The flames crossed quickly to neighboring buildings. With a surge of excitement Gulph decided this might not take as long as he’d feared. He hurried to the next crossroads and used another firework to ignite a large warehouse filled with the undead. By setting fires on street junctions, he reasoned, he would make the fire spread faster and farther.
He reached an open square dominated by a towering structure that was all too familiar. It looked like a gigantic, malformed bird’s nest balanced on enormous stilts.
The Vault of Heaven!
Gulph shivered, remembering the dreadful days he’d spent trapped inside that awful prison. He supposed it was empty now, since all the prisoners had been taken out by Nynus to help destroy the bridge.
Oh, but I can’t resist this!
He planted one of Noddy’s largest rockets into the ground, aimed it at the underbelly of the Vault, and lit the fuse. The rocket flew, burying itself with a tremendous explosion in the woven structure of the prison.
The Vault of Heaven began to burn.
Gulph ran on toward Castle Tor. All the streets behind him were burning now, first one building erupting into flames, then its neighbor, and so on, until Gulph realized with a jolt that the flames had already cut him off from the main gate.
Don’t think about it. There must be a hundred ways out of this city.
By the time he reached the castle, his invisibility was beginning to flicker on and off. He fought to control it, but he was so tired that his efforts met with little success. He just hoped he’d caused enough panic among the undead that they wouldn’t notice him.
He tossed a firework into a hay cart that was drawn up near the castle wall, then raced on toward the main gate tower. Flames pursued him, and as he passed beneath the portcullis he saw that the spiked wooden gate was already on fire. The flames had circled behind him, reaching the castle faster than he’d anticipated.
It’s out of control, he thought with satisfaction and no small measure of fear.
The courtyard inside the gate tower was empty. On its far side rose the wall of the inner keep. Smoke was pouring from the windows. Screams came from within.
Gulph was halfway to the main door when a figure appeared on a balcony overlooking the courtyard. It was a massive, monstrous thing, half man, half skeleton. Velvet robes hung in tatters from its slumped shoulders. In its eye sockets burned flames even brighter than the fire that was consuming Castle Tor.
Brutan!
Summoning all his will, Gulph concentrated on the strange sensations with which he could summon—and sustain—his invisibility.
Sand! Heat! Desert magic!
To his relief Brutan’s burning gaze passed over him, unseeing. Then, to his surprise, the undead king clambered awkwardly over the balcony’s parapet, dropped the short distance to an external staircase, and began to descend.
The reason for Brutan’s hasty departure became clear as a jet of flame burst over the balcony, which crumbled and fell with a deafening crash into the courtyard. The undead king was consumed by a billowing cloud of dust and smoke, and for a moment Gulph’s heart rose.
It crushed him! He’s dead!
But his hopes were dashed when Brutan staggered clear of the debris. Shaking himself, the undead king ran across the courtyard to Gulph’s left, stumbling awkwardly toward another set of stone stairs. He kept his skeleton hands clamped to his chest, covering the wound Gulph had inflicted with Kalia’s crystal sword.
So it did hurt him, Gulph thought. But where’s he going?
There was another crash behind him as the gatehouse collapsed into a burning heap of shattered stones and broken timber. A wave of heat rushed over Gulph, forcing him toward the keep. With mounting horror, he watched as the flames began systematically to destroy the wooden outhouses lining the courtyard walls.
Brutan’s looking for a way out, he realized. He knows he’s trapped. And now I’m trapped in here with him! If only I’d gone back to the chasm sooner!
But he knew he couldn’t have done that.
Not until he knew Brutan was dead.
Gathering all the strength that had carried him here from the depths of the chasm, knowing this might be his only chance to finish things once and for all, Gulph chased after the thing that had once been his father.
The stairs climbed steeply, curving up and around the outside of the castle’s main watchtower. Gulph kept his distance and remained invisible. The last thing he wanted to do was run blindly into a trap.
As Gulph ascended, he found himself looking down over the whole of Idilliam. To the east the sun was rising, turning the sky to pale gold. Its rays spread across the city, skimming the tops of the trees that grew in Isur, on the opposite side of the chasm. The beauty of the faraway forest canopy made Gulph’s heart ache.
This could be my kingdom, he thought, panting as he forced his aching limbs to climb. Once Brutan is gone . . .
A different kind of canopy hung over Idilliam. Instead of treetops, here were glowing red fountains of fire. Gulph marveled at the destruction he’d brought to the city, and wondered if it would ever stop.
As he climbed higher and higher, the watchtower narrowed. Gulph slowed, glancing down. The tower was affixed to the outer corner of the castle keep, which in turn overlooked the chasm surrounding Idilliam. If he slipped on these stairs, he wouldn’t just fall to the ground.
He’d fall into the chasm.
One more turn of the stairs would bring him to the top of the watchtower. Brutan was somewhere up ahead, out of sight.
There was a roar of flames behind him.
He stopped in his tracks.
The steps he had just come up were on fire. Flames spurted and he raised his arms to protect his face. Heat scorched his invisible skin. Panic bubbled inside him.
Brutan ahead, the fire behind. I’m trapped, and it’s all my fault . . .
He scrabbled on upward, away from the rising fire.
I was a fool to think it was all going to work out, he thought bitterly. Me, rule Toronia as a king, with my siblings at my side? Why did I ever believe it?
When he could run no more, Gulph sank to his knees. Above, the fire cast a lurid glow over the darkening sky. The prophecy stars looked down, patient and cold.
It’s failed. Because of me, the prophecy is over.
Smoke was billowing out over the chasm. Somewhere, far below, Ossilius was waiting for him to return. Pip too—poor, gentle Pip. And farther away, somewhere in Toronia, were the brother and sister he’d never met.
Now I never will.
He couldn’t change any of it. Yet there was still something he could do.
I can make sure Brutan really is gone. I can do that at least. Before the end . . .
He wiped his eyes. “Come on, Gulph,” he told himself. “One last trick.”
Gulph stood. He rummaged inside his pack. His hand met something hard: the crown of Toronia. He ignored it. The crown was useless to him now. Instead he let his fingers explore the pack’s interior until he found what he’d known was there: a tightly wrapped tube filled with explosive powder.
A firework.
The last firework.
Fresh flames licked around the corner of the stairs, just below him. Gulph ignored them and proceeded up the final twist of the tower.
The staircase ended at the edge of a wide observation platform fixed to the top of the tower. Wind gusted, threatening to throw Gulph off the stairs and into the chasm. Resisting the compulsion to look down, he crouched low and ascended the final few steps to the highest point in Idilliam.
Brutan was standing in the middle of the platform with his back to Gulph. His shoulders were hunched. His hands were clasped to his chest. The remains of his robes whipped in the gale blowing across the top of the tower.
Trapped! Gulph thought with a curious mix of satisfaction and despair. Just like me.
Holding the firework behind his back, he took three hesitant steps toward the undead king. Behind him the fire ate u
p the steps he’d been climbing barely a moment before. Flames began to lick up around the edges of the platform.
His whole body began to tremble. He wondered if he was still invisible, then realized with horror that he couldn’t be.
Because his father was speaking to him.
“I can see you,” the undead king growled, the exposed bones of his jaws opening in a hideous grin. “Even when I could not see you, I knew you were following me. I could smell your blood.”
The wind gusted. Fighting to keep his balance, Gulph sank to his knees. His fingers and toes were numb. The climb first up the chasm wall, and then up the steps of the burning tower, had robbed him of all strength.
“Begging for your life, boy?” roared Brutan approvingly. He seemed unaffected by the hot and howling gale. “It won’t do you any good!”
Sand! thought Gulph desperately. Heat!
But there was only the heat of the fire.
Brutan took a lurching step toward him.
“So what do you plan to do, boy?” he roared. “It is a long way down. But I believe I can survive the fall. Can you say the same?”
Trembling, Gulph tottered to his feet. With his free hand, he fumbled his tinderbox out of his pack. The wind pounded him. From somewhere, he found the strength to resist it.
“I may fall,” he said, speaking slowly and clearly. “But you won’t. I’m going to see to that.”
From deep inside Brutan’s ruined chest there came a sound like breaking wood. With sick revulsion Gulph realized the undead king was laughing.
“And how, precisely, do you plan to stop me?”
“With this!”
In one smooth movement Gulph brought the firework around from behind his back and snapped open the tinderbox. The flames in Brutan’s eye sockets flared with sudden surprise.
Gulph scraped the flint across the metal lid of the tinderbox, praying that the wind wouldn’t blow out whatever spark he was able to create. Light flashed, and instantly the fuse of the firework was burning. The fuse, Gulph saw, was very short.
He stood, drew back his arm.
“This is for the prophecy!” he yelled. “This is for Toronia! This is for Kalia, my mother! This is for the siblings I’ll never meet. But most of all, this is for me!”
And Gulph hurled the burning, spitting firework straight at the face of the undead king. But Brutan moved faster than Gulph could have imagined, ducking low and turning his ravaged body to the side. Gulph watched with rapidly unfolding despair as the firework flew harmlessly over Brutan’s shoulder.
As it exploded, bright fire of all colors—red and green and gold—blossomed behind the undead king, a halo of dazzling sparks and fizzing embers. A tremendous bang resounded across the platform, and black smoke blasted Gulph’s face, stinging his eyes.
The wind sucked the smoke away, leaving the air clear, though still laced with the lingering smell of flash powder.
Brutan was still standing. His tattered robes were smoldering, but he was otherwise unharmed.
Flames boiled around the edges of the platform. The fire was everywhere. Gulph could feel his hair and skin beginning to singe. He looked wildly around. There was nowhere to go.
Brutan’s eyes were filled with glowing red malevolence. His fingers snapped shut like bony bear traps. The platform shook as he advanced on Gulph, his arms outstretched.
“Enough games! Now I will fall!” roared the undead king. “And I will take you with me, to serve among the ranks of the undead!”
Gulph backed away until his feet had reached the edge of the platform. The flames licked at his back. Brutan lunged for him, his fingertips slashing the air right in front of Gulph’s face. He ducked, ran sideways around the perimeter of the burning platform, stumbled, and fell to his knees.
Just one touch! That’s all it will take. He’ll grab me—and then he’ll jump. By the time we hit the ground, I’ll be just like him.
Gulph stood. He could see nothing beyond the wall of flames surrounding the platform. He was trapped in a crucible of fire. Idilliam had ceased to exist. Toronia had ceased to exist. There was just him and the monster that had once been his father.
He knew at last what he must do. He felt strangely calm.
“Come to me, boy!” roared the undead king. “Come to me forever!”
“No,” Gulph told him. “I lost you a long time ago, Father. And now you’ve lost me.”
Bending his knees, Gulph sprang backward, performing a perfect backflip through the flames.
So this is how it ends, he thought, and fell into the chasm below.
CHAPTER 29
The sky was brightening. A halo of pink and violet, framed by trees. Tiny clouds, racing like snowflakes. A flock of birds flying so high they were little more than specks of dust.
Tarlan saw it all in extraordinary detail, knowing that it would be the last thing he ever saw.
Tyro loomed over him, blotting out his view. The bearded man’s sword hung high in the air, ready to descend.
Then he froze. His mouth slowly lolled open, blood first trickling from his mouth, then gushing. His body began to jitter.
Tyro collapsed to the ground beside Tarlan. A long, slow sigh blew from his mouth. His eyes rolled up until they showed only the whites. His chest heaved once, then was still.
A large, shaggy creature stood where Tyro had been. The bear’s huge claws were dripping with Tyro’s blood. “Brock!” gasped Tarlan, struggling to his feet.
“You saved me,” Brock said. “Now I save you.”
Tarlan staggered toward the bear and flung his arms around his thick neck.
With a flurry of golden feathers, Theeta landed beside them. Her eyes were bright and gently she laid her huge beak on Tarlan’s shoulder. “Alive,” she cawed softly. “Tarlan alive.”
Tarlan stroked her beak. “I am, Theeta. And we still have a battle to fight!”
He glanced around for his sword. It was nowhere to be seen, but glinting beside Tyro’s body was his curved blade. Tarlan picked it up and swung himself onto Theeta’s back. With one powerful beat of her wings, they were rising above the battlefield once more.
Theeta accelerated toward the defensive ring of wooden spikes, where Filos and two forest cats were under sustained attack.
Trapped against the spikes, the creatures were flailing desperately at an advancing line of swordsmen. Smoke from the burning town surrounded them. Filos fell awkwardly on her back, blood oozing from a wound in her neck. Behind the foot soldiers, a smaller gang was readying one of the flame machines Tarlan had seen them use in the fishing village.
“Faster, Theeta!”
Theeta made straight for the wheeled machine, stretching her talons out at the last moment and ripping its crew from their posts. The cart tipped over, spilling fuel from its barrel and crushing one of the operators beneath it. But the swordsmen had butchered one of the forest cats and were now turning on the fallen Filos and her remaining companion.
“Theeta—turn!”
But Tarlan could see they were too late.
A horse galloped out of the smoke. On it rode a shrieking boy: Kassan. He plunged his sword into a foot soldier, then pulled his steed around and whistled.
Galadronian heads turned.
Two dozen wild horses burst into view. They rode down the enemy, hooves trampling their bodies into the ground. The horses reared, whinnying in triumph. Kassan gave Tarlan a ferocious smile, then led the horses back into the fray.
Filos rose unsteadily to her feet. Her companion nuzzled her with obvious concern.
“Are you all right?” Tarlan cried.
“Sore,” Filos replied. “But I will live. And there are many more enemies to fight.”
The tigron was right. With something close to despair, Tarlan took in a quick sweep of the battlefield. Bodies lay strewn everywhere. The colored robes of fallen Galadronians fluttered in the morning breeze, but it seemed to him that many more of the dead belonged to his pack.
The
y’re killing us! Little by little, we’re dying here.
Things were hardly better near the town. Although most of the Isurians had managed to get inside the fortress walls, they still hadn’t closed the gates. Flying nearer, Tarlan saw why: The gates hung broken from their enormous hinges. They would never shut again.
The Hammer had positioned himself near the entrance. A small band of ferocious-looking men surrounded him. Together they formed the last line of defense against the invaders. Tarlan’s heart swelled as he saw Greythorn and a contingent of wolves fighting at The Hammer’s side.
But we can’t hold out much longer, he thought desperately. They’re too many . . .
“Thorrods come!” Theeta’s screech pierced the air, echoing across the battlefield. Down on the ground, the animals in Tarlan’s dwindling pack looked up. The Galadronians looked up. Even The Hammer stopped, checking his great iron bludgeon in midswing and raising his head from the carnage.
Two dark specks hung in the sky, far to the west. As Tarlan watched, they grew bigger . . . and bigger.
“Kitheen! Nasheen!” he yelled, raising both hands above his head in triumph. “Melchior!”
The two returning thorrods drew nearer, growing huge. The light from the rising sun met them head-on, turning the gold feathers on their wingtips to moving lines of fire. Both had their beaks open; both were shrieking out a high-pitched call in what Tarlan thought of as thorrod deep-speech, a language so strange and ancient that no human could ever hope to decipher it.
Whatever it meant, the sound of it turned his blood to ice and his bones to powder.
He could only imagine what it was doing to the Galadronians.
Melchior was standing upright on Nasheen’s back, ignoring gravity, heedless of the lurching of his airborne steed beneath him. His white hair shone. His staff was raised. His eyes flashed.
“Tarlan!” Melchior cried as soon as he was close enough to be heard. “How many legs do they have?”
Tarlan blinked. He’d been waiting for fire to spurt from the wizard’s staff, or magical lightning to fill the sky. He scolded himself; he’d already learned that Melchior didn’t work like that.
“What do you mean?” he shouted back.
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