The Nemisin Star (10 page)

Tristamil
snorted. “You enjoy a good fight, don’t you? Well, let us give them
one. I am spoiling for one myself.” He moved purposefully to the
exit.

Torrullin
followed, drawing his blade. He smiled, watching his son’s innate
confidence.
I would have chosen you, my son. I would die so that
you may live.

Ahead, a break
in Tristamil’s step, and then his shoulders straightened with pride
and he walked on.

Menllik

Torrullin’s
warnings resulted in Camot stationing soldiers about the perimeter
of the city.

Of the
approximately one thousand Valleur on Valaris, eight hundred were
of fighting age and fitness, of which fifty were detailed on a
rotational basis to the Keep and seven hundred were spread in units
across the land. It meant, practically, when the Vallorin evacuated
the city, two hundred-odd Valleur needed to be taken to safety,
most of those younger than twenty, and it meant he, Camot, held
back fifty handpicked men and women under his direct command.

While some
were boys below the Coming-of-Age ceremony, each was equal to ten
normal men in fighting skill and will. He was proud of them and
placed them strategically.

He had
somewhat disobeyed the brief. His Vallorin informed them of a
potential situation this night, of source unknown, but certainly
unfriendly, and asked that he keep his unit to hand to call upon at
a moment’s notice, but to hold them in waiting outside of the
city.

Camot took on
the task of troubleshooting and therefore so did his elite. On
Atrudis he frequently felt like a bystander, unable to offer his
Vallorin the necessary protection, and refused to do so now.

He brought
them in close and was himself inside Menllik. His was the duty to
protect the Vallorin. In this he had not only Kismet’s covert
support, but also Krikian’s solid agreement and, on the strength of
the latter’s foresight and having seen him as capable on Atrudis,
elevated him to his second-in-command. The Vallorin, he was aware,
would not like it.

Krikian and
Camot were ensconced on the upper level of the bell tower just to
the south of what was the heart of the city. Two soldiers guarded
the entrance below.

“There is
strangeness to the air.” Camot meant above an already odd and empty
atmosphere. “If I think back, this is how it felt before Margus
attacked Ardosia with his soltakin; that should have warned
us.”

“You were
familiar with peace, Camot; we all were,” Krikian whispered. He
felt it now. He felt it then.

“This time we
know, yes,” the war leader responded. “That creature will get what
is coming to him.”

They had a
clear enough view of Linir, although not directly to the stairs
leading up to it. All was quiet, supernaturally so. Torrullin and
Tristamil entered the temple a while ago, but there was no sign of
Tymall. Both men knew that meant little, for there were other ways
to travel, but were alert for him nonetheless.

It was
approximately forty-five minutes to Nemisin’s star.

“Maybe we
should get in closer,” Krikian whispered, wary as he was of the
silence.

“We would lose
our bird’s eye view,” Camot returned.

Sometimes one
had to compromise.

They waited,
and watched snow descend briefly to further whiten the streets and
saw it depart as swiftly, leaving the heavens cleared for the
auspicious star.

In the twenty
years since Linir’s completion and inauguration the star had never
been obscured by cloud. An omen of good fate.

It was eight
days after Full Moon, which meant that orb would only be at apex in
the wee hours of the night, and then it would shed little navigable
light. Both men wished fervently for a bright and solid moon, but
it was not to be, and they had to be content with the clarity of
stars in frigid air.

The city was
ethereal under its white covering, in its motionlessness. Not a
light shone from a window, not a fountain tinkled. Menllik slept
without her people, yet had never been more alive. There was a
pervasive nervousness, a sullen kind of quiescence that itched to
be roused into frenzy, all without source. What kind of frenzy,
from where, and who instilled it? It was this uncertainty that kept
Camot and Krikian alert.

Time wound
slowly around its clock. Nothing moved.

The shadows
were alive.

“I like this
not,” Krikian croaked.

Camot nodded
and the whites of his eyes were evident as he strained to pierce
every shadow, every corner. Instinct kicked in where magic failed;
something was definitely out there. Camot hoped to all high heavens
that his Vallorin knew what he was doing, because he, Camot, was
scared. He did not mind admitting that, if only in private. Only a
fool denied fear.

He did wonder
if this was at the Darak Or’s instigation, for he was not usually
this nervous. If Margus influenced the surrounds, then no wonder
the terror of the past. It sapped will. It engendered doubt.

And still time
wound, round and around.

Krikian
clutched at Camot, pointing. Movement. Straining, concentrating,
the movement did not materialise again, and all remained quiet.
Krikian’s fingers dug into Camot until he forcibly removed
them.

Both breathed
fast and hearts hammered. It was a feeling only, an intuitive
sensing of baneful power, but no less real. They could not see it
and yet it was there, and Camot hoped his troops coped. He dared no
contact.

If whatever
was down there desired to remain unseen, then so would he. If they
desired to surprise, well, then so would he, fear or not. They
waited.

Nemisin’s star
appeared.

“Well?” A
voice sounded, grating, unexpected.

Krikian
twitched and Camot hissed silently. It was not a voice known to
them and yet … what? Well-modulated, a slight inflection, and then
another voice intruded and this one both knew well. Tymall. Clearly
the meeting was about to commence.

“A symbiosis.
Harm my twin and the harm is mine also.”

The first
voice laughed. “Even unknowingly your father never does anything in
half measures. It seems your brother gets to live, my Tymall, until
we find a punishment that does not affect you.”

Gods. Camot
swore under his breath. The meeting had already taken place. They
were hearing the result.

“On the up
side, naturally, is the little reality that they dare not touch me
either.” There was a smirk in Tymall’s voice.

“Indeed. Very
useful.”

Camot and
Krikian looked at each other. Tymall and …

“My lord
Margus, they will be behind us any moment.” There was the smallest
thread of anxiety in Tymall’s tone.

The horror hit
home. Camot nearly groaned aloud. Tymall
and
the Darak
Or.

“With this
army about, sweet boy, they will not get far.”

Camot froze.
Army?
Where? Who? He glanced at Krikian to find him staring
fixedly towards the voices.

The blue glow
of Tristamil’s sword lit the whiteness surrounding the temple and
Torrullin challenged, “Come, Darak Or!”

Margus
laughed, “After what transpired inside, Enchanter? I think not, not
tonight. We can further our personal battles another time. Why play
the full hand with one throw? However, please stay and play with
your visitors. Come Tymall, let us leave them to it.” There was a
brief disturbance in the etheric and they were gone.

Torrullin
swore.

Tristamil
said, “Can you track them?”

“No, and now I
wonder what he is really up to.”

“I see nothing
out here.” Tristamil sounded worried.

“They are
there.”

“We should
go.”

“We cannot
permit them to roam unchecked. They believe they have to fulfil
their oaths. They will not surrender easily,” said Torrullin.

“Then you
should go.”

“Your sword
may not be enough here, Tris.”

Camot and
Krikian raced down the bell tower stairs, heedless of noise. An
unseen army. Gods.

Torrullin
raised his voice, “Come on, what do you wait for?”

Tristamil
laughed. There was a world of tension in it, but there was also
anticipation. Hearing it, both Krikian and Camot breathed
easier.

As they hit
ground level running, they gripped the two soldiers there, both
wide-eyed and frightened, pulling them along. As they ran into the
streets Camot sent one north of the city, the other south, telling
them to bring reinforcements immediately. The two vanished with
alacrity.

“We have no
quarrel with humans,” a strange voice sounded. It was guttural and
low, sounding like the rumble of a wolf attempting to speak.

It sent
shivers down Camot’s spine and he laid a hand on Krikian to bring
them to a halt.

Caution
, he motioned with a chop of his hand.
Stealth. A
different enemy.

Krikian
swallowed hard and crept behind the war leader as they warily
approached the temple.

“And the
humans have no quarrel with the Dinor,” Torrullin replied.

Dinor?
Camot looked over his shoulder at Krikian, who was equally
ignorant.

“Where are the
Golden?” a second voice demanded, also a low-pitched growl.

Camot and
Krikian were taken from behind and trussed up so swiftly, dragged
before the temple steps so rapidly, they were still attempting to
sound warning as they were dumped there. Two well-placed kicks shut
them up.

“Ah, Golden.
Margus didn’t lie,” the first voice said.

Camot strained
up. There was no one there. His bowels quivered. It would be hard
to fight an invisible foe.

“What are
humans doing in the Golden city?” voice two demanded.

Dinor
materialised everywhere. From inside abandoned homes, all
buildings, from rooftops, standing along walls, gathered in rows in
open areas. Menllik was dark with a press of Dinor men. The snow
began to melt in the generated heat.

“Humans who
speak this vile tongue?” the first voice added.

Camot groaned
and received another kick. He lapsed into unconsciousness. All
Krikian could see from his limited vantage point - flat on his
stomach, face half-buried in pink snow - were Torrullin’s boots
descending the stairs to halt at his and Camot’s heads, and the
pervading blue glow of Tristamil’s sword.

Really stupid,
Krikian. How do I convince them to leave now with two Golden lying
at my feet?

Intention
unrealised murders creativity, but action conceived without due
thought imprisons choice. Think before you do and do as you
intend.

~ Scroll of
Wisdom

Menllik

T
he
urge to fight this enemy departed when the Dinor spokesman revealed
they had no quarrel with humans.

They had not
come to mete out death indiscriminately, and Torrullin’s mind moved
into negotiation mode. He and Tristamil would appear as human to
these, and thus there could be a way to turn them from this course,
until Camot and Krikian were dumped at the temple’s steps. Golden
hair and skin, and yellow eyes. Unmistakable. Both men were
trueblood.

Torrullin
motioned for Tristamil to remain on the platform.

“The Valleur
evacuated when they heard Margus was due,” he said, buying
time.

The Dinor were
an ugly people. Although short in stature, an average of about five
feet, they were brawny with heavy muscles. They were strong,
familiar with toil … or war.

More likely
was raiding, preying on each other, but united now in this quest,
absolution from an ancient oath. Generally swarthy, they were hairy
with bushy dark hair and full beards. Square faces, big noses with
flaring nostrils - also hairy - and deep-set eyes under protruding
brows. They were almost prehistoric in make-up, but their eyes
swiftly belied a primitive way of thinking, revealing they were
more than first appearances.

Not only were
the eyes sharp in intelligence, but also startling in colour. There
was not a pair of dark eyes among them; black irises encircled by
opal-coloured pupils so light it bled away into the white. There
was nothing prehistoric about it; these were the eyes of
sorcerers.

They wore
leather breeches and knee-high boots with blackened spurs - horse
riders or naturally vicious? Heavy fur coats, roughly worked and
smelly, enlarged already broad shoulders, and weighty scimitars
hung from a leather harness looped from one shoulder across their
barrel chests.

Some had drawn
these intimidating weapons, and the metal, too, was besmirched. It
seemed they had a liking of creeping up on the unsuspecting. The
besmirched metal would reveal no tell-tale glints. Also hanging
from the shoulder straps were huge horns, some of wood, others of
bone, and all daubed in camouflage.

The Dinor men
were accustomed to fighting. To let them loose on Valaris would be
unmitigated disaster.

They were
familiar with sorcery. How much was difficult to guess at, but
judging by their unseen waiting, the instantaneous and simultaneous
materialisation, and the fact that neither Torrullin nor Tristamil
sensed more than a mild signature - and then only because they were
forewarned - the Dinor had no mean degree of power at their
command.

A formidable
enemy.

“The Golden
fled because of Margus?” The Dinor spokesman laughed uproariously.
“That puling man strikes fear? I can’t believe that!”

“Then you do
not know who you deal with.”

“I am
Thumpheart the Brave! I know who I deal with!” the Dinor shouted
and thumped his chest.

Is that how
you got your name?
Torrullin wondered as he watched the meaty
fist bounce. “Universe over, Margus is known as the Darak Or. Do
the Dinor deal with the devil now?”