The Nemisin Star

By

Elaina J.
Davidson

Lore of Reaume
II

The Nemisin Star – Lore of Reaume II

Copyright
Elaina Davidson 2014

Second
Edition

All rights
reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the
publisher.

This is a work
of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters, and incidents,
are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or
dead, organisations, events or locales, or any other entity, is
entirely coincidental.

The
unauthorised reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work
is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable
by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

Cover designed
by Poppet

The epic
battle continues between the Enchanter and the Darak Or. Margus and
Torrullin are two faces on the same coin. No matter how opposite
they are, they remain equal, except Margus has no qualms in using
Torrullin's sons against him; an agenda he knows causes his enemy
suffering.

Tymall is the
dark twin, whereas Tristamil is the light. They must fight to
negate their destiny, but cannot clash despite needing to, despite
desperate for freedom from their symbiosis.

Torrullin
returns to Valaris - to a war already fought. After dragging the
Darak Or across time and space to battle it out elsewhere, he
discovers his world cannot avoid another round of terror. In a
golden city there is a temple raised from vision and on one night
every year a star shines through the aperture overhead. This is a
connection to the world of Nemisin, the first homeworld.

In this place
where stars meet Torrullin must choose life or death for his
sons.

As the
universe searches for the Light in all its brilliance, seeking
peace, Torrullin begins to see himself as a prince among demons. He
returns to Valaris to save his family, his people, his world and
his soul … and chooses to change the rules. Death, after all, is
not an end. Too many lives have been lost because the Enchanter has
a nemesis. Too many hearts have been broken. Sometimes the only way
to find peace is to lose yourself.

Without the
tools of magic our tales would lack lustre

F
litting world to world, exhausted.

After fourteen
weeks even the strongest lost heart.

They had
successfully lured the Darak Or Margus from torn Atrudis, and now
the underlying intention was to keep him distracted from Valaris,
homeworld, heartworld, but a father also fled his son.

Margus wore
Tymall’s face, and Torrullin thus avoided confrontation. Frequently
they lost track of Margus-Tymall and retraced their path, finding
to their chagrin the Darak Or led them. Torrullin then deliberately
transported to an uncommon place, forcing Margus to again
follow.

There was no
singular answer for the flight about the universe, and if pressed,
each member of the exhausted team would likely present a different
reason.

Caltian may
have said it was to protect the Valleur of Atrudis and gift the
Senlu of Grinwallin a peaceful second chance. Matt would suppose
Torrullin sought a place to enjoin battle where nobody could
interfere or be hurt. Taranis may have murmured something about
preparation and unsettling the Darak Or, while Vannis would speak
of the curse of symbiosis. Saska would state Torrullin desired to
protect Valaris from another round in Hell’s game, but Tristamil
would be closest to the truth.

While the
other reasons had merit and were indeed part of the whole, the
reality was Tymall remained Torrullin’s son, despite repudiation.
Their father also, Tristamil would whisper sagely, attempted to
void the destiny of two brothers and their powerful swords. Tymall
was Tristamil’s twin, inhabited by Margus, and it was the Darak
Or’s ultimate revenge.

Torrullin
waited on, and hoped for, a division of the two personalities. He
wanted to force Margus into his own form. Once that came to pass he
would dig in and fight Margus unto death.

It had not yet
happened. Margus-Tymall remained.

Margus thus
fought a psychological battle, successfully.

The cat and
mouse game continued and both sides were cat
and
mouse. The
tension was unbearable.

Taranis and
Vannis were often at each other, the two never needing great
excuse. Caltian kept calm, on hand to ease nerves, and frequently
paid for diplomacy in earning only sharp words.

Matt lost
weight, unversed in the mode of travel and the drain on the body’s
resources the constant use of magic had. He commenced teaching
himself magical travel, suspecting correctly, if in control, he
could regulate the changes to physical wellbeing. The learning was
slow, for they hardly halted to sleep and sometimes did not even
have time to relieve themselves. Matt was often angry.

Tristamil
withdrew and would not speak to anyone, except Saska. A father
watched this son change and could offer nothing.

Wearing black,
including gloves and headgear, with swords and scabbards clinking
as they strode swiftly through village, forest and plain, they were
frightening to those whose paths they crossed. Soon a tale rushed
about the known universe of dark raiders invading spaces they were
not welcome in. It was said they murdered and tortured the
innocent, preyed upon the unsuspecting, and folk had to be wary,
arm, run.

People
scattered when they alighted in populated regions, dragging their
children away, and then ran screaming a second time when the Darak
Or appeared after their leaving to enact select killing. Thus their
reputation escalated, making no distinction between them and the
one who came after.

Torrullin was
a man possessed. He had a vision in his mind he could not dislodge
or run fast enough from. He saw himself burning, scything and
chopping a bloody path through multitudes of women and children,
and wherever he turned severed heads and limbs sprang at him,
accusing, mocking, and screaming.

Already a
marauder by default, he refused to be one in reality. Somewhere
there was a place no one would suffer the consequences of battle;
where Margus would be Margus and Tymall would be Tymall. He simply
needed to find it. And run long enough until he did.

He hated
running.

At the end of
fourteen weeks, with spring on Atrudis and winter setting in on
Valaris, Margus-Tymall vanished.

They chased a
ghost.

Procrastination now exacted blood coin. Accounting was due. Tired
of waiting, running, chasing and luring, Margus chose to force the
issue. If no push worked, and no pull, if the cat could not play
mouse, he would choose the time and the place where psychological
skirmishes would be as intense a precursor to the war to come as
any words and weapons traded.

Horror settled
deep beside guilt and exhaustion.

Valaris.

It was time to
go home.

To a war
already fought.

Cold is
pretty. Ice forms lace and the air is so clear it heralds angels.
Leave me here; I am happy.

~Aris, Druid of
Akanth

Valaris

Torrke - The
Keep

26
^th
day of Dormire

C
lose
on six months had passed since the stolen ship left Valaris
airspace on a mission to deal with Neolone and the Dragon
Taliesman.

Leaving in
high summer, they would now return as the first month of winter
drew to a close. Snow had not yet fallen, the land was dormant and
the air cold, animals were in hibernation and rains had swollen
rivers and filled lakes.

Torrke, seat
of Keep and Throne, was quiet. Like to the rest of the continent,
the valley awaited the first snowfall. The Keep was ready for
winter; roof tiles were replaced, gutters cleared, general repairs
affected, and food and fuel stocks laid in. From the courtyard
delicate potted plants moved indoors, and the mosaic pool’s pump
was off.

Into this
courtyard the marauders alighted, doing so during the midday meal
on a sunny day. Staff and Elders ate al fresco, and akin to
avenging angels they appeared. A maid dropped her tray of dishes
and went screaming back to the kitchens.

Torrullin
dragged his headgear off, throwing it to the paving underfoot, and
his fair hair was a beacon. It grew over the past months to coil
untidily in his neck, a fringe flopping over his familiar
forehead.

“Lord
Vallorin!” Pretora gasped, recovering from shock.

“If I had not
been who I am, Elder, this Keep would now be seized. Are you not on
war footing?”

A dark cloud
passed before the sun to snuff daylight. To a Valleur that was an
omen, and Pretora was no different in his perceptions. He blanched,
stared at his lord, and knew serious trouble had landed.

“Of course, my
Lord.”

Torrullin
strode forward, his companions following more slowly, Caltian
wide-eyed. The Atrudisin had wondered what Valaris would be like
and admitted to curiosity over the Valleur Throne.

“Triple your
efforts,” Torrullin said, and entered the Throne-room. He set muddy
boots to the blue aisle carpet and paced towards his Throne.

Caltian stared
at the golden seat. So long was Atrudis isolated that ages had
passed since a Valleur from the Forbidden Zone had seen it. It was
a simple seat and it was imposing; dear Aaru. He wanted to run his
hands over it, but the warning spoken about its effect on those not
known to it was now imprinted. He dared not touch it. He could lose
his life if he did.

Outside,
dishes were whisked away, most with food on them, and tables and
chairs vanished with alacrity, and so, too, the retainers. Their
Vallorin had moods to be avoided.

Grim of face,
the others arrayed to the sides of the seat. Torrullin sat,
gripping the armrests as power infused him.

He welcomed
the infusion.

He needed the
infusion, although the thought was unformed.

Pretora was
hesitant as he approached, and behind him Kismet was hasty as he
entered. Kismet caught up, slowed him.