The King in Reserve

by Michael Pryor

  Kikkalak shrugged. 'Your beasts are fast, as land beasts go. If you don't mind riding in the dark it shouldn't take long. Eastwards, toward the mountains, this side of the river.'

  Adalon only hesitated for an instant. 'Lead on, Kikkalak.'

  Nine

  Wargrach brooded at the head of the high table in the Great Hall of High Battilon, the ducal seat of the Eastern Peaks province. It had taken three days to journey across Thraag to his stronghold, and his cronies were rejoicing at his reappearance. Sourly, he studied the feasting, carousing rabble that were his officers and cursed himself for leaving Challish so abruptly.

  He could not afford to upset Queen Tayesha and yet he had let his temper get the better of him. He'd stormed out of the palace, the red mist of anger clouding his judgement. Patience was his long-time ally and yet it had failed him as if he were a blood-hungry young saur.

  He blamed his wounds. His bones ached if he stayed in one place too long. Queen Tayesha had rewarded him after the conquest of Knobblond, but after that she'd paid no attention to him. The few times he'd ventured to any of the barracks and encampments around Challish she'd recalled him on one pretext or other. It was as if she was afraid to have him near, but reluctant to have him leave.

  He snorted. A young Plated One nearby looked at him, but turned away quickly at the fierceness of Wargrach's stare.

  No, Wargrach thought, hardly even noticing the young saur. I know better than to try to deceive myself.

  It was true that he'd been impatient. It was also true that his old wounds were playing up. But these things were nothing new. He'd learned to deal with them and to bide his time.

  The truth lay in the old books he'd gathered – the ones he hadn't given to Queen Tayesha.

  In Challish, these curious texts had been much on his mind. The hints he'd read haunted him while he was away from them. They disturbed his sleep, and more than once he woke trembling. Eventually, he needed to see them again, to pore over them to see if they could reveal more about the return of the A'ak.

  He ground his teeth together. If the A'ak came back, all his plans could be spoiled. But if they were as powerful as legend said, was there anything he could do?

  Yes, he thought, I can prepare.

  And preparation – for the A'ak or for the anger of Queen Tayesha – was going to be difficult. When he had arrived back in the Eastern Peaks he'd found it abandoned. The entire population of the mountain province had vanished, leaving farms, houses, whole villages empty. The castle of High Battilon had been left vacant, doors swinging in the wind, with animals wandering in and out as if they owned it.

  As well, his cronies had scattered, fearful that their leader was in disgrace, or defeated, or dead. When he'd returned, they crawled back, shamefaced, glad to abandon the grim life of the outlaw they'd been forced to live. He had made his displeasure known. It was remarkable how this inspired his followers to find hidden caches of food, to spring to repairing the castle, to do all they could to make their leader proud.

  He raised a claw. Instantly, a Horned One lieutenant dropped his goblet, leaped up and hurried to his commander's side.

  'Take a message to the Queen,' Wargrach growled. 'Tell her I've come to the Eastern Peaks to quell an uprising against her. Grovel, apologise, do what you need to. Beg forgiveness, assure her of my loyalty, abase yourself. Leave now, make all haste.'

  The Horned One saluted and was gone.

  Wargrach scratched at his empty eye socket. That would have to do.

  The feasting saur were growing louder as they devoured more food, ale and wine. He stood. The diners were on their feet, instantly. Wargrach was pleased. Respect was good.

  'Eat your fill,' he said. 'You deserve it after the glory you won in Knobblond. But tomorrow we have work to do. Our army needs to grow, quickly. You and your troops will have to find saur to press into our service. You will scour the countryside. You will hunt. You will squeeze the saur from their hiding places. You will be relentless.'

  As he limped away, a roar filled the hall and shook the lanterns until shadows lurched around the many-beamed ceiling.

  Wargrach made his way to a library near the Great Hall, a narrow room whose walls were entirely made up of bookshelves, the tallest only reachable from wheeled ladders. It was lit by lamps that did little to illuminate the upper rows of books. It was cold in the room, with no fire burning, but he approved. He was convinced that too much softness had ruined the saur of today. True saur, those who shared his views, were hard to find, which was why he was a solitary saur.

  Wargrach had made the library his own. A single long table groaned under the weight of the tomes that he had been using, all arranged carefully without a sign of disarray. Wargrach studied his work, wondering if anyone else would see that the A'ak were the prey in this hunt through forests of paper.

  He grunted and stumped to the far wall. He parted two large books and thrust in his hand. When he heaved, a whole section of the wall swung open. Standing and blinking in the sudden light were Wargrach's chief spies, Varchog and Irjag.

  Varchog, a gaunt Long-necked One, jerked his neck in a horrible twitch. 'Many thanks, General. It was getting stuffy in there.'

  Irjag glanced at his partner and stepped into the library. He scratched at his plated shoulders. 'You wanted us, General?'

  'Want you? Hardly. Need you? Perhaps.' Wargrach regarded the two spies with distaste. They had proved useful over the years, but only because Wargrach had never trusted them. He'd paid for their loyalty, but he knew it only lasted as long as no-one made them a better offer.

  'What can we do for you, sir?' Varchog asked.

  'Do you remember the skirmish at Grat? Twelve years ago?'

  Irjag grinned and Wargrach barely stopped himself shuddering.

  'Near the Harchgrond Swamp?' said Varchog. 'How could I forget? You were ambushed by that bandit chief.'

  'Carjillo, he called himself,' Irjag put in. 'Mean one, that.'

  'He thought he had you done for, General, outnumbered your patrol by four to one,' added Varchog.

  Wargrach waved this away. 'He underestimated me, but he wasn't the first to make that mistake. But that's not important. Do you remember the ruins nearby? We drove the bandits toward them but they wouldn't enter. They tried to run the other way and we cut them down.'

  'Ruins?' Varchog asked, clearly interested.

  Irjag saw the opportunity to look superior to Varchog. 'I remember. Old, they were. Old ruins.'

  Varchog glared at his partner. 'What did you want with them, General?'

  'A Billed One lives in those ruins. I want you to bring him to me.' Wargrach laced his hands on his chest, remembering. After the battle, he'd been curious about the ruins and had left his patrol and explored by himself. The Billed One was ancient, but Wargrach had no doubts that he was still alive. Not after what the Billed One had told him.

  'A Billed One?' Varchog repeated. 'What if he doesn't want to come with us?'

  'Use your imagination.'

  Irjag nodded frantically, then his neck jerked. 'Don't worry, General. He'll come.'

  After the two spies had left, Wargrach stood and pondered his decision for some time. The A'ak couldn't be ignored. He was certain they were coming, and he was certain they would be coming in strength. The Way of the Tooth told him what to do when facing a foe who was overwhelmingly mighty. Join strength with strength, ally power with power, then crush your foes together.

  He closed his good eye. Could he deal with the A'ak and survive?

  Ten

  Adalon, Simangee and Targesh followed the riverbank, their steeds' brass hoofs loud on the hard earth. The woods lining the river were thick – straight-trunked water beech, for the most part, but the spreading giants of the blackwood thrust their rounded domes through the canopy as well. The trees made it difficult to see Kikkalak and her company overhead, and Adalon craned his neck from side to side to catch glimpses of them.

  Darkness grew thicker as they plunged
deeper into the woods, and the track grew fainter. Adalon slowed and peered ahead through the shadows. The soft sounds of the wind in the reeds by the river came to him, and the drowsy murmuring of a bird settling for the night, but he was on edge, alert. Anything could be waiting ahead. His hand went to the A'ak blade by his side, but its urgent whispering made him more uneasy, not less. He resisted the longing to draw it.

  Suddenly, his steed stopped, unbidden, and Adalon nearly fell.

  Targesh and Simangee reined up behind him. 'What is it?' Simangee asked.

  Adalon pointed. Ahead, in the gloom, was a rope stretched across the track. It was tied to two tree trunks at convenient hock height.

  Cautiously, Adalon urged the great brass beast forward and the rope broke as if it were string. His senses singing, he edged the steed around a ragged depression in the ground ahead, covered with leaves, convinced it was a pit. He eased his sword from its scabbard and held it by his side while his tail twitched. The green smell of growth and moisture was heavy in the air. He turned his head from side to side, listening to the sounds of the night.

  A fireball erupted right in front of them, making Targesh roar with surprise. Adalon flung up an arm, hissing, as the column of flame leaped toward the treetops. He jerked back on the reins, but even as he did he realised the flames were cool, not scorching. He smiled grimly.

  'Adalon? Are you all right?' Simangee said.

  'Not a scorch mark,' he muttered. He rubbed his eyes and tried to shake off the dazzle left by the fireball. 'It was meant to scare rather than hurt, I'd say.'

  'It might just have been sloppy spellcraft,' Simangee said.

  His throat dry, all his senses alert, Adalon stood in his stirrups. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a potion bottle tumbling toward him. He leaned to one side to avoid it, and it broke against the tree an armspan to his left. The trunk was immediately enveloped in a sticky mass of tendrils.

  'Oh, that's hardly fair,' a voice came from out of the darkness. 'I had it all worked out. The fireball was supposed to make your riding beast rear and throw you. Then the Strangler potion was going to wrap you up and I'd have a prisoner.'

  'Your Majesty?'

  'Yes? I mean, no, dash it. I'm not the King.' Adalon heard some hasty muttering. 'I'm the Spectre, an outlaw, bloodthirsty and cruel, and I want all your possessions.'

  Adalon tried to find the source of the voice. In the shadows, a large boulder stood between two trees. A dark shape loomed on top of it. 'You shouldn't be up there,' he said mildly. 'You're outlined against the night. I can see you quite easily, Your Majesty.'

  'What? Oh dear.'

  The shape wobbled, rose, then disappeared. Much scraping and a few muffled curses followed. Eventually, the squat figure of a young Plated One emerged from the shadows. He held a lantern. 'Here, good fellow,' he said, panting, 'it's best if you surrender. My justice is fair, but my rage is terrible.' A grin split his broad face. He turned and called over his shoulder. 'I like that! Sachi, did you get it down? "My justice is fair but my rage is terrible."'

  Another Plated One emerged from behind the boulder. She held a journal and was scribbling furiously in it with a writing stick. 'Yes, Your Majesty. I mean, Spectre.'

  Adalon sheathed his sword. 'Your Majesty. I am Adalon of the Eastern Peaks. These are my friends. The troops of Queen Tayesha are after you. We've come to take you to safety.'

  'Safety? But it's been so exciting! When Wargrach rode into Muhna we barely escaped and we've been on the run ever since. My loyal band and I have managed to evade the vicious Thraag invaders by living off the land and our wits. We've become legends through our fiendish traps and our will-o'-the-wisp adventures!'

  'So you are King Gormond?'

  The Plated One's face fell. 'You're clever, the way you managed to worm that out of me. I suppose I'll have to kill you now.' He turned. 'To my side, my brave ones.'

  With rather less enthusiasm than Adalon would have expected from brave ones, two more saur edged out from behind the boulder – another Plated One and a plump Crested One.

  Adalon dismounted and approached. 'Where are your guards, Your Majesty? Where are your warriors?'

  King Gormond bristled. 'Do not doubt the valour of my band. Small in numbers, but great in spirit are we.' He brightened and turned.

  The journal writer nodded. 'Noted, Your Majesty. "Small in numbers but great in courage are we.'"

  'Spirit.'

  'Sorry?'

  'Spirit, not courage. "Great in spirit are we." Do try to keep up, Sachi.'

  Beneath his helmet, Adalon could not help but smile. The young king had perhaps listened to a few too many stories, but his keenness was encouraging. 'Your Majesty, great events are in motion. I am one of the enemies of Queen Tayesha and General Wargrach. My small band defeated their plans to invade Callibeen. We have a refuge which is safe and our numbers are growing. Won't you join us?'

  King Gormond shook his head. 'I have a kingdom to regain. I cannot allow Thraag to swallow my country like this. I must gather my strength and fight back.'

  Simangee leaned forward in her saddle. 'More is at stake than the fate of Knobblond alone, Your Majesty. The fate of all Krangor is in the balance. Queen Tayesha plans to conquer all seven kingdoms, bringing them under her sole rule.'

  King Gormond goggled, his eyes catching the light of the lantern. 'What madness is this?'

  'Madness indeed,' Adalon said. 'She believes that she can achieve immortality as the sole ruler of the land.'

  King Gormond had trouble speaking for a moment, so great was his shock. 'It would break the great compact and upset the eternal balance. The land would rebel.'

  'It has begun already. Haven't you noticed the tremors?'

  'Ah. I had wondered what was amiss.'

  'But that's not all,' Simangee put in. 'The A'ak are taking this opportunity to come back.'

  King Gormond hissed. His tail beat against the boulder. 'The A'ak? It is not possible. They disappeared eons ago.'

  'Exiled, they were, and they are rabid to come back.' Adalon seized the King by his shoulders. 'Join us. Fight this two-pronged menace. Add your strength to ours.'

  King Gormond rubbed his forehead with a weary hand. 'Our strength?' He gestured at his tiny retinue. 'A chef, a tailor and a scribe. That is all I managed to save from the collapse of our country. I would be of no use to you.'

  'What about your magic? As rightful King of Knobblond, you must have made the compact with the land. Each monarch can wield great powers.'

  'Ah, powers, yes.' Gormond scuffed his foot in the dust. 'We were getting around to that.'

  'You haven't undergone the Ritual of Bonding, have you?' Simangee said.

  'Mother said I wasn't ready, so soon after Father passed on. I had to study the Way, and I kept getting distracted . . . Then she passed on, and things got so busy . . .'

  Adalon felt a cold stone in his stomach. He'd been hoping to use the young king's power in their struggle. It would have been useful to have someone on their side with magic like Queen Tayesha's. Nevertheless, if Gormond couldn't be a weapon, he could thwart Tayesha's plans by simply staying alive. 'We need you. Your people need you. Join us and your strength will grow. Knobblond will be yours again.'

  'Join a rebel band? True hearts resisting the tide of darkness? Great deeds?' He looked up, shyly. 'I could truly be a part of this?'

  'You can.'

  King Gormond grasped Adalon's hand and shook it. 'The Spectre will ride again!'

  Eleven

  Gormond regaled Adalon and his friends with his many recent adventures while his tailor fetched their riding beasts. The King's steed was a highly strung black stallion. Despite Adalon's misgivings, Gormond proved to be a fine rider and was quick to control his headstrong mount.

  His three helpers had more dour steeds, thick of limb and strong of chest. They were clumsily mounting by lantern-light when Kikkalak and her patrol dropped through the trees and landed in front of them.

  'W
hat strange creatures are these, Adalon?' Gormond cried as he reined in his rearing mount. 'Are they monsters sent by the A'ak to plague us?'

  Adalon saw Kikkalak start to bridle. 'Do not say that, Your Majesty. They are our allies. Without them we would never have found you.'

  Kikkalak stamped the butt of her spear on the ground and glared at Gormond. 'Winged Ones were slaves of the A'ak until we broke free. Never accuse us of being things of the hated race.'

  Gormond held up a hand. 'My apologies, O Winged One. Your appearance so strange startled me, but history will tell of the time when King Gormond met creatures from legend.' He tilted his head. 'Won't it, Sachi?'

  'It will, sire,' his scribe answered without looking up from her journal.

  Adalon was impressed by Sachi's patience. The youngling seemed to be enjoying writing about Gormond's adventures as much as Gormond enjoyed having them.

  Kikkalak subsided, and eyed Adalon. 'Now you've found him, we'll turn our eyes to scouting for Wargrach's troops.'

  Together, the Winged Ones ran off before mounting into a long glide between the tree trunks, moving from shadow to shadow. Gormond stared after them, his face alive. 'Such wonders!'

  Adalon smiled at the young king's enthusiasm for wonders. It was refreshing.

  He mounted. Gormond fell in beside him, while the others trailed behind. 'We will soon have Thraag on its knees,' Gormond enthused as they set off. 'We will strike hard and then fade away like shadows. Our cunning and our wiles will throw fear among the troops and confusion among their generals. It will be the adventure of a lifetime!'

  Adalon couldn't help smiling. 'You enjoy the old stories, do you?'

  'They're so exciting. Much more exciting than studying how the saur live and how they should live and stuff like that. We have volumes and volumes in the library in Muhna. My tutors read them to me until I learned to read for myself. The Adventure of the Seven Brave Brothers, The Siege of Yorgnak, The Long March. And the songs, too! Bards and troubadours knew they were welcome in Knobblond, especially if they could perform the songs of days of old. "The Ballad of Yor and Kor", "The Lay of the Lost Patrol", "The Lonely Warrior". I learned them all.'