Crown of Three (19 page)

“Green,” replied the thorrod.

“Yes.” Tarlan laughed. “It's green all right!”

Beneath his cloak, Filos shifted her weight. Tarlan's laughter died as he stroked the tigron cub. He was worried about her: She'd said nothing since they'd left the Icy Wastes—hadn't so much as growled. The black leaf he'd applied to her wound had flaked away, revealing an angry-looking gash of red.

Tarlan felt in his pouch, hoping he might still have some shreds of the precious medicine. But the black leaf was all gone. During the fight with the Wastelanders, Nasheen had been slashed across the breast, and feathers had been torn from her left wing. Tarlan had used the last of the black leaf to soothe her pain, ignoring the increasing ache from his own injured left arm. But Nasheen's wings were beginning to labor, and she was clearly suffering. Tarlan didn't think she'd be able to stay in the air much longer. Though she made no complaint, Theeta was clearly exhausted, and even Kitheen's strong wings were beginning to falter.

As pack leader, it was up to Tarlan to make a decision.

“We're going to land,” he announced. “We all need rest, and Nasheen and Filos need help.”

The three birds dipped their heads wearily.

“Rest,” said Theeta.

“Help,” said Nasheen.

A line of low hills rose ahead. Beyond it, plumes of smoke towered into the air: There must be a village, Tarlan supposed. He could also see the tops of trees crowding the skyline. If there was a forest, his pack could hide while he scouted for help.

And after that, their search for Melchior could begin.

To Tarlan's dismay, as they crested the hills, he saw the smoke was coming from burning buildings. There was a village all right . . . but it was on fire. People ran across the open ground between flaming barns and homesteads, shouting and screaming. Some carried pails of water; others carried farm tools, waving them as if they were weapons.

They were low now, committed to their approach. Nasheen's eyes flickered shut, then opened, then closed again.

“Nasheen!” shouted Tarlan. “Head for the trees!”

The little flock of thorrods made a clumsy turn over the ravaged village. A few frightened faces turned up to look at the huge birds, but most people were too concerned with fighting the fires.

The forest Tarlan had anticipated turned out to be just a ragged copse. Still, it would give them shelter and a chance to stay out of the sight of humans. They landed hard at the tree line and stumbled together under a thin canopy of oak and birch. As soon as they were in the shade, Nasheen slumped awkwardly, her chest shuddering as she struggled to breathe. Theeta nuzzled her; behind them, Kitheen was forcing his way through the trees toward a small stream running down from the hillside.

Sliding off Theeta's back, Tarlan nestled Filos into a clump of ferns and covered her with his black cloak. He checked she was still breathing and that her wound wasn't bleeding. Then he stood back. There was nothing more he could do for her.

He stared into the thicket. It was a poor place to hide. If Mirith were here, she would no doubt have been able to dig up all the curative herbs they needed. If only he'd paid more attention to her lessons! What was it she'd used to soothe tired limbs? Something with ground-up bones? Well, there were no bones around here and, even if there were, Tarlan wouldn't know what to do with them.

“We need help,” he said.

“Help,” croaked Nasheen without opening her eyes. Kitheen, having returned from the stream, spilled the water he'd carried in his beak down her throat.

Tarlan gazed at the burning village. He could just make out the heads of the people as they dashed around, trying to save their homes.

“We need help,” he said again, quietly and to himself.

Theeta nudged him with one golden wing. “Theeta comes,” she said.

“Yes,” said Tarlan. “I think I might need you.”

Side by side, they crossed the field separating the trees from the village. Tarlan kept his good hand on his bow and tried to forget about the pain in his left shoulder. Did he even have the strength to draw an arrow? He didn't know.

One of the barns on the outskirts of the settlement was still intact. A battle was raging before it: Villagers armed with rakes and scythes tried to defend their homes against soldiers wearing blue sashes over chain mail. It looked like a very uneven contest.

“What do you think, Theeta?” said Tarlan. “Should we get involved?”

“On,” the thorrod replied.

Tarlan grabbed her feathers and swung himself onto her back. Spreading her wings, Theeta accelerated toward the barn, flying so low that her talons raked a furrow in the grass. As they neared the two opposing forces, she steered a little to the right, aiming herself at the soldiers.

“How do you know they're the enemy?” said Tarlan.

“Took child,” said Theeta.

The faces of the combatants turned toward Tarlan and Theeta. One of the soldiers cried out and dropped the little girl he'd been carrying. Grim-faced, his comrades backed away from the farmers and formed a hasty wall against the oncoming thorrod. A woman rushed forward and scooped her up.

“Look out!” said Tarlan, as two of the soldiers lifted spears. “Go left!”

Theeta changed direction at once, her pounding wings raising clouds of dust from the yard in front of the barn. As the soldiers retreated farther, coughing and spluttering, Tarlan steered the thorrod directly into their midst and waited for her claws to come out.

But they didn't. Theeta was flying so low, and so fast, that her momentum alone knocked the soldiers aside, just as Tarlan might have scattered a line of wooden pegs with a thrown rock.

Hardly had the soldiers picked themselves up than the villagers, sensing an advantage, pressed forward with their attack. Dazed and confused, the enemy started to re-form their ranks.

As soon as they saw the thorrod lining up for a second attack, the soldiers dropped their weapons and fled. A ragged cheer rose from the villagers as Tarlan brought Theeta in to land in the meadow beyond the barnyard.

No sooner had they touched down than the woman whose child they'd saved rushed up to them.

“Thank you,” she cried. Still cradling her little girl, she looked up in awe at the thorrod. “Did Lady Darrand send you to save us?”

“Uh, no,” said Tarlan, untangling the complex speech of the woman. Without Mirith to talk to, he was out of practice. Animal languages were so much more straightforward. “I don't know who Lady Darrand is. I don't know anything about what's going on here. I just need—”

A trumpeting horn cut off his words. With a thunder of wheels and hooves, a chariot drawn by two white horses burst from behind the barn. Running behind it was a troop of twelve men wearing brown leather armor and carrying broadswords. Driving the chariot was a woman clad in metal armor. Where it wasn't splattered with mud, it shone as bright as silver under the Ritherlee sun.

The woman cracked a whip, urging the horses across the field to where Tarlan and Theeta stood. As the chariot skidded to a halt, she pulled off her helm. Black hair spilled down her back.

“I am Lady Sora Darrand,” she said. Like the other woman, her gaze was fixed not on Tarlan but on his giant winged companion. “This village is under the protection of my family. State your business here.”

“I have no business,” said Tarlan. “I just want help.”

Lady Darrand raised one black eyebrow. “Indeed? And yet help is what you have given. Is that not right, Amalie?”

The woman with the child nodded.

“What's going on here?” said Tarlan. Now that the attacking soldiers had departed, the villagers dropped their weapons. A man opened a faucet set in a wall and people ran to it with buckets, bowls, and barrels, filling them with water and sloshing it over the flames.

Lady Darrand pursed her lips. Tarlan felt her eyes scrutinizing him. Judging him. At last she spoke.

“This land is mine. It has been in my family for generations. For all that time we have lived in peace with our neighbors, the Vicerins. Ever since we played together as children, Lord Vicerin and I have been friends. We fought together as allies against the corrupt crown.”

It meant nothing to Tarlan. Lords and ladies? Battles against the crown? None of it interested him at all, but Lady Darrand was looking at him expectantly, waiting for a response.

“Oh. So what went wrong?”

“For a young man who knows nothing of our affairs, you seem astute.”

Tarlan shrugged. “I've got eyes. I can see that something bad happened here.”

“Something bad. Yes. A few days ago, Lord Vicerin's daughter was kidnapped. Now his army is on the rampage, seizing land, killing livestock. Villages are being burned to the ground.” Lady Darrand's expression grew hard. “And he is taking our children.”

It made no sense to Tarlan. “Revenge?” he hazarded.

“No,” said Lady Darrand. “Bargaining power.”

“I don't understand.”

“It is complicated.” A shadow fell over her face. “Two days ago, my own daughter was snatched from her sleep. My own dear little Sorelle . . .”

For the first time, Tarlan found himself interested in what this woman had to say. He had no time for armies and kingdoms. But he knew what it was to be a child alone in the world.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

Lady Darrand shook herself. Stern as her face was, her eyes sparkled too.

“This is a thorrod, is it not?” she said, looking up.

“Her name is Theeta.”

“And your name?”

He hesitated before answering. “Tarlan.”

“Such a beast would be a great advantage in battle.”

“I suppose so.” Something about this woman's strength reminded Tarlan of Mirith, yet he knew he had to be cautious. The little he'd seen of other humans had taught him that much.

“You say you need help. I will give you that help, if I can.”

At last Tarlan understood what she was saying. “In return, you want us to fight for you.”

Lady Darrand raised her eyebrow again and smiled. “As I said: astute.”

Tarlan looked up at Theeta. She returned his gaze. His thorrod friend would do whatever he asked, he knew that—as would the rest of his pack.

But is it something I should ask of them?

“Do you need time to think?” said Lady Darrand.

Tarlan thought of Nasheen, suffering under the trees. He thought of Filos, who was perhaps dying. He felt the heat in his own injured arm, spreading slowly with the ache through the rest of his body.

“No,” he said. “We'll help you, but you have to help us first. I have three other companions. They're just over there, in the woods. We need a healer. We've had . . . a long ordeal. Make us well, and we'll do whatever you ask.”

“Your companions,” said Lady Darrand, her eyes narrowing. “Are they warriors?”

“Two are thorrods.” Tarlan enjoyed seeing the expression of wonder overtake her face. “The other is a tigron. She's young, but her claws are sharp.” He squared his shoulders. “They are all loyal to me. They will do whatever I ask.”

“They obey you?” Her surprise was evident in her expression.

“I talk to them.”

She stared at him for a long time before finally summoning one of her soldiers. They conferred, then he trotted away, returning moments later with an old man. The man was so laden with packs and pouches that he resembled a walking market stall.

“My lady?” he said in a hoarse, dry voice.

“Caraway, go with this young man. Do what you can to help him and his . . . companions.”

The old man bowed low. “Many of your men lie injured, my lady. Are you sure this is what you want?”

“I am sure, Caraway. Now stop wasting time and do as you are told!”

The old man flinched under the sharpness of her tongue. Lady Darrand nodded at Tarlan in dismissal, but he wasn't finished.

“This is not our war, Lady Darrand. We'll help remove the threat to this village, but that's all. As soon as your people are safe, we're leaving. Do you understand?”

Lady Darrand looked taken aback. Tarlan imagined she wasn't used to being given orders—but then, neither was he. For a moment, he thought she'd refuse. Then she stepped down from her chariot and offered him her hand. “I accept your terms, thorrod rider,” she said.

Tarlan shook it.

“Lead the way, young man,” said Caraway.

“I can do better than that,” replied Tarlan.

Despite her exhaustion, Theeta made no complaint when both Tarlan and the healer settled onto her back. It was a short flight back to the copse, during which Caraway clung tightly to Theeta's feathers and kept his mouth shut in a thin line. In the far distance, Tarlan could see the blue sashes of the Vicerin army massing for another attack. This wasn't over yet.

As they stepped under the trees, Kitheen lunged out of the shadows, his golden beak wide, the black feathers on his breast standing erect. The old man drew back fearfully, scattering his bags on the ground.

“Easy, Kitheen!” Tarlan soothed. “Easy, everyone. He means you no harm.”

Kitheen folded his wings, almost knocking the old man over.

“It's not me doing the harm I'm worried about,” grumbled Caraway, eyeing the three thorrods and the cub.

Tarlan smothered a grin as he helped gather the fallen bags. Caraway opened them up and, despite his shaking hands, quickly mixed together a bewildering array of herbs and ointments. Tarlan watched in fascination. For Mirith, the art of healing had been a slow, sacred ritual. He supposed the fighting had given Caraway practiced speed.

“You first,” said the old man, standing suddenly with a clay bowl in his wrinkled hands. “It's your left arm, if I'm not mistaken.”

Surprised, Tarlan eased his tunic away from his shoulder. “How did you know?”