He was a Toothed One – that was clear – wearing chain mail instead of the plate armour that the rest of the troops wore. It was plain that only chain mail could cover the misshapen body of this saur.
The Toothed One raised a claw and pointed to the right wing of the troops. A dozen riders fell back, then regrouped and charged at Adalon, Targesh and Simangee.
Just as the riders closed on him, realisation came to Adalon with enough force to take his breath away. Wargrach!
The saur who had killed his father had not died in the mouth of Graaldon! Fury erupted in Adalon and he spurred his brass steed forward. The red mist of anger began to colour his vision as his sword moved faster and faster. His heart started to swell with the beauty of battle. Every thrust became a song; every parry became a dance. What had he been thinking? Battle was glorious, not grim! Strength, victory, triumph – these were what war was about! He swung his blade over his head, laughing.
At this sight, the remaining soldiers pulled up. 'Come!' Adalon cried. 'All of you! I'll take you all! Then I'll take your leader!' He pointed his sword at Wargrach, who stood, unmoving, on the ridge.
The soldiers turned and fled.
Adalon threw his head back and screamed. How dare they? Running from battle? Cowards! They deserved to die the death of ages!
He went to spur his brass steed on, but Targesh stepped in front of him and seized the bridle. 'No,' the Horned One said.
'Out of my way!' Adalon lifted his sword.
Targesh did not move. He gazed at Adalon.
Stupid Horned One! Adalon thought. It's time he was taught a lesson!
He began to bring down the sword and then he stared stupidly at the arrow that pierced his forearm, neatly through a joint in his armour. The sword dropped from his hand, bounced off the shoulder of his steed and then lay on the ground.
'Take his helmet off, Targesh,' Simangee ordered as she slung her bow over her saddle.
Together, they eased Adalon to the ground. He glared at them and hissed. His tail thrashed at them until Targesh trapped it beneath his knee. 'Unhand me, ingrates! Wargrach is out there. I must take him!'
Simangee held his head and stared into his eyes. 'Let go of the fury, Adalon. The magic armour, the weapons, are drawing on it, stoking it until it consumes you.'
Adalon shook with rage. He wanted his weapons. He wanted to be out there, leading the A'ak to victory, to fulfil their destiny as the rulers of all. Every saur in Krangor would bow down before the A'ak!
Adalon shook his head. A'ak? What am I thinking?
That was enough. The rage began to recede, drawing back like the waning tide. 'Simangee?'
'Adalon? Are you yourself again?'
Adalon's heart was hammering in his chest and his head felt light, as if he had not eaten for days. His forearm hurt. 'I thought I was the leader of the A'ak.'
He had wondered at the price for using such magical stuff as the armour and weapons. Now he knew.
'And now?' Targesh rumbled.
Adalon snorted. 'Adalon who was once of the Eastern Peaks.'
'Adalon of the Lost Castle?' Simangee said, grinning. Together, she and Targesh helped him to his feet.
'That may do,' Adalon allowed. 'That may do.'
He held out his arm and stared. An arrow was sticking right through it. The pain, however, was dull – an ache that he could ignore.
Targesh snapped the head off the arrow and, delicately, pulled the remains from Adalon's arm. Simangee took a bandage from a pouch at her belt and bound the wound.
'You are wearing the A'ak armour too. Did you feel nothing?' he asked her. She shook her head. 'Targesh?'
'No.'
Simangee looked up. 'What price will we pay for using the armour, Adalon?'
'I don't know. You may escape with something minor, or nothing at all.'
Targesh shrugged. 'My back itches.'
The doors of the inn burst open. To Adalon, it looked as if the whole population of the village flooded out. Males, females, younglings, oldsters, all armed with whatever weapons they had to hand when the soldiers fell on their village – some old swords and axes, but mostly hoes, picks and shovels. The blacksmith grimly carried his largest hammer.
Adalon faced the frightened villagers. 'Bolggo!' he said sharply, searching for the innkeeper. 'It's Adalon!'
A short, burly Plated One pushed through the crowd. He wore an apron and carried a wicked-looking club. 'Adalon?'
'Yes, it's me.'
Targesh and Simangee walked their riding beasts close. Simangee grinned and removed her helmet. 'Any chance of a meal for some weary travellers?'
Twenty-five
Six days later, Wargrach whipped his riding beast along, gritting his teeth against every jolt. He bore the pain, knowing that every step took him further away from the mess at Sleeto. The path he had chosen took him away from Challish, too, and Queen Tayesha.
The riding beast halted at a fork in the way. Wargrach urged it on, taking the route that led deeper into the woods.
Queen Tayesha would not look kindly on losing another cohort of troops. Coming so soon after the disaster at Graaldon, such events looked like carelessness, and that wasn't a good quality in a commander. No, Wargrach knew that this was a good time to keep his distance from the Queen and her plans.
The riding beast was wilting, breathing hard, head hanging low. Wargrach had no pity for it. He needed to get to the top of the next hill and he would almost be at his destination.
To distract himself from his aching body, Wargrach cast his mind back to Sleeto. Who were those metal warriors? What magical power did they possess, fighting like demons as they did? Wargrach's troops were veterans, battle-hardened and experienced. Yet they were scattered by three individuals.
His face grimaced horribly in something that had once been a smile. Their efforts were all for nothing, anyway. Sleeto was not rescued. Its fate was merely postponed. Queen Tayesha was sending out the rest of the force, then another, until the fortress at Sleeto was built – with the help of that weakling Moralon. She was not about to give up on her plans.
Nor was Wargrach. He had suffered setbacks in achieving his dreams, true, but the best commander always had plans behind plans, something to fall back on if necessary.
The riding beast stumbled, and broke through overhanging bushes at the crest of the hill. Wargrach grimaced again and he began to feel a sort of grim happiness.
Below him lay the castle of High Battilon, the stronghold of the Eastern Peaks, the place Wargrach had decided would be his new home.
* * *
Queen Tayesha sat on the stone throne. Her arms were on the rough armrests. She could feel her link with the land. It reminded her of her duty and it made her strong.
Standing in front of her were the remaining five generals of the kingdom. All of them were Toothed Ones, all of them experienced, and all of them very nervous.
They had heard of the events at Sleeto, for each of them had their spies. Queen Tayesha appreciated that. They would not have risen to the positions they had if they did not have cunning on their side.
But none of them was Wargrach.
'Generals,' she snapped, 'you have served me well in the past.' She paused and heard the sound of seven generals breathing again. 'But your challenge is to serve me even better in the future.'
Nothing could tear the generals' attention away from her. They listened keenly because they knew their lives may depend on how well they did it. Queen Tayesha was pleased.
'General Wargrach is no more,' she announced. Some of the commanders showed surprise, a few concern. No-one had heard any details as to what had happened to Wargrach. He had vanished after the events at Sleeto. Most had guessed that the Queen had him put to death.
Two of the generals showed interest, and Queen Tayesha noted that. They were the ones who were already wondering if they could fill Wargrach's position, no doubt. Ambition was a promising trait.
'The invasion of Callibeen must c
ontinue without him,' she said. 'You five have the task of mobilising our armies, planning our campaign, and building the fortress at Sleeto. Do not fail me.'
The generals saluted as one, then marched from the Throne Hall, armour and weapons clashing as they went. Queen Tayesha remained.
When they had gone, she put a hand to her forehead and sighed. She felt old. The years she had kept at bay were still there, hovering around her like gnats on a summer's day.
Shouldn't she give up? Without Wargrach it was going to be harder to achieve her dream. Perhaps the moment had come to accept that time was going to win after all.
Queen Tayesha straightened. No, she wasn't about to surrender. It was her duty not to surrender. The saur needed her! Their fate was in her hands!
She stood and held her hands up in front of her face. Magic surged from one to the other in a cascade of silver light. 'I will do it,' she announced to the empty Throne Hall. 'I will unite the seven kingdoms of Krangor!'
Twenty-six
Adalon stood on a balcony of the Lost Castle, his arm in a sling. The pain nagged at him, but he ignored it. The courtyard below was filled with the villagers from Sleeto. The savoury smell of vegetable stew and roasting meat came from cooking fires. Children played hide and seek, running up stone staircases and along battlements.
At least they are safe here, Adalon thought. That was the argument that had convinced the villagers to come all this way to the Hidden Valley. Safety. They knew as well as Adalon that the Queen would not let the village rest in peace.
It had been hard for the villagers to leave homes that had been in their families for centuries. Bolggo the innkeeper finally convinced them. 'Look at me!' he had said. 'If I can leave my inn behind, you can leave your houses!'
It had been Bolggo's idea to set fire to the town. 'The Queen's soldiers won't have the pleasure of using our dwellings,' he spat as he threw the blazing torch onto the thatch of his own inn.
The villagers wept as they marched out of Sleeto. Smoke climbed into the air and hung there for a long time after, so that looking back they could all see where their homes had once been.
A journey that had taken the magic steeds a day took nearly a month for the Sleeto villagers. With children and old ones, the passage was dangerous and slow. Adalon, Targesh and Simangee were kept busy finding food in the great forests of west Thraag, scouting the best paths through the wilderness, and – on three harrowing occasions – doing battle with small bands of soldiers. It was an exhausting, perilous time, but they finally reached the Hidden Valley and safety.
Adalon clicked his claws together. Safe in an A'ak place? He still had misgivings about dwelling in the home of the mysterious saur. He felt that there was much still to discover about them.
Simangee and Targesh joined Adalon on the balcony. Targesh was eating skewered vegetables. 'Good cooks, those villagers.'
'What are they going to do?' asked Simangee. 'They can't stay in this courtyard forever.'
Adalon already had a plan. 'They're saur of the land. The abandoned farms in this valley are crying for hands to work them.'
Simangee took the skewer from Targesh and nibbled a piece of roasted pumpkin. With the skewer, she pointed at the innkeeper. 'Bolggo found cellars here in this castle, and a brewing room. He wants to start again.'
'He's welcome,' Adalon laughed.
Adalon, Simangee and Targesh leaned against the balcony and watched the villagers go about their domestic business with a mixture of relief and sadness. They had left behind their homes, but they were still alive and they were safe. Gratitude and loss mingled together and left them feeling off balance, as if each had gone lame in both feet at once.
Adalon thought of the battle of Sleeto. He remembered the power of the magic sword and the fear in the eyes of the soldiers when they saw the three metal heroes riding toward them. He also remembered the blood lust that overcame him. He knew that was the cost the magic weapons and armour demanded. What was he to do about that? Forswear the weapons, never use them again? The magic of the A'ak was their best hope of thwarting the Queen's plans – could he pay the price for using it?
Some right decisions are simple, others not. Knowing the difference is the key. The lesson of the Way of the Claw came unbidden to him. Lately, he had spent much time contemplating the teachings and had found some solace.
Of course, whenever he brought them to mind, they sounded as if they were spoken by his father. He smiled. It was good to remember him this way.
'I went to the chamber of power this morning,' Simangee said. 'I looked in the mirrors.'
Adalon studied his friend. 'Are you all right?'
She shrugged. 'Just a little tired. I must be getting used to it.'
'What did you see?' Targesh asked.
'I was looking for Hoolgar. We could use his wisdom.'
Adalon agreed wholeheartedly. 'Did you find him?'
'No.'
'See anything else?' Targesh asked.
'Challish. More soldiers, the Army growing.'
'Ready to invade Callibeen,' Adalon said softly.
'What will we do, Adalon?' Simangee said.
'We will fight.' He gazed into a distance that held his enemies, his people and his future. 'It would be wrong not to.'
About the Author
Michael Pryor has published more than a dozen fantasy books and over forty short stories, from literary fiction to science fiction to slapstick humour. Michael has been shortlisted three times for the Aurealis Awards, has been nominated for a Ditmar award, and three of his books have been Children's Book Council of Australia Notable Books. Most recently, Michael has co-created (with Paul Collins) the highly successful Quentaris Chronicles. Following the popularity of Blaze of Glory, he is currently writing Heart of Gold: The Second Volume of The Laws of Magic, as well as further books in the Chronicles of Krangor.
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