Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
About the Author
Book One
The Lost Castle
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Chronicles of Krangor 1: The Lost Castle
ePub ISBN 9781864714821
Kindle ISBN 9781864716733
Original Print Edition
Random House Australia Pty Ltd
Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060
www.randomhouse.com.au
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First published by Random House Australia in 2007
Copyright © Michael Pryor 2007
This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry
Pryor, Michael.
The lost castle.
For primary school aged children.
ISBN: 9781741662047
1. Quests (Expeditions) – Juvenile fiction. I. Title. (Series: Pryor, Michael. Chronicles of Krangor; bk. 1).
A823.3
Cover illustration by Sam Hadley
Cover and text design by Astred Hicks, Wideopen Media
Map by Damien Demaj, DEMAP
Typeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Printed and bound by Griffi n Press, South Australia
For librarians, with thanks
One
'What do they want?' Adalon asked his father, Lord Ollamon, as they stood behind the parapet of High Battilon.
Sun flashed on the armour and bright blades of the approaching force. The thunder of their passage echoed from the surrounding hills and over the rooftops of Lod, the small village that huddled around the castle's walls.
'I do not know,' Lord Ollamon said, his tail twitching. 'It is strange to see the Queen's Own Guard so far from Challish.'
Adalon's mother had died when he was a baby and he had been close to his father ever since. So he knew Lord Ollamon was concerned; his claws gripped the stonework hard enough to leave marks. Adalon, however, was eager to see the latest weapons and armour from the smithies of the capital of Thraag. He stared out over the long approach to the castle. The Queen's Own Guard, here in the Eastern Peaks province? It was a wonder!
Adalon had seen fifteen years. He was tall for his age, and strong-shouldered for a Clawed One. He had dashing blue patches on the scales of both cheeks, and his thumb-claws were sharp and curved. Clawed Ones were the swiftest of all the saur kind, and Adalon was renowned for never having lost a race. He tapped his claws on the stone with frustration, waiting for the soldiers to arrive.
* * *
Lord Ollamon had assembled a small party in the courtyard. Adalon stood to one side of his father; on the other side stood the courtly Sir Moralon – Lord Ollamon's younger brother and Adalon's uncle. Lord Ollamon greeted the leader of the twenty soldiers.
'General Wargrach,' he called over the sounds of the soldiers' riding beasts, iron shoes clattering on cobblestones. 'What brings you here?'
General Wargrach? Adalon had heard tales of the famous soldier, and he craned his neck to see if the general lived up to his legend.
The general was a short, heavily built Toothed One. Looking at him, Adalon could see the ancestors of the saur, the enormous creatures who strode the world when time was young, making the earth shake beneath their mighty feet. Compared to them, modern saur were small. Better brains had come at the cost of size. Claws had grown smaller as hands learned to grasp. But General Wargrach was a reminder of days gone by. His movements, his bearing, his cold expression – all spoke of the past when the saur were giants.
'I'm here on the Queen's business,' Wargrach growled. He dismounted and waited for his three lieutenants to join him.
'Where are our quarters?' demanded the tallest of the lieutenants, a haughty young Clawed One with shining green throat scales.
'Quarters be hanged,' the other Clawed One snapped. His eyes were red. 'I need ale to cut the road dust from my throat.' He eyed Lord Ollamon. 'You do have ale out here in the provinces, don't you?'
The soldiers supported this with cheers and shouts as they dismounted their riding beasts. General Wargrach glanced at the third of his lieutenants – a squat Plated One with very dark eyes. He needed no helmet or shield, for his heavy, ridged skin protected him from weapons. His tail had a fearsome spike on the end.
The Plated One plucked a potion bottle from a pouch on his belt. He tossed the violet glass at the two complaining lieutenants. It shattered at their feet and they leaped backward, squawking, as a plume of purple fire licked at them.
The purple flames vanished. General Wargrach held up a clawed hand and the pair stood at attention. 'Inspect the troops. Now.'
They hurried off, arranging the soldiers in two lines and making a great show of checking equipment and weapons.
Adalon was wide-eyed at the casual way the Plated One had used magic. He decided that the general had ordered such a display to impress. It had been successful, for a murmur swept around the courtyard.
Wargrach turned to Ollamon. 'They are young,' he said. 'But they show promise.' He looked around the courtyard and up at the two slender towers that flew the flag of the Eastern Peaks province. 'I have not visited your castle before, Ollamon. I would see more of it.'
'Moralon will show you the castle,' Lord Ollamon said, 'while I make sure your soldiers are well quartered.'
Moralon inclined his head. 'Of course.'
Adalon tagged along as his uncle took the general and his lieutenants on a tour. General Wargrach listened and observed, showing interest in the construction of the castle. The Clawed One lieutenants sneered constantly, and complained about being so far from the royal court at Challish. The Plated One said nothing.
Moralon hurried ahead of the small party, closing doors to untidy parts of the castle. 'I'm sorry,' he said over and over again, 'we weren't expecting you. We were unprepared.'
General Wargrach waved the apologies away. 'Are the stables down here?'
'Indeed, let me show you.' Moralon scurried ahead, much to the amusement of the lieutenants.
* * *
It was at dinner that night, in the banqueting hall, that the purpose of General Wargrach's visit was revealed.
Adalon was sitting near the head of the table, to the left of his great-uncle Baradon. Baradon was an enormous Clawed One. In his youth, his bulk had been muscle. Now, his love of food and his lack of activity had turned the muscle to fat. His belly hung over his belt, and he often struggled to rise once he settled himself in a chair.
Moralon was there, and a few of the more important saur from the town were present as well. They were mightily impressed by the uniforms of General Wargrach and his aides.
Adalon listened closely to the arguments and banter that lunged up and down the table. Insults came from General Wargrach's Clawed One aides, and they roared with laughter whenever one of the other guests took offence. They attacked their food, cracking bones in their jaws, grinding them noisily and shouting for more from the servants. The Plated One sat at Wargrach's left hand and ate sparingly, drinking only water.
Adalon found it difficult to make up his mind about General Wargrach. He noticed how everyone listened when the general spoke. His voice was a deep growl, but he never had to raise it. While his aides drank tankard after tankard of ale and wine, the general barely sipped at his. His eyes were hard and cold, and he spent as much time sizing up the banqueting hall as he did studying the others at the table. Adalon noticed that his gaze lingered on Moralon, and it was a gaze full of calculation.
After the meal, Lord Ollamon cleared his throat and tapped a claw on the table until he had everyone's attention. 'General Wargrach. While we are always happy to see the Queen's representative, I'm sure we'd all be interested in hearing your reason for this visit.'
Adalon would never forget the smile General Wargrach gave at that moment. It was his first of the entire evening and it showed his dagger-like teeth. It was more a challenge than an attempt to be friendly.
'The Queen wishes to build a fortress at Sleeto,' he said, his gaze on Lord Ollamon.
Adalon blinked. Sleeto was a tiny village in the highest of the Eastern Peaks, right in the middle of the only pass to the neighbouring kingdom of Callibeen. Adalon and his friends Targesh and Simangee often spent time there, rambling through the rugged landscape, exploring caves, finding tiny lakes that were as deep and clear as the midnight sky. He had spent many hours boating on those freezing lakes, Simangee singing traditional Crested One songs beside him, while Targesh waited on the shore, a true Horned One, suspicious of water.
A fortress in peaceful Sleeto? he thought. His claws bit into his palms. Never!
Lord Ollamon frowned. 'Why?'
'Are you not loyal to your Queen, Lord Ollamon?' General Wargrach growled.
General Wargrach's lieutenants leaned back in their chairs, hands dropping to their weapons.
'Of course I am.'
'Then you'll support the Queen's projects.'
'I have always supported the Queen,' Lord Ollamon said carefully. 'What exactly does she ask of us?'
'When the fortress is complete, it will be garrisoned from the Eastern Peaks. From your province you will conscript one thousand soldiers for duty. You will also be responsible for provisions and equipment for the fortress.'
Lord Ollamon stared. 'One thousand soldiers? From the Eastern Peaks? That is madness! That would be half our able-bodied saur! How would we tend to crops and herds?'
General Wargrach put both of his massive hands on the table. His claws were sharp and cruel. 'A loyal subject would find a way to carry out the Queen's commands.'
Lord Ollamon leaned forward. 'If those are the Queen's commands. You have this in writing?'
General Wargrach hissed and gripped the table. Adalon thought he was about to heave it over. 'I am the Queen's representative. I am her voice. I need no documents.'
'I am the lord of the Eastern Peaks province. I have the right to speak directly to the Queen on matters concerning my lands. I will travel to Challish and seek an audience with her.'
General Wargrach stared at Lord Ollamon in silence. Eventually he nodded. 'As you wish.' He stood. His aides joined their commander as he stalked toward the door. When they reached it, the general paused and turned. 'They say the hunting is particularly fine in the Eastern Peaks.'
Lord Ollamon did not reply.
Moralon glanced at his brother, then stood. 'It is, General Wargrach. The game is plentiful.'
'Then perhaps you and Lord Ollamon will join my saur and me at dawn? There's nothing like the smell of blood in the morning.'
Two
The hunting party did not return until evening. Accompanied by the entire Queen's Own Guard, General Wargrach galloped into the courtyard with Lord Ollamon's body slung on his riding beast. Moralon rode at General Wargrach's side, pale and shaking.
'A hunting accident,' General Wargrach announced to the crowd that gathered.
Adalon stepped forward. His knees were trembling and his heart felt as if it would burst. He tried to speak, but the words shrivelled in his mouth. 'Uncle?' he said, but Lord Moralon did not reply. Instead, he stared with dread at General Wargrach.
Immediately, Adalon realised that his father's death was not an accident. His tail lashed with fury and his hand went to the knife at his belt. He took a step toward Wargrach, but a hand fell on his shoulder. He jerked around to find himself face-to-face with his great-uncle Baradon. The fat, old saur pulled him close, pity in his eyes, and whispered, 'Do not throw your life away.'
Grief seized Adalon. Sobs wracked his body and hot tears ran down his scales. He had lost his lord, his father, his guide and his teacher all at once.
'Saur of the Eastern Peaks,' Wargrach bellowed, 'your lord is dead. His heir, Adalon, has only seen fifteen summers; he has not reached his adulthood. Therefore, Lord Ollamon's brother, Sir Moralon, will become your new lord.'
Moralon dropped his head and closed his eyes for a moment before looking up again. He slipped from his riding beast and took the body of his brother in his arms.
General Wargrach grunted and gestured to his aides. The Queen's Own Guard wheeled out of the gate, leaving the saur of High Battilon behind. Moralon stood in the middle of the courtyard, holding his dead brother, and wept.
* * *
Targesh and Simangee took Adalon to his room and stayed with him as he sobbed and raged, unable to believe that his father was truly gone.
'Wargrach!' he cried. He paced the room, unable to keep still. 'You killed my father!'
Targesh was sitting on the bed. It creaked under his massive frame. When he nodded, his two great horns bobbed in sympathy. Simangee was on the window ledge, her head on her knees, her tail curled up. Sad sounds burbled from her long, curved crest. 'Your father was always kind to everyone,' she said, tears in her eyes.
Adalon clenched his fists. The furnace of his rage grew hotter and hotter. 'Why? Why did Wargrach do such a thing?'
Targesh spread his stubby hands and shook his massive neck shield. Simangee didn't answer.
Adalon felt like dashing himself against the hard stone walls of his room. Dimly, he knew he should be grieving, but anger was all he could feel.
'Rest, Adalon,' Simangee said. 'You must calm yourself.'
Adalon ignored her and continued pacing, his tail thrashing. 'It must be the Queen,' he said. 'Wargrach does the Queen's bidding. She must have ordered my father's death.'
'Why?' Targesh said, his brow wrinkling.
'I don't know! How could I know?' Adalon wanted to scream. 'She must have her reasons!'
He stopped his pacing. His father's notes. They would tell him what the Queen was planning.
He dived for the door, flinging it open, oblivious to the startled cries from Targesh and Simangee. He raced along the corridor with all the speed of a Clawed One until he reached the room his father used as an office.
The office was cold and empty. Grey light cam
e through the window, falling on the shelves of books, documents and ledgers that his father had needed to govern the Eastern Peaks. A large table, covered with maps and papers, stood in the middle of the room.
Adalon looked at the desk, then at the papers. The answer would be there somewhere.
He scrabbled through accounts and plans, scanning and discarding them one by one, hissing with frustration. He bounded across the desk and flung open the drawers, searching for what he needed.
'Adalon?' Simangee's voice came from the doorway, but he didn't look up. He took a small book, bound in red leather, from the bottom drawer. The writing belonged to his father. Through eyes full of tears, he read page after page of notes about military preparations right across Thraag. General Wargrach's name featured again and again. He was responsible for much: destroying villages, ordering the inhabitants into the mines. Saur were being moved against their will, and Wargrach and the other generals were enjoying the blessing of the Queen as they pressed the unwilling into the Army.
His father was convinced that Queen Tayesha was planning a war of conquest.
From between the last pages of the book, a small piece of paper fell and drifted to the floor. Adalon picked it up. The paper was divided in two, with childish writing on one half and the strong writing of his father on the other.
Adalon stared at the paper, sank to the floor, and remembered.
His father had taught him to write by copying out lessons from the great tradition that was the Way of the Claw. 'This way, Adalon, you will not forget them.'
He remembered how his father's hand – so large, with razor-sharp claws – had covered his and helped him shape the letters. His father was so gentle that Adalon was sure he was writing all by himself, until his father removed his hand and Adalon's writing wobbled all over the page like a spider on ice.
They'd laughed and Lord Ollamon had patted Adalon on the back. Then they'd continued their study.
Adalon gazed at the paper and his breath caught in his throat; tears sprang to his eyes. Oh Father, he thought, and great sobs tore at him. I miss you so!
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