Chapter 10: The Dragon Circle

 

How do you lift a weapon against someone you once loved?

Valarians prepare for winter. Many died in summer, more will succumb to the cold. While waiting for the opportune time to strike, Margus secretly begins a different kind of campaign: soul snatching. Having lost his army, he now rebuilds it with the souls of people in despair after the violence of summer’s confrontations.

Torrullin steps blindly into Vannis’ final prophecy. It brings him a great gift; it also leads to terrible betrayal. In the aftermath there is a change in the Valla Dragon’s place of residence, and Saska abandons Torrullin, leaving him in need of diversion. Belun of the Centuar is suspicious of the strange vanishings and it drives Torrullin offworld to find a ward against soul snatching, to end Margus’ reign of terror. He enters the forges of flame, and the man who emerges is reformed of fire to unleash annihilating heat.

Uninvited, Torrullin enters the Dome of his Guardian father, Taranis, employing a darkened doorway most Guardians believed inoperative, to become the harbinger of final days…

The Dragon Circle completes the forging of Torrullin Valla. The ambivalent Rayne’s tale began in the shades and shadows of a prejudiced world and moved into flame and fire, and now a new future unveils …

 

CHAPTER 10

 Fire and ice, a guaranteed contradiction to fill one with dread.

~ Unknown

  

Galilan

A BAND OF youths, perhaps despondent with ever-present chores, and in need of something reminiscent of a normal youth to spur them onward into their uncertain futures, fashioned musical instruments from odds and scraps to mimic the real implements.

A piece of hollowed driftwood became a guitar, old stumps and reed mats a set of drums, a copper cistern pipe a rough flute, bells were formed from discarded iron cannon casings, and so forth.

The youngsters congregated in an empty lot to practice. Others followed to sing, to dance and to laugh, and who could blame them? Life was rough. Music could ease the soul. Companionship could ease the roughness.

The unholy noise drew Belun to the place at first, because his sensibilities required an answer to the mystery of an incredible cacophony. However, he applauded his appreciation when he came upon them, understanding their mission, and resolved to request decent instruments from somewhere to bring as gift to these young musicians, or to find reparable ones on Valaris. Their willingness to innovate pleased him no end.

He returned to the dancing crowd whenever he found something and bathed in the delight of the cheers following every gift. Thus far he discovered a harp with only one broken string, that in Farinwood, an ancient dulcimer in Luan, a complete set of hide-drums in the ruins of Sheshi, and this day he came bearing an intact piano he found in the basement of what was once Galilan’s theatre.

Someone needed to tune it, and he knew if no one could at this point, someone would step forth and become the required expert. These Valarian youngsters were creative; he was proud of them.

Cheers erupted when they noticed him and the contraption he bore across his great shoulders. A young woman immediately ran forward after he deposited the piano alongside the musicians. Clearly, the required expert was at hand.

Grinning, Belun waved a hand and retreated to the shadow of a broken wall to watch them and listen. Moments like these made the hard labour worthwhile. He noticed a little lass in a bright red skirt dancing accompaniment to the impromptu musical performance, which now included the out-of-tune piano. Petite and pretty, bright blue eyes.

She clapped and laughed, and then halted to whisper in the ear of a friend. A moment after she wrapped a red scarf around her hair and wandered away, waving. Chores, no doubt, or a call from nature.

Belun smiled. She would be back, if not today, then at the next performance. They all would. Whistling to the melody they hit upon - they were definitely getting better - he wandered away himself, back to duty. He, too, would be back.

 

THE NEXT MORNING, he checked on the list of missing as he did every time he was in Galilan. Two names. A man of fifty and a girl of nineteen.

“We found him,” a voice said, a hand intruding into his view to tap a finger on the man’s name. “He was with the healers. He had a heart attack - alive though, thank Aaru. I’ll change it now.”

Belun glanced at the woman beside him, one of those who updated the lists. “And the girl?”

A sigh erupted. “Nothing yet.”

Belun stared down a moment longer, nodded and moved away.

Name: Lissa.

Description: Blond hair, blue eyes.

Last seen: Lot 53.

It was the lot where the youngsters congregated to make their music. Swearing under his breath, Belun headed in that direction.

 

Morinnes Camp

VANNIS STAYED AT the Morinnes camp for the two days following the revelations and, during that period, only Belun dropped in. Belun still had something on his mind, and it distracted him enough for him not to remark on Torrullin’s silence, if he even noticed in the state he was in. The Centuar, however, had arrived at the camp with express purpose this time, and he addressed it swiftly.

“Torrullin, something’s really bothering me.” Belun set his great size down on a log and snapped his fingers at Torrullin. “Are you hearing me?”

A baleful grey stare answered that.

“For weeks now young people have been disappearing, one here, two there, never more, never in the same place. Age varies from around sixteen Valaris years to twenty-five. Not one has anything to do with hunger or injury. And now, suddenly, they begin vanishing one after the other from Galilan.”

Vannis, listening, lifted his gaze from a study of the fire. “One expects the aged to disappear. Perhaps after a fall into a river. Perhaps just wandering into forgetfulness. Not the young; they are resilient. That is strange, yes.”

“Exactly.” Belun nodded vigorously.

“You investigated?”

The Centuar shifted his massive shoulders, keeping his gaze upon Torrullin, who seemed somewhat too distant for his liking. “Until today, no evidence and no trace of the lost ones. Not a shoe on a riverbank, for instance. Nothing. Drove me nuts.” Torrullin did not respond. Belun surged to his feet. “Until today. Today I found evidence, if only proof enough for me. I want you to come with me, Torrullin. You need verify it now for everyone to sit up and take notice, or this horror situation will go on and nobody will see it for what it is.”

Torrullin’s eyes narrowed, but his voice was even when he spoke. “I am waiting for Saska. Tell us what you are thinking, Belun. Tell us what you found.”

Belun eyed him and decided Torrullin was listening. “Man, but that’s just it. What I sense and what I found, it’s no longer enough. We need more than my suspicions and my kind of proof. Besides, I do not know what to think. If Margus had been sighted even as a rumour, I would say he has something to do with it, but as it is …” Again, those shoulders moved. “It is him doing this, in my book, but you need put that Enchanter nose to the ground, that’s what needs doing next.”

Torrullin stared at him. The Centuar endured the soul kind of suffering. Belun was an emotional creature, but this was more than emotion. He would not like what Belun had to reveal. No one would like it. “Belun, I hear you. But tell us, before I go off on a wild chase, what it is you suspect.”

“He is harvesting souls,” Belun stated.

Absolute silence ensued.

Icy air whistled and weaved through the camp.

“Gods, based on what?” Vannis demanded, rubbing his arms.

Torrullin pinched the bridge of his nose. Belun’s statement resonated too much to now be ignored. Gooseflesh pocked every inch of his skin, whether exposed or covered. This was the something different Saska mentioned. By all gods.

Belun said, “I spoke to Bartholamu a few days ago, the Siric knowing a bit more, you see? He tells me when a soul is snatched the body sort of deflates.”

“When Margus stole souls on his homeworld he left functioning bodies,” Torrullin interrupted.

“He needed them ignorant there; here he cannot afford evidence. Bartholamu reckons there are two ways. One is a slow extraction, leaving the body intact. The other is swift, leaving something akin to air behind, sort of dust that blows away on the wind.”

“Is that what you found? Dust on the wind?”

Belun folded his arms across his chest and glared at Torrullin. “Either you come, or I summon outsiders in.”

Torrullin snorted. “Such as?”

“A Lizoid oracle or two!”

Torrullin glared back at the Centuar. Almost, so close he tasted blood in his mouth from biting his tongue to still it, he screamed at the creature to leave him alone, to bring the entire Lizoid nation in, if that was what he wanted, he had greater matters to attend to, such as coping with rulership. He halted his anger at that point, for he realised rulership meant also solving crimes, whatever form they assumed. It required solving particularly when Margus was potentially behind them. He swallowed ire and reluctance, and nodded. “I will come. It does resonate.”

Vannis blinked at him. “You think there is truth in it? Soltakin require a lengthy period to train properly, Torrullin, and Margus is out of time.”

“Is he? What do we do if he decides to hide for the next few years? He vanishes because he needs the time to train a new army. All the while, he keeps us on a leash. A sighting here, a rumour there. How will we ever be able to relax? There is truth in this, yes, and we need stop it to keep him out of the time he needs.”

After a moment, Vannis nodded. “Man, when will it get easy again?”

“When he is dead. Vannis, stay here. If Saska comes…” Torrullin paused.

Vannis looked at him. “Keep her here, or give her an excuse?”

“I don’t know. Come, Belun. Lead: I will follow.”

 

Galilan’s Graveyard

THE PLACE THEY materialised in was a depression near the Galilan River, one of many such depressions.

“The graveyard?” Torrullin frowned, looking around.

Most of the bodies and ancient skeletons washed away in the horrendous flooding. The graves then filled with mud and debris, only to settle into these shallow depressions now in evidence. Reports of old bones discovered further down the river’s banks caused quite a stir a while ago. They were reconsecrated and reburied with due ceremony on higher ground.

“What’s up with you and Saska?” Belun asked.

Torrullin eyed him, well aware the Centuar regarded themselves as Sylmer protectors. “Nothing.” He lifted his gaze back to the surrounds. “Why are we here?”

The Centuar sniffed and led the way to a small grove of trees. As he walked, he said, “The girl’s name was Lissa and I saw her just yesterday at a gathering of musicians. I saw her leave that get-together and was thus one of the last to see her alive.” He halted and pointed at his feet.

A flash of red summoned from the wild grass. Torrullin kneeled and picked up the crumpled material. A scarf.

“She wrapped that around her head as she left,” Belun said, a catch in his voice. “They are so young, Torrullin. This isn’t fair. It isn’t right.”

Torrullin did not respond. He stared at the nearby trees. They would offer the security in which to lay in wait for an unsuspecting victim. He glanced at the fast-flowing river. The torrent would be a convenient excuse for folk to use as proof of death - he/she fell into the river; the current took them. As a potential crime and accident scene, the pieces fit.

He glanced at the red scarf in his hands. Unsoiled. The girl possessed the energy to keep her clothing spotless. She was not the kind, then, to tumble inadvertently into the river. There were long blond hairs caught in the folds and he lifted one and ran it between his fingers. It squeaked. Clean. The kind of girl who looked after her hair despite the circumstances she lived in. As a potential accident site, the evidence went against it. The evidence fit an actual crime scene, although the perpetrator was sloppy.

Torrullin glanced at the abandoned graveyard. He noticed the ancient chapel where the Mantle used to meet. It no longer possessed a roof and one wall listed; how everything had changed.

“They come to walk here,” Belun murmured, “because it’s quiet. No souls here anymore, they say, therefore no danger.” He swallowed hard. “She is the third I have tracked to this place, but this is the first evidence I found.” He kneeled beside Torrullin and carefully moved the grass aside. “Signs of a struggle, do you see?”

He did. The ground below was churned, freshly churned. Someone had waved a hand to restore the grass to an upright mien in order to fool investigators. Still, sloppy. Leaving a red scarf lying about was a rag to the bull, in this case a bull-headed Centuar. His gaze flicked to Belun. “Use of magic leaves traces.”

“Exactly. That is why I left it as is. A tad too old for my nose, though.”

Torrullin leaned closer and sniffed at the ground. He straightened to snuffle at the air, and rose to wander through the trees. After a few minutes he walked over to the river’s edge and stood there staring across the wide expanse.

“Well?” Belun demanded.

“Traces, yes. Definitely corrective sorcery.”

“Margus?”

Torrullin shook his head. “I can’t tell for certain. Too little to go on.”

“But?”

“It is him. Like you, I feel it in my gut.”

Belun deflated to rest hands on knees. “Knew it. Just knew it. I’m going to pull every hair from his body, strand by strand, and then …”

Torrullin gripped the big man’s shoulder. “I hear you.”

 

Morinnes Camp

BACK AT THE Morinnes camp Belun laid out what he discovered. While initial vanishings were of those closer to death, recent ‘missing’ were young and resilient, and each disappeared when unseen. Mostly singular, either early morning or early evening, and every functioning town had reported losses.

“He’s using the diffuse light to help him, by all appearances,” Belun said.

“Diffuse light isn’t sufficient. He has to lay in wait, as you suggest, sometimes for long stretches. He would rely on something extra, not merely a stand of trees or a pile of rock,” Vannis said.

“A shield,” Torrullin said.

“Correct, and a damn good shield it is,” Vannis muttered, “if he is moving around unnoticed.”

Torrullin frowned. “He would need a place to bind souls. A space where no light or sound is able to enter or exit, the kind of habitation he could vanish into for the required years of training.”

Vannis swore under his breath.

Belun sighed. “And I have looked.”

“Valaris is riddled with caves; it needs be a dedicated search. This cave won’t be found on cursory inspection.”

“Then we’re buggered, Torrullin. We cannot spare anyone to crawl into rock spaces right now. We have to warn folk.”

“I don’t agree. That will cause panic. Folk will run and he will end up with more to pick off.”

This time Belun swore under his breath.

“What we need do is shatter his shield,” Vannis said. “However, we have to know the construction of it first.”

“We need to get to him. Draw him out somehow.” Torrullin said. “And that won’t happen too soon.” He, too, swore inaudibly.

“Think beyond the obvious, Llettynn used to say, bloody repeatedly. Thus, forget Margus, forget shields, which are the obvious actions, and go for something we can achieve,” Belun muttered.

Torrullin murmured, “What have you in mind?”

“Maybe warding Valarians against soul harvest?” Belun suggested.

“That would put his nose out of joint, yes,” Torrullin said thoughtfully, and glanced at Vannis.

“We are talking devices. Serious wards. It takes time, and you need a talented and committed charmsmith.”

“You are a charmsmith, Vannis,” Torrullin said.

“I am an amateur. The only device I ever fashioned took months, and it was about retaining knowledge, not warding something. By the time I have a warding figured, we will be done with this Darak Or, or fighting a new soltakin army.”

Belun’s silver stare darkened to indigo. “We need a charmsmith, is it? Flame-wrights are charmsmiths, right?”

“Flame-wrights?” Vannis echoed.

“Crazy flame-wrights,” the Centuar muttered under his breath.

“Flame-wrights use forge fires for their magic,” Torrullin explained to Vannis, “and there is a host of them on Pendulim.”

“Where?” Vannis frowned.

“It was named after your time. Pendulim is a giant world; the Shadof are the endemic people.” Torrullin then focused on Belun. “What bothers you about them? Their wards work, from what I’ve heard.”

“Untrustworthy lot, that’s what bothers me. And life-wheels forged from fire are dangerous. Unstable.” Belun released a long sigh.

“What are life-wheels?” Vannis looked to Torrullin.

“Charms. Warding devices.” He glanced again at the Centuar. “Life-wheels are strange, granted, but a wheel is also an aspect. The Shadof could fashion something to ward against soul harvest.” Belun shrugged. “You brought it up and you have a valid point, Centuar. Someone should speak to them,” Torrullin said.

“Someone should,” Belun echoed, looking at the fair man with a blank face. “Care to try?”

“You do it, by Aaru. This is your idea.”

That great head moved from side to side. “I can’t. Guardians have no treaty with the Shadof. We do not trust their magic. One day someone will get too clever and attempt to take the Dome from us using a life-wheel and its aspect. We thus stay away from them.”

Torrullin grit his teeth. He could not take this on board now, not with the spectre of Saska’s wrath hanging over him. “I do not have power over them either. Pendulim is run by guilds, and they listen to no one. Belun, we have priorities right here.”

“This could be priority,” Vannis murmured.

Torrullin scowled at him.

The Centuar snorted. “Me thinks you will prove to be the only one who has power over them, but that isn’t the point now. And I hear you about priorities, but a wheel that protects Valarian souls might be an object of ultimate importance. Consider it.” His glare could have shattered air; it was that icy.

Vannis frowned. “This could also be mere conjecture.”

The Centuar snorted again. “The wizard who created us Centuar always said, in the absence of proof, follow the instinct of conjecture. I cannot state it as fact, but I’m telling you Margus is snatching and getting away with it and, if we’re not on our game, one day soon we’ll face another soltakin army and this time he will tweak them against elemental forces. Dare we take the risk? And more, those souls will be folk we pass on the streets today.”

Torrullin lifted a hand. “I hear you. I do hear you. Let me think it through.” He frowned and walked away.

Both Belun and Vannis stared after him.

 

VANNIS TOOK THE opportunity of privacy after Belun moved on to relate to Torrullin the history of previous Vallorins. The man did not listen too well, but he persevered.

Only once did a Vallorin die before passing the Dragon on. On that particular occasion, the heir underwent a complicated ritual to draw the creature to him. When Torrullin asked why it did not simply move itself, Vannis told him there was the issue of the Elders remaining unaware of the Dragon’s autonomy. The Vallorin, apparently, did not rule long.

Only once did a Vallorin fall in battle without an heir. His sister’s son was deemed fit to rule, and he too undertook the ritual. The line was considered unbroken.

Others received the Dragon as Torrullin had, only with more ceremony and celebration and, in the midst of noise and good cheer, many noted how, time after time, both the outgoing ruler and the new one would lose their smiles. Valleur generally assumed it was due to the gravity of leadership.

“There is a sphere in the Pyramid that records my father’s passing of the Dragon to me,” Vannis told him. “When the site is free again, I will show you.” He did not add how, after his initial shock, he thrived with the creature, but that time was a state of war and it gifted him an edge, a welcome edge that often fuelled his rage.

Torrullin listened to Vannis’ tales, but did not always give them proper attention. He worried over the concept of soul harvest, but did not feel the threat as the Centuar clearly did. It resonated, however, and it meant he was too distracted to follow his instincts. He fretted over Saska. It clouded judgement. Where was she? She had not been into camp for a while and was thus overdue. How do I tell her I am to be a father?

He dreaded meeting her, yet needed to see her. That told him unequivocally how much a part of him she was. He needed to prepare for the eventuality she would walk away. Then, despite everything, he smiled. It was a brilliant, joyful gesture, and it arrested Vannis’ tale and had the man gaping at him in astonishment.

“And now?”

“I am to be a father, Vannis. Imagine that! A son!”

Vannis laughed and Torrullin laughed with him. “Imagine that!”

Torrullin wagged a finger. “I can be a father.”

“I know,” Vannis murmured. “There is no greater joy than the joy a child gifts you.” His expression saddened; his eyes transforming into a brilliant blue. “It is my greatest regret.” His eye colour steadied into Valleur yellow. “You need to talk to Lycea.”

“Not yet.” Torrullin said. “Saska first.”

“Lycea will know soon, Torrullin. You should be the one to put her at ease.”

“Ease? And how do I do that?”

“You let her know how much you want this child.”

Torrullin closed his eyes. “Yes.” His eyes opened. “I will do it after I have spoken to Saska.”

Vannis said nothing further.

 

TORRULLIN SAT GAZING into the fire after Vannis went to bed, thinking on the bizarre and twisted path his life had now veered onto without warning. Welcome and unwelcome simultaneously. A father. A Vallorin. A man about to lose the one person that made life worthwhile.

He thought about the Centuar, his intensity, his pain. Belun took it personally when the innocent suffered. Belun followed his instincts, and he was right to do so.

Something needed done.

THE DRAGON CIRCLE