The King in Reserve

by Michael Pryor

  For three days – after making sure that they had found all the simulacra and disposed of them – they talked, argued and schemed, soon bringing in the Flightmother for her wisdom and news from her scouts. Targesh sent his outriders to spread the word through the Hidden Valley. Kikkalak's Winged Ones made sure that even those who had settled furthest from the Lost Castle were made aware: the time had come.

  While this whirlwind of excitement and promise echoed around the Map Room, Moralon sat under one long window, game board on his lap. He shifted pieces carefully and his mouth moved silently, uttering words no-one could hear. He seemed oblivious to the tide of expectation that was rising around him.

  Fast-flying Winged One scouts had brought back information. Virriftinar was under attack by Tayesha's forces. Knobblond was securely in her grasp. The other kingdoms were in turmoil.

  To distract the enemy, Adalon suggested that small teams should be sent to each capital. Their role was to make mischief and stir trouble, so that any Thraag force would be kept occupied suppressing the unrest and wouldn't be sent to help other Thraag commanders. With some misgivings, Adalon agreed that these should be led by Simangee, Targesh, Bolggo and Odarn, the stablekeeper. Hoolgar counselled using the Foundation Room to transport the teams across the continent instantly. Despite Simangee's assurances that they would fall back before the local Thraag commanders could find them, Adalon's disquiet could not be shaken.

  Then he had to stand firm in the face of Gormond's passionate pleading to be allowed to command one of the teams. The young king had the light of adventure in his eyes, and was heartbroken when his request was declined.

  After this meeting had broken up, and after Gormond's last entreaties had been heard, Hoolgar remained behind. Adalon waited patiently as the old saur hesitated, gathering his thoughts in the quiet of the Map Room. The only noise was the tiny scrapings Moralon made when moving the pieces on his game board.

  Hoolgar finally cleared his throat. 'I have been trying to contact other sages, my friends in learning throughout Krangor.' He clasped his hands together and placed them on the table. He stared at them. 'I have had no success.'

  Adalon sighed. 'So we can expect no help from that quarter? No wisdom gathered from old texts?'

  'It's worse than that. I should have been able to reach some of them.' Hoolgar scowled. 'It can only be outside interference.'

  'Tayesha?'

  'If we're lucky, it will only be the Queen,' Hoolgar said. 'If we're unlucky, the A'ak have grown stronger than I thought.'

  The fourth day after the A'ak lookalikes were purged from the Lost Castle, Adalon woke with the unsettling blend of excitement and fear that he knew he would never grow accustomed to. Today he was to lead his small, claw-picked band to Challish. If all went well, he would be back before supper, with Queen Tayesha.

  He kicked back his coverlet and rolled out of bed, springing to his feet. He bounded to the window and drew back the drapes to let in the day. After he flung the windows wide, he stepped onto the balcony to enjoy a Hidden Valley that was still half-asleep, drowsy and quiet. The sun hadn't crept over the Jarquin Ranges to the east, so long shadows lay over the trees and hills. The dawn smelled of smoke, as cooking fires began to be stoked, but also of greenery and richness and promise.

  Adalon craned his neck. To the north-west was Graaldon, the smoking mountain. It was their guide and protector, but Adalon had never felt completely easy about its presence. While he breathed deeply of the morning air, he studied the mountain's sheer-sided magnificence. Only thin tendrils of smoke curled from its heights, barely hinting at its inner turmoil.

  And so it was that Adalon actually saw the moment when Graaldon tore itself apart.

  At first, he was puzzled. Had Graaldon just shivered like a frightened beast? One entire flank of the mountain seemed to tremble. Then he stared. Adalon had been brought up in the mountains of the Eastern Peaks, and he thought he knew all their moods – but nothing had prepared him for what he was now seeing.

  All at once, the side of the mountain slumped inwards, like a poorly made thatch roof in a hailstorm. Adalon gasped, a short, hard grunt of simple astonishment. Mountains weren't supposed to do that!

  Then the entire mountain vanished. It was replaced by a gigantic cloud of smoke and dust that blotted out the sky to the north-west.

  Adalon's jaw dropped. A part of him was affronted by the outrageousness of what he was seeing. Numbly, without consciously making it happen, his hand slowly reached toward the distant spectacle as if he could wipe the scene away. Then he was slammed against the wall, clubbed by something that was like sound, but sound made solid, sound beyond itself, sound grown huge enough to sweep all before it. It struck the Lost Castle and Adalon like a giant fist.

  Adalon reeled against the balcony and nearly toppled into the courtyard below. His head rang and he could dimly hear cries and shouts of alarm. He lifted his dazed head in time to see the Morning Tower fall – a long, slow descent, it seemed – breaking into three parts as it went, crashing over the wall and into the river.

  Adalon staggered into his room, wincing at his bruised side. He raced for his door and flung it open. Panicked saur ran past, not sparing him a glance.

  Outside. Every instinct in him screamed that he should get outside. Rumbling from underfoot emphasised the need for that course of action. 'Sim!' he called from his doorway. 'Targesh!'

  He leaped into the swarm of saur and fought his way back up the corridor to Simangee's room. The door was open and a quick glance showed she wasn't there. A glance into Targesh's room, down the stairs toward the stables, showed the same. He hissed, bouncing on his toes with frustration, but then sprinted on. He had to trust to their good sense.

  The courtyard was jammed with saur. Many were pushing toward the gatehouse, fearful of another collapse. Some were injured, and all were frightened by the ash and rock falling from the air. As best they could, they kept close to buildings and walls, but the land was uncertain, shaking and groaning. Nowhere was safe.

  Adalon saw Simangee carrying a young Long-necked One. He jumped and waved over the uncertain mob. 'Sim! Sim!' he cried, and then coughed as he caught a lungful of sulphurous smoke. A hail of ash pattered down on him and he winced. It was hot.

  By the time he reached Sim, sheltering underneath the eaves of what could once have been a barracks, Targesh had joined them. He had two small ones on his back. When he stopped, they slid off and thanked him before hurrying to a relieved-looking Crested One.

  'Work to do,' Targesh said.

  'Do we have many hurt?' Adalon asked.

  'A few,' Simangee said, her eyes full of sorrow. 'We lost two masons. They were working on the Morning Tower.'

  'Ach.' It was a loss. They could not afford to lose anyone, especially skilled workers, small as their numbers were in the Hidden Valley.

  'The stables are on fire,' Targesh said. 'Time for a bucket brigade.'

  'Let me take care of that,' Gormond said. The young king limped toward them. 'You have more important things to do.'

  'You're hurt, Your Majesty?' Adalon asked.

  Gormond beamed. 'Nothing to worry about. A wall was collapsing and I helped one of the younglings away.'

  A familiar face appeared at Gormond's side. She ceased her scribbling. 'A large chunk of stone fell on him. He pulled the young saur away just in time, but the stone caught him on the thigh. Yet he did not flinch – is that correct, Your Majesty?'

  Gormond waved a hand and looked absurdly pleased. 'Write it how you like, Sachi. You have a way with words.'

  Adalon spared a moment. 'You've done well, Your Majesty.'

  Gormond looked down and scraped at the cobblestones with a toe. 'I . . . Thank you, Adalon.' He coughed. 'I'll see to the bucket brigade, then.'

  He hurried off and Adalon was glad they'd found the young king. He hated to think of him in the hands of Wargrach.

  'What's next?' Targesh grunted.

  Adalon tapped his claws together and gr
ound his teeth. More decisions. 'We're better off out of the castle, for now. We could have more collapses.'

  'Can you use your magic pipe?' Simangee said. 'Summon a bridge, and these poor saur can cross the river. Enough saur have set up in the countryside; they can take these ones in.'

  A screech made him look up. The Flightmother and Kikkalak landed breathlessly. He bounded to his feet. 'What news?'

  'Graaldon has gone,' Kikkalak said. 'The Jarquin Ranges are breached.'

  'And worse,' the Flightmother said. 'Wargrach is leading an army into the Hidden Valley.'

  Adalon stared up at the ruined Lost Castle, then at the mountains that had kept them safe. The skyline had changed – gaps now punctuated what had been an impassable wall. Peaks that had been ragged and proud were broken.

  Everything was falling apart.

  'We must flee,' he said. 'Or all is lost.'

  'Flee?' the Flightmother said. 'Where? How? Wargrach has riders, cavalry enough to hunt you all down.'

  Adalon breathed deeply. His Clawed One nature told him to run, to trust his speed to protect him from his enemies. But he had learned that instinct was not the answer to all questions. The Way of the Claw had taught him that the saur had been blessed with reason. It was this that made them different from their small-brained ancestors and enabled them to do great things.

  He thought, and he thought quickly. 'Flightmother, you have many nets?'

  'We do, but not enough for all of you.'

  'I understand. But your people could scour the valley for any saur who aren't here at the Lost Castle? You could carry them to safety?'

  'We should be able to do that. Most are here since your summons.'

  Adalon nodded and rubbed his hands together. 'Good, good.'

  'What are you planning, Adalon?' Simangee said. 'We can't hide in the castle. The wall was breached when the Morning Tower fell.'

  'We can do it,' Adalon said softly, almost to himself. He straightened and looked toward where Graaldon had once been. The sky was dark overhead and a fine rain of ash continued to drift from the heavens.

  'Do what?' Targesh asked.

  'The Foundation Room,' Adalon said. 'We'll use its magic to transport our saur to safety.'

  'Can we do that?' Simangee stared at the dozens of saur who were milling about in the courtyard.

  'We will do it,' Adalon said. 'We will take them to safety, then we will gather our strength.'

  'What for?' Simangee said.

  'To defeat the Queen, of course.'

  About the Author

  Michael Pryor has published more than twenty fantasy books and over forty short stories, from literary fiction to science fiction to slapstick humour. Michael has been shortlisted six times for the Aurealis Awards, has been nominated for a Ditmar Award and longlisted for the Gold Inky award, and three of his books have been Children's Book Council of Australia Notable Books. Michael is also the co-creator (with Paul Collins) of the highly successful Quentaris Chronicles. He is currently writing Time of Trial: The Fourth Volume of The Laws of Magic, as well as the final book in the Chronicles of Krangor series.

  For more information about Michael and his books, visit www.michaelpryor.com.au.