mid-stride.
Everyone
looked at him strangely, significantly, and he knew it had nothing
to do with his bloodied appearance. He noticed Skye appearing
almost catatonic near the far wall.
“Where?” He
asked it of the kitchen cook rolling her eyes at him. She pointed
one finger up, shielding her hand with her body.
He lifted his
gaze upward and faded into the shadows. His people had not revealed
his arrival; hopefully that translated as Margus remaining ignorant
of it. He swiftly and silently removed his boots. Holding his sword
tight against his thigh, he padded up the courtyard stairs.
Nobody moved
or spoke and for that he was grateful. It was more than fear that
paralysed them, as it was more than support; they were entranced
into silence, and that was to his advantage, more than Margus
trusted it was to his.
He entered the
western stairwell, the one adjacent the Dragon doors. Those doors
reached the full height of the Keep so that the balcony wrapped
three sides internally, and the doors were shut, with all three
massive bolts dropped into place, the first time ever. Margus
wanted to prevent anyone from entering and everyone at the Keep
from leaving. It was about control.
Torrullin
paused on the stairs inside the well to push matted hair from his
face and tuck loose strands behind his ears. The battle in the city
had been hard fought and he suffered the results.
What trickery
was in place here to trap him? It had to do with Saska, of that he
was certain, but how was she positioned to force his hand in this
game?
He should have
smote Margus in Linir, and banished Tymall.
How had Margus
breached the magic of the valley?
A long time
ago he asked the sentience of the resident magic to grant him a
boon, to accept the presence of one son despite his evil
intentions. It was granted and this night Tymall used that to
enter, bringing with him a greater evil. There upon the stairs it
occurred to Torrullin that Torrke knew the identity of the evil son
a long time ago and had he desired to know, all he needed do was
ask. He never asked and had, by inaction and cowardice, brought
this new and old hell revisited on the same people.
The game
changed tonight.
He
listened.
Nothing.
He padded up
and thanked all gods the door at the top was ajar. Listening again,
he stepped into the deep shadow of the wall. There he hunkered and
meticulously scrutinised the battlement walk ahead. The starlight
was too dim to shed illumination, but deeper shadows and forms
would be visible if one looked carefully enough.
Nothing, and
not a sound.
He crept
forward, keeping low, moving in a crouch until he attained the
southern well.
The door was
closed and he halted to watch and listen.
No sound.
Movement.
Near the
eastern stairwell.
He shivered
from the sweat of recent labours cooling in the cold night air, and
forced calm. If he moved closer he would be seen and would lose the
element of surprise. The shivering ceased and his hammering heart
beat back into an even rhythm. Nothing would be gained from rushing
in.
He chose to
wait them out. Sometime someone would say something or become
impatient, make a mistake or move in such a way that action became
necessity.
With infinite
care, he unbuckled his scabbard and with equal caution laid it away
from him to prevent inadvertent noise. Slowly he withdrew his
sword, keeping the telling movements from line of sight behind the
well. The keenest ear would hear nothing. Holding the blade in his
left hand, he slid into the recess the closed door formed and
waited there with an unwavering gaze.
Why had Quilla
not warned him, his all-seeing mentor?
It had been a
long night and that after days of tension and sleeplessness, which
followed months of world hopping and weeks of ducking on Luvanor.
He was beaten, bruised, cut, and every nerve screamed for relief.
Weary, he stood with unusual calm and patience.
He waited.
And did not
wait long.
In the back of
his mind he must have wagered on
Everyone
looked at him strangely, significantly, and he knew it had nothing
to do with his bloodied appearance. He noticed Skye appearing
almost catatonic near the far wall.
“Where?” He
asked it of the kitchen cook rolling her eyes at him. She pointed
one finger up, shielding her hand with her body.
He lifted his
gaze upward and faded into the shadows. His people had not revealed
his arrival; hopefully that translated as Margus remaining ignorant
of it. He swiftly and silently removed his boots. Holding his sword
tight against his thigh, he padded up the courtyard stairs.
Nobody moved
or spoke and for that he was grateful. It was more than fear that
paralysed them, as it was more than support; they were entranced
into silence, and that was to his advantage, more than Margus
trusted it was to his.
He entered the
western stairwell, the one adjacent the Dragon doors. Those doors
reached the full height of the Keep so that the balcony wrapped
three sides internally, and the doors were shut, with all three
massive bolts dropped into place, the first time ever. Margus
wanted to prevent anyone from entering and everyone at the Keep
from leaving. It was about control.
Torrullin
paused on the stairs inside the well to push matted hair from his
face and tuck loose strands behind his ears. The battle in the city
had been hard fought and he suffered the results.
What trickery
was in place here to trap him? It had to do with Saska, of that he
was certain, but how was she positioned to force his hand in this
game?
He should have
smote Margus in Linir, and banished Tymall.
How had Margus
breached the magic of the valley?
A long time
ago he asked the sentience of the resident magic to grant him a
boon, to accept the presence of one son despite his evil
intentions. It was granted and this night Tymall used that to
enter, bringing with him a greater evil. There upon the stairs it
occurred to Torrullin that Torrke knew the identity of the evil son
a long time ago and had he desired to know, all he needed do was
ask. He never asked and had, by inaction and cowardice, brought
this new and old hell revisited on the same people.
The game
changed tonight.
He
listened.
Nothing.
He padded up
and thanked all gods the door at the top was ajar. Listening again,
he stepped into the deep shadow of the wall. There he hunkered and
meticulously scrutinised the battlement walk ahead. The starlight
was too dim to shed illumination, but deeper shadows and forms
would be visible if one looked carefully enough.
Nothing, and
not a sound.
He crept
forward, keeping low, moving in a crouch until he attained the
southern well.
The door was
closed and he halted to watch and listen.
No sound.
Movement.
Near the
eastern stairwell.
He shivered
from the sweat of recent labours cooling in the cold night air, and
forced calm. If he moved closer he would be seen and would lose the
element of surprise. The shivering ceased and his hammering heart
beat back into an even rhythm. Nothing would be gained from rushing
in.
He chose to
wait them out. Sometime someone would say something or become
impatient, make a mistake or move in such a way that action became
necessity.
With infinite
care, he unbuckled his scabbard and with equal caution laid it away
from him to prevent inadvertent noise. Slowly he withdrew his
sword, keeping the telling movements from line of sight behind the
well. The keenest ear would hear nothing. Holding the blade in his
left hand, he slid into the recess the closed door formed and
waited there with an unwavering gaze.
Why had Quilla
not warned him, his all-seeing mentor?
It had been a
long night and that after days of tension and sleeplessness, which
followed months of world hopping and weeks of ducking on Luvanor.
He was beaten, bruised, cut, and every nerve screamed for relief.
Weary, he stood with unusual calm and patience.
He waited.
And did not
wait long.
In the back of
his mind he must have wagered on
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