The Lost Castle

by Michael Pryor

  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.'

  Seventeen

  Adalon woke with the sun in his eyes. Groaning, he held up a hand and peered through his claws.

  He had fallen asleep in a room in the Lost Castle. It had taken three flights of stairs to get to it, but there were many storeys above. It had appealed to Adalon because of its high ceilings and two large windows, which opened out onto balconies with fine views of the courtyard and the river beyond the walls.

  The room contained little furniture, and this also attracted Adalon. It made him uneasy to think of using a bed where the last dreams were dreamed hundreds of years ago. Instead, he arranged his travel-worn bedroll in a corner.

  Simangee stood on one of the balconies. The stonework around her was carved with the likenesses of birds and fish. Behind her lay the valley.

  She was singing.

  Smiling, Adalon got to his feet. He winced when he realised he'd slept awkwardly on his tail. He stretched for a moment, enjoying his friend's music. It was a mixture of trills and rolls, a happy, rollicking tune that made the day sparkle.

  'You're feeling better,' he said.

  She stopped singing and turned to him. 'Much.'

  Adalon studied her. The dullness had gone from the scales under her eyes. She looked rested and refreshed, full of energy. He stared into her eyes, looking for the shadow that had haunted her. She looked back at him, grinning, eyes bright, except for – no, he was mistaken. Simangee was herself again.

  'I see nothing there,' he announced.

  'I beg your pardon?' Simangee said. 'Am I nothing? What about this, then?'

  She reached out with her claws and nipped him on the hand.

  'Tcha!' he said, clicking his tongue. 'What was that for?'

  'To show you I'm not nothing.'

  Adalon laughed. It was good to have his friend back. 'The evil cloud? You're rid of it?'

  Simangee immediately looked more sombre. 'I hope so.' She shuddered. 'It was horrible. I felt as if I was walking in darkness.' She glanced at him. 'It was a creature of the A'ak, you know. A magical servant. They used it to control those who needed controlling.'

  'I didn't know what to do. I thought getting you to safety was the best thing.'

  Simangee patted him on the shoulder. 'It was. It gave me time to draw on the Way of the Crest. I was able to use the music of the world to counter the cloud's taint.'

  The Ways of the other saur were a mystery to Adalon. He knew of them, of course, and always listened respectfully whenever Targesh or Simangee spoke of their beliefs, but they were as foreign to him as another language.

  'The music of the world?' he said.

  Simangee glanced at Adalon and seemed to weigh up how much to tell him. 'The Way of the Crest is based on the fact that the entire world is one great, musical composition. Everything has its part, everything contributes to the harmony that binds the world together. Part of our duty when we study the Way of the Crest is to try to hear the music of the world, to try to respond to it.' She shook her head. 'I'm still young, still learning. In the past, I've tried my best, but the music of the world has eluded me. Until last night.'

  'You heard it?'

  'I did. I was concentrating, aware of the taint of the evil cloud within me. I wanted to banish it completely and I knew that the Way of the Crest was my only hope. I remembered its lessons, its music; I studied each melody, watched every note.' Simangee paused, her gaze distant, her face thoughtful. 'Then, for one brief moment, I sensed the music of the world.' She looked at her friend. 'It was majestic, Adalon. Vast, swelling and mighty – but it was almost too much. I took what I could, found the part that helped me most, and then it faded away. I was left with a small fragment, a melody that I used to rid myself of the last trace of the evil cloud.'

  Adalon studied his friend. Her face was merry and she snorted.

  'Stop looking at me like that, Adalon. I'm perfectly well!'

  'Of course.'

  At that moment, Targesh clumped into the room. 'Big place.' He stopped and sneezed.

  'What have you found?' Adalon asked.

  Targesh shrugged. 'Lots of dust.'

  'What else?'

  'Empty rooms. No food, though.'

  'Any sign of the A'ak?' Simangee asked, and a shadow crossed her face.

  'Nothing.'

  'The A'ak left things behind,' Simangee said slowly, frowning. 'Or so the book says.'

  'Helpful things?' Adalon asked.

  'Weapons. Magical items.'

  'Food?' Targesh asked.

  'Not unless it's magical food. And I don't think you'd like what it would do to you.'

  Targesh grunted. 'Plenty of greenery out there. That'll do.'

  'Look for some berries and nuts,' Simangee said. 'There could be fruit trees somewhere nearby, too.'

  Targesh tilted his head. 'Adalon?'

  'We're beside a river. I can live on fish.'

  'Good,' Targesh said. 'I'll get something for Simangee and me.'

  'She and I will explore the castle,' Adalon said, and looked at his friends. 'Thanks to Simangee, we are safe from the Queen's rage.' He put a hand on her shoulder. 'Without your cleverness, we would never have found this place.'

  Simangee squirmed and smiled. 'Thank Targesh, too. It was his doing that got you out of the dungeon.'

  'Of course.' He turned to Targesh. 'You are our strength, my friend. I thank you.'

  Targesh rumbled happily.

  'But this is just the start of our journey,' Adalon said. 'Now we must do what we can to stop the Queen's mad plans to conquer Krangor.'

  'The three of us against Thraag?' Simangee said.

  Adalon shook his head. 'Not against Thraag. Against Tayesha.'

  Simangee looked downcast. 'We are so few.'

  'We are all we have. We will do what we can and it will be a beginning.'

  * * *

  The Lost Castle was silent and dim. The air was heavy with the weight of centuries. Adalon felt like an intruder as Simangee and he moved through halls, ballrooms, galleries and chambers of unknown purpose. The castle did not seem to resent their presence; Adalon thought it was distant, aloof, patient. It had survived long after the A'ak had disappeared, and he wondered if it would simply go on forever, occupying this place, outlasting the years.

  Adalon admired the cleverness of the builders. They had a way of working with stone and wood so that everything fitted together seamlessly, as if the blocks and beams had simply grown there. He examined joints and was impressed at how they had been made without nails, almost as if the timbers had been encouraged to bind themselves together.

  'How long has it been since this place was abandoned?' he asked Simangee as they entered a huge open area. Stone pillars held up a vast, domed ceiling. They were carved in the likeness of tree trunks, with rough bark and patches of moss.

  'Long before the seven kingdoms were founded,' Simangee whispered. Dust lay thick on the floor, in places higher than their ankles.

  They moved on.

  The furniture the A'ak had left behind had survived the years. Many of the wall-hangings and drapes were still bright and colourful. Adalon was intrigued by a particularly intricate tapestry filling one entire wall of a long narrow room.

  H
e gazed at the tapestry and then looked around the room, wondering about its purpose. Rows of seats lined the long walls, leaving an empty aisle in the middle. Light poured through windows high in the walls. The columns supporting the ceiling were sheathed in gold and glittered in the sunlight.

  Adalon stood still, admiring the tapestry. It was a scene in this same hall, but the hall was full. Rank on rank of richly dressed nobles, scholars and soldiers were listening to a tall figure. They were a mixture of saur – Long-necked Ones, Toothed Ones, Clawed Ones, Plated Ones and others. The figure standing on the dais was wrapped in cloud and barely an outline could be seen. The image disturbed Adalon in a way that he couldn't quite put his claw on.

  'There,' Simangee said, interrupting his thoughts. 'She stood there.'

  She was pointing to the dais under the tapestry. On the dais was a simple wooden chair. 'That was her throne.'

  'Who?'

  'The Queen of the A'ak.'

  Together, they walked up the long aisle. When they reached the dais, Adalon studied the wooden chair. 'A simple throne.'

  'This hall was where she ruled this kingdom, where the A'ak made their decisions.'

  'But where are they? Where did they go?'

  'Mysteries,' Simangee said, and she stared at the tapestry. 'We are left with mysteries.'

  Eighteen

  Room by room, Adalon and Simangee explored. The outside world had not entered the castle, even in rooms where the shutters had been left open, exposing them to the elements. No birds had built nests, no leaves had been blown in. All was quiet and solemn. The dust was the only sign that the castle had not been built yesterday.

  Ballrooms and kitchens, studies and workshops, banquet halls and libraries full of books in the indecipherable A'ak script – all looked as if the A'ak had simply stepped out for a while. It put Adalon on edge, and he itched for answers.

  What if they decide to come back? he thought, then chased the thought away as foolish.

  Adalon was pleased when he found the armoury near the gatehouse, just inside the walls. The smell of oiled metal and rope reminded him of the hours Targesh and he had spent in the armoury at High Battilon. He took a halberd from a rack. 'There are enough weapons to fit out an army,' he said to Simangee.