The Sleeper Sword (52 page)

Gently
touching the man’s forehead, he moved on to the next patient, and
was brought up short by a round, little man, who gripped his arm
with surprising strength and herded his charge up a short flight of
stairs onto the mezzanine area overlooking the makeshift
hospital.

It was a small
space, only a portion of the building, but crowded with chairs and
foldaway tables. One or two others sat there in exhaustion, staring
at the floor. The round man gripped a chair and pushed Torrullin
into it. He kneeled before him, took his hands and began massaging
them, a blessed release of tension.

“Enchanter,
you’ve been at it for sixteen hours straight. Rest now, the worst
is over.” He looked over his shoulder when others intruded and
smiled. “Quilla too is stubborn.”

Another had
likewise forced the birdman up the stairs and pushed him into a
nearby chair. Quilla and Torrullin did not even have the strength
to look at each other.

Torrullin’s
head snapped back and his weight overturned the chair, sending him
sprawling onto his back. The little man gasped and then sighed. The
Enchanter was fast asleep.

“Leave him,”
Quilla whispered. “I’ll watch over him … and thank you.”

The two angels
in human guise nodded and went downstairs.

Torrullin sat
up groggily an hour later, found Quilla curled into a little
feather ball at his side, fast asleep, his mouth open wide.

Smiling, he
shook him. Quilla awakened.

They grinned
at each other and returned to duty.

Day came
obscured behind smoke and then night again, and still they
laboured.

Gradually
injuries lessened in severity, with the occasional exception, and
so did the numbers. The moment came when Torrullin and Quilla
looked at each other over countless prone but healing forms, and
knew they were done.

Thirsty,
ravenous and bone-weary, they staggered into the street.

Countless more
lay waiting for attention or sat in misery, stood in dejection, but
the injuries were superficial. Herbalists moved down the line,
cleaning, bandaging, dispensing herbs and sending them on to put
their names on the lists.

Heartrending
now were the wails of grief, the whispered questions of folk asking
each other whether a loved one had been seen, dead or alive.

It was a
national disaster and the clean-up operation would take time, the
burials a drawn-out process and grief would remain until the last
living memory breathed out.

“Enchanter,”
the Electan’s voice croaked from nearby, somewhere at knee level,
and Torrullin found the man huddled against the wall.

“Marcus, are
you hurt?” He kneeled before the filthy replica of the fastidious
Electan.

“Grazes,
bruises, nothing serious, so tired …” and Marcus’s head sank to his
knees and he began to shake with silent sobs.

“Go,
Torrullin, find Tannil. I’ll take care of him,” Quilla murmured and
sat on the hard dirty ground next to Marcus, stretching his legs
out. “Go. I cannot move now anyway.”

Torrullin
walked down the street, picking his way with care through the
throng. Some touched him in thanks as he passed, others whispered
words of encouragement, but he had no more to give either and
merely smiled and passed on.

The fires were
out, but the terrible smell of death and smoke intermingled to
choke the survivors. Down a ruined street he saw the dead carried
away, their bearers numb to the horrors, as pale as ghosts
themselves. Others overturned rubble in search of trapped
survivors.

Tannil.

His grandson
materialised next to him, as dirty and bloody as the wounded he
tended recently.

“Not my blood,
Torrullin, don’t worry,” Tannil said on seeing the expression.
“Fresh teams came in an hour ago.” Tannil took Torrullin’s arm.
“Come, I think we can leave now.”

“Where are
Mitrill and Fay?” Torrullin sagged.

“I sent them
away at sunset. Come, Caltian has rested and can take over. Kismet
is here as well.”

Tannil pushed
his shoulder under Torrullin’s armpit, lifted him, supported him.
He was exhausted also, but had not delved the power to heal for two
days and nights.

“Let us go
home.”

Torrullin
sagged again and Tannil took them to Torrke.

The ambassador
from Beacon waited in the courtyard, seated beside the mosaic pool,
his needs attended to by a retainer.

He rose, his
face a study in shock, when the two arrived. He opened his mouth,
closed it. Now was not the time to speak.

Torrullin
straightened, using last reserves, and approached the Beaconite
with dignity, Tannil as his side.

“Ambassador
Southwell, we welcome you as always, but could it hold till the
morrow?”

Southwell was
a large man, middle-aged, ordinary looking and with a deceptively
sharp intelligence. He bowed. “Of course we can talk further in the
morning, but I thought to inform you it was a Beaconite vessel with
many of our nationals aboard.” He paused to draw breath. “I
listened to the recording of the final communication we received.
We believe the crash was no accident.”

Torrullin
closed his eyes and then opened them to nod and bow. “We
commiserate with the loss of your people, Southwell, and thank you
for bringing this to our attention. We shall discuss it tomorrow,
however, for I have not wits left.”

The ambassador
nodded. “Of course. Forgive me.”

“Please make
use of a guest suite …” Torrullin would have fallen had not Tannil
been there.

Tannil
gestured irritably at the nearby retainers, and Southwell was left
watching two stumbling men aided up to their chambers.

Midday.

The sky
impossibly blue overhead. A warm breeze, soothing and healing.
Torrke was a different world after the horror of the Vall.

Walls were
confining. Sitting indoors felt like sin. Life should be celebrated
under a benign sun and tested souls harked to spaces on this new
day.

Tannil and
Torrullin wandered the stone road beyond the Keep and with them
Ambassador Southwell.

“I’ve been
informed by my government to keep this quiet,” Southwell said, “and
while I don’t personally agree I do understand the need for
diplomacy in this matter. One wrong word now and our two worlds
could be at war.”

Tannil and
Torrullin said nothing.

“Before I
continue, let me assure you Beacon realises this was an
unsanctioned act of terror. We have an excellent relationship and
we don’t seek to do that harm, but an act of terror it was
nonetheless and not by any member of the crew of the doomed vessel.
The final communication was pretty clear.”

Tannil met
Southwell’s gaze, lifting a brow.

Satisfied the
two men were with him, Southwell elaborated.

“Someone
appeared on the bridge and blasted on-board computers and
instruments and thereafter flung the captain through the forward
visors. A terrible strength was in this being.” He paused, but that
did not elicit response, and thus he hurried on. “No command, no
navigation, no cabin pressure, manoeuvrability gone, and they
crashed. A tragedy. Beacon will naturally formally apologise for
the ‘accident’ in the interest of continued diplomacy, but the
government expects a private acknowledgement of no culpability from
yours.”

Southwell
wisely stopped talking then.

“Marcus
Campian is the government of Valaris,” Tannil pointed out.

“It was a
Valleur on the bridge,” Southwell said. “I come to you first to
give you the opportunity for diplomacy with the Electan.”

Tannil, wisely
also, chose to say nothing further.

Torrullin drew
to a halt and eyeballed the men with him. They were, pointedly,
making the decision his. “Was a description sent over air?”

“No. Our
investigators tracked it from the black box.”

“And the
description?” Torrullin asked.

“A man akin to
someone from the Dark Ages, a cloak with ideograms, a staff,”
Southwell murmured.

“That’s not
automatically Valleur,” Tannil frowned.

Southwell
looked at Torrullin when he said, “Golden hair and grey eyes. It’s
a description of the Enchanter of old. We know your eyes are yellow
now, my Lord, but also know your sons …”

“Had streaked
hair,” Tannil clipped out.

“Hush, Tannil.
There’s no point in dissemination. We both know who it was,”
Torrullin said. “We should speak the truth without putting a name
to it.”

“You know this
terrorist?” Southwell questioned.

“A Valleur as
you say, a traitor. We shall deal with him and we shall prepare a
private statement for your government, with Marcus Campian’s
help.”

“This man is
guilty of an act of war, Enchanter. Beacon should be warned.”

“Consider
yourselves warned then, Southwell, but I add Beacon is in no
danger. Your ship was simply there at the time of a traitorous
statement; it could well have been a vessel from Ceta or Ymir, any
number of choices.”

Southwell was
horrified while being simultaneously relieved it had not been a
vendetta against his world. “Valaris is lucky it was Beacon ship.
Ymir, for example, would already be parking warships in your
atmosphere.”

Tannil
muttered, “Marcus would know that. I’ve been out of politics too
long.”

“Likewise,”
Torrullin sighed.

“If you knew
you have a traitor, Enchanter, outworlders should have been
warned.”

“We didn’t
suspect it would go to these lengths.” Torrullin noted the man was
growing stubborn. “Southwell, listen to me. You are the first to be
told what I am about to reveal to an outsider. You are, naturally,
aware of the incidents, Beacon included, traced back to us …”
Southwell paled. “Yes, one and the same. Simply put, we have a new
Darak Or on our hands.”

“What? Holy
Mother!” Then, “We should have been told you’ve identified the
source! No offworlder should be here, for Aaru’s sake!”

“You were
already considering abandoning Valaris to her fate,” Torrullin
pointed out. “You suspected, all of you, and were awaiting the sign
of further trouble. Here you have your affirmation.”

“Yes, we knew.
Why else does the Enchanter reside again in the Black Valley?” He
drew a deep steadying breath. “We shall hold to our agreement, but
Beacon recalls her nationals from this world with immediate
effect.”

“That will
cause widespread panic,” Tannil said.

“I don’t care!
All ambassadors must be informed forthwith. You must close your
airspace to outsiders- my god, you can’t expect the rest of the
universe to bear the brunt of your confrontation with another Darak
Or.”

“But you were
swift to accept the peace engendered by a sacrifice made here,”
Tannil said. “You hypocrites!”

“Tannil. Stop.
Southwell is right. This is our fight and sacrificing offworlders
can never be part of the equation. But.” And Torrullin glared at
the Beaconite. “You call a meeting of the ambassadors calmly, which
Marcus Campian will address, and thereafter you evacuate with due
dignity and respect. Agreed?”

Southwell
nodded. “You have my word. We’d be willing to evacuate your key
people without prejudice also.”

“We thank you
for the generous offer, but Valleur require no vessel to leave
here. Besides, I doubt your government would feel comfortable with
Valleur targets on Beacon.”

Southwell
blanched. “What of Valarians?”

“Thank you,
no. This time we stand or fall as one,” Torrullin stated. “I shall
not approve a system whereby we decide who stays and goes, for no
one person is more deserving of life than another. No one left
behind should feel him or herself less than those ferried to
safety. A long time ago I faced Margus with the prayers of a
remnant people reverberating through the ether and it was powerful
indeed; how much stronger will we be if every last soul on this
planet were to offer such strength? We shall be as one or we shall
fail without it. This time the battle will bind us together forever
and nothing will break it again.”

Southwell was
overcome and nodded, but Tannil was awed by the depth of the
Enchanter’s vision.

One world, one
nation, forever.

He also
realised the Enchanter regarded his son as equal to him in
power.

Chapter
50

Time to play
that fiddle, master musician.

~ Tattle

Tannil
returned north to relieve Caltian.

The relief
effort was in full swing and would be for some time. Thereafter
would come burials and only then could rebuilding commence, a
project Tannil committed the Valleur to. No serious injuries had
surfaced in the last hours, and those who sought medical attention
were seen to by a roster of doctors.

Torrullin
remained on call, and intended to transport north once he was
assured of a peaceful ambassadorial conclave.

Kismet, dark
rings under his eyes, was dispatched to Marcus with the news of
Southwell’s plans. The Electan, no doubt, was not a happy man.

Torrullin
transported to Menllik, there to gauge the mood of the city. He
found the Valleur unstinting in their willingness to aid the folk
of the Vall and heard no whiff of a rumour regarding the source of
the crash. Everyone seemed to think it was an accident.

The Valleur
were cognisant of Tymall’s resurfacing, but a month of incident
free settling in lulled the immediacy of the threat. He would have
to instil greater wariness in his people and the reality of the
situation would be broken to Valarians at large sooner rather than
later. He relished neither task and hoped to best his son in his
elusive hideaway, thereby containing the damage.