Tymall’s inability to remain still
for long, for it was Tymall’s voice that came to him faintly after
a time. Although whispered, the words were clear in the quiet, as
was the impatient tone.
“He is not
coming, Margus.”
A soft hiss
was Tymall’s reply. Torrullin compressed his lips. Now he knew with
certainty they were both on the battlements and that he was, in
fact, expected. The Dinor were a diversion and they waited upon him
to see through the ruse. Thank god for Vannis, quicker to
realisation than he was.
A soft groan,
quickly muffled, and Torrullin went cold.
Taranis.
He wondered in
passing where his father was, but had not remotely entertained the
thought that Taranis would be snared. His father could be real
slippery and he would have thought him engaged in a rescue
operation somewhere nearby, or even in Menllik despite saying he
would stay away.
Taranis was
badly hurt.
He dared not
probe, but he sensed life flickering, not life aflame.
His father
probably deliberately put himself in harm’s way to aid Saska. He
could not afford inaction much longer.
Was Saska
there? She was the one Tymall came for, not Taranis. Tymall hated
his stepmother with unreasonable passion. Taranis was a bonus. To
have Saska in his power would give him no little pleasure.
Torrullin grit
his teeth. This was his son, but this night he could cheerfully
snuff his life. There had to be a way to negate his baleful
influence permanently without harm coming to Tristamil, but now was
not the time to ponder options.
He renewed
concentration.
How unnerving
silence could be.
Tymall spat,
feeling it, and leaned over the wall to stare into the silent
crowded courtyard. His form was unmistakable. Margus hissed again,
but Tymall paid him no heed.
Then Margus
made a mistake.
“If you do not
control yourself, little snake, I shall not permit you your sport
with the delectable Saska. I am a man of my word, believe me.”
Blood rushed
through Torrullin. Nearly he made the grave error of charging out
in challenge.
Heat turned to
ice a moment later.
Son, you would
take my wife? Intention is as bad as the act. Margus is right; you
are a little snake. A poisonous, vicious, slippery critter that
deserves to be squashed underfoot. I shall quash you somehow and
your brother will survive it. I promise you this, and I too am a
man of my word.
Tymall did not
respond to Margus’ threat, but he retreated.
The Darak
Or has learned a thing or two, Torrullin mused, including
how to hold sorcerers. He was now more than the kernel of
waiting awareness within Tymall all those years; somehow he had
attained freedom that permitted travel, if only in the etheric.
That was where the knowledge lay if one knew how to look and see
and take unto oneself. Margus was no longer the arcane sorcerer he
was twenty-six years ago; he was more and he hopes I make the
mistake of equating him with what he was then.
Wrong, Darak
Or. I know you.
He held them
in bonds of corrosive vulci, pliable strands of twisted metal that
burned when applied and sealed.
It was
entirely a tool of the kinless and therefore caused particular pain
when employed upon disciples of the Light.
Only darak
enchanters could call upon it and Margus was such a one; neither
Saska nor Taranis had hope of undoing the binding, and they had
tried. Their wrists and necks were charred and raw with weeping
welts where they strained against their bindings; they together and
separately attempted to escape by using magic, but that agony
proved the greater.
Tethered to
the apertures in the stairwell, there was enough free play for them
to sit or stand, helpless, weaponless.
Margus placed
an enchantment of silence upon the Keep and that included the stone
of Torrullin’s hard and loving labour, not that Saska or Taranis
were aware of the distinction. Nobody was capable of helping them.
It felt as if the whole universe had fallen silent, destitute
before this Darak Or.
Like Margus,
they waited
for long, for it was Tymall’s voice that came to him faintly after
a time. Although whispered, the words were clear in the quiet, as
was the impatient tone.
“He is not
coming, Margus.”
A soft hiss
was Tymall’s reply. Torrullin compressed his lips. Now he knew with
certainty they were both on the battlements and that he was, in
fact, expected. The Dinor were a diversion and they waited upon him
to see through the ruse. Thank god for Vannis, quicker to
realisation than he was.
A soft groan,
quickly muffled, and Torrullin went cold.
Taranis.
He wondered in
passing where his father was, but had not remotely entertained the
thought that Taranis would be snared. His father could be real
slippery and he would have thought him engaged in a rescue
operation somewhere nearby, or even in Menllik despite saying he
would stay away.
Taranis was
badly hurt.
He dared not
probe, but he sensed life flickering, not life aflame.
His father
probably deliberately put himself in harm’s way to aid Saska. He
could not afford inaction much longer.
Was Saska
there? She was the one Tymall came for, not Taranis. Tymall hated
his stepmother with unreasonable passion. Taranis was a bonus. To
have Saska in his power would give him no little pleasure.
Torrullin grit
his teeth. This was his son, but this night he could cheerfully
snuff his life. There had to be a way to negate his baleful
influence permanently without harm coming to Tristamil, but now was
not the time to ponder options.
He renewed
concentration.
How unnerving
silence could be.
Tymall spat,
feeling it, and leaned over the wall to stare into the silent
crowded courtyard. His form was unmistakable. Margus hissed again,
but Tymall paid him no heed.
Then Margus
made a mistake.
“If you do not
control yourself, little snake, I shall not permit you your sport
with the delectable Saska. I am a man of my word, believe me.”
Blood rushed
through Torrullin. Nearly he made the grave error of charging out
in challenge.
Heat turned to
ice a moment later.
Son, you would
take my wife? Intention is as bad as the act. Margus is right; you
are a little snake. A poisonous, vicious, slippery critter that
deserves to be squashed underfoot. I shall quash you somehow and
your brother will survive it. I promise you this, and I too am a
man of my word.
Tymall did not
respond to Margus’ threat, but he retreated.
The Darak
Or has learned a thing or two, Torrullin mused, including
how to hold sorcerers. He was now more than the kernel of
waiting awareness within Tymall all those years; somehow he had
attained freedom that permitted travel, if only in the etheric.
That was where the knowledge lay if one knew how to look and see
and take unto oneself. Margus was no longer the arcane sorcerer he
was twenty-six years ago; he was more and he hopes I make the
mistake of equating him with what he was then.
Wrong, Darak
Or. I know you.
He held them
in bonds of corrosive vulci, pliable strands of twisted metal that
burned when applied and sealed.
It was
entirely a tool of the kinless and therefore caused particular pain
when employed upon disciples of the Light.
Only darak
enchanters could call upon it and Margus was such a one; neither
Saska nor Taranis had hope of undoing the binding, and they had
tried. Their wrists and necks were charred and raw with weeping
welts where they strained against their bindings; they together and
separately attempted to escape by using magic, but that agony
proved the greater.
Tethered to
the apertures in the stairwell, there was enough free play for them
to sit or stand, helpless, weaponless.
Margus placed
an enchantment of silence upon the Keep and that included the stone
of Torrullin’s hard and loving labour, not that Saska or Taranis
were aware of the distinction. Nobody was capable of helping them.
It felt as if the whole universe had fallen silent, destitute
before this Darak Or.
Like Margus,
they waited
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