The Kallanon Scales (72 page)

“I aim to
offer it.”

“Excuse me?”
Caltian burst out.

Vannis
laughed. “They cannot know of the enchantment!”

“It’s risky,”
Taranis muttered.

“They may fall
for it,” Bartholamu murmured, eyes bright.

“If I may make
a suggestion, Enchanter?” Quilla said. “We do have a dead Dragon on
our hands.”

Taranis
laughed first. “Toss him at the Murs?”

Quilla ruffled
his feathers. “Something like that.”

We are
brothers.

~ Siric to
Murs, before the war meant to end all wars

Grinwallin
Plateau

T
he Murs leader paced.

His name was
Paularith and he found himself in a quandary.

This siege was
an extremely bad idea. They gifted the enemy time to recoup and
strategize. Contrary to his deputies’ beliefs, he thought a few
could do great damage to the many, particularly when the many were
visible and tightly bunched.

When did the Murs become a democracy that I stand here like
an idiot with my hands tied waiting on an enemy?
He raised his colourless gaze to the
heavens.
This weather does not help. We
should have attacked yesterday while we had the upper hand.
He wondered again at the ominous quaking through
the plateau the night before. Something happened inside that
secretive mountain,
and we continue to
stand here idle.

He stretched
his wings and narrowed his eyes. He could discern tiny figures
where the ruins vanished into the rock, but the lowering cover
began to obscure them. If it kept up the Dragon-man and his cohorts
could be upon them and they would not know the enemy had come.

He turned to
his deputy. “Pentas, we cannot afford to wait longer. I have a bad
feeling.”

“I begin to
feel likewise.”

You said nothing and would have said nothing until it was too
late.
“Council!” Paularith commanded and
his seven other deputies detached from the ranks and closed in. “We
send the Mysor into the city to prepare the way.”

They agreed.
Sometimes the same feeling of foreboding could come to many.

“Mysor! Your
orders are to enter the city forthwith! Kill anything you find!”
Paularith shouted, knowing any distinction he made now would only
confuse those tiny brains. He cared not about wildlife anyway, it
could all perish. They would lose time if the Mysor halted to
destroy a flower, but that time would be less than explaining a
distinction between that kind of life and the lives of the enemy,
this he knew well from experience. “Go to it now!”

As one, the
arachnids stepped forward. Clicking and hissing, they moved
inexorably on.

“The
Dragon-man will not be afraid of them,” Pentas murmured.

“No, but I am
sick of the sight of them.”

The Mysor
reached the great stairs and there milled in confusion. The front
ranks were unable to find purchase for their eight legs and fell
over, creating havoc in the process.

Pentas cursed
and commanded a Murs unit to lay in the ramp they brought with
them. This took time, as the arachnids had to be countermanded to
retreat and toppled spiders removed.

Eventually the
ramp was in place.

The Mysor
entered Grinwallin through the huge entrance.

Portico

“The Mysor have
entered the second tier,” Caltian reported.

“This is a
waste of time,” Torrullin frowned.

“I can do what
you did on the beach.”

“Be my
guest.”

Caltian
smacked fist to palm and vanished. Moments later they heard an
almighty shriek before eerie silence reigned, and Caltian returned
with a grin on his face.

“There is a
pool on the second tier now unfortunately choked with tiny spiders,
but I am sure we can clear that away later.”

Vannis
laughed. “Well done.”

Torrullin
smiled.

Plateau

“The Mysor are
done with,” Pentas murmured. His colourless eyes flicked restlessly
until his leader reprimanded him. “Apologies, Paularith, but what
now? That delayed nothing!”

“I know. The
alternative is to attack.”

He gave the
command.

Portico

“Attack
formation,” Bartholamu reported. “It seems they tire of
waiting.”

“Then it is
time,” Torrullin said. He, Vannis, Taranis and Quilla commenced an
inaudible mutter.

The air turned
cold, not breathable, but it was short-lived, for the mighty Dragon
materialised from the cavern to appear upon the open space of the
adjacent tier, and the air returned to normality.

“Crikey, he is
huge,” Taranis muttered in awe.

“I have never
seen such a large Dragon,” Abdiah said and could not look away. “So
beautiful.”

Neolone’s blue
scales appeared polished in the gloom and overlapped each other
perfectly. They appeared malleable, not hard and sharp as would be
expected. He was unscarred and possessed a fluidity of form that
bespoke agility. His long tail lay curled over huge haunches and
one claw hand clutched the stump of the other to his breast. The
slit over his heart revealed how he was felled.

“Such a pity,”
Abdiah murmured and there were tears in her eyes.

Torrullin was
riveted by the arrow-like protrusion at the end of the Dragon’s
tail. How many times had that not flicked over his shoulder? He
swallowed and glanced at Vannis to find his grandfather studying
the mighty form with a similar expression. He looked up and the two
locked gazes.

“I shall miss
the tradition,” Vannis said finally.

“I shall miss
him,” Torrullin whispered. “What happened to the tiny Dragon on
your wrist?”

“Gone.”

“The Valleur
and their symbols.”

“Not much left
now.”

“We have the
Oracles and the Throne.”

“And perhaps
they will eventually pass as well.”

“But not
today, Vannis,” Torrullin said and inhaled, an act of cleansing. He
slapped his thigh. “Fine, let us do this!”

Abdiah
signalled, and eight Dragons flew down to lift Neolone. Grunting
and panting, they levered him into the air, and turned laboriously
for the plateau.

“We agreed.
You stay here,” Torrullin said. “We are insulting them by going
alone. This is for Bartholamu and me.”

Plateau

“What is that?”
Paularith’s hand paused in the act of signalling the attack.

“Appears to be
Dragons,” a deputy murmured.

Fear froze all
hearts. Was the Dragon free? In his freedom, was he as foretold?
Yesterday’s flyover flattened them; what if they came to join with
this great evil? Not merely one Dragon, then, but many?

Paularith thought quickly. Could he strike a bargain and
could he do it before they blasted into oblivion?
Will I have time? What can I offer?

“There are
eight Dragons,” Pentas commented, “and they appear to be carrying
another.”

Paularith went
cold again and he stared up. Had Dragons come to battle a Dragon,
and won?

“We can take
them, Paularith,” Pentas said.

“No.”
Paularith saw beyond the slow moving forms. “The Dragon-man is with
them, and the Lumin Siric.”

“They keep
pace with the burden, we can take them!”

“I said
NO
.
This is no longer a democracy! I am leader and you will obey
or
you
will be
obliterated! Understood? All this fannying about lost us advantage
and we shall recoup what we can! I give the word! I am leader! Is
there anyone who would deny me? Speak!”

Nobody said anything and Paularith nodded in satisfaction. He
gave his attention to the approaching spectacle.
Perhaps they have come for terms, to lift the
siege. Perhaps the siege is not too ill conceived.

Perhaps it was
not terms. The eight Dragons halted above the open space recently
vacated by the now extinct Mysor and released their burden. A great
blue Dragon plummeted to earth and, when he landed, the entire
plateau shuddered, much like the quake of the previous night. The
Dragons departed and Torrullin and Bartholamu landed before the
fallen creature.

“We would
talk!” Bartholamu shouted in Siric.

“Excellent,”
Paularith muttered. “Some good news at last. Pentas, you and Jinio
hear what they have to say.” When Pentas hesitated, his leader
added, “I can appoint a new deputy.”

Pentas nodded
and gestured for Jinio to join him.

Bartholamu
stepped up, placing himself between Torrullin and the Murs. “We
have come to speak with your leader.”

“He has sent
us to hear your terms,” Pentas said, coming to a stop. His eyes
went to the Dragon.

“No terms,” Bartholamu said, looking over the Murs shoulder
to study the leader. White-hot fury erupted in his gut.
Him!

“Then why are
you here?”

“We would speak with your leader,” Bartholamu ground out and
his gaze challenged Paularith.
Do you know
me?

Paularith
heard nothing, but came forward nonetheless. “Speak!”

Bartholamu
quivered, and Torrullin’s heavy hand descended onto his shoulder.
“Calm, my friend.” Torrullin passed the Siric and stood before the
Murs leader. Pentas and Jinio flanked Paularith. “Do you know who I
am?”

“You are the
Dragon-man.”

“Beyond
that.”

Paularith’s
fingers curled in an irritated need to strike. “You are the
Vallorin and your name is Torrullin.”

“Correct.”
Torrullin began to undo the laces of his tunic- a tunic
deliberately chosen to delay the moment and build suspense. All
eyes went to his hands. “And considering you know the prophecy and
have sent murderers to my world because of it, what do you know
about the host of the Dragon?”

The Murs
continued to stare at those nimble fingers. “You carry him on your
chest. Until now he has been the symbol of the Vallorinship.”

“Right again,”
Torrullin smiled. He felt Bartholamu’s simmering anger and wondered
at it. He jerked the laces out and let them fall to the ground.
Using both hands, he exposed his unmarked chest. “What does this
tell you?”

“You are not
the Dragon’s host!”

“You are a bit
slow, Murs leader. You know my face, you followed my signature. You
are encamped on this plateau due to my presence. Why deny who I am
now?”

“But there is
no Dragon!” A finger pointed at Torrullin’s chest.

Torrullin
merely smiled.

Paularith drew
a comprehending breath and his gaze shifted to the massive Dragon.
“Is he dead?”

Torrullin
smiled again and bent to retrieve his laces. With studied
unconcern, he commenced rethreading them. “He is very dead.” His
attention was on his fingers.

“Last night,”
Jinio breathed. “The quake.”

“And an
unnatural shiver in the etheric currents!” Pentas blurted out.

Paularith
glared the two into submission and admitted, “He died last
night.”

“Yes.”
Torrullin drew his tunic closed and allowed his hands to fall.

“You killed
him?” Paularith was cautious.

Torrullin did
not answer. He would not lie, but he needed the Murs leader wary.
He smiled.

“And you have
come to tell us this, why?”

“To
show
you it is over. There is no reason for Murs to hold siege now
and there is no reason to continue the destruction of Atrudis.”
Torrullin’s expression was unreadable.

Paularith
said, “We have waited long to finish this. And we cannot afford for
you and yours to hound us if we simply bow out.” He smirked. “We
shall leave, but after we have dealt with you and whoever is inside
Grinwallin’s mountain.”

Bartholamu
growled and Torrullin lifted his hand. “Peace, Bartholamu.” He
studied the Murs. “What you say is true. Bartholamu alone, being
Lumin Siric, will ensure the means to destroy you, to lay the ages
of strife between you to rest. However, there is … what is your
name?”

The change in
direction caught Paularith off guard. “Excuse me?”

“I would know
whom I speak with.”

“I am
Paularith the Second.”

Bartholamu
made a sound in his throat and stepped forward. Torrullin laid a
detaining hand on his arm. “Bartholamu, please.”

“Torrullin,
his father led the final battle between Murs and Lumin! His father
murdered my mother!” Bartholamu’s glorious wings unfurled and he
glared murder at the Murs, pale eyes flashing.

“You are the
Lumin Leader!” In answer to the challenge of those wings, Paularith
spread his. They were nearly identical, with turquoise the dominant
hue in each. “Now I am certain none of you will leave here
alive!”

Torrullin
raised his voice, “We shall not be touched, Paularith. And,
Bartholamu, the sins of the father cannot be visited upon the
heir.”

Bartholamu
looked at the Enchanter in astonishment. “You particularly know how
it works! In our line of work it is all one!”

“I refuse to
believe that,” Torrullin murmured, yet knew there was a profound
truth in Bartholamu’s words. Longevity changed the rules. “Please
stand down.”

For long
loaded moments the impasse continued before Bartholamu’s wings
furled. “For now, Murs, but you and I are not done.”

“One on one,
Lumin, you can count on it!” Paularith snarled and allowed his
wings to resettle.

Torrullin
fidgeted with his laces, taking a moment to think. A one on one
confrontation could work to their advantage. “Paularith, I shall
make you a deal.”