A Kingdom Rises

by J. D. Rinehart

  Where the sandstorm had been, nothing now remained. Tarlan blinked into the glare of the sunset.

  “There he is!” he shouted, pointing at a winged shape just emerging from a last lingering patch of airborne sand. “Nasheen! Down here!”

  He ran to meet the descending thorrod. Gulph and Elodie were close behind him. As soon as Nasheen landed, Tarlan leaped onto her back and helped Melchior down into the arms of his brother and sister. Like them, the wizard wore a coat of sand; it had buried itself in his wrinkled skin, making him look ten thousand years old.

  The instant his feet touched the ground, Melchior grunted and stumbled, barely catching himself with his staff. He brushed the sand from his face, revealing a complexion so pale it was almost transparent. He looked impossibly ancient, impossibly frail.

  “Is . . . she . . . gone?” the wizard asked. His voice was a mere ghost of what it had once been. Hearing its weakness sent a shiver down Tarlan’s spine.

  “Yes,” he replied. “At least, I think so.”

  Melchior nodded.

  “That . . . is . . . well.”

  “What about you, Melchior?” said Elodie. “Are you . . .”

  To Tarlan’s dismay, the wizard was shaking his head.

  “The magic I used . . . to destroy her powers . . . it was . . . unnatural.”

  “Unnatural?” said Gulph.

  “Yes. I have used . . . such magic . . . before.”

  “Yes, Melchior,” came Kalia’s voice. “When you saved my life.”

  Tarlan, Elodie, and Gulph turned to see their mother climbing down from her horse. She ran lightly over the sand-clogged grass to where they were standing.

  “Forbidden magic.” Melchior stroked Kalia’s burned face with a trembling hand. “There is always . . . a price.”

  Kalia fumbled in her robe and brought out a small potion bottle. There were tears in her eyes.

  “Prices can be paid,” she said. “I have magic too.”

  She was about to pull the stopper from the bottle when Melchior’s hands closed over hers.

  “I am beyond . . . even your potions . . . Kalia.”

  The wizard’s head sagged. His breath caught in his throat.

  “There must be something we can do,” said Tarlan. “If Hypiro is dead, surely we can . . .”

  Something long and golden slammed suddenly into the trampled grass directly between Tarlan and Melchior. Where it struck, tiny manlike figures made of sand seemed to spring briefly into life before sinking back into the ground again.

  The Sandspear! Where did that come from?

  Shocked, heart hammering against his ribs, Tarlan made a grab for it. The Sandspear flew backward before he could make contact, landing neatly in the hand of the tall, broad-shouldered woman who was striding over the battlefield toward them.

  “Hypiro!” Tarlan cried. “You’re supposed to be dead!”

  “Evidently Hypiro is alive,” the Witch-Empress replied.

  As she spoke, Hypiro whirled the Sandspear around her hairless head, clearly preparing to throw it again.

  Tarlan reached for his sword and discovered all over again that he’d lost it.

  “Here!” Kalia seized a large broadsword from where it was strapped to the saddle of her horse and tossed it to him. “Take this!”

  Tarlan caught the broadsword by the hilt. As he held it up, Elodie and Gulph came to his side. Kalia joined them. All three had their own swords raised.

  “Three of the prophecy and one of the sand,” said Hypiro, eyeing Kalia intently. “The witch at least will know the power of the Sandspear to repel all magic, even that of the old world.”

  She threw the Sandspear again. It landed quivering beside Tarlan’s foot. The ground quaked. Sand spilled upward, clutched briefly at his ankles, then subsided. Again the Sandspear hurled itself back into Hypiro’s waiting fingers.

  Now she was only ten strides away.

  “Her powers are coming back,” Kalia warned. “The next time she throws it—”

  Before she could finish, the Sandspear was lancing through the air, aimed straight at Tarlan’s throat.

  Someone darted in front of him.

  “No!” he yelled, horrified at the idea that one of his siblings—or his mother—had sacrificed themselves for him.

  It wasn’t them.

  It was Melchior.

  The Sandspear struck the wizard in the shoulder, knocking him to the ground. As he fell, Hypiro sprinted straight at Tarlan, dark lips peeled back from white teeth, white armor ablaze in the light of the bloodred sun. Her hand was outstretched, beckoning. But the Sandspear, lodged in Melchior’s shoulder, wouldn’t obey her command.

  “That’s the trouble with sand,” said Tarlan, bringing up the broadsword. “It just slips through your fingers.”

  He brought the huge blade around. Its keen edge struck the neck of the Witch-Empress Hypiro, cutting her head clean off her body with a single stroke. The body ran on clumsily for three more steps before crumpling to the ground. The head rolled into the moat, and was gone.

  Tarlan dropped the sword. Hands shaking, he turned to see Kalia tugging the Sandspear out of Melchior’s shoulder. When she’d freed it, she tossed it aside, her face twisted with disgust.

  “Oh, Melchior,” she said. “I’m so sorry. After all we have been through, that I should have lived only to see you die.”

  “Die?” The word pierced Tarlan like an arrow. He ran to Melchior’s side and dropped to his knees. “What do you mean? He can’t die. It’s just his shoulder. Look—it’s hardly bleeding.”

  “Death comes . . . to us all,” Melchior gasped.

  “But . . . but you’re a wizard. You can survive anything.”

  “Remember . . . the Isle of Stars, Tarlan.”

  “I do remember. That’s what I’m talking about! The Isle of Stars—that’s where you went under the water and got your powers back. Your magic! Your immortality! Everything!”

  The wizard was shaking his head. “Not . . . everything.”

  The stones in the walls. When they were all lit up, that meant his powers were restored.

  Tarlan’s stomach lurched.

  “There was one stone that didn’t light up.” The words were like splinters in his throat.

  “One stone,” Melchior agreed. “The Stone of Immortality.”

  “No! No!” Tarlan felt tears filling his eyes. He felt Elodie’s hand on his left shoulder, Gulph’s on his right. He felt sick. “I woke you too soon! I’m to blame!”

  Now Melchior’s hand was there too, gripping his.

  “You did nothing wrong, Tarlan. Everything happens . . . for a reason.”

  The wizard coughed. Blood sprayed from his mouth, staining the white of his beard. His eyes clouded, then cleared.

  “Gulph,” he said, his voice thin but a little stronger. “Bring out the crown.”

  The weight of Gulph’s hand left Tarlan’s shoulder. Tarlan continued to stare into Melchior’s watery eyes. Three points of light were reflected in each one. The prophecy stars.

  Don’t die, Melchior. Please don’t die.

  Something else was moving inside the wizard’s eyes. Another reflection.

  Something gold.

  Now Gulph was kneeling beside Tarlan, handing something over to the wizard.

  The crown of Toronia!

  Tarlan’s breath caught in his throat as he saw it for the first time.

  The crown was very beautiful, smoothly curved and intricately etched with runes.

  “My . . . staff,” Melchior whispered.

  Elodie picked up the ancient wooden stick, which the wizard had dropped when the Sandspear had impaled him. Then she too sank to her knees.

  Melchior took the staff from her in one shaking hand, and the crown from Gulph in the other. He touched them together.

  “A simple spell . . . to end with,” he said. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”

  He dropped the staff and handed the crown back to Gulph.

 
; Tarlan gasped.

  Even though Gulph had taken the crown, a second crown remained in Melchior’s hand. It was identical to the first. The wizard gave it to Elodie.

  They all stared in wonder.

  Melchior was holding a third crown.

  He held it out to Tarlan. Tarlan took it. It was very heavy. The metal was cold against his skin.

  The wizard spread his palms. “That . . . is all . . . I have . . . ,” he said. Then his head sank back onto the grass, and his eyes closed.

  Melchior was dead.

  Dropping the crown, Tarlan buried his face in his hands and began to weep.

  CHAPTER 20

  Gulph gaped at Melchior’s body in disbelief. He’d known the wizard for such a short time. How could he be gone? It wasn’t fair.

  Seeming to work on their own, his hands carefully stowed the golden crown back into his pack.

  Not just one crown now. One of three.

  Beside him, Tarlan was still sobbing into his hands. He and Melchior had been through so much together.

  He must be heartbroken.

  It hurt Gulph’s heart also, to see his brother so upset.

  “Tarlan,” he said, gently taking his brother’s arm. “I think we should—”

  A huge tremble threw him to the ground. Kalia tumbled past him, her arms flailing wildly as the ground heaved beneath her. Gulph rolled instinctively, regaining his feet while Tarlan and Elodie were still sprawled in a tangle of limbs. A rumbling filled the air. Sand blew past in a storm. Gulph couldn’t see, could barely hear.

  “Get up!” he yelled, yanking his siblings to their feet.

  Abruptly the air cleared. The howling wind reversed direction, sucking Kalia and the triplets toward the spot where Melchior lay. Gulph dug in his heels and held on to his family for dear life.

  A single beam of yellow light erupted from Melchior’s body. Gulph watched in awe as it punched its way skyward. It was aimed directly at the prophecy stars. He could feel its heat baking his face. At the same time it felt ice-cold.

  The light split in two, then in two again. The individual beams continued to separate until there were thousands of intertwining strands all shooting upward in a spinning, screaming gale.

  The ground continued to shake.

  “This is what happens when a wizard dies!” Gulph shouted, remembering the awful moment when Limmoni had been executed in Idilliam.

  Her magic went into Brutan’s corpse and rose him from the dead.

  “Melchior’s magic is leaving the world,” cried Kalia. “I fear this means he must have been the last.”

  “The last?” Elodie shouted.

  “She means the last wizard,” Gulph replied with sudden understanding.

  The ground split apart right at Gulph’s feet. Rocks burst forth spraying black soil. Gulph grabbed Elodie’s hand and together they ran, vaulting over the large cracks that were opening up beneath them.

  “Where’s Tarlan?” Elodie cried as they cleared yet another gaping chasm.

  Gulph shot a glance back over his shoulder just in time to see a black-cloaked figure snatch up the Sandspear from where it lay near Melchior’s body and vanish into the turbulent air.

  “Tarlan’s all right! He’s got the Sandspear! Where’s Mother?”

  “I saw her running the other way,” Elodie replied. “I think she’s safe.”

  As they continued to flee the earthquake, an alarming thought came to Gulph.

  We’re heading straight back into the battle!

  But when they finally reached stable ground, he saw that everyone still on the battlefield was scattering too. Tarlan’s pack of animals was fleeing back into the woods, yipping and screeching in panic, while The Hammer and Captain Ariston were directing the Army of Survivors out of danger in a remarkably orderly fashion. Elodie’s ghosts seemed to have vanished altogether, while the Galadronians . . .

  They’re running away!

  And so they were. Everywhere Gulph looked, he saw a rainbow of colorful cloaks in full retreat. Even over the rumble of the earthquake he could hear their shouts and screams:

  “She’s dead! Hypiro is dead!”

  “Toronia is cursed!”

  As for the sand-warriors . . .

  With Hypiro dead, they must have just disintegrated.

  Elodie tugged at his hand. “Gulph—slow down! We’re safe!”

  He slowed to a trot, then stopped altogether. Chest heaving, he stared back across the battlefield. The land was crisscrossed with tremendous cracks all centered on a single spot: the place where Melchior had fallen. A single figure knelt there, head bowed. Nearby, a woman in a gray robe was picking herself up.

  “Tarlan and Mother!” breathed Elodie. “They’re all right!”

  She started forward, but Gulph held her back. “Give them a moment.”

  The air rippled and Elodie’s ghost army appeared with Lady Darrand leading the way.

  “The enemy is vanquished,” Lady Darrand announced, her pale face seeming to glow. “What are your orders, my queen?”

  Elodie looked down at the golden crown in her hand. She’d been clutching it the whole time they’d been fleeing the earthquake. Now it seemed she was seeing it for the first time.

  “Follow them,” she said firmly. “Make sure they reach their ships. Make sure they leave Toronia.”

  “Would you have me give them a message to take to their homeland?”

  Gulph saw a smile at the corner of Lady Darrand’s mouth.

  “Yes,” Elodie replied. “Tell them never to return.”

  Leaving Elodie to finish sending her ghost army on their way, Gulph crossed the battlefield to where his troops were resting. He moved among them, congratulating those who were still standing, assuring the tired and injured that help was on its way. Halfway round he came across Cedric and Sylva tending to the wounded.

  “Thank you,” he told them. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  Whenever he came across someone who was crying—and there were many of these—he told them how sorry he was for their loss.

  Toward the end of Gulph’s circuit, The Hammer caught up with him and draped one enormous arm around his shoulders.

  “Victory is ours!” the big man boomed. “You have won the battle, King Gulph! You have won the day!”

  “We have won the field,” Gulph said. “But not the war.”

  The Hammer frowned. “How so?”

  “Lord Vicerin is still at large. This won’t be over until he’s been found, and made to answer for his crimes.”

  The Hammer looked uncertainly at the exhausted men and women sprawled before them. “Your soldiers are loyal, to be sure. But after such a fight . . .”

  Gulph rubbed his eyes. He felt even more tired than when he’d climbed the chasm out of Celestis. His head ached. His whole body ached.

  Suddenly he wished Captain Ossilius were here to guide him.

  “I await your orders, Your Highness,” said The Hammer.

  And Gulph discovered that he knew what to do after all.

  “You’re right. Our soldiers have done enough for today. Take them back to Castle Darrand. Give them food. Tend their wounds. Let them rest.” He hesitated, wondering what Ossilius would say. Then he had it. “We’ll do this one step at a time.”

  Leaving The Hammer and Captain Ariston to rouse the Army of Survivors, Gulph picked his way back through the maze of cracks to where Tarlan was kneeling. Elodie was already there. As Gulph arrived, she was bending down to pluck something from the ground. Curious, Gulph leaned in for a better look.

  Where Melchior had lain, a small patch of wild yellow flowers had sprung up. They glowed in the sunset light. Elodie tucked the single bloom she’d picked into her hair. They remained there in silence for a while, the three of them together, as the sun sank slowly below the western horizon.

  At last Tarlan stood. Tears had cut through the dirt on his face. Gulph stared at him, feeling suddenly uneasy.

  Something’s wrong here. />
  Gulph shook off the thought. “You can’t blame yourself, Tarlan,” he said. “Melchior told us this was meant to be.”

  “Gulph’s right.” Elodie put her hand on Tarlan’s arm. Then her face dropped. “Where’s Mother?”

  Tarlan looked around. “I don’t know. I saw her here before, but . . .”

  His heart sinking, Gulph scanned the battlefield. Kalia was nowhere to be seen.

  Tarlan’s grief seemed to shift as this new worry made him spring into action.

  “Theeta!” he yelled. “Nasheen! Kitheen!”

  Within a few moments the three thorrods were there. Tarlan gave them instructions, and the gigantic birds flew off in separate directions, skimming low over the torn-up battlefield in search of Kalia.

  Gulph’s eyes returned to his brother.

  Something’s wrong.

  “Tarlan! Where’s the Sandspear?”

  “What?” Tarlan looked confused. “How would I know?”

  A figure in a black cloak, snatching it up . . .

  “Where’s your cloak?”

  Tarlan’s hand brushed the shoulder of his breastplate. “I lost it. Somewhere by the castle, I think.”

  “Then who . . . ?”

  A terrible roar echoed across the battlefield. Something enormous lumbered out of the twilight.

  One of the thorrods coming back? Gulph wondered. It’s big enough . . . but it doesn’t sound right.

  The immense creature plodding toward them wasn’t a thorrod but a giant cat with a rust-colored mane. When it shrugged its shoulders, a pair of enormous batlike wings unfurled from its back. Another shrug, and a huge scorpion’s tail reared up over its back. The tail was tipped by a vicious-looking hook dripping clear liquid.

  “It’s a manticore!” Elodie gasped. “I’ve only ever seen them in books. But it’s made of . . .” Her voice faltered.

  The manticore was made of red sand. The same red as the stones from which Castle Vicerin had been built.

  Riding on the winged monster was a tall man wearing a tattered black cloak. Tarlan’s cloak. He was carrying the Sandspear.

  The man was Lord Vicerin.

  “No,” Elodie moaned. “No, no, no!”

  The jaws of the manticore parted to reveal two rows of wicked fangs. Gulph tried to tell himself they were only made of sand.