The Missing Kin

by Michael Pryor

  'Adalon!' Simangee cried, but that only brought her to the creature's attention. It clawed at her. Simangee scrambled backwards.

  'The pillar!' Adalon called. 'Get behind it!'

  Simangee crawled until the solid stone was between her and the creature. It leaned forward and used both hands to try to grab her. She struck with her dagger, but it had no effect.

  Targesh roared. He lowered his head and charged at the creature's arm. It cocked its elbow, then jabbed at him. Targesh was sent flying and crashed against the wall. He picked himself up, dazed and struggling for breath.

  Adalon raced toward the creature from behind, his thumb-claws itching. If he could spring onto its shoulder, perhaps he could slice at something that held it together.

  The creature continued to paw at Simangee. She was thrusting and slashing with her dagger, but only drew sparks instead of blood. Finally, the dagger broke and Simangee let out a cry of disgust.

  His Clawed One blood afire, Adalon surged forward in great bounds, then leaped onto the creature's left arm. It shrugged, as if bothered by an insect, then it batted at him with its other hand. Adalon was ready, but one foot slipped on the creature's water-slick hide. He had enough time to throw up his hands before it hit him.

  Numbly, distantly, while his head rang like a gong, Adalon wondered if this was what being struck by an avalanche felt like. He tumbled over and over, limbs and tail flailing, then he, too, slammed against the wall. For a moment he lay on the floor writhing in pain, but he soon realised the pain was mostly from being winded. He dragged himself up and stood, swaying, trying to order his thoughts.

  A roar split the air. For an awful moment he thought the creature had managed to catch Simangee. Then he realised that the sound came from Targesh.

  His friend was standing to one side of the monster, just beyond its reach. His legs were firmly planted, his arms spread and his head was lowered in the challenge stance. For a Horned One, the challenge stance was the declaration of defiance when all looked lost. If this challenge failed, if the foe refused to retreat, the Great Charge would follow, the last desperate effort to uphold the Way of the Horn.

  Adalon wasn't about to let his friend face this alone. He tottered toward him, determined to stand shoulder to shoulder.

  Then Targesh did something Adalon did not believe possible.

  With a great bellow of anguish, his friend seized his right horn with both hands. Another cry ripped from Targesh's throat, a cry of horror, agony and immense loss, as he twisted and pulled. A loud crack and his horn broke near its base.

  Targesh dropped to one knee, clamping down on the roar that threatened to burst from his throat. Blood streamed from the ruined stump of his horn and ran down his neck shield. He threw back his head and howled, but managed to climb to his feet, cradling the broken horn. He took two ragged steps toward the monster.

  Staggering, Targesh drew back his arm. He paused a moment and, through the mask of blood, Adalon could see the agony on his friend's face. Then Targesh threw the broken horn as if it were a spear.

  As soon as it left his hand, the broken horn burst into flame. It hurtled at the monster like a thunderbolt. With the sound of a thousand cymbals it struck, and the creature shattered.

  Adalon ran toward Targesh, ducking the fragments of rock that were flying through the air. His friend was on his knees, head bent, eyes shut, groaning. He sagged as Adalon took hold of him and it was only the arrival of Simangee that stopped the Horned One from tumbling into the water.

  Adalon blinked in the sudden light that came from where one whole wall had been knocked down by the monster's demise. Targesh lifted his head a little and opened one eye. 'Gone?'

  'Yes,' Adalon whispered. 'But what have you done?'

  'What I had to,' Targesh said and his eyes closed.

  Nine

  With some distaste, Wargrach studied the two saur standing in front of him. One was a Longneck with a hand missing. The other was a Plated One with a hideous scar across his brow. 'I need information,' he said to them. 'What have you found, Varchog?'

  The Long-neck twitched – a horrible jerking action. 'Well, my lord, it's been difficult – '

  'I don't want to know about your troubles. I want to know what's going on.' Wargrach hadn't provided chairs in the tiny, windowless room off the main banqueting hall, just to keep the two saur uneasy. He was perfectly happy propped on his tail, arms crossed. 'And you, Irjag? What can you add? You've had plenty of time to cement your position here in High Battilon. Now I'm back, I want your news.'

  The Plated One swallowed and glanced at Varchog. 'My lord. We did your bidding. When you left High Battilon after removing Lord Ollamon we came and found lowly positions. I'm in charge of the castle gardens. Varchog has been travelling through the Eastern Peaks and the rest of Thraag as a grain merchant. No-one suspected that we were your agents.'

  Wargrach snorted. 'I hope not. Spies who are known to be spies are useless. Remember that I rescued you after your discharge from the Army. Remember that I ensured your wounds were tended to. Remember that you would have died and been buried in unmarked graves if it weren't for me.'

  'Of course, my lord,' Varchog said hastily. He shifted from foot to foot. 'And we are striving to do your bidding.'

  'We do have some information, my lord,' Irjag added. 'We've recruited a few young saur and we've sent them out to gather others to your service.'

  'I know.' Wargrach had seen their recruits. His jaw clenched with disgust. In the past year, the saur of High Battilon and the neighbouring village of Lod had never accepted his rule. While never openly rebelling, they managed to find small ways to frustrate his plans. Some had actually fled to the forests and were living as outlaws. The local 'recruits' were the few layabouts and malcontents in the community. Wargrach thought them poor quality at best.

  Varchog twitched again. 'We've begun contacting our old agents, re-establishing your web of spies. They're starting to send experienced saur, and they're telling us that the Queen's preparations are continuing.'

  'It's a huge mobilisation,' Irjag put in. 'Ten new battalions have been added to the Army.'

  'Ten thousand new soldiers.' Wargrach scratched his empty eye socket. It itched, but he did it mostly for the effect it had on his two spies.

  He pondered the news. Tayesha had not abandoned her plans, but he knew that the Queen would have difficulty in achieving her goals without performing the full and complete ritual. He'd given her many manuscripts and old tomes over the years to help her construct the correct sequence of the ceremony, but he'd always kept certain knowledge from her.

  'Go,' he barked. 'I need more. I need more saur ready to serve me here at High Battilon. I want to know exactly when and where the Queen's Army is planning to move. I want to know who is in charge and I want to know everything about them. If you can't tell me what they eat for breakfast, it will be ill for you.'

  The two saur stared, then bowed and hurried out.

  Wargrach waited a moment, then left by another door.

  He stalked through the corridors, head down, deep in thought. Despite the difficulties Varchog and Irjag had whined about, the old network of agents and spies that Wargrach had established over the years was slowly knitting itself back together. His preparations were bearing fruit.

  He stopped when he reached the corridor leading to his quarters. A young Clawed One stood on guard. His weapons were bright, his posture proud. 'All quiet, soldier?'

  The guard nodded. 'Nothing to report, my lord.'

  Wargrach grunted, limped on and entered his chamber.

  His living quarters were in a little-used part of the castle. Wargrach had chosen them for that reason, ignoring more luxurious rooms in favour of quiet and security. A simple bed, a scarred table and a washstand were the only furnishings, with a battered trunk standing at the foot of the bed. The stone floor was bare and the single window was small, looking out over the barracks.

  It suited him. Comfort was a sign of we
akness in modern saur.

  He rummaged around and found a sheaf of papers in his trunk. He smoothed them out on the table.

  His customary caution had prompted him to remove these pages from the books he'd given Tayesha; he was wary of giving too much information to anyone. But underneath that motive was a deep-seated unease at anything to do with the A'ak.

  Wargrach had been privy to many secrets over the years. He cultivated them as a farmer might cultivate truffles, knowing that some of them could stay hidden for years. In that time, he'd grown interested in the A'ak. At first, he'd been attracted by their fierce reputation as warriors, then he grew concerned at their utterly alien attitude to life and death. Wargrach never admitted he felt fear, but the more he learned about the A'ak, the more troubled he was.

  He stared at the pages he'd kept. All of them mentioned the A'ak. Many were mysterious, speaking of the link between the land and the saur, but in elusive and roundabout ways. Wargrach had little patience for such mystical stuff, but one of the parchments – one he'd stumbled on years ago – hinted at the return of the A'ak.

  It was a single page, battered and water-stained. It was obviously the conclusion to a much longer document. Toward the end the tone of the writing changed from dry and detached to what Wargrach could only describe as terrified. The script became rushed, as if the writer was running out of time. It finished shrilly, with confused warnings of stone monsters, the advance guard for the A'ak.

  The prospect made Wargrach grind his sharp, predator teeth. The A'ak would be a formidable foe indeed. He growled, deep in his throat, a natural Toothed One reaction to a threat. Then he began to think.

  Toothed Ones were not renowned for their cleverness. Their strength lay in their willingness to fight and not give in. Toothed One military tactics usually favoured the all-out, life-or-death charge into the face of the enemy.

  Wargrach was different. He knew that strength was important, but cunning was just as useful. Staring at the ancient writings that foretold the return of the A'ak, his devious mind began to race.

  If the A'ak were to return, surely they would need an ally, someone who knew the best way to exploit the saur of Krangor?

  Slowly, Wargrach began to smile.

  Ten

  Around Adalon, Targesh and Simangee, the Horned Ones were transformed. No longer were they sitting blankly watching. Some were slumped in their seats, others had their heads in their hands. Many were crying wretchedly or embracing. A few had been injured by flying debris when the Old One shattered, and they were being tended by saur who seemed grateful for something to do.

  The doors were thrown open wide by guards who stumbled in looking both dazed and horrified. At this, the Horned Ones stampeded from the tiered seats, an avalanche of bellowing saur, maddened with shame and shock. With anguished cries, they crushed through the doorway and escaped into the ruins. Even the wounded couldn't bear to stay behind, and they were carried by willing helpers.

  'They're ignoring us,' Simangee murmured. She was kneeling by Targesh's side, stroking his brow. 'We should go.'

  The bleeding had stopped, but Adalon's heart sank at how pale his friend was. 'Wait.'

  A sole figure remained on the tiered benches. Slowly, she stood, the old female Horned One. She lurched down the aisle, skirting a large chunk of rock that had come to rest near the front rank of seats. She, too, was changed. It looked as if the weight of a thousand years had fallen on her shoulders: her back was bowed, her scales were dull, her skin was loose and sagging. Adalon saw this in an instant, but all these details seemed unimportant when he came to her eyes. They were haunted, full of suffering – the suffering that comes from guilt, shame and dishonour.

  She blinked at Adalon and reached out a hand. 'I . . . we . . .' She looked away, but when her gaze touched the watery shaft in the middle of the chamber, she shuddered and turned back to the three friends. 'I feel as if I've just woken from a dream. A bad dream.'

  Targesh groaned. 'Our friend needs help,' Adalon said.

  The old female stared at Targesh's ruined horn and shook her head in wonder. 'Such a sacrifice.'

  'Will he be all right?' Simangee demanded.

  The old female faltered. 'I don't know. When we were enslaved by the creature born of A'ak magic, it took our Horned One heritage. The things we have done . . .' Her hands opened and closed, groping. 'The Way of the Horn is lost to us. We are nothing.'

  She reached for Targesh, but drew back before touching him. 'We are nothing,' she repeated.

  Adalon tried to imagine living without the Way of the Claw. Its guidance was a firm foundation for conducting his life. Its precepts defined what it was to be an honourable Clawed One. He could understand why the Horned Ones would feel lost without their Way.

  'The Way of the Horn is not lost to you,' he said. 'You need to remember, to learn its wisdom again. Take your people and leave this place. Find Horned Ones and ask them to take you into their herd.'

  The old female glanced at him, then at Targesh. His eyes were closed, and his hands moved, groping at nothing. 'Can we redeem ourselves?' she said.

  'That is up to you,' Adalon said.

  The old female looked at the ranks of empty benches around them.

  'Go,' Adalon said. 'Your people still need a leader.'

  Without a word, the old female turned and lumbered off.

  Adalon stood. With Simangee's help, he lifted their massive friend. They stood on either side of him and draped his arms over their shoulders.

  'I'll paddle the canoe,' Simangee said when they reached the landing. 'You take care of Targesh.'

  It was an effort, but they eased their stricken Horned One friend into one of the few remaining canoes. It was barely more than a wreck, with water sloshing around inside. Adalon was glad that Targesh was in no condition to see how dilapidated it was.

  Once on shore, they settled their friend on a patch of dry grass. Adalon was torn. He wanted to put some distance between them and the treacherous villagers, but Targesh was in no condition to travel.

  He strapped on his armour, wanting to be prepared if the villagers came back. 'Can you do anything for him?' Adalon asked Simangee.

  'I brought some healing potion. It might help.' She shook her head. 'Poor Targesh. He was so proud of his horns.'

  'If it weren't for him, we may have ended our quest in this misbegotten place.'

  Simangee rose and went to her saddlebags. She took out a vial and one of the maps. 'Ah.'

  'What is it?'

  'This place is marked – it's another A'ak site.'

  'Are you sure?' he asked. She pointed to the map. Adalon peered and saw a faint blue mark.

  Simangee turned her attention to Targesh, gently tipping the contents of a small vial into his mouth.

  Targesh groaned – a deep, rumbling sound – then swallowed and opened his eyes. 'Adalon.'

  Adalon dropped to one knee. 'How do you feel, old friend?'

  Targesh raised himself on one elbow. The bleeding had definitely stopped; the stump was ragged and crusted with drying blood.

  Simangee grinned. She handed Targesh a cloth. 'Here. Clean yourself up.'

  Targesh stood. He swayed a little and Adalon moved to his side, ready to support him. 'Don't,' Targesh grunted. 'I'm well enough.'

  He went to the edge of the lake. While he washed himself, Adalon joined Simangee. 'Is he?'

  'Well enough? Who knows.' She tossed the empty vial in the air and caught it. 'The potion worked. The bleeding has stopped and he doesn't seem to be in pain.'

  He wouldn't admit he was, anyway, Adalon thought. 'But he's not himself.'

  Simangee shrugged. 'It must be a shock to lose a horn. And to do it to yourself? I couldn't do such a thing.'

  Another matter had been troubling Adalon. 'That creature, the stone giant. It was of A'ak origin, wasn't it?'

  'Most surely.'

  'Like the one that was guarding the Foundation Room at the Lost Castle.'

  Simangee looke
d at him thoughtfully. 'Yes.'

  'For a long-lost race, the A'ak are making their presence felt, aren't they?'

  'Ah. You've felt it too?'

  'I thought I was being foolish.' Adalon shrugged. 'But we seem to be living in momentous times.'

  'Weighty events are in train,' Simangee said, 'but while they are, we mustn't overlook what is happening closer to us. I think Targesh may need to talk.'

  'Targesh? Talk?' Adalon smiled a little. 'I'll give him a chance. It's the least I can do.'

  Adalon went and crouched at Targesh's side on the shore of the lake. The Horned One winced as he wiped around his eyes.

  'Are you fit to travel?' Adalon asked.

  Targesh didn't look up from studying the muddy water. 'Of course.'

  Adalon sought for comforting words. 'We owe you our lives. Thank you.'

  Targesh nodded, but said nothing.

  'Your horn. Will it grow back?'

  'No.' Targesh's face was hard. 'Horns don't.'

  'What happens?'

  'I'll cap it. Gold, silver.' He glanced at Adalon. 'It isn't a mark of dishonour.'

  'No. It wouldn't be.' Adalon flipped a pebble into the lake. The rings spread, widening until they were lost in the expanse of water in front of them. 'If it's no dishonour, why are you so ashamed?'

  Targesh flinched, then he turned his head to regard Adalon. 'Those Horned Ones.' He paused, measuring out his words as if he had a limited store of them. 'Look what they became. If it could happen to them, it could happen to me.'

  Adalon understood his friend's fear. Without the guidance of the Ways, could the base, primitive nature of the saur come to the fore? 'Not you, Targesh. You know what is right, even without the old lessons.'

  Targesh considered this for a moment. 'Aye. Some things are plain.' He rubbed his hands together, then stood. 'I'm ready.'

  Adalon nodded. 'It may be best if we wore our armour. For a while.'