The Missing Kin

by Michael Pryor

  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

  About the Author

  The

  Chronicles of

  Krangor

  BOOK TWO

  THE MISSING KIN

  MICHAEL PRYOR

  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 2: The Missing Kin

  ePub ISBN 9781864714876

  Kindle ISBN 9781864716740

  Original Print Edition

  Random House Australia Pty Ltd

  Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney, NSW 2060

  www.randomhouse.com.au

  Sydney New York Toronto

  London Auckland Johannesburg

  First published by Random House Australia in 2008

  Copyright © Michael Pryor 2008

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  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 missing kin.

  For primary school aged children.

  ISBN: 9781741661750

  1. Quests (Expeditions) – Juvenile fiction. I. Title. (Series: Pryor, Michael. Chronicles of Krangor; bk. 2).

  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 Griffin Press, South Australia

  For Robert, Bonnie

  and Alexander Pryor

  One

  The echoing corridors of the Lost Castle held many surprises. Adalon knew that most were dangerous, some deadly – but the urge to explore overwhelmed such considerations.

  In the month since Adalon and his friends had returned to the Lost Castle after saving the villagers of Sleeto, he'd stalked the mysterious halls and chambers, hunting for some clue as to the fate of the long-gone A'ak. Whenever he could find the time, he scanned the passageways and frowned at empty room after empty room, trying to make sense of the castle's enigmatic former inhabitants. Where had the A'ak gone? Why had they disappeared? What sort of saur were they?

  Seek to understand, his father had always advised, lest the unknown become your enemy. Adalon knew they could not afford another enemy, not with the power of Queen Tayesha looming against them, so he spent precious sleep time gnawing at the mystery of the A'ak.

  Despite the safety the Lost Castle had provided, Adalon felt uneasy about the A'ak, unsettled deep inside himself. At times, he found the place shuddersome, as if the stones had seen unspeakable deeds and were now whispering of them in patient, weary voices.

  On this day, he'd almost overlooked the opening to the narrow spiral staircase, concealed as it was by ornamental carving, which was common in this part of the castle. It was only when he happened to swing his lantern that the shadows disappeared enough for him to see the stairs leading downwards.

  He descended, opened a solid wooden door at the bottom of the stairs, and entered a small, square room. The walls were rough stone, most unlike the smoothly dressed masonry he'd become accustomed to in the rest of the castle. The blocks were irregular, with uneven faces, and looked hastily put together. Three empty niches at shoulder height were set into each wall.

  A stone door stood before him. A pile of rocks was heaped next to it, nearly reaching the ceiling. It was as if lazy workers had thrown them aside before slouching off.

  A soft click came from behind him. Adalon whirled in time to see that the door – which he was sure he'd left open – was now shut. He tried to open it, but it wouldn't move. He bared his teeth, alert, eyes darting. He turned and sidled along until he had his back to a wall. He placed the lantern in one of the niches and held his clawed hands on guard, ready. Unarmed though he was, his thumb-claws were sharp and deadly. He cursed himself for exploring alone.

  His friend Simangee had tired of exploration. She had decided to spend more time high in one of the towers, in the chamber of power, investigating the many magic potions in the room. Targesh was busy helping the villagers settle into their new home.

  Adalon was trapped. He hissed. His heart began to race, setting his Clawed One blood afire. He swallowed and, with difficulty, he composed himself. When his heartbeat slowed, he tried to open the door again. His tail twitched with frustration when he found it as solid as the stone walls that surrounded it.

  He eyed the door opposite. It was a great slab of stone banded with metal. He took a careful step toward it, hoping it wouldn't be locked.

  Next to the door, the pile of stones moved. Adalon wrinkled his brow, wondering if he hadn't disturbed it. Then a pebble tumbled, bouncing off the larger rocks until it reached the floor, where it skittered along before coming to rest in front of him.

  This time, he was certain he hadn't disturbed it.

  The pile shivered. Near the base of the pile, larger stones ground together and shifted. Adalon's mouth was dry. It was as if something was trying to get out from under the heap. He snapped his claws together and raised himself on his toes.

  His chest tightened, and then he remembered a lesson from the Way of the Claw: Do not run the race before it begins. He sought for stillness inside and tried to steady himself.

  Adalon jumped backward as the entire top half of the rock pile lurched, then fell forward. But he was puzzled when nothing appeared from under the rocks. Cautiously, he took a step toward them.

  With a grating sound that set Adalon's teeth on edge, the stones edged together, dragged together by an unseen force. The movement seemed random at first, with stones jostling and scraping against each other until, finally, they heaved themselves up in a single mass.

  Numbly, Adalon saw that the rocks had assembled themselves into the crude figure of a giant saur. It had two arms, two legs, a thick tail and a featureless, rough head, which scraped the ceiling.

  Adalon's tail twitched as he tried to keep fear at arm's length. Magic, he thought. How I loathe magic.

  The stone creature stood still for a moment, then its head swayed, as if it were tasting the air. With a jerky step, it came toward him, the floor shaking beneath its slab-like foot. Adalon moved left, keeping his back
to the wall. The creature took another ponderous step. It paused and the stones that made up its body ground together as it settled. Then it swung a massive arm.

  Without hesitating, Adalon threw himself forward, underneath the deadly blow. He rolled and came to his feet in time to twist away from a backswing that would have torn off his head. He feinted left, then darted right. A rocky fist crashed into the wall, and splinters of stone lanced through the air. One sliced Adalon's cheek. Blood streamed down and he realised he'd barely missed being blinded.

  He lunged for the monster, then reeled back as it slapped at him with its tail. Desperately, he sought for its vulnerable spots. The stones scraped against each other, nothing presenting itself – no eyes, no soft belly, nothing. He danced left and right, not standing still, furiously searching for a plan. He felt the wall behind him, and he pushed off, spinning to his left. Perhaps if he could lure it to one side, he could reach the door it had been guarding.

  Adalon sprang toward the monster, then he slipped to his right. It tried to grapple, clutching at him with both arms, but Adalon squirmed away with Clawed One speed. He left some skin behind, but the way was now clear to the door.

  He raced for it, grinning and pleased with himself, but at that instant the monster swung its tail again. Adalon tried to stop and duck at the same time, but his feet skidded out from under him. The massive tail clipped his forehead. His head rang like a bell and it felt as if his bones turned to liquid. He slid to the floor and echoes ran around inside his head.

  He lay there, dazed. He knew he should be climbing to his feet, but his thoughts were wrapped in fog.

  Adalon looked up to see the monster dragging itself around to face him. Dizzy, his head swimming, Adalon could see his death shambling toward him.

  For a moment, he despaired. His vow would remain unfulfilled. His father's death would be unavenged, Queen Tayesha would bring war and ruin to the seven kingdoms of Krangor and General Wargrach would be triumphant.

  He shook his head. It hurt, but it cleared a little. He was determined not to die lying down. He struggled to his knees, then used his tail to help him to his feet to meet his foe.

  At that moment the door to the stairwell splintered and flew apart. A torrent of water burst into the room with a roar that shook the walls.

  Adalon was driven backwards by the flood, spluttering and gasping. Amazed, he saw Simangee leap into the room. She held a glowing potion bottle in one upraised hand and a lantern in the other. 'Adalon!' she cried. 'Get back!'

  Simangee, waist deep in water, threw the potion at the monster. The vial shattered in a ball of light. Adalon shielded his eyes and when he looked again, the creature was melting. Slowly at first, then more rapidly, like an ice statue thrust into the midday sun. In a few scant seconds it had lost its shape, becoming a grey mound, which then slumped and was absorbed by the water.

  Adalon stood, blinking and rubbing his head. Simangee waded to his side. 'Adalon,' she said, 'when are you going to learn not to go anywhere dangerous without me?'

  Two

  Adalon scooped up some water to wash the blood from his cheek.

  'Are you all right?'

  Adalon realised that Simangee had just repeated herself. 'My tunic is sodden,' he said. 'I have a cut on my cheek and a few grazes. I should count myself lucky, I suppose.'

  Simangee snorted. 'Or you could simply say "Thank you".'

  Adalon smiled. Simangee was one of his oldest friends, a Crested One he'd grown up with. Her lighthearted but thoughtful manner made her a perfect balance for the serious, stolid Targesh, Adalon's Horned One friend. 'I am grateful, you know. If you hadn't come along . . .'

  Simangee sighed. 'Is nowhere safe? I thought this place was a haven for us.'

  Adalon nodded. 'It is, but we mustn't forget that it once belonged to the A'ak.'

  'That thing, that stone monster. Do you think it was one of their leftovers?'

  'You'd know more about magic than I would, Sim. But "leftover"? I don't know.' Adalon wiped his hands. 'Speaking of magic, that was an impressive potion you used. From the chamber of power?'

  Simangee sighed. 'There are hundreds of bottles in that room, Adalon. I've been testing and cataloguing them for weeks, but it's going to take forever.'

  'I know, but we're going to need that magic,' he replied. 'How did you know I was in trouble?'

  'I'd been working in the chamber for some time when I glanced at the mirrors.'

  Adalon's tail twitched uneasily. The chamber of power contained rack upon rack of potion bottles in a variety of materials, shapes and colours. It was the mirrors, however, that drew the eye. Twelve plain silver frames held looking glasses that did not reflect the room but instead had scenes flitting across them dizzily, places familiar and exotic – and some that Simangee swore were not in Krangor at all.

  'One of the mirrors showed you fighting a monster made of stone,' Simangee went on. 'I wouldn't have known where to find you but the mirror changed its view. It was as if I were watching through the eyes of a bird swooping through the corridors of this place, showing me the way.' She spread her hands wide. 'I grabbed some potions and here I am.'

  'And I'm glad you came.'

  Simangee huffed a musical burble. 'Well, we'd better find out what the monster was guarding.'

  Before Adalon could stop her, Simangee splashed to the inner door, holding her lantern high. He shrugged and followed her with a rueful smile. Sometimes he thought that Simangee's curiosity would lead them to disaster.

  She pushed, and despite its massive appearance, the stone and metal portal swung without a sound.

  Adalon followed close behind, alert. Once over the threshold, he stopped, open-mouthed at what they'd found.

  At first, he thought it was a cave, but as he gazed around he saw tool marks on the crude pillars and walls. This was the work of saur.

  Adalon ran his hand along the rough stone and peered through the shadows at the ceiling, which soared high above their heads. Crystals caught the light and glittered back at him in a multitude of colours, small stars in a rocky heaven. It wasn't a large space, but Adalon was as moved as he had been in the vast Throne Hall in Queen Tayesha's palace in Challish. He wrinkled his snout. The air smelled stale, old in a way that reminded him of the deepest chamber in his ancestral home of High Battilon. That chamber rested on bedrock, the bones of the land. This place was ancient, clawed from the earth in times undreamed of, hewn from the bones of Krangor itself. Adalon was humbled by the age and rough splendour of the place.

  A special bond existed between the saur and the land. The many saur races respected the land, tilling its soils, mining its hills, always conscious of the debt they owed it. The rulers of the saur were granted extraordinary powers by the land in return for becoming its stewards. Ordinary saur respected the land and used its gifts as wisely as they could.

  After the murder of his father, Adalon had sought the depths of High Battilon, his castle home. There, he had made a vow. Placing his hands on the bare rock, he had sworn vengeance against Queen Tayesha, promising to stop her mad plan for immortality by becoming ruler of all the seven kingdoms of Krangor.

  Standing in this chamber in the Lost Castle, Adalon was reminded of his vow. His promise had been witnessed by the land and in its patient way it was reminding him of it. He once again felt the presence of Krangor, vast and enduring. He knew the power in this old, old place – a power that was aware of him, too. He knew that this was power above and beyond magic – older and more primitive, serene and remote.

  Simangee turned. 'Targesh!'

  The massive Horned One stood in the open doorway. He grunted and looked around, his eyes widening. 'What is this place?'

  'It feels like the Foundation Room at High Battilon,' Adalon said.

  'It's the heart of the Lost Castle,' Simangee said in a low voice. She reached out to the rough stone of the wall. Her face was solemn, respectful. 'We can touch the bones of the land here.'

  Adalon nodded, but
he wondered about the bond between the A'ak and the land. If the old stories were true, it was not a happy one. 'They didn't want us here,' he said softly.

  'What?' Simangee said.

  'The A'ak. That stone creature of theirs. It didn't want anyone entering this place.'

  'Stone creature?' Targesh asked.

  Adalon told his Horned One friend about the magical guardian. As he did, the narrowness of his escape came to him again, and he felt a chill.

  Targesh frowned. 'Danger within, danger without.'

  'Danger without?' Simangee said. 'Do you have news, Targesh?'

  'The Queen's Army. It's moving again.'

  Three

  Wargrach had once been a general. If his plans went well, he would be a general again. If his plans went very well, he'd be much more than that.

  It had been four weeks since Wargrach had fled the disaster at Sleeto and gone straight to High Battilon, a refuge he'd prepared for such a possibility by putting a weakling in charge. This snivelling Clawed One had been too scared to rebel in Wargrach's absence. 'Moralon the Coward' he was called behind his back, too frightened to avenge the death of his brother. Wargrach had always found terror to be a useful tool, and it had proved so here.

  Once Wargrach had settled at High Battilon, he'd sent messages out to saur he knew would be willing to join him. Of course, that meant deserting Queen Tayesha's Army, but Wargrach knew such deserters would be loyal to him. He would leave them no choice.

  The arrival of these outlaws left the saur of High Battilon and in the neighbouring village of Lod in no doubt that dark days had come.

  While his followers rampaged, Wargrach had grown tired of Moralon's gloomy presence and thrown him into a dungeon. After that, he simply announced that High Battilon had a new lord.

  He limped down the stairs from the armoury to the courtyard, and at the bottom he paused, wincing. His joints ached and for a moment he thought of stretching out on one of the beds in the great bedchamber. He snorted and ignored the discomfort. He pushed open the door and emerged into the thin mountain sunshine, letting it warm his bones as he watched some of his soldiers practise.