They were much taller than their winged kin. At first, Adalon thought they were Long-necks, but their bare barrel chests and webbed hands announced they were something different. When they smiled, their teeth were needles.
'Ah!' said the Flightmother when she saw Adalon's astonishment. 'You haven't met our cousins before, the People of the Deeps?'
Adalon shook his head. 'We are living in a time when legends stalk the land. It is a foolish saur who says "Such and such cannot be" for he will turn a corner and find the object of his disbelief staring at him.'
The Flightmother chuckled. 'The People of the Deeps were treated even worse by the A'ak, so they are even more secretive than we Winged Ones. Only a few were prepared to leave their watery homes to join us.'
Simangee saluted the needle-toothed warriors. 'We welcome you to the struggle.'
The tallest of them returned the salute with a wave of his long, slender webbed hand – a hand that Adalon thought looked almost like a flipper. 'We swimmers look forward to the adventure,' the aquatic warrior said in a hissing voice. 'And the chance to see Krangor. You speak of legends, but the seven kingdoms are a legend to us!'
Adalon was pleased to have more allies, but he frowned. 'How will you get to Sleeto? It lies in the mountains, not the sea.'
The swimmer laughed. 'We will fly, of course.'
'Fly?'
'People of the Deeps usually hate nets, but not when they are borne by our winged friends. We will relax, comfortable, and be carried to battle.'
'Excellent!' Adalon turned to the Flightmother. 'We will bring what forces we can muster and meet you in Sleeto.'
He climbed into the saddle of his riding beast. As he did, the steed whirred to life. It shook itself and stamped its brass hoofs. Adalon's hand brushed the hilt of his sword. He found himself lamenting that he hadn't used the blade for a long time. He wondered when he would feel it sing in his hand again.
Adalon shook himself, throwing off the cunning magic of the weapon. 'It's not for you to say,' he muttered under his breath. He took the reins and saluted as advance scouts of the Winged Ones wheeled overhead. When his friends were ready, he broke into an easy canter, then a full-blooded gallop as his riding beast tried to race the wind.
***
Three days of hard riding later, Adalon signalled a stop high in the Skyhorn Ranges. Below, on the other side of Snowmaiden Lake, was the village of Lod. Bulking solidly against it was the castle of High Battilon.
'Home,' Targesh said, leaning over his saddle, but Adalon was concerned at how his friend's face was gloomy rather than excited.
'I've been patient,' Simangee announced, 'but now you must tell me what we're doing here. If you're expecting a friendly welcome from Wargrach, I think you'll be disappointed.'
Adalon grinned. 'Not all the saur in the Eastern Peaks will have fallen in with Wargrach. They won't have forgotten what he did to their lord, my father.'
Simangee rubbed her face. 'You're looking for recruits.'
Adalon slapped Targesh on the back. 'Loyalty lives. Isn't that what the Way of the Horn says, old friend?'
'Aye,' Targesh said, brightening. 'It does.'
Adalon was pleased to see Targesh's reaction. Perhaps there was something here to restore his friend's spirits.
Adalon lashed the flank of his riding beast with the reins and it bounded down the narrow path.
The road to the castle of High Battilon was quieter than Adalon had ever seen it. No villagers, no labourers, no wagons making their way to market. The farmhouses looked abandoned, but enough of them showed smoke from chimneys to indicate that saur were still living in the fertile farmlands.
The streets of Lod were almost empty, but the passage of three brilliantly armoured saur galloping through on noisy brass riding beasts brought saur to doorways and windows to gape.
The castle stood on a ridge over the village. Adalon didn't pause. He urged the tireless brass steed toward the gates. At that moment he didn't care if Wargrach were in residence or not. His blood was up and if his father's killer were there, his crime would be dealt with.
Slouched on either side of the gates were half a dozen ill-favoured saur. Like the villagers, they gaped at the three metal riders on their metal steeds. Four threw down their weapons and fled. The other two slunk inside the castle.
'Ignore them!' Adalon cried. The three friends were inside the gates before the guards could bring down the portcullis. They burst through the gatehouse and into the courtyard. Adalon had expected to find Wargrach's saur ready to defend the castle, but the open area was empty apart from an astonished-looking Plated One who was standing at a well, dusting flour from his apron.
Adalon trotted his steed up to the Plated One. 'Where is everyone?'
The Plated One's eyes were huge and round as he stared at Adalon and his friends. 'Everyone?' he echoed.
'The troops. Wargrach.'
'Gone. They've gone to war, they have.' He nodded emphatically and a cloud of flour puffed from his apron.
'Callibeen,' growled Targesh. 'Gone to join the Queen's Army.'
'No, no,' the Plated One said. He was well fed, with a number of chins. All of them wobbled as he spoke. 'Knobblond. The general's gone to war on Knobblond. Said he wanted it as a present for Queen Tayesha.'
Adalon was thunderstruck. With the Queen's Army moving toward Callibeen, he'd expected Wargrach to add his strength to hers as a show of support. But Wargrach must have felt confident that Callibeen would fall; joining his forces to Thraag's would benefit him little. But if he conquered Knobblond, the Queen's gratitude would be great. Wargrach would be in favour once more.
Adalon was torn. What to do? His allies were flocking to Sleeto to block the Queen's invasion of Callibeen. He couldn't leave them by themselves. Knobblond will have to look after itself, he thought, but his heart was heavy. Knobblond didn't deserve to fall.
'Wargrach has taken all the troops?' Simangee asked the Plated One, who was staring nervously at the great brass steeds.
'All he could.' The Plated One looked disgusted. 'He left a few behind, he did, but none who were any good.'
Adalon's tail thrashed. 'Lord Moralon. Do you know where he is?'
'Last I heard he was in the dungeons somewhere. That was a long time ago, though.'
The dungeons of High Battilon had not been used at all while Adalon's father ruled. They'd been flung open to light and air, becoming a playground for the three friends. They were a place to hide and explore – but when Adalon led the way down the familiar twisting staircase, they found it was a playground no longer. The evil-smelling warden took one look at Adalon's bright blue armour and handed over the keys. Cell after cell was full of saur from all over the Eastern Peaks. Anyone who had resisted Wargrach's rule had ended up in the dungeons to rot. Once the doors were unlocked, the prisoners dragged themselves from the cells, astonished to see the return of the true heir to High Battilon.
The last cell, the darkest and dankest, held Adalon's uncle, Lord Moralon. He was a pitiful sight. He was not manacled, nor had he been beaten from what Adalon could see. It was his spirit that been broken, not his body. He sat on the edge of a crude bed, his head in his hands, his tail hanging limply. He didn't look up as Adalon threw the door open.
'Uncle,' he said. 'It's Adalon.'
Moralon did not reply.
'You're free, Uncle,' Adalon said. He went to the side of the frail, shaking figure. 'You can leave.'
Moralon looked up. He showed no surprise at seeing his nephew. 'I failed you, Adalon,' he whispered. 'I dishonoured our family and betrayed my own brother. I am a poor, wicked saur.'
'Uncle.' Adalon patted him on the shoulder and struggled to find the right words to comfort him. 'I wish things had gone better for you.'
His uncle lowered his head again. He began to weep.
Simangee went and kneeled by his side. After a moment she looked at Adalon. 'He needs time to heal.'
'He can't do it here,' Targesh said. 'Wargrac
h will return soon.'
'We'll take him to the Lost Castle,' Adalon said. 'He can ride double with me.'
'Let me stay here a while,' Targesh said suddenly. 'There must be good saur around who didn't give in to Wargrach. I'll find 'em. Give 'em a chance to strike back.'
Adalon gazed at his friend and saw how important this was to him. Action of this sort could be the best medicine for Targesh's hurts. 'We'll meet you at Sleeto, two weeks from now.' He gripped Targesh's forearm. 'Be swift, but be safe.'
Targesh smiled slowly. 'See you in Sleeto.'
Fifteen
Late on the second day of their ride, Adalon and Simangee emerged from the secret tunnel under the smoking mountain. They galloped through the Hidden Valley to the Lost Castle.
Moralon had barely spoken during the whole journey from High Battilon and Adalon was deeply concerned. It was most unlike his uncle, a saur who had been full of wit and high spirits before the murder of his brother. He was glad to hand Moralon to Varriah, who met them inside the gate of the Lost Castle. She looked perfectly calm and assured, as if she regularly welcomed armoured saur at midnight.
The next morning, over a hasty breakfast, Varriah reported to Adalon and Simangee. She had a bundle of papers in her hand. 'We have three wagons, but no riding or draft beasts, so you'll have to haul them yourselves. I've assembled enough provisions for your company and they're all armed and armoured, even if they're inexperienced. Farmers and miners from Sleeto, mostly.' She wagged a finger. 'I'd appreciate a little more notice next time. I've had to work through the night to get this ready.'
'How many have volunteered?' Simangee asked.
'Thirty,' Varriah answered.
'Thirty,' Adalon repeated. He'd hoped for more. 'Perhaps we can recruit on the journey.' He tapped the table with a claw. 'And my uncle? How is he after a night's rest?'
'Not well. He has eaten little, and hasn't spoken much. His spirit has been broken, I'd say.'
Adalon sighed. He felt that Moralon was better off now, yet wondered what the future held for him.
***
The march to Sleeto was maddening. Adalon was frustrated at the slow pace of his small company and longed to give his magical steed its head. Dragging the wagons slowed the saur considerably, despite the roads being in good condition thanks to the efforts of Adalon's father. He worried that his estimate of a two-week journey had been optimistic. They laboured along, lifting wagon wheels out of ruts and putting their shoulders behind carts to help them over rough patches.
As they went, they began to pick up volunteers – stragglers and the dispossessed who'd been driven from their farms and homesteads by either Wargrach's cronies or Queen Tayesha's Army. These saur had been living in the woods and fens, in small bands or in solitude. Most had been staying alive by living off the land, and were lean and suspicious. From them Adalon gathered that the main body of the Queen's Army was still some days away, but advance scouts were creating havoc. The scouts had been arrogant in their demands, ignoring protests and taking whatever they wanted. Any lingering loyalty to the Queen was quickly vanishing thanks to such tactics.
Adalon itched to reach Sleeto. He worried about the Winged Ones and Targesh's recruits. He worried about Targesh's broken horn, what could be done for him, and whether he would make it safely to Sleeto. Simangee had no doubts. 'He'll be there,' was all she said whenever Adalon fretted aloud. He worried about Moralon, too, and hoped that Varriah would take good care of him.
His tail thrashed constantly.
At noon on the fifteenth day of their march, they reached the point where the road to Sleeto began to climb toward the mountains. Simangee tried to hitch her riding beast to one of the wagons to help pull it up the slope, but the beast refused to cooperate, simply freezing in place and becoming the statue it so much resembled. The ragged dispossessed who'd joined the company volunteered to act as draught beasts and the wagons were slowly hauled upwards.
Even though the air grew colder, it was hot, hard labour. Adalon pitched in, straining to push wagons that stubbornly seemed to find every pothole in the road.
A halt was called at a particularly difficult bend in the road. Adalon sagged against the wagon wheel and wiped dust from his brow. Suddenly, Simangee leaped onto the wagon and peered back down the mountainside. 'Adalon!' she cried. 'Targesh! He's coming!'
Adalon straightened, feeling a twinge in his back. He stared back down the twisting road to see a company of saur on riding beasts approaching from the south. He made a rough count of four dozen. 'Are you sure?'
'It's him! See the brass steed?'
There was no mistaking the giant riding beast and the massive figure in green armour astride it. Adalon called a halt. Wheels were chocked to prevent the wagons rolling back down the road. Saur threw themselves onto the springy grass at the roadside and stretched their aching muscles.
Soon, the riders approached. Adalon hailed his friend. 'It's good to see you, Targesh!'
Targesh grinned and Adalon was pleased to see delight on his friend's face. 'High Battilon still has courage, Adalon!' He gestured at his band of saur. 'And the best riding beasts in Thraag!'
Targesh dismounted and joined Adalon and Simangee. He gripped their forearms. 'Good to see you,' he said. 'Took us a bit longer than I thought.'
Adalon didn't mind. He was simply happy to see his Horned One friend again. He gave the order for the company to start marching again. With renewed spirits from having reinforcements, the saur applied themselves with vigour. The wagons began to rumble uphill.
Targesh dismounted and walked alongside his friends. He told of finding small bands of saur in the forests surrounding High Battilon. They'd been raiding, skirmishing against Wargrach's troops, barely avoiding capture again and again. They'd been glad when Targesh had appeared and offered them the chance for real battle.
'And so here we are,' Targesh said.
'And here we are,' Simangee said, pointing ahead.
The swelling company had crested the final rise and directly in front of them was the Fist, the towering rocky outcrop that loomed beside the entrance to the small valley where Sleeto lay. This small valley was the only route through the otherwise impassable Skyhorn Ranges. In the clear, cool air, Adalon could see the road winding down into sparse greenery strewn with rocks, a pocket nestled among the peaks. The sun shone on a tiny lake and a wild, young river with water like quicksilver. At the eastern end of the valley was what had been the village of Sleeto.
Adalon's heart sank. He hadn't realised how much he'd been hoping that their allies would be waiting for them. 'No Winged Ones.'
'What's kept them?' Simangee wondered. 'They should be here by now.'
The sword at Adalon's side quivered. He put his hand on its hilt and felt a surge of something like hope. 'We shall prevail, with or without them.'
Sixteen
Adalon remembered old soldiers, his instructors at High Battilon, grumbling that life in the Army was either hurrying or waiting, with nothing in between.
We've hurried, he thought as he looked east along the length of the valley. And now we're waiting.
They'd set up camp a mile or so inside the entrance to the valley. Another mile eastward lay the stone bridge where the wild Sleeto River crossed the valley before bending back and plunging through the gap in the mountains that led to Callibeen. Adalon knew that the bridge was a vital strategic point. If they couldn't stop the Thraag Army from entering the valley, he would have to order his force to fall back over the bridge and then destroy it, in the hope that the river would prove a barrier to their foes' advance.
In the dimming light of evening, Adalon had time to set a picket line and send scouts to the Fist. In the forlorn hope that Callibeen might manage to send troops, he also sent scouts to the eastern end of the valley, from whence they would come. He doubted that any Callibeen troops would arrive, though. It was a peaceful kingdom, more interested in learning than war.
Sunset stained the mountaintops, turnin
g their snowy heights pink and orange. The ruddy light climbed higher and higher until the tallest peaks glowed like hot coals while the others were still shrouded in shadow. Then night came and wrapped the valley in its cloak.
'The stars are bright,' Simangee said, her breath steaming. She had a pocket harp and strummed it absently. Adalon thought the music sounded sad. 'They look like chips of ice way up there.'
'Is that where the cold comes from?' Adalon rubbed his hands together. 'What about food and a hot drink?'
'As long as you're not looking for a feast, you'll be happy. A few of the saur who used to live here went scavenging after we set camp. They've come back with some roots they swear are tasty.'
'That's all?'
'And whatever we had left of our provisions. Filling, but not very toothsome.'
Adalon nodded. 'You go. I'll join you soon.'
He ambled through the camp, taking note of how his inexperienced soldiers were coping. His sword bounced on his hip and he dropped a hand to steady it.
He paused, wrinkling his snout, and frowned. The tents were badly sited. Too many had openings facing the wind. And the fire pits were poorly located, too. He clicked his tongue and felt anger rise. He clutched the hilt of his sword. A good flogging would teach the shirkers a thing or two.
He leaped onto a boulder, then scrambled upward until he was overlooking the camp. He stared at the Fist and imagined the Army of Thraag swarming into the valley. Absently, he slid his sword from its scabbard and tapped it against the rock at his feet. He enjoyed the soft ringing noise it made while he thought.
A tiny force resisting a huge one. It could be done in such a way to inspire legend. He remembered the battle of Srinath when he'd commanded fifty A'ak against an army a hundred times larger. He'd harried first, then fallen back over the muddy, churned-up ground. The enemy hadn't appreciated the slope and . . .
Adalon put a hand to his head. It was throbbing, pounding as if a pair of hammers were at work inside. What was I thinking? He shuddered. The chill, alien thoughts of an A'ak commander had pushed themselves into his mind. For a moment he'd seen things through A'ak eyes. With a groan, he thrust the sword back into its sheath.
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