Mulling over the debacle, Brandor stood in Polon’s main Meeting Chamber at Tardoc, awaiting the arrival of the High-tard. Weary after two nights and turns of the day on the road since leaving Tarden, it was just after sundown. Intending to stay the night to recharge, the next few turns were to be gruelling. Travelling nearly the entire breadth of The Freelands and back again, he would be pushing himself and Tunder he knew.
Familiar with this wood panelled chamber, diamond patterns on the polished floor and ceiling were as skilfully crafted as the wooden plinths and other shapely designs upon the walls. Smouldering ash-stone in the grand fireplace at the far end emitted heat and a comforting radiance to what was normally a function room on formal occasions.
Behind him, the swish of a door opening permitted the tall prominent frame of Polon to enter. Tired from the pressures of running a large city, a natural smile however, said otherwise.
“How is it with you, Brandor?” High-tard Polon asked, approaching the Dai-laman. Due to the love of singing, his voice was as smooth as his bronzed hairless head. Refined, a deep red-brown tunic with shoes to match were separated only by a pair of velvety black trousers.
“I am well, considering my lengthy travels of late,” Brandor replied, grasping his forearm. They had a lot in common.
“Has he changed his mind?” Polon asked, getting straight to it. Standing alongside Brandor to warm his hands from the glowing embers, he was not expecting much.
Pursing his lips, “Drola has moved a few steps…, but not enough.”
“He is trapped in his beliefs,” Polon said, annoyed.
“I now know why,” Brandor said, briefly describing Drola’s dream about the river of blood and the effect it was having on his decision-making.
“I suffer from reoccurring dreams, which I must confess shake me in my bed,” Polon admitted, staring into the fire. “The details can be quite horrific.”
“I know,” Brandor agreed, his own visions like another reality altogether. “Even so, your northern borders are vulnerable.”
“You know my views, Brandor, my position has not changed.”
“Fortunately, we do not have to dwell on the absurdness of the situation…, so I will proceed with the main reason why I am here.”
Sharing the incredible details about his insights and the merging at Tarden with the Masters, he explained his plan and the involvement of the Sacred. Describing the Wall of Power stretching across The Freelands as a defence against the Dark One, he opted not to share the higher revelation about the Wall itself becoming an actual larger life form. As intelligent as Polon was, the details would be beyond his understanding.
“This is very impressive,” the High-tard said, pacing away from the fire, contemplating its implications.
“The Masters here at Tardoc should receive an inner confirmation too,” Brandor said, pleased with his initial response.
“You think it is possible then?” Polon said, satisfied when Brandor nodded. “A revelation you say?”
“It is what drives me away from other commitments.”
“I know not the depths of what this means but… if it were to succeed, life would change forever,” Polon said, returning to the fireplace. “Tarden’s Ring of Fire has caused much debate, but if the Masters at Tarden are willing to do this, then we must join that effort.”
“The Masters are in a difficult position,” Brandor said, defending their involvement in Tarden’s defences. “They seek to serve, and the Ring was constructed at a request of Drola for their people. Only by revelation will that line of service be severed.”
“You sound like our Masters,” the High-tard said, a wry smile crossing his slender features. “I have experienced that stubborn resolve not to carry out my requests because of some higher calling. Most annoying when one needs something doing.”
“We follow that which is within us, Polon. Our work has to be by way of the Sacred if it is to come to any good. Their vision far surpasses ours. The Dark One is testament to what happens when we follow our lower desires.”
“You clearly know what you are saying, but to someone like me, it is hard to imagine why you do it.”
“In some distant future, in another place and lifetime, you will come to know what we see and do.”
“I enjoy hunting to go the way you and the Masters have.”
“The hunting we do differs only in nature and prey.”
“I will have to take your word for it,” Polon said. “What do you propose to do now?”
“I must see your Masters, and then, I was hoping to rest here tonight before heading out in the morning.”
“My Second Aid, Sorsan will take care of you. Where are you heading tomorrow?”
“Mandurin.”
“Mandurin…!” Polon said, horrified. “If ever there was a place I would not wish to be, that is it. Whatever monstrosity oozes down from the north, surely Mandurin will be hit first. I fear for them truly, Brandor.”
“Hence the need to get this Wall up.”
“I will do all I can.”
Larger than most, the bush the group camped by was flowerless, leaves of a darker shade. Advocating there was an unnatural atmosphere suppressing its desire to bloom, something they could sense but not see, the whole area was a place of sorrow. Without the swift movements of wildlife about them, it was most eerie.
Eating the hot meaty brew with quaner and dried fruit, it was appetising, but not enough to settle anxious minds. Hallen’s Sasta was passed around, only Hanor and Tarmon declining the offer. Their Kyboes stayed close, feeding off the large bush, each mouthful accompanied by a tentative glance in the direction of the valley. Large, wary eyes suggested they could tell what Tarkons Tomb represented. Two at one end and three at the other, the valley was kept in view as if expecting an insidious monster to emerge. Even when finished eating, they sat nervous, awaiting the worst.
“Do you see?” Kifter said, indicating their behaviour. The others already had.
“What is it they are frightened of?” Hanor asked, unable to connect with the fear of what tomorrow would bring.
Finishing his last mouthful before answering, Tarmon spoke evenly, not wishing to create any additional worries. “They sense what is down there. It is a place of the dead, Hanor.”
“How long has it been like this?” Bane asked, uneasy.
“Some say just after Tarkon was buried, others suggest later,” Tarmon said, wiping his bowl clean.
“What is it that haunts this place?” Hallen’s question surprised the two boys, expecting him to be fearless.
“Souls that are lost,” Tarmon explained, traces of sorrow apparent. “A friend of mine had serious problems when visiting here as a youth. You cannot usually see anything, but you hear and feel them, picturing them in your mind. But he could see them as if they were physical. His account persuaded my brethren that the practice of bringing our young to this region to experience fear was no longer acceptable. There are some benefits to doing it, but we are talking about Souls here who were once just like you and me.”
“Sounds dreadful,” Hanor decreed, imagining how bad that must be, especially after his visit to Yarmoria where he had felt very much trapped.
“It is,” Tarmon could only agree.
“So what keeps them here?” Hanor enquired. Without his history, it was easy to get drawn towards anything new.
“People have different views as to why. Some say they are all the evil Souls from this world who are being punished for their selfishness. Yet others say they are lost and cannot find their way to the Realms of the Soul.”
“You said they could be heard and felt,” Hallen said, juggling with an idea. “Is this in every case? Does everyone experience the haunts?”
“Yes, they do. This is very different from a nightmare, for there is no waking up. The only way you can get away is to cross that ridge. Strange, but it just stops.”
“Has anyone reached the bottom of the valley?” The Hite asked. One for challenges, he could picture himself as the victor of such a mighty deed.
“No. Sometimes, young Tardanians run down into the valley to test their own courage. Warnings are given but some need to learn the hard way. They never fully recover after their bout of foolishness. It has been recorded that some have not come out of the valley.”
“How are we to achieve this then?” Kifter asked, unsure now they were here.
“I have been here before to know it cannot be done,” the Tard said, unashamed. “I promised Brandor I would stay constructive but… the last two turns have given me ample time to figure something out.” Shrugging, “I am no further forward than when Brandor first revealed his intentions for us.”
“It is odd that he has sent us considering the risks,” Bane said.
“Brandor was confident this could be done,” Kifter assured him. “Otherwise he would not have sent us.”
“Are you volunteering to go first then?” Hallen teased.
“If it is necessary that a Fife has to lead the way, then… yes, Hallen. And if successful, I will return to hold your hand and lead you down.”
“Your words have an edge,” the Hite grinned. “Be careful, you might cut yourself.”
“Not much chance of that happening,” Tarmon said, not believing it for a moment.
A long pause ensued, the night now closing in. Kifter kept adding small twigs to the fire to keep the flames alive, deep shadows appearing more menacing this night.
“Will you tell us a tale?” Bane broke the silence, asking the Fife.
“A good idea,” Kifter said, this place is in need of some good cheer.