The Sleeper Sword (61 page)

He departed,
leaving the worn ramparts less than they had been in his
presence.

Chapter
55

“
And now lay
your head down to sleep …”

~ Mother to
child

Tymall
surveyed the battle scene from a distance, having hauled himself
from the conflict once he realised his father was no longer
present.

As
diversionary tactic it showed thought, but he wondered why it was
needed. Something that required hiding? Someone who needed taken to
safety? Like Fay? His gut churned, thinking about that.

His anger
cooling, he began to think.

He rushed to the Dinor situation, thereby playing into the
Enchanter’s hands, and that certainly felt uncomfortable.
Very
uncomfortable. The
darklings would lose respect and he would then lose control, and at
this time they served a purpose.

To negate it
he required a show of strength, some sort of retribution. A Warlock
punishing sins. That was something the darklings would understand,
particularly their leader. It was also something the universe would
sit up for and take note.

How?

The Dinor,
those big, hairy prehistoric types he despised, littered the ground
with their dead. The battle had not gone one way, not after his
arrival. Like to his father, he vented frustration in killing,
although he was not aware of the parallel. Many darklings succumbed
also. The Dinor and Guardians fought well.

He admired
that. The Dinor would not seek to tackle darklings again, or ask
Guardians to come to their aid … or …

A light went
off.

… or allow the
Guardians to use them.

The Dome set
this up.

The Siric were
engaged with the last darklings on the field, and he smiled.

Ah, the
how.

He noticed one
Sylmer’s head chopped off and his three companions continued the
killing in cold fury. Sylmer were gentle creatures; he was
surprised by their tenacity and resolve. Never underestimate
anyone.

The two
Centuar were untouchable, too fast on their hoofed legs to engage;
successful killers. The last two Centuar, he thought, barring
Belun, who probably kept the Dome active. He hated Belun in
particular, his father’s great friend.

These were the
last Guardians.

Pitifully few
after a long and illustrious reign as protectors of the
universe.

The Centuar
were vicious and slippery in battle, but only two. The Sylmer,
tenacity or not, were not real warriors. The Siric were true
soldiers, and the leaders. They were the real danger, time after
time. Insipid creatures, fairies with wings, and very good at
war.

He would gain
much, would he not?

And this was
sending a message direct to his father. This would instil fury
nothing short of Valla deaths would. Retribution. And the Dome
would be obsolete. The Dome Dragon legend would die. His Enchanter
father, Dome Dragon. He who had an ogive into that magical enclave
of protectors, what would it do to him to see Taranis’s stronghold
vanish with the Guardians?

Tymall paused
and thought it through a last time. Was he being impulsive? Insane?
Stupid? For, indeed, the Enchanter would exact retribution also and
had he not reminded himself never to underestimate anyone?
Especially the Enchanter?

The message
would be clear, oh ho. How could he resist?

He lifted his
staff to point. It was a pity his father was not here to hear the
words of arcane necromancy slip off his tongue. He murmured the
ancient words of power that were from the forgotten past, so long
ago not even the Valleur, once Masters of the Universe, could know
them. From another realm, another time, these incantations. The
Enchanter, too, would have no defence.

Had anyone the
presence of mind to glance his way, they would see nothing. His
lips did not move, but the words came nonetheless. He lowered his
chin to his chest and eyes and staff lined up to become one.

He took the
Centuar first.

They froze and
an unearthly neighing came from their bowels, sound and agony
indivisible. Creatures created of sorcery about to come undone. How
very satisfying.

All activity
ceased on the corpse-strewn field.

The Dinor
froze in terror, the Sylmer were uncertain, the darklings blatantly
petrified, afraid it was new repulsion unleashed against them. The
Siric shivered … and moved first. They spread their glorious wings
to fly to the aid of their suffering comrades, darklings
forgotten.

A grave error,
but he expected it of them. They instantly put themselves between
the Centuar and the source of their agony.

And were
struck. All but Declan lost function in mid-air and plummeted to
the ground, emitting screeching wails.

It galvanised
the Dinor into full, screaming retreat. Good riddance.

Neigh and
screech became one dominant tone, a power all its own, but not to
the good of the victims. The louder the sound, the more trapped
they were.

Declan
cowered, covering his ears, useless and helpless. Blood spurted
around his bone white fingers, erupted from his nose and trickled
in slow oozes from his wide, soundlessly screaming mouth. He lay on
the outskirts of the staff’s influence; his companions suffered far
more.

The Sylmer
stirred and ran forward heedlessly. One tripped over the inert
Declan and fell headlong into a crush of darkling dead, while the
other two were transfixed by the beam of power.

His darklings
retreated after the Dinor, screaming unadulterated fear, their
headlong rush for safety mingled with that of the enemy, both sides
ignoring each other in the desperation of getting away,
anywhere.

Tymall lowered
his staff.

Uttering a
long-suffering sigh, he wandered over to the fallen Guardians.

Declan lived,
a blubbering heap of flesh, and he kicked him viciously in the
anus, and then took aim at his head, landing with a smacking thud.
The Siric rolled over, senseless.

He stood over
the Sylmer that tripped. The creature was not known to him, but his
kind was, in the form of his dear stepmother. He drew his sword
slowly, studied it ostentatiously and thrust it into the Sylmer’s
neck, severing arteries and vertebrae. Cristor, the Sylmer who took
Saska’s place in the Dome, died without recovering consciousness.
Perhaps he was lucky in that.

Tymall
withdrew the bloody sword, wiped it fastidiously on the creature’s
clothing and glanced thoughtfully back at Declan. A small smile
played on his lips and he decided to let the Siric live.

A witness.

Stepping then
over fallen Dinor and darkling, he came to the others. They were
transfixed, but the awful wails and screeches had died away to
gurgles as he removed the staff’s influence.

He studied
each in turn. There was nothing left of their minds. Vacant
pain-filled stares greeted him, looked right through him. Well, not
everything required an audience and the results would speak for
themselves.

It was not
mercy that caused him to dispatch them one after the other; he
would not chance these living husks to his father’s healing hands.
He doubted healing could extend to the mind, but in this he would
not take the risk.

One by one
they toppled over, gurgles dying into eternal silence as heads
rolled to one side.

Finally he
stood before Buthos, once known as Bartholamu. The Enchanter’s
friend. The leader of a powerful race that revered the power of
Torrullin.

But no more,
Siric, no more. No more Siric. The Murs, their evil alter-egos,
were gone, wiped out to the last by the Siric, and thus was this
the end.

Tymall stared
at Buthos.

Do you feel
the end, Siric? I allow your deputy life for now, for he has a
task. He must tell the man you revere. You are about to become
extinct. He will follow you soon, I promise.

There was a
twitch of awareness in Buthos’s colourless eyes, not sufficient to
prevent his fate, but Tymall revelled in it. The Siric would know
his doom in some small form.

He lifted his
sword again, inclining his head in apparent thought and then
brought it to bear against the Siric’s ribcage. Instead of
thrusting, he reversed his grip on the hilt, held it two-handed to
slice through bone and sinew, muscle and vein, from breastbone to
pubic bone.

Buthos grunted
and his eyes fired briefly, but he could not move. Impaled, and
already fatally wounded.

Laughing,
Tymall withdrew the blade, contemptuously sliced the Siric’s white
blood-stained pants aside and gazed deep into that final spark of
awareness. He sliced again, bent swiftly to catch his prize and
held it aloft. Penis and testicles dangled from his thumb and
forefinger, but there was no reaction.

Pity.

He tossed it
aside and pushed the Siric over. He landed awkwardly; he would be
dead in seconds, his life force bleeding away.

Tymall leaned
over him, watching the ebb of life, so strong earlier, thrilling to
the power he gained from it. Buthos’s lips moved and he leaned
forward with a frown. The creature was tough.

“Coward,”
Buthos’s whisper sounded. His eyes closed and he was gone.

Tymall
straightened in a fury. How dare the insipid creature? It marred a
perfect event. He shrugged it off, retrieving his staff from where
he dropped it to wield his sword.

Holding staff
and bloodied sword aloft, he screamed to the heavens, “A gift,
father! Proof of who I am!” Laughing like a madman he lifted into
the air and swerved away to find those cowardly darklings that fled
the field.

Declan lifted
his head and then lowered it in profound and everlasting grief.

In the deep,
warm still of Luvanor’s night Fay and Torrullin left the crucible
chamber.

This was where
Neolone Dragon breathed his last two thousand years ago. A profound
connection was severed that night and now a connection as vital was
restored. What was done inside would remain forever veiled in
secrecy; they went in alone and came out the same … and not quite
the same.

Briefly they
touched before treading the magnificent pathways of Grinwallin,
city within the mountain, back to the Great Hall.

Trebac sparked
bright, for the bond was new and had been specifically
summoned.

Torrullin
looked over his shoulder just once as they headed back, to find Fay
studying him enigmatically. He did not call her on it and she
volunteered nothing.

In the Great
Hall there was pandemonium.

They halted
under one of the internal arches. What had changed?

A figure
detached from the shouting and gesticulating around Teighlar.

Quilla.

Enchanter, I
bring bad news.

How did you
know I was here?

Process of
elimination, and unimportant right now.

Torrullin
stepped forward and, along with him, Fay. Quilla’s gaze went from
one to the other.

It’s not what
you think, birdman.

I know not
what to think after what I have seen this day.

Teighlar pushed through the crowd and cried out,
“
Leave, all of you!
I must confer with the Enchanter …
out!
” The Great Hall emptied, but
raised voices continued unabated outside.

Torrullin
fixed Quilla with his tawny gaze.

“Tymall has
struck,” Quilla whispered. “The news is terrible.”

Teighlar came
to a halt alongside the birdman.

Fay paled,
eyes anxious on the two, hands twisting. “Not a Valla?”

Torrullin was
expecting that as well. “Tell us!”

“I can spare
you that,” Quilla murmured.

Fay sighed and
was guilty in her relief.

“Say it!”
Torrullin commanded.

“The
Guardians, Enchanter. Tymall came to Dinor.”

“I know, I was
there as lure.”

“You left
before he unleashed horror. He killed them all.” Quilla’s lips
quivered.

Torrullin stilled. “The Guardians? He killed the
Guardians
?”

Stricken, Fay
stumbled, and Teighlar gripped her, leading her to a seat.

“Declan
survived, as witness,” Quilla said. “Belun wasn’t there, thank the
gods.”

“These are the Immortal Guardians, Quilla! How did he manage
to exterminate
them
?”

Fay’s head
sank down. Tymall was a monster.

“I can only
guess, but it was merciless. He beheaded most of them and Buthos
was …” Quilla’s voice broke and he turned away.

The quality of
silence from the Enchanter was deadly. “Where is he?”

“Tymall left
…”

“Declan!”

“Dome. Belun
rescued him.”

Torrullin
vanished.

In the new
silence Quilla paced until he had control.

“My Lord
Emperor, I have a boon to ask of you.”

“Name it, old
friend.”

“I am
recalling the Q’lin’la. I request you harbour them.”

“Of
course.”

“I aim to
place them at Torrullin’s command. They must be kept whole until he
needs them.” Quilla paused, a strange look in his eyes. “Gods, I
believe the time has come.”

“For what?”
Fay asked. She was unlike her usual self.

Quilla looked
at her. She was not to know, not this one. “Time for war. Torrullin
will need the Q’lin’la soon.”

Her eyes
narrowed as if she knew he was not entirely truthful. “How bad was
it?”

“The Guardians were helpless. Tymall must
never
be underestimated
again.”

Fay paled even
more and retreated.