The Lost Castle (4 page)

Adalon rode on, his heart growing heavier and heavier. Would he never see the Eastern Peaks again?

Riding for two days through the hills south of Challish made him realise that spring was coming. The worn summits were white and purple from a scattering of ladies' tears and dayflower. It was beautiful, but Adalon longed for the rocky crags of the Eastern Peaks where spring was wild with snowmelt and gales.

Adalon was thankful for the company of his friends. Simangee sang as they rode, startling birds and small game. She joked and told stories and tried to draw Adalon out of his despondency.

Targesh ran alongside the riding beasts with his tireless stride, horns bobbing, his gaze on the country ahead. He looked slow, but he never fell behind. Adalon had grown up with Targesh trotting beside him while he rode. No riding beast was strong enough to carry a Horned One, so they never learned to ride. Targesh often said he didn't have far to fall if he tripped, but if Adalon's riding beast stumbled . . .

Simangee steered their course across the wilderness, consulting a large leather-bound book that reeked of age. Adalon had been shocked when she admitted she'd stolen it from the Great Library of Challish, but she claimed it belonged to Hoolgar, their old tutor, and had been stolen from him in the first place.

Simangee held the book close to her while she rode, and Adalon understood that he was not the only one who had lost things. Simangee had loved learning the lyre, the rebec and the hurdy-gurdy from Hoolgar. She enjoyed learning languages from him, and delving into the forgotten parts of the castle library. She had grand plans to be a librarian, or court musician, or both.

Stop being sorry for yourself
, he admonished himself.
Look to your friends
.

* * *

Near noon on the third day of their flight, Simangee called a halt. Adalon dismounted and stretched while Targesh took the opportunity to stuff a handful of grass into his beaky mouth. He saw Adalon looking at him. 'Good grass,' he grunted. 'Try some.'

Adalon snorted. Simangee reached past him and took a handful. 'Excellent,' she said. 'Quite marvellous, really.'

For years Adalon had had to endure the taunts of his two vegetation-eating friends. He knew how to respond. 'Why don't you use that bow of yours and snare one of those fat grouse? I'll cook it up, all hot and tasty, ready to share.'

Simangee slapped him on the shoulder. 'That's better! That's more like Adalon. Goodbye gloom, farewell despair! Welcome back Adalon!'

Adalon managed a small chuckle. Targesh clapped his hands and Simangee bowed.

Later that day, Simangee stood in her stirrups, peering at the landscape ahead. Then she swung down from her riding beast and threw open her saddle bags.

'What is it?' Adalon asked.

'Those mountains. That's where we are bound,' Simangee said. She looked up and a small smile appeared. 'You need to listen to a story.'

Adalon knew Simangee's ways, but he was still taken aback. 'Now?'

'I think so.'

Targesh grunted. 'I'll make a fire.'

Adalon tethered the riding beasts to a stand of small-leaved shrubs as Targesh built the fire from wood they'd carried. Simangee brewed tea and soon they were sitting around the coals. Blue sky above, a sea of green grass around them and a soft breeze. It was tranquil and far, far away from the clashing of armies, the sound of trumpets, and dim, dank dungeons.

Adalon lay on the grass and looked at the few clouds hanging in the sky. He felt calm steal his heart and he thought of the promise he had made at High Battilon.
If I ever put down the burden of my vow
, he wondered,
would it feel like this all the time?

Simangee knelt by the fire. She had the old book in her lap and her tail curled around her knees. She cleared her throat, looked seriously at both Adalon and Targesh, then assumed her storytelling voice.

'The book tells of the Lost Castle in the Hidden Valley.

'Long ago, in the early days of the seven kingdoms of Krangor, lived a race of saur called the A'ak. They did not belong to any of the seven kingdoms. They were a race apart, with a strange language and writing peculiar to themselves – writing that no-one can read today. They lived in a castle stronghold in the Hidden Valley. It was said to be their refuge and place of safety. They only emerged to raid and plunder and make war. No-one knew where they came from or where they disappeared to, as the valley was shrouded by powerful magic.'

'What sort of saur were they?' Adalon asked. 'Toothed Ones? Clawed Ones?'

Simangee shook her head. 'The book doesn't say. It describes the A'ak as bloodthirsty, powerful, possessing strange and deadly magic.'

Targesh grunted. He sprawled on his stomach, resting his chin on his arms.

'What happened to them?' Adalon asked.

'The vast army of the A'ak perished on its way to battle against a combined force from Thraag and Knobblond. The soldiers were crossing the Harchgrond Swamp in winter when a blizzard fell on them. It was the last anyone heard of the A'ak.'

'And their Hidden Valley? Their Lost Castle?'

'Why do you think they call it the Lost Castle, Adalon? It's never been discovered. Over the centuries, many adventurers have sought it, imagining they could find treasure there.'

'And your book tells you where it is?'

Simangee pointed at the horizon. 'The Jarquin Ranges. The Hidden Valley is there, near Graaldon, the smoking mountain.'

Adalon stood, shaded his eyes and looked ahead.

The Jarquin Ranges were the tallest mountains in all Krangor. Their peaks clawed at the sky and even Adalon, who loved mountain heights, felt ill-at-ease as he gazed at their ragged crowns. The mountains there were unscaleable and impassable, wicked splinters of rock thrust up from the roots of Krangor itself.

'A place of safety, you say,' he remarked to Simangee. He thought he could see a plume of smoke rising from one of the peaks. Or was it just cloud?

'That's what the book promises.' She paused, frowning. 'I think Hoolgar told me about this book for a reason, Adalon. I think he saw war coming to our lands, and he wanted me to know of a place of refuge.'

A place of refuge
, Adalon thought. Somewhere to rest, to plan. Somewhere his friends could be safe. Adalon nodded. 'Lead on, Sim.'

Targesh frowned. He placed one hand flat on the ground and held it there for a moment. Then he snorted and climbed to his feet. 'Riders,' he said.

Adalon whirled. In the distance he saw black specks against the green of the grassy plains. Dust rose in their wake and he knew they were coming fast. 'They're after us.'

'How d'you know?' Targesh asked.

Adalon gazed into the distance. Targesh had a point.

'We need a scrying spell,' Simangee said.

'I have one,' Targesh said. He held up a small vial, half-full of blue liquid.

'I'm glad
you
do.' Simangee grinned at Adalon. 'I know better than to expect
him
to have a spell.'

Adalon scowled, tilted his head and glared at the vial through one eye. He mistrusted magic. He didn't like its habit of turning on the saur who used it, like a badly-balanced knife. The cost of using magic was unpredictable. It could be petty, but it could be dire.

His friends thought his suspicions were simply a foible, a quirky aspect of his character. He'd never told them that his mother had died from magic gone wrong.

Targesh shrugged his enormous shoulders. 'Thought a spell could be handy.'

Simangee took the vial. 'Thank you, Targesh.'

'
Stand by your friends
,' Targesh said. 'The Way of the Horn.'

Targesh held to the Way of the Horn with deep-seated strength. Adalon knew the Way of the Horn had come down through the ages from the days when the great Horned One herbivores relied on the safety that came from the herd. The mass of the herd protected the young and the weak from Toothed Ones and other dangers. Loyalty, steadfastness and courage were vital to survival, and these qualities were the foundation of the Way of the Horn.

Targesh was a living, breathing model of the Way of the Horn. Faithful, strong, dependable, he was the rock the three friends built their friendship on.

'Quickly, now,' said Simangee. 'We need a pool, or a mirror, something we can see into.'

Targesh frowned. 'None around here.'

'I have a beaker and a canteen of water,' Adalon said. 'Will that be enough?'

'I hope so,' Simangee said.

Once the beaker was full of water, Adalon handed it to Simangee. She uncorked the tiny bottle and tilted it toward the beaker.

Blue liquid fell, as bright as the summer sky at noon. Suddenly the beaker was full of soft light.

Simangee discarded the empty bottle and held up the beaker. 'The riders,' she said clearly, then she lowered the beaker so the others could see.

'General Wargrach,' Adalon said. His heart lurched and his tail whipped from side to side until he stilled it with an effort.

'How many with him?' Targesh asked. He shook his neck shield.

'Twenty or so,' Adalon said. 'Enough.'

Simangee stood. 'We have a head start. They'll have to catch us.'

Grassland gave way to a broken country of ravines and dry watercourses. Pausing on a small rise, Adalon despaired at the sight of league after league of shattered stone and tumbled boulders. Beyond it lay the Jarquin Ranges and Graaldon, the smoking mountain.

Without a word, Adalon, Simangee and Targesh set off, plunging into the mazy wilderness of stone.

A day later, they were still picking their way between rocky outcrops. Adalon's tail ached, despite his well-made saddle. He felt a chill as clouds darted across the face of the sun. To add to his discomfort, the wind was skating down from the mountains in the south, and it had ice in its teeth.

Gloomily, Adalon thought the boulders around them were beginning to look like skulls.

He was unaccustomed to such prolonged riding, and it irked him. Targesh seemed content enough, jogging alongside the riding beasts. Simangee was able to amuse herself by singing. Sometimes her voice was barely a murmur, but at other times it echoed from the rocks. The lessons of the Way of the Crest were taught through music, and Simangee sang many tunes that made sense only to those who followed this Way. Some tunes were happy and light, some thoughtful and measured, while others baffled Adalon entirely.

He grimaced, adjusted his tail, then sighed. He longed to leap from the saddle and stretch all his muscles. He wanted to run through the rocks, weaving between them until he felt the wind in his face, but he dared not leave Simangee and Targesh. He scratched under his collar and squirmed in his saddle. His tunic was chafing on his shoulders, but no matter how he tried, he couldn't reach the itch with his claws.

Simangee laughed at him. 'Patience, Adalon! When will you learn patience?'

'Ach!' he said. 'How do you stay in one place for so long?'

'Strength of mind, Adalon. Some saur have it, others do not.'

Simangee smiled and he forced a weary chuckle.

As they pushed on, he became increasingly concerned about their pursuers. At midday on the fifth day of their flight, he called a halt. They pulled up near a boulder as large as a house. 'Wait here.'

'What is it?' Simangee asked. Targesh looked questioningly at him.

Adalon pointed at the boulder with one claw. 'We need to know how close General Wargrach is.' He winked. 'Besides, a climb will be good for me.'

'Look for Graaldon,' Simangee urged. 'Among all these rocks, it's hard to be sure we've kept the right heading.'

Targesh took the reins of his riding beast. Adalon ran and leaped at the rock. He dug in with his hand-claws and foot-claws and swarmed up its face, grinning. It was good to be doing something other than riding.

In seconds he reached the rounded top of the boulder. He stood and stretched, then he shaded his eyes and looked toward the mountain range ahead.

'We're almost at the foothills!' he called.

'The smoking peak,' Simangee shouted. 'Can you see it?'

It was hard to miss. Smoke rose from Graaldon in a steady plume. 'Yes, we're close. Half a day, maybe!'

Adalon turned and gazed in the direction of their pursuers. They were only an hour or so behind. He could make out a score of individual riders and saw the sun glinting on weapons. Then his gaze fell on a dozen or so smaller shapes loping alongside the riding beasts. He felt his mouth go dry.

Warhounds
.

His father had once had a pack of warhounds. Evil, bloodthirsty, furred beasts, they were a nightmare to control. They had turned on and killed their handler when Adalon was small. His father had them put down after that.

Warhounds were renowned for their tireless pace. Once set loose, the prey was doomed.

Wargrach!
Adalon shook a fist at the pursuers.
Haven't you done enough to my family already?

He turned and scrambled down the rock faster than he went up it. 'We must fly,' he panted when he reached the ground. 'Wargrach and his soldiers are close behind. They have warhounds.'

Targesh's nostrils flared and he gave a throaty rumble. 'Warhounds.' He spat on the ground.

'We must find the entrance to the Hidden Valley,' Simangee said. 'We'll be safe there.'

Adalon frowned. He knew how fast warhounds could run once they were released. He took the reins from Targesh. 'We'll go quicker if we lead the riding beasts.'

He led the way. His knees and elbows struck rocks as he hurried through narrow passages between boulders. He sprang over stones and peered ahead for a path.

His riding beast baulked as the ground grew more uneven and difficult. Adalon had to use all his skill to keep it from stopping. He muttered constantly, urging it along, and tapped its flanks with a claw when it baulked.

An hour on, Adalon was stopped in his tracks by a wall of rock, a jumble of huge boulders blocking the way. 'Back,' he said wearily. 'There's no way forward here.'

Targesh was bringing up the rear. He grunted. Simangee put her head against the flank of her steed and closed her eyes for a moment.

A ghastly howl rose over the rocky landscape, echoing among the boulders. Adalon stiffened.

'Warhounds. They're loose,' Targesh said.

Simangee scanned the area, rising on her toes, her crest swaying anxiously. 'Which way do we go?'

Adalon looked back. 'To those two rocks. I'm sure there's a way around them, and then we'll be heading in the right direction.'

The riding beasts were tired and they resented turning around. They snorted and danced on the spot. Simangee spoke softly to hers, trying to calm it down as the screams of the warhounds came to them again. Adalon clamped his teeth together and flexed his claws. The warhounds' cry set his heart pounding. He found that he was rising on his toes, ready to run or fight.
Steady
, he told himself, and he heard the words of the Way of the Claw.
Do not run the race before it begins.

'They're getting closer,' Simangee said.

'You're right.' Adalon sighed. 'We must find a place to make a stand.'

Targesh pulled his axe from a strap on his back. He shook his neck to loosen the muscles, then removed the caps from his horns. 'Let them come.' He swung his axe and smiled.