The Missing Kin

by Michael Pryor

  Other soldiers attempting the crossing noticed the disappearance. They hesitated, struggling to hold their place against the battering of the water. The sergeants' shouting aroused them and, one by one, they began to stumble forward.

  Another vanished. Then another. This time Adalon was staring right at him, a burly Horned One who was ploughing through the white water, head down and making good progress. He reached halfway then he bellowed and flung up his hands. He let go of the rope and was gone. Adalon was sure he'd seen a dark shape under the water, but it was hard to see through the churning flood.

  Alarm seized the Thraag soldiers and the advance slowed. They were reluctant to enter the river, even though the officers shouted and the sergeants prodded with spears. Gradually, they forced more troops into the water.

  The river became a nightmare of screams, roaring, wild thrashing and soon the unmistakeable crimson stain of blood. Ominous shapes moved under the water, slipping between the soldiers and wreaking havoc.

  Adalon rode up and down the bank, but none of the enemy managed to cross a river that was running red.

  'What is it?' Simangee asked when she cantered up.

  'I don't know. But I have hopes.'

  Finally, a trumpet blast signalled a halt to the Thraag attack. The officers drew the ranks back, aghast at having lost so many in the crossing of a minor river.

  Then Adalon saw what had stopped them. A sleek dark form broke the surface. It twisted through the air and waved a wicked saw-toothed dagger at the Thraag troops, then plunged back with a splash.

  'People of the Deeps,' Simangee said in wonder.

  Targesh rode up. 'Adalon!' he cried. He pointed skywards. At the eastern end of the valley the sky was dark with familiar shapes. 'The Winged Ones have come!'

  Twenty

  The next morning, Adalon, Simangee and Targesh sat around a fire some distance from the main camp. Earlier, they had been keeping an eye on the picket lines, the exhausted troops and the tents of the wounded, but once the camp had settled, the three friends had withdrawn. They felt a need to be together on their own, and also wanted to allow the troops some time away from the scrutiny of their commanders.

  Commander. The title still felt like an awkward burden on Adalon's shoulders. Most of the troops were older than he was. Giving them orders was sometimes difficult. Yet none of the soldiers questioned his position.

  Adalon found himself wondering if they were following him or following the magical armour of the A'ak.

  After the battle, he'd grown suddenly tired of wearing the metal protection and had abandoned his armour to dress in light clothes. Without a word being spoken, Simangee and Targesh followed his example. Adalon decided that they, like him, were prepared to suffer the cold to reassure themselves that they would not fall under the influence of the A'ak.

  Time for conversation had been short once the allies arrived. With the help of the Winged Ones and the People of the Deeps, the weary troops from Callibeen and Sleeto were able to push forward and cleave a wedge through the dismayed enemy. Assailed from the air, the water and the land, the Thraag Army broke and ran. Soldiers flung weapons away in their haste to flee.

  Adalon gazed at Targesh's ruined profile. The jagged end of the broken horn was a reminder of the sacrifice that his friend had made. Adalon felt that Targesh was more at ease, however, since he'd brought the riders from High Battilon, and he was well pleased. Their speed had been perfect for helping to rout the enemy. Whenever a company of archers had formed to attack the Winged Ones, the High Battilon cavalry rode them down.

  'You say your riders are willing to join us in the Hidden Valley?' Adalon asked Targesh.

  Targesh grunted. 'They're tired of living the life of outlaws.'

  'Good. We need to increase our strength.'

  'We've staved off one threat,' Simangee said.

  'But if Wargrach has taken Knobblond, are our efforts in vain?'

  'I don't know,' Adalon said. He shook his head. 'Perhaps we can work with the Queen of Shuff.' He sighed. 'It's not the end. It can't be.'

  'Perhaps we need more heads at work on this,' Simangee said, nodding toward the two figures who were approaching.

  Hoolgar waved, the Crested One towering over the fine-boned leader of the Winged Ones. 'Extraordinary,' he said when the unlikely pair drew close to the fire. 'I never thought I'd actually meet a Winged One' – he bowed to the Flightmother – 'let alone the head of such an ancient and worthy clan.'

  The Flightmother gave her thin, dry laugh. 'And if I knew that such courtesy could be found in the saur of the seven kingdoms, perhaps we would have ended our isolation earlier.'

  Adalon stood. 'I haven't had the chance to thank you, Flightmother. Without you and your kin we would have been lost.'

  'The battle of Sleeto will live long in song and memory,' she said. She warmed her hands in front of the fire. 'We are sorry we took so long to come.'

  'What happened?' Simangee asked.

  'Strangeness is what happened.' The Flightmother looked troubled. 'We had just reached the Skyhorn Ranges when a mountain burst into fire and smoke beneath us. No warning at all. A harmless peak, it was, and then it became an angry thing. My people were tumbled from the sky, assaulted by ash and rock spewed from the maw of the furious mountain. We were scattered, flung apart, choked by smoke. It took us long to come back together.'

  Hoolgar looked thoughtful. 'A mountain, rupturing like that? This doesn't bode well.'

  'But what to do now?' the Flightmother said. 'Where should we go?'

  'Come with us,' Adalon said. 'The Hidden Valley is hospitable. It has room for your Winged Ones.'

  'And the People of the Deeps?'

  'The Hidden Valley has rivers, lakes, and the sea is nearby.'

  The Flightmother clapped her beak. 'We shall accompany you and inspect this Hidden Valley.'

  Suddenly, the sky darkened. Adalon looked up, then the ground began to tremble. Before anyone could speak, the earth heaved like a living thing. A vast grinding roar came from the depths. Adalon stumbled and fell, climbed back up, then was hurled down again as the ground bucked and rippled. His shoulder struck a rock and he rolled, wincing. Dust filled the air.

  Eventually, the ground steadied. Adalon lay there as the roaring echoed around the surrounding mountains. 'Is everyone all right?' he called, and he slowly rose to his feet, arms outspread in case of another shock.

  Dusty and scratched, his friends, Hoolgar and the Flightmother reported no serious injuries. Adalon rubbed his shoulder and decided that he'd escaped with a nasty bruising.

  Hoolgar inspected his glasses. 'I'm afraid this is what we must be prepared for. Knobblond has fallen, the balance has been upset. The land is in pain.'

  'Look,' Targesh said, pointing.

  In the distant north, a huge plume of smoke was rising. Adalon realised he was seeing a fiery mountain in the Skyhorn Ranges where none had ever been before.

  He hissed with dismay. 'Madness. It is Tayesha's madness that is tormenting the land so.' Adalon curled his hands into fists. 'We must stop her. At all costs.'

  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 four times for the Aurealis Awards, nominated for a Ditmar Award and longlisted for the Golden Inky award, and three of his books have been Children's Book Council of Australia Notable Books. Michael is also the co-creator (with Paul Collins) of the highly successful Quentaris Chronicles. He is currently writing Word of Honour: The Third Volume of The Laws of Magic, as well as further books in the Chronicles of Krangor series.

  For more information about Michael and his books, visit www.michaelpryor.com.au.

 

 

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