Chapter 10: LYKANDIR: The Measured World

 

Motionless seas. A two-faces clock. Lykan sees all. 

The Dark Ages reigns on a world separated from Time, where men prefer war and women are lesser. Writing is outlawed and city gates close against the night, for the legend of the Wer is frighteningly real.

King Androdin sends his son Cadmus north to meet with his northern rival, Drakan of Caladin, and with him is Aris Delmann, leader of the army. Their journey takes an unexpected turn when they discover not only an enclave of women, but also powerful men from another world, among them Torrullin Valla and Elianas Danae. 

Meanwhile, in the south, traitors have summoned an army from a distant land, and soon the first city falls to their might. 

When the mages begin their own game of manipulation, using the two-faces clock, Lykandir becomes explosive. It needs but a spark and all hope will be lost. 

How dare they? Now is the time to stand together, is it not? Lykandir is about to suffer an overdue shake around and no one will escape it. 

Lykan sees all.

CHAPTER 10

 

For love of a friend, one walks into danger.

~ Ancient Oracles ~

 

Avaelyn

The Singing Chapel

THREE days after the wasp attack, Torrullin summoned his team to the Singing Chapel on the grounds of the Healer’s Facility. Built as a sacred site, the stone building communed with nature and accepted all worship, whether of the Mother or a tree, flower, or a star in the heavens. It did not matter; what mattered was serenity, and here there was a tranquillity to soothe the soul when a loved one lay on a bed in the hospital a few feet removed. The day he and Elianas consecrated the site, over a century ago, bright-winged birds flew into the giant tree the chapel reposed under and commenced a song of ethereal beauty. Thus, the Singing Chapel. Even now, a multitude of harmonies played out on the branches overhead.

Shep Lore, the architect and instigator for what he called the hospital, but Valleur thought of as the Healers, as well as being its administrator, and the foremost healer on Avaelyn, would not attend. Too many required his care at this point. None had yet recovered from the wasp sting. Sabian had denied the summons also, claiming he was engaged in determining both cause and solution to the foul result of the stinging.

Torrullin hoped he would find something, for those felled had been immune to his healer’s talent, and that had never happened before. This ‘illness’ was either so new or so ancient, there was no cure, one not even his remarkable abilities could delve for. Like to Titan’s Disease in the past, which had at least responded to his touch, this was a thing of sorcery, there was no longer doubt on that score. Had it been biological, every man, woman and child would now be leaving the hospital healed after being under his hands. Shep and Sabian would need to be caught up on the other world situation, but in the present, they were where they were most needed.

Elianas relaxed in long-legged calm in one of the window seats, his gaze turned outward. He seemed removed from the present. His long, dark hair lifted in the breeze - the doors were open on both sides - and his fingers lay spread on his thighs. For this, he had donned black - britches, boots - other than his tunic, a flowing white silk. He appeared, Torrullin mused, much like the pirates in old stories. All he needed was a cutlass.

“Where is your sword, Elianas?”

The man did not move, other than to say, “At home.”

He, Torrullin, had not strapped his on either. He could not remember the last time he had cause to wear it. In those first years after separation from Reaume, yes, for the potential for strife still existed then, but thereafter only to swipe at midges when he and Elianas raced along wild paths on their horses. Soon the day arrived when neither man bothered to reach for their blades. Both kept them oiled and sharp, however,

“Are you thinking we should keep our swords close again?” Elianas asked, his gaze still turned outward.

“Maybe.”

Dark hair swung as Elianas moved his head to rake him with an unreadable gaze. “You chose full black for this gathering. Making a statement or expecting trouble?”

The black had been his trademark apparel, as it had been for Elianas, but with time he had set aside what he regarded as both armour and war gear, and had chosen loose-fitting natural hues. In winter, certainly, he sometimes donned the black, but that had to do with staying warm, not much else. “Both,” Torrullin murmured.

“Why make a statement? We are not expecting strangers, Torrullin.”

“Says the man who almost did the same. Tell me why you chose that shirt.”

Elianas’ head swung back to the outward view. “Too hot for a woven tunic.”

“That’s your reason?”

“What else can it be?”

The itch of frustration over Elianas’ attitude revealed to him that they were in contrary mode both. In the past this led to extreme confrontation between them; were they headed in that direction again?

“Elianas, I don’t want to fight.”

“Too bad. Maybe I do.”

Now what the fuck did that mean? About to stride in to haul the man from the seat, Torrullin was forced to pause, for he heard Teroux’s voice on approach, talking to someone as he walked. “Saved by the bell,” he muttered.

A smile curved onto an amber cheek, but Elianas did not look his way.

Teroux, golden hair flowing over his shoulders, his tawny eyes bright, entered all smiles, his arms held wide. Grinning, Torrullin walked into the embrace, and both slapped each other’s backs before drawing apart. “Good to see you, Teroux. You look well. The ocean air definitely suits you.”

“Man, my new ship is fantastic! You and Elianas have to come for a sail … where is Elianas? Oh, there you are!” Grinning, Teroux moved in Elianas’ direction, who swung his legs to the floor and stood. The two clasped arms in ritual greeting.

“We’d love to sail,” Elianas smiled.

“Just say when,” Teroux grinned.

In the time before, Elianas and Teroux had issues and barely tolerated each other. They were not best friends today, but after a century of sun, sea, and his own company, Teroux had grown up and no longer sought to hold on to the past. His greeting and smile, therefore, was sincere, and Elianas responded to it, although only Torrullin understood the dark man still had reservations. He would probably never entirely trust Teroux.

“Who were you talking to?” Torrullin asked.

“Quilla. Now where has he got to?” Teroux moved to a bench and sat, crossing his legs.

“Here, here,” Quilla of the Q’lin’la chirped as he entered. A tiny being with feathered crown and wings, the birdman was Torrullin’s most trusted friend. His cherubic cheeks bulged as he smiled greeting, “Such lovely harmonies, had me entranced. Torrullin, I have missed you. And you, Elianas. Teroux at least has been to the Lifesource; I hope you two will pay a visit soon.”

The Lifesource Cathedral was the sacred site on Avaelyn. Erected between two mighty peaks with a gigantic waterfall to one side, it gave homage to the lifegiving waters of their world, and in return offered healing of the mind to all who entered the ethereal chambers within chambers. Many visited simply to listen to the magic of the music surrounding them as they wandered through. Although a Valleur site, it was also Quilla’s home, and was the only access to the Q’in’la moonlit homeworld.

“Soon,” Elianas echoed. “Hello, Quilla. It is good to see you.”

Tiny hands clasped together. “Likewise. We are too scattered in the present.”

“Peace does that,” Torrullin grinned.

Bright blue orbs speared him. “Meaning peace is about to be disrupted, given we are gathering? Oh, I hope not.”

“I agree,” Teroux said. “Those wasps? Is that what this is about?”

“They appear to be a symptom of a larger problem. I will explain when Tarlinn joins us,” Torrullin responded.

“Will he join us?”

Torrullin shrugged at his grandson. There was no way of knowing, was there?

Quilla meanwhile moved to stand before Elianas, his feathered head thrown back to look up at the man. “You are disturbed.”

“The news is not the best.”

“No, Elianas,” Quilla murmured, and reached up to lay a tiny hand over the dark man’s heart. “I mean in here.”

Placing a hand over the tiny one, thereby engulfing it, Elianas said, “Perhaps I will come to the Lifesource, for clarity.”

“Good.” Swinging away, the birdman next came to rest before Torrullin. “The black, my friend?”

Peripherally tracking Elianas’ suddenly uncoordinated movements, Torrullin muttered, “You need to take this seriously.”

“That bad.”

“Potentially, yes.”

“Oh dear,” Quilla sighed, and moved to perch beside Teroux.

As Elianas returned to the window seat, sitting with his legs hanging over the edge to face the interior, a new shadow darkened the entrance.

Tarlinn had arrived.

 

HE PAUSED in the doorway to study those already present.

Torrullin Valla. The man of many titles. Elixir. Walker of Realms. Shadow Wings. Lorinin. Ancient. Eternal Companion. Timekeeper. And Vallorin, the one that counted most for him, Tarlinn. The Valleur who was both Valla and Danae, a true immortal. That list of titles was what led to Torrullin choosing to bow out from Reaume, and who could blame him?

Elianas Danae. Torrullin’s equal in power, his list of titles as impressive. Alhazen. Shadow Wings. Ancient. Eternal Companion. Timekeeper. The Danae. The Vallorin without a throne. How he wished Elianas had taken that seat. A Danae with Valla blood also, truly immortal.

He knew these two men from the inside out. He was and ever would remain the sentient part of the Valleur Throne, but having chosen to accompany The Valla and The Danae into their portal existence, he now walked on two legs like to any other. The Throne itself, back in Reaume, was autonomous, and yet, if he wished to, he could simply return to inhabit the seat as he had for eons upon eons, through cycle after cycle. He no longer wished to, but his choice did not detract from his powers at all. As in the past, when Torrullin, first and forever Vallorin of the Valleur in his opinion, sat on his Throne, and knowledge flowed between them, thus it was now. Elianas had hidden as essence within the golden seat for a lengthy period, believing himself alone, waiting, and Tarlinn the sentience had left him to that belief, for it was how the man coped with the long wait. Indeed, yes, he knew these men from the inside out.

A century had gone by as a man. Often, he needed to vanish to cope with that, for a century when compared to the eternity elapsed? It played with his mind. Sometimes he questioned his choice academically, and at other times he screamed his elation at the spaces … and did not need witnesses for that.

Tarlinn’s attention shifted to the only other Valla on Avaelyn - Teroux. The young man - no longer that young at over a century - had finally lived up to his potential. Teroux Valla had a rough time growing up. As a man who preferred men, he hid his secret, and it bowed his soul. He wed the lovely Rose and betrayed her for Elianas, which that man utterly denied him. Time had moved on and there was peace between them, and Teroux had blossomed to become his own man, while Elianas remained contained when in his presence.

And Quilla of the Q’lin’la. A true friend to Torrullin, his only confidante. How blessed Avaelyn was that this tiny birdman had chosen to turn his back on Reaume. He said it was because his time had expired there, but Tarlinn knew the real reason was his love for Torrullin.

Glorious men, and here he was, unremarkable, average … generic. A face overlooked in a crowd. Features soon forgotten, his choice. And yet his power, while different, was on par with both Torrullin and Elianas. They were waiting for him to speak. “Greetings,” was all he said, and moved forward to clasp arms with all except Quilla, who grinned impishly his way.

“Six years this time, Tarlinn,” Torrullin pointed out. “What were you up to? No one saw you.”

“Here, there. High, low. This is an ancient world and keeps secrets. I wanted to know.”

“And what did you discover?”

“I now know how Avaelyn will return to Reaume.”

Utter silence greeted that statement, and Tarlinn watched the reactions with curiosity. Torrullin inhaled, and closed his eyes, and that, he understood, was all about relief. Thus, Torrullin already knew they would return, and he realised the way had been found. Elianas remained expressionless, other than incrementally shifting his gaze to evaluate Torrullin’s reaction. Thus, the Danae knew as well, and now wondered how soon Torrullin would agitate for that return. Quilla’s mouth rounded and Teroux paled to ghostly white.

“Return? I don’t want to go back,” Teroux whispered.

“Tactless, Tarlinn,” Torrullin snarled.

“No, my brother. This is knowledge we may need soon. If we cannot prevent the seas boiling away, escape from this realm will be the only answer.”

“Fuck,” Elianas groaned.

“What the hell does he mean?” Teroux demanded of Torrullin. “Boiling seas?” No doubt Teroux’s first thought was for his fleet of ships. “What bloody boiling seas?”

Threading both hands through his shoulder length hair, Torrullin said, “You are therefore aware of the situation.”

Tarlinn nodded. “I am.”

“You came to tell us about this dubious escape hatch.”

“I did.”

Torrullin grinned mirthlessly. “Hasn’t that just put a cathron among the falcons?” Inhaling, he faced Quilla and Teroux. “Listen now, here’s what’s happening …”

 

Healer’s Facility

MANY lay in delirium upon beds in the hospital and Shep Lore moved amongst them, hoping to at least make them as comfortable and pain free as was possible. Friends and family of his patients hovered, waiting for the healer to give his prognosis. He had nothing to offer them, and prayed that Sabian would find an answer. Torrullin’s healing attempts had had no waken and heal effect, although it did delay what other healers were saying was inevitability. They lost three men before Torrullin arrived that first day. This was day four, and none had yet recovered naturally.

Of the swarm there had been no further sign, but reports of sightings of small groups had filtered in from every region. No further attacks had yet occurred and for that Shep was beyond thankful.

One man kept drawing his gaze and he was unsure whether the man was human or Valleur; his dark hair spoke of being human while his attitude screamed Valleur. He hovered over a golden-haired Valleur writhing and moaning, whispering to him, no doubt hoping his words of support would aid the poor man. The hovering one reminded Shep so much of Taranis Agripson, the Guardian of yesteryear, that he could not help but glance over repeatedly, certain his eyes were deceiving him. The man was nervous, and that nervousness went beyond what he felt for his friend in delirium. He continually looked to the ward entrance as if expecting someone to enter, a someone he did not particularly wish to see, or was wary of encountering, but because he cared for the ill man, he took the risk. Gut instinct told Shep that, by all gods, this day would bring utter change.

Sabian entered then, and Shep noticed how the watching dark-haired man almost deflated in his relief. Shep and Sabian had over the last century become best friends, often working together, one being practical, the other a researcher. They made things happen, much to Torrullin’s continued amusement.

“Shep?” Sabian queried. “Have a moment?”

The rotund, purple-clad form saw something in Sabian’s expression, for he nodded and followed the man out. Neither noticed that the dark-haired one trailed after them.

The two halted in an alcove and engaged in whispered conversation. “I can now confirm each of those creatures was, in some form, a wasp, but not of the natural order,” Sabian murmured.

“What are you inferring?” Shep demanded. “My patients need me; get to the point.”

“Sorcery, Shep,” Sabian snapped. “What else is there? Someone has infiltrated Avaelyn, someone with bad intentions.”

“Who?”

Sabian threw his hands up. “I don’t know, idiot.”

“What can be done to stop this? I don’t care how or why right now; I need an answer!”

“Hush, will you?” Sabian inhaled and lowered his own voice. “According to the Lore Book, there is only one countering that will work. The heated tip of a special sword must be placed upon the brow of the man stung, and he will then recover.”

Shep nodded vigorously. “Well, good. Where’s the sword?”

Sabian stared at him. “I have no idea, or even if it exists.”

Paling, Shep whispered, “The great words have names. Is it not Trezond or Kilathen?”

“Neither Torrullin nor Elianas’ swords have sway in this, unfortunately. This one is named Iniralin.”

“Never heard of it.”

Sabian swore under his breath, and asked, “No race memory?”

Shep Lore shook his head.

“Then we’re screwed, my friend.”

The dark-haired man moved into their field of view, drawing their attention. Shep frowned at him, but Sabian gasped, and it was such a shocked and enlightened sound, it caused Shep to jerk. “What now?” he demanded of Sabian, ignoring the man who now had a hand on the hilt of his sword. A trembling hand, Shep noticed. The incongruity worried him, but so did Sabian’s shock.

Sabian lifted a shaking hand to point. “Him.”

“What about him? He has a friend in the ward. He reminds me of Taranis but …”

“More correctly, Shep, Taranis looked like this man,” Sabian stated, his voice strengthening. He inhaled, and then bowed low. “Well met, Karydor Danae.”

“Ohhh,” Shep breathed out. Shivers raced over his skin, puckering every inch with goosebumps.

The man closed his eyes, and nodded. “You have me there, Master Historian, and I have the sword known as Iniralin. Named for hope and optimism, and future.”

Sabian blinked.

Grey eyes crinkled with something approaching amusement when they reopened. Torrullin’s eyes. “Yes, I am well aware of what this means. Not only do I appear to carry the blade that will save lives, if you have the right of it, but this day I meet my son.”

“Ohhh,” Shep repeated in a hoarse voice.

Indeed.

 

LYKANDIR