The Lost Castle

by Michael Pryor

  'Of course.'

  The stone walls were lined with racks full of swords, pikes, partisans, maces and dozens of weapons Adalon did not recognise. Chain mail hung on wooden dummies. Stacks of helmets stood against walls. A door led to a workshop where a cold furnace stood. Adalon could see, in his mind's eye, a blacksmith hammering metal, with youngsters pumping the bellows and quenching red-hot metal.

  A large iron cabinet stood against one wall of the armoury, twice as wide as Adalon's armspan. Typical of A'ak design, its dull, black surface was etched with ornamentation – swirls and wreaths, vines and fruit, flowers and branches with leaves. Adalon ran a claw over intertwined stars and vegetation, then shivered and drew back.

  'Magic.' He wiped his hands together in distaste.

  Simangee came to his side. 'You feel magic, but I can see it.'

  'You can see magic?'

  'Ever since that cloud touched me, especially when it's strong magic.' She rubbed her eyes. 'It's a haze on a hot day, or oil on water, something like that,' she finished lamely. 'I saw it on the pipe you found. And now this.'

  Adalon patted his pocket and felt the pipe still there. 'Is the cabinet's magic evil or good?'

  'Magic is neither evil nor good. It is simply a tool, like a hammer or a saw.'

  'A hammer can be used for bad purposes, as well as good.'

  'Yes.'

  Adalon frowned at the magical cabinet. 'I wonder what's inside.'

  Simangee laughed. 'We're in an armoury, Adalon. What would you expect to find in a cabinet in an armoury?'

  'Weapons. And in a magical cabinet I would expect to find magical arms.' He looked at Simangee. 'How do we open it?'

  'It has a keyhole.'

  Adalon peered at the slot surrounded by an intricate spiral of leaves and diamonds. 'And where is the key?'

  'Somewhere safe, I imagine.'

  Targesh appeared in the doorway. 'Found something. Come and see.'

  Adalon put a hand on the cabinet and felt the ripple of magic again. Something important was in there, he was sure.

  Simangee trotted to Targesh, her eyes bright, her tail swaying. 'Which way?'

  Adalon sighed and followed, promising to come back to the mysterious cabinet.

  Targesh wouldn't respond to Simangee's excited questions about what he had found. He led them through a large, wood-panelled hall, into a corridor. After lighting a lantern he ushered them along the stone-lined corridor, where each block was carved with geometric patterns that made Adalon's head spin.

  'There.' Targesh pointed toward the end of the corridor.

  Simangee gave an excited trill through her crest. 'An iron wall! What's it here for?'

  Targesh led them closer. 'No,' Adalon said, 'it's not a wall. It's a pair of doors.'

  The two doors met in the middle, and on the right-hand side of where they met were seven locks. Each lock was as big as Adalon's head, bright silver against the midnight-black metal of the door itself. The key slots were all different. Adalon scratched his chin with a thumb-claw and tried to imagine what sort of keys would be required to open such locks.

  The top lock, above Adalon's head, had a key slot in the shape of an irregular pentagon, ridged and knurled. The others were equally strange: curved, twisted, branching. The bottom one looked like three concentric circles and Adalon couldn't see how it would work.

  Simangee stood with her hands on her hips. 'Well, this tells us something.'

  'It does?' Targesh said.

  'Whatever is inside must be valuable. They wouldn't have gone to all this trouble, otherwise.'

  Adalon nodded. 'This could be the main strong-room for the castle.'

  Targesh pounded on the metal. It boomed dully. 'Thick.'

  'And it has magic about it, too,' Simangee said.

  Adalon took half a step backward before he realised what he was doing. Sheepishly, he tried to pretend he was getting a better view of the doors. He stroked his chin. 'Well, we're not going to get in without the keys, are we Sim?'

  'Let me think about this.' She smiled a little and turned to face the doors. 'Call it a challenge.'

  Adalon settled himself to wait, crossing his arms on his chest. He knew that patience was a good thing to practise, to balance his Clawed One impulsiveness, so he was almost disappointed when Simangee spun around, beaming.

  'You have something?' Adalon asked.

  'Perhaps. I might have a way to open this thing.' She tapped the door with her tail.

  'You know where the keys are?' Targesh asked.

  'Not exactly.' She grinned. 'Remember: the A'ak were the masters of deception and cunning. What if they could make the door safe by guile instead of brute strength?' She hummed a little. 'I think the seven locks are just a distraction.'

  'How do we open it, then?' Adalon asked.

  Simangee was enjoying herself. 'Let's consider another cunning A'ak device: the secret passage across the river.'

  'The golden pipe,' Adalon said. 'It summoned the magic.'

  Simangee put a claw on her cheek. 'Hmm. Sometimes I think you were meant to find that pipe.' She waved that thought away before Adalon could pursue it. 'We don't have find any magical musical instruments around here, but I wonder if the A'ak did use one here, all those years ago.'

  'So we need to find another magical pipe instead of a set of magical keys? I don't see that we're any better off.'

  'No?' Simangee said. 'I might be able to use my musical skills and my knowledge of magic, to try to find the sound that will open the door.'

  'Good idea,' Targesh said. 'You can do it.'

  Simangee waved Adalon and Targesh back from the door. She stood with her palms touching the metal surface and her head turned to one side. 'This way,' she explained, 'I'll be able to hear and feel what's happening.'

  Simangee took a deep breath, then lifted her chin and sang.

  Adalon had always admired his friend's musical ability. She could turn her hand to any instrument and make tunes to set a party dancing, or she could sing a song of mourning which would leave every eye moist. Her music had the power to move souls.

  Adalon listened in awe as Simangee sang to the iron doors, trying to coax them open. She sang wordless tunes that soared and dipped. When the doors quivered, she repeated a particular musical phrase, then again, but when it had no further effect she turned the phrase around, then added to it, then she returned to the original, singing it more slowly, then faster and faster until it was a shrill whine.

  Simangee stopped, dropping her arms to her sides and panting. 'I nearly had it,' she said, her face downcast. 'It was as if they wanted to open, but I couldn't find the next notes to shift them any further.'

  Adalon reached into the pocket of his tunic and took out the golden pipe. 'What if you heard this again? Could it help you?'

  Simangee brightened. 'It might. If I could listen to it and feel its magic, it might point the way.'

  Adalon looked at the pipe and realised that he was holding it in his claws, as if it were hot. His mouth was dry; he was afraid of it.

  I will not let such a thing conquer me, he thought. He put it to his mouth and blew.

  This time, as the pure sound of the pipe echoed from the walls, Adalon felt as if he were freezing to death. His bones ached with cold and his whole body was seized with violent shivering. Iciness wrapped around him, so chill it burned.

  He felt Targesh's arm on his shoulders. 'What's wrong?'

  Then, a sound rose, pure and clear, and the cold vanished. He shook himself and saw Simangee standing in front of the iron doors, arms spread, head back, eyes closed as she embraced the music. From her throat, and resonating through her crest, came an outpouring, a run of notes that climbed, descended, then – just as it seemed they would go on forever – ended.

  The iron doors swung back without a sound.

  Nineteen

  Adalon gasped at what was revealed. Carefully, as if it were a dream where he might wake at any minute, he stepped through the doorway wi
th Simangee and Targesh at his back.

  The strongroom was as large as a ballroom. It was full, overflowing, bursting with treasure.

  Shelves and racks lined the walls, full of crystal vases, golden ornaments and statues carved out of whole rubies and sapphires. Ropes of pearls hung from hooks. Large chests sat on the floor, all open, and all full of gold coins. Piles of golden trinkets reached up to the ceiling. Sacks of gems spilled over silver plates. Shimmering cloth in rolls the height of a tall saur stood like sentinels among crates of silver bars. Jewel-encrusted drinking horns, tankards and ornamented doublets hung from hooks.

  Adalon clenched his fists together and bared his teeth. He could see the fulfilment of his vow in this very room. With this fortune he could buy an army that would stop Queen Tayesha.

  He could imagine it. The finest soldiers, with equipment that would make his enemy tremble, then throw down their arms and run away. Cavalry, archers, foot soldiers, the best money could buy. They would come from all over Krangor to fight for him. He would lead them, a host to sweep Queen Tayesha from power.

  Adalon saw that avenging his father and helping the saur of the world could both be achieved with the wealth around him. It made him light-headed and he settled himself, sobering.

  Such good fortune was unlooked for, and the reputation of the A'ak made him uneasy. Wealth could be a trap for the unwary. He promised himself that he would be alert for danger. But, he argued, it would be foolish to ignore such usefulness.

  He wandered among the riches. Numbly, he saw Simangee and Targesh picking up one delicate object after another, wonder on their faces. Targesh looped precious necklaces around his horns. Simangee stood, draped in cloth of gold, hands on hips, laughing at him.

  Brooches and bracelets. Crowns and rings. Orbs, pendants, necklaces of intricate beauty, baubles, curios, works of art. There was so much that Adalon began to feel overpowered by the opulence about him.

  He turned, surveying the room, feeling dizzy. He saw a kingdom's worth of emeralds in a trunk. On the shelf above it stood a chess set with pieces carved from diamonds and black pearls. His heart ached at the sight of an exquisite robin made of spun silver.

  Toward the back of the room, the riches were carelessly displayed. Bags of coins had split and spilled. A set of silver serving platters, each as large as a wheel, were roughly stacked against a wall. Golden cutlery was heaped willy-nilly in boxes. Adalon wondered if the keepers of the treasure had become bored with such wonders.

  As he was about to leave, he saw something out of place. Near the door, in a niche in the wall at head height, was a key ring with three plain keys. In a room full of precious metals and gems, these ordinary items stood out like coal in the snow.

  Adalon took the key ring in his hand, then nearly dropped it. Magic! he thought as he felt the familiar thrumming. He held the keys gingerly in his claws: one black iron, one dull brass, one made of hard, dark wood.

  Simangee joined him and looked over his shoulder. 'I can see their magic.'

  At that moment, Targesh gave a shout that echoed around the treasure chamber. 'Riding beasts!'

  Adalon and Simangee looked at each other and burst out laughing. 'Where are you, Targesh?' Adalon called.

  'Here!'

  They found him at the far end of the chamber, behind a tall lacquer screen with scenes of the Hidden Valley on it. He was standing in front of three brass statues of riding beasts.

  Two of the steeds were life-sized, slender beasts that looked as if they could outrun the wind. The other steed was heavier, a war charger with strength in its back and flanks. Adalon walked around them and marvelled at their exquisitely moulded manes and tails. Their hoofs, their flanks, their ears – all glowed the bright yellow-gold of brass. Saddles were cast into their backs and supple, braided brass reins and stirrups hung in place.

  'Fine statues, Targesh,' Adalon said. 'But hardly worth keeping with the other treasures here.'

  'They're magic,' Simangee said.

  Targesh frowned at Simangee. 'She sees magic, Targesh,' Adalon explained. 'These keys are magical, too.'

  'A brass key. For brass riding beasts?' Targesh suggested.

  Adalon looked at Simangee. She nodded slowly. 'They belong together.'

  Targesh pointed to a keyhole in the muzzle of the nearest riding beast.

  Adalon took a deep breath. The steed stared at him with metal eyes, strange and distant. He wondered what those eyes had seen.

  He raised the brass key, fitted it into the slot and turned it. He stood back.

  With the sound of metal shifting on metal, the riding beast swivelled its head. Then it lowered its neck and gazed directly at Adalon. One hoof pawed at the ground and the stone rang. For a moment, it stood still, then its entire body quivered, making the sound of a thousand tiny cymbals.

  Adalon reached out and touched the brass beast on the muzzle. Its snort was like a bell.

  'It likes you,' Targesh said, grinning.

  'I hope so.' Adalon took the reins in one hand and stood by the steed's flank. He patted its neck. The beast boomed like a kettledrum.

  'Hollow,' Targesh said.

  'I'd be hollow, too,' Simangee said, 'after so long alone.'

  Adalon slid his foot in the stirrup and heaved himself into the saddle.

  The riding beast shifted its weight, metal sliding on metal as it adjusted its balance. The saddle was cold and hard and Adalon made a note to use a blanket next time. He flicked the reins and clicked his tongue. 'Forward, oh riding beast.'

  Targesh and Simangee moved to either side as the brass riding beast walked forward, lifting its hoofs high over the field of treasure.

  Twenty

  A stripling, Wargrach, a mere youth! I set you to find and punish him and this is how you return!'

  Anger warred with pain inside Wargrach. He bit down on both. 'He is dead, Your Majesty. I survived, but he perished in the fire that came from the mountain.' His voice, once deep and powerful, now whistled and bubbled through a ruined mouth. His jaw ached with the effort of shaping the words, but he'd learned to ignore it. He had learned much in his long ordeal, dragging himself from the feet of Graaldon back to Challish.

  He leaned on his staff, lifted his head and peered at Queen Tayesha with his one good eye. She stood with her back to the window of the Morning Room, outlined against the greenery. Late afternoon light surrounded her. It hurt Wargrach's eye to look and he turned away.

  'You survived, Wargrach? It may have been better if you had not. What use are you now?'

  Wargrach longed to rest on his tail, but it was still healing. The physicians said it was never going to support him again, but he knew better. 'Your Majesty, I am your servant. I will join the Bondorborar campaign.'

  Queen Tayesha appeared in front of him. With a claw under his chin, she lifted his massive head. His wounds screamed, but he did not make a sound.

  The Queen looked him in the eye. 'Oh yes, Wargrach. You are certainly my servant. You must never forget that.'

  She took her claw away and his head sagged. Wargrach stifled a hiss of pain.

  'Wargrach,' she continued, 'you are no good in the capital any more, so I have a small task that will take you far away. You may yet be of some small assistance.'

  Wargrach gripped his staff until his claws bit into the wood. He wanted to turn on the Queen, slash at her, strike her down, show her that even though he was maimed he still followed the Way of the Tooth: Mock not the warrior in his time of torment.

  He stilled his fury, knowing better than to give in to it. She could kill him before he laid a claw on her, such were her enchantments. No. It was better to endure her, then retire and make his plans.

  'Tell me, Your Majesty.'

  'Leave now for Sleeto. Take twenty troops and establish a base. Five hundred will soon be on their way to you. I want that fortress built on the border with Callibeen. No work has been done on it for months. The local lord has not cooperated as he should have.'

  'Sl
eeto, Your Majesty?'

  'Immediately.'

  Wargrach felt as if he had fallen in mud but found a gold coin in it. Being sent to the Eastern Peaks was no punishment, not when he still wielded power in the region. Sleeto would do very nicely, very nicely indeed.

  'Thank you, Your Majesty.'

  'Leave now, through the garden gate. I don't want you limping through the palace.'

  * * *

  Queen Tayesha stared at her once-proud general as he retreated through the cycads and ginkgo trees of the garden. Evening was settling, and the shadows looked as if they were reaching out to embrace him.

  Who would she confide in now? Wargrach had been the only one who had understood her dreams for Thraag and for all of Krangor. She knew he had treachery in his heart but, being aware of this, she felt she had Wargrach's measure.

  She had planned to use him to further her ends, then discard him. Queen Tayesha straightened. Great sacrifices must be made, for the good of all.

  She turned away from the window and walked to the small writing desk she had had brought to the Morning Room. She unlocked the drawer, quelled a guardian spell she had placed on it, and removed her journal.

  A careful worker does not discard a useful tool, she wrote, even when it has been badly damaged. Rather, the worker turns the tool to other uses – ones for which it is still fit.

  Of course, the worker then obtains newer, better tools to replace the old.

  Twenty-one

  The day after they had found the treasury, Adalon watched from a balcony as Targesh wobbled on the giant brass riding beast. The Horned One was grinning like a tot with a new toy.

  It had been Simangee who suggested that Targesh try mounting the largest of the three brass beasts. Targesh was often slow to come to new things and Adalon had been surprised when he agreed.

  After a few hours, Targesh had managed to trot the riding beast around the courtyard. Adalon noted how the steed shifted underneath Targesh's uncertain seat, ensuring he never fell.