The Nemisin Star (32 page)

Torrullin
grinned and sprang at him without warning, hooking the fingers of
his left hand into the bruised and broken nose, his right hand into
the fair hair so like his own.

Margus
shrieked agony, then swallowed in fury and brought his own digits
to bear, clawing at Torrullin’s throat. They fell to the ground,
hard. Torrullin pulled Margus’ head back using his hair as leverage
and twisted it sideways. He gripped the Darak Or’s chin and sat on
his chest to hold him in position. Margus’ eyes widened in
astonishment and in dawning horror when he understood his enemy
intended to kill him.

Pulling his
knees up to ram into the Enchanter’s back, he struck a vicious blow
that loosened Torrullin’s hold without dislodging it. Biting down,
Torrullin strengthened his grip and gradually, with the chords
jumping under the pressure, he turned Margus’ head, intending to
break his neck.

Margus’ lips
drew back. Employing superhuman reserves he inserted one elbow
between him and his killer and jabbed upward, aiming for the throat
and finding it. The deadly silence erupted in grunts of effort, and
he jabbed again, harder. His airflow abruptly interrupted,
Torrullin gasped and lifted his hands slightly, a reflex he quickly
ignored, pushing down once more, but it was enough for Margus. He
jerked Torrullin’s hands roughly away and shoved him violently
aside, sending a kick after him.

“You are
actually trying to kill me,” Margus whispered with great
difficulty, scuttling out of harm’s way. The Enchanter was strong
and physical, and he had not in a million realms expected this. He
touched his face experimentally. “You must know what a waste of
time this is.”

Torrullin drew
searing breaths, amazed Margus had the wherewithal to best him. So
close. He pushed up into a semi-crouch, breathed slowly, saw there
was blood on his hands and grimaced. “It would have felt good.”

“The
gratification of a brawl? How utterly adolescent of you,
Enchanter.” Margus laughed, a harsh sound. “Enlightening, this
animal instinct of yours - effective too, most unexpected.”

“You talk too
much,” Torrullin groaned, rubbing his throat.

“We are good
at talk, you and me.”

“I prefer
action,” Torrullin muttered, and Margus pounced on his back.

Clinging like
a monkey to the violently twisting form under him, he brought forth
the vulci to wrap about his opponent’s waist, pulling the twisted
rain cloak skewed so that Torrullin’s head was drawn back, binding
his arms and legs thereafter. Torrullin collapsed untidily,
mouthing a foul curse. Margus laughed and climbed off to haul him
to unsteady feet.

“I see what
you mean about action,” Margus taunted.

Torrullin gave
the imitation of a smile. “Come now … this is …” He winced as the
stuff bit into him, searing skin right through the fabric of his
clothes. His eyes darkened.

Margus
sneered. “Take it off and I bring forth more, faster than you are
able to keep pace.” He lifted his hand and more of the terrible
rope wound around Torrullin’s neck - who stilled completely. “Come,
Enchanter, bring that other self forward. Old friend, come, I would
like to meet him.”

The
Enchanter’s eyes returned to normal. Destroyer could shrug the
vulci off as a minor irritant and Margus knew that. What did he
want with Destroyer? “I would not give you the satisfaction … old
friend.”

“Then bear the
pain!” Margus twirled about the room, his split gown exposing more
buttocks than Torrullin cared to see. Margus pulled it off,
standing there naked and taunting, and swiftly bent to the little
cabinet beside the bed. Quickly he dressed, throwing his enemy
watchful looks as he did so.

Torrullin
waited, mind churning. No, not Destroyer, that path was madness,
for some insane ploy was at work. There was the power of the Light
he so rarely employed, but given that he was now at a disadvantage
it was something he preferred not to reveal; a reserve weapon. He
would play this game, and wait for that elusive opening.

Something
niggled. Margus’ nakedness. Why should that be? It was not
nakedness or Margus’ flouting of it; it jostled something else,
something basic. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Smooth,
unmarked, well defined, young … ah. Young. Younger than he had
thought.

A feeling of
pity overcame him and he snapped his eyes open. How young? And did
it matter, really? This Darak Or was ancient in other ways and was
evil personified. Margus stood before him, watching him
gleefully.

“I could sing
to you, Darak Or.”

Margus
blanched. He waved his hands in a rapid pattern and brought forth a
slim twine of pure silver. This he carefully curled about one of
Torrullin’s bound wrists, who watched the process in silent
amusement and private complicity, and then wrapped the free end
about his own wrist.

“Sing then,
Enchanter,” Margus challenged.

Torrullin
smiled, allowing Margus to see his amusement. The Darak Or had
literally bound himself to the Enchanter … and thus the Three
Voices would affect both. Margus dared him, and it was perfect.
They would die together. He could maintain the Voices through the
madness right to the end. Flattening his tongue, he issued the
first sibilance as a short, experimental hiss.

Margus shook
his wrist free and kicked him in the stomach, ending the terrible
song before it could begin. Torrullin stumbled until the wall
mercifully brought him to a stop. He leaned there breathing with
difficulty.

“What do you
know that you are prepared to die with me?” Margus advanced,
swinging the silver twine like a whip. He brought the slim length
singing across Torrullin’s cheek, splicing the tender flesh.

Torrullin drew
a sharp breath and ignored the burning sensation. Bound as he was
he could not prevent physical assault, but he muttered judiciously,
eyes sparking, and the twine turned on its wielder and cleaved to
Margus’ shoulder, who bit out an imprecation and dragged it from
his flesh before tossing the twine into the far corner.

There it
vanished in a puff of smoke.

Holding his
bleeding shoulder, he spat out, “Call your alter ego out to deal
with this binding, or stand there and know pain.”

So mercurial.
“I shall turn the pain on you, Margus. Do what you will.” Blood
dripped unheeded onto his chest.

Margus slapped
him over the spliced cheek and Torrullin’s head snapped back.
“Play, Enchanter!”

Torrullin
ground out, “What do you want?”

“I want you to
heal me,” Margus said, stepping back with a smile.

“All this, for
that?”

“I did not
start the brawl, Torrullin. We could have negotiated.” Margus was
truculent. “Why did you take so long to come? I was waiting; the
doctors could not be trusted.”

“You trust
me?” Torrullin asked in astonishment.

Margus stared
at him. “Yes.”

All gods.
“Fine. What deal do you have prepared?”

“Heal me and I
shall vanish for a while. There is something I need to attend to.
We confront another day.”

“The deal is
one-sided.”

Margus cocked
his head. “You were not thinking tonight, Enchanter. You attempted
to do something you were unprepared for. Something drives you to
haste. I do not know what that is, but I believe you must take the
time to plan your next move. I need do the same, for something
drives me also. I need time; you must need it … or you will fail.
Heal me and I am gone. It is a good deal.”

“Release my
wrists.”

Margus
immediately reached out and unwound the vulci. It vanished as it
lost contact with his skin, and when his hands were freed Margus
lifted them into his palms, looking at them in wonder.

“Healing
hands. Does the paradox not bring you to the brink of insanity on
occasion?”

Torrullin
removed his hands, but without rancour. “Sometimes.” And sometimes
this Darak Or seemed more a brother than an enemy. “I shall do this
if you tell me why you seek Destroyer.”

“Always with
the added nuance. It is simple, really. If I die while you are
Destroyer, I shall drag you into the etheric with me. Your will
would then be under my command and I shall ensure that when we
return, we do it together, as one being.”

Torrullin was
impassive. “Why tell me?”

“You
asked.”

“Do not insult
me. You are warning me. Why?”

“I have evened
the odds, in my favour. You will not dare use your alter-ego, in
the event I actually do have the power to make us one.”

“You are not
certain.”

“I am. You are
not,” said Margus.

“I could still
sing to you.”

“And then kill
yourself? What do you know that you are now prepared to go that
far?”

Torrullin
grinned. “I could tell you or I could heal you. Which is it to
be?”

Margus cursed.
“Heal me.”

The vanity of
the man.

“Kneel.”
Torrullin grimaced and Margus kneeled, gaze directed up. He trusted
the Enchanter to be unpredictable as well.

Torrullin laid
his hands on Margus’ face for a time, and the Darak Or experienced
a frisson, a warming, a receding of pain and swelling, and then
those hands were removed. He stared up, gaze unreadable, and rose
swiftly to the window to use it as a looking glass.

Grinning
broadly, he touched his nose. “Thank you.”

Torrullin
inclined his head, eyes upon those angelic features. “Why did you
warn me against Destroyer? The real reason.”

“I want you
separate, Enchanter. There will be no satisfaction in your
manipulation if I have to turn inward to achieve it. The handling
of your son was strenuous and my satisfaction came from what it did
to you, not him.”

Torrullin’s
lips tightened. “Which I robbed you of.”

“Indeed. I am
not too happy.”

“Shame.”

Margus’ lips
tightened in turn. “I hear the beloved Taranis did not survive his
grandson.”

“Consider
yourself fortunate it was not you.”

Margus
shrugged. “I was going to finish the lovely Saska off. Consider
yourself the lucky one.”

“Then we would
now be in the realms beyond and you would be seeking a way to
rebirth with me, one being. It would have robbed you of your
vaunted satisfaction.”

“You are
right, and I do prefer the game of cat and mouse we play, at least
for a while longer. It is time for me to leave now.” He turned to
make an exit - he could simply have vanished - and paused
theatrically, a finger in the air. “So clever, dear Torrullin. Like
me, you have understood the deciding battle will be fought beyond
the boundaries of the natural world. Are we not blessed in our
talent for rebirth?”

“It is a
curse.”

“I disagree,
but that comes as no surprise.”
Margus laughed
and vanished.

Please be my
brother, please.

~ Ornery’s
Children’s Tales

Galilan

V
annis
evacuated the hostages, but both he and Shep were waiting when
Torrullin left the room.

Vannis sucked
at his teeth on seeing his grandson’s pensive look. “I take it he
is gone.”

“And
healed.”

“You did
it?”

“I had to.
Vannis, he said something about being driven, and I like it
not.”

“Surely by now
that must be clear? It is about revenge.”

Torrullin
caught Shep Lore’s gaze. “Beyond that.” He frowned at the man.

“He regards
himself as close to you,” Shep murmured, and elaborated when
Torrullin’s eyebrows shot up. “I spent time in there and he likes
the sound of his own voice. He said things.”

Now Vannis
turned to the portly Valleur. “Like what?”

“About the
Enchanter being like him, equal in some ways, more in others, less
in yet others. It is the challenge - brinkmanship. He wants to see
how far he can push before you back off - if you back off, my Lord,
as if he needs to test your limits.”

“It has ever
been that way,” Torrullin murmured.

“No, wait,”
Vannis muttered, “the limits thing. Why would he want to test
those?”

“To learn?”
Shep suggested.

Torrullin
shook his head. “What else did he say?”

“Well,” Shep
began, appearing nervous, “he mentioned more than once he felt
close to you, as if you were family, and that hate could be mere
envy, and the game closer to love than respect for an adversary. He
said it; I am not reading nuances.”

It fit with
what Torrullin felt earlier. “Was he on medication?”

“Morphine.”

“It was the
drugs talking,” Vannis shrugged.

“Saying what
he never would voice any other way,” Torrullin said. “That is why
he wants to drag me into eternity with him. It isn’t merely the
satisfaction of wholesale revenge, but companionship,
brotherhood.”

Vannis
blurted, “Eternity?”

“Enslaved.”

“Gods,
Torrullin!” Vannis was aghast. “Can he do that?”

“Yes.”

“My Lord!”
Shep was horrified.

“Settle down,
it will not come to pass.” Torrullin was silent for a while. “He
needs more time to prepare and now I understand what drives him - a
decided advantage.”

Vannis
scowled. “I do not like it when you get calm, my boy; generally it
means you are up to something.”

“It is a game
of cat and mouse, Vannis.”

“And who is
the cat?” Vannis demanded.

Shep, wisely,
said nothing.

“I am, Vannis.
I am always the cat,” Torrullin said. He walked down the corridor.
“Shep, you may recall staff and patients; Margus will not show his
face here again.”

“Yes, my
Lord.” Shep retreated to the nurses’ station.

“Wait a
minute,” Vannis threw out. “Torrullin, your face.”