The Lost Castle (7 page)

Wargrach's head pounded with each step. He felt as if the top of his skull would fly off any minute. He staggered, fell, crawled, picked himself up and fell again, clenching his teeth to stop himself from screaming each time. Bright pain flared in his shoulder, his hip, the back of his head, his hands. His left arm hung at his side and he knew at least one of the bones was broken.

Wargrach turned his one good eye back to Graaldon, the smoking mountain. He snarled and tried to curse it, but the words caught in his scorched throat and sent him into a spasm of coughing. He bent double and the pain from his many burns and wounds blended together into one map of agony. This time, he did scream.

He was thankful that none of his troops had survived to hear him.

When the pain had receded, he opened his eye and stared at the velvet of the night sky. Stars looked down on him from between clouds stained orange from the glow of the fires of Graaldon.

The taste of defeat was sour in his mouth. In that accursed tunnel he had been close; his prey had almost been in his grasp. The youngling and his friends were nearly his.

At that moment, when the climax of the hunt was near, the blood had beat in his veins and he had known he was a true descendant of the Toothed Ones of old. The hunt, the chase with the promise of blood in the end.
That
was what he was meant for, that was what the greatest saur were meant for! Great saur dominate the weak, crush those who resist, destroy all enemies, rend them with tooth and claw.

Wargrach had surged ahead of his troops, leading them forward, an unstoppable force.

Then the tunnel erupted.

The sensation was vast, immense, a battering of sight, sound, feeling. Light and heat burst on them in an outrageous assault. Wargrach felt as if he had been slapped with a white-hot sheet of iron, then he was hurled through the air. He remembered touching rock and flame at the same time, seeing a shield slump and melt, hearing shrieks from the saur around him, smelling –

If it weren't for his secret cache of spells, he would have been lost. Blinded, he'd groped in the inner pocket of his jacket and seized the first bottle he touched. He flung it to the rocky floor and he was immediately surrounded by a protective cocoon. He knew it wouldn't last long, but for a moment the heat and noise were gone. Before he could do anything other than gasp for breath, however, a wave of molten rock picked up the cocoon. Wargrach was buffeted and rolled helplessly in the flood. Finally he was spat out of the tunnel onto the rocky slope. The cocoon dissolved and he was left staring at the cascade of lava belching from the tunnel mouth.

He rolled over, was sick, then swooned.

Later, lying on his bed of pain under the stars and clouds, trying to gather what little strength he had left, he finally managed to curse young Adalon of the Eastern Peaks.

The next morning, wet with ashy dew, Wargrach struggled to his feet and lurched away from the smoking mountain.

* * *

Once Adalon had peered inside the cave mouth and reassured himself that their pursuers were gone, they moved a short distance away to a grassy clearing. Targesh gathered some fallen wood from nearby scrubby plants and made a fire, and the three friends prepared a meal.

The moon was rising, huge and golden. By its light, Adalon was able to look out over the valley they had stumbled on. Adalon munched on dried meat he had in his pack. Despite being bruised and slightly toasted, he was amazed at what he saw.
Welcome to the Hidden Valley
, he thought.

The valley was entirely ringed by jagged mountains. They thrust up like sharp teeth and nowhere could Adalon see a gap in them. Graaldon was the largest of them. It rumbled and smoked constantly, but the wind took the smoke away from the valley, not toward it.

Adalon could see that the valley was narrow, barely a league from side to side. Thick woods started high up on the flanks of the mountains and spread down into the valley itself. He thought he could make out a river, snaking its way along the valley floor, and rocky outcrops pushing up through the forest.

It was on one of these outcrops, out in the middle of the valley, that the Lost Castle stood.

Even at this distance, and at night, Adalon could see that the Lost Castle was graceful. Its towers stood proudly, high above the valley floor. One was much taller than the other three and his gaze was drawn to it. He wondered who had lived there and what they had seen. Did they use it to study the heavens? Or was it a sentry tower to spy out enemies? He yearned to find out.

Adalon bit off another chunk of meat and chewed it thoughtfully. 'How far away is it, Simangee?'

Simangee looked up from the old book. The light of the campfire glittered in her eyes. 'I don't know.'

Adalon nodded, but continued to study his friend after she turned away.

She was still not herself, he was convinced of that. The encounter with the devil cloud had changed her.

'Further than it looks,' Targesh said. He was eating some tree fungus he had found while gathering firewood. He broke the great plates into pieces and ate them with delicate bites of his horned beak.

'A day's walking?' Adalon guessed.

'Yes, but we mustn't travel in the dark,' Simangee said. She shivered.

'Why not?'

'Traiths and screets haunt the valley at night, or so the book says. In the dark, the A'ak travelled in armed groups. It was safest. Otherwise, they stayed around a fire.'

Targesh snorted and thumped his tail on the ground. 'Need more wood.'

Simangee shrugged. 'We're safe near the cave. Traiths don't like the fumes, and screets have to stay near water.'

'Traiths? Screets? What are they?' Adalon asked. 'And what else does this book have to tell us?'

Simangee tilted the book to get more light. 'There is no description of traiths and screets. I think we're supposed to know what they are. Just like the black lurkers the book mentions.'

'Black lurkers?' Targesh grumbled. He looked at the trees around them with suspicion.

'This is not altogether a happy valley, then?' Adalon said.

'It was a refuge, a place of safety, especially once the Lost Castle was built. The beasts were a small price to pay.'

Adalon studied the far-off towers. 'Let us get there as soon as we can.'

The next morning, Adalon woke cold and stiff. He climbed out of his bedroll and while he stretched he looked out over the valley.

Under the blue sky, the vista looked different. Between the mountains it was like a green sea, so thick were the woods. A break in the trees showed that a river did indeed wind its way through the centre of the valley.

The Lost Castle stood in the middle of it all, grey stone built on grey stone.

'Beautiful,' Targesh said, nodding a horn in the direction of the castle. He was sitting with his cloak wrapped around him. He had agreed to take the last watch for the night. Adalon guessed he regretted it.

'A quiet night?' he asked as his friend stood and stretched, tilting his neck shield from side to side. He stamped his feet and thumped his tail on the ground.

'No traiths, screets, black lurkers.'

'You kept the fire going well.'

Targesh snorted and ignored him.

Simangee rolled over. 'Is it morning?'

Adalon studied her face. She looked exhausted. 'Yes.'

'We should go.'

Despite his concern, Adalon agreed. He itched to be off; he was eager to be moving again, especially with a destination in sight.

* * *

It was midmorning when they reached the river.

'Fresh,' Adalon said. He crouched and scooped up a handful of water. 'Cold, too, straight from the mountains.'

Targesh stood well back from the river, as if he were worried it was about to reach out and carry him away. Simangee leaned listlessly against a tree, her head drooping.

Adalon stood on the bank. From the size of the river, he doubted if the valley lacked for water, even in full summer. He could see ducks, cranes and darters happily at home on the river; fish would be plentiful.

He looked around and saw that Simangee wasn't looking at the river life. She was scraping at a tangle of creeper with a toe-claw.

'What have you found?' Adalon asked as he joined her.

'A road.' Simangee knelt and dragged the creeper aside. She revealed flat, well-worked stone. As more creeper was torn away, more stone showed through. 'It leads to the castle.'

'Your book reveals this, too?'

Simangee stood. 'The road follows the river. If we keep to it we should find the travelling easier.'

* * *

Adalon was cheerful as he walked next to the road. The valley was a pleasant place and it felt good to have grass underfoot after the leagues of rock they had trudged through.

The forest was rich with oak and beech. Game fled from their approach in numbers that meant the cooking pot would never be empty.
Many saur could live here
, Adalon thought as a pair of rabbits scampered over a knoll and disappeared.
Hundreds
.

It could be a pleasant enough place, he decided. A place to settle, to stay, far away from the troubles of the world.

He sighed.
I can't forget my vow
, he thought.

It troubled him. As he walked, he wondered if he was driven to save Thraag, or to avenge his father. The two blurred. Doing one would achieve the other, but was it right? Were his noble aims just a pretence to cover his rage? He shook his head and wished for simpler times.

Every half a league or so, the road brought them to a clearing, at each of which they found the remains of an old farm. At the first of these, they explored the fallen-down farmhouse and outbuildings, trying to find a clue about those who had lived there. Adalon's puzzlement grew, however, as they found little left behind. No clothes, no personal belongings, only dishes and pots and farm tools.

Each farm did have a small reward for them. Orchards seemed to have been important, and the three friends found apples, almonds, pears and even some late peaches. They were all grateful for the addition to their diet. Even Adalon, a meat-eater, enjoyed fruit.

Along the roadside they came across small, ruined forts. Adalon approved of the way the A'ak had sited these forts at regular distances.
Good planning
, he thought, and decided it was the sort of planning that was common sense to military people.

His curiosity about the A'ak was growing.

After some hours' marching, evening began to draw in. The shadows of the mountains and the trees crept across the valley. Adalon and Targesh were alert, watching both sides of the road and keeping Simangee between them.

Adalon clicked his claws together nervously, alive to every sound. Targesh carried his axe and stumped along holding it ready.

The road took them on a wide curve and the river disappeared behind a wall of head-high bushes. Then the growth cleared and they could see the river again.

All three stood and stared.

There, on an island in the middle of the river, stood the Lost Castle.

Adalon glanced at Targesh. He was eyeing the water with distaste. 'You go,' Targesh said. 'I'll stay here.'

Adalon knew that getting Targesh over to the Lost Castle would be a trial. Targesh mistrusted boats, never swam, and felt that those who went to sea were mad. He was of the firm view that water was for drinking and, occasionally, bathing.

Targesh took a step back from the bank, then another. He crossed his arms and glared at the river as if it were an old enemy just waiting for its chance to drown him.

Adalon looked up the riverbank and saw crumbled stone pilings that led across the river toward the island. Moss turned the stonework into a patchwork of grey and green. A bird landed in a nest on top of one piling. It had a small fish in its beak. 'There was a bridge here, once,' said Adalon.

Targesh grunted. Bridges were acceptable. Barely.

'It's a ruin. Not much use now,' Simangee said. She sank to the ground, her chin resting on her chest and her tail curled around her knees.

Adalon looked across the river then up at the sky. The sun was getting low. With night coming on, he was mindful of the traiths and screets. He looked at the trees nearby. Perhaps they could fell a few and lay them over the remains of the bridge —

Something in the trees caught his gaze. He walked over and his eyes widened when he saw, hanging from a branch, a small golden pipe.

Even though the silken cord on which it hung was frayed and weatherworn, the pipe shone as brightly as the noonday sun. Adalon reached out and seized it. The cord snapped and he felt the warm tingle that meant magic.

He hissed.
Whatever happened to looking first, then acting?

Adalon held the pipe in the palm of his hand and poked at it with a claw. It was as long as his hand and light as a feather. It had a mouthpiece and no fingerholes. It thrummed with magic.

What was going to be the cost of this magic?

He felt the pipe quiver. Immediately, he held it at arm's length and bared his teeth. His tail twitched uneasily.

The pipe trembled more strongly. Adalon could feel its magic as a throbbing, deep in the bones of his hand and arm. His scales prickled as if he were in a sandstorm.

Fear curled around Adalon's heart like a black snake. It was the fear of the unknown, the fear that leaps up at an unexpected noise in the dark. It was the fear that makes the young close their eyes and hope that it – whatever it is – can't see them. It was the fear that comes from imagination – thinking the worst that
might
happen and the worst that
could
happen and then building it up until it becomes the dizzy heights of terror.

Simangee turned from the river and looked at Adalon. 'What is in your hand?'

Adalon held up his find. 'I don't know.'

Simangee lifted her head. 'I can feel its magic from here!' She peered at it. 'A pipe! Play it! Or give it to me!'

Adalon grimaced. Simangee was apt to fiddle with magic, unworried by the consequences. She did not understand Adalon's caution where magic was concerned.

He couldn't allow her to use the pipe. Exhausted as she was, still suffering from the touch of the evil cloud, toying with more magic would go hard with her.

I do not want to do this
, Adalon thought as he raised the pipe to his mouth. He paused. Targesh looked at him with concern, but his attention was caught by Simangee. She was looking at him with an expression that was a mixture of greed, sorrow and understanding.

A thin wailing came from a distance. Simangee shuddered. 'Screets.'

That was enough. Adalon took a deep breath and blew on the golden pipe.

The whole valley seemed to echo with the sound. Birds sprang into the air and trees bent as if struck by a mighty wind. The voice of the pipe was as strong and golden as the sound of a mighty war horn. It spoke of battle and glory and triumph, but underneath, the music was haunted with grief and loss.

For an instant, Adalon had a vision of a battle led by golden, indistinct figures he knew were the A'ak. They rode in cruel splendour, cutting a swathe through a force made up of misshapen Toothed Ones, Plated Ones, Horned Ones and Clawed Ones.
But while he saw this, Adalon was aware of a ghostly scene underlying this vision of triumph. It was the battlefield the next day, after the charge of the A'ak. It was strewn with dead and dying saur. Carrion birds hopped over corpses at their leisure. Flies were thick in the air.

The double scene disappeared. Pain flared in the bones of his hand. Like the river of fire under Graaldon, it ran up his arm and spread through his whole body in an instant.

Adalon stiffened. Waves of agony coursed through his body. He felt as if he were about to erupt. He tried to let go of the pipe, but his hand refused.

His vision turned pink, then began to deepen toward red. It was as if he were looking at Targesh and Simangee through crimson silk.

Through the torture, Adalon tried to fling the pipe away, but his fist remained clenched around it.

'Adalon,' Targesh said. 'What's wrong?'

Adalon could not speak. All he could do was suffer.

With all his might, he strove to let go of the pipe, but he could not. Then, distantly, like the sound of a far-off bell, one of the most puzzling lessons in the Way of Claw came to him.

When you can hold a moment in the claws of one hand, not allowing it to move, then you have achieved the true Way of the Claw.

He had often asked his father about it, but Ollamon had simply shaken his head. 'When you are ready, all will be clear,' was his only response.

Adalon could feel himself weakening. He ground his teeth together and felt blood in his mouth. He knew he had to let go of the pipe or he would perish.

Remember the Claw,
he told himself.
Hold the moment.

Adalon banished everything from his mind, apart from the pipe in his hand. Gradually, the pain faded, then vanished – but he barely noticed it had gone. He couldn't see Targesh, nor Simangee, nor the trees, river and castle beyond. All he could see was his clenched fist.

The entire world paused, and Adalon held on to the moment. Time stretched. In between one heartbeat and the next was an eternity. In this eternity he realised that the pain had not disappeared; he had simply put it aside and looked past it. Without the distraction of the pain, he was able to gather himself. He pondered the muscles in his hands, the tendons, the bones.
Open
, he ordered, and his fist unclenched.

The magic pipe fell to the ground and the moment fled. The world rushed in and he staggered, assaulted by the sounds, smells and sensations that he had been apart from for a long, long, instant. He took a step back and hissed. He stared at the pipe on the ground, his heart hammering.

Targesh's mouth hung open and he stared at the pipe as well. 'Adalon?'

'Look!' Simangee said. 'The river!'

Adalon, fresh from one wonder, was confronted with another. From the riverbank to the Lost Castle, the river had stopped flowing. It was smooth and still, as if a long pane of glass had been laid across it.

Simangee stood and reached out a foot. 'It's hard.' She took a step, and another.

'You're standing on water,' Adalon said, stunned.

'Magic,' Simangee called as she stood there, arms outstretched. 'Hurry, it may not last.'

Magic
, Adalon thought. He flexed his hand.
And pain was the price.

After an instant's hesitation, Adalon scooped up the pipe and dropped it into a pocket. He then seized his pack and hurried to the riverbank. One deep breath and he stepped out to join his Crested One friend.

The river was solid and dry underfoot, but Adalon could clearly see the stones of the riverbed beneath. A fish swam by, not worried at all by the strange creatures walking just over its head.

Adalon looked back to the riverbank. Targesh stood there, shifting uneasily, staring down at the water.

'Come, Targesh. It's safe,' Adalon called.

Targesh looked up. 'Water? Safe? Hah!'

Adalon strode back to his friend. 'Close your eyes. I'll lead you across.'

Targesh looked at Adalon, searching his face. He nodded and held out his arm.

'Right,' Adalon said. 'On the count of three. One, two,
three
!'

Targesh grunted as they took the first step. Adalon glanced at him and saw that his friend's eyes were screwed shut. For a moment he thought it was comical, the way the huge Horned One was afraid of water, but then he shrugged.
We all have our fears
, he thought. Together, they marched to where Simangee waited in the middle of the river.

Simangee was the first to reach the island. She stumbled onto the shore, followed by Adalon. Targesh lurched, opened his eyes, then took a few more steps before turning around and glaring at the river.

'We're safe,' Simangee said. 'The river is flowing again.'

Adalon turned to see that the river had lost its hardness. The current had returned, and ripples played on the river's surface in the last, dying light of the sun.

He stared. Emerging from the scrub on the bank was a long, black shape. Four-legged and furred, with the sinuous grace of a hunter, it threw back its head and gave a high-pitched, choking wail. It sounded frustrated, disappointed, hungry.

'None too soon,' Adalon said, and patted the pocket that held the magic pipe.

'Traith, screet or black lurker?' Simangee said, staring at the creature. It was long and low, but at that moment it reared up on its hind legs, sniffing the air. It was as tall as two full-grown Toothed Ones.

'Does it matter?' Targesh said.

The black creature dropped to all fours and flowed back through the undergrowth.

Simangee shivered. 'I'm glad it's there and we're here.'