The Dreamer Stones (89 page)

For her, an
insight into her husband’s soul, a glimpse of ever-present demons.
“Your inaction now will be the greater harm, my husband,” she
responded, her tone emphatic, her eyes saying the things there was
no time for.

He looked
away. “Don’t I know it, and yet hope for diversion, an excuse.” He
shrugged and started downhill once more.

“We are all
prisoners to our emotions.”

He stopped
again. “Why do you say it like that?” His voice was tight, and
unfamiliar.

Saska paled.
“You dispute it?”

“No … yes. You
imply the consequences of our feelings are outside our control, for
they imprison us, like criminals too dangerous to society. Oh no,
our emotions make us criminals, for we do things selfishly, we act
and react according to how we feel, we are involved. We rule our
emotions.”

“You’d know -
you’re well aware of your criminal behaviour.”

“Yes, I have
been selfish.” He lowered his head and stared at her. “What have
you done, my lady wife, that you are this uncharacteristically
defensive?”

Ashen of face,
she could not look at him.

“Saska?”

He was before
her.

“Nothing,” she
whispered, drawing back.

“You have
never retreated before.”

“I’m not your
diversion! I’ll not be your excuse to delay the host! Torrullin,
you said it yourself, we have no time for this.”

He bored into
her soul through her eyes as she stared up at him in defiance.
“No,” he sighed at last. “One confession begets another and I have
not the … strength.” He vanished for the plain below.

Leaving her
with the sound of walls crashing and tumbling about her feet. Her
marriage falling into abject ruin.

It took all
her courage to follow him to the host.

Torrullin did
not have the power to send the multitude through the seal as an
entity, and to do it in units would take too long, and render them
vulnerable on Valaris.

A unit at a
time was not a host. The power of this gathering lay in numbers and
surprise.

He spoke to
Kismet on Grinwallin’s stairs.

“We’re going,
but I first need to activate the Throne from Valaris. Move them to
the moon and watch for the flaw - it will be unmistakable. Enter
fast, deploy to all major centres.” Kismet nodded. “Saska, Lowen,
you will accompany me.”

He did not
look at either of them, but as the two women approached he thought
if he could not prevail upon them to remain out of harm’s way then
the next best thing was to have them at his side.

There was
nothing further to do or say.

The three
vanished, heading for Torrke.

An instant
later the mobilised faded into nothingness as they transported to
the moon as one.

Teighlar and
Samuel looked at each other, anxiety etched on both faces, and
wordlessly re-entered Grinwallin’s stone embrace.

Chapter
Seventy-One

Every factor
needs inclusion in every battle. This is not as simple as it
sounds.

General Arkans,
Excelsior

Midmorning on
Tunin continent, Luvanor, meant late afternoon on Valaris’s
landmass and it was gloomy, winter sombreness aided by heavy clouds
that stretched out into the oceans east, west, north and south,
covering all land between.

Torrke had
sunk into a state of depression and made no attempt to repel the
glowering heavens. It seemed not to care, lacked resolve and
energy, and this was immediately evident to the three individuals
as they materialised in the Keep’s courtyard.

The pervasive
atmosphere went deeper than approaching weather.

Torrullin gave
a snort, startling the two women. “Gods, the valley feels slighted.
It hates that all stay away.”

“Payback,”
Lowen muttered.

“We’ll have to
deal with Torrke’s emotions another time.” Shrugging, he headed for
the small chamber where the Throne resided in obscurity.

“Should you
not take a few minutes to track the worst, um, mayhem? To deploy
the army effectively?” Saska queried, following him into the
chamber.

“It doesn’t
matter where the host lands. Where they arrive, they will fight.”
Torrullin stepped onto the dais, sat, calling for Declan as the
Throne warmed to him.

The Siric
appeared. Dirty and bloody, hair knotted and grey, wings dragging,
clothes torn. He was exhausted, hurt and more, a tale evident in
his appearance, but the real tale, a greater horror, lay in the
look in his eyes.

A Siric did
not surrender, was creative in problem solving. Declan’s eyes told
of desperation.

“Torrullin,”
he breathed, “thank all gods.” He stumbled to a chair and sat
swaying, breathing rattling breaths.

Biting back
sympathy, Torrullin asked, “The unicorn amulets didn’t work?”
Mentally he commenced communion with the seat’s sentience.

“They work,”
Declan mumbled.

Lowen kneeled
before him, swatting his hands aside to examine for injury. There
was nothing she could do for his wings, but …

“The draithen
dare not touch a wearer of the unicorn,” Declan continued, and
elaborated, “A few saw themselves into kingdom come before the word
went out and we initially thought we had them …”

“What
happened?” Saska asked, noting Torrullin’s eyes glaze over.

Declan
frowned. “Lowen, it’s superficial, leave be.” He lifted his head to
peer in Saska’s direction. “They found more creative ways of
killing. Creatures of the wild incited into rabid behaviour,
landslides, crevasse, rains of stone, rains of pitch, sleet storms,
boiling lakes. They can’t be touched, nothing stops them.” His
voice sank to a whisper and then he turned his head, his eyes, to
Torrullin. “Elixir, you must do something, anything.”

“He can’t hear
you, old friend,” Saska murmured. “He opens the seal for the
Luvanese host.”

“Host?” Declan
echoed. “A Valleur host? Thank all good things.” He shook his head
as if clearing cobwebs. “I fought Murs, Mysor, darkling, but these
draithen defy knowledge. How many, this host?”

Lowen replied,
“I head Kismet say three hundred thousand.”

Declan closed
his eyes. “Dear gods, not enough.”

“They come,”
Torrullin said, vacating the Throne. “Too few, Siric, I grant you,
but they are Valleur with the strength of ten each. If they die,
and they will, they will not do so alone. A cause is all they
require, a cause is what they have.” He stood before Declan, Lowen
kneeling between them. “Your wings, my friend?”

“Six of the
creatures, from behind.”

“No amulet?”
Torrullin smiled, amused at the Siric’s innate arrogance. Declan
will have turned his nose up at the amulet, relied on his strength
and will.

Declan
returned the smile wearily. “Not then, no.” He touched his breast
to reveal a gold coin, the unicorn’s horn catching the little light
in the chamber. “I quickly learned humility.”

“Krikian did a
good job,” Torrullin murmured and then, “Let’s get you whole, shall
we?”

Lowen scuttled
away as he leaned over the Siric to lay his hands on Declan’s
wings. They shuddered in a way that appeared highly painful and
then re-folded into usual healthy position, dulled sapphires and
emeralds glowing with vitality.

Elixir rested
a hand on Declan’s pasty brow. “Tell me of the shift,” he said. It
was not words he needed. They glanced only briefly at each other, a
moment in which a wealth of information transferred. “Bless the
Lady.” Torrullin smiled and removed his hand.

“Amen,” Declan
whispered and rose with his strength returned.

“It’s time to
infuse the unicorn with real power,” Torrullin said as he turned
away. “Give the monsters something to quail before.” He strode out
the door into the grey gloom, muttering in the ancient dialect of
Vallorins.

Declan, his
eyes alight, strode after him, leaving Saska and Lowen with no
place to hide from each other.

Marcus Campian
scrabbled frantically, breaking his fingernails on immovable
rock.

Wailing, he
kicked, levered, pushed, tugged, but Tinker was gone. Buried under
tons of solid rock. Tinker and his new buddy the crotchety cat they
found yesterday, and at least forty women and children.

It was not
that he did not care for people, scrabbling now to save his pet,
his new best friend - the horror was too much, easier to dig for a
dog - and hopefully find a child alive in the rubble.

There was no
hope.

The group on
the rise laughed and laughed until Marcus screamed filth at them,
twisted a fist into the dust-choked air, but the draithen laughed
harder before disappearing over the edge of the high ground.

There was no
hope.

Byron Morave
stood turned to stone.

Not even his
eyes moved. Not a blink.

Ren Lake was
putrid, poisoned. Fish leapt from the water as the temperature
rose. Soon it would boil, and fish lay gasping on filthy shores,
falling in that last leap on the bones of birds, snakes, rodents,
buck, and the men who healed within the Society’s walls in the
forest.

The women and
children headed for high ground, led by Marcus, while the men
resolved to cross the lake to Tetwan to aid beleaguered folk there
- all dead.

Where was it
to end?

Where was the
line that marked a turning point in madness?

Anton, once in
charge of television broadcasts from Menllik, stood with his wife’s
hand clasped in his.

Behind them
the studio was dark and silent, but he could live with that. What
mattered was family. he still had them, gathered close, fiercely
protected. His child, his miracle from the Enchanter, slept soundly
in the soundproof room upstairs and his dear wife was at his
side.

Thank all gods
he had them relocated from Galilan to Menllik.

Thank all gods
he had not sent them into Torrke for safekeeping.

Menllik was
quiet, icy cold, with not a Valleur in sight. The beautiful city
was ghostly, echoed around corners, akin to the days the Valleur
were in exile.

His shoulders
rose, fell. There were others like him and his family in the city
keeping a low profile … until yesterday. Yesterday the draithen
came. They rounded survivors up, and then it got strange. No
killing, no torture, no baiting even.

Until another
came, the infamous Agnimus.

“Leave them,”
he said, “leave them till last. They don’t wear the unicorn. They
and the city remain untouched. For now.”

The draithen
left. By morning so had most of his fellow survivors. Agnimus
singled him out, crooking a finger to summon him from the group.
Shushing his wife as she vented a terrified wail, he went.

“I know who
you are,” the draithen leader murmured. “You’re one of the first
humans to this city, you witnessed the Golden come and now you’ve
seen them go. One day perhaps you will tell the tale. If you desire
to live, stay in the city.”

“Why me?”
Anton dared.

“You are a
storyteller and the first recipient of the beloved Torrullin’s
magic. You must be here to the end.”

Anton squeezed
his wife’s hand and prayed.

He stayed.

Cowering under
his desk, hidden by thick red, blue, yellow and green cables
dangling from the com-units, the man breathed shallow and did not
move.

He heard the
screams, the terror, and the gurgles as massive rocks hurtled onto
the concourse and smashed into buildings. He heard draithen laugh
maniacally, heard them bellow commands.

Please,
please, let them leave, let them not see, let no rock find
me
.

Two Town
Spaceport was soon a pit of rubble. He was the sole survivor, and
wished he had died too.

He tore the
unicorn amulet from his neck and threw it from him as far as he was
able, and cursed the ground he stood upon.

Rene Sirlan
could be forgiven for thinking she had awakened into a
nightmare.

First Moor
emptied of life and then it filled once more and they thought the
worst was behind them, until the Siric came with the unicorn
things.

They believed
the amulets would protect them and they did for a time, but nothing
protected against sulphur rain, hailstorms of tiny metal missiles
and lightning. Lightning never seen, never heard of, where every
bolt of electricity was a bolt of sorcery, scarlet, emerald,
sapphire - pretty almost, if not for absolute annihilation.

Moor was
shattered. Buildings were in ruin, streams flooded choked with
metal balls. Fires raged, spurred onto terrible atrocity by
sulphured residue, which in turn chocked the air from the town.

She drew her
old father close, the two of them shivering and sweating
simultaneously with a crowd of others in the hollowed foundations
under the destroyed inn.

His breath
rattled in his throat and she knew he would die soon.

It was the
same everywhere, whether rural, town or city.

Destruction
was visited upon the land if people were scarce. Valaris would
succumb as a world viable to sustain human life, any life
eventually, if the draithen were not stopped.

And they were
not yet at full strength.

The two women
circled each other, figuratively speaking.

While they
waited for Torrullin to return from whatever he had on his agenda,
they spoke, skirting issues like two old friends where friendship
was in abeyance. As they chatted, politely, suspicions grew in both
minds, each her own, each thinking near identical thoughts.

Neither gave a
sign, preferring a makeshift truce. It was unnatural, but
preferable to a situation entailing combat and confrontation and,
least desirable, confessions and truth.