The Dreamer Stones (56 page)

“Legend be
damned,” Torrullin muttered.

“
Draithen
,” Lowen breathed. “The term conjures the
nightmares in the old tales.”

“Indeed, and
such are they,” Declan declared. “We didn’t know enough of the
realms beyond when we dispatched them, thus in reality we left the
whole sorry mess unfinished, giving them the gift of time.”

“There has to
be a leader,” Torrullin mused. “One on this side to open the door
to them.”

“Highly
likely,” Declan nodded. He was disconcerted Torrullin had not
reacted to his description of the draithen.

I have
encountered worse, Declan. It is not what they are that concerns me
- it is their number.

Forgive
me.

“Find the
leader and it stops?” Lowen said.

“Personally
I’d not like the draithen leaderless,” Declan declared after a
moment. “The possibility exists they could lose control and become
worse than they are now. The same concern we had before.”

“Therefore
your research is imperative,” Torrullin said. “Confer with the
Syllvan as soon as possible.”

“Dear gods,
man, how?” The Siric had been masters of the arcane, but Reaume was
beyond their ken.

“They know you
seek audience.”

“How? I
haven’t even thought that far ahead!”

Torrullin
shrugged. “I told them. Use a hypnotic-trance to reach them and
ensure your physical safety before you do.”

Declan just
prevented his mouth hanging open. So quick, so intelligent and so
ahead of the game. “I guess you’ll surprise us at every turn.”

Torrullin’s
eyes were unreadable. “I am able to do all I asked of each of you,
but I have neither the time nor the power to be in multiple places
at the same instant. Our effectiveness as a team lies in our unity,
our willingness, our loyalty, and our ability to delegate, which I
have not always found easy to achieve. Yes, I could scour for
answers to the shift we seek, but right now Valaris’s problems have
to take precedence.”

“I’ll do it,
count on it,” Declan said. He rose then and paused. A wry smile lit
his generally dour features. “Who’d have thought, eh, Torrullin?
Llettynn, bless his name, was very wary of Rayne, then intrigued,
later amazed … and proud. You proved more than anyone suspected
back then. It is good, right?”

“I hope so, my
friend.”

Declan nodded
and retreated.

An ogive
chimed as Belun left the Dome cradling the nuclear device. Jonas
stared after him and then turned to confer with the Siric.

“Lowen. Are
you ready?”

“No. What must
I do?”

Torrullin was
quiet for a time and then, “Thank you for …”

“I was
ineffectual. Quilla saved the day.”

She did not
want to be thanked. “Fine, Lowen, it’s done. I thank the gods,
however, it happened while I was with you.”

She looked up,
her eyes roaming before they settled on him. “What must I do?”

He drew
breath. “Submit.”

“To?”

“Me.”

She rose and
so did he. Her breathing shallow, she asked, “How do I do more than
I have already?”

His face was
expressionless, but a muscle worked along his left jaw. “Come into
my space and be mine.”

Her fingers
twitched and she hid them behind her back. She wandered the curved
length of the marble platform, rounded the end, then approached
along the inside curve, giving herself time for equilibrium. She
halted before him, looked him steadily in the eyes.
“Physically?”

“Words will
not do it.”

His silvery
eyes were strange and unsettling. She could read nothing in them.
“What then?”

His eyes
sparked. “Lowen, do not play games, not now. Lives are at stake.”
He drew breath and, “If you pull away, you will not pierce the seal
with me. The Throne requires this contact as proof.”

He did not
give her a chance to react. He drew her into his arms none too
gently, as if wanting to be done with an unpleasant task, and
kissed her.

She did not
resist, could not resist, and a moment later they felt the almighty
pull of the Throne together, as one, and as one dematerialised.

Chapter
Forty-Five

Men should not
play at gods. And naivety is no excuse.

Awl

Caballa stared
as two forms materialised on the dais before the Valleur seat, but
dared not find words when she saw who, and the manner in which they
arrived.

A moment later
Torrullin turned his back on Lowen and stepped off the dais.

It is not what
it seems, Caballa.

You do not
need to explain, Torrullin.
Aloud she said, “My Lord, you are
indeed a salve to our despairing souls.”

“Tell me,” he
commanded, taking her arm and leading her through to the dining
chamber. Lowen followed more slowly, her face stoic in its lack of
emotion, although two spots of colour adorned her pale cheeks.

“We sensed the
presence of evil from here and the Throne vibrated and hummed, a
warning we couldn’t decipher until it was too late. A storm
isolated us. When morning arrived with restored communication,
there was nothing we could do. Those soltakin-darkling things you
and Taranis … anyway, we believe it to be the same creatures.”

“They are
called draithen,” Torrullin interrupted.

A loaded
silence and then, “Of course they are. Legends come alive at a
finger click at present.”

A reluctant
smile tugged at Torrullin’s lips. “Continue.”

“Well, we have
the death-touch, this time immune to the elements, and we have
those horrible sorcerous blades the darklings love so much, and
there’s a different kind of magic we can’t yet counter. The death
toll is high, particularly in Galilan, Gasmoor, Farinwood and the
Vall Peninsula. All offworlders grounded by the weather have been
murdered, and seven travellers orbiting when the heavens closed
fell from the sky with total loss of life. We estimate there are
approximately eight hundred thousand.”

“Dear God,”
Lowen breathed.

“Their timing
was excellent,” Torrullin muttered.

“Indeed, as if
someone used the advantage. You were indisposed, the sites deep
cloaked and Tymall is absent. Currently, the only safe harbour is
Torrke and the valley is filled to capacity, with more arriving by
the minute. The valley provides food and shelter …”

“Yet the Keep
is silent,” Torrullin pointed out.

“Every Valleur
is out attempting aid - a man helped in the morning is generally
dead by nightfall - and many of our people have succumbed
also.”

“Saska?”

Caballa closed
her eyes briefly. “She was in Galilan when the storm struck. We’ve
had no word since. I’m sorry, my Lord.”

The silver
eyes stared unseeingly into space and then, “She is alive.” A
pause. “What of Samuel?”

Caballa
cleared her throat. Something was wrong with Saska. “Um, out in the
valley …”

“Where I
should be as well,” Lowen interrupted. “Torrullin, you should eat.
Quilla’s vaporous nourishment is sustaining …”

“… but not
filling, I know,” he said without looking at her. “I thank you for
your concern. You go ahead.”

Lifting her
brow at his formality, Lowen stalked from the chamber.

He did not
turn, but listened, really listened to her retreating footsteps.
Anger, confusion … desire. Aaru, not that. He rubbed his face and
looked at Caballa for immediate distraction.

She offered
it. “Your eyes are different. More silver than grey.”

“Final
change.”

“Lumin eyes.
Very appealing.”

“Thank you,
Caballa. How glad I am you can see.”

She smiled.
“Because I flatter you?”

Torrullin’s
eyes warmed, sensing her mind. “Maybe a little, yes. A man and his
ego.”

“Ah, my Lord,
you have nothing on a woman and her vanity!”

“True.”

Caballa,
having grown into womanhood without sight of herself in a mirror,
was the least vain woman he knew, and she was one of a mere handful
of truly, extraordinarily beautiful women.

Torrullin
smiled into her eyes, forgetting the outside world for a moment to
allow her to know that.

Touching her
cheek, Caballa grew serious. “How did it go?”

“Harrowing.
The worst ever.”

“I’m
sorry.”

“I block most
to function here. When the time comes for the Dome and Kaval,
hopefully I’ll cope then.”

“Why do the
good ones always get to shoulder the greater burden?” Caballa
murmured, frustrated with the fates.

“I am one of
the good ones, beautiful lady?” Torrullin teased, only half joking.
“I thank you for that.” His smile appeared again and he leaned
forward to kiss her cheek, and it deepened as he drew back. “Tell
me you’re not curious as hell.”

Her lips
twitched. “Avidly, I’m afraid.”

Torrullin
laughed outright.

“You’re not
going to tell me, right?”

Torrullin
shrugged. “No.”

Caballa
grinned and then shrugged as well. Apparently that kiss was either
much less than it appeared, to be something else entirely, or so
much more he dared not speak of it. Lowen’s lack of expression and
emotion … ah, well, better not to delve there.

“Now what, my
Lord?” She changed the subject.

Torrullin
lowered into a chair at the table. A basic repast was set for
anyone in need of a meal. He stared at the food awhile and then,
“Saska needs me, but it’s been thirty days since my last meal.
Gods, I’m starving. First I eat, then Saska. Then a draithen.”

Caballa shook
her head. “They came during the storm, during daylight, but didn’t
attack until nightfall and it’s been the same since then. Only at
night. The only draithen you may find now is a dead one, and even
that I seriously doubt.” She watched as he started to eat. Bread,
jam, cold tea.

Chewing, he
said, “Fine, I’ll await them, but in the meantime open the Keep to
refugees, particularly to the young displaced and the orphaned.
Samuel is good with the young, get him to help, and after that we
find a way to throw these creatures off our planet.”

“The skies are
closed.”

“There are
other types of exits.”

He was not
prepared for Armageddon and that was what lay in store.

It was
Judgement Day, the kind warned of in ancient religions, and it
enacted night after day after night.

Death and
torture during the cold, dark hours, and death and suffering to the
survivors during the cold, light hours. Corpses lay mutilated in
ditches, abandoned on muddy roads, broken under trees, in the stark
pre-winter fields. Bright spots of colour in the drab landscape,
even where the dead were clothed in natural hues, for the colour of
blood was everywhere. Limbs blue or so lacking in colour that only
the presence of blood revealed their mortal defeat. Men with young
children, groups of women, husbands with wives, boys as young as
four with stones wrapped forever in lifeless fingers. Useless
weapons and yet to the last they stood their ground.

Proud,
wonderful people.

A woman with a
half born baby nestled between blue thighs, her face pain-filled in
death. A boy gutted, his sister’s face forced in to drown in her
brother’s intestines and blood.

He could not
look anymore and that was only the rural areas. Terrible, true
evil, and a fraction of the atrocities waiting in the towns and
cities.

Hell. Hades.
Netherworld. Stygian cities. Dogs feeding on piles of bodies, lying
in accusing heaps of twisted limbs, torsos and heads, in recessed
doorways, caught in mid-flight on roads and streets, in the public
parks and squares. Bloated, unrecognisable remains choked the
rivers. Corpses dangled half out of windows, from balconies,
chimneys and bell towers. Others were impaled on fences, smashed
upon walls. Around the hospitals rings of relics - a ring just of
hands, young, old and between, a ring of feet, a ring of heads, a
ring of legs … gods. It was sickening in its premeditated effect,
and the violence that foreshadowed the placement. And the smell.
Overriding, overwhelming, nauseating, gut-wrenching. Everywhere.
Advanced putrefaction despite the cold that had seeped into the
earth, the stones, the air, and every animate and inanimate
thing.

Cats mewling
mournfully amid the horror stank like dead flesh cannibals.
Overturned, shattered furniture launched as defensive objects were
pervaded with the smell of death.

Puking out
everything he ate an hour earlier, Torrullin crouched upon the
boathouse jetty on the Galilan River. He vowed to avenge every
death, every horror. The draithen’s mysterious leader, whoever and
whatever he, she or it was unmasked, would know slow and painful
death. No return. Netherworld.

Shaking like a
man in fever, Torrullin hobbled into the boathouse - the door
ripped from its hinges - and rocked his way to the vessel in the
far gloom.

Bodies had
risen into the interior out of the depths and stank like wet rot. A
number of boats were smashed beyond repair. Something had breached
the bolt and sowed destruction.

Saska must
have been terrified beyond belief.

Reaching the
barge, he stepped carefully aboard not to frighten her, and found
her in a near catatonic state in an armchair. Hunger, thirst,
horror and debilitating fear, but she was unharmed.

She saw them
come, saw them break vessel after vessel maliciously, but they had
not seen or heard her. She barely reacted when he stood before her,
but when he cupped her face, huge, slow tears slid over her pale,
dirty cheeks.

“Come,” he
whispered, his heart twisting. “Come, my love.”

She gazed at
him, through him. “I did nothing,” she whispered.

“You are
alive, my love, and that is indeed a great feat.” He knelt before
her, but her eyes did not follow.