Roger Taylor - Caddoran

‘And none escaped,’ Vashnar said. The words came unbidden and chilled him to his heart with their certainty. He did not know where the knowledge came from.

‘None escaped,’ the figure confirmed softly. ‘And then there was only a brightness beyond bearing – a re-shaping, a re-making. I…’

The figure fell silent and lowered its arm.

Vashnar did not speak for some time, and when he did, his voice was cold. ‘And you – defeated – would offer me your help?’

The figure stiffened and Vashnar felt its scrutiny of him return. ‘ All were defeated, Vashnar. Our enemy’s treachery brought about their own destruction.’ The voice was wilfully restrained. ‘That I am here – that the power of my followers is mine now as it never could have been before – marks my victory, not my defeat.’

‘I see no power. Only the antics of a market shaman gulling the public.’

The coldness touched him again and, unexpectedly, the voice became relaxed and easy. ‘Yes. I forget myself. I forget the needs of your form must be met. Here is a touch of the power – a zephyr touch, light, caressing.’ Something struck Vashnar in the chest. The force of the blow made him stagger backwards and almost toppled him over the handrail. With an oath he recovered his balance and started forward angrily. After one pace however, he found he could move no further. It was as though a great hand were effortlessly restraining him. He glowered at the motionless figure.

‘No market shaman ever gulled the public thus, I think,’ it said quietly, in reply to Vashnar’s unspoken curses. ‘And no greater effort would be needed to bind whole armies – to raze entire cities.’ Vashnar felt the restraint slip away. He was momentarily tempted to advance on the figure and strike it down, but calmer counsels prevailed. He had been struck and then held by a force which he could neither see nor resist. That was indisputable. Further, his every instinct told him that the figure’s last remark had been no empty boast. And throughout, the figure had not even moved.

‘Do not ask how this can be,’ it said, forestalling the question that Vashnar was just forming. ‘It is beyond anything you could understand. Suffice it that it is, and that it is mine to command as I wish – or as you wish.’

Vashnar caught the faint hint of dissatisfaction in the voice. ‘Why then do you offer it to me? No one relinquishes power voluntarily.’

The figure bowed slightly, like a teacher acknowledging the work of a gifted pupil. ‘Circumstance constrains me to this half-place to which you have brought me, but, that changed, the nature of the power itself will still constrain me to your new-formed world. While you, with the will and the key to move in the worlds beyond, will find yourself constrained from using the power yourself. Only together can we achieve what must be achieved.’

The memory of the turbulent vision that the figure had drawn him from returned to Vashnar. ‘What are these places? Why would you wish to travel to them?’

‘Because chaos reigns there and chaos threatens all things. Only through order can perfection be attained and only such as we can bring order to these places. It is our destiny.’ The fierce passion in both the figure’s words and its demeanour swept through Vashnar. The voices returned, clamouring noisily.

Abruptly, they were silent and the figure was watching him again. ‘But these plans are for the future. We must start where we find ourselves – nurture into a great tree the seeds that you have planted and tended here.’ It held out a hand. ‘Accept my help. Not the wildest of your ambitions can be denied you if you do.’

Vashnar reached out to take it, but then hesitated. ‘You spoke before of another – someone beyond your touching, you said. A powerful enemy.’

The figure withdrew its hand. ‘There is. I sense him both inside you and beyond – dark and menacing. He bears a remnant of our old enemy. It is dormant or weak, or both, but I cannot destroy it without destroying you too.’ The figure looked around. ‘This place is a shadow, Vashnar. Somewhere in your world is its true form or a lingering part of it. Find it and seek me out again when you are there. Follow the call I will leave you with. Our strength will be greater by far there.’

‘But this enemy, is it Thyrn?’

‘Names have no meaning for me. You know who it is. Follow the call of this place and he will come too. He can do no other. Then you can kill him.’ The voice became commanding again. ‘A word of warning, keyholder. Do not assail him anywhere other than in that place you think of as your world.’ The hand was extended again, urgently. Vashnar grasped it without hesitation. For the briefest of moments he felt a warm muscular grip, then the figure was gone and the surrounding greyness was sweeping him away.

He rolled on to his back and looked up at the black-beamed ceiling.

‘Are you all right?’ Vellain said softly, as if afraid of wakening him. ‘Has anything happened?’

Vashnar held up his hand. ‘Give me a moment,’ he said. He closed his eyes and went through all that had just happened.

Everything was quite clear. Wherever he had been, it was no less real than the bedroom he was now lying in. He had a choice now. He could fret and fume and denounce the folly of his senses for so vividly misleading him, or he could embrace without question the mysterious opportunity that had been given to him and listen to the faint call of the voices he could now hear within him.

He opened his eyes and, smiling, beckoned his wife.

Nordath started upright, wide awake. There was a little light in the tent from the remains of the camp fire and he could just see that Thyrn was also sitting up. He needed no light to know that something was wrong; he could hear Thyrn shaking.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked urgently.

‘Vashnar,’ came the trembling reply after he asked again.

Nordath struggled in the darkness to find the small lantern that Endryk had given them. When he found and struck it, he drew a shocked breath. The mellow light of the lantern etched deep shadows in Thyrn’s face, making him look haggard and old. His eyes were wide with fear.

‘Vashnar?’ Nordath stammered, instinctively reaching out to his nephew, at the same time glancing round the tent half expecting to find that the architect of all their troubles had suddenly manifested himself.

Thyrn grasped the outstretched hand desperately, making Nordath wince. ‘Gently,’ he pleaded. Thyrn not responding, Nordath wrenched his hand free and turned up the light of the lantern. In the increased brightness, Thyrn’s eyes were still wide with fear and Nordath could see that his brow was slick with sweat.

‘You’re all right, Thyrn,’ he said reassuringly. ‘You’re safe. You’re in the camp in the mountains, remember? Rhavvan and Nals are on guard duty.’

Thyrn made no acknowledgement other than to nod his head vaguely. Then he turned to his uncle. Nordath could not respond to the pain he saw reflected there other than to wrap his arms around the young man. They remained thus for some time. Thyrn’s trembling gradually lessened, but it was a slithering interruption by Nals, curious about this unexpected night-time activity, which finally prised them gently apart.

‘What’s happened?’ Nordath asked, as soon as he felt that Thyrn had composed himself sufficiently. ‘Have you been Joined with Vashnar again? Or was it just a nightmare?’

Thyrn’s hands were still shaking and he brought them towards his face. For a moment, Nordath thought that his inquiry had been too soon and that his nephew was going to drop back into the immobilizing terror out of which he had just clambered, but determination vied with fear in Thyrn’s face and after a moment he forced his hands down. They massaged his thighs while he spoke.