The King in Reserve (3 page)

Adalon ignored the iron cabinet in the rear of the armoury. But even though he kept his back to it while he hefted swords from the racks on the wall, looking for a blade to suit his arm, he was aware of its presence – and of the treasures inside it. The A'ak armour and sword whispered to him, pleading for him to take them into battle. Ghost voices murmured of the feats that could be achieved, the fame that awaited him – with their help.

He seized a sword and shook it. Good enough. 'Ready?' he said to his friends, and only realised that he'd spoken sharply when Simangee looked at him in surprise. She had a short sword, similar to his own. Targesh was happy with an axe that Adalon would have had trouble lifting.

Adalon hurried through the door, pushing the A'ak voices aside.

He jogged down the stairs. He swung the short sword, and liked its weight in his hand. The blade was sturdy, the leather handle worn, but it was well balanced and practical. Practical, and not a hint of magic about it. Adalon appreciated that.

They reached the iron-banded stone door that led to the outer chamber of the Foundation Room.

'What's that smell?' Simangee asked as they passed into the antechamber.

Adalon sniffed. It was familiar, but he couldn't put his claw on it. Dry, ticklish. He rubbed his snout. 'Be ready.'

Targesh stood back and held up his axe. Adalon opened the inner door. With a hiss, he staggered backwards as a wall of red dust toppled on them. He threw up a hand in front of his eyes, but the dust rolled over him like a wave.

Coughing and blinking, he tried to peer through slitted eyes but all he saw was red dust swirling in front of him. The door, the walls, the entire room had disappeared, hidden by the gritty cloud. 'Simangee!' he called, then he choked and had to spit out a mouthful of bitter-tasting muck. 'Targesh!'

His voice was swallowed by the dust. No reply came through the billowing storm. Adalon could see dark shapes moving in the murk. They were like jungle vines as thick as tree trunks that tapered off to a narrow, whip-like end, and they twirled and writhed as if in a gale. Carefully, he reached out, but he recoiled, hissing, when one of the shapes darted at him like lightning.

Adalon reeled back, his stinging hand clasped tightly under his armpit. It felt as if it had been struck by something muscular, with a hide rough enough to polish metal.

'Beware!' he cried, trying to alert his friends, then he choked on a throatful of dust. He spat it out, grimacing at the bitter, harsh taste. He squinted, then a curling shape snaked through the dust at him.

Adalon sprang backward, but not quickly enough. He was seized around the waist, wrapped up and crushed with hideous strength. He clenched his teeth as he felt his ribs creak, and he desperately hammered at its raspy hide.

Then he remembered his sword. After a struggle, he dragged it out and went to work, hacking with all his strength. It felt as if he were chopping at a bag full of sand. Using the sword more like a wood axe than a weapon, he managed to land several blows in the same place. The tentacle parted, falling away. Adalon staggered a few steps, then lost sight of the creature as the dust swirled again.

He shuddered. The thing had no mouth, no face, nothing natural at all. Its featureless, questing ferocity appalled him.

He felt, rather than saw, a presence close by. He whirled. 'Targesh!'

'Sand serpents,' his friend spat. He hefted his axe, and his gaze darted from side to side, as he strained to see through the dust.

'What?'

'Serpents. Made of sand. 'Ware.'

Adalon spun to see another shape slither through the dust at him. Targesh roared, then swung his axe. The sand serpent was cloven in two. One part fell at their feet, and immediately Adalon was ankle deep in sand. The other part withdrew into the billows of dust.

'How many?' Adalon asked.

'Too many. Behind you.'

Adalon twisted and chopped with his sword. The blindly questing tentacle was slashed in two. More sand spilled on the floor.

'Simangee?'

Targesh shrugged, looked unhappy, then severed a serpent that had sneaked through the dust and snagged his leg. 'She was close, but I lost her.'

'Adalon! Targesh! Help!'

Adalon turned. The dust confused all his senses. He couldn't see, sounds came in unexpected ways, he could smell nothing but dryness and drought.

Targesh seized his shoulder. 'There.'

Two indistinct figures were surrounded by a host of sand serpents, lashing and writhing in idiot rage.

Adalon and Targesh leaped through the swirling dust. With a cry he immediately regretted – for the dust stripped his throat raw – Adalon threw himself at the nearest serpent. He slashed, then slashed again. His arms ached, but he bounded and hewed, leaped and twisted, wielding a blade that he could feel growing duller with each stroke.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Targesh's bulky shape. His friend's axe was well suited to the task, and he was chopping methodically, making mayhem among the serpents. None came close enough to do any damage to him as his axe was a blur of steel, impassable and deadly.

Panting, head pounding, Adalon hacked through a serpent that was as thick as his thigh. Then he swung again, backhanded, but cursed when he struck stone. His hand went numb and he dropped the sword. He ducked, searching for it with his other hand.

Then he realised he'd reached the wall. He was close enough to see a sand serpent – or what was left of one – disappearing right through the stone, like a thread being pulled through cloth. He gaped, then could make out others – five, ten, he lost count.

The dust cleared a little. Adalon turned and saw Simangee dragging Hoolgar through the whirling red storm.

Adalon shook off his surprise and sprang to help. The old saur's glasses were missing and he groaned hoarsely. He peered from side to side. 'They nearly had me,' he wheezed. 'But I escaped. Caverns. Everywhere.'

'Who took you?' urged Simangee. Her tears mixed with the red dust. She looked as if she were crying blood.

'The A'ak,' Hoolgar managed to say, then his eyes rolled back and he collapsed.

Hoolgar's room faced east, where the sun rose over the jagged mountains that encircled the Hidden Valley. For the rest of the day, Adalon, Targesh and Simangee watched over their old tutor as he lay there on his bed, gripped by a nightmare that would not let go.

Hours went by as the old tutor mumbled and shivered, his eyes screwed tightly shut. At one stage in that long afternoon, Moralon came by and stood in the doorway for some time. He held his game board, but his gaze was on Hoolgar as the old saur thrashed his arms in distress. Adalon watched with interest, for this was more engaged than he'd seen his uncle since he'd been saved from the dungeons of High Battilon.

Moralon remained on the threshold of Hoolgar's room for some time, but eventually shuffled off without saying a word.

Toward evening, as candlelight replaced the struggling light of day, Hoolgar sat bolt upright, eyes wide. He clutched at Adalon's arm. 'The A'ak . . . the A'ak!' he repeated hoarsely.

Targesh took the Crested One's shoulders and eased him back to the bed.

'Hush,' Simangee said. 'Rest, Hoolgar. You're safe now.'

Hoolgar mumbled a little, harsh words under his breath, then shook his head. 'I know I'm safe now,' he snapped. 'I wasn't about to escape from the A'ak and flee to somewhere unsafe. I'm not that stupid.'

Simangee blinked at this outburst. She looked at Adalon, puzzlement in her eyes. He shrugged and shook his head in bewilderment. 'Rest,' she said. 'You need rest.'

Hoolgar lifted a hand. 'I aim to do just that.'

'You were with the A'ak?' Adalon asked.

'They abducted me. They reached out from the plane where they've been imprisoned, and plucked me from your midst.' He lifted himself onto one elbow and glanced sideways. 'They've found ways to do that, you know.'

Adalon feared for his state of mind. 'Easy, Hoolgar.'

'It's true! They are powerful, the A'ak are, most powerful.' His hands twitched, and he clasped them together. 'They're getting closer to bringing themselves through. They're breaking down the wall that separates their prison plane from our own.'

Adalon's head spun. 'Why did they take you, Hoolgar?'

The old saur sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He trembled a little, but he waved Simangee away. 'It was a mistake. They wanted one of you.' He rubbed his face with both hands. 'It was a nightmare place.'

Adalon felt like a general on a battlefield when an enemy suddenly appears from an unexpected direction. 'What can you tell us? We must learn what we can.'

Hoolgar grimaced. 'You saw the stone creature drag me through the wall. On the other side was the prison plane of the A'ak. I was choking, couldn't breathe, and I felt as if I was being crushed.' He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he said, 'The pressure eased and I was in a world of shadows. Not just black shadows either, but dark purples, reds, browns . . . I couldn't make out anything because the whole world was a shifting, sliding mess of darkness.' He looked at the three of them with haunted eyes. 'I was afraid. I fell to my knees, but the stone creature dragged me.'

Targesh went to the small washstand and returned with a mug of water. Hoolgar took it and nodded his thanks. 'I was thrown into a place,' he continued. 'It was empty, I think. I stumbled through the shadows but could find no walls. Then the A'ak spoke to me.' He shuddered. 'I couldn't see them, but their voices came through the shadows and cut me like knives.'

'What did they want?' Adalon asked.

'They wanted to know who had taken possession of the Lost Castle. They were aware of Queen Tayesha's plans and were vastly amused at them. Arrogant, they were. They seemed to think they had nothing to hide.'

Hoolgar paused, sipped some water and placed the mug down. Then he put his hands together and rubbed them slowly. 'From their questioning, I learned a little about them and their plans.' He glanced at them. 'I'm not an utter fool, you know. In my years, I have learned much – including how to look doddery and helpless.'

'What did you learn, Hoolgar?' Adalon asked.

'It was the land itself that rejected the A'ak all those years ago. They cared not for the land and were cast out, into the prison plane. But the land has been weakened by Tayesha's mad scheme and the A'ak see this as their chance.'

The three friends were silent as they contemplated this horror. A land in upheaval with the A'ak set free? Adalon groaned as the weight of this nightmare settled on him.
It is worse than I feared,
he thought.

Targesh grimaced at Hoolgar. 'You escaped?'

Hoolgar nodded. 'Eventually, they ceased their interrogation. I was left alone, smothered and confused, in the shadows. Later, I found I was able to crawl – so I did. I closed my eyes, bruising my hands and knees as I scrambled. If I could find the place where I was brought into the A'ak's plane of imprisonment, I hoped I could drag myself back through. And that's what happened.'

Adalon blinked. 'As simple as that?'

'Of course it wasn't simple,' Hoolgar flared. 'Again and again, I was attacked; I fought them off; I was lost, afraid, despairing and hungry.' He glanced at Targesh. 'Fetch me some food, will you?'

Adalon felt uneasy. Had the A'ak
allowed
Hoolgar to escape? And to what end? He felt ashamed, but he vowed to watch the old tutor closely.

'I'm sorry, Hoolgar,' Simangee fussed. 'Here we are interrogating you when you should be resting.'

'Yes, well, that sounds good.' He clapped his beak together and looked at Adalon. 'You must go, though, to rescue King Gormond.'

Adalon looked at the old tutor. The Crested One looked back steadily. 'Simangee?' Adalon said. 'Would you be willing to leave Hoolgar here at the Lost Castle? He needs to recover.'

'Go, go,' Hoolgar said. 'I'm not made of glass. I'll be up and about before you know it.'

Queen Tayesha sat in her private room high in the Needle, the tallest tower of Gralloch Palace. Despite the roaring fire in the hearth and the furs she was wrapped in, she was shivering.

Tayesha thought of the stone assassin that had somehow found her underground refuge. She put a hand to her throat. It was still tender. She didn't know how such a thing had found her magical retreat, but the power of the A'ak was a thing of legend. Since that almost fatal assault, she hadn't returned to her subterranean sanctuary, no matter how much she yearned for its ancient silence.

The A'ak. She shivered and stared at the coals, wondering why they didn't give off more heat. It had been the A'ak who had been thwarting her plans, interfering with her magic, sapping her strength. And now they were on the doorstep . . .

She hissed and snapped her claws together. No. They could not be allowed to stop her. She rose with Clawed One grace, yet she felt her age weighing on her. Her life had been long and rich, but it was coming to an end – unless she could assume the overlordship of Krangor. An ultimate ruler, utterly in partnership with the land, would achieve immortality.

Tayesha could see it. Endlessly reigning, kind and generous, she would be the guardian of the land and the saur, the protector of all, wanting nothing in return but the loyalty of her subjects. A rule without end, great and glorious.

But the A'ak could ruin everything if they returned. She must stop them, but how? Their magic was strange and powerful – and she had so much else to do.

She steeled herself. Greatness lay ahead of her, but only if she could chart a course in these dangerous times. She needed to strengthen her magic in order to thwart the A'ak. While she did this, her armies had to continue their campaign of conquest. Knobblond had fallen, but the other five kingdoms needed toppling if she was to become ruler of all Krangor.

That, she could leave to Wargrach. The other generals had proven to be a feckless lot, more concerned with fighting among themselves. The final debacle in Sleeto was testament to that: her entire army routed by a ragtag force of vagabonds. They'd complained of being savaged by flying monsters, but such bleatings were just desperate excuses.

Magic, however, was her province. Long ago, when she'd ascended the throne of Thraag, she had made a bond with the land. Since then she'd lived with the great and terrible power that belonged to each of the rulers of the seven kingdoms. She'd assumed it was age that had made her magic begin to wane, but now it seemed that the A'ak were responsible.

She needed more time to pore over the volumes of magical lore that she had assembled. The answer must be in them. In the multitude of rituals and incantations, she would find the way to defeat the A'ak and – once the rulers of the other kingdoms were gone – become the one and only ruler of Krangor.

A soft knocking came at the door. Tayesha stared, then crossed the room. Lady Sillian stood there, her Crested One lady-in-waiting. She bobbed a curtsey. 'Your Majesty, Duke Wargrach has sent a message.'

'A plague on Wargrach,' Tayesha muttered.

'Your Majesty?'

Tayesha hissed and twitched her tail. Wargrach was a brilliant commander, but she suspected his motives. He was deep as the endless sea, with monsters hiding beneath the surface.

'What did he say?'

'Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but the Duke has left. He said to tell you he's on his way back to the Eastern Peaks.'

Tayesha hissed again and her claws bit into her palms. 'Without permission?'

'I . . . Your Majesty . . . He didn't –'

'Leave me.'

The flustered Lady Sillian dropped a curtsey and hurried off. Tayesha closed the door and leaned against it. 'What are you up to, Wargrach?' she said aloud, and her claws bit deep into the wood behind her.