The Nemisin Star (15 page)

Valleur
Farspeakers spoke to Valaris’ human leaders, banging on doors in
the middle of the night with the news of the invasion by a foreign
army. Within an hour men gathered in public spaces in Galilan,
Gasmoor, Luan, Farinwood, Actar, Linmoor, Tetwan, Saswan, and many
smaller towns and centres.

It amazed the
Farspeakers how swiftly the humans gathered and how willing they
were to fight in the Valleur city, but this was their world also
and no one could guarantee the Dinor would stop at Menllik.

Valleur women
and younglings not in the battle were summoned to aid with
transporting many men into the fray. Men began appearing in numbers
among the weary combatants. They were fresh and, when they saw the
conditions in the city, they were fuelled by rage. Valaris did not
deserve hell again. Swords, knives and quarterstaffs rose and fell.
Dinor shouted warning and defended with scimitar and sorcery.

On Linir’s
steps Vannis and Tristamil glanced at each other, hearing not only
the shouted warnings but also human voices. The men would not last
long despite their resolve; they could not fight magic.

Vannis
muttered with intent and unexpectedly human cries of victory
sounded throughout the city. It was an enchantment, but the
fighting men took heart and fought harder; the Valleur believed
they neared an ending to the bloody fight and fought tenaciously …
and Dinor started falling back. First the cries of victory confused
them, and then the impetus of renewed heart drove them into
retreat.

Tristamil
muttered with intent as well. He raised Valleur cries of victory,
and Valleur everywhere screamed joy and fanatically pushed at the
enemy.

It did not end
swiftly, but the tide changed. The battle was soon pockets of
confrontation, and Valleur and human fought side-by-side for the
first time in history. It was a remarkable sight and gave heart to
the defenders. Golden skins glistened with sweat and exertion
alongside the pale skins of their brothers, and no one thought it
strange. Often they would grin at each other, not in surprise, but
elation, and be renewed. This night human and Valleur were
brothers.

Belun slumped
behind a wall. He had nothing left. He sent Gren a weary grin and
Gren returned it. He faced the street to defend if a Dinor came
around the corner, but had not much left.

They could
hear cries of victory throughout the city. If they could stay out
of sight long enough, this would be over. Those were not enchanted
cries, they were real.

Camot would
never speak again. Krikian leaned on his pilfered scimitar. There
was no one left to fight around him, but the withdrawal came too
late for the war leader.

When the two
Dragons heaved into sight, Krikian merely stared at them. The great
creatures gazed back and touched their foreheads in sympathy,
before moving on. Krikian gasped and his eyes filled with
tears.

Vannis ran a
Dinor through and jerked his blade out, swinging about to meet the
next opponent, but there was no one left to fight.

Tristamil’s
hand came down on his shoulder. “They withdrew en masse. It is
over.” The young man sounded sad. “Many died this night.”

Vannis
straightened, feeling every muscle’s ache. He passed a hand over
eyes gritty with exhaustion. “We owe this to our human
brothers.”

“I know.”

Vannis hawked
and spat to clear his throat, turning his gaze eastward. “I wonder
how your father fares.”

Tristamil sent
a glance in that same direction. “My brother will pay.”

Minutes later
the exhausted combatants commenced reclaiming Menllik and gathering
the dead.

There is no
justice to appease the slaying of a loved one. Only time heals.

~ Truth

The Keep

T
orrullin came to a halt inside the entrance of the
Throne-room.

He expected it
to be deserted of all but Tymall and his guards, but there were a
fair number of retainers being tended to by Elder Pianote. Light
wounds resulted from the hasty flight indoors.

Tymall was on
the dais with four soldiers.

Nobody looked
at that son of this Vallorin. To them he was already dead.

Torrullin
waylaid Pianote as he moved to leave the chamber. “Anything
serious?”

“No, my Lord.
It was fear more than anything else.” The Elder’s eyes were full of
sympathy. The news of Lord Taranis’ death had filtered down to him,
but he did not refer vocally to his Vallorin’s loss. He lost those
close to him in the past, due to the Darak Or, and knew there would
be a time when his Lord could speak freely of it; now was not that
time.

Torrullin
touched him briefly, in thanks. “Please ask them to leave,
Pianote.”

The Elder
headed back into the chamber and moments later led about twenty,
mostly women, out. They passed their Vallorin in grateful silence -
he had saved them from a fate they could only imagine - and they
looked at him with anxious expressions, knowing the high price he
paid. Torrullin appeared fragile, holding himself together by sheer
will. They loved him and would be honoured to take his pain.

“My Lord, your
injuries require attention,” Pianote said.

Torrullin did
not respond. When everyone had passed, he asked, “What news of
Menllik?”

“They fight
still, my Lord. We have heard that many humans have come to Valleur
aid.”

Torrullin
closed his eyes. “Valleur and human, together in battle. Who would
have thought? I am sealing the Throne’s chamber for a time,
Pianote. Leave now. Keep Skye away, please.”

“The guards,
Lord Vallorin?”

Torrullin
turned his head and noticed the four on the dais. “Get out,” he
said, and waited for them to go.

When Pianote
bowed and left as well, the Throne-room closed on all sides.

Sealed.

Torrullin was
alone with his son.

Tymall huddled
on the dais.

He was bound
with Valleur rope that had none of the properties of vulci, but
nevertheless held him. In truth, he could have freed himself upon
regaining consciousness, being Valleur, but had chosen not to. He
would have succeeded, although not easily, not with four guards
over him.

He was
fatalistic, his anger dissipated.

Torrullin
approached with a measured tread his son knew well. His father
attended to his emotions before he lashed out. When he attained the
platform, he halted.

“Did you hurt
Taranis?”

Tymall was
confused. It was not what he expected to hear first. “Ask him.”

Torrullin
placed one foot on the dais and leaned forward on it to stare into
his son’s grey eyes. “I cannot. Taranis is dead.”

“I did not
touch him.”

“You lie,
Tymall. His injuries were internal, a ruptured spleen, collapsed
kidneys, broken ribs pierced his lungs, put pressure on his heart,
his liver was torn and his intestines were like liquid.” Torrullin
was silent for a beat. “A pulse at short range, Tymall, with venom,
and exacerbated by sustained kicking.”

“I did not
kick him!”

“Then you hit
him with intent to cause as much harm as possible. Margus may have
thought it necessary to subdue Taranis, and Taranis would have
fought, I know, but Margus prefers direct death when time is an
issue. Vulci achieves imprisonment once the pain barrier is too
great; Margus would not have used a pulse.” Torrullin straightened
and stepped onto the dais. “My father was also hit about the head.
Slapped. Spat on. Viciously gagged.” He hauled his son roughly to
his feet and stood him up. “Look me in the eyes and tell me if you
caused your grandfather harm.”

“I didn’t mean
for him to die!” Tymall shouted, eyes wild.

“Again you
lie.”

“Father,
please!”

The words and
the tone were akin to those he used on his own father, hoping to
prevent him crossing over. Torrullin’s lips whitened in fury.
“Father?” he echoed. “I am not your father, Tymall. I am your enemy
until the end of days. You have murdered
my
father, your
grandfather, your flesh,
and
you sought to abuse my
wife.”

“I did not
touch her!” Tymall shouted and retreated, but he fell, his legs
thoroughly bound. “She lies!”

Torrullin
lifted him again and dematerialised the ropes so that Tymall stood
unbound. He watched cynically as his son rubbed his wrists and
refused to make eye contact.

“Look at me,”
he said, and Tymall raised his eyes. “What happened to you? It was
not long ago that the future for you held promise, yet now you lie,
and other things far worse.”

“I didn’t
touch her.”

“Saska said
nothing; why do you need to defend yourself?”

Tymall stared
sullenly and moved his arms to restore circulation.

“You are
indeed fortunate you never had the opportunity to make good on your
intentions, but know you will not escape punishment for my
father.”

“You cannot
touch me, remember? Your precious Tristamil will feel it.”

“Wrong. If you
die, he dies, but I can beat you to within an inch of your life and
he will not be affected. I can unleash pain on you such as no
mortal man can withstand for more than a second without losing his
sanity forever, and my precious son will go on unscathed. I can
heal you and then do it all over again, and again, and again. I can
do what I like, Tymall; anything that takes my fancy.”

Tymall stepped
back, blanching. “You wouldn’t.”

“Do not
mistake our shared past for weakness. I know I did right by you in
choosing to rear you as I did your brother, but it is not weakness.
It is strength, and it gifts me the right to mete out what you
deserve.”

“I am of your
blood!”

“And I am of
my father’s blood! He is dead by your hand! You would
dare
stand there and
dare
think you will escape my wrath? You,
who nurses imaginary slights? How much more this? Think again,
darkling!”

Torrullin
heaved as feeling returned. He wasted months flitting about the
universe, months he could have spent talking to his father,
building the bridges both needed to build, and now it was too
late.

He hated his
son for what he did, as he hated Margus for putting Taranis into
the line of fire, but most of all he hated himself for allowing
time to slip away. So much time and it had not, after all, been
enough.

Unbearable
pain and grief, self-hatred and fury, erupted to the fore. His son
had become Destroyer, kinslayer. Rational thought fled and the
sudden terror in Tymall recognised it. He stumbled back, screaming
for aid, but Torrullin was quick, driven by insane fury, operating
on an animalistic level; he reached out, gripped Tymall in a bone
shattering clasp, and with malice and intent tossed him onto the
Throne.

Tymall
screeched pure terror.

Agony to rend
worlds assailed him.

The Throne,
sentient power, did not recognise him.

First
repudiation. It would never abide evil.

Second
repudiation. It harked to Torrullin’s searing emotions.

Third
repudiation. It loved Torrullin in a manner it and the Enchanter
would only come to understand later, but the instinct to protect
and dispense justice on his behalf existed without that
comprehension, and it did so instantly.

Fourth
repudiation. It loosed waves of excruciating torment, pushing
needle sharp rejections into his twisted mind, and Tymall gibbered
madly, screamed, an unholy sound, and sought to scrabble off, but
Torrullin held him, eyes black as night.

“This is
power
, Tymall!
Real power
! What you have chosen is
but
shadow
! Feel it, feel the Valleur power, the strength,
the reality of what a
Valla
is! Know that it can never be
yours! Fear us!”

“Oh god no
nooo
!” Tymall babbled, saliva slavering about his lips.
“Kill me kill me
kill me
!”

Torrullin
swore then through his haze of insanity. He hauled Tymall off and
threw him to the dais. His feet were still bare, but he raised a
foot to kick his son once to the stomach. He leaned over, hauled
him upright and hit him, and tossed him away again. Tymall moaned
and was still.

“Get up,
darkling!” he spat, but Tymall lay as he was and did not move.

Heaving,
Torrullin glared at the inert form. Self-disgust overcame him then.
He jerked away, but fury was rampant within and sought release. He
swung away from the senseless form and loosed it upon the chamber
itself, tearing hangings from the walls, smashing decanters,
overturning chairs, until the Throne-room was a shambles with not
an object whole.

He turned
round and around, searching for something to destroy, and his gaze
fell upon the Throne.

With a snarl
of incensed rage he bounded at it, unmindful of glass and
splinters, hurtled into it, his fingers clawing at the backrest,
scrabbling at the engraved Dragon, tearing fingernails, and for a
time he was entirely over the edge. Driven by rage so long pent up
and loosed now in the death of his father, he lost reason.

Warmth stole
into him as the sentience within threw out welcome, drawing him
into its embrace as a mother and a father, and Torrullin stilled at
last. He sat unmoving and was gifted comfort and love; it enveloped
him, soothed, crooned without words as if to a frightened child.
Again he was undone.

Torrullin
collapsed into the golden seat, legs drawn to his chest like that
scared child, and the tears came. He cried as he had not since the
day he lost his mother. He cried for her anew, her features fresh
in his mind, and for Taranis; he wept for the time forever lost to
know his father, and for Kisha and Kylan, for Raken, for Vannis’
suffering, for Lycea, for the many who died on Luvanor, the many
who succumbed during the night in Menllik.