The Sleeper Sword (45 page)

Torrullin
smiled. The man was no fool. “My tale, as you put it, is more than
two thousand years old, and the fact I stand before you proves it
is not legend you converse with.”

Anton
swallowed. He was out of his depth. “How can we be sure you are not
some idealised …”

“… fraud? Do
you not trust the word of your Electan?”

“I do!”

“Yet you, the
man, not the director, would like to be convinced, am I right? I am
not offended, for such is man’s nature, even mine. Tell you what -
Anton, is it? I shall grant you one interview, private and
exclusive, after you have spoken with the ambassadors yonder.
Agreed?”

Anton glanced
to his right where more than a hundred ambassadors milled, talking
excitedly among themselves.

Something of
import had happened back on Valla Island, to cause them to draw
that close, something that obviously convinced them, and there were
stodgy conservatives among them and some downright untrustworthy
creatures.

Anton nodded.
An exclusive interview, with a host of ambassadors backing the
tale? Excellent television.

“Agreed.”

Torrullin was
turning away, but stopped. “Check your tape, friend. Perhaps it
proves more eloquently who I am than words are able to.” The
Enchanter hastened up the stairs.

Anton turned
to glare at the cameraman. “What’s wrong with the tape?”

Raddin
shrugged. “I’ve been rolling without a hitch.”

“Well, let’s
get to the tower to check it … no, give it to me, I’ll do it while
you eavesdrop on the ambassadors and ask nicely what the Enchanter
refers to. Those clowns love the sound of their voices, they’ll
talk easily enough.”

Anton grabbed
the tape when it was presented to him and high-tailed it back to
the tower.

He slammed the
tape into the video display unit, pushed the button.

The scene they
were familiar with, crowds of Valleur about the temple and even one
or two humans more curious and braver than the rest. The shot of
Tannil arriving with the ambassadors, followed shortly by the
fair-haired man who seemed as human as he did Valleur. The Valleur
erupted for a time.

Anton pursed
his lips. It was the black clothes that set him apart, his casual
attitude, also his watchfulness, the latter subtle, but Anton was
accustomed to reading people. The man was on constant guard while
appearing carefree.

He frowned -
nothing out of the ordinary on the tape. Of course, the whole event
was extraordinary.

The camera did
a crazy swing as they hurtled down the stairs to get to the temple.
Shouldering through smiling crowds. Jubilant acclaim all around.
The scene he had a part in came next. The Enchanter descending the
steps, the interaction. The Enchanter leaving …

Anton put his
finger on the button to stop the tape, thinking he was duped to cut
the interview short, and then froze.

Slowly his
fingers curled into tense claws, the only animation.

He watched
another scene unfold, unable to look away.

His son raced
across the grass, laughing, no, squealing with delight, a joy of
living. The little boy dived into the sandpit scattering white sand
over the surrounding grass and then came up spluttering, clutching
a toy, a red wagon, a miniature of the one in his bedroom. Then,
dear god, his beloved Doron turned to smile as if aware of the
camera nearby and shouted, “Daddeeeee!”

Hissing, blank
tape.

With shaking
fingers Anton stopped it, ejected it to hold close to his chest. If
only it were true.

What I
wouldn’t give for it to be true.

His mobile
rang, an unexpected sound. He fumbled for it, put it to his ear.
“Yes?”

He listened to
the hysterical voice on the other end and did not attempt to still
the flow. The phone dropped to the ground, slipping from nerveless
fingers, shattered, but he was unaware.

He stepped to
the low parapet to glance at the small figures around Linir. The
Enchanter’s form was surrounded with well-wishers. Anton sat,
inhaled.

“Anton? You
all right?” someone asked from the head of the narrow tower stairs.
One of his crew, coming for more tape. “Anton? Hey, man, you’re
pale! Call it a day, we’ll …”

“It’s Doron …”
Anton managed, gesturing at the broken mobile.

The crewman,
an old friend of the family, was sympathetic. “I’m sorry.” He could
not say more. Little Doron, sweet as an angel, could neither speak
nor move and was confined to a wheelchair since birth. Everyone had
been expecting him to pass on for some time. The miracle lay in
that he had lived far longer than anyone thought he would.

Anton lifted
his gaze from the broken phone to look at his friend. He smiled, a
brilliant, full thing that radiated only joy.

“Lester, Doron
stood up from his chair! He raced across the grass, dove into the
sandpit, darkness outside, and he spoke, my friend! He shouted
‘daddeee’.”

Lester sat. “A
miracle.”

Anton threw
his head back. “He’s not a fraud!”

A friend
feared for a friend’s sanity. “Who’s not a fraud?”

“The
Enchanter. He looked into my soul.”

“Good lord,
you need a doctor.”

“No, no, he
healed my son! I saw it happen before my eyes and then Sally phoned
to tell me it was true; I tell you no lie. Check the tape!”

Lester did
that.

There was
nothing beyond the footage.

Anton held a
hand to his mouth, eyes shining. “That man is Torrullin.”

It had been
there and now it was not. A doubling of proof as far as he was
concerned.

“He is the man
who united Valleur and human to a common goal in the past and will
make it happen again.”

The alchemist
desired to study the coin further, but Saska grabbed the tongs from
his hand, lifted it from the solvent.

Holding it
before her, ignoring his quavering, she returned it to the tin.
Then, with a decisive snap, she flipped the lid over and lifted the
vessel.

Thanking the
gnarled man, she ran from there.

Nemisin’s
world. She was called to Nemisin’s world.

To find this
golden coin.

The Maghdim
Medaillon.

She stumbled
over the uneven flagstones as she hastened along the never-ending
passageway on the outside of the draughty old laboratory, clutching
the tin.

What does this
mean?

Lady of
Goodness, dare I hope now?

Chapter
45

Mr Fox enjoyed
the sport ... until he got caught!

~ Tattle

Far away at
the opposite end of the universe, Tymall paced an oval chamber set
at the pinnacle of a broad and high tower.

The fort below
was diminutive, like a toy village, and through narrow apertures
set at intervals around the tower, even the opposite spire seemed
small. The chamber was empty and cold, and stone rang hollow under
his feet, his spurs jangling when he tread with added force to
punctuate his thoughts.

He was
planning and part of that entailed an overview of actions complete
and in motion. He needed to ensure nothing was overlooked, and
changes beyond his control were factored in.

The Guardians
took note early, drew accurate conclusions and approached Tannil,
thereafter scattered to a compass of directions to deal with
darklings.

He smiled,
pleased with the find. A host of darklings discovered on a
far-flung planet, multiplying in misery since the time a few
escaped the Enchanter, awaiting the time to strike again. Peace
forced them into submission. Their time to strike anew had now
come. They had a leader, a creature giving him problems, but they
required purpose, and it was given them. He would summon them to
Valaris when the time was right.

Tymall paused
in his pacing - and thoughts - to cast his mind back to his return
to this reality. Initial disorientation had worn away, as did
initial torment. The mother and child, pretty and terrified.

He later
realised he could not afford witnesses, particularly when fresh to
the game. They were the test of his resolve, and he returned to
that place of entry to silence them. Their home was a few paces
from the shift and it remained open until he brought his
accruements forth; it needed protection.

The child he
dispatched swiftly, a small mercy he thought he could permit, but
the husband and brother of the woman were forced to watch the rape
and murder of the child’s mother, and then it was their turn. Not
rape, but their horror and terror aroused him to such a degree he
climaxed over them as they died, a release he could still summon.
He was not ashamed over the loss of control; it awakened and
restored him. He burned the house, outbuildings, bodies, evidence
and fields, and that, too, proved cathartic.

He commenced
pacing again, forcing his thoughts back on track.

The gathering
in Linir transpired in a timely fashion. He garnered there the
power from a star about to wink into darkness. He nodded. His
stepmother heeded the call to a long dead world, unaware of
manipulation. Foolish woman. They would meet soon and she would not
escape him. Her torment would be more thrilling than his father’s.
Ah, and he would finally degrade her, a pleasure nothing could
match.

His father
would be the devil simmering under that fair exterior if he dared
touch her, but he had planned for it. In fact, he needed his father
to surrender to baser emotions. Every nuance would drive him closer
to Destroyer, until the point of no return.

That lay
ahead, the long-term goal. Now it was one step at a time, the
immediate future.

To that end,
the Enchanter had to entrench himself on the mainland - already in
motion. He had to be accessible to Valarians again - not difficult,
considering the man’s charisma and human blood. It would come, a
natural progression. He needed to win their trust, their respect,
their loyalty and, ultimately, their love. Only then would his
betrayal of them have true meaning.

In the present
they were wary and thus expected betrayal. It had to change. And
would. The Enchanter would be their Light.

Tymall halted
before an aperture and stared down. To underestimate the Enchanter
could prove fatal. His father was immortal; he was not. The
Immortality beyond his grasp in a realm where time had no meaning
could be found here. He doubted, however, he could divide his
concentration between his father and the requirements of the Ritual
and thus he would deal with the one before the other.

A darkling
force entered the massive courtyard below. They were sent to battle
and returned swiftly. Forays untraceable to the Guardians. He sent
only a few at a time, to a number of destinations, and thus the
Guardians could not hope to anticipate. The remainder guarded his
signature from his father.

He would
prefer being on Valaris, not only to orchestrate matters and
witness first-hand the results of his machinations, but because
that world was his home.

For the planet
he bore great love, respect and loyalty, which bespoke his Valleur
heritage. Valaris was in his blood, and it was his birthright.
Every usurper Valla would pay for the affront of denying it him. It
was the game. For now, he would be covert; the Enchanter was an
outstanding bloodhound.

Tymall started
his incessant pacing again. His father took the people home and it
was a fighting force to be applauded. The speed of the man’s
resolve somewhat altered his immediate strategy.

The opposite
tower caught his attention. A prison cell. He rubbed his hands
together and it was not to stay the pervading chill. There was the
point of his beginning, the first step into the dark for his
father.

It was time to
begin.

She returned
to the dead world.

Nemisin’s
world. Hot even in his time, eons had now scoured away every
vestige of possibility from both the surface and the deepest
depths. Unless someone like the Lady of Life turned attention upon
it, it would eventually blacken to nothing. She was not there to
commence that process, for it was no longer her calling.

She came to
trace the calling to its source.

Only one man
knew where he abandoned the Maghdim Medaillon. Now it made sense to
her, the losing of a magical device to the antiquity of a lost
world and time. She needed to find him. He called to her.

Sitting on the
ledge where she sat before, she gazed at the pillars on the verge
of collapse.

Nemisin’s
pillars. This was part of his Palace. Here Vannis mined the ancient
rock for transport to Valaris ages later, his homage to his ancient
lineage. First to last, an incredible sacred site known as the Rock
of Ancients, the Mystic Island where Torrullin travelled across
space and time to speak with the long dead Nemisin, and where
Torrullin subsequently left the Medaillon, back in time where it
was to be lost for eternity, out of reach to the Darak Or
Margus.

Until now.

She smiled and
with that smile came tears. Long streaks of moisture tracked
through the sterile dust of her beloved’s first world.

My love, have
you returned? Are you searching for me?

She should
hasten directly to Valaris, for they would know the truth, and yet
faced a strange reluctance. Valaris was memories, pain, experiences
best forgotten, love gained and love lost. Perhaps it was better
this way, to answer his summons on neutral ground first. Perhaps
she wished too much.

Still, it was the Medaillon she found here and it
had
pulled.

Perhaps wishes
could be granted.

A gossamer thread of pure gold shivered into being and she
trembled seeing it. It stretched from the exposed coin lying before
her into the atmosphere and beyond. Margus tracked such a thread
through the Rift to Valaris, a connection between it and the Valla
ruler. Although she doubted the circumstances were the same in the
present, the fact remained the Medaillon was bound to the Vallas
…
the
Valla. He
knew she would recognise the thread.