The Lost Castle (10 page)

Adalon stood with his friends in front of the iron cabinet. Simangee looked uncertain, but Targesh sniffed the scent of oil and metal in the armoury. His eyes were bright and keen as his gaze roamed over the racks of weapons.

'Three of us,' Adalon said. 'Three of us against a kingdom. But great oaks grow from small acorns.'

He fitted the iron key into the keyhole and turned it without hesitating. He seized both handles and flung the doors open.

Simangee sighed. Targesh's eyes went wide. Adalon clenched his hands and felt claws bite into his palms.

The cabinet was larger inside than it was outside, stretching into a distance that was lost in haze. Adalon looked again. It wasn't right. The interior of the cabinet was twisted, not square. No, that wasn't it. It was tilted, just a little. He shook his head. That wasn't it either. He turned away for a moment. It hurt his eyes if he looked too long. A smell like hot sand made his nostrils ache.

'Hrmph!' Targesh stamped his feet and snorted. 'More magic.'

'Oh yes,' Simangee said. She rubbed her hands together, and Adalon thought she looked like a youngling gazing at a table laden with sweet pastries. True to her word, it seemed she had recovered from her collapse.

Adalon stepped into the cabinet. To his left were racks of armour. On the right were shields and swords. He looked from side to side. The first armour was plate, made of sky blue metal. On the opposite side of the cabinet was a matching blue shield and sword.

Next in line was green banded armour, the same glittering colour as emeralds. A green shield and a green axe stood opposite.

The third was ruby-red chain mail, with a red shield and a red bow.

After that the arms and armour were grey and shadowy. Adalon reached out for the fourth set but pulled his hand back, hissing. Something stopped his claws, something both hot and cold, burning his skin.

'Green,' Targesh said, rubbing his nose horn. 'I like green.'

'Are you sure it's yours?' Adalon asked.

Targesh smiled and pointed at the green armour, neatly laid out. 'No helmet.'

Adalon nodded. Of course a Horned One would need no helmet. Besides, the green armour looked a perfect fit for Targesh's burly frame.

'The magic has sorted us out,' Simangee said. 'The red bow is mine, I'd imagine. And the red armour.' She lifted the red bow and a curiously designed helmet. It had a cunning hinge that allowed it to fit neatly around Simangee's bony crest. She then drew up a telescoping series of scales. Simangee held out her hands. 'See?'

The ruby-red armour made Simangee look like an exotic bird. Adalon smiled.

He lifted the sky-blue helmet and settled it over his head. It was light, hardly any weight at all. Even though the eyeholes were mere slits, Adalon could see as well as if he wasn't wearing a helmet at all.

'No-one would know who you are,' Simangee said, and her voice came unmuffled to Adalon. 'You look like a hero from the clouds.'

'From legend,' Targesh said, and his words made Adalon shiver.

He turned his head to the left and to the right. The helmet did not impede him in any way. It felt as if he had been wearing it all his life.

'Ready yourselves,' he said. 'We ride to Sleeto.' Adalon seized the sword. Without thinking, he swung it at a nearby bench. All his worry and his frustration were behind the swing, but he was still stunned when the bench was cloven in two.

He held up the sword and stared at it. Targesh clapped him on the back and grinned. 'Powerful magic.'

Adalon only hoped that the cost for such power would not be more than they could pay.

The great brass riding beasts bounded through the gates of the castle with the clashing of metal. When they reached the river, they stopped.

'Do you have the pipe?' Simangee asked Adalon.

He took it from a pouch on his belt.
If the magic is useful, I can endure the pain
, he decided. He lifted his visor, and blew on the pipe.

A noise like a high-pitched whine set Adalon's teeth on edge, but that was all – and it soon disappeared. No visions came to him. He shook himself and urged his steed over the solid water.

When they reached the perilous exit from the Hidden Valley, Adalon held up a claw. With a clatter like a band putting down their instruments, the riding beasts came to a halt. 'Simangee. As soon as the mountain finishes its roaring, we can pass?'

'Yes. But we mustn't linger.'

The riding beasts were not frightened by the smell of burning rock or the jets of fire. Their clashing hoofs struck sparks as they raced through the tunnel and out onto the mountain's flank.

Adalon's breath was whipped away as they surged down the slope of Graaldon. Behind him he heard Targesh whooping with delight.

The brass riding beasts were tireless. Heading north-east, they galloped through the stony plain, through the grasslands, through the dark forest and through the wild countryside, faster than Adalon had ever gone before. Birds scattered in front of them and wildlife fled. Adalon felt like an arrow in flight as he rode low, eyes squinting against the wind.

After hours of riding, they burst through trees and startled a party of woodcutters. The woodcutters stared open-mouthed at the mirror-bright armour and the metal steeds. Adalon and his companions hurtled through the clearing and vanished into the forest beyond.

The day flew by as the great brass steeds ate up miles with their strides. Adalon rode grimly, his two friends flanking him. He wondered if he should halt to rest, but the determination on the faces of Simangee and Targesh pushed him on. They followed streams and rivers, fording where they could. They rode around villages and hamlets, setting watch beasts barking. They rode on and on.

The mountains called to them, the great ragged Skyhorn Ranges, the border between Thraag and the eastern kingdoms of Callibeen, Shuff and Chulnagh. Perched high in the clouds was Sleeto, the sole pass through the mountains.

Finally, in the broad late afternoon, they came to the foothills and the main road from Challish. It was a dusty trail, barely wide enough for a heavy wagon. It wound its way through woods and up into the heights.

Adalon reined in his great brass steed. He pushed up his visor as his friends circled around him. They all stretched tired muscles. Staunch, brave Targesh was solemn. Simangee looked weary but determined.
Good friends, both of them
, Adalon thought. Yet here he was about to take them into battle where they could be killed . . .

'We must do this,' Simangee said before Adalon could speak. 'How could we not?'

'Yes,' Targesh said. '
Resist. Defend. Repel.
The Way of the Horn.'

In that moment Adalon knew that this friendship was worth all the treasure in the Lost Castle. He slammed down his visor. 'Now, let us ride to Sleeto!'

The road rose steeply. It switched back and forth again and again as it took them toward the gap between the two great peaks. The brass steeds climbed without complaint.

At last, a turn and over a rise, and Adalon held up a hand. Targesh and Simangee reined in close behind him, waiting, silent.

Adalon cocked his head to listen. The sounds of metal on metal came echoing off the mountainside. Shouts and screams mingled with the clangour.

'What is it, Adalon?' Simangee asked, her visor raised.

'Battle. Troops are at Sleeto.'

Targesh sniffed. 'Smoke.'

Adalon urged his steed forward. Together, the three friends thundered along the road to Sleeto.

Sleeto lay in a small valley. For centuries it had seen travellers and merchants passing from Thraag to Callibeen and beyond. The inn of Sleeto was famous, with beer made from fresh mountain water. It was a peaceful, pretty place and Adalon, Targesh and Simangee had spent many happy times there.

But this day, happiness was a stranger. Adalon stared in horror at the scene below them. Smoke rose from burning buildings, and troops on riding beasts wheeled back and forth.

He could see that the attackers were a light force, barely twenty soldiers. Plenty to deal with such a tiny village in the mountains. The commander hadn't reckoned, however, on the fierce pride of the mountain saur. They hadn't gone peacefully with the troops. They had resisted. At least one soldier was lying face down near one of the houses. But the villagers had fared much worse than the soldiers. Strewn around the small town were what appeared at first glance to be motionless bundles of rags – Adalon shuddered when he realised what they were.

The soldiers were circling the inn, the largest building in the town. The shutters were closed and Adalon knew the villagers would have retreated there for safety.

Adalon drew his sword. Simangee had her bow in hand and had already nocked an arrow. Targesh hefted his axe. Without a word, they plunged toward the troops.

As they raced closer, Simangee released an arrow, then another. In an instant, she had half a dozen ruby-red shafts speeding toward the attackers.

Adalon and Targesh roared. They whirled their weapons and fell on the soldiers.

Simangee's shafts had already sown confusion in the troops. When they saw three mirrored warriors on steeds of brass, they began to panic. They tried to turn their riding beasts to face these new foes, but some went one way, some another. Riding beasts reared, spilling riders; some galloped off despite the cursing of the soldiers.

Before the troops could order themselves, Adalon and Targesh were on them.

Adalon was grim as he dealt with them. It gave him no pleasure, no joy. When he remembered the vision he had had of the A'ak, and the terrible aftermath of battle where death was the only victor, any excitement withered in his chest.

His sword was light in his hand, slashing and hacking, dancing like a sky-blue flame. It split shields and shattered swords. The eyes of Adalon's foes showed terror as he hewed his way through them. They fell back, trying to avoid him.

Targesh was alongside, bellowing and swinging the great green axe as if it were a straw. Any unfortunates who came close enough were flung aside with a toss of his mighty horns.

The brass riding beasts were deadly. They kicked and bit and trampled, clanging with the sound of a giant's foundry.

All around, Simangee's arrows buzzed like angry red wasps, each finding a target. Adalon felt one hum past as he struck at a rangy Toothed One. It was as if a crimson flower suddenly sprouted in the saur's chest. He fell backward.

In the middle of the battle, Adalon raised his head and saw a crooked figure on a ridge nearby. He tried to see the figure more clearly, but a Plated One loomed up at him. Adalon fended off a mace with his shield, which felt light as a feather. He crashed the shield into the face of his attacker and then peered again at the observer on the ridge.

He was a Toothed One – that was clear – wearing chain mail instead of the plate armour that the rest of the troops wore. It was plain that only chain mail could cover the misshapen body of this saur.

The Toothed One raised a claw and pointed to the right wing of the troops. A dozen riders fell back, then regrouped and charged at Adalon, Targesh and Simangee.

Just as the riders closed on him, realisation came to Adalon with enough force to take his breath away.
Wargrach!

The saur who had killed his father had not died in the mouth of Graaldon! Fury erupted in Adalon and he spurred his brass steed forward. The red mist of anger began to colour his vision as his sword moved faster and faster. His heart started to swell with the beauty of battle. Every thrust became a song; every parry became a dance. What had he been thinking? Battle was glorious, not grim! Strength, victory, triumph – these were what war was about! He swung his blade over his head, laughing.

At this sight, the remaining soldiers pulled up. 'Come!' Adalon cried. 'All of you! I'll take you all! Then I'll take your leader!' He pointed his sword at Wargrach, who stood, unmoving, on the ridge.

The soldiers turned and fled.

Adalon threw his head back and screamed. How dare they? Running from battle? Cowards! They deserved to die the death of ages!

He went to spur his brass steed on, but Targesh stepped in front of him and seized the bridle. 'No,' the Horned One said.

'Out of my way!' Adalon lifted his sword.

Targesh did not move. He gazed at Adalon.

Stupid Horned One!
Adalon thought.
It's time he was taught a lesson!

He began to bring down the sword and then he stared stupidly at the arrow that pierced his forearm, neatly through a joint in his armour. The sword dropped from his hand, bounced off the shoulder of his steed and then lay on the ground.

'Take his helmet off, Targesh,' Simangee ordered as she slung her bow over her saddle.

Together, they eased Adalon to the ground. He glared at them and hissed. His tail thrashed at them until Targesh trapped it beneath his knee. 'Unhand me, ingrates! Wargrach is out there. I must take him!'

Simangee held his head and stared into his eyes. 'Let go of the fury, Adalon. The magic armour, the weapons, are drawing on it, stoking it until it consumes you.'

Adalon shook with rage. He wanted his weapons. He wanted to be out there, leading the A'ak to victory, to fulfil their destiny as the rulers of all. Every saur in Krangor would bow down before the A'ak!

Adalon shook his head.
A'ak? What am I thinking?

That was enough. The rage began to recede, drawing back like the waning tide. 'Simangee?'

'Adalon? Are you yourself again?'

Adalon's heart was hammering in his chest and his head felt light, as if he had not eaten for days. His forearm hurt. 'I thought I was the leader of the A'ak.'

He had wondered at the price for using such magical stuff as the armour and weapons. Now he knew.

'And now?' Targesh rumbled.

Adalon snorted. 'Adalon who was once of the Eastern Peaks.'

'Adalon of the Lost Castle?' Simangee said, grinning. Together, she and Targesh helped him to his feet.

'That may do,' Adalon allowed. 'That may do.'

He held out his arm and stared. An arrow was sticking right through it. The pain, however, was dull – an ache that he could ignore.

Targesh snapped the head off the arrow and, delicately, pulled the remains from Adalon's arm. Simangee took a bandage from a pouch at her belt and bound the wound.

'You are wearing the A'ak armour too. Did you feel nothing?' he asked her. She shook her head. 'Targesh?'

'No.'

Simangee looked up. 'What price will
we
pay for using the armour, Adalon?'

'I don't know. You may escape with something minor, or nothing at all.'

Targesh shrugged. 'My back itches.'

The doors of the inn burst open. To Adalon, it looked as if the whole population of the village flooded out. Males, females, younglings, oldsters, all armed with whatever weapons they had to hand when the soldiers fell on their village – some old swords and axes, but mostly hoes, picks and shovels. The blacksmith grimly carried his largest hammer.

Adalon faced the frightened villagers. 'Bolggo!' he said sharply, searching for the innkeeper. 'It's Adalon!'

A short, burly Plated One pushed through the crowd. He wore an apron and carried a wicked-looking club. 'Adalon?'

'Yes, it's me.'

Targesh and Simangee walked their riding beasts close. Simangee grinned and removed her helmet. 'Any chance of a meal for some weary travellers?'