The Kallanon Scales (61 page)

“Not from you!
He won’t thank you for becoming a zombie!” Matt sat on the Valleur
and followed Krikian’s desperate gaze.

Tristamil
appeared lifeless. He faced the wall on his knees with arms limp at
his sides. His streaked hair clung damply and scorch marks scored
his clothing, evident even against the black.

The
inscriptions remained, glinting.

Krikian knelt.
Someone would have to tell this man’s father.

The multitude
crept forward to take up their silent vigil. Expectancy returned,
heightened.

Krikian
shouted, on his feet to face the crowd. “What is the matter with
you? Can you not see he is catatonic? How morbid are you? Suggest a
way to get him out!”

The old
greybeard Tristamil spoke with earlier rose and came forward.
“Peace, friend. Sit. Wait.”

“No! He is my
Lord’s son!”

“He is aware
and will return to us.”

Krikian swung
around, but could see no change. “Did he move, Matt?” The Xenian
shook his head. “You lie, old man!”

“Look closely.
Come this way, where you can see his eyes.” The old one clasped
Krikian’s hand and tugged him to the left.

Tristamil’s
eyes moved slowly; he was reading, deciphering the inscriptions on
the wall.

“Krik?” Cat
called.

“He is all
right.”

Thus, along
with the gathered, the three travel companions to Tristamil
waited.

It was
runic.

Nemisin
developed his secret writing before the symbiosis with Neolone and
recorded his hidden knowledge in the Oracles, but Torrullin never
revealed it to his warring sons. Those runes held the key to future
scrying, the key to invisibility and the means to reincarnate
immortality.

Was it
Nemisin’s runes on the wall? By some magical transposition?
Tristamil could not tell.

This was for
him to decode and the only surety he had it was indeed his to do,
was being there, seeing it, and a long ago scrying, when his father
saw images of runes upon a wall.

He lost
cognisance of his surroundings. Not a sound intruded and even
breathing was secondary.

At first, it
was gibberish. It definitely had meaning, a message, a telling, a
spell, and he was in ignorance. He traversed line after line
repeatedly before he noticed the pattern. A repetitive symbol,
every ninth character and, after it, alternately, two symbols. What
did it mean? He found the scrutiny easier, less stressful, and once
he released tension, understanding flowed, and he saw the
characters not as symbols, but as words. Where the understanding
came from, he could not say, but inferred ancient magic.

He paled more
as the meaning came to him.

As each word
was committed to memory, they vanished, and he was entirely unaware
of the breathless tension in the waiting. His grey eyes rested long
on the final symbol, in the centre, and then he nodded. Done.

“Tris!”
Krikian shouted as Tristamil keeled over senseless.

“Wait,”
Greybeard admonished.

They waited the
remainder of that day, through the night.

Tristamil did
not move; he lay as fallen, head at an odd angle.

He breathed,
however, and his expression was peaceful, as if in real sleep.

The wall was a
wall, blue-grey and featureless. The boundary retracted as the
final symbol vanished.

Morning
arrived. The day promised vile weather.

Tristamil
groaned and sat up, stretching muscles. He rubbed his face and
twisted his neck. “Gods, do I ever hurt all over.” Recollection
flooded in. He froze, staring at the wall.

“My Lord, are
you all right?” Krikian asked.

Tristamil
dragged his gaze from the stone, relieved it was normal. He looked
over the multitude through the gloom of morning drizzle. “I am
fine. How long?”

“It’s a new
day,” Matt said.

Cat shook
herself awake much like her namesakes would.

Tristamil
stood a time in thought, rubbing the back of his neck, and stepped
over the marking. On the outside, he murmured inaudibly. “The wall
holds no danger. You may now approach at will.” He strode away
without looking back.

In a clearing
beyond, he raised hands to shout, “Let there be heat and shelter
and a repast fit for the kings of old!”

A huge bonfire
erupted to drive away the chill, and a massive structure arose
around it to waterproof the heavens in an increasing downpour, and
along the perimeter of the structure there appeared tables with all
manner of food and drink.

Amazed, the
gathered hustled in and questions were for the present
forgotten.

Tristamil
retreated from the noise, stepping out into the rain. There were
tears on his cheeks, but no one noticed.

Except Cat.
The rain was to hide his pain, she knew, and thus did not follow
when he turned swiftly and vanished from view. She did not draw the
others’ attention to his going, knowing instinctively he needed,
above all else, to be alone.

The Priest had
a new journey.

Tymall was no
longer the promise he showed at his Coming-of Age.

He was no
longer the strong warrior under Camot’s guidance.

The tortured
young man that fought demons in an altered reality was gone.

He was no
longer the alter ego to his twin.

The dark
presence that recognised him first as an unborn usurped every
willingness to hear the voices of reason. To that presence, he now
owed his allegiance.

Gradually the
manifestation that was the essence within gained supremacy.
Tymall’s soul was the Darak Or’s; what did it matter whose voice
uttered words? Where, after all, was the difference?

Margus laughed
in silence. Foolish boy. He had not the stomach for true evil.

Tymall went
into hiding.

It was the
ultimate revenge.

Tymall did not
witness Tristamil’s reckoning at the wall, but Margus did. He had
not the wherewithal to know what the twin read there, but
understood the young man sought him. He was not searching for his
brother.

Margus
prepared.

He sought the
Enchanter.

Luck presented
to him on a golden plate.

Neolone, the
Dragon many desired to terminate or control, grew agitated and loud
when the Enchanter set foot within the ruins of Grinwallin.

And was
heard.

Far away, the
Lady of Life stirred from her long reverie as the bells of doom
tolled.

Shock upon
shock awaited her returning awareness.

She, too,
prepared.

Chapter
56

Time’s
timekeeper is awake

~ Torrullin

Grinwallin

G
rinwallin.

Armies could
muster on the huge plateau before it. It was an eminently
defensible domain. The eastern edge of the plateau gave way to a
steep incline and there Grinwallin perched, partly on the mountain,
mostly within the ancient rock.

The incline
was the first of many as the plateau marched into hostile
mountains. Hemming the ruined city was impenetrable forest. An army
could lose itself amid the trees. Massive cloud formations hid
unfriendly peaks.

Grinwallin was
a private and mysterious place.

Who built this
fortress?

The city was
of epic proportion. Caltian’s estimation to Camot back in the
wilderness was off target, the walls were not two men high, they
were closer to ten, and exceeded that once, given the evidence of
fallen stone. The ruins spread across the entire incline, and rose
up in multiple tiers before vanishing into the ancient rock.

The company
stood awed at the foot of worn stairs that led up to a colossal
arch balanced on gigantic pillars. Huge silver hinges hung askew on
either side.

Drawing
reverent breaths, they commenced the climb to the entrance of the
forgotten city.

At the top,
they faced the way they came and were astonished by the panoramic
view. It was certainly not easy to approach unseen, and the thought
caused them hurriedly to face the city. It felt as if they were
watched.

Stepping
through the arch, Torrullin noticed a slot between the pillars and
in the shadows discerned iron spikes - a portcullis to protect the
great gates, perhaps from battering rams. Why this fortification,
if not for war? Once people died here.

It was on a
scale few built in the present. Nothing suggested technology,
everything reeked of antiquity and the terrain was as much the city
as was the spectacular view. Grinwallin was akin to a Valleur
sacred site, built of power to tap power to be power. It was
staggeringly solid and no modern city planners could afford to
build in this manner; the cost would cripple governments.

Old stairs led
to level upon level. Chambers on the lower floors of homes were
relatively intact. Grinwallin appeared reparable, if one had the
wealth to do so. Creepers crept down walls, and bright flowers
peeped out of crevices in the paved ways.

Flowers,
Caltian remarked in a hushed tone, found nowhere on Atrudis.

Geckoes ran skittishly from the intruders and varieties of
birds were inadvertently disturbed, from majestic eagles to the
tiny forest dwellers. The latter made the overwhelming presence of
Grinwallin bearable. It meant it
had
been abandoned a long time
ago.

More at ease,
they went on.

Tier after
tier they climbed and came eventually to the multi-arched area
where the city entered the mountain. An old vine twisted about an
ancient portico and the flagstones underfoot were slippery with
bird droppings. Darkness lay within.

Night
approached, and Torrullin thus halted the journey of discovery.

“Tomorrow we
investigate further. Now we need rest.”

He led them to
where he earlier noticed an intact suite of rooms. The stone floors
were soft with years of gathered leaves and it was warm inside. It
had the added advantage of a balcony that afforded view over the
city below, as well as part of the plateau.

Nightfall
would obscure an intruder, but there were other ways of watching.
The feeling of being watched had not abated. Perhaps it was the
sense of history, but Torrullin wondered who would really do the
observing that night.

It was the end
of the Dragon-man’s twentieth day on Atrudis.

“Dare we light
a fire?” Caltian asked, sinking to the floor under a west-facing
window.

“Those who
need to know already know we are here,” Torrullin said. “A fire is
neither here nor there now.”

“Neolone,”
Abdiah sighed.

“He put up
quite a hue as we walked under the great arch,” Torrullin conceded.
“The players will be here soon.”

Caltian
stretched his legs. “When?”

“That will
depend on how Grinwallin is regarded. We watch and listen.”

“Grinwallin is
entrancing,” Caltian said.

“It’s
beautiful,” Bartholamu said. “Here a tale begs unravelling.”

“Well, if the
players know we are here,” Vannis drew attention, “I say we eat
well.”

Torrullin
grinned. “What would be your pleasure?”

“This, folks,
is the real reason we have an Enchanter along. Watch now. I request
baked bread, salted butter, grilled fish and stir-fried vegetables,
and Aaru help you if you leave out the solé wine!”

Torrullin rose
and waved his hand over the central area of the abandoned chamber
to bring forth exactly what Vannis ordered, along with fruit and
wafting pudding. The feast materialised on a linen cloth
accompanied by porcelain plates and pewter goblets and cutlery.

A merry hour
followed. A fire flickered in one corner, candles placed for
festive effect; it was bliss and conversation was light-hearted and
carefree.

Her Majesty
Abdiah, eighty-sixth of the title, proceeded to get tipsy and told
hilarious anecdotes.

It could not
last.

Ere the hour
was out a loud hail sounded. “Intruders! Why are you here?”

Vannis spit
out peach preserve, drawing his sword as he stood.

At the
entrance Torrullin peered into the darkness.

“Not a known
enemy,” Bartholamu whispered at his shoulder.

Vannis took up
position opposite with Caltian crowding the wall behind. The
remaining soldiers assumed defensive positions, with one stamping
out the fire, others snuffing candles. Phet and Quilla vanished
through a window, and Abdiah barged out, breathing fire to shed
light into the dark.

Vannis hurtled
after her.

There was
nothing and Abdiah’s challenging grunts went unanswered. Somewhat
deflated, she ceased. “Well, that was a waste of fire.”

She ambled
back, her nostrils two glowing points in the dark. She loosed a
shriek and the embers of her fire took a downward swoop as if
plunging sideways.

“Show
yourself!” Torrullin yelled as the ground shook with the weight of
a Dragon’s unchecked fall.

“The beast is
unhurt, barring its pride.”

It was a male
voice, accented.

“I cannot find
a comparison,” Bartholamu murmured.

“You are
intruding. Why do you dare now? It has been a thousand years since
we last chased the curious away.”

We
, Torrullin noted. “I thought you
said you had been here,” he whispered at Caltian.

“Not inside,”
the Atrudisin murmured. “I am not that mad.”

A thousand
years since Grinwallin proper was entered. The city felt far older,
and yet the ruins belied that, for the decay appeared merely
centuries old. There was a symbiosis and this was the voice to
it.

“We mean no
harm to this wondrous city,” Torrullin said, stepping out. He
sheathed his sword. “For surely Grinwallin was once the fairest of
all cities.”