The Lost Castle (2 page)

The hunting party did not return until evening. Accompanied by the entire Queen's Own Guard, General Wargrach galloped into the courtyard with Lord Ollamon's body slung on his riding beast. Moralon rode at General Wargrach's side, pale and shaking.

'A hunting accident,' General Wargrach announced to the crowd that gathered.

Adalon stepped forward. His knees were trembling and his heart felt as if it would burst. He tried to speak, but the words shrivelled in his mouth. 'Uncle?' he said, but Lord Moralon did not reply. Instead, he stared with dread at General Wargrach.

Immediately, Adalon realised that his father's death was not an accident. His tail lashed with fury and his hand went to the knife at his belt. He took a step toward Wargrach, but a hand fell on his shoulder. He jerked around to find himself face-to-face with his great-uncle Baradon. The fat, old saur pulled him close, pity in his eyes, and whispered, 'Do not throw your life away.'

Grief seized Adalon. Sobs wracked his body and hot tears ran down his scales. He had lost his lord, his father, his guide and his teacher all at once.

'Saur of the Eastern Peaks,' Wargrach bellowed, 'your lord is dead. His heir, Adalon, has only seen fifteen summers; he has not reached his adulthood. Therefore, Lord Ollamon's brother, Sir Moralon, will become your new lord.'

Moralon dropped his head and closed his eyes for a moment before looking up again. He slipped from his riding beast and took the body of his brother in his arms.

General Wargrach grunted and gestured to his aides. The Queen's Own Guard wheeled out of the gate, leaving the saur of High Battilon behind. Moralon stood in the middle of the courtyard, holding his dead brother, and wept.

* * *

Targesh and Simangee took Adalon to his room and stayed with him as he sobbed and raged, unable to believe that his father was truly gone.

'Wargrach!' he cried. He paced the room, unable to keep still. 'You killed my father!'

Targesh was sitting on the bed. It creaked under his massive frame. When he nodded, his two great horns bobbed in sympathy. Simangee was on the window ledge, her head on her knees, her tail curled up. Sad sounds burbled from her long, curved crest. 'Your father was always kind to everyone,' she said, tears in her eyes.

Adalon clenched his fists. The furnace of his rage grew hotter and hotter. 'Why? Why did Wargrach do such a thing?'

Targesh spread his stubby hands and shook his massive neck shield. Simangee didn't answer.

Adalon felt like dashing himself against the hard stone walls of his room. Dimly, he knew he should be grieving, but anger was all he could feel.

'Rest, Adalon,' Simangee said. 'You must calm yourself.'

Adalon ignored her and continued pacing, his tail thrashing. 'It must be the Queen,' he said. 'Wargrach does the Queen's bidding. She must have ordered my father's death.'

'Why?' Targesh said, his brow wrinkling.

'I don't know! How could I know?' Adalon wanted to scream. 'She must have her reasons!'

He stopped his pacing. His father's notes. They would tell him what the Queen was planning.

He dived for the door, flinging it open, oblivious to the startled cries from Targesh and Simangee. He raced along the corridor with all the speed of a Clawed One until he reached the room his father used as an office.

The office was cold and empty. Grey light came through the window, falling on the shelves of books, documents and ledgers that his father had needed to govern the Eastern Peaks. A large table, covered with maps and papers, stood in the middle of the room.

Adalon looked at the desk, then at the papers. The answer would be there somewhere.

He scrabbled through accounts and plans, scanning and discarding them one by one, hissing with frustration. He bounded across the desk and flung open the drawers, searching for what he needed.

'Adalon?' Simangee's voice came from the doorway, but he didn't look up. He took a small book, bound in red leather, from the bottom drawer. The writing belonged to his father. Through eyes full of tears, he read page after page of notes about military preparations right across Thraag. General Wargrach's name featured again and again. He was responsible for much: destroying villages, ordering the inhabitants into the mines. Saur were being moved against their will, and Wargrach and the other generals were enjoying the blessing of the Queen as they pressed the unwilling into the Army.

His father was convinced that Queen Tayesha was planning a war of conquest.

From between the last pages of the book, a small piece of paper fell and drifted to the floor. Adalon picked it up. The paper was divided in two, with childish writing on one half and the strong writing of his father on the other.

Adalon stared at the paper, sank to the floor, and remembered.

His father had taught him to write by copying out lessons from the great tradition that was the Way of the Claw. 'This way, Adalon, you will not forget them.'

He remembered how his father's hand – so large, with razor-sharp claws – had covered his and helped him shape the letters. His father was so gentle that Adalon was sure he was writing all by himself, until his father removed his hand and Adalon's writing wobbled all over the page like a spider on ice.

They'd laughed and Lord Ollamon had patted Adalon on the back. Then they'd continued their study.

Adalon gazed at the paper and his breath caught in his throat; tears sprang to his eyes.
Oh Father
, he thought, and great sobs tore at him.
I miss you so!

* * *

Adalon's friends took him back to his room, where he wept for hours. He cried and apologised to Targesh and Simangee. Most of all, though, he cried for his father and for all the tomorrows they would not share.

When his weeping dwindled and finally ended, Adalon was left with sorrow and loss. They had not gone away.

Neither had the anger. Not entirely. It was there, and when he looked over the notes his father had made, he saw that he'd been right. The Queen was turning Thraag into a land of war.

His father had written to his many friends throughout Thraag, and had documented Army movements throughout the country. Adalon's anger grew again, but this time it was measured. He had lost his father but now he realised that the saur of Thraag were in danger of losing even more. Someone had to speak out against the Queen and the generals. Someone had to stand up for the ordinary saur before they were dragged into a conflict that would result in death and destruction for many.

* * *

In the depths of the castle, where the foundations rested on solid bedrock, Adalon made a vow. He placed his hands on the rock and called on the land to witness his promise. He knew that this was the most binding, most sacred oath a saur could make, but he did not hesitate. He promised that he would stop Queen Tayesha and General Wargrach.

The trembling he felt in the rock told Adalon that his vow had been witnessed and that it would endure as long as the land endured.

Thus Adalon and his friends were set on the path to Challish, the capital of Thraag, and the Throne Hall on the day of the Ritual of Bonding.

'You! Stop where you are!'

The hoarse shout rang across the square. Adalon and Targesh turned to see five soldiers marching toward them. A few passers-by scurried away with frightened looks, disappearing into lanes and alleyways, one driving a pig before him.

Adalon remembered Challish as a happy, busy place. Not anymore. Since their arrival a few hours ago, he'd seen only suspicion, fear and despair. And many, many soldiers.

Adalon addressed the sergeant in charge, a scarred Toothed One. 'Were you talking to us?'

The saur scowled. 'What is your business here?'

'Our business is our affair.'

'Provincial mudhead,' one of the other soldiers muttered, then spat on the cobblestones.

The sergeant showed his teeth. 'Provincial mudhead or not, I think these two will do nicely. Welcome to the Army, lads.'

Adalon narrowed his eyes. 'Leave us. We are not to be trifled with.'

The soldiers laughed. 'Listen to him,' the sergeant said. 'Thinks he's too good for us, does he? We'll knock that sort of thinking out of him, quick smart.'

The sergeant lurched at Adalon and swung a backhanded blow at him. With Clawed One speed, Adalon shifted to one side and tilted his head. Roaring, the sergeant missed, then staggered past, off balance. He turned. 'Teach them a lesson,' he barked at his squad.

Targesh bellowed, lowered his great head and charged. The soldiers laughed at his ponderous stride, and one threw a handful of mud. It slapped on Targesh's impressive neck shield, and then Targesh was on them. He knocked two into a dirty pool where they floundered and cursed.

Adalon rose on his toes, balanced on his tail for an instant and bared his teeth. Then he sprinted, leaped over them and threw himself on the remaining two. Using his momentum, he cracked one under the chin with his elbow and tripped the last with his tail. As the soldier tried to climb to his feet, Adalon kneed him behind the ear and he collapsed face first into the mud.

Adalon swivelled and faced the sergeant, who was staring, open-mouthed. 'You call these wretches soldiers? You're just lucky my friend had his horns capped.'

Targesh grunted and shook his horns.

The sergeant slid his sword from its sheath. 'No-one mocks the Thraag Infantry. Bite on this, Clawed One!'

From behind came the sound of more weapons being drawn. Adalon glanced around to see that, apart from the angry, sodden soldiers, the square was still empty. He guessed that the local citizens knew better than to linger when the military were looking for a fight. He took a step back, cursing himself for getting himself into such trouble.

Adalon drew his sword and stood next to Targesh, who held his axe in an easy grip. Adalon was not confident. Their weapons were only ceremonial, as they had been on their way to the Ritual of Bonding. While they may have looked bright and impressive, they were poorly balanced and not meant for fighting. He wished he had his real blade, but no dangerous weapons were allowed in the Throne Hall.

He took a deep breath and faced the soldiers. 'We wish you no harm. Let us go in peace.'

'Peace?' the sergeant hissed. 'Peace is for weaklings! This is a time for blood and glory!'

With a roar, he launched himself at Adalon. His comrades came after him, but the Toothed One had only taken two steps when an arrow plunged through his thigh. He pitched forward, stifling a shriek.

A figure emerged from a lane and darted toward them, bow in hand, dropping a bag of apples. 'Simangee!' Adalon cried. 'Over here!'

The other soldiers closed. Adalon faced a burly Plated One who swung a huge mace. He remembered the lessons his father had taught him. He did not engage with the mace. Instead, he leaned back and let it whistle past. When its weight made the Plated One overbalance, Adalon struck his wrist with the flat of his sword. With a grunt, the Plated One dropped the mace. Adalon twisted and then, with the hilt of his sword, hit his foe in the vulnerable spot under the chin. He dropped like a sack of grain.

Adalon looked around to see that two other soldiers had been struck by arrows from Simangee's bow and were sitting on the slick cobblestones, cursing and trying to staunch their wounds. One more was lying stunned at Targesh's feet.

Simangee trotted over. Adalon took her by the arm. 'Quickly,' he said and, together with Targesh, they fled the square, through twisted lanes and squalid alleys.

'Thraag has fallen on bad times indeed,' Simangee said when they finally emerged in the great plaza in front of the royal palace, 'if roving gangs of bullies can accost travellers like that.'

'They were more than bullies,' Adalon said. 'They were recruiting for the Army.' It worried him that the Army needed to go to such lengths to bolster its strength. It boded ill.

They joined the throng moving toward the gates of the palace, but Simangee stopped just as they reached the guards. 'You go ahead, Adalon. I have a task to do.'

'Sim? You'll miss the Ritual of Bonding.'

She shrugged. 'Before Hoolgar went away he left me some cryptic instructions. He suggested I should look in a certain place in the Great Library of Challish. I may not have a better chance than today, when everyone is at the Ritual of Bonding.'

Hoolgar had been a tutor and mentor to Simangee. An ancient Crested One, he was the chief musician and scholar at High Battilon. He taught all the young ones in the castle, but he had taken a special shine to Simangee. A month or so before General Wargrach's visit, Hoolgar had disappeared, leaving no word of his plans or destination.

Simangee cocked her head. 'Targesh. Why don't you come with me?'

Adalon's heart sank when Targesh nodded. 'Good idea.'

They promised to meet up later, but Adalon was forlorn. Even in the middle of the crowd entering the palace, he felt alone.

He feared he would never see his friends again. Perhaps he should have shared his plans with them, but he decided it may be better this way. He didn't want them in danger.

* * *

In the Throne Hall of the palace, Adalon studied the host of nobles, merchants, military and commoners assembled for the great ritual. He saw wonder on the faces of those present for the first time. They were the ones staring at the gold and silver torches, the carved wooden beams a thousand years old, the gold leaf around the tops of the marble pillars. Others were admiring the walls, where the history of the ruling Gralloch family was displayed. Shields and weapons were hanging in rows. Forbidding portraits of queens from centuries past loomed from on high. A giant tapestry celebrated the bloody and glorious battle of Jorgath.

Adalon's eyes narrowed when his gaze fell on this tapestry. It showed everything the Gralloch family held dear. Gralloch warriors were crushing their enemies, slashing them into pieces with no mercy. The Gralloch family were Clawed Ones of the most warlike kind. The Way of the Claw, with its thoughtful, calm lessons, was not for them. They ignored it in favour of their own motto:
Strength and Might.
It was emblazoned under the tapestry, a reminder of what the Grallochs valued.

It seemed to Adalon as if all of the kingdom was gathered in the Throne Hall – and many from other kingdoms, too. Costumes were colourful, mysterious, rich, fine or military, as varied as those who wore them. Long-necked Ones peered over the heads of the crowd, aloof and thoughtful. Crested Ones fluted greetings to each other. Billed Ones marched through the doors in swirls of multicoloured silks.

Adalon noticed a knot of generals in bright uniforms. They obviously considered themselves better than the citizens around them; disdain was clear on their faces.

Wrinkling his nostrils, Adalon glanced up at the incense burners on the wall. He'd never liked the heavily scented smoke. He scratched his snout with a claw and sighed. It was probably for the best that his friends were not present. He didn't want them to be involved.

The throne that gave the hall its name was made of stone. Great-uncle Baradon had told Adalon that the stone reached right down, through the floor, thrusting deep into the earth beneath the palace. It had been here since the first queen of the Gralloch family and it had seen many queens, a long, undisturbed chain reaching back to the dawn of time. 'Made from the bones of the land,' Great-uncle Baradon had told him, years ago, when Adalon was brought to his first Ritual of Bonding. His father had been there then, tall and strong, an honoured guest.

Adalon felt a pang, and a lesson from the Way of the Claw came to him:
Do not deny sorrow – take it into your heart
. He took a deep breath and the hurt faded, but not the memory.

The throne was the heart of the land, the symbol of the bond that allowed the family of Gralloch to rule Thraag. Each queen was joined to the land, protecting and ruling it. In return, the land protected those who dwelled there, and granted the queen great magical powers. It was a mystical union, revered for eons.

Adalon once again felt the enormity of what he was about to do.

Great-uncle Baradon often told of the coronation of young Princess Tayesha. Her mother, the old queen, had died and when Tayesha assumed the throne the kingdom was in raptures. Feasts lasted for days, carnivals for weeks, and the joy lasted for a whole year. Great-uncle Baradon had been present at the coronation. Over an ale or two he loved to tell of the beautiful young Clawed One princess solemnly reciting the vows that wedded her to the land.

Adalon sensed that the crowd was growing uneasy. He flexed his claws and stilled his tail, trying to quell his impatience.

A whisper ran through the room. 'She's coming!'

Adalon was glad he'd had a spurt of growth. It meant he could see, despite the saur in front of him: a burly Knobblonder, almost as wide as she was tall. The bony plates on her shoulders jutted up as high as the top of her head and were tipped with gold. Knobblonders loved gold and never missed a chance to display their wealth.

A curtain parted behind the throne. Adalon heard a vast intake of breath.

Queen Tayesha's robes were velvet, the dark grey of stormy skies. Adalon could hear the click of her claws as she walked across the polished stone floor. She paused and stood motionless a moment, head bowed, and then approached the throne.

Adalon found it hard to believe she had become queen when his great-uncle was young. He saw the Queen's age only in a hint of loose skin at her neck where the scales were dull and tired. Her back was straight, her eyes were clear, her movements were smooth and confident. Her claws were sharpened and polished black. The only Clawed One house to rule in the seven kingdoms, the Grallochs fancied themselves as superior to the Toothed One rulers of Chulnagh, or the ponderous Long-necked priest kings of Bondorborar, or any of the other ruling families.

His heart beat faster as the Queen surveyed her subjects. 'I stand before you,' she said, 'as your ruler and as the partner of the land.'

The assembly relaxed at the familiar words. This ritual had been repeated countless times. To those assembled it was security and continuity, the ongoing bond with the land that sustained them.

Adalon was in turmoil. He felt the security of the words, but he could not forget what Queen Tayesha and General Wargrach had done – and were doing – to the saur of Thraag.
Can I do this?
he wondered.
Am I strong enough?

The Queen placed her hands together. 'When I became the ruler of Thraag, the land became my partner. Today, I reaffirm that bond. The House of Gralloch is dedicated to preserving and maintaining the land. In return, the land of Thraag keeps and nourishes us. As it was, and will be.'

'As it was, and will be.' The hall echoed with the mass response. The bass rumbles from the throats of Plated Ones and Horned Ones, the nasal flutings of the Crested Ones, the booming of the Long-necked Ones – all combined to create a chorus that was the sound of the saur people.

'At the dawn of time, the ancestors of the saur were creatures of gigantic size and limited intellect,' the Queen continued. 'As the ages passed, the saur changed, grew smaller, grew wiser, with hands and bodies that could use their larger brains, until we became the saur of today. As it is, and will be.'

'As it is, and will be.'

The Queen sat and Adalon gathered himself. He could delay no longer. He went to confront her.