A Kingdom Rises

by J. D. Rinehart

  “The magic of numbers!” Melchior cried. “It has never let me down yet!”

  I hope it never does.

  “Attack!” Tarlan bellowed. “Take them by surprise! Attack now! Attack now!”

  Theeta took off, flying straight between the few trees that were still standing. Arrow-fast, she emerged low over the battlefield and shrieked an earsplitting thorrod war cry. Matching screams sounded to Tarlan’s left and right and suddenly there was Nasheen with Melchior riding once more on her back. Beside her flew Kitheen, his huge golden beak agape, his enormous talons skimming the grass.

  Close behind came the rest of Tarlan’s pack. The ground trembled beneath them, and the air resounded with their howls and roars. The Galadronians pulled up short, turning and gaping at the oncoming army. Tarlan could only imagine what a terrifying sight his pack must be as they surged out of the forest, a tidal wave of teeth and claws.

  This is what happens when you challenge the prophecy three! This is how we fight back!

  Even as the feeling of triumph surged through him, more Galadronian troops started pouring out of the curiously reshaped Castle Vicerin.

  Elodie! We need you now!

  And there she was—a rider galloping out of the low swampy land to the northeast of the castle, her armor burning in the fierce red light of the setting sun. Following her was what looked like a wall of gray mist. As it drew near, the mist condensed into the forms of individual soldiers. Elodie’s army of ghosts.

  Theeta struck the Galadronian army’s flank like a boulder rolled from the slope of a Yalasti mountain. The impact knocked a dozen or more men to the ground instantly. As she plowed deeper into their ranks, the thorrod began to rake the enemy with her claws and stab down with her beak. At the same time, Tarlan was hacking and slashing with his sword. By the time they’d completed their first pass, he guessed they’d felled at least thirty enemy soldiers.

  Nasheen and Kitheen both struck with similar force. Surprised and confused, their orderly lines torn apart, the Galadronians had no time to regroup before the rest of Tarlan’s pack crashed into them.

  At the same instant, Elodie’s ghosts hit them from the north.

  “There’s Gulph!” Tarlan shouted in Theeta’s ear. “Get as close as you can!”

  The thorrod sped to where Gulph was fending off a trio of Galadronian foot soldiers. As Gulph’s sword pierced the chest of the nearest one, Theeta’s claws tore out the throat of the second. Tarlan dispatched the third with a single blow of his sword.

  “Thanks, brother!” Gulph screamed, wheeling his horse around.

  “Where’s Hypiro?” Tarlan yelled.

  “Still in the castle! Never mind her! We’ve got enough to deal with here!”

  Gulph charged into a fresh wave of enemy soldiers. Close behind him rode The Hammer and Captain Ariston. Satisfied that his brother could handle himself, Tarlan urged Theeta back to where his pack was in the thick of the fighting.

  What he saw gave him hope. The ordinary Galadronian soldiers were no match for his animal warriors. When they came up against the biggest beasts—bears and horses and big-antlered stags—they were ripped apart or crushed. The larger carnivores, under the leadership of Filos and Greythorn, tore through anything that got in their way. And the smaller creatures were everywhere, bringing down the enemy by sheer weight of numbers.

  And yet . . .

  Something’s wrong here.

  Climbing skyward after yet another attack run, Tarlan noticed that every time a Galadronian fell, another seemed to take his place. The newly risen warriors all shared the same curious yellowish color—it was in their clothes, their armor, their skin . . .

  Sand-warriors! We knew this would happen! But we’re doing nothing about it!

  Tarlan hustled Theeta to where Nasheen was circling over a cluster of Galadronian war machines. Melchior was standing on the thorrod’s back, his staff pointed down toward the ground.

  Tarlan watched with astonished eyes as Nasheen appeared to split first into two, then into four. An eye blink later, there were eight white-breasted thorrods spinning over the enemy machines.

  Sixteen! Thirty-two!

  At the same time, the whirling scythes of the war machines began to tangle together. Instead of hundreds of blades there were now only dozens, now just a handful.

  Four blades! Two! One!

  The machines had been spitting out tongues of fire. Now a single giant candle flame rose from the center of a juddering tangle of machinery.

  Looking at it made Tarlan’s eyes hurt. He remembered when the Galadronians had attacked them on the Isle of Stars. Melchior had used his magic to collapse the entire army into the body of a single soldier, whom Tarlan had then killed.

  One sword stroke, and they all fell.

  This was the same. But it was also different. While Melchior’s magic somehow kept all the Galadronian war machines folded into one place, the same spell had turned Nasheen into an entire flock of thorrods. The cluster of gigantic birds plunged down onto the machine, shredding it with their countless claws, tearing into it with their innumerable beaks. Tarlan wiped his aching eyes, and by the time he brought his hand down from his face, the Galadronians’ fleet of war machines had been reduced to a pile of smoking splinters.

  But even as he pumped the air with his fist, an entire regiment of sand-warriors marched out of the smoke.

  “The Sandspear!” called Melchior from the back of Nasheen—who was now single and whole once more. The wizard looked exhausted. “You have to stop her!”

  He’s right. It doesn’t matter how hard we fight here. As long as Hypiro has the Sandspear, it’s hopeless.

  “Theeta!” Tarlan cried. “To the castle!”

  The thorrod obeyed at once, carrying Tarlan straight into the full glare of the setting sun. Their course took them directly over Elodie, who had leaped from her horse and was fighting back-to-back with Kalia. Cedric and Sylva were battling nearby, while all around them thronged the misty gray bodies of Elodie’s loyal ghost soldiers.

  “Tarlan!” Elodie screamed as Theeta swooped past her head. “What are you doing?”

  Tarlan didn’t want to stop. But she has to know what I’m doing. Just in case . . .

  Pulling Theeta into a screaming turn, he yelled down:

  “Hypiro! I’m going to stop her!”

  “What? You can’t do it alone! We have to—”

  “If I don’t come back, it’s up to you and Gulph!”

  “Tarlan! Don’t . . .”

  But she was already far behind him.

  Theeta made straight for the castle. Hunching low, Tarlan bared his teeth against the blast of the wind. Below them, hundreds of sand-warriors were appearing out of the ground. Still more were pouring over the golden bridges that spanned the new moat.

  “That wasn’t there before,” Tarlan remarked as Theeta sped over the sand-filled trench.

  “Woman giant,” Theeta cawed. She turned sharply toward a spindly tower projecting from the eastern battlements. Standing on a balcony near the top of the tower was a huge female form clad in some kind of skintight armor. She was bald and carried a shield slung over her back. Both her hands were clamped on something long and sharp, which she was swinging around like a quarterstaff.

  “It’s her!” cried Tarlan. “And that must be the Sandspear!”

  As Theeta arrowed toward the tower, the eyes of the Witch-Empress found them. She made a vicious swipe with the Sandspear, and the sand in the moat exploded into life. Hundreds of golden arrows shot skyward. As they crossed Theeta’s path, they grew wings. Suddenly Tarlan was surrounded by flapping, shrieking birds.

  Sand-eagles!

  Reacting instantly, Theeta rolled onto her back. Tarlan felt his legs flying free. Burying his fingers in the thorrod’s feathers, he clung on, only dimly aware of the thrashing motion Theeta’s claws were making as they tore through the enemy flock. Sand blew past him, stinging his eyes and filling up his mouth. He spat it out, horrified by th
e thought of what Hypiro’s enchanted sand might do if it got inside him.

  Completing her roll, Theeta resumed her plunge toward the tower. The flock of sand-eagles had been reduced to a cloud of golden powder. In the light of the sunset it seemed to glow from within. As Theeta flew through it, the sand knitted itself together, becoming not hundreds of birds but one.

  A sand-thorrod.

  It was three times the size of Theeta. Its wings were wider than a warship’s sails. When it opened its hooked beak, the cavern of its throat looked big enough to swallow Tarlan whole.

  “Kitheen come!” screamed Theeta.

  Her wings pumped the air, propelling her toward the titanic sand-thorrod. Tarlan had no idea if the other thorrods were close enough to hear.

  It’s too big! he thought, holding tight and drawing his sword. Hypiro is too powerful!

  The sand-thorrod filled the sky. Its enormous wings were barbed along their whole length with claws. As Theeta powered toward it, the monstrous bird brought up its talons. Each one was as long as Tarlan was tall. Despite being made of sand, they looked ice-sharp.

  At the last moment Theeta slipped sideways. Lashing out her claws, she drew six parallel gashes across the exposed breast of the sand-thorrod. At the same time, Tarlan thrust his blade into its throat. An exultant cry rose up inside him, but evaporated into nothing when he saw streams of sand close easily over the wounds. By the time Theeta circled round again, all signs of injury had vanished.

  “We’ll never get past it!”

  Theeta began another attack. “Kitheen come!”

  As she screamed out her companion’s name, Theeta swooped in and raked her claws once more across the breast of the sand-thorrod. As she did so, another set of claws erupted through the beast’s throat. Kitheen’s claws.

  “Kitheen come!” Theeta repeated triumphantly.

  Instead of veering away, she dived straight into the body of the sand-thorrod. Meanwhile, Kitheen was a blur. His black breast flashed in and out of Tarlan’s vision as he looped over and around Theeta’s speeding form, slicing in all directions with beak and claw as if he were trying to tear open the sky itself. Within a couple of breaths, the sand-thorrod had completely disintegrated.

  “Tower close!”

  The balcony rushed toward them. Tarlan sheathed his sword and made ready to jump. His eyes and nose were clogged with sand. The wind tore at his cloak, finally ripping it free from where it had been tied to his armor. An air current sucked the cloak away, a ragged black pennant vanishing into the sunset.

  “Theeta blind!”

  Tarlan tried to wipe the sand from her face. But it was too late. They hit the tower and he was thrown into the air. Theeta’s body lurched beneath him, then spun over his head, her huge wings flailing out of control before slamming into the side of the tower still in the light of the setting sun. For an instant Tarlan was weightless, and then his body crashed down onto a gritty surface, hit some kind of wall, and stopped.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  The sounds grew louder, relentless in their ceaseless rhythm.

  Someone walking toward me!

  Dazed and gasping for breath, Tarlan clawed sand from his eyes. The red of the sunset poured in, almost blinding him. He peered through his tears, saw that he was lying on some kind of platform of sand.

  The balcony!

  A shadow fell over him. The footsteps stopped. His head clearing, Tarlan looked up to see the gargantuan figure of the Witch-Empress Hypiro looming over him. She was holding the Sandspear over her head. Its tip was pointing straight at Tarlan’s chest.

  A golden bird’s wing suddenly rose up between them. For a moment, Tarlan was confused. Had the Witch-Empress conjured another sand-thorrod? Then he saw the sheen on the feathers, the way they reflected the sunset.

  Theeta!

  Tarlan scrambled to his feet, but his relief was short-lived as Theeta’s protective wing was dashed aside by a single blow from the Sandspear. His thorrod friend, clearly still recovering from her crash landing, shrieked in pain.

  Tarlan reached for his sword, only to discover that it was gone.

  Hypiro was walking slowly toward him. Tarlan backed away. Behind the Witch-Empress, Theeta was trying desperately to clamber up onto the balcony parapet. Her right wing moved stiffly, and it was clear to Tarlan she was hurting.

  “You resemble the other one,” said Hypiro silkily. “A brother of this so-called prophecy, perhaps? Once Hypiro has killed you, only two will remain.”

  “That’s two more than you can handle!” Tarlan retorted.

  “Hypiro thinks not.”

  Kitheen flew out from behind the tower’s roof. He dived at the Witch-Empress’s head, forcing her to duck. As the black-breasted thorrod swept past Tarlan, a voice rang out:

  “Tarlan! You have done all you can! Leave her to me! Now jump!”

  Tarlan whirled and found himself staring straight into the face of Melchior, standing on Nasheen’s back and brandishing his gnarled wooden staff in the same way the Witch-Empress Hypiro was holding the Sandspear.

  “Melchior! I don’t—”

  “Jump, I tell you!”

  The Witch-Empress struck at Tarlan’s legs with the Sandspear. Tarlan sprang up onto the parapet. He looked around for Theeta, but his thorrod friend had gone.

  At least one of us managed to get clear.

  “Jump, Tarlan!”

  Hypiro was preparing to strike at him again. There was nowhere to go. If he jumped, he would fall straight down into the moat and its hungry ocean of sand.

  “Melchior—I can’t . . .”

  Melchior’s voice softened, speaking clear and close, as if the wizard were whispering directly into Tarlan’s ear.

  “Trust me, Tarlan. Trust Theeta. Now JUMP!”

  Tarlan jumped. The Sandspear sliced through the air in the very place where he’d been standing. He tumbled as he fell. Then, for the second time, all his breath was knocked out of him as he landed in a mass of golden feathers.

  “Theeta catch!” cried the thorrod in triumph.

  “Yes, Theeta did,” Tarlan panted, clutching gratefully at her feathers. “Thank you!”

  “Wizard danger!”

  What does she mean? Is Melchior in danger? Or is danger what he’s brought?

  “Up, Theeta! Up! Now!”

  Pumping her wings hard despite her injuries, Theeta climbed back up toward the tower. There they found Melchior and Hypiro facing each other—the Witch-Empress poised on the parapet, the wizard balanced on the back of the hovering Nasheen. Both staff and Sandspear were outstretched, tied together by a writhing river of sand. Hypiro’s flexible armor rippled as her muscles bulged beneath it. Melchior’s wrinkled face was contorted in agony.

  “Melchior!” Tarlan yelled.

  The wizard’s mouth was moving. Clearly he was chanting some kind of spell. Tarlan could feel something pulsing through the air—the wizard’s magic?

  With each pulse, the sand-colored bricks from which the tower was built seemed to tremble. Then, gradually, the bricks began to fold into each other, each one absorbing its neighbor.

  Two bricks become one. Four bricks become one. Eight bricks become one.

  Suddenly Tarlan knew what Melchior was trying to do.

  “He’s collapsing the castle! Without the castle, she’s got nowhere to defend! Nowhere to hide!”

  By now Melchior’s magic of numbers was familiar to Tarlan. But this was the first time he’d seen someone resisting it. As the tower shrank around her, Hypiro conjured more sand out of the moat and into the end of the Sandspear. Soon both she and Melchior were surrounded by an ever-growing whirlwind of sand.

  “Bad sky!” screamed Theeta, retreating before the spinning sandstorm could suck them in.

  “Melchior!” Tarlan shouted again.

  By now he could barely see the wizard, so thick had the swirling cloud of sand become. It became increasingly hard for Theeta to remain airborne, and she squawked in pain with each beat of her
injured wing.

  “Down, Theeta!” said Tarlan reluctantly. “There’s nothing more we can do. And it isn’t safe to stay.”

  Like a falling leaf, Theeta fluttered down to a clumsy landing on the field beside the moat. After checking she was all right, Tarlan slipped from her back and stared up at the castle.

  Castle Vicerin was shrinking. The collapse was slow and strangely orderly, as each row of bricks folded into the next, and the next, and the next. Towers contracted. Roofs curled up like forgotten flowers. Little by little, the ancient fortress in which Tarlan had once been held prisoner, where Elodie had grown up not knowing her brothers even existed, was being counted out of existence.

  The ground thundered with the sound of approaching horses. A moment later, Tarlan was looking into the faces of his brother and sister. Both Gulph and Elodie looked blood-spattered and exhausted.

  “We’ve figured out how to kill the sand-warriors!” said Gulph. “We’re forcing them into the swamp! Tarlan, I think we’re turning the tide!”

  “Is that Melchior up there?” said Elodie. “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s counting her away!” said Tarlan. “He’s counting it all away!”

  Now the walls and sloping ramparts were down to head height. Where once Castle Vicerin had stood, now the vast bowl of the sky was visible. The sun appeared, angry and red on the horizon. Only a single tower remained standing—a slender needle surrounded by a spinning gyre of sand.

  The last few bricks condensed into a single block of stone, which dissolved to nothing.

  The sandstorm spun itself into a blur.

  The tower exploded.

  The blast knocked Tarlan off his feet. Slowly he picked himself up and tottered toward the place where the tower—and the castle—had once stood.

  “Gone,” said Elodie in dazed wonder. She was coated in sand from head to toe. “My old home . . . it’s gone!”

  Gulph was staggering to his feet. He too was covered in sand. “Where’s Melchior?”