As the number of enemy soldiers dwindled, Tarlan spotted Gulph standing away from the center of the fighting. His sword arm hung limp at his side. On his face was an expression of curious intensity.
In front of Gulph stood a Galadronian soldier—a short man in a cloak of orange and green stripes. His own expression was slack, as if he were half-asleep.
Before Tarlan could wonder what was going on, something silver shot toward him. He ducked, and the throwing knife flashed past him to land with a thud in the trunk of a nearby tree. At the same instant, Greythorn’s jaws locked round the throat of the Galadronian who’d thrown it. The wolf bit down; the man’s purple cloak turned red and he dropped lifeless to the ground.
“Theeta!” yelled Tarlan. “Go to Gulph! He’s . . .”
Theeta was just taking to the air when Gulph came to his senses and rushed at the Galadronian soldier. Their blades met with a hollow clang. After a brief exchange of blows, Gulph’s crystal sword struck home and the man fell at his feet.
Satisfied that his brother was safe, Tarlan pivoted on his heels, ready for the next attacker.
But there were no more. The man Gulph had killed was the last.
The enemy was defeated.
“Are you all right, my son?” said Kalia, crossing the blood-soaked battlefield to where Tarlan was standing.
My son.
The words sounded good.
“I’m fine.” He called to his brother, “Gulph—what were you doing back there?”
Frowning slightly, Gulph picked his way through the litter of bodies to join them.
“I was inside his mind,” he said.
Tarlan gaped. “Inside his . . . ?”
“Mind.” Gulph swallowed hard. “It’s something else I can do.”
Tarlan exchanged a glance with Kalia, who was staring at Gulph with openmouthed amazement.
“Do you want to know what he was thinking?” Gulph went on.
Tarlan wasn’t entirely sure that he did.
“Tell us,” said Kalia.
A little shudder ran through Gulph’s twisted shoulders. “Sorry—it’s still a little weird for me. The black thorrod—your friend—was right. The Galadronian army is big. Really big. Perhaps ten thousand soldiers, all armed to the teeth.”
“You saw that?” said Tarlan, still struggling to comprehend Gulph’s remarkable powers. “But how?”
“The soldier had seen it. That’s why I was able to see it. At least, I think that’s how it works.”
“What else?” said Kalia. “There is more—I see it in your eyes.”
“I’ve seen their leader.”
“And?” Tarlan demanded. “What’s he like?”
“She.” Gulph shook his head. “I saw her. She was . . . oh, I can’t describe it.”
The skin on the back of Tarlan’s neck was prickling. “Tell us, Gulph. We need to know.”
But Gulph could only look at him with haunted eyes.
“If you cannot tell us,” said Kalia gently, “perhaps you can show us.”
“Show you?” Gulph replied. “What do you mean?”
Kalia pulled a small leather pouch from beneath her robe. Loosening its drawstring, she poured a handful of black sand onto the ground, then sat down cross-legged before it.
“You have mind-sight,” she said. “An ancient form of magic, and one that can be shared, given the right circumstances. Gulph, will you let me in?”
Gulph sat down hesitantly. Tarlan knelt beside him, eyeing the little mound of sand suspiciously.
“You can see inside minds too?” he said. “Inside Gulph’s?”
Kalia shook her head. “No. But I can draw out what Gulph saw. I can make it real enough for us all to see.”
“Do it! We need to see what we’re up against.”
“Gulph?” Kalia took her son’s hand. “May I?”
Gulph nodded.
Tarlan watched as Kalia gently pressed Gulph’s hand into the sand. Black grains spilled over his fingers, seeming to move of their own accord. She touched her finger first to her lips, then to his.
“I don’t see what . . . ,” Tarlan began.
The air over the sand began to ripple. Heat rose, baking Tarlan’s face. A bubble appeared, floating just above Gulph’s half-buried hand. Inside the bubble, Tarlan saw an army.
“That’s it,” Gulph whispered. “That’s what I saw.”
Fascinated, Tarlan peered into the bubble.
He was looking down on a desert. The viewpoint was high, as if he were perched on the back of a thorrod. Below, stretched across the sand, was a line of soldiers holding long lances that gleamed in the sun.
“They’re just men,” Tarlan said. “We defeated the Galadronians. We can take care of . . .”
The viewpoint shifted. Now he was looking at a two-wheeled chariot drawn by a single horse. It was twice the height of a normal horse, its gold body seeming to shift strangely in the sunlight. Almost as if it were . . .
“It’s made of sand,” Tarlan breathed.
Riding on the chariot was a woman. She was very tall, and wore white armor that clung to her like a second skin. Her helmet was etched with strange runes. In her right hand she carried a spear.
“The Witch-Empress Hypiro,” said Kalia. Her voice was trembling. “And she carries the Sandspear.”
“Sandspear?” replied Tarlan. “What’s that?”
“Wait,” Gulph said. “Watch.”
Hypiro pointed her spear toward the ground. At once, the desert around her began to shake. Bodies rose up from it, forming from the sand like sculptures taking shape. Within just a few breaths, the sand was gone.
In its place, spanning the entire visible world from horizon to horizon, was an army of giants.
“Make it go away,” said Gulph. His face was pale. “As bad as it looks, it feels even worse.”
Kalia touched his lips again, then blew the sand away. The bubble, and the images it contained, vanished with a faint popping sound, leaving Tarlan to ponder what he’d seen.
The stuff of the world made into an army.
“So she can make things with it,” he said. “The Sandspear. I’m right, aren’t I?”
Kalia ran a trembling hand down the burn scar on her face. “Yes, Tarlan. Whoever wields the Sandspear has the power to create anything they want out of sand.”
“When you say anything . . .”
“I mean anything. Swords, castles, creatures. Armies. Just as you saw. And as long as Hypiro wields it, that is exactly what she will do. She wants the world. And she will raise whatever army she needs to get it.”
“And she’s here in Toronia,” said Gulph glumly.
Standing, Tarlan pulled his brother to his feet. “Well, so are we. We just have to work out how to get rid of her.” He wished he felt as confident as he sounded.
“Hypiro must be driven from these shores if you are to stand any chance of ruling Toronia,” said Kalia. “Yet there may be hope.”
“Really?” said Tarlan and Gulph in unison. They shared a brief, uncertain smile.
“Yes. We have enemies on two fronts—the Galadronians and the Vicerins.”
“How is that hopeful?” Gulph asked.
“There are three of you.”
Tarlan gazed across the battlefield, where Greythorn was helping Filos and Brock tend to the injured animals. The sky had darkened to indigo, and the stars were already bright—none brighter than the three prophecy stars, which burned directly overhead and bathed the meadow with their cold, hard light.
I thought we’d defeated the Galadronians, he thought unhappily. Now it seems they’re more powerful than ever.
“Two enemies,” he said at last. “All right. But we still have to deal with them one at a time. What else do you know about this Sandspear, Mother?”
Kalia sighed. “It comes from Pharrah, the desert realm. My original home.”
“Pharrah?” said Gulph. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“It lies far away across
the sea.” She touched first Gulph’s hand, then Tarlan’s. “But a little of it is in you. I think you must realize that now.”
“So that’s where you were born?” said Tarlan.
“Yes. Hypiro was in power even then. She has a deep magic that defies age—some say she has ruled Pharrah for a thousand years. That is a long time for a land to be in the grip of a tyrant.”
“Is that why you left? Because of her?”
“In a way, although I did not choose to leave. You see, Hypiro was not the only person in Pharrah capable of making magic. The people in my tribe could command sand too, but we did not need an enchanted spear to make it obey us.”
“She drove you out,” said Gulph. “She didn’t want anyone to challenge her, so she drove you out.”
Kalia nodded. “Those of us she could not kill. Some of us resisted, but she is cruel beyond belief. Do you know what happens to a man when you replace all the blood in his body with burning sand?”
Tarlan exchanged a glance with Gulph. Both brothers shuddered.
“I hope you never find out,” said Kalia.
Desert realm, Tarlan thought. Desert magic. Finally, it makes sense.
“My own magic is small compared to Hypiro’s,” Kalia went on. “And indeed to yours. Sand is my strength, but it is also my limitation. Without sand, I have no power at all. But Hypiro can summon sand at will.”
“Well, so can we,” said Tarlan. He grinned at his brother. “Can’t we, Gulph?”
Gulph nodded, but he looked very serious. “I saw more in the soldier’s mind,” he said.
Tarlan and Kalia both turned to him.
“More?” said Tarlan. “What do you mean?”
“I saw where Hypiro is leading her army.”
“To Idilliam?” It seemed obvious enough to Tarlan. But Gulph was shaking his head.
“No, Tarlan. To Ritherlee. They’ve already crossed the Isurian River. They’re headed straight for Castle Vicerin.”
The brothers stared at each other. Then they spoke at the same time.
“Elodie!”
CHAPTER 14
Elodie stood at the top of the bank, gazing across the Forgotten Graveyard. Clouds had swallowed the sun, and the swamp was shrouded in a gray veil of fog. The air was damp and still.
She stretched, glad to be free of that wretched wedding dress at last. The lightweight armor Lord Winterborne had found for her felt good. And she was pleased to see that the tunic she’d been given to wear over the top wasn’t the rich blue of the Vicerins.
It was green—not quite the leafy hue of Trident, but close enough.
Hanging in a scabbard at her waist was a sword.
I am a soldier again.
“Will this work?” asked Lady Darrand. Elodie wasn’t sure if her ghostly friend meant raising an army or leading it against the Vicerin forces. She supposed it didn’t matter.
“Brutan is gone, once and for all. The way to the Realm of the Dead is open. I can do this.”
Lady Darrand smiled. She and the rest of the ghosts who’d gathered on the bank seemed part of the mist, their bodies swirling and re-forming with a slow, natural rhythm. Elodie glanced at Samial, who nodded encouragement.
Instinct told Elodie to lift her hands. She moved her fingers, letting the air drain between them like . . .
. . . like sand.
A warm breeze pushed its way through the mist. The smell of damp grass was replaced by something bitter and scorched—the scent of the desert.
“Come to me,” she murmured. Her words floated out into the fog. “Answer my call.”
The mist was rippling like a heat-haze over sand dunes. The breeze was growing stronger. Shadows shifted among the grassy hummocks of the swamp. Gray shapes began to rise.
“Come to me!” Elodie cried. “I need you now! Toronia needs you now!”
The shapes gradually condensed into crudely sculpted human forms. As each new figure appeared, the mist rushed toward it and began to spin. Now hundreds of tiny tornadoes were whirling toward Elodie, sucking in the mist as the phantom bodies took shape.
As the ghosts gained definition, Elodie saw that she’d summoned not just soldiers but men and women of all kinds—farmers and tradespeople, hostlers and maids, young and old alike.
Frida was right, thought Elodie, observing her empty hands. I didn’t need their belongings. All I need to do is call.
On they came, one ghost after another, while all around them the mist dispersed. Soon the air was as clear as it had been when the day began. Standing before Elodie was a vast assembly of gray wraithlike figures, all regarding her with a patient, expectant air.
Elodie dropped her hands to her sides. “I’ve called you here because I need your help,” she told the ghosts. “The prophecy says I am to be queen, but someone is standing between me and the throne. His name is Lord Vicerin.”
At the sound of his name, an eerie sigh passed through the ghostly crowd. Then one of the ghosts—a stocky farmer with a wide-brimmed hat—called out:
“It was a Vicerin soldier put his sword through me. Why? Because I refused to hand over my land!”
“Vicerin struck me down himself,” cried an angry-looking woman. “I dared to free my husband from the stocks—he’d done nothing wrong!”
More ghosts joined in with tales of violence and oppression. Elodie listened in appalled silence to the injustices Lord Vicerin had committed against them. One thing pleased her—all these risen spirits were united by one thing.
They’re thirsty for revenge.
She raised a hand and silence fell.
“We have a common enemy,” she cried. “If you fight with me, vengeance can be yours! What do you say?”
The ghosts raised their weapons. For every sword, Elodie saw a scythe or pickax or some other common tool. From hundreds of gray, gaping mouths came a single battle cry:
“VENGEANCE!”
Elodie slid her sword from its scabbard and lofted it high. To her left and right, Lady Darrand and Lord Winterborne did the same.
“Follow my blade!” she shouted. “And today the castle will be ours!”
Her chest swelling with pride, Elodie began marching through the copse and back down the slope toward Castle Vicerin. Samial was on one side of her, the ghosts of the murdered Ritherlee nobles on the other. Behind them came the spirits of the Forgotten Graveyard.
The sounds of battle grew steadily louder as they approached the castle. In contrast, the army of the dead moved in silence, their footsteps raising not even a whisper of sound.
Good. We’ll have surprise on our side.
Fifty paces short of the main gate, she signaled to the army to halt.
“There are two sets of soldiers in there,” she said, pitching her voice low. “Both are our enemies. Drive them all out!”
With an unearthly hissing sound, the ghost army surged toward the gate with their motley array of weapons drawn. Elodie followed at a run, Samial and the ghosts of the Ritherlee nobles at her side.
“Our new army can take care of the enemy,” she told them, “while we find Cedric and Sylva.”
They burst through the gate. The outer courtyard was full of Vicerin and Helkrag troops grappling with opponents who looked no more solid than shadows. Those of the enemy who weren’t fighting were fleeing, screaming out in fear as Elodie’s phantom soldiers pursued them with weapons raised.
One band of Helkrags, clearly terrified of the hundreds of ghosts, spurred their elks toward a break in one of the walls. A ghostly battalion appeared from nowhere, gliding not over the ground but up the wall itself. They dropped on the fleeing Helkrags from above and tore them apart.
“They’ll be in the White Tower,” said Elodie, tearing her eyes from the curiously hypnotic scene. The high keep that had once been her prison was now one of the few parts of the castle untouched by fire. “I’m sure of it.”
“It is defended,” Samial warned, indicating a squad of Vicerin castle guards bunched at the tower’s main
door.
“Not for long,” said Lady Darrand. She slipped smoothly past them with a pair of phantom soldiers at her side.
The guards scattered as the ghosts approached, shouting fearful warnings to their comrades to stay back. Lady Darrand ducked inside the tower; Elodie and Samial followed her in. The other two ghosts brought up the rear, their swords held out to protect Elodie from an attack from behind.
The storerooms on the ground floor were empty, just as Elodie had expected.
“If they’re here, they’ll be on one of the upper levels,” she whispered. “Samial, can you . . . ?”
He put a finger to his mouth. Elodie and the noble ghosts ducked into the shadows at the foot of the great stone stairs that spiraled up through the center of the tower.
Peering carefully around the banister, she saw four castle guards march across the landing at the top of the first flight of steps. A moment later, the familiar figure of Lord Vicerin appeared. He’d exchanged his crown for a silver helmet with a crest of blue feathers. The visor was raised, showing his furious face.
“Follow me!” he barked. “Those children of mine are more trouble than they’re worth!”
His metal boots clanging on the stone floor, Vicerin led the guards at high speed down a nearby corridor.
Elodie and the ghosts crept out of cover.
“That passage leads to the Star Chamber,” said Elodie. “It must be where he’s keeping Sylva and Cedric.”
“It will be dangerous,” Lady Darrand warned.
Elodie nodded grimly. “I’m a long way past worrying about danger.”
She tiptoed up the stairs, wishing she could move as quietly as the ghosts. Heart thudding in her chest, she led the way along the corridor, wondering what they would find at the other end.
The door to the Star Chamber was open. Crouching low, Elodie peeked round it into a circular room lit by a series of tall, slitted windows. The walls, floor, and ceiling were painted dark blue and studded with thousands of glass beads. The sun cutting through the windows reflected off the beads, creating countless dazzling pinpoints of light.
In the middle of the Star Chamber stood a large, round table. Here, Elodie knew, the affairs of Ritherlee deemed too secret for the regular council chamber were discussed. Now the table had been turned into a kind of platform on which seven or eight Helkrags stood. All were clad in the familiar tooth-lined elk-hunter hoods—except one: a man who strode among them dispensing gruff orders. Elodie guessed he was the leader. His helmet was fashioned from a skull with huge eye sockets and a glossy, hooked beak.
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