The King in Reserve (9 page)

Adalon was reluctant to abandon the magical brass steeds, so they chose not to use the power of the map to send them back to the Lost Castle. It meant they spent hours searching for a way out of the mysterious underground site. Finally, it was Gormond who found a narrow tunnel leading upward. Targesh almost stuck four times before they reached the surface but eventually, hungry and tired, they emerged into the stillness of the night.

Two days later, they arrived at the Lost Castle. Gormond was in a state of stunned wonder, having traversed Thraag swifter than an arrow and then having braved the fiery hell of the secret way into the Hidden Valley, through the bowels of Graaldon, the smoking mountain. Adalon was equally amazed; he'd spent most of the journey wondering if they could use the astonishing magic they'd found in their struggle against Queen Tayesha. Even though he was reluctant to use magic – and doubly suspicious of A'ak magic – he couldn't help but imagine a hundred uses for such instant traversing. Quick strikes behind enemy lines? Raids on important facilities? Rescues of important saur?

If the magic could be trusted . . .

When they arrived, Gormond stood awe-struck in the courtyard of the Lost Castle. 'I feel as if I'm in a dream,' the young king said.

Simangee slid from the saddle and rubbed her tail. 'I'd dream a better dream,' she groaned. 'To begin with, I'd dream softer saddles.'

Gormond turned to the three friends. 'Tell me all about this place. I must know!'

Adalon grinned. 'Simangee, would you please take His Majesty for a tour? It may be the best way to answer his questions.'

Simangee glared at Adalon, then shrugged. 'Come, Your Majesty. There's a lot to see.'

By this time, a host of saur had emerged from the doorways that opened onto the courtyard. Adalon was pleased to see Moralon there, but his uncle hovered at the back of the crowd, saying nothing.

Varriah, the Plated One steward, pushed forward. Her expression was welcoming, but also troubled. 'I'm glad you're back.'

Adalon dismounted and began to lead his steed toward the stables. Although the beasts didn't require nourishment, it was a convenient place to keep the large brass creatures. 'What's wrong, Varriah?'

She walked with her hands clasped behind her back. 'Much is right, Adalon, you need to know that first. A number of the abandoned farms in the valley have been opened again and it is becoming a true community. But . . .' She glanced at the towers that loomed over them. 'Something is not right in the Lost Castle.'

'Not right?' Targesh rumbled.

'Things have changed since you left, but I find it difficult to put a claw on it.' She made a face. 'I think you'd better see Hoolgar. Then you'll understand.'

Hoolgar's tall, spare figure was at the far end of the Map Room, his back to them, his head bent. Adalon walked swiftly to the old tutor, hailing him. 'Hoolgar! Is all well?'

Hoolgar jerked around and Adalon stared. The Crested One glared at him with eyes that held a deep and ancient wrath. Then the look disappeared, to be replaced by an expression of careful wariness. 'Adalon. You're back.'

'We all are, but Varriah said I needed to see you. What is she talking about?'

'I have no idea. She's an anxious thing, that Varriah.'

Adalon blinked. Anxious was not how he would describe the calm, capable Varriah. 'And what is she worried about?'

Hoolgar flapped a hand. 'She's been running around, claiming some saur have disappeared.'

'Disappearances? From the valley?'

'You're not listening. Varriah
thought
there had been disappearances. A few saur wandered off, didn't present for dinner, that sort of thing, and Varriah flew into a panic. They all turned up, right as rain, so there really is nothing to be concerned about.'

Hoolgar adjusted his spectacles and peered at the map on the table in front of him. 'Now, have you ever seen Shuff in winter? Quite impressive, it is.'

Adalon shook his head at the sudden change of subject. He still couldn't imagine Varriah flying into a panic about anything. 'And nothing else is wrong?'

Hoolgar tore his gaze away from the map and shrugged. 'A few unhappy saur spreading discontent, that's all. That Varriah, for instance. I'd watch her, Adalon, if I were you.' He shook his head sadly, but his eyes glinted. 'These are difficult times for all of us.'

Varriah appeared at the door to the Map Room. 'Adalon, could I have a word?'

Adalon joined the steward, and noticed how she kept an eye on Hoolgar, who hadn't interrupted his careful study of the map.

'What is it?'

'Do you see what I mean?'

'Hoolgar? He didn't tell me much at all.'

'I didn't think he would.'

'Then why did you tell me to speak to him?'

'Not speak to him.
See
him. I thought it might show you how much things have gone wrong here.'

Adalon scratched his neck with a claw. Varriah still seemed the same efficient, competent saur as ever. Whatever was Hoolgar talking about?

Adalon wanted a bath. He wanted to rest. He wanted to have some peace. 'How bad is it?'

'This place is falling apart. Nothing is getting done.'

'And these disappearances?'

'Ah. He told you about them?'

Adalon nodded.

'I'll wager that he claimed I panicked, made much of little.'

'Something like that.'

'Saur have been disappearing, Adalon. Trust me. But it is true that they have all come back.' Varriah shifted uneasily. 'And when they came back, they were not the same.'

Adalon could see that Varriah was deeply troubled. Despite his weariness, he knew he had to find out what was causing her such disquiet. 'Not the same?'

'When you left, everyone in the Hidden Valley was united, working together, glad of the safety of this place. But every one of the saur who disappeared and reappeared has become sullen, refusing to do menial jobs, as they put it. Much arguing, bickering over little things.'

Adalon could hear Hoolgar's words, warning that these were difficult times. Becoming sullen, becoming unhappy, these could easily be the result of being trapped in the Hidden Valley with the forces of Queen Tayesha rampaging over all Krangor.

'I will look into this,' Adalon said, turning away. 'Once I've had some rest.'

The steward took his arm. 'You must, Adalon. The saur here are not themselves. They're dangerous.'

Adalon's shoulders slumped. As if it weren't enough to be waging a war against the strongest monarch in all Krangor, he had to deal with the household squabbles of the saur of the Lost Castle. 'Can't you sort this out?' he pleaded.

'I tried. The industrious have become shiftless. The friendly have become belligerent. The cooperative have become fractious. We have had fights. Blood has been spilled.'

'No,' Adalon said, aghast.

'Nothing major, but these fights have only added to the tension.'

Adalon was greatly saddened by this. The saur who had sought refuge within the encircling mountains of the Hidden Valley were from different backgrounds. Some were from Sleeto, in the mountains, and others had come from High Battilon, in the Eastern Peaks, but others had been found starving and lawless in the wilderness of Thraag. The Lost Castle had become a sanctuary for Plated Ones, Horned Ones, Toothed Ones and more, and when Adalon had left they had been working together to make this place their home.

'I must see this for myself,' he said to Varriah, and he could see his longed-for rest was going to have to wait.

'See if you can get any sense out of Hoolgar,' she advised. 'It may be a useful place to start.'

Adalon looked sharply at the steward, but she'd hurried out the door. His tail twitching, Adalon made his way back to Hoolgar's side. The old tutor was peering at a map of Shuff and mumbling to himself. 'Hoolgar?'

Hoolgar turned swiftly and took a step back. 'Ah, Adalon,' he said and he brushed his tunic with both hands. 'It's . . . ah . . . good to have you back.'

Adalon's tiredness made him impatient. 'What's happening here? What is going on?'

Hoolgar rubbed his hands together. 'Nothing, nothing, really. Just a few misunderstandings, some disaffected souls. To be expected, really.'

Adalon grimaced. 'We've found Gormond and brought him with us. Tayesha's plans are foiled.'

'You got him, did you? Well done.'

Adalon had expected a more enthusiastic response than that. Hoolgar sounded as if Gormond's rescue was only of minor importance. 'Have you learned anything, Hoolgar? Anything to help us?'

Hoolgar narrowed his eyes. 'I've learned much, but who's to say if it will be useful? And if it is useful, to whom?'

'I was hoping for something rather more helpful than this.'

Hoolgar snorted. 'Knowledge is often difficult to understand for lesser saur.'

This was unlike the patient, gentle saur that Adalon knew. Hoolgar had always been generous in sharing his wisdom. 'Lesser saur?'

Hoolgar ignored this and seized his arm. He began leading Adalon toward the door. 'The A'ak were remarkable,' he said with enthusiasm. 'They ruled the land, you know, ruled it with a rod of iron. None of this partnership business. The A'ak were supreme.'

'Where are we going?'

'The Foundation Room. Now, the A'ak had a special way of controlling the land. I've discovered this, you know.'

Adalon stopped dead. 'You have? This is wonderful! Tell me more.'

'Soon, soon.' The old saur peered ahead. 'Which way?'

'There. At the end of the corridor, past the ballroom and down the stairs.'

'Good. Haven't you ever wondered about the seven kingdoms, Adalon? Why seven?'

Adalon smiled. This was more like the old tutor. 'I don't know, Hoolgar. I thought they just grew where saur were.'

'Tcha!' The old Hoolgar disappeared and the new, impatient Crested One was back. 'You wallow in ignorance! We have more than seven kinds of saur – why didn't each one begin a kingdom? Foolish.' He lapsed into angry mumbling as they negotiated the stairs. When they reached the bottom he glared at Adalon. 'Power over the land, that's what it's all about. Scattered throughout Krangor are sites of power, points of control. Master them and you master the land.'

Adalon stared. 'That's what the A'ak did?' Hoolgar pushed open the iron-bound door. 'Why do you think the Lost Castle is built where it is?' He crossed the antechamber and went into the inner chamber. 'This is one of the sites of power. This is where the A'ak held some of their most potent rituals.'

Adalon gazed around the Foundation Room – the rough stone walls, the crudely carved pillars, the crystals that winked in the rocky ceiling high above. It wasn't a large room, but it felt immense, as if it stretched into distances that were sensed dimly rather than seen.

The feeling of age and awe he'd always felt there was redoubled, but this time he felt uneasy as he considered Hoolgar's words. 'And the A'ak held the other places, too?'

'Of course.'

Adalon thought of the ruins they'd found when fleeing Tayesha's troops, and the way Gormond had been transported to a similar place in his kingdom. 'We could use this place to flit across all Krangor,' he murmured.

'Eh? What's that?' Hoolgar asked, turning an intent gaze on him.

For some reason, Adalon held back from explaining their adventure in the A'ak ruins. 'Nothing.'

Hoolgar narrowed his eyes for an instant. 'Well, never mind.' He pointed toward the wall. 'Stand over there.'

Adalon looked in the direction of the old saur's gesture, then back at him. 'Why?'

Hoolgar bristled. 'Just do what I say. I don't have time for impertinent questions.'

Adalon went to argue, but held his tongue. Hoolgar was evidently feeling the strain, as all of them were. He moved to the spot. 'Here?'

'No. To the right a little. Yes, stop there.'

'What's this about, Hoolgar?'

The old tutor grinned at him, and Adalon's stomach sank. Hoolgar looked completely different – cold, harsh and malevolent. It was the face of a creature with no pity at all and, too late, Adalon realised this couldn't be Hoolgar at all. 'Time to meet the A'ak, Adalon.'

Transported to an alien plane, Adalon fell to his knees, striking them both on rough rock. He was surrounded by murk and shifting shadows – crimson, red and black. It was achingly hot. Muffled noises boomed in his ears. His eyes watered and he wiped them, peering at grotesque shapes moving just beyond his reach.

Unsteadily, he rose to his feet. Inside, he tightly contained his panic. His pulse quickened; every muscle in his body was taut. An acrid taste filled his mouth and he spat, clearing it.

Adalon had had a peaceful life until his father died. Since then, he had learned that he could be overwhelmed by his emotions. Anger had clamped red-hot pincers on his brain. Sorrow had threatened to drown him. Fear had stalked his dreams – fear of defeat in battle, fear of losing his friends. With the Way of the Claw as his guide, he had learned that his emotions need not crush him. While he could not deny them, he could – with some effort – keep them in check.

He rolled his shoulders, loosening them. He curled his tail and tapped it on the small of his back. He spread his fists, easing the clenched muscles in his forearms and presenting his claws. He was ready to face whatever was out there.

A booming sound slapped him and he staggered. Wincing, he covered his ears and the noise was muffled. With some surprise, he realised it was voices.

They were harsh and commanding, constantly running over the top of one another, a jumbled, arrogant chorus. They interrupted, ignored, mused, often becoming wordless grunting or mirthless laughter. Adalon did his best, but he could see nothing through the shifting veils of shadow.

Suddenly, the voices halted and Adalon was pinned by a single, clear presence. He was held by it, just as firmly as if he had been tied by ropes. It was old, powerful and wicked.

'CLAWED ONE. YOU STAND BEFORE THE A'AK. TREMBLE AND WEEP IF YOU MUST, BUT SERVE US YOU WILL.
'

Adalon bridled at the arrogance in the voice. He swept a hand in front of him but could not pierce the churning darkness. 'Why should I serve the A'ak? You are the half-forgotten stuff of legends used to scare children. Show yourself!'

'OUR EXILE IS ABOUT TO END. ALL KRANGOR WILL SERVE THE A'AK.'

Adalon hissed, and his hands became fists again. He remembered the tales the Winged Ones had told, of the horrors of living under the A'ak. 'Never.'

'YOU ARE BUT INSECTS TO THE A'AK. IF YOU RESIST, YOU WILL BE CRUSHED.'

'The saur will resist you. The land will resist you.'

'THE LAND IS A BEAST. WE WILL BE ITS MASTERS. EVEN AS WE SPEAK, OUR AGENTS ARE PREPARING THE WAY FOR US.'

'You'll never take Krangor,' Adalon cried. 'We will stop you.'

'REPLACE HIM.'

Adalon had a sense of the vast and terrible attention moving away from him. He was no longer interesting or important. The booming chorus of voices began again, drumming on his skull like clubs.

Adalon turned in a circle and looked for some escape through the shadows. His eyes stung and he wiped them with the back of his hand, his tail twitching in frustration. Dimly, beyond the shadows, huge shapes paraded, lurching around, coming together and separating. Deep, chilling roars echoed, sometimes sounding like words, sometimes like laughter.

Adalon took a step in a random direction, then something burst through the shadows. He leaped backwards, hissing, his thumb-claws raised even though he knew they'd be useless against such a foe.

It was one of the A'ak stone creatures, but smaller than the others he had faced, and less crude in its construction. With ponderous steps, it came for him.

Adalon darted to the right, then the left, but the stone creature kept coming toward him. Its arms were outstretched, but Adalon knew it was a deadly embrace.

Adalon edged away, then cursed as his back struck a rocky wall he hadn't seen through the shifts of the mist. He slid to his left, but the stone creature thrust out an arm and blocked his way.

Adalon pushed the stone creature in the chest, but it was like striking a cliff face. It slammed its other arm against the wall. Adalon squirmed and tried to escape the trap, but the stone monster drew itself closer. Adalon sought for a weak spot, a crack, anything. He scrabbled on its blank, rocky surface, battering at it, scratching, but he couldn't stop the monster as it slowly lowered its massive head to his. Dimly, he felt a toe claw tear away. Roaring, booming laughter rolled over him.

The monster clamped his arms to his side. Adalon strained, but could not free himself. Its head came close enough that he could see it, horrible in its formlessness. Its blank, featureless face filled his entire vision, coming nearer and nearer. He whipped his head from side to side, then let out a strangled cry of pure horror. The monster's head cracked like an eggshell, tiny fissures spreading as fast as thought until they covered its whole surface, then it shattered and a scream rose in Adalon's throat.

Revealed within was his own face.

The monster stepped back. Adalon slid to the rocky floor. He felt drained, numb and horrified, but he now understood what had been happening in the Lost Castle.

The mysterious disappearances. Hoolgar had been the first to be replaced, no doubt. When he'd been taken into the A'ak realm, his place had been taken by a lookalike. It had been this evil substitute who had helped prepare the way. Gradually, the saur in the Lost Castle were being replaced by creatures of the A'ak.

The stone monster whose face now bore his likeness bent down and pawed at him. Adalon rolled to his feet and tried to see a way free. The shadows and mist churned, billowing and featureless, giving no clue.

Threatened and lost in the middle of this hostile world, Adalon had a sudden moment of clarity. The Way of the Claw came to him.
When in doubt, trust to your speed.
It was a lesson his father had lingered over: the worth of the Clawed Ones' gift of speed. 'Sometimes,' his father said, 'it is best to run. Judging the time and the direction is the difficult part.'

His heart sank. How could he run here? He was as good as blind.
A Clawed One can run blindfolded through a forest on a moonless night,
the Way of the Claw said, but Adalon had always thought it was nonsense.

It seems as if I'm about to find out,
he thought.

His senses straining, he bounded forward. He stretched out his left hand, ready to swerve the instant he felt anything ahead.

The booming around him grew louder. A grotesque shape, taller than the tallest Long-necked One, appeared just in front of him and he threw himself to one side. He rolled and sprang to his feet at pace. The shadows clung to him and seared his throat. Another shape emerged from the murk and Adalon hurtled past, barely avoiding the stooping horror.

Then he was through. The shadows lifted. His throat cleared but he kept running, striving to leave the horrors of the A'ak behind. He sped through a tunnel bored through black, shining rock. It glowed with a violet light that Adalon had seen before, in the tunnel connecting the mainland with the Fiery Isles. From behind him came an uproar of angry booming, but he did not look back. He trusted to his speed.

As he raced over the uneven surface, the air began to thicken again. His vision started to cloud and he grimly dug in, looking for the speed and stamina he needed to run so far and so fast that the A'ak would never catch him.

So when the pit yawned ahead of him, he had little chance of stopping. Feeling like a fool, he skidded and tumbled over the edge, cursing as he went.