The Lost Castle

by Michael Pryor

  'What sort of saur were they?' Adalon asked. 'Toothed Ones? Clawed Ones?'

  Simangee shook her head. 'The book doesn't say. It describes the A'ak as bloodthirsty, powerful, possessing strange and deadly magic.'

  Targesh grunted. He sprawled on his stomach, resting his chin on his arms.

  'What happened to them?' Adalon asked.

  'The vast army of the A'ak perished on its way to battle against a combined force from Thraag and Knobblond. The soldiers were crossing the Harchgrond Swamp in winter when a blizzard fell on them. It was the last anyone heard of the A'ak.'

  'And their Hidden Valley? Their Lost Castle?'

  'Why do you think they call it the Lost Castle, Adalon? It's never been discovered. Over the centuries, many adventurers have sought it, imagining they could find treasure there.'

  'And your book tells you where it is?'

  Simangee pointed at the horizon. 'The Jarquin Ranges. The Hidden Valley is there, near Graaldon, the smoking mountain.'

  Adalon stood, shaded his eyes and looked ahead.

  The Jarquin Ranges were the tallest mountains in all Krangor. Their peaks clawed at the sky and even Adalon, who loved mountain heights, felt ill-at-ease as he gazed at their ragged crowns. The mountains there were unscaleable and impassable, wicked splinters of rock thrust up from the roots of Krangor itself.

  'A place of safety, you say,' he remarked to Simangee. He thought he could see a plume of smoke rising from one of the peaks. Or was it just cloud?

  'That's what the book promises.' She paused, frowning. 'I think Hoolgar told me about this book for a reason, Adalon. I think he saw war coming to our lands, and he wanted me to know of a place of refuge.'

  A place of refuge, Adalon thought. Somewhere to rest, to plan. Somewhere his friends could be safe. Adalon nodded. 'Lead on, Sim.'

  Targesh frowned. He placed one hand flat on the ground and held it there for a moment. Then he snorted and climbed to his feet. 'Riders,' he said.

  Adalon whirled. In the distance he saw black specks against the green of the grassy plains. Dust rose in their wake and he knew they were coming fast. 'They're after us.'

  'How d'you know?' Targesh asked.

  Adalon gazed into the distance. Targesh had a point.

  'We need a scrying spell,' Simangee said.

  'I have one,' Targesh said. He held up a small vial, half-full of blue liquid.

  'I'm glad you do.' Simangee grinned at Adalon. 'I know better than to expect him to have a spell.'

  Adalon scowled, tilted his head and glared at the vial through one eye. He mistrusted magic. He didn't like its habit of turning on the saur who used it, like a badly-balanced knife. The cost of using magic was unpredictable. It could be petty, but it could be dire.

  His friends thought his suspicions were simply a foible, a quirky aspect of his character. He'd never told them that his mother had died from magic gone wrong.

  Targesh shrugged his enormous shoulders. 'Thought a spell could be handy.'

  Simangee took the vial. 'Thank you, Targesh.'

  'Stand by your friends,' Targesh said. 'The Way of the Horn.'

  Targesh held to the Way of the Horn with deep-seated strength. Adalon knew the Way of the Horn had come down through the ages from the days when the great Horned One herbivores relied on the safety that came from the herd. The mass of the herd protected the young and the weak from Toothed Ones and other dangers. Loyalty, steadfastness and courage were vital to survival, and these qualities were the foundation of the Way of the Horn.

  Targesh was a living, breathing model of the Way of the Horn. Faithful, strong, dependable, he was the rock the three friends built their friendship on.

  'Quickly, now,' said Simangee. 'We need a pool, or a mirror, something we can see into.'

  Targesh frowned. 'None around here.'

  'I have a beaker and a canteen of water,' Adalon said. 'Will that be enough?'

  'I hope so,' Simangee said.

  Once the beaker was full of water, Adalon handed it to Simangee. She uncorked the tiny bottle and tilted it toward the beaker.

  Blue liquid fell, as bright as the summer sky at noon. Suddenly the beaker was full of soft light.

  Simangee discarded the empty bottle and held up the beaker. 'The riders,' she said clearly, then she lowered the beaker so the others could see.

  'General Wargrach,' Adalon said. His heart lurched and his tail whipped from side to side until he stilled it with an effort.

  'How many with him?' Targesh asked. He shook his neck shield.

  'Twenty or so,' Adalon said. 'Enough.'

  Simangee stood. 'We have a head start. They'll have to catch us.'

  Eight

  Grassland gave way to a broken country of ravines and dry watercourses. Pausing on a small rise, Adalon despaired at the sight of league after league of shattered stone and tumbled boulders. Beyond it lay the Jarquin Ranges and Graaldon, the smoking mountain.

  Without a word, Adalon, Simangee and Targesh set off, plunging into the mazy wilderness of stone.

  A day later, they were still picking their way between rocky outcrops. Adalon's tail ached, despite his well-made saddle. He felt a chill as clouds darted across the face of the sun. To add to his discomfort, the wind was skating down from the mountains in the south, and it had ice in its teeth.

  Gloomily, Adalon thought the boulders around them were beginning to look like skulls.

  He was unaccustomed to such prolonged riding, and it irked him. Targesh seemed content enough, jogging alongside the riding beasts. Simangee was able to amuse herself by singing. Sometimes her voice was barely a murmur, but at other times it echoed from the rocks. The lessons of the Way of the Crest were taught through music, and Simangee sang many tunes that made sense only to those who followed this Way. Some tunes were happy and light, some thoughtful and measured, while others baffled Adalon entirely.

  He grimaced, adjusted his tail, then sighed. He longed to leap from the saddle and stretch all his muscles. He wanted to run through the rocks, weaving between them until he felt the wind in his face, but he dared not leave Simangee and Targesh. He scratched under his collar and squirmed in his saddle. His tunic was chafing on his shoulders, but no matter how he tried, he couldn't reach the itch with his claws.

  Simangee laughed at him. 'Patience, Adalon! When will you learn patience?'

  'Ach!' he said. 'How do you stay in one place for so long?'

  'Strength of mind, Adalon. Some saur have it, others do not.'

  Simangee smiled and he forced a weary chuckle.

  As they pushed on, he became increasingly concerned about their pursuers. At midday on the fifth day of their flight, he called a halt. They pulled up near a boulder as large as a house. 'Wait here.'

  'What is it?' Simangee asked. Targesh looked questioningly at him.

  Adalon pointed at the boulder with one claw. 'We need to know how close General Wargrach is.' He winked. 'Besides, a climb will be good for me.'

  'Look for Graaldon,' Simangee urged. 'Among all these rocks, it's hard to be sure we've kept the right heading.'

  Targesh took the reins of his riding beast. Adalon ran and leaped at the rock. He dug in with his hand-claws and foot-claws and swarmed up its face, grinning. It was good to be doing something other than riding.

  In seconds he reached the rounded top of the boulder. He stood and stretched, then he shaded his eyes and looked toward the mountain range ahead.

  'We're almost at the foothills!' he called.

  'The smoking peak,' Simangee shouted. 'Can you see it?'

  It was hard to miss. Smoke rose from Graaldon in a steady plume. 'Yes, we're close. Half a day, maybe!'

  Adalon turned and gazed in the direction of their pursuers. They were only an hour or so behind. He could make out a score of individual riders and saw the sun glinting on weapons. Then his gaze fell on a dozen or so smaller shapes loping alongside the riding beasts. He felt his mouth go dry.

  Warhounds.

 
His father had once had a pack of warhounds. Evil, bloodthirsty, furred beasts, they were a nightmare to control. They had turned on and killed their handler when Adalon was small. His father had them put down after that.

  Warhounds were renowned for their tireless pace. Once set loose, the prey was doomed.

  Wargrach! Adalon shook a fist at the pursuers. Haven't you done enough to my family already?

  He turned and scrambled down the rock faster than he went up it. 'We must fly,' he panted when he reached the ground. 'Wargrach and his soldiers are close behind. They have warhounds.'

  Targesh's nostrils flared and he gave a throaty rumble. 'Warhounds.' He spat on the ground.

  'We must find the entrance to the Hidden Valley,' Simangee said. 'We'll be safe there.'

  Adalon frowned. He knew how fast warhounds could run once they were released. He took the reins from Targesh. 'We'll go quicker if we lead the riding beasts.'

  He led the way. His knees and elbows struck rocks as he hurried through narrow passages between boulders. He sprang over stones and peered ahead for a path.

  His riding beast baulked as the ground grew more uneven and difficult. Adalon had to use all his skill to keep it from stopping. He muttered constantly, urging it along, and tapped its flanks with a claw when it baulked.

  An hour on, Adalon was stopped in his tracks by a wall of rock, a jumble of huge boulders blocking the way. 'Back,' he said wearily. 'There's no way forward here.'

  Targesh was bringing up the rear. He grunted. Simangee put her head against the flank of her steed and closed her eyes for a moment.

  A ghastly howl rose over the rocky landscape, echoing among the boulders. Adalon stiffened.

  'Warhounds. They're loose,' Targesh said.

  Simangee scanned the area, rising on her toes, her crest swaying anxiously. 'Which way do we go?'

  Adalon looked back. 'To those two rocks. I'm sure there's a way around them, and then we'll be heading in the right direction.'

  The riding beasts were tired and they resented turning around. They snorted and danced on the spot. Simangee spoke softly to hers, trying to calm it down as the screams of the warhounds came to them again. Adalon clamped his teeth together and flexed his claws. The warhounds' cry set his heart pounding. He found that he was rising on his toes, ready to run or fight. Steady, he told himself, and he heard the words of the Way of the Claw. Do not run the race before it begins.

  'They're getting closer,' Simangee said.

  'You're right.' Adalon sighed. 'We must find a place to make a stand.'

  Targesh pulled his axe from a strap on his back. He shook his neck to loosen the muscles, then removed the caps from his horns. 'Let them come.' He swung his axe and smiled.

  Nine

  General Wargrach ran through the stony wilderness, his chest hurting, his muscles burning. His teeth were bared in a fierce grin as he imagined getting his claws on the throat of Ollamon's son.

  Wargrach had to admit he was no longer the young saur he used to be. His hand-picked soldiers were younger, fresher, less battle-scarred. But he was not about to let them see him labouring.

  He promised himself that Ollamon's son would pay for leading them through this cursed rocky wasteland. He leaped from a flat boulder to the ground then scrambled over a jumbled fall of stone.

  A few hours earlier, Wargrach had ordered the troops to leave the riding beasts behind. He knew they could run faster than they could lead beasts through the rocky maze. His troops had muttered about the waste of fresh meat but had not dared to disobey the great General Wargrach.

  'Sir!'

  A tall saur leaped up and Wargrach recognised Dorgan, the chief warhound handler. Wargrach stopped and glared at him. It gave him some pleasure to see the youngster panting and holding his side. 'Sir!' Dorgan said. He paused, caught his breath, and propped himself up with his tail. 'The warhounds! They've seen the prey. The handlers are having trouble holding them back!'

  Wargrach cocked his head. As he did, the rest of the troop caught up with him. Try as they might, they could not hide their struggle for breath. Several bent at the waist, sucking in huge lungfuls of air.

  'Good,' he said to Dorgan. The handler eased his stance, then Wargrach narrowed his eyes. 'The warhounds. They'll leave the prey alive?'

  Dorgan shifted on his tail. 'I . . . well . . .' He swallowed. 'Warhounds are difficult, sir. I can't be sure what they'll leave.'

  Wargrach bared his teeth. 'You should hope they leave enough for me.'

  * * *

  Adalon tried to remember the lessons his father had given him, how to lead troops and help them overcome their fear. He tried to recall the words of the books he had read, full of famous battles and great heroes.

  I wish a few of those heroes were here, he thought as he scanned the ground ahead for the best defensive position.

  Pursued by a general in the Queen's Army. Warhounds on their trail. No home to return to. None of it seemed real. What was real was his pounding heart and the way his tail wouldn't keep still.

  He glanced at Simangee and Targesh. Simangee's face was determined. Targesh was swinging his axe, his feet planted solidly on the ground. Adalon knew of Targesh's skill with weapons through their hours of practice and mock battles together. He was glad to have him by his side.

  He sought comfort in the Way of the Claw, but the lessons skittered away from him.

  They followed the rough path around a large boulder. A high shelf of rocks rose on one side of the path and on the other a stream clattered down the hillside. 'Here,' Adalon declared. 'This is the place.'

  Targesh looked around then nodded. 'Yes.' Simangee and Adalon tethered their riding beasts to a straggly bush.

  Adalon unsheathed his sword. It was battered and heavy and its blade was spotted with rust. Adalon sighed and remembered the fine steel blade that had been his fifteenth birthday present.

  'Don't look so disgusted,' Simangee said sharply. 'We didn't have much time before we fled Challish. We were lucky to find anything.'

  The howls came again, closer this time; the riding beasts snorted and stamped. Adalon drummed his claws on the flat of his blade. It rang. 'They'll come around the boulder. You and I will use the bow for as long as we can, Sim. When they close in, I'll change to the sword. You stand behind Targesh and me and keep shooting over our shoulders.' Targesh was no archer, because of his large neck shield. He'd always made fun of bows, but Adalon knew he'd be grateful if the arrows could bring down a few warhounds before they closed.

  'You have a sword, too?' Adalon asked Simangee.

  'Of course.' She slapped the scabbard by her side. 'It may be light, but it should do the job. If they get past you two.'

  'They won't,' Targesh said.

  Adalon selected two dozen arrows and jammed them into the earth in front of him. He took his shield and propped it on a rock to his left with his sword.

  Simangee clicked her tongue nervously. 'I'll make a song about this, once it's over.'

  If we survive, Adalon thought, but did not say aloud.

  Targesh pointed. 'They come.'

  A dozen long, skinny animals came bounding around the rock toward them. Adalon shuddered at their dead grey hides and their slavering jaws. Needle teeth filled their mouths. Their eyes were small, red-rimmed and squinty. Ugly, he thought, and he gripped his bow tighter.

  When the warhounds saw their prey a fresh chorus of howls went up, rising and changing pitch until the sound raked at the air. 'Ready,' Adalon said, and was pleased that his voice was steady. 'Now!

  The bowstring snapped past his cheek. As soon as the arrow was on its way, Adalon had nocked another and was picking a target. A shrieking yelp and one of the leading warhounds tumbled and didn't get up. Adalon grimaced when its packmates simply trampled it. One paused an instant to snatch a bite from the fallen hound's neck. Adalon steadied and loosed an arrow that took the hungry brute right in the throat.

  Simangee was matching Adalon shaft for shaft. She didn't mi
ss.

  Adalon had time for three more arrows before the leading warhounds were on them. Targesh stepped forward, swinging his axe and bellowing. He took down two on the forestroke, and another on the backswing. One warhound, braver than the rest, flung itself at Targesh, who lowered his head, caught the beast on one horn and swung it high into the air. Adalon dropped his bow and whipped out his sword just in time to thrust it over Targesh's axe and impale a wild-eyed horror that was trying to get to his friend.

  Targesh grunted and kicked, freeing his axe. Soon, he was swinging his weapon like a scythe through grass. Adalon dragged his sword from the body of the warhound and slashed as another sprang at him. It screamed and Adalon turned, slapped it aside with his tail, then slit its throat with his thumb-claw. Behind him, Simangee's bow was humming. 'Beware!' she cried. 'More!'

  Around the boulder swarmed the main pack of warhounds. A score, thirty, maybe more, Adalon thought numbly. His sword arm was already aching. He sheathed his gory blade and seized his bow again. As fast as he could, he sent arrows winging toward the horrible, slavering beasts. He tried to be as accurate as Simangee, who brought death with each shaft.

  As this next wave of warhounds surged toward them, Targesh held his axe in one hand and heaved stones, aiming to break skulls and legs.

  Too soon, the pack was on them. Adalon used his shield as a weapon, crashing it against the narrow heads of the beasts, stunning them until he could use his sword. The world became a blur of snarls, screams, thrusts, hacks and blood.

  All the while, Simangee sent shaft after deadly shaft over Adalon's shoulder. The mound of dead warhounds grew in front of them.

  A drooling pair of jaws lunged at Adalon and he rammed the shield edge upwards. Then he slashed the hound's neck with a handful of claws.

  'Fall back,' Simangee gasped. 'More coming!'

  Ten

  Bellowing, Targesh shook his neck shield. Blood dripped from his horns as he brandished his axe. At this formidable sight, the warhounds paused, slinking low to the ground and snarling. Their ears were laid back and great, ropy threads of drool hung from their jaws.