The Missing Kin

by Michael Pryor

  'Good.'

  Adalon waited, but Targesh said nothing more. 'We'd best go, then,' Adalon said.

  ***

  They rode. Swift as arrows, clear as thought, they clattered across the land. They avoided saur wherever they could, skirting settlements and towns, shunning roads, crossing rivers at fords instead of bridges. Three times they stumbled on A'ak ruins, ancient and overgrown, and they hurried around them.

  Adalon worried about Targesh, but the Horned One rode silently and without complaint. Occasionally he groped for his missing horn, and Adalon was sure his friend didn't know he was doing it.

  Adalon felt the land streaming beneath the hoofs of the riding beasts. He was travelling further than he'd ever gone before and he felt his soul stretching, being measured against the long leagues of valleys, plains, forests and scrub, hills and wetlands that were the body of Krangor.

  Finally, three days after their encounter with the stone monster, and after finding their way through tracts of uninhabited, lush forest, they burst through a wall of tangled greenery and onto a rocky ledge. In front of them was an immense, curved beach and the waves of the Hisht sea.

  In the moist heat, Adalon took off his helmet. The air smelled spicy, full of growth and decay. Lemon-yellow butterflies capered around them. Simangee took out the map and gripped it against the wind that whipped off the waves. Seabirds screeched and wheeled overhead, grey, white and black, bickering in the sun.

  'We've done well,' Simangee said. 'The Fiery Isles are right out there.'

  Adalon slid from his riding beast and stretched. This made the seabirds shriek even louder as the sun flashed on his bright blue armour. Through the sea haze he peered at the ocean. Far away, on the edge of the world, he thought he could see a dark smudge.

  'The Fiery Isles are like Graaldon, the smoking mountain, which guards our Hidden Valley,' Simangee said. 'That darkness is smoke.'

  Targesh dismounted. He eyed the sea with unease, his Horned One suspicion of water clear on his face. 'How do we get there?'

  Adalon had hoped that they would find a settlement where they could purchase a boat – or, at least, pay fisherfolk for passage to the islands. The lonely shore disappointed him. 'I don't know.'

  Targesh shook his neck shield, then shrugged and said nothing.

  Adalon was concerned for his friend. Despite his reassurances, Targesh was suffering from the loss of his horn. Not physically, for the stump had healed over remarkably quickly, thanks to Simangee's potions – but in a deeper, more profound manner. Adalon had always relied on Targesh's firmness of purpose, his solid, sensible approach to matters. If Targesh agreed to a course of action, Adalon was relieved for, more often than not, this meant that his idea wasn't one of his more ridiculous ones.

  Of course, having Targesh's support in matters meant that Adalon's confidence grew, and so he was likely to lead well in the chosen enterprise.

  With Simangee's quick and inventive cast of mind, Targesh's solidity was an essential balance in the friendship. But now, the Horned One's troubles were making him doubtful, even anxious, qualities that Adalon would have sworn were foreign to the doughty Targesh.

  Adalon sighed. Targesh needed something to take him out of his despondency. A victory? A cause? A new calling? Adalon shook his head and wished he knew what would help his friend.

  Simangee dismounted and rubbed her tail. 'I say we camp here. I'm exhausted. We can decide what to do tomorrow.'

  'Good idea,' Adalon said.

  Wrinkled black rock stretched in both directions, bordering the sandy beach. Waves filled the pools, delighting the seabirds, which gathered there looking for fish. The bay swept its arms around them, the headlands misty in the distance. Thick jungle covered the low hills and reached right down to the edge of the beach.

  'How are we for food?' he asked Simangee.

  She shrugged. 'You ate the last of your meat yesterday. Unless you want to hunt, you'll have to be content with dried fruit and roots.'

  Adalon grimaced. While he didn't mind the dried fruit, the roots always tasted like dirt to him. 'You make a fire. I'll see if I can catch something.'

  'And look for fresh water while you're at it.'

  Adalon unstrapped his armour and stacked it underneath his motionless brass riding beast. He shook himself and stretched. Even though the armour fitted perfectly, it was good to be free of it. He felt the wind on his arms and legs and the sun on his face. He rubbed his tail bone, like Simangee, and wondered if he'd ever grow accustomed to so much riding.

  He trotted along the shore toward a low shelf of rock. Spray flew high from the waves flinging themselves against it. A little further on, hundreds of seabirds swooped and dived around a larger outcrop projecting into the bay.

  Soon he was leaping over rockpools, from stone to stone and – when he found stretches of sand – breaking into a run.

  He realised he hadn't run in days and that he missed it. His Clawed One blood revelled in the exercise. Baring his teeth, he leaned forward and sprinted across the wet sand.

  The shelf of rock loomed closer. It was covered with shellfish, dark and glistening from the spray. Adalon narrowed his eyes and smiled. He decided to hurdle the rock rather than veer around it. He dug into the sand, driving himself faster as he neared. Then, with a thrust of his right foot, he leaped.

  As he did, his foot slipped on rock hidden under the thin layer of sand. His graceful flight became a tumble. He squawked as he just avoided cracking his head on the rock. Flipping, cartwheeling, sky and sand spun around crazily until he landed with a thump.

  He lay there a moment. One of the simplest lessons of the Way of the Claw came to him and he had enough sense to feel chastened: Watch, listen and learn before acting, lest you leap off the edge of a cliff in your haste.

  Adalon picked himself up and brushed sand from his tunic. It should be the Clawed Ones' creed, he thought. Before leaping, look. Because of their need for action, and the impulsiveness that went with it, throughout history Clawed Ones had been prone to hasty decisions followed by long, thoughtful regrets. Adalon's father, Lord Ollamon, had taken great pains to teach this to him. His life had been a model of patience, of tempering the Clawed One rashness with cool reflection – but not losing the quickness of thought and flexibility of action that was the Clawed One strength. It was something Adalon strove to live up to.

  A pang caught his heart as he remembered his father and the good saur that he'd been.

  To distract himself from the pain, Adalon scuffed at the sand with a toe-claw. Then he cocked his head at what he'd uncovered. He recoiled, hissing.

  'Simangee!' he shouted. 'I need you!'

  Eleven

  By the time Simangee and Targesh had arrived, carrying weapons, Adalon understood what he'd found.

  'More ruins,' he said, pointing at what he'd thought were mussel-encrusted rocks. Long and low, broken in many places, he could now see it was the remains of a large building half-swallowed by the sand and the sea.

  When he looked along the beach Adalon could make out more. Rocky outcrops, scattered slabs of stone poking out of the undergrowth, even pilings marching out into the waves. 'This must have been a village.'

  Simangee narrowed her eyes. 'So many stone buildings in a village? A city, rather.'

  Targesh grimaced, as if he'd tasted something bad. 'A'ak.'

  Adalon nodded. He kicked at the nearest rock, dislodging shells. Engraved on the slick wetness was the unmistakeable A'ak script.

  'We're finding A'ak everywhere,' Simangee murmured.

  'They've left their work behind,' Adalon said and he paused, remembering the map room in the Lost Castle. He stared out to sea. 'Simangee, I think we need to consult one of your maps.'

  Back at the camp, Simangee spread out the chart, weighing down the corners with stones. 'This is the way we came,' she pointed. 'We encountered A'ak ruins here, here and here. See the blue marks?'

  'There's one right here where we are,' Adalon said.
/>   Targesh leaned over. He ran a claw along the thin blue line that connected the shore with the Fiery Isles. 'What's this?'

  Adalon frowned in thought, then swept an arm around the curve of the bay. 'Imagine this place as an A'ak city. That jumble of rock there could have once been a pavilion. That one a pier. Over there where the dunes have buried them, could have once been homes or workshops.'

  Targesh eyed the bay uneasily. 'An outpost?'

  'Perhaps. Maybe more than that.'

  'Much could be hidden here,' Simangee said softly. 'We could uncover the mystery of the A'ak writing here.'

  Adalon patted his friend on the shoulder. 'Another time, perhaps. We need to get to the Fiery Isles.' He tapped the map. 'And I think that the A'ak had a way of getting there.'

  'What are you thinking?'

  He pointed. 'That outcrop, the big one with all the seabirds. If it's part of the A'ak ruins, I think we should investigate it.'

  Simangee held up a hand. 'Tomorrow.'

  'Tomorrow?'

  'We've had a long journey. If we're going to poke around in A'ak leftovers, let's get a good night's sleep first.'

  'Targesh?'

  'Eat. Sleep. Get an early start.'

  Adalon stared at the waves crashing on the rocky spit. He itched to see what it held. 'Very well.'

  ***

  The next morning, after a sparse and unsatisfying breakfast, the three friends approached the ridge armoured and armed. The seabirds wheeled above them, challenging their right of way. Waves sent up plumes of spray that were whipped away by the wind.

  They stood on a sea-slick slab of rock and looked up. It took Adalon some imagination, but he thought he could make out the angles of the building it had once been. The crumbled ruins loomed over them like battlements – a timeworn reminder of a lost age.

  'There,' Simangee said, pointing. 'We can get up there.' She led the way, picking through mussel shells and seaweed thrown up by the waves. Adalon paused, scanning the hulking rocks. He glanced at Targesh's ruined profile.

  'Are you well, old friend?'

  Targesh shrugged and touched the stump of his broken horn. 'Well enough.'

  'Brave words, my friend. But it's not a scratch you've suffered. I'll be watching out for you.'

  Targesh gave a half-smile. 'That'll make a change. I'm usually looking out for you.'

  'That's better! Now, let's see what we can find.' Adalon bounded up the rocks in search of Simangee.

  They found her at the top of the ridge, on a broad flat area the shape of a rough arrowhead. Pools of water had gathered on the broken stone. A tumble of rocks was heaped up at the pointy end closest to the sea. Simangee was standing there, fists on her hips, peering into a large, dark hole.

  When they joined her they saw that the hole sloped toward the open sea. 'What's down there?' Adalon wondered.

  Targesh squatted and sniffed. 'It's dry, not wet.'

  Simangee tilted her crest from side to side. 'It's magic, strong and constant. I can't say any more than that.'

  Adalon stared over the sea toward the far-off Fiery Isles. Yes, he thought. It makes sense. 'It's a tunnel,' he declared. 'The A'ak used it to get to and from the Fiery Isles.'

  'Why wouldn't they just sail across?' Simangee asked.

  'Reefs,' Targesh said. He pointed at the sea. 'Doesn't look safe.'

  Adalon shrugged. 'None of the stories I've heard speak of the A'ak as great sailors. Maybe they're like Horned Ones – afraid of water.'

  'I'm not afraid of water,' Targesh said. 'Cautious, is all. And don't say Horned Ones are like the A'ak.'

  Adalon laughed. 'I won't. Now, let's see what's down there.'

  'It's too dark to see much,' Targesh rumbled.

  Simangee patted the leather pouch at her waist. 'I have light potions.'

  'Forward then.'

  Adalon stepped over the knee-high rubble and onto the down-slope. For a few paces, sunlight kept him company. He turned and saw his friends outlined against the blue sky. 'Time for your light potion,' he called to Simangee.

  'I don't think we need it,' she said, pointing. 'Look ahead.'

  Adalon swivelled. The darkness had vanished. Soft, violet light came from the walls of the tunnel. He turned a full circle, staring at what it revealed.

  The tunnel was broad enough for two wagons to pass each other and so high that Adalon doubted if he could reach it with a jump. The rock walls were smooth as mirrors and betrayed no sign of toolwork at all.

  'I think we've found our way to the Fiery Isles,' he said.

  Twelve

  The rest of the day passed as they laboured through the magic tunnel, bathed in the soft violet light as they went. Their journey was an odd mixture of boredom and concern about the weight that must be bearing down on the tunnel. Adalon found himself worrying about its age and kept looking for ominous trickles of water.

  Finally, after a steep, uphill stretch, they reached a stone arch in much better condition than the ruins of the mainland entrance. A'ak script stretched around it, sharp and angular.

  'If only we could read it,' murmured Simangee.

  They paused at the mouth of the tunnel and gazed out over the Fiery Isles at night.

  Not far away, a large mountain thrust up out of the sea like a fist punched through silk. The mountain rumbled and belched red light and smoke. In the near distance, Adalon counted five other islands, each with a prominent peak smoking and groaning away, and countless smaller islands scattered across the midnight sea. Adalon shuddered. It was an angry place.

  The night air was tropically hot. A riot of bushes, creepers and trees grew among boulders on the broad and rocky area that surrounded the tunnel mouth. In front of them the land tumbled away into dark and shrouded valleys. The spicy smell of damp earth and rot mingled with the tang of ash and sulphur. A jungle animal shrieked from the darkness – a cackling, demented sound.

  'Who would live here?' Simangee wondered. 'A land of ash and jungle?'

  'Our allies,' Adalon answered. I hope, he thought.

  He stepped out of the tunnel. Simangee and Targesh followed and, as soon as they left, the violet light went out behind them.

  Adalon blinked, his vision awry from the sudden change. As he did, the night came alive. Dark shapes swooped through the air. Adalon whirled and drew his sword. 'Targesh! Simangee! Beware!' he cried, but then he cursed as he was jerked from his feet by ropes. He fell and rolled, but whirling cords weighted with stones wrapped around his legs. He slashed with his sword, but the attackers dived and darted, easily evading his blade. More of the twirling, weighted cords spun at him. The stones pummelled and the ropes tripped, until he was tangled and helpless, with weighted cords pinning his arms to his body.

  He lay with his cheek resting against the root of a jungle tree. A curious beetle stared at him then scurried away. Adalon hoped Simangee and Targesh had managed to escape, but these hopes vanished when two heavy shapes thudded next to him.

  'This is embarrassing,' Simangee grated.

  I hope that's all it is, Adalon thought. 'At least they haven't killed us outright.'

  Firm hands jerked him upright and he was held, facing the tunnel they'd so recently exited. Standing there, in the flickering, red-tinged shadows thrown by the fiery mountain, were the creatures he'd only seen as statues.

  The Winged Ones.

  A score or so of winged warriors uncovered lanterns then studied Adalon, Targesh and Simangee with steady yellow eyes. They were small, but their chests and upper arms were strong with muscle. Their limbs were thin. A bony crest like a knife rose from the top of their heads while their faces were hard with short, beaky snouts. They wore leather trews and harnesses. Hands with claws painted black gripped the shafts of spears. Giant, leathery wings were folded on their backs.

  One stepped forward. She glared at the three friends. 'We have guarded the Forbidden Gate for untold years,' she rasped. 'Alert, ready, we have been. And now, on my watch, the A'ak appear! The Great Enemy has c
ome back!'

  Rattling spears and angry mutterings followed this pronouncement.

  'We have come from far away,' Adalon said, battling his astonishment, 'but we aren't the A'ak.'

  The watch leader spat. 'The A'ak built the Forbidden Gate. You use the Forbidden Gate. You must be the A'ak.' She jerked her head. 'Net them,' she croaked and she jabbed a finger at one of the warriors. 'You. Fly with all speed to the Retreat. Tell the Flightmother that Kikkalak is bringing A'ak prisoners.'

  The warrior nodded, then ran off and launched into the air with huge beats of his wings.

  The other Winged Ones unrolled large nets. Adalon, Targesh and Simangee were each tumbled into the centre of a net, with a Winged One gripping a corner apiece. 'Fly!' Kikkalak cried.

  The Winged Ones ran, bouncing their prisoners along, then they reached the edge of the rocks. Adalon's stomach lurched as the Winged Ones threw themselves off the cliff and dropped through the warm night air.

  We're all going to die! Adalon thought. He strained and struggled as they plummeted toward the dark jungle below with no other thought than to break free of his bonds. Then, as one, the wings of his four guards snapped open. Their hurtling descent became a swooping glide. The mighty wings began to beat, thrusting them upward and forward.

  As he peered down, Adalon hoped that the net-makers were skilful. Ahead, a brilliant burst of orange light lit the night as the mountain cleared its throat. Adalon twisted his head and saw the other Winged Ones, some dangling nets that he assumed carried Targesh and Simangee.

  The smoking mountain grew nearer. Adalon saw that one flank stretched out until it was swallowed by the jungle, with rocky cliffs breaking through the vegetation like the weathered bones of an immense creature. When they drew closer, Adalon realised that what he had thought was rock was in fact the ruins of an enormous castle that looked suspiciously like an A'ak construction. Vines, creepers and ferns enveloped the ruins, making it look unkempt. Lights appeared in dark holes as the Winged Ones came closer. Bent figures scurried from the shadows.

  Their captors folded their pinions and plunged toward the ruins. Adalon gritted his teeth. He hated feeling helpless, bound and carried as he was, but he hesitated to use his thumb-claws on the net. It was the only thing between him and a long, long fall.