The King in Reserve

by Michael Pryor

  The possible return of the A'ak was a weighty matter, but another was more urgent. She needed to do something to calm the land lest it shake itself apart in its turmoil. All it would take was a simple ritual to strengthen her bond.

  She stood, moving easily despite the total darkness. On the table she had assembled all that was needed: a stone cup, a stone bell and a stone knife.

  She took the cup and the knife. With the easy grace of a Clawed One, she drew the knife over the back of her forearm. The pain was bright, but she ignored it. When the blood began to drip, she placed the knife back on the table.

  'My blood and the land,' she said in a firm voice. 'We are part of each other.'

  The blood splashed on the rocky floor. With a groan, a crack opened; spiderweb-thin at first, it grew and snaked across the width of the chamber before heaving open, yawning wide. The darkness vanished. The chamber was filled with a glowering red light as molten rock welled up in the fissure.

  Tayesha felt the raw heat on her scales, but she didn't hesitate. She kneeled and filled the stone cup.

  Protected by her magic, the cup did not melt. Tayesha groped for the bell and rang it. While the echoes were still sharp in the chamber, and knowing the agony she was about to experience, she raised the cup. Without hesitation, she swallowed the entire draught of molten rock.

  Tayesha's eyes flew open and she staggered. She dropped the cup. It bounced and rolled across the stone floor. Distorted shadows capered and danced on the walls.

  She felt as if she were on fire, burning from the inside out. She tried to quell the pain by clutching at her throat. She fell to her knees, fire blazing through her body.

  Her vision was clouded red as she struggled with the searing pain, but movement caught her eye. She lifted her head and stared, bewildered by what she was seeing. This was not part of the ritual!

  A lumpy, swollen figure shambled out of the shadows, scraping heavy feet across the stone floor. Grotesque and hideous, it appeared to be made from a jumble of rocks. Tayesha stood, transfixed by shock, and watched as it seized the knife from the table. Even as it lumbered at her, slashing and hacking, she could not move. Only when the blade sliced the air right in front of her snout did a cry burst from her. She swayed to one side, then she rolled under its grasp. She came to her feet. Through the red haze of her agony, she recognised the stone monster from the ancient texts. 'Begone, creature of the A'ak,' she managed to croak. She rang the bell, which she was surprised to find still in her hand.

  The stone monster jerked, then recoiled, shuffling away from her. It used the knife on the wall of the chamber, opening a crevice that had not been there earlier. It lurched through and the wall snapped back together.

  Tayesha fell. The bell sounded once and broke in half. She groped for it, but her strength failed.

  The fissure of molten rock slowly drew together. When it closed, darkness ruled the chamber.

  Four

  The day after Hoolgar's disappearance, the three friends assembled in the Room of Dreams again. Icy rain hammered at the windows. Shivering, Adalon glanced at the storm and hoped that it would slow Queen Tayesha's troops. He shook his head. Krangor will need more than bad weather to save it, he thought.

  This gloomy notion made him turn his attention back to the map of the seven kingdoms of Krangor. He once again inspected the baffling techniques the A'ak map-makers had used to represent the whole continent in dizzying detail. The map was covered with lines and symbols, most of which were still a puzzle.

  Thoughtfully, Adalon scratched his brow with a claw and shifted in his chair. Then he stared and looked more closely. The map had changed since he last studied it! Those tiny blue stars, scattered across the seven kingdoms of Krangor – they hadn't been there before, he was sure of it. And were they linked by lines?

  'Adalon,' Simangee snapped from across the table. 'Adalon! You're not listening to me!'

  Adalon blinked and turned his attention back to his friends. Targesh looked at him sympathetically, but Simangee was definitely unhappy with his lack of attention. 'Sorry, Sim.'

  'We must rescue Hoolgar,' she said. 'We must act, now.'

  'What can we do?'

  'We have to do something! Who knows what the A'ak are doing to him?'

  'Don't forget that Hoolgar was important to Targesh and me, too,' Adalon said.

  'Was?' Simangee bridled. Her tail thrashed. She breathed heavily. 'What do you mean was? Hoolgar is alive. I know it.'

  Adalon held up both hands, palms outward, and tried to placate his friend. 'Sim, we haven't given up. We just don't know where to start.'

  Targesh rumbled. 'We'll find him.'

  Simangee threw her hands in the air. 'But when? We must find him now!'

  Great hopes were curdling inside Adalon. It was too much for a young saur. Sixteen summers he'd seen, and now he was the leader of the valiant band opposing Queen Tayesha's plan to conquer all seven kingdoms of Krangor.

  He drummed his claws on the table and sought for inspiration.

  Adalon's roving gaze fell on the haggard figure perched on a ledge under one of the long windows on the south side of the room. 'What say you, Uncle Moralon? What should we do?'

  It was a forlorn hope. As usual, the gaunt saur did not respond. It was as if Adalon had not spoken a word. Moralon merely moved a white piece on his game board without lifting his head.

  Adalon's spirits fell a little further. His uncle had grown smaller, folding into himself, in the months since he'd been rescued from Wargrach's dungeons. Adalon had hoped that he would heal, but the saur who had once been a wit and a writer was now a shell. His whole attention was absorbed by his shifting of white pieces and black pieces in a game that never seemed to end.

  Adalon rubbed the back of his neck and felt how taut his muscles were. 'Do you have any news, Targesh?'

  'News?'

  Adalon pointed at his friend's muddy clothes. 'You've been outside. I'll warrant you've been talking with the Winged Ones, or some of your outriders.'

  Targesh cracked a small smile. 'The Winged Ones were scouting, before the storm. They say there's fighting in Shuff and on the border of Bondorborar. Soldiers everywhere. More fiery mountains appearing in the Skyhorn Ranges, too.'

  Since Thraag had conquered Knobblond, the land of Krangor was groaning with unrest. Tremors had become common, fissures appeared without warning. The Winged Ones' scouts reported that crevasses had opened in the plains of Virriftinar, while a lake in south Bondorborar had mysteriously drained away, leaving a vast, muddy depression in the landscape. At times, Adalon felt the pain of the land in his own soul. It was as if one of his joints had become dislocated, grinding away without respite.

  Adalon's gaze dropped to his hands, clasped on the table in front of him. He hesitated, but knew he had no choice. 'We have more important matters than saving Hoolgar. We must find King Gormond of Knobblond.'

  Simangee's mouth fell open. 'No! It's Hoolgar we must find!'

  'Sim,' Adalon said, 'if we find Gormond, we could save Krangor.'

  'I know. But if we fail to help our friends, what are we?' Simangee turned away, hiding her face, but not her small, musical sobs.

  Adalon was torn. Simangee and Targesh had rescued him from the prisons of Queen Tayesha. And it was the loyalty of his friends that helped him endure the hardship and peril of the war they were waging.

  And now he was unwilling to show such loyalty to an old and valued tutor? Yet, if he declined the chance to find King Gormond, how would that sit with the oath he'd sworn to revenge the death of his father, slain by Queen Tayesha's crony, General Wargrach?

  As he struggled with his dilemma, it was the Way of the Claw that came to him – as it so often did. When faced with doubt on both sides, seek a middle way.

  'A middle way,' he muttered. He looked up. 'Can we do both?'

  Simangee let out a long, ragged breath. 'Do both?'

  'Can we save Hoolgar and rescue the King?'

  Targesh shrugged
. 'We've done a hundred impossible things. Why not another one?'

  Simangee gave a half-smile.

  Adalon rose. 'We have strength and courage,' he said, and slapped Targesh on the shoulder. 'We have intelligence and imagination.' He held out his hand to Simangee. She took it. 'What we don't have is time.'

  'We never have enough time,' Simangee said.

  'We cannot abandon Hoolgar,' Adalon continued, 'and if we can find the King of Knobblond we can have a King in reserve.'

  'We'll do both?' Simangee asked.

  'We'll do both,' Adalon repeated, but his mind was already elsewhere, sifting through plans. How best could they juggle saving the old tutor with the important task of rescuing King Gormond? Perhaps Simangee could find some trace of him in the mirrors of the chamber of power . . .

  The tall doors of the Room of Dreams opened and interrupted Adalon's thoughts. The Flightmother strutted in, flanked by two of her guards, warriors who carried themselves proudly. They wore leather trews and harnesses, and hefted spears made of light but sturdy thornwood. The Flightmother gestured at them, herding them outside. She closed the doors. 'They're good lads,' she said, 'but they get carried away with this guarding business.'

  'Flightmother,' Adalon said, rising from his seat and bowing, 'I'm glad you're here. We have to find the King of Knobblond.'

  The Flightmother huffed her dry, grating laugh. 'Of course we do. And you won't find him without us.' She shrugged. 'Such a task is not fighting, but it may satisfy some of the more hot-blooded ones among us.'

  Adalon sat again and glanced at his friends. Targesh seemed happy that they now had a course of action. Simangee looked doubtful, but Adalon hoped she understood. 'We should summon Varriah,' he said, 'and let her know what we've decided. As steward, she'll need to organise things while we're gone.'

  At that moment, the floor trembled beneath their feet. Startled, Adalon hissed and gripped the table with his claws, scoring the dark wood. Then the entire Lost Castle shook sharply, like a great beast shivering with dread.

  The doors to the Room of Dreams burst open. The Flightmother's two guards rushed in. The Flightmother threw open the nearest window. 'This way,' she croaked. She hopped to the balcony and stood to one side as her warriors pushed through. They launched themselves into the air and climbed skywards.

  The Flightmother perched on the balcony rail and shrugged at the three friends. 'Open sky over our heads seems like a good idea right now, with walls shaking like this.'

  She thrust out her wings and pushed off.

  Adalon went to the balcony and looked out. Simangee and Targesh joined him. In the courtyard below, saur were running from the castle, calling out in fright as an anguished growling came from the depths of the Lost Castle – the sound of the land in torment.

  An immense clashing sound like two huge boulders being hurled together came from the depths beneath their feet. Adalon swayed as the entire castle lurched first one way, then the other. Giddy, Adalon clung to the balcony, feeling sick, as if he were in a boat on a stormy sea.

  The walls of the castle shivered again and then settled with a painful groan. The courtyard was now full of wary saur staring up at the castle and its outbuildings, wondering if the danger was over.

  Adalon, Targesh and Simangee looked at one another. Adalon was relieved that his friends looked as disconcerted as he was. 'That wasn't like the shaking we've had of late,' Simangee finally said. 'Too short, too sharp.'

  Targesh stepped back from the balcony, grunting with surprise, as the Flightmother and her warriors swooped past, close enough to touch. They circled the Morning Tower, then swung back over the courtyard. The Flightmother landed first, perching on the balcony parapet with easy balance. When she was secure, the two warriors landed, one on either side.

  'Nothing to see in the Hidden Valley,' the Flightmother reported. 'No trees down, nothing.' She cocked her head and studied the castle. 'It just happened here, it seems.'

  Adalon's tail thrashed. 'Magic?' he asked Simangee.

  'Oh yes,' she whispered. The skin around her eyes was pale. 'Awful magic.'

  With a certainty that came from dread, Adalon knew that the Foundation Room was at the heart of what they had felt.

  'The A'ak?' Targesh said.

  Adalon sighed as Targesh put a name to what all were thinking.

  'It smells like their work,' Simangee said.

  Targesh shook his neck shield. 'We should go armed, then.'

  Adalon felt the heart-flutter that was the seed of fear. Despite this, he found he was eager – keen for the chance to put on the magical armour and wield the blade that went with it.

  Too keen. He steeled himself and resisted the temptation. He was not ready to take A'ak weapons to face A'ak magic. 'To the armoury. Ordinary blades this time.'

  Simangee and Targesh both nodded, their faces thoughtful.

  'I'll go and talk to my people,' the Flightmother said. 'You should have your searchers by the end of the day. They'll help you find your elusive king.'

  'Good.' Adalon looked at his uncle. He hadn't moved from his place under the window. The wounded saur's attention was still on the game board in his lap. He moved a white piece, then a black one, as if nothing had happened around him at all.

  I'd give anything to help you, Uncle, Adalon thought.

  Five

  Adalon ignored the iron cabinet in the rear of the armoury. But even though he kept his back to it while he hefted swords from the racks on the wall, looking for a blade to suit his arm, he was aware of its presence – and of the treasures inside it. The A'ak armour and sword whispered to him, pleading for him to take them into battle. Ghost voices murmured of the feats that could be achieved, the fame that awaited him – with their help.

  He seized a sword and shook it. Good enough. 'Ready?' he said to his friends, and only realised that he'd spoken sharply when Simangee looked at him in surprise. She had a short sword, similar to his own. Targesh was happy with an axe that Adalon would have had trouble lifting.

  Adalon hurried through the door, pushing the A'ak voices aside.

  He jogged down the stairs. He swung the short sword, and liked its weight in his hand. The blade was sturdy, the leather handle worn, but it was well balanced and practical. Practical, and not a hint of magic about it. Adalon appreciated that.

  They reached the iron-banded stone door that led to the outer chamber of the Foundation Room.

  'What's that smell?' Simangee asked as they passed into the antechamber.

  Adalon sniffed. It was familiar, but he couldn't put his claw on it. Dry, ticklish. He rubbed his snout. 'Be ready.'

  Targesh stood back and held up his axe. Adalon opened the inner door. With a hiss, he staggered backwards as a wall of red dust toppled on them. He threw up a hand in front of his eyes, but the dust rolled over him like a wave.

  Coughing and blinking, he tried to peer through slitted eyes but all he saw was red dust swirling in front of him. The door, the walls, the entire room had disappeared, hidden by the gritty cloud. 'Simangee!' he called, then he choked and had to spit out a mouthful of bitter-tasting muck. 'Targesh!'

  His voice was swallowed by the dust. No reply came through the billowing storm. Adalon could see dark shapes moving in the murk. They were like jungle vines as thick as tree trunks that tapered off to a narrow, whip-like end, and they twirled and writhed as if in a gale. Carefully, he reached out, but he recoiled, hissing, when one of the shapes darted at him like lightning.

  Adalon reeled back, his stinging hand clasped tightly under his armpit. It felt as if it had been struck by something muscular, with a hide rough enough to polish metal.

  'Beware!' he cried, trying to alert his friends, then he choked on a throatful of dust. He spat it out, grimacing at the bitter, harsh taste. He squinted, then a curling shape snaked through the dust at him.

  Adalon sprang backward, but not quickly enough. He was seized around the waist, wrapped up and crushed with hideous strength. He clenched his te
eth as he felt his ribs creak, and he desperately hammered at its raspy hide.

  Then he remembered his sword. After a struggle, he dragged it out and went to work, hacking with all his strength. It felt as if he were chopping at a bag full of sand. Using the sword more like a wood axe than a weapon, he managed to land several blows in the same place. The tentacle parted, falling away. Adalon staggered a few steps, then lost sight of the creature as the dust swirled again.

  He shuddered. The thing had no mouth, no face, nothing natural at all. Its featureless, questing ferocity appalled him.

  He felt, rather than saw, a presence close by. He whirled. 'Targesh!'

  'Sand serpents,' his friend spat. He hefted his axe, and his gaze darted from side to side, as he strained to see through the dust.

  'What?'

  'Serpents. Made of sand. 'Ware.'

  Adalon spun to see another shape slither through the dust at him. Targesh roared, then swung his axe. The sand serpent was cloven in two. One part fell at their feet, and immediately Adalon was ankle deep in sand. The other part withdrew into the billows of dust.

  'How many?' Adalon asked.

  'Too many. Behind you.'

  Adalon twisted and chopped with his sword. The blindly questing tentacle was slashed in two. More sand spilled on the floor.

  'Simangee?'

  Targesh shrugged, looked unhappy, then severed a serpent that had sneaked through the dust and snagged his leg. 'She was close, but I lost her.'

  'Adalon! Targesh! Help!'

  Adalon turned. The dust confused all his senses. He couldn't see, sounds came in unexpected ways, he could smell nothing but dryness and drought.

  Targesh seized his shoulder. 'There.'

  Two indistinct figures were surrounded by a host of sand serpents, lashing and writhing in idiot rage.

  Adalon and Targesh leaped through the swirling dust. With a cry he immediately regretted – for the dust stripped his throat raw – Adalon threw himself at the nearest serpent. He slashed, then slashed again. His arms ached, but he bounded and hewed, leaped and twisted, wielding a blade that he could feel growing duller with each stroke.