The Lost Realm (31 page)

“They are too scattered. Besides, death is not the answer here.”

Tarlan watched helplessly as the flames rose higher and higher. Most of the villagers had given up hope and were running, screaming, away from the fire. But the only direction left open to them was west, toward the sea. When they reached the water, they would be able to go no farther.

Burn or drown!
Tarlan thought desperately.
Which would I choose?

“What can we do?”

“You must stay, Tarlan. Do what you can. There are lives to be saved, even now.”

“What about you?”

“I will try to count to seven. Hope that I reach it.”

Melchior tugged at the ruff of feathers on Nasheen's neck, urging the thorrod over Tarlan's head and directing her out to sea. Tarlan watched, his stomach churning with both hope and despair.

Seven? What are you talking about, old man?

Directly below him, a jet of fire shot straight up from a collapsing building. Theeta veered sideways, narrowly avoiding being swallowed by the sudden eruption of flame. By the time she recovered, Nasheen was just a dot against the smoke-filled sky.

“Help! Help me!”

The cry was coming from a row of houses in the shadow of the falling building. Tarlan had no need to tell Theeta to head toward it.

Flames were steadily consuming each house in turn. Standing in the attic window of the last in the row was a little boy, no more than six years old. “Help!” he screamed again.

Theeta slowed, thumping her wings hard to maintain a steady hover in the billowing smoke. As Tarlan eased her closer, two more faces appeared behind that of the boy—a man and a woman. His parents, Tarlan supposed.

“You'll have to jump!” he shouted. “Hurry!”

Terror bloomed on the faces of the boy and the woman. The man's expression stiffened. He clamped his hands around the boy's shoulders and, without giving his son time to protest, threw him bodily out of the window.

The boy landed sprawling on Theeta's back. Tarlan grabbed his collar and planted him into the thickest part of the thorrod's golden ruff. Looking up, he saw the man and woman standing hand in hand on the window's wooden sill. Thick smoke gushed around them.

“Jump!” Tarlan yelled.

They jumped. At the same instant, Theeta edged a little closer to the building, which was now completely engulfed in flames. The man and woman landed awkwardly. Theeta lurched sideways from the impact and the man nearly slid off, but between them, Tarlan and the woman managed to drag him to safety. They clung on, coughing and choking, while Theeta powered her way into the clearer air over the sea.

“You saved us,” the man croaked, his voice thick with smoke. He clutched at Tarlan's arm. “How can we ever thank you?”

“There's no need,” said Tarlan gruffly. “But maybe you can help me.”

“Anything!”

“Not all the army is here. Did you see where the rest went?”

The woman nodded. “They left just after the first attack. As soon as the fires took hold, the man in charge led them away. A big man in a red cloak.”

Tyro.

“They went that way,” said the man, pointing eastward.

Tarlan stiffened. In the east lay Isur—where Trident and Elodie were.

A thorrod can fly a lot faster than an army can march
, he told himself.
I can reach her before they do.

“What's that?” said the boy, pointing out to sea.

At first Tarlan couldn't make out what he was seeing. A long, gray shadow lay across the horizon. As he watched it, the shadow grew bigger, deeper. It seemed as if the ocean were trying to climb up into the sky. White foam appeared along the shadow's top edge, and Tarlan understood he was looking at a wave.

A gigantic one.

“Down, Theeta!”

They deposited the family on the wooden pier, where a crowd of fleeing villagers had gathered. By now the Galadronians had returned to their boats, which were making their way down the coast, presumably to their next target.

“Don't leave us here,” wailed the mother as she climbed reluctantly down from Theeta's back.

“They've sunk our boats,” said the man. “We've nowhere to run to.”

“You won't need to run,” said Tarlan. “But you may need to hold tight.”

He left them staring upward with fearful expressions. As the two thorrods struck out for the open sea, Kitheen arrowed in at Theeta's side.

“Big water,” said the great black-breasted bird, for once breaking his characteristic silence.

“You can say that again,” Tarlan replied.

Nasheen was a speck of gold flying high above the immense wave's leading edge. She had to fly hard to keep pace with the rushing wall of water. Melchior was on her back—not sitting but standing, with his arms outstretched and the wind gusting through his froth of white hair. His yellow robe billowed out behind him.

“Melchior!” Tarlan yelled as Theeta and Kitheen fell into formation on either side of Nasheen. “What is this?”

“The wave of seventh waves!” the wizard shouted back.

“What?”

“Have you not heard of the seventh wave?”

“Melchior, I'd never even seen the sea until a few days ago.”

“Next time you stand on a beach with your feet in the surf, count the waves. One, two, three . . . The seventh wave is always bigger than the rest. I have gathered all the seventh waves and multiplied them together. What better way to fight fire than with water?”

Only half understanding, Tarlan dragged his attention from the giant wave's foaming crest and gazed at the coastline, now very close.

“It'll put out the fire, all right. There'll be nothing left to burn. Melchior—this monster will smash that village to splinters.”

“Wait,” said Melchior with a mischievous smile. “Watch.”

Tarlan's heart was in his mouth as the wave of waves bore down on the blazing village. The fire was truly out of control now, a seething mass of orange light looming over the last few remaining buildings on the waterfront. The villagers crowded the pier, cowering before the onrushing flames. Many had jumped into the water, where they clung to the wreckage of the fishing boats; a few were trying to swim out to sea.

If the fire doesn't kill them, this wave will.

He wouldn't have thought it possible, but the huge wave grew even bigger as it approached the harbor. Now it was twice the height of the fire, now three times. It was a cliff—no, a mountain—shining deadly blue in the fierce light of the morning sun.

“Melchior!” Tarlan cried.

The wizard stood immobile on Nasheen's back, his eyes closed, his lips moving.

Tarlan could hear the villagers screaming.

An instant before the wave struck the pier, it broke apart. What had been a solid wall of ocean water fragmented into a billion tiny droplets, each one scintillating in the sunlight like a tiny star. The droplets sprayed over the pier and into the flames, not the hammer blow Tarlan had expected but a gentle, endless rain.

The terror-stricken expressions on the villagers' faces turned to openmouthed wonder. They sank to their knees while behind them the fire hissed in fury. The water from the wave continued to rain down: a fine mist that smothered the flames and cooled the charred remains of the buildings. Tarlan moved his hands through the damp air, reveling in the departure of the baking heat.

The thorrods circled as steam rose from the ruins of the village. The survivors on the pier were helping each other to their feet, tending the injured, making their way slowly back into the ash-strewn streets. Many lifted their hands and waved their gratitude.

“It's going to take them a long time to put things back together,” said Tarlan. He spotted the little boy, waving and grinning from ear to ear. He waved back.

“There is much work to be done,” Melchior agreed. “But I sense you are anxious to be gone.”

Tarlan nodded. “I have to defend the kingdom.”

Melchior raised one drenched eyebrow. “Spoken like a king. So you are not just an angry young man?”

Tarlan flushed. “Oh, I'm angry, all right. All this is just the start. The Galadronians will burn every village between here and Idilliam, if that's what it takes. They're heading into Isur right now. I've got to get back to Trident. If I can get ahead of the army, I can give Fessan the time he needs to rally defenses. And I can make sure Elodie's safe.”

“Very well. I see you are determined. Nevertheless, these people are not yet saved. Many must still be trapped in the ruins, and the injured will number in the hundreds, if not more. And the dead must be buried. I will stay and help. Will the thorrod stay with me?”

“Of course,” Tarlan replied. “Nasheen—can you carry Melchior a while longer?”

Nasheen regarded the leader of her pack with one beady eye. Steam swirled around her, turning her into a ghost bird. “Wizard strange,” she cawed.

Tarlan guided Theeta close enough so he could reach out and touch the other thorrod's beak. “I know he is. But I need you to stay with him. And he'll need your help. Besides, I thought you liked him, don't you?”

“Wizard light. Wizard dark. Wizard friend.”

Tarlan grinned. It was so hard to unwrap the many meanings compressed into the thorrods' words. But one thing was clear to him: Nasheen wasn't about to leave Melchior behind.

“That's settled, then. Theeta! Kitheen! Let's round up the others and make flight. There's no time to waste!” Tarlan turned to Melchior. “I'm glad you're all right again. Healed, I mean, or whatever it was . . .” His voice trailed off. He still had no real idea what had happened to Melchior inside the Isle of Stars. “I really didn't wake you too soon, did I? That star—the one that wasn't—”

“It is of no consequence, Tarlan. I am very glad you were there to help me. The prophecy holds. Remember that. Good is good, and the prophecy holds. Now, away with you!”

Grinning, Tarlan tapped his heels against Theeta's flanks and spurred the giant thorrod away toward the edge of the village. They emerged from the cloud of steam and his heart surged as he saw Greythorn, Filos, and Brock standing in a line, their ears pricked and alert for his return.

“Are you ready to run?” he cried. “We've got a long way to go!”

“Yes!” they cried in unison. “Lead us!”

So they set off, heading back toward the gap in the cliffs, the thorrods flapping steadily against a strengthening east wind, their flightless companions bounding eagerly along behind them. Tarlan didn't look back. He'd seen the sea, and although he thought it marvelous, he had other concerns now.

I'm coming, Elodie. And afterward . . . well, let's just see.

With the sun beating on their backs, Tarlan and his pack raced east.

P
arry left! And . . . thrust!”

Elodie stepped nimbly aside as Sylva struck halfheartedly at her with the sword. As Sylva stumbled, Elodie tapped her lightly on the back with the flat of her blade.

“It's no good,” gasped Sylva. “I'll never learn.”

“You will,” called Cedric from the corner of the stable. He was sitting on a bale of hay, watching the practice duel. “You're getting better.”

There was a wistful edge to his voice.
No wonder
, thought Elodie.
It'll be a long time before he's ready to raise a sword again.

“You're a good teacher, Elodie.” Sylva planted the tip of her sword on the hay-strewn ground and leaned on the hilt. Her face was bright red, and her hair had come loose. But her eyes were shining. “How did you learn all this?”

“A good friend taught me the basics,” Elodie replied with a pang of sorrow. “Her name was Palenie. As for the rest—well, you learn fast in the heat of battle.”

Sylva and Cedric were staring at her, both wearing an identical look of comic surprise.

“What? Did you think I spent all my time with Trident hiding away in a tent? Samial, tell them. . . .”

Samial—who was perched on another bale near Cedric—shrugged. He'd become such a part of Elodie's life that even now she sometimes forgot that nobody else could see or hear him.

“We believe you,” said Sylva with a grin.

“I hear horses! They're back!” Cedric leaped awkwardly down from his hay bale and ran to the door. “Quick—hide the swords!”

Elodie plucked the sword from Sylva's grasp and handed both weapons to Samial. It was Samial who'd stolen them from the castle armory; now he tucked them out of sight behind a low bench in the corner of the barn.

Elodie joined Cedric at the door. A column of horsemen rode through the gate into the scorched garden, Lord Vicerin at its head.

“It's only been six days. I thought they'd be longer.”

Elodie had wanted more time to train, to prepare for whatever might lie ahead. Still, it was satisfying to see the look of horror rising on Lord Vicerin's face as he surveyed what had once been a beautiful ornamental garden, and now looked like a battlefield.