There was nothing to see. The
darklings renewed their attack. Time was running out. Thundering a
loud morale-boosting cry, the Centuar sprang into renewed
action.

A darkling
dropped to the ground before him, eyes rolling backward in pain,
the excruciating and life threatening kind. Blood streamed from its
nose, blue blood, thick and fast, like a dam burst under
pressure.

Belun stared
at it first in horror, wondering what new wickedness was a-foot,
and then in fascinated amazement, realising the creature was not
acting - it was, in fact, in mortal danger.

And then it
was dead.

Belun blinked.
Another stumbled and one beside it collapsed. Another moaned,
clutching its chest and another gargled. And all showed the same
symptoms. An abrupt weakening, the collapse, pain in the chest, and
then their blood poured from nose and mouth, transparent throats
showing a thick rope of pulsing blue. It was ugly.

And it was
beautiful.

Belun began to
laugh and then danced a jig. “People, see them die! The Enchanter’s
little trick has come into play!” Actually, it was the Darak Or’s,
but they did not need to know that.

Twenty minutes
later Farinwood was free of darklings.

Fifty minutes
later the entire continent was cleansed, but for individual
skirmishes, and they were dealt with by nightfall.

Not one
darkling survived.

In the lantern
lit courtyard at Torrullin’s Keep the celebration was muted but
real.

Margus sat in
the shadows, watching. Many thanked him in the past two hours and
it was new to him, this appreciation. He sighed and wondered where
Torrullin was. With him he could be honest, but not with these.
With Torrullin he could bay at the moon, lay bare his soul and be
understood.

This day he
did a good deed.

It felt
wrong.

Tymall slept
with Fay tossing restlessly beside him.

Cloud had
covered the sky for the first time since she came, a welcome sight,
but one to make her homesick, and perhaps that was why she was
fidgety this night.

She turned
over and next to her Tymall groaned but did not wake, and she
opened her eyes. No sleep tonight. Rising, she went to the window.
Shifting aside the stained-glass panels, she peered through the
clear panes on the outside.

It was dark,
not a star in sight. The cloud cover had thickened and she wondered
if it portended rain.

She heard the
hammering on the metal doors below before he did, but when she
turned it was to see him sitting in bed, head cocked to one side,
listening. It continued to amaze how alert he was, even in deep
sleep.

“Something’s
wrong,” he said, getting up in a hurry and putting his robe on.
“Stay here.”

He pounded
down the stairs, leaving her to wonder why he needed to hear it
physically. An instant later she realised the darklings’
communication skills did not extend through the enchantments
surrounding the tower.

Fay walked
back to bed and sat, pushing tangled golden hair off her face and
smoothing her nightgown over her belly.

Tymall pounded
back up and by the sound of his breathing was furious.

She rose, lit
the candles, and turned as he paused on the step level with the
bedchamber.

His breathing
stilled. “The Horde sent to Valaris is annihilated.”

She
experienced a surge of joy, but was careful not to show it. “I
wasn’t aware you sent them.” A white lie - why else was the castle
deserted?

He grimaced.
“Well, I did, and now they’re gone. Margus, I would guess. Some
scheme he cooked up. Seems my father was right to bring the Darak
Or back.” He paused. “The darklings were meant as diversion!”

“You have
more,” she pointed out, wanting to ask what the diversion was
supposed to hide. She had no idea how many darklings he had in
reserve either.

“I can’t make
the same mistake twice, can I?”

She did not
say anything.

He frowned,
and then spoke as if she was not there. “But they’ll be analysing -
there’s still time …” He focused on her. “Fay, be patient with me.
I have to go somewhere.”

“Where?” Her
heart began to hammer.

“It doesn’t
matter.” He shrugged his robe off and snapped his Warlock finery
on.

“You’re going
for a Valla, aren’t you?” she whispered, clutching at the covering
as she sat.

He slapped his
staff into the palm of his hand, knuckles white around the curve.
“If I am, we agreed, right?” He approached and stood looking down
at her. “Are you having doubts?”

Fay stared up
at him. “Of course I am, Tymall. They are family, mine and yours,
whether you like it or not. I feel like a whore to my own
ambition.”

“But?”

“But I won’t
stop you or hold it against you,” she said and her head slowly
bowed under the weight of her conscience.

He smiled and
raised her head with a hand under her chin. Trebac sparked and he
lowered his frame until he could claim her lips. He kissed her hard
and then stepped away.

“I should be
back by daybreak, but certainly by midday.”

He
vanished.

She put a
trembling hand to her bruised lips and stood at the window. A flash
of faraway lightning. No sound of thunder.

Dear Goddess,
I shall see only the netherworld at the end of my life, without
doubt. I am as evil as he is.

Chapter
Fifteen

To reconnect
with an absent friend is the best tonic for depression.

Truth