The Lost Realm (11 page)

“What was the second thing?”

Melchior's wrinkled face seemed to contract. “Ah, that is something that weighs heavily on me. It concerns my apprentice.”

“You have an apprentice?”

“I had one. Her name was Limmoni. She was . . . extraordinary. Had she lived, she might have been the greatest wizard ever to walk Toronian soil.”

“She died? How?”

“I cannot say for certain. I sent her to Idilliam, to Castle Tor, in the guise of a serving girl. She was to be my eyes and ears. She performed her task extraordinarily well. But now, alas, I sense that she is gone.”

“You . . . sense it?”

“Whatever the distance between them, no two wizards are ever completely apart.” Melchior gave Tarlan a small smile. “I know you understand me, Tarlan. Is this not how you feel about your pack?”

Tarlan considered this. Would he know if Theeta died? Or Greythorn? Or Filos?

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, it is.”

Casting off his melancholy, Melchior suddenly stood, picked up their empty tankards, and said, “Serious talk dries the tongue. Let me get us more to drink.”

Tarlan watched the wizard force his way through the crowded tavern. He picked at what was left of the bread, tossing the crumbs moodily over the edge of the table. The fire crackled in the tavern's hearth, a high, popping sound that was just audible over the buzz of countless conversations. A strident voice rose above the noise, coming from a burly man seated at the next table.

“. . . so I gets the chain round his neck and he goes wild, see?” the man was saying.

“That's bears for you,” his skinny companion replied.

“Aw, I've kept bears for years. Once they're broken they're meek as babies. The trick is to keep 'em scared. That's the trick with all animals, Buster. Keep 'em scared.”

Something snapped inside Tarlan. He stood, his legs wobbling a little. He didn't feel entirely in control of himself.

“Why would you want to keep a bear?” he said in a voice that wasn't quite his own.

The man stared up at him from his stool, his ruddy face a mask of annoyance. “What's it to you, lad?”

“Can a bear pull a cart?” said Tarlan. “Can it plow a field? A bear is a wild animal. A free animal. Why would you—”

“I'll tell you what a bear is good for,” sneered the man. “A bear is good for dancing.” He nudged his companion. “Ain't it, Buster?”

“Dancing?” The edges of Tarlan's vision were flickering red. “You keep a bear to make it
dance
?”

Before he knew what was happening, his fist was flying toward the man's face. Big as he was, the man moved fast, bringing up his own hand just in time to catch Tarlan's. Twisting free, Tarlan wrapped his fingers around the man's throat. His eyes bulged with pain and surprise.

“Tarlan!”

Melchior's voice penetrated the booming that had filled up Tarlan's ears. With a supreme effort of will, Tarlan released his hold. The man pushed himself away from his table, staggered upright. Tarlan stood, wavering, the red mist clearing from his vision. The tavern had fallen silent. Faces turned toward him, wide with undisguised suspicion.

The man Tarlan had attacked drew a long, shining knife from his belt.

Everyone in the surrounding crowd took a step back.

With a click Melchior placed something on the table in front of the man. Tarlan saw it was a large, silver coin.

“For your trouble,” said the wizard.

“I'll give 'im trouble,” growled the man, massaging his bruised throat and brandishing the knife at Tarlan. “Brat like that should be locked up. I've just the cage for 'im.”

“He will be beaten,” said Melchior smoothly. “Come, boy, and next time mind your manners.”

“You're
paying
him?” Tarlan was incredulous.

Melchior raised his hand, though stopped short at striking him. “What did I say about manners?”

The faces watched them as they left. Tarlan suspected that fights were commonplace here. The arrival of strangers, perhaps, was not such a regular occurrence.

“Are you really planning to beat me?” said Tarlan as they escaped into the cold night air.

“Of course not. But I had to say something.”

“I could have taken the knife from him.”

“And what about the knives of his seven friends?”

This brought Tarlan up short. “What do you mean?”

“I mean the man in the green hat, the man with the limp, the woman with the broken tooth, the fat man with small eyes, the twin brothers, and the beautiful woman who carried the biggest dagger of all up the sleeve of her dress. They were all standing behind him. Did you not see them?”

Tarlan opened his mouth, closed it. He'd always prided himself on being observant.

Just how sharp
are
your eyes, old man?

“I'm not sorry for what I did,” he snapped.

“I understand that. But we went in there to gather information, not to get you killed in a brawl.”

Tarlan's anger was still boiling. He resisted the urge to turn it on the wizard.

“I'm not leaving without freeing that bear!” He waited for Melchior to contradict him. To his amazement, the wizard grinned.

“Neither am I.”

They retraced their steps to the edge of the village. After checking they hadn't been followed, Tarlan pursed his lips and whistled three times. Moments later a pair of shadows coalesced in the darkness, resolving themselves rapidly into two furry shapes.

“Greythorn! Filos!” Tarlan whispered. “Stay quiet, now. You have a job to do.”

The wolf and the tigron sat obediently before him, awaiting instructions. Tarlan held out his hands and allowed the animals to sniff them.

“Do you smell the man?” he said.

“Yes,” said Greythorn. “A big man.”

“Sweaty,” said Filos.

Melchior watched with interest. Tarlan allowed himself a smile.

You might see things I cannot see, old man. But I hear things you cannot hear!

“Big and sweaty, yes,” he said, “that's exactly what he was. Can you find his scent? I think he must live nearby. Can you take me to where he lives?”

Immediately, Greythorn and Filos dropped their snouts to the ground and began to sniff, trotting in ever-widening circles as they sought the trail. Greythorn found it first, uttering a low
yip
as he shot off along a little-used forest track. Filos quickly joined him. The two animals wove in and out of each other's path, sharing the task of tracing the scent back to its source.

“Who needs magic?” Tarlan said to Melchior. “Come on.”

Long before they reached a ramshackle hut hidden in the trees, Tarlan could smell the bear himself: a damp, soiled stench that hung in the night air like smoke. The smell led them to a large wooden cage hidden behind the hut. Inside was the biggest bear Tarlan had ever seen.

The instant he saw them, the bear snarled and threw himself against the bars. One massive paw slashed out between the slats of wood, his sharp claws raking down Tarlan's arm. Tarlan drew back with a hiss and circled the cage, being sure to keep his distance.

“Be careful,” said Melchior. “He is angry.”

“Of course he's angry!” snapped Tarlan. “Look at him!”

The bear's black fur was torn and striped with blood. Old scars shone through the matted pelt. Tarlan wondered how many years the man had kept him here, how many beatings the wretched creature had endured.

“It's all right,” he soothed, reaching out his hand. “You're safe now.”

The bear bellowed and swiped again. Tarlan dodged, barely avoiding another injury.

Maybe this isn't going to be so easy.

“I want to set you free.” Tarlan conjured up images of wide, open spaces in his mind, trying to project them toward the bear. For some reason, all he could think of was sandy deserts, even though he'd never seen one. “Please, won't you let me help you?”

“He-elp?” growled the bear, eyeing Tarlan with suspicion. His voice sounded like falling rocks. “You speak? You he-elp?”

“Yes. I speak. I help. What's your name?”

“Brock!” The sound came out in a fit of coughing. “Brock! Brock!”

“Brock? Is that your name?”

“Brock!” the bear agreed, glaring at Tarlan with eyes like tiny furnaces.

“All right, Brock. Are you going to let me help you?”

“He-elp?”

Melchior's hand came to rest on Tarlan's arm. Tarlan nearly jumped out of his skin. “I cannot understand what he is saying,” said the wizard, “but I do know he is dangerous, Tarlan. Perhaps this was not such a good idea.”

“Too late. Like it or not, the bear goes free.” Tarlan picked up a stone and smashed it against the lock. The simple wooden mechanism exploded into splinters, and the door swung open.

Before he could blink, the bear was out. The enormous beast moved like an avalanche, huge and irresistible. He crashed into Tarlan, knocking all the wind from his lungs and throwing him to the ground. Fighting for breath, heart hammering with fear and excitement, Tarlan stared up into those blazing eyes.

“Kill you!” thundered the bear. His mouth yawned, revealing immense yellow teeth. Saliva dripped onto Tarlan's face. The bear's breath was unspeakably bad.

“Kill me if you want to,” said Tarlan, barely controlling his terror. “I can't stop you. You're free to do whatever you want now, Brock. You're free.”

The bear drew back his paw. In the faint starlight, each claw looked like a sword. His rancid breath hung around his gaping jaws in a steaming halo.

Abruptly, the bear closed his mouth, lowered his upraised paw, and stepped away from Tarlan.

“Free,” said Brock, as if tasting the word for the first time. He looked at the trees, at the sky, then at Tarlan. “You freed Brock. Brock thanks you.”

“You're welcome.”

Tarlan rose and stroked the bear's ragged muzzle with one trembling hand.

“Remarkable!” said Melchior. “I have seen many things in my long days, Tarlan, but never anything quite like that.”

“Oy! What d'you think you're doing?!”

Tarlan turned to see the burly man from the tavern loping up to the cottage. One of his fists was clenched around a whip. His face was crimson with fury.

Instantly loyal to their new companion, Greythorn and Filos stepped in front of Brock, lowered their heads, and raised their hackles. Their growls filled the night.

“No,” said Tarlan, waving them back. “This is Brock's fight.”

The bear squinted at him, his ferocity replaced with such a look of confusion that Tarlan's heart broke.

“It's all right, Brock,” he said. “You're free to do this, too.”

Understanding dawned on the bear's ravaged face. Drawing back his lips to reveal those enormous teeth, he reared up on his hind legs. Tarlan gasped. He was tall for his age, but the bear was fully twice his height.

The man never stood a chance. As Brock crashed back to the ground and charged, he drew back his whip, but the bear was quicker, closing his jaws around the man's wrist and clamping them shut. Tarlan heard a sickening
crunch
, then the man's severed hand dropped to the ground.

“Aieee!” the man shrieked. “Don't . . . don't . . .”

Grabbing the man with his huge paws, Brock picked up his torturer and hurled him into the cage, still screaming. The man landed upside down, blood squirting from the stump of his wrist. His eyes rolled up to show the whites and his howls of pain reduced to faint bleating sounds.

Brock advanced on him once more.

“No,” said Tarlan, blocking the bear's path. Brock snarled at him with such ferocity that Tarlan thought for a moment he'd gone too far.

“Don't kill him.”

The bear swayed on his hind legs, staring down at Tarlan with rage-filled eyes.

“Want to bite him! All the way through!”

“No. Let him live. He'll tell his friends what happened here. They might think twice about keeping animals locked up after that.”

The bear's black brow contracted as he considered this.

“Brock wants to kill him,” he said, but his growling voice had lost its angry edge.

“I know. I understand.”

At last, with a low grunt, Brock dropped to all fours and turned his back on the man who'd kept him prisoner.

“Where will Brock go?” the bear said.

“That isn't for me to say,” Tarlan answered. “It's for you to choose.”

After a long moment the bear asked, “What is
your
name?”

“Tarlan.”

Another pause. Then:

“Brock will come with Tarlan.”

Tarlan grinned. “I was hoping you were going to say that.”

G
ulph was surrounded by cold. It enveloped him, sucked him down, turned him over and over. He flung out his arms and legs, and the coldness resisted. He opened his mouth to yell, and the coldness rushed into him. The coldness was in his eyes, his nose, his ears. The coldness was everywhere, and he was lost inside it. . . .