LIVE: HOUSE OF VALLA

 

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HOUSE OF VALLA

Live: The Orphan (Portuguese)

 

Apple books

(Amazon takes a while with translations)

Reading equals escape

 

Dandelion facts for kids

 

Just published: The Orphan's Portuguese version

 

Will let you know when it's live :)

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House of Valla: only days left!

 

HOUSE OF VALLA

Chapter 10: The Sleeper Sword

 

The Sleeper is Awake

 

Two thousand years have passed since the epic explosion in what is now called the Black Valley. Torrullin is in the invisible realms and the Darak Or is with him, and the universe enjoys a time of unprecedented peace.

A new threat rises on the cursed horizon.

It is time for the Sleeper Sword to awaken.

Ready to return to Valaris, Torrullin cannot exit the otherworld without aid. Samuel is his kinsman, his fate forged to the greatest sorcerer the cosmos has ever known. He swears to hold his hand out to Torrullin, to aid him home.

The old players gather for a renewal of the fateful games. This time the duel between a father and son will wound many, including Valla kin. Torrullin needs to build a relationship with his grandson Tannil, save Fay from hell, rescue Saska from captivity, and find the means to end Tymall. Their contest will reverberate through the spaces.

In an endless adventure of urgency and drama, the on-going saga of Torrullin’s role as saviour is as a sharp as the sword he reclaims and as blunt as his acerbic tongue. Wherever he goes someone will be hurt. To love him is to be ruined, to hate him is to be ruined.

Perhaps true catharsis lies in the realm of dreams.

 

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

 

 

Luvanor

Atrin Continent

Near the Academia of Truth

 

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, to 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 Breacher. 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 then, 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 do not 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 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 ambled down the lane. I have Key-ler to thank for reaching out to me from beyond the grave. All I need now is courage. Caltian halted in the centre of the lane. Courage to choose a new road. To make the hard decisions. Forgive myself. Done. End my marriage. It would take more than courage to face the self-possessed Mitrill, but this deadness was unhealthy. He would spend more time with Fay on Valaris. Perhaps in helping her shape a future, he would shape his own.

Minutes later he strolled in under the arch of the Academia’s imposing entrance, and stood a moment to watch. The Brothers scurried, some arguing about interpretation of some literary work, others walking with eloquent fingers in the air punctuating their thoughts. Key-ler had loved it.

He gazed at the building. It was an exact replica of the original, but its soul was profoundly changed. Today it was open-minded and there were no Web Overlords to dampen the flames of truth. It became what its name implied, the Academia of Truth, and today dealt in matters magical also. Here all the nuances of Torrullin and Vannis’ remarkable lives were examined and chronicled. Here Torrullin’s father, Taranis of the Guardians, was further immortalised in works of universal note. Here the tangled tale of Millanu, Torrullin’s mother, wife to Taranis, daughter of Vannis, was brought together and made whole for the future Valleur. Her tale began beyond the Rift, another universe, another world.

Caltian’s heart beat unevenly. Torrullin’s tale ended with ‘Remember now, there is the legend of the Sleeper who will one night awake to claim the sword of previous awakenings. We await.’

Literary licence? Maybe. Yet everyone awaited his return. There was indeed a sword. The pieces were discovered in Menllik, and it was re-forged and waiting upon the familiar hand of its wielder. Torrullin’s sword. Caltian admitted the real truth.

I wander because I await my Lord.

THE SLEEPER SWORD

Writer's inspiration

When lines, phrases or mere words cause you, as writer, to pause, and to wish you wrote them …

 

Caturday humour

Lore collages

Every collage from through the years here reflects something to do with my Lore: dragons, Grinwallin, Akhavar, oval stones, red cloaks, Pilan, time and more.

 

Portal to a random point ...

 😁 Oh yes, ain't this the truth?!

Love this!

 

Mood ...

 

Aha!

 

Well, here we put the day first, then the month: 311223. Not quite the same, but I do get the aha! And, the 3-11-22-3 is a pattern also :)

Wynorrific and Selcouth

 

Famous front doors

 

Chapter 10: The Nemisin Star

 

Destiny stalks the twins

Margus and Torrullin are the two faces of a coin. No matter how opposite they are, they remain equal, except Margus has no qualms in using Torrullin's twin sons against him; an agenda he knows causes his enemy suffering. To negate their destiny, desperately seeking release from their symbiosis, Tymall and Tristamil must fight until only one remains standing.

The Forbidden Zone is behind them; the wars of attrition return to Valaris. In a golden city waits a temple raised from a vision, and one night in 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 and death for his sons. The scythe, however, forever silences someone dear to him; is he paying for his choice in the temple?

As the universe searches for the Light in all its brilliance, seeking peace, Torrullin begins to see himself as a prince among demons and therefore decides to change the rules. Death, after all, is not an end.

Too many lives have been lost.

Too many hearts have been broken.

Sometimes the only way to find peace is to lose oneself.

 

CHAPTER 10

 

Never can another truly know your soul. You could name this as a defence against the unscrupulous, but the real truth is this, no one will know your true self.

~ Unknown

  

The Keep

THE KEEP WAS silent - particularly after Menllik - but not empty. The same ranks of folk there in support before the transport to the city was in place, but their silence now possessed an eerie quality. Torrullin halted 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, his all-seeing mentor, not warned him?

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 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’s 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 simply a bonus. To have Saska in his power would give him no little pleasure.

Torrullin gritted 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. Entirely a tool of the kinless, it 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 could help them. It felt as if the whole universe had fallen silent, destitute before this Darak Or.

Like to Margus, they waited on Torrullin, and hoped he would stay away. This Darak Or was not the one of the past. He was cleverer, more powerful, more heartless, and bent on revenge. And they hoped conversely Torrullin would come, to end their suffering.

Margus was extraordinarily patient. He waited without movement and expression, as if he had not a care in the world. The only time he displayed ire was when Tymall chafed. Tymall might doubt that his father would appear, but he was convinced, and waited.

Saska found, painstakingly, a seated position that allowed her to rest without too much pain, as long as she remained dead still and breathed shallow. She was numb from sitting motionless, but was prepared to endure it rather than give the creature the satisfaction of seeing her discomfort. The creature being Tymall. Gods, she thought, I had not known I have it in me to hate this much. I hate you, I hate you.

She reflected on the complacency that got her and Taranis ensnared.

 

Earlier

TORRULLIN’S STUDY WAS the one place entirely his and she felt closer to him there, and thus, after Torrullin and Tristamil left for Menllik, she wandered in.

There were no feminine touches and there was no opulence. The chamber was simplicity that reflected his internal search for peace. Plain dark carpets, a large square desk, and comfortable easy chairs in dark fabric; the simple and practical counter where he kept a few bottles of wine and spirit, but never drank much of. Clean lines. The décor would be overly masculine had it not been for his books, and they said much about the man.

He was clever, always in search of new knowledge and not merely in the realms of magic. Books on philosophy, history, ancient religious treatises, nature tomes from varied worlds, mathematics, art, music, building manuals, too many to mention, formed an eclectic collection.

Saska wandered the shelves, reading a title here and there, amazed by the variety. There were new ones; her absence and the recent mission had not hampered his thirst for knowledge. In the far corner near the bottom, she discovered a bulky leather-bound book and thought at first it was a volume of the Oracles, but the Oracles were not displayed in plain sight, and she was intrigued.

She hefted it to his desk; it was a book of prophesies. That would be because of the mission to Pendulim before the twins were born, when he spoke long to a charmsmith who dealt in foretelling. This was a large collection and not one Valleur. The predictions were from races and worlds far-flung and near, known, and some she had never heard of. The universe was massive, eternal, expanding, a fair excuse for not knowing everyone in it, but not so Torrullin. He was weary of surprises, particularly of prophecies that tended to leap out at him. There were literally thousands. Engrossed, she did not hear Taranis enter.

“I see you found that book.” His voice, lightly amused, startled her. “He pours over it much as you are now.”

Relaxing, she smiled. “Interesting reading.”

“Indeed. Note how the tellings with the word One have been circled, and anything that smacks of twins, Dragon, Golden, etcetera.”

“I saw that. Some have been crossed out - fulfilled or nonsense?”

“Both, I would think,” Taranis shrugged. “There is trouble in Menllik, the western skyline is aflame.” She straightened. “No, Saska. He will send …”

“… for the Lady, yes, I know.”

“That bad?”

“Worse.”

“I am sorry.” She waved her hand dismissively and Taranis continued in a different vein. “Belun, Gren and the Dragons have entered the city, as have the majority of the Valleur in the valley. I heard from Kismet that Vannis showed here briefly, sized matters up and left again. I assume he is there.”

“And you?”

“Torrullin will have my head; he told me specifically to stay away. And I stupidly agreed.”

“You follow his orders to the letter now?”

“That’s unfair. You did not see how he was before he left.”

“Oh, I saw him,” Saska muttered. “I saw him with Cat.”

Taranis stilled. “Um, it’s not …”

“… what I think? How so, Taranis?” She rounded the desk in quick steps. “You knew?”

Taranis inhaled. The minefield was not his.

“You did know. Well? Are they lovers?”

“Saska, please talk to Torrullin.”

“Talk to Torrullin,” she mimicked. “How? He has closed himself to me.” She smacked her hand on the desk and leaned into it, glaring. “For Aaru’s sake, will you tell me?”

Taranis’ gaze slid away, but when she hissed, he looked at her. “He barely talks to me either, Saska. I do know he loves you.”

“That is not what I want to know.”

Taranis spread his hands. “You ask me to interfere in the relationship between a husband and a wife. One is my son, and the other a dear friend.”

“It’s not interference. It’s truth, which I am probably alone in not knowing. Have it your way. I will confront Cat.” She moved to leave.

“Don’t do that, please.”

She inhaled deeply and crossed her arms. “You would spare her. Why?”

“Because she, like you, hurts - and it isn’t her fault. She had no idea what she was getting into or how hard she would fall for him. Stupid Torrullin. I cannot believe he is still pursuing this.”

Saska looked away. “To be honest, it seemed as if he simply used her to release tension. She was like a frightened rabbit. What kind of man is so cavalier?”

“An angry one.”

“And I am the source of that anger; yes, I am, trust me. Maybe our relationship will not survive this. Did he sleep with her?”

Taranis looked away. “Yes.”

“Well, we both know Torrullin. He only takes from what attracts him. My god, I …”

“Saska.” Taranis was firm. “Don’t. He is a man, and you weren’t there. Let it go.”

“I thought you would understand.”

“I do. I flipped on your behalf, ask him, but I still understood.”

“And drove a wedge between you and him?”

“For a time, yes.”

“You need not defend me.”

“Someone has to make him see reason.”

She laughed, a little hysterically. “Do you know what would really hurt him? You and me, together.” Tears formed in her eyes. “Maybe I should, to get back at him.”

“You say that after what happened before? Remember what one foolish kiss did? You do that, you hurt me, him, but mostly you hurt yourself. You come to me Saska, and I shall deny you.”

She was miserable. “Maybe I should sleep with her sexy brother. An eye for an eye.”

Taranis sighed. “Don’t even think it. Matt already carries too heavy a torch for the Enchanter’s wife.”

“Perfect. It will not take much to lure him into a bed, would it?”

Into that emotionally charged atmosphere came Margus and Tymall. Before they were even aware of the intruders, Vulci bonds wrapped around wrists and necks. Both stumbled to the floor howling pain.

Tymall stood over Saska, leering, eyes alight. “Stepmother. How nice to see you again.” He ran his hands suggestively down her writhing body, with evident pleasure. “Hmm,” he murmured, and the excitement in his eyes was a physical force. “No wonder my dear father enjoyed you. My turn now …” and he began to undo the fly of his breeches.

A tin soldier about to plunder and pillage. Taranis screamed at him in spite of his pain, but Tymall grinned and thrust a gag into his mouth, stuffing it in hard. Taranis’ eyes bulged and his face reddened, and Tymall moved his attention back to Saska.

“You, however, I would enjoy hearing scream and beg. And I am aroused by the very idea of defiling you before my father’s father; heightens the pleasure …” Tymall kneeled over her, pushed her robe up, up, his free hand sinking into the flesh of her thighs, his breathing erratic, excited. Taranis writhed through his agony and kicked out. Tymall growled and smashed his fist into Taranis’ face, and then he released himself, stroked himself, tore at Saska’s underwear, lowered, his breathing harsh, his eyes like coals.

She jerked her knees up, he slapped her hard, elbowed Taranis again, and lowered his mouth to hers, all the while stroking himself in ecstasy.

Margus dragged him off. “Not now, imbecile! When we have dealt with the Enchanter you can have her.”

Tymall stood there breathing fast and saw the threat in Margus’ eyes. He drew breath and pushed himself with difficulty into his breeches, and looked at Saska again. “The pleasure will be sweeter if you have time to think of me. Imagine me deep inside, Saska dear, deep inside.”

Saska hawked and spat. It cost her the skin on her neck, but was worth it. He laughed and shoved a gag in her mouth. Dragging her roughly to her feet, he held her body tight to his. She felt how aroused he was, and struggled, but the vulci was too much to bear and she lost consciousness.

 

MARGUS DRAGGED TARANIS up, who was not about to go forth without a struggle. He lashed out with his legs, used his shoulders like a ram, and head butted, gritting through the terrible thwarts from the vulci, and paid dearly. Margus blocked the attempt and calmly pushed the rope deeper until Taranis screamed.

It would have been sufficient, but Tymall did not regard it as enough. Holding Saska, he released a short sharp pulse of power that connected with the vulnerable region of the body below the ribs. Taranis’ insides curled and twisted, ruptured and boiled.

Margus shouted at Tymall to cease, and gripped Taranis. He snapped at him to control his temper, or he would suffer worse, and frogmarched Taranis out the door and to the battlements.

Taranis went stumbling and whimpering. By all gods, he would hold on until Torrullin arrived. He would die before he allowed the nefarious Tymall to have his way.

 

TYMALL FOLLOWED, hoisting Saska over his shoulder, carrying her with leering pleasure. He giggled, until Margus told him to shut up. They were then tethered to the stairwell and their ankles bound. Tymall slapped Saska about the face until she regained awareness and instantly tried to scream through her gag.

“Be still!” he hissed. “It will hurt less.” He ran a finger down her cheek and neck, continuing down to her chest where he stopped at one nipple. He pinched hard. Saska flinched and her head smacked against the wall. She moaned.

The Darak Or stared at Tymall, saying, “Control yourself.”

Tymall glanced sidelong at Taranis. His grandfather was in agony, and it was more than the results of the vulci. His smile widened. It felt good; he always despised the conservative nature and goodness of Taranis Agripson, father of his father. For years he had not dared, but wanted to hit his grandfather, spit on him, and now he did far worse. Revenge could be so sweet, Margus was right about that. He stepped up to Taranis and loosed a hard fist into his face.

Taranis’ head snapped back and then he righted himself to glare at his grandson. He spat the gag out. “And you call yourself a man.”

Tymall snarled and delivered double fists into Taranis’ gut and watched his grandfather crumple. “I do not care what you think,” he said, dragging the injured man up. “Shut your mouth!” He hit him repeatedly.

Margus said, “Leave him. We are not here for your particular pleasure, Tymall. Quiet. I cannot hear anything.”

Tymall inclined his head and left Taranis alone.

THE NEMISIN STAR