The Sleeper Sword (8 page)

“She said it
was a man’s voice.”

“That could be
relative … a guise, a transference.”

They stood
before the dark cottage. It was the only unlit one on the road.
There was an empty lot on the further side and the neighbours on
this side were fortunately not close. Lights shone bright from
there and an old man stood on his porch, looking up and down the
road with evident nervousness.

“Sir, please
return indoors,” Marcus called out as loudly as he dared.

The old man
focused on him and swiftly went inside.

“Now what?”
Marcus asked of Byron.

“This creature
is a farspeaker and a shadow - it may not even be here. This whole
thing may be a projection. In which case there’s little to fear but
fear itself. We go in.”

The big man
strode through the small front garden and went to rap on the front
door. Muttering, Marcus sidled up behind his bulk. Not a sound from
within. Byron tried the door and found it locked.

He rapped
again and shouted, “Open!”

The door
slammed wide.

“Excellent,”
Byron breathed. “It’s still here.”

Praying,
Marcus followed Byron into the lightless interior.

“Show
yourself,” Byron said.

“For Aaru’s
sake,” Marcus murmured. When had Byron got so stupidly brave?

A shadow
erupted into the small sitting room and was indeed lighter than the
dark, yet still a shadow. It came to rest a few paces from the big
sorcerer and was marginally shorter and markedly slimmer.

Marcus, for
his part, made sure he stood close to his companion. His heart did
unlikely leaps and a cold sweat broke out upon his forehead. He
knew Byron was probably as petrified, but his friend allowed
nothing to show, and he drew strength from that.

“Who are you?”
Byron asked. His right hand tensed as if to strike.

“Nothing you
attempt will prevent me doing what I will. There is no sorcerer
among those of your Society who commands real power, not even if
you stand as a unit. Drop your hand and I shall speak.”

Byron lowered
it.

The shadow had
the voice of a man, as revealed by the woman and Rene’s father, a
young man and it sounded fresh and real, not a projection. Byron
realised they were in the actual presence of a being. He spoke the
common tongue fluently … with a Valleur accent. What did that mean?
He doubted any Valleur was capable of evil - he would stake his
life on it.

“Are you able
to materialise further?”

A chuckle.
“Indeed, but that would reveal the mystery, not so? I choose to
remain in the shadows until all the players are gathered.”

Players?
“What do you want?”

“You assume I
want something.”

“Everyone
wants something,” Marcus murmured.

“Ah, Electan,
how good of you to come. It will be a particular pleasure to usurp
your pre-conceived notions.”

“How dare
you!”

“Shut up,
Marcus,” Byron snapped. “Who are you?”

“Others will
know me, sorcerer.”

“This house
has meaning for you?”

“I do not care
about this house or its famous occupant one way or the other. As
you said earlier, it is but a sorry jumble of brick and mortar -
useless. Ah, yes, I was listening.”

“Why threaten
the old man and the woman?”

“A statement.
Others will know the meaning of the destruction of this hovel.”

“Why warn the
old man?”

“I wanted to
draw sound witnesses, sorcerer. The fact you came, and the Electan,
has exceeded my expectations. Both of you make believable
observers, I hasten to add. You suit my purpose splendidly.”

“Why?”

“There can be
no doubt.”

“By others do
you mean the Valleur?”

“Yes, Morave,
I mean the Valleur. The time of complacency is over for them, and
for you ignorant humans.”

“And
elsewhere?” Marcus demanded. “All those incidents?”

The shadow
laughed. “Designed to open Guardian eyes. They are already with the
Vallorin, as expected.”

“But Valaris?
Why us? Why the incidents on the continent?” Marcus asked, ignoring
Byron’s questioning stare.

“Confirmation,
Electan.”

“Confirmation
of what?”

“Of the new
era. Tannil will have to prepare and make his move.”

Marcus went
cold.
Tannil will have to make his move?

“You have a
grudge against Vallorin Tannil?” Byron asked.

“Not against
Tannil personally.”

“Why pull us
into a Valleur mess?” Marcus shouted.

“You are
players in the great show also, Campian. Wake up.”

Byron sensed a
withdrawal and swiftly asked, “Wait. What must Tannil prepare
for?”

The figure
laughed. “That would be too easy. You need to think again, all of
you. Please leave now or die in this house. I don’t want to lose my
excellent witnesses. I gift you ten seconds.”

“But …” Marcus
began, and Byron turned, gripped him and hauled him out. The
resolve was implacable in the young man’s voice.

As he threw
Marcus out, and himself after, the front door slammed.

An insane
laugh rang through the night air.

“Move,
Marcus!” Byron shouted and Marcus moved.

Behind them
the house, Taranis’s home once and still owned today by the Valla
family, exploded in a fireworks display of spectacular might. The
two men hurtled to the ground and then lifted their heads warily to
watch.

There was
nothing to see.

The awesome
display had instantly dissipated and Taranis’s house was vaporised.
Even the foundations were gone.

The night was
deadly quiet.

There was no
presence.

The sound of
pounding feet tore the silence to shreds as Moor’s inhabitants came
running, among them a white-faced Rene Sirlan.

“I suppose
it’s too much to hope he blew himself up in that display,” Marcus
muttered, getting to his knees. He was so pale he seemed for a
moment insubstantial.

Byron
clambered into a sitting position. “There’s massive trouble coming,
my friend, and us humans aren’t going to escape the fall out.”

The two stared
at each other and then the town’s folk were upon them.

Chapter
10

How to begin
anew when hope is sundered? How to lift a head when life has no
meaning? Why is it this hard to feel? Someone, please, throw
disaster and suffering at me ... I need to feel!

~ A cry of
despair from the last Malnas

Caltian knelt
before the grave.

He was sad,
for Key-ler was a true friend. His fingers trailed over the
recently lowered slab.

Mischievous,
practical, impulsive and clever Key-ler.

The rotund
Brother who aided him two millennia ago when he, Caltian,
confronted the Dragon-man. Key-ler, first to realise who the
Dragon-man was. Key-ler, who organised the rebuilding of his
beloved Academia after Murs destruction, putting even Taranis, Lord
of the Guardians, to work.

The Dragon-man
had trusted him, Tannil trusted him and Teighlar trusted him.
Caltian loved him.

The graveyard
was extensive, with single sites, family plots, small crypts and
massive mausoleums. At the far end was a Wall of Remembrance for
the many thousands who died during the Atrudis War. A sad place,
but also peaceful. There were well-tended lawns, colourful flowers,
stately trees and many benches. A number of Valleur moved among the
old and new sites, some searching, others paying their
respects.

Key-ler
belonged here among the departed, for the man adored history.
Caltian rose and murmured a short homage and drifted towards an
exit. His gaze lingered on a name here and there and occasionally
he nodded greeting at a familiar face.

As he left he
reflected on how it changed for him. Before Torrullin he was
shunned for his dark hair and grey eyes among a golden people, but
now it was a mark of recognition. He was the man who slew the
Dragon and he was the present Vallorin’s stepfather. No one
remarked on his colouring and he no longer needed to convince
anyone he was as Golden on the inside as any of them.

He snorted as
he ambled the grassy lane of trees that led to the Academia. The
death of a friend and confidante had a way of causing one to
re-evaluate … as when Torrullin died.

Perched on a
large boulder off the trodden path, he grew introspective.
Key-ler’s passing would leave a gap in his life, but Torrullin left
a void. He never made peace with that particular passing and that
was besides the telling that the man would return. Maybe he would
not see it happen. He needed to lift out of depression and move on.
It was useless hanging onto the coattails of the dead.

He had Key-ler
to thank for this soul searching and no doubt the Brother clapped
in glee somewhere while encouraging him to do it, trust in himself.
Caltian gave a reluctant grin. The spectre of Key-ler. Ha! Key-ler
was nobody’s spectre. He had been whole in himself, sure of his
place and happy with his life.

The grin
vanished. It was time to do the same. Find wholeness, find his
place, reach for that same happy state, and, further, understand
what he needed to attain it. This was an excellent time to try,
having stared death intimately in the face the night before.
Mortality forced issues.

His childhood
was difficult. Shunned because of human looks and ostracised
because of his family’s adherence to the old ways of magic and
scrying - when sorcery was long subjugated - and laughed at because
of his name.
Beast Breecher
. Well, he achieved the destiny
his name implied and no one laughed now. No one had laughed for a
long time.

He expected
them to and that was the trouble. He carried scars. He had to find
a way to let go or he would be a bitter fool before long - he was
close to that already. It came to him, there on that boulder, he
did not need to forgive anyone to go forward. He needed to forgive
himself. He should have revelled in his difference, his future. He
should have stood up for himself and his family. He bore scars he
himself inflicted.

Nemisin had
been different, he who accepted a symbiosis with a Dragon. Vannis
had been in warring on humans and entering nine thousand year
hibernation to do so again. Torrullin had been incredibly different
from any norm, the Dragon-man and Enchanter in one. Not one hid in
shame. Caltian could not count himself as august as those three
Vallorins; how dared he hide for shame?

I am able
to hold my head high, for others don’t make me - they never did. I
made myself and succeeded.
He laughed, feeling free in a manner
not experienced before.
Yes, I can let go. It is
liberating.

Caltian bent
to extract a blade of grass, nibbled at the sweet end, his gaze
faraway.

Then there
were the long years of Creed, awaiting the Dragon-man. They waited
on the fulfilment of an ancient prophecy, knowing it would come in
his lifetime, for his name said so. It was a time of fear and
uncertainty, lack of self-confidence, and a time to learn the
higher realms of sorcery. He devised a trap, a sorcerous prison
employing the Dragon symbol to call and dupe his quarry, and
Key-ler, Keeper of the Keys, locked it.

The long years
of waiting, training, uncertainty, the suspicion and taunts from
non-Creed, had taken toll by that terrible night, but finding the
Dragon-man was not only the Vallorin, but the Enchanter, shocked
him. His personal foundations cracked wide to throw him into the
abyss. For a time he was lost. He had not existed, except as a
heart beating.

The charm, the
presence, the emotion of Torrullin pulled him out and the
Enchanter’s attempt to take on an entire nation’s suffering, to
spare them and to share it, created new foundations, rock steady
and solid. Caltian smiled as he spit the grass out. In Torrullin he
rediscovered who he was and became more. Their time was short and
intense, not enough to know the man, but enough to know himself.
And the six months they spent marauding about the universe after
the Dragon’s death taught him much about others. Lessons were
learned.

The Enchanter
sacrificed himself and with him, choosing of his own will to die,
went the charismatic Vannis, Torrullin’s beloved grandfather. He,
Caltian, was here on Luvanor at the time, attending to humans
evacuated from Valaris. There was no opportunity to thank his
Vallorin for restoring his faith in life and in his people.

With hindsight
he knew Torrullin deliberately sent him out of harm’s way and if he
examined Torrullin’s last words, he knew the Enchanter had spoken
his farewell, understanding there would be sorrow after and had
touched his mind to impart peace.

Lessons were
unlearned. He lost surety of premise on hearing the terrible news.
A wanderer since, looking for something to give his life meaning.
For a time he grounded in falling in love with Mitrill after she
gave birth to Tannil. It was a short-lived grounding. Mitrill did
not love him - in him she found someone who knew Torrullin, a man
safe and acceptable to take as partner.

At the time he
had not realised, did not yet understand Mitrill carried flame for
Torrullin, but after the birth of their daughter Fay, he came to
see she did not need him as he needed her. He rarely saw her now
and when he did return to Valaris it was to spend time with his
daughter.

He was a
wanderer, travelling Luvanor, going offworld, and he no longer
found joy in the unexpected. He did not like the person he evolved
into.

The first step
to change was made there on a boulder.

He rose, and
made his way down the lane.
I have Key-ler to thank for reaching
out to me from beyond the grave. All I need now is courage.